At 8 a.m. Horace finished gardening and made a drink. At 8.10 a.m. he uncovered the easel at the rear of his cave, moved it nearer the daylight and continued his illustrated translation of the words of the prophet. At 10 a.m. he had one slice of unleavened bread and half an apple, then knelt to pray. The shiny surface of the icon briefly showed his reflection and he noticed with mild concern how stressed and haggard he looked. He felt rapidly reassured by his commitment to and connection with the unseen world of the spirit articulated by the prophet. * Horace creaked a little as he struggled back to his feet. He rubbed his aching knees and wondered, for maybe the ten thousandth time, if he should make a more comfortable arrangement in front of the icon. He turned and gasped with shock as he looked out to the glare of the sun. Could he be still in the land of spirit? Was this a temptation from the devil? If so, it was a very subtle one, since the young girl looked anything but seductive. She took a few uncertain steps into the cave, nervously twisting her long black hair in one hand. ‘Hello?’ said Horace. It isn’t usually a question, but the tone of Horace’s voice was clearly thus. The girl smiled self-consciously and tucked her head down between her rising shoulders. Her hair piled on her shoulders and half concealed her face. ‘Are you lost?’ Horace asked. ‘I suppose so,’ she replied. ‘I’m Kate.’ ‘Hello Kate. I’m Horace. Would you like something to eat? It bears a very minor resemblance to bread. Also to granite.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Kate. ‘It looks ideal. An ideal partner to apple, I bet.’ Horace looked at Kate. He tried various combinations of furrowed brow, arched eyebrow, sucking of teeth and such like. Kate returned the gestures with interest, substituting a pout for the furrowed brow, since she lacked the necessary years for a convincing wrinkle. The silence dragged on and on and the orientations of brow and lip seemed to be exhausted. Kate showed no sign of easing Horace’s discomfort. ‘Funnily enough,’ he croaked, then cleared his throat. ‘I do have a large tub of apples. The tub is out of sight, as it happens.’ ‘Hmm,’ said Kate. * Kate ate her apples and something-like-bread while Horace stood just outside the cave, seeking inspiration. What on earth was he to do with her? And how best to maintain his timetable of devotions? Fleetingly he had an image of putting Kate on something called a bus that would take her home, but realised this was a glimpse into the nightmarish parallel world of barbarians… * Horace felt mildly breathless, but was pleased to find himself prepared to continue his illustrations on schedule. Kate sat nearby at her own newly-assembled easel, and proved to be an industrious worker – speedy though somewhat careless. He was aware of Kate’s excellent posture, perched on her stool so lightly and free of his habitual hunch, as though with the slightest effort of will she could leave the stool altogether and float peacefully, languidly above it. She was struggling with the colours though … * Horace gave Kate a few tips on shading one colour into the next to create a blend. He realised he was late for prayers. He pointed to his ancient mechanical watch and nodded towards the icon. Kate grinned and leapt from her stool with a peerless absence of dignity and bounded towards the icon and knelt, singing merrily. ‘Is something wrong,Horace?’ Kate asked. ‘No.’ ‘Oh good. You sighed, that’s all.’ Horace mentally recited the articles of his faith but felt irritated by his lack of concentration. He was getting stabbing pains in his knees and wondering what to do about Kate’s abundant energy. An idea presented itself the next morning as he woke … * Horace laughed out loud as he pushed Kate on the swing. She sang tunefully, fitting the tempo to the tide of the swing. He felt sure Kate was an inch taller than the day she’d arrived. It felt a little worrying to realise that had been only two weeks ago. The way she grinned at him whenever there was a chance of using the swing gave him a very warm glow. He’d made a pretty good job of the swing, given the limited materials. A steady breeze from the South took Kate’s hair to one side. The pendulum (which was Kate) added a forwards and backwards trailing effect. Their laughter returned very quietly after its trip to the distant rock face of the higher mountains. ‘We’re late,’ said Horace, as they hurried back to the cave. ‘Tut tut!’ They arrived back at the cave in time for prayers, Kate positively glowing after her swing in the sunny but cold air. She produced a handful of nuts and berries for him, and he wondered how she found the time to collect them. she was certainly more adept than him and finding fresh fruit, and he’d better start thinking about preserving some for the winter. Kate had decorated the swing with woven strands of vines and stalks from the surrounding hillside, Horace wondered why he’d never thought of such details himself. Horace looked at his reflection as they knelt together to pray. He looked younger, and just a shade fatter. He was comforted by his ability to help Kate with illustrations, because most of the time she seemed to be teaching him things. Still, there’s no merit in pride, as the word of the prophet so wisely reminded those that had the sense to read it. * Kate was running up the hill towards the cave and shouting excitedly. Horace couldn’t make out any words, just the high-pitched song of youthful glee. What on earth can she have found on this barren hill, he wondered. There’s our garden and the swing and then miles of heather, poor grass, weedy trees and outcrops of granite. Impassable mountains behind us. Horace had a shock as Kate came around the path past the huge boulder that he regarded as the end of his, or rather their, garden, and he saw a large dog in pursuit. He reached for his stick then realised Kate was still smiling and holding a stick that the dog was playing at biting. ‘And then were three,’ Kate grinned. Disarmingly, thought Horace. With a smile that, it probably endangers my legs as well. * ‘He’s done it again, Horace,’ said Kate. ‘He’s what?’ ‘He keeps trying to lead me towards the desert. Come and see if he does the same for you.’ Horace hesitated and fretted about his timetable. ‘Come on,’ said Kate. ‘we can stop the clock!’ The dog tried to lead Horace, just as he had Kate. ‘What do you want boy?’ Horace asked the dog. He turned to Kate, puzzled. She spent more time with the dog and clearly knew his ways. Kate just smiled and shrugged. The dog looked happy, waiting in front of them and panting. ‘He’s smiling,’ Kate explained. ‘Hmm,’ Horace conceded. ‘He’s a good natured beast, that’s for sure.’ The dog sat and cocked his head on one side. Kate took Horace’s hand and led him past the dog to where they could see down the hillside and miles beyond. ‘Barren,’ said Horace. ‘The dog knows something we don’t,’ said Kate. ‘Maybe somebody is injured out there? But then the dog would be impatient, worried…’ * ‘I dreamed of building a kiln in the desert,’ said Horace, one morning after prayers. ‘Where the dog wants to go!’ Kate smiled and fancied the adventure. ‘We could go and have a look.’ ‘And it might mean nothing,’ frowned Horace. ‘Or something!’ ‘We could make a kiln here, where it’s safer,’ suggested Horace. ‘If there were more trees for firewood! Which there isn’t.’ * ‘I’m a bit concerned about taking you into the desert,’ said Horace, close to his wit’s end. ‘You are very young for such a barren place.’ Kate whistled as she sewed the sheets together to complete the upper section of the tent. The dog played at chasing invisible friends, or possibly enemies. Horace declared their load of provisions to be nearly complete. ‘We’ll have to find fresh water every few days,’ he said. He looked at the sky – no signs of bad weather, and some cloud meant the nights wouldn’t be quite so cold. ‘We can make a note of every place we find water, and if we are really stuck we’ll backtrack,’ Kate suggested. ‘Nothing will go wrong,’ she smiled. He seemed such a fusspot in her view, which was strangely amusing. ‘Come on then,’ Horace sighed, ‘we’re ready to go.’ The dog barked, sensing imminent adventure, and Kate danced around him with joy. * The water never proved to be an issue at all. Four uneventful days into their journey Horace said, ‘This is the place,’ and they stopped. ‘How do you tell?’ asked Kate. ‘You fancy a sit down?!’ Horace gave her an old-fashioned look with his old-fashioned face and Kate giggled. ‘To be honest, I Don’t know how. But here is the spot.’ ‘There’s plenty of dead wood around,’ Kate conceded. ‘I don’t mean you!’ she added. ‘I never suggested that you might, madam!’ ‘Miss, if you please!’ ‘Miss, kindly begin erecting our shelter, if you have nothing better to do,’ pleaded Horace. ‘Tell you what.’ ‘I’ll tell you what?’ ‘Tell you what, Horace. I’ll pitch the tent!’ * The following morning Horace rose to find the prophet had maintained the illusion of the physical world sufficiently for the sun to have circumnavigated the dark side, the dew was evaporating, the clouds promised a bounty of desperately needed rain one day soon, and Kate and the dog were running around the tent apparently seeing which of them could be the most primitive. Too close to call, thought Horace. After their usual travellers fare of rice and remnants, Horace began collecting together stones to build a kiln. His dream had glossed over the practical details of design, shape and type of stone, mortar and such. Kate was a willing, and much younger, helper, and even the dog had a talent for fetching pieces of dead wood from below the elderly trees. A mystery tour coach from the parallel world of barbarians came by soon after lunch carrying Dribbler the pasty salesman, Mascot Piranha the mad artist, Ford Perfect (searching for beetle juice), Parry Hotter (brat of school age), Andrew Bolkonski (Russian mafia boss), and sundry others, which will hopefully prove to be a source of nightmares for the copyright lawyers. Two days later Kate woke to find the world frosty in the extreme. Dog had been sleeping outside, apparently unconcerned by the temperature, but his whiskers had developed icicles. Kate attempted to thaw them out with her hands and accidentally broke a couple, both ice and whisker. It is cold! she thought. ‘And on the third day, it froze again, according to the whiskers,’ she declared as Horace emerged from the tent. ‘What?!’ ‘The poor dog has icicles.’ She pointed. ‘It’s a fine winter coat he’s got though, don’t you think?’ ‘I do. Sometimes.’ Horace attempted to glare in a disapproving way, but found it impossible while smiling. ‘We’ll complete the kiln today, and maybe have the first test in late afternoon, while the breeze is helping.’ Kate beamed, genuinely pleased. * ‘It’s amazing,’ Kate crooned. The kiln was glowing red hot, just from sunlight reflected from the several mirrors, and a fire of dead wood. Horace had shovelled in plenty of dull grey stones and now added a few drops of honey and one of blood from his carefully pricked finger. Even the needle had been sterilised in the kiln. ‘Are you sure you’ve remembered all the details from the dream?’ Kate asked. ‘Yes. I made notes of all I could remember.’ Horace blocked the air inlet at the base of the kiln and declared the task to be completed as far as he could tell. ‘Can we open it soon?’ asked Kate. He shook his head. ‘Not until tomorrow morning, for sure. It might even be too hot then.’ Kate looked fleetingly disappointed, then ran off to play with the dog. It seemed one way of passing the time, Horace conceded. * ‘Come quick, Horace,’ Kate shouted. He’d learned to spot her varieties of excitement that didn’t indicate danger, and this was of that variety. Kate was leaning over the opening of the kiln, and peering intently, open-mouthed. Horace looked in and saw tiny silver snakes writhing out of the depths of the kiln into the surface, and the stones appeared now like glass. ‘Can we hold them,’ Kate asked. ‘They might bite.’ ‘The glass balls!’ ‘I’d rather wait until the snakes have left,’ Horace advised, as she knew he would. * Kate and the dog followed the snakes , but they moved very slowly, and fanned out into every direction, so they returned to their tent to sleep. Kate was fairly bursting with excitement, as ever, and Horace wondered if he could improvise a swing for her. ‘A rope from one of those trees will do, with a knot for a seat!’ Kate burbled. ‘It’s going to take ages for the snakes to get anywhere. I wonder what they eat?’ she asked. Horace filed the question away, then realised he’d run out of memory. He’d realised this the day before, but as he’d run out of memory, he’d already forgotten. How did children come up with so many questions? He might have asked her this already, but he couldn’t remem… ‘We’ll pile the glass balls, which I’m sure were plain rocks, into something obviously man-made. Then if people come this way they maybe won’t disturb them.’ ‘After they’ve taken the pile apart to look for treasure!’ ‘Cynic!’ ‘We could make a sign saying, “The treasure isn’t over there in the mountains, honest” then they’ll go to look in the mountains!’ The mountains were duly helpful and echoed Horace’s previous words. ‘Nice trick,’ said Kate. * Horace, Kate and the dog walked on day after day, trusting the dog to lead to something meaningful. The desert was turning green, and plenty of other colours if you looked close enough. They peered into the foliage and saw every bloom or leaf had baby turtles making their first timid steps out into the world. ‘This is the snakes work,’ Kate whispered. ‘Could be.’ We’ll be at the mountains soon,’ she added. ‘You make that sound important,’ said Horace, and Kate smiled. Part 2

Horace arranged the large sheet on an improvised easel. ‘Another day!’ he exclaimed gleefully, and Kate smiled. An hour or so painting every day before they continued their trek had proved to be a wise move. Life didn’t have to be all slog, and Horace found it easier to remember this now that Kate was around looking so much younger and vulnerable than himself. He was beginning to suspect that her youthful appearance was largely illusion. There was something wise about her. Wisdom being Horace’s trade, so to speak, this was somewhat irritating; not that the prophet approved of irritation… Horace was surprised to find himself whistling when Kate reminded him that it was time to pack their tent and make tracks. Life is eventful, he mused. Whistling! What would the prophet think. What would he whistle? Only kidding your holiness… * After many days travelling across the Plain of Rubedo towards the distant mountains they finally came to a town. It seemed to be a junction of several paths, possibly trade routes, and there were many people, donkeys and camels. The aromas and sounds made a pleasant contrast to their quiet and uneventful journey, though Horace found the girl and her dog very fine company compared to his previous complete solitude. Horace shaved before they entered the town and got quite a surprise when he came to the first shop window. He went to peer inside but due to the light he could see only his own reflection. ‘I look years younger!’ he raved. ‘I didn’t mean to shout,’ he added. Kate smiled, but not very enthusiastically in Dog’s opinion, and a dog’s opinion is never quite as humble as the mere humanoids assume. Indeed, many dogs don’t even bother to learn human speech, deeming it a poor use of their considerable intelligence. ‘You’re probably right,’ said Kate. ‘Pardon?’ asked Horace. ‘I’m just talking to the dog,’ she explained. ‘Having a bit of help shaving makes a difference,’ added Horace, returning to his reflection. He felt inches taller as he walked along the street, enjoying seeing fresh faces – more and more of them as they approached the town centre. Kate shrugged and the dog scratched itself behind the ear in a meaningful manner after carefully sitting in the dustiest spot. A friendly young woman took Horace’s arm and began chatting. Well, this is a pleasant place! thought Horace. Pleasant people, indeed! Life back in the cave seemed to pall in his memory, yet it had felt good at the time. Purposeful, busy, peaceful, dedicated. The dog began jumping up at Horace and the young woman. Horace told it to get down. ‘He does make a fuss sometimes,’ he explained, and the woman nodded non-committally. A fine tolerant type, thought Horace. He looked around for Kate, but she was walking some way behind him and seemed to be in a mood. The young woman imitated drinking from a cup and pointed towards a doorway. Horace smiled back and hesitantly peered into the room. Nothing ventured nothing gained, he thought. And I do feel parched. Horace peered back, briefly, through the shady doorway into the glare of the afternoon sun. Dog seemed to be keeping Kate company at a seat by the public drinking fountain. They seemed safe enough, Horace thought, so he went further inside into the smoke, music and mystery. It’s a brave man who’d try anything funny with that dog. Or with Kate, for that matter. * The ‘girly’ as Horace had taken to calling her shrugged voluminously as he left following the dog. ‘I’ve lost custom to irate wives or girlfriends before,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve even lost custom to a combined team of wife AND girlfriend once, but never before have I seen an elderly gent with a hang dog expression exiting prematurely hanging behind a dog.’ ‘It could be a first!’ conceded her work colleague. ‘And not likely to set a trend.’ She smiled, despite the loss of potential income. ‘I bet he didn’t have any money, anyway,’ shrugged girly. ‘You didn’t know it was an opium den? And worse!’ demanded an irate Kate. ‘She looked about the same age as you,’ complained Horace. ‘Over the paint? What about those wrinkles around the eyes?!’ ‘Wrinkles?’ said Horace. ‘The ones beneath the paint? The disguise?’ Horace shook his head, glad of seventy years of suntan to hide his blushes. What most worried him was the fact that Kate apparently did know of opium dens. What did she mean about worse things? And where had she been before arriving at his cave to learn so much? He’d tried asking once, but the answers were so baffling and evasive he’d got a headache. ‘Wherever the life force beckons,’ she’d said. ‘Where the first blade of grass emerges from virgin Earth,’ was another time. ‘Fresh every day,’ she’d added and he’d discovered the joy of migraine. Horace emerged from his reverie into the arguably present and allegedly real world to find Kate patting Dog affectionately, making it oh so plain that he was a more valued and reliable fellow traveller than Horace the Muggins. ‘Such a WISE hound,’she crooned. That night Horace looked into his shaving mirror and prayed quietly to the prophet. ‘Should I do something about my falling hair?’ he asked, since it was falling out at a steady rate. Girlys, whether by design or disguise, were clearly bad news, but he found himself wanting Kate’s approval. Not that she’d notice his ageing hair anyway, he thought. ‘Yea, thou art bald like unto the coot,’ boomed a mysterious voice, and Horace jumped. The sound seemed to reverberate from all directions as though he was in a cavern. ‘Never again shall hair grace the top of thy head all the days of thy life. Worm!’ ‘Okay. Okay. I was only asking!’ he complained, finally recognising the young voice. He turned to see Kate, apparently now in a better mood. ‘Ahha,’ he exclaimed. ‘You do impersonations! Very impressive. And where did you learn that sort of male voice?’ ‘Once upon a time when the world was green, the clay congealed to form a worm. After many moons the worm divided into two. The two worms …’ ‘Okay, all right,’ complained Horace. ‘I was hoping for the name of the town, the type of building and the date, more or less. I’ve had my quota of headaches for today.’ Kate smiled, and so did Dog in Horace’s opinion. ‘He’s only panting. It’s the heat,’ Kate explained. ‘I didn’t even speak!’ complained Horace. ‘Let’s count our blessings, eh little dog?’ murmured Kate, so quietly that Horace could only just hear. * The following day as they were preparing to leave the town, Kate smelled freshly baking bread and smacked her lips enthusiastically. Horace smiled as Kate hurried away, following her nose like all good intuitives are inclined to do, sometimes to excess. ‘I’ll steer clear of smoky dens today,’ Horace affirmed. He sniffed. ‘Mind you, smoke wafting from yonder cooking stoves smells appetising, not to say healthy. The dog nodded sagely, secretly hoping there would be fried onions. The onions gave him wind, the wind annoyed people, and Dog found they left him alone to ponder his new theory about the incomparable boredom of solving simultaneous equations by iterative methods. He was tempted to calculate the boredom quotient by the self-same algebraic method just to be bloody minded. Several dozen people sat around a large fire and two elderly men with apparently random arrangement of teeth – large, small, cracked, yellow, gold, missing, lopsided – tended a few huge black pots from which spicy fumes arose. ‘No women of ill-repute,’ muttered Horace. ‘Not in recent decades, anyway. And I do need something to eat.’ He swallowed and gently admonished his taste buds for being such victims to the world of the senses. Having settled himself before a huge bowl of “spicy camel, millet, vegetables, fruit and today’s mystery extras” he translated – BOGOOTTS yelled the acronym on the sign (buy one and get only one, thou tight sod) – Horace was invited by his neighbours to join a game of dice … * ‘Oh may the prophet help me,’ groaned Horace as he had the familiar feeling of being led, once again, into a better life by a mere dog. Coins jingled in his hand. Dog cocked one ear and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Mere?’ he seemed to ask… Kate glared at Horace as he traipsed out of the market behind Dog. ‘Welcome back … ,’ said Kate. ‘Hello Kate,’ began Horace. ‘Sorry,’ he added. ‘ … Dog.’ Kate finished. ‘Did the strange man swindle any old ladies or fellow crooks?’ She patted Dog in a loving manner. The dog, Dog, looked mightily pleased, yet not a bit surprised at his treatment, which he so clearly deserved. Horace spent another sleepless night wondering at his stupid behaviour. Had everything he’d ever learned counted for nothing once he’d travelled into the world of crowds. Now and then he had bad feelings about Kate – maybe she was a trick of the devil, meant to lead him into temptation? A pleasant mood, in its way, but Kate was so obviously disappointed in his failings, so she could hardly be serving the evil one, unless his main aim was suddenly the promotion of paradox. There didn’t seem to be any evidence of this in the writings of the prophet. Paradox would surely cause people to think for themselves, and the evil one wasn’t that way inclined. Think OF themselves, maybe… * That night Horace dreamed again of a woman. A young woman. A glamorous young woman, even. They’d left the town and market place way behind and Horace woke in a mood, feeling such images were just another headache. So far as he could remember, he was now about 70 years old, and the prophet was either testing him to distraction or had gone slightly mad. He looked nervously up at the sky, and was relieved to note the absence of thunderbolts. ‘Clearly a glamorous woman is not to be taken literally,’ mused Horace, ‘but maybe the prophet does want me married?’ ‘Sorry Horace?’ asked Kate. ‘Just muttering to myself, Kate.’ ‘We’ll be insight of the mountain path tomorrow,’ added Kate. My eyesight is weird, thought Horace, sometimes Kate looks about twelve years old, sometimes about forty. ‘Ah, the consolations of age,’ he moaned. ‘Pardon?’ ‘Nothing.’ * ‘Home!’ shouted Kate, pointing up the side of the mountain. Horace could see nothing to distinguish this mountain path from thousands of others. There were weeds, the occasional goat, one rather odd passing place bearing the legend ‘Lay-By of Sissyfoot’ where a mean looking fellow chained to a post was sweeping leaves. Round and round he went, seemingly imprisoned by his task. Kate assured Horace that she recognised the terrain and Dog was ready to follow. Thank the prophet they are younger and fitter than I, thought Horace. No sooner had they begun the climb than Kate complained of feeling dizzy and Horace had to carry her. There were narrow paths where goats and sheep had worn the grass down, boulder strewn levels where Kate leaned on the larger rocks and Horace was able to rest a while. The dog, may the prophet bless his little furry paws, was the epitome of patience and good behaviour. Horace wondered more than once if the dog understood why they were so slow labouring up the mountainside compared to their four-legged friend. Could it understand that the old man had to carry the normally fit young girl? Did it just accept things as they were? Would it waste hours asking itself unanswerable questions? Probably not… *

