The Spiked Strap-On: Rebel Regression II

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

Or; Episode 001, Pt II: The Apology Conundrum

Rebel Regression Part II:

Or; The Spiked Strap-On

Nothing Can Go Wrong Part II

So, as you know, I’m feeling as right-as-rain after an all-night rave at Slimelight: Fool’s Day.

The ground, admittedly, feels like the forceful current of a flooding-tide, and my head appears to have been detached, placed in a diving-chamber, and lowered gently down to the sea-bed, but, apart from that, all is well off the coast of peril-land!

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

I can’t let Glamourtits down.

If she told me to jump off a cliff I would do it.

I'd sooner be caught dead than let Glamourtits down!

Not after she told me she bunged-me-in her last Boutique Bazaar newsletter.

I must concede I haven’t yet read this public announcement and, you never know, she might have actually instructed her town-crier to say:

‘purple peril has reappeared. If you bump into him next time, be careful. He is suffering from a psychopathological case of “Rebel Regression” and appears to be behaving like a toddler. It’s very sad, very sad indeed. Pitiful in many ways. But don’t let your compassion allow you to let down your guard! He’s very dangerous. You have been sternly warned.’

If so, quite right too!

Unfortunately for attendees at le Boutique Bazaar, I’m not feeling my usual-shy-self because I’ve still got gas in the tank from Slimelight: Fool’s Day!

As I haven’t yet slept, I still think it is April Fool’s Day!

So, if you reason logically, the foolish behaviour I intend to inflict on bystanders at le Boutique Bazaar is entirely legitimate!

…

I also feel like a toddler.

…

Nothing can go wrong!

Nothing at all.

Absolutely nothing!

The Toddler Spirit

When I was a toddler I was sort of barrel-shaped.

I looked like a right flanker.

I said ‘FL-aaaanker’.

Did you mishear me?

Thought you did.

Anyway:

I was a bit of a bruiser but really fucking fast. I’d out-accelerate an AC Cobra.

I could smell an open side-gate from an upstairs bedroom.

I could hear the scrape of an opening lock from the bottom of the garden.

I could taste the sight of door-ajar-freedom from an unchristened potty. 1

You get the picture?

No catching me.

I had the door-open-and-dash-outside move down to perfection.

I had the run-around-the-cul-de-sac disappear-out-of-sight manoeuvre down flawlessly.

I had the whole ‘Oh, hello Mrs -----, I found him at the bar of The Talbot Hotel, and thought I’d just return him to you!’-shimmy down with ease. 2

Much to the despair of my long-suffering parentals.

Freedom!

Autonomy!

Independence!

Freedom, high-day; high-day, freedom; freedom, high-day!

Rebellion.

And, dear long-suffering listeners, it was in this spirit that I attended le Boutique Bazaar!

And, it was in this spirit of accelerating enthusiasm, that I went in for a ‘Super-Polite Round Two Conversation’ with Mrs Prong…

The Super-Polite Bespoke-Request

So, I’ve been floating about a bit for a couple of hours and been carefully, sneakily, and craftily devising my ‘Revenge Plot’ against Nisha-Sara-Nisha.

I’m scheming a covert stratagem!

I’m sorry?

Well, that’s because I haven’t told you about that yet.

Have some patience, please.

That’s in the next section.

Honestly, you’re such a riotous crowd.

Anyway:

I’ve been bumming around and then my ‘Mischiefometer’ suddenly goes ballistic. It’s setting off an alarm so loud that even I can hear it inside my diving-chamber!

Naturally, I ventured to assume I was in the near-vicinity to The Prong Jewellery Counter of Mrs Prong, with Mrs Prong in attendance around The Prong Jewellery Counter.

Oh look, I’m right!

So is my Mischiefometer.

Great.

I’ve discovered an amazing invention since I first met Mrs Prong, and this proximity to The Prong-counter gives me an ideal opportunity to share some extraordinary news.

I have a bespoke-request.

Now, if you remember, during my first conversational encounter with Mrs Prong I was a few seconds behind her because I was struck-and-stricken by ‘The Naughty Schoolboy’s Interior Monologue’!

But, this time, the reverse happens.

I’m way ahead:

I’m walloped by an Exterior Monologue that’s as Mister Boombastic as a rocket-launched JCB-digger armed with a wrecking-ball.

...

