WHOLESOME TALES

Frankly, I'm tired of Shriff's Office intrigues -- I'm off to the picnic...at last... I'm going as a Lesbonian Swords Girl...

Orwell wrote: (I would also like to know how I am to be transformed back into my real self

I had a similar problem. Let me recommend the carrot juice!

Also,

DON'T LET PETTY COME NEAR YOU WITH A HOSE! ')

Oh I'm getting used to it, Davy... I'm going Dancing with Mirabella next week... I'm so excited... I'm even thinking of auditioning as a cheerleader for the Needlehole (Aussie Rules) Kangaroos... but I do need to get back to my practice... Ta'raa!

Orwell sent this to me from Mrs Figg's bustle. It seems very much a Wholesome Tale --- and put to music!





Rumour has it Orwell did this video ALL ON HIS OWN - without any help from Petty Tyrant at all, at all. Ooh how clever he was to do that, really.... And he possibly did it in breach of every international photographic Copyright law in existence - but how the hell would he know anyway? --- The point is, a brawny hobbit Lad (however elderly) needs do exactly what he must do ---- err.... needn't he?

Oh yes, he told me to tell everyone that the song is an Original performed in One Take by the Original Artist (Orwell, that is! ) --- and so you all better respect his Copyright, all right!

Hmmm.....yeah.....

Just yeah....

No help from me at all- yet it is remarkably like the old photo idea I suggested however (minus the animation)

I'm sure Orwell will have his own points to make - when he can escape from Amarie, and Mrs Figg's bustle - but as he is... err... currrently indisposed, I'll make a reply on his behalf Mr Tyrant...

Don't you think it was nice of Orwell not to burden you with his crap? And now you'll have more time for "Home" and that other video you've been making! Shouldn't you be grateful to him?

Personally, I thought he's done a good job, first up! --- for a technofool, that is...

Btw what's your sound quality like --- I've got no (decent) speakers or headphones for my Netopsphericaldevice... rather frustrating...



Mmm??? Could Orwell somehow send you the original movie and you ADD animation effects etcetera etcetera??

Sound quality seems fine- and yes he has done, I suppose, a not unreasonable job at it (grudging enough for you?! )

Oh tush! You know how fragile Orwell is about his creative things, Petty -- can't you do a bit better than 'grudging'? He did try very hard. Had to find Windows Movie Maker, click buttons, get stuff from Google Images, save them, import them, drag them, import the music file, select each photo and click on those fun 'effects', get the timing reasonable... I get dizzy just thinking about it, but then, I'm just a girl .... Mind, Orwell tells me it was amazingly easy to do -- even for an absolute dickhead {{{I think he may have been referring to himself, Petty! Though whether he meant to or not, I'm not really sure! }}}

I only do grudging praise! From a Scotshobbit that is the equivelent of high praise- I cite as evidence the case of John Logie Baird-
"Hey guys, look at this- I've invented a way of transmitting moving pictures into people homes! Im calling it television."
"oh aye, very good Logie, and you think that gets you out of buying the next round do you? Tam there invented radio and Boab there just came up wi' radar. So git tae the bar man!"

Are you saying Orwell invented Youtube... it certainly sounds like it.... Oooh I'm already all googly-eyed over Orwell - and it just gets better. Not only can he click internetospherica-movie-making buttons, he's pushing my buttons too... Every girl - deep down - loves a romantic brawny hobbit, don't you think? - even if he's a bit stout around the stomach.

You do like living on the edge Mirabella. I cant tell if you are brave or nieve!

Is a 'nieve' something like a 'sieve'? If so - you watchit, Mr Petty Fancypants!

Just saying, dumping Pretty and in the next breath waxing lyrical about Orwell- dont fancy either of you chances much after that. You may not have noticed but Pretty has a bit of an anger managment issue.

