(continued from last week)

Anyway, I didn't expect to receive any letters from friends, `cos I don't have any, as I shot them all and lightly fried them in rhino juice until lightly done and golden brown and spurded them rancaniously until they'd had enough, when I discovered Krishna.



Infact, there he was in the local Spar, talking to the lady from the post office (I know that, because she was carrying a letter), when I suddenly realised what I had been missing from my existence all these long groansome years of ill festeriterisation and corquetella-ish rodentry (the clot!) so sleep no more in blind panic my friend for the light is green and the green is collaboration which in turn has a delicate tang of whortleberries that have recently been absailing in Kensington with Michael Cretu of Enigma.

Cretu turned to Krishna, lugibriously.

"Where is the key to the inner spirit, O wise master?"

Krishna stirred, in a cranial manner.

"The soup which seeks a thousand minds is never as distant as the wise fish who knows nothing about the rising of the - arrrrgggghhhh!"

Krishna froze, momentarily walrused to the spot.

"What is it, my master?", mormoned Cretu, before noticing a reticent but luminescant simulcrum in the corner of his eye. He pulled out a hanky and dabbed at his eye, clinically. The simulcrum was gone. And so, he noticed, was Krishna.

As he wandered crayonically through the mulch, he garbled politely to himself, and pondered upon the strange events of the day. And what an alpine farm it was, by golly. He would win no friends this way. However, one thing was sure. His shoe plates squonked ferociously with every blade of grass overlapping on the lapwings lap which wasn't. And what a was it wasn't. None had ever been like this before IT happened. Cretu was always afraid of the happenings of the ghastly impromptu IT. He shuddered necromoniously. "Tu Whit Tu Whoo" barked a passing Tawny Owl.

And what a Tawny Owl it was. Cretu had never seen one tawnier.

But Even such a demon dull mythology couldn't wake Cretu from his lulled cormorant flocking nest explot.

"With a touch of Brahms," said Elizabeth.

"Uh...wh...who are you?" stammered Cretu.

"I'm M.C. Hammer, rapper extraordinaire, peoples poet, pillar of the community, sex god with a conscience."

Cretu eyed the garden most carefully, before turning his bearded glove back to the terrified Elizabeth. "You're the Queen aren't you?"

"Er...might be"

"Yes! Yes, you are! You're the Queen! I've bought all your stamps!"

The Queen blushed deeply.

"Yes! I'm you're biggest fan, could you sign my stamps please."

The Queen obligingly got out a keyring-come-pen and started to adorn the stamps with her regal phibulance, but just then the aeroplane took a sudden swerve and sped downwards.

"Please Krishna, save my karma from turmoil and squash" prayed Cretu.

"We-got-to-pray-jus'-to-make-it-to-day" rapped Queen.

In a puff of smoke Krishna appeared and squoke "Relax and tuba with joy loudly my son, and let Jesus love you...."

Then in a spurgling mash of sound and light, the plane crashes into Bill Wyman's swimming pool, and everyone is completely dead forever. And Boy George's single is on the radio.



THE END



EPILOGUE



Curt Smith is sitting in bed with a cup of Ovaltine, when Norman Lamont, poorly disguised as a mako shark wanders casually in. Curt looks up, and is obviously shocked. This shock however, bears little to the staggering astonisment that Norman the shark feels when Curt pulls a toothpick out of his bedside cabinet, and with a subtle (yet precise) fling, manages to impale the toothpick between Norman's eyes.

As Norman dies, Curt chuckles contentedly with himself, then turns to face us, and he doth quote "My life's so choclatey, it even turns the milk brown!!!". Then he absent mindedly spills his Ovaltine over one of the yellow ziggurats carefully emblazoned on his pyjamas.