...
The red sunne rose on a newe daye to fynde me groanynge and pukynge - ay, vommitynge - into a buckette of inadequate size, cursynge the hell-bred cheffe and all his devil-waiters. Its light scourd my bed-roome, where it refleckted off my mirrour into my wretched visage to blind me as I regurgitated Oyster-Pie and 'banana waterloo' right into the meagre receptacle.
Abstrackt'd, I listennd to the pig-language that came oute of my sickynge mouthe with some degree of distaunce and self-contempte, and eventually managd to muster myselfe sufficiently to stande up (whereat I felle downe) and groane (whereat I was sicke again), and finally to dragge myselfe lock stocke and barrell into the pale whyte bathroome to make an ende of the repulsyve businesse. Thus evacuated, I dranke down some cloudy tappe-water and examined the open quarrie that resembled my face. My eyes were lyke holes dryll'd in dede flesshe, and my teethe had turnd yellow and jutted oute of my mouthe. My chekes were compressd, my ears distorted, my for'ead scord wyth tram-lynes. I immediately regretted my choise of employmente and staggerd into the kitchen, where I slumpd on the floor and wishd sincerely that my owne death wolde come, that I might be renderd the posthumous Dignity of seemyng to have buckld under the duresse of condiciouns that were truly lyfe-thretenynge. As it was, I could not thusly save face and so I was forcd to slepe awhile there, until the hard flore and despicable Birds awoke me three houres latere.
Usynge only my armes, I draggd myselfe to the stove and boyld some water for Coffee. I didde not forgette I hadde a dede-lyne and, forcynge myselfe to my unstedy fete, wente backe into my roome to clere away the Emissions and set uppe my quille, drippynge cold swett onto everythynge. The review I wrote was favourable, yet I lyke to thynke it was also even-handed and not at all in awe of the legendary establishment or its superintendent ungulate.
The Observer Food Supplement
The Royal Bison, Mayfair
By Food Writer Thomas Nashe
A Mayfaire Institution synce 1804, The Royal Bison has long tradyd on its reputacioun as an exclusyve dinynge roome and jazze venue, where the publick are kept quite safely oute of the picture and meals of tremendous scope and sise can be enjoyd by gourmandes. For a starter I hadde Plover Puddynge wyth a pinte of beaujolais. Three Urchyns were heard shoutynge outsyde whilst I gobbld it and they were summarily lind up and shotte by the Head Waiter, who in spite of which Blip, remaind thoroughly solicitous toward thys critick; he is to be Noticed. My glasse was kepte brimmynge as I powerd aheade into the entree, halfe a baby ox wyth its tongue on a silver spyke, and remained unfinishable as I island-hoppd betwene orchid souffle, bumblebee flan and swan holocaust surprise. It ys the policye of thys restaurante to blende the flavours and as I ate wayters came t'introduce fresh side-dyshes - bird of paradyse on a stycke, elephant-tail noodles, slow-worm fricasee and th'unsurpassable fusion dysshe rhubarb crumble con carne. My second glasse was also fylld wyth water from seven rivers and my backe was increasingly cushiond as I got into the Swyng of trenchermanshyppe, finally lyinge expertly prone wyth camel sorbet and hi-protein coffee stremeing downe my chinne.
The servyce was nonpareil and I sholde recommend thys as a dinynge experience to suite th'unpopular or particularly greedye amongst you - if you happen to falle into bothe campes then G-- ha' Mercy. I woulde not recommende male readers brynge their wyfes as they are bounde to excyte jealousy from the resident company of women who are so vilely swollen and greyed wyth excesse they looke like their own family vaults, and whose patience is worne so extremely thinne from under-use they they mighte very welle lose It at the slightest hiccough.
The total coste of the meal was £274.21 includynge servyce so I would not recommend thys restaurant to the Poore. The head cheffe, M. Lapin-Muerte, is a true master of nouvelle cuisine and he is to be stuffd and displayd in the Foyer when he dies in the line, the fate of every truly grete cuisinier.
I seald up my Review and struggld rounde to my employer Hyndemarshe's house, a massive mansion in Belgravia where he receivd me in his opulent sitting-roome.
-Sit downe Nashe, he began, I see you are very Ille.
I tooke a chaire wyth its backe to the door and there ensued a short silence. A droplette of sweate fell on the Persian Hearthrug.
-Sir, I have written a review.
-So I shoulde thynk, he snorted before blowynge hys nose on a fyve-pounde note. Let's see't.
I handed himme the paper wyth shakynge, clammy handes. He read it over.
-Yes, the Bison, the food, the waiter. You haven't mentioned the gardens.
-No sir.
-Never mynd. Thys semes welle, please let me paye you.
-Thank you sir.
He retird into a further roome and returnd wyth a handful of money that he directlye threwe on the carpette.
-Thank you Nashe he sayd and I sat there starynge up at hym wyth eyes shinyng from sickness. You can go nowe, get youre money.
-What is the meanyng of this, I sayd (feelynge the old fyre in me), why can't you give it me?
A board creakd in the hall. He merely lookd at his fete.
-Why did you that, callous toade? I demanded, tryynge to stande uppe but faylynge and feelynge the dampnesse of my shirte on the leather chaire. Ide lyke you to gyve it to me, please.
-Bad backe, he sayd.
-L---, I replyd, what is the matter wyth you?
-Ah! He cried, and rounded on me. I have been sufferynge so longe and fruitlessly to be a decent employer, Great G-- I cannot respect those who labour under me sufficient to treate them better than earthwormes! It is a knitting-needle jammed in my soule, my bad backe is merely a fiction to proteckt myself, pity me!
-Come agayne?
-Oh, my sordid lyfe, fulle of moneye and insufficiently usefulle to the wyder worlde. 'Tis hypocrisy to paye you, 'tis hypocrisy to lyve, let me die, let me die!
I wonderd at this abrupt change in the emotional Climate. He was weepynge great bigge teares and rollynge around in the moneye, and my teethe chattered as I lookd on, paralysd wyth Illnesse. At that moment, a knocke came at the doore so suddenly I cried oute loude and was able to swivell my head just sufficiently to see a younge womanne with black ringlets come pokyng her hede in.
