Once Upun a Time

Norbert

Chapter 51

Once Upun a Time

I approach Matron during the interval. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but how many songs do you intend to sing at the end? I don’t want to be late home. I have to walk Weggie.’

She frowns her incomprehension. ‘Peregrine said I’m here to present the prize. He didn’t say anything about singing.’

‘He did to me.’ I look anxiously round the room. ‘And apart from Dora Mae, I can’t see any other fat ladies.’

Once we have retaken our seats, I call a huddle. ‘From now on, don’t any of you buzz first. Let them answer every question.’

‘Brilliant idea,’ says Isabel.

‘I’m confident they’ll get them wrong.’

‘What makes you think we’ll get them right?’ asks Dora Mae.

‘Nearly all the questions are puns, like when he called you lardy. It wasn’t an insult but a pun. Lardy sounds like lady and you’re also fat … Sorry.’

‘I think I understand.’

‘I wish I did,’ says Isabel.

I boldly place my hand over hers. ‘Never mind, sweetheart. You just concentrate on looking lovely.’

‘No problem.’

‘Think about the question and we’ll confer as to the most likely answer before we buzz.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ says Isabel. ‘Did you just call me sweetheart?’

I look down and blush. ‘I’m sorry Isabel, I…’

‘No, it’s all right,’ she says. ‘I’m just checking it wasn’t a pun.’

I laugh. ‘You’re not just a pretty face, are you?’

She leans towards me and smiles. ‘No. I hear I’ve also got loolybells to die for.’

‘That was actually a metaphor.’

My plan is scuppered immediately after the resumption when Ruben throws in a few questions on sport to please the audience, like: “What’s a no-ball in cricket?” I thought I knew, but evidently it is when a player pushes his wedding tackle between his legs. Unless they don’t have enough protective boxes to go round, why would anyone do that? As a result, GT and his team build up a twelve point lead.

‘We’re cock-tickled,’ says Foultongue.

She is right. It is as good as over by the time Rube gets back to general knowledge.

‘What do you call a weight loss mantra?’

Dora Mae Blimp buzzes excitedly and wobbles. ‘Fat chants.’

‘Correct.’

I lean across. ‘That was good. You’re getting the hang of it.’

‘Was that a pun? It’s something we say for a laugh at slimming club.’

‘You attend a slimming club?’ says Isabel.

‘I’ll have you know I gained half a stone last week. I won Slimmer of the Month.’

‘Shut up, that team,’ says Ruben, ‘or I’ll deduct points.’

I think of my life with Auntie and then my future under GT’s tyranny. ‘I’m sorry, Ruben, but are we allowed to confer before answering after the opposition gets it wrong?’

‘Suit yourself. I don’t give a tickle what you do so long as an answer is forthcoming.’ He finishes off a double Bacardi Breezer and shouts: ‘I’d like a large Harvey Wallbanger on the stage.’

‘So does Isabel,’ says GT, ‘but it isn’t with Harvey and it’s usually in her front porch.’

Once more Mr Wringing-Lowd has to be restrained.

‘What would be the result if you dropped a piano down a coalmine?’ says Ruben, removing the umbrella from his new cocktail and poking in his ear with it.

Healer Dai buzzes. ‘Nothing at all,’ he shouts, angrily. ‘They closed all the pits in the valleys, look you.’

‘Wrong.’

‘Idiot,’ GT hisses to Healer Dai.

Vera turns to me and whispers: ‘A musical pun?’

I buzz. ‘A-flat minor.’

Ruben smiles. ‘Correct. One bonus point.’

I turn to Isabel. ‘That was another pun. Did you understand it, light of my life?’

‘Yes, of course I did.’ She touches my arm and tears mist her eyes. ‘The miner, did he suffer?’

‘What is a thesaurus?’

Velcro buzzes. ‘It’s a dictionary thingy with words in.’

‘Not specific enough, I’m afraid.’

‘You stupid old cow,’ snaps GT.

‘Don’t you have a go at my Clotty, look you,’ says Healer Dai, angrily.

Vera is straight in. ‘Is it a kind of dinosaur with an extended vocabulary?’

