Tag Archives: Lord Byron

Flute Notes on a Mel and Patsy Pond…

from Sherlock Holmes Esq to Dr J Watson:

Watson – I should like to express my thanks for the Hamper of Delights, having sampled a selection, with Mrs Hudson this forenoon; she expressed her satisfaction with the Tessellated Twists, stating that they brought back memories of afternoons spent on Brighton’s sands, canoodling with her Johnny on his infrequent visits to Blighty, preferring, as he did, to wend his way through the Fleshpots of Europe, hawking his wares. I believe Hudson is still seeking treatment for conditions transferred to her person on those halcyon days long-gone.

As to Byron’s catchy ditty – I have transcribed the lyrics, including those in the vernacular dialect, in to my catch-all Notebook, which also includes the verbatim reports of your Night Terrors, captured occasionally on my nocturnal travels round 221B. I give you my word that they will never be used for purposes of Blackmail while breath inhabits my body.

On a different note, I could not believe the ruckus created in Geneva by the arrival of the warbler Jim Kerr and his good lady Patsy Kensit – trust that fool Byron to stir the pot, bringing up the subject of Patsy’s latest Burlesque Performance in the Lethal Weapon franchise, pay-rolled by our friend Dickens, and his business-partner Collins. Why did he have to egg Kerr on, fuelling his already bubbling suspicions as to her relationship with Mr Gibson, our friend from The Colonies, who had a leading role in this Family-Friendly production? To infer that Mr Gibson was offering more than professional encouragement was unnecessary and inflammatory – I am rather irked at having to part-fund the replacement chandelier, broken in the fray which ensued. I wonder whether the couple will weather the storm created by that nincompoop?

To return to more important matters, I should be most keen to embark on Dickens’ conundrum with your good self; call round at your soonest convenience – Hudson may not hear you ring, as she has indulged in some of Mrs Watson’s Elixirs of The Orient. I trust they do not contain that new fashionable flavouring, purchased from Mr Chang’s Emporium – I believe it has been the downfall of several local worthies.

Awaiting your arrival, SH.

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Posted by on December 21, 2014 in Detective Fiction


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Byron’s Lament…

from Dr J Watson to Sherlock Holmes Esq:

Just a quick note to let you know I arrived safely back in the arms of my dear lady wife this morning. My head is much better and I believe myself fully recovered from whatever awful substance I imbibed during our stay with those infantile Romantics.

I’d like to thank you too, Holmes, for not over-egging the proverbial custard with jibes about my poor constitution – I had enough of that from Byron when he cheered us off with a rendition of his infamous “We’ll Go No More A-Boozing”:

So, we’ll go no more a-boozing
So late into the night,
Though the guts be still as thirsty,
And the bum-hole still as tight…

I don’t recall the rest, but I’m sure the words will come back to haunt me if I ever dare to touch that vile liqueur again.

Anyway, I had a card this morning from Chas Dickens, claiming we promised to look into the so-called ‘three ghosts’ who are apparently still keeping him awake at night, quoting Nicholas Nickleby at him. I trust you’re up for a Christmas Investigation, old pal?

I’ll pop round shortly with some of Mrs Watson’s festive fare (though I’ve been up with the squits all night so you might want to stay away from her ‘triangles of delight’).



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Posted by on December 20, 2014 in Detective Fiction


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Monsters Incorporated…

from Dr J Watson to Sherlock Holmes Esq:
Villa Diodati, Geneva
(from the Diary of Dr Watson)

The events of the last few days are even now a blur in my poor, addled brain. I awoke this morning thinking the whole thing may have been a dream, but the hastily scribbled notes from that awful night were still clutched in my wretched hand, as if some greater power would not allow me to let them go.

I hurried downstairs and found the house empty, only a barely-legible note from Holmes saying he and Mary had gone off to the market. However, reading between the lines, I deduced that my companion is keen to drill her on that dreadful tale of hers, banging those monstrous thoughts from her sweet brain.

Back in my bedroom with a much-needed pot of strong coffee, I read over my notes. My almost indecipherable scrawl shows I was clearly drunk with wine and fear, since it breaks off at what I assume was a crucial point in the evening. However, since I cannot at present recall anything further, I shall record my notes here. Perhaps at some future point, I will regain something of these lost nights….

Shelly, Byron and the young Mary are sitting by the window this evening as the storm thrashes the countryside, rain drumming against the windows like buckshot on a tin drum. Holmes and I amuse ourselves with a game of gin rummy, while keeping half an ear on our friends’ discussion. The three of them have for the last few hours, busied themselves writing so-called ghost stories, but it is only now that their discussion is becoming interesting. My companion whispers that I should take notes, so I will annotate their dialogue from this point onwards:

SHELLEY: I say Byron, this was a tremendous idea of yours for us to spend this frightful evening writing ghost stories.

BYRON: Ah, dear Shelley, I am full to the neck with good ideas. Have you finished your mystical masterpiece yet?

MARY: Yes darling, tell us what you’ve written so far.

SHELLEY: Oh I think it’s pretty well finished. D’you want to hear it?

MARY/BYRON:   Of course!

SHELLEY: Well, it starts off with this huge big monster. And he decided to go down to the village pub and eat all the pies. And do you   know? That’s exactly what happens. The end.

BYRON: My word. Percy, you are truly the brightest star in Christendom. Have another drink…

MARY: What happened next?

SHELLEY: What’s that, my love?

MARY: What happened next?

