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How it all began by Philip Barrass

True view: Wardle looks east

The Old Fallopians came into being, apparently spontaneously, a decade ago. The most widely accepted view is that they evolved from a genetically modified crap (carp?) that had become stranded in the major sewer running under Victoria Park in London’s celebrated “East End”.

Largely hominid in appearance, Old Fallopians nonetheless lack many of the characteristics so commonly found in true Homo Sapiens. 

Co-ordination of the hand and eye, fleetness of foot, the judgement of distance and the ability to manipulate rough wooden tools; all are lacking in an Old Fallopian. 

They are sometimes said to communicate in rudimentary fashion, but whether their limited vocabulary of barks and whines can be called “language” is heavily debated, or surely would be were people bothered to discuss it. 

John Rooney runningThere are perhaps four distinct tonal patterns that can be detected: “Yes NO!”, “Twenty pounds?”, “It was my fucking call” and “It’s half past bloody seven”. 

These apart, they are able to conduct seemingly sophisticated dialogue with signs and elaborate facial contortions.

Although almost entirely without female representation, male Old Fallopians continue to display themselves in overt and clearly sexual ways. 

They are able to change their appearance quite markedly, turning a dirty shade of white from head to foot. 

This has only been observed on late summer evenings and, yet more mysteriously, only on a Tuesday or Wednesday.  

Perhaps Old Fallopians know what day it is! This is clearly nonsense, but the extravagant beauty and carnal power of their displays brooks no argument. 

The luckiest observers have seen them appear to peel down the white covering of their legs and lower bodies, revealing gaudily coloured rumps and groins. 

They use the empty husks of gourds, or perhaps giant clam shells (nobody has ventured close enough to be sure what the objects actually are) to exaggerate their genital swellings. Jeremy Clarke walks

Then, most fantastically of all, they go through an elaborate dance ritual, which is usually so brief that you wonder at the effort needed to prepare for it. 

By now in full flush, with white hands and white lower legs inflated to such an extent that they can hardly use them, they stand in pairs at some distance from each other. 

An engorged member protrudes from the ends of their upper limbs, now clasped tightly together.

 Alternately, they crouch, swing their member wildly, then run at each other. Is it combat? Is it ritualised coupling? 

Whatever the purpose, they miss each other by a whisker and run to take each others’ places, where the process is repeated up to three times until one retreats. 

The loser, the winner? Who can say? Certainly the one who comes away is by now flushed red in the cheeks and clearly has approached some kind of climax. 

Soon after this the swellings disappear, and only the whitish colouring remains.

Peter Frisby armsThese extraordinary rituals are quickly followed by a feeding frenzy. The Fallopians gather in tight groups, gorging themselves on a sickly brown liquid found locally in what is obviously a very special place for them. 

It must be assumed that it contains very high levels of proteins and sugars, because otherwise they eat only small quantities of seeds and slivers of root vegetables. 

What, then, explains the awesome bulk of a typical Fallopian? They must, surely, have other sources of sustenance. 

Perhaps rumours of cannibalism are true after all; younger, leaner Fallopians are rarely seen from one year to the next, yet the older, lumbering alpha males we see now are mostly the same individuals first sighted ten years ago, only heavier and slower. 

What, we must ask, has become of these youngsters?

The Old Fallopians’ story would be remarkable enough, yet the strangest aspect of all is yet to be revealed. About the same time that they came into being, by extraordinary coincidence, a local cricket league was starting in Victoria Park. 

What such a noble sport could have to do with descendants of mutant faeces seems impossible to guess, but the League and the Fallopians were to become wedded in a ghastly, unending marriage. Peter Frisby shorts

The Old Fallopians, it must be remembered, would have been hopelessly confused and disoriented. Their only frame of reference was each other and the sticky comfort of their sewer. 

When they saw groups of people in cricket whites, donning their protective gear, it would surely have stirred primitive urges, and they would have rushed at the players, perhaps to fight for their territory (which they mark regularly by urinating on certain trees), perhaps to mate.

Whatever their purpose, they were welcomed by the cricketers who seemed to mistake them for cricket players also! Unbelievable! 

In the chaos of that first season, the Old Fallopians became one of only a handful of “teams” who were there throughout. 

Indeed, such was the disorder in that first year that half the sides fell away, few recorded their results, and no league table could be produced. 

The Fallopians, oblivious to such fine points of detail, ended the season in high excitement, loudly grunting “we won, we won” at anybody who would listen. No one would. It proved to be the greatest achievement of their sad, strange existence.

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