A TASTE OF BUNNY

A TASTE OF BUNNY

Rudyard Gregg McVitie was a part time baker from Bakewell, with a quick temper and fists of rock.

He was of mixed race, having a Welsh mother and Scottish father. His ginger hair and pale complexation was a legacy of his fathers side of the family, who were professional "Gingers" from Dundee. His mother was short and stocky, with an earthy swarthy complexion reminiscent of a flatulent Basque wrestler.

Rudyard had had a rough childhood, growing up in tenement on the south bank of the Dighty Water, with just one stinking room for him and his troglodyte parents. After attending school for a couple of months he became bored, and he never returned after finding a job as a shuttle monkey, in the local demonic cotton mill. The few shillings he earned each 72 hour week from this feverish endeavour, enabled Rudyard to experience luxuries that he had never previously experienced at home.

He was soon smoking a pipe, and before long was habitually both inhaling and chewing humongous quantities of rough hewn tobacco.

This invariably led to visits to the local ale house's for liquid refreshment and this also soon became a habit, with copious amounts of stout, mild, heavy and best Bitter consumed on a daily basis.
Indeed, by the time Rudyard was ten, he was spitting phlegm and coughing up black and brown tar on a regular basis, which only increased his need to imbibe.

These unfortunate habits soon became life threatening as he became a threat to the local community, mainly due to his unruly behaviour and penchant for visiting the local brothel and absconding without paying.

This would invariably lead to a scuffle as the brothel keeper chased the rock fisted child up the street, weaving in and out of hand carts, horse drawn traffic and pedestrians, and generally disrupting the ambiance of the locality. Before long the local sheriff apprehended the delinquent youth and the sad faced reprobate was up before the local judge. The proceedings were brief, and the sentence of transportation to Australia swiftly administered by the red faced official.

Removed to a holding cell, Rudyard sat on a three legged stool and whimpered like a suckling pig, as his craving for tobacco, ale and whores, drove him to temporary insanity. It was at this stage in the proceedings that he first encountered big Buff, a baker from the adjacent bakery who had a concession enabling him to sell his wares to those imprisoned in the courts cells.

Buff was  of a portly disposition, and had haled from Neasden, a small village in Middlesex that specialised in hay growing and market gardening, for the burgeoning markets located on the outskirts and hinterland of the city of London.

Buff drew the young lad towards him, and whispered a few quite words in his ear. He then withdrew, after placing a small brown loaf in the convicts hands. As the turnkey opened the door, Rudyard charged towards the portal to freedom, and was soon scurrying through the streets, with Buff the Baker in hot pursuit.

Before long they were at the docks, and they both embarked upon a huge wooden hulk that was getting ready to sale to Hamburg with the outgoing tide. Quickly finding a safe haven upon the vessel, Rudyard anxiously waited for Buff to expose his hiding place.

To be continued......

DOCTOR DOYLE AND THE MUNICH HORN - PARTS 1 (KUNST), 2 (BOTSCHAFTER) AND 3 (KNOBLAUCH).

 DOCTOR DOYLE AND THE MUNICH HORN - PARTS 1 "KUNST"

Doctor Doyle sat at the bar on his usual stool, a stool that had been specially strengthened to take his enormous weight, and shortened by four inches so that his miniature but muscular legs could reach the floor.

He was seated towards the end of the tobacco and phlegm stained snug, his broad back and shoulders positioned so that his corpulent body filled the tight angle between the bar and wall.

 Dr Doyle had been a regular at the pub for many years and was well known by all who frequented the establishment on a regular basis. However, he was also known to venture a number of miles along the Harrow Road towards leafy Harrow Weald in one direction and Wembley in the other.

 He slowly lifted his large balding head and scanned the document he had just pulled from his pocket.  His brown eyes darted about the smoke filled room, scanning and ensuring that the document would be out of sight of prying eyes.

He thought briefly of his recent visit to the pub when he finally met Major Thurlby, but soon cleared his mind so that he could concentrate on the instructions before him. The foolscap document was typed in bold Indian ink and consisted of a number of short paragraphs. It was headed up "Most Secret" and "For the eyes of Doctor Doyle only".

He was briefly distracted as old Pa Benfield  screamed incoherently at his incontinent wife, as she urinated at her bar stool. Oblivious of her bladder malfunction she threw herself from her stool and somersaulted across the wooden floor. Pa Benfield was used to this and turned to the bar and ordered another pint of mild and stout as she continued to hand spring her way in the direction of the back door and garden.

Dr Doyle ruffled the document in his hands and placed his reading glasses over his large ears. The wire frames of his spectacles in place, he scanned the instructions and noted that he was to make his way to Munich, Germany and locate and seize the fabled "Munich Horn".

The corpulent red face doctor  raised his handkerchief to his face and wiped a bead of sweat from his creased brow. It was a number of years since he had ventured overseas and with the world in the throes of another world war, he would need to plan his trip with the utmost precision and recruit only the finest to assist him in his mission.

He knew that his greatest foe would be waiting for him when he entered Germany and that Kahrl Heinzz - Brunner" principle of the Duisburg School of Archaeology and the Occult would kill him on first sight.

Brunner was an ex Nazi spy who had spent a number of years in Paraguay running a quasi religious sect, before slipping back in to Europe under a false name and forged papers after the Nazis came to power.

