Never A Frown
After Gordon had gouched through a long soak in the big tin bath in front of the fire the Wombles helped Madame Cholet get the still half-cut former Chancellor back upstairs; using a fishing rod with a bottle of single malt on the end… and once coaxed back into bed she sang him softly to sleep by changing the words to Golden Brown by the Stranglers… and then partially suffocating him with her norks.
They crept back downstairs and settled themselves around the fire, while Madame Cholet busied herself in the back kitchen… still topless.
Punchbag reclined on a big cushion and watched Orinoco and the rest of the crew kicking off their biker boots and getting comfy, as Bungo began skinning up a massive joint… the shadows dancing as the room filled with smoky sweetness. He cosied down and reminisced about his family… just as a text came through from Buzz asking how he was getting on, and that everyone was thinking of him… and that they’d all just been evicted from their midden after his latest batch of Ayhuaska had exploded and demolished half the street.
‘You did well today young un,’ interrupted MacWomble, jolting Punchbag back from his concerns about his family.
He looked across as Mac winked and tapped his nose… before taking another massive toke on the doobie, ‘…say nowt to Teddy mind,’ he choked.
‘No worries,’ reassured Punchbag, ‘and I think she might be otherwise engaged at the moment anyway. I was just thinking though… I suppose it did all eventually make sense today… once Orinoco reminded me that this was just a book.’ He waved away Mac’s offer of the reefer. ‘I’ll not bother thanks… had a bit of a whitey a day or so back with Aunty Pauline… so I’ll maybe give it a miss.’
MacWomble gave a gigantic exhale… and nodded slowly. ‘No pressure fella, we’ve all been there… and you’ll have to fill us in on old Aunty P…. when I’m in a fit state to listen… and not blazing… cos this is bloody good stuff and no mistake.’
‘It’s the G. Man’s new one,’ chipped in Orinoco, taking his turn. ‘He’s calling it ‘Moral Compass… and I’m thinking for all his foibles, he’s pulled it out the bag again… as it’s easily up there with Professor Nut and Gold Standard… although that one’s really just for export these days.’
‘So what’s the actual set up here then?’ asked Punchbag, still wondering about his folks… as the Wombles continued to fire-gaze… and an even bigger bomber began to do the rounds.
‘More or less just what you see,’ said Bungo, ‘it’s a safe house with an income stream from the grow that Chosey and Gordon run for us. We’ve got them dotted up and down the country… gives us somewhere to flop when we’re on the road… because like I was saying earlier… that’s our thing these days… re-tipping the balance for all that went before.’
‘I imagine you’re going to have your work cut out,’ said Punchbag, ‘because from the little I’ve seen… there’s a lot out there that wants re-tipping.’
‘And we’re just the boys to do it!’ exclaimed Tomsk, reaching across to take a high five from MacWomble.
‘And in the end… it is… all just litter,’ added Bungo, ‘when you really stop and think about it.’
Punchbag listened to Mac’s confused draw… as Bungo’s intrigued audience cleared a space for his philosophy.
‘Thought that might get you all,’ continued Bungo, ‘but work with me… because the way I see it… and I suppose it helps if your previous day-job was Wombling, and clearing up the crap that everyone else left behind… but it’s a pretty easy fit… well in my head anyway. Stop just complaining about all the mess, and expecting someone else to sort it out… and start getting your hands dirty… because anyone can make it better… and in so many different ways. You see I know we’re at the extreme end these days, in relation to taking out the trash… but everyone can do their bit…. even if it’s only by not adding to the pile.’
‘This is great!’ exclaimed Mac, banging heavily again. ‘Go on Bungo son! Belt me brain box with more of your beautiful pictures.’
‘But it does work though,’ went on Bungo, ‘when you think of it like that. I mean we’ve all got to find a shape to hang stuff on… or a model to live by… even knowing that it’s all absurd in the end just like Camus says… so why not choose a shape that at least doesn’t involve spreading more crap everywhere and expecting someone else to clean it up. Or if you really want to Womble… clearing up some of the mess that’s already out there… never mind that it’s not yours… just try and make it better… in whichever small way you can… because we’re all sharing the same park!’
‘Common,’ corrected Orinoco, ‘but it’s still a good metaphor… if a tad cheesy… and obviously begging the question, what do you do when the bullies are hogging all the swings… although I suppose that’s where we come in… so I’ll stop now.’
‘Wow!’ thought Punchbag, ‘the Wombles really get into it when they’ve had a toke… and also know Camus… my own favourite existentialist philosopher… although of course he’d probably argue with that description and insist on being called an Absurdist.’
‘I’m loving your work brother!’ cried Mac, now with heavily bloodshot eyes, ‘and it is sooo like what we used to do… because if you remember… not only did we tidy stuff up… but we also made things out of the crap we found. Oh how did it go again?’ Mac began to sing… in quite a startling brogue, ‘Making good use of the things that we find… things that the everyday folks leave behind. Uncle Bul…’
‘Err…!’ interrupted Bungo, ‘this fits with my metaphor HOW exactly?’
‘Well that witch is going to knock up a load of candles out of Jabba the Hut… which is sort of like that gramophone we made for Great Uncle Bulgaria… God rest his soul.’
Punchbag watched all the Wombles cross themselves when Uncle Bulgaria’s name was mentioned… as a mildly exasperated Bungo tried to get going again.
‘Aye… sort of… but me main point is though… that we might be at the sharp end… taking-out these Litter Louts… but your average Joe can still get his Wombling badge by just not buying into the bollocks… although I think I’m starting to confuse myself now… it’s this Moral Compass… if anything it’s too bloody strong!’ He leaned back and began gurning… just as Stepney, a caricatured black Womble with dreadlocks (I kid you not) suddenly piped up in appreciation.
‘Hear dat naw Mon! Well said Bungalow!’
‘Aye, Aye, here we go! Old Step Club 7 is sparking up,’ said MacWomble, climbing unsteadily to his back paws and wobbling off towards the kitchen.
