New start.
Spring Cleaning.
The Joy of Cycling.
Flight of the Great Goose (a poem)
Christmas Dinner - The Invitation.
Poem
Too old for a funeral.
Maisie the cleaner and Reginald Gummer Esq.
“Your Government needs you.”
(a one way street; allegedly)
Ben and the drought of 1976.
Ahoy there! - Boat load of chickens
Bratislava – the left luggage!
New start.
There was a knock at his door, the care warden popped her head around the side and said, ‘Don’t forget you start your writing group today. One o’clock, make sure you take the number 19 Green bus south to Instow. Ask the driver to drop you off by the book shop. . . okay?’
‘Yes, yes, I know what I’m doing . . . I’m not a child you know.’ He replied, then, before the warden left . . . ‘could you just tie my laces before you go and I don’t suppose you’ve seen my watch anywhere?’
‘Come here then . . . you’ve still got your slippers on . . . and your watch is on your wrist . . . no . . . not that one, the other one.’
By mid day he was clutching a pen and empty note book and sitting on the upper deck of a number 23 red bus going north. . . and somewhere new.
After about 2 hours the bus stopped in a strange town, the engine shuddered to a stop and the driver shouted, ‘All off, Terminus, everybody off.’
As he stepped off the bus platform he was greeted by a woman’s voice, ‘Allo ducky, fancy a good time?’
Pleasantly surprised to be met by someone from the writing group, he told her, ‘I was told to go to the bookies first and then some club.’
She took him by the arm and walked him into William Hill’s, kissed him on the cheek and promised they would go clubbing later.
He made a note in his new book, this was a great beginning. . .
There was a knock at his door, the care warden popped her head around the side and said, ‘Don’t forget you start your writing group today. One o’clock, make sure you take the number 19 Green bus south to Instow. Ask the driver to drop you off by the book shop. . . okay?’
‘Yes, yes, I know what I’m doing . . . I’m not a child you know.’ He replied, then, before the warden left . . . ‘could you just tie my laces before you go and I don’t suppose you’ve seen my watch anywhere?’
‘Come here then . . . you’ve still got your slippers on . . . and your watch is on your wrist . . . no . . . not that one, the other one.’
By mid day he was clutching a pen and empty note book and sitting on the upper deck of a number 23 red bus going north. . . and somewhere new.
After about 2 hours the bus stopped in a strange town, the engine shuddered to a stop and the driver shouted, ‘All off, Terminus, everybody off.’
As he stepped off the bus platform he was greeted by a woman’s voice, ‘Allo ducky, fancy a good time?’
Pleasantly surprised to be met by someone from the writing group, he told her, ‘I was told to go to the bookies first and then some club.’
She took him by the arm and walked him into William Hill’s, kissed him on the cheek and promised they would go clubbing later.
He made a note in his new book, this was a great beginning. . .
Spring Cleaning.
Out came the vacuum cleaner and all the surfaces were sucked clean by the brush attachment – once he’d found it. The untidy garage was searched, for some old but useable paint and lots of places had a lick of eggshell to smarten the place up. Rugs were washed and hung up to dry – after he’d found and fixed the washing line that is. Yes, it all had to be done. With luck, he’d have time to go over the bathroom with that new wonder cleaner, though first he’d find an old Tee shirt to cut up – once he’d found the scissors.
It was all go, by the time his day dream was over, he was knackered and as it was now eleven by the bedroom clock he decided to get up and visit the pub for lunch.
Out came the vacuum cleaner and all the surfaces were sucked clean by the brush attachment – once he’d found it. The untidy garage was searched, for some old but useable paint and lots of places had a lick of eggshell to smarten the place up. Rugs were washed and hung up to dry – after he’d found and fixed the washing line that is. Yes, it all had to be done. With luck, he’d have time to go over the bathroom with that new wonder cleaner, though first he’d find an old Tee shirt to cut up – once he’d found the scissors.
It was all go, by the time his day dream was over, he was knackered and as it was now eleven by the bedroom clock he decided to get up and visit the pub for lunch.
The Joy of Cycling.
Narwhal Bliss OBE was in his late fifties and had retired early on a banker’s pension. Worn out by the pressures of a luxurious city life he had moved with his wife to rural Devon, a land of hills, trees and narrow lanes. He’d also taken up cycling. A state of the art racing bicycle and embarrassingly tight fitting and wasp like yellow and black racing lycra outfit had set him back about three and a half thousand pounds. Fortunately he couldn’t be recognised when wearing his helmet, goggles and gossamer silk pollen-filtering scarf. This was the only reason his wife let him out. Lucinda found it an abhorrent almost disgusting sight and sought solace in gin and cream tea sessions at the country club with her friends. All had similar stories to tell.
It was 11.45 Friday morning and Narwhal Bliss was out for a ride, not too far, perhaps twelve miles or so. He chose the narrow coastal road for its fine woodlands, its twisting, bend filled treasures, high hedges and pretty flowers that leaned out across the tarmac. As he wobbled along slowly he felt the gentle breeze pass by, his helmet camera recording everything so he could play it back to his wife in the evening and his ears and mind filled with the sound of taped whale music. Bliss by name and Bliss was what he wanted. The road was his, not a soul in sight, except for an occasional vehicle travelling in the opposite direction. Some of them seemed to wave at him – he smiled and nodded back. How foolish people were, not to be out enjoying the countryside and this fine weather, still, it meant the road was his, all his.
Five yards behind the euphoric Narwhal, an old Devon farmer sat patiently in crawler gear listening to his catch-up box set of The Archers, a few yards behind him was the full muck spreading bowser he was towing. At least a hundred vehicles had now joined the procession. Some would gladly have turned around and aborted their journey. This was not such a road. About half way back, a policeman had time to leave his car and book a woman for using her mobile phone. The fact that she was a midwife trying to organise alternative assistance for an imminent home birth, cut no ice with the policeman, whose bladder was likely to rupture if he didn’t get relief soon. Two cars behind them and Bob Lovalot realised he would never get his girlfriend home before her husband was back from morning rugby training and he was already in trouble with his own wife for not remembering something she thought he should – whatever it was. Life looked like a change was in the wind. And in the wind, was the rich farmyard aroma from the muck spreader aided by the fact it had sprung a leak. Two children on their way to school after a doctor’s appointment threw up out of the back windows of a brand new Audi, their mother’s screams clearly audible above the hooting of horns, threats and engine revvings.
‘Oooooeeeeoooowww, oooieeow’ howled Narwhal as he sang along with the whale tape. He thought about stopping in a small and very rare lay-by but changed his mind at the last minute; after all, what was the point on such a fine day. He pedalled a little harder to see if he could catch up with a squirrel that was sitting on the road up ahead, peacefully scratching an ear with its foot. Narwhal glanced down at the electronic device on the handlebars, he didn’t understand any of it, except the speed and that was in some foreign thing, not miles per hour, ah, eight, excellent, he was doing eight somethings. This pleased him, eight was nice number. He turned up the volume of his whale music, smiled and thought deeply about the number eight. How beautiful it was, its sound, its shape, its mathematical importance, chess boards have them, two to the power of three was eight. Though he wasn’t completely sure about that, banking wasn’t about maths as far as he remembered. Still eight was a lovely number.
Far behind him was a different sort of eight, in fact it sounded similar but began with an ‘H’. Nobody could overtake safely, too risky with the tractor and trailer taking up so much room, even a deranged youth on fizzy drinks and driving his dad’s Subaru decided it was a move too far.
Somewhere in a nearby town a judge was signing the arrest warrant for a young man stuck in car 74 and who had set off early so as not to miss his court appearance. An irate home owner was phoning around for another plumber and no, he didn’t care what it cost, as long as the ba****td turned up on time. A dog had been in the house too long, desperate to get out, it had urinated profusely on the best carpet and taken out its frustrations on the antique chair legs, splinters costing about fifty quid a time mixed with a rabid saliva as the pet took its revenge. The dog’s oblivious owner turned to her friend in car 53 and said, ‘oh dear, little Flufkins will be waiting for me, probably sitting by the door waiting patiently for his mummy to come home.’ Her friend, who was a cat lover anyway, simply drawled a long expressionless ‘yeees’, and stared out of the window at the unmoving scenery.
Narwhal’s mind began to roam to food. He’d recently read about a muscle building bean curd and marmite sandwich in his cycling magazine, ‘Cycling Supremos, magazine for the gifted elite’, time to cycle back and try it out. With only half an unsighted glance behind him, Narwhal briefly flicked out his right arm, grabbed the bars again and slowly wobbled around to face his journey home.
His goggles were slightly steamed and in any event his spectacles couldn’t be worn at the same time, so he didn’t. He could see well enough for his own needs and was now amazed at the number of vehicles out on the road since he’d started out, how glad he was that he was turning for home. He certainly wouldn’t want to get caught up in that traffic. The stench of overheating cars, diesel, petrol and some awful smell he’d never experienced in the City affronted his nostrils. Thank God he’d got a bike. As he passed by the now mostly stationary collection of motor vehicles he smiled and nodded back at those who seemed to be waving at him. ‘Ah,’ he thought, blessed are the cyclists, for they shall inherit the roads. See how loved we are.’
Narwhal waved, smiled and wobbled his way home, passing motorists exchanging accident details, motorists calling the AA for help, motorists in open war with their neighbours, partners, wives, children and a happy looking policeman watching from the other side of a hedge.
Narwhal switched on his second favourite cycling tape, ‘Zoo animals in slumber’, and to the sound of a snoring Galapagos tortoise, he dreamed of his sandwich and blissfully pedalled home.
Where would he go tomorrow?
No cyclists, squirrels or any other living creature were harmed in the making of this story.
Narwhal Bliss OBE was in his late fifties and had retired early on a banker’s pension. Worn out by the pressures of a luxurious city life he had moved with his wife to rural Devon, a land of hills, trees and narrow lanes. He’d also taken up cycling. A state of the art racing bicycle and embarrassingly tight fitting and wasp like yellow and black racing lycra outfit had set him back about three and a half thousand pounds. Fortunately he couldn’t be recognised when wearing his helmet, goggles and gossamer silk pollen-filtering scarf. This was the only reason his wife let him out. Lucinda found it an abhorrent almost disgusting sight and sought solace in gin and cream tea sessions at the country club with her friends. All had similar stories to tell.
It was 11.45 Friday morning and Narwhal Bliss was out for a ride, not too far, perhaps twelve miles or so. He chose the narrow coastal road for its fine woodlands, its twisting, bend filled treasures, high hedges and pretty flowers that leaned out across the tarmac. As he wobbled along slowly he felt the gentle breeze pass by, his helmet camera recording everything so he could play it back to his wife in the evening and his ears and mind filled with the sound of taped whale music. Bliss by name and Bliss was what he wanted. The road was his, not a soul in sight, except for an occasional vehicle travelling in the opposite direction. Some of them seemed to wave at him – he smiled and nodded back. How foolish people were, not to be out enjoying the countryside and this fine weather, still, it meant the road was his, all his.
Five yards behind the euphoric Narwhal, an old Devon farmer sat patiently in crawler gear listening to his catch-up box set of The Archers, a few yards behind him was the full muck spreading bowser he was towing. At least a hundred vehicles had now joined the procession. Some would gladly have turned around and aborted their journey. This was not such a road. About half way back, a policeman had time to leave his car and book a woman for using her mobile phone. The fact that she was a midwife trying to organise alternative assistance for an imminent home birth, cut no ice with the policeman, whose bladder was likely to rupture if he didn’t get relief soon. Two cars behind them and Bob Lovalot realised he would never get his girlfriend home before her husband was back from morning rugby training and he was already in trouble with his own wife for not remembering something she thought he should – whatever it was. Life looked like a change was in the wind. And in the wind, was the rich farmyard aroma from the muck spreader aided by the fact it had sprung a leak. Two children on their way to school after a doctor’s appointment threw up out of the back windows of a brand new Audi, their mother’s screams clearly audible above the hooting of horns, threats and engine revvings.
‘Oooooeeeeoooowww, oooieeow’ howled Narwhal as he sang along with the whale tape. He thought about stopping in a small and very rare lay-by but changed his mind at the last minute; after all, what was the point on such a fine day. He pedalled a little harder to see if he could catch up with a squirrel that was sitting on the road up ahead, peacefully scratching an ear with its foot. Narwhal glanced down at the electronic device on the handlebars, he didn’t understand any of it, except the speed and that was in some foreign thing, not miles per hour, ah, eight, excellent, he was doing eight somethings. This pleased him, eight was nice number. He turned up the volume of his whale music, smiled and thought deeply about the number eight. How beautiful it was, its sound, its shape, its mathematical importance, chess boards have them, two to the power of three was eight. Though he wasn’t completely sure about that, banking wasn’t about maths as far as he remembered. Still eight was a lovely number.
Far behind him was a different sort of eight, in fact it sounded similar but began with an ‘H’. Nobody could overtake safely, too risky with the tractor and trailer taking up so much room, even a deranged youth on fizzy drinks and driving his dad’s Subaru decided it was a move too far.
Somewhere in a nearby town a judge was signing the arrest warrant for a young man stuck in car 74 and who had set off early so as not to miss his court appearance. An irate home owner was phoning around for another plumber and no, he didn’t care what it cost, as long as the ba****td turned up on time. A dog had been in the house too long, desperate to get out, it had urinated profusely on the best carpet and taken out its frustrations on the antique chair legs, splinters costing about fifty quid a time mixed with a rabid saliva as the pet took its revenge. The dog’s oblivious owner turned to her friend in car 53 and said, ‘oh dear, little Flufkins will be waiting for me, probably sitting by the door waiting patiently for his mummy to come home.’ Her friend, who was a cat lover anyway, simply drawled a long expressionless ‘yeees’, and stared out of the window at the unmoving scenery.
Narwhal’s mind began to roam to food. He’d recently read about a muscle building bean curd and marmite sandwich in his cycling magazine, ‘Cycling Supremos, magazine for the gifted elite’, time to cycle back and try it out. With only half an unsighted glance behind him, Narwhal briefly flicked out his right arm, grabbed the bars again and slowly wobbled around to face his journey home.
His goggles were slightly steamed and in any event his spectacles couldn’t be worn at the same time, so he didn’t. He could see well enough for his own needs and was now amazed at the number of vehicles out on the road since he’d started out, how glad he was that he was turning for home. He certainly wouldn’t want to get caught up in that traffic. The stench of overheating cars, diesel, petrol and some awful smell he’d never experienced in the City affronted his nostrils. Thank God he’d got a bike. As he passed by the now mostly stationary collection of motor vehicles he smiled and nodded back at those who seemed to be waving at him. ‘Ah,’ he thought, blessed are the cyclists, for they shall inherit the roads. See how loved we are.’
Narwhal waved, smiled and wobbled his way home, passing motorists exchanging accident details, motorists calling the AA for help, motorists in open war with their neighbours, partners, wives, children and a happy looking policeman watching from the other side of a hedge.
Narwhal switched on his second favourite cycling tape, ‘Zoo animals in slumber’, and to the sound of a snoring Galapagos tortoise, he dreamed of his sandwich and blissfully pedalled home.
Where would he go tomorrow?
No cyclists, squirrels or any other living creature were harmed in the making of this story.
Flight of the Great Goose
Kevin was the leader,
great leader of the geese.
He had his missus with him,
she was called Denise.
Kevin said, ‘it’s getting cold,
it’s time we’re in the air.’
His missus said, ’I like it here.
this really isn’t fair’
‘Do as you’re told,’ he said,
‘for I am he in charge.’
She’d surely have to toe the line,
if she was not so large.
At last he had his way.
Denise agreed to go.
‘Okay you bolshy gander,
I’ll follow with the flow.’
High above the tundra snow,
Kevin was in heaven.
With eyelids shut, he dreamed away,
of a lake in Devon.
Despite, ‘you dope, look out!’
he didn’t feel a thing.
Now he’s going home again,
upon a Jumbo’s wing.
Denise, she could not tarry,
no wish to be kept late.
Now she’d lost her Kevin,
she’d find another mate.
Kevin was the leader,
great leader of the geese.
He had his missus with him,
she was called Denise.
Kevin said, ‘it’s getting cold,
it’s time we’re in the air.’
His missus said, ’I like it here.
this really isn’t fair’
‘Do as you’re told,’ he said,
‘for I am he in charge.’
She’d surely have to toe the line,
if she was not so large.
At last he had his way.
Denise agreed to go.
‘Okay you bolshy gander,
I’ll follow with the flow.’
High above the tundra snow,
Kevin was in heaven.
With eyelids shut, he dreamed away,
of a lake in Devon.
Despite, ‘you dope, look out!’
he didn’t feel a thing.
Now he’s going home again,
upon a Jumbo’s wing.
Denise, she could not tarry,
no wish to be kept late.
Now she’d lost her Kevin,
she’d find another mate.
Christmas Dinner - The Invitation.
It seemed impolite, not to accept the old couple's invitation to join them for Christmas dinner. Many years of living alone had made him resigned to doing his usual thing; for a change he thought he’d take up their kindly offer, despite only having met them at the bus stop the day before.
He arrived as requested, just before mid day. The old man, Bert, opened the door to him and with a squint into the brightness of normal daylight grudgingly accepted the chocolates and wine and stood to one side. He was met by a strange mixture of odours, the overriding one emanating from the kitchen with a distinct burnt smell.
'Come on through,’ said Bert, 'keep the warmth in. We don't open our windows till May, last year it wasn't till June. No, keep yer shoes on . . . or her damn dog'll 'ave em else.'
As his eyes slowly accustomed to the semi gloom he was glad he'd kept them on, the living room floor was littered with things the dog had encountered in months and years gone by. Bert used a stained slippered foot to slide a full cat litter tray under a coffee table. 'Sit yerself down, make yerself comfortable, I'll go and tell herself you've arrived.'
He carefully chose the only chair that wasn't cluttered and sat down; he noted the décor, the like of which he’d not seen since his great uncle had passed away. As he heard a toilet flush somewhere in the house, a large long haired and unkempt brown dog rushed into the room and shoved its wet nose straight into his groin. As he struggled to push the excited animal away, herself came into the room holding out a wet hand to shake his.
'Bert,' she scolded, 'you should have told him not to sit there.' As he stood from the chair, his backside felt a little damp. Herself continued, ‘his damn cat wet itself there yesterday.' She brushed her hand over the now warm dampness, 'not to worry, nearly dry now. Come on through, sit at the table.'
'Bert! For God’s sake, don’t let the dog do that, it's disgusting at dinner time.'
He was beginning to regret coming, life was better at home, still, perhaps the dinner would be good, I mean they couldn't have reached that age on bad food. 'You're worrying over nothing,' he told himself as he squeezed by the dog that had now transferred it’s attention to twenty quid's worth of M&S chocolates which it eagerly bolted down, complete with wrappers.
What a relief, he needn't have worried; the table was set with bright clean cutlery and crockery. 'I bet they have a dish washer out back,' he thought, thinking further that it was an appliance he had long admired though never bought.
'You sit yourself at the head of the table dear . . . Bert! Throw that damn cat out into the garden.' Herself's tone softened and continued, 'I've already had to change the menu once today, the blessed thing mauled and gummed about the chicken breast I'd taken out of the freezer, try as I might, just couldn't save it I’m afraid . . . we've got sausages now. I take it you like sausages?'
Well this was going to be one novel Christmas dinner, one he'd never dreamed of and nor likely would anyone else. 'Yes, sausages will be fine, are they beef or pork?' he enquired, in as matter of fact tone as he could muster.
'Neither I think,' herself replied, brushing something indescribable off of her apron, 'we got a job lot off a traveller last year, he said they were venison. Could be or could be rabbit or perhaps even cat . . .' she laughed. 'Pity they didn't take Bert's old Fluffy at the same time.'
Candles lit in the table centre added a festive feel to the place, as well as a little warmth and were a welcome insurance against darkness should the electric meter run out.
It was quite a posh set up with the food in large bowls from which you served yourself. 'Don't be shy, get stuck in,' she said, slapping Bert's hand, 'let the gentleman go first, you wait your turn.'
Carefully, trying to take from the middles, he selected small portions of what transpired to be margarine and turnip mash, last year's de-frozen Brussels sprouts, a dark green cabbage with the most unchewable leaves he'd ever encountered and some small roasted potatoes, which actually seemed the best bet there, so he took extras. Bert smiled with pride as he watched his guest load up on roast potatoes, he'd dug them himself. Free they were, growing wild down by the sewage outfall. Must have been dumped at some time then self propagated from then on. Easy to dig too.
Herself lifted the lid on an old enamelled casserole dish to expose several burnt sausages. 'They're nice and well cooked, you can never be too careful with sausages I say,' she put three on his plate, three for Bert and two for herself, saving one for the dog later. 'I told Bert to put them in the fridge but thick that he is, he left them out in a warm kitchen overnight. . . I knew I should have done it myself', she concluded her verbal assassination with a sigh.
As he ate those bits he’d chosen for his plate, that looked almost edible and hacked the burnt crust off the curious tasting sausages, he felt his right foot becoming wet. His first thought was the cat had somehow sneaked back in but looking down, saw that it was the half retching dog, an excess of anticipatory drool flowing steadily from open, chocolate covered jaws to his socks and best suede shoes.
As he thought deeply about the foolishness of accepting this invite, he was shaken out of his mindful solitude by herself saying loudly, 'Eat up, there's plenty more, and I've made my own Christmas pudding, Bert even found some loose change in his pocket to put in there, so if you are lucky you could be going home with more than you came with.'
He felt his tummy rumble and watched as a large flea performed a double somersault on the way from dog to damp sock. 'Yes,' he thought, 'I'm sure you are right there.'
He looked at his watch and with pretence shock, yelled, 'Oh dear, I'm so sorry, is that the time, I just remembered I have to be home for a very important phone call. I'm sorry to dash off; it was really nice, thank you.'
'Would you like me to make up a doggy bag for your tea? Herself asked kindly.
When he graciously declined, she scraped the remaining bits of sausage onto Bert's plate and then placed it on the floor in front of an apparently ravenous brown dog, which in turn was probably feeding a couple of well established tape worms. As he stood in the doorway he watched in stunned silence as herself picked up the spotlessly clean plate from the floor and placed it back on the table. 'There,' she said, 'clean as a whistle and did you know, a dog's saliva is antibacterial. Almost better than a dishwasher Bert says . . and a lot cheaper.'
As he waved his goodbyes to an already closing door he wondered if the doctor's surgery might be running an emergency service, now all he had to do was make it back home and find out.
Happy Christmas.
By the way, what are you doing for dinner?
It seemed impolite, not to accept the old couple's invitation to join them for Christmas dinner. Many years of living alone had made him resigned to doing his usual thing; for a change he thought he’d take up their kindly offer, despite only having met them at the bus stop the day before.
He arrived as requested, just before mid day. The old man, Bert, opened the door to him and with a squint into the brightness of normal daylight grudgingly accepted the chocolates and wine and stood to one side. He was met by a strange mixture of odours, the overriding one emanating from the kitchen with a distinct burnt smell.
'Come on through,’ said Bert, 'keep the warmth in. We don't open our windows till May, last year it wasn't till June. No, keep yer shoes on . . . or her damn dog'll 'ave em else.'
As his eyes slowly accustomed to the semi gloom he was glad he'd kept them on, the living room floor was littered with things the dog had encountered in months and years gone by. Bert used a stained slippered foot to slide a full cat litter tray under a coffee table. 'Sit yerself down, make yerself comfortable, I'll go and tell herself you've arrived.'
He carefully chose the only chair that wasn't cluttered and sat down; he noted the décor, the like of which he’d not seen since his great uncle had passed away. As he heard a toilet flush somewhere in the house, a large long haired and unkempt brown dog rushed into the room and shoved its wet nose straight into his groin. As he struggled to push the excited animal away, herself came into the room holding out a wet hand to shake his.
'Bert,' she scolded, 'you should have told him not to sit there.' As he stood from the chair, his backside felt a little damp. Herself continued, ‘his damn cat wet itself there yesterday.' She brushed her hand over the now warm dampness, 'not to worry, nearly dry now. Come on through, sit at the table.'
'Bert! For God’s sake, don’t let the dog do that, it's disgusting at dinner time.'
He was beginning to regret coming, life was better at home, still, perhaps the dinner would be good, I mean they couldn't have reached that age on bad food. 'You're worrying over nothing,' he told himself as he squeezed by the dog that had now transferred it’s attention to twenty quid's worth of M&S chocolates which it eagerly bolted down, complete with wrappers.
What a relief, he needn't have worried; the table was set with bright clean cutlery and crockery. 'I bet they have a dish washer out back,' he thought, thinking further that it was an appliance he had long admired though never bought.
'You sit yourself at the head of the table dear . . . Bert! Throw that damn cat out into the garden.' Herself's tone softened and continued, 'I've already had to change the menu once today, the blessed thing mauled and gummed about the chicken breast I'd taken out of the freezer, try as I might, just couldn't save it I’m afraid . . . we've got sausages now. I take it you like sausages?'
Well this was going to be one novel Christmas dinner, one he'd never dreamed of and nor likely would anyone else. 'Yes, sausages will be fine, are they beef or pork?' he enquired, in as matter of fact tone as he could muster.
'Neither I think,' herself replied, brushing something indescribable off of her apron, 'we got a job lot off a traveller last year, he said they were venison. Could be or could be rabbit or perhaps even cat . . .' she laughed. 'Pity they didn't take Bert's old Fluffy at the same time.'
Candles lit in the table centre added a festive feel to the place, as well as a little warmth and were a welcome insurance against darkness should the electric meter run out.
It was quite a posh set up with the food in large bowls from which you served yourself. 'Don't be shy, get stuck in,' she said, slapping Bert's hand, 'let the gentleman go first, you wait your turn.'
Carefully, trying to take from the middles, he selected small portions of what transpired to be margarine and turnip mash, last year's de-frozen Brussels sprouts, a dark green cabbage with the most unchewable leaves he'd ever encountered and some small roasted potatoes, which actually seemed the best bet there, so he took extras. Bert smiled with pride as he watched his guest load up on roast potatoes, he'd dug them himself. Free they were, growing wild down by the sewage outfall. Must have been dumped at some time then self propagated from then on. Easy to dig too.
Herself lifted the lid on an old enamelled casserole dish to expose several burnt sausages. 'They're nice and well cooked, you can never be too careful with sausages I say,' she put three on his plate, three for Bert and two for herself, saving one for the dog later. 'I told Bert to put them in the fridge but thick that he is, he left them out in a warm kitchen overnight. . . I knew I should have done it myself', she concluded her verbal assassination with a sigh.
As he ate those bits he’d chosen for his plate, that looked almost edible and hacked the burnt crust off the curious tasting sausages, he felt his right foot becoming wet. His first thought was the cat had somehow sneaked back in but looking down, saw that it was the half retching dog, an excess of anticipatory drool flowing steadily from open, chocolate covered jaws to his socks and best suede shoes.
As he thought deeply about the foolishness of accepting this invite, he was shaken out of his mindful solitude by herself saying loudly, 'Eat up, there's plenty more, and I've made my own Christmas pudding, Bert even found some loose change in his pocket to put in there, so if you are lucky you could be going home with more than you came with.'
He felt his tummy rumble and watched as a large flea performed a double somersault on the way from dog to damp sock. 'Yes,' he thought, 'I'm sure you are right there.'
He looked at his watch and with pretence shock, yelled, 'Oh dear, I'm so sorry, is that the time, I just remembered I have to be home for a very important phone call. I'm sorry to dash off; it was really nice, thank you.'
'Would you like me to make up a doggy bag for your tea? Herself asked kindly.
When he graciously declined, she scraped the remaining bits of sausage onto Bert's plate and then placed it on the floor in front of an apparently ravenous brown dog, which in turn was probably feeding a couple of well established tape worms. As he stood in the doorway he watched in stunned silence as herself picked up the spotlessly clean plate from the floor and placed it back on the table. 'There,' she said, 'clean as a whistle and did you know, a dog's saliva is antibacterial. Almost better than a dishwasher Bert says . . and a lot cheaper.'
As he waved his goodbyes to an already closing door he wondered if the doctor's surgery might be running an emergency service, now all he had to do was make it back home and find out.
Happy Christmas.
By the way, what are you doing for dinner?
Divorcee seeks new life.
Smartly dressed, he went a walking,
soon grins he saw, and people talking.
Safe home, all smiles, dream life begun,
unaware, his zip’s undone.
Smartly dressed, he went a walking,
soon grins he saw, and people talking.
Safe home, all smiles, dream life begun,
unaware, his zip’s undone.
Too old for a funeral.
As if his life depended upon, it he rushed to the computer to view the next awe inspiringly important message that the bleeps told him had arrived.
It was Judi, a disappointment. ‘What does she want now?’ he thought.
None the less he read on, you never know your luck do you?
Judi was writing to say her car was indisposed, it had shown an ‘engine failure’ warning on the dash and was now at that awful garage that charges so much for repairs – but it’s near the hairdressers. She couldn’t understand why it had failed as she vacuumed the car every week and paid the Romanian chap once a fortnight to wash and polish it. He knew why it failed – Judi’s mechanical skills ran to fuelling it occasionally and even then needing help to unlock the fuel filler cap. It might have helped if she learned how to use all the gears and operate the clutch fully. Never mind.
Judi needed the use of a car to take a 92 year old to a funeral.
‘It’ll probably be his, knowing her driving.’ he thought. Adding to himself, ‘it won’t be my car she’s using, I’ll ignore that bit.’
He stared blankly at the screen, his mind on funerals. Funerals eh? He’d seen ‘em all. A day dream gently carried him far away to a place and time he'd been before . . . it was Cambridge crematorium, an afternoon funeral . . . he was one of three bearers assisting the funeral director (who happened to be a local builder, as many were in the old days.)
At the foot of the coffin on the right stood himself and on the left, Ray Goodfellow, a short, elderly, some would say refined gentleman and retired carrot factory manager. At the head of the coffin stood Daniel Brutus, a very large man whose own frugal living was made as a minister of some obscure church. As the foot of the coffin was lifted on to the rollers, he could see that Ray was in some sort of distress, he'd stopped moving and was looking downwards. “Are you all right, Ray?” He asked with genuine concern for this old gentleman. Who knows, it could be his heart. Ray was not to answer before big Brutus had lifted the head of the coffin and launched it with awesome force onto the rollers. Even as Ray staggered back, doubled up and twisting away, big Brutus didn't notice anything, he was away somewhere in his own cerebral vacant plot. As Ray recovered somewhat and turned back, the mourners had begun to file in through the open door, the problem was evident first hand. The sharp corner of the coffin had caught in the groin area of the poor man's trousers and Brutus' thought free yet powerful launch had mercilessly ripped off a goodly chunk of our friend Ray’s best suit.
Mourners and bereaved were now close by. It was too late to laugh.
To this day the reverend Daniel Brutus is still no doubt blissfully unaware of his part in Ray's downfall, well his trousers anyway.
The computer bleeped loudly, urgently. Immediately he returned to the land of the living, dealing with yet another urgently un-ignorable and life changing missive from the electronic ether.
Where would we be without it?
As if his life depended upon, it he rushed to the computer to view the next awe inspiringly important message that the bleeps told him had arrived.
It was Judi, a disappointment. ‘What does she want now?’ he thought.
None the less he read on, you never know your luck do you?
Judi was writing to say her car was indisposed, it had shown an ‘engine failure’ warning on the dash and was now at that awful garage that charges so much for repairs – but it’s near the hairdressers. She couldn’t understand why it had failed as she vacuumed the car every week and paid the Romanian chap once a fortnight to wash and polish it. He knew why it failed – Judi’s mechanical skills ran to fuelling it occasionally and even then needing help to unlock the fuel filler cap. It might have helped if she learned how to use all the gears and operate the clutch fully. Never mind.
Judi needed the use of a car to take a 92 year old to a funeral.
‘It’ll probably be his, knowing her driving.’ he thought. Adding to himself, ‘it won’t be my car she’s using, I’ll ignore that bit.’
He stared blankly at the screen, his mind on funerals. Funerals eh? He’d seen ‘em all. A day dream gently carried him far away to a place and time he'd been before . . . it was Cambridge crematorium, an afternoon funeral . . . he was one of three bearers assisting the funeral director (who happened to be a local builder, as many were in the old days.)
