DINGALING

It was early in the Spring of 1997 that Herman Van Hoop was declared "the greatest human being ever to have lived". The award ceremony was attended by Herman Van Hoop and his dog, skippy.

It was a long time since Herman had ‘trod the boards’, so to speak, and he’d have been lying if he’d said he wasn't nervous. This was his moment, and he wasn't going to make the same mistake THIS time, oh no.

Last time, you see, he had failed to secure his hat firmly to his head, and a freak gust of wind had carried it off into the audience, who, as now, consisted of three dozen retired tailor's dummies, eight garden gnomes and an inflatable Santa.

It was humiliating, even amongst useful innate effigies. So embarrassed was he that he decided to leave the country, take a vow of sirens, and become a Pavlovian monk. And THAT is where this story truly begins...

“Good morning,” said Herman. “I would like to join the holy brotherhood of Pavlovian monks, as its leader.” The monk on reception looked up at him ruefully. Who was this idiot, with his broad-brimmed ladies hat and his rainbow unicorn onesie? 

“Oh yes?”, he replied, "and what makes you think you're qualified to be the Grand High Abbot of the ancient order of Pavlovian Monks?"

“This,” replied Herman van Hoot, simply. He held up a tiny bell. The receptionist recoiled in horror.

“What! How did you get that through security?”

“Aluminium.” said Herman, and he gave the bell a little tinkle. The entire monastery, in accordance with their Pavlovian vows, got up as one and ran towards the refectory, salivating copiously. Herman turned in the other direction, towards the now-vacant throne room of the Grand High Abbot.

He could SMELL that throne. In a mere matter of seconds, he would crown himself King Of Lima. But before he knew it, a very angry throng of hungry people were charging at him with spears. Fearless, he rose. ‘DINGALINGALING!’ sounded Herman's bell again. To a man, they all instantly went scarpering excitedly back to the refectory. This “kinging” lark was clearly going to be a doddle.

Herman spent four months at the monastery, honing his people skills, before ordering a sedan chair to Peru. The monks took it in turns to carry him, but even so, the going was painfully slow. After three weeks Herman reluctantly ordered them to change course for the airport.

“Two tickets to Lima,” said Herman. “One for me, the Grand High Abbot of the ancient order of Pavlovian Monks, and one for my little dog, Skippy.”

“I'm sorry sir,” said the desk clerk, sighing ruefully and examining her nail polish for defects. “I can't sell you a ticket if you don't have any money.”

“You are right,” said Herman van Hoop, “I don't have any money. But I do have this.” To the desk clerk's horror, he produced from his pocket a....sabre toothed tiger.

The clerk looked baffled. “How did you fit THAT in your pocket? I thought those things were extinct!” he said with bemusement. Curiosity had gotten the better of him and the impending fear that SHOULD have been his overriding emotion was pushed into a broom cupboard somewhere in the depths of his mind.

“Oooooh!” said the tiger, in the campest voice imaginable. “I'm only a prototype, naughty!” putting its paws coyly to its mouth and giggling.

This seemed to hypnotise the clerk. “Two...tickets...to...Peru...your...wish...is...my...command”....

So far, everything had gone swimmingly, if that was really a word. Despite the hiccup at the airport, Herman now wore three hats. The original straw bonnet, which had belonged to his auntie Gunther, the tall, beaver-skin hat of the Grand High Abbot of the Ancient Order of Pavlovian Monks, and the gaudy crown of the King of Lima, which the citizens of that city had bestowed upon him the moment they saw the sabre-toothed tiger. Was there no height that his ambition would not scale? No, there wasn't. Herman wanted all the hats, but the one he longed for most of all was the Wind Hat. Some folk may regard this as rather crass, but it amused him, and he knew that French people, at least, would like it.

The next week, an incredible honour was bestowed upon him when the prestigious ‘Illiterate Monthly’ magazine named him as the ‘World's Most Hatted Man.’

This life was a dream.

The ceremony was to take place in Paris. In order to get there, Herman made himself First Lord of the Admiralty, and commissioned a bicorn hat festooned with brocade. The hats were now beginning to compete with each other for attention, and the citizens of Lima, and his retinue of Pavlovian monks, all had to wear sunglasses to shade their eyes from his awesomeness. No matter. In Paris he would declare himself God of the Four Winds, and that would be that. Never again would his hats be blown off by a freak gust, and Skippy would eat premium dog-treats every day of his life.

