"The Last Days...
 
Notifications
Clear all

"The Last Days of Sig Hile"  

  RSS

jamie barter
(@jamie-barter)
Member
Joined: 8 years ago
Posts: 1688
18/12/2013 12:37 pm  

A little seasonal creative contribution, this follows on from the post below and is actually four chapters from my The Complete and Unexpurgated True Adventures of Helen of Troy and Dick The Irishman I think I may have referred to elsewhere, but is quite Burroughsian in that you can dive in and out without needing to know anything other than Helen and her sidekick Dick are time travellers (sigh! Yes, I know, this medium has been done to death, but when I first wrote it Douglas Adams hadn’t even been published!)

Reply #51 on: August 09, 2013, 01:11:39 pm on Hanns Heinz Ewers thread on ‘People’ board:

Quote from: jamie barter on August 08, 2013, 11:41:44 am:
“Ahem, don’t vorry about zat, Putzi – we haf everyzink under control…”

Quote from: lashtal on August 08, 2013, 08:03:38 pm
I'm sure our many German members and visitors will be highly amused by your 1970s-style characterisation...

Hopefully they will be amused by it, Paul.  Where would we all be without a little light fun?  No offence to our German friends intended – in that old phrase more often used in connection with ethnic brethren, “some of my best friends are German” - besides it wasn’t Germans or Germany I was lampooning but the idiocies of Nazism (if I may be forgiven for breaking Godwin’s Law…) 

[…] You are quite spot on with the “1970s characterisation”, btw – the “character” as such is based on Sigmund ‘Sig’ Hile, a sort of “Life of Brian”-ish type alter-ego for der Führer which I invented in the later ‘70s, who made a last ditch stand in his bunker convinced in the state of barking psychosis he was under that the devastation of Berlin was being perpetrated by one escaped English Prisoner of War who was holding the whole area under siege but “moves so damned vast no one can catch zer schweinhünd”. […]

And also, as I said in the Reply: no offence intended towards the Germans, who on the whole I rather like!  It is purely an authorial/artistic device to accentuate the personality of Sig and by extension his cronies.  It started off loosely based on Hugh Trevor-Roper’s “The Last Days of Hitler”’s tales of his final madness and then carries on in a reduction ad absurdam vein with the established facts.  Being a work of fiction, I as the author am at liberty to accord carte blanche with these, of course.  However there are very few ways left of saying things in a different manner.

It is very much an either/or situation if you get it: a bit like Monty Python humour, it can leave some people stone cold (like previous & current girlfriends I have shown it to – “I don’t get it!” they tell me blankly!)  But on the other hand, it has had a most extraordinary affect on a few others: one friend I showed it to actually fell off his chair and was indeed ROTF laughing helplessly and growing alarmingly short of breath.  Another one started hooting, shrieking out and making wild animal noises uncontrollably.  (I cannot guarantee that it will have the same effect on you, dear reader!)

