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Ask Francis's Knee Archives - APRIL 2004
Dear Francis' Knee,
Will I win the next Flash Forward Film
Festival?
- Chulaid
Dear Chulaid,
Remember, winning
isn't everything. Winning by an extra ordinarily huge margin in a gold
leotard - blowing a klaxon with a smug grin on your face is far more
important. Alas, I can't predict the future, if I could, I'd be King of
the Galaxy, sitting on an enormous seat made from marzipan and watching
dancing rats. All I can say is give it your best shot and you'll be amazed
at the outcome. Ok, then...9th.
- Francis' knee
Dear Francis' knee,
What are ya wearing? If anything, can you
take it off???
- Shane Warne
Dear Shane,
I'm wearing a
delicate 1960's off the shoulder mule with 'Mary Quant's' infamous,
'really scary monster print' on the back, highlighted by extensive tin
piping, with beans stitched on to it. And sadly no, I can't take it off,
I'm sponsored by the Web Site to wear it at all times, indoors or out come
rain or shine, wind or fire, flood or theft.
- Francis' Knee
Dear Francis' knee,
Why do birds, suddenly appear, every time,
you are near? Is it because you are made from seeds?
- Edward
Mince
Dear Edward,
I am made of birdseed? Funny you should
ask. As a matter of fact, I am. I'm 34% millet, 26% peanut, 30% sesame and
the remainder is made up from assorted corn and grains. I'm bound together
by a unique mixture of congealed household lard and dripping. In a move
that stunned not only the scientific world but more importantly, my own
mother, I evolved in to the shape I am now with a simple molding technique
which you may like to read about in my new book, entitled, 'How I was
molded in to this shape'. Obviously, being made from birdseed has it
setbacks, like when it's hot, or when the pigeons come round for dinner.
On the whole though, life goes on.
- Francis' Knee
Dear Francis' knee,
I have an excruciatingly irritating old
neighbour who is fond of lemurs. He says he owns twenty of them, but he is
short-sighted and doesn't realise that they are actually Rottweilers. They
have a habit of making a meal of the local children. What is the polite
way of telling the old codger that his beloved "lemurs" are such a
menace?
- Harold Reginbotham
Dear Harold,
The other
night as I settled down to watch my favourite Tele-visual show, ' Harold
Freud', once billed as everyone's favourite silent physiologist star of
the 1920's, (I can't help laughing my legs off at the bit where he falls
off the couch into the jaws of a Leopard) I suddenly remembered a
situation of my own, similar in nothing but length to your quandary. I can
laugh about it now, but at the time I was busy.
I had been rearing
anchovies for a circus act that I was preparing to take on tour, under the
catchy title of, 'Something fishy going on, on ice'. The show was set to
be a heart stopping spectacular, complete with powerful resuscitators and
a team of heart surgeons. I had spent several years on the glittery
costumes, designing them with top Welsh Costumiers and had just completed
the task of carving the hundred or so little ice skates and helmets
supervised by the Government adhering to their strict Health and Safety
code of practise regarding anchovies and dancing on ice.
One
evening, barely three days before the show's opening night, I locked up as
usual and put the whole act to bed, not before fetching a glass of milk
for Simon, our anchovy strong man. Shortly after, unbeknownst to me the
male fish lead eloped with one of the female dancers in the chorus line; a
leggy brunette called Maggie. You can imagine the expression on my face,
when, in the morning on opening the tank I discovered them missing, having
left nothing but a badly structured note of apology and the remains of a
light supper. If you can't, it was a bit like this. Anyway, I rushed to
the bathroom to change my mood and came out seething. What was I going to
do? Barely 36 hours to go before the grand opening and half of the second
act missing, presumed up stream.
It was then I caught sight of Old
man Fluff, my grumpy old neighbour and casting couch veteran chuckling
stupidly to himself through his kitchen window. I was reduced to tears;
the blind old gullah had stumbled across my fleeing starlets and without
thinking, cooked them up as a salty pizza topping. My jaw dropped, I
scrambled about the dusty floor trying to find it. Instead, I came upon my
old first generation cell-phone and pulled the string tight enough to give
the old buffoon a call. But it was too late, by the time he answered half
the pizza was in his small intestines, the other, on the rug.
Like
a tornado, the answer my answer to your question is rather long winded.
So, I'll sum up. 1+7=8.
- Francis'
Knee
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