The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

Well'¦'

'˜And I stir up a bit of insurrection, talk about blowing up a few computer companies. And assassinating Billy Barnes, the World Leader. History would thank me for it anyway.'

'˜Er, you didn't say 'њWell '¦'ќ, that time.'

'˜Nurse,' said the doctor, pushing a little button on his desk. '˜Nurse.'

'˜Hang about, I was only joking about the insurrection and the blowing up and assassinating. You didn't think I really meant it, did you?'

'˜Nurse.'

'˜Look, we've been getting along so well. Let's not spoil it by calling the nurse. Let's talk about something else. Who's your favourite Spice Girl? I like the vicious-looking one with the big tits, I bet she really-'

'˜Nurse!'

The doctor's door swung open, and a large male nurse loomed in the doorway.

'˜Ah, Cecil,' said the doctor. Would you please escort Mr Woodbine back to his room?'

'˜With pleasure, sir.'

'˜No,' I said, struggling to rise. '˜I don't want to go back to my room. I have to get out of here. I really do. Everything depends upon it.'

Would you care for me to administer Mr Woodbine's medication, sir?'

The doctor nodded. '˜Use the big syringe,' he said. '˜No, no, not the big syringe.' I fought to free myself. But I was onto a loser. Male nurse Cecil caught me firmly by the scruff of the straitjacket. '˜Shall I use the very big syringe?' he asked.

'˜The great big one,' said the doctor. With the extra long needle.'

'˜No, let me go. You're making a terrible mistake. You have to let me go, I'm the only one who knows the truth.' As with the farmer in the poem, I began to foam somewhat about the jaw regions. I kicked out at Nurse Cecil, but I only had my hospital slippers on and he had his big shin guards. And his big boots. He stamped on my foot and he smiled as he did it.

'˜Ouch!' I screamed. '˜Set me free, you don't know what you're doing. I'm not mad. I'm not. I'm not!'

'˜Come along now, Mr Woodbine,' said Cecil. '˜There's a good gentleman.'

'˜It's a conspiracy. You're all in it together. You're all in the pay of Billy Barnes.'

'˜Come along now, please.'

I was hauled, still kicking and screaming, out of the doctor's office and along the corridor. Fellow loons, who had the run of the place, turned their faces away as I passed them by, and whistled nonchalantly.

'˜You're all in it!' I screamed. '˜All of you! The lot of you!'

'˜Quietly now, please, Mr Woodbine. Don't go upsetting the other patients.'

'˜You'll get yours, you bastard.'

Back in the privacy of my room, I got mine.

Nurse Cecil performed certain unspeakable acts upon my helpless person, gave me a sound kicking, and then employed the great big syringe with the extra long needle.

'˜Good night, sweet prince,' he said, as he closed the padded door upon me.

I lay strapped to my bunk, effing and blinding and hurting and bleeding and waiting for the medication to kick in and plunge me once more into oblivion.

But just before it did, I heard a little voice calling me. Calling me from inside my head. It was the voice of Barry, my Holy Guardian Sprout. Offering me solace and comfort.

'˜That might have gone a little better, chief,' it said.

Adding later, '˜You twat!'

Tall Tales and Jumping Beans

'˜Drat,' said the old enamel vicar,
Kept for purposes of pleasure,
Kept in the tiny sainted box,
Handed down through generations,
Spoken of by rising nations,
Blessed at festive celebrations,
And I use for my socks.

Twang, went the Mexican jumping bean,
Brought home from my travels,
Carried over distant seas,
Made venerable by Rose's mother,
Saying, not like any other,
Teaching, thou shalt love each other,
Which seems OK to me.

'˜Bye,' went Doc, as he boarded the plane,
Bound for the Amazon Basin,
Bound for the pygmies and tsetse fly,
Off in search of the Holy Grail,
Lost in the belly of Jonah's whale,
Personally, I think he'll fail,
But some say I'm a cynic.

2

The theory of Space and Time is a cultural artefact made possible by the invention of graph paper.

JACQUES VALLEE

In the year 2002 my Uncle Brian brought down the British book publishing industry. He had nothing personal against it; he had no axe to grind, no cross to bear, no chicken to stuff. But he did have an awful lot of right-handed rubber gloves.

You see, my Uncle Brian had bought a consignment of rubber gloves for thirty-five quid from a bloke in a pub. Thirty-five thousand pairs. It seemed like the deal of a lifetime. One thousand pairs for a pound; you just couldn't fail to make money on a deal like that. But what my uncle didn't discover until some time later was that he had been done. He had seventy thousand rubber gloves all right, but that was the trouble, they were all right. All right-handers.

And the method he chose to sell on these seemingly useless articles at a handsome profit brought down the British book publishing industry.

Of course you will find no record of this on any database, and you can scan the pages of the History of the 20th Century on your home terminal until your eyes grow dim; Uncle Brian has no mention there. In fact the only place where you can learn of my Uncle Brian's part in changing the course of history is right here and right now.

And as all books will be destroyed in the great Health Purge of 2001 you must read here while you are able.

Uncle Brian was a tall-story-teller (I speak of him in the past tense as he is now long dead, cruelly cut down in his prime in a mysterious incident involving a grassy knoll and a high-powered rifle). I come from a long and distinguished line of tall-storytellers, and I would like to make it very clear from the outset that tall-story-telling is in no way to be confused with lying.

Lying is a wicked, shameless, ignominious thing. indulged in by crude evil folk, to the detriment of others and to the benefit of themselves. Tall-storytelling is, on the other hand, a noble art, performed by selfless individuals, designed to enrich our cultural heritage and add a little colour to an otherwise lacklustre world.

So there.

My father was a tall-story-teller, as my earliest memory of him set down now before you will confirm.

It was my first year at infant school, and the teacher had asked us to paint a picture of what our fathers did for a living. I painted mine and it so impressed the teacher that she stuck it up in the school hall (a big honour, that). And when open day came around a week later, she hastened over to my father to engage him in conversation.

'˜Mr Rankin,' she said. '˜I wonder if you might consider coming into the school and giving a talk to the children about your occupation?'

My dad, a carpenter by trade, asked why.

'˜Because,' said the teacher, '˜you are the first father we've ever had at this school who's a whaler.'

You see, several weeks prior to this my dad had given me a whale's tooth as a present, and had told me a marvellous tale about having prised it from the jaw of the slain creature during one of his many whaling voyages. He had never actually been to sea in his life; he was simply entertaining his young son with a tall tale well told.

Now any '˜normal' father, upon being faced with this teacher's question, might simply have owned up to the truth and laughed off the whole affair. But not my dad. He had a duty to his calling. He agreed, without a moment's hesitation, went home, fashioned for himself a makeshift harpoon to illustrate throwing techniques, and returned to school the following week to give his talk.