[A further helping from the COLLECTIVE MINDBEING that is, or was, or has been, those erstwhile Gridlers Shelfy, Goldlamé, Snilt, Janet et al, all cast up into the air like verbal confetti and then reassembled where it fell by YOURS MINTILLY. There's plenty more to come, y'know. Ho yus...
INVOLVING THREE WITCHES DRYING SALAD IN A SPINNING LETTUCE DRYER
Sweet fragrance of Autumn, crisp leaves of elm and willow, fungi formed of October earth 'neath tangled limbs of sallow. When the first frosts bring taste to the rosehips, I will sit and paint lambs...
A sweaty summer day in France, air full of Gitanes smoke and French chatter, accents diverse enough to make you feel alien and alone... Fast train journey past cypress trees and orange houses, sticking to the plastic seat, feeling slightly sick... Continually surveying my rucksack, making sure that the other passengers are as oblivious to it as I am protective towards it and my entire worldly wealth contained therein... No other reason for being - please get me safe home and out of this strange land...
Flying telegraph poles, galloping towns and villages, faraway crawling mountains... never leaving this little capsule of time... The scents of summer now just memories to my sweating nose... Travelling microwave class on the Chemin de Fer... gradually roasting from the inside out like my fellow passengers, all arriving medium/well done on the menu at the Gare de Lyon... Recalling the crystal blue, purest blue sky... The imperial Roman mauve of the lavender plateau far away... The Provencal villages, random yet uniform to the point of predictability... The handful of bars around every trickling fountain, hidden amongst the mature plane trees... those unselfish givers of shade, absorbing, relishing the cruel Midi sun...
The dingy, cool backstreets with their smells of North Africa, always there, menacing like a cold blade and a pair of watching silent eyes... The ghosts come to haunt France... Aromas of garlic and cooking herbs... The whiff of pastis and again Gitanes... Heady country wine and olives... Strange accents, the ancient emnity that still divides yet binds us... The shared laughter and mirth, the characters, the stories, the little bursts of temper, the hospitality and generosity, the DIFFERENCE, the Us and Them... Strange insects and reptiles, no birds, just dry heat and Gitanes... Distant forest fires, the palls of smoke covering the sun for a moment, making the land even more unlike the lush green valleys of the West Country...
Sunbaked earth, aromatic when freshly dug... The wild pastis plants with the dying brown grass... The Who at the Frejus Amphitheatre, an apt setting for such gladiators... The bitter chill of the night on the moped... The bullfight at Frejus for the wealthy and bloodthirsty tourists "seeing what it's really like" from behind the safety of their binoculars and Ambre Solaire... St.Tropez in the morning, death in the afternoon, party in the evening... and the butchers in the morning for the bull, Nimes in the afternoon for El Cordobes... The Baunne Corner, Paris, Metro, sticky t-shirt... train to Boulogne... the ferry back to reality, rucksack intact... two hundred Gitanes.
Oh! Byzantium, once a great power, but now an anonymous firm of building contractors in Malta, what secrets lie within your jaded domes? Tell me of times, when men of the east spread the word of bricklaying and its application to modern arch-building. Oh! Knights of St John, what do your bastions yeild for the modern navvy?
Oh! Valhalla, steeped in legends bold and linoleum pure, taunt me not with thy tales of bountiful bowls of banana custard... especially during DYNASTY!
Spontaneously, the crowd roared its thunderous appraisal... What great words did the mighty orator bring from afar? What could he tell them of ancient wisdoms, of times unsung, of unspoken knowledge... Not very much apparently, he missed the train...
THE DAY MY NAME CAUGHT FIRE
LOON LIES ON BOA
E LISBON O'LOON
INSANE LOON OBOE
LO SLOANE BONIO
SOLO LINO BEANO
SALINE BOO LOON
BI ON LOOSE LOAN
NEO BIO SALLOON
LOO BALE IS NOON
Coat of Boons - gentle jet hugget, but phobic, graggen pipes elude peg-spangles. Fusion testines hide limp bicycles beneath fish in an orgasm. Three melted moontwits glutter in the long brown raincoats of moonlight... Condescending milk rips wire, like a plasticene cassette of Bulgarian Glove Poems... Somnambulance - "Just A Carcass Of A Rhino At Twilight". Write away right away!
