June 12th:
Turtles 9 (2) - Seatoun 1 (1)
By Rob "Bobby" Murray
A shot at
redemption
It was dark and stormy night. The wind lashed the cracked mosaic window panes,
billowing the medium weight Lewis’s curtain fabric RC4173 (Warm buttermilk –
cotton/lined). Somewhere an owl hooted. Possibly overseas, but sure as hell
nowhere near here. A dog howled. Yip, that was closer. A mouse scuttled,
obviously panicked by the crack of lightning that gave an eerie, yet strangely
warming glow to the darkened grounds of Coppersmith Manor. The mouse was very
close. Grunter knew that because the cat resting on the bottom of the bed leapt
off and chased the little shit around the room for 20 minutes.
Sleep did not become Great Leader after that. He arose and put on his
Hallensteins dressing gown (designed in New Zealand, crafted in a Chinese sweat
shop – XXS – Gloaming Tartan), minced down the sweeping staircase, with nice
warm feet in his Hannah’s ‘Fireside Zip-up’ slippers, went through the entrance
hall and finally took the train to the kitchen.
The warm cocoa was soothing, yet the underlying discomfort that had dogged him
since emptying the Turtles bank account, and fleeing into exile in the Scottish
lowlands, weighed heavily.
“No more mixed metaphors”, he thought. Then he thought again. “Perhaps that
wasn’t one. I must be more careful”.
Paranoia had gripped him. As had remorse. And occasionally the busty daughter of
the landlord of the Slaughter’s Arms. But only very occasionally (Tuesdays
around eight-ish usually). If only he could redeem himself, beg forgiveness and
get back into the Turtle fold. But how? The aging and crumbling manor had seemed
a bargain when he had purchased it under the alias Laird Other Tadger. But now,
even for a hardened right wing accountant, the tax implications of a quick sale
and the subsequent capital gains tax were too hideous a situation to even
contemplate.
Despite no aristocratic background, and a negligible understanding of British
history 1328-1673, he started to ponder the possibilities. On the run, a poor
asset and the prospect of the wrath of the Turtles should he ever return to
Bannockburn (oh, sorry, Benburn).
The answer, when it came, was blindingly simple and came to him as he missed his
mouth and poured steaming hot cocoa into his eye socket and down the Gloaming
Tartan.
Theme park. A theme park for adults. A theme park for adults that would get him
back the Turtles money (and some tax-deductable expenses). A theme park based on
the Turtle legend, its history, it mystique and the unforgettable sight of
Spratty’s bum pressed against the frosted changing room glass at Benburn.
What could there be? Surely most pundits would want something special along with
the usual rides, stalls and eateries. But what? It came to him in a blinding
flash as a crack of lightning short-circuited the aging switchboard above him.
“Secret handshakes” he murmured. His years aspiring to be a mason and his
picture books on heraldry (with matching duvet cover, cassette and pyjamas)
would stand him in good stead now. They laughed at him then (really, really
laughed actually – in fact many still do) but now the other left boot was on the
same foot.
“I’ll sell secret handshakes from rubber and latex figures of the Turtles that
people can press the flesh with…and the figure will then impart some Turtle
lore.”
Gloom set in. “Too bland - the punters (rhymes with Grunter’s) would need
something more awe inspiring.”
The wall of the kitchen smashed to the floor as the large willow (rhymes with
pillow) outside crashed against the side of the mansion. Then it came to him
again. And again.
“Mount Rushmore. MOUNT RUSHMORE!! Yes, an iconically Turtlesque hillside carved
in the shape of the greats – Durrant, Burns, Clark – names that would live on
for about 20 minutes or so, but which, through a clever blend of financial
acumen, tax evasion and canny marketing, would create myriad lines of
merchandising. And there in middle of Mount Turtle would be Grunter, quite
possibly with Pippy P. Star the Turtles patron and all-round spunk (although
perhaps just a shot of her from behind, kneeling in front of Great Leader) – men
would flock to it like a shrine.
But his absence from Benburn had left Grunter with only memories, and no idea of
how the team was shaping up, although he did think of a very predictable joke
about people’s weight at this stage. So home to see how the lads were doing and
some decisions about how he could incorporate each unique Turtle persona into
the theme park. Then, and only then, would redemption be his.
