I Want To Ride My Bicycle

It's great that the guys told you all about our fantastic association with Queen, the most amazing rock band in the history of all things cool, and their influence on our style and vice versa. 

But I would be remiss if I did not relate to you the now-declassified tale of the single greatest day in our Unbelievable lives!

That's right. A day so amazing it would be scorched like a brand onto our collective brains.

It all started when in 1978 Freddie rushed excitedly into the Unbelievabase clutching an advance copy of their new album Jazz. (Remember, this was the 70s, when you could get away with giving your new LP a title that had nothing to do with the record contained therein, such as James Taylor's Greatest Hits or The Best Of Roger Whittaker.) 

"Listen to this!" shouted Fred, putting the record on the Blaupunkt and cranking it to 11.

We were mesmerized. Mesmerized enough to stop what we were up to (a game of Strip Parcheesi, as I recall) and listened to the instant classic that was Jazz.

Still, we could not help but notice the look of worry and concern on Freddie's face. We were curious. What on earth did he have to be anxious about? The album was brilliant, as has been already noted. So we asked him. 

"Why the long face? What's troubling you?"

"Well," he replied, "I'm having a creative block. The first single off of Jazz is gonna be a double-A side, "Bicycle Race" and "Fat Bottomed Girls" but I have absolutely no idea how to promote it. I mean, listen to those songs. Those songs ROCK OUT LOUD! They are guaranteed KILLERS! But the record-buying public is fickle. They'll buy anything the DJs tell them to. How else do you explain Clive Dunn's "Grandad" going to Number One?"

"Good point" quoth I.

"Trouble is, I need something so amazing, so shocking, so memorable that it'll be a shoo-in for sure... but what??"

"So you thought you'd pop in and pick our brains, eh?" interjected Clark, in a perplexing Canadian accent he was trying to perfect for some oddball reason (turns out he had had a brief fling with a Canadian air hostess, and was probably hoping to repeat the process).

Freddie was slightly embarrassed. "Um, er... yeah."

"Well, why didn't you say so!!" Michael and I cheered in unison. We were already two steps ahead. 

"Leave it to us, Freddie. We'll get this sorted in no time." I reassured him.

Clark leapt to his feet and fetched us all a beer. "BREWSKIES, EH!?!" he declared.

For once, we let it slide. 

So... a few phone calls to the Unbelievababes, to Marissa and Laura, several bike shops in London, a few top photographers and Wembley Stadium later, we had it all arranged.

I think you know where this is all going.

The Unbelievababes, with Laura and Marissa somewhere in there.

Marla and Trixie won top prize! (For what, I'm not sure).

We all got to spend the day in London watching the Unbelievababes ride around naked on bicycles!! Oh. My. God. We were in hog heaven - especially Michael, who spends most of his life getting naked anyway. It was so much fun, and such a success that they incorporated the shoot into the video.





Queen - Bicycle Race by Leo59

Not only that, but sometimes the Unbelievababes were drafted in to participate in live shows when the band were playing the song.

So there you have it. 

We've done a lot of fun stuff in our lives, but a day spent watching naked girls on bikes in the company of the greatest rock band in the world, as well as my two amazing crimefighting compadres, takes some licking. 

But that's another story...

Are You Qualified?

Many aspiring Unbelievababes write, call or email us, asking us what it would take for them to qualify. What are the qualities we Unbelieva-gents look for in potential female companions/assistants? Well, firstly, if you think that all the Unbelievababes are is a bunch of female companions and assistants, be aware that they are much, much more than that. Both Clark and Michael have outlined what the Unbelievababes are capable of and the rigorous training they go through in order to maintain their Unbelievababe credentials.

Firstly, you have to be fearless, brave, fierce. If you are the sort of person who reacts to crises like this...

...then just stop right now. You will not cut the mustard.

Secondly (and quite importantly) you have to be female. 

Sorry, sir. Apply elsewhere.

