Classic Canaries 15: Les Dawson Johnson’s Good Idea, Hornby’s had enough, and Bikle Escapes.

Meanwhile, back in the registration tent, Bikle has regained consciousness and is desperately trying to think of a way out of his confinement.

Bikle: “Frelp be! Adybody? I’b id here! Get be out of dis! I’b suffocatig id here!” Muffled by the carpets and Melanie the lemon however, his voice is inaudible above the noise of the fair, and he is thrown back on hisown resources. “Ho dow, dis is bodstrous! Dat Euro Bikle, I dever liked hib! How ab I goig to get out of dis bess? Hi dow! Bagic, it worked barvellously earlier whed I bade by wee idto fralcohol! I’ll just do sobe bagic ad be out of here id a trice!”

Unbeknownst to Bikle, Clancy has also recovered from his clobbering, and is also thinking along similar lines. The Turkey’s magic, whilst limited, is more than enough to undo the cords that bind the carpets, so as Bikle utters the somewhat muffled words of the incantation: “Wig of bat, ad legs of bugs, free be frob dese pesky rugs!” the confining carpetry unrolls. Clancy, being quicker off the mark, and the true source of the magic, frees himself more quickly and is off to seek revenge, leaving Bikle to struggle forth on his own, and moreover, under the illusion that his mystical powers are the reason for his deliverance, leaving him even more convinced of his invincibility than ever.

Bikle: “Ho, dat was pretty difty of be! I would dot like to be id dat Euro Bikle’s shoes whed be ad by bystical bagics get hold of hib! I’ll teach hib a thig or two about cripplig bitches you see if I dod’t!”

With this thought in mind, off he limps in search of revenge, all thought of canaries temporarily erased from his addled brain.

Elsehwere Yolanda struggles outside, to find LDJ eagerly sitting in the passenger seat of FIJ’s milk float.

Yolanda: (groaning)”Oh god LDJ, I don’t think I should drive, I’m still really pissed. I feel like shit.” LDJ nods in agreement, but gestures that she should hop in and he will drive. Shrugging hopelessly, she climbs aboard as he shuffles his bulky form over behind the wheel. The cart whines piercingly as it accelerates away, and Yolanda winces in pain. LDJ nods again understandingly and takes a left at the end of the street. “LD, the bird show is on the village green, that’s the other way.” He nods again and winks. Yolanda is far too hungover to care much, and collapses back in the seat with her eyes closed, trying to catch a moment’s sleep. In what seems scantseconds however, there is a screech of brakes and a triumphant “Mwaerk!” Yolanda peers groggily out of the cab, only to see the tatty neon sign of the karaoke club.

Yolanda: “What? Oh god no Johnson, I couldn’t.” LDJ lets loose with a voluble string of mwaerking meaning roughly:

LD Johnson: “Look love, you and I both have to attend this sodding bird show farrago, and there is a strong likelihood of me going up in a column of flame at the merest whim of your boyfriend. You, like me, are cripplingly, sickeningly, hungover, and believe you me, there is no way on earth that I am making it through the next half hour without a hefty livener or two, and with a bit of luck a quick line of snort off of Dodgy So Called Peruvian Johnson Who Is ActuallyFrom Just Outside Daventry, now don’t be a piker and get in the bar, mine’s a Harlem Mugger.”

Yolanda considers for a moment, remembering past adventures, and the awful day which without the slightest doubt awaits her, then comes to a decision.

Yolanda: “You know LDJ, you do actually make a very good case for taking a quick sharpener on board. Last one to the bar is a mucky duck!”

And so, we leave these two disappearing into the murky interior of the bar, from which already comes the sound of Old Soak Johnson attempting to croon along to an old Bachman Turner Overdrive number. Back at the bird show, some kind of fragile order has been restored.

Thinking quickly Hornby shouts: “Happy hour in the beer tent ladies and gentlemen!” ensuring a rapid migration in thatdirection by the drunken Johnsons, and also by the ersatz Euro Bikle, leaving the distraught committee to try to mollify the genuine article, which is difficult as he is still lying moaning on the floor clasping his groin.

Haverstock: “What were you thinking Hornby? That clearly wasn’t Euro Bikle! There was no finesse, no comic timing, nothing! You are a disgrace to the committee man!”

Hornby:(bridling): “Listen here Haverstock you bloody fool, I’ve just about had it with you and this whole shebang. Who is it that has been deluged with misfits, imposters, perverts and oddballs, many of whom are well nigh indistinguishable from one another? Who has dealt with exploding avian aristocrats, fire alarms and birdman race riots? Is it you? No, is itheckers like, it’s been yours blinking truly, whilst you’ve minced about the place straightening a sign here, adjusting a tablecloth there, stuffing yourself with complimentary cream teas. Well I’m warning you sunshine, don’t push it.”

So saying, Hornby stalks off in the direction of the beer tent, leaving the scandalised Haverstock and the rest of the committee to drag Euro Bikle off to the First Aid tent. Back in the beer tent, and a couple of sherries to the good, Hornby has got convivial with a couple of the more sober Johnsons and is pouring out his resentment.

Hornby: “I organised the marquees, arranged for the catering, did all the hard work, while that lot justsat about looking pleased with themselves. They think that they can push me around just because they are the cream of village society. Hah! Cream, a bunch of clots is what they are.” Johnson mwaerks appreciatively. “Oh yes, cream, clots! I say, that was rather funny, I hadn’t realised. Another? Well I shouldn’t really, oh go on then, that’s awfully kind of you. Cheers! It’s just that I sometimes feel so unnappreciated, what? Yes I suppose you do at that, I’ve heard that Mr Morris can be very demanding. Same again? Well I don’t know… Well I suppose one more couldn’t hurt could it? But I must say I’d like to show that stuck up mob that Hornby’s his own man, indeed I would! If only there was some way to make them sit up and take notice! Oh no, I’ll get these, there we go, bottoms up! I say, I do feel better for a couple of sherries, marvellous thing isn’t it? Shall we have another? Cheers! Well I suppose I should be getting along really, lots of organising to be done. What’s that? Well yes, I suppose it would teach them a lesson if I left them to clear up all the mess, oh thanks, good health! Yes see how they like it! Do you know Johnson, you’re absolutely right! You’re a good man Johnson! Lemme buy you a drink old friend! You too Johnshon! What a great pair of palsh you two are! ‘scuse me a minute, need to visit the gents…”

So saying, Hornby wobbles off towards the portaloos. Morris appears at the bar and hands over another wad of notes.

Morris: “Good work Johnson! Remember, we need him alive and walking, he’s the key to this whole business. Anyway I’d best crack on, sure that there was something I meant to do.” with which he is gone again, just as Hornby returns, ready for another round of sherries.

Back meanwhile at the first aid tent, Euro Bikle is recovering well as the committee hover around him solicitously. Haverstock particularly fawns over his wounded idol.

Haverstock: “I’ve brought you an ice cream Monsieur Euro Bikle! It’s got strawberry sauce, a flake, and er, er…” his voice falters.

Euro Bikle: “Ad what bonsieur?”

Haverstock: “Er, and crushed nuts.”

Euro Bikle: “Crushed duts! Are you tryig to be fuddy? Dat is id de worst possible taste bonsieur! Dow ‘elp be to by feet! I bust be revedged upod by dastardly assailadt!”

With much whimpering and wincing, Euro Bikle regains his feet and limpspurposefully from the tent in search of his prey. The first person he claps eyes on is the hapless Comte, who having been driven from the beer tent by the cruel abuse of Leonard and the Johnsons, is sulkily wandering around checking unbroken beer bottles for dregs and muttering to himself. Seeing him in his Bikle outfit and hearing his gallic tones Euro Bikle not unreasonably believes that he has located his erstwhile tormentor, and seizing the nearest object, (a portable fire extinguisher, with which the event is, for some reason, rather generously supplied.) deals him a stunning blow to the back of the head.

Euro Bikle: “Take dat you fwretched hibposter! Hah! Dat’s crip, I bead dat’s taked care of hib!” At this point, who should limp around the corner but Bikle himself. Spying a French accented facsimile of himself in the act of dealing another Bikle-a-like a blow to the head with a blunt object, he too not unreasonably assumes that he has tracked down his quarry. Seizing a nearby fire extinguisher he brings it down on the back of Euro Bikle’s head with a resounding clang.

Bikle: “Frolé! Dat’s raised a budiod od your Spadish odiod ad do bistake!”

Of course, as luck would have it, who has just left the merry go round in time to witness this last act but Buckle, who comes round the corner of the tent, sees the two unconscious Bikles and the third triumphant Bikle, and instantly leaps to the not unreasonable conclusion. “Dat Bikle is burderig dose other Bikles! It bust be de bodster dat by cousid obdivore warned be about!”

Wielding a nearby fire extinguisher he takes immediate action.

Clang! Thud.

Buckle: “Take dat dasty bister bodster! Ho, look! Bikle WILL be pleased!”

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Published in: on April 15, 2016 at 2:58 pm  Leave a Comment  

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