THE EPIC TALE OF ONE MAN’S HEAD TRANSPLANT

island gals

An extract from the autobiography of Twattersley Fromage OBE

One could be forgiven the assumption that for an adult male in his prime such as I was back then were to be marooned on a remote South Pacific island in the company of a host scantily clad beguiling dusky gals all chomping at the bit to utilize his manhood for full on sex with alarming regularity would be akin to a heaven on earth. Yet I can assure you it was nothing of the sort.

Best I explain.

You see back in forty four I found myself seconded to undertake a covert quest on behalf of King and country to relieve Japanese Emperor Hirohito of his treasured pet Dalmatian (disrespectfully named ‘Carruthers’ of all things) and at a stroke bring such shame upon the Japanese nation by revealing that their leader of supposed incarnate divinity couldn’t even keep hold of his own mutt then his military hierarchy would all fall upon their own swords and bingo the war in the Far East would end. Tactical brilliance British style its very self – couldn’t fail!

Sadly I never got to undertake said mission for regrettably on the day prior to setting off on the last leg of my journey, and whilst readying myself for the operation in Australia’s sub-tropical Northern Territory I had an altercation with the world’s largest reptile namely Saltwater Crocodile and I was effectively beheaded. For my part I was merely ensconced waterside, skimming through Lady Chatterley’s Lover seeking out the rude bits – a habit I picked up at prep school – when the wretched beast sneaked up on me and with one almighty chomp swallowed my body whole…one gulp! Almost beyond belief.  That it did not return for my bonce I can only put down to the fact that I had scoffed a garlic laden extra strong Ruby the night previous and that that had put it off a skull pudding.

Fortunately for me my loyal batman, a chap called Seymour Hare (he was in his later years to pen that bestseller ‘The Open Kimono’) upon overhearing the kerfuffle was able to rescue that rather crucial brain box of mine and with the aid of a handy goldfish bowl and an ample supply of white vinegar effectively pickle the orb that was all that was left of yours truly!  Good old Seymour also had the foresight to send a homing pigeon back to London with a ‘what the fuck should we do?’ message affixed thereon. Several days later the rather knackered out columbidae arrived back with a directive that all would be well as some nutty professor type in California had recently overcome the attachment of spinal cords issue and was more than prepared to transplant my head upon that of a recently deceased donor body. Better still I would apparently have a choice of any number of bodies to take as my own! Even though the vinegar was stinging my eyes and muffling my hearing what with ‘me’ being immersed thus in the goldfish bowl this good news came as a great relief – indeed I had already begun to think specifications and additional features over and above those I had been originally blessed…you know…muscular biceps…the sort of appendage that could get me a job in a fairground should the need ever arise…stuff like that.  But first we had to get to California and with some haste as the acidity of the vinegar had begun to play havoc with my lug holes.

Next day I handed over – as it were – the piloting of my trusty Lysander to some Aussie chap who looked the worse for drink and we set off. However said Aussie had quite forgotten to refuel my aircraft the idiot.  In the middle of nowhere over the South Pacific the engine spat out its first, ‘running on empty futt’. Luckily from my vantage point within my see through glorified carafe I spotted a small island encased in a triangular barrier reef boasting what were the most incredible lagoons not that far ahead of our current position. Plainly I gurgled this information to silly bollocks the pilot who paid it little heed.

Not long after we belly flopped about half a mile from terra firma.  Setting me in the sea to float on an incoming tide my companion took it upon himself to swim ahead. In an instant the poor chap was at the epicentre of a circle of crazed sharks who did for him there and then. That left me floating alone but at least en route to safety of a sort.

Within the hour I was washed up upon the beach and looking around – a rather easy thing to do in my goldfish bowl pied-à-terre – I must say that at first glance I truly believed I had found a paradise; an aquamarine sea and adjacent to the beach a forest of swaying palm trees. Better still from out of the forest and running toward me at pace, all smiles and giggles came at least two dozen brace of bouncing young breasts. That thereafter this group of gorgeous gals sporting such prized assets and clearly marvelling at my state of being were to carry me with great care inland to their village haven.

Once within the village I was placed upon a throne fashioned of bamboo next to a russet goddess clad in only a short grass skirt thingy, who with a smattering of English she had picked from her days at Ethel Murphy’s Finishing School for Polynesian Tuna Gutters in East London’s Mile End Road told me that she was the Queen of said island.  Furthermore she advised that the island was only inhabited by those of the fairer sex as, long since their menfolk had left en masse for New Zealand to make up the numbers for the national rugger team! Always did have those Kiwi’s down as cheating bastards and now I’d got it from the mare’s mouth so to speak!

Also I got to learn from Queenie that as she was now the one who cracked the whip (that phrase still stirs my very loins even to this day) she had determined that the next adult male to be stranded upon her fair shores would be called upon to do a spot of repopulation and that had I not had a major deficiency  – what with me being effectively being just a ‘head’ – I would most certainly have been the chap the gals had been looking forward to having slip them one…their own Robinson Crusoe with benefits!

“I say Your Madge I am off to California asap to be reconnected to a body so if you and your gals can hold on a cock longer I’ll make damn sure I return and service the lot of you…I assure you it will be no trouble at all,” I said in a vinegary splutter.

“Really Twattersley, really are you sure you don’t mind…I mean I feel ever so awful putting you to such inconvenience…I mean I don’t want you to think you’re just being used or taken advantage of or anything…gals tell Twattersley just how grateful you’ll all be to have him impregnate you all.” With that a circlet of ambrosial and ‘in the altogether’ beauties sniggered their accord.

