Bingo's Time Crisis

Tudor my word, another episode

Sun, 21 May 2006 18:38:28 +0200

For some reason it took me about six weeks to get through the gates of the portcullis. I’m not sure if the yeast extract on my right hand is losing its incredible inter-dimensional and temporal properties, the dark savoury matter that allows me to jump through space and time.

Derrick could do six weeks of fuck-all with no problems, him being a habitual hibernator as well as a generally lazy and belligerent super intelligent dancing bear.
I however didn’t enjoy my stint in flux. I will need to pop home and re-apply my mystical marmite when I get out of this mess of a storyblog.

While I was hoping for a grand entrance, Derrick decided to give his wang a waxing, which he explained later this as urgent due to the morning glory attached to six long weeks of slumber, I too was feeling this frustrating side effect as a result of our time stoppage, so actually understand his predicament fully.

The crowd soon dispersed, bored. There were already two wanking bears performing at the tower this season, and despite the tsunami of built up bear-batter Derrick really didn’t do anything to make his act stand out from the competition. Before I could get him to do his real act most of the crowd quickly slipped away, literally, in the flood recently created by Derrick.

The Tower of London hasn’t changed much, they still keep the crown jewels locked up, and there is a busy gift shop with packs of people everywhere staggering around getting in your way.

Lucky for us we had a pair of VIP passes thanks to the Kings demand to see my hairy but groovy mate and myself. We skipped the queue's and got a good look round.
I bought a few severed finger paperclips for my notes, and Derrick kicked up a fuss until I gave in and got him the full set of twenty four Mary Rose commemorative spoons, despite my best attempts to convince him the bloody ship will/did sink next week/ages ago.

The torture chamber was great, really realistic, and you get to interact with all the exhibits. They were only too happy to let you try everything for yourself. After twenty minutes of skewering and chopping bits off a “spy” (I wasn’t very good, couldn’t get him to admit to it) the guards came to take us along to see the King. We were being cordially invited to entertain the ruler of England and his mates while they have their dinner.

We did the act for everyone at the feast, Derrick throwing some spaced out shapes and cutting deep, dirty and dangerous moves to the cranky beat of the um-bongo dance mix stored on my PSP.

The King was pleased, which everyone assures me is the state you should try and keep him accustomed. The last bloke to bring a bear to a feast didn’t go down too well so the King had his balls cut off and made to watch them being flung into the Thames.

I thought we were the headline act, but it turns out Henry VIII is having bit of a national talent search, with his favourite act getting their own castle for a year and a chance to invade France.

After the other entertainment had come on and done their pieces (an early attempt at balloon sculpture using live animals, a three legged minstrel accompanied by three hideously deformed troubadours, and a man that tried to turn into chicken before our eyes, he couldn’t do it but I have to admit was very funny watching him try)

It was close, the King was still wearing a crown made of tangled stoats when he made his final decision, but we won…………

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The bear and the freak are at the gates of the king

Thu, 13 Apr 2006 00:13:54 +0200

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…….

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Tudor the price of one, and other equally pathetic puns

Wed, 05 Apr 2006 21:08:09 +0200

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……

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Last shot of salty seamen before I jump through time again.

Mon, 03 Apr 2006 21:27:31 +0200

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 ………

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Pirate Party Pieces

Mon, 27 Mar 2006 23:09:57 +0200

Been on the Jolly Rogerer for a few days now, I'm still wearing the ripped gingham frock, and the captain is now wearing my clothes, and is looking just like any other fifty year old that starts going out in jeans, T-shirt and runners. A complete and utter "Wang".

Well the post-it notes are all used up, but at least we have got 48 very pleased pirates, all now sporting their very own personalised name stickers. It gave me a superb opportunity to learn everybody’s names before they kill me. Trouble is brewing though, some of them have already lost theirs (blew away, burnt, eaten) and the rest have noticed that their "badges" are not as sticky as they were this morning. Good job I still have a few pages of take-a-break left.

It was during a lull in the party (and at a point when it looked like I was about to become a human pin-cushion) that I remembered the scruffy tragedy/puzzle magazine that Right-Hand stuffed in my bag when I arrived.
The pirates are clearly lacking in entertainment aboard ship, and seem totally captivated by the horrific tales of poor relationship choices (I married a two timing gibbon from Doncaster) and botched operations (woman gets 3 legs in liposuction mix-up) documented inside. It's a shame she's stuck in your time, but Kerry Katona's public slide into depravity has gone down a storm in the 17th Century.

Some of the men aboard ship have asked me if there are pirates in the future. I wasn’t sure what to say, but then I told them that there are a few pirates in my time, their leader is called "Lionel Blair", which then gave me a fantastic idea. These pirate types are quite nimble on their feet, have got the knack when it comes to using the old needle and thread, and are always singing shanties. So we have established a musical theatre group aboard ship, and our first production is underway, a musical re-interpretation of all Ben Elton’s musicals (you know, the ones where he takes an old band and makes a shitty show out of their back catalogue). I will be playing the part of Ben Elton's lost sense of humour, Salty Steve is playing Andrew Lloyd Webber's corduroy trousers, rehearsals are going well, with a bit more work "Whistle down the we will rock you Tommy, Phantom of the express" will be a huge hit.

Anyway, have to go, Filthy Bert has just put a hole in his Gloria Hunniford costume, and these dance numbers are not going to choreograph themselves.........

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You do learn something new every day! Actual pirate facts in a blog about pirates!

Sat, 25 Mar 2006 17:41:51 +0100

I have been aboard ship for a day now.
I haven’t seen that much of it though; apart from the small box they had me in for a few hours, and now the Captains cabin.
I'm alone (only being able to blog when nobody’s looking, I have to wave my right hand around in an erratic manner to communicate with you through my trusty right hand back there in your time, it makes me look like a mentalist, but it’s the only way) The Captain isn’t here, but I can see my clothes (jeans, trainers, T-shirt) and my bag on his table.
I didn’t see them arrive, and have no idea what Right-Hand put in my bag.

