View Full Version : Interruptus Resartus

12th Oct 2001, 06:10
The tall hawk eyed hawk nosed Bedouin strode through the chill desert night, occasionally prompting his camel with a sharp stick and a poke up the bottom. The exercise, he believed, was good for both of them. The oasis, dear Lord (he might, but for an inner conflict that will appear, have invoked Allah), the oasis; it must be close by now! There: the glow of the lights. Almost there. Soon get his hawk taloned feet round the perch, pull the hood over his weary eyes, and snatch a moment’s rest.

Meanwhile, back in Crawley, Versailles of the Home Counties, aeropig went about the daily round, the common task, dropping off the laundry here, picking up the sausages there (at drycleaner and butcher respectively; no fool he, you may be assured), in blissful ignorance of events breeding to tax his patience yet again. Dream on! Happy Pig! Innocent Pig! Enjoy your sausage while you can. Evil is stirring in the desert, and that laundry, simple collection of Y-fronts and ill-matched socks though it be, has implications far beyond your poor present grasp.

12th Oct 2001, 08:05
As always, Davaar a very literate but, on this occasion sinister, post.

Comparing Crawley to the Versailles of a couple of centuries back (I presume) is clever but these days Lille would be nearer the mark. Anyway, I have a good stock of sausages from one of Kent's finest butchers and an alternative power supply for my freezer.

Stay warm in YOW this winter.

12th Oct 2001, 10:38
Well I dont know how to comment on that..

Whats there so say... except you have such a vivid imagination.

12th Oct 2001, 11:19
Hmmm....those missing socks rear their ugly head again...in a place not too unsimilar to Versailles, I'm led to believe....it seems none of us are immune to this evil scourge...


12th Oct 2001, 12:36
If I trade in some old Y-fronts, can I get my missing socks back?


tony draper
12th Oct 2001, 14:20
Enjoy your pork sausage while ye may, rumors abound that the luvies seek its banishment, lest they offend a small number of our population with a very loud voice. ;)

"Pssst, you after gear bro?"
"What yer got"
"pork spiffs,genuine cumberland gold, sixty notes a link to you bro".
"Nah, can't afford a pork habit mate"
"Oh ******, here's the old bill, twenty years I'll get"

[ 12 October 2001: Message edited by: tony draper ]

12th Oct 2001, 21:27
But what was that? As so often in the desert a strange sound began to swell. Plus ça change, he reflected in French, plus c’est déjà vu. Getting the good vibrations, resolving into words, throbbed the message, sinister but unmistakable: Ohhh gimme lan lodsalan, unner storry skahs abeuve, don fenseme in, lemme rad threu thuh wadopen cunry that ah leuve, don fenseme in. True, it carried overtones of Crosby-like throatwork, but that was not possible. Here, in the desert? Surely not. But hist! Or list! Was there more?

Final, unmistakable, apocalyptic: Ba boo ba ba boo, words of destiny, crooned by Yes! LaVerne, Maxene, and Patty. It was indeed the Bingster and the Andrews Sisters. Together. In the desert! He reached for Omar, the book not the chap, constant companion in the sandy wastes: “.... a book of verse – and Thou beside me singing in the wilderness, and wilderness is paradise enow”. By Jove, Yes! His step took a new spring: this could mean one thing and one thing only: War! Now things were out in the open.

It had come earlier, perhaps, than intended by the enemy, and before, certainly, our own order of battle was complete. But there was nothing new in that. ’Twas ever thus.

It meant one other thing too: Bob, geriatric gag-man of the combat cohorts was being measured for the new USO uniform, a new lease of life, and polishing up the one-liners for a new generation. From the Bedouin's own multi-confessional childhood, memory summoned the dear old hymn: Where duty calls or danger, be never wanting there. Bob would not be wanting. Nor would the Bedouin.

Mac the Knife
12th Oct 2001, 23:08
Oh G*d Davaar! Not AGAIN? I've only just got over the last one for Pete's sake! Don't tell me ski-nose is still alive? I thought he died in Bien Hoa after meeting a LBFM. It's a bit like hearing that Dorothy Lamour was still around.

And Y-fronts? Haven't seen a pair for years - as I recall these contained a small Skinnerian maze designed to stop the trouser mouse escaping at inopportune moments (mine used to climb over the top on occasions).

"But Freddy was not in a mood to be satisfied with herself, and as she put on her pyjamas and jumped into bed she wondered what Daddy would say if she suggested that in a year or two she should become a postulant in an Anglican nunnery. Somewhat illogically she broke off this train of reflection to read the large illustrated Rabelais which she had abstracted from the library. She found it very good fun, and made a mental list of several abusive terms to use in her next quarrel with Griselda."