Third, you need to be able to kick ass if necessary.

Four - you need to be able to look immaculate at all times.

Five, know your way around the kitchen.

Sophia's got the idea.

A little too peppy, methinks.

Better, but all you're doing is boiling water. Careful, you might get a scald.

A bit messy, and you've ruined the eggs.

Well done, Rachael.

I think what it boils down to is you need to keep three images in mind. One...

Brave, fierce..

Two...

courteous, accommodating...

Three...

no slouch with a recipe book.

Oh, and if it helps, just ponder on the images above and below, and it might put you in the right frame of mind. Maybe then you'll get to join the ranks of the Unbelievababes.

Not That I'm Unconcerned, but...

I was somewhat less than amused when I awoke on Monday morning and discovered the Unbelievabase empty, save for myself, six of the Unbelievababes and a whole batch of whipped potatoes , freshly made in the kitchen. 

That's right. Clark and Michael were nowhere to be found. Gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Not there.

I scratched my head and tried to think if they'd told me of some undercover mission (what am I saying? ALL of our missions are undercover) they were embarking on, some urgent meeting with one or other heads of state (with the boobs that currently run this planet? Unlikely) or just an extended run to the store for some extra tortillas, guacamole and Tampico... but we were fully stocked.

I hunted around for some signs of life, or even a note. Nothing. Not even a religious pamphlet from The Church Of The Eighth-day, Holy-Rolling, Everlasting Gobstopper Freedom-Bus-Drivers of Nutwackett, NV just over in the next town. (Nutwackett, that is - they're a different breed over there. They had a suicide cult once, but once they'd gotten the brand new Nikes on their feet, they decided they didn't want to die. They're now the local basketball squad. They're good players and all, just don't accept any offers of Gatorade.)

But like I said, there was a moment or two of quiet panic and about five minutes of tearing my hair out with worry at what might have become of my two compadres, my amigos, my buddies, my ol' pals Clark and Michael.

And then I had an epiphany. A revelation. Buddhists may even say that I had a satori. (I did, once, and it was delicious, especially when washed down with a couple Mai Tais).

Like I was saying,  I had a satori. A pearl, a rare gem of sparkling wisdom, which was this.

I had the whole Unbelievabase to myself. I was alone with some fresh whipped potatoes and six of the Unbelievababes.

And that, my dear friend, is the point at which I quit worrying.  I'll be OK, and I'm sure my buddies are big enough and ugly enough to take care of themselves...

Played out

We tracked Negative Charge down at one of his hideouts, an abandoned Radio Shack (well, it's still open but it is a Radio Shack) at the Stiletto Flats Galleria. Wanting to waste no time, we presented Jeff's theory and asked him if he was behind it. "That's fiendishly brilliant", he said. "So much so that I wish I had thought of it. Three weeks ago. Before I signed that document. Damn it, that might have worked!" "No, it wouldn't have", Michael replied. "The fact that we're standing here asking you about it now clearly indicates we would have figured it out." Negative Charge sighed and said, "Good point. Hence the reason for us signing. We simply can't win. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go set the clocks on the VCRs." Jeff stopped him. "Wait a minute. Why do all of you seem to be so in line with each other on this, to the point where it looks downright synchronized?" Negative Charge turned and said, "I guess we're finally learning all kind of things from you guys."

With that, we returned to the Unbelievabase. "Well, I guess that's it then", one of us said. Without words between us, because at this point we're so attuned to one another that sometimes we don't have to speak aloud, we started packing things up to be put into storage in case we ever need them again. Pretty soon, the place was practically empty. Michael restored the "broken" washer in the laundromat to fully functional before taking Ulf the Unbelievadog to a boarding kennel. Meanwhile, Jeff drove a bus full of Unbelievababes over to Marissa's newly re-christened "Miss Riss's Home for Wayward Showgirls and Former Unbelievababes". It's right across the street, but Jeff does love a nice bus ride, regardless of the length.

