1. A Letter to Penguin Books UK
05 January 2007
Dear Squiggle at the Michael Joseph Editorial Department,
Before I start this letter, can I apologise sincerely to the person of unknown gender I am indirectly speaking to. I would have named you personally as the recipient of this letter but my skills of signature deciphering have been rusting of late. I am assuming you know who you are and will no doubt be known in the office, from this day forward, as “the one that strange bloke called Squiggle.” I apologise for this also.
Now, with my conscience clear, I can begin this letter.
Thank you for your letter regarding the extract of my book, A Christmas Carol, Retold… As you stated, it is a disappointing response from the publisher that adorns my shelves on the spine of over a dozen Spike Milligan works. I can only assume that since the 90s the Michael Joseph/Penguin list has turned its collective back on true British humour in favour of American written British Substitute Humour which can be purchased cheaply from all good docks where Atlantic-crossing boats drop anchor.
This considered, I will continue to purchase titles released by Penguin and do not hold any grudge against you. That would be a ludicrous and very juvenile thing to do considering I would be forced to burn all of my existing Penguin books to remove them from my home. As this includes my collection of hardcover Spike Milligan, I would rather cut off my nob with a rusty razor blade.
I thank you for your swift response to my enquiry, and would like to assure you that the story is, as you say, “a really amusing read.”
Wishing you every happiness in this and coming years
P.S. If you, Squiggle, turn out to be female, then I hope no offence was taken at the notion of me cutting off my nob with a rusty razor blade. If you are a female who has at any point being pissed off by a man, then no doubt the thought has crossed your mind before.
If you are a man, you may now uncross your legs.
A. L.
(Letter writing services are available on request)
2. A First Time Experience
There are some tales that cannot possibly be told in a free flowing story, ask Edgar Allen Poe. So for the story of impossible telling, it is obvious to turn to another form of writing - poetry. If you're looking for hearts and flowers and lots of slushy gumph, then please do take you business elsewhere - we don't want your sort clogging up our hallways.
For the rest of you, read on and find out exactly how it feels doing it for a first time.
A young man sits in a comfy chair
His tool held in his hand
He’s heard the stories so many times
And has everything carefully planned.
The lights are low, the music is on
His obsession sits on his lap
He can not take it any more
Dribbling like a faulty tap
He takes his tool and dips it in
His anticipation grows
He gets a taste on the end of his tongue
His pleasure clearly shows
He munches down like a good boy scout
Slurping and chomping away
All the mouth work is never a chore
No work, no rest, just play.
He drops his tool, all sticky and wet
Exhausted, with a smile on his face
All he must do is wash the bowl and the spoon
And put the cereal box back in its place.
Making love to a bowl of corn flakes
Is what this is all about.
If you’ve smutty ideas floating in your head
Get some soap and wash them out!
3. Armageddon - aka The Business Of Life Goes Bust
The end is nigh. At least that’s what many would have us believe.
Maybe the end is not nigh, but Nighy: Bill Nighy. Wouldn’t it be odd if everyone woke up one morning to discover they had miraculously transformed into the twitchy actor? I’m sure it would feel quite surreal to him and God help his wife!
It should be pointed out from the start that this is unlike many previous Back Side Tales. There is no historical pretense, no satirical take on past or present writings, thoughts, sausage rolls or other edible treats. This Tale is going for the jugular, and possibly even the juggler if he happens to trot by before we’re done.
We are talking about Armageddon, not the movie of the same name which stared Bruce Willis in those rare vestless roles, or the musical which featured such classic tracks as “It’s the End of The World as We Know It”, “Knocking On Heaven’s Door” and “Disco Inferno”.
This is Armageddon, the day when the world ends and we will never again have to suffer Cliff Richard at Christmas – every cloud has a silver lining.
So when does Armageddon begin? At the end, naturally. Then again, it has been coming for more than a hundred millennia so I wouldn’t start booking a flight to the moon just yet – besides they still haven’t got planning permission up there and I hear the craters are particularly uncomfortable on the rump.
