Did I Ever Tell You About Ali Baboon, And The Guts?

DID I ever tell you about Ali Baboon, and The Guts? I might have, but we all know full well I might have not, for only the past can tell. And maybe you. So that's why I'm asking.

Well, I don't even care. Seasons pass, winter prances through, the youngsters come and go, and eventually a child shall come who knows not of this epic tale. Perhaps that day is now, and so perhaps I shall vomit out my dark adventures once more.

I was watching a televisual piece about the snatching of foetuses, called - imaginatively - Foetus Snatchers. This reminded me of a terrible incident, long long ago. You see, I once thought I'd inadvertently snatched a foetus, but to my relief it was merely a malformed pig gut. Mind you, it could still talk, and this was the start of my unravelling jumper of woe.

"Free Ali Baboon", it kept saying, on the hour, every hour. I locked it in the cellar to get some peace but that only made the voice echo even louder.

I needn't tell you that by the late '80s, the unions were broken and the mines all closing down, like mobile libraries did when they invented computers, so the old house had had to go. You can't live in a caravan with that kind of constant distraction, so there was only one thing for it.

Trouble was, I'd have to get past the guards, and these weren't just any guards, they were ex-Tesco elite. I dressed up in my wetsuit in case of eventuality, and packed my special family quilt, that had served so many before me.

When I got to the compound, it was strangely quiet. Where were the patrols? No light from the watchtower, no rabid dogs on the loose. Something was wrong. I crept through the open gate and slid across the cold tarmac to the animal hut, inwardly cursing that damned talking pig gut for getting me into this mess.
The door was ajar, and from inside came a stirring. A moist sensation graced my loins, and dripped down the suit into my left shoe. Then, a voice. The unmistakeable voice of a possessed ape, slowly crying out to me, reeling me in, with its mesmerisingly simple wail: "Daddy!"

Danger lay ahead. Did I have the necessary courage? I looked at my Breitling Aviator wristwatch for one last time. With its handy emergency distress transponder, it would only take the press of one button and help would come. I hesitated. It was 17.36. I was missing Neighbours. I dropped the guts, ran from there screaming, and never again returned. Behind me, a black shadow skulked away into the dusk.

Little then did I know the havoc that would follow now that Ali Baboon and his intestinal cohorts were reunited once more; but as sure as dark skies bring rain, that my child, was another tale altogether...

--

I say another tale, but I actually mean this one. The two are easily merged, and merged they now be. There it began, and here it continues. My tales bore a sound - the sound of a story - and it sounded a lot like this...

The Guts sat around the large oak table, their featureless faces lit by flickering candlelight. At the head of the table sat a hulking great beast. This was, without a doubt, Ali Baboon.

He hadn't always been like this. No, for once there was little he enjoyed more than savouring long warm afternoons in the summerhouse, sipping at a glass of cool orange high juice and reading the colour supplement, like any other upper middle class ape.

Alas, it was not to last. One fine day, a small and smooth dark black rock fell from the heavens at a great rate of knots, and obliterated his Mediterranean rock garden in a shower of tiny fragments. It lay there glowing, smouldering, and from that moment grew the greatest troubles I had ever known.

That night, Ali Baboon could sleep well no longer. Where once he had dreamt of virgin jungle, visions of fire and darkness wrestled for control of his mind. He tossed and turned, and in his fitful throes, mumbled and muttered in unearthly languages. Only one phrase was distinguishable, though no doctor could ever understand. Throughout his ramblings, he demanded... rice pudding! Yes.

World renowned scientists came to examine him, and promptly declared him quite mad. However, on the morning he was due to be taken away, he arose most calmly, and ventured outside. Leaving the gate to his little cottage swinging in the breeze, he headed east, with only his dark plans for company. That was the last the public were to hear of him, and promptly he was lost in a flurry of celebrity and dietary fashion. Sadly, my friends, for us the trauma had merely begun.

A series of horrific acts of violence began to spread across the regions; first came reports in the Mansfield Gazette that six sheep had been found hanging from a telegraph pole. The Westmorland Trumpet was quick to follow, with "DICED RABBIT FOUND IN SUITCASE" ...and then of course, one final 'pièce de résistance' to appeal to the entire nation's sick penchant for bloodshed; Trude Mostue's head on a spike, with her body and that of her animal wards all gruesomely disemboweled in a grotesque carnival of death.

No detective ever made the connection; the Mail came close with its raving about a new craze, but in the end it was simple hyperbole. The Guts were born, from bowels and from bellies, and they formed their shadowy networks, pervading the country; every village and hillock fell slow victim to their purpose.

And so on this bitterly cold night, with their infiltration complete, they had returned to meet their leader, around this ancient table, in a cavern below the factory. As their agendas were formed, and the preparations made, the meeting was over, all but for their dreadful, poorly written prose. Everyone stood, and silence swept the room. In unison, the chant began.

From Stoke on Trent, to Macclesfield,
And doubling back to Crewe,
We'll not be long in Warrington,
As there's not that much to do

(hey!)

And then we'll get to Preston,
And up into the Lakes,
And maybe change around Carlisle,
And see where us it takes

(yur!)

