The wanderer returns
After a very long absence, Melmoth the Wanderer suddenly reappeared to the delight of many in the QCC.
It meant a welcome return to Lesser Drivelling. He didn't stay long, he went back to wandering, but he left us a link so that we can enjoy the further stories of Lesser Drivelling and Chateau Melmothe. Here is the link: http://melmothwandering.simplesite.com/442849673 |
1 June 2019
Oh, Horace.
Yes, Euphemia my angel?
Shall we do the crossword.....(blushingly)..together?
I say, Euphemia old thing, steady the Buffs and all that.
Please, please, pretty please...with sprinkles on.
Well...perhaps just this once.
It'll be just like on our honeymoon in Lesser Drivelling when it rained all the time and the guesthouse was infested by pixies.
Goodness me, that takes me back a bit. There was nothing to do apart from jigsaw puzzles with missing pieces, drinking at that utterly frightful public house or...ahem...crosswords.
The Mangle and Ferret wasn't it? Do you remember that ghastly little inebriate who rambled on incessantly about nothing in particular and could never keep to the point of any conversation?
Malmouth, or something like that. He smelt.
Like a small fish?
He was serpently a rather scaly individual.
Sodden to the gills most of the time.
They spend a few moments happily contemplating a roseate past (and trying to think of more piscine jests).
Maybe we could write a teensy-weeny little comment afterwards?
Un bijou commentette n'est pas?
Horace, if you're going to be all continental I may have to take back control.
Ooh la la.
What would mummy say?
You be down, I'll be across.
Oh Horace, you naughty boy...
NB.
This comment may only be viewed after the 9 o'clock watershed as its contents have been deemed inappropriate (and a bit furren) for minors, Wee Frees and genteel ladies of a nervous disposition, by The Lesser Drivelling Viewers and Listeners Association.
Yes, Euphemia my angel?
Shall we do the crossword.....(blushingly)..together?
I say, Euphemia old thing, steady the Buffs and all that.
Please, please, pretty please...with sprinkles on.
Well...perhaps just this once.
It'll be just like on our honeymoon in Lesser Drivelling when it rained all the time and the guesthouse was infested by pixies.
Goodness me, that takes me back a bit. There was nothing to do apart from jigsaw puzzles with missing pieces, drinking at that utterly frightful public house or...ahem...crosswords.
The Mangle and Ferret wasn't it? Do you remember that ghastly little inebriate who rambled on incessantly about nothing in particular and could never keep to the point of any conversation?
Malmouth, or something like that. He smelt.
Like a small fish?
He was serpently a rather scaly individual.
Sodden to the gills most of the time.
They spend a few moments happily contemplating a roseate past (and trying to think of more piscine jests).
Maybe we could write a teensy-weeny little comment afterwards?
Un bijou commentette n'est pas?
Horace, if you're going to be all continental I may have to take back control.
Ooh la la.
What would mummy say?
You be down, I'll be across.
Oh Horace, you naughty boy...
NB.
This comment may only be viewed after the 9 o'clock watershed as its contents have been deemed inappropriate (and a bit furren) for minors, Wee Frees and genteel ladies of a nervous disposition, by The Lesser Drivelling Viewers and Listeners Association.
3 June 2019
Just settling down with the crossword this morning when the doorbell rang.
(Actually this is a bit of an exaggeration; it didn't so much “ring” as clank unmelodiously a few times before becoming detached from its bendy, springy thingy and falling into the piranha tank.)
At the front door was a little man. A very proper and neat little man who radiated well-meaning efficiency from the tips of his neat little shoes to the crown of his neat little hat, which he politely raised and said;
“Good morning. I'm from the Porlock Interruption Society.”
“Mpff?” I mumbled, not having a talent for witty repartee this early in the day (or at any other time, as some uncharitable persons have been known to observe).
“You're not a Jehovah's Witness?”
“Gracious me no, nothing so moderne or trendy. No, no,no...We were established in 1797 to prevent the over-production of literature and associated verbiage. Without our determined efforts À la recherche du temps perdu would have expanded to include the screenplay for a Netflix series and a musical, Lord of the Rings might easily have been twice as long and Barbara Cartland's output exceeded the 1000.”
“Blimey.”
“So, were you perchance engaged in writing a visionary, romantic poem inspired by an opium fuelled dream?” he asked.
“Um...nopes.”
“Perhaps an epic work of fiction concerning the political machinations and conflicts between the ruling dynasties of made-up countries, complete with silly names and unlikely plot devices?”
