X Mirror for Poets

A Mirror for Poets.

One day The Poet turned up at my flat with a 6' by 4' looking-glass. He
was carrying it on his head like an indecently pale Sherpa.

"The Poet's gone all reflective on us," said 16.

"I don't like the look of that," I said. "I don't think I'd want a
mirror in my front room. It would make me want to wee all the
time."

"I think you're thinking water," said Seven.

"Well, not water exactly," I said. "I'll give you a clue. It starts
with a p and then it has an i and it ends in an?"

"Zzzz," said Captain Vegas.

"Exactly Captain Vegas," I said. "You've got it. Spot on."

However, Captain Vegas didn't answer. Captain Vegas was asleep on the
sofa in a pair of tiny underpants. He had one leg drawn up at 90? to
his body and his bum was on full display like the apple in the window
of a fruit shop. For the past half an hour we had been wondering what
to do with it.

"The mirror is for practicing darts," said The Poet, putting the
mirror down and leaning it against a side wall.

"Don't tell me," said 16, "Ivan Lendl used to practice tennis in the
mirror. I'd heard that during the 1986 Wimbledon he was a pale
reflection of himself. He must have been overdoing it." 16 shook his
head. "Everything about that man was too much."

"To do something well," said The Poet, "you must learn to do something
forwards as well as backwards."

"I don't like the sound of that," said 16. "Imagine having sex
backwards. Come first, penetration afterwards, foreplay last."

"If it came at the end," said Captain Vegas, "then it wouldn't be
foreplay, it would be endplay."

"Exactly my point," said 16 and then we all looked at Captain Vegas
because we had thought he was asleep. He was. His leg was still at 90?,
his bum was still on display, little tiny zs were still drifting from
his somnolent mouth and making their way lazily to the ceiling.

"I mean," said The Poet, speaking very loudly but doing it in a
whisper so as not to waken the sleeping Vegas, "that, for example, when
you are learning the alphabet it is much harder to do it backwards than
it is to do it forwards. It requires a much greater dexterity. I want
us to play darts backwards. I want us to do it in the mirror."

16 looked at the mirror and shook his head. "I don't know that I'd
want to go into that mirror. It looks kind of creepy."

I understood what 16 meant. The mirror was angled so that it reflected
Captain Vegas on the sofa. As Captain Vegas's bum was on show, so it
was in the mirror. Except the left cheek was on the right and the right
cheek was on the left. It was all a bit sinister.

"Right," said The Poet, clearly ignoring our doubts. "I'll go in
first. I've got the darts, two pair, but someone else will have to
bring the flights." And with that The Poet set off towards the mirror.
He was like Hannibal without the elephants but headstrong
nevertheless.

I wanted to yell out for him to stop. I wanted to yell out that for
once he was going too far but I watched mesmerised as he got nearer and
nearer the mirror. I'd heard what happened when people walk into
mirrors. It was the story of Narcissus all over again with an equally
horror story ending.

However, this time I needn't have worried. As The Poet hit the mirror
he didn't go through it, he just bounced off.

"On reflection," started The Poet rubbing his nose but he was
interrupted by 16 who let out a shout way beyond his years.

"Look at Captain Vegas's bum," said 16. "Look!"

We didn't need telling twice. We all looked. All that is except
Captain Vegas. It is difficult to look at your own bum even when awake.
And Captain Vegas, at this moment, was fast asleep.

"There's a door in Vegas's arse," said 16. "A bloody big door."

And he was right, there was.

The problem of what we were going to do with Vegas's bum had been
solved. When a door appears you should enter it.

So enter it we did. The Poet first, then Seven, then 16, then me, The
Loop Garoo Kid. The self-confessed leader of the band.

****

"Well I never," said 16, "I never thought I'd be in here."

"Don't tell Captain Vegas when he wakes up," I said. "Straight people
can be funny about things like this."

"Oh I don't know," said 16. "Everyone likes a play now and then. I
once caught my dad with his thumb up his arse in the garden shed. He
said he was looking for a pair of garden shears."

"Just don't say anything," I said. "And whatever you do don't mention
it to Princess Leia Organa."

"You're probably right," said 16. "There's not many girlfriends who'd
put up with four men inside their boyfriend. I should think three would
be about the limit. Tops."

"Which way do you think we should go?" said Seven.

"Alimentary my dear Watson," I said. "Straight on."

Straight on, in fact was the only way to go. I didn't want to worry
the others but I had noticed that the door behind us had closed.

We walked for what seemed about five minutes. It seemed to be five
minutes but I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure if time ran at the same speed
in here. I hoped so, I hoped it wasn't faster. I didn't want to think
what would happen if Captain Vegas woke up before we managed to get
out. He might start to walk about. He might decide that he needed to go
to the toilet.

