A Spaniard in the Works Part 1

A SPANIARD IN THE WORKS.

John Lennon.

A SPANIARD IN THE WORKS.

Jesus El Pifco was a foreigner and he knew it. He had imigrate- ful from his little white slum in Barcelover a good thirsty year ago having first secured the handy job as coachman in Scotland.

The job was with the Laird of Mca.n.u.s, a canny old tin whom have a castle in the Highlads. The first thing Jesus EI Pifco noticed in early the days was that the Laird didn't seem to have a coach of any discription or even a coach house you know, much to his dismable. But - and I use the word lightly - the Laird did seem to having some horses, each one sporting a fine pair of legs. Jesus fell in love with them at first sight, as they did with him, which was lucky, because his quarters were in the actually stables along side his n.o.ble four lepered friends.

Pretty polly one could see Jesus almost every day, grooming his masters horses, brushing their manebits and hammering their teeth, whistling a quaint Spanish refrain dreaming of his loved wombs back home in their little white fascist b.a.s.t.a.r.d huts.

'A well pair of groomed horses I must say,' he would remark to wee Spastic Sporran the flighty chamberlain, whom he'd had his good eye on eversince Hogmanose.

'Nae sa bad' she would answer in her sliced Aberdeen-martin accent. 'Ye spend more time wi' yon horses than ye do wi'

me,' with that she would storm back to her duties, carefully tying her chast.i.ty negro hardly to her skim.

Being a good catholic, Jesus wiped the spit from his face and turned the other cheese - but she had gone leaving him once small in an agatha of christy.

'One dave she woll go too farther, and I woll leaf her' he said to his fave rave horse. Of course the horse didn't answer, because as you know they cannot speak, least of all to a garlic eating, stinking, little yellow greasy fascist b.a.s.t.a.r.d catholic Spaniard. They soon made it up howevans and Jesus and wee Spastic were once morphia unitely in a love that knew no suzie.

The only thing that puzzled Jesus was why his sugarboot got so annoyed when he called her his little Spastic in public. Little wonder howeapon, with her real name being Patrick, you see?

'Ye musna' call me Spastic whilst ma friends are here Jesus ma bonnie wee dwarf' she said irragated.

'But I cannot not say Patrick me little tartan bag' he replied all herb and angie inside. She looked down at him through a ma.s.s of naturally curly warts.

'But Spastic means a kind of cripple in English ma sweet wee Jesus, and ai'm no cripple as you well known! '

'That's true enough' said he 'but I didn't not realize being a foreigner and that, and also not knowing your countries culture and so force, and anywait I can spot a cripple anywhere.'

He rambled on as Patrick knelt down lovingly with tears in her eye and slowly bit a piece of his b.u.m. Then lifting her face upwarts, she said with a voice full of emulsion 'Can ye heffer forgive me Jesus, can ye? ' she s...o...b..d. He looked at her strange- ly as if she were a strangely, then taking her slowly right foot he cried; 'Parreesy el pino a strevaro qui bueno el franco senatro! ' which rugby transplanted means - 'Only if you've got green braces' - and fortunately she had.

They were married in the fallout, with the Lairds blessing of course, he also gave them a 'wee gifty' as he put it, which was a useful addition to their bottom lawyer. It was a special jar of secret ointment made by generators of his forefingers to help get rid of Patricks crabs which she had unluckily caught from the Laird of Mca.n.u.s himself at his late wifes (Lady Mca.n.u.s') wake.

They were overjoyced, and grapenut abun and beyond the call of duty.

'The only little crawlie things we want are babies,' quipped Jesus who was a sport. 'That's right sweety' answered Patrick reaching for him with a knowsley hall.

'Guid luck to you and yours' shouted the Laird from the old wing.

'G.o.d bless you sir' said Jesus quickly harnessing his wife with a dexterity that only practice can perfect. 'Come on me beauty'

he whispered as he rode his wife at a steady trot towards the East Gate. 'We mustn't miss the first race my dear.'

'Not likely' snorted his newly wed wife breaking into a gull- up. 'Not likely' she repeated.

The honeymood was don short by a telephant from Mrs El Pifco (his mother) who was apparently leaving Barcelunder to se her eldest sod febore she died laughing, and besides the air would do her good she added. Patrick looked up from her nosebag and giggled.