Prior to his entanglement with the Nazi Party, he had studied archaeology at the Sorbonne, Oxford and Harvard, and had forged many links with the nefarious “Archaeological Mafia” known as “The Sacred brotherhood of the Sarcophagus”.

Brunner has surfaced in Duisburg and by murderous and foul means, had swiftly worked his way to become the Principal at the renowned and respected Archaeology school.
However, the Gestapo, German Police and the secret service, “Die Bundesamt fur Verfassungsschutz (BfV)”, had been unable to pin on him any of the unfortunate accidents and disappearances that befell his more senior colleagues, and he now ruled supreme at the Duisburg centre of the occult.

The obese and hypertensive near alcoholic Dr Doyle was himself of mixed Irish and Spanish decent, and had acted for both the allies and the triple alliance during the last global conflict.
His usual place of rest was his current location, the Mitre public house, situated on the Watford Road just up from the junction with East Lane.He would occasionally frequent the notoriously seedy "Carlton Lodge" speakeasy during the hours that the pubs were shut, but condensed most of his imbibing in to the small nicotine infested Mitre.

However, with the current conundrum facing him, and the near certainty of death if his mission against  Kahrl Heinzz - Brunner  was not executed in a faultless manner, Dr Doyle decided to leave the comfort of the Mitre and head down the Watford Road toward Sudbury Town and Wembley.
After forty minutes huffing and puffing the crimson faced chubby doctor approached Barham House.
The property was built in the grounds of the far more historic Crabs House which was owned by the father of the Copeland sisters. The Copeland sisters are commemorated to this day in Wembley by way of the secondary school named in their honour, and Copeland road.

The mansion was sited to the west of Wembley, on the road to Sudbury Town, and still retained a number of the sweeping green acres that had previously surrounded this stately home.
The lush meadows had supported herds of dairy cows during the eighteenth century, which provided ample supplies of milk to Wembley and the surrounding villages and hamlets. During the middle of the century, the provision of a railway station at what became Wembley Central, provided convenient and easy access to the centre of London and an eagerly waiting market for fresh milk and dairy products.

The house had however, recently been under the control of the local urban district council, and had become somewhat dilapidated, although was still inhabitable.

Doctor Doyle turned in to the driveway and pushed open the once magnificent wrought iron gates, which were no longer locked due to the apathy shown by those chosen by the council to tend the gardens and house.

He marched forward towards the entrance and strode up the couple steps leading to the balustrade and open walkway that surrounded the building. He unlocked the main door with an old rusty key and slowly climbed the central staircase. He entered the first doorway to the right of the landing and sat down on a large wooden chair. A minute later a large brute of a man entered through the doorway and the grotesquely obese Doctor Doyle slid of his seat and motioned towards the massive figure of Ivan Terrablanche.

The Doctor coughed as he approached the frowning South African and was quickly acknowledged with an outstretched hand.  "Ivan Terrablanche" was East Africa's most dangerous Arms dealer and had moved up from The Cape many years earlier so as to escape from "Mickey Mangtoute" and his cut throat gang of extortionists and murderers. He had worked with Dr Doyle on a number of occasions and was well placed to help with the Munich raid to capture the Munich Horn.

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DOCTOR DOYLE AND THE MUNICH HORN - PART 2  "BOTSCHAFTER"

Dr Doyle and Ivan Terrablanche strode purposely away from Munchen Hauptbahnhof and quickly made their way to the Neues Rathaus in Marienplatz.  After checking their watches and making sure they were not being being followed, they edged past the neo-gothic building and made their way to the sanctuary of Peterskirche.

The snow was now falling quicker and heavier and both were grateful when a side door next to the nave opened and a priest beckoned them in to the warmth of the church.

Terrablanche gripped the hand of the white robed cleric and shook it vigorously. After recovering his hand, the priest walked them across the choir and down a couple of steps until they stood in front of a marble crypt inscribed in Latin and Germanic script. Dr Doyle quickly noticed the inscriptions on the tomb from an earlier encounter with Kahrl Heinz-Brunner, when he prevented the Nazi scholar from removing a sacred challis from a comparable crypt in Aachen.

The similar but subtly different tomb was one a series of memorials dedicated to Frederica Barbarossa, also known as Frederick 1st of Germany, Holy Roman Emperor and within the German speaking world “Kaiser Rotbart”.

The priest passed a sealed envelope to Dr Doyle who ripped open the seal and started to ingest the words before him. Although written in code, he soon realised that the Munich Horn was in fact a drinking horn that had been used by Barbarossa between 1122 and 1190 and again used by Frederick the Great, many centuries later. Barbarossa had in fact stolen the Horn from St Peters in Rome when he and his troops sacked Rome during the conquest of Italy and the Papal authorities had themselves been searching for the artifact ever since.

The note further explained that in German mythology, Barbarossa was also known as the “Sleeping Hero” and that in Germany’s darkest hour he would awake from his slumber and once he had taken ein trinken from the Horn would lead the nation to a victory over who ever threatened the Fatherland.
This was a surprise to Dr Doyle as when he left England for Munich, he had been advised by his handlers that the Horn was a code name for a device that can pick up radio signals from the allies and break any code or encryption through a refraction of musical notes. This was now proven incorrect and Dr Doyle and the priest laughed at the incredibility of the presumed meaning of the Munich Horn.

