The Pilgrim Mothers

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Post by Mrs Figg Thu Jul 11, 2013 1:41 pm

''And Julia! While, of course her penchant for thumb screws, water torture and nipple pincers was plain Tory middle-of-the-road - old hat in fact - why on earth did she insist Orwell continually beg for mercy in a Hebridean accent?''

Shrugging its a mystery
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Post by Orwell Thu Jul 11, 2013 11:35 pm

Wink 

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Post by The Archet Bugle Fri Jul 12, 2013 12:23 am

6

"Oh come in, my faint hearted unicorn, Emerald Eyes, Wisp of Golden Mist, drinking coca cola, they say," the Welsh lass Kooky greeted Orwell.

"It is indeed a presentation of our tubby grey haired Orwell somewhat taller and slimmer and scowly and not as I do formerly remember him," said Ally (who was a lot like her sister Kooky when they were around each other).

Rigby (the sensible one) (after a fashion) said: "Orwell! You smell of a beverage of the alcoholic kind, but not fine wine but something more rustic!"

"Ock! Err... Howdy M'aam, I'd be most obliged... err... noo, I soon lik Davey... err... G'day, mate... mates.. three mates, matey matey... errr.. G'day cobbers, how they hangin'.... cobbers..."

"Sit yourself down on this pumpkin made of runéd moondust and star sparkles, as rested in the soul of poets," Kooky said grandiosely.

Orwell cast his squinty gaze upon the proffered three legged stool. He shrugged nervously and sat down in Orwell's trousers.

"I may sound quite logical, but have you made some cosmetic changes to the appearance with which you appear?" Ally asked, frowning. "For are you not somehow turned Scottish by appearance even tho' your Cabbins Boy attire appears in appearance to be that worn usually by Orwell?"

"Orwell? Ock! Is that me nayme? Noo... I mean... Me name's Orwell matey, cobber, stone the crows, who else would I be but that Orwell (by name) as who wears Orwell's shirt and trousers, but not his underpants, that being a step too far for a Scotsman, if'n I was one, tho' I'm not one, fair dinkum... Ock! I'm startin to sound like one of theze fey Sisters, by nelly.. I mean: by the cobbers, I mean."

"Now, playing games, my sweet beast, with eyes slightly different coloured as to how they are remembered by Great Artists? Is that the purpose of your coming? Is it not so, Scowling Cassanova?"

"'Cassanova'? I am bloody not doin any of that kind of gallivantin, by the nelly... by the big red river gums, I mean... He said there'd be none of that... stone the crows!"

"Who said?" Rigby asked, her brow creased with suspicion.

"I said, by the galahs and cocatoos.... I said... Didn't I say that, me Little Lady?"

"My goodness," Ally exhaled, "He's as cranky as a Scotsman."

"Indeed!" Rigby avowed. "It's like a person looking completely different in physical  appearance to Orwell has climbed into his ill-fitting garments, and, like a thinner man wearing the cloths and braces of a much older and fatter man, come to our cabin trying to fool us because - possibly - Orwell wanted to not fulfill his Duties according to the Roster!"

"Hark!" Kooky interrupted, passionately. "Where has the seven minutes gone with but five to be mustered and the fairy dew still upon the mushroom tops?"

"Five to go," Orwell surreptiously checked his mini-hourglass. "Sweet God, I be thankful for that, by the nelly..."

"Nelly?" Rigby queried, another crease of suspicion creasing her now fully frowning brow.

"Nelly-cobber, me little sweetheart. Oowee! What a fine budgerigar you are. Fantastic sheilah, stone the crows. Ock! I dinae mean you're a crow, noo..."

"What's wrong with being a crow?" Kooky wanted to know.

"Ock! I mean, me Cobber-mate, in Ozland crows are ladies of the night, and thought to be a bit rough around the gills, if you know what I mean, Old Blue."

"Ozland?" Ally wondered.

"Also called 'The Land that Hangs Below the Earth like a Lonely Testicle", I believe," Rigby informed her sister.

Orwell began to giggle, forgetting that one never laughed at one's own country. He realized his error when he saw Rigby's look of suspicion become even more suspicious.

"My country is not the Testicle of the World, darling - I reject your foul imputation!"

"He's sounding a bit like an English Toff, now," Rigby said to her Sisters. "Isn't this all a bit strange?"

(Orwell glanced tensely at his hourglass. He felt like the whole clever ruse was about to implode. Two minutes!)

Kooky laughed suddenly. "Oh the very gorgeousness! Orwell pretends to be a Ozman, a Scotsman and an Englishman. Oh joy! What funny theastrics he's at - and for our pleasure. Oh gay is the unicorn who runs as fast as the wind with another gay unicorn upon the Fields of Gold."