At the foot of the coffin on the right stood himself and on the left, Ray Goodfellow, a short, elderly, some would say refined gentleman and retired carrot factory manager. At the head of the coffin stood Daniel Brutus, a very large man whose own frugal living was made as a minister of some obscure church. As the foot of the coffin was lifted on to the rollers, he could see that Ray was in some sort of distress, he'd stopped moving and was looking downwards. “Are you all right, Ray?” He asked with genuine concern for this old gentleman. Who knows, it could be his heart. Ray was not to answer before big Brutus had lifted the head of the coffin and launched it with awesome force onto the rollers. Even as Ray staggered back, doubled up and twisting away, big Brutus didn't notice anything, he was away somewhere in his own cerebral vacant plot. As Ray recovered somewhat and turned back, the mourners had begun to file in through the open door, the problem was evident first hand. The sharp corner of the coffin had caught in the groin area of the poor man's trousers and Brutus' thought free yet powerful launch had mercilessly ripped off a goodly chunk of our friend Ray’s best suit.
Mourners and bereaved were now close by. It was too late to laugh.
To this day the reverend Daniel Brutus is still no doubt blissfully unaware of his part in Ray's downfall, well his trousers anyway.
The computer bleeped loudly, urgently. Immediately he returned to the land of the living, dealing with yet another urgently un-ignorable and life changing missive from the electronic ether.
Where would we be without it?
Maisie the cleaner and Reginald Gummer Esq.
An eternal tale of servant and master.
Maisie was an honest, kindly soul in her early sixties and she worked most diligently as a cleaner for the rich but elderly Reginald Gummer Esq. A long serving and trusted retainer, Maisie, was always left unsupervised in her duties. Now, she must have dusted that big bowl of fruit on the living room table a thousand times, it was only she that ever touched it. Oh, it looked real enough but was made of some wax or plastic. She didn't think her employer ever ate fruit, though it wouldn't do his health any harm if he did, as he sadly seemed to suffer extensively from some virulent tropical gum disease.
Next to the fake bowl of fruit was another bowl, a large glass bowl full of the finest shelled Brazil nuts, real ones. Maisie loved Brazil nuts but they were rather expensive to buy on her meagre earnings and pension. On occasions she would take some of those delectable, crunchy and succulent nuts and eat them while she cleaned. Oh, she did feel guilty about it all right, it wasn't her way. She would rearrange the bowl's tasty contents so it looked like nothing had happened.
One Christmas Eve, telling her he wanted a word with her about her work at the house, Reginald called her sternly through to the kitchen, where he'd just finished gargling a homoeopathic mouth wash made from beetle dung. He handed over a second-hand envelope with something inside. “It's for you,” he said, “for all the kindness you have shown me.”
It was a crisp five pound note. Maisie was racked with guilt, it was so unexpected, she had to confess, her guilt was burning a hole in her conscience, “I'm so sorry Mr Gummer I have to tell you something I have done so wrong. I've been stealing the Brazil nuts from your table. I'm so sorry, can you forgive me?”
Reginald Gummer Esq. fingered out some residual solid matter from his mouthwash and said, “My dear lady, you can have as many as you like, I don't really like them anyway, I only suck the chocolate off.”
Written for a writing group and where the text had to mention a fruit bowl !
An eternal tale of servant and master.
Maisie was an honest, kindly soul in her early sixties and she worked most diligently as a cleaner for the rich but elderly Reginald Gummer Esq. A long serving and trusted retainer, Maisie, was always left unsupervised in her duties. Now, she must have dusted that big bowl of fruit on the living room table a thousand times, it was only she that ever touched it. Oh, it looked real enough but was made of some wax or plastic. She didn't think her employer ever ate fruit, though it wouldn't do his health any harm if he did, as he sadly seemed to suffer extensively from some virulent tropical gum disease.
Next to the fake bowl of fruit was another bowl, a large glass bowl full of the finest shelled Brazil nuts, real ones. Maisie loved Brazil nuts but they were rather expensive to buy on her meagre earnings and pension. On occasions she would take some of those delectable, crunchy and succulent nuts and eat them while she cleaned. Oh, she did feel guilty about it all right, it wasn't her way. She would rearrange the bowl's tasty contents so it looked like nothing had happened.
One Christmas Eve, telling her he wanted a word with her about her work at the house, Reginald called her sternly through to the kitchen, where he'd just finished gargling a homoeopathic mouth wash made from beetle dung. He handed over a second-hand envelope with something inside. “It's for you,” he said, “for all the kindness you have shown me.”
It was a crisp five pound note. Maisie was racked with guilt, it was so unexpected, she had to confess, her guilt was burning a hole in her conscience, “I'm so sorry Mr Gummer I have to tell you something I have done so wrong. I've been stealing the Brazil nuts from your table. I'm so sorry, can you forgive me?”
Reginald Gummer Esq. fingered out some residual solid matter from his mouthwash and said, “My dear lady, you can have as many as you like, I don't really like them anyway, I only suck the chocolate off.”
Written for a writing group and where the text had to mention a fruit bowl !
“Your Government needs you.”
(a one way street; allegedly)
This work of fiction is not based on any persons living or dead and bears no resemblance either to the Government of the day or any broadcasting corporation, past or present.
Some might call this satire, some total fantasy and others cynical, hope you enjoy it anyway !
High up in a plush pent house office suite of Broadcasting House, something rather more foul than normal was about to come home to roost.
“It’s the Home Secretary on the line for you Sir Hugh, he insists that it is most urgent and highly confidential”, explained Bo, Sir Hugh’s long overlooked and undervalued Personal Assistant.”
“Put him through Ms Bo”, replied the totally unqualified executive in chief Sir Hugh ‘Peregrine’ Braggington Havalot as he turned the volume down on his games console. He’d been blessed with inheriting the post when his step cousin, Lord Willy Havemdown the third, an unplanned product of selective inbreeding, died unexpectedly suddenly at a weekend grouse shoot on his boyfriend’s 'not for profit' country estate.
Sir Hugh had earned the nick name ‘peregrine’ due to his accent, purportedly aristocratic background and the elevated position of his office from which he surveyed his prey far down below in the bustling metropolis. He knew nothing of this, in fact, he knew nothing of very much at all.
The primly dressed, sixty year old Ms Bo, Boedica Flabergast, on the other hand was eminently qualified but had been actively ignored for any further promotion. Basically she was too clever and always posed a potential threat to the dim witted who had normally found their promotion surprisingly easy. Despite having unstintingly worked her little ice-blue cotton socks off for over forty years at the Corporation, she was now fated to work until sixty seven before even being entitled to a pension. She had seen many a senior executive retire much younger on various and nefarious grounds, usually incompetence, and still receive an impressive life pension and a mind boggling golden handshake. Something, along with the entire working population of the country, she could never fathom. Failure seemed to have its own peculiar rewards.
Oh, they had fobbed her off with their plausible excuses; when she was young and enthusiastic they needed someone more experienced, more mature; when she was older and more experienced they decided they needed someone younger, someone more daring, not institutionalised.
‘Institutionalised?’ To Boedica’s keenly observant mind most of the senior staff at the Corporation should be sectioned and living in one and they soon would be too, if she ever had her way.
“Ah, Hugh, old boy,” came the Home Secretary’s plum in the mouth Etonian voice, (no pun intended), “just thought I’d let you know about a new super bonus scheme we are pushing through the lobbies to advantage our finest and most loyal public servants such as your good self. Just thought I’d keep you in the loop for old time’s sake, you know. Well that’s it old boy, you must come to dinner some time, bring the little woman if she insists. . . . Oh, I almost forgot, we need you to do the Government a small favour, keep us out of the news for a day or two . . . find something else, something exciting that doesn’t mention the government at all, almost like we are on a different planet.”
Boedica controlled a snort and silently concurred that the Government might as well be on another planet for all the good they did. She then gently, with a skill that can only come with extensive practice, replaced the receiver. Forty years working among the gaily self centred cunning of senior executives had taught her a good few tricks and her pension would be graciously enhanced by sales of her memoirs, an expose of the inept, corrupt and insane that ruled the country over four decades.
Sir Hugh replaced the receiver, slowly, deep in thought about the important information that had just been shared with him and possibly him alone by the illustrious Home Secretary himself . . . bonuses eh? Super bonuses! Then he remembered that there was something else the Home Secretary had mentioned – ah yes, a good news story with no Government interference . . . or was it no Government mention? No matter, Sir Hugh was a very powerful man, even if short of a full set of working neurons he had handfuls of old school chums who still maintained influential positions in the establishment and often in no small measure due to Sir Hugh’s continuing mutual discretion.
As he pictured himself draped in plush ermine and dozing peacefully in the cosy ambience of the House of Lords, he pondered on the possibilities of the Government’s dilemma . . . the one on which they didn’t want any publicity.
“What could it be?” he wondered, mentally thumbing through a long list of as yet unpublicised possibilities, “perhaps the clerical error that resulted in the long overdue and over budget new aircraft carrier being named ‘HMS Hopeless’? . . . or the old boy’s network think tank pontificating on making being gay compulsory ? . . . or worse still, having sold off the people’s coal, oil, gas, water, forests, electricity, steel, fishing quotas and fracking rights under people’s homes to foreign powers, (in order to fund foreign aid schemes and keep the USA congress contented by buying Trident), perhaps it was the latest draft treasury plans to tax the air we breathe. It would be funded by private finance initiatives and allow for generous shareholder dividends. There would be exceptions naturally. . . the dead of course, pensioners and people in comas would be on reduced rates while athletes and the like (the obese of the air breathing population) would pay a premium super rate. Mmm, could be any one of numerous faux pas,” muttered Sir Hugh as he picked up the telephone. As he lifted the receiver to his one good ear he heard a slight noise, “must get this phone looked at, always get a clicking on it, could be MI5,” he mumbled.
Ms Bo knew better!
“Get me Genghis, the news desk editor at once Ms Bo”, he snapped without even the faintest pretence of politeness. Politeness wasn’t something he needed in his high social circles where, like buzzards, they were immune from the riffraff far below. Sir Hugh's old school house tie, Buzzard House he was in, featured circling buzzards over an injured Wilderbeast, symbolic of aspiring beyond the working class masses, waiting until they are too weak to fight back.
“Please note that Genghis is only an inter departmental nick name Sir Hugh, you want David Carn . . . I’ll put you through straight away,” thinking how popular her memoirs will eventually be with an entire assortment of people from named executives to unknown riff-raff, she smiled the smile she would have had long ago had life and the Corporation been more kind to her.
“Ah good, Carn, drop everything, put a hold on anything currently newsworthy about the Government and get yourself up here to my office . . . now!” Sir Hugh had made a start, he put his games console in his desk drawer and stared at his office door impatiently, ‘where was that idiot Carn?’
A cautious knock heralded the arrival of one David 'Genghis' Carn, a man sharing absolutely no characteristics with his namesake, a nervous twitchy sop like man whose indiscretions in the news room had been instrumental in his rapid promotion beyond his level of competence. Knowledge of his sexual adventures with various vegetables in the Corporation's staff canteen commanded total loyalty from him, whatever the task he was set. A big mortgage, his wife being a psychiatrist and the fear of some unpleasant years in a specially selected prison saw to that.
“Come on in Carn, come in, sit down and listen carefully”, shouted Sir Hugh, he'd never liked Carn . . . he'd gone to a state school like had that awful Bo woman. Sir Hugh was of the opinion that such factory fodder should never be trusted and must always be kept in their place.
Genghis sat timidly, crossing his legs, staring at Sir Hugh's vast empty desk top and fumbled with his fingers. “Right, Carn, got a job for you, we need to run a great news story over the next few days that doesn't mention politicians or the government of the day. . . got it? said Sir Hugh, leaning forward and wiping little bits of talking spit off his highly polished Amazonian hardwood desk. He was fond of his desk, not likely to get another like this one. . . made from illegally sourced and virtually extinct timber it was.
“Th..th.. there's nothing m..m..much happening I'm afraid,” stammered a terrified Genghis, he'd never liked Sir Hugh and had a great distrust of any one who didn't go to a proper school, a state school. God alone knows what went on in those hoity toity private establishments, and even God can't bear to look. Genghis feared being drawn into the Public school elite circles . . . his wife's tales of Public school related clients were enough to make him keep his distance . . . they weren't the sort of friends he wanted. “What about something foreign? A sex scandal? Bank corruption?” continued Genghis.
Sir Hugh's white knuckled fist thumped the desk, “I told you dopey, nothing to do with the Government. What's wrong with you man?” snarled the man in charge of the country's impartial face of freedom of the press. “I have a plan of my own . . . the weather. People like to hear about the weather. Make it a snow storm on its way. Get that incompetent weather bloke out of retirement and get him to tell the people about an impending Arctic storm that will paralyse the country. Do a news item on looking after the frail and buying in food while they still can. One day we do the warning, the next day we do the weather and on the third day we apologise. It won't be our fault; we'll blame the environment agency and the Met office, plus initiating a grand public sacking of the idiot weather man. There you are, easy, all sorted . . . now get on with it”.
“B..b..but Sir Hugh, the weather is fine, the only snow is in Scotland, some remote village somewhere in the Craggygorms or something. . . “ stuttered a confused Genghis. Even he knew this was a daft idea.
“You leave the met office and the EA to me; you'll soon have enough storm warnings to wallpaper the building. Get that pretty blonde reporter to go to where ever that snow is, you know the one I mean, the bimbo with the big boobs, everybody likes her. Send her with a select team in the Corporation Helicopter immediately and explain that her entire career depends on making this look like an ice age Armageddon. Go!”
His plan beginning to take shape and a couple of e mails later to contacts in the departments that would make it work, Sir Hugh reached for his calculator and began to work out his expenses for when he became a Lord. As he pondered over the cost of duck houses and business lunches in the Seychelles, the phone rang. It was that fool Genghis again, though Ms Bo always introduced him by his proper name and title, “Yes, what is it now Carn”, snapped an impatient Sir Hugh as he watched his calculator time out and fade.
“It's the hell..hell..helicopter Sir Hugh. It's r..r..run out of airworthy service time, if you remember we c..c..cut its budget to allow for a big party this Christmas,” explained a reluctant David 'Genghis' Carn, listening intensely for the shot that would kill the messenger.
“Right, get this Carn and get it good. Tell the bloody pilot if he ever wants to work again then he's to fly the bloody thing to Scotland, tell him that! If the bloody thing crashes all the better, we'll have a better story than a bit of isolated snow... ‘pretty, pregnant, single young reporter on drugs dies while running away with perverted drunken pilot in stolen helicopter etc’ . . . but don't tell him that bit, dopey!” Sir Hugh slammed down the receiver and tried to retrieve his expenses data from the calculator.
Ms Boadica Flabbergast winced and held her ear as she slowly replaced the receiver. . . this was wonderful stuff, she could see chapter eleven of her book being read by Sir Hugh himself. . . as he served out at least ten years at her majesty's pleasure.
Meanwhile, somewhere deep in the Craggygorms at the little snowbound village of Glen Invergrumpy, the post lady was conveying a telegram to the sheep farmer who ran the airfield. “Better move they sheep off the runway McTaggart, they'll no be long frae London by helicopter,” she advised.
McTaggart called into one of his barns where he allowed several East Europeans to live, in return for various labours and favours. . . they were a lot cheaper than locals for sure. Handing out shovels and with some hand signals of his own invention he soon had them clearing snow from the runway. A lot of it was swept into the cattle grid half way along the airstrip, “It'll take the bumps out of it for sure,” he thought, as he and his dog Wallace, a huge Rotweiller-Collie cross, (cross being the habitually operative word) drove the nervous and unbranded sheep into the worker's barn, “save heating that, them sheep'll keep 'em warm for sure”. Wallace was fully trained, in what exactly we may never know but an English accent would trigger his hackles to rise and lips curl back in a terrifying display of well used bone crushers. He wasn’t called Wallace for nothing.
The Corporation 'select' team consisted of Rob 'mad marine' Oakes, whose time in the SAS had seen him fly helicopters with a lot less than some silly airworthiness certificate; pretty blonde Samantha Wilfershore the sex symbol of the Corporation and who had created more unusable out-takes from interviews than any one else in history; Nigel Yorner, a forty something divorcee from Cornwall on sound . . . and a fair variety of anti depressants too; finally young and spotty Skunk 'Spielberg' Harrison, the only cameraman willing to join the expedition and who had inherited a wild sense of adventure from his commune parents . . . that and a mild and intermittent dose of schizophrenia.
