Rumour Has Its

Walking up to the Mike, jangling his pockets, which are full of loose change, the Monkhouse unleashes the scattergun of rumour-has-its:

(1) Dick Cheney was seen chatting up a Haggis on Burns Night.

(2) Nancy Allbright just slipped into the office cupboard with Dieterling.

(Cut to Allbright: scowling)

(3) Tony Blair has been keeping prosthesis of his rictus grin in Doctor Dino’s medicine chest. Doctor Dino is seriously worried now that Tony is having retirement hoisted upon him.

(4) Nancy just found out Dieterling wears a toupee.

(Cut to Dieterling: looking awkward)

(5) A jet-packer was seen flying over the city of Angels. The Angelinos have been busy tattooing the fellow to their forearms. Homeboy sez “dem Angelinos is full of shit, man”

(6) Dieterling just found out Nancy is not wearing a brassiere.

(Allbright: scowling. Dieterling: awkward)

Voices off

Voice off 1: Where are they now?

Voice off 2: Coming in through the back and up the fire escape.

Voice off 1: The Frenchman doesn’t have much time…

There are tears in his eyes, a sepia curtain of sentimentality, which is not particularly French or Henri Claude.


Voice off 1: What about Alvarez?

Voice off 2: On his way to the safe house. There’s a tail in his wing mirror. –

Voice off 1: They are out to get him, too.

Angry God

On the postcard is written in bold type:

An angry God has put a stop to love and intimacy.

The Sheikh wants to bring back on Ghost of Allen. Those party-poopers at Parasite will have none of it. A gagging order has come out from a by now extremely raucous Allbright – Longfellow assures him it must be the yage. Allbright would like to consign to the bin of history all those dead beats still bleating against the light.

The Sheikh shrugs.

It’s the final curtain call for the devil may care comedian of the BB. Before you start slow hand clapping here's a warm round of applause for the peerless coiner of one liners, surreal quips and Roger Like double entendres.

The Monkhouse runs on stage in the grip of a trademark panic attack:

I thought I seen a policeman. But, no, it was just a cat in the alley screeching for his mummy.

The Girl from Impanema

The Girl from Impanema wafts in from the back of the building; he lies slumped in the corner. The postcard peeps from under the empty bottle of Aux Vins de France.


Professors Hex and Horn rip off their duck disguises; the Sheikh shuffles on stage to explain. The Delaneys who were on the bill have been held up at Heathrow. Knowing, from personal experience, how much the Gentlemen in X-ray Specs do enjoy handling the luggage, the Sheikh looks round for the standby crew, but it appears that Big Daddy Lawman are playing down at Otium where they do look forward to Mr Stanton’s rendition of All Along the Watchtower.

Gentlemen in Duck Suits

(The following can viewed as a series of inter-cutting scenes only with access to the BB programme.)

Someone must’ve put something in the punch i.e. surely not some of that there hallucinogen William B. was on about a second ago, nor that vile mix of mushrooms and Darjeeling he remembers from his ill-spent youth… Before him, as if from a box in the Palladium, stand two gentlemen in duck suits:

First Gent in Duck Suit: Ladies and gentlemen,

Second Gent in Duck Suit: Masters and mistresses –

First Gent in Duck Suit: For your delectation and edification

Colonel Della Chiesa

Jonathan: Sez who?

Sharkhunter: I have it on the good authority of Colonel Della Chiesa of the Italian met.

Jonathan: Della Chiesa! Surely you realise he is with Razzi’s boys.

Sharkhunter: You are saying nothing new. Click here for the Italian Met’s predictions.

The Knightrider Chatroom is inundated with dire warnings from Northern Italian bloggers. Includes a wild rampage from The Wind of Polenta. (A self-confessed dietrolologist (Translator’s note, erse-ologist) the Wind of Polenta blows over the tenuous links between Razzi, Camorra, Christian Democrats from the first Yalta, and the uniform boys of the Italian Met.)

Meanwhile at The Parasite Convention of Altered States a drug veteran (not Ken Russell) is winding down:

“Of all the drugs I have experimented with it is the yage plant of the Amazon for which I still retain a certain affection…”

Re Jane’s Prediction (2)

Jabba writes:

You must be kidding! The year of the pig will be a year fraught with danger. Expect things to come to a head in the ninth month.

