The "Freeola Customer Forum" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
Speedily veering left around a pale wooden fence with its peephole and penknife-etched graffiti, Mister Kipper walked slap-bang into a custard pie – sladge!
Before he could utter a bewildered word in protest, his boots simultaneously extended with an inauspicious creak to the size of cricket bats. A flurry of ticky crackles rounded off the swift metamorphoses.
“Grotesquerie!” thought Kipper as he peered down, gouging the thick custard from his scrunched eyes: “Urrr,rrr,ig,ig!” he yaffed further, feeling a tinge of discomfort in his big toes.
An incoherent thought was about to drift from his pursed lips when his trousers flapped in a nonexistent gust and transformed into a smart pair of red-&-white stripy pantaloons, and a heavy black belt with a heart-shaped buckle rapidly surrounded his waist, which had somehow expanded to the size of a beer keg. His hands felt its wobbly consistency, or rather, his white gloves did, which were now so preposterously fat that his fingers were unable to feel anything.
Mister Kipper was understandably baffled, and when he noticed the up-curling hem of a charcoal-coloured trench coat and several multicoloured cushion-like buttons running down the front of his suddenly pink-spotted frilly blouse, he began to panic and shake.
He ungritted his teeth with the intention of crying for help, yet as he did so, the custard on his face hardened and began to wrap around his mouth, nose and eyes like a spontaneous bandage.
A few moments later his head was impersonating the Invisible Man (minus the shades), and he couldn’t see a stitch: “Diddlysquat!” he yelped with a pitiful muffle. Mister Kipper was in trouble – embroiled in something beyond his comprehension.
He heard a passing car pip its horn, and then laughter ranging from giggles to guffaws.
A balloon was popped inches from his outstretched arms.
Somebody kicked the seat of his pants.
What felt like a top hat was plonked on his dizzy head.
Frizzy wisps of curly hair sprouted with a sensation of pins and needles tickling his neck.
There was a whiff of candyfloss and toffee apples, and the dainty gasps and shoe-tapping about him suggested little girls were playing hopscotch.
Then came the toot of a trumpet, a crash of cymbal, and the jangle of a tambourine.
Mid all the fuss a bell clanged, somebody yelled “FORE!”, and a Wurlitzer played a hideously disjointed tune.
Mister Kipper attempted to walk, to run, to get the hell out of there, but he stumbled and tripped, plunging headfirst into what he discerned to be a sandpit. Flapping and rolling like a squirming goldfish, the laughter intensified.
Drums rolled; cymbals crashed; a whip was cracked.
Should I mention that somewhere in the hazy distance a bikini-clad lass with gale-force hair pranced on tiptoe through a maze of haystacks… yes, I think I should.
Mister Kipper somehow scrambled to his feet and began to blindly dodder, but he could only wobble like a disorientated penguin.
More laughter: belly laughs.
Pointing fingers poked him in the back; his rump was pricked with a pin.
A boot stomped in a puddle, billiard balls tapped together, and someone twanged a marble from a catapult smashing a window.
With a blink of lash Kipper flicked open an eye… and then the other eye…
BOIING went the spring of an unseen jack-in-a-box: the emerging Punchinello cackled like a dastardly raven.
Unbelievably (and I stress this word for obvious reasons) – unbelievably, Mister Kipper found himself to be seated in a squeaky leather chair in a brightly lit office facing a hook-nosed man in a night-blue suit.
“Are you alright?” the man asked, his face contorted with uneasy concern, his ears glowing like embers.
“Who are you?” said Mister Kipper all a-blur, struggling to focus on anything.
“Who are you?” parried the man, his left palm resting on a nearby telephone.
“Where – am – I?” Kipper said, slurring and dribbling, his tongue dangling like that of a sweaty dog on a summer’s day gad about.
Silence.
Kipper saw a tiny freckle-faced girl with bobbing pigtails gallop before his eyes saddled to a hickory rocking horse, her right arm twirling a lasso. She was pursuing a bounding albino creature with glowing eyes and slavering fangs. The world she was in was glitzy with slow-turning Ferris Wheels and whirling carousels. A moustachioed weightlifter raised a growling lion above his baldhead under the canopy of a Big Top.
