Mister Gum E-Book

Rhys Hughes

• Herausgeber: Dog Horn Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 272

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Rhys Hughes plumbs the depths of perversity and satire in the shockingly brilliant novel Mister Gum, which follows the adventures of the world's most notorious creative writing tutor and his friends. On his way he discovers haunted hymens, Fellatio Nelson and Canon Alberic's Photo Album. 'A desperately needed antidote to nerd-friendly space fiction and inklingoid fantasy.' - The Guardian. 'Hughes' fiction has few parallels anywhere in the world. In some alternate universe with a better sense of justice, his work triumph-antly parades across all bestseller lists.' -Jeff Vandermeer

Leseprobe

Mister GumRhys HughesDog Horn Publishing (2012)Rating:*****Tags:fantasy, collections

Second edition:

© Rhys Hughes, 2013. All rights reserved.

Foreword:

© Joel Lane, 2013. All rights reserved.

This expanded second edition ofMister Gumincludes an extra chapter, anew poem, a foreword by Joel Lane and an afterword by the author.

Sections of this novel were previously published as a novella inPolluto.

Published in the United Kingdom by

Dog Horn Publishing

2 Junction Works

40 Ducie Street

Manchester

M1 2DF

doghornpublishing.com

[email protected]

A CIP record for this novel exists with the British Library.

No part of this book may be copied or reproduced without the expresswritten consent of the publisher, and no copy of this book may be soldwithout this copyright warning included. Dog Horn Publishing worksto secure the intellectual property rights of its authors and appreciatesyour continued investment in world literature.

This rude book is dedicated to:

Brian Willis, Hannah LawsonandHuw Rees

because they havesuitably filthyminds

Contents:

Foreword

Part One: The Creative Writing Tutor

Oh, Whistle While You Work, and I’ll Come to You, My Dwarf

Boo to a Goose

Whaling Well

The Tenant of Arcimboldo Hall

Canon Alberic’s Photo-Album

Part Two: Up a Gumtree

The Groin Scratcher

Plop Fiction

Part Three: Spermicidal Maniacs

Where the Sun Doesn’t Shine

Cop Hospital

Plums and Oriels

Part Four: Gum, Set and Match

The Glue of the Scream

Sticky White Hands

I am a Slimy Man

Afterword

“The moon was emerging from behind the clouds, but it was not the moon, but a bum, a great bum spreading itself over the top of the trees. A childish bum over the world. Bum and nothing but bum. Behind me they were all wallowing in the mêlée, and in front of me was this great bum. The trees trembled in the breeze. And this great bum.”

Witold Gombrowicz, Ferdydurke, 1937

Foreword: The Full Balzac

YOU ARE ABOUT to read the second edition of Mister Gum by Rhys Hughes. Having read the first edition, I recommend this book to you. And not only because it may have a better typeface this time round.

You may wonder: why have I been asked to write this introduction? I’m not a humorist, as those who know me will readily attest. Nor am I a noted Hughes enthusiast, though a few of his short stories have delighted me — most notably ‘Lunarhampton’ (a satirical portrait of Birmingham) and ‘The Jam of Hypnos’ (a lyrical dream narrative). But in general I’m the kind of writer (mostly grim and downbeat) whom Rhys sends up without mercy.

But I am inordinately fond of puns. My enthusiasm for wordplay began in childhood with the Puffin Club journal Puffin Post, edited by Puffin Books' founder Kaye Webb. One of their competitions involved drawing and naming new kinds of teapot, and the winners included a picture of a badly cracked teapot with the caption ‘Porcelain teapot’.

My father was an influence too. He used to tell elaborate shaggy- dog stories that ended in puns on proverbs or quotations — years later, I realised they were modelled on the My Word radio monologues. He kept up the habit in later years — for example, once remarking to me that whereas the most original French writers were radical, the most original English writers were fairly right-wing. As I pondered this generalisation, he added, “So we lose the Bataille but win the Waugh.”

