User avatarPay the Toll

You have to pay the toll. That’s the way it works.

In order to get past you have to stump up the money or whatever is needed. You have to satisfy the teller to avoid salmonella. You must grease the wheels to sort out your shady deals.

I am about to venture down South towards the magical, Icelandic borough of Royskopp in order to meet Sheriff Rockingham himself. I have heard terrible, terrible rumours of the gentleman who he currently lives with though. Hushed tones have informed me that Steve Steveingtons is a violent wretch. I once sent him a Superman t-shirt which he loved with all his heart. One day he wore it to the pub, somebody accidentally spilled some lager on it and the authorities are still finding bits of people weeks later, scattered around the neighbourhood. A man with a temper like this needs to be appeased.

So what do you do? I understand that Steve Steveingtons is a big fan of the Trek through the Stars, something from television. Biggles maybe? I have been daydreaming about weird things mashed together and this keeps popping into my head at work. I don’t think my pedestrian drawing skills have done it much justice, and it doesn’t look anything at all like the one in my mind, but I hope that it is enough to stop him knocking me literally into next week.

If this should be my last post let it be known that I regret nothing, not even all the Beans comics I wrote.

18 comments to Pay the Toll

  • Steve Stevingtons is likely to be delighted by this Borg imagery. I’m pretty sure it’s accurate in every way except the distressing lack of contrast.

  • Steve Stevingtons

    This is a most excellent picture. You may now visit Royksopp. Follow the rules.

  • Even though the comments above are relatively positive, Steve still drop kicked me as I entered the flat and threw me off the balcony. I woke up the next day, on the ground by some trees and school children were throwing cans of Red Bull at me.

  • The Borg Wizard was displayed on the Royksopp Penthouse fridge for a number of days, but has now been removed, because I needed the blu-tack for something else.

  • Are you really that hard up that you can’t afford more blu-tack? Come on sunshine, you expect us to believe that? I’ve seen the posh milk in your flat.

  • How dare you. You don’t know the struggles we face. You’re in no place to judge our ability to procure a versatile range of household adhesives and fixatives.

  • I am and I will, I will and I shall, I shall and I can.

    I would? Yes, I would.

    Look at you with your lack of versatile something something or other.

  • Damn you. You’re in no place to judge and there you are, judging it up. You sicken me, but in a way that doesn’t actually make me want to do much about it.

    Yes, a fitting punishment for this transgression would be for me to do nothing, so you have plenty of space to think about what you’ve done. That’ll teach you.

  • That taught me plenty but at the end I forgot it all and went back to having a go at you.

    Do you want me to send you some blu-tack? Would that help, little boy?

  • No. I don’t want your tack, regardless of colour, shade or hue. Away with your tack.

    Why don’t you just send me that fiver you’ve been meaning to put in the post and we’ll call it quits.

  • I can either send you five copies of ‘Bula Quo’ on DVD or a pack of tack. It’s up to you.

  • Can I have neither? I choose neither. Pack up your tack and stow your Quo.

  • Wasn’t that a Paul Simon song?

    “Pack up your tack, Jack,
    Stow your Quo, Jo,
    Your Lego head’s in the bin, Finn,
    Along with that Clockstoppers Dvd.”

  • That’s the one. I love that one. I’m singing it now. Can you hear me? If not I’ll sing it louder.

  • “Take a dive, Clive,
    Go drink some Pimms, Alistair Sims,
    Dry clean my leather, Trevor,
    You better listen to me”

    Classic.

  • “Just hide in a hedge, Reg
    Pretend to be Bono, Jono
    Jump right off a cliff, Cliff
    And get yourself free”

  • Nobody writes lyrics like these anymore. It brings a sanguine tear to my eye.

  • Sanguine: noun, a blood red colour.

    Are you saying my lyrics made your eyes bleed?

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