It's Not That Easy
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TH'IDIOT was raised in a convict battalion on the dividing line between tundra and taiga in the Siberian wilderness, the offspring of an illicit liaison between Nicholas I, Tsar of all Russia and Betty Driver, Supervisor of all Hot Pots. His early life was marked by a readiness to address the reconstruction of autocracy after the ravages of the Napoleonic debacle. His first commission was in the Baltic fleet of a despondent haberdasher who wrote sonnets flavoured with mulled wine. Informed by an inexplicable righteousness he jumped ship a stone’s throw way from Dogger Bank. His instincts led him to the Isle of Dogs where the Artful Dodger in the guise of Mr S Marriott esq. was conducting seminars in ‘Advanced Cockney Walkabout Theory.’ Notwithstanding a rectitude rarely equalled by the inhabitants of New England circa 1685, he acquitted himself in this school of hard knocks with dazzling aplomb. He purloined various family heirlooms belonging to the wandering aristocracy of all Charles H. Dickens most laborious novels, found himself in Reading Gaol with a ravenous Oscar, who drummed into him the importance of being churlish. After a spell of porridge and a tedious parole supervised by Sammy Davis Janitor, he hit Vegas with an enthusiasm rarely equaled by the most dissolute Donkey Derby enthusiasts. Whilst there he became a favourite extra in all the major sitcoms of the era, such as the hilarious ‘Keep Your Eyes on the Beans, Maurice,’ and the much missed ‘Tales of the Head Lice of Tom Jones, Gentleman.’ Shunning the limelight he set up a halfway house for various discarded Elvi’s found abandoned on the Nevada state highway. His snakeskin breviary was seen in every vacant parking lot; his industry was unsparing. Soon the questionable progeny of every Tom, Dich and Hairy were adopting the form and manners of the discarded Elvi’s in the hope of eternal reward. Saint Paul gave up his promising Dodge City circuit in order to minister to the repellent thrill seekers. ‘At last,’ TH'IDIOT was heard to utter, ‘I am confronted by a beard worthy of me.’
‘If I weren’t so beastly short of money at the moment, I’d restore the Trondhiem cathedral,’ he said to the shoemaker.
No Going Back
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The Viscount, Monsieur, will send you his seconds tomorrow.
Coming Clean
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He could eat as many as nine pies at once, keeping a tenth in his pocket, and was a master at filling one piece of chancery notepaper with so much libel that no one could read it through without coughing and sneezing in between.
Get a Metaphysical haircut at L'IDIOT SALON.
DISCOUNTS FOR DUELLISTS.
Wake Me Up
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If you want good kvass, then you must insult it, make it angry. Kvass can’t stand sweet things so throw in a few raisins, or some sugar – a small teaspoonful to a bucket will do. . .
The Ghost of Shakatak
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