spoof

A GENTLE LITTLE SPOOF

Suppose - just suppose that whilst on a visit to the Opera House in Paris you were transported back in time to somewhere around the late 1880s and by an amazing bit of good fortune, came smash up to the Phantom . Scorching you with a smouldering look from those glowing dark eyes, the Phantom immediately proposes marriage. You faint with joy, he scoops you up in his powerful arms, throws you up on the back of a noble steed and trots off with you all the way "down below".

You vaguely remember drifting across a mist-shrouded lake, then as you waken slowly and sit up in what looks like a boat-shaped bed, you find a tinkling music box beside you in the shape of a funny little monkey playing some cymbals.

"Oh, sweet…!" you murmur. "Where am I? More to the point, where's that gorgeous Ghost? Ah, he's playing his organ for me. Name that tune..."

You notice that your lower half is covered by a rather dashing black cloak, scattered about with sequins. Immediately you covet this most attractive item of clothing, for it would look so good at the firm's next annual dinner dance.

Happily, you've recovered quickly from your swoon, not less because the organ is crashing out some lusty music nearby. The Phantom is playing and singing "Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside" with much gusto, although sadly not entirely in tune. However, his accent is quite deliciously French, très ooh-la-la.

Glancing round, he sees that you are awake and attempting to get out of that queer bed. He slithers away from the organ and glides to a most graceful halt, running his hands over his sleek hair and all the way down the front of his body. These actions cause a faint "pwhhrorrr" to issue from your slack lips as lust creeps over you. He strides up to you, the metal studs in his fashionable boots making a tremendous din on the tiled floor, and start to sing in your ear - something about music caressing you.

"Never mind the music", you think as you eye up those fantastic hands wafting gracefully around you, "when are you going to start caressing me, excitingly phab darling that you are."

A faint smell assails your nostrils. You are aware that it reminds you of something not overwhelmingly fragrant - oh yes! Those lamb chops left over from your Dad's last barbie, which he'd forgotten he'd left in the fridge, so that when you all returned from holiday and walked into the kitchen, a rather nasty smell knocked you, all backwards.

You mention this extraordinary aroma to the Phantom. He sweeps a magnificent bow, pleased that you have noticed.

"Ah yes, it is my latest perfume - 'Eau de Rat Mort - you like it? I will give you a flaçon as a wedding present."

Faintly, you murmur your thanks and stumble over to the only available chair in the place, which looks for all the world like a throne. Suddenly, a life-size doll dressed as a bride lunges at you from a shattered mirror, thrusting a small bunch of flowers at you.

"Aarrgghh!" you shriek, "… what the 'eck ... oh, it's me - isn't that nice!"

During this time, the Phantom has been lobbing out Punjab lassos right, left and centre until he eventually manages to snaffle someone.

"Oh, well played, Sir!" you leap up and cry, noting that it was some old boy with a long grey beard, who looked as if he had one foot in the grave anyway. The Phantom comes up close to you, still warbling words like "… softly, deftly…", when suddenly he stops mid-warble.

"You will have to change your name, you know. By deed poll. I cannot stomach anything other than … ummm … 'Christine'."

"No problem, sweetie", you sing out blithely, "I pretty much detest my name anyway - Gladys Myrtle - given after a rich aunt on my Dad's side, though much good it did me. She found herself a toyboy (or was it a gigolo in those days) and they ran away to Honolulu."

A moment or two later you emerge from behind the mirror, dressed in the fabulous wedding gown that he ripped expertly off the mannequin.

"Ooohhh, my turn later!", you think in lustful anticipation.

From his pocket, the Phantom pulls forth a yard-long wedding veil and arranges it tastefully about your head and shoulders. From his other pocket he produces a sumptuous bouquet of orchids, lilies, roses, gardenias, stephanotis, and so on and so on. What next, you wonder? Will he produce a priest from his waistcoat? And does he keep anything in - ahem! - his trousers? A wedding present, perhaps?

You gasp. Blush. Come over all unnecessary.

Oh naughty! … go away, you naughty, wicked thoughts. Think cold showers … pheeeeyew!

The Phantom is nattily arrayed in his best suit, topped by a sumptuous velvet cloak. On his head he sports a fetching black fedora hat adorned with the French Tricoleur (he's very patriotic) and on his face, a dazzling white mask. Painted over the right eye is a tiny red rose and the initials "~RUG~" which you imagine must mean something like - Really Ugly Geezer or perhaps Robbing Unbalanced Ghost, then settle for Remarkable Urbane Genius. All in all, he looks drop-dead gorgeous - so fabulously sexy that you wonder how you manage to keep your hands off him.

Offering you his arm you take hold of it in a firm grasp (he's mine, all mine! - you gloat) and off you both go to tie the knot. You climb into the boat, taking care to avoid a few hungry rats that fancy a nibble of your bouquet, and you're on your way - he paddling away ferociously while you do your best not to fall into the lake.

Finally, after climbing up hundreds of stairs - for the noble steed is exhausted from carting both of you down to the lair and stubbornly refuses to budge - you arrive somewhat out of breath at the door on the Rue Scribe. Outside, you find it is pitch-black night.

"Who will we find to wed us at this time of night?" you wonder.

