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The Harrowing Happenings of Howie Dorough


‘My oh my, this is absolutely enchanting, Merribanks!’

‘I am delighted to hear you’re satisfied Sir, but thank Monsieur Cuddles. He was the one able to so artfully create his time travel device, enabling you to go forward in time to see the most prestigious musicians of the twentieth century: The Backstreet Boys.’

‘Ah, yes indeed’, I continued, my eyes glazed over Howie Dorough’s intoxicating form. ‘I shall ensure to give that remarkable poodle the best dog treats we can afford.’

When the next song began the crowd soon grew absolutely insatiable. Howie’s subtle tones caressed my ears in a most pleasing manner.

‘It would appear’, Mr Watersby began, devouring a burger, ‘that this next song has been henceforth titled ‘We’ve Got It Goin’ On’. He paused for a moment, ‘Got what going on, may I ask?’

Upon finishing the burger, Mr Watersby pulled out several other items of greasy confectionary. He knawed on them with reckless abandon, slobbering down his front.

After a minute or so, Merribanks appeared quite distressed. He was no longer singing along to ‘Quit Playing Games’, instead prodding my shoulder, whilst simultaneously getting crushed amongst the peasants around us. Yes, the sweaty masses were in fact unbearably annoying, and would not cease yelling about how this would make a ‘banging snipchat story, that will definitely make that hoe Kirsty jealous’, whilst shoving around some obscure rectangles of metal, which kept flashing in my eyes and obscuring my visions of Howie.

‘Sir’, Merribanks began, trembling ever so slightly, ‘I mean in no way to question your reigning authority, but was it wise to bring Mr Watersby with us? He shouldn’t be eating all that fatty food.  He does after all have most troublesome bowels. You said so yourself once.’

‘Did I? I remember no such thing.’

‘Oh yes Sir, you remember? That time with the werewolf—‘

I raised my voice over the squeals of the nearby women, ‘Now Merribanks we’ve been over this! There was no werewolf. That was merely a penguin who had excessive amounts of feathers! Just because it ate Mrs Shellersby before we could put an end to its reign of terror you thought we all had to make a colossal fuss about it!’

Merribanks looked over back at Mr Watersby who, after finishing his seventeenth burger, was looking remarkably similar to a beached whale.

‘Yes Sir, that was indeed my own misunderstanding. But Mr Watersby… you remember what happened last time when we used the time travel device to go see Lady Gaga perform on Mars…You remember…the incident.’

I sighed, Merribanks did so like to be hysterical about everything.

‘Merribanks’, I murmured, ‘for the last time, no longer being allowed within 134 astrological miles of Mars is not a problem. Now be quiet, Howie’s solo is about to begin.’

And his angelic voice stunned the masses. He was sublime, he was perfect, he was… shaking?

In fact, the whole stadium was rumbling. People were screaming, children were crying, and in the epicentre of the quake was Mr Watersby, an alarming shade of crimson.

‘Good lord no!’ I exclaimed, grabbing Merribanks by the shoulders and shoving him between me and the oncoming danger, ‘Mr Watersby, in the name of God, hold it in!’

‘Just look at all the people here’, Merribanks cried, ‘there will be so many casualties!’

Mr Watersby, a futile expression plastered over his crimson face, reached for one final bite of his burger…


‘And so, my fellow mourners,’ I solemnly declared, wiping a single tear from my eyes, ‘that is how Mr Watersby died, and ushered in the death of over 10,000 fellow people, as well as the complete set of Backstreet Boys, in what will one day in the distant future, be the worst explosive diarrhoea-related case known to fellow man.’

Merribanks, sobbing violently, placed one white rose on the varnished casket lowering into the ground, before proceeding to vigorously wipe his nose on his sleeve.

‘We can only hope that his bowels are finally at peace, together in the heavenly realm above, with our one and only saviour, Lord Howie Dorough. Amen.’


Bimblespottin and Merribanks really do get around.

So cherish those boy bands of yours, with Mr Watersby nearby they won’t be around much longer…


Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt