Larry and Mick go to Puddletown ... PART TWO

 

Puddletown was a veritable gravity well of celebrities. Such a quaint English name. And what celebrity doesn’t love all things quaint and English? So they came, they fell in love with the place, they moved in (as mentioned earlier), they got turned into daffodils. As you do. If you’re a celebrity in Puddletown.

 

But what of Larry and Mick?, I hear you ask.

 

You mean Larry and Mick the celebrities? - I reply.

 

But Larry and Mick aren’t celebrities, I hear you counter-argue.

 

But they are! - I assert. On account of the fact that Larry and Mick are characters in a series of stories. Which, in my book, makes them celebrities. Unconscious ones, perhaps, but celebrities nonetheless.

 

So...

 

Larry and Mick were now daffodils. Human-sized illuminous orange ones. In Puddletown. Singing and dancing to ABBA songs (they had moved on now from Dancing Queen to Super Trouper). Which could have been, as they say, that, making this therefore one of those tales that ends something like...

 

And Larry and Mick and the daffodils sung and danced to ABBA songs forever.

 

But it wasn’t. And they didn’t. Because while Larry and Mick had experienced much that-ness, they had never known eternal that-ness, and they weren’t about to start now.

 

Let me take a moment or two to explain the nature of the daffodils. Yes, they were flowers. Big ones. Big illuminous orange ones. And as you might have guessed (or maybe not), they had once been celebrities. But that wasn’t the whole truth. In additional to their floral nature, they were also machines with three functions: transformation, duplication and teleportation.

 

Woah there, Hawkings, I hear you say. What the Taylor Swift are you on about?

 

Firstly, you flatter me with your Hawkings reference. I know as much about black holes as a proctologist.

 

Secondly, it’s funny you should mention Taylor Swift. For she was the most recent celebrity (apart from Larry and Mick) to be transformed, duplicated and teleported. Or, as one might say, daffodilled. Just so we don’t have to use so many big words (although I do like using big words).

 

Specifically, Swift the soulful songstress, upon a recent musical tour of some of the more significant locales of the UK, decided to add another date to her schedule. On her way to somewhere else, she spotted a sign signifying that Puddletown was only four miles away in some direction or other, and decided to pay it a visit (How quaint!, thought she, as she spotted that sign). Then she further thought (that’s easier to write than say)...

 

No! I shall not merely visit the quaint English locale of Puddletown... I shall perform there!

 

And such was her plan.

 

Until...

 

She decided, before committing to gifting Puddletown with renditions of her vocal prowess, to do a little recce of said locale, in order to assess its suitability for musical performance. Where was the nearest Starbucks? Were there enough Puddletownian fans of Taylor Swift to merit a concert? Etcetera. So she asked her tour bus driver to drop her off a mile or so outside the town, donned her disguise (a pair of highly fashionable sunglasses), found the nearest rental station of Shanks’s Rental Ponies, gave Mr Shanks a fifty dollar bill and trotted inconspicuously (ish) into town.

 

She saw the puddles.

 

She saw the daffodils.

 

She tasted the puddles (that is to say, one of them).

 

She heard Jay Kay of Jamiroquai sing Virtual Insanity.

 

She heard Donald Trump say something stupid.

 

She heard the first few chords of Dancing Queen.

 

A daffodil ‘breathed’ on her.

 

She got all daffodilly.

 

She sung and danced to Dancing Queen. And other ABBA songs.

 

And that was that.

 

Only it wasn’t.

 

For the daffodil that had ‘breathed’ on her had done its transformation, duplication and teleportation thing. Which is to say that it had transformed Taylor Swift into a human-sized illuminous orange daffodil (transformation), made an exact replica of Taylor Swift (duplication (but who knows how? By some quantum shenanigans, no doubt...)) and relocated (teleportation (more quantum shenanigans)) the exact replica of Taylor Swift to... well... somewhere else... which we’ll come to in a minute.

 

But not only had the ‘breathing’ daffodil/quantum machine thingy made one exact replica of Taylor Swift... It had made two!

 

And the second replica of Taylor Swift found itself, feeling somewhat bewildered and, one might say, discombobulated, just a short distance away from the tour bus.

 

“What of Puddletown?” said the tour bus driver.

 

“Not suitable,” said the replica of Taylor Swift.

 

“Why?”

 

“No Starbucks.”

 

And that was that.

 

For Taylor Swift, anyway.

 

...

 

 

Other celebrities suffered similar fates to Taylor Swift.

 

Right in the middle of Puddletown, Puddletown being Puddletown, there was an enormous puddle. Under the enormous puddle, there was a dome. A big one. This is where all the replicas (the first ones) of the celebrities went. Why did they go there? Who knew? Maybe they were under observation by aliens. Or something. Anyway, that’s where they ended up.