Well, if she hadn't gone and become indifferent to our Wedding, then maybe things would not have amounted to this.... {{{Note to self: take home Blunderbuss from work in future.... }}}

Another Wholesome Song! Well well well well well... won't Petty be crabbit... Orwell will be as clever as he is.. in no time at all... in Elvish terms...

she hadn't gone and become indifferent to our Wedding- Mirabella

Indifferent? She's been away telling everyone about how wonderful you are and rubbing it in with all her old acquantances how wonderful your wedding was going to be- and she comes back to find you've dumped her, publicly. Without even speaking to her first. Goood luck with that. I mean I've seen her angry before but never like this.

And I bow to Orwells superiour vid palantir creation skills- more fool me- wish I'd thought of just nicking a bunch of images off a google search and just making a slideshow would have saved me hours of work and effort!!

With Orwell, I'm afraid 'simple' is best because "simple' is all he can do -- only only then, sometimes...


Rumour is, he's going to try and film something next... wouldn't that be a turn up for the books... Orwell the Film maker....

My mind boggles- I expect an arrest and a scandal in the papers to follow!

Now, Petty, this lovely couple of yours that you're too shy to film in the bed scene of "There Was a Man"... what was that address in Scotshobbiton again?

{{{{Its got nothing to do with shyness its persuading them to do those 'extra' scenes you wanted. I've tried telling them what you told me about the deeper symbolism of the feather duster, the police uniform and the stuffed weasel but they dont seem convinced}}}}}

Pettytyrant101 wrote:{{{{.... .... .... }}}}}

{{{How did I ever manage to miss that, Petty.... }}}

THE SAWGUH OF THE FJORDIANLANDIAN GIRL

Once upon a time there was a young lass who lived with her brother and her elderly grandmother, Amarie. Her brother was Ringo (the 17th) and the girl, herself, by name S'norc, though her real name was Hilda, but due to her strange nasalization at times of stress, she was called S'norc. Example: "I do so much want that tasty s'norc lolipop, Grandmama s'norc; I do verily!"

The two young hobbits lived with their Grandmother because their parents had gone away on holiday to Barcelona one day when they were toddlers, and wisely never returned, having no love for snow and ice and chillblains, but all the love in the world for sunny beaches and the Spanish guitar. Amarie was actually their Great Grandmother, though she did not look a day over 93.

One morning S'norc got home from school, bearing a note from her Teacher, Stig Upsakrakenhyme (whose mother was German) and upon the reading of the note, Amarie was aghast. She went to see S'norc in the dining area-cum-computer room where young S'norc was playing hopscotch with her limbre brother.

Wringing her gnarled hands, Amarie expressed: "Oh dear, dear, dear S'norc. I am having from your teacher a most horrendous type notice!"

S'norc grated: "I bet that be, as it's said, the business of the elephant in the schoolyard." And she rolled her eyes.

"What elephant?" Ringo asked as he rubbed the thigh of his tight new Birmingham trousers.

"There is no elephant!" Amarie stated anguishedly. "It is but a ferment of S'norc's unbridled imagination!"

"It is so ever NOT, s'norc s'norc Grandmama! It is a real s'norc elephant - and it eats s'norc straw...."

"I want an elephant," Ringo said, hopefully.

"And this business of whom Stig is expostulating in vibrant Fjordianlandian" (Amarie went on), "RAVIOLI! RAVIOLI! It is indeed a foodstuff worthy of hobbit consumpting, S'norc - and not the foodstuff only of oinkypig growing for bacon-making! Why would a young lass of Fjordian background ever suggest otherwise, and even your Great Great Great Grandfather a hobbit of Naples! It was not his fault your Great Great Great Grandmother was a trollop, and surely!"

"I said it was NOT fit for oinkys'norcpigs!, Grandmama!"

"I want some ravioli," Ringo said, hopefully.

"And what is this business of scented oils - rosehip and booginbush-nectar - that which you have applied to certain parts of the Three Stone Trolls in the Fatkatzenburg Municipal Council Public Quadrangle?"

"They looked rusty, and smelled of cat's pi...."