‘Oh hello,’ said Punchbag, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t notice you there, with the room being so dark, or earlier in the story when we were murdering those two old men… so sorry about that.’
‘Rass Mon!’ said Stepney, predictably. ‘Dat is no problim ma brudder. Any fren of dees buoys is a fren o’ mine. I have known dem since I furst visited der ghetto, a mean burrow, wit me barrow to trade grass.’ He snapped his fingers quickly and continued, ‘so axe me any tin…ma big airy pussy. Hear Me Naw!’
‘Well just a quick run through of your back story would be great,’ said Punchbag, ‘as it might be quite a rich vein of lazy humour and unintended casual racism.’
‘Well I is much more street wise than the Wimbledan Wombals… and I is, apparently, like a typical East End barrow buoy… and I is like a big bwal of energy an alwis busy… and I is also the fastest wombal over one hundred meters… and very competitive… and if no wan is lookin I ten to ‘borrow’ tings an forget to give dem back… so I is also basically a tief… although I tink it waz supposed to seem charming… rarder than demeaning and racist. Different times Mon!’
‘How fascinating…’ began Punchbag, thinking it wasn’t quite as funny as he’d first hoped.
‘Aye aven’t finished yet Mon! Bumbaclot!’ continued Stepney, ‘for I is also an excellent dancer and D.J., however although I come from de Thames burrow, I is terrified of water and can’t swem… that was swim by the way… and finally ma
name was chosen from a Londan Street-Finder book, although the names Brixtan and Peckam were deemed to be inappropriate. Which seems a lickel rich afder every tin else dey lumbard me wit. Hear Me Naw!’
‘That’s an interesting one Step,’ interjected Orinoco, ‘about what you were just saying regarding not being able to swim… because it’s actually not just you…. actually none of us Wombles can swim… it’s just the way we’re put together. I think we have a lot of brown fat or something.’
‘Although it didn’t stop us all getting jobs as lifeguards when the T.V. show first went off air,’ commented Bungo, pulling himself back round, ‘and before we got the band together… and then started working for the Spooks.’
‘But how could you all be life guards?’ queried Punchbag, intrigued, ‘if you couldn’t swim?’
‘Well we were really just playing the system,’ went on Orinoco, ‘and the money was canny. So after we’d filled in the application forms, and put on them that we couldn’t even float, never mind swim… then obviously got a knock back…. we just put in a grievance saying it was discrimination… and they gave us the job.’
‘And…?’ asked Punchbag.
‘And it was obviously a bloody fiasco,’ said Bungo, ‘it was like a pool party at Michael Barrymore’s house. Anyway, we got into the contract stuff after that… but it just goes to show… something or other. So never think that just because you’re totally out of your depth and a complete liability that you still can’t get the gig. By the way has anyone watched the new Film review show with Claudia Winkleman… or absolutely anything else she does?’
Orinoco called Stepney over and whispered something, and the black Womble began rooting through a pile of L.P.’s in the corner, before selecting one and putting it on. He then slumped back onto his beanbag and began blazing again.
‘Woo! Let’s get this party started!’ shouted Bungo, as the strains of Ludovico Einaudi’s Divenire gently filled the room.
‘You seemed a little pre-occupied before,’ said Orinoco, ‘with your text and that… anything we can help you with?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Punchbag, ‘just some trouble back at what was the midden.’ He proceeded to explain to Orinoco the end result of Buzz’s latest batch.
‘Ayhuaska eh?’ mused Orinoco. ‘We’ve actually been talking about getting into that… so maybe we could work something out that might be beneficial to both of us… because I’ve been noticing it’s becoming more and more popular… and with people who’ve taken it saying it’s a life changing experience.’
‘Yeah it’s all about D.M.T.’ said Punchbag, ‘it’s what’s released at the time of death from the pineal gland. I did it with Buzz out in Spain… when he was first sourcing it and before we walked the Camino… he ended up out in a vineyard talking to Aliens in the rain… it’s a long story.’
‘You know I was reading about the old pineal gland,’ said Orinoco, as Einaudi’s gentle masterpiece continued to move in waves. ‘Apparently in some rats there’s still a lens on it… which would seem to fit in with the suggestion of it being the third eye… and that we were once coupled up to receive something more than just this 3 D illusion.’
Punchbag nodded. ‘That’s why our Buzz and Michael won’t use fluoride toothpaste… they say it causes calcification and stops it working.’
‘They might have a point… I mean it certainly does bugger all for your teeth, and is really nothing more than an industrial waste product. You know the Nazi’s actually added fluoride to the water supply in the concentration camps, and I hardly think they were bothered about fillings… apart from the gold ones. It makes you more passive and docile… which I presume was their motive.’
‘That’s what they say as well,’ replied Punchbag, ‘that over time ingesting fluoride actually dumbs you down. You know it’s actually added to the water supply in a lot of American states?’
‘And you can maybe rest your case there,’ completed Orinoco. ‘You know we really should have a chat tomorrow about your Buzz setting up here… because there’s loads of room… and it would be no problem if he wanted to bring the family… and Madame Cholet could do with a little extra help… whenever Gordon goes bat-shit. Have a think about it.’
Punchbag leaned back and considered; just as MacWomble came back in from the kitchen with a big pot of tea. ‘Chosey’s doing bacon butties,’ he said, beginning to pour the brew into large mugs, ‘so who wants what with the sauces?’
‘Well I think that’s probably an easy one,’ laughed Punchbag, suddenly realising how comfortable he felt in the company of his new friends… and the quiet excitement of Orinoco’s offer, ‘…considering whose product you’ve all been toking on to get the munchies… and who’s snoring away upstairs.’
‘Rass!’ retorted Stepney. ‘A want Jerk seasoning on ma beer-can...
…an a Red Stripe if der’s wan in de fridge.’
