The Ho At Pooh Corner
I’d like you all to subvert a children’s classic. Like this:
Eyore was looking gloomier than usual. Owl was looking thoughtful. Piglet was chain-smoking and seemed nervous. Tigger was bouncing up and down. “That motherfucker Tigger’s been sampling the product again,” said Piglet.
“Never mind that,” said Eyore, “we’ve got bigger problems. We promised Christopher Robin we’d deliver five keys. We’ve got nobody available to run it up to London.”
“We need some fucking moron,” said Owl. As they contemplated the problem, the gang became aware of approaching singing. “The more I pom-tiddle-i-iddle-i-pom, the more I dum-diddly-diddly-ti-tum…” A rare smile spread slowly across Eyore’s features. He looked at Owl. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
On reaching Charing Cross Station, Pooh had exited the concourse, turned right down Villiers Street and walked to the river. The river was very big and not at all suitable for Pooh Sticks, he thought. How kind of Eyore and the others to send him on this exciting trip! And how strange London was! Pooh considered the word ‘fark’. The word was new to him but he had heard it many times already. A large man on the train had told him to ‘fark off’. Another man had asked him if he was ‘having a farkin’ larf’, another had told him to ‘get to fark’.
An odd kind of word, thought Pooh. Not very hummy.
“Get a taxi-cab,” Owl had said, “tell the driver to take you to the corner of Railton Road and Cold Harbour Lane in Brixton. Walk up Railton Road until you get to King Tubby’s I-tal Bakery. That’s where you must deliver the bag of icing sugar.”
A bakery, thought Pooh. Perhaps they’ll have something with honey. Pooh began to sing “perhaps they’ll have some honey, yummy-scrummy honey…”; a dishevelled man told him to ‘shut the fark up.’
That odd word again. Perhaps Christopher Robin will know what it means, thought Pooh.
Pooh walked up Railton Road. What a lot of new words he was learning! The taxi driver had called him a ‘kant’. A man he’d asked directions from had called him a ‘bomba clart’. A child had offered him some ‘skonk’ and called him a ‘batty bwoy’ when he’d looked puzzled. This was quite an adventure, thought Pooh.
A white van screeched to a halt beside him. Pooh was knocked to the ground by large men with guns and the sports bag was torn from his paws. He was dragged to his feet. “Where you going, sunshine?”, he was asked by a burly, unshaven man. “King Tubby’s I-tal Bakery,” said Pooh, “I’m delivering some icing sugar.”
The men burst into raucous laughter.
“Well, what’ve we got?” said the Detective Inspector. “Fuck all, guv,” replied the sergeant, “the bugger keeps talking about donkeys and owls and piglets.”
“Think we’ll get anything out of him?” asked the DI. The sergeant shook his head. “Doubt it, guv. He’s a pro. You know what they’re like.” The men gazed at the small, brown figure in the interrogation room. The DI nodded. “Hard as nails,” he said.