Thinking that I might one day be able to use this event in the
extraordinary adventures of the darts team I was compiling I took the
opportunity to look around. We were in a wide open passage with
pictures of old-style crooners on the wall. There was Bob Hope, Dean
Martin, Frank Sinatra, and as expected, every third or forth picture
was Elvis. Elvis, Elvis, Elvis, I don't know how many I had counted
before 16 put his hands on his hips and came to a full stop.

"Look," he said, "up ahead, there's a clearing."

He was right, there was, and in the clearing there was someone.
Someone on the back of a large hippopotamus. We made our way quickly
towards it. It seemed like the thing to do.

"Excuse me," I called and the man on the hippo turned around.

"You've done it now," said Seven. "I was always told as a child to
avoid men on hippos."

"What are you doing here?" said the man on the hippo, angrily.

"I might say the same of you," said 16. "Does Captain Vegas know
you're here lumbering around in his arse? I don't think he would be
best pleased."

We could see now that the man on the hippo was some kind of knight. He
had a shield and pointy visor and a rather long lance.

"We're just looking for a way out," I said.

"Ha," said the knight, "there is no way out, not since the dragon
captured Princess Acanthi. All viable exits have been blocked."

"No wonder Vegas has been complaining," said 16. "He told me he hasn't
been for days."
"But what about us?" said The Poet. He had begun to palpitate quite
rapidly. "What kind of poetry will I be able to write while trapped in
a straight man's arse?"

"Haiku?" said 16.

"It is a bit of a fix," said Seven. "The whole thing sounds like some
kind of horror porn movie."

The Poet's palpitations had now almost reached ignition point and a
wondered what would happen if he should spontaneously combust. I had to
do something.

"DON'T WORRY POET," I shouted. "I HAVE A PLAN."

"What is it?" said The Poet, his lips just a blur of movement.

"WE WILL FIND THE DRAGON AND KILL IT. AFTER ALL, HOW BIG CAN A DRAGON
BE IF IT'S BEEN IN VEGAS'S ARSE ALL THIS TIME?"

"You've got a point," said The Poet and he began to palpitate a bit
less visibly.

"WE'LL GET OUT," I shouted, "AND EVERYTHING WILL BE NORMAL."

"You may have a point," said The Poet, just his left arm a jitterbug
of movement now.

"I don't know about small dragons," said 16. "I once went in the
toilet after Captain Vegas had forgotten to flush. Huge springs to
mind."

I kicked 16 discreetly on the kneecap and addressed the knight.

"Which way is the dragon?" I asked.

"Just follow the signs," said the knight. "But I don't fancy your
chances. He's one mean dragon."

"I'm not scared," I said. "I'm the Loop Garoo Kid and I'm a member of
a pretty shit-hot darts team."

"Darts!" said the knight. "Darts! That's a sport for poofs and
psychos. What chance do you have against a dragon?"

But we weren't listening. We had already seen the sign, 'DRAGON THIS
WAY' and set off at a fast trot.

"You handled that knight pretty well," said Seven.

"I used to knights," I said. "And kdays. I'm pretty good all
round."

"Tell me about it," said Seven and he pinched my cheek between his
finger and thumb.

"Just one question," said 16.

"Yes?" I said.

"You said that when we get out then everything will be normal, you
didn't mean it, did you?"

"Of course not," I said. "That was just a figure of speech. Figure of
speeches are the best way to deal with knights. Knights are just
another bastion in disguise. You have to fight clich? with clich?. It's
the only way."

"I see," said 16. "Because I don't think I would want to be
normal."

"You won't be," said Seven.

"Cool," said 16. "Cool, cool, cool."

And then I found myself bumping into something. It was the back of The
Poet. He was in front of me and he had stopped.

"Look," he said. "It's the dragon."

He was right, it was.

The dragon was large and red and had a long tail like a hosepipe.
Behind the dragon was a tall white tower.

"He seems to be asleep," said The Poet quietly.

"Dragons do that," I said quietly.

"Yeah," said 16 quietly.

"I bet the princess is in that tower," said Seven quietly.

"I'm not asleep, you know," said the dragon quietly.

And then all hell broke loose.

16 started to run around like a snake in a rat factory, Seven took a
stance I had seen Bruce Lee patent in one of his oh-so-famous fight
movies, and I racked my brains for the best way to beat a dragon but it
was The Poet who surprised us all.

"Oh Dragon," he said poetically, "I challenge you to a game of
darts."

"You're on," said the dragon.

And that, apparently, was that.

Like Sir Galahad on a good day The Poet whipped out his darts and
stepped up to the oche.

