THE SAGA OF GORDON THE RUINER
Book one. A Ruinous Feud.
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It is in an old, roofless, dilapidated building, without windows or doors, more a few piles of rubble than a building, set in a devastated, once-urban wilderness, two hundred years hence, it is night-time, a handful of dirty, hungry people huddle together.
An Elder speaks: “Gather close, where the walls meet, against the cold, we last few of the Tribe, we, the remnants of a once mighty people; throw more shitcake on the fire, set Watchmen against the coming of Others, and I will tell you the tale - as my Sire told me and his Sire told him and his Sire told him, back, way back, since the coming of Gordon’s Ruin. These, children and friends, are the legends and commentaries, the hymns and prayers of stanislav the Polish plumber; make unto each other the sign of Ruin and say, after me, the first commandment of stanislav the Pole: Up against the wall, motherfuckers………”
All: “Up against the wall, motherfuckers; up against the wall, motherfuckers, up against the wall, motherfuckers.”
“And Gordon the Ruinous was born, some say hatched, in what were called the BadJocklands o’ Fife, far distant, ten nights march, in a place of ever-warring tribes, of filth and disease, where men dressed as women and women were thrashed like mad dogs and all were an abomination and it was a land of inebriate, cross-dressing, wife-beating, child-molesting Jock sonsafuckingbitches…”
All:“and it was a land of inebriate, cross-dressing, wife-beating, child-molesting Jock sonsafuckingbitches."
“And Gordon’s father was an Voodoo Witch Doctor of this Tribe and the Keeper of the Bones and Spells and Curses and lived in an fucking manse, which is an Ancients’ word for an knocking shop and an place of Devil worship and infamy and he did go among the tribe and rebuke them and take from them their tokens and goods - as such they had in the days of Plenty, before Ruin claimed all - and spend it upon women’s undergarments for himself. And he was called also an clergyperson, which was a word used by the Ancients to indicate an defiler of children, an filthy fucking bastard.
And Gordon’s birth brought Darkness at the break of Noon and he was seen as one afflicted, sour and ugly but the old tribes did not, as do we, set the mutant out for the dogs to kill and consume, but nourished him instead, for this was Before Ruination came at Gordon’s hand, and there was food and shelter and thanks to stanislav the plumber, water sprang from magic pipes beneath the earth - honest and not invent, pipes, filled with clean water grew everywhere and the Ancients, Before Ruin, knew not of drinking from puddles, or collecting rainwater, as is our custom, now, now that Gordon the Ruinous, skulking and plotting and lying and feuding, has forever laid waste all that the Ancients had made. And Before Ruin, shit was not hoarded and mixed with straw, by the children, for fuel, but washed away down magic pipes into the dead seas. Imagine, water for all, as much as they could drink, so abundant that they splashed it all over themselves, several times a day. Our chronicler saw to it, stanislav was his name and plumbing – or planting and growing the magic water pipes and cutting through all the shit – was his game, Up against the wall motherfuckers, his constant cry, as Ruin’s cold hand gripped the Place ”
All:“Up against the wall, motherfuckers”
“And as Gordon grew, even his Sire, the preacher and tight-fisted Presbyterian sonofafuckingbitch……”
All:“Tight-fisted Presbyterian sonofafuckingbitch”
“…looked on him and said unto his woman, this one must go away and be taught bribery, blackmail and deceit, bullying and cowardice, for he has about him the look of an cunt, an right cunt. And he will flourish in the world of cunts and we shall all prosper from his cuntishness. Look, he cannot speak but only stutter, his jaw jerks even as an fiddler’s elbow, dropping like an hangman’s trap-door; down and up, down and up, gulp and spasm, twitch and shudder, as though he were plagued or poxed. And look, ye, at his hands, all bitten and gnawed even until they bleed. This is no ordinary youth; this is an freak, an control freak.