So, for all those who wanted it (and for all those who didn’t): enjoy

20  THE LAST DAYS OF SIG HILE[/align:36yf73vy]

“Sig” was the last and most powerful of a group of 20th century dictators with a strong pathological desire to take over the whole world.  Apart from more unpleasant sidelines such as mass genocide and the institution of zer master rice, he had also written a book called “mein Kampf” about his early days as a Boy Scout leader in the Black Forest (most absorbing reading – especially the chapter on how to build a camp woodfire, from which the book was named) and was responsible for the setting in motion of a Cecil B deMille-type production which came to be known as World War 2 and which made cult celebrities out of Vera Lynn and Winston Churchill.
Many people had claimed that ‘Sig’ had not, after all, died in the Furorebunker in Berlin in 1945, but had been secretly flown and smuggled away in a crate of export frankfurters bound for warmer climes, e.g. those of South America, Paraguayish.  This was true, to a certain extent.  He did get as far as Paraguay, where he was captured shortly afterwards by a passing U.F.O. and taken to its planet of origin – a world orbiting Deneb in the constellation of Cygnus – where he was given tasks of a librarian-orientated activity to perform.  Perhaps he is stacking shelves there even now, since the inhabitants had also discovered how to indefinitely halt the ageing process (although with humans it does produce the side effect of growing three heads).
Dick of course knew nothing of these facts.  His knowledge of Adolf Hitler stopped circa May 1945 and his back copies of Purnell’s History of The Second World War In Weekly Parts.  But being a curious bastard by nature, he asked Helen if she would set her time machine in motion for that particular time and location.
“I suppose so,” she said unwillingly.  “But this doesn’t sound like the most amazing idea I’ve ever heard.  Suppose these ‘nastys’ object to us just dropping in to their bunkum like this – there will be a war on, after all.  They may want to do something ridiculous to us, like kill and torture…”
“As a last resort, we can tell them we’ve got some secret weapon that will help them win the war, like we did with that French bloke [n.b., that was Napoleon Bonaparte, earlier – author’s note] and then scarper…”
“Hmmm…” said Helen, still dubiously.  So, Dick weighed up the pros and cons and came to the conclusion that their chances of survival at the end of it were about as slight as those of a punnet of strawberries left underneath a Saturn V rocket at lift-off.  He couldn’t even speak German!  “Gott und Himmel”, “Donner und Blitzen” and “Achtung, schweinhund!” were the only phrases he knew, gleaned from a couple of Commando War Stories he had once kept about his person.  Helen knew even less of the lingo, but had the good sense not to let it get her down.  Besides, she’d always found the lure of forbidden fruit strong, and preferred apples to strawberries to bananas anyway.
“Are you ready then?!” she said, briskly, to the omniscient narrator.  “I’ve had enough of all this talk about it – let’s see some action!  If we’re gonna go there – let’s go!”

Sig Hile selected a large cheroot from the ornate ormolu and walnut-coloured cigar box on the extreme right-hand side of his similarly carpentered bureau and welded it between two lips which were thoughtfully and shrewdly positioned on either side of his mouth for the purpose.  Preferring to eschew the crude metallic catch and rasp of his cigarette lighter for the much more manual, sensuous and primitivistic scratch’n’scrape on his box of matches (and also because he’d run out of lighter fuel for his lighter), he lit up said cigar and retired from proceeding behind a thick plume of black smoke.
“Anyvun vant to see mein Mephistopheles impression?” he quipped breezily.  “I can blow ein pretty gut smoke ring, I tell you!”
Over the blazing fireplace (his cohort Gobbles was an incurable pyromaniac who would later set fire to Sig Hile’s little known identical-twin brother Helmut with a can of petrol up in what was left of the of the Reichschancellery gardens), hung a portrait of Alexander the Great, wearing nothing but a smile.
“Mein hero”, observed Sig.  “Of course, in zose days zere vas not so much land space to conquer, or your Vinston Shirshill. But, ve manage…”
“Then how do you explain your empire, meant to have lasted for a thousand years, has shrunk to just a few square miles?” asked Dick innocently but with a deadly undercurrent of Gale Force Nine Sarcasm.  For an instant, Sig Hile’s eyes burnt manically and Dick saw the reason why some people had voted him “Greatest Psychopath Human Being Of All Time”.  At one single glance, Germany’s “Heavy Water” experiments were made redundant and void.
“Why you ask zat?” Sig spat out.  “At zis precise moment, our boyce are poised to take over zer United States und Sout America.  Ve are already masters of Europe, Russia, and almost zer whole of Asia.  Tomorrow, ve vill take out Australasia, Africa und der Sout Pole. ’ Day after zat, ve clean up any bits und pieces ve might haf missed out.  Und zer day after zat, ve vill destroy zer Moon, just in case any resistance schweinhunds get any ideas about setting up a terrorist base zere.”
“Blow up the moon?” echoed Helen.  “You stupid twerp!  By the way, who is this ‘Vinston Shirshill’?”
“He was the bulldog who barked ‘We shall bite them on the breeches’,” answered Dick succinctly.
At that moment, and before Sig could remark further, there was a discreet tap on the door.  Helen knew this was coming of course, as she was in direct contact with the omniscient narrator, but she chose to say nothing.
“Kommen sie in!”
In stepped Joe Gerbils, Sig Hile’s ghost-writer, speech-writer and general all-round liar-about-town.  And yet, with doctorates given from twenty three different universities, he still did not know how to write his own name properly.
“I say, Sig,” he said, assuming an educated Oxford accent which he thought might amuse his Furore, “how do you fancy a quick rally?”
“How many men hat we got?”
“Twelve, including Josefina the cook.  It won’t be quite like Nuremberg, but it will kill a few hours.”
“Hours?” snapped back Sig.  “Who cares for ein few hours??  Ve vant to kill at least a couple of hundert men, vimmin and childer.  Before breakfast...”
At that moment, a mortar shell hit the bunker and the room shook.  Alexander wobbled but stayed firm.  The fire popped with the indignity of it all.  Sig’s cigar needed re-lighting.
“They’re getting closer….” muttered Joe Gobbles.  “Any time, now…”
“How many more times must I tell you?” shouted Sig, lighted match in mid-air.  “Zere is no ‘zey’.  All zat zere is ist vun little Britisher P.o.W. who has escaped, und ist holding zer immediate area unter siege.  Our boys will deal mit him soon enough, vunce zey haf finished taking over zer whole Europe-Asia land mass, und zen ve can all come out again und live normally.”
A nervous smile played around Joe Gribble’s features which he wished he could shoo away and replace with one of the genuine article.  “But of course, mein Furore,” he mumbled obsequiously.
“Und anyvun – anyvun – who disagrees mit me about zer matter, I shoot,” went on Sig imperiously.  “No matter ‘oo.  Vere I to become schizophrenic, I vould even shoot myself!”  So saying, he then lit his cigar with the match, which was still burning.  (He ordered them wholesale from a firm in Stuttgart which made them extra long, solely for the purpose of holding in mid-air whilst making extra long speeches.  (Except for when he remembered to purchase lighter fuel).)

