Brixley hear? Yes I can. A sackful of apologies readers as I have been AWOL for some time, or perhaps AWOB where the word ‘leave’ has been replaces by the word ‘blog’. Anyway whilst I am not at liberty to disclose my current location or porpoise I will leave you with an extract from one of my earliest diaries; Larry.
Dear Larry 1/23/12
I am at a crossroad in the novella I am writing. My protagonist, Wilhelm Doomtron can go in either one of two directionists. Either he could take his small bookbinding racket to the big time in Dodge city where the women are as numerous as hot dinners or he could take a sojourn to southern Italy where his uncle Philip runs a fishing operation that is controlled by aliens who live at the center of the earth. I think I shall have to consult my next-door neighbour J.R. Bingham.
Brixley here… finally. Well my weary and not very loyal readers I must make my apologising to you for this greatly belated updation. There are three main reason for my unannounced sabbatical. Firstmost and forely I cannot tell you the first reason as I would have to kill you. Seconded by this is the penultimate reason which I would again have to cause grievous bodily harm to your good selves, per haps not death but definitely a good maiming if I told you. The last reason I am glad to report I can tell you, however it doesn’t make much sense, but here it is…
“Why have you not posted recently Brixley?” you ask to which I respond with the question”Why is there no word for an escalator that goes downward?”
Answer: Because Oxford and Webster got slack. Plus Oxford died in his pursuit of yours truly through the Spanish underground system 4 days ago. I wish I could tell you that I smote his remains upon the train-tracks but alas it is much more unglamorous. He had his feet on the seats and when the train jerked as it is predisposed to do, Oxford toppled onto an underground Yak that tossed his helpless body out the open window to what I presumed to be his fiery grave.
Well I hope that puts your mind to rest, one down and Webster to go. In other news J.R. Bingham called me from Boston to inform me of a new report that I am to write and to which I will report to you upon our next meeting.
Brixley here and not there. Readers, many a question has had it’s reciprocal explained to me. Firstly, it was not a strain of super ethanol that intoxicated Bingham and myself, it was simply alcohol, but we had been a bit light on dinner an a bit heavy on liquids. The hallucinations were not real either as I had actually stumbled into an illegal gambling casinatorium in my inebriated state and finally the reason I was in the library was that there had been a party held deep within the depths of the Dewey decimal system which is surprisingly still going and where I am writing from. I’m still not sure if I’m still in England but I must dash since they are starting up a karaoke tournament and yours truemost must battle Oxford and Webster (who arrived at the party soon after my last post…) in a climaxstick battle of recitation. Pray for me.
A hoy hoy,
Brixley here and not without cause. The past few days have been a blur of high speed motorway pursuits, glamourous cocktail parties and drug induced hallucinations that rival any Lynch film. In brief, apres J.R. Bingham made his way to Oxford and collected me at the golf links we found ourselves in a high octane chase on the motorway with non-other than Oxford and Webster posing as officers of the law – their treachery knows no boundarations. We were able to shake them just like the martinis we consumed upon our arrival of an Oxford Journalists’ soirée that we had been privy to. Unfortunations became us as our drinks had been spiked with a strand of super ethanol that we – due to our excessive drinking of said substance – became quite intoxibreated and the next few days were spent at what I believed to be a casino although I am not aware of any in the near proximity. That being said I woke up in a library in which city, I am not sure but as soon as I depart the building’s illustrious swivel doors I will make an assessment. Until next timely.
Brixley here and glad to be as such. After my perilous voyage on the plane of death I unwittingly made a transfer to an elongated carriage-car or ‘bus’ whose destinate was unbeknownst to mineself. As it happens the autoplane had stranded me at London’s international planestop and the ‘bus’ that I am currently aboard is traveling to non other than Oxford – home of the devil and his second in charge, Webster. I am now wearing full golfing attire after I picked up the wrong bag on the carousel and had a quick change in the toilet. I have informed my editor J.R. Bingham of the recent developmentations and he is to rendezvous with me in the lion’s den that is Oxford. Although this ‘bus’ has no minibar I was able to procure some gin and tonic through the Dutyless area of the airplane station and have since been mixing up some cocktails for me and my public transport buddies. I will keep you indated.