Royal Munchies, More Air Guitar On The Wireless

The Diary of Lord Bongwater Swine

 

 

Hello there , you coves.
I shall be acquiring a splendid picnic hamper for the forthcoming festivities.It shall contain the finest wines and cordials known to the writers of Withnail and I , along with some devilled eggs Benedict ,
potted shrimp , cold cuts of mutton and kedgeree.
Clearly the gentlemen's relish shall also be in abundance , along
with spotted dick and nursey's famous marmite and absynthe soldiers. Feel free to drop round and poke your bugle through the old teepee blinds.
But bear in mind you fellows that my man Buttockworthy will be in attendence at all times , so any of you blighters who desire to join me in order to pack the peace pipe with the finest Paruvian marching powder may find the entrance barred by his gargantum frame.
Now be off with you , you young dogs , my tiffin awaits.

 

 

What a rum bunch of coves.Trouser dropping in deed.
Favour the old tie-died smoking jacket meself , topped off by an imaculate pair of curled toed Morrocan slippers and a small gentlemen's
fez.I shall be brandishing my inflatable scitar in a vigorous manner.
At ease , chaps.No need to stand on ceremony here.

 

 

Look at them,the bally bats are leaping everywhere.
Impossible to keep the blighters down.
Giant worms coming out from the sides of the carpets.
It's enough to force one to take on extra staff.
But where to bivouac the beggars , now theres the rub.
The large healthy males of the species can grow to a huge engorged size.
Stamping on them does no good.They just breed again in abundence to proove that they can. Swine.

 

 

You beastly swine sir
You self confessed blaggard
You oafish sibulent
You twerpentine
Hand me back those medicated winegums immediately you junglist
Pultroon
Bafoon
Dogsimmons

Localised chaffing upon you you damned horse curr

 

 

 

That damned Atticus fellow keeps mincing around in my roof eaves.

 

 

Pay attention at the back you young perry winkles.
As I sit here relaxing on my divan , smoking a small cigarro , cradling the snifter of a lifetime in my arthritic fingers , at this witching hour when the wretched owl hoots at its ghastly loudest , in this foul ratting season that one dreads so much , my mind turns to guilfests of the past.
Long gone are the days when young master Rolf Harris diggereedooed his bearded way around the stage. Now the rum cove spends his waking hours painting watercolours of the Queen.Swineish behaviour of the most beastly and despicable kind.
And whilst we are on the subject of the facial topiary let us consider that malevolent whiskered fool Eavis.How well I recall seeing his bearded visage beetling past with his trewsers at half mast , the beastly fool , as he spoke threatening words through his blighted mustache . How tempted one was to plant one on his beak , to sock him on the beezer , bop him on the hooter or whatever.
He was carrying on like some form of malevolently licentious cockswain.
If ever a fellow called for a liberal application of the jolly old leathered sole to the seat of the trouser then it was the clown prince of Glastonbury.
Why , I distinctly remember having to administer six of the juiciest to the young bearded bedwetter . And let me assure you fellows that the young ill starred youth Eavis never forgot a swift semi dozen from the old fives bat , no matter how broad in the beam he may have been.
Anyway I digress , and there is no sport to be had from lampooning the fat headed chin covering chump , the furtive swine , the hardboiled marionette , that twenty minute egg.
The low cunning of the wretched beatle.
And can he fire down the old firewater , by Jove.
The fellow is clearly one of these damnable modern day suction pumps , constantly tipping his bewhiskered jowls to lower yet another stiff snorter to the tonsils.
How well I remember having to escape the clutches of that blighted adventuress Lulu as she Scotch Egged around the guilfest rehersal area with her skirts in a free falling frenzy of libedinous lust.
Though I am clearly fond of the Heather tinged minx even I as a confirmed Guilfester had to tell the tiny songstress to contain her rude energy for her vocalising at Stoke Park on the 17th.
I know some of these fellows refuse to play with a straight bat , especially that bounder Eavis , the blighter with the beard. At times he and his nonrazored chums ran with a seedy crowd , bounders with beards the lot of them.At times they were crawling whiskered out of the woodwork , bearded to the eyebrows the lot of them.
Anyway its time that I tucked into my steak and kidney pud , followed swiftly by a liberal dose of stargazer pie and absynthe , fond as I am of spending my entire life in pursuit of the toot.
As you were.
And my man will be in touch as I demand satisfaction.
Adieu.

 

 

104

 

 

 

Methinks it was jolly good seeing the Floydsters.
Also the Who and dare I say Velvet Revolver , appart from that bally silly postman Pat hat and that fellow removing his shirt.Quite unnecessary.

 

 

 

Much as I deplore this modern insistence on all things beardish , even I must concede to spending an irregular ammount of time in my manly ablutions in the furtive runup to the splendid Bachanaal that is Guilfest.
Long gone are the halcyon days when one could derive fine sport from using a spoon or a niblet to fire a few golfballs into the baying crowds.
In these politically enlightened times one is increasingly curbed in ones sport , particularly with health and safety issues.
Why last year when confronted with some form of beastly bureaucrat I simply requested my man Buttockworthy to shoot the blighter down as he stood in his socks , only to be told that shooting plebs was not permitted.
How absurd.One would have thought that a full weekend pass with camping facilities would allow unlimited visits to the groggers bar and the all too obvious right to shoot whosoever one desired when one so desired, but oh no , not it would appear in leafy Surrey.
Hey ho , such is life in a fascist state.
Another moot point is the vexing question of getting ones gloved mitts around a neck moistener or three during the intervals between those lazy gadabout musician types.I presumed that one could merely order ones interval sherberts from some superannuated lackey who would whisk them over Johnny pronto on a suitable silver salver , and then the race would be on to douse the old gargling tube with the foaming cordial of joy and enlightenment , fairly launching the cheery brew down ones cakehole.But again I was incorrect in my hopes and dreams of neck moistening.It appears that one has to carve ones way through the sweating fray , evey cove for himself and dont spare a tear for the mamsaabs or the kiddy folk.So I suggest concealing a small swordstick or fouling piece down the old trouser in order to swathe a cutting wake through the great unwashed to the refreshment booth.
So beware when conducting one's toilet.
Pip pip .

 

 

 

Harris.Name seems familiar.Does he not sport a beard of some description?
Talking of the old bone flannel , I remember vividly my first encounter with that prancing whiskertoon mad Micky Eavis as if it were yesterday.And a finer account of knavery and cowardice you are unlikely to encounter in all of christendom, let alone parts of his wretched Gloustershire small holding.Tha blaggard has had his frightful pyramid up and down more times than a brides' nighty , I can tell you.Its enough to make you weep.I had no ticket of billet of course.Why should I , indeed?The man's a mentalist with longer pockets than a ferret douser on a weekend pass to Lower Wallop.Silly arse.
As I trousered furtively round the perimeter of his beastly compound , a small ciggareen clutched to my parched lips and a halfdozen of the finest that Ginster can provide concealed cunningly down the old trouser peg ,I was on the verge of leaping sprightly betwixt the barbed wire and the search torches when the bounder challenged me for my docket.
"You insolate young wolf!"cries I , all chagrin and menace.
"Remove that fungus from your chops afore you have the cheek to address me."
"No neeed to get warm about it" says the beard, all bushy faced and hedgelike.
"Warm ?" says I ,"You'll feel warm in a moment once I've done roasting you a while in the fireplace!Now be off with you sir and have the courtesy to shave yourself properly whilst you are about it."
And so it was out with the old Swiss army choppers and a quick slice through the metalwork and into his damned farm.
I saw the rogue later on that day,a sniffing about with some ridiculous hair on his face that looked like it had been grown under glass.Naturally I administered a sound thrashing to his broad beam end , and the stinker had the damned cheek to notify the authorities so it was up before the beak for yours truly.
His royal beardness sniggered from the gallery as I was shamefully lectured for what seemed an age about how the mighty had fallen and other such nonsense.I claimed self preservation in the face of a beard but they still fined me and sent me on my merry way , none the wiser but somewhat lighter in the dolly bag.So I still feel a tad chaffed by the actions of that loathsome serpent ,that foul snake , the avoider of all that is razored himself.Next time I set eyes on the bearded wonder I may well plant one on his beak, give his bugle a friendly tap so to speak.The barefaced cheek of the man.Or in his hairy case , maybye not.

 

 

 

Once more dear friends into the breach.
I have been under an inordinate amount of pressure from the powers that beard to step in at this hellish eleventh hour as a replacement for my close chum young Shane nipple erector , who as you well know is suffering from a nasty dose of the old Delhi bowel trotskys.
The problem is that poor old Shanus appears to touch cloth every time he attempts to blow the cobwebs from his britches.I have sent fresh undergarments post haste.Lets face it , the poor cove probably has a good streak of the toad-eater in him after several sustained years on the jolly old toot and sauce.
I dont wish to be a crashing bore but my lungs arnt what they used to be and what with my yogic flying and backgammon marathons , to say nothing of tipping the strong gravy down me neck at any given chance I fear that the old vocals may be a bit on the iffy side , and one doesnt want to let the Pogues down by tripping off a volley of tummy rubbish in mid song.Soo I am reluctantly going to have to step down and just hope that young full britches comes right come the day.

 

 

 

As I sit here stark naked on my veranda , the peacocks shreiking in the distance and the giant gilla monsters tearing one of the gardeners to pieces by the light of the hooka braziers and the fruit bats circling overhead , my mind turns yet again to Guilfests past and present.
Images of faces from the past flit about as I take yet another toke on my huge hubba hubba pipe , that fluffy haired sort from Blondie leaping about last year , what the hell was her name again , Devrington Barry or some such ,what a tousled haired temptress she was by Gad.And that other minx , the adventress from the Dooleys I believe or was it the Krankies?
No matter , they all form into one massive great pile of human lady form , a sort of cross between Imelda Marcoss , Carol Vauderville and Peggy Mount. I shudder at the recollection .And then those vixens from the Guiness tent . Ye Gods is there no end to their lascivity.
I pause for abrief moment to launch a few volleys from my trusty blunderbus at a passing tradesman and watch with delight as he scurrys off into the covering protection of the marijuana bushes .The hopeless fool , there is no escape from the inevitable.
And how well I recall that bearded beatle Eavis with his wretched little festival down in turnip county . How it warms the cockles of my chillblanes to think of him strung upside down by his soiled britches in one of the baboon traps that my giant Abbysinian manservant Buttockworthy set from the large tobbaco trees that skirt the perimetre of my estate here overlooking the fair fields of Stoke Park.
It would take more than a park and ride scheme from the Spectrum to run that slippery eal Eavis to ground , I should bally well cocoa.
The bearded fool has just flown over my grounds in his confounded hot air balloon , Beardforce One he calls it , dropping leaflets about Glastnost 2007 or some such twaddle.Its all the purest tommyrot if you ask me.
Anyway I fired a few shots accross the blighters bows and Im damned sure that I winged the bewhiskered swine , so he shouldnt get far.
As you were you fellows , fall in and stand at ease.
Dismiss.

 

 

So we meet again,oh hairy faced one.I've been keeping my peepholes peeled for an Eavis sighting.Are you still smarting from that sound thrashing that I was forced to deliver to the seat of your trouser back in preppers?
You rogue,now you know what half a dozen of the juiciest from a fives bat feels like.Will we be seeing your bearded face at Guilfest this year you bewhiskered villain?
I sincerely hope not otherwise I may have to beat you again or see you off with my fouling piece.
And keep away from the helium filled frogs you devil.
As you were.At ease.

 

 

As I squat here in the huge sprawling summerhouse of my palatial pile
on the outskirts of the garden of England that is Stokers Park,casually brushing the foul smelling traces of ash from my Royal Doulton smoking jacket,pausing only to fire off a brief volley of grape shot from a fine pair of forty pounders,bringing down a brace of cormorants and a stray ballonist,probably that rum cove Coggins jnr in the process.
Not to worry,my man Buttockworthy the giant Abbysinian manservant will go and mop up later.All that can wait.For a horrid thought has just struck me.I hear the thud of willow upon leather in the summer air,reminding me of the classroom beatings delivered to the broad beam of that mentalist and toady Eavis,the thrice bearded Billy Bunter of fair Glastonbury.
And I weep openly when I think of decisions to be made at Guilfest,the whole Pogues/Hothouse debate,the Richmonds v Bungalow Zen,etc.
Ye gods its a worry.
It is only right that a man such as I who once again enters Stoke Park with his britches un buttoned,loins girded for action,prepared to act like a rutting stag in the pure pursuit of hedonistic abandon should make my thoughts known to those less fortunate coves out there who are clearly groping in the dark seeking leadership.
So I give you Alf Garnetto,shop soiled and self proclaimed Jedi crusading Knight,with his inflatable air filled jobby.This tireless modest cove has started a great movement amongst the underclasses of Guilfest by suggesting an air guitar extravaganze par excellence.I salute you Sir Alfred.Rest assured that you are welcome at Bonfwater Swine Towers anytime,dead or alive.