Footfalls... freakish footfalls... monstrously looming footfalls... becoming louder, and louder, and – two burly police officers barged into the office almost unhinging the door. With determined jowls they gripped Mister Kipper by his flabby arms, pulled off his bulbous red nose, and fog-marched him out. Apart from a large pink-&-yellow dickie bow, Mister Kipper was as naked as Tarzan without the loincloth.
Through a crowded shop floor full of startled eyes and open mouths, the stern policemen dragged Kipper like a wet fish; between the automatic glass doors of a foyer they progressed onto a busy sun-drenched high street, and after a brief kafuffle (which many mistook for a staged canoodle), they bundled him into the backseat a waiting police car – its engine grumbling veiled obscenities, its sirens flashing mad.
“Phew!” huffed the man (back in the office), rubbing his elongated lizard nape, “What a to-do for a Monday morning!
Repositioning his aquamarine tie and brushing his executive cuffs, he popped his smiling hook-nosed face around his office door: “Okay people,” he said in an unruffled tone, “the show is over; just some clown; the police know him well and will deal with him accordingly. Everybody back to work!”
Before he could utter a bewildered word in protest, his boots simultaneously extended with an inauspicious creak to the size of cricket bats. A flurry of ticky crackles rounded off the swift metamorphoses.
“Grotesquerie!” thought Kipper as he peered down, gouging the thick custard from his scrunched eyes: “Urrr,rrr,ig,ig!” he yaffed further, feeling a tinge of discomfort in his big toes.
An incoherent thought was about to drift from his pursed lips when his trousers flapped in a nonexistent gust and transformed into a smart pair of red-&-white stripy pantaloons, and a heavy black belt with a heart-shaped buckle rapidly surrounded his waist, which had somehow expanded to the size of a beer keg. His hands felt its wobbly consistency, or rather, his white gloves did, which were now so preposterously fat that his fingers were unable to feel anything.
Mister Kipper was understandably baffled, and when he noticed the up-curling hem of a charcoal-coloured trench coat and several multicoloured cushion-like buttons running down the front of his suddenly pink-spotted frilly blouse, he began to panic and shake.
He ungritted his teeth with the intention of crying for help, yet as he did so, the custard on his face hardened and began to wrap around his mouth, nose and eyes like a spontaneous bandage.
A few moments later his head was impersonating the Invisible Man (minus the shades), and he couldn’t see a stitch: “Diddlysquat!” he yelped with a pitiful muffle. Mister Kipper was in trouble – embroiled in something beyond his comprehension.
He heard a passing car pip its horn, and then laughter ranging from giggles to guffaws.
A balloon was popped inches from his outstretched arms.
Somebody kicked the seat of his pants.
What felt like a top hat was plonked on his dizzy head.
Frizzy wisps of curly hair sprouted with a sensation of pins and needles tickling his neck.
There was a whiff of candyfloss and toffee apples, and the dainty gasps and shoe-tapping about him suggested little girls were playing hopscotch.
Then came the toot of a trumpet, a crash of cymbal, and the jangle of a tambourine.
Mid all the fuss a bell clanged, somebody yelled “FORE!”, and a Wurlitzer played a hideously disjointed tune.
Mister Kipper attempted to walk, to run, to get the hell out of there, but he stumbled and tripped, plunging headfirst into what he discerned to be a sandpit. Flapping and rolling like a squirming goldfish, the laughter intensified.
Drums rolled; cymbals crashed; a whip was cracked.
Should I mention that somewhere in the hazy distance a bikini-clad lass with gale-force hair pranced on tiptoe through a maze of haystacks… yes, I think I should.
Mister Kipper somehow scrambled to his feet and began to blindly dodder, but he could only wobble like a disorientated penguin.
More laughter: belly laughs.
Pointing fingers poked him in the back; his rump was pricked with a pin.
A boot stomped in a puddle, billiard balls tapped together, and someone twanged a marble from a catapult smashing a window.
With a blink of lash Kipper flicked open an eye… and then the other eye…
BOIING went the spring of an unseen jack-in-a-box: the emerging Punchinello cackled like a dastardly raven.
