Wijnand - Re-Posts
Tony Wright
Subject: Re: What a bummer
Date: 1997/03/01
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Organization: Venom
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In article <PXtphHAo...@heaven.demon.co.uk>, Jesus
<URL:mailto:je...@heaven.demon.co.uk> wrote:
>
> In article <ant27192...@walhall.demon.co.uk>, Wijnand Thompson
> <dro...@walhall.demon.co.uk> writes in demon.local
> >In article <Gl5LtCA4...@heaven.demon.co.uk>, Jesus
> ><URL:mailto:je...@heaven.demon.co.uk> wrote:
> >> In article <856907...@esperi.demon.co.uk>, Nix
> >> <vt2gh$k...@esperi.demon.co.uk> writes
> >> >In article <331451a3.5782284@news>
> >> > da...@dhadley.demon.co.uk "David Hadley" writes:
> >> >
> >> >: It is this that is the problem, or rather the cause of so many
> >> >: problems. Why is it that young people get so easily 'bored'?
> >> >
> >> >We've all got Black&Decker drills in our heads.
> >> >Didn't you know?
> >> Bosch, Bosch, Bosch, Bosch, Bosch.
> >I don't like Bosch. Bloody Vikings!
>
> I could never understand why a surealist painter got involved in power
> tools.
Ah, well, that is a long story but, as par@noid seems to be
flagging and I have some free time, what the hell?
The city of 's-Hertogenbosch, Brabant, the Netherlands; early
sixteenth century, Thursday evening, about seven o'clock. A
painter, one Jheronimous Anthonissen van Aken, also known and
hereinafter referred to as Bosch, is hard at work on the centre
panel of The Garden of Earthly Delights. His wife, Mrs. Bosch,
enters with his dinner, a fine repast of Lobster Thermidor a
Crevette with a mornay sauce served in a Provencale manner with
shallots and aubergines garnished with truffle pate, brandy and
with a fried egg on top and no Spam, which she plonks down on
the table beside him.
Bosch now finds that he has a big problem; he wants to eat his
dinner, but to do so he has to put down his brush and palette
so that he can pick up his knife and fork; he wants to continue
painting while there is still light, but to do so he has to put
down his fork and knife so that he can pick up his palette and
brush. After several minutes of interchanging eating implements
with painting implements Bosch becomes totally confused, slaps
mornay sauce all over a particularly interesting couple near the
bottom-centre of the painting and paints his mouth a rather nice
shade of strawberry red. Bosch has had enough; he gives up and,
chopper in hand, heads off down to the pigsty.
Mrs. Bosch spent that night alone in the marriage bed, awakened
occasionally by loud, porcine squeals emanating from the pigsty.
Mrs. Bosch, having seen some of her husband's paintings, quite
naturally assumed that he now preferred dalliance with pigs to a
bit of rumpy-pumpy with her. Not until the morning, when she
walked into the kitchen, did she discover the whole awful truth.
There stood Mr. Bosch, chopper still in hand, covered, head to
foot, with mud, blood and gore. Then she saw it - there on the
table was a pink, meat-like cube. (Many modern art critics have
used this incident to claim that Bosch was, in fact, the first
Cubist; this, of course, is complete balls.)
"Oh my God!" exclaimed Mrs. Bosch in fluent mediaeval Flemish,
"What is it?"
"It's my chop- oh, that, you mean? 'Tis a new cold meat product
what I have invented; I call it Spam." explained Mr. Bosch, also
in fluent mediaeval Flemish.
With that, Bosch took his chopper and cut two, thick slices of
bread and an even thicker slice of Spam; he placed the slice of
Spam between the two slices of bread.
"There you are, my dear," he said, "a cold snack which I can eat
with one hand while continuing to paint with the other. I shall
call it a boschich."
(Many early commentators have argued that the name boschich did
not enter into common parlance because Bosch was neither an Earl
nor a card player. The real reason, as modern researchers have
shown, is that boschich was a bloody silly name for a sandwich.)
Our story now takes a detour; a few hundred miles to the North-
east; a few weeks later. In a 'greasy spoon' in a dingy back
street in Koebenhavn a group of Vikings are gathered. Still
smarting badly from their less than successful takeover attempt
of England several hundred years earlier, they plot a new, more
subtle, strategy for another attempt. What they plan to do is
to open a fast food restaurant in every major city in England.
However, they have heard of the recent discovery of America by
Columbus and realize that they will have to act quickly to beat
the MacWimpy King burger chain to the shores of England. What
they need is a product which is simple to prepare and quick to
serve; one Viking mentioned taste, but he was quickly silenced.
