Sirs, a befuddling day.
Myself and Lumpy have spent the better part of the afternoon working up a plan for our forthcoming expedition, for which we have set our date of departure as 1 September.
Despite this date, we have come no closer to deciding on a route, and we sat in my study discussing this while attempting to swallow the terrible lunch prepared by Brown.
Ah yes – Brown. Despite the mass domestic walkout caused by my increasingly troublesome old retainer, he has somehow managed to remain in my service. Lord alone knows how he managed to wriggle his way out of that one. New servants are being sent to take over the vacated roles soon.
In the meantime, myself and Lumpy are having to make do with Brown's wretched asparagus and eggs - burned to a cinder, of course. Godspeed those domestic saviours.
So, as I was saying, we were discussing our options in the study. I had noticed that Lumpy had been drinking rather a lot of my whiskey all afternoon and had become increasingly defiant towards my opinions. I’d had a few myself too, to be honest.
My suggestion was that we plot a route though the North Winwood Pass, thus emerging in some unknown region of the Upper Lowlands. However, Lumpy pooh-poohed the suggestion, claiming such a journey to be impossible.
I admit my response to his criticism was rather heated. Indeed, I believe I suggested that Lumpy take leave of my residence if he did not wish to pay me ample respect. At this, he launched at me with the ferocity of a puma, and we fell to the floor with an almighty bang, causing asparagus and eggs and whiskey to spatter across the rug and ourselves. We then proceeding to tear and gouge at each other's persons, while remonstrating in an unholy fashion. How these scientific discussions so frequently turn ugly, in my experience!
It was at the point when Lumpy Pete had me clasped by the neck and was firmly hammering my egg-splattered head against a bookcase that Brown entered the room with the telephone upon a silver platter.
“Sir,” he said to me as Lumpy and I looked up at him. “I have a lady upon the telephone by the name of Mandy.”
It was she! The delicious Mandy who had stolen my heart at the London Hospital. Our fight forgotten, I dragged myself out of the arms of Lumpy and took the receiver. Our call was perfunctory but dreamy – in her customary belch-speak, she wished to take me up on my offer of a guide around London, and we arranged to meet on Saturday lunchtime on the South Bank.
Ah happy day! The rest of the day proceeded in pink-tinged heavenliness, and I take to my bed with a self-congratulatory air. Night!
Tuesday 16 June 2009
Monday 8 June 2009
Rebellion below stairs, chez Stigwood
Friends, despite my current lovelorn nature, this weekend has been tarred with troubles of a more domestic kind, which came to a terrible head today.
No, it is not my friend and lodger Lumpy Pete, who remains a pleasure. Instead, I have experienced a mutiny below stairs. That is, my faithful crew of domestic servants have proved rather less faithful than I would like.
It is all because of my personal valet Brown, who's curmudgeonly behaviour has gradually led to an uprising since he joined me two years ago.
First, my brassy old cook Jacqui threw her soup stirrer at Brown after he balked at the taste of her turtle soup and suggested she take a more suitable job in my household. Out the door she went, throwing her pinafore to the floor as she left.
She was quickly followed by her pint-sized pal, my scullery maid Hazel, who left with a stream of shocking oaths aimed at my old retainer. When Brown responded in kind, my two butlers -Purnell and "chubby" Watson - jumped to the women's defence and an unholy scuffle broke out there in the pantry.
At this point I stormed in and ceased the unholy racket with some stern words. Purnell and Watson left in the direction of the public house with their final wage packet, and I sent Brown to think about his actions in the coal shed.
I returned to my study, only to hear a knock upon the door. Caroline, my parlour maid, came in to remonstrate. My, but she's an eye-catching slattern - dark haired and buxom, and with a saucy twinkle about the eye. I admit I have appreciated her womanly ways around the place.
"By your leave, Master Stigwood sir, I cannot work any longer with that terrible oaf," she said in her low English, refering to Brown. "He treats me like a fool, just because I is a beauty, and well-endowed to boot." She thrust her bosoms towards me by way of an explanation. "I wish to go somewhere where I shall be treated less loike female window dressing, like."
And with that, she walked out of my front door with her bags.
This is the final straw - my entire staff decimated because of that cantankerous old buffoon! I shall be having words!
No, it is not my friend and lodger Lumpy Pete, who remains a pleasure. Instead, I have experienced a mutiny below stairs. That is, my faithful crew of domestic servants have proved rather less faithful than I would like.
It is all because of my personal valet Brown, who's curmudgeonly behaviour has gradually led to an uprising since he joined me two years ago.
First, my brassy old cook Jacqui threw her soup stirrer at Brown after he balked at the taste of her turtle soup and suggested she take a more suitable job in my household. Out the door she went, throwing her pinafore to the floor as she left.
She was quickly followed by her pint-sized pal, my scullery maid Hazel, who left with a stream of shocking oaths aimed at my old retainer. When Brown responded in kind, my two butlers -Purnell and "chubby" Watson - jumped to the women's defence and an unholy scuffle broke out there in the pantry.
At this point I stormed in and ceased the unholy racket with some stern words. Purnell and Watson left in the direction of the public house with their final wage packet, and I sent Brown to think about his actions in the coal shed.
I returned to my study, only to hear a knock upon the door. Caroline, my parlour maid, came in to remonstrate. My, but she's an eye-catching slattern - dark haired and buxom, and with a saucy twinkle about the eye. I admit I have appreciated her womanly ways around the place.
"By your leave, Master Stigwood sir, I cannot work any longer with that terrible oaf," she said in her low English, refering to Brown. "He treats me like a fool, just because I is a beauty, and well-endowed to boot." She thrust her bosoms towards me by way of an explanation. "I wish to go somewhere where I shall be treated less loike female window dressing, like."
And with that, she walked out of my front door with her bags.
This is the final straw - my entire staff decimated because of that cantankerous old buffoon! I shall be having words!
Sunday 7 June 2009
A viewing at the anotomical department of the London Hospital
Readers - a bewitching weekend! Today, myself and my new lodger, Mr Lumpy Pete Esq., went along to the anotomical department of the London Hospital, where a viewing was being held of the latest "talk of the town".
All week the penny dreadfuls have been rife with tales of the outlandish creature found washed upon the shores at Portsmouth - a creature of such shocking countenance that it is said that the local peasantry started to assemble a bonfire in the town square on which to burn this so-called 'harpy'.
The creature, which is humanoid in form and female of sex, was saved at the last moment by a businessman who smelled a pretty penny could be made from this poor beast.
The fellow - whose name was Elphick - had set up a stall and was charging a penny a throw to view the visitor, while treating her awful harsh with beatings and deathly threats.
It was fortunate for the creature that doctors from the London Hospital had gotten word of this fascinating discovery and traveled down to Portsmouth. Having paid off Elphick with a collection of pornographic daguerretypes, the distressed creature was saved and brought back to London for immediate vivisection.
However, on their return the doctors discovered that the beast, despite her other-worldly appearance, held some form of intelligence, and that she uttered some kind of language, unknown to the Hospital. They decided that vivisection would be delayed while she was inspected more closely.
Where she was from, no one knew. The Pall Mall Gazette speculated that she was from Grimpy-Grimpy Land in the Upper Lowlands, while the Illustrated Times - which published some fascinating drawings of her mons veneris - suggested the Isles of Sebadoh.
As anthropology students, myself and Lumpy were keen to view the creature for ourselves and filed into the main observation room with the varous scientists, students, journalists, bored housewives and drunks sheltering from the rain.
Doctor Woolgrove - eminent in the field of ethnology, with a doctorate in Sickening Beasts - took to the stage.
"Gentlemen," he called for attention. "Prepare yourselves for a view so horrendous in nature, so awful to the eye, that you may weep, you may faint from shock. But please remember, we are men of science. And as men of science we have a duty to inspect this creature, to learn and gain an understanding of how it thinks and feels. And ultimately to slice it open and take it apart, piece by piece. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Mandy."
A curtain was party and in the creature walked. Collectively breath was inhaled and some of the housewives fell from their chairs.
Mandy was fully eight feet tall. Her body, roughly the same shape as a human, was covered in an over-abundence of surface flesh, which hung down in glutinous folds around her body, particularly her neck, her armpits and her inner thighs. Her breasts, of which I counted eight, hung down in a pendulous manner. But her face - if one might call it that - was perhaps the most alarming.
With no neck to speak of, the head sort of leaked down into her upper torso, with her face being merely a series of quivering bulges which looked ready to explode at any moment. Some of these bulges may have been her eyes, nose or ears - it was hard to tell.
The overall impression was that one was viewing a large, creamy blancmange.
From within the face, a wide crevice opened and uttered the following in a series of gaseous belches:
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Pleased to meet you, I'm sure."
The room exploded with wild chatter. Each man turned to his fellow in astonishment to check he was seeing correctly. By my side, Lumpy Pete nudged me and uttered into my ear: "I say, Augustus. What do you make of the poor creature? I have seen nothing like it in my life!"
"Why, she's beautiful," I replied dreamily.
Lumpy stared at me, his monocle dropping from his eye with astonishment.
A lengthy and tedious question and answer session followed, during which I admit I fell asleep for a period. Then, as the gallery gathered itself to leave, I seized my opportunity. I bounded up to Mandy and pressed into her glutinous pad that passed for a hand a crumpled piece of paper. "My phone number," I said with a worldly air. "Give me a call if you fancy being shown around town."
Myself and Lumpy returned home and continued our studies. But I have been unable to concentrate, thinking of my adorable Mandy. No call from her yet, damn it - I presume those professors will be having a pop as well. Harumph!
All week the penny dreadfuls have been rife with tales of the outlandish creature found washed upon the shores at Portsmouth - a creature of such shocking countenance that it is said that the local peasantry started to assemble a bonfire in the town square on which to burn this so-called 'harpy'.
The creature, which is humanoid in form and female of sex, was saved at the last moment by a businessman who smelled a pretty penny could be made from this poor beast.
The fellow - whose name was Elphick - had set up a stall and was charging a penny a throw to view the visitor, while treating her awful harsh with beatings and deathly threats.
It was fortunate for the creature that doctors from the London Hospital had gotten word of this fascinating discovery and traveled down to Portsmouth. Having paid off Elphick with a collection of pornographic daguerretypes, the distressed creature was saved and brought back to London for immediate vivisection.
However, on their return the doctors discovered that the beast, despite her other-worldly appearance, held some form of intelligence, and that she uttered some kind of language, unknown to the Hospital. They decided that vivisection would be delayed while she was inspected more closely.
Where she was from, no one knew. The Pall Mall Gazette speculated that she was from Grimpy-Grimpy Land in the Upper Lowlands, while the Illustrated Times - which published some fascinating drawings of her mons veneris - suggested the Isles of Sebadoh.
As anthropology students, myself and Lumpy were keen to view the creature for ourselves and filed into the main observation room with the varous scientists, students, journalists, bored housewives and drunks sheltering from the rain.
Doctor Woolgrove - eminent in the field of ethnology, with a doctorate in Sickening Beasts - took to the stage.
"Gentlemen," he called for attention. "Prepare yourselves for a view so horrendous in nature, so awful to the eye, that you may weep, you may faint from shock. But please remember, we are men of science. And as men of science we have a duty to inspect this creature, to learn and gain an understanding of how it thinks and feels. And ultimately to slice it open and take it apart, piece by piece. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Mandy."
A curtain was party and in the creature walked. Collectively breath was inhaled and some of the housewives fell from their chairs.
Mandy was fully eight feet tall. Her body, roughly the same shape as a human, was covered in an over-abundence of surface flesh, which hung down in glutinous folds around her body, particularly her neck, her armpits and her inner thighs. Her breasts, of which I counted eight, hung down in a pendulous manner. But her face - if one might call it that - was perhaps the most alarming.
With no neck to speak of, the head sort of leaked down into her upper torso, with her face being merely a series of quivering bulges which looked ready to explode at any moment. Some of these bulges may have been her eyes, nose or ears - it was hard to tell.
The overall impression was that one was viewing a large, creamy blancmange.
From within the face, a wide crevice opened and uttered the following in a series of gaseous belches:
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Pleased to meet you, I'm sure."