Happy Endings
The next day everyone had a long lie in. Orinoco having shown Punchbag to an attic bedroom as they’d crashed in the early hours after Madame Cholet’s bacon butties, and then giant slices of peanut butter cheesecake with strawberry jam and large dollops of mascarpone. Punchbag woke to the sunlight streaming in through the dormer and listened for signs of life. He crawled from beneath the eiderdown and out of the ancient four-poster… climbing down the loft-ladder. He tried the bathroom door but found it locked, hearing singing from within, and recognising Mac’s distinctive lilt from the night before covering Slade’s Far, Far Away… and giving it great gusto.
Can you say g?
He turned to head back to his room and give Mac time to complete his ablutions, but then the door opened and the Womble himself appeared, in a haze of steam… and puffing on a joint.
‘My friend!’ he said, ‘I mucho enjoyed your company last night… and I trust you slept well. And what about Chosey’s cake… can she cook or what? And her front bum isn’t half bad either eh?’ He shimmied past with a towel around his waist.
‘You’re starting early,’ observed Punchbag, nodding at the spliff.
Mac went crossed eyed… and tapped his nose, ‘Not a word to Teddy mind… but aye… just having meself a quick one in the shower.’
‘Actually in the shower?!’ exclaimed Punchbag.
‘Oh aye,’ continued Mac, ‘it’s one of the benefits of being a Womble… and having such a big snout… it keeps the water off. It’s quite an old joke actually, and a bit of a standard for anyone with a humongous schonz… like saying someone with goofy teeth could eat a tomato through a tennis racket. You’ll find they all start getting slung in now… as we’re coming towards the end of the book… and all the jokes need using up.’
Punchbag nodded his understanding as Mac disappeared inside his room; breaking into How Does It Feel as the door closed.
Later; over a sumptuous full English breakfast, including several rounds of burnt toast with spreadable Lurpak, a modern classic and kitchen staple; and after Bungo had recounted the tragic passing of Great Uncle Bulgaria… who had been run-over by Mike Batt… Orinoco discussed Punchbag’s family coming to stay, agreeing it would be a lovely/convenient way of rounding off the story.
‘It’s actually quite fortuitous,’ observed Orinoco, ‘that Buzz’s last Ayhuaska batch suddenly over-fermented… otherwise it would have seemed strange… don’t you think… that you would suddenly decide to live here… instead of returning to your family?’
‘Just excellent writing I suppose,’ cringed Punchbag.
‘Really?!’ said Orinoco, ‘It actually seems like the very opposite to me, because in the introduction there was only you and Gordon living here… and with no mention of us… or of him going sporadically Banzai. So I’m more inclined to believe that this is all simply being made up on the hoof… but without the author actually having the sense to keep a check on continuity… resulting in stuff having to be crow-barred in at the last minute to tidy things up. And I’m also thinking you should maybe get yourself a mi
lky Baileys at some point… because that also seems to have been forgotten since it was first mentioned… never mind that bloody amulet/pouch/purse/bag thing!’
‘Oh shit!’ exclaimed Punchbag…
‘…and most of the street you say?’ continued Orinoco, ‘including the windows on the Spastics’ Shop,’ seamlessly rebuilding the fourth wall.
‘Yeah apparently it was quite a blast, said Punchbag; savoring the icy sweetness of the whisky and coffee kick as he began to ring his Mammy’s mobile… and deciding he maybe wouldn’t mention having lost the amulet/pouch/purse/bag thing she’d given him when he’d first left the midden… as it probably wasn’t that important.
Punchbag gave a dew claw thumbs-up as she answered… putting her on speaker phone so all the Wombles could say Hi… just as an air horn came blasting down the line.
‘Mam!’ shouted Punchbag when the canister had finally run out, and all the cups and saucers had stopped rattling.
Michael’s voice came through, ‘Sorry mate, she keeps doing that if she doesn’t recognise the number… says she’s sick of being offered free loft insulation, reclaiming P.P.I. and some bloke in Bombay trying to get us to insure our Sky box. Here… I’ll put her on.’
Punchbag explained to his Mammy the good news about the family being able to come and live on the farm.
‘Oooh… that would be crunchy!’ said his Mammy, ‘we’ll start packing right away. I’ll book the ones that have, ‘Moving a thing? Give us a ring!’ on the side of their Octopuses. We’ll have to come back for the funerals though. Are we on speaker phone so I can Marmite the dogs?’
‘They can hear you Mammy,’ said Punchbag… as in the background Neil squealed, ‘Oh My God!’ and ran around the rubble looking for an outfit.
‘Hello Punchbag’s Family! Bumbaclot!’ shouted all the Wombles together… genuinely delighted that there would soon be extra paws to help out around the farm… and restrain Gordon whenever he went postal.
‘Hello Waffles!’ shouted back Punchbag’s Mammy. ‘Can’t wait to exfoliate!’
‘And they can’t wait to meet you either,’ shouted back Punchbag, ‘but could you put someone else on now please.’
‘Civilisation is temporary!’ shouted back his Mammy hurrying off to pack… as Teddy came on to get directions… causing MacWomble to hide his joint.
After this Michael returned and had a long chat with his old friend Mac… regarding his suspicions that Buzz’s Ayhuaska might not have exploded by accident; as their neighbour with the sticky up hair, who had been shot in the fourth chapter and who was not long out of hospital (but now going back in again) had said that just before his roof collapsed on him, he’d seen two priests pegging it away carrying a sedan chair… and with someone inside cackling, ‘Excellent work Lads… I mean Magnifico! We will teach them not to meddle with the Church’s power, by enabling people to find God inside themselves and without middlemen, like Jesus actually said… otherwise our cult of hypocrites and pedos will be bollocksed and no mistake… in nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti!’
‘That is certainly interesting,’ said Mac as he hung up, ‘and fits in nicely with our next mission to the Vatican to steal gold… which they have hoards of by the way. We’re going to get some for Gordon, because I think he really misses it, and it might help with his keep-going-bat-shit-problem. We thought we’d tell him Daenerys Targaryen was irate when she found out it was Gordon’s gold her dragons, and the big one off the Hobbit film, had stolen, and had sent Viserion to bring it back and say sorry… and that she fancied him.’
