Post by unomusette on Aug 27, 2015 21:15:32 GMT
...and then there was...nothing. Well, I had a lot ON!
But now, only a mere 8 months later, it's here. Don't get too excited, the entertainment value probably doesn't reflect the epic gestation period But of course, it's all part of the true chronicles of the Aviator Wearing Ninja Groupies and our endless struggle to keep the Lord Dame safe, sound and looking snappy. And, of course, to keep him entertained
Let's go!
The sun is lashing down, sales of organic ice cream are booming and the beaches are packed with beautiful people showing off on surfboards, yes it's February in California.
At Bungalow Palace there is still a holiday atmosphere, even though Christmas was ages ago and Easter just a pair of bunny ears on the horizon. The Lord Dame Genius himself is relaxing in the hot tub whilst the ghosts of long dead rock stars and an olde englishe king come in and out of focus - the poor dear simply thinks it's the result of too many pork pies and pickled eggs, we of course know better.
BSJ and unomusette are in the kitchen discussing housekeeping in a calm and quite polite way, with only minimal shouting and throwing of missiles.
"I think two crates of Eye Wateringly Electric Blue and a gallon of Luminous Pink top coat is the least we should order, there's no point bothering at all otherwise" says BSJ " 'Specially in this hot weather, just climbing the stairs to the boudoir works up a sweat"
unomusette nods and scribbles busily on the order form. She really doesn't need to wear the horn rimmed aviators and have her hair pinned up, but having been delegated form-filling duties by her ninja twin she's making the most of the role. She frowns.
"Says here you have to provide ID and a sample of DNA to buy more than 10mil of Luminous Pink, something to do with the radioactive content"
BSJ stamps both her feet and scowls. "What? Are you making this up just to annoy me? I can't HAVE this!" she rants. Ever seen someone kick a cabbage? Well, BSJ kicks one twice as far. Lesser mortals would quail in the face of such petulance, but unomusette just fixes her twin with a stern look and waves the paper dramatically.
"Keep your knickers on, it's not MY fault" she retorts, "It's this order form, it's lost the plot. Whoever heard of having to give your fingerprints just to buy Extra Sparkly Length Enhancing Gel? I reckon this new management at the Depository knows nothing about supplying the needs of the glamorous rock god"
BSJ narrows her eyes. All the plates rattle on the shelves.
"New management?" she hisses "Since when?"
"Since I told you all about it on Christmas Eve? Whilst you and Damey were...ah, maybe you had your mind on other things just then"
Both ninjas snicker together for a while at the memory. The Lord Dame had been quite reluctant to get into the Santa costume but had soon seen the benefits of festive role play. Fred was still vaccuming glitter from the most unlikely places around the lounge. And the cupboard under the stairs. And the...
"Get that soppy grin off your face and remind me again, Welshie, what's going on up at the Depository?" BSJ is trying to be businesslike but can't quite remove her own smirk.
unomusette rifles through the File of Fun, produces a press release from the Eyeliner & Mascara & Stenciling Provision Depository and reads from it aloud:
""Dear Valued Customer and Music Legend,
The Depository is pleased to announce that new management will be taking over in 2015, following a very generous takeover bid from a mysterious and wealthy individual. Owing to his considerable experience at the top level of international rock stardom, he has exciting new ideas about the formulation of our products, which we are sure can only enhance your customer satisfaction.
Wishing you a most pleasant future as you enjoy the Depository's new ranges, just as we, the former proprietors, are enjoying the proceeds of this exchange.
Kind Regards and Best Wishes from Grand Cayman
Tarquin, Elvis and Thor""
unomusette puts the paper down and waggles her eyebrows helpfully. BSJ scowls before slamming her hands down on the table.
"New ranges?" she shouts, "What use are they, we KNOW what we like and we don't want it messed with! Who is this loon?" unomusette sighs.
"Nobody knows, see, it says "mysterious" doesn't it?" she explains patiently. "But I do know they've made it dead hard to order the old stuff and they're practically giving away the new stuff, what's that all about?"
BSJ is momentarily confused at being asked a question, having become used to issuing demands, but soon reassumes control.
"Giving it away? Why aren't we ordering it then?" she enquires, jabbing her fingers at the order form, "Times is hard for the mature rock god producer genius after all"
"All the new products sound like rubbish, nothing sparkly or luminous or radioactive or anything," says unomusette, "I mean, would we be interested in Lukewarm Beige, Boiled Buttermilk, Cornflour Compote, Nutmeg Skin or Steamed, Lumpy and Sickly?"
"Isn't that last one the law firm who tried to put a restraining order on us?" wonders BSJ
"Nope, that was Raptor, Raptor and Darling," unomusette reminds her, "And they won't be bothering us again, too busy getting robot laser beam scorch marks out of their briefs". More conspiratorial sniggerings follow this delightful memory. BSJ is, as ever, the first to regain her composure.
