Good morrow everybody,

Last week I came back from my trip into the woods and celebrated with an indulgent feast at the birthday of my distant cousin Belzer Herrison. I had brought back some fine timbers from the heart of the untouched forest – straight and true & free from the curse of knots and checks with the intention of fashioning them into a fine set of shelves to display my late, great uncles collection of ephemera, gewgaws, odds and sods, ‘wossanames’ and what-have-you’s. Belzer had always reminded me of Cyrano or the Monyet Belanda, but his charm was legendary.

We met up at Three Sheets for a few wee drams of Lavagulan’s finest 18 year old Scotch and headed out to meet the rest of the gang at the L’olonnaise Bar and Grill. As we lit out into the street Belzer eulogised about the old days in Moostissoostikwan – he would row the old boat across the water to an island where Shaky Harry would still old style likker: a recipe of raw alcohol, burnt sugar, a little chewing tobacco and a touch of gunpowder. He drank like a fish back then, but couldn’t swim. Belzer’s wife, Victoria was busy meanwhile delivering the liqourice and mint birthday cake she had ordered from Heaven, Custard & Co. in town.

With a rack of the legendary L’olonnaise Pirate ribs, salade couler and pomme frites due on the next wind I set about reacquainting myself with the distant family. What a house of horrors! Falling out of the ugly tree they’d hit every branch on the way down.
Most had the unfortunate blessing of Belzer’s unique cleft chin and hideously dimpled and pocked carrot-nose, the wiry ginger locks and bilious complexion coupled with a personality vacuum they were yet to fill, as had he, with compensating character. Belzer’s Gran’pa Brigadier “Solly” “Brig” Solomon sat at the head, but he was silent and hadn’t spake a word in months – he`d always been a long faced, miserable old git; even after they took his adenoids out BUT he was thoroughly sour these days: he’d been very ill for months with the dreaded mu ognob lurgy…something about a witchdoctor’s curse in Bzuzu, a rhinocerous and a set of bathroom taps.

That’s not to say the young ones weren’t stupid and recalcitrant as well as bloody ugly; not to say their mouths weren’t working overtime – they bickered and shrieked like gulls about a bag of chips, swore like troopers and upon the food’s arrival fought like scurvy mongrels over each others repasts. I ordered another Lavagulan while Belzer regaled me with more tales of his time in the Carrot Valley. By the time the ribs arrived I was on my fourth glass and Belzer on his sixth. And justly so, the delinquents were in complete uproar.

Suddenly!
The table exploded – the food started to fly.
And that’s when Brigadier Solomon forced himself to his feet like a broken robot and promptly collapsed face first onto his Texas Style Chicken Armadillo’s: alternating layers of bacon and cheese sliced into laminated chicken breasts soaked in the latest chef’s effluent.
Again and Suddenly!
Everything stopped. Silence.

“At last!” I thought to myself as the paramedics lifted the Brig from his dinner “Some peace and quiet.” But for a few whispers the celebrations were over. As Brigadier Solomon rolled by I couldn’t help looking into his empty eyes, frozen with fear, thinking to myself “…he’s a gonner this time; six foot one by three and a half, white, chrome furniture, with the Union Jack”. Looking askance at the oikish children Belzer whispered into my ear, “It’s been a long time coming Charlie, but the old buzzard’ll probably make it through for another month of misery…’nother whiskey?”
“Yes, why not?” I gazed around at everyone’s half finished meals and said nothing at all: the blaggards at the table next to us had accepted from the waitress and were stuffing into their eager mouths between fits of laughter and plastic glasses of cheap wine  Belzer’s liquorice and mint birthday cake.

Back in ‘45, with the Western war over and only a minor fracas with some shrapnel to show for it, and God above, if I`d been an inch taller I would have lost my head altogether, I was motorcycling east through Hungary and Romania with the intent of reaching Persia as quickly as possible. BUT by the time I`d made it to the Black Sea the bloody Americans, AND, the Nazis were on my trail and here’s why…

On entering Poland on foot I had stolen an American Indian 741 motorcycle and, murphys law, close to freedom and the Slovakian border Nazi Officers from Dr. Wachter’s unit in Krakow, ambushed and arrested me.

I thought I was doomed but my luck turned and in the bloody fire fight that followed I found, would you believe it, in the safe of the now bullet riddled Dr. Wachter’s office, a sacred copy of the Zoroastrian Gathas hymns which, Lady Luck smiling down upon me, I knew I could trade with the Persian Shah Mohammed Pahlavi for a very handsome stipend indeed.

I commandeered a leaky bucket of a sailboat tub named the “Tyranena” and endeavoured to cross the Black Sea. Well , that’s another adventure altogether, and to cut a long story short I entered safely, disguised as a Latvian aristocrat into the Persian Court carrying the sacred Gathas tablets, and into the favour of the Shah. It was here in the Crimson Court of the King, that I learnt the sacred recipe of the holy pomegranate and the golden chicken…

To my mind it’s the best chicken recipe in the world and I`ll I share this gift from the gods above here, with you, very soon.

Sincerely yours,

Charlie Underwood.