I am a great lover of Hammer Horror, and whenever I visit my favourite local late night establishment, I love to turn on Channel 70 on Freeview and seeing what’s on there.
As there is another Hammer lover who is a regular who can identify the movies by the music alone, it’s always good to be able to find a classic movie from the studio.
I like to take stills of the movies, with all of the random pot luck of how fast the shutter is, and the decor and surroundings. Here, I missed the scenes of Charles Grey bothering goats with a sharp knife, but got a car chase with his demonic eyes summoning a woman to an appointment with the devil…
The Newark Steampunks were joined by a few of our colourful colleagues from Lincoln, who gave a few lessons in parasol duelling to Tony and the rest of us!
It is so good to see a strong turn out at our meetings in The Flying Circus, even a latecomer like me who introduced my visiting sister to the group, who was much taken with Mr Frisby’s tales of tuneable bones.
So, some pictures of our colourful brigade of governors and detectives.
“You know”, said Aristophanes Brown, walking arm in arm with Alexia Laplace along a quiet stretch of the Thames near Richmond, “this is had been the most appalling summer for bees I can remember. No wonder the flowers have been dismal.
The moon-a-muck, trailing behind Carina on a lead, in its doggy disguise, hooted to itself. It felt that songs, not bees, ought to be the key to a successful summer bloom.
Alexia admired the winter waterfowl out on the river, then looked up to take in the graceful sight of a swan in flight, no doubt searching for inspiration for her design and gadgetry.
“This is true Ari, although I’ve never figured you for a botanist. It’s been a year short of colour anywhere where our moon-a-muck hasn’t sung its song.”
The moon-a-muck skipped along, delighted to hear its name in conversation.
“Well, at least we won’t get stung” Aristophanes opined.
“That is small consolation for world starvation when all the crops fail, Ari.”
“Surely not, my dear?!”
“Surely too. Without these pollinating insects, we are, to be frank, bloody well doomed.”
Alexia adjusted her flaming hair, and lit a cigarette.
“Do we know what’s behind it?”
“No, I don’t. But if we don’t find out, then no matter how much our mucky sings, we are going to be eating each other in a few years.”
They walked on in silence.
Not so many miles to the North West, under the grounds of a family country estate just outside of Oxford, a man releases a thousand bees from an enclosure in an underground chamber where there buzzing echoes with apocalyptic feedback from the concrete walls. Then another thousand. And a thousand more. And he wades through the swarm, happily allowing himself to be stung as his mind homes in on the centre of the galaxy.
I was a latecomer to the monthly meeting of Newark’s Steampunk group last night; well, we do meet rather early and at my advanced age I worry about my ability to last the pace.
I understand that it was another excellent get together at The Flying Circus, with more newcomers meeting up with us, and other folk visiting from the Lincoln group. Topics of conversation; well the return of Jay after hospital was one, and obviously there was plenty being said before I got there.
The conversation I remember concerned film cock ups, started by myself and Steven remembering a beach bound piece to camera on Countryfile where the footprints in the sand indicated where the presenter had done three previous takes, and ending where we mentioned how Maximus’ farm in Gladiator is covered in tractor tracks.
Are you not entertained!!!
I seem to have established a tradition by which photographs of the last meet go out just before the next one is due to occur, which is very silly of me indeed. The Steampunk who looks not much like one was off his A Game, as he was in the middle of a shift, but he was pleased to see such a good turnout, with so many new faces.
Some were from distant lands too!
Sadly Mr Frisby did not leap onto the stage and blow his harp or bash his spoons, but there was plenty else going on to keep people entertained.
Ever since the strange animal with the musical nose trumpet had first mysteriously appeared, padding down the steps of the Poincare Machine in the warehouse lab of Lady Alexia Laplace and Aristophanes Brown, they had wondered about some of the creature’s odder quirks.
One of the oddest of these was its obvious great interest in any passing moth or butterfly that fluttered past is Cleopatra eyes. On its muzzle disguised walks, the sight of a red admiral would always cause it to emit a “hoo-heee-hoooooo” of joy. But now it was autumn, and butterflies were less numerous on the Embankment.
However, in the equinoctal nights, moths would flail in through open windows, and the moon-a-muck would behave very differentlly. It wouldn’t be excited, it would be as calm as a manatee in a warm ocean having its tummy tickled by a mermaid.
The cause of this was the night-time moths of autumn, the yellow underwings, the drinkers, the vapourers. They would swarm around the moon-a-muck, gently landing on its silvery-grey fur, and everytime one did so, the creature would gently croon “woooooo” until it fell asleep, more satisfied even then when it hooted up a whole bowl of crystals.
The moon-a-muck’s love of moths must mean something. But what?
Copyright Bloody Mulberry 09.09.15