Not all dragons are fiercesome, treasure hoarding monsters. Some have bad breath and a problem with flatulence.

Chapter One

Once upon a time there lived a hideous, ferocious, smelly, dyslexic dragon. He had tremendous difficulty in speaking properly, but his was not the usual kind of speech impediment. No. He suffered from such afflictions as Spoonerism and Anagram and even using words which sound the same as others but are spelt differently.

His name was Gordan and he was very unhappy because of his impediments. “Oh ropo em!” he would often cry “Woh anc melp he?”

Gordan was exceedingly ugly as he had a rather large wart on the end of his foot. Every day he went down to the chiropodist to get this wart examined and every day the chiropodist said, “This wart cannot be cured”. Gordan thought to himself “If I can’t be cured of this wart then I shall terrorise the neighbourhood!”

And so he did.

The next day Gordan went down to the local arms shop and bought himself a bazooka. “This will frighten them” he thought to himself and proceeded to walk down the street. To his dismay he accidentally bumped into a policeman. “‘Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello. What’s all this then?” At that moment Gordan farted and such was the velocity of his wind that he blew himself off the face of the Earth.

When he finally landed he found himself on a completely different planet. All the people on this planet were made of marzipan and sat in a warm bath all day. Gordan though this was stupid and so farted again, and again the velocity of his fart was so much that he escaped the gravitational pull of this planet. He drifted aimlessly through space for several decades until he arrived at an Earth type planet. “Wow”, exclaimed Gordan, “I really must do something about my wind.” He then proceeded to examine the land around him. “Hummmmmmmmmmmm” he thought, “this looks just like Earth, perhaps I’ll settle here.” And so he proceeded to build himself a house of sausages. “This will be fun” thought Gordan, laughing to himself.

When at last his house was completed he sat in it and thought “My goodness you’ve done it again Gordan.” He then thought, “What I need now is some gravy” And so he went down to the shop on the corner of the street, known locally as ‘The Corner Shop’.
“Hello Mrs Miggins” he said cheerily to the shopkeeper.
“Hello Gordan” she replied, “It’s got out nice again, I see” referring to the weather.
“SHUT YER GOB YOU BORING OLD HAG! And could I have some gravy granules, please?”
“Certainly, Gordan. That will be forty-three pounds seventy-six pee, please”
“Oh!” Exclaimed Gordan, “A lot cheaper than I imagined.” And with a cheery flick of his enormous tail, he hopped backwards out of the shop and home.

“Just a minute!” exclaimed Gordan, as a thought struck him. “A thought has just struck me” and he carried on, thought-struck, “I seem to be able to speak properly now that I am no longer on Earth,” And with this cheering thought he leapt into the air, executed a perfect triple axle complete with twisting back-flip and landed head down in a small enamelled bowl of pickled quails’ eggs. “I’ll have them for breakfast on Thrimday afternoon” he thought happily to himself, and off he went skipping home, humming extracts from Saint-Saens ‘Carnival Of The Animals’.

The very next day, Gordan woke up in the morning, which was very fortunate, as he had also got up in the morning as well! “I think I’ll change my name today” he thought out loud, frightening the frogs away. “I think I’ll call myself Groand and become president of Matabele land, if I can find it” He added with a chuckle. Just then the morning pig arrived. “Good morning, Mr. Pig” Groand said cheerfully “What message have you for me on this glorious summer morning?”
“It’s from all the ant-eaters in Matabele land” sang the morning pig, “They wish you good luck in your new job, and hope you like cumquat jelly.”
“That’s very kind of them. And thank-you Mr. Pig for singing me such a lovely message.” Replied Groand, deciding on bacon for breakfast.

Chapter Two

Later, that same day, as Groand was flying down to his new republic, he glanced out of the window in his private helicopter. What he saw made him stop and think. It was an enormous sign that read ‘STOP AND THINK’.

“How strange” he thought, after he had stopped. “I must investigate further” And without thinking he jumped out of his helicopter onto a passing London omnibus. “Tuppence please” said Groand to the conductor.
“GET STUFFED!!” screamed the conductor, poking the dragon in the eye with his baton. Groand was most surprised.
“I am most surprised” he mused, but he was secretly grateful to the conductor, who, with his act of mindless violence, had proved that a poke in the eye with a sharp stick was, actually, preferable to parting with tuppence.
“And I didn’t have to pay.” he thought with a wry smile.