The room exploded with wild chatter. Each man turned to his fellow in astonishment to check he was seeing correctly. By my side, Lumpy Pete nudged me and uttered into my ear: "I say, Augustus. What do you make of the poor creature? I have seen nothing like it in my life!"
"Why, she's beautiful," I replied dreamily.
Lumpy stared at me, his monocle dropping from his eye with astonishment.
A lengthy and tedious question and answer session followed, during which I admit I fell asleep for a period. Then, as the gallery gathered itself to leave, I seized my opportunity. I bounded up to Mandy and pressed into her glutinous pad that passed for a hand a crumpled piece of paper. "My phone number," I said with a worldly air. "Give me a call if you fancy being shown around town."
Myself and Lumpy returned home and continued our studies. But I have been unable to concentrate, thinking of my adorable Mandy. No call from her yet, damn it - I presume those professors will be having a pop as well. Harumph!
Tuesday 2 June 2009
An unpleasant awakening...
I woke up this morning tied to the railings outside Number 10 Downing Street as if I were some damned Pankhurst suffregette. Confused, I looked about me to gain some clue as to how I found myself there. I soon realised that my situation was unlikely to be connected to the struggle for equal rights, as I was naked from head to foot, and my testicles had been painted a shade of deep ochre.
Imagine my dismay when Mr Gladstone stepped out of of a carriage and passed by me on his way into his venerable house. Attempting to smooth over the obvious embarrasment, I uttered some words of support for his Irish Coercion Act. He merely harumphed and slammed the black door shut behind him. Miserable ass!
Once freed by a particularly tactile Peeler, I donned some simple working man's clothes from a line and headed north-west, to Chez Stiggers. On the way, I pondered upon the mystery of my morning. I rifled through the events of last night for some clue: a meeting with a fellow Devotee of Raku at the Bucket of Blood, then to the Kings Head and on to The Porcupine, where he was kicked out for exposing his anus to an off-duty policeman. I continued alone to a range of low gin houses along Haymarket.
I recall viciously kicking a tramp about the face, then all is shrouded in darkness.
As I allowed myself entry to my house, I vowed to discover who it was who left me in such an uncompromising position. His entrails would be wrapped around a streetlamp within the hour!
Goodnight my dear friends.
Augustus
x
Imagine my dismay when Mr Gladstone stepped out of of a carriage and passed by me on his way into his venerable house. Attempting to smooth over the obvious embarrasment, I uttered some words of support for his Irish Coercion Act. He merely harumphed and slammed the black door shut behind him. Miserable ass!
Once freed by a particularly tactile Peeler, I donned some simple working man's clothes from a line and headed north-west, to Chez Stiggers. On the way, I pondered upon the mystery of my morning. I rifled through the events of last night for some clue: a meeting with a fellow Devotee of Raku at the Bucket of Blood, then to the Kings Head and on to The Porcupine, where he was kicked out for exposing his anus to an off-duty policeman. I continued alone to a range of low gin houses along Haymarket.
I recall viciously kicking a tramp about the face, then all is shrouded in darkness.
As I allowed myself entry to my house, I vowed to discover who it was who left me in such an uncompromising position. His entrails would be wrapped around a streetlamp within the hour!
Goodnight my dear friends.
Augustus
x
A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR
Forgive the unbearable hiatus, Augustus-fans!
It is a strange facet of the great man's writings that they suddenly trail off and disappear, much like the vapour trail of the X3244 star destroyer in my novel "Lazer Argonauts" as it headed boldly towards the inverted sun of.... but I digress.
Perhaps he was indulging too heavily in the affairs of 'la nuit' these two weeks, but it is with happy heart that I can inform you that Stigwood resumes his posts tomorrow night... and with a stunning revelation.
JC Guthrey
Science fiction author
It is a strange facet of the great man's writings that they suddenly trail off and disappear, much like the vapour trail of the X3244 star destroyer in my novel "Lazer Argonauts" as it headed boldly towards the inverted sun of.... but I digress.
Perhaps he was indulging too heavily in the affairs of 'la nuit' these two weeks, but it is with happy heart that I can inform you that Stigwood resumes his posts tomorrow night... and with a stunning revelation.
JC Guthrey
Science fiction author
Tuesday 12 May 2009
An evening at The Porcupine gentlemen's club with Lumpy Pete, Esq.
Ladies and gentlemen, I must recount to you the curious events that took place between the hours of nine pm and five am on Friday. As I have previously recounted, I had planned to meet with my favourite traveling companion, Sir Lumpy Pete esq.
I arranged to meet him at my favourite gentlemen's establishment, "The Porcupine", managed and owned by Lord Derby - an errant man with an eye for the ladies... and rather more, I wager! With my moustache firmly waxed, I glanced around me then gave the correct combination of knocks to the door on ----- Street, thus affording my entry.
I was awarded a knowing squint from the cloakroom attendent, who pointed me bar-wards with his porcelain beak.
It was, as always, a place of violent extremes. It is the noise that hits you first: a raucous din of feverish chattering beasts struggling to be heard over strange repetitive music, perhaps the work of some Krautrock band.
The visual side of the whole affair is equally hard to digest. The room, barely thirty feet square is covered on all surfaces with a thick woolen rug. It hangs down in vast rouge clumps from the ceiling, swirling in obscene masses around our feet and cascading over Regency tables and sideboards in manner that suggests the imbibement of psychedelic drugs.
One can only presume that Lord Derby picked up such peculiar ideas about interior decoration from his travels in the Orient.
"The Porcupine"'s members take many forms, but all have one thing in common - they have, as I have heard said, something of the night about them. Members of Parliament go there to spend their publicly-funded expenses on absinthe and large-breasted girls; chinese slave importers go to cut deals; slight-bodied uranians go to meet like-minded gentlemen within the denser outcrops of rug.
I have seen villains of all hues threaten each other with dismemberment, only minutes later to be cheering each other's health over a flagon of horse-cider.
Some people may question why a gentleman such as I would frequent such a place. Well, it beats Soho House.
I spotted the speckled features of Lumpy ensconsed in a corner, staring with avid intent at a loose-breasted bar girl, and broke his spell with a clap to the forehead. The startled oaf jumped skyward and spilled gin fizz down his plus fours. I scoffed and forced a packet of "wizard powder" into his claw, at which his eyes lit up.
After we had indulged, Lumpy explained to me his current situation.
"Augustus, old friend," he began in his familiar gruff tone. "What a year... my wife left me after catching me with the maid. I gambled away my house in a poker game in the Ukraine, and had to move in with my sister in her house in Stepney. But she kicked me out after I messed the bed one night."
"Well, I fell in with a rough lot after that, and have been running the streets of Bromley-by-Bow, fighting for scraps handed out by nurses and such. Oh, what a year indeed!" As he spoke, he dipped into his pocket and drew a few live worms to his mouth - a distasteful habit that he succumbed to while down in that pit.
"Lumpy, Lumpy," I muttered. "Think nothing of it - you shall move in with me at once! When you are my housemate, we shall plan together our next great journey into the unknown lands. Once more, Lumpy and Augustus shall sally forth!"
And with that my pal wept tears of gratitude, clutching his pustulous face so close to my neck that I had to demand he desist forthwith.
From there the evening descended into the usual bad craziness. We finished the "Wizard" and were taught some fascinating traditional dances by a pair of Greek boys. At one point there was a small explosion in the bar and the MPs ran around screaming. However, this settled down, and after playing bridge for an hour while drinking some form of vinegar, the log fire was lit and the wrestling began.
Got home at five, a tad scorched. Hope I'm not going have any trouble from my new house guest - he bites like a wounded wolverine.
I arranged to meet him at my favourite gentlemen's establishment, "The Porcupine", managed and owned by Lord Derby - an errant man with an eye for the ladies... and rather more, I wager! With my moustache firmly waxed, I glanced around me then gave the correct combination of knocks to the door on ----- Street, thus affording my entry.
I was awarded a knowing squint from the cloakroom attendent, who pointed me bar-wards with his porcelain beak.
It was, as always, a place of violent extremes. It is the noise that hits you first: a raucous din of feverish chattering beasts struggling to be heard over strange repetitive music, perhaps the work of some Krautrock band.
The visual side of the whole affair is equally hard to digest. The room, barely thirty feet square is covered on all surfaces with a thick woolen rug. It hangs down in vast rouge clumps from the ceiling, swirling in obscene masses around our feet and cascading over Regency tables and sideboards in manner that suggests the imbibement of psychedelic drugs.
One can only presume that Lord Derby picked up such peculiar ideas about interior decoration from his travels in the Orient.
"The Porcupine"'s members take many forms, but all have one thing in common - they have, as I have heard said, something of the night about them. Members of Parliament go there to spend their publicly-funded expenses on absinthe and large-breasted girls; chinese slave importers go to cut deals; slight-bodied uranians go to meet like-minded gentlemen within the denser outcrops of rug.
I have seen villains of all hues threaten each other with dismemberment, only minutes later to be cheering each other's health over a flagon of horse-cider.
Some people may question why a gentleman such as I would frequent such a place. Well, it beats Soho House.
I spotted the speckled features of Lumpy ensconsed in a corner, staring with avid intent at a loose-breasted bar girl, and broke his spell with a clap to the forehead. The startled oaf jumped skyward and spilled gin fizz down his plus fours. I scoffed and forced a packet of "wizard powder" into his claw, at which his eyes lit up.
After we had indulged, Lumpy explained to me his current situation.
"Augustus, old friend," he began in his familiar gruff tone. "What a year... my wife left me after catching me with the maid. I gambled away my house in a poker game in the Ukraine, and had to move in with my sister in her house in Stepney. But she kicked me out after I messed the bed one night."
"Well, I fell in with a rough lot after that, and have been running the streets of Bromley-by-Bow, fighting for scraps handed out by nurses and such. Oh, what a year indeed!" As he spoke, he dipped into his pocket and drew a few live worms to his mouth - a distasteful habit that he succumbed to while down in that pit.
"Lumpy, Lumpy," I muttered. "Think nothing of it - you shall move in with me at once! When you are my housemate, we shall plan together our next great journey into the unknown lands. Once more, Lumpy and Augustus shall sally forth!"
And with that my pal wept tears of gratitude, clutching his pustulous face so close to my neck that I had to demand he desist forthwith.
From there the evening descended into the usual bad craziness. We finished the "Wizard" and were taught some fascinating traditional dances by a pair of Greek boys. At one point there was a small explosion in the bar and the MPs ran around screaming. However, this settled down, and after playing bridge for an hour while drinking some form of vinegar, the log fire was lit and the wrestling began.
Got home at five, a tad scorched. Hope I'm not going have any trouble from my new house guest - he bites like a wounded wolverine.
Tuesday 5 May 2009
A reminiscence of Lumpy Pete
Have sent a telegram to the Hampstead residence of Mr. Lumpy Pete esq., inviting him to dine with me at The Porcupine on Thursday night. I wish to discuss with him my plans for further travels in the unknown lands. Lumpy was my right hand man on my explorations through the upper lowlands in 18--, and a truly excellent accomplice he was, to boot.
There is one incident from that fateful journey of which I often think. Lumpy and I were passing into East Excelspreadsheet along the dusty Hggr Road, with two young Austrian men we had met in a bar the previous night. All of a sudden we were ambushed by a group of natives. The group – a dozen of them in all - clamoured about us, invading our personal space in a wholly inconsiderate manner.
Initially unconcerned, I then noticed the savages were wearing the acid-washed jeans and banana clips peculiar to the Detnuii Tribe, and my blood ran cold. The Detnuii are known for acts of such outrageous depravity that would chill the heart of even the most seasoned workhouse inspector.
We were trussed up and forced to accompany them through the jungle to their camp. As the sun went down on Excelspreadsheet, the four of us were pushed down into a pit along a rickety bamboo walkway. In trepidation, we descended into the darkness until fully twenty feet submerged we hit the bottom, which boiled with wriggling creatures and creeping beasts of all sizes and shapes. The walkway was removed and this pit was to become our home for the next month.
Every day at sunrise, one of our captors would spray us with rabbit droppings then shout insults until another took over at lunchtime. Thankfully, this one was a little milder in tone, but could still have a most unreasonable turn of phrase. We would spend all day under the scorching sun, scrabbling away in the dirt for the bugs that roamed therein, which we would gobble up immediately.