Oddly enough, I went to school in Crawley but it was more Dotheboys Hall than Versailles.

12th Oct 2001, 23:45
Hadn't thought of it, but there may be a chapter in the Y-front. I once had a pair (?) with steel reinforced access point. Do it yourself surgery, almost. I can see why you lot are against them.

Mac the Knife
13th Oct 2001, 20:39
Curious chap Davaar - "Interruptus Resartus" hey? Hoods, laundry, Y-fronts, socks - obviously a direct reprise of Carlyle - "Die Kleider, ihr Werden und Wirken".

Back to your duckpond Herr Teufelsdröckh!

Where will he go next?

...we are all just lost socks in the great laundromat of life...

But I think this is where he is at:
" Nay, rightly considered, what is your whole Military and Police Establishment, charged at uncalculated millions, but a huge
scarlet-colored, iron-fastened Apron, herein Society works (uneasily enough); guarding itself from some soil and stithy-sparks, in this Devil's-smithy (_Teufels-schmiede_) of a world?"

[ 13 October 2001: Message edited by: Mac the Knife ]

14th Oct 2001, 00:30
As the Bedouin slipped through the scattered outer defenceworks, his suspicions were confirmed. Careless of cadence or rhythm, for the music was that of the minuet, traditions fading but slowly under those far away skies, the Boyar, by dint of divesting his splint, could the better dip the hip in the tango with Jacinthe, the bint with the hint of a glint -- and sadly a squint, her eye padded with remedial lint, that she bore with heart of flint. Laden with booty to entertain his cutie, the Boyar would squander a mint; aware that once he was skint her warmth would freeze in the chilly breeze. She’d cease to please.

Heigh ho! The green holly! This life is most jolly! Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, he philosophised, not slow, for a man of his violent trade, to slip in a quip, a Biblical bon mot. Though nothing might in the latter day be left to him of days that used to be, he’d have her memory among his souvenirs, as do the more pedestrian in marriage and pre-marital intercourse. Same thing, really.

In the face of war and sudden death, none but the brave deserve the fair, and at the soft top rag mop hey bar barebop hip hop by the byre, the Boyar was on fire, desire inflamed by the vibrant wire of the lyre. The outbreak of war, albeit like his love undeclared, was common knowledge, and who knew when Death might summon? Go man! Go!

The Bedouin slashed an idle camelfellah smartly with a fierce talon. Ooops! Too late, he realised it was Jerry Lewis, sloping off the set from Cinderfella. Mistaken identity. Collateral damage. Happens all the time, of course, but no worse anyway than the man deserved for his crimes against humanity. The Bedouin had waited years for this moment, accidental as it chanced in the event.

Besides, look on the bright side. Ya gorra. Hey! Ya gorra. That swift sharp lesson would spur this low-man from the Hollywood totem pole to tend the camel’s every need. Feeding and watering at least. Anything beyond was for private negotiation, optional extras between consenting adults.

Little man, was the Bedouin’s last waking reverie, you’ve had a busy day. Sinking in Lethe, River of Oblivion, he left behind those heartaches by the number, those troubles by the score, that made life such a bummer, and rotten, as it sometimes seemed, to the core.

[ 13 October 2001: Message edited by: Davaar ]

15th Oct 2001, 01:36
In the still air, before the sun warmed the oven of the day, a burly man in white flannel trousers, white shirt, and white cricket boots practised bowling at makeshift nets, scoring, in default of a batsman, an LBW or wicket with every thud of ball on head of neo-batsman, drawn from expendable fellahin, regardless of the body-line whingeing of Bradman and other Ozzie pantywaists, now back in Australia playing patacake among themselves. Couldn’t hack a man’s game.

The Bedouin approached the lone cricketer and watched in silence. The cricketer ignored him, for he was English and the Bedouin had not been introduced. N.O.C.D., too, probably, as the Sloanies would say. Thud! another neo-batsman fell senseless to the ground, and even the ranks of Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer. Oh! Well Played! Watson! Well Played, Sir! called the otherwise silent denizen of the endless wastes.

Holmes! responded the astonished sportsman, for he was indeed Watson. You! Holmes? Can it really be you? Yes, my dear fellow, returned the great detective, and a long weary time it has been since we last met. I shall be glad to rid myself of these robes. I have travelled far and hard, though parts were quite agreeable.

