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www.thehenryroad.co.uk
In a low field, full of lush winter-watered grass, somewhere in Northumberland, is a cow. Standing quite still
in the middle of the night, she chews the cud, and when each highly perfumed ball of grass looses its flavour
(as chewing gum does), she swallows it hard and directs it to one of her stomachs. The field shivers with
frost. She blinks her long eyelashes. The night sky is clear and air brushed with stars. It is Christmas Eve.
In Plymouth, Blake has just finished polishing all of the twenty-four wing mirrors that adorn his scooter. Its
original, and its creamily coloured body work looks almost as if it has been smoothed tenderly by the lapping
waves of the sea. The proud machine sits outside his red-bricked terraced house, gently turning over,
poised for action like some giant glossy insect.
Blake’s Parker is zipped like armour. He pulls off in style and begins the long journey that he takes every
Christmas Eve. The trip is always similar. Due to the time of year, other people that share the road with
Blake are in high spirits and wave, beep and smile at Blake on his machine. The orange lights speed by like
Tic Tacs, the middle lane is Blake’s tactic, he eats the white lines like Pac-man, he searches for the tabs he
packed and….flows proudly onwards, in love with every second of his scooter enhanced physiology.
Many agreeable hours later, at about three am Christmas morning, Blake arrives at a field in the middle of
nowhere, somewhere in Northumberland. He trudges crisply over the frosted grass towards a cow. It lets
out a deep reassuring welcome. When Blake reaches her, he strokes her head affectionately and whispers;
“Sorry I couldn’t make it last year…..money was tight”.
He then spent a long beautiful hour with the animal. He fed her sugarplums and brandy. Cleaned her silken
ears with cotton buds. Brushed and braided her tangled tail. Popped a crepe party hat on her head, and
buffed her hooves with dubbing. Before he left her, he suckled on her udders, taking just a wee dram from
each teat.
“I have to go now”, he spoke softly, a love tear in the corner of his eye, “…but I’ll be back next year….”
He walked resentfully over the field back to where his scooter was propped against the gate. He stopped
half way and shouted over his shoulder; “See you next year! Merry Christmas….Dad!”
Mr Bobble sat opposite his wife. That was how he liked it. He realised that his wedding day had been
the last time he had truly been next to his wife, and if it had taken twelve long years to arrive at this
point of opposition, then in all probability he would be able to eat his meals in another room entirely to
her in, say, five years time… He just had to move extremely slowly. He returned to his current
dilemma, debating in his rather oddly shaped head, what he should do next.
It was all very well working all day, every day at the plastic-nut factory. Indeed, after working there for
seven long years, he felt he had fared very well. He had realised after just three months of working
there, that his boss (Roddy) appreciated his plastic-nut workmanship, and it was only a matter of time
before he and Roddy; (inventor of an award winning plastic-pine-nut-salad), had a very solid rapport
between them.
Mr Bobble looked up at his wife. Her head was battered, but of course that was something that he did
like about her. He would like to have said about her appearance that she had seen better days, but
she hadn’t. So this morning, like every other, he sat there and she sat there, mashed, battered…..
ugly. In addition, he was bored. Breakfast was dull, eggs tedious and toast like a sand storm of dirty
bits in his mouth. The newspaper, (Oh, that jolly item of forced habit), always brought the whole world
rampaging into his tender morning brain. Such a soothing way to start the day, he thought, as the
birds began to gather to celebrate the morning sun.
At least Roddy, (also the creator of the bakelite Brazil nut) values me, he mused. Remembering just
how nervous he had been the morning he introduced Roddy to his own idea for a new nut.
“A nut in the shape of my very own head!” he had muttered in muted excitement. Then to fill the
crippling void between his proposition and its reply he had piped; “Bobbles plastic elastic hazel
fantastic!”
Chewing a large rubbery piece of ICI-poached egg, he glowed inside with pride as he recalled Roddy’s
words; “And your head is just so….well its so….erm, interesting….” Bobble had nodded his bulb
agitatedly, still unable to discern from Roddy’s words whether it was a positive or a negative. Then
those glorious words came; “Genius Mr Bobble! You’re a bloody genius!” Bobble repeated those
words to himself, under his breath, and with eggy passion.
He returned his gaze across the table to his wife. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, he thought. And
I don’t want to; hold-her, that is. She would never be able to make him feel like he had done that
wonderful morning in Roddy’s plastic scented office. Not anymore anyway. No more was there ever a
kind word uttered by those mean and bloated lips. Oh no, not even the slightest hint of
acknowledgement for his well documented synthetic genius.
In a flash, it came to him. Not an idea that would change his world, but one that would comfort him.
Some might mention the words; nervous and breakdown, but Mr Bobble ignored reality and acted in
spontaneity for his own peace of mind. A moment to seize and savour, forever.