Soon the marble structure was being edged away from its plinth through the brute force of Ivan Terrablanche and a crow bar, and slowly a gap was appearing that hinted at something stored beneath the memorial.  A few moments later the Doctor was holding a golden Horn inscribed with Saxon and Latin inscriptions.

The Horn was remarkably light and had been damaged; no doubt during a roaring drinking session after Barbarossa looted the Horn from Rome. The priest handed Dr Doyle a leather pouch which he carefully placed the object within.  Thoughts now turned to escaping from the Bavarian City without capture.  With this in mind, Dr Doyle and Ivan Terrablanche crept out of the crypt and although the snow storm was now a full blizzard headed towards the embankment of the river Isar.
Reaching the river they both untied a waiting rowing boat and swiftly rowed their way up river. After a couple of miles they disembarked and hailed a cab and headed for the Bahnhof where they hoped to catch a train to neutral Switzerland and safety.

However, Dr Doyle's mind turned to an earlier trip to the city and the delights that he has sampled in the local stews and brothels.He licked his chapped lips and stroked his fat neck as he remembered the leather clad Lesbian Fraulein he used to visit on a daily basis, and although he overweight corpulent body would have trouble in raising his own Horn, he quickly beckoned to Terrablanche to follow him away from the station and back to the city center.

Unknown to them, Kahrl Heinz-Brunner sat silently drinking a stein of lager as he awaited their appearance in the dingy cellar at 15 Ausberg Strasse .
   
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DOCTOR DOYLE AND THE MUNICH HORN - PART 3  "KNOBLAUCH"

Exiting the pink Mercedes taxi cab driven by a leather clad lesbian dwarf, Dr Doyle and his associate strode in to the bar eagerly awaiting their first alcoholic drink of the day.

In their boyish enthusiasm they both missed the smiling Karl Heinz–Brunner seated on a large leather sofa next the raging open fire. Brunner nuzzled a large glass of brandy against his upper lip so as to sniff the pungent aroma of the vintage cognac. In his hands was the latest edition of “Club Antiquity Deutsche”, a publication that unknown to its loyal readership was utilised by “The Sacred Sarcophagus” to send encrypted messages to its agents.

Brunner had picked up his copy of the magazine the previous morning from the news stall outside his Berlin apartment, and had immediately noticed the encoded massage confirming that Dr Doyle was to be in Munich today and that he was searching for the Munich Horn.  Wasting no time, he boarded the next train for Munich and was booked in to a small hotel opposite the bar. It was easy for Brunner to anticipate where Dr Doyle would be found after his mission, as he was well aware of his sexual deprivations, in particular his need to be pleasured by leather clad bi-sexual lesbian dwarfs, and that he would visit the Brothel situated on the first floor of the premises.


At the bar, Dr Doyle and Ivan Terrablanche were drinking large steins of larger and anticipating a couple of hours debauchery on the first floor, when the corpulent and thick necked Doctor noticed Brunner in a reflected image thrown from his zipper lighter. Doyle turned to face his giant companion and grabbing a pen from his pocket scribbled a quick note on a napkin and passed it to Terrablanche to read. Terrablanche responded by speaking slowly but determinedly in Afrikaans, hoping that Brunner would not understand the conversation.

Knowing that Dr Doyle was fluent in the language, Terrablanche quickly turned to face his foe and simultaneously fired his semi-automatic weapon at the seated Brunner. Dr Doyle had acted as directed and had thrown himself to the floor turning a table over with him to use as protection from any returned gunfire.

Unfortunately for Doyle and Terrablanche, Brunner was himself fluent in Afrikaans and had bolted from his position moments before the bullets began to fly from the South Africans Luger. Knowing that Brunner would not be alone, the pair quickly exited the building in an opposite direction from the escaping Nazi, and commandeered a large black BMW to make their getaway. Pushing the frightened female owner from the car, they jumped in and accelerated in a south-westerly direction towards a safe house located near to the Swiss border.

The light was fading fast as they drove over the river Isar and then headed for the sanctuary of the safe house on the outskirts of Friedrichshafen, where they hoped to board a small fishing boat, row across lake Constance (Bodensee) to enter neutral Switzerland, and eventually fly back to the UK with the Munich Horn.

As they approached the small farmhouse on the banks of Lake Constance they turned off the headlights and coasted to a stop by a large dilapidated barn.
Two hundred yards behind them, a large battered Mercedes glided to a silent stop.


To be continued...........

PUB BLOKE

PUB BLOKE

Ay up lad!...... You reet ?

I'm plum tuckered after walk t pub. I'm reet mithered coz mee prize pigeon has colic and the ferret has lumbago !

What a fecking game ay lad !

Anyway time for a pint of "sheep dip" best bitter, and a feisty rabbit hot pot and mash.

Ay up ! I don't want to badger ye lass, but can we have telly on t see the footie as united are fooking playing?

What ye mean lass, cant have telly on cos southern softy bastards in snug will bash the place up ? Balderdash, il take em up the snicket and use me daps to smack some sense in to the southern nancie's.

The back ginnel will be claret with southern blood when I finish with em. Ay lad, crimson lad, crimson like there pasty cheeks !