21  THE LAST RALLY OF SIG HILE[/align:36yf73vy]

There was another knock at the door.  Dick wondered aimlessly whether doors and other sundry items of furniture had feelings, on a lower level of course, and then whether they regarded these gross infringements of their privacy as assault and battery, before deciding that it was rather a pointless metaphysical speculation of no great import anyway.  (Either way, this door seemed to be coming in for more than its fair share.).
“Kommen sie in.”
The furtive head of Martin Bormann poked its face around.
“Ach, zere you are, Bormann!” exclaimed Sig.  “I haf been looking for you for ages – vhy is it no-one can ever find you vhen zey want you?”
M.B. extended his lips toward his cheekbones in a gesture which only anatomically could be called a smile, came in, goose-stepped and saluted.
“Excuse me, mein Furore.  But zer cook has just committed suicide.  He claimed that ‘zey’ were going to get him…”
Sig’s hand strayed towards the Luger he kept in his desk-top drawer with ill concealed purpose.  “’Zey’, Bormann?  Vhat do you mean, zey?  I haf told you repeatedly, zere ist only vun man out zere in zose streets…”
“Why, of course, mein Furore!  But you know vhat zat cook vast like.  He vas….” And his voice sunk to a whisper…”vun of ‘zem’!”
M.B. then waited until Sig had spent his six bullets before poking a cautious head (his own bullet, as it happened) above the level of Sig’s bureau.  He fully expected to see his chief’s face blazing away with fury and adulterated berserkness, but instead he was busy at work filing his own fingernails with an emery board, the incident apparently forgotten.
“Now about zis rally,” he announced.  “Zat means ve now hat only eleven.  I am sick und tired of zis vaiting around for reinforcements to arrive.  Ve must take matters into our own hants und a party must go up to street level to make a reconnaissance of what exactly zis pig of a schveinhund is up to.  I vill send mein bruder up – zat idle gut-vor-nuzzink.  Choe Cherbils, you will accompany him.” 
“Jawohl, mein Furore,” growled Joe Growfins.  (It seemed an appropriate thing to say.)
“Bormann, you vill vait by zer door und keep vatch for zem until zey komm back, is zat fully understanden?”
“Jawohl, mein Furore”, growled M.B. (He was a bit of a copycat!)
“By zer vay, ‘oo exactly ist hier?” asked Sig.  Gerbils cleared his throat before answering.
“Vell, zere’s you und me und him, zat’s drei.  Zose two over there in zer corner that I haf never geclappen mein eyes on bevor, zat’s funf.  Zer ist Josefina zer cook – but he has just killed himself, so ve vill miss him out.  Göring, Himmler, und your bruder.  Zat makes nine.”  Sig, who had been counting on the fingers of his hands, looked up.
“Zat’s ten, surely?”
Joe giggled back.  “Ja, you are right of course!  Tee-hee, ich bin really ein shocking fibber!”
Helen, Dick, and M.B., who could all count properly, all said nothing, for reasons which by some amazing coincidence were all exactly identical.
“Zen zere ist Werner vonEdelweiss, zer Commandant-in-chief of zer Hilejugend.”
“Vat is he doing in zer bunker?” asked Sig, slightly surprised.  “Zere are no little boys here!”
“Zer cook smuggled him in last Tuesday,” answered M.B., as if that explained everything.  “Und zen, zere ist Adolf Eichmann, mein old schule chum.  My, ve’ve been through some scrapes together….!” he basked, reminiscently.  “
“Anybody else?”
“Ernst Rohm.”
“Rohm?  But I thought I’d ‘purged’ him out jahren ago…”
“Vell, you know vhat zey say,” chuffed M.B. amiably, “you can’t keep ein gut Nazi down!  Hah, hah!  Nein, but aber nicht zis ist actually Ernst Rohm, Junior.  He vast in Edelweiss’s Hilejugend vhen his vader got gepurgened.”
“Zat figures,” assented Sig.  “Vell, ve’d better keep an eye on him und Edelweiss.  It’s exactly zere sort of behaviour zat gets us all a bad name.”
“Finally, zere ist Eva Braun, your concubine.”
“Hmpph,” grunted Sig Hile approvingly.  “Vell, at least somevun around here ist concerned mit keeping up appearances.”

