It turned out to be much easier than ever to find their way there, to the Great Hall in the Great Castle in the Great City of Setebos.
They did turn left and enter door number three. From there they had to work their way along a few deep and dreary back passages but eventually they emerged from a little entrance into the Great Hall.
It was magnificent.
And wonderful – and marvellous and that.
There were beams a plenty that stretched from floor to ceiling, majestically holding the splendour of the roof in its splendid place on top of the walls. Of walls there were four, one at each side of the Hall. Each wall consisted of bricks, magnificently place on top of each other in a Flemish bond to add strength, and magically held together by mortar. Then in his perversity the Master Builder said what is it all made of; so rendered the walls in rendering. The brilliance of the architect was shown by having windows in each wall, windows that, should the observer be fifteen feet tall, would allow one to look outside. This was majestic splendour on a magnificent scale.
From the buttresses rose magnificent gargoyle sculptures, such that, if one peered at them with a slight squint in the right eye and a fist pushed into the left side of ones head, one could easily believe the masons had captured Prime Ministers Question Time. Or the Liverpool team from 1974.
At the far end of the Hall, or the near end if you were coming in from the other side, lay a raised dais upon which stood two magnificently majestic thrones. Each throne was raised above the dais on another, smaller dais in order for the occupants to take an even more condescending view of any grovelling bastard who dared ask for extra sandwiches. The cannier observer would detect that both thrones were in fact commodes, a device that has saved many a monarch when having the shit bored out of them by whinging politicians.
Greg and Peter did not notice this as it is not really relevant, but worth mentioning in trying to understand the mind of the planners, who are also full of shite.
They looked at each other.
“What happens next?” asked Peter.
“Search me,” said Greg.
“You’ve got some coins in your left pocket, a knife in your right, lots of useful pens, a pocket watch, a fire extinguisher, a comb, two hard boiled eggs and a decent supply of lard in your ruck sack,” said Peter ten minutes later, having taken Greg literally.
“I think the Dukes! are starting to affect you mental skills,” said Greg.
“I think I have always had mental bits,” said Peter.
Just then there came the sounds of horns blazing.
‘Parp! Parp! Parpety Parp!’ went the horns.
The dynamic duo were drawn magnetically toward the dais. As the horns parped louder and louder there appeared from the side of the Great hall the Fattest Fairy imaginable, his face glowing crimson with the effort of moving. As this figure waddled carefully toward the larger of the two thrones there came a stench as though every demon in Hell had farted simultaneously; hydrogen sulphide overdose with mega portions of skatole. The pair gagged and shuddered in disbelief.
The figure sat down and looked down at his strange subjects.
“Don’t blame me lads; I’m Innocent!” he said with more than a hint of mischief in his eyes.
[It needs to be noted at this juncture in the story that one of the strangest things about Uranus is it is full of wormholes. These wormholes convey not only images and stories but also notions. One of the funniest ideas to traverse the interplanetary quite extraordinary Space is the Liverpool accent. Scholars in the Greater Library of the Gods in Bootle and the What The Fuck Happened Library of Alexandria can’t decide the direction in which the accent travelled; suffice it to say that the Fairies speak with a Scouse accent. If you can grasp this concept it will make the narrative even funnier. Funnier than flu.]
“What can I do for you, lads?” asked the munificent King Innocent.
The intrepid pair were still trying to get their breathing sorted. It takes some skill to breath only through the mouth; a talent achieved every night by many a drunk producing the most horrendous snoring to the annoyance of countless gorgeous young ladies. If perfected it eliminates the intensity of the smell. Schoolteachers and Nurses are highly proficient at this due to the horrible stinking environments in which they carry out their trades – I don´t mean those in their care, merely the shit they get chucked at them from governments. Mind you, taxi drivers have to be good at it too. As for sewage workers, they probably just enjoy the smell of shite.
Greg pulled himself together.
