title := Twinset and Pearls
author := Jacques en le’Box
date := 30/12/1658
My memories of dressing up like a hot dog on certain special days are fond ones. Perhaps strangely, I never did the dressing on Halloween because on Halloween, dedicated as it is to dressing up and all, i dressed up in drag. Being expected, it generated a lot of pressure(pleasure), and more than a little excitement in our local village and I’ve never been able to cope with pressure in any form or bottle.
So I choose, my dear reader, to regale you with a story of my venturous exploits from days of yore. These being concerned with a twin set of witches. Hang on to your broomstick Harry Potter, and read on.
.Words of Warning
Do not continue to read this adult-themed document if any of the following words offend :
natural bodily fluids
.Abode of Rightesness – Not
Pandamonium and her sister Ammonia felt a burning desire to see their old haunts from days-gone-bye. It must be said that Pandamonium was no ordinary mortal woman. No, she was much more like a Germain Greer character from some romantic old ‘kiss-me-quick-Hardy’ novel. Straight-laced in both nature and bosom, her ample assets showed no deminution due to time nor tide, and was often said in the local pub that her’s was the demeanor of ‘one who was born to rule’.
On the contrary counter-part, her sister was a wonton woman, conceived of a brief union betwixt a chimney-sweep and one Mary Poppins. A paragon of virture she was not. But Ammonia, too, was no ordinary mortal. Her flying brollie assured her a place in the Guinness book of records if, for no other reason, than she could hold onto the silly bugger when a big breeze wafted down Tottenham Court Road, just a half a mile from the railway tracks. Yes, you could certain get anything you’d want from Ammonia’s restauraunt, ‘ceptin’ Alice, of course. Apologies to Arlo Gutherie.
Ammonia’s restauraunt was a colourful affair of the utmost tacky and sordid reds and crimsons that one might possibly imagine. Colours of lust and love painted each cornor of these highly hallowed halls, the low burning candlestick-lighting gave this habitation an aura of wildness and wickness surpassed only by the wild and wicked nature of it’s owner, ‘Lady Ammonia’ as she was known in the trade.
Her tender assurances to each and every customer created a bounty of wealthy and letcherous old tossers, ripe for the takings. Eh, wot Tiny Tim ? Her dangling participles were well worthly and well worn as were a portion of her ample assets, served up before mine eyes on a platter of delight, Wham, bam, Thank you mam, your majesty. Show him the way out, Jeeves.
Chosen carefuly from every conceivable walk of life, the door to this cinderella’s palace was guarded by none other than his highness – or “your reverence” as was his moniker at the local pub, that of Private Benjamin Kebab, late of the Forty-Second Cavellery, Scots Dragoon, Twelveth Regiment, Kings Hussar Bandolieres. His day job as a stallwart minnion for Lady Ammonia, was not sufficiently rewarding, remmuneratively-speaking, or money-wise to you and me, to cover his vast expansive, some might say ‘expensive’ life-style; hence his need to offer his other notable services as a footman to all and sundry. Foot fettishes were his fortay and, by all accounts, fettish them he did. Silk stockings under lace, black leather, the crack of a whip – ‘ah’ now that was the sound to bring a smile to the lips of those in the know… nudge-nudge-wink-wink, we’ll sort out those hotten-totts, Captain Mannering. One could almost hear the sighs of pleasure down the corridors of power in Lady Ammonia’s brothel, no perhaps bordello, no even that was an unkind eppitaph for such a lofty and connisseur restraurant as was Lady Ammonnia’s. Gastronomic faire, too, such as fricasee of swill plus grilled pigs trotters that made even dell-boy weep with tears of joy – Nabbob of Charcutterie, anyone ? The list was endless, as were the appettites of it’s owner, Lady Ammonia Moneypenney. There, I’ve done it! You forced it out of me you brute, the surname that even 007 could not bear to utter. “Eh, wot Moneypenney”, I hear you mutter. Dratt !!!
