A little (big) something, that is a little (a lot) ooh

In the murky shadows of a planet called Splott, there lurked a sinister looking cat called Tilda Swinton. She often stalked the streets of the Sacred Capital Of Splott like a red headed tube of sea kelp. One day she was at work, in her dating salon, which wasn't called The Show. There were people waiting in a line with tickets. Most people she turned down, as she didn't care much for them and preferred hanging around the kitchen in her underwear, or sometimes even acting like a lady. One man came up though on Tuesday the twenty eighth day of Junaury in the year 10,862,619 AVW (After Virginia Woolf), and his name was...
“...Popty Garth, at your presence,” as he so correctly announced upon acquaintance with the ugly old bint. She thought he said “Pop to your hearth” and reckoned he came from the north, but didn't judge him. She fancied him.
“Your eyes! They tell me how you want me!” exclaimed Popty, picking up the message. Cats can't talk like us, they only speak an old and generally extinct language (in civilised lands) called French. But Splott wasn't civilised as it still widely and wildly used the language of French to communicate between different species of vermin. Tilda stood on her back legs.
“Sauter! Pour mon amour!” she snarled, sinister as a bitter little feline. Which she did every day, as bitter and as feline as she was. Popty asked a passing rat what that meant (as he didn't speak French), did so, and she was impressed. He jumped so high his feet left the floor. It must have been the static from the floor below. “Vous faites-moi maintenant une tarte!” she shrieked wildly. The rat translated.
“A tart?” said Popty, getting a little excited. The rat corrected his translation to “pie”. “Making you a pie must be as easy as love!” He whipped out his rather large and knobbly Magic Wand, said “Mucus Pukus” and zapped her into a pie. She gave him the details of an Iron Maiden concert on Friday, and he said he would go, as he had previously felt like mould, but wanted something else to eat now instead. He left, tripping over a bag of dirt left rather erratically by the doorway.
Friday came, and Tilda hadn't seen the newspaper reports about a crazed Bakehouse Killer preying on Splottian Crazy Cats. But even if she had, she needed a squeeze a day, instead of her negligée, so she was going to go. But while she was on the way, she passed the legendary Splott pool, which borders with the made up land of Pooland. Now normally lakes flow downhill to the sea, but this one was going the other way. She had learnt Pinglish specially for the date.
“Water's running in the wrong direction! I've got a feeling it's a mixed up sign,” she said. So she didn't go. She didn't bother letting Popty know either.
But Popty, being a cunning little swine, had followed her in her own shadow. She could hear music, maybe she could hear a bassline jumping in a backstreet light, but presumed it to be a bad stomach. She turned the corner, and there stood Popty in her dressing gown and her shoes.
“It doesn't mean you'll go as fast I do!” said Tilda in fright. But before she knew it, she was in freight instead, in the form of a lorry with Popty Garth written loud and shamefully on the side. “Think before you bite me!” she said with one last gasp.
“Let's go, Eskimo,” he snapped, and threw her in a bread machine normally reserved for making Vienna Rols and checking essays for plagiarism. After she was flatter than a doormat, he said “I can't mistake her biology”. Which was true, he could have made a anatomical poster from her.
He thought quickly what the neighbours would say, but he'd already done them in so it didn't matter.
Suddenly!!!!!!!! The doors to his Bakehouse were smashed open, and in ran Ray Davies from the Kinks. He threw a bag of flour in the general direction of Popty, because he was short sighted and wanted a free Vienna Roll. But by mere chance of location, the flour whacked Popty smack on the elbow and knocked him dead to the floor. About five seconds after he jumped up and fell back down, as even in death he was affected by the static from the floor below. “You really got me,” he might have said, were he not dead.
Ray Davies was annoyed, so he left and drank Coca Cola, C O L A – cola.
And so it was, that Tilda Swinton got flattened and Popty Garth got killed by his own raw materials.