A CHRISTMAS PARTY

 A CHRISTMAS PARTY

 Cancelled.

ODE TO MCKENNA

 ODE TO MCKENNA

Mad Mo McKenna was a mild mannered man, with a love of stamps, coins and fine bone china.

At an early age he had learnt the art of the one liner,

And his dress sense couldn't be finer.

Ni.

Hootenanny, haggis is finer.

Tartan is fine but not for a dyner.

                                          Ni.

                                          Nini Ni....

                                         Thus the start of an another day in rural Toxadenia began, with a wing and a                                                 wang and a fermented stang............mmmmm! 

THE MIRE YEARS - WAS IT ALL A DREAM ?

 THE MIRE YEARS - WAS IT ALL A DREAM ?

Drunken days and nights rolled in to one huge humming dystopian epoch, characterise memories of the Mitre. .......

Damp cheese and onion rolls and pickled eggs fermenting in specimen bottles perched on the bar. Just what you need on a Saturday afternoon as you start your all-day session.

Sunday lunchtime drinks, with peanuts, crisps and roast potatoes located strategically on the bar. 

Sticky carpet and beer splashed stools at the bar. The dart board surrounded by hundreds of pricks and the pool table ready for the next 50p.

Discuss !

THE FOOTBINDERS DAUGHTER

 THE FOOTBINDERS DAUGHTER

Sui Sun was not wealthy. As mother of a single child and a carer for her elderly parents, she was unable to live an active life.

Her father had been the official foot binder to the court of the Emperor Ni, but had fallen on bad times after failing to correctly bind the foot of the Emperors youngest daughter Ni Ni.

 Expelled from the Forbidden City and the Emperors court, Sui Sun's  father, Sun Sui, was effectively a non person and reduced to the status of a shit shoveller. Unable to ply his trade, Sui Suns father soon became little more than a dishevelled caricature of his former self. It was a this time that he met his wife to be, and began there matrimonial courtship. 

After a short engagement the wedding took place in a small mountain village notable for the quality of its inhabitants feet. The average toe structure in the village was remarked to be on a level higher than that of the Gods.

 Indeed  XI Xan Toesuker remarked in his infamous journal that the villagers had feet like angels but stank like feted sewers. It was in to this village of the feted but angelic feet, that Sui Sun was born.

She attended the local village school from the age of four and learnt the basic skills of needlework, corn grinding and cleaning. However, due to a random discovery of a long forgotten foot binding kit in her fathers hovel, she started to practice the art of foot binding whilst locked in her corner of the family home whilst supposedly darning garments and spinning twine on a dilapidated wheel. 

After a short while she soon realised that she had an inbred skill that had been held latent by her circumstance. Foot binding was to be her way out of her current predicament and the road to enlightenment and riches. 

To be continued.....

THE GONG FARMER

 THE GONG FARMER

Sylas Shytschuvler was a fifth generation "gong farmer" with a passion for filth.

Being of Dutch heritage he loved cheese and clogs, which he he ate every day and wore on his feet. Trudging the fields around Clerkenwell were a delight whilst wearing the generously proportioned clogs imported from Eindhoven. These ingeniously designed clogs floated on the crud soaked ground as if hovering above the filthy mulch below him.

 The fields of Clerkenwell were of particular interest to Sylas, as the valley of the river Fleet was beginning to clog with shit, and thus was a superb hunting ground for his staple. Although the shit blocked river was fed by sparkling fresh springs and wells located a few miles to the north west, in Hampstead and Kilburn, by the time the river had reached the fleet valley it was an open sewer. 

The flood plain of the river was rapidly being encroached by industries relying on abundant water, both for the production of their product and the dumping of the effluent and waste that the production created.

 However, there were still plenty of small market gardens, kept fertile by the nutrients in the shit, that produced bountiful quantities of fruit and vegetables for the nearby city of London. It was these small but profitable micro businesses that Sylas targeted with his pungent product.  

He would wake before dawn and tramp the river banks and rivulet's emptying in to the river, collecting surface effluent and trapped turds left beached by the burst banks of the Fleet. He would then venture in to the crowded streets beyond the fields, closer to the thriving metropolis, and offer his services to empty their cesspits and privies of their succulent turds and night dirt.

 It was a laborious process that involved many return trips to and from his hovel located on the edge of the built up area, shovelling his putrid product in to hessian sacks and storage pits.

To be continued......

 

A RIVETERS TALE

 A RIVETERS TALE 

Beauregard Poohleaker was a semi retired riveter with an overactive sphincter and terrible stutter. 

Born in to an idealistic and nihilist working class family, he was hampered in his schooling due to his anal deficiencies and the need to wear battle grade nappies.

 Soon gaining the nickname "Shitpants", his self esteem was low from a very early age, and he was unable to make any friends at school or in his local neighbourhood. As a chronically lonely child he was soon creating imaginary friends and enemy's as his mind imploded with self doubt and fear.

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 he was ten, he was spitting phlegm and coughing up black and brown tar on a regular basis, which only increased his need to imbibe.

Drinking a pint of warm bitter and nibbling on a packet of stale potato crisps, he sighed as he pulled his crumpled note book from his jacket pocket and folded the cover back to reveal a multitude of his wild scribblings. 

Beauregard  had considered his childhood an exciting time as he pondered on his current pitiful position at the but hole of society. 

He had outgrown his father by the time he was seven, and regularly beat him to a pulp if he did not receive his gruel in a satisfactory manor. His mother was otherwise engaged in her affairs working at the penitentiary, although she did pass a smattering of Turdoxian reflexology on to her sponge brained offspring. 

He soon mastered this art, and became a black belt purveyor of rhythmic and sympathetic action to the underbelly of society. It was at this moment he decided to be a riveter.

To be continued.......

THE SACRED SCROLL OF TUTANKHAMEN'S CRUTCH

 THE SACRED SCROLL OF TUTANKHAMEN'S CRUTCH

Recently released reports from the Neasden and Dresden Crematorium and Necropolis, have revealed that a previously unknown sacred scroll has been discovered concealed within the crotch of a mummified corpse. 

Furthermore, unconfirmed and unsubstantiated leaks describe the mummy as being that of Tutankhamen. 

Although there is some doubt as to the accuracy of the reports, it has long been believed that the teenage Pharos body was not the officially displayed corpse, and that the true Mummy had been removed to an unknown secret resting place. 

Indeed, Professor Pepe Le Puke of the Bohemian Institute for the criminally insane, has long scrutinised that the remains are secreted somewhere within the confines of the ancient English county of Middlesex. The exact location was unknown to the diminutive and mentally incoherent professor, but he had always had a hunch that the remains may be hidden near Neasden or the Welsh Harp.

Professor Pepe Le Puke had obtained funding for the dig by selling his collection of antique black and white editions of “Lady boy Frolics”, old Tottenham Hotspurs FC programmes, and donating his body to science for the advancement of scalp therapy and hair replacement theory.

The Dig was assisted by “Barry the Gravedigger” who advanced his services for no more than a daily allowance of three pints of lager and a packet of crisps, with the occasional free go on the Golf machine. He was ably assisted by failed ladies’ man and part time refuge collector “Sick note Ray the Dust”, the diminutive” little legs Parkes”, and ex-military hard man and sexologist “Basher Hurley”.

