An Evening Of Death, Taxes And Basking In The Glow Of Literary Giants.

So, off to London to attend the launch of the new quarterly surrealist magazine Polarity.
Strikes me that producing an actual physical magazine is a bold move in this digital age and I for one salute the brave young people behind this venture.
The event might have passed me by but for the very sensible inclusion in the magazine of material from Hooting Yard's Mr. Frank Key.
The fact that Mr. Key was to make an extremely rare public appearance to read some of his prose made it inevitable that I would attend.
At 9 a.m. Linda loaded me in to the travel cannon, set the coordinates for the Slaughtered Lamb Pub in Great Sutton Street, lit the slow burning fuse and went off to work.
 (Please spare a thought for Linda as she works in a greenhouse and the temperatures outside are in the upper 20's at the moment. I fear she may melt and I don't want a puddle for a girlfriend.)

Deep in the barrel of the cannon I passed the time till launch (6 hours away) mumbling the Hooting Yard Chant:

Hooting Yard!

Hooting Yard!

Haa Haa and Gasebo.

We will conquer all our foes.

Hooting, Hooting Yard!

At the appointed hour there was a loud bang and I was launched toward the capital.
My journey was uneventful.
I crashed though the doors of the pub and, using my face as a brake, came to a halt at the bar.
I must have become slightly more aerodynamic of late as I'd arrived 20 minutes early so I ordered a pint of foaming brown beer and was charged £14:28 for it. I didn't bat an eyelid as I know, this being London, even the air I was breathing was ludicrously expensive.
I asked the cheery barkeep where the magazine launch room was, his demeanour instantly changed to one of abject terror as, with a trembling finger, he pointed toward the cellar doors.
I noticed he had several more fingers on his hand than the norm but this is London and people have more of everything here.
I drained my glass, spat out the frogspawn and strode manfully toward the doors
Grasping the two gigantic brass handles firmly I swung the doors open with a florish, stepped forward and tumbled 20 feet to the concrete floor.
When I regained consciousness I found myself been ministered to by a couple of personable young men who were carefully counting the remaining money from my wallet.
They did tell me their names but, using a technique it's taken a lifetime to master, I instantly forgot them.
'Has Mr. Key arrived yet?' I asked. 'No' said one of the personable young men, 'but, listen, he's close by'.
Straining my ears to hear I could just make out the distinctive low rumbling of the Hooting Yard 'Transport of Delight'.

I shinned up the exit rope and ran out into the street just in time to see 57 motorcycle outriders streak past followed by the moaning sisters of WoohooWoodieWoo on their ceremonial elephants then came the jugglers with their antelopes and flaming tally sticks, the plumed monkeys on stilts, a flat bed truck featuring a tableau of 'The Vanquishment Of Anaxgrotax', then hens and pigs and cows and goats in numbers the human mind is incapable of conceiving.

I gazed awestruck.

Then, with a mighty crash, the Transport of Delight rounded the corner crushing the buildings on either side of the street with it's gigantic steel legs and atop of this behemoth, sat upon a golden throne upholstered with the woven hair of the widows of the men he had slain in battle I saw Mr. Key.
I averted my eyes, as is the custom, and fell to my knees in abasement as Mr. Key's personal bodyguards lifted him, throne and all, to the ground.
Oh, lucky man was I as Mr. Key, noticing my wretched form trembling in the gutter, shouted in his stentorian boom 'SpaceMan, come forth!'
I began to stand up, big mistake, I was pounced on by the burly bodyguards, had my belt and shoe laces taken from me, my shirt buttons were ripped off and I was then hurled to the ground in front of the throne. Mr. Key stepped down and walked along my body. As soon as he'd stepped off my head I was picked up and thrown in front of him again.
Thus Mr. Key's majestic progress to the performance space was made.
I was overcome by the rapture afforded to those chosen to be of service to the earth's foremost author.

At this point my life could have ended and I would have left this world a happy man but...
Without having to strain my ears this time I heard an even greater sound that shook the very ground I laid upon. Huge chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling, the glass in the windows cracked and cascaded in glittering shards to the floor.
I lifted my head fully believing that these were to be my last moments on earth and fixed my gaze upon Mr. Key. I was shocked to see his face contorted with fear, his bodyguards cowering under whatever shelter they could find and, as I looked on, the roof of the building was torn away by a huge set of iron pincers protruding from the bottom of the biggest flying saucer I've ever seen.
Mr. Peter Blegvad had arrived.

Once again I lost, or had torn from me, the consciousness I'd so recently regained.
When I recovered I found myself lying in a dismal alleyway, my shoes had been taken from me by a couple of ragged beggers  who were in the process of cooking and eating them.
They looked at me and laughed saying 'they've all gone, all your heroes have deserted you and left you to the mercy of the gutter'.

I can't wait to tell Linda about my adventures and I shall sing of this day with joy as I walk the 74 miles back to Bognor Regis.