To stop fights breaking out, we developed an arrangement whereby I would eat only beetles, while Lumpy stuck exclusively to worms. Furthermore, the two Austrian boys would eat solely spiders and ants respectively. After a while we began a system of bartering. I found myself the proprietor of a rather successful smallholding that I dare say could have gone on to greater things - were it not submerged in a pit and sprayed with rabbit effluent twice a day.
By the fourth week, things were turning desperate. From the bitchy looks they were shooting at us from their corner of the pit, we suspected the boys were cottoning on to the fact that they had gotten the raw end of the deal with spiders and ants. It was us or them, and on the thirtieth night, we charged over and fought them to the death using daggers we had fashioned from beetles squashed together then hardened in the sun.
As we prepared ourselves for a meal of Austrian boys, spiders and ants, a sound came from above us. We looked up to see the tribespeople jumping up and down and screaming, reacting in a raucous manner to the murders we had carried out. The walkway was lowered and our weakened bodies were carried aloft. We were immediately set free.
What can I say of the meaning to this adventure? Did the Detnuii put us to a test of stamina, to see who deserved freedom the most? All I can do is repeat the words of the man I took to be their leader, as we were set free:
“That might be the way you behave at your house, but when you come to ours for dinner, we expect a little decorum.”
There is one incident from that fateful journey of which I often think. Lumpy and I were passing into East Excelspreadsheet along the dusty Hggr Road, with two young Austrian men we had met in a bar the previous night. All of a sudden we were ambushed by a group of natives. The group – a dozen of them in all - clamoured about us, invading our personal space in a wholly inconsiderate manner.
Initially unconcerned, I then noticed the savages were wearing the acid-washed jeans and banana clips peculiar to the Detnuii Tribe, and my blood ran cold. The Detnuii are known for acts of such outrageous depravity that would chill the heart of even the most seasoned workhouse inspector.
We were trussed up and forced to accompany them through the jungle to their camp. As the sun went down on Excelspreadsheet, the four of us were pushed down into a pit along a rickety bamboo walkway. In trepidation, we descended into the darkness until fully twenty feet submerged we hit the bottom, which boiled with wriggling creatures and creeping beasts of all sizes and shapes. The walkway was removed and this pit was to become our home for the next month.
Every day at sunrise, one of our captors would spray us with rabbit droppings then shout insults until another took over at lunchtime. Thankfully, this one was a little milder in tone, but could still have a most unreasonable turn of phrase. We would spend all day under the scorching sun, scrabbling away in the dirt for the bugs that roamed therein, which we would gobble up immediately.
To stop fights breaking out, we developed an arrangement whereby I would eat only beetles, while Lumpy stuck exclusively to worms. Furthermore, the two Austrian boys would eat solely spiders and ants respectively. After a while we began a system of bartering. I found myself the proprietor of a rather successful smallholding that I dare say could have gone on to greater things - were it not submerged in a pit and sprayed with rabbit effluent twice a day.
By the fourth week, things were turning desperate. From the bitchy looks they were shooting at us from their corner of the pit, we suspected the boys were cottoning on to the fact that they had gotten the raw end of the deal with spiders and ants. It was us or them, and on the thirtieth night, we charged over and fought them to the death using daggers we had fashioned from beetles squashed together then hardened in the sun.
As we prepared ourselves for a meal of Austrian boys, spiders and ants, a sound came from above us. We looked up to see the tribespeople jumping up and down and screaming, reacting in a raucous manner to the murders we had carried out. The walkway was lowered and our weakened bodies were carried aloft. We were immediately set free.
What can I say of the meaning to this adventure? Did the Detnuii put us to a test of stamina, to see who deserved freedom the most? All I can do is repeat the words of the man I took to be their leader, as we were set free:
“That might be the way you behave at your house, but when you come to ours for dinner, we expect a little decorum.”
Saturday 2 May 2009
A consideration of domestic crime
I read in The Times today that felonies by domestic servants have gone up. I cannot suspect what is causing this, but my top hat balances carefully upon a silver tea tray.... should I recall the time of elves, when men walked on all fours? these sheets knot around me, I smell the vinegar close at hand, it's nearing my torso - let me free! I will walk again, but these blacklegs, they poison me!
Darkness descends, I take a passageway under the earth's crust and head South beneath the Thames... a lark alights, I consider the reaper. The light! And fishwives from Billingsgate are hawking their wares - then buboes, syphilitic chancres poison my body and I am lost...
I hear that some respectable-looking young women, in the service of middle-class and fashionable families, are connected with burglars, and have been recommended to their places through their influence, or that of their acquaintances. Shocking, really.
Darkness descends, I take a passageway under the earth's crust and head South beneath the Thames... a lark alights, I consider the reaper. The light! And fishwives from Billingsgate are hawking their wares - then buboes, syphilitic chancres poison my body and I am lost...
I hear that some respectable-looking young women, in the service of middle-class and fashionable families, are connected with burglars, and have been recommended to their places through their influence, or that of their acquaintances. Shocking, really.
Thursday 30 April 2009
A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR
Forever the accidental genius, I stumbled upon the blog of Augustus J Stigwood last September. It was a chance encounter which in many ways proved life-changing, first for myself and subsequently for his many fans around the world. For I have come to find in Augustus not only a soul-mate, but perhaps my only equal.
With novels such as ‘Farewell, Sweet Jupiter’, ‘The Sebum Machine’ and ‘Galaxies Like So Much Salt’, my work has pushed the genre of science fiction into new and uncompromising shapes. But the discovery I made in the attic of my house that fateful day was just as mind-blowing.
It was there that I discovered a casket, which I carefully prised open to reveal inside an ancient hard drive. Despite being more concerned with future worlds than past ones, I estimated it to be from around the 1870s. I was not far wrong.
On connecting it to my own computer I found on the drive the following: four photographs of a young lady in a bonnet posing in Kew Gardens (the final of which lent an unusual use to a bamboo stalk); an obscure computer game involving fish leaping from a stream which the player aims to catch in a moveable handbag; and Augustus’ blog.
I can still recall the moment I first feasted my eyes on his life – the visitations from his dead wife (her name, :;.^., I have learnt to pronounce with a series of clicks and whistles), the peculiar dishes on which he gorged, the drink-fuelled nights at his club, The Porcupine (now an outlet of Costa Coffee)… it was a world away from galactic battles and inter-dimensional travel.
And yet in there, somewhere I recognised a like-minded soul. For both I and Augustus have set out on a mission to discover new worlds. At that moment, I decided to serialise his blog on the Internet once more, over 100 years after it was originally written.
And so, I hope you enjoy following Augustus in his life’s journey. As he prepares for what is destined to become his final expedition into the unknown lands, be warned - there are some shocking discoveries to come.
As Voidon Merkx, the charismatic starlord in my 48th novel, ‘Death to all Droids!’ intones: ‘This life is not for the both of us, Excerzon X – heroes are born but once a lifetime!’ Amen to that.
JC Guthrey
With novels such as ‘Farewell, Sweet Jupiter’, ‘The Sebum Machine’ and ‘Galaxies Like So Much Salt’, my work has pushed the genre of science fiction into new and uncompromising shapes. But the discovery I made in the attic of my house that fateful day was just as mind-blowing.
It was there that I discovered a casket, which I carefully prised open to reveal inside an ancient hard drive. Despite being more concerned with future worlds than past ones, I estimated it to be from around the 1870s. I was not far wrong.
On connecting it to my own computer I found on the drive the following: four photographs of a young lady in a bonnet posing in Kew Gardens (the final of which lent an unusual use to a bamboo stalk); an obscure computer game involving fish leaping from a stream which the player aims to catch in a moveable handbag; and Augustus’ blog.
I can still recall the moment I first feasted my eyes on his life – the visitations from his dead wife (her name, :;.^., I have learnt to pronounce with a series of clicks and whistles), the peculiar dishes on which he gorged, the drink-fuelled nights at his club, The Porcupine (now an outlet of Costa Coffee)… it was a world away from galactic battles and inter-dimensional travel.
And yet in there, somewhere I recognised a like-minded soul. For both I and Augustus have set out on a mission to discover new worlds. At that moment, I decided to serialise his blog on the Internet once more, over 100 years after it was originally written.
And so, I hope you enjoy following Augustus in his life’s journey. As he prepares for what is destined to become his final expedition into the unknown lands, be warned - there are some shocking discoveries to come.
As Voidon Merkx, the charismatic starlord in my 48th novel, ‘Death to all Droids!’ intones: ‘This life is not for the both of us, Excerzon X – heroes are born but once a lifetime!’ Amen to that.
JC Guthrey
Sunday 26 April 2009
A warning
This evening started in delightful concentration in my drawing room. I had been cataloguing and re-ordering my extensive collection of animal sphincters, placing them into a cherrywood case in sections according to dilatability.
Occasionally I would call for my grumpy valet Brown to bring forth tea, or a platter of pickled mouse tails, or a flyjam sandwich, who would despatch them with his typical distaste, at one point pushing a laser printer off my desk in anger. The curmudgeon!
Regardless, the peaceful endeavour of itemising each anal orifice allowed me a little time to reflect upon my life and plans. More than ever, I longed to travel into the unknown lands once more, to kill or marry newly-met natives in the name of scientific endeavour, and to claim another patch of heathenry for Her Majesty.
Before this would be possible, however, I must gain further income through the subtle art of blackmail. My steady income from Mr Bertram Bertram is but a fraction of that needed for me to head out into the unknown. I promised myself I would find further dupes in haste.
But it was as I filed a particuarly impressive wolf sphincter, that I became aware of a presence in the room beside me. I looked around to see that my ghost bride had entered the drawing room and was standing looking impassively in my direction. I froze - although I had become used to these visitations, I was still unnerved by her presence.
"What do you want?" I asked commandingly. At this, the phantom raised its feathered arms to me and her distended eyes took on a pleading countenance.
"What is it?" I asked, with a little less self-control. As if to answer, she shook her tendrills dismissively, spattering ghostly sputum over my hearth rug. I recognised the gesture - it was used by her people as a warning.
"What? What is wrong?" I begged, falling down upon my knees.
At this, she raised her claw to a map of the world that I have on my wall, and made her first sound - a cry I recall many times from our delicious but unnatural love-making. "Mwoooooaaaaaaghh" she called, like a rabid fog horn. It was, in this context, an unnerving tone.
And then she was gone, disappeared in an instant.
Afterwards, I spent much time considering the meaning of her warning. Was I to meet with some fearsome end if I went away travelling? Or was I to find a new bride in the foreign lands?
I head to bed tonight with a brain full of dark thoughts. Let brandy be my guide through the night.
Occasionally I would call for my grumpy valet Brown to bring forth tea, or a platter of pickled mouse tails, or a flyjam sandwich, who would despatch them with his typical distaste, at one point pushing a laser printer off my desk in anger. The curmudgeon!
Regardless, the peaceful endeavour of itemising each anal orifice allowed me a little time to reflect upon my life and plans. More than ever, I longed to travel into the unknown lands once more, to kill or marry newly-met natives in the name of scientific endeavour, and to claim another patch of heathenry for Her Majesty.
Before this would be possible, however, I must gain further income through the subtle art of blackmail. My steady income from Mr Bertram Bertram is but a fraction of that needed for me to head out into the unknown. I promised myself I would find further dupes in haste.
But it was as I filed a particuarly impressive wolf sphincter, that I became aware of a presence in the room beside me. I looked around to see that my ghost bride had entered the drawing room and was standing looking impassively in my direction. I froze - although I had become used to these visitations, I was still unnerved by her presence.
"What do you want?" I asked commandingly. At this, the phantom raised its feathered arms to me and her distended eyes took on a pleading countenance.
"What is it?" I asked, with a little less self-control. As if to answer, she shook her tendrills dismissively, spattering ghostly sputum over my hearth rug. I recognised the gesture - it was used by her people as a warning.
"What? What is wrong?" I begged, falling down upon my knees.
At this, she raised her claw to a map of the world that I have on my wall, and made her first sound - a cry I recall many times from our delicious but unnatural love-making. "Mwoooooaaaaaaghh" she called, like a rabid fog horn. It was, in this context, an unnerving tone.
And then she was gone, disappeared in an instant.
