Goblins are hard working and happiest when working. They themselves would deny this because work and happiness are not terms goblins understand. To be happy you have to be able to unhappy, and to work you have to have a state of non work and goblins have neither. They derive immense personal satisfaction from doing things and doing things exactly. Their only experience of discomfort is when they discover their work has been nergled.
In humans Goblin attention to detail would require a word that combined “fastidious” with “anal retentive”, “exuberant” and “merry”. To them Olympic timing is unbearably inaccurate. Atomic clocks are worse than useless as for them the femtosecond is too crude to be useful.
Goblin work gangs sing while putting up and taking down the scenery. They sing “The world is what you make it” with the foreman singing the line and the crew doing the nah nah nahnahnahnah nah chorus as a shanty.
Goblin singers can sing 124 perfectly divided steps between A and Bflat and regard with a certain disdain the human inability to hear more then three or four shades in a chromatic step. It is a source of goblin work gang pride that if there are twenty four members in the crew the nah nah nah chorus will have twenty four perfectly adjusted harmonies.
Goblins of course don’t play guitar; they have a legend of their greatest singer trying to learn. But Goblin precision was driven crazy by its attempt to tune the thing to goblin standards of accuracy, so they have dispensed with the experiment.
Goblin work gangs are occasionally infiltrated by Nergles. If the goblins are the mathematicians of the universe, the Nergles are the equivalent of a verbal virus. Nergles float freely at the edges of connotations, where they are happiest exploring what a human might describe as outrageously tenuous links between words.
They are both noun and verb, and so you can be Nergled by a Nergle.
Hating goblin accuracy with passion, Nergles are born subversives, mischievous, delightful, but rarely malicious, who love nothing better than to subvert whatever paradigm they can identify. If you’ve ever had the odd feeling that the thing you’ve seen every day for the past week has suddenly changed colour, or that the crack on the pavement went from the bottom left to the upper right and not the other way round, you’ve been nergled.
On the other hand, you cannot blame Nergles for lost keys or glasses. That is your own doddery memory at fault.
(Of course, the conspiracy theorist says there are no Nergles. Merely rogue goblins who have been driven mad by the endless precision of their race. No one dare interview the Nergles for their opinion. Rumour has that once upon a time, a very long time ago, a human spoke to a nergle. He was last heard saying:
Yes, G O’logical, harmed with prick and stammers, is evacuating my fallacious period, hoping to find dinner saucers. Back then I was on the royal road to the sub-constable, running from the veryneesy, anal trickcyclist, Siggy, who was arrested for a fraudulent slit. G.O, I says, says I, while nostalgicating alcofrolickally over a few leers in the pubelick louse:
q) Cans’t shell me eggs acterly what eventumanated?
a) Whilst imprisonyated by the sub-constabule, under section fifty spew, parachute 3 sub selection hive of the indecency fact, inside the sub-vestibule he did endite a tome, height, in the vernacular, “The interpolation of creams” exonerating his fraudamunt slit. And fleeced us all for gold.
q) Ah G.O me dear, have some cold cheese, slurp your grin bionic and tell to me in words spain and dimple of the subconstabo hoo buouillion. Where id ego?
a) Whack his folderol he diddled his dildo on the rocky road to bubbling, from galway’s bay to the swine dark tea
q) You can’t pig snore ham, canoe? But doing what, tell me tell me. Give me the goss.
A) well, as I’ve heard it said, he was hunting burning hairs all the way.
q) That and that alone?
a) Nah, he wanted to arrestimacate a deviant old fish Herman, Aengus his mythical moniker. Clammed to have cast his line and caught a dish, a silvery stout! When he laid his crutch upon the tyre, it burned into a simmering churl, with apple blossom round her fair, who flashed her bits at him and ran, into the dark king’s lair. singing “maids, when you’re young, never bed a cold ham
q) Anne Heeded?
a) No no, that was not her nam. Some think she was a fig meant for his imagined nation. He Followed up the airy mountain and down the rushy glen, with his blackthorn stick on the gravel walk, along the mountain road, past dowd’s 1-9, with his fol derriddle dum de.
(Sly G.O made junior crehan saddle the pony to see that O’neills had the key but not to Cooley’s.)
Q) Your mystical musical jigging code leaves me reeling… but tell me, tell me…by the lord Harry Doodlums…the porpoise he proposed, to himself if to no other, not his father or his mother or his sister or his brother, assuming off coarse, his parents had frequently fornicated, for the purpose of reproducing soft things for the purpling of holy iron land? Holey brother of rod! Spray for our dinners now and the flowers on our breath. Hymen. The desired, to him, termination of his endless vagabondation, of his up goings and down comings, on his hay down treaders across ridges and cwms, his wadings through streams, his weddings through corn, his windings through sheds and beds and streets and sheets, his lookings and his lostings, his hopings and gropings , his endless leavings and arrivings?
a) Merely to osculate. Repeatedly, when he finally came to hour down..smearing his post prandial greasy south, after a dinner of the good roast beef, against her ruby slips, and to fondle her digitals with his phone.
Jay son I’d not walk all the way to fork for that I’d be interpolating creams to be sure eye wood I’d want to see her very dinner saucers at the very least and fondle her blooms day after day.
Time said the barmanminder, time to go.
Yes, To G.O says I, Yes.
so yo can see, talking to the Nergles is a dangerous enterprise.