ThursdayNext : www.jasperfforde.com
A discussion of all things Thursday !
Wings Over Swindon - 2
Posted by: jon (---.abel.net.uk)
Date: January 09, 2003 06:01PM
<HTML><B>Wings Over Swindon - 2</B>
James Bigglesworth, A.C.E., was the world’s leading focus puller. If anybody had any focus that needed pulling, they would call James first. His reputation was immaculate, unsullied even after the unfortunate incident when he had been called to a traditional music club in Shepton Mallet and asked to pull some folkies. (He had declined, of course; quite apart from the obvious confusion of words, he reckoned folkies were perfectly capable of pulling themselves). He was known, far and wide, as the Focus Puller’s Puller. When he wasn’t pulling foci, he spent his time flying his beloved biplane, performing aerobatics for the amusement of crowds of people at fairs and occasionally, due to navigational error, fields of sheep.
One day, while executing a particularly tricky Immelmann turn for the benefit of a number of Herdwick ewes, he heard a strange noise in the earpieces of his genuine 1940 flying helmet. It appeared to be the sound of someone being violently sick. He completed the turn and levelled out, and as he did so a voice could be heard. “Oh, thank God for that,” it said feebly. “Promise me never ever to do that to me again, will you?” James flew along for a minute or two before replying. “Tell me you’re a hallucination due to lack of oxygen,” he said hopefully. “Nope,” replied the voice, sounding stronger. “Can’t tell you that. Not without lying, anyway.” “All right,” James said, “how about you’re a freak radio wave I’m somehow picking up?” “Oh, no. Definitely constructed from particles, me. I’m real and I’m here.” “Um, I can’t see you.” “Well, there is a perfectly logical explanation for that, as it happens. I’m in the other cockpit, behind you.” “I see. And what’s the perfectly logical explanation for you having suddenly appeared in mid-air?” “Ah, well, there we might have a problem. Suppose you park this thing, and I tell you all about it?” “I wasn’t planning on landing for an hour or two yet.” “It would be in your interest to change your plans, I think.” “Oh, why?” “Well, for one thing you might want to clean this cockpit up.”
After touching down and taxiing to a halt, James got out of the plane, and turned to face his mysterious passenger. It proved to be a bit of a disappointment; he had been hoping for a guardian angel, or a strange being from another world, but it was in fact a very small man with a red beard, a freckled face and a cheerful grin; he was wearing some kind of uniform, but it was difficult to make out the details beneath the liberal coating of vomit. “Wotcha,” he said. James regarded him with distaste. “Who are you,” he asked sternly, “and how did you get into my Tiger Moth?” The small man frowned. “I ain’t never been in your tiger moth!” he said, sounding hurt. James sighed. “The aeroplane is called a Tiger Moth.” “Oh. Gotcha. Right, well, my name is Scorpion de Rooftrouser, and I am here on behalf of Jurisfiction.” “Scorpion de Rooftrouser! Is that your real name?” “No, of course it isn’t! I am one of the Twelve Red-Bearded Dwarves, and I thought everybody knew that dwarves never tell anybody their real names. Most people call me Scorpy. Can I get out of here, please?”
