Wednesday 31 October 2012

GHOSTS.....................

1649

I climbed those wooden, creaking steps, those I could not hear for the crowd's clamour and I would not shake with the cold for fear they thought me nervous when I was terrified as the executioner, I could only see his darting eyes, shook me by the hand and I tipped three gold coins into his to pay for a job well done even though, after my address to those near by, he placed the cold steel on the back of my neck, rested the edge of the axe just where my collar might have been where she had kissed me so lovingly and where my children, the darlings, had thrown their small arms around me to tell me how much they loved their Papa and now these hateful accusers, this misguided tumult was going to take off my head, cut their king in two using a rough fellow to wield their vile instrument in an arc through the Whitehall air in one gory hack in which proceeds some dipped their handkerchiefs and all for what, so that I could come back and restore their faith in me and the monarchy for another four hundred years at least.

.................................

TRICK OR TREAT?

The Halloween rain blew, blasted, blustered at the window pain of number 13 and little Esme peered out with her face painted, mock horror, silly scars and blood. God had tricked her. No treats for her that wet, wettest, cold , coldest end of October night. Esme's mother tried to consol, comfort her but Esme was in no mood for excuses. She wanted what she wanted, needed, pleaded for on Halloween.

"But be reasonable, darling," her mother implored, implied, demanded in her way.

"I want to go trick or treating, " said the little girl with a wave, shake, prod of her satanic trident, the black plastic, made in China, bought in Asda, three pronged toy fork.

Another bucket full of rain hit, smacked, splashed the window and really answered the question for the two, both of them.

"Well if we can't go out I'll just have to do it here." Esme's painted face cracked a hopeful, furtive smile.

"Of course darling," said her mother. "Let's do it at home."

And so it was that little Esme took her self off to the kitchen to find the very sharp Japanese carving knife. She knew that she had to be careful with it. It was so sharp that it wasn't kept in the cutlery drawer along side all the other knives and spoons and forks. It was kept on its own in a thin wooden box and Esme got it out and held it in her tiny hand. It felt much more real than the black plastic, made in China, bought in Asda, three pronged toy fork.

Esme knocked on the closed door of the front room.

"Who's there?" sang, rang her mother in playful, sing song surprise.

"Trick or treat?" said Esme as she squeezed the comfortable handle of the sharp Japanese carving knife.

...................................

GREAT WAR GHOSTS.

At eleven o'clock on November 11th the guns fell silent and tens of millions sighed with one terrible breath, those with ghastly black bayonet holes, home to the rat, from the dark wet bottom of their muddy unmarked mass graves, some sculptured by metal bullets punctured and pocked like grotesque sponges, some ripped apart in little pieces hung out across the cruel barbed wire, torn limb from bloody limb by high explosive blast, some gassed and blinded, racked with a deadly, drowning cough and those missing, erased from the face of the earth, while the rest were driven stark starring mad; and every year since when the bugle sounds the last post, the Glorious Dead fall in for the ghostly parade that stretches further than the eye might see across continents and generations.
.....................................

SWEETS.

Old Mrs McCloud didn't much like children at the best of times. As far as she was concerned they should neither be seen nor heard. She'd spent most of her long life doing without them and had bad memories of the time she had spent being one. Children, she thought, were a waist of space and that was that. So when they came and knocked at her door at the end of October when the clocks had gone back and it was dark by five, she was ready for them.

They helped themselves greedily to the bowl full of sweets she had on offer.

"Trick or treat" they had shouted when she eventually opened the door. their grabbing fingers snatched up the sweets and they ran off in their plastic capes, gapping fangs and scars, swinging their torches and giggling with glee unwrapping the confectionery and stuffing it in their ghoulish gobs not really tasting the rat poison until it was far too late.

.....................................





Monday 30 July 2012

FIFTEEN SHAGS A DAY.


When university graduate Anastasia Iron goes to interview entrepreneur Christian Day she gets more than she bargains for.........

I guess that I shouldn't have entered his office on my bum, biting my lip in that silly way I do when I'm not sure how things are going to turn out. I can't help the accident. I just trip over my virginity and find myself at his feet, his piecing grey eyes looking down at me saying I want to tie you up , I want to bite your lip, I want to gag you, I want to tickle your arse with a feather.


But steady on. Things have got to take their time and nothing of any sexual consequence can be allowed to happen until at least one hundred pages have been scanned. Actually about a hundred and ten and then I have my first orgasm when Mr Day does something to my nipples that my metabolism simply cannot resist. I've never heard of a girl coming like that when a guy she's only just met gets a bit intimate with her ferrets' noses. I know that he only wants me as a play thing. When he shows me his playroom, the red room of pain he calls it, with all the trappings of an Ann Summers back room and some, I realise that Mr Day is into more than just what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this.


I roll my eyes at him and the next thing I know is I'm trussed up like a Christmas turkey with my hands tied around one of the four posters to the red bed so that Mr Day can get on with what ever he wants to at my exposed rear end. He uses that ghastly tie, the one that looks like the sort of thing a doorman would wear round his fat neck. Once again I experience an orgasm.


I'm not even allowed to touch the man who has just done far more than touch me up. He's had my cherry for goodness sake and even though I must admit he's the best looking male I've seen on two legs, I'm not sure about his motives. What I want is a deep and meaningful relationship but what he wants is deep and painful. Never mind aye. Grin and bear it. Literally.


He's got this thing about food and how I shouldn't leave any for Mr Manners. It's a clean plate or a smacked bottom. Any excuse I guess. I simply hate Shredded Wheat for breakfast so I guess it's going to be an over the knee experience before I can say please pass the butter and I'm right. He puts me across his lap and, surprise surprise, I come again. Not eating the crusts on my toast and marmalade brings another punishment. I have to lie naked and flat on my back, spread eagled across the vast breakfast bar (there's a great view of down town Seattle over my right shoulder). Mr Day empties a pot of Actimel (one a day) on my tummy together with a blob of Manuka honey on each nipple and then he tucks in to the unusual snack. Once again I can't really control myself and am forced to come with the result that Mr Day is left looking something like Coco the clown with a lot of yoghurt spread all over his face, it having being forced off my stomach with all the writhing I do when I have that double orgasm. Yes two and this was before the coffee.


Obviously Mr Day has to go and get cleaned up, wipe the health food from his face, but he returns wearing his black trousers, the ones that hang so provocatively from his hips, and that white shirt that just about covers his splendid torso. His hair shines like copper and I want to wipe away the trace of honey I can see he's obviously missed in his beautiful locks. He won't let me and when I bite my lip and roll my eyes at him that is it. Before you could say Vibrating Rabbit we are back in the red room of pain.


This time I have to kneel in the corner like some female Buddha while he goes off and changes into a pair of old jeans. He approaches me with a leather riding crop in his right hand an a green apple in the other. I feel like a bloody horse. I have to call him Sir which is quite difficult with the apple in my mouth but I am determined not to be beaten. Actually I am. He whacks me rather hard with the crop and the apple shoots out of my mouth and catches Mr Day a flying blow, a direct hit, right on the end of his erect manhood. His piercing grey eyes cross and he staggers backwards through the correction room and falls against the large wooden cross perched against the far wall. Even though it looks secure, for a brief moment nothing happens, but then ever so slowly like a falling tree, the thing starts its journey. Mr Day doesn't see it as it comes down on his beautiful head even though I try to warn him by pointing furiously at the thing behind him, he never looks back. As he lies there unconscious on the floor I think that it would be a pity not to take advantage of the unused erection. It is fun bouncing up and down on the out-for-the-count Mr Day and while he has absolutely no idea what is going on, I know precisely and enjoy another orgasmic experience, my sixth that morning and it isn't even time for elevenses.