‘Well done, old girl,’ says Rube, ordering a triple daiquiri with passion fruit. ‘How can you tell if a frog is immortal?’

GT buzzes. ‘You stamp on the bastard, and if it dies it isn’t.’

Ruben just looks benignly over at us.

Dora Mae Blimp whispers to me.

‘Go for it.’

‘It won’t croak.’

‘Correct,’ says Ruben, guzzling his new drink. ‘Have I ever told you?’ He leans in our direction, but his elbow slips on the tabletop and he nearly falls out of his chair. He recovers. ‘That you are really rather cuddly?’

Dora Mae Blimp giggles, wobbles and turns red, in that order.

Isabel turns to me and grabs my arm. Despite the intense pressure, I am beginning to get a bunnyhorn. I forestall her by saying: ‘No, I don’t think that was a pun. It could be the booze talking, which is a figure of speech.’

‘Stop explaining everything you say. It’s getting on my tits.’

I open my mouth, but she covers it with her hand. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

If only I could stop.

‘What’s a cannonball?’

Dora Mae Doll buzzes. ‘A comedy duo what made my Dad laugh before he hanged himself.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Bloody hell, dollface, that’s the last time I photocopy your fanny for my collection,’ says GT.

Foultongue confers then buzzes. ‘A dance for artillerymen.’

‘Right again ... What do you call a cow after she’s given birth?’

Velcro buzzes. ‘Mum.’

‘No.’

‘Will somebody please shoot her?’ GT expostulates.

‘I’ll take you outside and give you a sound thrashing if you insult my Clotty again,’ shouts Healer Dai.

I think before buzzing and answer slowly. ‘De … calf … inated.’

‘That’s wight. Shumbody get me another erotic cocktail.’

‘Is that a pun?’ says Isabel.

‘An unintentional one,’ I tell her. ‘He’s pixilated.’

‘He looks drunk to me.’

‘Get him another,’ shouts Dora Mae Blimp. ‘My chance of a shag is improving with every drink.’

‘What are the worst kinds of headlines?’

GT buzzes. ‘The wrinkles in your grannytickling forehead, you old fart.’

‘Two points to the clit licker.’

‘Yes … Yes.’ GT jumps to his feet and pumps his arms. ‘Let’s hear it for the man, people,’ and starts clapping himself. Three pairs of panties land on their desk.

‘Damn,’ says Vera. ‘Do you think he’s cottoned on?’

‘A lucky guess, I hope.’

‘For what would you use a cardboard belt?’

No one buzzes from the opposition. We huddle and confer. Rube necks half a large Tequila Sunrise while he waits.

‘I think it’s fitting we let Isabel answer this one,’ I say.

She stands up and runs her hands slowly and seductively down her sides from her exquisite loolybells to the swell of her hips. She waits for the wolf whistles and cries of “Get em off” to die down before saying: ‘A waist of paper.’

‘Grannytickling scrubber,’ GT shouts across.

Mr Wringing-Lowd jumps out of his seat and rushes the stage. Several of the Chief Technicians on the front row grab his arms and haul him back. ‘I’ll bloody well have you,’ he screams at GT.

‘What? Like I had your tart of a daughter in your own bed?’ GT mocks.

Isabel grabs my arm and sobs against my shoulder. The trouser devil responds. ‘There. There.’ I can’t hold back. I have to ask. ‘What sort of tart was you dressed like?’

‘Bakewell,’ she sobs.

‘That red beret really does it for me, as well.’ I knead my groin.

‘Has your crabs come back, mi babby?’ Nunky shouts from the audience.

There is no cloth covering the table. From our elevated position on the stage the audience is looking straight at our laps.

‘I’ll kill you,’ Mr Wringing-Lowd shouts at GT.

‘She’s not the only one I’ve had in your family,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you ask your wife what happened after the incident with the cat litter?’

Mrs Wringing-Lowd runs out of the hall in hysterics. Isabel, who is still crying on my shoulder, faints and slides down into my lap.

‘I suggest a second interval,’ says Peregrine Foote-Wharmer, climbing on to the stage.