Larry and Mick go to Puddletown ... PART ONE

 

One day, during Larry and Mick’s annual fishing trip to Dorset, they decided to go to Puddletown. Puddletown is a real place, but the Puddletown Larry and Mick visited was not a Puddletown you would find on any map. Not a real map, anyway. The Puddletown of Larry and Mick’s visiting was a Puddletown of the mind. That is to say, it was a Puddletown Larry and Mick made up and decided to visit. Don’t ask.

 

Or do ask if you want to know how they did this. For ‘twas a mysterious mystery pertaining to a talent specific to comedy pairings whose many marvellous meanderings included the slaying of demonic entities, the considering of philosophical propositions and the eating of soup. Like Larry and Mick. And others, who shall not be named.

 

The creation and subsequent visiting of ‘Puddletown’ went something like this:

 

“Mick,” said Larry.

 

“Yes, Larry,” said Mick.

 

“Shall we go fishing?” said Larry.

 

“No, Larry,” said Mick.

 

“Why not?” said Larry.

 

“I don’t like fishing,” said Mick.

 

“Ah,” said Larry.

 

“Hmm,” said Mick.

 

And this was the thing with Larry and Mick’s ‘fishing trips to Dorset.’ Neither Larry nor indeed Mick liked fishing. And yet every year, like the mechanical workings of a chronological instrument, they packed their fishing gear (two sticks, some string and a handful of worms) and set off for the ponds, pools and puddles of the West Country.

 

“Perhaps,” suggested Larry to Mick, “we should refrain from piscary activities on this occasion.”

 

“I feel,” said Mick to Larry, “that there is wisdom in your suggestion.”

 

“But what shall we do instead?” said Larry.

 

Mick had a think, then, “Puddletown!” he said.

 

“There’s no such pl-”

 

Mick stabbed at the appropriate place on the paper map laid out before him.

 

“Where did that come from?” said Larry, referring to the map.

 

“It’s always been there,” said Mick.

 

“But it-”

 

Mick lifted a finger. “Question ye not.”

 

Larry shrugged. He then looked at what Mick was pointing at, saw that he was pointing to somewhere in Dorset (the place, in our world, where Puddletown should have been), but saw also that of the word ‘Puddletown,’ there was not.

 

“As I was saying,” said Larry, “no such place.”

 

Mick quickly retrieved the pencil from behind his ear and wrote ‘Puddletown’ on the map.

 

“But you just-”

 

Mick lifted a finger. “Question ye not.”

 

Larry shrugged.

 

“So?” said Mick.

 

Larry raised an eyebrow.

 

“Let’s away to Puddletown!” said Mick.

 

And so they did.

 

...

 

They ‘awayed’ to Puddletown through various means. First they travelled upon the Ponies of Shanks. Then they realised it was quite a long way, so opted for bicycles. Upon further realising they had forgotten to pack their matching magenta and chrome Subrosa Salvador BMXes, they headed for the nearest Segway shop, then, upon additionally further realising that the hoverboard-type Segways which were sold therein were actually impossible to remain standing upon, and upon subsequently additionally further realising and indeed remembering that they were in fact already in Dorset and indeed only two miles away from the location of the ‘Puddletown’ of Mick’s pencilated scribblings, they reverted to the Ponies of Shanks (apologising profusely to Mr Shanks of Shanks’s Rental Ponies, and offering said chap a small tip (£1.25 per pony) by way of compensation for the inconvenience of hiring a pair of ponies then changing their minds).

 

They arrived at ‘Puddletown’ at 2pm on an unspecified day of the week (which was Thursday).

 

The real Puddletown has the following description in Wikipedia:

 

‘The village is situated about 4.5 miles (7 km) northeast of the county town Dorchester and is sited by the River Piddle, from which it derives its name. It also used to be known as Piddletown, but this fell out of favour, probably because of the alternative meaning of the word "piddle". The name Puddletown rather than Piddletown was officially sanctioned in the late 1950s.’

 

So there you have it.

 

The Puddletown of Larry and Mick’s imagining, however, either sat in an enormous puddle or had lots of puddles scattered throughout, but since Larry and Mick couldn’t decide which, it existed in both states simultaneously, until Larry and Mick observed Puddletown, the quantum wave function collapsed and Puddletown adopted one or the other of these two states.

 

“Look!” said Larry, as they approached said town and tethered their ponies to the nearest lamp post. “It would appear that Puddletown exists in two simultaneous quantum states!”

 

“Huh?” said Mick, who gave his pony a carrot.

 

“It,” clarified Larry (although not really), “sits in an enormous puddle and yet also has lots of puddles scattered throughout!”

 

“But that’s impossible,” said Mick.

 

“Who are you to say what is impossible or not?”

 

“I am Mick Mastodon.”

 

“Indeed you are. But there Puddletown stands. In one and yet also several puddles.”

 

Mick scratched his head. “How about,” said he, “you and I make a decision as to which particular quantum state Puddletown exists in, then,” continued he, “reimagine said town, with the intention of imbuing this narrative with an appropriate and desirable degree of clarity?”

