SOCKO

SOCKO!

Interior: suburban kitchen

Noltin:	Hey Snorquil, are you coming to the school disco tonight?
Snorquil:	I really want to Noltin, but look at my best disco trousers! (CU bright yellow trousers with huge red/brown stain on thighs) I guess I should have had a little less chilli sauce on my kebab! (looks downcast) Paminard is NEVER going to dance with me in THESE strides!
N:	Not to worry Snorquil, there's plenty of time to wash them!
S:	But I can't! Look what happened to my dad's new paisley kilt when he washed it! (Holds up kilt) It's turned completely grey!
N:	That's because you're still using old-fashioned Brandex! Here, try this!
	N hands S new SOCKO! washing powder
	Go on, ram them in the machine with a dollop of this!
	(CU N&S ramming trousers into machine, pouring dollop of SOCKO! into powder tray. CU washing tumbling in drum. CUT to S holding up clean trousers. He and N are both wearing sunglasses)
S:	Wow! I can hardly believe it! They're an EVEN BRIGHTER YELLOW than before!
N:	Now you're sure to dazzle Paminard at the disco!
Both:	LITERALLY! (They laugh)
VO:	Other washing powders fade your colours and make great big holes in your clothes, but only SOCKO! contains huenhansrin making them brighter than before!
	(Cut back to S&N. S is wearing his even brighter yellow trousers)
N:	Let's get going Snorquil! We'd better stop off at the offie for a bottle of cider!
S:	We’d better stop off at the chemist too! (Winks)
VO:	SOCKO! Also enhances your love life!

"Oh, Jesse Rymbo, how long has it been since we last dressed up in our coloured shirts and took the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils?"

"It has been as long as the time from now back to the last time we dressed up in our coloured shirts and took the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils, Ingram Flynn."

"Which is how long, Jesse Rymbo?"

"As long as the length of time since last we dressed up in our coloured shirts and took the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils, until now, Ingram Flynn."

"And when was the last time you gave anyone a direct answer, Jesse Rymbo?"

"Are you daring to criticise my phraseology, Ingram Flynn?"

"I would not be a person of such rudeness, Jesse Rymbo, but you are not, after all, so you say, the leader of our group, and I therefore feel that we are all within our rights to indulge in a little joshing at the foibles of our peers."

Jesse Rymbo put on his sulking face for half a second, as etiquette demanded. Then, the formalities out of the way, he continued the conversation.

"Then ask of me again the original question, Ingram Flynn, and I shall answer thee to the best of my ability."

"Very well, Jesse Rymbo." He cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

"OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH JESSEEEEE RYYYMBBOOOOO"

"It is not necessary to proclaim, Ingram Flynn. Normal tones will suffice."

"Your pardon, Jesse Rymbo. I am but a drummist. Ahem. Oh, Jesse Rymbo, how long has it been since last we dressed up in our coloured shirts and took the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils?"

"It has been a very long, long time, Ingram Flynn. It has been long enough for a frisson of expectation to have built up in the local populace concerning the next time we will dress up in our coloured shirts and take the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils."

"Which reminds me of another question I wish to pose at a future juncture, Jesse Rymbo. But for the nonce I shall continue with my second planned query, which is this:

"Oh, Jesse Rymbo, how long has it been since we last washed our coloured shirts?"

"I think I see where you are going with this, Ingram Flynn. Although I do not recall exactly, it has been longer than the time since last we last dressed up in our coloured shirts and took the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils."

"As I suspected, Jesse Rymbo, for I know my own coloured shirt has been lying in the pile of laundry I maintain beside my bed ever since I threw it there after the last time we dressed up in our coloured shirts and took the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils, and is far too rancid with sweat to even consider wearing the next time we dress up in our coloured shirts and take the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils. And oh, Jesse Rymbo, why has it been so long since we laundered our coloured shirts?"

"It has been so long, Ingram Flynn, because we habitually clean our clothes by wearing them as we bathe, which has a regrettable tendency to fade colours owing to the fiercely astringent cleansing gel we are forced to employ to remove the rock'n'roll grime accrued by our rock'n'roll lifestyle. Our coloured shirts are far too precious and integral an ingredient in our group identity and ethos to entrust to such an agent."

