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Post by BSJ on Aug 22, 2014 17:49:50 GMT
O.K. Kids, I think we need to step back here and check in with our hero Jeff Lynne. How is he really surviving all this? Let’s peek in a window at BP – shall we? There he is, our hero, sitting cross legged on his pool table. Wha? Your first reaction is to rap on the window. Then he looks up – did he see us? Nooo… How could he with that blank stare and why is this happening to me expression?
Is he in a creative muse? Is this how the magic works? OMG! – he’s laying back on the table and ouch!! hits his head on the cue ball and doesn’t flinch. Now he’s contemplating the ceiling.
Ohhhh… this is not good. Maybe he’s having a hypnotic flashback! I’m proud we putting him in a trance worked, but something is off the rails here. (Rail – get it? Pool table rail? Never mind.) Shhhh… In astonishment he mummers: Maybe I don’t really need Woodeye’s help? Maybe, just maybe, I’m having what everyday people have, what’s that? – snaps finger – oh! yes! a nightmare! Pinches himself, a bit of a slap at his face. Even pulls at his whiskers! Then a pair of shades from his suit pocket are taken out and thoughtfully cleaned. Nice try! He’s ever on the alert!
Aha! I’ve got it he says. I’m having a Genius, not senior moment here! This is a Secret Message happening in me life! If I play the last month of me life backwards I’ll find the answers. Maybe this is just spirited play from me fans who I drove nuttsy low all these years? Why did Bev just slip to mind?
Our hero hops up over the table and makes way to his pieana. I’ve always done me best work on the pieana, he says. And I know this is where I’ll find me answers.
Let’s see, he reflects, I felt the wind shift early August. Tinkers on a few keys. Fred’s lights kept blinking erratically. OK. I shut Fred down. It’s was driving me around the bend! Me belly button started to go cold and has been ever since. Harsh dreams on and off with eyeliners, spiders, washing machines, Postcard 7”s, letters, bungee cords, condoms, (condoms and high school birds! Am I in trouble here?) large crates spinning around. Even a foot sticking out of a celling! There were very loud voices in that dream. Were they speaking backwards?
There are two gang leaders. One is a dancing robot, put me Fred out to pasture that one would, and the other is just a cold bellybutton!! I double checked mine. Just as adorable. Keep it together son! Then parts of the dreams came to life! Oh, blimey this is when me days became more intense. More notes played rougher. Eyeliner? The hell? A crate from UK full of eyeliner shows up at the bottom of me drive! Took some time shoving it up to the Palace and break into. And when I opened it!? -Shakes head- I just didn’t know what to think, so I nicked countless packs. I admit me eyeliner stash was getting low – shrugs (no, he is not lying - truth). If it free it’s for me Lynne! So I had it shipped back to Ohio. (Ohio? is that close to Florida? BSJ breaking through the third wall. I was asked this from someone who lives in the US!) Why did it not come straight from Ohio? At this point, I just wanted it gone. Shipping back to UK is cost prohibited and like many of me county men, we don’t like screwing with customs. Truth to tell, me thinks it would not make it back across the pond. The crate was rickety and I had this image of eyeliner packs breaking up on shore somewhere off of Lisbon. Wasteful, that.
And then fresh hell appeared in me shrubs! I never saw Lucy me dog again! I think she jumped off the back yard hill. Probably thought LA was safer. As if!
It was a crate with Buckingham Palace return on it. I thought Oh bloody ‘ell I hope it’s not Philip doing a runner! Had air holes, sad limp air mattress and teddy bear, a few posters of me tacked on the sides, (I signed them, can’t help meself!) few wine empties – cheap Californian! That must have been a rough trip. And me fav BBJ’s!* I enjoy them fried. Anywho. There it rested behind me grotto, in me Secret Country Garden where I film me award winning series Storytellers and where big stars visit. Woodeye’s been there! As has Paul! Doooooo…... riffs on the Beatles tune Get Back.
The morning after its arrival? Oh! me head and me arms and legs and belly and naughty bits! What were those burns around me wrists and legs? Were those Secret Messages drawn all over me in eyeliner? Flicks of dried mascara (think that was an afterthought) all over me bruised and battered self? And me mind is still in the same state. The most hurtful thing is that they used all me eyeliner I just nicked!