McTaggart had only just cleared his 'volunteers' off the runway and out of sight in their barn when the helicopter skimmed snow off the nearby hill and swept engine screaming into the valley at just over thistle height, Rob's eyes were open wide with excitement as he relived an attack on a mountain outpost he’d been somewhere in the world . . . he was never quite sure where it was, at one time he thought it might have been Wales. As he slewed the chopper into what looked like a hand brake turn and a dead stop the contents of the helicopter were thrown to one side . . . eyes all firmly closed with fear.
Before the rotors had stopped turning, Rob 'mad marine' Oakes had his platoon disembarked and running to the field perimeter complete with what little baggage they had for an over nighter. McTaggart directed them to his garden shed which doubled as the airfield customs and immigration terminal.
“Papers please”, he asked holding out his hand which received an arctic stare from Rob and a warm and pretty handshake from Samantha, “Oh well, never mind the papers, we can always do that silly stuff later,” said the now grinning and newly besotted McTaggart. Skunk gave him a suspicious look but still managed to get a few frames shot . . . you never know when the ordinary will become the extra ordinary. 'Be prepared' had been his motto ever since being thrown out of the boy scouts for selling naughty photos to his pals.
“You'll no doubt all be booked in at the village pub, just down the lane about half a mile. You can't miss it, it has a laquered stuffed sheep for a swinging sign by the car park. . . it's called the Merry Shepherd, lovely place, peat fire, great whiskey . . . home grown as they say . . . nod nod. . . May see more of you in there later,” said McTaggart, still reluctant to take his eyes off Samantha.
Rob was already on his second pint when they joined him in the bar.
The landlady was also a McTaggart, second cousin by marriage it was alleged, a fine, burly but secretive woman who'd at one time held ambitions for the Olympic shot put event but had unfortunately damaged her shoulder in a poaching accident while wrestling a full grown stag to the ground.
Skunk checked his camera, yes; he'd managed a good few frames of the pub and its fearsome landlady. He was pleased with the footage already so far obtained, the crazed eyes of the demoniacal pilot, the staring eyes of McTaggart the airfield controller, the burning, fearsome crushing eyes of the landlady and lots of furtive glimpses of Samantha, ‘yes it was going well’, he told his other self, who for a rare change was actually listening.
The team settled in for the night, well fed on lamb stew and potatoes and well plied with spirits courtesy of some anonymous benefactor. Samantha retired early so as to try on her white leather one piece ski suit and practice her lines in front of the mirror, a suspicious looking bit of furniture screwed to the wall of her bedroom. Farmer McTaggart watched with interest from the other side.
The rest of the team were watching the TV and hardly believing what was being said on the news. . . “Amber alert across the country . . . only essential travel advised . . . check on old people. . . prepare for power failure, etc etc“ Having flown over the entire country on the way to Glen Invergrumpy and seen not one single snow flake on the way they wondered what on earth was going on.
“Perhaps it's a repeat”, said Nigel, “98% of transmissions are repeats . . . I reckon I've seen 'em all. Anyway that's the weather geezer that got the sack for misinforming the nation about some great storm. Just shows . . . there's some glimmer of hope for all of us,” he concluded in a depressed and without any hope at all voice.
Back in London all was well. The retired weather idiot had been wheeled out and done his stuff. They'd told him it was a documentary about great weather men of the 21st century; that, a free taxi ride, 200 quid cash in hand and a crate of stout was all he needed. He was going to be famous again and didn't he know it!
Sir Hugh had by now made all his necessary important and highly confidential phone calls, including one to the Home Secretary to tell him, “Whatever it is you never asked me to do has been done. I'll say no more”, at the same time thinking, 'Actually I don't know any more . . . best kept that way I reckon. What you don’t know, you can’t be blamed for.” He'd also watched climatic Armageddon being prophesied on the main news which was followed by a genuine news flash about riots and food looting in two major cities, fuelled by panic about the impending great storm. Rival channels, fearing they had somehow missed something important, repeated the warnings without any corroborating evidence though still managed to over emphasise blame on the Corporation for causing the riots.
Sir Hugh smirked a Lordly smirk, it was better than he'd anticipated, the news was filled to the gunwales but without any mention of Government at all, a resounding success. He'd also naively asked Ms Bo to check over his expenses claims which had taken him nearly all afternoon to create. She did check them. . . and then made a photo-copy for herself, “Appendix Expenses Scandals”, she thought.
They all went to bed that night with a collection of their own dreams . . . none of them shared, Ms Bo was fighting off publishers and paparazzi and Sir Hugh, I mean Lord Hugh of Cambria, was making his maiden speech in a packed house of lords to rapturous applause from all sides. Ah, dreams eh?
It was fine morning that saw a bright Sun shining over the Merry Shepherd Pub and saw Rob 'mad marine' Oakes checking out the bruises on his arms, the only trophies from a late night arm wresting competition with the landlady. Skunk had already been busy with his camera, including catching a furtive Farmer McTaggart tip toeing along the landing late last night. Skunk was determined that both of him would make it to the top one day . . . by some means or another, by tenacity, skill and innovation . . . or perhaps, simply blackmail. Skunk also had some great infra red night shots of a light aircraft landing at the field and some posh looking geezers with brief cases and what appeared to be gorilla like bodyguards making their way down the lane to a big house at the far end of the village. Skunk never did do much sleeping, except for Saturday mornings; after all he was still quite young.
Up at the big house, a large clandestine holiday property owned by the Government and used mainly by members of the cabinet for various deviant pleasures under the auspices of 'Wild Nature Adventures', important discussions were afoot. The Home Secretary himself was there along with the Foreign Secretary, various civil servants, someone's old school chum, a cleaning lady in the basement sleeping off half the drinks cabinet and a few sheep fanciers. They were there to do a private and friendly deal with representatives from an oil rich ex-communist country with whom they were publicly definitely not friendly. It was essential to maintain secrecy, hence the 'request' to the Corporation for non political news and so far all was going well, they were as oblivious to the Corporation team's presence at the Merry Shepherd as the team were to the Government presence at the big house. The foreign representatives were reticent about speaking inside the house, they suspected listening devices and the like. . . the like of which they would have done had the tables been reversed. They insisted upon walking in the low dry stone walled grounds of the big house. Anyway, they were used to the cold and took no small pleasure in seeing the port reddened faces of the home diplomats shivering in the weak sunshine.
Meanwhile back at the Merry Shepherd it was breakfast time. As McTaggart the landlady dollopped out great ladles of salted porridge for each of her guests she attracted an admiring glance from Rob the mad marine and an understanding analytical gaze from Nigel who now felt he understood why she was built like she was. Skunk had already finished his bowlful in the time it took Samantha to wipe mirror clean the dirty spoon and peer into it at her reflection. Even in that she still looked alluringly pretty.
“I tak it ye'll all be having the Merry Shepherd's big yin”, McTaggart the landlady asked, although it sounded more like a command.
“And what's that when it's at home Ms McTaggart?” asked a curious yet still sensibly cautious Nigel.
McTaggart pointed one of her huge sausage fingers at the menu board where it proclaimed, “Satisfaction guaranteed with the Merry Shepherd's Big One – full breakfast, 2 lamb chops, 3 bacon rashers, 3 eggs, home made black pudding, chips and beans. £5.95”.
Samantha shuddered a little, count her out of that, she had a figure to watch.
The three men almost instinctively opted for the breakfast and contented themselves with watching someone else's figure. Nigel and Skunk watched Samantha's and Rob watched that fine feminine prop forward figure of a landlady, he’d not seen anyone built like that since stalking Silverbacks in western Africa.
Negotiations were progressing well back in the chilly gardens of the big house, it wasn't only oil that lubricated, when it came to the wheels of government, money did that. . . usually lots of it and often to be found, or rather not found, secreted in the bulging coffers of some off shore tax haven.
Senior negotiator, Vladimir Krushemovski, known as Vlad the impaler in government circles, walked close to the home secretary, known as the smiling assassin in foreign circles, “as long as the people do not find out, all will be good. What about your famous investigative newspapers and their teams of illegal hackers? Are we safe?”
The Home Secretary smiled one of his now well publicised and practised smiles, “they all have their price, they are more interested in making money than truth. We keep them out of prison. . . they keep us out of the papers. They are loyal supporters and share a common dream . . . that of seeing their names in the new years honours list.”
“Crikey ! What the hell . . .“ interrupted the Foreign Secretary, grabbing the Home Secretary’s shoulder and pointing towards a man about a hundred yards away on the other side of the wall. The intruder was also pointing with something they couldn’t quite make out . . . their way.
In a flash the foreign body guards had knocked them all to the ground behind the wall. As they crawled below the wall and out of sight through mud and goat droppings back to the house they discussed how to deal with the situation. “I can have MI5 find him and have him sectioned under the mental health act. . . who ever it is he won't ever bother us again,” cursed the Home Secretary, whose only other experience at crawling had been first as a baby and later when he wanted the cabinet job.
Vladimir calmly, as though it wasn't at all his first experience in such matters, suggested that they let Big Otto deal with him and they would drop the body out of their plane into the sea on their way home. Big Otto's eyes twitched and he felt his pockets for the 9mm. . . or should he perhaps use the bayonet. . . perhaps the garrote? Ah, choices, choices, he loved them all.
Having returned to the house they dried their mud covered knees by the fire and a touch more sanity ruled once more. After all, nobody knew they were here, it was a secret location and the media were already firmly in their pockets, along with their dirty hankies and some small change. They concluded that it was probably only one of the villagers out bird spotting. Yes that was more like it; a lot of fuss over nothing. Documents and bank account details were exchanged and the guests prepared as best they could for departure, phoning ahead to have clean clothes brought out to the plane on their return to the motherland. There was no desire to convey an image that the ambassadors had in any way been on their knees begging.
At the big house, they remained blissfully unaware of the Corporation's news team and talented film crew ensconced just a few hundred yards away in the Merry Shepherd.
The news team made their way back to the airfield where there was still at least a heap of snow, that is, all except Rob who’d stayed behind to help McTaggart the landlady who had promised him a look at her gun, gin trap and old bones collection. Skunk, with his truly amazing skills at special effects and making the camera lie, took some sweeping shots of a blizzard torn valley, then one of Samantha, sweeping along pristine white leather from foot to blue eyes. Samantha did her thing with the over the shoulder smile at the camera and rambled on in her soft seductive voice some inane drivel about snow and imminent Armadillos. No one would notice what she said anyway. While zooming in close for an eye shot Skunk saw people running in the reflection, this was a money shot as they called it in the trade; this was the stuff that made good cameramen truly great. He would be investigating more when he had the chance. “That’s a wrap for now Sam,” said Skunk, “how about sound Nigel, okay?”
“Eh? What’s that?” asked Nigel, who for a sound man was rarely listening, “Oh, yeah, lovely, lovely voice, and even got some sheep baaing in the distance makes it really rural.” As if Invergrumpy, one of the most remote places in the country, could be anything but.
“Right, all back to the pub ready for lunch and I’ll send the edited copy back to base by satellite,” enthused a very hyper Skunk who not only had exciting plans but wondered if the satellite system actually stretched to the Craggygorms.
The reflection in Sam’s eyes of people running had revealed the two cabinet ministers, a couple of civil servants and the foreign visitors making for McTaggart’s alien holiday barn. They’d suddenly spotted the camera crew up at the airfield and decided that discretion was the better part of valour and certainly better than Big Otto’s plan to eliminate them all, taking their bodies home to his brother’s highly profitable organic pig farm.
They hid in the barn, in the quiet and the dark, not knowing much about who or what was in there. It was quiet but for the heavy breathing of nervous sheep and even more nervous illegal immigrants, some of whom thought they recognised Big Otto from wanted posters back home. On finding the coast was clear and covertly slipping Farmer McTaggart, the airfield controller, a wad of notes and a bottle of 80% proof special Vodka they made their way to the plane. Once airborne it slipped unnoticed under the radar and headed east. All had gone so well, a hero’s welcome awaited; of course, any failure would have been most unpleasant in so many awful ways that decorum prevents the author from elucidating further. Their five hour flight was full of joy, vodka and grand dreams of a beautiful future. They almost salivated with anticipation of their hero’s welcome.
Not so long after all this had transpired, Sir Hugh was informed by David Carn that his snow Armageddon feature was ready to roll out on the main mid day news, ‘would he like to pop down to the news room to watch it go out?’
“Well done at last Carn, yes, I’m on my way down, if this works out there’ll be a little in it for all of us,” smarmed a sneakily happy Sir Hugh, thinking and chuckling at the same time, ”yes, Ermine for me and a couple of years in Parkhurst for you”. He pushed his games console into the drawer and made his way to the lift.
Sir Hugh, David Carn and the news controllers gathered behind the glass that separated the news reader from outside interference. “We’ve called in our top news broadcaster, one of the old school, great voice, very capable, can roll with the punches . . . “ spoke the lead controller being interrupted by an impatient Sir Hugh, “yes, yes, just get on with it”, he said curtly, taking a note of the controller’s name for the redundancy list he was working on.
The news credits rolled and the camera zoomed in to the steady face of truth and sturdy voice of justice, Damian ‘Benedict Arnold’ Moronham; “Welcome to the mid day news. Today our main story is the chaos caused by the snow storms that have swept and paralysed the country.” Damian couldn’t hide a slight look of puzzlement on his face, ‘what snow’, he thought, ‘am I being set up here? Is it a, you’ve been framed sketch?’ From this point on Damien’s suspicions were going to influence what and how he spoke. “We sent a news team to cover one of the worst hit areas in the country, the Craggygorms.” Again Damien sensed something not quite right, I mean, where the hell were the Craggygorms when they were at home? “But first we have some footage shot during last night’s riots and food looting caused by a fear of shortages during the storm. Over to our outside broadcast team in one of our major cities.”
There followed a few minutes of burnt out shops in seemingly snow free streets. The usual diatribe was wheeled out by the various factions of councillors, shopkeepers, police, the odd passer by and the occasional masked looter with name changed to protect his identity. It was nothing that Damien hadn’t heard before, but where was the bloody snow?
Camera light back on Damien, he continued with no small amount of suspicion in his voice, “thank you for that and now to our main feature with the lovely Samantha out in the snow in the popular tourist resort of Glen Invergrumpy, apparently the airport was only kept open by the heroic efforts of the residents using hand shovels . . . an amazing story, let’s go to the report . . .”
As the footage sent by Skunk 'Spielberg' Harrison began to play, Damien’s suspicions grew. If Glen Invergrumpy had an airport and was a tourist destination, then why in all his years had he not heard of it. He decided that he would go along with whatever the programmer wanted and consult legal advice later . . . it could be an earner for him.
“Ah, that’s better,” said Sir Hugh turning to the big monitor and seeing a big picture of blizzards and that pretty blonde bimbo woman. He didn’t care what she was droning on about, that leather ski suit was a nice touch though . . . then something horrible went inexplicably through his mind, not sure what had caused an image of a sheep hanging from a sign meant, he looked around at several other puzzled faces. It was the first of many subliminal messages that Skunk had inserted into the news piece. He had plans to be great one day, both of him. Scenes depicting snow, cattle grids, a helicopter, Samantha’s pretty face and various bits of her anatomy dressed in white leather were interspersed with very brief glimpses of other things; Things like men looking over a wall then ducking down, a woman built like a gorilla and wearing a kilt, some mad crazed staring eyes, a grubby looking man that looked like a farmer and more. The images were only fleeting and never on long enough to clearly see who was who.
“What the hell is going on Carn”, snarled a by now fuming Sir Hugh.
Carn snapped some orders at the controllers, who quickly rewound and freeze framed the subliminal images. “There’s loads of them sir, looks like they run all the way through.”
“Bloody stop the thing man,” screamed Sir Hugh.
“No can do”, replied the bemused controller, “we use computers to generate the signal, some clever bastard has built in some sort of over ride, we can’t do anything but let it run its course then make some comment about technical errors. That’s what we normally do.”
Damien had got the picture in more ways than one and began distancing himself from the report, despite the intermittent begging and threatening that was raging in his earpiece, “We appear to be experiencing technical interference beyond our control.”
