Thursday, 3 December 2009

332: Gay Biggles 2 - Graham Chapman

‘I, Biggles’ from “A Liar’s Autobiography” by Graham Chapman, 1980

A fantasy blending Biggles and the raunchier parts of Robert Graves’ “I, Claudius” novels.
This parody subverts Biggles in every manner imaginable. Not only is everybody gay, but voraciously so, with few sexual fetishes left unindulged. Chapman parodies the matter-of-fact W.E. Johns style’s worst faults, while the standard celebrations of the glamour of aeronautics repeatedly degenerates into sexual innuendo. As a parody it is fabulous, shamelessly disgracing

‘I, Biggles’ from “A Liar’s Autobiography” by Graham Chapman, 1980

The plane banked sharply to the left as we hurtled downwards, but the Fokker Wolf was still on our tail.
'A-a-a-a-a-a-a-zing,' went the twin cowl-mounted Mittelschmertz 25 mm cannons.
'Peng!' it went, in German, as one of the shells bit into the sleek wooden fuselage.
'Peng?' cogitated Biggles. 'That's the German for "Bang!"’
'We've been hit,' volunteered Ginger grimly.
"Nothing,' said Biggles grimlier, as he slipped his leather-gloved hand over the by now moistened joystick. He pulled it back in a series of sharp jerks.
'Level off a mo,' put in Algy drily and through drawn lips stepped purposefully into the body of the aircraft, past the by now shapely nude lady navigator; and back into the rear of the plane. The door of the Gents Only Sauna hung precariously from one hinge. He slammed it shut with a haunting squawk, and fought his way past the two naked WAFs wrestling in perfumed sump-oil. .He erupted into the Aft Leather Room, to find Wingco still chained to a cross, wearing the by now familiar black hood bearing the also familiar Wing Commanderic braid.
‘Have your way with me, you hunk of manhood,' he hinted coyly.
'What ho, old sport!' hazarded Algy gingerly. 'I say, old man, the Group's a bit dashed worried - thinks you might have some kind of, well. . . you know, problem. . . you old bison. . .' He fingered his cigarette nervously.
'Don't worry about me, old tapir, I've pulled through a lot worse than this.'
‘The plane lurched suddenly as Biggles swerved to avoid a hail of bullets that pumped in spurts out of the penis-like nosecone of the pursuing Fokker. Algy rushed for'ard.
'Everything OK, Skipper?' he admitted.
'We haven't made it yet,' inserted Biggles, as he gritted his thighs and plunged his machine into a savage spin.
As they plunged downwards, the mighty engines throbbed and the well-lubricated pistons thrust themselves back and forth in their vice-like steel sheaths.
'You look a bit green around the gills, old eland,' observed Biggles smoothly.
'Never felt better,' puked Algy. 'Sorry about the mess,' he opined.
'Why can't you just say things?' snorted Biggles. 'Tell you what, old man, having a bit of trouble with this one, could you just pop your hand down my Mae West?'
'If it's an order, old guillemot.'
'It is,' grinned Biggles.
'Right-ho, here it comes.' Algy plunged a questing sensitive hand into the Group Captain's flying jacket.
The plane soared upwards.
'Don't stop now, I'm nearly there.'
'So am I.’
'Ooo-ooh!' ejaculated Biggles and Algy together. They were through. The white silence of a cloud surrounded them.
'What about me?' rasped Ginger.
'Fuck off a sec. Ooooh,’ oohed Biggles and AIgy. Then suddenly they were through it. Peace. Calm. Ecstasy. They floated, as one, in a post-what can't be described in a children's book sort of feeling.

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