Bingo's Time Crisis

I apologise reservedly for my slippage of late, I got Right-Hand to clean himself up and I came back to the reality of the modern age for a while and do a bit more on my other blog (rather good it is too, even if I do say so myself). The great thing about being a kitchen cupboard based experimental quantum scientist means I can recreate my experiments willy-nilly, meaning dear blog-goggler that I can pick this shambolic tale of time travel up whenever I like. How cool is that?

Derrick was exactly where I left him (see, it works every time), in the woods doing his thing. The Um-Bongo bear dance. We had gained a fair amount of acclaim in the woodland, building the act as we made our rather slow journey out of the forest on our way towards London.
Firstly I had to explain to Derrick what Um-Bongo consisted of (canny bear, got it written into his contract), and being a rather stubborn but keen to try new things kind of dancing bear, he wanted to drink some and wouldn’t move until we did.

I tried my best, really, but apricots, guavas and mangoes are not easy to find in Sixteenth century England in general, let alone a copse in what will later be known as Barnet (actually you would be lucky to find all 3 in Barnet now). So I made a concoction with crushed conkers, and squirrel blood (well he is a bear for fucks sake, he needs meat, BingoBearSnacks I am not). He seemed to like it by the third tankard (trinket from episode 1), we strode begrudgingly onwards to London, keeping a vigilant eye out for little red furry things scurrying about in horse chestnut trees.

I was secretly chuffed when I first got to the sixteenth century, being a fan of food and gluttony in general and have always fancied one of King Henry VIII’s huge dinners.

Medieval Meat Madness.

Walked a whole day in the direction of Buckingham Palace, no map, no worries, got us there. Wasn’t built, but was definitely in the right place. Twat.

In the morning we got up and took a stroll to see how the Tower of London looked.

Once we got past the portrait painters outside by the river “4 groats guv’nor, have it to your lodge in 4 days, full colour, can add a Virgin Mary and a bit of manuscript for another 2 groats”. We set up our pitch, and pulled out the slick....
I am getting used to having a bear as a sidekick, all I do is play last episodes tune, and he does his thing. It’s a mix of the moonwalk, with a bit of freestyle body popping towards the end. Think of the Hoffmeister Bear and multiply it by groovy and you’re there. These moves are still “busting” in your time, merry olde England is freaked by the stuff Derrick is throwing down each time he gets a shot of “squonkers”.
We did our thing by Traitors Gate for about an hour and my plan plopped into place. A proclamation was posted on the portcullis of the tower.

All strange men, and enchanted bears in their possessione, must come inside thee gates herewithe and entertaine youre kinge. Nowe

Signed

The Kinge

Ps Nowe!

It’s gonna be chicken tonight, chicken tonight…….

With a fizz, a twang, a flash, a bang, and a particularly painful shot from my wang! I am flung far and wide through time………..

I jumped into a cold spring morning, appearing in what I initially thought was a poorly built housing estate, I quickly realised they weren’t mock Tudor houses, they are real Tudor houses,. Judging by the sheer mountains of poop and poorly stacked dead relatives outside the door of most houses I guessed I had turned up in a rather run down part of the 15th century.

Thankfully my nakedness didn’t turn out to be too much of a problem this time, happens quite a lot round these parts by all accounts, huge vagabond problem, despite the recently imposed bludgeoning ban.

It wasn’t so simple when my stuff turned up. The last time I saw a crowd this large and intent on getting their hands on a newly arriving bag it had a Michael Burke in it. They were on me in seconds, the whole humming hamlet, quite clearly attracted to anything that wasn’t covered in a liberal layer of dark brown filth.

Not being one who like’s to handy in a “situation” as I am ran as fast as a podgy man can, pulling my clothes (my clothes!, at fricking last, has been a week now) on as I made my unintentionally comedic escape, which actually worked, they clearly thought something was funny as I disappeared into the woods.

A chance to look in the bag, c’mon Right-Hand, what have you sent me.
A 2 metre piece of elasticised rope. Great, if I’m planning on starting a midget bungee club I will let you know. Thanks.
Half a tube of cheese and onion Pringles, way beyond their sell by date. Super-feckin-dooper, let’s have us a wild party seeing as the caterings been done an all.
Oh you git! PSP and half my games, this is not funny. If that bloody screen gets cracked, and I get back to my own time, I will ensure I have a hook fitted. “Oi Hamza, who does your hooks?”

I wandered for most of the day in the woods, I say wandered when I really mean staggered, lost and frightened. I say day, it was two.
Wolves just don’t give up do they? I thought that for a short while it was just the villagers I had gotten away from playing silly buggers with the bloke from the future.
But after 8 hours of constant oooOOOOHHHHing in a lycanthropic manner I got really worried. I don’t do big dogs (know a bloke who does, but this really isn’t the place), around nineteen hours into the actually quite slow pursuit, they started to cut in with the growling, and a few started doing their dirty business in my path, It was dark, and not easy to see where they were, but I know it was done with intent by the sheer number of times I stepped in it. I figured that the wolves were trying to slow me down by caking my trainers in the stuff.