Excavations in a former coaching inn’s basement, have unearthed a soiled pair of undergarments supposedly discarded by Tutankhamen. The stained underpants were discovered in a sealed brass container, with a hieroglyph inscription describing the contents as having been discarded by the Pharaoh after an unfortunate accident whilst imbibing vast quantities of honeyed Meade at a camp site adjacent to the present location of the former coaching Inn.  

Also enclosed with the soiled garments was an ivory drinking horn made of elephant tusk, and a deer skin flat cap inscribed in hieroglyphs with the name Tutankhamen and a line drawing of his flaccid membership. Hidden within the drinking horn was a hidden scroll, drawn up in hieroglyphics and ancient Greek.   

To be continued.....

THE NAKED FOX WHISTLER

 THE NAKED FOX WHISTLER

Scandal mongering residents of a leafy suburb of Watford have created a local militia, so as to hunt down and destroy an intriguing interloper that they have named "The naked fox whistler". 

Frequently spotted ogling and whistling at female residents, the overweight and aging flasher is always in a state of undress when assailing his unfortunate targets. Believed to be a former failed dustcart operative, his portly naked figure has become a common feature of the roads and streets of Carpenters Park and the surrounding environment.

Although believed to be harmless and non threatening due to a medical condition that renders his manhood motionless, he is still feared by the young and old female populations of the leafy estate.

After a long life of malingering and seedy incidents, The Dust, as the "Naked Fox Whistler" has been additionally christened by the local inhabitants, ended his working career as a part time refuse truck driver on the shortest shift pattern he could obtain from the unscrupulous officials who oversaw his monosyllabic and ghost like appearances at work. 

Recurring injuries to his hammer toed feet and inflexible digits rendered his pay packets to little more than a running commentary on his sick record. Where most people have bonuses and additional work performance related payments , the dusts sole monetary contribution was headed "sick pay".  

As well as being a failed worker, he was also a failed Karaoke singer with a penchant for 1950's pop hits that were delivered with a painfully unmelodic thrash. 

To be continued.....

EDERSON LADYGARTEN GOES TO TOWN

 EDERSON LADYGARTEN GOES TO TOWN

Ederson Ladygarten was a part time gardener from Ringwould, with a penchant for long tangled hair like grass.

He had spent his early life and formative years believing to be the heir apparent to the 11th Duke Pubic of the Gilded Razor, and was shocked to find at the age of thirteen, that he was effectively disinherited due to be being an illegitimate bastard. 

Bypassing this set back Ederson teamed up with his child hood buddy and side kick, Tom "Tommy" Tommyknocker, and experimented with gardening technics on his fellow inmates at the local secure home for children. 

Tommy Tommyknocker had had an unfortunate beginning to his life when he was diagnosed with haemophilia after an accident involving a mince grinder and an old copy of a Edwardian poster detailing a show girl and her knickerbockers.

 After a series of operations to unmangle his immature manhood  he was forewarned that his unfortunate disease would ensure his early and untimely death if he continued to lacerate his body for unnatural sexual pleasure.

Ederson and Tommy enjoyed there gardening exploits, and were often engaged in intimate operations and exploratory technics at the adjacent Convent. The convent was run by a cohort of unfrocked Nuns who has been expelled from any number of brethren and sistren  benefices.

To be continued....

THE QUATERHORSE BALLS UP

 THE QUATERHORSE BALLS UP

The highveld was exceedingly dry for the time if year. 

The swathes of usually verdant grass were stained with a dirty yellow pigment, as a result of the unseasonably high levels of unremitting sunshine. Water holes were reduced to muddy puddles, with there resident wildlife on the verge of permanent eradication.

Only in the slightly higher altitudes was it possible to propagate any kind of agriculture, and natural vegetation was scarce. However, local peasants managed to scrape an existence from the arid rock strewn soil, with makeshift terraces and irrigation channels torn from the tortured earth.

Few man built structures existed, other than crude temporary shelters and the occasional bolder and straw hovel. No villages or extended settlements were currently present, although archaeological digs had unearthed a surprisingly large series of ancient dwellings cut in to the base rock and subsoil.

 It was in this bleak and inhospitable environment that Professor Julius Quaterhorse proposed to set up his base camp and experimental HQ.

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

BLANK

BLANK

 He sat upright in the garden chair, juggling the hot cup of tea in his skeletal blotchy hands. 

Staring blankly at the opposite brick wall, he struggled in vain to understand where, and indeed who he was. Although recognising that the structure was a wall, he was confused as to what its substance was, and why it was there! 

He had little recollection of his early life in the slums of Kings Cross, or of his youth spent in the leafy new suburbs created by the green belt act. The occasional memory of the early War years would slip in to his mind when sparked by a familiar phrase or reference, but would not lead to a coherent recollection or meaningful observance of his past.

Arduous visits to London's war torn dockland and the relatives who lived amongst the destruction, were remembered with more clarity, but always fizzled out without conviction of purpose.  Fleeting memories of tube journeys interrupted by the blitz, or bus trips with gas bags and prams, were jumbled with events that occurred a few hours ago, or decades ago. 

After almost ninety years of life, his current life existed in short snatches of reality lasting no more than the time it takes to ask your name or where you live ! 

 Silence..... 

A slow methodical count of the number of bricks in the wall facing him is started again and again, there being no logic to it other than that what his muddled brain tells him needs to be done. A pause to think over the number and a glance at his watch. A blank stare and silence. 

A cup of hot tea is accepted and consumed as if his throat is oblivious to the still boiling hot liquid, and the cup discarded by impulse, as if an unnecessary burden. A further glance at his watch and the brick wall in front of him. Blank.

A mention of cycling trips to distant camping sites and resorts is acknowledged with a wistful smile , but further insight is not forthcoming. The conversation ceases as abruptly as it started. "Where do you live?".

Silence....

Blank.

The familiar and constantly repeated question "where do you live" is retorted time and time again. Often with a smile and a hint of subdued laughter. Answers are forthrightly given but immediately forgotten. 

Blank. 

Silence........

A change of scene as a temporary stay in a care home gives respite to family. "I know this place !"

Despair, worry, sleep. "Do I know you ?"...........

Blank.

And, as had to be, the new becomes the permanent.

Care home is now home.

 "I know this place ! 

"Where's *** ?"  -  repeat, repeat, repeat. Sleep. 

A sip of tea. Stare at the wall. Stare at the TV. Stare out of the window. 

"Where do you live ?", a pause. Nothing.  

Silence.

No tears, just fears. Hidden and suppressed in a black hole of the mind.

Blank.

Covid and pneumonia, hospital, infection and Delirium. 

Drip.

Sleep. Blank. Sleep.

Ward change.

BLANK.

Liquidised food and thickened tea. 

Ward change.

"Banana"  !

Blank.

Ward change.

Delirium.

Blank.........

Infection, Anemia, blood transfusion.

Ward change.

Covid again with various infections.

Delirium.

A blank slate.

No covid and removal to a nursing home to die.

Low pulse, rapid breathing, oxygen...........

And finally the end.

Death.

EOCHAID

 EOCHAID

Damp mist rose silently across the bog as the sun edged above the eastern horizon and began to strengthen in intensity.

