The Big Lebowski’s Ultimate April Fool.
The beautiful and endearing thing about the film, The Big Lebowski, is how an affable, non-confrontational, and easy going guy, ends up causing so much chaos by only wanting someone to clean his carpet. One bad decision leads to another, and before you know it, the whole thing is out of hand… You might want to bare that in mind.
Holly is fit as fuck. Part porn star, part Uma Thurman. A real head turner, despite all the miles on the clock. Guy was the first to sample her delights and the pub post mortem was like a porno talking book. It wasn’t long before we were all forming a queue. The long hot summer went on through her revolving doors and no one thought beyond the next weekend.
It is Saturday lunch time and we all meet in the Dram Shop. There’s me, Guy, James, Alex and Rich. We are all still hung over from Friday night and coming to terms with that first difficult beer of the day. However, there is a veritable buzzing around the burnished copper topped table as we delicately sip our cold beers. Johnny is still to arrive and the air is thick with anticipation. He had sloped off around midnight, the previous evening, and it wasn’t long before the night club jungle telegraph told us with whom he had sloped. Guy was currently the ‘Holly’ depravity champion owing to an incident with champagne bottle, the cork of which had only been recovered with the help of a bent dessert spoon. However, Johnny’s competitive streak and raconteur’s delivery had us all eagerly awaiting his arrival.
He finally walked in, looking as if he had been beaten up before having slept in a turnip field. “Have a good night, Johnny?” giggled Alex. Johnny took a quick look left and right before closing up into our little booth and whipping out his manhood. ‘Look at the fucking state of that!” Slurps of lager sprayed from between pursed lips as we all cringed. James gasped. ‘Jesus Christ, Johnny, it looks like a fucking snooker ball!” Alex cam back from the loo and looked over Johnny’s shoulder. “Naa, looks more like a beef tomato that's been trodden on.”
Some days later I am trawling files at work, and have come across some paperwork from the local health authority. It was some kind of health and safety bullshit directive telling you what to do if someone slips on a wet floor, or a plane crashes into the building. I note the letterhead and a ghastly wheeze suddenly shoots into my brain. It’s cruel but it’s funny. During lunch time I attempt some basic graphic design paste-up and created several sheets of blank letter headed paper, and an envelope, baring the logo of our local health authority. It’s April Fools Day in a couple of days and by home time the letter is composed.
Dear MR Cole,
It has come to our attention that you have recently had sexual contact with someone who is visiting this clinic for a sexually transmitted disease. Although there maybe no cause for concern, please be aware that some STD’s take up to six months to show symptoms. For this reason we feel it is in your best interests to attend our sexual health clinic and receive a thorough check-up as soon as possible.
Yours Sincerely,
DR Cock-Eau-Vin. DFC & BAR
Johnny is our dear, dear mate, but he is also a bit gullible at times. This will be hysterical. He will read it, panic, and be queuing outside the clinic by 9.30 am…..All for a laugh!!!! I ring Guy, James, Rich, and Alex to fill them in on the jape, and then send the letter.
Enter Lebowski.
I had met Johnny’s dad on many occasions. He’s a lovable rogue we all know as Norm’ and he makes a good living from his own building company. The family is pretty well off and lives in a beautiful house on a cliff top, about 30 miles out of town. Johnny’s family home was all our summers. We would party in a club until the early hours, spend a few hours sobering up back at my place, and then risk the 40 minute drive to the coast. Bonfires were lit and many a Sunday dawn was watched through sleepy eyes and campfire smoke, before climbing the steps up to the house, where upon Johnny’s mum would fuss over us and make everyone a full English. Johnny’s parents were cool, and never battered an eyelid when, having drunkenly decided to burn all our clothes on the beach fire, we all walked over their lawn, through the early morning mist, bollock naked Goth zombies, spinning car keys, and asking if we could have a fry up. Norm seemed totally unfazed to see 6 naked men sitting at his breakfast bar, being served sausage and bacon by his wife, as he passed through the kitchen on his way to play golf.