"Y'know, there's something about these new products that sounds familiar," she says thoughtfully, "What do you reckon?"
**
Down at the hot tub Lucyfer is doggie paddling around the perimeter, chasing off the cheeky ghost of Marc Bolan who is trying to edge up to the Lord Dame for a spot of astral connection.
"Give it a rest, Bolan, let him kip in peace" The ghost of George Harrison levitates across in the lotus position and pokes Bolan away with his spectral sitar
"Aaaowww, I only want to inspire him to re-release Ma..."
"Manhattan Rumble? Mama? Marston Moor? Malcolm the Moo Cow Mops up Manchester?" George has his sarcastic head on today. "Get lost, yer screechy voice is making me moustache go all frizzy, ommmm"
There is a flurry of affronted corkscrew hair as Bolan flounces off. This is only spoiled by the way he rebounds off the armour of Henry VIII as he stands in classic legs-apart-hands-on-hips pose, surveying the grounds of Bungalow Palace with a regal air. Cursing squeakily, Bolan blinks out and is replaced by the very cool shade of John Lennon. Pausing only to steal Henry's velvet hat, Lennon zooms over to George and yells in his ear.
"I TOLD yer it was a stupid idea, Harrison! H through K and all the other flippin' letters!"
George snaps out of his meditation and plays the bemused card. "Eh?" he yelps.
"No, not "Eh", H through K!" Lennon is agitated and flings the hat into the tub, where it lands on Lucyfer making her look somewhat like Gwyneth Paltrow in a velvet hat. "It was YOUR idea!" George grabs Lennon by the lapels of his white satin shroud and glares at him from inches away.
"Now, as yer know, I'm a very peeeeceful person," he drawls scouse-ily, "But if things don't start making sense I'll have to get Kingy over there to get all Anne Boleyn on yer 'ead" Lennon sighs and spots the Hip Hop Robot who is innocently removing squirrels from the picnic area by means of a high pressure hose. Using his ghostly powers of propulsion he causes himself and George to reappear right next to him; if robots had eyebrows, Hip Hop's would have registered a big 10.5 on the Suprised Scale. Lennon wriggles free and taps the screen on Hip Hop's tummy area.
"Show us the film from the palace, metal boy, and there's a nice sesh with a fluffy cloth and extra polish in it for ya" he wheedles. Steam erupts from both of Hip Hop's earholes, there is a clattering as the relevant film is retrieved and suddenly the whole episode following Damey's triumphant Hyde Park concert is rolling out on screen. "Skip to the end, if y' please, the last few minutes"
It really is quite disconcerting to see the chaotic scenes fast forwarding, there is a lot of arm waving, fur flying and Macca's worried face popping up at intervals. Then it slows as Ringo's trolley appears, and the phantom Beatles are able to view the epilogue.....
It's a scene that makes the invention of the words "Pandemonium", "Uproar", "Utter Confusion" and "Eye Watering Insurance Claim" well worthwhile.
For a start the throne room was never intended to hold quite so many lively people, not to mention maddened four-legged creatures, cups of tea, robots with badly aimed lances and sandwich carts with toxic cargo. A hefty amount of antiquities are now very expensive dust and the residual hip-hop steam is loosening the paint from several priceless old masters, not to mention the Midnight Black from a certain pair of brummie lashes.
"It was all going really well until that guy turned up," grumbles Macca, draining his styrofoam cup and swivelling his eyes in Bev Bevan's direction. The Queen wears a face like thunder as he pats her shoulder chummily and she lists in her mind all the ways she could execute him. Just then, there is the universal ping of "Text Message Received" and everyone rummages to see if it's their phone. Except for BSJ and unomusette of course, who are combining forces to reinstate Damey's flawless look, and Fred the robot who is also a telephone anyway.
An audible gasp is heard from the corner where Bevan was last seen - he is still there and staring at his phone. The neon screen illuminates his face from beneath, making his expression doubly unsettling as it transforms from Defeat to Shock to Wicked Scheming. Straight away the ninja groupies adjust their aviators and form an impenetrable snarky barrier in front of the Lord Dame, who is blinking stickily but rather becomingly. Macca tries to get under the Queen's robe - fat chance, No Clue! She boots him back under the table. Goal!
But what's this? With what can only be described as an evil cackle, Bevan is up and hot-footing it away, elbowing Ringo into the hot dog buns and shoving debris aside in his haste to escape....
Because they are already dead, Johnny and George can clearly see themselves grinning and shaking hands near the ceiling whilst the epic clear-up begins. They've rid the righteous of Custard Face and are feeling pretty darned smug. Back in the here and now, George is puzzled.