Unbelievably (and I stress this word for obvious reasons) – unbelievably, Mister Kipper found himself to be seated in a squeaky leather chair in a brightly lit office facing a hook-nosed man in a night-blue suit.
“Are you alright?” the man asked, his face contorted with uneasy concern, his ears glowing like embers.
“Who are you?” said Mister Kipper all a-blur, struggling to focus on anything.
“Who are you?” parried the man, his left palm resting on a nearby telephone.
“Where – am – I?” Kipper said, slurring and dribbling, his tongue dangling like that of a sweaty dog on a summer’s day gad about.
Silence.
Kipper saw a tiny freckle-faced girl with bobbing pigtails gallop before his eyes saddled to a hickory rocking horse, her right arm twirling a lasso. She was pursuing a bounding albino creature with glowing eyes and slavering fangs. The world she was in was glitzy with slow-turning Ferris Wheels and whirling carousels. A moustachioed weightlifter raised a growling lion above his baldhead under the canopy of a Big Top.
Footfalls... freakish footfalls... monstrously looming footfalls... becoming louder, and louder, and – two burly police officers barged into the office almost unhinging the door. With determined jowls they gripped Mister Kipper by his flabby arms, pulled off his bulbous red nose, and fog-marched him out. Apart from a large pink-&-yellow dickie bow, Mister Kipper was as naked as Tarzan without the loincloth.
Through a crowded shop floor full of startled eyes and open mouths, the stern policemen dragged Kipper like a wet fish; between the automatic glass doors of a foyer they progressed onto a busy sun-drenched high street, and after a brief kafuffle (which many mistook for a staged canoodle), they bundled him into the backseat a waiting police car – its engine grumbling veiled obscenities, its sirens flashing mad.
“Phew!” huffed the man (back in the office), rubbing his elongated lizard nape, “What a to-do for a Monday morning!
Repositioning his aquamarine tie and brushing his executive cuffs, he popped his smiling hook-nosed face around his office door: “Okay people,” he said in an unruffled tone, “the show is over; just some clown; the police know him well and will deal with him accordingly. Everybody back to work!”
Page:
There have been no replies to this thread yet.
Speedily veering left around a pale wooden fence with its peephole and penknife-etched graffiti, Mister Kipper walked slap-bang into a custard pie – sladge!
Before he could utter a bewildered word in protest, his boots simultaneously extended with an inauspicious creak to the size of cricket bats. A flurry of ticky crackles rounded off the swift metamorphoses.
“Grotesquerie!” thought Kipper as he peered down, gouging the thick custard from his scrunched eyes: “Urrr,rrr,ig,ig!” he yaffed further, feeling a tinge of discomfort in his big toes.
An incoherent thought was about to drift from his pursed lips when his trousers flapped in a nonexistent gust and transformed into a smart pair of red-&-white stripy pantaloons, and a heavy black belt with a heart-shaped buckle rapidly surrounded his waist, which had somehow expanded to the size of a beer keg. His hands felt its wobbly consistency, or rather, his white gloves did, which were now so preposterously fat that his fingers were unable to feel anything.
Mister Kipper was understandably baffled, and when he noticed the up-curling hem of a charcoal-coloured trench coat and several multicoloured cushion-like buttons running down the front of his suddenly pink-spotted frilly blouse, he began to panic and shake.
He ungritted his teeth with the intention of crying for help, yet as he did so, the custard on his face hardened and began to wrap around his mouth, nose and eyes like a spontaneous bandage.
A few moments later his head was impersonating the Invisible Man (minus the shades), and he couldn’t see a stitch: “Diddlysquat!” he yelped with a pitiful muffle. Mister Kipper was in trouble – embroiled in something beyond his comprehension.
He heard a passing car pip its horn, and then laughter ranging from giggles to guffaws.
A balloon was popped inches from his outstretched arms.
Somebody kicked the seat of his pants.
What felt like a top hat was plonked on his dizzy head.
Frizzy wisps of curly hair sprouted with a sensation of pins and needles tickling his neck.
There was a whiff of candyfloss and toffee apples, and the dainty gasps and shoe-tapping about him suggested little girls were playing hopscotch.
