Autonomous Anarcho-Surrealist Utopia of Micromercia

The Autonomous Anarcho-Surrealist Utopia of Micromercia

           On St George’s Day 2015, whilst the nation was temporarily without a government, Phoebles, the one and only Autonomous Anarcho-Surrealist Utopia of Micromercian, announced his intention to declare The Autonomous Anarcho-Surrealist Utopia of Micromercia independent of the United Kingdom in general and the Westminster Parliament in particular.

            The Autonomous Anarcho-Surrealist Utopia of Micromercia occupies an approximately one half of a millihectare corner of The Snug in Ye Olde Dolphin Inne, Derby.

The official flag of the Autonomous Anarcho-Surrealist Utopia of Micromercia.

History

            In July of 918 AD, some decades after the crushing of The Great Heathen Army (Mycel Heathen Here) and the liberation of Derby from the tyranny of the Dane Law by the housecarls of Lady Æthelflæda, the Snug of Ye Olde Dolphin Inne (At that time the Eallniew Delfin Inn) was granted autonomy by Ælfwynn who had succeeded Æthelflæda as Lady of the Mercians (Myrcna Hlæfdige) a month earlier, on the occasion of her mother’s demise. The exact events leading to this grant are not known and the relevant paperwork has subsequently been mislaid.

           

            In 1745, following the rout of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Highland Army, which had been billeted in The Dolphin, at the Battle of Swarkstone Bridge, a little way south of Derby, a grateful king George II wrote a letter of thanks to the landlord in which it is certain that the monarch ratified the independent status of The Snug. If only the current whereabouts of this historic document were known.

            In the mid to late 1960s there were a small number of drug fuelled attempts to establish a Free State within the confines of The Dolphin Inn. These invariably came to naught, primarily due to restrictions imposed by the draconian licensing laws of the time.

            Then, on the 23^rd of April 2015 The Autonomous Anarcho-Surrealist Utopia of Micromercia became a reality. The future is in our hands.

Titular Head of State

            Boz (dec.)

Economy

            The Autonomous Anarcho-Surrealist Utopia of Micromercia has a tab at the bar and is currently running a fiscal deficit.

  

Population

            Phoebles

 Citizenship

            Visiting immigrants are welcomed personally by the landlord of The Olde Dolphin Inne and Temporary Citizenship is freely granted to anyone willing to buy a round.

Future

            The ultimate aim of The Autonomous Anarcho-Surrealist Utopia of Micromercia is to break out geographically from the confines of Ye Olde Dolphin Inne and form a loose federation with the historic Mercian capitals of Repton and Tamworth and environs there of. Together we will revive the traditional brewing industry in Burton, nationalise Rolls Royce and the railways and restore the Derby Navigation in order to establish a maritime link with the mighty trading ports on the banks of Humber and Mersey. It is our intention that the NHS will once more have proper matrons and nurse’s uniforms and that veterinary services will be encompassed within a fully funded welfare state.

50 Shades of London Smog

I hardly need to point out that this is one of me Dad's writings, not mine, and it's...

Just a teeny bit NWS

“Take me. Take me here. Take me now.” Mary arched backwards across her mother’s tombstone, her bosoms heaving above her tight-laced corset, skirts riding up to reveal her trembling, fishnetted thighs.

            Percival removed a deep purple velvet jacket and untied his cravat. Sliding his hands over the cool white captive flesh, upwards towards her waist, he loosened her bloomers and slid them off. Mary sucked in a sharp breath, her ribs came up against the restricting girdle that bound her organs and she began to swoon.

            “Percy, get your mind off what’s down there and undo these stays or you’ll be shagging a zombie.”

            He loved it when she talked dirty. He fumbled with the laces, released the pert breasts, and allowed the night air into her lungs. Percival dropped his breeches to his knees. Harsh iron straps and rivets that protected her parent’s corpse from the attentions of the resurrection men pressed into Mary’s back and bare buttocks. Her dark nipples hardened under his attention. Her delicate hand guided him. She locked her legs around his waist, one stocking now ruckled down around a slender ankle, and a long moan wafted across the moonlit graveyard whose outer reaches were shrouded in an ever deepening St Pancras smog.

            The haunting sound startled a walrus that was, just at that moment, flopping its bulk out of some rhododendron bushes where it had been relieving itself, sheltered from prying eyes. Carrying a roll of Bronco under one flipper the shortsighted creature peered about. Not far ahead the full moon reflected off a moonlike gyrating white shape that was not immediately identifiable as a naked arse. Blue veined and spot speckled it was performing gentle figures of eight to the accompaniment of short high-pitched yelps. The amphibious mammal waddled over to inspect the phenomenon close to, its approach undetected by the self-absorbed couple. It sniffed at the exposed posterior. Its bristling moustache brushed against the tender flesh and it snorted a fine spray of sea-watery atomised mucus onto the pimpled derriere.

Something shrivelled within Mary and plopped out through the gates of paradise into the chill night air. She opened her eyes and, staring past her lover at the silhouetted baldhead and shining, black button eyes let out a hideous scream.

Nocturnal London held its breath, Percival dropped to his knees as if his face had been slapped, the walrus staggered back in horror, tripped on the edge of a newly exposed grave and fell backwards into the freshly opened coffin. The creature’s great heart raced, faltered and stopped. Bands of cramped muscle tightened around the animal’s chest, crimson pain pulsed through its body and then there was nothing.

            “I think it’s dead.” Mary was staring down into the hole, her clothing in disarray and some of her finest features shamelessly on display. Percival was on all fours. He had thrown up.

            “Oh Cripes, what shall we do?” He was sick again. “Sorry about that, I think I’m in shock. There’ll be an investigation. The Runners will knock on doors. Your dad always thinks the worst of me, he’s bound to assume we were involved.”

            “Fill the grave in again.” The body snatchers had conveniently left their spade sticking in the top of the pile of recently dug soil. She tossed him the shovel. “Quick.   There’s nothing suspicious about a fresh grave in a churchyard.”

            After some strenuous shovelling they patted down the soil and, having robbed a nearby grave of its flowers, Mary laid a posy on the burial. They scoured the area around Mary’s mother’s tombstone for abandoned clothing, dressed quickly and headed for the street.

            “Whatever you do don’t go boasting about this with your mates down the pub.”

            “Do you honestly think I’m ever going to tell anyone I spent the night burying a walrus in a St Pancras churchyard?”

            “Not that, the other. You’re still married - and I’m not quite sixteen.”

One hundred years later, the following article appeared in a local newspaper:

Walrus remains found buried under St Pancras station in London

A Pacific walrus has been discovered among 19th century human burials underneath St Pancras Station in London.

By Bartholomew Pratt

23 Jul 2013

Archaeologists found the four-metre-long walrus with 1,500 human bodies as part of excavations at the station, amid the renovation of the station into the Eurostar terminal.

The bones were in a coffin and are thought to have been used for medical research some time in the early 1800s.

Both the archaeologist who discovered the bones and the zoologist who studied them for the Museum of London are not sure how the bones came to be in St Pancras Church on the northern side of the station.

“It’s a bit of a mystery”, the archaeologist told this reporter

“We did some research to see if we could find any record of a walrus being dealt with, for example, by the London Zoological Society, but we drew a blank.”

The archaeologist said there was a reference to Prince Albert “riding on the back of a giant tortoise”, but added that this was not relevant to the bones they found.

“It is possible the animal bones were being dissected as practice, but it does seem to be a rather exotic animal to be dealing with”, he added.

The most plausible reason for the walrus being in London was that it was brought to the city by whalers and sold for medical research or as a curiosity, they said.

While the zoologist had found the remains of an ostrich and big cats on archaeological excavations in London, this was his first encounter with a walrus.

“Although we have considerable evidence of whales in London, from porpoises up to blue whales, in all my experience we haven’t had any other bones of walruses except small fragments of skull which have been chipped to get out the tusks”, he told the newspaper.

He said that walrus skins were used for buffing metal and there was a trade in their tusks for ivory.

How it came to be in St Pancras is a mystery even to experts.