"Then why, Jesse Rymbo, do we not use SOCKO!, which not only avoids the fading of colours, but actually makes them even brighter? Then we could attend to the laundering of our coloured shirts ourselves, rather than waiting for your mum to offer her services, using whatever powder she does that is kind to colours."

"You may as well ask, Ingram Flynn, why we do not ask Mummy what powder she uses, and use that."

"Yes, Jesse Rymbo, why have we never done that?"

"Because we are bachelors, Ingram Flynn. Yes, all five of us."

"I see, Jesse Rymbo. But if we were to wash our coloured shirts ourselves, we could do it whenever we wanted, and they would be more often fit to wear, so that we could dress up in them and take the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils with greater frequency."

"An intriguing proposition, Ingram Flynn, although not very rock'n'roll. Yet perhaps it would become rock'n'roll, the washing of the coloured shirts, if it facilitated the greater regularity of the performing of rock'n'roll. Nevertheless, we must be wary of falling for the hyperbole of advertising. It would be an apostrophe of the greatest magnitude if we were to subject our prized coloured shirts to the allegedly hyper-effective qualities of SOCKO! only to discover on extracting our treasures from the washing machine that we have, in fact, surrendered it to the ravages of a substandard product."

"On the other hand, if we do not make the attempt, Jesse Rymbo, we can only continue to leave our coloured shirts exposed to the corrosive effects of our rock'n'roll perspiration for as long as it takes for your dear mother to decide to take them in for treatment."

They sat in contemplation for a while. When he considered he had mused sufficiently, Jesse Rymbo sat up decisively.

"Very well, Ingram Flynn! We shall conduct a test run on our patterned rehearsal shirts, of which we have spares, and judge the wonder washing powder's performance. Only then shall we formulate a further plan of action."

"A masterly strategy, Jesse Rymbo! But, Jesse Rymbo…"

"Another question, Ingram Flynn?"

"Yes, Jesse Rymbo. Why do we not obtain spares also of our coloured performance shirts?"

For a second Jesse Rymbo looked a little shifty. But there was no hesitation in his answer, such as it was.

"All will become clear in due course, Ingram Flynn. Suffice to say our coloured shirts are… special."

"Of course, Jesse Rymbo. I, for one, hold my coloured shirt in the highest esteem."

Jesse Rymbo appeared to be about to ask a question of his own. Ingram Flynn unnecessaried it.

"It is very happy in the laundry pile."

There was a pause.

"Oh, Jesse Rymbo."

"Ask away, Ingram Flynn."

"How can we test wash our patterned shirts in the new wonder washing powder SOCKO! when we not only have no SOCKO!, but also no washing machine?"

Jesse Rymbo considered.

"There are, I hear, public establishments known as laundrettes where those in our position may venture to use the machines there supplied, Ingram Flynn. But I feel we should conduct our trial under laboratory conditions, free from the pressures of spectators. Let us take our gig money, which will, I realise, be a much greater amount in the future if this project bears fruit and we are able to dress up in our coloured shirts and take the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils with greater incidence than heretofore, and use it to buy not only a box of SOCKO!, but also a washing machine with which to apply it."

"I am ready to rock'n'roll, Jesse Rymbo, in the non-literal sense, so that I may the sooner be ready to rock'n'roll in the literal! And I shall open the discussion which will surely occupy our travelling time by beginning thus: Oh, Jesse Rymbo!"

"I feel a further enquiry on the way, Ingram Flynn. What is it this time?"

"Is it really necessary, O Jesse Rymbo, to address each other by full name at some point during every speech, to which interrogation I append another, that being oh, Jesse Rymbo, is it required that we speak at all times in such stilted tones as I am using now?"

"Both questions can be answered at once, Ingram Flynn, by the simple statement: Yes."

"Oh, Jesse Rymbo, why is it so?"

"My apologies, Ingram Flynn. The real answer is: No. We do it because we enjoy it. And we can give it up any time we like. Honest."

The journey to the supermarket was marked by further conversation in the same stilted tones, which they both enjoyed, so that the yards flew by. Once among the aisles, the search for the coveted product was on.

"Where, oh Jesse Rymbo, might the SOCKO! be kept?"

"We must scan the hanging signs provided for shopping navigation, Ingram Flynn."

"'Fruit and Vegetables'," read the literate Ingram Flynn. "Is washing powder either a fruit or a vegetable, Jesse Rymbo?"

