When writing I love to play with words. I always loved how the great, late Ronnie Barker could come up some of the best jokes by just playing with words and their meanings. There is nothing better than the famous ‘Four Candles’ sketch with Ronnie Corbert; ‘handles for forks’. He also said ” I would rather have a full bottle in front of me rather than a full frontal lobotomy”.
I have included a section from Trans-Uranic Elements: The Dark Sid of Uranus in which I have played about – I would love some feed back.
Bye the way, a ‘grumble flick’ is a reference I heard in the army, meaning a pornographic movie.
Enjoy…
“Do you know about the Witch King?” enquired Wayne, with a slight look of pain in his eye; though it may just have been a tear of sympathy at his former predicament; or maybe it was irritated by mushroom spores that wandered lonely in a cloud, beside the river, beneath the trees, looking for a nose to make it sneeze.
“Which King?”
“The Witch King. The meanest son of a bitch ever to pop up on Uranus!”
“And how would I address this mighty King of the Witches, should I ever chance upon him?”
“Some call him … Grumbleflick!”
“Grumbleflick?”
“Yes – Grumbleflick! He has ants in his pants and doesn’t like to dance!”
“It seems to me young Elf, that you are familiar with this Grumbleflick.”
“That is a lie! No Elf would ever be a familiar to a Witch! No matter which Witch it was!”
A face totally devoid of any expression afflicted Tom momentarily, as he tried to work out what the feck these Elves were saying.
“I am trying to work out what the firkin Heck are you saying, young Elf?” probed Mad Tom of Bedlam.
“Look,” steamed Ken, “I know about Witches and I know about the Witch King Grumbleflick. But I am not his familiar. Nor do I like to be probed!”
“OK! OK! Let’s start again. Tell me about Grumbleflick!”
“He’s dead!”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know what dead means?”
“Yes I do – but how can he be dead?”
“He’s a Witch!”
“And?”
“Lots of them are dead. They seem to like it that way – it’s a great tax saving tip!”
“So King Grumbleflick is a stiff?”
“Not all of him, some bits are quite floppy.”
“How does he look?”
“He uses his eyes, like most folks; but apparently he has a deathly stare. And an awful twitch in his left eye…”
“So he is a winking Witch King!”
“Yes the Witch with a twitch.”
“And what of his countenance?”
“His what?”
“His mien?”
“Yes, he’s mean alright! Wouldn’t give you the time of day – not that that would bother you!”
“I mean, what does his gob look like!!!!”
“Ugly fucker by all accounts. Face like a bucket of smashed crabs. And pale!”
“A pail of smashed crabs?”
“Not pail! Pale!”
“Pale?”
“Did you ever go to school? I mean his face is very white!”
“So he is wan?”
“Yes, just him; the only one.”
“Wan!”
“I’m a little lost here,” said Magdalene. “I can’t quite tell the difference between one and wan!”
“It’s two,” chortled Wayne.
“What?”
“Yes, one and one is two!”
“But the difference is nothing!”
“True; one minus one is the same as zero to the power of ten!”
“What?”
There was a brief pause as the reader tried to pick up the thread; sewing and reading simultaneously is very impressive, and could save a stitch in Time.
“I know that, but what about ‘one’ and ‘wan’?”
“So you’re not sure about the ‘one’ one and the ‘wan’ one?”
“That is what I said!” screamed Magdalene.
“She’s a bit of a one,” said Wayne to Ken.
Irritated Tom decided to take over.
“When he mentioned the paleness of the wan one he meant the King of the Witches.”
“So Grumbleflick is wan?”
“That’s the one!”
“Yes – deathly white!”
“I see! He is the winking wan King!”
Tom looked to Magdalene – who looked to all purposes like a totally muddled Basset Hound on the streets of Benidorm when the coffin dodgers are in full swing.
“So; we are looking for Grumbleflick, the winking wan King of the Witches! Where can I find him?”
“I haven’t got the foggiest!” declared Ken. “I’m happy for the Witches to be a legend of some renown but you can kiss my sweet patooty if you think I’d want to know where they live!”
“What about you?” asked Magdalene, homing in suddenly on Wayne like a Labrador on a high pitched fart.
“He lives in Witchland!” spurted Wayne.
Ken Tucky went red with anger, rage and constipation.
“I told you to forget that!” screamed Ken at his trembling chum.
“I forgot to remember to forget!” bleated Wayne.
“Which land is Witchland?” asked Tom.
“Yes,” said Ken. “Though they do say this land is my land, this land is your land, and his land is Witchland!”
“What land?”
Fairy Hanny 