His Royal Yacht being too wide for the river Seine, Herman simply ploughed a furrow through the city. Boulangeries, Charcuteries and Tabacs were pushed aside to make way for the impressive ship, and Napoleon's magnificent Arc de Triomphe was cleft neatly in twain as he passed through. Herman stood proudly on the prow. Now, THIS, was how to make an entrance.

To say things did not go smoothly was an understatement. First of all, some kind of black and white meow cow appeared in the doorway. What on earth was it? And then the worst thing that could possibly happen, happened...

As Herman walked up the red carpet towards the beckoning cow, a freak gust of wind caught the brim of the straw bonnet, bequeathed to Herman on his death bed by Herman's Auntie Gunther. As one, the entire stack of hats began to topple earthwards.

“WHO ARE YOU?” cried Herman, as he vainly attempted to catch them.

“I am the God of the Four Winds!” said the Meow Cow.

A typhoon raged around his head. It was so fearsome that even Cannibal Collier had fallen victim, on several occasions. As Herman approached, the meow cow cleared its throat. "Now, I hear you're a fan of hats,", it said, "but I'm going to give you a chance to admit that you actually prefer cats." 

It wasn't really a question, but Herman felt that there really was only one viable answer.

He held Skippy out with outstretched arms. What happened next surprised everyone...

Skippy bit the cow on the nose, as if to say, “cats, indeed!” The meow cow howled, and reared up on her hind legs. As she did so, there fluttered from her head a tiny cap with a propeller on it - the Hat of the Winds! Placing his loyal dog gently on the red carpet beside him, Herman dived for it. The cow dived at the same time. Their heads collided in a spray of sparks, causing Cannibal Collier to shade his eyes. Herman's hands closed around something small and soft. It was a hat, but which hat? There was only one way to find out. Crawling out from beneath the sprawled cow, he slammed it onto his head.

“Proceed to Level 14”, the hat said, shining a bright red LCD instruction that everyone except Herman could see.

“You have won the chance to challenge The Boss,” it continued.

There was silence...

“By that, I don't mean Bruce Springsteen,” it added.

“THE Boss”...

Herman looked around, bewildered. He looked at his reflection in the glass window of the Hotel Ritz, where the now forgotten ceremony was to have been held. He was wearing a hat, but it wasn't the Hat of the Wind, it was a hat he'd never seen before, a simple bowler. Written on the hat-band in clear black mirror-writing, were the words “THE BOSS”.

He glanced up at the meow-cow. It was wearing a pair of boxing gloves and a filthy grin.

Perversely though, it was dancing, rather than threatening. It seemed to be implying that what he had been fighting against all this time was himself. He screamed out loud, and ran off in both directions, but as hard as he tried, he just could not separate the man from the myth, and they clashed together clumsily. Distraught, he looked at Skippy, who looked incredulously, and leapt up, grabbing the tiny bell from his master's pocket. Of course! This was the ultimate test, right now!

Skippy rang the little bell. The monks Herman had brought with him immediately began salivating and ran off in the direction of the refectory, which was thousands of miles away. Herman, still running around frantically, slipped on the monks' drool and crashed through the gilt-iron gates of the Hotel Ritz de Paris. But instead of the sumptuous interior he expected, Herman found himself back in his bedsitter on Perelman Road. There, seated upon the rickety old chairs he'd found at the dump, were three dozen retired tailors' dummies, eight garden gnomes and an inflatable Santa.

Skippy was seated on the stage, wearing an adorable little doggy tuxedo, and beside him, in a tiara, stood the indomitable meow-cow.

“Congratulations, Herman Van Hoop,” said the cow. “You are officially the greatest human being ever to have lived!”

“Thank you,” said Herman. “But,” he whispered mischievously, “I still prefer hats!” much to the mirth of his audience.

Suddenly, a freak gust of wind blew his hat off...to reveal a cat purring contentedly upon his head. He'd been lying to them all along!

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TUMBLEWURZEL

Llorenna was playing in her tree house when the fictional character Tumblewurzel appeared before her. Not being a fan of the show, at first she ignored him, but after the fourteenth triangle (kind of cerise in hue, and much sharper than the blonde one), he had started to win her over. Up until now, she had nothing to take to the Girl Guides' summer jamboree, but now...well NOW...