He swung his bulbous head back, swift, aimed and spat the poached egg of discontent all over his
darling Mrs Bobble. And even now, under insanely unusual and distressing circumstances, she said
nothing. Just sat in complete silence, with eggy disrespect quivering gently all over her face. Still no
acknowledgement for Mr Bobble, not even now. Where was the response? Where was the respect
for Mr D. Bobble?
And now Mr Bobble himself also desperately searched for the next move. What was to be done? Then
it came to him, he enlarged his already engorged head and shouted; “I AM THE NUT MASTER…...I AM
ALL THINGS NUTTY!”
And to that, she agreed…..by slumping heavily forward onto the table.
Facing the mountain, its shape and its grace,
Burns in my mind with its presence its space,
And finding again, that its so easy to see,
With eyes and reality, as it heaps before me.
But to see with a look, and to touch it falls short,
Of knowing the mountain, what is this deep fault?
The harder I try, and as still as I am,
Does not bring it within, doesn’t swallow the land.
And now the deep need and a madness sets in,
As I look for a solution, as I look for a thing,
That opens my soul to its shape and its grace,
And burns into my mind its presence and space.
And, like a fool, like hungry men before,
I hold a fake key to open perceptions door,
And although I think twice as I hold it in hand,
I have the mountain within now, and for that I am glad.
“That jester is rubbish!” the King cried aloud,
“Get me a man who can dig through a cloud,
And get me a monkey with nine sets of teeth,
And while yer at it, a kid whose dad is a leaf!”
“But Sir” they said in dismay, “We cannot,
Even though it would aid you in laughing a lot”,
“But I am the King, and whatever I do ask,
Is yours to be done, just treat it your task!”
The men got together and searched through the land,
The places to search, all mapped out and planned,
They found a man with a nice big bunch of chives,
And a little Australian with eighty-three tiny wives.
“I fear these fellows are a tad too normal,” said one,
“Even the guy with a bent spoon for a gun,
And that smelly man with especially large teats,
Will only reveal them for a couple of weeks!”
“What we really need is a goat that bakes bread,
Or that chicken, the one with the happiness head”,
One finally retorted, “I fear we shall always do bad”,
Another replied, “Why worry, he’s stark raving mad!”
Do you like those tiny things that go “nik-nak-
nimbly-noo?”
In the middle of the night, when it’s just you and
the moon,
Or do you prefer the massive ones that go “bip-bap-
bahoon?”
And no matter how brave your heart, or how hard
your nerve,
You will always be frightened by the one they call
Gwerve,
For when he get angry, or just slightly annoyed,
He rips half his face off and goes somewhat
berserk.
Do you like those furry ones that attempt
impossible sums?
In the small of the night, at about a quarter to one,
Or do you have a fondness for the ones with
tangerine tongues?
And when you awake, and you find you’re covered
in bears,
You’ll be covered in goose bumps and sticky out
hairs,
And to top it all off, if you were still amongst
dreams,
The nik-nakky-noo’ers are a nakking in screams.
Do you like those pointy ones that are pointing at
tufts?
That grow from the heads of the small tuft growing
Puff’s,
Or do you have a liking for the Grisly Buff Headed
Gwuff?
And when you cry aloud for your Mum or your Dad,
No words come out because you have the mouth of
a crab,
And next you notice that your arms have dissolved,
They will come back in an hour, or so I’ve been told.
Do you like going to your room and up to your bed?
Now that I’ve mentioned the one with a rotating
head,
Or would you be happy to sleep downstairs
instead?
But if you do that, it would be such a shame,
For you’ll miss playing the friendly Pud-Klumpers
game,
And you’ll not see the ones that go “bip-bap-
bahoon”,
Or even the things that go “nik-nak-nimbly-noo.”
Picture, an early-summer-woodland-scene, with a daisy-haze and very birdy- trees. A touch Turneresque, I think
you’ll agree. There are pockets of exquisite morning sunlight titillating the corners of ancient cornfields. The air is
sweetened by honeysuckle, and great stinking heaps of fermenting manure steam feverishly in vast piles. Leaving
one to speculate at the immense size of a beast that could deposit such a stool. Out stretched all around us are
low agricultural East Anglian plains that sweep away to the horizon, and then back again.
To find a place to eat would be simple, church spires would be our indicators. The land was pancake flat, so in
one swoop of the face and eyes you could easily detect 4our or 5ive of these beacons of hope. And as the children
would unquestionably start to vibrate with hunger within the next hour, the search for a village was becoming
increasingly fraught. For the moment the offspring were thankfully quiet in the back of the car, hunger had
seemingly silenced their inquisitive drone. Preventatively I told them to them to “shut the fuck up and count crows”,
first to one hundred and thirty six can….move. One of them counted, the other intensely picked at a playground
scab, that no sooner had it been dislodged, was slipped sneakily into his mouth along with various other bodily
discharges he had discovered that morning.
