Prisoner of the Island

Chapter 4: The Reeducation of an English Gentleman

Captain Stuart Turnips opened his eyes. The room was dark. Whatever he was lying on was hard. He could make out a faint light coming from the crack at the bottom of a door. He could also hear a fan whirring overhead. He felt a wetness on his forehead but when he tried to wipe it he found that his hands were bound. He tried to kick his feet and found that those were bound as well. He shouted for help. Within a few seconds the door sprung open and a dark-haired woman in a nurse’s uniform sprang through. He could not make out her face in the dark but she very quickly flicked a switch and the room lit up with florescent light. The nurse began speaking in a foreign language but quickly changed to English. “Young man, you so lucky be alive.” She continued: “You on Island of Scar-manga and you will be placed on trial as a Engrish Spy and shot unless you agree to subject self to a struggle session.” *

Captain Stuart didn’t think it was an appropriate time to ask what happened to his ship Blue Side of American and his crew. This nurse seemed to be in an angry mood, and since she was administering him a rather large shot . . . the room went dark again.

Captain Stuart awoke in the same room. This time he noticed that he was no longer bound. The dark-haired nurse was there. “You may notice we no longer bind hands and feet. You free to walk grounds of Scar-manga’s Estate.” She said brightly. The change in her demeanor gave Stuart the courage to ask a few questions. “What happened? Why am I here?”

“You hurt when Chinese People’s Navy capture you boat. You crew is all prisoner of the 41st People’s Liberation Army Group. You now on Tunga Island as special guest of Scar-manga.”
“So what happened that I’m here and they are with the 41st People’s thing-a-ma-jig?”

“Scar-manga find out that English gentleman was leading ship and not a peasant pirate. He ask for permission to reeducate you from Chinese People’s Army commander. Scar-manga has special relationship with Chinese people’s democratic government.” Stuart noted that her voice turned venomous when saying the words peasant.

Captain Stuart began to wonder what Scaramanga had in mind for him. He had to meet this fellow and see if the mental image that his father presented of the ruthless killer in the employ of the CHICOMs stood up to his first meeting. For sure, Scaramanga must have done something to get on the bad side of Her Majesty's Government. Whatever injuries he had sustained during the attack on Blue Side of American were on the mend – largely through the medical attention provided by Scaramanga’s English mangling nurse. Was Scaramanga trying to return him to health for some unseen reason? Why wouldn’t he have just let the CHICOMs deal with him or kill him?

And What of his ship? His Crew?

* Struggle session: A self-confession of crimes against the Revolution. The Red Guards would taunt the people being "struggled." They'd make them denounce their families or whatever "old" pre-Revolutionary concept they were accused of clinging to in a counter-revolutionary manner. The struggle session became notorious during the Chinese Cultural Revolution as a means of gaining political power and humiliating -- sometimes murdering -- one's personal enemies. Although these took place in great numbers all over China, all with the goal of uprooting the old order and replacing it with a new, purified socialism; in nearly every case the object achieved was petty and base. A few people were picked out to confess their crimes against the people, and the people supposed to punish the offenders.

Drat That Scaramanga!

Chapter 3: A Stunning Trap!

As his cabin rocked gently beneath him, Captain Stuart Turnips watched as "Scruffy" one of the many lovable-friendly-but indeed verminous and disease carrying-rats onboard the Blue Side of American moved closer to the cheese placed in the spring trap by his First Mate Sean Simon. One more step and the iron spring would slam shut and catch the brute. Captain Stuart Turnips wondered if a similar fate awaited him. "Am I the cheese?" He thought. He thought again "wait, that makes no sense at all. I'd be the rat and Scaramanga would be the cheese, wouldn't he be? Then who is the trap in this metaphor? He shook his head Wile E. Coyote fashion and decided to think of something else.

(These nasty beasts were not harmed in the making of this article)

As the ship rocked along as they made their way across the Indian Ocean, Captain Turnips recalled how Blue Side of American departed Walvis Bay a week later than he had planned. That extra week might make all the difference if the Monsoons hit early as they entered the South China Sea. He also took on fewer provisions than he wanted as the shipment of Chiclets and double bubble were not nearly as fresh or as plentiful as anyone would have liked. He could not take all the gum and leave the children of Walvis Bay with none. He reckoned that the extra space did give his men some additional space to practice their newfangled ka-rate moves that they were learning from a book on martial arts they borrowed from the Shelby Michigan Municipal Library. These new moves would definitely come in handy against Scaramanga's army of martial artists.

Three days out of a brief stop in Durban, South Africa, His crew cheered their re-crossing of the Equator and his "trusty shellbacks" were given a double ration of Double Bubble and chilled Kool Aide juice bags to celebrate. They knew that they were close to the end of their outbound journey.

After a week of unusually favorable winds they moved gracefully through the Java Sea and into the South China Sea. They knew that whatever horrors awaited them on Tunga Island they would at least have dry land under their feet.

Captain Stuart Turnips called his crew together for a brief pre-dawn prayer as Blue Side of American drew the last few hours away from Tunga Island. Stuart recalled the memorable words of Lord Nelson and his battle prayer before Trafalgar:

(Respect)

May the great God, whom I worship, grant to my country and for the benefit of
Europe in general, a great and glorious victory: and may no misconduct, in
any
one, tarnish it: and may humanity after victory be the predominant
feature in
the British fleet.
For myself individually, I commit my life
to Him who made
me and may His blessing light upon my endeavours for serving
my country
faithfully.
To Him I resign myself and the just cause which
is entrusted to
me to defend.
Amen. Amen. Amen.