I was the last one, waiting for a truck to pick up the last of the storage containers. That's when I heard a knock at the door. Guess who it was?

Of course.

"Henri Petit! What are you doing here? Is this when you mount your attack? You trick us into breaking down our base, separating from each other and then you move in? Well, bring it on you wee, disgusting, vile..."
Henri shook his head and said, "No, that's not it at all. I just came over because...well...since this is over now...", as he started to choke up. "OUT WITH IT, HORRENDOUS TWERP!"
"Well, all I ever really wanted was for you guys to like me, so we could hang out and be pals. It was all a cry for attention. I just admire you all so much and it was so painful, facing your rejection all the time. And now that the whole thing is over and we're not on opposite sides, I thought maybe we could, I don't know, play a game. Like friends."

He took the game out of the box and set it up on one of the crates, near the window where we saw cars driving by, their drivers oblivious to what had taken place in the amazing-yet-non-descript building they had passed so many times over the years.
"Up to four can play but it looks like Michael and Jeff aren't here, so maybe just you and I?" He looked so pathetic and small and vulnerable and ugly. I said, "Sure Henri. Why not. Now are there actual rules to this game?" He said, "Yes, they're printed on the box down there on the floor." I bent down to pick it up and looked up just in time to see him, in a pair of oversized boots, rearing back to kick me out of the window.
Then everything went black.

What About Bob?

As you might recall from a couple of weeks ago, Kip, our mail boy, turned out to be a makeshift robot with a latex skin piloted by that tiny pipe-smoking holy terror tot Henri Petit. Once the jig was up, we found ourselves without a mail boy. So naturally we received hundreds of applications almost immediately, and we have been conducting interviews this week, which is why this post is late. 

Most of the applications were accompanied by photos that looked like these:

We hurriedly turned these applications over to the Unbelievababes and they excitedly pored over them. The girls do get bored on the odd occasion and the prospect of showing the ropes to some new blood filled them with glee.

There were also some more 'professional-looking' CVs, such as this one:

This is apparently "Glenda Campbell". However, we soon discovered this pic had been taken from a catalogue for office furnishings.

We had narrowed it down to two candidates when this one was also revealed to be a fraud, as well as a terrible actor.

I'm happy to say I think we have found the ideal candidate. Ladies and gents, may I please welcome to the fold...

Bob Diggity, office guy extraordinaire. Here he is, getting the Unbelievababes to help him get settled in.  As you can see, he's our kinda guy.

It's Not A Mistake, It's A Learning Opportunity

Errors of judgement. Tactical mistakes. Looking foolish. Egg on face.

These are all things that happen to even such infallible persons such as our great selves. But in our case, much less frequently than your average Joe Schmoe Q. Public. Because, at the risk of sounding egotistical, we ARE that good.

Speaking from a personal standpoint, my error catalog seems to encompass food and food-related items more than the others. For example:

That one time I made a humongous batch of whipped potatoes for our annual Summer 'Q (which included live performances by Penn and Teller impersonators Schmenn and Schmeller, 

In this version, Schmenn is the one that doesn't speak.

Michael Bublé tribute act Paddy O'Dors,

 and Smash Mouth), and put sugar in them instead of salt by mistake! The lead singer of Smash Mouth, Steve Harwell, was so irritated he went on a tirade, much like this one when he was playing a gig at a Food Festival and someone in the audience threw bread at him. I mean, come on! You're at a Food Festival! What else are people gonna chuck at you? Mud? This isn't Glastonbury!





I explained that the sugar was accidental and he calmed down after a few shots of Old Grand-Dad. Oh how we laughed.

Then there was the time we were staking out a pizza buffet in the case known as "Stuffed Crust Smugglers". Clark and I almost gave the game away when we realised we were hungry and called for some pizza to be delivered, only to discover we were accidentally dialling the number of the place we were staking out! Oh how we laughed.

