Two men walk into a bar.
No wait.
There were three of them.
No….Two men and a badger.
No, a shrew.
Or one of them was carrying a suitcase.
No.
Wait.
Both of them were carrying a suitcase.
Both of the men I mean. Not the badgers.

Anyway. These two suitcases walked into a bar.
There were two blokes with them.
Obviously the suitcases were carrying the men, the men weren’t walking on their own, that would be ridiculous.

So they sidle up to the bar sort of sideways but like round in a circle, so from the outside it looked as if they just got bigger for a bit and then got smaller again, but somehow also moved from one side of the bar to the other.

Like when a motorbike goes past when it’s foggy out.
You know, at night and it’s foggy. Or misty. Or raining but not really raining.
That fine stuff that you don’t really feel but it soaks you to the bollocks anyway. Know what I mean? That.

And then a motorbike goes past and you shit yourself at first, obviously, because it’s late out and the streets are empty and you were thinking about that left over pizza from last night in the fridge and thinking;

“Ooo lummy, I can’t wait to eat that pizza. You know what, I will get some tin foil and sprinkle a little bit of water around that and put the pizza on top and then wrap the foil around and put it in the oven. That way, as it cooks, the base will absorb the water and won’t dry out. But I might put some chilli sauce on it this time because it was a bit timid in the taste department’,

And you’re like, all wrapped up in that thought.

Then the motorbike flies past and as it goes past it goes bendy quieter as it goes away, all dopplery.
‘WAAAAAAAANNNNggggggg!’
Like that.

So the guy named John, who is not one of the two guys being carried by the two suitcases, or one of the badgers, he’s the guy on the other side of the bar.
He’s like a man who stands behind a bar for a living.
There should be a word for that.
It would be much easier than saying ‘a man who stands behind a bar for a living’ all the time!

So John says, he says:
“Is that a lion lying over there on that long face? Is it leaning to one side or positively proud of its………big paws?”

And Deirdre, one of the suitcases, says: “How the fuck would I know?”

Then Dierdre paused. Then she clawed at her latches and started screaming:
“It’s killing me! It’s fucking killing me! God help! Help me! Help me….oh, it’s just a bit sticky.”

Then some Native American bloke crashed through the roof and smashed into the bar.
Parts of him simply exploded like balloons full of runny custard, but he somehow survived and gurgled;
“I dunno if that joke was worth throwing myself out of a plane.”

In a Douglas C47 Skytrain 300 miles overhead; a guy with one eye missing winked with his empty socket and laughed. His co-pilot looked across at him with disgust on his face.

“Jesus Terry! That was a little over the top wasn’t it. The guy just drank some of your whisky and your think a suitable response is to steal the guy’s parachute and chuck him out of the plane?!
Is this about that barbecue you invited everyone to last weekend?
Look mate, it’s not your fault we were hit by a thunderstorm and old Mrs. Crusty Drawers got sploded by lightning.
Although I have to say; the sight of her smoking, burnt weiner flying across the garden will stay with me until my dying day! The weiner landing in the vicar’s tea was just the icing on the cake!”

“Fuck that guy.” said Terry.

So John looks at Deirdre and Deirdre looks at John and they both look at the Native American dude until he loudly farts, pisses himself and dies, but not in that order.

Then someone shouts ‘cut’ and that were that. Poor old Brad gets carted off back to the asylum.
They gave him a toffee apple though, which was nice.
Or at least would have been, if he liked toffee apples. But the thought was appreciated.
He could always bash someone on the head with it and make a daring escape. But probably not though.
Who’s got that kind of energy?
What with all these suitcase blokes, geezers called John and plummeting Native Americans going about. It’s not safe to walk the streets at night is it?

Is it?

Is it though?

Well, maybe. Who knows?
There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Probably way more loofahs than you’d think, to start with.
And you just don’t want to even think about contemplating the tiniest idea of ruminating upon the presence of turnip.

Just turnip.

Just everywhere.

More places than you’d ever believe.
In your wardrobe, at the back under those shoes you only wore on that holiday to Magaluf; turnip.
In the glove box of your car; turnip.
Creeping about at the back of the disused toilets near the station; turnip.
Carrying a torch and waving it around, probably trying to attract aliens or somesuch; turnip.

Turnip. Turnip. Turnip. Turnip.