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.”
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