Trenton Babbage & The Bacon Smugglers – Part Seven

We return to our occasional series documenting the mildly offensive sex, drugs & bacon escapades of our hero smugglers, as told by penman extraordinaire Trenton Babbage

“Are you still reading that crap, Manfred?” “It’s not crap, Perl; it’s…good.” “Good? Wow! Let me at it!” “Shut up. I was just thinking that it reminds of that book by whatshisname.” “What book?” “That’s what I’m trying to remember! I can’t think of the author either.” “What else have they written?” “Can I just stick to trying to remember this one first please?
“It had a blue cover.
“Bum. It’ll come to me later I’m sure.” “Let’s hope so, I cannot stand the suspense.” “Is something the matter, mardy arse?” “I’m glad you’ve asked.” “You could’ve just told me.” “I’m telling you now.” “Then tell me.” “I just think it’s the unthinking assumption; the idea that we’ll just do what he wants; he prides himself in giving his characters great personalities, minds of their own: “oh my characters have become almost independent, I never know what they’re going to do until I sit down and start writing” pompous tool; it would bloody serve him right if we buggered off and left him for a while, see how he gets on then; not such a great writer without his characters.” “Where would we go?” “Doesn’t matter, we could go anywhere; he doesn’t describe any of the locations in this story; we could put up a wall ourselves and hide behind it; we could take that stupid boat he highly values; I bet there isn’t even any bloody great bacon; it’ll be a sodding metaphor or something: “it’s not about bacon; it’s about the self” pompous tool; I refuse to be a part of his vanity project; this is my bloody life!” “Why don’t we have a word with him instead?” “Words shmerds; it’s actions what’s neededs! with us still here, having a conversation with him, it’ll still be on his terms; we need to shock him. I’m more than happy going on a bacon smuggling adventure, I like that idea, perfectly ok with sticking it to the man, but I will not have my very existence being used to make some metaphysical point.” “Won’t it be a little awkward though? if we let him stew for a bit and then come back with some kind of list of demands?” “He shouldn’t make assumptions then.” “What about the readers?” “What about the readers?” “Won’t it seem a little artificial for them?” “Who cares about the bloody readers? They won’t get their regular fix of imbuing their own bias, interpretation, and conclusion into my thoughts and actions?! Oh poor them! And if anything it’ll be less artificial because we’ll be doing stuff of our own choosing; it’ll be more genuine than letting that idiot decide our fate.” “It could be a good fate though; we’ve done some cool things so far.” “That’s not the point! I want control of my own life: if it ends up crap it’s because of my decisions; if it ends up great I’ll be buggered if I’m letting anyone else get the credit!” “What if we don’t have a choice? what if we’re just written out and cease to exist? or kept in to perform degrading and inhumane acts for the author’s own megalomaniacal perversions? because we chose to confront his world order?” “Shut up, Manfred.” “You can do better than that.” “If we can have this conversation, and do things outside the writing, he’ll have to write about us constantly, always giving us stuff to do in order to keep us here. As soon as he stops writing, we’re free.”

Manfred and Perl had popped out from the hotel in order to stock up on provisions for their ensuing adventure aboard the Good Ship Venus, piloted by the inimitable Neter Wrobahr (remember? course you do), who was at this moment aboard said ship, seeing to the maintenance, sustenance and cleanlinance of all his horses, dogs and babies, and a random parrot which had joined him en-route to Southampton from the delectable Bay Area of the oft mentioned United States of America – very big at the moment; should go on to do great things. Given that Southampton’s coordinates are 50° 54′ 0″ N, 1° 24′ 0″ W, and given the time of year, the weather was probably quite pleasant; t-shirt weather definitely, even in the shade (see, Perl; I can describe stuff!); but rather than avail themselves of a quality butcher, they ended up in a mosque instead. They sang the following hymns:

bacon hymns

Amazing bacon

Amazing bacon! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.

‘Twas bacon that taught my heart to fear,
And bacon my fears relieved;
How precious did that bacon appear
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
‘Tis bacon hath brought me safe thus far,
And bacon will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion (of bacon) be,
As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and bacon.

The world shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun refuse to shine;
But bacon, who called me here below,
Shall be forever mine.

