Fear and Loathing in the House

Dear Chroniclers,

another rainy Saturday passes at the House. The Hounds have been walked, reallyfried has visited and mrs electrofried continues to struggle with the alien life-form that arrived in her Christmas stocking, courtesy of Cook, just a few weeks ago.

The lights of doom

The alien in question, if fading eyesight serves me right, goes by the inexplicably mis-spelled name of "Sonny, the DVD recorder", the words writ large in letters red, black and bold on the carton in which it arrived. And now, unpacked, it sits skulking in the corner of the TV Lounge.

The little green flashing lights that illuminate its fascia refuse stubbornly to co-operate with either the complementary remote-controller we found secreted amongst the wood-shavings at the bottom of the carton, or our own sturdy, valve-operated teak-clad edifice of a TV set. We are, dear Chroniclers, currently at something of an electronic impasse.

A matter of no little import

Having made discrete enquiries of the local Trading Standards Office, we are lead to believe Cook may have acquired the wretched thing via some dubious bartering at a recent Little Wittering car-boot sale. Rumour has it bottles of cheap Turnip Gin may have exchanged hands.

Worse still, we suspect from the "Made in Slovenia" label sellotaped loosely to the bottom of the devilish instrument, that we may be in possession of what might politely be described as a grey import. Certainly, Cook has previous form in the dark world of counterfeit consumer-goodery. Two previous convictions stamped on her "Care in the Community" order bear witness to this - as she took great pride in telling us some little while ago, having just entered indentured service with the House of electrofried.

So it appears likely, despite our careful nurturing of the florid-faced woman, that she has made a return to ways of old. And whilst we're on the subject, Fetlock the Butler was not entirely impressed either with the Louis Vuitton handbag and matching sock-suspenders that were his Christmas Box lot from Cook this year.

Puzzling Instructions

Back to our TV Lounge, and the silvery machine continues to remain a Sphinx-like electronic mystery - not even the hieroglyphics of an accompanying instruction manual can unravel its arcane inner-workings.

If truth be known, the booklet is as impenetrable as "Sonny" itself. It speaks in strange, acronymic tounges of "HDD" and "SLP", it reels off bizarre algaebraic formulae such as "DVD - RW/DVD - R" and "DVD = R DL" and then, to top it all, it contains perplexing entreaties to select a pattern from "A" through "E" according to our input jack.

So far as mrs electrofried and I are concerned, we have no input jack, at least none of which we are aware. And even if we did, we would be loathe to entrust it to the vagaries of a Slovenian grey import of uncertain jurisdiction.

A spring in the air

Had it not been for the interjection of Fetlock's feather duster, then matters may have rested there - a sullen, uncommunicative object glued to the floor of the TV Lounge. Not unlike our own, darling teenygoth, come to think of it. But no, our faithful retainer sprang into action earlier this Saturday morning with unexpected alacrity!

He was stationed at the time by the front door to the House, talking to the spot-encrusted delivery-boy from Mrs Puri's 24/7 Balti'n'Booze Emporium, ("Chicken Vindaloo and super-strength continental lagers our speciality"), the poor lad being the latest victim of his ongoing attempts to master the art of casual English conversation. Hearing mrs electrofried's plaintive cries of despair as she locked swords once more with the combined might of "Sonny the Sphinx" and the unintelligible instruction manual, Fetlock broke off talks to make haste toward the TV Lounge.

His parting words to the frankly bewildered youth were,"Mi lahko daste kak ne prospekte o Bledu in okolici v angle ini?", which roughly translated means, "Could you give me some brochures about Bled and the surrounding region in English?" And with that cryptic observation, he scooped up his trusty feather-duster in one hand and made his way down the Hall.

Fettled and dusted

Fetlock's mastery of the feather-duster is a thing of beauty and a joy to behold. Quite who schooled him in the ancient art of dust-removal, or indeed, why, remains a mystery to us all - but something for which we in the House are eternally grateful. Suffice to say that even the most Herculean of domestic-cleansing chores (to wit, the annual spring-clean of the living quarters allotted to young teenygoth) are no match for the electrofried's Butler extraordinaire once he in full flight.

And in full flight he most definitely was this morning. Fetlock appeared at the door to the TV Lounge, feather-duster clenched tightly between his teeth, and promptly proceeded to leap, ninja-like, the length of the room.

"Do not be fretting, electrofried mrs." he pronounced, duster to the ready.

"Fetlock curing it, he will!"

It was all over in a flash. The duster bobbed and weaved its way across the fascia of "Sonny the Sphinx" until at last it yielded its treasure. A secret compartment slid open to reveal a tray into which DVDs should be placed. To our astonishment, its crude plastic mouldings contained not a silver-circled disc, but rather a badly decomposed turnip.

Fetlock assured us this was quite standard practice in more rural areas of Slovenia, where mass-produced consumer frivolities are often put to good use in storing the winter essentials. The turnip duly removed, he bowed deeply to the lady of the House before making his way back down the Hall.

My biggest mistake

All appeared to be going well at this juncture. "Sonny the Sphinx" was now primed and ready for action, its flashing green lights duly compliant for the first time since its Christmas unveiling.

So why or why, did I elect to carry out the programming?

Cream teas and "Rain"

I might have known it would all back-fire with hideous consequences.

The Very Reverend Giblets, our encumbant at the Church for the Terminally Bewildered Anglican, chose to pay a passing visit to the House this same afternoon. As cruel fate would have it, he was accompanied by several parents of good-standing in the parish, their assorted offspring all regulars at the Youth Group run by mrs electrofried and I.

With teenygoth gagged and secured discretely out of sight behind the aspidistra, Cook was duly despatched to the kitchens to make up some light cream teas. Meanwhile, as mrs electrofried assembled the expectant parents around the TV set, I duly loaded up "Sonny the Sphinx" with an uplifting but thoroughly modern Christian DVD (such things do exist) called "Rain" by the rather splendid Nooma team.

"Let's show you the sort of things your children are watching with us on Sunday evenings."

Having effected the introductions, mrs electrofried, gesticuled in my direction to press the Play button. Little did I realise there were in fact two Play buttons. I hit the one for the hard-drive and made my way back to the sofa as these words from my dearly beloved rang out across an otherwise hushed room:

"Electrofried, what on earth have you done???????"

Mint Hotel madness

I really should know better, but ever since my teenage years I have been a closet affecianado of the works of the sadly deceased Hunter S. Thompson. His classic, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas", has long been a favourite of mine and it would have been churlish not to have recorded the film version when it was aired a few days ago on terrestrial TV.

Those familiar with Thompson's drug-raddled journalistic style will no doubt recollect the infamous scene from the book when Dr. Gonzo checks into the Mint Hotel heavily under the influence of mescaline. Terry Gilliam's faithful interpretation of this vision from Hades saw a group of astonished parents nearly choke on their scones and jam as "Sonny the Sphinx" spluttered into action.

A now silent audience watched in disbelief as a hideous tableaux unfurled on the screen before them - Mint Hotel patrons transformed by the evil drug into rampant, reptilian blood-letting monsters. You could have heard a pin drop ...

Banished to the Tower

The Youth Group seemed strangely quiet this weekend. I hear rumours our tenure as leaders may shortly be coming to an end as once more I've been banished to the Tower...

... and all I have to keep me company are the flashing lights of "Sonny the Sphinx" and three months worth of the omnibus edition of "Eastenders"". I shall keep a stout heart as I complete my penance.

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)