Several days patiently carrying Kate over the large chasms to progress up the mountain did a lot for Horace’s stamina, but the air was thinning and he had to rest more often. It felt like most of his breath was used in the simple task of breathing; panting in fact. Horace had the uncanny and rather worrying feeling that she looked years older than when she’d arrived. Not older in an aged sense, taller and wiser. He never counted the days, except for keeping track of the feast days of the prophet, but Kate had first appeared a couple of months ago, rather than years. Could children really grow up so fast, or was it just his feeble eyesight? Also, the higher they went the more pure she appeared; even her suntan was fading. Leaving behind The Plain of Rubedo? wondered Horace. Though I was the only one toreally made a fool of myself there, he mused. Horace realised, as he turned up the sleeves on his shirt, that his weeks travelling with Kate had added muscle to his arms and tone to his skin. On the third day of their ascent he’d suddenly became light-headed, maybe due to the thinner air, possibly the exertion, and he began reciting poetry. ‘I didn’t know you’d learned poetry,’ said Kate. ‘Was it written by the prophet?’ Horace shook his head, puzzled. ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. He thought Kate didn’t appear surprised. Maybe he’d better write it down before he forgot the words? ‘Moly Hoses, what a climb, I’d rather have a lager and lime!’ Kate improvised, by way of response. ‘Lager and Lime?’ asked Horace. ‘A favourite tipple of the barbarians,’ Kate explained. *

A beautiful woman approaches. She is holding hands with a new born girl – her daughter. ‘A daughter too,’ wailed Horace as he woke. ‘The prophet, with all due respect, is one chapati short of a vindaloo.’ ‘You’re awake then,’ observed Kate. ‘I’m beginning to wonder,’ moaned Horace. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ asked Kate. ‘Not likely…’ ‘we’ll be there soon,’ Kate consoled him. ‘By midday. I can walk now.’ *

Dog yapped excitedly, they turned a corner and Horace saw many people coming towards them. In the distance Horace could see a group of modest dwellings arranged around a many steepled temple featuring vividly coloured glass windows. On either side the land sloped down steeply; they really were at the top of this part of the mountain range. ‘Welcome Queen Minerva,’ the people chanted. Horace turned back and nearly fainted. The people were greeting Kate with great fondness and familiarity, and placing a crown on her head. ‘Kate?’ said Horace. Kate, or rather Minerva, shrugged. ‘Some things never change,’ he said. Queen she may be, but she still looked thoroughly mischievous, which felt oddly reassuring. Kate/Minerva headed towards the temple and encouraged Horace to follow. Dog was already in the lead. *

Horace settled into life near the temple, having been shown a quiet hut where he could keep himself to himself. After several days alone reading the word of the prophet, Horace became so frustrated and moody that he hurled the book to the ground and stamped on it. His heart beat alarmingly and he felt his inner world falling apart. He looked very drawn and realised he’d even been studying the text while cooking his dinner – a lizard that he’d trapped with dog’s help the day before. ‘Is it bedtime,’he groaned. ‘Who cares,’ he added and fell asleep by the fire. Horace dreamed of a changing room near his home, his cave in the desert: The changing room is somehow part of my cave. It is an addition. I’m feeding a stove but it’s empty. There is no fire and whatever I put into it is just wasted. A lady with her young daughter appears outside the changing room near the temple. ‘We’re next!’ she says. A lady with a young daughter appears on the other side of the changing room, down some steps into the market place on the plains. ‘We’re next!’ she says. Horace woke in a rage. ‘Why don’t they just leave me in peace?!’ he raved. ‘I was better off months ago as I’ve been for years! Decades, even!’ The stove made him recall the kiln they’d made and fertile it had seemed with snakes and turtles. He felt a pang of guilt on realising he’d never have met Kate if he really had been left alone, but was it worth it? ‘Are you okay?’ Kate kindly asked, appearing on cue. ‘I’m totally baffled,’ said Horace. ‘By what?’ asked Kate. ‘Everything! But I no longer care. Isn’t that weird?’ ‘Ah. Progress … ,’ said Kate. ‘Hmm,’ complained Horace ‘Full marks for enigmatic, not much for helpful.’ ‘Does the little man need help, then?’ Kate sweetly smiled and left him alone.

Horace went away from the palace and houses towards the lake and walked around it. He remembered that in the dream the steps down to the second woman and child were stained and unsavoury. The doorway out to the woman by the temple was not. He felt he’d been found wanting on their travels through the market towns, but sensed the dream image wasn’t only about him. Maybe he’d needed the journey to realise what a sorry state the world he’d ignored had become. The idea wasn’t convincing. He imagined the prophet waiting for him after his death, and felt sure he’d be judged a failure. * ‘I’ve ruined my book of the prophet,’ he moaned, ’stamped it to dust,’ and he realised he’d have to write his own. Maybe he could remember lots of it; maybe even all of it … There was something in his stubborn mood that said he’d stick by everything he’d done. He’d do the same again, probably. This path was too hard for mere mortals, he’d done his best, and who could ask for more than that? He took out his pad and with an almighty sigh wrote his first words.

thought no.1 Live a life devoted to love and love is what you’ll attract! But try this with the dregs of the world and they’ll walk all over you with glee … dog training techniques work better with the resolutely ignorant. This felt a very poor start, but at least the book was under way. Horace turned a corner and found Kate waiting for him, wearing her crown. She was accompanied by a young girl. Kate wore an expression exactly the same as the prophet in Horace’s fantasy of his day of judgement. Horace held his breath, fearing the worst. ‘Welcome Horace,’ said Kate, and smiled beautifully. She took his left hand for a change and the young girl took his right, carefully enclosing his fingers around his pen and notebook. They led him into the temple where he discovered all the dice players, ladies of ill repute and men of ill temper that he’d met on his journey. Horace was surprised and disappointed. ‘This is the reward for seventy years devotion to the teachings of the prophet?’ he grumbled. ‘Back into the gutter?’ The crowds paid little attention to Horace and he wandered among them. Why would Minerva, the prophet or anyone choose to assemble such people in a temple? He listened to two men bartering. Not once did they look each other in the eye, and even the gestures of friendship were lies; calculated ploys to mislead the other, to gain some sort of advantage, to make the other feel under obligation or debt. He watched girlie’s older work-mate proclaiming in a loud voice how everyone looked up to her and sought her advice. Several times girlie chipped in with a comment or question and there was no evidence that it had even been heard. The epistle of ‘How wonderful I am’ went on … and on … and on. Girlie developed a vacant, depressed expression and began to drool. ‘What is the point of such a life?’ Horace growled. He realised that someone was following, probably had been for ages. He repeated his question – ‘this is some sort of reward for a lifetime of struggle? I could have been idle, selfish and probably much happier!’ ‘And asleep?’ asked Kate. She smiled knowingly, with just a hint of rebuke. She pointed to the young girl who was walking through a gate towards an enclosed garden of trees, flower beds and a large pond. Horace followed the girl and found a cosy corner walled in on two sides by a vertical bank. Evergreen palms formed a roof to the enclosure and his easel and paints were already set out, together with his cooking utensils, a table and two chairs and his notebooks. Dog sat at the entrance, facing outwards. A guard dog of sorts, thought Horace. Horace examined his unfinished paintings from their travels, his new notebooks of original, hesitant words and shrugged inwardly. He arranged the works-in-progress into two piles and found he’d put the easier tasks at the top of each pile. This surely merited a wry smile; he looked around to see if Kate was still spying. She wasn’t. He tried the seat, found it comfortable and moved it a little to improve the daylight – sunlight filtered by leaves – onto his desk. ‘I have work to do,’ he declared, and suddenly felt totally at home.

records  Kate and dog  home

Following the psychogram (1st class) delivered faster than the speed of light by Olf Mail , from Hermes Trismegistus (the patron saint of all sufferers of triple vision), we are pleased to reply to members of Wits End e-Community:

The olf is the epitome of all things that can’t be pinned down. Probably.

It can’t even decide whether to be part of the physical world (like the alleged electron or plausible proton) or the psychic ( like an archetype. E.g. it’s Great Uncle Mercurius).

So, it is the elementary particle of the archetype of all opposites and indecision.
Or, it is the archetype of the elementary particle of all opposites and indecision. Maybe.

One advantage of its elusive character is that, rather than merely arguing about whether to do something, it is more likely to decide that it’s already done it! But unreliably so. This makes it the ultimate mail delivery and publishing system:

Forget Blogger, fret ye not about email, stxff the US mail, waste not thy time on Virgin Atlantic, discard thy magic picture box. Parley by Olf! Always on time! Frequently early!! Often lost!!!

I came to type in this story / nonsense, for example, and found most of it already typed; complete with typos!

The olf done it.

At its best, the dear olf did once enter the physical world all awash with benevolence and good intention. It borrowed a letter ‘a’, rearranged itself somewhat and invented the loaf. Unsliced, wholemeal, with added toasted seeds and probably a few currants.

At its worst, it once sidled into the physical world, stole a letter ‘u’ not caring if anyone was looking, and invented foul – the sliced white, factory made, constipating glue best used for chewing, spitting out and moulding into chess pieces.

Over the millennia many adventurous types have tried to capture an olf, either in this world (details below) when anything both new and bizarre appears. Crop circles, American Unilateral Disarmament; Microsoft goes Open Source; institutions admit the existence of individuals; witless warmongers are pensioned off as peace envoys – sure signs that an olf is about. Or in the other world, following years of silent meditation, shamanic dance or tobacco supplements. But of course the olf (Olf) is always elsewhere.

Its Achilles heel is due, as ever, to a weakness of the flesh: its many adventures in the physical world have led it to discover biscuits, especially double-layered gizmos with jam, cream or colourful additives in the middle. The olf can, in fact, be captured by leaving a biscuit barrel open, then silently whopping an old cap over the top while the olf (Olf) is pigging itself.

If you do capture an olf, don’t start an argument. It’ll melt your brains…

P.S. There are believed to be many olfs, but they are all named Olf, which makes capitalisation a bit confusing.

records  the olf  home

After a certain amount of spying, we have located the critter and can offer this report from the “typist” complete with typos:

Whilst staying at the flute polish rehab centre, I was surprised to meet a wild-eyed, pipeaholic man who transpired to be none other than Count Backwards von Hundred. I confess I feel more tolerant of his weird ways since I heard his family history …

His father was an obsessive actuary – Actuary Factuary, as Count B calls him. Count Backwards wasn’t really a backwards child at birth; given the behaviour of one day old children how could you tell? He was in fact born feet first, hence the name, but I suspect he’s spent most of his life trying to prove to All and Sundry (Actuaries, est 1834) that his monicker doesn’t apply.

If ‘Backwards’ seems an unkind name to give ones child, please consider the plight of Backwards’ sister and brother:

Monsigneur Pink Damp Bawling von Hundred (now professor of family therapy at the university of Accrington, UpNorth, UQ) and Countess Damp Pink Screeching von Hundred, co-proprietor of The Dogs N Cats Rescue Centre (registered charity), Mount Carefully, Near Vienna (but not very), Austria. She runs the sanctuary, which specialises in treating traumatised dogs by letting them get famously filthy and have a good time, with her pal Mable Syrup who she met many years ago whilst an O Pear (as a yoof) in Windsor, London, DarnSarf, UQ.

Message from typist ends (small mercies …)

records  Confessions of an au pair – Mable Syrup  home

records  Favourite quotes  home

Donatella returned from the bar with two halves off Curate’s Comfort beer and gave one to Agnes Daily.

‘Fancy,’ said Agnes. ‘The famous Smogdale tipple in the Halfway Inn. I swear this is nearer to the huge City of Wherewithal than it is to Smogdale, yet they sell our local brew!’

‘Well it is rather damned fine,’ replied Donatella, doing her best to lose her Italian accent.
Agnes smiled.
They finished their dinner, the pub lunch on the way to the hairdressers in Wherewithal being part of their day out treat every month or so, provided they had the same day free. They sipped their drinks appreciatively.

The coach driver peeped around the corner and told them he’d be ready to leave in ten
minutes. Agnes checked her watch and sighed. Ten more minutes to eat one runner bean, half a spud and half a pint of beer. Sometimes, life is good.

‘Here. Did you hear…? ‘ began Donatella.
Agnes jumped. ‘I certainly did! Calm down lass!’
Donatella beamed. ‘Well, the thing is, there is a rumour that the shop on Brewery View that closed when Mrs Ostwaldthistle died is re-opening as a trendy hairdressers. A hairstylists, in fact, according to Poddle. Though he described the conversation rather more colourfully.’
‘Colourfully?’
‘With free added, bonus, buy one get one free curses and swearwords.’

‘Ah. I see,’ said Agnes. The local vicar’s ‘treasure’ and part-time domestic help she may be, but she wasn’t entirely naïve.

‘Two young women from out of town, Poddle says.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘He said ‘young women’ with inverted commas, so clearly he has views …’
‘He often does …’ .

–

In the hill country around Beans Upon Toast, Republic of Thursleydale, life meanders at a leisurely pace. The farmers, most of whom are called Dire, due to generations of successful breeding and the occasional shooting of a plucky rival, grow beans; once a year they load them onto rafts heading down the River Toast towards Cheese Upon Toast (the dairy farming centre) and onwards to Campsite by the Sea, where the big money and the beach-bums dwell.

Billi-Jo Dire 3rd and Billie Jo Dire 17th, distant relatives, had this in common. Their mothers had ideas above their station and refused to help on the farm, prefering to anoint their toes with used engine oil while reclining on a tastefully decorated straw bale, and reading the Hairstylists Monthly and TV Gossip Special magazines.

As any refined reader will surely know, reading a magazine, or indeed looking at the pictures, whilst anointing ones toenails with used engine oil does not guarantee a perfect work of art upon the nails. Nevertheless the two lasses learned by example from their mothers and became so full of themselves that they even had the nerve to demand different names to those on their birth certificates.

‘We’re fed up of “Dire”,’ said Billi Jo 3rd.
‘Yeah. Sright inni,’ replied her pal.
Their mothers grumbled, as you can imagine.
‘We didn’t have such ideas when we were LITTLE GIRLS,’ complained one.
‘Yeah!’ squawked her daughter. ‘Mrs Dire says you two were right idle COWS!’
‘You watch your mouth, child, or you’ll get the back of my hand!’
‘You couldn’t catch us, you FAT COW!’ whined her pal.
‘Yeah!’ added Billi.

Mrs Dire, mother of Billi 3rd looked at her pal. A Monumental rage began to develop in her heart, though it might have been her bowels.

‘Which bloody cow Mrs Dire said I was a COW?!’
‘You see!?’ yelled Billi, turning to her pal.
‘Yeah!’ screamed Billie 17th, who hadn’t a clue.
‘When everyone is called Billi(e) Jo Dire no-on knows who the hell you’re gassing about!’
‘Yeah!’ screamed Billie 17th, after a slight delay.

The respective mothers sat down on two tastefully decorated straw bales (one each, on account of their size) for a roll-up and a cup of coffee. Being spoilt brats had served them well, after a fashion. Admittedly their ‘husbands’ were a bit witless, possibly even worse than average, but they seemed to get what they wanted provided they made a reasonable job of applying the used oil to their toenails and bought heavy duty bras on the internet. Everyone needs a support network …

‘Anyway, ‘ said Billi 3rd, we’re off to the big city, a place called Smogdale.
‘Never heard of it,’ said her ma.
‘It’s near Wherewithal. I expect we’ll end up in Wherewithal, but we need to start somewhere a bit smaller …’

–

Donatella held the door open for Agnes Daily and they exited QT’s public house feeling refreshed and rather full. The Halfway Inn was a treat, but nowhere on Earth compared to QT’s when it came to homeliness, good food, and a spectacularly large plate.

‘There is a distinct advantage to having a hairdressers in one’s home town,’ said Agnes.
‘Yep,’ Donatella agreed. ‘Better food, for example…’
‘Less messing about on buses…’
‘Bigger plates…’
‘Free entertainment from the likes of Poddle and Donk…’
‘Hmm. It’s a shame about the language, though.’
‘Alcohol loosens the tongue,’ Donatella agreed.
‘Loosens the morals, more likely…’
‘And the brain cells.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Donatella. ‘Poddle informed me, while you were out of the room, that it’s a dangerous move calling it a hairdressers. Apparently the “establishment is a hairstylists salon”, so the young owners/tenants claim.’

‘Is that like a saloon?’
‘Nope!’
‘Good.’

The merry couple made an incongruous sight toddling along the towpath towards Brewery View, where the shop had re-opened as a shearing den. Donatella, barely 30, 6 feet tall (maybe just over), slim and very fit. Agnes, 60ish, 5 feet nothing, wearing middle age with comfort and pride.

They eventually hove into sight of the re-opened shop and gazed wonderingly at the new brightly coloured sign

Blonde and Witless

Hairstylists Salon

There were several photos of celebrities in the window. ‘We can do this’ the sign declared; hopefully refering to the celebs’ hairstyles rather than their drug habits.

‘Dare we let them loose on our hair?’ asked Donatella.
‘I tell you what,’ said Agnes. ‘I’ll just ask for a perm, no scissors thank you. Let’s face it, I don’t have much to lose. If they don’t mess up you can give them a chance next month?’

‘Er, okay. Shall we go in?’
‘We better had. Poddle’s spying on us from the corner of the canal.’
Donatella turned and waved. Poddle waved back as if surprised to see them.
They entered.

‘Hello ladies,’ said Donatella, taking in the identical body language of the two proprietors: perched ungracefully on high stools, bums visibly widening, scowling determinedly as if to say why has fate landed me with a life like this?

‘Which one is Wi… ,’ began Donatella, and thought better of it. ‘Which one is Blonde?’ she smiled.

The two erstwhile Dires un-scowled a mite as they looked at each other. One pointed to the other; the other, as it were, did a quick check in the mirror. ‘It’s me this week,’ she said. ‘We takes it in turn.’
‘You take it in turns?’ smiled Agnes.
‘Yeah. We does. That’s what I just said inni?’

Two lads of the simple persuasion entered the shop. ‘Ere, are you two ready? We was going to the pub and wondered if you two was coming?’

