Tag: Oy Rodney

Ms. Crepuscular’s Estonian Folk Tale (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CLXXXI of Violet Crepuscular’s interminable epic romance, Oy, Rodney, we get the pleasant little Estonian folk tale we were promised in Chapter CLXXX. It is intended to tide us over while Lord Jeremy Coldsore’s foot heals from being accidentally shot by the American adventurer, Willis Twombley.

We are not convinced that this is a genuine Estonian folk tale, but it will have to suffice.

Once upon a time, King Patrick of Estonia had three daughters but no sons. Needing a male successor, the king advertised in the newspapers for suitable princes to marry his daughters. Meanwhile, he questioned his daughters to see which of them loved him the most.

“I love you so much, O father of mine, that it makes my socks roll up and down,” said the eldest, Princess Jackie.

“That’s nothing,” said the second eldest, Princess Foozle. “If every ant in India brought me a gold doubloon, it still wouldn’t be enough to buy my love for you. And there are an awful lot of ants in India!” We are assured that “Foozle” is a genuine Estonian girl’s name of great antiquity, but we are at liberty not to believe it.

But the youngest, Princess Chimney, answered, “I guess I love you as much as I’m supposed to. I mean, you’re okay.” Outraged by this answer, the king marries Chimney off to a beggar with dandruff. Meanwhile, he marries Jackie to the Duke of Flatbush and Foozle to Prince Huitzilxochitl of Kizzuwatna.

(“It’s jist the kinda thing them dam’ Hittites always used to do,” interjects Twombley. “Asia Minor went to pot when they moved in.”)

The two eldest princesses turned against their father and divided up his kingdom, putting him on public assistance.

But Chimney’s husband turned out to be the Emperor of Peedle in disguise. His fantastically large army conquered Estonia and restored King Patrick to his throne, and sent the now-impoverished elder daughters and their husbands into a humiliating exile. They were last seen begging for food in Detroit.

“And that,” concludes Ms. Crepuscular, “was enough to make the king leer!”

 

The Return of Lord Nodule (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Lord Nodule, former Justice of the Peace for Scurveyshire, has threatened to interfere with Lord Jeremy Coldsore’s wedding to Lady Margo Cargo, and is rather miffed that the wedding keeps getting postponed. In Chapter CLXXX of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, he has just returned from an inspection of the Andaman Island penal colony.

“They do things right, out there,” he says. “The place is a regular hell-hole.” To make his point more telling, he bounces up and down on a pogo stick. The owner of the local bicycle shop fears that this may start a fad and impact adversely on his business.

“Germy, we got to do somethin’ about old Nodule,” says Jeremy’s friend, Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who thinks he is Sargon of Akkad. “What say I plug him one?” He flourishes his trusty Colt. It goes off accidentally and shoots Lord Jeremy in the foot.

“Now see what you’ve done!” cries Lord Jeremy, hopping on his uninjured foot. “How am I supposed to get married on one foot?”

“I’m awful sorry, ol’ hoss. Well, maybe it’ll grow back. I seen that once. The king of Assyria cut off his foot while he was peelin’ onions, and eventually it growed back. ‘Tweren’t as good as the old foot, but he could hobble around on it okay. But that’s why they ain’t allowed to sell onions in Assyria.”

Lady Margo has a better idea. “You should have the bad foot amputated, my dear, and replaced with a nice new wooden one, beautifully upholstered, like my leg.” Her upholstered leg has a bad habit of falling off at inopportune moments, but Lord Jeremy is too tactful to mention that.

Lord Nodule hops all the way to the hospital on his pogo stick, just so he can threaten Lord Jeremy some more. “I can hardly wait for your wedding night!” he sneers. “Will I have a surprise for you!”

So Twombley shoots him. They explain it away as a pogo stick accident. Constable Chumley is sympathetic. “Many’s the loor in a fathin’ veeth,” he says, quoting a wise old Scurveyshire proverb.

