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May 06, 2004

A record made of brass and windpipe.

Dr. Tibulous McCavitron, visiting professor of Particle Theosophy of the University of Gartly Station, NSW, brought a gust of damp air with him as he pushed his way through the door of Wormelow Tump municipal library. He squelched past the librarian, Miss Noreen Dreadful, and continued on up the stairs to the grotty office that looked to be his residence for another six months.

His continued presence was, not terribly oddly, closely connected to the fact that the library existed at all. Originally, it had been the country-seat-cum-folly of Sir Norbert Lovecraft, a canny market gardener from Tipton who had parlayed his conveniently located field of cold-frames into a seat on the board of the Wombourne, Tipton & Rowley Regis Light Railway. His fortune assured by some enterprising share dealings, he engaged the services of an architect and instructed him to build a suitable abode in the gothic revival style. It was perhaps unfortunate that the architect in question was in thrall to both laudnum and tertiary syphillis when working on the commission. It was certainly carelessness and a not-altogether-unsurprising lack of understanding of the plans that led Sir Norbert to glance quickly at the front elevation, decide that it looked like two churches and a bedlam riveted together and inform the architect that he'd better stop bothering him and go build the buggering thing.

Five years later, the buggering thing was built. When Sir Norbert finally clapped eyes on the structure, he suffered an apoplectic fit and died on the spot. His widow refused to set foot in the structure and spent the rest of her days in a red brick villa in Dudley. It was left to Sir Norbert's son, Mornington, to take up residence in a building that seemed to have been designed by someone in the grip of a terrible fugue. Which was, indeed, the case.

From the vantage point of the preposterously long drive that eventually lead up the low hill the edifice was built on, it looked normal enough. If, indeed, your version of normal considered something like Fonthill Abbey to be somewhat lacking in vision. A frontage the size and demeanour of St. Pancras station was bookended by a pair of towers that would in the future be accused of owing a great deal to the monument to the Third International. The rear elevation was something considerably less restrained. It lurched down the slope of the hill to the canal like a drunken cubist looking for somewhere to throw up a banjo. If Aleister Crowley and Brion Gysin were to have designed a building with the express purpose of scaring Le Corbusier into taking up work as a plumber, this would be it. A series of Pancras-sized blocks were terraced in a disturbing manner such that by starting in the fourth-lower cellar level of the highest wing, several hours of brisk walking would bring you out onto the roof-garden that overlooked the canal from the lowest wing without the bother of stairs. Were you then disinclined to retrace your steps, a hydraulically powered funicular railway would carry you back up through the extensive gardens allowing extensive views of the water garden, promenade, outdoor giant chessboard, maze, grotto, croquet lawn, cricket pitch, hermit's cave and putting green.


The Particle Theosophists believed that the patterns formed in cloud chambers were characters or pictograms in the language of the creator. Thus they built ever more complex (and thus likely to explode without warning) particle accelerators in order to attempt communication with the divine.

[ ... ]

Albert and Dave Pontrilas, The Twin Popes of Winchester, could be relied upon to sign their name to any bogus encyclical or edict that came their way accompanied by a bucket of bunce, a hookey relic or a comely parishioner needing a special 'laying on of hands' in order to cure and infestation of demons. Not that they were twins, conjoined or otherwise, but by the time the magnitude of the cock-up was discovered by the special envoy from the Holy See, it was too late to do anything without bringing the church into any more disrepute than it was already subject to.

[ ... ]

Albert was clearly not in a good mood. Dave could hear him swearing his way from the library toward the refectory where he himself was dawdling over a late lunch.

"Cunt. Fucking cunty bastard wanker."

"Who's the cunt then, Al?"

"I'll fucking tell you who the cunt is, right enough. Fucking Augustine of fucking Hippo."

"Oh aye? Who the fuck's he when he's at home?"

"Only the dago cunt who decided women were dangerous and shagging was verboten."

"What a fucking rotter."

"That's not the half of it. First the fucker shacks up with some poor tart until he gets a cushy job, then he slings her out on her arse as soon as his mum's told 'im she's lined 'im up with some other bint. Meanwhile, he's having his end away with yet another bird, the dirty cunt. Then - and this is the bit that'll piss you right off - then the fucker goes and converts to christianity and makes up all this bollocks about not having sex if you want to get to paradise."

"Fuck my old boots! That's a guilty fucking conscience and no mistake."

"Too right. The cunt's fucking lucky he's already dead, otherwise I'd set of mob of lads to cut his head off and shove it up his arse. Treating anyone like that's bang out of order. I tell you, I've fucking had it up to here with those daft cunts banging on about original sin and celibacy and flogging themselves if they so much as look at a woman."

"You know some of them flog the woman too, right?"

"I heard. Fuckers. I bet they're the ones all piling into each others cell of a night for a bit of 'brotherly love'."

"Somebody should sort those shites out. I don't see where those pious fucks get off, treating half the population like dirt."

"Well, who's the fucking pope, eh? I feel a righteous fucking encyclical coming on right about now..."

Posted by Hirez at May 6, 2004 11:44 PM

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