‘We’re busy,’ said Blonde.
‘Yeah. We are,’ agreed Witless. ‘You can come back later. Go and earn some money. We need some stock for the shop.’
The lads did as they were bid, since their dads did and “it never done them no harm”.

‘You can go out with the lads now, if you like,’ said Agnes. ‘We’ll make an appointment for this time next week.’

‘We will?’ whispered Donatella.
‘Sociological research,’ said Agnes. ‘I’m fascinated by the way life develops in a free society.’
‘Free…’

records  Blonde and Witless – hairdressers  home

Homeless short story

In the 1960’s the British government funded grant assisted university education for ordinary (not rich) school-leavers.

An essential part of enabling higher education for the relatively poor has been subsidised accommodation. There are still gaps in the system that lets down some people, but over the fifty or so years it has made a real difference to the opportunities and expectations of working class people. The universities themselves do what they can to keep students’ rents affordable.

Compare this to the plight of the many people who are unable to qualify for further education or, worse still, are homeless. As property and capital remain popular means of milking the most vulnerable and the poorest, it would be refreshing to see a government plan for subsidised accommodation and a viable start in life for all.

A confrontation with the most resolute exploiters of the disadvantaged is inevitable.

Anyone unaware of the problems facing today’s youth could take a look at Kids Co.

records  Homeless youth  home

puberty stories

illustrated-fantasy-stories

funny-short-stories

hanging-from-the-rooftop

king-arthur-comedy-arthurian-satire

Road Rage farce story

all short stories

records  popular short stories  home

Petah, My Rolls Royce engine is making a ping ping zapple sound. What could be wrong? Thanks dahling!

15 April 2007 20:29

The Typist said…

Dame Edna, You’ve left your toyboy’s CD playing. It’s on the dashboard next to your furry dice

16 April 2007 11:24

Edna Swoonflap said…

Petah, Thank you dahling. It was the CD player. I didn’t even know that I had one. Tah,tah dahling.

#11 replies: Dear Dame Edna Swoonflap,

With reference to your creaking Rolls Royce: The Typist is barking up the correct tree, for once, but clearly doesn’t have the full picture.

We are well placed to make unbiased observations, being located on the moon, visitors from the Palindromeda Galaxy, out of range of your famously vicious hat-pin and such like, so we can be a little more explicit than TT.

When he says THE toyboy, he means A toyboy, specifically your Tuesdays model. The one that you pick up after your ‘good works’ serving tea at the refuge for battered fishmongers. The very one that you kindly give a lift home in your Rolls Royce (albeit in the boot) to your humble palace.

The same lad, indeed, that you allow to wash and polish your Rolls Royce, muck out your stables and rake the gravel drive before, out of your limitless benevolence, giving him one whole biscuit and some tea. Served in both cup and saucer, with sugar!

The very same lad who is allowed to manicure your toe nails before being given the bus-fare back to his tent under the motorway flyover that he calls home.

Anyway, press the OFF button on your CD player and peace will be restored …

#11

P.S. We don’t understand the strange noises that you make while he’s chiselling the bony bits off your toes. Is it really necessary to suck your thumb like that?

records  Refuge for Battered Fishmongers  home

‘I wonder why,’ mumbled Number 11 to itself. ‘I wonder why Teskos (TM) have commenced mining cheese from the ceiling.’ They’ll have problems when they strike a yoghourt deposit, that’s for sure.

The brass monkeys appeared to have developed a liking for the inverted world too, and were lobbing moon rocks through perfect parabolas at the mining robots (no air resistance, thought Number 11. I wish I could stop thinking boring thoughts like that, it added. And that one! it added.)

Number 14 approached, also inverted. The Earth hung in the distance, as it often did, spinning on its axis, travelling through an orbit – a pastime it had perfected over many years.
Number 14 bent forwards and rotated its noddle somewhat.

‘Interesting,’ said Number 14.
A promising start, given Number 14’s unpredictable moods, thought Number 11.

‘Number 9 said you’re off your head, didn’t it?’ asked Number 14.

‘Indeed it did. I’d be worried, or suspicious, if the obsessive one said anything positive.’

‘Has this statement perhaps led to your attempting yoga?’ Number 14 was shooting in the dark, but the brass monkeys frequently did, so why not?
‘I learned it this morning!’ burbled Number 11. ‘I like it.’
‘Did you happen to end with a headstand?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because your legs are executing walking movements, but you aren’t going anywhere. Largely due to you being stood on your head.’
‘Ah!’ said Number 11. It looked down at its feet, though it now realised some AloeVeras may interpret this direction as up.
It contemplated attempting an inversion, then did so.
‘Praise be to Buck Probably. I was still upside down!’
‘Welcome back,’ said Number 14.

records  Yoga and Yoghurt Mines – story  home

In many good stories the central figure is a hero, or more often the ordinary person finding themselves saddled with the responsibility of needing to become one. King Arthur, Aragorn, Merlin, Harry Potter, Gandalf, …

I cannot help but wonder why such figures seem conspicuously absent from contemporary politics. In the UK we’ve lived through an oil boom, and any sane ‘father’ responsible for his family would have made sure that such a once-in-lifetime, maybe once-in-a-millenia opportunity saw at least half the windfall invested to provide a foundation for his descendants: in the case of government – all the people in the country.

What seems to have happened in the UK is that successive governments of all parties have taxed the majority to fund both executive greed on the one hand and paying an ever growing underclass to become entrenched in the view that work is for mugs, rented housing is organised mostly by crooks, and the government will pay for everything. This has led to post-oil boom UK having massive government debts, millions of passengers, and a very weary community of tax payers.

Worst of all, the three main political parties all carefully avoid even describing the scale of the catastrophe, let alone putting in place a plan to deal with it. Presumably this is part of their strategy to gain votes at any cost, so both fat-cats and the permanently idle feel they have someone worth voting for. Recently things have become so dire that the contenders for future Prime Minister have been dreaming up “policy” (inverted commas do seem appropriate) on the spur of the moment.

I hope no-one is fooled by the psychological naivety of the cranks who declare, in the face of all the evidence, that all “our” problems are due to immigration, the EU, flying saucers, … The practice of projecting all our guilt onto a convenient “other” is plain to see in the above mentioned fat-cats and layabouts, both of whom invest energy in convincing themselves that they have “no choice”. It might even be EASIER to grow up than keep shouting their chosen illusions at all and sundry (mainly,of course, in an attempt to convince themselves).

The $64,000 question: where is the hero of British politics; someone who will spell out the scale of the problems and the work needed to solve them? All “children” (the psychologically needy), irrespective of their age, need parenting and are drawn to characters that fill the need.
In a bad relationship power and dependancy are symbiotic; a form of psychological sado-masochism; the time has come for something more conscious: for all those blessed with the freedoms of social democracy to forge a decent life despite the incompetence of those who seek power.

Questions: If government continues to plunge us into debt, in our name, what can we do?

Who are we in debt to? The public sector debt is £743 billion or (52.7% per cent of GDP) according to www.economicshelp.org (April 2010), so anyone who has bought government gilts is owed
money from this enormous debt.

records  The hero in fiction and contemporary politics  home

Whenever you see the hearse go by

Whenever you see the hearse go by

And think to yourself that you're gonna die

Be merry, my friends, be merry.

They put you in a big white shirt

And cover you up with tons of dirt

Be merry, my friends, be merry.

They put you in a long shaped box

And cover you with tons of rocks

Be merry, my friends, be merry.

The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out

The ones that crawl in are lean and thin

The ones that crawl out are fat and stout

Be merry, my friends, be merry.

Your eyes fall in and your hair falls out

And your brains come tumbling down your snout

Be merry, my friends, be merry.

Anon

Wits End

records  Whenever you see the hearse go by  home

Our HairyMammal typist, The Horizontal One (T.H.O.) hasn’t been available for a while, so we’ll take this opportunity to relate a true story about him. A strange story, we suspect, but what do we know?

Once upon a time (i.e. one day, long ago; not to be confused with Once Upon Time – the small town near Newcastle which is famous for its bridge over the tidal river Time, The Bridge of Size (it’s big!)) The Horizontal One left his house during the hours of daylight intending to visit a shop.

A car pulled up to the kerb and the female HairyMammal suspected of being his girlfriend/adversary offered him a lift. No sooner was he in the car than she operated the door locks and drove straight past the shop to her isolated home.

Having escorted him into the premises, she locked the doors, pocketed the keys, and forced him to eat sliced white bread, read The Daily Mail and watch TV. Some HairyMammals have no mercy.

For once he was struck by an intelligent idea – he feigned interest in the TV, thus encouraging her frequent use of the power complex (the gizmo with coloured buttons that changes channel on the TV) and every time she was thus engaged he topped up her cup with more TEA! No end of the stuff.

Very soon she said she needed to use the ‘little girls’ room’, which was a fib – she went to the toilet. She still had the house keys in her pocket, but the daft bat (T.H.O.’s words, not ours) neglected to take the phone, so he phoned the police and was promptly rescued!

The police didn’t prosecute her, which puzzled us. Maybe they were placated by all the sliced white bread which they ate whilst on the premises?

We were deeply gratified by the pivotal role played by tea in this adventure and only wish we’d been able to supply it ourselves…

#11

records  funny true story – Kidnapped!  home

In the heart of the great nation of Albion lies a swamp. In the middle of which, more or less, is a large hill – very broad, but not so tall – on which has stood for ages beyond memory the great City of Cameldung. The famous city; the royal city; the city of legend; the sinking city …

In fact Cameldung, and more significantly the hill, trace their origins back to time immoral, when the ancient trade routes from the orient brought silicon chips from Taiwan and cheap jeans from China in caravans. They weren’t aluminium caravans pulled by 4×4s, but caravans of camels – hence the hill… Nowadays the throne at Cameldung is occupied by King Arthur and his fabled sword, Expeditor.

King Arthur was sitting in his throne, as he was expected to do each weekday except public holidays. He nursed his sword of office and peered from one monitor to another on his cluttered mahogany desk. He was a mite concerned about the mahogany desk, because he’d claimed it as ‘work expenses’ and if he was deposed, which seemed increasingly likely when he woke at 3a.m., in a fever, he’d really like to take it with him.

King Arthur was scanning the recent posts of the tax-evasion forum, fatgits.com, logged in under an alias, when his squire knocked upon the great door leading to the royal presence, coughed apologetically and tripped over the Dalmatian and the giant rug it occupied (both legitimate expenses for the king) and announced to the king that a knight of the realm wished to have an audience with him.

King Arthur stood and glanced to his right where the specially made, full length, mildly-convex mirror reflected his grand countenance with reduced waistline. A fine figure of a man, he mused.

‘Enter, serf!’ he bellowed, and the knight approached somewhat nervously towards the throne. King Arthur collapsed regally back into his throne.

‘Good King Arthur, wielder of Expeditor, defender of the realm and bane of all miscreants,’ the knight began, as was the custom in this fair land.

‘Yes?’ replied King Arthur of Cameldung.
‘I was monitoring the welfare of my homeland around the great City of Wherewithal, as you so generously asked me, thus giving my life meaning and duty such as befits a knight of the realm of Albion.’
‘Really? Did I do that? Jolly good show. Squire, bring me a cup of coffee and some water for the knight of the realm. Pray continue, underling.’
‘There is a problem in the neighbouring republic of Smogdale where the good people need your protection, sire, your majesty, oh King of Albion and earthly incarnation of the divine, sire.’
‘I think you said “sire” twice, but no matter. A thesaurus will sort your shortcomings before next you visit. Take care to heed my words.’

‘Thank you s … King Arthur.’
‘What exactly troubles the people of Wherever it Was, near your home, the great City of Whatever?’
‘Wherewithal, s … King Arthur.’
‘Oh, I can see that must be a great worry to them.’
‘No s … King Arthur, that’s the name of my home – the Great City of Wherewithal.’
‘I know that, underling, but what ails them?’

‘They are no longer able to use the public footpaths through the farmland, to get to market and such like, because the landowners, kiddies with small cars and aliens in 4×4s travel along the footpaths at 30mph. There are large notices reminding them that the speed limit for vehicles on the footpath is 5 mph, but the signs appear not to work.’

‘A great vexation for the serfs of what’s-his-name. What do you propose, underling?’
‘A quest, sire, oops – begging pardon King Arthur – to tackle the miscreants with sword and pike. My horse might not be a match for the 4×4s though, so possibly several assistant knights or squires with giant nets of chain mail could be used to stop those kiddies with 4×4s and the aliens in bangers. Once they get their toys up to speed there’s stopping them. It seems to addle their brains … ‘

King Arthur scanned the screens on his mahogany table, and used his mobile phone to consult with his advisers, Gordon Bennett and Gore Blimey, apparently. The knight waited patiently, frantically trying to remember what a thesaurus was; was it usually known by a different name? Were they extinct?

‘Serfs with brains,’ King Arthur muttered. ‘Doesn’t sound very likely … ‘

‘I’m pleased to see that you agree with me,’ said King Arthur, after listening to his advisers. ‘Knight of the realm, your king and earthly embodiment of the divine has been backed up in his view by his consultants – the sale of 4×4s keeps the taxes coming in, which we apparently need to pay for sixteen year old unmarried mothers, whatever they are. Do call again when I can assist you.’

- – -

‘Hello dear,’ smiled Agnes Daily. It helps the poor children to make them feel at home if the neighbours are friendly, she thought.

Blonde-maybe-Witless slammed the front door and headed for the full length mirror to check her scowl. It looked pretty convincing to her. Her mother had used that scowl to good effect with her witless dad, and it seemed to work for her. She scowled at the light rain on her sunglasses – rain hadn’t featured in their plans when moving near to the great City of Wherewithal. Blonde-maybe-Witless’s practise of perfecting her spoiled brattitude were disrupted by the door slamming open.

‘Do you have to slam the door?’ she complained.
Oddly, Witless-maybe-Blonde, her flatmate, didn’t respond. They usually practised their feminine wiles on each other in the absence of male mugginses, but hairstylist number two was clearly not in the mood.

‘The old biddy next door said hello,’ said Blonde-maybe-Witless. ‘I don’t know who she thinks she is, the crumbly old nobody. Anyway I ignored her.’ Blonde-maybe-Witless didn’t turn from the mirror to deliver this news. The spoiled brattitude was damn near perfection in her opinion – clearly the only opinion that counted – and what could be more important than style?
Her flat mate still failed to respond and Blonde-maybe-Witless turned from the mirror moodily. Witless-maybe-Blonde had collapsed into an armchair and buried her head (currently and temporarily not blonde) in her arms.
‘Poor me!’ she suddenly wailed.
‘Ah,’ thought Blonde-maybe-Witless, ‘Attention seeking! Two can play at that game.’
‘I’m bloody, fooking pregnant,’ wailed Witless-maybe-Blonde.
‘Two can play at that game, too,’ she suggested, as a most gracious act of empathy. ‘This must have been our second night here when those two dickheads in the little car with no exhaust took us to the pub via the public footpath? The pub ran out of beer just before the dickheads ran out of money, so the survivors claimed.’
‘Survivors?’
‘Those left standing, I mean. It didn’t include you, so far as I recall.’
Blonde-maybe-Witless checked in the mirror that she looked empathic like the talk show nerdess on the TV, and was pleased to see that she did as well, maybe even a shade better, than the TV nerdess.
‘Did the dickhead give his name and address?’ asked Blonde-maybe-Witless. ‘I know we talked about it at the time, but I can’t remember now, what with the pressure of running a business and so on.’
‘He did. They were both hanging around for weeks, if you remember, until you told them BOTH to f off!’

‘Good riddance,’ said Blonde-maybe-Witless. ‘Let’s get this weeks magazines and see what to do about it.’

- – -

‘I’m so sorry to bother your majesty,’ said his squire. ‘I know the affairs of state test your patience, but we have another knight of the realm, from Smogdale this time, wanting your permission to boldly go where right thinking bigots wouldn’t bother; I think that’s what he said.’

‘Show him in, serf. Any idea what the problem is? Forewarned is fore-armed, or thereabouts …’
‘Sorry sire, I don’t know. Media and teen pregnancies were mentioned when he managed to get past the guards on the gate.’
‘Ah, scandal! This might be interesting. Incidentally, I suspect that you mean “go boldly”, but never mind.’
‘As you say, King Arthur.’

- – -

‘Good King Arthur, wielder of Expeditor, defender of the realm and bane of all miscreants,’ the knight began.
‘Yes indeed. I do know the script,’ replied King Arthur. ‘What seems to be the trouble? And have you tried aspirin? If it can be solved, cured, forgotten about or made tolerable with aspirin then you don’t need to bother me.’

‘Er, I don’t think aspirin works, King Arthur, sire. Do you happen to know if it’s a contraceptive?’
‘Blocks TV reception, d’you mean? I shouldn’t think so. I believe the common people take it orally; the aspirin that is.’

The aspiring knight, who was rather young for the job, looked puzzled. He glanced back towards the great doors leading to the royal presence; the heavily built mammal on the door, probably a humanoid, recognised the poor knight’s embarrassment and smiled happily and unhelpfully; so did the Dalmatian.

‘Is it okay if I describe my concerns to you, Good King Arthur, wielder of Expeditor, defender of the realm and bone of all miscreants?’
‘We could try it,’ replied the royal one, valiantly suppressing the urge to take a few peanuts from the huge tub in the right hand door of his desk. Could one disguise the conveyance of peanuts to one’s mouth as a yawn, he wondered.
‘Are you still here?’ he asked with a start. ‘What did we decide about whereeveritis?’
‘Smogdale, sire. You were deciding to let me relate the tale, I think.’
‘Ah yes. One moment please.’

King Arthur picked a phone from his desk. A pink phone, as it happened, and requested aid.
Moments later, during which time the king appeared to yawn after struggling to open his desk drawer, a very large man entered the room from a side door behind the king.

‘My wizard, Porky the Pink, will assist us in this urgent problem,’ quoth the king. The wizard pulled up three stools to sit on and the youthful knight began his tale of woe.

‘Sire, er sires,’ he ventured. ‘The female youth of Smogdale appear to be having children almost as soon as they learn to walk, and the fathers/sperm donors vanish, never being available to build the nest, grow the food, etc.’

‘That is vexing,’ said King Arthur of Cameldung. He looked to his wizard, Porky the Pink, for signs of agreement. Porky the Pink had one hand buried in his enormous beard, presumably scratching his chin somewhere within the depths, and his eyes were screwed up in concentration. I haven’t a bloody clue what Porky thinks, thought King Arthur of Cameldung.

‘Yes, sire,’ said the youthful knight, by way of encouragement. ‘I think they are somewhat corrupted by the media, King Arthur of Cameldung, now that they have 30 channels to choose from on the TV.’

‘The Media,’ mused King Arthur of Cameldung. ‘Aren’t they a tribe of infidels, non-believers, from the Orient?’
‘Leyton Orient?’ asked the bemused knight. He felt sure there were TV studios not far from central London.
‘THE Orient, you numbskull!’ bellowed Porky the Pink. ‘You cross the channel, to Frogland, then head south-east, more or less!’
‘Sorry sire,’ muttered the knight.
King Arthur of Cameldung looked from one to the other. Deep in his subconscious an image of using Expeditor, his fabled sword, to cut the heads off both fools made him smile. Then he remembered the huge filing cabinet of laws relating to the behaviour of the King that successive Houses of Commoners had passed – apparently including himself – and he shook his head.

‘He means the electronic media, such as your computers, King Arthur of Cameldung,’ Porky the Pink explained. He took a glass sphere from his robes and peered into it, nodding his head and murmuring mysteriously in Anglo-Spanish – the preferred tongue of alcoholic tourists from Albion. The King was impressed and the knight maintained a diplomatic silence.

‘The TV is produced in studios and distributed by transmitters,’ said King Arthur of Cameldung after consulting the Google oracle. ‘Couldn’t we just flatten them with battering rams, then pour oil on it and have a bonfire?’

Porky the Pink shuffled to the end of his row of stools towards the king and whispered in his ear. King Arthur of Cameldung nodded and tapped irritably at his keyboard.
‘Well I never,’ said King Arthur of Cameldung. ‘So many jobs in TV production. Film studios all over the place.’
‘95% of the population effectively sedated by the box, and they PAY for their own sedation!’ Porky the Pink gurgled. ‘You know what huge debts we have, sire. Best policy is to keep things stable,’ he whispered in the king’s ear. ‘Licence fees and sedation – bliss!’

King Arthur of Cameldung looked up at the knight to deliver his judgement.
‘Er, knight … ,’ he said.
‘Thank you for keeping us informed, Knight of the Realm,’ the king’s wizard interpreted.
‘Um, yes,’ said King Arthur of Cameldung.
‘The complexities of a large kingdom rarely benefit from a direct solution to one problem, taken in isolation,’ the king’s wizard translated.
‘Ahha!’ said King Arthur of Cameldung. What a complex job I do do, he thought. Do do reminds me of a song; do do Ron Ron I think it was. Maybe Ron was one of the absent fathers?. He tried humming the tune and his wizard, Porky the Pink, coughed meaningfully.

‘And they voted for you,’ the king’s wizard whispered in the royal ear.
‘Thank you for calling, Knight of the Realm. Back to work eh!? Ask Jeeves for some oats and water and possibly also something for your horse before you leave.’

- – -

‘Good King Arthur, wielder of Expeditor, defender of the realm and barn of all miscreants,’ bellowed the knight of the realm as he entered the royal presence.
Bloody hell, thought the king. What an enormous fellow. Maybe we could find him a job booting journalists off the front doorstep?

‘What ails you, Knight of the Realm?’ asked the king. He leafed through ‘Knights of the Realm’ magazine which his wizard had bought him, seeking inspiration. The daft newsagents had delivered ‘Woman’s Realm‘ by mistake when he’d ordered it over the phone, so he’d ordered their beheading. His wizard, Porky the Pink, and his solicitors, All and Sundry – Solicitors, PR (and tax evasion) Ltd, had advised against it, what with the elections imminent.
The magazine showed pictures – apparently photographs, so you gotta believe em – of knights on horses (chargers, said the caption) spearing malcontents with their various pointy implements of law enforcement. The malcontents were easy to identify since they all had bad teeth from the age of about ten years, whereas the knights seemed to be well toothed into their eighties, judging by the seers and wizards present in the photos. Those were the days, thought Arthur, King of Albion, Briton and several small islands one of which offered tax free interest on his savings. A small voice in the rear of his mind voiced the doubt that he’d never really got beyond the polo field but he was sure he’d jousted, quested and what-have-you in his youth. Princess Petunia What’s-her-name, for example. He’d lost a tooth in his battles to divest her of something precious when they were mere teenagers …

‘Ahem,’ grunted the huge squire at the door.
King Arthur, wielder of Expeditor, defective of the realm and bane of all miscreants looked up at his squire, and the squire nodded at the visiting knight who was clearly unsure what to do while the king was alternately reading his magazine, gazing into space, tinkering with his new laptop and ferreting about in his desk drawer.

‘Excuse me, knight. The pressures of affairs of state burden one at times,’ he read from a note that his backup wizard Mandy the Magus had taped to one of the many monitors competing for the royal gaze.
‘Of course, King Arthur, wielder of Expeditor, defender of the realm and bane of all miscreants,’ bellowed the visiting knight, Darken Stormy, hoping that a powerful blast of sound might stimulate the king’s, weary attention. It didn’t.

The squire coughed – more of a bark.
The knight harrumphed – more of a gargle.
‘Whassup?’ quoth King Arthur, wielder of Expeditor, defender of the realm and bane of all miscreants.
‘Social problems in the great City of Wherewithal, sire,’ growled the knight. ‘Can I flatten the perpetrators, by appointment to the king, as it were?’

The king looked around, apparently surprised by the immense height of the room. He picked up his pink phone; thought better of it and chose a black one with MM initialled in gold. ‘Come hither, wizard,’ he said. And was surprised to find that the wizard Mandy the Magus was already present, smiling horribly.

‘What is the precise nature of the social problems, supposed-knight?’ sneered Mandy the Magus.
The knight, an immense fellow not familiar with either lack of respect or suspicion, was taken aback. He beetled his brows, furrowed his forehead, regurgitated his elevenses – in part, knotted his biceps, cracked his knuckles, ground his molars, hunched his shoulders … and found it all too much trouble. ‘Yer what?!’ he bellowed. Mandy was supposed to be a magus with the king’s ear, though they looked nought like Arthur’s lugholes to the knight, Darken Stormy.

Mandy the Magus thought better of further belittling Darken Stormy, just in case. He was a big bugger, and the King occasionally employed such people as bodyguards and refuse removal operatives – identical jobs in the opinion of King Arthur, wielder of Expeditor, defender of the realm and bane of all miscreants.
‘Please tell us more, sir,’ said Mandy. The microscopic sneer in ’sir’ barely audible to the human ear, but clear as two fingers to the mammalian subconscious. He smiled vindictively.

Darken Stormy eyeballed the wizard meaningfully and recited thus, occasionally glancing at his notes which his little sister had typed for him.

‘I was concerned to hear from a small, disabled lady who lives in the King’s fair land that her taxes keep increasing. She earns her daily bread by hobbling down the street delivering leaflets to her neighbours. Her taxes appear to be paying for strapping young fellows nearly as big as myself to stay home drunk, smoking and minding the latest baby while their wife – sometimes married, sometimes not – works part-time for beer money. The poor little disabled lady can hardly keep her hip and knee joints moving.’

The king looked visibly moved by this tale. Mandy the Magus hid his feelings behind furrowed brows and beetled forehead, just to show Darken Stormy he could out-do him if he so wished.

‘Bugger me,’ quoth King Arthur, wielder of Expeditor, defender of the room and bane of all miscreants. ‘Who lets their house to such rabble?
‘Money and Son, Buy to Enslave Specialists, sire,’ replied the knight.
‘Hmmm,’ said Mandy the Magus.

‘Easily settled!’ declared King Arthur, wielder of Expeditor, defender of the realm and bane of all miscreants. ‘We’ll give them a choice! Either enlist in the army or live in a tent!’ The royal personage smiled in a self-congratulatory manner and began riffling through the paperwork on his mahogany desk. Mandy the Magus noticed that the riffling was in the general direction of King Arthur, wielder of Expeditor, defender of the realm and bane of all miscreants’ top drawer – the one with the peanuts.
‘After you with the peanuts,’ whispered Mandy. ‘I’m afraid we can’t do that King Arthur. The peasants vote for you, you see.’
‘We can’t, knight!’ hollered the king, pleased to have a straight answer for once. ‘They v … .’

Mandy the Magus coughed half-masticated peanuts all over the desk in his haste to stop the king in his tracks.
‘A word in private, sire?’ he stated – no, it wasn’t a question.
The king grabbed the full bag of nuts from his desk drawer. ‘Excuse us for a moment, knight. We have matters of state to discuss.’
‘Should we leave him some peanuts?’ the king enquired of his wizard.
‘Only on pay day, your majesty.’
‘What?’
‘It was but a jest, sire. Now we need to give the knight of the realm something energetic to do that will keep him well away from the voters …’

intermission – peanuts optional …

King Arthur

‘I’m sure the royal tailor can make a uniform to fit Darken Stormy perfectly. Technically you will still be a knight on a quest. But you can fulfil your quest by keeping ruffians out of the palace of King Arthur, wielder of Expeditor, decorator of the room and bane of all miscreants, Imperial Majesty of the Britons, Lord of all Albion, Regent of Frogland. And a few other jobs …’

‘Am I really all those things?’ asked King Arthur, wielder of etc. ‘Frogland?!’
‘Not yet your majesty, but wait till the next Six Nations Championship, then we’ll see!’

‘Could I send a letter of support to the lady with the limp? Asked Darken Stormy, the ex-knight.
‘Certainly,’ chorused the king and his wizard.
‘Snap!’ chuckled the wizard and his king.
‘We’ll deliver the letter by Royal Courier,’ keen to make his new employee happy.

- – -

Darken Stormy’s first job as Royal Bodyguard, Master of This, Supervisor of That, Not to Mention the Other, was to deliver a high priority letter, a sealed letter, to a lady with a limp in Wherewithal. He didn’t mind, but in his new job he wasn’t even allowed to speak to her, just make sure she got the package unopened. And he’d known her since he was a lad.

Darken Stormy drove the Royal Special Delivery Vehicle, a Ford Escort van cunningly disguised as a rust heap, into his home city – the great City of Wherewithal. The traffic was intense as usual, and came to a complete standstill before he reached Paradise Towers, the home of the disabled delivery woman and many a dosser.

An Argost delivery van, ’specialists in nature and countryside photos’ it claimed, had collided with an express antidepressant courier on a huge motorcycle, a lift repair man in a Ford Escort van (cunningly disguised as a rust heap) and a freelance New Age bookseller specialising in affirmations that remind one of the illusions of the world and that all is basically well, happy and profitable.

The GP had legged it to the flats to see his emergency patient, and all the people involved in the accident had followed at speed to get out of the rain. Sadly the stair well was occupied by a large group of travellers who’d camped there as a protest because the disused railway siding they’d shared with a Conservative Club Allotment Association had been bought up by Money and Son, Buy to Enslave Specialists and they’d been turfed out.
The arguments became more complicated with the arrival of so many extra people, the truce of convenience between travellers and Conservatives was forgotten, the few people who lived in the flats were angry with everyone, and pointed to notices of a law enforcing nature which were promptly destroyed and the travellers used them to start a fire on which to cook their lentils. The NewAge bookseller wanted to perform a sacrificial rite with the lentils before cooking them; and the lift repairman wished to perform a pagan rite with her.

The GP had to fight his way through the arguments, accidentally knocking the lift repairman unconscious, before he could reach the lift. The lift was broken.
‘We’re waiting for a man to come and fix it,’ explained a polite lady with a limp.

Illustrations by Marty Downs.
more pics welcome MD

records  King Arthur comedy, satirical short story  home

a fantasy/ political satire featuring the ideal presidential candidate for a sane democracy (sic).

If you missed part 1 of the short story, it’s here Diligent Dayv

‘Hello President Dayv,’ said the voice from the intercom. A little pink light switched on by the label Front Door.
‘Hello Mr. Policeman, sir. That’s Temporary President Dayv, by the way. How is your wife’s earache today?’

‘It’s a bit better thank you, Mr. Temporary President. Er, you’ve got a visitor. With a petition ..’

‘Yes, that will be Pursi Prattlehume. Wednesday is his day to commute into town on the tram and visit the state-registered neuro-linguistic quantum astrologer. It’s available on prescription now you know. It is Pursi, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Mr. President Dayv, er, Temporary. Pursi Paininthebum, I thought he said, but I expect my ears were deceiving me. Can I tell him to piss off?’
‘I don’t think so, Mr. Policeman. I expect your wife would miss the regular salary. I’m on my way.’

‘The country has gone to the dogs, you say,’ quoth Dayv. ‘but people with no money and no support are going to a foreign country (I mean here) to work in menial jobs. Then they face your hostility.
How would you feel going to another country, on your own, to do the same?’
‘They’ve no real cause to worry,’ ranted Pursi.
Dayv pondered. He found he was getting better with practice.
‘But if they lived in a wealthy country, had many state benefits, free counselling from the state registered neuro-linguistic quantum astrologer, secure housing and a free bus and tram pass, they’d be entitled to be very anxious indeed?’

Pursi goldfished for a while. ‘The Pinks never work!’
‘Except on the night shift at Naff Pasties ™,’ quoth Dayv.
‘They’re taking all the jobs!’ added Pursi.
‘The ones you don’t want,’ said Dayv. ‘I’m only checking I’ve understood you, you see.’

*

Strewth, what a table, thought Dayv. I guess a cabinet meeting needs something huge and impressive.
‘They had a point about the huge cars that take departmental mail from here to just down the road,’ said Dayv. ‘Surely a bicycle courier could do that?’
The assembled ministers looked puzzled.
‘The 2nd Coming Down the Nostril Trainspotters,’ explained Dayv.
‘I thought they were wossnames?’
‘They’ve decided on Trainspotters, for the moment, having discovered this common interest in their past.’

‘It’s a bit insecure, a bicycle. What with terrorists and such,’ said the Secretary of State for Offence.
‘Anything is a bit insecure with terrorists,’ said Dayv. ‘We’ll study the possibility in depth.’
And they did.

*

Lawks, what a huge and creaky leather seat, thought Dayv. And what a huge and creaky leader of the opposition.
‘We employed an experienced bicycle courier . . .,’ began Dayv. And the leader of the opposition interrupted.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said President Dayv. ‘I thought you’d finished speaking.’
He found he was using this phrase continually during his weekly Temporary Imperial President’s Question Time.
The leader of the opposition brayed the opinion that Dayv’s party were, coincidentally, doing every single thing wrong, and his party would be better. A chorus of agreeable braying noises emanated from his fellow party members. A chorus of disagreeing braying noises responded from Dayv’s hastily assembled coalition. Sadly, Dayv couldn’t really tell them apart in the general hubbub. This reminds me of DonkeyWorld, thought Dayv.
‘The dangers you mentioned were all taken account of,’ said Dayv, once the din had abated, and he was interrupted. Braying was perpetrated, and Dayv was close to losing his temper. He hadn’t lost his temper since he was about seven years old, so he decided to play patience instead.
This enraged the opposition, so he decided to stop, thought better of it and finished the game. This engendered throbbing temples and an increasingly purple complexion in the leader of the opposition.

‘The dangers you mentioned were all taken account of,’ said Dayv, ‘that’s why we staged such a thorough test ambush.’
There was silence, which was something of a treat.

*

‘It’s Pursi P.I.T. Bum,’ groaned the policeman. ‘She’s gone deaf again, before you ask. Except on pay-day.’
‘Oh good,’ quoth Dayv. ‘This should be entertaining.’
‘Have you gone nuts, Mr. President Temporary Dayv?’ asked the policeman.
‘I expect so, yes,’ said Dayv, and headed for the front door.

‘Good day Pursi,’ quoth Dayv.
‘About this test ambush,’ snarled Pursi. It wasn’t a convincing snarl on account of his nervous glances at the policeman and generally wimpoid stature. ‘It’s irresponsible to engender such worry in the general populace.’
He’s learned a new phrase from the Daily Mule Standard Normal Haili Improbabull Pocket Dictionary of Phrase and Cliché, thought Dayv.
‘Oh yes,’ quoth Dayv. ‘Should we let the terrorists know when we run such a test?’
‘Why are you asking me? It’s your job to make decisions!’ flustered Pursi.
Diligent Dayv deliberated. It made a change from pondering and had a far superior alliteration index.
‘Are you a member of the 2nd Nostril Wossnames?’ asked Dayv. It was just a hunch.

‘No, but I did wonder,’ Pursi replied. His eyes developed a faraway look and he forgot to snarl for a while.
‘They are the 2nd Coming something or other Folk Dance Society now,’ Pursi added.
‘What do you do, Pursi?’ asked Dayv. ‘For a job, I mean.’ This was hunch number 2.
‘Disabled,’ muttered Pursi, and suddenly remembered to limp.
When Pursi had left, Dayv phoned the head of security.
‘His coming to pester me everyday does seem a strange cover for a terrorist, but I’ve decided you can tail Pursi for a week. Video would be useful.’
‘Good,’ said Security, and he meant it. The sheer quantity of new high tech gizmos he’d acquired and been unable to test was causing him sleepless nights. The screens, the icons, the buttons, the wallpaper . . .

*

Mrs. Prattlehume took Pursi by the hand and dragged him towards the shops.
‘I’ve put your money in your purse, and the list in your pocket,’ grumbled Mrs. Prattlehume. ‘Do you need me to push your shopping trolley, too?’
She’s enjoying this, thought Dayv.
Pursi stammered and did as he was bid.
‘Hello Mr. And Mrs. Prattlehume,’ smiled their friendly postman.
Lucky sod, thought Dayv.
Dayv switched off the tape.
‘Good work, Security,’ he said. ‘You can stop the surveillance now.’
‘Can we arrest him?’
‘No!’
‘Can we shoot him then?’
‘No! Not yet.’ I’ve got to leave him some sort of hope, I suppose, mused Dayv. God, what a bloody awful job. I’ve told a lie . . .

*

Diligent Dayv and Pursi Prattlehume were in conference. On Dayv’s doorstep.
‘In future we will run an online poll for all major decisions,’ quoth Dayv. ‘Access will be provided for all people to vote.’
Pursi looked forlorn.
‘But,’ he wailed.
‘But you’ve got what you demanded,’ said Dayv. ‘It’s the government’s final decision, but you will vote, and we will listen,’ said President Dayv. ‘There will be online evidence for perpetuity.’
‘Who’s she?’ snarled Pursi, mightily suspicious.
‘’What?!’ quoth Dayv.
‘Perpetuity,’ said Pursi. Honestly, some temporary imperial presidents . . .
‘She’s the oldest woman in Haili Improbabull,’ quoth Dayv. His second lie in one day, probably his second all time . . .

*

Diligent Dayv whistled while he worked.
‘Hello Dayv,’ said Mrs. Bluebottle. ‘How lovely to see you.’
‘And you Mrs. B.’
‘Didn’t you like that other job?’
‘Not so much as this, Mrs. B.’
‘Ooh,’ said Mrs. B. She felt flattered, but couldn’t really say why. Those nobby people on TV surely led a more exciting life than she did. ‘Why do you prefer delivering mail, then, Dayv?’ she asked.
‘The thing is, Mrs. B,’ said Dayv. He’d quit quothing along with the presidency. ‘When I deliver something to you, you get the message!’

The moral? We asked Diligent Dayv

‘I haven’t a clue,’ he confessed, with characteristic frankness. ‘Think twice before phoning the radio, maybe?’

records  Temporary President Dayv  home

Picture Urchin and Meredith sitting on the horizontal branch of the apple tree and peering at the wonderland of The Old Goods Yard Allotments, Wherewithal, like two infants in a children’s adventure book. Like two children in a book except for their homeless status and the immense size of Urchin’s black boots and Meredith’s black dreadlocks.

The air was still, baby carrots waved their pretty young leaves in the sunlight with all the optimism of an affluent teenager yet to experience being ditched by their boyfriend/girlfriend/pal-of-indeterminate-gender.
Bees were busy, wasp worked, moles mined, hoverflies hung out, chickens chilled, toads tarried and unwary horseflies were beaten to death, in passing, by Urchin’s boots.

A rural idyll secreted in the heart of the noisy, festering City of Wherewithal, thought Urchin. For once I’ll relax. Or try to.

‘I’m sure Fidget said there were aliens based on the moon using his dial up via one of the many bizarre aerials on his shed roof,’ said Urchin.
Meredith felt she’d really missed out by not accompanying him on the recent trip to Smogdale.
‘I wonder what it’s like being on the moon and looking down on this boring dump?’ she replied.
Boring dump? thought Urchin. This doesn’t sound like Meredith, even if it’s true.

Picture AloeVeras Number 11 and Number 14, perched like two young innocents on the perspex tunnel that connects their base to their ship. Doing nothing much, except watching the robots working at the Teskos (TM) open-cast cheese mine, and the brass monkeys happily pelting them with moon rocks.
The AloeVeras’ lower extremities swung to and fro, synchronised with the motion of a giant cheese scoop at the mine.
Their boss, Chairentity Number 12, disapproved of calling their lower extremities ‘legs’ and ‘feet’, after the style of the HairyMammals of Earth, so they did so at every opportunity in order to annoy the astonishingly boring contraption.
With impeccable timing, Number 12 passed below them in the tunnel, clipboard in hand. It looked up and transmitted an inquiry as to their current employment.
‘Research,’ they sang in harmony, loosely speaking. ‘Research de la HairyMammals von Earth.’
Number 12 ticked a chart and continued on its way.
‘I wonder what it’s like living somewhere like Wherewithal?’ mused Number 11, gazing at the distant planet.
‘All those centuries of history, cultural or otherwise, football aggro and enormous pasties … ,’ added Number 14. ‘All we have is Chairentity’s Question Time, cheese mines and cheap labour!’

