Friday, 21 November 2008

The Magical Wishing Wog - Part II

Hello children.

Are you sitting comfortably?

Good. Then I'll begin...

Once upon a time, there was a politically incorrect author named Enid Blyton.

Here's one of her books in which some children meet their German friends:

Last week, I decided it would be fun to write a politically incorrect children's story for Christmas, and serialise it in the run-up.

So. As promised, here's part two of The Magical Wishing Wog.

(Here's the story so far...)

Chalky peered into the grey light before him, desperately expecting to see some snow and chocolate or something like that. But instead there was nothing but an old, brown bedroom.
Pippa raced in, laughing.
“Haha, it's just Colonel Grandfather’s shit old bedroom. And you thought it’d be full of Christmas. Oh, Chalky, you fat hopeless idiot!”
Chalky sulked. “Shut up, Pippa. You thought it as well. Come on, let’s find that glove and get back.”
The bedroom was large and airy; south-facing, with an attractive view of the campanile and a duck pond. It was hard not to notice the balcony which, with the addition of some patio furniture, would be an ideal place to serve breakfast. The two children went to either ends of the room and began rifling through their grandfather’s personal affects. A hideous stench of age engulfed them. Everything seemed frail and brittle, and yet commanded respect.
“Pippa,” whispered Chalky, “what do you think this is?” and pointed towards a horrible, faded ornament of a bear selling balloons.
“I’m not sure,” she said.
“Could it be majolica, you think?”
“Oh, most certainly. Just look at that glaze.”
Chalky tilted his head to see. “Hmm, yes. And have you seen this chest?” Pippa reached inside her dirndl and pulled out a small pair of half-moon spectacles.
“Good Lord,” she said.
“Isn’t it exquisite?”
“That really is something.”
“I’d go as far as to say it’s probably the best example of japanning I’ve ever seen,” said Chalky, running his finger over the lacquer. Neither of them could believe their eyes. “Shall we inspect the construction?”
“Oh, yes,” ballooned Pippa. “I’d love to see inside a piece of this quality.”
The children pulled on their white felt gloves that they always carried lest in the presence of great and delicate antiquity. Pippa went so far as to earth herself on a nearby radiator, dispensing any surplus static-electricity which she knew would attract dust to the surface and fittings of the chest. Then, with a deft twist, Chalky deftly twisted the small brass key on the front of the absolutely amazing and breathtaking box. It made a pinging noise.
“Brace one end, would you. Lift on three,” ordered the corpulent young boy. Pippa moved to the end of the chest and grasped the corners of the lid. Chalky stared back at her, all steely and professional. Together they lifted the lid, which creaked a very small amount.
“What’s that?” spat Pippa.
Inside the chest they could see a large bundle or parcel. It filled the chest almost entirely and, swaddled in a heavy grey tarpaulin, smelt of stale bed clothes. Chalky gave it a kick with his massive foot.
“Whatcha doin, there!?” came a strange, angry voice. The children looked at each other and the whole chest suddenly came alive. The canvassy parcel flapped apart and a figure emerged. Recoiling in horror, Chalky and Pippa gasped and gulped for there before them, standing in the chest, was a very angry negro. Chalky was so frightened he breached his tweeds, whilst his sister’s face betrayed a cacophonous geometry of emotions, fluctuating wildly from fear to guilt, to rage and surprise to fear again. Finally and suddenly, this fruit machine of expressions landed on understanding and paid-out in full (figuratively speaking.)
“I don’t believe it,” yelped, Pippa. “I never thought it was true.”
Chalky stood by the radiator, drying the piss off his trousers. “What are you talking about?” he muttered.
“Who would’ve thought,” she continued. “After all these years, we’ve found it. Lying there, in the chest at the foot of grandpapa’s bed, is The Magical Wishing Wog.”
The negro eyed them both suspiciously. “Ya damn fool. I aint grantin’ ya no wish today,” he bristled, folding his arms over his naked, sagging body.
“Chalky! Pippa!” came a stern, sudden voice.
“Oh no, it’s Miss. Quosp. Colonel Grandfather’s glove!” trembled Chalky. “We’ve forgotten. Whatever are we to do, Pippa?”
“Crikey! Quick,” she said to the negro. “Do you know where my grandfather keeps his falconry glove?”
“Sure I do,” he stabbed. “Its in d’ drawer, o’er there. W’ere ‘talways is.”
Chalky, damp and shambling, plunged his hand into the drawer and retrieved the glove. “It’s here!”
“Good,” said the negro. “Now take ya damn fancy gauntlet and leave me alone.”
“Oh, thank you,” gushed Pippa. “You really are the Wishing Wog.” And with that, the children scampered and squelched out of the room and back down the stairs.

“Do you have it then?” said Miss. Quosp, a little bit overbearingly, screwing the lid back on a bottle of gin.
“Here it is,” chirruped Chalky, handing it over. “Splendid,” belched the maid, holding the glove up to the light. She turned it over in the air and the children noticed it had the word BITCH written across its cuff in rhinestones. “That’s the ticket. Now then,” she continued, “I don’t have time to air and press this glove, because the pair of you are late. However, I have informed your grandfather of the situation in anticipation of your arrival. You will notice your outdoor wear – Mackintosh, galoshes and so forth – have been laid out for you. Once in this garb, you are to take the glove and liase with your grandfather on the south field at once, where he is currently entertaining his guests, Lord Gnosher the Arch-Marquis of Leicester, The Duke of Doncaster and the extremely mysterious Professor Rafferty of the Royal Society." Like a camp fish, Chalky gulped.

To be continued...

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