Tag: quaint rural dialects

The Plot Thickens (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Posted By: leeduigon(patty)Posted On:

Oy Rodney – Lee Duigon

Introducing Chapter DCCIX of her interminable romance, Oy, Rodney, Ms. Violet Crepuscular, The Queen of Suspense,. confides in her myriads of readers:

“I’m torn,” she writes, “between going back all the way into the Royal Millipede Inspector’s early childhood and jumping ahead to World War I to see how many of my characters are still alive by then. After wrestling with the dilemma all week long (It quite took the magic out of my dinner date with Mr. Pitfall–which I paid for, by the way!), I have decided to follow the advice made famous by Constable Chumley:

“‘Ayr yer vavven cligh yon boodie, gaet snaffle!'”

Proceeding in accord with that age-old wisdom, she brings in yet another character: Johnno the Merry Minstrel’s podiatrist, Dr. Fratsky. His hobby is hoodwinking the Picts. He is seven and a half feet tall, but no one notices. “Later on in life,” Ms. Crepuscular coagulates, “he will come to resemble Tim McCarver. I once had a crush on him, until I heard he was wearing a toupee.”

Management disclaims any and all responsibility for anything said or written by Ms. Crepuscular.

The Immortal Doris Pokeweed (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Posted By: leeduigon(patty)Posted On:

a gripping page-turner headed for the top of the NY Times bestseller list | Romance novels, Funny romance, Book parody

Will Lord Jeremy Coldsore be whisked into the 20th century as June Taylor’s toy boy? Or will the June Taylor Dancers simply continue as the new tyrants ruling Scurveyshire? And what about Lady Margo Cargo, who is about to lose her fiancee?

Only Violet Crepuscular, “The Queen of Suspense,” can straighten out this mess! After all, she made it.

Introducing Chapter DCLXXIII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Ms. Crepuscular treats her readers to a recipe for toothpaste sausages. This is not helpful. But she soon gets back into the story: Lady Margo Cargo has appealed to the legendary Doris Pokewood, who rode with Boudicca and bowled with Francis Drake. One cannot do such things without becoming a legend.

“Be thwan yer backus,” she reassures Lady Margo, speaking in the quaint rural dialect which survives in Scurveyshire alone. Everywhere else, they’ve gotten rid of it. However, Lady Margo is greatly comforted when she sees Doris snatch up her fabled oaken rolling pin and stride boldly into the midst of the Dancers. They don’t await further developments; they have last been seen fleeing to Tannu Tuva–and from there, back to their own time and place. Lord Jeremy proclaims a Doris Pokeweed Day. The shire celebrates cautiously.

“See?” concludes Violet. “Was that so hard? Not to mention it was the origin of our own annual Pokeweed holiday!”

One can only stand in awe. There is a rumor that this might be the end of the whole novel. We shall see.

Volcano REALLY Threatens Scurveyshire, No Kidding Around! (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Posted By: leeduigon(patty)Posted On:

a gripping page-turner headed for the top of the NY Times bestseller list | Romance novels, Funny romance, Book parody

We have come to a pivotal chapter in Violent Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney. We have also come to Chapter DXL (pronounced “Dix’ll”).

Smoke or something is coming out of a crack in the ground, just where Scurveyshire Common abuts on Nose And Throat Street. Introducing the chapter, Ms. Crepuscular writes, “It’s a very bad business! The volcano could blow any minute, and Britain would have its own Pompeii. No wonder they’re frantically searching for Constable Chumley!”

Chumley is investigating goings-on at The Lying Tart, where a back room is said to be set aside, once a week, for a deadly game of ritualized poking. As the constable puts it, “‘Er mouzeful doggonit, by yon priggle!”

To prove his courage, Johnno the Merry Minstrel stands almost on top of the volcano and peers down into the crack.

“Do you see anything?” cries Lord Jeremy Coldsore, as he recovers from a brush with a Ginsu knife.