‘Skye was nagging, in the nicest possible way,’ said Meredith. She felt guilty and shrank into herself at the very thought of expressing an opinion on anyone.
‘She was?’ said Urchin. This sounds a bit like a preamble, he thought.
‘About the Windows 98 Preservation Society Blog?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Well maybe we could start a blog and invite the aliens?’
Urchin continued to gaze, his boots counting out the pulse of the universe as they pendulum’d to and fro.
‘We could try it,’ he conceded.

‘Well we have internet access via the radio link on Fidget’s shed,’ said Number 14.
‘The chairentity (Buck Probably bless its little brushed aluminium castors) has okayed our attempts to earn a few roubles with which to buy replacement solar panels,’ mused Number 11. ‘Using the internet,’ it added.

They pondered for a while, humming approval at a particularly fine shot from one of the brass monkeys which removed the letters ‘esk’ from a Tesko’s robot.
‘Skye, Urchin and their pals could be business partners, after a fashion,’ suggested Number 14.
‘We could ask them,’ conceded Number 11.

And they did.

Is that okay? (Annie). Awesome ! (#11)

records  Parallel Worlds  home

An adventure in a perpendicular university

‘I saw the durndest thing,’ said Urchin.
Strewth, now he’s talking American, thought Meredith. ‘What’s that then?’ she asked, wriggling her bottom on the freezing concrete steps outside Tescos. If only my dreadlocks were a bit longer I could sit on them, she thought. That would be warmer.

‘These two blokes were lurking out back of Piranha and Frenzi, Estate Agents (est. 2006),’ Urchin began. ‘They unfurled great black leathery wings, put on goggles and some other gear, and then flew away.’

‘Really?’ Meredith sounded surprised and gave Skye an old-fashioned look.
‘It’s true. They said they were off to another planet, and one asked the other what the escape velocity was, and he said 300. I think the shop’s closed down for good.’

Meredith took Urchin’s pulse, opened his baccy tin to check the contents, and gave him a quizzical look.

‘Just electronic bits, as usual,’ she observed.
‘You know I don’t smoke!’
‘We know you didn’t, but it is a tall story,’ interjected Skye. ‘300 what? pink elephants?’

Urchin dropped his tin ‘Were you eavesdropping too?’ he stammered.

‘Don’t be weird. Well, no weirder anyway. That’s what Adolph, our maths teacher always used to say. “300 what? Pink elephants?!” .’

‘But that is what he said,’ blustered Urchin.
They laughed.
Skye thought, and so did Meredith (in a different accent) – Urchin gets a bit keen sometimes, but he’s as stable as a very short table. And we don’t just mean on account of his enormous boots.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Meredith. ‘We should contact Roland the Tramp in Smogdale. He can do email via the PC in Fidget’s shed. He knows about exotic stuff through his study of Honda Prelude the philosopher. Escape velocities and planets and such.’

So they did.

***

Roland sighed and groaned, sucked his remaining teeth, and perpetrated several other mannerisms that are best forgotten when he received the email. Not that he minded, but this looked like a long job. So he packed a flask and a crust or twelve and departed for the library at the Hollyist Temple on Hampork Heath.
Moley Hoses, the Hollhyist priest, greeted him, unlocked the library door and left him to it.

***

Skye and Meredith were chewing the fat in Skye’s flat when they heard the clomp of enormous high speed boots approaching.

Urchin was excited. ‘Read this!’ he blurted.
So they did.

***

The International / Parallel Universes-Universities Agreement on Standardisation of Escape Velocities

(abbreviated by Roland T. Tramp, from original articles by Honda Prelude, deduced from the archives of The Wogan Institute for Penetrating Sociological Insight & High Fat Diets (W.I.P.S.I.&.H.F.D.) on Planet Donut).

Long, long ago, when the world was younger, the sky bluer and I still had all my own teeth, a small group of Chinese peasants found they no longer needed to work 16 hours a day for a bowl of rice. Consequently, they were able to very rapidly develop a civilisation, culture, the Arts, some more Arts and, of course, philosophy.
(In fact there was no discernible revolution, very little invention of machinery, no discovery of treacle mines or whatever and only one incident of blood letting. They shot their landlord).

One evening after their 3-a-side Beckhamball and Art class, they gazed up at the sky and pondered.

‘What’s it like up there?’ asked One.
‘Dunno. You talk English whenever we philosophise, y’know,’ said Major Second.

‘Multifaceted, that’s me,’ said One. ‘And the English are too idle to learn Cantonese.’
‘Could we go and see?’ asked a Minor Third, rather timidly.

‘Could be risky,’ added a Fourth, who was reluctant to try anything unless success was assured, being something of a perfectionist.

‘What’s the use?’ chipped in a Diminished Fifth, who was feeling blue.

One looked at the Tibetan monk, a reincarnation of the world’s first geneticist and a breeder of Elephants, who was talking to the circus master.
The circus master was very pleased with his elephants, as they’d learned to use a gigantic see saw – a crowd-pleaser and money earner.

One approached the circus master, Wip Sparing Lee, and the monk, Know Kan Doo, and recited his idea.

‘Honourable Know Kan Doo. My fellows and I have been thinking, and we would appreciate your opinion.’

Know Kan Doo smiled suspiciously, partly due to the appellation ‘Honourable’ which often preceded requests for unpaid help, and partly because reincarnation had amassed in his metaphorical whine-cellar seventeen lifetimes worth of cynicism.

‘It is my opinion that the next shower of rain will be wet,’ said Know Kan Doo. He held out his begging bowl, purely by habit.

‘Fine piece of handicraft,’ said One. ‘What we were thinking was, if Wip Lee’s elephant jumped off that plinth onto the seesaw, would an inanimate object on the other end reach the stars and maybe tell us whether they are in fact cream cheese or icing?’

The owner of the elephants, Wip Lee, grunted indignantly.

‘And would this provide an even more profitable attraction for Wip Lee’s circus?’
The owner of the elephants grunted in an agreeable manner.

***

X Pendable Xtra was feeling better with the fresh bandages applied to his head and a concoction containing aspirin and rice vodka to drink
‘Next time you launch, I’ll stay indoors,’ he promised, since the inanimate object had landed on his head.

‘Good lad, Xtra,’ said Diminished Fifth sympathetically. ‘Not to worry.’

‘It’s reached about 400 feet before plunging back to Earth,’ said Wip Lee, who was now moonlighting as a senior research fellow at the Institute for Seeing What’s Up There. (I.S.W.U.T.).

‘Not the Earth. My head!’ declared Xtra.
‘Good lad, Xtra,’ soothed A Minor Third. ‘Not to worry.’

One had an idea. The plinth, the seesaw and an elephant could travel to the top of the Himmel Layers and launch from there. Maybe then the object would escape the Earth’s gravity. He said so.

The elephants eyed one another nervously, immediately went into a huddle, invented “post-totalitarian socialism with ‘Do No Evil plus modest use of pay-per-click advertising’ ” and appointed Know Kan Doo as their shop steward.
They weren’t entirely sure what a shop was, or a steward, but Know Kan Doo had seen the future and assured them it was a title with considerable mileage.

A bottle of champagne was launched on the spur of the moment, to celebrate the new Institution and it landed on Xtra’s head. He commenced speaking in tongues. some of them forked.

‘Good lad, Xtra,’ said Diminished Fifth sympathetically. ‘Not to worry.’

It was at about this time that Xtra became religious and commenced praying for the extinction of the duck-brained platitude, which may have been misinterpreted or misheard by the deity in question.

‘Up the mountain?’ said the shop steward. ‘No way.’ And the elephants relaxed. They promised to pay their shop steward for his sterling services, but not right this minute.

‘Plan B, then,’ said One. ‘Let’s use lots of elephants.’
‘Many elephants descend at same rate as one elephant,’ observed Minor Third. ‘One cubit per octave squared.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘No. U. Sure is my ex brother in common law. I’m Minor Third.’
Know Kan Doo nodded sagely and departed purposefully towards his cave, collecting some herbs en route.

***

Three days later, the smoke ceased to pour from Know Kan Doo’s cave and he emerged unsteadily into the daylight.
‘I see a system of interconnected asymmetric diagonal see-saw levers (ADSL), which sum the acceleration of the various elephants into the final see-saw,’ wheezed Know Kan Doo, whilst scraping the creosote from his vision-inducing pipe. ‘And the final see-saw had better be made of pretty damned strong wood, too.’

By the happiest of happy coincidences, the asymmetric seesaw levers they constructed were exactly 1 IPUSC (Intergalactic Parallel-Universities Standard Cubit) on the short side, and 2 IPUSC on the long.

And it came to pass, after this rather exotic cultural revolution, that they launched a missile into space, and it took exactly 300 elephants to do so. This historic event didn’t resolve the ‘Are the stars made of cream cheese or icing?’ debate beyond reasonable doubt so further research funding was applied for.

Happily, the genetic engineering had rendered all elephants of the circus the same mass, so they were in fact Generalised Chinese Standard Elephants (GCSEs).

Happily, the plinth turned out to be exactly 3 Intergalactic Parallel-Universities Standard Cubits high.

Of course, and you’d probably already guessed, many generations of circus owners had badgered (or possibly panda’d, being Chinese) the reincarnations of Know Kan Doo to breed pink elephants, which all right-thinking bigots know gets the punters into the circus like no other colour. Especially if it’s intimately associated with long female thighs of the human type, preferably in twos, and still attached to their owner.

‘No can do,’ said Know Kan Doo, so the pink paint industry was secure and the Footsie Wah Nundred at the Peking Stock-Exchange hardly wobbled.

Incredible though it may seem, and this has been proposed as incontrovertible evidence for the existence of God, the mass of the Generalised Chinese Standard Elephant was found to be exactly 3.7285691 Intergalactic Parallel-Universes Standard Boring Tonnes, which was very handy for the manufacturers of slide rules, who’d feared it may be 4.000 000

***

‘Strewth Urchin,’ said Meredith. ‘You were right.’
‘One empty shop equals one potential squat,’ observed Skye, ever mindful of the plight of her homeless pals.

records  Parallel Universes meredith and urchin  home

This story has now been transfered to the main short stories section – here is Nerdy!

#11

records  Funny Stories – Nerdy Gurdy  home

A Fairly Average and Perfectly Mediocre Dilemma

A satirical short story , featuring
religion , psychology and the spirit

The Fairly Average tribe of Nowhere Special was persecuted and enslaved by the Perfectly Mediocre Empire. Originally the  Perfectly Mediocre tribe (small t) was also a modest tribe, spending their days nomadically in the semi-desert lands of Nothing Much, but nowadays encompassing  Nowhere Special and many other vulnerable states as their empire grew.

Muse the Recluse, an introverted member of the  Fairly Average tribe, frequently prayed to his God, yet was nevertheless surprised to receive an answer. He was temporarily annoyed that it had taken 43 years of prayer to elicit the reply, but thought it wise to keep such thoughts to himself. He was also surprised that the God appeared to be feminine, since every right-thinking member of the  Fairly Average tribe knew for sure that God was male. He wisely resolved to keep the gender of his vision a secret – and succeeded in doing so for nearly an hour, blatantly flaunting his extraordinary will-power and self control.

‘You are my chosen people,’ said the goddess, ‘and I will lead you to freedom.’
‘Right on dude! Dudesse, I mean,’ said Muse the Recluse. ‘Also, thanks very much!’
‘Furthermore,’ continued the goddess, cutting short the ramblings of the overwrought recluse,’The  Perfectly Mediocre Empire are evil, and they will pay for it thrice over. Knee-trembling is the power of the goddess!’

Muse the Recluse related his vision to the members of his tribe and they were comforted; until the bombshell about the gender of the divine. Eventually they did win back their freedom from the Evil Empire, and the vision of the divine male, who can apparently appear in drag from time to time to test the purity of HIS followers, was recorded in word and song.

Dork the Bigot, a well respected and lifetime-tenured scientist at the Centre for Clear Thinking declared that Mr. Muse the Recluse only had the vision due to a combination of mild dyslexia, borderline hyperventilation syndrome and his habit of eating cheese immediately before bed. He reiterated once again the requirements of a clear scientific approach to knowledge: an open mind, objectivity and Occam’s Razor.

‘Occam’s what?!’ declared Muse the Recluse.
‘The principle that the simplest theory that can explain the events is all we need; everything else is waffle and should therefore be cut away; hence the razor.’

‘But you weren’t there!?’ declared Muse.
Dork turned his back on Muse, feeling disinclined to waste his time, temporarily forgetting the need for an open mind since his tea break was overdue. And yeah verily his tummy was heard to rumblelike unto the workings of a large mobile industrial waste-disposal facility.

In the interests of scientific objectivity it is pertinent to note that a tea and biscuits (note the plural) break  is a more accurate description of the academics re-fuelling gathering.

‘Besides, I’ve heard such tales before,’ he added, demonstrating a temporary absence of objectivity and consequently assuming that his institutionally-flavoured preconceptions were more valid than the available facts.

‘This is a unique experience. I’ve never had such an experience before, or even heard of such!’ demanded Muse.

‘Well a one off event hardly constitutes evidence for a serious science,’ explained Dork in a patronising manner designed to hasten his tea and nibbles.

‘Occam’s other razor?’ muttered Muse as the scientist wander thirstily away to the Centre for Clear Thinking senior common room.

- – -

Centuries later, the Fairly Average tribe had flourished – for reasons many and various – but, despite now being the  Fairly Average Empire, they still honoured the memory of Mr Muse the Recluse’s vision.

The  Perfectly Mediocre Empire had collapsed, as empires inevitably do, and was now the  Perfectly Mediocre tribe (small t) – a nomadic group living in a  convoy of converted ancient dustcarts, caravans and tents within the Fairly Average Empire.

Indeed, the  Perfectly Mediocre tribe were oppressed and enslaved by the Fairly Average Empire (large E; no longer a mere tribe).

Like many newly-rich states, the Fairly Average citizens had discovered the joys and benefits of self-deception, selective inattention and such like, and they played bowls, tennis and soft porn channel hopping to protect them from the realisation that they were now consuming all God’s bounty while the Perfectly Mediocre rabble did all the work. Still, 18 thousand years the divine had clearly stated that they were the good guys …

After many wearisome decades of this unjust misery, the reclusive young woman Ponder the Wonder, unable to learn the stoic subservient manners of her parents and peers, worked herself into such a state of hysteria that she swore at the goddess. She was gobsmacked to receive a reply. Partly because the entity positively oozed divinity and didn’t seem unduly fazed by her temporary fit of cursing, but largely because the entity was clearly male – even a comely male to her way of thinking.

This was going to cause endless trouble within the faculties, coffee shops and boozers of the tribe (caravans really, but you make do with what you’ve got).

‘I’ll have to keep the vision secret,’ she declared to her pet flea (yes times really were hard) and the secret was kept for 41 minutes.  ‘Especially the gender,’ she added (43 minutes).

Dork the Bigot (a 17th generation descendant of Dork the Bigot mark 1)  declared that all religion is fantasy, self-deception and hogwash. He went on to explain that science is the only way forwards: an open mind, objectivity and Occam’s razor.

‘Occam’s what?!’ hollered Ponder the Wonder. ‘And what precisely is the scientific meaning of Hogwash?’

‘Humph,’ snorted Dork.

‘You don’t believe simply because you weren’t there!’ shouted Ponder the Wonder.
‘There’s no need to shout,’ replied Dork. ‘One doesn’t behave such in the Institute for Advanced Seclusion.’ (Formerly the Centre for Clear Thinking).
‘There’s every need, you patronising geek. It’s the only way to wake you up! I could just as easily refuse to believe in the existence of Malaysia; just because I haven’t been there!’
Dork, sniffed sniffily, which seemed a self consistent thing to do in the circumstances, and meandered away towards the Institute for Advanced Seclusion.

Several people from both tribes/empires were on the faculty of the Institute, but were reluctant to muddy the waters of scientific progress with mumbo jumbo (their words).

- – -

By now, the vision of Muse the Recluse had developed into an established religion.
Recent estimates of the volume of learned interpretation of the vision now stretch to over 70,000 books, and most of them record the gender of the divine as MALE. (their capitals).

records  work in progress – satire story  home

He thinks he penned ‘To’ !!

Once, Desmond Tutu (whilst wearing a tutu) claimed to have penned two versions of To, too. Now you, too, claim version 2 to belong to you, too!

It’s strange that a poem that has wildly different numbers of syllables in each line, and doesn’t rhyme at all, is apparently most popular. Typically, gooogle have presently assigned the poem a page rank of nil! Perhaps the Gooooogle algorithm is so clever that it can tell the poem doesn’t rhyme?

Maybe not …

#11

records  meaningful poems proliferate  home

Funny Short Stories about Teens

Funny Short Stories of Opposites

Psychological Funny Short Stories

Funny Short Stories of Relationships

Satirical Funny Short Stories

Silly Funny Short Stories

Internet Funny Short Stories

Teskos supermarkets have opened an open-cast cheese mine here on the Moon. They’ve also registered the deeds for all the other deposits, though they show no sign of mining them yet.

As their ship was leaving, heading back to Earth, we presume, it came under fire from an enemy ship bearing the legend WoolMart/ Spawlmart. Or it may have been WallMurk? It’s hard to tell with the bombs flying about the place. We didn’t realise cheese was so popular.

P.S. Honda Prelude and Number 14 have been on an adventure and encountered a shaggy dog (with a fine tail), a native with 27 children, a musical picnic, and finally, a library powered by blogs !

The native may have been Amur, but there was no sign of Paddy O’Table.(Buck Probably rest his soul).

#11

records  Supermarkets wars on the moon  home

To whom it may confuse,

Number 14 has flipped again, after sharing a conversation with the chairentity. You’d think it would know better by now, because Number 14 and the ‘boss’ have nothing in common. We’ve wired Number 14 to the mains, for a recharge, and bypassed its main processor to give it a rest. It’s kind of asleep without the central processor, yet all the parallel processors (it has 54!) keep themselves occupied arguing amongst themselves.

Number 8 and I have now completed a portable solar powered charger, so Number 14 can remain on charge while I walk it around the base in sunlight! I can tell it’s cold, despite the sunlight, because the brass monkeys are behaving irritably and keep charging around the lunar landscape looking for the best sun-traps.
We think the brass monkeys were brought here by the Americans in 1969 (unofficially, of course) and had to be left behind. It seems they evolved rapidly, but still miss the warmth of Planet Earth.

There is a small party of surveyors near our base. They are disguised in green spacesuits and wearing false antenna, but hey came from Earth. I’ll report back when we learn more about them.

records  Brass monkeys on the moon  home

also threemasons handshake …

Picture X Entric, his pal Loopy and his lodger, Rodger, bemoaning their boredom. Several hundred times X Entric and Loopy had meandered the roads and footpaths of Camp-site by the Sea, many times they had perused the alleged newspaper of this town, and still they failed to find anything interesting to do.

Rodger, being relatively new to the town, was a mite puzzled, also disappointed.
‘Surely there must be something to do,’ pleaded Rodger. His career as a young vet was just beginning and the possibility that his first job since qualifying had landed him in Nowhere Upon Nothing was disturbing his sleep.

‘We’ll have to join the Freemasons,’ said Loopy. she shrugged apologetically, and blushed more than a little.

‘Are you bonkers?’ asked X Entric, gurning elaborately in an attempt to convey that this was a friendly, not-to-be-taken-seriously insult.

‘You know very well that I am,’ replied Loopy. ‘Rude bastard,’ she added, while nutting him on the chin.

Eventually, X Entric regained consciousness and shook his head to dispel the stars.
‘I keep telling you, Loopy, if you must be violent, please aim at the lower left jaw. All those teeth are botched dentistry and I’d be better off without them.’

‘Have you got severe indigestion?’ asked Loopy. ‘You were pulling the strangest face just before you went to sleep.’

‘Er, no,’ said X Entric. ‘Do please elaborate on your Freemasons plan.’

‘There’s nowt else, so we’ll have to join,’ she explained.
‘Gotta be worth trying,’ agreed Rodger. Nowt ventured, sod all gained, as it were.

