'You big holly Shite.' cried the Minister as the heavens exploded with a thunderous crash and unleashed a phenomenal downpour of rain. Two minutes prior to the opening of the church's annual summer fair and this should happen. The black swirling clouds that had crashed and rumbled around all morning eventually stalled overhead and unloaded their pent-up rage. A look of horror beset the 300 queuing visitors (each clasping tightly his £5 entry fee) at the ferocity of the deluge.

'Open the gates. Open the gates,' screamed the Minister. But too late....... Aberdonians require little encouragement to retain their money. The inopportune downpour had already sent them scurrying for cover, away from the still closed entrance.......... off like a shot, taking their leave and precious money with them.

'Bastards!' he sobbed, falling to his knees. 'How am I to make a decent living from cheapskates like these? Should have listened to mummy and joined some confessional church to be subsidised by guilt-money; or become a high earning Rabbi coaching for Bar Mitzvahs.'

But before he could lapse into his depressingly frequent tirade against the Almighty, the Reverend Ron McGreedy felt the ice-cold water from the pool he was kneeling in race up his absorbent Episcopal robe and startle his testicle. He sprang to his feet in shock, knocked over the industrial sized barbecue and sent 120 raw hamburgers and 10lbs of linked sausages scattering into the rapidly forming mud. Unfortunately Black Bob (his Golden Labrador with female parts) had attracted a randy mongrel with a permanent erection. This mangy dog instantly spotted the heaven-sent meal, and was there in a flash. It grabbed the sausage-chain mid-link and dashed off with it beneath a stall. The Minister was greatly angered that he was not first to the food, which under Scottish Salvage Law could have become his. Undaunted, he tried to win possession of it using the mild-mannered dictates of his religion. He spoke quietly and simply to the dog requesting the return of the sausages. When this failed to extract a response he pulled back the hood of his cassock and plonked a papal mitre on his head. Then (acting as if he were of the Roman Catholic Church) tried to coerce the dog into good behaviour by threatening it with eternal damnation for its misdemeanour. But when this also failed to secure the sausages he removed both the hat and his wig and resorted to the compassionate and peaceful tactics of Buddhism. He extended a handful of hamburger meat to the cowering dog. Then as it released the sausages he quickly withdrew the proffered meat and kicked it violently on its still swollen member. He quickly stuffed the sausages into a plastic bag, and with his confidence once more restored in religion he thought.....

'There must surely be a dog God. Of the same image, but possibly much larger.'

But by then the weather had taken a firm grip on events. Sheets of gale-driven rain were whipping through the ever-darkening sky. They ripped apart the overhead decorations and of course the innumerable signs advertising the event. Stalls were overturned and their contents scattered in the wind causing mayhem amongst their attendants. Large ponds of water were already forming throughout his garden and overlapping the Japanese fish-pond..... from which several expensive Koi had happily escaped and were munching on the burger-buns. Intense flashes of lightening added to the maelstrom casting bizarre shadows against the polished marble of the poolside colonnades. Meanwhile the roadside sewage mains had blown its top and (unnoticed) began spewing untreated human detritus into the site. Reverend McGreedy (in his blind haste to salvage food) mistakenly scooped a large faeces with his hand and dropped it with relish into the sausage bag.

Then, just as he might have noticed the sewage accumulating on his lucky lime green espadrilles, an incredible crack of lightening struck the giant marquee. The centre-pole snapped in flames bringing the giant tent crashing down on the heads of the 30 stall assistants and circus elephant who had taken refuge there. Tea urns spilled their boiling contents over panic riven bodies as they tried to escape the catastrophe. Tables and chairs collapsed under the now flaming canvas and from the dangerous re-coiling of the terrified elephant. Suddenly the tethered elephant broke its leg restraint and careered blindly across the lawn dragging the huge marquee and contents with it. Bodies, tables and assorted debris cascaded from the billowing tent until the elephant struck a poolside pillar, demolished a roman portico and collapsed sideways into the deep water. A 3-foot tidal wave erupted from the swimming pool as the huge mammal struggled in vain against drowning. Ron was aghast. He knew there was an elephant God called Ganesa which sometimes helped Hindus, so why the hell didn't it help one of its own kind. He never did understand the workings off those silly animal religions!

Meanwhile the wall of displaced water raced menacingly towards the Salvation Army Band that was still playing musical tributes to their Christian God. Stoically they stood their ground confident of His protection, until mightily bowled over by the unstoppable forces of nature. Bewildered, they slowly clawed their escape from the muddy slime ........save for the trumpeter who was trapped beneath an overturned stall. His forlorn cries for help blurped as air bubbles through the mud. They were heard by no-one, except perhaps by his kindred musical spirit the Greek God Pan.......although it must be said that Ron doubted the existence of such a God because although he had seen many people play trumpets and pipes, he could not recall anyone in Its image having goats body and legs.

Suddenly, more lightening flashed to illuminate a dozen inmates from the adjacent Bieldside Psychiatric Hospital hanging from the chain-mail security fence, all waving and shouting excitedly at the entertainment before them. Then a bolt of blue lightening struck the wire fence. The air was filled with piercing screams and a freeze-frame image of out-stretched bodies, their hands electrified to the fence. For a second all was black, and silent. Then the unmistakable smell of scorched flesh rent the air.

Minister McGreedy watched the disaster unfold before him. He was terribly confused. He knew he had to do something, but what? He turned to religion for guidance. But with his still-bald head he realised that Buddhist meditation would take too long. He therefore pulled on a Muslim fez for inspiration and immediately realised that this was an act of God. Nothing happens by chance in this stage-managed world. We all have a pre-ordained role to play and to take the initiative is to challenge the will of Allah. He therefore resolved to do nothing. But he felt uncomfortable with this decision because he also knew that the test of all great religions is that they result in practical munificence. And he couldn't recall where in the Koran it specified the benevolence in 'doing nothing'. Some-what perplexed he quickly swapped his tarboosh for a Jewish scull-cap and immediately recalled that in the Old Testaments the Hebrew Prophets stressed that charity is more important than faith. This threw him into further confusion, as he had never met a charitable Jew. He also knew that he had never met a charitable Dutchman, but wasn't quite sure if Dutch was a religion.

Greatly agitated he reached for his electronic bible and under the 'Scriptures' menu scanned through Astrology, Bible, Clairvoyance, Koran, Oracles, Palmistry, The Testaments, Tea Leaves, Torah ......until at last he hit Vedas, the 4 sacred books of Hinduism. He loved reading these, even more than the Hans Christian Andersen stories upon which Christianity was based. He particularly liked the funny Gods with lots of arms and of course Indra who, like he, had a big dog and indulged in the excesses of life. On the other hand, he thought that Shiva was rather stupid to eat poisoned food to save the world..... ...... but suddenly felt hungry himself and before launching his bid to rescue the trumpet player grabbed a loose, soft sausage from the bag and rammed it greedily into the back of his mouth.

'Holy keech! That was nice,' he thought whilst trying to spit the foul tasting turd from his mouth. This paradox did not surprise him as Hinduism teaches its followers to see the best in everything. Indeed a fundamental canon of Brahminism is that ' what you think is more important than what you do'. This, above all else, was Ron's favourite doctrine. He followed it whenever he could, sometimes just lying in bed for days, because it seamed to sanction inaction. Again he resolved to do nothing.

Then as the trumpeter, elephant and lunatics each gasped their last breaths Ron suddenly saw the reality of his situation and the impotency of religion. He was too afraid to challenge directly the existence of a God. But started his anti-religion assault by questioning the need for religion. If it couldn't help in situations such as this what possible use was it? Anyway, who would really want to idolise a hedonistic God who created billions of little worshipers all in his own image? And why should they be sycophantic puppets to some cruel and distant God who entertains himself by telling different people different things when he knows (i.e. plans) that this will lead to horrendous religious wars? And when even after one's death, He still punishes those unfortunate souls that He has deliberately created imperfect........ lives ruined by fear of retribution and deaths by his damnation. Ron waited expectantly to be zapped by God's next thunderbolt. But when nothing happened his resolve stiffened.

The Reverend Ron McGreedy felt confidence surge through his tiny body as he cast all religious thoughts aside. With great courage he denied the existence of God. He was now master of his own destiny. He was a Man, and he would stand or fall by it. Spurred into action he almost slipped as he turned first to the elephant and then to the horn player to discern from where the more desperate trumpeting had come. The good man then grabbed a handful of burger-buns and raced to the poolside by the elephant's submerged head. The smell of food led the still canvass-covered animal in his direction towards the shallow end of the pool, whereupon Ron uncovered it and leapt upon its back. He steered it towards the still struggling Salvationist and with one swoop of its trunk had extricated the musician from his muddy deathbed. Then lumbering towards the Psychiatric Hospital the elephant crashed into the red-hot fence, shaking free those inmates who were still clinging to it.

Then, just as the action was finishing, two ambulances arrived. They were followed by Ron's undertaker cousin, Well Hung Jo, who was touting for work. Jo was first to reach Ron, and in his nasal Hong Kong accent intoned.....

'Confucius say..........
''Action man
with small tool
more useful than
lazy god
with big equipment'' '.

Ron laughed heartily. He had never heard of Confucius but liked his objectivity.
'You must introduce me to this friend of yours,' he said. 'Does he work in the morgue with you?'
'That's great man, really great.' laughed Jo quite astonished.
'Yes, you are right, ' reflected Ron. 'I am a great man, a free man, and perhaps a little undersized.'

Alex Froggy Park

Ecologists are fighting a desperate rear-guard action to save those plants and creatures on the verge of extinction. For some species conservation may work. But for others it comes too late. There is, for example, an occasionally sighted GORILLA (perhaps the only one of its kind) with unusually short legs and hairless body that inhabits the treeless plains of Cambridgeshire. Its unanswered mating cry is 'on-on', it smokes pot and drinks upwards of 8 pints of piss after exceedingly short bursts of slow running. It is already half dead, and deserves to be. Another threatened specimen, a hybrid of the vegetable genus, is to be found in the hills of Wales ..........it is the edible, singing leek. This vocal mutant roots in coal dust, grass or occasionally in bed and its reproductive organs are often eaten with relish. It is predominately penis-shaped, hence its horticultural name of DICKY LEEK. It is reportedly of the same shrinking family as LEEKY DICK that frequently roots in Indonesia, sometimes at altitudes as high as 'The 5 + 1'.

Perhaps the most threatened of all animals is the Pot Bellied PENGUIN. In terminal decline, there is only one remaining survivor of this species. This greedy animal requires enormous quantities of food prior to performing the reproductive act. Unfortunately it consistently over-eats to the extent that its enormous belly protrudes way beyond its tiny penis and invariably prevents any sexual activity. This sole remaining specimen was last spotted in a public toilet in Aberdeen trying to shake off the results of extreme sexual frustration.

A senior member of another endangered species, the British Royal Family, recently stated that traditional methods of conservation (such as the English Class System or the pursuit of blood-sports i.e. the stoning of heretics and Celts) were no longer effective defences against the inquisitiveness of Commoners. Mrs. Betty Windsor (their tiara-wearing spokeswoman) said she was disgusted at the recent turn of events. The once-popular sops to commoners such as her jolly Christmas Speech, or burning the occasional castle, or (even more occasionally) seeing England win a sports event were now failing to pacify the poor people and to distract their attention from the excesses and privileges of Royalty. Public anger at home and abroad was now militating against their dissolute lifestyle and she found this intolerable. The Windsor Dynasty was now threatened with hostility and extinction, and desperate measures were called for. In one such effort to regain the Public's esteem her brave son Charles once married a jolly nice looking commoner called Diana. However everyone soon saw through that smoke-screen and (like a page out of the Kennedy's Chadaquidic Bay affair) things had to be brought to a rather abrupt end. To the Queen's great relief that little episode diverted the public's anger onto Charles and brought her some temporary respite. But then a malicious rumour spread that her husband, the Duke, might be Greek and she was once again vilified for her tastelessness. To help counter such outrageous claims her devoted son Charles stopped eating taramasalata and scratching his balls. But within days, driven by hunger and idleness, he realised that a more pro-active stance was needed. In desperation he invited to London a well-known Professor of Ecology to devise a Royal Survival Strategy.

Professor Ronald McGreedy closed the flaps of his dressing gown and turned away from the open window. His butler handed him the morning-mail, shooed away the crowd of giggling school-girls from the driveway and closed the full-length curtains (the only full-length thing in view). Professor McGreedy carefully read the invitation by hovering his finger over each syllable. After several re-readings he sprung into action by dispatching his butler to en-cash the enclosed 1st class air ticket whilst he pulled on his lucky string vest and cycling shorts. He then retrieved his 30-year old tricycle from the coal cellar, packed a few essentials in a plastic bag and within the hour was peddling gleefully, south from Aberdeen. Six weeks later he arrived at Buckingham Palace, but before entering he bought a copy of his favourite book 'Nature's School Girls' and disappeared into an underground public loo to put himself in order. Whilst musing over the hand-blistering photographs of Page 3 he conceived of a brilliant strategy for his client's survival ........... the Royal Genome Project.

The Royal Genome Project would entail a detailed study of the human chromosome and of all its component genes to reveal the entire genetic code (DNA) for human life. This knowledge would complement current research on animal cloning to permit totally new genetically-modified flora and fauna to be developed. More importantly, it would allow the creation of a world order in which Royalty and Corgi dogs ruled supreme. The Prince could stock it with animals and people having features entirely to his own liking whilst, if he wished, erasing all traces of Hellenic gookery from himself. The Professor knew he was onto a winner. He looked down at his hands and smiled ..... ......and as for himself (the Professor) he thought he might like to have a slightly larger penis. Yes, yes! He could see it all now.............Miescher, Crick, Watson and Big-cock McGreedy they would be the heroes of the New World Order......The Royal Geneticists. Of course he, McGreedy, would have to learn all 4 letters of the genetic alphabet in whose language all life is written....... A,C,G,T each standing for a nucleic acid, but first he had to find something to eat.

Before exiting the toilet cubical Professor Ron extracted his Royal Deeside Constabulary uniform from his plastic bag, pressed it smooth with the palm of his sticky hand and pulled it on over his prickly vest and cycling shorts. He plonked his police hat on his head and strode manfully up the stairs towards his waiting tricycle. But before he reached the exit he was almost knocked off his feet by the loo attendant and six policemen who rushed past him crying,

'Poofter, poofter, poofter in the house.'

Ron pressed himself against the staircase-wall and pointed downstairs. They pushed past him and began kicking-in each of the cubical doors, but to no avail. They were all empty.

'Drat it. Another missed opportunity,' whimpered one of them pulling up his zip.

'Wey-hay. Look what I've found,' cried another holding Ron's favourite book in the air. Within seconds all seven of them were huddled in one cubical each tearing pages from the book and smiling at each other.

Huge crowds had formed at the main gates to the palace. To assuage the Public's anger at the Royal Family for its insensitive handling of the death of the Princess Di, the Queen had opened-up Buckingham Palace to visitors. This display of sharing-memories appeased her critics and brought an unstoppable flood of wealthy visitors into the Queen's domain. As a result the Windsors enlisted the help of that other popular mafia family the Al Fayeds (the innovators of pyramid selling) to exploit the situation. Together they practised with zeal the separation of punters from their money. Everything from entrance fees to the highly popular 'Corgi-dog Leg-shags' was greatly overpriced. But the sale of Princess Di memorabilia was the most exorbitant of all. The Palace was awash with fake Di articles claiming genuine provenance. Punters fought for locks of the Princess' golden hair, and over buckets of loose teeth labelled 'Dodi's Last Supper'. There was even a collection of seriously bulimic dolls (made by the Aberdeen Thin Rope Company) and a full length video of that fatal crash starring Marlyn Brando called .............'Last Tangle in Paris'.

Ron determined to avoid the crowds. Confident in his police uniform he turned a corner and marched up to the two Irish Guards on duty at the Palace's tradesmen entrance. Their beautiful bearskin hats reminded him of the last time he went bear hunting in the Cairngorms. He had been approaching this road junction at which a bear had recently been seen when he observed a road sign which said ..........'BEAR LEFT'. Disappointed, he turned back and went home. But now, as he approached the two guards they gave him an enormous smile and then started to laugh. Ron thought they were enacting a scene from the film 'Braveheart' where the ostensibly opposing Scots and Irish united in a common bond of Celtism. But they had merely spotted his sixth toe peeping from a hole in his lime-green espadrilles and had assumed him to be another American tourist. Mistaken as to their thoughts Ron confidently brushed between them, and when one turned an upturned palm in his direction he discretely dropped a small piece of haggis into it.

