Thread: The Rip in the Fabric of the Universe ...

. . . "Upon my word, that was a nasty blow. I do believe Old Teddy may have been crushed like the proverbial toad under the harrow. Pity, really, as he was a good Bagman and we shall now have to elect another."

"Stop yer prattlin' and jumping about," roared Mother Farcquar, "and get yer prancing, poofter persons out of my sight. And take yer filthy hankies with yer."

At this juncture, Frontbottom (unwisely, in my opinion) chose to interrupt. "Aye, Mother F, they meant no 'arm. It's all part of their ceremonial dancing, the history of which extends well back into the 16th century, and . . . eeerrkk!" This last sound was elicited under duress, a reaction to Mother Farcquar's broad forearm arcing back from starboard to port with the same velocity as applied to Old Teddy--and finding Frontbottom's ear in its path.

"I think you have knocked Frontbottom senseless," Nemo said to M. Farcquar.

"How will we be able to tell?" she replied and once again turned her attention to the Morris Side. "I see yer still mucking about," she said. "I'll thank you to take yerselves off so I can have a parley with the Captain here."

As the dancers began to sway toward the companionway, (with some alacrity, I might add) the smallest of the troupe turned to Mother F and boldly proclaimed . . .

"You don't frighten me, Fatty!"

There was an enormous collective intake of breath from the entire ship's company. All eyes turned towards the Mother Farcquar.

All eyes but Nemo's, that is. The Captain held up a cautionary hand and stepped boldly between the Mother Farcquar and the smallest Morris dancer.

"A moment, madam," quoth he. "Sponcracker! I believe I gave you an order just now? Specifically, I instructed you to have your droids clear my decks of these terpsichorean twits, did I not?"

"Aye, aye, sir!" responded the droid techo. He pressed several buttons on his ever-present remote. His droids swung smoothly into action and rounded up the (thoroughly alarmed) troupe of terpsichoreans. The hamsters lined up along the taffrail, clearing their throats in anticipation of delivering their customary salute.

Just as the droids commenced heaving Morris dancers overboard (to the accompaniment of a series of resounding "Olés!" from the hamsters and a series of corresponding "Errks!" from the Morris dancers) the Rip parted and ....

With this teaser hanging in the air, Miss Sally gently closed the book (though not without placing within it her teasured bookmark, a present from her dear mother, who gave it to Sally just 2 hours before she (the mother) succumbed to the blandishments of an egg and butter man and went to live near Alice Springs--but we are wandering far afield I fear), and turning to the eager countenances of the children said: "Now who would like a small tea before we go on?"

"Yes, please m'am," said Sebastian, "I'll help you put the kettle on and Daphne, you go fetch some cakes."

Raising her hockey stick high above her shoulder (although by doing so she would have incurred a penalty if she had been on the field), she struck Sebastian a mighty blow to the head. "You'll not be ordering me about, you petulant pipsqeak," she snapped. Try it again and you'll get another taste from home."

"Now children," purred Miss Sally, "we must all try to get along. Daphne, apologise to Sebastian."

"I'm sorry, Sebastian," said Daphne in a lilting voice, "that I didn't crack you harder, you wanker!"

Just then, Tarquin spoke up: "Perhapths we should juthd go on with the sthory."

Sebastian, who had momentarily lost interest in the proceedings, rubbed his pate and murmured "I told father that mule was dangerous. That's the third time he's kicked me."

Hoping to restore a semblance of order, Miss Sally picked up the book, opened it to the place marked by her treasured bookmark, and began once more to read to the little scholars.

"Well, as I was saying, just then the Rip parted, and . . . . "

... through it, at an alarming speed, there clattered a strangely familiar group.

Upon their clattering feet they wore ill-fitting and clumpy clogs. Upon their collective heads they wore what appeared to be an offensively huge pair of heavy-duty bloomers.

Yes! It was the Clog-Dancing Collective!

Moving as one, they clattered across the deck in unison. (Not only in unison, of course, but also in a pair of the Mother Farcquar's knickers, worn jointly upon their several heads after purloining the said undergarments in a moment of collective insanity during their last appearance in these chronicles).

Several things happened in rapid succession:

- The Mother Farcquar bellowed: "Me knickers!" and snatched the heavy-duty bloomers from the collective heads of the Collective.

- The individual members of the Collective cowered in fear. (This didn't prevent them from continuing their dance, however. Hieronymous was moved to comment upon their terpsichorean skill: "It's not often you see a group cowering and dancing in unison," he said to Hereward. "Most impressive!").