Then came the toot of a trumpet, a crash of cymbal, and the jangle of a tambourine.
Mid all the fuss a bell clanged, somebody yelled “FORE!”, and a Wurlitzer played a hideously disjointed tune.
Mister Kipper attempted to walk, to run, to get the hell out of there, but he stumbled and tripped, plunging headfirst into what he discerned to be a sandpit. Flapping and rolling like a squirming goldfish, the laughter intensified.
Drums rolled; cymbals crashed; a whip was cracked.
Should I mention that somewhere in the hazy distance a bikini-clad lass with gale-force hair pranced on tiptoe through a maze of haystacks… yes, I think I should.
Mister Kipper somehow scrambled to his feet and began to blindly dodder, but he could only wobble like a disorientated penguin.
More laughter: belly laughs.
Pointing fingers poked him in the back; his rump was pricked with a pin.
A boot stomped in a puddle, billiard balls tapped together, and someone twanged a marble from a catapult smashing a window.
With a blink of lash Kipper flicked open an eye… and then the other eye…
BOIING went the spring of an unseen jack-in-a-box: the emerging Punchinello cackled like a dastardly raven.
Unbelievably (and I stress this word for obvious reasons) – unbelievably, Mister Kipper found himself to be seated in a squeaky leather chair in a brightly lit office facing a hook-nosed man in a night-blue suit.
“Are you alright?” the man asked, his face contorted with uneasy concern, his ears glowing like embers.
“Who are you?” said Mister Kipper all a-blur, struggling to focus on anything.
“Who are you?” parried the man, his left palm resting on a nearby telephone.
“Where – am – I?” Kipper said, slurring and dribbling, his tongue dangling like that of a sweaty dog on a summer’s day gad about.
Silence.
Kipper saw a tiny freckle-faced girl with bobbing pigtails gallop before his eyes saddled to a hickory rocking horse, her right arm twirling a lasso. She was pursuing a bounding albino creature with glowing eyes and slavering fangs. The world she was in was glitzy with slow-turning Ferris Wheels and whirling carousels. A moustachioed weightlifter raised a growling lion above his baldhead under the canopy of a Big Top.
Footfalls... freakish footfalls... monstrously looming footfalls... becoming louder, and louder, and – two burly police officers barged into the office almost unhinging the door. With determined jowls they gripped Mister Kipper by his flabby arms, pulled off his bulbous red nose, and fog-marched him out. Apart from a large pink-&-yellow dickie bow, Mister Kipper was as naked as Tarzan without the loincloth.
Through a crowded shop floor full of startled eyes and open mouths, the stern policemen dragged Kipper like a wet fish; between the automatic glass doors of a foyer they progressed onto a busy sun-drenched high street, and after a brief kafuffle (which many mistook for a staged canoodle), they bundled him into the backseat a waiting police car – its engine grumbling veiled obscenities, its sirens flashing mad.
“Phew!” huffed the man (back in the office), rubbing his elongated lizard nape, “What a to-do for a Monday morning!
Repositioning his aquamarine tie and brushing his executive cuffs, he popped his smiling hook-nosed face around his office door: “Okay people,” he said in an unruffled tone, “the show is over; just some clown; the police know him well and will deal with him accordingly. Everybody back to work!”
Before he could utter a bewildered word in protest, his boots simultaneously extended with an inauspicious creak to the size of cricket bats. A flurry of ticky crackles rounded off the swift metamorphoses.
“Grotesquerie!” thought Kipper as he peered down, gouging the thick custard from his scrunched eyes: “Urrr,rrr,ig,ig!” he yaffed further, feeling a tinge of discomfort in his big toes.
An incoherent thought was about to drift from his pursed lips when his trousers flapped in a nonexistent gust and transformed into a smart pair of red-&-white stripy pantaloons, and a heavy black belt with a heart-shaped buckle rapidly surrounded his waist, which had somehow expanded to the size of a beer keg. His hands felt its wobbly consistency, or rather, his white gloves did, which were now so preposterously fat that his fingers were unable to feel anything.
Mister Kipper was understandably baffled, and when he noticed the up-curling hem of a charcoal-coloured trench coat and several multicoloured cushion-like buttons running down the front of his suddenly pink-spotted frilly blouse, he began to panic and shake.
