PETTY McTYRANT: A PORTRAIT

PETTY McTYRANT: A PORTRAIT.

This Portrait relies on a few facts and much speculation.

Many years ago in the Scottish Hebrides – so many years ago that if I were to tell you how many the younger hobbits here would not believe there ever were that many years – a young maiden named Jenny Kracken was sauntering in the heather in her tartan bonnet, bronze vest, long plaid skirt, and woollen leggings. Out from the ground bounded Paw McTyrant --- and the next thing you know, Petty was born at the back of a barn.

Not long after – with Scotshirriffs close on their heels – Jenny hid baby Petty in the rushes of a marsh. Paw got caught soon after with the pig he had stolen (some say, “Half a pig”), and was given twenty years in the Great Grey Gaol by the Sea, and Jenny took passage to Ozhobbitstan and passed out of all knowledge and ken.

Poor Petty was left wailing in the marshes, which not only traumatized him but made him crabbit.

A kind hearted haggis arrived to see what the racket was and so found baby Petty - as hairy as the day he was born – lying in a muddy puddle (the poor bairn having rolled out of the rushes). The haggis soon grew very sick of him, and as soon as he was old enough, Petty was thrown over the fence of the Little Kindergarten on the Forum (near Needlehole).

The kindergarten teacher, whose name I can’t remember just now, sent him immediately back to the Scottish Hebrides to the hole of his Clan (the Sackville-Tyrants), but in a fit of melancholic empathetic madness, she first enrolled him at the kindergarten. So it was, when Petty was come of four years of age, he began kindergarten.

Every morning – very early – he would trundle off over mountain and under stream the three hundred leagues to kindergarten. His legs became very fine chiselled strong legs as a result, the kind of legs which one should never be ashamed of. His Foster Mother, Gloriana Sackville-Tyrant, made sure his legs were put forth as his best feature by the manufacture of a chic mini-kilt in the Campbell tartan. Sadly, no one really ever took too much notice of his legs, for his face was striking to say the least – but I’ll say no more, as there are young children who may read this.

Petty was a generous thoughtful Scotshobbit, but like all generous thoughtful Scotshobbits, no one paid him any respect. Even at kindergarten he was mistreated and used and (often) framed and beaten. This made him even more crabbit, but he kept his feelings close and private, not even sharing them with his closest friends, as he had none.

One day – when the kindergarten got tired of him – him being seventeen and still not able to draw a giraffe – Petty was sent out into the world. Well, he was sent down a Coal Mine, actually.

to be continued...

I've prevailed upon ol' Anon to write your life story, Petty. No need to thank me.

{{{Think of it as your Birthday present. }}}

Seems to explain a lot.

This is great!!

PORTRAIT: continued

Now, a life spent down a coal mine with canaries that tended to die every second (or third) day is not everyone's cup of tea (or 'barrel of buckie', to use the Scotshobbit vernacular) and after a few months Petty grew restless.

Now, once every three weeks or so, Petty was allowed to come out of the mine shaft and go to Prayer Meetings with his Foster Mother, Gloriana.

"Ock tha noo, Fooster Moother," he put forth shyly as they left the local House of Eru in Blackpoodle Lane, Scotshobbiton one ruby-sunned Tuesday. "I um nut - nut! - huppy."

"My goodness," Gloriana gasped. "How could yi efer knoo, laddie? What! you're coovered hedtotoo by a theek layer of cool doost!"

"Noonthaluss, Fooster Moother, I um nut un I will nie be distructed!"

"Wot izit then you be a'ploonin, Fooster Soon?"

"I ave savéd oop sefral punnies, Fooster Moother... I um orf too Lundin!"

"But thatz beyoon the borders of Fooroomsheer itsoof!"

"My mind iz made ooop, Fooster Moother!"

"Ock nelly the noo-nip! And me who nefer knew as you hud one!"

And so Petty packed up all his worldly goods (the potato sack he wore, three pennies, and a dog-eared copy of "Bleak House" which he carried always in a gunny sack), and off he trudged south-east, in the direction of London.



to be continued...

London!!! With the Sassenachs!

PORTRAIT: continued

In those days it was not altogether usual for a Scotshobbit to run off to London, for London - as you've no doubt been told - was full to the brim with Sassenachs ("German-hobbits") and no self-respecting Scotshobbit would go there. This was lucky for Petty, for he had never felt excluded for that reason.

He walked all the way over hill and under dale, in the cold and wind and rain and sporadic sunshine.

Once in Westminster, he found work as a Rat Catcher, for rats were fond of him and his pipes, and would gather all around him and dance a merry jig before he caged them up. Petty then sold them to a maid who sold them to a chamberlain who sold them to a pastry chef of the upper classes who served them up in chic restaurants as French Chicken.

After awhile Petty earned enough money to move on from a sewer pipe - which he shared with a Welshhaggis, a family of Gypsies and a talking rabbit played by James Stewart - and into a hovel in Grey Street, Poxhobbiton, South London - by the new railway station in fact. It was a rather rank smelling place but it had three walls and a roof of sorts. He also bought a rather good quality potato sack which he swore to all and sundry was a coat.

One day, while out 'catching', our humble Scotshobbit chanced to be passing by a Bookstore in Poop Place, White Chapel. And who should come out but a tidy-figured hobbit lass - indeed Princess Victoria herself, though our Petty did not know this immediately. All he saw was a rather comely hobbit with a kind face and generous eyes looking out of the shawl she had draped over her head.

"Excuse me, kind hobbit," says Victoria, half-deliberately bumping into Petty on the street by a gaslamp. "I have just purchased 'Bleak House' by Charles Dickenhobbit. And I see you have a copy under your arm..."

"Aye, lass," Petty answered with all Scotshobbit courtesy. "I carries it always, as like it's a talisman."

"Pray tell, would you be as kind as to tell me if I should read it or not, as I fear it might be depressing, but the name seems darkly appealing."

"I hae ni read it, lass," Petty said - for he was a honest hobbit - "I only hae read the title on the frontispiece and it too darkly allooréd me. I fear if I waz to read between the covers I may meet too many aspects of my life thrown up in stunning relief, and to my cost --- my cost, I say, lassie!"

"Oh what a Great Soul lies within your gleaming eyes," says Victoria. Then Victoria's voice fell an octave or two. "You seem a humble Scotshobbit, a real "John Browner" as goes the saying - which somehow sounds prophetic to me, I know not why - and I feel safe to ask of you - and you in your potato sack coat - would you help me escape to the Continent?"

"Wi wood anyone doo sumthin' so reckless?" Petty asks. "I mean, the Frenchies are worse than the Sassenach, and I do beg your pardon for sayin' so, lassie, you been a rum fine chickee-baby, as will be said, I'm sure, in future times."

"Come a little closer and I shall whisper to you of my plight in the shadow cast by this new-fangled gaslamp on the pavement."

And Victoria then quietly explained how she was second in line to the throne of All England and that her father was even now lying in his death pangs and so before the night was out she herself would be made Queen of All England.

"You are Princess Victoria!" Petty gasped.

"I am - but I do not wish to be Queen - not of England anyhow."

"Nor doo I blames ya, fair lassie!" said our kindly Scotshobbit. "Of course I shool halp yee ti isskape!"

"Oh thank you, kind Gentlehobbit!" and Victoria took his grubby little hand and squeezed it with instant affection.

"Oh my," Petty whispered with a tear in his eye.

'Well, it's an ill wind that blows no one no good but a good wind that blows kindly,' he thought in rather stunned joy, 'Me a 'Gentlehobbit'- well, there you goes, by the by, nock the noo and willy-oh!"


to be continued...

Not for you Petty. Spoilers..

Spoiler:

I see..

A scothobbit... in London and I never knew about it.

I shall be writing to the First Shirriff and the Captain of the Hobbitry-in-arms about this!!

Disgrace!

Woe-betide anyone if this creature crossed the borders of the Essex-Farthing. No Chavhobbit will stand for such things and will take it as a declaration of war against all Scotshobbitland!

Not just in London but laying hand on the Queen!
(Is before Albert then? )

The Queen has no jurisdiction in the east. Although she is still on our stamps.

Well she has to be on the stamps- who else could you get? I mean her head fits perfectly on one its like she was made for them.