Now where was i ? Oh yes. It was a quarter to eleven wednesday eve just passed, that a rambunctious commotion brewed up in the establishment of ill-repute or dispute as one might say in this case. Her brolleyness was just exiting the room of a client, he of some fame and notarity, as in ‘Bend It Like’ well nudge-nudge-wink-wink-say-no-more. When what to her wonderous eyes should appear, but a minature sleigh and eight drunken raindeer. Driven onward by some whiskered pratt in a red suit, puffed lace cotton frills at the sleeves, wearing a fashion statement to make Lawrence Lewd-Ellen Bowen wince, one could only wonder and behold the sight that awaited the gleeming eye of none other than the Sherriff of Nottinghill – the movie, not the town, silly reader – bet you missed that name, so i’ll say it again for those thickies among you – the Sherriff of Nottinghill – a true cornflower of a woman – bet you thought it was a man – shame on you and god forgive you, sexist pig – say three hail mary’s before sundown, please.
The Sherriff came frequently (as did many others) as a visitor to these haunts, duties unknown, and on this occassion, it gave her great pleasure to issue a traffic summons to this red-suited pratt driving an un-licensed sleigh thru a quite-zone of this ‘C’ class hotel, not to mention those non-standard tyres, no tail-lights and that fashion statement !!! OMG – that alone was worth six of the best in her jail. Problem was, you see, Comet and Cupid were less blitzed than Blitzer and co., and upon spying her badge, they gave a mighty heave, and low and behold, they yanked that sleigh, gift-wrapped boxes from Harrods and all from the top of the chairs, to the top of the roof, now dash away, dash away, dash away all, taking that red-suited dude with bad fashion taste with them. Look out Trinny and Susannah. Their sub-light speed departure created a subtle vortex followingward, where upon, one leg of said sleigh snagged the footstool on which stood the foot of the Sherriff, who had taken refuge there to gain a better vantage-point of said goings-on. This flipped her bum-starward thus exposing her private correspondence, not to mention her nooks and crannies, Dame Edna, to all and sundry.
And now, kind reader, i pause here for a moment to let you take yourself off for a nice cuppa and a quick pee, while i wait quietly here humming a few bars of ‘She loves you, yeah, yeah,yeah’.
Right, are your relieved ? You’re not as relieved as i am relieved that you’re relieved as now we all are relieved,eh Mandrake ? Through the purity and essense of our natural bodily fluids.
Now where was i ? Oh yes. Loosing my way down the banks of the Orinnocho…
But let’s hit the pause button on that chapter while i return to the adventures of Pandamonium.
OLLIVANDERS WAND SHOP in Diagon Alley had a wand recycling bin for the recycling of wands located beside the popcorn recycling containers. Their more upmarket competition came courtesy of Hair-Rods, an intimate establishment, cosy and yet offering a more discerning service to clientel of taste, breeding and cash, though they did offer green stamps for purchases made using the Wizzard+ card, a new form of plastic credit-card offering naught-percent financing over six months. A further feature of this card included a gradually disappearing balance on the books of any shop unwise enough to accept the Wizzrd+ for a purchase. Hair-Rods service was immaculate, though, some thought obsequetious, but you be the judge of that.
As a product of fine breeding, Pandamonium was matchless, mostly because she used the erasure mantra on any competition.
Her tastes included blood-red, fine wines from Vulgaria, “delicate nose”, don’t you think ? “agree not and you’ll loose yours”; an ocassional pus fois gras, delicately scented, conflab of fistula, eat your heart out jamie oliver, and wands. Yes, Pandamonium was a conaseur of fine wands, plump little numbers from Italy, ‘delicate bouquet, don’t you think?’, glow-in-dark models for the elderly, her tool of preference was a small purse-sized wand, cunningly disguised as a crayola. They could do so much with mineaturisation these days, and save for the tiny gold button on the side , it seemed very ordinary. As a child, her first wand had come from the Balkans and proved very effective at changing newts to knights and vice-versa, a service much appreciated by the local populace, subject to the tyranical rule of King Hurtalot.