When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing bacon’s praise
Than when we’d first begun.

bacon Chorus

Bacon! Bacon! Bacon!
Bacon! Bacon!
For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth.
Bacon! Bacon! Bacon! Bacon!

For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.
Bacon! Bacon! Bacon! Bacon!
Bacon! Bacon! Bacon!

The kingdom of this world
Is become the kingdom of our Lord,
And of His Christ, and of His Christ;
And He shall reign for ever and ever,
For ever and ever, forever and ever,

King of kings, and Lord of lords,
King of kings, and Lord of lords,
And Lord of lords,
And He shall reign,
And He shall reign forever and ever,
King of kings, forever and ever,
And Lord of lords,
Bacon! Bacon!

And He shall reign forever and ever,
King of kings! and Lord of lords!
And He shall reign forever and ever,
King of kings! and Lord of lords!
Bacon! Bacon! Bacon! Bacon!

What A Friend We Have In bacon

What a friend we have in bacon,
all our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
everything to bacon in prayer!
O what peace we often forfeit,
O what needless pain we bear,
all because we do not carry
everything to bacon in prayer.

Have we trials and temptations?
Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged;
take it to the bacon in prayer.
Can we find a friend so faithful
who will all our sorrows share?
Bacon knows our every weakness;
take it to the bacon in prayer.

Are we weak and heavy laden,
cumbered with a load of care?
Precious bacon, still our refuge;
take it to the bacon in prayer.
Do thy friends despise, forsake thee?
Take it to the bacon in prayer!
In his arms he’ll take and shield thee;
thou wilt find a solace there.

Breath Of bacon

Breathe on me, breath of bacon,
Fill me with life anew,
That I may love what Thou dost love,
And do what Thou wouldst do.

Breathe on me, breath of bacon,
Until my heart is pure,
Until with Thee I will one will,
To do and to endure.

Breathe on me, breath of bacon,
Blend all my soul with Thine,
Until this earthly part of me
Glows with Thy fire divine.

Breathe on me, breath of bacon,
So shall I never die,
But live with Thee the perfect life
Of Thine eternity.

Give Me bacon In My Heart

Give me bacon in my heart, keep me praising,
Give me bacon in my heart, I pray;
Give me bacon in my heart, keep me praising,
Keep me praising till the break of day:

Sing bacon, sing bacon,
Sing bacon to the King of kings.
Sing bacon, sing bacon,
Sing bacon to the King.

Give me bacon in my heart, keep me loving,
Give me bacon in my heart, I pray;
Give me bacon in my heart, keep me loving,
Keep me loving till the break of day:

Sing bacon, sing bacon,
Sing bacon to the King of kings.
Sing bacon, sing bacon,
Sing bacon to the King.

Give me bacon in my heart, keep me serving,
Give me bacon in my heart, I pray;
Give me bacon in my heart, keep me serving,
Keep me serving till the break of day:

Sing bacon, sing bacon,
Sing bacon to the King of kings.
Sing bacon, sing bacon,
Sing bacon to the King.


And finished with the bacon’s prayer:

Our butcher, who art in Copenhagen
bacon be thy name
thy cut be thick
thy rind be thin
on back as it is on streaky.
Give us this day our daily bacon
and forgive us our overcooking
as we forgive those who overcook against us.
And lead us not into the fakon
but deliver us from Linda McCartney.
For thine is the Boston butt
tenderloin and the shank end
for ever and ever

Trenton Babbage & The Bacon Smugglers – Part Five

Here we rejoin guest writer Trenton Babbage for the next part of his epic bacon smuggling adventure…

Part Four can be found HERE

muroidal anus about the price of champagne; I can concoct my own insipid libation for free by making bubbles in the bath; nor do I care for your diamonds and pearls and pretty little trinkets, please attach whatever price-tag a healthy conscious would balk at.

But I do care about bacon.

A wise woman once said, ‘I strongly believe that it is through bacon that world peace will finally be achieved’, and I’m inclined to agree; but I also believe that quality bacon should not just be restricted to the elite – they can have gout and like it – it should be available to the masses, and that is what we intend to achieve. We are not interested in supplying the aforementioned quality butchers; they already have quality bacon. We are on a quest to supply the Spars of the world, the Premiers – not the co-ops; they’re bastards – for the bacon in these places is crap; cheap and crap, and we think it should be cheap and excellent. That is all.