"What's the problem, our kid? We made him leave and nobody's heard of him since, putting that message on his phone was a genius idea," says he. "Plan H, hack his texts, Plan I, invent a wealthy dead relative who's left him squillions, Plan J, jingle his phone to get his attention, Plan K, Kapow! He rushes off to claim his phantom inheritance, amazing!" George beams at the memory.
"Yeah, but the problem is, somebody forgot to stop and Plan L happened too," sighs Johnny. George isn't too pleased at the tone of this, and begins rehearsing cutting replies whilst Lennon taps at the screen once more. Suddenly there appears one of those whirly shots of newspapers, spinning madly before the headlines are revealed.
"FINANCIAL TIMES EXCLUSIVE!! WEALTHY AND MYSTERIOUS PERSON PAYS THREE TIMES THE MARKET VALUE FOR KIPPER'S CUSTARD FACTORY (STICKIEST CUSTARD IN THE NORTH WEST SINCE 1866)!!!"
"YET ANOTHER SCOOP FOR THE FINANCIAL TIMES!! KIPPER'S CUSTARD FACTORY'S MYSTERIOUS NEW OWNER IN SUCCESSFUL TAKEOVER BID FOR OBSCURE US COSMETICS DEPOSITORY WITH CRAZY INFLATED VALUATION!!!"
"JUDGEMENT OF MYSTERIOUS AND WEALTHY PERSON CALLED INTO QUESTION AS THEY REFUSE TO BUY THE FINANCIAL TIMES FOR ONLY TWICE ITS VALUE!!!"
"But..I don't understand," bleats George, "How's this my fault?"
"Plan L, that's what," retorts Lennon "Leaving Loads of Loot in Bevan's bank account"
"Well it's not REAL money, is it? Had to make it look convincing - us spectral beings're all over this virtual stuff, it was dead easy" If George is expecting praise it ain't coming.
"Yeah, convincing enough to write some massive cheques, by the time the truth comes out Bevan can have gotten up to all sorts of tricks, yer big numpty!"
Across the lawn, from the depths of Bungalow Palace, there is a low rumbling. Three birds fall out of a tree overhanging the hot tub, land in Damey's hair and start fighting over residency. Is it an earthquake? Is it that blocked plughole finally giving way? Is it the end of the world? It soon might be. Because the ninja groupies have been putting two and two together and coming up with Trouble.
"THE DEPOSITORY!!! HIJACKED BY THE CUSTARD KING!! IT MUST BE HIM!!!"
"BEVAAAAANNNNN!!!"
"NOOOOOOOO!!!!"
"WHAT'S HE UP TO? IT WON'T BE GOOD!!"
"IT'LL BE DISASTROUS!!"
"AND VERY STICKY INDEED!!!"
"AAAAAARRRRGHHHH!!"
**
Picture an industrial park, in a distant corner of the country. Isolated from the more conventional factories is one of those disney-like castles, with a moat, a drawbridge and too many turrets for its own good. Add some steam-belching chimneys, a tarmac yard and a barbed wire fence and you're looking at the Eyeliner & Mascara & Stenciling Provision Depository. Outside, crates of merchandise are being packed on to trucks for dispatch whilst others are being unloaded and taken inside. Some of them are labelled "Returned, Unfit for Purpose" - these contain cosmetics with names like "Boiled Beauty","Sugary, Sludgy and Stylish" and "Yellow-rama".
In the topmost turret, surrounded by screens monitoring the entire building, is a chair. A swivel chair. A chair no despotic tyrant could resist due to its banks of built in switches, heated massage panels and removable zebra print upholstery. No prizes for guessing who occupies this chair, surveying his empire and scheming the downfall of his enemy. He finishes his elevensie's banana custard shake (with extra custard) with a horrid sucking noise, presses a switch and addresses himself to a microphone which appears from the arm of the chair.
"Continuing dictation of 'My Totally Unfair Life, My Oppression, My Ultimate Triumph - The Memoirs of an Unsung Genius' " intones Bev Bevan, Esq. (for of course, it is he, The Custard King, wearing an insufferably smug face and sporting rather ill-advised lycra)
"..and so, by skilful use of my rightful fortune, I perfected the means to finally erase the man whose paltry talents would never have gained him recognition without my masterful drumming, unmatchable backing vocals and searing audience addresses. For far too long he'd mocked me from afar with his celebrity friends, California lifestyle and legions of misguided fans. His indulgence in questionable recreational activities would be his downfall, and I myself would introduce him to the inevitable result of his decadence!"
