a small drop of whimsy

Well did you ever ?

2010-09-19T20:46:00.030+01:00

Sean Flaherty was a born taxi driver. A very successful one too, he had the knowledge alright and a whole lot more. He'd his own fleet of cabs now and they did schmooze about the town in bright red Mercadian splendour.
" Flaherty will get you Everywhere ", said the dazzling yellow letters on each one. And so it was , if you wanted to get there, Flaherty and his drivers would surely deliver you.

One thing that Flaherty could not find however was a soul mate , a significant other , one true and certain love. Oh he had all the trappings of success you know, detached seven bedrooms , on suite and off suite this , on piste and off piste that, a bed the size of the back garden of the house he grew up in, big telly on the wall, big fecking dogs ..... too much really too much, and he'd rattle about that big house sometimes and wonder ..... " What the feck good is all this to me ? "

And you know what good it was to him ? Feck all is what.

Tom Dooley is my name, and I drive a Flaherty Cab. Not my real name in case the taxman is reading this. Oh and if you are reading fine Sir Mr Taxman , I want to say that I only drive cabs on a voluntary basis anyway. I get a lot of satisfaction from delivering the bladdered and impatient to their destinations. I go home from a few hours of selfless cabbying, rejuvenated in the knowledge I have delivered some drunken gobshite or other safely into the arms of their beloved, what can I say , call me an altruist if you really must.

Good shift Dooley ?

Ah not so bad Mr Flaherty sir, uneventful. 25 years a cabby and still haven't been called upon to deliver a baby.

God in His infinite wisdom Dooley, does not pass unto us any burdens beyond our capabilities.

Modesty almost prevents me from saying I am very good in an emergency, Mr Flaherty.

Are you shite !

I had if truth be known , often felt like lamping Mr high and frigging mighty Flaherty. So what stopped me ?

( Singing in the distance and growing louder ......' There's three pubs in Bohola ......' )

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyN1qPXVSSA

Ah feck here comes Tansey , Flaherty's star cabby , and ' a man you don't meet everyday ', praise be to God ..............

Nines

2010-09-15T23:33:00.011+01:00

She stands in her dream kitchen weighing ingredients for the fiftieth birthday cake that she knows he'll never taste.

He'd built this kitchen just as she'd imagined it in her head and she'd loved it, but this morning as bright sunlight streamed through spotless windows, everything felt too harsh, stark and cold. A too shrill tune from a too frequent ice cream van pierced the silence and took her back to when Liam and Siobhain were young.

" Mummy pleeeeease can we have 99's ."

The days when they relied on her, when granite, chrome and the swing area of a concealed fridge door were of no concern. Now as Jackie approached fifty herself, she felt like a mother again to husband Peter who'd swapped his independence for the attractions of the bottle.

The ice cream van cast an ambulance shaped shadow on the dining room wall, she'd grown used to the calling of ambulances to her home.

" Jackie please, please call 999 I'm dying " a desperate Peter would beg as he went through the physical, mental and spiritual torture of his addiction and took Jackie on that journey with him.

There had been times when she'd had to dial for herself when his fists would fly as he raged drunkenly, because she didn't match up to some fucked-up image his sodden mind had created for her.

As Jackie weighed sugar, flour, lemon juice and baking powder she wondered would she walk away.

They had always argued at home and publicly, some were embarrassed by it, but close family and friends thought they thrived on it. Now the passion had left their rows and they were left with just daily spite and recrimination and it seemed there was no making up left to do. She'd lie awake at night hurting and wondering why she stayed and he'd lie oblivious in drunken stupor. Still she'd try and make sure he was ok , fulfilling the mother role once more.

What would become of him if she went ? She foresaw failing health, hospital, loneliness, an early death and weighed it against the love she once felt. A love that had been replaced by pity and sorrow on the occasions when her anger at what he'd become had subsided.

She told herself she'd not leave before his fiftieth birthday, there always seemed to be a reason not to go, how could she leave him alone for that ? She dreamt of taking those first steps to freedom, a new beginning and a time to grow again, how much she wanted to embrace that dream.

She looked into the living room at him sprawled in disarray upon the sofa, half-conscious or what passed for it these days. A bottle at his head, he'd lost the battle with it and the bottle had taken his heart , mind and soul and left no room for her.

Today she felt she could not or would not leave, something like guilt had her petrified. She also knew that all the screws that held the hinges on her married life had come undone, and she was teetering on the edge.

Glimpsing the School Reunion Invitation card on the kitchen table , she'd heard that Paddy O'Connell was returning from America to be there. Her mind was transported back thirty and more years and the draw of being seventeen once again saw the ghost of a smile pass over long neglected lips.

Jimmy Grimes

2010-09-05T21:00:00.010+01:00

Poor ould Jimmy Grimes lived a life of rhymes,
And that you may think could be a mite amusing,
But it caused him such unfortunate times,
For it was not a life of his own choosing.

Today they'd call it an obsessive compulsive disorder,
A failure to walk the narrow path of logical,
Forever straying over the border,
Jimmy's decisions were often quite diabolical.

To shrinks, quacks , and men in white macs, he was a chiming mystery,
" Your demeanour " they concluded, "Mr. Grimes, is most inscrutable ",
When in a jiffy, he married Kimmy in a registry office in Rimini ,
Though Lucy would have been far more suitable.

Kimmy poured scorn on Jimmy's affliction,
Scoffed at his desire for a greetings-card-life,
So Jimmy sought treatment for his homophonic addiction,
To win the devotion of his ( frankly ) bleedin' hard wife.

With their children Jemimah and Hieronymous,
They rode in tandem to Rhymers Anonymous,
In a darkened room folks shared their woes,
Of how they longed for a life lived simply in prose.

Jimmy who in truth had sunk a few beers,
Felt the urge to unburden and tell of his fears,
" My name is Jimmy and I'm addicted to rhyme",
To generous applause they urged " One day at a time .......
....... arrrggghhhh ",

But tomorrow is another day right ?
Oh yeah and erm good night.

Fran ' Biddy ' Lock

2010-09-04T15:14:00.004+01:00

Is a brilliantly talented writer.
I think as many people as possible should be able to read her work.
I could attempt to describe her writing , but I would fail miserably and anyway it speaks for itself perfectly.
You will find some of it if you follow the link below.

http://www.littleepisodes.org/profiles/blog/list?user=2eq1504f5z9av

www.littleepisodes.org

" Dispelling the notion that art is a corporate commodity and giving the artistic industries back to the artist.
Promoting the arts as a cathartic and therapeutic tool as well as a powerful platform to incite empathy and understanding. "

Fillums

2010-08-26T07:03:00.002+01:00

Thought i'd have a rare treat watching a few fillums last night.
Walk The Line - The Johnny Cash story and the more recent fillums about the two Ian's - Curtis and The Blockheads fella.
I had been really looking forward to seeing all three of these , but I found them all to be a bit shite quite frankly .............. then it dawned on me , I am currently taking a course of Anti - Biopics aint I ?

Please accept my sincerest apologies for the above .

Tall Stories

2010-08-25T22:11:00.007+01:00

Hell bent .
How stunning the views,
The very thingness of things,
When time is finite,
How appreciative I become.

How many steps did I take alone,
With only the pavement coming to meet me,
So what is one more,
For me and my white lips.

A sense that few have,
How it might be to fly,
A place where wisdom is bound to strike,
Just when I can least use it.

So my eyes are open wide at last,
Finally in the moment,
To see fifty fleeting framed portraits,
With an unjaundiced eye,
Of how might it be to fly.

That I might in an instant,
Be a witness,
To the very youness of you,
And send you my observations,
On streams of ticker-tape,
So in boxed locations,
Spectators might, in the absence of compassion ...... celebrate.

Those things which made your head fall,
Down into your hands,
Seems so slight when cast,
Against garlands of clouds and stars,
And that which might fly,
Heaven Sent.

She's Not Given To The Song

2010-08-12T19:14:00.014+01:00

Johnny and Kitty had been married for ever and although to outsiders they appeared happy enough it would be fair to say that Kitty was long-suffering.

Johnny had never grown up, as is the way of man. Spent all his money on beer, fags and arthiritic horses ........ betting on them you understand, not show-jumping, carriage racing or dressage.

Kitty had grown to tolerate this , far from happy , but stoic as she was she made the best of things and somehow contrived to make a home that was a credit to her.

One thing that Kitty refused to tolerate though was Johnny's infidelity , she'd turned a blind eye to it when the children were growing up , but now it was just the two of them she would not have it any longer.

She's not given to the song,

( You'd have to say that ),

She's not given to this life,

Though she tries to sing along,

( from time to time )

It never seems to sound quite right.

I suppose you'd have to say ,

That she feels like she's just in the way,

I don't know how it came to this,

There was a time, She felt the chime,

Of hope for some harmonic bliss,

Now she wills the punishment to fit the crime,

As she gives him one last dutiful kiss.

