Frankenstein

  Spike Milligan

  Ireland, 1918-2002

  Frankenstein

  According to Spike Milligan

  1997, EN

  Spike Milligan’s interpretation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Although the narrative unfolds along the familiar lines, there are some distinguishing features, for example the monster’s desperate need for a cigarette, profuse swearing, and love of sausages, mash and mushy peas.

  Table of contents (32)

  Author’s Introduction to the Standard Novels Edition (1831)

  Preface: (By P.B. Shelley, 1818)

  VOLUME ONE

  LETTER I · LETTER II · LETTER III · LETTER IV

  1 · 2 · 3 · 4 · 5 · 6 · 7 · 8

  VOLUME TWO

  1 · 2 · 3 · 4 · 5 · 6 · 7 · 8

  VOLUME THREE

  1 · 2 · 3 · 4 · 5 · 6 · 7

  From acid and brine

  Mixed with horses’ urine

  I fashioned the Frankenstein

  He craves for a cigarette

  So far they haven’t caught him yet.

  When I was very young I started to collect bits of people

  I stored them in old deserted steeples

  The bits were all homeless people and nowhere to go

  To preserve them I packed them in snow.

  What made me want to make such a horror

  With human bits I started to beg, stealor borrow

  One day in the spring

  I would stitch it all together with string.

  Author’s Introduction to the Standard Novels Edition (1831)

  The publishers of the Standard Novels, in selecting Frankenstein for one of their series, expressed a wish that I should furnish them with an account of the origin. Well my own account stands at £3.10. “How I, then a young girl, came to think of and dilate upon so very hideous an idea?” The answer is I was kinky and pretty bent and was smoking the stuff. It is true that I am very averse to bringing myself forward in print; I would rather bring myself sideways. In writing this book, I can scarcely accuse myself of a personal intrusion; I always get someone else to do it.

  It is not singular that, as the daughter of two persons of distinguished literary celebrity, I should very early in life have thought of writing, and I did. I was two. My dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable man my writings. In the latter I was a close imitator – in other words, a little bloody cheat. What I wrote was intended at least for the human eye, so I had to look around for one-eyed readers.

  I lived principally in the country as a girl and passed considerable time in Scotland. I won the Junior Women’s Haggis Hurling Championship. I discovered nothing was worn under the kilt; everything was in working order. But my residence was on the dreary northern shores of the Tay where I met the poet William McGonigal who wrote:

  THE RAILWAY BRIDGE OF THE SILVERY TAY

  Beautiful railway bridge of the Silvery Toy

  With your numerous artists and palaces in so grand array

  And your central girders which seem so high

  To be almost towering to the sky

  The greatest wonder of the day

  And the great beautification to the Riser lay

  Most beautiful to be seen

  Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

  Beautiful railway bridge of the Sikery Toy

  That has caused the Emperor of Brazil to leave his home far away

  Incognito in his dress

  In view as he passed along en route to Inverness.

  Beautiful railway bridge of the Silvery Toy

  The longest of the present day

  That has ever crossed over a tidal river stream

  Most gigantic to be seen

  Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

  Beautiful railway bridge of the Silvery Tay

  Which will cause great celebration on the opening day

  And hundreds of people will come from far away

  Also the Queen most gorgeous to be seen

  Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

  Beautiful railway bridge of the Silvery Toy

  And prosperity to Professor Cox who has given £30,000 upward and away

  To help erect the bridge of the Toy

  Mar by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

  Beautiful railway bridge of the Silvery Toy

  I hope that God will protect the passengers by night and by day

  And that no accident will befall them while crossing the bridge of the Silvery Toy

  For that would be most awful to be seen

  Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

  Beautiful railway bridge of the Silvery Toy

  And prosperity to Messrs Bouche and Groat

  The famous engineers of the present day

  Who have succeeded erecting the railway bridge of the Silvery Toy

  Which is unequal to be seen

  Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

  My father was an ambitious man

  “Hurry,” he’d say, “Hurry and get a literary reputation if you can”

  So I wrote Hamlet

  And was hailed by the nation

  The first prize was Victoria Station.

  It was a pleasant region where, unheeded, I would commune with creatures of my fancy; I fancied elephants but there were none in Scotland. I wrote then in the most common-place style – “Cor blimey Fred, ya got a big willy, s’truth.” I could not figure to myself that romantic woes or wonderful events would ever be my lot; but I was not confined to my own identity I used to black up myself, beat a tom-tom and pretend to be a Zulu. My husband, however, was from the first very anxious that I should prove myself worthy of my parentage and enrol myself on the page of fame. He was forever inciting me to obtain a literary reputation. “Hurry,” he’d say, “Hurry and get a literary reputation and enrol yourself on the page of fame.”