“I promise to present the wedding as soon as Jeremy’s foot is healed,” Ms. Crepuscular reassures her readers. “Meanwhile, the next chapter will tide you over with a pleasant little folk tale from Estonia.”

We can hardly wait.

 

 

Obstacles to the Wedding (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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As we learn in Chapter CLXXIII of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, the course of true love never did run smooth. “Everybody thinks Shakespeare said that,” writes Ms. Crepuscular, “but I am sure this observation is original with me.”

Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in Scurveyshire, has consented to marry Lord Jeremy Coldsore of Coldsore Hall. She has also consented to marry Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who think he’s Sargon of Akkad. They have convinced her that they are one and the same person. And the vicar, having emerged from his conniptions with no memory of how he came to have them, is eager to perform the rites.

But the problem is, where to have the wedding. Lady Margo’s vast country house is being thoroughly re-upholstered, so they can’t go there. Coldsore Hall, because Twombley has concealed there the bodies of so many of Lord Jeremy’s creditors, now has a rather unpleasant smell to it. And The Lying Tart is out because everyone is afraid that the ancient sorceror, Black Rodney, will turn up as an uninvited guest and put a curse on the lot of them.

“I know the ideal place!” says the vicar. “Right here in my back yard, beside the wading pool. With nice weather, it’ll be perfect–an outdoor wedding.”

But Constable Chumley says the wading pool, scene of so many inexplicable tragedies, is off limits. “Thain a bickle maunty, goin’ by shimbly more!” is his ominous warning.

A mysterious stranger arrives with a cart purporting to contain the frozen body of a Pithecanthropus. He looks much like a Pithecanthropus himself. He sets up in the common without a word to anybody.

“Betcha he’s Black Rodney,” Twombley says. “We had a few of those Pitha-whatchamacallums back in Babylonia, and they was all fake. Yer the Justice of the Peace around here, Germy. Why don’t you have him thrown in jail?”

“Because I need this wedding, and I need it now!” growls Jeremy. “More creditors are coming out of the woodwork, and if I don’t marry into Lady Margo’s money, I’ll lose my ancestral home. My grandfather never should have invested all his money in that disastrous polar expedition in which everybody died and the ship wound up in Aruba!”

The chapter concludes with a recipe for boiled grass.

Crusty’s Trombone Lessons (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CLXX of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance novel, Oy, Rodney, Lord Jeremy Coldsore is back to courting Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in Scurveyshire. They have to meet in Lady Margo’s kitchen: the upholsterers are busy re-upholstering all the furniture in the house, and there’s no room anywhere else. Lord Jeremy notices that even some of the bowls have been upholstered.

“We really must set a date for our marriage, my love,” says Lord Jeremy, who desperately needs Lady Margo’s wealth to save Coldsore Hall from his creditors. “My love for you is so intense, I can think of nothing else. Oh! Your eyes are like ripe olives in a martini mixed by Venus!”

“How romantic!” Lady Margo sighs–then pauses to re-adjust her wooden leg. It has not fit snugly since her crusty old butler, Crusty, had it reupholstered.

“My love, my pigeon, your elbows are–”

He is interrupted by what sounds like a dragon with its tail caught in a wringer.

“What the deuce is that!”

“It’s nothing, dear. Just Crusty teaching himself to play the trombone.” Blaaaap! Honk! “He wishes to play it at the wedding. He doesn’t want to spend money on hiring musicians.” Whonk! Oooop!

“It’s horrible!” Jeremy shudders.

Before he can say any more, the door slams open. It’s the vicar’s nursemaid, Mrs. Froth.

“Lady Margo! Lord Jeremy! The vicar has emerged from his conniptions! He’s wide awake, and calling for ox-tongue stew with marmalade–and we have no ox-tongues! Please come quickly, I don’t know what to do with him!”

They find him sitting up in bed with a pair of pinking shears, cutting his sheet into amusing but not altogether wholesome shapes.

“Ah, Lord Jeremy and Lady Margo!” he exclaims. “I trust your wedding ceremony was satisfactory–money back if it wasn’t.”

