After he was accidentally teleported to the inside of the giant chocolate bar, even though it tasted quite nice against his caught-in-the-act-of-screaming face, Léo found that he couldn’t write one single word. The fact that he was sans-typewriter, not to mention sans-clothes and completely sans-movement had nothing to do with it. Put simply – he just couldn’t think of anything to say. Writer’s block is real thing.
On the other hand Terry had loads of fings to say – he was going barmy wiv all the fings in his head. Crowbars, getaway vans, mad dogs, those soddin’ neighbours, sex with chickens, Portuguese wines – it just went on and on. One day, in between banging on the wall and banging in the chicken coop he got himself a pencil and sat down to write. ‘Once upon a bleedin’ time, there was a blok called Terry and he was a toatle hansom brut.’ He stopped to swat at a fly and a tiny feather flew away from his hand. Glaring, he bent his back down to the paper, pressing his pencil into the page as if carving the story from granite. ‘He was ‘ The pencil snapped and he screamed in rage as he smashed his bald pate against the nearest wall – again and again. Blockheads are real things too.