We'll enslave all the Northernkind,
And turn them into JAM!
And not one will say "you can't do that",
Cos noone gives a DAMN!

(prolonged drunken laughter)

The tragedy was they were right. The southern antipathy towards the north had been growing for a while, and now the Guts had seized upon it and turned it into hatred. However, someone cared, and that someone was me, Gregorius. I'd been classically trained in both the lute and panfighting, and more importantly, I'd been listening in.

--

You see, my involvement in all of this had begun when I'd joined a bunch of communist rebels called the Foetus Freedom Front, or Fo'free. Our mission was to snatch unborn babies from the poor or obese, and transfer them (for a small fee) to a more deserving mother, such as librarians, or nuns. It was harsh, but it was fair. For once I felt good; I wasn't doing this for money, I was doing it to save the human race.

Trouble was, it was getting out of hand. The real nasty Marxist faction were targeting anyone who wasn't a perfect eight, or who couldn't afford a second home. This wasn't right, and I couldn't carry on. I told them that the next mission would be my last, they gave me the brief, and we parted company.

When I got to the place, something didn't add up. This one wasn't just council estate obese - she was a real sow. As I later found out through a Leninist friend, that's because she was a real sow. It was a trap, and I was in pelvis deep. In the absence of clarity, I followed orders. There was a squeal, and I was away into the night, but not with any baby I'd ever seen - oh no, just a load of pig guts. Talking pig guts. As you all now know, those guts were to haunt me for longer than I'd ever imagined. A bit longer, anyway.

At least now I understood; Ali Baboon was powered by his beliefs. He'd come to be devoted to an awful conflict-ridden hybrid of Satan and God, a deity that demanded its own creation destroyed, an omnipotent force we knew only, after a pause for dramatic effect, as... SAGO.

I knew time was of the essence. I plucked a rail timetable from the ether. Yes! I could save everyone. Shit! 'NS', meaning 'Not Saturdays'. Oh well. I would intercept them midway. I jumped into my rusty yet trusty Seat Toledo, a vehicle favoured by taxi drivers and dumb Spaniards, and floored it out of there.

I screeched to a halt at Warrington Bank Quays, which for the less worldly amongst you, is a train station. Paying scant regard to parking restrictions, I rushed inside. The Virgin Voyager service, complete with Baboon & Co. Ltd., was due any minute. With the end theme from Three Tough Guys by Isaac Hayes pounding its rhythm through my head, I tried to recall my military training. Then I remembered there was only one of me, and that I'd never even been in the army. Formulating a plan, I climbed into the vending machine.

--

The train drew in. The guards got off and congregated around the carriages. Two came my way - right up to the machine. They fumbled for their change, found a pound coin, and inserted it. A deadly silence. Snickers? Snickers! "BAD MOVE!" I cried, and burst out, knocking them into the path of a freight train and scattering Bountys, Bounties, whatever, all over the platform. The Gut Guards were onto me. I span around. CRAP PANTS! More behind me; cornered!

I trembled. Sweat ran down my spine and into my arsecrack - a detail I could have easily omitted. Then, inspiration. I pulled out my lute, and brandished it dangerously. The guards laughed, I suppose gutterally, but I was not afraid.

It was no harp or lyre, but it brought me great solace during harder times, and I cherished it dearly. I began to play. I do not know what, but it was something that spoke to me from deep within, something as meaningful as it was poignant and evocative, something awful I'd heard in Spar.

This aroused a new and unexpected emotion in the guards, and one they weren't prepared for. Like some sort of anti-mermaid, I drove them back - some onto electrified lines, some into waiting rooms, others onto Central trains to Liverpool. Soon the station was clear of guards, passengers, jobsworth ticket inspectors, anyone, but my work was not yet done.

Like Napoleon and that other bloke, I must now face my nemesis; Ali Baboon himself. This was no cartoon Dr Robotnik; I couldn't hide behind my joypad, I had no gold coins. It was just me and him, face to great big dark black ape face, aboard the train. Oh yeah, the train. I got on.

--

Ali was waiting, as I'd always known he would be. He didn't seem fazed by the mindless slaughter outside, greeting me with a weak smile and a sombre wave. There were no clichés, no "so we meet at last etceteras"; merely me, a giant criminal baboon, and a silver saucepan to the head. He went straight down. I'd always been good - you learned fast in Borstal. Ali looked up at me. The dark clouds lifted from his once sparkling eyes. He forced a grin and shed a tear, before they closed for a final time.

He was free now; dead, but free. Many had already perished so unnecessarily that evening, but they were in Stoke, so I held in my sadness. Civil war had broken out, and my car had been towed, since I'd paid scant regard to parking restrictions. Still, I knew all would be well, and set off on the long walk home.

If YOU learn anything from this saga, let it be this. When you chance upon roadkill, be it hedgehog, badger or mutant alien foal, be absolutely sure to check for internal completeness. Careless autopsy costs lives, and though not as catchy in the slogan stakes, it may well be your mum who ends up in one of those fetching little jars from France.

Goodnight, and sleep well!