iretrugrade.bsky.social

Bitchy Gobbe and his sister Witchy like to front an air of intellectual superiority and when they come across a Bowelero, Free or Original, they tend to nose up in disgust. Right now they have good reason to as they are standing downwind of a ripe Freddie the Frisbee.

Freddie the Frisbee tells me that his predecessor as Secretary of the WFB (Wholly Free Boweleros), Little Plops Novotny, has told him that the British landowner Barrowman has chickened out of hosting the annual WFL Slamboree this year. 'Do you know a place called 'Chequers', he asks me.

'Have you ever noticed, Retro?' says Blinko, 'that in all tales of mystery and mayhem, there is a Fat Man lurking in the shadows - or in plain sight even? So it is with the Chaffia in the American White House (what is left of it). The Fat Man there is on the take, bigtime. Wait for the crash.

'That's Guano La Trine,' my neighbour at the bar, Hotfoot Lanigan, tells me. 'you should have seen him hammering out a bolero with Gertie Brolligan earlier.' From which I surmise it's Irish Night at the club. 'Ravel?' I enquire. 'Amen to that too,' says Hotfoot.

I belly up to the bar of the packed Salawomander. 'Gimme that old soft stool, I said that old soft stool...' I hear. I turn around and sure enough there is Guano La Trine, the ace Wholly Free Bowelero, hammering out his latest shtick on the small dancefloor.

Faced with a dramatic tangle of spaghetti aglio with homemade tofu in a tranquil turquoise bowl I can only think of Mae West, that lady of profound buxomity and wit.

'Who now remembers Don Mikey Pompeo, or was it Pompeii?' Whodeguy Rizzo asks. 'A sulphurous inamorata of The Grifter's'

On stage Chutzpah Maguire is warbling - 'I'll take a dump in pastures green...' His pisstake of 'I'll take you home again, Kathleen...' A tear of appreciation rolls down my cheek.

Down at 'The Sod' I hear Whodeguy Rizzo going on about his recent visit to New York - 'i have it on authority from my cousin Billy that that Trump fatso even claims to be as neat a stepper as Johnny Lindo. Imagine that?' 'A bummer for sure,' I note.

Little Plops Novotny is cat suited in Gothic Noir for the first time I note, and not just that, he is accompanied by a small round woman also swathed in garments of the night. 'Retru,' he says, 'Meet my wife Creole. We got married in Romania last week.' 'Bran Castle?' I murmur.

Beyond at the bar I hear 'Give me Quack-a-Mole, a wallop o' brown bread, curated olives of the pay-ee-sage and a bottle o' Pino Nwar.' 'Johnny Besoin, from Monalaur out o' Marseille is back in town, ' Rozy says.

'The name's Dendro,' this big bruiser pauses, 'as in Chronology.' he grins meanly. 'Okay Woodhead,' Rozy beams ever so daintily, 'then you won't mind if I stick this to you' and she whacks him in the nuts with the butt of a billiard cue. I wince for him.

Because I'm still in my recuperation state a few hard noses here and there are coming out of the woodwork to even things up with me for old times' sake. Some of 'em I can't even recall but Roxy is keeping tabs on them.

I'm back at 'The Sod' for the first time in months, having survived a hail of gunfire when I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, following a lead about the financial affairs of one Count Vlad und Zu Trumpet in a small town in Bavaria.

Wagner is daft. Tristan takes a long long time dying and Brunnhilde takes forever saying hello to Siegfried.

Comperes for the new CROWNING GLORY TV Show will be the poet Heinous Seamus (Fuck ye all, ye fuckers standing tall...) and Nudie Nelligan, the Nornirland stripper (The Bare Necessities).

Blinko doesn't lose his cool easily. I note the duelling scar on his left cheek flaring up. Many years ago one Graf von Eitel made the mistake of calling him out over a mutually admired lady. ' He was a trifle quelconque,' Blinko had confided modestly, 'Ever after known as Scarpuss.'

Michileen Hoffenbuetel and Trigger Sullivan breeze into the pub singing 'We're in the bubble, we're on the double, we've got a lot of what it takes to get along...' 'Jesus Christ!' snaps blinko, 'A nice quiet morning until you fuckers high step all over the shop like a pair o' Strictlies.'

Down at 'The Sod in Exile' Buddy Brolligan, the guvnor tells me that I have a natural fetch for the blather. 'Unusual in Fexites', he adds.He goes on to tell me that the City of Dublin had two Jewish Lord Mayors in its time. 'The first was Leopold Bloom. I forget the second.

'I was,' Blinko beams, 'and during my service there I accomplished numerous successful manoeuvres with my counterpart in the Czech Navy, Admiral Josef Schwejk.'

'Tell me, Blinko, I say, 'You were an Admiral in the Fex Navy at one time, right?'

Little Plops Novotny, the Hon Secretary of the Wholly Free Boweleros tells me is writing to one Nigel F-ar-age, the boss of the Freedom Reforming Party of the UK to ask him to consider becoming the Hon President of the WFB, on the premise that he is a man who is known for his torrents of horseshit.

On the Tanzflaeche my business partner Rozy Stein is cutting shapes with a Johnny Lindo lookalike, one Gross Vatti Bronstein, who moves like a sylph.

Down at the Schlager Klub Chutzpah Maguire is belting out 'Blue Spanish Eyes' like a Humperdinck on hot peppers. Just back from a gig in the Med, he is looking as two-toned as a Tamsulosin.