For me, Mister Gum evokes the lost heroes of radio comedy: the punning anecdotes of Frank Muir, the surreal episodes of Spike Milligan, the audacious double entendres of Round the Horne. It would be impossible to film, but it could (and should) be recorded with sound effects. And bad music.

This book is so rich in fun it has transferred half of its jokes to Monaco to avoid paying tax on them. There’s some well-deserved mockery of the prescriptive clichés of creative writing classes. There’s a picaresque adventure involving the robbery of a sperm bank by two desperados wearing drawn-on stocking masks. There are strange one- liners like, “I hope they lock you up in a prison ship and throw away the quay.” And much more besides.

One unifying theme runs (or rather drips) through the book: the power of sperm as a psychic and cultural symbol. But it’s not a symbol of potency or fertility, rather of the narcissistic hunger of the male ego. There’s no fertilisation and precious little intercourse in the world of Mister Gum, only an eternity of rod-stroking and spontaneous emission. As we choke in the grip of a global recession driven by the bankers — the whole voracious wunch of them — it’s a resonant image.

This edition of Mister Gum has an added bonus: a new poem at the end that finishes off the book in fine satirical style. The first edition had a rather peevish afterword that mocked the BBC’s Late Review. After I remarked to Rhys that I felt it ended the book on a sour note, he decided (with no pressure) to change it. And I have the pleasure of having helped to make an enjoyable book even better.

This novel is daft, facetious and extremely rude. However, it is neither crass nor meaningless. It celebrates the verbal imagination while highlighting the sheer pointlessness of many things we take for granted. It challenges the normative assumptions about ‘the reader’ that choke imagination, and annihilates the pomposity that surrounds the concept of the ‘surreal’ in modern genre fandom. Not bad for a book of wank jokes.

Wordplay and profanity are held in low regard in our culture because, like the bass guitar, they are not used to their full potential. Correctly harnessed, like the bass in the ‘drum and bass’ musical genre, they are both evocative and subversive. The stories of Ambrose Bierce and Robert Bloch use wordplay as finely sharpened instruments of terror (and so, unexpectedly, does August Derleth’s dark gem ‘Mrs Manifold’).

In the work of Harlan Ellison, Conrad Williams and others, profanity is an intelligent driving force behind the most disturbing of narratives.

In Mister Gum the rhythm section are in command of the stage, and all the jokes are on their side. I could say that Rhys Hughes is the Roni Size of speculative fiction, but the words ‘Rhys’ and ‘Size’ don’t really go together. What cannot be denied is that he is a writer with an exceptionally well-developed sense of irony. Why that is the case need not concern you.

One final point is worth noting. Despite his breadth of reading, Hughes is not the kind of writer who praises ‘literary’ culture above all else. His conversation largely revolves around practical experience, and his admiration is focused on those who change the world around them through action. He does not consider writers a breed apart. And so, for all his love of arcane literary devices, it’s not literary theory that breaks through unexpectedly in Hughes’ stories: it’s the world.

Hughes’ restless wit and nervous energy spring from his appetite for life. He does not use fiction to withdraw from reality, but rather to engage with it in unexpected ways. And in this book, concerned as it is with the absurdity of masculine sexual icons, it is the body — distorted, falsified, abused, hidden, but still alive — that has the last laugh.

Joel Lane

October 2010

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Part One:

The Creative Writing Tutor

Oh, Whistle While You Work, and I’ll Come to You, My Dwarf

Show, don’t tell,” said my Creative Writing tutor. He had given the same advice at least ten times in every class and one night I decided to discover why ‘showing’ was so important to him and ‘telling’ so distasteful. I stayed behind after the other students had left and I put the question to him.

“I’ll give you an answer if you insist,” he sighed, “but why do you always sit at the back of the room? I don’t like it.”

“Anyway,” he continued before I could reply, “it’s good technique to depict a scene directly rather than relating it. I mean, let the reader work out what is happening and how to feel about it. Don’t write something like ‘the ship was very unlucky and fated to smash against rocks.’ No. It’s much better to conjure up a sense of doom with little clues: perhaps the flaking paint on the hull, the rolling yellow fogs, the odd habits of the captain . . .