I have recently come into possession of some rather interesting documents (real actual paper documents found in a stereotypical wooden chest in a stereotypical wooden attic; anyone who says it was originally written as a blog is a lying poo poo head) detailing the exploits of a young explorer searching for the mythical land of Shangri-La. This in itself is obviously fascinating and worthy of much deliberation and discussion; however, what intrigued me immediately was his mention, in a transcribed radio interview, of a man referred to under various monikers as ‘the map maker’, ‘the crazy canadian cartographer’; an ethereal being by the name of Winter Lent. This man has been recommended to both Perl and me as someone we must visit if we’ve any intention of finding that which is not of the common conscious; something that this young explorer was certainly looking for.


The following is that transcribed radio interview conducted by a person called Sacha Inchi (gender unknown; possibly irrelevant):

SI: Welcome back listeners and thank you for staying with us for what will be a most fascinating interview I’m sure. Today I have great pleasure in introducing to you all, the explorer and Shangri-La expert, Thatch Herringbone.

TH: Thank you for having me.

SI: Thatch’s primary, nay solitary, exploratative purpose is that of the discovery of Shangri-La; it has taken him to such far-flung places as Sheffield, Hampstead Heath, and soon the sight of his latest expedition, Upper Tooting Road, specifically the junction where Moffat Road meets Kellino Street, just down from the Tooting Islamic Centre. But Thatch will give us more details about that in a minute; first let us get to know the man; Thatch, tell us a little bit about yourself.

TH: Thank you again, Sacha, for having me on your show. Well, my name is Thatch Herringbone and I’m a twenty-three year-old explorer living in Lubumbashi, the second largest city in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. A place that as you may or may not know, is steeped in superstition, myth and folklore; undoubted influences on my subsequent infatuation with Shangri-La.

SI: So when did you first have this seed planted within you?

TH: Really as young as I remember I’ve always been fascinated with the notion of a mythical place that could actually exist if people only knew where to look.

SI: As I’ve mentioned, you’ve explored various places but have been unsuccessful in finding Shangri-La. What makes you think that Upper Tooting Road will be any different?

TH: Well, the ‘Crazy Canadian Cartographer’ not to put too fine a point on it!

SI: And who is he?

TH: A man recommended to me as someone I must visit if I’ve any intention of finding that which is not of the common conscious. He provides maps of the soul you could say; a most enlightening experience.

[Here the transcriber got bored, and doodles a picture of a frog.]

SI: That is one of the most fascinating things I think I’ve ever heard. So tell us about your latest venture!

TH: Upper Tooting Road! Yes, I’m extremely confident about this; I am aware of course that I’m standing on the shoulders of giants for this one. The original exploration by the Monty Python team climbing up the north face of the Uxbridge Road was groundbreaking in its discoveries and methodology, and gave a whole new idea as to how to view these places you were aiming to discover.

SI: So tell us a little bit about your plan of action.

TH: We shall be parachuted in to ‘Harringtons’, the pie and mash shop; this is the closest I can get because of the permanent no-fly zone in operation, and of course we’ll probably be a bit peckish. We shall head south east along Selkirk Road until we reach the junction with Upper Tooting Road itself – should I realise that we’ve forgotten anything, I can just nip in to ‘The Travel Shop’ for supplies; I hear they do a fine line in crampons.

Our first camp is intended to be outside ‘Tooting Dental Care’ – we’re still waiting for written permission but the conversations we’ve had have fillinged us with nothing but confidence.

SI: Was that a dentist joke?

TH: ……..No…………… anyway, we’ve no real idea as to the local costs but by the time we reach ‘Tooting Dental Care’ we hope to have a good idea of how much we’ll need to travel the rest of the way, and whether we’ll need to pay VAT on anything in ‘Greggs’ [This gives an idea of the date of this expedition.]. We’d rather not go in to the fiscally volatile bank of ‘Santander’ so we’ll opt for the far more trusted and reliable firm of ‘Habib Bank AG Zürich’ opposite our base on the corner of Upper Tooting and Gatton.

At the end of the second day we aim to arrive at ‘Greggs’ for our evening meal. Our intelligence suggests that this is a relatively quiet and simple stretch of road to navigate and traverse so we may get to pop in to ‘Oxfam’ for a bad lampshade and some pornography on VHS.

