Day 3 - The Real Excitement Begins!

By some miracle known only to the world of writers who can manipulate time and location with breath-taking ease if they have enough chutzpah and avoid looking their readership in the eye, the cast and crew of ‘The Wizard of Oz’ are ready for action. I have pinned a large copy of the cast-list on the outside wall of the studio as a reminder to everyone that they are NOT to change roles on a whim, nor for bribes, nor because they are feeling ‘a bit off today’ or ‘can’t be arsed’. And for the benefit of the audience, who are going to have to dual-imagine everyone from here on in, here is that list:

The Cast of ‘The Wizard of Oz’

Dorothy : Mrs Laetitia Miggins – the lead in everything

The Tin Man : Ptolemy Pheasant – a pheasant

The Cowardly Lion : Bambino Bobble Wilson – a large, but young and foolish cat

The Scarecrow : Tango Pete – a cockerel

Auntie Em : Mrs Fanny Bennet – oldest friend of Mrs Miggins

Uncle Henry : Tootsie Hoffman – another cockerel. Confused on many levels.

The Wizard of Oz: Kenneth The Phantomime  - MWAHAHAHAHAHA!

Glinda the Good Witch : Mrs Gloria In Excelsis Deo Pumphrey – the glamour

Wicked Witch of West : Mrs Vladimiranda Poo – the antithesis of glamour

Magno: Count Magnus von Tasselltussell –  another sodding cockerel.

Toto: Mrs Betty Slocombe and Hugh Gnu – a music hall double act

Bob Frapples: Flora Bijou Mybug – Queen of Disguise

Luckily, there are not that many to dual-imagine and I am sure you (and I) will get the hang of it by Christmas Eve. Plus, to keep you on your toes, I’ve done mash ups of the original film role names and the cast names. Just because I can. You’ll see.

So ‘Lights! Camera! Action!’ Let us begin…ahem… (clears throat, settles in rocking chair on the porch, rolls eyes heavenwards and prays for a goodly head of writing steam ‘twixt now and Christmas Eve…)

‘It was a sunny day on the Three Counties Border. There bit of a wind blowing, but not strong enough to suggest that anything untoward might happen, like a house being wrenched from its foundations and carrying its inhabitants far, far away before dropping on someone’s head and causing them irreparable damage, save for the shoes.

‘What’s the Three Counties Border?’ demands Dorothy Miggins. ‘It’d better not be Kansas, Oklahoma and Colorado. I’m planting potatoes in Spring. I don’t be wanting any untoward beetles invading and chewing holes in my tubers.’

‘I love the Beatles,’ says Auntie Em Bennet. ‘Especially George Harrison. There was something ethereal about George that the others lacked.’

‘Ringo was my favourite,’ says Uncle Henry Tootsie. ‘My Gran had a poodle called Ringo. He couldn’t play the drums, though.’

‘Some might say Ringo the Beatle couldn’t play drums either,’ guffaws Auntie Em Bennet, and they both rock wildly on the porch swing whilst Dorothy Miggins taps her foot and rolls her eyes.

‘The Three Counties Border of which I speak,’ continues the Stoic Narrator a.k.a me, ‘is the area covering Shropshire, Cheshire and Staffordshire. Think cows, footballers’ wives and pottery.’

‘That’s fine, then,’ says Dorothy Miggins. ‘Shall I continue?’

‘Please do,’ I say, reaching for the first of what I think will be many comfort food biscuits.

‘Oh,’ says Dorothy Miggins, gazing across the rolling hills. ‘My life is so dull here. Nothing to see but fields and hedges and other green things, but not frogs. I am sooooo bored….’

‘Why don’t you go and play with Toto?’ says Auntie Em Bennet, fed up of hearing of the boredom of youth when there is so much to be done. Washing and ironing, for example. Or giving the rugs a good wallop with the carpet beater, cooking dinner, tidying up bedrooms, homework. ‘Here, take the wicker basket and go into town. I need eggs, butter and honey.’

Dorothy Miggins sighs. Perhaps a walk into town with Toto, her beloved companion, wouldn’t be a bad way to spend a couple of hours. She might pop into the haberdasher’s, she thinks, and purchase a new ribbon for her feathers.

‘I didn’t think that at all,’ snaps Dorothy Miggins. ‘Ribbon for my feathers, indeed. Pah! It’s bad enough I have to walk around with these,’ she adds, batting at the hair extensions that have been attached to her feathers in order that she might be styled with the appropriate pig-tail plait hairstyle.

‘Ahem,’ I say.

Dorothy Miggins scowls and continues. ‘Why yes, Auntie Em Bennet,’ she continues. ‘I shall go into town and fetch your eggs, butter and honey.’ She picks up the wicker basket from the porch floor and looks around. ‘TOTO!’ she bellows. ‘HERE, TOTO!!!’

Immediately, there is a sound of distant rumbling. Uncle Henry Tootsie puts down his copy of the glossy but niche magazine ‘Glamour For Cocks’ and holds on to the edge of the porch swing seat. Auntie Em Bennet prefers to stand and cling onto one of the wooden columns holding up the porch roof, like the most ineffectual and least sexy pole dancer ever. The rumbling grows louder until a HUGE dog lumbers into view. Dorothy Miggins ‘tsks’ and rolls her eyes, muttering something about cairn terriers being far more manageable and audience friendly than some cumbersome  lump the size of a chicken and a gnu in a dog costume.