Ancient emollument, festering wigs gripped my flesh! Quick! Evacuate your stomachs! Women and half-digested scones first!... Protozoan Salt Babies, a toelanthropist is someone who collects toes.
My geels have been thralled
It's the better way
Clive Maggeridge is happening
Somewhere in Bethnal Green
I'm not ashamed
But I only announce to prove
"Doesn't Time fly
When you're disembowelling Space!"
Sitting 'round
Being found
In possession
Of your Love
Heavens above!
I'm sitting on her love
He thought
She was bored
And her knickers
Were chafing her thighs.
PRE-RAFFLE-ITE SERIES 209d: ABOUT THE ARTIST - Wilfred Morris was born in Dulwich on April 23rd 1875. At the age of 24, he left Highbury Grove Comprehensive School. At the age of 37 he painted the front porch of the house he occupied at Skutna Huggins Avenue, Colchester. Impresario Gino Delfont saw Morris at work on the porch and gave him the big break he needed. And so, for the next 870 years, Morris put pieces of stout wire up the stems of acacia saplings. His fame spread and finally, the Royal Family commissioned him to push three-quarter-inch dowling into the pithy core of the royal Cupressus Sempervirens Pyramidalis. Unfortunately this massive task was never completed, Wilfred George Jasper Denise Morris was jailed for shoplifting. He was eventually broken up and sold for scrap. Whilst in jail, he wrote his most famous work, "I Didn't Steal A Large Tin Of Butter Beans And A Packet Of Oat Crunchies, I Only Borrowed Them".
ABOUT ANOTHER ARTIST - The Human Craig Douglas, or The Entire Top Shelf as he likes to be known, was born on The World Of Coloured Pipes in the year Pipe/Pipe/Pipe. His favourite colour is Russet Pink and his most cherished ambition is to eat light and to win £25,000 in a war. His pet names include Happy Gleaner & The Cosmic Girls and Striped Drill's Bottom and his pet phrases are "I like mine stained!" and "Working at a garage, just like Eddy!". He likes demob coats and the "Marianne Faithfull & The Mars Bar Scandal", but dislikes Guy Lombardo & His Royal Canadians (Plastic beatniks who aren't sincere or truthful). He says that his most embarrassing experience was being born naked. His favourite group is Johnson's Gridling Band because they're not poisonous. If it makes sense then that's what he means.
Christmas is a lovely time
Even if you spew,
'Cause if you're good,
The fairies come
And clean it up for you.
THE TALE OF A TILE
Here I am, sitting on your roof with hundreds of my cousins... not so much sitting, as lying prostrate, but that's none of your business. You may not realise it, but we're always here, defying the rain, absorbing the sun, rank upon rank of uniformed sentinels. You see, we hear all, see all, we know all there is to know about your household, all its secrets... ,joy... sadness... We know... Not much of a social life up here but we have a highly developed communications network - house, street, suburb, town, city, etc... we know what's going on in any city at any time... we protect you from the weather, whilst trying to muscle in on your life... You see, the weather gets curious and wants to be let in on all your secrets, but it doesn't attack you, it attacks us with wind and rain... Sometimes we get dislodged - jealousy that's all!
Walls have ears - but we taught them to hear; frankly they're a bit thick. Windows are merely a fickle and transparent medium - not really cost-effective or serious... as for doors, well, they open up to the first person that comes along... Poor old chimneys - spend eleven months of the year recovering from a rotund gentleman squeezing through them.
Don't get alarmed - we'll tell you what's going to happen just as soon as you need to know... I'm the elected representative from your roof (I'm not really supposed to be talking to you). Come up for a chat sometime - we'll be discreet...
Gordon fried turnips by night.
Silly Gordon! Someone should tell him,
They are better grilled by day.
But he wouldn't listen anyway.
