Stanislav's second cousin, thrice removed (part 3)

Welcome in the hillside: a shaggy dog story by Sperm Lewis, it is.

Discreetly edited by his learned amanuensis, Owen Twat.

Robot Wars (Part I)

(Sorry for shittin' up your blog again, Obo bach, but the spirit moved me, see?)

==================

All hell broke loose in the cold, hard winter of 19-- when the Working Men's Club installed an indoor racist.

Me and Owen Twat, first through the doors as usual, were supping our pints on Saturday morning, when Owen noticed a peculiar looking mannequin standing next to the fruit machine.

"'Ere, Dai," Owen says to Dai the Bar, "What's that piece of junk over there?"

"Indoor racist, it is," says Dai the Bar, carrying on polishing a glass without looking up.

"Where'd it come from?"

"Committee brought it down Barry Island. Fire sale."

"What's it do?"

"Dunno."

Sort of automaton thing, it was. Plumed hat, monocle, military uniform. Looked as if it been in the wars, an' all. We went over to investigate. There was a coin slot and a sort of dial on its breast pocket. Owen puts in 10p. There was a sort of clunk and then the coin came shooting out of its flies.

"Fuck off with those foreign coins!"

Nearly jumped out of our skins, we did.

"Better try a fifty, Owen."

Owen puts in a 50p. He only just managed to dive out of the way when the robot's arm shot up 45% to the vertical and a rasping voice came belting out...

"Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihen fest geschlossen!
SA marschiert mit mutig-festem Schritt.
Kameraden, die Rotfront und Reaktion erschossen,
Marschieren im Geist in unseren Reihen mit... "

"What the fuck's that?"

"Horst Wessel Song, it is," said Owen.

"Die Straße frei den braunen Batallionen.
Die Straße frei dem Sturm-"

The voice cut out abruptly.

"What? That all you get for 50p?" said Owen.

"Hungry bastard, in' 'e?" grinned Dai.

"'Ere, Dai. Give us some pound coins, 'ere."

So I got some pound coins off of Dai and when I got back, Owen was pissing about with the dial, see, and there were all these different nationalities. Well, we turned it this way and we turned it that and we settled on the French, purely as an experiment see, and put in a pound coin.

"FUCKIN' ONION-SELLING FROG TWATS!

PISS OFF!

WE WHOOPED YOUR ARSE AT AGINCOURT!"

"So we did!" interjected Dai.

The machine ranted on for some time about garlic breath, routine surrender and other crude stereotypic stuff, but seeing as we like to think of ourselves as just about half-way civilised in Wales, see, we're going to leave the rest to your imaginations. When it reached the end we looked at each other and then Owen turned the dial as far as it would go anti-clockwise to get to the end of the alphabet. "Welsh".

"Know what, Sperm?" he said, " I think we could have some fun with this."

(To be continued)