So, there we were, languishing in front of The Wright Stuff, idly engaging in a debate of our own – as to whether our supermarket own-brand snacks were maize or cassava-based – when the phone rang.
I picked up, only to be asked by a well-spoken operator if we’d ‘be prepared to take a reverse-charge call from Giant George’.
Well, talk about exciting! Every news channel we’d seen that morning had been buzzing with the story of the enormous yet affable Great Dane dog loping his way into the record books by dint of his massive size. The world’s media was his oyster, and yet he’d chosen to contact Planet Sad.
‘Knock yourself out!’ yawned Freda, who is more of a cat person. ‘I’m gonna watch that Best Of South Park VHS tape we found in the skip round the back of the charity shop.’
It was the strangest phone conversation I’ve had in a long time, which was saying something. I’d expected to talk to Giant George’s ‘people’, not the famous beast himself, although he did appear to have some kind of canine-language interpreter on hand. Or paw. Whatever.
Then, curiouser and curiouser. Firstly, I couldn’t help but notice the weird similarity in tone between the barks, growls, grunts and whimpers of Giant George and his translator’s voice. Not unpleasant – somewhat like having chocolate melted to slightly warmer than body temperature then poured slowly into your ear.
This somewhat tempered the explicit nature of the conversation. Talk of ‘giant paws all over the place’, ‘slobbering’ and ‘deep-red lipstick’.
However, I was finding it hard to concentrate, due to the noise from the TV.
‘What the hell is that?’ I asked Freda.
‘Big Gay Al’s Big Gay Boat Ride,’ she mumbled.
‘Well, you’re gonna have to pause it ’til I’m off the phone, then. It’s feeding back whenever Giant George barks.’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘WOOF!’ [‘Woof!’] ‘WOOF!’ [‘Woof!’] ‘WOOF!’ [‘Woof!’]
‘Yes it is. It just did. Giant George barked and it’s like it echoed on the screen. Just a bit yappier.’
‘No, that was just Stan’s gay dog, Sparky, barking.’
Now, the only sound I heard was silence – maybe a slight static crackle on the phone line. And the faint, metaphorical tinkle of a penny dropping. Distant but rolling closer…
‘Freda,’ I said slowly. ‘Who was it voiced Sparky, the gay dog, again?’
She looked at me, eyes widening in realisation.
‘I know that’s you, George Clooney!’ I shouted down the phone.
‘Woof?’ whimpered a voice, now amplified by the loudspeaker. We will admit we felt a sneaking admiration for the Oscar-winner’s range. For how he’d thought to pitch his Great Dane barks lower than the yelps of the lap-sized Sparky. But the timbre of his voice could not be disguised. The gig – not to mention our dander – was now well and truly up.
‘How could you, George Clooney?’ I berated him. ‘You lied and said you were Giant George. Why would you claim to be this noble beast?’ But, even as I said it, we already knew the answer.
‘I fancied… a go,’ he said, his voice small now, and yet still dark, rich and potently energising, like some kind of vocal espresso bean. ‘And if you let me have a go, you will be calling me Giant George.’
For one scant second I considered it. I thought of those big, liquescent brown eyes gazing into mine. Bigger and more liquescent than those of the real Giant George…
‘Oi!’ said Freda. I snapped out of my reverie. ‘Oi – Sexual Harassment Panda is about to start.’
‘Begone, George Clooney, you sexual harassment… er… dog pretender!’ I hissed, then slammed the phone down.
I allowed myself a gentle sigh, then picked the foil off our last Tunnock’s Teacake as we sang along to the iconic Primus theme. Once again, we knew we’d made a wise decision.
Hey, kids! Never watch Scooby-Doo on acid, y'feel us?
