The soot of truth

The Count of Mont Cristo is a gentleman!  Modo he’s called.  And Mahu.

 

 

Well he’s neither of these actually.  He’s a tax collector from Wolverhampton called Japheth Steeltrouser.  And furthermore he’s not even a tax collector.  It’s merely a pretension to try and gain membership of the Garrick Club.  He doesn’t stand a chance.  He’ll be blackballed before you can say Jack Robinson.  Which, incidentally, is his real name.

 

And so, worthy gentlefolk, we begin our story with Jack Robinson who, after years as a guttersnipe, sifting through rotten cabbages in the gutters of old London Towne had risen to become one of the city’s most noted artists, taking up residence with Damon Hearse in the trendy suburb of Shoreditch.

 

One October Wednesday, Jack Robinson awoke to the strains of a water violin being played in Mixolydian mode in the streets below.  He availed himself of scarf and glove and went over and drew back the curtains, thus half-dressed and stuck his head through the window.  Upon discovering that he had neglected to open this vitrine into the grimy city, he pulled out the fragments of glass from his neck and opened the window properly, which by now was letting in the chill air, and charging tuppence for doing so.

 

Jack Robinson, lifted his scarf from his shoulders and waved to the African Tree Frog below, who was playing the water violin in a most displeasing manner and seemed not to notice the protestations from above.  Jack, therfore used speech to effect a kind of discourse betwixt him and the frog, which he believed to be a more successful approach than using thought alone.  Upon hearing speech, the frog glanced up and was confronted with this semi-naked fellow waving a scarf and calling to him.  He was sore afraid.  Why he knew not, but neverthless sore afraid he was and so he began to creep away from the strange sight above him and to a second busker’s pitch around the corner.

 

Jack Robinson was a little disappointed by this, as his only chance at befriending a frog, for which he had dreamed all his life, seemed now hopelessly crushed.  Swift came his resolve however, and he ran forth into the street in order to pursue this musical lizard, noticing not that his skin was on display to all who cared to look.  And in Shoreditch, none cared to look.

 

However, the frog, who espied this naked lunatic, picked up his hat, wherein he was briefly pleased to discover the presence of 12 thrupenny bits and a shilling, clasped his water violin to his pulsating bosom and ran as fast as he could, not stopping to hop, lest it should slow his flight and jumped aboard a tram, bound for Camden Lock.

 

Jack Robinson therefore never was able to initiate a friendship with any amphibian after this bitter experience and died a very lonely man in abject misery on the shores of the Thames, 53 years later.  The frog however went on to win several Brit Awards and a MoBO, even being nominated for an Academy Award for his work on the score of an all-newt adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo.

 

He never forgot Jack Robinson however and he died also, breathing his name in regret.  However he pronounced his name wrong, so it was an utter waste of time.

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