Fooking hell, I've just noticed I'm wearing me best sunday vestments, so I cant go bothering those softy southern namby pamby bastards anyway !

Oh well, back to me pint and hot pot lad,.. and a natter with the grumpy old gets that used to work in pit with me. I bet their brassic as usual, but I  don't mind anging with em as they have good banter innit.

Reet.....! time to ave a puff on me pipe lad, and eat me scran. Soo fook off and sling ya hook, and whilst at it lad, self isolate, you mincing scamp !

Later .......

Feeking lock down! ..........

Cant sip me pint with lads from boozer lad ! What a bunch of dithering mincing cretins who invented this load of old shyte. 

 First I cant sit next to the old gits for a sup, then the peelers change the closing time to10pm, next we have to take a pew at yonder tables, and now we can enter for a brew at all. 

I bet Winston Churchill and his softy cronies are still sipping in their namby pamby bunker in tinsel town, ay lad !  

What a fecking liberty !   

BREAKING HORSE BOLLOCKS......! IMPEACHMENT FOR THOSE WHO IGNORE PROROGUE RULING

BREAKING HORSE BOLLOCKS......! IMPEACHMENT FOR THOSE WHO IGNORE PROROGUE RULING.

The Supreme Court have ruled that Driver Chard's recent Brexit driven attempt to Prorogue the "Imbibing and Procrastinating" sub-committee of the Duck Flat Cap Society, was illegal and unconstitutional. 

The court further stated that all debates and arguments that were taking place at the time of the illegal prorogue, are still in motion, and must be discussed at the recall of the  society by twenty one hundred hours tomorrow.

The "Speaker of the Duck" has endorsed the ruling, and has stated that  all members of the sub-committee are to be available for cross examination,with the threat of Impeachment for those who either abstain or simply ignore the rulings of the Supreme Court and the Speaker of the Duck.  

Sources have indicated that the full membership of the society are split regarding this astonishing turn of events.

It is believed that hard lined activists are ready to demand that an election for the Presidency and Chancellorship of the society takes place within a reasonable time frame, which has previously been specified by northern agitator and Dandy reader, "Dave the Teach", as "closing time".

More in due course...............

R.I.P   JOHN CHARD 1933 - 2020

   

    

THE MAN WHO SAT ON A HILL - (PARTS 1, 2 AND 3)

THE MAN WHO SAT ON A HILL - (PARTS 1, 2 AND 3)

Mist moved through the valley until it enveloped all it encountered, and as usual, a gentle drizzle filled the air.

The ground was becoming sodden, and drops of rainwater dripped from the abundant trees and bushes that scattered the landscape.

However, none of this prevented Henry G Reaper from sitting on the hill top as he did every day at the same spot overlooking the town below. As he surveyed the scene below his thoughts returned to that day many years ago when he first encountered the vision that had changed his life.

Although he was now approaching an age when he would no longer be able to climb to the summit of the hill, his memory of the events that day were still vivid in his mind, and he was soon deep in thought remembering that fateful day.


TIMES PAST

It was at least forty years ago that after a Saturday morning working in the towns mill as an apprentice weft threader, he had popped in to the Red Lion for half a pint of mild and a tuppenny bun. After his ale, bun and the appropriate ablutions, he took the church path out of town and started to climb the slopes of the steep passageway. Rain was falling gently but persistently and there was a light breeze.

He remembered that his hobnail boots clanked on the dry stone cobbles as he approached the church and as he glanced towards the graveyard he felt an unexplained chill and shiver down his spine. Although alarmed he quickly dismissed any feeling of  unease and continued his approach towards the stile and footpath that would take him through the church field, over the shallow but cold river Yabble by way of the antediluvian stone causeway, and on to the ancient wool packers trail that snaked up the hill and eventually down the other side on its way to the local port.

The area had become extremely wealthy during the middle ages due to the huge flocks of sheep that had wandered the hills and valleys throughout the county. The wool from the sheep was worth it weight in gold to the wealthy land owners who had ruthlessly thrown their tenants of their farms and small holdings so that the millions of sheep could wander the former yeomanry's agricultural strips of ridge and furrow and the peasants common pasture land and waste.

As Henry strode forward he was soon passing through the remnants of an abandoned village that disappeared as the villagers departed the land and the sheep took over the ancient fields. The tell tale depressions in the ground and the slightly raised level platforms of land reveal where the cottagers huts and buildings once stood, and slight linear depressions in the fields revealed where the village lanes ran throughout the settlement. Occasionally a wall of a crumbled village church would stand proud from the ground, standing testament to the earlier inhabitants of these bleak and windswept landscapes.

Henry continued along a sunken Holloway and was soon approaching the remains of an ancient cemetery. The graveyard had not been tended for centuries and most of the bodies had been exhumed and transferred to a charnel house when the land was ripped from the villagers grasp to make way for the flocks of sheep which miraculously turned the Lord of the Manors grass pastures and hill slopes to gold.

It was rumoured by many old-timers in the town below, that the ancient graveyard had included those who had perished during the numerous episodes of the Black Death or Plague that had ravished the country during the centuries that the village flourished. Indeed, an analysis of the soil would still show traces of the caustic lime that was spread over corpses that had perished from the Plague. These lime pits were often some way from an area of habitation, and this was why the graves were located further from the abandoned village than any other buildings.

Pausing a short while to glance back down the hill, Henry trudged upwards towards a small clump of trees that offered some shelter from the  rain that had started to fall more persistently. Henry was starting to notice that there was a chill in the air and for a moment a tingling sensation ran the length of his body, from head to toes, resulting in a shake of his head and the hunching of his shoulders. His hobnail boots were not waterproof and his feet were starting to feel uncomfortably wet due to a combination of leakage and sweat. The loose fitting boots were also rubbing against his toes and heels and a trickle of blood was mixing with the sweat and rain water to stain his linen socks a dark red. Sucking in his cheeks he began to breath heavily due to his quickened pace as he tried to reach the shelter of the copse before  the rain fell any harder.

Minutes later he was under the branches of a large Ash tree and washing the rain from his face with a handkerchief that he recovered from his waistcoat pocket. As he regained his composure he suddenly felt the presence of somebody or something behind him. Frozen to the spot and unable to move, his mind was flashing through various thoughts as to how he should react, because he was certain that an entity of some kind was behind his left shoulder. As if immobilised, he was at first unable to make his body respond to his brains signals. Moments later he spun his neck and head to his left and jumped back a stride as he turned to face the presence he sensed behind him.

Standing about three yards from him, only slightly obscured by the branches of a small conifer sapling, appeared to be the figures of a huge black wolf and a hooded figure with a shepherds crock in its left hand. Henry was startled by  the vision before him but as the blood began to flow back in to his limbs and his brain regain some composure, he reached out to the apparition exclaiming "who are you and where have you come from ?"

After a brief pause the entity responded by stating in a strongly accented speech that he was in the service of his lord Offa, King of the Mercian's, and that he was to lead Henry to his destiny and salvation..........

As Henry followed the monk-like figure and wolf, he noticed that although it was still raining quite heavily, they were leaving no trail in the grass. Suppressing an urge to flee, Henry continued after the duo and quickened his pace so as to get closer to them.

However, each time he extended his stride and energetically increased his speed, he was unable to close the gap between himself and those he pursued.  After a short time the hooded figure stopped and turned to Henry Reaper and gestured for him to come closer.

The monk grabbed Henry by his arm and pulled him gently towards him. Pointing towards a slight dip in the hillside, he declared that within a sacred glade hidden behind the depression in the hill was an entrance to a secluded valley that had been undisturbed for centuries. This valley contained an ancient monastery that had escaped the destruction and dissolution conducted by Henry Tudor, known to history as King Henry VIII, and his conniving principle secretary and chief minister, Thomas Cromwell.

Unable to respond in a coherent manner, Henry Reaper gestured to the monk to continue towards the supposed opening in the hillside so that they may proceed to the lost monastery. The mist and damp atmosphere grew thicker and before Henry was able to draw more than a few breaths, they were standing in the bright sunlight at the head of a gentle valley dominated by a huge Romanesque monastic structure, with its gleaming towers stretching in to a cloudless sky. Various outbuildings were scattered about the complex and farm animals were abundant in the fields adjacent to the monastic complex.

Soon they were seated at a table within the scriptorium where the monk disclosed his name as Aethelwulf of Ockendon and that the monastery was the seat of a particular knowledge endowed on only a few selected clerics and churchmen. He went on to explain events that had happened during the reign of Henry Tudors father, also named Henry, who as the victor of the battle of Bosworth, had seized the throne from the Yorkist claimant, Richard Plantagenet on behalf of the Lancastrian contingent of the Royal family. After gaining the throne, Henry VII had instigated the exploration of the north Atlantic by Bristol based sailors, so as to search for the fabled north west passage and to satisfy the need for new and fresh cod fishing grounds.

Aethelwulf the monk then explained that during one of these expeditions, a number of Bristolian families were put ashore on the North American coast to the south of Newfoundland and that they helped to found a settlement that has since been hidden from history. The members of this settlement flourished, and in time after interbreeding with the local indigenous people, eventually made unexpected contact with surviving members of previous voyages from Europe.

These earlier arrivals from the "old world" consisted of a contingent of Welsh monks who had fled from persecution inflicted by Anglo Norman barons who had plundered their estates and confiscated the monastic wealth for there own treasuries.

The welsh monks had travelled across the North Atlantic in small coracle like vessels and had survived the long and arduous journey by using the western isles, Iceland, Greenland and eventually the coast of Labrador and Newfoundland as stepping stones for obtaining fresh food and water. When they eventually made land fall on continental North America they were surprised to encounter the descendants of Norse explorers who had settled firstly in the more northern latitudes of Greenland and Newfoundland, and then abandoning there Vinland settlements had moved south to the more temperate climes of what was later to become New England.

Aethelwulf went on to disclosed that his ancestors were related to those who had settled in the lush forests and river valleys of the proto New England, and that he was a product of the mixing of the Welsh Monks, Norsemen, native indigenous inhabitants and Bristolians, who had come together to form a new community of nations in the new lands they now occupied.  In time, the religious faction from Wales came to control the community that flourished under there strict and religious administration.

