(Here is another of the tales of Roy in Clingfilm other people have sent me. Here again the author has pretended to be me. Either that or they too live in Germany and own a terrapin named Jetta, the possibility of which causes me a certain amount of weltschmertz. This tale has been edited for reasons of space. - Ulli)
Sometimes I wonder if I am the only one in the world to be blessed with these amazing events that happen in my life. I am walking in the woods of southern Bavaria with Jetta, my terrapin. I am looking for a small pond I know of so that Jetta can experience a bit of her own style environment after a hard day. You see I have been changing the oil in my Volkswagen Jetta in my driveway and as my driveway slopes to the street I have placed Jetta under one of the wheels as a chock to prevent losing my auto into the street and perhaps injuring myself. I am sure Jetta considers this duty as being insulting so I want to make it up to her a bit. A swim in a forest pool should bring her back to a peaceful state of mind.
I think I am getting near to the pond when I come across the wreckage of a light plane that is smoldering and has obviously crashed just a short time ago. No one has yet discovered the site but myself. All occupants seem to have been killed by the impact in most gruesome ways, but wait, I hear a moaning in the cabin. It sounds like, "NNnnnnnnn" in a male tenor. The intonation is eerily familiar. I have heard this rich voice before. I am sure now that if the moaning were followed by words one would surely hear,"she's walking back to me......". It cannot be, but it surely is....Roy Orbison. I dig carefully among the debris and uncover Roy, for indeed that is who is trapped in the wreckage. I am struck dumb and can only say, "Roy Orbison!".
Roy replies, "I thought I could sneak into the Oktoberfest and put away a few big steins of beer without being recognized but this stupid pilot didn't put enough fuel in the plane and here I am." I say to Roy,"Here, let me pull you from this wreckage " and I grasp his arms and give a big pull. Immediately Roy screams in a high falsetto such as he used in the song,"Crying". "Stop you idiot" he says,"I have several long bone fractures as a result of the impact of this light plane against these trees and you are causing the fractures to dig in to the flesh at the bone ends." I stand there confused. I don't know what to do. It's all going very wrong. "I need to be splinted to immobilize my broken bones" says Roy.
I suddenly see what I must do. I tell Roy I can help him. I have several rolls of cling wrap in my rucksack. I must securely splint the entire man. To properly address this opportunity of a lifetime I will even use my irreplaceable original rolls of Esso Strech'n'seal, the first cling wrap on the market in 1982.
I start at the feet gently wrapping the singer in the clear clingy petrochemical compound, overlapping the previous wrap by just the same amount on each succeeding turn, until Orbison is trussed up like a butterfly chrysalis. I sit back to admire my handywork, taking only a minute to myself in order to fetch the turtle who has made it about thirty meters away in a desparate bid for freedom. Roy does not seem overly bothered by the experience of being wrapped in stretch'n'seal from head to foot and offers me some muffled screams of appreciation. The plane must have had a locater beacon on it for there are some uniformed police approaching in the distance, accompanied by a couple of men in what look like lab coats. Maybe they are crash inspectors or something. I have the feeling that things are going to be allright.
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