Then one day after all of this, the name on me mail box changed from Jeff Lynne Genius, to His Highness Lord Dame Jeff! What really pissed me was Genius being left off. That’s a short way to get me goat!
A few days after I stenciled Genius on the box – I do like the other bits, a registered letter (PPUR) in address for LDJ was delivered! Postmarked Xanadu! I am not shy to say that that trembled me a bit up. A few notes of Xanadu on the lower scales.
Who, what, why? In this letter someone called unomusette was grassed out about something. Is this a clue? What’s a pinky swear, clue as well? No thank you, I have plenty of adoring submissive slaves BSJ, thank you anyway. (Leave resume on front hall desk, just in case… wink, wink.)
OH! Horace Wimpey! Horace, Horace! How’d you get in on the game!? Notes of Horace’s song played extremely rough.
But I respect the nutters who did this. They kept me shades on the whole time!!! And I really am chuffed about this new hairdo in a Mohawk style!
End. Oh, our poor delusional His Highness Lord Dame Jeff Lynne Genius! So, here we are kids. LDJG seems to be a bit messed up. Have we driven him to become a “Mad” Genius? Will his mail box have room for this new title?
*Peanut Butter and Jelly. Do try it fried – delightful!
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Post by elophile on Aug 22, 2014 21:37:16 GMT
ELO Surrealistic-Erotic Fan Fiction? It's about time!
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Post by unomusette on Aug 22, 2014 23:41:52 GMT
^I hate to tell you this, but I'm a bit of a fan fiction freak for a certain other band and during my exploration I have seen the most surprising creation where Mr L and Mr W get rather more than friendly. It was a bit of a shock and made my face ache from the horrified expression. I've not been back to that particular site. But now my face is aching even more from reading BSJ's post, oh dear. Haven't sniggered so much in ages. And it's all true!
Picture the scene, if you will. It's a lovely day in South Wales, the rain is warm and the sheep are rummaging happily among the recycling bins whilst seagulls pinch the ice cream from unsuspecting tourists at Barry Island. As usual nothing much is happening but it is happening in English and Welsh at the same time which confuses everyone and is horribly costly.
Down the road at unomusette's house, cocooned from Real Life, she is picking the last bits of egg from her "natural" brunette locks and smirking. It was quite a swim back from LA (the long way via Tierra Del Fuego, Hawaii, Japan, Tasmania, Cape Town, Buenos Aires, The Azores and Birmingham) but the mission was most successfully accomplished and the photos, oh! the photos! are a tour de force, a soupe du jour and a coup de grace. They're quite good, and His Highness the Lord Dame Jeffrey would be really pleased if he ever got to see them. He won't of course, because they are destined for sale to discerning lovers of art with a kinky twist.
How many tubes of eyeliner? How many gallons of mascara? The man was insatiable! And they'd thought they'd have to subdue him. As it happened all BSJ had to do was wave a picture of Del Shannon about and shout "Del says it's OK" a few times and he just lay back and submitted. Who would have thought you could stencil a person in so many places? It was a shame the "Genius" stencil had been destroyed in the process but when the Lord Dame finds exactly where BSJ has managed to apply it he'll surely be impressed. And his mailbox will still look awesome even though they never got round to renewing that particular word.
Absently, she powders her face using the little doggie who'd hitched a ride in her rucksack to hide from the sight of the Lord Dame in all his glory. Briefly, she feels a pang of guilt when she remembers abandoning BSJ in the Secret Garden when a bunch of LDJ's famous friends turned up unexpectedly to film yet another tribute, but to be fair BSJ had looked quite pleased to be carried off over Paul McCartney's shoulder (if screaming "HEEELLLPPP!" counts). And judging by all the "Dooo!'s" it seemed Mr M was pretty happy too. Twanging Ringo's quite obviously false nose had been enough for unomusette to make her escape, although leaving those posters behind in the crate had been a wrench.
"Yowp!" Seems the powder puff is hungry. A long sea voyage can do that to a person, or a doggie. A couple of sausages later, unomusette ponders further on BSJ's strange approach to food acronyms.
"How long did I puzzle over that blimmin' BBJ thingy? And it turns out to mean Peanut Butter and Jelly, what's that all about? It should be PBJ ffs!" she fumes "Missed out on a prize there. And even if it is totally scrumptious fried, it didn't do Elvis much good, did it? Lordy, I wonder what she's up to over in Paul McCartney's dungeon? I hope he isn't daft enough to try and tie her up, it'll be the worse for him. Wonder if I should go back and try to rescue him?" Various diverting scenes play out across her mind's eye - how many other of LDJ's pals had followed Macca home? They could all be in danger if BSJ got a bit cross. What if Prince got involved? He's so tiny he'd be crushed under one of BSJ's spiked heels (although actually he'd be begging for more, the perv)
"Think I'll sleep on it, bet those rock stars can look after themselves" she decides, draining the pint glass of cheap french red and shrugging the cats from her shoulders. They are not pleased at this and advance, frowning, upon the powdery doggie to work out their frustration. Much to their surprise the doggie has been fortified by unaccustomed sausagemeat and deals them each a smart right hook. Impressed, unomusette surveys the scene and spots the name tag on doggie's collar.
"Lucy, hmm. Think a rechristening might be in order here" Sharp canine teeth catch the light from the candelabra made of human bones which adorns the ceiling of unomusette's lair. She tosses over a couple more sausages made of unknown welsh meat, they are devoured instantly.
"Bye-bye Lucy, hello Lucifer"
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Post by BSJ on Aug 23, 2014 17:04:23 GMT
The best work of uno’s yet! I’m in tears rollin’ off me pool table!
‘How many tubes of eyeliner? How many gallons of mascara? The man was insatiable! And they'd thought they'd have to subdue him. As it happened all BSJ had to do was wave a picture of Del Shannon about and shout "Del says it's OK" a few times and he just lay back and submitted.’
Being uno’s Sonny to her Bono, I’m pounded!
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Post by unomusette on Aug 23, 2014 18:55:03 GMT
N'aww stoppit, you're making me blush. And NOBODY can bring the Lord Dame to life like you do, I'm not ever going to try and write him because it will simply never match up to your version. Everyone else is fair game though, heee! Feel free to carry on, or I might have a go when Dr Who is over.
And just in case anyone was confused about the Mr L and Mr W thingy, it was indeed Messrs Lynne and Wood. I mean, I've read a LOT of that kind of filth about Muse and thoroughly enjoyed it, not to mention learned a whole lot about the mechanics, but Jeff and Roy was just a kink too far. Even I have limits. I do, honest.
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Post by BSJ on Aug 23, 2014 19:19:35 GMT
As HLDJG say's - You're too kind. I like you.
I came across a book that had you spring to mind when reading the review. It's about - well I'll let you discover for yourself what this book is about.
Season To Taste, by Natalie Young.
I wouldn't put this past you!
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Post by unomusette on Aug 23, 2014 20:47:16 GMT
*arrives back from Amazon wearing thoughtful face*
What a brilliant idea for a book, have you read it? I especially like the single-mindedness of the heroine, never wavering or suffering pangs of remorse. I'm quite proud that she reminded you of me, sniffle.
Imagine the research the author must have done...authenticity is everything of course. Puts me in mind of the immortal Morrisey: "You have never been in love, until you've seen the sunlight thrown over smashed human bones" Poetry.
Coming right back atcha with the liking thing bb x
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Post by BSJ on Aug 29, 2014 3:40:51 GMT
When last we left Our Hero (HLDJG*) he had just caught a glimpse of Paul with a girls wiggling legs over his shoulders, tearing through the Secret Garden.
The hell???!?
Ringo, who’s Paul has riding his back? Don’t bother me Jeff, says Ringo in tears, I’m trying to unbend me nose!
I can’t have this, frowns Our Hero.
I’m trying to finish me album that I’ve been promising me fans since Christ left Chicago! And I can’t have this! Our Hero stamps foot and throws the shades taken from his t-shirt pocket on the ground. (One of these days gang, one of these days! He’ll forget hisself.) Is our Hero digging deep and bringing out his inner Brummie child? Or, have those titles and awards gone to his hair sprayed head?
I can’t have this!
