Tag Archives: #parody

The Tide Is Out (a la Blondie)

The Tide Is Out (a la Blondie)

The tide is out,

and I’m stuck in the mud;

my keel needs scraping,

it’s covered in crud;

the tide is out.

Advertisements

Pond, James Pond (Part 2)

Part 1 is here, please read it first – G:)

Pond studied the message for a few seconds, committing the information to memory, then he ate it. He now knew the three special items that ‘R’ had provided Pond for his imminent mission. He gathered two of them up and left the apartment with a caffeine-fuelled enthusiasm that was firmly controlled by his serious expression.

‘The game was afoot!’ As Sherlock would have said – Sir Arthur’s words upon his lips.

Reaching the lobby, Pond noted the Prussian spy still attempting to complete the crossword in his newspaper. Pond didn’t break his stride and leaving the hotel, turned left onto Princeton Boulevard. Bond took the pair of glasses from his inner jacket pocket and donned them – instantly, he was connected to the Comms Department; a small screen started relaying images of the spy following him straight to his visual input; and a tracking device was initialised.

Pond marvelled at R’s devices – minute and efficient, way in advance of anything that the ‘enemy’ had to hand – whoever the ‘enemy’ might be at any given time.

The glasses were updating Pond on all of their uses as he strode along Princeton and left into Charles Habsley Ave. (43rd Ave). The spy was following at a safe distance, along with a support team of another footpad and a vehicle manned with two grey-suits. ‘Four men’ thought Pond. They have scrimped on nothing to accompany a person on a short stroll around the block.

Pond popped quickly into Hermingham’s Book & News Emporium and switched with his lookie-likie, Mort Haroldson, who, with newspaper under arm, seamlessly took over Pond’s stroll around the block.

The real Pond walked swiftly through Hermingham’s and out of the fire escape – his dull battleship-grey Lincoln Continental was up and running – it fitted him like a glove. He eased away from the store’s rear and was soon heading out of the city to his rendezvous with V.

Haroldson had passed Pond a small paperback. This hollowed-out book enclosed a length of filament wire, a handy flat blade knife and a variety of small, ingenious tools and gadgets – all of which, Pond was being educated via his glasses at this very moment.

Driving with every care to be unnoticeable – along with the car’s changing numberplate to confuse plate-recognition technology – Pond left the city and headed East.

Stopping at a roadside motel. Pond swapped his dull Lincoln for a two-wheeled vehicle that would get him to his rendezvous a lot quicker. Donning the silver helmet, he quickly re-entered the flow of traffic from West to East and opened up the motorbike.

TBC

Pond, James Pond.

Pond, James Pond

James Pond walked into the Ritz Hotel’s lobby with barely a glance at the Prussian spy sitting to the left of the entrance, supposedly engrossed within the American newspaper that he was holding.

Pond approached the desk and smoothly claimed the electronic key to his penthouse suite, and a small envelope which contained a coded missive from ‘N’.

Pond took the lift to floor 14, exited, and ascended three flights of stairs in the silent running manner that he had employed to his advantage upon so many occasions.

Checking the micro-filament that he had placed across the door frame was still intact, Pond inserted his card and entered – his concentration heightened even more so – it pays to turn up the surveillance when there is nothing to see.

Keeping clear of the full-wall window (even though it was bullet-proof, a missile would make a severe dent in Pond’s aquiline features) Pond observed the small red light blinking on the answer-phone machine (such a relic in this day and age) and the absence of any signs of his apartment having been searched – they were, indeed, very professional.

However, the safeguards that ‘R’ had installed showed air-flow and heat variations in the area – things that were nigh on impossible to avoid – the security cameras had been frozen and showed nothing at all – and definitely didn’t show the deliberately unsynchronised clock that hung on the opposite wall – set to flick back and forth every forty-second second.

Pond relaxed. He saw all the signs and realised that he was not today’s target – they were seeking a lead to his current assignment – they may have found the red herrings, they may ignore them; but, sowing the seeds of doubt and subtly indoctrinating their minds with double-bluffs was all a part of the game.

Pond popped the kettle on.

Coffee, not shaken, stirred, after adding one Sucralose sweetener – actually an anti-poison capsule, and, even if the coffee beans had been contaminated with a powerfully lethal drug, Pond’s immune system would flush any chemicals harmlessly away.

Two Garibaldi biscuits to accompany the coffee, and Pond then dropped smoothly into his comfy recliner in order to read the missive from ‘N’.

TBC

‘Carry On Writing’ #LWG 5-minute exercise

“Carry On Writing!”

Sid walked into the room.

Kenneth, Kenny and Babs were sat at various tables reading the latest script

Babs has been cast as Elizabeth the First, Sid as Sir Really Rather-a-Wally, Kenneth as Lord Waltzinghome and Kenny as King Philip the Poor Second of Spain. The guest actor who was to be portraying a youngish William Shakeshaft was Ian Lavender.

The script called for many doublet-entendres and a smattering of smut and innuendo. This was obviously no surprise.

“To be or not to be…” exclaimed Ian, as he entered the room.

“Is this a dagger that I see before me?” Asked Babs. “Not ‘arf!” she laughed raucously.

It was going to be another one of those days.

Reimagining a Beginning – The Hobbit.

Reimagining a Beginning – The Hobbit.

Just stepping outside your front door can be dangerous – ask any Hobbit. Well, not just any Hobbit, you have to ask the ones that stay safely at home- which, admittedly, is most of them.

Not keen to go on adventures? No. They have a certain lack of daring, little or no derring-do, and are not generally known to possess the essential spirit of discovery.

That being said, there are one or two that do have what it takes to become a hero.

This is the story of one such Hobbit.

The Bavarian is at the gate…

The Bavarian is at the gate…

I bet he’s going to try

and sell us some more

Black Forest Gateau

on a fancy plate.

The Ghost at the Banquet (I am)

I am the ghost

at the banquet.

Banquo?

No, that was another ghost

at another banquet –

I am not him,

and he is not me.

Do you see?

He was there due to his death

at the hands of MacBeth.

I was not

killed by an ambitious Scot;

but, by a jealous yak

from ancient Tibet.

Why I should be at this particular banquet

Is a mystery yet.