Written by Erskin Quint
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Sunday, 25 April 2010

image for Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart Want To Make "Ash-Aid" Single With The Pope
Volcanos Inspire Gothic Genius Through the Ages: Tambora in 1816 and Eyjafjallajökull today

Popular Twilight star-crossed vampyre lovers Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart seem about to make a grand gesture to help the many poor people who have suffered in the recent eruption of icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajökull, according to a source close to The Daily Scatologist.

Apparently, Robert and Kristen were relaxing at their bohemian apartment in Much Wenlock, Shropshire, enjoying a bit of well-earned respite from their hectic life of being ferally famous, sulkily sexy and crepuscularly cultish.

"It's nice to have a break from being crepuscularly cultish, sulkily sexy and ferally famous", said Robert, languishing on the mock-rococo chaise-longue chain-smoking Woodbines while reading The Vampyre by John William Polidori. His young, frail and ethereal friend, Kristen, did not answer. She was too busy sulking and gazing langorously through the mullioned window at the rolling English landscape, where their neighbour, Myfanywy Clitburglar, the S&M Lesbian farmer from Clunt Hole Farm was castrating lambs, mole-ploughing and whipping her crucified female slaves.

Our source, close to Wenlock Edge, told us that RPattz gazed, as he lounged, and that what he gazed at as he thus lounged and gazed, was the milky, moon-white skin of his little friend. The cotton smock-dress she almost wore tumbled from her bare shoulders in rustic abandon and her freshly-tinted raven-hued tresses gave her flesh the look of monumental alabaster. RPattz might then, as he peered through the pall of Woodbine-smoke, have been reminded of Hunt, Millais and Rossetti, of Lizzie Siddall and Fanny Cornforth, but he was snatch'd from his rapt reverie when Kristen sighed, and bestirred herself.

"I really got to try to take a dump", she whispered, and it was at that precise moment that Robert - as the pale olden-golden early-Spring Shropshire sunlight shone through the mullions' silken sashes - it was then that Robert saw how ashen Kristen was. "How ashen you are, babe", he said. "Constipation sure suits you."

"Suits me my sweet bunged-up ass!" was her snaky reply, as she glided away in search of the mock-Byronic bathroom they had had installed in honour of 1816, that "Year Without a Summer" when Europe had been trapped in a volcanic winter due to the eruption of Mount Tambora in Indonesia, and Percy Bysse Shelley and his lover (soon to become his wife) Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin stayed with Lord Byron at his Villa Diodati by Lake Geneva. It was in that place that the future Mary Shelley had composed her masterpiece Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, one of the original Gothic and Romantic tales that has spawned so many imitations, some good and some utterly awful and mind-bogglingly tedious and useless.

And so it was that it came to pass and was given birth to, for it was then - as he heard the bestial sounds of Kristen's constipated strainings - that Robert made the brilliant, seismically earth-moving, connections: between the bathroom and its connotations of the 1816 volcanic winter, the birth of Gothic at Villa Diodati, our very own Eyjafjallajökull-ravaged, ash-choked contemporary nightmarescape, Kristen's ashen features, Myfanywy Clitburgler and her abused slaves on the S&M farm and the Pope and his controversy-ravaged Catholic Church.

Our source - close to a straitjacket - said that these waves of revelation hit RPattz very hard. It was quite a techtonic event. He had the vapours like a Georgian spinster. But he was inspired, and his inspiration truly erupted.

And so the very next day, after RPattz and Kristen had enjoyed a lovely morning sighing in a graveyard in the mist, they had a lunch of tobacco and coke and - after Kristen's latest failed attempt to initiate a bowel movement - they started to begin to imagine what the great plan might be all about.

Robert did not frown, for that might spoil the limpid milkiness of his boy-vampyre's visage. No. But he did look concerned, as he toiled to understand how all the skeins of connections in his little brain might be tangled and untangled. What might it mean? Kristen was a great helpmate unto him. She sulked for all she was worth. But midnight came and went, and answer came there none.

It was only after RPattz remembered that if you write things down you can see them all at once, that the thing came to be born.

"Kristen!" he shouted - for his palely-loitering pal was yet again in the mock-Byronic bathroom, knickers round her slender ankles, straining to defecate as Mary Shelley must have strained to produce Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus - "Kristen!" he yelled, for it had come forth (not before time neither - Ed.) and multiplicated and cross-fertilised and proliferated within his teeming and tiny mind. For such things do go on even within the smallest cutest little brainy wainies of boys who could never have even heard of these horrid big wordies.

