COLONEL BLASTER AND THE EIGHT OF CLUBS

 COLONEL BLASTER AND THE EIGHT OF CLUBS 

As the dreary eyed detachment of the mechanised imbibers reached the entry portal to their air transport, it was evident that the recent intake of alcohol had infiltrated the brain of at least one of the advanced guard.

 After retrieving their baggage from the armoured support vehicle, Sapper X ( on attachment from the secret service )  detached his luggage from his tobacco infused hand and declared that he would pick it up on his return from action.

  Fellow mercenaries, Dr Thelonious Royle, Private Jox, Washington Bruno and Hoss Smythe ignored his petulant behaviour and motioned for the inebriated colleague to return to collect his bedding and survival gear. Bowing to peer pressure Sapper X  dutifully retried his kit and joined his fellow travellers at the immigration desk and passport control. 

After successfully deceiving the border officials that all was in order, the squadron advanced to the bar and ordered some refreshments. 

At the same time and in a different universe, Colonel Blaster was relieving himself within the semi comfort of his latrine located within his cramped hotel bed chambers, and successfully adding a further three blankets to his bed roll to alleviate his exposure to the semi life threatening Ibizan air temperature of seventy five degrees Fahrenheit.  

The Colonel and his travelling companion had served in the armed forces during the siege of Mafeking during the Boer war and had served in the Sudan with Lord Kitchener fighting the Mad Mahdi. Indeed Colonel Blaster had been stationed in the Dardanelles during the first world conflict, although he was forced to return with chilblains and a touch of frost bite.

The air transport delivered the team to there destination in the early hours of the morning and shortly after disembarking the weary ensemble were imbibing in a salubrious establishment named the Playboy Club. 

After a few snorters and a incredibly high intake of lager the shuffle footed team arrived at their barracks. The designated barracks were established to support retired officers and non commissioned officers. However, due to cuts in the military budget, our intrepid cavaliers were destined to bivouac with Colonel blaster and his platoon.

On entering the establishment it was immediately clear that the ambient temperature of the barracks was a climate normally associated with the tropics. The walls were plastered with ensigns, insignias, flags, spears , stirrups and emblems from the Sudanese, Cape and Afghan campaigns. All windows were sealed shut and the doors were set to close sharply, immediately you had entered through the portal and passed into the steaming vestibule of the building. The hot-house was staffed by unintelligent civilian's who had been recruited from the local semi literate and somnambulistic community, with a collective I.Q of approximately 12.  

Meanwhile, unknown to Colonel Blaster et al, waiting silently and in pitch black, and locked in solitude behind a heavy wooden door, hung upon a drab whitewashed wall, was a huge portrait of the Eight of Clubs.

 Waiting unforgivingly for its redemption and resurrection, it had its own evil presence and was aware that huddled below lay the key to its renewed existence. In the next room, awaiting revenge and an eagerly expected valedictory victory, was the recently arrived troops regimental mascot, a stuffed Spanish Donkey with a full brimmed sombrero named "Donkey".

All was not well. 

The squad having acclimatised themselves to their squalid accommodation took leave of the premises after obtaining an open ended pass, and made their way to the localities hostelries, which although unsavoury were preferable to the barracks own mess hall. Unwinding with a copious selection of large shorts and aperitives, Sapper X soon noticed that the bars walls were smothered with undergarments of all manner and assortment, being male, female, soiled, new,  old or other.

 With this revelation, Washington Bruno swiftly removed his urine and skid marked gundies and after wearing them on his head for a short while, stuck them firmly to the wall above the blaring jukebox. 

Sapper X retaliated by pumping the juke box with pesetas and soon Maggie May by Rod Stewart was blasting out of the rusting old speakers. Sapper X was swiftly followed by Orderly Dr Royle who ensured that the playlist included "Run around Sue" for the next dozen plays. 

Boisterous behaviour followed for the remainder of the night, until the closure of the last bar meant that the battalion had to retreat to their sleeping quarters at the regimental barracks. After successfully cutting a way through the defensive barriers containing the outer perimeter of the barracks, the inebriated soldiers entered their bedrooms two by two, just like the animals entering Noah's ark.

 Within minutes all was not quite as ear-splitting snoring filled the corridors of the establishment. 

However, this state of affairs lasted no longer than five minutes, and Sapper X and Dr Royle had donned commandos black clothing and blackened their faces, so that they could assault and ransack the adjoining bedroom. 

After skilfully abseiling from their balcony to the adjacent portal, they smashed a way through the closed doors and attempted to throw the furniture from the room in to the Majors personal swimming pool located six floors below. Indeed in there haste,  they forgot to ensure that the bed that was enroute for an unscheduled high dive and swim, was still occupied by Sargent Hoss Smythe.

 Desperate to survive this violent assault, Smythe held on to one leg of the bed whilst trying to repel the invaders with the other. As the struggle continued, the table lamp and side table were collateral damage in the explosive struggle, and were jettisoned in to the dark waters below the balcony.  Soon an incessant knock at the rooms door brought the struggle to an abrupt if surprising end. The violent intrusion event swiftly abated and the intruders retreated towards their own territorial space.

The now fully alert Pte Washington Bruno moved to the door and sheepishly open to enquire as to who was knocking with so much aggression. Standing in the portal was the Barracks red faced Commandant, dressed in full battledress and with a military drill cane in his hand. Two Military policemen stood at his shoulders as he demanded that all noise ceased forthwith and that lights were immediately extinguished. Having spoken, the commander wheeled about face and stormed to the stairwell to complete his retreat towards his own quarters.

