"THE GRAVEYARD CHRONICLES!": EPISODE 25: "Stage Fright."

"DON'T PUT YOUR DAUGHTER ON THE STAGE MRS. LARGE......OOPS! TOO LATE!"

“Walpole Salad has taken Maude back to 1880 to rewind her life and give her a chance to rewrite the past! Tom and the gang have disappeared into space!

But the Stage is set, the Actors are all present and the curtain is about to go up! Grab your popcorn, because no-one knows the script, or even who wrote it….”

The Ghost Writer.

25: “STAGE FRIGHT.”

The carriage clattered and bounced over the wet cobblestones, threading its way recklessly through the traffic and rain, night was approaching and yellow gas-lamps flickered with dull light, whilst people shouted their goodnights as they tried to escape the tumbling rain, yet another shitty wet night in Birmingham.

Inside the speeding carriage was the finest Detective Inspector that Birmingham City Police had produced in its short history, by his side sat his faithful Sergeant and in the corner, clutching the seat nervously with both hands, a young and enthusiastic constable, his hair greased down with goose fat, his uniform bright and clean, his face gripped in a smile of terror – he was frightened of most things, including Taxi cabs that raced in the rain.

He really wished he had taken his mother’s advice and become a Monk, but gripped by Sherlock Holmes stories read to him by his mad Irish nanny, Constable 211 Maxwell Asswell had volunteered for the new Police service.

He had lived in fear ever since, for the streets of Birmingham were a dangerous place for a young man, raised in a rural vicarage with just his strange nanny and a rabbit called ‘Thumper’ for company. He rarely saw his father, an odd fellow for a country vicar, a former Navy Officer, Edward Asswell had travelled the world, and took great pride in that he had shagged females (and some that were ‘questionable’ to say the least) in nearly every country that the British Empire expanded into, then upon retirement married his cousin (some thirty years younger than himself) and settled in Gloucester as a country pastor.

"THE REV. EDWARD ASSWELL'S ONLY REGRET WAS HAVING A IDIOT FOR A SON!"

He spent his day’s hunting and fishing, his evenings in the local tavern or Mrs. McAlistairs bespoke knocking shop, sampling the merchandise and praying for their souls. He was a happy and contented man, apart from having an idiot as an only son.

Maxwell’s mother was never at home, always doing charity work around the villages, Margaret Asswell, was well liked, respected and known colloquially as ‘the bike’.

A very popular women, it was rumoured that the only male in the area not to have ridden her regularly, was her husband! She repeatedly told her son to join a Monastery and serve God, anything to get rid of him, so that she and Mary, the Irish nanny, could play their little games together or with male friends: the parties were to become famous around Gloucestershire as ‘Asswell’s Assignations’.

At one such party, Lord Oliver D’ Asparagus, a fragile Octavian of 86 years, expired beneath her furious and frantic riding. The Coroner recorded a verdict of ‘death by natural causes’ (well, what’s more natural than death by shagging!) but the funeral had to be delayed by a week because the embalmers couldn’t get the smile off his face and the Undertaker couldn’t get the lid down.

She was a happy and satisfied wife, apart from having an idiot as an only son.

"ASSWELL'S ASSIGNATIONS WERE THE TALK OF THE COUNTY!"

But Maxwell felt a little safer in the presence of the two other occupants of the carriage.

The quiet spoken and well respected Detective Sergeant Larde Darr was a ten year veteran of the mean and dangerous streets of the growing Metropolis that was Birmingham City, having risen through the ranks by hard work, dedication, criminal study, blackmail and the fact that his brother, Cairstairs Darr, was Deputy Chief of Police, who DC Larde Darr had caught in bed with two young prostitutes, a baboon called Norman and several dwarfs from a local circus.

Luck had smiled on DC Darr that day, he just happened to burst into his brothers cellar with two photographers, its true they had to ask everyone to stay still for several minutes whilst the pictures were taken, but since Cairstairs was handcuffed to the baboon and tied to a large wooden crucifix, the exposure time of the film plates really didn’t matter.

Now the dwarfs were dressed in XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX with large rubber aprons and several buckets of lard.

One of the young girls was dressed as ‘Snow White’ and using a large XXXXXXXXXXX with a XXXXXXXX.

“What Miss Snow-White and the dwarfs were doing is not suitable for such a publication as this and I have moderated the paragraph for the sake of decency.”

The Ghost Writer.

Strangely enough, DC Darr was promoted to Detective Sergeant the very next day. He was well respected and a little feared by his peers, and the city’s criminal fraternity viewed him with admiration and trepidation. They knew he liked to solve crimes with his fists and many a villain had signed his confession with broken fingers, black eyes, shattered teeth and limbs. Many were illiterate and signed with a face print, DS Darr didn’t believe in a simple ‘X’, their faces were inked and pressed down upon the statement with some force.