'Don't joke about Mamma please if you donlang, she are all I have loft in the world and besides your mother's a bit of a brockwurst herselves' said Jesus, 'And if she's still alive when she gets here we can throw up a party for her and then she can meet all our ugly Scottish friends' he reflected. 'On the other handle we can always use her as a scarecrab in the top field' said Patrick practically.

So they packed their suitcrates marked 'his and hea.r.s.e' and set off for their employers highly home in the highlies.

'We're home Sir' said Jesus to the wizened tartan figure knelt crouching over a bag of sheep.

'Why are ye bask so soon?' inquired the Laird, immediately recognizing his own staff through years of experience. 'I've had some bad jews from my Mammy - she's coming to seagull me, if its all ripe with you sir.' The Laird thought for a mumble, then his face lit up like a boiling wart.

'You're all fired' he smiled and went off whistling.

THE FAT BUDGIE.

I have a little budgie He is my very pal I take him walks in Britain I hope I always shall.

I call my budgie Jeffrey My grandads name's the same I call him after grandad Who had a feathered brain.

Some people don't like budgies The little yellow brats They eat them up for breakfast Or give them to their cats.

My uncle ate a budgie It was so fat and fair.

I cried and called him Ronnie He didn't seem to care

Although his name was Arthur It didn't mean a thing.

He went into a petshop And ate up everything.

The doctors looked inside him, To see what they could do, But he had been too greedy He died just like a zoo.

My Jeffrey chirps and twitters When I walk into the room, I make him scrambled egg on toast And feed him with a spoon.

He sings like other budgies But only when in trim But most of all on Sunday Thats when I plug him in.

He flies about the room sometimes And sits upon my bed And if he's really happy He does it on my head.

He's on a diet now you know From eating far too much They say if he gets fatter He'll have to wear a crutch.

It would be funny wouldn't it A budgie on a stick Imagine all the people Laughing till they're sick.

So that's my budgie Jeffrey Fat and yellow too I love him more than daddie And I'm only thirty two.

SNORE WIFE AND SOME SEVERAL DWARTS.

Once upon upon in a dizney far away - say three hundred year agoal if you like - there lived a sneaky forest some several dwarts or cretins; all named - Sleezy, Grumpty, Sneezy, Dog, Smirkey, Alice? Derick - and Wimpey. Anyway they all dug about in a diamond mind, which was rich beyond compere.

Every day when they came hulme from wirk, they would sing a song - just like ordinary wirkers - the song went something like - 'Yo ho! Yo ho! it's off to wirk we go! ' - which is silly really considerable they were comeing hulme. (Perhaps ther was slight housework to be do.) One day howitzer they (Dwarts) arrived home, at aprodestant, six o'cloth, and who? - who do they find? - but only Snore Wife, asleep in Grumpty's bed. He didn't seem to mine. 'Sam- body's been feeding my porrage! ' screams Wimpey, who was '

wearing a light blue pullover. Meanwife in a grand Carstle, not so mile away, a womand is looging in her daily mirror, shouting, 'Mirror mirror on the wall, whom is de fairy in the land.' which doesn't even rhyme. 'Ca.s.sandle!' answers the mirror. 'Chrish O'Malley' studders the womand who appears to be a Queen or a witch or an acorn.

'She's talking to that mirror again farther?' says Misst Cradock, 'I've just seen her talking to that mirror again.' Father Cradock turns round slowly from the book he is eating and ex- plains that it is just a face she is going through and they're all the same at that age. 'Well I don't like it one t.i.t,' continhughs Misst Cradock. Father Cradock turns round slowly from the book he is eating, explaining that she doesn't have to like it, and promptly sets fire to his elephant. 'Sick to death of this elephant I am,' he growls, 'sick to death of it eating like an elephant all over the place.'

Suddenly bark at the Several Dwarts home, Snore Wife has became a firm favourite, especially with her helping arm, brushing away the little droppings. 'Good old Snore Wife! ' thee all sage, 'Good old Snore Wife is our fave rave.' 'And I like you tooth! ' rejoices Snore Wife, 'I like you all my little dwarts.'

Without warping they hear a soddy voice continuallykhan s...o...b..ng and screeging about apples for sale. 'New apples for old! ' says the above hearing voice. 'Try these nice apples for chrissake!' Grumpy turnips quick and answers shooting - 'Why?' and they all look at him.

