Before the stage, clockwork cameramen were positioning their clockwork cameras, large and bulky affairs of colourful pressed tin which moved upon casters. The clockwork cameramen appeared to be positioning their cameras in such a way as to create the maximum obstruction of the audience’s view of the stage.
Eddie was looking over his shoulder, watching the rude crew pigs herding in the audience of toys. ‘Hm,’ he said.
Jack pointed towards the large and glittering letters that were painted upon the pretend sky backdrop. ‘What does Tuff it on the Tuffet mean?’ he asked Eddie.
‘Miss Muffett’s show is one of those talk show jobbies,’ Eddie explained, ‘where toys air their embarrassing personal problems on primetime TV.’
‘But why would anyone want to come on a TV show and air their dirty laundry in public, as it were?’
Eddie shrugged. ‘That is one of life’s little mysteries,’ he said. ‘My guess would be that either they’re actors making it all up, or they’re very sad individuals who crave their moment of glory on TV. But who cares; it’s great television.’
‘And Little Tommy Tucker is going to be “tuffing it”, is he?’
‘I doubt that. He’s probably promoting his new hit single. He’s a big recording artiste, is Tommy. He doesn’t have to sing for his supper any more. Well, he does in a manner of speaking, but his singing has earned him enough for a million suppers in the City’s finest eateries.’
Jack’s stomach rumbled once again. But at least his hangover was beginning to lessen. ‘Famous singer, eh?’ said Jack.
‘Top of the charts,’ said Eddie. ‘Not my pot of jam though. I’m an Elvis fan, me.’
‘Elvis?’ said Jack. ‘Who’s Elvis?’
Eddie rolled his button eyes. ‘He’s the King.’
‘Well I’ve never heard of him.’
‘No, I suppose not. He’s a bear, like me. My cousin, in fact. Tinto has an open-mic night on Fridays. Elvis sings. He’s great.’
‘What sort of stuff does he sing?’ Jack asked.
‘Tommy Tucker songs,’ said Eddie, dismally. ‘There aren’t any others.’
‘What, none?’
‘Tommy sort of has the Toy City music industry in his velvet pocket. Tommy’s always number one in the music charts, because the charts don’t have a number two. And Tommy owns the only recording studio in Toy City, and the record company.’
‘That’s outrageous,’ said Jack. ‘So you’re telling me that the only records you can buy in Toy City are Tommy Tucker records?’
‘Or classical music.’
‘Which is?’
‘Nursery rhymes,’ said Eddie. ‘Sung by the Tommy Tucker choir ensemble. With the Tommy Tucker clockwork orchestra. That’s them next to the stage.’
‘Shut up!’ shouted a rude crew pig into Eddie’s ear. ‘The show’s about to begin. Shut up!’
‘Oi,’ said Jack. ‘How dare you!’
‘Shut up the both of you,’ said the rude crew pig. ‘And behave or I’ll throw you out.’
Jack almost rose to take issue with the rude crew pig, but as he didn’t want to miss the show, he didn’t.
‘It’s always the same,’ whispered Eddie. ‘Paint a uniform on a pig and he thinks he rules the city.’
‘Oh, look,’ said Jack. ‘Something’s happening.’
And something was.
The controller shouted instructions through numerous megaphones; some lights dimmed, others shone brightly; those that shone brightly illuminated the stage.
Quite brightly.
From stage-right a figure appeared.
This figure was a clown. An all-rubber clown. An all-green, but for the red nose, rubber clown.
‘Morning all,’ said the all-green, but for the red nose, rubber clown.
Mumble, mumble, mumble went the audience. One or two folk managed a half-hearted ‘Good morning’.
‘Pathetic,’ said the all-green, but for the red nose, rubber clown. ‘That really won’t do at all.’
‘Who’s this?’ Jack asked.
‘Warm-up clown, I think,’ said Eddie.
‘Shut up, you two,’ said the crew pig, who had positioned himself in the aisle next to Jack and Eddie and was keeping a beady eye upon them.
‘This is The Tuffet!’ The all-green, but for the red nose, rubber clown made all-encompassing hand gestures. ‘Biggest rating show in Toy City and you the audience must respond. You must cheer, you must applaud, you must react. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
Murmur, murmur, went the crowd.
