Being Mr. Kenny

Snots was, contrary to popular belief, not dead. Neither was he nearing death. He wasn’t even ill! But this is largely irrelevant when you consider that he had, via some strange loophole in international law, no fewer than four parents: one Scottish, one Irish, one Icelandic and one Russian. Consequently, his name was Snots MacO’Donaldssonovitch. He also lived in Bosnia Herzegovina, simply because it had the best name out of all the countries.

He spoke nineteen languages, including American Sign and Gaelic, and on Tuesdays he wore a dress in a lovely shade of cerise.

We join him on a particularly fine Tuesday, on the sunny plains of Somewhere, in America, where he had taken his holidays. The inhabitants of Somewhere were very strange, but none of them spoke any of Snots’ 19 languages, so he could not communicate with them except by using pictures that he drew in sheep’s blood on some paper that he had stolen from a very old and horrible woman.

As he gambolled about on the sunny plains of Somewhere, he was joined by another person. A woman, no less! A woman wearing an identical dress to the one that he himself had on! Well, this was too much for Snots, who fell to the ground in a dead faint.

When he recovered, it was midnight, and next to him was a little jar of strawberry jam. He ate half the jam, and smeared the rest on his dress. He hoped to attract some wasps, which would then get stuck to the jam, and lift him off the ground when they tried to escape. It was a crazy plan, destined to fail, but against all odds (and the words “destined to fail”) it worked! The wasps carried him off and he sailed gracefully through the air.

As the jam’s stickiness began to wear off, more and more of the wasps escaped and gently, Snots began to sink towards the ground. When finally the last wasp was gone, Snots was in the centre of New York City. He wept bitterly. How was he supposed to get a date when he didn’t possess the exact combination of perfection and excellence demanded by the women of New York? He had seen Sex and the City, and he knew he would never be able to “cut the mustard” so to speak.

But Snots shouldn’t have feared, because the strange figure he had seen on the plains of Somewhere had engineered the entire thing. Because she was an engineer.

She had crafted the wasps from tin foil and bits of egg, and the jam contained a special mixture of wasp-attractant and glue. She had been slightly concerned when Snots ate the jam, but she had no reason to be, because Snots had what is known as a Special Stomach. She had been expecting the wasps to take him to her secret home on top of the statue of liberty, but the wasps were complete crap, and had dropped him two blocks away. She walked down to meet him.

“Hello Shnots. My name is Shwineburne. Really wanna shee thoshe fingersh.“
“Excuse me?“
“Oh, I said, ‘really wanna shee thoshe fingersh’.“
“Oh,” said Snots, “ok,” obliging Miss Swineburne with a quick flash of his digits.

Miss Swineburne squealed with girlish delight and swooned right then and there. Snots caught her as she fell, and they spent a long while gazing into each other’s eyes. Two weeks in fact, and when they were done, winter had arrived, and both were very cold.

So they went up to Swineburne’s house on top of the Statue of Liberty, and there they made many stews and cakes and biscuits. On sunny days they would throw unwanted furniture from the toppermost point of Liberty’s crown, and then race downstairs, ever so quickly, to see it smash to pieces on the ground below.

Theirs was a whirlwind romance, and before anybody knew what was going on, they were exchanging wedding vows, and making plans to steal light bulbs from people’s houses, which they would then sell on. It was a genius plan — it was all profit!

And so they became rich beyond their wildest dreams. Snots became the first man to walk on the moon, backwards, and Swineburne killed Michael Winner by serving him the fattiest dish she could muster. He was reviewing their restaurant for the Sunday Times (for Swineburne was a master chef) and he happened to remark that the glasses were dirty. Swineburne overheard this from the kitchen, and bellowed out, “They’re supposed to be dirty! Has he never been to France?” and she resolved herself to her plan.

Into a big pot she put three lumps of lard, which she then deep-fried in lard. Finally, she added some more lard, laced it with deadly cyanide, and served it to the odious man personally. He took one sip of what he had been told was a soup, said “Lovely taste of bitter almonds, my dear,” and dropped down dead.

A great cheer went up from all the diners in the restaurant, and Swineburne wondered to herself whether it had been the lard or the cyanide that had done it. Nobody looked had the opportunity to look into it though, because one of the diners had a brilliant idea, and had torched the place. All the evidence thus destroyed, Swineburne was free to do as she pleased.

So Snots and Swineburne did a great many things, far too many to list on two sides of A4. All that need be said is that the SAS wouldn’t be where they are today if it hadn’t been for Snots and Swineburne (which is actually what it stands for, you know).