Classic Canaries 6: The Two Bikles.

After Bikle left for the second time Buckle we may recall was in charge of some particularly nice canaries. How my dear reader do you suppose that went? You may be surprised. Buckle prowled around the flat for some time. He went to the fridge again (vwukk Barvellous). He played a game of Ludo with a stuffed toy and got confused. He had a jumping competition by himself and broke part of the sofa –but won the competition. He watched some pigeons from the window swooping around and then pretended to be a pigeon, pecked at the floor for some bread he’d thrown for himself and bashed himself unconscious. When he awoke he could hear the most marvellous twittering sound. He looked up and saw some delightful yellow birds in a cage.

Buckle: “Ho by! Look at dese. Dere Barvellous, I wonder where dey came from? Bikle will be thrilled to see dem!” He stares transfixed for some time.  “Here birdie birdie!” Suddenly there is a knock at the door. “Ho a knock at the door, dow who could dat be!” He goes to answer it and is greeted my rotund feathery gentleman with a cloak long black wig and glasses on.“Ho Bikle it’s you, why didn’t you let yourself in?”

Alleged Bikle: “Blblblblbp! Forgot keys! Blblbp! In I come Blblbp! Ho dere Buckle blblbp! How are my I mean by prize cadaries?”

Buckle: “I think dey’ve escaped! I was watchig somb birds earlier flyig around outside and I thought there’d be cheese and then…”

Alleged Bikle: “Bllblbp, no matter have to take these to the birds show now, blblbp time is of the essence, blblblbp!”

Buckle: “Ho let be help you with dem Bikle!”

Alleged Bikle: “Blbllblblp! Dot likely! Come on in Thompson!”

Thompson enters but unbeknownst to err Bikle, the Thompsons have a particular hatred of canaries. Upon spying the yellow tweeting cage, Thompson does not move compliantly over to help with removal, rather with a squawk of abject rage and blood lust he races over to the cage and, using his rather large and powerful bill, easily crunches through the bars. In moments there are further set of blood thirsty crunching sounds and Bikle’s prize canaries are no more than a bloody pulp dripping from Thompson’s vicious beak.A pulp he shows his disgust for by spitting out around the room.

Alleged Bikle: “Blblblbbp Thompson! My prize birds!” the apparent Bikle looks actually horrified as he clearly did not forsee this turn of events “Come along Thompson!  No point staying here!”

Buckle: “H’what but you live here Bikle! Though I don’t do how you’re going to wid adythig dow with dis mess?”

Alleged Bikle: “Blblblp good point off to get fresh birds! Leaving now blblbp!” and with this ‘Bikle’ and the Thompsons rapidly exit the flat…Moments later, there comes the sound of slow, painful footsteps dragging themselves up the stairs, accompanied by panting and swearing. There is the sound of keys, and Bikle practically collapses through the door.

Buckle: “Ball right dere Bikle! Dat was quick, forget sobethig did you?”

Bikle: “Ho god you’re back are you? Dat’s all I bloody deed, by fuckig idiot brother. Badyway, what do you bean quick? I’ve beed away ages. Dever bind, I dod’t have tibe to listed to your blitherig, I’ve got to get by cadaries to the Bird Show prodto!”

Buckle: “Ho yes, de cadaries, pretty thigs, such a shabe dat dey’re ball dead hey?”

Bikle: “Yes, yes, dat’s right, whatever, dow get out of by way…” He pauses “Hag od, what do you bean ball dead?”

Buckle has wandered off and is draping a tea towel over his head.

Buckle: “Look at be Bikle! I’b ad astrodaut!”

Bikle: “Dever bind dat dodsedse you fridiot! What do you bead by cadaries are dead?”

Buckle: “Ho yes, dey’re dead all right. Bassacred. Bercilessly.”

Bikle charges across the room and removes the cover from the cage, revealing the sanguinary chaos within, also now noticing the enormous stains of feathers and blood about the place. He reels back smiting his forehead,

Bikle: “Ho Christ! By prize cadaries! H’what the fuck have you dode you bastard?”

Buckle: “Ho it was’dt be Bikle, dod’t you rebember? You popped id just dow wid dat Thobsod, ad he burdered de lot of deb.”

Bikle: “H’what? Ho you ditwit, dat was’dt be! Thobsod you say? Den dat Turkey bastard is behide dis sedseless bassasidatiod! I’ll get hib for dis or I’b dot de largest at de party!”

Buckle: “Dat’s de spirit Bikle! But ared’t you goig to kill dat other ode too?”

Bikle: “What other ode?”

Buckle is now trying to climb into a ridiculously small pedal bin.

Buckle: “Look at be! I’b id by rocket! I’b like dat brave Astro Bikle od de televisiod!”

Bikle advances upon him as menacingly as his rectal injuries allow

Bikle: “Dow listed here brother of bide, I’be just about at de end of by tether, by bagic act was sabotaged by dat Gerbad, you stabbed be wid swords, I’ve had a rollig pid idserted into by backside, I’ve had to hop all de way back frob de hospital because dat Johdsod at de taxi office would dot let be idto a cab due to by bleedig bottob, ad dow I fidally badage to get hobe, odly to discover dat you have allowed dat Butterball bastard to brutally bexterbidate by beloved bevy of beautiful birds under your very dose! Dow, what do you bead by “de other ode?””

Buckle: “De other cadary Bikle, de ode dat you bought frob dat dice Bister Cutler dis bordig. It’s still id your bedroob. Cad I go to the bood id by rocket ship dow?”

Bikle: “By god! You’re right! Dat bagdificedt dew bird!Frof course! I’ll have by revedge od dat turkey yet! You cad go to de bood id a bidute, fetch by groobig iplebedts ad help be lash de cage to by peddy farthig! Dere’s dot a bobedt to lose! Fregistratiod closes at dide o’clock!”

Sure enough, before many minutes have passed, Bikle is perched precariously atop his antique conveyance, a cushion sellotaped to the seat in a vain attempt not to burst his stitches, and is pedalling hell for leather towards the village green…

Published in: on December 18, 2015 at 2:23 pm  Comments (1)  

Classic Canaries 5: At The Charity Cats Home Event.

The scene is the interior of a rundown hall. A low stage stands at one end, and rows of stackable chairs have been arranged facing it. A couple of dozen mainly elderly people sit listlessly sipping tea from plastic cups and munching biscuits. On the stage, which has been decorated with tattered bunting, a portly middle aged smiling man is ushering off another man clad in an ill fitting harlequin suit.

Compare:            “Pete and his Peppers ladies and gentlemen!” a desultory ripple of applause dies quickly away. The portly gent beams. “So then, without any further ado, let’s have three cheers for our next act, described here as a comedy ventriloquist!”


A grim faced rangy man in the back row turns to his female companion.


Morris:                 “A dromedary soliloquist? This should be interesting.”


Yolanda:               ” No Morris, a funny ventriloquist.”


Morris:                 “No you may not have money to rent ‘Gorillas In The Mist’, I cannot abide Sigourney Weaver at the best of times, and particularly not in that awful piece of claptrap. Though upon reflection I am quite taken with gorillas in the mist, except not so much mist as a foul poisonous smog and less gorillas and more dread denizens of the fabled citadel of h’ruif ouh banjabah, I dare not say more. Hiding in this iniquitous cloak these beings from the hoary beyond seek to trap the unwary comedy ventiloquist and feed his bone marrow to ummm to likes bone marrow on his baked potato Johnson…”

Yolanda:               “Sssh Morris, it’s starting.”