Afterwards, I spent much time considering the meaning of her warning. Was I to meet with some fearsome end if I went away travelling? Or was I to find a new bride in the foreign lands?
I head to bed tonight with a brain full of dark thoughts. Let brandy be my guide through the night.
Tuesday 21 April 2009
Summer arrives... and an old habit returns
At last, summer has arrived in murky London. The fog that normally gathers in thick piles across Oxford Street has flowed away into the side streets and the sign at Selfridges was visible beyond two o'clock in the afternoon! Such was the temperature that I saw one audacious lady venture out with a bare wrist.
Enlivened by the clemency, I ventured down to Holland Park where I desired to spend a few idle hours worrying the Queen's peafowl with a jar of goose fat. Sadly, they had already been attacked by Baron Tennyson who I saw being dragged away by two Peelers while clutching a potted ham to his chest.
With no fowl to trouble, my mind was quickly stultified in the heat and I confess I became a little mischievous. Forgetting all of my recent promises, I took a match to a fine old English beech in the Kyoto Gardens and watched it light up with devilish glee. Recalling a stay with the Swtllthth people in Lower @land and their magnificent rituals, I stripped to my longjohns and did a tribal dance around the tree, chanting thoughtfully.
However, the fire got a little out of hand and I quickly slipped away to a safe distance to witness the slow response of the city's fire service. The fire had engulfed all of the south east side of the park, not to mention a row of houses in Kensington, before the officers gained control of the blaze! By which point, I was safely watching the activities from the Fountain Tea Room across the high street.
It is, incidentally, remarkably difficult to get served high tea when dressed only in a pair of long johns.
Enlivened by the clemency, I ventured down to Holland Park where I desired to spend a few idle hours worrying the Queen's peafowl with a jar of goose fat. Sadly, they had already been attacked by Baron Tennyson who I saw being dragged away by two Peelers while clutching a potted ham to his chest.
With no fowl to trouble, my mind was quickly stultified in the heat and I confess I became a little mischievous. Forgetting all of my recent promises, I took a match to a fine old English beech in the Kyoto Gardens and watched it light up with devilish glee. Recalling a stay with the Swtllthth people in Lower @land and their magnificent rituals, I stripped to my longjohns and did a tribal dance around the tree, chanting thoughtfully.
However, the fire got a little out of hand and I quickly slipped away to a safe distance to witness the slow response of the city's fire service. The fire had engulfed all of the south east side of the park, not to mention a row of houses in Kensington, before the officers gained control of the blaze! By which point, I was safely watching the activities from the Fountain Tea Room across the high street.
It is, incidentally, remarkably difficult to get served high tea when dressed only in a pair of long johns.
Monday 20 April 2009
A surprising incident caused by a distracted valet
Brown, my curmudgeonly old retainer, has been at it again. I rang downstairs at ten past eight, feeling peckish for a little lightly-grilled sea otter. The rumple-faced old darling arrived at my door an entire eighteen minutes later, with no excuse for his tardiness.
"What the devil is this?" I wondered to myself at my valet's manner, which was even more morose than usual. When I requested a second helping of walnut shavings, he positively glowered at me from beneath his heavy brow. My interest well and truly piqued, I questioned Brown as to whether anything was distracting him from his business. At this, he revealed what was on his troubled mind.
"Our industrial policy is about a dialogue with business, leading to a consensus about what we in Britain need to do to face this global future, and then of course a partnership for the future that I believe is to the benefit of all," he muttered stonily, as he ladled Cardinal sauce all over my jacket.
"Damn it, Brown!" I exclaimed, leaping from my chair and throwing my napkin to the floor. "What in the blazes is wrong with you?"
My man-servant looked sheepishly at me, then slowly uttered: "We have difficulties that we are overcoming, but we have also got enormous opportunities and challenges ahead. Working together, we can meet and master every challenge." He then excused himself and left the room.
I can only suspect his eccentric behaviour has something to do with his questionable management of my household finances - an area in which I was led to beleive he had impeccable credentials. If such erratic acts continue, I shall be forced to send him out onto the street and seek new help.
"What the devil is this?" I wondered to myself at my valet's manner, which was even more morose than usual. When I requested a second helping of walnut shavings, he positively glowered at me from beneath his heavy brow. My interest well and truly piqued, I questioned Brown as to whether anything was distracting him from his business. At this, he revealed what was on his troubled mind.
"Our industrial policy is about a dialogue with business, leading to a consensus about what we in Britain need to do to face this global future, and then of course a partnership for the future that I believe is to the benefit of all," he muttered stonily, as he ladled Cardinal sauce all over my jacket.
"Damn it, Brown!" I exclaimed, leaping from my chair and throwing my napkin to the floor. "What in the blazes is wrong with you?"
My man-servant looked sheepishly at me, then slowly uttered: "We have difficulties that we are overcoming, but we have also got enormous opportunities and challenges ahead. Working together, we can meet and master every challenge." He then excused himself and left the room.
I can only suspect his eccentric behaviour has something to do with his questionable management of my household finances - an area in which I was led to beleive he had impeccable credentials. If such erratic acts continue, I shall be forced to send him out onto the street and seek new help.
Friday 17 April 2009
A weekend in Pentonville Prison
Ah friends! I am duly rested and relaxed chez Stiggers. Good old Brown kippered me just half an hour hence, and now the thought of those two days I spent at Her Majesty's Pleasure sends my mind a-quiver. But think on them I must, to explain to you how it is inside that wretched trap.
Being that I was still entirely twisted from the over-indulgence of my Whitechapel encounter, my memories of standing in the dock are muddled. I do recall the be-wigged magistrate braying like some pompous ass, while I - now experiencing the downside of my misadventures - demanded a mug of port.
Then a darkness fell upon me, broken by glimpses: gates, ill-lit galleries, the ceaseless banging of doors, all around me blaggards of every description, a deep horror upon my soul as the whole scene played out in the hyper-reality of my ever-extant acid trip. Finally, I was plunged into a cell, falling upon a bed barely fit for a pauper.
I recall a reverie that played in my mind - wandering, I was, through a passage of meat, my naked arms brushing against the hanging beefs as I became ever-lost. Then I awoke with a start, surrounded by the twisted faces of my co-detainees. "Look 'er 'im" uttered one gnarled ogre, poking me in the crotch. "Splendid gent 'in 'e?" And so they babbled until I passed out again.
Then, some hours hence, waking again to find myself at work upon a satanic machination; an enormous stone disc of 30 feet diameter, rumbling aound a central point and pushed by myself and numerous other ne'er-do-wells... the purpose of this I cannot ascertain, perhaps to grind corn or such? A sentry post sat on top of the disc, where an out-of-sight guard maintained speed with a cracking whip that would leap into view if I slowed even minutely.
Again, time passes in subconsciousness. I find myself in an exercise yard wearing some heavy bronze mask. Around me are others dressed the same. We attempt to play some obscure game involving a ball being passed over each other with a square bat, which involved leaping and dashing, but the weight of these masks precludes physical exertion. We loll about like fools. Again, the lash comes down.
And then I am being handed some clothes in an office. I inspect them to find them to be from my tailor. A brief gasp and I'm pushed out into the street from whence I came... I leap into a Hackney carriage and utter my address in a deathly hush. My ordeal - over! Next time, I vow as I head homewards, I'll just take a half.
Being that I was still entirely twisted from the over-indulgence of my Whitechapel encounter, my memories of standing in the dock are muddled. I do recall the be-wigged magistrate braying like some pompous ass, while I - now experiencing the downside of my misadventures - demanded a mug of port.
Then a darkness fell upon me, broken by glimpses: gates, ill-lit galleries, the ceaseless banging of doors, all around me blaggards of every description, a deep horror upon my soul as the whole scene played out in the hyper-reality of my ever-extant acid trip. Finally, I was plunged into a cell, falling upon a bed barely fit for a pauper.
I recall a reverie that played in my mind - wandering, I was, through a passage of meat, my naked arms brushing against the hanging beefs as I became ever-lost. Then I awoke with a start, surrounded by the twisted faces of my co-detainees. "Look 'er 'im" uttered one gnarled ogre, poking me in the crotch. "Splendid gent 'in 'e?" And so they babbled until I passed out again.
Then, some hours hence, waking again to find myself at work upon a satanic machination; an enormous stone disc of 30 feet diameter, rumbling aound a central point and pushed by myself and numerous other ne'er-do-wells... the purpose of this I cannot ascertain, perhaps to grind corn or such? A sentry post sat on top of the disc, where an out-of-sight guard maintained speed with a cracking whip that would leap into view if I slowed even minutely.
Again, time passes in subconsciousness. I find myself in an exercise yard wearing some heavy bronze mask. Around me are others dressed the same. We attempt to play some obscure game involving a ball being passed over each other with a square bat, which involved leaping and dashing, but the weight of these masks precludes physical exertion. We loll about like fools. Again, the lash comes down.
And then I am being handed some clothes in an office. I inspect them to find them to be from my tailor. A brief gasp and I'm pushed out into the street from whence I came... I leap into a Hackney carriage and utter my address in a deathly hush. My ordeal - over! Next time, I vow as I head homewards, I'll just take a half.
Wednesday 15 April 2009
A first person account of the London underworld
It was on Wednesday night that my demand for knowledge led me from my smart Marylebone townhouse and took me to some of the most notorious rookeries of infamous characters in the metropolis. In truth, this is not the first time that my thirst for truth has led me into Godless danger, but it was still a momentous night in any book.
On my journey eastward, I swallowed down two tabs of the most piquant LSD, in order to make the learning experience all the more startling. And so it was. Arriving in Whitechapel I entered a public-house on Union Street, where I ordered a low drink. Fully aware that I was in sotadic zone 2, I remained on guard for dark deeds at my elbow.
Indeed, I immediately noticed four brutal-looking men loafing about the bar. I studied them, fascinated, from a quiet corner - their coarse, meat-like flesh, their stench of stale perspiration, the cruel look in their eye. As these features toughened and quickened before me, I guessed the medication was taking effect, and steadied my nerve with a handful of quaaludes.
So bolstered, I made my way through a door into a small yard behind the house, where I found a number of dogs chained to their kennels. These, I presumed were the dogs of the scented gentlemen. I swam through, their rotten maws snapping at my flinching face, and passed into an outhouse behind. There, between thirty and forty persons were assembled round a wooden enclosure looking on, while more rotten dogs were killing rats.
Hiding myself in the rear, I spied on the crowd - they consisted of burglars, pickpockets and the associates of thieves. Shouting oaths of encouragement as the dogs tore into the rats, they had the rough stamp of the criminal in their countenances and were enflamed by strong drink. Furthermore, the room began to pulsate with an unholy logic, as if breathing like a giant lung. I collapsed against a wall, shuddering. The cacophony of villainy seemed to rise to a crescendo, and I fled in terror, a handkerchief clasped to my mouth.
I passed through a tiny squat passage that seemingly carried on for eternity. I felt as though the dogs were barking at my very heels all the way. On emerging, I found myself on a street corner, where there were three women talking together. They were innocent of crinolene, and their countenances stolid. Gathering they were prostitutes, I walked over to make further my understanding of London's underworld.
After some discussion - I know not what - I was taken from that place with the three, to a house on Frederick Street. I imagine I had meant to develop my knowledge of their home life, although I am uncertain of my mental processes, having on the way inhaled an impressive helping of cocaine from a delicate glass orb tied around my neck.
After a dizzying array of bodyless faces passed by me, I found myself in a wretched tumble-down hovel that passed as a bedroom. There was not a chair to be seen, nor a bed-stead, and the whore lay down upon palliasse placed upon the floor. She introduced herself as Emma. Hastily, I prepared a spliff, and asked to know her story.
"My father and mother," she said, "kept a grocer's shop on Goswell Street. Mother died when I was twelve years old, and father took to drinking. I went to live with a sister who was bad. One day I met a sailor. He died of yellow fever in the West Indies. One of his mates brought me a silver snuff box. We lived in Gregories rents. When I was drunk, he used to tie my feet and hands and take me into the street. He'd throw me into the gutter, then throw buckets of water over me..."