I cannot find my knickers anywhere. But hey that is the least of my worries as I run off to find the blonde housekeeper to help me restore Mr Day to his pre-wooden cross encounter. The two of us struggle to lift the heavy cross off the billionaire. He comes round but must be delirious as he issues a slurred command for both of us to drop to our knees immediately. What follows is something that a house keeper should probably receive overtime for. The obedient blonde performs her extraordinary duty at one end of Mr Day while I hang about at the other. This again produces an orgasm, actually two as the housekeeper has one before returning to the ironing.


Mr Day isn't feeling his best as we jump into his helicopter to go and have an early lunch with his mother. I still have not found my knickers but I am not going to say a thing. The guy helping me on board gets a bit of a shock what with the updraft and everything but Mr Day doesn't bat an eye lid. Maybe he knows I am not wearing any.


The lunch is an informal affair and it is nice meeting Mr Day's family although quite hard trying to make polite conversation at the dining table while Christian has his hand hovering over my undressed sex. If that isn't tantalising enough, when he grabs a stick of celery as we tuck into the stilton and he tucks it into me, the look on my face must be a picture. I come between cheese and pudding and am just about able to smoother the event by exploding into my napkin with such conviction that everyone round the table blesses me after my enormous and prolonged sneeze.


After lunch the trip to the boat house at the end of the garden gives me another good rollicking and sees Mr Day perfecting a very steady stroke. His little sister nearly catches us at it but Christian is so masterful and tells her that we are just looking at his rowing trophies. If only she'd known.


We return in the black SUV with Tinker driving. Tinker is a real good sport. He does everything for Mr Day and always seems to be on hand. I feel that having met Mr Day's family, I might be winning a place in his affections rather than being just a simple plaything. I try to talk to him but all he wants to do is take me on the back seat of the car in such a way that I'm sure Tinker can see and hear me reach my tenth orgasm of the day.


As we take the elevator to the top floor Mr Day produces my knickers from his suit pocket. I start to say that he can stuff them up his, but before I can finish the sentence he is stuffing something else up mine. He likes doing it in lifts apparently and I can't help reflecting as we go past the eleventh floor that I am having my eleventh that day.


When I come back from the bathroom I can hear the sound of a piano playing. The tune is slow almost mournful . I stop in the doorway and watch as Mr Day strokes the keys. When he sees me the tune changes to "How much is that doggy in the window?" and I know that something is up. As I kneel on top of the grand piano with my naked bottom in the air, I know that something is indeed right up.


The contract he's drawn up for me to sign seems fairly straight forward. He can do to me what he likes and if I don't like it I can tell him to stop. I tell him that I have to discuss things with my mother. She is on husband number three or four and understands these things, how to deal with men. Mr Day doesn't look too happy at the idea and I know that I shouldn't roll my eyes at him again. But I do. He chases me round the big room and before I know it he's caught me and handcuffed me and is marching me off to his red room of pain. This time it is the cat 'o nine tales but not before he puts a blindfold over my still rolling eyes. Each lash makes me squeal with pain, or is it delight? I can't really tell. When the flogging eventually stops I can hear his breathing and the familiar sound of tearing foil as yet another condom is being forced into action. The familiar smell of burning rubber wafts around the two of us as he finds his mark and I eventually reach my thirteenth.


As arranged Mr Day's female doctor arrives to examine me. I explain that I've been through quite a lot already that day. She prescribes a contraceptive pill and I hope that it wasn't a bit like shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. She also suggests I get a tub of Canisan as thrush can be an irritating and unwanted distraction for any girl.


Mr Day looks pleased as he writes out the $5,000 cheque for the doctor's time. He is nothing if not generous.


The evening lights of Seattle glisten like so many bright candles lit at a concert when people hold up their cigarette lighters when that tune "candle in the wind" is played. What a view it is as we look down on the early evening rush and have another shag standing against the vast plate glass window so that when the next orgasm arrives my outstretched palms squeak down the cold hard glass like a window cleaner's squeegee.


It is time for me to go home. My flat mate must be wondering where on earth I am. I have promised to go out with Jose my old friend although I am not going to tell Mr Control Freak Day about this.


We kiss in the lobby and armed with the uncalled for gifts from Mr Day, my two first editions, my new lap top, blackberry, the keys to my new red Audi sports car and the good doctor's prescription, I step into the elevator. What a day! What a man!


Jose is pleased to see me. He is so different from Christian Day. He's ugly and as poor as a Mexican church mouse.


"Fancy a shag?" he says to me as he drops me off after our drink.


"Ok then," I reply. May as well says my inner goddess to herself as she limps into the flat rolling her tired eyes for the fifteenth time today.

Thursday 19 July 2012

AUNT'S LEGACY

When Blakelock’s aunt is cremated, she goes out with a bang. Not one of her friends or relatives know that she has been fitted with a pacemaker and the loud report that it makes when the furnace fires up isn’t quite drowned out by the electric organ. The few who have come to see her off are trying to sing along to its music in the crematorium chapel. The half hearted nature of the congregation’s effort is more to do with the choice of hymn rather than unwillingness to partake. “Onward Christian Soldiers” or “Fight The Good Fight” would both have diluted the bang. “What Our Father Does Is Well”, a rather obscure harvest hymn with a difficult to follow tune, does not promote a natural harmony or the vocal gusto to muffle the unexpected sound. The undertakers from the Co-op are given the blame for the pacemaker oversight and its resultant small explosion but no mention is made to the bereaved about the unfortunate incident and how it interferes with Blakelock’s aunt. The operator of the fiery furnace, the guy at the coal face so to speak, gets a nasty shock when the lid of Blakelock’s aunt’s coffin takes flight and the dead aunt herself tries to vacate her last resting place by suddenly sitting up just as the flames are taking hold. The operator needs a cup of sweet black tea to help restore his equilibrium and he is allowed to go home early entrusting the rest in line that day to one of his colleagues. Some say he will never be quite the same again. The explosion of Blakelock’s aunt’s pacemaker is attributed by the congregation to a coincidental vehicle backfire on the busy road outside, where life carries on as normal as Mohammad, the driver of the A1Lawn At Bargain Price van (“green shoots r us”) speeds past the crematorium gates unaware that Blakelock’s aunt is being burnt to a cinder and her pacemaker is about to explode. The six year old green van is long overdue its service and as Mohammad pushes his booted foot to the floor, the tired engine responds with a noisy and fume fuelled hick-up that sounds like an old blunderbuss being fired. Mohammad curses as Blakelock pretends to sing the words, “Though nor milk nor honey flow, in our barren Canaan now,” and the Good Lord takes the exclamations from both men in His stride as Blakelock’s dead aunt briefly sits up, shocked in her tracks, on her way to meet Him herself.


Blakelock hasn’t really bothered with his aunt and so it is a surprise to discover that she has left him a bequest of £100,000. Blakelock decides that his inheritance, his aunt’s gift, should be marked in some appropriate way. The old lady would probably have liked that. So Blakelock thinks about the various options that are now open to him. He could purchase some rather fancy piece of antique furniture or a work of art with which to commemorate his aunt. He could invest in some fine wine, something he thinks that would have been close to and given succour to his aunt’s heart. It was said that she had enjoyed the better part of a half bottle of red Burgundy every day and that had, together with the pacemaker and the pills, kept her heart condition on the right side of wrong until the very end. Blakelock considers the leg of a racehorse but agrees that this might lead to bad money after good no matter if the leg he invests in decides to be the fastest leg there is. If the other three or just one of the other three is slow then the whole project is doomed from the start or indeed collecting ring.

After about two and half weeks after receipt of his late aunt’s money Blakelock decides on a Hummer. Of nearly all the things he might have chosen to spend his aunt’s money on, a Hummer is not the most obvious. The Hummer is not just an ordinary vehicle but a rugged statement that tells everyone who sees it that here is a car that is much more than a car. Blakelock is not concerned about miles per gallon. He jokes that it is more a case of gallons per mile. The Hummer wags two rude fingers to the carbon footprint and on the basis that Blakelock’s aunt hadn’t apparently shown any signs of believing in the existence of global warming, Blakelock justifies to himself that his aunt would be pleased with his choice of how he should spend her money. Blakelock’s aunt had lived in an old house without the benefit of many modern trappings. Insulation and double glazing were just words as mysterious to Blakelock’s aunt as Higgs Boson or Quantitative Easing. Her old radiators were left to rumble on, Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn, at a steady sweltering eighty degrees and the coal fires that burnt furiously in her various grates added their considerable pollution to Blakelock’s aunt’s personal volume of greenhouse gasses.

As if to add further arrogance to the Hummer statement, Blakelock chooses a brand new red vehicle which is in marked contrast to the old green van driven by Mohammad of the A1Lawn At Bargain Price franchise (“green shoots r us”), a vehicle which doesn’t let the grass grow under its wheels because Mohammad (Mo the lawn to those that know him from the local Mosque) runs a busy business assuring weed free lush swards for his satisfied clients whilst trying to fulfil the increasing demands of his more fundamentalist brethren. The green van is being used to stock pile a dangerous amount of fertiliser without attracting any undue speculation from nosey neighbours, lawns and fertiliser being natural bed fellows.

The thing about a red Hummer is that it does attract attention, some of it unwanted, a lot angry, some of it jealous and quite a lot based on envy. Blakelock secretly likes the more favourable attention, the head turning looks he can see in the vast wing mirrors as he hums passed. He particularly likes it when the swivelling heads are pretty and female. Blakelock hasn’t enjoyed so much attention from the fairer sex and his new red Hummer brings him a ticket, a ring side seat, to a whole new experience that he finds difficult to resist. Sophie is one such but not content with just looking, she wants to touch and in getting closer to the rugged vehicle, she could become closer to its owner.

"Would you like a go in it?” Blakelock says to the young woman when he returns to the new shopping centre car park and sees her stroking the bonnet of his big machine.

"If that’s OK, yeah I would,” says Sophie very excited at the prospect of being let into this brash new world of petrol head heaven. She has enjoyed a Truck Fest or two and the Battle of the Monster Machines at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff sent her into an unusual trance for several of the following days. Blakelock takes her for a spin and enjoys showing off around the car park. It is as though the Hummer is patrolling the lines of parked vehicles inspecting them rather like a general might review his troops. The Hummer looks down on most of them, is the king of the lot, loud and proud and majestically red as it rides through the rank and file.

"Wow,” says Sophie when after having cruised most of the lanes Blakelock brings the big machine to a screeching and rocking halt in one of the parent with child parking bays.

"You should see it off road,” says Blakelock and immediately Sophie wants to. She agrees to meet Blakelock again the following Saturday when Blakelock promises to take her for a decent run with a bit of off-roading thrown in as well. Reversing out of the parent with child parking space Blakelock doesn’t see the A1Lawn At Bargain Price van and the red Hummer slams into the side of it with the sort of force a fast rhino might employ when hitting a slow poacher. There isn’t a big smash but more of a dull crunch and the sound of thin metal being bent and torn. The A1Lawn At Bargain Price van suddenly has a new tattered logo. Several of the letters have disappeared into the gaping holes in the van’s punctured side. The strap line is distorted and doesn’t read any better and the new message seems to be saying something it shouldn’t. Mohammad looks like a wild rabbit caught in the headlights as he springs from his assaulted van to confront what ever it is that has interrupted his progress through the big shopping centre car park.

"What in god’s name are you doing?” Mohammad shouts at Blakelock who is already inspecting the rear end of his Hummer. The damage to the big machine is minimal and it does seem incredible that Mohammad’s van has sustained such scars without as much as a scratch on the Hummer.

"You’ve buggered my van right up.” Mohammad protests loudly.

Sophie is full of mirth. She has seen the whole thing and is probably the cause and distraction for the incident. Blakelock was showing off in front of the new admirer by revving the several horsepower under his foot’s control into a fever pitch before de-clutching and sending the red vehicle lurching backwards into the passing van.

"Ha, ha,” laughs Sophie as she reads the new description on the damaged vehicle.

"Alla at Bar.” She pronounces the strange new words as they have been arranged. She reads them out slowly, in an uncertain childlike manner with no understanding of their meaning. Mohammad spins around as though he’s been hit by lightening. He cannot believe what he is seeing.

“It’s Alla ak bar. Not Alla at bar,” he exclaims incensed at the female’s ignorance. He squints at the letters, takes in the full meaning of the battered new inscription. The letter K could be a letter T, but there is no doubt in his mind about the new message. He looks as though he has seen God and certainly feels as though God is at this very moment speaking to him.

“Shoot us.” Sophie sings out rather more positively, relaying the only two words in the new strap line on the green van.

Quick as a bird with a worm Mohammed wrenches open the rear door and pulls out a twelve bore shot gun which he levels and fires at Blakelock and Sophie in such a casual manner that it looks for all the world as though Mo the lawn is about to perform some top dressing rather than simply comply with his treacherous training.

“Allah ak Bar,” he shouts his battle cry as the little balls of lead shot start their hurried journey towards their unfortunate quarry.

The two blasts at such close quarters splatter into the recipients like sugar on pancakes and they dance and spin like bleeding puppets in an extraordinary enactment. The sound of the first shot is, thinks Blakelock, similar to the noise he heard at his aunt’s cremation. He doesn’t hear the second, but as his and the young woman’s dying blood drips almost unseen down the red paintwork of the peppered Hummer, Blakelock thinks that he really should have gone for the antique, the wine or even the leg of a horse rather than the big American beast.









Monday 11 June 2012

IN FLAMIN' JUNE

What a hoot

to be oot

and a boot

in flamin' June.



(Although it's not

my lot

to be a Scot

in flamin' June.)



What a shame

playin'

in the rain

in flamin' June.



