Ratty’s Great Adventure – Revisited

by duncanr

ratty has been rooting in the archives of madhatters and unearthed a literary gem from the past – a thrilling tale of a man, his wife, another man’s dick, a kitchen knife, a south american butterfly, an eldritch, and a whole menagerie of animals

check it out here – https://madhatters.me.uk/2011/06/29/daily-quote-30-jun-2011/

the story is told in the comments to the post, where one person adds a word, a sentence, or a paragraph to what has gone before to take the tale in unexpected directions !

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31 Comments to “Ratty’s Great Adventure – Revisited”

  1. Five long years had passed since ratty, kitchen knife grasped firmly in hand, had stood on that doorstep with a steely resolve to carry out his deadly mission. A mission so surrounded in mystery that no-one had the first idea of what it was . . . and that included our intrepid hero himself.

    Since those days, when an interfering, poxy South American butterfly had flapped its wings, ratty had plod many a mile on tarmaced roads feeling the gravel crunching beneath his feet. He recalled how, on one of those roads he had been forced into sleeping in a dung pile (by a not very nice contributor) and on awakening he had been confronted with the horrific sight of a nearby corpse in an advanced state of decomposition, of a Japanese tramp holding a half-eaten hamburger.

    Other images flashed through his mind – a horse-backed man you didn’t have to thank – A loan Arranger – a penis-less Secret Service agent (now dead) – an Enigma machine placed on a garden table – a screaming eldritch – and a totally un-called-for description of his wife’s bloomer-clad arse.

    ratty’s head was full of these nightmarish images and he slapped his brow with his hand (fortunately, not the hand that held the glinting wife’s-best-kitchen-knife, ‘cos, boy, that would really haved fucked the story up, don’t you think ?)

    The shock of the blow brought him to his senses, and he became aware that he was still standing on his doorstep and had not yet moved. He . . .

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  2. . . . was indeed a dozy old scrote.

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  3. “‘Ere! Oi fort you woz goin aht!”

    Came the dulcet tones of Mrs ratty from the chaise longue

    “Why avenchew gorn yit? Yewve bin stood standin there loike a bleedin statchew for the parst foive bleedin years you twat. Nah fack orf sharpish will yers? Oive got de girls cammin rahnd fer a glarss of prosecco an some caviar on ryvita an to ave are nails dun an oi dahnt want you stood standin there lookin a roight dopey twat nah do I?”

    Unable to argue with such logic, our hero made a ninja–esque move onto the garden path and trod in some dog shit.

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    • ratty looked askance, awry, shocked and then down. Stuck to the undersole of his stiletto-heeled wellie, was a lump of plastic explosive cunningly disguised to look like innocent animal faeces. Protruding from it were two 1.5V LR20 batteries connected to a grandfather clock which, in turn, was connected to its payload – a dog turd . . .

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      • Arghhh! The dreaded IED – an Improbable Excrement Device.

        This was surely the work of a local cell of Balsamic extremists. This deadly group of disgruntled TV chefs had for years been waging a war against anybody and everybody who refused to use locally sourced meat or gave their kids crisps in their school lunches.

        ratty mused on why he’d been targetted, as he idly threw away the remains of last nights double whopper cheesy McShite happy family meal.

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        • . . . almost hitting another contributor who was rattling furiously at his keyboard preparing the next riveting installment to this story.

          I said

          . . . almost hitting another contributor who was rattling furiously at his keyboard preparing the next riveting installment to this story . . . ffs !

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  4. Bloody hell mate – gizachancewillyer!

    This literary brilliance stuff doesn’t just happen you know.

    I’ve just had to go off wandering around Tuscany in an effeminate looking shirt and a daft hat, discussing my motivation for writing with the locals whilst downing vast quantities of sangiovese, in order to build up to my next comment.

    It’s tough, you know – bloody tough.

    Anyway, I’ve lost me thread now thanks to talking to you. Ah, well – back to Italy, I suppose.

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    • Trouble thyself not.

      For tis not at thee that my ire is directed, but the slovenly jackenasses that would only to gaze upon another’s literary strivings and be troubled not by sense of participation.

      The fucking lazy wankers

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  5. Sticky started at the mention of his name. He cursed himself for letting his guard down, and remembered what had happened to his old mate mcneill on Operation Eldritch all those years ago. This time, the steaks were higher, as he sat out the surveillance on a key suspect in the Balsamic terrorist conspiracy. His stomach was rumbling, compromising his carefully-contrived cover. His hand shaking, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a small package, wrapped neatly in greaseproof paper bearing a unicorn logo, and the words ‘Myth of Ages Gourmet Burger’.

    He heard a rustle in the undergrowth behind him . . .

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    • . . . turning quickly he heaved a sigh of relief on seeing it was only a Jack Rustle, being taken for its customary walk by its kilted owner who . . .

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      • . . . being a vegetarian, had no interest in sticky’s packed lunch. “Oh, duncanr, it’s you – you made me jump for a moment there!”

        But sticky’s relief was short-lived, as the familiar-looking figure reached up to his face and peeled away the latex mask, revealing another terrifying face he knew only too well. “So, my near-namesake, we meet at last!” It was Stick Rhine, the Cornish food emporium magnate.

        “Let me taste that fucking burger, or I’ll run you through with this freshly-butchered marlin spike!”

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  6. Having failed miserably at school, Harold ‘sticky’ Hite had felt that he was destined for a life of menial, poorly-paid work, and subsequently applied for a job as a labourer at a local housing project run by Wimpey. However, due to some confusion at the labour exchange (now known as ‘the Jobcentre’, or, more accurately, ‘the centre’), he ended up flipping burgers at his local Wimpy bar.

    Despite his lack of academic qualifications, he had found his vocation in life, and soon was running his own franchise. Although the Wimpy was a superior product – a simple taste sensation in its toasted bun – there was no resisting the surge of US gastronomic and cultural expansionism that was sweeping the world, post WWII. The lower prices and novelty innovations soon tempted away most of his, predominantly young, customer base, and he ended up going into liquidation (which made a hell of a mess on the floor).

    He had never had any problems whisking eggs for awkward customers who demanded an omelette instead of one of his tasty burgers, but he knew his limitations: “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” he thought. True to his name, he joined ’em.

    His new employers soon spotted his potential, and he was whisked (unbeaten) to the US, to study the art of Hamburgerology, returning some weeks later with a degree from the Hamburger University. With a degree of apprehension, he immersed himself in his new rôle. After the other staff had cleaned him up, he got on with the job.

    How he had been recruited into GIT (the Gastronomic Investigations Team – an obscure branch of one of the security services) was still somewhat confusing, but involved a visit by the local environmental health officer, an anonymous late-night phone call, and some compromising photographs taken at a local kebab shop.

    Now, as the threat of having to hand over his lunch slowly dawned on him, he . . .

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    • . . . remembered his Special Services training. He recalled how, during the selection process, he had completed the 30 mile night march in the Brecon Beacons where, carrying a 20 ton backpack and pulling a heavily armoured, fully crewed Centurion Tank by his testicles (all while nonchalently smoking a fag) he had ambled the distance in a, since unmatched, record breaking time.

      This remarkable achievement was quickly followed by the interrogation tests, during which boredom had occasioned him to fall asleep during the horrific tortures to which he was subjected, and thus, when it came to the sleep deprivation stage, he was wide awake and chirpy and passed away the time playing ping-pong with the guards.

      “You don’t bugger with my burger, you bugger” he ejaculated (hmm) “it’ll take a bigger bugger, than you, you big bugger, to burgle my burger, you can beggar a burger where every other bugger gets a burger.

      Now, go away !”

      -“Burger”- “Bugger” exclaimed the Chef, Stick Rhine . . .

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  7. “Rayt – you ‘orrible shah!” boomed a big booming voice.

    It was the feared Company Sergeant Major – Eric ‘Todger’ Smallpiece VC DSO PMT FU2 and bar.

    “Stoppit nah an’ git on wiv a proper plot. I will not ave poncey langwidge an’ personal bleedin biogriffies on my parade grahnd! Do I make myself cleeeah?”

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  8. “Plucking awful . . .” mumbled ratty to no burger in particular, as he shuffled down the garden path in the rough direction of the original storyline.

    He knew it had been a mistake to hire that redundant Indian mystic chap as a gardener. The only plants that were growing were likely to be of interest to the local police, and he was a bit suspicious of the smell of balsamic vinegar that followed the chap around.

    Still at least his halfarsed attempts to play ‘Lucy in the sky with diamonds’ on the sitar kept the locals away.

    Idly stuffing his pockets full of some of ratty’s garden plants, sticky watched from his hiding place behind the outdoor bog as the ex-yogi approached.

    He sniffed disapprovingly as the smell of balsamic vinegar increased . . .

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    • Just then, Tank Cdr. Brigadier (Scotty) Robertson, KFC, arrived on the scene.

      “Chaps,” he said, “I’ve jist bin oan th’ radio tae HQ tae ask them if they woods gie permission fur me tae hae anither Sherman.

      They’ve tauld me ‘at th’ matter is in haind, but in th’ meantime, tae gie a grip oan somethin’ a wee bigger.

      Apparently, an’ accordin’ tae Field Marshal Farmer, discipline isnae bein’ properly maintained oan thes far-oot post, resultin’ in fowk shootin’ aff in different directions. He has ordered ‘at, and in his ain words, – if you chaps wouldn’t mind awfully – tae desist firin’ aff indiscriminately an’ return tae th’ post’s original aim.”

