Ulli's Roy Orbison In Clingfilm Website

Hello, and welcome to my homepage. My name is Ulrich Haarbürste and I like to write stories about Roy Orbison being wrapped up in cling-film. If you have written any stories about Roy being completely wrapped in clingfilm please send them to me and I may put them up on the site. If you have a site with stories about other pop stars being wrapped in cling-film mail me at ulli@cling.net and we can exchange links.

It always starts the same way. I am in the garden airing my terrapin Jetta when he walks past my gate, that mysterious man in black. 'Hello Roy,' I say. 'What are you doing in Dusseldorf?' 'Attending to certain matters,' he replies. 'Ah,' I say. He apprises Jetta's lines with a keen eye. 'That is a well-groomed terrapin,' he says. 'Her name is Jetta.' I say. 'Perhaps you would like to come inside?' 'Very well.' He says. Roy Orbison walks inside my house and sits down on my couch. We talk urbanely of various issues of the day. Presently I say, 'Perhaps you would like to see my cling-film?' 'By all means.' I cannot see his eyes through his trademark dark glasses and I have no idea if he is merely being polite or if he genuinely has an interest in cling-film. I bring it from the kitchen, all the rolls of it. 'I have a surprising amount of clingfilm,' I say with a nervous laugh. Roy merely nods. 'I estimate I must have nearly a kilometre in the kitchen alone.' 'As much as that?' He says in surprise. 'So.' 'Mind you, people do not realize how much is on each roll. I bet that with a single roll alone I could wrap you up entirely.' Roy Orbison sits impassively like a monochrome Buddha. My palms are sweaty. 'I will take that bet,' says Roy. 'If you succeed I will give you tickets to my new concert. If you fail I will take Jetta, as a lesson to you not to speak boastfully.' I nod. 'So then. If you will please to stand.' Roy stands. 'Commence.' I start at the ankles and work up. I am like a spider binding him in my gossamer web. I do it tight with several layers. Soon Roy Orbison stands before me, completely wrapped in cling-film. The pleasure is unexampled. 'You are completely wrapped in cling-film,' I say. 'You win the bet,' says Roy, muffled. 'Now unwrap me.' 'Not for several hours.' 'Ah.' I sit and admire my handiwork for a long time. So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant for him we make small talk on topical subjects, Roy somewhat muffled. At some point I must leave him to attend to Jetta's needs. When I return I find he has hopped out of my house, still wrapped in cling-film. The loss leaves me broken and pitiful. He never calls me. He sends no tickets. The police come and reprimand me. Jetta is taken away, although I get her back after a complicated legal process. There is only one thing that can console me. A certain dream, a certain vision... It always starts the same way.

In this fantasy I am driving along the Autobahn between Köln and Aachen. A large Winnebago has pulled to the side of the road ahead. An anxious-looking man flags me down. 'This could be trouble,' I say to Jetta. 'It is certainly irregular.' Jetta says nothing. Little do I know what is in store. 'Can you help me,' says the man. 'I am Roy Orbison's tour manager.' 'Also?' I say in polite surprise. I have already read the legend 'Roy Orbison tour bus' on the side of the vehicle. I get out of the car. 'What seems to be the problem?' He leads me to the back of the van. 'Roy has succumbed to a heart attack and is clinically dead,' he explains, indicating a certain well-known man in black sprawled on the floor of the vehicle. 'So,' I say. 'Are you perchance a doctor?' 'No. I studied at a catering college for some years but was forced to leave for reasons I prefer not to disclose.' 'Ach! Then I am at a loss what to do.' 'There is one thing we might try,' I say with elaborate nonchalance. 'If we were to wrap him in cling-film, this would prevent corruption setting in until we can get him to a hospital.' 'It is certainly worth a try. But I have no cling-film.' 'Fortunately I have several rolls in the car.' I go to the car and retrieve it. The tour manager looks anxiously over my shoulder as I set to work. 'I must work undisturbed,' I tell him. He nods and gives me privacy. Now it is just me and Roy Orbison and the cling-film. I start from the ankles and work up to the trademark dark glasses, wrapping slowly and carefully. Soon Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in cling-film. He is like a big black beetle wrapped in a silvery cocoon. The satisfaction is unparalleled by anything in my previous existence. 'He is completely wrapped in cling-film,' I call to the manager. 'I will accompany him as you drive to the hospital.' Four hours later Roy Orbison sits up in bed in hospital and smiles at me. 'I hear I owe you my life,' he says. 'Please accept these concert tickets.' I bow politely. 'There is something you perhaps should know. While you were in a coma I was forced to wrap you entirely in cling-film.' 'Quick thinking,' says Roy. 'You did not mind?' Roy's expression is unreadable. 'I wasn't aware of it.' But was there the slightest twinkle behind those dark glasses? Of course, I reflect as I return to the patient Jetta, there can be no question of him enjoying it, for he was dead at the time. Or was he...???

In this fantasy I am driving along the Autobahn between Köln and Aachen. A large Winnebago has pulled to the side of the road ahead. An anxious-looking man flags me down. 'This could be trouble,' I say to Jetta. 'It is certainly irregular.' Jetta says nothing. Little do I know what is in store. 'Can you help me,' says the man. 'I am Roy Orbison's tour manager.' 'Also?' I say in polite surprise. I have already read the legend 'Roy Orbison tour bus' on the side of the vehicle. I get out of the car. 'What seems to be the problem?' He leads me to the back of the van. 'Roy has succumbed to a heart attack and is clinically dead,' he explains, indicating a certain well-known man in black sprawled on the floor of the vehicle. 'So,' I say. 'Are you perchance a doctor?' 'No. I studied at a catering college for some years but was forced to leave for reasons I prefer not to disclose.' 'Ach! Then I am at a loss what to do.' 'There is one thing we might try,' I say with elaborate nonchalance. 'If we were to wrap him in cling-film, this would prevent corruption setting in until we can get him to a hospital.' 'It is certainly worth a try. But I have no cling-film.' 'Fortunately I have several rolls in the car.' I go to the car and retrieve it. The tour manager looks anxiously over my shoulder as I set to work. 'I must work undisturbed,' I tell him. He nods and gives me privacy. Now it is just me and Roy Orbison and the cling-film. I start from the ankles and work up to the trademark dark glasses, wrapping slowly and carefully. Soon Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in cling-film. He is like a big black beetle wrapped in a silvery cocoon. The satisfaction is unparalleled by anything in my previous existence. 'He is completely wrapped in cling-film,' I call to the manager. 'I will accompany him as you drive to the hospital.' Four hours later Roy Orbison sits up in bed in hospital and smiles at me. 'I hear I owe you my life,' he says. 'Please accept these concert tickets.' I bow politely. 'There is something you perhaps should know. While you were in a coma I was forced to wrap you entirely in cling-film.' 'Quick thinking,' says Roy. 'You did not mind?' Roy's expression is unreadable. 'I wasn't aware of it.' But was there the slightest twinkle behind those dark glasses? Of course, I reflect as I return to the patient Jetta, there can be no question of him enjoying it, for he was dead at the time. Or was he...???