“Any Creative Writing tutor will tell you the same thing.

“But in fact I have an extra reason for preferring ‘showing’ to ‘telling’. I had a friend once who vanished for a year. One day he turned up and gave me a dreadful account of what had happened to him. He knew nothing about good writing technique and told his whole story in the wrong way, with lots of ‘telling’ and almost no ‘showing’. It instilled a mortal terror of ‘telling’ in me that has persisted ever since. That’s why I’m so strict with my students on this point.

“What was his story, I can almost hear you ask?

“Well, it seems he got himself a job as a chaperone to a young lady. A distant cousin had a virginal daughter who had enrolled in university in a distant foreign city. This cousin asked my friend — let’s call him Mr Mug — to escort the daughter — who we can name Primula — safely all the way. By ‘safely’ I mean with her virginity intact and by ‘all the way’ I mean the opposite of what you’re thinking!

“They boarded an unlucky ship that was fated to smash against rocks . . . Mention the fogs, damn it! Flaking paint on the captain’s beard . . . The ship went down and they jumped overboard. They lost everything and their clothes were shredded on the jagged reef and they were both washed up completely naked on the beach. Mr Mug and Primula were the only survivors who lived!

“Yes, his sentence structure really was that bad . . .

“One other item was washed up next to them, a curious whistle. To cut a long story short, as the cliché said to the actress, this whistle was an antique, a device fabricated by the Knights Templar in the Ages of the Middle, and it had been brought aboard by an evil scholar whose speciality was magic . . . Mr Mug remembered a conversation on deck with the scholar that went something like this:

“ ‘Abysmal weather for travelling on the high seas, what?’

“ ‘Yes indeed, but I don’t care because I have ownership of a whistle that makes bedsheets come alive if you blow it.’

“ ‘Bedsheets, you say?’

“ ‘Certainly and all other types of fabric too!’

“The bedsheets didn’t really come alive, they were merely borrowed by a disembodied spirit to help give it form: the scholar was very insistent on that point. The blowing of the whistle called the spirit and the spirit clothed itself in whatever ‘garment’ was available, even dirty napkins if that’s all there was (consult any good volume of the complete short stories of M.R. James for further information about this whistle). But this was irrelevant to Mr Mug. He cared only that ownership of the whistle had now passed to him.

“He supported Primula and they limped together along the beach, shouting for help, but nobody came. The sun went down somewhere behind the fogs and it grew cold as well as dark. How to keep warm without clothes? No, what you are thinking is vile! He didn’t lay a finger on her: she was related to him.

“Not to beat about the bush, as the overused phrase said to the bishop, they huddled chastely in a hollow in the dunes and Mr Mug wondered what might happen if he blew the whistle. There were no sheets or fabrics of any kind in the vicinity. Mr Mug had a half-baked notion that the disembodied spirit might bring its own bedsheet, that this entity might then be shaken out and cast into the chill wind and the leftover sheet used to cover Primula and he.

“Tricking a phantom is always a risky business!

“Half baked notions and icy temperatures are a bad combination. Mr Mug raised the whistle to his lips and exhaled air into it but no bed sheets came. Instead, the disembodied spirit took shape in the only thing available that even remotely resembled a piece of fabric. It materialised in Primula’s unbroken hymen!

“Yes, that’s where it appeared. A little face with little eyes and nose and mouth, all puckered up from an intact maidenhead! Mr Mug re coiled at the sight, a sight staring him in the face, for the grimaces of this perverted imp had forced Primula to widen her legs as far as possible. The face mouthed a silent obscenity at Mr Mug and rolled its sightless eyes.

“Mr Mug shook an admonishing finger at it — at a non-stimulating distance — but the hymen rippled and pulsed mockingly.

“Like the membrane of a voodoo drum!

