SAUSAGE Life 275

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column whose terms apply but not its conditions

MYSELF: Are you alert this morning?
READER: Alert? I’m like a highly-trained police dog on crystal meth.
MYSELF: OK, here’s a riddle for you. My first is in peanuts but not in custard…
READER: Oh I love these brain teasers.
MYSELF: I know. My second is in Spain but not in algebra…
READER: Not in algebra? That’s a tricky one.
MYSELF: …Where am I?
READER: This is going to take me a while.
MYSELF: Take your time, I’m here all week..

New series
INSPECTOR TREADMILL INVESTIGATES
No.1 The Silence of the Lam
Saturday 4-27am:
By the time Inspector Treadmill’s car arrived at The Sizzling Shashlik, an upmarket
Turkish kebab joint at the smarter end of town, it was surrounded by scene-of-crime tape and unflatteringly lit by banks of harsh spotlights. Vital clues had been gathered by police detectives at the scene and the evidence was already beginning to mount.
The previous night, Karl Gluck, wealthy owner of the nearby Gluck’s Launderama had left his fiancée Diana waiting in the car whilst he called in to The Sizzling Shashlik to pick up his order of Lamb Kafka for supper. Security cameras later showed that he entered at 6-15pm, but never came out. Diana waited, but when the restaurant closed at 1-30am and Karl had still not shown up, his she began to lose hope. Taking up the offer of a lift home with Lars Vøndervønder, a Norwegian submarine engineer who just happened to be passing by, she accepted his proposal of marriage and promised him she would call off her engagement in the morning. At 3am she reported Karl’s disappearance to the police.
Whilst Inspector Treadmill’s trained eye surveyed the area, Raoul Pirez, police detective in charge of the case filled him in. He told him he suspected Mr. Gluck was now dead, murdered, and that all the evidence implicated the proprieters of Kebab Krazy, a rival Turkish outfit across town. Six heavy set black-suited men carrying an assortment of weapons, had been seen leaving there at 6-20pm and eyewitnesses reported seeing them running into The Sizzling Shashlik shortly after Karl Gluck had entered. Minutes afterwards, neighbours said they heard gunshots and screams. Further CCTV footage revealed a hearse with darkened windows leaving via the back gates of The Sizzling Shashlik 30 minutes later.
Inspector Treadmill’s inscrutable said nothing. Instead, he pushed open the Shashlik’s plush swing doors, briefly surveyed the deserted dining room and made a bee-line for the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later he emerged, approached detective Pirez and grabbed him by his expensive hand-stitched lapels: “You must issue a warrant at once for the arrest of the Sizzling Shashlik’s Chinese laundry supervisor Dur Tee-Li, on suspicion of first degree homicide.” he spat.
The announcement drew gasps from the assembled cops. Treadmill surveyed them with a barely concealed expression of cold contempt.
“It was Tee-Li who carried out the premeditated murder of Karl Gluck and here’s why: as well as being envious of his rival’s success in the laundromat business he also became convinced that Gluck was stealing his mail-order dry cleaning ideas. Here’s what happened next; Tee-Li, a disbarred pork butcher, lured Gluck into the kitchen on the pretext of discussing starching. There, he bludgeoned him to death with a steam iron, expertly dismembered his body and had the kitchen staff serve it up as doner kebab. It was a busy Friday night. No-one noticed. It was only a matter of hours before the corpse was disposed of without a trace”.
Pirez smiled and shook his head. “How in hell did you figure it all out boss”?
“It was staring you in the face the whole time,” replied Inspector Treadmill, “The fiancée and the submarine guy were in cahoots with the Chinaman. Together they planned to take over the business once Karl Gluck was declared dead.”
“OK, but what about the Kebab Krazy connection?” asked Pirez, puzzled.
“A red herring. The six men from Kebab Krazy are entirely innocent,” explained Treadmill, “They were operating an illegal mortician racket and they were hungry and in a hurry because they were late for a funeral. The only reason they were packing heat was because they were officiating at the cremation of a former gangland crime boss who had insisted on fancy-dress.”
Replacing his trademark fedora at a jaunty angle, Inspector Treadmill turned on his heels and left. As his gold ‘57 Cadillac El Dorado roared off into the night, Pirez turned to his fellow officers, “I guess we’ve all learned something today,” he said humbly.

