Rebel Regression

Cool and Counter-Cool, Tall Tale V, Pt I

Or; Episode 001, Pt I: The Apology Conundrum

Roundabout

How shall we begin this opening episode?

Or, rather, the third opening episode?

This whole ‘Apology Conundrum’ affair is going round about the houses, isn’t it?

We’re on a narrative roundabout, my dearest darlings, a narrative roundabout!

Maybe I'll tell you about an apology that actually ran smoothly?

That's a good premise for an opening episode!

I'll tell you roundly, in my short-winded roundabout way, how I was not only redeemed, but positively rewarded for my misdeeds!

By the incomparable Mrs Prong!

Who would have thought The Wheel of Fortune should rotate thus, eh?

Now, for this special feat, we're going to spin back to le Boutique Bazaar in January, roll on to LBB in April, then take the third exit on the left towards Vanitas in May...

Rebel Regression

[Another quiet kitchen scene on Sunday. Hailey is unpacking her ‘Hello Fresh’ box.]

‘Hailey, Hailey, Hailey! I’m not cool, I’m not cool. I just don’t have it!’

[Silence]

‘I’m so uncool.’

[Silence continues]

‘Oh, me! Ay, me! Poor me! Poor, poor, poor inconsolable me!’

[purple peril pretends to cry behind hands but looks slyly askance between fingers to see if any sympathy is garnered]

‘Poor, poor, poor, me! Lonesome me! Ay, me! Oh, tragedy! Oh, me! Oh destiny!'

[Silence lengthens]

'Oh fortune! Oh fate! Oh frivolous fate! Oh-’

[Hailey turns and folds her arms]

‘Oh, Jeez. What is it this time? It’s not about that imaginary “Street Credibility High-Striker” rammed up your rectum again, is it?’ 1

‘No! We’ve moved on from that. Catch up, will you, catch up!’

‘I don’t know what you’re worried about. You’re fine.’

‘Oh, laugh it up, mirth-girl! I tell you, I'm not cool because I regress without warning!'

'What are you talking ab-'

'How would you like to be struck dramatically backwards into immaturity? It’s like a juvenile thunderbolt! [Pause] I regress, I say, regress!’ 2

‘Regress?’

‘Yup! Naughty schoolboy mode! Pair of shorts, dirty knees, and catapult! Total infantilism. Think of the Queen’s Funeral!’

‘The Queen’s Funeral?’

The Queen’s Funeral

‘Yeah. I spent all day repeating, line-by-line, the BBC commentary in my best Cary Grant voice! Word-for-word!’

‘Ha!’

‘I don’t know why it was so gloriously entertaining but it certainly kept me hooked to the scene! They say, when there’s no entertainment, make your own! I can be a very resourceful boy, you see?’

[Doubtfully] ‘Hmm. Don't you thi--’

‘Yes! They should have awarded me the “Effort Prize”!’

‘All day?’

‘Yup, all day. No joke. You know how I can only do three impressions: Cary Grant, Janet Street-Porter, and Andy Williams? Cary Grant certainly worked the best that day. However, I was, at one point, concerned that it was drifting into an impression of Tony Curtis doing an impression of Cary Grant in Some Like it Hot, but I managed, with dignified effort, to steer it nobly back on track just in time for the coffin being interred! You can’t let yourself down at the climax of a scene!’

‘And this stuff just happens? You have no control?’

‘No control at all! Nope. Think of my very first meeting with Mrs Prong!’

‘Mrs Prong?’

‘Yup. That time we went to le Boutique Bazaar. In January?’

‘But you didn’t tell me about Mrs Prong.’

‘Aha! Now I’ve got your willing ear! So listen…’

Nothing Can Go Wrong

So, as you know, I’m feeling as right-as-rain after an all-night rave at Monster Queen. 3

The ground, admittedly, is a bit soft and spongy, and my head appears to have detached and raised itself from my neck twenty feet high into mid-air.

But, apart from pretending to be a lighthouse, all is well in peril-land.

I’m revving up for a return to the LBB!

I can’t let Glamourtits down.

At Torture Garden, NNYE, she’s given me a guest-list invitation for being unsurpassably and irrepressibly cool.

Nothing can go wrong.

Nothing.

A Prongster

So, I’ve been floating about a bit for a couple of hours and am on chatty-‘hello-how-are-you?-woo-hoo!’-form!