The silence was deafening as the earth and its innumerable inhabitants slowly awoke to another day. The bog oozed with an ethereal presence as the wind blew gently through the sedge and eased the mist from the water.

Life was slow and time passed at a crepuscular unworldly pace. The abundant minuscule wildlife ambled their inquisitive way through the undergrowth, disturbing no one, and reveling in their silence. 

Dew on the long tufts of grass sparkled in the morning sun throwing a kaleidoscope of colors from their watery refraction, and as the softly spoken Hunter gatherer quietly proceeded through the sedge, the shadow created by his muscular body drifting intermittently and slowly across the serene landscape, enveloping the dewy rainbows and then turning them back on as if a switch was being flicked randomly by some omnipresent presence. 

Butterfly's skipped through the warming air, dancing an elaborate pattern as they fed on the abundance of natures sweet nectar. As the ground slowly warmed, the buzz of crickets began to add to the sweet symphony of nature that filled the air. 

A gentle rustle in the nearby bulrushes announces a water rat exiting its hidden burrow as it searches for food. It freezes stock still and sniffs the warming air, the buzz of dragon flies and insects filling its ever listening ears. 

To be continued......

THE MASTICATION FACTORY

 THE MASTICATION FACTORY 

Lord Tostig of the Horn, loved to masticate.

As a child of the wilderness he was prone to wandering the countryside seeking out items to practice his favourite habit on. His preference was for fresh flesh that had been slowly roasted on an open fire, but this did not halt his rapid consumption of any available morsel. 

At birth he had been blessed with a full set of choppers and made his mothers breastfeeding an unimaginable agony. He was therefore weened at an early age and confidently consumed solids from the age of two months. 

Tostig was introduced to raw meat after stumbling upon the corpse of a fallen warrior who had succumbed to the black death. Although only seven years old, he dismembered the body with his knife and rapidly consumed the flesh and entrails, leaving only the bones for the eagles and vultures to scavenge over.

As a teenager he quickly mastered the profession of animal husbandry and butchery, and within his courtly circle was renowned for his cannibalistic behaviour towards the recently deceased.

Before full puberty, he had obtained the epitaph "Horn", due to his habit of gnawing the horned skulls of rams and bulls and sucking the animals horns to remove any marrowbone residing in the horns. 

By his late teens he was unequalled in his ability to masticate, and was undoubtedly the greatest masticater within the territory he and his extended and ravenous bruderbund inhabited. 

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

REVOLT IN THE DUCHY OF RIPPLE

 REVOLT IN THE DUCHY OF RIPPLE

A recent indecent on the Glebe lands of Upper Ripple has led to an unimaginable protest by the villages enraged inhabitants. 

Villagers began congregating at the antiquated church yard after receiving news that the annual badger shaving contest was to be replaced by a new communal bathing event. This had been at the behest of the new Lord of the Manor, The Right Honorable Septimus Septic-Tank Lavage.

Lord  Lavage had been appointed as Lord of the Manor the previous summer by the Duke of Ripple, Lord Sebastian Montague Mongham-Northbourne of the Festering Hoof. The previous incumbent having drowned in the Deal marshes attempting to entrap a Great Bustard for his wife's menagerie.  

The contest has become a local sensation and has been conducted in the lower parsnip field for generations. Mrs Coldwhallop, a former washerwoman and local guttersnipe, had donated the land for the event in the middle ages and the field has been preserved for the sole purpose of the annual event ever-since.

Temporary sheds were set up on the lower parsnip field every year, to ensure that contestants had a stable environment in which to shave the badger. The badgers have always been specially bread for the event by whoever farmed the Glebe lands, and it was  condition of tenure. In addition, the honour of breeding the badgers had always been highly praised by local inhabitants of the community and was a sought after privilege. 

Bill the Badger Bradbottom had bred the required roster of badgers for over two score years and was renowned for the coloration of his animals. He and his ancestors had lived at Otty Bottom for as long as the parish registers could reveal, and local legend had the family bewitching medieval neighbours and throwing their corpses in to a bottomless well.  

To be continued........

THE SEARCH FOR THE LOST REGALIA

 THE SEARCH FOR THE LOST REGALIA

Ever since the sad demise of Driver Chard, the former Chairman and President of the Duck Flat Society, there has been a scramble to local the lost regalia of the societies high office.

The regalia, encompassing an old fashioned toilet flush chain and stainless steel sink plug chain, were of great significance to the society due to their inaugural use at the original meeting of the Duck Flat Cap Society by its august founding fathers.

  The original meeting was in fact held at a neighboring establishment called the Rose & Crown as the Duck was only a beer house at the time, and not a fully licensed premises. However, the society was an immediate success and as soon as the Duck obtained a full licence, the society relocated to its spiritual and everlasting home, The Duck.

The society soon grew from its original membership with both organic and external sources of new membership. The society continued to grow until the outbreak of the first world war, when it became a prescribed society due to its support for the retention of 24 hour drinking and the repeal of the recently announced licencing laws that restricted the consumption of alcoholic beverages in public houses, beer houses, tap rooms, bars and hotels. 

The society continued to conduct its business as usual, but within the confines of the new licencing hours, and managed to pursued the government that the it should be released from the law prohibiting it from recruiting new members.  For the remainder of the interregnum between global conflicts,  the membership continued to swell until the society was forced to bring in quotas for new membership. 

It was at the outbreak of the second world war that the hallowed Regalia first came to prominence as a sacred and honored symbol of the society.  Tradition states that as last orders were being called, an air raid siren shrieked its urgent message to take cover, and in his haste to pull the toiled cisterns chain to flush away his wast, the acting chairman and president wrenched the chain from its socket and and with him to the pubs cellar where he hoped to take refuge from the air raid. Realising that he had the chain about his person, he conveniently wrapped it about his waist until hostilities had ceased.

 Having survived the airborne onslaught, he and the other members of the committee decided that the chain should be worn at all time as a mark of thanks for the lack of loss of life, and remembrance of the outbreak of hostilities.   

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

THE PARADOXICAL PARADOX PARADY

 THE PARADOXICAL PARADOX PARODY

To Manfred Specklecoch life was one constant paradox. 

He knew by instinct that he was his own father, and that he also was the crazed entity who would eventually extinguish his own life by ritualistic slaughter.

 To make things worse, he suspected that he was also his own mother and all four grandparents. It was for these thoughts that he occasionally resided in the Bethlehem State Institute for the Insane in uptown Turdoxville, Nova Neasdon, Gondwanaland.

Specklecoch had been born in to society that no longer tolerated family life, and had banned sexual liaisons between all sex's as anti social and abhorrent.

His birth record recorded his name as George Holding, born at Loampit Hill, South London in 1845.

The document, amongst others, was unearthed when a time capsule was dug up prior to the scheduled destruction of a Victorian primary school that he thought he had attended. He was unsure, as it may have been his sister who attended the school, but this was a muddled memory, because he also believed that he himself, was in fact his sister.

Other documents uncovered at the same time included three copies of his death certificate, all dated differently and with place of death in alternative locations. These were accompanied by a series of marriage certificates in which he married himself over a period of several centuries.

 Alarmingly, each of the certificates were witnessed by himself, together with faded photographs recording the signature and signatories. 

Unusually, Manfred had acquired his current name in a game of cards where he lost his name to a one-armed cryptologist seeking revenge for an ancient family feud involving self mutilation and revenge porn. 