- The leading edge of the Collective, having danced their way into a collision with the trailing edge of the Morris Dancers, found themselves being flung overboard by Sponcracker's droids.

- The Rip parted again, to spew forth Moichael O'Flatulence and a soaking wet and grumpy Seaman Staines, who .....

...nudged the drunken Irish windbag in the spareribs with his bony elbow, and with a leer in the general direction of Miss Sally, whispered "Moichael m'boy, I think I'm in love"

Unfortunately for him, his whisper did not escape the acute hearing of the Mother Farcquahar, nor did she mistake the direction of his leer. "Come here, you soggy, scrawny error in the human genome, I'll give you in, love." and so saying, she picked him up by the extremities and made to throw him down the companionway. The companions readied themselves for the sodden mess, but just as the Mother Farcquahar reeched the apogee of her backswing, Miss Sally dashed forward and, falling to her knees, beseeched the grand dame.....

not throw him in the companions direction but better yetto use him as a cricket bat and pretend that great irish windbag Moichael O'Flatulence was a cricket ball. Stopped in mid swing Mother Farcquar thought about it for all of a minute (slow thinker) and said to Miss Sally'I think you had better go see how young Roger is getting on while I deal with............

.... this group of clog dancers."

Even as these portentous words left the Mother Farcquar's great blubbery lips, the main deck was filled once more with a cacophonous clattering. Great masses of clog dancing idiots heaved to and fro across the deck, their feet moving in a syncopated rhythm.

It was clear that the Rip was working overtime, feeding clog dancers through the space/time continuum in an apparently endless chain.

Sponcracker's droids were doing sterling work along the portside rail. As the outer edges of the clog dancing mass heaved themselves within reach of the droids, they each were grasped in a metallic embrace and tossed over the side.

Over the tremendous clattering of syncopated clogs could be heard a rhythmic pattern of: "Ole!", "Errk!" "Splash!" as the hamsters provided a vocal accompaniment to the toiling of the droids.

Frontbottom was hugely impressed.

"I'm hugely impressed!" he said.

"Delighted to meet you, Mr Impressed!" said a rather portly character in a loud check suit who had appeared at Frontbottom's side. "Allow me to present my card."

Surprised at the sudden appearance of the gaudily-dressed gentleman, Frontbottom leapt about two feet in the air.

"Egad, sir," cried Frontbottom, "you gave me quite a turn. Where the bloody devil did you come from?"

Repeating himself, the stranger smiled and said, "allow me to present my card."

Taking the proffered card, Frontbottom glanced at it and indignantly replied, "the bloody card doesn't say anything at all. What's the meaning of this?"

Bemused, the portly visitor softly spoke, "you've got it the wrong side round, you dill. Turn it over."

Flicking the card back to front as nonchalantly as possible under the circumstances, Frontbottom saw inscribed thereon:

Adam MacAdam
Union Representative
United Clog Dancers Collective

"Well, Mr. Impressed, as you can see I represent the interests of these legions of Cloggers which your droids are chucking over the rail. And it absolutely must stop."

"Who's Mr. Impressed?" inquired Frontbottom.

"Why you are, you chump. I distinctly heard you say 'I'm impressed' a moment ago."

"I'm not Impressed," said Frontbottom.

"Well, make up your mind," snorted MacAdam. "Are you Impressed or aren't you?"

"Well, I am impressed, in away," Frontbottom answered, "but yet, in a way, I am not."

"Look 'ere mate," said MacAdam, lapsing into the vernacular and thus betraying his working-class roots, "either you're Impressed or you ain't. Which is it to be, then?"

Frontbottom, never the sharpest chisel on the rack, was now thoroughly befuddled.

"I'm thoroughly befuddled," he said.

"Here, 'ere," MacAdam's voice rose an octave or so (or, perhaps, merely several semitones, but we won't quibble), "are you havin' a lend o' me? First you're Impressed and now you're Befuddled. I've important business to transact concerning your treatment of these Cloggers and if you're not the man to see, just say so."

Not bothering to answer, Frontbottom staggered off in the general direction of Captain Nemo. Accosting the aforementioned Captain, he jerked a thumb toward MacAdam and said, "gent' to see you, Captain, but I can't make heads or tails of him. Something to do with befuddled cloggers or impressive unions, I'm not just sure." And with that, Frontbottom strode down the companionway, muttering to himself, much to the amusement of the Companions.

Nemo, his interest piqued, sauntered over to MacAdam and said, "I'm the Captain of the Very Little Gravitas Indeed, how may I be of service?"

