Wanted: Series 11 figs to complete set

legomatt

'Twas fast approaching the season of goodwill to all, and in the cold, cold, cooooold wind stood a shivering urchin, clutching to his breast a scrap of paper as though it were gold.

'Please sir', said the child to the passing stranger, whom heeded the tiny voice not. 'Please sir', sayeth the child once more, tugging on the hemline of another gent's coat tails while taking care not to catch a cane betwixt his britches, but alas and alack, the passers by heard not the child's pleas. He minded not, nor did he throw a brick at the back of their heads (for he was a pleadin' saint).

Then a young lady stopped, and spake thusly 'Why, child, what cause have you to stand shivering in the street, outside a Lego Brand store, clutching to your breast a scrap of paper? Do you have invite to attend a special gathering here?'.

'(Not bloody likely) I mean, no miss. Tis my swap list Miss. I is 'oping to finish me set', replied the child in a voice which bade angels weep... stupid angels, chopping onions.

'Oh, do let me see!', exclaimed the young miss in an inexplicable burst of enthusiasm common for the time, possibly brought on by lack of oxygen to the brain caused by corsets at least two sizes too small, not that the child would point such a thing out, for he had a knack for avoiding clips round the ear'ole.

'Cor it is cold miss' he added as she read, shivering a bit for good measure, and not wanting to be outdone for dramatic effect, the wind whistled across the cobbles... (nobody likes a cold wind across their cobbles).

'Hmmm, I do not possess these' she said, adding 'but I'll show it around inside and see if I get any takers'.

'Thank you miss, and could you also ask if they have any of the figs I need, too', said the urchin, ducking... Which was a fashionable sport at the time.

And so the kindly young miss strode into the store, showed it around a bit and took a bow. Unfortunately for the gathered crowds, that was just a play on words and besides, she was an exclusive sort, so nothing was coming off.

The narrative paused, just to let that last joke sink in a bit...

But here the tale must end, as with all such Romantic tales of olden days that would be played out upon stages far and wide by English players for centuries hence, the author becomes bored and, stuck for a finish, needlessly kills someone off for touch of cheap sentiment.

So it is with heavy heart, the sweet virtuous lady succumbing to galloping consumption and a bout of influenza brought on by a dip in the pond on a breezy summers day when out riding with Mr Dashly, whom we thought she would marry one year hence. She sadly dies in a painful coughing fit, and dropping from her clenched hands... that poor urchin's swap list, which she never forgot.

Everyone applauds, some dab tears from cheeks.

So ladies and gents gathered to me now, what did that child's list contain, that would give the fictional lady's departed soul peace to know was delivered to him?

HERE it is!

Series 11 Wanted
#71002-2 Scarecrow
#71002-3 Pretzel Girl
#71002-5 Island (Tiki) Warrior
#71002-12 Saxophone Player


If anyone can help out with any of those, I'd appreciate it... (ooooh, it is coooold! *shiver*)

Here's a list of some spares I could trade, but happy to work out something else if you already have these.

I Have (sealed):
#71002-6 S11 Gingerbread Man
#71002-7 S11 Holiday Elf
#71002-8 S11 Yeti
#71002-10 S11 Welder
#71002-16 S11 Lady Robot

#71001-6 S10 Skydiver

#71000-2 S9 Cyclops
#71000-7 S9 Policeman
#71000-13 S9 Battle Mech
#71000-14 S9 Mr Good and Evil

#8833-4 S8 Cowgirl
#8833-15 S8 Pirate Captain
#8833-1 S8 Evil Robot
#8833-11 S8 Vampire bat
#8833-6 S8 Diver
#8833-5 S8 Football Player

margot

Are you in the US?

legomatt

Oops, sorry. I forgot the small print (breaking my own cardinal rule).

I'm UK based.

:o)

brickedin

Pm coming but only if you continue the narrative until your set is complete.

Legobutterfly

@legomatt, well that gave me a good giggle on this cold and frosty morning :)

I am heading out later, I shall see what I can feel up for you whilst out at ye olde tesco.

legomatt

I agree to continue the tales of Mr Dashly (whom, you will be pleased to know dear readers, had a sworn enemy... with exciting fight scenes, fast carts, and some derring do thrown in, with a sprinkling of nutmeg, on at gas mark 7, for about 45 mins until golden brown.)

And I will continue the tale of his tragic sweetheart (whose name shall remain secret until I complete series 11 *mwah-hah-haaah*), for her name is not the only secret kept close to her heaving, ample, yet pure-hearted (and much talked about in certain company) bosoms. Until she died that is, which was a terrible waste of good bosoms.

...and of course the poor urchin boy, whose adventures would make the glittering, faltering, glittering again, career of Hornblower look like a mere sideshow to a pantomime.

Alas, try as I may, I cannot always promise such purple prose as to delight the senses in ways not seen since Jane Austen herself came home from the local bookstore slightly miffed at the poor excuses on offer, vowing 'I could do better myself'.

For there may be occasions when the muse visits not my bedside (nor does some strumpet), so that the candle instead should breathe its last, leaving but the briefest of swirling ghosts to play across my fading vision, and time to write escapes me.

legomatt

...and I sometimes need to go to sleep.

Farmer_John

margot said:

Are you in the US?

The "'(Not bloody likely) I mean, no miss.'" gave it away for me... ;-)

margot

^I didn't read the story.

legomatt

^ You didn't miss anything... (he says, signing a multiple book deal, and selling the TV serial rights to HBO... which means I now have to make stuff up as I go while ensuring nothing actually happens for as long as possible).

^^ Ah, but I was also writing for the character of an english street scamp in a victorian christmas story set against the backdrop of a fuzzily ill-defined quasi Georgian/Edwardian/Victorian time period. (I dropped history at school, can't you tell?). If I had to give it a name, i'd call it Gerald. But 'period period' would make more sense.

So, perfectly set as I clearly was to evoke the period of Gerald *coughing fit* so expertly *stifled laughter*, I might have been from just about anywhere!

Or England.

I follow in a long line of writing heritage... Julius Shakespeare, Robin Hood, Sir Arthur Conan the Barbarian, Alcoholics Anonymous Milne, JK Rowlingcourtcasepending, the list goes on. Then stops briefly. Then continues some more.

Right... we shall return to the story, but first... breakfast...

(I may be gone some time... I'm from the Shires... there's second breakfast, elevenses, lunch, elevenses at twelve, dinner, last night's leftovers, second lunch, midday tea... I blame the war years, it gave the nation an insatiable appetite for tea and biscuits that has lasted generations... cos they're like bricks, no one can finish them).

LostInTranslation

Oh Legomatt, you spin a captivating yarn. What a entertaining tale to brighten up a dreary morning.

Think I have at least a Pretzel Girl for you. I'll check this evening.

GothamConstructionCo

Some good news and a PM coming your way @legomatt :)

legomatt

^ & ^^ Ooh, intriguing...

I didn't see those last two posts before... however, I will endeavour to continue the tales shortly... or at length... whichever comes first.

First a cup of tea...

legomatt

Right... here we go... ahem...

*cough*

LaLaLa LaLaLaaaaa

ahem.

As we appear to be so close to the full set, i shall skip the boring parts of the tale and cut right to the end. The end. Oh, okay, I'll fill in a few of the more eventful blanks.

---

Marley Was Dead, wrote Charles Dickens. It was possibly the worst start to a new Christmas story. It left nowhere for his character to go!

And our narrator knew how he felt. Short of resorting to 'it was all a dream' (which had some precedent in popular entertainment), or ghosts, which had been done to death (forgive the pun), continuing the tales of our lovely Miss [redacted] would be very difficult to explain.

But at least there would be no mincing vampires or werewolves acting up like a bunch of sullen teens (though the fella's have my sympathies, having seen her act, I thought she was dead too). But Bram Stoker had not been born yet, so writers had to come up with something new to steal.

So, dear reader, we must turn the clock back to times more bountiful for our cast of thinly drawn characters, though perhaps a time less forgiving than today, when men were men (but not cowboys), women were women, and children were an unskilled labour force.