"I win and we get the princess and get out of here," said The Poet.
"You win and you can barbecue us all."

"Deal," said the dragon and The Poet made to make his first
throw.

"Do you think he'll win?" said 16.

"Well I hope so," I said, "I don't fancy being a barbecue."

"Me neither," said Seven, "unless it's a Swedish barbecue."

"What's a Swedish barbecue?" I said.

"Anything he can find," said Seven, "meat is so bloody expensive in
Sweden. Have you been?"

"Will you please be quiet, please," said the dragon. "I need to
concentrate for this."

"Sorry," I said.

"Sorry," said 16.

"Sorry," said The Poet.

"A Swedish barbecue," said Seven and he chuckled to himself. But very
silently. We all ignored him. All eyes were on the dragon.

The dragon rotated its arms and then it threw. First once, then twice,
then three times.

There was only one conclusion to be drawn.

While dragons may be good at terrorising whole villages and eating
their best virgins on a yearly basis, while they may be good at blowing
flames from their noses and swooping daintily on the midnight breeze,
it seems that where darts are involved, quite frankly, they haven't got
a clue. It seems that they just don't have the hand eye
coordination.

After five minutes of what was basically a one-man show The Poet
needed only a double-top and the dragon needed a miracle.

"Any last requests?" said The Poet cockily, his palpitating days
apparently far behind him.

"I've always wanted to go to Cambodia," said the dragon.

"Oh me too," said The Poet and he threw his last dart.

Almost without consequence it slipped into that little wire frame
below the number twenty but above all the other frames.

Quite simply The Poet had won.

"Bravo," said the dragon, holding out a dragon-like hand. "I must say
that was awfully well done."

"You think so?" said The Poet.

"Oh yes," said the dragon. "There was something almost poetic about
it."

"Well I am a poet," said The Poet.
"Are you?" said the dragon. "Yes I can see it now that you've
mentioned it. There's something about your eyes. They almost tell a
story."

"Do you think so?" said The Poet. "I've noticed it myself actually but
it's not something I like to go on about."

"POET," I screamed, "STOP DILLY-DALLYING. WE HAVE TO SAVE THE
PRINCESS. WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE."

"There's no need to shout," said The Poet but we were already
off.

The door at the bottom of the tower was open. Within moments we were
all through and in a large well-appointed lobby. On one side there was
a polished reception counter and on the other the door of a stainless
steel lift. Little indicators above the lift had the numbers 1 to 12
and then above that in arabesque neon lights, 'Princesses suite'.

"I think that's us," said 16.

"I think you might be right," I said. And we all entered the
lift.

After what seemed to be just the right amount of time the doors pinged
open to reveal a circular tower room. In the centre of this room was a
sleeping princess on a bed. Above her pinned to the wall was a photo of
Captain Vegas naked. He had his legs apart and was holding a mobile
phone next to his cock as if he was comparing the size.

"He'll be pleased about that," said 16.

"I'm not," said The Poet, "that's my phone."

"It could have been worse," said 16, "he could have been comparing it
to the size of his arsehole."

"That seems to go on for ever," said Seven.

"Tell me about it," said 16.

"Hey guys," I said, "I think this is the point where one of us is
supposed to kiss the princess, she wakes up, and then we get the hell
out."

16 looked at Seven, Seven looked at The Poet, The Poet looked at 16,
then they all turned and looked at me. None of us had ever kissed a
girl before.

"We could always just leave her," said 16.

"Yeah," said Seven. "Now we've dealt with that dragon, what are we
saving her for? I mean how much trouble can she be in? She's asleep.
It's not exactly Titanic is it?"

"There's something poetic about a sleeping princess," said The
Poet.

"It's only a kiss," I said.

"Then you do it," said 16.

I took a deep breath.

"You are," said 16, "after all, the Loop Garoo Kid, the orneriest
cowboy in the west."

"But we're not in the west," I said. "Captain Vegas's arse is east. I
mean look it's just full of Buddhist references. It's definitely
Oriental. Whoever heard of a cowboy in the east?"

"I'm thinking The Seven Samurai," said Seven.

"Me too," said The Poet.

"I'm thinking eight of um," said 16. "Eight little Samurai all in a
row."

"Hell you guys," I said.

"Just do it," said Seven.

"Do it for Vegas," said The Poet.

"Go on Loop Garoo," said 16, "do it for all of us. Do it for yourself.
Kiss the princess."

So I did. I took two steps forward and I bent and I kissed the
princess. I did it for oppressed people everywhere, for the Jews in
Gibraltar, for the Gipsies in Geneva, for the Jehovahs in Jehovahville.
I bit the bullet, I chewed the cud, I puckered up and went for
it.

The response was immediate and dramatic.