She's not given to the song,

She's not given to this life........

Early morning routine, Johnny took to the bathroom, sat on the throne, fag in mouth, daily paper in hand, studying today's form.

Kitty stood in the garden , there was a photograph she had been longing to take.

Johnny coughed and considered the ill-effects of his lifestyle , pleased with today's selections , he let his cigarette fall between his thighs into the lavatory bowl. The water in the toilet had been replaced with a mixture of petrol and Jeyes ............ Jayze ! Jayze ! Johnny was launched through the roof, his arse ablaze. He had little time to consider much on his journey into the stratosphere ... 'smoking IS very bad for you ' he thought ,...... ' the hedges need a trim ',.......... ' my arse is fierce hot ' ,.......' Good morning Mr and Mrs Abercrombie ' ...... and then looked down to see Kitty pointing a camera in his direction. Not knowing quite how to behave in this situation , he waved and clenched his teeth in an approximation of a smile.

Kitty's camera clicked as she got the last ever shot of Johnny with his pants down.

Platform Two

2010-08-11T22:23:00.003+01:00

The music playing - Cole Porter's Anything Goes sung by Ella Fitzgerald.
And the swings, swoops and swirls of the lives of people I know.
Swim around my mind , somewhere between thought and prayer.
London train enters my peripheral vision to the left. Not so dreamy or so blue.
Some simmering resentments gurgle and spit and an inner smile kills them.
Young blokes trousers on the opposite platform cause me some annoyance.
Announcement says my train is delayed , I couldn't care a shite.
Song playing ' Down in the street below ' by The Divine Comedy - beautiful,
I wish I knew more about art and the likes,
Oh for fecks sake I should know more about everything.
Then something in the here and now hits me and chills.

Platform Three will be along in the sweet by and by .....

Platform One

2010-08-03T22:32:00.001+01:00

Not sure what form this will take eventually , I think I know where it is heading ..... just a matter of how it will travel. Just some parallel lines so far ...... yeah kinda , sorta, summat !

Platform Two will be along shortly ( that is as accurate as this service gets I am afraid ).

It was an early Saturday morning in summer , and the day was bright and sweet and serene.

Nothing and everything was remarkable as usual , well if you delight in the everyday.

No ticker-tape celebration of breaking news looked like troubling the T.V. screen.
I sat on the station platform , feeling tranquil because I'd just done someone a good turn.

Or thought I had , you don't know sometimes do you ?

There is something about railway station platforms isn't there ?

More romantic than an airport terminal and a coach station I would say.

More everyday than the dockside , not many depart or arrive by ship these days.
Well not in that Titanic sort of way, wars and world cruises apart anyway.

Railway station platforms are of the moment, of some import or weight .... well maybe.

Perhaps it's from films and the golden age of steam, or the architecture of railway stations,

The way a train moves off slowly and allows for extended goodbyes,

Or maybe we all have a diluted particle of what the train-spotter has,

Of what makes them have that unrequieted love affair on Saturday and Sundays.

Penning details and numbers instead of romantic verse,

Because they care about every rivet in their beloved's body.

It is I am sure something about destiny,

And station platforms make everybody feel inches taller,

I had music on when I first saw the train to my right,

Way off in a sunny haze, shimmering in appointment blue.

On The Day

2010-07-29T22:13:00.000+01:00

Love came to my town,

The buglers were on strike,

The angels just weren't around,

And Cupid was on his bike.

The moon and the stars,

Of celestial delight,

Were behind iron bars,

On a midsummer's night.

The clowns were out in force,

As poets worked to rule,

The town criers shouted hoarse,

About their newly crowned fool.

St. Valentine having turned cynic,

Did renounce violets and roses,

Now booked into a clinic,

( It's like a hospital innit),

That treats lost causes, one supposes.

Hearts and flowers, the lost happy hours,

The dreams and aspirations,

Locked in high lonely towers,

With no super powers,

Shattered nascent great expectations.

Lover's Walk was a no-go zone,

A million sweet nothings that came to nought,

A collection of squiggles on a mobile phone,

Delivered a cliche in the place of thought.

On The Day

Love came to my town,

Church bells rang loud and proud,

A single note did resound,

Whispers ran about the crowd,

The sky dark with black crows,

The emperor's new clothes ?

No love it is a shroud.

Hat Sighs

2010-07-20T21:40:00.000+01:00

I think there may be a good poem amongst these lines waiting to get out ( or be sprung ) , but 'shure' what do I know at all, at all , at all.....