Jonathan writes:

Says my pregnant wife!

Jabba writes:

Two plus seven equals nine. Do the math, Jonathan.

Jonathan writes:

As usual, Jabba, you find yourself in fine company on the loony fringes of Armageddon.

Jabba writes:

Jonathan, you find yourself in fine company on the extreme front of Berkeley illusion. I for one am just beginning to feel a tad scared. Click here for the erratic weather patterns. They are no invention of your holographic universe!

Sharkhunter writes:

For once I agree with Jabba. Those hurricanes were not predicted.

Re Jane’s Prediction

With Jonesy and Fraser on an annoying loop (must be Homeboy sampling):

Don’t panic! We’re all doomed!

The BB editors would like to point out:

They accept no responsibility for the above worst case scenario. To the best of their knowledge, there is no worst case scenario although they note some rather unusual sunspot activity has been earmarked for later this year.

A numerologist with dangerous predilections in his Trotsky glasses would also like to point out re Jane’s prediction:

If one looks at the dates, the key date according to the Mayan calendar is 2012, so that gives us 5 years i.e. I825 days to put our affairs in order.

Nostrodamus adds:

Bin there, Laden that.

Jane’s Worst Case Scenario (2)

Mushroom clouds balloon in memory’s eye
Negatives of nuclear physicists in protective helmets and goggles
Somewhere on an island in the Pacific
Shrivel and burn over a cheesy soundtrack featuring fellow Alzheimer sufferers, Dame Thatcher and Ronald Holding the Ray Gun

The Captain tries to keep his stiff upper lip; pandemonium breaks out in the ranks. Jonesy flaps up and down, calling:

Don’t panic! Don’t panic!

In the process knocks off the Captain’s reading glasses. -

The Scottish brogue of Private Fraser booms:

We’re all doomed. – Doomed!

Pike whispers to Wilson:

Can I use the Tommy gun now, Uncle Arthur?

Jane’s Worst Case Scenario

Jane analysts outline the following worst case scenario:

(1) The Fifth Army, under General Alexander, is on war games around the oil fields of Babylon.

(2) The Mullahs, under a burst of infective, begin to sling their mud scuds in the direction of the Infidel (surely Macedonian) phalanxes.

(3) Stormtrooper chuckles from his Sherman tank:

Technology is uncountable, erseholes!

(4) George W’s finger twitches over the red button

(5) Tom Cruise leaves a hush-hush meeting with the higher echelons at Scientology HQ.

(6) Orders are telegram-sammed to Warmington on Sea where Captain Mannering fumbles for his reading glasses.

It appears to be official.
The Mars Attack is Imminent.

Eyebrow Movements at I o’clock (3)

Cato Masked Interviewer: Finally, what will be the impact if they do, as it appears, develop weapons of mass destruction?

FPU man: (Eyebrow movements at 3 min 45 and counting)… perhaps if I could refer you to Jane’s Worst Case Scenario.

Eyebrow Movements at 1 o’clock (2)

Cato Masked Interviewer: The question on everyone’s lips is there still time for a diplomatic solution?

FPU man: Well…(Eyebrow movements at 2 min 30 and counting)

Eyebrow Movements at I o’clock

Returning to the Late Late Show studio where a man from the FPU (Foreign Policy Unit) is exercising the heavy use of his eyebrows.

Cato Masked Interviewer: You would have to agree their rhetoric is extremely belligerent.

FPU man: (Eyebrow movements at I o’clock and counting) It is indeed extremely belligerent!

Duck Prophecy (3)

I saw the elders in the circles begin to choose, some in the first direction, others in the other, until all had made the choice, and while I could not understand why any would choose the first, I knew that Creator had a reason for the choice. Then all at once I saw the very fabric of the illusion multiply into two, not as one and a new one, but two old ones that were close together. They merged and the rules of creation changed, where each could manifest their destiny according to their chosen intent, with a single thought...And once again they split into two, the two illusions mirroring the events of the smoke shapes. I stood in a lodge in the second illusion, as I had chosen, with the other elders that had done the same. The Duck slowly looked at us all once more, and flew off... We stepped out of the lodge to see a bright sky full of fiery horses thundering across the sky, and riding all upon them were the Spirits of those who had thought they were sick or dying, each flaming with energy and health so intense, that the sun grew brighter from their energy as they passed...and as we listened above the sound of our own joyous hearts, we could plainly hear their voices sounding like children reborn, as they flew overhead ... and laughed...