-Daddy! She screeched and ran to hym, strokynge his grete bigge balde hede. You are havynge another Episode. Do something!
The latter comment was addressed to me and I strove to stande uppe.
-Get some water, he is most unwelle.
I shuffld out of the drawyngeroome onto a polyshd landyge from whych I coulde observe a bathe-roome. I totterd inne and filld a tooth-glasse wyth water before returnynge limpinglye to the sittynge-roome. The girle was smoothynge her father's face wyth a cold flannel and usyng th'other hande to scrape up the cashe into a litel hepe. She was a swete-facd girl but somethyng hadde gone wronge in her to distort her. It was notte the eye. Nor the face at all. As I ponderd on I notycd she had rather a shorte necke and it made her looke a touche dwarfish although she were not conceivably a dwarf. She tended to Mr Hyndemarsh very lovynglye and when she stoode to help hym uppe I notyced that she was actually rather prettye.
These are my daughters, Ide lyke you to mete themme sayd Hyndemarshe when the moral panick had been utterly extinguishd. Thatte - he indickated another girl approachyng from the hall - is Volvic. Thys is Evian. They are my sole helpe in th'extremity of my indolence. Here Evian put her arme arounde hym. Nowe take youre money and go, go!
I hurryd out and shiverd backe to my lodgynge, where the pest-controul invoice lay fringd with coffee on my desk, wayting for me to paye't. Meanwhyle the huge whyte rodent lay in the corner of the room, where I fancyd I saw it twitch.
Tuesday, 12 June 2007
Tuesday, 5 June 2007
Criticism - Nourishmente - Bison
Gentille reader, whose eyes ought daily to be washd in teres of modest gratitude for youre gigantick intellect and sound right-thynkingness, praye do not averte your tender weeping-balls from my latest shockyng adventure. You will fynde yourselfe somewhatte the better for't; here is verily a Moral Dagger wyth Witte and Tragedy drainyng down the Fuller.
Upon leavynge my home I walked streightway to the puny yet conwenient Shoppe on the corner and obtaind a Jobbe whose scope and relevance styll make the droole runne down my jerkyn as I wryte. What illustrious employmente! My prosing dayes were done! Nowe the innocent Apron of my misdireckted minde shoulde become the canvasse for a newe worlde of funcktionality that I lookd for'ard to wyth tremendous shaykes. For I - and I do not exaggerate - had founde th'employmente to ende alle Employmentes. A Crusade. A quantumme lepe in status. I walked oute of the Shoppe a Restaurant Critick!
I kickd some innocent Inferior People oute of my way as I made straighte for the Taylors. A hatte and a bibbe, Nashe. Wipynge my salivatynge mouthe on a sewer-ratte I plungd hede-firste into the bakerye where in my phrenzie I ordered a frozen pea be bakd into the centre of a skull-shapd lofe, hadde to renege on't, and finally lefte it in the arms of a tiny old manne weepynge profusely and claspynge't to hym. But steye I koude not, and I rapidly pourd all my glory and happyness downe on themme lyke the fat smylynge blancmange of ecstacy who awaiteth the quyck and the dede bothe. Crossynge the roade under the benevolente sunne I smyld at all aboute me. A baby was workynge at a lollipop wyth its vacuum lips thrashynge on it. No taste, I mus'd goodheartedly as I considerd that a babye has but a rather litel diet. The Taylors!
Bib! Noodlehead! I blasted the toadying Doorman whose toppe hatte was fleckd with cobwebbe and mil-dewe as he inclind it to'ard me. As the door shutte behynd, I watchd the shop come pulsatyng into view fromme my sun-blasted vizion and amongst the junk-yarde of clothe, ribbons, mannequin hedes, over-pil'd Stock, collapsd Stocke, shotgun cases, cigar barrells, tuxedoes, fether boas, eager-faced assystantes, ruind marble Pillars, crownes, bow-ties, sunglass rackes, curtaiynd cubicles and hap-hazard plankynge, I made oute the exackt out-fitte right on a Dummy at the backe. Soone enoughe I was trimme as a barber's Razor and armd to the teethe wyth cutlery. I payd the Taylor wyth a credit-note on the name of my new Employer Mr Hyndemarsh and lefte the windowe rattlynge in its Frame wyth the velocity of my exitt.
Thys breake-necke pace continued throughoute the daye as I rushd dementedly from one place to another, often withoute knowynge where or who I was. It maye puzzle the reader somewhatte why I chose to become a Restaurant Critick with such an access of Lunacy, and I see fitte to explayne; let the narratyve retyre from my splenetick selfe raving around Clapton in the drizzle to consider the situation from the comfortable fyre-side of Reason.
The symple answere was that it was a solution to last weke's problemme. Another factore was the prospect of eatyng a great deale of food and gettynge paid for't. But the Principall Reasoun for th'extremity of my Episode was that I was so extremely Satisfyd with seleckting so marvellous a jobbe thatte I was quyte beside myselfe wyth pride. Pride is the burdenne of a man lyke me. I must always guard for't and watche for its huge eye wynkynge at mye follye. The mighty sun-glasses of Modesty may defleckt its gaze awaye but even Phancies and acheivementes that are only dimly percievd by th'Eye of Pride are turnd to World News in your afflicktd Nashes mind. I do not thynke that I am alone in thys - indeed I am not askinge for sympathy. Onlye that the merciful reader understande that a man who ever excells must be torturd by that excellences burdenne. And in my case it is the endlesse watchynge and flattery by that wicked Eye, probyng for anothere scrappe of my genious.
Nowe to my firste assignmente: the Royal Bison in Mayfaire.
