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  • Not A Granny
    WOSSNAME - OCTOBER 2007 -- PART 3 OF 6 (continued) ... oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ====Part 3 - THE CLACKS LOG OF WEIRD ALICE
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 26, 2007
      WOSSNAME - OCTOBER 2007 -- PART 3 OF 6 (continued)





      Post 7. TSORTED!

      First Clog: "You Cloggers are all alike..."

      I hadn't realised it was so long since my last Clogpost! Will try to
      be more conscientious, because I want to remember all these journeys
      when I'm too old to remember them without special equipment. I've
      been told about "Clog ennui" -- that's what happens to about fifty-
      five per cent of Cloggers -- at first it's all enthusiasm and long,
      rambling posts, and then after a few months their posts get shorter
      and they post less often, and then they find themselves going "Ooh,
      I must make a post about that because it's so interesting" and
      really mean to but seem to keep forgetting, and then a few more
      months go by and they realise they haven't posted anything at all
      and they've forgotten whatever was so interesting that they wanted
      to post about. So I'll do my best. I've told Gimpy to give me a
      bingly-bingly-beep reminder every two or three days. He offered to
      just make a note of everything I do so I can "edit it later", but
      I'm quite sure that some of the things I've been doing do NOT want
      to be noted, and imps aren't exactly strong in the "a certain
      discretion" department...

      We had a fantastic time in Djelibeybi, weeks and weeks of it. Great
      gigs out under the desert moon! I had a number of interesting chats
      with the Queen, and she introduced me to her friend Chidder of
      Chidders Merchant Venturers U'ltd who sold me a new non-sapient
      pearwood fretboard for my lute at less than cost price. He also gave
      me a Recording Device, which is a sort of box with a sort of wire in
      it that remembers sounds better than Gimpy doe-, um, better than one
      would think possible (he tapped his nose and said I have to keep it
      to myself because they've been banned in Ankh-Morpork and are
      considered contraband; I'd say they're pro-band, myself). And as I
      mentioned in my song DJEL STAR'S PYRAMID, Queen Ptraci has moved her
      country kicking and screaming into the Century of the Anchovy and
      has turned most of the old pyramids into hotels; room service is
      still a bit heavy on the honeyed locusts, but the best thing about
      sleeping in a pyramid is that you wake up a little younger every
      morning. I know where I'm going to spend my retirement.

      But all good things end eventually, and it was time to move on
      before we wore out our welcome. I booked passage on a camel train,
      and none of the camels broke down (though camel travel is rather
      like a series of mobile breakdowns; take it from me, camels do not
      give a smooth ride).

      And now here we are in Tsort, having a less fantastic time.

      Tsort has never been the same since the Siege of Ago -- the Ephebian
      conquerors put their retsina-flavoured stamp on the place so
      thoroughly that it's pretty much been a sort of Turnwise Ephebe ever
      since. Everything is quiet and dusty and bucolic, relentlessly
      picturesque locals dozing in the relentlessly picturesque sunshine,
      flies buzzing quietly around the street markets...until opening
      time, that is. Whatever glorious history Tsort had back in the days
      when History was glorious, what it mostly is these days is a tourist
      trap. Of course, the place is still full of Ephebians, but they
      don't come here with pointy spears and siege engines now; they come
      here for their holidays because the architecture is familiar and the
      food is familiar and the music is familiar but they can walk down
      the street without tripping over philosophers.

      So instead of not being able to move for all the drunken
      philosophers, you can't move for all the drunken holidaymakers. It's
      all pubs and hotels and cafes and restaurants and retsina bars and
      markets and more pubs and, most of all, nightclubs -- which makes it
      one of the most popular destinations for all the Clubbe Circlesea
      thirtysomethings. They say they come for the ambience and the mind-
      broadening aspects of travel, but what they really come for is the
      boozeries. There's the Fair Elenor, the Inferno (supposedly built on
      the supposed spot of the supposed Fire of Tsort), the Wooden Horse,
      the Lavaeolus, the King Mausoleum's Head and Artichoke, the
      Uninvolved Civilian, the Siege of Tsort, the Sea God's Revenge, the
      Legged Box (which lists itself as "Tsort's Oldest Inne", although
      curiously enough no-one seems to know where its name came from), the
      Soldier's Break...you get the idea. And then there are the
      nightclubs. Oh gods, the nightclubs. The ceaseless wailing of
      bouzoukis, the ceaseless barking of Bourzoukis, the ceaseless
      single-entendre lyrics, the unavoidable Plate Breaking Dance, the
      ubiquitous sleazily-named cocktails (not to be confused with the
      Ephebian philosopher Ubiquitus, although it's said that he invented
      a few sleazily-named cocktails in his day)...I feel like I need a
      holiday to recover from my holiday...