 

 

 

Eavis Eavis Eavis......everywhich way but shaven.
Am I alone in regarding the words Eavis has left the building as a blessing?
Please God do not let it be true.That face fungussed fool is going to make a royal horses arse of hiself on the comedy stage?Is nothing sacred?
The site of his football shaped face peering out through his bushy faced fizzog is just too much to bear.
Why only the other day I sent the hairy faced fool a full shaving kit from my old mess days.Back then the regiment insisted on either the obligatory full set or some form of rakeish tache and sidewhiskers,but not that ridiculous halfhearted pilgrim father job that old upside down face sports,the toady.What in heavens name is going on along the top lipper?Bugger all , thats what.Whiff of the old lavender there if you ask me.Swinish behaviour,the actions of a cad.
At ease.

 

 

For once Eavis I am forced to aggree with your bearded opinion.Much as I hate to,you damned stinker.Shave for once you rascal of the whisker.
Garnet was the prime mover in the inflatable scitar weilding fiasco.It is Garnet who is the peoples choice,and Garnet who should take his rightful acclaim in front of his addoring fans.
A man such as myself is well used to public appreciation and gratuitous displays of fawning toadyism.My giant Abbysinian manservant Buttockworthy regularly has to turn away hordes of the swine from the outskirts of my stately pile.Why only last St.Swithins day I had to drop a few of the coves with my trusty bazooka.
Yet Garnet,a modest man for a Jedi Knight remains the unsung hero of all inflatable and invisible instruments for every man, child and baboon in this fair land.Let justice be done,as it is in Devon and in Stoke Park.
Stand to now.

 

 

 

Salute.
Ironic as it may seem,coming from a fellow such as I who has posted nothing but pure unadulterated tummy rubbish over the last few weeks from my alpine lookout here at leafy Park Stokington,in the shadows of the lovely symetrical lines of the Speccytrum Centre,
yes my fellow truffle hunters,even I have to reluctantly admit that young seagull,the Brighton Blighter,has finally lost his whole grip on any semblence of reality.Posting lengthy poems by my close personal chum and maker of exceedingly good cakes,Mr Rudeyardy Kipling.Posting even lengthier missives about those wretched Doctor Who fellows who went around singing about justicied ancient Marmite.
The boy has flipped his wig bonnet.This does not make him a bad person.
On the contrary,I salute the rum cove.Let us just hope and pray that his close ally Lord Alfredo Garnetto,the famous Jelly Night can help the boy wondergull,perhaps in the same fatherly way that Reg Dwight assisted Peter Dickerty to sort himself out.
I hope you all notice that I havnt mentioned that bearded bounder Eavis once in this brief homily.
At ease everyone.Fall out.As you were.

 

 

 

yo berksvoolfen big fella
you da maaaaan
I appologise for that you coves,I appear to have slipped out of character for all too brief a moment.And talking of briefs,I have got so bally exited in the inevitable build up to the festivities that I may have soiled meself again.I see Buttockworthy,my trustworthy giant Abbysinian home help striding manfully through the begonias carrying a spare pare of couduroy undergarments.Dear boy,your arrival is well timed as I fear that the chutney may have touched cloth once again.
But which of you can blame me getting a trifle overheated as I crank myself up into an absynthe fuelled crazy at the thought of Daniel Bakingpowder doing his comical human beatbox routine in the Surrey sunshine,and that Jockish adventuress Loo Loo waiting in the wings all bosom and britches.Ye Gods.
I too have enjoyed the playful banter and jocular badinage that has been belted back and forth across the forum.Now there was a magazine,Forum.How well I remember Nursey catching me studying the Rubinesque forms of the fillys in Paters specialist periodicals that he hid beneath the National Geographics in the summer house.And the Governers face as I pointed out his box of obscene carte postales that I donated to the Beatle Drive.
What larks, what fine sport.
So once again you rum fellows, carpem dium and sall that nonsense.
Float on.

 

Localised Chaffing?Great snakes a lawkey Eavis,youve flipped this time.
And besides I get my man Buttockworthy,the giant Abbysinian lackey to perform all exercise for me.If you spent less time doing squat thrusts in Glastonbury you would have a little more time to attend to your toilet,Sir.
You always were a cad and a bounder of the highest order,but attempting to get the more fragrant of the Guilfest sexes to perform some form of debased aerobics for your titillation is the action of a rotter and a stinker,Sir.Swineish behaviour.
Dismiss.

 

 

Go to bed you rogue or else you will be knackered.
As I gaze out of my huge balcony cess pit etc etc etc
See you on the marrow Seagull type chap
I'm all in what with the confounded heat et al'
By all the arses.
Matron.

 

And thus the diary ends, on the 15^th of July, or as it is known to the natives, the first day of Guilfest.