Before long, the bus arrived at the thought factory, on top of which was the very sign that Groand had come to investigate. “Excuse me.” said he.
“Why what have you done?” asked a passing quagga.
“Er, three lamp-posts and an elderly upright freezer.” replied Groand “Can you tell me the way to the information desk, please?”
“I’m terribly sorry. I’m new here myself. Perhaps you had better ask at the information desk!” And with that, the quagga jumped onto his skateboard and swam down the street.
“Oh!” exclaimed Groand “What an unusually unhelpful South African quadruped. I suppose I will just have to do it myself” And so saying, he did it himself.

After many years, and many encounters with extinct, yet exceptionally unhelpful mammals, he eventually found the information desk. “I wonder if you can help me?” he enquired of the pretty girl sitting behind the desk.

“Yes, sir” she replied, in a strong accent.
“What does that sign, on the roof of this building, mean?”
“Do you mean the ‘STOP AND THINK’ sign, sir?”
“Yes, that’s the one”
“Well, I suppose it means discontinue and reflect, cease and cogitate, desist and cerebrate, stand and consider, halt and meditate, pause and speculate, rest and deliberate, hold and ponder, discontinue and contemplate or even interrupt and muse.”
“I see. Well thank-you. I must be off. Bah-bye now!” And so saying he turned on his heels and skated down the corridor and out of the building.

Chapter Three

When Groand finally reached Africa, he went immediately to the ‘Tourist Information Office’. “Excuse me. I wonder if you can help me?” he enquired of the pretty girl behind the desk.
“Yes sir” she replied in a strong accent.
“Could you tell me where Matabele Land is, please?”
“Yes sir” she said, filing her teeth.
“Well will you tell me now?”
“Certainly sir. I don’t know, but I do have a street turtle here which tells you all you need to know” she said, handing Groand a street map.
“Are you by any chance an extinct mammal?” he enquired sarcastically.
“Why yes sir” she replied, slavering sweetly.

Groand took the map and looked up ‘Matabele Land’ in the index. “Ah, there it is. 33, Tubacow Avenue, Flummoxville. Now to get there.” Stepping outside the T.I.O. he looked up the street, then down the street, but it was only when he looked sideways the street that he saw the bus stop. As luck would have it the bus waiting at the stop was the one for Flummoxville, and it was about to drive away without Groand, when a passing giant picked it up and threw it at him, so the new president of Matabele Land was able to catch the bus after all.

In no time at all the bus arrived at Flummoxville. “My goodness that was quick thought Groand, alighting. “Now to find Tubacow Avenue.” He decided to ask the next parson he saw, and so he did “Excuse me, vicar. Could you tell me where Tubacow Avenue is?”
“Certainly my son” answered the clergyman “Look behind you!”

Groand looked around and groaned, for there indeed were the words ‘Tubacow Avenue’. “Thank-you, vic.” Without too much effort, Groand found number 33, and licked the doorbell, which played the whole of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony backwards.

A small reptile opened the door. “HGNHXDHG” it said.
“What!?” exclaimed Groand, standing on his head.
“I felt the story needed some absurdity in it somewhere” whispered the reptile, whose name was Elipter “And I am going to be your special friend”
“I’m a fairy. My name is Nuff.” sang Groand, who suddenly became bored with his name yet again, and changed it to Dan-Gor.
“Fairy Nuff” repeated Elipter “Does that mean you accept my offer of friendship and a year’s supply of blind cockroaches?”
“It certainly does, my little hairless mammalian friend!” And the two new friends linked tongues, and rode off into the sunset of ………………….

Chapter Four

“Apparently this chapter is the shortest ever written” explained Elipter.

Chapter Five

“No it isn’t” rejoindered Dan-Gor.

Chapter Six

Several weeks later the companions found themselves on a slow boat to China. “I hadn’t realised we were lost” claimed Dan-Gor, through his portable megaphone. “Would anyone like a sandwich?”

Elipter, the chameleon, turned ochre and pointed to the sky. “Look up there. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s Superman!”

Minutes later Superman landed. “Would you like a drink?” enquired Dan-Gor.
“No thanks. I don’t drink!”
“Then would you like a cigarette?” asked Elipter.
“No thanks. I don’t smoke!”
“Well at least have a seat then.”
“No thanks. I don’t sit.” And with those words Superman took to the air, never to be seen again in this chapter.
“Well. What shall we do now then?” asked Dan-Gor to no one in particular.
“How about if we sail to a foreign land and become involved in the country’s internal political struggle and save the oppressed masses from the tyrannical, dictatorial, military leadership that has held the people down because of its unrelenting use of terror and extreme violence in achieving its aims of totalitarianism?” suggested Elipter.
“No. I’d rather go to the pub and get pissed!”
“Yeah. So would I!”

