Tuesday, 14 April 2009

[Turtlewind] "I Am The Bad Turtle. I Create Myself"


It has been a scary few months in the life of your friend, the Mysterious Mr Turtlewind. I was so drained by the tedium of completing some unesteemed fool's challenge in my previous epistolary masterpiece that I allowed myself to be abducted by the Anti-Matt, a universe-shattering Mini Cheddar-addicted demon. Who lives in a garage in Harwich.

Anti-Matt has always been a lower-level nemesis, a former housemate who turned against his mentor after a nasty argument about the gas bill while clearing rebels out of Suffolk in the '98 Calpol War. I'm still not quite sure where he got his unnatural powers of mould generation and universe shattering, but I think it might have been in the car park toilets where men do things to each other's bottoms.

I was dangling from the ceiling (there was a chair but you couldn't get round the battered white Ford Escort to sit on it) for about a week while Anti-Matt revealed his evil schemes. Well, he talked a lot about being a homeless orphan and things, but then his parents came round to see his new flat, so I was left on my own for a bit.

It was around this point that I realised Barry was still in my trouser pocket, in fact he was reminding me of his presence in a somewhat flirtatious manner, the scamp.

"Not now, Barry," I said. "All naughty-bumpy thoughts have been pushed from my mind with all the mild anxiety of dangling over this Ford Escort. Fetch help while I grapple with philosophical issues."

The armour-plated little whelp gave a scorpion-like cackle and scuttled off under the garage door. The little chink of light under that door was driving me half mad with its prospect of freedom, bringing with it the ripe odour of a fresh, unburned tramp just yards away.

I was cracking up. I had to think about something else. And what better than the eternal question of Creation vs Evolution?

Clearly, I reasoned, it all comes down to beards. Evolutionary crusader Mr Chaz Darwin had a pretty impressive beard, but would it win in a fight with the facefuzz of Creationism's most popular supporter, the Beard Daddy himself, God?

But this is a flawed line of reasoning. If God is infinite, then His beard must logically also be infinite. So he's frankly going to crap on Chazza Dazza to such a huge extent that the whole argument would never have arisen in the first place. Only by recruiting the esteemed Mr Brian Blessed would the lizard-bothering explorer hope to prevail. And that would be cheating.

Even the well-worn philosophical test of whose Dad is harder falters in this case, as God the father is also God and, therefore, also infinite. Bobblehats.

These thoughts were interrupted by Anti-Matt, who was taking a crap in the broken washing machine by the door. Spreading his demonic wings, which did look a little like a mouldy grey duvet, he marched forwards.

"Creationism is the only explanation for the development of humanity," he smarmed. "At least that's what I say when I want to touch Christian girls."

I smiled. "Ah, my mendacious little foe, how naive you are. Treading blindly in the path of religious dogma banishes all mystery from life. And that is why the Mysterious Mr Turtlewind, Esq. will always win."

You may note, dear reader, that I was sounding somewhat smug. This is because I had heard sounds of rescue from the other side of the garage door.

Sure enough, the door burst inwards in a shower of wickedly sharp wooden splinters. A replica of the A-Team van thundered into the garage, sending Anti-Matt and the Ford Escort rolling into the far wall.

"Barry!" I squealed with giddy glee, assuming that the venomous little tyke had fetched these heroes to aid my mysterious escape. My ardour was only slightly dented when the Guild of Essex Craftsmen committee piled out of the van.

Tony the treasurer laid down suppressing fire at the washing machine while Betty the events secretary untied my wrists from the ceiling.

"Did Barry send you?" I asked, rubbing my sore wrists.

Betty shook her head. "No, lad. Not many people need craftsmen these days in Essex, so we mostly cruise round crashing into people's garages so we can repair the doorframes afterwards."

Quickly recovering from my recent ordeal, my eyes lit up. "Sweet! That's an even better scam than selling moles as otters to wildlife sanctuaries!"

"Er, no..." Tony looked a bit confused, and I wondered briefly whether he had a day job at Langdon Nature Reserve. "We don't accept payment. The Guild of Essex Craftsman is a noble organisation. We are spiritual and selfless and… shit."

As the Guild drove me back towards Turtle Grange (Celia was driving and muttering things like "I pity the foo' who doesn't use an accredited French polisher"), I questioned Tony about his spirituality. It turned out that he was a firm believer in a God who loved all His children, but that the theory of evolution was a rigourous scientific hypothesis that may have helped lift the veil on some of the Creator's mysteries.

He went a bit quiet after that, possibly as he couldn't hope to win any debate following my counter-argument that his theory was gay hippie fence-sitting crap.

After the Guild had crashed through and then repaired the garage doors of Turtle Grange, with James Merriot taking a few hours to paint a specially commissioned watercolour of Posh Spice's bottom, I returned to my thoughts concerning the development of life as we know it.

