Once upon a time two rising owl pop stars, Michael Owl and Owla Jackson, were driving in their tour bus around West Yorkshire. They had just finished a few dates in and around Manchester and they steadily found themselves approaching Pontefract, where nary a soul was located. It was quite dark now because people who aren’t famous have to utilise the dark. The driver of the small van stopped because the fog that was gathering was getting too thick and anyway they needed some more petrol. He upped and left poor Michael and Owla in the disturbing, creepy street surrounded by danger.
“Get out and have a look will you,” said Michael, now realising his sentence was actually a question, “there must be somewhere we can go for a drink or something around here.” Owla, still dressed in the clothes from the night before but still looking stunning hooted, “I will do Michael but only if you tell me if there is anything fishy going on outside that I can see.” So Owla climbed down from the van and slowly walked around. Her tiny torch barely lit further than her wingspan. Just then a terribly loud noise was heard; thankfully it was just Michael tapping on the window. “Can you get me a Twix if you find a corner shop, cheers,” he whistled through the small crack in the door.
Suddenly another terribly loud noise was heard and this time not from the van. The fog parted a little and Owla could see an army of zombies parading through the streets of Pontefract. She ran back to the bus but Michael wouldn’t let her on. “Let me in you dick,” she screamed frantically trying to barge her way in. “Not without my Twix you’re not, you think I like this taste in my mouth?” With no other options Owla ran into the forest that was conveniently placed on the side of the road. Inside she felt slightly more protected but it was only a matter of time before the zombies approached. They could smell her fear and the pancakes she had eaten for lunch. The trees seemed to be suffocating her, drawing life from her, she wanted to run yet she couldn’t. On the verge of fainting Owla was drawn towards the peculiar sight of a medium-sized unicorn riding towards her. She thought it was a the oxygen being cut off from her brain; she was wrong.
“Owla Jackson! Well I never, fancy seeing you here,” said the unicorn, “I am your biggest fan did you know that?” Owla dusted herself down as the unicorn had brought a surprising amount of powered soil to that particular section of the woods. “My name is Uni. I came out because I heard the zombies were out showing off again.”
“You know about the zombies? Please, you have to tell me how to defeat them,” spluttered Owla. The unicorn took a short breath looking a little nervous. She coughed and shuffled backwards. “I do know of a way to beat them and I can help you, especially considering you’re a celebrity and all that. It’s a secret though and you have to promise you’ll keep it to yourself.”
“Of course I will,” said Owla, fully intending to keep the information to herself and only using it when necessary. “Zombies loves techno music, so much so that if you play it to them they cannot help but dance and then bugger off home. It’s great. That’s how I usually clear the area.” Owla smiled a huge smile and hugged the unicorn, to which she blushed. This was hidden beneath the layers of dense mist and acorns of black. They looked at each other with a sense of purpose and walked back towards the street.
The zombies hadn’t shuffled much from where they were. Owla turned to the unicorn, “okay, you’re on, but if you need any help you just let me know.” The unicorn nodded and whipped out her microphone and decks. “Okay now it’s time for a Pontefract party, we’re living it up like homeless kitties in a pasteurising plant. Can you hear me over in the corner!” The zombies stopped momentarily and groaned. “I’ll take that as a yes… HIT IT!” The unicorn then launched into the most mesmerising song that Owla had ever heard. Michael Owl, still hiding in the van, pressed his face to the windscreen as the music lifted through the air and cherished every moment.
“OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA!”
The song lasted an hour. After sixty minutes there was a pause, and Owla walked over to the unicorn. “Are you okay unicorn, it’s just that you’ve been working for a long time and…
“OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA!”
Another hour passed. Owla Jackson sat on the kerb and chewed the inside of her mouth. Another pause came after the second set of sixty minutes. Owla wasn’t taken in and refused to go over but then, seeing that this actually might be the end of the song, got up and…
“OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA!”
After three hours the zombies had pulled so many shapes that they were tired and needed to go home for a nap. Owla stood up and hobbled over to the unicorn also feeling very sluggish. “Are you okay unicorn?” she asked half-asleep. The unicorn stared back with intense eyes, “that was the best moment of my life, Owla Jackson!” Deep down Owla was thinking that the best moment of the unicorn’s life was way, way longer than a moment however these semantics could wait. The unicorn was happy, the zombies had dispersed and just that moment the driver of the van came back clutching a thing full of petrol.
Owla gave the unicorn a signed photo as a thank you for her gracious act. “What time are you playing tonight?” asked the unicorn. “I think we’re on at 7pm and I hope that I will see you there,” said Owla with a wink. The unicorn laughed heartily like a pirate and ran off into the forest. Owla headed back and sat in the van next to Michael, who had fallen asleep after the first hour of the unicorn’s song. “What should we do now, Owla?” he asked. Owla thought long and hard and as the van drove away she said, “we should drive away in the van.”
The End.
August 7th, 2011
Ian
It’s been a while since the last Logical Dreamscape, so you’d expect my subconscious to come back with a belter. Belter is quite a strong word though. Something more apt would probably be, “uh uhhhhhhh huh ah” because let’s face it nothing will ever top the Rachel Stevens dream.
