Return To Autumn 1996 Index
by "I haven't got the lid off the Ralgex and Mike the Bastard 's due round any minute' yelled Garf from the potting shed. "Get the Molegrips, this is urgent! Damn it!"
I raced up the garden path and kicked the door open, no-one wants to meet Mike the Bastard alone, and without Ralgex. As I opened the door, I was immediately assailed by the dankest smell imaginable, the whole shed smelt like the primeval swamp. Inside, Garf was wearing his white lab coat, and there were numerous glass tubes bubbling away, assorted petri dishes and jars filled with some indescribable green goo. The shed was dominated by his My Little Pony poster to which Garf had added his own genitalia, which was in Garf's own words; "More like the sort of tackle a real pony would pose about in."
Garf snatched the proffered Molegrips, and within a few seconds had smeared the evil smelling gunk all over his rubber gloved hands. "This is wonderful, I'd like to see the git try to deck me now." At that instant the door shattered into splinters, and the enormous silhouette of Mike the Bastard framed the empty doorway, brandishing a pump-action sawn-off shotgun his teeth glistening greenly in the sunlight. He fired once blasting Garf's fez off his head and through the window.
"Are you feeling lucky punk?" he growled.
"Oh blast! He's having a Dirty Harry day again!" rasped Garf as he pushed a handful of Ralgex up Mike the Bastard's nose, whilst I plunged Garf's whaling harpoon deep into his groin. Mike the Bastard gave one huge squawk and passed out.
Garf belched loudly, "Well that all went very smoothly, you can thank me now having you press ganged aboard that Norwegian whaling vessel."
"I'm still getting hate mail from Greenpeace."
"Well that's hippies for you, no bloody gratitude any of them, still enough of that, I want to talk to you about what you're going to write about in your next column. Some woman in the Midlands has got herself up the spout with eight kids, and as a result is raking it in from the gutter press. So just imagine what we can get if we can impregnate Mike the Bastard with nine foetuses! That's what I've been working on in here. What I want you to do is hawk the idea around Fleet Street, and see what offers come in."
He sat back in the old car seat and took a deep quaff of gin 'n' mayo, and belched once more. I thought about what he was saying, but this seriously was not the path I wanted to follow. I have world shattering issues I want to examine, I don't want to set off some hideous media circus.
"It's not as easy as all that," I replied. "This isn't the Midlands, and besides not only is Mike the Bastard male, he's never had an orgasm, let alone sex, he doesn't want to do anything that interferes with answering the 'phone promptly, you know what a stickler he is for that. Besides that there's nowhere for the foetuses to gestate, and who do you have in mind to do the impregnation?'
"Don't worry about any of that, that's what this is all for!" said Garf gesturing grandly around him. "I've already started initial tests, now that he's out cold I'm going to proceed with the second phase by ramming this thermos flask up his jacksey, and time how long he can keep it up there, now go and write the article."
So to all representatives of the world's media, Mike the Bastard's nine-fold pregnancy is up for grabs, bidding starts at five quid. Anyone interested?
