Escape From Crinkley Bottom

Anyone who shares my love of camp, British, 90s Saturday night family entertainment should enjoy this although if you get aroused then you're more perverted than I gave you credit for.

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A dull thud of the brass knocker - no answer. A sharp tug on the door chime - so antiquated yet befitting of this ancient building. Finally, the sound of footsteps draws closer from behind the ornate oak door.

"Good evening!"

A slight, elderly, bearded man in a colourful silk shirt and bouffant hair appears from within.

"Are you here for the party?" he chimes.

The visitor looks uncomfortable at the inquiry; does he play along? Is this a test?

"Errr... yes sir, Brian Lobie at your service. You've booked me for your private 'event' sir, maybe we should talk further inside?"

His calm demeanor belies a palpable anxiety. Brian is all too aware that the pleasantries are a precursor to likely degradation and sexual depravity; yet another older gentleman preparing to run roughshod over his clearly stated red lines.

"At least this guy has a few quid!", he surmises, given the evidence - the large stately home, the helicopter on the lawn, the exorbitant deposit paid for his 'unique' services.

He enters, following the old man and acutely aware of the assless, pink and yellow polka dot chaps. The door slams firmly behind, plunging him and his host into complete darkness.

"Mr Edmunds, sir?", he proclaims. "Can we have a little light?"

"Call me Noel", says the withered gentleman, and with that, a switch is thrown and the room is flooded with incandescent light. "Welcome to Crinkley Bottom!"

Brian pivots on his heels as canned laughter attacks him from every direction. Before his eyes, hundreds of empty seats - stepped galleries tower above the stage boards. Lighting rigs, and defunct cameras, festooned with cables and thick with dust.

"Where are we, sir? Where are your guests?"

"Come now, Brian - do you not see them?"... he gestures out towards the nothingness

"Can you not hear them? Do you not recognise me, my dear boy? Please don't play games with me now!"

A Hitachi Magic Wand is thrust under his nose. "Take your microphone", he whispers playfully. "Of course he knows where we are!", Noel beams out towards the empty galleries. "Saturday night, 7pm... we're all here for my House Party."

His heart sinks deep into his stomach. Their gaze meets directly for the first time, and Brian is immediately aware of the emptiness behind the eyes of his suitor.

"Wait till I get you home!" hollers Noel, as (with expert timing) the audio clicks over to a soundtrack of rapturous applause.

Neurons fire in Brian's brain. Once dormant connections from a forgotten youth are made; for a moment he allows himself a smile to reflect on the fantasy of his own childhood... and without further thought, obediently descends to the basement.

... from nowhere... a shove in the back! Down the spiral staircase, he falls. A rasping, monotone growl accompanies his tumble - but he has not uttered a sound, indeed he is hushed by shock.

Dazed, and entirely incapacitated by his injuries, a guttural shriek brings him to his senses. It begins slowly and quietly, a sound characterised by its intense distortion and reverb. He can make out his own name... "Brian Lobie"

"Brian Lobie"

Broken, battered, and bruised he feels his body hoisted, clothing cut from him, and entirely vulnerable. Hands reach out at him from the blackness, sheathing his limbs in some foreign appendages. The numbness in his disfigured arms and legs prevents him from discerning the texture of these heavy, hollow, encasements, yet his vision is cruelly sufficient. A magenta tomb of carbon fibre, daubed randomly with yellow.

He thrashes in panic yet his strength fails him entirely.

Clarity has become his nemesis now - those ugly memories, of trading his virginity, trading his self-worth, trading his very identity, for a pittance. What he would trade in return for that bitter, baseless comfort now.

The final indignity - from between his legs, a monstrous phallus appears, in equal measure impressive and abhorrent. Copious amounts of green fluid covers this sick addition; an acrid stench - as if this 'gunk' had festered, untouched for decades, in readiness to lubricate an inhuman member.

And that green wave did carry him away, and with it, the last fragment of hope for his salvation.

His death mask, as Egyptian kings before him - bulbous, obscene, eyes devoid of life, the invention of a heretic.

The final vision - that of the old man, removing his shirt of many colours, straddling him, readying it, and then impaling himself fully. Wailing with animalistic delight, he rides his steer. "Tell me your name, my gimp, my creation! Speak to me!"

"Brian Lobie!!!"...

... he feels his voice waver and fall flat... impotent.

"Brian Lobie"

"B. Lobie"

"Blobby!"

"BLOBBY!!!!!!!!"

"BLLLLOOOOOOOBBBBBBBBBBYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!"

The delightful emptiness in those eyes - those infinite pools of lifelessness.

"Yes, my child. There is only BLOBBY!"