A further
audience with
Lord Geoffrey Rapture BA (hons)
...Where was I? Oh yes, Old Corkhill. A lovely chap, you could always count on him to wear a big hat in any crisis. He used to say that big hats saved his life in the jungle. I think he used to get confused with the big cats that bit his legs off, but I never was sure. He used to wear big hats in the cinema too, which was a bugger for anyone sitting behind him. A good thing television came along when it did.
We were the first family in our village to have a television, you know. They hadn't been invented at that time so my father constructed one out of an old shoebox and lots of wire. He had trouble getting a picture at first, but after a bit of fiddling the image quality was quite good. As there were no television signals being broadcast we had to tune into the minds of people in the village. The plots were confusing and the characters were a little unrealistic, but it was a novelty at that time and we enjoyed it all the same.
My father often spent his evenings constructing devices for our amusement. He started with small things like wooden ducks and toy soldiers, but soon progressed to linear particle accelerators and thermonuclear weaponry. We were the first people in our village to have the bomb, you know. The neighbours never parked in our driveway, I can tell you. And our firework displays were fantastic.
But it all ended in tragedy, really. Father decided to use the genetic engineering set he inherited from Great Aunt Flo to produce a bio-mechanical creature of untold power for my sister's 14th birthday. Sadly, the cloning tube he was growing it in shattered and the beast escaped. It rampaged through the village, scaring puppies and eating tractors. The army was called in but due to the creature's unnatural constitution no weapons could harm it. It terrorised the country for almost a week before old Mrs. Chelsea fed it a bun with too much cinnamon in and it's head burst. My father was very upset, and apologised profusely to anyone who would listen. The irate mob of pitchfork-wielding villagers kindly accepted his apology before they tore him limb from limb and burnt our house down. I was quite upset at the time but Mother assured me it was the done thing.
Of course, things were different in those days. People were more polite and grasshoppers owned small businesses. There wasn't all this talk of football, either - cricket was the only popular game back then. Every Sunday we used to go down to the pavillion and watch our heroes bowl and bat and catch and combust. There was no other game for us. I remember young Jenkins once mentioned that he quite liked tennis and we beat him unconcious with stones. Cricket was our way of life and it didn't do to mention other games. There was a horrible incident when a visiting American tourist casually mentioned that he didn't like cricket... I thought he was done for, but the chaps settled for carving the word "FREAK" on his forehead with a breadknife and burning his wife at the stake. I was quite relieved.
I eventually grew bored with the game and subscribed to the Government's cricket relocation programme. They provided me with a new name, house and toothpick so I could safely escape the village. I don't know what the villagers thought had happened to me... probably assumed I had killed myself in a sacrifice to W.G. Grace. It was quite the fashion.
It was around that time I became chemically addicted to Smith's crisps. Back then the little blue packets you get in each pack were full of cocaine, not salt. You got value for money in those days. I remember once I opened a pack and found that the blue packet had been replaced with a Russian gymnast called Natalya. Probably a mix-up at the factory.
Natalya agreed to become my first wife after I won her heart in a darts match. We moved to Ilfracombe and bought a little cottage made out of insulin. The scenery there was fantastic - the landscape was covered with naturally ocurring tables and chairs. The local carpenter used to cut them down and make trees out of them. Such heady days... We used to hold hands on the beach and shout abuse at passing ships... Ah, the waves... sea air... gibbon hunters...some... things...
...Where was I? Oh yes, Old Corkhill. A lovely chap...
All text copyright and intellectual property of Stuart Ashen