Unfair of Saufhaus and I told him so to his fat face but he stonewalled behind his bureacratic front and the fact that he had overheard my sophisticated old friend Blink Morefatte muttering that Saufhaus wouldn't know a Van Gogh from a Vandango. Or was that a fangango?'

That was something I thought I had cleared up beyond question until the Director of the Museum, Adalwolf Saufhaus, withheld half my finder's fee on the technicality the Jimi had somehow slipped the net.

You may recall that the said Jimi was involved in the unfortunate disappearance of a Van Gogh from the Fex Notional Museum.

The mec I am interested in today is Natterjack Duff, a person of guff who has only one failing - he'd sell you down the river for a song. Which of course, is what I am hoping to liaise as I need spout on the immediate whereabouts of Jimi Donn Deelish who is away brushing his dents in seclusion.

Whodeguy famously came to grief at the sod when he asked me who my business partner Rozy was, indelicately pinching her on the bum. I can still see him flying across the floor at her riposte. But when he got up and apologised profusely to her they became good mates ever since.

'At 'The Sod in Exile's, Skurt pronounces, 'You meet the salt of the Earth.' 'Now you're talkin'.' says Whodeguy, so-called for his habit of checking out new faces, male or female, that he encounters across the two establishments.

Skurt McGurk maintains that if you go clubbing at 'The Salowomander' every week you eventually meet everyone who is anyone in The City of Fex. 'What about 'The Sod'? Queries his buddy, Whodeguy Rizzo indignantly.

'Sam Hogan?' some wit risks slyly and is quickly silenced with a glare. 'Samogon,' Long Match snarls, 'is home brewed vodka to stir your innermost. Next time I'm up there I'll bring down a crate to test you all.'

Long Match Greim, so known from the time he burnt himself with a standard match and never used short matches again, is not a man to be trifled with. 'I'm fed up hearing about Milo Fluffe and his Irish poitin. My family in the Carpathians have been making samogon for centuries.'

'At all, at all, is an Irishism I picked up at 'The Sod'. They tell me there that I have a natural fetch for the blather. Buddy the guv'nor tells me that Ireland had not one but two Jewish Lord Mayors of Dublin. 'The first was Leopold Bloom, I forget the second.'

When Milo came back from AWOL it was usually with a case or two of best poitin from the Hochfelz, a couple of bottles of which always landed on Oberstleutnant Biermann's desk by way of a penance when the miscreant was brought before him.

When I served with him in the Fex Militia Milo Fluffe went AWOL so many times he was known as Furlough Fluffy. And he always got away with it cos his folk originally came from the West of Ireland from whence they brought with them the skills of making poitin.

'The Sod' aka 'The Sod in Exile' is the place to go to soak up the latest gossip on The Free Boweleros, a loose living exhalation of high-fliers. All you have to do is sup a litre of the guv'nor Buddy Brolligan's best and listen. Right now, Trigger Sullivan is foaming in his West Cork accent.

'Retru! Just the man we want to see', Marmalade Freddi the Gigolo and Mila De Locks, the Gay Hussar, shout as I belly up to the bar at The Sod.

Long time since I seen Little Plops Novotny sloughing in despond down at 'The Sod in Exile'. 'What's up?' I asked. 'What isn't fuckin' up?!' he snarls. I leave it at that.

'Buddy,' Milo Fluffe calls, 'Do you know a Tammy Solusin?' 'Nope. But I know a Jammy Jam,' the guvnor replies.

'That's old Guano,' my neighbour at the bar, Hotfoot Lanigan, tells me. 'You should have seen him earlier, hammering out a bolero with Nudie Nelligan. Torchy!' 'Ravel?' I enquire. 'Amen to that!' smiles Hotfoot.

I belly up to the bar of a rammed Salawomander night club. 'Gimme that old soft stool, I said that old soft stool...' I hear. I turn around and, sure enough, there is Guano La Trine showcasing his latest shtick on the small dancefloor.

'Hey, Retro,' Milo Fluffe calls out to me from the end of the long bar, 'Do you know a mec called Tam Sulosin? 'Nope, but Blinko has a mate called Dapper Glifosin. He might know.'

Zola is dripping with jewels and spangles and wearing the latest fashion. Bibi slopes over to me and hands me the 500 curios he has been owing me for an age. ' And here's an extra thou to cover the interest.' My lucky day.

The Lottery winner Bibi Beo barrels into 'The Sod in Exile' exuberantly with Zole Dex dangling on his arm and calls out, 'The drinks are on me'. We career to the bar.

I find Little Plops Novotny, the Secretary of The Wholly Free Boweleros, sloughing in despond at 'The Sod' 'What's up?' I ask. 'What's up? What isn't fuckin' up?' he snarls, 'The Festival of Turds in Gyor was a washout. The Magyars turned the hoses on us. Wasn't even the Growls.'

Yesman Chancey Vancey has no morals.

The Humble Trumpie is the newest satirium in Cybele in downtown Fex. As I enter, Sveitus Sveitii, the Tyrrhenian stand-up is abbreviating his set. 'Bring on Chutzpah Maguire,' I bawl. Chutzpah opens a new seam of wit. 'if you ever cross the border into Hungary...' I grin.

I don't have to turn around at 'The Sod' to know it's Johnny Besoin from Marseille via Monalaur. 'Bring me boiled beef and cabbage with a rattle of raw cashoos and a bottle of Bandol Rouge,' he bawls at Buddy.

'You know, Rasher, Baloney is the lowest form of gobshite, and you know why? It's twaddle with tits on. I refer you to Trumpet, Farrago the Talking Arse, and their mouthpieces, male and female.