Pink Piggy Tales
Episode 4 – To be or not to be
By Christopher Wisherwood et al
Leafy looked back at Sandy as he left the airport building and breathed a deep sigh of relief. He was sick of the fat freak cramping his style in Luxor. How could he look cool, dashing and desirable with a mountain of lard in tow? He pulled his baseball cap from his pocket and clamped it back to front on his head, covering his receding hairline. He looked at his image in the glass of the sliding doors. Surely he looked twenty years younger than he was. He hitched up his trousers leaving a gap between his turn-ups and his trainers giving a trendy cut off look to his bandy hirsute legs. He lit his first fag since he got off the plane. He coughed but the smoke felt good as it stung his eyes and pickled his lungs. He hacked with an old man’s cough.
Unaware of Julian’s imminent deportation from Egypt, he had expected Julian to be waiting for him. Julian kept a handsome stable of young friends with promises of immeasurable delight, but he was nowhere to be seen. Other friends were waiting so there was no shortage of company but he felt tearful. He breathed in to conceal his paunch almost wishing that Sandy was still there. Sandy could make anyone feel thin and desirable. What credibility was there travelling in a mini bus or a clapped out taxi. How would that impress the boys? Double-decker buses had their charm but there were so many queens in Luxor that there was little room for him. The welcoming committee had heard rumours that Joan Collins was on the plane and had lost all interest in him. His beloved moped was still at Manchester airport and he did not want to trawl the Corniche in a calleche on his first night back in town. Somehow, he had to get enough money to buy one of those big black Chinese motorbikes, and he had to do it quick.
I hate to reveal secrets about people but I am going to anyway and shall live with my conscience which prods me with large pricks now and then. Sometimes people have skeletons in their cupboards and are not what they pretend to be. Long ago, on a planet far away, Sandy had auditioned for a part as a stand in for Jabba the Hut but even in youth was too fat for the suit. He had rubbed himself all over with baby oil in order to slip into the immense latex worm-like suit and had then offered services to the casting director but was callously rejected. He had sobbed for hours. Leafy, the bitch, made the situation worse by wangling a part as a stand-in for a creature from the Planet Zob. He had trouble sitting down and had a sore throat for days after but had kept true to himself and refused to swallow. The experience left them with the show-business bug and they had an urge to show everything, anywhere at any time. Business was good but it got them arrested for indecent exposure on several occasions. They tried to get places on Big Brother, Fame Academy, Pop Idol and the X Factor but were unsuccessful wigglers and warblers. Instead they donned their spangled fur edged G strings and accepted a gig as drag artists in their local pub.
Dear readers I am forced at this point to inject pathos into this part of the duo’s story of misspent youth. Ivan a visiting Russian and manager of transvestite entertainers in Vladivostok (that is in Russia for those who haven't studied geography) came to see them on their opening night at the Dog and Duck. He watched them closely and their hopes rose of stardom in his coming spectacle. Ivan then committed a cardinal sin. He had the temerity to make an accusation that landed Sandy, the major star of our intrepid trollops, prostrate. At the very first thrust in their carefully rehearsed act, performed to the restrains of "Hair on a G String", he was heard to shout that our star, our star mind you, was not a genuine transvestite but a very full blown hermaphrodite - (defined in the dictionary as a man with a double identity), and dear Sandy’s identities far outnumbered that!
You cannot imagine the turmoil that followed. Have you ever heard of the Gangagrab? Well this is a large mosquito that walks, actually it tramps, and has been known to bite through the hide of a she elephant and cause her to miscarry. I personally witnessed this in central Africa when following the trail of Livingstone. But that's another story. However, a Gangagrab is the hybrid result when a ridgeback toad and a twin tailed scorpion copulated behind the keeper's back in Burnley zoo, incidentally when he was being propositioned by Leafy’s friend Laisha. Frankenstein had Igor, Count Dracula had Renshaw and Leafy and Laisha. (More about her later).
Well dear readers, Sandy reacted as if one had bitten him. On hearing this comment by Ivan, and one has to admit it was rather naughty, he again released not one, but two of his notorious and obnoxious seismic farts. Unfortunately, the second one hit the ceiling fan and on rebounding, like an angry beast, struck poor Sandy full blast causing his pink-feathered g-string to slip and, guess what,?? IVAN WAS VINDICATED. Without doubt there was one that went in and one that poked out. Lots of give and take there.
My devoted readers I can vouch that there wasn't a dry eye (or a dry pair of knickers) in the house. Oh the weeping. Oh the moaning. Why? Because their hero could be a heroine. He had been revealed as an impostor. A fraud. A fantasist no less. Refunds were offered and our misfits were replaced by Muriel and her performing poodles and Minnie and her ping pong balls. Daphne and her baseball bat were relegated to the back room. Sandy slipped into the Slough of Despond along with Pilgrim who was still not making much Progress. An identity crisis ensued. His name was already androgynous, now he was androgynous too. A hideous fate.
Our duo pondered over the problem of which way Sandy should go to lend veracity to their act. As Shakespeare wrote, 'To be or not to be, etc, etc' - for those not au fait (that's French for knowledgeable), Shakespeare was an English writer, our inspiration, who was shacked up with Anne Hathaway and a couple of brats in a two up two down thatched cottage in Stratford.
As you are aware, beside warning you of the hazards of living in Luxor close to these dysfunctional deviants, (or any others) we endeavour to educate you into how to clean up Luxor. Our investigation into the backgrounds of our mendicants has revealed that their illiteracy is the result of self abuse from an early age. (Look also for evidence of glasses and hairy palms). Therefore, it is with pride that we are able to inform you that our endeavours have been recognised. From 2008 our writings will become essential reading for high school students in Rangoon to teach them what not to be.
Should any of our readers who have had the misfortune to become entangled with our unhappy duo, please contact us. Naturally all information will be censored before publishing but will be available soon in book form from your local book seller. Reporters please form a neat queue. Stay vigilant.
(These tales are not homophobic; adult males can do what they like in private. They are simply tales of warning. They are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to persons male, female, or of indiscernible gender living or dead is completely co-incidental).
