The nimble triumbulator toddles on along. Its trimble and it nimbulates all along the Strand. It has its swaying lanterns and all its pretty windows, but they are unseeing as its great big eye which strops it from tripping as it nimbulates along the Strand. The little abacuses are there to keep a count of how many nimble trimbles its tremulously wimbles.
Professor Ward's Homelibrariumator
Tired of waddling home with limbs overladed with hefty tomes, Professor Ward of Rogerhouse college at the University of Tricklespan commissioned the college forgeworks to put together a device of assured academical assistance so that his tomes would waddle home to him! What a beautiful thing indeed for the budding young scholar. Enquires for your own bespoke Homelibrariumator may be sent by post to: Rogerhouse, Bidenington Street, University of Tricklespan, Tricklespan.
An Antiquarian Writes His Last Chapter
Thaddeus Limpsims FRSA FSRLG FAFF Esq. was known far and wide as an acclaimed antiquarian of great assiduity and acumen, and even further for his remarkable Antiqupogglencylopaedictionarium - a magnum opus of many decades of creation in which he hoped to record every old and curious thing that ever existed, from the ancient ballads of the Singing Silktagglers of the Paloorian Slug Caves (pp. 3433-543, vol. XVII) to the mosaic patterns used on the floors and ceilings of the royal sauna of the Bambushka of Bamul (pp.774-988, vol. XXXV) .
Though he was by pint-side reputation an intrepid and daring scholar-explorer, as most stories go, it had become rather overinflated by the braggadocious prattle of servants and other ne'er-do-wells. The truth was all his antiquarian expeditions had been mounted from the comfort of his capacious studded-leather armchair, worn smooth by the excited jump he made every time the heavy brass knocker of 69 Brookecarros Square thumped and thudded, signalling the incoming post and new things to be learned and studied, noted, filed, catalogued, prodded, pondered, thinkered and finally added as an entry in his ever sprawling manuscript for the Antiqupogglencylopaedictionarium.
Limpsims was a great patron of the postal service, a wad of heavy envelopes ritually given and exchanged both morning and evening. However, the postman would with some regularity also bring more interesting cargo. Boxes and crates arrived, groaning with arcane books and fragments of lost ages carried upstairs to the ballroom which had become his library and study. It was in these giddy moments that his pinz-nez spectacles fogged with delight and he broke communion with his great manuscript for the Antiqupogglencylopaedictionarium which like the tower of the Heliopolonopoloipos monastery (pp. 6655, vol. DLV) teetered on the right-hand side of his desk and on the seven hundred and seventy-seven spindly-legged tables which jostled around him, each surmounted by teetering crags of paper covered with his elaborate spidery scrawl. Inevitably whatever had arrived certainly meant another chapter. His exasperated publisher, Simeon of S. Palding & Daughters routinely admonished Limpsims for his verbosity and vainly reminded him that the original commission was for an hundred page pamphlet on the interesting historical features of the local parish church St. Henrietta-Le-Custard (pp. 1-10000, vol. I).
And yet, THHHHHUMPLE, went the door knocker with truly dizzying speed as more books and post came to produce more chapters of the Antiqupogglencylopaedictionarium. Almost as fast as Muntgimmery, his poor beleaguered butler was forced to empty the chamberpot and bring in his meagre supper of kippers in milk, for Limpsims never ever ever left his chair or his darling manuscript. A light bit of napping here and there kept him humming along, and his sheer manic enthusiasm kept all his increasingly brittle bones together.
The trouble with magnum opuses, especially those which stretch on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on to DCLXVI volumes with innumerable chapters and footnotes and other wordiness is that one rather produces a lot of paper. So much paper in fact that even the most sturdy of floors would rather groan beneath their weight. As it was, (in a lesson to all scholars of zealous productivity), the added weight of the XIII Chapter to Volume DCLXVI was just a chapter too far. For the tremors sounded by the next THHHHHUMPLE, of Limpsims’ door knocker started an almighty rumble through the beams that snickersnacked through the floorboards and whispered angrily through the walls which supported the library until it turned into an almighty CRACCCCCKLE. Then a bang, then a billow of dust and debris. All it went, each and every page of each and every chapter and volume of the Antiqupogglencylopaedictionarium, down in seconds into an horrible heap.