Insert Contemporary Political Satire. Political Satire done. We move on, figuratively if not in actualitilylalyly. :oS There may have been a few too many leelees there, but it's a tale as old as i care to say it is, so I'm allowing myself plenty of leeway

Ba-DRUM Cymbals

-- Apologies to those who keep checking this thread for updated trade, i (Bob) Hope that in the spirit of entertainment, you'll permit that I finish the tale as requested, which I'll do in as few posts as possible so as not to bump the thread unduly)--

But hark! I hear a stallion galloping across a lonely heath...

(But first, another cuppa' to collect my thoughts)

legomatt

The Legend of Mr Dashly

Or

For Want of a Better Title


( which works on two levels :o, )

A Christmas tale in three parts, (but only one is any good).

-Part the first-

Dashly's heart pounded, had he been American it might have dollared.

It made no sense, it didn't have to, he was going on emotion alone. Emotion and a big steaming horse. But now they'd left the steaming parts behind, and the smell was long forgotten. Unless you were still in the vicinity, but this was the country and Dashly knew nobody would notice the difference.

Eyes may water a bit perhaps, but these were Hardy folk (the sort that Thomas would write about... i guess, having never read him myself). Anyway, we're not interested in a load of shi-eep, so let's catch up with the rider.

Shirts flaps, trousers bristled, he should have worn them but in his vexed and foolish haste had left them on the washing line, back at Facade House. Oh, Facade House, how the thought of it plagued him still. And the damnable (Mister Dashly like to say damn a lot, he wasn't good at cursing, being an English gentlemen), that damna-yep Mister Swinely had tricked him out of his fortune with a white elephant.

Ahem. We can all make up a whole load of jokes with that one, so I'll just pause while you amuse yourself (with jokes about actual white elephants) before moving on. Soooo, white elephant jokes taken as read...

But Dashly could never move on. The House, like this tale, was a big joke. The plans had looked wonderful, full of greebling and everything, but Alas! That Da-yep Swinely had been behind it all. It had seemed a steal at the price and the good Mister Dashly poured his lifes savings into the project, taking on many debts, but the House... the plans... Woe!

The builder, doffing his red cap which all builders wore, (or was it all builders swore?) had said 'Why not buy two? Add it to the back, reverse-like', but the money was spent, and that still didn't sort out the roof... the less said about the 'Gates' the better.

But oh, how noble was Blackey, Mister Dashly's trusty steed, to leap the imaginary fences that were (not) built on either gate-side... and the loyal Coachman, who still locked them at night, and steadfastly refused to drive around, though he could, but instead chose to open, drive through, and close them each time. But such kindly deeds aside, this did not alter the fact that Dashly would have his vengeance on the cunning Swinely... on THIS day!

rancorbait

legomatt said:

'Twas fast approaching the season of goodwill to all, and in the cold, cold, cooooold wind stood a shivering urchin, clutching to his breast a scrap of paper as though it were gold.

'Please sir', said the child to the passing stranger, whom heeded the tiny voice not. 'Please sir', sayeth the child once more, tugging on the hemline of another gent's coat tails while taking care not to catch a cane betwixt his britches, but alas and alack, the passers by heard not the child's pleas. He minded not, nor did he throw a brick at the back of their heads (for he was a pleadin' saint).

Then a young lady stopped, and spake thusly 'Why, child, what cause have you to stand shivering in the street, outside a Lego Brand store, clutching to your breast a scrap of paper? Do you have invite to attend a special gathering here?'.

'(Not bloody likely) I mean, no miss. Tis my swap list Miss. I is 'oping to finish me set', replied the child in a voice which bade angels weep... stupid angels, chopping onions.

'Oh, do let me see!', exclaimed the young miss in an inexplicable burst of enthusiasm common for the time, possibly brought on by lack of oxygen to the brain caused by corsets at least two sizes too small, not that the child would point such a thing out, for he had a knack for avoiding clips round the ear'ole.

'Cor it is cold miss' he added as she read, shivering a bit for good measure, and not wanting to be outdone for dramatic effect, the wind whistled across the cobbles... (nobody likes a cold wind across their cobbles).

'Hmmm, I do not possess these' she said, adding 'but I'll show it around inside and see if I get any takers'.