When Kristen returned, paler than ever, they discussed what it would be like to be constipated for ever and ever as a blocked-up vampyre-girl. Kristen was quite horrified at the prospect but Robert said "Just think what a great look you'd have - hollow-eyed and wasted. Perfect!"

And then they remembered why they were there in the first place (yeah - we all need a reminder - Ed.). And they began to plan their great scheme.

They thought of all the people who had been suffering from the fallout of the recent eruption of Eyjafjallajökull, and the transport problems due to the volcanic ash cloud that - in a miraculous parallel with 1816, the Year of Their Bathroom - had grounded all the planes.

They thought of how the poor Pope was becoming so uncool, with all the bad vibes around the place about some of his priests. They thought of their own dreams and aspirations which, had they not had to sacrifice themselves upon the High Altar of Star-Crossed Boy & Girl Vampyre Crepuscular Stardom, they might have fulfilled: I mean RPattz has of course played in rock bands on instruments such as the triangle, the tuba and the comb-and-paper ("music is my back-up plan if acting fails" he once said); and I mean Kristen had of course once pretended to be Joan Jett in a film.

And it was Kristen who actually was the first to say: "Why not let's ask the Pope if he'd be up for making a charity record with us to help the victims of Eyjafjallajökull?" Well, actually, she didn't exactly say that. She said "that volcano in Greenland, or Scotland, or wherever", but she meant Eyjafjallajökull, our source - who is close to the end of this story (Hallelujah! - Ed.) - assured us.

And that is exactly what they decided to decide to think about doing.

Next day RPattz texted the Vatican to see if they could get an audience with the Pope. He tried to get the number by visiting Much Wenlock library and looking in the Vatican City telephone directory, in case anybody is thinking "hang on - he'd never know the number: this is unrealistic; it's spoiling what has up to now been a completely convincing and compelling narrative". There was no such telephone directory, but he met a man outside the Wife-Beater's Arms who gave him a number to ring.

The Pope was too busy to text back straight away. Apparently he had a full programme of Papal Apologies to issue and was working on a big new Papal Bull - this great load of new Bull was soon to issue from the Vatican Orifice, the official who rang RPattz back said. So the Pope was too busy to go into a recording studio. This was the baleful message that they got from the Vatican.

But, after Robert made mention of some of the victims of Eyjafjallajökull, the Vatican agreed to send a Cardinal to talk things through with the sexy, shadow-haunted pair.

And it was not long before - according to our source close to exhaustion (I know how he feels - Ed.) - a Vatican Chariot (a Ford Escort van with Vatican on the side) containing one Cardinal Synne came lurching up Gibbet Lane to the bohemian Much Wenlock apartment of the world's most desirable vampyre-children.

They had coke and cigarettes on the lawn. Cardinal Synne was a small, round, world-weary, tear-stained man in small, round, world-weary, tear-stained vestments, whose piercing, bleary, shifty eyes admired the nude forms of Myfanywy Clitburglar's crucified human scarecrow female slaves in the freshly mole-ploughed fields illuminated by the evening sunlight's pale fire.

He listened, and his pig's eyes moistened as RPattz spoke passionately of the victims of Eyjafjallajökull (he actually said "that volcano in Finland", but we needn't dwell on that), many of them stranded in hostile places far from home. While Kristen went off to the bathroom to try again, he told of poor Jude Law and Sienna Miller, who were stranded in the cultural desert of Los Angeles, forced to eke a living by trading on their celebrity images.

Cardinal Synne listened sympathetically. He said that though the Pope was too busy to make a record at present, they could not rule out the idea completely. The Pope loved all the arts. After all, when he was plain Josef Alois Ratzinger, he had played in Bavarian bands and worn leather shorts with a stylish alpenstock.

Before he left, Cardinal Synne got RPattz to write down directions to the nearby St Nubile's School for Girls, where it seems that the world-weary-vestmented Cardinal had an urgent appointment. The Vatican Chariot would not start, so RPattz had to get Myfanywy Clitburgler to take a break from torturing an errant slave and tow it off with her tractor.

And Robert stood and watched the Chariot lurch off down Gibbet Lane, wondering if it was taking away their glorious dream with it. As the sky began to bruise, he felt wistful.

But wait. This was good. Was not crepuscular wistfulness and wan pondering their very raison d'etre (he didn't think "raison d'etre, or any of those words; those words are ours, but you know what we mean)?

And who was this tripping and skipping and floating across the yard like a gossamer faery elfin girl-vampyre, her sleek, ivory limbs capering like those of a true sprite of the air?

It was Kristen, blossoming as the twilight's tender balm soothed all their woes again. "I've had a crap!" she breathed into his tremulous ear. "I feel light as a feather again!"

The Pope could take his time. All was again well with Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart.

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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