      “Carry oan.”

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  9. . . . , realising that he had to get out of there fast. He removed his right boot from the side of Rhine’s head, feeling relief that the masterchef master criminal was still unconscious, and dragged his dead weight into the bog. There wasn’t much room in there, so he sat the lolling chef on the bog, pulling down his pants to authenticate the situation. As he was now unable to open the door, due to Rhine’s size 10s, he made his escape by clambering onto the man’s shoulders and squeezing through the small window. As he dropped to the ground on the other side . . .

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  10. . . . it was obvious that he had not been quick enough.

    Before him stood the gardener, sitar in one hand, a copy of Burt Weedon’s ‘Play with yourself in a day’ in the other, and the unmistakable uncapped end of a bottle of balsamic vinegar pointing out of his beard – straight at sticky’s chest.

    “You will pleased to be comings with me, Sahib” said the gardener in a none-too-convincing Peter Sellers Indian accent – before ending with an unlikely “Oh cor blimey, yes”

    “Who the fuck are you?” sticky thought, and ignoring the obvious danger of the vinegar bottle, launched himself at his would be abductor.

    As the pair wrestled for control of the deadly condiment, the gardener’s latex mask (yeah, I know – another one . . .) was dislodged to reveal a familiar chirpy cockney face – known to millions and loved by well, let’s say half a dozen, shall we?

    “Cor blimey, guvnor. I thought you’d ruffled me barnet, there. This costs a bleedin’ fortune to get trimmed up West.”

    sticky was stunned; for before him stood public enemy number one, the leader of the balsamic extremist movement worldwide, their spiritual idol.

    “Jamie Oliver, you twat – I’m taking you in” shouted sticky . . .

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    • Field Marshal Farmer threw his brandy glass at the mess wall and handed in his papers.

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      • “You can’t hand these in here” said the Casablanca District Council official indignantly, with the practiced ease and arrogance of council officials the world over.

        “They have to go for recycling. It’s more than my job’s worth to have every Tom, Dick and Field Marshal handing in recyclable papers at a non-recycling desk. And all that broken glass needs to go in the correct bin as well. HAve you filled in the risk assessment for handling broken glass? They’re over there in the rack on the wall, next to the council guidelines leaflet on how to avoid litigation resulting from paper cuts”

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        • “Where’s your bin ?” asked the council official- THIS COMMENT HAS BEEN REMOVED ON THE GROUNDS IT BEING CONSIDERED INAPPROPRIATE AND OFFENSIVE

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    • . . . “Not fackin’ likely, you northern twat!” Oliver was grinning as he bestowed a clanging Glaswegian kiss on sticky’s fair bonce, causing the poor chap’s head to rebound into the sharp corner of the bog wall. As he crumpled into a heap, a pool of dark red spread around him.

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      • . . . It was then that sticky noticed, out of the corner of his eye, (he had square eyes) a glinting kitchen knife from Argos, -held in the withered hand of a stooped, balding, beer-bellyed old fart- held firmly in the grasp of a tall, muscular Cap’n Ross Poldark look-alike (except that this one spoke with a praaper Cornish accent) his long flowing dark locks framing his handsomely chiselled features.

        “Unhand that man, you dastard” (or something like that) he shouted, “relinquish your hold immediately, for I and the lady wife have occasion to dine at a tavern several leagues distant and are in need of a baby sitar”. These words were spoken acidly, leaving sticky to wonder if Lord ratty, too had been partaking of the balsamic vinegar.

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  11. Deep in a South American rain forest, a butterfly farted.

    Liked by 1 person

    • “Ah ha!” David Attenborough whispered into the microphone “We now hear the mating call of the lesser Baked Bean Frog”

      As the wisest man on earth and his intrepid cameraman Filmy McFilmface stepped forward in the dense Amazonian undergrowth, there was a muting farting noise as the royal Attenborough boot descended onto a butterfly, thus putting an end to another vaguely ridiculous twist of the story.

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      • A million butterflys beat their wings in anguish.

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        • The chairman of the Anguish residents’ committee decided that enough was enough: This time he would do more than write to his MP – he would take this to the highest authority in the land.

          David Attenborough must be made aware of this annual invasion of hooligan-element lepidoptera.

          He didn’t have any real problem with butterflies (spelt correctly this time) beating their wings – he was pretty sure that it was good exercise for the little chaps – but why did they have to choose his village in which to do it.

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          • Meanwhile, while all this argie-bargie about (lepidoptera ?) and butterflyses beating their meat was going on, far, far away in a distant land, a Kiwi was cursing, as an unexpected wind from the Southern Americas’ thwarted his attempt to light his barbie. Earl Askell crushed his canned coldie in frustration and used it to flush a recently produced bondi cigar down the dunnee . . .

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