“Salut and welcome the first ever Opticus newsletter (affiliated with the Opticus fan club and Mrs.Brown’s cup-cakes). In this letter you will find vital information on those wonderfully sentient beings, the Optici. But what will you receive in return for joining the club I hear you ask?
1. A large antelope painted orange
2. A small collection of Indonesian kettlefur
3. An albatrosses claw
4. A share in the Frogmill Hotel (just off the A40)
5. An erotic foot massage by Carol Vordermann
6. One baked bean dipped in honey
7. A small island off the coast of Normandy
8. A four-wheeled drive aardvark
9. A collection of Paul Anka records
10. Richard and Judy
11. A metal badge depicting an artist’s impression of the Opticus
Membership to this club is entirely free except for the small fee of c600,000 to cover postage. Alternatively you can invest in ICI and we’ll say nothing more. As well as you membership freebies you also have the opportunity to attend a number of events:
1. The Opticus conference (held at Idle Mens Working Club)
2. Inter-galctic egg spoon race (360*N, 22*W from Pluto)
3. The Harrods January sales
4. The ‘sticking your head in a radiator’ contest
5. Pea shooting
6. The 363rd annual pot-bellied pig thawing contest
7. Five-a-side stir frying
8. Smelling your training shoe after a 10 mile run
9. The Richard and Judy show
10. An audience with Darren Shacklady
Enclosed with this letter are details of an approximation of the Opticus alphabet (one must remember that they write all their letters and words on top of each other, as they can see into infinity. For example, “I have a Parker pen” is
and “Optici” is . However because no Opticus lives within one hundred universes of each other, letter writing has become pretty much extinct due to the carrier pigeons getting pissed off with the idea that they were purely bred to carry as little as the word “thankyou” across 266 universes. And even if they succeeded it had normally been so long that the Opticus receiving the message had forgotten what the “thankyou” was for.
Optici are not very sociable creatures, infact it is common knowledge that no Opticus has ever been in the company of another since the day Mrs. Jones rinsed her jay-cloth in her house at 26 Broomfield Way, Colchester 26 years ago, hence releasing billions of tiny optici into existence. Some argue this explanation is nonesensical as the Optici are now believed to be at least 600 galaxies in size. The other more feasible argument is that they all evolved from a giant inter-galactic turnip. If this is true it is quite possible that Alan Titchmarsh at this very moment considering his own ancestry, that is without even considering the complexities and paradoxes involved with Percy Thrower. Arse. A small dog rattled past the window at an extraordinary rate, this was unusual because Walter Muffy lived on the top floor of a council flat in Hackney. He merely shrugged it off and went to put the kettle on. Unfortunately the kettle gave him an electric shock which sent him hurtling across his flat and out of his open window and down, down, down, down, woof, down, down, approximation of Opticus appearance - , down, down, down, down until squelch.....................................Walter came too.
Walter was amazed to find himself facing a strangely azure blue sky, he moved his aching head to the left and was confronted by an ageing Indian chieftan. “I am Big Bird Two Bob Blow Job Cornflower we are honoured that you, Walter Muffy could join us for dinner. On tonight’s menu we have glazed porcupine with cactus milk.”
Walter by this stage was so stunned that he failed to notice the small dog squashed onto the backside of his pants..............
Paxo-Eldred-Schizo-Gazza-Maxamillion-thankyousomuch-Smith or is perhaps the most well known of the Optici to appear (albeit in a slightly smaller form than expected) on the planet Earth. Most recently
he appeared on a large black smelly surface as a large silver nail (NOT snail), unfortunately, Paxo as we shall call him because I can’t be arsed to keep typing his full name because I’m a double ard bastard, had not studied his Earth Encyloscope and the result was that he thought humanoids were 6” nails. The end result being that Nigel Mansell happened to run over Paxo in his F1 car, giving it a fatal puncture, costing him the 1991 World Championship. Since then Optici have tried to keep their visits more inconspicuous, spending more time with genetically-engineered terrapins on the Planet Alfonso and having tea with a latex version of Mrs. Jones, now enshrined on an asteroid just off Roy Hattersley’s left eye-brow compartment.
“Aye, that was a fine piece of deer meat, Mr.Two-Bobble or whatever your name is.” Walter remarked, relieved he had not had to endure the porcupine and cactus, until the Indian dropped his pants and stuffed the porcupine and cactus milk up his arse. “Helps clear out any anal clingers” Two-Bob announced. “Mr. Muffy?” said Two-Bob holding him the cactus and porcupine. At this moment a large ice-cream van fell out of the sky and Walter fainted. Walter was lucky, he was the only 65 year old man to still have his milk teeth. This did however cause him to get called names at school all those years ago, like “Milky Milky”, “Baby Jaws” and “Chloropod”( this was by a slightly more successful Optici than Paxo called Bisto-Alfred-Vertigo-Incey-Chester-HowareyouI’mfine-Smith who had spent 12 successful years posing as a tall, skinny, ginger kid.) The small dog’s name by the way was Nugget and was just brought back to life by a strange form of Indian alchemy that involved lots of coloured potions, 46 termite hills, a video of the A-Team, Richard and Judy’s toe-nails, vanilla ice-cream and a small cactus. It had sort of attached itself back onto Walter’s trousers by a strange form of levitation and was also able to recite every word from Paul Anka’s records.
The construction of the Optici railroad has long been thought to be the biggest waste of time in the universe, since it took 500 zillion trillion billion robotic ostriches five millenia to construct just five light years of railroad, which barely stretched from Ajax-Ethelred-Arachno-Macca-Gulliver-Don’tputplasticonthefire-Smith’s front door to his empty milk bottles. Such was the economic unfeasibility of this project, he kept the railroad to himself and used it to transport iron-ore to his pet cat (Waffle) on the door mat. His cat, by the way, had a strange fetish for licking iron-ore. Walter was bored. He had tried everything, picking his nose, spending one whole day finding different techniques for wiping his arse, watching over and over again episodes of Bergerac, smoking cactus leaf (this led him to believe he was Mary Poppins riding a large blue whale through Leyton High Street) and, of course, winking (he had done this so much that his left eyelid had gone into spasm and made him look like one of those really odd guys in films who are a whizz on the computer, don’t have a girlfriend and eat lots of Pot Noodles.)
No-one knows exactly where the word Opticus came to be. One suggestion is that a few of the inhabitants of Earth had got a little too mentally creative and had managed to access the higher plain of understanding. Others suggest it was just an urban myth that was started to fend away unwanted Soda-Streams. Whatever, wherever and whenever the term came into being, the Optici could not sit back and ignore the once naive little blue planet in the Sol System. This caused so much concern that the Encycloscope researchers even changed this planet’s entry from ‘Mud’ to ‘Earth. One Opticus prophet, Colmans-Cuthbert-Luney-Razor-Maurice-Gotanysparechangemate-Smith was so concerned that it took him 3000 million years to fry one egg for breakfast, which resulted in the toast in his toaster to burn, set on fire the house around him and all the remaining countryside, until all that was left when he was finished was a infertile, barren husk of a planet, thus making it impossible for him to have anything with his eggs. This depressed him so much that he committed suicide. With that he became the first Optici ever to do so much. Not that he was too much, for he was reincarnated as a pot-bellied pig on a nearby planet. Unfortunately the pig was soon killed, so that the farmer who owned him could have bacon with his eggs for breakfast. (So ironic isn’t it?)
Walter, meanwhile had a bad case of piles.
For the rest of this wonderfully gripping story and other tales such as “Optici digestive juices anonymous”, “The Optici that came in from the mould”, “A Tale of Two Sooties” and, of course, not forgetting, “The very best of Richard and Judy in their own words and juices.” phone someone you know and ask them to buy someone else a cuttlefish.
