FSN, I have spent a large part of today ready your effort from last year and am truely astounded 

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

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.

 
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 

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! 
... 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 ....]

 

Another Christmas epic underway.
Brilliant.   
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."