Inspiration sometimes arrives from the most unexpected sources.
The waiter arrived and dumped several plates of 'food' on the
table. One each and every plate, amid the eggs, bacon, sausages
and tomatoes, (baked beans are off), floating in bacon fat and
lard, was a rectangular slice of processed meat. Viking No.1
takes a bite of the slice on his plate.
"That's it!" he exclaims in fluent mediaeval Danish, "That is
just what we need." He calls for the waiter; "Waiter! Waiter!"
Twenty minutes later ...
"Que?" asks the waiter.
"What is this stuff?"
"That is the Spam. I gets it off a painter bloke in Brabant.
You like, yes?"
"Spam?" says Viking No.1, taking another bite.
The other Vikings taste the Spam and nod their approval. Soon
a chorus of Spams, like some warcry, runs round the table -
"Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam ..."
Back to 's-Hertogenbosch; a few weeks later. Mrs. Bosch now has
a nice little earner supplying processed pork and ham products
to the people of the city. Bosch, in view of the fact that his
wife often runs amok with a very large meat cleaver, has taken
to wearing a reinforced codpiece. (Nothing to do with the plot;
just some gratuitous smut.) Into Mrs. Bosch's little shop, one
day, walks a very large man, clad in animal furs, with a horned
helmet on his head, clutching a couple of Linguaphone tapes and
a phrase book. After making a few small chinks in the language
barrier, it emerges that he has come to negotiate the purchase
of several tons of Spam, which Mrs. Bosch agrees to supply at a
considerable discount for cash. The Viking plays with the idea
of indulging in the usual rape, just to celebrate the deal, but,
on noticing the size of Mrs. Bosch's cleaver, decides against it
and, setting fire to his socks, hot-foots it back to Denmark.
Bosch completes The Garden of Earthly Delights, which fetches a
very handsome price in the auction house; no, not that one - the
other one. With the capital Bosch ramps up production of Spam,
taking on many workers. Things go well; the camels arrive from
Marco Polo Asian Imports, Spam production is on schedule, the
city's jobless total is at an all-time low, Bosch is elected as
mayor. The great day arrives: everyone turns out to watch the
camels being loaded with Spam for their journey to Koebenhavn.
In their elation, no one foresaw what would happen next.
This being the early sixteenth century, tin cans had not yet
been invented, so the Spam was cased in boxes made from some of
Bosch's unsuccessful paintings. After a long journey, in the
heat of Summer, the Spam arrived in Koebenhavn in a rather more
mature state than even the Vikings cared for. Understandably,
the Vikings were more than a little bit miffed; actually, they
were bloody furious. After flogging the Spam, and the camels,
cheap to the local kebab house, the Vikings call a pow-wow in
the 'greasy spoon', where they decide that some wanton rape and
pillage is in order. Using the cash from the sale of the Spam,
they kit themselves out with full battle gear and set off for
Brabant.
In 's-Hertogenbosch the locals are enjoying the fruits of their
new-found wealth; the whole city is engaged in a drunken revelry
and is ill-prepared for the approaching visitors. The first
inkling they have that something may be amiss is when they hear
the faint call of 'Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam ...'
carried on the breeze. The call gets ever louder, until it is
heard to be just outside the city - 'Spam SPam SPAm SPAM ...'
The Vikings have arrived. Their temper has not been improved
any by having to row a longboat across a few hundred miles of
dry land. After ensuring that they are legally parked, the
Vikings attack. The ensuing scene of mayhem and carnage is far
too horrible to describe, so I won't. (Many art historians are
now of the opinion that the sight that greeted Bosch when the
battle was over and the Vikings were gone inspired the grimmest
of all his paintings, The Last Judgement.)
Bosch was a broken man; his Spam factory had been razed to the
ground, none of the Vikings had raped his wife, though one of
the few remaining pigs had a surprised look on its face, and, to
cap it all, he had a delegation of city elders in his living
room with frowns that went all the way down to the floor. They
made Bosch an offer he couldn't refuse; either he would clear up
the mess and ensure the future security of the city, or they
would strip him of his chain and robes and throw him, with Mrs.
Bosch, into the darkest dungeon they could find, to spend the
rest of their lives on a diet of Spam and water. Bosch had no
choice.
The next day, on the market square, Bosch assembled the few of
his workers that had remained faithful to him. His plan was to
take this motley crew and train them until they became a lean,
mean, cleaning, fighting machine. The big problem with this
plan was that Bosch, being a small, meek man, lacked the air of
authority to discipline his men and, after a week, the crew was
as motley as ever. Come Friday evening, Bosch, on the point of
giving up, decided to go drown his sorrows in the local tavern.
