Tag: Oy Rodney

Scurveyshire’s Shakespeare Festival

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Violet Crepuscular introduces Chapter CCCIX of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, thus:

“I would be remiss, dear readers, if I made no mention of Scurveyshire’s annual Shakespeare Festival–a great tradition of English village life.”

Tradition has it that William Shakespeare once spent the night in Scurveyshire on his way to Oxford to buy candy, and rented a room at the shire’s most famous pub, The Lying Tart. Unable to get to sleep, he stayed up all that night to write his little-known tragicomedy, Two Damn Fools. “And one of them,” Christopher Marlowe reportedly said after reading the play, “is you.”

A special stage has been erected on the common for the annual performance of this play, which, these days, is only performed once a year, here in Scurveyshire. It is believed that Shakespeare himself disowned the play and always claimed that Marlowe wrote it. This year Two Damn Fools will be performed by an amateur cast selected by Lady Margo Cargo and directed by Reginal Tosspot, the town drunk.

The plot involves a case of mistaken identity resulting in two damned fools inadvertently marrying each other’s fiancees. That’s really all there is to the plot. Had it been written today, it would have been a low-rated BBC sitcom. But during the festival in Scurveyshire, anyone caught attending the play is treated to as much free ale as he or she can drink. This leads to great merriment, and a high crime rate.

Lord Jeremy Coldsore, as current justice of the peace, busily makes his preparations, whatever they may be. “This,” he confides in his friend, the American adventurer Willis Twombley, who thinks he is Sargon of Akkad, “is an unsurpassed opportunity for Black Rodney to plunge the entire community into catastrophic chaos. I have instructed Constable Chumley to hire two dozen special constables.”

“Does he think they’ll be enough?” asks Twombley.

“What he said was,” answers Jeremy, “‘Aye frithin’ mickle dorbies an’ speed yon thores.'”

Twombley nods sagely. “Sounds like he’s got it under control,” he remarks.

[Note: My allergies are killing me today. If there is any fault to find with this installment of Oy, Rodney, it’s still Ms. Crepuscular to blame.]

From August 4, 2019

Back to ‘Oy, Rodney’ REPRINT

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I have read some more of Oy, Rodney, but I don’t seem to be any farther along in it. I think gremlins come in and add pages to it when no one’s looking.

Young Lord Jeremy Coldsore, in a desperate attempt to recoup his family fortune, has entered into a scheme with a mysterious stranger to introduce wild marsupials to the Scottish highlands. The koalas don’t like it. Jeremy is still trying to marry Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in Scurveyshire, but he will have to hurry because bits of her are falling off.

American adventurer Willis Twombley has discovered proof that he really is Sargon of Akkad. They still don’t believe him.

The vicar is recovering from the conniptions he suffered when he sneaked a peek under the backyard wading pool to see what was making the queer noises. The experience has so disturbed his brain that now he can only speak backwards.

So far no character named “Rodney” has  appeared in the story. After some 400 pages, this is annoying. I am beginning to suspect that “Rodney” is either a rabbit or a hamster: author Violet Crepuscular has dropped certain dark hints that it might be so. I’ll be very much put out if he turns out to be nothing at all.

NOTE: I still haven’t found a reproducible picture of the cover art for Oy, Rodney, so for the time being, Lord of the Tube Socks must suffice. We happen to know that Ms. Crepuscular has read this book and approves of it.

From Oct. 24 2017

Violet Crepuscular’s Cooking Show (‘Oy, Rodney’) REPRINT

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We are lucky to have Chapter CCCXXX of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, as skimpy as it is. For this was the week the local cable TV station aired the first and only episode of Ms. Crepuscular’s cooking show, “Crepuscular Cuisine.” Much of Chapter CCCXXX is devoted to this.

“I could not help being inspired,” she writes, “by all those new ‘Beyond Meat’ products, which are all-vegetable dishes cunningly prepared to taste like meat dishes. This has proved tremendously popular!