You got

a new waistcot

for Ascot

in flamin' June.



As black

as a cat

a natty top hat

in flamin' June.



And Flora

looks adora

in her fedora

in flamin' June.



Hugh

has to queue

for his view

in flamin' June.



Too discreet

with his seat

he sends a tweet

in flamin' June.



The leaves

off the trees

shellin' like peas

in flamin' June.



Tee Hee

what glee to see

the Diamond Jubilee

in flamin' June.



Damp crown jewels

pearls

and high heels

in flamin' June.



No matter

wet crowds chatter

at the regatta

in flamin' June



The Pimms

and the gins

drownin' their sins

in flamin' June.



The hearty

street party

kicks off at twelve thirty

in flamin' June.



Someone makes

cakes

or should we say bakes

in flamin' June.



There's ringing

and singing

and even more wringing

in flamin' June.



Such a shame

rain

down the drain

in flamin' June.



Suppose

everyone knows

it's no to the hose

in flamin' June.



And they all know

the euro

is a no go

in flamin' June.



But with stiff upper lip

and a royal Hip

Hip

in flamin' June.



Great Britain

is smitten

and we do love it rotten

in flamin' June.



Monday 4 June 2012

ROYAL BARGE


"Bugger this weather," said Philip his gloved hand twitching angrily on the handle of his sword.

"It can't be helped," said his wife as she smiled and waved yet again at what she thought might be another passing vessel.

"If it gets much worse we won't be able to see a bloody thing." Philip wasn't going to be consoled.

"They must have called off the fly past," said Harry with a look of relief on his face. His pink beret was wet through and felt like a soggy cow pat.

"You warm enough love?" William looked at Kate and even the glow from her warm red outfit looked damp.

"I put some thermals on thank goodness," she replied.

"So did I," cut in the Duchess of Cornwall. "Nicked them out of your father-in-law's sock drawer."

The two Duchesses laughed and waved.

"Bloody ridiculous," It was Philip again. "Can't tell if it's a stink pot, a cutter or a bloody dragon boat."

"Why don't you go below Philip?" suggested the Queen.

"Slip downstairs for a Chinky you mean. Looks like a bloody floating Chinese restaurant." The Duke had said as much when he'd first boarded the red velvet and gold floating palace with its two absurd thrones. "Red velvet arm chairs like something out of the back row of the local flea pit," he said to one of his grandsons as they explored the deck.

"They've worked very hard and it's not their fault the weather has turned a little inclement," said the Queen.

"Inclement you call it. Good god woman, if this is inclement then my cock's a kipper."

Prince Charles laughed. "We're not far from Billingsgate fish market father," he added without thinking.

"You know I don't like that sort of talk, " said the Queen looking at her eldest son over her misty spectacles.

The royal party issued another wave and the rain responded cruelly.

"I've been standing here for over ninety bloody minutes, freezing my admiral's pip's off and if this bloody pageant doesn't come to an end soon I'm going to ......"

"Oh do shut up Philip. Stop complaining and wave." The queen was being the boss.

"Wave after bloody wave", said Philip under his cold breath.

"The Princess Royal drew the long straw on this parade. Tucked up in the dry with a stiff drink no doubt," Philip just wasn't giving up.

Another burst of damp music hit the deck.

"I think it's the Royal Philharmonic mummy," said the Prince of Wales.

"Bloody Water Music is all we need," said Philip as he gazed into the swirling mists, a wet drip or two running in time to the music off his peaked cap.

"Lovely," said the Queen.

"If you like that sort of thing", said Philip. "Bloody Handel."

"Well it's better that Elton John", said the Queen.

"We've got that dubious pleasure to look forward to tomorrow night," said the Prince.

"Well let's hope and pray it pisses on his parade", said the Duke unkindly.

"Philip!" said the Queen abruptly. "I must insist!" and she raised another gloved hand and shook it in the direction of the music.

The newspapers had a field day. Of course they did. "Long to rain over us" was the firm favourite until the very last minute when somehow the Duke of Edinburgh slipped as he was moving off the deck. It looked as though her Majesty had almost nudged him out of her way but what ever happened his Royal Highness took a tumble into Old Father Thames and was eventually fished out by the inflatable police launch once it had forced the excited Italian gondola out of the way. It was, so one of the river police men later reported, the first time an admiral of the fleet had set foot inside their dirigible. One red top's searching head line quite simply read , "Royal Barge?" and most of her loyal subjects knew what it meant.



Monday 28 May 2012

WAITING FOR THE GREEK FLAME



We waited on the pavements edge

Costa coffee opposite and Subway to our rear

and the sunshine played on to the growing numbers

as the trick cyclist whistled his way up and down the street

while his mate, the sweaty guy on his spring loaded stilts, bounced between us

shouting encouragement and gesturing wildly to those that caught his eye.

Ordinary cars that passed looked out of place

uncomfortable at being there stared at by so many sets of eyes,

not the shiny brand new BMW's dressed up in the Olympic colours

but the shabby rusty red Peugeot with "Driven by fairy dust" the message on the back

and the Frome Reclamation truck full of reclaimed tiles

on their way to be reclaimed again.

The unlicensed sellers of the union flags took two pounds for something to wave,

"Just a couple left son," but we knew they had plenty more stock

hidden in their van parked in the free car park behind Argos.

We needed something red white and blue and we shook them at yet another empty bus

(why there are so many empty buses in Frome remains a mystery)

School children filed in up the hill in their bright flack jackets a colourful crocodile

so they too could be seen as bright as any flame

their home made torches in their hands wondering what all the fuss was about.

At long last the wiry, weary promotional girls from Coke and Lloyds

and a phone company that has helped to sponsor the coming games

rev us up into our market town frenzy from the lofty perches of their tailor-made tour buses

with music and dancing and razzamatazz and promises of a brighter tomorrow and things that will go better

and gold for all or those that cross the line first. Shake that pompom Miss, shake that pompom do.

You're a long way from Greece and quite a stretch to London.

The girl behind me wants to "Evacuate London" or so her stencil proclaims

and she talks to the teenage copper on crowd control, shows him her message.

He's one of a team rarely seen in these parts and he just smiles and sends her back to where she has come from.

Pointless trying to piss on this parade Luv, I hope he said under his helmet.

The sun shone into the eyes of those on the opposite side, Somerset squinters,

and the toddler let her balloon slip and it blew across the road to be rescued by another and returned

to the anxious child with everyone happy and united just standing on the side of the road waiting for the Greek flame.

From their high vantage point on top of Barclays Bank a few heads nodded in the sunshine

a real banker's bonus and the girl in the open window above Boots had a good eyeful too.

The police outriders on their motor bikes waved at us as they never have before.

Some of us waved back which seemed strange to be befriending the traffic cop who on another day

would be throwing the book at us for speeding or talking on the mobile phone.

Cameras everywhere and one on a tripod being worked by a girl in a green and white spotty summer frock.

She should have been going to a picnic or off to nearby Babington for lunch not dressed like that for Points West.

And still we waited for the Greek flame.

Would it infect us and turn our decimal coinage back into pounds, shillings and pence?

Could its flicking be carrying a message of despair, a real Greek tragedy waiting to unfold?