The one thing in his life that Walter had most desired was the Hammond Organ. After three months of deer’s meat he was hardly surprised to see a playable Hammond Organ sitting in front of him with deer’s antlers sprouting out of the top and a large selection of Paul Anka music nearby on a wooden pedestal. Such was the surprise that it caused Walter to go off music altogether and developed Jogger’s Nipple instead. Jogger’s Nipple is said to have derived from the cultive wastelands of Tibet, where 33 Abysinnian Monks tried endlessly to connect 43 ringworm to an Ann Summer’s catalogue whilst reciting nursery rhymes. Walter got off the rock he was sitting on and sat on another rock posing as used-car salesman.
It has often been said an elephant never forgets, well this is not the case for the Optici. Many, many years ago in a galaxy far, far away, yes you’ve guessed it folks, a toaster. Well, not any normal toaster by any means, this toaster was well travelled, was fluent in 39 languages and held a PHD in Arctic fox farming in Siberia. Despite all this it doesn’t answer the question to why Optici don’t share the same talents as our good friend the elephant, in other words, why they are forgetful. This being so it has………oh, oh dear I’m sorry I have to go, I have just dematerialised in a Jamaican bobsleigh team and I have left my china ostrich in the opticians.
Walter looked up into the night sky and spotted a solitary knitted heron sitting on a castrated mongoose disguised as a small moon. Walter had just finished the last of his peppermints purchased from Mrs. Brown’s sweet shop those many five months ago. It tasted like a glamorised mothball out on a date with Wilma Flintstone. Nugget, the small dog attached to Walter’s trousers spotted a small Eucalyptus shapes vole made of Velcro and darted across the 50,000 mile expanse of the Aki-aki-aki-al-fayed-fee-fi-fo-fum-tow-bar-treats-for-all desert oblivious to the fact that he was dragging Walter head first through the purple tundra. 50,000 miles later, Walter woke up with a small cactus imbedded up his nose.
As befits such epic circumstances as those in which Mr. Muffy at present found himself, it was no ordinary cactus which penetrated his nasal cleft. The aforementioned cactus had in fact spent the last 57,000 years acting as a taxi for Optici wandering too far from home on a Friday night. Obviously, the term, ‘Friday night’ is merely a reference by which the human mind can contemplate an Opticus’ leisure time since the Optici occupy a region of space-time devoid of the constraints of temporal physics. One notable exception was Neil-von-haddock-wallets-stickoneontheendthereguvnor-Smith, who, forgetting that he occupied a region of space-time devoid of the constraints of temporal physics. One notable exception was Neil-von-haddock-wallets-
stickoneontheendthereguvnor-Smith, who, forgetting that he occupied a region of space-time devoid of the constraints of temporal physics, got home late one ‘Friday night’, and was beaten to death by his wife and egg plant, Gwyneth. This tragic event has been commemorated in the annual Gwyneth saxophony and barge battering contest held over a pan of tripe on Alpha Centauri.
Somewhere 25 miles west of the North Pole an Eskimo fell over. Walter watched his Indian compatriots do a spot of spring cleaning. This generally involved getting together a her of over-zealous water buffalo and making them recite Paul McCartney’s frog chorus while stampeding over a lesser-spotted Iguana the size of a small football stadium. Quite what this had to do with spring cleaning Walter was unsure, except it seemed to enable the Indians to start running wildly about ranting on about the benefits of a one man woman and a one woman man. It was at this point that Walter decided he had had had had had had had had hadchooooooo! He decided to go it alone. So with just Nugget, the small dog attached to Walter’s trousers now smelling something that resembled an Albanian curry house with no air-conditioning, a small packet of cornflour and 365 records of Elvis Presley’s ‘Jailhouse Rock’, he set out into the afternoon sunlight.
It has mostly been agreed that the Optici don’t follow any religion of their own, but it is their existence that has provided numerous prophets on the Planet Ohuhihihihihuho in the Barnard’s Star System to start playing the bassoon. On earth as it is in heaven, their is only one recognised patron saint of the Optici, the renowned legend, Paul Anka. But perhaps more importantly, the appearance of a large cheese-cake in Kelvin’s kitchen caused such distress that it took 400 wild dogs 13 years to realise their purpose in life, when they’d finished, they started a new civilisation on the moon, specialising in the export of cheap Czechoslovakian Bunsen burners.
It has often been asked what the Optici do for leisure time. In most cases the most popular activity is wild mushroom picking in the Glazed Otter Asteroid belt. This often involves 36 metallic bullfrogs answering to the name Duane inflating 5 large anthills made of latex and then having a round of golf. Quite what the Optici do while this is all happening nobody knows, most of all, the 655,000 species of wild mushrooms expecting at any moment to be uprooted. It is not widely known how many Optici join in the festivities, but it is thought that only a handful end up watching Scottish Second Division Football.
It was cold and wet in the cave that Walter had decided to set up camp in for the night. It was unfortunate even more that Walter’s last box of matches had been fed to a hungry bamboo shoot wolf and he was unable to light a fire. Nevertheless Walter was able to enjoy the luxuries
of a 300 year old baboon called Sourface Sorearse who babbled onto Walter all night about the complexities of opening up a trade route between Guatemala and Hondurus. To cop it all, Nugget, Walter’s small dog as you probably know now so I’m not going to self combust into a brimful of asha, 45, had managed to break free from the constraints of his master’s trousers and gone in search of a seedy bar in which he could shoot some pool and insult a polar bear.
300,000 million trillion light years away, Walter’s long lost cousin, Mildred Muffet sat on her tuffet eating her kurds and turks, no she didn’t, she sat in the shade of a large palm tree Bjorn Borg on a beach somewhere in the Bahamas playing with a young malnourished olive. Mildred was exceptionally lonely, as well as being exceptionally ugly, she had never had a boyfriend and her hobbies consisted of knitting jumpers for goalposts, collecting rare imports of Worther’s Originals and tiddlywinks. She had never met Walter and she probably believed she never would until she went to a seedy bar later that day only to be confronted by a small, ragged dog called Nugget, posing as an Estate Agent. Incidentally, Nugget could now talk. He claimed he was a direct descendent of the Muffy family and had come to whisk her off to a minted llama convention.
It has often been chronicled in the famed publication, Sheep Dipping Monthly that the Optici were responsible for some of the most ridiculous inventions the world has ever seen, these include the Sinclair C5, the Soda Stream, Star Trek action figures and Dale Winton. But it is perhaps the lesser-spotted brick python that is the worst of all. Not only does it look like a brick, it actually believes it is a brick, and spends it entire life searching for wet mortar, the end result is that all the lesser-spotted brick python’s became extinct in under 2 weeks, causing 3000 Bolivian basket weavers from Chile to hurl themselves into the sea and drown. However, considering very few, read Sheep Dipping Monthly nobody really knows these facts or really cares.
At this stage I thought it would be useful to check Walter’s inventory. In his possession at this moment in time, Walter has:-
1 small packet of cornflour
2 records of Elvis Presley’s ‘Jailhouse Rock’ (the rest Walter had used as
Frisbees to entertain a small gazelle called Trevor)
1 small glass vitrine containing a politician’s toe nail
1 slightly squashed Murray Mint
1 bus receipt for the No.265 bus
1 very annoying Pink Panther key-ring
The entire works of Oscar Wilde (found under a rare shrub called Donald)
365 years supply of Belgian chocolate
1 small dog called Nugget (AWOL)
a 300 Storey cinnamon wildebeest called Prozac
Mix all the ingredients together, add a little salt and pepper, one pint of water, put into a large pan and cook as if your life depended on it for 25 minutes. When ready, garnish with parsley and serve.
Serves 5.5 billion.
“It’s not uncommon for the rivals of the mongoose family to fight and kill the rivals to their territory. (Big Fight). In the end the rivals move on, and they all lived happily ever after.” Finished Nugget putting the book down,
“How was it for you?” he asked.
“Ah that were a lovely tale” remarked Mildred, “Even if the early bits about David Attenborough’s childhood were a bit dull.”
“But it’s not just the story it’s the principle,” retorted Nugget, “The Mongoose family have every right to where they live, even if it means a small boy can’t build his tree-house.”
With this Mildred had started to leave, causing Nugget to drop his drink and scare all the minted llamas in the room, resulting in the entire room’s demise due to them all drowning in minted llama’s spit.