Morris:                 “So am I. Why don’t we go get omelette or something. What are we doing here anyway?”


Yolanda:               “It’s for charity Morris, for the Stray Cats Home.”


Morris:                 “Very well. But if this next turn is of comparable quality to that fellow with the peppers, I have a vivid presentiment that somebody will suffer a sudden and fiery demise.”


On the stage, a very tall angular man with long straight hair has seated himself on an orange plastic chair. Dressed all in black he holds a baldheaded doll on his knee. The doll’s face, despite being only garishly painted papier mache, radiates a combination of smugness and imbecility.


Bikle:                     “Ho, good evedig ladies and gedtleben! By dabe’s Bikle, and dis is by little chub, Sibod. Say hello to de dice people Sibod!”


The dolls jaw clacks up and down.


Simon Doll:         “H’what nice people? I don’t h’see any nice h’people!”

Bikle:                     wags a finger of his free hand at the doll. “Dow dow Sibod, play dicely! I bead de audiedce.”


Simon Doll:         “Ho hello h’everybody!”


Bikle:                     “Dat’s better, dow den ladies and gentlebed,earlier today I popped idto de dewsagedt, “Bordig Bikle.” he said, so I said, “Do, I always dress like dis!” There is silence. “You dow, bordig, bourdig? Ad I wear black garbedts? Ho well, hadyway Sibod, I’ve bought a dew dog, ad he’s got do dose.”


Simon Doll:         “Ho h’yes Bikle, and how does he h’smell?”


Bikle:     “Ho dot very dice I cad tell you!”


Again silence.


Simon Doll:         “Ho Bikle, h’what’s your dog’s name?”


Bikle:                     “I call hib handy, because he’s always doig little jobs about de house!” Again the silence is unbroken. Desperately Bikle flaps the doll’s jaw.


Simon Doll:         “Ho really?”


Bikle:                     “Why odly dis bordig I let hib out idto de garden ad he bade a bolt for de gate!” A pepper bounces of his forehead. “ Baybe Simod, you cad tell us what you’ve beed up today!”

Simon:             “H’well Bikle, h’earlier today I thinking h’I was quite h’uncomfortable, so do you h’know what I did?”

Bikle:               “Do what did you do Simod?”

Simon:             “H’I just took my top off and I was 20% more comfortable, perhaps you should h’try it? You look rader h’uncomfortable h’yourself there heeey Bikle!!”

The doll uncannily begins to tug at his top, the effect is unpleasant and vaguely sinister.

Bikle:               “Ho get off be you!”

Bikle wrests control of the situation and settles himself again. The audience look on non-plussed.


Simon Doll:         “Ho h’sorry h’about that Bikle, h’keep having these h’strange moments in h’which h’I think I live in the sea.”


Bikle:                     “Has it happened bore dan once den?”


Simon Doll:         “H’yes in fact h’I often think I’m prawn again!” audience groans


Bikle:                     “Ho and where do you work Sibod?”


Simon Doll:         “Ho H’I work in a dewsagent, dewspaper h’anyone?” he brandishes a periodical around


Bikle:                     “Dow dow Sibod dese people don’t want to hear about your dewspaper.”


Simon Doll:         “Dot h’even h’if h’it was Toborrows dewspaper?!”


Bikle:                     “H’what but how can dat be? Dobody dows de future?!”


Simon Doll:         “h’with by dewspaper h’I can tell you what happens toborrow!”


Bikle:                     “Do we believe hib ladies and gentlemen?”


The audience are peeved and have had enough of the dullness of it all, they begin to shout “what am I having for tea tomorrow?” “who’ll win the war?” “What will my wife buy me for turtlemass?” and other such question. Unperturbed the manikin opens the paper and begins to read, though now his voice is suddenly flat, grey and hollow in an awful kind of way.


Simon Doll:         “the god of spiders wept as she descended into hell and her tears were her children and her children were hungry well they were weren’t they look…”


At this phrase Yolanda looks at Morris who is laughing. Thin threads begin to appear behind Bikle out of nowhere and large arachnids with enormous mandibles begin to descend.

Bikle:                     “Sibod why are you saying dat? Dats dot in de script!”
Yolanda:               “Morris, you’ll ruin it for everyone”


Morris:                 “No Yolanda you’ll ruin it for everyone! Well you are ruining it for everyone aren’t you, your improvised routine of tap dancing the classic folk song ‘pony from the fens’ is not going down well!”


The whole scene has changed and the spiders are sat around Morris’ person watching, Bikle is sitting next to Morris with Simon doll, Yolanda is on the stage in some strange stripey tighted get up singing about the ‘pony of the fens’ whilst tap dancing badly. Les Dawson Johnson accompanies her on the nearby piano but keeps hit bum notes for unwanted comedy effect.


Yolanda:               “Oh the fen pony she said to me” tippety tap “how many blackberries make up a tea? I told then and I told her well, but before she could answer down I fell…” tippet tap tap


“Booo!” shout the audience “Even worse!” “The event is ruined!” one voice pipes up in particular sharpness “Burn her!” shouts another


Yolanda:               “Morris get me off here!” she shouts and in an instant the Simon doll is on the stage dressed in her outfit, Yolanda is back at her seat sitting next to Les Dawson Johnson, whilst Bikle is on the piano.


Bikle:                     “Dance sibod! Dance!” and the words ring strangely in his head. Everyone was clearly expecting some kind of tuneless piano farce, yet Bikle strikes up a few ragtime esque chords and is off with a jaunty number


Bikle:                     “he bay be a stupid dewsagent and he may have a wooden stadce, ho but when he’s lookig cute id his stripy old suit, hi says dadce Sibod dadce!”


The puppet excecutes a furious soft shoe shuffle, capering across the boards with abandon. The audience, finally confronted with something resembling entertainment, clap along enthusiastically. Buoyed up by this, Bikle flexes his long fingers in a maestro like fashion and renews his assault on the keys.


Bikle:                     “Ho he might be a bit of a fridiot, ad he bight have adts id his padts,but when I see him shout Frolé, I says dadce Sibod, dadce!”


The newsagent puppet now goes into a frantic fury of dancing, as he jives and leaps and twirls, the audience clap and cheer. Suddenly there is a thud and a yowl of pain, and the music stops. Bikle is clutching his fingers together whilst glaring angrily at a large avian figure in black robes and white formal wig, who has just slammed the lid of the piano on his digits.


Bikle:                     “By fingers!” A sheepskin coated figure strolls on stage.


Mr Cutler:           “Ooh, hurt our fingers have we? What a shame.” he produces a sheet of paper which he waves at Bikle. “Sorry to spoil your little show chummy, but this performance is in clear breach of copyright, see ‘ere? ‘Dance, Monkey Dance.’ melody and lyrics, copyright Dennis Cutler Entertainment Ltd, 2014(see Cleopatra and the Beanstalk). That’s gonna cost you sunbeam.”


Bikle:                     “Dat’s preposterous bister Cutler, besides, I dod’t have ady boney!”


Mr Cutler:           “Better find some then sharpish hadn’t yer? Unless you want my legal representative here, Barrister At Law, But Still Pretty Tasty In A Bundle Johnson QC,  to garnish yer assets.”


Bikle clearly doesn’t fancy tangling with the burly brawling birdman barrister and starts rummaging through his pockets. The Simon puppet skips across.


