Cleavies Fish Counter #18
Fish-heads! Hello dears. Just got back from tripping the light fantastic….or did the light fantastic trip us? Who knows or indeed cares now; we’re back in dear old P.I.. What an absolutely fabulous and memorable time we’ve had, and thanks to all you lovers of high culture for coming to see us – we were overwhelmed and a not a little touched by your response to the shows.
No accounting for taste…
Of course, were it not for the luxurious diva treatment afforded to top international superstars like us these days, the whole experience could be quite unpleasantly debilitating. The Hovelodges [or whatever they’re called] that we stayed in were rather resonant of a serf’s hut constructed of mud, cow dung and twigs from the reign of Widdlebert the Incontinent [the heir to Piddlebert the Incompetent]. Seemingly, all that was missing was bubonic plague and the occasional horde of marauding norsemen intent on rape and pillage….oh, and starvation. We had plenty to eat, as you’ll see.
To be honest, once we’d made ourselves at home by smashing the huts, sorry rooms, up a bit, they became home from home really. The fact that we’ve had no complaints about the state the rooms were left in tells you all you want to know….
And as for the lear jet, sorry stretch limo, sorry luxury tour coach, sorry…fish van. Oh my god. Has anyone seen the ‘I’m a celebrity’ gig with the contestant’s head in a glass box full of blowflies? Believe me, that’s nothing compared to the fish van.
It seems that a particularly sexually active couple of blowflies have been having it away behind the door and window seals, and laid enough eggs to provide the world’s spider population with copious snacks for the next fifty years. The only problem being that the fish van doesn’t have any spiders in it, only us.
Add together the unseasonably warm late November, and the combined body heat of ten FFs, and you have that peculiar zoological phenomenon, the mobile blowfly hatchery. At precisely 11.07 am daily when the temperature was apparently at it’s optimum, the little bastards, sorry big bastards, would start to emerge and lazily, dopily, dozily bump from one FF’s head to another, in our ears, in our eyes, up our nose, up our…oh never mind, I’m sure you can guess. And they were so massive. I’d swear one was bigger than a rook!
Now you always hear complaints from the rock and roll fraternity about all the hanging about and the travelling between gigs. Well, maybe they should all invest in fly blown fish vans. From the emergence of the first on day one, somewhere outside Bridgewater [you know, of Simon and Garfunkel fame – ‘Trouble Over Bridgewater’ remember that?], until the journey from Salisbury to Bristol on day three, we had found a new way of passing the long, tedious hours.
Rather than the usual needlework and embroidery, and in-depth investigation into the origins of the capstan shanty, and philosophical discourses on the role of the enlightenment in the French Revolution, we killed flies.
We progressed from primitive swatting methods, using rolled up bits of cardboard and newspaper, to more advanced fly destruction techniques. Sam pulled over at a DIY shop and equipped us with some spray left over from the Gulf War and some builder’s face masks. Sadly, these did not protect the eyes. How Lefty still managed to drive the fish van blind I have no idea. He did it by pure instinct, like Tommy at the pinball machine. That deaf, dumb and blind kid sure drives a mean fish van…
And then came the ultimate swatter, shaped like a mini tennis racket only with an electric charge, one only had to squash the unfortunate bluebottle against the window and crank up the voltage, and watch as the sparks flew and the smoke and stench of sizzled fly flesh drifted up our nostrils. My, how the hours flew by.
By the end of the journey, the fish van was like a fly cemetery. It was flymageddon. There were so many dead flies that we were tempted to give up our blossoming careers in entertainment, and turn instead to opening an organic Eccles cake and Garibaldi factory.
Anyway, fish-heads, we’ve decided to invest in a new fish van for next year – we reasoned that it’ll save money on flights if we get invited to the US or Australia. In the meantime, anyone interested in an old fish van, two hundred thousand plus miles on the clock, seats as soft as church pews, and with the unmistakable malodour of sizzled flies, stale farts and of course fish lingering imperceptibly within, give Lefty a shout. He’ll get back to you shortly….
Dreckly dears xx