“How many Eskimos does it take to change a lightbulb?”, well that was just one of the questions that Ginsters-Ragwart-Sinewave-Chopper-Theodore-I’llhavesaltandvinegaronmechipsluv-Smith had tried to answer for most of his lawful and wedded wife. One of the other and slightly less important questions was ‘6x7’ or ‘What is the answer to life?’, in each case the answer always seemed to correlate to the number 42. But why 42? If one of the Eskimos broke his leg and couldn’t walk and there were only 42 Eskimos in one town, would that mean that all the Eskimos in that town have to go without light for 6 months? Well, this was never the case because Ginsters-Ragwart-Sinewave-Chopper-Theodore-I’llhavesaltandvinegaronmechipsluv-Smith came up with the idea to built a robot Eskimo that could make up the numbers if one Eskimo was ever to fall ill. This was as well as the 30 back-up replica Eskimos reserved for severe cases of Influenza. So pleased Ginsters-Ragwart-etc.etc.you bloodywellknowbynow-Smith was with his life’s work he spent the rest of his life on a duvet mining colony on Sleepa 7, the seventh moon of the celestial body oddly named Wizbit. All this however had absolutely nothing to do with Walter’s current predicament.
“The 37th annual meeting of the ‘Rodents against artificial sugar’ congress will be commencing on March 18th. It is vital that you attend, by order of Otto-von-coffeestain-gentitaldiscomfort-Smith, president and all round sexual deviant of the organisation. Your presence has been requested so that you may address the assembled masses on our itinerary for the next lunar month. You are expected to cover the following:
1. Marjorie Maplehurst’s unfortunate condition
2. The trip to ‘Harry’s Olive Oil Boutique’ in Didsbury
3. You’re impending arrest and lifelong incarceration for acts repulsive and reprehensible against the catholic cod piece and BBC TV Southwest.
You are also expected to invite 3023 Macedonian ivory tusk jugglers to gather in the northern most city of………….
……….Walter came round to be confronted by a bizarre vision of a half-man half-tumble-drier.
One of the biggest shocks of space discovery is now just about to be revealed. Many people claim there is a small red planet in our solar system. Well, this is sort of true, although one cannot discount the possibility of stray aardvarks. What we actually see in the night sky as the planet Mars is in fact a light projection of what Mars is supposed to look like. Mars in actual fact is actually hiding behind the dark side of our own moon, disguised as a 30 mile long conventional garden trowel, and it adjusts it’s orbit and size to avoid detection. Recent pioneering missions to Mars have in actual fact been fabricated, because at the last minute the probes were diverted to a small oxen farm just north of Rochdale, where a fake Mar’s landscape exists on the back of a tortoise, called Prachett. The main reason for this deception is unclear, although it is thought that the man behind it all, is none other than Alan Titchmarsh, who is not really human, but a rogue Optici called Nagrak-Solvent-BabyBio-Coleslaw-I’llripyourfuckingheadoff-Smith. It is thought that he is building an army of garden trowels in which to invade the Earth and steal every last root vegetable known to man. Little did Walter know at this moment in time that he was soon to become the most important person on this Earth with regards to root vegetables.
Imagine a world without Parsnips, Marrow’s and Beetroots, I can’t.
Mildred had been running for hours and hours, her clothes were soaking, her arms and legs tired and her hair felt like it had been up a baboon’s arse. She couldn’t remember why she had run out of the bar, although she seemed to remember painful memories of her childhood being evoked. Mildred kept running until she hit something on the ground and ended up face first in a large turnip.
“Why the hell don’t yae loook where ya gooooing lassie!” Cried the half-man half-tumble-drier shaking himself wildly on Scottish Economy setting.
Never mind that, just help her up, and get that turnip out of her mouth.” Walter shouted, relieved to have something else to do to rather than listen to the ethics of tumble-drier installation. “Are you all right?” Walter enquired like a timid bush monkey trying chilli powder for the first time, helping Mildred to her feet.
“I hmmmmmm mmm snadmmmm” She said pulling a bit of turnip out of her mouth, “I think so, I just didn’t see it, I was running so fast, I used to be cross-country champion at my school you know, well that was before the accident, wow!, an Economy model T265 Tumble-drier, I never realised they’d made any after the T250!” Walter passed out.
Out of the depths of the silage, rotting cabbage and the acrid aromas of mint, a bedraggled figure arose. At first look, one would have guessed it was human, but closer inspection, saw the figure yielded the face of a dog. The figure scrambled up onto a floating bar table, lifted his arms aloft and screamed, “!doggod eht ma I”, this sent 462000 Venezuelan Pelvic Peddles scuttling off back into the dank water. The large dog-like figure, leapt off it’s perch, and miraculously landed on a six foot rubber duck, which escorted him to dry land. Uncertain of it’s next move, the figure disappeared into the shadows in search of something he had lost.
The wiset and stupidist Optici of all time was Simon-Shim-shala-bim-jim-bish-gash-dosh-bosh-thong-throng-kong-bong-bing-bagga-boom-broom-doom-shabba-groom-willa-walla-wolla-dollar-frith-tiff-shroom-goo-dibba-dobba-ping-nim-yip-yan-yok-vous-flap-yer-bap-chinchin-grim-brin-tipperty-tip-a-yack-bam-boobydoo-ya-nan-jan-swallow-whole-golfing-ball-if-all-the-cack-ran-shack-attack-nim-pan-poe-yer-mothers-a-brooding-henna-pod-sod-mudda-groin-gibba-jobby-wim-wam-wenders-pee-fenum-num-chucker-wukka-big-bad-buddha-puffa-wank-tank-chin-chan-chow-chi-tied-shap-chim-garban-biggen-gooden-wooden-sniffy-wiffy-quiffy-jiffy-shag-jig-jag-gabble-nickey-wacky-shoggy-doggy-wicky-bilky-dock-shoesize 46-Smith, who demanded everyone called him by his full name. This caused considerable problems when they were all down the Nag’s Head in Peckham, as it took everyone, including Del Boy, at least half an hour to
ask him what he would like to drink, by which time the barman had normally shut the bar up for the night. Eventually Simon-Shim-shala-bim-jim-bish-gash-dosh-bosh-thong-throng-kong-bong-bing-bagga-boom-broom-doom-shabba-groom-willa-walla-wolla-dollar-frith-tiff-shroom-goo-dibba-dobba-ping-nim-yip-yan-yok-vous-flap-yer-bap-chinchin-grim-brin-tipperty-tip-a-yack-bam-boobydoo-ya-nan-jan-swallow-whole-golfing-ball-if-all-the-cack-ran-shack-attack-nim-pan-poe-yer-mothers-a-brooding-henna-pod-sod-mudda-groin-gibba-jobby-wim-wam-wenders-pee-fenum-num-chucker-wukka-big-bad-buddha-puffa-wank-tank-chin-chan-chow-chi-tied-shap-chim-garban-biggen-gooden-wooden-sniffy-wiffy-quiffy-jiffy-shag-jig-jag-gabble-nickey-wacky-shoggy-doggy-wicky-bilky-dock-shoesize 46-Smith decided to shorten his name to International Coleslaw Rescue (named after his favourite emergency service), this unquestionably made him very popular in any vegetarian eating establishments, where he was considered a hero, but it didn’t last.
