it has been a short while since my last missive, primarily because it has taken quite some time to recover body and Spindle soul from the events of our halloween bash at the Velvet Marmoset. My ‘attorney at paw’ has advised that I can now divulge details of the evening in question, therefore I have seated myself at my executive writing bureau and have taken quill to paw.
It was naturally a huge success, as evenings generally are at the V.M. although there is usually a certain amount of damage limitation and apologies to be made afterwards. The three of us had sallied forth that evening, fully costumed up and raring to go.
We arrived at the club early as was our custom, to catch up with all the gossip and make any adjustments needed to Hector’s costume. Originally he was going to be rocking his best Riff Raff ala Rocky Horror fame, but he also rather fancied the outfit worn by Frank n Furter, so he became an unsettling mash up of the two. He had been squirming all evening with misbehaving suspenders and heat inducing plastic hot pants. He was last seen scampering off into the bathroom with a gigantic tub of baby powder and a staple gun.
We decided not to follow him so we pulled up a seat and settled around the bar. Sister Josephine then appeared before us all, wielding a cattle prod and a glitter ball, bristling with anticipation. After our concerns were voiced, the cattle prod was firmly strapped to Sister Josephine’s hip, safely sheathed in a makeshift leather holster fashioned from a disgarded bum bag.
She explained that this was merely a precautionary measure after Mr Pendlebury’s disgraceful antics the previous halloween carousing. It had been the first time that our dear Nelson (sadly missed, buttock toupee wearing pal) had been on cocktail duty and he muddled himself with imperial and metric measurements which resulted in a huge dry cleaning bill, a formal written apology to the local council and an impromptu rescue from a bolt cropper wielding firewoman (Martha). Oh…and hideous hangovers.
Such was the success however of the evening, Martha had decided to attend this year’s bash – on a very much ‘off duty’ basis – although she did say she had her tool box with her just in case.
Pre warned, we had decided to entrust the bar with little Jackie, a dainty little whippet pal of mine. She was emminently sensible, could hold her own when faced with the Marmoset’s clientele, and promised that there would be no frolicksome shenanigans in her drink measurements. I did see, however, her paws were crossed as she said this to her disbelieving human slave, Mark (hands on hips and eyebrow raised). Turning to me she smirked and winked jauntily and I was satisfied a good evening would be had by all.
By this time Hector had reappeared, and we marvelled at the disparity between his inadvertant pale, talc’d complexion and the red flashes from the staple gun suspender fix (apparently it had a wicked kick back that he wasn’t expecting). Plasters applied he was ready to time warp the night away.
We decided it was time to have a calming libation. The velvet Marmoset caters to all requirements, with a cocktail bar, a mocktail bar and tonight, for some reason, also a soup bar. This was Sister Josephine’s idea as she felt it was prudent to provide hearty nourishment when expelling energy on dancing and spending money at the bar. Naturally, at halloween, it was tomato soup – with croutons shaped as tiny tombstones.
By this point, the spider clad doors had been flung open and there was a mild stampede of the Marmoset’s finest customers.
I had decided to come dressed as a Miss Marple witch and The tiny terror (muvver) was floating about in her black lace veil, crimson bridal gown and full length Dr Marten boots. We were chatting amongst oursleves when we noticed that we hadn’t seen Hector for a little while.
We found him sashaying around the dancefloor, with an admiring group of onlookers encouraging him via the medium of clapping and whooping. Thus fortified with confidence, he began to vigorously vogue. The funny thing is we could all predict what was going to happen before it did, and strangely, it wasn’t actually Hector’s fault – it was mine. In my defence, I had no idea that the soup contained in the soup urn was under as much pressure as it was.
I was casually fiddling with the cattle prod, that had been left on the bar by a negligent Sister Josephine. The prod, having performed its role admirably was resting, and Sister J was escorting Mr Pendlebury off the premises and into the care of the local constabulary again. I had never encountered such a device before and I was bewitched by the potential power I could wield during our frequent debates at Spindle Towers. Jackie emitted a warning meep at the exact time that I accidentally deployed the prod and it made contact with the molten pot of tomatoey delight. Said soup exploded out of the urn, now a weapon of mass destruction. Croutons were fired out in all directions, now as flaming shrapnel – shrapnel which naturally made a beeline for Hector’s plastic hot pants. By some great quirk the dj began to play a well known tune from the great Johnny Cash.
Momentarily frozen at the sight of dripping soup and croutons, we shuffled to form a small cordon around him to give him some privacy to receive treatment. Thankfully, Lady Hester was in attendance, in her role as first aider, and not as the gin swilling, regal ragamuffin we all know and adore. Jackie rang the mishap bell behind the bar and a gracious flurry of limbs indicated Lady H’s imminent arrival. Hector was divested of his clothing…made easier by talc application…and Lady H began applying a roll of cling film to the affected…area…and administered a generous triple shot of tequilla. Now medicated, we bundled him up in sheet from a now shivering and partially naked Egyption mummy and off to Accident and Emergancy he went.
From this point onwards, Jackie was given full permission to stray from the strict measurements and the tomato scented frivolities continued. You couldn’t make it up dear reader! It will take a few weeks for the full fumigation of the V.M. as a pungent aroma of tomato soup has proved difficult to eradicate in the days following that night.
I shall now rest dear reader, until next time.
3 thoughts on “Spindle’s in the soup”
Quite splendiferous, do hope Hector is recovering.
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Soup? Oh dear. Maybe sausages would have been less dangerous.
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Oh dear Miss Elsie… what Shenanigans do carry on. I am adding “full length Doc Martens” to my Christmas list
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