We bended down a drivey lane, until it ended. Then picked a new village from the signpost, deciding first if the
name suggested the presence of a pub (avec snug*) in my mind we were heading for a definite eating location; St-
Midi-Slap-Pume 2.5 inches. Not far at all I thought, although you could never trust these rural signposts with
accurate distances. We passed a tractor on the way, driven by a gnarly old farmer and a goat. The goat appeared
to wink at me as we over took, “still got it,” I thought, my pride welling up in my chest, and with a newfound zest I
accelerated. Straight into an exceptionally fat hedge. No harm was done.
Eventually, the village of St-Midi-Slap-Pume opened up to us. It was a particularly frightening place, full of houses
and other disturbing things. However, somewhat obscured by a heard of chickens, was a charming looking public
house; The Fork and Buttock. “Enchanting“ I thought, and we decided we should go in, after parking the car, getting
out, walking in the direction of the pub and opening the door. I instantaneously threw one child into the latrine. The
other I fed with pigskin, it seemed to keep it manageable. I sipped a pinta, and decided on 4our plates of nuggets.
Then we retired to the very English country garden to await our meals.
The cooling breeze blew through my moustache and whistled round my nostrils. My wife tenderly nibbled on my
lobes, whilst I supped ale of the most perfectly warm temperature, and watched the nimbus nimbly morphing from
one whimsy to another in the clear blue of the sky. I was nearly relaxed. On an adjacent table, a mother talked
piercingly and in very fast Russian to her 6ix year old English daughter. I decided to tell my offspring about the time
I cooked a rather successful soufflé using 2wo different kinds of sugar. They were not happy with this at all. So, I
retreated into my 1ne-pint-mind, very much aware that there was where I really wanted to be. Among myself. I soon
drifted within my thoughts, and realised that if; monkey eat nut, panda eat bamboo and cat eat treat, then it is very
wrong when, cow eat sheep. I also thought about high-rise cottages (a simple solution to the 1960’s architectural
disaster of flats). And reversible pencils. As you can see, I liked to keep my mind active and as I could not stand
crossroads (especially hard ones like you found in the bored-sheets), thinking seemed to be the best way. And it
appeared to be working.
We all gobbled up our turkey nuggets, and I was eager for another drink. The wife could have another helping of
nuggets (I liked her curvy) and the kids would have to play. I spotted an enclosure at the bottom of the beer garden,
which was signposted ‘Children’s Play Area’. “Greeat!” I thought, and I dragged them both down. The enclosure
was a grassed square, about ten metres by five big, and suspicious in its absence of normal playground apparel,
such as scaffolding and nooses. In fact, there was nothing apart from a rusty looking iron cage, with what
appeared to be a male peacock inside. I left the kids in this activity wonderland, and headed to the bar.
“Another pint, and a punnet of nuggets please” I ordered
“And the peacock harness/saddle, if you please, thank you”
The deposit was only a quid, and they played for at least two hours. “A bargain” I thought, and what an extraordinary
life.
*snug optional
After Jonathan Swift - A Voyage to the Houghnhnms Ben Lord
Two incredibly pointy rabbits sit atop a drumlin. In fact if you were to observe their silhouettes against a cloudless sky, you
would probably exclaim to yourself; “My, how unnaturally pointy those two pointy rabbits are!
They have momentarily stopped conversing about the infinite intricacies and succulent wonders of the fresh spring grass,
and are now neatly, sleekly comatose. Bodies relaxed, contained and plump. Their minds begin to wonder….
“Where do humanoids go to mate?” Whiskers the pointiest unashamedly to the other.
“Beaches” replies the not so pointy instantly, and with an air of pointy authority.
“Beaches?” questions the really rather pointy one to the lesser pointed.
“Yes, beaches” the slightly pointy one thinks. The pointiest being suitably meditated and obscenely pointy (like an antenna
or an aerial) receives this thought, and thinks back; “Why?”
“Well, firstly it seems that beaches are the only place on their earth they allow themselves the freedom to shed their top skins
and reveal the fleshy pink reality of their natural bodies to each other”.
He pauses as he notices the swarms of brightly plastic coloured humans stomping up and down the mount of Skiddaw
opposite their humble drumlin dwelling. Always striving for the highest, the biggest, and the most dramatic and still
fascinated by the garish over blown folly of the most colourful products of nature. Silly things daffodils, no purpose, but still
attract humans like gold. And he breathes in the sweet air heavily meandering over his buttercup scattered drumlin, and
returns to his thought;
“Humans are actually quite beautiful when not adorned in their superfluous extra skins, animal carcasses, ridiculous head
wear and out sized foot coverings”.