I also recall the moment when, during a cocktail party with the Unbelievababes, I was blending up some frozen alcoholic treats when I reached for my trusty strainer and accidentally pulled a gun on myself and nearly blew my own bloody head off! Oh how we laughed.

Here's a better idea.

To cap it all, then there was the time I put my own and everyone else's safety in jeopardy when, during a high-speed chase, I felt peckish and popped open the glovebox to reveal a new addition I'd made to the 'Vette - a fold-out chopping board - and started to whip up a salmon salad with microgreens, cracked black pepper and lemon vinaigrette. The guys were so overcome by the delicious aromas that Clark nearly lost control and missed a guard rail by millimetres. Long story short, we got our man, but the guys were pissed at me. Once they'd eaten, however, all was forgiven.

NB. Not actually us.

Oh how we laughed.

Lords Of the Dance

As you may be aware, we Unbelievables are big fans of art in all its myriad forms. Music, painting, sculpture, architecture, theatre, the list goes on. It will not surprise you, then, to know that we are heavily into dance. In fact, three of our Unbelievababes were friends from school. And they were all dancers. 

Abigail Spishak...

Corinne MacDewberry..

and ShonaLynn Carnoustie.

To say they have blossomed in recent years would be understating the case.

By the way, why is it that photography has progressed to the extent that we are now able to take a photograph using a fancy expensive camera with bazillions of megapixels and then simulate the effect of a crappy old photo?

Many of our undercover network spanning the globe have also been dancers. Like f'rinstance...

Priscilla Pantouffles and her Pulchritudinous Prancers...

and Legs & Co., the legendary Top Of The Pops dance troupe.

We once called on Legs & Co. to assist us in a case that took us all the way to the famous BBC TV Centre in Wood Lane, London W1A 4AA. I'll let Michael and Clark fill you in on all the deets.

Three Degrees of Kickin' Butt

Phew! Sorry for the lateness of the hour folks, just flew in from Muskoka, ON where I was a guest judge at the Lake Of Bays Brewing Co.'s Morgan Freeman Impression contest. I like going up there because it's handily close to my buddy Bryan Dearsley's pad, but let me tell you - this year's contest was tough. 

The competition was fierce, with contenders from all over including Charlie Hopkinson,

 Josh Robert Thompson,

 Jake Foushee

and the real Morgan Freeman himself, in one of his old costumes from "The Electric Company". 

Gawd, we loved that show.

Even Bryan stepped up and tried out a few choice Freeman phrases such as 

• "Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'. That's goddamn right."
•  and "Multiply your anger by about a hundred, Kate, that's how much he thinks he loves you." 

Things almost came to blows after a few craft beers were inside the contestants, but it was Charlie that eventually won out. Morgan Freeman himself came second.

Another of the reasons I enjoyed the competition this year was because another guest judge was the lovely and talented Sheila Ferguson, who as you well remember was 'the one in the middle' of The Three Degrees.

The other guest judge (and the one that ruined the party for Morgan Freeman) was that utter tool Ryan Seacrest, so the less said about him, the better.

Anyway, back to Sheila. Sheila has been a friend of the Unbelievables since the early days, when in their spare time, The Three Degrees would come over to the Unbelievabase and jam till dawn, or sometimes just chill in the hot tub drinking gin rickeys and playing Hunt The Cannoli (a very complicated word game involving hot tubs and gin rickeys). There was even one time when all six of us went shopping in downtown Stiletto Flats' most groovy clothing boutique, Flatfoot Jimmy's...

and kitted the girls out in some seriously cool gear.

But it was only a matter of time before the girls decided that they wanted to become Unbelievababes and go fight crime internationally as part of our network of informants, moles, decoys and general butt-kickin' type folks.

We sat with them for many a long hour imparting wisdom, knowledge and tips, training them in the art of Unbelieva-Zen and Unbelieva-Fu, until they were ready to help us thwart crime wherever it may appear.

I'm sure Michael and Clark will tell you more about our Three Degrees adventures later in the week.