The Scribbler (From Bradford Telegraph and Argus)

The Scribbler

8:32am Monday 11th August 2008 in

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Previously: your columnist has discovered, living in the slime at the bottom of the empty pond in The Tyrls, the sole (and telepathic) survivor of the gang of giant mutant rats which once worked on plans for an alternative Bradford cross-rail scheme. Now read on… ‘EEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeK!’ screamed Thelma Gusset (pronounced “Gussay”), the object of the Scribbler’s affections, after she walked through the door of her paramour’s broom-cupboard home on the third floor of the T&A’s Hall Ings building.

“What on earth is it?” she cried, staring at the giant mutant rat which was relaxing in The Scribbler’s hammock, gnawing on a Gregg’s pasty, while The Scribbler himself was perched on a tall stool alongside sipping from a mug of tea.

Before he could answer, Thelma heard a voice inside her head say: “Hello. You must be the Gussay women. I’m the mutant rat. Please to meet you.”

Thelma looked from the rat to The Scribbler. “Did you do that?” she demanded. “Are you a ventriloquist?”

“Not me,” said The Scribbler. “It’s him. He’s telepathic. He transmits thoughts instead of speaking.”

“Obviously,” thought the rat. “Whoever heard of a speaking rat?”

“Whoever heard of a rat that communicates via telepathic speech?” countered Thelma.

The Scribbler explained: “This is a most remarkable rat, sole survivor of a team of similar giant mutant rats which were scooped up and carried away from the Broadway building site by a UFO, never to be seen again. He’s been in hiding even since, afraid that they’ll come back to get him.”

“Tell her about the exciting plans,” thought the rat.

“OK,” said The Scribbler. He turned to Thelma. “We’re going to make ourselves rich and famous. First of all I’m going to contact Max Clifford, and get him to sell the rat’s story to newspapers all over the world. Meanwhile, we’re going to work up a touring show. It’ll feature the rat and our own home-grown clairvoyant Doris Thrope, the ‘Happy Medium’.”

“Doris isn’t in his league!” protested Thelma.

“I know that,” replied The Scribbler. “That’s the point. She’ll open the show with a few of her messages to people in the audience from Uncle Alf on the other side, telling them that their missing socks are down the back of the chest of drawers. She’ll represent the bog-standard side of the business – passable but not outstanding. And then we’ll bring on the rat. He’ll be so brilliant by comparison, as he reads people’s minds and speaks to them with his thoughts, that they won’t be able to believe what they’re seeing and hearing. He’ll be a monster hit. There’ll be world tours, royal variety shows, whole seasons at the London Palladium. We’ve got it made.”

“But won’t Doris feel humiliated, being presented as second best?” asked Thelma.

“Only until pay day,” said The Scribbler. “I’m sure she’ll go along with it for the money she’ll be earning.”

The rat had put down the pasty and was starting to look agitated.

“What’s wrong?” asked Thelma.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come out of hiding,” thought the rat. “Only by staying in the shadows and keeping my thoughts to myself could I avoid them detecting me. Now I’ve started to think openly, they’ve managed to tune in….”

Even as he spoke, a beam of brilliant white light shot down through the skylight window and enveloped him. His thoughts were cut off from them as he was drawn up within it to the UFO that hovered overhead.

“Well that was short-lived,” sighed The Scribbler, as the giant craft sped away. “Still, we can always write up the story.”

Thelma shook her head. “No-one would believe it,” she said. “In fact I’m not sure even that I do.”