A few daisy lately the same voice comes hooting aboon the apples for sale with a rarther more firm aproach saying 'These apples are definitely for sale.' Snore Wife, who by this time is curiously aroused, stick her heads through the window. Any- way she bought one - which didn't help the trade gap at all.

Little diggerydoo that it was pa.r.s.ened with deathly a.r.s.enickers.

The woman (who was the wickered Queen in disgust) cackled away to her carstle in the hills larfing fit to bust.

Anyway the handsome Prince who was really Misst Cra- dock, found out and promptly ate the Wicked Queen and smashed up the mirror. After he had done this he journeyed to the house of the Several Dwarts and began to live with them.

He refused to marry Snore Wife on account of his health, what with her being poissoned and that, but they came to an agree- ment much to the disgust of Sleepy - Grumpty - Sneeky - Dog - Smirkey - Alice? - Derick and Wimpy. The Dwarts clubbed together and didn't buy a new mirror, but always sang a happy song. They all livered happily ever aretor until they died - which somebody of them did naturally enough.

THE SINGULARGE EXPERIENCE OF MISS ANNE DUFFIELD.

I find it recornered in my nosebook that it was a dokey and winnie dave towart the end of Marge in the ear of our Loaf 1892 in Much Bladder, a city off the North Wold. Shamrock Womlbs had receeded a telephart whilst we sat at our lunch eating. He made no remark but the matter ran down his head, for he stud in front of the fire with a thoughtfowl face, smirk- ing his pile, and casting an occasional gland at the ma.s.sage.

Quite sydney without warping he t.u.r.d upod me with a mis- carriage twinkle in his isle.

'Ellifitzgerrald my dear Whopper,' he grimmond then sharply 'Guess whom has broken out of jail Whopper?' My mind imme- diately recoughed all the caramels that had recently escaped or escaped from Wormy Scabs.

'Eric Morley?' I ventured. He shook his bed. 'Oxo Whitney?'

I queered, he knotted in the infirmary. 'Rygo Hargraves?' I winston agreably.

'No, my dear Whopper, it's OXO WHITNEY' he bellowed as if I was in another room, and I wasn't.

'How d'you know Womlbs? ' I whispered excretely.

'Harrybellafonte, my dear Whopper.' At that precise mor- man a tall rather angularce tall thin man knocked on the door.

'By all accounts that must be he, Whopper.' I marvelled at his acute osbert lancaster.

'How on urge do you know Womlbs' f asped, revealing my bad armchair.

'Eliphant.i.tus my deaf Whopper' he baggage knocking out his pip on his large leather leg. In warped the favourite Oxo Whit- ney none the worse for worms.

'I'm an escaped primrose Mr Womlbs' he grate darting frane- tically about the room.

'Calm down Mr Whitney! ' I interpolled 'or you'll have a nervous breadvan.'

'You must be Doctored Whopper' he pharted. My friend was starving at Whitney with a strange hook on his eager face, that tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostriches and consta- pation of the heavy tufted brows which I knew so well.

'Gorra ciggie Oxo' said Womlbs quickly. I looked at my colledge, hoping for some clue as to the reason for this sodden outboard, he gave me no sign except a slight movement of his good leg as he kicked Oxo Whitney to the floor. 'Gorra ciggie Oxo' he reapeted almouth hysterically.

'What on urn are you doing my dear Womlbs' I imply; 'nay I besiege you, stop lest you do this poor wretch an injury! '

'Shut yer face yer blubbering owld get' screamed Womlbs like a man fermented, and laid into Mr Whitney something powerful wat. This wasn't not the Shamrock Womlbs I used to nose, I thought puzzled and hearn at this suddy change in my old friend.

Mary Atkins pruned herselves in the mirage, running her hand wantanly through her large blond hair. Her tight dress was cut low revealingly three or four blackheads, carefully scrubbed on her chess. She addled the final touches to her makeup and fixed her teeth firmly in her head. 'He's going to want me to- night' she thought and pictured his hamsome black curly face and jaundice. She looked at her clocks impatiently and went to the window, then leapt into her favorite armchurch, picking up the paper she gla.s.sed at the headlines. 'MORE NEGOES IN THE CONGO' it read, and there was, but it was the Stop Press which corked her eye. 'JACK THE NIPPLE STRIKE AGAIN.' She went cold all over, it was Sydnees and he'd left the door open.

'h.e.l.lo lover' he said slapping her on the b.u.t.ter.