[/align:36yf73vy]


Quote
jamie barter
(@jamie-barter)
Member
Joined: 8 years ago
Posts: 1688
18/12/2013 12:43 pm  

22  THE LAST FILM SHOW OF SIG HILE[/align:vqhypv39]

Martin Bormann, Joe Garbage and Sig’s identical (but not-very-well-known-to-history) twin brother Helmut made their way upstairs to street level.  En route, they had to pass by the door of Bormann’s old chummy wummy, Adolf Eichmann.  He paused there shiftily.
“You two go on ahead,” he said.  “I’m just going to say hello to old Ade.  I’ll see you two up at the door later on, don’t worry… It’s alright, it’s alright!” he grinned at them moronically and unconvincingly.
Joe Gerbils hesitated and gave him a suspicious look, gratis.  “I don’t trust zat Eichmann furder zan I could throw him,” he opined.  “You mind you hurry up, now.”
Downstairs back in Sig’s drawing room, Sig, Dick and Helen waited in what was an increasingly uncomfortable silence for the reconnaissance party to return.  Sig put some more coal on the fire out of his bunker (he hadn’t actually got a scuttle, and so bits of coal were all over the carpet).  Helen toyed abstractedly with a golden eagle paperweight.  Dick took it into his head to hum a few more bars of the Ukrainain folk song he’d heard to take his mind off the situation.
After approximately thirty seconds, Sig cleared his throat. “Ahem, I zink ve haf all hert about enough of zat, zank-you-very-much.  I vill now show you some of my home movies.  I haf got some new material in from Belsen zat is rather – ahem – near zer bone, as zey say.”  He coughed apologetically.  “I zink, instet, I vill just show you mein films of Berchtesgarden und zer Eagle’s Nest.”  A wistful look came into his eyes.  “It vas ein beautiful place, Berchtesgarden.  Just zer ticket after ein few months rallyink und purgink.  Und – ve never had trouble mit room service.”
While changing reels on his projector, he paused as a thought suddenly struck him.
“You may zink I am mad,” he exclaimed, “but I haf just had zer thought – ‘oo zer hell are you, und vhat do you zink you are doing here?!”  He brought his eyes to bear like an interrogation lamp upon Dick and Helen.  “Vell?” he snapped..  “Answer me, or I vill kill you.  Slowly.  Mit mein feather-duster.”
“As a matter of fact, we’re from Die Zeit, replied Dick.  “We’re here to do a story on you and how you are finding life here in a bunker.”
“Most inconvenient.”  Sig’s voice betrayed his irritation and sadness.  “Zere are no trees, no birds…”
“You’re a nature lover, then?” enquired Helen brightly.
“No.  I exterminate zem all mit ein flame-thrower.”
There then followed an eerie silence broken only by the sound of Sig swearing as he attempted to thread another reel of film through the projector.  “Zat reminds me, “ he said thoughtfully.  “I vunder vhy Choe vanted to borrow mein flame-thrower vhen he vent upstes.  Zere’s not a lot to set fire to up in zer streets.  Ach, vell – I shall haf to ask mein bruder vhen zey all get back down again.”  He carried on threading the spool and the bunker rocked as another shell hit it.  Sig cursed and shook his first in the direction of the ceiling.  “I vould love to know how zat schweinhund gets hold of all of zat damned ammunition!”
The second film was a documentary made by Joe Goosebumps on the infamous Munich beer hall putsch of 1923.  It started off showing Sig Hile accosting a buxom Bavarian serving-wench with the immortal words: “Fraülein – set up two thousand bottles of Hofmeister.  Und schtep on it!”  The actual riot which followed was made to look as if started by an argument over who should pay for the next round, and was conveniently blamed upon a passing-by Jew, thus setting the precedent for the next twenty years anti-semitism and genocide unpleasantness.
In the interval afterwards, Sig, anxious to appear the gracious host, proferred forth a tray of petits fours and schnapps.
“Sorry I hafn’t got anyzink better,” he apologized, “but zere is a var on, you know…”
The next film was billed as a satire, high on laughs.  Big, black, bold Gothic lettering spelled out the legend: “Munich Peace Talks!” and showed Sig Hile and the British Prime Minister, Noddy Chambermaid, facing each other across the conference table and playing gin rummy together.
“By the way, Sig, old bean,” drawled forth Noddy.  “You haven’t got any plan to – well, dash it all and I know it sounds ridiculous, but the boffins back home seem to have come up with this hare-brained wheeze that you’ve got some sort of a cracked scheme or something to – well, you know, take over the entire world…”
Sig dealt an ace.  “As you Britishers alvays so quaintly say, stuff-und-nonsense.  Und if it makes you feel any happier, I’ll sign an agreement mit you right now… here, ve can use zer back of zis old score-card…”
Sig stopped the film.  “Of course, Noddy could always take a joke, even vhen zer butt
vas on him,” he opined.  “Ein real British gent, in my opinion.  Not like your Vinston Shirshill.” He pulled a sour face.  “He cout nezzer see zer funny side of zings!  Personally, I blame it all on zer bat publicity from his appalling result in his Harrow entrance examinations….”  He re-started the film, but it had nearly come to an end anyway, apart from a scene showing Noddy descending from an Imperial Airways aeroplane while waving Sig’s dog-eared score-card in the air, which sent Sig Hile howling into paraproxysms of mirth.  “Dumbkopf!" he kept yelling, slapping his thighs delightedly, and became so generally carried away with himself that he upset the tray containing the petits-fours.  Wiping tears away from his eyes, he rang the bell for some minion to come and clear the mess up, but there was no answer.  Apart from the sound of film spool flitting against the projector, silence reigned supreme – which, of course, Sig Hile brooked as competition to himself and didn’t appreciate At All.