And so Gordon went unto an cuntish gathering place called an university and practiced the dark art of cunting or hooning and after many moonturns and with an worthless doctorate, a scrap of paper, in cuntishness, came down from the BadJocklands, where sister mated with brother and mother with son, unto this Place, then called the place of England, then an merry place, filled with carefree, flirtatious, becostumed, dancing men, all called Morris, gaily striking sticks together, singing fol-de-rol and yo-ho-ho, setting forth, after handsome maidens, on Bright May Mornings, eating the multi-hued fishcreatures of Saint Rick of Padstow, the poultry of St Jamie of Sainsbury and - it is fabled - licking, in their turn, the Crème Brulee off of the Tits of the blessed Saint Nigella; not for the Ancients the foraged rats and weeds, which form our sustenance, the snare-ed blackbirds and sparrows, the root porridge and flat bread. But then came Gordon. And with his lumbering, clumsy, unwieldy ham-fistedness, his calamitousness, he freighted his own unique, charmless, pigheaded stupidity; his cuntishness, his greed, vanity, cruelty and shameful cowardice; here he set about his lifeswork of fostering Downfall, Despair, Poverty and cursed Ruination.
And he did promptly prohibit the dancing Morrises and much else of the
All: “Eating snot, before the people, even out from his own nose.”
“And in those days, stanislav tells, were viewing boxes, powered by the Gods from the Places Above, in which magic happened and visions of tiny people, much like, even copies of real people, spoke out loud from the innards of the box and there were, too, before Ruin, other Places, beyond. And there, beyond, other tribes could look into their viewing boxes, in a place that was called All Over The Fucking World. And in All Over The Fucking World the multitudes who then lived, in plenty, Before Ruin, could see Gordon, the filthy, snot-eating Ruiner of all things, but did only laugh and deride and not, as they should have, put him out for Death’s Harvest Home, the horrible fucking bastard.”
All: “Put him out for Death’s Harvest Home, the horrible fucking bastard. Put him out for Death’s Harvest Home, the horrible fucking bastard ”
“And Gordon fell in with Kinnockio the Clown and Blair the Grinning Butcher and Imelda the Greedy Scouse Gob and was at once at home among them for they were all, like he, useless, idle, thieving cunts……”
All: “Useless, idle, thieving cunts.”
“…. cruel, criminal, feuding, hating each other, bound together by Treachery’s harsh cords, steeped in offence and foulness, pious and righteous their discourse, squalid and filthy their habits; all, as the Ancients said, fur coat and no knickers.”
All: “All fur coat and no knickers”
Kinnockio the Clown was then leader of Gordon’s Tribe but was an piece of worthless garbage, tripe, an spluttering charlatan. stanislav tells how Kinnockio could not walk in an straight line without falling over on top of his woman, Greedy Glenys Slime; could not speak but only issue interminable, repetitive proclamations and in a contest between Kinnock and an twittering, walking fencepost called The John Major, the people of the Ancient tribes so detested the worthless, whining Kinnockio that he lost the contest, even though he should have won, the horrible Welsh git.
All: “The horrible Welsh git. Up against the wall, motherfuckers and ginger bastards.”
“ Kinnockio whined and windbagged that the place of England deserved better, deserved to have him in charge, botching things up, deserved his sticky Welsh fingers in their pockets, his cawing, sing-song, reproving Welsh voice in their ears, bleated that the scribes had done for him, The Last Pilgrim Exeunt Must Snuff out the Candle, they had said, should Kinnochio become Chief of Chiefs. And after the horrible and intolerably stupid Welsh bastard was sent to Away in Brussels, a place of thieving and embezzlement and perversion, came another Jockman to lead, an horror, an oily, puffed-up, sanctimonious bastard, an lawyer, which is an Ancients’ word for thief and fucking bastard, and his name was called John Smith and he anointed both the Grinning Butcher Blair and the Snot-eating Freak as his heirs and not an moment too soon, children, for Old John Smith did die straightways, from an sudden illness or was poisoned and killed by younger men of his own tribe – Byersites, Milburnites, Boatengites and by their witches, Margaret and Patricia and Ruth Man Kelly and Harriet SourSister and by Imelda the Cavernous Scouse Gob, who stood to profit the most. Quick, fresh shitcakes for the fire, the blood thins and chills the heart as the Saga of Ruin unfolds.