“You mean, ‘In the future’?”

That is not what Jeremy means, and he is rapidly losing his patience.

“Ah, dear reader!” flosticates Ms. Crepuscular. “What indeed is in the crack? What does Johnno see? I could tell you now, but that would ruin it for the next weekend. For the time being, here is my recipe for toothpaste and breadfruit a la mode…”

[Editor disclaims all responsibility for this. It is regrettable.]

Curing the Vicar’s Conniptions (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Posted By: leeduigon(patty)Posted On:

Lady Margo Cargo – Lee Duigon

Introducing Chapter CDXLIV of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular tackles the problem of the Vicar of Scurveyshire’s recurring conniptions.

“I am frequently asked to describe the vicar’s conniptions,” she writes, “but I have always held back from doing so because they’re such tacky conniptions! Dr. Fanabla has thrown up his hands in despair–and now he can’t bring them down again. People who see him on the street assume a robbery is in progress and throw up their hands, too. And now he finds it virtually impossible to put on his socks and tie his shoes.”

Constable Chumley interrupts his door-to-door search for legless amphibians to answer repeated summonses to stop a robbery on the High Street. The fact that there is no robbery never daunts him. “Fray nobbin to nobbin,” he explains, “sithen yon manny grue brach!” Many find his words reassuring. Some don’t.”

Meanwhile, the vicar’s new conniptions take on a form which will forever haunt all those who witness them. In desperation, Lady Margo Cargo suggests a folk remedy: tie a burlap bag over his head and sing “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” “It sometimes worked when our head house parlor maid had her conniptions,” she reverberates.

“We’ll have to wait for the next chapter to find out whether it works,” writes Ms. Crepuscular. “That’s how I heighten the suspense!”

I fear that means she doesn’t know.

P.S.: Reader Doris Magnoon of Inchworm Township, Kuwait, objects to the use of Roman numbers as chapter heads. “We have been cheated out of the magical numeral, 444, which has massive therapeutic properties!” she complains. It is Ms. Crepuscular’s plan to ignore her.

Mr. Skraeling’s Comeuppance (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Posted By: leeduigon(patty)Posted On:

30+ Romance novel cover parodies ideas | romance novel covers, romance, book humor

[Editor’s Note: I had a thought in the middle of the night. It struck me that I have created several repeating characters for this blog–Byron the Quokka and Dr. Fantod, the life-coaching spider; Joe Collidge; and the whole crowd that inhabits Scurveyshire. What if I were to put them all into one novel? What kind of book would that be?]

Introducing Chapter CCCXCIV of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular has suddenly realized that Scurveyshire’s current craze for reddling–reddle-ing?–has gotten out of hand. “Dear reader,” she writes, “it appears that Scurveyshire’s current craze for reddling has gotten completely out of hand. Finding myself unable to deal with it artistically, I have decided to bring it to an end.”

It won’t be easy. Olaf Skraeling, posing as a reddleman in a bid to win the hand of Scurveyshire’s rich widow, Lady Margo Cargo, has created a demand that he cannot fulfill. For one thing, he’s out of reddle and doesn’t know where to get more. For another, Lady Margo blames him for her glass eye falling out while playing hopscotch. “Here’s where it gets tricky,” Ms. Crepuscular warns the reader.

You guessed it–one step too close to the fateful wading pool in the vicar’s back yard, and Mr. Skraeling, reddled clothes and all, gets sucked right under! Shloopf! That fatal sound is the last thing Olaf hears.

“Who’s going to pay for my glass eye?” demands Lady Margo. “I thought it was so romantic, the way he reddled my upholstered wooden leg–and now he’s gone!”

Constable Chumley has already stepped in to take care of Mr. Skraeling’s menagerie of chameleons, which creates a suspicion that he somehow maneuvered Olaf into the wading pool’s clutches. The constable refutes the charge: “A’ niffer blayed yon burzey wout a mair windring!” he declares.