Needless to say, the Antiqupogglencylopaedictionarium was published posthumously. Indeed, all that could be salvaged by poor Limpsims’ publisher was a slender abridged version, Volume 1 - pages 1-100, concerning the local church. Always stick to your word limit.
Aunt Tabytha and the Oreotragus oreogtragus.
Viscount Ballyhoo strode into the parlour wielding his rifle with a dextrous fury. ‘Confounded Banshee, stop your meddling!’ roared the Colonel like an angry charging buffalo. I looked over at Aunt Tabytha who’s smiling face, betrayed her enjoyment at the Viscount’s rage. ‘My dear and most estimable husband, I know not, what you know, that which you think I know.’
The Viscount’s face, deepened into an even darker hue of beetroot-red. ‘The Oreotragus oreotragus that’s what, you damnable Gorgon, you know perfectly well what’s the matter!’ Aunt Tabytha, coolly reached down and picked up her teacup and saucer, elegantly stirring her steaming brew. ‘Well my dear Ballyhoo’ she paused, ‘If you are referring to that hideous flea infested stuffed animal that you insisted be mounted on the wall, it is now disposed of’ Aunt Tabytha replied calmly. ‘Whaaaaaaaaat! I didn’t go to the savannah just to avoid you! I went there to shoot animals, to kill them cold, shoooooooot the living daylights out of the furry buggers, what do you mean to do, throwing out my trophies, eh? Medusa! Harpie! Steam by this point was practically venting from his enflamed nostrils and blaring over his white and bounteous whiskers.
‘It may have been an extremely good specimen of an Oreotragus oreotragus, however it was shedding its fur onto my new rug, and it simply wasn’t going to do’ Aunt Tabytha replied, ending on a tone that indicated she thought the matter well and truly done. ‘Rigggggggggght,’ roared the Viscount. ‘Then your new dinner service will shortly be used for target practice!’ The Viscount strode out of the parlour.
I looked over at my Aunt, she smiled back with a violent sweetness, ‘Some species are likely to meet an early extinction.’ Bare moments passed before the shriek of maids and the splinterous crash of china made clear that his threat had not been idle. Though instead of heading into the garden, it seemed he had decided to shoot the plates inside the dining room. Not a shadow flickered across my Aunt’s countenance. ‘And how are your studies getting on up at Cowpuddle, my dear?’ Tabytha cooed to me, her eyes swivelling towards me with the calm of a contented crocodile.
Hinton and Tabble's Delayed Wedding
Hinton fell in love with Tabble on a hot summer’s day whilst walking along the banks of the Yorcangle river betwixt the swish-swaying strands of the Winnomer trees that diluted the strong sunshine into a more palatable admixture of dappled shade. Hinton, reclining with lavish abandon against one such of these arboreal beauties, was reading a favourite novel, by Noir U. N. Barbe a swash-un-buckling yarn about lascivious pirates with peculiar peccadilloes. “My! What sultry reading you have in your hands there” Tabble remarked cheekily. “Oh, yes! I’ve just reached the splendid part where the dastardly pirate Turquoise-Bangs has her peg-leg fitted”. Hinton being a fan of Barbe, and Barbe being a favourite of Tabble, the conversation ere long flowed long and luxuriantly like the cool waters of the Yorcangle.
In time, Hinton and Tabble discovered their mutual delight in many literary giants like Wilhelmina Rattlepike, R. J. J. Tolreluctant and Charlotte Fannykins. Whilst nattering merrily about these books they loved, they soon discovered they too loved each other.