And so it continued, dear friends! The banal patter of the low street walker! Shushing her so that I might learn more about the actualities of her trade, we were surprised by a loud knocking through the hallway. "Police!" came a scream, and all hell seemed to break loose, with bodies rushing hither and thither, many naked, both male and female.
I must admit I was most taken up in the moment, and when the peelers rushed through I did hastily remonstrate with them about their uninvited entrance. Slavvering somewhat, I beleive I did strike one of the fellows, flinging his helmet against a cracked tea pot. At this, he brought his truncheon down upon my brow and the rest is darkness.
When I awoke, I commenced what would be a terrifying but ultimately instructive Easter weekend. Allow me to explain further, tomorrow. But now, to bed.
On my journey eastward, I swallowed down two tabs of the most piquant LSD, in order to make the learning experience all the more startling. And so it was. Arriving in Whitechapel I entered a public-house on Union Street, where I ordered a low drink. Fully aware that I was in sotadic zone 2, I remained on guard for dark deeds at my elbow.
Indeed, I immediately noticed four brutal-looking men loafing about the bar. I studied them, fascinated, from a quiet corner - their coarse, meat-like flesh, their stench of stale perspiration, the cruel look in their eye. As these features toughened and quickened before me, I guessed the medication was taking effect, and steadied my nerve with a handful of quaaludes.
So bolstered, I made my way through a door into a small yard behind the house, where I found a number of dogs chained to their kennels. These, I presumed were the dogs of the scented gentlemen. I swam through, their rotten maws snapping at my flinching face, and passed into an outhouse behind. There, between thirty and forty persons were assembled round a wooden enclosure looking on, while more rotten dogs were killing rats.
Hiding myself in the rear, I spied on the crowd - they consisted of burglars, pickpockets and the associates of thieves. Shouting oaths of encouragement as the dogs tore into the rats, they had the rough stamp of the criminal in their countenances and were enflamed by strong drink. Furthermore, the room began to pulsate with an unholy logic, as if breathing like a giant lung. I collapsed against a wall, shuddering. The cacophony of villainy seemed to rise to a crescendo, and I fled in terror, a handkerchief clasped to my mouth.
I passed through a tiny squat passage that seemingly carried on for eternity. I felt as though the dogs were barking at my very heels all the way. On emerging, I found myself on a street corner, where there were three women talking together. They were innocent of crinolene, and their countenances stolid. Gathering they were prostitutes, I walked over to make further my understanding of London's underworld.
After some discussion - I know not what - I was taken from that place with the three, to a house on Frederick Street. I imagine I had meant to develop my knowledge of their home life, although I am uncertain of my mental processes, having on the way inhaled an impressive helping of cocaine from a delicate glass orb tied around my neck.
After a dizzying array of bodyless faces passed by me, I found myself in a wretched tumble-down hovel that passed as a bedroom. There was not a chair to be seen, nor a bed-stead, and the whore lay down upon palliasse placed upon the floor. She introduced herself as Emma. Hastily, I prepared a spliff, and asked to know her story.
"My father and mother," she said, "kept a grocer's shop on Goswell Street. Mother died when I was twelve years old, and father took to drinking. I went to live with a sister who was bad. One day I met a sailor. He died of yellow fever in the West Indies. One of his mates brought me a silver snuff box. We lived in Gregories rents. When I was drunk, he used to tie my feet and hands and take me into the street. He'd throw me into the gutter, then throw buckets of water over me..."
And so it continued, dear friends! The banal patter of the low street walker! Shushing her so that I might learn more about the actualities of her trade, we were surprised by a loud knocking through the hallway. "Police!" came a scream, and all hell seemed to break loose, with bodies rushing hither and thither, many naked, both male and female.
I must admit I was most taken up in the moment, and when the peelers rushed through I did hastily remonstrate with them about their uninvited entrance. Slavvering somewhat, I beleive I did strike one of the fellows, flinging his helmet against a cracked tea pot. At this, he brought his truncheon down upon my brow and the rest is darkness.
When I awoke, I commenced what would be a terrifying but ultimately instructive Easter weekend. Allow me to explain further, tomorrow. But now, to bed.
Tuesday 14 April 2009
A wearied return...
Friends, forgive my lack of web-activity these past five days. As you will see, I have reason enough for my absence.
I have spent the Easter period not rejoicing the resurrection of our Lord, but rubbing shoulders with pickpockets and horse stealers in Pentonville Prison. Woe is me! The stench of petty larceny seems soaked into my flesh! But that I had a scrubbing brush that could draw out these stains!
A bath, a strong brandy and a pipe await me before I might unfold the terrible story - how my scientific investigations led me further into the dark heart of mankind than even I thought possible.
I have spent the Easter period not rejoicing the resurrection of our Lord, but rubbing shoulders with pickpockets and horse stealers in Pentonville Prison. Woe is me! The stench of petty larceny seems soaked into my flesh! But that I had a scrubbing brush that could draw out these stains!
A bath, a strong brandy and a pipe await me before I might unfold the terrible story - how my scientific investigations led me further into the dark heart of mankind than even I thought possible.
Tuesday 7 April 2009
A hypothesis
It was today that I began to ruminate upon a number of previous theories, these being on the inter-connection of sexual proclivity and geographical positioning. In keeping with the Sotadic Zones hypothesis of my esteemed colleague Richard Francis Burton, I am coming to some inescapable conclusions. Allow me to relay them to you now:
1. Being heavily built-up centres of population, cities contain their own zones within which the residents are more accepting towards certain sexual behaviours deemed to be inappropriate elsewhere. These may include pederasty and acts of triumvirate.
2. In cities, these zones are designated into 'bands' that radiate outwards from a central point.
3. London, being one of the larger of the world's cities, has one of the most well-defined ranges of sotadic zones. This diagram gives visibility to their formation. As I have observed it, the behaviours within each zone follow the following characteristics:
- Zone 1 is what might be called the Zone of Repression. Here, in refined places such as Kensington and Mansion House, sexuality is expressed properly and without passion between married people, while acts performed in darkened alleys are seldom occasioned.
- Containing such places as London Fields, Whitechapel and East Acton, Zone 2 might conversely be named the Zone of Iniquity. It is here that depraved acts of wanton sexuality are commonplace, where husbandry of the young is ubiqitous and where a gentleman may happily provide payment for the delivery of specialist acts without fear of opprobrium.
- However, it gets worse: Zone 3, wherein Wood Green and Streatham are situated, is inundated with female impersonators, onanistic clerics and virgin-seducing satanists.
- In Zone 4, the houses of Mill Hill East are filled to the rafters with scatalogical hermaphrodites, while hyperactive flashers prowl the streets of Southall, Barking and Morden.
- Meanwhile, if you are insane enough to walk the streets of Zone 5 after dusk, you can expect to be drenched in a rain of man-fluid falling heavy from the rooftops. But to seek shelter would merely lead you into the hands of leather-clad pimps who will excavate new sexual organs across your body while swigging Pimms straight from the bottle. But that's Dagenham Dock for you.
- Zone 6 - there is little to fear in Zone 6 apart from a short Irishman in Thames Ditton who may occasion to glance across your torso in a lascivious manner.
As you can see, my theoretics are faultless - but it is now time to test these considerations. Tomorrow night I shall head forth and explore these dens of obscenity. Wish me luck!
1. Being heavily built-up centres of population, cities contain their own zones within which the residents are more accepting towards certain sexual behaviours deemed to be inappropriate elsewhere. These may include pederasty and acts of triumvirate.
2. In cities, these zones are designated into 'bands' that radiate outwards from a central point.
3. London, being one of the larger of the world's cities, has one of the most well-defined ranges of sotadic zones. This diagram gives visibility to their formation. As I have observed it, the behaviours within each zone follow the following characteristics:
- Zone 1 is what might be called the Zone of Repression. Here, in refined places such as Kensington and Mansion House, sexuality is expressed properly and without passion between married people, while acts performed in darkened alleys are seldom occasioned.
- Containing such places as London Fields, Whitechapel and East Acton, Zone 2 might conversely be named the Zone of Iniquity. It is here that depraved acts of wanton sexuality are commonplace, where husbandry of the young is ubiqitous and where a gentleman may happily provide payment for the delivery of specialist acts without fear of opprobrium.
- However, it gets worse: Zone 3, wherein Wood Green and Streatham are situated, is inundated with female impersonators, onanistic clerics and virgin-seducing satanists.
- In Zone 4, the houses of Mill Hill East are filled to the rafters with scatalogical hermaphrodites, while hyperactive flashers prowl the streets of Southall, Barking and Morden.
- Meanwhile, if you are insane enough to walk the streets of Zone 5 after dusk, you can expect to be drenched in a rain of man-fluid falling heavy from the rooftops. But to seek shelter would merely lead you into the hands of leather-clad pimps who will excavate new sexual organs across your body while swigging Pimms straight from the bottle. But that's Dagenham Dock for you.
- Zone 6 - there is little to fear in Zone 6 apart from a short Irishman in Thames Ditton who may occasion to glance across your torso in a lascivious manner.
As you can see, my theoretics are faultless - but it is now time to test these considerations. Tomorrow night I shall head forth and explore these dens of obscenity. Wish me luck!
Sunday 5 April 2009
A curious gentleman brings a delivery
I have eagerly awaited a delivery to Stigwoodia all day. After a light repast of pilchards, the clock struck eight and my sour-faced old valet Brown informed me that a visitor was waiting in reception. Being entirely naked at that point, I donned a sequined jumpsuit and called the visitor through.
This low gentleman was a fearsome sight. His face was a mass of pustules, buboes and chancres which twinkled in the gaslight. His corroded visage tapered to a fine point (his chin), which pointed slightly upward as his head was tilted so far back. Set into this horrific backdrop were two eyes - one glassware, the other true, which glared upon me with an unnatural intensity.
I can be sure that I have never set eyes upon this creature before, although I knew of the outfit for which he worked.
"The name's Dyson," he introduced himself in a croak, thrusting forth a withered hand. "I brung the merchandise you called for."
At this, he raised a leather briefcase and placed it upon my desk. One side panel was painted with a floral bouquet. Pulling open an accordion filing pouch he revealed a tray into which were fixed numerous items.
He pointed out the contents: "LSD - 100 tablets, ten grams of coke, a nine-bar of resin, two score of amphetamines, some mandrax and..." he lifted a stoppered test tube to his twinking eye, "enough liquid ketamine to bury a stallion."
I eyed Dyson's wares greedily, then reached for the top drawer of my desk, bringing out a sheaf of notes. As I did so, I saw over his shoulder the phantom of my dead bride walk briskly past then turn to face me. I ignored her and handed the notes to Dyson which he counted carefully, then bid me good day.
And so my friends, I have in my posession a stash of such potency that it may enliven and invigorate any endeavour on the streets of London!
Good night!
This low gentleman was a fearsome sight. His face was a mass of pustules, buboes and chancres which twinkled in the gaslight. His corroded visage tapered to a fine point (his chin), which pointed slightly upward as his head was tilted so far back. Set into this horrific backdrop were two eyes - one glassware, the other true, which glared upon me with an unnatural intensity.
I can be sure that I have never set eyes upon this creature before, although I knew of the outfit for which he worked.
"The name's Dyson," he introduced himself in a croak, thrusting forth a withered hand. "I brung the merchandise you called for."
At this, he raised a leather briefcase and placed it upon my desk. One side panel was painted with a floral bouquet. Pulling open an accordion filing pouch he revealed a tray into which were fixed numerous items.
He pointed out the contents: "LSD - 100 tablets, ten grams of coke, a nine-bar of resin, two score of amphetamines, some mandrax and..." he lifted a stoppered test tube to his twinking eye, "enough liquid ketamine to bury a stallion."
I eyed Dyson's wares greedily, then reached for the top drawer of my desk, bringing out a sheaf of notes. As I did so, I saw over his shoulder the phantom of my dead bride walk briskly past then turn to face me. I ignored her and handed the notes to Dyson which he counted carefully, then bid me good day.
And so my friends, I have in my posession a stash of such potency that it may enliven and invigorate any endeavour on the streets of London!
Good night!
Saturday 4 April 2009
A return to London - and plans are made
Ah, how happy I am to return to my London, friends. The smoking chimney stacks! The gin palaces and chophouses! And my Marylebone abode - mine some 15 years - remains an idyll of calm in these dark streets.
