The 45th attempt yielded a pineapple that could recite at least thirteen words from the 1985 Austin Maestro Vanden Plas service schedule pamphlet. If it hadn’t made such a terrifying guttural sound whilst attempting “asymmetrically split rear seat” I may have witnessed a new record for pineapple-kind. But it did. And I had to run away… screaming. But when I pluck up the courage to abseil back into the pineapple caverns in ward 15b of the asylum, sohelpmegod, I’ll commence attempt 46. And I shall wear my magnetic socks for the utmost chance of luck.
Nobody believed me when I told them of my experiments with this most flavoursome of all fruits. They all laughed during my detailed lectures on pineapple magno-linguistics. “Impossible”, they decried. “Splendid”, said others whilst openly mocking a bowl containing pineapple number 42 that I’d generously distributed as evidence of my scientific greatness.
Maybe if they’d have seen pineapple number 37. Now that was a pineapple with real promise. The timbre of its voice, the thrill of the way it pronounced “rear axle grease”. I loved that pineapple – almost more than life itself. But when it suggested through a series of intricate mime gestures that it didn’t like reading from my collection of Austin Maestro literature, my anger just swelled. Such betrayal. Betrayal that no other pineapple had ever made me feel before. Betrayal that could only be countered with a swift drop-kick into the kitchens of the Mumbai Express curry house next door.
Ha!
So whilst the, admittedly completely insane, inhabitants of the asylum ridiculed my fruitful scientific prowess, the world must surely need to learn of my discoveries. After a quick motivational recital from the Maestro City X cassette radio instruction manual, I was ready to make my debut onto the scientific world’s stage. Not that I knew where this stage was. Or what it looked like, in fact. I didn’t even know if the stage was one of those creaky old wooden ones, or one of those metal-tubed labyrinths that harbour a void for midgets to inhabit during Andrew Lloyd-Webber musicals. My complete lack of knowledge on the matter took me from a fluorescent wave of joy to a flea-ridden flea pit of despair. I needed a new plan.
That’s when I overheard Matron talking about a mysterious scandal in 1963 – and how it grabbed the headlines of every newspaper in the universe for decades. I knew I couldn’t pass up this opportunity. I listened intently for hours. For so long in fact that I forgot to take my yellow pills and had to de-scale my eyelids. If I could recreate even a fraction of this scandal’s intrigue, the world would surely come knocking at my door to hear of what wonderful wonders my experiments have given birth to. If they think my talking pineapples are spectacular, just imagine their delight when they hear of what I’ve achieved with the parsnips.
And so, this is how I came to be astride my naughty chair, wearing nothing but my lucky magnetic socks. Socks that are just a bit to magnetic for my liking, actually, since I can’t seem to stop the damn thing following me around.
So world…. I’m ready.
Bring on the scandal. Let me tell you of my pineapples. Marvel at their Austin Maestro knowledge.
Marvel indeed.
Yup.
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