So... fried turnips it is then!
Elektron.. well, if you must! The Dogonaut stood, erectile tractile impliment of congested phlegm. "We can do it!" he shouted, only to be struck down by a low Mu crane of an unspecified ascent. The goats drank from pools of amazed mercury.
My goodness! Look at the time!
I must get my skates on! Help me
Off this pennyfarthing, I'm sick
Of playing "Dukes Of Hazzard" with bottletops!
THE ROMANCE OF ENAMEL
Come on Willy, let's go up on Threlkers Hill and play hide-and-seek.
Yeah! Great idea Gary, let's go!
Look over there by the hedge, there's a snake!
No it's not, it's a piece of rope.
Yeah! Let's pull it!
Hee hee! Here goes!
Grunt! It's not easy to pull...
Strain! Heave! Phew! Come on keep pulling!
It's a long piece of rope, Willy!
Keep pulling!
Gary, stop! Look over the hedge!
Holy shit, Willy, we've caught London!
MAN HAD NEGATIVE VIBES IN ATTIC... What makes a coconut shy? I am the Poet Lariat, but I was a bran additive called LOMAX. A dire protractor, a diaper tractor, the ambiguities are ominous tonight. The Eggmex walks a-dumping-oh! Onan the Canaanist of Mesopota Meon Valley, Bring on the big coat! Shrunken Welsh Ladies' Heads, Die Fliedercycle - his whole body arched in a scissoring python of pain. Have you ever seen a simulated crocodile? My Aunt had bellows that inflated. Captain Obvious versus The Evil Dean, high on stilts, low on voles, driving a Nougatti N1400L
Accutrack - Made To Make Your Mind Wander! I've just joined the Canine Fenestration League. The Point of Infinity lies somewhere on the outskirts of Bradford. An ant playing Richard III, NULL & BOYD - MARRIAGE DISSOLVERS, Oh Liverpool! You are a created stimuli! Oh Preston! Buried beneath the sod at draybreak!
VAGUELY PERTAINING TO THE CHEPSTOW BALLOONISTS
Hi! I'm Simon Teague and I'm pushing a lawnmower through the leafy lanes of Gloucestershire on a voyage of discovery. I'm hunting down that elusive celestial village they call Nirvana. My assignment is to search out the alternative society lurking in the derelict caravans of Albion. Today I've reached the prosperous border town of Chepstow (population 47,231). I approach an innocent passer-by.
"Excuse me Madam, could you tell me where I can find The Chepstow Balloon People's Free Love Collective?"
"Who?"
"I said, could you tell me how to find The Yacht Men of Brazil who live to be one hundred and thirty, by eating live snakes and yodelling in sulphur pools!"
Boy! Chepstow, eh? These guys have got real ALTERNATIVE lifestyles! On a full moon, The Moon Babies put on false beards, hold strange encounter groups and telephone the speaking clock, crying "We are The Moon Babies!" and doing SPECIAL yoga... The Balloonists try to attain liberation of the soul through deflating balloons of The Same Colour... the elusive Negatarians just DON'T... Cryogenic human lollies buy double-glazed glasses for TECHNO-HEALTH, experience a Yogic video inspection of the sub-conscious... learn the truth about the Nutromancers' strange blancmange rituals... What of The Baggage People? Luggage is but one obsession to these practitioners of the ancient and noble art of THROONING (or flapping one's arms). In the middle ages, Throonsmiths were highly respected. Unfortunately, today, Throoning is thought of as unfashionable. Consult the mystic Throonic symbols for further enlightenment...
Live at the Ante-NATO Clinic... Henry Kessawhite And His Trumpeting Wig... OK Mr. Hole, it's time for your audition, just read the script and ignore the cameras... (cough) Hello Kiddies! Certainly Sir. I'm Rabbithole Sam The Clown... (long raspberry) Watch this... (laughter) It's behind you... (long raspberry) Certainly Sir, driving gloves... (laughter) One Two Three! (long raspberry) A mouse... (laughter, long raspberry) I will now do my interpretation of Henry Kessawhite And His Trumpeting Wig... (cough cough) A large jug of milk... (long raspberry) Certainly Sir... WHAT HI-FIBRE?... Leisure man! I don't mind...