The report continued, transmitting to the nation and beyond. Then came a longer intermission, this time it stayed long enough to see who it was. “God, isn’t that the Home Secretary? Blurted out Carn as an image of a number of men all with mud on their knees standing amongst a flock of clearly disturbed sheep came up on screen. “That’s the Foreign Secretary too”, he continued.
“Perhaps that big bloke with the 9 mm pistol made them do it,” suggested the controller.
As their bulging disbelieving eyes became accustomed to the dark image of the barn it became apparent that the sick swine were performing to an audience, there being dozens of silent awe struck faces staring on from the straw bales at the back of the barn.
“No wonder the Government wanted to be kept out of the news,“ thought Sir Hugh as he made for home, he didn’t want to get involved in this mess, time to take a short holiday.
Damien couldn’t wait to make his way home too but not until he’d started a law suit to protect his image . . . and perhaps make a few bob on the way.
**
For three days the news was filled with speculation and denials then lucky for the Government something else cropped up to take the attention. An Orang-utan had given birth to quadruplets in a laboratory experiment to solve the imminent extinction of the species; it was sponsored by the big Palm Oil conglomerate Grabitall Inc. Such wonderful news gave the Government a brief respite.
**
Addendum:-
A few months later, the Government was overthrown in a landslide victory for anyone but them.
Sir Hugh ‘Peregrine’ Braggington Havalot was retired on a huge bonus and elevated to the Lords by the incoming coalition. His dream of sleeping in ermine and dreaming of expenses came true.
Ms Bo, Boedica Flabergast was offered a multi million contract for the sole rights to her memoirs. As part of the conditions she was to write more books from a gift cottage in St Kilda. None of her work ever saw light of day, nor did she.
Rob 'mad marine' Oakes moved to the Merry Shepherd to woo the landlady and lived happy ever after.
Nigel Yorner was over his depression, why should he be depressed once he’d seen what a total mess everyone else was in, he went on to be a successful stand up comic doing the pubs and clubs of Landsofgrotty.
Skunk 'Spielberg' Harrison took up a fantastic offer to produce and direct an epic foreign film set in the east at an organic pig farm. He may be gone for some while.
Pretty blonde Samantha Wilfershore remained blissfully unaware of anything that was going on, anywhere, and was promoted to political editor of News Tripe the Corporation’s flagship daily news magazine programme.
David 'Genghis' Carn was made redundant and once no longer associated with the Corporation was arrested, convicted and now serving four years in Dartmoor.
McTaggart the farmer started a tourism business and made a small fortune from guided tours and cafes all run by very economical employees with foreign accents and wearing sheep costumes. A speciality trip was to spend a night in the infamous barn itself. A small gift shop sold miniature stuffed sheep pub signs, and lots of sheep oriented cheap gifts.
Wallace the Rotweiller-Collie cross found himself enjoying spells of the well fed good life at a stud farm for the guard dog industry.
After the Government set up an inquiry into finding a panel to examine what should be the scope of any investigation, preferably taking so long that the guilty would have died of old age by then, the third inquiry decided it was too complex and should be considered for a public inquiry at the Home Secretary’s discretion.
The disgraced Home Secretary and Foreign Secretary were both sentenced to ten years for various unmentionable crimes but simply served six months, just long enough to write a best selling novel each before being released. They now work as substantially paid consultants to the new Government. Who knows, if they do well, they may be wearing ermine one day too. You’ll often see them on the telly.
How did you do out of it?
(a one way street; allegedly)
This work of fiction is not based on any persons living or dead and bears no resemblance either to the Government of the day or any broadcasting corporation, past or present.
Some might call this satire, some total fantasy and others cynical, hope you enjoy it anyway !
High up in a plush pent house office suite of Broadcasting House, something rather more foul than normal was about to come home to roost.
“It’s the Home Secretary on the line for you Sir Hugh, he insists that it is most urgent and highly confidential”, explained Bo, Sir Hugh’s long overlooked and undervalued Personal Assistant.”
“Put him through Ms Bo”, replied the totally unqualified executive in chief Sir Hugh ‘Peregrine’ Braggington Havalot as he turned the volume down on his games console. He’d been blessed with inheriting the post when his step cousin, Lord Willy Havemdown the third, an unplanned product of selective inbreeding, died unexpectedly suddenly at a weekend grouse shoot on his boyfriend’s 'not for profit' country estate.
Sir Hugh had earned the nick name ‘peregrine’ due to his accent, purportedly aristocratic background and the elevated position of his office from which he surveyed his prey far down below in the bustling metropolis. He knew nothing of this, in fact, he knew nothing of very much at all.
The primly dressed, sixty year old Ms Bo, Boedica Flabergast, on the other hand was eminently qualified but had been actively ignored for any further promotion. Basically she was too clever and always posed a potential threat to the dim witted who had normally found their promotion surprisingly easy. Despite having unstintingly worked her little ice-blue cotton socks off for over forty years at the Corporation, she was now fated to work until sixty seven before even being entitled to a pension. She had seen many a senior executive retire much younger on various and nefarious grounds, usually incompetence, and still receive an impressive life pension and a mind boggling golden handshake. Something, along with the entire working population of the country, she could never fathom. Failure seemed to have its own peculiar rewards.
Oh, they had fobbed her off with their plausible excuses; when she was young and enthusiastic they needed someone more experienced, more mature; when she was older and more experienced they decided they needed someone younger, someone more daring, not institutionalised.
‘Institutionalised?’ To Boedica’s keenly observant mind most of the senior staff at the Corporation should be sectioned and living in one and they soon would be too, if she ever had her way.
“Ah, Hugh, old boy,” came the Home Secretary’s plum in the mouth Etonian voice, (no pun intended), “just thought I’d let you know about a new super bonus scheme we are pushing through the lobbies to advantage our finest and most loyal public servants such as your good self. Just thought I’d keep you in the loop for old time’s sake, you know. Well that’s it old boy, you must come to dinner some time, bring the little woman if she insists. . . . Oh, I almost forgot, we need you to do the Government a small favour, keep us out of the news for a day or two . . . find something else, something exciting that doesn’t mention the government at all, almost like we are on a different planet.”
Boedica controlled a snort and silently concurred that the Government might as well be on another planet for all the good they did. She then gently, with a skill that can only come with extensive practice, replaced the receiver. Forty years working among the gaily self centred cunning of senior executives had taught her a good few tricks and her pension would be graciously enhanced by sales of her memoirs, an expose of the inept, corrupt and insane that ruled the country over four decades.
Sir Hugh replaced the receiver, slowly, deep in thought about the important information that had just been shared with him and possibly him alone by the illustrious Home Secretary himself . . . bonuses eh? Super bonuses! Then he remembered that there was something else the Home Secretary had mentioned – ah yes, a good news story with no Government interference . . . or was it no Government mention? No matter, Sir Hugh was a very powerful man, even if short of a full set of working neurons he had handfuls of old school chums who still maintained influential positions in the establishment and often in no small measure due to Sir Hugh’s continuing mutual discretion.
As he pictured himself draped in plush ermine and dozing peacefully in the cosy ambience of the House of Lords, he pondered on the possibilities of the Government’s dilemma . . . the one on which they didn’t want any publicity.
“What could it be?” he wondered, mentally thumbing through a long list of as yet unpublicised possibilities, “perhaps the clerical error that resulted in the long overdue and over budget new aircraft carrier being named ‘HMS Hopeless’? . . . or the old boy’s network think tank pontificating on making being gay compulsory ? . . . or worse still, having sold off the people’s coal, oil, gas, water, forests, electricity, steel, fishing quotas and fracking rights under people’s homes to foreign powers, (in order to fund foreign aid schemes and keep the USA congress contented by buying Trident), perhaps it was the latest draft treasury plans to tax the air we breathe. It would be funded by private finance initiatives and allow for generous shareholder dividends. There would be exceptions naturally. . . the dead of course, pensioners and people in comas would be on reduced rates while athletes and the like (the obese of the air breathing population) would pay a premium super rate. Mmm, could be any one of numerous faux pas,” muttered Sir Hugh as he picked up the telephone. As he lifted the receiver to his one good ear he heard a slight noise, “must get this phone looked at, always get a clicking on it, could be MI5,” he mumbled.
Ms Bo knew better!
“Get me Genghis, the news desk editor at once Ms Bo”, he snapped without even the faintest pretence of politeness. Politeness wasn’t something he needed in his high social circles where, like buzzards, they were immune from the riffraff far below. Sir Hugh's old school house tie, Buzzard House he was in, featured circling buzzards over an injured Wilderbeast, symbolic of aspiring beyond the working class masses, waiting until they are too weak to fight back.
“Please note that Genghis is only an inter departmental nick name Sir Hugh, you want David Carn . . . I’ll put you through straight away,” thinking how popular her memoirs will eventually be with an entire assortment of people from named executives to unknown riff-raff, she smiled the smile she would have had long ago had life and the Corporation been more kind to her.
“Ah good, Carn, drop everything, put a hold on anything currently newsworthy about the Government and get yourself up here to my office . . . now!” Sir Hugh had made a start, he put his games console in his desk drawer and stared at his office door impatiently, ‘where was that idiot Carn?’
A cautious knock heralded the arrival of one David 'Genghis' Carn, a man sharing absolutely no characteristics with his namesake, a nervous twitchy sop like man whose indiscretions in the news room had been instrumental in his rapid promotion beyond his level of competence. Knowledge of his sexual adventures with various vegetables in the Corporation's staff canteen commanded total loyalty from him, whatever the task he was set. A big mortgage, his wife being a psychiatrist and the fear of some unpleasant years in a specially selected prison saw to that.
“Come on in Carn, come in, sit down and listen carefully”, shouted Sir Hugh, he'd never liked Carn . . . he'd gone to a state school like had that awful Bo woman. Sir Hugh was of the opinion that such factory fodder should never be trusted and must always be kept in their place.
Genghis sat timidly, crossing his legs, staring at Sir Hugh's vast empty desk top and fumbled with his fingers. “Right, Carn, got a job for you, we need to run a great news story over the next few days that doesn't mention politicians or the government of the day. . . got it? said Sir Hugh, leaning forward and wiping little bits of talking spit off his highly polished Amazonian hardwood desk. He was fond of his desk, not likely to get another like this one. . . made from illegally sourced and virtually extinct timber it was.
“Th..th.. there's nothing m..m..much happening I'm afraid,” stammered a terrified Genghis, he'd never liked Sir Hugh and had a great distrust of any one who didn't go to a proper school, a state school. God alone knows what went on in those hoity toity private establishments, and even God can't bear to look. Genghis feared being drawn into the Public school elite circles . . . his wife's tales of Public school related clients were enough to make him keep his distance . . . they weren't the sort of friends he wanted. “What about something foreign? A sex scandal? Bank corruption?” continued Genghis.
Sir Hugh's white knuckled fist thumped the desk, “I told you dopey, nothing to do with the Government. What's wrong with you man?” snarled the man in charge of the country's impartial face of freedom of the press. “I have a plan of my own . . . the weather. People like to hear about the weather. Make it a snow storm on its way. Get that incompetent weather bloke out of retirement and get him to tell the people about an impending Arctic storm that will paralyse the country. Do a news item on looking after the frail and buying in food while they still can. One day we do the warning, the next day we do the weather and on the third day we apologise. It won't be our fault; we'll blame the environment agency and the Met office, plus initiating a grand public sacking of the idiot weather man. There you are, easy, all sorted . . . now get on with it”.
“B..b..but Sir Hugh, the weather is fine, the only snow is in Scotland, some remote village somewhere in the Craggygorms or something. . . “ stuttered a confused Genghis. Even he knew this was a daft idea.
“You leave the met office and the EA to me; you'll soon have enough storm warnings to wallpaper the building. Get that pretty blonde reporter to go to where ever that snow is, you know the one I mean, the bimbo with the big boobs, everybody likes her. Send her with a select team in the Corporation Helicopter immediately and explain that her entire career depends on making this look like an ice age Armageddon. Go!”
His plan beginning to take shape and a couple of e mails later to contacts in the departments that would make it work, Sir Hugh reached for his calculator and began to work out his expenses for when he became a Lord. As he pondered over the cost of duck houses and business lunches in the Seychelles, the phone rang. It was that fool Genghis again, though Ms Bo always introduced him by his proper name and title, “Yes, what is it now Carn”, snapped an impatient Sir Hugh as he watched his calculator time out and fade.
“It's the hell..hell..helicopter Sir Hugh. It's r..r..run out of airworthy service time, if you remember we c..c..cut its budget to allow for a big party this Christmas,” explained a reluctant David 'Genghis' Carn, listening intensely for the shot that would kill the messenger.
“Right, get this Carn and get it good. Tell the bloody pilot if he ever wants to work again then he's to fly the bloody thing to Scotland, tell him that! If the bloody thing crashes all the better, we'll have a better story than a bit of isolated snow... ‘pretty, pregnant, single young reporter on drugs dies while running away with perverted drunken pilot in stolen helicopter etc’ . . . but don't tell him that bit, dopey!” Sir Hugh slammed down the receiver and tried to retrieve his expenses data from the calculator.
Ms Boadica Flabbergast winced and held her ear as she slowly replaced the receiver. . . this was wonderful stuff, she could see chapter eleven of her book being read by Sir Hugh himself. . . as he served out at least ten years at her majesty's pleasure.
Meanwhile, somewhere deep in the Craggygorms at the little snowbound village of Glen Invergrumpy, the post lady was conveying a telegram to the sheep farmer who ran the airfield. “Better move they sheep off the runway McTaggart, they'll no be long frae London by helicopter,” she advised.
McTaggart called into one of his barns where he allowed several East Europeans to live, in return for various labours and favours. . . they were a lot cheaper than locals for sure. Handing out shovels and with some hand signals of his own invention he soon had them clearing snow from the runway. A lot of it was swept into the cattle grid half way along the airstrip, “It'll take the bumps out of it for sure,” he thought, as he and his dog Wallace, a huge Rotweiller-Collie cross, (cross being the habitually operative word) drove the nervous and unbranded sheep into the worker's barn, “save heating that, them sheep'll keep 'em warm for sure”. Wallace was fully trained, in what exactly we may never know but an English accent would trigger his hackles to rise and lips curl back in a terrifying display of well used bone crushers. He wasn’t called Wallace for nothing.
The Corporation 'select' team consisted of Rob 'mad marine' Oakes, whose time in the SAS had seen him fly helicopters with a lot less than some silly airworthiness certificate; pretty blonde Samantha Wilfershore the sex symbol of the Corporation and who had created more unusable out-takes from interviews than any one else in history; Nigel Yorner, a forty something divorcee from Cornwall on sound . . . and a fair variety of anti depressants too; finally young and spotty Skunk 'Spielberg' Harrison, the only cameraman willing to join the expedition and who had inherited a wild sense of adventure from his commune parents . . . that and a mild and intermittent dose of schizophrenia.
McTaggart had only just cleared his 'volunteers' off the runway and out of sight in their barn when the helicopter skimmed snow off the nearby hill and swept engine screaming into the valley at just over thistle height, Rob's eyes were open wide with excitement as he relived an attack on a mountain outpost he’d been somewhere in the world . . . he was never quite sure where it was, at one time he thought it might have been Wales. As he slewed the chopper into what looked like a hand brake turn and a dead stop the contents of the helicopter were thrown to one side . . . eyes all firmly closed with fear.
Before the rotors had stopped turning, Rob 'mad marine' Oakes had his platoon disembarked and running to the field perimeter complete with what little baggage they had for an over nighter. McTaggart directed them to his garden shed which doubled as the airfield customs and immigration terminal.
“Papers please”, he asked holding out his hand which received an arctic stare from Rob and a warm and pretty handshake from Samantha, “Oh well, never mind the papers, we can always do that silly stuff later,” said the now grinning and newly besotted McTaggart. Skunk gave him a suspicious look but still managed to get a few frames shot . . . you never know when the ordinary will become the extra ordinary. 'Be prepared' had been his motto ever since being thrown out of the boy scouts for selling naughty photos to his pals.
“You'll no doubt all be booked in at the village pub, just down the lane about half a mile. You can't miss it, it has a laquered stuffed sheep for a swinging sign by the car park. . . it's called the Merry Shepherd, lovely place, peat fire, great whiskey . . . home grown as they say . . . nod nod. . . May see more of you in there later,” said McTaggart, still reluctant to take his eyes off Samantha.
Rob was already on his second pint when they joined him in the bar.
