The New Adventures Of Cucumberman

"That's one gherkin burger, extra gherkins?".....

"Exacta-mundo!" Cucumberman rested his boots against the rail of ConCombre's on Oxford Street, the Raita label prominent to show everyone just how much he cared about his footwear. "Have you got red sauce to go with that?" [he hated the t word].

"Behind you. On the pump".

And sure enough he turned round as she handed him the gherkin burger and pulled the tap, the way those bar people did with the lager tap in the bar by the river.

Where do you start looking for a sub-terranean power station? The sort that runs on tomatoes [it was alright to think the t word as long as he didn't say it out loud] and cucumbers? The place with the most lights? That was Debenhams, no doubt about it. Lit like a red Christmas tree. There wasn't one millimetre on that facade that wasn't lit bright red. Now for that you'd need serious power. Something like a power station situated underneath you? Or a thousand million BlogIt journallers on pedal bikes pedalling while they wrote their journals (the privilege didn't come free after all).

Maybe it was the big CentrePoint building. Surely such a big tower couldn't be so unoccupied for so long. Surely those lights they had on at night were on because someone was there, someone that ran a power station maybe, one hidden with a cucumber and tomato power producing point centre....

Or maybe..... Maybe....

Justin Wildcross was flummoxed. Time for a little music as he waited for the purple traffic lights on the wrong way in the one way street he'd found himself in in a slight detour round the back of the CentrePoint. He sawitched to the tape and sung the words he knew -

                 "Saw you in the lemonade rain!

                  Then you ate a meal beneath my skin!"

He chomped into the remains of the gherkin burger.

The gherkin burger.

Strange reflections!

That gherkin burger. With the t-sauce that came from the tap. And where did the tap come from? A pipe. And where did the pipe go? Down under the floor into the basement? And where where did the pipe go then? Where exactly? Down into the ground below the basement? Down into the pits? Down into the cucumber and tomato electricity power station that was at the very heart of all the AOL journal crisis.

It was all GO. Justin pressed the Go button of the dashboard of the pickle mobile. Green slime shot out the drivers side wing mirror, showering the purple traffic light in green slime. "Look's like we got ourselves a green light!", the energy levels right up to excited plus ten thousand level.

It was time to do an about-turn and re-visit that ConCombre's buger hut. That was where the mystery started, now he was sure of it. That t-sauce tap was the beginning of it all.....

To be continued.

Will Cucumberman ever discover the mystery of the power-plant?

In the mean time click on those links to your left, on my favourite sites. Very amusing!

There's nothing more than the Big Man In Red enjoyed more of an afternoon than full afternoon tea on his sun lounger underneath the night sky. A nice pot of cheese with cream and sugar with some Krispy Kreme journal alerts with it.

Now on this particular matter he was very firm. He knew things about freshness. And he was very particular. When he requested his afternoon tea in the night afternoon, the journal alerts must have been baked just two hours before at the most then iced and cream-filled as soon as they had cooled. This was why they had a full time alerts baker at Tickla Towers. This and the fact that he was chained in and couldn't leave even if he wanted to.

But Cucumberman knew none of this. Not yet.

The pickle mobile chugged through the backstreets of London. Trying to save the world from alerting situations was proving hard work. It had been what, 9 months since that first call had come, and he hadn't moved from green alert ever since. But this latest outbreak. This was worse. This was ten thousand times worse. This was a catastrophe.

"We're in melt down" the Journals HQ had said over the tannoy in the basement of the Hurst Villa. "Journallers are leaving left, right and centre"

"And sideways too" the cornichon companion added

"And sideways. You're right. These ads just aren't working".

"Well they're not for things people want. If you ran ads for dill pickles, baby cucumbers, taziki, cucumber and mint sorbet - stuff people really enjoy - then I'm sure you'd not just get people running back, but millions joining. We could have a whole web server devoted to the glories of cucumbers!"

"Hold on, I think you're taking it a bit far" the Journallers president was scratching his head. My, it did feel empty this morning. "All we really want is a way to make everything back the way it was before the ads and before the authentication and saving issues. Cucumberman you must help.... You're our last hope".

Wasn't that the way it always worked out. He was always the last port of call. What was wrong with the rest of them - were they just useless or had they died in the process of helping. The answer to this one was obviously one that mattered, but he couldn't wait for an answer. His brain was too busy. It buzzed like greenfly.    His London. The whole journaling kingdom lay in the balance. And only he alone could save it.

Justin Wildcross pressed the C button and everything began.

The Green Machine had traced back the first of the trouble. It had all started on an innocent Monday morning. Monday. What had happened the day before it figured.

2 things.

1 - the invasion of Jelly Jingle's house. It was the first day the infected computer chips brought from the Pyscho Carrot World shop were in fully working order. Had they made contact with the Pyscho Carrot World yet? Were they bridging a link between the Earth and that horrible planet of the Evil Carrot Tops. Was the raiding of Journal Land the first step in the Carrot Tops general of seizing earth communications and hitting humans hard where it hurt the most?

And secondly

2 - it was the day after the grand switching on of the Oxford Street Christmas Lights. The Green Machine had read the figures - 10 times more lights in Oxford Street than ever before. Surely this must have a power bearing on the city. Cucumberman knew where all the power in the city comes from too. The cucumber and tomato processing plant that hides under the dark recesses of the capital's no1 shopping venue - Oxford Street. If this power station supplied the power to the journals online server too it stood to reason that a power surge in one area would create havoc in another area.

Either way, it was time to investigate. Cucumberman pressed the pedal through the floor of the pickle mobile, and watched as pickling vinegar dripped on to the road beneath his feet. He raced up through Whitehall and on, through Trafalgar Square, manoeuvred around the tourists and the bright bill boards of Piccadilly circus (which displayed a festive version of his favourite poster - the big green jar, and the words 'Get in a pickle this Christmas!'), and on up the curve of Regents Street toward Oxford Street and his destiny.....

To be continued....

Will Cucumberman discover the cure for the journals crisis, before he gets hungry for a cheese and pickle sandwich that is??????