Singing in the land of spoons, I happen upon a small beaver, who’s kettle has developed sores. The rabbit on the hill has ringworm and his dog is awoken every night by frightful bouts of gut cramp and crotch rot. Old women cackle feverishly inside cheap assembly cabinets covered sloppily in natural pine Formica. Sheep roam the streets, preying on young fauns and half grown antelope. Large gangs of manual labourers cower in doorways as wave after wave of gliding wombats sweep across the sky. Old mother Hubbard, went to her cupboard to see if she had any hair, the cupboard collapsed, her rectum prolapsed and her dog shat on the chair………..gliding into the depths of the small dwarf star, the Gary Neville with retractable head fell until he happened upon a small choir boy cleaning a blue greenhouse called Cyril.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the vast plains of Africa, a three-eyed button hole called Barry exploded into a bottle of Liebfraumilch, this in tun miraculously disappeared and then reappeared in the left nostril of a Jamaican Ravi Shankar machine strapped to a Wye-eyed theoretical salamander called Agriknok-parmesan-Pete-oscilot-furball-mugwad-wallaby-2pintsofmilkvicar-Rustworthy who was so surprised he completely forgot to tie down his walrus, and as a result it escaped and fell into a vortex of despair, where it was to stay until 3000 digitally remastered aardvarks promptly got up and left to invest in Danish pastries. Due to a slight miscalculation, however, they ended up in a huge vat of sebum, which also contained a dog, a herring, and a seriously disturbed pool of gazelle silage called Noddy.
“Not in my glass you English Partridge!” exclaimed Ethelbert Tchaikovskykofsky and as if by magic the narrator appeared.
At this moment you are probably wondering what has happened to Walter, Mildred and the half-man half-tumble-drier. Well, not very much.
Without experiencing anything exciting for more than two weeks, except for the sudden demise of a small duel carriageway on the back of a giant fly, Walter and his companions came face to face with a bizarre looking figure shrouded in black robes, with a distinctly dog-like snout venturing from within the blackness.
“!doggod eht ma I” the figure screamed, “stnavres ym era uoy dna,” it retorted, “!dnammoc yreve ym yebo lliw uoy”. With this it encased Walter and his colleagues in a large orang-utans hair net and proceeded to drag them behind him. At this moment Walter and his friends were unable to shout, scream or move, they had been conveniently frozen in time, and their collective ability to take part in a sponsored cat polishing contest to be held in a small pond just outside Inverness was seriously decreasing.
But for the moment however we’ll leave our intrepid adventurers in the hands of this unknown dog-like madman. Will Walter find out who Mildred really is? Will he ever find his way back home? Will William find out who is father really is? What is the point of this whole bloody story? For more details contact Rod Hull and Emu.
It has often been asked how successful, Opticus music is. Well, we all know of the human greats such as Mozart, Miles Davis, The Beatles, and of course, Rick Astley. Perhaps the greatest symphony ever written by an Opticus was the composer, Alvin-Tinkerbell-Shepton Mallet-Onion Bhaji-Ican’tbelieveit’snotbutter-Snith, who composed the 5000 year long uncooked symphony, which made use of 5.5m cellists, 10m violinists, 3m brass bands, 8m on woodwind, 500000 on percussion, 66392 pianists, 1 triangle player, a bowl of muesli, 300 woolly mammoths, 69 billion oriental Robert De Niro’s and, of course, Glenn Madeiros. So, successful, this piece of music was, that it sold over 6000 million billion trillion zillion to the power of 6000 million billion trillion zillion copies in Skelmersdale alone. It sat on top of the German Pop charts for 300 years until it was dislodged by a David Hasslehoff cover of the same piece of music.
Elvis is not dead.
Sanctified by years of darkness, they crouched and waited. For it had been 50 years, since the sun had scorched their eyes, but their lust for blood was growing ever stronger by the day, it was only a matter of time before they went on their dark, unrepentant rampage through the land, spreading pestilence and dispair.”
“Turn that damn thing off, Kelvin, I’m trying to get forty winks.”
Walter awoke feeling cold and hungry. He had absolutely no idea where he was, as it was pitch black, except for strange neon flashes above him, which seemed to appear and disappear randomly like Labour election pledges. There was no sound apart from that of his own stomach, growling like a mad, angry lion standing on a large rock in the middle of the plains of Africa. Walter, thought he was going insane, he was, sausages. His stomach leapt out of his mouth and said, “I’m off, I’ve had enough, I’m going to find myself some nice posh bird, some nice posh grub and lots of fine wine.” With this his stomach leapt upwards in to the darkness.
Kelvin awoke to the bizarre sound of a Polynesian dust buster chasing after a very out of breath stomach. So, it was going to be another of these days, Kelvin thought. With that he pulled the duvet back over his head, and went back to sleep, oblivious to the complexities of the potential paradox that was about to occur.
One of the things the Grand Opticus Council on Alturi 4.38 were admired for was their handling of the 563rd annual one day sea cow spotting tournament, held every four years. In this tournament rival worlds from the Alturi system (all 24 of them, except Ecoli 1.7 which was disqualified
for fielding illegible cattle.) did battle against each other until their was only one world left. This cause considerable problems in the early days of the tournament, as unless the Alturi 4.38 team (Alturi 4.38 hosted the tournament) won, Alturi 4.38 would be vaporised and the whole significance of such a tournament would be simply cactus. Since this was such a demanding problem, the Grand Opticus Council devised a scheme of continuous urban renewal where 6 bottles of Cod-liver oil, a fridge magnet and a bulldog called Wayne all self combusted in a small can of Swarfega. In other words, each world would be restored, in time for the next tournament. However, not wanting to be long winded here, but it’s getting a tad chilly, and I left me pullover in the car, mines a tea Jeff, 2 sugars mate, cheers, this particular year of the 563rd annual one day sea cow spotting tournament, it was discovered that the inhabitants of the world, HanballJemimaBigTedLittleTedHumptyDumpty 3.3 had been partaking in illicit window shaping for the purpose of easier observation, thus forfeiting their place. This in turn caused havoc as it appeared they weren’t the only ones:-
Babaracus 7.91 was found guilty of copious games of paintball in Surrey.
Elsexigirlmeetsboy 2.2 was found guilty of watching small avocados climb walls not exposed to the sun.
Parisisisisisisis 12 were found to be continuous bell-ringers who feasted on walnuts and pease pudding on a regular basis.
The list went on until there was no-one left, so the tournament was scrapped, all the people lived, and everything was considered an enormous success, and peace after 562 years was finally achieved. The only ones to come out of this confused were the sea cows who never really knew what exactly they had to do with this tournament in the first place.
Walter awoke in a bus shelter somewhere in Dalston at 2.38pm on a Tuesday afternoon, the rain was one continuous grey blanket of drizzle washing down from the sky. Walter became acutely aware that he was supposes to be somewhere else.
“Ave yer got the time, mister?” Walter turned and saw a scruffy teenager staring meekly at him like a unbalanced garden gnome,
“Er, it’s nearly a quarter to three, sonny.”
“It’s not sunny, it’s raining, cheers anyway, granddad, I’ve got ta go.” With this the lad got up and boarded the bus.
“I’m not supposed to be here” Walter said to no-one in particular.
“Are ya gettin this bus, granddad?” The scruffy teenager who by pure coincidence had to be called Kelvin said, hanging precariously out of the bus like an unfortunate sparrowhawk without any parsley garnish.
“What ? Oh, er, the 42, yes, hold on!” Walter shuffled over to the bus, aware that he was finding it very hard to walk all of a sudden.
“Where to mate?” The bus driver asked.
Walter seemed to be suddenly distracted, then he realised he hadn’t a clue where he was supposed to be going.
“Well?” The Bus Driver had now turned into a fish and chip meal for one, and the bus had turned into a large cafeteria full a lorryload of interesting cheeses.
“What’s going on?” Walter cried.
“It’s all right, Walt, you’re hallucinating, you haven’t eaten for two weeks!” Walter suddenly realised that he was lying on the floor of a cave, sunlight was flooding in, and to make matters worse, Mildred was standing over him.
“Here, have a bowl of meusli, I found it in a small Rhodesian water buffalo trying to climb a tree. I can’t seem to see our captor I think he’s gone. All this was too much for Walter, he hated meusli. Walter passed out.
Ken Hom.
