A Gregg Wallace dungeon? Yes, please!

Writing a fabricated sex-scandal about a relatively well-known (and largely disliked) British television celebrity—see my Gregg Wallace post(s) a few weeks back—grants an unsettling insight into people’s off-the-cuff Google habits, which display, on almost a daily basis, an ardent belief (or maybe that should be “desire”) that anyone off the telly is a philandering sex-pest (among many other things).

This insight comes virtue of the WordPress.com stats package, which ensures that every time someone stumbles upon my site via Google (or any other search engine for that matter) I am told exactly what was keyed in to get them (t)here. Below are the search terms and hits relating only to our brave, bald pioneer:

Search term(s) Hits
greg wallace 365
greg masterchef 30
gregg wallace scandal 14
greg wallace sex scandal 12
greg wallace scandal 8
greg from masterchef 5
gregg wallace sex scandal 4
greg wallace pics 4
greg wallace hat 2
wallace barrel 2
greg wallace picture 2
pictures of greg wallace 2
greg wallace sex 1
gregg wallace + gay 1
greg wallace glasses 1
gregg wallace face 1
bald rich 1
greg wallace smile 1
gregg wallace sex 1
masterchef judges england 1
greg wallace big eyes 1
greg masterchef photo 1
famous bald people wearing glasses 1
bald rich man smiling 1
masterchef wiki 1
greg wallace cup 1
greg masterchef spoon in mouth 1
greg wallis masterchef 1
greg wallace photo 1
bald masterchef 1
greg wallace pictures 1
greg wallace images 1
greg wallace dungeon 1
bald masterchef judge 1
is greg wallace gay? 1
gregg wallace gay 1
is gregg wallace gay 1
is greg wallace gay 1
masterchef judge wallace 1
gregg wallace kerb crawler 1

There is a chance, of course, during my absence from the UK, that Gregg Wallace has acquired a media personality whereby connotations of sexual depravity, solicitation and homosexuality are par for the course. Maybe, à la Richard Keys and Andy Gray, our hero Wallace was seen rutting near the bread-bin in-between takes, or carving up a turkey with his hands behind his back.

These things I cannot claim to know.

What I can be sure of, however, is that my post on the (imagined) matter back in August hasn’t spawned this flurry of rumour and hearsay—I know how few people visit this blog—which suggests that there is a committed band of internet snoopers constantly on the lookout for the next celebrity scandal to dribble out of the internet and into our gaping brains.

Hmm … I wonder if there’s anything about Adrian Chiles’ reach-around hell? A Sooty and Sweep love-hotel, you say? I’d better check. And what’s that? Jamie Theakston has admitted he has a vagina growing on his arm? Well I’ll be!

God bless the internet.

Juvenilia: 16th September 1996

On their 6music radio show some time last year Adam and Joe asked listeners to send in stories and poems which were penned during childhood. These efforts—dubbed “Juvenilia”—were then read out and generally marvelled at due to their ingenuity and inventiveness. Some of my favourites were a book of poetry called “Say it with Snails”, an Arnold Schwarzenegger magazine, and a mildly racist comic strip called “Judge Fred”. I think they put some of them up on their website.

Anyway, I say this by way of introduction to my own little piece of recently discovered juvenilia, “Escape from Fort-Socks”—a swashbuckling adventure yarn committed to paper by the fresh-faced 11-year-old boy that I once was. Remarkably, the (unedited) extract below is only 1/5 of the total story, and as far as I can make out, serves as the introductory chapter to the tale at large. I can still vaguely recall writing the thing, although my (slightly worrying) logic for calling the protagonist “Beer Garden” currently escapes me.

It seems I wasn’t much of a speller, and I appear to take a pretty cavalier attitude to grammar much of the time too (particularly in the final paragraph, which descends into a blitz of Joycean experimentation) …

Escape from Fort-Socks (extract)

It was a dark misty night, search lights scoured the pale, green grass at a rapid speed. Fort Socks is a high security jail in Dunstable. Down in the celler there are four brave men and their leader is the man called Beer Garden. Beer Garden is a brave warrior and will stop at nothing to get the plans back to Slinsil. There are two countries seperated by a river, Krasnir and Slinsil. Krasnir is planning on attacking Slinsil and the’ve sent the spies to see were there going to attack.