‘Do you hear?’
‘Yes,’ went much of the crowd, in an embarrassed murmur.
‘And do you love Miss Muffett?’
‘Yes,’ went most of the crowd, quietly.
‘I said, do you love Miss Muffett?’
‘Yes,’ went pretty much all of the crowd, pretty much louder.
‘I said, do you love Miss Muffett?’
‘YES,’ went damn near all of the crowd.
‘And you two,’ the rude crew pig shook a trottered fist at Eddie and Jack.
‘Oh yes indeed,’ said Jack, in a tone that lacked somewhat for conviction.
‘And me too,’ said Eddie, in a likewise fashion.
‘Let me hear you say “Yeah!” ’ shouted the all-green, but for the red nose, all-rubber clown.
‘Yeah!’ the audience replied.
‘Not bad,’ said the clown. ‘But not good; let me hear you say “yeah” once again.’
‘Yeah!’ went the crowd with greater vigour.
‘Yeah!’ shouted the clown.
‘Yeah!’ shouted the audience back to him.
And yeah and yeah and yeah again.
‘I don’t like this clown at all,’ said Jack.
‘That’s your last warning,’ said the rude crew pig in between the yeahings.
‘All right!’ shouted the clown. ‘Now we’re rolling. Now let’s have us some fun.’
And then the clown went about doing The Terrible Thing. The Terrible Thing is the terrible thing that all clowns do. It is The Terrible Thing that all clowns have always done, since the very dawn of clowning, The Terrible Thing that is ultimately what being a clown is all about.
The Terrible Thing that is …
Humiliating the audience.
Exactly why clowns do it is no mystery at all. They do it because they can do it, because they are allowed to do it, because they can get away with doing it. And they get away with doing it because they wear red noses and silly costumes which make them look ridiculous, make them look like fools, and so people let them get away with doing it – people who would otherwise beat the living life out of anyone else who dared to humiliate them – allow clowns do it.
Which serves them right, really.
But still makes it a terrible thing.
The all-green, but for the red nose, rubber clown began to move amongst the audience. He frolicked up and down the aisles. Here he mocked the leaky over-stuffed seams of a plump rag doll, and there he drew attention to a hint of rust upon the shoulder of a clockwork postman. And over there he scorned a teddy’s moth-eaten ear. And right at the back he made light of a wooden soldier’s woodworm holes.
The audience laughed, as an audience will, as a detached sum of its individually wounded parts. That’s life. But it’s not very nice.
‘This is foul,’ said Jack.
The crew pig glared at him.
Jack caught the green clown’s attention and the green clown came over to Jack.
‘Well well well,’ said the green clown, grinning hugely at Jack. ‘What do we have here? I love the coat, are you wearing it for a dare?’
The audience laughed. Jack curled his lip.
‘And is this your little bear?’ The green clown beamed at Eddie.
Jack beckoned the green clown close and whispered certain cautionary words into his green rubber ear.
The green clown stiffened. ‘So, on with the show,’ he said. ‘Clockworks, stuffed a
nd toy folk generally, allow me to introduce your hostess. The one, the only, Toy City’s favourite Miss. Here she is. Heeeeeeere’s Missy.’
The controller bawled instructions, overhead lights swung, focused and shone.
The clockwork orchestra struck up music.
And she made her entrance.
‘The one. The only. Miss Muffett.
‘Applause!’ shouted the green clown.
And applause there was.
Jack turned his eyes towards the spotlit entrance of the Miss, but his view was immediately obstructed by a clockwork cameraman.
He ducked his head this way and that. And then Jack saw her: Miss Muffett.
Jack’s jaw fell and his eyes became wide.
‘What is that?’ he asked.
19
If Jack had held to any religious beliefs, he might well have said that Miss Muffett was a sight to stagger the senses of the Gods.
But, as he was an atheist, he espoused no such claims. Instead he simply followed the words ‘What is that?’ with a single word.
And that single word was ‘Wowser!’
‘Wowser?’ Eddie asked. ‘What’s Wowser?’
‘Wowser,’ Jack went once more. ‘She is Wowser. She. Well. Wowser. She is.’
Eddie gazed upon Miss Muffett. ‘Wowser?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘That would probably do it.’
And it probably would.