This is as I saw it, this is as it was. This is as I, will dream it to be...

- Mitakuye dysasin ... nake nula waun -

Duck Prophecy (2)

In the other smoke was a planet of plenty and Spirit where its peoples created all they needed as easily as thinking it, where creation was honored and life within illusion was recognized as a step, not a destination. The animals had voices and the people heard and understood their wisdom, and the Spirits of those who had left the illusion gave wisdom to those still within. In this illusion the trappings of time were recognized as simple reminders to live to the fullest, and they held no fear for those there. Again the Duck spoke. "If you would live in the first world, you have only to continue as you are. The prophesied times are upon you, and you have chosen to dream this lesson into your world... But, if you would live in the second world, you have only to rechoose your dream. Once chosen, it will change the path of the prophesies, and your intent in every action will create the new illusion..."

Duck Prophecy

Then I saw the elders sitting in the circles of the world, saying "what must we do to stop the suffering?" and into their circles the Duck flew to rest on the centerpole of the lodge. Many said "It is the Duck, great mystery is upon us", while others said "It is the Duck, disaster is near", and while still others said "It is the Duck, someone will be plucked from the illusion"... Then the Duck spoke, and as he did the smoke in the lodges began to churn and become two, side by side pictures of what was to come. "I am the Duck, the watcher of all dreams, and I have a message. Both of these paths are possible, but only one will be chosen"...In the smoke shapes formed events, on one side was the decimation of a planet and its peoples...Wars fought with clubs and sticks and even humans feasting on others as all other food became tainted with the foulness of wars. Disease and pain were rampant, as was cruelty and suffering...

Call My Bluff (3)

Campbell: Extraordinary, Frank! You are asking us to believe that it was a duck. - The voice of a duck.

Muir: To give it its Latin name, Bullockhornis.

F. Amiss (Deadpan): The Demon Duck of Doom.

Campbell (Eyes wide shut): The Demon Duck of Doom in the black box of the God, Pachi Pichiu! Extraordinary!

Muir (Patiently): Patrick, if you will allow me to arrive at the denouement of my story.

Dream contagious

The dream was somehow contagious, it buffered me from all my senses.
It drew me headlong -


I saw the horses that carried the souls of those who thought they were sick and dying ride into the clouds their tails streaming behind them...and as they began to touch the darkness beyond the clouds their tails and manes became as brilliant multicolored fire, with their hoofbeats becoming a deafening roar...then I heard the laughter of the children they had once been rise above the sounds...and they called "look, oh brothers and sisters, truly the weight of the illusion is lifted from us"...and the ramuda of lights became so many as to not be countable, streaking across the heavens so brightly that even the sun could not dim their brightness...

Student v. Professor

From The Black Box Notes: On Dream Derive-ing.

The student (it could have been me) asked the professor once:

Why do we dream?

The professor, who was not only a learned man but also a fully qualified doctor, did not wish to bore everyone rigid.

We dream, he said, because the dream is more real.

The student, however, was not happy with this answer.

Professor, I asked the question, why do we dream?

The Professor, who was growing impatient, said:

Why do you ask me the same question?

Surely if the dream was more real, said the student, we would live it all the time.

Bravo! snapped the Professor. It is a question of survival!

Then we dream for our survival?

The Professor turned his back and did not answer.

Terminator’s Eye

To my surprise, there was someone in a mask peering over the commando’s shoulder.

I think she should be informed, I heard. There is a hole.

The commando looked at his watch.

We must hurry, he said.

The man in the mask seemed to agree.


I watched – in kind of morbid fascination – as the robot came towards me.

It stopped, and the arm extended out of the miniature scaffolding of a Macarno set.