Simon Doll:         “Ho there Mr h’Cutler, dod’t be a piker! H’besides hi dod’t believe dat docubent his h’legally binding! Let be h’see h’it!” He snatches the paper and laughs scornfully. “Ho! H’its signed in crayod! H’i don’t ibadgide for a h’binute dat a real h’judge would do dat, heeey?”


Judge Bikle Doll: “Dot a real Judge!” screeches a high pitched voice, “Dat’s codtebt of court dat is!” Sure enough, the Judge Bikle Doll is perched on top of the piano, glaring angrily at the Simon puppet. “Such a grievous slur agaidst de digdity of dis tribudal caddot be allowed to go udpudished! I’b rebandig you into by custody!” Here the horrid doll leans forward gloatingly and leers at the other in an unwholesome fashion. “Ho I’ve got duberous beads of “disciplidig” daughty little puppets, O.O.O. Dow take hib dowd Johnson!”


Simon Doll:         “Ho, get off be h’you!” Cries Simon, but to no avail, as he is frogmarched off stage by B.A.L.B.S.P.T.I.A.B Johnson QC. In the meantime, Bikle has managed to scrape together £3:20 and an electricity token, which he eventually prevails upon Cutlerto accept as a down payment. Raising his hat to the audience, Mr Cutler exits stage left.


Mr Cutler:           “Get on with it then gaylord.” comes a voice from the rear.


Bikle:                     “Berrr, wait a bobedt, berr, I dow! How about a bit of codjurig den boys ad girls? Yes, dat sounds ok, old fashioned kide of wizard you dow, but I’b goig to deed a voludteer…”


Morris:                 arises from his seat, “I’m going to volunteer Yolanda!”


In a strange moment of aping his confusion Yolanda replies


Yolanda:               “You’re going to be a mountaineer Morris? What are you talking about?”


Morris:                 “No Yolanda I am going to volunteer for the act, well I am volunteering look, here I am being chosen, basking in the limelight, waving hello to mum from the big screen, being patted on the back by Bob Monkhouse, failing to win a prize, incinerating the set and making off in the speedboat with the novelty tie that was presented to me as a loser, but who is the loser now I ask you? This achieved I return to my seat to the envious glares of my peers, that is Piers Johnson a powerful aristocratic avian whom I am not so fond, though he is also friends with Ratpack Johnson WITH WHOM YOU WILL RECALL I AM QUITE PALLY.  Piers wishes it was he with the speedboat and the novelty tie, a washing machine, a coconut, a fried badger and a top hat, is it time for Doctor who yet?” Morris looks at the stage to see that some attractive middle aged woman has been chosen and is up on the stage with Bikle, who eyes her leeringly “Now look what you’ve done Yolanda, I have missed my volunteering opportunity and Piers Johnson will laugh at me, well I’ll show him, I will burn him to death…”
Yolanda:               “Morris will you be quiet, look let’s see what Bikle’s going to do.”

Morris:                 “Dow den Bodob, what’s your dabe?”


Shirley:                 “Shirley.”


Morris:                 “And whad do you do Shirley?”


Shirley                  “I work as a secretary to a local avian aristocrat.”


Bikle:                     “Dat’s dice, dow Shirley do you believe id bagic? You see I’ve got dis rolling pin here, first of all I’d like you to handle it, and bake sure dere dothing, strange h’about it.” He hands her a large pinky cream coloured rolling pin and she inspects it dutifully. “So banything suspiscious dere?”


Shirley:                 “No, no apart from the fact it’s quite big”


Bikle:                     “Or rader large?”


Shirley:                 “Yes or rather large, it seems quite normal.”


Bikle:                     “Well bodob, let be tell you dat it is frinfact a bagic rollig pin.”


Shirley:                 “Oh really?”


Bikle stops at this phrase and eyes the woman suspiciously, but reflecting that it is in fact just a

perfectly reasonable thing to say, he lets it slide.
Bikle:                     “Dow den Shirley do you have any kind of bag wid you? Apart frob your bother in law dat is o o o!”

The audience laugh and Shirley looks a little uncomfortable.


Shirley:                 “Umm yes I’ve got by handbag”


Bikle:                     “Barvellous, ladies and gentleben let’s hear it for Shirely’s handbag.” There is a round of applause and the bag is passed up to the stage “Dow den Shirley, cad I codfirb dis is your bag?”


Shirley:                 “Yes of course it’s my bag” getting vaguely annoyed now


Bikle:                     “Right den Shirley, I’b going to put by  big rolling pin in your handbag, what do you think of dat?” She pulls a face but is clearly locked into the act so forces a kind of humourless smile. Bikle puts the handbag on a handy table and stands over it with the rolling pin. “Dow if we just stuff dis ordinary rollig pid in dis bag” but he pushes too hard and there is a ripping sound, the vaguely obscene end of the rolling pin has poked a hole in the bag and is now sticking out the side.


Bikle:                     “Boops, looks like by Rollig pin has crippled your bag, Bi’m so sorry.” The woman looks horrified, Bikle though doesn’t seem flustered at all. “what we deed here is a spot of bagic!” and with a flourish he throws his cloak up and over the table with the ruined bag on it. “Frattatata, and through the worbhole, bake Shirley’s bag back to dormal!” There is a kind of ‘boom’ and some smoke and some glitter. When the smoke clears there is still the table covered with the cloak, Bikle looking smug and Shirley looking confused and slightly uncomfortable.  “Dow den ladies and gentleben let’s take a look at dat bag!” he whisks the cloak away “Frole!” “Dow den Shirley take a look at your bag!” Shirley goes over and inspects the bag, picking it up she looks on with astonishment and even happiness.


Shirley:                “Why it’s perfect! There’s nothing wrong with it? How did you do dat, I mean that?” Why it’s perfect! There’s nothing wrong with it? How did you do dat, I mean that?” The audience applaud


Bikle:                     “A bagician dever lets on, dow if you’ll just pass by rollig pid back.”


Shirley:                                She looks again “But it’s not here it’s vanished, that’s amazing!” She is shuffling still uncomfortably


Bikle:                     “Are you alright dere Shirley?”


Shirley:                 “No there’s something, really uncomfortable…”


Bikle:                     “Baybe you should take you’re top off for 20% more comfort?” he quips, the audience roar with laughter, but she jerks away from hib “Ho, dow I think I bight dow de probleb, just turd around a binute dere Shirely!” Embarrassed and pigeonholed poor Shirley has little choice but to comply. Bikle inspects her behind and seems to reach towards the top of the back of her trousers, “What’s dis ladies and gentleben!” He looks faux curiously on at the audience “Well well I dever! Look if I’m do buch bistaken” he grunts a little for effect “it’s nnng… by rollig pin!” and slowly but surely he extracts the enormous rolling pin from the back of a horrified Shirley’s clothing “A little soiled but as good as dew otherwise. A big hand, bor somethig for Shirley everyone!” The audience clap and cheer “And don’t for get your bag, froo fritcha!” and he hurls the bag after her, which she only just manages to catch; there is more applause and laughter. As the applause dies away he stands there looking rather smug. “Dow, for by dext trick, bi deed adother voludteer!” Not surprisingly, there is a lack of enthusiasm from the audience. A forest of hands remain unraised. “Dobody? Cobe, cobe, dod’t let’s be pikers! You dere, de older gentlebad wid de puffa jacket, sittig alode?”