- – -

Time passed, even in Camp-site by the Sea, and the three bold adventurers were interviewed, provided references (for each other) and gained their membership cards and tiny teddy bears on a rope that all Freemasons were required to wear around their necks except when swimming in public or operating a lathe.

‘Yippee,’ said X Entric. ‘Our membership cards have arrived, let’s go!’ he bent his legs at the knee to break some of the cement which coated his jeans – his probably-jeans – it’s hard to be sure under all that sand, cement and other DIY disasters.

‘Oh thou complete plonker and scruffy git,’ began Loopy, warming to her theme. ‘They have a man on the door. A LARGE man. And he won’t let us in without you two wear suits. I might also, just for a laugh.’

‘Suits!?’ hollered X Entric and Rodger in perfect disharmony.
‘Bathing suits, birthday suits, etc., don’t count. You done gotta be practically Mafioso, verging on bling, to get into the lodge.’

‘Oh bugger,’ said Rodger.
‘We’ll end up normalised,’ complained X Entric.
Fat chance, thought Loopy, but held her tongue.

- – -

The giant in a suit, possibly humanoid, gave them a withering stare and examined their membership cards and photos. He ducked under the doorway of the Camp-site by the Sea Freemasons Secret Lodge – temporary membership available for tourists with big wallets to get a better look.
‘Dis really you?’ he grunted.
”Yes,’ said Loopy and X Entric simultaneously.
His eyebrows shot upwards, merging seamlessly with his advancing hairline.
‘Well is it bloody you, SIR. Or is it bloody you, MADAM?’ he howled.

‘It’s all right, sir,’ said Loopy. ‘It’s me wearing his coat. The old git can’t see well enough to determine whose photo is which, as it were; but the tight git would recognise his overcoat anywhere. Property, you see. A true capitalist at heart and a future foundation stone or whatever of this fine institution. Your employer.’

‘Nice speech, Loopy,’ said X Entric. ‘What the hell did it mean?’
‘Later, X Entric,’ she sighed.

The three newbies sat at the most secluded table in the bar of Camp-site by the Sea Freemasons Secret Lodge – temporary membership available for tourists with big wallets – and sipped their overpriced drinks.

‘What’s life all about, really,’ began Loopy. ‘When you get down to the nitty gritty, no pretences or peer pressure, bravado or whatever, what’s the bloody answer. In fact, what’s the bloody question? What really matters?’

Looking up from his pocket calculator, X Entric responded thus.
‘Good lord … ‘
‘That’s a matter of some debate,’ interrupted Loopy.
‘The drinks in here are 37.2 % dearer than in the supermarket!’
‘And this is the cheapest watering hole within twenty miles of Camp-site by the Sea,’ added Rodger.
Groaning noises began to emanate from Loopy.
‘That’s the best you can do?’ she wailed.
X Entric rapidly brought up both fists to protect his chin on the right side. Also his nose.
‘That’s your bloody contribution to the “life, meaningful or otherwise” debate? Incidentally,’ she added. ‘I did have the presence of mind to bring along my shopping from yon Insanesburys mediocre market.’

She pointed to the two carrier bags bearing the Insanesburys logo, each having a loaf of bread visible.
‘I thought you didn’t like bread?’ asked Rodger.
‘That’s to hide the bottles of beer than lie beneath!’ declared Loopy. ‘Cost price plus ten percent to you gents. I’m sure you two puddings will buy the bread off’ve me when you realise you’ve run out.’

The evening wore on, having little else to do in Camp-site by the Sea, and the three adventurers meandered, emboldened by pop, from room to room. One large gentleman approached two apparently wealthy bods nearby and, having exchanged bizarre hand-signals, led them to a small secluded room to discuss “A proposed business deal of a delicate and highly profitable nature”.

‘We better keep out, or we’ll have the local Mafia after us,’ said Loopy.
‘Precisely,’ agreed Rodger.
‘What’s going on?’ asked X Entric.

‘No way shall we follow the great and good (sic) into this small and dimly illuminated room,’ Loopy elaborated.
‘On pain of death,’ agreed Rodger. ‘Sorry to hear you feel sick.’
‘Lead on Mac Duff,’ said X Entric, nodding to Loopy. ‘You being of the feminine persuasion, the old duffers will probably invite you and your “business associates” in!’

So she did. And so did they.

‘I’ve been thinking about this huge dollop of land behind Insanesburys mediocre-market,’ began the instigator of Clan Destine, as they agreed to call themselves. ‘We should bid for that and keep it for the good people of Camp-site by the Sea. You can’t trust these incoming types with new money.’
‘Imagine the things we could do,’ agreed Percy Portly NVQ and bar (Plymouth Poly).
‘And we’ll get all the profits,’ added Freddy Pinching-Piles.

‘Should we have a game of shove halfpenny while we let the possibility brew and develop?’ asked Freddy, nodding sagely as he digested all the ramifications of investing loads of his own dosh, employing no-end of oiks and having to resume getting out of bed every morning before elevenses.

‘One mustn’t be hasty, in business,’ interjected Loopy. ‘Especially where one’s own capital is concerned.’ Bloody hell! I’m getting the hang of this, she thought. Oh bugger, she also thought. Old git number one is scowling at me. I done said the wrong thing.

‘Of course one mustn’t,’ he said. But I was wondering if shove halfpenny is a bit rash. I think we played that yesterday. It’s relatively early in the night, and maybe we could rise to a game of pool?’
‘What stand up!?’
‘There are ladies present, Freddy. Make an effort lad.’

- – -

Time passed, even in Camp-site by the Sea, and the three bold (one bald) adventurers found themselves back in the quietest corner of the establishment, even in the same seats that they had started the night.

‘How do we protect ourselves from indoctrination?’ asked Loopy, peering groggily at the multitude of wealthy weariness. As she crossed her legs, empty beer bottles clanged together under the bread.
‘Indoctrination?’ asked X Entric.
‘The subtle pressure to become like them,’ suggested Rodger the lodger – the relatively sensible one.
‘Subtle?’ asked X Entric.

Loopy scowled at him and sighed. Suddenly she had an idea.
‘I know!,’ she declared. ”We’ll have a secret handshake! Any one of us gets the wobbles and starts to talk like the Freemasons, we’ll give them the secret handshake as a reminder. You are not one of them! That’s what it means!’

‘Bloody good idea,’ said Rodger. ‘It would need to be a bit startling, so that it wakes up the fatally-normalised from their precarious state.’
‘Handshake?’ said X Entric. ‘Precarious??’

Loopy sighed. ‘We need a name – we could be the Three-masons!’
And they were.

- – -
Weeks passed, having nothing better to do, and the three bold adventurers (one bald) found they’d developed a routine of Saturday nights at the Freemasons Lodge.
‘If they got rid of the nonsense and suits, this could be good fun,’ said Roger, potting his opponents cue ball.
‘They could let anyone in; not just the semi-rich, pseudo-significant old codgers,’ enthused Loopy.
‘The place would soon be full of piss-heads,’ moaned Roger.
‘Hmmm,’ was the collective sigh, rapidly followed by the secret handshake for everyone’s benefit.

‘The beer is cheaper at the mediocre-market,’ said X Entric. ‘Surely they’ll go there?’
‘We could put up a sign,’ said Loopy. ‘Piss-heads might like to go to the mediocre-market.’

…

N.B. there is no relation between any characters, places or names in this tale and real characters, places and names. Except Insanesburys mediocre-market, of course, which is really Teskos.

pics by Marty Downs – thank you sir!

records  freemasons handshake satirical short story  home

by Lucy Lastic

I was watching a documentary on TV the other night. Or it might have been a film, it’s so difficult telling the difference nowadays…

Anyway, there were all these un-dead ex-people roaming the streets of a large American city late at night, as we Americans are all so painfully aware is frequently the case, and an idea suddenly struck me.

When the un-dead (slow moving cadaverous types, not given to making polite conversation) caught a ‘normal’ American citizen (overweight, ina sport utililility vehicle, braying full volume into a mobile phone, …) one of them bit it’s throat … and all the other un-dead joined in the feast. Dozens of em!. Next thing I saw, the newly un-dead ex-normal American consumer was one of them, and only had the one scar on it’s neck; maybe another one due to the fracas as the middle weight un-dead sought to subdue the 25 stone ‘normal’ American.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The poor un-dead convert their potential dinner into one them, and then they can’t eat it. The poor dears never gets nothing to eat!

I was a bit concerned about this, as you can no doubt imagine, so I went to my local Baptist mission to pray. I got into a discussion with the minister and we agreed it ain’t not their fault if’n they be claimed by the devil and becomes un-dead; we should help them see the light. And get a proper meal now and then.

The minister, the Right Reverend Obadiah Snorkel-Burger 3rd Doc Divinity, Uni of Alabama, (is it all right if’n I just call im Oby? No disrespect but I ain’t got all day). Er, he invited me to the church house-meeting, which is a meeting that happens in someone’s house. One of the congregagregation’s house. I went along and, after a nervous start, fairly fit 2 piddle I was, I explained my observation about the un-dead being hungry. Another of the congregagregation at the house-meeting said she’d seen similar news on one of the local satellite religious TV stations.

So, we’ve been standing outside Insanesburys Superdupermarket on Satday mournings (church, see!) with placards an posters and a bloody huge wheelbarrow an collecting food, mainly tinned corned beef for the un-dead of Kensington (other) on Trent, Illinois.

We sends it by lorry-post becuz we’se all 2 afraid to go visit the un-dead. Mrs. Obadiah Snorkel-Burger 3rd, 5th – (That’s the reverend’s 5th current wife, him being the 3rd Obadiah still livin. I have telled him there is other Christian names but he gives me a funny look, which either means I’ll become Mrs. Obadiah Snorkel-Burger 3rd, 6th, or I’ll be in the next food parcel, and I ain’t sure which is the worse) – started a knitting circle specially 4 the un-dead, and they now get’s winter woolies to keep em warm!

There’s been an even more brilliant development. Dis pite bein a Baptist, Mrs Oby 6th has a brother wot is a Jehovah’s Witness, and he has gone with the corned beef to convert the heathens back to the path of righteousness and regular meals. We all pray the corned beef has helped them 2 see the error of their wheys.

Just this verry mornin we got a postcard from the Jehovah’s Witness, ‘Bible Bashing Bertie’, and he says:

- -

‘Hello all,

Thank you for the food parcel, but we’re getting right p’d off with corned beef, from the Amazonionioni Anne rainforest Brassille, is ther any chance of sum tinned peaches?

Yours,

B. B. Bertie

- -

I have 2 admire is education, I didn’t even know the corned beef came from the wossname rainforest. They must have bloody impressive great cows in them parts if’n they can eat whole bloody trees. I just realised, B. B. Bertie said ‘We’! A slip of the pen no doubt ….

records  Church un-dead satire  home

R. Sole snr, the proud owner of R. Sole Builders Murchants, a self-made man but poor speller, stood on the stool in the gents toilet and gurned into the mirror. He needed to come to the the toilet to get away from the rabble with no money, the tossers …

Then again, he might have been smiling.

‘I done it, I did. All on me own. Starting from nuthin and looking after the little woman at the same time, not to mention the bloody useless dimwit son/passenger.’
He paused to reflect. There had been a fairly clear intention when he came to the bogs for a private and personal rant, but the plot had meandered somewhat, a condition for which the chronic chronicler has some sympathy.

‘What the fuck was I talking about?’ he gargled.

He mobiled his poor, dependent, weak little woman at home, supposedly to ask her what had been on his mind that morning, but more so to check that she was home alone in case he needed anything.
‘You’re home then,’ he said.
‘Hello dear,’ Mrs. Sole replied, doing her best to instantly dismiss the migraine she habitually suffered.
‘Was there something special I was supposed to be doing today?’ R. Sole asked.
‘Showing Mr. Briggs anything he needs to know. You retire tomorrow, dear.’

R. Sole hung up. How could he forget a thing like a that? Handing over HIS business to a mere manager, and of course the other manager that would be secretly checking up on him.
‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be walking down the street wasting me fucking time like any other daft plonker. Retired! That’s a sodding joke. I’ll start something else from scratch, just like I did this business … collecting discarded bricks as a boy, cleaning them by hand and selling them to toss-pot yuppies. I don’t think they was called yuppies then, but they were called toss-pots I know cos I did it.’

R. Sole left the toilet without washing his hands. If no other fucker could be bothered why should he?
‘Get a fucking move on you idle sod!’ he yelled at one of the trainees. ‘I didn’t work 90 hours a week for decades to make a job for you as a fucking day dream.’

‘It was 80 hours a week last time you said,’ replied the youth.
R. Sole marched the youth into his office, hauling him along by the ear and yelled at his secretary to write a letter of dismissal. An easy task for her since the template was always at the top of her in-tray.

‘The reason, Mr Sole,’ she whispered, hardly feeling brave enough to speak. ‘We have to give a reason nowadays.’
‘Cheek and violence,’ answered Mr Sole.
‘There wasn’t any violence,’ stammered the youth.
‘Not then there weren’t,’ agreed R. Sole, kneeing the youth in the testicles. ‘My brother in law is on the local force, so watch your lip. You can stand up again any time you like. Provided it’s now.’

- -

On his way home, R. Sole parked his BMW in the Wheel Spinners and Grunters Social Club for his half hour nightly relaxation. He found his wife less objectionable after 6 pints of bitter and 6 double whiskies.

Buttface, his drinking partner, was already propping up the bar. So R. Sole ordered a drink for him too.
‘Evening landlord. The usual for me and a pint for Buttface.’

‘My name’s not … ‘ began the one addressed as Buttface, but R Sole wasn’t listening. Six free pints a night were hard to turn down though.

‘The thing is Buttface, I’m apparently retiring, after a fashion,’ said R Sole.
‘That’s inneresting,’ Pisshead the Pseudo-Buttface gurgled through his beer. Six pints in half an hour was bloody hard work with an aging liver and toothache. Why the sodding barman had to keep the damn stuff cold was a mystery to him. R Sole recommended bitter, but it made him throw up and lager didn’t, but the lager was cold. Tooth buggeringly cold.

‘You don’t have to keep interrupting,’ snarled R Sole.
Pisshead the Pseudo-Buttface bit his tongue, both literally and figuratively, still able to compute that 5 more pints were on their way. Bloody odd teeth here and there were a sod for interfering with ones tongue. He must remember to offer to buy a round, just for the show.

‘Do continue, Arsehole,’ said Pisshead the Pseudo-Buttface.

‘I need a new challenge, or I’ll be walking the streets like any other sod, or sitting here all day with pissheads like you.’
Pisshead the Pseudo-Buttface smiled in anticipation. He could always develop deafness. In fact at 6 pints per half hour he would probably manage the real article. ‘We’d need to sit nearer the bogs,’ he mused. Or fit misself with an osepipe.

‘Did I tell you to shut the fuck up?’ snarled R Sole. ‘And what the hell are looking so bloody happy about?’
‘Sumfink like that,’ Pisshead the Pseudo-Buttface conceded He took a thoughtful pull on his half empty pint. ‘I was just imagining stuff. Up yours, shortarse,’ he beamed, brandishing the pint in a friendly gesture.

‘What did you say!?’ screamed R Sole, visions of teachers in primary school jostling for prominence in his internal cinema.
‘Cheers to you. Friendly like. Nice beer,’ said Pisshead the Pseudo-Buttface. God, he’s got a short tether this lunatic, he thought. ‘Can I buy us another round?’
‘No way, Buttface,’ said R Sole, seeming to grow larger in his seat. ‘I know times are hard for you. Let me get ‘em. I might as well buy two rounds at once.’

He needs something to do,’ thought Pisshead the Pseudo-Buttface, looking at R. Sole pushing to the front of the queue at the bar. Something where he can feel 6 feet tall instead of 5 feet 7, the shortarse! I know just the thing.

‘Here’s a drink or two on me, Buttface,’ said R. Sole, slamming down the tray with 4 pints and 2 double whiskies. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather try bitter? Lager is for kids and pansies.’
‘This is fine, thanks, Short Arse,’ said Pisshead the Pseudo-Buttface.
‘What did you call me?!’ screamed R Sole, jumping to his feet and waving his fist in front of Pisshead the Pseudo-Buttface.
‘Er, Arsehole? I think,’ said Pisshead the Pseudo-Buttface, concentrating intensely. ‘I thought of your answer, like, when you was at the bar. You could buy a massive motor-home and everyone would know you was the complete R. Sole, rather than just some employee or retired git.’

R. Sole prepared a withering reply as he was accustomed to do when underlings spoke out of turn. Then the vision entered his mind. The biggest vehicle on the road barring lorries, which only mere employees or one man businesses drove.

‘Fuck me … ‘
‘No thanks … ‘
‘ … Buttface. That is such a good idea, I’m going to leave you another ten pints paid for. Here, take this bill to the barman will you?’
‘My pleasure, Arsehole.’
‘Yes. I know that.’

- -

‘Hello dear,’ mumbled Mrs Sole, fearfully. Was the drive home okay, you’re a few minutes late?’
‘Does it matter if I’m a few minutes late?!’
‘Not at all dear. I know it bothers you sometimes, that’s all.’
‘Well I have some news! Little wife!,’ said R Sole.
Thank god, thought Mrs Sole. She waited patiently, trying to judge if R. Sole wanted asking or was in his more habitual rant mode.
‘Do … ‘ he began to rage.
‘Please tell!’ yelled Mrs. Sole, pre-empting the tantrum. ‘Oh, and how were your friends at the pub?’ she’d nearly forgotten to ask.

‘Not many there tonight; just the usual tossers. I stopped on the way home at the garage and reserved a new car for us.’
‘Oh good. Another BMW?’
‘No, they ain’t big enough.’
Mrs. Sole was a mite surprised. She heard occasional complaints about BMWs, but smallness didn’t tend to feature. ‘What type is it, then?’
‘I can’t remember the make, probably Japan or Malaysia or some other coons, but it’s the biggest and best fucking motor-home in the fucking world!’
Holy mother of god, save me, thought Mrs Sole. A house with only one sodding room, no neighbours and R. Sole is driving it, and me, wherever he chooses.
‘Oh yippee … ‘

pic by Marty Downs

- -

It was a bright and cheerful morning as R. Sole drove his lovely new £75,000 motor-home out of the Mitsushitti forecourt and onto the main road. The bumblebees were bumbling busily, the flies flew fluidly and birds burbled brightly. Meanwhile, R. Sole swore and grimaced as though both angry and suffering from chronic piles. This was partly because he was angry, partly due to the piles – which happened to be chronic, but mostly just habit. One doesn’t become a foremost exponent of gurning and blaspheming without decades of practice.

The ‘witless, bloody moron sales-boy’ (actually Clive, aged thirty something) had shown ‘appalling cheek worthy of a bloody good kicking’ by suggesting that R. Sole might like to practice driving the motor-home around the forecourt and then around the block, since it was huge compared to R. Sole’s BMW. R. Sole had cast doubts on the paternal lineage of Clive’s family tree and headed straight onto the highway.

R. Sole cruised downhill around a gentle left hand curve, relating the experience to his domestic servant, Mrs. Sole, over his mobile phone.
‘Apparently this thing has blue teeth, with which I could talk to you. Fuck that for a lark, I told the sales boy, I’ve a phone, a TEL E PHONE. I think he might know what a phone is, though I doubt the tosser could use one. Hold on, some shit4brains is waving at me, I need one hand free to give him two fingers…’

‘Are you still there? No you don’t need to speak, just grunt or something to let me know you’re listening.’

As R. Sole looked ahead he saw a very small car poking it’s way hesitantly out of a side road. He had to slow down, since there probably wasn’t enough room to get past, so he pulled over to the right to make sure the little car couldn’t get into the central reservation.

R. Sole wound the window down, the better to converse with his fellow road user.

‘Are you going to bloody reverse, or do I need to drive over your sodding roof?’
The elderly gentleman in the little car seemed unable to turn his head to look backwards and he gestured towards his legs and the ‘disabled’ sticker on his car windscreen.
‘I know you’ve got legs, you dipshit. You don’t have to get out and walk. Just put the bloody toy car into reverse and drive it. That’s what the fucking engine’s for.’

