Hobson’s Choice- Finale (Please note this is the final sequence to Trevor’s Breakfast Quest).

Everyone sits around looking glum, when suddenly a band of festively attired Thompsons burst into the room, bearing sundry home made instruments, drums, gourd maracas and conch shells, and burst into an upbeat calypso style version of the Treasure Quest theme. From Clancy’s renewed howling, and cries of “Not now Thompson!” it is apparent that this triumphant musical extravaganza was prearranged prior to his recent reversal of fortune.

The Nolans are delighted and begin an appallingly uncoordinated dance routine. Morris grabs two femurs and joins in, playing an accomplished ragtime xylophone solo on Jackson’s denuded ribcage.

Morris:          “Ho ho, this is more like it shipmates! One more time for the cheap seats!”

With a tearing and rending sound the prow of an old fashioned galleon smashes through the wall of the room. Sat behind the wheel is our old friend Cap’n Flint. The decks and yards are manned by a crew of Johnsons in immaculate sailor suits. Morris breaks once more into his raucous sea shanty;

Morris:         “Oh a long way from my parlour we surely have sailed, where with the Turkey’s sad story we all were regaled, and my schemes for pepper mill acquisition they sadly have failed, O, and the narrative thread it has been oft deraiiiilleeeed!” He waves a femur as if it were a conductor’s baton! “CHORUS! Sing you turkey bastards!”

An awful cacophony of Mwaerks! Wakarks! Nolan Sisters songs, gallic cursing and avian weeping ensues, all accompanied by the Thompsons Calypso combo, before he resumes

Morris:           “O, o’er the oceans together we’ve come, to a land where parrot men beat on the drum, I’ve consumed the roast carcass of an old canine chum, and Johnson got lucky with the Turkey’s old mum!”

The assemblage do not need to be told again, and the godawful discordant cacophony swells once more, augmented by the squall of Morris’ Northumbrian pipes. Fireworks explode, Coconut brassiered Thompsonettes cancan past, interspersed with Buckle and Pasta Chef Johnson, Leonard glasses Alfonso viciously in the left temple, Cap’n Flint’s vessel fires a broadside of glitter which cascades over all concerned. All turn to Morris, awaiting a final verse, only to find him quietly slumped in a chair, leafing idly through the dog eared pages of an old Exchange and Mart  and sipping a shandy bass. There is a knock at the door, and at the same time, it is clear that they are all somehow back in Morris’ living room. He gets up with an irritated grunt and walks across and opens the door. Outside stands the hooded figure of Executioner Johnson, clutching a paperback copy of “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.”

Morris:          “Oh, evenin’ Johnson. ‘Landa! Yer book club’s here.”

He looks round and a mildly surprised expression briefly crosses his grim visage, “Coo, lot of ’em turned up this time haven’t they? Good read is it? Anyway, I’m off to fix that Lawnmower for the Hobsons, I’ll be in the shed if you need anything,”

Published in: on August 27, 2015 at 12:01 pm  Leave a Comment  

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