The princess sat up.

"I'm awake," she said.

"You are," I said.

"Cool," she said, "and now I can continue in my evil plan to take over
the world." And she laughed ruthlessly.

"What?" I said.

"What?" said The Poet.

"A Swedish barbecue," said Seven. "Hehehe."

"Oh yes," said the princess, "that's what dragons do. They protect the
world from people like me."

"Well I never," said 16.

"Who'd have thought it," said The Poet.

"We have to do something," said Seven.

"Right away," said The Poet, "before she takes over the world."

Luckily I had a plan. Another one. I was on a roll.

This plan had been put into my mind by an episode of that classic
sitcom, I Love Lucy, that I had recently seen.

In this episode our eponymous heroine Lucille Ball has been told to
deliver an important parcel. She has been told that it is of a highly
sensitive nature and the boss does not want any funny business from
her. Of course not, says Lucille, no funny business at all and she
winks at the canned studio audience and they laugh. In a can.

When Lucille arrives at the address that is on the parcel she finds
that it is a film studio and the person she has to deliver the parcel
to is none other than Alan Ladd, her hero, who is currently doing a
guest spot on Bonanza, the picture being shot.

Through a series of comic manoeuvrings Lucille manages to get herself
a walk-on part in the show as an uppity cowgirl. However, when it comes
to her scene instead of throwing a dummy punch at Alan Ladd as she is
supposed to she throws a real punch and Alan Ladd falls to the floor
out cold. Alan Ladd is replaced in the show by James Garner and the
rest, as they say, is tv history.

I quickly explained my idea and the others agreed that it was quite
the best idea that they had heard for some time.

I would play Lucille Ball, The Poet would be Lucille's boss, Seven
would be a young James Garner, and the princess, of course, would be
Alan Ladd.

It all worked like a dream. 16 whipped off his underpants and I used
these as the parcel to be delivered. Seven did some gurning in the
general direction of whatever camera happened to be on him. The Poet
was suitably apoplectic as Lucille's boss. And the princess never knew
what hit her.

As I made what was supposed to be the dummy punch there was no dummy
in it and I made contact with the princess square on the jaw. As she
was standing dangerously close to the open window at the time this had
more than the desired effect. The princess tumbled head first out of
the window and down to the ground below.

We all rushed over to have a look. She was, as they say in fairy
tales, quite dead.

"I love it when a plan comes together," said Seven.

"I think you've got the wrong show Mr Baracas," said 16.

"I think we should get out of here now," I said.

"But I ain't flying," said Seven. "There ain't no way nobodies gunna
make me fly."

"Definitely the wrong show," said 16.

"THIS WAY!" I shouted and everybody followed me down the stairs.

"You're back," said the dragon as we stepped one by one from out of
the tower. "I knew you'd be back. Now tell me, she was an awful bore,
wasn't she?"

"If you knew what she was like then why didn't you tell us?" said
16.

"And you would have taken any notice of what a dragon had to say?"
said the dragon.

"Is that the moral of the story?" said 16.

"No," said the dragon, "the moral of the story is is never trust a
pinnocle when a peanuckle will do."

"I don't get it," said 16.

"Now that is the moral of the story," said the dragon.

"I still don't get it," said 16.

"Come on," said the dragon, "get on my back and I'll give you a lift
home."

And so we all got on to the dragon's back and with a few flaps of his
wings we were up in the air, soaring above the lands.

I looked down and I saw endless fields with endless towers and endless
dragons in front of them stretching off for all eternity and I wondered
if that was the moral of the story and what with the sun on my back and
all the excitement I had gone though I found my eyes getting heavier
and heavier and heavier and heavier and then there was a loud bang and
I opened my eyes and I saw that I was on the floor in my house and I
was lying there with 16 and Seven and The Poet and there was no sign of
the dragon but the mirror that had started it all was still
there.

"Did what I think happen really just happen?" I said to Seven who
looked like he had just opened his eyes as well.

"I think so," said Seven.

"I think so too," said The Poet who looked just like Seven did but
only more so.

"Think what?" said Captain Vegas.

Captain Vegas was sitting up now and he was adjusting his tiny
underpants around the edge of his bum. We couldn't help but watch.
Every last one of us.

"Hey," said Captain Vegas, "why are you guys all looking at my arse?
It's not that interesting, you know."

"Oh we know," I said and we all started to laugh. Helplessly.
Religiously. Down on our knees. Slamming the floor.

"What's going on?" said Captain Vegas. And then he leapt up and
started to wiggle his hips. "Can someone just tell me what is going on?
Why is it always me? Why do you always treat me like this?"

"I love you Captain Vegas," I said, "I truly love you," and that was
all that I would say on the matter.