Shock! Scandal! And Glove Puppets!
Funny bloke, that Pete Burns. You know, that chap from Dead Or Alive. I did a phone interview with him yesterday. For Jackie magazine. They wanted something ‘light and frothy’, they said. But all he talked about was being whistled at by builders, wearing fishnet stockings and high-heeled shoes.Him, that is - wearing the fishnets and high heels, I mean - not the builders. The builders, as far as I can recall from our conversation, were too busy whistling to bother about the finer details of their evening wear. Well, to be accurate, Pete Burns wasn’t wearing fishnets either as (curiously, I thought) he says he doesn’t care for them. He is, I gather, open to the possibility of high heels, but when it comes to a choice between thermal long johns and fishnet tights, the long johns win hands down.
Or should that be legs up? But I digress...
To say that to say that this past week has been traumatic would be an understatement would be an understatement. (I hope you are following this. If not, pull yourself together, read slowly and concentrate!)
As you know, my life in recent times has been plagued by the increasingly unpredictable behaviour of a certain Kevin who, far from being the simple butcher’s boy from Plaistow for whom once I took him, is, au contraire, none other than the hand behind the duck - the duck being Flapjack, the lovable glove-puppet of children’s TV fame and Kevin’s being the hand which, stuffed up Flapjack’s rear end (the parson’s nose, as you might say) is responsible for said duck’s hilarious antics.
Kevin has fallen in with a bad lot of late. It all began after her met my friend Emma’s boyfriend (one of many, I must disapprovingly confess), a large man (in all respects) by the name of Jimbo.
Kevin is one of those poor, weak-willed souls for whom the smell of the crowd and the roar of the greasepaint is temptation beyond endurance. I suspect the smell of crisp five pound notes stuffed down his jockstrap by inebriated audience members may further add to that temptation. But more on that subject I am not at liberty to say. I have vowed that not a word on the subject of baby oil, athletic supporters or ostrich feather boas will pass my lips. So the details of Kevin’s recent activities are my closely guarded secret.
The trouble being that not everyone is as tight-lipped as I am. Word, it seems, has got out. Along, worse still, with photographs of a smudgy and unflattering nature with the a ‘censored’ banner emblazoned right across Kevin’s bulging five pound notes. I speak, dear reader, of the tabloid press. For that is the medium wherein this unseemly spectacle has been flaunted for the sordid gratification of the common throng.
As well you may imagine, this has caused ructions! I mean, this, after all, is the man whose hand has been stuffed up the country’s favourite duck, the man whose mouth has uttered that well-known and much-loved catchphrase, ‘Quack-quack! What a quacker!” - and this is now the same man who has been discovered doing things the nature of which the good burghers of East Grinstead, Hove, Neasden and Esher have hitherto little dreamed.
Well, I tell you this - the scandal could hardly have been worse if Harry Corbett had been discovered having an unnatural relationship with Sooty!
What consequences it may all have, I really cannot guess.
My only hope is that the scandal does not rebound upon yours truly. If the readers of Jackie magazine were ever to discover that this cub reporter had been on intimate terms with the man who dragged Flapjack The Duck’s reputation in the mud, my career, I fear, would be at an end.
Which, indeed, it also would be if I were to send in the uncensored version of my Pete Burns interview. On the whole, you see, Jackie prefers nice, family-friendly interviews with as little as conveniently possible on the subject of men in high heels being whistled at by builders. Thank Heaven that, in the closing moments of the interview, I had the presence of mind to guide topic of discussion around to school dinners. With a little creative editing, I think I might be able to turn out a reasonably passable account of Pete’s find memories of lumpy mashed potatoes and pink custard. Dull, I know, but safe...
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