The stakes were high, and after loosing his own name to the cryptologist he managed to obtain his current moniker by a deceitful hand of black-jack with a blind alcoholic bohemian infant from Upper Willesden. As George Holding , he had developed a taste for honey and was constantly on the search for a quick hit of this salivating bi product of Bees masterly behaviour. Loampit Hill was a semi rural location that had a high population of insects and in particular bees. 

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

THE ACCIDENTAL IMBIBER

 THE ACCIDENTAL IMBIBER

The day started with a shock as a huge tremor shook the inhabitants of the sleepy coastal settlement. 

Sitting on a fault line meant that the towns residents were used to the occasional shudder, but this jolt was far more energetic than the standard quake and had had a profound effect on the local townsfolk.

Ron looked out the window to check on the local landmark's, and was pleased to see that the Lighthouse and pier were still standing. Although unsure if they were structurally sound, he was reassured by their enduring presence as he scanned the picturesque visage laid out before him.

 The see breeze was stronger than usual as it blew in from the frigid but ruffled ocean, and the gulls and shags screamed a shrill shriek as they took advantage of the uplift from the towering cliffs, and soared above the coastline and the communities startled brethren. Other than the rolling surf and the screech of the birds all seemed unimaginably still.

The local congregational church had been badly hit by the tremor and was suffering from fallen masonry and shattered windows. In particular, a large circular stained glass window was cracked at an angle of 66.6 degrees, and a scene of St Paul administering a psalm to the  crew of a stricken fishing vessel was in danger of disintegrating. The lead holding the sections together had become loose and appeared to have melted at various joints in the colorful glass jigsaw. However, most of the glass segments were still in situ and undamaged.

Ron was dismissive of the shock and was determined to continue his day as originally planed. After his morning ablutions and a rudimentary breakfast of coffee and cookies he quickly dressed and started for his front door, only pausing to quickly look down at his chest and the pendant containing a gold cross with a red garnet set in its center. His mind turned to the day his ex wife had placed over his head and a shiver passed through his body.    

Ron's family were originally from the western isles of Scotland, and had been prominent members of the local clergy, and in particular members of an insular sect that was influenced by its druid past. In fact, Ron was initiated in to the Druadic faith as a child and had trained as an apprentice Monk in a small Irish monastery on the island of Inniscock. 

After a couple of years of self denial and inhuman living conditions, Ron decided that the tonsure and habit was not for him, and began a slow but gradual accent in to the world of the unclean and nonreligious, whilst at all times retaining a sense of druidic well-being.

Leaving Inniscock in a small coracle and reaching out for his destiny, Ron initially arrived on the west coast of Ireland at a small fishing village on the Isle of Achill, and began searching for his true identity.

His druid instincts bestowed him with a feeling of belonging and trust in the local inhabitants, who unknown to him were directly descended from Iberian ancestors who spread their influence north with their beaker pottery and associated life-style.

The specific stock of Iberian people had also brought their DNA with them and an inherent genetic adaption that enabled them to ingest alcohol without any serious effect to their livers or other important organs.  

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

THE FLATULENT GARDENER

 THE FLATULENT GARDENER

Pete liked gas inducing foods and loved anything spicy and hot, and preferably would only consume non alcoholic drinks full of carbon dioxide, when not consuming his favourite pint of best bitter.

His digestive system was well adjusted to his flatulence inducing diet and had developed a capacity to cope with the copious amounts of methane produced. Like a ruminant animal, he had developed an additional stomach that enabled his system to process highly gaseous biomass and extract sufficient nutrition to feed its host. 

His digestive tract was like a specialised nuclear reactor, converting raw vegetable and butchered animal products into pure grade, highly flammable, explosive methane. In time, Pete would come to exploit this volatile gas but for now he would simply fart and all would suffer the pungent consequence.

The bi-product of this process was efficiently vented from his body via his overworked anal sphincter, that over time had developed a steel like structural membrane as a semi protective measure.However pain was still part of his life and a strong influence on his mental state, which at times verged on the criminally insane.

He had tried all the proprietary gels and ointments to alleviate the pain, but alternately he found that a crushed banana spread around and up his anus was the best cure, and prevented the metallic mesh from seizing or rusting. Even three occurrences of a prolapsed rectum and multiple cases of painful piles have not weakened the resolve to consume super flatulent inducing produce and products. 

Luckily for those who worked with Pete, he was a gardener who worked in wide open spaces most of the time. However, on the Manorial estate where he worked, he occasionally had to work a night-shift in one of the greenhouses that propagated sub tropical produce and frost intolerant species. It was in this environment that Pete set out his strategy for Banana domination of the world, or at least his small and insignificant, but painful, part of it.

It was at this time that he coined the phrase "Banana ! Ist Nicht Einfach", which became his war cry on his march to banana dominance. 

Pete was a regular at his local hostelry, and as an avid consumer of real ale he attempted to stabalise the fermenting bio mass in his two stomachs from reaching a critical mass.  A pickled egg was a favourite bar snack, but this could lead to complications due to the methane inducing tendencies of the egg and its embalming brine. 

The risk was maximised if Pete was intoxicated and changed his drink to a highly gaseous lager style beverage, and this unfortunately had occurred too frequently for many of the public houses former patrons, and the clientele of the establishment was at a post war low. However the landlord allowed his continued attendance, as he volunteered his methane by-product free of charge to the pub, which was used to power the kitchens cookers and grills, and was also tapped for future use as romantic gas lighting on the patio and in the garden.   

After a fulfilling night at the pub, Peter would often snack on a flaming hot curry or chili before retiring to bed. This of course led to many unfortunate experiences within the confines of the bed sheets. Despite wearing surgically prepared sleeping undergarments, his flatulent outbursts were able to escape the confines of the medical pantaloons, spreading an excruciating biochemical mess about the bedroom.     

To be continued........

THE BOOKBINDERS BALL

 THE BOOKBINDERS BALL

Billy Bob Boochmark loved books. 

He was born in to the profession of bookbinding and had spent his whole life creating, mending and extending books and manuscripts. His earliest memory was of receiving inscribed book-marks as birthday cards, and getting unintendedly intoxicated from the glue and resin infused leather. 

As an apprentice he worked as an indentured assistant to an aristocratic Bohemian from Prague. Manfred Glockenhunya was an unreformed bookworm and diarist, with unsubstantiated links to the aristocratic Hapsburg and Hohenstaufen families. 

Manfred Glockenhunya was just one of many bookbinding Barons who regularly attended the annual ball, which was set up by local dignitaries to honour their craftsmanship and wealth. The event attracted attendees from far and wide, and it was usual for delegates to arrive from each of the far flung outposts of literate society.

Ferdinand Von Iceburger was one of these intrepid patrons of the ball, who traveled up from the Cape to attend the annual extravaganza. His bookbinding skills were renowned throughout the industry, and his family were on the board of every bookbinding corporation throughout the world.

With offices in Beijing, Singapore, Pretoria, New York San Francisco, Paris, Moscow and London, Von Iceburgers grip on bookbinding was absolute and unrivaled. However, Billy Bob Boochmark was determined to undermine his vice-like control and establish the greatest bookbinding entity the world had ever known.

 Knowing that Von Iceburger would be his hardest stumbling block on the road to bookbinding domination, Billy had engineered a chance meeting aboard the steamship S.S Kreig between Von Iceburger and a distant cousin named Billy Joe Markboocher.  An ardent lover of Tripe, Markboocher was enjoying his dinner with Von Iceburger when he idly mentioned that he was interested in purchasing a consortium who imported salted barrels of Tripe from Argentina, for wholesale to the markets of Europe and beyond. Indeed, the Tripe he was currently consuming was imported to the steamship company via the very same consortium. 

To be continued.......

CAPRICIOUS NOMADS IN THE SNOW

 CAPRICIOUS NOMADS IN THE SNOW  

Snow swept across the European Pontiac steppe, blinding all and sundry as they bravely trekked across the wilderness. 

The small band of travelers had been prepared for the inclement weather but the severity of this storm had surprised its leader Orzig. Their search for amber was of the utmost importance to the intrepid warrior and his extended entourage of traders and camp followers, but their wagons and horses struggled through the exceptional snow drifts.

 As with all Cimmerians, each member of the group was well trained in horsemanship and metallurgy. The amber was to be implemented in to the design of the intricate jewelry that was designed and crafted by specialised smiths and metallurgists. 

Amber was always in short supply in the vast plains of eastern central Europe, but supplies were abundant to the north west, on the distant shores of the frigid Baltic sea. Trade routes had been established for many centuries, with produce from he Mediterranean world and Eurasian steppe being exchanged for products such as timber, amber and salted fish, all abundantly available in the frozen latitudes of the Northern Taiga. 

The Taiga stretched across the northern hemisphere encircling the worlds landmasses with is forests and semi tundra. Impenetrable at may of its locations, the northern European section was infiltrated by the Baltic sea that helped to moderate its climate and allow settlements along its indented coast. These settlements had grown rich on sea trade and the almost exclusive export of the alluring commodity traded as Baltic salt water amber. Originally laid down 44 millions years ago, the fossilised resin has remained untouched and pristine, and deposits are washed up on the beach after stormy or tempestuous weather.

Orzig as a skilled horseman with proficient knowledge of metalworking and ore smelting but was a wainwright by trade.  His father had fled the advancing Scythian horde, leading his family westward along the northern shores of the black sea. En-route he had accumulated a vast following of migrant horseman and their entourages, who were also fleeing the wrath of the bloodthirsty Scythian warriors. 

On the untimely death of his father, Orzig had assumed control of the wandering band and had plotted a course for salvation, which included trekking thousands of miles across the Pontiac Steppe and the central and northern European plains. Their goal was to be a new homeland on the shores of the southern Baltic where the bountiful supplies of amber and fish would ensure their financial and pastoral future.

The snow fell thicker and heavier as the wooden axles of the wagons ground to a halt, frozen solid in the sub zero temperatures. Animal fat had been smeared on the axles and shafts to assist with the rotation, but the constant advance through thick snow had swept the traction components clean. 

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

MAD ALBERT - THE TRUE STORY

 MAD ALBERT - THE TRUE STORY

Born on he fourth of July 1917, his best friend and occasional lover was Reinhardt Glockenspiel, a part time refuse collector from Durham. 

His family were of Shape-shifting decent, and had been blessed with a fertile bounty of offspring.

Moving to the Elysian plains of Middlesex, and in particular the hinterland between the villages of Sudbury and Wembley Green in the ancient Manor of Harrow, they soon put down local roots and acclimatised to the rhythm of semi-rural life. 

Apart from his relationship with Glockenspiel, he was usually of the sexual orientation that favoured women. His favorite female beau from an early age was a circus gymnast called Gloria, the daughter of a failed marriage between a one armed brush salesman and a burnt out charcoal burner, and a resident of the local hamlet of Preston. She had initially caught his eye whilst both incarcerated at the local jail due to extensive inebriation and in her case, abusive behaviour towards a fallen Jesuit priest.

 Both had been imbibing at the Black Horse Inn when the priest entered the premises with the local blacksmith whose forge and smithy was just across the lane.

 The forge was located adjacent to a the brewery and had a concealed passageway that connected the adjoining premises.  This connection enabled the thirsty workers of the furnace laden smithy to obtain regular libations on the job, in the way of freshly fermented ale and stout at an artificially low cost, due to a subsidy agreed by the brewery owner.

The initial encounter in the Black Horse was due to a heated argument over the premises clock that sat above the main bar. Due to a clever insight by its creator, it worked in a reverse fashion, and often provided a flash-point for heated debate and fisticuffs.  There was often a debate over last orders, and things would invariably become violent.

To be continued....... 

LOCKDOWN TURMOIL AT HOME OF THE OX

 LOCKDOWN TURMOIL AT HOME OF THE OX  

The day started with a distinct reluctance at the home of Olaf Jan Oxmann, otherwise known as the Ox. 

As usual he struggled to lift his large frame from his specially strengthened bed,but by using the strategically placed frame beside the bed managed to pull himself free from his stinking pit. Ablutions were minimal as he prepared to dress and ready himself for the trials and tribulations of the day. 

 Having slopped out and adjusted his ill fitting false teeth, he descended the houses rickety staircase, and entering the kitchen slumped down at his usual iron clad chair. Although he thought he was the kippers knickers, his lack of close friends was testament to the opposite. 

The tenement block that he lived in was empty other than the unit he dwelled in, and the surrounding locality was listed for demolition as unfit for human habitation. Thus he had no neighbors and his family had left him after an alleged unsavory incident involving a quart of ice cream, a badger and a set of tongs.

 Allegedly, legal proceedings after the badger incident had been settled out of court, but the proceedings had left a bad taste left in the mouths of all involved, and it was difficult to forget such an outlandish and flagrant misuse of chocolate mint ice-cream.  Although the tongs were never found, it is widely speculated that an x-ray of Olaf's backside would reveal there location. 

After a few hours sitting alone in his chair, Olaf Jan Oxmann would normally exit the premises to check his non existent mail and take a his daily constitutional stroll down to the town ditch. On this occasion, after relieving himself of his unwanted urine in to the dark brown and garbage filled drain, he proceeded to stare at the block of four story apartments across the yonder yard.

 Constructed in the middle of the nineteenth century of red brickwork and stained timbers, the property had been converted in to separate apartments during the property boom following the end of the war. To begin with the building was inhabited by well heeled clients from the city who wished to escape the stress and noise of urban living.

 When initially built, the water course running past he property had been culverted to form a stylized water feature within landscaped gardens, with a small brightly painted Chinese pagoda and small but practical wooden shelter. At the time, the agent managing the building, Silas Canney, had become rich by cleverly marketing the apartments to the wealthier elements of society, and soon became over ambitious and consumed with greed.Silas was a native of Mayo on the west coast of Ireland, and had immigrated to the promised land to make his fortune. 

Times had been tough when he first arrived, but he soon saw the property as a way to deliver himself from social depravity and elevate himself to the upper echelons of society. However, he soon took his attention away from the property, and in no time it was falling into its current state of disrepair.

