Kingetter
09-Aug-06, 01:57
The lure of Cliche-Land is as persistent as herpes, and Pete and I were itching to go again.
On previous visits we'd toured the merry city of Winwin Situation and we'd trudged through the rubble of Worst Case Scenario. But still we itched to see for ourselves the fabled land of sporting metaphor, known to travellers as Totally Awesome City.
We needed a guide. At the local guide market only the Time family was
available for hire. Young Son Time would wait for no man, so we engaged Old Father Time, half brother to Ole Man River, in the hope that he would just keep rolling and not say nothing except double negatives. We loaded him into the canoe set out for the dangerous waters of Cliche.
After a day of paddling, we beached the canoe. While Time made a fire I cast my fishing line, hauled up a red herring and offered it to Time – but he had other fish to fry. "Look over there," he said. On a barren beach on Cliche Island, an assortment of creatures lounged.
"Tired expressions, I presume," I said.
"'Fraid not," said Time. "Those are accidents."
"Accidents? But they look fine."
"They're waiting to happen," said Time. "Watch."
He drew himself up to his full 4 foot 6. Time was short. "Yoohoo," he
bellowed. The creatures looked up. "Your Time has come."
The effect was dramatic. All around us, the accidents suddenly
happened. Glass shattered. Things exploded. Limbs flew. A cylindrical metal accident flung itself from a wall, split open at my feet and disgorged a mass of slimy limbless creatures. Above Pete's head, a second cylinder prepared to jump.
"Look out," I screamed, "another can of worms." Pete dived for safety.
"Let's get out of here," I said. He nodded sagely, then onionly. Pete
was a seasoned traveller.
"It's not as easy as it looks," said Time. "This is the dreaded valley
of Mixed Animal Metaphors."
"I smell a rat," sniffed Pete. But before he could smell it again, a
giant fowl made of coiled metal nipped the rat in the bud.
"I know what you're thinking," said Time, "but that was no spring
chicken. Look yonder." Behind the rat, a stream of previously unnoticed bony figures were rising from previously unnoticed furniture.
"Oh no," I said, "the skeletons in the cupboard."
"Yes," said Time, "and they're coming home to roost. Duck!"
Time seized the day and together we paddled madly away.
We paddled past the Island of Travel Advertising Cliche where locals danced in native costume and a perfect couple bathed in a limpid lagoon, then dined at sunset beneath a swaying coconut palm. It was so stultifyingly predictable that the three of us sank dangerously toward coma. But at that moment, an aged rock star fell from the coconut palm and killed the dancers, the perfect couple and himself and so we all cheered up.
On we paddled past Economic Cliche Land, where interest rates spiralled decoratively round the Mountains of Debt. At one stage we passed through the perilous Territory of Real Estate Cliches, but we knew to keep our eyes averted. One glimpse and our indoor-outdoor flow would cease forever.
"Stop paddling," said Time. He stood up and trod on our fingers.
"What the?" exclaimed Pete, but we had Time on our hands.
"I think we're there," said Time, pointing. Following his finger, we saw back gardens running down to the water's edge.
"Yep," said Time, "behold Totally Awesome City with its famous hard yards."
We disembarked cautiously. On the horizon hung a threatening injury cloud, but the Isle of Sporting Metaphor was eerily quiet. We passed through a manicured park where stood eight giant balls of rock. A strange shape lounged among them.
"Just a ball park figure," said Time. "Ignore him." Beyond the last of the eight balls we approached a little wicket gate. Just then we heard a rumbling growl.
"Oh no," said Time, "the cellar-dwellers. Run."
We sprinted for the wicket gate. Pete won the race by a short head and
rammed the gate with it. His short head stuck fast to the palings. I ran to help him but I, too, stuck fast to the gate.
Time stood still. I held my breath, lost my grip and held Pete's breath
instead.
From out of the shadows sidled the ball park figure.
"Gentlemen," it said, its face a wicked leer, "I believe you're behind
the eight ball."