“Is it true that underneath these top layers of false skin they have another?”
“Yes dear pointy, you refer to pants…vests…socks and teat protecting harnesses”.
The pointiest rabbit pauses to reflect on the surreal reality of pants, whilst deciding how to make his pointy little body a tad
more comfortable. He thinks about the slightest, lightest shuffle of his hind quarters, realising it would be a satisfactory
adjustment, and acts upon it. His body now in happier contact with the warm contours of the earth….he points out;
“No wonder they visit beaches to mate, it seems almost an impossibility until they rid themselves of these extra skins! Why
hide themselves from each other anyway? Are they ashamed of the sight of their real skins? And the hygiene! And the very
word itself, pants….pants!…p, a, n, t, s ….”
“Well, I think they are ashamed, for no sooner have they removed these extra skins do they don a new brightly coloured and
often shiny variety, thus covering up their real skins again! These new ‘beach skins’ seem designed especially for their
mating parts”.
“Fancy pants!”
“Fancy pants indeed! These new lavish skins are to my eyes even more revolting than their previous attire. Often patterned
with intensely unnatural colours which obviously are intended to draw the attention of other humanoids to their genitals.
Indeed the males are sometimes seen enhancing their ’pant skin’ with the skins they were using to cover their feet. Very
odd behaviour I think you’ll agree. Why they first cover, then decorate, and then enhance this area I will never know, if it is of
such importance as to require such ritual why they don’t just reveal their mating parts in its natural state I will always marvel”.
“Maybe, their parts are just too silly, the female preferring the luminous aesthetic spectacle of pants? What on earth
happens next?”
“Then they proceed to frolic and play on the beach in front of each other in their new pant skins, some splash about in the
shallow sea, some jump and catch things, the rest just watch”.
“And then they mate?”
“No, they play and strut and watch one another in these silly extra skins, and all the while worship the sun until they
themselves are bright red with burns all over”.
“Ah! They obviously want their natural skins as brightly coloured as their extra skins!”
“A conclusion I came to my dear pointy one!…exactly”.
“And then they mate?”
“Yes, of sorts, it can take them up to two weeks of frolicking in this manner. Indeed, humans often set two specific weeks
aside each year and leave their own country for one that has a suitable climate for the shedding of skin. All the while they
burn, even to the point of blistering and shedding some of their real skin, but they continue to perform their mating ritual all
the while changing in and out of different brightly coloured extra skins. And then, after a long while some of them eventually
pair off and head to the dunes”.
“Beautiful! Dunes are where we and humanoids have something in common, a splendid choice of location for mating … if a
little breezy”.
“Yes, but is the amusingly stupid part, when they come to mate and eventually remove their fancy pants, they reveal such
undernourished, pale and neglected genitals that they have to put on yet another skin (equally garish and multi-coloured) for
fear of hurting their now tender mating sticks.
And all of this dear pointy is self imposed! It just goes on and on, a viscous cycle that they need not enter into if they were for
once to be satisfied, to embrace the natural and their gift of a glorious natural covering”.
Bemused, they return to their quiet contemplation of the grasses, ruminating passionately on all things grassy. Pointy
eventually turns to very pointy and says;
“They have too much skin … I wonder why they want ours as well?”
“More pants?”
“Probably”….
Three weeks later, the two pointy rabbits are sat upon their drumlin enjoying the heavy, silken summers evening. Their pointy
rabbit skins warmed tenderly from the setting sun, a mixture of clover and grass swirling milkily around in their cheeks….
They even manage to find some discarded humanoid extra skins that day, they fit rabbit ears perfectly… pointy has red ones
and pointiest has blue…
Four weeks later, and we see them for one last time being pointy on their drumlin… both wearing shiny new pants…
Five weeks later, an old lady and her husband sit contently contained within their big, green metal car. Freshly picked
daffodils limp on the back seat. Parked up with hundreds of other cars in a sprawling car park that has coated the top of the
cliff in tons of thick tarmac. They don’t leave the safety of their car, even though the weather is fine. Thick, safe, protecting
metal skin. They watch, and eat. And he admires her eating. Her lips coated continuously for more than half a century in the
reddest, greasiest whale blubber money can buy, puckering sluggishly around her turkey filled sandwich. Moving the morsel
with rehearsed precision to one side of her hole, making room for sticky fingers to push a clump of crisps into the mix. And
he watches her affectionately as she cement mixes her way through her food, a good mix, nice and thick, six to one, and a
sip from the flask. Then lipsticking greedily at her prize scotch egg. Easily through the outer protecting skin of mashed
animal, to the cold wet core. That never breathed.
“Darling, you look so beautiful in your new hat”.
“Thank you, and yours fits so well”.
Two incredibly pointy rabbits sit atop two well fed heads, in a car, high on a cliff, above a beach.
