Got a bit maudlin there, shan't let it happen again. Lucky for me (and for you poor devils having to read this sentimental balderdash) the good fellows at Pickman Publishing and the Royal Society managed to toss a Royal Mail Kitbag full of survival goodies through the ether...
How, what what!! you shout!
Well no corner of Her Majesty's Realm is inaccessible to those doughty wallahs of Her Brittanic Majesty's Royal Mail.
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| The Queen and dusky Postie |
Well, essentially: every time a huge amount of psychic turmoil occurs in London, a swirling portal of darkness opens up at the exact location of my physical and psychic drowning... the main hall of the Royal Society, Piccadilly.
It was at this dreadful spot that mere weeks (minutes, centuries?) ago the slavering Servitors of the Gloating Overlord sprang their trap, killing my fellow psychonauts before drowning me (physically and psychically) - and then spiriting me away to their hideous refuge: Yahar'Gul (The Unseen Village).
End of story surely. Bally no... read on...
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| Unsuspecting Char-hag |
It was a passing char-hag mopping the Society's illustrious marble vestibule who first noticed the anomaly... At the exact moment a huge roar erupted from the Members Pavilion at Lords (an LBW dimsissed by an Australian Umpire)...A platter sized spinning vortex of darkness appeared beneath her... she was of course vaporised - but at that precise moment - 4 dimensions and a trillion light years away - her mop landed on my bonce!
Thus began a sequence of experiments which have enabled Pickman Publishing and the Psychonautical Supper Group of the Royal Society to keep in intermittent contact with me.
A few Cockney urchins and Char-hags later we ascertained that living creatures could not survive transit. But through trial and error we discovered a strange selection of objects could. A Copy of the Times - yes! Signed edition of Goethe's poems - no! A pair of tartan slippers - yes! A pair of the finest French long-johns - no!
It appeared that the psychic energy created some rudimentary form of intelligence with a distincitve jingoistic bias. Anything slightly foreign or queer caused an involuntary convulsion that spat the object back out with tremendous force.
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| The MCC, Marylebone Cricket Club |
Some of my comrades trained in Psycho-Anthropology surmised that this was because the central location for the psychic surge was the members stand of the MCC... the spiritual heart of all Englishmen. A pool of its psychic discharge would contain the very essence of Imperial vigour and patriotism. This thesis is yet to proved but I fear there maybe something to it. Fear? why fear? you say...
Damn it man.. sharpen up! A portal has been created to the most powerful dimension ever discovered and it is essential the Empire stays in control of it! Imagine for what nefarious purposes it could be used - if the Hun or the Turk gained ownership!! Imagine if Johnny Foreigner found a way to invite the Gloating Overlord into the beating heart of the British Empire: the Royal Society! Damn it! I must calm down, my atoms are dispersing with the adrenaline...
I need.. a few seconds while.. ah yes that's a good vein..
...smashing. Just the ticket. Sorry chaps got a bit carried away there...Oh fantastic... feeling better already..oh yes. Lets break for tea shall we.. see you after the cucumber sandwiches!
What a relief that patriotic objects can make their way safely to you. Perhaps your colleagues at the Pickwick Press could send English items, such as a hamper full of marmaladge and crumpets; or a wet dog; or the script to "Last of the Summer Wine". It is a relief to know that you are back in touch with those on the earthly plane.
ReplyDeleteThankyou kind reader. As ever Mrs Salmon you read my very thoughts. If only my darling Abigail could be brought closer to the portal so we could exchange tender letters.. but all my appeals to Josef Geldhabe seem to have been ignored.. I will write again...
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