A chance encounter with Grissald Grissalski in Cheltenham

Sunday 14th

Dear Marmaduke,

I happened to run into Grissald Grissalski today at Cheltenham. Having always vowed that since the incident in Nairobi I would keep a discreet distance, the opportunity to question him on the connection between the ancient artifacts and this Gunter fellow seemed fortuitous. Although he had just returned from a commission tutoring the children of the oldest seated royal family in Europe, he was again penniless and living in a run down Jacobean mansion with some wealthy heiress who kept him in food, drink and oil paints. I always remember his Russian – Prussian and Bulgarian lectures on the virtues of turpentine.Marmaduke, do you remember his single most impressionable advice that he gave to us in our short but heady period under his expert guidance. “Never judge an artist buy his paintings, but always by the state of his brushes”! That inspiration has carried me through many a sitting as I curiously fixed my gaze on the side table for days, and then refused to even look at the finished portrait!He was pleased to see me and ventured a conversation in broken English for a change.Apparently this Gunter Schnippe is obviously a preposterous pseudonym as by way of terse research found through the google almanac he turned out to be “-” a fellow famed for his collection of ‘Automata-Sexualle’. He also apparently composed scores for adult orientated cinema, I dare say the dirty fellow damn well stars in them! I’ll let you know the nature of these events in due course. As usual, if you do not hear from me by the agreed time – see to the arrangements and publish the photographs in one of those sordid little dailies!

Yours PK

A chance encounter with Mungo ZarZar & His Gypsy Violin

Mungo Zarzar – gypsy violinist ’The Amazing Mungo ZarZar and his Gypsy Violin’ the poster proudly proclaimed, as if Mungo’s violin had some sort of equal billing alongside that of his own. Or was indeed possessed of some special dark magic power which rendered it a performing entity in it’s own right. I had first met Mungo in a small Parisian café near Sacré-Cœur in a late night/ early morning drink in following a rowdy night with some chorus girls from the Follies Bergier. Egged on largely by his own alter-ego he reluctantly thou quickly retrieved his violin from a case under the table. Taking it from what appeared to be a camel skin covered case, lined in some equally hairy skin surfaced dirty interior, he flicked a gold coin across the body of his beloved instrument each bounce catching a string and sounding a note, which he then proceeded to tune in a second, before catching the coin between his equally resplendent gold teeth to a rapturous, exited and down right inebriated audience applause. That was just his opener! He was rumored to be related to the great Paganini himself, but given his predisposition for self publicity and a legend in his own lunchtime, that may have been gypsy spin. Certainly his trousers were as tight as old Nic and the ladies swooned and fell faint at the friction, pace and apparently sparks which flew from his bow in an unworldly and intoxicating dexterity of tritons and harmonics only audible by the outside canine circles rummaging through yesterdays Poulet au vin blanc. He struck a pose, feet astride and chuckled to himself a strangely international chuckle derived from his native territory which ranged from eastern Europe to the Caspian Mountain ranges and down as far as North Africa. Indeed another rumor had it that he had fathered some six hundred and sixty six children along the various shifting borders and spice routes he and his Romany band had traveled since he began playing at the age of 2. He stopped at that number for two reasons, the first for obvious anecdotal and mythological reasons and the second due to an accident while performing a stunt where he rode two horses astride – one foot on each, while playing the violin, ending the performance when both horses failed to stop at the rehearsed point and ran either side of a Bedouin Tent spike.

Yours

PK

Day 37, I think - Dear Marmaduke

Dear Marmaduke,

I have not written this diary for the last thirty or so days, as in my desperate thirst I suffered to drink the contents of my fountain pen, the resulting stream of mauve piss having greatly amused my navigator who I have finally deduced is called Eufat Foquer.

I also discovered that what I had taken to be a make-shift bunk bed was in fact a case of fifteen year old malt whisky, which the blessed fellow was trying to smuggle. Having deduced that this was the only drinkable substance on board, we both set to and spent the remaining thirty odd days in a stupor.

Now we are here, however I have sobered up and have used some fresh ink.

Malta has changed so much since my last visit, I scarcely recognised it on our approach. So much light industry and civic building, I will tonight venture into the town.

Yours
PK Randolph

Monday 9th - Dear Marmaduke

Duke,

I knew I should have brought some food and water! The navigator never seems to go hungry but does not understand when I ask where he stores the food. He just laughs and belches loudly and heartily.

Yours

P K Randolph

Sunday 8th - Dear Marmaduke

Dear Marmaduke,

Defecating on such a small sea vessel is difficult. I did not wish to do so in front of such a swarthy old sea dog, my one man crew, and also found that adopting a position over the side of the boat created an undesirable ballast.

I discovered that through careful positioning and sheer English ingenuity, I was able to attach myself to the yard arm, swing free of the boat and was able to shit free of the paint-work which was now beginning to attract sea gulls and flies as a result of my earlier attempts.

Saturday 7th - Dear Marmaduke

My Dear Marmaduke,

Within hours of our having set sail, I was violently sea sick whilst listening to ‘April in Portugal’ on the gramophone, and we were plagued, thereafter by a large cortège of rather big albatrosses and a few sharks.