 With this, a note was pushed under the door by his military guards, with instructions for all personnel to assemble before the Commanders Headquarters at precisely eight hundred hours a.m. Meanwhile, six stories above, the portrait of the eight of clubs shone it its frame, allowing its image to permeate the darkness of the room, as if to acknowledge the feast of discomfort and angst about to embrace the inebriated and unaware troops now sleeping below.  

The following morning came and went without any movement from the adjoining rooms where the miscreant troops slept a troubled sleep.

 As mid day approached Dr Royle suddenly arose and quickly collected his weary colleagues for roll call. With the 8 hundred hour's meeting missed, it was unanimously thought wise to assemble as quickly as possible outside the Commanders office located on the ground floor. 

Awaiting the sad ensemble were a cohort of old timers seated in their deep leather armchairs, headed by a red faced and corpulent Colonel Blaster. They sat in front of a blazing log fire, oblivious to the fact that the temperature outside was at least 80 degrees Fahrenheit. 

Facing a barrage of abuse from the bloated old guard, the tired soldiers filed into the commandants intimidating office.

 It was immediately apparent that in the eyes of the officials, a serious breech of protocol had taken place, and that each member of the squad was to be disciplined for misconduct. Indeed, without delay the team were moved from there existing rooms and transferred to the misconduct wing located on the top floor of the building.

 The new rooms had minimal furnishings, no blankets and no balconies. This move was to be a final chance to behave, or matters would be taken before a court marshal in Aldershot, England before the months end.  Unknown to the sad ensemble, further along the top floor corridor, located in an unlit and genuinely cold wing, lay the entrance to a sealed chamber within which the malevolent portrait of the eight of clubs was nailed to its walls.

The portraits features were now glowing brightly as a putrid essence, exhuming from the very oils that had created the art work, pervaded the stale static air. 

Meanwhile, outside the premises, the Majors swimming pool had been emptied, and the detritus thrown from the balcony the previous evening retrieved. A large grey tarpaulin had been fixed over the pool, with a number of bricks strategically placed to stop the wind weakening the retaining straps. These were to be needed, as a mighty storm was brewing out to sea, and dark black clouds were engulfing the coast,  enhanced by a gale force howling wind. 

The beaches were strewn with stinking seaweed ripped from the rocks deep below the surface of the dark swelling sea.  Rain began to fall and was soon torrential, reducing visibility to a few feet. It was in to this inclement weather that the troop of disillusioned squaddies slowly marched to a familiar bar so that they could settle their fetid thoughts and stomachs.

 Soon copious amounts of lager and spirits were being consumed, and as before undergarments were removed and stuck to what spare space was available on the nicotine stained walls and ceiling. With the juke box playing never ending renditions of Maggie May and Run-around Sue, the team were now feeling much happier and indeed, inebriated. More top shelf beverages followed together with Sapper X giving a fine rendition of the Irish National Anthem.   

Back at the barracks, ensconced in its top floor attic, the Spanish Donkey began to flex its straw muscles and creep slowly across the darkened rooms dusty floor boards. It head began slowly growing in stature and grace, as life giving air began to be drawn into its's flaring nostrils. After a few minutes, the now sentient animal had reached the door and was actively pushing the wooden doorway so as to force an exit. 

Back at the bar, the disgraced soldiers were oblivious to the happenings back at the barracks and continued their march towards total inebriation. Sapper X  having removed all items of clothing above his waist, swung a pool cue about him as if it was his extended microphone, as he heartedly sang spurious renditions of juke box favourites.

 Meanwhile Dr Royal was amassing a huge quantity of Tequila, and Southern Comfort in an array of shot and wine glasses so that a huge "Death too … ? " salute may take place, accompanied by the sloshing down in one, of the various brands of fiery intoxicating liquid.   

To be continued........

DR DOYLE AND THE XIAN CONUNDRUM

 DR DOYLE AND THE XIAN CONUNDRUM

Dr Doyle was feeling happy as he sunk in to his heavily supported, but luxurious, velvet cushioned chair.  His accomplishments earlier that day were a surprise even to himself, although he never doubted that he would eventually be successful. 

 Previous explorations to the orient had proved productive for the corpulent Doctor, but only on a lower level than he wished for. 

 The walls of his private mansion back in the UK were smothered in jade artefacts plundered from Chinese tombs and necropolises. Calligraphy practically papered his study walls, with only small windows of opportunity for his erotic pygmy pornography. Only last year, he had returned from Beijing with an original jade tortoise purloined from the Forbidden City. 

Although well known to Interpol and the Chinese secret police, bribes and the threat of exposure had ensured that he remained free to conduct his nefarious enterprises. He was of course often assisted in his web of deceit and villainy by the rotund but garrulous Pat LVO Cannister, himself famed for his opulence and gaiety at places of merriment and debouchment throughout the capitols and enclaves of old Europe and beyond.

 However, Pat LVO had pledged at an early age not to voyage to the eastern extremities of the orient, and had held himself to this promise in to old age. He was therefore unavailable to assist the portly Doctor in his pursuit of oriental ill-gotten riches in Cathay and beyond.  

The good Doctors intense and deep connections within MI5, MI6 and the secret intelligent services of South Africa and the Netherlands, made it easy for the safe conduct of his nefarious operations involving the shipment of blood diamonds, ivory, gold and Pygmies. But the lack of similar connections in China would always make operating within its extensive borders more difficult, with the exception of the occasional looting of jade from temple complexes and tombs.

 This was the conundrum that perplexed him as he sat in his luxurious chair slowly becoming intoxicated from the opium pipe he was gently inhaling into his black and toxin infused lungs.  His telephone call earlier that day was the first step in what he hoped would energise his oriental expansion and the start of the next chapter in his intriguing and arousing relationship with the dark forces of evil and exploitation.

