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

Best Discos in Berlin

Berghain (Am Wriezener Bahnhof, Berlin, Germany 10243)
The dangerously hip come here to see-and-be-seen. Installed in a renovated old power station, Berghain looks unassuming enough on the outside, but within you'll find an impressive venue packed with the beautiful people of Berlin sweating it out to hard techno and electro. Getting past the doorman here may be akin to customs in LA, so leave the attitude at home. With the beats continuing right through to Sunday afternoons, this is a club for punters with stamina. U-BAHN: Ostbahnhof

Connection Disco (Fuggerstrasse 33, Berlin, Germany 10777 · +49-(0)-30-2181-432)

Attracting the gamut from baby boomers to teens, this two-story dance club offers casual ambience. With an alternative crowd of gay men, there are lots of jeans with leather, and mellow techno tunes. U-BAHN: Wittenberg

Havanna (Hauptstrasse 30, Berlin, Germany 10827 · +49-(0)-30-7848-565)

Berlin's colorful Latin community shares its rich dance and musical heritage at this popular nightclub, located near the post office on Hauptstrasse. Tropical decor, live salsa and merengue pulsating from the sound system, and a youthful clientele eager to show off their best footwork and most stylish duds all combine to make the club's three dance floors among Berlin's hottest spots once the sun goes down. An hour prior to opening, dance classes are offered to novices. U-BAHN: Rathaus Schöneberg or Eisenracher Strasse

Kit Kat Klub (Köpenicker Strasse 76, Berlin, Germany 10179 · +49-(0)-30-278-983-0)

Behind the doors of the notorious Kit Kat Klub, painted ladies (and painted gentlemen) sing and dance as though life in 1930's Berlin were an endless party. But outside those doors, Nazis are marching in the streets, and the stage is being set for the horrors of the Third Reich. U-BAHN: Heinrich-Heine-Str.

Another trip through the looking glass

Turnips here again. I went through the magical portal to check out cricket scores and to see the world of the distant future. Still haven't found anything too interesting but I did find myself on the corner of The Strand and Regent Street and found a gigantic statue to that old rascal Captain Nelson that apparently had been erected at some point after he thrashed some Frenchies and some Spanish Dons. I understand they call him Lord Nelson in the future. Apparently the place was called Trafalgar Square, which was odd as it was really a sort of roadway circle. Anyway, as I was dressed in my normal attire I was amused when some strange looking folks pointed at me in my 18th century garb and called me "eurotrash." I went into the nearby Waterstone's bookstore and asked if they had a copy of Doctor Johnson's book. The helpful clark directed me to a section of what are known in the future as dictionaries and I looked it up.

Euro Trash

From the Urban Dictonary circa The Year of Our Lord 2008

A mildly derisive term used by North Americans. Refers to Europeans who: speak broken English, wear gaudy clothing that is probably fashionable where they come from, but isn’t here; wear a severe amount of cologne and always dress like they are about to go to nightclub (even in the middle of the day); wear lots of inappropriate leather (especially leather pants), listen to bad electronic music, and rock lots of ugly-metallic jewelry. This term is usually only applied to dudes, because foreign chicks can have off style and still be hot.

I wonder if perhaps there is a Barrister's Keepe in this future that caters to "Euro Trash" like us?