Evolution makes a lot more sense. That we developed from a simple primordial slime explains so much. My fondness for tarte a la boue, for example, and how would I have such kinship with scorpions if we didn't share a chromosome or two way back in our genetic heritage?

Quite apart from anything else, my experiments on the tensile strength of grey cats had long ago demonstrated how living things adapt to their surroundings (in the cats' case by tearing down the middle in a messy fashion). And the Anti-Matt could only have been created due to a freak cell mutation or several.

But so many people on America, the Comedy Continent, keep banging on about God and stuff. They're clearly talking crap, but they won't shut up, so we have to sort this out once and for all.

So, God or Darwin? Who's better? As my esteemed colleague Mr Harold Hill would say, "There's only one way to find out... FIGHT!"

A month later, Barry and I had set up the boxing ring at the bottom of next door's garden, and we'd almost convinced the Guild to stop whittling the owner's apple trees into fragile sculptures of butterflies. We were just waiting for our two champions, when the Turtlephone rang.

"Hi Purplewing," said the familiar voice of David Beckham. "Think you've got a problem. Sky Sports turned down the Pay Per View deal and Darwin and God are both dead."

"What?" I squeaked in my manly baritone. "Since when has God been dead?"

"Some German bloke called Neat Shirt reckons it's been a while," opined the mulleted muppet.

Clearly, it was back to the drawing board once again…

Another month later, I'd reassembled my boxing ring with two brand new pugilists. In the red corner, Mr Patrick Stewart (who is really a crime-fighting evolved mutant man in a wheelchair according to the documentary X-Men 3), and in the blue corner, Mr Phil Collins. David Beckham said we should get him because he used to believe in Genesis even when no one else would heed their words. He tried to tell us what he thought about creationism, but I deflected his argument by slapping him gently about the kidneys.

As the two Champions came down from their chloroform high, I took the microphone and addressed them sternly.

"Patrick 'Evolved' Stewart and Phil 'Creation' Collins, we're looking for a nasty, messy deathmatch to settle this thorny theological debate for eternity. I want to see plenty of gouging, goolie-mauling and nose-biting, so we can put them on the DVD in slow-motion."

I though the two combatants would be a little more reluctuant, but apparently Mr Phil had spilled Mr Patrick's pint in a pub in Godalming in 1973 and there was a score to be settled.

"In just another round, you'll be in paradise, wanker," snarled Captain Picard.

"Yeah? Come here and 'make it so', bitch," spat Phil Collins.

Phil started well, with a flurry of upper-cuts to the chin of the RSC's finest. But once Patrick unleashed his steely stare of Quality Drama, there was only one way the fight could go. I must confess, lame reader, that I lost my concentration briefly and found myself doing the Robot with Patrick in a pool of Phil Collins's entrails.

I couldn't be seen dancing in such an unesteemed fashion with a 90s science-fiction icon, so I quickly converted my funky stylings into a patented Turtlemoonwalk. However, I slipped on Phil's liver and found myself flat on my back, staring up at a blinding sun.

The sun was blotted out by a sinister shape as Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra struck up an ominous theme (they do keep following me around, they have even less to do than the Guild of Essex Craftsmen), and a curiously ill-defined hand pulled me to my feet.

"That's some f**d-up dancin', you crazy son of a b****," said the newcomer.

"Naughty words give you cancer," I recited solemnly, as my diseased canal-cervixed whore of a mother used to tell me. "Who the f*** are you?"

"I'm DD," said the soldier of fortune.

"Ew, man-boobies!" I crowed. "I'm barely an A-cup! But what's your name, and which is better, evolution or creationism?"

"Ah shucks man, I just came here to see that Collins b**** get iced by the Stewster. I ain't doin' no surveys, they suck Mormon a**! The way I see it, you've got evolution, based on empirical evidence compiled by clever dudes with an education and an open mind - or creationism, based on the ramblings of mad f***ers with a 2,000 year old book and a single-figure IQ. I know who I'd kick out of my mother-f***ing balloon, a**hole."

Behind us, I heard another voice. "Yeah, you scorpion-sexualising wonga!" There was more, but it was muffled by the owner of the voice vomiting into Phil's open chest cavity.

I picked up Barry with a dignified flounce, and wandered back into Turtle Grange, away from the bizarre newcomers who had spoiled my philosophical epiphany.

That night, I updated my blog ('the adventures of the lonely boy who made them all PAY') and added the following thoughts:

'Evolution is so obviously a rational and sane way of looking at the world that anyone who says differently should be laughed at, committed and drop-kicked into a plague pit. The bloody wreck of Phil Collins proves it. So why do we continue to even pretend to take weirdo fundamentalists at all seriously when they're obviously talking s***? And who is this bizarre newcomer DD who has burst into my life, upset one of my giggling schemes and got me talking in asterisks? I feel this chapter is not yet closed...'

Until next time, dull readers, happy times and places

Your friend
The Mysterious Mr Turtlewind, Esq.

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