"I think not, Ingram Flynn," replied the educated Jesse Rymbo, "I believe it may be among the potted meats."

"The potted meats, Jesse Rymbo?"

"Ha ha, no, Ingram Flynn! I am jesting with you! It is a fish."

But there was no SOCKO! at the fish counter.

"It appears I was mistaken, Ingram Flynn."

"I am glad, Jesse Rymbo; not that you have been proved fallible, but that our coloured shirts will not be imbued with such a ponk as I detect in this area."

"I am in agreement, Ingram Flynn. We shall try the section marked Laundry Aids, for I have had a sudden insight into the connection between the word 'laundry' and the doing of laundry."

They proceeded in the suggested fashion.

"It is here, Jesse Rymbo! The wonder washing powder SOCKO! And so much of it! Let us buy it all!"

"Do not allow your excitement to get the better of you, Ingram Flynn! One box should be enough for the time being, and considered frugality will perhaps allow us enough change to purchase a washing machine."

"How much change will that be, Jesse Rymbo?"

Jesse Rymbo examined the price ticket and subtracted it from the available monies.

"£1.38, Ingram Flynn."

"I suspect that will not be enough for a washing machine, Jesse Rymbo."

"You are right, Ingram Flynn. We have encountered an unexpected setback."

"Oh woe am we!"

Jesse Rymbo waited sympathetically for his companion to overcome his distress.

"O Jesse Rymbo."

"Well done, Ingram Flynn. There is no need to let our standards slip just because we have run into a tiny problem."

"Jesse Rymbo! Oh Jesse Rymbo! Jesse Jesse Rymbo!"

"On the other hand, Ingram Flynn, there is no need to go overboard."

"No, Jesse Rymbo! Look!"

Jesse Rymbo turned to see the object of Ingram Flynn's excitement.

"It is a display of Mightibrite, a rival washing powder, priced at £1.38, Ingram Flynn. But we already have our allotted and avowedly superior washing powder. We do not need another, lesser type, especially as we are still without a washing machine to use it in."

"Look higher, Jesse Rymbo! Look at the big hanging sign!"

"'Free Washing Machine with every packet of Mightibrite'! Well spotted, Ingram Flynn! I'll get the packet, you get the machine!"

Jesse Rymbo snagged the Mightibrite and Ingram Flynn hefted at a washing machine from the ranks beside.

"Arghoohah! Jesse Rymbo! It is a trifle weighty even for the muscle accrued from my drumming!"

"Why is it so heavy, Ingram Flynn?"

Ingram Flynn investigated, lifting the detachable work-surface which comprised the top of the machine.

"There is a bloody great concrete block inside it, Jesse Rymbo."

"What purpose can a bloody great concrete block serve in a washing machine, Ingram Flynn? I propose we remove it."

"It is screwed in with a bloody great screw, Jesse Rymbo. Fortunately, as a drummist, I always carry with me a drum key, a pair of drumsticks and a bloody great screwdriver."

The removal of the concrete block took but a couple of minutes. Without the washing machine attached, the block was light enough for Ingram Flynn to haul out of the machine and drop onto his foot, although he resisted the temptation and laid it carefully on the floor, confounding expectations to less than humorous effect. Without the concrete block attached, the washing machine was light enough for the well-muscled drummer to carry on his shoulder. The journey home was made the shorter by an interesting discussion in stilted tones concerning what possible reason a manufacturer could have for installing a concrete block in an otherwise conveniently portable washing machine, reaching the conclusion as they reached Gerbil House that it was to gain extra income from the employment and hiring out of Appliance Moving Men. Oh, the wickedness of capitalism!

And so came the time when, machine installed as per instructions, Jesse Rymbo formally opened the Project that would enable the group to dress up in their clean coloured shirts and take the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils as often as their little hearts and oh so many fans desired.

"Let us sound the sound that will summon the other members of the Rockin' Gerbils from the several corners of the house, Ingram Flynn, that we may commence the bold experiment that will enable us to dress up in our coloured shirts and take the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils as often as our little hearts and oh so many fans desire!"

"I will gladly do so, Jesse Rymbo, for I am keen to see the results of our venture!"

He pressed the button on the band froghorn.

PAAAAARRRRRRRRRPPPP! it went, resounding about the kitchen and infiltrating with its tendrils all niches of the house.

