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 (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."
=D>
Brilliant!
=D>
Superb, Nobby ! =D> =D> ;D ;D ;D
Cheers - Phil
To it's normal standard :d
IanS
Very good =D> =D> =D> =D>
Quote from: ianrs54 on 17 December 2014, 12:16:11 PM
To it's normal standard :d
IanS
Yes. Sorry about that.
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."
You wossname.....erm..... OIK !!! ;D ;D ;D ;D
Cheers - Phil.
FSN, that must have taken you hours!
;D
Sadly, no. It sorts of fills up like a toilet cistern, then I just ... pull the chain and out it all comes.
... oh and by the way Lemmey, I apologise in advance.
Present or future?
Do I get insulted in advance too? ;)
On past form.....I think the answer is almost certainly yes, Will. ;D
Cheers - Phil
FSN, I have spent a large part of today ready your effort from last year and am truely astounded :o :o :o
I have one vital question
QuoteI was thinking of a panto for next year - "Widow Tanky", "Ali Baba and the 40mm anti-aircraft gun", or dare I say it "Marder Goose".
What became of the planned panto...
After this post I went to the unread posts, and what was the first unread post?
http://www.pendrakenforum.co.uk/index.php/topic,11073.0/topicseen.html (http://www.pendrakenforum.co.uk/index.php/topic,11073.0/topicseen.html)
:-\ :o ;D ;D ;D
Well there's always next year.
Are you looking for a part?
Quote from: mad lemmey on 18 December 2014, 07:30:41 AM
Do I get insulted in advance too? ;)
Let's just say you have more than a cameo appearance coming up.
So even in 1975 you were playing with yourself in the bedroom?
The Troisieme Bit: In which FSN meets his daughter and narrowly escapes death
It seemed as if FSN had just got back to sleep when he was aware of a scuffling noise, as if feet were being shifted uneasily. He ignored the noise and hoped it would go away, bit when there was a discrete cough, he knew his second visitor was with him. He opened one eye. In the corner of the room stood a large figure. He wore a full Viking rig – or rather the outfit that Victorians glamourised as full Viking – a gaudily decorated smock, tight legging, fur boots and a large red cape. All this topped with a bright helmet adorned with black wings. FSN could not make out the face, as where the helmet ended a black beard started, obscuring all feature bar two raven-like black eyes.
"Aye aye." Quoth the apparition. FSN recognised the accent as being that of his homeland. This taciturn greeting was a hallmark of the Sheltander.
"Maenoferren, is dis dee?" FSN slipped back into the vernacular of his birth with the effortless grace of Fenton derailing a thread. "Aye." (Yes.) (Editor's note. Shetlanders are notoriously taciturn, and their dialect impenetrable to the uninitiated. Therefore translations will be provided.)
"Noo den. Pendrakenmas Quarrie." (Greetings. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am the Ghost of Pendrakenmas Quarrie.)
"Noo den." (You embarrass me with the warmth of your greeting.)
"Aye, aye." (We have ended that thread of conversation, but I am loath to start another.)
"Hang on!" Ejaculated FSN. They both looked a little embarrassed at the small accident. "Hang on!" exclaimed FSN. "I thought we determined that you were a Sooth-Moother?" (One not from Shetland.)
"We did, Old chap" Maenoferren accent was decidedly Home Counties, "but you'd written this before you found out and you're much too much of a lazy so-and-so to rewrite."
"Dat's true." (You're a bounder for pointing out my deficiencies.) There then followed a few moments of silence, when Maenoferren inspected the rather large axe he had brought with him.
"Guiser?" (Are you taking part in the Up Helly Aa fire festival?) FSN asked, gesturing at the weapon.
"Na." (No.)
"I hear dee." (I am perplexed by your answer, but do not know how to continue. Therefore, we shall have to change subject.) There then followed another few moments of silence. FSN picked at his nails, and Maenoferren practiced a few swings with the axe.
"Quat's doo drivin' ee noo?" (What are you driving just now?) (Editor's note: the vehicle a person drives in a preoccupation with the Shetlander.)
"Quat?" (What?) Maneoferren was disinclined to repeat the question. He had made small talk and wasn't going to be gregarious.
"Are we gang to ging?" (Are we going?) Asked FSN.
"Aye. A piece" (Editor's note. In Shetland there are three measures of distance. A "start" is some short way, a "piece" is a longer way and "Sooth" is off the island. Maenoferren is indicating that here is not a long way to go.) With that, Maenoferren swung his cloak over FSN. When he had disentangled himself from the faintly fish-smelling garment, he found himself in a place he immediately recognised. They stood in a garage. The door were covered by thick green curtains and was blocked by stacks of boxes that FSN knew contained his treasures. The walls had been roughly painted, and a set of shelves held books that FSN knew and loved. A small table stood in the centre, and a younger, thoughtful FSN wargamed quietly. The figures were 15mm Peter Laing – Napoleonics. Peninsula War. A copy of Bruce Quarrie's "Napoleon's Campaigns in Miniature" lay open at his side.
"Is dis dee?" (Is this you?) Asked Maenoferren, pointing at the gamer.
"Liklee." (It is indeed, but I am overcome with emotion at seeing this and do not wish to discuss it further.)
The gaming FSN measured the distance between some Portuguese artillery and French Dragoons. He rolled a die. Four of the dragons were swept into the casualty box.
"I ken dis." (I recognise this scenario, it was a time when I was happy, in my garage and my gaming.) FSN said excitedly. Suddenly the elephant flew open and a tiny figure in Power Ranger pyjamas rushed into the room.
"My dauchter." (My daughter.) Explained watching FSN to the faux Viking.
"Aye, aye. Bonnie wee lassie. (I recognise the emotional undercurrents here, but will not embarrass you with them. Instead I shall compliment you on your daughter.) The four year old bumped onto the bench beside her daddy. She studied the table seriously.
"What's that?" she asked. Pointing at a unit.
"Portuguese light infantry. Cazadores."
"Cac-the-doors." She repeated.
"Close enough." Gaming FSN drew her to him and kissed the top of her head. Watching FSN felt his lower lip tremble.
"Doos no greetin'?" (Are you crying, or showing any sigh of emotion which I may not be able to ignore and will therefore be a source of embarrassment to me?)
"Na." (No.) FSN and the not-guiser watched the father and daughter play for a few moments. The four year old's dice throwing was rather energetic, and a Hornby tree was felled in the rolling of a morale test for a unit of Swiss infantry.
"It was a happy time." Mused FSN. "I could have died happily then."
"Fair enouch." (OK.) Answered Maenoferren. He bowed FSN's head, and took a practice swing with the axe. From under his brows, FSN continued to watch the couple happily playing at the table.
"Een." (One.) Maenoferren counted.
"Twa." (Two.)
"Tree" (Three.)
"Hang on!" Cried FSN, realising what was happening. "Are you proposing to cut my head off?"
"Nah." (No.) Said Maenoferren, a tinge of regret in his voice. FSN looked about him, he was back in his room. He wiped sweat from his eyes and dampened down the memories and emotions bubbling up from that glimpse of his past.
"What am I supposed to have learned from that?" FSN was as angry as it was sensible to be angry with a large man with a large axe.
"I dunna ken." (I don't know.) He stood absently for a moment, then swung his axe once more in a salutation. "Well, cheerio ee-noo." (Goodbye.) He walked through the wardrobe as if it wasn't there. FSN found himself alone.
"Aye, aye". He said, and climbed slowly into bed.
=D> =D> =D>
Cheers - Phil.
Great one!
Well - says he in a queen's English voice...
I just about wet myself there.... Having just spent a couple of months on Whalsay your writing was easy to understand
Fabulous m/ m/ m/
Fellows I am perplexed... :-\
QuoteFSN recognised the accent as being that of his homeland. ... Shetlanders are notoriously taciturn
So it appears that FSN is a Shetlander and Shetlanders are notoriously taciturn
(of a person) reserved or uncommunicative in speech; saying little.And this is revealed in a 50 line post by the said taciturn Shetlander - there appears to be a contradiction here :-\ :-\
We're taciturn - but that doesn't mean we can't write a bit. It's probably just an outlet for our repressed loquacity. It's an beautiful archipelago, cast far to the North where civilisation ends and raw nature begins. It is a place of wonder and can be quite mystical. The people are descended from the Norse, with their tradition of saga weaving and bardic recitation. In that place, with that heritage is it any wonder that the spirit of poetry is born in these people? With nurture, the Shetlander could be the most cunning linguist on the planet.
Unfortunately, they also have alcohol.
Yep. I definitely had the feeling alchohol was involved there........
..... but nevertheless ... (pauses as has another swig of his M&S £10 meal deal wine - well, the first bottle was the good stuff!) excellent stuff! =D>
... also managed to read all of this (as well as swigging fine wine) whilst watching Star Trek. Who says us guys can't multi-task?
[so, where was I now? Oh, yeh. The ghost of Christmas Data was proudly showing the Borg Queen his little Bert when ....]
;D ;D ;D
Another Christmas epic underway.
Brilliant. ;D
Love to read your stuff FSN, it makes Alice in Wonderland seem normal.
Happy Christmas. Long may your deranged brain continue.
Part Quattro Formaggi: In which FSN meets three spectres and hopes that they aren't offended by have their legs gently tugged
FSN had lain in bed for some time. He tried to go back to sleep, but was quite sure that another visitor was going to pop round from the wherever. If only they would just ask to borrow some sugar. "Borrow". Did anyone who "borrowed" sugar ever return it? Probably not.
He became aware of irritated whispering and the shuffling of feet. It was, he considered, reminiscent of the sounds of a primary school Nativity play before the curtain rose. FSN tried to remember if Ikea had mentioned the portal to another realm hidden in his wardrobe when he bought it, and he was sure it wasn't in the catalogue description. Then again, "Ploopydrop" or "Fistvanker" or whatever the wardrobe was called probably meant "Gateway to Damnation" in Swedish. The shuffling had stopped, so obediently, FSN popped his head over the covers, smiling like the suffering parent of the unhappy child who wanted to be Mary but had been relegated to being the third cow. Three tall figures stood in arrowhead formation at the foot of his bed. They wore dark robes and cowls that completely covered their heads and hid their faces from view. They politely waited until FSN had arranged his pillows comfortably, and then the cowl of the lead figure glowed with an unearthly white light.
"FSN. I am the ..." The figure stopped as the companion to his left tugged at his sleeve. He turned irritably. "I know!" he snapped.
"You got it wrong." Pointed out the second.
"You put me off!" Protested the first. The third had begun to rock uncomfortably. The first brought his attention back to FSN.
"We are the Ghost ... Ghosts of Pendrakenmas Present ... Presents."
"Presents." Echoed the second. The third looked nervously at the second, as if unsure whether they too should have joined in the recitation. The first stopped. Remembered he
hadn't switched on the torch, so repeated the speech with ghostly gleam.
"We are the Ghosts of Pendrakenmas Presents."
"Presents!" Ended the third. The second tutted. The third turned an unbelieving hood towards the second in a "what have I done wrong now?" way. The second ignored the look. It was their turn to speak. The second turned on a red lamp that lit up his cowl and intoned in a doom laden timbre.
"Weeee haveee commmmee to shoowww–ww you the error of yourrrr wayyysss! SFN!" The third giggled at the mistake. Second turned to third and landed a flappy slap on the arm. Third yelped in such a theatrical manner that a career in Premiership Football beckoned, and first turned and hissed at them both to behave. Third, obviously aggrieved, turned on a green lamp and said in a quick, sulky voice.
"Starightenupandflyright." Then deliberately, and loudly, "F. S. N. " There may have been tongue sticking out at this point, but it was mercifully hidden by the cowls. At another hissed command from the first the three all switched on their torches and said in ragged chorus.
"For it is Pendrakenmas, and all should turn to wargaming with great joy."
"Joy." Finished third, slightly behind the other two. This seemed to have concluded the performance, for the torches all were extinguished and the three spectres stood uncomfortably in silence. The third seemed to have an underwear problem, and rectified it with energetic tugs to the rear. FSN clapped and bravo'd and said "very good" several times. The third bowed slightly and the first was either moved to tears or had encountered a problem of the proboscis for he saw fit to rummage around his cowl. He shone his torch on the results of his investigation, before wiping it surreptitiously on the duvet. This movement drew the sleeve of the robe up the first's arm and FSN noted the rather dazzling costume beneath.
"Well!" he said. "Who have we here?" The three cowled figures looked at each other uncertainly.
"We're not s'posed to tell." Advised the third.
"I'm Fenton." Said the first, remembering to switch on his torch.