The ghost of my poor dead bride continues to walk the rooms of this house. And yet I am becoming more at ease with these encounters, often calling out a shrill "halloo" when I glimpse her feathered hind-quarters.
Since issuing my monetary demands to the obscene Bertie, I am glad to say he has given in with little struggle. Having seen at first hand my tenacity as we fought our way through the Marabalana sweatlands, he clearly knew there was no point. The first installment of £25 4s 5d arrived by discreet delivery boy this morning.
And so a plan forms in my mind to go forth once more and explore new lands. If I can raise more money by further blackmail - another three victims would be ideal - I shall be able to comfortable sally forth in three months, replete with map, photographic equipment and sundries.
Further consideration of my direction is of course required - the Phallic elaphant-towers? The gasflats to the east of Marrrrrrrrrrrfle? Or the pretty isles of Sebadoh? Decisions!
Before that, I plan to hone my scientific skills here in London with a series of "urban expeditions". And a delivery shall be arriving here tomorrow to aide these investigations...
The ghost of my poor dead bride continues to walk the rooms of this house. And yet I am becoming more at ease with these encounters, often calling out a shrill "halloo" when I glimpse her feathered hind-quarters.
Since issuing my monetary demands to the obscene Bertie, I am glad to say he has given in with little struggle. Having seen at first hand my tenacity as we fought our way through the Marabalana sweatlands, he clearly knew there was no point. The first installment of £25 4s 5d arrived by discreet delivery boy this morning.
And so a plan forms in my mind to go forth once more and explore new lands. If I can raise more money by further blackmail - another three victims would be ideal - I shall be able to comfortable sally forth in three months, replete with map, photographic equipment and sundries.
Further consideration of my direction is of course required - the Phallic elaphant-towers? The gasflats to the east of Marrrrrrrrrrrfle? Or the pretty isles of Sebadoh? Decisions!
Before that, I plan to hone my scientific skills here in London with a series of "urban expeditions". And a delivery shall be arriving here tomorrow to aide these investigations...
Sunday 29 March 2009
An amazing device.... and some terrible consequences
And so readers, as my carriage heads London-ward, I can recount the fantastic secret that I uncovered at Bertie's - a secret both repulsive and financially invigorating.
On Friday night I waited grimly in my chambers, listening for the first footfall upon the Parquet. Like clockwork, Bertie slipped from his room and passed by mine towards a destination of unknown pleasures. This time, however, I was to be granted a ringside seat.
I removed myself from my bedroom window (yes! adventurous Augustus!) and passed along the ledge (damned pidgeons!) before making myself above the scullery window. I then grappled a drainpipe down to ground level. There, ensconsed among the shrubbery in my silks, I made good my observance.
However, as yet, my observance was limited to a hubbub of debate between two out-of-sight gentlemen. A curtain obstructed my view, so I interred myself through the open window and hid there behind said drapery. The debate continued within and I pulled aside the curtain for further instruction.
The scene I took in before me was of such a surprising and complex nature that it took some moments for my rivetted brain to assemble the elements into a continuous whole. The room was large and brightly-lit by some unknown source, sparely-furnished but for a chaise longue that sat in the middle of the room, and some equipment which I will describe further. These environs lent the following scene a surgical clarity.
On the chase longue sat two gentlemen. One I recognised as the old school pal of Berties, the fellow who I had last seen at the house of fallen women in Marylebone. This chap was blind drunk, and was entreating upon a fellow by his side in a most unbecoming manner.
This other wore smart tweeds and had an air of responsibility. He remained stony-faced and provided the odd clipped reply, his deeply-muscled features contorted into an expression of barely-hidden distaste. Clearly he would not be there, were it not for some uncontrollable drive within him.
This drive I surmised to be pertaining to the scene on the other side of the room. There I saw Bertie, standing like some factory foreman intent upon the management of an unholy machination that stood before him. It was bronze in nature, and stood ten foot high, some five feet across. Its purpose was not yet apparant, but clues included strong leather straps which suggested human ensnarement. The construction was clearly steam-powered, as Bertie was shovelling coal into a furnace connected.
After adjusting a number of devices about the machine for some minutes, Bertie seemed satisfied and walked over to the group at the chaise longue for a short briefing. I saw the respectable man's eyes twinkle with evident pleasure at whatever was discussed.
Bertie then removed himself from the room and was gone for some four minutes. He returned with a fallen woman, naked and clearly purloined on the streets of Brighton earlier that evening. The woman showed her evident disatisfaction with the scene and pulled a sarcastic face at the two on the chaise longue. However, she leant herself to being enslaved within the machine with no struggle.
There followed some moments of calm, as if before the storm: the two gentlemen stood and calmly walked over to watch; Bertie again checked a number of instruments upon the machine; the harlot waited with vacant eyes.
Then Bertie pushed a switch and the following scene unfolded:
The machine slowly started churning into action - the rack upon which the slattern was stretched undulated with an alarming rhythm, bending her spine this way and that. 14 arched prongs then slowly ejected from poles at each side, which splayed out to the side before bending back inwards toward the streetwalker. At the end of each was a delicate-looking porcelain hand.
The machine then started to spin around as if on a highly powered fulcrum. It was then then that it became apparent that both sides of the woman were exposed by the machine, and as she span around, the porcelain hands landed delicate spanks upon her person. Her buttocks, thighs, abdomen, arms and breasts all received these thwacks as she circulated, looking on, somewhat bemused.
The gentlemen analysed the scene, Bertie with no little pride at his marvelous contraption. And it was then that I took a number of photographs with the digital camera I had upon me. One thing confused me, however - the respectable gent, although interested by the technology showed no satisfaction for the scene itself.
After some ten minutes, the scene seemed to be reaching a climax, and the tiny hands began to strike the maiden with such an alacrity that she began to wince noticeably. Finally, the machine ran out of steam and slowed to a finish.
The maiden was removed from the machine looking a little tired, was handed some coins and then pointed towards the room from whence she came.
Then the respectable gent took into some deep conversation with Bertie, and a heated debate ensued. Finally, Bertie held aloft his hands and accepted the gent's entreaty.
The machine was fired up again. By this point, Bertie's school chum headed back over to the chaise longue where he fell asleep immediately. When the machine was revved up, the respectable gent began to undress. And, dressed down to his long johns, he clambered aboard the machine. Bertie tied him in.
Again, the machine started up, and the spinning, undulating and spanking went into operation. But the gent looked disatisfied and barked orders at Bertie: 'More!', 'Faster!' were the words I made out over the machine's deafening judder. Bertie adjusted dials and increased the machine's ferocity, a barrage of slaps reigning down upon the gentleman, whose specialist interests were now becoming apparent.
But still, the gent shouted for further engagement from the contraption and so Bertie pushed it further. Only now, as the porcelain hands barraged the gent horribly across his black and blue body, did he look at peace. It was then that I noticed that the man's skin was not just being spanked by the hands - they were slashing into his sinning flesh.
A torrent of cuts appeared across his body, bloody gashes forming, particularly across his buttocks and thighs. And yet as Bertie desperately tried to stop the contraption, blood flinging across him, the gent remained in silent serenity. So horror-struck was I that I could barely hold the camera before me to record the scene.
Finally, the machine's hands sliced right through the gent's jugular and he let go one final gasp of satisfaction.
It was at this point that I thought it wise to remove myself from the room, and made my way back to my chambers. There, I quickly dashed off a letter of my financial demands (substantially more than I had previously hoped for) and packed. I slid my black-mail under Bertie's bedroom door and made my silent escape to the capital city.
What a fortuitous visit, dear friends! No wonder they say Brighton is a centre of rum practices!
On Friday night I waited grimly in my chambers, listening for the first footfall upon the Parquet. Like clockwork, Bertie slipped from his room and passed by mine towards a destination of unknown pleasures. This time, however, I was to be granted a ringside seat.
I removed myself from my bedroom window (yes! adventurous Augustus!) and passed along the ledge (damned pidgeons!) before making myself above the scullery window. I then grappled a drainpipe down to ground level. There, ensconsed among the shrubbery in my silks, I made good my observance.
However, as yet, my observance was limited to a hubbub of debate between two out-of-sight gentlemen. A curtain obstructed my view, so I interred myself through the open window and hid there behind said drapery. The debate continued within and I pulled aside the curtain for further instruction.
The scene I took in before me was of such a surprising and complex nature that it took some moments for my rivetted brain to assemble the elements into a continuous whole. The room was large and brightly-lit by some unknown source, sparely-furnished but for a chaise longue that sat in the middle of the room, and some equipment which I will describe further. These environs lent the following scene a surgical clarity.
On the chase longue sat two gentlemen. One I recognised as the old school pal of Berties, the fellow who I had last seen at the house of fallen women in Marylebone. This chap was blind drunk, and was entreating upon a fellow by his side in a most unbecoming manner.
This other wore smart tweeds and had an air of responsibility. He remained stony-faced and provided the odd clipped reply, his deeply-muscled features contorted into an expression of barely-hidden distaste. Clearly he would not be there, were it not for some uncontrollable drive within him.
This drive I surmised to be pertaining to the scene on the other side of the room. There I saw Bertie, standing like some factory foreman intent upon the management of an unholy machination that stood before him. It was bronze in nature, and stood ten foot high, some five feet across. Its purpose was not yet apparant, but clues included strong leather straps which suggested human ensnarement. The construction was clearly steam-powered, as Bertie was shovelling coal into a furnace connected.
After adjusting a number of devices about the machine for some minutes, Bertie seemed satisfied and walked over to the group at the chaise longue for a short briefing. I saw the respectable man's eyes twinkle with evident pleasure at whatever was discussed.
Bertie then removed himself from the room and was gone for some four minutes. He returned with a fallen woman, naked and clearly purloined on the streets of Brighton earlier that evening. The woman showed her evident disatisfaction with the scene and pulled a sarcastic face at the two on the chaise longue. However, she leant herself to being enslaved within the machine with no struggle.
There followed some moments of calm, as if before the storm: the two gentlemen stood and calmly walked over to watch; Bertie again checked a number of instruments upon the machine; the harlot waited with vacant eyes.
Then Bertie pushed a switch and the following scene unfolded:
The machine slowly started churning into action - the rack upon which the slattern was stretched undulated with an alarming rhythm, bending her spine this way and that. 14 arched prongs then slowly ejected from poles at each side, which splayed out to the side before bending back inwards toward the streetwalker. At the end of each was a delicate-looking porcelain hand.
The machine then started to spin around as if on a highly powered fulcrum. It was then then that it became apparent that both sides of the woman were exposed by the machine, and as she span around, the porcelain hands landed delicate spanks upon her person. Her buttocks, thighs, abdomen, arms and breasts all received these thwacks as she circulated, looking on, somewhat bemused.
The gentlemen analysed the scene, Bertie with no little pride at his marvelous contraption. And it was then that I took a number of photographs with the digital camera I had upon me. One thing confused me, however - the respectable gent, although interested by the technology showed no satisfaction for the scene itself.
After some ten minutes, the scene seemed to be reaching a climax, and the tiny hands began to strike the maiden with such an alacrity that she began to wince noticeably. Finally, the machine ran out of steam and slowed to a finish.
The maiden was removed from the machine looking a little tired, was handed some coins and then pointed towards the room from whence she came.
Then the respectable gent took into some deep conversation with Bertie, and a heated debate ensued. Finally, Bertie held aloft his hands and accepted the gent's entreaty.
The machine was fired up again. By this point, Bertie's school chum headed back over to the chaise longue where he fell asleep immediately. When the machine was revved up, the respectable gent began to undress. And, dressed down to his long johns, he clambered aboard the machine. Bertie tied him in.
Again, the machine started up, and the spinning, undulating and spanking went into operation. But the gent looked disatisfied and barked orders at Bertie: 'More!', 'Faster!' were the words I made out over the machine's deafening judder. Bertie adjusted dials and increased the machine's ferocity, a barrage of slaps reigning down upon the gentleman, whose specialist interests were now becoming apparent.
But still, the gent shouted for further engagement from the contraption and so Bertie pushed it further. Only now, as the porcelain hands barraged the gent horribly across his black and blue body, did he look at peace. It was then that I noticed that the man's skin was not just being spanked by the hands - they were slashing into his sinning flesh.
