Plotting A Course To Notoriety #blogbattle

This month’s #blogbattle prompt is navigate

Nelson Bonaparte Plonker was conflicted. His name, for starters. All male Plonkers had been named after their place of conception (or as close as the contributing member could recall) for generations. Nelson’s father, Halifax was pretty sure the big event consisted of four pints of Heavy Weather and a knee trembler behind the snug bar of the Dog’s Bollocks in the High Street. As it transpired this tradition ended when Preston Plonker, Halifax’s younger brother gave into some pressing procreative urges in Cockermouth on a squidgy bank holiday and the registrar refused to complete the birth registration on the basis of pre-emptive child cruelty.

It was the same registrar who had inadvertently given Nelson his unwanted middle name. Nelson’s mother, a professional gossip and dance pole greaser was in the queue for the registrar and was pressing the woman behind for more details of her Siamese twins’ operation when she was asked for her son’s names. As his mother said Nelson, the other woman explained how, in fact her twins were born apart. By such misfortune is the course of a life decided.

Taking a lead from his name, when Nelson left school he decided the navy was his best bet (his career’s advisor, Joe B’sworth, despaired of Nelson seeing sense, indicating that focusing on his middle name was fraught with risk as those seeking to conquer Europe had been tried and found wanting).

The first question was which branch of the aquatic services.

While the Royal Navy has its pluses: blue serge trousers, cute hats and enormously phallic weaponry, the Merchant Navy is equally blessed as giving opportunities for exciting foreign travel, novelty cocktails and institutional pognophilia. So unsure was Nelson, as he navigated his options that he took a job as a magician’s assistant on a Cruise liner, sailing under the authority of Captain Willie Wontee.

After some cursory training involving two rabbits, a top hat and a pair of excessively capacious trousers with elasticated ankles, Nelson was broadly ready for life as a sailor. He took to it as a politician takes his liberties, with a natural insouciance and sense of entitlement.

Indeed all was well until the third night, when Nelson was installed in the mystery cabinet from which Maestro Mystereo promised the audience he would disappear.

And so he did. But at the very moment he vanished, Mystereo suffered a catastrophic system’s failure and collapsed onto the stage. In the ensuing flap, the mystery cabinet was removed to storage with Nelson still ensconced within. Nelson was none the wiser.

Eventually, recognising he was becoming a touch peckish, Nelson began to hunt for a way out. And found none. It took the crew some three weeks to realise Nelson was missing – the increase in rabbit numbers with no one to care for them brought home his absence. A search was undertaken and Nelson’s skeletal form discovered in the small cupboard within a cupboard.

Many apologies were offered and he was given whatever opportunity he fancied to try a different aspect of sea life while he navigated his way back to health.

‘The kitchens,’ he responded with alacrity.

‘No surprise there,’ murmured the purser. ‘He must be starved.’

Indeed, Nelson was peckish but that wasn’t the real reason. During his three week enforced incarceration he had survived on a diet of his own urine and his nipples, reckoning they were pretty useless as originally intended. So taken was he with the various ways in which he had been able to enjoy these gratuitous body parts that he felt sure with some experimentation he had a winner on his hands.

Some two years later, to much fanfare, Nelson launched his unique line in cocktail nipples for the discerning host and was arrested shortly thereafter, being charged with seventeen thousand incidents of chest mutilation.

When later he was questioned why he did it, his response was a sigh and a reference to his career’s advisor, Joe B’sworth. ‘He always said I’d make a tit of myself.’

About TanGental

My name is Geoff Le Pard. Once I was a lawyer; now I am a writer. I've published several books: a four book series following Harry Spittle as he grows from hapless student to hapless partner in a London law firm; four others in different genres; a book of poetry; four anthologies of short fiction; and a memoir of my mother. I have several more in the pipeline. I have been blogging regularly since 2014, on topic as diverse as: poetry based on famous poems; memories from my life; my garden; my dog; a whole variety of short fiction; my attempts at baking and food; travel and the consequent disasters; theatre, film and book reviews; and the occasional thought piece. Mostly it is whatever takes my fancy. I avoid politics, mostly, and religion, always. I don't mean to upset anyone but if I do, well, sorry and I suggest you go elsewhere. These are my thoughts and no one else is to blame. If you want to nab anything I post, please acknowledge where it came from.
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16 Responses to Plotting A Course To Notoriety #blogbattle

  1. This has to be one of your breast yet!

    Like

  2. noelleg44 says:

    You outdid yourself with the punditry today, Geoff! A four chortle salute!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. tootlepedal says:

    A bravura finale to a fine story.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. George says:

    Magical maritime mastectomies! Your creative (or should that be lactative) spirit is in overdrive!

    Liked by 1 person

  5. aebranson says:

    Nelson’s sense of entitlement when he set out on the cruise was a suggestive reminder that although politicians are especially prone to that sentiment, it’s not limited to them – nice touch! And when you mentioned the two rabbits he began learning with, I immediately thought of their proclivity. The reference later to the increase in their numbers confirmed that suspicion. Great setup!

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Pingback: #BlogBattle Stories: Navigate | BlogBattle

  7. Gary says:

    On form again Geoff. Reminiscent of The Trouble with Tribbles, except here it’s rampant rabbits. Like the conundrum of choices. Weaponry or the safety as a magi’s assistant. Choices undone by the demise of said magician croaking while our protagonist is going mad. The proverbial box of frogs. Or snakes on a plane… have to animal drop now… I digress.

    Puntastic once again and a very enjoyable read amidst a wintry spell… not that spell has any magical connotations or deliberate inclusion you understand!

    Liked by 1 person

  8. What a stirring sight. Puns running free in all direction. And ‘pognophilia’….I never knew! 😃

    Liked by 1 person

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