The landlady was also a McTaggart, second cousin by marriage it was alleged, a fine, burly but secretive woman who'd at one time held ambitions for the Olympic shot put event but had unfortunately damaged her shoulder in a poaching accident while wrestling a full grown stag to the ground.
Skunk checked his camera, yes; he'd managed a good few frames of the pub and its fearsome landlady. He was pleased with the footage already so far obtained, the crazed eyes of the demoniacal pilot, the staring eyes of McTaggart the airfield controller, the burning, fearsome crushing eyes of the landlady and lots of furtive glimpses of Samantha, ‘yes it was going well’, he told his other self, who for a rare change was actually listening.
The team settled in for the night, well fed on lamb stew and potatoes and well plied with spirits courtesy of some anonymous benefactor. Samantha retired early so as to try on her white leather one piece ski suit and practice her lines in front of the mirror, a suspicious looking bit of furniture screwed to the wall of her bedroom. Farmer McTaggart watched with interest from the other side.
The rest of the team were watching the TV and hardly believing what was being said on the news. . . “Amber alert across the country . . . only essential travel advised . . . check on old people. . . prepare for power failure, etc etc“ Having flown over the entire country on the way to Glen Invergrumpy and seen not one single snow flake on the way they wondered what on earth was going on.
“Perhaps it's a repeat”, said Nigel, “98% of transmissions are repeats . . . I reckon I've seen 'em all. Anyway that's the weather geezer that got the sack for misinforming the nation about some great storm. Just shows . . . there's some glimmer of hope for all of us,” he concluded in a depressed and without any hope at all voice.
Back in London all was well. The retired weather idiot had been wheeled out and done his stuff. They'd told him it was a documentary about great weather men of the 21st century; that, a free taxi ride, 200 quid cash in hand and a crate of stout was all he needed. He was going to be famous again and didn't he know it!
Sir Hugh had by now made all his necessary important and highly confidential phone calls, including one to the Home Secretary to tell him, “Whatever it is you never asked me to do has been done. I'll say no more”, at the same time thinking, 'Actually I don't know any more . . . best kept that way I reckon. What you don’t know, you can’t be blamed for.” He'd also watched climatic Armageddon being prophesied on the main news which was followed by a genuine news flash about riots and food looting in two major cities, fuelled by panic about the impending great storm. Rival channels, fearing they had somehow missed something important, repeated the warnings without any corroborating evidence though still managed to over emphasise blame on the Corporation for causing the riots.
Sir Hugh smirked a Lordly smirk, it was better than he'd anticipated, the news was filled to the gunwales but without any mention of Government at all, a resounding success. He'd also naively asked Ms Bo to check over his expenses claims which had taken him nearly all afternoon to create. She did check them. . . and then made a photo-copy for herself, “Appendix Expenses Scandals”, she thought.
They all went to bed that night with a collection of their own dreams . . . none of them shared, Ms Bo was fighting off publishers and paparazzi and Sir Hugh, I mean Lord Hugh of Cambria, was making his maiden speech in a packed house of lords to rapturous applause from all sides. Ah, dreams eh?
It was fine morning that saw a bright Sun shining over the Merry Shepherd Pub and saw Rob 'mad marine' Oakes checking out the bruises on his arms, the only trophies from a late night arm wresting competition with the landlady. Skunk had already been busy with his camera, including catching a furtive Farmer McTaggart tip toeing along the landing late last night. Skunk was determined that both of him would make it to the top one day . . . by some means or another, by tenacity, skill and innovation . . . or perhaps, simply blackmail. Skunk also had some great infra red night shots of a light aircraft landing at the field and some posh looking geezers with brief cases and what appeared to be gorilla like bodyguards making their way down the lane to a big house at the far end of the village. Skunk never did do much sleeping, except for Saturday mornings; after all he was still quite young.
Up at the big house, a large clandestine holiday property owned by the Government and used mainly by members of the cabinet for various deviant pleasures under the auspices of 'Wild Nature Adventures', important discussions were afoot. The Home Secretary himself was there along with the Foreign Secretary, various civil servants, someone's old school chum, a cleaning lady in the basement sleeping off half the drinks cabinet and a few sheep fanciers. They were there to do a private and friendly deal with representatives from an oil rich ex-communist country with whom they were publicly definitely not friendly. It was essential to maintain secrecy, hence the 'request' to the Corporation for non political news and so far all was going well, they were as oblivious to the Corporation team's presence at the Merry Shepherd as the team were to the Government presence at the big house. The foreign representatives were reticent about speaking inside the house, they suspected listening devices and the like. . . the like of which they would have done had the tables been reversed. They insisted upon walking in the low dry stone walled grounds of the big house. Anyway, they were used to the cold and took no small pleasure in seeing the port reddened faces of the home diplomats shivering in the weak sunshine.
Meanwhile back at the Merry Shepherd it was breakfast time. As McTaggart the landlady dollopped out great ladles of salted porridge for each of her guests she attracted an admiring glance from Rob the mad marine and an understanding analytical gaze from Nigel who now felt he understood why she was built like she was. Skunk had already finished his bowlful in the time it took Samantha to wipe mirror clean the dirty spoon and peer into it at her reflection. Even in that she still looked alluringly pretty.
“I tak it ye'll all be having the Merry Shepherd's big yin”, McTaggart the landlady asked, although it sounded more like a command.
“And what's that when it's at home Ms McTaggart?” asked a curious yet still sensibly cautious Nigel.
McTaggart pointed one of her huge sausage fingers at the menu board where it proclaimed, “Satisfaction guaranteed with the Merry Shepherd's Big One – full breakfast, 2 lamb chops, 3 bacon rashers, 3 eggs, home made black pudding, chips and beans. £5.95”.
Samantha shuddered a little, count her out of that, she had a figure to watch.
The three men almost instinctively opted for the breakfast and contented themselves with watching someone else's figure. Nigel and Skunk watched Samantha's and Rob watched that fine feminine prop forward figure of a landlady, he’d not seen anyone built like that since stalking Silverbacks in western Africa.
Negotiations were progressing well back in the chilly gardens of the big house, it wasn't only oil that lubricated, when it came to the wheels of government, money did that. . . usually lots of it and often to be found, or rather not found, secreted in the bulging coffers of some off shore tax haven.
Senior negotiator, Vladimir Krushemovski, known as Vlad the impaler in government circles, walked close to the home secretary, known as the smiling assassin in foreign circles, “as long as the people do not find out, all will be good. What about your famous investigative newspapers and their teams of illegal hackers? Are we safe?”
The Home Secretary smiled one of his now well publicised and practised smiles, “they all have their price, they are more interested in making money than truth. We keep them out of prison. . . they keep us out of the papers. They are loyal supporters and share a common dream . . . that of seeing their names in the new years honours list.”
“Crikey ! What the hell . . .“ interrupted the Foreign Secretary, grabbing the Home Secretary’s shoulder and pointing towards a man about a hundred yards away on the other side of the wall. The intruder was also pointing with something they couldn’t quite make out . . . their way.
In a flash the foreign body guards had knocked them all to the ground behind the wall. As they crawled below the wall and out of sight through mud and goat droppings back to the house they discussed how to deal with the situation. “I can have MI5 find him and have him sectioned under the mental health act. . . who ever it is he won't ever bother us again,” cursed the Home Secretary, whose only other experience at crawling had been first as a baby and later when he wanted the cabinet job.
Vladimir calmly, as though it wasn't at all his first experience in such matters, suggested that they let Big Otto deal with him and they would drop the body out of their plane into the sea on their way home. Big Otto's eyes twitched and he felt his pockets for the 9mm. . . or should he perhaps use the bayonet. . . perhaps the garrote? Ah, choices, choices, he loved them all.
Having returned to the house they dried their mud covered knees by the fire and a touch more sanity ruled once more. After all, nobody knew they were here, it was a secret location and the media were already firmly in their pockets, along with their dirty hankies and some small change. They concluded that it was probably only one of the villagers out bird spotting. Yes that was more like it; a lot of fuss over nothing. Documents and bank account details were exchanged and the guests prepared as best they could for departure, phoning ahead to have clean clothes brought out to the plane on their return to the motherland. There was no desire to convey an image that the ambassadors had in any way been on their knees begging.
At the big house, they remained blissfully unaware of the Corporation's news team and talented film crew ensconced just a few hundred yards away in the Merry Shepherd.
The news team made their way back to the airfield where there was still at least a heap of snow, that is, all except Rob who’d stayed behind to help McTaggart the landlady who had promised him a look at her gun, gin trap and old bones collection. Skunk, with his truly amazing skills at special effects and making the camera lie, took some sweeping shots of a blizzard torn valley, then one of Samantha, sweeping along pristine white leather from foot to blue eyes. Samantha did her thing with the over the shoulder smile at the camera and rambled on in her soft seductive voice some inane drivel about snow and imminent Armadillos. No one would notice what she said anyway. While zooming in close for an eye shot Skunk saw people running in the reflection, this was a money shot as they called it in the trade; this was the stuff that made good cameramen truly great. He would be investigating more when he had the chance. “That’s a wrap for now Sam,” said Skunk, “how about sound Nigel, okay?”
“Eh? What’s that?” asked Nigel, who for a sound man was rarely listening, “Oh, yeah, lovely, lovely voice, and even got some sheep baaing in the distance makes it really rural.” As if Invergrumpy, one of the most remote places in the country, could be anything but.
“Right, all back to the pub ready for lunch and I’ll send the edited copy back to base by satellite,” enthused a very hyper Skunk who not only had exciting plans but wondered if the satellite system actually stretched to the Craggygorms.
The reflection in Sam’s eyes of people running had revealed the two cabinet ministers, a couple of civil servants and the foreign visitors making for McTaggart’s alien holiday barn. They’d suddenly spotted the camera crew up at the airfield and decided that discretion was the better part of valour and certainly better than Big Otto’s plan to eliminate them all, taking their bodies home to his brother’s highly profitable organic pig farm.
They hid in the barn, in the quiet and the dark, not knowing much about who or what was in there. It was quiet but for the heavy breathing of nervous sheep and even more nervous illegal immigrants, some of whom thought they recognised Big Otto from wanted posters back home. On finding the coast was clear and covertly slipping Farmer McTaggart, the airfield controller, a wad of notes and a bottle of 80% proof special Vodka they made their way to the plane. Once airborne it slipped unnoticed under the radar and headed east. All had gone so well, a hero’s welcome awaited; of course, any failure would have been most unpleasant in so many awful ways that decorum prevents the author from elucidating further. Their five hour flight was full of joy, vodka and grand dreams of a beautiful future. They almost salivated with anticipation of their hero’s welcome.
Not so long after all this had transpired, Sir Hugh was informed by David Carn that his snow Armageddon feature was ready to roll out on the main mid day news, ‘would he like to pop down to the news room to watch it go out?’
“Well done at last Carn, yes, I’m on my way down, if this works out there’ll be a little in it for all of us,” smarmed a sneakily happy Sir Hugh, thinking and chuckling at the same time, ”yes, Ermine for me and a couple of years in Parkhurst for you”. He pushed his games console into the drawer and made his way to the lift.
Sir Hugh, David Carn and the news controllers gathered behind the glass that separated the news reader from outside interference. “We’ve called in our top news broadcaster, one of the old school, great voice, very capable, can roll with the punches . . . “ spoke the lead controller being interrupted by an impatient Sir Hugh, “yes, yes, just get on with it”, he said curtly, taking a note of the controller’s name for the redundancy list he was working on.
The news credits rolled and the camera zoomed in to the steady face of truth and sturdy voice of justice, Damian ‘Benedict Arnold’ Moronham; “Welcome to the mid day news. Today our main story is the chaos caused by the snow storms that have swept and paralysed the country.” Damian couldn’t hide a slight look of puzzlement on his face, ‘what snow’, he thought, ‘am I being set up here? Is it a, you’ve been framed sketch?’ From this point on Damien’s suspicions were going to influence what and how he spoke. “We sent a news team to cover one of the worst hit areas in the country, the Craggygorms.” Again Damien sensed something not quite right, I mean, where the hell were the Craggygorms when they were at home? “But first we have some footage shot during last night’s riots and food looting caused by a fear of shortages during the storm. Over to our outside broadcast team in one of our major cities.”
There followed a few minutes of burnt out shops in seemingly snow free streets. The usual diatribe was wheeled out by the various factions of councillors, shopkeepers, police, the odd passer by and the occasional masked looter with name changed to protect his identity. It was nothing that Damien hadn’t heard before, but where was the bloody snow?
Camera light back on Damien, he continued with no small amount of suspicion in his voice, “thank you for that and now to our main feature with the lovely Samantha out in the snow in the popular tourist resort of Glen Invergrumpy, apparently the airport was only kept open by the heroic efforts of the residents using hand shovels . . . an amazing story, let’s go to the report . . .”
As the footage sent by Skunk 'Spielberg' Harrison began to play, Damien’s suspicions grew. If Glen Invergrumpy had an airport and was a tourist destination, then why in all his years had he not heard of it. He decided that he would go along with whatever the programmer wanted and consult legal advice later . . . it could be an earner for him.
“Ah, that’s better,” said Sir Hugh turning to the big monitor and seeing a big picture of blizzards and that pretty blonde bimbo woman. He didn’t care what she was droning on about, that leather ski suit was a nice touch though . . . then something horrible went inexplicably through his mind, not sure what had caused an image of a sheep hanging from a sign meant, he looked around at several other puzzled faces. It was the first of many subliminal messages that Skunk had inserted into the news piece. He had plans to be great one day, both of him. Scenes depicting snow, cattle grids, a helicopter, Samantha’s pretty face and various bits of her anatomy dressed in white leather were interspersed with very brief glimpses of other things; Things like men looking over a wall then ducking down, a woman built like a gorilla and wearing a kilt, some mad crazed staring eyes, a grubby looking man that looked like a farmer and more. The images were only fleeting and never on long enough to clearly see who was who.
“What the hell is going on Carn”, snarled a by now fuming Sir Hugh.
Carn snapped some orders at the controllers, who quickly rewound and freeze framed the subliminal images. “There’s loads of them sir, looks like they run all the way through.”
“Bloody stop the thing man,” screamed Sir Hugh.
“No can do”, replied the bemused controller, “we use computers to generate the signal, some clever bastard has built in some sort of over ride, we can’t do anything but let it run its course then make some comment about technical errors. That’s what we normally do.”
Damien had got the picture in more ways than one and began distancing himself from the report, despite the intermittent begging and threatening that was raging in his earpiece, “We appear to be experiencing technical interference beyond our control.”
The report continued, transmitting to the nation and beyond. Then came a longer intermission, this time it stayed long enough to see who it was. “God, isn’t that the Home Secretary? Blurted out Carn as an image of a number of men all with mud on their knees standing amongst a flock of clearly disturbed sheep came up on screen. “That’s the Foreign Secretary too”, he continued.
“Perhaps that big bloke with the 9 mm pistol made them do it,” suggested the controller.
As their bulging disbelieving eyes became accustomed to the dark image of the barn it became apparent that the sick swine were performing to an audience, there being dozens of silent awe struck faces staring on from the straw bales at the back of the barn.
“No wonder the Government wanted to be kept out of the news,“ thought Sir Hugh as he made for home, he didn’t want to get involved in this mess, time to take a short holiday.
Damien couldn’t wait to make his way home too but not until he’d started a law suit to protect his image . . . and perhaps make a few bob on the way.
**
For three days the news was filled with speculation and denials then lucky for the Government something else cropped up to take the attention. An Orang-utan had given birth to quadruplets in a laboratory experiment to solve the imminent extinction of the species; it was sponsored by the big Palm Oil conglomerate Grabitall Inc. Such wonderful news gave the Government a brief respite.
**
Addendum:-
A few months later, the Government was overthrown in a landslide victory for anyone but them.
Sir Hugh ‘Peregrine’ Braggington Havalot was retired on a huge bonus and elevated to the Lords by the incoming coalition. His dream of sleeping in ermine and dreaming of expenses came true.
Ms Bo, Boedica Flabergast was offered a multi million contract for the sole rights to her memoirs. As part of the conditions she was to write more books from a gift cottage in St Kilda. None of her work ever saw light of day, nor did she.
Rob 'mad marine' Oakes moved to the Merry Shepherd to woo the landlady and lived happy ever after.
