Whilst word spread, Margret discovered a broken piece of technology that originated in the ruined museum. It was covered in plop, and smelt nasty too. Nevertheless, she pressed on, and the latent sound technician in the experienced dance troupe owner soon noticed the tonal qualities of the debris…
So she placed her tape player behind it.
“Hmm, what with that wall to bounce the sound off it too,” she said to herself with satisfaction, “the reverb should prove excellent. They’ll probably hear this clean across what remains of the Woven Expanse. ”
As it transpired, the natural amplifier worked better than she’d imagined. Her almost silent words had entered every one of the nearby domiciles – drawing their occupants out to see for themselves what dancing girls looked like…
…on every side of the plaza…
“An earplug cannot live on bread alone,” a droopy moustachioed earplug in dark glasses was heard to yell. “He’s gotta have some entertainment too. Bring on those leggy lovelies.”
Once Margret was satisfied with the quantity of watching earplugs, she and the girls took up their opening positions, whilst Ninja, Yabu, and Cushions introduced them…
Margret was particularly impressed with the way that Ninja fluttered her eyelids, and wondered where she had found the false eyelashes and mascara.
Then the pre-recorded band struck up, and those waiting upon balconies and in upper windows held their collective breath…
Some became so excited that they lost their sense of balance, fell over, and allowed their eyes to bulge from their heads in a vile, leering manner…
Of course, the Curator Elite retained their decorum. In fact, Pretty Boy Plankton looked in the opposite direction completely; and Winston Gloryhole’s eyes only bulged slightly more than was usual…
Unseen by many, Gobby waited in the ‘wings’ to play his part. His friend, Nature Beast stood beside him in support, both spiritually and physically…
Should Gobby’s body fail through the effort of turning back the chronometer of life a multitude of times, Nature Beast would hold him up and give him strength to continue. If his will weakened, Nature Beast was there to give him a good kick in the shins and shout threatening, if incoherent, monosyllables at him loudly.
Then suddenly, just when everyone was on the brink of getting impatient, the girls snapped into action with a dance that Margret named The Runway Wriggle, which showed, in minute detail, their incredible buttock control and the brevity of their sequined knickers…
A tribute to Mariachi bands quickly followed…
…entitled: “Hola, I like your trumpet: why don’t you give me a toot.”
Sadly, Poki developed a nasty cough – probably from breathing in fungus spores that blew around the piles of mouldy straw in darkened corners – that ruined the vocal chorus by removing the alto facet completely.
This was followed by a disgusting clichéd routine that had no place in the modern world, which supposedly represented Old China…
However, no one cared one jot because the girls looked fabulous.
“Who gives a fig anyway?” Cushions whispered to Yabu. “This is our mud village: we’ll be as racially clichéd as we sodding want. Who’s gonna tell us off?”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022
What – no support act? Who needs support acts when you’ve got the Greenhorn Girls!
Tooty Nolan: Languishing Somewhere Between Clever and Stupid 