I wish I lived in a time and place, where everybody still wore hats,

No, not just the eccentrics and aristocrats,

But every man, woman, child and jack of us,

And we'd doff them in greeting, As a matter of fact,

We'd bid good day with a gentle raising,

And push the brim back to denote contemplation,

On busy streets when a hearse would pass,

We'd stop and raise a respectful hat.

In the company of a lady we'd chivalrously remove it,

Be a real man and not have to prove it,

When a goal's scored we'd launch them to the sky,

Watch them tilt forward as we got pie-eyed !

Reach for the straw one,

When the sun gets fiery,

Kick it down the street,

When your horse gets beat,

On a steward's enquiry.

A discreet marker of exits and entrances,

A regard for hellos and goodbyes,

Your well turned Trilby,

May speak of civility,

A nod to humility,

An innate ability,

To soothe the ' ill-at ease ',

To delight and to please ,

Each soul that you meet,

On a dark or well-lit street.

Of Tommy's Fez, Stan's bowler and Tony's homburg,

In stitches , a howler and sometimes sombre,

The soul of wit being brevity mate,

So why the longeur .......................face.

I must yearn for due deference,

A little less self-reference,

No 'look-at-me ' pink stetsons,

Borne above shrill empty screams,

A little more politeness,

If I must express a preference,

Is the stuff of my dreams.

I Believe In You .... ( and Britney Spears )

2010-07-12T23:48:00.000+01:00

On some blossom-strewn boulevard ,
Where love and romance still lingers ,
Amongst the innocent and the die-hards ,
Fall's last petals slip gently through our fingers.

We walked in Ardency Village hand-in-hand ,
Twinned with towns as yet unplanned ,
Our early dreams defenestrated ,
Cool like residents of Prague might understand.

Our last kiss was just as sweet ,
As the first on an Oxford Street ,
And those lips concertina'd time ,
Now our time it is complete.

I may well walk in Limerance ,
A place between Limerick and Perchance ,
You will always bring beautiful memories ,
Like some poppied fields in France.

Maybe one day I will find my rightful home ,
With this head that's never seen a comb ,
Between The Vatican and a whorehouse ,
Somewhere in Rome.

On loss

2010-06-29T04:33:00.000+01:00

In time,
It does pass,
From acute,
Into chronic.

On Sobriety

2010-06-29T04:31:00.000+01:00

Sometimes,
It's delightful,
To wake,
And remember,
Every single step,
I walked last night.

On Friendship

2010-06-29T04:29:00.000+01:00

Listen.

The Limerick Sandwich

2010-06-16T07:37:00.000+01:00

I so desired dear Penny from the panto,

But she married a postman from Llandudno,

Thought I'd stamp on his khaki sack,

And steal his sweet Penny back,

For endless love and nights of The Roy Hudd Show.

She wore a pillar box hat,

For those nights in with our dog Fido,

It sure enlivened the sex at our flat,

And afternoons down Droitwich Lido.

But one day a plumber called to look at her vinyls,

He said , ' I'm a gynaecologist , but I aint passed me finals,'

Then he inspected her piping,

Said ' Hey luv 'ows yer typing ? '

Now she works on the administration side of urinals.

A letter from mum's glasses ( early draft )

2010-06-10T12:31:00.000+01:00

Looking out I see you as she did and you see her magnified.
I made things clearer for her, now I provide a key for you to her past and your standing in this world.
Writing down recipes from the telly , threading needles and doing the pools coupon , some things I helped her to do.
You look back and see your mother, years and years later you see the person too.
I brought newsprint into focus for her, The Great Train Robbery , the Hanratty case and Viv Nicholson. When tabloids were broadsheets and the stories seen through your mother's eyes were towering things.
I help you see her now as she was, as you hold the yellowing frame of me in your hands , I used to be part of her or so it seemed, soon you'll see things just as she did.

Rattlin' Keys

2010-06-10T06:51:00.000+01:00

No you're never the same once you've passed through those gates,
It's not the walls around here, but it's killing time he hates,
She shakes keys and they echo around the screaming floors,
He can't open up, while she keeps seething past his door.

It can make you, it can shape you,
It can bring you to your kness,
It can take you, it can break you,
Like a shaking leaf, those rattlin' keys.

' Big Brother's ' not watching 'cos he's lost interest in life,
Now his baby's doing ' twenty ' for inartistic use of the knife,
Sweet little 'Marilyn Maybe' you do suit that uniform,
You shake keys, all eighty-eight, for a lightning storm.