  We visited Switzerland and became neighbours of Lord Byron, who was writing the third canto of Childe Harold. By the time he had written the tenth canto of Childe Harold, the Childe was 35.

  Some volumes of ghost stories, translated from the German into French, fell into our hands. Someone pushed them and we caught them. There was the History of the Inconstant Lover, who, when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he had pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he had deserted. Then there was the tale of the sinful founder of his race, the Two Thousand Guineas: his gigantic, shadowy form was clothed, like the ghost in Hamlet, in complete armour, but with the beaver up it was very painful and could kruple his blurzon. He was to bestow the kiss of death on all the younger sons so, in his clanking armour, he advanced to the couch of the blooming youths who were cradled in healthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upon his face as he bent down and kissed the foreheads of the boys who [wait for it!] from that hour withered like the flowers snapped upon the stalk. But, alas, the cost of the funerals finally bankrupted him. He sold his suit of armour to raise money and the suit was crushed into a metal square and made into a Mini-Minor which was bought by a priest.

  “We will each write a ghost story,” said Lord Byron. Poor Signor Polidori had some terrible idea about a skull-headed lady who was so punished for peeping through a keyhole, she saw what all keyhole peepers see – a couple screwing on the bed. He did not know what to do with her and was obliged to dispatch her to the tomb of the Capulets. Alas, when she got there they were both dead so she went for a coffee.

  I busied myself to think of a story, a story that would curdle the blood of the reader and loosen the sphincter. Every ghost story must have a beginning. The Hindus gave the world an elephant to support it, but they make the elephant stand upon a tortoise. In practical terms the tortoise would have been crushed to a pulp.
Perhaps that’s what is wrong with the world – we are all living on a crushed tortoise.

  Many and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley; some were eighteen feet tall. They talked to Dr Darwin and one of his experiments. He had preserved a piece of vermicelli in a glass case till by some extraordinary means it began to move with voluntary motion. Again, you could put some spaghetti in a glass case and wait for it to become animated, then you could let it go and it could then run free in the streets.

  I did not sleep that night; my mind wandered. I saw a pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the monster he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out and then, on the working with some powerful engine, he shows signs of life, sits up and says, “Hello dar, what’s de time?” Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of life – which as we all know is a flat tortoise.

  So when the hitherto inanimate body sat up, opened his eyes and said, “Hello dere, lend us a quid,” I opened my eyes in terror. The idea so possessed my mind that a thrill of fear ran through me and out the back.

  Swift as light, and as cheering, was the idea that broke in upon me: “I have found it! What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only describe the spectre which had haunted my midnight pillow.” On the morrow I announced that I had thought of a story.

  At first I thought but a few pages – of a short tale, about 5 feet 3 inches, but Shelley urged me to develop the idea to a greater length, 100 feet 6 inches. I certainly did not owe the suggestion of any one incident to my husband. In fact, he did bugger all. However, but for his incitement it would never have taken form, and all he wanted was 60% of the royalties.

  And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. Open a tie shop! Its several pages speak of many a walk, many a drive, and many a takeaway curry.

  I have changed no portion of this story.

  M.W.S.

  London, October 15th, 1831

  Preface

  (By P.B. Shelley, 1818)

  This Preface has absolutely noming to do with Mary’s book. It is written so I’ll have a few fingers in the pie when the book starts to sell.

  VOLUME ONE

  LETTER I

  To Mrs Saville, England

  St Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17––.

  You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you regarded with such evil forebodings. I did not catch fire nor was I sucked down in a whirlpool or eaten by a polar bear. Perhaps these are the things you had in mind for me. I am already far north of London and as I walk in the crap-ridden streets of Petersburgh I feel a cold northern breeze play on my cheeks, which braces my nerves and warms my swannicles. Do you understand these feelings? If not, feel yourself in bed tonight. I try in vain to be persuaded that the North Pole is the seat of God and his angels, tho they must wear warm clothes; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight and McDonald’s. There, Margaret, the sun is very low in the sky, but if you go upstairs and stand on the chair you will be able to see it although, like my bank balance, it has almost disappeared. If only my bank balance would rise on the horizon every morning, oh how happy I would be. However, I have trust in the preceding navigators. We are preceded by about a dozen in a small boat. One claims to be Henry of Navarre. I think he’s a bloody liar, his name is actually Dick Smith.