Someone had an umbrella with the union flag on it just in case of rain but this was no longer wet April

but sunny mid May and long to reign over us we all hoped. No Greek drama here please.

The ice-cream van doing a roaring trade and the Cornish pasties from Gregg's the Baker

warm but not as hot as the midday sun.

Will they remember this in years to come? Will the children say yes I was there

when the Greek flame came through our market town

on its way from Taunton to Bristol?

Maybe they will and maybe they won't.

They won't remember the beaming white haired man

who held the silver meshed torch aloft and proudly jogged down the hill passed the Crown (up for rent) and on past Card Factory

looking colourful and smug surrounded by the bunting that had escaped and spread like a victorious spider's web above us all.

Who he was matters little. What he stood for matters lots. Will I Am did it the previous day down the road

and the children will probably remember Will for all the wrong reasons. Famous for his moon walk and the Voice

rather than what it all really means.

But It did bring a tear to my eye. Call me sentimental but I thought the whole extravaganza was wonderful.

Even the Postie who right at the end peddled hard to get through the closing throng before the street was clogged

delivering his mail without fuss or applause as he does nearly every day.

Waiting in the Somerset sunshine.

Waiting for the Greek flame.

Wednesday 2 May 2012

WATCHING MINNIE CHASING CROWS





The spring time walk through dripping fields

where dandelions roar and shake their glistening cobwebbed manes

and buttercups blaze their yellow streaks

between the sodden green blades,

the teaming, steaming sward.



Black birds hop and flap like competing teams of lazy ballroom dancers

and off she goes after them with little hope

prancing through the meadow, leapfrogging damp tufts

in a headlong dash to catch one unaware,

the preening, scheming bird.



She never does, never comes close, but always runs back to heel

as though she had and gets the nod, the look of approval

and a smile or a laugh out loud that sets her off again

on another wild goose chase to try for murder in the murder,

the bird's collective word.



Watching Minnie chasing crows knowing that she'll never catch one.

What simple fun it is, what a glorious past time

not a moment wasted so I could spend all day, a life long quest

watching Minnie chasing crows,

Nothing more absurd.

Friday 13 April 2012

FISH & TIPS.




If you can't find a fellow
to share your umbrella
or even remark on your tits
get down to the aquarium
cause the inmates will stare at them
and the dolphin will love them to bits

Love has a purpose
but when you're a porpoise
you have but one simple wish
it's not the high heels
but meals on wheels
and tons of slippery fish.

Thursday 12 April 2012

DULCET TONE

When Dolcie's head hit the pillow, her torso slid on to the bedroom floor and ended up alongside the old tallboy, the one she'd inherited from her uncle. Her violent killer had despatched her and her partner with such ferocity that it would take the very best that Mr Dulcet's cleaning company could come up with to remove all the traces of the dreadful event and make the bedroom once again habitable. Mr Dulcet had become an expert in such things. What he didn't know about the removal of those tricky blood stains from the skirting boards was no bodies business. Well no live bodies business.

Founded in 1942 by Reggie Dulcet senior and fairly quickly given a rather useful business leg up by the Luftwaffe, Mr Dulcet's cleaning company cleaned up in the East End. It's next big break came in December 1951 with the Gillingham bus disaster. The sixties saw a lot of tidying up after the Cray twins and the seventies bought the IRA to London and more work for the third generation of Dulcets. The eighties provided, as history and Companies House would show, rather thin pickings for the specialist business but thanks to frugal management, fastidious Jewish accountants and an unorthodox approach to supplementing the income, Mr Dulcet's cleaning company survived right through to the present day. Given, as they were, the key to the door, temptation to bolster turnover by plundering the goods and chattels of the unfortunate was too much to bare. The light fingered habit first experienced by Reggie Dulcet senior became an ingrained and inevitable sideline shamelessly passed down through the generations. What the several Mr Dulcets lacked in take home pay they more than made up for in take away booty.

Mr Dulcet always liked to quote for the main jobs himself. So he was first on the crime scene when the police, photographers and forensics had done their digging. Dressed in the regulation white body suit with its built in hood and wrap around foot wear, Mr Dulcet entered the house looking rather like those that had just left it, but nothing like any one who had crossed the threshold since Dolcie and her late husband had acquired the place in the nineteen eighties. He left the same premises looking a few sizes bigger and the white protective suit had filled out to protect far more than its wearer.

Dolcie kept a tidy house. She was what some would term a house-proud person. She liked a place for everything and everything in its place. Her dusted collection of musical instruments stood as good testimony to her willingness to be openly judged as a woman of taste. When she said comfortable or vegetable she always prolonged the sound so that every vowel was pronounced as it was written. "Very com-fort-able," she'd declare as though she was speaking in time to a metronome. Her precision and attention to detail were just two facets that made her an accomplished music teacher. Music however was not the only food of love as far as Dolcie was concerned. Since her husband's passing and after a respectable interlude, she discovered that she needed the involvement of a good man or indeed two. Thus it was that unwittingly she stumbled into the path of her murderer. Jealousy, it seems, was a dangerous and unwelcome bed fellow and one that sadly lost Dolcie her organised head.

"I'm sure that mother kept it there," said Megan when it was her turn to enter and inspect the cleaned property. Mr Dulcet couldn't throw any light on the missing possession and didn't say a word as he showed the daughter his handiwork. Megan couldn't see anything different in her late mother's tidy home which of course was why Mr Dulcet's cleaning company had the reputation it did. From a slaughter house to an ordered house, that was Mr Dulcet's unwritten slogan.

But there was no doubt about it. Dolcie's violin wasn't there. More to the point it wasn't anywhere in the house and so was reported as missing, presumably stolen by the perpetrator of her murder. When in the process of their investigations the police eventually charged a local man with the double killing it became clear that he only had one thing on his deranged mind. He wanted Dolcie and her partner dead because, as the arresting officer put it, the detained suspect was involved in a complicated and intimate relationship that involved both of the victims of the crime. The local hack would have put it more colourfully had his editor let him loose on the front page. "Music teacher plays love triangle."

The case of the missing violin or more correctly the missing violin and its case was puzzling. Megan knew that her mother had thought quite highly of the old stringed instrument. She had called it her "you-hou-dee" after Yehudi Menuhin and no one was quite sure where it had come from other than from the same uncle next to whose tallboy Dolcie's torso had finally come to rest.

In stuffing the instrument down the front of his white all-in-ones Mr Dulcet emerged from the home looking even more like the Michelin Man than when he had entered the building. He grabbed the case on his way out almost like a busy mum at a check out snatching a bar of chocolate just because it was there. There was something else too that made him go for the neat black leather case. He thought he recognised it, was almost positive that he'd seen it somewhere before. The faded rose emblem embossed onto the surface seem very familiar. So he scooped up the prize almost with a feeling that if it didn't, it certainly should belong to him. Once safely in the van he extracted the case from out of his uniform and threw it in the back along with the tools of his trade and the paraphernalia of the professional forensic cleaner.

