In Awe of the Land of the Free

My gallipot yeomen, there has been another delay to Part 43 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”. The draft is just about ready to post, but the old synapses went off on one again.

That isn’t actually true, they went off on two.

Firstly, I was devastated to read that the UK National Health service is not going to be handing out ‘Pink Viagra’ on prescription. Such news would normally have me spewing words onto my keyboard like a teenager who’s overindulged on the scrumpy. It would have me berating the good people at the National Institute for Clinical Excellence on behalf of the fairer sex. The article, by Dr Petra Boynton , suggested that the drug doesn’t work and there were side effects in its use. This confused this particular Hector. As the side effects included dizziness, fatigue and sleep problems, I thought that it must surely be that it worked too well!

Yet, the major synaptic disruption came when I read the blog entry in ‘Facts Are Strictly Optional’. I read it and felt those all too familiar stirrings in my brain that often signals my synapses about to fire off in unintended directions (or that the cabbage was past its best in the Bubble & Squeak). I found myself replying, only to discover that my reply was too big for Blogger to cope with!

So, I suggest that you go read the ‘Facts Are Strictly Optional’ piece – otherwise you won’t understand what the hell I’m on about in the reply below!

Dear Michel,

Your blog on the wrapping prowess of US State Department staff has caused great interest and no little consternation in my country. The palace hasn’t had this much of a buzz since the unfortunate accident which saw my elder brother’s bed filled with several nests of the killer bee.

As Crown Prince, Head of State, Prime Minister, Lord Chief Justice and Head of the Army in my great country, I have had occasion to receive gifts from the land of the free (see Note 1). The wrapping of these presents is always greeted with great awe and wonder by my staff.

I had always assumed that it was because somehow the wrapping was devoid of kittens - here you cannot get wrapping paper that does not have young felines upon it. Our only wrapping paper factory is old and in much need of modernization as it was a gift from the Soviet Union. At the time, ideological thinking was that wrapping paper without kittens inflamed ambition of the Bourgeoisie.

As an aside, our lack of effective wrapping paper is something that could be easily rectified. It would help us  if your really nice president, when he next has to settle the White House utility bills,  could have a few words with the people at the World Bank while is waiting for a teller to come free. A few hundred thousand dollars would enable us to upgrade the factory and become a big player in the international gift wrapping market, thus helping to lift my people from poverty.   

After reading your blog and talking to one of my staff, I discover that this awe has nothing to do with the fantastic consumer choice in America. Their eyes do not open like saucers because of the lack of young cats in various humorous or 'awwww' inducing poses. Their jaws drop because of the way that the bundles of greenbacks (See Note 2) or the latest gadget (See Note 3) have been packaged without the apparent use of sticky tape (See Note 4).

Your blog is therefore an education to me. As a result, I have called together my countries greatest minds to ensure that we too can compete with the superpowers when it comes to gift wrapping and have our nation take its deserved place at the top table of international diplomatic relations.

However, it appears that our national treasury cannot run to the cost of an international trip to New York to purchase wrapping paper without kittens, so when your President Obama next drops into your office (See Note 5), please tell your President Obama to excuse the wrapping paper on the phallic tribal carving enclosed (See Note 6).

I am hoping for an invitation to your great country to meet with your president. I have so many questions, not only about the mystical gift wrapping skills. For it is a source of great mystery to me how he finds time to play golf with so many world leaders and still have time for gift shopping. My third wife says that he must send Hilary Clinton down to Macy’s, but surely she has little spare time what with having to pander to Ex-President Clinton’s well documented appetites?

Thank you again for your time and your country's generosity. I hope that it gives you great pride that your skills with the sticky tape cause such awe in my court.

If you do find yourself in my great country, please feel free to drop by the palace. I will personally organise some communal smoking of ganga weed, music and dancing by way of celebration of your skills. Should you wish to stay a while, I’m sure that I can ask one of my wives to let you stay in her hut, but I’m afraid your husband would need to sleep with the young warriors in another part of the palace.

Americas Staunches Friend,

Crown Prince Alba Marranga Betoovee.

PS. When the next round of international aid comes around, please could I remind the White House tailor that I am a 46 inch chest with a 30 inch long trouser. The last suit was rather uncomfortable in the summer heat and the trousers were a bit like a cheap hotel.

There you go then, my mischievous synapses are playing up again. I will return with the next part of “A Couple of Tenors Short” very soon. If you are stuck for something to read, you could try my ideas on ethical business taxation (if you haven’t already). If you still have some time left over you could go to the UK Government’s Freedom site and rate and comment upon my entry on that site.  

Note 1: I must take issue with your assertion that America is not the land of the free, for I have never had to pay for any of these gifts. I have only ever been asked to allow a small corner of our land be used by your military to store giant metal tubes of candy or some such totally innocuous content.

Note 2: For which I am eternally grateful, but would be better received under plain wrapper in small denomination, used bills.

Note 3: Which are always very lovely and shiny with a decoration of half eaten fruit, but totally useless due to the rather intermittent availability of lightening juice throughout my land.

Note 4: Here we do not have the luxury of many branded goods and are forced to use the much inferior European Sellotape brand.

Note 5: This is a very inefficient way of communicating. In my country we have a much more efficient way of getting people to bond, motivate people and increase physical contact amongst staff. We utilise the bonding and motivational qualities of group smoking of the ganga weed. If you like, I can send some over to President Obama, but tell him not to do the smoking of the ganga weed in the Oval Office because it will stain the wallpaper.

Note 6: Please make sure that your great president reads the instructions very carefully before he displays it at the foot of the bed he shares with his first lady. My cousin had one just like it and it inflamed the passions of his wives so much that he ended up ruptured and exhausted. We had warned him about using the powerful magic of the little blue pill, but he ignored us all. His death was a great shock to my people, but the poor man died with a huge smile on his face and eventually, we were able to nail down the lid on his coffin.

In Everything I Do I Take Complete Control

This is to mark the arrival of part 27 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”. It is one of those strange synaptic tangents that make nonsense of maths. Maths tells us that 27 should be a particularly lucky number because it is 3 cubed (or 3 x 3 x 3). I’ll leave it up to you to work out the tangent. As I am older than my readership, the title and the picture are clues.

I should give a quick repeat of my mantra for you all. This is a serial. Any new-joiners should start with the alien vibration known as Part One.    

With that out of the way, I shall fling you headlong into a recap that is getting out of all control. It would be great if somebody could come up with a better way to deal with this recap beast. It is getting quite unwieldy.

The world has gone mad. Inspector Glynn Jones believes that everyone else is out of step not him. A view encouraged by the man from the State Security Services dressed in green lycra he discovered in his kitchen. Later, when trying an experiment, the engraving on his wedding ring mysteriously changed when Pippa gave a different wedding day for their marriage than was originally on the ring.

Jones has no recollection of any marriage, but he is finding being hitched to Pippa Hucknell, an investigative journalist, rather enjoyable. Other events are not so pleasurable. He has found that he driving a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry that behaves like a puppy; suffered numerous random wardrobe malfunctions; keeps re-growing a ginger moustache; bet against his own station in the upcoming police light entertainment championships; had run in with gangs of Buddhist monks; had one of his team hospitalised by the feral Girl Guides and found the camp Sat-Nav unit in the pink Mark III Ford Zephyr is developing a personality and cannot be switched off.

Then there are the strange cases he has to solve, the abduction of Archie McRamie, the theft of industrial generators, forged tickets for the Light Entertainment Championships, feral Girl Guides, the smuggling of illegal Macramé yarn, a suspected murder of a ‘John Doe’ dragged from the Thames, and the disappearance of a number of petty criminals.

Doctor Wilkins, the famous TV Pathologist, has confirmed the unknown swimmer drowned in the Thames after taking a large high tea. The Fruit Fancies of his last meal are being linked to Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling. Darrius and Dunker Phil both work for Horace Adkins, the beloved Barbers Shop Quartet impresario who is presumed dead after a massive explosion at his Georgian Mansion which the local police have suggested was suicide.

Archie McRamie is a best-selling author credited with the book ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’. The main character in the book appears to be Horace Adkins. However, it appears that it is his wife and secretary, Elspeth Periwinkle that writes all his books.

