Noddy

Hi, welcome to Toytown, Mr. Trump. The name’s Noddy, I’ll be your Uber-driver today. That’s N-O-D-D-Y for when you give that five-star review later on. Don’t worry, I’m not a naughty elf – people just think that because of the hat. Actually, I was carved from an oak tree by the toy-maker. I’m 100% wood – so says Tessie Bear and she should know. Ding, Dong!

Anyway, if you need anything during today’s visit just ask – or, you know, for your hotel room tonight – I’m your guy. I have the connections. You want pixie dust, I can get that. You want a girl? One with a big bladder? No problem! This is Toytown, I can get you fairies if that’s your thing.

Okay, better strap in. It could get bumpy. That’s not a safety warning – that’s what you should say to those girls tonight. Ding, dong!

Chapter 1[edit]

So, if you’re gonna buy this dump and knock it down to make way for a Casino, you should probably look around and get a feel for the place before you meet the local boss. He doesn’t look anything special but nothing happens downtown without Big Ears has his say-so. And his say-so is 10% off the top, no questions asked.

Did you ever meet Miss Rap, the schoolmistress? Boy, that lady knew how to use a slipper to make your ass-cheeks glow. No? Too late now. No one’s seen Miss Rap since she tried to organise a teachers' union. I heard Big Ears got Mr. Bash the Cobbler to make her some concrete boots. No one cuts Big Ears out a deal without getting some quality sleep-time with the fishes. But, if you're interested in that sort of thing tonight I could arrange for Martha Monkey to visit your room. That gal has biceps like puppies and she works for peanuts.

I kind of miss Miss Rap. But, you know, it's an ill wind and all that... Mr. Doom the Coroner auctioned off her estate after she’d been missing eighteen months. I got some pink fluffy dice, a leather bullwhip, and a case of squirty cream. I don't need to tell you what for.

Oh, no! Not the Skittle kids again. Don’t worry about them, they love getting knocked down. Worry about how I’m going to pay to have that bump in the front wing beaten out.

No, of course getting knocked over hurts them. Just because they’re wooden skittles doesn’t mean they have no feelings. And yes, I’m aware that wood is merely non-living, fibrous structural plant tissue mostly made of cellulose fibres embedded in a matrix of lignin and other complex organic polymers. I’m a puppet with a solid oak head but I’m not a fucking imbecile. It’s just that this is Toyland, isn’t it! I can't just lock children up for no reason and deport them to Mexico. This place has standards.

Anyway, don’t waste your sympathy. They do it for the insurance pay-outs. Their mother, Sally, is a single parent who says that she can’t manage on the court-mandated child maintenance. But I’m not paying that deadbeat crack-whore an extra penny until Mr. Wig the Chief Justice says I have to. And I’m not taking a DNA test unless she gets a court order either – and that’s not going to happen while Big Ears still has those photos of Mr Clark the Clerk of Court and the Clockwork Clown. It doesn't take much to wind that guys spring, if you know what I'm saying. But when you do... Boy he can go all night! Ding, dong!

Anyway, screw these losers. We’d better get to the garage before they try to steal the headlights, the little scamps. Makes me kind of proud! You can view the business district while I get it fixed.

Chapter 2[edit]

Okay, so just be a bit wary around Mr. Sparks the mechanic. He’s harmless but his Schizophrenia makes him kind of unpredictable. When I first started this racket back in the 50s he was Mr. Golly. Things were good then, the NAACP advanced him a loan to start his own business, he chaired the local chamber of commerce, he was just a pillar of the community, you know. Then, suddenly it’s 1976 and all at once tending his watermelon patch and opening a Fried Chicken franchise makes him a stereotype. The poor guy had to change his name to Monsieur Polly, comb out his afro, bleach his skin, and put on an outrageous French accent. Only the lib-tards thought that was a good idea. He hated it. We hated it. I mean, who’s going to trust a French mechanic, for God’s sake? Anyway, he’s Mr. Sparks now. Nothing to see. Just an everyday guy doing an honest day’s blue-collar work, salt of the earth – should be kept in a cellar, ha!

What do you mean, £500, Sparks, you piece of crap? It’s just a fucking dent, you could polish it out. You chiseling piece of shit! I could buy a new car for £500! I bet you don’t charge the brothers like that, do you! Hey?

You need to remember who I am around here. I’m going to drive this Orange Weeble around town for a couple of hours and when I come back you’d better find that you accidentally added an extra zero to that estimate or I’m going to talk to Big Ears and then we’ll see how much you and the missus like living above a petrol station, know what I mean?

Sorry about that, sir. Where next?

Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s the filth. Let me handle this, Mr Trump. PC Plod sometimes forgets who pays his wages. And we’re not talking about the local Police and Crime Commissioner.

Listen, Plod. You know who I work for and you know no one’s paying those fines. What do you think you’re going to gain by stopping me over and over again? Mrs. Plod’s not coming back to you. She’s moved on to a bigger and better truncheon now, get me? She doesn’t want a sad, flaccid porker like you anymore.

You want to ask her yourself? You know my house – bright yellow, crimson eaves, bright blue roof – looks like it was designed by a toddler – you’ll find her there now, blowing my Goblin homies. Why don’t you take your fixed penalty notice, shove it up your arse and fuck off while you’re doing it.

Sorry about that, Mr. Trump. You wouldn’t knock me down to four stars just because I’m being hassled by the law for something I did, would you? Americans don’t do irony, right?

Maybe we should just take a break, get some ice cream, or something. You look like a man who likes ice cream.

Oh, for fuck’s sake! Again! How can there be so many fucking accidents in this one hobby-horse-town? This is the only fucking car.

No, sir. Please, don’t get out of the vehicle. It’s just Bumpy Dog. He’s such an attention-seeker, always bumping into stuff and blaming the rabies. I’m just going to kick him into a ditch and either he’ll start breathing again or the Bunyip can have him. Just sit back and enjoy the scenery while I drive and sing a happy song:

You really don’t want ice cream? And you’d like me to stop singing. Maybe you can have too much of a good thing. That’s what Mr. Junkie the Crackhead always says when I call but you can’t trust anything addicts say, can you? Anyhow, what do you mean it's too self-referential. I'm not about to bulldoze Toytown and call it Noddy Plaza, am I.

Anyway, here we are at Big Ear’s place. Ignore the fact that he lives in a toadstool. That’s because he runs the mushroom racket. He runs all the rackets. He even runs the racquet racket. No one plays tennis round here without Big Ear’s say-so!

Ho, ho, ho! That’s a joke, Mr. Trump. Big Ears is always joking. Aren’t you, Big Ears.

Sorry Bi…oss!