Small sample of an audiobook called 'Master of Chaos' by David Hambling.
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (England - Cockney, Estuary, East End) British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
a day or two later, it being a mild evening. We talked a couple of benches outside the Holly Bush public house, Donnelly Vanstone, a May in mufti on Miller in his war attendance tunic. The chief entertainment was from Donnelly, who took a great delight in turning the world upside down for our entertainment. He could prove at the drop of a hat that the patients you've got three square meals a day and did no work with the only sane people in the asylum that day. He was on another tack on waxing lyrical. That would be a terrible thing if they could treat madness, he said. What kind of art? What sort of literature would we have without bards and poets who can glimpse beyond the great confines of this world to the luminous worlds beyond? Where's your romance? Trump's Where's your science fiction? Without visions and hallucinations of other worlds? Oh, madness in small doses, Maybe, said Vanstone, just the best voice on a Saturday night. The raving lunacy is no good for anyone. Van Stone had a gloomy mean, which made everything he said, sand wiser than it wass. His undertaker's face was a professional asset, it seemed to reassure patients just as effectively as Miller's perpetual cheer. Is it not arsed Donnelly? A. Miller got Ford. He's gonna tell you what is good for, said Miller. Now Jin Vanstone. Listen now he'll tell you. Poets and painters have to be a bit mad. Perhaps I said, there's forest. Practical matters go well. Ah, hue of our people should know what madness is good for, said Donnelly. To May, I exchanged glances with Van Stone, a Miller, while Donnelly looked on complacently and sub to spear. Her day was some terrible, tough times in the old days, said Donnelly. I'm talking about 1000 years ago, on more back and what they called the Dark Ages. The Romans were long gone. Society had collapsed into anarchy, and the flickering flames of civilisation was kept alive only by a few monks copying illuminated manuscripts in their Selves. In Ireland urn, maybe a few in England, little monks weren't mad, said Van Stone. They might have seemed eccentric. They were taking the long view, not mad. Also, they weren't, said Donnelly, but their labours were interrupted by the Vikings sailing swiftly or the seas in their dragon ships, burn and villages and student cattle, killing the man and raping the women. The Irish had great warriors and bold men with legendary Swartz, but we were never a match for the readers. When shield while clashed with Shield War, the Vikings always prevailed on. Do you know why there was a collective shaking of heads but fears his fighters? Man never faced the bursar. Chris Dave fought in the front rank without armour, sometimes without weapons naked. The per circus were mad men whose madness was fired by the smell of blood. They rose themselves to such fury that they formed at the mouth and hold like beasts. Some say the purser Chris became beasts, words and bears impervious to fire and steel stronger than bulls and raging for man. Blood day broke through the shell warlike match would tearing their enemies limb from limb. Those who didn't flee from them first core, said Miller. Mad men one on all, said Donnelly, invincible in their battle fury. The only trouble was calming them down Afterwards, the Power Circle madness, honed to a sharp image, was the Viking secret weapon. Oh yeah, hadn't heard of Dam, said Van Stone, could bullets stopem **** Miller imagining perhaps a whole regiment of the circus going over the top on the Western front. Am I take a lot of bullets, said Van Stone. You know what they're like, and they wouldn't stop until the last man was stone, or you should suggest it to the War ministry, said Miller. By doubt, now, if any of our lot will be any good, they've got the wrong sort of madness like that. Fitzroy Ages Barmy is abandoned coat, but harmless is a babe, but who's fit? Try really mad? Asked Donnelly. It wouldn't be destroy. Interesting if, by some quirk of history, a secret marriage or a hidden document of disinheritance, the rightful heir ends up in an asylum. Who can say, Maybe your man charge at Windsor is a pretender? We should all be bending the knee to Fitzroy Jenkins and Taylor and these other quarters. Technically, he was correct, though this was dangerous talk. My thoughts immediately flitted to the man in the Iron Mask and also to the tricky business of determining Ross succession, which sometimes proceeds down irregular channels. Vanstone slapped him down at once au pair, the proper mad a thinks he can work Magic Miller persisted. Oh, he's an umbrella maker, said Van Stone, worked in that place on West Oh Street, share VOCs all gave them a pack of cards and asked him to show me a trick, said Miller. And he couldn't. They said It's the wrong saw magic but couldn't do it. Maybe he's the sort of magician that's ours. Women in half, said Donnelly. You should have given him a glamorous assistant on a carpentry set if there's glamorous assistance being antidote. I love mine first, said Van Stone. We all laughed, but it set me thinking. Ryan had mentioned that Gillespie, my late predecessor, had been investigating an umbrella maker. I really didn't need to have a word with hope for. It would not be easy zigzagging along with his conversational turns. But maybe he could tell me something. What about Ross? Asked Miller, trying to find one patient whose madness Donnelly might admit to all that screaming at night. Maybe we'd are scream if we really thought about things in the night, said Donnelly. Maybe Russ is the only one who troubles to lift up his blinkers and seatings as they are those poor soul staring measurably at the wall see the world clearer than we go. Hey lifted his glass for myself. I'm happy to stay deluded.