Screaming Lord Sutch and the Loony lotto

Helo. Now I'm often told that breakfast is the most important meal of the morning. And the way to a man's heart is through his ribs. But barbecue ribs is an unhealthy breakfast. It's hard to keep up with the fads. Anyway it's dinner time, and joining me for a feast of foolery is a man who needs an introduction, and security clearance, and a touch of febreeze by the smell of it, - the not-quite-so-screaming-now Lord Sutch. Not-quite-so-screaming-now Lord Sutch! Croeso i Llanfihangel-y-creuddun! -

NQSSNLS:- Hello Richard! -

REJ:- Hello. Nawrte boys bach, have you got any healthy living tips for the bored? -

NQSSNLS:- Not really, I hanged myself -

REJ:- And how did that work out for you? -

NQSSNLS:- Pretty final really. You see my mother died, and -

REJ:- But did you feel healthier in your self? -

NQSSNLS:- Do you want my hat? -

REJ:- Diolch yn fawr iawn! Yes indeed! Such esprit de corpse.

NQSSNLS:- No, seriously, it should be the last thing you do -

REJ:- Not quite, not-quite-so-screaming-now Lord Sutch! the last thing anyone should do is an interview with me -

NQSSNLS:- Well make it quick cos I want to watch Wimbledon.

REJ:- Me too.

NQSSNLS:- Fire away then -

REJ:- Well you're rushing me now. I've already missed the manifest-o pun.

NQSSNLS:- Ok I'll just tell you about my Loony lotto. Now there are 6 million households in the UK with an average net wealth of £4 million each. There are 20 million households. Now what is 6 x 4? -

REJ:- er...some fours -

NQSSNLS:- How many? -

REJ:- About six -

NQSSNLS:- Let's pretend it's 24 -

REJ:- Ooooh! you loony! you can't just go around pretending things and hope that it's too complicated for people to notice.

NQSSNLS:- So if you put all the money in a hat and made every ticket win, then every one would have a million pounds. One ticket per household. Terms and conditions don't apply -

REJ:- What's the four million spare for? -

NQSSNLS:- the hat.

REJ:- Hmmmm. What's my line now? -

NQSSNLS:- Well you have to make it sound silly -

REJ:- Wimbledon! Come on Tim!

Poem for the day etc

'....you're listening to BBC Radio Wales...the time is....' -

REJ:- Jesus Iesu Mawr Christ!!! I am too! -

RADIO:- ...coming up to nine o'clock...

REJ:- *glance!* So it is indeed! -

RADIO:- ...its 19 degrees and sunny in Llanfihangel-y-Creuddun...

REJ:- Ok its getting spooky now. What colour socks am I wearing? -

RADIO:- You're not wearing any socks -

REJ:- Wel y Diawl...

RADIO:- And you're wearing last week's pants -

REJ:- *click!...off!* Sioned! Sioned! I said we shouldn't have gone digital -

SIONED:- Aren't you going to explain my implausible reappearance first? -

REJ:- er...lets see...there was an earthquake....and glyn-the-milk's high-tech, high-spec, hyundai pick-up -

SIONED:- I see. You're not bothering. I'm just a cheap comedic device to you am I? -

REJ:- Iesu Mawr, its started already...

SIONED:- What was that Emmanuel Jones?! -

REJ:- er...er...Sioned! I think the cat's trying to tell me something! -

*poke!...miaow!*

I think he wants me to follow him!

SIONED:- ?@*! -

REJ:- What's that Bobbie?....someone's in danger? What?...the Red Lion? -

SIONED:- *clunk!*

REJ:- *Ooof!*

SIONED:- *Slam!*

REJ:- Stupid cat! Why didn't you say y Llew Du? Sioned was bound to know the Red Lion's not open yet -

*hoof!*....*yowl!*

REJ:- Never mind. Gadewch i ni weld who we have enguestulated today. Why it's none other than Ifan Penweddwch. Hmmm...now who's he then? -

IP:- Haven't you made me up yet? -

REJ:- No idea. Are you the butcher? -

IP:- Nope -

REJ:- The doctor?-

IP:- Do I look like a doctor? -

REJ:- You could have been struck off -

IP:- Try something else -

REJ:- Do a mime -

IP:- *mime!* -

REJ:- I've got it! Gynaecologist -

IP:- No, postman. The parcel got stuck. I expect you'll be wanting to hear my latest poem -

REJ:- If it means you'll leave quicker.

IP:-

'An alphabet of letters,
Just four to fill my sack,
I ring your bell, deliver well,
And that explains our Jack'.

REJ:- You forgot Uracil -

IP:- I use Daz -

REJ:- ffs. Return to Sender -

IP:- There's a 20p overcharge -

REJ:- Sorry I'm not known at this address.

Daymare

On the left, he could see, over on the bank beside the hedge, a little girl cutting flowers with some nail scissors. He stopped and watched thoughtfully. It was unusual weather for the time of year. In the attic the cleaning was nearly done. Just the windows and that was it. There remained but one greasy mark, smudged in a corner. Small fingerprints, a handprint, or was it a paw? It was no more. This was indeed a fine cloth for buffing. A slightly too proud nail snagged the edge, and tore a rend with a scream. He frowned. Now the cloth was spoilt. He took the nail scissors and trimmed the fraying edge.

Now of all the things to happen to a bee, - and we may grant the scientists much -, this and other recent circumstance, proved difficult to dress with order. He put down his arms and torso, folded them neatly, and flew out of the window.

It must have been a thousand thoughts, when the call faded to land. There passed a colonnade of ants. The quest had begun.

The unaccountable machine of Professor de ants.

B. found himself carried along on a forest of legs. Something certain but exciting was happening, something definite though unknown. The rushing river ran, first dark, then light, first red, then black, then confluence, then delta, then, as purpose finds its level, serene mature into the garden of earthly wisdom.

To the east of the garden towered a pinnacle of knowledge. The top was impossible to see, though it cast a great shadow, since a peak must be far from a trough. One thing was certain, it was immense in all directions. B. found himself alighting on a leaf and fancied he drank well of the dew. He turned, and there before him stanced the amiable monstrosity, Professor de ants.

It is customary in moments like these, to aspire to maintain an air, if not of insouciance, then of guarded politeness. B. tremored like a reed in bohemian lips. No vice could compress the feel into words required to transcribe the behemoth before him. The oval of its head entrolled capacious jaws of such that mere nations would tremble with admission. Atop the slattern cover yearned antennae unmistakeably for the reaving of souls. And this above and amidst a wreathing psychoscrabbling of legs uncountable entrapped and blinkered, yet! they knew the race begun.

‘Would you like to see my machine?’ said Professor de ants. Slime before rhetoric, and B. nodded before replying. Two transports appeared, and eastbound, instinct drove them thence, with unnatural speed.

We must depart convention, and now describe the vision that befell B.

The vision that befell B.

Wreatheing, bursting, frantic, clasping, twisting, counting - yes counting!, like the dominoes of good intentions, wove the weaving thread the first, and higher higher counting lesser, wove the counter thread of worse, twining, climbing, weaving lighting, cloved the thunder of the thirst. Breathing, seething, flying clad-bound, grasping moaned the spire in pants. And all as one he saw the mountain seething abacus of ants!