The Phantom loftily tells you not to worry your pretty little head for it is all arranged. Then a quick furtive dash down the road as you try not to trip over the frilly hem of your wedding gown which bounces stiffly about your ankles, you soon arrive outside a small building where a solitary light is burning in the window. As you step inside, you find a rather strange-looking creature awaiting you - a creepy looking fellow with a chalk white face, a few wisps of long straggling hair hanging either side of a bald pate, and teeth like fangs protruding over his lip.

"Welcome", this apparition murmurs seductively. "I am Mr Nosferatu and I am your friendly neighbourhood vampyre. Mr Phantom has made all the arrangements, so here we go. Drone drone blah blah … I now pronounce you man and wife. Can I please kiss the bride?"

"Bog off", says the Phantom somewhat ungraciously. "I don't want my bride having weird dreams about bats."

And on that happy note, Mr and Mrs Phantom trot back to their desirable apartment underneath the Opera House at the start of their married life. Mr Phantom is so very happy to have a Christine to love and cherish that he really boogies on down, composing a quick opera in celebration.

Mr Phantom introduces his wife to his stunningly beautiful cat, she of the crossed blue eyes on whom he lavishes much affection, thus causing his bride to cast a jealous glance at the phabulous pheline. Mr Phantom hoists the animal up onto his shoulder and sags slightly to one side, as she is a very fat cat.

"This is Philomena Phantom", says Mr Phantom by way of introduction. "As you can see, she has gained a little avoirdupois on account of all the rats down here…"

You shriek and draw up your skirts, but he assures you the creatures would not dare venture within sniffing distance of his pussy cat. Mr Phantom then clears his throat somewhat as he tries not to ogle your creamy cleavage, and embarks on a garbled explanation as to why (although he will try his very best) it might be a little difficult to - en effet - produce little Phantoms.

"You do understand, my dearest, that although I am a phenomenal phenomena, I am only a phenomena …"

"A phemen … a phonem … a what ..?" you puzzle.

"A phenomenon is a remarkable … thing, dearest, and I am Top of the Opera's Remarkable Pops because I am naughty haunting thingy… a … GHOST… a shade … a spectacular spectre … shall I go on? That is why I am not entirely, absolutely, one hundred percent sure if I can … ummmn, vous comprenez?"

You gaze up at him adoringly, trying to take all this in while totally knocked-out by his sensuously husky voice and that so-gorgeous French accent.

"In that case", you whisper hoarsely, "we'd better go and see right this minute."

You flutter your eyelashes and try to look like a proper Christine. He stares, fascinated.

"I would like a rabbit - just in case", you declare suddenly. He looks somewhat startled, then beams as enlightenment dawns.

"Zut alors! I understand! A pet such as my Philomena! Ah, certainment, mais oui."

Casting a saucy glance at him, you reply, "Oh we may, darling, we most certainly may!" as you grab him and head eagerly towards the boat-shaped bed…

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In the years that follow, Mr Phantom keeps his word and tries very hard indeed to offload some offspring onto Mrs Phantom, but apart from the steam which issues from her ears during such times, nothing materialises in the way of mini-ghosts. Mrs Phantom encourages him no end by flaunting her delectable self in lacy negligées but it is all to no avail. She sighs gustily, for it would be so entrancing to have an armful of little spooks.

Mr Phantom is a genius of the first order and builds a state-of-the-art laboratory in the backyard cellar, spending hours tinkering away with what look to his adoring wife simply bits of tin and wire. Unfortunately, Mr Phantom grows a bit bored listening to Mrs Phantom go on about the price of potatoes, or the creeping damp in the lounge, or the fact that she'd now got arms like a wrestler after years of poling the boat across the lake in order to go shopping. He edges silently away as she drones on, escaping once more to his laboratory. Meanwhile she spends all morning slaving over a hot stove, cooking him a succulent coq-au-vin only to have it utterly ruined because he won't come to lunch when she calls.

She gets a squidgy bit fed-up with all this and once or twice, as she sits alone fondling Jean-Claude's silky ears (the rabbit, that is) thinks wistfully of her old boyfriend, Ray Oule. But then she dismisses such disloyal thoughts.

"For," she thinks, "how could I possibly think of living in a château when I have all this", as her eyes sweep over the dripping stone walls of the cellar. Then suddenly - bingo! - she has a brilliant idea.

"I will have a career as a world-famous diva!"

So she learns to sing by correspondence course, hauling Mr Phantom away from his latest interest - sitting with the mannequin on his knee and chanting over and over again "a gottle o' geer" - to accompany her on the organ. She thinks she might change her name to something a bit more exotic - after all, she'd already gone from Gladys to Christine - and she ponders over Kiri, or Montserrat, even Britney, but finally settles for Madame Carlotta.

Mr Phantom says nothing, but practices a toad's croak on the mannequin.

Madame Carlotta spends months away on tour, and Mr Phantom doesn't miss her terribly. He is kept very busy writing operas, scaring ballet girls out of their wits, and generally having a ball mystifying the management of the Opera with his ink-blotted notes demanding chandeliers and cat-litter trays.

A few weeks later, after performing as a female warrior in some obscure opera at the Transylvania Opera House, Madame Carlotta bumps into Mr Nosferatu! She is so pleased to see her old friend with the tombstone teeth that she lets him … kiss her ...

Oh dear!!

But that's another story ...

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