Just Around the U Bend

As I entered into the ducting, I was required by circumstance to go on hands and knees, knee pads and light rubbery gloves, with breathable backs, had been provide. The ducting was of galvanised metal and fairly well lit, which was not strange considering the requirements of the camera crew who had practised crawling backwards earlier.

The Velocopede, which had been stalking me for half the film, stood beneath the ducting, somehow sensing my presence and cocking its head sideways when my padded knees made a donking noise on the metal, which was not sufficiently strong to carry my weight without giving away my position.

The Velocopede bumped the trunking with his head and sniffed the air for clues.

After I had crawled, as quietly as possible, the rectangular ducting morphed into a large white plastic tube, wherein was slippery and, all of a sudden, dipped downwards in a vertical route with which was I perforce engaged. After a shortfall of two hundred thousand euros, I was declared bankrupt and found myself sitting in the unpleasant and unwanted at the bottom of the U bend. A short distance into a puddle of offensive water which was not concealing a multitude of unidentifiable objects, lying higgledy piggledy in a pile. A sign on the wall wrote, You have now entered the U bend, travellers alighting at this junction do so at their own risk.

The Thread continued, submerged in the conglomeration, and I needs must follow it with my hands below the surface. Eventually a canoe proved the most efficacious and I sang my ‘Just around the U bend’ song, which has proved so popular with the undervalued, indicating that whatever came next would certain an adventure prove, for worserer or better.

Having previously sequestered the empty cup of tyrants in my sturdy leather backpack, which I had took from a skelington at Ankor? What should I find but a half empty bottle of Hogwash floating against the side of my canoe. Checking the security of the stopper, I packed it away, feeling ready and able to splash some in the face of the nearest tyrant, utilising Cup and Hogwash, should I come across.

Around me in the atmospheric gloom the accompanying background music swelled as various objects vied, in a bob along way, for my attention.

A shopping trolley barred my course momentarily, but I deftly navigated its vicious edges using my hand carved paddle. It is known that nine tenths of shopping trolleys lie, out of sight, under the water line. If only the lookout on the Titanic had seen the shopping trolley sooner, we could have all moved on from the Edwardian era.

Narwhals spelt out their names, creating scratch marks on the plastic walls with their single writing tusks and killer sardines hunted in silent packs.

I paddled forwards, navigating by the light of some bioluminescent bacteria which had colonised the upper surfaces of the tunnel. The Thread lay athwart the gunnels and loosely passed back over the forecastle and stern, guiding my progress. I was just commenting to myself on how well I was coping and how well my paddling technique had improved in such a short distance, when some wiggly arms rose from the depths on both sides of my canoe, and, clamping themselves across my vessel, threatened to pull me all under the waves.

Please stop your shipwrecking exploits Monsieur Octiphant, I called out, Let me understand the seat of your anger and we may in time become friends.

The tentaclams ceased their struggling and a deep-water voice, somewhat wet and gurgly, came forth or froth from the depths.

I do not like it here amidst the detritus of your shopping spree, began the Octphant, I feel trapped and ignored. Once in a while I flew along the depths of the great oceans, dreaming kraken dreams and generally having a good time with all the other deep people. But now I am strangulated by refuse and wasted late night revellers who have stumbled into the gutter and are falling down near the resting pig, which, by the by, could use a wash. If only those revellers would go back where they belong or go to sleep in the corner of the snug bar.

I am sad to hear, I said while quietly, attempting to loosen the grip of the enormous, how can I?

Well, first off, stop your fiddling with my tenticules, it is tickly. Then when you have found it all, could you please release the U bend trap and clean away all this unnecessary sludge which only makes matters worse.

I will do my very, I said in sympathy, give me a moment while a find a black bucket with no hole.

Placing the bucket beneath the U of the U bend, I slowly unscrewed the special grip rings, (hand tight only) and a dripping commenced.

Hold on tight M. Octiphant the base shall be removed!

With that warning hanging like low hanging words in the air, I untwisted the final thread and a torrent of bicycles, ball point pens and over cooked pasta cascaded into the bucket which I had earlier.

M. Octiphant, released, swam backwards into depths where he live in welcome darkness and I was able to continue my serene canoeing across the lake provided.

Now that I had the cup and saucer of tyrant humiliation in my tool bag, I felt compelled to use them. Seeking assistance, I pushed the emergency buzzer and a disembodied voice, probably situated somewhere in southeast Asia, said, Yes, with a rising inflection but no accompanied info.

Clearing my moat, which had become overgrown, I ventured, as clear as a bell, I am looking forwards to discovering the whereabouts of a tyrant so that I might splash them in the face with a cup full of hogwash, preferably Pigoclean, but other brands are available.

The distant voice, silent for a few beats, replied, Most tyrants can be discovered in splendid palaces which are usually positioned on high so that they can be admired from a great distance. I can recommend Piggy Wipes as a method of cleaning pigs. But obviously it would not have the same effect, throwing a wet wipe in the face of a tyrant. So best stick with Pigoclean liquid. I believe you can clean up to 100 pigs with a single bottle.

No pigs will be washed in this episode, I said loudly, Forget the pigs.

And with that I left the area, still following the Thread of my story and hoping that it would land me within splashing distance of a tyrant in his or her outrageous domicile.