Tuesday 4 March 2014

part 8

[Chapter Eight, A Little Late, But Worth The Wait... Walls have ears, Floors have eyes, Draining boards have problems, Ceilings wear vests, Doors have legs, Sharon wrote to me about crocodiles. Due to unforeseen circuses, I missed last Friday's posting. Look at the funny man eating soup with his fingers. Look in the mirror and reflect on your image. Do you see the Scottish word for "turnip" that, if written backwards would frighten rabbits? There will be two chapters this week. We Wuz Readin' And a-Writin' Till The Break O' Dawn...That'll teach you!]

THE FORP AGES OF MAN
Throleman canister microwave pocket oceanographer
Crave ail-o-bannister agga thawlda
Moledorn eland coat aroan packager
Voseffsterion the acute Greek pangolin tile nightmare
Reactivation pinches either end of a wooden stick...
The perm innister is immune from the mune
His bodyguards suuround him to absorb all cosmic rays
Bathtime carpenters ride down the bowling alley in search of El Morado
The dong-with-the artificial-limb asks for a penny for the guy on a Catholic feast day
The curtains of floral-print deter computer-lice
A jet offers limeade to the tall-headed emperor...

And remember lad, I've spoken to more hot dinners than you've had Nuremburg rallies,
Deathwatch beetles ate my Auntie Groon, you know!
Sliding tailors polished meanings on my trailing afterthoughts
Corporation busmen seeking solids, set traps for eight-letter names.

What is Time?
Time is a cuckoo dog,
A good cowboy always shoots his horse first.
What is Dritomian Karanate?
Dritomian Karanate is eight eclairs around an egg.
Blord oh dream-oh-rain, calex and the antelope with a subliminal ladder and a wooden leg wrapped up in a five-pound note.
Scandradora balloons, meeradritchma harcanes,
Skinnet resistors in the annagalcide rain.

I bet you know a sailor who had a dream that he did Concorde and afterwards, two Banbury housewives came in, carrying bidets filled with rosewater and peroxide and you, I mean the sailor, scratched "Remember Scalati" on the many-eyed Frobisherdeens silken breast nail.

Reenic baleasters, the London Underground is closed because of its obvious sexual symbolism,
Millie & The Millstones dance the hunchy-crunchy
Get your lint-picking fingers out of my navel!
Cossetaileron Wallace Gearstone, harvest alley catalogue and the forty winks and measles.
I can't tell the difference between Tennyson and Tennis Elbow
But I can spit blood with the best of them...
The tarantulla with an "L"
Sat in Mitzi's chair
I glared and smoked a Park Drive.
Come on and cross that river of Gordon,
What is God but a calix cigarette?
Ride a white whippet down the road to degradation,
Take this coin, it has the image of the queen on it,
She is a married woman,
You'll know what to do.
Steep is the dead indian's goitre
Mighty steep...
The Manhattan Stovebeakers Ensemble arranges my name,
Caterers ice my name on cakes,
Cauldrons of bubbling sisal, boil my name,
Rib games play my name.
Every seabed in the world silts my name,
Sugar-parrots practice my name.
Multigrade orgone henna sensation
Enigmatic shards of dmap trouser trauma.
Maxim Gorky revolutionises my name,
Starlets melt and form stalactites from my name,
Elaborate underground sewers pump my name out to sea.
Sonic surnames choral indemnity.
Salisbury wave paters owe it all to sailors
Bruce Wayne need not apply.
Lan lantic lanticular lanticulare feebio-Canada
Congratulations on your echoed name,
My cat was the last Dogon of Finsbury Park
And my turkey built pin-tables.
Hey buddy, have you got kite?
Red senna pasturizers gape at Angela's firm handshake.
Snowballs harden, Falk trees hive to math,
Holdall wawnt crab ponies, Oggan owes his mate a watch.
Need I quote Razer Lazer Canaan?
He was pinned to the wall by a brain bulb
Larger than Sotwahn Calbierentessiantopia.
Aha! I guessed your sugar compound turned to mucus fudge.
I saw signs of giraffe motor pandemonium.
Stay at the Hilton Stilton,
Drink to all hours with an attentive Princess,
Mix paint in our spacious indoor swimming pool.
The Bogey Moth will get you,
If you don't wear a Polo mint on your forehead.
You will be carrying the ink at the canonisation of Meg Richardson
And I shall throw the pencils.
Take it away Dustman!
Stromboli string the carts in my barn,
Small six-legged rodents sharpen a pot of jam.
Skinner Brackishness explains baseball to laboratory rats,
Mint tubes project from rolling downlands.
Diamond ducks with iron wings
Pooh on the philosopher's typewriter for luck.