On the end of the arm was what I am tempted to describe as the eye of the Terminator.


I had been persuaded as much by their dress as the Terminator eye itself. They were going to have to excavate.

When the pain came down, as though the arm had suddenly and yet quite deliberately ripped something from inside me, I thought:

It must be my stomach! - That is where the hole is.

Commando

The man, who was dressed in black naturally, just like my Milk Tray ad, and wore a beret slanted across his face, spoke to me.

Sorry, he said, there is no time.

What is happening? Am I in danger?

If he began to explain, I could not hear. Above the noise and confusion – where exactly was that coming from - I called to the commando again.

What danger?

Mountainside

I was dreaming again, only this time in colour of a mountainside. Or if not of a mountain, a hill with a precipitous incline. – The dream took me down to one of those sly little crevices where you expect to see a trapped goat being coaxed by a young shepherd boy. – Only it was me.

Then, like in the Milk Tray chocolate ad (why do I remember that in black and white) - I saw him, a faint figure, on the side of the hill abseiling down.

The question occurred to me:

Has there been an accident?

Third Conditional

Finally, in some difficulty, I managed to sit down; I remember I turned my head slowly. - Slowly turning my head to look at the flowers – there was an insect hovering, I found I could not remember their names.

Why could I not remember their names? – Had I not seen them all my life? Did I not have them named to me when I was little? Did I not use to call them out in Grandma’s garden?

What are they? - Those flowers?

The question would have sunk me had not remembered what the doctors had said. And how could I not fail to adhere to the wise words of the doctors?

Zero Conditional

I felt not only weak at the knees, but also in my bones. My bones felt as though they were about to crack.

My bones were about to crack. And what was even more alarming, suddenly, the distance between me at the top of the white dress and the ground seemed to grow.

I saw there was a bench, just off the path to my left.

A problem, which seems to involve a zero conditional:

How do I get from the path to the bench?

First Conditional

Pleased at my mental agility, they had showed me some pictures and asked me to tell a story.

Could I please make it cohere?

“One day the girl in the white dress went for a walk along the path…between the flowerbeds.

They had told her to use a first conditional. If you are not careful, you will lose your balance and fall.”

Mixed Conditional

I remember they’d told me the name of this place.
Leith Park.

They said

“You have been asleep a long time.
Things will not be easy.”

They had given me various language tests. For example, please combine the above two sentences into a mixed conditional.

i.e. if I had been asleep, things would not be easy.

Birdsong

When I awoke, I was standing on the path, between the flowerbeds, in a white dress that came down to my ankles. The sun was just hitting my eyes as I looked up at the trees and caught the birdsong.

Call My Bluff (2)

Muir continuing:

“Fernando Rey, as I am sure Patrick will know, was part of the delegation sent by Francisco Pizarro to deal with the unfortunate Inca king.

“The journal of Fernando Rey testifies to his presence at the court of Atawallpah where he learnt of a black box belonging to the God Pachi Pichui. Fernando Rey, overcome with curiosity and thinking there was treasure in the box, crept into the guarded room where the black box was kept. -”

A loud guffaw emanates from Captain Campbell’s corner.

Muir (Regarding his opponent with wry amusement): Patrick, I see you are having difficulty in containing yourself but if you will kindly wait for the denouement of my story.

Campbell: Frank, I am – we all are waiting with bated breath to know where this extraordinary pack of lies is heading.

Muir proceeds:

The journal of Fernando testifies to his trepidation on the point of opening the box. He talks of being struck down by a bright light. In the shadow of the light a voice spoke to him. -”

Call My Bluff

A Black Box as summarised by Robert Robinson is

(a) a record of communication i.e. between pilot and ground control
(b) an instrument of prestige and illusion
(c) a message from the Gods
(d) a simple lacquer table ornament
(e) the process – baffling to the layman - between input and output in quantum theory calculations.


For definition © Frank Muir takes over with a rather entertaining description of the last days of Atawallpah and the founding father of Thierry’s old school… Fernando Rey.

“Fernand-o - ”

Muir looks across at his opponent, P. Campbell who purses his lips in mockery.