Realising that there was no future for them unless they revoked their vow of celibacy, they took native maidens as wives and reproduced in numbers sufficient to maintain there dominance. The descendants of the adventurers from Bristol soon became the communities merchant class, trading prodigiously with the native inhabitants, and the Norse quickly established themselves in the vanguard as the protectors of the community by forming a militia to police and defend the settlement of "Ockendon".

Aethelwulf then explained that although the North American community had remained hidden from the other inhabitants of North America, and continued to flourish it the Kingdoms hidden location deep within the forested hills of Arcadia, the wish to return to their homeland in Europe eventually overcame the benefits of their local paradise, and a band of warriors and there kin folk returned to the ancient lands of Mercia to establish a new community in the Insular Isles of Britain.

The location remained hidden from the local inhabitants due to a mysterious power that emanated from a casket of relics that included a magnificent Dagger. The current leader of this Angelcynn commonwealth was Offa, who had taken his name from his illustrious ancestor and King of Mercia.

Drawing a deep breath, Aethelwulf then drew a jewel encrusted dagger from a hidden pocket in his habit, and placed it before Henry Reaper exclaiming that his and his worlds destiny would soon be revealed and that he was to take the dagger in his hands and hold it towards the sky.

Offa , King of New Mercia, had been a ruthless ruler and was feared by the other sub Kings and Aethelings who inhabited the remaining hidden medieval enclaves of the Insular Isles.
The magical power of the "sacred casket" continuing to protect and hide the community from the present day Tudor and Stuart inhabitants of the lands.

It was to his utmost surprise that Ceolwulf, Osberht and Aethelbald had disobeyed his direct orders not to venture beyond the boarders of  New Mercia, and had ravaged and harried the hidden scattered settlements of Bern Umbria, Dail Strath and Umbria, which although protected by the magical powers of the sacred casket, were at more risk as the magical powers weakened on the edges of the hidden new Saxon settlements.

The location of his hidden Kingdom would only remain hidden if a strict set of rules were followed by the Angelcynn hoard who inhabited the scattered settlements.  However, the action of Ceolwulf and his cohorts had endangered the very survival of Offa's kingdom, and could lead to its and its related communities ultimate and permanent destruction.

Aethelwulf and Henry Draper entered King Offa's encampment and sat before the jewel encrusted dagger that had been carefully placed on a large solid wooden table. King Offa reached down to his side and lifted a casket of relics on to the table in front of them. Amongst the relics was a large golden door key, with a scarlet cord attached to its shoulder.

Henry motioned towards the glittering key and asked the King of its significance. Offa looked at Henry with a fixed stare and whispered that that it itself was the fundamental means to an eternal life within the isles.

He went on to describe a hidden hallowed temple, that contained a  vault that could only be opened by the golden key, but with the proviso that it had to be held by someone with direct links to the Saxon pantheon of Gods and had the blood and DNA of the gods flowing through his veins and arteries.

Offa was in full reverent verse about the sacred vault when the three princess who had earlier disobeyed the Kings orders not to raid the sub states neighbouring the Kingdom burst in to the room. Ceolwulf gained his breath first and exclaimed that ships had been sighted in the estuary beyond the hills and that a raiding party of some two hundred vessels was swiftly making headway against the outgoing tide. Although it could not be certain, he believed that the invading hoard were bearing the standard of a legendary warrior who had been discussed in saga's and folk law for decades, but who's authenticity was often doubted by those in authority.

Offa immediately signalled to his underlings that they were to muster there forces and go with an emissary to meet with the invading hoard at a point far away from there secluded encampment and settlement.  Ceolwulf, Osberht and Aethelbald sped away and briefly stopped in there tracks to ask Offa if he believed that the invaders were actually led by mysterious warrior from the saga's of the mead halls.

 With this Offa stood tall in his leather and fur boots and cried that it was indeed "Gruffyd Brenin" the Welsh high King of the "Arcadian" lands that there ancestors had settled scores of years before, and that he had come home to claim his rightful pace as high king of the sacred isles.

To be continued.....

THE SEED OF HENRY INCUBUS

THE SEED OF HENRY INCUBUS

The putrid, nauseating stench of rotting flesh hung in the acrid air.

Henry Incubus pulled the sheets from his body and sat upright in his bed. His nose was twitching strenuously as his nasal passages sought out the source of the puke enhancing stink.

After clearing his throat, and gobbing a mouthful of dark green  phlegm on to the straw strewn floor, he swung his legs out of his bed and surveyed the dimly lit room. He glanced at the ceramic chamber pot but quickly noticed that it was empty, and not the source of the gagging odour.

Climbing to his feet he staggered across the floor towards the shuttered window, and flung open the portal to let fresh air circulate in the room.

After imbibing an immense breath of strikingly fresh but freezing cold air, he began to dress in a hurried but particular fashion. He took a further hurried look out of the window and noticed the familiar alleyway located just across the courtyard.

Once fully dressed in his regulation apparel and thigh-high leather boots, Henry Incubus loosened the phlegm in his throat and spat a bloody gob in to the embers of the previous nights open fire. His red sleepy eyes soon set upon a large irregular mound in the corner of the room, partially covered by a filthy cape but still revealing what appeared to be the lower limbs of a corpse.

Striding towards the lifeless morass the stench intensified and Henry Incubus pulled his kerchief from his knurled neck to cover his nose and mouth.

