THE GIANTESS
Ever since story-telling man taught gullible man to believe in anything, tales of colossal beings have been spun around men. Usually with beards. And warts. And boots the size of houses.
What if King Kong had been Queen Kong and Ann Darrow had been Dan Arrow? Aside from the Daryl Hannah in Attack of the 50ft woman, really, really, really big women have been thin on the ground.
Until 5am this morning.
I found myself in the turquoise finger-nailed clutch of a female who was so tall, her hair was the clouds, and changed style as frequently. She was not a man-eater, nor was she a siren. Instead she spoke to me, in a Cumbrian accent, with the velocity of a summer scirocco – the wind that is, not the car. What did she speak of? She told me a story so sad that it had the power to bring the dead back to life.
So, if you know of anyone who you’d like to resurrect, or you are indeed undead yourself, then post me a message and I’ll find a way of telling you the rest.
DALE ORGANIC FARM
One word might save them yet.
The O word.
No, not that one.
This one: organic.
Here’s how it unfolds.
The Soil Association hear of a communal allotment and ask for a look-see.
They call in the Eden Project who use their eco-clout to lobby for the UK’s first ever Area of Special Societal Interest.
By the News at Ten on Wednesday, it has certifiable organic status and a farm shop has opened up at the gates with Hugh F-Whit on the till.
By Friday clocking off time, Dale Farm Organic Jam is in Tesco, Asda, Sainsbury’s, Morrisons, Lidl, Fortnum & Mason and hits the ingredients trolley on Masterchef.
The site is given a PDO (Protected Designation of Origin), twinned with the Champagne region and they all live loadedly ever after.
IF CHICKENS WERE HUMAN
My neighbour’s chickens aren’t well. In fact, they’re dead. Last night, all blood-curdling-hell broke loose. Evidence points to a fox with a streak as mean as Frederick West, but without the giveaway hair and abattoir eyes. Ordinarily, like your friendly neighbourhood psycho, a fox will not stop until he has killed all before him. But some for some strange reason, this Travis Bickle-with-a-tail felt a streak of humanitarian soul race through him after mauling the eighth bird to gougons. The ninth hen is a wreck, but she is alive.
Now the accepted wisdom is poultry has no feelings, or at least that’s what the late Bernard Matthews would’ve liked us to believe. But what if this brave egg-laying hero could tell us what had happened? What if she could gather her thoughts and stand up in an animal farm court and pick out the fox in a line-up against the cat, the falcon, the hyena, and the other usual and unusual suspects? Imagine her compassion if she could learn to forgive the banged-up fox and visit him, fighting his case as he awaits Death Row, maybe even falling for him as Susan Sarandon once did in a movie. In fact, imagine Susan Sarandon playing the chicken. What would she wear? Which then begs the question, who would play the fox?
Suggestions, in a wholemeal wrap, to: The Coen Brothers
WE BUILT, WE SLEPT, WE DISMANTLED
The ShelterBox Hotel lived for all of a night.
It went up in 9 hours and came down in 3.
In between we toasted the brilliant work of ShelterBox, the brilliant build of the crew and the brilliant verve of our guests who trusted us to create a hotel from scratch from scrap.
Here we are, an hour in.
Eight hours later, the doors open and guests rock up.
To those who came, who saw and who concussed after many too many drinks, we toast you.
THE LAST PLANT ON EARTH
Nature looks at the war we’re waging upon it.
And laughs.
We think it’s got the hump because we’ve raped the planet of its fossil fuels, an act akin to trees uprooting every grave of every human ever buried and torching them just to fend off the frost.
But we’re wrong, as we always are.
Nature has the upper hand – I heard this while watering mine today.
Plants plan to die first.
They are developing super-diseases to fast-track their extinction.
Of course, we’ll manufacture plastic trees and fake our species through another century or so until the elements leave us for a more considerate dominant species on a more considerate planet.
It’ll all end up with the last plant on earth, over-protected to kingdom come like the pumping heart of a cryogenic god.
Oh, to bleed sap.
THE BRAIN CANNOT FEEL PAIN
Or love.
Yet it holds the remote control for the rest of our body.
Given a choice, would you rather ache or live in accordance with the blue wire in a 3 pin plug?
THE PIZZA FROM UTOPIA
It was a grim night. The pizza was cold. They never could find the address.
A slice and a bite later, the mood lifted.
He went first. A tough twelve months was into year two. Then he invented something that meant he never had to work again. We never knew what. Nor did he. It just changed everything. Forever.
She went next. A deeper, darker cameo. She hadn’t died so sadly and suddenly as she had in real life.
Every other friend we all knew tipped up and found a way to live without any more tribulations.
It must have been the pepperoni.
POUCH SURGERY FOR DADS
Male penguins cart their young around on their feet while the mum pops out fish & shoe shopping for months at a time.
The yellowhead jawfish father-to-be carries the eggs around in his mouth until they hatch – hiccups is another story.
And as we all know, lady seahorses do a runner once they’re offloaded their eggs into the pouch of the unsuspecting father who then fertlises them with water-proof yeast (ok, so I made the yeast bit up but the rest is gospel).
So, what can man, or rather men, learn from these counter-genetic role models?
DIY Cosmetic surgery – a quick nip/tuck with a carpet staple gun. Yes, we can turn our paunches into a pouch for the first year of dad-hood. During this time we will eat 30% more than we need. As the baby starts to toddle and no longer needs the comfort of our gut, we’ll remove the staples and let the pouch return to its fat and happy state.
The things we do for love, eh?
ALL THE WORLD’S WOMEN & STEVE BUSCEMI
There you were, all of you, although I could only see the first fifty or so. But you were all there, rows upon rows of women going back for miles upon miles, all of you singing along to Steve Buscemi’s tapping foot as he rocked the mike your way, and the band played on, bluegrass style. You were all smiling, singing your lungs out, but boy was it cheesy. I just came up and grabbed our baby daughter from the female Dutch photographer. The melody stuck for the first hour of my waking day. It’s gone now. And so has Steve.
And the meaning is:
HAPPY BIRTHNIGHT TO YOU
Happy deathday to you
Happy afterlife dear…………….(insert your name here)
Happy ante-conception to you
A song sung to me by ghosts