And after the Deceasement of the blowhard lawyer, Smith, Gordon did plot and intrigue against all and blackmail and bully those in his path to secure unto himself the Chieftain’s role which was his, by right, he claimed, as a Son of the Fucking Manse. But his tribesmen knew that others too, in addition to his kin, would see Gordon as defective, misshapen, maladroit and untrustworthy and Gordon’s paramour, call-ed Sneaky Pete, acclaimed, instead, Blair the Grinning Butcher and his woman, Imelda Fat Ankles, and her woman, Carol CallGirl, which event threw Gordon into an rage for the rest of his life, the horrible, bad-tempered, tantrum-throwing, snot-eating fucking bastard.
All: “The horrible, bad-tempered, tantrum-thowing, snot-eating fucking bastard”
“Rejected thus, bypassed, scorned for his vileness and ugliness of spirit, Gordon the Ruinous, cursing, thwarted, secured unto himself an place behind the Throne, as Treasurer, from whence he harried and disrupted the doings of Tony and Imelda the Freeloader, who, thieves, cowards and liars themselves, could not restrain the malice of Gordon the Ruiner, nor withstand it. Gordon, feuding, even, in Night-time’s foetid loneliness, with himself, and plotting, whispering contagion and malfeasance, spiteful and vindictive, so conspired against the Grinning Blairs that they were compelled to abandon the Cunt Throne to Gordon and set themselves to mendicancy, to begging, in the place called All Over The Fucking World, which no longer exists. And by means of numbers pulled from the air - or, as stanislav tells it, Rubbish fucking tractor production statistics – Gordon persuaded some, called Hefferites and Kavanaghites and Toynbeeites and ToiletsMaguireites that he was an genius and an saint when in truth he was nothing but an fucked-up mouthy cunt with shit for brains, with an disposition so vile that people cowered from his rages, which were frequent and Gordon the Ruinous spared not even himself from his rages, so stupid was he that he had once bashed an eye out from his own head and was good even for fuck all… "
All: “Good even for fuck all..”
“…….and since youth he had blethered, Oh, Forgive me for being a useless, cack-handed, clumsy, ham-fisted, lumbering, pasty-faced, lardy, spluttering nincompoop, it is because I am a person of one-eye-edness, not that I ever mention it to gain sympathy (wink, wink)."
" stanislav is not clear about the legend of the rocking horse but it is fabled among other Ancients scholars, Guy the Fawkes, for instance, that Gordon, among his male intimates, did often act and dress as an infant, an gross, vile, bloated infant wearing nothing but an cloth, called an nappy, around his privates, into which cloth he could warmly and moistly soil himself and be, for a few minutes, happy, squelching in warm shit, shit filling his snotty nostrils, shit oozing-out from the nappy, down his fat thighs; shit Paradise. And it was said that one of his counsellors did fashion an image of Shitty Gordon, sat astride an rocking horse, a pink, naked, blubbery babyman, clad in only a nappy, pouting. And, for fear of it being shown to the Ancients in the place of
“The night blows, now, cold and rainy; the wind howls like an hammer and we must find shelter from the storm, behind piled rocks with sticks sharpened against Beasts and Others, who would bite and tear at us, steal our shitcake, our dried ratflesh and all our treasures. Tomorrow is an long time and an day of Scavenging, we might find an tin or two of baking beans, in some Holy Retail Ruin. And if so there will be Feasting and I shall continue the Saga of Gordon the Ruiner. Make, friends and children, the Sign of Ruin to one another and say, after me, the second commandment of stanislav the plumber: And they shall be taken....”
All: “And they shall be taken, all, and given an quick rub-down with an housebrick and dropp-ed down an mineshaft, useless, thieving bastards, good even for fuck all. Amen.”
TO BE CONTINUED..
15 comments:
Your masterpiece, sir.
Out stan ding.
Too kind, Mr PTB, and mr RWG, long time no see; just an idea that ran away. I reposted it because we have had a sudden influx of American visitors, dunno why, and I didn't want them thinking that we chastised, here, only their ruinous crew.