(Tunga Island is somewhere in that red circle...can you see it?)

Just as he finished the prayer his lookout Condalezza noticed that the winds had picked up and that a large frigate-like shape had moved in between the ship and Tunga Island. Just as she shouted the warning they saw the orange burst of a salvo broadside from the mysterious ship . . . Captain Stuart had time for one thought before he drifted off into a daze of fire, shells, noise and splintering wood. .
. . maybe he was the rat after all.

The Approach to Scaramanga

(Princess Margaret, as she departed the Kensington Townhome of the Turnips)




Editor’s Note: Captain Stuart Turnips at his Father Lord Turnip Townshend’s request has travelled back to 1966 (n.b., that this is one year prior to the birth of your humble author). The young Stuart Turnips has brought his ship and crew with him for a special mission to restore the family fortune after an unfortunate gambling loss to Princess Margaret, Her Royal Highness, The Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowdon. Exactly what was being wagered by Lord Turnips and the Princess are unknown. What is known is that the humble narrator wanted to move the Blue Side of American into the story while waiting for Lord Woodpecker-Smythe to provide his side of the story or Heaven forfend, Lady Marzipan.

Chapter 1: The Plan

Captain Stuart Turnips frowned. It was part of his nature to be a worrier. As captain of the Blue Side of American he knew that the lives of his crew depended on him being a worrier. On this voyage to Tunga Island in the wine-dark waters of the South China Sea to capture Scaramanga he would need his crew to arrive sharp and ready. If the voyage took longer than the two months he and his quartermaster Luke Lowenfish had planned, he might have to seek re-provisioning in a friendly port; but to do so might tip off Scaramanga. Captain Stuart knew that Scaramanga was in league with the Chinese Communist and that they would have agents working in all the harbors in the region. Unless he chanced a stop in Sri Lanka or somewhere just on the far side of Suez he knew that he was putting his crew at risk. He knew that he hadn’t enough stores and provisions for a straight shot all the way from the West Coast of Michigan all the way to Tunga Island. His crew’s recent penchant for gumballs in particular was a resource concern. He was worrying so much that he was starting to grow whiskers.

Finally, he and his First Mate Sean Simon agreed that the best choice was to avoid Suez and go around the Cape Horn and put in for provisions in Walvis Bay – hoping that the remote Namibian (back then it was South African) port would be far enough from the watchful eyes of the inscrutable CHICOMs.

(Gum, sweet and pure.)

Captain Stuart’s only hope was that, in Walvis Bay, the Double Bubble would be fresh and that he could provide his men with Chiclets in the manner they were accustomed. He did not relish the thought of getting to the South China Sea with an angry crew coming off a sugar crash. He also feared the possibility that they would arrive too late to avoid the tropical monsoons in the Indian Ocean.

(Holy Gin and Tonics! You don't want to be sailing through the Indian Ocean in these clouds)

Chapter 2: The Approach

After three weeks at sea, the Blue Side of American settled into Walvis Bay to large crowds of adoring, Afrikaans and Xhosa -speaking tribesmen. His crew of earnest 4 and 5 year old pirates were thrilled by Walvis Bay's attractions include the artificial Bird Island-the centre of a guano collection industry, the Dune 7 sand dune, the salt works, extensive birdlife, guano museum, and Kuisebmund Stadium, home to the Namibian football team. As his men began work on provisioning the ship they discovered that Namibian gum supplies were shockingly low and that a shipment from the massive gum factories of Brazil was not expected for another week. Captain Stuart decided that crew happiness had to be paramount with the tradeoff in gum quality and freshness could be a delightful benefit of waiting.

Unfortunately, the gum shipment was delayed by dockworker strikes in South America, no doubt stirred up by Che Guevara and his band of Maoist no-goodniks. The crew of Blue Side of American began to run into trouble in Walvis Bay’s rather limited dockside nocturnal attractions. Small fights over small matters brewed up into scuffles with local gum merchants. These donnybrooks grew into major brawls and led to several of the crew being thrown into the local gaol. While in the Walvis Bay Municipal Correctional Facility under the kind attentions of the South African police, some of the crew began to share why they were in town with their fellow prisoners, who although mostly comprising local drunkards and petty criminals, also contained a fair number of “politicals” who would be sure to share this information with their masters in the COMINTERN.


(Those Dirty Communists, can't they shave even?)

Upcoming chapters:

Chapter 3: A Stunning Trap!

Chapter 4: The Reeducation of an English Gentleman

Chapter 5: Escape from an un-Peasant Purgatory

Chapter 6: General Tang Gets his Comeuppance

Welbeck Abbey
Nottinghampshire

Dearest Manon,
As promised, I am writing to assure you of my safe arrival and warm welcome at Welbeck. After the recent unfortunate events at sea, (although thoroughly a fiend, Capt. Nemo did have a bit of rakish charm & I must confess (please don't be shocked, Manon) that my pulse did quicken in his presence, however that awful Mr. Mudskipper I hope never to lay eyes on again!) I am so very grateful to be embraced in this calm oasis of gentility and charm - it shall be my temporary refuge from the horrors that the world can spring so unexpectedly upon a lady! The house is well appointed and William has provided me with a most agreeable chambermaid, so you see how foolish it was of me to worry that Mathilde could not make the trip as well. The grounds are lovely (as that horrible Mrs. Sproggin has said time and again) I do believe she is trying to make a match between her niece and William, one that I hope shall never come to be. She is far too garish a girl for a man of his position, don't you think? As I was saying, the grounds are lovely and I do look forward to strolling them with my beloved W-S, speaking of whom, has not yet arrived. I had not heard how he was traveling, but I understand that rail travel from his estate can be most vexing. Shortly after breakfast this morning William had a most exasperating visitor, a rather Teutonic fellow by the comical name of Otto. He claimed to be a prince, but I, for one, did not believe that for a moment. When I say he was exasperating, I mean that as soon as he arrived all thoughts of our lovely plans for the day were pushed aside so that he might be accommodated. He and William were closed up in the library for what must have been hours, conferencing about who knows what! Oh, and we did have such lovely plans! An outing to a very important historical site - a church, or abandoned well, or something or other - had been arranged, complete with picnicking and word games, a most jolly time! But all was washed away like footprints on the strand upon the arrival of "prince" Otto. Still all is not lost. We are a cheerful group and will find other amusements now that he has left (William has invited a frightful old adventurer who tells the most unbelievable tales of his years in the colonies, not one of which could be true, still he is most amusing, and I think he would enjoy the company of dear Mrs. Weston-Thumpe who, as you know, has been so very lonely since her son married). Apparently he (pr. Otto, not the adventurer) had an important engagement to buy candy with an old military chum of his, and I say "well and good" to that! Although, one would think that marzipan could be had in any village confectionery throughout the empire. There remains one small cloud on my horizon. W-S still has not arrived, although I am sure that he is merely delayed and will arrive in time for tonight's pianoforte concert. Why, I, myself, had quite a tempestuous trip hence! The train was stopped for a time on more than one occasion. Rumor (heard from a rather dowdy leader of a group of Girl Guides scurrying through the cars - she really was quite a sight, Manon, with her drab uniform, including pith helmet and bloomers! an article of apparel of which I most strongly do not approve) was that some gentleman had been the victim of foul play. All that was discovered of him was a smashed squash racquet. Well, must dash off - luncheon is being served on the terrace quite soon, and I must admit that the wonderful country air has given me a ravenous appetite.
Much love,
LLW

Deadly Scaramanga

Lord Turnip Townshend pointed to a small island on the chart. “If Scaramanga is anywhere, he’s here on Tunga Island. This island is where he maintains his private army of martial artists and where he’s conducting solar energy experiments under the protection of the Chinese People's Democratic Republic. “

“Solar energy? I’ve heard you mention that before. What is that?” asked young Captain Stuart Townshend, aka Young Turnips.

“Quite simply it’s the power of Old Sol absorbed and refocused so that it can be directed in a concentrated beam of pure energy. It would be like using a magnifying glass on an ant.”

“W-w-wa-wha!?” Young Turnips interrupted.

“. . .a magnifying glass that you would use to burn ants…has nobody taught you this?”

Young Turnips considered the possibilities. No, he had never considered the potential fun of burning ants with a magnifying glass. He stroked his chin and thought silently ‘I’ll have to try that one when I get done talking to Father.’

“So anyway you were saying about the island and the secret solar power experiments and the army of martial artists. Doesn’t Scaramanga care that he’s living in a cliché? Wasn't that part of the plot of Enter the Dragon and the spoof in Kentucky Fried Movie?"










(Scaramanga's army of martial artists, Scaramanga, and his helper Nick Nack)

Lord Turnips waited for his boy to finish. “Francisco Scaramanga is the single deadliest shot in the World. He charges over a million pounds sterling for each kill and Her Majesty’s Government has put a bounty on his head of fifteen million pounds. If you could bring his head and the slightly smaller head of his assistant Nick Nack, you could do quite a bit to redress this family’s balance of payments. We could afford to purchase deck armor for your ship Blue Side of American." He paused . . . “and it would do you a bit of good to get out and get some sunshine and fresh air.”

“and there is one more thing.”

“What else?” asked Young Turnips.

“Scaramanga may know the location of Prince Otto and Lady Marzipan. They were both recently seen near Tunga Island. Or at least we have a report that the two of them were comrades of the People’s Liberation Army’s 41st Army Group commander Lieutenant General Wango Tang and were with him in his box during a recent parade."

"How do we know it is them" asked young Turnip.

"Well we know that the Prince is there because the picklehaub is very much out of place in that setting. He's also shooting 50-60 peasants a day. Apparently, the entire country is rife with them."

"also, we have reports that Lady Marzipan has taken to wearing those very tight Chinese silk dresses with the slit up the leg and has her hair done up in a very elaborate fashion. She’s also wearing an inordinate amount of makeup and impossibly high heels.” As he spoke Lord Turnips voice trailed off and he looked off in the distance.

(Maybe Lady Marzipan was wearing something like this, and Prince Otto was wearing one of these? Maybe General Tang looked like this?)

Young Turnips interrupted: “ I wonder if she’s trying to seduce General Tang?”

Lord Turnips muttered to himself. “You don’t know about melting ants but you know about that? I have got to cancel that Cinemax." He turned to his young son " They were also seen in the company of a man dressed as we are: in the garb of the late 19th century."

"Could Woodpecker-Smythe be with them?" asked young Turnips.