 

“You mean make our bloody minds up, so the readers know what we are talking about?” queried Larry.

 

“Indeed I do,” said Mick.

 

“Okay then, heads or tails.”

 

“Heads.”

 

“Heads it is.”

 

“Which means?”

 

“Many puddles rather than one.”

 

“Thank Jamiroquai for that.”

 

…

 

Jay Kay, frontman of British funk and jazz band, Jamiroquai, did not live in Puddletown (the real one). Nor did the members of ‘90s Mancunian alternative rock group, New Fast Automatic Daffodils. It is a subject of speculation as to whether any of the above had ever visited Puddletown (the real one), but since the Puddletown which is the subject of this tale is that of Larry and Mick’s imagining, we can assume that they have. Visited. As it were. Not only have they visited, but they were so taken with the place, that they decided to make it their home, so now reside therein (in a manner of speaking (see later)). Along with American comedy actor, Jack Black, author Stephen King and Donald Trump. But this story isn’t about them (at least not yet (see later (again))). It is about the puddles. Of Puddletown. And what grew therein.

 

The daffodils.

 

Which is why I mentioned New Fast Automatic Daffodils.

 

Clever eh?

 

“Look at the daffodils!” said Larry.

 

“Haven’t you ever seen daffodils before?” said Mick.

 

“Yes, but not illuminous orange ones the size of an average adult human!”

 

“Oh yes, I didn’t notice.”

 

And indeed there they were.

 

“Why groweth they herewith?” sayeth Larry.

 

“Maybe it’s the puddles,” said Mick.

 

“Puddles?”

 

Mick pointed.

 

“Oh yes, I didn’t notice.”

 

Mick gave Larry a look.

 

“Shall we investigate further?” said Larry.

 

“Why the heck not?” said Mick.

 

And so they did.

 

...

 

The puddles of Puddletown were puddles not of water, but of some other indeterminable liquid. Lemonade perhaps? Or gin? Or very pale wee?

 

Whatever their nature, Larry stuck his finger in one and gave it a lick.

 

“Lemonade,” said he.

 

(Phew)

 

“I was hoping for gin,” said Mick.

 

“Well at least it isn’t-”

 

“Look out!”

 

The human-sized illuminous orange daffodil which was situated in the puddle that Larry had just had his finger in breathed on Larry. Which is to say that it bent its trumpet-like head towards Larry and emitted some kind of noxious vapour (which was illuminous orange of hue, like the daffodil).

 

“Ooh,” said Larry.

 

“Are you alright?” said Mick.

 

“Garlicky,” said Larry.

 

“That’s not so bad,” said Mick.

 

“It is when you’ve just been supping lemonade.”

 

“Sho’nuff.”

 

But then...

 

“Aaaarrrgghh!!” said Larry.

 

“What is it?” said Mick.

 

“I dunno, suddenly I feel all...”

 

“?”

 

“Daffodilly.”

 

“Daffodilly?”

 

“I dunno how else I can-... weurrrggghh!!”

 

“What is it?” said Mick.

 

But Larry could no longer talk.

 

For Larry had gone all daffodilly.

 

...

 

“Oh dear,” said Mick. Followed by, “What am I to do?” And furthermore, “I think I shall have a sit down.”

 

For Mick was, as they say, stumped.

 

For his friend had just turned into a human-sized illuminous orange daffodil. His best friend in the whole wide world. Ever.

 

“What,” repeated Mick, “am I to do?”

 

But he didn’t know.

 

“Oh yeah, what we're living in (let me tell ya)

It's a wonder man can eat at all

When things are big that should be small...”

 

“Pardon?” said Mick.

 

“Who can tell what magic spells we'll be doing for us

And I'm giving all my love to this world

Only to be told

I can't see

I can't breathe

No more will we be...”

 

“I don’t get it,” said Mick.

 

“Futures made of virtual insanity now!”

 

“Waitaminute...” said Mick.

 

But as soon as he realised that one of the nearby daffodils had been singing the 1996 Jamiroquai hit, Virtual Insanity, it stopped. Then another daffodil, in the voice of Donald Trump, said...

 

“Build a wall!”

 

- to which Mick responded with words that, if repeated, would raise the rating of this story to a 15.

 

But before Stephen King or the members of New FADs could make an appearance, something ridiculous happened.

 

As the opening chords to ABBA’s Dancing Queen struck up out of nowhere (the heads of the surrounding daffodils), the aforementioned surrounding daffodils started to sway synchronously and in time with the music.

 

“Oh crikey,” said Mick.

 

And he wasn’t wrong.

 

And as those glorious Swedish vocals emerged from a thousand (well, perhaps a hundred or two) oversized floral trumpets, the same number of daffodils performed an ABBAesque flash mob the likes of which had never been seen before - except perhaps in Puddletown, where such things probably (in fact did) happened all the time.

 

Mick realised, in fact, that even the daffodil that used to be his bestest chum Larry was joining in.

 

“Well, if you can’t beat ‘em...” said Mick.

 

And Mick joined in also.

 

And Mick got all daffodilly.

 

...