The Ox stood silently staring at the now crumbling and mildew infested apartment block, only averting his gaze when distracted by an unwanted flying insect. Swatting the offending arthropod away from his face Oxmann jolted back to reality and turned towards the ditch which was now no more than a stinking drain.  Adjusting the angle of his poker visor, as if  to enhance his view, was the only other movement from the otherwise motionless individual. Even the urge to scratch his itchy balls was fervently rejected, as his strict duty to remain erect remained enforced by his strong will. 

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

THE BURNING IMAGE OF WODEN

                           THE BURNING IMAGE OF WODEN

Hell was like home to Trigorth, or he thought so, as he imagined his own damnation and banishment from Valhalla.

 Trigorth was weened on the blood  from splattered skulls of christian monks and ate their powdered bones as a substitute for gruel. His first act as a fully blooded man was to peel the skin from the face of an Irish cleric, and use the leathery pelt as a scabbard for his seax.

 His exploits had taken him from the eastern seaboard of what would become known as North America, to the eastern upper reaches of the Dniester in Kievan Rus, and south to Byzantine Constantinople otherwise known as Byzantium. 

Trigorth had spent some time as a member of the Varangian Guard, but was dismissed due to is ruthlessness and uncooperative attitude towards those deemed to be in charge. 

At almost seven feet tale and weighing a lean twenty stone, he was a formidable opponent to anyone foolish enough to cross him. 

 An earlier marriage to a freed Pictish slave had ended in bloodshed after her involvement with an Icelandic pirate, Ahoy-lad Ahoyhladson, and the only child from this short period of matrimony had been sacrificed to Thor as an act of penance for his unclean lusting for her mother.   

He had remained single in recent years as he reflected on his sexuality and his love of gratuitous violence and rapine plunder. Women were often on his mind, but not in body, and his frustration often manifested itself in dark self loathing and extreme  brutality towards others. His only fear was that of the vengeful Gods, Woden and Thor, and all his vicious and vicarious acts of cruelty were vehemently on their behalf.

To be continued.......

THE PASSION OF FRUIT

 THE PASSION OF FRUIT

Dominic loved Bananas and starchy snacks.

 He also liked Oranges and Lemons mixed with the zest of a lime and a spot of treacle. Fruit was his life and a day would not be complete unless he had consumed vast quantities of the fleshy and succulent seed bearing structures.

 Totally consumed by the consumption of fruit, he was oblivious to life's other pleasures, including a total abstinence from alcohol, sex, chocolate and friendship. His only concession was to observe a gentle affection for corn based snacks such as starch based products and crisps.

Dominic was a late developer, and was still only just over five feet in height at the age of 66. His hair had receded to the extent that he was technical bald, whilst his fingers were configured like contorted Germanic bratwurst sausages.

 His sexuality had never been confirmed or consummated, although he was ardently defensive when pressed on this matter by those who he considered worthy of bilateral conversation. Painfully shy, his face would glow a bright iridescent crimson at the slightest mention of pornography,  sex or sexual activity. The burning sensation would envelope his face and neck and leave him defenseless too the relentless ribbing and teasing of those in his company. 

The feeling of inadequacy that this embedded in to his psych was a main trigger in his desire to deconstruct and destabalise the world about him. However, when confronted by a platter of fruit his mind would turn soft and mushy, and pleasurable sensations would sweep through his consciousness like a sweeping contagion. However, all this was to change  when he first stumbled upon the dubious if strange configuration and appearance of a quince.

The quince is native to western Asia, but thrives in a variety of climates and can be grown at fairly northern latitudes. However, Dominic had not previously encountered the fruit and was consumed by a wave of fear and grief when first encountered at an exhibition of exotic foods whilst in Neasdon Pava, Middlesex. 

To be continued.....

CAPTAIN CATSTOK AND THE THEORY OF FISH

 CAPTAIN CATSTOK AND THE THEORY OF FISH

"Fish !" thought Captain Catstok as he sat at the bar stool downing his latest double scotch. 

"Why eat meat when there is an abundance of fish in the planets bountiful seas, rivers and lakes?"

 

This was the question that was searing an indelible scar on to the very substance of the captains brain.

 Suddenly his heart surged with adrenaline and doubled its rate. Anguish flushed his face a deep shade of scarlet, and his liver worked overtime secreting sufficient bile to react with his digestive system and purge his gut of the poisonous toxins circulating in his system.  

Bread-sticks and soup were ejected first, followed by a burrito and kernels of sweet corn.

 This was almost immediately followed by a gallon of pale beer and hard liquor, as his stomach contorted to the dance and rhythm of a Stradivarian puking waltz. When his stomach and throat were depleted of its contents and his inner gut stretched like a deflated pigs bladder, he raised his glass and sank another treble scotch.

Another day another dollar he thought as his mind turned to the tumultuous task awaiting him on the morning, and he again contemplated suicide. Sinking another treble whiskey his head hit the bar and he passed out.  

The next morning the sun rose over the bay and the rain surprisingly held of for the third day on the trot. As the light climbed across the faded facade of the Salty Cock Inn, all was still within. Inch by inch the suns rays climbed the weather-boarded Ale House, and began to penetrate the large circular window that had a prominent position above the bar. 

Like an extended finger, a beam of bright sunlight shone down across the room and was quickly engulfing Captain Catstoks still prone upper torso, head and face. As his eyes reacted to the bright light his mind began to fire a multitude of electric impulses along synapses and neurons to communicate with his muscles, and he was soon twitching and moving his eyelids. 

 As he slowly came to full consciousness his reflex action was to feel for his cell phone and wallet.  

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

MR BLOGHEAD HAS A SEX CHANGE

 MR BLOGHEAD HAS A SEX CHANGE

Notorious former hard man Mr Bartholomew Bloghead, has confounded the press by confirming that he is now gender neutral.

 As a former member of the quasi religious cult known as the "Brothers of Snot" he was renowned as an inspirational speaker and practitioner of the art of "Mucus flexoligy".  

Initially a member of parliament for his childhood constituency of Lower Bollocks, a quite Herefordshire village on the Welsh marches, he soon progressed to the capital, where he represented Upper Balderdash in the Fields, originally for the Liberal party but then  for the Tories. However, city life appalled him, and his feelings towards his feelings towards his fellow parliamentarians soon led to his rejection by all the mainstream political parties and his expulsion from public office.

His relationship with Quincy Throgmorton had been a thorn in his side for many years, but recent alleged events as reported in the North Neasdon Gazette, detailing nefarious and illegal events at the Golf club, had set him back in the eyes of his acolytes and enemy's alike.  The incident had left an indelible mark on his already blemished record and destabilized his various attempts at achieving political and historical greatness.

A friend since childhood, The Honourable Quincy Throgmorton was married to "Tallahassee Timpton-Smyth", the famous socialite who had an infamous lesbian affair with Felicity Martini, a fading call girl from Kilburn. They were both associate members of the infamous and notorious North London Gang known as the "Hacienda Boys", named after the gangs late founder "Hercule Roy Hacienda", and now headed by Big Vernon Cruickshank and his gay lover, Jock "the snide" Jenkins. 

Unknown to the Hacienda Boys, Quincy was also a full member of the shadowy group known as the "Zoot Gang", formed by Johnny Boondocker, Bunny Schniedersnap, Lord Curlington, Racey Micklethwaite, Marmalade Atkins and Sebastian Fassbender. 

"Marmalade Atkins" had spent many years in Tanganyika dealing in the pygmy slave trade, illegal ivory and narcotics. He was known to move in the same circles as East Africa's most dangerous Arms dealer "Ivan Terrablanche", who had moved up from The Cape many years earlier, so as to escape from "Mickey Mangtoute" and his cut throat gang of bigoted extortionists and murderers.

Bartholomew Bloghead had made many acquaintances during his shady career in politics, but none as nefarious a the incredulous Doctor Theopolis Doyle. Although originally trained as a medical Doctor, Dr Doyle had never set up practice, and concentrated on his specialised subject of criminal Psychotic behaviour. Aided and abetted by a rag tag band of seedy delinquents and semi alcoholic roustabouts, 

Doyle was well acquainted with the criminal underbelly of polite society. He frequently visited the fleshpots of old Europe and was a regular customer and acquaintance of every high class "Madame" west of a line on a map drawn through the cities of Konigsberg, Warsaw and Athens.

Bloghead studied form, and was well acquainted with the exploits of Dr Doyle.

To be continued.....

SEISMIC RUMBLINGS AT THE COURT OF GOOD TASTE

 SEISMIC RUMBLINGS AT THE COURT OF GOOD TASTE

Good order was in short supply at the recent opening of Professor Imma Northernbugger's latest experimental project in debauchery. 

Located in the old town at the intersection of Love Lane and Humberto's Back Passage, the modest building exudes Northernbugger's standard hallmarks of precocious ignorance, intolerance and attitude.

 The Professor has significantly failed to nullify his tendency to offend, and has inordinately succeeded in offending all classes and sub-structures of society. Indeed, as a project of distaste, he has proficiently exceeded all of his previous dubious enterprises with his latest carbuncle. 

From an early age Northernbugger has followed a path trodden by a plethora of  Victorian and Edwardian disciples of antisocial behaviour, and was a founding member of the"Grit and Spit" architectural movement.

 Grit and Spit had been originally initiated whilst the professor was still in secondary education at his local grammar school, whilst experimenting with his sexuality and corrosive materials. The idea was taken forward by the teenage Northernbugger and after the passing of several patents by the relevant authorities, the entity was legally incorporated with himself as chairman and majority shareholder. The remaining shareholding being taken up by his reluctant father and uncle

He had been earmarked by his father to work in the local shipyard as a welder or riveter, as had his brothers and cousins for generations before him. However, Imma Northernbugger realised that life amongst the flames and scorching heat created by the pounding and stretching of steel was not for him, and he stealthily plotted a more sedentary lifestyle from his early teenage years. 

Many hours misspent in the chemistry lab and science faculty had nurtured a curiosity that manifested itself in a need to create structures that others solemnly abjured. 

To be continued......

THE FLAMING COCK OF TOLEDO

 THE FLAMING COCK OF TOLEDO

All was still, but not quiet. 

The air conditioning unit hummed in the background like a mutant bumble bee on heat, and the fridge buzzed like a drug crazed welsh hornet. In the corner of the room a large bed creaked as its incumbent scratched his balls and coughed. 

Although Raymondo was asleep, the overweight behemoth slumped in the bed was moving in an irregular and involuntary manner as he dreamed about his long list of unsuspecting and innocent female quarry. He lived alone, but lusted after many unsuspecting female colleagues, friends and associates.

 Various inadequacies had left him involuntarily without female company, although he had previously unsuccessfully dated a number of girlfriends in his callow and immature youth.  

As the alarm clock rang out is shrill screech, Raymundo opened his eyes and rubbed the sleep from them. However, this action only managed to transfer gluttonous night emissions from his sticky hand to his face, and clog his peepers with foul smelling muck.

The heat in the room was overpowering, as Raymondo had slept with all the windows shut and the heating system turned up to its maximum limit due to a control unit error. The heating had won the battle against the creaking air conditioning unit, and the resulting extreme heat meant that his body was smeared with foul smelling sweat, and he stank of stale socks.  

However, the shower was not for him, and he quickly dressed for the days mercantile obligations.

Raymondo Toledo had been educated to a relatively high level as a child due to both his parents being qualified physicians, and employed at the local mental hospital.

 His mother was a relapsed alcoholic from Galicia and his father a defrocked Castilian priest, but this had not stopped them obtaining placements at the county asylum. Raymondo was also enrolled at the hospital, but not in a medical sense, but was gainfully employed as a mortuary assistant with additional duties in the adjoining crematorium. 

He often sat at the crematorium furnace in a trance like state, staring dewy eyed at the flickering flames through the glass inspection window. This would often bring a stirring to his loins and pleasurable excitement as his membership stood to attention in anticipation of the gas jets further igniting and increasing the intensity of the burn. 

Raymondo had always been aware that is sexual orientation was strange and somewhat disturbing, but had dismissed therapy as an unwanted intrusion in to his intricate and dangerous mind. His tendency to get an erection at the slightest glimpse of an unprotected flame had dubiously earned him the name of Toledo at an early age. He was unsure of the etymology in the structure or choice of the moniker, but had accepted it all the same.  

To be continued......

CONGENITAL MONKFISH SYNDROME STALKS POLITE SOCIETY

 CONGENITAL MONKFISH SYNDROME STALKS POLITE SOCIETY

First detected in a Monkfish allegedly caught off the Nova Neasdenian seaboard, this debilitating and brutal disease has taken the medical establishment by astonishment. 

Its symptoms include an extreme and absurd reaction to alcohol, which includes a rapid removal of upper clothing and the grabbing of any club or pool cue like instrument to act as a pretend microphone. 

A requirement to adopt a Mick Jagger like facial expression is also a standard reflex action of this debilitating  condition, however, strutting across the floor is an optional reaction that is only triggered in certain cases. 

The condition was first noted at the former home of UK branch of the notorious drinking association known as the " Boojar Team", and allegedly originally surfaced in the nefarious drinking den known as the Carlton Lodge. The infamous licence premises was a wonderful pace to experience the full flavour of  Boojar behaviour, and was perfectly situated between the Boojar Teams HQ at the Mitre and its early evening substitute premises known as the John Lyon.

Additional ale houses were earmarked throughout the locality in case of enforced additional imbibing requirements by the team, and these included the Sudbury Swan, Norfolk Arms, Black Horse , Rising Sun and Hop Bine. Each of these venues were awarded full Boojar Team credentials by the appropriate authorities and were often joyfully and successfully utilised as and when required. 

Monkfish syndrome was originally thought to be a highly infectious disease, but after detailed research by the renowned "Mayo and Neasden Institute of Alcoholism and Depression", it has been confirmed that the source of the contagion is contained withing the patients Y Chromosome DNA haplogroup. It therefor follows that the disease is inherited via the male line, and is triggered by an as yet unknown factor. 

To be continued.......... 

THE FOUR HORSEMAN OF THE DUCK

                                 THE FOUR HORSEMAN OF THE DUCK

The terrified clientele of the genteel suburban hostelry cowered in there seats as the evenings events began to unwind.  

The "Revelations, Lager and Real Ale" sub-committee of the Duck Flat Cap Society had gathered that evening to debate and discuss the recent demise of the societies former greatness. 