READER: Are you in Paris?
MYSELF: Not Paris

ART RAGE
Tracy Eminem, the controversial conceptual artist, lashed out this week at the general public’s ‘ignorant’ attitude towards her. Ms Eminem is best known for her two semenal works My Dirty Laundry and 52 Blokes Who Were Drunk Enough to Shag Me, both of which were tragically destroyed in the recent fire which consumed Cyril “Lord” Saatchmo’s lockup in Kilburn. We spoke at her Hampstead mews studio where she was working on a new canvas provisionally entitled “This gallery ain’t big enough for two women who can’t paint, one of us has gotta go and it certainly isn’t going to be me”

AU REVOIR AU MAL GARBAGE
“I’m really upset” said Ms Eminem as I helped her spread human excrement over a picture of Stella Vino, “You wouldn’t believe what some people are saying. The public are so thick. They think art is just pictures of trees and stuff. The problem is, they just don’t have any concept of the amount of work that goes into a piece of conceptual art like 52 blokes.  I mean, some of those guys were even drunker than I was.”
BITCH VOLLEYBALL
When asked about her rumoured feud with new Saatchmo artist Stella Vino, she snapped; “Don’t talk to me about that untalentless bitch. She thinks she invented crap art. Well let me tell you, I was doing crap when she was still in daipers. My Bed was what started all this crap stuff off. Before that, crap was just crap… rubbish. Now its worth millions, and I done it. If it wasn’t for me, people would still be standing around the National Gallery or whatever, staring at pictures of trees or ships. I freed the world from all this art tyranny, so she can fuck off with her crappy crap. My crap is the real thing.”
SMOCK HORROR
Asked for a comment Ms Vino hit back: ‘I can’t paint for toffee and the only thing I’ve ever been able to draw was job seekers allowance’ she told us yesterday from her luxury Mayfair studio. “All I know is, I was walking along Oxford street minding my own business, when this creepy-looking middle-aged bloke, the man I now know as Saatchmo, (Cyril “Lord” Saatchmo, head of the notorious intellectual crime syndicate known as ARTCON ) suddenly just appeared out of a doorway and offered me £500 to do a painting.”
Ms. Vino sighed, blushing coyly as the light emphasised her delicate cheekbones. “He gripped my arm tightly and stared into my eyes. He told me one of his artists hadn’t turned up and he needed ‘a three by four IN oils, ASAP’. I’d never heard anyone use words like that before and I foolishly allowed him to escort me into the building. Once inside, he handed me £500 in cash and led me into a small room which smelt funny. “There you go” he said with a sneer, “smock, beret, brushes, as much paint as you want, a bottle of red wine and a packet of Galoises-now get on with it, I’ll be back in ten minutes” Although I batted my eyelids and protested that I was only a trainee parking warden, it was to no avail.”
AGONY
Choking back a tear the fragrant Ms Vino added; “Yes, I agonised over it – but the red wine soon made me go all woozy. I just kept thinking of Our Lady of Diana, and how vulnerably strong, and yet courageously vulnerable she was. Squirting some paint on the pallette, I grabbed the nearest brush, made my excretia, and left.”
BOLLOCKS
“In those traumatic few days afterwards I somehow managed to blank out my terrifying experience, but now, after the initial £500 has worn off, all that remains is a deep sense of guilt and shame. Particularly when I think of all the thousands of perverted, leering old men who could be looking at my painting and laughing their bollocks off.”

READER: Are you in Uttar Pradesh?
MYSELF: You’re not even close.

Sausage Life!

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