"Should be worth fifty quid," he thought when he finally opened the case in the safety of his own home and pulled out the handsome fiddle. He added it to the small pile of assorted loot he had acquired nearly every day that week. Little and often was what his father had told him. "A good man puts a little into kitty each day." That's what he had learnt from his grandfather. Not one to upset the family code of practice Mr Dulcet did as he was told. An old violin with cat gut strings would, Mr Dulcet smiled to himself, be most apt in satisfying kitty that particular day. And then he glanced at the photographs he had displayed in their assorted frames. His family looked out at him from the past. His father and mother with him on his father's knee. His proud grandfather surrounded by a rag tag gaggle of smiling children. He was wearing his flat cap and standing next to the horse and cart and in his hand a violin case. Mr Dulcet picked up the old photo frame and peered into its image.There it was.The same instrument case he had brought home. The rose emblem just visible in the black and white image. What an extraordinary coincidence he thought. By pure chance he'd stumbled upon something that his grandfather had owned or perhaps borrowed back in the forties. He took another look at the case and decided that he'd hang on to this particular prize. If it was once in the family then it should become an heirloom. He'd keep it.

Nearly every Saturday he took his week's collection along to his usual and willing contact and exchanged the stolen goods for cash. That particular week the contact was asked to pick up the goods because Mr Dulcet was otherwise engaged. Had he been at home when the contact called, Mr Dulcet would probably have hung on to his violin. But he wasn't and because it looked like part of the week's haul stacked up with the other bits and pieces, it was included at £45 as a part of the £649 tax free payment left in the envelope in folding with no questions asked. Actually Mr Dulcet wasn't that bothered. It would have been nice to keep something his grandfather had once had but never mind. Mr Dulcet went to bed and slept.

It was the same local news paper (it also made the nationals) that had reported on Dolcie's murder and the arrest of her killer that broke the news about the Stradivarius. There was little doubt about it and the insurance company confirmed as much, namely that Dolcie had indeed been the owner of a rare instrument. Much was made in the tabloids about the sale at the Tarisio Auctions of the Lady Blunt, a 1721 exquisite example of the master's craftsmanship which made $15.9 million to an anonymous bidder in 2011. The Nippon Foundation had sold the instrument to raise funds to help the Japanese tsunami appeal.

"Fuck-me-gently!" said Mr Dulcet which was quite a thing for a man who rarely swore. He was beside himself. Forty-five quid for something worth millions. How could he have been so dumb? He hurried off to find his contact and to retrieve his instrument. He felt sick. He felt angry. He felt confused.

The damp open air market in the East End was no place to create a scene. Mr Dulcet was determined that he wouldn't accost his contact in an aggressive way but so pumped up was he with anxious emotion that he leapt at the poor fellow and dragged him to the ground by his faded lapels.

"Where is it? Where is it?" was all Mr Dulcet kept saying to the terrified contact across whose chest the trembling Mr Dulcet sat like someone trying to cling on to a mechanical bucking bull. Obviously the prone contact didn't have the faintest idea of what his assailant was talking about. But Mr Dulcet was persistent. "Where is it? Where's the violin?" The garbled answer hit him like a tsunami.

"Who the fuck bought it?"

From the description he eventually got, Mr Dulcet realised that the purchaser of the priceless instrument was Megan, Dolcie's daughter. It all made perfect sense. She had obviously been trawling the markets and such like for her mother's stolen violin and had struck lucky. Mr Dulcet decided to go and see her. He took with him the photograph of his grandfather holding the violin case.

"Yes Mr Dulcet", said Megan. "I was very lucky. Found it as I thought I might at that big market, you know, in the East End. Got it back for sixty pounds."

Mr Dulcet's mouth was as dry as it had ever been. He perhaps shouldn't have offered Megan a hundred pounds for the violin. Mr Dulcet had shown Megan the faded photo and she had studied the picture with a broad grim. She pointed to one of the children in the picture, a little girl with pig tails and long white socks up to her bare knees and below her tatty drab dress. Apparently her name was Dolcie.

"How much?" said Mr Dulcet as if he didn't know.

"You know it's a Stradivarius and probably worth at least five million pounds . If not more." Megan let the words trip casually, cruelly. "You Dulcets," she went on. "You might be good at cleaning up but you're not very bright when it comes to priceless violins. Fancy loosing the thing twice. I don't know." And she laughed as she shut the door on the crest fallen man.

Mr Dulcet sat down heavily on the door step and felt his feelings welling up from inside. With his head in his hands he started to nod from side to side and very quietly at first a wail could be discerned and increasingly pumped by his leaden lungs, the sound grew into something primeval, the sound of despair, an alarm, a lament, a cry for help, a summons, a warning, a siren.

Nothing like a dulcet tone thought Megan as she put the kettle on.

Wednesday 28 March 2012

A COUPLE OF POINTS IN HER FAVOUR



Twinkle twinkle clever bra
how we marvel from a far
up above this guy so blue
like big diamonds shinning through
twinkle twinkle clever bra
how we wonder what you are

Thursday 8 March 2012

FOR THE MEN THAT WON'T COME HOME



Where I sometimes walk my dog up on Salisbury Plain
we hear the distant bark of guns, feel the sting of rain.
The skylark sings out of sight, the buzzard mews alone
the green Spring hills of Wiltshire sigh
for the men that won't come home.

And in the town from where they drilled, lived and loved and played
their loved ones take the dreadful news of the sacrifice they've paid
In Morrison's the check out girl speaks in quieter tone
no fifteen p a litre off
for the men that won't come home.

At the Crown the beers and tears in equal measure poured
not gone for long but now for ever but never to be ignored.
Six less shadows never cast will never ever roam
won't the Plain surely mourn
for the men that won't come home.

Many armies go to war trained on green turf for sand
I walk my dog with freedom where mass attack is planned
I'll never understand the cause but give the dog the bone
I'll shed a tear and say a prayer
for the men that can't come home.

Wednesday 22 February 2012

SOFA SURFER.

(Probably to the tune of "Til her Daddy takes her T-bird away")

We're waxing our boards so they will really fly now
We're waxing our legs to make those beach bums sign now
there's not a wave nor anything wet in sight now
but we'll have fun fun fun sofa surfin' like they do in Hawaii.

We love to look at girls as they wiggle and pass us by now
we really love the ones who look us right in the eye now
there's not a wave nor anything wet in sight now
but we'll have fun fun fun sofa surfin' like they do in Hawaii

The boys pump up their six packs some of them make us sigh now
we are a hoping, very nearly groping, that with us they'll lie now
there's not a wave nor anything wet in sight now
but we'll have fun fun fun sofa surfin' like they do in Hawaii

It's all a dream sofa surfin' one big pipeline lie now .. a pipeline lie now
we're really not that clever, never had the weather, no the wish to die now .. don't wanna die now
there's not a wave nor anything wet in sight now
but we'll have fun fun fun sofa surfin' like they do in Hawaii

We can surf the sofa like any loafer, we can scoff an apple pie now
with virtual reality it's a formality, and one that all the fat kids seem to buy now
there's not a wave nor anything wet in sight now
but we'll have fun fun fun sofa surfin' like they do in Hawaii

(probably tune of "Surfin' Safari" for one verse)

Oh those North sure gals are all real certs
the biggest waves from the biggest flirts
So let's go surfing now, everybody's sufin now, come on an Atari with me.

O to be a sofa surfer you don't even need to try now
get dumped, shark attacked and say goodbye now
there's not a wave nor anything wet in sight now
so we'll have fun fun fun sofa surfin' like they do in Hawaii

Tuesday 7 February 2012

THE FLY DIE SONG



Children and piano......




"I know an old lady who swallowed a fly
I don't know why she swallowed a fly.
Perhaps she'll die.

I know an old lady who swallowed a spider that wriggled and tiggled and wriggled inside her.

she swallowed the spider to catch the fly
I don't know why she swallowed the fly
Perhaps she'll die........"

before the word die fades out in comes an increasing volume of electric guitar sustaining the same note, like Guns 'n Roses in Live and Let Die or the Sex Pistols in their famous treatments of My Way and God Save the Queen etc. Gone are the sweet children's voices, gone is the simple piano and in comes a very loud and raucous romp with a fast beat and energy to the whole song so make it fast and furious. The lyrics continue something like this...

"I know an old woman who gobbled a gun
just for fun she swallowed that gun
She swallowed the gun to kill the spider

that wriggled and tiggled and wriggled inside her

she swallowed the spider to catch the fly
I don't why she swallowed the fly
perhaps she'll die.

I know an old woman who bit the bullet
what an ol'git to bite the bullet

She bit the bullet
to load up the gun
she gobbled the gun
to get the spider

that wriggled and tiggled and wriggled inside her

she swallowed the spider to catch the fly
I dunno why she swallowed the fly
perhaps she'll die

I know an old woman who chomped a grenade
without any aid she consumed that grenade
she chomped the grenade
to go with the bullet
she bit the bullet
to load up the gun
she swallowed the gun
to shoot the spider

that wriggled and tiggled and wriggled inside her

she swallowed the spider to catch the fly
I duuno why she swallowed the fly
Perhaps she'll die

I know an old lady who swallowed a bomb
she saw nothing wrong in having a bomb
she swallowed the bomb
to set off the grenade
she chomped the grenade
to go with the bullet
she bit the bullet
to load up the gun
she swallowed the gun
to shoot the spider

that wriggled and tiggled and wriggled inside her

She swallowed the spider to catch the fly
I dunno why she swallowed the fly
Perhaps she'll die.

I know an old lady who swallowed a rocket
just said fuck it and swallowed a rocket
she had that missile
to launch the bomb
she swallowed the bomb
to set off the grenade
she chomped the grenade
to go with the bullet
she bit the bullet
to load up the gun
she swallowed the gun
to shoot the spider

that wriggled and tiggled and wriggled inside her

She swallowed the spider to catch the fly
I dunno why she swallowed the fly
Perhaps she'll die.

I know an old lady who swallowed semtex
she didn't looked vexed she swallowed semtex
she used semtex
to stick to the rocket
she swallowed the rocket
to launch the bomb
she swallowed the bomb
to set off the grenade
she chomped the grenade
to go with the bullet
she bit the bullet
to load up the gun
she swallowed the gun
to shoot the spider

that wriggled and tiggled and wriggled inside her

She swallowed the spider to catch the fly
I dunno why she swallowed the fly
Perhaps she'll die.

I know an old lady she ate dynamite
late one night she took dynamite
She took TNT
on top of semtex
she used semtex
to stick to the rocket
she swallowed the rocket
to launch the bomb
she swallowed the bomb
to set off the grenade
she chomped the grenade
to go with the bullet
she bit the bullet
to load up the gun
she swallowed the gun
to shoot the spider

that wriggled and tiggled and wriggled inside her

She swallowed the spider to catch the fly
I dunno why she swallowed the fly
Perhaps she'll die.

I know an old woman who swallowed a fuse
she couldn't refuse to swallow that fuse
she swallowed the fuse
so the dyna might
she took TNT
on top of semtex
she used semtex
to stick to the rocket
she swallowed the rocket
to launch the bomb
she swallowed the bomb
to set off the grenade
she chomped the grenade
to go with the bullet
she bit the bullet
to load up the gun
she swallowed the gun
to shoot the spider

that wriggled and tiggled and wriggled inside her

She swallowed the spider to catch the fly
I dunno why she swallowed the fly
Perhaps she'll die.

I know an old lady who swallowed a match
down the hatch went a lit match" ....




(there follows a loud musical explosion with subsequent fall out)

Children say "We're afraid she's despatched."

Friday 3 February 2012

NIL PWUNTS.




Dear Mr Huhne what a Pryce you've paid


giving up your points or so they have said.


As energy sec you really should have known


that people who live in green houses shouldn't throw a stone.


But please don't worry and try not to fret,


you'll join the ranks of many who somehow we forget.
















Monday 30 January 2012

TEA TIME BABY . Another lyric for another song composed under the influence of something or other.



Piano and guitar. do do do do do.
Vocal. I love you
Piano and guitar. do do do do do.
vocal. You love me
Piano and guitar. do do do do do.
vocal. I want you for my cup of tea.

It's teatime baby,
and I want you to know
That it's teatime baby
and I love you so.

one big lump
or could be two
stir it up for me and you

Oh it's teatime baby
and I need you to know.
That it's teatime baby
and I love you so.

add some milk
or keep it black
sip it slow or knock it back

Oh it's teatime baby
and I want you to know
That's it's teatime baby
and I love you so.

dunk my biscuit
in your drink
don't care what your Dada may think

Oh you're my teatime baby
and I love you so
you're my tea time baby.
Come on let's go..........(guitar , sax etc)

Tea in bed
is mighty fine
mornin' noon night any damn time

your my teatime baby
bring it on to me
your my teatime baby
you are my cup of tea.

Earl Grey
Lapsansousong
any old brew just bring it on

You're my teatime baby
and I love what you brew
you're my teatime baby
and I love you.

sip out of your cup
sip out of mine
fine bone china or cheap melamine

your my teatime baby
and you do it so fine
your my teatime baby
teatime every time.

etc etc repeat etc etc

Think John Mayle, Lead Belly, John Lee Hooker. Think do do do do do.

Friday 27 January 2012

IT'S NOT JUST ABOUT THE BIRDS




For the last ten years or so a team of us has travelled to Exmoor to shoot back to back days on a Friday and Saturday towards the end of January when the birds are wily and those that try to shoot them should be well practised. The shooting estate we visit has changed hands once in the decade but the consistency has been maintained and improved by the same young keeper, someone who's as hard as a spanner but as fair as a wrench.

We have never managed to stay in the same hotel for longer than three consecutive seasons. I'm not sure if this is because we are not welcome or because the rates change or because someone thinks it would be a good idea to go somewhere else. Where ever we lay our heads we always seem to have a good time. The Thursday evening gives the chance to catch up with those not seen for twelve months and those you were with only the day before. We all know each other and the food and drink we consume around the large round table serves to cement the relationship. The northern landlady realises that this shooting party is here to enjoy itself and some of us retire to the public bar afterwards and run into a team of young Hedge Fund Managers. The enthusiastic talk is of high birds and Russian hookers then before you can say Famous Grouse, it's on to high hookers and Russian birds. Sensible members of our team are in bed at a decent time but those of us who acted as though we were on a half term school outing didn't touch a pillow much before two in the morning. Not the best idea before a big day of any sort.