Nigel Yorner was over his depression, why should he be depressed once he’d seen what a total mess everyone else was in, he went on to be a successful stand up comic doing the pubs and clubs of Landsofgrotty.
Skunk 'Spielberg' Harrison took up a fantastic offer to produce and direct an epic foreign film set in the east at an organic pig farm. He may be gone for some while.
Pretty blonde Samantha Wilfershore remained blissfully unaware of anything that was going on, anywhere, and was promoted to political editor of News Tripe the Corporation’s flagship daily news magazine programme.
David 'Genghis' Carn was made redundant and once no longer associated with the Corporation was arrested, convicted and now serving four years in Dartmoor.
McTaggart the farmer started a tourism business and made a small fortune from guided tours and cafes all run by very economical employees with foreign accents and wearing sheep costumes. A speciality trip was to spend a night in the infamous barn itself. A small gift shop sold miniature stuffed sheep pub signs, and lots of sheep oriented cheap gifts.
Wallace the Rotweiller-Collie cross found himself enjoying spells of the well fed good life at a stud farm for the guard dog industry.
After the Government set up an inquiry into finding a panel to examine what should be the scope of any investigation, preferably taking so long that the guilty would have died of old age by then, the third inquiry decided it was too complex and should be considered for a public inquiry at the Home Secretary’s discretion.
The disgraced Home Secretary and Foreign Secretary were both sentenced to ten years for various unmentionable crimes but simply served six months, just long enough to write a best selling novel each before being released. They now work as substantially paid consultants to the new Government. Who knows, if they do well, they may be wearing ermine one day too. You’ll often see them on the telly.
How did you do out of it?
Ben and the drought of 1976. –
What’s funny depends on which side of the tent you are.
It was 1976, and summer, and what a summer it was. The drought that started in the September of 1975 had dragged its rainless days and nights inexorably nearly all the way to the September of 1976 only then did the heavens finally do their best to make up for it.
The drought was extremely serious, crops failed, fires burned, reservoirs ran close to dry, in old flooded valley reservoirs the once drowned roads became accessible again, the clay bed of the Thames was cracking, standpipes were in the streets as water supplies were cut off to houses; in Wales, water was turned off between seven at night and eight in the morning, an emergency Drought Bill was rushed through Parliament, no cars were washed, no gardens watered, except with washing up water from the kitchen, even if you had water in a rain butt it wasn't yours to use, everyone looked for a spare house brick to put in the toilet cistern, flushing was only to be done when absolutely necessary, baths were rare and, almost by order they were shallow, rivers ran low, some even disappeared all together and canals were closed. In the south west they went forty five days without rain, elsewhere temperatures reached a daily thirty two degrees centigrade for fifteen consecutive days .... it was hot ..... and from near the end of June 1976 it didn't change for months.
Plenty of fires mind you, despite most people taking the events very seriously, even down to vigilante women patrolling golf clubs at night to ensure they weren't being illegally watered, there were however still the odd foolish ones whose discarded cigarettes ignited road side verges, or the thrill seekers, dull of wit, that set fires deliberately.
Firemen ... there were no women in the Fire Brigade as it was called then, had to fight fires ... notably hot in their own right, I think you'll agree, ..... in the merciless heat of the summer wearing their full fire kit.
Imagine, middle of the day, not a cloud in sight, wearing waterproof leggings over woollen fire trousers, , heavy toe capped Rubber boots with steel plates in the soles, heavy buttoned up to the neck heat loving black fire tunic and heavy cork helmet and then running about under the Sun in burning fields with flailing beaters ... short lengths of canvas hose fixed to wooden handles, ..... you see we didn't have much water either and fires weren't always in convenient places for fire engines.
I recall on one incident we attended a railway track fire in a remote area, after a long walk from the roadway we beat and stamped out the burning dried vegetation. Not so easy a method to use with the tar soaked wooden sleepers that burned between the rails... here I was introduced to a method not taught at training school, using an old fireman's trick we turned to our emergency water supply .... carried conveniently in the bladder .... good job a train didn't come along otherwise they might have thought it some strange masonic like ritual as we circled the steaming embers, with our leggings by our knees.
We were issued with two pairs of trousers, mine were several sizes too big as that was all stores had, using a belt I could either wear them pulled up around my ribs or around my waist and let the legs drag under my feet, mind you after 3 months they did eventually ask a seamstress to take 4 inches out of the waist for me ... nothing else was changed .. only the waist size... three shirts, all with studs and detachable collars which my wife kindly sewed on permanently for me, and two fire tunics, it wasn't long before they were all soaked in sweat and the only solution ... excuse the pun.... was to keep wearing them waiting for them to dry out, often our shirts would dry on our backs only at meal breaks .... By the time dinner time was over your shirt would be dry ready us to go out and do factory inspections or the like. You must by now have some idea of our fire clothing ... soaked in sweat or not, well I missed a bit of kit issue out ... and I still have the original, issued in 1974, ... they called it a 'neck silk' but it was made of cotton and like a large thin oblong scarf. The idea was to wrap it around your neck to fill the gap left by the tunic collar ... it saved all sorts of horrible things going down your neck ! Sparks, burning embers, debris , rain, anything really; you could also wear it across the face ... a bit like a western bank robber, now it could keep out different things .... things that floated in the air like smoke smuts .. or things that flew in the air, like little black beetles attracted to our yellow helmets and leggings, or greenfly ... of which the drought had bred an unprecedented plague; I lived in hope it would keep out smoke too ... but I suspect that was just wishful thinking on my part.
On the day of which I wish to write we went to a twelve pump fire at a burning forest in Northamptonshire, there were five of us on our Fire appliance as we called them ... Fire Engines to everyone else ... as our driver negotiated the forest tracks, under the guidance of our leading fireman, Ben Thorby we could feel the heat through the windows even from a distance. It was our third call-out of the day and, as ours was a normally quiet station, I couldn't help excitedly sharing this seemingly heroic detail with a fireman from another station; “Oh, really?” he replied, “this is our fifteenth.” “Oh”, I thought in subdued and silent reply.
After the requisite numbers of hours trying to make fire breaks and watching trees burn we were returned to station as it was coming to the end of our shift. Normally we would just hang up our kit and go home, but this night ... perhaps we were officially entitled to a meal or something ... we were all asked, “everyone for fish and chips?,
“yes please,” came the chorus except for one, it was our long serving Leading Fireman Ben , “ I'll have a meat pie instead”, he called. A decision that might haunt his dreams later ... that's if he was to get any.
For myself there were to be no dreams and no sleep, I responded to my station alerter for another call-out at about 11 pm that same day .... and it was back to that damn forest again; this time an all night vigil with another pump crew; we had a new and upwardly mobile officer with us this time and his plan ..... no, not to let us take turns to sleep ... was to patrol the forest with buckets of water looking for hot spots. We did this, bucket in hand, from midnight till about eight am when we were allowed back to station .. and for me it was straight back on to the day shift. True, they sent me home for a wash, breakfast and some clean clothes .... ‘and don't be long!' shouted the officer as I cycled away from the station. Quickly back at station I completed my day shift and I went to bed about 11.00 pm .... 36 hours with no sleep.
So it was a couple of days later before I was on duty with Ben again and my first chance to hear of his fateful meat pie and its disturbing and resolute vengeance.
Government advice flooded the media ... in fact the only floods we had .... about not flushing toilets unless absolutely necessary ... everybody knew this and most had a house brick in the cistern to reduce water volume. Nights were dry and airless, if you slept under anything it was just a sheet, windows were all open wide inviting a shy breeze to visit the home, alas in vain. Anyone caught wasting water was not only an enemy of the state but of the people ... who were getting more tetchy as inexorably the hot days and hot nights wore on. It was a small town and people like Ben were well known by many, he was a part of the community, respected for his public service, a staunch upholder of the finest ideals and rules, a man of dignity with a reputation to be admired and kept.
On the 'night of the meat pie' Ben's neighbour's two sons, about eleven and twelve I'd guess, were camping in a tent in their back garden.
They knew all about the drought and the rules; their father had taught them well.
It seems highly likely that the meat pie was engaged in ruthless insurgency with Ben's digestive system, the confrontation turned into a battle and then a war, a war that would last all night. Tortured both mentally and physically Ben was forced by nature's course ... or curse …. to visit the upstairs toilet of his council house several times during the night. Every time he dragged his pained body and soul along the landing to sit there in his misery his thoughts and ears would be filled, as would everybody’s in earshot, with the voices of two young boys in the next garden shouting, “dad, dad, mister Thorby is flushing the toilet again!”
As he sat in his alimentary misery the boy’s voices would echo in his mind ... as if his suffering wasn't bad enough.
Even if the neighbourhood was asleep, they certainly didn’t stay that way for long as the chorus from inside the tent continued throughout the night and the town’s open windows, “dad, dad, he's still doing it dad, he's flushing the toilet again!”
At least they'd taken Government advice to heart, God bless them ...... not sure that's what Ben thought as he sat there, mind you.
(One memory from 1976
and the year of the big drought.)
What’s funny depends on which side of the tent you are.
It was 1976, and summer, and what a summer it was. The drought that started in the September of 1975 had dragged its rainless days and nights inexorably nearly all the way to the September of 1976 only then did the heavens finally do their best to make up for it.
The drought was extremely serious, crops failed, fires burned, reservoirs ran close to dry, in old flooded valley reservoirs the once drowned roads became accessible again, the clay bed of the Thames was cracking, standpipes were in the streets as water supplies were cut off to houses; in Wales, water was turned off between seven at night and eight in the morning, an emergency Drought Bill was rushed through Parliament, no cars were washed, no gardens watered, except with washing up water from the kitchen, even if you had water in a rain butt it wasn't yours to use, everyone looked for a spare house brick to put in the toilet cistern, flushing was only to be done when absolutely necessary, baths were rare and, almost by order they were shallow, rivers ran low, some even disappeared all together and canals were closed. In the south west they went forty five days without rain, elsewhere temperatures reached a daily thirty two degrees centigrade for fifteen consecutive days .... it was hot ..... and from near the end of June 1976 it didn't change for months.
Plenty of fires mind you, despite most people taking the events very seriously, even down to vigilante women patrolling golf clubs at night to ensure they weren't being illegally watered, there were however still the odd foolish ones whose discarded cigarettes ignited road side verges, or the thrill seekers, dull of wit, that set fires deliberately.
Firemen ... there were no women in the Fire Brigade as it was called then, had to fight fires ... notably hot in their own right, I think you'll agree, ..... in the merciless heat of the summer wearing their full fire kit.
Imagine, middle of the day, not a cloud in sight, wearing waterproof leggings over woollen fire trousers, , heavy toe capped Rubber boots with steel plates in the soles, heavy buttoned up to the neck heat loving black fire tunic and heavy cork helmet and then running about under the Sun in burning fields with flailing beaters ... short lengths of canvas hose fixed to wooden handles, ..... you see we didn't have much water either and fires weren't always in convenient places for fire engines.
I recall on one incident we attended a railway track fire in a remote area, after a long walk from the roadway we beat and stamped out the burning dried vegetation. Not so easy a method to use with the tar soaked wooden sleepers that burned between the rails... here I was introduced to a method not taught at training school, using an old fireman's trick we turned to our emergency water supply .... carried conveniently in the bladder .... good job a train didn't come along otherwise they might have thought it some strange masonic like ritual as we circled the steaming embers, with our leggings by our knees.
We were issued with two pairs of trousers, mine were several sizes too big as that was all stores had, using a belt I could either wear them pulled up around my ribs or around my waist and let the legs drag under my feet, mind you after 3 months they did eventually ask a seamstress to take 4 inches out of the waist for me ... nothing else was changed .. only the waist size... three shirts, all with studs and detachable collars which my wife kindly sewed on permanently for me, and two fire tunics, it wasn't long before they were all soaked in sweat and the only solution ... excuse the pun.... was to keep wearing them waiting for them to dry out, often our shirts would dry on our backs only at meal breaks .... By the time dinner time was over your shirt would be dry ready us to go out and do factory inspections or the like. You must by now have some idea of our fire clothing ... soaked in sweat or not, well I missed a bit of kit issue out ... and I still have the original, issued in 1974, ... they called it a 'neck silk' but it was made of cotton and like a large thin oblong scarf. The idea was to wrap it around your neck to fill the gap left by the tunic collar ... it saved all sorts of horrible things going down your neck ! Sparks, burning embers, debris , rain, anything really; you could also wear it across the face ... a bit like a western bank robber, now it could keep out different things .... things that floated in the air like smoke smuts .. or things that flew in the air, like little black beetles attracted to our yellow helmets and leggings, or greenfly ... of which the drought had bred an unprecedented plague; I lived in hope it would keep out smoke too ... but I suspect that was just wishful thinking on my part.
On the day of which I wish to write we went to a twelve pump fire at a burning forest in Northamptonshire, there were five of us on our Fire appliance as we called them ... Fire Engines to everyone else ... as our driver negotiated the forest tracks, under the guidance of our leading fireman, Ben Thorby we could feel the heat through the windows even from a distance. It was our third call-out of the day and, as ours was a normally quiet station, I couldn't help excitedly sharing this seemingly heroic detail with a fireman from another station; “Oh, really?” he replied, “this is our fifteenth.” “Oh”, I thought in subdued and silent reply.
After the requisite numbers of hours trying to make fire breaks and watching trees burn we were returned to station as it was coming to the end of our shift. Normally we would just hang up our kit and go home, but this night ... perhaps we were officially entitled to a meal or something ... we were all asked, “everyone for fish and chips?,
“yes please,” came the chorus except for one, it was our long serving Leading Fireman Ben , “ I'll have a meat pie instead”, he called. A decision that might haunt his dreams later ... that's if he was to get any.
For myself there were to be no dreams and no sleep, I responded to my station alerter for another call-out at about 11 pm that same day .... and it was back to that damn forest again; this time an all night vigil with another pump crew; we had a new and upwardly mobile officer with us this time and his plan ..... no, not to let us take turns to sleep ... was to patrol the forest with buckets of water looking for hot spots. We did this, bucket in hand, from midnight till about eight am when we were allowed back to station .. and for me it was straight back on to the day shift. True, they sent me home for a wash, breakfast and some clean clothes .... ‘and don't be long!' shouted the officer as I cycled away from the station. Quickly back at station I completed my day shift and I went to bed about 11.00 pm .... 36 hours with no sleep.
So it was a couple of days later before I was on duty with Ben again and my first chance to hear of his fateful meat pie and its disturbing and resolute vengeance.
Government advice flooded the media ... in fact the only floods we had .... about not flushing toilets unless absolutely necessary ... everybody knew this and most had a house brick in the cistern to reduce water volume. Nights were dry and airless, if you slept under anything it was just a sheet, windows were all open wide inviting a shy breeze to visit the home, alas in vain. Anyone caught wasting water was not only an enemy of the state but of the people ... who were getting more tetchy as inexorably the hot days and hot nights wore on. It was a small town and people like Ben were well known by many, he was a part of the community, respected for his public service, a staunch upholder of the finest ideals and rules, a man of dignity with a reputation to be admired and kept.
On the 'night of the meat pie' Ben's neighbour's two sons, about eleven and twelve I'd guess, were camping in a tent in their back garden.
They knew all about the drought and the rules; their father had taught them well.
It seems highly likely that the meat pie was engaged in ruthless insurgency with Ben's digestive system, the confrontation turned into a battle and then a war, a war that would last all night. Tortured both mentally and physically Ben was forced by nature's course ... or curse …. to visit the upstairs toilet of his council house several times during the night. Every time he dragged his pained body and soul along the landing to sit there in his misery his thoughts and ears would be filled, as would everybody’s in earshot, with the voices of two young boys in the next garden shouting, “dad, dad, mister Thorby is flushing the toilet again!”
As he sat in his alimentary misery the boy’s voices would echo in his mind ... as if his suffering wasn't bad enough.
Even if the neighbourhood was asleep, they certainly didn’t stay that way for long as the chorus from inside the tent continued throughout the night and the town’s open windows, “dad, dad, he's still doing it dad, he's flushing the toilet again!”
At least they'd taken Government advice to heart, God bless them ...... not sure that's what Ben thought as he sat there, mind you.
(One memory from 1976
and the year of the big drought.)
Ahoy there! - Boat load of chickens.