“Of course I don’t mind…obviously I have to force myself but in your tragic circumstances I’m only too pleased to offer assistance in this time of need.”

“Anyway you were saying earlier that without transport you were a little bolloxed as to how to get to California.”

“How very true Your Madge.”

“Well I’ve had a spiffing idea in that regard. We can simply put you in the sea when the tide’s going out and the Trade Winds will no doubt float you all the to America.”

“What a blindingly sound plan…I must make haste.”

And so it was that 8 months later I was washed ashore on Laguna Beach, California. Fortunately I had had the foresight to have Queenie scratch a note into the glass of my goldfish bowl regarding the now pressing transplant business so that when a somewhat taken aback local surfer type Yank did stumble upon me I knew all would be well. That the surgeon even allowed me to fashion a new body from a selection of the recently deceased was even better and I felt sure my Polynesian stunners would be…how shall I put it…suitably impressed!

As soon as I was whole again I was off quicker than a bride’s panties back to the island paradise in a Curtiss SC Seahawk seaplane (courtesy of the US air force no less) for a bit of prolonged procreation…hard work I know but needs must when the devil drives.

Imagine my dismay then only to arrive and find each and every gal wandering about the place heavily pregnant and, worse still my batman Seymour Hare supine in a hammock hung twixt two palms smoking a cigar, a smug look upon his face and clearly as happy as a puppy with two pricks.

“You bastard, this was my gig and now you’ve ruined it…I was so looking forward to rising to this occasion…so to speak…you utter, utter bastard.”

“Sorry Sir…I honestly thought you were a goner. After the wreckage of your plane was washed up I tracked your movements across the ocean and started a search island by island. Arriving here the Queen…what an adorable girl and she is a bit of a go’er to boot…”

“I don’t even want to know that bit!”

“Well anyway she told me she’d set you to sea on the outgoing tide and all that and I concluded you’d never make the journey alive or if you did you’d not return in one piece…I mean it has been nearly 9 months hasn’t it. Whatever, it was then that the gals begged me to stay and as you can see I’ve put myself about a bit…did get a bit tiring toward the end I must say…I was boss-eyed and had developed a tic for a few days after clubbing the last of the bevvy yet sometimes in life one has to go that extra mile doesn’t one?  You don’t fancy doing bit of midwifery over the next few weeks do you only I could do with a hand?”

“Piss off…I’m heading back to Blighty”

It was thus that I hitched a ride home atop a giant turtle a broken man.

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32 thoughts on “THE EPIC TALE OF ONE MAN’S HEAD TRANSPLANT

  1. your histories should be compiled into textbooks for Oxford scholars – they’d put Herodotus to shame – I wonder if Seymour Hare’s “Open Kimono” might still be had in print

    1. ‘A useless appendage on ice’! I was in a cocktail bar the one time and that’s what the very nice lady in the sprayed on leopard skin number requested…never thought I’d hear of one ever again!

    1. Me a midwife…although my secretary from days of yore had a male midwife. Me though…afraid not for I always cry (in a good way I stress) when little nippers are born. I’d be no use at all…then again I’m not much use anyway.

    1. Thus far good fortune has smiled upon me for I’ve never been on speaking terms with one…by the way I thought my beloved Arsenal were an insult to the FA Cup this weekend gone putting out a side with 5 who wouldn’t start a league game and without a single wide player of any note…thought they’d just have to turn up to win…I hate supporting a football team sometimes!

  2. When I was a couple of years out of nursing school, I had the distinct pleasure of working in an emergency room when a man came screaming in through the front door yelling, “the baby is coming!” I assisted in deliverying that baby in the front seat of their car and I had not even had my first cup of coffee!!!! Oh Now about the subject of sex and men???? lol

    1. I am an idiot when it comes to babies and little kids…I see one crying in the street and get a lump in my throat. You gals are much, much braver than us pathetic chaps. As to sex and men a think Twattersley is stereotypical (any chap denying that is a liar) yet note in all my skits the gals always win!

  3. I’ve got to say, I have had similar experiences after pickling my brain on things other than white vinegar. I can’t say whether I’ve had naked beauties lusting after me, but that’s the tragedy of it all, being so pickled I can’t say.

    1. I never had a host of naked beauties lusting after me of that I’m certain…yet one can only hope unless of course I win the lottery then – nothing to do with my wealth – I sure I’ll have hundreds…they will want me for my person and even put up with my limp and gaseous emissions

  4. Fox News, 20 April, 2015 – “A Russian man Valery Spiridonov, 30, who has agreed to undergo the world’s first head transplant is raising funds for a trip to America so he can meet the Italian surgeon who will perform the operation, Central European News (CEN) reported…” …obviously Valery or Fox news are behind the times 😀 😀 😀

    1. If only they knew Mr Fromage had undergone the op in 1944…never did like Fox News (if the truth be told Fox News raises my blood pressure on the odd times I’ve had the misfortune to tune in). Good you spotted this!

  5. HAHAHAHA! This was so funny! I think you should have stayed and impregnated all of them again after they delivered… otherwise, once those kids grew up, they’d mate and just be a bunch of inbreds. They’d have to change the name to Hillbilly Island. 😀

    1. Ah, that’s clearer now Sir. Rubbing thighs, hell to pay when the fiddler stops, the winds of change and the weeds of sex… I got it now. Gawd I’ve missed out on life! Huh! TTFN

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