Frosty:                  “Fuck off. Very private person. Only here to apply for a new cat basket.”


Bikle:                     “Ho well, what about you den sir? The teutonic lookig gedtlebad wid de bodacle ad de lederhosed?”


Hansi:                    “Blplblblp! Only too glad to be of assistance! Getting on stage! Blplblplp!”


Bikle:                     “Ho dow dat’s barvellous, ad what’s your dabe sir?”


Hansi:                    “Blplblp! Hansi Furtenberg! Ordinary German tourist! Everything just as it appears. No nasty surprises awaiting you. Certainly not.”


Bikle:                     “Ho dow dat’s barvellous! Dobody likes dasty surprises do dey? Eh Shirley? O.O.O.”


Hansi:                    “Blplblb! Certainly not! Reiterate, all as it appears at first glance. Cat lover. Holidays. Volunteered. No secret agenda of turning tables on magic act causing pain and humiliation. Blplplp!”


Bikle:                     “Ho good good. So what are you doig od your holidays den Herr Furtenburg?”


Hansi:                    “Blblplb! Visiting old friend. Avian aristocrat. Punting. Tea on lawn. Tawny port. Most agreeable.”


Bikle: “Yes yes, you’re a bit of a chatterbox are’dt you! Let’s get od wid by dext trick!”


Hansi: “Blplblblp! Very well, proceed!”


Bikle: “Right, dow if you will just exabide dis cabidet here, do secret doors, slidig padels or, O.O.O, false bottobs!” Hansi bangs the walls of the cabinet.


Hansi: “Blplplp! Good solid carpentry! No trickery!”


Bikle: “H’excelledt! Well id you get!”


Hansi: “Blplplp! Very well! In I go!” Hansi bustles into the cabinet, and Bikle slams the door behind him with a flourish.


Bikle: “Watch carefully dow ladies ad gedtlebed! Frabracadabra! Eye of dewt, fried badger’s ear, bake dis Gerbad disappear!” Quickly he undoes the bolt on the door and swings it wide. In truth, the German is nowhere to be seen. In his place is a huge pasty faced, straw haired figure in a peasant smock and gaiters, the ensemble smeared with mud, horse manure and blood. He emits a horrible guttural cry of mindless rage and lust, and tries to fold Bikle in his foul embrace. “Ho God do!” Bikle leaps back just in time and manages to slam the door to, and shoot the bolts. “H’what de fuck? Dat was dot what hi h’expected!”


Hansi: “Blblplp! Never mind, try again!” comes the encouraging cry from his elbow.


Bikle: “Ho yes, dow thed, Frocus pocus! Wizard’s sleeve ad witch’s hat, bagic powers get rid of dat!” With less of a flourish this time, he flings open the door. From within comes a screeching trumpeting neighing sound, and he is immediately drenched in a gout of murky translucent goo. “Ho fuck off!” he cries as he slams the door. “Dot ode of dose!”


Hansi: “Blblplplp! Most unpleasant! Third time’s the charm eh?”


Bikle: “Yes yes bi suppose so. Ho god. Here we go den. Lords and basters of creatiod, rid be of dis combidatiod!”


Hansi: “Blplplbl! Very good! Sure to be a success!”


Bikle: “Well I hope you’re right, dis is dot goig well. I’d give a good deal to dow where dat Gerbad fellow has got to!”The figure at his elbow winks broadly at the audience with his monacled eye.


Hansi: “Blplblp! Not seen him! Let you know at once if he turns up!”


Bikle: “Ho yes, please do. Dis is bost distressig you dow. By bagic act was goig barvellously til he turned up! Dow it’s id ruid!”


Hansi pats him sympathetically on the arm.


Hansi: “Blplplbl! Still have to open box! Audience in suspense! Blplblblp!”


Bikle: “Hi suppose so. But after dose two bonsters, I’b dot in buch of a hurry to udleash adother blasted dightbare bi cad tell you!”


Hansi: “Confident everything fine. Show must go on! Blplplpl!”


Bikle: “Ho god den. Hi suppose so. I’ll oped de fuckid box, but if it ends up being Sex Mad Made Of Sewage Flame Thrower Scorpion Johnson or sobethig, dod’t say I didn’t ward you!” Approaching the cabinet with obvious reluctance, he opens the door and leaps backwards. Nothing happens. The audience make a disappointed noise. Bikle peers nervously into the depths of the cabinet. “Ho, it looks ebpty dis tibe! Barvellous!”


Hansi: “Blplblblp! Told you! Just to be on safe side. Best have closer look! Possible very small monstrosity!” With which he ushers Bikle further into the cabinet.


Bikle: “Hit’s dark id here you dow, adybody got a torch?”


Hansi: “Blplplblblp! No torch for you! In you go!” so saying, he gives him a shove which sends him flying into the cabinet with a cry of


Bikle: “Boooohh!” Dextrously, Hansi slams the door, padlocks it, and then pushes the whole thing over onto it’s side on a conveniently placed set of trestles.Thud thud thud!


Bikle: “Let be out of dis thig! H’what’s goig od? Dis wasn’t in de script!”


Hansi: “Blplblp! Nothing to worry about. Little magic show of one’s own!” He reaches under the trestles and draws out a bundle of extremely sharp looking swords. “Blplplbl! Old favourite eh boys and girls! Piercing box with swords! Perfectly safe as long as it’s done by a person posessing skill, finesse and coordination! You sir! Tall gent in the cloak! Up you come!”


Buckle: “Be? Ho barvellous!” Beaming proudly, Buckle leaps up and trips over the trailing edge of his cloak. Not a whit abashed, he scrambles clumsily onto the stage, and stands there chortling with excitement. “Ho ho! I’be goig to do bagic! I wish Bikle was here! He’d be so proud of be!”


Bikle: “Who’s dat out dere? Ho god do!”


Hansi: “Blplplblp! Now just to repeat. Very important! Slightest wobble or mistake, deviation of single milimeter, extreme danger! Terrible injuries!” The audience hoot and cheer at the prospect, as does Buckle. “Now then, no time to waste! On with blindfold!”


Bikle: “Ho god dot a blidefold!”


Buckle: “Ho ho it’s gone awfully dark Bister Turkey! Isn’t this fun?”


Hansi passes him a rapier, and with a cackhanded lunge he rams it into the cabinet, whereupon a muffled cry of “Bouch!” can clearly be heard. This is repeated over and over, with further assistance from other members of the audience who are queuing up to take part. Prominent among them being Parkinson’s Disease Johnson, Delirium Tremens Johnson and Drunken Clumsy Old Johnson. Eventually the end of the queue is reached, and waiting patiently at the end of the line is Shirley.


Hansi: “Blplplblp! Game girl! Nice to welcome you back! Sadly, out of swords. Never mind! Find something! Wait a moment!”


Bikle: “Ho god let be out! Dis is fragonising! I’b like a fuckig pidcushiod id here!”


Hansi has been rummaging in a large bag and with a gobble of triumph emerges with a familiar item.


Hansi: “Blplplplpl! That’ll do surely! Blplplpl, I mean Shirley! Just quick joke! All family fun!”


Bikle:”Cad adybody hear be? It’s do fuckig fud id here I cad tell you!”


Hansi: “Here you go, aim there! Blplblplp! Hard as you can!” *Wunch!* “Frouch!” cries Bikle as the sleek creamy pastry roller improbably punctures the solid wood and embeds itself in the most effective manner.


