Archive Anecdotage

42 The ultimate quest

I was about to write a book but couldn't lay my hand on a pen. I had the first demonic paragraph sculptured but could I lay my hands on a communicative utensil? No!

Images were clogging my brain...no pencil! Fascinated with my own incompetence, I mixed a glass of Tang. The breasts and mons veneri (the main theme of my epic grew).

Savages flitted by scrabbling amongst the tiles for a crayon so that I could immortalise their swollen members for a small royalty. Adze cut canoes, reverberating with carnal war cries delivered in strange tongues, passed the lowering sun. Stupid warriors oared in the unison, and then, in harmony. No-one caring much for anything except 'where's the blinking biro?'

Families, tribes, villages, cities, societies, burglars, bunglers, buglers, zoo keepers, trapeze artistes, cats fiddlers, fondlers, philosophers, philanthropists, fakirs and great crested newts... united, in the ultimate quest.

..And the cry went out, the message was sent forth, the question was asked, the poser put, the demand made, the conundrum set, the problem tackled, the parameters defined, the picture clear.

'Anyone got a felt tip? '...The answer was clearly, No. So they all remained mortal. Serves 'em bloody write! Bastards.


© Ian Gillan 1998

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