The Handlebar Club Forum

[Hey! I'm getting very worried about you, Smedstad! You seem to be preoccupied with gratuitous violence. I know it's only a story but...

(NOT Sir) David]

[Yes, I was wondering if it might be too much, but nothing drives a story with no plot like gratuitous violence Feel free to jump in, and radically alter the tone at any moment ]

Now was not the time to trifle with Sir David and Dalloway knew this.

Sir David was at present preoccupied with a matter of great importance to the British bearding community - The British Beard and Moustache Championships, to be hosted in his hometown of Brighton. Dalloway himself was planning to enter in the English-style category. To this end, his daily training consisted of placing his long slender Handlebar in a device consisting of a rectangular wooden frame with a roller at both ends. One wing tip was fastened with string to one roller, and the other tip with string to the other roller. A handle and ratchet attached to the one roller allowed Dalloway to very gradually stepwise increase the tension on his moustache, thus stretching the moustache to its full span width. After an hour the device was removed and Avery glue stick applied to stiffen the two hirsute erections.

[I have the feeling that Schnauzer is hinting at another useful mechanism for driving a story with no plot ]

“Erections, yes, that’s exactly what they look like; two beautiful monoliths to manhood,” thought poor impotent Dalloway as he proudly admired his rigid moustache in the mirror.

Dalloway’s impotence seemed counterintuitive considering his reputation as a ladies man, but Dalloway knew all of the sexual secrets of the hirsute. He had, in fact written an as yet unpublished sexual manual, How to please your lover with your moustache. He would win the English moustache category in the BBMC and use his fame to launch his career as a sexologist specialising in the pleasures of the hirsute.

“Chapter 22,” he smiled to himself, “Avery glue stick, Viagra for your moustache.”

Moustache wax held well enough in the early stages of cultivating his Handlebar. However, Dalloway's English now spanned thirty-six centimetres and he needed a more substantial and robust product in order to maintain his stiffy throughout the day. Years earlier he was introduced to Avery glue stick by an American handlebar enthusiast. At first, it seemed an unconventional and unlikely styling aid, but the American was such a strong proponent of this product Dalloway decided to give it a twirl and has stuck with it ever since. Reading this chapter he attempted a smile, but the bar and handles were so fortified with glue that all he could manage was to make the antenna-like ends twitch.

Twitch twitch twitch. Twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch! Nothing he tried could make them do anything but twitch. Glue stick is not the answer he decided and so he started to sample other products to see what may work. The first thing he tried was wallpaper-paste.

Paste 'im en theh gob wun ef 'e keeps oop weth tha' 'orrible sengen' I well", exclaimed the man at the end of the bar. A riotous laugh was heard from all within earshot. One man chanced to explain the situation, "There's no actual person singing here, you see. It's a recording". "De ye no' thenk Ah kno' tha'?!", he blurted back. "Ah kno' eckzaclee wear 'e levs an ahl go right down there naoo ef aye hav' tae".

"Tae please" asked the dyslexic Dalloway to the cafe owner. "Breakfast Tae if you have it, but if not aerl gray". The cafe owner got the message and feeling slightly sorry for Dalloway, he selected one of his special moustache mugs he kept on the shelf for just this sort of occasion. Dalloway was feeling a little frustrated as unfortunately the wall paper paste appeared to have worked, but the following morning he awoke to find his moustache in a heap on the floor. "That always happens to the wallpaper too, so I'm not that surprised" he thought to himself. "Right, what to try next" he thought. "I know, how about Goose fat???"

Goose fat. Dalloway hopped on his low-rider bicycle and pedalled off to the butcher. En route he would pass by HomeBase and return the wallpaper paste.

At the returns desk Phil was met by a sales associate who offered to help. The associate wore an extraordinary Hungarian moustache and Dalloway asked what it was he used to achieve such an impressive span. The man explained how he had at first tried using the wax from a toilet seal ring, but how the weight of the wax caused the ends to droop like the ears of a Basset hound. He then explained that one morning he had been re-stocking the shelves in the adhesives aisle and, as he was placing a can of spray adhesive on the shelf, it occurred to him that this might work. He could style his moustache as normal and simply spray the contact adhesive all over the 'tache. It was tricky at first and kept getting in his eyes, so when he blinked his lids would seal shut. He soon learned that with short blasts aimed to the sides he could avoid the eyes.

Eyes wide, the sudden realisation of just how good an idea this was hit Phil like a blunt arrow right between the eyes. "And which aisle would that be?" he enquired of the assistant who very kindly guided him to aisle 17. Phil selected the recommended adhesive from the shelf, proceeded to the self help cash desk and after paying using his debit card, he made his way to the car.

Dalloway had always been an excitable sort of chap and unfortunately this is often associated with very little patience. Being unable to wait any longer Phil took the can from the bag, asked himself why he bothered with a bag when he had one item and a fifteen yard walk back to the car, and then began to style his moustache there in the middle of the car park. "Short blasts, aimed to the sides, eyes shut". Phil repeated it over and over as some kind of mantra. After, what felt like an age but was in reality probably only 15 seconds he opened his eyes. The full horror of his situation then became apparent. Unfortunately Phil had decided that it would be a good idea to start the car engine as the heat from the blowers may assist in dying the adhesive reducing his time in the car park. During the period with his eyes shut, the draught from the blowers had picked up the bag he had on the seat next to him and blown it into the direction of the short blasts. He now found that he had securely welded a bright orange bag to both sides of his moustache. Dalloway had just one thought "Oops!"

Oops indeed, thought Phil.

What might have followed was a hail of expletives that would make a sailor sea sick had it not been for the fact that the bag had adhered to his mouth and nose as well. He was now at risk of suffocation. The bright orange bag against his now purple face may be fashion's coolest colour clash of the season but he was not on the fashion runway, he was in his car in a car park and desperate for a gasp of air.

“Air is not just made of oxygen,” enthused James' chemistry teacher, “if it were, we'd all get high and pass out!” The teacher stopped to wait for the laughter, but James and his fellow students just stared back, slack-jawed. “No, in fact, the air we breathe is only 21% oxygen and is primarily composed of Nitrogen,” continued Mr. Bellamy undaunted, “but also includes 14 other gasses!” He looked out over the sea of blank faces and sighed resignedly; yet another lesson that had failed to capture the attention of his young scholars. “Now open your textbooks to page 327 and let's take a closer look at what air actually is.”

James was not paying attention. He stroked his downy young moustache thoughtfully, however. He had heard the word air and immediately drifted off into his fictitious world, where Phil was still in his car, struggling for air. Perhaps Sir David might suddenly appear and save poor Phil from asphyxiation.

Asphyxiation loomed ever nearer as Dalloways purple crescendoed to a bright, almost regal shade. He no longer had thoughts of how to get out of the problem he just resigned himself to the fact that he was going to die.

"Many people would read a tale like this and expect a hero about now" thought James as he considered the future of poor Mr Dalloway. But James was not a nice boy. The harsh treatment at home and long paper round had twisted his mind and now there was little compassion left. Such a shame for one so young.

Phil sat with life slipping away. An almost peaceful state had come over him as he considered poor Poly on that fateful night and he wondered what had become her. It was too late to get an answer though, he was dead.

"Dead by his own misfortune" announced the coroner to DI Grimm of CID. Grimm studied a rigid but peaceful Dalloway laying on the cold slab in the mortuary, then turned and stroked his neatly cropped regulation moustache. Grimm was recalling a video entitled How to Immortalise your Moustache. The wheels began to turn in his head.