Now though, she had developed a finer appreciation of the wand making craft in general and, in particular, the skills of her personal wand maker, a small french firm in the fifth arondisement of Paris known to make some of the finest crayola wands in all of Christendom, the House of Crayola. Hers was a shocking pink and if you held the wrong end you’d find out why the name, it was a clever disguise, worthy of 007, and if all else failed it’s uses were manifold. “Say, what can you make of this Marty? Oh, I can make a broach, i can..”, a triple use instrument capable of rending horses asunder at over 7000 meters distant, a magic marker for writing death threats, or optionally a lipstick – ‘kiss-me-quick-hardy’ – or else…
Her tastes in fashion were extra-ordinary, matching her beauty, known far and wide. Typical evenings, would find her cloaked in a floor-length black wool coat, black-buttoned to the floor, yet several slits from floor to upper hip, revealing manchester united, blood red, silk linings. A black velvet tunic falling just below her curvacious thighs, that garment moaning with delight, clinging just above black silk stockings from Underwood and Derriere’s of MayFair. Matching black 6″ stilettos as expected. Said ensemble of somber black was broken by a tightly gathered wide red silk ribbon round the waist. A single strand of large red pearls, apported from outer adnausium, hung bout her delicate neck, clasping gently it’s white tissues beneath. A face of Venus de Milo, crowned with obligatory straight, shoulder-length black hair in a snow-white style wearing a crown of one red-silk ribbon tiarra, winking lites, seen from behind only, blinked the simple words, ‘Off Duty’. Oh, Karl Lagerwho, eat your heart out :O
With the grace of Audrey Hepburn, the wit of someone whose name escapes me just now, a voice beyond the audible range of human hearing, probably because she was not. Yes, there was so much to be admired in such a goddess as this, if it were not for her devilish nature.
Did i mention her two cousins ? No, probably not. But, yes, another strange bunch of magicians as one ever laid eyes upon.
Cousin Hawkeye Wanker, a warlock of some renown in local parts, was not really very war-like. He was much more of a butch queen in drag, the stubble was the give-away. His particular forte was ballet, well not really ballet the dance as such, much more the ballerinas, and even more fortuitously, their liason with their counterparts, the gay crowd who danced with them. Yes, you read it here first folks. That racuous bunch from the 4077th, mashing their way thru the hearts and heart-throbs of war, spilling their guts and glory for the cause of right and might – sound that tannoy, Melvin, chopper inbound with wounded, sorry Coronel, we’re out of morphine. Well never mind, padre, there’s a stash under my bunk. Father ‘dare devil’ Mullcahey, spills, chills, and Hail Mary’s galore. Major Charles Emmerson Windpoo, the unctious pretender to the throne, Clapper John , name courtesy of his many brushes with certain fungi, and the inimitable Hawkeye, What a load of wankers. Skilled, to be sure, but wankers, none the less.
Now, how many people have we spoken of so far ? One need not count them as i have been keeping track of the individuals spoken of thus far, and can now reveal, in excited news-speak, that i forgot too. Did i tell you about my exploits with the small animals along the banks of the orinocho ? Oh, the various tricks, i taught them, brings a tear to mine eye, and a lump to my throat, well, at least Murphy, the pig did, when i caught him eating my apple and brought upon me such rage as one never known to the mortals of mankind, I trussed up his little trotters and skewered him, apple and all, upon a roast spit above a glowing, mark VI, Kettle and Chambers stove, running at a temperate 213.1941 degrees centigrade. Oh, he did plead with eyes of such pity that i was consumed with dispare at my own behaviour, coming so closely on the heels of Halloween. Ah, well, he lived a noble life. Poor Murphy 😦
The second cousin, as yet unnamed, was cousin crinoline gangreen, a delicate flower of a witch, whose alias probably means not much to you, but to the citizens of the village of sand, she will forever be immortalised as the founder of the
order of the witches of sand, but you are too clever for me, and anticipate my drift, when i reveal her most important recipe for roast fingers of local sheephearder, placed in butter sauce, between two stout slices of the bakers daughters thighs, thereby inventing that now world-famous dish, the sandich, or if your live to the east of london, the ‘sandwich’, or if you live above Manchester, the name ‘pie’
You know what they say, “An orgasum a day keeps the headaches at bay”, or Baywatch – some call it Babe-watch – where are you Pamella Anderson when we need you ???
That’s all I need say for now, save “Where fart thou Romeo ?” – Next door, I hope!!!! If I find time and don’t feel too sucidal, I might write a follow-up to this account of my recent past, or recant under the fires of witchdom that the cruel church hath laid upon my shoulders. No Baldrick, it was ever thus. The rampant ravings of a madman are not as thus to a crime of the boll weevil of time.