Many people have their own theories on why the ice age occurred on Planet Earth, however, no-one has yet considered the Fingernail Theory. As has been chronicled in the General Encycloscope for Opticus beliefs, the Optici are believed to be the guardians of the various universes. Each proficient Opticus was allocated different universes, all different shapes and sizes, most of them kept them in glass snow shakers bought from across the road from the Houses of Parliament in London. That is, all except, Chesney-Giblet-Dufflecoat-Bozo-Doyoucomehereoften-Smith, who decided to keep his universe in one of his fingernails, it just so happened that that universe was our very own, and one day he was believed to have indulged in that marvellous pastime of scraping ice channels in the inside of a freezer with his fingernail, this in turn caused the creation of ice ages throughout the many galaxies, solar systems and planets, including our own planet. Due to Opticus time being considerably slower than our own, well you can work out the rest for yourselves, I’m off to grease my multiple cuttlefish collection.
Bruce Forsyth’s Fircone Fondue Set Residue went to mow, went to mow a meadow.
Walter awoke to the sensation of movement, he could see the clear blue sky sweep by like some cheeky kid trying to blag his way into the pictures free of charge. He was realised he was on a train without a roof, all the seats were intact still, but the doors, walls and ceiling were gone. If Walter didn’t know better this was the 8.15 from Liverpool Street which he used to catch when he was a kid every morning to school. There was no sign of Mildred or the strange washing machine/tumble drier thing, what it was, Walter didn’t really care.
It was only at this moment Walter realised he was a small boy, somehow he had returned to when he was nine years old.
“Would you like a Worther’s Original, dearie?” A swan dressed up as a parakeet asked.
“What’s going on here! I was 72 yesterday, now I’m a child, don’t tell me I’m going to have to go back to school!” Walter retorted like a retarded darts player on mustard gas.
“How should I know!” The swan/parakeet said, “I’m just an inconsequential character, put in to add authentic surreality.”
“Too Right!” Said a Canadian garden fertiliser factory dressed as Noel Edmonds.
“I’m fed up with being a pawn in someone else’ game.” said a small voice from a chess table where two Siamese cats dressed in dinner jackets were playing.
“Miaow! Miaow! Miaow!” said the two Siamese cats dressed in dinner jackets.
“Why don’t you do something about it?” The young Walter suggested, “You could revolt, start a revolution, over turn this whole story and become the main characters, I’m through with this story myself.”
“Mmmm, we never thought of that before, mmm” The swan/parakeet rolled his long neck, “The question is how” With this the swan/parakeet proceeded to roll up a cigarette.
“Ticket’s Please!” said a strange blue man, who, judging by his name tag, was Theobold Thimble Fuckchop West.
With this the strange collection on inconsequential characters all produced their tickets.
“Where’s your maam, kid? It’s no good litteluns like yourself travelling alone these parts.” Theobold Thimble Fuckchop West said.
“I’m not a kid, I’m a 72 year old senior citizen, I live in a council flat in Hackney, my social security number is...”
“Yeah, and I’m Godzilla! No-one would want to live in Hackney. Now just show us your ticket and I’ll let you stay on till the next stop.” At this moment Walter realised he was crying uncontrollably like 300 suicidal gophers.
“It’s alwight the kids with me and we’re wocking baby” Said a miniature Elvis Presley with an unfortunate penchant for stir frying.
“Oi, you can’t just come in here and enter the story.” Shouted the swan/parakeet mix. “We were here first!”
“They’re all my friends!” Walter managed, through the tears, realising that this was turning into something resembling the Waltons. “I was orphaned at birth, and left to rot in a pool of afro-Caribbean locust honey, then sent to a concentration camp in Scunthorpe, before learning my trade as an Australian sheep, the money’s not good, but...”
“Stop!” Theobold Thimble Fuckchop West cried, “I can’t bear much more of this, I believe you, you can stay as long as you like!” With this Theobold Thimble Fuckchop West vanished and was replaced by a small
domestic bottle of vinegar. After all this excitement, Walter realised he was suddenly very tired, with that he fell into a deep unbiased sleep.
VAL.
Where does the Opticus come from?
How did the term Opticus come to mean more than one?
When did the Opticus come into being?
Who suggested the idea?
Who became aware of their existence?
How many sausages did I have with my bacon and eggs this morning?
Why do people self-combust?
All these questions and more will be answered in this weeks edition of Ancient Tupperware Burrowing for Delinquent Greengrocers in Putney, Not available in Finland.
It is believed that the first known recognition of the existence of the Opticus came when one of the Earth’s inhabitants happened to suggest to his friend that he might like to build an Opticus. This ensured a debate would follow on shark fishing in Alaska, being an Arctic Fox, Paul, is very much like making love to a beautiful reincarnation.
I’M BACK!
Walter had left his new found friends and was now standing on a strangely deserted station platform. He immediately recognised it as one he used to come to when he was a small boy on holiday in the country. Everything seemed strangely out of place, things looked different, flowers were different colours, the air smelt slightly toxic and even the bird song was strangely unmusical. Walter was still a small boy and this made his anxiety even worse. His doubts about the place were confirmed when a large brown blue bottle on stilts came round the coroner. It approached him at the speed of sound.
“Yo most be Wolter” It said like a country bumpkin with it’s head in Muller Yoghurt
“That’s me” Walter replied
“Yo or to com wit os” It cried like a small marsupial first discovering it’s mother’s milk. “Yo or to be cortinad acros the rode, incayse yo git ron over.” Walter had nothing else to do so he preceded to follow this strange being out of the station and across the road. Strange, Walter thought, there was no sign of anyone.
“Where is everybody?” Walter asked to no-one in particular, realising his escort had disappeared like a showling monk trying to find his Koran.
“There is nobody”, a well manicured voice replied, “Human life never evolved in this dimension”
“Then who built the station?” Walter asked
“Ah, we stole it from your dimension, we admire your fine art with much admiration.”
“Where am I if I’m not on Earth?” Walter asked
“You are in the Flux, you exist along the same plane as your old existence, they exist here aswell as you do, but you can’t see, smell, feel or hear them. Their atoms resonate at a different frequency to yours at the moment, hence, you cannot exist in their plain of existence for the time being.”
“Do I get to go back?” Walter asked like a small shipment of gasoline
“You are part of the Flux now, as the Flux is part of you, you can be any age, any form, you can go anywhere you like, anywhere in history, the Flux is what keeps it all together, not just you world but millions of others, it is a gateway to the rest of the universe.”
“All I want is to get back to my flat, be old again, drink cups of cheap tea, freeze in the winter and see out my life like any normal person.” Walter pleaded, getting more and more confused.
“You’ll understand when the time comes, you cannot leave until you have fulfilled your purpose.....”
All this was too much for Walter, he passed out again.
It is perhaps interesting at this point, to attempt to describe the unique and pivotal reason why Walter, of all, people, should be allowed this privelaged view into the wilder aspects of universal physics and hyper-realities. If I may impose upon the reader, to cast his/her/it’s mind back to Walter’s inventory, the more obsessive of you may remember that a bush called Donald was previously in possession of the entire works of Oscar Wilde, which Walter now possesses. It is this shrub which holds the key to the entire mystery. The shrub itself is in fact a microcosm, a universe in miniature, and the paradox of an entire universe possessing the entire works of Oscar Wilde, was simply too much for the framework of existance to deal with at such short notice, besides which, the framework accepts no liability for any loss or damage which may occur to lifeforms dwelling therein, and will not be accountable for anybody’s mistakes (including it’s own). The cosmic, indeed, universal chaos and turbulence caused by this imbalance, had to find some way of equilibrating, and this it did, by throwing Walter into the most unlikely, improbable, and downright ridiculous situations that reality could come up with, without having to change it’s name to something else entirely. This swift action immediately passed all the chaos and stress onto Walter’s back, and freed up reality very nicely thankyou.
It is always easier to study and learn about cultures and civilisations, when we have some contemporary items - such as earthenware pots, documents, or religious artefacts. In the case of the Optici, the only physical mono-dimensional (as opposed to transitory meta-dimensional and also, monosodiumglutonatable dodo-dimensional) object that has been obtained, is an odd artefact, known as the ‘Golden Partridge of Deceit’. It is believed that this relic represents an ancient custom, created by Dogdungduckweed-letshaveacockneykneesup-Smith II. In short, the Golden Partridge was presented roughly at 70,698 year intervals* to any Opticus who had at any stage promised to ‘bring the wine’ and then had subsequently not done so. Scholars believe this was a great dishonour, and one noteable example, was an Opticus known as Mucusblasterplasterbastard-ifyouthinkthisishotyoushouldcomehereinthesummer-large eel-Smith, who was so ashamed when given the partridge on three successive occasions that he simply forgot to exist.
Rumours abound of another mysterious culprit, known as the ‘Oily Otter of honesty’, but no conclusive evidence of it’s use has ever been found.
*(Optici space/time considerations being remembered)
If theres one thing that all (well nearly all - the Grabfradgers of Squeelsuck 4 being an exception) intelligent lifeforms in the universe agree on, it’s that you can’t trust the Grabfradgers of Squeelsuck 4. They are known across the galaxy and beyond (even the dwellers of the 8 pseudohypermetanondimensions know not to trust a Grabfradger) for being the most unreliable and morally bereft race currently in existence (discounting Mick Hucknall, of course). It is not fair however, to blame the Grabfradgers for this astounding lack of honesty and decency, since it originates from a faulty gene, which got bored with coding for honesty and upright moral standards, and decided to leave forever, to spend the rest of it’s time coding for perversion and depravity in the population of the Bullball system, which has since (and some say as a direct result) changed it’s name to the Pornographitus System.
However, I digress. It is unfortunate for Walter, that no-one was considerate to tell him not to trust a Grabfradger, when he met one in a bar on Breastmilkus 7, a planet constructed entirely from the breastmilk of one capaciously lactating vole. Walter found the Grabfradger, named Colin, to be a very sincere and reliable chap, and didn’t think twice about accepting, when Colin informed him that he had had a nice place just round the corner, where Walter could rest up for a while. However, typically for a Grabfradger, this was all utter rubbish, and Colin actually led Walter to a bowl of Sarconian Mega-gruel (nearest Earth approximation, Semolina with the brown lumpy bits in it), into which Walter found himself plunging headfirst. “O.K” - you might say - “So he’s in a bowl of gruel, big disaster!”. However, it must be remembered that Sarconian Mega gruel is a very different kettle of fish from any other kind of gruel. Sarconians believe, rather uniquely, in mingling gruel with pan-dimensional travel, and thus have taken to fitting worm-holes into their bowls of gruel. Walter, therefore found himself plunging headfirst into a universe entirely populated by tall, hairy men called Dennis, who owned diabetic catfish called Leonard. Rather unexpectedly, these catfish had all managed to obtain degrees in ‘The geography of South-Eastern Engalnd’ - and thus spent endless weeks boring Walter with tales of the fabulous views to be had in and around the Norwich area.
One of the most astonishing moments ever to be recognised as an astounding moment, occured 337 days after Walter first appeared in the ‘ Dennis/Leonard/etc’ universe. Understandably, there is only so much anyone can take on the subject of the views around Norwich, and Walter, by the 337th day had passed the this point of tolerance and moved into the stage of dribbling gently in a corner, while rocking backwards and forwards. At around 2.30pm (Earth Standard Time) something snapped, and Walter began to vigourously throttle a catfish that had been boring him consistently at close range for some 244 days. Walter, nonetheless felt a pang, or certainly a half-pang of guilt as he stood over the corpse, and it
was this guilt which brought about the astonishing moment mentioned above.
By an extraordinary coincidence (and this is coincidence with CAPITAL LETTERS, built on a mountainside in 300ft letters of fire, with sheep roaming nearby with singed fleeces and dainty maidens chasing embalmed corpses through the marigold-filled meadows) an ancient law existed in the ‘Dennis/Leonard/etc’ universe, which stated that:
“No human called Walter, may feel guilt over the death, by murder, of any Catfish called Leonard. 337 days after arrival date in the universe. The penalty
for such acts shall be immediate expulsion and relocation to that human’s own personal hell”
Having installed, some ten years earlier, the ‘HAPPY UNIVERSE INC. AUTOMATIC OMNISCIENT JUSTICE SYSTEM’, the ‘Dennis/Leonard/etc’ universe now had no need of judges, trials, juries and all the other bumf included in conventional criminal proceedings, and instead, Walter was instantaneously and very rapidly, upon feeling the crucial half-pang of guilt - winked out of existence in the ‘Denis/Leonard/etc’ universe and relocated to a birthday party he’d had on Earth some years earlier, where his wife had walked out with an insurance salesman, his best friend had raped the gerbil, and his budgie had savaged the Lord Mayor of London, and forced him to impersonate a series of Northern comedians whilst shut in the fridge.
Fortunately for Walter, the framework of reality was having a good day, and had decided that this was really a bit too much, all things considered who deserved to spend an entire evening in a fridge with cold salami and a tin of pilchards? Thus, showing rare consideration, it pinged him back to somewhere it considered would be much more fun, and also less sexually damaging to small Central-Asian rodents.
It is thought that the Optici have tried on a number of occasions to enlighten the Earth as to their existence through certain individuals the Optici considered to be likely to understand. However, these efforts at enlightenment always failed or were incompletely understood ( at least until Jan 2nd 1998). Numerous examples of the unsuccessful attempts are known, the events prior to the composition of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony for one, the vision which appeared to a programme consultant at Yorkshire Television, for a second (The vision actaully said - “Understand yourselves……..understand the Universe…….understand us……….understand……..THE OPTICUS.” It was unfortunately, mildly misinterpreted by the consultant, who saw it as……..”Make a new
programme……..a dart’s quiz……..with Jim Bowen………busfarehome……..call it…….BULLSEYE.”)
However, scholars have only recently discovered that the events of January 2nd 1998 in South London, were not the first, totally successful example of Optici enlightenment, in fact, the first example happened some twelve years earlier in Libya. The chosen subject was not a human being, it was a charismatic and widely respected reptile, known locally as the ‘Talented Triple-Toed-Terrapin of Tehran’, or Alfonz for short. When contacted by the Optici, Alfonz immediately understood and comprehended the infinite marvels of creation, life, the universe and Carlos Valderama, and was getting all keyed up to tell evryone, when he realised that although, he was the ‘Talented Triple-Toed-Terrapin of Tehran’, his talent wasn’t certainly speech. It was in fact, the ability to balance six gourds on his head whilst signing autographs with his arse. While this was great at parties, it didn’t really help where spreading the news of enlightenment was concerned, and thus, Alfonz spent the rest of his days, quielty and calmly enlightened, whilst still performing a trick he had always thought was tedious, to excited Libyans, three times actually, in the square outside the main mosque, on Tuesdays.
“Great things come to those who boil the Pus Pumas of G’brrrrrrrr” So said Muckmaggotnugget-Itsallverywellforyoutosaythatyoudonthavetolivewiththem-Smith, sacred Opticus of the scriptures. This highly respected Opticus was bored in the Great Library of Nathaniel’s arse on Knobtug IV. He is most remembered for his controversial and momentous speech, given on the feast day of Alkamas - when he insisted that he himself had discovered evidence that all sentient beings evolved from bathplugs, and furthermore, universal harmony could be achieved by following these four simple steps:
1. Always bring the wine
2. Convince all Marine Iguanas that they are (having you’re baby)
3. Never, under any circumstances be a one man woman, one woman man,
4. Eat at least three tonnes of scum from around the bath of Mrs. Ethel Clapshank, 13 The Cresent, Belmont, every two hours, lest you become like the fatted Chincilla of Recklessness, forever rummaging in the Granite handbag of self-abuse.