“We haven’t had it yet, sir,” says Jeremy. “You’ve been indisposed. Do you remember what you saw that gave you conniptions?”

The vicar thinks it over, shrugs. “Can’t say that I do. Had it something to do with an incredibly horrifying mass of staring eyes and writhing tentacles?”

At this point Ms. Crepuscular digresses, treating the reader to a list of her childhood playmates who turned out very badly when they grew up. We are unable to account for this, and here the chapter ends.

‘Oy, Rodney’ Author Arrested!

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Violet Crepuscular, author of the classic romance novel, Oy, Rodney, has been arrested by the Global Literary Authority on an assortment of really serious charges.

“She’s obviously guilty, so there’s no need for a trial,” said a GLA commissar whose identity was concealed under a hood.

Guilty of what? Well, here are some of the charges: Practicing literature without a license; failure to include a Full Spectrum of Gender-Diverse Characters in her novel; being white; and Climate Change Denial. Each one carries the death penalty.

Meanwhile, the GLA intends to “erase” her works. “We plan to track down and buy back all six copies of Oy, Rodney and burn them,” said the commissar. We think it might be Loretta Lynch in  her new job.

Ms. Crepuscular was not allowed to comment on her arrest, but she is rumored to have been rather put out about it.

Scurveyshire’s Special Election (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CLXIII of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance novel, Oy, Rodney, Lady Margo Cargo has been persuaded by her crusty old butler, Crusty, to stand for Parliament. A special election is being held because the shire’s beloved old Member of Parliament, “Old Binky” Boggington, has been sucked under the vicar’s backyard wading pool.

“But what about our wedding, my sweet?” cries Lord Jeremy Coldsore.

“It’ll have to wait, my dear. One must do one’s duty! Although how I’m supposed to stand for Parliament, when I can hardly stand at all, what with all the upholstery Crusty has had put on to my wooden leg, is more than I know.” As if to illustrate her point, she falls over.

“Don’t worry, Germy, ol’ hoss,” says Willis Twombley, the American adventurer. He, too, is waiting to be wed to Lady Margo–who thinks he and Lord Jeremy are the same man. “All we got to do is find somebody to run against her who’ll be so popular with the voters, Lady Margo will just give up. Then we’ll get hitched right away.”

The problem is that no one seems to want to be a candidate. Finally Lord Jeremy’s search boils down to Grubby the town drunkard. There is some doubt whether Grubby was fully conscious when he agreed to run.

“I don’t want to give any speeches, though,” he says, after being dipped in ice-cold water several times. “I don’t know how to write no speeches.”

“Constable Chumley has offered to write them for you, old boy,” says Jeremy. He has had to pay the constable rather handsomely for this service.

“Aye, m’lord, ’tis mickle dowd I be.” It seems the constable already has a speech written, but as yet never delivered, entitled Yon Shire be Gimple Yair o’ Fuddle. It was originally intended for a police bar mitzvah several years ago.

“We’re in, ol’ hoss!” exults Twombley. “I got him to read the speech to me, and I do like the sound of it! Sort of reminds me of Millard Fillmore’s inaugural address, way back when. Anyone who sounds like President Fillmore can get elected any day of the week! We’ll be married before you can say ‘Hut to pee an’ smooth sailin’.”

The chapter closes with Lord Jeremy feeling rather confused.

‘Oy, Rodney’: the Footnotes

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In Chapter CLXII of Violet Crepuscular’s epic and spectacular romance, Oy, Rodney, we learn that Scurveyshire needs a new Member of Parliament. This is because the shire’s long-time, beloved representative, Sir Belisarius “Old Binky” Boggington, has been sucked under the vicar’s backyard wading pool, never to be seen again.

Wait! How did we miss that incident? It’s not mentioned in any of the four or five preceding chapters, where I searched for it in vain. But then I noticed a footnote.