As he pulled back the sodden cape Henry gave out a muffled gasp as he revealed that the lifeless mass was the deceased  body of his manservant Cyrus Bloefeldt.  Bloefeldt had been in the service of Henry's family for over fifty years and had always been loyal and faithful to the extended  Incubus clan.

His exact age was not known by anyone but the deceased, but it was believed by Henry that he was at least eighty five years of age and perhaps an even older vintage. Family legend placed him at the Battle of "Mons Badonicus", when his courage and acts of valour earned him the nickname of "Iron Balls" (Tormentis Ferrei Globi) throughout the Empire.

The actual events that bequeathed him the glorious epithet of "Iron Balls" have been lost in the mists of time, but it remained a favoured moniker to all who knew him. Henry Incubus stooped over the putrid corpse and lifted the lifeless body so that his trembling arms and hand could cradle the remains of the fabled "Iron Balls".

Calling for assistance a number of his retinue were soon at his side and they assisted with the transferal of the body along the narrow hallway, down the turret-rooms winding staircase, through the main hall and out to the courtyard below.

The corpse was soon inside the family chapel located within the grounds of the parish church, where it was laid upon the alter. Henry Incubus turned to his retainers and motioned for them to leave the building. As they departed a strange and eerie moaning started to envelope the open spaces of the derelict chapel.

Ignoring the ever increasing intensity of the screeching and wailing, Henry Incubus moved towards a  hatch in the far wall, and using all his strength opened the locked compartment. He stared in disbelief as he gazed upon the fabled Basilica of the Geats. Its fabulous visage gleaming in the bright light that emanated beyond the opened portal. As the hairs on his neck prickled and cold seat ran down his brow, he remembered the epic poem of the forefathers, "Bretwalda Cyning Gebyrd" that stated that only the true "Bretwalda" could view the mystic Basilica of the Geats.  

Henry drew a deep breath and moved towards the object secreted in the wall...

To be continued.......  

3. THE MAN WHO SAT ON A HILL - PART 3

3.THE MAN WHO SAT ON A HILL - PART 3

Offa , King of New Mercia, had been a ruthless ruler and was feared by the other sub Kings and Aethelings who inhabited the remaining hidden medieval enclaves of the Insular Isles.

The magical power of the "sacred casket" continuing to protect and hide the community from the present day Tudor and Stuart inhabitants of the lands.

It was to his utmost surprise that Ceolwulf, Osberht and Aethelbald had disobeyed his direct orders not to venture beyond the boarders of  New Mercia, and had ravaged and harried the hidden scattered settlements of Bern Umbria, Dail Strath and Umbria, which although protected by the magical powers of the sacred casket, were at more risk as the magical powers weakened on the edges of the hidden new Saxon settlements.

The location of his hidden Kingdom would only remain hidden if a strict set of rules were followed by the Angelcynn hoard who inhabited the scattered settlements.  However, the action of Ceolwulf and his cohorts had endangered the very survival of Offa's kingdom, and could lead to its and its related communities ultimate and permanent destruction.

Aethelwulf and Henry Draper entered King Offa's encampment and sat before the jewel encrusted dagger that had been carefully placed on a large solid wooden table. King Offa reached down to his side and lifted a casket of relics on to the table in front of them. Amongst the relics was a large golden door key, with a scarlet cord attached to its shoulder.

Henry motioned towards the glittering key and asked the King of its significance. Offa looked at Henry with a fixed stare and whispered that that it itself was the fundamental means to an eternal life within the isles.

He went on to describe a hidden hallowed temple, that contained a  vault that could only be opened by the golden key, but with the proviso that it had to be held by someone with direct links to the Saxon pantheon of Gods and had the blood and DNA of the gods flowing through his veins and arteries.

Offa was in full reverent verse about the sacred vault when the three princess who had earlier disobeyed the Kings orders not to raid the sub states neighbouring the Kingdom burst in to the room. Ceolwulf gained his breath first and exclaimed that ships had been sighted in the estuary beyond the hills and that a raiding party of some two hundred vessels was swiftly making headway against the outgoing tide. Although it could not be certain, he believed that the invading hoard were bearing the standard of a legendary warrior who had been discussed in saga's and folk law for decades, but who's authenticity was often doubted by those in authority.

Offa immediately signalled to his underlings that they were to muster there forces and go with an emissary to meet with the invading hoard at a point far away from there secluded encampment and settlement.
Ceolwulf, Osberht and Aethelbald sped away and briefly stopped in there tracks to ask Offa if he believed that the invaders were actually led by mysterious warrior from the saga's of the mead halls.

 With this Offa stood tall in his leather and fur boots and cried that it was indeed "Gruffyd Brenin" the Welsh high King of the "Arcadian" lands that there ancestors had settled scores of years before, and that he had come home to claim his rightful pace as high king of the sacred isles.
To be continued.....

THE KROWKCOLC CHRONICLES

THE KROWKCOLC CHRONICLES

Jack pushed his chair back, slowly lifted his tired body from the seat and moved towards the office windows. He glanced downwards towards the street scape below, and noted the faint raindrops forming on the hermetically sealed window pains.