Jeez, Lynne, all I wanted to do was ask you to join me All Starr Band! exclaims Ringo. How much ass do we fans have to kiss to get you out there! Don’t even think that five hour (fans are crossing their fingers for at least two) gig in Hyde Park counts! And Paul was just on for the ride. He was hoping a crew were still here so he could have a Mr Blue Sky type documentary too**. You know it’s all about him… envious bloke – if you have it, he wants it. He’s been apprehending folks who were on your Doc hoping they give in and throw flowers at him like they do you, Jeff. (The Richard Snarky Starkey in Ringo comes out… Good luck with that Mr Dooooo… McCartney.) Oh, and he wants to use your Garden Shed tonight, if it’s not booked. Something about doing a show giving advice on subjects that you know he has no clue about. But you know the score, he’s a Beatle and like the internet, it will all be taken for truth. (His ears are set higher than the normal person.) As for those wiggling legs? You know how Paul always gets the best birds. Maybe he thought she were with a T.V. crew?
I can’t have this! Piss off!
Ringo mournfully shakes head. Oh, if your Mum (rest her soul) heard your potty mouth, Jeff. Why are you wearing t-shirt and shorts, Jeff? Bare footed, Jeff!?? What’s happen to you, Jeff? You’re a reserved sort of chap and I’m a wee bit concerned for you, Jeff.
Hey, where’s that grating yappy animal you call a dog, Jeff?
Starr? How many times will I have to tell you PISS OFF?
I can’t have this!
Our Hero then sits his bum on the ground and says with wonder… I don’t know what’s happening to me timeless body, Ringo. It feels as if I can kick ass again! (We will not acknowledge his age. Makes us sad.) Ringo says, what’s wrong mate? Calm down… maybe talking to Tom, Joe or Bob will help? I know if Our George (moment of silence) were here he’d straighten out what you’re going through. Ringo… Our Hero sighs… I don’t think I want it straighten out. I had one of the best times of me life last night. I’m not wearing this garb to show off, but me eyeliner and mascara and stenciling need a good drying out before tonight. (Ringo in low voice – didn’t want to say anything, old boy… but…) Our Hero goes on. Groupies sure are more passionate than they were in the ‘70’s. So stoned then that they didn’t know what was what, and didn’t even try to learn what was what, or even where! It’s difficult to teach when you’re on schedule.
But these two! They have a manual! If you follow arrow 12 and he reacts this way and giggles, drop down and follow arrow 35 and shove (we won’t mention what – family forum!) in firmer – that should do the trick! Even Fred was getting in on the act with that Dancing Robot I dreamed about!
I Bloody LOVED it!
Oh, blimey – that Dancing Robot took photos and didn’t leave the discs! Fred!!! You bubble head! As punishment you and Ms Hip Hop Robot can party with Sir “No Clue” McCartney tonight in the Garden Shed!
Bloody ‘ell Ringo, what a question. Of course they’re groupies! Who else would ship themselves from Buckingham Palace and Ohio Florida, in crates filled with cheap wine, teddy bears and posters of me plastered on all walls?
I just cannot believe this! What a month.
(Buckingham Palace, eh? thinks Ringo. I wonder who was in that crate? Who from the Palace has been on the cover of every gossip zine in recent weeks and needed to get out of town?)
Ringo, I’m losing patience with you. Of course I let them in willingly. I am nothing but a generous Brummie gent and I love showing off me wall full of gold records and what not’s. (Just me what not’s would be center stage in this place they call Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Everyone agree?) And besides, it were tea time and I never miss me tea time. (Thinking of? No, I’ll wait. Last time he bitched about everything. He can be such a mean old man.)
Did you get their text, tweeter, email and Facehardback accounts, Jeff? Ringo asks hopefully. Of course I did, Ringo. NO… I will not give them to you, pouts our Manbaby Brummie.
For the very last time Starr, please Piss Off.
I can’t have this!
Our Hero than realizes he had better hustle; there is just a short time to get ready! I am confident that at least those two fans will be pleased tonight, he thinks. I’ve diagrams of me own to share!
Flash thought! Guitar strings…? Yes! That’ll noodle ‘em!
How do I do it? How do I do it? I’m A Genius!
*Highness Lord Dame Jeff Genius **unomusette – pls. think of what Sir Paul wants to call his Doc. Thanks. You’re my gal.
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Post by unomusette on Aug 29, 2014 22:57:44 GMT
I
Am
weak
WEAK I TELL YOU!!
A person can't giggle, snigger and hoot so much all at once, plus it's nearly bed time and I only logged in for a quick shuftie around. Now I have to try and sleep whilst computing all of this wondrousness and composing a suitable sequel. My dreams will be tormented, scary and puzzling. And my mental picture of HLDJG can never, ever be the same.
Thanks!
xxxx
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Post by BSJ on Aug 30, 2014 15:07:13 GMT
Just winding ya up, babe.
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Post by unomusette on Aug 30, 2014 21:42:36 GMT
Mwaahahahaaa, just you wait till I get 5 mins spare, I have all sorts of "interesting" ideas for the sequel. Fuelled by watching lots of Stevie Riks this arvo.
Doo! *points atcha*
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Post by BSJ on Sept 6, 2014 20:34:25 GMT
This chronical was written in Traverse City while visiting many, many wine tasting rooms. Not knowing if Probie Senior Member Unomusette had a chronical written and being in an improved state of mental health for a few days (dead – drunk) I felt the need to press on. Thank god Hubby took his laptop. I would still be holed up in a winery if having to write this longhand.
Ringo feels he can’t leave the Bungalow Palace compound just yet. There is no question that things are getting way out of hand. Jeff is being enticed, and McCartney is… just well… being Doooo McCartney.
Least Jeff could have done was make tea. No… I would have backed off that offer. Cheap Brummie. Smoked salmon sandwiches anyone? Not here at HLDJG’s*! FPPJ’s**! Shakes head. And I had to butter the bread for the frying meself! The song Don’t be Cruel starts a loop in his head. Huh??? Ouch! Poor Ringo forgets and wrinkles his nose. I‘ll hang out tonight. Though Ringo’s nose is throbbing he stoops to pick up and put on the shades that Jeff had thrown in frustration on the ground and goes for a search around and a good vantage point.
First off, I need to see what McCartney is up to. What a mess Ringo sees when snooping through the Garden Shed window. (Snarky Starkey thinks – McCartney, you could mess up a junk yard.) A fan wrote Paul that he is having problems putting together a swing set. McCartney and the ‘bots are making an attempt at it. The ‘bot’s turn out to be more adept then No Clue on everything. What’s all this, you’re asking!?? Paul – that’s a screw driver; this is a wrench, liquid plumber, saw, tape measure and a silver hammer. You know… bang, bang. What ya mean your hands are not cut out for this manual work?! You and the Lovely Linda (moment of silence) brought back a farm in Scotland from ruins and everything that goes with that. Was shearing of sheep, wrestling with rams and chiseling out windows done on a Hollywood soundstage for photos opts and you all were really living the high life in Madagascar? That were years ago mates, says Paul, and I thought this gig would be light weight stuff, like how to make tea, rice or cross-stitching! Fred and Hip Hop start whirring, light up and flash and buzz like a cracked neon sign from down an alley in loathing. Get out the way then, butter fingers. NO… says Hip Hop Robot… there is no stopping of filming, no stopping! And no end credits for you either, chimes in Fred snapping his claws.
Fred is puzzling over the large drawings on the walls. Well, I thought I could read blue prints. There are no pics of swing set pieces on some of them, but they do seem to have a familiar bent to them – lots of arrows. None here on the floor are in English, says Hip Hop. All these different languages! Apache, Gothic, Mayan and Klingon. What’s this say? Fred took a quick look… N’Ko, West African. Hip Hop gives Fred raised eye brows. How in the world do you know this!? Before I became a rock star, I taught language at UCLA. Hip Hop sighs and says, well aren’t you all that and a bag of chips! Hmmmm….. Hey No Clue, where are the English instructions? Don’t know, don’t care, huffs Dooooo as he stalks out the Garden Shed door. Fred, says Hip Hop, I think we’ve been punished enough – let’s head back to the big house. Its dusk and lights are starting to glow ‘through the brown LA haze’***. Two Ninja Groupies creep from the shrubs and glide through an ajar door that Our Hero had left. They are carrying a couple of crates with labels that read: Eyeliner& Mascara & Stenciling Provisions Depository that was left on his drive. Lined along walls are guitars with arrows pointing deeper into the Palace. BSJ says, being invited in vs forceful entrance? I don’t know… I am having a feeling that we might be giving up control here. We’re Ninja Groupies. You know, never know when we’re going to strike? The one with a Saucy Welsh voice says, just follow my lead, he’s so blissed out at this point and I don’t think he even has strategy.