I hate it in here, but I can't make it on the outside,
Rattlin' keys as you say there's nowhere left to hide,
Amidst cold cream paint, bleach, sweat and chrome,
It's just those doors slamming make me feel so at home.

Stringing two words together makes me feel like Shakespeare some days,
Well if you didn't know me better ( that's incidentally by the way ),
That unhappiness may be some kind of penance,
For a life built round incomplete sentences,

Once you gave me that look 'my little inch of blue',
Now you've thrown the book, there's just time left to do,
" Who the hell do you think you are ?" you ask like some authority,
Truth is I don't know 'til I hear the lock snap and you turn the key.

You can make me, you can shape me,
You can bring me to my knees,
You can take me, you can break me,
Like a shaking leaf with your rattlin' keys

......... And I can not bear the cold,
To reach the Switzerland of your soul......................

Speed Date

2010-06-09T11:47:00.000+01:00

Mine's Gez and yours is Jan,
I like this, that and various miscellaneous,
You like mish-mash and vaguely contemporaneous,
We should get on fine and dandy,
As you're free Tuesday's and live quite handy,
Your best feature ? What do I desire in thee ?
Let me think..... Ah my......., thy neck , thy mind,
And sugar, you'll always be my lucky number 23 .

Titles are too easy at times

2010-06-09T11:42:00.000+01:00

....... And though they felt unsteady, and felt in the dark,
And didn't know how to be what they were being,
He ran fingers across the sweetest face, and said,
" This is what the blind call 'seeing'."

New Deli Crime

2010-06-09T11:37:00.000+01:00

" I like mine sugary,"
Panted the boy,
As he ran off like buggery,
Doughnut-shaped, but nippy,
The cake shop thief,
Would have made his escape,
But for a stop at the chippy.

Narrow Road To The North

2010-06-05T11:08:00.000+01:00

Tuesday 11.45 PM

Peter got himself a large measure of Glenfiddich from behind the bar. It had been a hectic night in The Nanny Goat, excellent for midweek. He flopped down in one of the punters armchairs aching with exhaustion and relief that his night's work was done. He looked around the lounge bar of his pub, a well worn dartboard to his right , the triangles of the numbers '20' , '5' and '1' bursting out of the wire frame from years of pointed attack. Some strange mathematics on the chalkboard alongside. Further left a notice board advertising social events, quiz night Monday , dominoes match Wednesday, darts match Thursday and " Bloody Karaoke Friday " ........Peter shuddered and knocked his whisky back.

Then a wall dedicated to the regulars, photographs of many special events, birthdays , stag and hen nights, wakes, too many Christmases and New Year's. Assorted notes and messages containing in-jokes and friendly libels against locals from down the years. Thank you cards for kindnesses done by patrons, and by Pete and wife Jackie, who was late home again tonight. Another visit to the optics.
Peter loved this room, even when empty he felt it retained the warmth generated by people showing the better side of their nature's in the spirit of sociability and companionship. He also felt lost and tangled in the churning wheel of the days and weeks mapped out in so many others calendars and for which he was supposed to be the hub.He'd heard those in-jokes more than a time too many.Twelve years in one place, eight of them as landlord had begun to feel like too big a portion of his life.

It was two years ago he had heard a song on the radio called ' North ' sung by Elvis Costello ;
" North ...... A place where dreams and life can start/ Who cares what people know ? Let me go ........ North ...... "
Somehow that's when the seed was planted or more accurately perhaps watered, anyway that's when he became first aware that he had a dream , that took root in his mind and began to emerge into the light so very slowly.

Wednesday 12:15 am

The cloud over Peter and Jackie's marriage, which eventually became a solar eclipse, first appeared at 10:45 on the 4th June 1999, the time of his appointment for a vasectomy operation.
Peter's third drink was accompanied by the various sounds of Jackie's arrival home, the key in the door and the fall of her feet up the stairs, he listened closely to the sound of her ascent up the 13 steps and tried to calculate her mood from this flimsiest of information. His assessment done, he found himself so sorely tempted by thoughts of the road of his dreams. The unrelenting roll of his present days and the ever-dimming light of his own imagination in recent years came into view in an instant and scared him witless, so his mind fled to the path he would soon walk and brought him temporary peace. The road led the way to oxygen and the place where he might grow.