“That neither.”
“Oh dear.”
He looked so despondent that that offering a little soupçon of wordy effort seemed like the decent thing.
“I was just about to start on the crossword.”
“Heigh-ho,” he said with a air of resignation “I suppose that'll have to do...”
He then embarked on an interminable recitation regarding the goings-on and trivialities of everyday life in Porlock; Mrs. Thingummies sciatica, the vicar's row with the sexton over Professor Deddbore's headstone, the disputed extra in the cricket match between Porlock and Lesser Drivelling, etc. etc. etc. (ad nauseam). After several hours of this my will to live was leafing through holiday brochures and even considering a long weekend in Cleethorpes when he finally stopped.
“There,” he said, with smug self-satisfaction “I bet you've completely forgotten what you were doing.”
“Mpff.” I replied, feeling a tad dazed and overwhelmed.
“Well, it's been a pleasure distracting you. I'll wish you a very good morning and...” he raised his neat little hat again and was about to depart when, inspired by the desire to share new experiences I said;
“If you go down to the village you'll find Osbert Snottergryppe is busy writing an illustrated Encyclopedia about disused railway sidings and shunting yards.”
“Hot diggity!” he exclaimed, and scampered off.
“He's up to volume seven.” I called after him and heard a distant
“Wowser!” in reply.
Vaguely wonder if schadenfreude might appear in today's crossword.
(Actually this is a bit of an exaggeration; it didn't so much “ring” as clank unmelodiously a few times before becoming detached from its bendy, springy thingy and falling into the piranha tank.)
At the front door was a little man. A very proper and neat little man who radiated well-meaning efficiency from the tips of his neat little shoes to the crown of his neat little hat, which he politely raised and said;
“Good morning. I'm from the Porlock Interruption Society.”
“Mpff?” I mumbled, not having a talent for witty repartee this early in the day (or at any other time, as some uncharitable persons have been known to observe).
“You're not a Jehovah's Witness?”
“Gracious me no, nothing so moderne or trendy. No, no,no...We were established in 1797 to prevent the over-production of literature and associated verbiage. Without our determined efforts À la recherche du temps perdu would have expanded to include the screenplay for a Netflix series and a musical, Lord of the Rings might easily have been twice as long and Barbara Cartland's output exceeded the 1000.”
“Blimey.”
“So, were you perchance engaged in writing a visionary, romantic poem inspired by an opium fuelled dream?” he asked.
“Um...nopes.”
“Perhaps an epic work of fiction concerning the political machinations and conflicts between the ruling dynasties of made-up countries, complete with silly names and unlikely plot devices?”
“That neither.”
“Oh dear.”
He looked so despondent that that offering a little soupçon of wordy effort seemed like the decent thing.
“I was just about to start on the crossword.”
“Heigh-ho,” he said with a air of resignation “I suppose that'll have to do...”
He then embarked on an interminable recitation regarding the goings-on and trivialities of everyday life in Porlock; Mrs. Thingummies sciatica, the vicar's row with the sexton over Professor Deddbore's headstone, the disputed extra in the cricket match between Porlock and Lesser Drivelling, etc. etc. etc. (ad nauseam). After several hours of this my will to live was leafing through holiday brochures and even considering a long weekend in Cleethorpes when he finally stopped.
“There,” he said, with smug self-satisfaction “I bet you've completely forgotten what you were doing.”
“Mpff.” I replied, feeling a tad dazed and overwhelmed.
“Well, it's been a pleasure distracting you. I'll wish you a very good morning and...” he raised his neat little hat again and was about to depart when, inspired by the desire to share new experiences I said;
“If you go down to the village you'll find Osbert Snottergryppe is busy writing an illustrated Encyclopedia about disused railway sidings and shunting yards.”
“Hot diggity!” he exclaimed, and scampered off.
“He's up to volume seven.” I called after him and heard a distant
“Wowser!” in reply.
Vaguely wonder if schadenfreude might appear in today's crossword.