Omni-rectangular in quasi-rhomboid shoe shop of gross exaggerations. I expect that swans will swim on water long after the human race has ended, but when the swans have swam on all the water, what will happen then? There should be words in your answer...

Like laying down brainurethane thickly, on the sharp side of the moon
Or forsaking a middle-American spinster
For a semi-conscious lobster into para-psychology.
Tearing pages from an encylopaedia
Is how we lobotomise our universe.
All the parkas driving meat-vans,
All the mode pianistas modelling holdalls,
All the praises of meat pianos rolled into one
Couldn't make a decent raspberry trifle out of diodes and catharsis.
Meebo spiders stand in dotage
With one bandaged foot
Godzilla is reincarnated
As a Bamburgh marzeen
And its teeth have what it takes in Steelstop Land.
Shaking Tanist vibrating tame
Skilled in skarking sharv-lack-sat-ran-vat-annister
Corfam without a difference
Frankly lacking in shellac
All property is thought.
Skin it, sin it, rick dit sick kig sko gormat lognister
Flint sig nee do ognick sko mac shog
Laff de rog pew sig oga sogo lig fig na
Soam ist licked
Shig matrewnister
Log skooga
Shrigmalat
Popoon Gadeely Shiptons
Homing loftily awy to Dean
Coney hag mama Vultura
Coney El Pippo tegelith
Timeless Gzeerd Rippon blazers
Chew "Only" biscuits in an attempt to relay
Duck quo vadis sub-culture reno pipettes
Skank actorage, fiddly meat isn't ankle iron,
Isn't blood donor soup
Drinking couples of teazel
Nappy nipple scatter shingle scarfa mattra falger ilkastongistron
Donkey scrag Bobby Shaftoe gone to green
Glue in a landscape
Accent on slopes
The yams on my phone
And I can't occasionoleptrunk.
Is eater, is eater, is keybams
Eat noo-hoot ram is eater galvanoboon
The yamer troop.
Get this man turned inside-out,
Get this cat scattered
"Up yours, Motherfucker!" said the Marine's carved fat parrot
Eat malt shrewdrivers, drill sharks, drill sharks!
Cuban helio-governesses touch ante-chambers' dictionaries
Flack chatteries flog Ackroyd's sheila-plasters.
Reelin' and a-writin'
Breathin' and a-cumulatin'
The atomic vapour rub on a golden nose.
Art Deco death horses speak puneable
Cuban death madres in an open peccary opera hose.
Is that Jimmy's bichartzia you're renting?
Deep Stripe, Blave Strape, Lague Strave
Ill-gotten marmozoots shack straight matzoo ressip
Cleavo beat strip angit, three Ben in a moat
As a moot telephone pit
With the credit on your third rib.
Give me a desk, that I may draw marmitettes!
Shall fagga strap, kall fragment skoo glall manka coategg extra penguin.
Rhumba Baby Rhumba!
Ship that Bronco abroad!
Really get ridda that thing!
Gotta
Gotta
Gotta
Get rid of it!