Wednesday 12:30 am ( Memory of a place in sentences of 27 syllables )

Peter remembered a cottage in Southern France, a gathering of friends and laughing like it would never end. Three cassette tapes, twenty hits of Johnny Cash, Joni Mitchell's 'Blue' and 'The Greatest of The Brilliant Things'. Long late summer days picking grapes and longer nights full of life and hope around the solid oak kitchen table. Half of those at the table spoke a different language to Peter, still there was communication and more. Feeling loved just for being himself, and the morning Kate said she loved the way he laughed, then choosing not to kiss. That was the best kiss he never had, another whisky, a memory of shoplifting in the village store.

Wednesday 1:05 am

Peter went to the cupboard below the stairs and collected a large holdall bag which he'd partly packed with items of clothing on Tuesday afternoon. He then walked up the thirteen steps missing out numbers 3 , 8 and 11. Looked in at Jackie sleeping and wondered whether her face in repose told him what he thought he knew and he reached some sort of a conclusion. From the bedroom dressing table he picked up two photographs of Paul and Suzie their son and daughter, his hand lingered above one of Jackie and himself and passed over it to pick up his passport from his private drawer the one Jackie used to take a peek into, but no longer did. He picked up a flight ticket and 3 CD's ; The best of Johnny Cash, Joni Mitchell's 'Blue' and 'The Brilliant Things' Greatest Hits.

Wednesday 5:00 am

Peter went into Paul's bedroom and kissed the air about his face, walked into Suzie's bedroom and kissed the air about her face too. As he walked out of Suzie's room he was aware of the sound of his footsteps and tried to interpret what they said and he reached another sort of conclusion. The moon was still visible as he made his way down the stairs and looked out of the landing window from the ninth step. He made his way out of his home through the lounge bar of his tiny world, walked out of the front door and took in a street-full of fresh air.

Prodigal Sons and Daughters

2010-06-05T09:45:00.003+01:00

This rough take on a familiar tale may have a feint brush of topicality now that the World Cup is almost upon us.

Brian Clough was holding court in Heaven's Anecdotal Suite, the " HOUSE FULL " signs splashed over the promotional posters which decorated the doors and windows outside. It had been like this since Mr. Clough took up celestial residence a few years ago, some days God could only see him by appointment...

Cloughie continued :

Alex was very proud of his two boys David and Wayne. He had coached them well and they worked hard with the talents given them to be the best they could possibly be.

One day David went to see Alex, " I am no longer fulfilled working here for you, I need to go out and prove myself to the world."

Alex felt a sudden boot of sorrow deep in his gut and a tearing ache in his heart. Long fearing that this day might come, he steeled himself so David might not guess of his pain and merely said, " Remember the lessons i've taught you well son, and dictate a letter home to me every day now won't you."
David nodded sheepishly, a little taken aback by how easily the meeting had went.
Clutching the glowing reference Alex had written for him , David shimmied off into the sunshine, the flash bulbs and the strobe lights.

Wayne would miss David and was sad to see him go , though he had to admit to feeling some envy too. David had the looks to make women and men scream, Wayne just made them cry. And although neither had been blessed with great intelligence, for God had put his best work into their feet, David was lauded for his public utterances while Wayne could only manage a few Scouser grunts.

David landed in mainland Europe and for a time he lit up the whole continent, then with little warning the light spluttered out. Trouble was he'd given his best years to Alex and his body was no longer capable of the feats of youth.

In a desperate move David announced that he was going to conquer the New World. Back in Manchester a smirk passed over Wayne's face and Alex's left eyebrow raised a full 3/4 of an inch.

When David arrived in America he soon realised that they had no love for the trade he once plied so well, nor did they speak his language, not many people did. So he threw himself into trying to make his wife Vicky happy and spent millions on various surgeries, voice implantation, 'please be more interesting' injections, anti-shallow treatments and many more.

Before long David's fortune was spent and there was no alternative but for him to return home to Alex and Manchester.

Alex alerted to David's intentions by reports in the press had a limousine sent to the airport to pick up David and family.

Sitting in the back of the limo David had a warm feeling inside as he glimpsed familiar sights and faces, tinged with guilt and regret for ever having forsaken Alex. As the limo neared the stadium Alex was stood at the gates smiling and David's heart sang. Alex and David embraced and time stood still whilst Vicky generously posed for the paparazzi. Alex beckoned them into the great banqueting hall for the most lavish feast , he'd pulled out all the stops, he had been to Waitrose and everything.

Wayne who'd just finished training, covered in mud and sweat peered through the smoked glass window at the idyllic family scene within and his heart was filled with rage and hatred,
Alex seeing Wayne out in the cold beckoned him inside.