5 June 2019
Tottering blearily downstairs this AM, thinking there must have been something a tad iffy about the bottles of Armagnac last night, when the unmistakable clank and rattle of the paper-boy's* bicycle was heard approaching the front door. A brief yelp as, once again, his fingers were snaffled by the letter-box's sharp edge (really must get around to doing something about that, one of these days, eventually, when the...um, where was I?) and two, slightly crumpled newspapers landed on the mat. The Lesser Drivelling Weekly Argus and Pig Breeders Gazette is essential reading for all the news, gossip, scandal and triffically important stuff about the welfare and husbandry of Gloucester Old Spots; the other one has quite a jolly crossword in it. Reaching hesitantly for them (that Armagnac was quite difintootly questionable) when the Guardian was whisked away from under my tremulous fingers and disappeared into a hole in the wainscotting where the Rat family have taken up residence. After what seemed to be merely a couple of minutes or so (but was in fact merely a couple of minutes or so) it was shoved out again, closely followed by a somewhat nibbled (and slightly mouldy) half sausage to which a luggage label had been inexpertly tied. Not only had they done the Quicky but they'd also romped through the Cryptic.
It would probably be churlish to criticise the handwriting (paw-writing?) and the use of green crayon but, but, but...dammit! (“EPT” was scrawled on the luggage label in purple crayon.)
Stumped off in an almighty huff to absorb some caffeine (bloop) and have a serious conversation with the cat about dereliction of duty. They never tell you about this sort of thing in “Country Living”. Bah, harrumpf and dammit (again).
* “Paper-boy” is a bit a a misnomer; Brettingham Scurl must be at least 85 and his bicycle (which appears to have been constructed from rusting, cast-iron drainpipes) is of similar vintage. In the mornings he does newspapers and helps out with the post. In the afternoons he becomes The Lesser Drivelling Express Parcel Service (International) and putters happily round the area delivering groceries, packages and the most outrageously salacious tittle-tattle.
Wonder if Amazon et al realise that a crucial part of their high-tech. logistics is an old fruit box, gaffer-taped to the handlebars of Brettingham Scurl's cranky old grid?
It would probably be churlish to criticise the handwriting (paw-writing?) and the use of green crayon but, but, but...dammit! (“EPT” was scrawled on the luggage label in purple crayon.)
Stumped off in an almighty huff to absorb some caffeine (bloop) and have a serious conversation with the cat about dereliction of duty. They never tell you about this sort of thing in “Country Living”. Bah, harrumpf and dammit (again).
* “Paper-boy” is a bit a a misnomer; Brettingham Scurl must be at least 85 and his bicycle (which appears to have been constructed from rusting, cast-iron drainpipes) is of similar vintage. In the mornings he does newspapers and helps out with the post. In the afternoons he becomes The Lesser Drivelling Express Parcel Service (International) and putters happily round the area delivering groceries, packages and the most outrageously salacious tittle-tattle.
Wonder if Amazon et al realise that a crucial part of their high-tech. logistics is an old fruit box, gaffer-taped to the handlebars of Brettingham Scurl's cranky old grid?
9 June 2019
The finances at the château are even more precarious than usual; we are brassic, pink-lint and (if one is permitted to use such a term in perlite serciety) “embarrassed”. There has been a procession of bailiffs marching up the avenue, clutching distraint orders, accompanied by shaven-headed chaps with large, toothy doggies, and even a distinctly unaccommodating letter from our wine-merchant.
However, we have a plan (quite possibly of the cunning variety).
We've observed that the younger generation have become enthralled by all things Gothic, occult and generally “spooky”. Various charlatans seem to be making shed-loads of boodle from pandering to this dubious trend; what with zombie survival camps, ghost weekends and similar nonsense, so we've decided to market “The Château de Melmothe Haunted-house Experience” and coin a few quid from gullible thrill-seekers.
A bijou problemette is that we're rather lacking in suitable wraiths and spectres, with most of the château's disembodied spirits being incapable of a decent manifestation or even a few eerie footsteps in a seemingly empty attic. The only two with any potential are:
The shade of Ethel Throbbing; a 19th C. parlour maid who suffered from acute vertigo yet, ironically, is said to have died falling from the North tower (but actually succumbed to an attack of scrivellings on the way down). She now haunts the former butler's pantry in a vague, somewhat listless manner.
A dreary bloke in half-armour who wanders around the cellars with a head under his arm, occasionally rattling chains and groaning. He appears to date from around 1450 but the head is obviously a Cavalier's so we think he pinched it from the crypt merely to attract attention.
Disappointingly neither of them is particularly interesting; they don't foretell of impending calamities, doom, grisly deaths or do anything else remotely likely to generate sales in the gift shop. We have to admit they're rather dull and not even slightly scary.
Thankfully Great Uncle Vlad has offered his services (for a cut of the proceeds). He says that he'd be quite willing to leap out on any unsuspecting visitors (particularly young ladies wearing little pointy boots and excessive amounts of lace) and “put the bite on them”, which appears to be a euphemism for extracting cash so is exactly what we need. A bit of rummaging in the dressing-up box produced a fine set of formal evening wear and a voluminous back cloak with a high collar and red silk lining which all fitted perfectly. Some tonsorial tweakery for a splendid widow's peak, a smidgen of stage-white to enhance his already pallid complexion and he looks quite the part; in a flattering light there's even a certain resemblance to the late Christopher Lee.
So here we go, opening for business, book early to avoid the rush etc. etc.
(Ambles off, happily singing “Money, Money, Money”, to play with the crossword.)
However, we have a plan (quite possibly of the cunning variety).
We've observed that the younger generation have become enthralled by all things Gothic, occult and generally “spooky”. Various charlatans seem to be making shed-loads of boodle from pandering to this dubious trend; what with zombie survival camps, ghost weekends and similar nonsense, so we've decided to market “The Château de Melmothe Haunted-house Experience” and coin a few quid from gullible thrill-seekers.
A bijou problemette is that we're rather lacking in suitable wraiths and spectres, with most of the château's disembodied spirits being incapable of a decent manifestation or even a few eerie footsteps in a seemingly empty attic. The only two with any potential are:
The shade of Ethel Throbbing; a 19th C. parlour maid who suffered from acute vertigo yet, ironically, is said to have died falling from the North tower (but actually succumbed to an attack of scrivellings on the way down). She now haunts the former butler's pantry in a vague, somewhat listless manner.
A dreary bloke in half-armour who wanders around the cellars with a head under his arm, occasionally rattling chains and groaning. He appears to date from around 1450 but the head is obviously a Cavalier's so we think he pinched it from the crypt merely to attract attention.
Disappointingly neither of them is particularly interesting; they don't foretell of impending calamities, doom, grisly deaths or do anything else remotely likely to generate sales in the gift shop. We have to admit they're rather dull and not even slightly scary.
Thankfully Great Uncle Vlad has offered his services (for a cut of the proceeds). He says that he'd be quite willing to leap out on any unsuspecting visitors (particularly young ladies wearing little pointy boots and excessive amounts of lace) and “put the bite on them”, which appears to be a euphemism for extracting cash so is exactly what we need. A bit of rummaging in the dressing-up box produced a fine set of formal evening wear and a voluminous back cloak with a high collar and red silk lining which all fitted perfectly. Some tonsorial tweakery for a splendid widow's peak, a smidgen of stage-white to enhance his already pallid complexion and he looks quite the part; in a flattering light there's even a certain resemblance to the late Christopher Lee.
So here we go, opening for business, book early to avoid the rush etc. etc.
(Ambles off, happily singing “Money, Money, Money”, to play with the crossword.)
14 June 2019
Wilfrid and Eucrasia Fishbend are stalwarts (as they like to say) of the Lesser Drivelling Caravanning Club (there is only one other member of this small coterie of antisocial nuisances; Osbert Snottergryppe who does not own, or has any desire to possess, a caravan, but will happily join anything with a committee and rules). Periodically they attach what might best be described as a mobile rabbit hutch to the back of their Morris Traveller and trundle off (very slowly) to spend a few days with hordes of like-minded masochists in various muddy fields. This depressing activity is characterised (without any trace of irony) as “independence”. They also do the crossie and regularly comment (pseudonymously) about the deplorable use of slang terms, archaicisms, non-English words, neologisms and “made-up” stuff. Particular vitriol is reserved for any clue bordering on the cryptic or which depends upon sporting terminology. Strangely they don't appear to own a dictionary.
Wilfrid claims to be “in finance”, although when pressed he'll amend this to “accountancy” (said with a very knowing look to suggest it's accountancy of a most elevated order). He is actually a part-time book-keeper at The Dr. Strabismus Institute (and also a spy).
(To be continued.)
Note for Amuriceens, furreners and other alien species:
The Morris Traveller was an Olde English half-timbered car (rust bucket) which is still held in high regard by nostalgics, deranged patriots and those who consider the 1960s to have been very nearly the pinnacle of British automobile manufacturing (only surpassed by the 1970s and remarkable vehicles like the Austin Allegro and Reliant Robin). It has now achieved “classic” status; which can only be understood if you take into account the peculiarly English liking for anything uncomfortable and utterly impractical.
Mr. Fishbend's spying activities are on behalf of an unnamed, (mildly) interested furren power, or so he has been led to understand. He was recruited to infiltrate The Dr. Strabismus Institute and discover the true purpose behind the (so called) “Pataphysical Research” but to date has found nothing of any significance, apart from that all the other staff appear to be slightly unhinged. He's determined to persist: it's early days yet, patience is a virtue, Rome wasn't...etc.
His local contact is a mysterious “Vladimir” whom he has never actually met but believes to be operating undercover from the château. They communicate either by using a triffically compliquated code involving unfinished crosswords and bits of knotted string (the dead-letter box is a dustbin at The Mangle and Ferret) or seemingly banal and innocuous comments here. The caravanning trips are also (partly) an elaborate subterfuge; he and Eucrasia really quite like their weekends cooped up in a miniscule, grismal box. Somewhere close to whichever muddy field they happen to be infesting there is always a hostelry, where a pre-arranged meeting takes place with his handler; a shadowy character he only knows as “M” who uses the (very convincing) disguise of being a moth-eaten, disreputable inebriate. After many rounds of drinks (Armagnac for “M”) which Mr. Fishbend inevitably pays for, he delivers a verbal report then receives a few vague (and somewhat slurred) instructions. Occasionally he plucks up enough courage to ask about wages, but is fobbed off with waffle about “budgetary constraints” and “austerity measures”.
In rare moments of reflection he'll admit that (so far) the spying game hasn't been the thrilling, romantic adventure he'd hoped for. Maybe tomorrow?
(Tubey continued.)
15 June 2019
Augustus Thribble (a former inspector of drains and sewage pipes) has recently retired and come to live in Lesser Drivelling for “a nice quiet life”; a statement which caused much hillarity in The Mangle and Ferret, to the extent it has become a catch-phrase and the mere mention of “quiet life” is enough to reduce the entire place to helpless sniggering. This is a cover story, he is in fact a counter-intelligence agent, sent to investigate a credible rumour of espionage at the Strabismus Institute. By some bizarre quirk of fate he has rented the house adjacent to the Fishbend's and they've become quite affable acquaintances in a slightly formal way (this being Little England). Needless to say, none of them are aware of the other's true purpose. By another quirk of fate he also does the crosswords and petulantly grumbles about them in the comments. He has frequently had interminable arguments there with another habitual complainer, blissfully unaware that it is his neighbour. Funny old world innit?
Having spent several weeks subtly questioning the natives, lurking unobtrusively in doorways, peering furtively through windows and eavesdropping on tedious conversations about the weather his suspicions have focussed on Osbert Snottergryppe. As a filing clerk at the Institute Mr. Snottergryppe is well-placed for gathering information, blueprints, secret documents and all the other bits and bobs essential to the spook narrative. Then there's his curious fascination with disused railway sidings which he obsessively photographs and catalogues (obviously an excuse for nefarious doings). Perhaps most damningly he is a member of every club and association in the area; from the local branch of The Gloucester Old Spot Appreciation Society to the Lesser Drivelling Illuminati, yet appears to have no interest whatsoever in breeding piggy-wiggies, arcane rituals and world domination or any other subject these little mobs gather to enthuse about. Mr. Thribble considers this to be very dubious, he reckons it's probably a bit of tradecraft to conceal a network of subversives. Has he inadvertently stumbled upon a nest of spies? and if so, who is the spy-master? There's that odd person at the château for example, a thoroughly dodgy type so a likely candidate. seems to be a drunken fantasist and probably a fraud, although that could easily be an assumed identity. Further enquiries need to be made...
(BB continued.)
Dunned the curse-word (blah-blah-blether-chunter) then ambled out to inspect the Irrelephant traps.* We've never caught (or even seen) an Irrelephant but the traps are traditional here at the château and without traditions we'd be no better than...er...people who don't have traditions (y'know; those frightfully modern types like hep-cats and hipsters and fans of bebop). Was sauntering through the extensive grounds (not), carefully avoiding the acreage of nettles and thistles, circumventing the labyrinthine thickets of brambles, pausing only to admire the rusting washing-machines and mangles we keep as eye-catchers, when I became aware of being under observation. A strange, shifty looking bloke, wearing a trenchcoat and trilby, was perched up a nearby tree squinting intently through the largest pair of binoculars ever seen outside a WW2 naval film. Being a shy, retiring sort I beat a hasty retreat and fled back indoors for a quick snifter (or two, possibly three) to steady the wobbly nerves. Great Uncle Vlad was very concerned (he has a bit of “thing” about intruders) so he went to have a “leetle chat” with the bloke. Soon afterwards there was a shriek and a frantic thrashing of shrubbery as the intruder unintruded himself with undignified haste.
You may think it would be a nice, quiet life here in rural semi-isolation (who's that sniggering?) but there's always sunnink wot disruptificates the idyll.
Withdrew to the library for a spot of peaceful reading to regain a bit of equilibrium. Not that dreadful espionage yarn, with its ridiculous plot, unlikely coincidences and absurd characters; it serpently wouldn't have the desired calming effect. A detective story might be just the ticket, perhaps a dose of Marge or Dotty to soothe the furrowed brow? Eventually decided on an old favourite:
“Grisly Multiple Murder at the Haunted Château.” by Rupert D'Eath Stabbes.
Parfait. The literary equivalent of comfort food; a lovely “cosy”, with an open fire burning merrily (obv) a snuggly armchair (which rather pongs of incontinent cat, but one musn't be too fussy) and a pint of Armagnac (hic).
Bliss.
From The Lesser Drivelling Weekly Argus, small ads:
“To let: Numbers 5&6 Pigtickle Lane. Available at short notice due to previous tenants' abrupt departure. Usual terms. Apply to this newspaper.”
Deep in the bowels of GCHQ a cryptanalyst scratches his head, sribbles a few words and numbers, crosses them out, looks utterly perplexed then sighs. Clutching a small piece of paper he wanders over to the duty officer and says:
“I think we may have another one sir.”
“Crikey, not again?”
“ 'Fraid so. Can't make head nor tail of it. Ran it through the usual programs but the computer just went into a huff and wouldn't play anymore.”
“What's it say?”
“Dunnit, simples. 15D Yum. 13A Iffy. 1A Take that you varlet. EPT to follow.”
“Hmmm. Don't like the sound of that at all.”
“Sent by a Captain Bovey sir.”
“Oh lawks, this is getting serious. OK. Call Signals and Intercepts, get them to put a trace on it, then alert Defence Group to be ready for a code yellow. I'll ring the PM's office and General Fettlespode...”
Having spent several weeks subtly questioning the natives, lurking unobtrusively in doorways, peering furtively through windows and eavesdropping on tedious conversations about the weather his suspicions have focussed on Osbert Snottergryppe. As a filing clerk at the Institute Mr. Snottergryppe is well-placed for gathering information, blueprints, secret documents and all the other bits and bobs essential to the spook narrative. Then there's his curious fascination with disused railway sidings which he obsessively photographs and catalogues (obviously an excuse for nefarious doings). Perhaps most damningly he is a member of every club and association in the area; from the local branch of The Gloucester Old Spot Appreciation Society to the Lesser Drivelling Illuminati, yet appears to have no interest whatsoever in breeding piggy-wiggies, arcane rituals and world domination or any other subject these little mobs gather to enthuse about. Mr. Thribble considers this to be very dubious, he reckons it's probably a bit of tradecraft to conceal a network of subversives. Has he inadvertently stumbled upon a nest of spies? and if so, who is the spy-master? There's that odd person at the château for example, a thoroughly dodgy type so a likely candidate. seems to be a drunken fantasist and probably a fraud, although that could easily be an assumed identity. Further enquiries need to be made...
(BB continued.)
Dunned the curse-word (blah-blah-blether-chunter) then ambled out to inspect the Irrelephant traps.* We've never caught (or even seen) an Irrelephant but the traps are traditional here at the château and without traditions we'd be no better than...er...people who don't have traditions (y'know; those frightfully modern types like hep-cats and hipsters and fans of bebop). Was sauntering through the extensive grounds (not), carefully avoiding the acreage of nettles and thistles, circumventing the labyrinthine thickets of brambles, pausing only to admire the rusting washing-machines and mangles we keep as eye-catchers, when I became aware of being under observation. A strange, shifty looking bloke, wearing a trenchcoat and trilby, was perched up a nearby tree squinting intently through the largest pair of binoculars ever seen outside a WW2 naval film. Being a shy, retiring sort I beat a hasty retreat and fled back indoors for a quick snifter (or two, possibly three) to steady the wobbly nerves. Great Uncle Vlad was very concerned (he has a bit of “thing” about intruders) so he went to have a “leetle chat” with the bloke. Soon afterwards there was a shriek and a frantic thrashing of shrubbery as the intruder unintruded himself with undignified haste.
You may think it would be a nice, quiet life here in rural semi-isolation (who's that sniggering?) but there's always sunnink wot disruptificates the idyll.
Withdrew to the library for a spot of peaceful reading to regain a bit of equilibrium. Not that dreadful espionage yarn, with its ridiculous plot, unlikely coincidences and absurd characters; it serpently wouldn't have the desired calming effect. A detective story might be just the ticket, perhaps a dose of Marge or Dotty to soothe the furrowed brow? Eventually decided on an old favourite:
“Grisly Multiple Murder at the Haunted Château.” by Rupert D'Eath Stabbes.
Parfait. The literary equivalent of comfort food; a lovely “cosy”, with an open fire burning merrily (obv) a snuggly armchair (which rather pongs of incontinent cat, but one musn't be too fussy) and a pint of Armagnac (hic).
Bliss.
From The Lesser Drivelling Weekly Argus, small ads:
“To let: Numbers 5&6 Pigtickle Lane. Available at short notice due to previous tenants' abrupt departure. Usual terms. Apply to this newspaper.”
Deep in the bowels of GCHQ a cryptanalyst scratches his head, sribbles a few words and numbers, crosses them out, looks utterly perplexed then sighs. Clutching a small piece of paper he wanders over to the duty officer and says:
“I think we may have another one sir.”
“Crikey, not again?”
“ 'Fraid so. Can't make head nor tail of it. Ran it through the usual programs but the computer just went into a huff and wouldn't play anymore.”
“What's it say?”
“Dunnit, simples. 15D Yum. 13A Iffy. 1A Take that you varlet. EPT to follow.”
“Hmmm. Don't like the sound of that at all.”
“Sent by a Captain Bovey sir.”
“Oh lawks, this is getting serious. OK. Call Signals and Intercepts, get them to put a trace on it, then alert Defence Group to be ready for a code yellow. I'll ring the PM's office and General Fettlespode...”
17 June 2019
No newspaper delivered today (Brettingham Scurl's gone to help his aunt Rantipole with her international begonia smuggling ring) so into the Nincompoop, megaphone on the passenger seat and away we go (brrrrrrrrummm) down to village shop. This whole area is a maze of narrow country lanes with loads of blind corners, hump-backed bridges and other hazards to ensnare the unwary; a sensible, sedate speed is an absolute must (70...er...80, no more than 90 tops... really officer? how fast? 100? shirley not). Soon reduced to walking pace behind Jathrum Kneckle's antiquated heap of a yard tractor as he bumbles along, oblivious to the world. He shouldn't be driving at his age, half blind and deaf as a post. Beep the horn a few times, wave arms and shout but to no avail. Thankfully he turns off and away we go again (poop-poop) only to encounter a cyclist round the next bend; a slightly overweight bloke in full racing fig, huffing and puffing as if he's riding through treacle, one of them there lycra louts to be sure. Wind the window down, grab megaphone and bellow:
“Yer don't pay bleedin' road tax.”
then whizz past as he swerves into a ditch. Serves him right, prolliby a lefty-socialist, tree-hugging remoaner to boot. A little further on there's some idiot sauntering along pushing a vast perambulator. Just about to do the beep-beep and shouting thing then realise it's Lady Drainswilling's nanny, out with her young charges for their daily constitutional. Raise hat politely
“Lovely weather for the time of year is it not?”
and ease round gently. Doesn't do to antagonise the gentry, or even their staff, especially if you happen to owe her ladyship fifty nicker from a reckless bet at the slug racing. Brrrrruuummmmm... Screech of brakes.
Oh lawks a mercy, it's a chappie on an enormous horse, hunting pink and all, trotting merrily down the middle of the road as if he owns it. A jodhpur lout? Right. Enough of this. Window down, megaphone at the ready...
From The Lesser Drivelling Weekly Argus:
A local man (name withheld for legal reasons) was acquitted at Yatter magistrates' court of various offences including; speeding, reckless driving, acting like an arse and being completely blootered in charge of a motor vehicle. The defence successfully argued that “It's just the way we does things in these 'ere parts.”
On a further more serious charge the defendant claimed diminished responsibility, reasoning; as his car had just been invaded by invisible magic pixies he couldn't be expected to have seen it was Major Cholmondeley-Featherstonhaugh riding said horse and had he been entirely compos mentis the alleged incident would never have occurred. The magistrate (Major Cholmondeley-Featherstonhaugh) said in judgement; although being pissed as a fart was serpently a mitigating factor there are wotsits that just ain't done, like:
“Frightening the bloody horses.”
He then handed down a sentence of community service (“You're buying the blasted rounds in The Mangle and Ferret for the foreseeable future”) a tailor's bill (jodhpurs for the repair of) and a severe reprimand (“Just you wait 'till the next Lodge meeting...”).
Note for those unfortunates who don't happen to live in Little England:
“Cholmondeley-Featherstonhaugh” is pronounced “Chumley-Fanshaw”.
So there.
“Yer don't pay bleedin' road tax.”
then whizz past as he swerves into a ditch. Serves him right, prolliby a lefty-socialist, tree-hugging remoaner to boot. A little further on there's some idiot sauntering along pushing a vast perambulator. Just about to do the beep-beep and shouting thing then realise it's Lady Drainswilling's nanny, out with her young charges for their daily constitutional. Raise hat politely
“Lovely weather for the time of year is it not?”
and ease round gently. Doesn't do to antagonise the gentry, or even their staff, especially if you happen to owe her ladyship fifty nicker from a reckless bet at the slug racing. Brrrrruuummmmm... Screech of brakes.
Oh lawks a mercy, it's a chappie on an enormous horse, hunting pink and all, trotting merrily down the middle of the road as if he owns it. A jodhpur lout? Right. Enough of this. Window down, megaphone at the ready...
From The Lesser Drivelling Weekly Argus:
A local man (name withheld for legal reasons) was acquitted at Yatter magistrates' court of various offences including; speeding, reckless driving, acting like an arse and being completely blootered in charge of a motor vehicle. The defence successfully argued that “It's just the way we does things in these 'ere parts.”
On a further more serious charge the defendant claimed diminished responsibility, reasoning; as his car had just been invaded by invisible magic pixies he couldn't be expected to have seen it was Major Cholmondeley-Featherstonhaugh riding said horse and had he been entirely compos mentis the alleged incident would never have occurred. The magistrate (Major Cholmondeley-Featherstonhaugh) said in judgement; although being pissed as a fart was serpently a mitigating factor there are wotsits that just ain't done, like:
“Frightening the bloody horses.”
He then handed down a sentence of community service (“You're buying the blasted rounds in The Mangle and Ferret for the foreseeable future”) a tailor's bill (jodhpurs for the repair of) and a severe reprimand (“Just you wait 'till the next Lodge meeting...”).
Note for those unfortunates who don't happen to live in Little England:
“Cholmondeley-Featherstonhaugh” is pronounced “Chumley-Fanshaw”.
So there.
22 June
Done the curse-word and...
“Lumme, you're looking very smart.”
Oh. Thankee.
“ All dressed up in your best bib and tucker. Going somewhere posh?”
It's the premiere of Ripze-Corsetsoff's latest work.
“ Really?”
Yup. Specially commissioned to celebrate Lesser Drivelling's long association with the Gloucester Old Spot.
“ How exciting, what's it called?”
Swine Lake. It's going to be performed by the...um...can't find me reading specs...The Borzoi Ballet, or sunnink like that.
“ Didn't they do Poochinella?”
That's them. Course they're best known for Dog Quixote and The Sleeping Woofy.
“ Well, enjoy.”
Will do. Are you up to anything interesting this evening?
“Thought I might go dogging, there's nothing like a bit of fresh air is there?”
Quite right. Must go now. Pip pip.
“Toodles.”
Eh? Poodles? This hearing aid's rubbish...
“Lumme, you're looking very smart.”
Oh. Thankee.
“ All dressed up in your best bib and tucker. Going somewhere posh?”
It's the premiere of Ripze-Corsetsoff's latest work.
“ Really?”
Yup. Specially commissioned to celebrate Lesser Drivelling's long association with the Gloucester Old Spot.
“ How exciting, what's it called?”
Swine Lake. It's going to be performed by the...um...can't find me reading specs...The Borzoi Ballet, or sunnink like that.
“ Didn't they do Poochinella?”
That's them. Course they're best known for Dog Quixote and The Sleeping Woofy.
“ Well, enjoy.”
Will do. Are you up to anything interesting this evening?
“Thought I might go dogging, there's nothing like a bit of fresh air is there?”
Quite right. Must go now. Pip pip.
“Toodles.”
Eh? Poodles? This hearing aid's rubbish...