THE UNIFIED THEORY OF EVERYTHING AND NOTHING

THE UNIFIED THEORY OF EVERYTHING AND NOTHING

As you journey through space and time on your mission to oblivion, you may sometimes feel a small force on the nape of your neck that you are unable to equate with the known forces about you.  However, you soon dismiss this and quickly continue with your journey.

Your progress to any destination takes place through a myriad of electromagnetic and gravitational forces that you are oblivious too. Atoms smash in to and through your body without a flinch, and radioactive waves and pulses flow through your skin and bones as if they were passing through a vacuum.

However, ever so often you feel an urge to place your hand on the base of your neck as if a pinprick or tack had momentarily penetrated your dermis. The follicles on your neck stiffen and the sweat glands pump a sticky fluid that quickly coats your cooling neck. The muscles feel tense and may begin to twitch in an uncontrolled manner.

When this happens you have experienced the "Hand of Ni" and it is always there as it propels you and your destiny towards their final destination.

Recent research has revealed that numerous archaic monolithic standing stones located throughout the Atlantic seaboard of North Western Europe, are dedicated to a previously unknown entity known as "Ni".

Furthermore, leaked reports from a respected professor of Archeology and Speleology confirm that famous cave paintings located in South West France and the Pyrenees region, depict a previously unknown entity, whose name has been deciphered as "Ni"................


 To be continued.  

THE GREAT RIFT OF AFRICA

THE GREAT RIFT OF AFRICA

Dr Doyle, Maco and the Horse checked in to the Lodge and admired the magnificent view. Wildebeest, Warthogs and Elephants paraded just outside the camps perimeter, whilst Zebra, Rhino's and Baboons eyed us with prolonged stares.

The rooms were adequate but basic, with doors that could be bolted and light fittings powered by a generator. The power would be extinguished at midnight and candles were provided, but no matches.

After a visit to the restaurant, a dump and the consumption of a large quantity of Kilimanjaro lager and whisky, the intrepid trio retired to their huts.

Dr Doyle was in a separate suite that he had reserved so that he could service the local Masai and Bantu maidens.  As such his bungalow was in a different sector to the Horse and Mac's humble abode. The journey back to the sleeping quarters was accompanied by a 7 foot tall Masai guard who had a rifle to shoot Lions, Hyenas, or any other unofficial interlopers.

As Dr Doyle was flying in a specially strengthened Air Balloon the following morning and leaving at 5 am, we agreed to accommodate his luggage,  and take it with us for forward transmission deeper in to the dark continent.

As Mac and Horse slept in there unlocked corral, the door had been left unlocked in case the intrepid Doctor Doyle required his Trunk and luggage. After a few minutes slumber the door to the Horses and Macs hut was assailed by numerous interlopers attempting ingress to the chamber. Both lay awake fully aware that there sanctuary was about to be invaded by unknown entities fiddling with the door knob and handle.

An attempt to switch the lights on was foiled by the generator curfew inflicted by the lodge management. As each bold man of arms quivered in  bed, the Horse lept from his pit, and in pitch darkness moved to the door and flung it open ready to assault the dusky murderer intending to commit a murder most foul.

As the door flung open, the Horse froze as he stared in to the laughing face of a huge red and blue Baboon. After regaining his breath and chasing the offender in to the bush, the Horse retired to his bed and slept the sleep of a  thousand lagers.

The end.

A SHORT STOREY

The end.

THE BARBARION INVASION OF LAKE WINDERMERE AND THE SURROUNDING HINTERLAND - PART 1

THE BARBARIAN INVASION OF LAKE WINDERMERE AND THE SURROUNDING HINTERLAND

On a cold spring morning the large nosed blaggard who went by the name "Yardos the one ball" rose from his drunken slumber and walked across his fêted hut to release his vile putrid urine across the matted floor covering and splattered against the coarse wattle walls. His drinking Horn hung against his huge gut and lay next to half shriveled semi lob.

Having finished his morning piss and dressed in his finest battledress he left his hut and moved through the still morning air towards the large horse drawn cart that was parked at the end of the lane, adjacent to the Mitorian Ale house that had expelled he and his and his brave band of heathen brother’s only hours earlier. 

Carefully tucking his one ball in to his tight leggings he boarded the transport and conducted a head count of his fellow band of stinking, drunken, puke covered comrades at arms. A slow count of heads soon revealed that Doctorian Doylus, the mustachioed Horsingtonious of the fêted fart, Pattious Cannonious of the bigguis vodkanannius, Beuwloaf of the Meat, and many other brave battle horn hardened revelers were all aboard and ready for their attack on unsuspecting natives of the northern outpost of Scousepool.

The rabble were soon venturing north engaging in spirited banter and lighthearted pissing in the bottle, so as to relieve the boredom and bladders as the overflowing pig bladders and Drinking horns were attacked with venomous ease by the Mitorian Barbarian hoard.
Having reached their destination, the stinking hoard shuffled in to their lodgings reeking of stale piss and sweat.

Yardos "the one ball" and the Doc were soon bickering in the space given over for imbibing the local fermented grape and barley, whilst the spirited Cannonious negotiated with the tavern keeper for a humungous round of festering venomous brain killer.

Horsingtonious was stalking the premises looking for the nearest dunny so that his festering pants could unload a truly magnificent heap of coagulating muck so as to enable more of the glorious flowing nectar to enter his huge aching stomach.

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

DR DOYLE AND THE HOG-JUDGE SLAUGHTERHOUSE BLUES

DR DOYLE AND THE HOG-JUDGE SLAUGHTERHOUSE BLUES

Silas rose early, having been woken by the incessant heavy rainfall and continuous squealing from the farmyard pig pen. His bedding consisting of old straw and a coarsely woven blanket, and was situated in an old hay loft.

After his ablutions and dressing in his fathers old overalls, he hurriedly descended the lofts ladder and crossed the muddy yard towards the slaughterhouse.

The pig pens were prudently located adjacent to the stinking slaughterhouse, and just across the way from the feted duck pond.

He scanned the scene and noted that the body of old man scaggs was still where he left it.Glancing across the pond he was sure he was alone, and began to lift the lifeless corpse from the butchers hook it had been hanging from overnight.

The coals from the smouldering fire below the lifeless carcass were still hot and the smoke continued to engulf the former judges skin, the hue having changed to a dark burnt yellow with a tinge of ochre.The skin was wrinkled and dry and ready for a  heavy sprinkling of salt.

Silas yanked at the chain attached to the hook and the body fell to the ground, scattering the ash and glowing coals in the fire. Reaching in to his breeches pocket, Silas pulled out a 9 inch hunting knife and began slicing hunks of flesh from the former Judges rump.

Twenty minutes later a small wooden container was full of warm flesh, slightly crispy on the outside but fleshy and moister on the reverse side.The salt and seasoning rubbed in to the flesh  had done its job, and after tasting a particularly fleshy lump, Silas considered the product was ready for consumption.

After quickly slicing the remaining flesh from the unfortunate late Judge's body, Silas placed the salted delicacy in the large freezer located in an adjacent warehouse. He then returned to the barn and after a quick brush-down and hand wash decided that it was time to go and visit Dr Doyle and arrange a profitable distribution of his produce.

Dr Doyle had first met Silas when attached to the Sister Crippen unit of Shenley Hospital for the mentally insane.

They had been active during the Spanish Civil War and had also operated behind enemy lines during operation Barbarossa. However, Dr Doyle was now an enthusiastic accomplice in the distribution of Silas's salty product, due his almost fanatical love of the snack.

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

CARDINAL CHARD AND THE LOST ARK OF THE COVENANT

CARDINAL CHARD AND THE LOST ARK OF THE COVENANT

Driver Chard, the former self proclaimed potentate of the Duck Flat Cap Society, has expressed his view that only those who wear the traditional head garment in the orthodox manner, are entitled to vote in the forthcoming General Election.

This deeply controversial comment was delivered as he gave a speech to the assembled and manacled clientele of the geriatrics foot-binding and incontinence section at "St Bohemia and Augustus Temperance Sanatorium" in East Belmont, Middlesex.

The wildly enthusiastic audience sat entranced as the octogenarian potentate announced that the fabled "Lost Arc of the Covenant" has been discovered in his garden shed, behind a yellowing sticky pile of old magazines and periodicals, including an unhealthy number of black and white copies of "Men's Health", Green shield stamp albums and back copies of the Watchtower.

When questioned by members of the Duck Flat Cap society "Imbibing, Procrastinating and Ancient Artifact" section, Driver Chard explained that during the Suez conflict in north east Africa, he crashed his vehicle in to a temporary latrine when running an errand for his officer. Although there was not much damage to the army truck, the accident had revealed a previously hidden tunnel that descended adjacent to the latrine and ended in a previously concealed rock hewn chamber.

Within the chamber was a relic of antiquity that the still shaken Driver Chard believed could be used as an additional section of the latrine, and due to its shape, would make a perfect throne for laying the ace. Rushing back to the tented compound he alerted a number of sappers who came to assist with the recovery of the object, and to attend to minor alterations to allow the relic to be used for the soiling activities of the officer class.

However, prior to use by commissioned officers, Driver Chard decided to give it a cheeky trial, and after being seated on the throne was immediately blasted by holy electromagnetic forces blowing his undies to shreds and singeing his public garden area so that it resembled burnt toast. Luckily for Driver Chard, he was sitting on a rubber inner tube to protect his acute farmer Giles, and therefore was saved from total inhalation.

In view of his electrical mishap, the Chard decided that it was best not to utilise the artifact as a latrine, and using his army and navy contacts, (fostered after an unfortunate incident in the washroom on the troop ship on the way to North Africa), arranged to have the relic shipped back to the UK where it has remained until recently rediscovered in his garden shed.

Not long after rediscovering the Ark, Driver Chard took to addressing himself as "Cardinal Chard" and started wearing red clothing, and in particular an old red bonnet which he apparently stole from his granddaughter. However, he continues to claim that it appeared from nowhere whilst examining the contents of the clothes line  just after rediscovering the ancient relic.

More on this important discovery will be published as soon as Cardinal Chard recovers from his latest lobotomy.


R.I.P   JOHN CHARD 1933 - 2020

THE MITRE MURDER MYSTERY – PART 4 (SWANSONG)

THE MITRE MURDER MYSTERY – PART 4 (SWANSONG)

 

Big Mac and Old Pa Bumfold sat silent for twenty minutes until a mighty bout of flatulence forced Bumfold from his stool. Struggling to slide from his lofty perch, he groped for the brass foot rail with his flaying feet, whilst steadying himself with his left hand on the Bar. Just as he obtained sufficient balance to stand aside from the bar, he felt a hard blow to his arthritic shoulder, and turned towards the significant bulk and large red face of Dr Doyle.

Dr Doyle smiled at Pa Bumfold as the geriatric near cripple, broke wind, and inadvertently followed through. Dr Doyle turned his grinning face to Big Mac who had quickly averted his attention from the wireless, and was gesticulating as if to shake the Doctors hand.
 Big Mac was as surprised as Bumfold to see the Doctor, as he had spoken to him on the phone only hours ago. However, he managed to maintain control of his sphincter and nonchalantly offered the wheezing Doctor Doyle a drink.

The Doctor accepted Big Macs offer of a drink, but refused a handshake, purposely placing both hands in his trouser pockets.  After taking a glug from his large Bacardi and Coke, Dr Doyle stood between the trembling Pa Bumfold and the seated Big Mac and pulled a package from his war surplus overcoat pocket. The package consisted of a scarlet handkerchief that had been tied with cord so as to secure old black and white photographs, which on inspection were taken in the Mitre public house. However, on closer scrutiny, it was apparent that two of the photos were of a far more revealing nature and contained images of Ted the barman laying prone on the bar floor with both Old Pa Bumfold and Big Mac standing over the lifeless body. Both had implements in their hands, possibly a screwdriver and a spanner, and the darkened street viewed through the windows, together with the pub clock in the background, revealed that the time was 1.16 am.  

Dr Doyle shuffled the photographs in his hands, and mentioned in an aggressive but positive manner, that he had copies and that they would find their way to Inspector Crapper at the Wembley Police station, if anything happened to him. Removing his wire spectacles from his blotched red face, and placing them in his inside coat pocket, the Doctor turned to Big Mac and explained that unless he helps recover the Crimson Wiener there will be no alternative for him, other than to hand the photographic evidence to the police, together with further information indicating where the skull of the murdered Barman could be recovered.  Turning to Pa Bumfold, Dr Doyle whispered “when you came to me earlier, did you really think I didn’t know you were involved with the murder of Ted. I have known since the day after you handed these photographs to your wife for safe keeping. She showed them to be in the Mitre, boasting that she had taken them, and for a few drinks she handed them to be together with the negatives. ”

The telephone behind the bar started to ring rhythmically and startled Big Mac and Pa Bumfold from their panic induced silence. The governor of the Swan lifted the receiver and stood back as the ranting of a hormone deficient mountain goat bawled down the line. Regaining his composure the publican scanned the bar and shouted to all and sundry as to whether a Mr Bumfold was in the house. Knowing it could only be his wife, Bumfold gesticulated that he wasn’t there and that was sorry for the interruption. The relevant information was relayed to his deranged octogenarian wife Gloria, who slammed the phone back on to its base almost breaking the Bakelite casing.    

Dr Doyle grabbed Big Mac by the shoulder and pulled Pa Bumfold towards his screwed up face and whispered that unless he hears from both of them by the morning regarding the whereabouts of the Crimson Wiener, they would both be receiving a knock from the old bill and be taking a short walk to the hangman’s noose shortly afterwards. So as to exaggerate his claim, he pulled a flat black cap from his pocket and placed it on his head, before turning his back on his trembling counterparts and swiftly exiting the Swan.

Big Mac and Bumfold sat with empty glasses for a few minutes until they noticed a commotion coming from the direction of the Bar Billiards table. As Big Mac ordered two further drinks, Old Pa Bumfold recognised that the fracas was centred on “Pope Pat” a retarded and defrocked former priest from Achill, an island located off the coast of County Mayo in West Ireland. Pope Pat was supposedly a reformed alcoholic, but was prone to prolonged lapses of abstinence, and during these periods was extremely unstable and dangerous company. He was known to be an associate of Dr Doyle, and had actually previously operated on missions all over Europe with Big Mac and his accomplices.

These operations had included undercover missions to Dublin, Paris, Rome, Amsterdam, Brussels, Munich and other European destinations, together with active duty in Edinburgh, Cardiff, Bath and the Isle of White.   After a few minutes the Bar Billiard table was surrounded by drunken travellers and navies, shaking hands and hugging each other. Walking away from this melee was Pope Pat who made a direct approach to where Big Mac and Pa Bumfold were seated.

“How’s the crack, you whores” retorted the inebriate ex priest who pulling a wad of five pound notes from his britches offered all and sundry a drink.

To be continued......