Meanwhile Our Hero is upset. Bloody FedEx and their next day delivery! What am I going to do? He thinks while rubbing baby oil on his many inflamed parts. Well, the arrows are placed and me diagrams are blown up and tack on walls throughout BP and the Garden Shed, in case this place gets too trashed. I’d better double check that tea trolley and make sure there are enough FPPJ’s. Passing a tacked diagram over a framed Travelin Willbury poster, Our Hero takes pause, steps back. Mmmmmm… Seesaw? Chains? Slide?…. the ‘ell did this come from? With his head tilted sideways he starts to study it. Pushing his shades on top of his head, he moves in closer, (Sure you do – no one around) well… there are lots of instructions, seems a bit involved, but this could develop into something. He starts writing notations, drawing notes, crossings out – once a producer, always a producer.
A skillful jerk of his head and the shades drop in proper place and Our Hero continues on to the tea trolley, where the guitars are leading the Ninja Groupies to. Nosey Ringo has had enough of the Garden Shed and turns towards the Palace wondering and not really caring how McCartney will live through this one. If he had turned a second ago he would have seen the Ninja Groupies. Do I sneak in or find a window? Bleedin’ hell – is that fried FPPJ I smell?
Come on in! Been waiting for ya! All set up for tea and FPPJ’s. Oh, crap – thinks Saucy Welsh Groupie, wishing Lucy er, Lucifer were there. Sounds good to me! Long A’s Ohio Florida says. But, let’s make it quick we need to go through the crates and…looking around… was startled by all the diagrams. Let’s dig in! says Saucy. Fantastic! agrees Our Hero misunderstanding. Thank god there are plenty of windows thinks Saucy as she pitches sandwiches through one. When Our Hero leaves to get more clotted cream ,BSJ has to pull Welsh out of the crate to get her attention. Did you notice? Wha’? Lord Dame is wearing a fro! And…aviators with black lens! Brill, cries Saucy! And did you see how much baby oil is on Lord Dame’s body? The mascara needs to be tighten up because of that, says Saucy as she waves a few tubes. Look! New colors! I have an idea where the Peacock Pink should be best applied.
The Groupies quiz Lord Dame over tea. What did you enjoy most, what do you want tonight and…? Well, I loved how the sound boad was used… and when you both… cowbelling… picks… mic stands… on and on. In seconds all crates are emptied and…. ****
Meanwhile Hip Hop Robot and Fred roll up to Paul & Ringo looking thorough a French window. What’s up boyos? Fred asks. There is only stunned silence as they followed Paul & Ringo’s fingers. Fred is a bit unstable having many falls off many concert stages and when his and Hip Hops lights blaze on, Fred’s starts to steam and he loses balance, tips to the side hitting Hip Hop, who falls on Paul, Paul on Ringo who just had enough time to turn and try to use his hands to break his fall. No good, his nose took the hit. Peace & Love, Peace & Love, wimpers Ringo.
*Highness Lord Dame Jeff Genius **Fried Peanut Butter and Jelly samwiches *** Ripped off from Jimmy Buffets song – Come Monday ****Unomusete, this is yours to carry on.
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Post by unomusette on Sept 7, 2014 21:29:27 GMT
Snortle! Who cares if I have to re-think the follow-up? This is spectacular (as in I had to put spectacles on to be sure I was reading what I thought I was reading) Marvellous.
Stand by for the return of Lucyfer and a see-through visitation....
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Post by unomusette on Sept 13, 2014 20:29:50 GMT
Intermission... Remember ages ago, this thread was about my amazing 7 inch hoard? I found another one, huzzah!
It's a Move single, picture sleeve, seems to be part of a series called Backtrackin', Flowers in the Rain/Brontasaurus
Probably worth an absolute FORTUNE a quid or two.
And now, onto more pressing matters
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Post by unomusette on Sept 13, 2014 20:40:14 GMT
At this very moment, up in the clouds in the RockandRoll Afterlife, George Harrison is floating in the lotus postition whilst staring down at proceedings through a gap in the clouds.
"My Sweet Lord" he exclaims "I blame meself for dying and all, leaving Lynne at a loose end with nothing worthwhile to produce, look at the mess he's gotten into" Secretly he's jealous because who could look better in eyeliner than himself? And did that Brummie muppet ever even hint that could be on the agenda? That whole Cloud Nine album could have been a totally different affair. The Harrison moustache twitches with regret, he strokes it soothingly and offers it a sardine.
