No time for breakfast

P K Randolph - Adventures in a diary (Sunday 14th)

Dear Marmaduke,

I happened to run into Grissald Grissalski today at Cheltenham. Having always vowed that since the incident in Nairobi I would have keep a discreet distance but the opportunity to question him on the connection between the ancient artifacts and this Gunter fellow seemed fortuitous.

Although he had just returned from a commission tutoring the children of the oldest seated royal family in Europe, he was again penniless and living in a run down Jacobean mansion with some wealthy heiress who kept him in food, drink and oil paints. I always remember his Russian – Prussian and Bulgarian lectures on the virtues of turpentine.

Marmaduke, do you remember his single most impressionable advice that he gave to us in our short but heady period under his expert guidance.

“Never judge an artist buy his paintings, but always by the state of his brushes”!

That inspiration has carried me through many a sitting as I curiously fixed my gaze on the side table for days, and then refused to even look at the finished portrait! He was pleased to see me and ventured a conversation in broken English for a change.

“Ah you have to track down this Gunter Schnippe fellow?” He enquired. He relayed some details about a collectors circle he knew of and recommended, by way of tersiary research, through the google almanac he may be listed. I could find no reference to him as a collector. “Damned secretive these Bolshavics!” He replied.

I eventually found some chap by that name listed in a society journal. It turned out to be a fellow famed for his collection of ‘Automata-Sexualle’. If he is the same chap listed under that name, he also apparently composed scores for adult orientated cinema, I dare say the dirty fellow damn well stars in them! I’ll let you know the nature of these events in due course.

As usual, if you do not hear from me by the agreed time – see to the arrangements and publish the photographs in one of those sordid little dailies!

Yours Piers

P K Randolph - Adventures in a diary (Saturday 13th)

Dear Marmaduke,


Today, having gone to Oxford to visit an old friend I had the pleasure of running into Lady Isabelle Clover, one day to be my betrothed if I can convince her father. She is a lovely young lady of 18, daughter of Dr Reginald and Lady Clover Clover.

It was whilst I was standing talking to her that I spotted a strange little man in the window of the Mongolian Wok Bar, I recognised him immediately as Panhandle, and broke into a slow cantor across the street wielding my umbrella with a loud, bellowing war cry of “tally-hoe you little bastard”!

At the sight of my obviously impressive and fearsome frame, he threw down his plate of food over the customers on an adjacent table and, jumping through the glass frontage, ran up the street as fast as his little Gurkha legs could carry him.

Of course I gave chase all the time yelling that I intended to horsewhip his nasty little hide.

I would have caught him had I not been slowed down by a coarse old hag pushing a perambulator, which, I believed had a small child in. I made a calculated jump over with a vault which would have made Bernard “The Fox” Bainbridge the hurdling champion of Queens, very proud. But I misjudged the height and caught my rather fetching Cuban heeled boot on the carriage, turning the whole thing over in a cart-wheeled frenzy.

Luckily the child was of sturdy stock and only suffered minor cuts and bruising.

The way the old hag went on you would have thought I’d caused permanent damage. I even explained my plight in a garbled out of breath attempt to explain the story of Panhandle little bastard’s odious arse which I intended to whip, the strip poker game, the grocers daughter etc. But I feel that my garbled explanation only served to compound the situation, and she ran off crying “Pervert, Police Help”! Some people have no sense of right and wrong!

When I returned Lady Isabelle had gone, Damn my accursed luck, damn Panhandle.
He did however drop, in retrospect almost on purpose, from his person a vital clue, a small piece of paper with a minute scrawl in lapis lazuli coloured ink, an address and a name. Gunter Shnippe. What does this mean? Who the blue blazes is this Gunter chap?

Yours 

P K Randolph

P K Randolph - Adventures in a diary (Tuesday 9th June)

Dear Marmaduke,

Having returned home, I found my house boarded up with a huge ruddy great ‘SOLD’ sign outside.

I was greeted by ‘Flinch’ the gardener who told me that a rather athletic man with a big ginger beard, had taken over the estate on some sort of compulsory purchase and informed all staff that their services would no longer be required.

Flinch had stayed on anyway out of a mixture of loyalty and senility, setting up a make shift home in the allotment shed. The ginger stranger had served papers for me and informed him that Panhandle had apparently lost my entire estate to an Irish horse breeder of some hairiness in a game of strip poker and had taken the grocery traders daughter, Flo, to the Americas where he plans to become a man of leisure. Little Bastard!

Yours 

P K

 

P K Randolph - Adventures in a diary (Monday 1st June)

Dear Marmaduke

I have discovered that Eufat’s one eyed drunken navigation has resulted in us having landed in Liverpool!

My awkward feeling of the Maltese scenery proved correct. I have returned to the vessel and beaten him severely.

