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from November:
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Dear
Francis' Knee, Dear Francis’ other knee, Archaeologists
once believed that the rapid extinction of the Dinosaurs could be attributed
to direct hit by a gigantic meteorite on a predetermined collision course with
the earth. The meteorite, intent on pummelling the Gulf of Mexico at a
terrific speed, was thought to have created an enormous tidal wave that swept
over the earth at over 300 mph and blasted an impenetrable cloud of dust and
debris in to the atmosphere, the knock on effects systematically killing
everything in the process. However, recent excavations in Peru suggest, it was more as result of Dinosaurs being made entirely from fossil, rather than the meteorite, that brought about their untimely demise and the end of their 200,000 year reign of tyranny. Existing as
fossil would have undoubtedly caused a considerable lack of ‘get up and
go’ and severely hampered both their mating and eating habits, as anyone
who’s ever tried drinking a carton of orange juice lying cheek to the floor
encased in impervious rock with a partner will know. Realising the
gap in the market and seizing the opportunity, it was ’ Early
Badly-Dressed-Man’ who evolved and soon flourished, bringing light to where
there was once darkness and who championed at the idea of significantly
reducing the size of cats. In doing so, he gave them the opportunity to roam
freely around the home as welcomed pets without everyone having to go to the
bother of rescaling their dwellings, or feign sympathy on sensing a cat’s
awkwardness as it upturned furniture, knocked over of potted plants and the
shifted ornaments while playing with wool. Today, we take this for granted. A
kitten frolicking around in front of the hearth in a pretty pink bow is one
thing. A frothing Bengal Tiger thrashing a dismembered torso to bits during a
game of Bridge is another. Skip forward
a few months and suddenly we have arrived in the ‘Neo Felt Age’. For the
first time, we come across an old shoemaker and his wife who lived in a
generic eastern European storybook village, complete with pointed, snow
covered rooftops, rustic swinging signs outside every home and a welcoming
orange glow illuminating from each and every tiny leaded window. (It should be
noted that un-leaded windows, a cheaper and more environmentally friendly
observation casement were not properly introduced until the ‘Corduroy Age’
some 27 years later) Hans
Ruddendrier and his wife Marilyn were the first people on earth to harness the
wonderful natural force that we recognise today as felt. Due to barbaric
mating rituals* which made it logistically impossible to have and dress
children of their own, they set about building a son from discarded scraps of
historically accurate ‘pointed felt footwear’ from their workshop.
Unfortunately however, due to the old man’s dyslexia and his wife’s
spiralling alcoholism, they inadvertently created a monster in the form of a
half shoe, half boy who was destined to wander the land, all be it quite
comfortably for eternity. He was to become known as Shoeochio. Shoeochio
went on many adventures, all of them excruciatingly dull and rather long
winded. On one particular adventure he met a vile grasshopper who didn’t
actually do that much, apart from drink pints of Welsh wine, swear copiously
and spit at old women. The grasshopper’s trousers were so short that his
ankles were clearly visible which resulted in his being promptly written out
of the story in Victorian times. Just as Shoeochio thought he could take no
more of this demoralising existence, a fairy appeared from nowhere, (4 miles
due east of Somewhere: pop.6, 825 Twinned with bits of Vienna) granting him 7
wishes, all of them ‘Best before end of June 1574’. In a rush to comply
with new, some say ‘rather rushed in’ stringent fairy tale health and
safety measures, Shoeochio made several blindingly stupid requests. All of
them involved mature ladies undergarments and a helium balloon in the shape of
a meat pie until, through a blinding stroke of luck, on his last and final
effort, (obviously, that goes without saying) he asked for an invisible cloak. “Ah ha!”
I hear you cry, at last, the point of the story. Yes, well indeed. However,
due to the effectiveness of the cloak and his inability to get the buttons
undone once he had put it on, Shoeocchio was cursed in his own predicament and
had no other option other than to wear it till
the day he died. (Read slowly and in a deeper voice for dramatic effect) So no one
actually knows where he went or sadly, what happened to him. He probably died
penniless or even poor in a pile of muck, drinking out of a brothel, sorry
bottle and blaming the government. Several years
ago, whilst perusing a local jungle sale for some second hand exotic plants, I
happened to stop at one particular stall covered in moth-ridden curtains. One
of them caught my eye and quite unusually, it seemed to be calling out to me.
Perhaps it was the ever-changing light of that autumnal morning or the faint
distant voice of some ancient spirit carried on the cusp of the wind. That or
the bottle of Scotch I’d consumed in order to withstand the taste of Mrs.
Goodteats ‘Gnome baking’ stall. (As it turns out the little fellow had
excelled himself on this occasion, and made some rather delicious macaroons)
Whatever the case, I reached in to the tangled mass of upholstery and pulled
out what I now understand to be nothing other than Shoeocchio’s invisible
cloak. I handed over the $30 and rushed home where I put it on in front of the
mirror. The tattered cloak may have been over 500 years old but the curse was
still as fresh as ever. I couldn’t get the freaking top button undone and
that my friend, is why you are unable to see me. Thank you, Francis' knee *The bizarre
mating rituals of this generic eastern European storybook village were first
explained by the esteemed local ventriloquist, Harry Vandergraph and
‘Giggles’ the lethargic mule. This painfully mediocre trio, hailing
originally from the baron waistlines, sorry, wastelands of Siberia, added the
brutal ritual in to their act in 1969. It transformed them in to one of the
most successful bookings on the circuit, commanding a sizable appearance fee,
often delivering their routine to hundreds of paying empty seats. Harry would
stand in a bucket of mince dressed as Attila the Hun, some three miles from
Giggles who, at the appropriate moment, would scream in to a whisk, dance
sideways in a Bavarian manner for a while then fall over in to a vat of urine.
Not surprising then that the population of said storybook village remained
constant then plummeted when the inhabitants died on reaching the grand old
age of 44. Which was quite old for the peoples of this time and less painful I
might add, than the grand old age of York. They had bad breath. I’m still here, Francis’
knee |
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Dear
Francis’ Knee,
Dear Willis, Well,
the word ‘example’ stems
from the ancient Britton’s. A funny lot with a penchant for honey and
tea, and is one of their most impressive words still used today. (blow
see) (sea bellows) (below
sea) (cee…belalagosee.oh
bugger it.. its down there, at the bottom).
In
those days, chickens resembled nothing of ones we know and love today.
They were giants, standing some 30 feet in height with a wingspan of some
2 miles. Obviously nowadays, breadcrumbs are added for aesthetic purposes
after the chicken is killed, but in ancient times, breadcrumbs were added
while the chicken was still on the move, roaming the plains for magazines.
Huge
wheeled wagons pulled by oxen and manned by local men would follow the
herd for many miles. The women of the village would cling on for dear life
to gigantic ladders attached to the wagons by Bee spittle and fish hair.
It was their task to ‘paint’ the ‘sides
and drumsticks’ with egg white then furiously scatter breadcrumbs
across the struggling chicken until they were completely covered. That’s
the chickens, not the women, obviously. It was a very dangerous occupation
resulting in many injuries and more often than not, incurable death for
the oxen. Ancient
peoples would hunt these huge chickens for their eggs but not, as you
might think for boiling or scrambling. The eggs were given to the mighty
‘High Egg-se’er’ who would inspect each one in turn laboriously for
faults or cracks. They were then carried shoulder high on silver platters
a to hidden temple for such times when local celebrities or a chief from a
neighbouring tribe would come to visit.
On
arrival they would be taken, blindfolded, to a secret location where they
would be invited to touch or ‘fondle’ the ‘sacred eggs’. After a
period of deliberation, and, if they thought the eggs were big enough,
proving the village to be strong and brave, the visitor would call out the
words, “Eggs ample!” to the expectant crowd and their lives would be
spared for another year or until the fizzy juice ran out. A ten-day
festival would ensue, and everyone from the youngest to the eldest would
dress up as chickens and peck about at the ground for meaty coins. If
however, the eggs were not up to standard, the visitor would then have no
other choice than to call out the words, “Poor eggs!” If so, the chief
of the host village would be forced to eat his own unseasoned foot and was
shipped off to a distant mythological land called ‘Poultravia’ where
he would sit motionless with other shamed chiefs as a mixture of hot peas
and bald budgies were poured over them on a regular basis.
Over
time, and due to slack diction brought on by the advent of the mobile
phone, the phrase, ‘eggs ample’ has been shortened to ‘example’
but we still see its primitive form preserved in the dictionary as e.g.
*Some
other words from the ancient Britton’s still in use today:
Combpartingbadger: vb. To comb a mid-parting on a badger whether they like it or not. Usually used in banks or some unimpressive fairground rides.
Knockknockpuss: n. The expression given by one that has travelled three hundred miles or more to knock on the door of a friend’s dwelling only to find that the entire family has been bored to death beyond recognition by a cat wearing a 3-piece suit made from the finest Harris tweed and who smokes a liquorish pipe. “I’m feeling a bit knockknockpussed today.”
Ochengrrrch: metaph. This word describes the action of bending down to pick up a sock whilst holding a bundle of dirty clothes, only to find that on successfully retrieving the sock from the floor another item, usually a pair of pants, will 9 times out of 10, fall to the floor in it’s place. This cycle of bending down and picking up continues all the way to the washing machine.