'BeJaysus' mouthed one, 'Where do you Americans get all this shit from?'

Ron touched the side of his nose and headed for an open door called 'Trophy Room'.

The Professor froze, swamped by the room's magnificence. Entirely of polished pink-marble, the high vaulted chamber sparkled to the luminosity of five extravagant chandeliers. Gainsborough ladies and Holbien nudes filled the two end-walls......the latter paintings reminding him of his favourite book. But the theme of the display was undoubtedly the spoils of Royal hunting. The two long walls were hung with the stuffed bodies or heads of victims outmanoeuvred.....a 1-legged kangaroo (originally thought to be an Aborigine), the last bear in London zoo (shot through its leg just above the chain marks), and at the far end of the room a triptych labelled Henry VIII presenting the heads of his former wives 'Catherine of Aragon', 'Anne Bolyne', and 'Catherine Howard'. Then Ron noticed a fourth and beautiful female head; from a distance it resembled the Princess of Wales. But as he walked forwards to inspect it a thin man with big ears and one hand placed in his pocket suddenly knocked him off his feet.

'I say old boy, this is my private dirty-hanky room. Get your little parts out of here immediately.'

Ron sat up in astonishment......it was The Prince. He curtseyed deferentially then quickly produced the Royal Invitation. Now it was the Prince who was astonished. Rather guiltily he withdrew his hot hand from his pocket and helped Ron back onto his feet. The Professor began to describe his Royal Genome Project. The Prince was delighted with the survival strategy, especially with the prospect of improving one's personal features.

'And do you think it could eliminate horse-like-features in certain ladies?' the Prince enquired.

'Of course it will. AND you and I can both have large willies.' Ron added enthusiastically.

The Prince's hand slipped back into his pocket, but it was only to produce an invitation to that evening's Royal Command Performance..... a variety show by top artists at the London Palladium in front of the Royal Family and selected guests. 'Please be my guest this evening,'' quipped the Prince as he turned and fled along the room, grinning at the last stuffed head.

Ron arrived early at the theatre. A famous hypnotist, Paul Daniels, who was performing that evening, immediately accosted him and asked if he would like to participate in one of the acts for a small fee and a share of his sandwich. Ron readily agreed and two hours later Ron found himself sitting on stage with the hypnotist and six other volunteers. In front of him were The Queen, the Queen Mother, Prick Charles and 1,500 selected guests along with 12 million television viewers. A small glass of colourless alcohol had ensured that all the participants were in a suitably relaxed state. The first volunteer, an enormously fat lady in trousers, was hypnotised and told to do a handstand against an imaginary wall and to hold her balance for 30 seconds. This she did to thunderous applause.

The Professor was next. Mr. Daniels readily hypnotised him and handed the Prof. a thick telephone directory.

'I want you to believe that this is your favourite book.' said he.
But before Mr. Daniels could add further instruction the professor gave a naughty giggle, pulled down his trousers and began to fumble in his cycling shorts for his nether parts. There was a moment of stunned silence as the audience's thought process raced to catch up with events. But before any abuse could take place a security officer hidden behind the stage-curtain raced forward and clonked the Professor over the head with his wooden baton. As Ron sank to his knees the Queen rose to her feet.

'Bravo, bravo,' she cried, 'Did you see that Charles? That's what you'll get next time I catch you with your hand in your pocket.'

'Er, em, yes mummy,' replied the Prince quickly withdrawing his hand and closing his first-edition copy of 'Nature's School Girls'.

Next morning Ron Mc. Greedy was excruciatingly ill, but forced himself out of bed lest Sylvie (his newly 'adopted ' daughter) ate his share of breakfast. He inhaled deeply as he pulled his badly stained kilt up over his belly (buckles confused him) and the sudden surge of oxygen kicked his brain into action. Day four and the production of his new invention, the unbreakable safety match was going well. Traditional wooden matches that broke as you tried to light them drove him to despair and finally to inventiveness. Being of scientific mind he set-up his own match-making factory. Ron knew that the mixing of phosphoric acid and lime produced a waxy pink residue that ignited when warmed or struck on a rough surface. He also knew that concentrated phosphoric acid could readily be obtained from a distillation of human urine. But the real inventiveness of his new product was its safety. Instead of wood for the stem he would use string. Unbreakable string.

Meanwhile, it was Constable Sargent, an outpatient of the Psychiatric Hospital, who first noticed the small crowd of inmates being herded through a hole in the perimeter fence and squeezed into the tiny shed. But when the door closed and clouds of steam began to rise from it he thought of the infamous Black Hole of Calcutta and became concerned for their safety. He knew that hospitals had to dispose of the mentally ill somewhere but some of them were his friends and just as sane as him. PC Sargent crouched down and then crawled silently on his stomach through the long grass to better observe the situation. 'Damn it' he cursed, wiping some dog shit from his uniform. Suddenly the door opened and through the clouds of escaping steam the lunatics filed out, many of them adjusting the front of their trousers or cotton gowns. The policeman smiled knowingly convinced that Aberdeen's own black hole, that popular Miss Singh person (who policemen were always on the lookout for) had relocated her brothel. Distracted by his thoughts, he failed to notice each returning man was eating a boiled egg. Sexually aroused he crawled back into the tall grass, rolled naughtily onto his back and felt something-tacky stick to his neck. 'Damn it,' he repeated.

Ron wiped the saliva from his chin as Mason the butler cut open the bull's scrotum sack to reveal the steaming haggis. He apologized for the pickled eggs being mysteriously finished but offered the 2 remaining goldfish from the bowl. Ron was furious. If the eggs were now finished he had nothing with which to pay the lunatics for their urine. They would be mad, and might even revert to pissing in toilets..... and for Ron that would be money down the drain. The stock had to be replenished urgently.

Ron would have to visit his cousin Hung Jo (aka Well Hung Joe) who unexpectedly had sent him the eggs at Christmas, and get some more. Ron picked a morsel of the scrotum sack from his denture plate and flicked it on to Sylvie's plate. 'Lets go.' he said 'He'll be at his funeral parlour by now.'

They stepped out into the cloud of distillate urine that for 3 days had drenched half the neighbourhood. The stench was overpowering. A passing cyclist stopped to check his trousers suspecting a minor mishap, and was pleasantly pleased to discover himself still dry. Old Mrs. Crumble waited till they approached her garden gate before swinging a pickaxe at Black Bob whom she suspected had urinated in the vicinity of her garden. The terrified Labrador scampered away leaving a nervous trail of fresh urine behind it. At the bus stop a public health poster advised...

'Save the environment, make gypsies ware incontinence pants'.

A No. 47 bus turned a corner and they boarded it minus the lost dog. Unfortunately the cheapest ticket still left a good mile to the morgue. Refusing to pay more, they alighted at the conductor's request and set off walking, hand-in-hand. As they passed the police station where Ron worked on a part-time basis he was pleased to see some colleagues hanging from windows and doorways whistling and arm-jerking at them. He waved back, proud to be a policeman.

Suddenly another No. 47 bus passed and an unwanted Christmas present, a Bulldog pup, was thrown from an upstairs window and landed with a sickening thud at their feet. Ron's first thought was to take it home as a companion for Black Bob, especially as it would cost nothing to feed and keep. But his mercenary instincts prevailed. He would exchange its carcass for more of his cousin's eggs. Ron lifted the bloodied animal onto Sylvie's shoulders, grabbed her tiny hand and dragged her on their way.

'Take longer strides,' he demanded 'it will save on shoe leather.'

Eventually they kicked open a red door and entered the funeral parlour. At once they were disorientated by its spectacular transformation into a Taoist Temple (for the funeral of a Chinese girlfriend of Hung Jo). An unexpected mix of dark and light and swirling smoke stunned the senses and belief. Against the background of blood-red walls and impenetrable shadows danced a myriad of light and flame. Banks of candles and burning joss sticks vied for focus with the offerings to ancestors which were being burnt in sand pits and trash trays; all casting weird and conflicting shadows of people and statues and of huge coils of waxy incense suspended from the unlit ceiling. Scarlet flags and lucky black swastikas swam in and out of focus through the thick choking fug. Pedestals and shrines sporting ornate carvings of deities and of dragons and other symbolic statues added occult confusion. A dozen shuffling pigtails prayed to forefathers, soothed the dragons and blew away the evil spirits. But most of the occupants were huddled around two mah-jong tables slugging brandy, or gasping ogle-eyed at a near naked lady who gyrated on a third.