“1. I was about to describe this horrifying event in great detail, in Chapter CLXI, when suddenly my smoke alarm went off. The noise was unbearable! I tried to turn it off but the wretched thing just wouldn’t stop. Finally I  called the Fire Dept., and they discovered some kind of insect egg-case inside the smoke detector, positioned in such a way as to force two wires together that should never touch each other. They also found that the cake I was baking in the oven was all but incinerated, but I’m sure that wasn’t what triggered the alarm. To make it worse, the fire chief gave me a right bollocking! I was so upset and humiliated, and distracted, that I forgot what I intended to write. My apologies to the reader; but it is the smoke detector’s fault, not mine.”

Below it was another footnote.

“2. If you are wondering why Constable Chumley, on guard near the pool, didn’t prevent Old Binky from getting too close to the death-trap, I can only say the constable had been distracted, too. I cannot remember how.”

And on the next page, another one.

“3. I realize it is not standard practice to include scholarly footnotes in a romance novel, but my hand is forced by certain persons who have alleged that my depiction of Scurveyshire in Queen Victoria’s time is absurd and unbelievable. They are much mistaken! For the genuine historical background, please consult A Narrative of Recent Events in Scurveyshire by Richard Bucket, A.B., C.D., V.C., O.B.E. etc., Chas. Gibbet and Sons, London: 1904.”

My hat’s off to anyone who can find that book.

As for the rest of Chapter CLXII, it is better left alone.

Lady Margo’s Love Child (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CLIX (which spells “clix”) of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular confides to her readers, “Now I wish I’d written this as a plantation novel. I love plantation novels!” And lets it go at that.

A new complication has arisen, a new obstacle to Lord Jeremy Coldsore’s ambition to marry the wealthy Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in Scurveyshire, and thus foil the creditors who are out to take Coldsore Hall.

Lady Margo thinks she is with child. The difficulty is compounded by Lady Margo’s house being full of upholsterers hard at work re-upholstering all the furniture.

“It’s just wind, you silly old bat,” says Crusty the butler.

“I’m sure I don’t know what it is,” she replies, “but I read somewhere that upholstering a woman’s wooden leg can cause a pregnancy.” Crusty nearly faints: that word is not lightly bandied about in Lady Margo’s circles. “I wonder whose child it is,” she adds wistfully. Crusty sends for Dr. Fanabla, the shire’s renowned phrenologist, who examines the bumps on Lady Margo’s head and pronounces her “not you-know-what–although she does have a slightly serious touch of Colbury’s Complaint. Call me at once if her other hand falls off.” He prescribes a daily morning regimen of jumping jacks. On his way out the door, he is espied by Miss Lizzie Snivel, the spider girl, who falls passionately in love with him and starts following him all around the countryside.

Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who thinks he is Sargon of Akkad, sulks because he has little to do in this chapter. He seeks out Constable Chumley for a companionable nip from the constable’s hip flask which he keeps under his policeman’s helmet. “Chumley, ol’ hoss, I been tryin’ every trick in the book to get this here weddin’ to come off, and we’re still stuck in the startin’ gate.”

“Dint feen thysel,” Chumley replies. “‘Tis a mickle gair as fenners no shough.”

“That’s what they told me back in Texas,” Twombley sighs.

 

 

 

The Wedding’s Off Again (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Nothing much happens in Chapter CLVI of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney. In his capacity as Scurveyshire’s justice of the peace, Lord Jeremy Coldsore has released Jasper the Village Idiot from the local jail, on the condition that he impersonate the Japanese ambassador, Walt Dropo, to prevent the Emperor from learning that his favorite nephew has been sucked under the vicar’s backyard wading pool and is highly unlikely ever to be seen again.

In Chapter CLVII, the vicar comes to his senses but immediately relapses into conniptions when his housekeeper, Mrs. Przewalski, tactlessly asks him what exactly he saw peeking out from under the wading pool.

