Mr Shneebly Von Crumpet meets his match

Mr Shneebly Von Crumpet is an esteemed fine fellow who has come to enforce himself upon my every-waking thought courtesy of his extensively baffling tales and bafflingly extensive behind.

I suppose it’s right about now that you’re ensconcing yourself in your home’s largest armchair, setting your feet upon the poufiest pouf in the house and indulging yourself in a well-earned hot chocolate. Well, before you ensconce yourself too deeply or become too accustomed to the pouf of your pouf you’d better sit up straight and strap in for the long haul " yes, once you turn this page and enter this tale, there’s no going back. Indeed, when I first heard this story, such was the spluttering of tea, the raucous laughter, the hooting of tear-fuelled snot-balls and the howling at the story’s dramatic and, may I say, rather ingenious twists and turns, that quite honestly, you’d better reconsider reading this tale at all. Well, let me offer you a freshly baked slice of the good-news pie. Whilst snot-balls and tea-spluttering are more than encouraged, it’s by no means the necessary reaction to our fateful tale. No, the issue lies hither, in the affection I have developed for the story’s protagonist, Mr Shneebly von Crumpet.

Mr Shneebly von Crumpet was an esteemed fine fellow. An esteemed fine fellow who has come to enforce himself upon my every-waking thought courtesy of his extensively baffling tales and bafflingly extensive behind. Indeed, it is this very same esteemed fine fellow, with the very same tales and very same behind whom this very same story has the misfortune of having as its protagonist. Mr Shneebly von Crumpet had an enormous fan base. Well, that’s a slight miscommunication. He had an enormous fan, himself, and an enormous base, his behind. People come in all shapes and sizes, and that’s precisely how it should be. Indeed, no one came in quite the shape nor the size of Crumpet. He was a larger than life sort of a fellow; larger than life in the sense that he was quite simply, quite wildly enormous. He had a big heart, even in comparison to the rest of him. At the age of 5 Crumpet wished to be a bottle of ketchup, at the age of 7 a dog, at the age of 10 a dog owner but at the age of 25 he decided his calling was to be Boppity-Hogton’s mayor. His love for his town was unending and his optimism as expansive as his behind. Fortunately for Crumpet, and more importantly the flow of this narrative, it was just days away from the election. 

It was a Sunday morning, the hum of the breeze gently whistled past the window, the hum of the birds sweetened the air, and the hum of Mr Crumpet irritated everyone in the room. 

“You sit on a throne of lies, Crumpet!” remarked the well-put-together, but amusingly small, Derek Potty-Whittinger in what can only be described as a well-pronounced squeak.

“I make it a point of sitting on precisely no thrones, Whittinger, and were I to place my robust behind upon one, it would certainly not be made of lies,” retorted a disgruntled Mr Shneebly Von Crumpet. 

“Your behind is not robust, Crumpet, nor are you without the knowledge that my previous statement was metaphorical” replied Whittinger with a swish of his non-existent hair.

“The robust nature of my behind is not up for discussion, Whittinger, and let me tell you this: metaphors are the rhetoric of fools,” he said in a painfully self-righteous tone and with an inexplicable elongation on the word fools that to this day goes unexplained. 

As all the great orators do, Whittinger then used the most sophisticated arguing technique he could muster: adding the prefix ‘Shm’ to the main word in the opponents previous statement. So, with a rather misplaced confidence he proclaimed “Metaphors Shmetaphors!” Despite the high-level of oratory prowess Whittinger was now demonstrating it wasn’t having much effect on Crumpet who was sitting there with an, albeit very punch-able, grin. “Oh, get off your high horse!” squeaked the increasingly irritated Mr Potty-Whittinger.

Crumpet got down from his horse and brushed himself down. This was much to the appreciation of the horse, who’s back had begun to feel the strain of the less-than robust behind Mr Shneebly Von Crumpet was proudly sporting. “I’d like you to know, Whittinger, as behinds go, I think yours is the least robust the world has even seen!” he exclaimed with a guttural roar that only a man with a belly his size could produce.

“OOHH, WELL I’D LIKE YOU TO KNOW, THAT MY BEHIND"“
“Ladies and Jellyspoons, boys and girls, felines, canines and all in between " it gives me great pleasure to introduce your splendiferous-selves to this year’s mayor elections!” and with an exaggerated swish at the expense of his, now muffled, “tada” Mr Tottington opened the curtains to reveal Mr Potty-Whittinger, Mr Shneebly Von Crumpet and the afore-mentioned and largely unexplainable horse situated on the stage.

