“Madam! There have been certain errors regarding your omelette”, the snooty but rather brilliant chef informed the extremely important diner, “in that I used apricots instead of eggs and froze it instead of cooking it.” The Rt. Honourable Lord Benjamin Frogtrousers scowled at the man dressed as a spring pomegranate. “You mean to say that instead of a mushroom omelette”, he thundered, “you’re serving me frozen apricots?”. The chef smirked and belched Pachelbel’s Canon. “That’s correct, sir”, he hummed and sniffed the bottom of a greyhound who just happened to be floating by.
The VIP stood up, violently, throwing his chair backwards into the stomach of a gnu who was the maitre d’ for the evening and jarred the table, disturbing the contents of his plate so deeply that they had to see a psychiatrist for two years and only stopped treatment when the consultations became too expensive. People say that the frozen apricots will never quite recover from the experience and will always suffer from the frequent bouts of believing that they are Esther Rantzen. They’re also a little less frozen these days and that certainly doesn’t help with their identity crisis. Still, that’s life.
“I will never come to this restaurant again!”, boomed Lord Frogtrousers and departed slowly, in a hurry, running quite leisurely, swiftly. He pondered the Japanese culture as he slowly rolled home, wondering why they ate raw fish and yet didn’t eat raw potatoes with them for chips too. All of a sudden, an arrow came whizzing from the air from nowhere and then disappeared without hitting or harming anything. That’s not exactly a surprise as it was actually thousands of miles above the Earth’s surface, so nobody noticed apart from a jaundiced, depressed seagull who merely blinked apathetically and then quickly died because there is, of course, no oxygen at that altitude.
The radiant Lord Frogtrousers inserted his titanium key (in the shape of a mandolin) into the door of his Kensington mansion and carefully pushed the heavy, oak, slate and perspex door open. He was about to step inside his home onto the plush carpet which was so warm, yielding and welcoming it was almost like his shoes had squishy sexual intercourse with it every time they stepped upon its deep pile fibres, when he noticed a package by the front door. Stooping down to pick it up, he heard every bone in his spine readjust to daylight savings time and cursed the farmers noisily, much to the annoyance of his filthy rich neighbours. He was, however, delighted to note that the package was his latest consignment of cocaine with a street value of over two million pounds which he was going to flog down the House Of Lords and make a packet. Just as he was about to step inside the cavernous door of his house, his skull was pierced by the beak of the dead seagull which had just plummeted thousands of miles from above the Earth surface. “Oh”, he thought, “well that’s cooked my kippers!”, before dying instantaneously.
The apricots laughed when they heard about Lord Frogtrousers’ demise, as did the chef… but all of the poor attendees at the House Of Lords had to do without their daily cocaine, so they passed a law making seagulls illegal in the Greater London area – which they remain to this day. In fact, many people are not aware of this, but if you see a seagull in the Greater London area, you are legally obliged to catch it with a child’s lunch box, force-feed it tranquilizers and transport it, via train, to Southend where it can live out the rest of its life in peace. Please join us tomorrow for the next ripping tale of suburban jocularity from the makers of Marmite, Pampers Nappies and Viagra. Until then, please fasten your seatbelts, catch the wind, climb every mountain and sleep soundly on a pile of chips – for tomorrow we may die. Or live. Who knows? Not me, guv, and no mistake!