Several days later, the two companions awoke from their drunken stupor to find themselves sitting in a vat of cold custard, somewhere in Central America. “Ah so. The two insurrectionists have woken up at last!” Said a voice, not with a Chinese accent. “You will be pleased to hear that your so-called ‘rebellion’ failed miserably. You have also earned the hatred of the people you came to save, thanks to a brilliant publicity campaign masterminded by yours truly, Hernandez de Hernandez, better known as…..’El Natillas’!!”
“Who!??” cried Dan-Gor and Elipter as one.
“El Natillas” repeated the voice, sounding a little hurt “You must have heard of me. I’m famous for my method of torture. Hence my nickname, ‘El Natillas'”
“No, sorry. We’re strangers here, you see” said Dan-Gor.
“Just a minute. Aren’t you two Juan Conejo and Carlos Elefante, better known as El Platano and El Podar, the two most infamous revolutionaries who have been known to start at least four hundred and forty-seven rebellions in South America alone?” asked the voice.
“No. I’m Dan-Gor, ex-president of Matabele Land and this is Elipter the chameleon.”
“Oh I’m terribly sorry. I think it’s the moustaches that caused the confusion.”
“But we haven’t got any!” wailed Elipter.
“I know. Neither have the revolutionaries! Well, I really must apologise again for mercilessly torturing you. Let me make it up to you with these two complimentary tickets for the Broadway production of ‘Cats’ soon to be starting a summer season” apologised the voice, still without a Chinese accent.
“Thank-you very much” said Dan-Gor, accepting the tickets. “Goodbye then Mr. Natillas. Hope you manage to find those two anarchists” And with that, the two main characters caught the next pogo stick to New York.

Chapter Seven

Several months later, while playing with a Caribbean steel band in Norway, the two comrades thought it would be a good idea to go home. “I think it would be a good idea to go home.” Dan-Gor would often say.

“I think it would be a good idea to go home.” Elipter would also often say.

So they went home.
The first thing Dan-Gor did when he got home was to go and see his old friend from the corner shop, Mrs. Miggins. “Why hello Dan-Gor. I haven’t seen you for a while.” were her first words.

“Of course you haven’t, you silly old bag, I’ve been travelling around the world for the past several years with my special friend here” he said, indicating Elipter.
“Oh! So that’s why you haven’t been coming in for your weekly jar of gravy granules.” the old hag observed.
“Exactly. So if you would be so kind as to give me a jar, I will refuse to pay and rip your head off,” snarled the mythical beast.
“Here you are then,” she said, bleeding profusely.
“What a singularly unintelligent example of the human race” observed Elipter.
“Yes, she was rather, wasn’t she” agreed Dan-Gor.

Once back at the dragon’s lair of sausages, the two travellers stood on their heads and sang the Greek national anthem in Welsh. They then put on their lobster costumes and wrote a letter to the Queen complaining about the lack of rubber ducks in prawn salad sandwiches. Pretty soon they were exhausted with all this surrealism and so went down to the local library for a quiet read.

Looking along the shelves in the ‘Silly’ section they came across a book entitled ‘Gone With The Wind – the story of one man’s fight against flatulence’. Taking it down from the shelf, Dan-Gor asked Elipter “Would you like me to read it to you?”

“OOH yes please!” answered the chameleon eagerly.

“Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin” and turning to the first chapter, Dan-Gor began to read.

“Once upon a time there lived a hideous, ferocious, smelly, dyslexic dragon. He had tremendous difficulty in speaking properly, but his was not the usual kind of speech impediment. No. He suffered from such afflictions as Spoonerism and Anagram and even using words which sound the same as others but are spelt differently.”

And the rest you know.

The End.

First written in the early to mid 1980s

This is very much a stream of conciousness piece. There was no preparation, no planning, I just sat down at the word-processor (A Wang no less) and started to type. I was, and still am, very influenced by Spike Milligan, the Goon Show in particular, and Monty Python and any other off-the-wall, surreal humour.

I have since learnt that this could probably be classed as surreal literature in its dreamlike and fantastical nature, although it’s not exactly going to challenge the way people think or start riots.