Continue Blathering, By All Means
Cue Hysterical Laughter Follow Up
Quite naturally, Dennis did not tape “A Fish Called Wanda”. Or maybe he did, and he’s just keeping it all to himself. Anything is possible with the Denise-ah.
The play was quite nice, really. Very funny, and all that. But I’m still dying for the French Fries scene.
What can one do when one is in love with a fish? One must ask Michael Palin for the answer to that.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “it’s funny you should ask, because I’ve just been reading a great big book about the subject, and it says that you can either take a holiday, go on a package tour, or get very angry at your friends and loved ones and spend days locked up in your room convinced that you’re a hedgehog. Since this last is invariably the way that writers eventually churn out books, it’s very easy to get confused when trying to tell the difference. However, what I do is this. If the person is highly neurotic, difficult to get along with, tense, full of angst, and generally peculiar, they are a writer. If they are constantly making references to ‘dear old Eric’, then they are either in love with a halibut, or in love with... well, someone named Eric. Actually, to be quite honest, it’s nearly impossible to tell them apart.”
He shakes his grizzled young head and looks bemused. “Even I, a writer in my own right, frequently get hold of the idea that I’d rather be a scale-enveloped wriggler on somebody’s dinner plate than a not-quite-sixty-year-old man with a loving wife and three children.”
In order to investigate what is rapidly becoming known as “The Fish Phenomenon” (often misspelled) more fully, we consulted well-known science-fiction author, and friend of Michael Palin, Douglas Adams. As Mr. Adams has been spending several years dead for tax reasons, we were compelled to reach him through the services of a medium, one Princess Margaret (not his real name), and, once this was done, Adams refused to comment. However, in his post-humorous book “A Salmon of Doubt”, Adams not only predicted the downfall of nudist camps as the number of weight-related problems soared, he also commented that the only way to go about it if you are a fiction author is “drink way too much coffee and buy a desk that won’t collapse when you beat your head against it.” One would assume that he was in a position to know, but then he also referred to the French language as “a mere bagatelle”, and so his entire argument is put in a completely different light.
We then talked with Ford Prefect, who despite not being a real person, was perfectly eager to talk to us. “Gosh,” he said, “are you really Felicity Danielle?”
“Yes,” we admitted shyly, scuffing our feet.
“Will you sign my book?” He held a copy of “Soldier’s Brannigan” at us in one hand, and a pen in the other. We signed it, then said, “Can we get on with the interview now?”
“Oh, sure, yeah, sure, sure.” He settles himself down and flips his dark hair out of his eyes and watches us expectantly.
“Right,” we said briskly. “Now, you have a reputation of being a bit of a hitch hiker, and have supposedly seen the entire universe several times for a maximum of sixty Altairian dollars. You’ve been literally all over the place, and seen everything.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Right, and how was the fish then?”
“Oh, not bad,” he says, and no doubt would have gone on at some length, except we have thrown ourselves at his feet and begged him to marry us.
It’s a whirlwind romance, comprised of roughly five minutes and thirty seconds, and a good three years later we are all walking down the aisle at the Chapel of Bacon Pet Cemetery (the words appeared first in the language of Betelgeuse Five, and there was apparently some difficulty with the translation) and then we’re married and have everything we could possibly want.
Except a good edited copy of “A Fish Called Wanda.”
And then....
A couple of weeks after writing the above (and not the below) I must confess to an innate dissatisfaction in my marriage to a fictional character. It’s not that he’s unpleasant to be around all the time, or anything, or that he leaves the toilet seat up (although he does, you know, all men do), it’s just that he spends his nights hanging upside down above our sofa, making noises like a giraffe with toothache, and this leads to some peculiar feelings on the part of a wife. Dissatisfaction, as I mentioned before. I’m beginning to wish I’d married Lord Peter Wimsey, who at least knew what to do with a good thing when he had it, or at the very least Paul McCartney.
And my quest, how is that going? Oh, it’s going nowhere. Of course, it’s been going nowhere since the day I began, but I’m beginning to be slightly discouraged. Not a naturally tenable position for a young woman in constant search of a fish.
What is it with people’s obsession with fish? I don’t like them, particularly, myself. I admit some of them are rather amazing-looking, but the taste of them is just, well, fishy, and really I’d rather read about zebras or otters, though of course if Kevin Kline had tried to swallow a live zebra it would have gotten caught in his throat. This, I assume, is the reason the movie isn’t “A Zebra Called Wanda”.
An interesting thought just occurred to me (interesting to me, anyway, though most likely not to anyone else within a thousand-mile radius). That name, Kevin— can’t you just see it applying to a band of marsupials with tentacles and a butterfly fixation? A new species, I mean. If I ever discover a species (on Australia, probably, it’s the only place left now, isn’t it?) I’m going to call it Kevin.
Kevin would make a good pet, I think. Mild-tempered, lowly in heart, very loving and loyal, much better than a dog. And probably good at vacuuming, too. Away with the Hoover, Sir Andrew, and never mind that tea cup you knocked off the table so it broke into a million pieces. My Kevin will clean it up. Here, boy! Here, boy! (Arrach, arrach, because, you know, with their vocal cords, Kevins don’t bark very well).
I’m sorry if I’m getting peculiar. I’m meant to be working on my newest novel (it’s not all that new, I’ve been plugging away at it for almost a year now) and instead I’m being very silly, so naturally I’m feeling a bit like kicking up my heels and such. Instead of that drab, boring world of the girl called Claire who suffers a nasty knock to the head and finds herself in limbo, along with some extremely odd characters, one of whom is a jerk named Murphy, here I am coming up with curiousations on reality and telling someone who isn’t particularly interested about my search for the unholiest of holies: A Kevin Called Zebra. Excuse me. Oh well, by now you know what I mean, don’t you?
It’s actually kind of interesting, this novel of mine. I’m not plugging it, you understand, it’s just that this is my scrip here, and I can write about what I like. This novel (oh, sorry, dear, don’t mind that, will you, I’ll pick it up later) is filled with so many odd creatures it’s like a zoo in Hades. It’d be difficult to get any stranger without bringing into play Salvador Dali and probably some strong sort of drug. Or at least, not without trying very hard.
At any rate it’s quite boring to work on day in day out and I enjoy a little bit of a break
of mine
Our Intrepid Correspondent
written by Felicity “Eric” Danielle
adapted for paper by putting it on a piece of “Eric” wood
and “Eric” banging a few nails “Eric” through it “Fish”
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