      The twentysomethings from Clubbe 18-29-and-3/4, on the other hand,
      stop in Tsort for a few cocktails and then go straight to
      Heliodeliphilodelphiboschromenos. It's popularly known as Heliodeli,
      but what it should really be called is
      Heliodeliphilodelphishaggarama! Why this crowd chose a sleepy, past-
      it city in the middle of nowhere for their rampant, um, mating
      rituals is a mystery; maybe it's because Heliodeli is a sleepy,
      past-it city in the middle of nowhere? At any rate, not much
      sleeping goes on there. We decided, Cert and I, to pass on that
      particular tourist attraction. When one's (or two's) already been At
      It like Oggs over half the Disc, including on a flying carpet,
      having a designated spot for At It hasn't much appeal. We opted
      instead for doing touristy things. We saw the River Tsort -- very
      muddy and big on crocodiles -- and the Silent Marshes -- very silent
      and big on mosquitoes -- and the Siege Market -- big on leather
      wine bottles and garlic and souvenirs of the Top(ple)less Towers --
      and spent the rest of the time getting drunk with the Ephebian

      Well, most of the rest of the time. Speaking of being At It like
      Oggs, things have reached the point where Cert can barely raise a
      damp spark from his fingers [magic-wise, that is]. I think we may
      have ruined his entire career future! Which is a shame because,
      while he's a nice lad and I'm fond of him, I can't quite picture him
      staying home and doing the washing-up while I goo off on concert
      tours. Still, I won't be going home for a while yet...

      Oh, we also visited the Great Pyramid of Tsort. After seeing what
      Queen Ptraci did with the pyramids in Djelibeybi and after what
      Tsort has done with alcoholic tourism, I was expecting something
      slick and modern with hot and cold running kebabs. But it was not to
      be. The great Pyramid is what you might call a *working* pyramid --
      very, you know, industrial, with scaffolding everywhere because it's
      so old and they don't want bits falling on the sightseers. There was
      some very interesting ancient graffiti, though. Very *colourful*
      graffiti. I don't know much Old Tsortean, just enough to translate a
      few simple phrases, but these were definitely simple. And simply
      definite. The most repeated graffito translates as THYS JOBBE SUXX,
      and there were other popular ones that I oughtn't repeat. Looks as
      if the lot of the working man, or working slave, never changes.

      It's opening time! Here endeth this post.


      Second Clog: "Do a little dance, buy a little round, get drunk

      About things musical, and things...less musical: I haven't written
      any new songs since I've been here. This is mostly to do with
      someone else's song that's insanely popular here -- it's got into my
      head and I can't get it out. Cert says it's a "wyrm of the ear", and
      that's pretty accurate since it seems to be chewing its way through
      my brain. I'm reproducing it here so you can share my pain! It goes
      like this:

      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh
      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh
      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh
      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh

      When you take me to the pub
      Tell me I'm a round ahead
      When you give me all your change
      And booze away, until we're nearly dead

      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh
      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh
      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh
      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh

      When we get to dance on the floor
      And when we're all close in pairs
      When you're dripping sweat in my ear
      Widdershins, Turn-, who cares?

      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh
      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh
      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh
      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh

      Booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze
      Booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze

      Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
      I like it, uh huh, uh huh...

      ...and repeat ad chunderam. See? Brain-eating. Whatever it was we
      just barely escaped from in the Lost City of Ee couldn't have been
      as soul-destroying as that!

      On the other hand, they have some interesting musical instruments
      here. There's the cythara, which is rather like a lyre; the forminx,
      which is rather like a lyre that's been left out in the rain for 500
      years and isn't as saucy as its name suggests; and the barbito,
      which is a sort of bass-pitched sort-of lute completely lacking in
      barbs. The latter, I'm told, was the favourite instrument of the
      poet and philosopher Anachronistes, who was summoned by the then-
      Tyrant Hipphoppus to compose drinking songs for his household.
      Anachronistes was noted for his long life as well as his Bardic
      skills; unfortunately, he choked to death on a grape at the age of
      105, and none of his songs survive today, more's the pity as I'm
      sure they had to be better than the Tsort song. But I bought a
      barbito in the market, to send home. It sounds good with drums, and
      I think I might even be able to start a new style of accompaniment
      that way. Wish me luck.

      Time to feed the imp, and then I have a gig tonight. I wonder how my
      former travelling companions are getting on.


      End of Part 3, continued on Part 4 of 6.
      If you did not get all six parts, write: interact@...
      Copyright (c) 2007 by Klatchian Foreign Legion
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