Isambard Rieod ceased his preening before the mirror, hastily detaching his new goatee chinwig and slotting it into his secret suitcase with all his other false beards before kicking it under the bed, and hurried to see what was afoot. Fueodle joined him on the landing, still perusing the latest issue of Girls'n'Guitars. He claimed he bought it to oggle the girls, but everybody knew it was just an excuse to admire the aesthetically pleasing curves and swerves of the axes with which they posed.

Grant Lance abseiled past them down the stairwell. He was always playing at being one of the more action-oriented secret agents, and had even changed his name accordingly. He watched too many films; it was common knowledge that the life of a true spy was much more mundane, sitting in sewers with headphones on listening to the tapped phones of minor political figures in a bid to catch them in some financial indiscretion.

Finally they were all assembled, and Jesse Rymbo consulted his stopwatch.

"An excellent time, Rockin' Gerbils, especially Grant Lance, whose obsession with the more dramatic aspects of espionage is paying dividends."

"Oh, Jesse Rymbo, why have the personnel of the musical beat group the Rockin' Gerbils been convened in the kitchen of the house they share in the classic manner of pop groups on the television?" queried Isambard Rieod.

The Plan was outlined in stilted tones and with much addressing by full name, as befitted an undertaking of such vision and potential, to a general reaction of an applauding nature and great excitement. In a trice, the patterned rehearsal shirts were brought, and inserted into the drum. Ingram Flynn, as instigator of the inspiration, was honoured with the task of pouring the magic powder into the receptacle provided for the purpose.

"Exercise great caution, Ingram Flynn," advised the ever-alert Fueodle, "for it would be all too easy to confuse the two boxes, both of which are brightly coloured with illustrations of laundry upon them."

"Not to worry, O Fueodle," Ingram Flynn assured him, "The picture on the appropriate box, which I am holding in readiness, is of a tidy stack of towels in primary colours, whilst the one relating to the probably inferior product is of sheets on a washing line. The legend upon the latter, furthermore, declares that Mightibrite is Best for Whites, rendering a mistake highly improbable."

"Then proceed with the application, Ingram Flynn," encouraged Jesse Rymbo, "and then I suggest you proceed to the bathroom, bearing with you said other powder, and apply it to yourself, for I perceive that in addition to your unfeasibly unsightly appearance, you are also incorrigibly filthy."

"Alas, this is true, Jesse Rymbo," admitted Ingram Flynn, as the precious cleanser was dumped in the slot, "the reason being that I am in empathy with my coloured shirt, and have not washed myself since the last time I dressed up in it and took the stage as a Rockin' Gerbil."

And so, while the other four Gerbils settled down with coffee to watch their patterned shirts spin around through the porthole, the traditionally grimy drummer ran a nice hot bath.

"How much of this Mightibrite shall I put in, Ingram Flynn?" he asked himself. "Well… I am a drummist, so I shall do the rock'n'roll thing, and use the lot. Also, now I have removed the white shirt and black trousers I have been wearing since the day after I last dressed up in my coloured shirt and took the stage as a Rockin' Gerbil, I have seen the state of my admittedly hideous body and believe that the full amount will be called for."

So he emptied the packet into the running water and went "Ooh ah Ingram Flynn!" as he dipped a toe. Finally, after careful integration of hot and cold, he was able to settle completely into the foaming mass, unaware that downstairs the washing of the patterned shirts was taking a worrying turn.

"Is it supposed to dance like that, any Rockin' Gerbil who feels he has a likely answer?" Isambard Rieod asked the kitchen at large.

"I have never seen a situation on the television or at the cinema where a washing machine was taken by the terpsichorean muse in such a fashion, Isambard Rieod," responded Fueodle.

"It is behaving worryingly like the Megadeath Destructor Android of the fiendish Professor Peril which I had so much trouble overcoming during the Affair of the Megadeath Destructor Android, Rockin' Gerbils," commented Grant Lance.

"And how did you finally defeat said machine, Grant Lance?" challenged Jesse Rymbo, as it was always best to humour the rhythm guitarist cum keyboard player when he made one of these statements.

"I was fortunate enough to have the aid of the Professor's erstwhile trusted lieutenant, Lusciosa Basquette, Jesse Rymbo," replied Grant Lance, "She knew where the off switch was."