Mecca was a drag, but in Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree where Alph, the sacred river, ran through caverns measureless to man down to a sunless sea. I was sharing a quick puff on the banks of the Alph with Coleridge – That man has a top-rate source, and Lenin revealed only his own ignorance in so lightly dismissing the opiate of the masses. Those clergy are not to be underestimated – and he took me along for the trip. Trip. Trip. Trip. Triple trippledy trip. Trip. Holmes chuckled. Trip. Trippledy trip. Trip. He! He! He! Trippledy. Trippledy.

But enough! He pulled himself together. Coleridge knows the place well, and more of that later. For the moment, I give you this: ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far ancestral voices prophesying war. Aha! The moment I heard that I was on my way again, sober as a JPJ. Meantime you may want to skim through this little book here. We call it Al Q’ran. Peaceful reflections and daily inspirational readings for the traveller. I’ll shower now and change.

Suddenly, Holmes, normally so rigid in his self-control, winced. A-toot a-toot, A-toot diddle-ee-ada-toot, came a lyric from the practice stage at the spring, or PX as it was now to be known ...He’s as busy as a bzz bee ...., it went on ... eight to the bar.....He’s za boogie woogie bugle boy a Company B. Just the girls again. This was going to be a long war or, at any rate, it would seem so. He must bring himself up to date on events, and soon.

I am grateful to you, rejoined Holmes, scarce after the initial shock missing a beat out of the eight, for your patience here in the desert while I hogged the glory, I beg your pardon, bore the privations, attendant on the submarine. It was vital that our enemies believe that you and I were prisoners on that vessel and hors de combat, hors d’oeuvres, and hors of a different colour. To that end you had to be far away and out of sight; hence, the desert and the oasis.

16th Oct 2001, 03:09
Ya gorrit, son, so yese huv, but; Ya gorrit in ra wanner: thus acquiesced a curious figure clad in sombrero and chaps, mounted on a two-legged horse. He had other clothes too, to fill in the gaps. Thon Moriarty is as rank a bajin as Rank Bajin himsel’, he confided, and then to clinch the intelligence added: See you, see me, Jimmy, Ah’m tell’n yese. No more was needed. We shuddered, fearful of what lay behind these words.

Who is that curious figure on the two legged horse? whispered Holmes. That, I explained, is none other than Lobey Dosser, sheriff of Calton Creek, and as great a literary figure in his own way as you in yours. Just as you, Holmes, are doomed to contend with Moriarty, so Lobey is doomed to eternal struggle with Rank Bajin. It is Destiny. Destiny rides again. No, it was Destry. Close enough. He is known in Glasgow to Rangers and Celtic alike as za wee boy, an accolade complete in itself.

Good Golly, Miss Molly! I exclaimed, picking up the thread. After all, something was called for. Indeed, Watson, indeed, riposted Holmes, Well may you exclaim Good Golly, Miss Molly, and I should not be slow to echo the sentiment you so warmly express did I but know what it meant. I sense it vouchsafes astonishment at my sad news, as well it may.

I was a fool, Watson, continued Holmes, a fool, at first to overlook the implications of the Swiss connexion after the Reichenbach experience. Switzerland! There lay the key. Moriarty was there by no mere hazard, and that is where we shall find him. Even now he feels the net tighten.

Switzerland, and particularly Zürich, is inhabited mainly by gnomes. That much is axiomatic. During the Reformation it was a centre of gnostic studies, and if you knu what I gnow -- how the great mind was wandering -- of the genomic work now current there, you too would gnash ... his voice faded. He gnawed his knuckles kneatly or gneatly , take your pick ... I began myself to knead the knurled knob of a knick-knack ..... Stop it! I caught myself, in time I hoped! Dear Heavens! What strains must Holmes have suffered in his pilgrimage, to make the malaise so infectious.

Less well known is this, he resumed, that among the gnomes stalks a superior breed, the expatriate Englishman. Of course, the expatriate Englishman is superior to all, but especially in Switzerland. Where better for Moriarty to conceal himself than openly among the said superior breed?

Das Wort ist Herrenvolk; Heil Hitler! interjected Dönitz, as he chanced by from the boating pond, clutching his working model of a Type IX. Quite so! Quite so! agreed Holmes, with a nod – almost a gnod -- to Dönitz. Although, he resumed, Moriarty was not of them, being as Irish as the pigs of Docherty if a name like that counts for anything, he did appear to be of them. He could "pass", in fact, as they used to say in the ante bellum South. Poor old Grand Admiral, he added sotto voce; He still resents those ten years in Spandau, and we have to admit such a spell with Speer would be Hell. Still, the old Balt salt seems well of late.

