Those Daft Soap Suds – Issue 8

The Bleach family are congealed around the 720-inch plasma TV watching their favourite reality TV programme: The Royals Walk to The Bank.
“Eee, look at ‘er, what style and how wonderfully she puts one foot in front of the other. Bleedin’ marvellous.”
The Dettols are hovering over their holographic kinesthoscope that went part of the way upstairs, paying rapt attention to a rerun of Deja vu: part 600; the utterly irrefutably final ultimate episode.
“Look at his tackle. Wouldn’t mind being his bath-towel.”
Suddenly there’s a knock at the door and they send their lackey, the live-in skivvy from Chepstow that works for nothing.
The clock struck nine. The packet the postman delivered contained enough silicon implants to give all the family 38DDD confidence.
At the Vitreous enamel a party was going on as Olive Palm, out of hospital after her latest fracas with the infinite, was attempting to transcend into a state of Nirvana. Little did she or any of the party know that trained on the place was a ballistic missile being tested by Guinea Bissau. To help the event along, a faded soap star of another channel had been invited to count down to Olive’s mo- mentous achievement.
However, his appalling acting meant that he was ejected before most of the party were reck- lessly destroying their livers and defaulting on their right to NHS treatment. This political suicide didn’t stop the festivities as Olive omm’d her way to an immaterial existence.
Meanwhile, the vicar was getting himself gussied up to go to the only nightclub in the area, and the only one to be co-owned by a ten-year-old entrepreneur and a failed actor of advancing years. He kept the collar on as it was a great ice-breaker and often initiated some stimulating theological debates whilst rubbing up against the inside leg of some floosy drowning her sorrows and looking for an accidental pregnancy just before marriage to the wrong bloke.
In a quieter corner of this implausibly fractious community Billy Goat was finishing his ice sculpture of the Taj Mahal, prior to sending it to the Tate Modern as part of his next exhibition. Billy mused over his topsy-turvy past year which had seen him destitute, acquire literacy beyond his wildest dreams and when in the gutter one night, how he’d seen the light and rediscovered his incredible artistic talent that had been hidden inside a shallow, negative little shot of a character.

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