Extract from my book The Bedtime Stories of Peter Pan

Peter the King

 dreams are the kingdoms of the night

 Peter rested his chin upon his hand and sat upon his throne. Well, it wasn’t really a throne being a log and all, but he called it his throne and that was the important thing. He also wasn’t a king, but today he decided he would call himself king, and no one was likely to argue with him except Wendy. He was philosophically holding a compass in his hand, which he thought rather made him more noble and it was a kinglike thing to do, and he was determined on being regal. 

He looked at the compass, like most things he only vaguely understood how it worked, after all he was a hero not a scientist. An idea passed through his mind like a rumour and he dismissed it, then it returned like a shout.

“I’m late for Tiffin.”

He shot up and ran across the sward like an antelope, leaves swirled in footsteps. He still wore the mushroom hat he used on the great expedition to the Source of all Nightmares. His torn britches flashed like a signal that the captain of the Lost Boys was late for Tiffin – most odd. He thundered into the camp kitchen and leaped onto his chair.

“Tiffin?”

There was a strange quiet at the table.

“No Tiffin?” he quizzed as he looked under the table in puzzlement.

“Shush,” came a voice from the great oak tree that spread above the camp table.

“Don’t shush me, I’m the captain,” Peter looked annoyed, “I say, why are you all up that tree?”

A hand reached out from the branches and pointed at something behind him, Peter looked around - and a very short time later he was up the tree as well.

“Lions eh?” He grinned as he clambered onto a branch.

A pride of lions lay on the grass; several lionesses with a dignified one-eyed old patriarch sat apart, his red mane burning in the sun. Over him clambered half a dozen cubs, who bit his ears and sat on him, all of which he endured without comment. They seemed content, and also gave no appearance of intending to move on, much to annoyance of all the people stuck up a tree.

“Been there long?” Peter asked.

“They ate Tiffin,” came the distant voice of Tootles, who had trouble with cats in general and had climbed to the very top of the tree just in case they ate him.

“The rotters not the Tiffin,” grinned Peter, “no, wait that’s serious. Have we a plan? Have we dessert?”

“We were waiting for you,” said Wendy.

“Good plan, I’m glad to hear that,” grinned Peter, “- now what do we do?”

“We could call for Tiger Lily,” suggested John.

“Don’t Lions and Tigers fight each other?” asked Michael.

“Hmm, can’t have pretty Tiger Lily getting scratched,” said Peter as he carved the only letter from the alphabet he knew into the branch.

“Anyone seen the pixies?” he muttered, with his tongue poking out having difficulty with the scrollwork on his letter. “We could fly out.”

Now as you know, and know quite well by now, faerie dust can do many things, most importantly it makes things fly, things like Lost Boys, the Moon and sometimes even ridiculous metaphors.

“They said something about doing a very important task,” said John, none too sure, “and won’t be back for days.”

“They do like making hats, don’t they,” said Peter as he gave up on his letter and lay down on his back.

“Aren’t we going to do something?” asked Tootles, his voice wavering even at the top of the tree.

“Nah, no point getting eated over Tiffin,” grinned Peter.

“Eaten,” corrected Wendy, as she uncomfortably watched the lions.

“That too,” said Peter as he took off his shirt, which was made of leaves and cobwebs, lay down on the branch to sunbake for half an hour. His carrot red hair glowing like a beacon in the light, and his bright green eyes stared off through the foliage to infinity. As the forest about hummed with the noise of insects and birds, the leaves of the tree fell like pages of a book writing each moment of their world. The giant wheel of the Sun rolled across the sky, like a clock spooling out the thread of Time, for Time was the real enemy of all the Lost Boys - only Time could destroy them.

Peter looked at his compass, oddly he always thought it was a watch and nobody had the courage to tell him otherwise, which is why he had no sense of direction, was always late and oddly it also explained why he never grew up.

“Hmm, can’t go on forever without Tiffin,” he muttered.

The hypnotic sounds of drums, cymbals and flutes swam towards them through the autumn leaves like a mythical bird retelling stories of Aladdin. The Lost Boys sat up on their branches and listened intently at this sound as it rolled and boomed about the trees, seeming to rise from nowhere and leave by the same door.

“Band’s here,” Peter grinned, “hope they brought Tiffin.”

“Peter stop obsessing about Tiffin,” Wendy got annoyed, “we could get eaten.”

“As was the Tiffin,” said John sourly.

A procession came through an opening the woods, with the beautiful princess Tiger Lily in the front, followed in single file by all her braves. They played musical instruments, danced and leapt about their promenade. She wore necklaces of cowry shells and precious garnets, her hair crowned with a diadem of glittering white quartz that sparkled in the light. Her tribe stayed on the far side of the clearing at the edge of the forest primeval, and pretended to ignore the lions by brandishing their instruments and singing loudly. Tiger Lily, however, who feared no thing, no beast and no man, or even late Tiffin, walked across the sward and stood underneath the great oak, though she did stand a respectable distance from the pride of lions. In her hand she held back her tiger cub India, which strained at its leash to go and play with the lion cubs as they clambered about over their patriarch.

