A complete nonsense story, this is what I call a ‘word workout’. Sometimes you’ve just got to get all that drivel out of your pipes before you can sit down and really get going. Pamela Glaves is an example of what happens when the taps are left on for too long and before you know it there’s a large stain that resembles Sir Alex Ferguson in a kimono on your ceiling.
1. In Thru the Outspan
You know, it really is on a warm, scummy day that we meet the many nivulous, clothcap, peak-freaned sack-weavers that drool for a livering by the sumpy banks of the River Blog in fashionable Pisshampton. For it be upon these berry parts that a certain Mr Sterling Legwork underachieved his weak and wispy way to work in nearby Jadbury; to the moth-grotley hall of Drike’s Graft Port that kept him in anchovies, birds’ nests and slimed photeys of the ‘flu virus by the yard, (just near the cabbage bins).
Repetitiously, he sighed a shaft of snort from his addled sniff-holes and dreamed again an oil-rich seam of dastard plotter.
“Gavin! To wreak haddock about my fancy pendant-slinging Blackpool-rich Guvnor would swooply fell my very tenables for all and butch sundry casseroles,” he creaked, like some old Frig-Pirate.
His job was getting him down, getting him up at poor hourage when milk was butter mere twinkle in an udder-wise old farmer. Indeed, his German “Nein” to thrive in factory soot and corporate murk was ingrained from an early ale. He drank. He drank to forget. He drank to forget a job as tough and unsightly as his own oven-blasted eyes in that sweat-fumed pittance of slog. There daily, under the stern gaze of his Spanish supervisor, Manuel Labour, the desperate cob of punctive sweat swam oozily and more often than knotted hankies could absorb.
“Balls!” he greaved, Jimmily. “How could I, the one and ogre son of the crate musician Ample Legwork have stunk so low?”
How? You bet, how. You see, because of Sterling’s asset-lack and his unreal Mum (not to mention years of private bank-charging in old toilets with Sybil Servants), the gangly old plank was short of a few Hoskins. He fuckin loved music but fivers slipped through him like veteran saveloys. This scuppered any hope of purchasing the prized Casio that swung magically like a gap-toothed angel in the window of Smather’s Tinkle Shop at the bottom of Abdomen Street in town.
2. Tubular Smells
As it goes you understand, Sterling didn’t half have half a writer’s. That is, he didn’t have half a writer’s nose for a crippling good honk on the old Joanna. Unfortunately, he did have arthritis, which was a tupney bit of blown flyjustice. Sod’s law, all them years in Vic ‘Damned’ Drike’s workhouse scuttling hot breach-buggies for old rope gave him laddered bones, limp digits and very humid ears.
However, what his crummy job couldnae prevent with its steamy, stifle, jumped-up Harry jets and pongy wage-packs was Sterling’s large capacity and kendalled felicity to dream. Oh yeah, man. For when he was allowed to on his annual two minute wee-wee break behind the sewage vats at Christmas, there were nought to crowd his solitary dream of playing second fiddle to the God-Beard of Cathedral Rock himself, the Herculean Rick Wakeman.
3. The Pong Remains The Same
Now Sterling had long harboured needly aspersions to gyrate his bulging backlog of secret self-penned cavity-defying rock operas amid the king of keyboard clunk’s zealous facial-mass. He often wandered in the back of his draughty head what fun and cheer it must be to crawl naked up the North face of the psychic Pomp-Lord’s mutton chops and cadge a crafty snooze in the whiskery utopia that disgraced his fabled upper lip.
Together in his golly seedy dreams the two friends would hack their hefty earship through the shallow virgin spot waters of today’s moptopped, bottom-notch, indiecently-exposed tune charts aboard a wind-fuelled gust galleon of immense gothic organ waft and stature.
And how they’d triumphantly fist their clenchy stud-gloves as the glazed and sundry hairwaxed drive-time dross jockey hibernauts would reel, bleed and vomit from their raved-up lugs in stark surrender to the deaf-toney newly crowned afghan-wielding Barons of Baroque and Roll!
Sterling’s nose quivered and his small wallet snapped as the dream scaled its fishy zenith atop the thundery old turrets of Westminster Abyss. Here, an invited, paunchy, hunchblack massed might of various clapped-out and pick-fiddling Behemoths of Yawn would strum, dangle, noodle, scream and strangle up a crescendo of endless whiffy power chords and furious loon-panted unity to worship the signing of a two hundred concept-album record deal by the all conquering Monsters of Crock: Wakeman-Legwork-Overdraft.
Then he woke up as usual smelling of Pamela Glaves.
By Reg Zoetrope