Me, Kev and Marshall are stood in the lobby of a reasonable tall building. We’re all running around like giddy children. When the lift comes down however I’m the only one who gets in; both Kev and Marshall wait for the next one. The lift I’m in is far too small for me so I have to lean over to one side which hurts my neck. Everyone else in the lift is dressed in ballroom attire, all huge gowns and suits and top hats. How a top hat fit into such a small space I’ll never know.
Eventually I reach the floor and get out. It’s a flat where Chris lives but it looks nothing like where he actually lives. It’s one of those studio apartments with only a tiny toilet. All the walls are still painted white. There’s a modest kitchen in the bottom left-hand corner and the living room is in the top left. We all go into the flat. I remark that it must be very handy have a Tesco so close to where he lives. Both Kev and Marshall look at me confused. When we look across to where the kitchen was there is a checkout and a queue of people waiting to buy their shopping. Instead of regular shopping the only items available are bits of clothing and equipment from the emergency services, such as a police riot helmet and a fire extinguisher.
We decide to leave. I almost fall through a hole in the sink but use a scouring pad to save myself.
What does it all mean?!?
August 3rd, 2011
Ian
If, like me, you enjoy live music then you will be drawn to places where live music is being played. The size of the venue may differ. The price of the tickets will slide up and down depending on who you’re seeing. There is a constant that remains though wherever you go and whoever you’re with. With live music comes the gig stereotypes. There are many different types that you will come across but for your benefit the main offenders are listed below for your pleasure:
1. Smoochy Couple – so you’re trying to watch and the couple stood immediately in front of you from the point where the band or the artist comes onto the stage right up to the end will slosh and swoon and swap saliva for the entire duration. They’re not there for the music; they’re there to piss you off. If they wanted to sit in the dark they could have saved money and stood in the alley round the back. I might suggest this the next time it happens.
2. Mr Trendoid – he has crap hair, a striped t-shirt and tight jeans on. He will cop off with the most attractive woman in the room. He may even have arranged the gig itself. In a perfect world he would have been glassed on the way in.
3. KERAZY Girls – giddy, young, reeking of perfume and looking like, bless, prototype French prostitutes, these brazen, bronzed and buxom ladies will gather together in large groups within your field of vision. They are the most excited people in the room even though a lot of the time they don’t have a clue who it is they have come to see. It doesn’t matter; they’re there to be seen not to see. It’s the trendiferous factor. They’ve heard of Band A from their clueless friends or read about Band A in NME and, noticing they’re playing soon, purchase tickets. They fling their arms about and push their way to front. Hell, they may even be willing to drop on their knees and offer a blowie. Who knows.
4. Talkative Friends – nobody is expecting you to stay silent like a nun the whole time you’re there, but you will come across two friends who, probably stood just to the side of the smoochy couple, will chat constantly. You will half hear their conversation whilst the band stops one song and starts another. Their heads will duck back and forth, desperate to share something that clearly couldn’t wait until the end of the encore. Occasionally they’ll both laugh, neither one taking in what is happening right in front of them. Their persistence, whilst admirable initially, makes you want to punch them even more after five minutes.
You can’t change anything. No matter what you do they will turn up and they will try to ruin your life. My only advice is to learn to embrace their foibles and accidentally knock their drink over when they’re too drunk to notice.
August 2nd, 2011
Ian
So you think you’re safe do you? You think you can handle this harsh, load-bearing world do you? Think you’re up to the test?
Most people in response to this question wouldn’t have been able to muster an answer; they would have fallen down onto their knees and cried into their lunch. Why they would be eating their lunch this late is anyone’s guess. The fact is that we all want to be tough and pretend to be tough but we’re not. What you need is someone watching your back and ding dang doodle noodle if that person isn’t yourself!
Yes. You are the best person to leap to your defence when you run into some trouble. So what will you use? Anything with a point will be confiscated from you as soon as you try to leave your house. You need something a little more nondescript, something that will blend in. Food is a good start, but which? Swordfish is too obvious. Eggs will sting but won’t hold back those would-be should-be probably-are attackers.
We start with the training wheels; Chupa Chups Lollies. Now I know what you’re thinking and yes, it is hard to cope with the stunning mix of looks and charm and wide legs. Lollies are a perfect weapon. Take your hand and open the fingers then insert the round end of a Chupa Chups lolly between the fingers and close. Three instruments of pain are now yours to wield. Don’t bother using the stick ends because they’ll bend too easily. Smack someone in the face or arse or groin with those beauties and they won’t be getting up for breakfast.
Clap your hands. Lesson one over.
July 25th, 2011
Ian
I have installed an app on my mobile electrical blower called Blogpress which allows me to post things like this to Da Beans without having to visit the website.
So now – even while on the omnibus or while browsing Woolworths or something, I can post things here.
You can, I’m sure, imagine my excitement. Please detail how you imagined my excitement.
