The Chariot Play (October C/W)

In the late sixteenth century a travelling troupe of actors descended on Cornwall, the land that was responsible for some of the greatest pastoral poems of all time. The scenic heartland of the country would be the venue for the debut of their new play.
The set designers had designs on taking over the world and had already had more hits than Elvis and Lou Bega put together. Brighter than Lilt and cooler than Coke, Boa and Bear worked in tandem with the playwright, director, producer and if the dramatis personae needed an ass he’d be the assman, Will S. DeMille, a man who had a way with words.
　
Feverish activity was going on before the show. Cast as the maidens captured by the evil Bane of Crawdor were two beautiful sisters who radiated with star power. They were unaware of the jealousy of their two underling stand-ins, standing with their trousers tucked into their socks, deflated by disappointment, that were saddled with behind the scenes chores.
“Clywd gwyxchlywd.” swore the vowel less dragon. The one with the assumed name simply stood quiet as a captions competition without a caption comment.

Val and Zen; two peas in a pod; the Chariot’s top scorers at scrabble; O wherefore art thou quincunx; played the part of the eight foot spirit. Val said it was Zen’s turn to go on top and she bent over. Zen climbed onto her shoulders and when they were erect they put on a long grim reaper cloak.

At last the play began and first on the stage was the evil Bane of Crawdor.
“Whatever will be, will be. Que sera, sera, … oh no I’ve fluffed my first lines. Can I start again? Right. Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see-”
“Oh yes it is.” uttered the spirit stage left.
“Oh no it isn’t.” replied the participating audience.
Will S. hurried onto the stage and hushed the crowd. “SSSHHHH. This is a tragedy”.
The Bane continued his ramble. “I am the Dane… och, I’ve mucked it up again. I mean, I am the Bane of Crawdor. Am I hearing voices in my head? Am I two-faced?”
The cloaked spirit entered to ooos and aaas and eees and iiis from the frightened throng of watchers.
“Bane of Crawdor. Beware the Piles of Midlothi-”
Pure negative dark in Val’s part of the costume, she fell into the crowd taking Zen with her. The front row caught the falling spirit and passed it in waves from one end to the other. This was the first recorded instance of crowd-surfing at a concert.

And recorded it was in shorthand by a hansard old furry man who was once one of the originals on the Manhattan Project and creator of the deadly Flying Ferrets. He had turned his hand to aesthetic beauty and quilled the events from the side of the stage. His documentations were disturbed by a lost Roman warrior, Titus MacNabicus, who knew everything except the way to Middle-earth.

“Go straight then turn write.” Said the man with the Golden pen.

The wild delicious creatures that exist in Cornwall had brought predators from near and far. A Portuguese transvestite wolf replete with grandma headpiece lurked in the forest near the play. His lupine offspring were not impressed with his transgender tendencies and spoke in wolf-cub tongue.
“The old boy’s had too much port.”

Will S. moved the production onto the next scene. The lovely sisters were held by Lego men in the Bane’s domain and riding to their rescue was the Duke of Embra and his band of stern and wild dour men.

“Haw Bane,

This tangled web you’ve spun

Labyrinthine in its duplicitous intricacy

Shall by the mouth of Homer be undone

With ancient world precedent simplicity

May I draw your attention to Sparta V Troy 13BC, title 53, paragraph 1873; subsection A9 (miss) that states the santa clause.

This indicates that no one from Copenhagen or for the avoidance of doubt, anywhere in the pastry kingdom, shall imitate Paris.

I could, of course, be wrong.”  
　
“You blowhard.”
“Supercilious, superficial, Super Ally, sanctimonious snob.”
Quite rightly the critics were not amused and from their pockets, underpants and socks produced a wide variety of fruit that they threw at the Duke of Embra: rotten tomatoes, pineapples, raspberries, kiwis, tangerines, oranges and lemons. Hundreds of lemons. Lemons, lemons, lemons. There was a garden of lemons (OK I’ve got the lemon in, that’s good. Wait a minute. That was last month’s word. Drat!).
Fed up with blowing his lepatata, an instrument that history forgot, a young man from the southern hemisphere picked up a melon and ran into a melee. Finding his way to goal bard, he threw the melon backwards. Bravo! This is scrum game; all it needs is some dummy blood to make it manly.

On stage, bereft of heart, the bespattered piles of Midlothians trudged back to their castle. The old Duke was heard muttering “aye weel” under his breath. While his enemy, the Bane slipped on a squashed banana and ended up on his backside.

The two damsels in distress were not pleased either as it appeared that they had non-speaking parts. This habit of Dominican nuns was unfamiliar to the sisters. For offstage and online they chatted incessantly on every blog, every site, every day.

Behind the scenes their reserves were inventing a new two-wheeled contraption that was unsound until they fitted stabilisers. Pseu had first shot of their chariot of fire making Jan jealous until they hummed in tandem “Raindrops keep falling on my head”.

This was the final 1,000th straw that brought the wrath of the Ulrikan Goddess of dark clouds and sinister isobars, Osbornita.

“Rubbish.”

Motioning with her broomstick she opened the heavens and poured the tears of a million new born babies crying hither on the masses below.

Players and non-players alike ran for shelter from the storm. Pragmatically, Donald said “just raining”. On the bare stage, standing there with emptiness all around, Will S. DeMille marvelled at the cinematographic choreography of the Tempest and it gave him an idea for a new play.