I’ve bumped into loads of people I know, some that I know not, and some that I now know but did not know when I did not know them.

If you see my drift.

Anyway:

I’m bumming around then get roundly collared by the grand counter of Mrs Prong’s wares.

So, I bowl in for a browse and a peep-and-a-peek.

There are prongs everywhere.

Huge prongs, little prongs, thick prongs, thin prongs, diagonal prongs, upstanding prongs.

A prong at every angle.

A prong for all occasions.

I better not slip up here, I could injure myself.

This is perilous terrain!

Now, I’ve always admired the work, works, and oeuvre of Mrs Prong.

And who’s standing behind The Prong counter? Mrs Prong herself!

So we get chatting and I start asking Mrs Prong all sorts of questions about the work, works, and oeuvre of Mrs Prong.

I love all of these prongs.

But because I’m an idiosyncratic, meticulous, and highly-irregular little boy, I start asking about the bespoke-this and the bespoke-that, and about graphite prongs that don’t exist, and anthracite prongs that look like trendy radiators, and modernist cuboid prongs that aren’t really prongs at all!

You know how it goes with me?

A wayward boy.

A wilful boy.

An untameable, wilfully-wilde boy.

A right prongster!

Well, anyway, Mrs Prong is helpful, professional, miraculously tolerant of me, and happens to be a damned good laugh too!

Ooh.

Ooh, and then it happens.

Then it strikes, mid-way into the conversation…

The Mischief Time-Slip

I suddenly notice that Mrs Prong has an incredibly mischievous face!

Every single changing expression seems to reveal another nuance of mischief.

Another shade and subtlety of mischief.

Now, as all of this is happening, my vision and sound slowly slip out of sync!

As I’m following this mischief-repertoire, I realise that each of my conversational responses to Mrs Prong is delayed by a momentary pause.

You know, it’s like when you’re watching a movie and the sound slides, and ye-yips-ho-hall-hout-o-siryink-han-chime!

I’m rooted and derouted but need to be rebooted.

I’ve been unsychronisapated!

Then what happens?

I’m struck by the infamous juvenile thunderbolt!

I’m hit by an out-of-control naughty-schoolboy interior-monologue, and trying, desperately, to hold up a polite conversation with Mrs Prong!

I’m also, trying desperately, to resist the need to bring Mrs Prong a red apple.

…

Apples and Peaches:

Or; The Rebel Regression

Or; The Naughty Schoolboy's Interior Monologue

...

I’m also, trying desperately, to resist the need to bring Mrs Prong a red apple.

…

[Thinks] 4

Red apple.

Go fetch, boy.

Fetch!

Go fetch!

That’s it!

Good boy!

Good boy!

Ooh, hold on, that’s more Golden Retriever vibe, not naughty-schoolboy mode.

I don’t know what happened there.

Another malfunction.

I told you this was a shaggy-dog story.

Wait a minute, and hold your whoresons!

Golden Retrievers aren’t shaggy!

Old English Sheepdogs are!

I’m an Old English!

And an Old Irish too!

Oh, mortality!

…

[Thinks]

I wonder if I could slope off without Mrs Prong noticing, retrieve an apple, then sneakily leave it for her, on her counter, without her even giving me a glance!

Now, there’s a plan!

Ooh, you rebel!

Ooh, you dastardly fox!

I'll have to be subtle because I'm wearing that suit that looks as though I've spiked The Thames water supply with a tank load of LSD!

Maybe I could use the suit as a form of misdirection?

A magic trick!

Hmm.

Knowing me, I might misdirect myself.

I might land on a prong!

Far too risky.

[Thinks]

Yes, I have it!

I could mysteriously bestow an apple pronged, right on the end of one of her prongs!

Pierced, spiked, impaled and pronged!

She’d appreciate that.

She’d like the aesthetics.

The poetic elegance.

Actually, coming to think of it, she might not.

That’s pushing rebel regression too far.

Mrs Prong might not want sticky apple juice dribbling all over one of her prongs.

Dripping, dropping, drizzling and oozing on the prong!

That would be an awful mess to wipe clean.

That’s not cheeky, that’s just disrespectful!

That would be vicious, not viscous.

Or maybe both?

[Thinks]

Maybe I could hide nine red apples behind, above, and around her prongs?

It would be an epic feat to get away with that.

I’d have to be fleet-footed as tricksy Mercury.