"That is our answer, Grant Lance," Isambard Rieod interjected, "Should the motion of the machine become too frantic, we need only lunge for the power switch! We may relax, yet keep a wary eye upon proceedings. Who's for a game of cards?"

Ingram Flynn was in no need of a game of cards to relax, buoyant in the suds, which had risen about him so as to cut off the rest of the bathroom from view. He imagined it was like being in an isolation tank as he watched the pretty twinkling of the bathroom light through the bubbles and allowed it to lull him to sleep while the active ingredients went to work upon his accumulated grime.

"Snap, O Rockin' Gerbils!"

"You win yet another pile of cards, Fueodle, with your lightning reactions. How do you do it?"

"One develops such reactions, Isambard Rieod, by playing guitar solos over ragged improvised chord sequences such as one might encounter in jass muzik, an exercise I undertook regularly in my learning days to improve my technique. Snap!"

"Then how is it, Fueodle, that your playing is currently so basic as to verge on incompetence?"

"It is my choice, Grant Lance, in order that it may sit comfortably with the rock'n'roll exuberance of the Rockin' Gerbils. Snap!"

"We believe you, Fueodle."

Splat!

"Splat, Jesse Rymbo? Are you changing the rules as we play?"

"The splat was not of my doing, Grant Lance. In fact, I doubt that such a sound could be made by human means, and as Ingram Flynn is currently at his toilet, I assume that another factor in our environment must be responsible. I believe we all have similar suspicions as to the direction in which to look."

Indeed they did, and look they did, and all in the same direction it was. The washing machine was chugging and frugging, and frothing at the mouth. It had already spat at the ceiling, as evidenced by the soapy stalactite sluggishly descending and forming into a teardrop. The machine was beginning to bounce against the walls, shedding plaster flakes into the foam that was already creeping across the floor.

"I am frightened, Jesse Rymbo!"

"I also, Isambard Rieod!"

"Oh, Rockin' Gerbils," mused Fueodle, "This is not normal behaviour for a washing machine, not even an Tepimote as I perceive this one to be, for normally they are rendered staid and near immobile by the insetting of an heavy concrete block to discourage capering."

Jesse Rymbo declined to comment at this juncture, particularly as the machine chose this moment to settle. Instead, after a collective sigh of relief, he spoke calming words.

"It seems to have settled down, O Rockin' Gerbils. The unnerving experience is over."

But Fueodle, son of a washing machine repair man, knew differently.

"I fear not, Jesse Rymbo."

"What mean you, Fueodle?"

"I believe it is about to begin… the spin cycle. O Jesse Rymbo. It would be best if we were to lunge for the power switch now, for the spin cycle is one of great violence, especially on the Tepimote."

"Who among us shall lunge, Rockin' Gerbils?"

"As man of action, this is my domain, Jesse Rymbo," quoth Grant Lance, rising. "Lunging for the power switch… now!"

But it was too late. As the prospective hero swooped across the room, the Tepimote began its dreaded spin, still spouting forth suds as Ingram Flynn had employed his habitual technique of emptying the entire box of powder into it, which was more than enough to overcome the draining part of the cycle. It leapt into the air furiously, knocking Grant Lance back and effectively providing a shield against any attempt to reach the power socket.

"It's the Affair of the Dancing Doodad all over again, Rockin' Gerbils! And this time I have no bazooka!"

"Return to us now, Grant Lance! Do not endanger yourself further, for your chonking rhythm guitar and wide spectrum of keyboard sounds is essential to the Rockin' Gerbils sound!"

"I comply, Jesse Rymbo, for the greater good, yet we must retreat further if we are not to be lost in bubbles!"

A great white wall was indeed approaching them across the kitchen floor, spreading out on all sides. Already the highly motivated Tepimote was disappearing within it, the Gerbils themselves threatening to do the same.

"At least if we stay far enough back, Jesse Rymbo, we are not in danger of being clonked by the machine itself, for it is restrained by the meagre length of its power cord."

"This would be true, Isambard Rieod, were it not for the fact that I plugged it in to our longest extension cord, in case our television broke down and we were in need of a substitute to fill the vacant corner in the front room to which our eyes are habitually drawn in our mellower moments, and engage them with its swirling motions."

"An inspired idea, Jesse Rymbo," complimented Fueodle, "marred only by the fact that you forgot we have more convenient power outlets in the front room itself should that situation arise."