Her tribe sang,

 

“We are the Piccaninnies

            We fear no one,

Tiger Lily is our princess,

            She is our Sun.”

 

From the tree the Lost Boys gave a refrain.

 

“We are the Lost Boys,

            We’re stuck in a tree,

We’re still hoping,

            Peter will set us free.”

 

To this the Indians sang back,

 

“Peter can’t help you,

He’s up there too,

You’ll have to think

Of something new!”

 

But the Lost Boys stood, or in this case, sat by their captain.

 

“We won’t give up

here’s why we sing!”

He is our leader

            He is our King!”

 

Peter grinned, but once more the Indians sang back,

           

                        “Tiger Lily is better,

                                    as you should know

                        Poor Little Peter,

                                    He will never grow!”

 

And the tribe did cartwheels and poked their noses at the marooned army. This brought a shout of defiance from the Lost Boys, but they all looked to Peter who sat unmoved, although he did glower.

In the midst of all this, the lions lay about nonplussed, not sure if they should canter after the new group of Indians or just lay in the long grass and digest the Lost Boy’s lunch. The old one-eyed male moved his head back and forth as if listening to the choruses of the two tribes, it was almost as if he was amused by the noise, or was pondering which one to eat.

From beneath the great oak, Tiger Lily watched Peter’s bright green eyes piercing the canopy and smiled, she knew he was too proud to ask for help and she was too regal to offer. She turned and dragged her India back to her tribe and the procession flowed once more into the trees and gradually the sound of the musicians faded to grey silence.

“I say,” muttered Peter almost in annoyance, “they could have left us some biscuits.”

“Peter,” Wendy finally realized, “why don’t you fly off, find the pixies then they can sprinkle faerie dust over us and we all can fly off?”

“And leave my Lost Boys all high hoisted in the tree? I say not!” he did not dare tell his tribe he could not fly, as that and his uncanny ability to kill pirates were the main reasons he was their captain.

“I would have thought it was more of a rescue than a marooning,” John bite down on his lip as he said this, as he was the only one who knew about Peter’s secret.

“No, really Peter, if you…” began Wendy.

“A king does not leave his people in their time of need!” Peter almost snarled.

The Lost Boys, who never thought things through, banged their knives on their branches to show admiration of their captain’s sacrifice and gave a whoop.

“Oh bosh,” said Wendy, “I would have thought…,”

“Silence in the Army,” barked Peter, “or you will have to walk the plank.”

Wendy looked down at the lions, and very quickly gave up.

 

Meanwhile Tootles found he had an unwanted companion in the roof of the tree. Captain Hook had a New Zealand parrot called Nestor, which had just that moment landed next to Tootles and was looking him in the eye with a maniacal stare. Pieces-of-Eight was the first word the parrot had learned and used it over and over again much to the irritation of everyone. It was a large bird with a wickedly sharp beak, which it sharpened incessantly on anything that was close to hand; in this case it was the branch that Tootles was sitting on.

“Ooh,” said Tootles worriedly as he worried about his branch being whittled away.

“Ooh,” squawked Nestor, mimicking Tootles perfectly.

“Whose Oohoohing, up there?” laughed Peter, as he could not see that the bird was in the tree.

“Um,” said Tootles as the bird hoped closer to him.

“Um,” copied the bird as it rasped its beak nearer and nearer.

“Whose Umuming?” cried Peter.

“Wah!” Tootles gave out a shriek as the bird jumped up and bit Tootles on the nose, before flying off to tell Hook of its discovery. Tootles would have fallen out of the tree if his quiver had not snagged upon a broken branch, this left poor Tootles dangling in midair with a nibbled nose. Several of his arrows tumbled down the tree narrowly missing the other Lost Boys who all yelped in fear.

“Silence in the ranks!” hollered Peter before Tootles could tell him of the danger, and danger there soon was, as within the half-hour the Captain having been informed by Nestor arrived at the clearing with his pirates in tow.

The pirates remained on the far side of the clearing just like the Indians before, for they had no wish to be eaten by the lions and they knew the lions had no love of them. Even Captain Hook refused to step out onto the sward; a pride of lions was almost as bad as crocodiles when it came to snapping off bits of your body. Yet, grin and laugh he did when he saw all the Lost Boys stuck up a tree surrounded by the big cats.

The great lion himself watched the new comers with obvious disgust.

“Up the yard-arm are yee?” Hook yelled across the green, coarse fellow that he could be, “lets see you dance your way out of this one!”

The pirates laughed and hit each other on the shoulders, as they danced pirate jigs. Peter remained silent and stared through the leaves at Hook with a strange fierceness. Then slowly and deliberately climbed down the tree till he was standing on the ground.

“Careful they don’t bite something off!” yelled Hook, as lifted up his metal hand, “you may end up with one of these!”

Again the pirates fell about themselves with laughter.

Peter picked up one of Tootles fallen arrows and began walking slowly across to where the lions were lying in the sun - everyone went silent. Even Hook was quiet. Wendy held her breath and looked away, then looked back and then looked away once more in fear, as Peter walked right up to the pride and stood before them as still as a mountain, a strange shinning light in his eyes, and then slowly and very surely drew a circle about himself, as if daring the lions to cross that circle.

