I stood outside the soon to be world famous “Dr. Tinkleworth’s Hospital For Homosexual Animals” waiting for the great man to explain his latest idea to me and then he appeared, like a watery vision, perplexed by stampeding platitudes. “Shall we go inside?” I suggested to the good doctor, who was as tall as a lamp-post and as ravishing as Egypt. “Yes, let’s”, he purred in his creamy accent, “I have many things I am wanting to discuss and scriptwriters charge by the letter.”
Being led (by the Doctor’s rather hairy hand) into the Hospital lobby, I was awe-struck by the sheer grandeur of the place – there was woodchip wallpaper covering the many walls which were painted a rather fetching pastel blue, a plastic cheese plant standing in the corner and many special-interest magazines littered across the pine-effect table, of which ‘Readers Wives’ was the most noticeable high-profile title. I drew an appreciative breath as Dr. Tinkleworth led me into his office, which was a huge copper kettle with a door cut into the side, probably by blow-torch. “I know what you’re thinking!” the Doctor exclaimed with a rather fetching twinkle in his eye “You’re thinking blow-torch, right? Wrong! It took fourteen ferrets, one chinchilla and a python seven years to lick that door out of the kettle – eroded by animal saliva! Yes! That’s right! That’s how we do things around here!”
I must have looked impressed, because he changed his accent again, for the fourth time since meeting – he now adopted the accent of an elderly bag-lady from Macclesfield called ‘Mad Elsie’. “Now dearie, sit yerself down!” he cackled. I looked around inside the kettle, but didn’t see a conventional chair and decided to sit on the big plastic tricycle. “Interesting choice”, murmured the Doc, “That says a lot about you… tell me – were you molested by ice-cream as a child?”. Well, as it happened, there was that unfortunate incident with the Raspberry Ripple during a seaside holiday in Clacton in 1982, but I really didn’t feel it was appropriate to discuss that here and now. “Er… no”, I muttered, “So, good Doctor, please explain the aims and ideals of your hospital for homosexual animals.”
The Doctor tore off his flaming beard and started to sob. “Look mate, can I level with you? I’m not a doctor – I’m an out-of-work plumber called Stanley. Ever since these gay penguins came into the news, I thought there would be some money to be made from it – but so far there haven’t been any paying customers… apart from the dolphin who had a Judy Garland fixation – but it just turned out that he was camp and not actually gay, so I couldn’t treat him. Look, I’m going under here – my wife’s left me, the banks are closing in on my house and there’s a pigeon who I swear is stalking me.” I listened to the impassioned speech with astonishment.
“So…” I stammered, “You’re a fraud – a fake? But I thought you said you loved me – what’s going to happen about that?” Stanley was sobbing like a lobster, “Oh, but I do love you, dear boy – I’m just not in love with you – but, don’t worry, I’ll still do all the indecent acts I always have done.” Horrified, shocked, slightly aroused but somewhat disgusted, I ran with my arms flailing and my buttocks clenched (like an oyster who just won’t come out to play) right out of the fake hospital for homosexual animals and into the arms of my true love, Zsa Zsa Gabor who, as luck would have it, had just been freshly embalmed that morning.