 

The second replicas, like that of Taylor Swift, were returned/teleported to resume their ‘normal’ lives. Or as normal as celebrity lives ever are. Although occasionally second replicas were not made. This was due to a glitch in the quantum fluctuation parameters (or something). A consequence of this was that some celebrities seemed to ‘mysteriously disappear.’

 

“Elvis?” said Larry.

 

“Uh-huh,” said Elvis.

 

“I love your second album,” said Mick.

 

“Thank you very much,” said Elvis.

 

Larry and Mick looked around. They saw Jay Kay from Jamiroquai, the members of New Fast Automatic Daffodils, Stephen King, Donald Trump, Taylor Swift, Nigel Havers, James Brown, James Van Der Beek, Jack Black, John Major, Michael Jackson, Billy Idol, the Kardashians, The Spice Girls, Charlie Chaplin and many more.

 

“Wait,” said Larry to Charlie Chaplin. “Shouldn’t you be-”

 

“No one dies in Puddletown...” said Charlie Chaplin.

 

“OK…” said Larry.

 

Mick was engaged in a conversation with The Spice Girls. That is to say, The Spice Girls as they were in 1996, between the release of Wannabe and Say You’ll Be There - around the same time as the release of Jamiroquai’s Virtual Insanity (coincidence? Perhaps...).

 

“So, like, we’re basically just stuck here forever?” said Mick to Baby Spice.

 

“That’s right, Mick,” said Baby Spice.

 

“And no one has done anything to try to escape?”

 

Baby Spice looked at Ginger Spice.

 

Ginger Spice shrugged.

 

“Sporty tried to kick the dome wall,” said Scary Spice.

 

“Anything else?”

 

The Spice Girls all looked at each other and raised their hands, in a mutual expression of What’s-the-point?-ness.

 

“Has anyone else tried anything?” said Mick to the assembled throng of actors, singers, politicians and other social misfits.

 

A muscly man at the back put his hand up.

 

“Yes, Mr Schwarzenegger?”

 

“I shot at it with a big gun.”

 

“A real gun?”

 

“Um...”

 

“Never mind.”

 

After several more fruitless enquiries, Mick looked at Larry, who had left Charlie Chaplain to stare vacantly through the semi-transparent dome wall into the lemonadiness beyond, and was now rummaging through his pockets.

 

“Larry, I hardly think this is the time to-”

 

“Hold on,” said Larry; “I have an idea...”

 

In full view of The Spice Girls and others, Larry took hold of something and gave it a tug.

 

“Larry...”

 

“There!” said that man, as he triumphantly extracted, and held out for all to see, a small round green piece of plastic.

 

“My good friend, Larry, I hardly see how-”

 

“Do you remember the Daughter of Cthulhu?” (See my other recent tale, ‘Cthuddlywinks.’)

 

“Yes, but-”

 

“Isn’t it worth a try?”

 

Mick took a moment. Thunk. Made a decision.

 

“Burnt bananas of Borneo!” said he. “You’re right!” - and Mick too extracted a small round piece of plastic (blue) from his pocket.

 

As the massed multitudes looked on, Larry and Mick went through a routine of, After you - No, after you, which many of the celebrities found ‘delightful,’ and which culminated in a concession from Mick that Larry should be the one to wield the first tiddlywink, on account of the fact that Larry had been the first one to rummage and it had been his idea, and so Mick respectfully stepped aside, whilst Larry brandished tiddlywink between appropriate fingerage and ‘adopted the stance.’

 

“But wait!” called Salvador Dalí, in the most dramatic tone he could muster. “What if this hairbrained plan of yours actually works and the dome collapses and we are all simultaneously crushed and drowned to death?”

 

There was collective murmuring, as it would seem that no one else had thought of that.

 

“Would it not be better to die than to spend eternity in this featureless hell?” said Mick.

 

(“Nice one, Mick,” said Larry.)

 

(“Thank you, Larry,” said Mick.)

 

There was more collective murmuring and a Spanish-accented Meh from Salvador.

 

“As I thought,” said Mick. Then, “Go ahead, Larry.”

 

“Rightey-ho, Mick,” said Larry. Upon which, he planted his feet firmly upon the ground (which, like the dome, seemed to be made of a kind of warm frozen lemonade (if that makes sense (which it probably doesn’t (but there you are)))), grasped the tiddlywink in a grip of readiness, took a deep breath... then flicked (or, if you like, tiddled).

