The Grand Old Duke Of Somewhere Or Other

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“A cigarette that bears a lipstick's traces,” the intruder lying in Wilf's humble abode sang in a half sleep. It was a very humble abode indeed, it was a polythene covered cardboard box tucked under the arches of a railway bridge in a suburb of London that he could never remember the name of. “Some foolish postcard from Brighton, of all places. Oh how the syphilis cream stings! These foolish things remind me of you.”

“Oy!” Wilf said, lamely kicking at the oddly dressed stranger. “Gerrouta there!”

“Who are you, and why have you woken me?” the man said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “I was having a lovely dream about stripping a brutal looking enemy soldier with a masculine sneer, handcuffing him to a metal bed frame and electrocuting him with crocodile clips attached to his nipples and knacker sack and a large anal probe. In an attempt to force him to reveal military secrets, obviously, and not for sadistic homoerotic reasons at all, you dirty minded, dirty faced little man. You've ruined my dream, you complete bounder!”

“You weren't asleep, you lyin' swine..... I'm Wilf, me name's on the front of this 'ere discarded Japanese domestic appliance package in the Queen's English like wot I speak, it's finger-painted in me own snot an' diarrhoea – you can DNA test it if you don't believe me, you plump Irish git. But never mind 'oo I am, 'oo the fuck am you, an' what you doin' kippin' in me posh French fuckin' chateau?”

“I, er, I'm not at all sure. I'll have you know that I'm my ideal weight, and I'm not Irish. Or I believe I am and I don't believe I am..... What time is it, you nauseating, repellent, long unwashed creature?”

“It's three thirty five pm, at least it was when I popped into Wilkinsons for me meths. I'm, er, decoratin', and I use it to clean me paintbrushes, 'onest.”

“What date is it?”

“March the sixth, I think. Or maybe it's September the nineteenth. Or Christmas Day, I don't bloody well know. Are you Santa? 'Ave you bought me a prezzie?”

The stranger stood up and punched Wilf sharply on the nose. “Stop fannying around, ploppy pants. What, pray, is the year of our Lord?”

“A? Are you serious, mate?” Wilf replied, stemming the flow of blood with the sleeve of his filthy coat. “Any idiot knows what year it is. Oy, Brian, what year is it?”

“Wassamarrer?” Brian said as he woke from a drunken stupor in a box a few yards away.

“What year is it, cack breath?” the stranger said.

“Twenty thirteen, I think. At least it was the last time I bothered picking a recent newspaper out of the park bins to actually read which, come to think of it, was some time ago. Don't tell that weirdo I'm under the impression that I'm Napoleon, Wilf, whatever you do, I've already got a sore bot-bot.”

“Good gracious, it looks like HG Wells' infernal machine actually worked,” the stranger muttered.

“Wot you on about, you great ginger 'omo?” Wilf said, swigging his methylated spirits, at which point the stranger punched him in the stomach. “Pack it in, there's no need for soddin' violence,” he gasped as soon as he got his breath back. “Why am you wearin' that ridiculous bleedin' uniform, you fat tart, – 'ave you been to a fancy fuckin' dress party?”

“I bet it was a tramps an' tarts' ball,” Brian snickered.

“But that can't possibly be right,” the man continued, ignoring the insults and toying with his huge waxed moustache, “because HG Wells didn't write The Time Machine until 1895, and the last thing I remember was getting ready to give Napoleon Bonaparte a good, hard seeing to. At the battle of Waterloo in 1815, of course. Or was it Horatio Nelson? Oh I don't know, and I'm not sure anyone cares.

Come to think of it I have distinct memories of dancing to Abba in a crowded, pitch dark room in a smoky club and getting down with some hot boy. Babe, I mean..... I also recall working in TV, using an Iphone and a laptop and messaging my dear mother on Facebook, so I can't be a historical figure. As for who am I, how I got here and what the fuck is going on well, as Toilet Wilcox said, it's a bloody mystery.”

“I fink you're Arthur Wellesley, the first Dyke of Wellington,” Wilf, who was a bit slow (or maybe that was what he wanted folks to think) said. “Fancy a swig o' meths?”

“I only drink bacardi breezers stirred not shaken,” the man said, shaking (not stirring) his head vigorously.

“I can't imagine 'ow you got 'ere if you're the Dyke of Wellington,” Wilf said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Do you fancy a swig o' meths, Bri?”

“Naah, me mam dropped by this mornin', she gave me a bit of money for food so I bought forty fags, a bottle of Korean vodka an' a six pack o' Kestrel Super. An' before either of you ask the answer's no, the goodies are mine, mine and mine a-fuckin'-lone. Shit, my arse really is sore..... P'raps HG Wells travelled backwards in 'is time machine, abducted you while you were sleepin', put 'is machine on full throttle an' dropped you off 'ere on 'is way to the future, Dukey-poohs. An' if 'e's gone to the future it stands to reason that 'e's coming back. To the future, I mean. Naah, that doesn't make sense, does it?”

“Maybe,” the Duke said, “but you're both getting the wrong end of the stick. You had the right end earlier, mind, Bri..... I might not be the Duke of Wellington after all, because all of a sudden my head is flooding with images of marching ten thousand men up to-”

“-to the top of the 'ill an' marchin' 'em down again.” Wilf completed the sentence, falling into a pool of stale piss, and he dipped in his finger and licked it on the off-chance that it was spilled lager. Wilf flailed like a beached halibut in a fit of childish pique, and then he clambered back to his feet. “I fink you'll find that you're the Grand Old Duke of York rather than the Duke of Wellington.”

“No, that can't be. I come from Dancing Dicks near Hatfield Peverel, Essex.”

“I fuckin' bet you do,” Wilf said, trying not to crack his face.

“That's not a real place, you dancing dick,” Brian sniggered, at which point he and Wilf howled with laughter and the stranger punched both of them on the nose simultaneously.

“I think you'll find that it is a real place, you worthless vagabonds,” he said. “When I hinted that my mind is besieged by images of going up a remote wooded hill with an awful lot of men I didn't mean that I was the Duke of York or any Duke or dyke– let's drop this silly Duke/dyke thing, OK? Just because I'm dressed in a nineteenth century Field Marshall's uniform comprising of a poncy red coat with gold braiding and lots of medals for bravery in the face of, ooh, stiff opposition, let's call it, white leggings so tight that no detail of my muscular thighs, pert bottie and manly genitalia is left to the imagination, sexy black Italian leather calf length boots and a somewhat camp hat doesn't necessarily mean that I'm a frigging Duke, OK? Why are you filthy, drunken tramps looking at me as if I'm the only gay in the village?”

“Aah,” Wilf and Brian said at the same time as they backed slowly away.

“We, er, we 'ave to go, old buddy,” Wilf said. “We're late for work. At the Asda, we work on the delicatessen counter.”

“Naah,” Brian said. “Don't lie to the nice man. We've been invited for tea at me mam's. I'd ask you to come along too, Duke, but me mam's a poor pensioner an' she doesn't 'ave any spare food or spare chairs or plates or knives and forks.....”

“Or somethin'. Cheerio!” Wilf said, and then they scarpered.