No, friends, this is not some recently-unearthed Enid Blyton story involving the Famous Five – though, by the end of this post, some of you may be wishing devoutly that it were!
Au contraire: It is a true story of Alienora’s Christmas shopping trip yesterday…
I had decided to trawl Street’s Clark’s Village, and Glastonbury’s – er, Vibe! – in order to polish off those last few morsels of the Festive Present Sweep. Any excuse really – plus, for those not in the know, Clark’s now has a LINDT shop. Need I say more?
Off I trolled. The day was grey as a Zombie and just about as inviting. My sense of Yuletide Cheer was definitely flagging a tad (for reasons which have bugger-all to do with this piece) – and it was a somewhat cynical and crotchety Ali who parked the car and traipsed shopwards.
The Lindt shop perked me up considerably. I shall divulge no details because my purchases (which were, of course, considerable!) are for friends and family. Suffice it to say that I did not stint myself – and could have done with a wheelbarrow to ‘convey’ the edible result!
But then, on a whim and possessed, as some of you know, of a teenage lad, I wandered into that wonderfully bizarre, utterly tasteless and completely splendid emporium, MenKind.
As I fingered the products (pause for vulgar laughter), I became aware of a young couple (complete with sprog draped over the male half of the duo’s shoulder) perusing the gallimaufry of weird wares – and, more to the point, noted the sounds issuing from the man’s lips, throat, diaphragm: He was convulsed with some of the most infectious laughter it has ever been my pleasure to hear. Whooping, clutching his sides, tears rolling down his cheeks, he was pointing at something I couldn’t see and howling out its name, incomprehensibly.
Well, how could I resist, prurient and nosy old boot that I am? It was but the work of a moment for me to sidle round from the aisle I was in and saunter up to where the guy was sniggering merrily away.
I looked. I looked again, eyes out on stalks – and then I burst into peals of raucous laughter myself. Yes, this man had found the present we all secretly want: the infamous DUCK WITH A DICK! Please note my self-restraint, by the way: I have posted an image which shows only the duck and not its eye-wrenching appendage!
Put it this way: Lucky Duckess (or whatever you call a female duck)!
So there we were, this unknown man (clearly a kindred spirit, however) and I, weeping with laughter and, occasionally, gasping out, ‘Duck with a Dick!’ before going into fresh paroxysms of mirth.
‘I’ve got to have one!’ I said in the end, taking the bull by the horns (or the canard by the cojones, whichever you prefer) – and, grabbing a box with its phallus-rich inhabitant, I nodded to the still-laughing bloke and made my way to the till.
The assistant, a nubile wench some twenty summers into her allotted span, did the old, ‘Can I help?’ routine.
‘Ah, yes, ‘ quoth I. ‘I’ve got Exhibit A, Item B and a Duck with a Dick! What more could a woman want, I ask you?’
She then fell about laughing, as did her colleague. Meanwhile my erstwhile friend was still guffawing and making odd seal noises in the background.
I left the shop on a high, roars of laughter still shaking the rafters.
And who is the cause of all this jollity, the bird with the pork sword, destined for?
Aha! That would be telling – and I ain’t going to! But it’s certainly going to brighten up somebody’s bath time!
Who knows? I might keep it myself!