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

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

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

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