“Oh most noble and wonderful King; oh Glorious Master of all the Fairies and the lesser peoples of Uranus; oh tower of bulk and stoutness personified. There are many things we would like to ask. And may be so bold as to ask my first question; why do you smell like a ton of camel droppings mixed with rotten eggs and cabbages?”
The King paused.
Pausing is all part of the game on Uranus.
The King continued his pause.
A look of anger danced across his face, down his shirt and out of his trousers. Then a smile crossed his face.
“I haven’t had a shower today yet lads, sorry! And with a chod bin as wide as mine, getting things spick and span takes a little extra support.”
The King turned to his left.
“Hanny! Nouf! The other one! Come out here and make your King a little more presentable for his raggedy arsed guests!”
The music of the wordy hurdy gurdy filled the room and a scent of lavender and vanilla attempted to hide the Monarchs stench.
There emerged from a side door to the rear of the dais, in the middle of one of the walls that held up the roof, the three most gorgeous Fairy babes that either of our heroes had ever seen. They were the kind of gals that made any male want to fall in love, have babies and never spend a night in the pub with his mates ever again – ok this is a fairy story…
The young females brought in with them a large bowl of steaming hot water, towels and soap, perfumes made from the finest spices the planet could produce. Fairy Nouf ran immediately to the two travellers giving each a Nosegay, saying “This’ll mask the pong until we’ve cleaned the Gloriously Reeking Ruler!”
It took a good long time for the Malodorous Sovereign to be made presentable, in which time the two heroes sat and watched the dance of the three gorgeous handmaidens as they spruced up the bulky old git. Peter became more and more enamoured of Hanny, her hair cascading in corkscrews down her shoulders, flashing and parting to display fine young breasts enclosed in green linen. Her skull was crowned with the latest in Fairy Hairy-do’s; a v-shaped wedge that drew the viewer’s eyes up along that pretty face. Her beautiful almond eyes glowed blue in the half light of the Hall. Her waist suggested an athletic existence, the six pack tastefully covered by a short gypsy skirt. Beneath the flowing skirts he could see long lithesome legs, lovely legends living lavishly, lustful lingerie lengthening the alliteration. At the end of those lovely legs were calf high black boots, army issue, and 24 lace holes.
Fairies wear boots and you’ve got to believe me.
All three girls fluttered vestigial gossamer wings as they danced and entranced the Minging Stinking King. The Fairies have evolved on Uranus to a point where they can no longer use their wings. As they get older and slightly more tubby the wings become more colourful but less useful. These older Fairy gals refer to them as Bright Imitation Non Gliding Objects; or BINGO wings for short.
Peter had to stop looking for fear of making a fool of himself, as a priapism attempted to keep him seated for an hour or two.
He wanted to declare his love instantly. But what would she see? A Pixy fallen on hard times, who had betrayed the trust placed in him, lying there with an arse packed with purified pig fat. Who could fall in love with such a forlorn creature?
In that instant Peter felt that Hanny had broken off a corner of his mind, a corner she would hold onto until he could rid himself of the curse of the Dukes! If he could atone for his sins then maybe she would give back that little corner of him, and he could be the Pixy he had always been. Then maybe they could live happy ever after, Pixy and Fairy in perfect harmony.
Too many obstacles.
Still, the road without obstacles never leads anywhere interesting. And if you don’t know where youre going then youre bound to get there.
A road to far?
Are we on the road to nowhere?
Will it be a long and winding road?
Any road, let´s continue with peter´s random thoughts…
A Fairy marry a Pixy?
Peter ended his reverie as the more pleasant smells of perfume and parfum drifted up his nostrils, reminding him that Uranus can be quite a pleasant place to spend an evening. The King no longer smelt like a leather tanning factory in Morocco. He was all sweetness and light, and no longer smelt of shite. This was a new day. The aromas brought Peter back down from his musings. He could not afford to fall in love with anyone, let alone one of the Kings handmaidens.
In the midst of this romantic contemplation, Peter murmured out loud the thoughts wiggling a salsa through his imagination, “You can’t always get what you want!”
“I can!” said the King.