At its zenith, the regular meetings of the world famous society would be able to gather at least fifteen of its regular members to the head table, with  a solid core of regular and sincere members taking their seats on a daily basis. Additional malingerers and time wasters would also often make appearances, swelling the weekend and bank holiday attendance to approximately twenty. However, today, if allowed by the cowardly menace of Covid and government restrictions, meetings would be lucky to number four, even on high days, Fridays and and anniversaries.

Having sadly lost its former President and Chairman, Sir Driver Chard, the debating society had been further hit by the restrictions brought in to combat the pestilence sweeping the county and wider world. 

The closure of the club house and debating chamber had muted most activities, but due to special circumstances the committee had persuaded the hostelry to open its doors for a temporary period of reflections and mortification. 

Most fortunately and agreeably, this also coincided with the governments decision to suspend open hostilities towards the hospitality trade and mercifully allow limited opening of public houses and restaurants. Hurrahhhhh !

As required by the regulations at the time, Dave Duck, Barry the Gravedigger, Dave the Teach and one other would assemble at the required safe distance and set about righting society of its ills, spills and failures. As core members of the societies various and numerous committees and sub committees, the regulars would automatically form a quorum, and vote on points of principle and confirm their authenticity or reject them as puerile garbage. 

It was agreed that due to current ills of society and the dreadful pestilence that ravaged the world, the core members would reinvent themselves as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, so as to avenge the play makers and purveyors of the apocalyptic society that was joyfully and criminally locking the worlds populace in to their home made prison cells.

As the "four horsemen" suddenly jumped to their feet revealing their chain mail under-garments and home made swords, the startled and unsuspecting crowd recoiled in their seats clutching chests and heads in amazement as they struggled to gulp down air and take in the unsettling spectacle before them. 

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

 

THE PRISONER OF COVID

                                          THE PRISONER OF COVID

Minutes passed to hours, that turned to days, that stretched to weeks, months and years.

Time flexed and waned like a stretched elastic band or condom that had been expanded to its limit, and lost is flexibility. Life was now static and rigid.

Locked in to a daily routine of banishment from civilisation and humanity, time passed slowly for the inhabitants of the leafy outer suburbs of the metropolitan world.

Unlike those who reside in the green belts surrounding the worlds metropolitan areas, and the broad swaths of verdant countryside that lay outside the grip of urban sobriety, the city drudgery was uncompromising and grim, and extended to the outer commuter belt.  

Many fell in to a deep depression as the silence and boredom took its toll on the mental health of previously fit and healthy individuals.

 Tempers were  stretched to their maximum, and even a visit to the grocery store or supermarket was like you had received a day of remission from your unwarranted and relentless punishment. A day at the races or a day trip to the seaside was off limits, as was any enterprise that took you away from the ever encroaching and  enclosing walls of your registered place of residence. 

Like a scene from a dystopian movie, you would leave your front door checking that your mask was in place and scanning for passers bye who may have the audacity to encroach on your allotted two metre zone of sanctuary.

 Having confirmed that the immediate area was clear of infiltrators, you could embark on your journey scanning all round for enemy action and being prepared at all times to take evasive action to evade potential invaders of your two meter exclusion zone. 

You continue along your well planned route constantly scanning for interlopers and rule breakers, your eyes constantly looking for offenders and rogue joggers and cyclists. Each vehicle, be it a  parked car, van or lorry is a potential risk, as passengers sit silently entombed in their carriage awaiting to unsuspectingly pounce as you pass. A clue is often a running engine, but you can easily be ambushed by the silent menace of vehicle squatters.

As restrictions eased. additional encroachment's by infiltrators were soon to establish a space on the pavements and pathways of both suburban and rural England. Pretending to escape the confines of there premises for exercise, most were undoubtedly making their way to a friend or relatives home.  

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

THE DANCE OF THE MENSTRUATING THEODOLITE

 THE DANCE OF THE MENSTRUATING THEODOLITE

Spring was late this year.

Ice was still on the dew pond at the end of May, the snowdrops had not awoken from there hibernation by Pentecost and the ground was frostbitten and foreboding. The huge sky was dark and threatening as the local community went about there daily business. The cows and goats still needed milking, the geese to be led to new pasture and the hogs to slaughter. 

The daily routine was the same what ever the weather and climate threw at the villagers, and this had always been the way. 

Although the community was small, it was large enough to have an elected council of The Elders, who officiated at the occasional trial for misdemeanors and criminal activity,  and oversaw the general management of the rural settlement. There were three Elders, each of whom emanated from a long standing and well established local family.

 Their position was permanent, and could only be terminated by death or ill health.  However, although there were a triumvirate of Elders, there was always a predominate figure, and as far back as anyone could remember came from the De Oude-Smit clan.  

The De Oude-Smits were established in the locality before the settlement achieved village status, and were renowned for having arrived from inland Europe prior to the voyages of Erik the Red, Cabot, Cartier, Amerigo Vespucci or Columbus. With a reputed Dutch / Irish / Welsh heritage, the family were predominant in local history and folk law.

 A family of many trades, they specialised in the production of Theodolite like instruments that were utilised in surveying the land that was reclaimed from the surrounding marshes and encroaching forests. 

The tradition in "Theodolite" production had taken on a semi mystic and quasi religious position in the mindset of the other villagers, and as a token of their respect held an annual ceremony where an enormous theodolite was carved from an old oak tree and placed in to the middle of the village green.

 A special grove of sacred oak trees had been planted on the edge of the village many centuries ago, planted by the original settlers according to oral myth,  and the trees that grew there were maintained as the special preserve for use in Theodolite ceremonies.  

Hoss De Oude-Smit was the current preeminent Elder, and his rule was as strict as custom would reasonably allow. However, he was at odds with his fellow elders due to his stringent adherence to the sacred doctrine of St Hookens of Sudbury and the Rossgates Creed. The Book of Bohiem was a semi mythical scripture that detailed the teachings of St Stavros Hookens and his fellow acolyte, Deacon Rossatron Gates of Sudbury.

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

"RAY THE DUST" IN IMPEACHMENT SCANDAL

 "RAY THE DUST" IN IMPEACHMENT SCANDAL

Failed ex refuse collector and karaoke singer, Ray the Dust, has outraged residents of the care home he resides in by refusing to abide by the string residential rules regarding social hygiene and silence. 

As a result, he has been Impeached by the management committee and charged with inciting riotous behaviour, and engaging in ungentlemanly conduct at the secluded and fastidious residence. He has been aided and abetted in his uncouth behaviour by his minuscule recalcitrant and malformed side kicks, Pepe Le Puke and Little Les. 

Pepe Le Puke of course has a long record of indiscretions regarding uncleanliness, and it is an undisputed matter of fact, widely documented in scientific papers, that it was he who initially brought an unsavory strain of e-coli in to the nation, via a liberally soiled pair of underpants on his return from a riotous and flirtatious vacation in Espania. 

 The Dust and Little legs were also on this contagious trip of debauchery and self flagellation, but although charged with intention and incitement, were never proven to have also brought the deadly contagion with them in to this country.

Although the trio have refused to attend a special tribunal set up by the Impeachment and Seditious behavior sub-committee of the Duck Flat Cap Society, the committee will sit on the next full moon and will debate on what charges should be brought before the Court of  Honour and Unconstitutional behaviour. 

The court will be chaired by Dave Duck with assistance from Dave the Teach and Barry the Gravedigger.  

Updated reports will be published here in due course.