The sky was green on Tillee
When my rocket landed
But soon, up sprang a breeze
And I was grounded.
A hundred years stayed I on Tillee
Till I was old and grey
Then I met a man named Billy
Working on the wall that day.
He helped me build a dustbin
To fly up to the moon
But I sat down on the tailfin
And it blasted off too soon! AAAARGH!!
Towards a more enlightened comedic lifestyle - Open University Course BX472 Joke Techtonics... Part 1: Drilling for Comedy... Crude comedy... Black comedy... Pantomime... Earthy humour... Alternative humour (it's a piece of piss)... Xmas cracker jokes at 1000ft... The Pre-Comedian Age... First the drill must pass through the hard outer layer (or Mantle Of Normality & Cynicism)... Refer to Lido Bechstein, Emeritus Professor of Situationalist Comedy and his book "The False Nostril & Its Relevance To The Collapse Of The Trojan Economy"...
If you laid all the comediologists in the world end to end, they still wouldn't reach a punchline...
And now the last lecture in the series "L'HOMME ET LA COMEDIE" for seventeenth-foundation year students (the course number is BDF63442)...
...For the last sixteen and a half years, we have been exploring different allegorical methods of unravelling the mysteries of man's comedy. Today's lecture brings us even nearer to our goal of ultimate enlightenment. You will find the relevant course notes in Volume 54, Section 8, to be found on shelf 6 of your Foundation Course library (or send off the coupon in this week's Radio Times).
Early twentieth century comediologists from Cambridge University likened this quest to drilling for a precious natural resource, so it is this approach we adopt for today's lecture.
The Cambridge Approach began with the inquisitive drill resting on the surface of man's humour comprehension, thence drilling through the various styles and eras till the ultimate and purest form - TRUE COMEDY!
SPEAKING OF WHICH... SOME STUFF ABOUT PINKTEETH & THE CLAUDE
Technical details - Communicating with marrows... I wish to be vaccinated against gravity. Pinkteeth and The Claude did not play Yoyo or Hula... Pinkteeth and The Claude could speak to marrows, Pinkteeth and The Claude were STRANGER THAN SPRINGTIME... Detective Inspector Pinkteeth of the Yard: a ruthless mouth with startling blue eyes... D.I. Pinkteeth: a dedicated policeman of the old school, heavily influenced by Dixon, late of Dock Green... D.I. Pinkteeth: a lone wolf sharing his Canadian motorhome with over four-thousand Victorian bottles... Detective Inspector The Claude: thirty years on the beat around the B-roads of Holcombe Rogus... D.I. The Claude: clean shaven, immaculate, bearded and amusing, preferring to wear casual t-shirts rather than his issued tunic... D.I. The Claude: technical advisor to the Cagney & Lacey series and once apprenticed to the great Tobias Armitage, master hedger and ditcher. When Pinkteeth and The Claude are working together, the underworld takes notice... Pinkteeth and The Claude: The Draybeasts Of Justice... The case to be solved: "WHO STOLE THE KOH-HI-NOOR MARROW?"
The elusive plutocrat predicted AA members' transmutation into cats, but did not even stop to laugh at a storm in a bottle, on his way to the destruction of a river, by a dam project of Coca Cola packets, stacked like pregnant camels on the slithery sides of the Arizona chocolate canyon. Topanga Manga squashed flat prophets in an album of the ocean O'Sheehan. Househunters with gigantic hounds and whips and knives and guns and a packet of bees, a new range of Polymermaids on inverted denim shirts, watched by threatening dormice, gnawing at your reedy sinews in the sleep of posession by doormats. Meet new friends in a bloodless revolution. Go on, play us a tune on your housing project, make something like a rabbit out of your rational anthem, screw yourself up until you adhere to a surface, chain react with a cut-through cable.
