The Arrival of the Worms

'Dark in here, innit?'
'Who said that? Get back. I'm armed you know.'
'No you ain't. You're a worm. Worms don't have arms.'
'My spittle it laced with a deadly venom. I'm warning you. Come any closer and you'll get it in the eye. Who are you anyway?'
'Fred. No need to get all spitty. I was only trying to be friendly.'
'Fred Worm?'
'S'right. You gotta name or shall I call you grumpy git-face?'
'Tiger. My name's Tiger.'
'Oh. Like that golf bloke?'
'Yes. My parents were keen golfers. Mum wanted to call me Seve after Ballesteros only Dad said it sounded too much like a pot of marmalade.'
'Yeah, yeah. So, where do you think we're headed? Now we've had our call up papers?'

Somewhere amid the writhing mass of four hundred and ninety eight similar worms, a friendship is born. A friendship that will last for years to come, through thick and thin, banana skins and potato peelings, coffee grounds and chicken poop. A friendship that will traverse time and space and boldly go where no worm has gone before. A friendship that...

'What's that, Tiger?'
'I think it's a voice-over. And the music is from either Star Trek or Star Wars or Ready, Steady Cook. I'm not sure, I always get confused.'
'I can play the Star Wars theme tune on my stylophone.'
'Really? That's very impressive.'
''Course, a stylophone is the ideal instrument for a worm. That or a tambourine. I'll teach you when we get to our base, if you like.'
'Thanks. I'd like that. Sorry about the spitting thing earlier.'
'No worries Tiger mate. I 'spect I made you jump a bit, goosing you like that in the dark.'
'Just a bit.'
'Only I thought you were Delilah.'
'Delilah?'
'Yeah. My girlfriend. Well, fiancee really. I bought her a ring but it was a couple of sizes too big and she kept sliding through it.'
'I have the same problem with trouser belts. That's why I'm a fan of braces.'
'Wise man. So, where do you think we're going?'

They didn't know where they were headed, these warrior worms, this band of brothers. Mostly because the ParcelForce tracking system wasn't logging their movements and estimated time of arrival as effectively as the website suggested. But they knew they were heading south somewhere, to do work of an important and vital matter. Their mission, should they choose to accept it, was to save Planet Backgarden. And if they didn't accept it, Denise would be asking for her money back toute suite.

'There it goes again. The italics and the music.'
'I hope it stops soon. It's getting on my nerves.'
'Do worms have nerves, Tiger?'
'Ever been got at by a bird, Fred?'
'Can't say I have, Tiger.'
'Well, my Aunt Maudeline was once. Six inches of prime pink worm she used to be until one day she became the victim of a vicious attack by a thrush. A frantic tug-o-war ensued. It was horrible. She hung onto the ground, the thrush hung onto her welly. Back and forth they went for, oh, at least a minute...'
'Oh my lordy lord. What happened?Did she survive?'
'Just, Fred, just. Looks like a string of spaghetti now and if she stands sideways on she all but disappears. And she said it was the worst pain ever. Nerves are shot to threads, they are. Shot to threads.'
'Well, I hope there aren't any birds where we're going.'
'Me too. Especially not chickens. Swallow you whole soon as look at you, so I've heard.'

And so their journey continued south. South to the World of Executive Wormery, to the Garden of Mud and the Bed that is Raised. Their life will be fraught with danger from the Birds with Gobby Beaks ('Oi!' says Miggins. 'Less of the gobby and more of the refined, if you don't mind.') but enriched with mucho mucko from the Kitchen of Cake.

'So we're going south then, Tiger?'
'Sounds like it. Although I wouldn't believe everything the voice-over says, if I were you.'
'But you ain't, are you?'
'What?'
'Me.'
'No, Fred. I'm not. That would be just too weird.'
'But south is good, isn't it?'
'Yes. Ah, Portugal! Golden sands and clear azure seas canopied with a sapphire blue sky as clear as the crystal in my mother's chandelier. I can't wait.'
'Your mum has a chandelier?'
'Of course. Doesn't yours?'
'Nah. I've only just got her to put a lightbulb in her standard lamp.'
'What's that?'
'A standard lamp?'
'No, you numpty! That noise! We've stopped! We've arrived! I can hear voices!'
'Is this Portugal? It doesn't feel very warm. I can't see no azure skies, either.'
'Shut up Fred.'
'Okay, grumpy git-face.'