'Thank you miss, and could you also ask if they have any of the figs I need, too', said the urchin, ducking... Which was a fashionable sport at the time.

And so the kindly young miss strode into the store, showed it around a bit and took a bow. Unfortunately for the gathered crowds, that was just a play on words and besides, she was an exclusive sort, so nothing was coming off.

The narrative paused, just to let that last joke sink in a bit...

But here the tale must end, as with all such Romantic tales of olden days that would be played out upon stages far and wide by English players for centuries hence, the author becomes bored and, stuck for a finish, needlessly kills someone off for touch of cheap sentiment.

So it is with heavy heart, the sweet virtuous lady succumbing to galloping consumption and a bout of influenza brought on by a dip in the pond on a breezy summers day when out riding with Mr Dashly, whom we thought she would marry one year hence. She sadly dies in a painful coughing fit, and dropping from her clenched hands... that poor urchin's swap list, which she never forgot.

Everyone applauds, some dab tears from cheeks.

So ladies and gents gathered to me now, what did that child's list contain, that would give the fictional lady's departed soul peace to know was delivered to him?

Dude! Can I borrow some if your midichlorians?

rancorbait

Does anyone else think @legomatt should be put to work on the main site when news is kind of slow? :-P

legomatt

Part Two

‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a good fortune is not an Afol’, penned Miss Redacted in her journal, considering the impossibilities of finding suitable gentlefolk with marital potential and appreciation of the brick, then added something which made her blush (but it was a private journal, so noses out!).

‘Too picky, my dear’ said her devoted and soon to die father, ordering the servants about in preparation for his traditional annual Ball. He used to have two, but there was a song about it he didn't care to be reminded of.

The Seeldbochs were a proud family with a vast estate typical of 'Gerald period' costume thingys, built upon the family mercantile interests of buying, selling, buying again, complicated stuff. Lord Minten, present incumbent of the family seat - they meant to get more so everyone could sit down, but until the advent of TV there never seemed much reason to lounge around the house, besides which strong calf muscles were very de rigueur - doted on Miss Redacted, his daughter and only heir. In his younger days he had yearned for a strapping young lad, but in the end got married instead.

‘This year my dear, everything will change. I can feel it poking at my loins.’
The butler apologised, and squeezed past.
‘Cook has made the chicken soup, sir’
‘What are we having?’
‘Soup sir’
‘Us as well. Can you make it go round?’
‘I can try sir, but liquids tend to lie flat in the bowl’.

The silly conversation continued, the Butler was a bit scatterbrained.

--

We leave this scene of luxury behind to meet in the distant darkness a black rider hurtling across bleak landscapes, possibly seeking a ring, (who isn’t?).

Dirty great sods kick from the hooves (but that’s footballers for you). Suddenly a stormcloud rolls in, then rolls out again to fetch some mates, then comes back totally lager'd up and ready to kick off.

Dramatic Music with extra bass can be heard by people watching with surround sound. It wakes Granny up, she asks the time, then dozes off again.
A mysterious gypsy mysteriously appears. Nobody knows what to make of it. But it's mysterious.

--

Back at the stately pile (which hadn’t been treated), the guests were arriving bejewelled and bejazzled (one assumes) in all their finery, some of it even with the tags taken off (cos' they were classy sort who wouldn't dream of returning stuff). Knockers were banging and bells were being rung - some of the garments were so ill fitting - but the butler answered and ushered them all into the Lounge regardless, much to the annoyance of the MC, who hadn’t announced them yet. It didn’t help that he was new and didn’t know anybody yet. ‘Lord & Lady… err… Mr J-aah, Miss… his right honourabl, excuse me, can I see your...’

Everyone had to leave, and come back in again, etiquette demanded it such were The Rules. The MC threatened to whip his out, and show them, but he needn’t as everyone duly obliged, it was after all an era of politeness, embarrassed silences, and rampant rutting with the lower classes. So, pretty much like Britain today, but with much nicer costumes.

