Classic Canaries 19: Combined Ending

The crowd too, look nonplussed at these developments, as far as they can see, there are two fabulous looking canaries on display, and why this drunken young woman is talking about giving the prize to a plastic novelty bird is beyond them. A few boos are heard, and murmurs of disapproval, even Alphonso, who has crept back, covered in algae and pondweed is shaking his head.

Comte de B: “Now ah would not ‘ave done zat m’sieurs, ah ten zis kahnd of sing vairy seriously!”

Clancy and Bikle are up in arms about the whole affair, still magically oblivious to the fact that their prize birds are in fact nothing but crude caricatures of themselves.

Clancy: “Blplplp! Absolute outrage! Shall lodge formal complaint with remnants of committee! Blplblplp!”

Bikle: “Be too! Did as absolute travesty”Be too! Dis is ad absolute travesty, bide ad Cladcy’s birds are bagdificedt specibeds! You cad’t really bead to give de prize to DAT plastic bodstrosity!”

Yolanda hefts her shovel menacingly: “I’ve had enough of this bollocks. MORRIS!”

Morris: “Yes my little late Regency fish fork? How may I be of assistance?”

Yolanda: “You can take the spell off those two fuckers so Shitty and the Gobbler can see what exactly they are so proud of. Then I’m going home for a lie down.”

Morris: “Very well my little glaring anomaly, the glamour is removed! Which has left me feeling quite peckish. It is a shame that the cracker oven is burning so fiercely, but I shall instead treat myself to some candy floss.”

With which he wanders off again. Clancy catches sight of the grubby Mini Bikle and laughs out loud. Clancy: “Blplplp! Call that canary! Tiny shit man there! Blplplp! Prize mine!”

Bikle: “Ho dot so fast dere! I’d have a look at your exhibit if I was you!Piss stained grandpa Cladcy wod’t be widdig buch, udless dere’s a shortest bird I’d show category!”

Now the magic spell has been lifted, the audience see the two wretched cage bound homunculi and roar with laughter.

Alphonso covers himself with glory by shouting: “Ah wankairs! Ah thought zat ah looked stupeed, but you two look like a raht pair of Compte D’Bersineux!”

At this point Cutler sidles up laughing: “Ooh eeh, now that was, oo how shall we say, priceless I don’t like because everything has a price, as you know, bloody funny though wouldn’t you say. It tickles me just thinking it, when you came in earlier like cooing and froing over that homunculus, I’m acting the big ‘ooh I don’t know chummy, you can’t have that one’, oh it does me good” and he laughs and laughs and laughs. The Turkey takes some shared umbrage in the event , presumably having suffered a similar purchase

Clancy: “bbllblblblp won’t be laughing now, no trousers!” *whisk* and sure enough Cutler’s trousers are now removed and the turkey is away with them.

Clancy: “Blblblbp, embarrassment , village fair, improperly dressed blblblblblbp! Catch me if you can!”

Cutler: “you bloody poultry thief, you wait till I get hold of you ee oo!”

Clancy: “blblblblbp not likely, by the way trifle on you head!”

The constable seeing the paisley underweared, trifle soaked Cutler immediately feels the legal impropriety and sets off after him.

Constable: “Now come back ‘ere you sir, this nart be the place for no trousers and a trifle!” The turkey now appears at the constables elbow,”

Clancy: “Too true blblblbp, arrest that man constable! Help him out Thompson!”

Industrial tazer Thompson comes forward to sort the matter, sadly being less that technologically savvy only succeeds in tazering the constable who collapses in frothing heap clutching his chest.

Clancy: “Blblblbp stupid Thompson!” Cutler still isn’t faring well though and the crowd are split between confusion, disgust and amusement at his blundering around trying to clear the trifle from his eyes (which seems to continue to proliferate from the top of his head) staggering around in his pants wearing his trademark sheepskin jacket.  “Blblblbp! Time to leave I think Thompson!” Yolanda is sat on the floor next to LD Johnson staring in bewilderment at all of the madness. From the stalls area she can suddenly spy a familiar figure approaching with enthusiastic alacrity. Buckle, wielding a battered trombone is heading full pelt for the competition area.

Buckle: “Bikle Bikle! Wait for be! I’b combig to do de busig!”

Bikle, who has been standing around bemused, spies the figure with horror and makes to go:“Oh dear, we’d better get out of here! Cobe od pribrose pridcess!” evidently even after it’s disclosure, Bikle is somewhat attached to the manikin. He scoops up the cage to leave but trips over the tazered constable, which sends the cage flying and bashes it open, sending primrose princess flying out with a tiny ‘frouch!’ Pribrose pridcess crashes at the feet of the newly arrived Buckle who looks down with some confusion.

Buckle: “Bikle, what are you doig down dere!”

Tiny Bikle: “Dever bind about dat you dibwit, pick be up!” comes back the tiny voice. Buckle obliges and scoops up the tiny figure.

Buckle: “I don’t rebember you beig so sball Bikle, are you ballright?” and as he asks the question he spies Bikle lying on the ground recovering from his fall  “Hag od a bidute, a big Bikle and a little Bikle? A Ban with trifle od his head. What is goig od?” And then he realises “Oh it’s a party! Barvellous! I’ll play de busic!” He brings the trombone up to his lips to begin to play.

The characters look round in horror except for the baleful grin Mr Cutler from beneath the endless trifle onslaught. The whole scene takes on slow motion like feel as Les Dawson Johnson somehow perceiving the gravitas of the situation, lifts himself out of his drunken slumber and launches himself atheleticaly at Buckle, his wig flying into the air as he does so. But it’s all but too late as an unearthly mangled note issues forth from the dread device. Heroically LD Johnson catches the full force of the noise before the two of them collapse in a heap and the instrument goes flying. Sadly for LD Johnson a horrible metamorphosis begins to occur, his beak extends in a horrible equine manner and his flippers take on a phallic semblance, soon his torso too has mutated into something between a fleshy worm and his legs have become distinctly horse like. With a terrifying neighing sound he ejects a mass of viscous pallid goo from his flippers in various directions as the various characters flee. Buckle who was right at the heart of the matter seems quite pleased with the new creation, shouting from out of the chaos “Bikle! Bikle, look, don’t’ you think he’s cute!”

Bikle: “Dat’s dot bloody cute, it’s de worst combidatiod possible!”

Tiny Bikle shrieks. “Ho god do! Get dat thig away from be!” Thompson, who is nothing if not a tryer, attempts to take Cutler a second time but manages to hit the stamping, spurting monstrosity instead. With an agonised neighing screech and a final volcanic fountain of gobbets of slime, the hideous creature topples backwards slowly. Clancy, torn between fleeing Cutler’s wrath and gloating over Bikle’s horror, has dithered too long. Cartoon like, the shadow of the toppling semi equine blasphemy falls across him.

Clancy: “Blplplp! Gone dark! What’s happening?” He whirls round only to be struck by the twitching dribbling mass of pink flesh and scorched horsehide. “Blplplplp! Crushed! Covered in goo! Do something Thompson!”

Clancy: “Ho ho! Look at Cladcy dere Bidi BIkle!” Cries Bikle, “Why, he’s trapped bedeath dat bonstrous combidatiod! How marvellous!”

“Wakark!” Cries Thompson desperately and does the only thing that it is possible for him to do, namely let off the tazer randomly. “Ho ho ho oh day’s bost edtertadig*ZZZZZT!* *KRRACKLE!*

Bikle: “Frouch! By godads!” Sure enough IT Thompson’s final despairing shot has caught Bikle in the groin. With a shriek of pain he folds up and collapses as 900,000 volts course through him and his testicles begin to smoulder. Tiny Clancy emits a wheezing chuckle.

Tiny Bikle: “Ho you think dat’s funnydo you? I’ll bake you laugh id a bobedt!” Squeaks Mini Bikle, outraged, and attacks the tiny turkey. Yolanda brains IT Thompson with her shovel and slopes off towards the beer tent, leaving the homunculi struggling with each other. Buckle, oblivious of the chaos he has wrought is parping his way discordantly through his own very special version of “There’s No Business Like Show Business.”

Cutler retrieves his trousers from Clancy’s struggling form and kicks him viciously in the head.

Cutler: “Ooo wee, good ‘ere innit? Trapped under a toppled tool/horse combo are we? Most unfortunate. Still, where there’s a jizzy mess there’s a business, as Cousin Luigi used to say, god rest his filthy old soul, still been a lovely day out for all the family hasn’t it? Be a shame to end it on a sour note wouldn’t it? Still some things can’t be helped ee? Far from being a perfect world isn’t it? Oh well, on that note, if you were intending to get out from under that thing, I’d get a wriggle on, pun intended, as here comes Wouldn’t Harm A Fly When He’s Sober, But Give Him A Few Glasses Of Vino And He’ll Sodomise Anything He Can Get His Flippers On Johnson, and just between you and me, it looks as though he’s done justice to that impertinent Chateau Frondice that they had on in the beer tent, anyway, toodle oo, can’t stand here all day chatting while you get bummed by a dirty duck ee?”

As Cutler wanders off brushing trifle from his coat, Morris ambles over, looking around the scene with mild surprise. Scooping something up from the floor, he strolls chuckling across to the beer tent where Yolanda is guzzling down a mixture of white wine, sherry and chemical cider.

Morris: “Ho ho, all right there my little decorative bark chipping, what you up to then? Looks like there’s been some kind of festive event going on, have I missed Something?” She stares at him with eyes even wilder than usual.

Yolanda: “Missed something? Missed something? The bloody bird show Morris! The fucking bastard bird fucking cunting bastard show! The god awful, horrific, squalid and heartbreaking bloody bird show that you’ve been obsessing about for months! The bird show which has involved the hideous deaths, fiery or otherwise, of dozens of people!”

Morris: “Ho ho, that reminds me, look what I found…” He fumbles in his robe and brings out the novelty plastic canary. “Ho ho this is brilliant ‘Lands, look what happens when you press his head! Marvellous! Ho ho, who’s a naughty boy then?”

Yolanda drains her pint. “I can’t handle this. I’m going home.”

Morris: “Ho ho not surprised you can’t handle it, quite the saucy boy isn’t he? Come on then, I’ll walk back with you.”

Taking her arm, he leads her across the village green, strewn with litter, dead and unconscious Thomsons, fitfully smouldering cracker ovens and god knows what else. Buckle pauses from his rendition of “The Lambeth Walk” to shout across, “Cooee Bister Borris! Look! Buster Johdsod ad Cladcy are dadcig to by busic!” Morris ignores him and steps delicately over the brawling homunculi.

Morris: “Did you say there had been a bird show on Yolanda?”

Yolanda: “Jesus fucking Christ Morris, yes for fuck’s sake, yes!” He pauses and looks thoughtful.

Morris: “I do love a good village bird show Yolanda. Can’t think how I came to miss it. Must have been badly advertised.” He brightens, “I know! I’ll get Johnson and the boys to tidy this place up, stick a bit of bunting up, we can have another bird show tomorrow!”

Published in: on July 26, 2016 at 1:27 pm  Leave a Comment  

Classic Canaries 18: Princess Yolanda

Unfortunately for both Alphonso and the prospect of any immediate progress towards an even vaguely functioning Bird Show, who should stagger around the corner of the beer tent, but General Stonewall Johnson, and he’s not best pleased to observe this vision of old dixie preening himself at the judges table. Unlimbering his old cap and ball colt, he proceeds to blaze off a fusillade of shots towards the Comte, who, panic stricken, makes a beeline for the duckpond. Fortunately for Alphonso the General has been a fixture in the beer tent for some considerable time and a quart of Old Hupla’s Finest Whiskey has not done much for his shooting. The bullets however, are close enough for the Gallic buffoon, who, with a cry of “Aaaagh, fuck thees for a lark mes amis!” disappears into the thickly growing reeds.

The remnants of the committee and exhibitors look at one another in dismay.

Clancy: “Blplplp! Right pickle now! Need member of nobility promptly. Bird Show in danger of becoming farce blplblp! Terribly organised!”

The survivors of the committee bridle at this, and an acrimonious exchange breaks out, which is only prevented from becoming violent by the stalwart efforts of the constable. Eventually the protagonists run out of steam and a sullen silence descends. The crowd are growing restless and murmurs such as “A fine bird show this!” and “I knew we should have gone to the bird show at Little Mulching, now there’s a village that can organise a simple event!” Begin to be heard. Yolanda stops beating Hornby,’s smouldering corpse with her spade and looks up.

Yolanda:”I’m a princess.” Blenkinsop smiles in a manner compounded of equal parts fear and condescension.

Blenkinsop:”Yes dear, a lovely fairy princess I’m sure.” Yolanda looks at him thoughtfully, running her thumb along the keen edge of the spade.

Yolanda: “Not a fairy princess. Real princess.” In a sing song voice she recites “Her Royal Highness Yolanda Jasmine Falkenheyn und Mackemheim, I used to live in such a pretty castle, with pointy towers and a drawbridge and horses.”

Clancy shrugs: “Blplplblp! There we are then. Blplp! Problem solved. On with show. Busy man, places to go, people to see.” The committee also shrug.

Blenkinsop:”I can’t see any alternative, I mean, she’s as drunk as a lord…” *Clang* Blenkinsop collapses with a grunt.

Yolanda twirls her spade like a majorette’s baton. “As a princess. As drunk as a princess.”

Clancy: “Blblplp! Very good. Carry on your highness. Inspect birds.find winner.All go home. Nice glass of tawny port. Quickly now.”

Constable: “Mizter Claaancy ‘as the right idea if you was to ask me ma’am. There’s been a soight too much funny business about this year bird show, an oi’ll be glaaad when it’s by way of being over.” Yolanda staggers slightly and waves an imperious hand towards the remaining three cages.

Yolanda: “Very well, remove the cover of the first contestant. Whose sodding bird is this then?”

P Johnson”Mwaeerk!”

Yolanda: “Oh Morris’s is it? Let’s have a shufti then.” Johnson proffers the cage, in which is perched what is unmistakeably a cheap and vulgar novelty made from bright yellow plastic. Yolanda reaches into the cage and presses its head down. The canary’s wings fly open and a disproportionately large yellow phallus flips up. Plenipotentiary Johnson starts to sweat nervously “this isn’t a canary, it’s a canary tool combination! Eh SB?”

Bikle: “Don’t call be dat, it’s Bikle rebember!”

Yolanda: “All right tooly, keep your cape on!”

Clancy: “Blbblblbp, he is something of a chicken isn’t he!? Amusing joke blblblbp!”

Bikle: “What’s funny about dat?”

Yolanda: “A capon SB, it’s a male chicken with no balls!” and she looks pointedly at him

Clancy: “Really!” intones the Turkey and Bikle tries to ignore it.

Yolanda “Anyway…” she says swinging her head back to Johnson “…disqualified! Executioner Johnson!” Pleniponentiary Johnson trembles as EJ approaches “I told you I’m not reading that fucking triffid book! I have enough of that kind of madness, it’s going to be ‘Finnegan’s Wake’ or you can not bother turning up. EJ looks a little huffy, then glances questioningly at Johnson with the cage. “Nahh fuck it, leave him, go on beaky hop it, go grab a tato whilst you can” Plenitpotentiary Johnson doesn’t need telling twice, he deserts the cage and shuffles fairly speedily away from the scene. “Right so what have we got here…” She turns to look at Clancy’s cage.

Far away from this scene Buckle was wandering around aimlessly, he had gotten quite confused at the actual show part and when Yolanda and LD  Johnson turned up it, it all was a bit frightening to him. Still the colourful stalls and loud noises held his attention, though he was also a little unhappy, wishing that somehow he could make the birdshow better for his beloved brother, indeed as he thought this so he spoke also

Buckle: “Oh poor Bikle, I wish I could cheer hib ub a bit!”

At this moment Mr Cutler who, was also somehow back at the show itself, hollered him over to his stall Cutler: “Excuse me sir, I say sir more halfwit really, less than half really, but me words are wasted on you aren’t they, no wits, not a jot.”Buckle looked on interestedly “couldn’t help overhearing you wanted your freaky brother to happy, well who doesn’t eh? Families should be happy, happy families that’s what I say, not too happy though, not cock in  your crack happy, that’s not family friendly is it. Now cousin Mabel she was a bit of a devil, which bit you ask? That would be telling, but I’ll tell you this. Your brother would like a tune I’m sure, loves a tune does freak face, dances like a loon, can’t get enough of it.”

Buckle: “Oh busic, good idea, but what and how?”

Cutler: “Weeell sausage, might be able to help you out there, got this cd, Andrea Bocelli sings the blues, or maybe this Barry Bumblebee plays frank Sinatra’s favourites?”

Buckle: “Dat’s a Barvellous idea bister Cutler, but I’ve dothing to play it ode!”

Cutler: “Say no more, say no more, live music is best! What about this…” and rummages in his stall he produces an battered looking trombone

Buckle:“Oh look at dat, I’ve got ode of does at hobe!”

Cutler: “Not anymore sonny you haven’t”

Buckle: “Ho Barvellous, Bikle will be pleased, he’s always trying to throw it out, but den I get sad and beg to keep it and so he lets be!”

Cutler: “But you can have this one, long as you get your brother to pay me later!”

Buckle: “Ho defidately bisster Cutler!” And Buckle takes the distorted instrument with childlike glee, he is about to blow an enthusiastic note when Cutler suggests not.

Cutler: “No no no, not be doing that here, sound travels like a donkey! Don’t spoil the surprise! Go give your brother a treat up at the show area!”

Buckle: “Barvellous, thanks Bister Cutler, I will!” and off he scampers back to the judging area…

Back up at the show things are progressing nicely in line with all of the foregoing disasters and alarums. Fighting has broken out once more between  the two birdman groupings. At first the drunkenness of most of the Johnsons left them at something of a disadvantage, but before long their superior technical abilities and long history of committing acts of a dastardly and bloody nature in the service of Morris stands them in good stead, and those few Thompsons still capable of independent movement are driven from the field in disarray, bloody and bruised and demoralised, they flee incontinently, in the spirit of “sauve qui peut”. The victorious Johnsons celebrate their victory with more liquor and and by overturning and setting ablaze their erstwhile opponent’s cracker stand.The fleeing Thompsons appeal desperately to Clancy as they stream past him pursued by a hail of missiles, but, full of his impending triumph he turns his face away disdainfully.

Clancy: “Blplplbl! No time for you! Moment of victory! First prize at Bird Show! Blplplp!”

Yolanda: “Pretty confident there Clance pants? Reckon you’re in with a chance? Ha ha ha that rhymed! Must be pretty special that bird of yours eh? Bit of a prime specimen eh?”

Clancy: “Blplplp! Certainly is!    Fabulous creature! Surefire winner! All my expertise and skill, days and days of preparation, blblplpbl! Doesn’t clinch supreme prize I’m a Dutchman!”She whips the cover off the cage with a flourish. Clancy puffs himself up even more, chest swelling with smug pride. The crowd crane their necks as they try to feast their eyes upon this much advertised paragon of canaryhood.Slumped in the cage is an extremely small and elderly turkey, presumably some kind of dwarf breed, almost featherless, and wearing a stained singlet and boxer shorts. Despite its diminutive stature, the wretched creature bears an unmistakeable resemblance to Clancy himself, who stands, wings tucked into his waistcoat, simply beaming with pride”Blplplb! Very finest of canaries! Blplplp! Look upon my works ye mighty, and despair!.” Leering gloatingly at the loathsome specimen shivering in the bottom of the cage, he actually simpers. “Who’s a pretty boy then? Blplplplp!”

Yolanda and the others look at each other incredulously: “Erm Clance are you sure this is your entry?”

Clancy: He gazes swooningly again. “Blplplp! Certainly is! Isn’t she a dream?” There is clearly some kind of glamour on either the bird or on Clancy himself, as he is clearly not only under the firm impression that this wrinkled and foul smelling creature cowering in a pool of its own filth is a prize canary, bit is also quite smitten with it.“curious expressions? Blbllblbp, something wrong?”

Constable: “Err no Mr Claaancy sir, she be a roight beauty” the constable chimes and it sounds like he actually means it.

Yolanda snorts derisively “A ‘roight beauty’ if you think a miniature geriatric piss stained Turkey is a beauty anyway”

Clancy: “Blblblblbp don’t know what you mean, prince primrose finest canary in the land.”

Strangely Bikle seems to be under the same impression

Bikle: “By god he’s right, look at dat handsobe bird, I though primrose princess was beautiful! Dat bird takes de biscuit and do bistake!”

Yolanda: “fuck..” she slurs, “I don’t know, lets take a look at yours tooly, and I mean the canary!”

Bikle: “Right though I don’t do dat I can do a lot against Clancy’s entry!” The cage is unveiled to reveal what appears to be a miniature version of Bikle himself, complete with cloak. There is a tiny bucket in the bottom of the cage into which the figurine has been relieving himself whilst a plate of tiny French bread pizzas serves as food and an upside down attached to the cage bottle of cocoa cola for hydration. “Pribrose pridcess! Isn’t she a dreab! Still a rud for you boney Cladcey!”

Before Yolanda can say anything, Clancy gushes  in surprise.

Clancy: “Blblbllblbp, take it all back, trophy is yours, pribrose pridcess , blbllblp most beautiful bird possible!”

Yolanda is confused, she looks down at the tiny fucked off looking figure, who in turn stares back stonily before squeaking “let be out of here!”

Yolanda: “Ohmygod what the fuck is going on? I bet it’s that bastard wizard!”

Clancy: “Bllblblblbp don’t know what you mean, two fine canary’s, blblblbp, Bikle’s better though, bblblblbp, best man won blblblblp!”

Bikle: “Oh doh Cladce, dat cadary of yours is by far de best and do bistake, you take de trophy!”

Yolanda: “You’re both fucking mental, I’m the fucking royalty and they both look shit to me! Leaving me no alternative but to award the prize to plenipotentiary Johnson’s entry purely because it actually resemble a canary…”

The two look on apoplectically at her in outrage at the decision…

Published in: on July 26, 2016 at 1:12 pm  Leave a Comment