“What could Mr Mug do to silence and banish this horrid creature, this labial lamia, this vaginal vampire? The obvious solution was out of the question: one does not knowingly thrust one’s member in a demon’s face. Sure enough, Mr Mug cared not to sheathe his pork sword in the visage of a cunt fiend! Excuse the language: my friend’s writing style was grossly immature. All the same he had a point. I wouldn’t hump a pussy ghost!

“He had no choice but to endure its presence all night long. In the morning the shipwrecked pair rose awkwardly and continued walking down the beach, Primula’s gait very wide, Mr Mug’s not quite so. Her hymen remained a face that demonstrated no inclination to go away. Further along the beach they spied a pile of clothes. Two bathers were splashing about in the surf: civilisation was near. Mr Mug and Primula stole the clothes and continued along the shore until they reached a port town, a tangle of narrow cobbled alleys, whitewashed houses, slave markets and brothels.

“Lacking money and style, what could Mr Mug do? Lacking a method of banishing the quim monster himself, what could he doubly do? To earn cash and rid himself of the hymen spirit at one and the same time, he sold poor Primula into prostitution.

“Now he had enough spare cash to return home. But he didn’t go back immediately. He hung around the port town for a month, lodging in a reasonable hotel, unable to leave until he knew what had happened to Primula’s possessed hymen. In the cheapest bars he heard no gossip, nothing to indicate that brothels were now a place to be feared. No tale emerged of the unknown man who had deflowered Primula, no anecdote about a genital genie.

“In a fury of curiosity Mr Mug disguised himself as one of those men who pay for sexual encounters and entered the brothel as a customer. In an ill-lit room he beheld Primula again, taking care she did not recognise him. He did nothing physical, for that would have been gross, but merely asked her to undress. He saw what he needed to see and departed in confusion.

“Her hymen and the demon that possessed it were both gone! But where? And this raised a bigger question: where does any hymen go when it is broken? When virginity is taken, where is it taken to? Mr Mug didn’t know and nor do I.

“He returned home and lived a normal life. But that question haunted him forever more. Nor could he shake away from his mind the image of that little being with its little face and little expressions. Better if the creature had been enormous, appearing in the sail of an old-time ship, for example. Anything other than that hideous dwarf!

“And so Mr Mug’s story comes to an end. But it isn’t really his story. So utterly dismal was his writing technique that he resorted to concealing his identity with a simple trick: reversing the letters of his surname!

“That’s right, there is no ‘Mr Mug’. There is only ‘Mr Gum’ and that’s me! Mr Gum the Creative Writing tutor. The story I have just told actually happened to me, not to him, because there is no ‘him’, he’s just an invention. Some people claim that teaching Creative Writing isn’t real work. But it is!

“So there you have it. ‘Show, don’t tell’ has been my motto ever since. But I still want to know why you always sit at the back of the class?”

He squinted at me through his spectacles and I replied, “To be honest, I’m not sitting at the back, but at the front, almost under your nose. These tables and chairs that separate us are tiny models arranged to confuse your sense of perspective.”

“So they are!” he roared, “and touching them, I realise they are made from loose flaps of skin. Exactly the flaps of skin that might be found in a brothel where virgins work!”

I grinned. “So they do! And now I’ll tell you where hymens go when they are broken. Some just lie around on the floor, waiting to be collected. Others gather themselves up and go wandering until they find the men who originally whistled for them. But now it’s time for me to ask you a question: doesn’t it strike you as odd that a hymen can be male?”

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Boo to a Goose

“Rules are made to be broken,” said the Creative Writing tutor, “but only if you are a slimy liar or insignificant worm.

“I’m not exaggerating. The best writers don’t break rules . . .

“Don’t argue with me, I know what I’m talking about, I’m Mr Gum the Creative Writing tutor, I get paid to do this job, and I declare that the rules of good writing are immutable.

“In other words they never change and they can’t decay.

“A clumsy oaf might be able to snap parts of them off, but those parts will always remain strong and viable.

“Are you listening? I guess you think my voice is a bit odd, that my tongue isn’t like a normal man’s tongue. If you think that, you’d be right. My tongue is indeed very strange.