"YOU GET THE IDEA...."

Many believed that they could become as popular as the new fangled fingerprint system, but the damn do-goody liberal bastards were unhappy about it.

“Soft hearted twats that know sod all about the reality of Police work!” He would comment as he beat another suspect about the head with the cricket bat that he always carried under his long black coat.

A fine officer and gentleman (when sober) in the eyes of many, especially by his two wives and nine children, three mistresses and another six illegitimate progeny, Oh, and a young street walker called Camille who specialised in working with dwarfs............

DS Darr took pity on the baboon and decided to keep Norman as a family pet; his children loved the strange playful animal and chased it about the house and garden for hours. Even his two wives took to Norman, despite his habit of shitting in any discarded hats, pissing over people whilst swinging from the gas-brackets and farting in polite company.

His Inspector, being a shrewd Detective, always kept his hat on and an umbrella up, when visiting Darr’s home and his wives were too polite to mention the Inspectors strange behaviour as they sipped their tea and talked about the weather.

"MRS. LIZ AND KATE DARR!"

The Inspector never commented on why his loyal sidekick had two wives, he believed that was Darr’s personal business, but he suspected that Darr could be a ‘closet’ Muslim and hid his true faith out of fear of losing his job and career.

He also wondered why the two women appeared to be, always in their underwear.

He knew a detective Sergeant’s wage wasn’t much, but believed it could stretch to getting some dresses for his wives.

The Inspector was also concerned by the numbers of gentleman callers the two ladies had – they must be very popular members of the Church Committee!

The truth being Darr’s wives were two sisters, and he made both pregnant after a drunken game of strip poker, one evening at the church social club. The Vicar, Joshia Coldhands, had passed out in just his underpants, and missed all the fun. He often turned a blind eye to the silly games his daughters played on many occasions; they were a very close family.

Deep in thought and drawing upon his huge pipe, which flickered and smouldered like a street brazier, sat Detective Inspector Thomas Wallace Alexander Titt, the younger brother of the famous crime novelist and Member of Parliament, Sir Theodore Ian Titt who narrated his brothers criminal adventures in the famous ‘penny dreadful’ magazine; “Dark Secrets” under the non-de-plume: ‘Wylie de Coyote’.

Yes, the brothers were a very famous pair of big Titts in Birmingham.

"THE REV. JOSHIA COLDHANDS READING THE KAMA SUTRA!"

Resplendent in a colourful three piece suit, bowler hat and long dust coat, Inspector Titt was considering his latest assignment from the Chief of Police, Sir Henry Smythe-Bidett, to protect one of the city’s famous young actresses from an evil death threat and thus the dedicated crime fighting team were speeding to the ‘Apollo’ Theatre on this dark and damp night.

“I saw her last year at the old ‘Empire’ on Queen Street, it was a light comedy entitled: ‘Mind the goats vicar!’ Very funny indeed, she was quite brilliant and the two goats did well too.” He spoke to Darr, who was swigging from his hipflask and studying some saucy French postcards he had obtained from St. Basil’s verger, who sold them at the back of the organ after mass. DS Darr hadn’t paid for them of course, it’s amazing what a little cricket bat can get you, when it’s shoved under someone’s chin. He looked up and smiled at his boss; “Yes Guv, a very talented young lady.” ‘Like the girls in these photographs’: He thought, rubbing a huge pair of unrestrained breasts with his thumb.

"Louise."

"Angala."

"John - ?"

Inspector Titt nodded to himself and added; “A fine young women, beautiful, talented and a credit to the city. Apparently she hales from Scotland, I believe.” That was a good night, apart from the blaze that followed, which closed the theatre for some months, he remembered it fondly, but that damned arsonist is becoming an embarrassment to the force!

‘And she’s got a pair of bristols that are near perfect.’ Thought DS Darr, wiping dribble from his thick black moustache, whilst adjusting the crouch of his trousers; ‘Nipple’s like a blind cobblers thumbs comes to mind.’ He smiled to himself, and wondered if there were any postcards of the young actress before she became famous; he would even pay money for them!

"Sue."

Then he noticed they had arrived. “We’re here Guv.” He said, “Remind me not to tip the bloody driver; it smells like he keeps bloody geese in here, the dirty bugger.”

“That’s a correct deduction Darr, I could smell it all the way from King Street, and I see we have arrived at the theatre.” Inspector Titt banged out his pipe upon the door and placed it within his coat pocket, next to his pistol and beloved copy of “The Kama Sutra” (the condensed version) Whilst Darr opened the carriage door for his boss., forgetting that PC Asswell was leaning against it, trying to extinguish the small fires that ran up his arm and leg - the fallout from the Inspectors pipe.