There is currently a motion going through to replace the Queen with eith Katie Price or Amy Childs. I expect a resolution very soon following a reality TV contest betwee the two called 'Tramps on Stamps'.

I think you'd need specially shaped stamps for either.

PORTRAIT: continued

It is quite easy to say to a Princess (in this case, a Princess of ALL England - including parts of England where the treasonous Left live - you know, the kind of places where hobbits call their sons "Lance" and their daughters "Elsie" or "Midge" but will never get their head on a stamp, being the descendants of burrahobbits and not true hobbits and not worthy of that kind of postage-homage), "I will find yi a way to gather ye up to Frenchielun, Lass." It is, of course, not as easy to do. Luckilly though, Princess Victoria knew a thing or two about getting something for nothing, in this case, passage to Calais-caloo on the "Eye of Northumberland", a three stack steamer out of Portsmouth, for she not only knew (third hand) the Captain - that old tar Orwell Jackaboots McOdo, Seventeenth of his line - but she also knew most of his saucy habbits, it being the Age of Cant when you pursed your lips at vice and debauchery while secretly doing exactly that which you were lip-pursing of.

"But that Scotshobbit won't be steaming across the channel in my ship as he is," says Orwell, defiant to a degree, "Not dressed as he is like as your average Scotshobbit in Portsmouth! I'll have my reputation ruined afores I have such potato sack-dressing upon my decks!"

So Princess Victoria compromised and took Petty to a tailor on the Kings Road and dressed him respectably before the "Eye" set a'steaming. And what a dapper almost-hobbit he looked in his fine English three piece suit and polished shoes and trimly cut and prettily combed hair! Indeed, everyone mistook him for a real hobbit and not a mere under-hobbit ('Scotshobbit") as he sauntered with the delicate Princess up and down the gangways and poop decks draped in the languous grey smoke of the stacks. (Oh yes, she made him bathe too, to wash off his Scosts-scent, which was ony sensible).

An amazing transformation then had occurred in Petty McTyrant, not just the outward appearance - which was now quite handsome in a way, kind of - but inwardly there was a change - he became happy.

What was it about this Sassaenach lass that made his tummy flutter with butterflies? I mean, she stood for everything he usually despised. Wealth, good looks, soft hands without callouses (and nails free of coal dust and rat droppings) , nice clothing, perfect use of English, unpimpled-unpustulated skin, a 'gay' demeanour (this before 'gay' became what it hadn't been before), poise, tact and breeding (hobbit, not burrahobbit, if one knows what I mean). This goes to show how ridiculous love is - and that's exactly what it was --- Petty had fallen in love with a Sassenach lass - and a proto-German lass at that, even though she didn't smell like one. (She smelled of rose petals and sweet perfume from Lower Uperstandianland in the South Seas).

One morning during the passage to Calais-caloo, while they played at quoits on the after deck before lunch, Victoria said suddenly, "Petty, I plan to make a real hobbit of you. I shall make of you a proper English-hobbit, and you shall call me 'Vicky.'"

"Nay! I canna never betay me roots, lassie!"

"I have noticed these past few days - and I hope you don't think me vain in saying so - that you have found finer feelings for me. No, don't seek to deny it!.... But if they are truly finer feelings, then you must do as all lads have done in the face of fondest love in all ages past and now do exactly as I say - forever!"

"Aye" Petty said, for looking upon her white porcelaine skin and perfect visage, his heart was all a'surging and his wee bits alertened and at the ready. "I shool do as you wish, lass, - I shool!"

"We will start immediately," said Victoria (Vicky) clapping her hands in delight. "Now, sing after to me, 'The rain in in Spain rains mainly on the plains'..."


to be continued...

I always thought I detected a bit of an English-leaning in Petty's posts here!

This is an affront! And on my very nearly birthday too.

When one comes to being a year older (which transition, oddly enough, takes but one second, or a miniscule part thereof!), one might be forgiven for reflecting on one's true National Leanings, Petty. Isn't it always the way? Mind, I expect this tale to end bitterly - as all love stories do - so a regression to vigorous Scotshobbitism is still a real possibility.

{{{I hope I'm not giving too much away, Anon! }}}

There is hope yet then!

Once a Scotshobbit in Forumshire, always a Scotshobbit in Forumshire.

Damn staright!