“Anyway, of all the rules that get broken but shouldn’t, there are three more important than the others. Let me explain what they are. Only write what you know. That’s the first.

“Only write what you know. I’ve repeated that rule in italics to make sure there’s no misunderstanding.

“For example, I once wrote a short story about prog rock musicians. I bet you think that owning several hundred prog rock albums and knowing the names of the guitarists from Yes and Genesis and maybe even playing in a prog rock band qualifies a writer to write about prog rock. Sadly the case is not that. It takes more.

“If you’ve never cracked nuts with a prog rock musician, or im paled cubes of cheese and pineapple on little sticks with one, then you have no right to write a prog rock story. None.

“The real world is the real place to learn real things . . .

“In the case of prog rock, preparing savoury snacks is the real way to immerse yourself for real in the real prog rock scene, because that’s what prog rock musicians do when they aren’t doing prog rock, or so I’ve been told, by a real teller in my real ear.

“A good writer uses the world for inspiration, the real world, not his or her imagination. And the real world is full of real people. Real people do real things. Some of those real people are prog rock musicians, as I’ve already strongly hinted, but many others are homosexuals and they have real homosexual sex. Yes they do.

“Hard to believe, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. And in fact it is true. Homosexuals. Out there.

“Let me tell you a tale about myself, but in fact it’s not about myself but about Mr Mgu, a man identical in every way to me except that he had lots of homosexual sex when I didn’t.

“How much is ‘lots’, I hear you ask? Tons, I reply!

“Tons of juicy homosexual sex!

“But the word ‘homosexual’ is offensive to most modern liberals, so I intend to say ‘gay’ from now on.

“Thoughtful, aren’t I? Indeed I am! But I’m not gay. Never oiled a boy in my life. Not once. Not last month.

“Warm slippery golden oil over his buttocks. Nope.

“Nor did a boy or any man variant oil my own buttocks. Shaft of cock proud in the dim smoky light . . .

“Tangents are acceptable in good writing, the fine writing of the best writers, the writing found in the unpublished novels of Mr Mgu. So don’t berate me when I say things like: moist rough tongue flicking throbbing purple man meat to spurting joy! That’s a tangent. Sucking rigid cock, hot in cheek pouch, licking veined length, chewing lightly, spurt in face! Yes, a tangent. Not gay talk. Cock.

“Where was I? Ah yes, writing what I know — or rather what Mr Mgu knew — when he decided to write what he knew . . . A new novel about the real world, the world I’ve already described, full of real stiff cocks really being sucked to real satisfaction. Imperative to know it!

Yes, to know hot gay sex for real in the real world. Real cock, real suck, real hard. Come in my mouth but save some for my face.

“Now then, Mr Mgu didn’t know the first thing about cock, so he had to learn from scratch, but he was dedicated and he went in search of it. He knew he’d recognise it for what it was when he found it. Thrusting pelvis, taut buttocks, peachy pork pillar . . .

“This is all getting confused. I think I might have given you the wrong impression. Mr Mgu didn’t want to have the cock he found — if find one he ever did — stuffed in his mouth with the creamy goodness spraying the back of his throat . . . No he wanted to force his own cock into a little eager mouth, between lips compressed just enough, work it more roughly, push to the back of the throat, harder.

“I love fucking boys. I want to throat fuck boys.

“That was Mr Mgu speaking, not me. I can’t imagine anything worse than throat fucking a boy, yanking his head more roughly onto the hilt of my enormous tool with masterful strong hands while his eyes widen in surprise and he feels a little panic and sucks harder to get the job done so I won’t keep forcing him down, obstructing his narrow windpipe with my swollen conic section, pushing into his throat, brutally, not caring about his discomfort, caring only to shoot my load, suffocating him, boneless joy column grating against teeth.

“I like to kiss my own sperm from bruised lips straight after . . . Or so claimed Mr Mgu when I asked him about it . . . And I believe him. Don’t you? Well you should. Salty.