Bikle: “Help be!”comes the increasingly feeble voice, “By think Bi’m dyig id here!”


Hansi: “Blblblblblp hardly surprising, dangerous act should know better, blblblblblbp will call for ambulance after the raffle! Blblblblblp ladies and gentlemen, to present tonight’s raffle, everyone’s favourite avian aristocrat, round of applause for Piers Johnson.”


Piers Johnson, who has been waiting in the wings (no pun intended) now slowly mounts the stage. Piers is a stately looking Johnson, his looks have the suggestion that he has been quite the gadabout in his youth, now aged with distinction he looks refined and powerful, yet with enough nous of the occasion to soften this internal aristocratic steel his beak breaks to an elegant, warming , yet controlled smile.


Hansi: “Blblblblbp hello Piers, blllblblblblp honour to have you with us blblblbp, without further ado, blblblbp everyone waiting, pull tickets out of this plastic container made from recycled cracker packets blblblblblbp!”
Piers:  “Mwaaek!”  to a ripple of laughter around the room, before reaching into a garish bucket held by Hansi. Suddenly Piers shrieks a horrific ‘mwaaeeeeerk!’ of clear pain and distress, whipping his flipper out of the bucket, on the end of it is a kind of coconut lobster combination which grips said flip with such ferocity that blood can be seen to issue forth.


Hansi: “Bllblblblblbp!  terribly sorry, don’t know how that got in!”


Morris: sat there pissing himself, “Hoho not so much a raffle ticket, more of a snaffle ticket! Eh Yolanda?”

Yolanda: “Eh Morris? Did you do that to poor Piers? He seems such a nice Johnson, so well spoken, I think you’re quite horrid. Anyway what the fuck do you mean a snaffle ticket? How is your horrid coconut thing with prosthetic lobster claws a snaffle ticket? It doesn’t make any fucking sense at all.”


Morris:  “Hmm I do not believe you’re quite with the programme here my dear, whilst I can see that pincering and snaffling are not identical activities, it seems a little pedantic to quibble about their similarly unpleasant results for Piers.”


Yolanda: “No it isn’t Morris, you’re just wrong, they’re wildly different activities. I think what you meant was something like Snapple ticket which would have worked much better. Then at least you’ve got the ‘snap’ bit still in there”


Les Dawson Johnson gives a “Mwaaaerk” of agreement and nods his head, in the process his wig slides off. Yolanda laughs.


Morris: “Ho ho got yourself a bit of a laffle ticket going on there ‘landa!”


Now Les Dawson Johnson (who is clearly easily amused) laughs at this, but Yolanda is less impressed


Yolanda: “That wasn’t funny Morris, a fucking laffle ticket?!”


Morris: “If it wasn’t funny then why is les Dawson Johnson laughing my little mincing machine? QED innit.”
At this point on the stage, paramedic and ambulance Johnson have arrived to take the Bikle casket away out of which now emits no noise. They pick it up and carry it solemnly down the aisle of seats. Morris chips in as it goes by


Morris: “That’s a bit of an affle ticket, geddit awful  ticket” Yolanda rolls her eyes…

Hansi can be seen meanwhile, gesturing soothingly and attempting to placate Piers Johnson with a large glass of tawny port. Eventually, with a shrug which clearly translates as “noblesse oblge.” the lordly figure tentatively reaches in once more and draws forth a large confused chirping insect.


Morris:  “Ho ho!” cries Morris holding his sides, “A baffled cricket!”


Les Dawson falls off his chair, such is his mirth. Piers Johnson flings the creature away with a look of disgust, and stalks angrily offstage with a final “Mwaeerk!”, deaf to the entreaties and apologies of a flustered Hansi. As he reaches the edge of the stage, a trapdoor in the ceiling suddenly opens and he is crushed horribly beneath a rain of stout steel tubing. Morris dabs at his eyes, breathless with merriment.


Morris: “Oh dear Yolanda, he didn’t expect that scaffold thicket!”


Yolanda: “Morris!” scolds Yolanda, that poor man, er bird, er, thing. I hate it when you’re like this. What did poor Piers Johnson ever do to you?”

Morris:  scowling “Do you remember when he was a judge at last year’s Village Bird Show, and he was implacably set against my prize canaries?”


Yolanda: “Hmmm, oh yes, I do remember that now you mention it.”

Morris:  “Ho ho, well he doesn’t, as a 2 inch diameter steel pole has smashed through his brain stem.”


Yolanda: “Morris!”


Morris: “All’s fair in love and war my little aneroid barometer, and it just so happens, in case it had slipped your mind, that the bird show is on again tomorrow and now that Piers Johnson’s cranium is doing a passable impression of a cocktail olive, and old SB, may never ride a penny farthing again, it also just so happens that my two most serious rivals have been somewhat incommoded, and the only thing that stands between me and the prize is that Turkey bastard, wherever he may have got to.”


Yolanda:  “What about Mrs Butterworth from the cake shop? She did quite welllast year.” Even as she speeks Yolanda regrets it. “Morris! Don’t you dare! That lovely old lady!” Though it would appear that her remonstrance has come too late, as suddenly outside the hall the clanging bells of the fire engine can be heard rushing past. Looking around she sees LD Johnson is reading a copy of the local paper with the headline “Local Bird Lover Feared Dead In Bakery Inferno Tragedy.” Yolanda sighs. “Do you remember when we moved here Morris, for the peace and quiet? The cottage hospital was just the dear old Matron and a cot in her spare room? And now it has the busiest A&E Department in six counties and the largest Burns Unit in Western Europe.”


Morris: “We cannot stand in the way of progress my little jar of liniment, now where is the entertainment?”


Yolanda: “Morris that’s the end, the Raffle was the last bit and now everyone is upset due to Piers awful accident.”


Morris: “That was no fluke of chance my little peripatetic homunculus, death trap scaffolding Johnson set the whole thing up earlier, I know what we can do, Les Dawson Johnson can get up and give everyone a bit of a show, what do you say LD?”


LD Johnson: “Mwaaerk!” nods Johnson affably and once more his wig falls off, Morris laughs loudly


Morris: “He’s brilliant Yolanda, get him up on the stage, you can introduce him”

Around the hall now, people are variously milling around, not really knowing whether they should leave or not. Hansi has gone though as mysteriously has what remains of Piers Johnson. Disgruntled looking, Yolanda mounts the stage


Yolanda: “Good evening ladies and gentlemen, for the last act of the evening I’d like to present a comedy act, err Les Dawson Johnson!”


There is some scattered applause as Les Dawson Johnson once more nods his head and his wig falls off. The audience fall about laughing hysterically as with a well timed “Mwaaerk!” and a shrug of his shoulders he picks it up and looks quizzically on. He then turns to the piano to begin a virtuoso performance of bad piano playing interspersed with the hat wig routine. Morris cannot get enough of it but Yolanda is bored.


Yolanda:  “Can’t we go now Morris this is getting really repetitive”


Morris: “Hoho can’t you see my sweet, it’s the repetition that makes it so funny!”

Yolanda: “No Morris, it’s just tedious, besides which I don’t want LD Johnson following us home again like last night, he ruined two of my good cushions on the couch!”


Morris: “Very well my little banquet progeny, let us flee this scene, oh hang on he’s going to do the wig thing again!”


Yolanda rolls her eyes and sighs, at length Morris makes to leave.