"Oh, hai!" Who the fu.. it's that blimmin' Marc Bolan, who's scuttled up and is also sitting cross legged, pretending to levitate.
"What're you doing here? Y' know yer squeaky voice gives me hives" huffs Harrison "Buzz off, Bolan" Marc looks hurt.
"Aaawww" he bleats, "Thought you might like company if you're spying on Lynne, you know I played lead on Ma.."
"..Ma Ma Belle, yeah, I DID know that, yer squirt , y' never shut up about it" snaps Harrison, moustache a-bristling "Go and bother The Big O instead"
"I can't, he's whitewashing his face again" bleats Bolan.
"Stop pouting, yer big ninny" sighs Harrison "Did Jeff ever let on to you he was into mascara and all that get up? If anyone could spot the symptoms it'd be yerself, innit?"
"Naaoo, we only ever drank beer and went to boxing matches and other manly things" says Bolan, unconvincingly. Harrison narrows his eyes. Bolan simpers. It's quite sickening.
Just then, there's a blast of "Imagine" and John Lennon appears. He's the only spirit with his own backing track. He is sucking on a cup of tea and looking militant, as usual.
"Wassup, Lennie?"
"DON'T call me that, you bubble-haired gnome, or I'll set Yoko on you, you know your squeaky voice brings out me eczema" spits Lennon
"But she's not dead yet!"
Lennon gives him the sort of look which says "Yoko might not be dead but she can still make your after-life such a misery you'd be battering on the door of Hell demanding entry. And then she'll start 'singing' " Bolan is crushed and all of his curls droop miserably.
"I'm worried about Jeff" drawls Harrison, waving his sitar dramatically. "I think he's fallen in with a bad crowd, there's mascara involved and fried peanut butter sarnies"
"This is appalling" gasps Lennon "Such bourgeois depravity is only for the upper echelons of the working class, like me good self. We should sort it out" He adds "Not YOU, Bolan"
Harrison strikes a mystical chord on his sitar, they hold hands and plunge through the hole in the clouds, floating down through the yellow LA smog. As they descend, the spirits of tiny and not-so-tiny woodland creatures float up from the Secret Garden. What could be the cause of such a massacre of the small and furry?
*
"Grabbit! Killit! leave that weasel alone!" unomusette is not sure how her pussy cats even got here, but she's sure that mixing with Lucyfer has encouraged their homicidal tendancies. Recently they've taken to following the evil hound around two steps behind, like a feline posse, and practising kung fu in their spare time.
"Dunno what's gone on here, d'you think the paparazzi were looking through the windows last night?" BSJ has found a patch outside the french windows all oily with a squashed false nose and some loose screws. There's a muddy trail leading back to the garden shed, but before she can think about following it there's a loud bang from the kitchen and a cloud of steam from every window. Sighing, she snaps on her gas mask and trudges off with unomusette trailing guiltily in her wake.
"I TOLD you not to make porridge, you Welsh twit" rants BSJ, surveying the sticky scene.
"People make porridge all the time" counters unomusette, defensively
"Not in the kettle they don't, it's unnatural"
"Well, in Wales..."
"Shut it about Wales, where I come from porridge is a notifiable hazard, now get mopping"
"Can't we get Lucyfer to lick it up instead?"
BSJ fixes her fellow ninja groupie with a look that says "I doubt that doggie has any more lick left in it", and on reflection unomusette can see where she's coming from.
Right at the height of their fun and games last night, there was a banging and a crashing outside the french windows and lots of steaming and swearing and muffled "Dooo!"s, a flash of something sulphurous and there was Lucyfer, slightly singed with her hench-cats in attendance, all looking extremely evil and jet-lagged. With a bound, she had elbowed the groupies aside (and remember, a doggie has four elbows) and was joyously licking the Lord Dame like they'd been parted for longer even than when he and Bev had last spoken civilly to each other. Unfortunately Lucyfer's diet of unusual and unnatural sausages had given her the breath of a long-dead badger and the Lord Dame had swooned clean away. Disgusted, the groupies had stomped out, leaving him devoid of all their artistic efforts and with Lucyfer lying beside him, wearing the Genius's best shades and smoking a post-recreational cheroot.