A RADIO JINGLE IS HEARD, PLAYED ON A CHEAP CASIO

"Hey Bob! Let's try and find Radio Moscow on your new crystal set."
"Cor Bob, that's a really brilliant idea!"
"Righty-ho Bob, I'll start twiddling the dial manipulatively..."
We hear the sound of a wireless, of ancient pedigree, being tuned up and down the long-wave band. Bursts of "La plume de ma tante"-type broadcasts are heard through the static. A supposedly-Russian voice drifts into sharp relief above sheets of white-noise.
"...YURI GAGARIN DVA TOLSTOY POLSKI MOSKVICH..."
"This is it Bob! All the way from Russia! What fabulous technology!"
"Wow, it's totally staggering, Bob!"
"...NYET NYET VOLGAGRAD PETRONOVICH IVAN DA TERRIBLE VODKA URALS BAIKAL BALALAIKA CARA NYET DA OMSK TOMSK BOLSHOI VLADIVOSTOK ALEXEI PROPOGANDA TERESCHKOVA SPUTNIK DA DA DUBCZEK NYET DA PAVLOV'S DOG DA YABLONOI KARAGANGA YO HO HEAVE HO VOLGA SAMOVAR TUNDRA DA YANNA CRIMEA ASOUSKAYA OB SLAVIC NOSH LENINGRAD BORSCH OR CHEERS VLAD SOVIET SOYUZ AS SVEDLANYA LENE LOVICH NOVOSIBIRSK COSSACK GEORGIA GEORGIA ON MY MINDOVICH STEEPES LEONOV SALYUT SMOLENSK AZOV KRUSCHCHEV PLASTIKANSK ROUBLES PIETR TCHAIKOWSKY..."
"That's really boring, Bob, let's try something else!"
"Okay Bob, I'll twiddle the thingammybob again Bob..."
We are treated to a further selection of "Radio Being Tuned"-type sound effects, suggesting that, once again, the bakelite tuning selector is being used to its fullest.
"...This is Bruised Banana Radio, broadcasting to the entire English-speaking world... but before we do, a break..."
The radio broadcasts a corny jingle, which should be familiar to all - a popular "Fanfare" motif rendered delicately on a keyboard instrument of oriental manufacture.
"This sounds interesting, Bob!"
The radio continues, replying surprisingly, "It is interesting, Bob, but let's have a break!" followed by another of those awesome jingles.
"In your shops today! The official monthly magazine of Johnson's Gridling Band and allied trades! Packed with the very latest news and gossip about all your favourite Gridling stars! A different Star Profile every month! Follow the whacky adventures of Snilto The Boiled Egg! Learn to speak the mystic language of Gilzean! Read what's new in Haht Gassup! Catch up on the news of the zany Gridlers... only in THE GRIDLER!... Packed with pranks! Chockablock with chuckles! Loaded with laughs! Bulging with buffoonery! Full of fun! And still only eighteen pence!... In no time at all, your collection of The Gridler will build into a handsome mahogany-bound set! Stun your friends! Convert your in-laws! Win over your bank manager! Gain promotion!... Hurry now, while there's still time!..."
For a third time, we are dumbstruck by the sparkling beauty of that gem of a jingle! The radio voice continues in the background, but we are not listening to it, for one of the people called Bob announces, "Thoroughly groovy, Bob! I'll buy a copy of The Gridler straightaway!"
"So will I, Bob!" agrees his colleague.

RING TILL PHILLIP'S OVER... Jesus the Philodendron was flacking through a moley magazina skinna Pool miss trail, fall mat car anenemies, full mat meat sundrenched mutts and razors. Writing in agony on the linedo paper floor, bicycle suet with essence of polythene, Oh Baby! Give me an Italian job with haircream and green walnuts.

"...Thanks! Another poem, I call this one THE STUDENT RINSE..."

Antelopelets on my window pane
And anguish in the fire,
Buckets-full of lethal rain.
For there's just one church per spire!
Butt uttered toast to pie bald men,
Tall cases filling holes.