"He could well indeed be."

With that, Young Turnips got up and stood up with his chest thrust out and legs splayed and his arms akimbo. "I'll find old W-S if it costs me every man in my crew! And I'll catch that rat Scaramanga and eliminate his army of martial artists and get that rascal Nick Nack too!"

. . . and then he turned to his father Lord Turnips and his voice got softer "Daddy, if I can sail into Chinese waters, capture Scaramanga, rescue Lord Woodpecker-Smythe from Lady Marzipan and Prince Otto, and recover the Q device . . . can I get a toy from the toy store?"

With that Lord Turnips tusselled the young lad's hair and said "we'll see, Son" in a manner that suggested that he could probably get a couple toys.

All Hail the Glorious People's Revolution!

The Brigadier stood at his entryway and watched Prince Otto’s carriage depart. The crisp early morning temperature had frosted the estate’s luxurious green sward, but the Brigadier betrayed no sign of discomfiture, or any sign of emotion whatsoever. As the Prince’s carriage rounded the bend, past rows of Italian poplar trees and prize winning hedges, Lord Townshead emerged from a nearby side hatch. The Brigadier began to grin.

“Why the happy face, Ambrose?” asked his turnip enthusiast friend, “and why on earth did you let that miscreant go? I would have run him through, or at least press ganged him onto my son’s pirate ship.” “It’s all part of a clever ruse, dear friend,” intoned the Brigadier. “Come inside, and I’ll explain it all over breakfast.”

And explain he did. As the Brigadier knew that no amount of torture could persuade Prince Otto to divulge the whereabouts of Lady Marzipan and her accursed Q-Device, the most logical course was to devise a way to make the she-devil come to him. Lord Townshead, after swallowing a bite of the delicious Monte Cristo being served for breakfast, said “But what about Otto? Won’t he and, by extension, Lady Marzipan, now know the whereabouts of the Ur-Gin?”

The Brigadier smiled confidently and tossed a small bit of his delicious Monte Cristo to his pet Corgi, Cerberus. “Oh, the Ur-Gin is quite safe here, old friend. My Pan-Dimensional Force Shield (PDFS) is quite unassailable and can only be deactivated by my own touch. But this also presents a problem. While my hands are needed to deactivate the field, they don’t necessarily have to be attached to my body to do it. So I must be proactive, and draw Marzipan to a place of my own choosing. And this I have done, I believe. Come into my study and I will show you.”

Upon entering the study, dominated of course by the magnificent armoire containing the Ur-Gin, the Brigadier explained his Ruse. “You see, as I ‘gloated’ in front of Prince Otto, I explained to him the story of the creation of the Ur-Gin in ancient Xanadu and how Chinese philosopher and strategist Sun Tzu led an expedition into the heart of Central Asia to recover the alcoholic talisman.”

Lord Townshead’s eyes lit up. “I see, I see. You gave Otto a point in time and geographical location that an unprotected Ur-Gin could be found. Marzipan will be drawn to it like a magnet!” “Precisely,” responded the Brigadier. “And I have conveniently arranged for an Asiatic Horde to be waiting for her when she arrives in 7th century BC China."

Townshead smilles, "You sly dog. You've done it again!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Lord Woodpecker-Smythe had a problem. He was sitting comfortably, and unfettered, on a sofa in a living room in Eastern Michigan sipping a Gin and Tonic and watching something called TV. But he was still a prisoner. Oh yes, he could come and go as he pleased, as long as he took his shoes off after entering the house, but he could not escape. He could not escape back to his own time. Marzipan has imprisoned him in the year 2008. She was a pleasant enough jailer, to be sure, if one forgave her quick temper and homicidal nature, but she was his jailer nonetheless.

On this particular evening Smythe was watching something called “Starship Troopers” on the “TV.” It was a fascinating story about how a group of fantastically good looking people saved the planet from some giant bugs. It was a story worthy of the Bard.

A loud buzzing sound started coming from Marzipan’s study, where she was engaged in something called “The Internet.” It was the blasted Q-Device with another message from one of her minions, no doubt. W-S soon heard gleeful chortling coming from the room. “I’ve got him! I’ve got him! Oh, well done Otto. You shall serve at my right hand.” Lady Marzipan came into the living room. “Put your shoes on professor, we’re going on a trip! Come on, chop, chop.” “And just where are we going this time,” quizzed W-S. “China, circa 7th century BC. I’ve got a date with Sun Tzu.”

“But I so detest the Chinaman’s cuisine, my dear,” started Woodpecker-Smythe. Marzipan didn’t care. “Shut up. I’ll need your considerable language skills to make my way amongst these barbarians.” Lady Marzipan began manipulating the Q-Device.

As the room began to spin, and the familiar blackness started to overtake him, Woodpecker-Smythe could have sworn he heard “Oh crap, forgot to carry the 9. 1966? We’re so screwed…”

A Battle of Wits!

The Brigadier crisply rotated about in his executive leather swiveling office chair to face his curiously attired guest, Prince Otto (depicted to the right).

“Aren’t you wondering why I invited you to my study, Prince Otto, hmmmmmmmmmm?” declared the Brigadier, turning his gaze to the large glass armoire set in the middle of the room further surrounded by a velvet rope.

The Prince replied, “Of course, however, with your leave, please allow to change, my outfit is, how do you say, anachronistic, if I do recall my English.”