Ron left Sylvie in the very safe custody of a six armed statue and disappeared through a drape concealed door.

'Ah, Jo how good to see you. How's business these days?'

'Never been better, honourable cousin.' replied Well Hung Joe. 'Making money from death has never been easier. Selling body parts to so many new clients......butchers, dentists, kebab shop owners, modern art exhibitors, as well as the growing numbers of toupee makers. Aberdonians don't stop making money even in death.' he laughed. 'Mind you I was a bit worried when Viagra started competing with the penile transplant industry. But I'm well used to the ups and downs of business and have more than compensated on the bones-for-glue side...........especially since last months the crash of the 2-seater Cessna on St Andrews cemetery......terrible business.......they have already dug out 280 bodies and more are expected, all good glue making quality,' he laughed again.

'However,' he continued 'I am a bit worried about a missing consignment of goodies to the Royal Deeside Eye Hospital. I sent them a large specimen jar with 200 mixed human and animal eyes in formaldehyde just before Christmas. And last week I received a letter from them saying that the eyes never reached them. They also enclosing a box of teeth scrapings that I had sent to you as a Christmas present. You haven't by chance.................'

But before he could finish Ron was stumbling back through the curtained door clutching his throat.

Just in time. A booming clash of cymbals signaled the auspicious hour had arrived. The funeral could now begin. A wild confusion of people, ghosts, spirits and shadows transmogrified with alarming speed into a well organised procession of bereaved family, paid mourners, hired entertainers, interested spectators and funeral attendants.......many of whom were carrying accoutrements of the deceased and platters of roast pig, rice and dried fish to accompany her on her journey to the afterlife. But most impressive of all was the appearance from nowhere of an ensemble of musicians of Wagnerian proportions to head the procession.

A second clash of cymbals and the doors into the street were flung open, blinding everyone in a flood of light. The musicians trouped by followed by the silk enshrouded coffin suspended from straps around the shoulders of four pall-bearers. Sylvie out-stretched her hand to touch the coffin.

'There's no-one there,' whispered a voice from nowhere, 'touch me.'

Sylvie recoiled her hand in horror and in so doing knocked over an ornamental pillar sending its flaming bowl of linseed oil crashing down on top of the rear two bearers. In sheer panic the front bearers fled forward as the rear recoiled in terror and the coffin crashed unceremoniously to the floor, breaking open to reveal three dismembered torsos. Fear and panic spread quickly. Flames shot up the draped walls and flashed across ceiling decorations. Falling debris, deities, and hurtling bodies filled the smoke rent air, the streaming sunlight adding its own surrealist dimension. People tripped over the coffin, body parts and themselves in blind panic to escape the murderous inferno. Sylvie grabbed Ron by the hand and dragged him through the gaping door,

'Run, run,' she shouted instinctively.

A hundred metres down the road they caught up with the band, still playing its Chinese marshal music, oblivious to the chaos left behind. They fell in line behind the band, righted their dis-shevelled clothing, and continued as if nothing had happened. At the next junction they turned right as the band went left. And once more they burst into a run, but now laughing nervously from their after-shock of their experience.

'Whooppee!' cried Ron forgetting the consequences for sourcing more urine from the day's events. 'Wasn't that better than going to school.'

Sylvie was about to agree when she realised that the dead pup was missing. Ron noticed her concern.

'Don't worry,' he announced giggling, 'I swapped it for this.' And from beneath his bulging kilt he produced a whole roast piglet. Just then a poor person from Inverness approached him with an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

'Excuse me Gov. but could you spare a match.'

Ron looked at the impoverished and obviously starving youth, ripped a leg off the roast pig and enquired,

'You don't by any chance need a pee?'

 Alex (Froggy) Park