It makes me smile, still, although there is a perhaps unintended poignancy in the idea of a people laid low, a nation laid waste - exactly how low we will see after the election - by a caste which, even now, lectures, harangues, bullies, dragoons, upbraids and charges us for its own felonies. They all, didn't they, applauded the end to boom and bust, they all hosannahed Blair as he bowed-out, ennobling, indemnifying and pensioning one another and now, despite all the revelations of bare-faced larceny, skymadeupnewsandfilth insists on business as usual, a phoney election in a one-party, totalitarianiste nouvelle, consumerist police state; representation,democrac and accountability, like the idea of public service, ashes and rust, Ruin.
Utterly, utterly brilliant.
I may have cracked a rib or two, but in between my incessant cackling (which alarmed my entire herd) I could not help but think that this is the most accurate history of these parasites that I have so far laid eyes on.
CR.
far distant, ten nights march, in a place of ever-warring tribes, of filth and disease, where men dressed as women and women were thrashed like mad dogs and all were an abomination and it was a land of inebriate, cross-dressing, wife-beating, child-molesting Jock sonsafuckingbitches…”
Sure your not talking about Saudi and Iran?
fuking nice one just wot i needed
i havent laughed so much since auntie mable caught her left tit in the mangle
More please your holiness
Sure your not talking about Saudi and Iran?
No, Mr Furor Teutonicus, not in this instance although it may well be an apt description. The levels of spouse abuse in bonny Scotland are truly horrifying, as are, in some regions, the the average male life expectancy of 53, obesity, illiteracy, per capita rates of alcohol and other drug dependence are higher in Scotland than in any other developed nation, cirhossis in teenagers is rampant. It is to these long established problems that Scots politicians should have addressed themselves instead of fucking off down to London with Kirtsy Wark and Andrew Marr and leaving the wastelands of the Central Beltway to Alec Lard and his numpty Tribesmen. When Jock desists from battering his women and neglecting his children and himself I may turn to reforming the coke snorting playboys of the Middle East. You should do the same.
Bloody, blinking brilliant.
The Saga of Gordon the Ruiner, as a full colour pull-out-and-keep Sunday Supplement, would be quite something.
Key scenes, physical abnormalities and harrowingly repetitive ticks brought to life as beautfully illustrated fold-out cardboard animations and, in a nod to modern technology, a sprinkling of those tiny, greeting card audio widgets, giving give voice to the protagonists "er, er, mr speaker, er, er, er, mr speaker, er, er, er ..."
Collect the whole set to receive a year's supply of edible candles and the blueprints of a functioning waterwheel, which'd almost certainly be the most useful thing ever given away in a Glossy.
Mr black hole sunset
Your imaginings are entirely delightful (well, you know what I mean) and coherent. But edible candles? From what universe do those emanate? And does one consume them as a liquid or a solid?
Thank you, Mr P.T.Barnum, that's too kind. It's a slightly guilty pleasure to be making light of a situation which, by rights, aught to propel one into a state of furious insurrection but there's probably little harm in keeping one's spirits up, regardless of the hopelessness of the situation.
As to the candles, they really do exist, in many different flavours, and are often available at camping goods stores - the internet is full of references and even recipes. Consumed, as I understand it, in solid rather than liquid form - presumably, to avoid later solidification in the gut.
Something to file under "adapting to the coming apocalypse", for those who imagine such an act to be a worthwhile use of their time.
No harm in keeping the spirits up; hereabouts, we laugh to keep from crying.
Brilliant Ishmael, although talking as a 'scotch cunt' may I point out that Blair and Brown were sent down because we didn't want the fuckers up here and you seemed incapable of ruling yourselves. Roll on English independence!
It is a very sad state of affairs, Mr Ishmael, but this place is a source of warmth and illumination which does much to stave off the cold madness outside.
Mr Raft treated us to the dvd of Noggin the Nog.
I always think of this now in black and white figures and think it could be animated at reasonable cost, especially using CGI instead of stop-frame animation.
I don't fancy it in that new-fangled 3D.
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