As he moved closer to the glass, he noticed the familiar shape of the church situated on the corner of Love Alley and Grope Street.The church of St Butler was consecrated during the 8th Century and had been rebuilt by the Normans just after the events of 1066. The Romanesque structure was built without a clock tower, but during the Gothic period and stone and marble tower was constructed to hold a monumental four-faced mechanical clock.

Jack looked at his wristwatch and noticed that the time was approaching 3.30 pm and time for his tea break.  As he began to withdraw from the window, he inadvertently turned his head towards the clock in the tower as if to confirm the correct time. Stopping in his tracks he noted that the time showing on the church clock was a few minutes earlier than that on his watch, and after staring to get a closer look noticed that the hands of the clock appeared to be going in a reverse direction. Moving closer to the window and pressing his face against the rain speckled glass he strained his eyes and was astonished that the hands were indeed rotating in a reverse motion and turning backwards, as if to reverse time.

At first he thought that his eyes or mind were playing tricks on him and that he needed a strong mug of coffee to bring him back to his senses. Moving slowly away from the window, he passed his empty work station and ventured towards the partitioned area of the room used as a kitchen and eating area.

Plugging in the electric kettle he noticed the lights flicker on and off a couple of times and sat at a table waiting for the water in the kettle to boil.

His fingers fidgeted as he waited and continually viewed his wrist watch to check that time was running forward in an orderly manner. As the water reached boiling point he rose to his feet and grabbing a jar of instant coffee, placed two heaped spoonful's in to his mug. As he poured the water into his mug he trembled with the inconceivable thought that the dream he had had the previous evening was coming true.

 Collapsing back on to the rigid and inflexible plastic chair he swigged the hot coffee and immediately spat the foaming liquid back across the room and his mouth blistered and burned a deep dark red. After waiting for the liquid to cool, Jack slowly drank what was left of his coffee and started back toward his desk.

The lights flickered once again and he soon became aware that he appeared to be the only person situated on that floor of his office block.

Even stranger, the carpet tiles were different and the walls and ceiling were decorated in a confusingly different fashion that he was familiar with .

As he progressed across the floor it was also apparent that most of the stud walls and freestanding screens that partitioned the floor in to separate offices and sections were missing, and that there were no desks, chairs, tables or work stations to be seen.

Now panicking, Jack ran to the window adjacent to the church clock tower and staring at the clock face could not believe his eyes, as the hands whirled backwards at an astonishing speed.

To be continued...….














     

BREXIT EXIT IN STINKING ROTTEN BOROUGH

BREXIT EXIT IN STINKING ROTTEN BOROUGH

Driver Chard has astonished all and sundry by exclaiming that he is to stand for Parliament in an election for a long forgotten parliamentary constituency.

If successful he will strive to dismiss the existing elected members of the House Of Commons and with the help of the unelected House of Lords declare Independence from the existing EU and strive to unite the country in a political and trading Confederation with a re-formed independent German Empire.

The "Rotten Borough" of "Belmont Duck" is located in a small corner of semi-rural countryside situated between the border of the London Borough of London and the county of Hertfordshire. The half acre of land was granted the status of a "Liberty" in 1313 by Pope Clement V and sanctioned by the then reigning English monarch Edward 111.

The land was managed by agents on behalf of the Abbey church at the Monastery of St Albans and sub-let to local parishioners until the Restoration, when the postage stamp sized parcel of land became associated with the Glebe land attached to St Johns church in Stanmore.

It is because of the confusion relating to the ownership of the land originally owned by the Catholic Church, transferred to the status of a safe haven - "Liberty" by the abbot of St Albans Abbey, and then sub-let to various tenants until being obtained by the Anglican church, that the "Rotten Borough" was not included in the various pieces of legislation passed in the 19th century to remove the parliamentary status and the ability to post a member of parliament to Westminster.

Having obtained the knowledge that the opportunity exists to stand for parliament and extol his own brand of Brexit politics, Driver Chard immediately informed the  Prime Minister, the Speaker and Black Rod of his intention to hold a local election, so as to allow the forgotten constituency of Belmont Duck, and those associated with the land, to be represented at Westminster.

Driver Chard has enlisted a number of fellow members of the Duck Flat Cap Society to assist him in his grab for power, and has Ray the Dust his official spokesman and Jester. Barry the Gravedigger has been appointed his official physician and issued  "Letters Patent" granting him the exclusive right to supply bicycles and scooters for his executive team.

The ageing octogenarian potentate has advised his close team of supporters that upon obtaining his seat in the House Of Commons he will publish a series of Bills seeking to abolish the existing executive and appointing himself as the saviour of the post Brexit nation.

In particular he will issue a "Bill of Attainder" as  an act of legislature declaring the entire Parliament  guilty of Treason and punishing them without a trial. They will then be banished to France, Belgium and Poland for the rest of their existence as punishment for the lack of constructive Brexit action over the last 30 moons.

Despite being advised that such Bills were abolished in the UK in 1870, the clearly deluded Driver Chard insists that he will  be successful in his endeavours to proclaim himself as the post Brexit Potentate of the United Kingdom of Greater Britannia and Germania.

More will be published when Driver Chard is released from the mental Institution that is currently holding him on behalf of the Duck Flat Cap Societies "Political and Attainder" sub-division, chaired by the ex convict and dangerous Pygmy smuggler, Little Legs Parks.

R.I.P   JOHN CHARD 1933 - 2020