And here comes my opening, now notorious, conversational move:

The Wrecking Ball’s Exterior Monologue

‘Miiiiissis Proooooong! Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, Mrs Prong! How are you? You won’t believe it. I’ve discovered the most amazing invention ever devised since organic life began on the planet!. Oh, it’s suuuuch genius! I can’t wait to tell you. I really must. Whoever came up with this-kinda-thing really needs a medal. I’m quite beside myself. I really am. I want one of these things, you know. Hey! You could make one for me! Yes! You could make one for me!’

Mrs Prong’s raised eyebrow signals a note of curiosity. I’m permitted to continue:

‘Oh my God! I discovered this thingie on Etsy! Just a few weeks’ ago! Oh, Lordie! Just brilliant! Magnificent! Yes, yes, yes, yes; get this – it’s a Strap-On Harness with spikes on it! Amaaaaazing! I’d worship the ground of the person who came up with this, I tell you! I must find out the identity of this genius. I think my life has changed. Changed very much for the better. I saw those spikes and thought, “Ooooh, I bet Mrs Prong could make one of those for me”. Of course, not that it would for me. Not for me as the wearer, of course, coz I’d very much be the spiked-party victim in this kinda strap-on-party-shenanigans! I’d be the spiked-bumm-ee as opposed to the spiking-bumm-er, as it were! Very much the bumm-ee, very much. Spiked!’

And it’s during this disclosure, about mid-way through, that I observe a facial expression arise on the Mrs Prong face that I have never witnessed before.

As I explained, I’ve only ever noted shades, subtleties, and nuances of mischief emerge on Mrs Prong.

Gosh!

Mrs Prong looks, quite frankly, shocked!

Unsettled.

Troubled.

If not, slightly distressed.

Oh no, I don’t want to upset Mrs Prong.

I like Mrs Prong.

Oh no, I feel terrible.

I think I might cry.

Ooh dear, I’m welling up.

But, what am I to do?

If I bowl out now, mid-celebration of the spiked-strap-on, then I’d look a little lame, and even worse, inauthentic.

Now, my heart-and-bum are both fully in support of the spiked-strap-on, so I can’t let my enthusiasm just fizzle-out all of a sudden, can I?

I might be about to burst into tears because I’m guilty of treading over a mischief-boundary, but it would look a bit odd if I suddenly toddle-off.

Oooh dear.

I better get this over with as quickly as possible.

[Pause]

[A bit half-hearted but pushing through scalding tears with ignoble dignity and noble indignity] ‘So, I thought to myself "Well, I'll be bummed! A spiked strap-on! This kinda project would be ideal for Mrs Prong!” You’ve got loads of prongs. Look, look, look! They’re everywhere! Up, down, sideways! If you put your prongs on a strap-on I bet it would be better than the one on Etsy! I’m not a gambling man, not a gambling man at all, but I’d be happy to float-a-flutter on that one, or my name isn’t “purple peril”! Now, I’m not sure about the size, but it would need to be fairly flexible. The size needs to be open to opportunities. You see, I’m not half so lucky this decade as I was in the naughty-noughties but you’ve got to be prepared, haven’t you? I mean, you need the right tools. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from skiving Compulsory Cadet Corps at boarding school, it’s always be prepared! Always be on-the-lookout, and always be a step-ahead! And, anyway, “All good things come to those who wait”, eh?’

Oh, God, I’m going to break down crying.

This is heartbreaking.

This is worse than when the painter, Adam Espira, advised me how to become photogenic!

‘Yeah, you look really uptight there, Peril. Frozen stock-still. You’ve got to stare at the photographer as though you hate them! It always works. Makes you look cool.’

‘But, Adam? Farrukh’s such a tender-hearted and gentle soul, if I stare at him as though I hated him, I’d break down in tears. I can’t do it. I can’t do it, Adam! I’ll never live it down!’

Oh, I am heartbroken.

[Pause]

So, what was The Prong response, you ask?

‘Erm, Peril. It’s not really in my line of work.’

...

[to be continued, sideways, in Part III, 'The Toddler's Revenge']

The Foolish Footnotes

1 I owe this linguistic confusion of the senses to the immortal Bottom the Weaver, from A Midsummer Night's Dream, whose parody of St Paul can be located in MND, 4.1.200-210, and whose astonishment almost rivals mine after I attended The Torture Garden for the first time at The Brixton Academy in April 2003. Or was it May? :

I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream—past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had—but man is but a patched fool if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream. It shall be called “Bottom’s Dream” because it hath no bottom. And I will sing it in the latter end of a play before the duke.

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2 The Talbot Hotel, New Street, Oundle, Northamptonshire. PE8 4EA. Located approximately 0.9 miles from where we lived. [Return]