In article <
[email protected]>, Tony
<
[email protected]> writes
>Better get this out as I have heard today is the last posting date
>
>Regards all and thanks all for the advice over this year
And from me too.
Hope this makes you smile, sorry if you've seen it before (and with
apologies to the original author - I've tweaked it a bit)...
.. . .
Count Dracula has been gleefully on the pre-solstice pull,
in Glasgow, of all places. He's spent the night hip-hopping,
downing Bloody Mary's in various clubs, and occasionally
nibbling at any unsuspecting female necks he's bee offered.
Characteristically, he's been fit as a dead flea recently, so he's
thus felt no need at all to use the chill-out rooms provided,
although naturally he appreciates the sentiment more than most.
Eventually, he reluctantly decides to head for home.
He starts to wobble back along Argyle Street shortly
before sunrise, humming 'Days in Black Satin' rather
off key, more to himself than to the rather surprised
bin-men making an early start*. Although snowy outside, it's
been rather too warm in the clubs. The thought of an icy coffin
waiting back at the crypt seems very inviting to him, in a
drink-befuddled sort of way.
Suddenly he is hit on the back of the head. Spinning round
he sees nothing, but his vampire senses detect a faint, strange
cooking smell. He looks down. A small sausage roll is lying
on its own in the middle of the pavement, about three feet away.
"That's a bit odd," he thinks, "The carry-outs closed hours ago,
and surely my fellow Denizens of the Night would have had that
wee morsel away by now." He means the local rats, of course,
but he's come over a bit lyrical because of the vodka. There's no
time to consider this odd incident further though, as there's now
a faint glimmer on the Eastern horizon. He turns back to his path,
quickening his pace crypt-wards.
A few yards further on and... SPLOT! He whirls round
as quick as he can, but again sees nobody. This time,
however, there is a small triangular egg and cress sandwich
lying on the ground. Bloody Marys notwithstanding, his
evil-eyesight is every bit as efficient as ever, and he
can't help noting with distaste the curled corners and
drying egg mayonnaise (although strangely the cress
appears largely intact).
Yuk! The merest hint of vegetarianism is quite enough
to make him feel thoroughly queasy. He wants to sit down
and wait for the nausea to pass, but realises he must
fight down the rebellion in his stomach. There is now
a distinct glow on the skyline. Time is short and he
must hurry.
Leaning into the rising pre-dawn breeze, his cape streams
out behind him as he attempts to stride out, now in a
purposeful but none-too-straight line. Another two
hundred yards will see him safely at the lych-gate
of the churchyard, but the gloom around him is decreasing
with every step. He should never have drunk those
last two brunettes, he mutters to himself angrily.
Thuck! Just as he reaches the relative safety of the gate's
overhang it happens again. Expecting nobody and angered by the
interruptions, he whirls round again. This time, however,
things are horribly different.
He grabs at his chest, but to no avail. The long, wooden
cocktail stick, bizarrely adorned with pineapple chunk and
cheese cube, has slid sharply in through his silk shirt,
finding its evil target under the third rib. There is a pain
that defies description. His legs fail under him and he
collapses onto the un-sanctified paving stones outside the
churchyard.
Standing over him, rim-lit by the rising sunlight the
blonde's half-smile is ghastly, yet strangely familiar.
"Who are you?" He gasps, as the black mist rises
around him.
She laughs, "You mean you don't know? Well, thanks to
Mr. Pointy here it won't bother you much longer now.
But for the record, I'm...
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Buffet, the vampire slayer."
Regards,
Simonm.
--
simonm|at|muircom|dot|demon|.|c|oh|dot|u|kay
SIMON MUIR, BRISTOL UK
www.ukip.org
EUROPEANS AGAINST THE EU
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