Once out of the plane, and after a quick visit to the toilet to remove the worst of his chunder, the dwarf resumed his explanation. “I have been sent here,” he went on, “to ask you a question. And might I add that if I had known that jumping into this timeline involved flapping about in rickety old aeroplanes, I wouldn’t have come. Serves me right; never volunteer.” James regarded him coldly. He disliked having his beloved Tiger Moth described as ‘rickety’. “Ask your question, then, and then I can tell you to bugger off, and you won’t have to volunteer again.” Scorpy looked hurt again. “Don’t be like that,” he said. “I’m here to make you a star.” “What kind of a star – a red dwarf?” “Oooh, that was nasty. Some people just can’t take a favour. Look, how would you like to have the leading role in no less than 95 novels, in all of which you play a square-jawed all-English hero, all nobility and derring-do, who has many exciting adventures all over the world?” “No.” “No?” “No. I’m quite happy here, thank-you.” “Yes, but you haven’t heard the best bit yet. This hero is the greatest aeroplane pilot that ever lived.” There was a silence while James digested this news. Scorpy leaned forward, and pushed his advantage. “You get to fly all the classics – Sopwith Camel, Miles Hawk, Sunderland, Lancaster, DC-3, Mosquito, Grumman Martlet, Spitfire - ” “I prefer Hurricanes.” “I’m sure Hurricanes can be arranged. You will, of course, be an ace fighter pilot in both world wars, as well as a master detective.” “Sounds too good to be true.” “Well, yes; it is too good to be true, as a matter of fact. It’s fiction, isn’t it?” James thought to himself. “OK; but how has this frankly incredible opportunity arisen? And why me?” Scorpy shifted in his seat, and looked uncomfortable. “Ah, well, we had a bit of a cock-up on the library front. A boojum got loose, and before we could stop it, it had disappeared the lead character from every one of these 95 books. And we need you because a) you are a pilot, and b) your name is James Bigglesworth.” “So?” “That’s the name of the character that got boojumed.” “Good heavens.” Scorpy’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know her, then?” “Know who?” “Sarah Goode-Evans.” “Er, no, should I?” “Depends on how much crossover factor we could get away with.” James didn’t understand this, but something else was bothering him. “Isn’t it a bit of a co-incidence, us both having the same name?” “Indeed it is, and if you knew what a lot of bother we had getting the co-incidence set up, you wouldn’t chuckle, mate. Just don’t talk to me about bloody demons, that’s all.” James, who didn’t intend to talk to Scorpy or anyone else about demons, had other concerns. “Suppose – just suppose – I said yes,” he began, cautiously. Scorpy sat up, looking eager. “Yes?” “Well, what would happen if I left this life, and went into these books? What would happen to my plane, and who would do all the focus pulling?” Scorpy leant back, and waved a hand airily. “Oh, that’s all sorted, mate. We’ve got this writer chap – can’t remember his name – anyway, bit of juggling with timelines, couple of improbable co-incidences, and Bob’s your Uncle.” “Is he?” “Oh yes; Robert Bigglesworth. Only a minor character, though.” “I see. Well. Um. All right then – I’ll do it.” “Attaboy! I knew you would. Right then, let’s’be off – ah.” James looked up suspiciously. “How do you mean, ‘ah’?” “Weeell, there is just one thing.” “I knew there’d be a catch. Go on.” “In these books – you have to go by, um, a nickname.” James sighed. “All right. What is it?” “Er – Biggles.” “Biggles! It sounds like one of the Teletubbies!” “Yeah. Sorry. But it’s in all the titles and everything. Biggles Flies East, Biggles Flies West, that sort of thing. And if you don’t step in sharp, it’ll be Biggles Flies Undone, know what I mean?” “Oh, all right then. I’ve been called worse.” “Have you? What?” “Bigjobs.” “Yep. That’s worse.”
The sun was just rising as Squadron-Leader Bigglesworth, D.F.C., walked across the airfield. Around him the fitters were preparing the Hurricanes of 134 Squadron for the day. Biggles grinned to himself; a manly, squared-jawed, all-English ace fighter pilot’s grin. This was going to be fun.</HTML>
James Bigglesworth, A.C.E., was the world’s leading focus puller. If anybody had any focus that needed pulling, they would call James first. His reputation was immaculate, unsullied even after the unfortunate incident when he had been called to a traditional music club in Shepton Mallet and asked to pull some folkies. (He had declined, of course; quite apart from the obvious confusion of words, he reckoned folkies were perfectly capable of pulling themselves). He was known, far and wide, as the Focus Puller’s Puller. When he wasn’t pulling foci, he spent his time flying his beloved biplane, performing aerobatics for the amusement of crowds of people at fairs and occasionally, due to navigational error, fields of sheep.
One day, while executing a particularly tricky Immelmann turn for the benefit of a number of Herdwick ewes, he heard a strange noise in the earpieces of his genuine 1940 flying helmet. It appeared to be the sound of someone being violently sick. He completed the turn and levelled out, and as he did so a voice could be heard. “Oh, thank God for that,” it said feebly. “Promise me never ever to do that to me again, will you?” James flew along for a minute or two before replying. “Tell me you’re a hallucination due to lack of oxygen,” he said hopefully. “Nope,” replied the voice, sounding stronger. “Can’t tell you that. Not without lying, anyway.” “All right,” James said, “how about you’re a freak radio wave I’m somehow picking up?” “Oh, no. Definitely constructed from particles, me. I’m real and I’m here.” “Um, I can’t see you.” “Well, there is a perfectly logical explanation for that, as it happens. I’m in the other cockpit, behind you.” “I see. And what’s the perfectly logical explanation for you having suddenly appeared in mid-air?” “Ah, well, there we might have a problem. Suppose you park this thing, and I tell you all about it?” “I wasn’t planning on landing for an hour or two yet.” “It would be in your interest to change your plans, I think.” “Oh, why?” “Well, for one thing you might want to clean this cockpit up.”
After touching down and taxiing to a halt, James got out of the plane, and turned to face his mysterious passenger. It proved to be a bit of a disappointment; he had been hoping for a guardian angel, or a strange being from another world, but it was in fact a very small man with a red beard, a freckled face and a cheerful grin; he was wearing some kind of uniform, but it was difficult to make out the details beneath the liberal coating of vomit. “Wotcha,” he said. James regarded him with distaste. “Who are you,” he asked sternly, “and how did you get into my Tiger Moth?” The small man frowned. “I ain’t never been in your tiger moth!” he said, sounding hurt. James sighed. “The aeroplane is called a Tiger Moth.” “Oh. Gotcha. Right, well, my name is Scorpion de Rooftrouser, and I am here on behalf of Jurisfiction.” “Scorpion de Rooftrouser! Is that your real name?” “No, of course it isn’t! I am one of the Twelve Red-Bearded Dwarves, and I thought everybody knew that dwarves never tell anybody their real names. Most people call me Scorpy. Can I get out of here, please?”
Once out of the plane, and after a quick visit to the toilet to remove the worst of his chunder, the dwarf resumed his explanation. “I have been sent here,” he went on, “to ask you a question. And might I add that if I had known that jumping into this timeline involved flapping about in rickety old aeroplanes, I wouldn’t have come. Serves me right; never volunteer.” James regarded him coldly. He disliked having his beloved Tiger Moth described as ‘rickety’. “Ask your question, then, and then I can tell you to bugger off, and you won’t have to volunteer again.” Scorpy looked hurt again. “Don’t be like that,” he said. “I’m here to make you a star.” “What kind of a star – a red dwarf?” “Oooh, that was nasty. Some people just can’t take a favour. Look, how would you like to have the leading role in no less than 95 novels, in all of which you play a square-jawed all-English hero, all nobility and derring-do, who has many exciting adventures all over the world?” “No.” “No?” “No. I’m quite happy here, thank-you.” “Yes, but you haven’t heard the best bit yet. This hero is the greatest aeroplane pilot that ever lived.” There was a silence while James digested this news. Scorpy leaned forward, and pushed his advantage. “You get to fly all the classics – Sopwith Camel, Miles Hawk, Sunderland, Lancaster, DC-3, Mosquito, Grumman Martlet, Spitfire - ” “I prefer Hurricanes.” “I’m sure Hurricanes can be arranged. You will, of course, be an ace fighter pilot in both world wars, as well as a master detective.” “Sounds too good to be true.” “Well, yes; it is too good to be true, as a matter of fact. It’s fiction, isn’t it?” James thought to himself. “OK; but how has this frankly incredible opportunity arisen? And why me?” Scorpy shifted in his seat, and looked uncomfortable. “Ah, well, we had a bit of a cock-up on the library front. A boojum got loose, and before we could stop it, it had disappeared the lead character from every one of these 95 books. And we need you because a) you are a pilot, and b) your name is James Bigglesworth.” “So?” “That’s the name of the character that got boojumed.” “Good heavens.” Scorpy’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know her, then?” “Know who?” “Sarah Goode-Evans.” “Er, no, should I?” “Depends on how much crossover factor we could get away with.” James didn’t understand this, but something else was bothering him. “Isn’t it a bit of a co-incidence, us both having the same name?” “Indeed it is, and if you knew what a lot of bother we had getting the co-incidence set up, you wouldn’t chuckle, mate. Just don’t talk to me about bloody demons, that’s all.” James, who didn’t intend to talk to Scorpy or anyone else about demons, had other concerns. “Suppose – just suppose – I said yes,” he began, cautiously. Scorpy sat up, looking eager. “Yes?” “Well, what would happen if I left this life, and went into these books? What would happen to my plane, and who would do all the focus pulling?” Scorpy leant back, and waved a hand airily. “Oh, that’s all sorted, mate. We’ve got this writer chap – can’t remember his name – anyway, bit of juggling with timelines, couple of improbable co-incidences, and Bob’s your Uncle.” “Is he?” “Oh yes; Robert Bigglesworth. Only a minor character, though.” “I see. Well. Um. All right then – I’ll do it.” “Attaboy! I knew you would. Right then, let’s’be off – ah.” James looked up suspiciously. “How do you mean, ‘ah’?” “Weeell, there is just one thing.” “I knew there’d be a catch. Go on.” “In these books – you have to go by, um, a nickname.” James sighed. “All right. What is it?” “Er – Biggles.” “Biggles! It sounds like one of the Teletubbies!” “Yeah. Sorry. But it’s in all the titles and everything. Biggles Flies East, Biggles Flies West, that sort of thing. And if you don’t step in sharp, it’ll be Biggles Flies Undone, know what I mean?” “Oh, all right then. I’ve been called worse.” “Have you? What?” “Bigjobs.” “Yep. That’s worse.”