The other four men are extremely brave. there is Boxer who only has a blunt battle axe, but he has a magic bottle which only Beer Garden can use on Boxer because Boxers arms are to short to reach. He is knicknamed Boxer because he always wears a cardboard box so his arms can’t reach his weapons.

Suddenly they heard a click they all drew there weapons and darted to the door, the door opened, Crossbones switched on his automatic drill and his electric ball and chain. The others stepped back. Crossbones is a right hard nut and never gives up, his ball and chain had reached maximum speed of 909 mph. A guard opened the door. The ball and chain hit him on the armour and he flew through the air at a great speed and landed in the cat food bowl (knocked out). He shut the door and they got back to looking at the plans. Stretcharmstrong is a wizard, he is the main spy of the group he can stech to 19 metres 33 cm. He can turn evil people into stone but it only works for five minutes and it doesn’t work near water. He can turn invisible which is a great help.

Last of all there is Lollyman he is very quick on his feet but gets tired easily he has a little helper called Harry the hamster who is always there to help. Harry holds a missile launcher which fires hamster nuts, which helps alot. The cellar was dark and a musty smell filled the air. Harry was nibbleling on a piece of cheese in the corner when suddenly his fur stood up on end and he squeked. The walls rumbled and ten or so door ways appeared. Ten armoured men appeared all with a gleaming sword (the size of LollyMan). They surrounded the spies like wolves around a rabbit, nobody moved. “Get them” shrieked one of the guards they all charged and before the spies could move they were tied up with balls and chains on there feet. They were taken to the dungeon. Bread and water were slid under the door a strange man was sitting in the corner we tried to speak to him but he wouldn’t talk he was really getting on our nerves Crossbones went over to him and stared into his eyes he stared back and all of a sudden he slowly began to fade away slowly but surely he went until only one of his broken shoes was left on his bunk bed. “This is getting very, very weird and Lollyman and the rest of us fell asleep and only the gentle sound of snoring could be heard coming from the dungeon.

(Possibly) to be continued …

Feeney

Feeney hole-punched papers all day long. He’d take them from his in in-tray ten at a time and tap them gently on his desk. Once aligned, he’d place them in the jaws of the device

‘Finally’, he muttered.

The crunch of metal on paper. The gentle flutter of papery rain.

‘Bollocks’. One of the holes had come out square again. How did this keep on happening?

Feeney sighed as he shredded the pages into squealing worms. He dumped the debris in the hamster cage in the corner of the room.

Patterson was in his wheel, as usual, dead to the world.

‘Feeney!’ That was Mulligan. ‘What the hell’s going on in there, Feeney? Have you killed another one?’

‘What’s all this commotion?’ Halloran’s face appeared at the corner of the door. ‘Is that you in there, Feeney, surrounded by all that ash and bone? You’re for it now my boy, now you’re for it!’

Feeney closed his eyes and tried his best to melt into his chair. His brain was on fire.

‘Are you chewing gum, Feeney?’ Mulligan had an incredible way of making Feeney’s name extend far beyond its usual cadence.

‘Feeney you swine, you’re chewing gum! Crowther, pass me the litterbin. We’ll have it out of him, Crowther, oh yes, right out!’

Feeney wasn’t chewing gum, of course, but what was he supposed to say? He’d already broken the hole-punch and almost certainly killed Patterson. He swallowed dramatically in an effort to convince his baying arbiters.

‘Disgusting! Putrid! Foul!’ Mulligan slapped Feeney hard around the ears between each word, causing them to ring terribly.

There was an interminable pause. Feeney was mouldering into dust.

‘Sick it up’.

Literally no one expected this. Not even Mulligan.

‘Sick it up’, Mulligan repeated. ‘Come on my boy, there’s rules for this sort of caper. This filth. This carnage’.

Crowther clasped his hands together and winked at Mulligan. ‘You swine, Feeney, you rag, you trumpet, you devil!’

The pair joined hands and clothes-lined poor Feeney off his perch. Crowther sat down again quickly, covering his erection with an open briefcase.

‘Halloran!’ That was Mulligan. ‘Fetch me the litterbin, Halloran. We’ll have it out of him yet!’

Feeney felt his body lurch forward. Mulligan stood over him, waiting for the deluge of gum, splurge and ash.

Feeney opened his eyes and blinked into the bin. This was absurd, horrifying stuff. He composed himself; could he actually do this? Could he vomit something he never even swallowed?

He began retching, terribly.