“JUPITER’S COCK!” yelled Freda. “Who can it be?”
She stayed put, awaiting a glimpse of her two favourite characters, Doctore and the Medicus, so, sighing, I went to answer it – we live in hope of a pizza misdelivery.
Planet Sad exclusive! "Hello, readers – Doctore here! Remember when King Leonidas kicked me down that well? That's where I found these trousers! I still look nails in them, mind."
But, as I was to discover, the steaming dish awaiting us on the doorstep was potentially even more delicious.
“It’s, er, Gannicus…” said a voice.
“Yeah, right,” I said. By now even Freda had learned to be suspicious. “What’s your real name, then?”
“Dustin Clare.”
My every nerve buzzed. Could this really be? And yet my suspicion was, if not aroused, at least idly fingered by the speaker’s mellifluous tones.
“All right,” I said. “Prove it. Sing your drunken song from the first episode.”
A deep intake of breath, then a bellow of, “BLOOD RAINS DOWN FROM AN ANGRY SKY – MY COCK RAGES ON!” rent the neighbourhood.
Freda stiffened in her seat at the sound of this, but too late – this prize was mine.
I threw the door open and beheld a golden god. Oh, those flowing locks, that jawline… “Oh, Dustin Clare. Kiss me, Dustin Clare…” I breathed, closing my eyes and running my fingers through the silky lengths.
“JUPITER’S COCK!” yelled Freda. I told her if she kept this this up, she’d end up looking like John Hannah. Well, even more so than she does now.
This was genuine shock on her part, however. I opened my eyes to see Dustin’s crowning glory had slipped off, snagged upon my questing digits! Beneath it, no bloody scalp, but a neat, stylishly greying crop. The truth suddenly dawned on me.
“I know that’s you, George Clooney…” I said sternly.
How he reacted, I don’t know. His face was a mask. Literally a mask he’d fashioned from an old poster of Colin Farrell.
OK, so in the cold light of day it's more "What Rob Zombie sees after eating an entire barrel of cheese footballs". But under the street lights when you're ripped to the tits on Happy Shopper cola and wishful thinking, it's easy to be mistaken.
I tore it off to reveal a sheepish-looking Clooney. If sheep had liquescent, chocolate-brown eyes, obviously. I stared into them, unable to tear mine away until a shout from Freda brought me back to reality.
“CRIXUS’S COCK!”
“That’s, er… different, Freda,” I said.
“No, seriously. Crixus the Gaul just whopped it out.”
I shook my head, saddened. “Oh, George Clooney!” I lamented. “Not only have you tried to deceive us, you’ve also made me miss Crixus, the future Champion of Capua, whopping it out. Why would you do that?”
“I fancied… a go,” he said.
Before I could launch into a tirade about this latest deception, a police car screeched to a halt in front of our flat, all sirens and flashing lights.
“Officers, you arrived just in time!” I said. “This man has been bothering us for a while now.”
One of the policeman who got out of the car was tall and powerfully built and, as he removed his helmet to scratch his head in bemusement, the street lights glinted off his shaven pate. But they weren’t here for Clooney.
Another man exited the back of the vehicle – I recognised him as the owner of the local Budgendis Minimart (as we know it, to avoid a libel suit) and he was complaining loudly. Something about cocktail sausages and price stickers being switched.
They had a warrant to search Freda’s handbag for incriminating stationery – luckily for us, she believes Tena Ladies are like teabags, not necessarily single-use, which put them off rummaging too thoroughly.
Spoiling for an arrest, they finally turned their attentions to Clooney.
“Let’s be ’avin’ you, sex pest,” said the officer in what sounded like a Yorkshire accent. Then, all of a sudden, BLAMMO! Clooney bolted, knocking them all flying with his customary accessory. They lay there winded and by the time they’d recovered, he was beyond even the range of Freda’s binoculars.
Our other visitors departed too – the man from Budgendis was now griping about the alleged theft of some Edam (not actually us, this time – we’re still eating our way through the Montgomery Cheddar from one of our previous tales of woe.) And, for some reason, the rozzer seemed disquieted by his frequent mentions of the Dutch.
I walked back into the living room to find Freda wailing along to the end credits of Spartacus. “What you grinning about?” she asked. “You missed the Spartacus show. And I’ve eaten all the snack dormice.”
“Yes, but there’ll be no more George Clooney either,” I said. “Even he won’t get away with assaulting a police officer.”
How wrong I was. Just one week later the doorbell rang.
“JUPITER’S COCK!” yelled Freda.
Sighing, I opened the door, only to find Clooney standing outside, in a dinner suit, a gleaming, chauffeur-driven limo parked just feet from our front steps.
“The police force are hailing me a hero,” he said. “For single-handedly solving a riot-control problem that’s been baffling them for ages. They’re holding a gourmet dinner in my honour and I’m here to invite you ladies to accompany me.”
“Tell him to sod off,” yelled Freda. “It’s the big orgy episode this week.”
“Sod off, George Clooney,” I said. “It’s the big orgy episode this week. And anyway, you’re just hoping to wine and dine us into letting you have ‘a go’.”
With this, I slammed the door in his face and ignored his pleas of “I can Sky+ it for you…”
The big orgy episode was… well, OK. You didn’t actually see it go in or anything like that. And the Clooney incident was all but forgotten until a few weeks later, when scuffles at a protest march were reported on the news. Police officers had quelled the unrest, thanks to a “revolutionary new riot shield” upon which praise was being heaped.
“Mark my words,” I said to Freda. “Kettling will become the new dogging…”
“…And then it’ll be who’d have thought it?” we both intoned.
“Ooh, look! The Spartacus – Blood And Sand re-runs are starting tonight,” said Freda. Soon we were settled in front of the TV, snack dormice crisping nicely in the Baby Belling. Once again, we knew we’d made the right decision.
Message to George Clooney – Dustin Clare has extensive training in the gladiatorial arts and, judging by his big bottom lip in this picture, he's not happy with you right now.
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