Oh! Angered, crested, swift,
Oh! Fowl, Hawk of the ether
Who mates on the wing.
How do they do it,
Without
Losing co-ordination
And hitting chimneys
Or flagpoles
Or masts.
THE DEAN IS IN HIS SACK AND ALL'S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD - This is a rambling announcement to The Merry Knights Of Gilzean. Fill in those unsightly gaps in your jazz record collection with MINGUSITE, the quick action polydor polymer adhesive of the stars... Contributing to a charity for accordionless ex-salesmen. Born is the King of Haverfordwest and most graceful Quoon Debbiepoos and Archnarner Rockette Moreton KGN WC BFN and Viper Spit. Doctor Whodi Menhuin announces, "Sudden death is the politeness of pyramids!"
Q. What do you get if you cross the M6 with a bucket of fresh milk?
A. Two broken legs, a bruised back and a £200 fine.
Meanwhile... (Knock! Knock!) "Blancmange-A-Gram!"... "Pardon?"... "Blancmange-A-Gram, sir! Happy Birthday Brian, love Alice. Don't get too drunk, sir" (SPLAT!)... "Brian, there's a courgette at the door for you (or are you a small marrow?)"... Derelict hoardings hung limp against Jeff's forehead... "Yipes!" yelled Hughes and in the distant gloom the sound of bells could be heard (DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG!) playing a song with a strong Adrian Gurvitz influence, as written by Rabbithole in 1935, when he was apparently known as Weazelham Eric.
I'm gonna play a ratchet
I'm gonna attach it
I might even thatch it
To my cottage
I might be pottage
Or even foolege
But won't mind it
If I can find it
Right behind it
In my attic
...or an announcement about musical instruments by NIBBLEJINSKI TJAERBORG... NEW FROM CASIO... The Casio Bimbotone XJ1919Q?Z - £7.99 inc VAT, available through Woolworth's (ask at the sweets counter), Dirty Dick's Five & Dime, Walsall and all good music shops wot in't stuck up... This colourful advanced musical unit is moulded in low-impact recycled Airfix model plastic, available in muddly greenish brown or streaky green... Ideal for the beginner or the professional musician who's looking for a cheap laugh, the full-range, seven note keyboard (five black keys and as many as two white ones) interfaces with directly with the wires and bits inside that make the noises. Among the features are the four preset voice buttons -
1) The ever poular Casiotone: the familiar exact sound you'd expect from plinky placcy Casios!
2) Trumpet/Violin/Mandolin/Oboe/Dogbarking
3) Synthofizzywhizz
4) Dogwhistle
- In the model reviewed, option No.4 button was found not to be connected to anything... Our reviewer found tone No.2 to be a bit different to tone No.1, while tone No.3 sounded rather like a hippopotamus trying to whistle. A simple vibrato can be obtained by taking the batteries out and putting them back again very quickly and a degree of pitch bend can be achieved by stepping on and off the unit. An earphone is provided for private listening to the music you create and it should be used at ALL times. There is threepence back on the box this unit comes in.
Dog-clowns on a tightrope doing the rhumba of sames
English as she is expectorated
Jan Kodesh in a purple sputum sample
Claes Oldenburger creating soft Europeans with toxic haircream
Mummy's little ray of sunshine
Eating echidna droppings on the edge of the world
Who's the grey cockroach on our radial moonship, then?
Persil has the blue whitener that maroons our greens.
Perhaps I should preserve the milk bottle in a sari
And aren't we all sado-alpinists when the last rays of the moon
Coagulate on the wardrobe mirror.
Dream me up a mess of beans,
Woodman of the gas desert
Shove us down the cracks in the paintwork.
Psycho-domniliation psycho-benelux
Elephantasising near Chocolate Island.
Let's play tag in a fishbowl full of pears,
Illegal legal lowls
Limp along the sky like lovat lariats longing
To Samaneartcottoleralera.
To be continued... Thanks to Shelfy, Snilt, Goldlamé, Janet (oh, and I think I saw a bit of Rabbithole back there too) and anyone else yada yada yada
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