Actually the word treasure might be slightly over-egging the literary cake. You see, I was trawling through my document files when I chanced upon a book that has never been published. Why it wasn’t published is beyond me: it’s very silly, rather amusing, and very Tooty Nolan-ish, despite the fact that it was purportedly written by Thunderclap Nolan, and is entitled Newton Frutt: Wonder Butt, and is the sequel to the very short-lived The Boy Who Grew an Enormous Bottom. It harks from an era when I was experiencing depression, so that’s probably why it was forgotten. I will, of course, put it through an editing sequence, and then publish it – along with the original book, of course. Here’s a snippet (snipped at random) from it…
For a moment Newton thought he was going to die of boredom: He’d never before met someone quite so dull.
“What do you do for a living?” He asked – looking the customer up and down – trying to gauge both his age and his profession.
Age, he thought, maybe a little older than Marty Friedpants: A little younger than Tammy Springarden. Profession? Boring fart.
“I am a mechanic.” He stated in a tone that suggested that he expected reverence.
He wasn’t getting any from Newton. “That’s a rubbish job, and make no mistake.” He said in his most blunt manner, “All that oily crap under your nails. It’d really annoy me – having to scrub my hands every five minutes just to go to the toilet. Or do you have black fingerprints all over the front of your pale linen trousers?”
The Cro-Magnon looked quite disconcerted, and for a moment Newton wondered if he might be talking with an escapee from the Loony Bin – or worse – an amnesiac.
“I am Pipi LaParr: The finest mechanic in all of France.” Pipi spoke as though his name was famous outside of his home village. Then as if to present his credentials he added, “I wave my box spanners and feeler gauges about for none other than Norbert Disentangle!”
This utterance brought Newton up short. Norbert Disentangle? Surely not! Norbert Disentangle was second only to Garth Lee-Pong in Newton’s League of Highly Rated Hominids. He was, perhaps, the greatest three-wheeled go-cart racer that ever lived. His name was legend within the go-cart racing fraternity. He had been twice knighted for his Extreme Cleverness Whilst in Control of a Go-cart. And had a Filbert Lungfish award for Smugness Under Pressure sitting above his ample fireplace. What he could do with a piece of string and a sturdy plank often caused consternation amongst his competitors, and brought forth gasps of awe from his many fans. And if the string broke, or the piece of wood was found to be riddled with worm? Well he could steer with his ears and subtle shifts of his buttock region.
“Yeah?” Newton said breathlessly – all else forgotten.
“Oui.” Pipi replied – passing a small leather folder to Newton.
At first Newton didn’t dare open the folder that he held in trembling hands. “Is this Norbert’s?” He asked, hardly prepared for the inevitable reply.
“Oui,” Pipi answered in the affirmative, “It is a gift from the master himself. I am very proud of it – despite the fact that I’ve been working with him for years, and witness all his weirdo foibles on a regular basis. Nevertheless he is a great Hominid; and if he were not male, and I was not a male also, I would kiss him on all four cheeks every night.”
At this point Newton felt that he should have passed the leather folder back to its owner: Beings like Pipi were few and far between, and should never, ever, under any circumstances be left to their own devices: But Newton was Newton. If Pipi LaParr was the mechanic of such a hero – then Pipi himself could bathe in the reflected glory of the ‘great pre-ooman’ to his heart’s content.
“Can I have your autograph?” Newton asked as he began thumbing through a hand-written manuscript of Disentangle’s autobiography – ‘How To Win By a Nose’.
“I don’t do autographs.” Pipi replied with a sniff of disdain.
‘Naturally’, thought Newton, ‘you wouldn’t want to risk damaging those infinitely skilled fingers on something so trivial’. And he meant it.
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2017