Wednesday, 20 February 2013

How I Learnt the Truth about Learning the Truth

I haven’t been on blogging on my bloggity blog blog for a while because I have been away. Far, far away: Travelling the whole entire wide world and in my magical travels of wonder and amazement I heard about a wonderful guru person that could tell me everything I needed to know about whatever I wanted to ask. 

When I heard about this great and sage wise woman I decided that I needed to have a bit of a check-in with her as I haven’t had any visions or dreams of any great significance since Dr Oetker told me to take over the world. He’d then promptly buggered off leaving me tired, confused and lactose intolerant.

I want to know exactly how, in a step by step plan, I’m supposed to win the favour of millions and become queen of the world. So I went to a funny little completely imaginary place called ‘Delphi’ and found this oracle woman sitting in a cave.

“Look” she said wobbling slightly on her wobbly stool, I think she had tooth ache, either that or a really disturbing twitch. “Look” she said. I think she’d forgotten her train of thought but she got back on track after a drag on the vapour wafting up from her crack. 

Her crack on the floor! You hideously, dirty, minded gits!

“If you want minions—”

“I do I do!” I shouted back enthusiastically, causing some of the people in the queue to whisper amongst themselves about the drop in quality of the latest darklings attending these kinds of sinister underworld meetings. 

“Shut up!” She replied. I respected her for that. “If you want minions” she said “You can’t sit around like an overfed swamp goblin waiting for them to come to you. You have to at least let them know you exist.”

“Oh what do I do, oh great and mighty one!?” I didn’t choose to address her like that, I am not that grovelling, even when I need something. It just so happened that was the way I addressed her in the script. So I was forced to say those words, either that or pay a farthing and I had just given my last farthing to a midget claiming to be a soup dragon, I had been suspicious but intrigued. He danced for me for a full seven minutes, by which time I had grown bored and hungry, so I punched him in the head and stole his miniature accordion. It tasted of French sadness.

“You could build a castle on a hill.” She said, twirling a lock of silver hair, it wasn’t her hair, I wasn’t quite sure where she had got it from. I looked at her for a moment, perplexed and befuzzled and then I remembered what we were talking about.

“I’ve already done that, they turned it into a museum.” I was sad at the loss of my great castle, I had liked that castle, its roasts and parties, its huge tapestries, the sound of screaming echoing up from the dungeon – however it just isn’t the same with a gift shop and a never ending array of disinterested children wafting through the doors and poking things.

Unscrupulous, we looked at one another, trying to work out if we were both unscrupulous or whether it was just one of us, if so… which one.

“Digital.” She shrieked! Almost wobbling off the wobbly stool.

I peered at her, wondering if it was still me she was addressing or the imp with long fingers, wearing fox gloves.

“You must go digital.” Her eyes had gone completely white. I didn’t know if she was tuned into receiving messages from beyond or if she had accepted a sponsorship deal from Virgin Media.

“Compootor?” I whispered my question, questioningly.

“You must spread the contagion of your mind amongst the internet ones.”

There was a loud crash as a dustcart toppled over, spilling its rainbow contents to the ground, the rainbows sparkled around the room, shooting from wall to wall and creeping up my nose causing my breath to be slightly stifled in concern. I assumed at this point that her crack vapour was getting to me.

“I know this!” I harked, angrily due to the anger such a statement had incurred within me. “I know word of me must be spread, but how? How must it be spread?”

“Spread?” She said

“Yes, spread.” I said.

“Spread.”

“Spread.”

“Spread.”

“Spread.”

We continued like this for quite some time until eventually she clipped me around the ear and I was carried away by a Shetland pony. He called himself Smith, but he had a distinctly Norwegian accent.

I was devastated beyond devastation and skulked away from the mountains of Delphi no nearer my answer than when I had arrived.

I foolishly drowned my sorrows in some dubious troll mead and proceeded to drunkenly shout “She’s a farcical fakeroo!” at the queue waiting patiently to see the oracle, but they politely refused to look in my direction, save a small child that whispered “Why is that hag lady wearing pyjamas?” but its mother shushed the child, and once again I was escorted away, secure in the knowledge that even the most worshiped of gurus are talking out of their cracks.

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