Friday, June 15, 2007

The Branston Rabids Files x3 - file

Little Shoppe of Bolocks – Part 1

It’s the morning of the big game with Melchester Roofers and the bulk of the Branston Rabids first team squad are ‘stable’ in their own ward at Branston General Hospital.

Hercules “Eckle” Profiterole, the Belgian centre-half and private eye, has had his nose bitten off by a savage Portugazi and the club chairman looks strangely smug.

The local A&E staff had worked their fingers to the bone in a pandemonium of players, their agents and family, press, police and fans the previous night. Fending off reporters and supporters and jabbing everyone with rabies shots, seaming endless stitches, reattachments and wrapping of miles of bandages.

A surprising amount of pain killers were being consumed too, thought the ward sister, who was a rugby fan.

Those conscious and not hallucinating saw Jorges Mourir once more, live on TV news, getting shot with a tranquilizer dart by the RSPCA. It, they agreed, was a shame; he’d been the best manager they’d had in ages.

He was already being linked with the vacant Gorky Blu Meanies job.

Eckle had tried half-heartedly to marshal the troops but eventually given up until the morning.

[The etymology of the Rabids name surprisingly predates this incident, though it is thought by some to be prescient. The club's founder, and great grandfather of the present owner, Sir Fagan Tannic, came from a long line of wealthy industrialists.

Their family business was one of many mysterious things to have come out of the shadowy corners of the dark ages; the recycling of rabbit condoms that underpinned the giant multinational that is today’s Rabbit Brand Corp.

Unfortunately in 1869 when the club sent its erstwhile tea lady to register with the newly formed Football Union, she had had a horrid head add dose cold. No amount of screaming ‘Rabids I tell you, Rabids!’ could convince the clerk and even her frantic bunny impressions were misconstrued. A succession of spiteful FU officials had refused to change it ever since, hence Branston Rabids it is.

Incidentally, the multinational arms were given to Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza’s four elder sisters while he was left only with a knighthood and a football club with rising damp.]

The next morning Sir Derek was in early, checking under the players’ bandages, sneezing, loosening the odd stitch here and there.

"Morning all," he said breezily "how are my honed Adoni today then?" The slight Scottish winger winced and let a tear hit his cheek as the chairman ripped off his ear bandage again, ear and all.

"Nurse!" Yelled Rocket.

The morning morphine was kicking in and Hercules Profiterole decided to go out in to town to see about finding a nose guard.

In a side street off a back road, near the canal, Eckle noticed a dirty little old shop he had never seen before. He saw the sign under the grime "A Little Shoppe of Bolocks" it said, Eckle read it twice. Through the thickly crusted windows he could only make out that it was some kind of antique shop but just as he was about to walk away he saw a shining silver nose plate.

He pushed the creaking door open with the "Tink" of a broken bell and immediately found himself in the middle of all manner of dusty sporting memorabilia and bulging paraphernalia.

Old trophies and medals in boxes, caps, armbands, signed photos and Figurine Panini albums, a complete set of West Indies touring athletic supports (unwashed) were draped over gloves and shin guards, shirts, boots and a mounted display of Accrington Stanley lucky heather.

As if by magic the shopkeeper appeared, he was a short and balding man in a striped pinafore.

"Good morning sir," said the man.

"Good morning to you," Eckles replied.

"If I’m not mistaken you are a Rabid man are you not sir?"

"I am and," Eckle and paused for effect "...he he! Are you Mr. Bollocks then?"

The round faced man stiffened slightly. "It’s pronounced Bo – lock if you don’t mind. Are you looking for anything in particular or just perusing the annals of history?"

"Not really into annals as it happens, or history, I can’t even remember where I left me fags. I just came in to look at that old nose protector in the window."

"Oh yes, a lovely piece that, rumoured to have belonged to a descendant of Ethelred the Unready. We have many titbits that might awaken your historical curiosity, what about this, it’s an original print of the first FU Cup final at Wembley."

