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Wilberforce the SnakeSporting a top hat since 1876 January 25 The soot of truthThe Count of Mont Cristo is a gentleman! Modo he's called. And Mahu.
Well he's neither of these actually. He's a tax collector from Wolverhampton called Japheth Steeltrouser. And furthermore he's not even a tax collector. It's merely a pretension to try and gain membership of the Garrick Club. He doesn't stand a chance. He'll be blackballed before you can say Jack Robinson. Which, incidentally, is his real name.
And so, worthy gentlefolk, we begin our story with Jack Robinson who, after years as a guttersnipe, sifting through rotten cabbages in the gutters of old London Towne had risen to become one of the city's most noted artists, taking up residence with Damon Hearse in the trendy suburb of Shoreditch.
One October Wednesday, Jack Robinson awoke to the strains of a water violin being played in Mixolydian mode in the streets below. He availed himself of scarf and glove and went over and drew back the curtains, thus half-dressed and stuck his head through the window. Upon discovering that he had neglected to open this vitrine into the grimy city, he pulled out the fragments of glass from his neck and opened the window properly, which by now was letting in the chill air, and charging tuppence for doing so.
Jack Robinson, lifted his scarf from his shoulders and waved to the African Tree Frog below, who was playing the water violin in a most displeasing manner and seemed not to notice the protestations from above. Jack, therfore used speech to effect a kind of discourse betwixt him and the frog, which he believed to be a more successful approach than using thought alone. Upon hearing speech, the frog glanced up and was confronted with this semi-naked fellow waving a scarf and calling to him. He was sore afraid. Why he knew not, but neverthless sore afraid he was and so he began to creep away from the strange sight above him and to a second busker's pitch around the corner.
Jack Robinson was a little disappointed by this, as his only chance at befriending a frog, for which he had dreamed all his life, seemed now hopelessly crushed. Swift came his resolve however, and he ran forth into the street in order to pursue this musical lizard, noticing not that his skin was on display to all who cared to look. And in Shoreditch, none cared to look.
However, the frog, who espied this naked lunatic, picked up his hat, wherein he was briefly pleased to discover the presence of 12 thrupenny bits and a shilling, clasped his water violin to his pulsating bosom and ran as fast as he could, not stopping to hop, lest it should slow his flight and jumped aboard a tram, bound for Camden Lock.
Jack Robinson therefore never was able to initiate a friendship with any amphibian after this bitter experience and died a very lonely man in abject misery on the shores of the Thames, 53 years later. The frog however went on to win several Brit Awards and a MoBO, even being nominated for an Academy Award for his work on the score of an all-newt adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo.
He never forgot Jack Robinson however and he died also, breathing his name in regret. However he pronounced his name wrong, so it was an utter waste of time. December 04 When genuflection becomes tedious, turn to kippers!Yes, don't start!
I know I've neglected you my fearsome oglers, and time out o'mind forsooth, but after only a year-long break and some much sought-after life happening betwixt entries, perhaps it is time to resume this load of old nonsense once again...
But first let me recount a most disturbing set of events that hath befallen any man since Attila the Hun first fell off his donkey.
It all began last Wednesday when first I laid eyes on my second-best forget-me-not. My first-best forget-me-not was out drinking and gambling in a crack house in Switzerland cutting up pictures of dogs. I'm thinking of moving him down to third-best.
Anyway, my second-best forget-me-not was smiling pleasantly in his grow-bag and lapping up the rays of the sun. Or are they particles? That, we will never know. Unless we ask Margaret Thatcher and I don't know that I can be bothered. Well, particles or not, there it was, not only basking in the sun, but also humming a tune, which, I might add, for such a small flower is no easy task. It was humming the love theme from 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre' which being only 30 microseconds long, consisted, to the untrained ear, of but one note.
Now who am I to be critical of my second-best forget-me-not when times are cold and the weather is hard? But today was no ordinary day. It was the 22nd of February - last Wednesday the 22nd of February, which was 2006 for those of you too lazy to work it out. Shame on you!
Anyway, the week before this 22nd of February I had decided to take a holiday in Paris, Texas and to my absolute surprise, when I checked in to Ol' Zeke's Motel I was beset by a gentleman sporting a face made of another man's face and he did smite me with his chainsaw and lop off the only head to which I have become rather attached. And so my second-best forget-me-not's humming was in very poor taste.
So I burned him to death. He's still not said sorry. January 09 Pickling badgers because the moon is fullI lost my trousers on the Brighton Line...
So go the lyrics to one of the most well-known songs by Sir Thomas Winkle, poet, folksinger and extortionist of Old London Town.
I happened across Sir Thomas when I chanced to think about the year 1576 and became enveloped in the mists of thought which, because they couldn't see properly, turned reality into the 16th century for a few hours.
Sir Thomas was a-thrumming his lute, but I ignorèd that, as verily I stumbled upon him. "Good sir," quoth he, "what art thou, a man? What strange attire you wear for a gentleman. Art thou from around these parts?" Well, I covered my inexplicable nakedness from him with a nearby rose and proceeded: "In sooth, Sir, I am from foreign parts. My name is Mark Sand-Spencer," I added with great haste and a fevered brow.
"Whither are these foreign parts, Squire?" he quoth, with what I thought was a little too much inquisitiveness.
"Wolverhampton," I quoth, growing as ruddy as the rose which covered my modesty.
"This is some fancy or witchcraft," he began, "sayest thou that thou comest from that place of dread and devilry? Then begone and takest not my calling card, for I have no wish to know thee stranger!"
And with that he took up his lute and stalked away muttering an incantation. I followed him not and lookèd around for other roses to keep out the growing chill. Presently I espied him returning hither with a bashful aspect.
"Sirrah?"
"I am come back to give thee this," he stuttered and placèd in my hand a leather-bound volume of his poetry.
"I thank thee even though thou art a bit weird, noble sir. What manner of fellow art thou? What is thy name?" saith I.
He then proceedeth to tell me that he be Sir Thomas Winkle, celebrated poet and minstrel. I believèd him not, but nevertheless thanked him and wishèd that he would quit my sight as I was getting hypothermia.
Before he left me for ever he trippèd over a small stone which amused me greatly I confesseth.
His book of poetry was some of the worst I hath ever read in my life and I tossèd it into a ditch. What a waste of time. November 29 Bludgeoning the tin man until his springs pop outThe juice box at my side has just walked away, and I'd only half-finished the rotten thing. Ungrateful bastard.
I mean to say, just what am I to do now? I shall simply shoot it when it's far enough away not to hear the bang of my blunderbuss. Anyway enough of this rubbish...
Furthermore, gentle oglers, I would like to relate a tale to you all, which I hasten to add has no artificial preservatives or colours.
It happened to me today when I was returning the llama I borowed from the library. Well how else will I get time to read all those books? He read them for me and then recited them to me whilst asleep. I awoke this morning knowing all about Pip, Stella and Miss Haversham and the story of Great Expectations. Wot larks! So anyway upon awakening to the strains of the Zambezi nose flute which the llama had stolen from a gypsy the night before, I hurriedly dressed and set off for work, amongst other things which are too numerous to go into here, but will form an Appendix later if you're interested. No? All right then. (see Appendix 1 anyway)
So having closed the door with an almighty bang I ran for the bus and had to clamber onto the roof as there was no room inside. I found, to my chagrin, that someone had waxed the roof so it was a little difficult to get a grip. Anyway, halfway along the Edgware Road, a car braked violently in front of us and we were forced to stop sharply, throwing me off the roof and right into a concrete mixer by the roadside. I was mixed with some sand and cement and churned up for about an hour until nicely smooth, then tipped out onto the Edgware Rd pavement, just outside Al-Maroushi, a Lebanese restaurant. I'm now trapped between the paving stones and people keep walking over me without so much as a by-your-leave!
If anyone's passing I would be very grateful for some crumbs or loose change. Don't bother to dig me up though as I rather like the view up the cassocks of passing priests.
Appendix 1
Brian also took a bath in a nearby mud geyser and dried himself in the crater of a nearby volcano. He then brushed his teeth with grit and battery acid and took a breakfast of gin, gin and Stolichnaya. He dressed himself in burlap and sacking and wore some pigskin shoes with laces made of lace and horsehair. Brian is 103. November 20 Parcelling up Grandmama and sending her to LiberiaWell strike me dead and call me Captain Ahab. I have returned, fellow oglers...
Although quite why I don't know as this MSN Spaces flapdoodle is interminably slow! Damn its eyes! If only it had any to damn, then damn them I would!
Besides that I have purchased a new periwig which suits me admirably and makes me look something like Marie Antoinette, which is no bad thing. However it has been attracting sea-going vessels and monsters of the deep and such like. It's the smell of fish I can't stand and the endless tales of sea-faring and over lusty-halibut, from piratical types.
I had Captain Teach nest awhile in my beard the other day and he was most obscene in his choice of language, not to mention naughtily-designed ale mugs. He heeded me to list to a tale, which I took to mean listen to another of his rambling monologues which have cured my insomnia but aggravated my somnambulism, which, due to a technical error I can only mention once.
"Hearken ye," he began. I politely informed him that I was already hearkening.
"Aharr!" he spluttered, most unconvincingly. I wondered, if he was going on like this, whether he was in fact one of those fake pirates the radio has been reporting so many of recently.
"Aharr!" he repeated, " 'Tis only the tale of an old sea-dog like myself, with a wooden leg and a scar from ear to chin..."
This was quite enough I decided and I cast him out of my beard and into the deep waters, which incidentally had begun to clamour around me, as they evidently missed the old pirate after an extended absence.
"Aharr!" he gurgled before drowning quite suddenly in his own over-acting.
I find now though that Calico Jack has hoisted the Jolly Roger in my beard instead, although he is a lot quieter than I imagined he would be, so he makes a welcome neighbour.
Mind you, he still hasn't returned my cup of sugar.
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