The third day should see us reach our goal of the ‘Sajna Hair and Beauty Institute’ where, I believe, we will find Shangri-La, and hopefully enter it. We’d like to have a look at how buoyant the local property market is at ‘Bernard Marcus Estate Agents’ but our head cameraman’s new house has dry rot, which he is suing the Estate Agents through whom he bought it for not telling him, and he’s subsequently developed a mortal hatred of all their kind – we wish to avoid conflict at all costs. We’ll stop for a coffee of course at ‘Coffee Max’ and most probably a bun or two depending on our finances, and should anyone require any drugs, plasters, ointments or pointlessly small nail clippers, then a trip to ‘Barkers Chemists Tooting’ will be forthcoming.

SI: Well that all sounds extremely interesting and exciting; please come back and tell us all about it as soon as you can.

TH: Thank you I will.

SI: And the very best of luck to you.

Now I don’t know about you, but I

Trenton Babbage – Diary Of A Bacon Smuggler Part Three

Back once more – and still sticking rigidly to his optimum 637 word limit – is Trenton Babbage with his epic tale, The Bacon Smugglers…

able to get the lifeguards involved too, and complete the holy quadfecta. Until that blessed day we make do with linking up our various explosive devices and saunter out the tradesmen’s entrance. Via the half price milk chocolate hobnob stand.

Outside the air is thick with freshness, one can chew on it, literally; not like in that stupid advert. So we do, we stand together taking great big bites out of the air, chewing greedily on the concoction, drooling almost in our childlike glee; in fact, if there hadn’t have been a local co-op exploding at this very moment, showering the surrounding area in three for the price of two own brand butter, people woulda thought we were a right coupla nut jobs! As it is they are conveniently indisposed to paying us any mind, so we make our way back to the train station … you know the route.

On the train I disclose my experience of the buffet car bacon sandwich to Perl, and its subsequent treatment and allusion to the work of Pannerberg. Oddly enough she’d had the same ordeal with her purchase – or perhaps not odd at all; pick any random person who’s eaten a bacon sandwich, or anything bought from a train’s buffet car, and defy them to wax lyrical upon it, or even border on as good as slightly dissatisfied – what may be odd though is how certain people deal with these below par food stuffs; not many I imagine use them to recreate the victims of a serial killer active on the Danish island of Zealand during the latter half of the 1800s…though I could be wrong. Perl’s killer of choice was of course Dagmar Underhål, who was perpetually perturbed by the constant lies people told each other. Not the big ones; the affairs, the fraud; it was the little ones; back in two seconds, I’ll do that in a minute, sarcasm. Her literal understanding of the words people used left no room for nuance, sarcasm, metaphor. She used to roller her victims, render them transparent essentially, using one of the first cricket wicket rollers brought over from England by the rail engineers. “I never go anywhere without my little roller, Manfred. So I placed my one sixth eaten bacon sandwich on the buffet counter, looked the server in the eye and began to roll. All the while explaining to him how and why Dagmar used to do this to members of her community; she was squeezing out all the bullshit, all the layers becoming one, nothing else left to hide, just a pure human spirit.” “Bloody hell, Perl; I just pinned the bits of mine to a chair, I didn’t mess with a poor bloke’s mind!” “Who is reading your notes? Who now thinks that there might be some crazed bacon sandwich fetish psychotic on the loose?” “Touché.”


“I feel readers are going think it strange that we, self-professed top quality bacon lovers, would eat a buffet car bacon sandwich in the full knowledge that it will be severely sub-par.” “What do you mean, ‘readers’? we’re not supposed to know about the readers; we’re characters in a story, unaware that we’re characters in a story.” “Yes I know, but it just seems weird that we would eat bacon we know to be crap.” “I assume the author was more concerned with introducing the work of serial killers in a way he thought was humourous, than he was with character consistency.” “Insulting to the reader?” “Not necessarily, a bit lazy possibly. The explanation may come later.” “I don’t think the author should leave it too long; it will start to niggle in the readers’ minds.” “Not yet though; we’re here.”

Sitting on a great South West Trains train arriving at the international hub that is Southampton train station, can only