Pausing to strike a thoughtful pose, finger upon cheek and opposite eyebrow raised, he surveys the scene in the nearest monitor screen which is mostly occupied by a giant bubbling cauldron. The aroma of the resulting steam is quite frankly face melting, so it's lucky that nothing with an actual face is anywhere nearby. This is probably due to the abundance of yellow signs which warn "DANGER! RADIOACTIVITY" At intervals a hooter sounds, red lights flash and a hatch above the cauldron drops a tide of custard powder into the whole unhappy mess. Giant paddles persuade the mixture into a smooth goo, then the cauldron tips up and the contents slither into a moving stream which makes off into the bowels of the factory. Smirking as this monstrosity unfolds, Bevan continues dictating:
"With my extensive dairy knowledge, I firstly concocted a range of enhanced eyeliners and mascaras, made inifinitely better in my opinion by the addition of various vanilla-based milk products. But...ahahahahahahaaaaa! This was only a front, to conceal my true goal! If it softened up my sworn enemy in the meantime, so be it! The fact that he never ordered any was a setback to my cunning plan but was I deterred? I was not! For soon I would be bringing to perfection my ultimate weapon, the pinnacle of my life's work and the reason I would soon reign supreme and incidentally own the whole of the ELO name! Justice at last in the Court of the Custard King!"
Indulging in another bout of evil Brummie cackling, Bevan sweeps to his feet and begins strutting regally about the control room. Tossing his mane of hair, he stops before another monitor showing a tiled room with a huge TV screen on the far wall.
"My underworld contacts in the world of illegal robotics enabled me to take delivery of a cutting edge attack model, to be moulded to my will and trained to destroy at my commmand. And she was almost ready to go to work, with just a few more imprinting sessions she would be my invincible weapon, powered by righteous hatred and enhanced custard based nuclear fuel. Truly I am a properly proper genius, not like that bearded poltroon, Lynne"
He patters away at a keyboard and the TV screen in the tiled yard lights up. The words "INITIATE PROGRAMMING SESSION, SUBJECT TO CONNECT IMMEDIATELY" begin flashing in red whilst buzzers sound insistently. From a corner of the yard unseen until now a creature approaches. It looks exactly like a black and white cow. But the way it moves belies its heavy mechanical construction, not to mention the antennae waving atop its head and the sparks which explode at intervals from its tail. It is the tail which plugs into a socket in the wall and prompts the next phase of the programme.
The TV screen begins showing film clips of various musical personalities, and from time to time the face of the Lord Dame Genius Jeff Lynne appears. At these moments the screen splits so that on the un-beardy side words like ENEMY!, DESTROY ON SIGHT! AND EXTERMINATE! flash in various lurid colours, interspersed with footage of cruelty to machinery including springs being stretched until they are just wire, engines being denied oil until they explode and various hapless robots being crushed into cubes then tossed onto a rusting heap of their fellow victims. With each new atrocity the cow-machine shudders and angry jets of steam erupt from its ears. Its whirling eyes take on an increasingly maddened glare and its metal hooves paw deep grooves in the floor.
This torment goes on for a good half hour, during which the unfortunate plugged-in beast is shown in no uncertain terms that Jeff Lynne is very bad news indeed, and the gleeful Custard King revels in what he perceives to be his own brilliant scheme. If he had a moustache he would be twirling the ends into points and there is much hand-rubbing and snickering.
Finally, the film show ends with a montage of Bev Bevan himself in his heyday. As he fills the screen with his red satin stage outfits, enormous drum kits and edge-of-reason sideburns, a pipe below the TV screen gurgles and fills a nearby trough with what looks suspiciously like the contents of the cauldron from earlier. Whatever it is, it's gourmet fare for the subject of the experiment and she is soon enthusiastically sucking up the goo using her rubber lips . Bevan presses another button and speaks again - by the way the animal's ears prick up it is obvious she can hear him
"My precious creation, you have done well today," purrs the villain. "Your hatred of the abominable Lynne is almost at the peak of perfection, as is your devotion to me, your glorious King" The ears dip obediently and the slurping continues.
"But! You must never, ever forget your destiny! I have enlightened you with the truth about our enemy and made you strong and powerful with the very best in custard enhanced fuel. Soon will come your finest hour! You shall vanquish our foe and we will show the world what musical genius really means, mwahahahaaaaa!"
He prods at yet another button and the monitor shows a hatch in the ceiling of the yard open up and drop a life sized mannequin of a bearded man in aviators so that it hangs in the eyeline of the black and white creature. The transformation is instant. Snorting angry drops of radioactive slop, she lowers her horns and charges, trailing sparks from her tail as it wrenches free from the TV socket. Within seconds there is nothing left of the dummy except shreds of fabric and foam filling. The aviators have come to rest atop the beast's head, lending her a holiday jauntiness totally at odds with her glaring red eyes.
The Custard King roars his approval and prances a victory jig all around his command centre. It's a good thing nobody's watching, that lycra jumpsuit is really not at all forgiving on middle age spread.
"Bring on your ninja groupies, your pathetic household robots, your silly little dog and your so-called-self-styled genius, Jeffrey Lynne! None of them can save you from the wrath of the Psycow!"
But now, only a mere 8 months later, it's here. Don't get too excited, the entertainment value probably doesn't reflect the epic gestation period But of course, it's all part of the true chronicles of the Aviator Wearing Ninja Groupies and our endless struggle to keep the Lord Dame safe, sound and looking snappy. And, of course, to keep him entertained
Let's go!
The sun is lashing down, sales of organic ice cream are booming and the beaches are packed with beautiful people showing off on surfboards, yes it's February in California.
At Bungalow Palace there is still a holiday atmosphere, even though Christmas was ages ago and Easter just a pair of bunny ears on the horizon. The Lord Dame Genius himself is relaxing in the hot tub whilst the ghosts of long dead rock stars and an olde englishe king come in and out of focus - the poor dear simply thinks it's the result of too many pork pies and pickled eggs, we of course know better.
BSJ and unomusette are in the kitchen discussing housekeeping in a calm and quite polite way, with only minimal shouting and throwing of missiles.
"I think two crates of Eye Wateringly Electric Blue and a gallon of Luminous Pink top coat is the least we should order, there's no point bothering at all otherwise" says BSJ " 'Specially in this hot weather, just climbing the stairs to the boudoir works up a sweat"
unomusette nods and scribbles busily on the order form. She really doesn't need to wear the horn rimmed aviators and have her hair pinned up, but having been delegated form-filling duties by her ninja twin she's making the most of the role. She frowns.
"Says here you have to provide ID and a sample of DNA to buy more than 10mil of Luminous Pink, something to do with the radioactive content"
BSJ stamps both her feet and scowls. "What? Are you making this up just to annoy me? I can't HAVE this!" she rants. Ever seen someone kick a cabbage? Well, BSJ kicks one twice as far. Lesser mortals would quail in the face of such petulance, but unomusette just fixes her twin with a stern look and waves the paper dramatically.
"Keep your knickers on, it's not MY fault" she retorts, "It's this order form, it's lost the plot. Whoever heard of having to give your fingerprints just to buy Extra Sparkly Length Enhancing Gel? I reckon this new management at the Depository knows nothing about supplying the needs of the glamorous rock god"
BSJ narrows her eyes. All the plates rattle on the shelves.
"New management?" she hisses "Since when?"
"Since I told you all about it on Christmas Eve? Whilst you and Damey were...ah, maybe you had your mind on other things just then"
Both ninjas snicker together for a while at the memory. The Lord Dame had been quite reluctant to get into the Santa costume but had soon seen the benefits of festive role play. Fred was still vaccuming glitter from the most unlikely places around the lounge. And the cupboard under the stairs. And the...
"Get that soppy grin off your face and remind me again, Welshie, what's going on up at the Depository?" BSJ is trying to be businesslike but can't quite remove her own smirk.
unomusette rifles through the File of Fun, produces a press release from the Eyeliner & Mascara & Stenciling Provision Depository and reads from it aloud:
""Dear Valued Customer and Music Legend,
The Depository is pleased to announce that new management will be taking over in 2015, following a very generous takeover bid from a mysterious and wealthy individual. Owing to his considerable experience at the top level of international rock stardom, he has exciting new ideas about the formulation of our products, which we are sure can only enhance your customer satisfaction.
Wishing you a most pleasant future as you enjoy the Depository's new ranges, just as we, the former proprietors, are enjoying the proceeds of this exchange.
Kind Regards and Best Wishes from Grand Cayman
Tarquin, Elvis and Thor""
unomusette puts the paper down and waggles her eyebrows helpfully. BSJ scowls before slamming her hands down on the table.
"New ranges?" she shouts, "What use are they, we KNOW what we like and we don't want it messed with! Who is this loon?" unomusette sighs.
"Nobody knows, see, it says "mysterious" doesn't it?" she explains patiently. "But I do know they've made it dead hard to order the old stuff and they're practically giving away the new stuff, what's that all about?"
BSJ is momentarily confused at being asked a question, having become used to issuing demands, but soon reassumes control.
"Giving it away? Why aren't we ordering it then?" she enquires, jabbing her fingers at the order form, "Times is hard for the mature rock god producer genius after all"
"All the new products sound like rubbish, nothing sparkly or luminous or radioactive or anything," says unomusette, "I mean, would we be interested in Lukewarm Beige, Boiled Buttermilk, Cornflour Compote, Nutmeg Skin or Steamed, Lumpy and Sickly?"
"Isn't that last one the law firm who tried to put a restraining order on us?" wonders BSJ
"Nope, that was Raptor, Raptor and Darling," unomusette reminds her, "And they won't be bothering us again, too busy getting robot laser beam scorch marks out of their briefs". More conspiratorial sniggerings follow this delightful memory. BSJ is, as ever, the first to regain her composure.