A torrent of cuts appeared across his body, bloody gashes forming, particularly across his buttocks and thighs. And yet as Bertie desperately tried to stop the contraption, blood flinging across him, the gent remained in silent serenity. So horror-struck was I that I could barely hold the camera before me to record the scene.
Finally, the machine's hands sliced right through the gent's jugular and he let go one final gasp of satisfaction.
It was at this point that I thought it wise to remove myself from the room, and made my way back to my chambers. There, I quickly dashed off a letter of my financial demands (substantially more than I had previously hoped for) and packed. I slid my black-mail under Bertie's bedroom door and made my silent escape to the capital city.
What a fortuitous visit, dear friends! No wonder they say Brighton is a centre of rum practices!
Saturday 28 March 2009
Success!
Readers, I have just recorded upon the hard drive of this laptop a selection of photos of such depravity that they would curl the eyebrows of Asmodeus himself!
From this you may infer that my investigations into the nocturnal activities of my erstwhile colleague Mister Bertram Bertram have been successful. I'll say they were! I consider such lithographs sold in the marketplace at Stapleton prison would fetch a pretty penny, were I not more enamoured with the art of blackmail than plain old dirty commerce.
But I am late already for a number of errands I must run before I make my escape for London town. I shall reveal all later.
Augustus
x
From this you may infer that my investigations into the nocturnal activities of my erstwhile colleague Mister Bertram Bertram have been successful. I'll say they were! I consider such lithographs sold in the marketplace at Stapleton prison would fetch a pretty penny, were I not more enamoured with the art of blackmail than plain old dirty commerce.
But I am late already for a number of errands I must run before I make my escape for London town. I shall reveal all later.
Augustus
x
Tuesday 24 March 2009
Annoyance... and a plan is formed
Dear readers, prithee absorb my tender apologies for my abscence from the "international network"!
In truth, this week has afflicted me terrible hard and bitter. What I had envisaged as a week of fortitude from the dark spirits encroaching on my mind, has instead become yet another torture to my stricken senses. For I have discovered that Bertie is a terrible pain.
First. The blaggard slurps his tea through teeth. So: slllluuuuurrrrp. My tensions distend at the act! A blood-red shroud falls over my vision!
Second. From elevenses to high tea, his back bowels perform a veritable symphony of tootelage. And such a stench - enough to make a Parisian wince.
Third. I awoke yesterday and discovered this "gift" upon my Harrop's Seashammy. What in blazes?!
But, I do see a way out of this dreadful brew. Each night this past week has the bastard risen from his chamber at 1am and tippy-toed in his stockinged feet all the way down to the scullery door. And each night have I followed him down, and viewed his cheesy slucker glancing about all a-guilted, before interring himself therein.
By God, do I smell a case for blackmail coming on! It is a familiar smell - piquant as hot treacle - and one that I've missed since the old vicar of Twelvetrees sadly passed. Bertie could help me raise the fortune I need to enable my next bold adventure in the unknown lands!
Yes - whatever lies behind that scullery door profers a fresh project upon which I may fasten my unstable mind, thus cleansing it of poor dead :;.^..
Tomorrow I shall go investigate. Goodnight my patient orphans.
In truth, this week has afflicted me terrible hard and bitter. What I had envisaged as a week of fortitude from the dark spirits encroaching on my mind, has instead become yet another torture to my stricken senses. For I have discovered that Bertie is a terrible pain.
First. The blaggard slurps his tea through teeth. So: slllluuuuurrrrp. My tensions distend at the act! A blood-red shroud falls over my vision!
Second. From elevenses to high tea, his back bowels perform a veritable symphony of tootelage. And such a stench - enough to make a Parisian wince.
Third. I awoke yesterday and discovered this "gift" upon my Harrop's Seashammy. What in blazes?!
But, I do see a way out of this dreadful brew. Each night this past week has the bastard risen from his chamber at 1am and tippy-toed in his stockinged feet all the way down to the scullery door. And each night have I followed him down, and viewed his cheesy slucker glancing about all a-guilted, before interring himself therein.
By God, do I smell a case for blackmail coming on! It is a familiar smell - piquant as hot treacle - and one that I've missed since the old vicar of Twelvetrees sadly passed. Bertie could help me raise the fortune I need to enable my next bold adventure in the unknown lands!
Yes - whatever lies behind that scullery door profers a fresh project upon which I may fasten my unstable mind, thus cleansing it of poor dead :;.^..
Tomorrow I shall go investigate. Goodnight my patient orphans.
Monday 16 March 2009
A chance encounter
Ah my, for a bottle of Andrew's Elexir! A day of croquet has left my bones aching terrible...
Nearly suffered acute embarrasment when an old schoolpal of Bertie's came to visit Bertram Towers. Something about the fellow tweaked a memory, and three games in I was still racking my crumbling brains for the source.
It was as I was running a hoop that I hit on it - the idea that is - and I damn-well nearly slipped a-cookoo!
I recognised the chap from a house of ill-repute in Marylebone. Fortunately for me, his eyes had been obscured with a tie fashioned from thick slices of ham and gathered behind his head. Once having recalled this, I revelled in a smug safeness, full knowing that unless I started barking like a dog, the man would be none the wiser of our previous encounter. He did, however, turn a little glazed when I suggested we dine on a platter of cold meats for supper.
But such thoughts churn around and bar me from sleep! Think I may take this grey pill handed to my with such gravity by Bertie...
Nearly suffered acute embarrasment when an old schoolpal of Bertie's came to visit Bertram Towers. Something about the fellow tweaked a memory, and three games in I was still racking my crumbling brains for the source.
It was as I was running a hoop that I hit on it - the idea that is - and I damn-well nearly slipped a-cookoo!
I recognised the chap from a house of ill-repute in Marylebone. Fortunately for me, his eyes had been obscured with a tie fashioned from thick slices of ham and gathered behind his head. Once having recalled this, I revelled in a smug safeness, full knowing that unless I started barking like a dog, the man would be none the wiser of our previous encounter. He did, however, turn a little glazed when I suggested we dine on a platter of cold meats for supper.
But such thoughts churn around and bar me from sleep! Think I may take this grey pill handed to my with such gravity by Bertie...
Sunday 15 March 2009
A curious incident in the middle of the night
I arrived at Bertie's in time for tea and scones on his veranda. He remains as fine a fellow as I remember: an iron-strong eye, waxen whiskers and a waddling walk that endears him to all who make his acquantance. We discussed the prime minister's fiscal stimulation policy, then I removed myself to my chambers where I unpacked my Everlite.
Re-emerging an hour later, I found Bertie wandering his aviary in the grounds. Bertie keeps one of the finest collections of owls in the UK, and we stood admiring a particularly jaunty Speckled Woodchuck. Relaxed by a combination of port and the owl's delicate markings, I revealed all about the visitation of my dead wife to my chambers this week hence.
Bertie reassured me: 'Sure to be but a half-digested carrot disturbing your sleeping pattern,' he smiled, gripping my cervical plexus then drawing me over to an enclave of woodpeckers.
'See,' he pointed. 'Magnificent specimens.' He reached for my hand and placed int0 it a grey pill. 'Take it before you go to bed, should do the trick.'
That night I woke around half past four with an urgent calling from my bladder. Rising and heading for the toilet, I saw Bertie leaving his bedroom and tiptoing down the stairs. What was this? An affair with a serving wench? A midnight nip from the whiskey bottle? As I drew water, I resolved to investigate further on another evening.
Re-emerging an hour later, I found Bertie wandering his aviary in the grounds. Bertie keeps one of the finest collections of owls in the UK, and we stood admiring a particularly jaunty Speckled Woodchuck. Relaxed by a combination of port and the owl's delicate markings, I revealed all about the visitation of my dead wife to my chambers this week hence.
Bertie reassured me: 'Sure to be but a half-digested carrot disturbing your sleeping pattern,' he smiled, gripping my cervical plexus then drawing me over to an enclave of woodpeckers.
'See,' he pointed. 'Magnificent specimens.' He reached for my hand and placed int0 it a grey pill. 'Take it before you go to bed, should do the trick.'
That night I woke around half past four with an urgent calling from my bladder. Rising and heading for the toilet, I saw Bertie leaving his bedroom and tiptoing down the stairs. What was this? An affair with a serving wench? A midnight nip from the whiskey bottle? As I drew water, I resolved to investigate further on another evening.
Saturday 14 March 2009
A trip to Bertie's
Quickly, then. Packing my bags for a spell of sea-air. Called Bertie (assistant on Marabalana forest expedition, ornithologist, crucifiction enthusiast) late last night and invited myself to his Brighton townhouse for a few days. I sensed mild trepidation, but reassured him there would be no repeat of the incident at Rochways. My taxi to Victoria Station awaits - I must hurry!
Friday 13 March 2009
Another terrible visitation
Ah! Haunted again by my poor dead bride! Her very tendrils quivered mere inches from my gaping maw! Her painted thigh all a-shimmer before my gawping globe!
Ah :;.^.! What a life we could have had. Never did she set foot upon English soil before her untimely end at the hands of a spinning jackanape. And yet, there I saw her in this very room - obscuring my view of the News at Ten.
Steadying my nerves with a strong, bitter quaalude, I consider: I am a man of science. And this is 18--. Queen Victoria on the throne, let us not forget! We are not some stone-worshipping clan!
If only I could make sense of this madness!
I find myself terrible fearstruck. I beg a sojourn in the countryside to clear my mind.
Wither sanity?
Ah :;.^.! What a life we could have had. Never did she set foot upon English soil before her untimely end at the hands of a spinning jackanape. And yet, there I saw her in this very room - obscuring my view of the News at Ten.
Steadying my nerves with a strong, bitter quaalude, I consider: I am a man of science. And this is 18--. Queen Victoria on the throne, let us not forget! We are not some stone-worshipping clan!
If only I could make sense of this madness!
I find myself terrible fearstruck. I beg a sojourn in the countryside to clear my mind.
Wither sanity?
Thursday 12 March 2009
This blog
'Twas in the year of 18-- that I first decided to commit my thoughts to the "international network", to coin its unabbreviated nomenclature. First, as a manner of documenting in fine style my travels and - dare I say it - misadventures in the unexplored lands. And with this I mean both my outer and inner lands. I momentarily ponder which provokes the most interest in my readers, then continue inevitably to the next paragraph.
However, with poor Augustus currently landlocked in London town, my blog serves another purpose, to educate readers as to the the life of a London gentleman of modest means, with an inquisitiveness of nature which occasionally errs towards the more sinister inclinations. A chap absorbing the scents, flavours and imagery of a new cultural revolution, yet feeling quite unimpressed.
Met a gent today. He was a pretty fellow, to be sure.
However, with poor Augustus currently landlocked in London town, my blog serves another purpose, to educate readers as to the the life of a London gentleman of modest means, with an inquisitiveness of nature which occasionally errs towards the more sinister inclinations. A chap absorbing the scents, flavours and imagery of a new cultural revolution, yet feeling quite unimpressed.
Met a gent today. He was a pretty fellow, to be sure.
Monday 9 March 2009
Dear Lord! Is it true? Did my eyes deceive me? Or did I receive an unearthly visitation last night?
For, after retiring bedwards and reading a few light chapters of Benby's "Callow Andrews Intoxicates" I become aware of some mystic presence before me. Glancing up quick sharp, I was horrified to see my poor sweet :;.^. - clear as life and yet dead from me these past eight months! What?!
:;.^., the finest beauty of the chin people, who I sired while a guest of the %¬¬ tribe of the southern lowlands. Sweet :;.^., slain and yet crystal clear bright to my eyes, so clear that I could observe her magnificent jagged fronds (the envy of the tribe) as easy as the first day we met.
Ah :;.^., I can still remember that day in the lagoon to the east of the settlement. I, wading through the stinkoil towards the furthermost shore where the lucky fruit of the chickentree hung overhead (such was my obsession for that delicious sweetmeat).
But all thought of chickenfruit was erased from my mind as she rose before me out of the inky mire beneath - a big sploosh by which she made herself known, then a swift headshake to remove the moisure from her glistening gills. I knew, at that point, that she must be mine.