SHELLEY: That’s it. Finito.

BYRON: Madame, what a talent your lover has. We should hoist him somewhere high and make him do naughty things for money.


BYRON: Sorry, did I say that out loud?

MARY: Lord Byron, let us hear your masterpiece.

BYRON: Very well. Twas on a clear night and the stars were a-twinkling in the sky…

SHELLEY: What astonishing language, don’t you think, my love?

MARY: Indeed. [At this point I detected that Mary was becoming a little irritable]

BYRON: And from the heavens a great cloud of poo fell onto the earth and everyone thereon was poo’d upon.

SHELLEY: Great thundering thundery things. Byron, you are indeed a talent to behold on a wet and windy night.

BYRON: Come along Mary, let us hear your tale.

SHELLEY: Yes, share your teensy weensy little story with us, darling.

MARY: Well, I’ve called it a gothic science fiction novel. The story is initially told by a man called Robert Walton who, in his letters, quotes the narrative of the hero of the book, Victor Frankenstein, who, in turn, quotes the monster’s first-person narrative. In addition, there are several minor characters…

BYRON: Sorry, what? I didn’t understand a word of that – are you writing in some archaic language? A bluu bluu bluu lah de dah de diddly…

SHELLEY: Old Byron’s right, my love. Can’t you just tell us what it’s about?

MARY: It’s about a woman who murders her lover and her lover’s friend with a big knife during a stormy night when the three of them are holding a competition to write a ghost story.

BYRON: [Here, Byron paused for several long minutes] Right. Perhaps you’d better…

SHELLEY: Yes, my dear, please continue…sounds amazing, doesn’t it Byron?

BYRON: Extraordinary…I think we should have it published…

MARY: The event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed, by Dr. Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence. I shall not be supposed as according the remotest degree of serious faith to such an imagination; yet, in assuming it as the basis of a work of fancy, I have not considered…

To be continued


Posted by on December 7, 2014 in Detective Fiction


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Ode to a Genevan Urn…

from Dr J Watson to Sherlock Holmes Esq:

Villa Diodati, Geneva
(from the Diary of Dr Watson)

Our arrival at the villa was celebrated in true Byronesque style with a Mexican Mariachi band, who lauded us with a curious rendition of Old Mother Mine, while Lord Byron plied us with the local plonk and showed off his club foot (to much applause form the locals).

Having left us to unpack, Byron, Percy and Mary, promptly went off to the village. Holmes and myself, flagging somewhat from the journey, spent an hour or so lazing around on the terrace enjoying the scenery. After an hour or so, the weather turned colder, so we hastened up to our rooms, where I sat by the window, glad of the opportunity to relax.

Apparently, there’s a storm on the way, and the ‘Romantics’ as Shell and By are now calling themselves, are planning some sort of writing exercise as a means of diversion. Holmes, needless to say, is not amused and is, as usual, chomping at the bit for a mystery. I will do my utmost to endear him to our companions, since it would not make our stay terribly agreeable if the old fart goes into one of his ‘huffs’.

As I write this, I can hear the poets returning, so I shall check on my companion and make my way down for dinner.

To be continued


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Posted by on November 29, 2014 in Detective Fiction


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Ode to the Benefits of Prime Shag…

from Sherlock Holmes Esq to Dr J Watson:

Watson –  You will think me somewhat rude, but I should be obliged if you could conduct a somewhat surreptitious test on our worthy domestic Mrs Hudson on your arrival, as I am becoming rather concerned as to the condition of her faculties. 

Only 5 minutes previously, she burst in on my Ablutions (which in itself was rather embarrassing, as I was immersed in personal, private matters) and announced, through the keyhole (as I had asked her, a tad brusquely, perhaps, to remove her presence from the smallest room, to which she replied, a mite sharply, in my opinion, that I should Jolly well lock the Bloody thing then), that there was an Invitation on the Mantelpiece, which had been sat sitting there since Saturday. 

After demanding why she had not informed me earlier of said Correspondence, the woman had the cheek to turn the blame on to my good self, complaining that I had been too wrapped up in my own affairs to pay attention to her attempts at communication, as usual, and went off muttering to herself, and asking unseen entities whether they would be able to put up with it – whatever “it” may be. 

Anyhow, having brushed myself down, and settled in to my Thinking Chair, I sliced the beggar open with my pocket-knife, and found it to be a Letter of Invitation for us both to join the reprobate Shelley, his common-law wife and her step-sister Claire, plus that scoundrel Byron, in Geneva ,for as long as we cared to join them. I harbour no illusions as to the reason for this invite –  simply my acquaintance with your good self and your access to Pharmaceutical substances – the pair have long attempted to harass me in their attempts to obtain “the Goods” – however, I have a mind to acquiesce on this occasion, as I believe we could have some sport here, and you may get a couple of good Stories out of it. 

Mull it over, and let me know what you think when you call round; ( by the way, amongst Hudson’s mutterings and remonstrations, I heard the phrases “if they think they’re having any of my Scented Foreign Fancies, they’ve another think coming!”  and  “my Puffed Custard Pillows are Definitely out-of-bounds!”   

Of course, we both know her bark is worse than her bite, so Fear Not! my friend, we shall be dribbling her mutton pie grease down our chins as always, in front of a roaring fire, amid clouds of Prime Shag, chuckling conspiratorially at exploits passed and still, tantalisingly, to come.

I await your presence, your friend, somewhat excited,


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Posted by on November 22, 2014 in Detective Fiction


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