"Um! " Said the second, aghast. "We're not s'posed to tell!"
"Tell!" Echoed the third.
"I'm sure it doesn't really matter." Said FSN gently. "Who are the other two?" Second and third remained resolutely silent. Fenton, his cover blown, dobbed them in.
"Westmarcher." He indicated second. "Paulr". Third, now revealed and Paulr clasped his hands to the approximate position of his mouth in horror.
"You said!"
"It's OK!" placated FSN. "They're lovely costumes. I couldn't help noticing the lovely clothes you have underneath. Could I see them?" Even to FSN, this seemed like a dodgy thing to say. Fenton, though, had no hesitation. The robe came off quicker than a Pz I in a T34 fight. The cowl stayed resolutely on.
"Won't the hood come off?" Asked FSN. Fenton shook his head vigourously.
"I have a torch." He explained.
"Yes. I can see that. The hood?"
"They won't come off." Explained Paulr. "They've been nailed on."
"Not nailed, silly!" Westmarcher piped up, hearing FSN's gasp of horror. "It's only staples."
"I have a torch." Fenton obviously felt that FSN hadn't paid sufficient attention to his prize.
"It's a lovely torch." Said FSN. "And I love your costume." Indeed it was a lovely costume. A black velvet doublet slashed red, with the ornate gold braiding that had caught FSN's eye. Matching puffed black breeches over black stockings led down to heavy black shoes with enormous gold buckles. The costume was completed by a splendid ruff. Fenton looked down his body.
"I'm Hamlet!" He proclaimed proudly.
"I can see that." Responded FSN.
"Ham-and-egg-let" tittered Westmarcher. Fenton turned his cowled head in annoyance.
"Shut up Westmarcher." Fenton stamped a gold buckled foot petulantly.
"What about your costume Westmarcher? Have you got a lovely costume too?" FSN decided to break up the fight before it got started. Westmarcher nodded.
"May I see it?" Again, FSN felt a little uncomfortable. Asking these three child-men-ghosts to literally disrobe was sailing close to a line he didn't want to get to, but he was curious. FSN wondered if that was any defence in law. Westmarcher was more hesitant than Fenton, who was obviously the most adventurous of the trio, but with a little encouragement, he took off the dark vestment.
Have you ever had one of those moments when you regret something very soon after requesting it? FSN had one of those feelings at that moment. Westmarcher's costume was gaudily gaudy. Where Fenton's was dark and sombre, as befits a tragic prince, Westmarcher was a cacophony of green and gold. He sparkled in the torchlight like a firework display from his daintily slippered feet to the immaculate ruff and in between ...
"You're dressed as a girl." Observed FSN.
"I'm Titania, Queen of the Faeries!" There was a moment's silence as FSN fought not to say anything and Fenton and Paulr preoccupied themselves with nasal obstruction and uplifted underwear.
"Yes. You are." Was all FSN could say.
"It's histerrically accurate." Continued Westmarcher, essaying a cute curtsey, "We learned about it. When Willem Shakespair made the play girls were not allowed, so boys did the acting." He swished his skirts experimentally. "Titania, the Queen of the Fraries was in a play called 'A Midsummer Murders Dream' and do you know who else was in it?"
"No." Said FSN, but thought he could guess.
"Bottom!" Squealed Westmarcher. Fenton and Paulr perked and repeated "Bottom" and laughed as if it were the best joke in all the world. FSN turned to Paulr.
"And who are you dressed up as?" He asked. Forewarned being forearmed.
"IamthemagicpersonfromtheTempest." Replied Paulr. Prospero, thought FSN. An old man wizard. Should be safe enough.
"Can we see?" If he was going down, he'd take as many with him as possible. Paulr looked to Fenton, who nodded. Fenton was obviously bored with this game and wanted to be researching East African spear making techniques of the 16th Century. Paulr threw off his robe. FSN felt his heart leap to his mouth and sink to the pit of his stomach at the same time. Paulr wore nothing but gold paint and some very brief briefs, from which extended the largest codpiece FSN had ever seen.
"I am Ariel!"
"You are a ... naughty ... sprite." FSN croaked through clenched teeth. Paulr thrust forward his hips and waggled the mighty gold appendage in a bouncy dance.
"Please don't do that." Pleaded FSN in his best Joyce Grenfell voice. How, he pondered, does one get rid of three child-men in Shakespearean costumes from one's bedroom in
the middle of a Pendrakenmas Eve night? Well, last time ... no good. There wasn't a pickled onion in the house.
"Well thank you for the warning. I think it's time you went back now." He indicated the wardrobe.
"I want a drink!" Wailed Westmarcher, and blew his nose on the hem of his skirt.
"So do I." Replied FSN grimly.
"Me too!" Squeaked Paulr. This set up a repeated clamour of drinks requests, which at every iteration became louder and higher pitched. Westmarcher threw in a few dry coughs
for effect.
"All right!" FSN got out of bed. "Wait here. I'll get you some drinks. Then you can take them and go back ... to wherever." He made his way wearily downstairs, listening to what he assumed was Paulr making the most of his prosthetic by jumping on the bed. FSN took three cans from the fridge and returned to his bedroom. Westmarcher was rifling through his bedside elephant, and Fenton had arranged his nasal foraging into a neat pattern on the duvet. Paulr was "fencing" with the bedpost.
"OK. Drinks. Time to be off! Goodnight!" FSN pressed a can into each of his visitor's hands and politely but firmly escorted them into the wardrobe.
"WAIT!" Said Fenton in a large voice.
"Whaaat?"
"We are s'posed to take you to a place ..."
"Never mind. I learned my lesson. Silly old FSN. Thank you so much. Do come again." He shut the wardrobe door behind a still protesting Fenton. "When Satan buys skates."
;D ;D =D> =D>
:o :o :o :-[ :-[ :-[
Like a lot! ;D
=O =O =O =O =O
See......I told you he was an oik !!
Wonderful, Nobby !
Cheers - Phil
Oik is as oik does. :)
ForrestSN
... Dressed as a girl! .. :o >:(
I've only one thing to say to you, Sir! And I demand an immediate answer! Or else, it is pistols at dawn!
...... did my bum look big in that dress? B)
Don't answer that, Nobby !......You'll only drop yourself further in the doo-doo.
Cheers - Phil
Quote from: Westmarcher on 20 December 2014, 12:04:18 PM
...... did my bum look big in that dress? B)
You looked adorable.