Hubbardisation:
adj. On promising a friend
something to eat after a lengthy drinking session, one opens the doors of
the food cupboard with full gusto only to find that there is nothing
there. No food. It is a baron cupboard. See
also ‘Dissapointment’.
Noitsfinegreatthanks: v. On watching your hair being butchered by an apprentice hairdresser, the term ‘noitsfinegreatthanks’ is the staple verbal reaction given in response to the hairdresser’s request for approval. It must be used no matter how much you look like a victim of some horrible disease or accident. It is best used as you lay the coinage down on the counter whilst running towards the door in a flood of tears, the uncomfortable apron still choking your red and itchy neck. Chances are, you may even leave a ‘tip’ even though you could have done better yourself after downing a bottle of Absinth, wrapping yourself in coat hangers and with one arm fried behind your back.
Hopeitsrat:
vulg. On sitting down to a
lovely meal with a prospective partner, one may, during times of vacuumed
conversation, feel inclined to say something witty or observational to
break the ice. This may take the form of an anecdote deriving from your
days work in the office, but will more than likely focus on the 1970’s décor
restaurant has to offer or the weird looking waiter who showed you to your
seat and who can’t keep his eyes of your partners tits… sorry,
cleavage. I don’t know what came over me there. Sorry. Anyway, there are
several similar terms all falling under the ‘hopeitsrat’
banner. The most commonly used is the “I’ll
do the drying if you do the washing up.” Best said as you clasp her
precious handbag and gaze longingly in to her purse.
Words fail me, until next time, Francis’ knee |
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Will
me and Stephanie get married?
Dear Sammy, First
off, ‘tis better if you say, ‘Will Stephanie and I
marry?’ How can you expect to win a lady’s affection if you go around
speaking like that? No matter, fear not good Sir, for in the ways of love,
I am trained. Like a master of the art of the warfare that is love, I
shall guide you through the steps of marriage proposal, almost
guaranteeing success and the hand of good lady Stephanie. Unfortunately,
guarantee the other parts of her body, I cannot, but at least the hand is
a start. And, in the manner of relating to you this, like Yoda I shall
speak. Humnn?
1.
How well do you know this lady, Sir? Have
you courted her with flowers, written sonnets of the finest eloquence and
placed them on her pillow late at night as she sleeps. Her sweet, sweet
breath blowing o’er her golden locks and in to your heart like a potion,
driving you wild with desire and causing you to dream such lucid dreams
that you yearn to hold her, keep her safe and warm. So much so, that if
she leaves, you may never learn to love another? Or, have you paid for her
medicine, promised to drive her to the nearest rubbish dump with her
CD’s and helped wormed her cat?
2.
Has
she approved your acquaintance and accepted your advances? How
did ye first approach her? Was it as softly as the dreams of a thousand
noble knights, tortured in battle yet despite this and their unfathomable
brashness, their heads remain high as they approach their loved one with
the subtle advances of a gentle foal, ready to nuzzle in at yonder tender
bosom, who carry with them the entrapped yearnings of a mystical poet? Or
did you walk up to her at the bar, ask her to get the round in and slap
her hard on the ass?
3.
When
you meet, do her eyes light up? Do
stars sparkle like tiny stars, lost for eternity in the curvature of her
eyes, the delicate reflections on the shimmering world, but not as we see
it, as she does, this Goddess of Earthly love? Do they widen as if
entranced, and drift in and out of focus till she fixes her gaze upon you,
the tears welling there ‘till you kiss the salty waters from them and
exhale them through your every pore? Or, does she squint and heave a sigh
of despair as you approach with a box of flowers and a bouquet of
chocolates, dressed in nothing other than a pair of cat mounted slippers
and a ladies dressing gown, 3 sizes too small?
4.
Can
you promise to support her and comfort her in times of distress? Would
you build a castle for her by hand, even if it took a thousand years, and
let her wander through its rooms like a shift of dazzling sunlight, as
rays of dust and heavenly essence come to rest on her? Does her smile lift
at the corners like the tilting summer moon across her pure face at the
sight of you returning gallantly from your crusade? Does she embrace you
with all her strength until you find it hard to breath, yet you do not
complain as this alone is her strength and it brings a comfort to your
heart? Or, would you perhaps paint the spare bedroom half-heartedly after
months of excuses, blame her for the extortionate phone bill and your
self-induced heartburn? If
you answered B. to the above questions, well I’m happy to say the answer
is most definitely ‘YES!’ God be praised. Should I buy a new hut?
Sorry, hat?
Best wishes, Francis’
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