A Pendrakenmas Carol

[fsn]

It was Pendrakenmas Eve in Runcorn – well everywhere really. FSN was as usual, disappointed by the offerings of the BBC. He took up his copy of Waterloo by Bernard Cornwall, and flicked through a few pages but wasn't in the mood. He contemplated his painting table with despair and pondered the choice between getting drunk as a hussar in a whorehouse or going to bed. Seeing as he'd neglected to buy any alcohol again, and had a very delicate head, he decided that an early night was his.

Now that the shops were closed Pendrakenmas had become an anti-climax. Same old rush to buy things for people that you didn't like, and they didn't want, then the great hollow nothingness until the credit card bills rolled in.

Why didn't people learn? Grumbled FSN, ascending the stairs. Pendrakenmas is just a waste of time and money that could be better spent doing something else. FSN entered his bedroom then that odd trick of memory that affects the elderly or plain batty click on and he remembered that he had forgotten to bring with him his nightly bottle of water and his copy of Just a Few Orcs' autobiography. He'd just got to the point when Orcs had rescued the princess and was now going for the Grail – which was of course not a cup, but a 1st century BC pint glass – which the evil alien was going to give to the Hitler clones so that the next ice age could be triggered and so sweep the world clean for the 5th or possibly 6th Reich. FSN found it all a bit farfetched.  Of course the Grail was a cup, just like the one that saved Sean Connery's life.

He pondered this as he clumped down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he immediately forgot what he was there for.

FSN contemplated his painting table with despair and pondered the choice between getting drunk as a hussar in a whorehouse or going to bed. Seeing as he'd neglected to buy any alcohol again, and had a very delicate head, he decided that an early night was his.

Pendrakenmas! It had lost the true meaning these days. It was all "peace and love" and "goodwill to all men – and if one could get a woman interested, so much the better". What about the good old days, when Pendrakenmas was about seeing how many casting dwaves could be worked to death with oversize orders and who could buy the most obscure book, with no intent to read, but merely for the bragging rights?

In his bedroom, FSN remembered that he had stripped the bed off (well it was Pendrakenmas) and hadn't brought up the clean sheets. For a moment he eyed the bare mattress speculatively, but then remembered what had happened that last time and the disbelieving eye of the ambulance woman and decided he had better get some bedding.

On the way downstairs, FSN pondered the phenomenon of déjà vu, and tried to remember why the two hemispheres of the brain got out of sync. In the kitchen, he filled the water bottle. Dirty habit. He washed the bottle out and then threw it away.

He contemplated his painting table with despair and pondered the choice between getting drunk as a hussar in a whorehouse or going to bed. Seeing as he'd neglected to buy any alcohol again, and had a very delicate head, he decided that an early night was his ...

As the church clock struck midnight, FSN settled down in his clean bed, his bottle of water on the elephant beside him, and his copy of Last Hussar's new bodice ripper – "Lasalle was my Father" (the story of a young man who doesn't know he is the son of Antoine Charles Louis de Lasalle and an Egyptian priestess, is kidnapped by Barbary pirates, rescued by the Royal Navy, joins the Austrian army as a Hussar and unknowingly kills his father.) – into the bin. Rubbish! The lad would only have been eight, far too young to get into the hussars. Would have to be an infantry regiment.

FSN lay in his pristine bed. He'd chosen the Leon bedding – the set with the glow in the dark portrait – which was his favourite, but he couldn't settle. Princess and the Pea-like, he felt something small and hard digging into his backside. A gobstopper he mused hopefully.  The disturbance moved. Wriggled. So it wasn't a gobstopper then. Had the exterminators missed something? FSN lay in that drowsy state between sleep and wakefulness as his imagination tried and rejected a number of options – had the hamster escaped? Some kind of tape worm moving to new quarters? Aliens with a new form of probing that didn't require relocation to the flying saucer? Had he given birth? Had he unwittingly trapped the Pendrakenmas fairy under his backside?

FSN dealt with the problem in the only way he knew how. He ignored it. He rolled over onto his side and the wriggling stopped. FSN began his preparation for sleep. Calm the toes. Settle the feet ... sod the rest ... Anne Hathaway ...

His contemplation of the fate of the dark eyed beauty was disturbed by a whine. Swift analysis revealed that it was not FSN himself this time, and although a wriggling lump could be safely ignored, a constant whine would just be intolerable.

Reluctantly, FSN allowed his ear to track the noise. As he listened it became more distinct, like a tiny voice swearing proficiently and continuously. With a huge sigh, he switched on the light and searched his bed. It took the work of seconds to find a spiffily painted Pendraken British Paratrooper, Sten gun at the ready on in the centre of the mattress.

"Bert!" Exclaimed FSN, glad to see his old comrade. (Editor's note: For those of you who have joined the Forum since last Christmas, or whose therapy has worked, FSN first met Bert last year in Pendrakenland - http://www.pendrakenforum.co.uk/index.php/topic,9004.0.html)

"How rude, those editors" FSN tutted.