“Naturally, you may use my executive washroom and …” but the Brigadier did not finish his sentence for his mouth stood agape as the Prince quickly emerged dressed in the standard fashion of the era .. for Krauts.

“Ah, much better, now, please .. Herr Brigadier, do continue and tell me of your bottle, yes, the one in the armoire - the bottle of gin older and finer zan any ozer bottle, scented with juniper berries and sloe harvested from the Hanging Gardens; the water, if I recall, collected from the Sacred River Alph …am I correct?” the Prince added with a satisfied prussian smirk.

The Brigadier surveyed his guest with a mixture of contempt and admiration, contempt for his fashion sense and admiration for his intellect. This Prince was no ordinary half-wit teutonic monarch as is often depicted in the stereo-opticons.

“You are, of course, quite correct Prince Otto" the Brigadier noted, "This gin is quite precious, in fact it is the ‘Ur-Gin’ or ‘original gin’ produced in the dawns of time” steepling his fingers for extra dramatic effect.

The Brigadier continued, unrestrained glee clear even through the normally impassive, humorless German facade, “Yes, many have lusted for it but it is my gin but none shall have it for it is mine and mine alone – how I gained it is my secret but it is well guarded by a contraption that recognizes only my touch and will transport any other user into another dimension of space and time.”

Prince Otto was non-plussed and attempted to humor his host. “But, naturally, I have no interest in stealing your gin, you had invited me here for a fox hunt.”

“Perhaps, perhaps” mused the bemused Brigadier, “But there is one individual who now possesses the capability to seize my most prized possession unless I exercise the utmost vigilance. “

“Bah, zat is ridiculous, only operator of a Q-Device could hope to defeat your fiendish traps and guards,” chortled the very ever so slightly discomfitted Prince.

The Brigaider interrupted. “Ah yes, and it has come to my attention that a certain Lady Marzipan - I believe you are familiar with her ‘work’ - has just bamboozled the Royal Society out of said device. And, she now has a confederate, someone using the pseudonym ‘Beabout’ claiming to be a farmer but yet a deadly shot with a pistol. I don’t suppose you might know anything about this my dear Prince ---- would you now?”

Through the picture window, the evening sun collapsed behind the Brigadier’s magnificent hedgerow. The Prince stared away. The Brigaider rose, an unlit cigarrette tucked between index and forefinger.

Poetry Corner - Ode to Green Plumbing

You may talk o' gin and beer

When you're quartered safe in 'ere,

An' you're sent to penny-fights in the guvment;

But when it comes to urinatin’

You will do your business without water,

An' you'll lick the boots of the man who fixes the johnny.

Now in Northern Virginia's sunny clime,

Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the President,

Of all them blue shirted crew

The finest man I knew

Was our regimental Sloan waterfree flushless urinal repairman,

Sloan Valve Company Man.

He was "Sloan! Sloan! Sloan!

You limpin' lump o' brick-dust,

Sloan Valve Company Man!

Hi! slippery hitherao!

Urinal repair, get it!

Panee lao!

You squidgy-nosed old idol,

Sloan Valve Company Man.

"Thank the maker for your 2" drainline, which eliminates water and sewage costs and
helps reduce maintenance expenses.

'E carried me away

To where a dooli lay,

An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.

'E put me safe inside,

An' just before 'e died,

"I 'ope you liked your urination", sez Sloan Valve Company Man.

So I'll meet 'im later on

At the place where 'e is gone --Where it's always double drill and no canteen;

'E'll be squattin' on the coals

Givin' urination relief to poor damned souls,

An' I'll get to salute you in hell Sloan Valve Company Man!

Yes, Sloan! Sloan! Sloan!

You Lazarushian-leather Sloan Valve Company Man!

Though I've belted you and flayed you,

By the livin' Gawd that made you,

You're a better man than I am, Sloan !

Rudyard Kipling 1892

Poetry Corner notes: At my new office we have these delightful green technology urinals that promise to be flushless and waterless. Fantastic! Except there is a reason why in the relatively well-Irrigated eastern United States we don't have to have foul smelling bathrooms. These smells are the work of these brand new Sloan flushfree water free urinals.

Testimonials! What other Famous Writers, Magazines, Auteurs and Fitness Celebrities are saying about Barrister's Keepe!

Rest assured gentle reader, for you have reached Barrister's Keepe which has been endorsed by the following luminaries of the literate world!


Oh, music is the meat of all who love, Music uplifts the soul to realms above. The ashes glow, the latent fires increase: We listen and are fed with joy and peace. Barrister's Keepe Rocks!

Rumi, Sufi Poet, 1265AD





I read the latest fantastic installment in the Brigadier's Fox Hunt Series and clamped my hands to my ears with unrestrained glee - I was a ridiculous hairy creature filled with less than remorse - it was a stab at the apocalyptic

Grendel, Monster, A long time ago

Stuart Turnip's tales of piracy give me the giggles and the lusty adventures of Lady Marzipan inspire all of my latest fitness routines.

John Basdow, Fitness Celebrity, 2008

Barrister's Keepe is highly accurate in two respects - first it is a keepe and there are indeed barristers. I think Woodpecker-Smythe is also probably the most heroic writer since Pat Conroy, his word leaves me wanting for more.

J. Bocking, Esq, Barrister, 1999

Turnips sits with his biscuit tin, coffee and tobacco. Presently the overcast burns off. He chases a large rat through the sewers of Valletta. Who is the enigmatic "V" - that is not for you to know.

Thomas Pynchon, Author, 1969


Four icons of a turid male organ!

Hustler, 1975




It is important. You gotta win if you want to keep driving, and that's what I want to do. It's the only thing I really know how to do besides read Barrister's Keepe.
Speed Racer, Race Car Driver!, 2008







Er war Superstar, Er war populär Er war so exaltiert, Because er hatte Flair
(word for word English translation below)

(Woodpecker-Smythe) was a superstar, brilliant writer and should have won the Nobel Prize for Clever Writing by Half in 2008. He was robbed.

Falco, Austro-Teutonic Rocker, 1980-something



Barrister's Keepe produces hearty, hand-crafted fiction reminiscent of items that are similarly hand crafted such as delicious gooseberry jams and some types of furniture and not igneous rocks.

Sir Charles Lyell, eminent geologist and 1st Baronet of someplace in Scotland, 1867

An Amazing Bootstraps Story!

Whilst watching the Ice Hockey matches last night, Lord Turnips sought a picture of Strother Martin screaming "Your Losing!!!" from the movie Slap Shot and instead found this amazing story.

Ogie Ogilthorpe (Ned Dowd)When scribe Nancy Dowd wrote the script, it was acknowledged that the Johnstown Jets of the North American Hockey League inspired her. And since her brother Ned played for the team in '74, he was a natural choice for a stunt coordinator and player. Hence the fearsome 'Ogie' was borne.
The gig was the first of only a few screen roles for Ned. He did, however, get the knack behind cameras. A few parts in the early 80s, in 'Popeye' and '48hrs' among others, quickly lead him to climb the production ladder, from Assistant Director, to Head to Production, to producer and now Executive Producer. Among his resume are 'Powder', 'Wonder Boys', 'Reign Of Fire' and the recent 'King Arthur'. He is now 54.

Ogie Ogilthorpe is the greatest goon character in any movie made in the 1970s about Hockey...EVER! That guy became an executive producer?! Amazing. Unless, that was just acting.

[Ok, everyone who has never seen Slap Shot or doesn't care about hockey can wake up now. ]

Jokes that Turnips doesn't get

Lord Turnips was asked by his avatar to post this bit of "comedy"


199382. If we nuke by IrishTommy, 5/14/08 13:36 ET

If we Nuke india and china will gas prices go down? If so lets do it.


199382.1. only by maybin25, 5/14/08 13:38 ET Re: If we nuke by IrishTommy, 5/14/08

ONLY if you rotate them halfway through, take off the plastic covering and stir, then set power to half

Back To Port Aboard the Aquafina

Squadron Commander, Commodore Thorton Pickle, of the Newport-on-the James Pickle’s, sullenly surveyed the roiling seas. It was his birthday.

“All hands report to the Don Pickle’s wardroom for the gala celebration” announced the disembodied voice over the ship’s primitive intercom (the crew of the Royal Bark HMS Aquafina was crewed by an entirely Portugese crew.)

Today was the Commodore’s thirty-sixth birthday and as he did every year, he directed his crew to don party hats (this year’s theme was the Tarts and Vicars, last year’s was Brothels of Hong Kong) and celebrate with cake, ice cream and gin & tonics. The stateroom was gaily decorated with Japanese paper lanterns of various hues and in the center, depending from the ceiling was a large piñata formed in the shape of the that utter boob and all around chowderhead, Woodpecker-Smythe. Last year, it was Rossaroni and the year before,Turnips Townshead.

The place of honour was occupied by the Commodore’s cat, Mr. Bonkers, with Rodrigo sitting to the left and Axel Firewall to the right. Leonid Sunshine, ship’s engineer, rolled the cake tray into the wardroom. However, just as he was to announce his toast (my dearest etc, etc, etc,) the door burst open and a pimply faced lad of no more than 14 dashed in, breathlessly announcing

“Don El Capitan Pickles, scuze, this message ees for you Senor, eeet just arrived via aldis lamp”

“Ah, what did you just say? Did you just interrupt my toast for which I have been practicing since month???” These words passed through Pickle’s gritted teeth at a temperature approaching Zero on the Kelvin scale.

“Here’s the message Senor”

Pickles studied the message. There scrawled in the nearly illegible, semi-drunken hand of a certain well known, gunslinger for hire, were the following words:

“Hey, Pickle’s, guess what? I know you haven’t heard from me in a while but I’m headed back to England – seems that sausage sucking kraut, Prince Otto is interested in my special “services. I was wondering I if could call in that favor you owe me. See you Tuesday. Signed, your pal, Johnny 6-Guns”

“Tuesday .. a favor!” the Commodore sputtered, incredulously, “the last visit with Mr. Sixguns resulted in the destruction of the port of Mombasa, the fall of the Hapsburgs and my being banned from the Naughty Hellfire Club for a month. Do you all recall that??”

Everyone nodded. Leonid looked particularly unhappy while Mr. Bonkers impassive snarl remained unchanged.

At this point Pickles launched into the following diatribe:

“You know what’s going on don’t you? … he’s coming back here to conspire with that tart, Lady Marzipan. I have it on good word that she’s recently bamboozled the royal society disguised as a scientist. I don’t know what they’re after but its probably something along the lines of world domination or world domination of gin and tonic. And that my fellows, is something we, as British gentlemen, cannot allow! Lads, there’s dirty work afoot.”

“Well, not this time!” Verde added with a ring of finality, “Rodrigo, please get my revolver, set the time portal to 1986, adjust the low-frequency sono-temporal antenna to "FALCO" and take us back to port!”

Pickles took a swing at the Woodpecker-Smythe piñata, missing it by a mile but connecting easily with Rodrigo’s head who in turn collapsed into the multi-tiered birthday cake.

A hiss of exhaled air passed Pickle’s lips with just a hint of quiet desperation.

Turnips Rates the American Candidates

Ahoy oy. Lord Turnips here to rate the political candidates for election to the Throne of America. As I understand it there are a couple of folks running.

This guy: Possibly the decendent of East African Shaykhdom but according to Turnips research, Mother's side was bomb throwing anarchists. So he's some odd mix of stuff. He'll probably suffer from an identity crisis like the character Spock from the TV show (n.b., his ears). Like Spock, He'd be in constant turmoil.

This guy: As I understand it this is a woman running to be King. We British have plenty of experience with female leadership. From the reign of good Queen Bess in the 16th Century, to Queen Anne when we really started to smash the Frogs (and the Scotts) all the way up to the reign of our dear glorious Victoria. Later, I understand that two Queens dominated the 20th Century: Queen Maggie [Thatcher] who told the rabblerousing Reds and those Wogs in Argentina to stick it, and a second Queen Elizabeth who apparently, enjoyed reading something called tabloids. Anyway. We British have proven it can be done and done well. So, does that argue for this sandwich-gobbling, beer-swigging, shot-quaffing roughneck? Hardly. As I understand it her people were coal miners from Pennsylvannia. So she lacks the grace to rule anything more than a beerhall drinking contest. I also understand there is some concern that her husband once was an elected official during the later 20th Century so she may not even be eligible to be King/Queen or whatever.

This guy: As I understand it this chap was once a prisoner of a people known as the Vietnamese. Now, that isn't something I'd be proud of. These Vietnamese are so primative that they call their missiles "fire arrows" and their data processing machines "Apples." So this guy has already got a couple strikes against him. As far as Lord Turnips understands he comes from a US Naval family. Well. I suppose that is fine, and all, but we Brits have a tradition of keeping the sea going types away from the throne. We had to put Sir Walter Raleigh in his place in the Tower of London when he got a bit too close to Queen Bess. These nautical types are just a bit too rough around the edges to rule properly. He has a lot in common with the chap in the pant suit actually. Maybe those two should get married. In any event I understand it he's not even much liked by the American version of the Tory party so he's going to have a rough go of it.

LATE BREAKING: Turnips here has remembered some additional information about this guy. It turns out he's Scots Irish via Appalachia. Holy mother of Dewars, Jamison, and Bushmills you'd have fist fights in the throne room from all the drunken relatives he'd have. They'd have to build a porch on the White House just so they could pee off it.

Frankly, I don't see this election going well for the Colonies. Too bad they couldn't re-elect that dashing young man from the Quaker family who stood up to the evil CIA director so well in this scene.

Shut up and hold this Gin and Tonic!

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

Consciousness was slowly returning to Lord Woodpecker-Smythe. A little too slowly for his liking, because he really wanted to know what the infernal thumping was and whether it represented anything dangerous. Since the last thing he remembered was the image of a resolute Lady Marzipan activating something suspiciously like a Q-device, he could be waking up just about anywhere, and anywhen. Could it be a herd of Elephants charging down on him, just like those crazy Africa stories that Brigadier Rossaroni is always telling? Well, thought W-S, let's open our eyes and see what's going on. Blur. Wait, more's coming in... blurry movement. That's not much help. Oh wait, it's not blurry any more, it's some sort of shiny, spinning globe on the ceiling that's reflecting light off of it.

"Hey, dummkopf! Get off the floor. This is a disco, not a peasant flop-house," yelled a passerby in German, to the amusement of his entourage.

So, W-S was in a disco, whatever that was. He noticed that the inhabitants of this room, far from being annoyed with the unending thumping and blinding lights, seemed to be actually enjoying themselves. His reverie was cut short, however, when something grabbed his elbow.

"Come on, professor. I don't have all day," spoke an agitated Lady Marzipan, pulling W-S towards the bar.

Ah, the bar. Now there was something he could identify with. He might not know where he was, or when he was, but he knew he needed a drink. But first, what is going on? He started to ask, "I say, Lady M, what's all this strange..." but Marzipan cut him off. "Look, Lord Whatever-your-name-is, I don't have a lot of time, and I don't speak these savages gutter tongue, so I need you to do exactly what I say RIGHT NOW. Buy me a Gin and Tonic, here's some money."

Lord Woodpecker-Smythe was understandibly confused, and just stared at her with a certain kind of slackness to his jaw. "Do it now, your Lordship! Do you think the only dangerous machine I have with me is a Q-Device?" said Lady M as she briefly opened her Jay Herbert purse, made from off-white supple calfskin leather, with a gold shoulder strap and pearl embossed clasp, which went quite nicely with her total ensemble, to show a rather dangerous looking pistol.

W-S did as he was told and handed the drink to Lady M. She took a sip of it. "Blast! This one isn't even close. Clauswitz must have been lying. Damn, I wish I hadn't sent him back to his own time already. But he was nothing but trouble from the moment I kidnapped him in 1829. And all he did at my appartment was watch stupid sci-fi movies on tv all day when he should have been helping me search for gin. Hey, Lord Woodpicker, find out what kind of gin this drink has in it." W-S was not paying attention though, as he was busily enagaged in drinking his own Gin and Tonic (which tasted fine to him) and chatting up some local gal named Sabina, or something like that.

Lady M was agitated again. "Get your limey arse over here!" she bellowed to the oblivious W-S. "Yah, meine schöne junge Frau, I will get over there," said a young patron who came up to Lady M, not knowing what extreme danger he was in. "Would you like me to buy you a drink?" he said, in a deep baritone. "Or maybe we could just dance and then talk about our innermost feelings. Ooh, Big Country is playing. I love that group. They're Scottish, you know." Lady M, who had been reaching into her purse for something, suddenly had a very heartfelt expression on her face. "No," she said, seemingly struggling with something. "Must... focus on the mission." And then the look was gone, and her visage went back to 'Steely Determination.' "Beat it Fritz," she said. She then let out a long sigh and then grabed W-S. "Didn't you hear me, doc?" Lord Woodpecker replied, "Oh terribly sorry, my dear. I thought you were monologuing, and I figured I had a bit of time to get to know young Sabina here... oh drat, she's gone off. Oh well, c'est la vie. And don't mention this to Lady Lime Wedge either, eh. Wink, wink, and all that."

"Shut up and hold this Gin and Tonic," was all the assurance W-S received from Lady Marzipan, as she started operating controls on the Q-Device. "What was the brand of Gin in this drink?" she asked. "Why, it most certainly was Schlichte Steinhager. Not my favorite though, mind you. I prefer Cadenhead's Old Raj Gin myself," said W-S as the room started to spin in the increasingly all too familiar Q-Device time travelling style.

Not Again!

Following the telling of my marvelous tale, I leaned back in my seat expecting great applause and thank you's from my fellow travellers, however, I heard only what sounded like a pot lid slowly spinning on the stove top.

"Hmm, that's curious" I thought.

So did the Rakshasa hunter and his young apprentice evidently, as both stood leveling twin, ivory filigreed crossbows directly at me!

Most inconveniently, Sir Edbert chose this moment to begin bellowing at the top of his lungs something about Neptune being in the house of Mercury whilst dramatically raising his right arm and pointing directly at me.

Naturally, this alarmed me since it is well known that Neptune is the most cretinous and thieving of all planets.

More troubling though, even the girl guides looked a bit, should I say, perturbed. Each was reaching into her standard issue Girl Guide pouch to retrieve what looked like an assortment of implements such as wooden stakes, various holy symbols, vials and bunches of herbs.

I put my palms together and addressed the gathering crowd, "I say chaps, you must have me confused with someone else - I hope you didn't take my little 'drama' that seriously!"

I didn't seem to be winning over my fellows.

"Look, everyone, please be calm, we have had a couple of absolutely dreadful accidents but this is nothing to alarmed about, I am a gentleman after all!" I added hastily.

The remainder of my speech was interrupted by two sharp, familiar clicks and the sight of the associated crossbow bolts headed straight toward me.

My public school training assured me trouble was afoot as I expected the bolts to strike their target at any moment.

However, rather than striking my vitals both bolts splintered just prior to impact. In addition to relief I also detected the odor of gunpowder and turned to see Mr. Beabout, the farmer, with two shiny six-guns drawn, smoke exuding from the barrels.

"Huzzah, Excellent shot, I say, Beabout" I exclaimed to the assembled passengers "did you all see that? Simply amazing."

"Everybody freeze" drawled Beabout, I'm expectin' a visitor in a couple o' seconds, so ya'll jes relax and calm down.

That funny lid spinning noise grew louder as Beabout moved forward in the car. This peculiar noise was accompanied by flashing multi-colored lights and thereafter by the appearance, in a cloud of dry ice smoke, of a fantastically attired young woman holding a highly complex, whirring quasi-mechanical device.

"Hiya Lady Marzipan" said Beabout non-chalantly.

"Hiya Johnny Six-Guns, long-time no-see" replied Lady Marzipan.

"Is that a Q-Device in your hands?" I interjected being most curious.

I received no answer to my query, "Bonk" being the next sound I heard followed by a "Clunk" as I hit the floor,once again slipping into blissful unconsciousness as the scenery whirled about me .

As usual time travel seemed to be in the offing, I could only hope that I wouldn't be required to dance (pronounced 'daaanse' in this instance) for my captors.

The 5 Things That Future American Women are Looking For (in 1989)

Lord Turnips here again. It seems that the wayback machine has me stuck in Western Germany between 1988 and 1990. Outrageous fabrics and hairstyles appear to be the order of the day. I've been visiting the local public houses in the Rhine and Nahe river valleys where it appears that the young ladies are all named Zabena or Sabrina or Katrina. (The latter seemed to have a crew of young men clad in full length wool coats with her whom she referred to as "the Waves").

Anyway, I learned something from these ladies that I'd like to share with you. Well, not these ladies. In fact I learned something from the young ladies who were visiting fair Germany from the North American colonies in something called the Air Force militia. (There is that Air Force militia again. You may recall that from an earlier note).

• American women want a man with a deep voice
• American women want a man who is in touch with his feelings
• American women want a man who can dance
• American women want a man who is comfortable in all settings
• American women want a man who can get them drinks

It appears they are looking for this guy