Fortune shone on the shining monks of Chu Bex that night - the Todmorden Glee Club had cancelled their planned seance to be held in the Function Room of The Cross Terrier (clairvoyant, seer, healer and Glee Club Secretary Sinita Ramsbottom had come down with a nasty bout of stress-related hives after an accident-riddled evening with the ouija board, near Bingley) - and the room, in out of the cold and dark, was available for their saffron and turquoise throng.
The Terrier's Public Bar was too crowded by half, particularly now Waka San's jasper and travertine marble litter filled most of the corridor to the Gents. Many of the regular drinkers, taking umbrage, had retreated into the usually-quiet Snug, where a number of Waka followers were talking loudly about small chunks of battered wood with a zeal only shown by goofed-out religious zombie fruitloops with mush for brains.
In the zen calm of a somehow tranquil Lounge Bar, Sim San hovered at the mahogany counter waving a faded, puce NUFU prayer flag to catch the barmaid's eye, and bought forty-three pints of Crotchety Whippet to appease his thirsty foot-soldiers.
'And one for yourself, you foxy dame.'
'Oooh, I'll have a vodka love, ta very much.'
'Fancy a knee-trembler in the car park at closing - I'm holy, me.'
'Oooh, I'll have to see, you serene devil.'
Gai Tam San, weary from long days and nights strategising and restrategising and refining strategic approaches, drained his handled dimple beer mug in one guzzle, slumped forward, exhausted from his exertions on gong with song, and at his master's every beck and call and whim, and for one short moment was asleep.
'Tam San, my boy' hollered Sim San in the wretched ear of his pupil 'I know we exchanged cold words earlier this evening at the ceremony. But now that you have eaten your woodland mushroom vol au vent and polished my Saab carefully with both hands and feet in equal but opposite precise circles, do you not feel the spirit of our urban forest forefathers rising in your marrow?'
'No master, Sim San, I am pure knackered. I have been at this lark for years now, trudging across this barren wilderness in search of truth..'
'And money' piped up Hu He Hit Win Dit from behind his double bitter lemon.
'...and all I have to show for the effort are these mucky lovat green robes and a tattoo of you, oh coolest one, on my weary rump. Must a Wai Troz Fraz Te monk trudge forever? When will I learn to fly? I wish I could fly right up to the..'
Before Tam San could utter another plaintive syllable, all hell let loose at the pool table. Two Wai Troz monks from Leeds had been playing winner stays on doubles with the Tod locals. A discourse had been engaged upon in regard to the ontological assertion of Billy Bremner's skill level in dribbling and shooting. The Tod lads had accused the Wai Troz lads of committing a bare assertion fallacy. A muscular Wai Troz monk, untonsured and in fact well-haired and toothed, had gotten all cocky by quoting from Descartes' Fifth Meditation, and that's when the thin lad got a barstool over his back and the window got broken with a forcibly hurled roundwood log made from compressed sawdust (brought in to show people by one of the Sau Fiox lot)
In his cell that night, once his head had cleared and the wounds were bleeding less freely, Tam San began to reflect on the place to which his urban forest journey had brought him. At one moment ready to throw in the towel, and within a matter of hours giving some Lancastrians a good hiding with lumps of marble and mahogany. When this episode was passed, and the paltry fine would surely be paid tomorrow by Sim San from that slush fund from Yak's Hair For Wad, where would these roads shaded by fastigeate beech take him?
to be continued...
The Terrier's Public Bar was too crowded by half, particularly now Waka San's jasper and travertine marble litter filled most of the corridor to the Gents. Many of the regular drinkers, taking umbrage, had retreated into the usually-quiet Snug, where a number of Waka followers were talking loudly about small chunks of battered wood with a zeal only shown by goofed-out religious zombie fruitloops with mush for brains.
In the zen calm of a somehow tranquil Lounge Bar, Sim San hovered at the mahogany counter waving a faded, puce NUFU prayer flag to catch the barmaid's eye, and bought forty-three pints of Crotchety Whippet to appease his thirsty foot-soldiers.
'And one for yourself, you foxy dame.'
'Oooh, I'll have a vodka love, ta very much.'
'Fancy a knee-trembler in the car park at closing - I'm holy, me.'
'Oooh, I'll have to see, you serene devil.'
Gai Tam San, weary from long days and nights strategising and restrategising and refining strategic approaches, drained his handled dimple beer mug in one guzzle, slumped forward, exhausted from his exertions on gong with song, and at his master's every beck and call and whim, and for one short moment was asleep.
'Tam San, my boy' hollered Sim San in the wretched ear of his pupil 'I know we exchanged cold words earlier this evening at the ceremony. But now that you have eaten your woodland mushroom vol au vent and polished my Saab carefully with both hands and feet in equal but opposite precise circles, do you not feel the spirit of our urban forest forefathers rising in your marrow?'
'No master, Sim San, I am pure knackered. I have been at this lark for years now, trudging across this barren wilderness in search of truth..'
'And money' piped up Hu He Hit Win Dit from behind his double bitter lemon.
'...and all I have to show for the effort are these mucky lovat green robes and a tattoo of you, oh coolest one, on my weary rump. Must a Wai Troz Fraz Te monk trudge forever? When will I learn to fly? I wish I could fly right up to the..'
Before Tam San could utter another plaintive syllable, all hell let loose at the pool table. Two Wai Troz monks from Leeds had been playing winner stays on doubles with the Tod locals. A discourse had been engaged upon in regard to the ontological assertion of Billy Bremner's skill level in dribbling and shooting. The Tod lads had accused the Wai Troz lads of committing a bare assertion fallacy. A muscular Wai Troz monk, untonsured and in fact well-haired and toothed, had gotten all cocky by quoting from Descartes' Fifth Meditation, and that's when the thin lad got a barstool over his back and the window got broken with a forcibly hurled roundwood log made from compressed sawdust (brought in to show people by one of the Sau Fiox lot)
In his cell that night, once his head had cleared and the wounds were bleeding less freely, Tam San began to reflect on the place to which his urban forest journey had brought him. At one moment ready to throw in the towel, and within a matter of hours giving some Lancastrians a good hiding with lumps of marble and mahogany. When this episode was passed, and the paltry fine would surely be paid tomorrow by Sim San from that slush fund from Yak's Hair For Wad, where would these roads shaded by fastigeate beech take him?
to be continued...
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