From her tippy tiptoes to her tinted topknot, Miss Muffett was wonderfully wowser. She was wonderfully wowser to all points of the compass, and probably some others too.
She was remarkably wonderfully wowser, in fact.
Worryingly wowser.
As Jack viewed Miss Muffett, the wowser word came once more to his lips; Jack swallowed it back. What was so wonderfully wowser about this woman? he wondered.
Was it the hair?
Miss Muffett had the big hair of the famous.
It is a fact well known to those who know it well, and anyone in fact who ever watches TV, or goes to the movies, that although the fabulously famous may ultimately not end up always possessing big hair, they almost certainly began with it.
Big hair is a prerequisite. It is a given, as is big face and small body. It is a requirement when it comes to richness and famousness. Choose your favourite star of stage or screen; they will inevitably have had their big hair days.
Miss Muffett was currently having hers. Her hair was huge; it was blonde and it was huge. It outhuged the dollies in the lobby portraits. It went every-which-way, and every-which-way-hair is unashamedly erotic.
Curiously, bald heads on women are similarly erotic, but they’re not nearly so much fun as big-haired heads. You can really get your hands into big-haired heads. And blondie big-haired heads …
Well …
Wowser!
Miss Muffett’s eyes were big and blue. Her nose was tiny. Her mouth was full and wide. Slender was her neck and narrow her shoulders. Large and well-formed were her breasts, and her waist was as of the wasp. Her hips were the hips of a Goddess. Her low-necked gown, a sheath of shimmering stars. Her legs, as long as they were, and they were, were made to seem much longer by the lengthy heels upon her wowsery shoes.
And so on and so forth and such like. Da de da de da.
‘She’s certainly something,’ said Eddie.
‘I hate her,’ said Jack.
‘What?’
‘That’s not how it should be.’ The beady eyes of the crew pig were once more upon Jack, and so Jack whispered to Eddie. ‘That’s not how it should be,’ he said once more.
‘Not what?’ Eddie asked.
‘Not how a woman should be.’
‘And you, a mere stripling of a lad, know how a woman should be?’
Thoughts of Jill from Madame Goose’s returned to Jack. Not that they had ever been much away. Jill was, young as she was, the way a woman should be; in fact, she was everything that a woman should be, in Jack’s admittedly somewhat limited opinion. Miss Muffett’s beauty was there. It was definitely there. It was amazingly, wowseringly there. But it was too much. It was extreme. It was wowser, yes, but it was worryingly wowser.
‘You can’t look like that,’ Jack whispered. ‘Not really. It’s too much. Do you know what I mean, Eddie? It’s too much. It makes me feel uncomfortable.’
Eddie grinned, but he said nothing.
A single spotlight illuminated Miss Muffett. ‘ ’Allo loves,’ she said in a deep and husky tone. ‘Welcome to The Tuffet. Today we shall be dealing with the sensitive subject of interracial relationships. Can a fuzzy felt mouse find happiness with a wooden kangaroo? Can a teddy bear truly know love in clockwork arms?’
‘Not if it’s me and Tinto,’ sniggered Eddie.
‘Shut it!’ snarled the crew pig.
‘Can a big fat pug-ugly rubber dancing doll with bad dress sense and a small moustache really want to marry the worm-eaten wooden chef from Nadine’s Diner?’
Jack shrugged.
‘Search me,’ said Eddie. ‘But she’d probably be grateful for anything, by the sound of her.’
‘Very last warning,’ said the crew pig.
‘Let’s ask them,’ said Miss Muffett, ascending the stage and setting her wowseringly wonderful behind onto the central tuffet thereof.
The controller bawled the word ‘Applause’ through the megaphone. And applause there was.
Rude crew pigs ushered the guests onto the stage. One was a big fat pug-ugly dancing doll in a revolting sports-wear suit. The other was a worm-eaten wooden chef.
‘Oh,’ said Jack. ‘It’s him.’
‘Him?’ whispered Eddie, cowering beneath the gaze of the rude crew pig.
‘The first night I was in the city,’ said Jack. ‘I went into a Nadine’s Diner. He was the chef. I thought he was a man in a wooden mask or something.’
‘And I woke you up in the alley outside,’ whispered Eddie.