Now should I be worried, or should you? :-\
X_X X_X X_X
Quote from: fsn on 20 December 2014, 04:59:19 PM
You looked adorable.
>:< :-*
[by the way ......
Epic! =D>:-bd =D>]
FSN's 5th: In which FSN finds remembering is difficult and Anne Hathaway makes another appearance
FSN turned back from nailing up the cupboard.
"That won't keep them put" purred a distinctly feminine voice. FSN shook his head to clear the disconnect. Female ... his bedroom ... female ...in his bedroom ... on the bed ... something, something. A distant memory jumped up and waved, but it was too far back in his mind for him to make sense of it.
He turned slowly. A woman lay on his bed. A proper femme fatale. On her feet were blood red killer heels, her blood red toenails obvious in red stockings, her red stocking obvious in a blood red dress whose split up nearly matched the plunge down which exposed creamy femininity in abundance, and a lack of a vest in any colour. A pink tongue played across blood red lips. She combed her platinum blonde hair with ruby-covered fingers, tipped with blood red talons. Her scent, delicate and yet overpowering, sent FSN's head into a spin.
"Would you like to see something?" She asked in a purr. FSN only nodded. The blonde casually slipped her thumb under the shoulder strap of her dress ...
FSN found himself in a huge room. The distant memory finally got close enough for him to remember it. He sighed a disappointed sigh.
The room was white. The walls were white, the ceiling was white, the floors were carpeted in white, so deep that, if he had physically been there, FSN would have been ankle deep. Around the walls were white bookcases, in which stood rows and rows of books in identical white jackets, and in a distant corner stood a white Pendrakenmas elephant decorated with white lights. In the centre of the room, under a large white light stood a table, a perfect white cloth carefully draped over it. From somewhere, a piano tinkled, and female voices giggled and performed scales, warming up, presumably prior to some performance.
An elbow was thrust hard into FSN's kidney. The blonde stood beside him. She nodded to a newspaper – well the Sun – on a small white table.
"Catch up on the news." She suggested. Remarkably, FSN found he could touch the newspaper – well the Sun – (Editor's note: look, could we just call it a newspaper for the purposes of this section? Thank you Some of us have other places to be.) – The front headline screamed "My three in a bed romp with Forum Member. It wasn't only the Forum he was high up in." beside a photograph of a young lady in her underwear. FSN read on.
"Well, well, I'd never have thought that of ..."his eye was caught by another story.
"David Beckham says 'I'm broke. That's why I made that adult film'" FSN carried on flicking through the newspaper.
"Is this you on Page 3?" He asked the blonde?
"No ... maybe ... OK yes, it is." She replied acidly.
"Do you really feel that was about the relation between quantum physics and string theory?"
"Yeah. Pretty much." She nodded he blonde locks in agreement.
The newspaper was a revelation. He read some of the stories aloud.
"Pendraken agrees to buy last 50 Games Workshop stores. Leon signed the contract on his way to opening the Pendraken Indonesian office. In celebration, Dave is to be unchained from casting machine. He said 'First thing I'm going to do is cover my body in ...'" FSN gagged slightly.
"British education now the best in the world. Children, wishing to emulate their Pendraken heroes have taken to wargaming in a big way. This has led to an interest in history, and all those history books being read has led to literacy rates being through the roof, and a pretty good grasp of political geography. Complicated rule sets means that higher level maths is a doddle to young Brits, and the whole ethos of good clean wargaming means that racism and sexism have been almost entirely eliminated and fair play and hard work established as the way to live."
"Well, that's good news", observed FSN. He began reading again.
" In political news, Forum Member Ithoriel may fly over to Gaza to sort out the Middle East with his philosophy of peace and understanding through wargaming. This after a successful de-escalation of the Scottish threat to annex Middlesborough was achieved by President Sturgeon and Prime Minister Farage gaming the scenario."
"Not quite a perfect world, then." Observed the blonde, reading over FSN's shoulder.
"BBC1 is showing a new episode of 'Fenton's Fencibles' - A series in which the venerable Forum Member talks about wars that you've definitely never heard of. Sky Wargames (formerly Sky Sports) will be showing live competition from this year's St Helens Phalanx ..."
An elbow in the kidney brought FSN's attention to the existing pain in his kidney and the entrance into the room of two people. One was FSN himself, a little older, but looking fit and groomed. He was dressed comfortably in white and accompanied by a gorgeous woman. She was dressed sensibly in knee high boots, grey knee length skirt and prim white blouse. At her throat was a black velvet band bearing a cameo of the initials FSN in a heart. Her dark hair was piled high and she wore large, dark rimmed glasses. She carried a clipboard close to her chest. The later FSN stopped and surveyed the room.
"Blasted press conferences. Hate 'em." He sighed. "Is everything ready for tonight?" As he was speaking, the women unclasped her hair and shook it down into a dark chestnut curtain. She took off her glasses and became instantly recognisable to the watching FSN as Anne Hathaway, sometime Catwoman in a film that may have had a Batman in it. Anne stood close to future FSN, her arms around him. She kissed him, the kiss a lover gives when they know there is all the time in the world. The kiss was a promise, and a pledge, full of remembered passion and a deep, deep union of souls. Watching FSN felt his collar a bit too tight – which is difficult in pyjamas. Future FSN smiled down at the actress.
"You know. If I hadn't published my collected postings on the Pendraken Forum this little Pendrakenmas gathering might never have happened." He said, a laugh in his voice. Anne frowned a pretty frown.
"You've only got the millions you made from that book. Why don't you go see Leon and demand some of his fortune?" FSN laid a gentle finger on Anne's full, pouting lips. It was obviously a complaint she aired often.
"Sweet Anne," he said. "You're forgetting the film rights." She hugged him tighter and laughed - a sweet tinkling sound.
"You're so sweet. It's no wonder I love you so much. Clooney is desperate to play you." Future FSN shrugged deprecatingly.
"I still think Radcliffe is too old to play Leon, but McKellern is perfect for Techno. We've managed to fit Cumberbatch and Freeman in, Caine, Day-Lewis and Hopkins. Does Daniel Craig still want a part?" Anne stroked FSN's cheek.
"He does. He's quite desperate. He's sent in another audition video. This time he's trying some classic Charles Grant." Both FSNs winced.
"If we give him a cameo, will that satisfy?" She kissed him again.