"Oh fool am I, Fueodle! I have placed us in great danger! Even now we are being enveloped by foam! And it occurs to me that our colleague Ingram Flynn should be informed immediately! I shall run upstairs and do so while the rest of you battle for survival!"

"I have a better idea, Jesse Rymbo. Let us all run upstairs where surely the whirling Tepimote monster will be unable to follow us, having no legs for the steps!"

"Let it be so, Isambard Rieod! Can anyone see which way is the kitchen door through the soapy miasma which envelops us?"

"Follow the sound of my voice, Rockin' Gerbils! It is I, Grant Lance, who am way ahead of you! Harken to my stilted tones and move in their direction! I continue to speak for the purpose, going blah de blah blah O Rockin' Gerbils! Is that your hurried footprints I hear, or the thumping of the machine as it dances toward me, my ignorance being due to the fact that all I can see is shadowy forms through the twinkly soapiness?"

"It is both, Grant Lance!" cried Jesse Rymbo as he rushed past, pursued by the remaining two refugees, and just a little behind, a gargling fiend gyrating threateningly, and spewing ever more spume as it came.

"May I make a suggestion, O Rockin' Gerbils?"

"All plans are welcome under the circumstances, Fueodle."

"Let us head for the front door and freedom, Rockin' Gerbils."

"O Fueodle! Where is the front door?"

The lather had beaten them to it, and almost filled the hallway now, with no sign of subsiding. And all the time, the thumpetty-thump of their pursuer echoed through the whiteness.

"The only way is up, Rockin' Gerbils! To the stairway and safety!"

Lacking a clear passage to the foot of the stairs, they climbed over the banister and pulled themselves out of the soap. The Thing continued to roar below them as they regrouped on the landing.

"We are safe for now, Rockin' Gerbils. Should we inform Ingram Flynn, who is still abath on the floor above us, or allow him to continue uninterrupted in his ablutions? No need to worry him unduly."

"I think, Isambard Rieod, that he should be informed. Perhaps he will have some helpful suggestion, especially considering that he was the one who removed the concrete block in the first place."

"He what, Jesse Rymbo?" Fueodle was aghast. "Oh that Ingram Flynn! I shall go, for I wish to have a word with him!"

The affronted Fueodle ascended the flight and stood outside the bathroom door. There was a trickle of water from under it.

"Oh Ingram Flynn!" he called.

On the other side of the door, the one so invoked awoke from his lavatorial slumber. He was dismayed to feel pressure upon his nose, and to be observing a polystyrene ceiling tile from very close quarters.

"Oh Fueodle!" he responded, "I appear to have succumbed to sleep leaving the taps running! I am floating in a sea of lather!"

"Then you will understand the problem I have awoken you to face, Ingram Flynn! Open this door immediately that I may berate you to offer a solution!"

"I would not advise the opening of the door, Fueodle, until I have swum down and pulled the plug."

"There is no time to wait, Ingram Flynn! Even now our Gerbil colleagues arrive in flight from the rising tide!"

He pushed and pushed as the aforementioned arrived on his level, but to no avail.

"There appears to be some pressure on the other side preventing me from opening this door, Rockin' Gerbils."

"One side, Fueodle. Let me, man of action, Grant Lance, apply myself."

With a great leap and a kwak pu kick, the avowed agent shattered the door into splintery shards.

The ascending cloud of SOCKO! suds poked its metaphorical nose above floor level ready for its assault on the final tier of the House of Gerbil, only to be met by a sudden flood of a bathroom's worth of its rival Mightibrite. The Gerbils themselves were swept up in the resulting deluge.

"Aaaarrrggghhhh Jesse Rymbo!" they cried, and "Aaaaggghhhh Ingram Flynn!" and so on, all swirly whirly round in a tsoapy tsunami. For many years they tumbled, although it was only about thirty seconds, swept about in the cleansing rinse. Somewhere in the heart of the tumult sparks were seen and a small explosion heard. The washing machine had shorted out in the moistness.

Finally the water was gone, down the stairs, out the door and into the drain. All that remained was for the Gerbils to bat the lather out of the way and locate each other. Within moments they were assembled in a small clearing, bubbles popping around them in the slowly subsiding soapiness.

"Oh, Rockin' Gerbils. Where is Ingram Flynn? Has he been washed down the drain?"