The lions all stood up, and the great lord of the desert, his heavy mane burning in the sun, stared straight into Peter’s eyes. The silence was overwhelming; Wendy had to hold her hand over her mouth lest she scream, even Hook watched in amazement.

The two kings remained staring at each other, each measuring the courage of the other, each holding their ground, if this moment had gone on any longer their world would have broken with the tension, but then with a cough the great patriarch turned away, and slowly began walking from Peter and his circle, followed by the royal family.

“Zounds!” said Hook, “what good form!”

Then he realized all of the lions were headed for him.

“Tactical retreat!” he yelled and his tiny navy of pirates crashed back into the forest and disappeared, closely followed by the lions that had slept off lunch and were happy to give chase.

A great hurray when up from the tree of Lost Boys as they tumbled down and ran up to Peter, they all tried to hug him and whooped and did cartwheels. Wendy, Michael and John stood in wonder and felt the need to clap.

Peter stood there, happily knowing he was the centre of their world, and then he looked at his compass and yelled:

“Tiffin Time!”

Copyright reserved by Jim O’Brien ©

Biggles and the Undersand Railway

Biggles eventually escaped from the Iranian Secret police by standing outside his hotel and catching the nine o’clock bus to Teheran. He found himself sitting at the back of the bus, between a flock of goats and an enormous woman who ate nothing but fried chicken. To Biggles consternation, all of the busses occupants’ -including the driver- spent the entire journey turned around in their seats, asking him about British soap operas, and most importantly the difference between Coronation and Ramsay Streets.

“But how can you people even have heard of Coronation Street?” Biggles shifted uncomfortably as chicken-fat dripped on one shoulder and goats peed on the other.

“Coronation Street is the greatest art form that is exported to the Middle East,” one learned bearded old woman explained.

“It is?” Biggles said more in amazement than inquiry. “Haven’t you heard of Shakespeare?”

“Oh yes,” she wheezed, “but only in Coronation Street are ugly old women portrayed in a noble way. Shakespeare makes them all in to …well ugly crones. Here in Iran, old women are now seen as interesting complex personalities. This is all due to Coronation Street.”

“I never saw that one coming.”

“Great art does that,” she agreed.

Every few kilometers the bus driver would suddenly remember he was a bus driver, and wildly drag the steering wheel around to avoid hit the oncoming traffic, potholes, dead camels, low flying cruise missiles, and because it kept the bus going in a forward direction. This had the effect of turning the inside of the bus into the interior of a space ship reentering orbit as chickens, goats and Biggles flew about in glorious abandon.

“Does he always drive like this?” Biggles grabbed an overhanging strap to stop being catapulted through the front window.

“How else could he drive?” came a hyperbolic reply.

“But isn’t it dangerous?”

“More dangerous than if he didn’t avoid crashing?”

They stopped for a lunch break and fixed the axle, which had just fallen off. Biggles looked about the mountains that soared around him and wondered if this was near Kent.

“Cigarettes?” a voice floated at his elbow.

He looked down and to his surprise a man shuffling about on a cardboard mat, holding up a box of cigarettes. Both of his legs were missing and his face was horribly scarred from phosphorus burns, he looked like the victim of a napalm attack.

“What on Earth happened to you?” Biggles almost shrieked.

“War.”

“You fought in the War?”

“No, I was late for work and got run over by a tank,” the victim said sarcastically, “of course it was the War. Want to buy some cigarettes?”

“Which War?”

“Who cares which war, they’re all the same.”

“No, they’re not,” Biggles, insisted, “a war can be just, or unjust, moral or immoral. And there are the wars I fight on, the good ones.”

“Look,” the poor wretch wearily explained. “In war there four sides.”

“Don’t you mean two?”

“If you’d shut up, buy some cigarettes and let me explain.”

“Oh right, um, lets say a pound?” Biggles handed over some of the counterfeit Iranian Rials he had once dropped on a bombing round.

“In war,” the victim explained, “there are four sides. The winners, the losers, the greedy blood sucking merchants and the victims, now guess which group I belong to?”

“Greedy blood sucking merchants?” Biggles erred on the side of caution as he lit up a Chesterfield.

“Do I look like a greedy blood sucking war merchant?” the cripple asked in amazement.

“Do cigarettes cause cancer?”

“Well, yes.”

“Are you the result of a war?”

“Obviously.”

“And did you just make a profit?”

“Only a tiny one,” the veteran stared up with an angry look, “I have to eat and feed my wife and children.”

“Ergo, you are a merchant of war,” grinned Biggles and ran off before the cripple could bite his ankles.

“You feckin’ English bastard!” was all the poor fellow could come up with, as he tried to drag himself after Biggles.

The bus journey had started again, once Biggles commandeered the bus driver’s seat, by pointing out that as an Ace pilot he could fly anything even a runaway bus, as he kicked the driver out the door, and tore off down the road with passengers and the driver in hot pursuit.

