Roll up! Roll up for the Magical Mystery Tour. Step right this way!
Whoa, whoa. Before I do, John Lennon I gotta ask you a couple questions. I gotta ask, what am I payin’ for here? I mean…where we goin’? You got a licence? You got proper documentation ‘cause I don’t wanna spend Aunty Mabel-Marigold’s new lips money on this trip for myself and find out like ten miles down the road that you’ve not actually researched the route and you’re just sat at the front of the bus smilin’ at me…lookin’ like a total a**hat with a Sgt. Pepper green a** army jacket on, singin’ about how many holes there are in Lancashire while the cops rummage through our luggage like “You got drugs, son? You been packin’ old shmogle fun battalions up your Z-hole? You mockin’ me skittle-tits?”
…Don’t forget me sittin’ here…saying “Oh, I’m sorry, aunty. I wasn’t aware that the eight hundred and fifty cent dollars you were gonna use to turn your face into a Picasso rendition of the Battle of Barking Creek has been blown on being driven around the south-west wilderness dispensing drug-laden old fashioned pastries to nineteen-forties refugee children. “Get your pip-skippens while they’re hot children! And while you’re still alive…Hitler’s comin’! Luftwaffe gonna bomb the crap out of your grandfather’s ceremonial donkey-plough mosaic.
What?...I didn’t know John Lennon was a schizophrenic bus-bandit with pockets filled with powdered gold. Who am I? Winston Churchill? Predictor of the downfall of man? F*** this, though…get Mark Chapman up here. Let’s just get through this….Phonies…..I ain’t catchin’ you if you fall…you read my book...you J.D. Syringer meathole…Gotta study that ****…history class or whatever.
Well I had me a pigeon by the name of Fred.
You seriously doing this? First stop on the Mystery Tour and we’re at…Dewey Bunnell’s broken down old farm with this pigeon show. Aunty Marigold’s had enough. She’s takin’ the next gyro to board the HMS Hood. Got a death-wish. What can I say? Aunty knows her maritime warfare. Gonna sink like so much radon based sex lubricant. Glow up, you degenerate consumers. Stay hopeful, kids. We’ll sink the Bismarck. Get those cluster kittens dropped from my Bolton Paul-Defecate and we’ll reach Truro before limping season.
So anyways, Dewey’s gonna give us magic pigeon show, while I sell John Lennon down the river to the local posse. They’re gonna take his skin…turn him into a Peking duck monstrosity. It’s beautiful. We sit in the stands with a big ol’ General Pershing brand massacre hot-dog. Estd. Nineteen seventeen and suddenly Bunnell goes alf-s***. Shoots the god damn pigeon in the face with a thirteen fifty-six Silt & Weapon. “Fred! Fred!” the crowd say. Not me…I paid my fee. I got my ticket. I’m gonna sit here eating delicious wrong-doing by belligerent nations. Feathers landing in my nachos. You think I’m impressed? Bunnell..Why’d you do that s***? Why’d you shoot Fred? That ain’t entertainment. You want entertainment? Try sieging Tobruk you American fennel-head. Screw this. I’m gonna get mustard. Excuse me, Mister Mark Twain I’m aware that you like to view this American culture through your moustache but you can’t be hogging all that mustard. You bought pretzels…d***. Back on the bus people. Next stop. What’s next? Woo, exciting.
Hey now, baby. Get into my big, black car.
Hey, now girl. Don’t you be stupid. We…We ain’t even reached Somerisle yet. That Christopher Lee’s gonna put out a platter for us. Got Scotsman, bread rolls. You want a wicker-back bagel? It’s beautiful. That political man ain’t gonna teach you nothin’. You ain’t gonna be Shadow Secretary. That’s not how Democracy works. We got ballots and far reaching council members. Arms like god damn windscreen wipers. I’m telling you it’s disgusting. Like shaking hands with E.T.’s grandfather. I can’t take it.
You know that car ain’t insured, honey. No fresh, fresh air-freshener in the back seat. No Richard Burton’s eyes for indicators. The most intense left turn of your life. You want to get married to Liz Taylor? Ain’t nobody wants that. That ain’t no way to die, Dickie. Get help…seriously. You think Prime Minister Ginger Baker wants to be friends with you? Want to lean in for a little kiss on the frickle? Man can’t even tell whether he leans left or right. Hung parliament you know what I’m saying? Get Solid Snake on that s***. Get a Metal Gear right up the Kurt Russell in John Carpenter...Christine…that’s right. Best Stephen Queen since Bohemian Kubrick up the Overlook fried chicken with Dick Hallorann and the dried apricots. You want some, Mrs Torrance? This your whole thing? Room two, three seven. That’s where it’s at. That’s where you’re going. Wanna be sick on those freak carpets? Got Roger Waters hiding in a turn-table. Heaven and hell? Yeah I know the difference. One’s got Columbo on repeat….other’s got biscuits in the CD drive. Nothing I can do about it. Speak to Roger. I didn’t vote Conservative. I was like a bull in that ballot box. The church had to close. Kids from the nineties make B-movie babies there. It’s sad. You wanna read my struggle got to Amazon.Reich you Nazified Martin Bormann hypocrites. I don’t want a panzerfaust for my birthday….I want Whitesnake on betamac and cheese.
Look at your game, girl.
Manson’s back. That’s the movie we got going on Lennon’s death coach. Man’s steering with his knees. He’s hit two treaty signings on the way over to Devon. Got to do another Versailles before Kaiser Wilhelm finds out what happens in the sequel. Man thinks Pearl Harbour is a type of vodka your student friends always tell you to drink on the beaches of Sacramento before Charlie comes to turn you into an Aquarius wonder-maid you freaky bleach-headed star bar. The name of the game is bad old writer’s block taking you back to the days of Golden Axe III. You wanna play as Gilius Thunderhead? No wonder your father thinks you’re a failure. Man just wants to play baseball with his little pal and you wanna kick elves for their blue potions and throw your d***-fire at a snake. Kids got no respect. No time for Attenborough’s Blue Planet. He’s teachin’ you about birds. You got a sixteen-bit fantasy nightmare on your Mega Drive. This ain’t Streets of Rage. No eating chicken out of a trash can…Jesus. Didn’t you learn anything at Professor Iron-Brew’s a***-class?
Look at your game. That’s what uncle Charles Manson is telling you kids. Don’t look into his eyes. Man’s got a swastika on his face. It’s nineteen thirty-eight. We got time for lebensraum if the pieces don’t stick.
I wish I was back home again.
You and me both, Rick Davies. We’re home again. Adventure’s over. Or just beginning. Ain’t writer’s block a bitch. Ain’t it just a bitch.
Like driving a race car with no steering wheel. Hit that wall and you got the best of Viscount Marmalade all over yourself…no bread…just head. F*** you John Lennon. I’m calling the cops. Too much opinion here. Not enough driving on the right side of the road. Pit stop for sauercradle? My a***…..I’m getting’ out of here…But I’ll be back…Watch it…got a mouth on this monkey….Get me a missile crisis. Peace out. Sweet prince…beautiful.
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'Well, I'm a common working man,
With a half of bitter, bread and jam,
And if it pleases me, I'll put one on ya man,
When the copper fades away!' - Jethro Tull
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