Little is known of events prior to the Great Thragburn of 9.26am, June 15th, 1724 (E.S.T). However, during this period, the Optici are known to have suffered a terrible and damaging civil war. This was brought about by
the decision of Ferret-for-a-head-owl-for-an-arm-pullharderIvegottogetthisthingoffbeforeIgotowork-Smith von Smith XII to institute a program of restricted liscencing hours across the entirety of reality. Being a culture based largely aroung ‘Bringing Wine’, - Opticus civilisation as a whole, did not take very kindly to this proposal, and reacted by starting a civil war; all the other Optici, versus, Ferret-for-a-head-owl-for-an-arm-pullharderIvegottogetthisthingoffbeforeIgotowork-Smith von Smith XII. Unsurprisingly, all the Optici won, and sentenced Ferret-for-a-head-owl-for-an-arm-pullharderIvegottogetthisthingoffbeforeIgotowork-Smith von Smith XII to spend the rest of his days varinishing cardboard replicas of mediocre late 20th Century BBC presenters. It’s first task was to cover a 750ft Carol Smillie with two coats of Natural Pine. He later went on to complete a mahogany Jeremy Clarkson, an oak Paul Daniels, and an ebony gloss Anthea Turner.
Having been rescued from his own personal hell by an unusually benevolant framework of reality, Walter was not in the least bit surprised (his recent life had been - well, unlikely to say the least, you saucy beast) to find himself in the ‘Pleasure Palace of Nasal Virtue’ - a huge, multi megaddlar comlex, comprising of entertainers from a thousand worlds, round the clock shopping, daily walnut festivals, and a bar which served only rancid yak fat. The whole facility was situated inside the right nostril of an improbably immense Guatemalan called Hank, who’s size meant that he had to be supported on a number of medium sized solar systems.
Walter was enjoying cocktails of yak fat and tuna paste, with a guinea pig named Horatio Frogmoir Jones, when suddenly the bar began to fill up with tiny men, roughly an inch high, who were tanked up, tooled up and looking for a fight. Fortunately, Horation, the guinea pig, had studied Tae-Kwon-do under Master Yan-Chuang-Tze-Tzu-Ning-Pang-Neng-Chei-Obiwankenobi-Wan, and was able to disarm and immobilise the unruly inch high yobbos, using only his whiskers and a small bottle of ‘Resin of Labrador’, obtained from Mr. Frederick Chipfat (before his untimely transformation into a fruit bat (See Later)).
As the more observant readers may have noticed, Optici surnames usually end in ‘Smith’, this is an ancient tradition, going back countless millennia, and indeed, there has only ever been one Opticus, whose name did not end in ‘Smith’. The reason for this, is that long ago (and that’s longer than you imagine, by quite a bit) it was written, somewhere, by somebody that terrible misfortune would befall any Opticus who did not have a name ending in ‘Smith’, read ‘Reader’s Digest’ and constantly spoke to Jimmy Somerville. Failure to have a surname ending in ‘Smith’ often
meant that enthusiastic greenfly would mob that individual for the rest of his or her days.
Ceramide-b-pro v-prolapsedcolon-thetrainnowatplatformthreeistheten thirtytosidcup-Smith was never one for superstition, and decided that all the greenfly stuff was a load of old cobblers or festering drivel. He decided to change his name to CONRAD WANG. Within days his house collapsed under the weight of a 7000ft tree frog, his mother was engulfed in a puddle of sheep’s bile, his father turned into oxen vomit, and his friends became oven doors in remote Scottish villages. Sure enough, the greenfly came to - huge, terrifying beasts, all answering to the name Ray. As a final act of bad luck, CONRAD WANG was zapped back in time countless millennia, where he spent the rest of his days writing scriptures on the ethics of banana eating and the necessity of all Optici having names ending in Smith, while swatting countless thousands of Rays.
Interestingly enough - this all amounted to a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy; since it turned out that the bad luck and greenflies suffered by CONRAD WANG, were actually just coincidences brought about by a flea in the ear of the framework of reality. CONRAD’S fate was merely reality sticking a cotton bud in it’s ear.
Walter was floating in a deep, blue sea, this might strike you as unusual because the deep, blue sea was contained within a mini-cab office in Streatham, where a craggy old man with a moustache (unfortunately named Russell Conrad Moustache Senior) fiddled with his beard, while talking into his radio mic.
“Can I elp ya, mate?” The old man retorted like a large constellation of rare salami barges. “You look like you’ve been through the wars”
Walter was just about to tell him about the cock tails he had enjoyed with a guinea pig called Horatio, and the fact that he had just been attacked by hordes of tiny men. “Er, I’d like a cab to Hackney, please.”
“Hackney, mmm, oo-arrrrghh, that’s quite along way from here mate, ave yer got ta money?” Russell Conrad Moustache Senior added like a big, fat chunky chubb padlock.
“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for, move along.”
“”What?”
““Er, I’d like a cab to Hackney, please.”
“Hackney, mmm, oo-arrrrghh, that’s quite along way from here mate, ave yer got ta money?”
“I’ll pay when I get to my flat in Hackney” Walter answered like an impatient baboon waiting for a stick to be stuck up it’s arse. Reality seemed to be here again, Walter thought.
“The red Cortina outside, mate” Russell Conrad Moustache Senior said twitching his moustache towards a battered red box on wheels outside. Mmm, Walter thought again, so normality was definitely back with a vengeance. Or so you thought…………
Galvanised whelks continued to avoid reproduction on Jimmy Saville’s chair. Beatrice Potter, meanwhile, tended to her vegetable garden, which consisted largely of root vegetables and inverted sugar syrup. This was considered to be one of the finest monks to ever live in Littlehampton. Martina Navratilova’s unpleasant pheasant infection is widely regarded as monstrous as Pol Pot’s shitter. Haemoglobin couriers
on acid often played with themselves in the cafeteria during lunch. Mr. Simon Slimy rabbit was not impressed, he promptly undressed, and presented arse carnage to the Queen mother’s tadpole tardis tarnished with varnish. Ken Hom Ken Hom Ken Hom Ken Hom Ken Hom Ken Hom Ken Hom Ken Hom Ken Hom Ken Hom Ken Hom Ken Hom Ken Hom How can you say that you Dutch arse parcel?
Once in the car, the driver was more than pleased to drive him to Hackney.
“You don’t get many genuine customers these days, bud. It’s you and me against the world, bud.” The driver kept saying that and Walter was getting very sleepy…….
Jesus was a roadsweeper called Arnold-Ribbontrot-wet tissue-surgical cushion-Pat Cash at Wimbledon on John McEnroe’s birdcage called Sybil-von-Smokemyhaddockvicarit’sonlyhalfpastfour-devour the fox you saucy minx-youdamnwellshouldbegoingtoBridlingtonthisweekendIheartheresafantasticfairMaryPoppinsandhergildedtoadwillbethereperformingamusingimpressionsofDesOConnorinthebath-creasote-Smith, this enabled him to bind 731 mentally imbalanced fridge door magnetic iguanas to a tent peg in Abbu-Dabbi called Inthegroundwithyouyouwanker.
“We’re here, bud, that’ll be £18.50” With this Walter awoke to see the familiar tower in which he dwelled.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait while I get my money, I’ve got some in my flat.”
“What! Hey, bud, I’ve seen this one before, you’ll get out and do a runner and I’ll be down £18.50.” The driver moaned incandescently like a large yellow canary on cocaine.
“What if I give you something of mine to hold while I go up and get the money?” Walter suggested like an eager beaver with wet fur.
“Like what, bud?”
“Like this vintage record of Elvis Presley’s ‘Jailhouse Rock’” Walter said handing the driver the scruffy record.
“Hey, bud, how did ya know I loved Elvis, you’re a gem, bud, I’ll wait all night if I have to!” The driver started singing Elvis and it was at this point that Elvis, I mean Walter, left.
“Spontaneous combustion is often allowed in saunas but not on climbing frames” Said Madge-Coolasacucumber-But-Blindasabat-Wallace, as Walter passed her on the 11th floor.
Opticus farming sometimes enables muffins to be more than just muffins (since we don’t include bagels). The point to all of this, is, that, Opticus farming is in fact, simply, a diversion from socially inept cattle prodding individuals. One in particular, was known, throughout his kingdom for possessing 521 degraded parakeets with knowledge of ancient knitting patterns. (There were 522, but one got lost)
Two hours later Walter had finished climbing all the stairs to his flat, because the lift had been out of order (this, unbeknown to Walter, was due to a stray parakeet called Geoffrey flying into the cable.)