" What's wrong son are you not overjoyed to see David ?"
" I cannot say that I am Alex, why are you treating him like a king when he forsook you and left me to carry such a burden, day in, day out I slave for you and never do you show me this sort of love."
" Well it's like this Wayne son, tuck into your fish fingers now won't you, this is a sort of a farewell meal for the two of you. Truth is i've had enough of your moping round here for years with a face like a slapped arse and i've had more than enough of you too David. Since you left I can hardly turn around without seeing your face plastered over the telly or the papers like you're Mother Theresa, The Pope and Pele all rolled into one. You can clear off the pair of ya........See you two had natural talent and worked hard and became successful, anybody can do that, now Victoria here - not an ounce of discernible talent in her body , no as yet , discovered ability for anything, yet she's made it to the very pinnacle.... of something or other ......... now that's genius. "

The next day a national newspaper ran the following exclusive headline.

"Posh the New Boss - Says Fergie !"

Cloughie rose from the chaise longue " ' Vendi Video Vicky' - as they say in the Champions League, goodnight ladies and gentlemen."

Guffer's Guide to Domestic Flatulence ....... or ... A wind of change is blowing across the apricot continental quilt

2010-06-03T05:35:00.000+01:00

...............Now onto a matter I’ve explored before, but felt there was some unfinished business........................... and so after the usual weeks spent in the potting shed with petri dishes, beakers, focus groups and of course the old faithful Bunsen Burner I have produced what is surely my finest scientific work to date.

Several leading etiquette authorities have expressed an interest in the finished paper........... including DeBrett's head honcho whom I politely told , over lunch to 'eff orf ' all the time being careful to prod my soup-eating fork only very daintily in his direction , he looked offended yet impressed by my impeccable manners.

Anyway I digress this is a surely indispensable guide to farters and their partners, family members, friends everywhere and of particular use to bat-droppers who socialise, fraternise or.... otherwise :

This is..........

THE BEAUFART SCALE

Number 0
Description Whisper/Socially acceptable
Volume/Odour type Less than 1 Decibel A mere suspicion caressing the nostril
farter’s action Stay calm , say nothing
fartee’s action Keep your own counsel

Number 1
Description Light air/Lovers tiff
Volume / Odour type 1-3 decibels /Brie
Farter's action Remain resolute
Fartee's response Tut semi-audibly, raise left eyebrow denoting ubmrage

Number 2
Description Gentle breeze/Rumbling resentment
Volume / Odour type 3-5 decibels/ Socks - 3 days summer wear
Farter's action Keep stiff upper lip
Fartee's response Open small window where available

Number 3
Description Moderate breeze/ Personal insult
Volume / Odour type 5-7 decibels/ Underpants of manual labourer
Farter's action Use distracting tactics
Fartee's response Make a polite enquiry as to farter's general health

Number 4
Description Fresh/ Argument
Volume / Odour type 7-10 decibels/ Night in wrestler's laundry basket
Farter's action Blame dog
Fartee's response Go for a long drive

Number 5
Description Strong/Physical assault
Volume / Odour type 10-12 decibels/ Mackerel behind radiator
Farter's action Continue to blame dog with greater urgency
Fartee's response Give dog lie detector test

Number 6
Description Near gale/ GBH
Volume / Odour type 12-15 decibels/Broken sewer
Farter's action Plead diminished responsibility
Fartee's response Get ear plugs, erect oxygen tent, engage good solicitor

Number 7
Description Gale/Manslaughter
Volume / Odour type 15-20 decibels/Napalm
Farter's action Plea bargain
Fartee's response Check home insurance policy

Number 8
Description Hurricane/Murder
Volume /Odour type 20 + decibels /harmful to cockroaches
Farter's action Hire O.J.'s lawyer
Fartee's action Try to enjoy the out of body experience

Choose Your Instrument Wisely

2010-06-02T07:11:00.000+01:00

There are many considerations to be made when embarking on the path of learning to play a musical instrument. One rather neglected area of deliberation is the much maligned Health and Safety aspect. I am now going to speak about passive smoking - but that is lunacy I hear you say ? A random leap of insane dimension ? But please I implore , hear me out.

I have never been convinced about the dangers of passive smoking you know. Call me an ostrich if you will, but there is something rather dainty and fey I find, about all that disapproval from the tut-tutting, non-puffing, carrot munching health Gestapo.

The case of the late lamented Roy Castle ( a man who I hold in the highest of regard might I say ) is often cited when arguments about passive smoking go from embers into blazes.

Roy Castle's was a unique case. As a 'trumpeteer' in smoky night clubs for many years, he was particularly vulnerable.