The sun was just rising as Squadron-Leader Bigglesworth, D.F.C., walked across the airfield. Around him the fitters were preparing the Hurricanes of 134 Squadron for the day. Biggles grinned to himself; a manly, squared-jawed, all-English ace fighter pilot’s grin. This was going to be fun.</HTML>
Re: Wings Over Swindon - 2
Posted by: Sarah (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: January 09, 2003 07:28PM
<HTML>Wow - wait till I get my friend Irene reading this! She's a great Biggles fan... There will be some more, will there? *hopeful expression*</HTML>
Re: Wings Over Swindon - 2
Posted by: poetscientistdrinker (---.rdg.ac.uk)
Date: January 14, 2003 02:29PM
<HTML>Erm was I the only person to see 'Scorpy' and expect some god awful bush kangaroo pun?</HTML>
Re: Wings Over Swindon - 2
Posted by: jon (---.abel.net.uk)
Date: January 14, 2003 04:00PM
<HTML>What's that Scorp? You say you're being used as part of an international pun-smuggling ring down at the old opal mine? Cripes, we'd better get down to the police station and tell Bluey! ... And they'd have gotten away with it, too, except for those pesky red-bearded dwarves!
(I sent this story to my friend Alice, and she said that knowing about the 12 red-bearded dwarves made me very old. I pointed out that she liked the Odyssey, and did that make her 3,000 years old? What did make me feel old was hearing the Clash on Radio 2.)</HTML>
(I sent this story to my friend Alice, and she said that knowing about the 12 red-bearded dwarves made me very old. I pointed out that she liked the Odyssey, and did that make her 3,000 years old? What did make me feel old was hearing the Clash on Radio 2.)</HTML>
Re: Wings Over Swindon - 2
Posted by: poetscientistdrinker (---.cache.pol.co.uk)
Date: January 14, 2003 09:08PM
<HTML>Who they?
what makes me feel old is hearing programmes of my childhood being described as 'classics'... Rentaghost, Maid Marion, Henry's Cat... Actually, is there any chance of Minsky making an appearance in that?</HTML>
what makes me feel old is hearing programmes of my childhood being described as 'classics'... Rentaghost, Maid Marion, Henry's Cat... Actually, is there any chance of Minsky making an appearance in that?</HTML>
Re: Wings Over Swindon - 2
Posted by: Minsky Cat (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: January 14, 2003 09:13PM
<HTML>Not on your life, Ben. I'm <i>far</i> too dignified.</HTML>
Re: Wings Over Swindon - 2
Posted by: Sarah (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: January 14, 2003 09:14PM
<HTML>For which read "snooty"...</HTML>
Re: Wings Over Swindon - 2
Posted by: poetscientistdrinker (---.cache.pol.co.uk)
Date: January 14, 2003 09:44PM
<HTML>Henry's Cat was excellent - he knew everything about nothing (but not too much about that)</HTML>
Re: Wings Over Swindon - 2
Posted by: Ooktavia (---.in-addr.btopenworld.com)
Date: January 15, 2003 10:54PM
<HTML>12 red headed dawrves? As m'old friend Rove* would say, WHAT THE?
*Rove Mcmanus, pleasant faced young Australian, their answer to Graham Norton, apart from being straight, and sexy.</HTML>
*Rove Mcmanus, pleasant faced young Australian, their answer to Graham Norton, apart from being straight, and sexy.</HTML>
Re: Wings Over Swindon - 2
Posted by: poetscientistdrinker (---.cache.pol.co.uk)
Date: January 15, 2003 11:38PM
<HTML>And he's related to our Graham how?</HTML>
Re: Wings Over Swindon - 2
Posted by: Ooktavia (---.in-addr.btopenworld.com)
Date: January 16, 2003 01:16PM
<HTML>He's a TV show host. The show, Rove Live, is not unlike So Graham Norton, but without quite as much sex.</HTML>
Sorry, only registered users may post in this forum.