‘Any particular reason…?’ sighed Punchbag.
‘Just thought it might cheer him up,’ continued Mac, ‘cos he’s right into her. He’s got loads of posters of her in his bedroom… and keeps getting Chosey to do her hair funny and traipse around in blue curtains. I think he sort of sees himself as Khal Drogo, who was banging her in the first series… and why he keeps intermittently jumping on a horse and doing naked Yee Ha’s in the top field… albeit whilst firing a sawn-off shotgun at the clouds.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Punchbag, ‘that makes about as much sense as everything else up to now… however by way of a change doesn’t really take the story forward much.’
‘Actually it does,’ said MacWomble, ‘because here they are now…’
‘And oh I don’t believe it! Look who’s with them…’
Suck It And See
All the Wombles came back into the big kitchen and crowded around Wellington and Tobermory as he sat down on a rubber ring… while Madame Cholet and Gordon stood by regally: with Chosey in her blue curtain gown and braids; beside a shirtless Gordon in hair extensions, goatee and guy-liner.
‘I picked him up on my way back from the accountants,’ said Wellington, indicating to Tobermory, ‘as those royalties have finally come through.’
The gang took turns to carefully hug Tobo as he squirmed on his inflatable Frankie Howard.
‘Obviously he’s still quite sore,’ continued Wellington ‘and his eyes still look a bit squint from where that bastard bulls-eyed him when he was bending over for his slippers… and he still can’t talk because of his tonsils… at least I hope that’s why… but he’s home now and safe… and we can all make sure he gets plenty of T.L.C… and work out a rota with the Sudacrem for his arse.’
‘Absolutely! Here! Here!’ chorused the gang… as Tobo acknowledged with a wincing smile.
‘And ve ave also some very important annooooncement to make as well,’ said Madame Cholet, in an accent that no one was really sure about anymore.
‘That’s right my beautiful Khalisee!’ said Gordon, stepping forward with his moobs and jangling the bells in his hair extensions, ‘for you are all invited to celebrate the union of our two great tribes.’
‘Ah nooo!’ sighed Bungo, as he came alongside, ‘I bet I know what’s prompted this. It’ll be like he did with those bloody bears. I bet she’s up the duff!’
‘For I am up le duff!’ confirmed Madame Cholet.
‘I bloody knew it!’ said Bungo, ‘I mean I wouldn’t care, but he never sees the bairns he had with Brenda, the North American Black Bear he was with before we found him… and reckons he won’t pay maintenance until they’ve done the D.N.A. test on Jeremy Kyle… but there’s a flippin massive waiting list for that, and between you and me I don’t even think he’s phoned, although he reckons he’s spoken to Graham… although I think he’ll just say anything. I mean anyone can see they’re his… as they all do that weird Darth Vader inhale in the middle of sentences for no apparent reason.’
‘He’s got kids with a bear!?’ exclaimed Punchbag.
‘Haven’t you been listening? Aye…he’s got kids with a bear, and they’re called Kibs actually… like a combination of cub and kid… though that’s not really that important… however he does need to start stepping up. We had her bloody Dad come round the other day… going fcuking bitch-cakes and threatening everyone with a giant salmon! We had to hide him in the barn.’
‘I had no idea about any of this,’ said Punchbag.
‘Oh aye,’ said Bungo, ‘you don’t know the half of it. Anyway I think we’ll probably be able to put his head right now, with Tobermory being back, because he seems to listen to him… and Chosey’s pretty good. And if none of that works we can just start tipping up from the kitty to make sure Brenda and the kibs are okay… because we don’t want anyone leaving the story thinking there’s a load of Gordon Brown’s bear children living rough in some imaginary wood, while he’s swanning round inventing new strains of cannabis, while dressed like an insane Genie and shagging the cook from the Wombles.’
‘Err no,’ said Punchbag. ‘Nobody wants that.’ He looked around and racked his brains for something to get them out of this initially funny, but now almost barren dead-end.
‘Actually there are still a few things I wouldn’t mind going through with you all,’ resumed Punchbag, ‘before the end of the story… by way of a wash up.’
/> ‘Absolutely no problem whatsoever,’ said Bungo. ‘Come on we’ll get the lads together and all sit down around the table, and that way we can all chip in and it’ll maybe seem a bit more natural.’
Bungo called the rest of the crew together and explained his idea, and the Wombles took up positions either side of Tobermory who was now holding up cards if he wanted anything.
‘My Love and I will retirerai to our boudoir then,’ said Madame Cholet, ‘to begin organisatingamon pour our grande latte du jour spectaculerai.’
‘Oh my Sun and Stars!’ whispered Gordon as they began to trip out hand in hand, ‘might the Khal have, Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High? by The Arctic Monkeys for our first dance?’
‘Oh give your head a shake Moon of My Life,’ replied Chosey, ‘it must be either Minuetto Allegretto by the bloke who ran over Great Uncle Bulgaria or Behind The Wall by Blowfuse.
The gang watched the lovers leave and then nodded to Punchbag to commence.
‘Okay,’ said Punchbag, ‘I’ll just do these as they come… and I’m thinking it could be like a fast quiz round, and that way maybe hide how uninspired and bone-idle it is.’
‘Shoot!’ shouted Tomsk… at least trying.
‘What do you think might have happened to Leon’s body and the files after he died of cancer?’
‘They were eaten by a bear,’ said Tomsk definitively, ‘as it’s already been established that bears live in these parts from the fact that Gordon has had kibs with one. It probably ran out of the woods between chapters so was never caught on camera.’
‘Fair enough. What about your Nazi regalia… as I thought you were supposed to be the good guys… ish?’
‘I’ll field that!’ shouted Mac. ‘The helmets are from the Second World War, but that’s because they’re the only ones that will fit our big heads and allow our snouts to stick out.’
‘And the swastikas…?’