Ms. Crepuscular goes on to object strenuously to any proposal to blend marsupials or daft college students into her romance. “It would ruin the whole thing!” she exclaims passionately.

Constable Chumley’s Memoirs (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Posted By: leeduigon(patty)Posted On:

silly romance novels – Lee Duigon

Introducing Chapter CCCLXXX of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular candidly confides in her readers, “Dear Reader, I would not wish you to form the impression that life in Scurveyshire is one of unremitting stress. Normal things happen, too.” She has apparently forgotten the two Scotland Yard detectives who are trying to frame each other for the theft of a locomotive.

One of these soothingly normal things that are happening is, as the chapter’s title might suggest (although you can never be entirely sure about what Ms. Crepuscular’s titles really indicate)–ta-dah! Constable Chumley is writing his memoirs.

Having forgotten how to read and write, he is actually dictating them to the Wise Woman of the Woods, who is now the Wise Woman of Scurveyshire Gaol: she likes it there and refuses to return to the forest.

“Willaday yaither mon greezen hoy, dray boddy, ma’ doon,” he begins. After an hour of listening to this–the Wise Woman peppers the constable with questions about spelling and grammar, which he is not equipped to answer–the prisoner in the adjacent cell goes totally mad and has to be moved to the pet shop. There he encounters Lady Margo Cargo’s crusty old butler, Crusty, who has been sent to buy crayfish food for his mistress’ pet crayfish, Oswin.

“Can’t anyone stop that man from raving?” he inquires testily: for the prisoner is still quite beside himself. The shop owner only shrugs. “It seems Constable Chumley’s discourse is too much for this poor chap,” he says. “Do you want regular Crayfish Chow, or menthol?”

“Menthol,” grumbles Crusty.

“King-size or Economy-size?” This goes on for longer than the chapter lasts.

In Search of an Oracle (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Posted By: leeduigon(patty)Posted On:

Image result for images of silly romance novels

With the Wise Woman of the Woods locked up in jail–er, gaol–and refusing to come out, and Johnno the Merry Minstrel having unexpectedly failed as a source of supernatural advice (swallowing your harmonica will do that to you), Violet Crepuscular has her work cut out for her in Chapter CCCXXIII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney.

She has tried to tackle it head-on.

“Dear readers,” she writes, “I have decided to tackle this problem head-on, although the last time I tried that was in a football game in our neighbor’s back yard, and I missed the tackle and rammed head-first into her oil tank behind the house.”

Be that as it may, something must be done to break the hold of Black Rodney, the medieval sorcerer, on poor afflicted Scurveyshire. Only then can Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in the shire, marry Lord Jeremy Coldsore and his friend, the American adventurer Willis Twombley, whom she thinks are the same person.

“I’ll give you one more chance to come through with an answer to our problem,” says Lord Jeremy, “and if you fail us this time, I’ll have you hanged for practicing witchcraft without a license.”

“Fair enough,” agrees the Wise Woman of the Gaol. It bothers me to write “gaol” instead of “jail,” but it seems Ms. Crepuscular is used to it. “The first thing you have to do is find the tomb of a tomboy and make a counter-clockwise circuit of it, turning cartwheels while reciting I’ve Got Rhythm in classical Greek.” Jeremy thinks this is apt to be difficult, but he needs the marriage so he can save Coldsore Hall from its multitude of creditors.

“Then what?” he asks.

“Report back to me for further instructions.”

First he has to learn classical Greek. Twombley is unable to help him there. “When I was king of Akkad,” he said, “nobody spoke classical Greek. But I think Constable Chumley does.”

The constable replies with enthusiasm: “Aye, fairthy yon scopper, m’lord!”

“When can you start teaching me?”

“I’ the reekle o’ the gorn, m’lord!” He takes a bow and walks off to the pub, leaving Jeremy not much wiser than he was at the start of the chapter.

Ms. Crepuscular concludes with a poem, not to be repeated here, that casts some doubt on her sanity.