The Future of ‘Oy, Rodney’

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I don’t know about you, but I need a break from the nooze. That last post had me talking to myself. And besides, there’s another very important matter that needs seeing to.

For the past 16 years (well, it feels like 16 years, I haven’t got the energy to go back and check) I have been presenting chapters of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney. I have ignored critics who say Ms. Crepuscular should be confined at the Chateau D’If and her manuscripts burned. Besides, I’d feel kind of silly if she won the Pulitzer Prize just days after I discontinued her.

Anyhow, there’s a very sharp division of opinion and people are gearing up as Roman soldiers and fighting over it. Just like in the picture. Somebody’s gonna get hurt if this continues.

So far Ms. Crepuscular has written 399 chapters and has yet to get to the point. It seems, well, heartless to cut her off after all that. And I would not like to encounter her number one fan, Mr. Pitfall, on a dark night. Not with my knee as dodgy as it is.

One consideration here, at least to me, is to celebrate a novelist who has established herself as a master of saying nothing. I think I would like to do a crossword puzzle now.

 

The Wine Controversy (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Something always seems to crop up to jinx a wedding. In Chapter CCXXV of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, author Violet Crepuscular, in an aside to the reader, recalls her own experience. “If I may digress for a moment, as an aside to the reader, my own wedding was thoroughly ruined by the absence of the groom, a hard-working horseshoe customizer named Sidney. He never showed up for the ceremony, and to this day I’ve never heard from him again.”

Lord Jeremy Coldsore and his friend, the American adventurer, Willis Twombley, find their wedding to Lady Margo Cargo–she thinks they’re the same person–held up by a disagreement over which wine to serve at the reception.

“I’ve already ordered a whole crate of Chateau LaFong!” cries Jeremy. “And that miscreant of a butler refuses to serve it! He insists we serve Chateau D’If, and he has mesmerized Lady Margo to take his side.”

“Ain’t that a school for the deaf, or something?” asks Twombley.

“It’s a notorious French prison,” Jeremy informs him, “and the wine they make there isn’t fit to serve to pigs–and I have heard the pigs turn up their snouts at it. By Jove, I hate that stuff! And I’ve paid for the Chateau LaFong, so we can’t afford for it to go to waste.”

“For my money,” says Twombley, “it’s the Philistines who make the best wine, hands down. We always served Philistine wine at our shindigs.” Twombley believes himself to be Sargon of Akkad. “You should have asked me first, Germy, before you ordered that Chapeau Fungus or whatever it is. I could’ve gotten us a case of Goliath’s Joy Juice, from Gath.”

“I suspect Crusty the butler is trying to undermine this wedding so that he can marry Lady Margo and gain control of her wealth,” opines Lord Jeremy.

“You want I should shoot him?” Twombley asks. And the chapter ends with Lord Jeremy contemplating his options.

“I must add,” writes Ms. Crepuscular, “that I have tried Chateau D’If Red and it really is swill.”