"Y'know, there's something about these new products that sounds familiar," she says thoughtfully, "What do you reckon?"
**
Down at the hot tub Lucyfer is doggie paddling around the perimeter, chasing off the cheeky ghost of Marc Bolan who is trying to edge up to the Lord Dame for a spot of astral connection.
"Give it a rest, Bolan, let him kip in peace" The ghost of George Harrison levitates across in the lotus position and pokes Bolan away with his spectral sitar
"Aaaowww, I only want to inspire him to re-release Ma..."
"Manhattan Rumble? Mama? Marston Moor? Malcolm the Moo Cow Mops up Manchester?" George has his sarcastic head on today. "Get lost, yer screechy voice is making me moustache go all frizzy, ommmm"
There is a flurry of affronted corkscrew hair as Bolan flounces off. This is only spoiled by the way he rebounds off the armour of Henry VIII as he stands in classic legs-apart-hands-on-hips pose, surveying the grounds of Bungalow Palace with a regal air. Cursing squeakily, Bolan blinks out and is replaced by the very cool shade of John Lennon. Pausing only to steal Henry's velvet hat, Lennon zooms over to George and yells in his ear.
"I TOLD yer it was a stupid idea, Harrison! H through K and all the other flippin' letters!"
George snaps out of his meditation and plays the bemused card. "Eh?" he yelps.
"No, not "Eh", H through K!" Lennon is agitated and flings the hat into the tub, where it lands on Lucyfer making her look somewhat like Gwyneth Paltrow in a velvet hat. "It was YOUR idea!" George grabs Lennon by the lapels of his white satin shroud and glares at him from inches away.
"Now, as yer know, I'm a very peeeeceful person," he drawls scouse-ily, "But if things don't start making sense I'll have to get Kingy over there to get all Anne Boleyn on yer 'ead" Lennon sighs and spots the Hip Hop Robot who is innocently removing squirrels from the picnic area by means of a high pressure hose. Using his ghostly powers of propulsion he causes himself and George to reappear right next to him; if robots had eyebrows, Hip Hop's would have registered a big 10.5 on the Suprised Scale. Lennon wriggles free and taps the screen on Hip Hop's tummy area.
"Show us the film from the palace, metal boy, and there's a nice sesh with a fluffy cloth and extra polish in it for ya" he wheedles. Steam erupts from both of Hip Hop's earholes, there is a clattering as the relevant film is retrieved and suddenly the whole episode following Damey's triumphant Hyde Park concert is rolling out on screen. "Skip to the end, if y' please, the last few minutes"
It really is quite disconcerting to see the chaotic scenes fast forwarding, there is a lot of arm waving, fur flying and Macca's worried face popping up at intervals. Then it slows as Ringo's trolley appears, and the phantom Beatles are able to view the epilogue.....
It's a scene that makes the invention of the words "Pandemonium", "Uproar", "Utter Confusion" and "Eye Watering Insurance Claim" well worthwhile.
For a start the throne room was never intended to hold quite so many lively people, not to mention maddened four-legged creatures, cups of tea, robots with badly aimed lances and sandwich carts with toxic cargo. A hefty amount of antiquities are now very expensive dust and the residual hip-hop steam is loosening the paint from several priceless old masters, not to mention the Midnight Black from a certain pair of brummie lashes.
"It was all going really well until that guy turned up," grumbles Macca, draining his styrofoam cup and swivelling his eyes in Bev Bevan's direction. The Queen wears a face like thunder as he pats her shoulder chummily and she lists in her mind all the ways she could execute him. Just then, there is the universal ping of "Text Message Received" and everyone rummages to see if it's their phone. Except for BSJ and unomusette of course, who are combining forces to reinstate Damey's flawless look, and Fred the robot who is also a telephone anyway.
An audible gasp is heard from the corner where Bevan was last seen - he is still there and staring at his phone. The neon screen illuminates his face from beneath, making his expression doubly unsettling as it transforms from Defeat to Shock to Wicked Scheming. Straight away the ninja groupies adjust their aviators and form an impenetrable snarky barrier in front of the Lord Dame, who is blinking stickily but rather becomingly. Macca tries to get under the Queen's robe - fat chance, No Clue! She boots him back under the table. Goal!
But what's this? With what can only be described as an evil cackle, Bevan is up and hot-footing it away, elbowing Ringo into the hot dog buns and shoving debris aside in his haste to escape....
Because they are already dead, Johnny and George can clearly see themselves grinning and shaking hands near the ceiling whilst the epic clear-up begins. They've rid the righteous of Custard Face and are feeling pretty darned smug. Back in the here and now, George is puzzled.