[ 15 October 2001: Message edited by: Davaar ]

[ 15 October 2001: Message edited by: Davaar ]

16th Oct 2001, 20:43
Invariably tall, broad shouldered, handsome, and athletic, continued Holmes, the expatriate Englishman dresses to a fashion and lives in style that distinguish him from lesser breeds without the law, but among themselves make him and his fellows all but identical to the casual observer. Such is our problem. How to find the needle in the haystack.

The expatriate dress, almost a uniform, features the Norfolk jacket, belted of course at the waist, a hat of Tyrolean cut, sole concession to local taste, shaving brush optional, knickerbockers (here the chaste fellow reddened at this incidental reference, scarcely avoidable, Heaven knew, to w*m*ns’ *nd*rg*rm*nts; he had no problem with the bockers; but there was the kn*ck*r, and was there not also something at the back of his mind that rhymed with bockers and began with kn? Best leave that. Not here. The Thought Police and the Hotel Lobby Rule) or plus twos, though rarely, such prodigality being alien to Swiss parsimony, plus fours, joined by an extent of hairy or less hairy, according to genetic makeup (or, if they are inclined that way, and we know what the public schools produce, to the razor) shin and calf to heavy woollen stockings and climbing boots, a handful of pitons, crampons (he almost went wrong on that one too, I noticed with an inward smile) and, this again being Switzerland, coupons, snagged at the belt, with a climbing rope slung over the shoulder (as would later prove material to the res gestae), the whole set off with an alpenstock. Such is the expatriate Englishman in Zürich. And how about that for a sentence? How does that grab ya, Huh?

Thus equipped, the expatriate E. faces the day; but Moriarty wrought subtlety upon subtlety. The teeming Chinatown quarter of Zürich presenting rich potentialities, he adopted a cover or alias there as a businessman.

I am therefore, said Holmes, stalking a tall handsome apparently expatriate Englishman in Zürich, without visible means of support, living well, with business interests in the Chinesenviertel. He may, for example, be a consultant of some sort, possibly in a new technology, whose business allows him to move clandestinely, unnoticed, but with ease and confidence where he has no business to be. He may, for instance, be in the computer trade, notorious for the immense wealth of its practitioners, their surly demeanor, and their taciturn language of grunts, in all three of which they are rivaled only by orthodontists.

Or he may be a boulevardier or flâneur, idling away the days, almost, we might say in a past idiom, a poodlefaker, preying on innocent maidens, but not without some skill, innocence and maidenhood being rareties these days. We have heard of one, with name akin to Mickey Wooster, or Dickie Brewster, something of the sort. We are using, sublime irony, his own computer technology to seek out and unmask this vile Moriarty, Wooster, or Brewster.

Mac the Knife
16th Oct 2001, 23:06
Hmm... Once again I break the awed silence surrounding Davaar's rambling "Resartus"

I'm reminded of Tom Wolfe on Le Corbusier - "(he) was the sort of relentlessly rational intellectual that only France loves wholeheartedly, the logician who flies higher and higher in ever-decreasing circles until, with one last utterly inevitable induction, he disappears up his own fundamental aperture and emerges in the fourth dimension as a needle-thin umber bird."

To learn all about Lobey Dosser; his brother Dunny Dosser; Rank Bajin, the villain, ('a creep wi' a black hood an' teeth like a dozen chipped coffee cups'); his wife, Ima Bajin; Fairy Nuff, the tackitty-booted peri who spoke in rhyme; Rid Skwerr, a former foreign spy employed by the town council to haunt their graveyard; Vinegar Hill, a local rabbit farmer, named after a street in Glasgow's East End; Honey Perz, his niece; Whisk E. Glaur, a rancher and his daughter, Adoda; Watts Koakin, the rustler, and the Red Indian contingent, Toffy Teeth and Rubber Lugs. Other characters are Stark Stairn, Breedan Mulk, Roona and Nika Boot, Fitz O' Coughin and Khan Oodle goto http://netsavvy.co.uk/lobey/author.htm

The pursuit of TW is curious - perhaps something that he said offended the good D. (who seems rather a serious chap under the jockstrapular mask). I'm not sure that there are many Whymper clones still strolling the streets of Zürich these days - maybe the result of reading "Scrambles in the Alps" once too often.

I thought it was Byron, but he was never that sentimental so Longfellow it is: (last couplets)

"A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,

There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
http://www.bartleby.com/102/62.html has the full text.

I was going to say that it was a bit like reading a Gorbals Nobokov writing in Gaelic without the knickers but now I see some - whether they are D's mysterious Y-fronts or dingducky's panties only time will tell. Let us hope that TW does not become Servetus to Davaar's Calvin.