“Anyway, Mr Mgu happened to be in Madrid. Men often happen to be in places. All the time in fact. Some place or other. Madrid has a vibrant gay quarter called Chueca where cocks are frequently sucked, some say sucked without cessation, but I’ve already warned you about hyperbole so let’s just say: many hot cocks, much sucked.

“Buggery also. Sphincter muscle pulsing rhythmically, explosion deep in lower bowel, prostrate milk a-trickle.

“Mr Mgu walked into a gay club for research purposes.

“The name of the club was To Boldly Go. That’s a split infinitive, very bad — the split in the infinitive I mean, not the alluring split between the bum cheeks of smooth firm boys.

“Poor grammar notwithstanding, in he went.

“He sat on a stool at the bar and ordered tea and then he also ordered a smooth firm boy but the barman just looked at him in confusion and so did the other customers. ‘¿Que?’ they kept repeating, over and over, and the inverted question mark at the beginning of that word irked Mr Mgu’s best unwaxy ear like a rusty tuna hook.

“Unwashed cocks smell like tuna also, Mr Mgu later revealed. To me. When I asked him to reveal things . . .

“He raised his voice a few decibels. ‘Smooth firm boy!’ cried he with forceful manly decisiveness, but still those Spaniards didn’t understand, and then he realised that foreigners who don’t speak English would never know what a smooth firm boy was unless he showed one to them, and to do that he had to ask for one first. So he was stuck in a loop of negative comprehension. Cocks uncurling.

“His only hope was to learn Spanish, but he was too impatient to stuff his wedge up a rectum, or down a throat, for that. The idea that a wedge might be stuffed down a rectum or up a throat simply never occurred to him. And why should it? Was Mr Mgu a surrealist? He was not. Was he a great writer? Verily he was!

“But mostly unpublished. Unfair!

“Luckily for Mr Mgu, or unluckily if you jump to the end of my story, which you can’t because you’re listening to it, not reading it, in walked a man who spoke English as well as foreign. He saw the cup of tea in Mr Mgu’s hand, a hand containing five fingers easily able to wank a boy to submission, and he nodded wisely.

“Then he said, ‘English are you, buster?’

“To which Mr Mgu replied, “Absolutely and rightly so.’

“The newcomer asked, ‘What’s your desire, chum?’

“Mr Mgu answered, ‘Smooth firm boy.’

“The newcomer grinned. ‘How do you want him?’

“Mr Mgu considered the matter. ‘Chained to the bed.’

“The newcomer took Mr Mgu by the hand and led him to the rear of the club, through a little door, down a long corridor that twisted like a boy’s intestine, illuminated by spherical white lamps that resembled big globs of spunk on the walls, and towards a curtain. ‘Step through here, old son,’ sayeth the newcomer, ‘and you’ll get your desire right enough. Cock at the ready, huh? ¡Vamos!’

“Mr Mgu was utterly without suspicion, so he stepped through the curtain. Suddenly it was a dark and stormy night! No it wasn’t. On the contrary he was sliding down a greased chute under the club with that awful name, To Boldly Go, faster and faster, his velocity increasing and his acceleration also. Cock. Suck.

“The newcomer had tricked him into falling through a trapdoor. The chute sped him onwards. Where would it end? It kept going. Bloody hell, it was a long chute. No friction, thankfully!

“Thankfully or wankfully? A question not yet resolved!

“Soon Mr Mgu was travelling at 100 kph. His entire journey lasted six hours. Who’s a clever smarty-pants in my class who can calculate where he ended up? That’s right. In the sea!

“The chute ejaculated him into the briny ocean . . .

“A bad swimmer was he, and drowned was sure to be his obituary’s verdict, but then he noticed something floating nearby. He didn’t have the strength or skill to make for the coast but he reckoned he could reach this orange ball thing. And so he did.

“It was a smooth firm buoy. Chained to the bed — the seabed!

“Listen to me, my students, for I care deeply about you and I want you to write good works, good real works with good real words, so heed this advice, for ‘tis most pertinent . . . NEVER resort to bad puns in a piece of prose. Never, never, never, never, never!

“Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life and my flaccid cock none? That’s Mr Mgu speaking again.

“He can’t get it up these days, after his experiences.

“Never using puns is the second most important rule of all the rules of writing that shouldn’t get broken.

“Only write what you know is the first. Remember?

“Anyway, Mr Mgu reached the smooth firm buoy safely and clung he there for dear — and budget — life. He reasoned that a ship might pass and rescue him, perhaps before nightfall.

“His reasoning was sound. A ship did approach.

“But it was very old fashioned, with sails and cannons and stuff like that, and the captain who looked over the side and called to Mr Mgu wore a bicorn hat and an eyepatch.

“He cast a rope ladder at the excellent author and Mr Mgu climbed to safety. ‘Horatio Nelson, I presume?’ asked he.

“The captain clearly never attended one of my creative writing courses because he replied, ‘Fellatio Nelson, dear boy.’

“Mr Mgu winced. ‘Fucking awful pun . . . You blighter!’

“Fellatio Nelson winked. ‘Get down on your knees, laddie me boy, for I’m a paedophileophile, don’t you know.’

“Mr Mgu was outraged. ‘That’s disgusting! A paedophile, you say?’

“Fellatio Nelson shook his head slowly. ‘You aren’t listening, are you? I didn’t say ‘paedophile’, I said paedophileophile. Underage boys and girls do nothing for me, but I’m massively aroused by the thought of forcing a paedophile to suck me off.’

“Mr Mgu stamped his foot. ‘In that case, look elsewhere, for I’m not a paedophile, I’m a brilliant writer.’

“Fellatio Nelson sneered. ‘Of course you’re a paedophile . . . You asked for a smooth firm boy, did you not? A boy, not a man! Now get down on your knees and part those lips of yours . . . ’

“Mr Mgu refused. He did the exact opposite of what was demanded of him, turning his back to Fellatio Nelson, pulling off his trousers and then bending over the rail of the ship.

“In this position he thought cocksucking was out of the question, but Fellatio Nelson merely guffawed and pulled down his own trousers. His member was astounding, as long as a hosepipe and just as green, and with a deft motion he thrust it up Mr Mgu’s vulnerably exposed anus. Into his bowels went this odd cock, swerving around the bends of his guts, blindly flapping in the stomach, then up into the slick throat and finally out of the mouth, where it rested on Mr Mgu’s tongue.

“Backwards fellatio! Cocksucking from within!

“Mr Mgu yelled, ‘You’ll have to remove that monstrous sausage at some point and that’s when I’ll escape.’

“Fellatio Nelson responded, ‘I’m going nowhere.’

“Mr Mgu growled, ‘In that case, you’ll decay while fixed to my rump. Then I’ll be free anyway!’

“Fellatio Nelson hissed, ‘Not so! I’m immutable, like the rules of good writing, and I can never change or decay. You might be able to snap parts of me off, but those parts will remain viable and strong.’

“Mr Mgu reacted to this clue. He wriggled until he heard a crack, then he jumped overboard. Fellatio Nelson howled in pain. His cock was still lodged in the author’s body, running the entire length of his alimentary canal like an entrepreneurial tapeworm, and he never managed to remove it ever since. Somehow he survived the sea and was washed ashore but I don’t remember how that happened.

“Now Mr Mgu has two tongues and can speak with both of them, but if he speaks too much with the upper one he comes. I’ve almost said too much during this lesson and soon I’ll spray the nearest of you with pearly man dew, for Mr Mgu is actually me, Mr Gum the Creative Writing tutor! But before I shoot my load over your eager studious faces, like a sort of bukkake man cow, allow me to reveal the third and possibly worst of all the rules that should never be broken if you want to write a decent story and get published by publishers.

“This is the third rule — avoid using titles that are totally unconnected to the story. Now I’m about to come.

“Yes, yes, oh yes. Thanks. Goodnight.”

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