Oh yeah. Stretch those abs until they split.
So, I was walking in the woods recently and got trapped in a badger snare. Oh it hurt so bad. A PIXIE flew up to me and I said “help me out of this fairy.” He took one look at me and said “Are you ready to go see Jesus?” I said “For I say unto myself, I am scared of the little man with wings flittering about my head and with a whackity whack of my palm I squish you little freak of nature .” I was startled how much like a religious moment that felt. So startled in fact that my bloody ankle squeezed itself out of the trap and I was free. I dashed through the forest with a smile on my face and a song (“Sure Shot” by the Beastie Boys) in my heart. Oh good fuck what a marvellous way to escape an annoying situation. Haha. If only God was here, but he isn’t because at this point in Stretch’s story, God doesn’t even exist. Ahhh.
So yeah, then I travelled through the trees like a monkey would and fearing the approach of the Nazgul, who inexplicably hate water, I waded into the water at three inches, nearly drownding myself and sneered as they screamed at me like fishwives. Along came Arwen or whatserthingamie and I caused trouble by asking her did she fuck Reese Witherspoon or Stephen Tyler or both in that “Crazy” video?
“That’s my Dad!” She spouted in an American accent and looked all pouty.
“Touchy.” The Nazgul tittered to themselves and patted each other on the back and wandered off pinching each other and singing Loni Anderson songs. Me and Arwen looked at each other and decided that was the gayest thing we had ever seen. Even now I can hear bone crunching against bone in my head. I waved farewell to that creepy Aerosmith wench and hopped and a skipped on my way to what I
thought was home.
The light-stippled leaves and early morning dew on the branches made me feel like one of those characters on the covers of religious education books. I looked at my footsteps and thought, footsteps. I arched my little neck and looked toward the heavens and thought, ah, heavens then I forgot to look down again and fell down a hole created by badger-baiters (think Ku Klux Klan with Jack Russells). I was thinking this is definitely the end of me when I heard a lilting voice.
“Stretch, Oh Stretchah.”
I knew this voice. Bollocks. I knew this voice real well. It was the sound in the middle of the night you don’t want to hear for it was my father, Sean O’ of the Lilting voice. He would stop a room dead as he sung “Danny Boy” without a hint of sarcasm or nausea while people writhed around the floor cringing their way into pure sick. Oh he was real sound, real sound! People would feel the need to approach me and say to me,
“Hasn’t your beautiful father a lovely voice?”
“No, he’s a cunt! Don’t rattle your rosary beads at me, Mary or I’ll take them off you and…”
Standing there in his cords and crusty cardi with his arm leaning on his leg by the fireplace, he was a man adults loved, kids fled from. A decent man, who would pass the time of day either whispering wise words to the lady in the shop who was having bad times, or, raving at the crows who would try to eat his seed. A funny man, indeed. With his teeth in he could look like that nerd from R.E.M.
So here I am cornered in this dirty hole trying to hide from the one person who could help me out. I shivered as he looked in my face.
“Mary, would you come out of that hole for heaven’s sake.”
“Don’t call me that.” I NickCaved.
“You’ll catch your death, put a cardigan on, like a good man.” His voice whirred and he threw a spare cream cardigan down to me. It lay on the floor. I couldn’t stop looking at it. Its power compelled me to put it on. But I mustn’t.
Fuck this! and I decided to dig and dig and dig.
Two days later, I ended up in a small bar in a small Australian town called GiddyuporI’llrapeyi somewhere in the arsehole of Queensland and was surprised to see that Australian beer was still shite. Drinking gallons, I soon was drunk enough to chat up this woman wearing shades with a very gruff voice who was shifting uncomfortably all over her bar stool. After my initial chat-up lines were dismissed, I realised that she was a he, and he was Warren Ellis.
“Warren!” I flailed about.
Recognising this name, he countered, “That’s right mate, it’s me!”
We talked about music and about playing violins as guitars and being famous when you are at the end of the sentence, Nick Cave and… Some local Nigels, bored of sticking it to each other in the jacks, decided they’d had enough of the “mealy mouthed hippy and girly looking gibbon” (their words, not mine) down the end of the bar and threatened us with grappling hooks.
“Eef yuow figgits dent fick off outta thees place, we’ll fickin kangaroo you in the face, IN THE FACE” one of them opined.
I screamed “Fuck you Sub-continent-incontinent-Jason-Donovan-fisting-faggots!” and ran out of the pub.
Sprinting down the dusty dirt road with the squeals of Warren Ellis whirring about my little head, I thought to myself. I don’t know where I’m going, but I sure know where I’ve been. Hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday, An’ I’ve made up my mind I ain’t wasting no more time.
Jesus, Heather Locklear’s looking rough!
Anyway, so that’s where I have been and judging by the amount of letters, postcards, faxes, emails, telex, telegrams, pigeons, twitts etc that I have received since I have been detained in foreign climes, I have realised that you fuckers don’t actually give a shit. So if you are reading this, why not smack yourself really hard in the face with a small guppy and politely whisper in your own ear, “GO FUCK MYSELF!”