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

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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