"What's the problem, our kid? We made him leave and nobody's heard of him since, putting that message on his phone was a genius idea," says he. "Plan H, hack his texts, Plan I, invent a wealthy dead relative who's left him squillions, Plan J, jingle his phone to get his attention, Plan K, Kapow! He rushes off to claim his phantom inheritance, amazing!" George beams at the memory.
"Yeah, but the problem is, somebody forgot to stop and Plan L happened too," sighs Johnny. George isn't too pleased at the tone of this, and begins rehearsing cutting replies whilst Lennon taps at the screen once more. Suddenly there appears one of those whirly shots of newspapers, spinning madly before the headlines are revealed.
"FINANCIAL TIMES EXCLUSIVE!! WEALTHY AND MYSTERIOUS PERSON PAYS THREE TIMES THE MARKET VALUE FOR KIPPER'S CUSTARD FACTORY (STICKIEST CUSTARD IN THE NORTH WEST SINCE 1866)!!!"
"YET ANOTHER SCOOP FOR THE FINANCIAL TIMES!! KIPPER'S CUSTARD FACTORY'S MYSTERIOUS NEW OWNER IN SUCCESSFUL TAKEOVER BID FOR OBSCURE US COSMETICS DEPOSITORY WITH CRAZY INFLATED VALUATION!!!"
"JUDGEMENT OF MYSTERIOUS AND WEALTHY PERSON CALLED INTO QUESTION AS THEY REFUSE TO BUY THE FINANCIAL TIMES FOR ONLY TWICE ITS VALUE!!!"
"But..I don't understand," bleats George, "How's this my fault?"
"Plan L, that's what," retorts Lennon "Leaving Loads of Loot in Bevan's bank account"
"Well it's not REAL money, is it? Had to make it look convincing - us spectral beings're all over this virtual stuff, it was dead easy" If George is expecting praise it ain't coming.
"Yeah, convincing enough to write some massive cheques, by the time the truth comes out Bevan can have gotten up to all sorts of tricks, yer big numpty!"
Across the lawn, from the depths of Bungalow Palace, there is a low rumbling. Three birds fall out of a tree overhanging the hot tub, land in Damey's hair and start fighting over residency. Is it an earthquake? Is it that blocked plughole finally giving way? Is it the end of the world? It soon might be. Because the ninja groupies have been putting two and two together and coming up with Trouble.
"THE DEPOSITORY!!! HIJACKED BY THE CUSTARD KING!! IT MUST BE HIM!!!"
"BEVAAAAANNNNN!!!"
"NOOOOOOOO!!!!"
"WHAT'S HE UP TO? IT WON'T BE GOOD!!"
"IT'LL BE DISASTROUS!!"
"AND VERY STICKY INDEED!!!"
"AAAAAARRRRGHHHH!!"
**
Picture an industrial park, in a distant corner of the country. Isolated from the more conventional factories is one of those disney-like castles, with a moat, a drawbridge and too many turrets for its own good. Add some steam-belching chimneys, a tarmac yard and a barbed wire fence and you're looking at the Eyeliner & Mascara & Stenciling Provision Depository. Outside, crates of merchandise are being packed on to trucks for dispatch whilst others are being unloaded and taken inside. Some of them are labelled "Returned, Unfit for Purpose" - these contain cosmetics with names like "Boiled Beauty","Sugary, Sludgy and Stylish" and "Yellow-rama".
In the topmost turret, surrounded by screens monitoring the entire building, is a chair. A swivel chair. A chair no despotic tyrant could resist due to its banks of built in switches, heated massage panels and removable zebra print upholstery. No prizes for guessing who occupies this chair, surveying his empire and scheming the downfall of his enemy. He finishes his elevensie's banana custard shake (with extra custard) with a horrid sucking noise, presses a switch and addresses himself to a microphone which appears from the arm of the chair.
"Continuing dictation of 'My Totally Unfair Life, My Oppression, My Ultimate Triumph - The Memoirs of an Unsung Genius' " intones Bev Bevan, Esq. (for of course, it is he, The Custard King, wearing an insufferably smug face and sporting rather ill-advised lycra)
"..and so, by skilful use of my rightful fortune, I perfected the means to finally erase the man whose paltry talents would never have gained him recognition without my masterful drumming, unmatchable backing vocals and searing audience addresses. For far too long he'd mocked me from afar with his celebrity friends, California lifestyle and legions of misguided fans. His indulgence in questionable recreational activities would be his downfall, and I myself would introduce him to the inevitable result of his decadence!"