Count Von Preiseperpiese! Rear Admiral Cannonfodder! Mysterious Gypsy What Nobody Notices! Pause in Proceedings! Miss You Appear To Have Dropped Your Handkerchief! The MC was now in the swing of things and enjoying himself immensely (fortunately he was stood behind a marble column, so nobody saw). Guests were mingling, insofar as you could mingle back then, which was to say not at all without formal introduction, interview, time slot, and being ushered by chaperones and monitored closely.

Lord Swinely!
Suddenly there was a hushed silence. 'Hush' people said to those still talking, but there’s always some big gob that keeps going. Lord Swinely strode in looking like he owned the place, (which he did, but we'll come to that), and shot him.

A glance! Huh? Hold on… typo ...and shot him a glance. Then drink in hand he sauntered nonchalantly amongst the dumbstruck crowds.

Nobody liked Swinely (but then, Master Nobody always was a bit weird), but everyone else hated him. Conceited, Conniving, Contemptible, these are just a few words beginning with ‘c’. And such was his hatred of women, on the occasion of his own birth he was said to have slapped the midwife until she cried.

‘Tea is being served in the drawing room’, interjected the butler, pulling the reader back into the present, (which was dashed inconsiderate as it was breakable and very expensive).

‘I say, Swinely, what’s all this sauntering past my dumbstruck guests? Have you no manners… you… rascal!’
The crowd drew breath, which they would've done anyway, so its odd to mention it now, but it seemed an important detail. Swinely and Seeldbochs were rivals in the buying and selling thing they both did. Swinely had already ruined one of Seeldbochs’ enterprises. Jobs were lost. Folk had looked everywhere, but couldn’t remember where they’d seen them last.

Swinely sneered, approaching Miss Redacted, drawing sneerer and sneerer. He wore the brocaded togs of a military seaman. (do your own jokes). Miss Redacted was not impressed, as a life long fig collector she was quite the expert at identifying the content of a little man’s packet at a mere glance.

'According to the rules of tragi-romance, I claim your hand, Miss Redacted, as richest man in the land'. Some joker said she wasn’t a rich man, but nobody laughed. Instead everyone looked to the MC, who, flicking through the big book of etiquette nodded gravely, ‘t’is true’.

‘While I live and breathe, and this house be mine, you’ll not take my daughter.’ shouted Seeldbochs over the gasps, presaging exactly the events about to occur, and catching in the corner of his eye, a small urchin peering in through an open window.

Swinely spun round.
'You've gone too far this time' observed Seeldbochs. Swinely turned back round a bit, having gone too far, then victoriously thrust forth a document into Seelbochs hands.

The extended special edition details an account of how Swinely’s evil schemes had come to fruition, swindling Seeldbochs of all his fortune including the house, but was annoyingly missing in this theatrical release, so only those who’d read the book now truly understood the gravity of this moment, and would post furiously on forums about how badly this part had been handled.

'Bank foreclosures!', stuttered Seeldbochs, 'Deeds to house. Ruined! Ships Lost with all Hands! 200 men dead!'.

As Seeldbochs (and dedicated fans) reeled from these devastating revelations, Swinely perused the feast, raising a tasty morsel to his nose.

‘This food is not fit for a pig!’ he spat.
‘Would you like some that is?’ retorted the butler, pleased at the clever put down.

Swinely ignored it (or didn’t notice, probably didn’t notice, arrogant types tend not to).

Seeldbochs clutched at his chest, dropping the papers (crossword unfinished) and collapsed. He knew not why, but his dying mind returned to the image of an urchin at the window.

Miss Redacted, heart in her mouth (cos’ they ate that kind of thing back then) rushed to her stricken father, slipped on the strewn doom-laden papers, and fell flat on her face, skirts flying everywhere. Everyone laughed and it can be seen on the blooper reel. However, dramatic tension demanded a re-shoot, so Miss Redacted knelt beside her corpsing father, her father’s corpse I mean, and wept (but you could still see a few smirking in the background if you looked close).

Swinely satisfied with showing us all how evil he is, ignored them, ‘Is that venison I smell?’

‘It is, and you do’, again the butler was pleased at his witty repartee, but was less enthused when his brains accelerated from his exploding skull. Swinely calmly re-housed his pistol to a shocked silence, 'In death as in life... scatterbrained'.

‘This is awkward’ said a guest.