  The snow and frost are banished and we are sailing over a calm sea. We may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. There is the phenomena of the heavenly bodies. When I think of heavenly bodies I think of Doris Riter’s body of 36 Roseland Road, Catford. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? Well, for a start it never gets dark. I may have discovered the wondrous power which attracts the needle. I may go to parts of the world where no human eye has ever set foot. These are my enticements, to conquer all fear of danger or death. If the latter should happen, I will stop immediately. I feel the joy a young boy feels when he embarks in a little boat with his holiday mates on an expedition of discovery up a native river. If I remember correctly, that is how Livingston died.

  I shall find the secret of the magnet and I will become admired far and wide [he speaks well of himself]. I feel an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as does a steady purpose, or Valium. It is regret which I had felt as a child on learning that my father’s injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark on a seafaring life. Fuck him, I’ll do as I please.

  I must go down to the sea again

  To the lonely sea and the sky

  And all I ask is a tall ship

  And a star to steet her by.

  One day my name will go down beside Drake’s and Nelson’s. In fact I believe some people can’t wait for me to join them.

  Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. (He was an undertaker as well as a sailor.) I remember how I prepared for this enterprise. I stripped naked and covered my body with bear’s grease. I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea, and several times I fell into it. I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst and want of sleep and did it all in the comfort of my hotel room because I just couldn’t keep up with the sailors. I hired myself as a mate on a Greenland whaler and acquitted myself to the admiration of the crew, except that during the whole voyage I was violently seasick. I must own to feeling a little proud when the captain offered me a boat to row back home.

  I’m now a fisherman

  I strip naked and cover myself in bear’s grease

  I dive over the side, I nearly bloody freeze

  I catch fish with my teeth

  Alas, I foundered on a reef

  Dear Margaret, I now deserve to accomplish some great purpose – become Admiral, Field Marshal or manager of Boots. My life has been passed in ease and luxury, and in being seasick. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative.

  This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges. Some have difficulty stopping the horses which seem to go on and on and they are never seen again. The cold is not excessive if you are wrapped up in furs with an electric heater attached, it would need to be full on. The difficulty is carrying the heavy batteries under your arm. This is a dress which I have already adopted, but carrying the batteries has given me a hernia – this too is electrically heated. There is a great difference between walking the deck and remaining seated, motionless for hours. The latter people freeze to death and have to be thrown overboard. I have no ambition to be thrown overboard so I walk continuously, backwards and forwards, holding my heated hernia in place.

  I shall depart from this town in a fortnight or three weeks; my intention is to hire a ship, which can be easily done by slipping the hawsers off when the owner is not looking.

  Your affectionate brother,

  R. Walton

  We had a sto’way in the hold

  He was an eccentric millionaire we were told

  Every night we’d throw him over the side

  He’d say “thanks for the ride”

  And the crew threw him overboard on the next tide

  Eventually he died.

  LETTER II

  To Mrs Saville, England.

  Archangel, March 18th, 17––.

  How slowly the time passes up here. Up here one hour takes three. Encompassed as I am by frost, snow and ice, yet I have hired a vessel. It is a very secure ship with a slight tendency to sink. Just in case, we all sleep in the lifeboats.

  I have no friend, Margaret; I think this is because I have got halitosis. The men stand 50 yards away whenever they want to talk to me. I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, but there will be none to participate in my joy. Still, I am wearing a furry hat and e
very evening I sing ‘God Save the Queen’ through the porthole. I know she can’t hear me but there’s no reason why I shouldn’t.

  I shall commit my thoughts to paper, or the wall or the floor or even the ceiling. But that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. Talking of medium, we have one travelling with us in the steerage. He has a mystic power. He can give us the exact date and day every day. I desire the company of a man who could sympathise with me and his company must have a good annual turnover. I bitterly feel the want of a friend. (I have no one near me except the ship’s cat.) Someone who has tastes like my own – chicken madras.

  I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on the common. At the end of that time I fell exhausted to the ground. By the time I was fifteen I had recovered from my fourteen-year run. At that age I became acquainted with poets of our own country: Goethe, Adolph Hitler, Goering. Now one becomes acquainted with more languages than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight, and am in reality more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen. I speak two languages – good and bad.

  We have a sailor on board who’s gay

  No one knows what got him that way

  I asked him what made him one

  “It’s…,” he said, “It’s a lot of fun.”

  Well, I will certainly find no friends on the wide ocean. Every day I scan the seas for one and I never see one person – perhaps he’s inland.

  The master is a person remarkable in the ship for his gentleness and mild of discipline. He likes to talk to young sailors with his hand on his hip. I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship. I have never believed it to be necessary to give a man 50 lashes, then keelhaul him, then hang him from the yard arm, then finally make him walk the plank or swallow an anchor. Very few sailors survive this ritual.