23  THE LAST ? ?? OF SIG HILE[/align:vqhypv39]

“Vhere zer hell ist everyone?”
Sig was annoyed.  He had rung the bell repeatedly, to no avail, but had been answered surlily by Silence.  It was just too bad, after a good film show which he had thoroughly enjoyed, to come out and find that everyone had suddenly upped and vanished.  “If zey haf gone into town, zey had better vatch out.  Zat Britisher ist ein pretty gut shot!  Und he moves zo damned vast, he always seems to be shooting in more zan vun place at zer same time!”
Since the bunker was a fair size, Sig suggested that they had better all split up and search it in case the others had committed suicide en masse or were simply hiding out somewhere.
“It’s quite possible,” he reasoned.  “Var can affect a man’s mind in strange vays.  Go up to zer door und call Bormann back in.  He can give us ein hand.  I’ll keep looking down here.”
Helen and Dick, reasoning that it was better to obey Sig (they and seen him re-loading
His Luger and not only that, shaking off the dust from his feather duster), obeyed.  But once out of sight and earshot, they reviewed his palpable obvious lunacy and whether his feather duster was really an offensive weapon at all or all just a big con.
“I think it’s all just a big con,” surmised Dick.  “Ken Dodd has got one just like it, and it never harmed anybody (as far as I know).”
They reached the door.  Bormann was not there, but in the mid-distance they could see Joe German watching the remains of a small bonfire smoulder away.  Of Helmut, Sig’s identical twin brother, there was no other obvious sign.
“I suppose we might as well move on,” said Dick.  “We’ve seen all there is to see here.”
“So what about Sig Hile?” asked Helen.  “What will happen to him?”
Dick assumed his features into what he thought was a thoughtful expression.  “What happens to Sig Hile will remain one of the great unsolved mysteries of all time,” he said.  “Like Marie Celeste, the well-known music hall singer, who booked a one-way passage on board the Titanic but mysteriously failed to embark at Southampton, and she was never seen or heard of again.”
“You mean, like how you came to be stuck in my time machine,” countered Helen warmly.  “You still haven’t got around to explaining that, my fine friend.”
“Well I will when we get going again,” promised Dick.  “But, it’s a long story…”
“On second thoughts then, forget it,” said Helen hurriedly.  “Shall we be off and away then?  You’ve got it.”
“No, I haven’t got it,” said Dick.  “I thought you had it.”
“Well, I certainly haven’t got it!  You’ve got it, haven’t you?”
“Do I look as if I’ve got it?  We must have left it on Sig’s bureau downstairs.”
They eventually reached Sig’s drawing room to rescue Helen’s chronological device, but of the Furore himself there was no sign, except a note left on the other side of the bureau to Helen’s gadget (cunningly concealed as an ashtray) had left this poignant message which read: “Let me know at once when we get that sodding Englishman.”