On a brisk autumnal day whilst walking along the banks of the Yorcangle river, Hinton fell down kneewards before Tabble and made a poetic and marvellous proposal of marriage, ending… “Terrific Tabble, won’t you do me the utmost and glorious of honours and me mine forever?”. A smile spread across Tabble’s face, eyes sparkling, set off with the colours bouncing off the the great opal-set ring handed across as a memento of the moment. The answer came swiftly, “By jolly Jigglewiggle, nothing would fill my heart with more zigglepiggling delight!”.
But as winter drew in silently with its stealthy malice, disaster soon struck. The best laid matrimonial plans of the besotted pair came unstuck. For unbeknownst to them, in the beautiful Yorcangle lurked that most revolting of beasts, a mauve-haired festering meaverweasel which squelching hideously onto the bank ahead of its winter hibernation was swallowed whole by a joshawke which swooped it up in its talons before feeding it bit by bit to its chomping chicks high up in the Norspoon mountains, which were in turn gobbled up by a slithering udderadder (a rare serpent which sprouts a fine set of teats) that was duly milked by a snaketuggler for the morning cereal of the Marquess of Galepond.
What the unsuspecting Marquess did not know, was that meaverweasels carry inside them a terrible disease which often cover them with purple boils which explode horribly, a pestilence which had been cooked into something ever more potent in the bellies of joshawkes and udderadders and cruelly past onto him in the milk poured liberally over his muesli. The poor Marquess soon became the first victim of a fearsome new plague called the ‘jabbering sickness’ which produced big purple boils and provoked a constant babble of nonsense and laughter. Soon the Marquess was jabbering away, and so too his children, Bibby, Libby, Tibby and Jonannathan. Who each passed on the nasty illness to their friends and enemies. Before long, far and wide along the Yorcangle the curse of purple boils and jabbering proliferated terribly.
Jonannathan gave it with a kiss to the the snaketuggler’s daughter Cobrabella who gave it to her sister Aspaa, who flung it at a school chum Tombo Bollinboddle who looked after it for a week before passing it to the Rev’d Jarrew who gave it to Meggin the flowermonger who gave it to Cartillo the tailor who in an unfortunate tavern scrape inadvertently passed it to Tintad the potscraper who at the wrong moment in a tight alleyway as he was squeezing past the immense bosoms of Mrs Betna Bean let out an infectious chortle which gave the poor lady the accursed jabbering sickness.
Bear in mind that the jabbering sickness was not fatal, but it was a damn nuisance. Who could do anything when laughing and sprouting nonsense or swimming in a sea of boiljuices?
A sample of Mrs Betna Bean’s symptomatic utterances is herewith given to the dear reader verbatim: “Brick up the chicken pudding or you will * laughs* never see the moon skip merrily to the tune of Old Barnabby the Handsome Cabbie *chortles* or encounter the delights of a fish-massage at the hands of a moustachioed military officer as he flounces his lace petticoats at passing accountants who have been let out of the mines punitively early for incessant decanting of *guffaws* etc. etc…..”
This ghastly little subplot is necessary background information for the simple elucidatory fact that many of these poorly jabberers had been recruited by Hinton and Tabble in the celebratory arrangements for their matrimonial jubilations. Betna Bean for example was the proprietress of Mrs Bean’s Hall of Goodtidings, Merrycaking and Matrimonial Undertakings and had been engaged when they got engaged to put on a swell shindig. One of her marvellous multi-tiered cakes with Hinton and Tabble crowning the cakey-crag sat on her worktable but her new illness now prevented anything further from being arranged or festooned or decanted or otherwise prepared.
And what with Rev’d Jarrew the Vicar braying and giggling about marshmallow pianofortes and not at all thinking about sermons, Meggin the Flowermonger desperately making crunchy hyacinth pesto in a vain attempt to find a cure for herjabbering before she’d even countemplated snipping the bouquet buds and Cartillo the tailor turning all the wedding finery to rags in order to mop up the unfortunate leakages from his purple boils, the wedding was well and truly off.
