Saturday, March 27, 2010

The animals came in two by two....

What the hack writer had over-looked was to give you, dear reader, a basic description of Dirty Dick Whittington's All You Can Eat Seafood Buffet.
A large room that was forever in darkness with small pools of illumination from the kerosene lamps on each table which would not have been possible but for the patent Canadian Abraham Gesner took out on his refined liquid fuel.
The darkness was further entrenched by the dark red embossed wallpaper that featured Art Nouveau-inspired Fleur de lis patterns which gave an air of distinction and helped hide the usual mess after half price villain Tuesdays. The dance floor was polished wood measuring 12'x12' with a stage behind barely big enough to hold a mouse playing water-filled thimbles.
On this particular evening Australian author Rosa Praed was celebrating her 159th birthday (without looking a day over 84) in a darkish corner with her female companion Nancy when the Salvos made themselves known by the shaking of their tamborines in a frenzy fit to make you Shake Your Tail Feather to pronounce the anniversary of the Sallies arriving in Port Chalmers in NZ.
Rosa and Nancy were most put out by this intrusion as they were anxious to read, plastered across the embossed wallpaper, copies of The Beeching Report which advocated doing nasty, unspeakable things with an axe to the railway network throughout the UK.
A small coincidence, perhaps, but on the day much slashing and hacking with large garden implements was encouraged in the UK over the pond he of the slasher films involving much hacking and unspeakable things with an axe Quentin Tarantino was pupped.
And, coincidentally, on this particular night Tarantino was to be found nowhere in Dirty Dick Whittington's as it was Savage Skewbald Stray Sidekick Saturday where crime-bustin' non-human junior partners got to dine on any supple old bit of roadkill that came the way of the chef's kitchen door with a few incognito visits from the Royal corgies who liked to get their paws mucky with the common folk at the end of the working week.
Over at the banquet table the ladies and Hercule were holding their serviettes to their noses as Skippy and Rin Tin Tin indulged in some high jinks at a nearby table that were more suited at a football match.
Foyle muttered through gritted teeth to an equally horrified Sherlock,
"This damnable writer has left us sitting here for almost 3 days and we've yet to order! Not a skerrick of food has passed my lips and I'm feeling as faint as Poirot looks!"


  1. So much for giving up smoking...and these blog posts are just as bizarre even though I've started again.

  2. Take two tablets, have a lie down and call your doctor in the morning, Brian :P