"It does. He'll be so thrilled."
Their conversation was interrupted by a beautiful mezzo-soprano voice.
"That reminds me" said Anne "Nicola Benedetti says she's like to join tonight's entertainment."
"Well I can hear that Katherine Jenkins is in good voice. Just don't let her sing any of that Welsh stuff. I know she loves it, but it goes through me like lancers through militia. Who else have we got? "
"Just the usual. Myleene Klass and Danielle de Niese." Future FSN considered.
"OK, Benedetti is in – but only if she wears blue – and no water fights this time." Watching FSN gurgled.
"Who's playing tonight?" Asked future FSN.
Anne pulled at a discretely located lever and the cloth rose from the table, revealing a 10' x 6' wargames table, set ready to play.
"Bleheim." Said watching FSN, knowledgeably.
"Mareth Line." Said future FSN, leaning over the table. The blonde tutted.
"Blenheim was a code name for that part of the Mareth Line." Protested FSN to the blonde. She arched a perfect eyebrow.
"Well ... it was my code name ..." FSN trailed off as the second eyebrow rose.
"Scarlett and Keira will be up against ... " Anne consulted the clipboard "... newcomers Mila Kunis and Natalie Portman."
"Scarlett's proving to be a devil with armour, and Keira knows how to use a box barrage. Wonder what they'd be like with hussars and horse artillery?"
"They've asked if that can play forfeit rules again." Anne bit her lip uncertainly with pretty white teeth.
"I don't know." Mused future FSN. "Strip wargaming just isn't right somehow." Watching FSN groaned. "Oh! OK – it's Pendrakenmas. If it makes them happy."
Watching FSN fainted.
When he awoke, which may have been seconds or hours later, he had no way of knowing, he was in his own room. The blonde stood by his bed.
"Too much for you?" She asked sympathetically. FSN nodded miserably.
"Poor you." She pouted those blood red lips. "But you seem to cope." FSN brightened at the thought.
"Well, got to be going." The blonde sashayed in slow majestic curves to the cupboard, now standing open, large gouges in the frame.
"Spirit!" called FSN tremulously from his bed. "Spirit!" She turned. "You did not tell me your name, Spirit!"
"Me?" She shrugged an elegant shoulder. "I'm the Spirit of Pendrakenmas Never Going to Happen."
"Yes, Milday." Said FSN.
;D ;D ;D ;D ;D
Superb !!
Cheers - Phil
Brilliant.
It's allegorical, but make of that what you will.
No, I don't think 'allegorical' is the word that jumps into fsn's mind when he sees Anne Hathaway. I'm sure the word is .... master ... (clicks fingers) .. master .. (rack's brain) .. master .........
.. masterly! (obviously thinking of her performance in Les Miserables - incidentally, didn't her teeth grow back in well?) 8->
8-> 8-> 8-> 8-> 8->
(http://cdn0.dailydot.com/cache/dc/d0/dcd0012081f6442dc214d2c6f6598951.jpg)
=D> =D> =D>
The icing on the cake!
[We wargamers are so spoiled these days - we need our eye candy! 8->)
Rolling a Six: In which FSN finds his power, and Leon's true nature is revealed.
FSN was happily asleep, dreaming of white rooms and red clad curves. He was woken by the sound of the wardrobe door opening – well by the consequent sound of the bowl of water he had carefully placed atop the door making a connection with his next guest's head.
"FSN, you utter, utter, UTTER barsteward."
"Can't swear? That a hangover from last year's 'FSN in Pendrakenland." FSN rubbed his eyes.
"You oik! You guttersnipe! You pain in the fundament!" His new visitor was dressed in a very tight black leotard, with a white front, which showed off his 'manly' physique in every eye-watering detail. His limbs were similarly clad in tight fitting black. His head was covered in a back balaclava affair, upon which perched little cat ears. His face was obscured by a mask resembling a snarling cat.
"Fierce Kitty, I presume?"
"Nah," replied the apparition, mopping water off its ears in a curiously cat-like motion.
"Oh, I just assumed because of the costume ..."
"Nah. It's Mad Lemmey." He examined his tail. "Last costume in the shop."
"Nice to meet you – pull up a chair and take off your mask."
"Can't" said the cat-creature, placing a buttock on the bedroom chair. Why he'd brought it, he wasn't sure. "You've never seen my face, so you can't imagine me properly."
"So you're a figment of my imagination?"
"Yeah. Sort of. It's all really your twisted mind that created all this. All your own fault."
"So, if I try really, really hard, I can change the way you look."
"S'pose so." Responded cat-Lemmey. Then the awful realisation of what he had said took hold. "Don't you dare ... you utter, utter barsteward FSN ..." But he was too late. FSN had screwed up his face in a mask of supreme concentration. Lemmey felt his legs elongate, his waist slim, his chest bubble up. FSN peeped with one eye, and smiled his satisfaction. He returned to concentrating and imagining.
"FSN, if I ever meet you in real life ... " The voice was higher. He – she could feel his-her hair growing and coiling down his-her back. FSN opened his eyes and clapped his hands with pleasure.
"Much better!" Lemmey was now a beautiful female. The costume was also much attenuated to show off the new physique. Unfortunately, the Lemmey spirit still dwelt within so FSN was confronted with a beautiful girl in a glamorous cat-costume sitting like a docker.
"Could you ease off on the costume?" squawked the cat. "It's cutting up me stern something rotten!" FSN smiled and shook his head.
"We all have to suffer for my art."
"Let's just get on with this shall we?" Cat Lemmey tried his/her new high heeled black patent shoes and found them, not comfortable, but somehow exciting. FSN followed the gaze and became entranced with the shiny black shoes. So dark, so shiny, so ...
"You perving my feet?" FSN was brought back to what passed for reality. He looked about him. The room he found himself was straight out of a dystopian steam-punk nightmare. The walls were curved iron, riven with great hexagonal bolts and affixed with dark portraits in huge gilt frames. Across the ceiling, pipes hissed and gurgled gently. The floor was covered in brightly patterned rugs. The furniture was all solid mahogany. A large desk was set with a green leather writing set, which matched the huge leather chair behind it. Light was provided by guttering gas lamps, which gave eerie shadows over the most striking feature of the room. FSN gasped as he beheld an ancient machine, the purpose of which he could not fathom, but it was the skeleton chained to the machine that gave him a shiver of horror. Before he could ask Cat Lemmey where they were, a portion of the wall slid back and a figure entered the room.