‘There, there, Hinton, my darling!’ cooed Tabble encouragingly, ‘…all shall be well again once this jabbering has subsided, as surely the jabbering cannot last for forever, for no jabbering can, when all have jabbered their all! And all boils, are eventually squeezed dry!’. These small words of consolation did the trick, and Hinton was once again steeled to action and invention. The wedding would be saved, by high or low Yorcangle waters! A keen inventor of this and that and all manner of practical thingos, Hinton went down to the shed and in short succession had plotted pinions here and there, drafted an array of dinglegirdles and sluiced open the pool of an enormous practical and poetic knowledge to invent the Clochepaddler. A marvellous device for sealing the wedding cake and wedding bells away safely for such time when the festivities once delayed could recommence!
As Tabble had promised, so the jabbering sickness subsided and peace and good health were once again restored to the jolly souls who lived on the banks of the Yorcangle river. The jabbering was jabbered out and the boils, boiled dry. On a hot summer’s day along the banks of the Yorcangle river betwixt the swish-swaying strands of the Winnomer trees that diluted the strong sunshine into a more palatable admixture of dappled shade Hinton and Tabble were married. Rev’d Jarrew orated sagely on brimstone and fire, Meggin had hooped together blooms of great beauty, Cartillo had threaded wedding raiments of some finery and Mrs Betna Bean put on one almighty shindig with all their friends from the Marquess of Galepond to Tintad the potscraper*. Best of all, though somewhat delayed, there was some of Mr’s Bean’s finest wedding cake ready to be served for all, fresh and sweet as if there had almost never been any delay at all. The knife withdrawn from the first cut, came out dirty, so as according to longstanding tradition Hinton had to give Tabble a great big kiss.
* No mauve-haired festering meaverweasels were invited.
The Sorry Tale of the Drunken Possum
Amongst learned circles it has long been known that Possums have a great taste for alcohol. They slurp spirits, belch down beer and will whip down wine faster than you can say “Golly-Mr-Possum-are-you-sure-you-need-a-fifth-bottle-of-fine-claret?”.
The great sadness for Peregrine, the Possum protagonist of this tale, was that he didn’t like alcohol and could never join in with the other possums at their possumy parties. At long last his teetotaller ways got the better of him, he was simply sick of being so terribly lonely.
So he reached up with his paws to the top shelf a dusty bottle of Prosecco given to him for his fourth birthday and downed it in a single gulp. “WAZZZOOOOO” he declared with delight and fumbled around in his father’s old liquor cabinet extracting five bottles of fine single malt to continue lubricating the egress of his former sobriety.
Needless to say this story has a most tragic denouement. For while most possums have come to terms with the effect of such heavy imbibing of intoxicating liquids, Peregrine was coming rather late and one mis-pawed swaying step saw him plummet from his tree to his premature possumy passing.
Major Higginbotham's Sausage Acccident
An orderly household was always the aim of Major Jago Higginbotham. Retired from active service in his beloved regiment, the ‘King’s Kittens’, he had taken rather slowly to Operation Dusting and the doing battle with the mop, clunking around with the help of his duck-headed cane.
He found his energy to cope with all this cleaning and fussing through a diet consisting entirely of meat. There being no force on earth that could have diluted his carnivorous appetite for comestibles comprising of flesh.
Yet, even the best laid plans of mice and retired majors come off awry when one slips on a floor too smoothly polished and you tumble into the sausage mincer being operated in the kitchen and end up as fine fat bangers.
Mrs Pettifer's Turnip
In the usual course of events, one rather gets used to vegetables of a friendly disposition. Yet, on a fateful Sunday in March, Mrs Hepsibah Pettifer of Little Pigg encountered a most malicious turnip.
So malign was its influence she had to cancel her usual surfing holiday and run screaming to the vicar to implore him to waggle his finger at the nasty little root.
Such as it was, the Vicar met a most unfortunate ending, but the blood sacrifice was enough to salve the sinister little brute. Mrs Pettifer has not been able to look at a turnip with the same joy as filled her years before this strange interlude.