“So I thought, ‘What about something for meat-eaters who won’t eat vegetables but nevertheless want meat dishes that taste like vegetables?’ Why not ‘Meatables’? Or ‘Beyond Vegetables’? I mean, I read about this on a chess website, so it must be a terrific idea!”

Here we have part of the transcript of the show. Violet is in her studio kitchen, introducing “Beyond Vegetables.”

VIOLET: In truth, creating meat dishes that taste exactly like vegetarian dishes requires much more skill, labor, and preparation than I, for one, would ever bother with and neither should you! So I will teach you a simple but effective cheat.

I have found that creating a dish whose taste is completely unidentifiable, well, that’s the ticket! If your dinner guest has never heard of the Slovenian radish or ‘that wonderful variety of cauliflower from Kenya,’ called mbumba or something, how is he going to know he’s not eating a meat dish made entirely of vegetable ingredients?

And so we experiment with a wide variety of ingredients–here you see I have peppermint toothpaste, Frothee artificial foam, red pepper, black pepper, salt, Sweet ‘n’ Low, and A-1 Sauce–until we have something that tastes like nothing anyone has ever tasted before. And voila–the cook has a triumph!

*** But her triumph is short-lived. According to local news reports, less than an hour after the show went off the air, a crowd of irate viewers assembled outside the studio and began to pelt it with stones, loudly demanding the immediate cancellation of “Crepuscular Cuisine.” Several of the viewers threatened to sue the network, claiming that family members who had sampled Ms. Crepuscular’s experimental “Beyond Vegetables” were almost instantly smitten with digestive upsets.

As for Chapter CCCXXX of Oy, Rodney, all we have, really, is a mysterious stranger who looks like Broderick Crawford nosing around the grounds of Coldsore Hall until he is chased off by squirrels.

 

Mr. Pudding and His Newts (‘Oy Rodney’) REPRINT

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(Despite current events, I’m trying to do business as usual today. I would not like it said that Far Left Crazy stopped me.)

Oy Rodney – Lee Duigon

Violet Crepuscular, The Queen of Suspense, has injected new life into her historical romance, Oy, Rodney, with the addition of a new character whom, she declares, “is guaranteed to please–like where has he been all my life?” Diagram that sentence if you dare.

The new character is one Mr. Pudding, usually spoken of as “Mr. Pudding and his newts.”

Newts – what do they eat? What eats them? | nurturing nature

Here he is with a couple of his newts.

We are not sure what role Mr. Pudding will play in the overall plot. “His role will have to, like, evolve,.” Ms. Crepuscular phonogalates. “I’m leaning toward the ‘mad scientist with a plan to take over the world’ thing, but I’m open to suggestions. Even from you, dear readers! Yes, even from the likes of you.”

As for the characters who’ve been with us all along–Lord Jeremy Coldsore, Constable Chumley, Lady Margo Cargo, Willis Twombley the American adventurer who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad… et al–well, who knows what will become of them? Does Ms. Crepuscular know?

(Waiting for an email or two to come pouring in…)

From July 2024

I Am Not Violet Crepuscular (‘Oy, Rodney’) REPRINT

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Just because Ms. Violet Crepuscular’s books are so hard to find doesn’t mean I’m writing them. I am not Violet Crepuscular. I have a beard; she doesn’t. I’ve never read a romance novel, except for her inimitable Oy, Rodney. That having been settled, we move on to

CHAPTER CL

Every trial in Scurveyshire is the Trial of the Century. This time the defendant is the merry poacher known as Mickle the Merry Poacher and the plaintiff is Lord Nodule, demanding justice. This is the first case to be tried by Lord Jeremy Coldsore as Justice of the Peace.

“I demand justice!” barks Lord Nodule. “This peon, this excrescence on the body politic, this walking bubo known has Mickle the Merry Poacher, has been poaching on my land for 15 years and I want him stopped! I demand he be punished by drowning!”

The first witness is Constable Chumley, the arresting officer. “Oh, aye,” he testifies, “Mickle been doddlin’ the cairns swofty-like aforementioned deedle.” He is dismissed from the witness stand as soon as possible.