(Because, unfortunately, that is what Toto is. A cumbersome lump. Can’t be helped. Circumstances beyond the writer’s control, I’m afraid. You should be too. Very afraid. Mrs Slocombe insists on taking the front end of the costume because of Hugh Gnu’s unfortunate intestinal gas problems, so the effect is one of a dog the shape of a cheese wedge, short at the front end, tall at the back, a bit saggy in the middle. Mrs Slocombe has also threatened immediate court action on Hugh Gnu if his hooves stray even once from her waist. He says she should be so lucky – she isn’t the looker she was back in their music hall days. She says he is a fine one to talk, did he eat a watermelon or three for lunch, Mr Podge Guts? He says how dare she! She says, quite easily thank you! And there is a bit of argy-bargy until someone has the foresight to play ‘She Was Only The Candle Maker’s Daughter But She Knew How To Get Their Wick,’ on the gramophone, and the two halves of the pantomime dog are reunited and proceed to forgive and forget over a barrel of cider with WD40 chasers. Do I mean WD40? I don’t know. I’m not a drinker.)

‘Wuff!’ barks Toto. ‘WUFF, WUFF, WUFF!!’

‘Yes,’ says Dorothy Miggins. ‘Let’s go into town, Toto,’ and off they go, Dorothy a-skippin’ and Toto a-lumberin’.

Arriving safely at Market, they purchase eggs from Mrs Hen, honey from Mrs Bee and butter from Mrs Cup. Dorothy Miggins also purchases  a large bar of fruit and nut chocolate as an incentive for getting through the rest of the story without causing GBH on any of the cast or innocent bystanders. Toto argues companionably with herself/ himself. Glancing up at the sky, Dorothy Miggins decides it is time to go home.

‘The clouds are a-rolling in,’ she says.

‘Wuff,’ says Toto.

‘Is that all you are going to say?’ says Dorothy.

‘Wuff,’ says Toto.

They set off for home. As they approach the farmstead of Much Malarkey Manor, they are almost sent flying by a maniac on a bicycle. This happens often around these parts. There are a lot of Lycra-clad loons who attempt to own the narrow and bendy country lanes by riding two or three a-breast  whilst holding shouty conversations with each other to the selfish exclusion of all other road users.

‘Oi!’ shouts Dorothy Miggins, as the maniac on a bike causes her and Toto to take evasive action by jumping into a muddy ditch. ‘Watch where you’re going, will you?’

The bicycle screeches to a halt and its passenger alights. It is none other than Miss Poo Gulch. She is a nasty piece of work. No-one in the Three Counties Border likes her and not just because she is a terror on her bicycle. No, she is mean and bad-tempered, has a face permanently set on hatchet mode and, in a certain light, looks Smurf blue.  

‘Me look where I am going?’ she screeches. ‘You should keep that monstrosity of a dog of yours off the highway.’ And she leans forward and pokes Toto with the pointy end of her rolled up umbrella.

Well! Of course, Toto does what any other self-respecting hen + gnu = pantomime dog would do. And chomps at the umbrella! But being dog armed with a beak, Toto also inadvertently catches the end of Miss Poo Gulch’s finger, which sets her to a-leapin’ and a-wailin’ like she’d been savaged by a crocodile and lost half her arm.

‘That thing bit me!’ she hollers. ‘It’s a danger to society! I’m going to do something about it!’ And she leaps on her bicycle and steams off in the direction of town.

‘Stupid woman,’ mutters Dorothy Miggins, in an edited version of what she really said, but we need to remember this is a universal audience story and it is also nearly Christmas, the time of peace and goodwill to all men, including the grumpy Poo Gulch. ‘Come on, Toto,’ says Dorothy Miggins. ‘Let’s go home.’

They have been at home but an hour when that very same Mrs Poo Gulch arrives, carrying a worryingly official-looking letter. She waves it in the faces of Auntie Em Bennet and Uncle Henry Tootsie.

‘This,’ she screeches, ‘is a letter from the Mayor himself. It contains an order for that vicious dog,’ and she points at Toto who is cowering in the arms of Dorothy Miggins (no mean feat, but she’s been working weights at the gym in preparation) ‘to be destroyed IMMEDIATELY!’

‘NO!’ shouts Dorothy Miggins. ‘You shall not destroy my  darling Toto! Don’t let her, Auntie Em Bennet. Please, Uncle Henry Tootsie, won’t you do something?’

Auntie Em Bennet and Uncle Henry Tootsie look at each other  and make ineffectual noises, which Dorothy Miggins thinks is just typical of the older generation. They shrug their shoulders and pull placatory faces. Dorothy Miggins is having none of this. She is wearing her Greta plaits and she ain’t afraid to use them. Just as Miss Poo Gulch makes a lunge for Toto, Dorothy Miggins launches the dog out of her arms.

‘Run, Toto…RUN!’  she shouts.

‘Wuff!’ barks Toto, managing to untangle him/herself with surprising speed before taking off across the fields.

‘I’ll get you, you mangy cross-breed!’ shouts Miss Poo Gulch, heading for her bicycle. But Dorothy Miggins is too quick! She darts in front of Miss Poo Gulch, reaching the bicycle first, and with one swift movement, whips the umbrella from the handlebars where it is attached by a bungee cord, and rams it into the spokes of the back wheel, stirring the umbrella around like she is whisking a particularly stodgy bread pudding mix. Satisfied she has done enough damage to the bicycle to prevent it moving, Dorothy Miggins throws the umbrella into a hedge and sets off in hot pursuit of her best doggy /hen/gnu friend.

It’s all rather exciting. I’m going for a lie down to recover.