[“To Be Continued” but the end of this little extract]

© reserved J Barter 1978/ 2013


ReplyQuote
Shiva
(@shiva)
Not a Rajah
Joined: 13 years ago
Posts: 4954
18/12/2013 4:55 pm  

All (ALL - as in "Alles") this - and not a mention of Crowley or Thelema. This is The A.C. Society website, not the Barter Grafitti Blog (B.'.G.'.B.'.).

Kee-Rist! What Next?


ReplyQuote
jamie barter
(@jamie-barter)
Member
Joined: 8 years ago
Posts: 1688
18/12/2013 5:13 pm  

Nice of you to have taken such an interest!  I believe the rubric for this “Stuff” section consists of:

Members only. Wander up to the bar and buy the rest of us a drink while you talk about ... stuff. Stuff that's at least slightly relevant to the site but which doesn't fit neatly into any other Forums.

I think it was “slightly relevant”, on account of the reference in the thread made previously.  Very slight, perhaps, I grant you!  But I have seen creative things here with even less relevance…

"Shiva" wrote:
Kee-Rist! What Next?

Are you related to James Finlayson of Laurel & Hardy films fame, by any chance?

N Joy


ReplyQuote
Shiva
(@shiva)
Not a Rajah
Joined: 13 years ago
Posts: 4954
18/12/2013 5:39 pm  
"jamie barter" wrote:
I think it was “slightly relevant”, on account of the reference in the thread made previously.

Laurel and Hardly-relevant. Just more Barter-ego-self-defense-stuff.


ReplyQuote
Michael Staley
(@michael-staley)
MANIO - it's all in the egg
Joined: 16 years ago
Posts: 4021
18/12/2013 6:58 pm  
"jamie barter" wrote:
Nice of you to have taken such an interest!  I believe the rubric for this “Stuff” section consists of:

Members only. Wander up to the bar and buy the rest of us a drink while you talk about ... stuff. Stuff that's at least slightly relevant to the site but which doesn't fit neatly into any other Forums.

I think it was “slightly relevant”, on account of the reference in the thread made previously.  Very slight, perhaps, I grant you!  But I have seen creative things here with even less relevance…

It's fairly obvious, Jamie, that "slightly relevant" means that there should be some relevance to the subject-matter of this website, rather than simply a tenuous connection with a previous posting you made. In this particular case, the posting was made back in August this year, and itself had little if any relevance to the thread in which it was posted. With you, "self-referential" is a whole new ball game, as they say.


ReplyQuote
Markus
(@markus)
Member
Joined: 9 years ago
Posts: 254
19/12/2013 2:50 am  

A blend of immaturity and racism. - This thread ought to be deleted: it has nothing to do with AC, is a shame to this site and especially to it's "author".

Markus


ReplyQuote
ptoner
(@ptoner)
Member
Joined: 14 years ago
Posts: 2077
19/12/2013 9:06 am  

I think everyone is over-reacting. Bear in mind the time period that it was written and the satire style.
It reminds me of TV Series, "Allo Allo" and maybe should be read in that train of thought.

It does have no connection to AC but it is at least, in the correct section. There is "other stuff" in here, that is in no way connected to AC after all.


ReplyQuote
jamie barter
(@jamie-barter)
Member
Joined: 8 years ago
Posts: 1688
19/12/2013 12:53 pm  

It is rather interesting how much feeling seems to have been raised by my little posting, which after all was only meant to spread a bit of harmless amusement at this time of year.  Can it really be that controversial?  I get the feeling that the people who are finding it at least mildly amusing are not surprisingly keeping schtum as usual and enjoying the “furore”.  And as Paul rightly says, there is indeed other “stuff” here which is in no way bears any direct tangible connection.

If I should have to defend myself (and I will not do so overlength, Shiva’s rather unnecessary observation about “ego-self-defense-stuff” notwithstanding), I could say that fascism in general and specifically Hitler and the Nazis in some ways represents the complete antithesis and the ‘yang’ to A.C. and Thelema’s ‘yin’ (or possibly the attributions are reversed); that one and one is two and therefore & then the great Nothing; and that considerations of all of the dangers of totalitarianism should not be far from the mind when considering deviations to the true will.  (There is also a quote from “kill and torture” in there, but as I didn’t put it in quotation marks I reckon it would be stretching a point to include that – and which is why I even mention it now in parentheses.)

“Allo Allo”? Well, I hadn’t thought of that, but I suppose you may have a point, Paul!  Ditto with “Dad’s Army” and “Hogan’s Heroes” too, maybe, in terms of sticking it to the Bosch.  Is all that now well out-of-date, though, would be the more interesting question, which brings in vagaries (and possible circularities) of fashion and perhaps those of regional styles of humour, etc. as well, which have also been touched upon in other recent threads e.g. A.C.'s article in “Lilliput”, etc.

Trying to manage keeping a straight (poker) face (sorry, I still find it funny),
N Joy


ReplyQuote
Hamal
(@hamal)
Member
Joined: 7 years ago
Posts: 547
19/12/2013 2:33 pm  

Calm down dears! It's only a bit of Barter y'know!

🙂
93
Hamal


ReplyQuote
OKontrair
(@okontrair)
Member
Joined: 16 years ago
Posts: 501
19/12/2013 4:38 pm  

Bosch = electrical goods manufacturer

Boche =  German soldiers http://www.thefreedictionary.com/Boche

Bosh = What I think of the article http://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/bosh

OK


ReplyQuote
Shiva
(@shiva)
Not a Rajah
Joined: 13 years ago
Posts: 4954
19/12/2013 5:05 pm  

bosh (noun)
Definition: (informal) empty or meaningless talk or opinions; nonsense.


Best definition of the year award[/align:3278zovb]


ReplyQuote
jamie barter
(@jamie-barter)
Member
Joined: 8 years ago
Posts: 1688
19/12/2013 5:26 pm  
"OKontrair" wrote:
[...]
Boche =  German soldiers http://www.thefreedictionary.com/Boche
[...]

From the Sacred Wikipedia entry, “List of terms used for Germans”:

There are many alternative ways to describe the people of Germany, though in English the official designated nationality as well as the standard noun is German. […]

Boche[edit]
Pronounced [boʃ], boche is a term used in World War I, often collectively ("the Boche" meaning "the Germans"). A shortened form of the French slang portmanteau alboche, itself derived from Allemand ("German") and caboche ("head" or "cabbage"). Also spelled "Bosch" or "Bosche".

NB, I repeat:

Also spelled "Bosch" or "Bosche

So - “Bish bash bosh”, there you go ;D
N Joy


ReplyQuote
Shiva
(@shiva)
Not a Rajah
Joined: 13 years ago
Posts: 4954
19/12/2013 5:32 pm  

See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Egomania

"Egomania is obsessive preoccupation with one's self and applies to someone who follows their own ungoverned impulses and is possessed by delusions of personal greatness and feels a lack of appreciation. Someone suffering from this extreme egocentric focus is an egomaniac. The condition is psychologically abnormal."


ReplyQuote
Hamal
(@hamal)
Member
Joined: 7 years ago
Posts: 547
19/12/2013 8:54 pm  
"ptoner" wrote:
It reminds me of TV Series, "Allo Allo" and maybe should be read in that train of thought.

😀
93
Hamal


ReplyQuote
lashtal
(@lashtal)
Owner and Editor Admin
Joined: 17 years ago
Posts: 5323
19/12/2013 10:50 pm  

Locked. Unsurprisingly.

Owner and Editor
LAShTAL


ReplyQuote
Share: