Classic Canaries 9: Pier’s Rampage

Bikle: Turning to the Turkey, sneering smugly: “You hear dat? Budstoppable! Dat’s be! Dat’s twice dow dat I’ve foiled your dastardly schebes! I frope dat you have leardt your lessod! Dobody besses wid Bikle! Rebember dat Bister Butterball!”

Clancy: “Blplplblp! Certainly will! Suitably chastened! Blplplp! Best man won! No more chicanery! Good clean fight!”

Bikle: “Well I hope so! Detherdeless, I’ll be keepig by eye od you, bake do bistake!”

Clancy: “Very good! Must go! Urgent appointment!” so saying, he bustles out of the tent, leaving Bikle savouring the moment. As Clancy heads back to the blue van, he passes the beer tent, from which are emitting sounds which would seem meet for a particularly fractious pub during some kind of televised sporting event, rather than a sedate event as a village bird show. Outside the beer tent, Morris is speaking to a trio of extremely well turned out and muscular Johnsons, and a couple of others, who are both dressed very flamboyantly, with flowing silk scarves and diamante covered jumpsuits.

Morris: “We’re scrapping Plan A you lot, but don’t worry, there’ll be work for you yet. Meantime, here’s a few quid, gerrin there and keep the drinks flowing, I want the lads well oiled.”One of the two louche Johnsons mwaerks in an arch fashion. “Ho ho I bet you do Johnson, but I mean I want them pissed out of their heads and ready for some rough stuff.” The second Johnson chimes in camply “Mwaeeerk!” “Ho ho, you know what I mean you old poove. Now get a move on, I’ve got to go and fetch me canaries innit?”

As he scurries past, Clancy can see that Morris has brought plenty of partisans along. The beer tent is heaving with Johnsons who have clearly been drinking, and are getting quite boisterous. Among them are a number of well known avian hooligans such as Punch You As Soon As Look At You Johnson, Cut You Up Properly For Two Pins Johnson and Your Own Mother Wouldn’t Know You When He’s Finished With You Johnson. By contrast, the Thompsons, being simple, primitive folk, long isolated on Trevor’s Island, are really entering into the spirit of the fete, enjoying the stalls and attractions, and even patronising the fairground rides. The more worldly, cynical Johnsons are both amused and contemptous of the naive antics of their rivals, but are so far limiting themselves to jeers and catcalls. Reaching the blue van, Clancy climbs into the back, where one of the more technically advanced Thompsons is sat wearing headphones and monitoring a screen.

Clancy: “Blplblp! Give me headphones! Taking over for a moment!”

Thompson happily relinquishes the headphones and looks wistfully through the one way glass of the van window at the nearby cracker stand. Ignoring him, Clancy starts typing away on a keyboard beneath the monitor. The screen is showing jerky black and white images of the inside of a tent, in a manner suggestive of a primitive first person video game. A grainy image of a man appears in front of the camera.

Richards: “Er, we are so glad that you could make it today your lordship. We were all most concerned when we heard ofyour misfortune at the Cat Charity Talent Show.”

Clancy types: MWAERK, and this is repeated tinnily back through the headphones.

The figure who is vaguely recognisable as Mr Richards, goes on.

Richards: “I do hope that you won’t find two events in two days rather a strain, would you like a cup of tea?”

In the van, Clancy types: ACCEPT TEA. Then attempts to manipulate the adjacent joystick to perform said action. Back in the judge’s tent Mr Richards passes a cup of oolong to Piers, who flails at it clumsily, sending it to the floor, before rabbit punching Mrs Haverstock in the neck. Clancy frantically tries to get his automaton under control, but it does not seem to be responding to his efforts. Piers is now running around in circles and making a strange “Beep beep”noise. He suddenly goes into reverse and sits down on a trestle table laden with refreshments, which collapses under him. Richards is torn between aiding him and comforting Mrs Haverstock. Before he can make a decision, Piers leaps to his feet and begins to perform star jumps, sending cream buns and cucumber sandwiches everywhere. The Turkey is desperately typing and waggling the joystick but to no avail. In the tent Piers is now running headlong into the main tentpole, smashing into it, falling down, getting up and again charging the sturdy pole. Quite a crowd has gathered to watch the astonishing performance. Back at the van Clancy is sweating,

Clancy: “Blblplp! Thompson! Thompson! Manual override quickly!”

There is no reply, shooting a hurried glance behindhe sees his accomplice queuing up eagerly for hot freshly baked crackers. Abandoning his attempts to bring Piers to heel, he exits the van and sets off at his fastest trot towards the judging tent. As he does so he sees a sniggering Morris.

Morris: “Lovely day for the bird show isn’t it you turkey bastard? Ho ho.”

Clancy: “Blplblblp! No time to waste on you! Things to do!” Reaching the Judges tent he forces his way through the throng and is confronted by the sight of Piers executing a mad waltz, a screaming Mrs Haverstock gripped tightly in his flippers, as various members of the committee, stallholders and bystanders try vainly to halt this lunatic dance. Finally, Mr Hornby manages to land a telling blow on Pier’s bandaged head with a chair leg. The creature stops deadin mid career, releasing poor Mrs Haverstock, who falls forward in a dead faint.

Piers: “Mwaereep beep! Mweeep beaeerk!” Sparks begin to fly from his beak. Stiff legged he marches towards Clancy, winging the crowd out of his way as he does so. “Mweearkeepeepeep! Beep beep! Killaerk!”

Clancy: “Blplplblp! Don’t like the look of this! Stop him someone!”

Piers continues to advance menacingly towards the turkey, smoke billowing out from beneath the bandages. Suddenly there is a tremendous crackling and his entire head blows off in a shower of sparks, the decapitated aristocrat stumbles crazily on, narrowly missing the terrified Clancy with his outstretched grasping flippers, before tumbling into the village duck pond where he finally expires in a geyser of mud and steam. Clancy backs away nonchalantly, trying to blend into the crowd. As he does so, he feels something bump against his ankle. “Beep beep!” Looking down he sees a small toy automobile. Then he notices a mismatched pair of sandals, worn with odd socks.

Buckle: “Ho dere Bister Clagcy!” Buckle’s face is smeared with chocolate, and he is trying to juggle with a toffee apple, candy floss, a baked potato, and some kind of black plastic gadget with an aerial. “Do you lige by rebote codtrolled botor car? Dat dice Bister Borris gabe it to be! Odly I’b odly alloweg to play wig id dext to dis tedt here begause stradgers bight get be! I’b dot allowed to talk to stradgers!”

Clancy: “Blblblblp! I should say not! Sound advice.” He pauses, eyes Buckle and ponders for a moment “BLblblblbp, do you know what a juggins is Buckle?”

Buckle:“Why do bister Turkey, Bi’ve do idea!”

Clancy: “BLblbllblbp, kind of treat, blblbp leave these things a moment, blbllbp, come with me, will take you for one!” and with that the Turkey leads Buckle away…

 

 

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Published in: on January 29, 2016 at 2:39 pm  Comments (1)  

Classic Canaries 8: Perry Good.

Dismounting with a yelp of pain, Bikle unhooked the cage and his satchel of grooming implements and began to walksomewhat bow leggedly towards the registration desk. An astute observer would also have noticed that the blue van of Vance Cuddenhall Gas Engineer had parked up nearby and disgorged another character carrying a covered cage, who, espying Bikle and his burden, scurried to catch up.

Clancy:  “Blplblblp! Morning Bikle! Fine day for show! What’s in cage? Blplplpl!”

Bikle:

“Dode of your busidess Cladcy! Dow if you will excuse be!”

Clancy: “Blblblblp! What’s the rush? Companiable stroll! All chums together! Shared interest in canaries. Blplplp! Give us a peek!”

Bikle: “Do chadce! I’ve rumbled your gabe you Turkey Bastard! You tried to sabotage by edtry, but I’ll troudce you fair ad square, you wait ad see! Dow I bid you a good bordig sir!”

With that he lengthens his pace, wincing as he does so, and strides ahead, the Turkey vainly trying to catch up. Arriving at the desk he signs the registration form. Mr Hornby looks at the form,

Hornby: “Ah good morning Mr, er Michael, it says here that you are entering 3 birds in the Canary Class?”

Bikle: “It’s Bikle fractually, ad I’b bodly benterig ode bird dis year! Ballegedly, O.O.O.”

Hornby: “I see. Name?”

Bikle: “Bi just told you, it’s Bikle!”