Inspiration sometimes arrives from the most unexpected sources.
Bosch is sat in the corner with his nose buried in a tankard of
the landlord's finest cooking lager. He looks up to find that
he has been joined by a dandily-dressed gentleman who introduces
himself as Chris. The gentleman explains to Bosch that he has
been on a trip of discovery to America, but is having problems
finding his way back to Spain. Bosch points him South-west in
the direction of Spain. Chris insists, rather forcefully, in
thanking Bosch by selling him, at a special introductory price,
a copy of the book Aggressive Techniques in Employee Management,
which he had obtained in America. Bosch, being too meek and
too pissed-off to argue, gives Chris his last gold piece, takes
the book and bids farewell to both Chris and the landlord.
Bosch staggers home and, deciding that, in his present state,
jumping into bed for some rumpy-pumpy with Mrs. Bosch is not a
good idea, cuts himself several Spam sandwiches, takes his new
book and locks himself away in his studio. Monday morning he
emerges, downs a quick seltzer, decides not to kiss Mrs. Bosch,
leaves the house and strides toward the market square.
On his arrival he finds the motley crew waiting for him. Bosch
clears his throat and bellows in a voice that would put Frank
Windsor to shame:
"RIGHT, YOU 'ORRIBLE LOT, LET'S BE 'AVING YOU. ATTENTION!
RIGHT TURN! BY THE RIGHT, wait for it boy, QUICK MARCH!
LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT ..."
And thus was born the Bosch Power Drill.
Hope this helps.
--
Wijnand
Tony Wright
Newsgroups: demon.local
Subject: Re: Just my 2p worth
Date: Sat, 03 Jul 1999 16:24:41 +0100
Organization: Venom
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In article <$xOMGqAD...@ilf0rd.demon.co.uk>,
KEITH <Ke...@ilf0rd.demon.co.uk> wrote:
> In article <4919fbfc...@walhall.screaming.net>, Wijnand Thompson
> <dro...@walhall.screaming.net> writes
> >In article <kB9pzZAq7Se3EwR$@the-symposium.demon.co.uk>,
> > Mandy Wright <Ma...@the-symposium.demon.co.uk> wrote:
> >
> >> Great, so now I'm a pervert as well as being immoral!
> >
> >Marry me! Marry me!
> >
> If you'll stay! If you'll stay!
Aw, Keith, I didn't know you cared.
Actually, I was looking for Hadley. If I catch him he'll
wish he'd never been born. Know what he did to me? I'll
tell you what he did:-
I was becoming a bit noisy in here so we decied to travel
and explore the big, wide interent out there. Off we set,
hand in hand (in a sort of macho, manly, good-pals, not in
the least pink 'n' fluffy sort of way) down the road. We
arrived at the rail station and Hadley hands me his luggage
saying, 'Here, look after these while I buy some Spangles
for the journey.' With that he disappeared into the news-
agent cum sweet-shop.
I put the sofa down and sat on it with Hadley's case on my
knees - and I waited - and I waited - and I waited - and I
waited ....
Next thing I know there is this scream of 'Heheheheheeeelp!'
and a black shape shot past me at high speed leaving a smell
of vanilla hanging in the air. I put the smell in Hadley's
case. I looked up and saw the cause of the panic: chasing
the blackness was a huge, white bunny in a dinner jacket -
'Fuck off, bitch!' it shouted. As the bunny ran past me it
knocked the Hadley's case off my knees; the case fell to the
floor and burst open. The bunny turned and shouted 'Clumsy
bastard! And get that sofa out of here! Four-seaters or
less in this foyer!'
I looked down: the vanilla smell drifted out of the case,
hovered momentarily, then shot off after its owner. By now
the wait for Hadley was becoming tedious - the entrance and
exit of a well-healed man leading another man like some dog
did nothing to relieve the boredom - even the tree behind me
had lost its leaves. What to do?
I rifled through the case: under several well-thumbed copies
of 'Llamas for Profit and Pleasure (incorporating The Sheep
Shaggers Weekly)' I noticed a fiddle. I picked it up: on
the back was inscribed 'Property of Anne-Sophie Mutter'. I
like a good fiddle and, so it seems, does Hadley. I sat and
plucked away; next I knew I had collected 99p, a couple of
bent washers and some coppers. The coppers told me to stop
plucking about and put it away or they would arrest me for
fiddling with Ms Mutter's instrument.