Yours

PK

 

P K Randolph - Adventures in a diary (Day 37, I think)

Dear Marmaduke,

I have not written this diary for the last thirty or so days, as in my desperate thirst I suffered to drink the contents of my fountain pen, the resulting stream of mauve piss having greatly amused my navigator who I have finally deduced is called Eufat Foquer.

I also discovered that what I had taken to be a make-shift bunk bed was in fact a case of fifteen year old malt whisky, which the blessed fellow was trying to smuggle. Having deduced that this was the only drinkable substance on board, we both set to and have spent the remaining thirty odd days in a stupor.

Now we are here, however I have sobered up and have found some fresh ink.

Malta has changed so much since my last visit, I scarcely recognised it on our approach. So much light industry and civic building, I will tonight venture into the town.

Yours 

PK Randolph

 

P K Randolph - Adventures in a diary (Sunday 8th)

Dear Marmaduke,

Defecating on such a small sea vessel is difficult. I did not wish to do so in front of such a swarthy old sea dog, my one man crew, and also found that adopting a position over the side of the boat created an undesirable ballast.

I discovered that through careful positioning and sheer English ingenuity, I was able to attach myself to the yard arm, swing free of the boat and was able to shit free of the paint-work which was now beginning to attract sea gulls and flies as a result of my earlier attempts.

Monday 9^th

Duke, 

I knew I should have brought some food and water! The navigator never seems to go hungry but does not understand when I ask where he stores the food. He just laughs and belches loudly and heartily.

 

Yours 

 

P K Randolph

 

P K Randolph - Adventures in a diary (Thursday 5th May)

My Dear Marmaduke,

My navigator is a strange little man, no larger than 4’3 and has only one eye and one tooth, in the middle, at the top. He knew only a few words of English and repeated one phrase when I met him. “You like for good night big ladies?” To this I replied that I didn’t understand the nasty little man and that he should just show me his vessel. He laughed heartily.

Yours Piers.

P K Randolph - Adventures in a diary (Wednesday 4th May)

Wednesday 4th May

My Dear Marmaduke,

Damn that arrogant cock Tattler!

I today received a curiously worded letter addressed to me in hand and delivered by foot from an unknown messenger under cover of dusk and slipped under the door in the servant’s quarters.

It interested me immensely as it carried a post mark from the Indian subcontinent and made reference to an issue of urgent attention. Apparently my uncle’s plantation had fallen into the hands of a guerrilla army who, in an attempt to usurp and annex the last bastillion of the British Empire, planned to start trading the tea leaves, gee and out of date soda water for arms. I have chartered a rather small rusted china-clipper and will set sail for Malta from where I would board a cargo ship bound for India.

Duke, I am concerned in no small part to read this on two accounts. Firstly that my uncle has no plantation and secondly that prize prig Tristian Tattler will be left at large in the home counties without me to keep the peacock strutting cad in his place. This could not have been timed in a more inconvenient manner, as it is the May ball season and just the time that Tattler holds one of his huge balls all the ladies talk about. I do hope my dearest does not attend while I am away.

I have left my estate in the hands of my Panhandle, my odious but trusty manservant with strict instructions that he should not again enter the village naked, and that he should leave the goats alone.

As usual this was met with protest and he even suggested the compromise of wearing a fez, but I assured him that people in Surrey didn’t like that sort of lewd behavior.

Damn that arrogant cock Tattler!

 

Yours Piers K Randolph

 

P K Randolph - Adventures In A Diary

www.pkrandolph.com

A series of  ‘lost’ diaries, recently discovered in a house belonging to the estate of one of England’s historical seated families, has brought to light a most intriguing story.

The author of this substantial piece of work, totaling some 100 volumes, is something of a mystery to the public at large. Although better known through his influence as one of the leading art experts in a select, albeit, smaller circle of societies oldest wealth, his life beyond these social engagements, writings and public talks was completely secret; Until now.

P K Randolph was a hugely prolific writer, and the adventures, explorations and reflections on matters of art, taste and manners plays out over years through a series of correspondence between himself and his compatriot Marmaduke.

Experts are calling this discovery the most important literary, artistic and social find of the century, and plans are already afoot to publish these journals for all the world to marvel, revel and take delight in.

George Renaig, who represented the estate of Randolph, called this collection “Significant” and “As important a piece of literature as I have ever read”.

Professor Angus T. Cruft made the following comment on the historical and social context of the works; “In a time when being British is something that confuses people. In a time when manners have given way to debauchery, lack of style and complete absence of social etiquette. In a time when pleasantries exchanged between strangers in public places has been replaced by the insane rantings of those more at home in the cold rat infested containment of Bedlam, at last every gentleman has a mentor and every lady a hero. For me, Randolph represents everything that is fine, decent and good about the moral fiber of a golden age of enlightenment, class and fine taste.

We can learn a lot from Randolph and his perfect sense of what is proper and good bringing a little bit Randolph to our everyday bleakness”.

In short, these adventures are destined to become best sellers and would be hugely entertaining as a motion picture.

Missing Formula

Open publication - Free publishing - More literature