And then the bear turned up. Wolves and bears don’t generally mix and tonight was no exception, they scarpered, right away, I was not to be their Pal nor Chum this night, ha ha.

Oh yes, the bear.
Well it’s funny how things work out and the people you meet doing this time travel blog, and Derrick is one of the nicest.
He appears to be (I’m not sure, bears don’t talk, no matter how bad this blog gets) an escaped dancing bear, judging by the sign round his neck and rather natty (despite the dark brown filth) waistcoat he was sporting. He was friendly to begin with, he seemed happy just to have pissed a gang of wolves off, and have someone to play him some tunes. God bless Right hand for packing the PSP, which plays music (just about, in my opinion, but I digress), and God bless my cracked idea of what constitutes music and the single song that I bothered to download to the poxy thing…

UPDATE: I can’t wait, we are on our way to London, Derrick thinks we are going to go down a storm with our new act……

I am sorry for the lack of correspondence with you these last few days, but my waggling hand has been bound so tightly that communication has been impossible.

I realise the 6 kind people who have been keeping abreast of my time travelling tale of intrigue and mystery must have feared that I may have fallen afoul of my captors and been killed by the pack of pervy pirates, but dear blog-follower, worry not. After several days of excruciating pain and the best part of large tub of lube, have managed to wrangle my hand from it’s shackles to convey my latest escapades aboard this crazy galleon full of angry seamen.

Right-Hand here, (Hello everyone!), he is lying, don’t believe a bleeding word of it, he has been very lazy and getting drunk with his new pirate friends, hasn’t even worried about any of you the whole time and is only here because he’s either bored or it’s all gone wrong.

The show I mentioned we were performing in my last blog-a-log went rather well, being praised particularly well by a famous critic from The Times "A captivating and spirited production" that we had captured in a skiff off Skull Island (A rather pleasant place despite the name. It’s actually a secluded private beach resort for stressed pirates. I think they call it that to keep the package holiday crowd out).
Everyone involved in the show worked really hard, but most of the praise has to be mine alone, as I have just single handedly invented modern musical theatre, so screw you Gilbert and Sullivan, beat you to it by at least a hundred years, you daft Victorian whimsy-peddlers.

I knew that sooner or later someone would try and steal my innocent and worthless looking pill-box (my IPod, stupidly sent to the 17th Century by my Right-Hand). But you know Pirates, if it’s shiny, they’re having it off you.
I was in the barrel of filth that I had made my home while aboard ship, listening to one of Gloria Hunniford's rather interesting podcasts about stair-lifts and step-in baths. I thought the thing was turned down, but during one segment when Gloria was describing how quiet the stair-lift was during operation, I inadvertently turned it up too high. The chamber created by the barrel I was in created a speaker-box that amplified dear Gloria’s dulcet tones, and broadcast her important information for the over 50’s to everybody on ship.

I don’t know about you, but it’s bad enough trying to turn an IPod off quickly when you think it’s about to get robbed, with it’s big twitchy dial, and vague button. You try it with over 40 freaked out, peculiar pirates holding rusty cutlasses.
I dropped the blinking thing twice (goodbye warranty) before I got it to shut up.
Immediately Blackie (wwsbi) wanted answers.
Why were the pearly white seashells’s making so much noise? where is the pixies that hide within them?, what does the lady mean by not being able to get to the toilet in time?

I’m trying to not mess up the future too much for you guys, and try to avoid telling Past-ies (as I now like to call them) anything too mind-blowing or damned good to be ruined by a few hundred or thousand years of familiarity, unless I can get a laugh out of it then it's game on.

I’m sorry everyone, but we may have lost the Scissor Sisters.

The pirates angrily demanded a demonstration from my Magical Musical Pillbox of Doom.
I switched on the delicate device, explaining that it will explode if anyone but I, Bingo, Wizard of Dixon’s touches it, (and which is capable of many dangerous powers beyond the mere production of bewitching shanties and songs of immeasurable jauntiness).
I rigged each head-pod to a barrel and turned it up as high as the legally set parameters would allow and gave the boys a taste of the finer points in the musical sound-scape in the twenty-first century. We covered the lot, and for a while I was safe, they could rely on me for entertainment again.
Entertainment other than tying me up an letting me dangle out the end of the boat, just above the waterline, and then throwing very dry biscuits and pieces of wood at me.
I am not going to blame Right-Hand (wanker), but the IPod wasn’t fully charged and halfway through the third playing of “Take Your Mama Out” it went and died. It didn’t matter though, they hummed and sang it while I was wrapped in ropes and swung overboard. They are singing it now. I used to love that song, and now it’s going to be a sea shanty. Oh well, glad I bought that neck-strap for the IPod. 2 days and its still hung comfortably round my neck, and we were in a pretty hefty storm last night.

UPDATE: My clothes are gone again, and there is a strange electrical buzzing in my pubic area, I think I’m about to jump through time again! Right-Hand. Pack a bag! Oooooh, Ooooooooh, it’s happening, speak to you all sooooooooooooon ………