Well !phew   is all I can say.  I've heard some tales ! 
No, I've heard many tales, but this one! takes the biscuit ! 
Really it does.  
!!Phew!





Dear reader(s)
  

Come back with me, if you will, to New Year, 1703, and a knees-up in Venice, Italy.
For a party is in full swing at the Ospedale della Pieta, or, as we know it, 
the Pieta,  purely and simply.
At the party a principle, nay honoured, guest : Antonio Vivaldi;
dreaming of purity, even simplicity.

Not dreaming of either: the prophet Nostlikeymen;
for whom 1703 is the 200th anniversary of His birth.
Or, as the prophet was heard to remark later (at the party):
            I amme off 199 yeares nowe 
 ande I wille be off 200 by the end of this junkture
           so (juste)  fucke !  offe

*You will note, dear reader(?), 
   the waye the prophete speake 
  be  the waye the prophete speake.

*You will also note, dear reader( ),
  that at that stage of the party
  the prophete be prettie pissd.

Now  it be true/it is true  that Nostlikeymen-the-prophet had, 
for the most part, always been partial to a party, in any parts. 
But a party at the Pieta  produce in the prophet a preponderance of partiality.
Or, as Nostlikeymen was heard to remark later ( still at the party):
           Itts mye partye    
  (ande)  Iyll dye iffe I wante too
             ( dye iffe I wante too     etc.  )
       so (juste) ! fucke  offe

Well, it wasn't  Nostlikeymen's party, in all truth.
He'd just happened to hear about it.
No, He just happened to 'know' about it,  
like He just happened to 'know' about most things going on;
in other words, about everything that would kick off in future time,
and about little or nothing cracking off at that moment;
which averaged out at Him 'knowing' about most things (going on)     !

All of which mean, predictably, that  Nostlikeymen-the-prophet 
be at the  New Year's party, 1703, at the Pieta  in Venice, Italy.
Which, at the end of the day (and well into the night ),
is pretty much the prophet's gain.

And everyone else's loss,
pretty much.

watt i lick about yew preest  
belch Nostlikeymen,  befuggered to the point of  linguisticke oblivione,
is that your knot lick all these other loosas here
your a tossa  butt  your knot a loosa
i dunt see yew as that at alle

Like a revivalist raising the roof at The Globe,  Vivaldi smile and frown in equal measure.
Put out by the prophet's personal approach, he drops the scudo which he has been tossing all evening, religiously;  every time correctly predicting which of the bankrupt Borgias will land heads up;  forever dreaming of the fortune he might have made, had there been money riding on it; had there been, in this or that world, any justice, poetic or otherwise.
It has to be rigged, of course,   remark  a nearby party-goer,  
Yes, it must be rigged.
Hearing this, Vivaldi launch into an offensive,  categoric  that    
behind a mere flip of a coin lie no dark hand.  
How! it land is how ! it land perchance   
he scream     
A chance to scheme ?! Dream on, devious beings. .! ?RIGGED RIGGED ?! 
At this point  the party-goer directs Antonio's gaze to the mast and sails erected in the  Installazione della Barcaccia  
Y'see, it has to be rigged, they reiterate.
And to emphasise the point, up the rigging climbs the pissed-old, purser-lipped prophet, up,  up to the masthead.
You have to admire him,  mumble the party-goer, with all-necessary inflection.
And how he knows what he knows ! beats me. Y'know, he was telling me stuff earlier that just blew my mind, man. And against that, all us common-folk, y'know, me, you, everyone else here, well,           
to paraphrase the prophet, we   dunt now shyt.
According to N, we cant even name the colour of our underwear; hell ! we don't know if we're even wearing any.
As the ancient mariner teeters at the top of the installation, people down below are checking underwear surreptitiously; some their own.
High above them, the mariner-prophet cries out like a maimed seabird: 
       Aaarrghhh  !  I cannot talke about me keks 
  butt what I can tell ye thoo is me baggies be pissgreene !               !Aarrggghh
 At this moment a stream of green fluid rain down on the party-goers. 
They flee quickly from the installation, crying, laughing too. 
OH!OH It's the !! Fontana della Barcaccia !
( Fountain of the Ugly Boat ), someone mocks,  to great applause.
Frig it ! cries another.
No ! Just an ordinary, old boat,   comes the reply.