Norm was a big kid at heart and we all liked him for that. Some weeks earlier Guy, Johnny, and I, had got roped into a darts game in the village local, with a pair of local farm hands. Unbelievably we had won. However, the next time we went in the pub we were informed that we were barred. Apparently for smoking dope in the beer garden the previous week. It was a complete lie, but you can’t keep much quiet in a village of 300 people and, before long Norm was on our case about it. We assured him it was absolutely untrue and he believed us. Having then grilled the landlord as to who had perpetrated this scurrilous lie, the local farm worker darts flops had sheepishly admitted that they were behind it (as a joke) Norm then played a joke back. While the leather fisted troglodytes were out ploughing the fields and scattering, he turned up at their cottage in his builder’s truck and bricked up their front and back doors. From that moment on, Norm was legend.
The letter is sent. Addressed to Mr J N Cole, (Johnny’s middle name being Nigel) and we are all eagerly awaiting the panic riddled phone call from Johnny to urge some of us to join him on a visit to the pox doctor.
Now, this is where the Lebowski kicked in good and proper. What none of us knew was that Norm’ was actually John. John Norman Cole, to be exact. MR J.N Cole. What we also had no knowledge of, was Norm’s roving eye and the fact that, in the not too distant past, he had embarked upon an affair with his secretary. Unbeknown to the majority, he was currently on double secret probation from his wife, in a huge effort to avoid her divorcing him.
On April 1st, the morning had arrived. By 8.am Norm was up and out to re-point a chimney at a local farm, and Johnny was bouncing his way, bleary eyed, down country lanes in his mini, heading to his office job in town.
The third fact, of which we had no knowledge, was that as a result of Norm’s recent dalliance, his wife had now taken over as company secretary and was in charge of administering the company post. At 8.45 a.m she had picked up the mail from the door mat and set about opening anything that was addressed to her husband, and looked like it was probably business related…………Like a letter addressed to MR J N Cole baring a Humberside Health Authority logo.
It is now 7pm on April 1st and Guy and I are dossed out in my flat. My door bell rings. I press the intercom to hear Johnny’s voice. Johnny comes up the stairs, clutching the letter and avails us of his news. The blood begins to drain from our faces. Apparently Norm had returned home for lunch, having patched up his chimney, to discover his thousand quid Ping golf clubs, a mass of bent and twisted tubing in the middle of his lawn. The reason they were in this state was because they had latterly been used to re-arrange the body work of his 7 Series BMW. However, to put the cherry on the cake, the contents of his wardrobe had been, somewhat, re-tailored with a Stanly Knife, and his prized Purdy shotgun was a smoldering carcass, atop of the bonfire that was currently blazing away at the end of the vegetable garden.
Johnny made clear the purpose of his visit. He had only taken a few minutes to click that this was a typical ‘Me’ joke. However, his protestations to his mum had not yet convinced her that Norm should not have his dick cut off with a busted dinner plate whilst chained to a radiator. I was to call his mum and assure her on bended knees that this was an April Fools joke meant for Johnny, and not evidence that Norm had been up to his old tricks once again. I undertook my obligation with a dry mouth. Mrs. C was OK and even managed a laugh. She would, they weren’t her golf clubs, suits, shotgun, or 30 grand Beamer.
The Coles being The Coles, their house remained our country retreat. We all remained very welcome and the summer weekends continued with many more beach fires and 7.am fry-ups. However, by the end of they year the two halves had parted for good.
Neither Norm’ or Johnny has ever suggested that the ‘Clap Clinic Letter’ was instrumental in the outcome but one can’t help thinking that it maybe tore the band-aid from a festering cut.
As with The carpet in The Big Lebowski, it all began as an innocuous in-joke between friends. A ten minute giggle and reason to exact a bit of Schadenfreude on a friend you knew would see the funny side of it.
One joke letter. 50 grand’s worth of damage and a marriage down the pan.
Ooops.
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