‘No you bloody won’t. Just sit down here until he’s finished.’ Norman sat.

And I sat. Sit sit sit.

‘Now,’ cried Professor Merlin. ‘As you watch and marvel at our show, why not tuck a little tucker into your laughing gear? Dine upon delicacies, Nirvana to the nasal parts and positively paradisical to the palate. Vivacious viandes. Magical morsels. Tantalizing titbits. Knock-out nosebag. Johnny B. Goode, by golly.’

And once more he clapped his hands.

There came a fanfare from the mariachi men and beneath the minstrels’ gallery, to the rear of the invisible pillars, the door that led to the kitchens opened and out strode the famous chef.

He clapped together hands of his own,

And swung on a polished heel.

And he called to his waiting waiters,

To bring on the marvellous meal.

‘Get a move on, you fuckwits,’ he called.

And out from the kitchen marched the waiters, looking every bit the way that waiters should. They had crisp white shirts and smart dickie-bows and sleek tail-coats and slicked-back hair with killer sideburns. And they were all gym-trained and Club-Med-tanned and they all had those ‘rose-for-the-lovely-lady?’ eyes.

‘Fuckwits to a man,’ whispered Norman.

Oh, but what they carried on their burnished silver trays. What toothsome taste-bud ticklers. What choice and chewsome chomperies. As the waiters moved amongst the party guests, bowing with their trays to offer up their bounty, the professor called down from on high and pointed to the platters as each passed beneath him.

‘Lo and behold,’ he called. ‘A beano, a beanfeast, a banquet. A Saranapalian swallow-me-down. An Epicurean eat-’em-up. Lo and behold and look you there,’ and he pointed. ‘Fillet mignon of Alytes obstreticans, lightly fried in Ranidae miluh and served upon a bed of Taraxacum.’

‘Sounds delicious,’ I said.

Norman made a face. ‘If you happen to like midwife toad, cooked in frog’s milk and bunged on a bunch of dandelion leaves.’

‘Some of these foreign dishes do lose a bit in the translation, don’t they?’

‘Hmmph,’ went Norman, waving a waiter away.

The professor continued to point and proclaim, naming each dish that passed beneath him and loudly extolling its virtues.

To which Norman added his clever-Dick-I-did-languages-at-Grammar-school translations.

I passed on the lungs and the livers and lights. The bollocks of boar and the wildebeest’s whangers. The monkey’s brains, although fresh and piping hot (and Bubbles’s looked particularly tasty in the fresh Crad sauce) didn’t thrill me at all.

Not that I wasn’t hungry.

Actually, I was starving.

But, well...

When you have so many wonderful things to choose from, you hardly know where to start. Eventually I did make up my mind. I decided to keep it simple. Nothing rich, that might be likely to ‘repeat’. Good, wholesome, plain old down-home cooking.

‘Beans on toast, sir?’ the waiter asked.

‘No thanks, mush,’ I told him. ‘I’ll have the Rocky Mountain oysters, the belly-cut of long pig and the sheep’s vagina, stewed in its own special juices. Oh and a pint of Château-Lafite 1822 and put it in my personal pewter tankard.’

Class act, or what?

I do have to say that I got quite a kick out of watching the party guests tuck in. It was a real joy to see top-notch gourmets trenchering it down. I perused them as they picked prettily at penis pasties and pork-sword pilaffs and popped portions of their preferred provender onto proffered plates.

Pretty much all Ps there again, by my reckoning.

‘What are you having, Norman?’ I asked.

‘Just the beans on toast for me.

‘Something wrong with the other stuff?’

‘Heavens no,’ said Norman, ‘perish the thought. It’s just that I’m not very hungry. I think I ate too much elephant’s dongler for tea.

Now, whilst all the face-filling was in progress, things had been happening beneath the minstrels’ gallery. A small stage had been erected, with a row of footlights and painted background scenery.

We were somewhere into the sixth or seventh course when the cymbals clashed and the voice of Professor Merlin was once more to be heard.

‘Boom shanka boom boom boom,’ it went. ‘You dine and you sup. Let sweet champagne be danced around and let the lights be dimmed a tad and soft the music play.’

Then every damn light in the hall went out and we were left in the dark.

But not for long. The footlights glowed; the stage shone bright. Professor Merlin strode onto it. He struck up a noble splay-legged pose, his hands upon his hips. The mariachis played a sweet refrain and the professor said simply, ‘Let our show begin.’

And then there was a flash, a puff of smoke and he was gone. ‘I could do that too,’ whispered Norman.

Now, what followed next was undoubtedly the most extraordinary piece of theatre that I have ever witnessed. It was ludicrous, though laudable. Absurd, yet absolutist. It was wacky, but wise. It was zany, but Zen. It was monstrous strange, and I fear that we will not see the likes of it ever again.

‘Om,’ called the voice of Professor Merlin. ‘Om,’ it called once more. ‘Om, which is the sacred syllable of the Most High. Typifying the triumvirate of Gods. Brahma, Vishnu and Siva. Birth, life and death. For our playlet comes to you in these three vital parts. The stuff of which we all are made. We’re born. We live. We’re cast away. Behold the Boy.’

We beheld the Boy. He rose up in the midst of us from beneath a rug, where he’d lain in wait. We applauded the Boy’s appearance. We applauded loud and long.

For this boy was undoubtedly a Principal Boy. This boy was played by a girl. A beautiful girl, as it happened. Young and tender-limbed and slender. Wide of mouth and eye. Some toffs amongst the crowd wolf-whisded and did their Terry-Thomas ‘well, helllooooos’.

The Boy moved slowly through the crowd. Slowly on shuffling feet. Wearily he climbed onto the stage. Turned to face the audience, offered up a sigh, suggestive of a day’s hard labours done. Then gave a long languid yawn.

Which set Norman off. I mimed a fist to the face.

The Boy settled down upon the stage. He wore rags and had nothing to cover him. He seemed pretty down upon his luck.

However, no sooner was he asleep than he began to dream and we were treated to a lavishly presented dream sequence with sparkly fairy folk flittering round and a big fat angel in a liberty bodice and wellington boots, who took a shine to the Boy and showered him with shimmering dust.

‘Would this be the ludicrous yet laudable bit?’ Norman asked.

The voice of Professor Merlin spoke. ‘A gift is given. A gift is received,’ is what I think it said.

Now, as far as I can make out, the basic story went like this. There is this little boy and he’s given something special by an angel in a dream. We don’t know what this special something is, but it must be really special, because everyone he meets wants to snatch it away from him.

First up is this sort of wicked uncle chap. He wears a black turban and has a painted-on beard and bad breath. The bad breath business got a lot of laughs, as did the posturing of this wicked uncle chap, who tries and tries again to bully the special something away from the Boy.

We jeer and catcall and roundly boo this uncle.

Then there is this group of good-time Charlies. They pretend to be chums of the Boy. But we all know what they’re after. They get the Boy drunk, but he won’t part with his special something and the good-time Charlies caper about and bump into the invisible pillars and fall down a lot. And we laugh.

Then we get to the real baddy. The Evil Prince. The Evil Prince has a stonking great palace, with handmaidens and his own full-size indoor crazy golf course and everything.