Morris: “Come on then Yolanda stop staring at this nonsense, I’m bored of its repetitive character anyway I have to feed my prize canaries!”


Yolanda: “Honestly Morris, I don’t know who you think you’re going to fool, sticking pretty boy, attractive Film star and Narcissus Johnson in a cage in yellow jumpsuits is not going to woo the judges.”


Morris: “Do not be so sure my sweet, besides you haven’t seen who the judges are yet, though I did hear a rumour that Danny la Rue Johnson and Liberace Johnson may be featuring this year”


Yolanda: “Morris, that’s outrageous,  the Bird Show is a hallowed village institution. You can’t just stuff the judging panel with compliant Johnsons, for a start, the Committee would never allow it.”


Morris: “Ah yes my little lateral moraine, the Committee. I had forgotten all about them. Perhaps it is as you say. Anyway you seem to have forgotten that we had arranged to meet the gang down at that new karaoke bar for a night cap, if we do not wish to miss Avatar Of Plague Johnson’s famous rendition of “Hey Big Spender” we had best get our skates on.”


Yolanda: “Oh god Morris, do we have to?”


Morris:  “Indeed we do my little gravity wheel, indeed we do, or rather you do, I myself would not be seen dead in such a place, I am going home for a few cans of Harp and a bingewatch of CSI: Johnson, give my love to the boys.”


Percieving Morris and Yolanda have left, LD Johnson ripples off a final discordant crescendo, leaps up from the piano and executes a low, sweeping bow, which of course once more dislodges his toupeé. Catching it expertly, he jams it back atop his pate and waddles rapidly after the departing duo, accompanied by the loud applause of the audience. No sooner has Morris left than who should huff into view but LD Johnson, now with hairpiece in hand. With an exhausted ‘mwaaerk’ of ‘wait up’, he lumbers up next to Yolanda before carefully replacing the wig. She looks at him and rolls her eyes and has once more a moment of hideous existential reflection about some strange non-existent time before Morris and any of this. LD seems somehow to know about the karaoke promise and now tugs at her sleeve in the direction of the bar. With a huff of resignation she trudges slowly in its direction with at least the relief that she can get a drink there. LD Johnson tries to amuse her with his repertoire of Les Dawson quotes but they all sound strangely similar.  Just two streets later they a seedy looking bar replete with karaoke fig, Les Dawson Johnson looks excited and goes to sign up. Simon is there too and is about to commence a version of ‘hi’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts’. Yolanda twitches as he starts warbling to a strangely familiar horrible organ sound and heads for the bar.

Published in: on December 16, 2015 at 3:43 pm  Leave a Comment  

Classic Canaries 4: Simon Says…

So pleased with his purchase our hero peddles home, through the centre of the village past the newsagent. He stops, ponders the matter then locks up the penny farthing and enters the shop. The anticipated figure stands smugly behind the counter. Various sweets and periodicals line the shelves.
After a moment of pretending not to see him, the figure hails Bikle.

Simon: “Hello there h’sir, h’what can h’I do for you? A dewspaper perhaps?”

Bikle: “For odce sibod baybe you can help be, you don’t happen do hab a copy of ‘you do what’ frabout do you?”

Simon: “h’what do you bean?”

Bikle: “Well you do it’s the birdshow later toborrow and I was wonderig if you bight have ady beans of tellig who will wid it?”

Simon: “And h’ow would that be h’sir?”

Bikle: “I thought it bight, you dow be id de dewspaper?” he says it hushedly as if someone might hear

Simon: “H’I don’t know h’what you mean h’im afraid, dese are de dewspapers we have on offer”

Bikle: “Do but don’t you hab ady you dow, other dewspaper?”

Simon: “What dewspaper? H’i don’t see ady dewspaper? Maybe you h’mean the alleged dewsapaper ehhhh Bikle?”

Bikle: “You fuckwid sibod you Dow very well what I bean. Toborrows dewspaper! Led be hab a peak!”

Simon: “Ho h’why did ‘t you say so. H’anything for a chum!”

Bikle: “Barvelous lets hab it den!”

Simon reaches down and produces a metal bucket a d places it in front of Bikle.

Simon: “H’there you are h’sir!”

Bikle: “What? But dis is just a bucket of…” He peers cautiously in “ashes?”

Simon: “H’yes bikle, Morris borrowed toboprrows dewspaper h’earlier and gave it h’back like this!”

Bikle: “Bah! Dat pesky wizard, but bi’ll show hib at de bird show!”

Simon: “Ho but don’t forget about the h’charity cat h’show h’later today! I hear you’re h’doing a h’show!”

Bikle: “why dats right did you read ady glowig reviews in toborrows dewspaper…?” But no sooner has he asked than his eyes fall upon the bucket and its carbonised contents. “hmm dat would be dot, bi guess, banyway better be off, as you say bust practice de old  enterdainbent froutine!”

Simon: “H’bye now h’sir!” And with that he leaves with the familiar newsagent bell door sound chiming his exit.

Bikle:” Dow, for Hobe and get dis little beauty set up,” he looks lovingly on at the cage, then mounts the penny farthing and peddles back to the flat. Back at the flat events have been merciful to Bikle.  As he chains up his penny farthing, he hears a strange “Wakark!” sound from the bushes near the house, and seconds later, a stout figure in a blue boilersuit comes bustling down the stairs and off down the street. Again there is something familiar about this personage, whom it is to be assumed is suffering from a bad head cold, so bundled up is he in a scarf that his features are obscured despite the pleasant summer’s day. Entering the flat Bikle goes straight to check upon his canaries, finding to his pleasure and surprise, that they are in the same first class fettle as when he left. Buckle is sat cross legged on the floor eating wine gums.

Bikle: “Well done dere Buckle, I’b idpressed. Do dabage dode to by birds! Where did you get de sweets?” Buckle’s reply is more garbled than ever through a mouthful of sticky chews.

Buckle: “Oh it wab dat dice bad frob de gas boarg, he cabe to reab de beter! He wad very idterestig id you cadaries, askig how bady of deb you had ad so od.”

Bikle: “Ho really? I dod’t like de sound of dat! I would’nt put it past by rivals to try ad dobble by beauties!”

Buckle: “Ho dow Biggle, he gabe be dese sweeties, ad dis radio here. He’s a veddy dice chab! Shabe he had to rud off so udexbegtadly lige dat, just before you cabe hobe, but he said he’d cobe back later for adother look at de birdies.”

Bikle: “Dot likely he wod’t! Dow listed to be, Buckland, I’b goig out sood, and dobody, but dobody, gets idto dis flat frob dow od! Do you hear be?”

Buckle: “Dot eved you Biggle?”

Bikle: “Yes yes of course be you dodkey! But do ode else!

Buckle: “Dobody but you. God id. Dow where are you goig? Cad I cobe?”

Bikle: “H’certaidly dot! I’b doig by bagic show at de cat charity taledt show todight ad de last thig I wadt is you bucklig it! Dow I’m puttig dis dew cadary id by bedroob so it does’dt disturb by origidal cadaries wid it’s bagdificedce, ad ded i’b off! Rebember, dobody but be is allowed id!”