 

The small round green piece of plastic sailed majestically through the air. It has not previously been mentioned that the air in this environment was thick - one might even say ‘sugary,’ on account of the high lemonade vapour content - and so, as the tiddlywink sailed and tumbled from Larry’s fingers to the dome wall, not only did it seem as if it was travelling in slow motion, but it actually was. It must be said, however, that although the tiddlywink was travelling a fraction slower than it would if it were outside, a bit of lemonade in the air didn’t actually make the kind of difference that anyone would notice (except perhaps for Jim Morrison of The Doors (circa 1969), who noticed such things), although it did, as has been mentioned, seem to be travelling discernibly slower, due to the dramatic nature of the moment. If you see what I mean.

 

“Woah,” said Jim Morrison of The Doors, as the tiddlywink sailed, as if through syrup (which, in a sense, it was), past his field of vision. And, “One... two... three...” he counted, of the tumbles of the small round green piece of plastic, before it struck the dome wall.

 

Clong - went the tiddlywink, then fell ineffectually to the ground.

 

“Oh dear,” said Larry.

 

“Well that, as they say, is that,” said Salvador Dalí.

 

“What shall we do now?” said Ginger Spice.

 

“Die,” said Edith Piaf. “We shall all just lie here and die.”

 

The philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche concurred, and he and Edith took to lying down.

 

“No one dies in Puddletown...” said Charlie Chaplin. And he did have a point.

 

“Wait,” said Mick.

 

Everyone looked at Mick.

 

The collective raising of eyebrows caused a discernible breeze to waft through the air (seriously).

 

“What?” said Larry.

 

“Let me try,” said Mick.

 

“But what makes you think you can-?”

 

“Do you trust me?”

 

Meh - went Salvador Dalí.

 

“Shut it, Salvy,” said Scary Spice.

 

And Scary Spice being scary (relative to the other Spice Girls, in 1996, anyway), Salvy... um... Salvador shrugged and did as he was told.

 

Mick tiddled his wink, which cracked the wall of the dome, and lemonade started to seep in.

 

“Ooh,” said everyone in unison (not the collective members of the trade union (although I’m sure they would have done if they had been there)).

 

And, “Aahhh,” went everyone also, as the crack widened and more lemonade started to dribble into the dome.

 

“And now we shall all die by drowning in lemonade,” said Salvador Dalí. “How beautifully poetic.”

 

“I warned you, Salvy,” said Scary, who gave him the scariest face she could muster.

 

“He does have a point, though, man,” said Jim Morrison of The Doors.

 

“No he doesn’t...” said Charlie Chaplin, who was consequently greeted by a smack to the chops by Bruce Lee.

 

The crack widened further. More lemonade came in.

 

“Get drinking!” said Larry.

 

“Oh yes of course…” said Mick. “Get drinking!”

 

“Can’t,” said Salvador. “Allergic.”

 

“No time for that,” said Scary Spice. Then, “Graaaaggghhh!!” she went.

 

Salvador Dalí’s face was the first to the makeshift spigot.

 

“Okay, my turn now, I love lemonade,” said Arnold Schwarzenegger after a minute or two, as he shoved Dalí out of the way.

 

Arnie guzzled and gulped on the ‘spigot,’ but as he did so, the crack widened even further and lemonade started to spurt hither and yon.

 

“Get to the lemonade!” said he to whoever was listening.

 

And so the collective celebrity multitudes (what’s the proper name for a collection of celebrities? A paparazzi of celebrities? Yes, I’ll go with that...) lunged, leapt, ambled and parkoured towards the various places through which lemonade was now spurting and proffered their gobs to the imbibement thereof.

 

But more cracks, more lemonade, and despite what was no doubt a valiant and burpacious effort, it was becoming what can only be called a hopeless situation.

 

“I feel perhaps an understated oops might be in order,” said Mick, following a guzzle and an undeniably magnificent belch.

 

“Do not blame thyself, friend Mick,” said Larry, as his and many other eyes were raised to the increasingly sizeable and multiforked crack that was now traveling to the roof of the dome; “for although thine actions have led to a potentially disastrous happenstance, you were only doing what you thought was best.”

 

“Indeed I was, friend Larry... bleurrrrppp... but let us not forget that it was your idea.”

 

“You mean the tiddlywink?”

 

“Indeed I do.”

 

“In regard of the apportioning of blame, friend Mick, I feel it is in the best interest of all present that we do not dwell on that.”

 

“Perhaps so, friend Larry. Although your idea it remains.”

 

“One could say so. Or one could, by way of an alternative proposition, desist from-”

 

“Look!” said Scary Spice, as she pointed up.

 

And upward-looking everyone did (even moreso than they already were).

 

...