Well, this article continues on and there is still no sign of the four horsemen and their rustled herd of demon sheep. I’m guessing they were held up in traffic on the motorway. You’d think by now they would have upgraded to Business Class flights. It was all well and good galloping around the countryside in the days of Cain and Able, but with today’s congestion charges and road works it just doesn’t pay to travel by horse – even if we are talking immortal, fire-breathing, gravity defying ones.
Let us linger a moment longer with the morbid quartet. Death, Pestilence, War and Famine; some parents can be cruel – whatever happened to sensible names like John, Paul, George and Ringo. As the end of the world approaches, the horsemen prepare for work with a particularly vicious game of Pontoon which has been going for forty million years. One wonders if Patients would have been more appropriate. The thing with immortals is the dissection of limbs and obliteration of heads counts as nothing more than a little harmless fun among fiends. It ruins the décor though.
Oddly enough, none of them ever cheat – unless you count that they cheat Death every time the excitement gets too much and War fires one off. Unfortunately the card tables are not indestructible and new ones frequently have to be ordered along with packs of cards.
So while the Horsemen pass the time, the world heads happily towards oblivion with a smile on its face.
No one suspects that the end of the world is upon them. Those who do are labeled loonies and put in Looney Bins, which are emptied every Wednesday by local councils and the contents are recycled as MPs in Westminster, the biggest Looney Bin of them all.
But enough political jargon, we don’t have time for that. We are hurtling towards the unknown at the speed of a speeding spherical object flying through space very fast indeed. If you feel like getting off the ride to measure the exact speed then feel free – don’t forget to send a charred postcard from the other side.
So what are people doing in their last hours on Earth? Well, nothing much to be honest. No one knows the end is nigh remember; apart, that is, from Bob Nigh who is piloting the Earth to its demise. He surely knows when the world will end; at least you would think so. They gave him some indication of when he should push the button on his ejector seat, didn’t they? Well I’m sure he’ll be the first to find out anyway.
And this article is now half complete, just five hundred more words to go. Where do they come from with such little planning? It really is a miracle that any of this is coherent. If any of this is coherent to you, please see your doctor as soon as possible that you could require medication.
However, with Armageddon looming it will take more than paracetemol to relieve this headache. The end of the world isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The Business of Life will grind to a halt. Stocks and shares in body parts and souls will crash. The Gods who predicted the world would end with an alien invasion will loose their bets, and in one case his temple, and feel very silly indeed for believing in aliens. After all, they are Gods, and they didn’t create alien life out there so who else could?
Let’s look at the bright side, the one facing the sun. When the world ends won’t the city be a quieter place to live? Carbon Emissions will not be a problem. There will be no queues to contend with in shops, on motorways or in the ladies toilet on a Saturday night. Obviously no one will be alive to enjoy these perks but, hey, that’s Ying and Yang for you.
So when it comes down to it, how will Armageddon occur? What will be the one thing that tips the scales too far and leads to the annihilation of the entire world? Some predicted huge tidal waves will engulf land, leaving only strong swimmers and scuba divers alive. Others would have us believe the furnace at the centre of the Earth will overload and incinerate us all in flaming inferno before you can say “Toasty”. Then there are the ones who think we will drift into another planet or perhaps even the sun. There’s always the logical sods aren’t there?
Well, you can rest safe in the knowledge that it probably won’t be any of these and chances are it will not happen in your lifetime. Maybe the end will come in a rain of stale bread when the Almighty decides to clean out his larder and discovers all of his food is hundreds of millennia out of date. A nasty way to go really, having your head mashed by a falling loaf of Hovis, or worse, Tesco Value.
Well five hundred words have passed and this irregular article is complete. What you want an ending too? Some people are never satisfied with over a thousand words of utter twaddle. They always want the frayed edges stitching up, the good guy to kiss the girl and the baddie to meet a suitable demise. They want some enigmatic final words to remember and think about on those really boring nights when TV soaps are losing the plot faster than I do. Well for those of you gagging for it, here is your ending.
"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn!"