Nobody expects the French Inquisition

Tuesday. It shouldn’t have been, but a chance meeting with 1½ litres of grain spirit had left me nursing a frightened leg, and missing an entire Wednesday. Still singing gently from my committee meeting at NADGER (National Assembly of Deaf Goats and Elderly Relatives) Headquarters, I combed the last mouse from my beard and strode meaningfully up the wide gravelled drive, almost remembering to open the gates first. Noticing with suspicion the surprisingly frequent daffodils (it was August), I rang the doorbell and hid in a large flowerpot, so I could see who opened the door. Crouching by a long-deceased Geranium stub, it occurred to me that I still couldn’t see the front door through the six inches of Tanzanian porcelain, so I stood up, severely winding a misguided woodpecker and startling the kitchen maid in the doorway, causing her to drop both her telescopes. She was extremely foreign and it was only after much effort that we found a common language. I deduced from her lengthy paragraph of Cyrillic runes, lovingly carved on a small piece of driftwood, that the Fürtzwänglers had not yet returned from their belfry hunt, and would I mind hiding in the flowerpot again. While I waited, I counted my toenails, trying not to be distracted by the small tortoise attempting to mate with my toothbrush. I had got up to 112 when I was interrupted by the unmistakeably deep booming voice of Mrs Fürtzwängler as she came in to land. I hastily swallowed the last of my anti-malarial tablets and cursing only in Cantonese, I removed my hatpins and watched. A fat person on a loud motorcycle roared up the drive towards me, and turning on a sixpence I had discarded earlier, threw me a lukewarm pizza and roared off again. Vowing never to employ Mrs Babberstock again, I reflected on how much I would miss her recipe for sweaty custard. Farting loudly, I approached the Fürtzwänglers’ glider and pulled it back out of the duckpond. Never before have I heard such cursing – that Pekinese really knew his incantations. Removed the Pekinese, radically improving Mr Fürtzwänglers’ trouser alignment. Having helped them out of the stricken plane, I set fire to it to destroy the evidence (the Pekinese had the coordinates tattooed onto its skull) and swam back across the lawn to the house. The house had been in their family for 5 generations before they had paid for it, and finally settling the bill had done wonders for the gaudy mock Tudor façade built in 1750 following a freak snowstorm. Having climbed the front steps of the impressive mansion, we took off our safety harnesses and gave the ice picks to a lackey called Flunkey, or was it a baccy called Monkey, my hearings’ never been the same since Duane Boa Morte passed a chillum while I was looking the other way. Using only 3 clarinets and a viola we levered the front door open (melodic ingress) and we removed our shoes so as not to damage the cast iron floor. Casually I enquired about the success of their belfry-hunting expedition. After treating me to a brief excerpt from Hitler’s’ speech at Nuremburg, Mrs Fürtzwängler proudly showed off two crenellations (still with faint traces of mortar – very erotic) from the days’ catch. “A fine pair you have, Mrs Fürtzwängler” I crowed. “Why, thank you very much”, she jackdawed in reply. The kitchen maid (who obviously doubled up as a butler, although this severely reduced her height) materialized beside me and gestured rudely to the Cyrillic script crocheted into her waistcoat. “My heavens, a runic tunic” I cried (it was a sad tunic). However, it offered tea, tea buns and Matlock reruns in the drawing room, which was apparently (neatly sewn into the lining of her coat-tails) just this side of Dorking. However, I spotted that her runes had an Austrian accent, which told me she was a fraud. Sure enough, it only needed one blow with a meat cleaver to remove her head, a definite sign. I somersaulted backwards into the broom closet, which was a mistake. I gingerly removed the dustpan from my trouser pocket and blondely removed the brush from my anus. Emerging into the hallway, I saw the Fürtzwänglers using the other unmarked door under the stairs. This led to the kitchens, where I found them giggling in Latin and arranging their crenellated spoils on the mantelpiece. At last, I thought, I’m in the kitchen, and my feet are just feet from being under the table. My mind salivated as I dreamt of the untold delicacies on offer, but as they remained untold I busied myself filling the kettle from the well, being careful to strain out any frogs and Koi. I searched the helix-shaped kitchen for a source of heat to make the tea, but as both dragons were asleep, I decided to use Mrs Fürtzwängler’s left buttock, which was large enough to support the kettle, 3 children and a dog. I left Mrs Fürtzwängler balancing the kettle and went off towards the Victorian kitchen garden window where a large rhinoceros had just poked his head. Fearing I might be required to interview the beast for Guernsey FM, I busied myself polishing its anterior horn while mumbling a mantra that, while convincing enough for a 4-ton vegetarian, was still the subject of legal action between the Tokyo Hundred Luck Sushi Company and the Swabian inheritance tax office. Only 25 minutes later, the rhinoceros introduced me his brother, understudy and solicitor Joachim di Anderlecht. Seňor di Anderlecht proceeded to make me aware in both English and COBOL that his master did not enjoy having his horn polished, and that he had only come to the window to seek advice on composting for the rosemary bed. I offered my sage counsel, but he was adamant that he only wanted rosemary. Realizing I was losing the battle with the window catch, I cited a little-known Valencian Edict that allowed me to make an egress (non melodic) through the coal cellar. Ignoring the concealed entrance signs, I surfaced near Joachim’s’ flank, leaving his hindquarters unprotected and open to legal action.

The pen is mightier than the sword; I thrust the pen up his bum and hot footed it round to the front porch to retrieve my shoes. So, re-shod but coal dusted, I crept past 14 bedrooms (all with individual doorknobs), reaching the broom closet by the front door in only 90 minutes. It occurred to me later that it could have been only 4½ seconds if I had been prepared to go barefoot again, but one must have certain standards. Once I had concealed myself, I took a look around. It was only a small cupboard, barely starting out in life; I could only see 47 brooms and the dustpan and brush on which I had previously impaled myself. Wondering again why there appeared to be some fresh daffodils poking out of a fuse box; I stood up unsteadily, irradiating an elderly gherkin with gamma rays. The poor gherkin was never likely to recover from such a high dose, so I ate it. Through a crack in the door I watched Mr Fürtzwängler as he hobbled painfully across the iron floored hallway, threatening bits of furniture with a large shotgun. “If that’s the one he goes belfry hunting with”, I thought out loud, “then I’m in trouble”. Irritatingly, I had forgotten to engage silent running: Mr Fürtzwängler heard my muttering, and guided by the frenzied sounds of my follow-up farting, he approached. “Oi, you in there!” he shouted. “Come out here and help me get this gun out of my hands – I had an accident with the superglue”. Having duly assisted his Lordship, I cantered up the stairs, cantilevered onto the banister and vanished, leaving only a puff of coal dust and a lingering aroma of broccoli. It was nearly time for my mudpack to come off, so I searched in vain for a bathroom that wasn’t pink. Eventually, I located the servants’ quarters and after a cursory examination, determined that the servant had indeed been hung before being quartered. I signed the death certificate accordingly and moved on. A wrong turn led to the roof where I was dive-bombed by three apparently remote-controlled seagulls and accosted by an extremely aromatic midget who proclaimed himself to be the Most Unbelievably Reverend the Cardinal Richthofen of the Vatican State, who had been left behind on a mission, presumed dead. He had run out of shaving foam. Apologetically, I could only offer him some greasepaint from the recent performance of HMS Pinafore at NADGERS charity benefit for the hard of thinking. Luckily, the reverend was overjoyed at this meagre donation and immediately spread some on a ½ baguette, which he proceeded to cook with a portable pocket toaster. Leaving the cardinal cooking in a blaze of his own holiness, I tested a roof tile for cobalt deposits and dropped silently through a skylight into a narrow corridor with fluorescent carpets, cursing myself for not noticing the open skylight. I dropped to my knees when I noticed light coming out from under one of the doors. As the carpet pile was so thick I couldn’t tell if it was Miller Light or Bud Light, so I went in to investigate. Four proboscis monkeys were battling against an aluminium beer barrel that, against all current scientific beliefs, had a mind of its own. I assured the suspicious simians that I was only trying to find the toilet, which they accepted with only a small conciliatory donation of chocolate. Eleanor of Aquitaine was never this much trouble, as long as you remembered to clean out her tank. Left the monkeys to it and headed off down the corridor in a jealous rage (I’d always wanted a prehensile tail). Suddenly, I was faced by a terrible apparition. The headless 16^th century ghost eyed me squarely in the hip as he held his head under his arm. Not including the tights, winkle pickers, comic ruff and humorous codpiece, he was a hilarious sight, if a little green-tinged. Advised the said ghost of how he could get all the head he could handle, and left him there, enjoying himself in the only way he knew how. Having performed my good deed for the day, I scampered off to the winding staircase hidden by the aspidistra, and, dealing one or two vengeful punches to the larger areas of wall, I descended headfirst, in order to more easily see where I was going. 381 steps later, I was glad I hadn’t taken the lift. I got out from under the aspidistra and lit another cigarette. With joy, I noticed a gents toilet across the hall and made a bid for it. I was, however, outbid by the aspidistra, which had been saving all summer for its own toilet. I made do with the adjacent ladies toilet, and washed off all the coal dust and mudpack, having first swallowed the cigarette to minimize wastage. Having washed so much dirt off me, I found I could hardly recognize my face in the mirror. Realized it wasn’t a mirror, and punched the voyeur repeatedly in the face until he surrendered his video camera. Using the camera to wedge the door open for security reasons, I turned left (something I rarely do nowadays, following my retirement) and found myself back in the kitchen. Proud of my new super-clean appearance, I dashed around the helical kitchen and located some custard, with which to adorn my head. Now suitably dressed, I pulled on my trousers and turned to face the Fürtzwänglers, who were waiting obediently by the towel rail. I couldn’t help but see that Mr Fürtzwängler was juggling three live squid and a cuttlefish, of which only the cuttlefish made me nervous: I also noticed that Mrs Fürtzwängler had a large boiling kettle balanced on her left buttock. “Would you like a cup of tea, my man?” shouted Mrs Fürtzwängler. “No thank you, madam” I replied “I only came to read your electricity meter”. With this challenging riposte, I ululated the famous war cry “Disconnect power cord before removing module”, threw a small terrier at them and leapt out of the window, narrowly avoiding an anally irritated rhinoceros: I went on to prove that ideopathic anosmia is invariably linked to oral pleasuring on a damp Wednesday.  

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In other news, today's proffering from school is a cutout/picture, all my own work. Upon first seeing it, Bud asked why the Owl had a giant willy: I told him that it's a bear, stupid, and bears have big willies.

So there, really.....