That’s not happening.

I've tripped up that stair at least twice.

Where?

There on the stair!

I knew I'd regret wearing these clogs.

Actually, is there a stair?

See what I mean?

[Thinks]

Then, of course, you have the whole ‘what-type-of-apple?’ problem.

You get into the whole Red Delicious, Honeycrisp, Golden Delicious, Granny Smith, and Baldwin debate.

The Baldwin's spicy-sweet tartness might be good for cooking a fruity dish or two, but Mrs Prong might not have time today to bake her Baldwins.

She is quite busy, after all.

Imagine the melancholia of a basket of unbaked Baldwins.

System-overload!

[Thinks]

Then there’s the problem of supply.

I might get lost in the supermarket.

I might get lost going to the supermarket.

I might get lost in East London.

And I can’t ask anyone for directions because everyone speaks a distinct but unknown dialect coz I was sent to a posh-turd boarding-school.

I might even risk getting picked up by the police for playing truant.

This fresh-fruit business is proving to be very demanding.

Anyway, if I leave apples strewn all over the place, Mrs Prong might not know where they’ve been.

She’ll discard them dismissively quite out-of-hand!

Without a thought.

Throw them in the bin.

A la poubelle with them!

And all my strenuous efforts would come to nought.

…

[Thinks]

I suppose the safer option would be canned fruit.

Tins are both durable and portable!

Tins, cans, cans, tins.

Hmm.

Yes, peaches!

Del Monte Peaches!

I knew I’d come up with a sensible solution!

Only the best canned fruit for Mrs Prong.

The man from Del Monte, he say ‘Yaaaayaaas!’ 5

The man from Del Monte, he say ‘Yaaaayaaas!’ better than Frankie say ‘Relaaaax’!

The man from Del Monte, he say ‘Yaaaayaaas!’ better than Ian Atsbury say:

Electric Child on Bad Fun!

Yeah!

Aw!

Ow!

Yaaaayuur!

Mmm-mmm. 6

...

[Thinks]

Mind you, Mrs Prong might not have storage space for these Del Montes in her car or van!

Not if I immediately order a cargo, express delivery.

Delivered in crates, boxes, bags, barrels and drums.

And if she does have space in the van, she might not have storage space at home.

The unloading might prove problematic.

I wonder if there are any stevedores for hire in East London?

Any left, since the good old days?

Probably not, ever since they converted Docklands into Wanklands.

If I can't find a team of Steves and Dores to aid Mrs Prong through doors, Mr Prong might get upset about the whole ordeal too.

[Thinks]

Coming to think of it, in this day and age when we've gained quite specific knowledge about our dietary requirements, you're taking a major gamble ordering anyone any food without consulting them first.

Coming to think of it, I don't think this fruit idea, fresh, canned, or otherwise, is a floater!

Coming to think of it, I really fancy a Coke Float!

Gone are the days of The Coke Float!

Sad.

Very sad, indeed.

My friend JeanieJean, the photographer, thinks so too!

Coz she told me so.

Told me so, she did!

She did.

Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't. Did. Didn't.

[Echo to fade out]

...

[After another conversational delayed-pause]

‘Oh, that’s really nice to meet you. Yes! Yes! I’ll have a think about it, I’ll come up with an idea, and I’ll order a bespoke collar! Yes, yes! I’ll be in touch. You haven’t heard the last of me yet, you know! Oh, no! Thanks sooooo much for all your help, Mrs Prong! So nice to meet you!’

…

[to be continued, sideways, at April's le Boutique Bazaar]

The Foolish and Entirely Unnecessary Footnotes

1 As explained with great care in the opening to Tall Tale II, featuring Miss Ruby Alexia (SG) here [Return]

2 One of my many psychological defence mechanisms, as explained with great diligence, in the third subsection of the first of many multiplying opening episodes to ‘The Apology Conundrum’ here [Return]

3 As explained, with disorientating detail, in the third subsection of Tall Tale II here [Return]

4 ‘[Thinks]’ to be read aloud, as Peter Sellers’ character Bluebottle would do in The Goon Show. [Return]

5 Take a trip down memory lane, eh? here [Return]

6 The climax to the tune ‘Bad Fun’ by The Cult, a tune very dear to my heart, and hard-wired barb-wired into my heart, with the aid of numerous prongs… here and the first recording here [Return]