NOW she had Tumblewurzel, and whilst she wasn't a fan of the show, the other girls liked it well enough, and Felicity Marchbanks was a card-carrying fan. But oh, the horse-adder! She'd forgotten all about the horse-adder, and she dashed down the ladder into the house to put on her electric blue Victorian military-style jacket with the cerise epaulettes and the dim, green boots of nebulous reality.

The build up to the Show And Tell at the jamboree was intense, with painstaking efforts to keep Tumblewurzel hidden until that dramatic 'reveal'. 

"Cometh the hour, cometh the MAN!" she proclaimed, as she drew back the curtain, to gasps of bewilderment from her classmates, and...and...hang on....they're not gasps, that's laughter, and not 'let's laugh at Tumblewurzel' type laughter either. What the....

Llorenna turned around. All that was there was to see was a tiny, rather geeky looking squirrel, trying to prise nuts out of a plastic container, which to be frank, wouldn't have fazed a newborn baby octopus. 

No. This wasn't right.

She turned to the crowd, laughing to cover her embarrassment. "Just my little joke," she said. "Tumblewurzel is will be joining us any minute, but for now, please enjoy watching the incredibly stupid squirrel!”

She dashed behind the curtain and ran off in search of Tumblewurzel. This is the work of the horse-adder, she thought through gritted teeth.

Even worse, next onto the stage bounded Muddah. Her mum had always insisted on being called this, as she loved the Allan Sherman novelty hit, Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah, and wore a t-shirt to remind everyone that it reached number 14 in the UK charts in September 1963. "Aww, don't be upset, my wittle pwincess, Muddahmuddah will make it alright"...

Llorenna cringed and was just about melting with embarrassment, to the sound of heaving laughter now, 12 year old girls guffawing uncontrollably all over the place.

But then a horn sounded. And not just ANY horn...

It was the mournful, fog-horn sound of Uncle Alexis's car horn. Uncle Alexis was, like Llorenna herself, a Goth, and the only member of her family who really understood her. He had driven to the front of the crowd in his open-topped hearse, and was sitting there now, watching the stage impatiently and applying yet another can of hairspray to his towering three-foot 'do.

Hilarity turned to fear amongst the throng at that instant, probably because on the side of the coffin, it had the words "To Be Confirmed" in blood red permanent marker. It was meant as a light hearted joke, but, well, you know, people have absolutely NO sense of humour these days, do they?

To Llorenna's horror though, at a point where she felt she was to be rescued from this excruciating humiliation, Tumblewurzel chose THIS moment to appear, astride the horse-adder (a ridiculous sight, as I'm sure you'll agree), and fling himself at her uncle at what seemed to be around 30 knots, although I am unsure how this translates into land speed.

Alexis, his mascara-ringed eyes wide, threw the vehicle into reverse, running over a picnic that Felicity Marchbanks had been setting up there and slamming into the Promise Tree. Tumblewurzel and the horse-adder landed in the coffin, the lid slamming shut on impact. Girl Guides scattered in all directions as Alexis put the hearse into gear and pulled around to the side of the stage. "Get in!" he shouted, and Llorenna leapt clear off the stage and into the passenger seat. Alexis floored the accelerator, but what was that hanging on to the tow-bar?

It was that darned squirrel! By now it had eaten some nuts, and it was...growing...And growing....until OH NO IT'S KANTORI, Tumblewurzel's arch nemesis. Not being a fan of the show, Llorenna was unaware that Kantori built her special powers and not insignificant strength through the consumption of nuts. This was going to be tricky.

Great plumes of smoke rose from the rear tyres of the stationary hearse. The engine was going flat out, but the giant squirrel held it motionless with the tip of a single claw.

"Do something!" said Llorenna, but her uncle hadn't seen the show either. Suddenly there was someone hammering on the windscreen. Felicity Marchbanks had thrown herself onto the bonnet and was screaming "use the triangles!" Of course! Those stupid magic triangles Tumblewurzel was always producing. Pulling up her boots of nebulous reality, Llorenna clambered over the back of the passenger seat. She HAD to get that coffin open.

"I'm not coming out there!" shrieked Tumblewurzel, "it's too dangerous!"

"The triangles," Llorenna asked hurriedly, "Where are they?"

"They're in here with me" came the reply, "but you're NOT HAVING THEM because apparently you're not a fan of the show! Plus, I'm weally weally fwightened!"

Sheesh, how did this guy ever get his own show?

Alexis, who seemed rather suspiciously to be actually ENJOYING the spectacle, had a brainwave: "I think I may have a set square in the glove compartment!" he said.

Llorenna, heart pumping like never before, but ultimately drained, reached into said glove compartment.

"EURGH!" she exclaimed, "What's THAT?"

"Oh for goodness sake", sighed Alexis, "that was your birthday cake. Hrmph. We'll just have to make do without it now,"

To her astonishment, Tumblewurzel and the horse-adder rose in union from the coffin, and girl guides surrounded the car to sing Happy Birthday to her. Was this some kind of PRESENT, she wondered?

"Ahem" said Kantori, "Are you quite finished? I haven't defeated you yet and I don't DO birthdays."

Llorenna fished the remains of the birthday cake from the glove compartment. Red velvet cake with black icing and white candles. Her favourite. She sighed and flung it, with all her might, into the squirrel's black, malevolent eyes. At the same time, Alexis hit play on the car stereo system. Preacher Man by Fields of the Nephilim began to blare out of the modified hearse's five gigantic subwoofers. The terrified squirrel, temporarily blinded, found itself encircled by packs of headbanging Brownies.

And everyone knows that headbanging brownies only means one thing - levitation. As Alexis's car rose higher and higher towards the Wormhole Into Another Dimension Where People Are Given New Identities, they looked down at the mass riots developing below. Up...they look like toy people now....Up....now like insects....Up....invisible now.....Up....SCHLOOOOPPP!!!

"Lovely cup of tea" said Geoff.

That's what they call him now. Geoff, not Tumblewurzel. And he's a vicar now, not a television star. But he still looks like a cross between a clown and a scarecrow, with eyes like spiralling pinwheels, and he still plucks magical triangles from between his toes - BUT ONLY WHEN NOBODY'S LOOKING.

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FIELD TRIP

There were thirteen girls and eleven boys. This was the field trip from HELL. Whatever possessed Mrs Oggett to come up with such a trip here of all places was anybody’s guess.

“Now, class,” said Mrs Oggett, “You must be on your best behaviour today. Traffic islands can be very dangerous places, particularly if, like this one, they have never before been explored.”

This was about as cheerful as Mrs Oggett ever got, for she had a well known tendency for spoiling the fun. Just last year, at the Academy for the Progression of Rescue Animals, the children were sitting by the campfire, sharing stories, when a little black and white cat called Tabatha came up to them, tap danced and told a few hilarious jokes.

“Cats are not talking animals!” she chastised, and legend has it that the cat lumbered off forlornly, never to utter anything except “Miaow” again. Similarly, when Phoebe befriended a very intelligent crocodile, and shared her picnic with him, Oggett said loudly, “Crocodiles are violent, predatory creatures!” Poor Phoebe…

“This is boring,” said Stuart, ten, who had already discovered the centre of the traffic island. Mrs Oggett, who had visions of herself as the next Marco Polo or Ferdinand Magellan, was having none of it.

“We are pioneers in a new frontier. Not all of us will make it home to Kirkdale Primary, but those of us who do will be hailed as heroes.”

Frustratingly for Mrs Oggett, the children hadn’t heard a word. They were captivated by the yodelling hedgehog.

“Hedgehogs do NOT make it across roads,” said Mrs Oggett.

This was the last straw for some of the children, who protested by surrounding the hedgehog in the middle of the busy road.

“Bzzerrtrrp,” said Oggett.

The children craned their heads in confusion.

“Rzz sspppt… bleep!” said Oggett.

At first it wasn’t clear what their teacher was up to, but Maryam, always the top of the class, was the first to figure it out.

“She’s trying to communicate with that traffic light!” Indeed, when the children listened carefully, they could hear faint electrical noises from inside the metal pole. Bzz rrp zzt!

“What’s she saying?” said Robert, who was only nine.

“I think she’s trying to buy the island from the traffic light, in return for a pile of disease-ridden blankets and a handful of glass beads.”

Eventually, the hedgehog led the children down the busy dual carriageway and safely back to school. Mrs Oggett was never seen again. Rumour had it she had “gone native”.

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X

Why is the letter 'X' worth 8 points in Scrabble? It's such a common letter in the language of the tree people. If I had my way, which, to be fair, I often do, as Chief Commander Of the Branch branch, there would only be one 'X', and that would only be available in the children's version. I would also confiscate the little dog and the top hat from Monopoly, as these things are forbidden in the Elm Forest.

