3rd September, 1989
A long time ago in an outrageous French accent lived a rather big and incredible mole that had incredibly large and rather improbable eye-teeth. He had come across these while enduring a short stay in hospital for bad arthritis.
Later that evening, as the hands on the clock approached midnight, he crept silently from his bedroom along the landing to the top of the staircase. He raised the axe high above his bandanna and fired the crossbow at the small outrageous celery stalk. Simultaneously, the celery fired back, with a huge big gun that went bang.
To his dismay, Patrick had now been shot by the aforementioned gun. He died again, and in an instant replay of his life, he saw the small Venezualan about to smoke an incredible amount of shoe polish. As it exploded, he suddenly realised he'd left the gas on, and phoned his mother at home to ask her to turn the pilot-light off. There was no answer so he decided to return to his imaging spectro-halucino-photo-unhingeing kneebrace and perform further measurements.
Patrick died, then lived and then died only to wake up three hundred years later in a very large telescope array as a leading piece of reinforcing material on one of the telescopes' rear.
Fred strapped down Prunella with the express intent of investigating her arthritis. ``Egad!'' she shouted, as he had incredibly cold ice-cubes in his underpants. ``Do call again,'' she said politely, ``and if you ever need any ice just ask for Enid.'' Fred left, much enlightened by this experience.
Later, he learnt to yodel and traveled to Tamworth where he won the most prolific frog leg eater award and died of salmonella poisoning because no-one told him that brevity is the soul of wit, which caused an explosion of images in the normally queer Fred's ideals. He eventually retired to greater Botswana, where he is happily married to a squid.