With an aplomb most uncharacteristic of both men, they halted their dispute and turned to the audience to produce the most charming smiles they could muster and soak in the polite applause of their adoring public. “Settle down darlings, do-gooders, do-littles and do-lottles,” continued the ever-flamboyant and, if I may be so bold, wildly camp Mr Tottington. Mr Tottington could barely contain his excitement. In fact, I say barely; he didn’t contain it. Out leapt his excitement in the form of a skip, a heel clap, and a high pitched “teehee!” Mr Tottington hosted the elections once every two years and every time it got more exciting than the last. For Mr Tottington that is. For the rest of the townsfolk of Boppity-Hogton the elections were a chore. Indeed, they were also largely pointless. There were only two men who ever stood for election and the main role of the job was to wear the Pineapple turban around town each morning, a symbol of the constant nature of unity and friendship, kind of. This year was different however. This year, it mattered. This year, the issue the election would be fought over meant everything to the townsfolk. This year, there was a clear divide. This year, Whittinger wanted to cancel the compulsory Sunday Abba singalong.

“Now,” started Mr Tottington as his arms involuntarily began to jazz hand, a force of habit from years of gloriously successful attention-seeking. “As is customary, our two candidates will face questions from you, our delightful public, before giving their most persuasive and convincing words in the shape of a juicy one minute speech.” He carried on, resisting the urge to jazz hand but failing to restrain his eyebrows from indulging themselves in an over-enthusiastic bounce. “Then, my dears, my delicious delinquents, it is you who shall decide the victor and mayor of our town!” 

Mr Tottington strolled purposefully over to his bag. He bent down and extracted his unnecessarily large pointing device and with a cat-walk-esque dip of the hip and flourish of the head. This was a habit developed through many years of childhood bedroom fashion-walks that never failed to rouse a tremendous reception from his ominously large collection of soft toys. “Come on then, don’t be shy, raise those hands of yours and ask away!”

There was a pause. Everyone wanted to hear the answer to one question but no one dared be the one to ask. Then, from the corner of the room came a voice. Everyone turned. “Look, I don’t see the point in beating round the bush here.” The voice came from a hooded figure. Hair hid the majority of his face, he had a dark, slightly mudded cloak, but his appearance was redeemed by his warm eyes. “I think we need to get rid of the elephant in the room. I Wan-“

“No, no you’re absolutely right,” squeaked Toby mortified. “I thought bringing him was probably a bad idea,” he said ushering his blushing elephant Colin out of the hall.

After a brief pause and a few bemused sniggers, the man continued. “I want to hear about the plans you both have for our Sunday Abba singalong.” Silence gripped the room. The tension itched. Nobody moved. Nobody said a word.

Crumpet stepped forward, his behind followed. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Steve” said Steve.

“Well, Steve, who can live without it? I ask in all honesty, what would life be without our Sunday Abba singalong? Steve, today is the biggest day for this town that I can remember.” He paused, hoping to build tension before launching into an epic flow of rhetoric. 

It was at this moment that Whittinger interjected. Having seen his previous rhetorical gem (adding the prefix ‘shm’ to the opponent’s previous statement) go somewhat awry, Whittinger thought it time for a change in tack. This moment, he decided, required a rare breed of rhetorical know-how. He elected to repeat Crumpet’s previous statement, but do so in a high-pitched mimicking voice whilst waving his hands to convey the truly penetrating extent of his mockery. Not only this, but he would add an ‘ooh’ to the beginning of his retort to put the nail in what he was sure was to be a rather secure coffin. “Ooooh, the biggest day I can remember,” He propelled with an undying confidence. Whittinger had never appeared more foolish to Crumpet, and if I may be so bold as to assume, to you and me also.Crumpet’s grin vanished. The response he had expected never came. Instead, to his dismay, and if I may be so bold as to assume yours and mine also, the room filled with laughter. This, Crumpet expected, but he had not expected it be accompanied by a feeling of warmth towards Whittinger and for the laughter to be directed at him!

But there was no time for Crumpet to wallow too heavily in self-pity for it was at this precise moment that into the hall burst Toby, this time without his Elephant. ‘E-E- Excuse me!’ He piped shyly. ‘I " Well, it’s just " Well, someone’s " that is to say, there’s been a robbery.’ 

‘A ROBBERY? Good God NO!’ Yelled Mr Tottington wasting no time in adding to the drama of the scene. 

‘My turnips, they’re gone. Someone’s taken them!’ Toby said, a tear welling in his eye. 

‘Sweet Mother of all things tasty! Who would do such a dastardly crime as this. Woe is me, woe is me,’ Gasped Mr Tottington falling to his knees and casting his hands out to the skies.

Author's Note

Hi, this is an unfinished piece but I'd like to know what you think of it so far - enjoyable/tedious beyond measure...that kind of thing. Also, perhaps a thought on where I might go next?