"Well," MacAdam intoned, "for a beginning, you can . . . "

But - before he could complete his request, the check-suited and portly one was rudely elbowed aside by Moichael O'Flatulence.

(Aha! you'd forgotten about him, Dear Reader, had you not? But it was Himself all right. He had reappeared through the Rip, accompanied by a soggy Staines only just before the Rip began vomiting forth hordes of clog dancers).

"Hello Captain, 'tis meself!" said Moichael in that incredibly irritating self-important manner of his. "Oi've come back to provoide yer with some terpsichorean entertainment."

So saying, he thrust both arms stiffly downwards and raised himself on his toes, preparatory to launching himself into his customary upimself dancing display.

However, before his heels could begin their staccato hammering, Dogsbreath delivered him a perfectly executed hip and shoulder, propelling Moichael across the poop and into the horrible embrace of the Drop Bear, who arrived at the head of a companionway (much wailing and moaning of companions in his wake) just as Moichael staggered into his path.

The impetus provided by Moichael's impact upon the Drop Bear was enough to propel them both over the taffrail.

"OLE!" cried the hamsters gleefully.

"ERRK!" and "ERRK!" quoth Moichael and the Drop Bear, jointly and severally.

"Well done, Dogsbreath!" said Nemo.

However ......

... the Captain's troubles had not ceased with the latest immersion of the irritating O'Flatulence.

McAdam, the portly and loudly check-suited card profferor was still present, planted four-square in Nemo's path.

"...For a start," he said. "You can stop your robots from throwing my members into the ocean."

(Sponcracker's droids were still heaving clog dancers over the side. The hamsters' "Oles" had begun to take on a less-than-enthusiastic tone).

"Your members?" said Nemo. "In what manner are these clog-dancing loons to be characterised as 'your members'?"

"My card," said McAdam, presenting Nemo with the piece of pasteboard bearing the legend:

Adam MacAdam
Union Representative
United Clog Dancers Collective

"If you don't immediately call off this jettisoning of my members, I will be forced to take action."

"Facinating!" said Nemo - silently beckoning Sponcracker to his side. "Pray tell me, what action do you have in mind?"

"Well!" said McAdam, grasping his lapels and rocking back slightly on his heels, "We'll start with a stop-work meeting."

"A stop-work meeting?" Nemo raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What precisely does that entail?"

"Well, it means that we'll stop work and have a meeting."

"Let me understand," said Nemo. "By 'stop work' you mean to imply that your clog-dancing members will cease their activity?"

McAdam nodded.

"Which means they'll stop dancing?"

McAdam pursed his lips, narrowed his gaze and nodded again.

"Their clog-clad feet will cease from clattering up and down on my maindeck?"

McAdam nodded once more.

"If I don't order the droids to stop tossing them over the side?"

"That's it, Captain," said McAdam. "You've got it in one!"

"Excellent!" said Nemo. "Sponcracker!......"

" . . . redouble your clogger-throwing efforts at once! And don't spare the horses!" Turning to MacAdam, the Captain inquired, "Well?"

MacAdam, taking a deep breath which, coupled with his portliness and loud checked suit, had the effect of making him look a bit like a roly-poly pudding, glared at Nemo and snorted, "We'll just see about this. Yes, we'll see all about it. Just you wait." Reaching into his pocket, MacAdam pulled forth a silver whistle and placed it to his lips.

Thweeet! Thweet!

The sound of the whistle resonated across the deck. The cloggers, recognizing the signal for a stop work meeting, immediately ceased to clog. The droids, reaching for the next dancing devil, found that they were no longer within reach. The hamsters, noting the lack of activity, gratefully swallowed the anticipated Ole and quietly moved aft for a smoko. The Captain, seeing the lack of clogging, produced a broad smile and clapped MacAdam on the back.

"Well done, matey, well done! As good as your word. Say, that's an outstanding whistle you have there. Very penetrating. You use it well."

MacAdam, remaining strangely unresponsive to the Captain's blandishments, soon moved to the center of the deck as the cloggers gathered about him. Raising his voice so as to be heard in the rear of the throng, he shouted, "Fellow members of the United Clog Dancers Collective, as your duly-elected representative it is my duty to inform you that I have determined that this workplace is unsafe, to whit, your brothers are being thrown overboard willy-nilly. Therefore, I propose that we shall stop work until we have negotiated a proper contract with the Captain. Those in favor, so signify by saying Aye." (A great chorus of Ayes was heard.) "Any opposed shall say Nay." (Not a naysayer in the lot.) "The motion carries. Thank you gentlemen."

