The Moustachioed Gent and the Quest for Actual Adventure

on a warm fuzzy carpet alive with wakening legs, a moustachioed gent emerged from his slumber and within seconds complained, “i’m bored.”

“bbbboredzzz?”  asked the bee, yawning.

the moustachioed gent nodded.  looking around his home for inspiration he saw nothing and slumped back onto the floor.

“bbbbzzzzcause of me?”  asked the bee, sadly.  the moustachioed gent shook his head but it was impossible to deny that living inside a gigantic bee that had been turned inside-out was not part of his problem.  he spent all day within the same four fuzzy walls, constantly brushing against twitching legs and wings with no-one for company but the bee itself, whose enormous face took up the whole of one wall.

“it’s just that i want to have adventures, you know?  i want to… buy an ice-cream and see if i can eat it under water. and… i don’t know.  there’s lots of things i want to do.”

“you could go on reality tv.”

“maybe… um.”

“you could go on ten years younger.”

“what are you trying to say?”

“do you think i could go on ten years younger?”

“no, you’re a bee.”

the moustachioed gent got up and paced up and down the inside of the bee.

“bbbbzzzut what about all the word games we play?” asked the bee.  “hairy or bad?  herbs that rhyme?  eye-spy?”

“eye spy is a bit limited,” the moustachioed gent pointed out.

“HA HA HA bbbzzzz  HA HA HA bbbzzzz HA HA HA,” the bee guffawed, “HA HA bbzzz, oh, see we have fun, we have laughs.  please don’t leave me.”

the moustachioed gent continued to pace the room, running his hand over the dark yellow and black fuzz of the walls and wondered what the bee looked like from the outside.  from the outside you would just be able to see his insides, all beeish and huge.  he lived in quite a strange place he realised when he thought about it.  so he didn’t.  he had completely blanked out any memory of how he ended up here.  it wasn’t important – what was important was getting out of the bee, without hurting his feelings.

“when you think about it, this is an adventure of sorts,” said the bee.  “living inside a huge bee – that’s an adventure no one else has ever had.”

“yeah, but… i’ve kind of had this adventure now.”

there followed a brooding silence which lasted for several hours.  the moustachioed gent knew that if he wanted to escape he would have to be careful.  the bee could be a touchy so-and-so.

“how about this,” the moustachioed gent finally broke the silence.  “what if i were to crawl out of your mouth and find my way back into the outside world and once i’m there i can arrange to have you turned back the right way.  what do you reckon?”

“crawl through my mouth?  bzzzz,” the bee squirmed unhappily and the whole place shook.

“but just think – we could get you put right.  being inside-out is no life for a bee.”

“and you wouldn’t run off and leave me?”

“i promise,” the moustachioed gent promised.

“and you can get me done on the nhs?”

“i can’t promise that.”

the moustachioed gent was of the opinion that there was no time like the present for escaping his confines but the bee was keen to play one last word game and so they had a few rounds of ‘palaver or rigmarole?’  one player would describe a situation and the other would have to decide whether it was a palaver or a rigmarole.  tears flowed for the end of an era as the game drew to a close and the moustachioed gent prepared himself for his terrifying journey.

into the trembling insect maw the moustachioed gent folded himself and began to push his way back into the world outside.  he eventually emerged in his back garden, flopping out of the bee a traumatised and sodden wreck.

he had completely forgotten about his back garden and his house, his car, his family.  he looked up and remembered about weather.  how long had he been inside the inside-out bee?  he needed a shower.

clean again, the moustachioed gent stood in the back garden and stroked the tips of his moustache as he wondered aloud how best to turn the bee the right way out.  looking at him from the outside was not pretty.

“some kind of… some kind of suction… or …explorative surgery,” he shook his head, “i really don’t know.”

inside the house he reacquainted himself with the telephone and was soon explaining his problem to a gravelly-voiced man at the local vetinary practice.

“so, he’s basically a huge bee, as big as a…,” he looked once more at the strange sight of the bee outside, “…as a van, perhaps.”


“and what is the problem?”

“oh ah um, he’s kind of inside out.”

“van-sized bee turned inside out? that’s, er, no problem.  be with you in about twenty minutes.”

the moustachioed gent felt good when he returned the phone to its cradle, cheered by the fact that he was doing something to help the bee and optimistic that the vet would be able to sort out his friend.  he had visions of them winding down from this ordeal by holidaying together, the moustachioed gent driving down the motorway in his car and the bee following high above like a furry blimp.

something was bothering him though.

the vet had seemed nonplussed, almost suspiciously so.  he had not reacted to the strange request as the moustachioed gent expected.  what if the vet did not come alone but brought a team of surgeons, the army and several television crews to witness this freak show?  like ‘e.t.’, ‘splash,’ and, ‘short circuit,’ all at once.


ten minutes passed whilst the moustachioed gent tried to hitch the bee to his car – they needed to get away quickly and his small fiat was the only option.  the size of the bee and the slipperiness of his bee insides the wrong way out made attaching it very difficult indeed.  his first idea was to put the bee on the roof rack but in this position the car was in danger of being crushed.  eventually he hitched the bee to the back of the car with lots of rope, the giant bug would just have to bounce and bumble along the road behind him.

he set off as the sun set, no sign yet of the vet (or the army) and made for the motorway, to the countryside the little fiat sped with the bee bouncing behind.  the moustachioed gent could only imagine what was going on inside his old home.  endless one-player word games probably.

they were twenty minutes fled along the open road when a local vet turned up at the moustachioed gent’s house, armed with nothing but a hoover and good intentions.


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