A few moments previously, the scene is the back of an old van marked Vance Cuddenhall, Gas Engineer. The blue overalled figure is listening to voices over an electronic system, clearly a secret agent style eavesdropping affair. From the speaker comes a familiar voice. “Dobody, but dobody, gets idto dis flat frob dow od! You hear be?” “Dot eved you Biggle?” “Yes of course be you dodkey, but do one else!?”  “Dobody but you. God id. Dow where are you goig? Cad I cobe?” “H’certaidly dot! I’b doig by bagic show at de cat charity taledt show todight ad de last thig I wadt is you bucklig it! Dow I’m puttig dis dew cadary id by bedroob so it does’dt disturb by origidal cadaries wid it’s bagdificedce, ad ded i’b off! Rebember, dobody but be is allowed id!”

Published in: on December 16, 2015 at 1:55 pm  Leave a Comment  

Poorly Show.

Bikle is sat in his squalid flat, absorbed by some sci fi film from the 90s. Suddenly Buckle rushes in clutching an old bin bag.

Buckle:“Bikle Bikle!”

Bikle:“Dot dow, can’t you see bi’m busy!”

Buckle:“Do Bikle dis is important!”

Bikle: “Ho god…” he pauses the show with an antique remote “What is it den?”

Buckle:“Look!” Buckle starts to rummage in the bag

Bikle:“Listen Buckle it better dot be cheese, because if it is I’b dot goig to be impressed!”

Buckle:“Why did you think there’d be cheese! Dat’s fuddy Bikle I had de exact sabe thought.”

Bikle:“Shut up you dibwit, what’s id de bag? As long as it’s dot cheese!”

Buckle:“Dow den Bikle if you’re goig to get so excited about cheese, you’ll be disappointed, but don’d worry  dere’s sobe in de fridge, I cad fetch it id a bobent and den you can say your classig lide!”


Buckle: “You dow de cheese lide you’re fabous for sayig!”

Bikle: “I’d dot fabous for sayig it Buckle! It’s you you fridiot! You’re always sayig ‘I thought dere’d be cheese!”

Buckle: “Ho Bikle look , you’re at it agaid, adyway if you cad forget about cheese for just a bobent and look at dis!”

Nearly shaking with frustration Bikle manages to centre himself

Bikle: “Yes Buckle, what’s id de bag?!”Buckle tips the contents onto the low coffee table,

Buckle:“Look!” out drops half a dozen packets of lemsip and an old travel ticket

Bikle:“What’s dis shit Buckle?!”

Buckle:“Aren’t dey Barvellous! It’s packets of powder, you can shake dem…” he shakes one “and dey make a shakey sound “you tip dem around for a snow like freffect!” he starts to rip ode open,

Bikle:“Dat won’t be decessary!” interjects Bikle forcefully

Buckle:“And with dis old ticket and de lebsip packets we cad go anywhere!”

Bikle:“What do you bean? How will several packets of lebsip get us adywhere?”

Buckle:“Silly Bikle, you have to use de ticket too!” Suddenly there is a knock at the door.

Bikle: “Ho god who could dat be dow!?” Bikle strides over to the door, two curly haired fools bustle their way in

P&P: “Uhuhuhuh we’ve popped round for a lemsip, uhuhuh with our tools uuhuhuh!”

Bikle:“Dow wait od a binute!”

Buckle:“Ho I’ll put de kettle od!”

P&P: “uuhuhuhuh it won’t suit you with our tools”

Bikle:“By god I  daresay it won’d, dow get out of here!” but before he can remove them another figure appears

Simon: “Hello dere h’Bikle, h’just thought h’id pop round for h’a quick lebsip heyyy?”

Bikle: “Fuck dis is gettig out of control, leave ibbetiatly!”

Buckle: “Ho Bikle dere’s do deed to be like dat, dese poor people obviously have a bad headcold, we should let dem id!”

Turkey: “BLblblblblp! Too true, feeling under the weather, popped round for a lemsip, blblblbp is the kettle on?”

Buckle: “Why yes it is bister Turkey, cobe od id!”

Turkey: “BLblbllp thankyou kindly, in I come blblblblblp!” and the Turkey joins the other idiots milling around near the kettle worksurface area.

Bikle: “By lovely frafterdood, by filb ruid!”

Buckle: “Ho do you have a head ache dere Bikle? Baybe a lebsip?”

Bikle: “Fuck off bi don’t want a lebsip!”

Turkey: “blblblblbp packed with vitamin C!, good for you!” Now more voices can be heard on the stairs,

Morris:“This is the place Yolanda, I hear they do the best lempsip in town!”

Yolanda:“Morris I don’t want a lemsip, I said I tripped over the hem of my skirt!”

Morris: “which resulted in your bad headcold, I quite understand my dear…”

Bikle:”Ho god, dot bore of deb!” He slams the door and leans his back against it only to see Morris reclining in his favourite armchair and flipping through the channels before settling on a rerun of “Johnson, She wrote.” Albert Jackson PI, looking most woebegone, is sat at the table with Bikle’s tablecloth over his head, noisily inhaling menthol vapours from a washing up bowl. Furious, he storms off heading for his bedroom.

Bikle: “Buckle you didcobpoop! Get dese blessed idvalids out of by house! I’b goig for a lie dowd!” Upon throwing open the bedroom door however, he finds no respite. Occupying the bed is a loathsome semi humanoid toad creature, shivering uncontrollably and clutching a steaming mug of lemsip. Rivulets of mucous pour ceaselessly from its rudimentary nostrils to add to the noisome pool of slime slowly solidifying on the mattress. Cyrano de Johnson is sitting in the corner working his way through the scanty contents of Bikle’s wardrobe, utilising them as makeshift handkerchiefs. Bikle is just in time to witness him honking loudly into his best frilly shirt before adding it to the pile of soiled discards. “Right! Dat’s de last straw!” Fuming, he turns on his heel and heads back into the living room,only to sprawl headlong over the unexpected broad back of a sheep. Raising himself to his hands and knees, he finds himself staring into the interested eyes of another ovine quadroped. “Ho H’what de fuck?” “Baaaa!” Looking round desperately, he sees that the flat is teeming with sheep. In the middle of the flock stands a harassed looking man in a dentist’s smock.

Carl: “Behave you woolly bastards! Stop it! You fleecy fuckers! As if I haven’t got enough on my plate with this terrible cold, you muttony motherfuckers won’t follow the simplest instructions!”

Buckle:”Ho poor old Carl, let be get you a dice hot lebsip!”  as the sheep leap and gambol about, “Bind you, I dod’t dow how you badaged to catch a cold with all dese woolly jumpers!”

Morris: “Ho ho did you hear that my dear, he said woolly bumpers!”

Yolanda:“Morris, no he didn’t he said jumpers not bumpers, that’s why it was funny!”

Morris: “Bumpers! Yolanda, you’re beginning to sound like the buckle brothers here, it must be that bad head cold of your blocking your nose, maybe you could try this acme Bikle dress up kit on and join them as a kind of third wheel!”

Yolanda “Morris, I sound nothing like these idiots!”

Bikle: “Bexcuse be boddob, who are you callig ad idiot?!”

Yolanda: “Oh SB I’m sorry, but you know…” she sighs and looks at Morris, “can we go now?”

Morris:“or maybe you mean ‘cad we go dow?’” and she is alarmed to suddenly feel a cheap pair of plastic glasses on her face and a long black wig draping down either side of her face

Yolanda: “Morris fuck off with this tat!” she shouts as she tries to free herself from it, only to struggle against its seeming magical adherence

Morris: “Ho ho! Dot Likely Yuckle!”