Undeterred, Muir continues:

“Rey, spelt with a “j” but pronounced “por qué”, and not to be confused with the rays worn by Martin in my honourable opponent’s team. -”

Seventies Quiz

Kola: Doc, you are not going to believe this. They have cut to what looks like a Seventies Quiz. - Everyone’s wearing bow ties. And, besides, there is a rather young looking F. Amiss on the panel.

Doc: In the cord jacket and cowboy boots?

Kola: How did you guess!

Cyber Hunters (2)

Doc: Have they killed anything?

Kola: Not yet. It appears they are looking for something more than just simulation.

Doc: It makes sense. They have to satisfy their wunderlust. An idea has just occurred to me.

Kola: What?

Doc (Stage whispers): She is on the Lockjaw ranch. –

Kola: Who?

Doc: The Coma Girl.

Kola: How do you know that?

Doc: Mount Pleasant. – I seen it in photos. Besides, only real Texans will know.

Jabba cuts in:

Jonathan! Someone, help me! What has this got to do with Lockjaw?

Doc (As if hearing the voice of Jabba in his ear): Jon Lockjaw is an old buddy of Rev Hopkins. They regularly hold séances to contact the Springer Wraith. That is, he, the Reverend. Clarence Speakes, too.

Jabba: It is a relief to know there is after all a connection!

Cyber Hunting

A brilliant game devised by Texan hunter/rancher John Lockjaw.

Summary:

The game consists in sitting at home, looking through video camera at deer or other wild animal that has been confined in the Lockjaw ranch. Taking aim with mouse and pressing key shoots carbine in said ranch, thus killing said animal.

J Bond ( with S. Connery brogue) says:

“ Better than hot toddy”

Francisco Scaramanga says:

“Ideal for those in search of virtual adventure.”

Captain America says:

“Just the ticket to while away those boring Sunday afternoons.”

The Cyber Hunters

Doc (Practically epileptic at Kola in charge of the wraparounds): What is going on?

Kola: Looks like an ad… in Gameboy Weekly.

Doc: I knew it! The Cyber Hunters!

Return of the Horseman (2)

By way of explanation he spoke of the great unsettlement of the previous century - the world wars, genocide and persecution. The escalation of conflict has stirred their bloodlust, he said. There are those in your world who believe that the only way to appease them is through sacrifice.

Sacrifice?

Yes, there is a belief that they can be manipulated through the breaking of taboos and what greater taboo could there be other than human sacrifice.

Return of the Horseman

On the horse they rode with fear at their back. She huddled down behind the rider.

He rode with a sense of urgency.

The horse galloped on through the desolate landscape.

Before them was the mountain that rose out of the hills.

They began to climb one of the hills that lay below the mountain. They rode along a path that twisted and turned among the rocks.

When they were in the heights of the hill, she thought of an angry God stirring through the chill wind of the looming mountain.

They came to a stream that was broken by the rocks, and went down in steadily smaller - almost defeated channels.

The rider pulled up.

They cannot reach us here, he said. You can rest.

She stepped off the horse; the rider remained in the saddle.

She sat down on a rock.

Before she was rested, he began to speak again, as if he had heard the question that was forming in her mind without her phrasing it.

“If they are not of your world, it is true to say they are ever present. They exist in a-causal time. You do not see them but they surround you. - In the words of your mystics as above as below. If they remain hidden, sometimes they may leave signs in your world. Appearing in your skies in their ships. Or flying in humanoid form above your cities. If their purposes remain mysterious to you and your kind, their time is coming again.”

School of Laputa

The Monkhouse places horse and rider on Vallee mountain.

What could it all mean?

F. Amiss looks around for help. Apparently oblivious to the surreal exhibition of objects he is being invited to interpret, the other judges only have eyes for the silky skills of the Soho barman demonstrating how to make the perfect latte.

Only Sarah D who is keenly paying attention has cottoned onto what the Monkhouse is up to with his Harpo gag. As if the poor judge has been caught up in one of the more stifling debates at the school of Laputa.

I.e. between a Swiftian projector and a dumb Foucaultian:

Is it a question of mots for choses or choses for mots?

Longest Word

Meanwhile on the Latte Show (surely some mistake, ed) the Monkhouse has just proposed to write a poem for F. Amiss.


