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El Fernando and his Amazing Time-Travelling Combine Harvester
Imagine for a minute that the world suddenly froze in its orbit around the sun and all the stuff on the surface just went flying off into space. That would be weird.
But not as weird as El Fernando and his Amazing Time-Travelling Combine Harvester.
El Fernando, dashing masked hero never shy of a good swashbuckle. He knew exactly what he wanted in life and he even knew what swashbuckling was, which I personally do not. The act of buckle swashing? Who knows, but I digress. The man wanted passion, adventure, the serenade of the Spanish guitar and the rose between his teeth - sans prickles. He would leap upon a table in a heartbeat and never used the stairs, for to El Fernando the chandelier was the only way to travel. Villains were honoured to have their belt buckles shot off by him, and spicy women swooned hither and thus at the sight of his pointy moustache. He was a whirlwind with an epee and could fire off six shots within the hour with a flintlock.
But what was most remarkable was his agricultural masterpiece that took him through space and time to seek action and glory. Only this time it had transported him to the year 1987, to the parking lot behind a pub in Tamworth.
Robbo leaned close and aimed at the eight ball. His unlit cigarette sat behind his ear and his blonde, curly mullet (business at the front, party at the back) shone like a golden fleece in the smoky gloom of the pub. Over by the wall playing darts were Tommo and Billo, wearing blue singlets and sporting uniform mullets, but none so mighty as Robbos.
Yet Robbo couldn’t take the shot, there was something missing.
‘Oi, Franko!’ He hollered in thick ocker. ‘Put some Barnsey on, aye. Legend aye.”
‘Nah mate,’ said Franko without turning from the television, ‘I’m watchin’ the footy aye. Souths just scored three tries and Magnetic North North Easts are flat out like a lizard drinkin’ tryin’ ta defend! Look, there goes Big Hussy, champion aye! Yeah! Go son! Ooh! Go yourself! OOOH! Somebody shut the gate! OOOOOH! Oh! No way! Turn it up, ref! Crikey that game was worse than when the Blues played Puce.’
Robbo turned to where his missus Shazza was, which was at the bar enjoying a vanguard of dribbly old men who leered and broke wind around her.
Aged around forty and wearing a short, tight fitting number that was just wrong for so many reasons, Shazza’s dropped pie face and black perm created a look that was an unsettling cross between Edward Scissorhands and a chain smoking boiled chicken stuffed into a purple water balloon.
‘Oi, Shazza!’ Bellowed Robbo. ‘Put on some Barnsey, champion aye! And gizza rum before I belt ya aye!’
‘Nah Robbo aye.’ Spake Shazza in a voice like a clogged toilet’s final swansong. ‘It’s always Barnsey aye. Put on sumfink different like Chisel aye. Champions aye.’ Then hacked up a big gob and swallowed it. ‘Besides I’m busy. Rodney here…’
‘Roddo, please.’
‘…Sorry, luv. Roddo here reckons he can do burnouts in his ute real tops and that. Says that he kicks his dog every day and will bum me a fag if I give ‘im a blowie. Real classy bloke aye.’
‘Gizza rum and put on some Barnsey, ya slag!’
‘Oi! Don’t call me a slag! I ain’t ya six year old daughter ya know aye!’
‘Put on me Barnsey or this cue breaks over your ugly head aye!’
‘Get stuffed!’
Crack!
As the fallen form of Shazza lay obscenely sprawled upon the spit and glass covered floor, Tommo dropped his darts and dove to her side.
‘I’ll hold her down while ya put the boot in Robbo aye!’
Goaded by the cheers of his mates, Robbo jangled his mullet about and drew his crusty boot back…
Clink, clink, clink, clink. Spurs.
The cheers grew silent as the pub door creaked slowly open. There, silhouetted against the harsh glare of the midday sun, cape billowing in a slight breeze stood a masked stranger. His wide brimmed hat bore a single white quill, and his black clothing was tailored from the finest satin. The stranger seemed to be absorbing the scene before him, and after long seconds he spoke in a voice as smooth as silk and with a rich Spanish accent.
‘Perhaps the lady has had enough.’
A confused pause from the publicans, then raucous laughter.
‘You hear that boys?’ Laughed Robbo. ‘Looks like fancy dress boy here wants me to stop slappin’ me pig around! Come on then, Zorro, throw down a glove and challenge me, aye.’
A beautifully made glove landed at Robbos feet.
‘That is exactly what I intend to do, sir.’
The laughter in the bar really exploded this time. It went “ahahahahaha” for a long, loud time.
‘Is that so, Spain boy? You gonna teach me a lesson aye. Well why don’t you go swing from a chandelier aye. ’
A second glove landed at Robbos feet.
‘I will not ask you again,’ came the reply, ‘for I have run out of gloves.’
‘Oi!’ Shouted Billo. ‘I reckon he’s gonna peg his undies at ya next aye!’
Much laughter.
‘Fight him Robbo!’ Shouted Tommo.
‘Yeh, kick his arse!’ Yelled Roddo.
‘Eurgh, I’m dying.’ Gurgled Shazza.
Lunge went Robbo with a pool cue. Parry went El Fernando with his sword. Arse swore Robbo as he stepped backward over Shazza and fell on his back.
El Fernando leapt across the floor with the speed of a stoat and the dexterity of a concert cellist, ready to deliver the final blow. In a panic Robbo lashed out with his boot at the Spaniard’s legs, but he was not fast enough. El Fernando somersaulted backward onto the snooker table and kicked the eight ball right into Robbo’s nose.
‘Arrgh, me nose, aye!’ he hollered, clutching his bleeding face. ‘I give in. aye!’
‘Here Robbo, take me flannie aye. It’s red tartan so the blood won’t show up as much, aye.’
‘Cheers Tommo. Yer a top bloke aye. Champion aye.’
El Fernando knelt down beside the sprawled Shazza and helped her sit up.
‘My dear, all is well now. You are safely in the protection of El Fernando.’
‘Christ, it’s Antonio Banderas ! Youse real tops, aye. I saw ya in that film and wiv that bird in it, jeez I’d hate ta be the poor sod who sat in my seat aye. Hope he was wearin’ like, non-absorbent polyester or sumfink aye. If ya know what I mean aye! Wanna blowie?’
‘My dear,’ said El Fernando as he got to his feet and brushed his trousers down, ‘you have the stench of a hog’s anus, the looks of a smashed crab, and the vocabulary of an autistic beach ball. I bid you good day.’
And so, climbing aboard his multicoloured Time Travelling Combine Harvester, El Fernando took one last look at the town of Tamworth, and vanished into the swirling vortex of adventure (?).
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