"Flock the editors, your apse smells like a (Editor's note: Bert is still unable to swear. His words are replaced with near homophones) eating your own (Editor's note: but he can still be unpleasant) then stuffed up (Editor's note: a homophone is a word that sounds like another, but is spelt differently) fish head on toilet roll (Editor's note: like "bark" and "barque") the wiped round with (Editor's note: or "Tony Blair" and "War Criminal") but it's sort of good to see you. (Editor's note: Thank goodness!)

"Sorry Bert. I wasn't listening. Could you say that again?"

"Love to, you anchor, but we've a bit of a time pressure."

"Do tell."

"Well, the Dark Lord (FSN and Bert both lowered their heads in respect) has sent me ... "

"Why did you say that?" Asked FSN, an especially confused look on his rather confusing face.

"Say wot, Finny Face? "

"(FSN and Bert both lowered their heads in respect)"

"Sorry, must have got me punctuation a bit out of whack. What a clock!"

"No problem. You were saying that the Dark Lord (FSN and Bert both lowered their heads in respect) ... oh dear! Now you've got me doing it! You were saying the Dark Lord" (FSN and Bert both lowered their heads in respect) "that's better, had sent you ...?"

"Yers. You're as big a count as ever aren't you? Anyway He has sent me to get your Pendraken mojo working again. You ain't done nuffin' for months ..."

"That's a double negative, Bert. You mean I ain't not done nuffin'."  Corrected FSN, haughtily.

"Flock off, Prof-flocking-fessor Higgins! Anyway He (The Dark Lord)" (FSN and Bert both lowered their heads in respect) "sent me ... any way up, what's a mojo?"

"It's a small South American monkey, of the genus mojo jojo." Supplied FSN helpfully. Bert looked at him askance.

"Well it explains everything, your painting being done by a monkey." Bert laughed, then stopped suddenly as the church bells began to chime, a worried look on his tiny, tinny face. 

"Haven't they just done that?" Asked FSN, stroking what he fondly thought of as a beard.

"Maybe. You never go back and read any of your flocking drivel. Anyway. Time is short. You've lost your flocking painting monkey, Dark Lord" (FSN and Bert both lowered their heads in respect) "gonna send some help to find it. Now go to sleep and one more thing ..."

"Yes?" Supplied FSN.

"Put some flocking pyjamas on, which just leaves me time to say Merry Pendrakenmas, you flocking anchor."

[Fenton]

 

[Duke Speedy of Leighton]

Brilliant!

[Fenton]

 

[Techno]

Superb, Nobby !
Cheers - Phil

[Lord Kermit of Birkenhead]

To it's normal standard 

IanS

[skywalker]

Very good 

[fsn]

To it's normal standard 

IanS

Yes. Sorry about that.

[fsn]

Part the two, in which FSN meets a fearful apparition, and visits a place from long ago.

Something made FSN waken. He switched on his candle. An apparition stood at the foot of his bed. It was gaunt to the point of being skeletal. The wild unkempt hair flew in all directions like an exploding shrapnel shell and the skin was pale and grey, blotched in an unnatural green. On its face were freakish eye- glasses so dirty as to make one wonder how the apparition could see through the assembled thumb prints and other unspecified stains. The thing was dressed in a fashion not seen for many years ... the remnant of a garish shirt with long tit-stabber collar, discoloured denim jeans with flares that would make the Sun harrumph in jealousy, a wide belt with an American eagle belt buckle. There was a smell of decay, of something risen from a disquiet resting place, an odour that was somehow unnatural and yet familiar. FSN thought it was this olfactory stimulus that had awakened him.

"Wotcha, Techno" said FSN.

"Cheers" responded the apparition. "I am the ghost of Pendrakenmas Featherstone."   

"No you're not. You're a very talented sculptor, who lives quite a long way from here and I'm a little nervous right now."

"Play along!" hissed the apparition. The Techno-ghost cleared his throat and started again. "I am the ghost of Pendrakenmas Featherstone, come to show you how thing used to wossname."

FSN pulled the cover over his head. When he dared to peep out again, he found himself in a strangely familiar place. The odd stench of the Techno-ghost had been added to by a faintly damp and musty smell of neglected council building and old books. As his eyes became used to the half light, he saw books in various states of decline on battered racks from which hung peeling labels.

"I'm in the library!" exclaimed FSN.

"Yers!" grinned Techno.

"But how can this be?" asked FSN.

"Didn't you listen to the first chap? You're in 1975. It is a time of ABBA, and the Bay City Rollers.' Jaws' comes out this year, and 'One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest'.  Harold Wilson is in Number 10 and the word is safe since Gerald Ford in is the White House. "

"Were you a big ABBA fan?"

"Nah! Gwarn!" Techno Ghost laughed, idly pulling the cuff of his shirt to make sure his "I love Agnetha" tattoo was well covered.  "75 was the year of 'Physical Graffiti' by Led Zep...and 'Wish you were here' by Pink Floyd.  Thass music, Man."

"Shh!" came a shush from the next room.   

"I thought we'd be invisible and unhearable" said FSN to the ghost.

"Well," said Techno, pleased to have something he could expand upon and not be recorded as if he were an idiot, "it's a little known fact that all librarians are in fact dead. This enables them to put up with the long hours and the tedium of the life of a librarian. It also explains why they're never around when you want them, but can appear at the most inappropriate times. It also explains why ..."

"Shhhhhhh!"

"It also explains why they can hear us." Whispered Techno, but FSN was no longer listening. In fact he'd tuned out before the "Techno is not an idiot" bit. A boy of about 14 had been swept in on the first shush. He was a sturdy, red headed lad. Intelligent looking and incredibly stylish and handsome, the kind of lad that would make any mother fill with love and any father swell with pride.

"It's me!" whispered FSN excitedly. He watched in amazed silence as the lad sat on the floor in one of the darker recesses of this back room of the library. The youngster's hands found the required books by touch alone, for it was 1975 and the power workers were on strike again, but his actions were deft and practiced. In short order he rose and stood by the window.

"'Wargames' by Donald Featherstone, ' Wargames Campaigns' by Donald Featherstone and 'Solo Wargaming'  by Donald Featherstone." Recited FSN. A tear filled his eye. "Could you stand a little not so close?" He asked the Techno-ghost.

"Sorry, it's a little cramped in here." FSN blinked to clear his sight and when he regained his vision he was in the bedroom of his young self. On the wall were postcards of soldiers glued to black paper, a bookcase made of planks and bricks was filled with books of history and science fiction and 'Commando' comics and neatly catalogued 'Look and learn' issues. Two sheets of plywood, painted green lay across the bed. On this board had been chalked a road and rail system. A few pine cones stood on Plasticene trunks. FSN recognised the battleground immediately. It was the "Action on the St James Road" from Featherstone's 'Wargames'. The young FSN came in, the books under his arm. He produced some very dodgy looking Airfix vehicles, 2 Churchills and a Sherman on one side, 2 Panthers and a Pz IV on the other. He consulted the book, then placed them exactly, before setting up the infantry. These were the old Airfix German and Infantry Combat Group.  Just as he set up the last of the figures, the young lad accidently knocked the board and the watching FSN recalled the sound of 40 plastic soldiers diving for cover. 

"Do you remember?"  Asked the ghost-Techno. "Do you remember the pleasure you used to get from this simple beginning?" He nodded grimly as FSN's face began to crumple.

"Really, could you go to the other side of the room or something?  I mean, have you not heard of Lynx?"

"Not until 1983." Replied Techno, nodding his shaggy head slowly, because he was afraid one of the lenses of his glasses would fall out. "See,"  he extended one over-long arm "the boy sleeps on the floor to keep the table set up. YOU slept on the floor."

"I know. I was there." Observed FSN. By now the lad was thumbing through the book, looking wistfully at the plates.  "I never thought I'd be able to fight a battle like the Ancient Battle of Trimsos" said FSN, "no manufacturers did ancients in plastic and I never had enough money for metal."

"You poor thing." The Techno-Ghost made to hug FSN. FSN backed away, but could not outpace the oncoming apparition. It got closer and closer. FSN couldn't open the door, his screams were unheard, the stench got stronger and stronger until he felt the stick-arms engulf him. His face got caught in the creature's armpit, his nose screamed in fear and desperation until his brain refused to take anymore and pulled the plug.

FSN awoke, safe in his own bed. His nose twitched.

"You still there, Techno?" He asked cautiously.

"No." Came the reply. FSN waited. After a few moments, Techno-ghost came out from behind the curtains.

"I'd better be off then."

"Shouldn't you tell me the point of what you've shown me first?" Queried a sleep deprived FSN.

"Oh yeah. Well the point is ... " The apparition stuck a finger in his ear to aid memory "the point is that back then you well, wossnamed a lot and you know it was all thingy and er ... er ..." he nodded in replacement of the last word.

"Wotsit?"

"Yers. Wotsit." The apparition and its miasma opened the wardrobe door. With a last "cheers" the wardrobe door shut and it was gone.

FSN sniffed. He got out of bed and opened the wardrobe door, and found it empty of everything apart from his proper shirts and shiny shoes. He settled back to bed.

"Must buy some trousers," he said drowsily "and find out how to take out a restraining order."

[Techno]

You wossname.....erm..... OIK !!! 
Cheers - Phil.

[Duke Speedy of Leighton]

FSN, that must have taken you hours!

[fsn]

Sadly, no. It sorts of fills up like a toilet cistern, then I just ... pull the chain and out it all comes.

[fsn]

... oh and by the way Lemmey, I apologise in advance.

[Duke Speedy of Leighton]

Present or future?
Do I get insulted in advance too?

[Techno]

On past form.....I think the answer is almost certainly yes, Will. 
Cheers - Phil