July 24th, 2011
Chris
Once upon a time there was a lonely old man who lived on a planet all by himself. He would wander the vast sparse landscapes collecting pieces of wrecked star ships and other erroneous metals that littered the floor. By the time the man reached fifty he had a grand total of two thousand tonnes of metal. It was then that he decided he would use some of the metal to build a warehouse to put the rest of the metal in. With only his crude work tools after several weeks the warehouse stood aloft for all the bottom-feeding stench maggots to see, that is if they were less concerned about the tasty, tasty algae used to make stews and sandwiches. The man was surprised he had the strength and the skills to make such a thing, and then wondered what else he could make.
First came the more practical items, such as a sprinkler system, a flagpole and a bath mat. Next, more throwaway devices such as an all-terrain Jeep, a pair of tap-dancing shoes and some pelican bullets. After slogging away for a year the man stood back again to gaze on everything he had built, and there was plenty to see. The most intriguing was a robot he had put together in his free time in-between plenty of moments of soul-searching and bouts of madness. It had arms and legs, a head and limbs, and all that. He hadn’t managed to make it work though and so it stood motionless behind the riot gear and the foot massager.
(to be continued)
July 19th, 2011
Ian
The Seedy Garage is almost four years old. For those waiting for the paperback to come back into print here’s a copy of the very first post back in the good old days of MySpace:
‘Welcome to the Seedy Garage, the place for all the weirdest and dodgiest things imaginable. Well, perhaps that’s a bit of an overstatement. We’ve got weird sh*t to blow your mind. Don’t expect anything too risque though, this is being written on a computer being monitored by like fifty or so IT people. It’s not as if we can get away with just anything.
First up is the bizarre world of Crane Toad Racing. We found a couple of crane toads hidden under a large stack of Beanos. We asked them if they found them funny and proceeded to explain that they hadn’t been tempted once. And they were sat there for six years. They were totally missing out; Rodger the Dodger is a genius.
Crane Toad Racing comes from Australia I do believe, where I have been readily informed by two close friends that it is a dull place. Obviously this may be why racing amphilibans takes place. The two roads went into great detail about the kinds of races, their long and illustrious careers and the thrill of winning. It was a marvel to behold. It was worthing of some sort of TV movie starring Dennis Franz, it really was. There’s not enough time to go into all that though. We invited the toads to stay but they made excuses about meeting with a self-help group run by two otters and a bullfinch in Birmingham and then promptly disappeared. Luckily the Seedy Garage is chocked full of wonders and we can afford to let them go. They’ll be back. They always come back…’
July 18th, 2011
Ian
Dear Mr Mclever
Letters of praise are always good to receive, so thank you for taking the time to let us know how much you enjoyed Terrys Chocolate Orange.
We do our best to maintain a consistently high quality for all our products and it’s great to receive such appreciative comments about them.
Thanks again for writing.
Kraft Foods
So let’s review: they got my name wrong, it took about two weeks to reply and they didn’t really address the questions I asked. I am not in this for material gain and the absence of any vouchers etc does not come into it. Sigh, I am sorry Kraft but despite your enthusiastic response you shoot straight to number 5 in the chart.
Where will we go next? Pass me a map and several pins.
July 15th, 2011
Ian
I have been told to make a return to Da Beans. So here I am, making a return. I am returning.
I can now add this thing to the list of things I have been told to do. This includes:
- Tidy my room
- Be quiet
- Stop making that face
- Don’t do that
- Please don’t do that
- Stop touching me
- Get your finger out of my drink
- Don’t talk about that any more
- Go sit quietly over there
I have not been told to insert a picture of a dog riding a bicycle, but I am choosing to do this of my own accord, and you can’t stop me.
July 11th, 2011
Chris
This month Des’ree turns her attention to another desperate and unfufilled barney. We are sorry for the absence of her presence the previous months but there was a few legal issues we were ironing out. She’s back mind, with a grin and a shaky hand. This time Sheila Penzance needs her ivories tinkling:
Sheila Penzance: Dear Des’ree, I know that you are a woman of the world so I know I can come to you with whatever batzoid mental query I might have. I was going to say that you’ve been around the houses however that’s too much of a cliche. Let’s be blunt; I am sexually aroused by sewers. Ever since I was a teenager I couldn’t help but feel a tingle in my tringle when walking past a manhole (how ironic a name). Now, aged 35, it hasn’t gone away. It got so bad once when stood at a bus stop, and the bus was delayed by thirty minutes, and I was right next to a sewer grate, and I felt hot and my heart was racing and… I won’t go into too much detail. Can you please help me to sort my head out? I told a priest at confession one time and they were still laughing a week later. I am a mess and only you can help.
Des’ree: Life, oh life, oh life, oh life.
Helping others really gives me a good vibe you couldn’t dent with a two by four. We are glad to hear from you Ms Penzance; hopefully you are on the swooping path of normality.
And for the love of kolobok, if anyone tries to tell you that Buddy Holly wasn’t born in Lubbock, Texas pock them in the eyes with a fishfinger.
July 8th, 2011
Ian
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