F. Amiss: So what is the longest word in the poem?
Monkhouse (Mouthing): A-va-la-n-che
F. Amiss (Patiently): What are you rhyming it with?
Monkhouse (Mouthing again): Mou-.

F. Amiss (Truly baffled, his eyebrows barely flicker): -

Wishing to be of help, the Monkhouse runs off set to return with a huge back of tricks, which he dumps at the feet of the confused judge.

His bag of tricks include:

A Cindy doll in a hospital bed
Besides a patient Craxman
A well thumbed copy of Interpretation of Dreams
And a clay model of the mountain that looks uncannily like the one used in the set of Close Encounters where Ufologist, Jacques Vallee meets the friendly Pledeians.

F. Amiss: Mountain…?

Readers Queries (8)

From the Borges Community of Montevideo to the rider gallant:

How would you describe your ficciónes?

Rider gallant: Surely they mean the writer errant?

From the Smart blog of Comatose Survivors:

Why do you continue to torture your Muses?

Writer errant: Surely it is they who are torturing me?

Her Name Was O

Kola (Peering over the writer’s shoulder, reads):

I myself do not have any confession to make unless it comes from the story I wrote many years ago of the girl, her name was O, who was transported by the ill wind of my malevolence into the cavern where the creature was waiting.

At first she was becalmed, for the creature did not appear to want to harm her, nor even acknowledge her presence until, from some inscrutable purpose of its own, her mind was seized and filled with ghastly visions. The creature seemed to take a perverse delight in the outlandish extremities of her suffering. When she began to rebel, the creature did not relent. It remained impassive towards her pain. - After many hours – perhaps days of torture, O found herself again in the hotel at Innsmouth under the shadow of an inexorable terror.

Blind Tiresias

Doc screeches with neurosis like of a sudden blind Tiresias staggering under the weight of new jugs:

What is going on?

Kola: Nothing. It’s gone blank.

Doc: It has. Those bastards!

Kola: Wait!

Doc: You see something.

Kola: Just a writer in a room. - Got his back to us.

Doc: One of those secretive types. Anyway, what’s he got to say for himself?

In flagrante

Evokes more of that time in the dormitories, where hands grope in the darkness, and his friend Raul flaunts a cheekily lit orifice… Everyone is laughing themselves sick at the fireworks! Raul, you cogno!

Amid those trigger-happy cries and chuckles over comic, springing beds… cocks and pillow feathers fly through the night air. – Postering walls with experimental ejaculations. The lights are on at the window, the priests and their proteges in the corridors, waiting to catch Thierry or one of his companions in flagrante.

Mouse Anatole

What he would give now for some cheese!

It reminds him of the mouse Anatole in one of those quirky fantasies drawn from the picture book of childhood memory.

Thierry smiles at the thought, remembering how Anatole sneaks into the cheese factory where the big cats (for which read Razzi’s breed) are sleeping. – There, he braves the long whiskers and stretching paws for a piece of holey (for which read spiritual) Emmental and melting Roquefort. –

Garibaldi biscuits

With these thoughts hanging over the pinging bullets, Thierry has a gnawing flashback to school and biscuits. Those Garibaldian numbers that were chewed in the dinner hall of the Jesuits, as a kind of special treat… only minus the cheese, since cheese was strictly forbidden. – The Jesuits in their role as Keepers of the Regimen convinced that cheese was bad for you, since, in no particular order, it clogs young arteries, provokes cholesterol and leads to the cardinal sins of idleness and masturbation.

Red Shirts

Butch nudges Thierry - jumps history. Cutting from Lucanii and Romans to brigands (must also be our exemplars, and strength) and back to the days of Garibaldi and his thousand strong red shirts… For which there may, too, be a thread for Thierry – the ultimate sticking place of impossible causes…

Lucanii

Butch puts it simply – romantically enough.

“We must be like the wolves of old,” he tells Thierry. – And in so doing draws an analogy with his beloved Lucania.

What is Lucania you may well ask if not for Butch some kind of fantastic Arden?