We can whelk it out, rink felt carp it underlazy, fillip of belted carp devout. The pelt makes distant seafood hazy, if not already, dentures meeting in straining fruit, champing like a rubble on the sea... for the Sake of mint tea, I'll tie my leather knots in flute as if the requirement was fillfulled with a fawn hake... Desired by Rhonda, Honda Rhonda Help help me Stacia! Crampon de Milton, stanza Marconi... fill her up barman and I'll drive her home like a bedridden sheep. Disgusted till dawn by the fishbone stairs and dark frisking wall-tar children in a continuous celestial frieze, like a fillet of poult or a candied star-judge...

Little Jackie Bono Wellish... If the crates gave, move it. Maul ten, hang thirteen and sing a malteen Faulkner. Pink administration, chalk and cheese sundales with their pineapple rings pulled well down over their space apricots, as if to marry a varnished commode or commotion.
Blue-veined crabs of distinction, smimming deeply in cheap plasma... Entre Planetista, Philly Drachma, baggage ants the waverley uttered guests. The jam van of the star-found vernacular vein, the master of impotence trapped in a revolving helmet, dropping metallic gin-and-mercury all down his fish-skin tie-stains. Rubber, like a stationmaster's quarantine Cadillac crest, an expansive thing to have surgically grafted onto his thigh, like a melting-proof ice-cream, or a bottle of drambuie delivered inside, and by, a giant bat of horny felt.

I don't belong here, I'm a pond...

Swooping down, like a robot demonstrating can-openers on the deck of a watched clock (never gets boils)... or battery cats on a fertiliser farm. Put this gigantic brown card into the side of the bus, turn the seismic key and go to bed. Sleep like a block of marmalade waiting to break and ease the world's temperatures... equating a penguin and a zebra, the recumbent commissionaires of the animal business community, VE Day in a anthole, a crab poultice or an optoclass fitted with coathangers and used to play pocket battleships... And the Scapa flowed like pumice-stone.

YOU'RE RIGHT, HENRY IV! IT IS A GIANT RAWLPLUG!

...Heres a handy method for making Raspberry Dream Topping. Before retiring to bed, read as many books as possible about raspberries. Mix up one pint of cream with butter and keep it in a bowl by your bed. Keep a large spoon and trepanning tool handy...

Following the success of Jane Fonda's Workout Book and Raquel Welch's Health and Beauty Book, we look forward to the publication of the Kenneth Williams' Sarcasm and Snearing Book...

As the bells of eleven begin to toll
And the hostelry opens its doors to all,
Mrs Crimpolene assumes her role.
Menfolk gather at her beck and call
Mrs Crimpolene! Mrs Crimpolene!
Philosopher Supreme! Mrs Crimpolene!
Wearing her chequered fifties chic
From offices and banks they flock to her...

Down leafy lanes and urban drains, 'cross fields of corn smooth as a lawn, to mountain ridge and Bembridge ledge, I sleep by day 'neath oaken hedge, then I wake up and try to sell welding torches.

Minimalist music - hold this page up to your ear and listen... Mr Cocknoose of Bremen says, "Guttentag, ve are celebrating zis day by jamming viz der Worzels punk rock band! Help find the soot!"... Older men know how to enjoy themselves! Choose one finch, then see below for your detailed personality analysis. If you chose finch "A", then you can handle yourself in a fight, choice "B" indicates that girls will go crazy for your stylish taste in woollens and, if you picked finch "C", you are mentally ill, possibly with psychopathic tendencies, you call yourself "Fat Stephen" and build coloured things with metal. Stuffed otter, tea plate, headboard or what have you... Smile! Or else it'll rain crankcases... Smile! Even though it's bacon... Smile! Friendly facial gesticulation, five letters.

...and Chapter 9 is only hours away, folks! Regards and salutations to all of The Quoon's 1st Hampshire Buffoons.


 

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