Somehow Right-Hand can see where I’m going when I jump, Pretty handy when being churned through time, but he is a lazy fecker, and all the bag contains is anything within 5 feet of the keyboard he lives on.

Captain Edward “Blackbeard with little white sticky bits in" Teach walks into the room and announces himself and welcomes me aboard his “glorious vessel”, The Jolly Rogerer.

The Captain is quite a large chap, but his voice, dress sense and manner doesn’t quite match his stature as the most fearsome pirate to sail the seven seas. He comes across much like you would imagine a 50 year old theatre director from Bristol who lives alone with his needy mother, and had a torrid affair with Christopher Biggins during the 1984 panto season.

He told me that my arrival was fortunate, as this was ladies week aboard The Jolly Rogerer and that his “super dooper party” was in full swing, what with this and the last lady exploding during a drunken game of get in the cannon, I couldn’t have “popped out of the sky” at a better time.
He pointed effeminately towards a ripped gingham frock and a blue sash (with “buggering station” written on it) draped over a chair at the back of the luridly decorated (lime and pink!) cabin.
He excitedly told me that this was going to be my crew-mans uniform from now on, that he was glad to have someone aboard with such pretty buttocks, and if I don’t get broken by the ravenous pack above deck will find myself with a special position, at the Capatains table, strapped to it.
Then he opens my bag on his desk. What surprises has Right-Hand put in there for me?

Great, the daft bastard has packed the Ipod along with my new portable speakers, an old copy of Take-a-Break, some post-it notes, and a large jar of Vaseline.
Great, I’m doomed.

Blackie (as he insists I now call him) wasn’t too interested in any of the items, he was slightly puzzled by the Ipod, but seemed happy when I explained that it was a pillbox given to me by me dear old Mama, and was of no real value. He couldn’t read so the Take-a-Break was safe, and he didn’t like the taste of the Vaz, and didn’t think too much of its cutlass cleaning properties. He gave me the bag, and told me to keep it hidden from his gang of scurvy dogs, as they will inevitably try to burgle me one of these nights.

He told me a few of the boys will be down soon to put the frock and sash on me, and that I was free to chill out in his cabin for a few hours, and that he will bring me above decks a bit later for bit of a party.
I thanked Blackie for being so nice, for making me feel so welcome, and that he need not go to any trouble on my behalf

Almost forgot, Pirate facts.
Fact One: Pirates didnt wear eyepatches because they had poked their eyes out during pervy pirate games. They wore them so that one eye was always trained to see in the dark, making it easier to navigate by the stars.

Fact Two:When someone says they have you over a barrel, they are actually implying that they have you tied up in a popular method of pirate bondage, and I can tell you its not funny, the rope is burning my wrists and ankles, and have got some rather severe splinters in my belly!

I can hear someone coming down the hall towards this cabin, back soon...........

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A week trapped aboard an over-friendly pirate galleon

Fri, 24 Mar 2006 22:27:00 +0100

I woke up the same way as I usually do when I have just jumped through space and time. Screaming like a wee girl, stark-bollock naked (although my clothes and belongings always arrive 30 minutes later), disorientated, discombobulated and proudly sporting a rather large erection which is teetering right at the point of climax.
It wasn’t a problem on my inaugural time jump, there isn’t a "George at Asda" in the Stone Age, where upon my arrival actually found that kind of thing went down rather well with the locals, but it has become more of a problem the longer I remained in the time/marmite vortex.

I "appeared" right there on the main deck during what can be best described as a pirate festival. It was clear that I had appeared on a boat in an ocean somewhere, it was a warm evening and I'm not sure if it was the burning English naval officers hung on the rigging and distinct smell of Rum, but there was definite Caribbean flavour to the surroundings.

I soon cleaned up my mind and spillage from the time jump, but before I could cup myself and find somewhere to hide while waiting for my stuff, the Pirates had seen me after witnessing my staggering and spattering appearance for a few moments, they came towards me rattling their rusty cutlasses and a flame of wicked intent burning within their eyes.
They grabbed me roughly by the arms, quickly and efficiently binding my hands with the abundance of old rope at their immediate disposal.
The whole ship roared at me as one with a single belly infested laugh. The entertainment has arrived. The captain must be pleased with them to spoil them with a live magic show as well as the free rum.

Now we all know that a Pirate ship is populated in general by large groups of drunken, bearded and dangerous men that spend long periods away at sea. They like to sail around the Caribbean or anywhere else sunny, cruising from port to port, leaving havoc and ruin in their wake.
They have a penchant for wearing bandanas, gold jewellery (especially earrings for some reason), ripped trousers, brown leather slip-on shoes, and a wide variety of accessories that really turn this basic ensemble into something special.
Rum based is their favourite type of drink given the choice, and only the scariest and munted up women can ever count themselves among their numbers aboard ship.
History never quite put all of this together with a truly cynical eye as to what was really going on.

Piracy and Villainy on the high seas is more about shopping and bumming than, smuggling and gunning.
And I’m trapped for a whole bloody (lets hope it’s not a bloody hole) week aboard The Jolly Rogerer as it sails around the West Indies on a hunt for brand new shiny things and sailors to shout rude things at. I have met the Captain. I recall in my history lessons many years ago the stories of the famous pirate Blackbeard, however history seems to have omitted and denied him the eternal recognition of his full given title. “Black-beard with little white sticky bits in it”

I can’t remember what’s in my bag and haven’t been here long enough for it to appear. There must be something from the future that will keep a ravenous and randy gang of pervy pirates at bay…………..

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