was commissioned to create a suitable monument to the
general’s final encounter with the red Indians. And when this was unveiled
before the crowds of attending dignitaries, casual onlookers and members of the
press it was revealed to be a monolith of the 2001 persuasion.
On the
top half of this were carved a number of fish with haloes above their heads, on
the lower portion, red Indians enthusiastically making love.
The
fellow who had commissioned the sculpture took its creator to one side and
demanded an explanation.
‘It
represents the last words Custer ever spoke,’ explained the sculptor. ‘These
were, Holy Mackerel, look at all those fucking Indians!’
Well,
it made me laugh at the time. But then I hadn’t heard it before.
Few in
the audience clapped and the two members of the local council, who claimed to
be the twin reincarnation of Geronimo, walked out in disgust.
Next up
was a poet called Johnny. I have never had a lot of truck with poetry myself,
but on this occasion I must say that I was truly moved.
I trust
that you will also be. For I include his poem here.
UNCLE FUGGER
CLAUDE ROE (AT HOME)
Taking a suck at his old cherry wood
(His Briars numbered three in the rack),
The crackling fire as it danced in the grate,
The frost-bitten dane at his back.
Old Uncle Claude Roe, please tell us a tale,
Asked Arthur and Willy and Moon.
Tell us conundrums and rose carberundems,
And shanties to sing out of tune.
Tell us of airmen who ride in the clouds
And pirates who see through one eye.
But Uncle Claude Roe did not want to know,
He sat there and played with his tie.
Tell us of Liszt and Marcova
And how Einstein learned counting off you.
But old Uncle Claude looked thoroughly bored,
He had fallen asleep in his shoe.
And while Fugger slept like a baby
The children went outside to play.
And his cherry wood Briar set the whole house on fire
And nobody cares to this day.
I wept
real tears at the end of that one, I can tell you. But disguised them as a
touch of hay fever for fear of looking like a big Jessie.
A very large woman called
Jessie was next up on the stage. She stripped down to her Liberty bodice and
cami-knickers to display an ample selection of Magic Eye 3D tattoos. Again, I
was favourably impressed, particularly with the red Indian display, but not so
the rest of the audience, who hadn’t clapped once as yet.
I will
pass on the one-legged seafarer who sang about a recent whaling voyage.
‘Sounds
a little too much like “Orange Claw Hammer”,’ Pooley observed.
I must
also pass on Norman the sword swallower, who did not receive a standing
ovation.
‘Any
more?’ asked Laughing Jack, but the biscuit tin was empty and the crowd wore
vacant stares.
And
then it happened. And it happened in a big way and one not easily forgotten.
The saloon bar door burst open.
There
was a mighty drum roll and then in marched the world famous Brentford Secondary
School drum majorettes.
They
didn’t march far due to the density of the crowd, but they forced their way in
bravely. Tassels twirling, baton whirling, young knees high and painted smiles.
In came
the drummers, thrashing away upon snares and tom-toms, halting to march upon
the spot.
Then
part.
Then in He came.
A
diminutive figure in a gold lamé mask and matching jump-suit. He cart-wheeled
into the bar, did an impossible triple flip over cowering heads and landed on
his feet upon the stage.
Mouths
fell open, breath became a thing to hold.
The
tiny figure bowed and then began.
He
knelt, threw wide his arms, sang Jolson.
And he was Jolson.
He
impersonated Laughton.
And he was Laughton.
He
lifted a leg and Robert Newton was reborn to play his finest role.
The
superstitious crossed themselves.
Omally
whispered, ‘Witchcraft.’
It was
a spectacle unlike any other that The Swan had witnessed during its long and
colourful history. Strong men wept into their beer and mothers covered the eyes
of
general’s final encounter with the red Indians. And when this was unveiled
before the crowds of attending dignitaries, casual onlookers and members of the
press it was revealed to be a monolith of the 2001 persuasion.
On the
top half of this were carved a number of fish with haloes above their heads, on
the lower portion, red Indians enthusiastically making love.
The
fellow who had commissioned the sculpture took its creator to one side and
demanded an explanation.
‘It
represents the last words Custer ever spoke,’ explained the sculptor. ‘These
were, Holy Mackerel, look at all those fucking Indians!’
Well,
it made me laugh at the time. But then I hadn’t heard it before.
Few in
the audience clapped and the two members of the local council, who claimed to
be the twin reincarnation of Geronimo, walked out in disgust.
Next up
was a poet called Johnny. I have never had a lot of truck with poetry myself,
but on this occasion I must say that I was truly moved.
I trust
that you will also be. For I include his poem here.
UNCLE FUGGER
CLAUDE ROE (AT HOME)
Taking a suck at his old cherry wood
(His Briars numbered three in the rack),
The crackling fire as it danced in the grate,
The frost-bitten dane at his back.
Old Uncle Claude Roe, please tell us a tale,
Asked Arthur and Willy and Moon.
Tell us conundrums and rose carberundems,
And shanties to sing out of tune.
Tell us of airmen who ride in the clouds
And pirates who see through one eye.
But Uncle Claude Roe did not want to know,
He sat there and played with his tie.
Tell us of Liszt and Marcova
And how Einstein learned counting off you.
But old Uncle Claude looked thoroughly bored,
He had fallen asleep in his shoe.
And while Fugger slept like a baby
The children went outside to play.
And his cherry wood Briar set the whole house on fire
And nobody cares to this day.
I wept
real tears at the end of that one, I can tell you. But disguised them as a
touch of hay fever for fear of looking like a big Jessie.
A very large woman called
Jessie was next up on the stage. She stripped down to her Liberty bodice and
cami-knickers to display an ample selection of Magic Eye 3D tattoos. Again, I
was favourably impressed, particularly with the red Indian display, but not so
the rest of the audience, who hadn’t clapped once as yet.
I will
pass on the one-legged seafarer who sang about a recent whaling voyage.
‘Sounds
a little too much like “Orange Claw Hammer”,’ Pooley observed.
I must
also pass on Norman the sword swallower, who did not receive a standing
ovation.
‘Any
more?’ asked Laughing Jack, but the biscuit tin was empty and the crowd wore
vacant stares.
And
then it happened. And it happened in a big way and one not easily forgotten.
The saloon bar door burst open.
There
was a mighty drum roll and then in marched the world famous Brentford Secondary
School drum majorettes.
They
didn’t march far due to the density of the crowd, but they forced their way in
bravely. Tassels twirling, baton whirling, young knees high and painted smiles.
In came
the drummers, thrashing away upon snares and tom-toms, halting to march upon
the spot.
Then
part.
Then in He came.
A
diminutive figure in a gold lamé mask and matching jump-suit. He cart-wheeled
into the bar, did an impossible triple flip over cowering heads and landed on
his feet upon the stage.
Mouths
fell open, breath became a thing to hold.
The
tiny figure bowed and then began.
He
knelt, threw wide his arms, sang Jolson.
And he was Jolson.
He
impersonated Laughton.
And he was Laughton.
He
lifted a leg and Robert Newton was reborn to play his finest role.
The
superstitious crossed themselves.
Omally
whispered, ‘Witchcraft.’
It was
a spectacle unlike any other that The Swan had witnessed during its long and
colourful history. Strong men wept into their beer and mothers covered the eyes
of
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