Hornby: sighing: “The name of your canary?”

Bikle: “Ho I see, by bistake. Pribrose Pridcess!”

Hornby: “Pribrose Pridcess?”

Bikle: “Do do! Pribrose Pridcess!”

Hornby: “Err, fine, fine. Here’s your exhibitor’s badge, next please!”

As Clancy bustles up, Bikle wraps his cage protectively in his cloak and hurries off. As he approaches the show tent he nearly bumps into Morris.

Morris: “Watch it bumboy, mind where you’re going or I will burn you to death.”

Bikle: “Ho sorry Borris, didn’t see you dere. Benterig ady cadaries dis year?”

Morris: “That is none of your fucking business bony. Anyway, what have you got in the cage?”

Bikle: beaming “By darlig Pribrose Pridcess!”

Morris: “Oh yes? Canary is it? Ho ho only bird you’ll be entering this year!”

Bikle: “H’ive balready dode dat joke Borris. Dow I bust be od by way, got to bake sure she’s lookig her best you dow! Busn’t forget by groobig iblebedts!”

Morris: “Go on then shit boy, out me way, things to do innit?”

Bikle: “Certainly, certainly, bust be goig, see you later.”

Morris: “Not if I see you first you won’t chumpo.”

Unabashed by this rude dismissal Bikle makes his way through the gathering crowds to the exhibitors tent. Looking around to ensure he is unobserved, he sneeks a peek athis treasured bird. The canary is more breathtakingly perfect than he remembers, there is no need for him to ply his grooming implements, the bird does not have a feather out of place. Seeing the Turkey sidle into the tent, he drops the cover back over the cage and secures it firmly.

Clancy: “Blplblblblp! Hello again Bikle! No hard feelings eh! All’s fair, love and war what? Blplplp! Have a cup of tea?”

Bikle: “I dod’t drigk tea or coffee thagk you very buch.”

Clancy: “Blblblp! Glass of cola?”

Bikle hesitates, the long uphill cycle on a warm day has left him somewhat thirsty, and after all perhaps Clancy means well.

Bikle: “Ho go od thed, bottobs up!” as he drains the glass, Clancy is quick to refill it, relishing the cool refreshing taste, he again finishes the fizzy beverage. “Mmmmdat was very dice. Dat’s dot do frills is it?”

Clancy: “Blblblplp! Have another large glass!”

Bikle: “Dod’t bide if I do! Buch obliged!”

Clancy: “Blblplplplp! And again? Finish bottle! Got another one here!”

Bikle drinks his fill and the Turkey makes an excuse and bustles off. Shortly thereafter, there comes a twanging noise and a “Boooohhh!” which announces the advent of Buckle, who having tripped over a guy rope arrives in the tent headfirst. Scrambling to his feet he waves at Bikle.

Buckle: “Ho dere Biggle! It’s be! Buggle!” It is apparent that he is still munching the Turkey’s wine gums.

Bikle: “Ho god dat’s all I deed. Leave be alode, I’b guardig by cadary ad dod’t wadt ady distractiods.”

Buckle: “Ho, have you got a cadary Bikle? Dere’s a bird show today, why dod’t you bedter it for dat?”

Bikle: groaning and burying his head in his hands.”What do you thigk dat I’b doig here? Bof course I’b edterig de cadary id de bird show! Bi’ve beed talkig about it for bodths! Dow go ad buy sobe caddy floss or sobethig.”

As he talks however, Bikle realises that there is something very wrong. The two large bottles of cola have worked their way through his system in double quick time, and he urgently requires to visit the gentlemen’s conveniences. He looks around desperately for an unobserved corner to urinate. All he sees is a notice stating that show birds must on no account leave the show tent after being checked in, under pain of disqualification. Meanwhile the urgent pain in his bladder is growing worse. He dare not leave his canary unguarded, but if he does not urinate now, he may shame himself. His frantic gaze falls reluctantly on Buckle. And then across to the bin where he spies secondary solution. The old emptied coke bottle is poking its head out of the top of the bin in a very tempting manner. If, he thinks to himself, he could just casually hide the bottle under his cloak maybe? Then he could relieve himself without others noticing. But how is this going to work? Bikle must think fast. He needs to wee, the situation is desperate. He moves with no firm plan towards the bin and tries surreptiously as is possible to get the old coke bottle out of the bin. He’s there, he has the bottle but sadly so is Buckle

Buckle: “Ho Biggle what are you doing in de bin?”

Bikle: Whispering “Shh you fridiot, by deed dat bottle.”

Buckle: “Ho why do you deed de boddle Biggle?” comes the far too loud a answer

Bikle: “Dever bind dat, dere’s do tibe!” and he grabs the coke bottle out of the bin and nimbly hides it under his cloak. Buckle stares on fascinated

Buckle: “Ho it’s like a bagic show, cobe and look at dis everybody, by brother’s doig bagic!”

It’s too late for any other course of action, so whilst half looking daggers at Buckle, in a urgent fumble Bikle has undone himself and the lid of the bottle (which was only loosely on) and in what to the exterior viewer is a shuffling in  a rather dodgy looking manner  behind his cloak, Bikle begins to position himself, all the while though he shrinks inside and grows as red as a beetroot, for others have heard Buckle’s call and are beginning to come over. Look here come’s Hornby from the registration desk, oh and the local bigwig Mrs Haverstock, that local rich fool Cheap Perry has wandered over too as has nosey old Johnson, that nice old couple the Richards and why that’s the Clancy just popped back in as it seems he was talking to Mrs Haverstock. Soon the small group have gathered round the struggling redfaced Bikle waiting to see what he will do.

Buckle: “Ho what bagic are you doig Bikle?”

Bikle: “Bi’m err, goig too” the sound of the liquid running down the inside of the bottle is all too apparent in the quiet tent

Perry: “I say!” pipes up Cheap Perry “that sounds a bit like someone peeing!”

Bikle must think fast, all eyes are on him, especially the beady Turkey eye which gleams adjacent to Mrs Haverstock’s rather fine hat. Buckle however has beaten him too it

Buckle: “Silly old Perry, dat’s just de sound of de bagic frisn’t it Bikle?”

Bikle: “Umm yes ber dat’s right” and now Bikle does the only plan that comes to mind whilst shuffling to place himself back in his trousers and recapping the bottle “Frabracadabra to keep you berry I’ve bagiced you adother bottle of perry!” and he produces with a flourish the bottle of coke filled with wee.

Cheap Perry however, being already half cut is rather pleased with the outcome

Perry: “I say this fellow, really can do magic! Give that man a hatstand!”  and he even doesn’t seem to clock the warmness of the bottle as it is passed to him. There is some polite applause and the Turkey’s eye darkens a little, before twinkling suddenly again.

Clancy: “Blblblbp excellent trick, maybe quick glass for everyone, eh Perry!”

Perry: “I say what a jolly good idea!”

Bikle trembles but then Mrs Haverstock declines, as does Hornby and the Richards, Johnson has wandered off  and Bikle quickly makes excuses for him and Buckle. This leaves Cheap Perry deftly pouring two glasses of the steaming beverage for himself and the Turkey. Horrified Clancy does the only thing he can and using his own magic, transforms the contents of bottle into real sparkling perry.

Perry: “Bottoms up Clance!”

Clancy: “Blblbp really!” says the Turkey, displeased at the general outcome

Perry: “Ah that’s the stuff!” he enthuses and clutching the coke bottle wanders off to inspect the outside. Bikle is partially confused and partially excited.

Bikle: “By God Buckle did you see dat!? Bi didn’t eved try as I thought it frimpossible, but Bi bactually turned de piss indo perry! By bagic bust be bunstoppable today!”

Buckle: “What piss is dat Bikle?”

Bikle: “Ho god, dever bind. Dow here’s some coins go and ged yourself sobe sweets.”

 

Published in: on January 27, 2016 at 4:39 pm  Leave a Comment  

Classic Canaries 7: Setting up the Show

It was very early on the Saturday morning that Irene Hobson received a knock on the door. It was however too early for poor old Irene and her husband Frank who were not used to such an early rise, especially at the weekend, consequently they did not rouse from their dingy bungalowed room but stayed therein, ignoring the rattling pvc door and pulled the bedclothes over their heads. Sadly this tactic did not persuade the mystery caller to leave them at their peace, rather again and again the rapping sound came. So ultimately sighing and huffing his mind filled with reprimand for the unwanted caller, old Frank Hobson raised himself from his bed and began to shuffle his way to the front door. One more rap even before he reached it brought an “alright alright goddamn you! I’m coming!” Slowly he unlocked the door and creaked it open. Before him in the bright summer morning light stood a smartly dressed figure, what was curious about said figure was that the head was that of a bird, a kind of duck, goose, penguin kind of mix, and where there should be hands, instead out of the sleeves extend strange feathery flipper like appendages. Mr Hobson scowled “oh one of you is it?” for he had seen these creatures come and go across the road, in that house, the house that he and his wife tried to avoid, the house where the fires burned brightly at many different hours, the house that smelled of many kinds of charred remains, the house where creatures far stranger than this birdman before him now had been seen to come and go “Well what do you want?” The creature elegantly stepped to one side and with a vocal cry of “Mwaaerk!” gestured to the previously obscured gleaming new lawnmower evidently for Mr Hobson’s delectation. Mr Hobson was taken aback and a lot of his previous ire was suddenly diminished as the machine was indeed a beauty. He stepped out of the house to inspect the machine yet no sooner had he passed the threshold than he felt a strong grip take hold of either of his arms. The smart birdman adopted a less cheery air and seemed to signalling to his captors some instruction. Frank Hobson was then duly bundled into a nearby transit van that waited just round the corner whilst the smartly dressed birdman wheeled the lawnmower after him and also into the van. Of course Frank shouted and of course Irene heard, yet so quick and efficient were his avian captors that the kidnap was achieved with minimal fuss. The van drove off, hurtling round the village streets, Frank sat in the back of the vehicle partially still staring at the lovely lawnmower, partially frightened by the dim light in the van and hate two burly birdman that sat, one either side of him. One lit a cigarette and offered him one too, he declined and nearly wretched at cheap cigarette smell in the close confines of the van. After a short length of time the van pulled to a stop and the doors were flung open. Hobson could see that in fact he had not been taken to some strange  basement, rather he now found himself at the village green. Around the green various other birdman milled around whilst another figure seemed to direct them. Hobson knew this man, the man from across the road. Upon seeing Hobson, the man came over “Ah Hobson, got your mower fixed as you can see, though thing is thought maybe you could give it a test run, see the green here is a little tufty and really needs the once over, so quid pro quo thought you were the  man, needs doing by nine or I will burn you  to death” he broke into a smile such that you really  couldn’t tell if it was a joke or not. Hobson made to protest but seeing the nearby burly birdman with a cattle prod, he thought better of it. So it was that at around half past 5 in the morning dressed only in his pyjamas and slippers poor old Frank Hobson made to mow the village green and it was not until the church clock chimed nine that an exhausted Hobson was staggered home to his terrified wife, leaving the village green smooth, even and neat.

The birdmen had not been idle, bunting was strung cheerfully from tree to tree, the potato oven was heating up nicely. The mingled smell of omelettes and fresh crackers filled the air from their respective push carts, balloons danced gently in the warm summer breeze and the day seemed set fair for a lovely time for one and all. Now, the other inhabitants of the village began to arrive too, and cake stalls, tombolas and other attractions began to appear, although in retrospect perhaps it was insensitive of Mr Potter to set up his Hook a Duck stand next to Quick To Perceive Anything As APersonal Slight And Overreact Violently Johnson’s cup cake stall. In any event, it was certainly unwise.

That notwithstanding however, by 10:45, with a quarter of an hour to go until the start of the festivities, all the elements of a very good village bird show are coming together nicely. Perhaps then, we should wonder who are these few nervous and agitated people standing as close as possible to the first aid and fire prevention tent? Let us move closer and see if we can overhear their conversation. “…ouldn’t find enough of the last Chairman to fill an ashtray…” “…One of those bird things handed me a note… Looked like a nasty piece of work.” “…ot a wife and kids, what could I do?”

It appears in fact that this is the new Committee, replacing previously incinerated incumbents, and they are trying to agree who will be this year’s Judges.

“So, so far we have got the Constable, Mr Stringently Impartial, Honestly, Johnson, that Mr Cutler from the new pet shop, er who’s the other one again?” “Oh, er you mean Piers Johnson? I’m afraid he won’t be here, he had a nasty accident last night at the Cat Charity Talent Show.” The others exchange knowing yet apprehensive glances. There is only one kind of “accident” in the village these days, and they all know it. “But at least one of the judges must be of noble blood! The Bird Show Charter is very stringent on that point! Where are we going to find an aristocrat at this notice?” “I don’t know! It’s not as if blue blooded individuals just drop out of the trees is it?” There is a rushing sound and then a resounding fleshy “thump” accompanied by a strangled cry of pain. Looking round they see a strangely dressed figure lying on the floor clutching his knee. Before any of them can say anything, another fellow in a rumpled lounge suit, is shinning down the trunk of the adjacent Horse chestnut.

Duke of Croy: “Ah bonjour mes amis! Ah couldn’t elp but over’ear your convairsation eh? And eef you weel pairmeet me to introduce maself an’ ma associate ‘ere, ah theenk that ah can asseest you weeth votre predicament n’est pas? Ma name ees Leonard, Duke of Croy, an thees theeng ‘ere, is ze famous Alphonso, Comte de Bersineaux!”

There is some confused muttering among the committee.

Hornby : “But why were you up a tree?” one asks.

Duke of Croy: “We were ‘iding from ze pig, er pidgeons. So as to obsairve zem bettair. You see we are keen ‘ow you say, orneethologeests. Now you need judges for your bird show n’est pas? Judges weeth an aristocrateec lineage? Well ‘ere we are mah friends! Just slip me £50 as an advance on my expenses, an’ we are at votre serveece!”

The committee whisper dubiously among themselves.

Hornby: “Er, I’m not sure about that Mr Croy, there’s nothing in the budget for judge’s expenses, and after all, we have to consider whether you are fit and proper persons to officiate at such an important event.”

Duke of Croy: “Oh ees zat so? Well all ah now ees zat you fuckairs need a judge toot sweet an’ ere we are. An’ where you expect to fahnd anuzzair pair of bird loveeng noblemen at zis hour ah cannot imagine, an’ ah hate to drav an’ ‘ard bargeen, but ‘ere comes zat mad bastard Morreess now, ah suggest you mek a queek decision before ‘e burns you all to death.”

There is a hurried conclave, and the committee make the only decision possible in the circumstances.

Duke of Croy: “Vairy wise m’sieurs, now eef you need us, we’ll be een ze beer tent.” He turns to Alphonso who is still clutching his leg and weeping, and waves a handful of notes at him. “Come on Alphonso you fuckeeng sheethead, ah’ve got ze cash, tahm for a leetle petit dejeuner eh?”

And so the delinquent aristocracy staggered off to persuade (by fair means or foul) the not even yet open bar tat they should release some of their supplies to their waiting maws.

The committee looked at each other with some trepidation. No doubt various thoughts went through their minds, some of which would involve fleeing this damned bird show, for they were in no doubt that they would be lucky if they all reached the end of the day without any of them suffering from a fiery demise. Well gentle reader you may imagine the horrified consternation which the committee found themselves in upon receiving the next events. One of them glanced over to the car park as they noticed a very posh car, indeed a bently pull into the car park. The committee member recognised the vehicle as belonging to one Piers Johnson; the same Piers Johnson that they had been lead to believe had suffered a terrible accident. So what was this, the chauffer taking liberties with his master’s car? A visiting relative making use of the facilities? He tugged at the sleeve of Mrs Braddenpipe (the secretary) and alerted her to the curious arrival and soon all the committee were glued to car, waiting to see who would emerge. After a couple of moments the chauffer got out to open the door for a passenger, yet here too was a curiosity for instead of faithful old Johnson was an altogether different driver. This driver did not have such a flat bill, indeed it was more  of curved kind of nature and the feathers too were quite wrong being of bright colours. However as the passenger was revealed to be Piers Johnson, the onlookers began to reconcile the dissonance with other various internal narratives. But the strangeness did not stay stayed for Piers Johnson, as he left the car park, looked most unsteady in this movements and trod in a curious almost robot like manner. Not knowing what this was about the committee shuffled between the various stalls towards the green entrance where they greeted Piers. Piers Johnson did not look well at all. His eyes looked glazed over, his feathers ruffled, his suit blood stained, his beak cracked yet incongruously atop this shabby figure was a pristine top hat which seemed rammed onto his head with particular firmness.

Brinson: “Hello Piers, we err, weren’t expecting you, we heard you had a bad accident at the cat show last night.” Piers stared blankly through them “Still it’s good to see you, though if you don’t feel up to it we do have a replacement lined up so you could just put your feet up. At this Piers’ head moves in the same awful mechanical manner and his bill opens. Simultaneous to the opening of the bill is a rather tinny “mwaaerk” like noise and again the committee are forced to repress the obvious sense that the noise did not come from the bill in favour of a more comfortable reality in which he did actually speak. At the same time as this his arm goes up equally rigidly and his flipper (still torn from its encounter with coco earlier) points to his judging badge also smartly attached to his messy attire. “Err yes, you are one of the Judges yes” Brinson tentatively interprets and, this seemingly established, Piers Johnson walked woodenly through the committee and into the midst of the various stalls. They looked at each other worriedly and then began to debate who (if indeed Piers was to be Judging today) should tell the other aristocracy that  they were no longer required. It was Hornby who eventually made the decision,

Hornby: “Look, I don’t fancy tangling with that French fellow now, he seems happy enough in the beer tent. We can deal with him later.” The others nodded their approval. Unspoken in their minds was the impression that there was something very very wrong about Piers Johnson, and having a spare judge up one’s sleeve, even one who had fallen out of a horse chestnut tree and was even now breakfasting upon calvados and barley wine, might not be a bad idea. The committee dispersed to their various tasks, just as a panting and becloaked figure pulled up to the green on his antiquated velocipedal conveyance.

Published in: on January 15, 2016 at 3:03 pm  Leave a Comment  

David Bowie Tribute Skit

Morris: “Why are you moping around my little moustache holder?”

Yolanda: “Oh Morris, I just feel a bit sad, David Bowie just died.”

Morris: “Dave and Zoe are coming round? Who are they? Are they bringing swan tartare?”

Yolanda: “No Morris, David Bowie died, you know the singer?!”

Morris: “Dave and Zoe are bringing a pie in a singer vogue? What are you talking about Yolanda?”

Yolanda: “No Morris, for fuck’s sake, the singer and icon David Bowie just died, I just feel a bit jaded that’s all.”

Morris: “Did someone burn him to death?”

Yolanda: “Errm I don’t think so.”

Morris: “Anyway I know something that will cheer you up my little highland heather, apparently Dave and Zoe are coming round with a swan tartare pie. Listen, I can hear their singer vogue in the drive now.”

Sure enough the sound of a vehicle can be heard pulling up. Shortly after the door knocks.

Yolanda: “What the fuck are you up to now Morris?”

Morris: “Ho ho well my dear, seeing how sad you are I’ve arranged for a little surprise for you, not only are Dave and Zoe here with the swan tartare pie, but also I have arranged for you to meet no one other than…”

Pauses for effect and opens the door to a garishly wigged Johnson in a tight colourful suit clutching a guitar, behind them can be seen a confused looking couple with a pie dish.

Morris: “…David Bowie Johnson!”

DB Johnson: “Mwaaerk!”

Morris: “Pleasure to have you here Johnson! Baked potato?”

DB Johnson: “Mwaaerk!” He comes in the house followed by Dave and Zoe and hungrily begins to eat a supplied baked potato.

Yolanda: “What the fuck is that Morris?! or rather I know what it is, one of those things with a, err sort of Ziggy Stardust outfit on?!”

Morris: “Do not be so ungrateful Yolanda, now see Dave and Zoe to their seats, cut me a slice of that pie  and Johnson will be begin the entertainment!”

Yolanda: “He’s not just going to go ‘Mwaaerk!’ is he Morris,?” (serving the pie)

Morris: “Not at all my little mononuclear hyacinth, he will now perform one his most celebrated songs!”

Yolanda looks across at DB Johnson polishing off the remains of the baked potato when there is a sudden a familiar roaring hissing noise and a sheet of flame engulfs him, within few moments DB Johnson is a nothing more than his smouldering carbonised remains.

Morris “It was ‘Ashes to Ashes’! Ho ho eh Yolanda!”

Published in: on January 11, 2016 at 12:30 pm  Comments (2)  

Clancy (doctored image)

clancy

Published in: on January 4, 2016 at 11:44 am  Comments (1)