‘The swastikas…aye…right…aye…they’re…sort of…like…kind of…like… err…thingy…’
‘BUDDHISTS!!’ shouted Bungo hiding his phone. Yeah, we’re actually all Buddhists, and as any Buddhist will tell you the swastika is actually an ancient symbol of plurality, eternity, abundance, prosperity and long life and can be seen in art all around the world... with the right-hand or clockwise swastika of us Buddhists being a symbol of the sun and Vishnu, and the counter-clockwise one adopted by the Nazis representing Kali... and while the cake is still cooling mix together the juice of two lemons and 85grammes of caster sugar. Sorry… it flipped over into a recipe for lemon drizzle cake… although I take your point that we might have ironed them on the wrong way round… next question.’
‘Why was your voice sort of Sarf Landan at the start… and then just normal… and then occasionally Geordie?’
‘I think it was just easier to write.’
‘Okay. There’s a couple of other things, but I really need the other characters to turn up, so let’s keep our fingers crossed for that, but thanks anyway Wombles, and is there anything else you’d like to add before we finish this chapter.’
‘Well if that’s it I wouldn’t mind doing my joke about Tiny Tim and the Fat Lady,’ said Orinoco. ‘Just to show off me funny side a bit more… and maybe Tobermory could write the end down on one of his big cards and hold it up when I nod, just so he can feel like he’s been in the story.’
‘Go on then,’ said Punchbag, ‘although I’m not really sure how that will work in a book without pictures… or have the jokes become so surreal now you have to imagine punch-lines.’
‘Oh no,’ laughed Orinoco, ‘we’ll obviously also say it… otherwise that would just be daft.’
‘Okay… but before you do, I’ve just thought of one last question. It’s about why some of you are completely different characters to how you were originally in the books.’
‘You mean beyond the fact that we’re now a biker gang with a cannabis farm run by Gordon Brown… and were responsible for blowing up the twin towers and burning Jimmy Savile and Cyril Smith to death?’
‘Oh yeah, I’m cool with all of that… but in the books you’re the last person I’d expect to be in charge, as all you wanted to do was sleep and eat all day… and God knows what’s happened to Madame Cholet!’
‘I think you might be reading a bit too much into it,’ said Orinoco, ‘but if it helps, why not just go with we’re all a lot older now… and after Great Uncle Bulgaria was run over and his natural successor bummed squinty we all had to make adjustments and change… so I put aside my greedy and lazy ways and took charge. There’s probably another strained metaphor in there somewhere… but I think the easiest way is just to file it alongside everything else that has been so poorly researched.’
Just then Tobermory held up one of his big cards saying could they hurry up and do the joke… as he was probably going to need the toilet any minute and they’d said at the hospital he had to go as soon as he felt it coming on and not to try and hold it in… otherwise the stitches might burst.
‘Sorry,’ said Punchbag, ‘and thanks again for clearing stuff up Wombles. Okay off you go with another joke that needs using up.’
‘Right!’ said, ‘Orinoco. ‘So the Fat Lady and Tiny Tim work at the circus and have got together and are going to have a baby. And she says she hopes it will be a girl… and Tiny Tim says he isn’t bothered…’
JUST AS LONG AS IT FITS IN THE CANNON!
Nearly There
‘OH MY GOD!’ squealed Neil when he saw Punchbag’s hot pants. ‘They are Fabulous!’ ‘Say you got a pair for me.’
‘Actually these are yours,’ said Punchbag, ‘I’d forgotten I had them on. I’ll ask Madame Cholet to soak them in some Vanish Oxi before she runs them through… as the sump is probably a bit Jackson Pollock-ed after all my adventures… and I’ve also got you a Stonewall T shirt to go with them.’
‘Oh Shut Up!’ diva-ed Neil; flouncing off to explore the rest of the house.
Punchbag spent the rest of the afternoon introducing his family and finding everybody rooms. Michael took up with Mac immediately, and from what Punchbag could gather it sounded like T.W.O.F.W. now had an honorary new member. Buzz met Orinoco, who showed him round Gordon’s hydroponics set up in the barn, with Gordon initially running over growling and barking, but after Buzz had stood his ground and ignored him, eventually nuzzling in and making friends… and then helping to find a spot to brew the Spirit Vine before bounding off again.
‘I really believe that this can teach us,’ said Buzz, ‘…if we treat it with respect.’
‘And providing we stay under the radar and don’t force it,’ said Orinoco, ‘just like we do with the green. People will find it in their own time… and when it’s right for them.’
‘Our Michael gets annoyed with that,’ said Buzz, ‘that everyone isn’t on the same page. He keeps saying capitalism is finished… and gets frustrated that people can’t see it… and aren’t exploring other ways.’
‘He just needs to learn how to ride it out,’ said Orinoco, ‘and accept that not everyone is as far down the road as him… and so some things, such as Mother Ayhuaska, will seem ridiculous and frightening. But all we have to do is wait… and they will come… because Michael is right in that respect… the systems that people have accepted without question are undoubtedly failing, with more and more people feeling there’s something missing… even if they can’t express it yet beyond, There must be more to life than this… there must be more to it than just turning up, making as much money as you can and then shuffling off. But it’s their journey… and for them to discover that there is another road. But I have faith that they will find us… when the time is right. We just have to leave a light on…. like a beacon in the night, as they stumble through the…’
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ interrupted Buzz, ‘but you need to know when to cut the mike. I mean the first bit was okay, but then you crossed over into that pretentious wank the ‘Spiritual People’ do… that’
s supposed to make you think, Wow! Aren’t they profound… when that’s the last thing they are… and it becomes just another ego trip.
You know that’s why our Punchbag hates Professor Brian Cox so much… on top of the fact that him and his mates are dicking about in a £6 billion Scalextric set trying to wake up God… and which is likely to end up with a load of dinosaurs piling out… and not just the nice Barney ones either… because that’s an ego trip as well. And Coxy’s contention of This is it… this is how it all works… is also just whistling in the dark. He might have a model, but that’s all it is… and just one of many. The same as eastern philosophy, which actually makes more sense with its concepts of Chi and Prana… and way ahead of the stuff he’s trying to bend to fit his string theories and dark matter… and which is just the Ether that Tesla was on about yonks back anyway.
It’s like anyone who states definitively that it’s either this or that… because it’s not… it’s none of them… and actually all of them together… and why light appears as both a particle and a wave, and why electrons double-up and start jaunting as soon as anyone shouts Action! It’s unfathomable I tells ya! And supposed to be. But you’ll get directions if you keep the lines open… and which is where the Ayhuaska comes in… and before any of that you’ve got your heart… providing you keep taking a bearing… because even Camus said, I know of only one duty… and that is Love.’
‘Is there actually a point to any of this…?’ tried Orinoco, ‘just you pulled me up before for being overly-dramatic… and now you’re chewing the bloody scenery!’
‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ said Buzz, ‘I’m nearly done, but my point is that our Punchbag is right; Coxy doesn’t know… and neither do the self-proclaimed, ‘Spiritual People’, or anyone else who rocks up trying to force what we call the universe into a box… instead of admitting that what’s really behind it is fear… and trying to make ourselves feel less small. That’s why I like the great philosophers, because at least they said that out loud… that it was simply unknowable… and then offered up what they thought… and which is all religion is… riding on the back of us wanting to believe that someone must have seen the plans.
We’re all frightened of the dark… but that’s because all we see are separates. Us here… and whatever IT is everywhere else… but we’re looking through the wrong end of the telescope… and why the Ayhuaska, or if that’s still a bit unnerving, just simple meditation, can bring us home… because it shows us that everything is connected… and that there’s nothing out there to fear… because out there is actually in here… and that we are everything… and everything is us.’
‘Flippin’ heck Tucker! Have you been getting high on your own supply? I’ll sit down… just give me a nod if there’s any chance you might be landing before bedtime.’
‘Aye sorry… I think you might have a point. Anyway… in a nutshell… I’ll get started alongside Gordon with the Ayhuaska, and between my brewing and your under the radar marketing techniques, and slinging up a few yurts, we can provide a launch pad for those who might want to tap into the Celestial Sat-Nav… whether that be Prana, Chi, God, Spirit, Aliens or whatever… and hopefully word will get around.’
‘And basically that last paragraph covered it,’ said Orinoco, ‘God can you rabbit! But anyway, getting back to fundamentals… hopefully we should also make a couple of quid to fund our other endeavors, like we do with Gordon’s grow… and just as importantly… have a laugh along the way… because obviously the potential for mishaps and hilarity with Gordon Brown not only running a cannabis grow, but doing it alongside bubbling vats of N, N, Dimethyltryptamine while done up like Beelzebub has got me giggling already. And just on the marketing front… I’ve got Alex Polizzi off the telly, who goes around sorting out peoples’ businesses and stuff, coming over next week to discuss strategy and talk about brand awareness.’
‘What happened to Mary Portas Queen of Shops… wouldn’t she have been the more obvious choice… with her having done up the paper shop and that?’
‘She’s really more of a micro-manager… though I take your point… but I think Polizzi is who we need… and Gordon fancies her as well… so it should be quite funny. He’s been practicing doing his smile in case she wants him on the labels… but he’s still struggling with not looking like a serial killer. Joking aside though, towards the end with Portas, Gordon became quite frightened… after her wig fell off… and began saying she was Pyat Pree, one of the warlocks of Quarth from the House of the Undying… who nicked Khalisee’s dragons.’
‘This is Game of Thrones again I take it?’
‘Yeah it is… Gordon loves it.’
‘I gather… however I don’t watch it.’
They stared at each other… conscious of the void…
‘Anyway I’ve a feeling that’s probably it for a bit,’ said Oronoco, pulling the scene back, ‘and look… I think this is your Mam coming over. And is that your Aunty Pauline with her?’
Buzz peered out across the farmyard. ‘Oh yeah, that’s me Mam, and I’ve no idea who the other cat thing is, as I’ve never seen her before… so yeah, it’s probably me Aunty Pauline.’
‘They seem pretty agitated,’ observed Orinoco. ‘I hope this doesn’t mean something terrible/dramatic/unexpected/isn’t that the same thing, has happened and there’s going to be a load more chapters.
‘Ah Christ! Let’s hope not.’
And Sleep
‘I just thought I’d better catch you Buzz,’ said Aunty P., ‘before the book finishes, to introduce myself. I’m your Aunty Pauline… and have already done this with the others over in the house.
‘Yes she’s my twisted sister,’ confirmed Mammy, ‘but didn’t have a hit in 1984 with We’re Not Gonna Take It.’
‘Although I did co-write, I’m So Hot For You from the Love Is for Suckers album, but was never credited on it. Bloody Dee Snider!’
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ said Buzz, wondering why he was centre stage again for another chapter.
‘Punchbag wants you to come back over to the house,’ reassured Aunty P., ‘as he would like to pick up the main speaking part again. He’d have come across himself, but he’s just finishing off the last of the jokes… apparently he wasn’t really sure about the Tiny Tim one, whatever that means, so he’s doing them off camera… and will decide in the edit whether to leave them in or not.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Orinoco, ‘he’s a bright lad your boy. In fact the whole family seems fairly sound… present company accepted.’
‘Oooh! Now aren’t you a big strong…’ began Aunty P., suddenly noticing Orinoco.
‘Womble…?’ helped out Orinoco.
‘Right,’ said Aunty. ‘And is there a Mrs. Womble?’
‘Eeeh! She always does this,’ said Buzz’s Mammy, pulling playfully at her sister. ‘We’re getting back to just like we were before she nicked my card… the Bitch, which is all forgotten about now… because she’s given me her money from Tea-Tray.’
‘I actually got a lot more than I was expecting for that sub from Abramovich,’ confirmed Aunty, ‘because it turned out those annoying gears actually made it really special… so it just goes to show… all the things that you complain about in someone can actually be the very… ah bollocks! I’m bloody baked, boiled and fried with these lumbering conceits… trying to find hidden meanings everywhere. It was a bloody pain in the arse to drive, or whatever you do with subs… and I’m pleased to be shot of it! Just to change the subject though… I feel I must commend you on your grow and the fact that you’re using Dutch Pro for your PH-levelling… nice touch! I actually also invented a strain of cannabis you know; called Hong Kong Diesel… so I’d be more than happy to help out while I’m here and catching up with Sis. And I’m also pretty adept at Judo, which could be useful whenever the cheese slips from our Gordon’s crackers… and on that note I should also probably mention how he and I are related… however having just checked my watch and mimed surprise… it looks like
there won’t be time. Perhaps readers could write in with suggestions?’
Orinoco had a coughing fit…
‘I see the Toon are still shit,’ he managed to stutter out in a last ditch attempt at maintaining the fourth wall.
‘Oh don’t be so nervous Mr. Womble,’ laughed Aunty, ‘anyone would think you’d never been in a book that had gone completely tits up before, however if it makes you feel better, and to take your mind off it, I’ll finish up by telling you about my super-new-invention. I got the idea on the ride up with Cheryl on the UNICEF Multi-Millionaires’ Charity Football Coach, when I was looking out the window at all the sheep in the fields. You see I noticed that all the rams had bags of coloured chalk strapped to their underbellies… so the farmer could tell which ewes they’d tupped… which is northern sheep-speak for shagged. Anyway it left a coloured mark on the sheep’s backs… just in case you were still struggling.’
‘Annnnnnnnd…?’ said Orinoco… already wincing.
‘Well I was thinking,’ continued Aunty, ‘that something similar might be good for Catholic Priests. As it probably gets a bit confusing remembering which choir boys they’ve done. I thought each church could have a different colour… and they could have competitions and that. Maybe Ronco or K-tel could market them and we’d get Tommy Vance to do the voice-overs. Oh is he?! Anyway, I thought I could go back to The Den for funding… as Duncan loved my Ovary Jammers… although did insist they went into Theo’s stores first… before he’d uncross his legs and walk across grinning to shake my paw.’
Orinoco looked like he’d had a stroke.
‘Again I think the name is going to be key,’ continued Aunty, ‘and if Ronco is involved they’ll naturally want O-Matic on the end of the product. Eeeeh! Does anyone remember their Veg-O-Matic that ‘sliced a tomato so thin it only had one side?!’ We had one when we were little didn’t we Sis? And you put my tail in it… and then you bloody get onto me about that bingo card! Anyway… perhaps readers could also send in suggestions for a name? I was thinking something like Ecclesiastical Shag-Bags… and come up with a catchy tag-line. What do you think?’
‘And it’s down!’ cried Orinoco as the imaginary rubble fell around him, ‘…and aint no way we’re rebuilding that.’ He made a half-hearted attempt at changing the subject now the joke was over, and pulling together another loose strand.
‘Err… so you mentioned, probably, that you’d travelled back up North with someone called Cheryl? Would you perhaps like to elaborate on what has happened to her…?’
‘Oh she hated it,’ said Aunty P. simply, ‘and has gone back to Paris.’
‘Well that was a lot less libelous than I was expecting,’ mused Orinoco.
‘Come on Mammy,’ said Buzz, ‘we’ll all go back across to the house now… as I think I can hear music and singing about to begin. Let’s all link arms… and as we walk, laughing and shaking our heads at the craziness of what we’ve all shared… you can explain why you and Aunty looked so agitated before.’
‘Finally!’ said Aunty. ‘Yes I was actually expecting to do this joke a lot sooner, in fact more or less as we came in, however as seems to keep happening in this book we somehow got side-tracked, but anyway, here it is… so just imagine we’ve just come into the barn…’
‘Oooh! Hello everyone, sorry I don’t have time to explain who I am, I’ll do that in a minute, but there’s just been a letter pushed through the door from a company who are fracking in the area for shale gas, telling us not to worry if our water tastes a bit funny… because it’s just been contaminated with loads of awful chemicals… and having just tried the kitchen tap… flames have shot out and melted the kettle.’
Orinoco sighed, but like the trooper he was took up his cue. ‘Was it the hot one?’
‘Well it is now!’ said Aunty, in a hilarious back and forth.
‘Actually that’s always been like that,’ continued Orinoco, ‘ever since Nick Knowles from D.I.Y. S.O.S. came round to fix the washer. He has a van and travels around doing odd jobs between shows… putting to use all the building skills he’s picked up over the years on the series… however as all he does is try and talk in a gruff voice and be one of the lads he didn’t really have a clue. So after he’d pushed the washer back in; after having a load of cups of tea, eating all our biscuits, smoking Mac’s fags, bringing a guitar in from the van and trying to sing, and then hugging everyone and crying… he went off saying we shouldn’t have any more problems… and ever since then that tap has been a blow-torch… and if you flush the toilet between 3 and 5 in the morning Tobermory’s bed flies up and catapults him out the window. And the washer’s still fucked!’
‘You should have got Dominic what’s his face from Don’t Get Done Get What’s His Face,’ said Aunty, as they got very close to the house. ‘He’s good for that sort of thing… if you’ve been ripped off by a dodgy builder, as he can generally track them down and ask them a load of panicky, garbled questions before they jump in their vans and drive off… and you have to pursue them as you would normally through a small claims court.’
‘We did,’ said Orinoco, ‘but as well as bears around these parts there’s also a tribe of Bonobo chimps, who are the ones who are always having sex, and I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but after he’d been on Knowles’ case for a few weeks Dom came back round to get more information about how many biscuits he’d scoffed, and all we heard was a load of Aaaa! Aaaa! Aaaaas! up in the trees and long story short they’ve made him prime minister or something. In fact there he is now… up in the top branches. It looks like they’re all masterba…’
‘Master Bakers!’ shouted Punchbag running to greet them in the doorway. ‘Yes they’re all fantastic cooks and no mistake, and often swap recipes with Madame Cholet for Banana bread… but enough of that… come inside and join the party… that’s literally just about to start.’
‘But hang on… who’s this… just pulling up in his Rolls Royce?!’
Last One I Promise
‘Well Hello You Big-Kitty-Thingy-Ma-Jiggys… and whatever the hell the rest of you all are!’ shouted Neil; uncorking another bottle of 1907 Heidseick Vintage, the holy grail of all champagnes, with his teeth and spraying fizz haphazardly. ‘I don’t suppose you might know the way back down to London from here would you... on the hurry up like?’
‘Hello again,’ said Punchbag, noticing Neil was still in his underpants, but was now wearing a jacket with a, My Other Suit label on the lapel… and hadn’t swung in through the window. ‘Any particular reason you’re here, and why you’re using the Director’s Cut of your original opener?’
‘The yodelling was doing me throat in,’ said Neil taking a slug, ‘and the khat was giving me the squirts… so I thought I’d get back to basics for a bit… and I think the fans like to know where they are as well, and can be a bit funny if you change stuff too much. I’ve been telling Ed that for these elections, about not moving too far from the middle ground… where you basically can’t tell where the Tories end and Labour starts… but he reckons the public will go with his pretend-earnest/pretend-socialist approach… and Alistair thinks it’s the right strategy and is behind him all the way… and you can always trust Campbell, because he’s not the type to turn on you if you lose and say something completely different.
And that’s why I’ve popped in… to watch the general election, as my telly’s gone funny… and I thought it would be nice if I could be in the closing scene. So is it okay to put Sky on? Hopefully it’ll be, the king of breakfast television, anchoring… because pound for pound I don’t think there’s better… and like his website says, ‘credibility and versatility are what you get with Eamonn… along with a solicitor’s letter if you mention he’s a lard arse.’
‘No problem… we’ll put in on shortly,’ said Punchbag, ‘I’d actually forgotten it was the general election 2015… because originally this book was supposed to be out before it… but hey ho. So have you just left the three of them down there to get on wit
h it?’
‘Oh aye… they’re all playing nice now,’ continued Neil, ‘and I know whoever wins will do their very best for the country. And even if they lose it’s not like they’ll just swan off and take well paid jobs elsewhere, such as with International Rescue, even if they do look like the love child of Scott Tracey and Mr. Bean… because their hearts are in it you see. And this is what the general public doesn’t understand, about just how much they all care… about knighthoods. Anyway, I’ve a feeling the Lib Dems will more than hold their own this time around, because the electorate will appreciate that Nick stepped up when the country needed him and wore a gimp mask… and the same for Ed… because he’s made some lovely cakes! In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if Ed smashes it… especially after putting all those recipes on that giant 30 grand tombstone… because people see that and think… that’s it… that’s what we want!
It’s just David I worry for… I think he might actually do quite badly, after all his made-up austerity cuts and his intention to sell off the N.H.S. I don’t think people will go for that at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s knocked for six and ends up all depressed again and out the back working on his Escort. Yes my prediction is a storming Labour victory, or maybe even a Lib-Lab pact… with Ed, Nick, Vince, Beaker out The Muppets, and Ed Balls all having defining roles in shaping the next five years.’
‘And David Cameron covered in grease banging away on Fanny,’ said Punchbag… because someone had too.
‘Oh it’ll be bloody great Man!’ continued the Lord, ‘to see the old Labour Lads back in again… just for the ordinary people who might have lost hope. Just to know that there is still someone there for the true working class. We’ve got Diversity booked for the after-show. They’re doing a big number outside Number 10, just as Ed walks up the road with everybody cheering; although D:Ream won’t let us use their song anymore, bloody Brian Cox! You know there was something on the radio before about a load of Velociraptors rampaging through Geneva, but I wasn’t really listening… but anyway he says we can’t use it. However I’ve been a bit shrewd and sampled the base-line and wrote me own; ‘Things… Might Get Marginally Better!’ The Diversity guys are going to be bouncing around to it, and it’s gonna be all floodlit and with loads of fireworks going off… and at the end they’re all going to make a big clump and look to the side frowning like they’ve lost something. But then suddenly they’ll all tumble apart… and I’ll be there in me underpants with me legs in the air spinning on me head. Fcukin Skill!
Johnny Clawhammer’s been training me, and I’ve got it nailed down. Providing someone holds me ankles and runs around in circles pulling me shoe.’
‘You mean Ashley Banjo…?’
‘Bloody synapses!’
‘Well thanks for your closer,’ sighed Punchbag, ‘it was much appreciated. Please help yourself to chips and dips and pipe up if you think of something funnier… although to be honest I think that’s us… and it’s maybe time we all tapped out. I think there were a few more things we were supposed to cover; about Bono’s hats and Michelle Obama’s ring finger, but I suppose they can wait until the re-match… if there is one.’
He looked around at everyone who had helped him in his story… wondering who’d be sued immediately and who would end up cutting a deal and wearing a wire… just as Orinoco came slowly into shot. He placed a reassuring paw on the little cat’s big shoulders… sensing the sadness.
‘What if we all agree to meet back here?’ he offered, ‘in exactly one year’s time and on this very page… once the author is out of prison. Any takers?’
The room roared with delight. ‘I’m in! Me too! Defo! My Moral Compass says yes! Here me naw! I’ll think about it! Did you just shit…? Absolutely! We’re Alright! Weetabix!’ chorused the crazy cast.
And can you say c?
Punchbag laughed helplessly… as he was hoisted onto their collective shoulders and marched around the book… as the most successful pop band of 1974 suddenly struck up… a blistering Jay Z re-mix of their iconic hit… with Orinoco on vocals, Wellington on lead, Tomsk on bass, Bungo on drums, Madame Cholet on saxophone, Gordon Brown going mental… and Tobermory on accordion… because of his bum.
“Remember you’re a Womble!”
The End
Thank You
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