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674 days ago
The 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 ...
726 days ago
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 ...
1055 days ago
I 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 ...
1096 days ago
The 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, ...
1105 days ago
Well 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. ...