Yours

P K Randolph

Thursday 5th May - Dear Marmaduke

My Dear Marmaduke,

My navigator is a strange little man, no larger than 4’3 and has only one eye and one tooth, in the middle, at the top. He knew only a few words of English and repeated one phrase when I met him.

“You like for good night big ladies?”

To this I replied that I didn’t understand the nasty little man and that he should just show me his vessel. He laughed heartily.

Yours

Piers.

Wednesday 4th May - Dear Marmaduke

.












My Dear Marmaduke,

Damn that arrogant cock Tattler!

I today received a curriously worded letter addressed to me in hand and delivered by an unknown messenger by cover of dusk, slipped under the front door.

It interested me emensley as it carried a post mark from the Indian subcontinant and made reference to an issue of urgent attention. Apparently my uncle’s plantation had fallen into the hands of a guerrilla army who, in an attempt to usurp and annex the last bastillion of the British Empire, planned to start trading the bananas for arms, I have chartered a rather small rusted china-clipper and will set sail for Malta from where I would board a cargo ship bound for India.

Duke, I am concerned in no small part to read this on two accounts. Firstly that my uncle has no plantation I was aware of, and secondly that Tattler will be left at large in the home counties without me to keep the peacock strutting cad in his place. This could not have been timed in a more inconvenient manner, as it is the May ball season and just the time that Tattler holds one of his huge balls all the ladies talk about. I do hope my dearest does not attend while I am away.

I have left my house and estate in the hands of my Panhandle, my odious but trusty manservant with strict instructions that he should not again enter the village naked, and that he should leave the goats alone. As usual he protested, and even suggested the compromise of wearing a fez, but I assured him that people in Surrey didn’t like that sort of lewd behavior.
Damn that arrogant cock Tattler!


Yours Piers K Randolph

The curious tale of Hazrat Babajan and the Hound - Dear Marmaduke

Dear Marmaduke,

Blast damn and bury those cursed flies!.Duke, I really must apologize for the delay in replying to your dinner invitation last month. I am sure it was a pleasant affair..Under duress, I attended a society function where I was to speak on the brief but significant encounter with Hazrat Babajan and the significance of the facial hirsute prophet’s sandals – both left footed..Although, to my delight Lady Isabelle Clover was in attendance, I felt ill at ease with the whole paraphernalia and pomp. My levels of tolerance towards polite company these days leaves me severely frayed at the edges as I battle to keep my composure. Indeed it is all I can do to avoid severely horsewhipping the nearest scoundrel who tries to engage me in meaningless conversations about the mundane world they inhabit. Is there no one capable of a meaningful intellectual sparing?.

I do find comfort in staring covertly at Isabelle’s splendid neckline, which is usually enough to distract my hostility towards these cretins..Anyway, damn it all to hell and beyond! Tristian Tattler also made a rather obvious entrance with all his usual pomp at around 10. I was half way across the hall to give him a right thrashing, when an Irish wolf hound, ran across my path and near spilling my glass of Romane Conti was followed by a scurrying female figure being dragged wholesale after it on the other end of the leash!.Damndest thing! .

I heard a mans voice calling after the wench, Ms Harris who resembles one of these new genetic experiments I read about in the institute paper – half female hobbit and half Cornish pixie with what can only be described as the gobble of an hysterical turkey for a laugh..The room erupted into spontaneous laughter and hysteria as all manor of hell broke loose. Tables flying, cream cakes tossed and spectators diving for cover as the dog was frenziedly pounding back and forth dragging Ms Harris along..In the fracas, a plate of Bavarian sausage was upturned and sent flying, saucer like, across the spatial contours of the barrel vaulted ceiling..No sooner had this weird scene unfolded than I turned to spy the collision of the said sausage which caused a dangling chandelier to begin whirring perilously high over Isabelle’s head like the sword of Damocles..I dived headlong, like a prancing leopard, over the heads of some of the more static audience and landed on a cake trolley. This gave the wheeled apparatus enough torque and drive to continue in a westerly direction towards the plate glass French windows. Half way across the oak floor however, one of the castors hit an ill fitted iron nail and jarred my progress. Spinning like a jenny I continued a few degrees off my westerly path, but still able to reach out and grab Lady Isabelle, pulling her from danger, delivering her to a place of safety at the extremity of the hall and saving the day. Or at least that was what I thought had taken place.

I awoke on the terrace looking up a crowd of faces all jeering at me and one gentleman tutting severely as he prodded me with his walking stick, shouting ‘Damn pervert’! As I looked at my right hand clutching what was left of Isabelle’s skirt and half of her undergarments!

I immediately realized I had misjudged my grasp of the lovely lady by some inches as I span out of control, and instead had managed to grip only her garments – half removing them as she screamed and shielded her nether region from the on-looking crowd. Added to my dismay, Tattler had been at hand (literally) to assist her in shielding her peach-like derriere), the Chandelier had fallen on the hound which was now indiscernible from the Bavarian sausage, and all eyes were on me as sole perpetrator of the entire scene.

I sprang to my feet once I had realized my error and as if inhabited by the ghost of Hazrat Babajan herself, began speaking in tongues as I created a ruse under which my actions could be accounted for. The crowd were spellbound by my performance and I spent the remainder of the evening feigning a recovery from my psychic encounter to rapturous applause and a hefty sale of my book on the subject..I later apologized to Isabelle for any incident caused beyond my control.

Yours PK