Several of Mickle’s neighbors, and six of Lord Nodule’s tenants, testify that the Merry Poacher has never actually succeeded in poaching anything. “He couldn’t catch a cold,” swears the Widow Flibbert. But the defendant, when he is finally sworn in, insists he has been very successful indeed.

“Caught me a centaur, once’t!” he boasts. “Let’s see anyone top that!”

“What did you do with it?” Lord Jeremy wonders.

“Was gunner eat it, wasn’t I! Only then I found a note on my door from Black Rodney tellin’ me I had to let it go, so that’s what I done.” The crowd gasps.

“I object!” Lord Nodule roars. “Ask him about the badgers!”

“Badgers? Ain’t never caught no badger,” Mickle admits.

“My lord, there are no badgers in Scurveyshire!” interjects the shire’s game warden, Officer Foffle.

“Caught me a Elf once’t, too,” says Mickle.

The public defender, Mr. Potash, moves that all charges be dismissed. “My client is obviously mad, my lord.” He produces a notably ridiculous-looking gadget. “This absurd contraption is one of Mr. Mickle’s homemade snares. You can see it’s perfectly useless for any purpose whatsoever.” Mickle scowls at him.  “I call on you to find him Not Guilty by reason of demonstrable idiocy.”

“He still ought to be drowned,” grumbles Lord Nodule. “What’s this shire coming to, anyway?”

Lord Jeremy sees no alternative but to dismiss the charges. Lord Nodule glares at him.

“You haven’t heard the last of this, Coldsore!” he declares. “I shall be with you on your wedding night!” [Editor’s Note: I think that’s what Frankenstein’s monster said to his creator, Victor Frankenstein, in Mary Shelly’s classic horror novel. What was Ms. Crepuscular thinking when she penned that line?]

The chapter ends abruptly with a recipe for aphid jelly. I cannot bring myself to repeat it.

Constable Chumley Testifies in Kavanagh Hearings!

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Democrat Senators have been reduced to calling fictional characters to testify against Judge Brett Kavanagh’s appointment to the Supreme Court. Already heard as witnesses against Kavanagh have been Captain Ahab, Betty and Veronica, and Tristram Shandy. But the star so far has been Constable Chumley of Scurveyshire, from Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney.

Asked by Senator Corey “Spartacus” Booker (D-Parallel Universe) whether Judge Kavanagh had ever harassed or molested any country maids in Scurveyshire during the reign of Queen Victoria, Constable Chumley answered vigorously–well, at least as vigorously as any fictional character can manage.

“Ooh, yeye, thar’ wee no thrickin’ bawn a-tall!” The Constable nods for emphasis. “I delly, footh, ’twas mair yon Kavanagh thoo’ briggle!” He went on in this vein for 90 minutes, no one daring to interrupt him.

The next witness, Ms. Violet Crepuscular herself, testified, “My feelings are the same as Constable Chumley’s.”

TOMORROW: Democrat Senators to call on characters from books and stories that haven’t been written yet.

Lord Jeremy Proposes Marriage, Almost

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What with all the computer agita yesterday–and more this morning, on the other machine–I thought I might dip into Oy, Rodney. And this is what I read.

The vicar’s smart-aleck nephew, Desmond Wiggly, goes out to the backyard wading pool and doesn’t return. There are drag marks leading under the pool. Constable Chumly is summoned. He examines the scene and remarks, “I tell ‘ee, them’s a right rawn figgety shawm,” and declines to investigate further. There is serious talk of replacing him with someone who can speak recognizable English.

Lord Jeremy Coldsore, meanwhile, realizes that the only way he can stave off ruin and bankruptcy is to marry Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in Scurveyshire. As a pretext for seeing her, he returns her lost glass eye. She invites him into her parlor and serves him extremely unpalatable biscuits baked by her grandmother in Bedlam. His appetite is not improved as she pops the one glass eye out of the socket, wipes off the one he has returned to her, and pops it in.

“Surely, Lord Jeremy, you must have had another reason for coming here to see me,” she coos. Lady Margo is big on cooing.

