Classic Canaries 17: Yolanda’s Return

Bikle:      “Buckle? Buckle? Ho god, where’s he got to dow?”This time however, Bikle does not have far to seek for his sibling. He is standing forlornly at the Johnson’s baked potato stand. “H’what is it dis tibe you ditwit? I’ve got to get back to by cadary!”Buckle points disconsolately to the laminated menu. “Yes yes, de bedu, tuda ad sweetcord, chilli cod carde, hubbous, baked beads, what of it?”

Buckle: “Ho I dod’t dow Bikle, it just sobehow seebs idcobplete, as if sobethig is bissig. Earlier today you dow, I said to byself, Buckle, I said…”

Bikle: “Give be stredth! Look! Look! There id big letters! De side fradvertisig today’s special!”

Buckle: “Ho! Dow dat’s fuddy Bikle, because, do you dow, I thought there’d be…”

Bikle glances wistfully at a nearby fire extinguisher. “I dod’thave tibe for dis! By cadary! By god, look at de tibe! De show starts id ted bidutes! We’d better get our skates od!” Seeing the worried look on Buckle’s face, he qualifies hurriedly, “I dod’t bead actual skates, I bead we’ve got to get a bove od!”

Again Buckle’s long face brightens: “Ho dat’s good dews Bikle! Because I’b dot very good at skatig, do you rebember dat tibe dat I wedt skatig wid playschool, ad I hurt by dees ad broke by Astro Bikle therbos flask, ad you had to cobe ad get be ad de dice doctor gave be a lollipop?”

Bikle: “Ho Bary bother of god! Dat was last Tuesday, cobe od you bloody edcubradce! If by cadary has cobe to bischief by all dats holy I’ll bloody burder you, you see if I dod’t!”

Grabbing him by the hand Bikle sets off at a headlong runback to the registration tent. As they career past Cutler’s stall he hoots with derision.

Cutler: “In a rush are we? Can’t wait for a bit more freak on freak action can yer? That Hornby had your number, that he did. Bloody perverts!” and shies a pixie boot at them for luck.

Arriving back at the tent, they find a large and expectant crowd has gathered, eager to view the prize canary competition, always the highlight of the bird show. The judges, namely the Constable, The Duke of Croy, and somehow, Mr Cutler, are gathered behind the Judges table. The coveted trophy can be seen to one side, glistening in the summer sunshine. After all the chaos and mayhem, it appears that some kind of bird show may actually be on the cusp of taking place. The covered cages have be enplaced in a neat row, with the exhibitors name on a card pinned to each. Leonard it transpires, has been forced to withdraw his entry, as no other conscious or breathing aristocrat can be found for the judging panel. From his cheerful mien it appears likely that he has negotiated a substantial increment to his judge’s honarium to make up for his potential fiduciary disadvantage as an exhibitor. This supposition is supported by the fact that he is now swigging from a bottle of Scotch rather than the Gold Label he had been guzzling previously. Bikle scurries into line alongside Plenipotentiary Johnson, and a suspiciously smug looking Clancy.

Clancy: “Blplblp! About time! Keeping us all waiting! Very poor sportsmanship! Augurs badly!”

The Constable wags a kindly finger, “Now now Mr Turkey, as a statement of faaact, we be waiting for our Mr Hornby afore the proceedings can rightly begin.”

Clancy: “Blplblp! If you say so Constable! Sure he’ll be along promptly! Reliable chap!”

The officer smiles indulgently, “Thaat he be zurr, a fine upstaanding man is our Mr Hornby.”

For a moment, all is peaceful and calm, then, from away on the fringes of the village green comes a sound of a distant commotion. A raucous voice is yelling something incomprehensible. At first, the crowd ignore the row and keep their attention on the bird show finale, but as the hubbub grows louder and nearer, a few heads begin to turn as people seek the source of the commotion. Something orange and pointy can be seen bobbing about over the heads of the crowd, and the shouting grows louder and louder. More and more people are turning to look now, and a murmur of alarm and disapproval runs through the crowd. “Shocking!” “Disgraceful!” “Shouldn’t be allowed!” Interspersed with the outraged remarks and the yelling, come several yelps of pain. Finally, the mass of people parts like the Red Sea, and a most disreputable tableau presents itself. Yolanda is laboriously pushing a wheelbarrow, with which she is ramming people painfully if she deems that they are not getting out of the way rapidly enough. Lolling helplessly in the wheelbarrow is a massively drunk Les Dawson Johnson, his wig hopelessly askew. Johnson, who for some reason is sporting a tarmac stained yellow hi-vis workman’s jacket, is playing an old shovel as if it was a guitar. Yolanda’s stockings are torn and muddy, her dress rumpled and stained with vomit and tar, and the whole ensemble is topped off with a traffic cone which she has jammed onto her head. Pausing every few steps to take a swig from an ornate bottle of bright green liqueur she is shouting in a drink sodden voice at all and sundry.

Yolanda: “WOOO! LOOK AT ME! I AM A MIGHTY WIZARD! HERE IS MY PRIZE CANARY! I AM THE UNDISPUTED LORD OF THE BIRD SHOW! WELL I AM, LOOK! LORD OF ALL POINTLESS SODDING BIRD SHOWS! I WILL BURN YOU TO DEATH!”

Shocked silence falls over the crowd, broken only when Leonard steps unsteadily forwards from behind the judge’s table.Clutching his whiskey, the Duke of Croy, who is incidentally now back in his normal attire, leers at her in a suggestive fashion.

Leonard: “Eh cherie, magnifique! Ah ‘ave been ‘opeeng to see you! Ah was just wondering, seeing ‘as ‘ow ‘eets a bird show, if you will be displayeeng zose “Great Teets” of yours? Eh?” The drunker of the Johnsons laugh raucously. Yolanda looks at him blankly, showing no sign of recognition. Then very calmly takes the shovel from LDJ, and while the Duke of Croy is still sniggering at his own witticism, almost casually swings it two handed, smashing it into his face with a “CLANNNGGG!” dropping him like a sack of potatoes. She peers owlishly at the unconscious hooligan as he lays stretched on the grass.

Yolanda: “Woooo! I will burn YOU to death.”

She continues before retrieving a swan lighter from her pocket, kneeling down near the outstretched aristocrat and attempting to set fire to the cuffs of his sleeve. The wind blows the lighter out and Leonard is saved from a nasty burn. Then seemingly forgetting about this incendiary activity she heaves herself to her feet, staggers over to the wheel barrow and slowly wheels it next to the other contestants, taking her place next to Bikle, whom she smiles whimsically at. The constable tries to return order to the disgruntled crowd but can see nothing to be gained from removing Yolanda, as she is now slumped happily next to LD Johnson humming along to an imaginary tune that he bashes out on the workman’s spade.

Constable: “Noww then lady and gentlemarn, be calming yurselves darn, their be nothing wrong here, ah oi sees Hornby coming now, then we can get this judging started!”

There is some kind of mumbled assent from the mob. No one is quite sure where Hornby has come from, but what they are sure is that there is something not quite right about him. Sporting a near identical hat that was seen on Piers Johnson’s head earlier he staggers towards the judging area, with his eyes sometimes rolling right up so that nothing but white can be seen. Clancy’s head can be seen to turn and as he watches the spectacle a kind of disappointment drifts across it, he shoots a scowl in the direction of the two Johnsons from the beer tent who are hidden behind a near by tent, they seem to fiddling with some kind of device and they look back at him hopelessly as if to intimate that what they are trying to do is outside of their remit. Hornby draws closer and the horror on peoples faces is not difficult to see. The constable either doesn’t spot it or is determined to make a good fist of what is on offer.

Constable: “Naarr then Mr Hornby, we be needin’ you to oificiate loik.” Horby’s eyes roll up again, then back down. The crowd gasp. The he starts to speak: “Good show!” comes the strained, bizarre enthusiastic response. Then his arm raises and he begins to point to Clancy’s bird and grin insanely.

Hornby: “this one!” he starts to say. Clancy looks furiously across at his unwilling helpers who shrug and look anxiously back, suddenly he spots another figure behind them, the dark looming presence of executioner Johnson grabs them each by the shoulder (a copy of ‘Day of The Triffids’ can be seen poking out of his pocket). In a scene that brings back memories of Piers’ antic earlier, Hornby, grin fixed and eyes rolled back lurches towards Clancy and his bird. The Turkey flicks his hand and a trifle lands squarely on the approaching figure, but of course the top hat stays its ability to stop him, aside from which the zombie is clearly not functioning by ordinary sight. “This one!” he cries happily, staggering inexorably on.

Clancy: “Blbllblblp! Constable! do something!” The constable is not quick to act, and begins to huff and puff over. The Turkey though does seem to have an ally in the inebriated Yolanda who using the same spade again somehow leaps to her feet and brings the tool down on Hornby’s head. Hornby crashes to the floor and his hat flies off revealing a strange mechanism that seems to be plugged into the back of his skull. He foams and froths, lying on the grass, before Yolanda brings the spade down again, and again until he moves no more.

The constable finally arrives:”Narr then miss, that’ll do, we’d best be callin’ an ambulance for poor Mr Hornby here!”

Clancy: “Blblblblbp wouldn’t bother, too late, will be a furnace around here somewhere! on with the show!”

Constable: “That’s all very well but now, we be short of an Aristocraat on account of miss Yolanda ‘avin knaarcked the other out!” At this moment who should stagger by but the scraggy, near naked figure of Alfonso de Bersierneax.

Comte: “Ah fuckeeng ‘ell, ma ‘ead, where am a?”

Clancy: “Blblblp serendipity, this man is an Aristocrat, constable!”

The constable looks back at Clancy

Constable: “You be sure of thaat Mr Turkey sirr, woi, he looks like a proper juggins, one moight say the very comte de Bersierneax himself!”

Clancy: “blblblblp! on the money! It is the comte Bersierneaux himself!”

Constable: “Well well, then the prarblem be solved! If we could just make a him a bit less noiked, aah this be the thing!” and the Constable finds a dirty confederate flag from somewhere which he wraps around the confused Comte’s shoulders.

Clancy: “blbllblblp excellent on we get…”

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Published in: on June 16, 2016 at 5:37 pm  Leave a Comment  

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