"Caroline."

PC Asswell fell in a heap onto the cold damp footway, at the steps of the staff entrance of the famous theatre, much to passerby’s great amusement.

“Get up boy; you’re a Police-Officer, not a damn Court Jester!” Titt shouted, stepping over the incumbent figure, who was still trying to put out the flames. Darr stamped on them and they flickered away. PC Asswell choked back tears from the pain of being burnt, then having his arm and leg trodden on by DS Darr and laughed at by the crowd gathering for the evening performance.

Darr paid the cabby the exact fair: sixpence (about £2 in today’s money) and complained about the smell of “bloody geese shit” and he should clean the “damn fucking cab before passengers got in”. The cabby just stared at him and pocketed the money.

‘Tight fucking git!’ He thought, but didn’t reply. He also didn’t notice that his cab was ablaze as he cussed his horse and punters with short arms and deep pockets. Some yards from the theatre, he had to leap to safety as his cab was engulfed by flames.

“God God!” Inspector Titt exclaimed;”The mad arsonist of old Birmingham town has struck again and that was a very close shave indeed!” DI Titt had pulled his huge horse pistol out and was pointing it directly at PC Asswell, who despite being an idiot, was wise enough to throw himself on the ground. The bullet struck a nearby lamppost and ricochet through the theatres glass doors, shattering them totally. The queue for this evening’s performance of ‘Romeo & Juliet’ ran screaming into the night, believing Irish Terrorists had targeted the town again.

“But look on the positive side, the dirty fucker won’t have to clean the bloody cab now.” DS Darr said softly and grinned. Young PC Asswell, brushed dirt and rain from his now filthy uniform and stared at the pair, but said nothing.

The Inspectors nemesis was a mysterious evil figure, which had repeatedly set ablaze people and buildings about the city, apparently in an effort to kill the Inspector before he was captured. The local tabloids carried headlines about the fiend’s evil attempts on the good Inspectors life, Only last week, several people narrowly escaped death or serious injury by leaping from a shirt manufacturers factory windows, which became engulfed in flames, just moments after Inspector Titt had left with a man wanted for sheep rustling.

The headline screamed: “TITT ESCAPES SHIRT FIRE!”

"JACK THE MATCH!"

The notorious fiend had garnered the nickname: ‘Jack the Match.’

Real fear gripped the city, you couldn’t buy a bucket for love or money, there were rumours circulating that even old pail’s were changing hands for 10 shillings a piece.

There had been a water shortage for some days, as people panicked and filled anything that could hold water and stuffed their rooms with an assortment of strange water carriers including: wardrobes, chest of drawers, boots, hats, and even coffins!

The ‘Birmingham Evening Gazette’ offered an amazing £100 reward for his capture after their paper store burnt to the ground. They commented on the miraculous brush with death Inspector Tom Titt had survived on the premises. For he had just left, after questioning several delivery drivers about mistreatment of their horse’s, when the place became an inferno.

“Let’s go Darr! The games afoot!” Inspector Titt made his way into the now deserted theatre entrance. DS Darr swigged from his hipflask and followed his boss into the ‘Apollo’. PC Asswell reluctantly trailed behind the pair; a monastic life now seemed like heaven compared to this, Oh why hadn’t he listened to his mother.

The trio stopped in their tracks, for before them was a large iron cage with two huge, angry and hungry looking lions! “Jesus Christ!” Exclaimed Titt and started waving his horse pistol about. DS Darr also drew his faithful cricket bat and readied for action. PC Asswell, cowing behind his Sergeant, had nearly filled his underpants, for some strange reason, he really didn’t like lions......

“Good evening gentleman, I’m so glad you have arrived, wonderful work Inspector, seeing off both ‘Jack the Match’ and the IRA.” The tall, top hated figure emerged from behind the Reception area and spoke with real admiration in his voice. He introduced himself, after picking himself up from the floor, after the bullet from Titt’s gun, had passed through his Top-hat and destroyed the Mirror that hung behind the Ticket-Office desk.

“I’m Frank Proudcox, the Theatre Manager!” He blurted out, examining the hole in his hat.

After handshakes all round, DS Darr asked the nervous gentleman about the lions. It appears that the mangy pair of big cats was a living advertisement for the next show at the ‘Apollo’ which was “Samson and Delilah.” “We did try a couple of actors in costumes, but the public just took the piss out of them, throwing eggs and tomatoes’ at the poor pair, who resorted in urinating over their tormentors, sadly, we had to sack them.” Frank Proudcox explained, then with a slight smile, added; “Strangely enough, these two do the same, but people just laugh about it.”

"WINSTON REALLY LIKED THE LOOK OF PC ASSWELL!"

That’s when PC Asswell noticed the yellow puddle about his feet and the sticky dampness of his legs. The bigger lion, seemed to grin, around his neck was a thick black collar marked ‘Winston’. He also licked his lips. PC Asswell backed away, falling over a chair and was dragged to his feet by DS Darr, who cussed him soundly.

“They are kept well fed by our stage-hand old Arthur, though I haven’t seen him for a few days.” Frank was leading the trio up the huge staircase, to the backstage dressing room of the young starlet who was the reason for the visit.

Nobody noticed the pile of well-chewed bones in the corner of Winston’s and Bunny’s cage; especially, the skull, still resplendent with the little red hat embellished: “Stage-Hand”.

The big mahogany door had a gold star attached, beneath which was written: “Miss Maude Large”, below that in chalk was written; “Wow! wot a pair of hooters!” Frank grinned and wiped the offending graffiti with his hand,

“It’s me Maude and I have the Police with me!” Frank yelled, banging on the stout wood. The shotgun blast missed them all, except PC Asswell, his helmet now resembled a colander and the crotch of his trousers was newly damp.

DS Larde dragged him to his feet, cussing him robustly.

The door creaked open and Madame Lily Jambes-Ouvertes, Miss Large’s over protective French Maid, lowered the shotgun and smiled. She liked the look of DS Darr, but then, she liked most things in trousers, better still, out of them.

"THE FRENCH MAID LIKED THE LOOK OF DS. DARR!"

Madame Lily had a real thing about Englishmen, her husband Henri, after ten years of marriage, apparently never suspected his wife had such passions, even though his three sons were called Sidney, Gordon and Hamish: Gordon spoke with a Liverpool accent, whilst Hamish wore kilts and swore a lot, Sidney seemed normal enough for a French boy, despite his preference for wearing little girl’s dresses and bonnets........

They trooped into the dressing room and Frank introduced them to Miss Maude Large, the reason for their visit and she rose from her seat and smiled;
”Hello Inspector, I have heard so much about your exploits and I so glad you’re here with your men.” She held out her hand to Inspector Titt.

Titt was completely lost in love, Miss Maude was stunning, with long curled dark hair, big deep green eyes and a beautiful pale complexion, her ample breasts hardly hidden by her thin stage costume, she was perfect. To poor Titt she was simply everything he ever wanted in a woman. He tried to speak, the lips moved but nothing came out, he shuffled his feet and eased his collar which was apparently trying to strangle him, sweat ran openly down his face, he had a massive erection; the first in months it should be noted.

DS Larde Darr stood with his eyes wide open, he now realised that the graffiti writer was totally correct, not only would he have paid for postcards of her, he would have asked to take the photograph’s himself and paid for that privilege too!

Pc Asswell thought she was ‘quite nice’ for a woman.......

"MISS MAUDE LARGE!"

Finally, Inspector Titt managed to take her hand and kiss the delicate appendage; he slobbered over it for some time, like a bulldog chewing a melon. He was most reluctant to let go and DS Darr had to pull it away and smile at Miss Maude, but he knew exactly, what he would have liked to drool over and it wasn’t her bloody hands.

Miss Maude wiped her soggy hand on a nearby curtain and recounted the ghastly tale of murderous threat to her life by a spurned admirer; a certain William Canterbury, who despite being married, had formed a passionate fixation with her and being a fine, decent young woman, she had obviously refused his advances and he now was threatening her with murder!

“The damn cad!” Exclaimed Inspector Titt, with shaking hands, he read the evil note that Canterbury had sent to the lovely Miss Maude. It was written on the back a Music Hall playbill in red crayon:

“i gonna kill yu bitch n fuck the queen!”

“My god!” DS Larde Darr was shocked, not only was this man a deranged nut job, but he wanted to shag the old Queen; God bless her! This was now serious shit with threats of sexual assault to the much loved Monarch. ”He must be out of his mind!” He added.

“I now understand what a serious threat this is, not only threatening your life Miss Maude, but also a disgusting, depraved and perverted assault on her beloved Majesty!” Inspector Titt angrily shoved the offending paper into his pockets and paced the room; thinking.

Miss Maude sat down and sipped tea, whilst DS Darr touched up Madame Lily Jambes-Ouvertes and found that it was true that most French women wore nothing under their skirts, whilst Madame Lily appreciated the fact that DS Darr had warmed his hand first, a typical, thoughtful Englishman!

Mr. Frank Proudcox stood smiling at PC Asswell; he mentioned twice, that he liked to see young men in uniform........