But enough of such frivolities, let us get down to the serious stuff. The game of Snap! must be stamped out IMMEDIATELY! For two things the same are not allowed. I myself will self combust once arrangements have been made to rid the world of such hideous monstrosity. I am willing to be the sacrificial leprechaun of love. I think it's only fair.

The other forest dwellers begged me not to, of course. Sam Squirrel, Naomi Gnome and all the little rectangular things, but I would hear no reason. "NO!", I said, and I pointed out that they all had the bi-annual nativity play to concentrate on, to put their minds at ease.

Where once I stood, there now stands a wobbly larch, sole testament to my sacrifice. On summer nights, the queen of the fairies stands bow legged over an effigy of my oaken frame, and sings like a banshee until the demons have all been exorcised. The little rectangular things, dressed in their drab motley, play a sad game of Snap where all the cards are different.

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THE MAN-EATING CHOCOLATE BAR

The Man-Eating Chocolate Bar is a terrible production. Maybe it's a film, maybe it's a TV programme, or maybe it's real. Either way, it's terrible.

"I've been looking at The Man-Eating Chocolate Bar for two hours, and I still can't work out if I'm reading a book or watching a film. But whichever it is, it's the worst thing I've ever seen," said TV critic Harry Esposito.

"It's clearly a sculpture," said Prunella Vansittart, of the Times, "but in theatrical form. I've never seen a worse example."

"I'm all for innovation," wrote Veronica Hausenfluck of the Herald and Tribune, "but The Man-Eating Chocolate Bar, a kind of interactive ballad in blank verse, gave me a headache that still hasn't faded after nearly a week. Avoid."

'"It's funny, looking back now, that a Napoleonic war memorial could have caused such confusion, and it is rightly heralded these days as a work of art. Nobody sneezes anymore, and quite frankly it was indecipherable in the main outset, so not particularly, if you like." Obviously that was one of the more positive ones, from Gathering Moss.

"The Man-Eating Chocolate Bar, a sort of woollen Parthenon in the form of an interpretive dance, is only audible on cold days. When temperatures rise above sixty degrees, however, it looms over the city like a basking shark made of faint smells, Old Spice, lavender, static electricity. It has blighted this city for too long, and I myself signed the order for it to be torn down. When the workmen arrived, however, none of them could see it, and the only sign of its existence was a faint keening. Their pick-axes glanced off its surface like custard apples through a rubber breeze." - Al Gordon, Mayor.

"Woof" said the Man-Eating Chocolate Bar. What was it, exactly?

The city is gone now, naught but dust in the wind. Its people are merely a memory. But the Man-Eating Chocolate Bar remains, a thousand times taller than an aeon, broader than the strongest smell, bolder and louder than the secret thoughts of a randy moose. The Man-Eating Chocolate Bar is not going away. The Man-Eating Chocolate Bar is here to stay.

"For Sale: Man-Eating Chocolate Bar. One previous owner. GSOH. £45 ono. Please apply within."

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HATS OR CATS

"Cars or bras?" my most annoying friend would ask me. He was always doing this, asking me to choose between things that rhymed. "Trees or cheese?" he would ask, on long car journeys. It was an embarrassing affront to my status as the most respected patron of our community.

At the service station at Shepton Mallet, he got out for a wee. I slammed the door and on the accelerator; I'd had enough of his childish behaviour, you see. "Tweed or speed?" he enquired, angering me so much that I slammed on the brakes in an effort to terrify him.

"Screech or preach?" he asked, laughing so much that I punched him really hard on the nose. "Blows or nose?" he said.

"I thought I'd left you at Shepton Mallet?" I yelled.

"Mallets or palettes?" he replied.

Suddenly a thought occurred to me. "Mallets", I said.

In the end, I built, or rather I got someone else to build, a huge cast iron gate to keep him out of my house. It cost me a fortune, so I was astonished, one day later, to find him at my front door.

"Gate or mate?" he asked.

I wavered. "Gate?" I ventured, desperately. At last, he got the message.

In the long years that followed, I felt a little guilty. Regularly, I would see him out at social functions that I had been invited to, because I am such a well respected, well loved  member of the community, and I would say "Hi or bye?", and watch as he turned his head, at best grunting.

I have a new friend now. On the way to work today, I asked him "Hats or cats?"

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