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As I was taking the air around Fuse Manor this morning, I was reading my copy of The Washington Academic (Incorporating Boffins Monthly), and came across an article on the Shakespearian actress, Pamela Anderson.
I am aware that Ms Anderson is quite a popular thespian - indeed, she is often featured prominently on the pages of this esteemed journal. It seems that Ms Anderson has a sizeable following, due to the calibre of her acting and her highbrow debating skills. Now, I don't want to upset the apple cart, put a cat amongst the pigeons or use any more of these terrible clichés, but I recall an encounter I had myself with Pammy - as she liked me to call her - during a visit to the British Museum in 1987. It proved to be quite a singular event.
I was there for the opening of the 'International Year Of The Artificial Leg' exhibition (false limbs run in the family). Or rather they don't, if you get my drift), and was perusing the collection of wooden legs which once belonged to Douglas Bader - RAF pilot, world war two hero and Kenneth More impersonator. A particularly fine example of the phoney fibula struck my eye; it was crafted from ebony, and was inlaid with diamonds. "Gad", I thought, "what an honour it must have been to carry that superb piece of craftsmanship beneath one's rump. How impressed others must have been, to witness a chap hobbling along in a hurricane with a balsawood fibula, bravely resisting any attempt by the wind to spirit it away into the nearest pond". These thoughts so engrossed me, I'd failed to notice the attractive young lady standing next to me.
"Hi", she smiled. "I'm Pammy". Turning to view the source of the voice, I nearly choked on piece of string which held my teeth in. There, in living colour, was Miss Pamela Anderson, star of 'Baywatch' and Nobel Prize For Anatomy winner 1985! I hurriedly returned the greeting: "Hmmph, I'mch Glord Wakklington Fnuse". Curses, the string had become entangled in my molars; I removed it with a pair of gardening shears I always carry around with me. "Cordial convivialities, Miss Anderson", I said, being careful not to be too formal - after all, I was in the company of someone who probably mingled with the heads of royalty, but in real life enjoyed the odd joke or two. I kept up this line of reasoning: "Tell me, Miss Anderson, do you mingle with the heads of royalty, but in real life enjoy the odd joke or two?"
"How did you know that?" said she.
"Oh", I said, tapping my nose with my cane and breaking it in three places, "a man of my age and experience knows of such matters".
"Yeah? How old are you?" I hadn't been prepared for such an intimate relationship so soon in the proceedings, so I resorted to subterfuge:
"I'm three hundred and fifty six"
"Naaa - you've still got hair. Or is that a rug?"
"No, it is indeed my own, Miss P. You see, we Fuses have a genetic peculiarity. Since the dawn of time, every male in the family has had nylon hair. Except for the Third Earl of Fuse - his was a mutant breed of polyester".
"Really? Could have sweared it was wig. Hey - I can see the straps! It's a wig!!"
I felt my face going red, and, strangely, my ankles turning green: "No, you are mistaken - I was born with those 'straps'. They're part of my head".
Dear reader, I could go on, but a man can only take so much humiliation. Suffice it to say, I now have an aversion to the British Museum, and haven't seen 'Baywatch' for years.
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