Gemini.Finnegans.Wake.04

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This is the three lipoleum boyne grouching down in the living detch. This is an inimyskilling inglis, this is a scotcher grey, this is a davy, stooping. This is the bog lipoleum mordering the lipoleum beg. A gallawghurs argaumunt, This is the petty lipoleum boy that was nayther bag nor bug. Assaye, assaye! Touchole Fitz Tuomush. Dirty Mac Dyke. And Hairy O’ Hurry. All of them arminus-varminus. This is Delian alps. This is mont Tivel, this is Mont Tipsey, this is the Grand Mons Injun. This is the crimealine of the alps hooping to sheltershock the three lipoleums. THis is the jinnies with their legahorns feinting to read in their handmade’s book of stralegy while making their war undisides the Willingdone. The jinnies is a cooin her hand and the jinnies is a ravin her hair and the Willingdone git the band up. This is big Willingdone Mormorial tallowscoop Wounderworker obscides on the flanks of the jinnies. Sexcaliber hrosspower. Tip. This is me Belchum sneaking his phillippy out of his most Awful Grimmest Sunshat Cromwelly. Looted. This is the jinnies’ hastings dispatch for to irrigate the Willingdone. Dispach in thin red lines cross the shortfront of me Belchum. Yaw, yaw, yaw!

As Sunday night winds down, our tour of the “Willingdone Museyroom” continues, but the scene grows more chaotic and confusing. The guide is now describing a diorama where multiple historical battles are happening all at once.

This is the three lipoleum boyne grouching down in the living detch. THis is an inimyskilling inglis, this is a scotcher grey, this is a davy, stooping.
The guide points to three lipoleum boyne—three Napoleons, now associated with the Battle of the Boyne, a pivotal conflict in Irish history. They are being opposed by the soldiers of the British Isles: an Englishman from Enniskillen (inimyskilling inglis), a Scots Grey cavalryman (scotcher grey), and a Welshman (davy). Joyce is deliberately mashing Waterloo together with Irish history.

This is the bog lipoleum mordering the lipoleum beg… This is the petty lipoleum boy that was nayther bag nor bug.
The conflict is even internal, with the big Napoleon (bog lipoleum) murdering the little one (lipoleum beg). History is a confusing “gallawghur’s argument” (a fallacious argument).

This is the crimealine of the alps hooping to sheltershock the three lipoleums.
The landscape itself is a mashup. The Alps of Napoleon’s campaigns are merged with the Crimean War (crimealine) and are “shell-shocking” the soldiers. History is not a clean timeline but a recurring, traumatic nightmare.

THis is the jinnies with their legahorns feinting to read in their handmade’s book of stralegy while making their war undisides the Willingdone.
Now we see the female spectators, the jinnies. They are a group of young women, pretending to study military strategy but actually “making their war”—a war of flirtation and adoration—alongside their hero, Wellington. They are the archetypal fans of the man of violence.

This is big Willingdone Mormorial tallowscoop Wounderworker obscides on the flanks of the jinnies. Sexcaliber hrosspower. Tip.
Wellington is described in grand terms: a memorial (Mormorial), a wonder-worker (Wounderworker). He sits beside the adoring girls, his power described as Sexcaliber hrosspower. His sword is a sexualized Excalibur, and his power is a mix of military horsepower and magnetic, sexual “whore’s-power.”

This is me Belchum sneaking his phillippy out of his most Awful Grimmest Sunshat Cromwelly. Looted.
Another historical layer is added. A Belgian soldier (me Belchum) is looting, but he does so in the shadow of Cromwelly—Oliver Cromwell, the most reviled figure in Irish history. Even in this diorama of a Napoleonic battle, the trauma of the 17th-century Cromwellian conquest is present.

This is the jinnies’ hastings dispatch for to irrigate the Willingdone. … Yaw, yaw, yaw!
The scene ends in a flurry. The girls send a hasty dispatch (evoking the Battle of Hastings) to “irrigate” (give life/encouragement to) Wellington. The message crosses the Belgian’s chest, and the paragraph ends with the nonsensical, explosive sound of cannon fire or shouting: Yaw, yaw, yaw!.

The clear, simple tour has descended into a confusing dream of battle, where all of history’s conflicts, heroes, and traumas are happening at once. The museum is not a place of clear facts, but a container for a chaotic, collective memory.

Leaper Orthor. Fear sicken! Fieldgaze thy tiny frow. Hugacting. Nap. That was the tictacs of the jinnies for to fontannoy the Willingdone. Shee, shee, shee! The jinnies is jillous agincourting all the lipoleums. And the lipoleums is gonn boycottoncrezy onto the one Willingdone. And the Willingdone git the bandup. This is bode Belchum, bonnet to busby, breaking his secred word with a ball up his ear to the Willing done. This is Willingdone’s hurold dispitchback. Dispitch desployed on the regions rare of me Belchum. Salamangra! Ayi, Ayi, Ayi! Cherry Jinnies. Figtreeyou! Damn Fairy ann, Voutre. Willingdone. That was the first joke of Willingdone, tic for tac. Hee, hee, hee!

As our Sunday night tour of the “Willingdone Museyroom” continues, the guide zooms in on the complex tactics and intrigues within the battle diorama. The scene is less about grand armies and more about personal interactions, signals, and betrayals.

Leaper Orthor. Fear sicken! Fieldgaze thy tiny frow. Hugacting. Nap.
The paragraph opens with a series of sharp, confusing commands, like a general (Leaper Orthor - Arthur Wellesley) shouting orders in the heat of battle. It’s a snapshot of the chaos.

That was the tictacs of the jinnies for to fontannoy the Willingdone. Shee, shee, shee! The jinnies is jillous agincourting all the lipoleums.
The guide explains that the actions of the jinnies (the girls) are a form of tictacs—coded signals. Their goal is to fontannoy the Willingdone—a pun on the Battle of Fontenoy, meaning they are trying to influence, flirt with, or perhaps even strategically “defeat” Wellington with their feminine wiles. Their jillous agincourting (jealous courting, punning on the Battle of Agincourt) is a key tactic, driving the Napoleons (lipoleums) crazy and forcing Wellington’s hand.

This is bode Belchum, bonnet to busby, breaking his secred word with a ball up his ear to the Willing done. This is Willingdone’s hurold dispitchback. Dispitch desployed on the regions rare of me Belchum.
The guide points out another mini-drama. A Belgian soldier (bode Belchum) is breaking his secred word (betraying a promise or secret). In response, Wellington doesn’t write a letter; his dispitchback (dispatch-back) is physical and insulting—a kick on the regions rare (the rear-end) of the Belgian. This portrays Wellington as a ruthless and pragmatic leader who responds to betrayal with contempt.

Salamangra! Ayi, Ayi, Ayi! Cherry Jinnies. Figtreeyou! Damn Fairy ann, Voutre. Willingdone.
The scene dissolves into a chaotic volley of exclamations, battle-puns (Salamangra! for the Battle of Salamanca), and fragmented phrases, mimicking the noise and confusion of the events being described.

That was the first joke of Willingdone, tic for tac. Hee, hee, hee!
This is the paragraph’s punchline. The tour guide reveals that this whole intricate sequence—the girls’ strategic flirting, the soldier’s betrayal, the insulting physical reply—was not a grand historical moment but simply the first joke of Willingdone. It was all a cynical game of tic for tac (tit for tat). The guide ends with a laugh (Hee, hee, hee!), reframing the violence and complexity of history as a dark, practical joke.

03/08/2025, P.8.15, to be continued.