"Leon!" Exclaimed FSN! Indeed it was he, dressed in a purple frock coat and fresh cravat over a crisp white shirt and green waistcoat. FSN peered intently but could behold no difference in the apparition from FSN's own time. Leon bowed slightly at the skeleton and murmured "it's what he would have wanted."
"When is this, Spirit?" Asked FSN. His spirit guide stopped gazing down the front of his/her leotard and answered vaguely "twenty three years in the future."
"Really?" Asked FSN, distractedly joining Cat Lemmey in his/her inspection.
"This ain't for you!" Snapped Lemmey, allowing the leotard to fall back into place. FSN reluctantly turned to watch Leon, who stopped in front of one of the paintings. This showed a horrifically disfigured character, wild eyed and depraved, glaring out of the picture, hating the world, despising all who lived in it and reflecting an inner self loathing of a black and inhuman soul.
"Orcs?" Asked FSN.
"Nah." Said Cat Lemmey, considering that this was the first time stroking his own backside had been so much fun. "Leon's look ain't due to clean living and fruit smoothies." Their collective attention was drawn to the sound of the telephone on Leon's desk. It didn't ring so much as moan. Leon ignored it for a few moments then picked up the receiver reluctantly.
"Pendraken Subterranean Elephant." He purred. He listened abstractly, paying more attention to the contents of his nasal passages than to the caller.
"Who?" He asked irritably. "Oh! FSN. You're FSN's daughter." Leon sat irritably down on the green leather chair and stabbed at the blotter with an ornate letter opener. "How is the old ... chap?" He paused.
"Oh! Dead, you say!" Leon fist pumped the air and stood to do his happy dance, before remembering who he was talking to. "My condolences. Did he die slowly and painfully?" Watching FSN could swear that Leon mouthed "I hope".
"Oh. Quickly and painlessly." Leon seemed crestfallen. "Yes, making the E100 in metal was a bit of a slight miscalculation on our part ... not that we accept liability." He hastily added. Leon listened to the receiver for a few moments.
"Yes, he came up with the Dark Lord theme. Not that there's a word of truth in it! Ha ha!" Another section of the wall slid back and Leon angrily shooed away the casting dwarves attempting an audience with their master.
"You want someone to represent Pendraken at the funeral?" Leon cleaned his free ear with the letter opener. "Oh, I can't make it that day, I'll be in a ... on the ... at a show." Relief flooded his youthful face as he grasped a credible excuse.
"Dave?" Leon looked at the skeleton. "No, he's a bit tied up too. Let me see." He listened again. "No, I've lost contact with Techno. Had to sack him after he sculpted ... well , you know. Bloody Daily Mail wouldn't drop it for months!" Leon shuddered. "Fenton? No, the paperwork and security costs are too much to get him out for a day." Idly, he chewed his lip. "Kitty? No, we don't commune with the God-Emperor much these days. I believe the harvest in his lands hasn't been too good and those hearts won't rip themselves out." He listened again.
"Orcs? Yeesss. I'm sure Orcs could do it. Of course, he doesn't know where he is most of the time. Been like that for years." He chuckled. "You will have to provide a waterproof seat though ... and perhaps a kitten."
"We won't get Ithoriel. You can't just ask the Secretary-General of the UN to drop everything when there's mass human sacrifices going on in South America, can you?" Leon asked reasonably. He sighed heavily.
"Lemmey?" Leon became serous. "Didn't you hear what happened?" FSN looked around. Cat Lemmey was far too distracted to listen. "Yes." Agreed Leon. "It was tragic. But of course, the TV ratings were fantastic, and there was no lasting damage to the ...quite ... quite ... and the minor royal was ... yes ... she was a bit surprised... yes. It's true, Bolton may never be the same, but I think we may have to count Lemmey out."
"We lost so many members in the Aztec stampede a few years ago. Who'd have thought that range would be so popular? Still, we can never go back to that venue." He giggled. A high, nervy sound. "No", he said. "I'll see if I can get one of the younger members to do it. Perhaps BishopBasher or FairyPrincess could attend. I think Fumbling Grenadier lives up that way."
"What's that?" Asked Leon. "Lots of unopened yellow packets? A room full? ... Yes, we'll think about repurchase ... 25% of value. Yes. Standard terms . Goodbye." He replaced the receiver.
Leon pulled a steam powered calculator out of a desk drawer and punched a few buttons. "Oh yes!" he said gleefully. "Holiday in Cornwall ..." He pushed another few buttons. "No. Italy! Two weeks. Better make it 10 days. Need to take Milady."
FSN turned to see Cat-Lemmey practicing pole dancing on a lampstand. He/she was rather good. In fact, FSN could have watched him/her for ages. FSN shook his head. No, that was Lemmey, just packaged nicely, though he never thought he'd ever see Lemmey do that ... he reached for his wallet ...
FSN woke up in his bed. He felt the bruising around his eye.
"What did you do that for?" He asked.
"An I.O.U.?" Said a very angry Lemmey.
"Well, do you carry money in your pyjamas? Is that what I'm supposed to learn? To carry money at bedtime in case a ..." FSN struggled for words "... a cat-hooker pops in?" Lemmey bristled.
"I am not a common hooker – I was being very artistic. Perhaps you need to think about the way you interact with people." So saying, cat-Lemmey pulled a tissue out of somewhere and dabbed her eyes. Back stiffened, he/she made for the wardrobe. At the door she/he stopped.
"Will I stay like this on the other side?"
"I hope so." Lemmey smiled a half smile, and went through the wardrobe, swinging her tail jauntily.
:-SS :-SS :-SS :-SS
I've got to know......What did I make ?......('THOSE' could never have made it into the public domain.....Unless someone nicks them in the future....I've kept all the copies. :P)
I wondered what you were going to do with Lemmey.....I shall always imagine him that way, from now on.... ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D
You don't know what Lemmey looks like ?
www.pendrakenforum.co.uk/index.php/topic,6289.0.html
.......Well....he claims that's him ;)
Cheers - Phil
P.S......I've nearly finished 'your' song. ;)
For those (not the same, 'those,' Techno) that had a few too many last night and are feeling a bit delicate this morning, imagine ...
.. fsn sucking Cat Lemney's toes ... X_X :-& :-& :-& :-&
There. Feel better now?