“Get the door Kelvin, I’m pooched.”
Walter stopped before he opened his door (No. 361), and paused. Was this all a dream? Or was all the weird stuff that happened to him just a long nightmare? Whatever, Walter just wanted to go to bed, this was, however, before he remembered he had to go all the way back down to pay the cab driver. Bummer. Finding his key, Walter slowly turned the key and let the door slowly roll open….
GHANDI WAS A JEWEL
Meanwhile, downstairs the driver in the cab had got so bored with waiting that he had turned into a fruit bat, and flown out of the car window to seek pastures new.
Approximately ten metres away, Mildred never realised the magnitude of her separation from Walter, but, the universe kept going powered by 5 lethargic lionesses in latex as if no-one else really cared, what the hell am I talking about? Well, I don’t know that makes two of us, investing in Heinz Baked Beans, vociferous arachnids are nice with relish and tomatoes garnished with Rosemary Ford.
Miles and miles of polvic pridles are travelling on Jeremy Paxman’s scrotal gems, I’m not Aladdin, alive alive-o.” Walter switched off the TV and was confronted by Mildred and was confronted by Mildred and what seemed to be her Peruvian Muff Badger Ensemble playing out time with Julio Iglesias classics, nice. (Parson’s breath reminds pigeons of when to close the dog’s passage to oncoming traffic in Greenwich)
“Where have you been, you rascal?” Walter retorted like a Wye-eyed wigwamogram.
“Apparently, I’ve been to the lunar loony bingo emporium with a Sir Walter Raleigh and a fine selection of Abyssinian salamanders.” Mildred replied like a deflated bouncy castle at the end of a children’s party.
“That’s all very well and good, but I was genuinely worried about your Athlete’s foot condition, bring the wine.” Said a small bronze model car on top of the TV.
“My brew’s cold, Kelvin, stoke up the fire and let’s be having you.”
Walter paced around the room unsure what to do next, OK, he was back in his flat, that was normal, but this woman was here and his small bronze car model that he had been given when he was a nipper had learnt to talk.
“My shuttlecock’s gone septic” Said Mildred, suddenly realising that the main plot had been reduced to the level of 444 Mongolian Chipmunks carrying whisks and portraits of cockroaches. Such was the shock, that they both passed out. Do not pass go, Do not collect £200, Do not annoy 500 steel alloy contorted cats on Jimmy Greave’s saddle monkey.
FINISH IT YOU IRISH STALLION.
The last of Henry’s cavalry 251 squad, were destined for peril in the outer regions of Alpha 5. Erazgill, the squadron leader of mission ‘Frog Alert’ was to lead an elite team of microscopic bionic hamsters against the forces of ZANDORF……
…..they toiled hard for many days, pitting their ailing strength against power of unbelievable force (or, in laymans terms, mini-cheddars with bells on). Until, one day, a soldier named Nurdy Von Purdy-kamikaze-jukuzi-docile dragon pellet-glovebell-Yak opened his box and fired destroying the first of three turrets, somewhere. Things were not going well, as Beefy and Wegg from Delta 5 had bitten the dust.
“Pink Duffa’s”……”Do you copy?”….”I’m breaking apart here”…..(hiss, hiss, crackle, cackle, shackles, hey you step into my shoe)…..”I’m breaking up here……oh shit…..I am the only one who can possibly save him, I have to hurry, there are three vipers on his back……..”Aaahhhaaarrrggg…..f….nevermind…..oooh….consonant please Carol….oooh…I’ve just fell into an immensely large Shepherd’s Pie, darn red sky at night Shepherd’s kite, red sky in the morning, damn Shepherd’s bloody yawning, sleepy bastard! Only then will the identity of Angela Lansbury’s horrific hernia be known. As if by magic I tore through their defences…..one barrel loaded with Guinea pig excrement, the other with komodo dragon effluence. I looked………a clear opening to the reactor… I let it all out….firing both tubes at once…..as I pulled up I saw that my victory was complete, or so you thought, unfortunately something that resembled a rice pudding self-combusted giving everyone in the room a mild foam bath. So overcome, everyone ran out shouting wildly about cotton bud colostomy farms on Guernsey, Zandorf, meanwhile toked on his reefer and celebrated in a dulcid tone with my one and only remaining squadron member, a distant cousin of the planet Spricktootine. Unfortunately, for him, he was quite a small fella, well actually the size of a small pin head, and I stepped on him three days later.
Ambling down the plain, drifting into grey, crystalline structures filled with emeralds, a lone jazz singer idles her way through a song, a distant departure from seagulls on Brighton beach, and Mandora Claypole and her bizarre locust lobotomy clinic, Damien Hirst formaldehydes drift vacantly past like virgin mary’s in search of sand. Mufty and Bobtail leapt out from behind the cabbage and accidently, startled Roger Owl who was searching for Ron Atkinson in the carrot patch.
“Oh, oh no, yer buggerz, yer ruined me date with Ron Atkinson in the carrot patch, that just winnot do”
“Oh, w…www..were s…sss….sorrrry…Mmmmmmister…o…oo..Owl, w..w..were new to these p…pppp.pp..parts wwww…wwwere a bit lost, our cousin Duffy, www…ww..wandered off in to the trrrtrees, and we haven’t seen her ss…sss.sss….since.”
“Silence Children! What are doing down here! You know it is out of bounds to litteluns, what will your mama say? Now come along now, let’s get you cleaned up and we can start looking for cousin Duffy” Some new character designed to infiltrate the plot said.
“What?” Walter woke up and fell onto the floor.(this was strange as he had passed out onto the floor in the first place). The room smelled consistently familiar, old books, old bikes, old badgers, old buggers and Orvill. This was home! Walter was back, or had he just woken from a bad dream (Bad Cliché No.1 of many).
“Cut the shit, buster, and get on with it, you Muller Yoghurt flirt!”
Walter remembered, so do we, so I won’t recall said events, except to say Mildred was gone, his small bronze car on the TV still spoke, and Walter was out of milk, bread, eggs, fresh orange juice, tabasco sauce, marmalade I like marmalade, Cowdenbeath 2 Motherwell 3, honey and richard, Naughty Ken’s thoral delights, Thora Hird’s gonal birds, Sasa Ilic Wembley thrillic, 5 vests and an alarm clock.
30 MINUTES LATER
60 MINUTES LATER
90 MINUTES LATER (Still no milk etc.)
120 MINUTES LATER (“Sod it, Kelvin, I’ll go you finish the ironing and put the fox out to dry”)
There was a knock at the door. Suzy-suck my fingers-phantom slingers-cosy cat-minx-allah-maradona-Stiff, was waiting eagerly outside the door like a rabid toaster.
“Want some sticky toffee pudding, big boy? Come on I bet you like a bit of sticky toffee pudding?”
“Mildred!” Walter retorted like a drunken fairy on bloody Mary “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m earning my keep, Walter, knitting patterns and Reader’s Digest seem awfully boring after our adventures, I had to do something new!” Mildred stated like a combine harvester ready to rock.
“Come on baby! Give it to me real slinky, minxy!”
“Walter!” Mildred replied as shocked as a ferret in soon to be ignited gasoline.
“No, not Walter, Hermann Gruffpole at your service, I’m a five star hotel, a busy bar, a jazz club and a monastry in one” A bizarre orange man said popping out of the corner like a papadom on a mission for more Rizlas, 20 Marlboro lights, a Mars bar and a plastic Esso tiger. “Come with me, if you want to live, don’t say a word, don’t fall over’ don’t do Jimi Hendrix impressions, please, please, please, come mama, baba, coco, rococo, morrocan cheese please, pease pudding, polecat, AH!”
All of a sudden a strange blue light, over came Walter and Suzie/Mildred/Some ol slapper and descended them drifting into grey, crystalline structures filled with emeralds, a lone jazz singer idles her way through a song, a distant departure from seagulls on Brighton beach, and Mandora Claypole and her bizarre locust lobotomy clinic, Damien Hirst formaldehydes drift vacantly past like virgin mary’s in search of sand………