Constable Rory Tiddles has found some interesting CCTV footage related to the abduction of Archie McRamie. It shows Dunker Phil climbing into Archie’s car at a filling station unchallenged.

Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil were observed with Vera Anne Adkins and Violet Ann Adkins, two of Horace’s daughters, visiting the offices of London’s premier trial lawyers, Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon. Vera Adkins had gone there to instigate a defamation case, but her sister Violet arrived and talked her out of it.

Jones has had a meeting with his Superintendant and a man from the State Security Services who were very interested in finding out why this visit took place, but have told the Inspector that he will be disowned if his investigation results in adverse public opinion. After reading an old newspaper that once wrapped a fish supper, Jones believes he now has the answer.

I hope that has made everything clear? Oh well, at least I tried.

Now read on...

Jones hammered on the door frame of the fish and chip shop with the flat of his hand. After several minutes, a man appeared from the back of the shop. He peered through the glass between a poster for the Light Entertainment Championships and another for a Morris Dancing Extravaganza before gesturing with a finger towards the ‘Closed’ sign. He turned his back on the Inspector and started to saunter towards the back of the shop again. Jones started to hammer against the door frame with an increased tempo.

The man turned and Jones pressed his warrant card against the glass. The man gave a visible sigh, turned and unlocked the door.

“Thank you” Jones sidestepped around the bulk of the man and entered the shop. “Are you Fred?”

Fred nodded.

“I would like to look through your wrapping paper.” Jones smiled at the chip shop owner.

“My wrapping paper?” Fred observed Jones through half closed eyes. “What on earth..”

“Look, I can’t explain, I just need to go through the newspapers you use for wrapping the chips.” Jones gave another smile.

“Are you sure you’re a copper?” Fred crossed his arms across his ample chest.

Jones produced his warrant card again. Fred took it and examined it closely and shrugged. He closed the wallet and handed it back to Jones before leading him to a pile of old newspapers on the floor in the back room.

Jones fell to his knees and started to go through the pile.

“So what are you looking for?” Fred asked.

Jones sat back on his heels and stared at the wall. He ran a forefinger over his moustache.

“Copies of last week’s papers. Especially last Thursday’s copy of ‘The Sun’.” Jones remained motionless, staring at the wall.

“Old newspapers?” Fred wiped his hands on his vest. “Wouldn’t you be better off going to the library or something?”

Jones said nothing. He started taking papers off the pile and sorting them into two piles. Fred watched him.

There were two piles when Jones finished going through the pile. The much larger pile he pushed back to where the original pile had been. He examined the smaller pile. There were a number of last week’s papers, but no copies of ‘The Sun.’

“Where do you get your wrapping paper?” Jones asked Fred.

“They’re just old newspapers. Ted, the newsagent over the road brings them over and I give him a fish supper on the house.” Fred gave a shrug. “There’s no law against it is there?”

“Not that I know of. Do you mind if I take these?” Jones stood up, tucking the small pile under his arm.

“Knock yourself out.” Fred gave a shrug. “Is that it?”

Jones nodded and thanked Fred who showed him out, locking the door behind him.

The traffic in the street was in gridlock. A troupe of contemporary dancers dressed in lurid spandex with white face masks and bowler hats danced in and out of the vehicles. A jazz quartet walked slowly along the opposite pavement providing accompaniment. Young women dressed as Jane Austen heroines handed out flyers to passersby.

One of the dancers approached Jones and made to grab a newspaper from under the Inspector’s arm. Jones jumped back and made a fist with his free hand. The dancer laughed loudly and leapt back to join his companions in the road.

Jones watched him until he vanished behind a llama drawn brewery dray before heading back to the station.

Avoiding the main entrance, Jones entered the car park. The Datsun Cherry chirruped as he approached. Jones opened the boot and placed the newspapers inside. He then opened the passenger door and carefully placed one of the envelopes in the glove compartment.

The Datsun gave a questioning chirrup.

“It’s OK.” Jones patted the steering wheel. “Just some stuff that I want to keep safe. Look after it for me, won’t you, girl?”

The Datsun gave another Chirrup and then a conspiratory beep of the horn. Jones smiled, got out of the car and made sure it was locked.