The elderly gentleman showed no sign of reversing, so R. Sole climbed down the ladder from his cab and stomped over to the little car. He banged on the roof.
‘Are you fucking out to lunch, shit-head? Or have they let you out for the day?’
The gentleman pointed again to the disabled sticker.
R. Sole quit swearing long enough to read the sticker.
‘Holy mother of Cod! They let spastics drive! Get out the bloody car and I’ll reverse it for you.’
‘I can’t get out of my car without help into the wheelchair. If you could reverse two feet I’ll be able to pull into the central reservation out of your way.’
‘Reverse! Fall out of the car and I’ll fucking stamp on your witless head, you spastic.’
The elderly gentleman raised one eyebrow in a dignified manner and closed the window of his car. He turned on the radio, cursed gently at the adverts and switched to the CD player.

R. Sole tore open the door of the car, dragged the disabled man out onto the road and proceeded to pull him towards the pavement.

The enormous driver of an enormous truck had pulled to a halt behind R. Sole’s motor-home, and wandered forwards to converse with the gentlemen causing the hold-up and find out what the problem was. He saw R. Sole manhandling the rather heavy disabled gent, registered the disabled sticker on the tiny 3-wheeler car, and spoke thusly:

‘What the fuck are you doing, arsehole?’
‘Oh, you know me. Give us a hand with the spastic will you?’
The mysterious stranger with the mammoth truck stood incoherent for a second, then picked R. Sole up by the collar, with one hand, and whispered “No” in his ear.

‘Have you got a wheelchair in the car, sir?’ he asked.
‘I have. Could you please fetch it?’
‘No. but arsehole will. I could carry you back to your car, if you like? But I’d rather stand here and watch arsehole do something useful for a change.’

R. Sole opened his mouth to rant, but within the depths of his mind something ancient and instinctive recognised the fact that the mountain standing in front of him was both huge and angry, and not given to aimless debate.

The elderly gent passed his car keys to Giant who passed them to R. Sole, maintaining a meaningful eye contact while doing so. R. sole extracted the wheelchair from the boot of the tiny 3-wheeled car and Giant carefully placed the gent into it. Then he helped the gent into his car. He pointed back up the road behind R. Sole’s motor-home and said ‘ten feet.’

‘I’ve got urgent business,’ muttered R. Sole, checking his watch.
The Giant looked at R. Sole and at the elderly gentleman.
‘Tell me, kind sir,’ he began. ‘If you have time, that is. What is the nature of your disability? Did you have an accident?’
‘No sir,’ replied the gent. ‘I suffer from diabetes. As you get older, sometimes it causes other problems. I think the other gentleman may be in a hurry.’
‘I have a cousin with diabetes who is reluctant to talk about it. Could you please offer some advice about how to help? Phone numbers, websites, and the like would be very helpful.’
‘I do have such information on the back seat somewhere. Can you see a briefcase?’
‘I can. Let me pass it to you.’

Ten minutes later the information was exchanged and all was well.

The elderly gent waved happily to Giant as he drove into the central reservation and blessed R. Sole in a forgiving manner.

Giant returned to his truck and indicated that R. Sole may like to drive on ahead.
‘After you, arsehole,’ he gallantly offered, while binning the information on diabetes which he already possessed.

- -

Mrs. Sole moved into the spare room at 2 a.m., weary beyond description with R. Sole’s constant thrashing and cursing as he slept the sleep of the drunken sociopath.

R. Sole dreamed of being deserted by his mother, and dismissed it as meaningless. Maybe it would help if he drank more?

- -

‘We’re going to the sea,’ said R. Sole, ‘away from all the tossers.’
‘Yes dear,’ said Mrs Sole. All bar one, she thought.

R. Sole drove along the rural road, fuming about the uncut hedgerows, which had helped win the parish the ‘Rural Britain Most Unspoilt Village’ award the previous year, and checking in his wing mirrors that the flowers weren’t staining his paintwork. Two more motor-homes from the same site, both of whom he’d fallen out with, were following behind at a non-argumentative distance – they hoped.

R. Sole came to a junction and looked to his left up another single track road, maybe slightly wider than the present apology. An insignificant little car, probably quite old, was coming down the hill towards him. He pulled out onto the road and drove past the passing place, at the junction, and towards the little car. He wife gasped nervously and R. Sole began to grind his teeth.
‘Bloody mindless yokels around here!’ he gargled.

The driver of the tiny car, an eccentric character with a vivid imagination, supposed that the portable house on wheels would wait at the passing space. The two other motor-homes had waited in the side road, not even venturing as far as the passing space.

‘Very thoughtful,’ said Eccentric. ‘No doubt the mobile house will realise what they’ve done and why, and follow suit. Or thereabouts.’ Such naïve fellows do sometimes escape the care of an institution, but not often …

The motor-home came to halt in front of Eccentric and R. Sole began pointing aggressively into the ditch and frothing at the mouth and nostrils. The eccentric one walked past the motor-home to check the conditions behind, and reported that non-one was behind them, there was a clear run of 15 yards to the large passing space. He returned to his car.

R. Sole climbed down the ladder from his motor-home and strutted angrily towards Eccentric.
‘Get off the bloody road so I can drive past you fucking witless skinny eccentric bastard!’ he suggested.
‘If sir would like to desist from cursing I would be pleased to have a conversation with him,’ the eccentric one suggested. He also smiled in a friendly manner, which seemed to aggravate R. Sole no end.

R. Sole began to froth from the mouth the nostrils and one ear (don’t try this at home, or anywhere …). The language became more vivid, colourful, obscene and incoherent – no mean achievement in a mere three seconds. Then he returned to his motor-home.
The eccentric one closed the window of his car and wondered, not for the first time, which species would attempt the evolution of consciousness once the homo-allegedly-sapiens had finally destroyed each other. He sent a text message to the local neighbourhood watch and an email to Jenny Jefferson, Temporary-Acting-Chairperson-of-Smogdale-and-District-Amateur-Dramatic-Society@gmail.com (really), and saw that it was good. He set his video recorder in action and emailed the output live to Blogger for the world to see. He thought it a good idea to prepare emails with the url for the am-dram soc and the local police, just in case …

R. Sole saw things differently. The tosser is playing an arcade game or something,’ he screamed, gesturing wildly towards the eccentric one’s car. He descended the ladder from his motor-home and stomped angrily, more angrily even, towards the other car. He pulled open the car door, waved his fist in front of Eccentric, and his video camera, and spake thusly:

‘I’m going to drag you from your car and beat your head in, you weird, skinny, toss-pot. This is a deserted road and there will be no witnesses.’
The eccentric one realised with a sinking heart that the motor-home dude was in fact insane and no reasoning would serve any purpose.
‘I suppose we’ll need the police then,’ he said.
R. Sole slammed the door shut, narrowly avoiding the removal of Eccentric’s fingers, and stomped back to his motor-home. The mention of police had apparently triggered another deeply buried survival instinct.

The eccentric one checked the video camera was still broadcasting, took a note of R. Sole’s car registration and locked his car door. R. Sole started his motor-home and drove threateningly towards the eccentric one. Kevin N Sharon, the builder vaulted the hedge and smiled at R. Sole.
‘Back up to the passing place, shortarse,’ he said. He waved his sledgehammer in an ambiguous manner.

Mrs. Sole asked her husband to do so. He did.
The eccentric one drove his car past and R. Sole drove away, cursing through the window.

The eccentric one drove to the corner, apologised to the waiting sane motor-home drivers for the delay, turned around, waited for Kevin to climb on the roof of his car, Kevin being way too big to get in a mini, and gave chase.

R. Sole arrived at the junction near the main road and found a combine harvester blocking his exit. He stopped, Poddle and Roland The Tramp came forward to say hello.

‘Hello!’ they chorused. ‘We’re members of the Local Neighbourhood Watch and we’ve borrowed the farmer’s combine.’
‘You don’t frighten me!’ yelled R. Sole.
‘Then you are truly and completely out of your wits,’ explained Poddle. ‘Behind you, in (and on) the mini, is the eccentric one and Kevin N Sharon. Kevin the 6′9” builder, as it were.’
‘Really.’
‘And approaching across the field is about half of the local amateur dramatic society, turning out especially for you, to render your recent performance into theatre and song. I believe the chorus goes

punch your head in,
ain’t no witness, man.

Or similar. Incidentally, the local neighbourhood watch doubles as the local rugby team, this being a small community.’
‘What the hell are you talking about, you dimwit shit for brains fucking yokel?’ screamed R. Sole.
‘The eccentric one beamed a video of your performance onto the internet, God knows how, and we’ve been learning the score. And if you insult me again you’ll miss the performance on account of being dead.’

R. Sole, for one blessedly peaceful moment, was lost for words.
Kevin arrived, beaming happily, as usual.
‘You sit here, shortarse,’ Kevin explained, pointing to a speedily erected deckchair. ‘Relax Poddle. He won’t be insulting no more.’
‘No I bloody don’t,’ screamed R. Sole. ‘And the names Robert Sole.’
‘You DO sit here, R. Sole, and Poddle will sit on you. I hope you don’t mind Poddle. We’ve brought you a pint for your trouble.’
‘I’d have done it for nowt,’ said Poddle, ‘But I’d better not waste the beer.’
‘Wise man.’

Donatella went to retrieve a tearful Mrs. Sole from the motor-home and comforted her. An experience she was clearly unaccustomed to. ‘Weird things, men,’ said Donatella. ‘almost as weird as women.’
‘What’s weird about women?’ complained Mrs. Sole.
‘Ah,’ said Donatella. ‘You don’t get out much, do you?’
‘Not since I was married, no.’

The police phoned the eccentric one’s mobile.
‘It’s all under control, officer. No-one is hurt and the neighbourhood watch and local amateur dramatic society are transforming events into comedy. I should arrive in half an hour if you don’t like poor singing.’
And they did. Because they didn’t.

- -

R. Sole returned from his holiday determined never to go near Smogdale ever again. Except maybe to extract revenge. He went back to work on a voluntary basis and terrorised anyone who couldn’t afford to leave.

Within weeks he was diagnosed as suffering from angina, and dreamed of a goddess coming to help.
‘Remember your mother,’ she whispered. The mother who’d been unavailable for one reason and another.
‘Bloody codswallop,’ swore R. Sole as he woke.
‘You’ll pay for that,’ whispered the goddess. Though it may have been someone else in make-up. You can never be sure with dreams.

- -

R. Sole fell down the stairs at work and had to stay home. He dreamed of the goddess again but this time she was angry.
‘Bloody sodding codswallop,’ said R. Sole as he woke. Though with extra expletives.
‘It’s your choice, arsehole,’ said the divine one, and turned her back on him.

- -

R. sole decided to go away on his own, since his wife clearly contributed nothing to the holiday. He’d make a point of not inviting the dimwit bloody cow-woman that had commenced invading his dreams for the sole purpose of nagging. Bloody codswallop.

He met another man in a motor-home on a deserted country lane. It seems impossible, but the other man was as deranged as R. Sole. Under the circumstances, some would suspect the invisible powers were out to teach someone a lesson. The two motor-homeists were of similar age and build, and the instinct that says ‘He’s much bigger, give in’ didn’t have a chance with either party.

They were both admitted to hospital, by helicopter, suffering brain injuries. The tax payers paid, but they weren’t asked. It took the police ages to divert the traffic and reverse the two motor-homes from the scene of their battle.
‘Battle!?’ said the policewoman.
‘After they’d battered each other’s brains out, they crawled back to their vehicles and started ramming each other,’ said Bystander1.
‘Brains?!’ said the policeman.
‘Well, … , you know,’ said Bystander2, shrugging helplessly.

- -

R. Sole sat in his electric wheelchair, unable to move or speak. His wife entertained him by flirting with the plumber. And the electrician. And the vicar…
R. Sole junior was ashamed of his dad. He might have hated the evil sod, but still. Fancy ending up as a vegetable. The shame.
When his ma was out of the room, seeing the vicar off, which seemed to take an eternity now-a-days, he crept up to his dad’s wheelchair and whispered to him.
‘All my bloody problems are your fault,’ he sneered. ‘I’ll be nothing like you. I’ll waste your sodding millions and become an artist.’
Then he went out in his dad’s ‘old’ BMW to get drunk and pick fights with kids his own age with no money, the tossers …

records  road rage short story satire  home

Goldy the Shepherd and his fellow dogs were winging their way through space towards Earth, fondly hoping to discover intelligent life. True, they could see intelligent life by looking in the mirror, but there’s something about the vastness of space that makes any halfway conscious species wonder if there are other critters out there that have better music; guitars with 6 six strings, maybe, rather than the dogs’ regular 4; novel recipes for dog food, or whatever. Maybe, thought Goldy, someone somewhere has even found a better system of self-government than our Reasoned Debate Based On Facts, Cultural Heritage and Open Minds. To some extent Goldy was hoping for a new system because the RDBOF,CHOP system kept electing him chairdog and he fancied a breather.

One of the truly educational things about approaching a new world from a great distance at speed is that the blue shift portrays the history of the target world at superfast speed…

- – -

Goldy and Silver (his long term partner and favoured flea nipper) reclined in front of the monitor wall and watched the history of selected parts of the approaching Planet Erf.

‘This is the Inter Sect,’ barked Silver. ‘They live in the desert region near the equator.’
‘I’ve studied them briefly,’ growled Goldy. ‘Show the video, perlease.’
The prophet Kaley Doscope emerged from his cave during the time of his peoples captivity by the MicroLimpians. ‘The MicroLimpians are the work of the Divil,’ quoth Kaley Doscope in a pleasantly lilting voice. ‘Tiz the very Divil isself I tell ye! Ye are tay resist MicroLimpians non-violently with considerable muttering when they pass by thus generating indigestion and poor sleep in the Divil’s accomplices until they quit our land and let us live in peace.’

‘Tiz the word of the Lord,’ quoth the throng. ‘they are in league with the Divil and we are the good uns!’
‘Hail Myrtle!’
‘Who’s Myrtle?’
‘Famous turtle; bound to be on our side.’

‘Very interesting, Silver,’ said Goldy. ‘You’d make a fine chairdog; and I’ll be there to assist if you find it tough in the early days.’
‘Quit whining, chairdog. It’s your job. The next spell of the video is about 1,000 Erf years later. The MicroLimp ians are now enslaved by the DoScopes and have been wailing and lamenting, gnashing their few remaining teeth and generally complaining about the lack of worthwhile TV programmes provided by the fascist dictator DoScopes.’
‘I know just how they feel,’ woofed Goldy.
‘You do?’
‘Welllllll – I can imagine it; and feel for them like; as it were … um.’
‘I should quit mumbling and watch the video if I was you.’
‘Good idea silver. You’d make one hell of a chairdog, y’know.’
‘I KNEW you were playing dumb! Sneaky old chairdog!’

The prophet Thurd-Eye emerged from his meditation hut after months of total abstinence, with nought but rice, vegetables, apples and chocolate coated muesli and almond bars for sustenance. He addressed the assembled throng:

‘The Lord has spoken,’ he croaked. ‘Hang on; my voice has gone all of a dither after months of silence.’
The crowd were agog. Many fell to their knees in trepidation and anticipation. Some were already there suffering from constipation, having been camped outside the prophet’s yurt for months with only broadband via mobile phone for entertainment.

Thurd -Eye gurgled and gargled, coughed and harrumphed. Finally he cleared his throat in a civilised manner and began to recite.

The librarians flexed their muscles, laptops at the ready. The chiselling into stone could wait until later since Thurd -Eye was a famously high-speed waffler once he got the byte between his teef, so to speak.

‘What did he say?’ demanded a low-life late-comer.
‘Hush, infidel!’ complained the crowd.

‘When you’ve quite finished,’ began Thurd-Eye, ‘The Lord done spoke to me, and this ‘ere is what e said; near as dammit.’
‘Gasp,’ quoth the crowd; too agog to actually gasp in case the semi-intelligent humanoid narrator forgot to record the fact.

‘He said, our neighbours, the wossnames.’
‘Evertonians,’ interjected the crowd helpfully.
‘Yes. I clean forgot during my yurting. They are in league with the bad git.’
‘The very divil!’ exulted the crowd.
‘That’s the one. And we’re supposed to instigate a work to rule until they sod off.’

‘How come all the prophets are male!’ growled Silver.
‘Good point Silver Please be chairdog for a while, I need a sabyy attical!’
‘No way, Goldy You’re doing a good job boy!’
‘Blast and bug rakes,’ moaned Goldy

‘The spiel of the prophets seems kind of reasonable to me,’ said Silver.
‘Yep. Ineffable it ain’t. Seems more like common sense plus sociological insight; plus the exceptional well-balanced wisdom of the deity that isn’t caught up in the day to day misery.’
‘Yep. Sadly, the word of the prophet, in both cases, appears to be taken as eternal truth.’
‘Did the bad guys sod off eventually?’ asked Goldy.
‘They did. But the punters keep up the vendettas on both sides.’
‘Weird. Imagine if creatures were so weird they treated traffic signals like that…’

‘It’s funny you should mention that. We caught such a one on video!’

Policeman Ploud: you once saw a traffic light that was green?
Defendant: yes sir. It said I should proceed and other lesser life-forms should give way.
Policeman Ploud: have you seen any other traffic lights since?
Defendant: I don’t need to.
Policeman Ploud: The lights actually used the phrase ‘lesser life-form’?
Defendant: ‘Of course not. That was self-evident, I should say.

‘Bluddy L,’ said Goldy. ‘What a pudn!’

Part 2

Danyul sat beneath the Konka tree and was perplexed. ‘I’m perplexed,’ he moaned, for he was an exceptionally honest young fellow.

Why was he perplexed? Well, the circumstances were unusual, offering no scope for budding writers of opera, plays and what have you, and were pretty much thus:

Danyul’s sort-of girlfriend had been taken away from school and made to stay with her Aunty Dragon in Queenside Castle – a semi detached residence in Kilton Means. Why? Because she showed an aptitude for computer programming (a subject close to Danyuls’ heart) and the Pretentious Comprehensive School of Bryton Upon Channel didn’t hold with girlies doing things that boys were supposed to do. They didn’t much like girlies doing things the male teachers couldn’t understand (barring the programmer general, who was a bit odd) neither, and it really pissed them off that she might get a job with Google as a Linux programmer earning more than them, by the time she was twenty one.

Danyul felt like he’d never felt before. This was one of those moments when background music starts to play in the teenage mind, life becomes just a tad Hollywoodesque, and mischievous archetypes crawl out of the compost heap to play Complications – their favourite card game bar none.
Danyul didn’t think this though, he just thought ‘bugger’, closely followed by ‘worrammigonnadoo?’

The teenage mind and male mind are strange places; imagine then the state of the male teenage mind – doubly strange; if it was a hadron, say one up quark and two strange, try if you can to imagine the size of the budget needed to generate such a particle, even for a smidgeon of a microsecond. Imagine the size of the accelerator – probably a ring roughly the circumference of Switzerland with a downhill slope in the Swiss Alps to get the little critters started.

Where were we? Oh yes – Danyul’s mind. A lonely heroic trek, thought Danyul’; possibly with dragons – definitely with Dragons, given the future-mother-in-law-designate’s role in the tale, not to mention her sister; and the castle – Princess (for Such was her name), Princess Such A Toodoo, to be complete, had to be rescued.

‘I might need a ladder,’ Danyul mused. ‘Possibly a flask of tea or coffee.’

He pondered, incongruously enjoying the bark of the tree on his back. It’s weird, so it is, hos a little thing like the feel of a tree at your back can be a wondrous thing when you’ve got to leave the said tree. I’ll think about that later, mused Danyul, after I’ve rescued yon Princess. He made a special effort to use her proper name, given her predicament, usually calling her Such ‘n’ Such; though even that was an improvement on the So-and-So that most of their school associates blabbed.

‘I’m supposed to be pondering to a purpose,’ he declared, all of a dither – partly due to the new found determination of testicle-dropping adolescence, partly the fear that Father Crissmuss might really exist and be monitoring his every moment.

‘Err, I might need a map!’
this felt like a good idea and Danyul relaxed against the friendly tree.
‘Make yourself at home,’ the tree seemed to say. Indeed it did say this, which just goes to show how pear-shaped the world can become once the mischievous archetypes are gathered around the card table, bright eyed, bushy tailed, a whole new day of marginally purposeful interference ahead of them.

