The Battle of the Penny-Farthing and the Muttonchop Fajita

Post CXX

Here’s the story of a jetpack, 1939 and moo.

Sprinkles the horse mooed quietly under the moonlight, eating grass with one eye on her confused reflection. Whilst inside the neighbouring home, I brushed my muttonchops and donned my old velvet waistcoat, pocket-watch firmly grasped on a snag over my left nipple. The ol’ radiola was bursting at the seams to the tune of Glen Miller’s ‘In the Mood’ as I foxtrotted under the darkened tones of the gaslit room. It was 1939, the fire was burning, smoke filled the air above the chimneypot, and poor teapot management had caused my teapot to explode, causing poor frightened Sprinkles to think she was a cow.

She was my most special prized asset. I regularly had to fend off horse thieves, although, as I’m sure you know, that was not the official term for horse thieves. The official term was ‘bastards’. Why, how ever did a kindly young gentle-fellow such as myself fend off such hoodlums? I music them into submission. An angry dance, feet stomping and a blast of ‘Greensleves’ on my precious lute usually did the trick. It was remarkable I had to have the lute surgically removed on only seven occasions.

Sprinkles was my bestest pal in the whole wide world. I always said I’d name a horse that if I bought one. I did give it some serious consideration when it actually happened, primarily because I didn’t buy her. I stole her. There was a riot of some sort. Most people looted televisions but I decided to loot a horse. I thought it would look nice alongside the house that time forgot with all my other antiquated crap.

I was never one to join the liberal army. They acted so fancy with their penny-farthings, pretending they were cool riding down the old cobbled streets as if they were the Lord’s gift to maidens. I tell you what, those women would be bitterly disappointed with those ‘rock stars’, so called because the made star shapes out of rocks. After a ride over cobbles on one of those contraptions, I’m fairly sure you’d be impotent. Those rapscallions. One day they’ll wake up and won’t realize what hit them. What hit them will be a metal pole I flung at that huge front wheel, rendering the rider unconscious.

It’s uncool to be left behind but it’s uncool to try to be cool to fit in with the cool crowd who hate you for not being cool and who hate you for trying to be cool. I’m wrapped up inside a blanket of coolness, which is, ironically, rather toasty. I like the love of a good blanket like a cardboard box maker likes the love of a good pickle.

Oh, it was no use. Where was the jetpack? “Ooh look, Master Alan has acquired one of those fancy-dancy flying mechanisms – oh Constance, there may yet well be a way out of your arranged marriage”, said an onlooker. “Erm, okay, Cornelius, what do I do?” I said, far away. Cornelius answered, “For the love of Martha, my half-witch, half-werewolf, half-Welsh wife, a magnificent one and one half woman’s worth of woman in one woman, don’t press that button!” “What? This one?” I suddenly shot up into the air.

The twenty seconds of upward flight allowed me to enjoy much of the landscape. Luckily, I landed in Rosemary’s undergarment store, the curiously named Rosemary’s World of Leather and Fajitas. I think she was branching out into kinky knitwear. But she had always loved fajitas. It was unfortunate I landed in Rosemary’s actual undergarments. By law, we were practically married. Constance wasn’t best pleased. She was hurt. She’d heard impressive things about my handmade sock-garters.

This is me.

I suppose my point is that when one is of an old-fashioned nature, one isn’t best suited to a modern world. Perhaps I’m wrong. So bombarded am I by technology that maybe I should just give in.

This is my predicament.

I was on a train this week, no longer a grand old machine of fine British engineering and steam, departing from a beautiful old Victorian station. No, the German’s made sure of that. Not much of the original station left. Just tracks and an overly playful bomb puppy that kept sniffing my knees then paying with his ball. Oh good, I thought. How terrified must terrorists be when they see a playful puppy rush over, sniff their knees and then immediately run off to play with a ball. I’d be okay if it wasn’t for the fact it was the only dog of its kind at the station. Basically, you’d have more luck if you threw your shoe at the terrorists.

Of course, the upside was that the dilapidated 1960s train carriage with zero legroom, uncomfortable worn cotton seats and curious panting noises from a tiny indoor disease ridden restroom, hardly spoilt the view of the lush English countryside obscured by a sea fret. Perhaps there was room for little old me in this little old world. Then again, after the train journey, I did spend the afternoon 20-yards away from a 22-yard diameter, three-dimensional cinema screen for 95 minutes, having the heavy rhythms of Metallica blasted at my eardrums from two walls of speakers several storeys high, in a room with around six strangers. The world certainly has changed since 1939. Back then, that panting in the restroom would’ve been a serious case of dysentery after returning from a nasty visit to The Colonies.

I was happy in Rosemary’s World of Leather and Fajitas. It was a simpler time. When accidentally landing in a ladies underwear didn’t result in a restraining order. When you weren’t beaten up in the streets for the pittance you have in the pockets of your only pair of jeans, tired and old. When a cinema was a delightful black and white flick, silent but illuminated by a gentle bash on an ol’ pianola. When you could call strangers your friends. When people had muttonchops. A time when women weren’t impressed by jetpacks, penny-farthings and other such modern contraptions, but by the soul in your heart.

But I’m getting tired readers. Fending off the modern world with a beautifully handcrafted stick with sublime decoration is becoming ever more wearisome. Perhaps it’s time to hang up the flat cap, shave off the facial hair and turn off Glen Miller.

Or perhaps Sprinkles will save me and moo some life back into me.

Mmm, whichever comes first…

American writer, Jarod Kintz (b. 1982), once said: “In these modern times, the only sensible thing is to be nonsensical”.

Peace Out :|:

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Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
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Hark Around The Words
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