As snow began to fall outside Charles Dickens' 'Old Pomposity Shoppe' in London, that writer finally accepted defeat after years of trying to write satire, but ending up droning on about nothing so badly that people who started reading his articles gave up after only a few sentences, out of sheer boredom. 'Everything I write is total humbug!', he muttered to himself, when a knock came at the door.
Carefully avoiding any cheap puerile innuendo at that phrase, such as fills up 99% of 'articles' in the feeble 'TheLackOfSpoofs.web' writers' forum in Old Yankee's Unfunny Lane near Covent Garden, Dickens went and opened the door to see a small boy standing there. 'Well?', that writer said, and the boy put out his hand and said
'Please, sir, it's Christmas soon, and you should be kind to street urchins loik what I his, can you spare a couple of pennies for my old arthritic aunt's -' 'Begone, you snivelling little shit!', Dickens correctly said to the youngster, and slammed the door in the beggar's face, then went back to his writing table.
After a few minutes of writing about other writers' completely uninteresting lives and personal habits to try and cover up his lack of skill at writing satire, the front door was knocked on again. 'Jesus F***ing Christ!', he swore out loud, 'now what!', and the same boy was still there. 'I thought I told you to push off!', Dickens shouted at the youngster, who had his hand out again, 'knock once more on this door, just once, and I'll assassinate you, you pie-faced, scrounging wee parasite, now piss off!', and slammed the door again in the boy's face, breaking his nose.
'Humbug!', Dickens muttered again, and sat down to write what would be the most boring and unoriginal and badly-wrote piece of drivel he could think up, just to parody 99% of the kids what contribute to 'TheLackOfSpoofs.com' writers' forum, when the door was knocked on for a third time.
Pausing merely to pick up his newly-sharpened harpoon, he pulled open the door but rather than the boy it was what looked like a ghost, shimmering in the falling snow. 'I am the ghost of archives past', the spectre howled hideously, and came into Dicken's house, 'I have come to show you all you have been doing wrong.'
Quickly hiding his teenage girlfriend behind the roaring log fire in the room, Charles Dickens waited for the ghost to begin, and wasn't disappointed. 'See at all the tripe you inflicted on the other poor members of 'TheLackOfSpoofs.com' writers' forum',
the ghost said, pointing to article after article about Jade Deady, the human physique, and lots of 'naughty' words, 'pure, unadulterated garbage!', and Dickens hanged his head in shame. 'Hung', the spectre corrected him, then vanished, and now Dickens had a new purpose for his writing, to only write decent satire and spoofs for the forum. Then yet another knock came at the door.
'Bloomin' 'eck', he mutttered, in an English accent that dumb Americans don't even know exists but is spoken by millions of British people, 'that'll be postie coom to get 'is tip, the lazy, commie pest!', but it turned out to be a second ghost. 'Wooooooo!', the ghost said to frighten Dickens, but that writer had already been haunted that day and merely said 'I suppose you'd best coom in, though why a ghost needs a door and is maitherin' aboot on doorstep is bloody silly!', and soon the ghost was warming his hands at the roaring girlfriend's side.
'I am the ghost of -' 'Yeah yeah, get on with it!' ' - of the archives present', the dead one said, 'now see all the adolescent dross written by you that is in the writers' forum', and Dickens could hardly bear to look as his 'work', stuff that could be better-written and more satirical if written by a dead sheep.
'This is abysmal!', the ghost thundered, then disappeared, and back the writer went to his desk, but as he took his seat the door began knocking once more. 'Another ghost, I suppose', he thought, 'maybe I can just pretend I'm out', but the ghost easily walked through the door and stood in front of him.
'Don't tell me, you're the ghost of - 'Yeppers, the ghost of the archives future', and soon the room was full of dreadful articles that would embarrass a child if written, page after page of drivelling keck about the same old subjects that no-one is interested in. 'So you see', the ghost said, turning the burning girlfriend over with a toasting fork, 'unless you change you are doomed to write teenage vomit-inducing nauseous shite for the rest of your days, just because you know who runs the writers' forum in Old Unfunny Yankee's PainintheArse Lane' , and promptly walked back out of the house through The Doors, and Charles Dickens sat down again.
'Doors, Doors, fire, girl ... wait!', he shouted to nobody, just to pad out the sentiment, 'Come on baby light my fire! Woo hoo!', and so Charles Dickens retired from attempting to write satire and spoofs and began a new career as a writer of catchy but uncommercial pop songs. 'I know it would be untrue', he wrote away, 'I know I would be a liar, if I was to say to you, 'TheLackOfSpoofs.com couldn't be much direr. Say a prayer for the unknown writer', he continued, 'maybe when we're both a little older, we'll grow up and write things wot is funnier.'
'Make a grave for the unwanted satire, Children's crap that doth do tire, Unwanted satire. Breakfast where the jokes are dead, TV-obsessed tripe addles my head, Unborn living, satire's dead, Bullet ought to strike the 'top writers'' heads!', and one James Morrison sneaked across the Atlantic in a time machine, half-inched Dickens's words and went back to the 1960s to become the world's most famous rock star.
Leaving Dickens to return to his job as the best-rated and most unoriginal writer at 'TheLackOfSpoofs.com' in Old Yankee's Unfunny Unsatirical Unread Lane, though not before he wrote one more song called 'Twentieth Century Thief':
'Well, she's unashamedly mean
And has no ideas
She'll never write a thing
That gets some tee hees
But she's a drag, just watch the way she steals
Cos she's a - twentieth century thief
Yes she's a - twentieth century thief
No ideas, many fears, no ideas, no books
She's a twentieth century thief, oh yeah
She writes about queens
She's the lady who waits
To pinch your ideas
It sure irritates
She won't waste time on making up new things
Cos she's a - twentieth century thief
Yeah she's a - twentieth century thief
Got archives, to steal, rewrite, and claim her own
She's a twentieth century thief
A twentieth century thief
(Words by Charles 'All My Ideas Were Nicked From the Last Century's Archives' Dickens; music by John Denbore, Bobby Seigheil, Jim Morrisyawn, Ray Mozzarella; additional shrieking and babosity and all round tastiness by Heather 'We All Know We Would Even If She's Missing A Wee Bit' Mills-on-Ice; tea made by 'Old Godmother' Tetley;
toast burnt at the stake by Pope Ridiculous XVIVXXCDXIIX; porridge made by Oliver Twisted-Ending for Hollywood, as in Dickens' book the boy is hanged for stealing as happened in Victorian England, something crybaby Yanks can't handle in a movie; nauseating politically-correct unfunny unsatirical ending by Julie 'Oom Pa Pa Phwoarrr!' Andrews)