Dulltown, Europe: Today’s joke is the one about the Field Marshal’s baton getting bitten in two by the angry hippopotamus. Oh, how we chuckled!
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A rambling email from Veronica Crush, writer and poet from the glory days of the Hull Surrealist League, popped up this morning. She says that she and her ‘friend’ tall tree surgeon, and heir to a multimillion dollar fortune, Monty Tick, paid a visit to Sebastian Bollard, another stalwart of the HSL and former lover of Veronica, who is now in prison in the Metropolitan Correctional Centre there in New York City.
It all started when he was arrested for infecting members of the public at an art show of rotting food that he had put on in a trendy gallery in that city. Bollard, being a self obsessed, arrogant, aggressive yob, on being placed in custody, soon got into more trouble and has now been behind bars for several months. Veronica says that he is apparently having a great time, thoroughly enjoying his incarceration, and is giving lectures and instructing his fellow inmates in the dark arts of surrealism… The best place for him I think!
Veronica attached a new piece of nutty writing for us. It is called ‘Click’:
Dainty Dymphna Pudge stroked her chin as if she were an old white-bearded professor, and studied the thick granite chopping table. She moved her fingers over the surface, her pretty pink nails catching in the ridges caused by the use of the axe and the mini-mattock.
There was a sound of a click behind her and she quickly turned to see what it was.
Malcolm Malm closed the door behind him, the latch clicking quietly, and on entering immediately noticed an old vinyl long-playing record, half in its gaudy cover lying, on the steel mesh floor of the brightly lit inspection room. The disc was a collection of Chet Atkins guitar favourites, but performed by someone called Ray ‘Razor’ Tremormans. Malcolm walked across the room towards the window, not caring whether he stepped on the record or not. He rubbed dirt from the glass using the sleeve of his red uniform jacket and peered out at the brown river and the grey warehouses. Suddenly there was a click behind him, but he wasn’t concerned about clicks that day.
Tuesday Antarse picked up the child’s shiny green metal frog and put it on a low wall so that it wouldn’t be stepped on by a passer-by, and went up the steps of the Office of National Worry where she had her cell, and then in through the bronze main doors. The dark green linoleum glowed like fresh grass in a shaft of sunlight that struck down from the landing window on the great marble staircase; the smell of hot bureaucracy was heavy in the air. The window had been accidentally left unfastened and moved slowly to and fro driven by the breeze as Tuesday strutted past it. The stay made a clicking sound as it touched and rubbed against the little brass knob screwed to the window sill.
Up on the roof, Franco Dank was spread-eagled on the sloping hot red tiles with his left eye at the sight of the borrowed sniper rifle. The muzzle and Franco’s head were silhouetted against the desperately blue sky above the ridge tiles of the roof… He squeezed the trigger…’Click’… Franco swore in some European language and looked down at the firearm, useless in his hands.
Vanessa Gauze clicked on the thumbnail image of the yellow painted tandem and was surprised when she was presented with a colour picture of Helmsley Castle in Yorkshire. She parted her lips in surprise, leaned forward in her harness, and peered intently at the photograph. Sure enough, in front of the castle was the easily recognisable figure of her husband Brandon with his old-style black metal Nikon camera in his hands. As she looked, his hands seemed to move a little and operate the shutter on the camera as if he were somehow photographing her… click.
Basil Anthrop-Mann ran up the concrete staircase. He was a well dressed portly man and he was carrying a small, but quite heavy, dark grey suitcase. He stood gasping for breath for a moment on the top landing of the filthy building, took out a big round watch from his waistcoat pocket and peered at its pale moon face and delicate Roman numerals. With more than a little difficulty and some wobbling, he crouched down, opened the case and took out the newly sharpened axe and mini-mattock. He prayed to god that when he opened the door there would be no-one inside waiting, he really couldn’t afford to have yet another of his suits cleaned… Holding the tools snugly between his left arm and his belly, he put his sweaty right hand onto the cold doorknob… click…
Veronica Crush. 2012.