Turning a smug face to the Captain, MacAdam said, "Now then, shall we . . . "

...negotiate individual workplace agreements for my collection of collectivists?"
But before the Captain could answer, the air was rent by a piercing scream of "Daaaadeeee!"
The reactions of the various crew members were unuasual, to say the least.
Sponcracker and Staines immediately took station in the nearest available hiding places. Staines dived headfirst into a firkin that was sitting on the deck, while Sponcracker rushed down the companionway, knocking the companions about like tenpins. Frontbottom tried to pretend he was invisible while squinting out of the corner of his eye to see whence the scream came. Moichael O'Flatulence placed his body and soul in peril by trying to hide in the voluminous skirts of the Mother Farquahar, but was discouraged in this endeavour by the miasma of noxious vapours that ruffling her skirts released.

Only Nemo and Adam McAdam remained unfazed - Nemo because he was a slow thinker, and McAdam because it was not his nature to be fazed.

Once again, the ear-splitting cry of "Daaaadeeee!" rang out. From the corner of his good eye, Frontbottom saw the long golden locks and adequately shaped figure of Miss Sally dashing across the poop towards Nemo and McAdam. As she reached them she dropped to her knees at McAdam's feet.

"Daaaadeeeee!", she screamed for the third time, "Where have you been?"

McAdam cleared his throat.....

. . . and drew himself up haughtily. "My good madam, or mademoiselle, as the case may be, whatever gave you the idea that I was your father? Alas, I have not been blessed with children, although, if I may say so without sounding a braggart, it wasn't from lack of opportunity."

Sally replied, "But you are my sweet daddums, I knew it straightaway when I saw you. Mummy has described you so often and talks about you all the time. Why only the other evening mumsy was remembering some previous event or another, I'm not just sure what, and with tears in her eyes she said 'if only I could once more see your father. What wouldn't I do to him.' Then she turned to me and said softly, 'my child, if ever you run across a fat jumbuck in a checked suit and blowing a silver whistle, you'll have found your father. Don't let him out of your sight. Or near your purse, come to that.' And now here you are! Oh, Daddy!"

MacAdam was nonplussed. "I'm nonplussed," he whispered. "Can it be? After all these years? Can it possibly be?" Then facing Sally, he said, "My dear little waif, pray tell, what might your mother's name be?"

"Why, it's Wendy, of course (no relation). You know that as well as I, Dad."

Recoiling as though stung by a scorpion, MacAdam stammered, "Wendy, you say? Did you say Wendy?" And with that he . . . .

. . . stepped back and reflexively blew a Thweet! on his whistle.

Taking this as a sign that the work stoppage was ended, the cloggers began clogging with renewed vigour.

"Dammit, MacAdam," shouted the Captain, "make those bloody cloggers cease their infernal clogging!"

But MacAdam, still looking stunned, paid Nemo no heed and instead began edging toward the taffrail. Sally uttered one final "Daddy!," and with that MacAdam broke into full retreat, hurling himself overboard and striking out for parts unknown. When last seen from the crow's nest he was making good speed Nor' Nor'east and looked for all the world like a checked-suited whale hot on the trail of several tons of krill.

Nemo, once more beset with cloggers, called for Sponcracker to have his droids resume their former activity. The hamsters, much refreshed, once more began the shouts of Ole as each clogger cleared the rail.

Seaman Staines climbed out from the firken and gazed about him sheepishly.

Nemo, by now mad as a cut snake, began shouting orders. "Belay the Mizzen! Clear the fo'c'sle! Tie off the main brace! And someone do eff all about these farking cloggers!"

Just then, as if on cue, Groans staggered forward, hoisting his arqebus. Taking aim at the mass of dancing devils, he fired into the crowd. His charge had the effect of scattering the clogging troupe.

"Thar', that'll sort 'em," Groans announced. And sure enough the cloggers, now covered with meusli, quickly dispersed in several directions.

All but forgotten in the melee, Sally stood amidst the chittering throng, lost in thought. Suddenly, as though waking from a deep sleep, she shook her golden locks and said to Nemo, "Now I think about it, Mummy actually said Daddy wore a a striped suit and blew a red flute. And her name was Wilma, not Wendy. I get so mixed up sometimes." With a small giggle, she ran down the companionway, as the Companions shook their heads in wonder.

"Groans, you've done it," Nemo declared. "You deserve a reward, just name it."

Groans, after some thought, looked the Captain straight in the eye and said, "Well, I've always fancied a bit o' . . . ."