Falls under the protection of the ancient Lucanii whose very ghosts stir in the howling wolves, talking trees, fairies and little people, brigands good and bad. - The Lucanii understand were the last tribe to be subjugated and brought under the Pax Romana. They hid themselves away in the woods and left the filthy Reichers to flounder around like Sherwood’s men. – If it wasn’t coincidentally for the Lucanii chilli sausage the Romans would never have been able to march, would have been damned with eternal constipation.

The Imperium

T’was no doubt this sorry tale of the chastened young nation that pushed Butch down the path of deep hatred for the Imperium.

Having observed and analysed the Imperium at close quarters for well nigh three decades, Thierry knows; the Imperium is like a Many Armed Boxer shadowing every move they made. To wit, it brings to the party its own subtle feints and shades in the battle to capture and propagandise meaning. By which Thierry means not only the machinations of the familiar military industrial complex but also the academic and media erratic world that act through censorship and the subtler self-censorship to cover the tracks of the guilty Imperium…

But what of his own guilt ridden tracks? - Thierry smarts at sundry recollections of botched revolution.

Playing lip service to all the pitiful hopes of the cause libre. (For my mistakes I will hold up my hand, and if I erred on the side of the chickens in Nicaragua…)

Globetrotting in the name of duck freedoms. (We got it badly wrong in Angola).

Licking wounds between handjobs ( Saddam’s Scud War) until he fools himself to strike again. – As if the best lack conviction. Only he knows how foolish he has been, Butch, how abandoned to his own vices (interpret wine and cheer how you will)

And if in the long, drawn out analysis, slow defeat of the body politic… we may discern a chink of light here in the Burning Wells of Babylon. The Imperium may finally be over-reaching, if not exactly collapsing. Its failure and weakness converging in the melting pot of pure greed (for which read Halliburton, SpringerCorp and the whole sick capital bandwagon) …

Sensing his irony, Butch exhorts Thierry:

“We may not share the same values, Thierry, or even agree on the minimum standards of human decency but we know how these boys are feeling.”

New Yalta

“In point of fact, we are the victims, Thierry. The sacrificial goats.”

“We will be left to stew in our own still soup. Simmering for forty years in what the textbooks will glibly call Low Level Global War all for the benefit of some grand strategic plan cooked up by the ghosts of Churchill and Stalin at the New Yalta.”

“The Imperium, Thierry!”

“May curses reign down on it!

The Anglo Saxons

“… died a famished prisoner of war.

Like all poor, dumb Italians of his generation, he was fooled into fighting for the Duce in his madcap desert war.... Just as the Duce was in turn fooled by the Anglo Saxons.” – The thesis being that the double dealing Anglo Saxons (and why not the Jutes ho ho) pushed the oil-less* Duce into the hands of the mad Adolf Razzi. ‘nother gag Thierry only half appreciates, but one of those sweet ironies of the moment, which he readily does.

“For if we were fooled once, we shall be fooled again,
Destined to play out in some kind of eternal return,
To lose once again Abyssinia, Greece…
To witness Razzi like droids take over and new Duces hung.”

*Appears to be an allusion from the Italian, perhaps lost in translation. A man without oil for bread is considered to be very much down on his luck.

El Alamein

“My father, God rest his soul, emptied his tank at El Alamein…

Shoeless Boy

“In little less than a decade my family lost everything, Thierry.

… I myself was a shoeless boy made to sleep with dogs and farmer’s boys .

Fragment of Epic Roman

Fragment of Epic
Roman
Slips out
Of the baroque bordello
Of the Box
Like a Dali Clock:

Butch, by his own admission, is an unusual case study of a jihadi in the making.

“If you will allow the hand of the Dali clock to tug the whiskers and turn back to the days when Grandydaddy walks the walk with the Duce and fascism was sitting pretty with Socialist ideals. It is true, whatever the revisionists say, that it happens like this – peasants singing lustily in the fields, the Leaderine helping with the hay in a very literal way by annexing the lands of the rich and giving them away. It had for us a very real meaning, Thierry. The Duce was felt by all “la roba genuine” i.e. the real mackoy, until his own ego intransigence takes root, black shirts click heels and stamp out the hope sprouting in our very shoots.