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  

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