"Wot the fook, by nelly.. I means... You're a bonzer batch of bitches and babes, you sheilahs!"  (One minute!)

"Hark! I feel a poem of epic dimensions descending like a Golden Rain," Kooky expressed. "But purer than usually reckoned, and from a sky of purple lustre!"

Orwell knew the plan. With ten seconds to go: "Oh banana banana-na, I am not a Winter vegetable. Oh my head, my hand, my belly full of Creme de Menthe, I'm off to climb a moonbeam"'  

And Orwell jumped up and fled the cabin.

Kooky addressed her startled Sisters. "What a strange gangrel creature," she said.
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Post by azriel Fri Jul 12, 2013 8:50 am

Well played ! Very Happy 

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Post by Mrs Figg Fri Jul 12, 2013 12:22 pm

"Also called 'The Land that Hangs Below the Earth like a Lonely Testicle", I believe," Rigby informed her sister.

lol!  fair dinkum mate.
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Post by Orwell Sat Jul 13, 2013 12:58 am

But typical Welsh outlandishmish, obviously... Rolling Eyes 

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Post by The Archet Bugle Sat Jul 13, 2013 1:37 am

7


The real Orwell was wringing his hands, all hot and sweaty in the Scotsman's tight fitting kilt, when the latter dashed back into the bilges. (Yes, this was the real Orwell. You guys might not have picked this up, due to your low brain levels, but the Scotsman had borrowed Orwell's clothes to fool the three Welsh Sisters! Clever, huh! Nod)

"How did you go?" Orwell asked anxiously. "Did you fool them?"

"Aye. It went lik a dream, by nelly," the Scotsman said with quiet triumph, though he had to rub sweat from his brow.

"Like a dream, you say?"

"Aye, a bud bud dream. Weird it was, but ide rarder noot speek on it, as I bee trawlmartized, I be."

"Quite understandable. Now, let's get out of each other's clothes and back in our own."

"Ock tha noo!" the Scotsman complained a few moments later. "What hava yoo doon to mee kilt?"

"Nothing I assure you - at least, nothing unnatural..."

"It's goot a split oop tha arse, you foot basstid... Did yee bend oover, did yee, like as I told yoo noot too doo with your foot arse?"

"Sorry. It was that bottom corner in the bilge... I mean, how was I to scrub it clean without bending?"

"By thar Looknest Moonstar..." the Scotsman growled and fell silent in a cloud of resentment and total loss.

"I'll sew it up for you, if you like," Orwell offered, sorry that he had ruined the Scotsman's fine kilt. Then a whole lot of body image woe burst to the surface. "I'm ashamed of my fat arse, but nothing I do seems to make it smaller." And he began to weep.

The Scotsman wasn't feeling sympathetic just then, for, just then, a cool draught was whistling up his kilt and out the rip chilling his barnacles.

"Aye, you foot arsehole, you shood bee ashamed ov yooself, by the toe of Edinburgh I says it! Foot arse!"

Orwell stopped weeping. Suddenly standing tall and stiff, and on his dignity, his big belly thrust forward regally, he began to walk out of the bilges.

"Ware are yooo gooin', you cockscoomb?"

"I'm off to see the Catarina," says Orwell, and he turns an innocent gaze upon the Scotsman.

"Ooh, noo, you are goin' to huv me throne oerthaboard! Pleze pleze, I'm soory. I didna meen it!"

"Well, what you said was pretty bad, and not at all the kind of thing one says to another person in Forumshire."

"Pleze doen hav me throne oerthaboard. I'll doo anytheeng."

"Anything?"

"Aye. Anytheeng!"

"Okay... then..." Orwell drawled.
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Post by The Archet Bugle Sat Jul 13, 2013 3:31 am

8

Orwell went nervously to her door and thought he could hear music played upon a gramophone. This he thought quite surprising for two reasons. One being, he had not known there were gramophones in the Seventeenth Century, the other: he had not heard 1920's music before. He stopped and listened acutely against the wood panelling of Julia's cabin.


“Oh by Jingo,
Here Come My Eels!
Oh leatherlike but soft
they feel,
Oh derry derry derry,
Hand around that
Prohibited sherry."


Orwell took a deep breath and knocked.

The door swung open to let out bright light and a loud burst of that gay 1920's music. (Julia Figginbottom prided herself on her knowledge of Future trends in music).

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm your Orwell. Who else, you drongo?"

"You don't look anything like Orwell - and what's with the kilt?"

"Oh Julia. Have you been drinking?"

"A... little..."

"I only ask because, Old Blue, well, it's just you don't seem to recognise me, stone the crows. I mean, if you were sober you'd recognise me, by the budgerigar and Major Mitchell parrot... wouldn't you?"

Julia looked blank for a moment. "Well, I thought I'd only had the two sherries, but..well, what you say makes a lot of sense. Have you been cleaning out the buckie barrels again? And what are you doing here? We played our game of Torture Chambers earlier..."

"Well, by jingo, I thought I'd squeeze in a bit more time with you, you being my favorite sheilah and all."

"Am I?"

"Stone the crows! Of course you are. So I thought I'd pop back and give you a bit more of my hot loving."

"Hot loving? Since when?"

"Since what I do with you twice a week, cobber."

"Have you been drinking? We haven't never done no hot loving... As soon as we've finished playing with the nipple pincers and whips, you say you've got a headache and I needs finish off the business myself. You know that! What's going on here?"

"Ock!"

"Are you suggesting you're ready to do the full consummation thing?"

"Ock the noo... what's the cockscoomb oop to?"

"Why are you now talking like a confused Scotsman with a pretty poorly realized  accent?"

"Nothing... no reason.... by the red River Gums!"

"Well, if you're ready, after all this time, then let's get on with it then. About bloody time, if you ask me."

A terrible business followed.
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Post by Mrs Figg Sat Jul 13, 2013 12:30 pm

''A terrible business followed.''

I wont ask you to describe it, its a family forum allegedly. No 
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Post by Eldorion Sat Jul 13, 2013 4:16 pm

Petty had better get used to that before the marriage! Nod
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Post by Pettytyrant101 Sat Jul 13, 2013 8:42 pm

Aaaargh Ive got behind on this. I shall have to read it all later and find out what Im in for now!

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Post by The Archet Bugle Sun Jul 14, 2013 12:23 am

9

In those days women were not counted as the equals of men and so the women on board the Mayturnip had had not the benefit of nautical training, and so a voyage to the New World - which usually took a month or so - took eighteen months, which was no fault of the crew but the fault of the Chauvinistic Society of those times and dates.

They did not mind so much, of course, as that crew of women knew no better, and also because they had what they came to speak of as the 'Two Orwells' on board. One who kept them 'satisfied', whom they came to call 'Lovin' Orwell', who looked remarkably like a Scotsman in (and out) of a kilt. The other they called 'Handy Orwell', the older greying fatter one, who they came to know as "Handy Orwell', due to him being so handy about the ship, washing, scrubbing, polishing, rat catching and cooking. Handy Orwell was fortunate to have at hand a copy of Mrs Beeton's 'Book of Household Management', which was very fortunate seeing as it wasn't released until 1901. So it was a clean and tidy and sexually satisfied Mayturnip that plied the briny sea. Lovin' Orwell, unfortunately, seemed half the man by the time they sailed into port in that part of America that was later called New England.

Espying the hills above the port through her telescope as the Mayturnip drew into dock, Catarina Amarie - fruitful with child - cried: "It appears the Mayflower has been here some time. Look at all the cottages and churches on the hills. Damn those Non-conformist Jesus freaks! Damn those men who refuse to accept Gaia as the The One, The Mother, the Heart and Soul of Eternity. Damn them with high damness!"

"What shall we do?" Julia Figginbottom asked - also fruitful with child. "The whole crew is heavy with child and we have come to make a new life where women are Equal to Men, only to find that the Men have already begun a colony in the name of a Chauvinistic God."

And the women all fell to weeping on the poop.

"I thought we were setting up a colony where Women are Superior to men?" Azriel complained dabbing her disappointed and bitter tears away with a handkerchief on which was embroidered a pretty posy of spring flowers (care of Handy Orwell who, as history shows, got no thanks for it! Mad )

"Fuck me dead!" Norc complained. "And it's not like we can violently take control, we all being fruitful with child." And she gave Lovin' Orwell a scornful look, as if it was his fault, though, to be fair, it was only half his fault.

"Go and get my pot of snuff," the Catarina told Handy Orwell. "I need to clear my head and think this out."

Handy Orwell scuttled off to do her business like an enervated cockroach. Luckilly, no one noticed that Lovin' Orwell and Handy Orwell - in the excitement of sailing into port - had forgotten to be not seen together.

(Note: Now, you may be asking how that crew of Emanicipated Women had not twigged that there were actually two Orwells, and not one Orwell who sometimes looked [and acted] like a randy Scotsman, and at other times, like a pudgy and obliging Home Help. Remember, as I mentioned above, it was a Sexist Age and Women had had not been taught their Letters and so, were in some ways, quite unenlightened about certain things: things like Reality, I mean).

A rather grand looking chap with a long white beard greeted them from the dock. "Lord bless your coming!" this doughty hailed them. "Throw down your ropes and I'll ply you to the dock."

"What's he mean by that?" Julia Figginbottom wanted to know. "Sounds disrespectful if you ask me."

"It is good to see you all with your satisfied looks and your large beer bellies," the bearded chap went on. "Of course, we hope you come with the intention of throwing off your boozy pasts in God's New Country."

"He thinks we've got beer bellies," Ally said. "I thought we were embued with filaments of silver moonbeans!"

"Moonbeans?" Lovin' Orwell said. 'Wot the fookin' nock the nelly budgerigars are moonbeans, stone the Nessy?"

Kooky looked as if she was about to answer for her Sister as she fondly rubbed her belly swollen with moon beans...

"Noo, nooo! Doont bother, sheilah me love," Lovin Orwell cried. "Ock the noo - I swear there's a cocatoo in me billy!"

(You'll probably notice that Lovin' Orwell wasn't quite himself. I think due to physical exhaustion, it having been a long and energetic voyage for him).

"We are not as you think we are," the Catarina told the bearded chap on the dock. "We are all with child and are not alcohol abusers."

"Speak for yourself," Azriel muttered under her breath.

"But where be your Husbands?" the bearded chap cried out. "Have they been lost at sea?"

The crew looked at Lovin' Orwell, then quickly away again.    

Catarina Amarie - the most quick minded  and cunning - replied: "They have all been persecuted by beheading for their religious beliefs and so we have fled to freedom."

"I see," the bearded chap said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "And what Christian Faith would it be you subscribe to?"

"The same as that to which you faithfully ply your troth," the Catarina answered carefully.

"You are Quakers then!" the bearded chap said joyfully.      

"Indeed, each and every one of us!" Azriel put in - and the crew began to giggle behind their hands.

"And so," Julia Figginbottom said, catching on quick. "We will need new husbands to help us bring up our Godly children."

"But we are all Old Men," the Quaker chap replied. "We can marry you, aye, but we are too Pure and Ancient to help you bear more children."

The Catarina looked at Lovin' Orwell, then quickly away, smiling secretly meanwhile. "God will give us more children, Good Sir," she proclaimed. "Never ye mind that!"

"The Lord be Blessed!" said the Quaker chap.

And that's how the Pilgrim Mothers met the Pilgrim Fathers. And soon it came to be that Christianity became the Public Religion of all American Men, and Gaeity (the Worship of Gaia) the Secret Religion of all Women.    

THE END (or beginning).  



 

 
pregnant.
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Post by Eldorion Sun Jul 14, 2013 4:48 am

I was never taught that version of Quaker history in First Day (Sunday) school. Was there a separate class just for Quaker girls or something? Suspect
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Post by azriel Sun Jul 14, 2013 11:17 am

Brilliant Tale, absolutely loved it lol!  Im so relieved I came out of it PRACTICALLY unscathed,........... apart from the addiction........& the nervous Twitch..........reoccurring nightmares................"voices in my head".......

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Post by Orwell Sun Jul 14, 2013 12:54 pm

You've done quite well out of it then, Azriel. Shocked  Ol' Anon may be losing his touch... Suspect 

I'm not surprised you chauvinistic male Americans would know nothing about the Secret Life of Quaker Women, Eldo. Wink {{{Admittedly, I have to do a bit of guesswork myself!}}} Nor did you know, I imagine, that you've likely got Scottish blood running in your veins. Very Happy 


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Post by azriel Sun Jul 14, 2013 1:02 pm

Razz  Scotdorion ! ........................................................ sorry Eldo Sofa 

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Post by Eldorion Sun Jul 14, 2013 4:28 pm

Now that you mention it, I'm feeling the crabbit coming on as we speak. Extremely Crabbit
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Post by Norc Sun Jul 14, 2013 6:18 pm

Pregnant ?!
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Post by Orwell Mon Jul 15, 2013 1:05 am

Aye! Very Happy 

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Post by Mrs Figg Mon Jul 15, 2013 1:36 pm

'Mrs Beeton's 'Book of Household Management'

I actually own a copy Suspect its very Handy if you need to know how to jelly sweet meats in aspic. Its also a large heavy book which is useful for clouting husbands round the lughole.
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Post by azriel Mon Jul 15, 2013 1:43 pm

And then you STAND on it, & turn THEIR sweet meats into jelly ! Razz 

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Post by Orwell Tue Jul 16, 2013 12:14 am

Hey you two! Shocked This just goes to show why it was better there were Pilgrim Fathers and the Pilgrim (Quaker) Mothers were forced underground. If Ladies like you were in charge, I'd fear for the whole Male Race! Mad 

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