As I was abroad this evening a monstrous gang of crop head'd youths, each barely turn'd thirteen, did assault my very person with a shower of stones. And thence did assault my very ears with cries of "Got any eckys specky". Sir, if my poor study of yesterday is true it seem'd quite certain they spoke the Disco Biscuit tongue. What little I had learn'd spewed forth, "Young Sirs, I just want to go mental. Nice one mate. Twenty squid each or a tree for a tenor. Pucka. Pucka."
To the last they fell aground,
Full gushing much hilarity,
I took the chance and ran around,
Whilst praising His great charity.
I swear on prudent Charles's life I will not venture forth the 'morrow.
WEDNESDAY.
As I refuse to leave this sanctuary, that fine fellowe Billy, my lodging companion, breathes life into that most perplexing box of ghostly images. 'Tis a diversion of powerful sorts and soon holds my gaze with the strength of a blacksmith's fiste. Good Billy informs me that we witness a record of some past time, some golden age, when this platoon of fellowes, name'd Happy Mondays, held sway over the kingdom from Dover to the Highlands. A pair of deviles head the gang, a Bezley and the Ryder, Poetry and Revelry their only professions it seems - like mind'd rascals we. By and by some new host swarm o'er the screen. Again my true guide informs of their fine character and notoriety - 'tis blund'ring Vic and pious Bob. Goodly clowns are these, with six for company sat close, they hold court to cries of much cheer. Indeed Sir, young Billy's mirth is plentiful, his spirits soar and soar once more. But hold. One fellowe's image doth appear, 'tis portly George Dawes. This creature is a giant baby yet speaks his mind as clear as any Oxford scholar. Now at this sight my friend full doth explode and had to be carried to his bed.
2
