The pancreas (b. Middlesex Hospital [demolished], 2003) is a badly designed wet pistol. Sometimes, it is burned rubber; at other times, it is mischievous crystal. It has two tubes – one crinkly, the other smoo-ooth – and they look like they are saying, “Hello!” “Goodbye!” “Hello!” “Goodbye!” Underneath its long arm, it carries its gold coins with which to buy soul records – proper soul, mind – Stax and Volt, none of that Motown nonsense. If you walk over its stony path, the pancreas gives off a chummy hum, grasshoppers scatter, and frogs rub up against the hard skin on the outside of your little toes. If you slip along its cousin’s shiny concourse, you could end up in the capital of a foreign power, a once enemy; or by a beach with pebbles and Ice-Gem-shaped cupolas. The pancreas’s second cousin lost its head on the way to Rome, you know – no, really. The pancreas counts among its friends: the stomach (a frightfully uppity young thing from Wisconsin), the duodenum (twins from that trailer park on the other side of the milk line), the common bile duct (a surfer whose board is made from strips of that whip-like red liquorice), and the gall bladder (a pre-teen Japanese pop star with extra-strong-mint eyes). You can find them at night, hands in pockets, hanging out at the 24-hour bodega or gunning their hot rods and muscle cars on the lonesome rain-swept roads of the islets of langehans.
Image gallery[submitted by Steve Finbow, cheers Steve]