Pausing to strike a thoughtful pose, finger upon cheek and opposite eyebrow raised, he surveys the scene in the nearest monitor screen which is mostly occupied by a giant bubbling cauldron. The aroma of the resulting steam is quite frankly face melting, so it's lucky that nothing with an actual face is anywhere nearby. This is probably due to the abundance of yellow signs which warn "DANGER! RADIOACTIVITY" At intervals a hooter sounds, red lights flash and a hatch above the cauldron drops a tide of custard powder into the whole unhappy mess. Giant paddles persuade the mixture into a smooth goo, then the cauldron tips up and the contents slither into a moving stream which makes off into the bowels of the factory. Smirking as this monstrosity unfolds, Bevan continues dictating:
"With my extensive dairy knowledge, I firstly concocted a range of enhanced eyeliners and mascaras, made inifinitely better in my opinion by the addition of various vanilla-based milk products. But...ahahahahahahaaaaa! This was only a front, to conceal my true goal! If it softened up my sworn enemy in the meantime, so be it! The fact that he never ordered any was a setback to my cunning plan but was I deterred? I was not! For soon I would be bringing to perfection my ultimate weapon, the pinnacle of my life's work and the reason I would soon reign supreme and incidentally own the whole of the ELO name! Justice at last in the Court of the Custard King!"
Indulging in another bout of evil Brummie cackling, Bevan sweeps to his feet and begins strutting regally about the control room. Tossing his mane of hair, he stops before another monitor showing a tiled room with a huge TV screen on the far wall.
"My underworld contacts in the world of illegal robotics enabled me to take delivery of a cutting edge attack model, to be moulded to my will and trained to destroy at my commmand. And she was almost ready to go to work, with just a few more imprinting sessions she would be my invincible weapon, powered by righteous hatred and enhanced custard based nuclear fuel. Truly I am a properly proper genius, not like that bearded poltroon, Lynne"
He patters away at a keyboard and the TV screen in the tiled yard lights up. The words "INITIATE PROGRAMMING SESSION, SUBJECT TO CONNECT IMMEDIATELY" begin flashing in red whilst buzzers sound insistently. From a corner of the yard unseen until now a creature approaches. It looks exactly like a black and white cow. But the way it moves belies its heavy mechanical construction, not to mention the antennae waving atop its head and the sparks which explode at intervals from its tail. It is the tail which plugs into a socket in the wall and prompts the next phase of the programme.
The TV screen begins showing film clips of various musical personalities, and from time to time the face of the Lord Dame Genius Jeff Lynne appears. At these moments the screen splits so that on the un-beardy side words like ENEMY!, DESTROY ON SIGHT! AND EXTERMINATE! flash in various lurid colours, interspersed with footage of cruelty to machinery including springs being stretched until they are just wire, engines being denied oil until they explode and various hapless robots being crushed into cubes then tossed onto a rusting heap of their fellow victims. With each new atrocity the cow-machine shudders and angry jets of steam erupt from its ears. Its whirling eyes take on an increasingly maddened glare and its metal hooves paw deep grooves in the floor.
This torment goes on for a good half hour, during which the unfortunate plugged-in beast is shown in no uncertain terms that Jeff Lynne is very bad news indeed, and the gleeful Custard King revels in what he perceives to be his own brilliant scheme. If he had a moustache he would be twirling the ends into points and there is much hand-rubbing and snickering.
Finally, the film show ends with a montage of Bev Bevan himself in his heyday. As he fills the screen with his red satin stage outfits, enormous drum kits and edge-of-reason sideburns, a pipe below the TV screen gurgles and fills a nearby trough with what looks suspiciously like the contents of the cauldron from earlier. Whatever it is, it's gourmet fare for the subject of the experiment and she is soon enthusiastically sucking up the goo using her rubber lips . Bevan presses another button and speaks again - by the way the animal's ears prick up it is obvious she can hear him
"My precious creation, you have done well today," purrs the villain. "Your hatred of the abominable Lynne is almost at the peak of perfection, as is your devotion to me, your glorious King" The ears dip obediently and the slurping continues.
"But! You must never, ever forget your destiny! I have enlightened you with the truth about our enemy and made you strong and powerful with the very best in custard enhanced fuel. Soon will come your finest hour! You shall vanquish our foe and we will show the world what musical genius really means, mwahahahaaaaa!"
He prods at yet another button and the monitor shows a hatch in the ceiling of the yard open up and drop a life sized mannequin of a bearded man in aviators so that it hangs in the eyeline of the black and white creature. The transformation is instant. Snorting angry drops of radioactive slop, she lowers her horns and charges, trailing sparks from her tail as it wrenches free from the TV socket. Within seconds there is nothing left of the dummy except shreds of fabric and foam filling. The aviators have come to rest atop the beast's head, lending her a holiday jauntiness totally at odds with her glaring red eyes.
The Custard King roars his approval and prances a victory jig all around his command centre. It's a good thing nobody's watching, that lycra jumpsuit is really not at all forgiving on middle age spread.
"Bring on your ninja groupies, your pathetic household robots, your silly little dog and your so-called-self-styled genius, Jeffrey Lynne! None of them can save you from the wrath of the Psycow!"