He ungritted his teeth with the intention of crying for help, yet as he did so, the custard on his face hardened and began to wrap around his mouth, nose and eyes like a spontaneous bandage.
A few moments later his head was impersonating the Invisible Man (minus the shades), and he couldn’t see a stitch: “Diddlysquat!” he yelped with a pitiful muffle. Mister Kipper was in trouble – embroiled in something beyond his comprehension.
He heard a passing car pip its horn, and then laughter ranging from giggles to guffaws.
A balloon was popped inches from his outstretched arms.
Somebody kicked the seat of his pants.
What felt like a top hat was plonked on his dizzy head.
Frizzy wisps of curly hair sprouted with a sensation of pins and needles tickling his neck.
There was a whiff of candyfloss and toffee apples, and the dainty gasps and shoe-tapping about him suggested little girls were playing hopscotch.
Then came the toot of a trumpet, a crash of cymbal, and the jangle of a tambourine.
Mid all the fuss a bell clanged, somebody yelled “FORE!”, and a Wurlitzer played a hideously disjointed tune.
Mister Kipper attempted to walk, to run, to get the hell out of there, but he stumbled and tripped, plunging headfirst into what he discerned to be a sandpit. Flapping and rolling like a squirming goldfish, the laughter intensified.
Drums rolled; cymbals crashed; a whip was cracked.
Should I mention that somewhere in the hazy distance a bikini-clad lass with gale-force hair pranced on tiptoe through a maze of haystacks… yes, I think I should.
Mister Kipper somehow scrambled to his feet and began to blindly dodder, but he could only wobble like a disorientated penguin.
More laughter: belly laughs.
Pointing fingers poked him in the back; his rump was pricked with a pin.
A boot stomped in a puddle, billiard balls tapped together, and someone twanged a marble from a catapult smashing a window.
With a blink of lash Kipper flicked open an eye… and then the other eye…
BOIING went the spring of an unseen jack-in-a-box: the emerging Punchinello cackled like a dastardly raven.
Unbelievably (and I stress this word for obvious reasons) – unbelievably, Mister Kipper found himself to be seated in a squeaky leather chair in a brightly lit office facing a hook-nosed man in a night-blue suit.
“Are you alright?” the man asked, his face contorted with uneasy concern, his ears glowing like embers.
“Who are you?” said Mister Kipper all a-blur, struggling to focus on anything.
“Who are you?” parried the man, his left palm resting on a nearby telephone.
“Where – am – I?” Kipper said, slurring and dribbling, his tongue dangling like that of a sweaty dog on a summer’s day gad about.
Silence.
Kipper saw a tiny freckle-faced girl with bobbing pigtails gallop before his eyes saddled to a hickory rocking horse, her right arm twirling a lasso. She was pursuing a bounding albino creature with glowing eyes and slavering fangs. The world she was in was glitzy with slow-turning Ferris Wheels and whirling carousels. A moustachioed weightlifter raised a growling lion above his baldhead under the canopy of a Big Top.
Footfalls... freakish footfalls... monstrously looming footfalls... becoming louder, and louder, and – two burly police officers barged into the office almost unhinging the door. With determined jowls they gripped Mister Kipper by his flabby arms, pulled off his bulbous red nose, and fog-marched him out. Apart from a large pink-&-yellow dickie bow, Mister Kipper was as naked as Tarzan without the loincloth.
Through a crowded shop floor full of startled eyes and open mouths, the stern policemen dragged Kipper like a wet fish; between the automatic glass doors of a foyer they progressed onto a busy sun-drenched high street, and after a brief kafuffle (which many mistook for a staged canoodle), they bundled him into the backseat a waiting police car – its engine grumbling veiled obscenities, its sirens flashing mad.
“Phew!” huffed the man (back in the office), rubbing his elongated lizard nape, “What a to-do for a Monday morning!
Repositioning his aquamarine tie and brushing his executive cuffs, he popped his smiling hook-nosed face around his office door: “Okay people,” he said in an unruffled tone, “the show is over; just some clown; the police know him well and will deal with him accordingly. Everybody back to work!”
Page: