Saturday 28 November 2009

Happy St Salmon's Day

Greets.

Saw a man today, ambling airily down Marchmain Avenue. He was an upright cat with looks to suit his posture: Mancunian brow, herbivorous elbows, stern buttocks protruding loftily from the usual area. His gaze swept in an arc from side to side following a long cylindrical tool as it thrashed about in a subdued manner.

You might say here, 'Stop!' or 'Wait!' or 'Shut the hell up you absolute lunatic!' as one man did to me quite recently, shortly before suffering a massive heart attack by my hands. You might then continue, "this object was both thrashing and subdued?"
"Why yes, you cock and balls, it was," I would reply "and when you see a fellow of this man's ilk you'll understand precisely what I'm on about!"

I approached him, trying to look uninterested by his swishing-wand and engaged him a fairly nonchalant manner

"Get your lips off my metal-detector, sir." He belched violently at me very nearly removing my false moustache. "That is my very expensive property, you shit, and if you don't start removing your body parts from it I shall have them removed (by court order)!"
I returned to face him eyeball to eyeball. Then, when it became obvious that there was no way to hold a conversation in this stance I took a step back leaving a 2'3" gap (69.5cm) between us.

"A metal detector!" I swooned (away from him, and slightly to the right) "of all the majestic devices to be held by you sir, that one takes the jelly!" I was clearly over-awed by this device, having not seen one since its first invention in the 1930s. A mélange of bodily fluids swelled in me at its sight.

"Indeed." he replied, continuing to swoosh his steel magneto-baton.

"Then that, by Henry, makes you a metal detective, does it not?" I asked with rhetoric, in the knowledge that I was lexically correct.

"YOU WHAT?" His tonsils nearly quit his head with the shout he levelled at me. "I am a 'Metal Detectorist', you heaving imbecile! A 'METAL DETECTORIST'!"

I kept my composure.
"Indeed. And do you, then, 'detector' metal for a living?"

"It is not a living, it is a hobby and I detect it, you...you..." His chest heaved. I could smell the yell brewing in his veins. I decided I must take action and immediately popped my larger cork between his rosy mouth-flaps.
He, of course, burst and Doggo had quite a feast that night!
I believe it was fine come-uppance for such wild and deluded use of the English language.

Doggo, by the way, is my new puppy. Kalim Gerald Barkleton Twing sadly passed away. The coroner's report mentioned something about dogs not being able to survive in the vacuum of space, but I say where else can you go to take a dog for a walk when you live in a space shuttle?

Anyway, the hearing's on Friday so I'll let you know how that goes. You never know, it might be back to lovely prison for me!

S-S-S-Sarlog

Tuesday 17 November 2009

The further pontifications of Buffo Cribbins

Good Garland!
How fares your fine collection of asps?
What, me? No, no asps to speak of! not since that time in Leningrad. Those were the days, eh? Those nights we spent in jail. The food was top notch! Or should I say 'Top Nosh'?! Ho-ho, just my little joke, no need to point your pistols at me!
How I do love jail...
You know next year I fancy spending a few days in pokey down in Kuala Lumpur. I hear the service is impeccable and if you're very fortunate, you might get shivved! I love a good shivving, don't you?
What?
Then why do you keep a fragment from that one in Lenny in your kidneys.
Damn it all, sometimes I just can't figure you out...
Well, I'm glad you love a good shivving because...All right, now, put the pistols away, I said.
The man can't take a joke, it seems.
Well there are no rubber shivs in Koala Jumpur!
I should coco!


Now, I gave my word to the fellow who told me this little gem that I would never mention his name to another soul, but as you have no soul I'll gladly furnish you with this little factule.

His name was Buffo Cribbins, the famous cannonball giant and confidant of none other than Lady Stewardess Queen Victoria of Danelaw and Parts Beyond, and as I happened on him in the street we got talking, sharing stories, you know. We pepped and bazzed and flew the chute for what seemed like seven minutes (though it was actually six minutes and fourteen seconds) and in that time I grew to fancy Mr Cribbins something rotten. I shared with him my exploits and my adventures. My triumphs and my failures. My jam AND my marmalade!
And by and by Mr Cribbins (Buffo) told me of a land where bizarre things are made as real as my love for tambourines. A land where stinging nettles are used to make a drink, a land where man keeps bees, a land where gloves are worn on soles of the feet!

I vomited in stark horror at these tales and asked him where this place of madness lay and he said, "You bladdy idiot, yous got mad or sumfin'? You's a-standin' in it! Horf horf horf!" His accent modulated to suit his moods, you see.


The land he spoke of, of course, was England and he reprimanded me for being an imbecile as I now reprimand you.

It was all true!

Even the whole gloves on feet business!

What a world we live in!


He died shortly after.

I'll gladly take some more tea, but maybe not today...The pain is still too near for me.

Sarlog (BA Homs)


P.S. You totally owe me £17. I'm on to you...