But the main thing is, Lady Margo Cargo’s wedding to Lord Jeremy and the American adventurer Willis Twombley, well, it’s off again, postponed indefinitely, because Crusty the crusty butler disapproves. He believes Lord Jeremy to be a foundling and Twombley to be an escaped mental patient. He also doesn’t like the idea of his mistress marrying both of these mountebanks at once. To stop the wedding, he has called in upholsterers to re-upholster every piece of furniture in Cargo Hall. Only when that project is finished, he decrees, can the wedding proceed.

“Oh, Crusty!” cries Lady Margo. “Is that really necessary? And I don’t see why my wooden leg has to be upholstered, too.”

“You must allow me to be the judge of that, my lady,” answers the butler.

“You want I should shoot that butler, Germy?” Twombley asks. “We can dump him in the well.”

“Please don’t do that, Sargon, old boy!” Jeremy replies. [Note: Twombley believes himself to be Sargon of Akkad, in case the reader has forgotten.] “Lady Margo’s quite fond of the blighter. He’ll come around when we let him accompany us on our honeymoon.”

“Then let’s have the honeymoon first,” Twombley suggests. “It’ll give us all something fun to do while the upholsterers do their stuff. Where are we goin’, by the way?”

“Lady Margo has always wanted to see Plaguesby.”

“Plaguesby? But that’s only the village next door to this one! What’s she want to go there for? What kind of honeymoon is that?”

Jeremy shrugged. “She’s never been to Plaguesby,” he explains.

“There ain’t nothin’ there, though! Couldn’t we at least go to Monte Carlo? And I hear Kizzuwatna’s nice, this time of year.”

“Where the devil is Kizzuwatna?” Lord Jeremy wonders.

“In Scotland, someplace,” Twombley says [editor’s note: he is badly mistaken].

Jeremy gives in. He always gives in to Twombley’s daft ideas. It’s easier that way.

 

The Ambassador’s Geisha Party (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Chapter CLV of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, should have told us what happened at the gala party thrown for the Japanese ambassador, Walt Dropo, at Lady Margo Cargo’s opulent drawing room. Instead, we are treated to several recipes utilizing Frothee and sauerkraut, none of which seems particularly appealing. We have to move on to Chapter CLVI to get to the party.

With the members of the Scurveyshire Ladies’ Garden Club done up as middle-aged geishas dressed like cowgirls, and square dance music played inexpertly on traditional Japanese instruments, the only hope of making this event a success lies in Willis Twombley’s strategy of getting Dropo-san roaring drunk as soon as possible. This is accomplished with terrifying ease.

“Now I demonstrate my skill with sword!” he bellows, clumsily drawing his samurai sword and laying about the decorations. Crusty the butler disapproves. Everyone else panics. Dropo-san blunders out of the house, crashing through the unopened French window and out into the night. No one seems disposed to follow him.

“I say! This is a disaster!” exclaims Lord Jeremy Coldsore.

“Guess we better catch him before he beheads somebody,” says Twombley. “Heck, this never happened at any of the parties at my royal palace.” He still thinks he is Sargon of Akkad. Flourishing his six-gun, he sets out after the Japanese ambassador. Jeremy follows. It would be a regrettable incident if Twombley were to shoot the Emperor’s favorite cousin.

It’s a dark and moonless night. Jeremy immediately loses sight of his friend. Suddenly, several shots ring out. With a sense of foreboding, Jeremy follows the sound of the gunshots–to find Twombley standing a safe distance from the vicar’s backyard wading pool.

“Too late, ol’ hoss!” says the American. “I got here jist in time to see poor Whatsisname disappearin’ under the pool, still swingin’ his sword. There was big slimy tentacles wrapped all around him, and my shootin’ didn’t do no good. He’s a goner.”

They sit down, sighing, on an antique marble bench. “I shall be hard put to explain this, old boy,” says Jeremy.

They are joined by Constable Chumley, who offers them a pull from the flask he carries under his helmet. “I throck it were mickle gree,” the constable remarks philosophically. He has been longing, for years, to deliver a philosophical remark, and now that he has the opportunity, makes the most of it.