Welcome to our delicious restaurant! Exclaimed a French Door-Person(f) as I entered. Th'exclamation hung in the aire lyke a body from a gallowes. I performed a volte-face yet was somehow escorted inwards by a waiter. Firste Impressioun: Feeble. Decor outmoded and girle is muche too friendly & a liar. Poor use of adjectyve. Potential endyng: Style rydes Substance down to Helle screaming. It was to a small perfectly rounde table that I was conduckted wyth some deference. I tippd my wayter wyth an edition of Proust and satte downe to Take Stocke. The Bison is frequented by enormous moneyd people who brynge theyre familys close to their clubbe and office to shewe them offe to theyr friends. It also caters to some minor members of Parliamente who havynge dined in't for thirty yeares are sustaynd by a complex cock-taile of drugges the head cheffe puts into their usual dishes, keepynge them coming backe. Some never leve. It is rumourd that the titantic Bison suspended from the ceilynge in fulle Viking regalia was a gifte from a certayn Lord who foudne hymselfe in thatte position and orderd hys bisonne broughte to calme hys nerves. Now it was suspended like the Sword of Damocles over a preposterously Fat woman whose arms billowd & thundered out of her sylk dresse lyke a rockslyde. Lyghte classickal musyck rotted on the synthetyck aire. Waiters made softe breezes as they passd wyth theyre trayes and note-books. Thys was only the beginynge.
Waiter! I whisperd and instantly 10 of them were at my feet. You! I seleckted the least French-lookynge. Brynge me the Set Menu, the beste one, and please also some Brede-Stickes & houmous in a silver dishe. Please also bringe a monocle a typewriter sixty cigarettes four months worth of Milk and St James' Park. He bowed and brought alle of the above in plastick Minature, which impaird their function severely. When he returned I was grinding Buckingham Palace under my bootheele in an attempt to take a turne i'th' parke. Here is youre Scottish Plover Pudding as startere sir, servd wyth Blakke-Power icecreme on a four-poster bedde of Rockette and Pine cones. He stood by as I drew out my shortest and most modest forke. He lookd on as the implement approachd. Suddenly I screamd and smashed my arm into the aire.
Don't looke at me! I commanded. Instantly he turned away in fright and shame.
I ate the course. Starter: Decent. Plov. Pudd. Not as good as Grandmother's. Rockette is crispe, full. Plover hede offerd for inspecioun. Adequate servyce. As I composed my review I noticd the waiter was crying because i had not notycd hym recentlye. Next course! I barkd and he smyld through hys teres.
More courses followd. One was a greate bowle of soupe and fulle of butterflyes beneathe the lidde. For the fish course, whych was crabbe, the waiter hadd a traind lobster who evisceratd the beast before oure eyes and emptyd the deliciouse mete oute onto the plate. For the next ----
[hiatus in M.S.]
Upon leavynge my home I walked streightway to the puny yet conwenient Shoppe on the corner and obtaind a Jobbe whose scope and relevance styll make the droole runne down my jerkyn as I wryte. What illustrious employmente! My prosing dayes were done! Nowe the innocent Apron of my misdireckted minde shoulde become the canvasse for a newe worlde of funcktionality that I lookd for'ard to wyth tremendous shaykes. For I - and I do not exaggerate - had founde th'employmente to ende alle Employmentes. A Crusade. A quantumme lepe in status. I walked oute of the Shoppe a Restaurant Critick!
I kickd some innocent Inferior People oute of my way as I made straighte for the Taylors. A hatte and a bibbe, Nashe. Wipynge my salivatynge mouthe on a sewer-ratte I plungd hede-firste into the bakerye where in my phrenzie I ordered a frozen pea be bakd into the centre of a skull-shapd lofe, hadde to renege on't, and finally lefte it in the arms of a tiny old manne weepynge profusely and claspynge't to hym. But steye I koude not, and I rapidly pourd all my glory and happyness downe on themme lyke the fat smylynge blancmange of ecstacy who awaiteth the quyck and the dede bothe. Crossynge the roade under the benevolente sunne I smyld at all aboute me. A baby was workynge at a lollipop wyth its vacuum lips thrashynge on it. No taste, I mus'd goodheartedly as I considerd that a babye has but a rather litel diet. The Taylors!
Bib! Noodlehead! I blasted the toadying Doorman whose toppe hatte was fleckd with cobwebbe and mil-dewe as he inclind it to'ard me. As the door shutte behynd, I watchd the shop come pulsatyng into view fromme my sun-blasted vizion and amongst the junk-yarde of clothe, ribbons, mannequin hedes, over-pil'd Stock, collapsd Stocke, shotgun cases, cigar barrells, tuxedoes, fether boas, eager-faced assystantes, ruind marble Pillars, crownes, bow-ties, sunglass rackes, curtaiynd cubicles and hap-hazard plankynge, I made oute the exackt out-fitte right on a Dummy at the backe. Soone enoughe I was trimme as a barber's Razor and armd to the teethe wyth cutlery. I payd the Taylor wyth a credit-note on the name of my new Employer Mr Hyndemarsh and lefte the windowe rattlynge in its Frame wyth the velocity of my exitt.
Thys breake-necke pace continued throughoute the daye as I rushd dementedly from one place to another, often withoute knowynge where or who I was. It maye puzzle the reader somewhatte why I chose to become a Restaurant Critick with such an access of Lunacy, and I see fitte to explayne; let the narratyve retyre from my splenetick selfe raving around Clapton in the drizzle to consider the situation from the comfortable fyre-side of Reason.
The symple answere was that it was a solution to last weke's problemme. Another factore was the prospect of eatyng a great deale of food and gettynge paid for't. But the Principall Reasoun for th'extremity of my Episode was that I was so extremely Satisfyd with seleckting so marvellous a jobbe thatte I was quyte beside myselfe wyth pride. Pride is the burdenne of a man lyke me. I must always guard for't and watche for its huge eye wynkynge at mye follye. The mighty sun-glasses of Modesty may defleckt its gaze awaye but even Phancies and acheivementes that are only dimly percievd by th'Eye of Pride are turnd to World News in your afflicktd Nashes mind. I do not thynke that I am alone in thys - indeed I am not askinge for sympathy. Onlye that the merciful reader understande that a man who ever excells must be torturd by that excellences burdenne. And in my case it is the endlesse watchynge and flattery by that wicked Eye, probyng for anothere scrappe of my genious.
Nowe to my firste assignmente: the Royal Bison in Mayfaire.