Only Antonio Vivaldi seemed undisturbed by that shower of putridity.
He had been born in an earthquake and was clearly used to natural phenomena. 
Oy ! priest  rasped the old soak  
I'd get out of the way if I were you. 
There'll be more coming down  ! and worse
The prophet-mariner kept barking out stuff from the masthead,  scarcely audible above
the noise of the party. But it go something like this:
old man climb to top of rigging to look for toilet     
when he get to top can't remember what he climb up for      
piss himself
!Aaarrghhh     
then he remember

Had it not been for the party hubbub,  that un/amused muso AV might have mused on't,
might have shouted back to that olde belche-befuggerer:
 Look  ! Stop your meander ?won't you and tell me this :
     !Yew call me preest   Yew call me preest  
   !?! butt how is it that yew knowest off this

OH!OH Antonio,   he's gone awry,    left me       .       . 
                                                                   left me no choice, dear reader,  
                                                                   but to explain his predicament.



You see, Antonio Vivaldi was, in the early rites of 1703, set to become a priest.
Of that there is no dispute. He would gain enunciation some months hence.
Yet how did Nostlikeymen know this?
Such information after all was confined to the Pieta's four walls
which meant to within Venice
which meant to within Italy
which meant to within Southern Europe.
But then N wasn't from these parts for sure;
he was certainly not Italian.
And though an  inconnu he was certainly not French.
No, definitely ! not French
!He was always very keen to put a cork in that particular onion:
       Let Me ! be leafing  grayt distance 
  betwixt  Me  and  that faux-fortuneBagger 
borne in Francia  in muche the same yeare   as   Mwah


Antonio reckon theProphetNostlikeymen to be  Middle-English,
judging by that  diuretic vernacular  of his.
So AV could try calling up to the middleEnglander,
but there was really no point.
It would be like trying to reach goD   or    David blaine.
No, nothing for it but to climb the rigging and  go find  N.
What is it they say now?
 If the fountain won't come to Musician  etcetc  ..

And climb the rigging is just what Antonio Vivaldi do.
However, having had rather too much to drink, 
he can barely manage to get half-way.
That's not to say he has had anything like
the skinfull supped by the prophet.  
No siree !  Were this to be a drinking race,
AV be wearing Vuitton boots against N's Nike shoes.
Half-way.  AV breathless.
But?how did that old codge  . ..  .  
As he think this out loud, in a flash that old codge
is hanging right by him, clinging to the same rigging rope.
Butt  .! .  but  ..   stutter AV

Look Tonie ! I be Nostlikeymen,  saye the prophete
and nearlie 200 yeare olde to boote.
Ande to answere yon nexte questione,   
welle prettie muche the same waye that I knowe
yon wille soone be enunciated into the preesthoode,
ande be Maestro of the Pieta   sindoote.

Yes but(t) no  ! will I,  ?,   AV stumble on, 
I mean I will ?! won't I

At this, that self-styled seer sneers.
Letts putte this anothere waye,   saye  He.
When infoe be soo   .  ..  ' cloisterede'  .. .  
how dost one knowe to turne uppe  
to a  Sailor-with-Scurvy themed, NewYeare bashe
in Venice  dressede as a mariner  ?   mmmm
Like  a waif in ship's clothing   you mite saye
!    How preposterous     How presumptuous     How pertinent   !
?An erudite guesse
Or juste luckie with tosse off the scudo, who ?knowe   reelie
I amme 199 after alle.
Here Nostlikeymen smile knowingly and reassure Vivaldi:
Lookie here Toni !  This be Italie  (!Aarghhh)
An ise kreeme lefte on the tabel dust not remane an ise-kreeme fore longe (Aarghhh!)
Now Toni Vivaldi nods and grins, clueless as to what 
ye olde-pisspote be goin' on abut

Here, spurred on by his verry own gushe of warme putridity,  the-prophete-Nostlikeymen launch into  stream of consciousness  'prophesizing'.

Or steam of consciousness  perhaps.