Yolanda: “Yuckle? Really fuck right off!”

Morris:“Then how about Yokle? That works on two levels!”

Yolanda “Morris really!”

Morris:“No Yolanda that is the wrong character!”

Yolanda:“Morris, I’m not going to play at Yuckles or Yokles, get this shitty idiotic outfit off me!” then glancing to one side “no offence SB.”

Bikle:“Stop calling be dat, it’s Bikle rebember!”

Buckle:“Bikle Bikle! Don’t’ you think it’s about tibe we used dis travel ticket!?”

Bikle:“What do you bean?!”

Buckle:“Ho baybe a trip would do everywod sobe good?”

Bikle:“Ho god, but it’s just sobe old ticket, we can’t do adywhere with dat!”

Morris: “Do not be so sure! that looks like a ticket for a very special ride, come on everyone all aboard!” and before you know it Bikle’s flat has somehow become an airport terminal and the gang of various characters are queuing to board “Come on you turkey bastards! Get on that plane!”


Carl:“on the plane! On the plane you woolly bastards!”

Bikle:“What the dickeds!”

Yolanda:“Morris get this glasses and wig off be, I mean me!”

Buckle:“Ho hello dere Yokle, pleased to beet you, I’m Buckle!”


Johnson: “Mwaaaerk!”

Morris: “No Johnson you may not take your air rifle on board”

Turkey: “Blblblblbblp fresh and sun, blblblbp just the thing for a cold!”

P&P“uhuhuh allow us to board the plane, with…”

Sigmund Freud: “Ja ja ein schnupfen ist naturlich besser im urlaub”

Simon: “Ho dewspaper for the flight h’anyone?!”

And so milling and jabbering they all board the plane. The plane takes off and they fly around for a bit, after a while it lands outside Bikle’s flat.

Morris: “That will do Johnson, kick them all off.” And some burley Johnsons ensure the characters vacate the plane. So coughing and spluttering they make their way back into his flat looking more decrepid than ever

Bikle: “Ho god dis is frunbearable! Look at dem all!”

Buckle: “Ho maybe you deed a dice lebsip dow Bikle!”

Bikle: “Borris! Your plade idea didn’t work at all! Look at dem dere eved worse dan before!”

Morris: “You might be right beansy, looks like they were misdiagnosed.”

Bikle: “H’what?!”

Morris: “everyone perceived it was a bad headcold, when in fact it was something more serious!”

Bikle: “And what was dat Borris?”

Morris: “Ho Ho I think they were all suffering from ‘flew’!”

Published in: on December 15, 2015 at 8:28 am  Leave a Comment  


Gentle reader, you may of course have your own idea of Morris, here we present to you a serving suggestion (Look! Well it is isn’t it etc etc)


Published in: on December 9, 2015 at 4:55 pm  Comments (3)  

Classic Canaries 3. Seed for Sale

Not without misgivings he sets off down the road. Passing the park, he his hailed by the village policeman, a jovial and stout individual of unmistakeably rustic countenance.

Constable: “Mooarnin’ Mr Bikle zur, and a where are we a scurryin’ so faaast today then? Not yur giro day whilst Thuurzday oi believe.”

Bikle: “Do Do Codstable, just poppig to de pet shop, doticed dat I ab low od seed today of all days. Dod’t wadt dere tubby’s rubblig durig de judgig dow do I?”

Constable: “Oh yus the biird show, oi’m looking forward to seeing them lovely little chaps of yourn again. Wouldn’t be at all zurprised if oi find moiself pinning a rosette on you again! Mind you zur, the old village pet shop’s closed down.”

Bikle: “What? Closed dowd? Dat’s dot good dews Codstable, what will I feed by darligs?”
Constable: “Oh oi wouldn’t worry zur, there’s a new place opened next to the church hall, oi’m sure they’ll ‘ave yur needings.”

Bikle: “Ho dat’s a relief. I’ll be od by way ded. Buch obliged I’b sure.”

Following the officer’s advice he arrives outside the Church Hall, and sure enough, right next door is a large shop, its frontage emblazoned with gaudy illustrations of exotic, unusual and in several cases, frankly menacing animals. Bikle walks inside to find the place is practically empty except for one covered birdcage and a rack of shelving which covers a whole wall and appears to be exclusively stocked with top of the range canary seed. As he approaches the counter, a short figure, wearing a raincoat despite the summer weather, and with sunglasses and trilby pulled down low bustles hurriedly past him. There is something familar about this figure, but before he can try and remember who it reminds him of, he is distracted by the approach of the proprietor, a tall hard faced man in a camelhair overcoat.

Mr Cutler:  “Oo mornin’ young feller, welcome to Cutler’s pets, what can we do for you? Big chap like you, probably something manly like a pit bull eeh? How about a python? Ladies love a man with a python innit? Shall I wrap it up or will you take it as it is?”

Bikle:     “Do do, just deed sobe cadary seed.”

Mr Cutler: “Canaries is it? Well you do surprise me. Not exactly a rugged pet is it your canary? Not really what you’d call macho innit? Still, if you’re not ashamed of it, and after all why should you be? Takes all sorts innit? Boring place if we were all the same eeh? Canaries, well I never, still can’t be helped. Seed is it? Call it a tenner? Shall I wrap it up or will you take it as it is and walk about with it on display, not that anybody’s judging you, fifteen quid’s my last word, won’t take a penny less. Ok twenty. Here it is, pleasure doing business with you, well not so much a pleasure, more of a slightly nauseating experience innit, but still, I’ve got me thirty quid out of it haven’t I? What was it you wanted again? Canary seed? Ooo weeh, that’ll cost you, no market for it y’see, have to order it in…”

Bikle eventually manages to purchase a package of canary seed, and £50 worse off is about to leave the shop, when he hears a melodic chirp from beneath the cover of the solitary cage.

Mr Cutler: “Ho dow wait a bobent, dat sounded like a cadary id dat cage. Bind if I have a quick peep?”

Mr Cutler: “Ooh eeh weeell…”

Bikle: “I dow, I dow, I dow, it’ll cost be.”

Mr Cutler: “Oh it’s not that sonny, it’s just, well, bit scraggy really, not strictly the very finest of canaries, doesn’t really reflect well on the shop innit…”

Bikle: “Oh just a quick look, I’b sobethig of a badiac whed it cobes to cadaries you dow.”

Mr Cutler: “Well seeing as how you’re my first customer, go on then, have a shufti.”

Lifting the cover Bikle sees a canary the likes of which he has never dreamt. Shiny intelligent eyes, sleek fluffy feathers the colour of freshly opened buttercups. As if on cue, it parts its beak and trills a melody of heartbreaking…sweetness. He is transfixed.

Bikle: “How buch for dis bird bister Cutler? He’s a little biracle! Wid dis beauty added to by flock dobody will have de rebotest chadce of beatig be at de bird show! He bust be bide!”

Mr Cutler: Looking unsure. “Well, oo see, it’s not really on sale as such.”

Bikle: “Dabe your price bad, dis bird has got to belog to be!”

The merchant seems torn. Eventually he grudgingly gives in to Bikle’s passionate entreaties.

Mr Cutler: “Go on then. A fiver, and I’ll throw in the cage.”

Bikle forks over the money and decamps rapidly clutching his prize before Cutler can change his mind. Muttering happily to his new pet, he walks merrily back towards his flat.

Published in: on December 2, 2015 at 4:11 pm  Leave a Comment