The big fat pug-ugly dancing doll required two tuffets to sit down upon; rude crew pigs moved them into place. The worm-eaten wooden chef sat down beside her.
Miss Muffett introduced her guests to the audience.
Jack yawned.
‘Tired?’ said Eddie.
‘Short attention span,’ said Jack. ‘We had shows like this on TV in my town. I’m bored already.’
‘Jaded with the glamour of celebrity already,’ said Eddie. ‘The fickleness of youth, eh?’
‘That’s it,’ said the rude crew pig. ‘Out, the pair of you.’
‘I’ve had quite enough of you,’ said Jack. ‘Clear off.’
‘Be quiet,’ said the rude crew pig. ‘Keep your voice down. The show is in progress.’
‘Does this show go out live?’ Jack asked the rude crew pig.
‘It certainly does,’ the pig replied.
‘Then it would be a terrible shame if it were to be interrupted wouldn’t it?’
The rude crew pig made a very foul face at Jack.
‘Interrupted by me throwing you onto the stage and then kicking you all around and about on it.’
Eddie flinched.
The rude crew pig stiffened. ‘Then leave us alone,’ said Jack. ‘Or I will make a great deal of noise and cause a great deal of trouble.’
‘Just keep it down.’ The rude crew pig made a very worried face.
‘Go away. Or else.’
The rude crew pig took a tottering step or two up the aisle.
‘Away,’ counselled Jack. ‘Hurry up now; I suffer from a rare medical condition which manifests itself in acts of extreme violence when I find myself put under stress.’
The rude crew pig departed hurriedly.
‘Well done,’ said Eddie. ‘Most authoritative. Most assertive.’
‘Let’s go and find Little Tommy Tucker,’ said Jack.
‘I can’t believe you,’ said Eddie. ‘We’re here in a TV studio. Watching the Miss Muffett show live. And …’
‘It’s rubbish,’ said Jack. ‘It’s all rubbish. The rude crew pigs, t
he insulting clown, this patronising woman: it’s excruciating.’
‘That’s entertainment,’ said Eddie, in a singsong kind of a way.
‘Well, I can’t be having with it. Let’s find Little Tommy Tucker.’
‘He’ll be on soon,’ Eddie cuffed Jack on the arm. ‘Behave yourself and be patient. You’re a very naughty boy.’
Jack stifled a large guffaw and directed his attention once more to the stage.
‘Good boy,’ said Eddie.
‘So tell me, Chardonnay,’ said Miss Muffett to the big fat pug-ugly dancing doll, ‘what it is that you see in Garth?’
Garth, the worm-eaten wooden chef, reached out a wooden hand and squeezed the podgy mitt of Chardonnay.
‘He’s very sensitive,’ said Chardonnay.
‘How nice,’ said Missy.
‘And he does all the cooking and he smells very nice. He has this lovely piney fragrance. Go on, give him a sniff.’
Miss Muffett leaned towards Garth and gave him a sniff. ‘Piney, with a touch of cooking lard,’ she said.
‘And when he gets wood, he keeps it,’ said Chardonnay.
‘Excuse me?’ said Miss Muffett.
‘I’m talking about his penis,’ said Chardonnay. ‘When he gets an erection, it’s like a forest oak. A mighty pine. A giant redwood. A great shaft of thrusting timber. A—’
‘A big log-on?’ asked Miss Muffett. ‘What about your social life? How have your friends taken to your relationship?’
‘Mine are all for it,’ said Garth. ‘My mates say, “Go on my son, get in there.” ’
‘And so they should.’ Miss Muffett smiled a mouthload of perfect teeth. ‘But what I mean is in terms of social intercourse.’
‘If you’re having intercourse,’ said Garth, ‘who needs to socialise?’
‘How true,’ said Miss Muffett. ‘Someone once asked me whether I liked All-In Wrestling. I replied, if it’s all in, why wrestle?’
The audience erupted into laughter.
‘Excruciating,’ said Jack. ‘I really hate her.’
‘I think she’s fun,’ said Eddie. ‘And dirty, of course, and I do like dirty, me.’
‘Well, I don’t. This show is gross. It’s all gross.’
‘So,’ said Miss Muffett, ‘do either of you have parents and if so, how have they reacted to your relationship?’
The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse Page 20