Quote from: Techno on 22 December 2014, 11:04:09 AM
P.S......I've nearly finished 'your' song. ;)
Which language ?
IanS
Quote from: Westmarcher on 22 December 2014, 11:16:27 AM
For those (not the same, 'those,' Techno) that had a few too many last night and are feeling a bit delicate this morning, imagine ...
.. fsn sucking Cat Lemney's toes ... X_X :-& :-& :-& :-&
There. Feel better now?
NO !!........(Phil runs away, screaming !!)
Quote from: ianrs54 on 22 December 2014, 11:54:44 AM
Which language ? IanS
Not Welsh. :P ;)
Cheers - Phil
Um.
Yeah.
Right.
Actually FSN, I might take offence to this.
My catsuit is tabby, not black and white!
Quote from: Techno on 22 December 2014, 11:04:09 AM
You don't know what Lemmey looks like ?
I think he now looks a bit like this ...
(http://halloweentalk.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/Black%20cat%20suit.jpg?itok=Ij-8wdmU)
... and I think it's an improvement. :D
If o looked like that I would never get out of bed in the morning!
I have just read the last 4 pages in one sitting - Absolutely Brilliant - =D> =D> =D>
Trully a most awesome series of posts, :-bd and they way it's stayed on subject for four pages, that must be proof of Father Christmas.
The Last bit: In which FSN finds an old friend and there is too much editing.
FSN spent the rest of the night with a bayonet in one hand, and a can of breath freshener in the other. He was prepared for anything. (Editor's note: The bayonet was, and still is, a British No 4 Mk II.) Eventually, he woke to a grey morning. He rose from his bed, peering suspiciously at the wardrobe, but it remained secured by the impromptu rope he had made of bedsheets. (Editor's note: These were the sheets he had put on the bed that night. That's more relevant that the model of bayonet. The readers don't want to know that. What are you doing here anyway?) He crept down the stairs as stealthily as his bulk would allow, (Editor's note: Which isn't very stealthy. I need a break from Techno. He's still signing off "shears fill" until I correct it. Does my head in.) prepared to defend himself with readied breath freshener. Any potential attacker would not have been hard put to hear him fall down the last three steps, and then stub his toe on the vacuum cleaner. (Editor's note: It's a Vax. Still not using italics in an editor's note?)
FSN satisfied himself that there were no further visitors. This disappointed him slightly, because he'd got his wallet with him on the off chance that cat-Lemmey returned. He was quite sure that if he concentrated hard, he could make the feline forum fellow look just like Anne Hathaway. (Editor's note: FSN has a thing for Anne Hathaway. You may have noticed. I don't put my notes in italics 'cos it's unnecessarily showy.) He limped into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He took out the cheese he'd used to make a cheese and bacon toasted sandwich (Editor's note: In Wales, that's fancy cooking. Showy? Showy! You wouldn't know style if it jumped up and bit you on your big fat... (Editor's note: Steady on!)) and sniffed it experimentally. No green mould. He licked the cheese and put it back in the fridge. (Editor's note: It was red Leicester. Sorry, you just make me so angry.) FSN plodded into the bathroom and checked his medication. Seemed to be in order. He snacked on one of the green stripey ones that tasted of Wednesday, and one of the white ones which may in fact just have been Polo mints. (Editor's note. They are in fact Polo mints, but the spearmints ones, and quite out of date. No, I'm sorry. Why do we fight this way?)
FSN drank some mint tea. (Editor's note: In fact he just drank some water and the Polos did the rest. You know very well.) He sat at his painting table and wafted off some of the worst of the dust. Underneath a battalion of US ACW infantry (Editor's note: A mix of ACW1 and ACW2. Oh! I knew you'd bring that up. I told you, I was just helping her to pick a skirt to wear.) coughed and spluttered and peered into the newly revealed light. He picked up one of his paint brushes (Editor's note: A sable 000. I suppose she had her blouse off so that it didn't interfere with your appreciation of the waistband?) but it had hardened beyond any use except as a javelin for some warrior in about 1:10th scale. He launched it at the bin, which it missed. By a huge margin. (Editor's note: 0.63m from a 2.1m range. And I suppose you had her bra in the car so your could use it for reference material?) He opened a pot of paint (Editor's note: Revell 49, Light Blue. How many times do I have to say I'm sorry? Couldn't we go for a coffee and talk?) and found it to have the consistency of a prehistoric tar pit. (Editor's note: About 2.3 x 10^8 Pascal Seconds. I can't. After this rubbish, I'm going out with Geoff.) Sadly he closed the paint pot and searched under the detritus (Editor's note: 1785-95; from the French detritus, Latin: a rubbing away. Geoff! Fierce Kitty's editor? He must be far too busy correcting FK's execrable spelling and grammar. The last half dozen have to my knowledge just been "waNtZ AZTec".) for his reference book. He found it under an unsuitable rag, his battered old copy of "Blandford's Military Uniforms of the World in Colour" (Editor's note: Blandford, 1971, £1.50. Geoff is a perfectionist. Fortunately FK's away in Italy, so isn't posting and Geoff has some time spare.) and flicked through the pages, some bearing the honourable marks of painty finger prints. FSN remembered each page, could remember studying each page of exotic and colourful uniforms, dreamed of forming armies of (Editor's note: Blah! Blah! You can't go out with Geoff ... I love you.) excuse me ... gaudy tricorned troops.(Editor's note: Tricorn – Eat Maize. You do? Really?)
Perhaps, mused FSN, he should give it another go. In fact, he was sure he should. He set about cleaning off his painting table, and even began crooning a Pendrakemas song. The phone rang. (Editor's note: It's his daughter. Of course, the others meant nothing to me.) He picked up the receiver. It was his daughter, (Editor's note: Told you. Please?)
"Happy Pendrakenmas, Darling. ... Pendrakenmas. It's like Christmas, but in 10mm." (Editor's note: Pendrakenmas is a festival only openly celebrated in Middlesborough, a small, wet, dull corner of Wales and Christmas Island. Well maybe just a cup of coffee.) "It's lovely to hear from you ..."
Thank you all for your kind attention and remarks. Next year, I may essay the Panto, or perhaps I could do a FroSeN, in which our hero finds he has ice powers. Highlights will be when he sings a warning to Davy Crocket about confronting the Mexicans in San Antonio ("Let it go, Alamo") or cajoles a youngster into the wargaming hobby ("Do you want to build a 1000 point Seleucid army?")
I hope I have not caused offence to anyone, for none is meant. Honest Leon, I wasn't perving your missus. (Editor's note: Yeah, and Pendraken makes Aztecs. ... wait a minute. What do you mean others? Plural?)
;D
So, in short, you're painting again?
Good.
Quote from: fsn on 23 December 2014, 10:39:03 AM
I hope I have not caused offence to anyone, for none is meant.
OIK !!!! ;D ;D ;D ;D
Shears - Fill :P
Quote from: fsn on 23 December 2014, 10:39:03 AM
I hope I have not caused offence to anyone, for none is meant.
FSN - your entire existence is OFFENSIVE..... ;) ;) ;) :d
IanS
I can't hold a candle to Nobby.....(Though I think Ian would like me to... ;))
But to add to the festivities, I would like to bring you a little song.
"Nobby's (souped up) centurion," to the tune of "Nellie the Elephant", with apologies to those of you that are too young to remember the original.
Ahem.......
From the East, a heavy tracked vehicle came.
It looked just like a centurion,
and Nobby was to blame.
Starting off, our Nobby saw bright blue lights,
He flicked a switch on the dashboard, then,
and flashed off out of sight.
(Chorus)
Nobby's centurion started up,
and whizzed straight off, up the bypass,
On it went with a great, throaty roar,
Brrrrum, Brrrrum, Brrrum.
Nobby's centurion zoomed along,
The police left far in the distance.
The road for them now a hell of a mess.
"Stop that oik Bum !!"
Time to slow...Our Nobby's almost there.
When he was in his centurion,
Our Nobby didn't care.
One last shell, for Nobby to let loose.
Get it right, on this stormy night,
He'd cook old Santa's goose.
(Repeat chorus)
The turret was turning smoothly,
The shell fired away.
It cleared some rocks on the mountainside,
And hit poor Santa's sleigh.......(OR "Blew Santa clean away)
(Repeat chorus)
Happy Christmas, Nobby !.......And everyone else.!
Cheers - Phil.
=D> =D> =D> ;D ;D ;D
Excellent stuff. I shall be singing it all Pendrakenmas.
Have you been eating out of data Polos as well?
I certainly remember the original, alas I while I can remember the tune to the chorus the melody for the verse escapes me.
V coolTechno
For the young 'uns.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_a-m3pH9Dr8 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_a-m3pH9Dr8)
Join in the chorus!
Quote from: Techno on 23 December 2014, 02:34:31 PM
Nobby's centurion started up,
and whizzed straight off, up the bypass, ...
Quote from: Techno on 23 December 2014, 02:34:31 PM
I can't hold a candle to Nobby.....(Though I think Ian would like me to... ;))
Given where Nobby lives -
no naked flame is to be put anywhere near himThe resulting explosion would be kittystrophic.
IanS
Quote from: fsn on 23 December 2014, 02:45:11 PM
=D> =D> =D> ;D ;D ;D
Excellent stuff. I shall be singing it all Pendrakenmas.
Have you been eating out of data Polos as well?
Glad you enjoyed it Nobby. :)
So....That fluff on the horses' polos I found in a pocket yesterday,
wasn't fluff......But an hallucinogenic mould, then ?
And I certainly didn't take them out of that android from Star Trek NG. ;)
You're imagining I resemble the Borg Queen again, aren't you ? ;D
Cheers - Phil
Nooo. :^o
Quote from: fsn on 22 December 2014, 05:26:45 PM
I think he now looks a bit like this ...
(http://halloweentalk.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/Black%20cat%20suit.jpg?itok=Ij-8wdmU)
... and I think it's an improvement. :D
..... I still haven't recovered ..... @-)
Being somewhat taken with the fact that Leon is Noel backwards I give you the following (to the tune of "The First Noel")
And so, Leon, to the forum did say
it's coming up Christmas so I'll be away.
Techno is busy with dogs, horses and sheep,
so quiet you lot don't let me hear a peep!
[Chorus]
Leon, Leon, Leon, Leon,
He is the Dark Lord of Pendraken!
The forum locked up? Nope the door is ajar,
which leads to a stampede to get to the bar.
They jostle and shove and then start a fight
which continues sporadically both day and night.
[Chorus]
Leon, Leon, Leon, Leon,
He is the Dark Lord of Pendraken!
So it came to pass that our grammar tzar,
the noble FierceKitty, he travelled afar.
With no-one to check every message we sent,
we still understood what everyone meant
[Chorus]
Leon, Leon, Leon, Leon,
He is the Dark Lord of Pendraken!
The Forge of Pendraken, that produces the best,
in Middlesbrough town, is briefly at rest.
And so the Dark Lord enjoys his days,
lounging round naked, the X-Box he plays.
[Chorus]
Leon, Leon, Leon, Leon,
He is the Dark Lord of Pendraken!
So then lets us praise those forumites three,
Orcs and Hertsblue and Mad Lemmey!
And so many others they add their presence
but they have between them not one ounce of sense!
[Chorus]
Leon, Leon, Leon, Leon,
He is the Dark Lord of Pendraken!
Then let us all without ado
Sing praises to the Pendraken crew,
That hath made so many of the figures we've bought.
Lets hope with those parcels that we're never caught!!
[Chorus]
Leon, Leon, Leon, Leon,
He is the Dark Lord of Pendraken!
Quote from: Ithoriel on 23 December 2014, 11:29:57 PM
Being somewhat taken with the fact that Leon is Noel backwards I give you the following (to the tune of "The First Noel")
...
That hath made so many of the figures we've bought.
Lets hope with those parcels that we're never caught!!
[Chorus]
Leon, Leon, Leon, Leon,
He is the Dark Lord of Pendraken!
;D ;D ;D
=D> =D> @-) =O =O :-bd >:<
Excellent, I !! ;D ;D ;D ;D
Cheers - Phil
Brilliant! =D> =D> =D>
Quote from: Ithoriel on 23 December 2014, 11:29:57 PM
Leon, Leon, Leon, Leon,
He is the Dark Lord of Pendraken!
I think this should be our battle hymn. The Pendraken Male and Techno Voiced Choir could record it and it could be played from the Pendraken stand at shows.
Bravo! ;D =D> :-bd <:-P
That was really Good !
This has been excellent, well done fsn and thanks for posting it. Have a good Xmas!
8)