CHAPTER TWELVE
(Written by Pants)
Pants, with an
expression similar to that after the first sip when you realize the milk in
your tea is on the turn, panics and realises he’s in the spotlight, which is
now very bright again. The spotlight operator (whose name I can’t be arsed
paging back for and looking up), after listening to all that rather clever
stuff about the number three, has evidently realised his torch had a battery
missing, and has added a fourth D cell. The beam shines in Panties eyes,
inducing an effect even more disorientating than those lapses into past tense
in chapters 2 and 10.
(Yes,
“Panties”. A singular possessive that rolls off the tongue rather more easily
than the awkward “Pants’s”).
Pants purposefully
makes his way toward the stage. Incredibly, for a man as pissed as he is, he
doesn’t knock over any chairs, there is no Guinness spilled or slap-stickery of
any kind. The audience, disappointed with the lack of pratt-falls, begins to
boo. Fortunately, the pickled eggs and beer have taken their effect and as he
mounts the stage, Pants passes wind inadvertently (unusual for him – he usually
does it on purpose) in what, surprisingly, is only this story’s second fart
gag. “Better out than in”, he says for The Count’s benefit, who, he knows, will
get the reference. Immediately the audience warm to the lad, and he feels a
surge of confidence.
“Bravo, Pants!
Ian Pfffsqueak, circa 1993, if I’m not much mistaken,” The Count ejaculates
(though by this stage, it’s pretty much just salt).
Ross goes to
hand Pants the microphone, but before doing so, cannot resist making a jovial,
off the cuff comment in his long running series of comments about 1970’s Russ
Meyer big tits films, an obsession he is obviously trying to come to terms with
by admission on television at every opportunity. “Did you know I like Wuss
Meyer’s big tits films?” he says.
“Shut up, Ross,”
says Pants, off mike. “You’ve had a good career, but frankly, it’s come to an
end. I mean, look around you – hosting awards ceremonies at Yalding Social
Club?”
“I’m actually
here because I’m a Thweemason. Wemember? It was only last chapter.”
“Oh, yes. And
what a stroke of genius it was,” says Pants.
“I thought
so,” says Ross.
“Yes, quite
brilliant.”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you think
if I carry on like this, I might get one of them prestigious Toady awards, some
day? I’ve always wanted a Toady. Perhaps a life time achievement for services
to arse kissing?”
“I’d say
you’re laying the gwoundwork quite nicely.”
Pants had
evidently discovered the benefits of long, double spaced dialogue passages to
pad things out a bit.
“Well, are you
going to make a speech of some sort?” asks Ross.
“Oh yes.”
Pants clears his throat, and brings the mike to his lips. “Well, I gutta ruddy Hell
!,” he exclaims, which actually means something to him, being from the Midlands, but completely stumps his
Southerner GIT colleagues (with the exception of The Count who once claimed to
have been from the Isle of Man and is now stuck with having to perpetuate the
fib).
“Members of
the panel, Mr Biggins, Jonathon, fellow GITS, Cap’n Pete, Prostitutes, etc, I
cannot tell you how thrilled I am to receive The 2006 Loch Ness Monster Award.
Wait, did I say 2006? Surely that is some mistake. No…that’s what it says on
the award engraving. Bloody hell, do you realise this awards ceremony has been
going on for more than a year? Speaking of the award, why is it slightly sticky?
And curiously warmer than you’d expect from a solid brass statuette of an
Action Man (which in no way infringes Palitoy’s copyright and is a purely
coincidental resemblance).
“Hold on a
minute, this award says “Crawfie” on it. Could this be the same award that he
shoved up a minor character’s arse, re-cycled? What is this awards ceremony
coming to?”
“Erm…sorry,”
says Mr Biggins, “one of the trophies went missing, and we had to hastily
improvise a replacement.”
“Well, I gutta
ruddy Hell (again),” says Pants, again. “Frankly, I have never been so insulted
in all my life. With the possible exception of the time I got re-buffed by
Clare Grogan (NOT just as she looked in ‘Gregory’s Girl’ but the much preferred
appearance she had in Altered Images circa the release of “Happy Birthday”). And
I really thought she owed me, what with me being the supplier of her helium,
and all.
“
,” says the diaphanous Cap’n Pete.
“Metropolis!”
says Marty.
“He’s right,
you know”, says Joe.
“Shut up, you
tarts,” says Crawfie, snatching his trophy back. Immediately, the prostitutes
cease their chatter. “I wasn’t referring specifically to you,” he sighs, “that
was a general ‘tarts’. Let me
re-phrase. Shut up you slaaags.” The ladies of the night look even more
wounded.
“No,
er…look…everyone just stop talking, alright? This is serious. It seems like we
have a GIT trophy feef among us. Shut all the doors and winders. And no, this
is not a Time-Share sale. No one is leaving until we find that Action Man
painted with Airfix model paint number 23 (Brass). And I mean no one,” he says, eyeing Cap’n Pete as
he edges his way sheepishly toward the ladies toilets.
