Mayonnaise in the night…

But first…
Dulltown, Europe: Today’s elephant in the room is the one trumpeting on about his recent holiday in Zambia.

So, anyway, at 3.30 this morning the phone rang; I knew it would be bad news. Yes, a drunken phone call from one of those awful poets from the glory days of the Hull Surrealist League. This time I recognised the slurred voice of Tony Mayonnaise; he opened with, ‘Good morning… Is that the DVLA? I want to make an enquiry about a licence…’ (The DVLA is the British Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency)
I reminded him what the time was and said that he should bugger off, but he persisted and continued, ‘What I need to know is, will my Artistic Licence cover me for driving a surrealist van?…’
By then I was wide awake I decided to play along. I said, ‘And what will you be transporting in this aforementioned “surrealist van”, sir?’
‘He giggled, and I heard the click of a beer can being opened, and then he replied: ‘Oh, just one or two things: a dozen assorted fruit bump tickets; Laurence Olivier’s best soup ladle in a red velvet pouch; a large bag of salted chrome vanadium spanners, metric and imperial; a large box of stuffed mongeese; a…’
‘Mongeese?’ I said.
‘Mongooses, if you like…; a piece of mauve wallpaper from Jack Kerouac’s upstairs toilet; fifteen unread copies of last Tuesday’s Wall Street Journal; an ancient oak cask full of shiny ball-bearings and dried peas; a gust of sea air captured in a pale blue plastic carrier bag; a mug of trembling Maltesers (M); a four metre length of uncooked spaghetti in its protective cardboard tube; the smell of anticipation trapped in a Swan Vestas matchbox (SV); a crate of semi-skimmed unicorn milk; the complete works of Jeffrey Archer in extra-virgin olive oil…’ He paused… I heard a glugging sound, and then that of a can being crushed and then thrown against a wall.
‘Anything else?’ I asked.
‘Just a one-tenth-scale model of a fracking plant made of cheese, and a short piece of brown string once used by Jesus Christ… Oh, a bruised ego on a spike, and a pair of Christmas sunglasses with little red antlers glued on…’
At that point the line went dead…

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
This entry was posted in brain, conversation, existentialism, Grumpiness, Hull.UK., humour, information, poetry, surrealism, Uncategorized, words and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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