Welcome to our delicious restaurant! Exclaimed a French Door-Person(f) as I entered. Th'exclamation hung in the aire lyke a body from a gallowes. I performed a volte-face yet was somehow escorted inwards by a waiter. Firste Impressioun: Feeble. Decor outmoded and girle is muche too friendly & a liar. Poor use of adjectyve. Potential endyng: Style rydes Substance down to Helle screaming. It was to a small perfectly rounde table that I was conduckted wyth some deference. I tippd my wayter wyth an edition of Proust and satte downe to Take Stocke. The Bison is frequented by enormous moneyd people who brynge theyre familys close to their clubbe and office to shewe them offe to theyr friends. It also caters to some minor members of Parliamente who havynge dined in't for thirty yeares are sustaynd by a complex cock-taile of drugges the head cheffe puts into their usual dishes, keepynge them coming backe. Some never leve. It is rumourd that the titantic Bison suspended from the ceilynge in fulle Viking regalia was a gifte from a certayn Lord who foudne hymselfe in thatte position and orderd hys bisonne broughte to calme hys nerves. Now it was suspended like the Sword of Damocles over a preposterously Fat woman whose arms billowd & thundered out of her sylk dresse lyke a rockslyde. Lyghte classickal musyck rotted on the synthetyck aire. Waiters made softe breezes as they passd wyth theyre trayes and note-books. Thys was only the beginynge.
Waiter! I whisperd and instantly 10 of them were at my feet. You! I seleckted the least French-lookynge. Brynge me the Set Menu, the beste one, and please also some Brede-Stickes & houmous in a silver dishe. Please also bringe a monocle a typewriter sixty cigarettes four months worth of Milk and St James' Park. He bowed and brought alle of the above in plastick Minature, which impaird their function severely. When he returned I was grinding Buckingham Palace under my bootheele in an attempt to take a turne i'th' parke. Here is youre Scottish Plover Pudding as startere sir, servd wyth Blakke-Power icecreme on a four-poster bedde of Rockette and Pine cones. He stood by as I drew out my shortest and most modest forke. He lookd on as the implement approachd. Suddenly I screamd and smashed my arm into the aire.
Don't looke at me! I commanded. Instantly he turned away in fright and shame.
I ate the course. Starter: Decent. Plov. Pudd. Not as good as Grandmother's. Rockette is crispe, full. Plover hede offerd for inspecioun. Adequate servyce. As I composed my review I noticd the waiter was crying because i had not notycd hym recentlye. Next course! I barkd and he smyld through hys teres.
More courses followd. One was a greate bowle of soupe and fulle of butterflyes beneathe the lidde. For the fish course, whych was crabbe, the waiter hadd a traind lobster who evisceratd the beast before oure eyes and emptyd the deliciouse mete oute onto the plate. For the next ----
[hiatus in M.S.]
Tuesday, 29 May 2007
Mournyng Terrour - A Rodent Visits - Bureacracye - Povertye
At six o'clocke this mornynge I was fir'd out of bedde by the fizzynge of FEAR that tolde me Some One was in my lodgynge. I caste off my bedclothes and satte bolte-uprighte in the draughte wyth quyte a fyrme notion thatte some robbery or othere Mishap was in trayne. There was no sounde nor shadow out of place and yette I felt the Atmosphere be at the verye least Wronge. My thoughts quickly turnd to howe I myghte defend myselfe against any Goon and I made strayghte for my cloaths. I was aboute to seize my firste cufflinke when suddenly I noticd a miniscule throbbynge in the pyle that causd the folds of clothe to ope and shutte lyke minature babys mouthes.
Horrifyd, I steadyd my right hande wythe myye lefte to reach for my dressynge-gowne, and sat amazd as I did so, almost not knowynge what I didde, only that the source of all the movemente shoulde soone be reveald and to 'scape the knowledge I wolde be powerlesse. I shut my eyes and reachd, and there came to my eare, as I drewe the heavy gowne away, a puny munchynge, and as I peepd on th'umuffl'd form I did spye a grubby yet gigantick whyte ratte, gnawynge on a remnant of a Parrotte. The colourfulle byrd hadde all but disappeard into the ratte and that tremendous mammal was lickyinge out one of the wynge-joynts.
This has to stoppe! cryd Nashe, booting the monstrosity into a cupboarde and shuttynge it tighte. A faint scrabblynge emanated. What a monster! What a worlde! Explodynge wyth pitye I washd my handes and face. Howe coulde it have gotte in here? The beast was the syze of a Badger. Who the D---- are you?
I founde I adressd a slighte man wearynge glasses who withoute my knowledge had installd himselfe in the MFI kitchn I hadde pains-takingly assembled usynge only 17th-century tools. What is thys?
-You have a rodent problemme, replyd the man whose coloure-scheme of pale face, blue uni-forme and blacke haire gave hym the aire of an Official Documente, with the Clarity-of-English Diamond atwinkle in hys eye. I am fromme the council.
Knowynge that Domestick Pest-Controul was suche smalle frye to the megalythick Hackneye councille, I smelt a seckond ratte.
-You are notte! I retorted. I knowe you rat-catchers have a greate rackette gwynge onne. Whye shoulde the Council sende somebody rounde to kille animals when they haven't e'en the money to colleckt the rubbyshe. You are a wealthye professionale and you have the market sewne right uppe, and thatte's whatte youre goinge to do to me. Nowe gette out of my kitchen thou charlatan, it's tyme for BOVRIL(r).
-Acktually it's economical for the councille, replied my interlocutor smugly. I worke for a pest-controul firme and they have sub-contracted me.
-They have WHATTE? At thys pointe I notyced that he was bare-foot.
-I am here on their behalfe. And I am goinge to kille every single animal in thys place and you are goinge to paye for it because you are in Council Tax band R7. Nowe signe thys vellum.
Wearily I didde, seeynge no waye out of thys bureaucratick stye & impatient to see the apalling rodent destroyd.
-Presently I wylle begin, he declared as he foldyd th'affidavit into an interior pockette and in the same swifte motion withdrewe a huge syrynge fulle of grene venom, butte firste lette me telle you aboute oure methods. The methods are bang uppe to date and employ the verye -
He was cutt shorte by a cataclysmyck Smashe from the bedroome. We lookd at eache other disconcertdlye. Hys diamond eye twinkled hard atte me & he rushd off, I follwynge, into the chamber.
-AHA! He cryd, drivynge the syrynge into the ratte thatte was swyngyng i'the chandelier. Die, pest!
It was an horrid speckatcle as the ratte fell convulsynge to the floore. As it twytched he made an invoyce.
-£6 please.
I was flabberghasted. But I hadde notte the moneye. Nor any money at alle.
-I haven't it. Sorrye.
-If you do not have £6, you will have to kepe the bodye in youre flatte until you paye, th'exterminator replyd cooly.
I lookd atte the quiverynge corse coverd in blude and feathers.
-We have an Interest Scheme he continued, scratching the floor wyth a toe-nayle, it's verye reasonable.
-Can't Aye just take hym oute? I venturd.
-That? Snorted the Angel of Dethe, you'd better have somewhere to putte it or you wylle be fin'd & koude receive a Criminal Recorde. I will be backe nexte weeke to checke if you have the moneye, at whych poynt I shalle either remove thatte ratte, or...
He pushd his glasses uppe his nose and sniffd.
-...the pest controule wyll be oblygd to blacklyst youre house.
-I counte that notte a figge! I crow'd, I have no peste problemme, really thys is just an Isolated Incidente & I am habitually a clene & decent liver.
-Marke my wordes when I saye you do not want it, sayd th'exterminator darkly. Now showe me oute.
Feeble tiny little gnat of man, I thoughte as I conduckted hym oute. A pest-controul protecktion rackette indede. I was notte frightend by the prospeckt of armies of cock-roaches trooping out of the plug-holes nor wormes wriggylnge under my pillowe, no. Nor of myce insyde the pie-cruste, flyes on the custard, wasp nests hangynge from the eaves nor even a slug on eache houseplante and fat pigeons infestyng the chimney. But it was true thatte I needyd the moneye, and as I was up earlye I decyded to sette out to fynde me a jobbe.
Horrifyd, I steadyd my right hande wythe myye lefte to reach for my dressynge-gowne, and sat amazd as I did so, almost not knowynge what I didde, only that the source of all the movemente shoulde soone be reveald and to 'scape the knowledge I wolde be powerlesse. I shut my eyes and reachd, and there came to my eare, as I drewe the heavy gowne away, a puny munchynge, and as I peepd on th'umuffl'd form I did spye a grubby yet gigantick whyte ratte, gnawynge on a remnant of a Parrotte. The colourfulle byrd hadde all but disappeard into the ratte and that tremendous mammal was lickyinge out one of the wynge-joynts.
This has to stoppe! cryd Nashe, booting the monstrosity into a cupboarde and shuttynge it tighte. A faint scrabblynge emanated. What a monster! What a worlde! Explodynge wyth pitye I washd my handes and face. Howe coulde it have gotte in here? The beast was the syze of a Badger. Who the D---- are you?
I founde I adressd a slighte man wearynge glasses who withoute my knowledge had installd himselfe in the MFI kitchn I hadde pains-takingly assembled usynge only 17th-century tools. What is thys?
-You have a rodent problemme, replyd the man whose coloure-scheme of pale face, blue uni-forme and blacke haire gave hym the aire of an Official Documente, with the Clarity-of-English Diamond atwinkle in hys eye. I am fromme the council.
Knowynge that Domestick Pest-Controul was suche smalle frye to the megalythick Hackneye councille, I smelt a seckond ratte.
-You are notte! I retorted. I knowe you rat-catchers have a greate rackette gwynge onne. Whye shoulde the Council sende somebody rounde to kille animals when they haven't e'en the money to colleckt the rubbyshe. You are a wealthye professionale and you have the market sewne right uppe, and thatte's whatte youre goinge to do to me. Nowe gette out of my kitchen thou charlatan, it's tyme for BOVRIL(r).
-Acktually it's economical for the councille, replied my interlocutor smugly. I worke for a pest-controul firme and they have sub-contracted me.
-They have WHATTE? At thys pointe I notyced that he was bare-foot.
-I am here on their behalfe. And I am goinge to kille every single animal in thys place and you are goinge to paye for it because you are in Council Tax band R7. Nowe signe thys vellum.
Wearily I didde, seeynge no waye out of thys bureaucratick stye & impatient to see the apalling rodent destroyd.
-Presently I wylle begin, he declared as he foldyd th'affidavit into an interior pockette and in the same swifte motion withdrewe a huge syrynge fulle of grene venom, butte firste lette me telle you aboute oure methods. The methods are bang uppe to date and employ the verye -
He was cutt shorte by a cataclysmyck Smashe from the bedroome. We lookd at eache other disconcertdlye. Hys diamond eye twinkled hard atte me & he rushd off, I follwynge, into the chamber.
-AHA! He cryd, drivynge the syrynge into the ratte thatte was swyngyng i'the chandelier. Die, pest!
It was an horrid speckatcle as the ratte fell convulsynge to the floore. As it twytched he made an invoyce.
-£6 please.
I was flabberghasted. But I hadde notte the moneye. Nor any money at alle.
-I haven't it. Sorrye.
-If you do not have £6, you will have to kepe the bodye in youre flatte until you paye, th'exterminator replyd cooly.
I lookd atte the quiverynge corse coverd in blude and feathers.
-We have an Interest Scheme he continued, scratching the floor wyth a toe-nayle, it's verye reasonable.
-Can't Aye just take hym oute? I venturd.
-That? Snorted the Angel of Dethe, you'd better have somewhere to putte it or you wylle be fin'd & koude receive a Criminal Recorde. I will be backe nexte weeke to checke if you have the moneye, at whych poynt I shalle either remove thatte ratte, or...
He pushd his glasses uppe his nose and sniffd.
-...the pest controule wyll be oblygd to blacklyst youre house.
-I counte that notte a figge! I crow'd, I have no peste problemme, really thys is just an Isolated Incidente & I am habitually a clene & decent liver.
-Marke my wordes when I saye you do not want it, sayd th'exterminator darkly. Now showe me oute.
Feeble tiny little gnat of man, I thoughte as I conduckted hym oute. A pest-controul protecktion rackette indede. I was notte frightend by the prospeckt of armies of cock-roaches trooping out of the plug-holes nor wormes wriggylnge under my pillowe, no. Nor of myce insyde the pie-cruste, flyes on the custard, wasp nests hangynge from the eaves nor even a slug on eache houseplante and fat pigeons infestyng the chimney. But it was true thatte I needyd the moneye, and as I was up earlye I decyded to sette out to fynde me a jobbe.
Monday, 21 May 2007
Come all ye - Nashes Introduction - The News-Leviathan - Love & Marriage
I have been styfled in my ordinary outpourings by the wicked march of Tyme that does not leave me a single dot of leisure in whych to make my electrick diary. But now it is the Houre to caste offe the blacke palle of Anonymitye once more and I am so to speke BACKE, burstynge from a hepe of cold potatoes right into the 21st century.
To those who rede my lucubrations for the fyrst Tyme, let me have the satysfaction of filling you inne. I, Thos. Nashe am a clear-minded and brillyant man who turneth over the damp stone of exystence to reveal the multitudinous swarmynges of heartes and myndes beneath, man's and G--'s designs all crinkled up together. I do occasionally undertake Projeckts, mainly with an eye to the destrucktion and ruin of Doctor HARVEY my owne Nemesis who is deserving of heavy revilement. I am the botanyst of London, the anatomist of Science and the Quantity Surveyor of Hearts. I am a Genius of accountancy and I always carry a cutlasse; I am Thomas Nashe, a puritanickal diner and above all a master of fine English Prose.
That I wyll concentrate on my owne affairs shoulde be no surprise, being as it ys that I know myselfe better thanne anyone and nothing better than that. Not fain to gyve myselfe the appearence of byynge in any waye wicked I wyll exercyse all the discrecioun at my meagre disposal to reine in the more disgustynge detailes although sometymes truth must trample concerns for decency I knowe. I hope to furnyshe you eache Monday wyth an excitynge Episode.
To make a starte, thenne. I have been lookynge in the Personal Advertisements for a woman wyth whome to lyve in Domestick 2-part harmony and synge the occasionalle popular ballad wyth. I have sicknd of lyvynge alone in Hackneye bored oute of my deseperate skulle wyth nobody to harangue, gull or syng atte and the red gleme in the News-Agent wyndowe caught my eye advertysyng 'LOVE'. I entered the shop and left it carryynge my prize, a four-tonne Sunday paper wyth articles about Death Shopping & Fundamentalism etc with which I impatiently strewed the Kingsland Road as I wended my weye home. A companionne I mused as I dragged the mighty burden alonge crushynge a sewer-ratte. A companionne to love & Cheryshe was my thought as a child vanynshed into the bundle and hys mother cryd oute to his recdynge hande. A true-love and no strynges nooses nor electrick cables attached, thats what Ide lyke I thoughte as I turned the corner into my road, rummagynge all the way.
Finally layynge holde of the Love-supplement & casting the news-leviathan into a grene binne marked 'I LOVE HACKNEYE' I tore up the browne staires to my dilapidated Rooms. Barely able to put the kettle on I threwe myself into the tan armchaire and Consulted. I was a manne seekyne womanne so I woulde nede a womanne seekynge manne. I seleckted the correckt segment and cast the rest into the Fyre. My glistening eye rolld over the glossy advertisements, ignorynge stretching apparatus, gardenynge mitts, Pheromone spraye, assassination servyces etc. and eventually stucke firmly at the head of a column the size of a Glacier, that contayned 1,298,926 requests or demands for Love and Cherishment & so forth from womenne to menne.
This is truly quite bizarre & desperate Stuffe, I pondered as I turned my whole hede in order to tear my left eye from the page. But thys was not a tyme for thinkynge, it was a tyme for AXION and I had made change at the Post-Office to place some calls shoulde the neede arise. For eight hours I stumbled across the glacier of lonely Hearts, plungyng myselfe into crevasses of simulated Emotion for women I hadde never mette in my lyfe. I did not once leave the house to visit the extruded glass phonebox on the cornere that despite containynge 60 different women in poses of varyinge obscenitye hadde always fayld to excite your Nashes finer feelings; indeed now it seemd to mocke my efforts at true-love when lonesomely I peered o'er the window-sille, expectynge the houre I should have to place a calle to the ideal womanne whom I would finde in the Supplement.
Curse the Supplement! merely a slimy scale of the news-leviathan and not worthy of handlynge my Interior Affaires! The women it shewed forthe were identical, seeking Mr GOSH or similar and alle seemd to wante longe walkes which I despise. Some lovd Musick though they always were the mature sorte and I had anne Inkeling of what that woulde be lyke: a labour of dinners and polyte conversation followd by dutifulle servyce and I shoulde be merely a Toye-Boye not a paramour as it was my avowd intencioun to become. Some wishd for a sensytyve soule but I expectd that woulde lead to evenings of palsy-wreaking dullness discussing trifles of her Emotional lyfe. Some symply sayd 'Are you lookynge for me?', which metaphysical question drove me into suche a phrenzy I almost baked a single oyster at 800C out of spite & despair.
Eventually I merely Jabbd at the paper wyth a broken pencyl and betook myself to the phone-boxe, expectyng 'widow, 30' to be juste as goode as the nexte if she were all that Fate supplyd. Wearily I stuffed £40 into the Slotte at gunpoint and had to watch as my Assailante pressed 'Coin Return' after I hadde pretended to walk away. Hackneye. Being more or lesse cleaned oute by this unfortunate muggynge I inserted my laste 50p into the slotte and dialled the relevant numbers, leaving a message at box #7727283473041Q to the tune of 'I Thos. Nashe woulde love to meete you by moonlyghte on the Upstreme Hungerforde footbridge, please meet me at 11pm on Tuesday, I will be wearygne a feather in my hatte' etc. and I appended sundry complimentes and muche swete syngynge.
Throughout Monday I steeld myselfe for the romantick tryst. I polyshd my buckles and beads and stroked up my velvet the ryghte waye, dyed my haire, embroidered a lace handkerchief, wrote eighteen sonnets and hired a white stede to carrye me to the Upstreme bridge of Norm. Hungerford at the appropriate houre. I payd the gas-bille so that it shoulde not preye on my minde and I coulde thus discourse on fitter topicks with my newe girl-friende.
On Tuesday I was just pickynge up my Oyster card when a mighty Knocke came thundering up the staires from the strete door and I pok'd my mighty hede out o'er the sille to see whom it was. A man shapd like a snooker-ball was puffing and stamping around in the street and lookynge uppe at my window. Hallo? I cryd, thinkyng this would be a Delivery or other Small Mercy.
-Thomas Nashe? he shouted in a voice that shoulde have been a ladyes.
-Aye? I crowd back safe in superior height.
-Come down, squeakd the inferior.
-I shalle!
And with thatte I zoomd down to let him inne.
-Thys is serious Nashe, he beganne in his preposterous high voice, let me inne. I am from the newspaper.
-Thy Newspaper, I reminded hym, is a vile sea-demon swarming with the swallowed multitudes of humanity! you revolt me, high-priest of Deforestation and candles burnynge hypocrictickal lights for famine, I fulminated under the full eye of th'English sun.
-Look, this is important ...
-Tear youre altars downe, beelzebub, I screamed, sinkynge my teethe into a copy of The Sunne.
He strucke me and I sat downe.
-You have placd a response to a personal adde, it's pretty clere whye.
-And what of it, Moloch?
-Your advertisement has been subjeckt to an errour.
-Incompetent.
-We're very sorrye.
-Pathetick.
-Very sorry.
-Inseckt. What has happend?
He colleckted hymselfe.
-Your response went to all of oure subscribers. We have not time to tell them.
-Egad.
Arrivynge on the Hungerford footbridge at 10.30pm one myghte have seene 10 or 11 women eyeyng each other suspiciously. At a quarter to there were 800. At 11pm, as youre Thos. Nashe rode proudly down the Embankment tinted wyth moonlyghte, 1,298,926 single women were clusterd on the bridge awaiting hym, and the ryvere lookd splendid flowynge along below themme.
Some wore revealynge clothes, others dressd Sensibly. Some talked wyth the others but most studiously tryd to avoid their eyes, beyng certain that they themselves awaited me and they were guaranteed a lyfe of merry songe and excellent Prose-related Love, and all they hadde to do was ignore everythynge a moment longer to gette holde of't. Seagulls gathered o'erhede and picked tidbits of pret-a-manger left-over from Luncheon at the Office. Some women were old, tottering along with the hande-rayle and peeping into the deep, some young, smylynge and preenyng. All were seeing the culminacioun of their personal adde and here came Nashe to deliver it.
As my horse Approachd, a gynomaniacal wail arose from the lovely horde who began to flutter their eyelashes to make a sound like a million miniscule Owls flappynge, then they began to squabble and screech and suddenly the warre was engagd and many hurled each other inne. Hordes of Newspapermen dove in after, hungry for Marriage on the rebound from me. Trains rushed bye into Charynge Crosse fulle of faces wonderynge at all the syngle women in London and Home Counties assembld there. What a syghte! What a seleccioun! But as I rode down the bridge to choose, a terrible crackynge came, and as I rode offe it, all were caste hopelessly into the Thames followd by newspapermen, sandwich merchants, tyre brokers, portrait artists, engine drivers, peacock-feather-salesmen, florists, singers, Public Sector Workers, plasterers, Morris dancers, and all th'unlovd and wretched over-21's casted themselves into the tremendous waters lookynge for Personal Satysfaction.
I expeckt to have better lucke next tyme, tho it would be unusual.
Youre
Nashe
To those who rede my lucubrations for the fyrst Tyme, let me have the satysfaction of filling you inne. I, Thos. Nashe am a clear-minded and brillyant man who turneth over the damp stone of exystence to reveal the multitudinous swarmynges of heartes and myndes beneath, man's and G--'s designs all crinkled up together. I do occasionally undertake Projeckts, mainly with an eye to the destrucktion and ruin of Doctor HARVEY my owne Nemesis who is deserving of heavy revilement. I am the botanyst of London, the anatomist of Science and the Quantity Surveyor of Hearts. I am a Genius of accountancy and I always carry a cutlasse; I am Thomas Nashe, a puritanickal diner and above all a master of fine English Prose.
That I wyll concentrate on my owne affairs shoulde be no surprise, being as it ys that I know myselfe better thanne anyone and nothing better than that. Not fain to gyve myselfe the appearence of byynge in any waye wicked I wyll exercyse all the discrecioun at my meagre disposal to reine in the more disgustynge detailes although sometymes truth must trample concerns for decency I knowe. I hope to furnyshe you eache Monday wyth an excitynge Episode.
To make a starte, thenne. I have been lookynge in the Personal Advertisements for a woman wyth whome to lyve in Domestick 2-part harmony and synge the occasionalle popular ballad wyth. I have sicknd of lyvynge alone in Hackneye bored oute of my deseperate skulle wyth nobody to harangue, gull or syng atte and the red gleme in the News-Agent wyndowe caught my eye advertysyng 'LOVE'. I entered the shop and left it carryynge my prize, a four-tonne Sunday paper wyth articles about Death Shopping & Fundamentalism etc with which I impatiently strewed the Kingsland Road as I wended my weye home. A companionne I mused as I dragged the mighty burden alonge crushynge a sewer-ratte. A companionne to love & Cheryshe was my thought as a child vanynshed into the bundle and hys mother cryd oute to his recdynge hande. A true-love and no strynges nooses nor electrick cables attached, thats what Ide lyke I thoughte as I turned the corner into my road, rummagynge all the way.
Finally layynge holde of the Love-supplement & casting the news-leviathan into a grene binne marked 'I LOVE HACKNEYE' I tore up the browne staires to my dilapidated Rooms. Barely able to put the kettle on I threwe myself into the tan armchaire and Consulted. I was a manne seekyne womanne so I woulde nede a womanne seekynge manne. I seleckted the correckt segment and cast the rest into the Fyre. My glistening eye rolld over the glossy advertisements, ignorynge stretching apparatus, gardenynge mitts, Pheromone spraye, assassination servyces etc. and eventually stucke firmly at the head of a column the size of a Glacier, that contayned 1,298,926 requests or demands for Love and Cherishment & so forth from womenne to menne.
This is truly quite bizarre & desperate Stuffe, I pondered as I turned my whole hede in order to tear my left eye from the page. But thys was not a tyme for thinkynge, it was a tyme for AXION and I had made change at the Post-Office to place some calls shoulde the neede arise. For eight hours I stumbled across the glacier of lonely Hearts, plungyng myselfe into crevasses of simulated Emotion for women I hadde never mette in my lyfe. I did not once leave the house to visit the extruded glass phonebox on the cornere that despite containynge 60 different women in poses of varyinge obscenitye hadde always fayld to excite your Nashes finer feelings; indeed now it seemd to mocke my efforts at true-love when lonesomely I peered o'er the window-sille, expectynge the houre I should have to place a calle to the ideal womanne whom I would finde in the Supplement.
Curse the Supplement! merely a slimy scale of the news-leviathan and not worthy of handlynge my Interior Affaires! The women it shewed forthe were identical, seeking Mr GOSH or similar and alle seemd to wante longe walkes which I despise. Some lovd Musick though they always were the mature sorte and I had anne Inkeling of what that woulde be lyke: a labour of dinners and polyte conversation followd by dutifulle servyce and I shoulde be merely a Toye-Boye not a paramour as it was my avowd intencioun to become. Some wishd for a sensytyve soule but I expectd that woulde lead to evenings of palsy-wreaking dullness discussing trifles of her Emotional lyfe. Some symply sayd 'Are you lookynge for me?', which metaphysical question drove me into suche a phrenzy I almost baked a single oyster at 800C out of spite & despair.
Eventually I merely Jabbd at the paper wyth a broken pencyl and betook myself to the phone-boxe, expectyng 'widow, 30' to be juste as goode as the nexte if she were all that Fate supplyd. Wearily I stuffed £40 into the Slotte at gunpoint and had to watch as my Assailante pressed 'Coin Return' after I hadde pretended to walk away. Hackneye. Being more or lesse cleaned oute by this unfortunate muggynge I inserted my laste 50p into the slotte and dialled the relevant numbers, leaving a message at box #7727283473041Q to the tune of 'I Thos. Nashe woulde love to meete you by moonlyghte on the Upstreme Hungerforde footbridge, please meet me at 11pm on Tuesday, I will be wearygne a feather in my hatte' etc. and I appended sundry complimentes and muche swete syngynge.
Throughout Monday I steeld myselfe for the romantick tryst. I polyshd my buckles and beads and stroked up my velvet the ryghte waye, dyed my haire, embroidered a lace handkerchief, wrote eighteen sonnets and hired a white stede to carrye me to the Upstreme bridge of Norm. Hungerford at the appropriate houre. I payd the gas-bille so that it shoulde not preye on my minde and I coulde thus discourse on fitter topicks with my newe girl-friende.
On Tuesday I was just pickynge up my Oyster card when a mighty Knocke came thundering up the staires from the strete door and I pok'd my mighty hede out o'er the sille to see whom it was. A man shapd like a snooker-ball was puffing and stamping around in the street and lookynge uppe at my window. Hallo? I cryd, thinkyng this would be a Delivery or other Small Mercy.
-Thomas Nashe? he shouted in a voice that shoulde have been a ladyes.
-Aye? I crowd back safe in superior height.
-Come down, squeakd the inferior.
-I shalle!
And with thatte I zoomd down to let him inne.
-Thys is serious Nashe, he beganne in his preposterous high voice, let me inne. I am from the newspaper.
-Thy Newspaper, I reminded hym, is a vile sea-demon swarming with the swallowed multitudes of humanity! you revolt me, high-priest of Deforestation and candles burnynge hypocrictickal lights for famine, I fulminated under the full eye of th'English sun.
-Look, this is important ...
-Tear youre altars downe, beelzebub, I screamed, sinkynge my teethe into a copy of The Sunne.
He strucke me and I sat downe.
-You have placd a response to a personal adde, it's pretty clere whye.
-And what of it, Moloch?
-Your advertisement has been subjeckt to an errour.
-Incompetent.
-We're very sorrye.
-Pathetick.
-Very sorry.
-Inseckt. What has happend?
He colleckted hymselfe.
-Your response went to all of oure subscribers. We have not time to tell them.
-Egad.
Arrivynge on the Hungerford footbridge at 10.30pm one myghte have seene 10 or 11 women eyeyng each other suspiciously. At a quarter to there were 800. At 11pm, as youre Thos. Nashe rode proudly down the Embankment tinted wyth moonlyghte, 1,298,926 single women were clusterd on the bridge awaiting hym, and the ryvere lookd splendid flowynge along below themme.
Some wore revealynge clothes, others dressd Sensibly. Some talked wyth the others but most studiously tryd to avoid their eyes, beyng certain that they themselves awaited me and they were guaranteed a lyfe of merry songe and excellent Prose-related Love, and all they hadde to do was ignore everythynge a moment longer to gette holde of't. Seagulls gathered o'erhede and picked tidbits of pret-a-manger left-over from Luncheon at the Office. Some women were old, tottering along with the hande-rayle and peeping into the deep, some young, smylynge and preenyng. All were seeing the culminacioun of their personal adde and here came Nashe to deliver it.
As my horse Approachd, a gynomaniacal wail arose from the lovely horde who began to flutter their eyelashes to make a sound like a million miniscule Owls flappynge, then they began to squabble and screech and suddenly the warre was engagd and many hurled each other inne. Hordes of Newspapermen dove in after, hungry for Marriage on the rebound from me. Trains rushed bye into Charynge Crosse fulle of faces wonderynge at all the syngle women in London and Home Counties assembld there. What a syghte! What a seleccioun! But as I rode down the bridge to choose, a terrible crackynge came, and as I rode offe it, all were caste hopelessly into the Thames followd by newspapermen, sandwich merchants, tyre brokers, portrait artists, engine drivers, peacock-feather-salesmen, florists, singers, Public Sector Workers, plasterers, Morris dancers, and all th'unlovd and wretched over-21's casted themselves into the tremendous waters lookynge for Personal Satysfaction.
I expeckt to have better lucke next tyme, tho it would be unusual.
Youre
Nashe
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