Jeremy nods: for him, this is the moment of truth. But all he can manage to say is “Abba-dabba-gmmph.”

Meanwhile there is a new mysterious stranger in the neighborhood. This one looks like Ralph Meeker. No one knows what he’s doing there.

‘Oy, Rodney’: Unbearable Suspense REPRINT

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From 2017

 Chapter XCVIII of Violet Crepuscular’s romance epic, Oy, Rodney, Lord Jeremy Coldsore’s creditors are breathing down his neck–literally; and it’s very uncomfortable. One of them turned up under his bed, checking for woodworm. Unless Lord Jeremy’s plan to marry Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in all of Scurvyshire, succeeds, he will lose Coldsore Hall, right down to the concrete flamingos on the front lawn.

The wedding of Lady Margo to the American adventurer, Willis Twombley, who thinks he is Sargon of Akkad, has been delayed, owing to Lady Margo’s cantankerous old butler, who has misplaced her false teeth. Jeremy and Willis have been taking turns courting her, pretending to be the same person. As predicted, Lady Margo has not noticed the difference–except to say, to Lord Jeremy, “I declare, Sargon, sometimes you seem like two different people.” The plan is to carry out the wedding with Jeremy in Twombley’s place.

Meanwhile, everyone has noticed a change in the vicar’s demeanor. He has taken to skipping ungracefully instead of walking. They attribute this to the bout of conniptions he suffered when he peeked under the wading pool in his back yard. Constable Chumly now stands guard by the pool. “T’other dee,” he says, “we lammicked a porty feen, reet o’er yonder skeel.” He looks worried when he says it.

“I’ve noticed a change in the vicar’s demeanor,” Lady Margo confides to Twombly.

“It’s because of his conniptions, l’il gal,” he answers.

As the chapter closes, Lord Jeremy catches another creditor trying to make off with the third baron’s armor that he wore during the Crusades. The baron is still in it, necessitating a change in the Coldsore family chronicles.

‘Take THAT, Ms. Crepuscular!’

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Oy Rodney – Lee Duigon

Ha-ha-ha! Poetic justice returns to the Internet. The bad guy gets dunked in dirty water. And Violet Crepuscular gets beaned–all’s right with the world!

You may remember Ms. Crepuscular challenging her readers to provide hints of a massive do-over of her immortal romance, Oy, Rodney. Here are a few examples.

Pooba City, OK: “Aw, shut up already!”

K’smagge, Eurasia: “Do we get a prize for reading this?”

Imago Humana, New Jersey: “There’s a guy in Piscataway who writes better than you do–and he’s locked up!”

Bisstong, Rumania: “I learn English for this?”

Despite her protestations that “most” readers are positively crazy about her work, we’ve got her number. You can run, Violet, but you can’t hide!

INTERRUPTION: What? You wonder what happened to Mr Pinball? No, he has not been dunked in dirty water. To say nothing of Willis Twombley, or Lord Whatsisname (the one with the big house).

You’ve got it bad, kimosabe. Try to find a health hot line.

‘Oy, Rodney’… Stalls on a Dime

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Oy Rodney – Lee Duigon

For anyone else, it’d be a mere figure of speech. But for celebrated romance writer Violet Crepuscular, it’s an incident of war.

War against her editor… which is me.

“You will never again horn in on my images of woolly mammoths and the June Taylor Dancers,” she writes, in a letter thrust under my car’s windshield wiper. For a moment there I thought it was a ticket.

“I will never forgive you,” she continues, “for arranging for Mr. Pitfall actually to fall into a pit! You’d better watch yourself, crossing your living room: you won’t know what’s under the rug until you find out the hard way.”

The police chief in our town is a huge (6’11”) Violet Crepuscular fan who just laughs when I seek protection. “Afraid of a cuddly little thing like Violet!” he mocks me. “Well, as the Emperor Honorius told the Britons, ‘Look to your own defenses!'” (He’s a big classics buff.)

Well, I guess I’d better get started.