Fish Shop
The Eastern Fish Shop, he noted, amusingly, was located just two doors down from the Western Fish Shop. The oddness of this fact was only added to by the fact that the establishment which separated the Eastern and Western fish shops was, indeed, another fish shop. However, this was the sea front at Hastings, right on the beach, and so, he supposed, it was to be expected that there would be an abundance of purveyors of fine, fresh fish. The gaudy chalk inscribed boards which festooned the shop front declared this to be a local shop selling local fish, but almost certainly not to local people. The locals, he mused, almost certainly bought their fish from the very large supermarket he passed on the way into the town, and not this quaint selection of fishmongers.
He wasn’t local himself, and so he entered the shop, looking for a fish buying experience that didn’t involve frozen slabs of breadcrumb encrusted fish, encased in a cardboard box. He revelled in the sights and smells of a traditional fish seller. The glassy eyes of recently deceased marine life looked up at him from all around, and the salty, fresh smell of the sea assaulted his olfactory senses.
He waited patiently for the stout, clean shaven man behind the counter to finish serving the customers who had been fortuitous enough to arrive before him, and then when asked how he may be served, he simply replied, “I’d like to buy some fish.”
“Certainly, sir,” replied the friendly fishmonger, “and what kind of fish might I interested you in today?”
“Well, I rather fancied some sole,” he suggested, “as the local sole is, I hear, rather famous.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the fishmonger sadly replied, “but the lady before you had the last of today’s catch.”
“Never mind, how about some plaice, instead?”
“I’m expecting some in with the next catch sir,” said the fishmonger, apologetically, “you could come back later.”
“That’s no good, I’ve got a long journey ahead of me and I’ll have to be heading home soon.” He thought for a while, “I tell you what, I’ll have a nice bit of mullet instead.”
“Not today sir, we didn’t get any in,” the fishmonger looked a little embarrassed. “How about some bass instead?”
“Very well then, I’ll have some bass.”
“Oh, sorry, my mistake, we’re out of bass too,” the fishmonger smiled, oddly.
“Wait a minute,” he said, a look of deep suspicion crossing his face, “this is just a Monty Python sketch, isn’t it?”
“No sir, this is a completely original work of fiction, it’s nothing like a Monty Python sketch at all,” protested the fishmonger.
“It is!” he argued. “It’s just the cheese shop sketch!”
“It’s nothing like the cheese shop sketch,” the fishmonger replied. “The cheese shop sketch was about a man who went into a cheese shop which had no cheese…this is a fish shop which has no fish…it’s completely different.”
“It’s thematically the same,” he pointed out.
“I’ll give you that,” conceded the fishmonger, “it is, indeed, thematically the same, but the fundamental subject matter is completely different. Fish and cheese are nothing like each other, they’re like chalk and…”
“…cheese?” He suggested. “And they’re not, they’re both foods that come in many different varieties, in many ways they’re the same. It’s just the same joke, told in the same way, it’s completely derivative and unoriginal.”
“Well…” the fishmonger began.
“And what’s more,” he interrupted, “this particular writer ripped off TV comedy for one of his stories just two short weeks ago.”
“But…” the fishmonger tried to interject.
“No, I’m not going to waste my time with this,” he continued. “I have too much to do today to argue with you, for one I have to return this dead parrot…”
“Oh, I can’t believe you went there…” said the fishmonger, astonished.
Rivka Jacobs
Is this Monty Python metafiction?
The self-aware Python protagonist?
Very nice, funny too. At least I laughed out loud, but then I’m a Python fanatic. I love any reference to the Pythons.
Okay, this is a Pythonesque romp starring a fishmonger and his customer.
Pythonesque in several senses, including the show did this type of thing a lot, where the characters in the sketch knew they were parodying themselves in previous parts they played in previous Python sketches.
Yes, I think I invented this term, I haven’t googled it to be sure. MetaPython fiction. If Ian Sharman hadn’t kept writing it, I wouldn’t have had to invent a term for it.
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