News having recently reached my ears of a troupe of performing “Gentleman Ne’er-do-wells” giving themselves the grandiose name of The Men That Will Not Be Blamed For Nothing, who have of late been Turning a fair few Heads, chiefly among the lower orders and the varied Forms of Scientists, Slatterns and Scum of London’s East End, I despatched a young Boy, who had been lurking around my Table for scraps of Food, to the local Market, armed with a shiny sixpence, with which to purchase their latest Offering and, of course, whose Change he could keep for himself, to do with as he will, it being nearly Christmas and the seed of Christian Charity having been planted in my manly Bosom. On his return, I set up my new Steam-Powered Musical Performance Contrivance, and retired to the drawing room for a few swift and much-welcomed Brandies while I waited for the Coals to heat up sufficiently that the Pistons would become animated by the Magic of Steam.
Now, these Gentlemen have come under Fire recently for their Controversial Publicity Techniques – as some of you may recall, they recently arranged for their Collective Name to be painted in the vicinity of a Brutal Murder. Fortunately Her Majesty’s Constabulary were on hand to remove the Offensive Inscription before it could frighten the Women or Horses, but for many of the multitudinous and varied denizens of London Town it has become the starting point for many a fanciful Conspiracy Theory surrounding the Brutal Events of that tragic time.
Imagine my mingled feelings of Shock and Admiration when, on returning to the Parlour, I realised that these Rabble-Rousing Rakes had managed to raise the bar (as recently happened in the local hostelry when the owner, who was quite, quite mad, and had of late become obsessed with his fear of Dwarves, Midgets and all people below a certain Height, came to believe that through some strange height-related variant of the Science of Physiognomy they were fundamentally not to be trusted, so quite literally “raised the bar” before being carted off to Bedlam) by seemingly getting their larcenous hands on some secret documents which make a rather embarrassing list of accusations against the reformed Miser and Industrialist, this fine city’s Christmas-loving Philanthropist Mr Ebenezer Scrooge, in a manner which would appeal to Pirates, Drunkards and Malcontents, being played chiefly on very loud guitars. I suspect this may cause them many Legal Problems in the future, but have to admit that by doing so they are displaying an admirable amount of British Pluck.
In a similar rumbustious vein is their extraordinary Rendition of a fine old Carol, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman,” which gains a new creative Lease of Life when transposed to their distinctive Style of Playing, although even a Modernist such as myself may have to question their insertion of the word “bastard” into the last Verse, quite at odds with the worshipful Tone we have come to expect from our Christmas Carols. However, I must confess to having been greatly amused by the Transposition of the oikish phrase “oi oi oi” for the usual “Joy,” following the words “Tidings Of Comfort And,” although that may have been the Brandy talking.
They also perform a Radical new Reworking of the old Standard “Stille Nacht,” which as far as this Scribe can discern, is a well-intentioned but most probably doomed attempt to gather Support for some sort of Twinning Ceremony between London and the German town of Rammstein. Personally I, like all good British Gentlemen, distrust the Germans, and fear we may find ourselves facing Very Severe Problems with them in the not-too distant Future, but clearly these young Enthusiasts have differing views to my own, and as a Whig, I find myself reluctantly having to allow them these Foibles.
The last piece is the most puzzling – much quieter in tone than its Predecessors, it is a largely spoken-word affair, detailing the encounter between one of these fine Musicians and a Fox, though this appears to have taken place in London itself (and the idea of an “Urban Fox,” for want of a better phrase, seems fanciful to a City Gent such as myself), and the aforementioned Animal appears to have been endowed with the power of Speech. While I can not therefore vouch for the Veracity of this Story, I can humbly report that it is most amusing.
And so, with all these Observations duly recorded, I retired once more to the Drawing Room for more Brandy, from where I would like to wish you all a Merry Christmas, with hopes that the New Year shall be a prosperous and harmonious one for our Glorious Empire.
God Save The Queen!
-Deuteronemu 90210, A Fine British Gentleman Of Note-
POSTSCRIPT- I have just received a telegram from my good friend, the noted writer Mr H G Wells, on the subject of the perplexing Tale about the Fox. Apparently he has recently had his friend the Time Traveller around for Tea and Scones, and the latter apparently said that while he, too, could neither confirm nor deny the Truthfulness of such an Account, he did say, and I quote, “That one sounds a bit like Arab Strap.” Further than this, says Mr Wells, he refused to be drawn, and thus neither of us know what the Poor Fellow was on about. Mr Wells finished by saying he believes the Unfortunate Chap to have been driven quite insane by his Travels, like a man too long in France may develop an unhealthily hypertrophied Palate.
