The Rise and Fall of the Great Saundini IV
Well, it’s been three weeks now since we first traversed the fourth dimension and here, as predicted, comes the very next wave of psychic consciousness…
Ah, I see croissants, stale bread-sticks and Le Marseillaise (or at least if it were possible to see a sound). That’s right. I ended up a French Prisoner of war. Now you may think that this may have been unpleasant and you’d be right. The smell of cheese and sound of the french titter becomes unbearable after a while. On the plus side, I don’t get tortured at all, at least deliberately. This is because I have enough desire to survive and disloyalty to my country that I answer every question they ask without fuss. Some of the expressions that my occupiers have on their faces are drenched in pure disgust. I try to argue that I am partly Native American and therefore am innately cowardly (please note that this is a lie to make me come across better), but they decide to pretend they don’t speak English to thrust my obvious inferiority in my face. A week later the war is over, and I cannot help but feel partly, if not wholly responsible. England is renamed La Angleterre francaise. As a result of my shame I write home to my wife and tell her I love her, before deciding that the only way that I can keep her love and pride is to feign my own death and attain a new identity. So I go into a farm, rustle a goat and break it’s neck, possibly feasting on the meat around it’s vertebrae, but actually not doing such a thing at all. To seal my death I smear blood on my uniform and send it by mail to my wife herself. I am now Le Grand Saundre and appropriately grow a thin black moustache and buy an onion chain to go around my shoulders.
Looking for a job, I decide with my army experience, being a sailor should be a piece of cake. I apply for a post on a ship sailing the channel. He likes my accent (did I mention I magically become a fluent French speaker, a la the Simpsons), he keeps on sniggering, so I am hopeful. However, to my grief I am rejected. Apparently, my CV isn’t good enough. Not having swimming as a skill is a particular hindrance for some reason. It’s just as well I didn’t put reasons for leaving alongside my work experience! However, I am so persistant that eventually they make me cabin boy, if I can somehow lose a foot of my height and talk in a high voice. This I do with the help of really big shoes, which are now in fashion in France, the nudist movement being totally crushed down and by strapping a helium tank complete with mask to my back. I look like a bit of a clown, but I am an employed clown.
Anyway, as with my previous careers, the good times couldn’t last, or even begin. My first job is on board the FNS Souris, which is rather ironically very big. In fact, they say that it is unsinkable even for God at the time, which I have heard somewhere before. Our job is to sail to La Angleterre Francaise to bring clothing supplies back into the country. I have just got started delivering messages and being slapped round the head in a really camp way by various officers of the crew, when suddenly there is a massive “thud” sound. It transpires that en route to La Angleterre Francaise we have somehow crashed into Guernsey, because our ship was too large. The island creates a huge dent in the hull and as a result the boat begins to sink. Fortunately everyone escapes safely onto the land they are so close to, but still fashion-lovers in France and Europe mourn for the loss of so many valuable clothes. So many clothes which were hand-crafted and created for hours by the third world and would have been sold for such profit, but such low low prices in stores of my clothingless-striken homeland. The tears of those sorrowful people, the tears of my wife.
I sit on an empty beach and watch the tide go in and out and think and wonder what I am going to do next. My eyes start to water, no wait, that’s just the vision fading again. Oh well, next week I predict a bit more rising. I apologise for such a tragic ending today, it all seems a bit depressing. Oh well, I’ve talked to my careers advisor now, so things are looking up. Maybe I can prevent this future. Maybe I can do things differently. Maybe I should just get on with job-hunting instead of all this blogging.
