There are no people like the British for trying to “pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon,” especially on nights convulsed with thunder and lightning when the moon is not shining at all. So it is with characteristic temerity that the Moon Wiring Club add to their repertoire ‘Somewhere a Fox is Getting Married’ ~ a souvenir representation of the music performed and brought forth from the Marriage of Her Royal Highness The Princess Jackie and Lord Regis Lechmere at Clinkskell Abbey, on Friday, April 31st, 1911.

This elaborate and exacting broth conjures forth and solidifies buried thoughts and feelings of that fairy-tale happening. Even when the times of peace were really piping and with the finest resources of the world to draw on, these works would tax one’s ingenuity almost to breaking-point; as things are, it is a miracle that they have been successful at all. A track-by-track rundown of the aural peculiarities:

The scene is effectively set as guests are called forth from an immense and enchanted distance. And while the invitations had been posted off several centuries before, the full magnitude of so many malformed aristocrats simultaneously & spontaneously sliding into view, cocked an eyebrow even amongst those accustomed to Clinkskell’s more distinctive inhabitants. So fresh.

After his infamous, mare’s nest chicanery of 1644, the vigorous, stylish, foxy-faced Lord Regis Lechmere was found guilty of high treason and ‘laid’ within a three-cornered hat. This hat was then thickly painted over with the very finest black treacle. Displaying unnatural tenacity and patience, Lord Lechmere bided all time until unusually high levels of duplicitous ‘file-sharing’ allowed him to skip away from the treacle-hat-trap. Displaying silken skills of sinister suavity, he legally claimed the hand-in-marriage of Princess Jackie after winning a most peculiar card-game.

Travelling along the ancient Wyndie Road, the ghastly splendour of the regal carriage caused all of those still tapped with normality to shudder with despair upon its passing. The silly-silly few, foolhardy enough to ignore the forbidden word and wish for a glimpse of passing regality were advised to do so only within the reflection of freshly smoked glass:
‘Their faces are quite wrong!’ became the cry of the day.

The Sly Gavotte was one of the more ephemeral dance routines of the twenties, and it was with a sophisticated foxy yelp that we discovered the origins of that modernist piece lay within the traditional courtly styles of the grooms family. So retake possession of your partner and begin again to slyly gavotte ~ without making disturbance to their mental digestion. Pardon me!

Although many have surmised as much, it was still mildly unexpected when souvenir periodicals revealed that the elegant bride was of spectral origin. On this day she would be summoned into being from her fancy realm of feline-devilment with a saucy combination of slow-motion disco & Latin fire.

Now that the union is complete, a regal square-dance is ceremoniously performed. An unsettling display of balance, phrasing, colour, and pacing, something here is clearly very wrong, but the tempo is so extremely seductive one feels out of place to criticise.

The glamorous and bizarre Princess Jackie, forever claimed the hearts of people with her distinctive personality, climbing ability and wonderfully stylish outfits. After her summoning, she entered a new dream-world of fame, high-fashion, and above all theatrical temporality. Described as a ‘creature of vivid opportunity’ here we replay her ephemeral reflections, as she dressed for the occasion with typically eclectic élan.

It has long been hoped that a regal bride would be blessed with the foresight of madness, and it is to our great delight that this tradition has here been eminently maintained. Once again we playfully eavesdrop on Princess Jackie’s personal thoughts, all set to a distinctive and certainly suitable Edwardian-Reggae beat!

As the ceremony took place, the uninvited remnants of the population huddled together in their rotten alleyways and crooked houses, to brood inside the sickly yellow fog that shrouds our country. With 85% of towns in the United Kingdom now decreed as ‘Ghost Areas’, and the Southern half just completely uninhabitable, the celebrations were somewhat muted affairs. The few, lonely, stoic inhabitants still physically able to attempt outdoor festivities, soon found themselves playing host to a ghastly array of greedy, wryly-unwholesome, non-paying animal-faced entities.

Displaying admirable thriftiness, the regal decision to combine both ceremony and buffet reception within Clinkskell abbey was a glorious display of compassionate thought within these days of austerity.

With each detail of the impressive rite faultless in its execution, the occasion provided great enjoyment for the desultory listener. But the more serious listener may well have picked up on a puzzling sense of unease, of foreboding that agitated the atmosphere. One feels as if the last piece of some enormous jigsaw had been fitted into place, but the picture now formed is clouded, its meaning illusive, and the effort required to decipher it confounds us into a stately silence.
This day has robbed us of our vitality.

~ Selwyn Mentmore