“It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long way to go.” Biggles merrily sang, “It's a long way to Tipperary. To the sweetest girl I know!” then he paused as he mentally calculated the distance to Tipperary.

“Hey,” he said to himself. “It really is a long way to Tipperary.”

Swerved the bus round and headed back towards Iraq and the officer’s mess in Baghdad.

“Sorry” he called out as he roared past the passengers. “I’m late for snooker night.”

Before disappearing in a storm of dust over the horizon. It all would have been another splendid escape - if he hadn’t run out of diesel at the very hotel he had escaped from the day before.

Copyright reserved by Jim O’Brien ©

Biggles Escapes!

For three days Biggles had wandered across the desert looking for rescue or at least a bus. It had gotten to the point where he wanted to be captured again. He had escaped from the Iranian secret police three nights before, by simply going outside for a cigarette, while they were watching some obscure Egyptian soap opera. The show was so incomprehensible it featured a young woman wearing nothing but a towel, who seemed to spend her entire life singing about a boy who had run off with a camel driver. Biggles had gotten bored waiting for her to take off the towel. Since he could make neither head nor tail out of, he went for a walk, and after trudging over a sand dune to see what was on the other side; he had become completely and utterly lost. So out of sheer force of habit, he escaped and now he wanted to be caught again as that was his best chance to making it back to old Blighty.

At this moment, he was lying at the top of a sand dune watching a herd of sheep, and he was getting fed up with waiting to be captured. More to the point he wanted a good cup of tea, which was harder to find in this country than a man who wasn’t wearing a dress.

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Biggles gave up and ran down the sand dune to the sheepherder waving his arms in the air and shouting hallo. The herdsman took one look at the stranger and began shooting at him. Biggles ran straight back up the dune and hid behind a rock. “I say,” he said to himself, “what happened to the Geneva Convention?”

At the bottom of the hill, the sheepherder also hid behind a rock and for several minutes they cautiously watched each other. The herdsman was taking no chances, since over the last two weeks, strange planes had been coming out of nowhere strafing and bombing his herd and he was in no mood for idle conversation with foreigners.

“I say!” Biggles finally called out, “do you know the way to Piccadilly?”

The sharp retort of the rifle coincided with Biggles’ flying cap being knocked off.

“I take it that’s a no,” Biggles picked up his cap and put it back on, to his annoyance he discovered the bullet had knocked off his Snoopy badge. He called out again from behind the rock. “By the way, I’m Biggles, so pleased to meet you.”

The herdsman felt some confusion, as normally people always shot back at this point. A stranger stopping in the middle of the desert just for a conversation, either meant he was a cousin - and Biggles certainly didn’t look like a cousin - or he was an enemy, and Biggles seemed too incompetent for either.

Maybe was he a rug salesman and a good rug salesman was hard to find.

“Hallo, foreigner!” he called out. “Have you carpets to sell?”

“Sorry Mister Abdullah,” Biggles called back jokingly, “I left them in the pickup truck back in Sussex.”

The herdsman, whose incredibly name really was Abdullah, stood up and looked with surprise up the hill. He wondered how on earth the foreigner knew his name, and more to the point where was Sussex. Before too long Biggles was invited down to the camp for tea and sheep’s eyeballs.

Biggles held one of the eyeballs up to his face.

“It’s staring at me.”

“That mean’s it is happy to see you,” laughed Abdullah.

“What about the sheep?” Biggles was nervous.

“The sheep is not happy to see you,” and Abdullah clapped his hands at the absurdity of foreigners.

Biggles put it in his mouth and slowly bit down on it. It popped like a squishy sea polyp and burst open. He shuddered as he swallowed it.

“Rather tasty,” he managed gasping, “I don’t suppose you know where I could find a plane.”

Abdullah looked at him with some anger.

“There have been planes attacking my sheep,” he picked up his old carbine, “do you know anything about this? I only have all these eyeballs, because I took them from the fly blown carcasses of all the dead ones.”

Biggles gagged on the next eyeball.

“No, not a bit,” he lied between retches, as he felt his taste buds turn into maggots “do you have any salt?”

 

The next day Abdullah showed him how to ride camels and lead him across the desert. The Sun poured down upon the desert with such a villainous heat that at one point Biggles, in delirium thought he was playing County Cricket for Sheffield and would have taken the field to bat if Abdullah hadn’t kept dragging him back on the saddle. Crows circled in the sky cawing incessantly until Abdullah shot one and gave it to Biggles for lunch.

“Aren’t you having any?” asked Biggles as he poked at his fried crow.

“It is forbidden,” grinned Abdullah, “but it is not forbidden to serve it to unbelievers.”

“Pretty sure they wouldn’t serve this at Maxim’s. It could do with a bottle of Chablis.”

“Have you a wife, Biggles of the air?” asked Abdullah.

“Yes, I call her Mrs. Biggles, I seem to have forgot her original name years ago.”

“Is she as beautiful as a falcon soaring above an oasis?”

“More of a vulture hovering over a gasworks.”

“These are things I know not of,” muttered Abdullah. “Is your country a great country?”

“Only when we beat the Australians at cricket,” Biggles crunched down on a wing, “the rest of the time we have to explain the whole Empire thingy, and how the sun never sets - although of course it has, and continues to set with unfailing regularity.”

“Strange is your world.”

“Even stranger is your cooking.”

“There is a hotel near here, where I am told there is good cooking.”

“As long as the television doesn’t show endless reruns of Egyptian soaps.”

Which of course it did, being the same hotel he had absconded from four days beforehand. Oddly the Secret Police never noticed he was missing and were still watching the same obscure Egyptian soap opera - even odder still the girl was wearing the same towel and singing the same song about the camel driver’s boy.

Copyright reserved by Jim O’Brien ©

In which Biggles is captured – yet again

Biggle’s plane came in too low; so low he accidentally landed on soccer field in the middle of a game, and was promptly arrested by the Iranian umpire for being offside. 

“Can you tell me your name, please,” the Iranian police captain sighed after Biggles had been arrested and held at the local station.

“Shan’t,” said Biggles folding his arms across his chest defiantly.

The captain rubbed his forehead with both his hands, and sighed again.

“You’re at least supposed to tell us your name, rank and serial number.” He wearily explained for the ninth time. “As put down in the Geneva Convention on …”

“Shan’t,” Biggles poked out his tongue. “You jolly Abdullahs shot me down again.”

The captain asked over his shoulder to another guard, “Is he talking about Afghanistan's foreign minister Abdullah Abdullah?” but the other guard shrugged his shoulders and continued drinking his tea.

“Look my name isn’t Abdullah,” the captain began doodling on the paper, “my name is Captain Arash. I don’t even know anyone called Abdullah. I’m a Persian. Now for the love of God, can you please tell me your name?”

“What about the bally holes in my plane?” Biggles jabbed with his index finger on the table, “you can’t get them fixed down the local bike shop you know!”

“You invade Iranian airspace, attack a field of sheep, and land in the middle of the quarter-final match between Iran and Kazakhstan of the Asia-Cup. Why shouldn’t we shoot at your plane?”

“What about my cup of tea?” Biggles became petulant.

“It’s right there in front of you, with milk even.”

“Smell’s like camel,” Biggles poked his tongue at it.

“Yes,” the captain rested his head on his hands and sighed with infinite patience “well, we couldn’t get any milk from a Jersey cow as you requested, so we did the best we could and milked a donkey. It’s perfectly good, although we do prefer only sugar with our tea.”

“Any biscuits?”

The captain opened a box of Ferrero Rocher Chocolates.

“Will these do?”

“Ooh Ferrero-Rocher,” Biggles grinned as he peeled one open.

“Look, someone from Savama,” the captain almost pleaded with Biggles, “which is the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and National Security will soon be here, and they torture people, so you’re much better off telling me who you are or they might just tear it out of you.”

“You cads!” shrieked Biggles, “I’ve been tortured by Russians, Italian waiters, French taxi drivers and even the occasional German High command - and trust me when it comes to being tortured the Huns know or two. Nobody tortures Biggles, …oh bugger.”

“Biggles,” Captain Arash wrote this down, “with one or two ‘g’?”

“Ahem - two.”

“Rhymes with giggles?”

“You know, I’ve never noticed that before.”

The captain looked at Biggles studiously for several minutes, trying to recall something, as Biggles face became more and more covered with chocolate.

“You’re not the same Biggles we shot down a month ago, are you? The one who attacked a donkey and a field of sunflowers? The one who blew up Persepolis - one of our most treasured monuments, considered one of the great archaeological sites.  The one who escaped by wearing a Burqa, after we had already handed him back to the British, so we had to hand him back twice? Not, that Biggles?”

Biggles’ face went bright red and he looked awkwardly at the ceiling fan.

“No, that name is just a coincidence,” Biggles lied unconvincingly. “You’re thinking of Rupert Biggles, I on the other hand am James Bigglesworth, different chap altogether.”

“James Bigglesworth,” the Captain wrote down meticulously.

“Oh bother!”

“And can you tell me why you invaded Iranian airspace?”

“Is this Iran?” Biggles looked startled. “I thought it was Egypt.”

“Well, can you tell me why you invaded Egyptian airspace?”

“I thought it was on the way to Syria.”

“And have you any reason for invading Syrian airspace.”

“I was meeting a chap about a dog.”

“So, let me get this straight, you were flying to Syria using a British Royal Airforce Harrier II jumpjet,” the captain looked skeptical, “armed with Air to Surface missles and Paveway IV airburst bombs. Just to meet a man about a dog?”

“How on earth did you know all that?”

“Your logbook says,” the Captain opened up a small notebook, “and I quote, ‘fly Harrier II jump jet to Iran, and attack sheep with Air to Surface missiles and Paveway IV airburst bombs. Mister Abdullah won’t know what hit him. Be back in time for snooker with Algy and Ginger. I’m so spiffing. Biggles.’.”

“If you bally well knew all this,” Biggles looked annoyed, “why in blazes are you asking me?”

“When dealing with madmen, it pays to check your facts.” The Captained smiled. “You’re going to put into a hotel until such time as your government can explain why you are attacking all the sheep in my country.”