"And on a very sticky wicket," added Pete, grimly.
On previous visits we'd toured the merry city of Winwin Situation and we'd trudged through the rubble of Worst Case Scenario. But still we itched to see for ourselves the fabled land of sporting metaphor, known to travellers as Totally Awesome City.
We needed a guide. At the local guide market only the Time family was
available for hire. Young Son Time would wait for no man, so we engaged Old Father Time, half brother to Ole Man River, in the hope that he would just keep rolling and not say nothing except double negatives. We loaded him into the canoe set out for the dangerous waters of Cliche.
After a day of paddling, we beached the canoe. While Time made a fire I cast my fishing line, hauled up a red herring and offered it to Time – but he had other fish to fry. "Look over there," he said. On a barren beach on Cliche Island, an assortment of creatures lounged.
"Tired expressions, I presume," I said.
"'Fraid not," said Time. "Those are accidents."
"Accidents? But they look fine."
"They're waiting to happen," said Time. "Watch."
He drew himself up to his full 4 foot 6. Time was short. "Yoohoo," he
bellowed. The creatures looked up. "Your Time has come."
The effect was dramatic. All around us, the accidents suddenly
happened. Glass shattered. Things exploded. Limbs flew. A cylindrical metal accident flung itself from a wall, split open at my feet and disgorged a mass of slimy limbless creatures. Above Pete's head, a second cylinder prepared to jump.
"Look out," I screamed, "another can of worms." Pete dived for safety.
"Let's get out of here," I said. He nodded sagely, then onionly. Pete
was a seasoned traveller.
"It's not as easy as it looks," said Time. "This is the dreaded valley
of Mixed Animal Metaphors."
"I smell a rat," sniffed Pete. But before he could smell it again, a
giant fowl made of coiled metal nipped the rat in the bud.
"I know what you're thinking," said Time, "but that was no spring
chicken. Look yonder." Behind the rat, a stream of previously unnoticed bony figures were rising from previously unnoticed furniture.
"Oh no," I said, "the skeletons in the cupboard."
"Yes," said Time, "and they're coming home to roost. Duck!"
Time seized the day and together we paddled madly away.
We paddled past the Island of Travel Advertising Cliche where locals danced in native costume and a perfect couple bathed in a limpid lagoon, then dined at sunset beneath a swaying coconut palm. It was so stultifyingly predictable that the three of us sank dangerously toward coma. But at that moment, an aged rock star fell from the coconut palm and killed the dancers, the perfect couple and himself and so we all cheered up.
On we paddled past Economic Cliche Land, where interest rates spiralled decoratively round the Mountains of Debt. At one stage we passed through the perilous Territory of Real Estate Cliches, but we knew to keep our eyes averted. One glimpse and our indoor-outdoor flow would cease forever.
"Stop paddling," said Time. He stood up and trod on our fingers.
"What the?" exclaimed Pete, but we had Time on our hands.
"I think we're there," said Time, pointing. Following his finger, we saw back gardens running down to the water's edge.
"Yep," said Time, "behold Totally Awesome City with its famous hard yards."
We disembarked cautiously. On the horizon hung a threatening injury cloud, but the Isle of Sporting Metaphor was eerily quiet. We passed through a manicured park where stood eight giant balls of rock. A strange shape lounged among them.
"Just a ball park figure," said Time. "Ignore him." Beyond the last of the eight balls we approached a little wicket gate. Just then we heard a rumbling growl.
"Oh no," said Time, "the cellar-dwellers. Run."
We sprinted for the wicket gate. Pete won the race by a short head and
rammed the gate with it. His short head stuck fast to the palings. I ran to help him but I, too, stuck fast to the gate.
Time stood still. I held my breath, lost my grip and held Pete's breath
instead.
From out of the shadows sidled the ball park figure.
"Gentlemen," it said, its face a wicked leer, "I believe you're behind
the eight ball."
"And on a very sticky wicket," added Pete, grimly.