"I am here, Jesse Rymbo, having held on to the shower rail fast against the tide."

"Perhaps it would have been better, Ingram Flynn, if you had indeed been drainbound, for I, Fueodle, feel beholden to castigate you for your wanton removal of a certain concrete block. But I somehow find it more important to advise you to find a towel to clothe your disturbing nakedness."

"Excuse me, Rockin' Gerbils." Ingram Flynn complied.

"Now, now, Rockin' Gerbils," Jesse Rymbo appeased, "Let us not bicker. We have all learned something here today, even if it is only the purpose of concrete blocks. I will explain later, Ingram Flynn, when we return to the supermarket to retrieve it. And have any of you noticed how clean we are?"

It was true. They all sparkled merrily, and as the hallway cleared they could see that even the walls seemed much more colourful. On further investigation, the whole house appeared much brighter and cleaner than ever before. But what of the patterned shirts? They warily approached the dormant Tepimote and opened the door to pull out the shirts.

"Oh, Rockin' Gerbils! Success!"

The patterned shirts gleamed, the pastel stripes of one fluorescing, the polka dots of another dancing around in tribute to their name.

"Come, Ingram Flynn, clothe thyself now and we will fetch the concrete block, that we may commence Step 2, the laundering of the coloured shirts themselves."

"Alas, Jesse Rymbo, I have used the entire box of SOCKO! for the test run. My apologies, for we have spent all our gig money and can buy no more, and with no more we cannot wash our coloured shirts, and without our coloured shirts we cannot dress up in our coloured shirts and take the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils, and if we cannot dress up in our coloured shirts and take the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils we can make no more gig money, and if we have no gig money we can buy no more SOCKO!"

"You are indeed a chump, Ingram Flynn, and the blame that thus attaches to you all but mitigates the kudos you gained from suggesting such a bright HA HA! A PUN! idea in the first place."

"I shall retire to my room, Jesse Rymbo, and attire myself in my rags, that I may not be further shamed by standing here in the kitchen stark staring nudie but for my judiciously worn towel, which incidentally is evidence that the claim by Mightibrite that it is Best for Whites is more than mere sloganeering."

The faultful one accordingly left the kitchen head hung low, the other Gerbils thoughtfully refraining from pointing the finger not only at his stomach-churning dishabille, but at his laundry-related foolishness. They then stood glumly looking at each other, waiting for inspiration to strike.

What struck instead was a strident yell at their eardrums, as the voice of the naughty drummer echoed from above.

"Oh Jesse Rymbo! Oh Isambard Rieod! Oh Grant Lance! Oh Fueodle! Oh the Rockin' Gerbils!"

"Our friend Ingram Flynn appears to be in a state of some excitement, Rockin' Gerbils," observed Fueodle, "Shall we go to him and see what pertains?"

"Oh the Rockin' Gerbils, roll up roll up to the area of my vicinity and see what pertains, for I have made a momentous discovery!"

"All the omens point to your plan being a relevant one, Fueodle," agreed Jesse Rymbo, "So let us comply."

Complied they, and on entering the room of Ingram Flynn were greeted by the sight of him, as yet unclad in anything but towel, such had apparently been his exhilaration, holding up a shirt of a brilliant cerise.

"The flood of sud about the entirety of our domicile has had a most beneficial effect, Rockin' Gerbils!" he announced, "See how the previously merely bright indigo of my coloured shirt has evolved into this heavenly hue!"

An almost palpable thrill ran about the assembled, and the others as one ran to their rooms, to return each bearing the appropriate coloured shirt. Oh what an electric spectrum they created!

"You know what this means, Rockin' Gerbils!" Jesse Rymbo voiced the thoughts of all. "We can now once again dress up in our coloured shirts and take the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils!"

"Oh Jesse Rymbo!" cried Isambard Rieod.

"You have an inquiry, Isambard Rieod?"

"I do indeed, Jesse Rymbo, as I suspect do our colleagues."

"Then ask away, Rockin' Gerbils."

As one they chorused, even Jesse Rymbo himself joining in, such was his delight.

"Oh Jesse Rymbo!" the five declared, "When will we next dress up in our coloured shirts and take the stage as the Rockin' Gerbils?"

And the answer came, for once in more than vague fashion.

"Soon, the Rockin' Gerbils! Very soon indeed!"

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