I waited .... Then I heard it - a sound which sent an icey-
cold shiver down my spine, a sound which struck fear into my
very soul. Faintly at first, accompanied by a sickly-sweet
aroma, finger-bells, the chant of 'Pink 'n' Fluffy, Pink 'n'
Fluffy, Pink 'n', Pink 'n', Pink 'n' Fluffy.' Oh no! The
Pink 'n' Fluffy Consciousness Temple! Where were they? Ah!
Over there! They stood on the 'up' escalator, rising into
the foyer as though rising out of the depths of hell. There
they were; all pink robes, hugging everything in sight and
waving sticks of candy-floss. One of them approached me and
offered me some candy-floss: 'We'd like you to accept this
candy-floss on behalf of the Temple of Pink 'n' Fluffy
Consciousness - would you like to make a donation?'
'No!' I said.
'Hey, man, like, candy-floss is so Pink 'n' Fluffy. Candy-
floss is so sweet. I mean, like, have you ever looked at
candy-floss? Like, you can see the whole fuckin' world in
candy-floss.'
I looked at my calendar. 'Oh, is it July already? Excuse
me, I must dash.' I closed the case, picked up the sofa and
went off in search of Hadley. I entered the newsagent cum
sweet-shop. The newsagent looked up at me: 'We don't sell
candy-floss.'
'Actually, I was looking for Hadley.'
'Hadley? Dishevelled sort of bloke, was he?'
'Yes,' I said.
'He bought a pack of Polo mints and left by the back door.'
'Heretic!' I screamed, as I left to follow his trail.
'Wait!' shouted the sweet-seller, 'You'll need these.' He
handed me a 1/4lb bag of bullseyes. I left.
The bastard! How dare he desert me like that? I'll find
him, mark my words. I'll search the whole of the internet
if necessary. I thought I caught a glimpse of him one warm
evening on a mailing list, supping beer with Bill Blake, but
by time I had my act together, he'd gone. Hadley! I'll get
you; and when I do, you will suffer the death of a thousand
sheep's eyes.
This crap was inspired by, and is dedicated to DH, whose
birthday it is tomorrow (Sunday). Happy Birthday, David.
--
Wijnand
Mark Horsman
says...
>
> And thus was born the Bosch Power Drill.
>
--
Do unto others....
mark horsman
Ben Newsam
<a...@saska.demon.co.uk> writes
>And thus was born the Bosch Power Drill.
Thanks for that. The more sheepy ones will be following soon, right?
--
Ben
Tony Wright
Subject: Re: Question about DUN and Agent
Newsgroups: demon.local
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In article <g64s9t49qag6utgk4...@4ax.com>,
David Hadley <ah004...@cableinet.co.uk> wrote:
> On Wed, 28 Feb 2001 12:43:48 +0000, Tony Wright
> <a...@saska.demon.co.uk> wrote:
> >He can't get to his favourite sheep because of the hoof & mouth
outbreak
> >?
> I notice Wijnand has gone rather quiet of late.
> Is he in mourning[1]?
> [1]Mourning always was his favourite ewe.
Don't mention that faithless bitch to me.
I took her out one evening to one of those
60s music nights. During the interval she
went round to the dressing rooms to collect
autographs - that was the last I saw of her.
It seems she had fallen for the lead singer
of one of the groups and had driven off with
him at the end of the concert to his little
hideaway in Wales. Their affair became ever
more intense and obsessive; then the rumours
started. Rumours of sexual perversion swept
through the village; livestock disappeared
from the fields; at first it was just sheep
but it wasn't long before lambs went missing
too. The police began to take an interest.
When the police raided they found the bodies
of several half-eaten lambs buried under the
patio. On the singer's computer they found
hundreds of pictures of lambs, most of them
completely sheared and in lascivious poses.
They found no trace of Mourning or her lover.
Those two degenerates had got wind of the
impending police raid, thrown a few things
into a suitcase, left a note which said 'No
milk today' and fled to the continent.
The story reached the media: there was a mad
rush to track down the fugitives and obtain
an exclusive interview with them. ITN was
first. They had traced them to Austria. A
film crew was duly despatched together with
their ace reporter Sir Trevor McDoughnut.
Two days later a courier delivered a video
from Austria to the reception desk of ITN's
premises. The tape was rushed down to the
editing suite and loaded into the player.
The technician pressed 'Play' and after a
few seconds the title appeard on screen:
'Mourning, Noone and Knight in Vienna'.
--
Wijnand