"Enough! Enough!" Amarie intimated verbally and despairedly. "You must now this instance of time go to school immediately and make repairs to the situation of this family tragedy."

"It's hardly a s'norc s'norc tragedy, barely a blimp in the overall circumferenace of all my former trangsgressions!"

"That may be so, but this may be the snowflake that breaks of the bough of the Fjordian Spruce. Go! GO! GO NOW!"

"Yes, Grandmama."

"And please to take your brother with you, as he is rubbing his Birmingham trousers in a fashion as to cause his Grandmama concern of an alarming sensitivity!"

And so S'norc and Ringo went out into the snow together and walked the icy lanes of their village and down to their school.

Stig Upsakrakenhyme met them at the gate. His state was one of agitation. "There you are S'norc with your skin the colour of pure white cream of the Fjordian heifer's milk. Your elephant has trodden on the Head Master Grimbauld's foot - and he is by no means pleased by that unhappy happenstance!"

S'norc's milk white face turned pale. "But there is no elephant, Sir!"

Stig said, "What do you mean 'there is no elephant!'?"

"That elephant is a ferment of my nocturnal wanderings produced in daylight to confusticate my Elders, Sir!"

"Aha!" Stig in triumph. "I knew it! You must now come into the school and write 100 times, 'I must not make up stories about riding elephants to school.'' It is only fitting in light of the deceit you have inflicted upon me and other citizens of this albeit modern Fjordian village which yet keeps some of it's best traditions."

And so S'norc was sent to the School blackboard. Ringo with Stig sat at the back of the classroom while she did so.

"They are very fine trousers, young Ringo," complimented Stig.

"Yes," said Ringo proudly. "They are from Birmingham."

"England?"

"Yes - they are fine trousers."

"Yes, they are very fine trousers, make no mistake, and mould your legs like a glove."

"Indeed! I am very proud of them."

"Yes, I am sure they are very fine legs beneath the fabric."

"Did you not see my legs last week at the Student Saunamoot you Chaired?"

"Oh yes. I remember, now. They are very fine legs indeed!"

"Thank you, Sir."

After some more conversation on the virtues of Ringo's trousers and the legs they concealed (but hinted at) had transpired, S'norc attended at the back of the classroom.

"It is done," she said in a tiny chastened voice.

"Did you write it 100 times, young S'norc?" Stig contended sternly.

"I did, Sir."

"I hope you have learned your lesson then... hmm?"

"I have, Sir."

"Good. Off you go then!"

And S'norc never made up stories about riding elephants to school ever again - it's said.

The Archet Bugle wrote:THE SAWGUH OF THE FJORDIANLANDIAN GIRL

Once upon a time there was a young lass who lived with her brother and her elderly grandmother, Amarie. Her brother was Ringo (the 17th) and the girl, herself, by name S'norc, though her real name was Hilda, but due to her strange nasalization at times of stress, she was called S'norc. Example: "I do so much want that tasty s'norc lolipop, Grandmama s'norc; I do verily!"

The two young hobbits lived with their Grandmother because their parents had gone away on holiday to Barcelona one day when they were toddlers, and wisely never returned, having no love for snow and ice and chillblains, but all the love in the world for sunny beaches and the Spanish guitar. Amarie was actually their Great Grandmother, though she did not look a day over 93.

One morning S'norc got home from school, bearing a note from her Teacher, Stig Upsakrakenhyme (whose mother was German) and upon the reading of the note, Amarie was aghast. She went to see S'norc in the dining area-cum-computer room where young S'norc was playing hopscotch with her limbre brother.

Wringing her gnarled hands, Amarie expressed: "Oh dear, dear, dear S'norc. I am having from your teacher a most horrendous type notice!"

S'norc grated: "I bet that be, as it's said, the business of the elephant in the schoolyard." And she rolled her eyes.

"What elephant?" Ringo asked as he rubbed the thigh of his tight new Birmingham trousers.