 Dr Doyle had recently being enjoying the benefits of being created the perpetual curate of the small but wealthy English village of Ambalshit, but had an itch to obtain the notorious spherical object known as the sacred Jade Testicle.

 Many believed it to be no more than a myth, but the good doctor had other ideas, mainly due to an old manuscript that had fallen in to his slippery hands, whilst recovering the Munich Horn on an earlier escapade to Europe. The Munich Horn  had been a tricky affair, with many occasions when those involved believed all was lost. However, after eventually coming up with the goods, the nefarious Doctor had been in good spirits.

 His call earlier that day to the UK was hopefully about to trigger an avalanche of good fortune that would overshadow the Munich Horn and all other previous accomplishments.   

Although not generally well known to the western press, Karl Brunner, a criminally insane South African gangster, had taken controlling hand in all nefarious activity within the dark continent, infiltrating the Doctors network of petty thugs and criminals operating across the width and breadth of the huge African landmass.

To be continued.....

DUCK FLAT CAP SOCIETY IN GRAB FOR WORLD DOMINATION

 DUCK FLAT CAP SOCIETY IN GRAB FOR WORLD DOMINATION

The genteel worlds of Flat Cap societies has been rocked by the astounding news that the Duck Flat Cap Society has stirred from years of slumber and is extending its membership tentacle's across the globe.

 After three years of stagnation, fuelled by the twin catastrophes of Covid and the death of it long term president Driver Chard, the society has determined to establish itself across the far reaches of the known world. 

  After an extraordinary meeting of the Expansion and Procrastination sub section of the society, a vote was put to the membership who wholeheartedly endorsed the expansion of the society. Areas selected for subjugation to the yoke of the society include Weymouth, Marseilles, Barrow and the Welsh valleys. However, many other locations are under scrutiny and will be added to the hit list at the next meeting of the society. 

The hierarchy of the society is ever evolving, and since the untimely death of Driver Chard, the top seat has been kept warm by a collection potential potentates who have rotated the exhalated position between themselves in a timely but sometimes rumbustious manner. Each temporary Czar has fallen foul of egotism and belligerence at some time of their presidency, but with exception of Little Legs Parkes, who was expelled and banished due to an obnoxious outburst, each has exited their temporary chair when required.  

However, an continuing mute point is the recovery of the fabled Regalia, which is believed to be held somewhere on the vast estates of the Chard confederacy. The lost regalia is still an active issue with a number of committee members and it is thought that action to recover the sacred heirlooms may take place in the near future. 

To be continued..... 

THE VILLAGE ENIGMA

 THE VILLAGE ENIGMA 

The property lay empty and still.

Nothing moved and even the air was static. Indeed time stood still within the centuries old walls, as if removed from the events unfolding without the sanctuary of its solid structure. The old wooden stairs were silent as were the steep concrete steps to the soulless cellar. 

However, this had not always been the case, and in the distant past the small cottage had reverberated to the sound of its inhabitants. Both happy times and sad had been witnessed by the cold white walls. Generations of the eternal cycle of life and death had been encountered by the structure, and at times the stench of humanity would have overpowered all but the those with the weakest sense of smell, as the by-product's of infant life and the detriment of old age filled the communal air.

Now though, all was silent, and the past did not wish to reveal itself, as the property remained sealed from the village and external world. Monarchs had come and gone, neighbours born and buried, church services commemorating all aspects of life conducted by a succession of Rectors and Vicars and the surrounding fields continued the rotation of crops and live stock, with all oblivious to the small cold cottage at the edge of their community. 

The front door was an uncompromising wooden portal with a simple locking mechanism, as was the back door. A cellar was accessed via a door under the stairs.

Steep steps cut from the chalk bedrock lead down to a cramped airless vestibule where an uncovered floor supported old furniture and tools. A wooden handled scythe was propped against the far wall, and various rusting gardening implements looked old and weathered. Upon the wall however was a pristine clock, set in ivory and astonishingly still keeping the correct time.

 In a cluttered corner, partially obscured by an old rusting mangle, a small wooden box gathering thick dust lay unnoticed by all and sundry. Its locking mechanism was robust and intact, but unsurprisingly the key was absent. However, above the cellar was the small sitting room, unpretentiously decorated in a rustic fashion and devoid of any obvious sophistication or wealth. Nevertheless, hanging on the party wall was a rusty set of keys, that were believed by most to be no more than an attempt to create an antique effect for the wall.

 

To be continued.......

CROZIER GURNARD

 CROZIER GURNARD

Sweat dripped from his temples as the effort to move the obstruction drained the strength from Crozier Gurnards emaciated limbs.

 His grinding teeth screeched in his clenched mouth and his whole visage grimaced in pain, as he used the last ounce of his strength attempting to move the barrier. He glanced at his wrist watch to ensure he was not early and confirmed that the time was one minute past twelve noon. 

Why wouldn't the pub door budge ?

His beverage awaited him and he needed to be on pole position to prevent unnecessary delays in obtaining the copious refills that would be required over the next few hours. 

One last push and surely the door will open ! 

Finally the door opened and the surprised looking landlord beckoned Crozier to enter. After shuffling through the door and seating himself at what he proudly considered pole position, he ordered his first drink of the day. Swiftly a pint of lager was foaming in front of him and a look of satisfaction enveloped Crozier Gurnards face. 

As he took his first sip of the amber nectar before him he slowly placed his hands in his duffle coat pockets, eventually retrieving a small red note book, held together by a thick rubber band and sweat. Fingering the pages he settle on a page notated "Things to Do" and appraised the list. The first entry was "purchase tickets to Stellenbosch, followed by a second entry "purchase two quarts of Formaldehyde.

Taking a large gulp of lager from his glass he scanned the page for additional actions to be take. His eyes soon became affixed on the last entry that detailed "Contact Dr Theopolis Doyle". A shudder crept down his spine at the realisation that he would soon be in the presence of the nefarious evil Doctor and his band of misfit acolytes.

Crozier Gurnard had met Dr Doyle on a number of occasions and had also been involved with supporting one of the numerous dangerous missions into continental Europe. Although loathing the corpulent Doctor, Crozier admired his guile and forethought when it came to covert enterprises overseas. 

To be continued...... 

THE CRIMSON CATAFALQUE

 THE CRIMSON CATAFALQUE

All was quite as the faithful silently and slowly filled past the catafalque. 

The human centipede snaked  through the cathedral and out of the main door , continuing around the paternoster square and stretched in to the dim distance beyond. The cathedral bells tolled on the mark and trumpeters serenaded the procession at equal intervals. The solemn scene was observed from on high by Cardinal Cheval, whilst sat at his throne like seat atop the tower of tears.

The Cardinal had wasted no time in ensuring that his favourite would be enthroned as the next Margrave, but was unwilling to let proceeding take there natural course. He was impatient for power and lusted over its ability to provide him with his darkest desires.

 His communion with Belial had been at an early age. When encountering a commune of lepers that had taken over a disused flint mine, he succeeded in raping and butchering countless unfortunates as he tortured their brethren. He had felt the presence of evil as he approached the abandoned mine, and gathered his thoughts in a small hovel close to its entrance. Out of the dim corners of the hovel, a huge ethereal angelic edifice materialised in front of him.    

To be continued.....

.

THE RIPPLE JACQUERIE

 THE RIPPLE JACQUERIE

The calix was alleged to be buried in the lower field. However, its exact location was lost in the mists of time.

The Lower field had been farmed by Old Joe Crudd for as long as people could remember, and he was loathed to let any one accompany him on any of his strips. Rotating barley, hops and peas, with oats corn and pasture, enabled him to cultivate his field without loss of nutriments or substance. 

However, it had long been rumoured that the middle section of the field, consisting of a three or four strips, was the home to an unknown buried treasure. The substance behind the rumour was contained in an ancient document that had mysteriously appeared pinned to the local church notice board. It stated that the previous owners of the field were linked to the Knights Templers, and that a hoard of treasure had been hidden during their persecution, and never recovered. 

St Herbert's church rector, Father Benedict denied all knowledge of the manuscript and swore an oath before the local Bishop and magistrate to that effect.  This angered the villagers who believed that the church was stirring up trouble in an attempt to obtain the treasured lost chalice of St Finglesham.  The chalice, also known in ancient documents as a Calix, was associated with the barbarian invasion of Britain after the retreat of the Romans, and was believed to have been transported to Kent by the Jutes.

The Jutes had settled in Kent and Kingdom of Kent had become their stronghold within the British Isles. Joe Crudd was indeed a descendent of these invaders, and carried the same DNA as the marauding seafaring Jutes, originating from Jutland,  Flanders and the adjacent Dutch coast. 

Father Benedict was familiar with the legends of the buried treasure as he had had access to the Latin manuscripts interned within the churches crypt. These scrips were also translated in to a variety of early Germanic languages including those spoken by the Jutes. Although he had denied this knowledge to his inquisitors, it was memorised so thoroughly within his brain that no further study would be required. However, Joe Crudd was aware of this denied knowledge and awaited the rectors next move.    

To be continued...

HROTHGAR AND THE LOST VALLEY OF SNOT

 HROTHGAR AND THE LOST VALLEY OF SNOT

The climate was unseasonable cool, with Icey winds blowing directly from the arctic. 

The frost and snow covered landscape glistened in a dazzling white as the weak sun reflected of the frozen surface. Rivers and lakes were equally frigid and the seas were also beginning to ice over. 

It was in to this unhospitable landscape that Hrothgar was to impose his will by subjugating the local inhabitants of the valley of snot and claim the realm as his own. 

 However, a major obstruction to his bid for obtaining sovereignty was the "Bogie", an enormous active volcano that had continually erupted for over a decade. Putrid flows of boiling snot flowed freely down the slopes of the Bogie, blocking numerous passes and orifices throughout the locality, and obstructing freedom of movement across the valleys.  The sinus escarpment and gorge had been unpassable for decades due to the constant eruptions and the pressure to unblock the pathway was immense.  

Hrothgar was unmoved by the elements conspiring against him, and gathered his host about him as he advanced in to enemy territory. His constant companion, "Lem the Sip" was controlling his western flank, and the Eastern perimeter was under the control of the faithful potentate "Bee Chams".

To be continued.....

 

THE MISS ADVENTURES OF HORSINGTON SMYTHE

 THE MISS ADVENTURES OF HORSINGTON SMYTHE

Horsington Smythe sat in the snug enjoying the taste and aroma of his favourite tipple. The log fire crackled in the large open fireplace, with golden fingers of flame shooting up the chimney, drawn ever upwards by the strong gale blowing outside. 

The snow had started a little before breakfast, and now in the mid-afternoon, a couple of feet lay upon the frozen ground. The tethered horses in the courtyard neighed as they snorted billowing hot air through their snouts as they tried to warm themselves. 

The onward journey would be extremely tough, but progress had to be made to ensure that the unravelling constitutional crisis could be curtailed and some kind of normality restored. 

It was now three days since the death of the reigning monarch and the usurpation of the throne by Lord Loafington of Northwood, a blood relative of the recently deceased monarch, but whose ancestor was from the bloodline of a younger sister of the original founder of the ruling dynasty, King Tostig of Neasden.

Rivalry between the various lines of decent that had evolved in to distinctive branches of the Royal family intensified, most importantly between the Uxendons and the Tokyngtons. However less influential individual lines of decent from Tostig were also in existence and were banded under the banners of Preston, Sudbury and Oakington.

Animosity between these groups and the powerful neighbouring Manor of Hearg had also evolved in to minor skirmishes that were adding to the overall anarchy in the country. The Lord of Hearg, Leif Weald of The Stone was of Norse blood and was vengeful to those who crossed him, especially Lord Loafington.  

As Horsington Smythe sat comfortably enjoying his beverage, he was unfortunately unaware of this animosity and totally unprepared for what was about to unfold. Drifting in to a state of semi slumber, due to the heat from the roaring open fire and the consumption of alcohol, Smythe thought of the good times and days of yore. 

To be continued....    

LOAFMAN AND THE GOLDEN SLOP BUCKET

 LOAFMAN AND THE GOLDEN SLOP BUCKET

Madge stood behind the bar and pondered life.

 Was it worth the aggravation and hassle for the measly wage she received ? Probably not.  However, noticing the Loaf at the bar she swiftly pulled a pint of long life and placed it in front of him. 

Acknowledging the freshly poured glass of amber coloured bubbles and gas, Loaf pulled a few pence from his pocket and placed the coins on the bar. His seat at the bar was positioned in a corner between the saloon and public bars, adjacent to a doorless aperture that allowed free movement between the bars without the need to open doors. Beside him were cluster of additional bar stools awaiting the arrival of Loafmans band of beer breathed brethren. 

Feeling a slight hunger pang, he looked across the bar towards the jars of pickled eggs and the plastic container containing an assortment of cheese and onion bread rolls. Drips of condensation ran down the inside of the perspex bread bin, adding to the allure of its contents. After consuming a rubberised cheese roll and slippery pickled egg, Loaf composed himself and finished his first pint with two huge gulps. Just as he placed the empty glass on the bar he was greeted by the familiar greeting "all right geezer" as Winyard pulled up a stool next to him.   

Following swiftly behind him were Dr Doyle and the effervescent Pat LVO Cannister.  Noticing their entrance, Madge recoiled behind the ramp and steadied her nerves for the afternoons rumbustious imbibing session.  Pulling a wad of tenner's from his hip pocket, Pat gestured to those at the bar and shouted boojar ! then swiftly instructed Ted, as Madge had turned her back, to poor five double Roughness with no ice. 

Dr Doyle grinned as the foul smelling liquid was consumed by Loaf and his acolytes with gay abandon. Slamming the glasses upon the bar and breathing deeply each and every member of the team shouted boojar. As was tradition, the last to finish the creosote tasting liquor was to take a forfeit by buying the next round, and as usual the looser was JC.  Momentarily the attention was removed from the diminutive looser as the team turned their necks in unison to see who had just walked through the pubs creaking saloon bar door. 

A rakish character with a slim black moustache and wearing a check flat cap glided across the bar and placed his himself upon a bar stool. Removing his shoulder and elbow patched tweed jacket he glanced at the clientele and slightly raising his cap gave a quick sharp wink.  The Bounder, as he was known, ordered a single whisky and started to read the racing post, ignoring all others.

 Loaf shuffled through his duffle coat pockets and eventually located his rizlas and pouch of tobacco. Deftly rolling a thin but satisfying roll up, he pulled a silver zippo from his trouser pocket and whipped it across his stubbled face, thus igniting the orange flame.  Drawing on the thin cigarette was extremely satisfying and a large grin spread quickly across his face. Reaching for his pint he was reminded that his glass was empty and that JC had to fulfill his forfeit and purchase the next round pronto. Jay, he roared, get them in mate, it's like the Sahara in here !   

Suddenly there was a load commotion emanating from the public bar, quickly followed by the sound of smashed glasses and ash trays being slung across the room. Unnoticed by the group as they concentrated on the bounders entry, Messrs. Penfold, Gammon and Mullins had entered by the other door and were making themselves at home. Ted picked up the soda syphon and gave each of them a quick blast but soon gave up trying to intervene and returned to his duties at the other end of the bar. 

A minor squabble at the darts board quickly abated as Big Ian picked up his stool and advanced towards the Baxter brothers, and all was again quite, except the banter of Loaf and his team of imbibers. Pat glanced at the clock checking on the time, in full knowledge that 2.30pm would mean a change of venue as the pub closed until reopening 5.30pm.

 However, all would be ok as the Carlton Lodge drinking den, situated less than 10 minutes away, would welcome them all with gleeful expectation that their tills would be ringing with gay abandon as countless spirits and beers were purchased and consumed. In the interim, Pat had removed his upper clothing and was using a pool cue as a microphone, much to the annoyance of Madge and two old boys cogitating in the niche between the two seated bays opposite the bar at the front of the pub. 

Time passed and all imbibed.

 Pat collected a handful of coins from the team and started pumping the jukebox with the small change. Within seconds Rod Stewert's Maggie May was blasting out across the bar with Pat extending the pool cue in to the face of the Horse. This was quickly followed by Cool for Cats, When you're in love with a beautiful woman, Eton rifles, Sultans of swing, and In the navy. Old man Benfield slowly sat up from his seat and pulled his wife to her feet. Within seconds they were dancing to the music on the juke box. Although he could hardly move, she was spinning and gyrating at great pace and finished her set with an age defying splits. 

Loaf nudged Pat and pointed to the clock. Meanwhile in the Carlton Lodge, fresh pristine ice blue disinfectant blocks were being strategically deposited in the gents, and fresh ice removed from the ice compartments of the two kitchen fridges, so as to fill the plastic ice buckets on the bar. Loaf drew hard on his fag and tilting his head back blew the toxic smoke in to the air. His thoughts were drifting towards The Lodge, and whether the Canadian would be waiting for him in pole position.  

Last orders was signaled by Madge as she rang the bell ten minutes before closing time. After a flurry of activity at the bar, multiple shots were consumed by every member of the team, and the last dregs of beer drained from their pint glasses and mugs. 

  To be continued...

WHY DIDN'T THEY ASK CHARD?

WHY DIDN'T THEY ASK CHARD?

It was a mystery to all those left....! 

Why in god's name wasn't Chard asked for his opinion ? It was not as if it was too complex  a question for him to contemplate, even though it was not within the bound of his normal field of excellence. 

A simple reference to Chard may have saved many lives and resultant collapse of civilisation. Quantum theory is not everyone's cup of tea of course, but Chard was fully aware of the implications of ignoring its basic, if complex, theorem. 

The Outer Hebrides had survived most of the subsequent terror and destruction, but was still a bleak and unhospitable place to be in mid-February. 

DR DOYLE AND THE JADE SAFARI

 DR DOYLE AND THE JADE SAFARI 

Alfred Applesnot was past his prime and his many enemies knew it, and to be fair, so did Alfred. 

His great adversary, Dr Theopolis Doyle was well aware of his predicament and suggested that he followed him on his quest to obtain the fabled "Jade Testicle of the Serengeti".

 Dr Doyle had recently being enjoying the benefits of being created the perpetual curate of the small but wealthy village of Ambalshit, but had an itch to obtain the sacred Jade Testicle.

 Many believed it to be no more than a myth, but the good doctor had other ideas, mainly due to an old manuscript that had fallen in to his slippery hands, whilst recovering the Munich Horn on an earlier escapade to Europe. The Munich Horn  had been a tricky affair, with many occasions when those involved believed all was lost. However, after eventually coming back to blighty with the goods, the nefarious Doctor was in good spirits. 

The manuscript revealing the location of the Jade Testicle was an added bonus, and one that could not be overlooked by the ever ambitious Dr Doyle. Alfred was determined to outwit his adversary this time, and wrench the fabled testicle from Dr Doyle's blotchy but muscular hands. Alfred had turned down the chance to be involved with the Munich Horn, but regretted the lost opportunity to outwit Dr Doyle. This time things would be different and Applesnot would claim all the glory of recovering the Jade Testicle, and returning if for detailed scientific analysis and interpretation.

To be continued.....

COURT OF APPEAL INVOKES PRAGMATIC SANCTION

 COURT OF APPEAL INVOKES PRAGMATIC SANCTION

Dramatic scenes at the Turdoxian Court of Appeal unravelled when the judges unanimously passed an appeal invoking an amendment to the Pragmatic Sanction of 1713.  

This codicil confirms the rights of Turdoxians to inherit the crown of the Holy Bohemian Empire, including both male and female offspring, and those of all denominations and religions. 

To be continued........

APOCALYPSE BANANA

 APOCALYPSE BANANA

Lord Loafington stretched out his feet in front of the burning hearth, and twiddled his moustache.

Burning coals slowly tumbled and cracked in the open hearth, as they exuded their gaseous ether. Streaks of blue and yellow light flashed through the flames as Loafington feet warmed to the ambient heat. Hands placed firmly on his chest, and smiling with a ferocious grin he slowly dozed off to sleep.

However, his slumber was quickly abated as glass shattered in the window pane and fell abruptly to the lushly carpeted floor. Waking with as start, Loafington turned his neck and blurry eyes to the source of the commotion. A large brick wrapped in newspaper and tied in a sinuous knot lay before him.

 Noticing immediately that the newspaper was the Telegraph and not he Times, his first reaction was that the offending article had been thrown by a dissenting tenant of his vast estate. Unfurling the paper he quickly noticed that a copy of the North Allerton Gazette was also encompassing the missile. 

 Recent rent rises had enraged many in the village, and in particular the white collared element who had been hit by higher increases. 

 At the local hostelry a recent meeting had been attended by dissatisfied members of the local solicitors office, the villages dentist and apothecary and also the veterinary surgeon, at which much dissent was shown towards Lord Loafington. 

The source of this outrage was not only the rent rises, but the new imposition of the title Banana, to all who approached the Lord. The level of betrayal and dissatisfaction was heightened by the recent events surrounding Loafington's recent dismissal and loss of commission from the Cavalry division of the Kings Mechanised Imbibing Battalion. 

To be continued.....

 

THE DARK DAYS OF BITTERNESS AND HONEY

THE DARK DAYS OF BITTERNESS AND HONEY

Luke sat motionless staring out of the window and contemplation the task before him. It was not going to be easy, but none the less, it was essential that he completed the duty that he had inherited.

 His hands twisted in to contorted shapes as he considered his options. Of course, the most obvious way forward was to contact those in the know, and try to unravel what had gone so disastrously wrong.

 His hands reached in to his trouser pockets to locate his small black notebook. Pulling it from its warm but strangled lair he fingered the pages searching for names, clues or anything that may help. After a few seconds he paused his search and stared at the small book. The name "Brunner" was prominent on the page and was underlined and thickly circled in red ink. 

 Scribbled notes referring to a number of names were just about legible as he took in the enormity of what he was about to do. Grabbing his phone from his inner jacket pocket he slowly dialled the number of the President and Chairman of the revered society that was previously known as "Boojar".

 He looked out of the window and noted that thick globules of snow had started to fall, and was settling quickly. 

 The dialling tone burred in the background for a few seconds and then a dark deep voice answered -

    "Hello!, who dares call me on this number ? ".

     "Hi Her Brunner, its Luke, I'm the son of one of your old confederates, and id like to discuss some business. I found your number in an old note book together with those of what i believed to have been other members of your gang".

    "Ah Luke, replied the disgruntled voice. I wondered when you would be in contact !" 

To be continued......  

THE APOTHECARY OF SAN JUAN

 THE APOTHECARY OF SAN JUAN

The tired old chemist sat on his stool trying to keep cool from the blistering heat outside. 

As cold sweat ran down his neck, his palms were too moist to hold the tweezers in his fingers, and any kind of enterprise had to be delayed until the heat relented.

 Under pressure from the local lord to complete the task before sunrise had placed an unbearable pressure on the weak and slumped shoulders of the old man.

 He knew only too well that failure was unthinkable, and the lives of his family were endangered if he failed to complete the task. The lead deposit that had been provided was of superior stock, but it was never going to transform in to gold as he had been instructed. He understood only too well that the alchemy myth was about to be exposed, as was his neck to a noose, garrotte or sword.

Lord Constapacion had been quite exact in his words as he instructed the chemist to transpose the elements as required. "Gold by dawn or your head will be fed to the Condors". 

Transmutation was a lie, and the feeble old man knew this only too well. However, unless he came up with the required product he was doomed, and what would happen to his numerous grandchildren who depended on him for their survival. Thinking fast he decided that his best option was to contact Madame Methane, an old adversary who had perfected  a peculiar modus operandi for survival. 

Madame Methane was renowned for expertise in the production of odious gases and may be able to ignite his mission to create gold.

 

To be continued......

THE BARON OF NORTHWOOD GOES TO TOWN

 THE BARON OF NORTHWOOD GOES TO TOWN

Lord Louis Loafington, the 4th earl of Northwood and Neasden, has bewildered passers-by and somewhat gobsmacked bystanders, by parading through the streets of Northwood with an unfurled umbrella and fully extended penile erection, whilst shouting "tumbleweed banana" !

 His progress was slow, due to his breeches being wrapped around his ankles as a by product of his removing his undergarments, so as to place them upon his head. Beneath his impromptu crown, his long thin greying locks were shoulder length and swept back from his forehead. Spectacles were poorly balanced upon his nose but stubbornly remained in place. 

 Allowed to continue his regal precession by a bashful and somewhat bewildered police constable, he finally abated his march at the bar of his local golf club, where he is the current president and head honcho.

 Explaining his current extended predicament was due to his mistakenly swallowing Viagra rather than his blood pressure pills, he expressed his wish for the bartender to provide him with the previous evenings slop bucket so that he could quench his ravishing thirst. 

 Sinking the contents with a rumbustious haste, he quickly pointed towards the top shelf of the bar and whispered that he required a very, very large vodka and coke, with no ice or lemon. A jar of pickled eggs soon followed and was accompanied by pork scratchings and salted peanuts, with entangled human pubes and added urine at no additional cost.

 However, anal tugnuts were at a premium, and had to be paid for at an extortionate rate, and were therefore dismissed. 

 With his thirst and hunger suitably sated for the time being, he wandered over to the window and sat down in his favourite chair, a large wicker creation in the style of a rattan throne from China. When seated comfortably, he reached in to his breast pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of yellowing paper. Pushing his spectacles up his nose, he unfolded the script and began to scan its content.

 The words were brief, but again and again his eyes focused on the signature, that of the notorious Dr Theopolis Doyle. A salty sensation filled the Lords mouth as he salivated at the thought of meeting up with his former compatriot and fellow imbiber. The memories came flooding back, both good and bad, and thoughts of his fellow contemporaries began to fill the cavernous voids of his mind. 

 The "A Team"  had disbanded decades ago, but its exploits lived on in his thoughts, memories and desires. The "Mitre" club house and its supporting bases were all either destroyed or converted in to hostile and unsterile environments. However remnants of the "A Team" still resided in his immediate vicinity and although not in regular contact, Lord Loafington was aware that they would respond to a clarion call for assistance and attend a meeting in a temporary bivouac. 

To be continued.......

CACAFUEGO - THE BISHOP OF GOODWIN SANDS

 CACAFUEGO - THE BISHOP OF GOODWIN SANDS

The spume bathed the foreshore in its frothy residue and coated the flotsam and jetsam, as the week sun set over the windmill perched on the towering cliffs. Further to the west a band of dark cloud threatened the tranquil air and envisaged a savage maelstrom. 

The low lying island was always susceptible to stormy weather, but recent erosion had heightened the risk of the the land being subdued by the seas. The island was already substantially smaller than when first obtained by Cacafuego, the self-proclaimed Bishop of the Goodwin archipelago, from the beleaguered Godwinson family.  

Cacafuego was not a native of these Isles but had been invited by the Godwinson family to assist them in their troubles with the current ruling elite. He hailed from the heartland of Castile but had spent many years in Andalusia and the land of the Berbers, infiltrating Arabic culture, science and mythology. Being of mixed heritage had influenced his thoughts and judgements, although he was neither a devout catholic or Muslim. Indeed there was talk of an earlier Jewish heritage and his catholic line being that of a Converso.

After arriving upon the shores of Sussex, and swiftly moving along the coast to Kent, he had quickly made friends with the local aristocracy, and assisted the remaining Godwinson's in their endeavour to regain the lands and estates that had previously been torn from the family. The remaining lands in Kent and Sussex were quickly re appropriated and the status of the Goodwin's appeared to have been restored. However, all was not well.

Cacafuego has been granted an estate that encompassed low lying islands that were situated a couple of miles out to sea, adjacent to where the white cliffs come tumbling down to an area of marshland, that extended north as far as the Wantsum channel and the Isle if Thanet. In former years the Islands had provided a particularly good base to monitor the comings and goings of shipping to and from The Isle of Thanet , and also the longer expeditions from Flanders, Burgundy and the Gaulish cost.

The Lord of the Goodwin Islands was ideally placed to exploit merchant shipping for tolls and ransom, and also receiving portage fees for the privilege of anchoring along there flat coast. Cacafuego was often away from the Islands and his deputy governor, Cannious Ciderson was placed in charge of fee collection and other administrative duties.

The largest property on the Island which was jointly occupied by Ciderson and Cacafuego, was located just inland from the Kellett Cut, and comprised a fortified Manor House and moated Keep. A small Abbey was located a little further inland and was the seat of Cacafuego's diocese when practicing as a Bishop.  The Bishopric had been unceremoniously conferred upon him by the Archbishop of Canterbury, who favoured his protection on Canterbury's Southern and eastern flanks. 

It was now two winters since Cacafuego appropriated his fiefdom, and the winter was bleak. The first snows had come earl, and by early November the land was deeply frozen. Huge globules of snow fell from the sky for what seemed an eternity, covering the bleak landscape with many feet of snow. As each fresh snowfall accumulated upon the lower layer, the ice became stronger and thicker, and the permafrost was almost impossible to breach. The seas around the Islands were almost completely frozen, with ice blue icebergs tumbling about the remaining unfrozen cuts and channels.  

Cold grey mist swirled about their feet as the encroached on the marshes edge. Although the Wantsum was still open water, huge areas of marshland bordered the ancient passage way, making access to the waterway uneasy and dangerous. Nearer the open sea, the prevailing currents ensured that sandy deposits has accumulated about and above the original marshland and provided a dry sanctuary from the bogland. Indeed these sands had built up in time to such an extent that the coast line had been changed so that the mouth of the Wantsum had narrowed and forcefully moved in a northerly direction.

 As a consequence of this long shore drift, acres of dry new land had built up preventing further ingress of the sea at times of spring tides and stormy weather.  The sandy soils were unable to support many crops , but basic food staples such as Corn, peas carrots and cabbage could be grown. Grass was also abundant, enabling the new land to adapt to becoming pastures and this supporting cattle and sheep. 

 To be continued.......  

THE SPERM DONORS DAUGHTER

 THE SPERM DONORS DAUGHTER

Agatha Wristdottir was a lonely child. 

Growing up in the wilds of north eastern Iceland was an unnerving experience for a timid isolated child. The barren landscape was either smouldering in steam from thermal activity, or frozen by the abundant snowfall and ice.

With little company other than her mother, Brigida Olafsdottir, Agatha was extremely withdrawn and inward looking, continually inventing friends in her fragile mind, out of fleeting glances of other inhabitants, farm animals or wild animals. 

Her father, Wristson Wristsactionson, was a complete stranger to her in her early years as he maintained his ethereal existence as a full time professional sperm donor. His daily activity was both physically and mentally exhausting as he performed his monotonous task every thirty minutes, so as to fulfil his gloopy daily quota.  

His product was collected in a series of Perspex containers that although shaped like a test tube, were in fact wider and more robust than the standard tube used by chemists. Storage was not normally a problem due to the low temperature of his homeland, but strategically scattered across the countryside were hidden portable freezers, powered by thermal energy, that were available for emergency use.  

Agatha, due to her fathers absence, had grown attached to a friend of his mothers who was also very handy with his hands. A semi retired merchant seaman by the name of Olaf, was a distant cousin of his mother and lived in the next settlement. He was often available to help around the home and was considered by Agatha as a gods send in due of her fatherless position. He was particularly good with his hand but  they always seemed to smell of stale fish when in the presence of Agatha and her mother.

However, Agatha had no real connection, emotional or otherwise to Olaf, and considered him below the status of herself and her adoring mother. Agatha did love his spicy meatballs though, and she believed that they were packed with so much flavour that it was worth any other inconvenience that his presence may invoke. His special sauce was an old family secrete and probably involved ingredients from Ireland, where his distant relatives on his mothers side had hailed from.

Many Icelandic women could trace there ancestry back to Ireland, from where there distant relatives had been kidnaped and transported to Iceland by Norse and Swedish Vikings.  

To be continued....... 

RAY THE DUST IN CONVERSO OUTRAGE

 RAY THE DUST IN CONVERSO OUTRAGE

Recently uncovered documents from the early century allegedly appear to confirm that Ray the Dust, sometimes known as El Raymondo, is a "Converso", and not a pure member of the brethren that established the Duck Flat Cap Society. 

His hidden ancestry has only come to light after a search of the Vatican library by undercover agents working in a joint venture for the Catalan secret police and the North Neasden gazette.

The documents allegedly clearly show that the Dusts early family were of Jewish extraction and in the 12th century were located in the Extremadura region of Spain.

 Having moved to the state of Aragon to escape persecution, the documents allegedly indicate that the family converted to Catholicism to settle in with the community, and obtain work. The archives of the Duck Flat Cap Society allegedly indicate that his heritage had been uncovered by Driver Chard, but his allegations had been mothballed due to a lake of creditable evidence.

 Speaking on the subject at a recent meeting, Bazzer The Gravedigger contributed to the debate by confessing that he had heard Ray the Dust speak in tongues, which after reflection he believes may have been Yiddish Spanish. This was backed up by testimony from Pepe Le Puke who also confirms that unintelligible mumbles emanating from the Dusts lips whilst asleep, may be pigeon Hebrew or some form of Yiddish creole. However, it was expressly proposed by Chelsea Dave Duck and Basher Hurley that theses gibberish mutterings were no more than drunken babble induced by an abundance of the fermented grape, grain and hop.   

To be continued  ..............