Our team consists of eleven like minded blokes. Not one of them has as many days out as some I could mention. To shoot for over ninety days a year is like moving from the occasional tube of Smarties to a daily diet of crack cocaine. Most of our lot would be delighted to shoot a dozen times a year.

Our team leader is Captain Birdseye. He looks like his namesake. Walks likes his namesake and quite likes fish fingers. He organises the days and tries to collect the monies due from those of us that think we have already paid but haven't. The good Captain is seventy. He's not alone. Twenty bore Moff has seven decades under his belt and likes to chat to the ladies. He's the first to doff his cap to the female picker up so he could be called Moff the doff but he isn't. As he makes himself known, he rotates at the hip giving him the justly deserved nick name of Snake Hips. John T has similar vintage but demonstrates a tad less of the serpent with his hips. The stiffness in his arm doesn't prevent the raising of a glass but it has proved a pain with the gun. This year he turned up with a new model that has a built in recoil suppressor system. It's apparently so good that unless you hear the bang you don't know you've pulled the trigger. Mr Q, the ex-garage proprietor, is the other senior member of the team. His motto of practice makes perfect is still being put to the test. Marty, who acts as minder to John T, always reminds me of that lovable rogue in Dad's Army, the spiv trader Private Walker. It's the pencil thin moustache and the chatty chappy that turns Marty into Walker. He's also very handy with his gun. Barty is the pink publican. Some men can carry off wearing pink rather well and the exuberant restaurateurs larger than life frame provides a considerable canvass on which to paint pink.He's colourful and the team have come to rely on his landlordly expertise at dispensing the liquid refreshments that seem to be called for after most drives. A brace of sharing Barratts (father and son) always deserve the accolade of best turned out guns. Even though we all wear ties out of respect for the occasion, the Barratts ties match the rest of their shooting outfits and father and son could be a cameo from an Edwardian game book. The two shortest members of the team are Stroudy and Kenty. Short men have to shoot straight and these two do. I am the only side by side, hence often undergunned and overwhelmed. I was also called the Harry Potter of the group but that had less to do with the magical potency of my shooting accuracy and more to do with the little round specs on the end of my nose.

There's probably little point in relating what happened on each drive. Suffice to say that the birds flew and some were shot but most were not. Stroudy had the Friday shot of the day, a ridiculous pigeon that hit the ground about two minutes after the cartridge had been loosed from his over and under. We stopped for lunch on the first day with drives before and after. You don't often see a thin shot when you leaf through the pages of the shooting press. We do like our grub and the full English is followed by soup and sausages which is followed by a full luncheon (chicken pie, potatoes and cheesy leeks, cheese and cake or fruit for those who are concerned about their five a day) There is always a fair ration of assorted drink throughout the day which made us all waddle like penguins back to the hotel for supper.

Friday night sees another round table dinner with fine wine and spoof. Spoof is a game of chance and some skill (a bit like shooting itself) that allows each participant to guess the collective number of coins held in players clenched fists. Each player can choose to hold between nothing and three coins so there is plenty of room for wrong calls. As the number of players reduces so the game becomes more skilful and those that have called correctly sit it out with a relaxed and smug look on their face. By tradition the looser is expected to arrive at his peg on the first drive the following morning and shoot without his trousers. Silly I know but very funny when it isn't you. Last year Mr Q lost so this year he refused to take part. In a spirited game the last two were the keeper and young Barratt. The keeper (our guest at dinner) looked more sweaty than he had all day. I guess the thought of having to place the guns in a state of half undress brought the moisture to his brow. In the end a well thought out call from the keeper had young Barratt on the ropes and beaten.

While most retired to bed four of us took to the bar again and joined the Hedge Funders for an even more boisterous night. It was like a mini Olympic Games with events such as wrestling, talking loudly, shirt ripping (apparently pockets on shirts are just not the done thing), nipple tweaking (boys only), cigar smoking and of course drinking. Getting Barty up the stairs to his room at the top of the hotel was the most strenuous event of all but after several refusals and one rather bad fall we got him home.

After breakfast on the Saturday morning the bills were presented and scrutinised with the annual vigilance that always results in proclamations of if so and so didn't have a starter why was his tariff for dinner the same. These minor objections are always overruled and the good northern landlady got her payment and breathed a visible sigh of relief as we bundled out of the door and off to the Moor.

The first drive did indeed reveal young Barratt's buttocks with the word "Over" emblazoned across them (presumably by his father's hand). The fresh air to his nether regions did much to lift his shooting ability and he killed some very high birds with deadly accuracy.

We shot six different drives from the previous day and each offered up the sort of birds that require good shots to fetch them down. On one such it was Stroudy who again killed a cock bird so high that I wouldn't have even raised my gun to it. Some of the pheasants were seventy yards or more over our heads. Stroudy is a tall man when it comes to shooting. We shot through, as the saying goes, and enjoyed a beef lunch in the shoot lodge with its open log fire and open bar.

The valleys in that part of Exmoor were about three hundred birds lighter than when we had arrived. At over £40 a bird our wallets were lighter too. Once again we had enjoyed a wonderful two days and Exmoor had enjoyed us. We had enjoyed each other's company. We had probably eaten and drunk too much. We had laughed, laughed until we cried. We had been immensely privileged and we had treated the sport with great respect and always safety first. But if shooting is about anything, high on the list of requirements comes the company. I think that ours is the best there is, but then I would say that wouldn't I?

Monday 9 January 2012

I GOT FISH ON THE ENDO MY LINE. Go to http://cl.ly/0K0a1b461J313Z1m3v0t and listen to the first take.



I got fish on the endo my line
I got fish on the endo my line
O I got a fighter and it's feeling fine
and I hope that she don't get away.

I got a whoppa on the endo my rod
I got a whoppa on the endo my rod
O I got a biter and she's sent from god
and I hope I can haul her in whole.

I got a bigun hooked on me hook
I got a bigun hooked on me hook
O I got a monster one for the book
and she'll be a real fine catch.

I'm going to land you and give you the priest
I'm going to land you and give you the priest
O I'm going to catch you and have a great feast
and I hope that your meat aint bony.

You can struggle and wriggle and give me a thrill
You can struggle and wriggle and give me a thrill
O it's better for me and it'll be better still
when I've got you out of that water.

There's those fish for fish and those try to catch
there's those fish for fish and those try to catch
some pullem in and some meet their match
I'm happy to spin you a lineo. Just happy to spin you a line.

Dobson and Norris




Dobson and Norris
the scum of their breed
cocky and cowardly
done by their deed
whose parents should
have drowned them at birth
along with themselves
they have little worth.
What causes such upset
why are we surprised
that man turns out vicious
pure evil supplied
and for every sinner
there should be a saint
with the balance of life
like black and white paint.
But as we get older
the pendulum swings
its arc is more biased
for those without wings.
The dash of the knife
in a moment of hate
like the stoning of Stephen
a martyr is made.

We seethe with anguish
we send them away
but they'll always be there
come, what, may.

Tuesday 3 January 2012

BUILDING BRIDGES



"DO you come here often, love?"

"Only for the view."

"New Year's resolutions?"

"Sure. Just one or two."

"What about some comfort

for your hard pressed bloke?"

"How about some bloody ice

for me Rum and Coke?"