"Oh, I saw that. The Gorky Blu Meanies won didn’t they?"

"Noo, not the new Wembley the original Wembley, don’t they have Wembley where you come from?"

"No we don’t, who’s that then?"

"Ah, that’s PC George Scorey."

"That’s a fancy name for a horse," said Eckle.

"No the copper, the horse was called Billie, its called The White Horse Final now you know."

"Did he win then did he? Did he? Heh!"

"No, Bolton won, but they single-handedly kept 200,000 fans in order. Djunno he wasn’t even on duty that day?"

"Who the horse?"

"No the copper."

"So why did he have his horse with him then?"

"I don’t know."

They chatted gaily away like this for a while and then the conversation turned to Mr Bolock’s business partners who could do wonders with in vitro fertilization and the possibilities presented by an unusual light box in the back room.

"Ye what? You’ve got a magic light box that can send me back in time so’s I can collect his sperm for your mate? Yer mad, man! Heh!"

"Well that nose plate is solid silver and it would probably be worth a few thousand to a collector you know, what if we called it payment?" said the wily antiquarian.

"A few thousand you say. Hmm." Eckle rubbed his Belgian chin "And I’d definitely be back in time for this afternoons match?"

"Oh yes, the time you spend in the… er …light box doesn’t count here, you’ll be back as soon as you left."

"Mmm, well alright then, where is it? Back there?"

The little shopkeeper pulled back a heavy green velvet curtain to reveal a shining light box in the centre of a gloomy ante-room.

"That’s right," he said with a little smile "just put the picture on the box. Oh, you might need this," and he handed Eckle a very large test tube.

44 comments:

offsideintoulouse said...

He's never gonna stop, is he?

Zephirine said...

Only when he gets to Canada. File, whatever you're on, pass it around!

guitougoal said...

craaaazy.

offsideintoulouse said...

Posting more comments will probably just encourage him... oops/

guitougoal said...

file du mauvais coton

friedrich nietzsche said...

have you thought of paying him to stop?

Branston Evening Echo Echo FM FM said...

Fluffy Scoretum [a.k.a. the hairy egg]:

... and that was Henry Kissenger's latest groove; 'Boys, Boys, Boys' for those of you out there in radioland who appreciate the subtle charms of unncaccompanied tuba, sultry baby, sultry

Now, listen up Footasticals, our traction-controlled and abs empowered high-performance raving repeater is coming live from Branston General:

Fluffy Scoretum: Sooo, Gulliver, how are the Rabids doing ahead of this afternoon's big game?

Gulliver H'ack: Well, Fluffy, sick as parrots, it has to be said

Fluffy Scoretum: We understand that the poor slight Scottish winger has had to have his ear re-sown back on again, again, is this right?

Gulliver H'ack: Yes, that's right Fluffy, it was an ear of two halves

Fluffy Scoretum: Now, I think we can have a word with Sister Pipeage who was on duty last night when the team arrived, Sister, was there a lot of Bentley and Bling in Branston G then?

Sister Pipeage: No, just handbags really

Fluffy Scoretum: What can you tell us of the rumour that chiselled Chris 'GoldenPlums' Rocket was found in an ointment store with two junior nurses and an elephantitis patient?

Sister Pigeage: I'll have to wait til I watch the replays, couldn't really see it .. mumble .. referee's report..

Quintin Tannic-Sally-Duce said...

[end bars of Magic Roundabout theme, fade to Quintins entrance on rolling hills of TellyTubbies set]

Now, some people might say that being the foster-neice of the chairman of a football club might present a conflict of interests for a footballers agent like myself

Bof, I say, and Pfiffle! Even 'au contraire'

it places me in a wonderfully comfortable position right here in the heart of footballland and you in the diamante encrusted cage of opportunity to get in with the in crowd

my previous clients have been orgasmic in their praise for me, I am rather special, Hairy RussKnopff;

[RussKnopff appears, as if by magic, behind the dapper Quintin]

"Oh, no, hey, he's my boy, the man, he is. Can't say fairer than that for 'alf a pand eh?"

For the very best deal with the very best clubs - tinkle on my blackberry - QuintinTannic-Sally-Duce@anathoma.com

Don't linger on Lord Stavros, lurvv lolly and langer with Quinters

[fade in 'We will fix it' from the Bagpuss mice, Quintin rises into the sky, rubbing his palms in capatilastic spiritualism as in a burn of light he transcends and the clouds rejoin, fade quickly to black]

file said...

aaah, thanks guys, there's nothing like rabid enthusiasm to support a straggling autist, and that was nothing like ...

offside said...

Why, any straggling autist would be delighted to have an audience of four, made up of a dead philosopher, a stoned poetess and two grumpy Frenchmen, non?

guitougoal said...

never trusted qintin-tannic sally duce,
il n'y a "qu'un titanic" c'est la douce.
Sister Pigeage, Gulliver H'ack,attention
it's all bullshit fiction in slow motion.

file said...

as the good doctor reminded me;

I am pedicurist of the dogs, have no need to excuse myself to ex-fish and a warm product of your own fetid dreams

and it's a choice audience for an autist of my standing, certainly better than the last audience who had to be put down with distemper

not sure about the dead phlopher tho, looks like a rum type

guitougoal said...

pseuds used to be a nice place before the revolutionaire with a fake I.D brought branston, rabids and file corp.to rewrite:
-Invasion of wonderland by the barbarians-

file said...

there's something to be said for living in the archives

shuffling around pseuds' annals

marcela said...

this is disgraceful, biased reporting. everyone knows the rabids were merely testing performance enhancing drugs, in the hope of turning all sport into an orgy of psychopharmaco excess.

to pretend they were being administered 'painkillers' in a 'secluded ward' by a 'rugby loving nurse' is typical of pseuds' lack of editorial riguer, misleading, and dodging the real scandalous issue whic is at stake here.

and to try and pass this off as somehow genuine simply because the words 'Accrington Stanley' are slipped into the text ...

you call this journalism?

i demand my money back.

file said...

couldn't agree more Marcela, this is an editorial issue, but I think you'll find that you actually have to be relieved of some cash before you're entitled to a refund, could be wrong...

Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza said...

Performance enhancing drugs? Rabids?

what exactly have you seen in our performances that give you this wild idea?

we'd be better off giving PED's to the fans, actually that's not bad

I'm not a letigious man by nature you understand, but ...

mimi said...

Still waiting for Tintin and little Snowey to make their appearance - shortly before Snowey is taken away to be mercilessly killed and cooked by Offy in the Tavern kitchen.
You're all mad, quite plainly, barkingly mad. At some point men in white coats are going to descend with straitjackets and take you all away. They're coming to take you away, ha ha, they're coming to take you away.......
(mimi makes sharp exit before being collected into the funny wagon)

captain haddock said...

mimi lass, there's no cause to be knockin' the rabids, GWAN THE RABIDS!

marcela said...

file - i offered a pound, and my word is as good as gold.

now i want my pound back.

AND the ped distribution among fans... well. i've been chanting in the terraces since x1 and what have i been offered? nada. niente. rien.

unbelievable.

off to a moviehouse to see if reportage is any better over there.

if anyone cooks snowey by the time i return you're a lesser lot than i imagined.

mimi said...

Marcela: if you have a concern for the small dog you will not leave. I left my Tapir (you know the story) overnight, and the next morning Offy was serving up Tapir toasties. It's a hard world out there!

file said...

ok Marcela, here it is - 1 golden pound

please be more careful where you write it in future

Sir Derek assures me that they tried to give you some ped promo's but you couldn't hear them in that bunny suit of yours and were far too busy throwing carrots, with venom, at the opposition bench

mimi, Snowey will be as safe as houses on my watch...g'night!

mimi said...

file: small furry animals left in the charge of the men of Pseuds are always eaten - except for the otter, but that was Mrs Offside's influence. I confidently expect Marcela and I to return and find highland terrier on the menu.
But I have a new badge of honour from GU and will be hunting you down. I am now
Guardian Unlimited Sport's new motorsport correspondent, GU Spotters Badge holder, GU Sport sub-editor and the Guardian's in-house Etymologist
though all in Scott Murray's mind.
Pity really, cos if I had all those jobs, I might not be a poor wannabee hackette!

mimi said...

I think grammatically, that should have been me and Marcela.

guitougoal said...

oooh...the pedicurist of the dog has a little Snowey now, is he giving the pet a pedicure or a p.e.d for cure?
And the straggling autist is flashing pakalolo around to attract the audience-1 straight jacket seems to be
needed , only one.

offside said...

And the so-called "Lord" Ebren who claims to have it all under control. An absolute scandal, that's what I say.

I must be off now, on the road again. I'll return as offsideinantibes to check if this disgrace has been cleaned up.

mimi said...

And I never checked if Snowey had his jabs and doggy passport up to date. He may not be fit for human consumption.
Offy - remember I used to live in Antibes, and I may have banned you from haunts familiar!

guitougoal said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
file said...

m.offside,

have a good trip, hope it's not much like canned heat on the SNCF

guitou,

that's very good; p.e.d.icure!

file said...

I am undone!

of course it should be m.guitou too, please excuse me I am a foreigner here

Zeph said...

May I draw the attention of Pseuds to the Other Stuff site, where we have a fine poem by DoctorShoot about lacey knickers, capital punishment, laundromats and his life in general?

Seriously, it's a good pome, have a look. It's quite long: settle down to it with a glass of something...

mimi said...

File: are you a fan of Sir Henry of Rawlinson end?

greengrass in clover said...

Just having a quick look in. Not sure I'm sorry that I haven't been around for a while.

offsideinantibes said...

Stay away, gg, this place is going down the drain. The standards have slipped so badly, I'm not even sure another tapromm will save this site.

mimi said...

Offsod - a bit cruel. You know we're just waiting for your Taproom.

offsideinantibes said...

Mimi, maybe you won't be so eager when you find out what's on the new menu.

mimi said...

Offside: we have already been subjected to your little gold finch tongues on the other strand. Please in the name of all things holy, you're not going to bring the otters' noses back onto the menu? Herring gulls are fine.

file said...

there might be a little something in Eckle's test tube for seasoning?

greengrass said...

The rebuilding of the outdoor shithouse is done, so PC-regulars are welcome to come and thrutch. Double thrutching is recommended - there are two holes.
A friend from Transylvania will soon visit the chapel; last time he came, he made a superb goulasch over an open fire in the garden. He claims to use 3 kinds of meat, but doesn't say which kinds - though the numbers of road-killed badgers lying in the local ditches have diminished of late.
I demolished the back-door stairs this morning: we're putting a verandah in so we can sip Campari and watch the sundowns over the lake.
Elvis shows on 29/6 and 14/7: WELCOME!

file said...

synchronised thrutching is a much maligned sport,
some people say it's crap
but filey thinks it's 'nificant,
much better than this rap

offsideinantibes said...

Oh shit, gg, I'm afraid you may have given him an idea for his next piece... "synchronised thrutching" - shudder.

bluedaddy said...

Is it too butch to thrutch in a clutch?
Or does it not matter mutch?

file said...

bd,

it's not too butch as such to thrutch enclutched in a hutch,
but it's a bit of stretch to lech or rech at the stench of the wretch on your left

neither too macho to poo with Castro, nor too manly to dump with Stanley

it's not even too pc to pee pee with Louise
but it's a bit too much to touch the crutch of the dutch or to thrutch in a clutch in a hurry, do you see?

MotM said...

Why am I thinking "Manchester City"?

Tweet it, digg it