The Man With A Long Chin's Diary


Giraffe Journey


22 April 1998 - GIRAFFE JOURNEY

I have decided to travel across the country on the back of a giraffe. My initial plan was to construct a robot giraffe, which had rubies for eyes, and a big exhaust pipe sticking out of its bottom.

Unfortunately, having neither rubies or knowledge of constructing an exhaust, my attempts at building one by selotaping a couple of spoons to the side of a wheelie-bin, and attaching a tumble-dryer pipe to the top, just ended up looking like a pile of stuff. Instead I shall steal a real giraffe.

23 April 1998 - GIRAFFE JOURNEY

I stole a giraffe last night to use for my trans-Britain giraffe ride. It wasn't easy getting the massive beast in the back of my van, but I think I managed it without breaking too many legs or necks.

I've currently got the giraffe tethered to an old bath in my back garden while I make preparations for our trip. My neighbours have been giving it admiring glances, though I had to stop the young thug from next door from throwing rocks at its face. I've put a bin on its head to prevent further injury.

24 April 1998 - GIRAFFE JOURNEY

I've employed the services of a giraffe expert, Lord Don Bready III, to assist in my trans-Britain giraffe journey. Lord Bready III has given me plenty of information, from what giraffes eat (vegetable nuggets and chicken dippers), to what they like to watch on TV (giraffe programmes).

His information will prove invaluable as my giraffe and I stalk from Landy's End to John O'Grapes in Scotchland. Lord Bready III, who is also an expert vicar, has promised to baptise my giraffe before we set out.

25 April 1998 - GIRAFFE JOURNEY

My newly-baptised giraffe Marcel Car-less and I have begun our journey across Britain. We are being followed in a small car by my giraffe advisor Lord Bready III.

Should either myself or Marcel Car-less become victims of fatigue, Lord Bready III will shoot us in the buttocks with an air rifle, thus reversing the fatigue, and sending us into a frenzy. Lord Bready III also keeps a stock of drinks of whisky and ham in his glove compartment in case either of us become hungry or thirsty.

27 April 1998 - GIRAFFE JOURNEY

I'm travelling across the country on the back of Marcel Car-less, a stolen giraffe. Last night we passed through the town of Cornwall. The locals were a friendly bunch who threw cheese and confetti at us from their windows.

I felt some concern when I heard that my giraffe advisor, Lord Bready III accidentally drunk-drove his car into the mayor's wife. Luckily, the mayor’s "wife" wasn't a real person, but the nickname of a bottle bank which is just outside the entrance to the town hall.

28 April 1998 - GIRAFFE JOURNEY

My trans-UK journey on the back of a giraffe isn't going too well. My giraffe advisor, Lord Bready III, was killed last night when his Austin Allegro was hit by a car which was being driven by a chimp.

Apparently the chimp's owner, who happens to be the lead singer of Shed 7, fell asleep in the back of the car. The chimp broke free of its restraints and started the engine. The car flew off the top of a multi-story car park and landed atop Lord Bready III's Allegro as he jigged its mudflaps.

29 April 1998 - GIRAFFE JOURNEY

The most awful thing has happened: my giraffe, Marcel Car-less, has died. I was informed by a vet that Marcel's diet of grain and stinging nettles probably affected his ability to live.

However, I shan't let this minor setback affect my attempt to cross Britain on the back of a giraffe: I am able to straddle the prone form of Marcel with my feet just touching the ground. It'll be hard work, but I'm confident I can drag him the rest of the way in this fashion.

30 April 1998 - GIRAFFE JOURNEY

Last night the police confiscated my dead giraffe, Marcel Car-less, informing me that dragging him around the country by those little stump things on his head may have been illegal in some way.

For now the police have Marcel stored under a tarp' in a car pound. It's all I can do to stand watching him through the wire mesh, which I rattle from time to time in some sort of esoteric tribute to Marcel's life. I just can't accept that he's gone - gone under a tarp' in a pound.

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