“What about those jolly Savamas, the secret police chaps,” Biggles quizzed worriedly, “the ones you said were going to torture me?”

“I just did,” Captain Arash, grinned, “I actually am in the Savama. You see, Captain Biggles we’re not idiots, my culture is over four thousand years old, it is comparable to Egypt, India and the ancient Greece. The Persian Empire was, and perhaps one day will be again, as complicated and vast as you could imagine. We are as sophisticated a people as you are ever likely to meet, and while the American press may seek to demonize us, a lot of us simply are not the monsters that we have been portrayed as, and though this may come as surprising to you – we do hold by the Geneva Convention, and you will in time be handed back to the British. We really couldn’t do that, if you were in many pieces, now then could we?”

“Er, bally well say not.” Biggles blew his cheeks out repeatedly.

“Except for one tiny little thing.”

“Yes?”

“The chocolates were really laxatives. Good day.”

Copyright reserved by Jim O’Brien ©

Extract MacSchrodinger's Cat

Chapter Two - In Which MacSchrodinger Explains The Origin Of His Cat

The shadows of the room seemed to darken perceptibly as each man present felt the full impact of what Niels had said, sink deep into their consciousness and the rabbit fainted as well. Niels rested his hands on the lectern and absently-minded let his eyes wander about the theater before coming to rest on the rabbit, in doing so, he wondered what on earth it was doing there.

Quietly, without any fuss at all, a tall thin man with a nova of red hair, stood up at the back of the lecture theater. He gripped the desk in front of him with a rigid gnarled hand and stared down at the group with a taunt wild gaze that shone through his circular wire spectacles like the kindling sun; rising above the Hibernian Sea with the glowing promise of great guns afoot.

"Gentlemen, my name is Mac Schrödinger!" he cried, rolling out the broad Scottish accent, “It was maself who discovered this type of cat yer're been 'erre discussing  ... and I think, tha' therre  few things yer should need to know abut this 'erre beastie."

A deep silence fell into the room as everybody looked expectantly towards the newcomer. He stood spotlighted by the dust sparkling in the beams of light, which shot through the darkness of the room to carve a day in the dark of the theatre. The rabbit woke up and poked its head up over the edge of the box.

"As yer very well know indeed," said Mac Schrödinger slowly and with distinct care as he made his way down the stairs," a few years ægo while on a big game hunting expedition in Cheshire; on tha dark and terrable continent called England," the 'RRR's' thrilled through the air, "that I first discovered this extraordinary species of Cat!" He spat the word out. "At great risk to myself, mind ye, and with a terrible loss of life to ma hunting party."

He now stood in front of them, before the blackboard and resting his hands on the box in which the rabbit cowered within.

"Ach, næ doubt yer have read in the popular press," he paused as if to show his contempt of that institution," of the extra-orrdinary events that took place on the expedition. Of the terrible, terrible battle that took ocurred twixt the camps baker and the deadly, deadly Jabberwocky! And how we lost the self-same baker in his last heroic final conflict with tha' terrible, terrible Boojum Quark!"

This brought numerous shivers of acknowledgement, as well as a few shudders amongst the professors as whispers of the phrase, "Twas brillig, and the slithy toves," did gyre and gimble amongst the distinguished gentlemen.

"Ach, however, I doubt very much, very much indeed, if any of yer did chance to hear of the even darker more sinister happening that took place on that most horrible journey through that most terrifying of countries."

At this, the elderly gentlemen leaned forward half in fear, half in fascination: as the room became so quiet you could have heard the peristalsis of a rabbit.

"On the eighteenth day of the journey out from Glasgow, after many a great mishap and wild empty trail into the careeneiong moutaions, we finally came right to the pinnacle of this terrible sheer ben, wherre we had corrnered this incrredible fiend on a dark and glimmering night na fit for maun nor beasite, a great hooting of a night was it, with lighting bolts and blue blistering thunder rolling from one horizon to thæ next, the very roots of the Earth shook beneath us.

And æ great terrible beasity was it too indeed, the likes of which yer wouldna seen before. A great snarling and æ hissing, spitting and æcursing us it was. No muckle of æ taddy was it with great glimmering eyes and long whipping tail, snapping from side to side, daring us to so much as pat it!"

Albert found himself gulping with fear.

"Finding that nay maun, marrk me, nay maun," he crooked a long bony finger at his audience, "in the parrty hæ the spleen to volunterr and go forrward to tackle the grreat hideous crreaturre.