"There is no elephant!" Amarie stated anguishedly. "It is but a ferment of S'norc's unbridled imagination!"

"It is so ever NOT, s'norc s'norc Grandmama! It is a real s'norc elephant - and it eats s'norc straw...."

"I want an elephant," Ringo said, hopefully.

"And this business of whom Stig is expostulating in vibrant Fjordianlandian" (Amarie went on), "RAVIOLI! RAVIOLI! It is indeed a foodstuff worthy of hobbit consumpting, S'norc - and not the foodstuff only of oinkypig growing for bacon-making! Why would a young lass of Fjordian background ever suggest otherwise, and even your Great Great Great Grandfather a hobbit of Naples! It was not his fault your Great Great Great Grandmother was a trollop, and surely!"

"I said it was NOT fit for oinkys'norcpigs!, Grandmama!"

"I want some ravioli," Ringo said, hopefully.

"And what is this business of scented oils - rosehip and booginbush-nectar - that which you have applied to certain parts of the Three Stone Trolls in the Fatkatzenburg Municipal Council Public Quadrangle?"

"They looked rusty, and smelled of cat's pi...."

"Enough! Enough!" Amarie intimated verbally and despairedly. "You must now this instance of time go to school immediately and make repairs to the situation of this family tragedy."

"It's hardly a s'norc s'norc tragedy, barely a blimp in the overall circumferenace of all my former trangsgressions!"

"That may be so, but this may be the snowflake that breaks of the bough of the Fjordian Spruce. Go! GO! GO NOW!"

"Yes, Grandmama."

"And please to take your brother with you, as he is rubbing his Birmingham trousers in a fashion as to cause his Grandmama concern of an alarming sensitivity!"

And so S'norc and Ringo went out into the snow together and walked the icy lanes of their village and down to their school.

Stig Upsakrakenhyme met them at the gate. His state was one of agitation. "There you are S'norc with your skin the colour of pure white cream of the Fjordian heifer's milk. Your elephant has trodden on the Head Master Grimbauld's foot - and he is by no means pleased by that unhappy happenstance!"

S'norc's milk white face turned pale. "But there is no elephant, Sir!"

Stig said, "What do you mean 'there is no elephant!'?"

"That elephant is a ferment of my nocturnal wanderings produced in daylight to confusticate my Elders, Sir!"

"Aha!" Stig in triumph. "I knew it! You must now come into the school and write 100 times, 'I must not make up stories about riding elephants to school.'' It is only fitting in light of the deceit you have inflicted upon me and other citizens of this albeit modern Fjordian village which yet keeps some of it's best traditions."

And so S'norc was sent to the School blackboard. Ringo with Stig sat at the back of the classroom while she did so.

"They are very fine trousers, young Ringo," complimented Stig.

"Yes," said Ringo proudly. "They are from Birmingham."

"England?"

"Yes - they are fine trousers."

"Yes, they are very fine trousers, make no mistake, and mould your legs like a glove."

"Indeed! I am very proud of them."

"Yes, I am sure they are very fine legs beneath the fabric."

"Did you not see my legs last week at the Student Saunamoot you Chaired?"

"Oh yes. I remember, now. They are very fine legs indeed!"

"Thank you, Sir."

After some more conversation on the virtues of Ringo's trousers and the legs they concealed (but hinted at) had transpired, S'norc attended at the back of the classroom.

"It is done," she said in a tiny chastened voice.

"Did you write it 100 times, young S'norc?" Stig contended sternly.

"I did, Sir."

"I hope you have learned your lesson then... hmm?"

"I have, Sir."

"Good. Off you go then!"

And S'norc never made up stories about riding elephants to school ever again - it's said.

One new story every few weeks isn't really enough content now is it? No wonder you struggling to make 0% profit...

Hehe, Birmingham trousers... this reminded me of a certain Morten Abel song. I'll embed it in a spoiler, since the story is not suited for kids and respectable hobbits.

Spoiler: