The funnyman writes for Clash
Vic Reeves

We here at Clash love Write On - not only does it mean that it's one less thing for us to write, but it's also a glimpse into the thoughts and imagination of an eminent personality.

With carte blanche to do what he would with the page, we couldn't wait to see what Vic Reeves would come up with...

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Rising at 4.00am was a daunting prospect made marginally easier by the fact that I didn’t slumber prior to that unnatural hour.

Having risen and dined on a nugget of cold corned beef that I discovered lurking in one of the most mysterious regions of the fridge, I considered the fact that most corned beef began life as a cow in South America, possibly Costa Rica, and taking bodily functions into account, I could possibly return it to its place of origin! You see that’s where I was headed, along with my wife, Nancy, along for the ride. I was off to present a documentary about Tapirs, an endangered beast that dwells deep in the rainforest.

The driver ‘Pat’ arrived and we lurched off into a beautiful English dawn, crisp air, blue skies,green oaks and yellow rape. This scenery would ideally have been accompanied by the music of Vaughan Williams, Elgar or Bax, but we were sadly provided with Kenny G, the anodyne, permed alto saxophonist whose formless pipings seem to leach into every corner of the flavourless world, designed to soothe and massage the listener into a false sense of security before attacking them with something unpleasant, on this occasion, presumably a head-on collision with a Norbert Dentressangle arctic! We survived though, and thanks to Kenny’s lucky tootlings, arrived at Heathrow unharmed.

We were to make a transfer in Madrid in order to get to San Jose in Costa Rica. The flight was marred only by the aircraft, which was last cleaned in 1972! The grime permeated deep into the fabric of the seats and was further sullied by the ruthless odours seeping from the toilets. I suspected that on arrival inMadrid, the Spanish authorities would be waiting to condemn the filthy Fokker!

I was pleased we wouldn’t have to hang about in Spain too long as I have always had a love/ hate relationship with the country. I love the architecture and art, Gaudi in Barcelona, Picasso and Federico Garcia Lorca, but the food I could take no account of and disregard without protest. This may be psychological, as I was once charged £300 for a lobster in Almeria having miscalculated the exchange rate. The taste of Spanish food has been particularly bitter ever since.

I also can’t forgive Phillip the Second for his Gold obsessed murderous rampages in the Americas; perhaps I should leave my xenophobic grudges behind. I shall try.

Iberia 6301 sat resolutely on the runway awaiting the green light from air traffic control. Over the tannoy drifted faint and dismal Latin melodies, presumably played to ease the tension of pre-flight for nervous passengers. It has quite the opposite effect on me; I tense up and plunge into a deep depression, which increases when the omnipresent Kenny G appears with his reedy and insipid pipe and noodles over the Latino dirge! It’s amazing where and when Kenny pops up. He surfaces and accompanies every slice of muzak worldwide,in lifts, in shopping malls, taxis and on every pre/post flight take-off/landing. Whatever the national music is, there will be a middle section featuring Kenny G or his bastard offspring!

Nancy tells me that she inadvertently witnessed a Kenny G performance when, in the middle of a staggeringly uninteresting piece, he wandered down the aisle playing a singular note that lasted for approximately 18 mindnumbing minutes, the majority of the audience slipped into deep and heavy slumber, many never to awake. When he had completed his marathon squeal he awarded himself a congratulatory and smug smile and patted himself on the back.

After 11 uneventful hours we began to descend into Costa Rica, and it began again. This time I had had enough and began to furiously kick the seat in front of me, screaming abuse at the pilot and setting fire to odd bits of paper, throwing them willy-nilly about the plane until I was subdued by a giant Welshman called Carl. I was tied up and left by the aluminium slop trolley and still the insipid mewling of Kenny G assaulted my sensitive ears. Occasionally a stewardess would wander by and kick me or hold my nose between two fingers and twist it around. Nancy’s pleas for my liberation went unheard as she too was beaten to the floor with a perfume selection box and bound to me with headphone wire.

On arrival we were shoved through baggage reclaim, whereupon we noticed that Kenny was assisting travellers spot their luggage with his ever-present horn. Thrust into a dimly lit interrogation chamber we awaited our fate. Suddenly the door was flung open and into the room lunged Kenny G himself, armed with his monstrous flute, fire and fury in his eyes and his perm vibrating in the half-light. In a high pitched chirruping voice he cried, “No one can stop me and my invasion. I am the might Kenny G, or Ken Goodwin to close friends, and you shall perish at my behest.” And with that he placed the alto sax to his bruised and scarlet lips and blew. Acid spewed from its spout and we dissolved on the spot!

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