“Going
somewhere, Cap’n?” says The Count.
“Oh, er…yes, nature
calls and all that. Er…better out than in, eh Count?” the Cap’n laughs rather
weakly.
“Usually, yes,
but not right now, Cap’n. You’re staying in
this building.” Even The Count is embarrassed by the lame-ness of this line.
“Grab him,
lads!” shouts Joe.
All five award
winners instantly spring into action, forming a pincer movement and zeroing in
on the Cap’n. None of them really know what a pincer movement is, but it always
seems to do the trick in them war films. Pretty soon, the Cap’n is under duress.
“Now where
would a would-be trophy thief hide his swag? In his wooden leg, perhaps?” says
Pants. “Let’s do a little experiment, shall we? Crawfie, you hold him down.
Marty, expose the peg-leg. Joe, you tap on the peg-leg with this ball-pein
hammer I like to carry around with me. Count, you listen closely to see if it
sounds hollow. I will issue orders and generally direct the experiment.”
The peg leg is
exposed and given a terse tap with the hammer. A sound reminiscent of a
wood-block (that percussion instrument used in school music lessons) is heard.
“Aha – as I
thought. Hollow.”
“But hold on a
minute, old boy,” says The Count, “this is all very well, but scientifically
flawed. Shouldn’t there be some sort of ‘control’ to compare the sound to? How do
we know what a hollow sound sounds like?”
“I’ll
‘control’ you in a minute,” says a flabbergasted Pants, grabbing the hammer and
clocking The Count on the bonce, which emits a similar woodblock sound,
followed by that of a striking cuckoo clock as The Count collapses to the
floor.
“The Three
Stooges!” cries Marty.
“He’s right
you know,” says Joe.
“Enough
farting arahnd,” says Crawfie, “let’s get that leg off.”
They quickly
get to work unwrapping the mounds of sellotape and string that bind the peg leg
to the Cap’n’s knee. As it comes loose, years’ worth of sweat and several
woodlice spill on to the floor. The leg is, indeed, hollow.
“Aah, that’s
better. I’ve had my leg bound to my upper leg for the best part of 10 years.
This Cap’n Pete thing takes some pulling off, I can tell you.”
“Let’s have a
little look, shall we?” say Crawfie, reaching into the peg leg. “Hullo,
hullo…What do we have here?”
“Look…could
you drop the ‘Inspector Crawfie’ dialogue, please?” Says Pete, “it’s really
getting on my breasts.”
Crawfie first
pulls out a crumpled copy of a magazine.
“Ah….’Scrota
Monthly – incorporating Bollock Enthusiast’. An ingenious place for the porno
stash, Cap’n,” he says, quietly slipping the magazine into his own back pocket.
“What next? A dead pigeon, a Mars bar, what looks like a pair of activated
charcoal lined underpants and…The 2006 Loch Ness Monster Award!!!”
“Hold on a
minute, the head on the award looks loose.” Says Joe, quickly pulling it off.
Upturning it a little, white powder spills out onto the floor. Joe licks his
finger and dabs a little on his tongue. “Ah – the characteristic taste of
bitter almonds. Cocaine. Or is it Arsenic that has the almond taste? Pass me a
rolled up fiver, someone, I’d better check.
Joe rapidly
inhales a line of the powder, and then another, claiming it’s a “control”.
Immediately he begins frothing at the mouth and nostrils. “Oh bugger”, he
croaks, “it was arsenic that tastes
of bitter almonds.” Joe collapses.
“Wrong,
actually.” Says Pete. “Try powdered Alka Seltzer. It’s in all the trophies as a
little pick me up from the year long awards ceremony. There will probably be
one hell of a hangover.”
“Oh, good,”
says Joe, getting to his feet again.
“Well you may
not be an international drug baron, but it doesn’t absolve you from nicking the
trophy. “
“Yes, and I’d
have gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for you gits.”
“Shouldn’t
that be ‘GITS’?”
“I know what I
said.”
“Ouch”, all
the award winners reply.
“But how did
you affect your semi-transparent appearance?”
“Clever but
unexplained projection, as is customary in this sort of thing.”
“But this
doesn’t explain why you would steal the trophy.” Says Pants. “My trophy. Why go to the trouble of
setting up a contest, buying 6 Action Men, sticking them onto the base of
plastic cups for a ‘plinth’, painting them with metallic Airfix paint, and then
taking one back for yourself?”
“The fact of
the matter is,” says the Cap’n, with a sniff, “at the last moment, when the
ceremony got going, I realised that I wanted to be part of it all. I wanted an
award of me very own. I didn’t realise at that stage that I was going to
receive one. And by then, I’d already nicked and stashed Pants’s…er, I’m mean
Panties.
“I’m sorry
lads. Can ye forgive an old salty sea dog?”
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