:;.^. was the tribe's most elligible damson, and promised to the ¦¦¦/¦ tribe whose village was across the stinkoil itself. A peace offering and tribe-marriage was intended, and my taking her caused a terrible war between these two chin-factions that claimed thousands of lives, and which I imagine continues to this day.
That, however, is one of those pitiful sad results that follow the pursuit of science. And I am, foremost, a scientist.
Pretty :;.^., could it be you?
For, after retiring bedwards and reading a few light chapters of Benby's "Callow Andrews Intoxicates" I become aware of some mystic presence before me. Glancing up quick sharp, I was horrified to see my poor sweet :;.^. - clear as life and yet dead from me these past eight months! What?!
:;.^., the finest beauty of the chin people, who I sired while a guest of the %¬¬ tribe of the southern lowlands. Sweet :;.^., slain and yet crystal clear bright to my eyes, so clear that I could observe her magnificent jagged fronds (the envy of the tribe) as easy as the first day we met.
Ah :;.^., I can still remember that day in the lagoon to the east of the settlement. I, wading through the stinkoil towards the furthermost shore where the lucky fruit of the chickentree hung overhead (such was my obsession for that delicious sweetmeat).
But all thought of chickenfruit was erased from my mind as she rose before me out of the inky mire beneath - a big sploosh by which she made herself known, then a swift headshake to remove the moisure from her glistening gills. I knew, at that point, that she must be mine.
:;.^. was the tribe's most elligible damson, and promised to the ¦¦¦/¦ tribe whose village was across the stinkoil itself. A peace offering and tribe-marriage was intended, and my taking her caused a terrible war between these two chin-factions that claimed thousands of lives, and which I imagine continues to this day.
That, however, is one of those pitiful sad results that follow the pursuit of science. And I am, foremost, a scientist.
Pretty :;.^., could it be you?
An attack of the vapours
A black, black weekend.
First, I was served an elevenses of human effluent. Later, I burnt my arm poking the fire with a gin-soaked shirt.
Needless to say, the two are related.
My abode, on ------ Road, Marylebone, is situated a mere 14 feet short of a latitudinal line that runs direct to that seething cesspit of London named Whitechapel, which, as any well-travelled man knows, is replete with a level of depravity otherwise unknown to the Western world.
The sickness of this location literally oozes down the lateral line (51.51, to be precise), forming rivulets in the roadside near my house. These then stream downhill, leading right down under the door of my parlour, forming pools which after some hours will ferment fizzingly and efforvesce into the air stream, wafting deadly putrefaction upwards under the door of my chambers.
Reader, this is not purely my hypothesis - the kernel of its' truth is borne out here. I merely have added my own metaphysical meat to Enfield and Allen's brain-bones.
(There are, incidentally, further moral effects of latitudinal positioning which I have experienced. Once, whilst visiting my sister Agnes in North Kensington, I was taken by an overwhelming surge of piety - I literally felt God's gilded beams purging my flesh of sin. It was some time later that I discovered that the dwellings of my darling sis run parallel to St Paul's Cathedral.)
Given there are such gaseous forms collecting in my chambers as I sleep, is there little wonder that on my awakening I was taken with a fit of what I cautiously describe as "priapic enlightenment". As Jessie the handmaiden brought hither my almond-stuffed kippers and a fresh copy of FHM, I set upon her with a righteous fury befitting Mad Jack McRory himself.
Having given the incident a three-quarterhour of peaceful distance I considered it "old news" enough to tinkle the kitchen for tiffin before indulging myself in a four-page interview with Carmen Electra.
Alas, on removal of the the metal cover on my plate, I discovered that my elevenses took the form of Merde de Jessie, drizzled with a thin urethral liquor. Looking on the bright side, I considered that at least it was warm.
My morning having taken such a distaseful pallour, I took alcoholic solace in the bars of this dissolute city.
By the hour of four in the morning I returned home, a mildewed stoat in one arm, a half-devoured packet of crabs' legs in the other. Lacking below-stairs aid and with an almighty chill upon my soul, I set upon the fireplace to build me a fine old blaze. However, my stars looked disfavourably upon this endeavor and I was scorched accordingly for my troubles.
And so, having rubbed a preparation into my forearm and placed an ad in the The Times for a forgiving servant, I have taken myself to bed.
Damn these vapours!
First, I was served an elevenses of human effluent. Later, I burnt my arm poking the fire with a gin-soaked shirt.
Needless to say, the two are related.
My abode, on ------ Road, Marylebone, is situated a mere 14 feet short of a latitudinal line that runs direct to that seething cesspit of London named Whitechapel, which, as any well-travelled man knows, is replete with a level of depravity otherwise unknown to the Western world.
The sickness of this location literally oozes down the lateral line (51.51, to be precise), forming rivulets in the roadside near my house. These then stream downhill, leading right down under the door of my parlour, forming pools which after some hours will ferment fizzingly and efforvesce into the air stream, wafting deadly putrefaction upwards under the door of my chambers.
Reader, this is not purely my hypothesis - the kernel of its' truth is borne out here. I merely have added my own metaphysical meat to Enfield and Allen's brain-bones.
(There are, incidentally, further moral effects of latitudinal positioning which I have experienced. Once, whilst visiting my sister Agnes in North Kensington, I was taken by an overwhelming surge of piety - I literally felt God's gilded beams purging my flesh of sin. It was some time later that I discovered that the dwellings of my darling sis run parallel to St Paul's Cathedral.)
Given there are such gaseous forms collecting in my chambers as I sleep, is there little wonder that on my awakening I was taken with a fit of what I cautiously describe as "priapic enlightenment". As Jessie the handmaiden brought hither my almond-stuffed kippers and a fresh copy of FHM, I set upon her with a righteous fury befitting Mad Jack McRory himself.
Having given the incident a three-quarterhour of peaceful distance I considered it "old news" enough to tinkle the kitchen for tiffin before indulging myself in a four-page interview with Carmen Electra.
Alas, on removal of the the metal cover on my plate, I discovered that my elevenses took the form of Merde de Jessie, drizzled with a thin urethral liquor. Looking on the bright side, I considered that at least it was warm.
My morning having taken such a distaseful pallour, I took alcoholic solace in the bars of this dissolute city.
By the hour of four in the morning I returned home, a mildewed stoat in one arm, a half-devoured packet of crabs' legs in the other. Lacking below-stairs aid and with an almighty chill upon my soul, I set upon the fireplace to build me a fine old blaze. However, my stars looked disfavourably upon this endeavor and I was scorched accordingly for my troubles.
And so, having rubbed a preparation into my forearm and placed an ad in the The Times for a forgiving servant, I have taken myself to bed.
Damn these vapours!
Saturday 7 March 2009
Touched by a booby
Spent the afternoon at the British Library researching for my paper... and yet ended up rather distracted by some irresistable hand-painted pictures of exotic birds. Some of these I removed for later perusal by means of a scalpel applied gingerly and close to the spine - a vice that will come as no suprise to anyone who has made his toilet chez Stigwood.
While involved in my shifty endeavor, I remarked upon this delight.
Ah blue footed booby! Ah angelchild of romance! Strutting about your paramour, showing off your prize new boots! Stomping and stamping away, with a blue tapered bill, to boot! They stretch their blue bills sky-ward in happy unison, and then - the perfect pay-off - the female tucks her head beneath her wing, all coquettish-like!
Could Goldsmith himself have written it finer?
While involved in my shifty endeavor, I remarked upon this delight.
Ah blue footed booby! Ah angelchild of romance! Strutting about your paramour, showing off your prize new boots! Stomping and stamping away, with a blue tapered bill, to boot! They stretch their blue bills sky-ward in happy unison, and then - the perfect pay-off - the female tucks her head beneath her wing, all coquettish-like!
Could Goldsmith himself have written it finer?
Thursday 5 March 2009
A pecululiar encounter at "The Porcupine"
Lethergy has triumphed over my body today.
I planned to spend Thurs-day pushing ink through an oft-discussed treatise on the pansexual activities of the southern lowlands owlmen, but instead lay naked and dissolate upon the hearthrug, a thick corpus of drool collecting upon my "sunshine pallett". But for a wafer biscuit smeared with the merest smidgen of flyjam, not a jot has passed my lips.
The reason for such monumental inactivity was yesterday's lengthy drinking session, commencing late afternoon at the Roman Baths. I confess, two gentlemen there allowed me a little leeway. So invigorated, I headed to "The Colossus" for milk punch after which I was drawn with bitter inevitability to The Porcupine.
Therein, I took myself to the spinal bar where a Gary Numan tune was playing loudly. I was immediately enveloped by a fug, a thick pea-souper that concealed all but the extremities of the other guests. While leaning on the bar to order a light vinegar, I eased forward to a blonde-haired angel beside me, whispering into her perfect ear something about lost worlds, new textiles and cold, dead oceans. Before I could register her response, through the clouds I spotted three gents all a-smugger.
It was Skinny Bob with two others I didn't recognise. Cautiously I made my way over to greet them, but they were far too ensconced in debate to notice me.
"Never mind your patent sheep traps, I've got forty acres ruined by that vermin," spat one of the gentlemen I didn't know, tall and reedy with thick mutton chops. "Try and tell me you can elliminate that lot!"
"I tell you I can," retorted the other stranger, short and stout with a beard like muslin. "And more besides. I've disembarked an entire valley that was formerly wool-locked!"
And so it went on, with I and Skinny looking from one to the other and back and forth again as if at the first court at Wimbledon. It clear blew my mind that I was hearing this tepid prattle in The Porcupine - in London, indeed! And I, Stigwood the mighty explorer, reduced to such profound inanity! My head raced, and I raised my cane to beat these fools aside, thus allowing my easy retreat.
A hired car vomitted me to my door at three minutes past four, wherein I headed bedwards.
There I must go again now, I confess, with a shadow upon my soul. Oh weary London!
I planned to spend Thurs-day pushing ink through an oft-discussed treatise on the pansexual activities of the southern lowlands owlmen, but instead lay naked and dissolate upon the hearthrug, a thick corpus of drool collecting upon my "sunshine pallett". But for a wafer biscuit smeared with the merest smidgen of flyjam, not a jot has passed my lips.
The reason for such monumental inactivity was yesterday's lengthy drinking session, commencing late afternoon at the Roman Baths. I confess, two gentlemen there allowed me a little leeway. So invigorated, I headed to "The Colossus" for milk punch after which I was drawn with bitter inevitability to The Porcupine.
Therein, I took myself to the spinal bar where a Gary Numan tune was playing loudly. I was immediately enveloped by a fug, a thick pea-souper that concealed all but the extremities of the other guests. While leaning on the bar to order a light vinegar, I eased forward to a blonde-haired angel beside me, whispering into her perfect ear something about lost worlds, new textiles and cold, dead oceans. Before I could register her response, through the clouds I spotted three gents all a-smugger.
It was Skinny Bob with two others I didn't recognise. Cautiously I made my way over to greet them, but they were far too ensconced in debate to notice me.
"Never mind your patent sheep traps, I've got forty acres ruined by that vermin," spat one of the gentlemen I didn't know, tall and reedy with thick mutton chops. "Try and tell me you can elliminate that lot!"
"I tell you I can," retorted the other stranger, short and stout with a beard like muslin. "And more besides. I've disembarked an entire valley that was formerly wool-locked!"
And so it went on, with I and Skinny looking from one to the other and back and forth again as if at the first court at Wimbledon. It clear blew my mind that I was hearing this tepid prattle in The Porcupine - in London, indeed! And I, Stigwood the mighty explorer, reduced to such profound inanity! My head raced, and I raised my cane to beat these fools aside, thus allowing my easy retreat.
A hired car vomitted me to my door at three minutes past four, wherein I headed bedwards.
There I must go again now, I confess, with a shadow upon my soul. Oh weary London!
Wednesday 4 March 2009
Itching
Lately, London is a dreary place. Since my return from exploring the lowlands last July, in which I observed at close quarters the chin-people (noble beasts), I have been busy, true. But tea, brandy, my club (The Porcupine) and whores (m/f) will suffice but for a limited period until my feet (and elsewhere) are itching.
What am I to do?
Is there another campaign into which I can dig my unspeakable molars?
What am I to do?
Is there another campaign into which I can dig my unspeakable molars?
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