"You're right" admits unomusette, flicking porridge playfully at her compadre and getting a tweaked ear as reward. "Hey, can you hear "Imagine" playing?"
BSJ doesn't answer, she often doesn't bother answering unomusette actually because she talks such a lot of total rubbish, but this time she's busy watching some knives and forks being juggled all by themselves whilst the Lord Dame's pickled onion collection whirls around in its jars.
"Aha! Didn't know I could juggle, did yer?" boasts John Lennon, showing off even more by adding a food mixer to the ensemble. George Harrison frowns harder and the pickled onions pop out of their jars and ricochet off the walls. Ducking and yelling obscenities, the groupies scuttle out of the kitchen and back up to the Lord Dame's boudoir, just in case he's in danger or wants to carry on playing. BSJ has an extra sparkly salmon eyeliner she's been keeping in the back pocket of her snakeskin jeans for just such an occasion.
But what's this? An empty bed? A wardrobe with HLDG's best black suits and white t shirts hurriedly removed? Doggie and Dame disappeared?
"He's been blimmin' well kidnapped, I blame you for this!"
"Wha? I think you'll find YOU'RE the one who left the window open!"
"Excuse me, if I'd not done that His Highness might not have survived the night, that dog's breath was glowing in the dark!"
"Well we can't be paying any ransom, all our money's gone to the Eyeliner& Mascara & Stenciling Provisions Depository - good investment obviously but no use to poor Damey now"
"Damey? Pardon me, but Damey?"
"What? It suits him"
Just then there's another ghostly wind and a flyer is blown off the top of the wardrobe onto the ravaged bed. unomusette picks it up and BSJ snatches it neatly from her, wearing a face that says "Nice try, Toots, but I'm in charge here"
"What's all this then?" she ponders "Hyde Park...first UK gig for a squillion years...be there or be somewhere else...how come we didn't know about this?"
"Maybe because we've been in the overseas mail for about six months? If I never see the inside of a crate, or an egg sarnie again it'll be too soon" shudders unomusette "or even a poster of himself, bless him and all who sail in him of course" She curtseys contritely. BSJ glares at her.
"Stop wincing about, you loon, and get your act together - we've got a gig to crash" she declaims, waving her arms around like a demented windmill "His Highness has gone without us, how can he even think of going onstage without our help?"
"How the fudge are we going to get there then, Mrs Clever Clogs?" sulks unomusette, sneakily pocketing the flyer to sell later on Ebay for loads of cash.
"Woooo! Try the Shed! Try the Shed!"
"I know, let's look in the shed, the idea's just come to me!"
"Me too, I thought of it first!"
The two ninja groupies bundle back down the stairs, hopping over slippery pickled onion obstacles in the kitchen and various mangled wildlife in the garden. Just in case there's something to kill, the cats pounce after them. Flinging open the shed door, they are confronted by a woozy Macca and Starr, plus the hip hop robot and Fred who were just about to come steaming out having re-booted and drunk all of HLDG's weedkiller which is a powerful stimulant for mechanical beings and helps them hear ghosts.
"Jeff's gone to London all on his own with a doggie...we must save him from an embarrassing eyeliner-free disaster!"
"Oi! I thought we were going to save him from this debauchery!"
"I know, but I'm starting to enjoy meself now, and Yoko'll never find out!"
"On yer own head be it then..but that woman is sneakier than you think..."
"Can I come too, I can help out by playing lead on Ma Ma.."
"BOG OFF, BOLAN!"
Snapping his claws and waving his vacuum cleaner hose arms helpfully, Fred indicates the hip-hop robot as it hovers a few inches above ground. Lights flash, dials whirr, "Hyde Park, One Way" flashes up on its screen, then "All Aboard!" as myriad hand and foot - holds sprout from its shiny body.
It's quite a beautiful scene, as the sun sets over America. The hip hop robot rising into the sky and proceeding in stately fashion towards Blighty. Hanging off are various creatures in various costumes, and Fred is up front to look for likely aircraft to hitch a ride on. Ghostly outriders trail sparkles behind like a Disney finale.
Ever seen the end of Mary Poppins? Where she flies off into the sky holding her umbrella? Well it's a bit like that, except with more steaming, more screaming and a stream of terrified "Dooo!" 's
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