"'Verra guid!' I said,'I'll do it maself!' Aye! marrk me, maself! To trry and capturre the 'orrrible monsterr maself. So I took æ drrop of the Milk of Loch Tay frrom the foot of Ben More forr æ wee touch of the old Dutch courrage ya ken, and began making ma way up the cliiface, slowly towarrds this terrrible monsterr, the rain poured down as it mushave when Noah himself made the Ark, and as I did I saw it turrn its hideous face towarrds me wi' its grreat pointy teeth. Yer should have seen its eyes, maun, they werre the likes ya never seen afore, they took on this weirrd eerie glow hanging like twa grreat shimmerraing moons on æ foggy Saturrday night overr Aberrdeen -if yer've been to Aberrdeen yer know wha I meent- these grreat eyes, they seemed to shine rright down into my soul, blisterring and æ burning away all the secrrets of my liff. I felt the whole world was apperaing a-don at ma. Naked afore the universe. Neverrtheless, I was deterrmined to capturre the beastie, so I moved forrwarrd once morre to lay my hand upon this terrrible creaturre of the night,  and just as I was about to grrab it, I the cat just faded away I into the næhing, atom by atom disappearring into the void, until therre was absolutely næhing left behind but this fantastical exprression of an insolent, sarrcastical grrin! And æ-then that too in its own turrn I vænished!"

This brought gasps of amazement from the audience.

"Everr since then I have wonderred, wha could have possibly happened to that cat andwherre in the worrld it could have gott," here he paused significantly, "orr wherre næ in this worrld it could have gotten too!"

The jaw of the rabbit fell open with amazement.

"Now gentlemen, yer ken, I believe I know."

His face took on that strange aura usually reserved for messiahs, prophets and punk rockers on heroin.

 "I reckon that both yon cat and mon, jumped into another…," he lifted his hands in messianic transformation, "Univerrse!!"

This is continued in my  MacSchrodinger's Cat.

Copyright reserved by Jim O’Brien ©

Biggles’ Psychological Assessment

“Sit down Captain,” the psychologist motioned to Biggles to use the couch.

“Thanks Algy, but will there be crumpet?”

“No, now lie down.”

“Finger biscuits?”

“No, now lie down, that’s an order.”

“We’re both captains, you can’t order me.”

“I’m also a doctor, so I can.”

“I’m a pilot, so you can’t.”

“Okay,” the psychologist sighed, “ very well – no, hang on, I’m a pilot too, that means I still outrank you.”

“I’m a pilot and an ace, and come to think of it, I’m also Biggles, nobody outranks a Biggles.”

“The commodore does.”

“He does?” frowned Biggles, “and all this time I thought he just signed the paychecks. Got to respect the paymaster you know.”

“Very well, stand there if you must, but for heavens sake answer these bally questions.”

“Algy, you can’t make me stand for hours on end, that’s a form of torture.” Biggles grinned and lay down on the couch. “More childhood?”

“If you like.” Algy made a scribble. Algy or ‘Algernon Lacey’ was in fact a cousin of Biggles, but they always started the counseling in a semi-professional way, just to show good form.

“Algy, we grew up together, don’t you know already my childhood?” Biggles rested his arms behind his head.

“That’s not the point old man, you have to talk about it, that way, and you know something or other.”

“Something or other what?”

“I don’t know, we won’t know until you bally well talk about it.”

“So how will we know when I am talking about it?” Biggles eyebrows collapsed like the wings of a Fokker Dr.I triplane after Manfred von Richthofen had missed the runway.

Algy pulled a book from behind him, and leafed through the pages. Algy wasn’t really a psychologist, but it gave him something to do while he was convalescing. He too had been shot so many times that it was a miracle he was still alive, and spent most of his time now lying around trying to get the use of legs back - which wasn’t easy as they were kept in a box by the door of the tent.

“It says here,” Algy sucked his cheeks, “you will either have an epiphany or a cathartic shock.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Only if you go insane. Not much risk of that, old bean.”

“I say not,” and they both chortled at the ludicrousness of it.

In fact, Biggles was stark raving mad, and had been for as long as he had been flying. No one had been able to prove this of course, because he was a famous flying ace, in fact, he was the most famous flying ace, which meant his sanity and his reputation was protected by order of the War Office. Which certainly made it easy when picking up Wrens, as the rule of thumb is never argue with a mad person and you can’t argue with a famous flying ace. Life was sweet.

“So, anything childhood epiphanies?”

“Is that like choir practice?” Biggles asked whistling between his teeth.

“No different epiphany,” Algy bit on his pencil. “We want the other one.”

“The one we don’t know what it is?”

“Hmm, yes.”

“What if I had an epiphany while I had choir practice  - while I singing an epiphany?”

“Were you ever in choir?”

“No.”

“Ah. Biggles, you’re not making this easy.”

“I’m Biggles.”

“Yes, and that does cover quite a bit doesn’t it. Look old man, isn’t there anything about your childhood, which I can put down on this blasted report. Anything that would look interesting, otherwise the jolly commodore will have me back in the trenches, and I’d rather avoid the whole lose-my-head-before-morning-tea-thing, if you know what I mean.”

“But Algy, we don’t have trenches anymore, this is Iraq. All we have here are targets.”

“Targets?”

“Yes, jolly Mister Abdullah and his donkeys. No end of Mister Abdullahs over here.”

“I see your point.” Algy looked at the ceiling, “I don’t supposed you were frightened by a donkey when you were a child.”

“No, I’m Biggles.”

“Biggles has no fears?”

“Only that this war will be over before I can get in my plane again.”

“Aha! So, for you to overcome your fears,” Algy began writing excitedly, “it’s necessary for you to go out and shoot Mister Abdullah and his donkeys, and this is important for the war effort.”

“I never thought about it that way before, I say Algy, you are clever.”

“Well then, that’s settled. Biggles I’m putting you back on active duty.”

“Was I ever off?”

“Well no, but we must go through the forms, mustn’t we?”

“Right ho, old bean. So, can I go and start flying again?”

“Don’t see why not. It’s for the War effort.”

“Toodle-pip and what!” Biggles bounced out of his couch and paused by the door. “And can I shot down the German medical planes and blow up Iran?”

“Course you can.” Algy nodded, “for the War effort.”

 

Copyright reserved by Jim O’Brien ©

Debriefing Biggles

Biggles reported to the debriefing tent after his skirmishing,and met his C.O. the Air Commodore Raymond who wore a lugubrious expression worthy of Eeyore.

“Biggles,” sighed with the Air Commodore, “I have a report you bombed Iran again, is this true?”

“Possibly,” Biggles grinned ecstatically, “where is it?”

“In the same place as you bombed last time, you know the borders of countries don’t tend to move too often, you know old man.”

“Yes, sir,” Biggles looked thoughtful, “is it filled with those funny looking chaps with the towels on their heads and camel jockeys hidden in their dresses?”

“No, those are our allies,” Raymond sighed, “The Saudis and the Kuwaitis, remember half our squadron is made up of them. No, Iranians wear immaculate black suits, don’t shave and never wear ties. And in general, they live somewhere North of where we are standing. You know, the ones that captured you, put you up in a hotel for nine days, and played backgammon with you, after you bombed and landed on the wrong airfield …yet again.”

“Oh those Blighters!” Biggles looked annoyed. “Well, jolly well I should say so, give them a taste of their own medicine.”

“But they haven’t bombed us, they haven’t done anything to warrant our bombing them. And it says here, you attacked a field of sunflowers and a donkey. Is that true?”

Biggles looked puzzled.

“I thought it was a radar installation. Could have been, those tricky blighters are rather well, tricky aren’t they?”

The Air Commodore looked at Biggles with the same expression of weariness of roman general might have had when he realized his insane, drunken barbarian auxiliaries, were all he had to hold back all the insane, drunken barbarians who were about to invade Rome itself.

“Biggles.”

“Yes Sir!” Biggles yelled enthusiastically.

“I have another report that says you shot a flock of geese.”

“Ah, yes sir, sun was in my eyes and what. Won’t happen again.”

“They were in a barn in Turkey.”

“G.P.S. was playing up sir. I got confused with the difference between geese and turkeys.”

“So you…” the pause would have been worthy of Kenneth Branagh delivering the soliloquy of Hamlet, “…destroyed a barn in an neutral country with an Amraam missile. Biggles you’re not even supposed to have Amraams on your plane.”

“I put it on for ballast, sir!”

“Why,” Commodore Raymond sighed once more, “or perhaps I shouldn’t ask, no, I feel like an adventure, why, oh why did you need ballast on a jet plane?”

“I’ve been experimenting with submarines, I’m trying to see if I can take off from under the sea. Jolly clever what? Saw it on the Thunderbirds. I say, sir when can I have one of those rockets things?”

“They’re not real Biggles, and I suspect you’re not real either.”

“Thank you sir!” Biggles saluted.

The tent was filled with aircrew, subalterns, communications officers, and ground crew who always came to watch one of Biggles amazing debriefings. He never ceased to astound one and all with his endless ability to take a perfectly rational argument and turn it into a hopelessly insane monologue about how amazing he was. For days afterwards the aircrews would gather around open fires and bars and regale each with the latest stories, all of the secretly hoping to emulate this titan of chaos, this man of mayhem.

“I have another report you shot down a German medical transport, is this true?”

“Yes sir! They went down faster than a choirboy at King’s College.”

“The German’s are our allies, you know, the whole NATO thingy. We’re not supposed to shoot them, it annoys them.”

“They are?” Biggles looked as puzzled a ferret that just been run over by a truck and ended up in the carburetor. “What happened to that Hitler chappy?”

“Biggles, tell me why I shouldn’t have you shot for insubordination?”

“I’m British.”

“Yes?”

“It wouldn’t be British to shoot me, I’m British. Sir!”

“Biggles, you know I’d send you to Afghanistan just to get rid of you, but I know full well you’d end up starting World War Three with the Chinese,” the Air Commodore wrote something down, “so I want you to have another psychological check up.”

“Another? But sir, that’s the fourteenth this month and it’s only the second of May,” Biggles protested.

“Yes, and the more check ups you have, the less time you spend in the air.”

“But sir!” Biggles pleaded.

“Biggles,” Raymond grinned, “it’s for Blighty.”

“Yes sir!” Biggles saluted, “for old Blighty.”

Whereupon he spun on the spot and marched out of the tent to the loud applause of his fellow pilots and ground crew, he was worth more in entertainment value then the entire Folies Bergère, the Muppets on Ice, and Eddie Izzard in drag combined.

 Copyright reserved by Jim O’Brien ©