(I apologise in advance for the highly technical nature of the following , but sometimes only pure science can win sway.)

The 'flare' at the end of his trumpet increased the 'suckage up of poison air ratio' by a massive 1000%.

The real tragedy is, if Roy had been a Piccolo player he'd still be alive today.

Never Had Any Complaints

2010-06-01T23:46:00.000+01:00

Men often use the expression " Never had any complaints ", usually while puffing out their chests and always when referring to their abilities in the " Bedroom Department. "
I can tell you now i've had a whole catalogue of complaints over the years from women on that score, some have even expressed their views in writing, rather fortunate that eh !?

Here's one such correspondence anyway :

Dated 30/2/1965

" Dear Mr. Himself,

Further to our rendezvous on the 15th of this month. I am writing to you with a few observations. Tea and cakes very pleasant, I could not find fault there. Visit to museum most illuminating and informative, I found your company to be rather engaging, so well done on that score. Now onto the " Bedroom " portion of the day's itinerary - very poor i'm afraid. I had been hoping for a jolly good ' porking ', but sad to say I found you to be somewhat lack lustre and your effort and work-rate was not of the level I would require. You need to work on your technique as well in my opinion. Perhaps attending night classes in the subject might help ? In conclusion I can only award you a somewhat generous 3 marks out of 10.
Hope you are well and please do send my love to the whippets.
Yours Sincerely
Edith Abercrombie x "

And another .......

31/9/1972

" Dear Mr. Himself,

I think with a little more application and self-control you may eventually be able to use your lovemaking sessions as an impromptu and unconventional egg-timer.
Marks out of ten ? I will give you one, which is considerably more than I got when we met.
Yours Disappointed
Nancy Pankhurst in Limbo x "

And :

31/6/76

" Dear Mr. Himself,

This is the first ( and I hope last ) time that I have ever felt compelled to put pen to paper in order to express dissatisfaction regarding carnal dalliances. Don't get me wrong i've been left disappointed before now, but you , well you take the biscuit - and no that's not a compliment Mr. Himself.

I regret now not trusting my feminist intuition at the sense of foreboding I felt when you assured me that you'd ; " Always been a huge fan of Anna Raybans, had enjoyed reading 'The Female Unicorn' by Germaine Green, and had positively devoured Erica Jung's ' Fear of Frying.'"

Are you completely unaware of the invention of the clitoris in 1974 and that subsequently all women of suitable age have had one installed under the emergency N.H.S. directive of 1975 ? Do try to keep up Mr. Himself, not the first time i've said those particular words to you either is it ?

Now as you know i'm a broad-minded woman and always prepared to experiment. When you suggested introducing exotic foodstuffs into our liaison I must admit to being pleasantly surprised at your hitherto unadvertised sense of adventure. I was keenly anticipating some strawberries, a little chocolate or some Len and Terry's ice cream perhaps....... but no, that would be far too straight-forward for you wouldn't it ? I respectfully suggest to you Mr. Himself that you will travel many a long mile before you encounter the woman who would find ; a Melton Mowbray Pork Pie, a ring of Matteson's black pudding and a bottle of HP sauce, in any way erotic or sensuous.
Marks out of ten ? I'm afraid for you Mr. Himself ..............it's ," The Story of 'O'. "

Yours with food poisoning,

Camilla Pigtails x "

Break A Leg

2010-05-28T03:18:00.000+01:00

There are I know many frequenters of these corridors with thespian leanings and you will of course be familiar with this traditional good luck salutation to actors as they prepare to tread the boards. But do you know from whence the saying came ?

Its provenance has been the subject of much heated debate down the years and arguments both friendly and bitter have simmered away relentlessly.

So it came to pass that I made it my business to seek out the truth, the definitive answer and after many long days spent thumbing through mucky pages wearing white latex gloves ( but enough of my leisure time activities ) I can now reveal the truth.

The man responsible for the felicitation was our very own quill brandishing bard Mr William Shakespeare.

It was indeed a directorial note attached by him to one of his most revered plays , Hamlet. The instruction seems to have disappeared from published versions around the beginning of the 20th century , possibly the influence of Bowdler , but that is mere speculation.

Anyway I digress , the full instruction from Shakespeare reads as follows ;

" Nothing but wholehartedness can carry this play to the place I envisage , half-measures will avail us of nothing. I desire that ye shall give one hundred and ten per cent to the cause and should there be mishaps and accidents in the course of that effort then so be it.

For verily I say to thee , One can't make a Hamlet without first breaking a few legs."