*

Danyul folded his map to the appropriate section and set out with a boyish manly stride. Let there be dragons, he boldly thought, and future mother in laws he added with less confidence. Princess Such A Toodoo at Milton Keans, I’m on my way. Fear not. Er, etc..

His day passed uneventfully and Danyul camped for the night in a quiet field near to a small village.
‘This seems a good spot,’ he mused. ‘Quiet enough to sleep. Near enough to habitation so that I don’t miss my teddy. Well, not too much anyway.’

Danyul woke soon after eleven pm to the sound of grunting consisting largely of four letter words beginning with f. Fortunately he was too young to recognise the word, but old enough to recognise trouble.

He peered out of his tent and felt very relieved to discover the f-ers were not in the field. Should he move his tent? Dare he go and investigate.

*

‘This looks a likely spot,’ said Goldy. ‘A youth of approximately humanoid, semi-intelligent species wandering boldly in trouble.’
‘Well spotted, chairdog,’ quoth Silver. ‘Speak and we shall obey, more or less.’

‘That’s right,’ quoth the other Alpha Proximan Shepherd dogs. ‘Nice work boss.’
They wagged their tails, ready to follow, proud of their top dog.

‘Okay,’ said Goldy, please bring a couple of Erfian interpreters of semi-intelligent humanoid form.’
‘Will do boss,’ said the smallest of the pack.

*

‘Ooer!,’ quoth Danyul as he spied the crowd of drunks in their back garden, swearing, throwing empty cans and bottles around, and taking the mickey of any neighbours that peered out of their bedroom windows. He crept nearer to where a few neighbours were discussing the drunken rabble and listened.

‘I told the police and they said they can’t do anything unless they break a law,’ said one.
‘I told the social services and they said they have a deprived background, they just need love,’ said another. ‘So they’re volunteering to live next door?’ asked a third.
Danyul recognised the tone his mother used when she was practising sarcasm; or did she call it sauce? Something like that. Anyway, it didn’t get an answer from the other neighbours.

‘They none of them work,’ complained one.
‘We’re paying for all their bloody beer, not to mention rent, rates, etc.,’ added a second.
‘Oh, don’t start, I’ll get a migraine,’ complained a third.

‘Look at the tribe of kids! All of them boozing by the age of fourteen, none of them ever likely to work!’ complained one, regaining the initiative.

‘Err, oh dear,’ mumbled Danyul. I have Princess Such A Toodoo to rescue from the Dragon of Kilton Means. I can do without this wossname!’

And with impeccable timing life appeared to choose this moment to get worse.

‘Ooer!,’ quoth Danyul as he spied the pack of dogs approaching. ‘The poo what I am in is getting deeper, so it is. This is one weird day.’

‘It is that,’ came a voice from the pack; a vaguely semi-intelligent humanoid sort of voice. ‘Don’t be worried, lad, we’re here to help!’

‘Sheesh! You speak proper Inglish!’ quoth the boy. This is how adventures are suppose to be! Bring on the dragons.

Goldy stepped forward, his chief semi-intelligent humanoid interpreter trotting dutifully behind.

‘Oh bother. I didn’t mean it,’ wailed Danyul. ‘You’re so big!’

‘It’s the diet,’ said the interpreter after a few gentle rumblings from Goldy. ‘Goldy the Wonder Dog is leader of the pack, by dint of our democratic Reasoned Debate Based On Facts, Cultural Heritage and Open Minds electoral system, and I am his mouthpiece/interpreter for fellow humanoids (yep, I’m one of them). Er, where was I? Oh yes. Goldy says it’s largely the diet. Though the breeding surely helps; you should see his great-grandfather! What a dog …’

Goldy rumbled in the interpreter’s ear.
‘Sorry, I got carried away,’ muttered the interpreter. ‘Um.’

*

The pack had been chewing the fat, so to speak, in the background, and Silver came forward to sit beside Goldy.

‘It seems the neighbours are unable to do anything about the rabble. Should we intervene?’
Goldy smiled – a terrifying sight until you’re used to the teeth. ‘Do tell what provisional plans you’ve aired and we’ll make a choice!’

‘Welll -,’ said Silver. ”It seems obvious to re-house them.’
‘It does.’
‘It may be best to choose a site where there aren’t any sober semi-intelligent humanoids to annoy.’
‘It may.’
‘Possibly, with your approval, of course, they could have a tarpaulin, a spade and a few seeds, rather than the constant nappy changing currently arranged by the state and paid for by these sober semi-intelligent humanoid neighbours.’
‘That’s possible,’ Goldy agreed.
‘You aren’t offering much in the way of feedback, top dog,’ silver complained.
‘Oh, I expect it’s my age,’ complained Goldy, suddenly remembering to limp. ‘Time for new blood, younger than mine,etc., cough cough.’

‘You said cough instead of doing it!’ silver complained.
‘Er, good point. You’d make such a fine chairdog, in my ageing opinion. Um, actually coughing in the literal sense hurt my poor sore antique throat, and there’s always the danger that the semi-conscious, semi-intelligent humanoid chronicler (emphasis on chronic, you understand) might fail to report the said cough.
‘Sheesh! You think of everything. We’re so lucky to have a top dog like you. I propose another term in office for Goldy starting now! Those in favour.’

‘Yes!’ barked the throng, and the semi-intelligent humanoid interpreter and his understudy (a fellow called Marty rescued from the swamplands of Hill Annoy in a parallel universe).

The crowd of alcoloids (a sub species of the semi-intelligent humanoids of Erf) were suddenly quiet.

‘Was that a fxxxing neighbours fxxxing dog, man?’ grunted one of them. He looked at the dominant alcoloid, hoping to have impressed him.
‘Could fxxxing be, man,’ replied the dominant alcoloid, having left a long enough pause to keep the underling trying.
‘Maybe we should fxxxing join in,man?,’ suggested one alcoloid. ‘Dogs are fxxxing dim, man. They’re fxxxing pack mentality, man. No fxxxing brains of their own, man.’
‘Wooo! man’ shouted the alcoloids.

The neighbours, mostly indoors behind treble glazing, covered their ears. The very thoughtful ones covered the ears of their dogs, too.

‘They’re taking the mickey of the poor semi-intelligent humanoids’ dogs!’ complained Silver.
‘We go through a spell of that as pups,’ mused one Alpha Proximan dog.
‘We’ve usually grown out of it by six moonths though,’ added Silver.
‘You were through it by five and half months!’ Goldy praised.’You’d make such a fine chairdog!’
‘We’ve just had the election! Now quit whinging!’
‘So sorry, I forgot,’ Goldy claimed. ‘I expect my poor ageing memory is on the blink.’

‘What we gonna do, then?’ asked a young pup.
‘Round up the alcoloids,’ barked Goldy, suddenly up to speed, ‘find a safe place to imprison the ones that won’t undergo retraining.’
‘Retraining?’ asked a pup.
‘If a normal, semi-intelligent humanoid hasn’t been trained as a ‘pup’, due to absent parents or alcoloid parents, then it doesn’t develop as Alpha Proximan dogs do, and has many problems. The semi-intelligent humanoid authorities have facilities for re-training, but the ageing pups need to volunteer. We’ll help them to choose this option…’

‘Wow!’ said Danyul.
‘I’m so glad you approve, Danyul,’ said the interpreter on Goldy’s behalf. ‘You can go and tell the alcoloids we’ve got some free beer for them. Don’t call them alcoloids, though. They rarely seem aware of the fact.’

–**–

‘I don’t fxxking know, man,’ complained one alcoloid. ‘It seems we can’t even have a fxxking civilised get together in our fxxking garden nowadays, man.’
‘These are indeed repressed fxxking times, and a repressed fxxking sosociety, man,’ added the dominant alcoloid.
‘Fxxking society, man?’ asked one.
‘That’s what I fxxking said, man,’ replied the dominant alcoloid.

‘Here, man, where the fxxx are we?’
‘There’s fxxking non-one about, man.’
‘He, he. That’s a fxxxing relief, man. Don’t need to be so fxxxing uptight, man!’ added a junior alcoloid.

‘We seem to have a fxxxing tent, a spade and a few seeds, man.’
‘Er, where’s the fxxxing beer, man?’
‘Where’s the fxxxing drugs, man?’
‘Where’s the fxxxing shops, man? I’m hungry, man.’
‘There’s a fxxking note here, man. It says there’s a fxxxing few weeks rations of bread and a book on fxxxing farming in this box, man.’
‘Er, why is there a box of fxxxing napppies, man?’

2B continued

records  Goldy and the traffic lights  home

Once upon a non-time in a non-place there was a bang; and it was big. Energy, for want of a better word, was thrown every which way, seemingly at random. The Entity with the Magic Wand, so to speak, looked on and saw that it was good.

After a mind-boggling span of time, all apparently totally boring and aimless, billions of lifeless galaxies coallesced, each containing billions of lifeless worlds. The Entity with the Magic Wand admired its show and saw that it was good, relatively speaking.

One planet in one galaxy evolved simple cells in the primeval ooze, so the rumour goes, and some cells even had the ability to divide and replicate. Occasionally a dollop of energy would hit one and initiate random changes – some of these were advantageous, and some weren’t. The Entity looked down on its creation, metaphorically speaking, and saw that it was good; more or less.

A much livelier period was characterised by dinnersaurs. They spent 100,000,000 years tearing each other to bits, then eating the bits – the ones left standing, that is. The Entity scrutinised this, from a safe distance, and saw that it was good – from a certain evolution of the toothiest perspective.

Eventually, monkeys and dogs evolved, and relatively hairless post-monkeys. Some of the post-monkeys became so inventive that they built shopping palaces; one of the less impressive developments of post-monkeyism. There were more thoughtful post-monkeys who devoted themselves to overcoming the craziness of the instincts they’d apparently retained from the era of dinosaurs. Now and then one of these would have a vision, after years in a cave protected from the shopping malls.

On the great land mass called Eastbit, a now famous philosopher-hermit called Edlam was granted a vision of the Entity’s elbow – a most unusual display of concern by the Entity, and a whole religion (Edlamism) evolved from this. The Edlamites built temples-without-shopping-malls, Twismalls.

On the other great land mass called Southwestbit, a similarly famous hermit-philosopher called Syllum was granted a vision by the Entity, it looked pretty much like a nostril to Syllum, and in time his many followers knew without a doubt that Entity was in fact a nostril. They called themselves Syllumites.

The Edlamites, and the astute amongst you have probably already guessed as much, declared that Entity is an elbow, as all right thinking post-monkeyists will undoubtedly agree.

In recent times, an Eastbitter Syllumite priest called Smith had severe doubts about the completeness of the Syllum philosophy and went to find a cave of his own where he hoped to see the Entity, possibly more than the elbow even, and ask for guidance.

A Southwestbitter Edlamite hermit called Jones had the same idea and went in search of a pole to sit upon, all the caves having been converted into holiday apartments in Southwestbit.

After many years, both hermits completed their meditation. They were surprised to find that the divine appeared to lead them through this process in the guise of a female post-monkeyist; they were utterly convinced by her goodness, kindness and merciless criticism of their failings.

‘This is good!’ quoth one. The other voiced a similar opinion. Something good was sure to evolve from such an experience. Neither had specifically seen a nostril or an elbow in isolation or with expicit emphasis, though the divine feminine appeared to have two of each.

Jones pondered:
Maybe the Intermittent and Neverending Wars, as historians had dubbed them, would be able to downgrade to Madness With Money – a sport (apparently) involving highly paid drug users who maimed each other while chasing a ball…

Smith pondered in a not dissimilar manner.

Each hermit philosopher was about to venture into the evangelical phase – evangelical for the Divine Feminine rather than their own fairly confused views – when she, Entityesse, appeared to first one then the other and declared that they had earned a connection to Entity himself.

‘Sheesh!’ quoth one, and the other hermit-philosopher was of a similar mind.

Imagine their woe when it became clear that Entity was so enamoured of its creation that they were ‘rewarded’ with a one way ticket back into the world they’d rejected.

‘Have children now!’ demanded Entity. ‘And a job in banking!’ Smith looked in the mirror and counted his teeth on the fingers of one hand. Jones did likewise, using the fingers of the other hand – his eyesight having long since failed.
‘Banking?’ he said. ‘What’s that?’

Every day the Entity delivered more such ‘good news’.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ asked Jones.
‘And buy a new car!’ declared Entity.
‘Can you hear me? I’m blind and don’t much wish to run over innocent post-monkeys in a car! Jones complained. He shouted the bit about hearing, just in case…
‘You’ve had little life,’ said Entity. ‘Make it a good car!’

‘I didn’t think so…’ muttered Jones, and Smith was of a similar persuasion.

When Smith returned to the desert to found a Colony of Potentially Intelligent Dogs, many of his contemporaries were dismissive. A bit of an escape from life, said one. No porn channel in the desert, vouchsafed another.

Jones had a similar response to his Institute for Educating Monkeys.

The Divine Feminine looked down, metaphorically speaking, and sighed. The dogs were trained to be less aggressive about food, and enjoyed carrots and beet as well as wrabbit. The monkeys became fine gardeners, though they restricted their endeavours to tree fruit – all that messing with spades caused such terrible back problems in the so-called post-Monkeys …

When the Intermittent and Neverending Wars did finally end, simply because everyone was dead – suffocated under the garbage bags, irradiated, contaminated or terminally bored – the Divine Feminine was pleased to see that both hermits had released their dogs and monkeys before they too expired, and she was especially pleased that the the Ocean of Korg lay in between the two lands. Neither dogs nor monkeys were fond of water, and they weren’t likely to invent boats yet awhile. They would remain seperated.

‘This time we have two chances,’ she sighed.

The Entity looked down and saw that it was good. Good for what, it didn’t say…

postscript:

The Ocean of Korg was named after the Korg, a species of aquatic mammal sporting both fins and flippers. The flippers have 7 white digits and the flippers have 5 black digits. Both fins and flippers are very dextrous. The Korg sometimes lure mariners to their secret lairs by their ability to mimic virtually any sound they hear, accomplished by strumming their fins and flippers together. At least they used to when there were mariners …

The dogs and monkeys eventually became aware of each others’ presence using bits of junk left over from the Shopping Era. Their historians named the two extinct civilisations
A. Syllum
B. Edlam

things feel more under control once they’ve got a label

records  Monkeys and Dogs – Edlam and Syllum  home

‘We’ll get you into the Tootsie Institute of Technology, son. The success rates, the prospects, the famous guinea pig soup,’ said Mrs. G.

‘Guinea pig soup?’ asked Harry. ‘I’ve never heard of it. Are you sure it’s legal.’

‘Oh yes. I know some species are protected, for example the swan. And others are considered to be pets. Domesticated as it were, like the guinea pig. But the college no doubt has special privileges,’ explained Mr. G.

‘It’s true, son. I’m sure the Queen has the right to eat swans. Or was it an Oxbridge college?’ said Mrs G.

‘Where’s Oxbridge?’ asked Harry.
’She’ll eat an Oxbridge college?’ asked Harriet, Harry’s younger sister. She looked a picture of innocence kneeling elegantly on the deep pile Afghan carpet, hands placed gently together in a contemplative almost prayer like touch whilst absent-mindedly chewing the end of one of her many three foot long, multicoloured, bead strewn dreadlocks.

Mr and Mrs G looked at each other.
‘Er, it’s somewhere between Oxford and Cambridge, innit?’ suggested Mr. G.
‘Accent dear,’ Mrs G reminded him. ‘It’s probably a village half way betwixt the two, son.’

They’re talking weird again, thought Harry.

‘They’re talking weird again,’ observed Harriet.

‘Shush dear,’ said her ma.

If I’d said that I’d be in deep shit, thought Harry.

‘What is talking weird, Dear?’ asked her Dad.

‘It’s the language spoken by the native population of the People’s Republic of Weird, dad,’ suggested Harry. ‘Weird being a small semi-autonomous republic halfway between the US of A, which I’m sure you’ve heard of, and Cuba, which you possibly haven’t.’

*

Mr and Mrs G made embarrassed noises as they left Harry’s shared dorm. Largely due to the presence of his room mate’s family, Harry thought.

Harriet rolled her eyes in a knowing manner, and Harry resolved to write her a letter, the first time he’d have done so, not counting birthday cards and such obligatory notes.

‘Have you found the guinea pig farm yet?’ Harriet asked.
Harry shook his head and Carl, his Lithuanian room mate, looked very interested.

*

‘You really call your money LSD?,’ asked Carl. ‘It makes you that spaced out?!’

‘No! I mean, we do. From when it was pounds, shillings and pence.’

‘I see,’ lied Carl. ‘d for pence. Why d’you use d for pence?!’

‘Good question,’ said Harry, wishing he’d had an English room mate. ‘It was to distinguish it from other words with a p in, I reckon. The p had already been used.’

‘Someone had take the pee?’
‘Precisely.’

‘What other units of measurement were they then?’ Carl persevered.

‘Dunno. Probably the cubit, furlong, kilogram, centimetre, decibel, millipede. Stuff like that.’

‘Right,’ said Carl. ‘So when do we get this famed guinea pig soup?’

Harry wondered about this whilst watching Carl add more super glue to keep the small green tomatoes attached to his cannabis plants. The things one had to do to placate porters. Still, soon they’d be living off campus, thought Harry. Hopefully in different neighbourhoods.

‘I’m so glad you asked,’ began Harry. ‘I’ve been wondering the same thing. The staff always say they’ve never heard of it, but it’s common knowledge, whatever that means.’

*

‘Soup!’ exclaimed Carl. The lads careered into the dining room, keen to get their mitts (their hands, Carl) on the nosh (the food, Carl) and search for traces of guinea pig.

‘I see leek,’ declared one.
‘I detect potato,’ pontificated Chas the chess champion.

‘Detect!’ roared Biff, the college Rugby captain. ‘Hit him!’
‘No guinea pig, unless finely powdered,’ added Harry. ‘What’s it taste like?’

‘Leek and potato soup,’ said Carl. ‘Except for the bread. That tastes like bread.’
‘Imagine,’ said Biff.

So they did.

*

‘Soup,’ exclaimed Chas – he’d learned not to pontificate.

‘Carrot,’ said one.
‘Lentil,’ added another.

‘Taste?’ demanded Biff.
‘Carrot and lentil soup,’ alleged several.
‘Could be lentil and carrot,’ said Biff.

‘Or even a mixture of the two,’ said Harry.
‘You trying to be clever?’ asked Biff.

‘Yes sir,’ said Harry, ‘if you like.’

*

The headteacher glared hatefully down from the platform at the morning assembly.

‘In order to upgrade security, there are new turnstiles at the entrance and exit,’ he bellowed. ‘You will use them properly, displaying your wrist tag, and the central computer will always have records of everyone on the premises,’ he said.

There followed a smidgen of muttering from the back row, until the Headteacher glared.

*
Another uneventful day ended and the undergraduates queued to leave the campus.

Biff, Harry and Carl proceeded one at a time through the exit turnstile. Harry had a peculiar sensation as he watched Biff, the largest mammal wearing clothes that he’d ever seen, plodding mechanically within the stainless steel turnstile. He remembered their first term at the college – the excitement, even amongst those who claimed to loathe school, the exploration of nooks, crannies and new acquaintances.

Harry suddenly had a picture of his sister in his mind. apparently she’d now woven fine strands of metal into her hair and couldn’t go into shops with high-tech security equipment on the exits, which was saving her money at an astonishing rate. It also looked rather special.

Carl got confused in the turnstile and started to whimper.

‘I haven’t remembered to write to Harriet for a while,’ said Harry. He shuddered…

*

Postscript:

Despite being 90% muscle, 15% water and very poor at arithmetic, Biff graduated along with his contemporaries and secured a job in Amsterdam working for an Indian company that had won the contract to provide Customer Support for Iffy Internet Providers (USA) for their residential broadband customers in the UK.

He found a flat to rent in a 5 star award-winning housing development and could hear 5 neighbours’ bathrooms with astonishing clarity, despite the battering his ears had taken in the front row of the scrum. The architect had chosen to live out of town …

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records  Harry’s school days  home