It would be dangerous, but as a newly found fan of Berwick Rangers, he quietly
chanted their song as his mantra:
“I want to be a Berwick Ranger,
I only live for sex and danger”.
Match day. Not a time for blowing his cover or revealing his corporate muscle
(he thought this, somewhat surprisingly, with not a skerret of thought for Pippy
despite the appalling and blatant sexual innuendo).
“I must make my approach to Benburn as low key and unobtrusive as possible – in
fact I’ll turn up early so no one recognises me. In fact, I won’t even turn up
on the side line. I’ll hide behind the trees in the southern corner”.
His emotions ran wilder than a wild thing, in a purely heterosexual and plutonic
manner, as soon as T‘ Luds started arriving.
“Themes – I must think of themes for the park”. But there was time to wait as
the Turtles parked their zimmer frames and clipped on their colostomy bags.
Quietly pulling out his copy of Modern Drunkard, he flicked through the
pages - what’s this?
“A man is, ultimately, the sum of his accomplishments” it read. “Inspirational
stuff – and what’s this “40 things every drunkard should do before he dies“.
Flicking through it he found no mention of the Turtles great drinkers – Spratt,
Wilkinsons D and G and of course the mighty Paul “Here’s my Wohnsiedler –
where’s your Bollie?” Gorsuch. But it did inspire him, and get his creative
(sic) juices (smutty) going (verb).
“’Spratty’s Saloon’ – that’ll have to be in the park – and ‘Zil’s Ginporium’ –
try saying that when you’re drunk”. The small guffaw he let out coincided neatly
with the opening whistle – a stroke of luck as only a few heads in the three
strong crowd looked briefly toward the trees.
Play started and soon Seatoun took the lead. “’Back Four Clowns’. People will
recognize Tims, Law and Steve Langridge for sure. Won’t remember Tel though –
nowhere to be seen”, he guhumpfed as Snouter courteously let the striker have a
free shot without making any attempt to save.
Although he had always admired his less lithe brother, Great Leader was in no
mood for sentiment.
“Snouter’s Specialist Balloonery – big, round and floating slowly.”
The aforementioned and well explained creative juices were flowing as fast as
the Turtles attacks – and mostly were just as insipid. “‘Tel’s Roller Coaster’ –
nah. ‘Chris Lavis’ (which rhymes with Davis, Mavis and ‘Wave at us’ if you say
it very quickly) Fancy Wigs and Dress Up’ – nope. ‘Tel’s Hall of Mirrors’ – yip
that’ll run – pop a little barbers’ shop and beauty therapist next it – money
will roll in.”
The Seatoun folk were also in generous mood gifting the Turtles a goal when the
keeper threw it into his own net. PK claimed the goal. “PK’s Rogue’s Gallery” he
internally gamorphed.
‘Muzza’s Shooting Gallery’ was next as the youthful-ish one whipped the ball
into the top corner. As the second half began it was clear some new rides and
amusements would don Turtle World. “Wal’s three card trick”, “Big Si’s
Earthquake leap (Feel it here!)”, and “GT’s no-scoring rollercoaster”.
His mind was racing now, so fast he forgot who scored the other three goals,
although Glen Wilkinson was one (“Glen’s blind man shooting gallery” he thought
having witnessed one of the most squanderous striking performances in Turtle
history – “How did he become a father with shooting like that?” scrmufphed
Grunter) and possibly Phildo another (the “Anti-bearded gentleman” stall could
have legs, Great Leader mused) and the other fellow (“The man who never was
ghost train” could be a starter).
He was mentally exhausted, although quite exhilarated (steady dear reader,
steady) when the final whistle blew, the nets were pulled down and the flags
removed. Grunter waited until the throng (with a non-smutty ‘r’ in it and no
Brazilian), for there was only one of them by now, had left before wading
through the chippie paper and soft drink can back to his car.
“A shot at redemption – that’s all I needed, and now I have the perfect plan….”
Was it a car back-firing that was heard as he roared up the street, or the
maniacal laughter of an accountant turned bad, about to turn good, but almost
inevitably turn bad later on again unless he doesn’t.
We may never know ‘cos I’m getting bored now.
To be continued……possibly.
To read a copy of 40 things every drunkard should do before he dies log
onto
http://www.moderndrunkardmagazine.com/issues/01-04/01-04-40-things.htm
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