That evening inside Ye Olde Worlde village pub my old work colleague vigorously, almost demonically, bounced on the wooden bench seat, ‘boing, boing, boing,’ went Dick; crack, crunch, snap went the bench. He was suddenly silent and still, and somewhat sheepish; a lot different from his earlier alcohol fuelled bravado and jollity.
What brought this about? .......... I’ll tell you …… if you have but a minute.
It starts with a bad manager we once shared. You may well have suffered at the hands and mind of such an apalling creature yourself, there's a few out there.
It went a bit like this;
Stage 1: deny any useful staff the chance to go on a course, especially if it looks like being good fun. Stage 2; make sure your own name is included on the course list. 3, having been on the course, had a free meal and claimed mileage never ever put your new skills into use. 4; finally realise that you need someone to do the work that you don’t want to do. 5; select a couple of the originally ignored ‘useful people’, (they’ll catch up, won’t they?) 6, don’t send them on the beginner’s course, there’s no time for that now – as you’ve left it too late. Send them on the advanced course instead. (‘Not done the basic course? Oh, it was so easy; you don’t need that silly one first’) 7; expect gratitude from the selected staff you are now belatedly sending. 8; ensure that you tell your own boss that all is under control now – thanks entirely to your omnipotent and invaluable forward thinking self, of course.
Dick and I were the chosen ‘useful’ ones and the day of the course duly arrived – a boating course it was – to be precise, power-boating all the way to fleet rescue level. Yup, from ‘yes, I understand that is a boat’, to highly skilled manoeuvres and life saving procedures carried out with speed and precision under any conditions.
Dick and I were sent along to a local RYA training establishment in the County, where we introduced ourselves to Bob, a likeable and highly competent ‘boat person’. Even with all his skills and experience he looked a little shocked and indeed bewildered as we answered his question on our previous boating experience, which, note, he expected to be considerable, ….. ‘Well, we’ve seen a boat, does that count?’ … ‘I’ve been on the Dover ferry a couple of times’, 'what do you mean by; “it’s a RIB”?’
“Oh, well”, Bob sighed,” we’ll just do our best and see what happens; come on let’s get some buoyancy aids – we must be careful – you can die out there” ‘Not good news for a chap that can only swim the length of his bath’, I thought, as I donned a buoyancy aid that didn’t look big enough to aid itself.
The deep and blue-green algae contaminated reservoir is over 2 miles long and a strong south westerly wind had whipped up some good sized waves into a frenzy along its entire length. We stood on a heaving and wave lashed jetty, (a floating pontoon), next to which, straining on it’s mooring line, rocked a five metre long grey inflatable boat with central seating for two and powered by a 50 HP motor; rising spray obliterated any chance of seeing across to the opposite bank.
Bob said to me, “Right, in you get; this coiled red plastic cable is the ‘kill cord’ (ominous name that eh?), put it on every time you drive the boat, if you go overboard it stops the engine and you might stand a chance of re-boarding without losing a limb, make sure you steer with your left hand and control the engine power from the throttle with your right hand; got that?”.
The three of us had a slow dawdle in what passed for semi sheltered water near the jetty. “OK,” Bob said, “now swap over, let me off the boat, I’ll be back down here soon. Take the boat out but don’t go too far.”
As Bob left us to walk away up the hill to the boat centre; (He’d probably gone to check his desk for alcohol, valium or steroids, or perhaps all three!) Dick took the controls and, in one deft and foolhardy move, he was flat out going dead ahead, down wind, throttle wide open and both hands clamped firmly to the steering wheel and, as though relishing the wild weather, he bounced us from wave to wave. Our boat and novice crew were soon engulfed by wind born spray and wave troughs somewhere in the centre of a grey green hell.
Now, I have to confess to you that I suffered a modicum of some stuff they call in the trade, ‘fear’, but not wishing Dick to realise this I merely shouted above the wind, racing engine and the crash of the boat on wave tops, and as nonchalantly as a petrified non swimmer in a maelstrom can, “not too far Dick, …. Bob said, not too far!”
For a brief moment he glanced behind and with a typically polite yet smug attitude, he roared with almost pleasurable derision, “Chicken!”
Can you imagine that, you are pillion riding a boat battered by waves and soon to be battered by the fast approaching merciless dam wall, and your driver is just a power crazed looney.
Dick eventually slowed the boat and we turned to head back to the jetty, ....... what jetty? All we could see was white wave tops, (the ones you never see when going down wind). We headed back, soundly thrashed by wind and spray, and now even more battered as we met the waves head on, all the way to a waiting jetty and Bob.
We said nothing; Bob said nothing.
Several years later in this pub, Dick finally confessed that he'd been trying to slow down all along but that each time he took his hand off the wheel to adjust the throttle we hit a wave and his hand instantly retreated to the seemingly relative safety of the steering wheel. It was his excitable and detailed re-enactment of the event that brought about the demise of the pub bench; at least only our sorrows could drown in there.
Still, at long last - a confession, and the truth was out – a boat full of chickens.
PS. The chickens survived to both become powerboat instructors ….. After a bit more practice!
That evening inside Ye Olde Worlde village pub my old work colleague vigorously, almost demonically, bounced on the wooden bench seat, ‘boing, boing, boing,’ went Dick; crack, crunch, snap went the bench. He was suddenly silent and still, and somewhat sheepish; a lot different from his earlier alcohol fuelled bravado and jollity.
What brought this about? .......... I’ll tell you …… if you have but a minute.
It starts with a bad manager we once shared. You may well have suffered at the hands and mind of such an apalling creature yourself, there's a few out there.
It went a bit like this;
Stage 1: deny any useful staff the chance to go on a course, especially if it looks like being good fun. Stage 2; make sure your own name is included on the course list. 3, having been on the course, had a free meal and claimed mileage never ever put your new skills into use. 4; finally realise that you need someone to do the work that you don’t want to do. 5; select a couple of the originally ignored ‘useful people’, (they’ll catch up, won’t they?) 6, don’t send them on the beginner’s course, there’s no time for that now – as you’ve left it too late. Send them on the advanced course instead. (‘Not done the basic course? Oh, it was so easy; you don’t need that silly one first’) 7; expect gratitude from the selected staff you are now belatedly sending. 8; ensure that you tell your own boss that all is under control now – thanks entirely to your omnipotent and invaluable forward thinking self, of course.
Dick and I were the chosen ‘useful’ ones and the day of the course duly arrived – a boating course it was – to be precise, power-boating all the way to fleet rescue level. Yup, from ‘yes, I understand that is a boat’, to highly skilled manoeuvres and life saving procedures carried out with speed and precision under any conditions.
Dick and I were sent along to a local RYA training establishment in the County, where we introduced ourselves to Bob, a likeable and highly competent ‘boat person’. Even with all his skills and experience he looked a little shocked and indeed bewildered as we answered his question on our previous boating experience, which, note, he expected to be considerable, ….. ‘Well, we’ve seen a boat, does that count?’ … ‘I’ve been on the Dover ferry a couple of times’, 'what do you mean by; “it’s a RIB”?’
“Oh, well”, Bob sighed,” we’ll just do our best and see what happens; come on let’s get some buoyancy aids – we must be careful – you can die out there” ‘Not good news for a chap that can only swim the length of his bath’, I thought, as I donned a buoyancy aid that didn’t look big enough to aid itself.
The deep and blue-green algae contaminated reservoir is over 2 miles long and a strong south westerly wind had whipped up some good sized waves into a frenzy along its entire length. We stood on a heaving and wave lashed jetty, (a floating pontoon), next to which, straining on it’s mooring line, rocked a five metre long grey inflatable boat with central seating for two and powered by a 50 HP motor; rising spray obliterated any chance of seeing across to the opposite bank.
Bob said to me, “Right, in you get; this coiled red plastic cable is the ‘kill cord’ (ominous name that eh?), put it on every time you drive the boat, if you go overboard it stops the engine and you might stand a chance of re-boarding without losing a limb, make sure you steer with your left hand and control the engine power from the throttle with your right hand; got that?”.
The three of us had a slow dawdle in what passed for semi sheltered water near the jetty. “OK,” Bob said, “now swap over, let me off the boat, I’ll be back down here soon. Take the boat out but don’t go too far.”
As Bob left us to walk away up the hill to the boat centre; (He’d probably gone to check his desk for alcohol, valium or steroids, or perhaps all three!) Dick took the controls and, in one deft and foolhardy move, he was flat out going dead ahead, down wind, throttle wide open and both hands clamped firmly to the steering wheel and, as though relishing the wild weather, he bounced us from wave to wave. Our boat and novice crew were soon engulfed by wind born spray and wave troughs somewhere in the centre of a grey green hell.
Now, I have to confess to you that I suffered a modicum of some stuff they call in the trade, ‘fear’, but not wishing Dick to realise this I merely shouted above the wind, racing engine and the crash of the boat on wave tops, and as nonchalantly as a petrified non swimmer in a maelstrom can, “not too far Dick, …. Bob said, not too far!”
For a brief moment he glanced behind and with a typically polite yet smug attitude, he roared with almost pleasurable derision, “Chicken!”
Can you imagine that, you are pillion riding a boat battered by waves and soon to be battered by the fast approaching merciless dam wall, and your driver is just a power crazed looney.
Dick eventually slowed the boat and we turned to head back to the jetty, ....... what jetty? All we could see was white wave tops, (the ones you never see when going down wind). We headed back, soundly thrashed by wind and spray, and now even more battered as we met the waves head on, all the way to a waiting jetty and Bob.
We said nothing; Bob said nothing.
Several years later in this pub, Dick finally confessed that he'd been trying to slow down all along but that each time he took his hand off the wheel to adjust the throttle we hit a wave and his hand instantly retreated to the seemingly relative safety of the steering wheel. It was his excitable and detailed re-enactment of the event that brought about the demise of the pub bench; at least only our sorrows could drown in there.
Still, at long last - a confession, and the truth was out – a boat full of chickens.
PS. The chickens survived to both become powerboat instructors ….. After a bit more practice!
Students on one of our own courses . . . by now we weren't afraid.
Bratislava – the left luggage!
On the floor of my East European lodgings I tried to put my stuff back in my case – it was more like a great puzzle. You know, like the meaning of life or such, or perhaps an entrance test to some IQ association. It had been packed tightly by a woman, my then girlfriend of the time, and now, with my considerably inferior male skills in this department, I can no longer fit everything in.
Following Katie’s instructions, (Katie, a friend of someone I knew back in England, was a 24 year old model who worked in TV films etc, and who, along with a friend of hers, had pleasantly graced the presence of us old codgers for an evening meal), we, that is Cousin Roger and I, caught Tram X to the railway station. It must be a ticket only system as the driver wouldn’t take our money – must have seen we were tourists, what with no language and suitcases big enough to sink shipping.
On arrival we were thrown in to doubt as to it being the right station as our train’s indicated destination was not Budapest but Bucharest, and the time of departure was different too. Bucharest is as far further on as we were from England – not what we wanted at all! Our lodgings are booked in Hungary not Romania! However it transpired to be the right station and all, well nearly all, was well. Cousin Roger is a seasoned traveller, having been most places in the world, and had organised this trip too; with such skills behind him he headed off to find left luggage space to relieve us of our heavy suitcases, (even the idea itself was a new one on me, the greatly, un-seasoned traveller!) …….I followed .
I had anticipated it might not be so easy, as Roger’s command of Slovack was worse than mine, and I only knew five words, which included please, thank you, postcard, stamps and orange juice, all spoken in an accent that caused bemusement and laughter, the rest is down to smiles and pointing.
Well, now I’ve walked all around Bratislava Railway Station with my suitcase.
Finally we found ‘them’, some infernal machines on the platform; like big metal cupboards that swallowed your case.
The first one that I tried ate all my money and refused to give me anything in return. I thought, “To hell with this, I’ll carry mine!” I always was a worrier.
Cousin Roger was not having much better luck but was more determined, and of course was an international traveller who had conquered these types of thing before. With his persistence and the dubious help of a total stranger, who was obviously as ignorant of the workings as he, and a Slovack Railway worker, neither of whose English compared with the competency of Roger’s Slovack, he wrestled with machine after machine until he succeeded. (Inside the open door you dialled your personal code, shut the door and put in your money - I think!)
To recover your case, of course, should be simple, - dial in your code and ‘hey presto’ the door opens.
Cousin Roger, now pleasantly unburdened by his heavy suitcase, caught up with me in a short queue in the railway station’s little post office, where I planned to post some cards home while the Slovakian stamps were still valid.. Roger triumphantly told me of his eventual and trouble fraught success and I replied, as I pushed my own case along in the queue, that I wished him as much success in getting it back.
A train of thought began in Cousin Roger’s head, and he was beset by a vision of the long Budapest train pulling steadily but powerfully away from the station as he, himself, was left struggling on that foreign platform with a machine that refused to give him back his case.
So, after all that, he went and fetched it.
It turned out it was really easy!
Until the train came to fetch us, once more we carried our cases all around Bratislava Railway Station.
On the floor of my East European lodgings I tried to put my stuff back in my case – it was more like a great puzzle. You know, like the meaning of life or such, or perhaps an entrance test to some IQ association. It had been packed tightly by a woman, my then girlfriend of the time, and now, with my considerably inferior male skills in this department, I can no longer fit everything in.
Following Katie’s instructions, (Katie, a friend of someone I knew back in England, was a 24 year old model who worked in TV films etc, and who, along with a friend of hers, had pleasantly graced the presence of us old codgers for an evening meal), we, that is Cousin Roger and I, caught Tram X to the railway station. It must be a ticket only system as the driver wouldn’t take our money – must have seen we were tourists, what with no language and suitcases big enough to sink shipping.
On arrival we were thrown in to doubt as to it being the right station as our train’s indicated destination was not Budapest but Bucharest, and the time of departure was different too. Bucharest is as far further on as we were from England – not what we wanted at all! Our lodgings are booked in Hungary not Romania! However it transpired to be the right station and all, well nearly all, was well. Cousin Roger is a seasoned traveller, having been most places in the world, and had organised this trip too; with such skills behind him he headed off to find left luggage space to relieve us of our heavy suitcases, (even the idea itself was a new one on me, the greatly, un-seasoned traveller!) …….I followed .
I had anticipated it might not be so easy, as Roger’s command of Slovack was worse than mine, and I only knew five words, which included please, thank you, postcard, stamps and orange juice, all spoken in an accent that caused bemusement and laughter, the rest is down to smiles and pointing.
Well, now I’ve walked all around Bratislava Railway Station with my suitcase.
Finally we found ‘them’, some infernal machines on the platform; like big metal cupboards that swallowed your case.
The first one that I tried ate all my money and refused to give me anything in return. I thought, “To hell with this, I’ll carry mine!” I always was a worrier.
Cousin Roger was not having much better luck but was more determined, and of course was an international traveller who had conquered these types of thing before. With his persistence and the dubious help of a total stranger, who was obviously as ignorant of the workings as he, and a Slovack Railway worker, neither of whose English compared with the competency of Roger’s Slovack, he wrestled with machine after machine until he succeeded. (Inside the open door you dialled your personal code, shut the door and put in your money - I think!)
To recover your case, of course, should be simple, - dial in your code and ‘hey presto’ the door opens.
Cousin Roger, now pleasantly unburdened by his heavy suitcase, caught up with me in a short queue in the railway station’s little post office, where I planned to post some cards home while the Slovakian stamps were still valid.. Roger triumphantly told me of his eventual and trouble fraught success and I replied, as I pushed my own case along in the queue, that I wished him as much success in getting it back.
A train of thought began in Cousin Roger’s head, and he was beset by a vision of the long Budapest train pulling steadily but powerfully away from the station as he, himself, was left struggling on that foreign platform with a machine that refused to give him back his case.
So, after all that, he went and fetched it.
It turned out it was really easy!
Until the train came to fetch us, once more we carried our cases all around Bratislava Railway Station.
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Overheard on Ilfracombe quay, "shouldn't it be a frying pan she's holding?" Some might be aghast at such a statement, but as a home coming fisherman with a catch in the hold, how fitting to be met with a frying pan and not a sword. So it wasn't so bad after all. Verity . . . one impressive statue. |
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The Enchanting Guru.
Oh-Ummm and on, the chanting goes
guided by the one who knows.
Disbeliever shakes and giggles,
but even Gurus suffer niggles.
“Perhaps you’d like to share by half,
what it is that makes you laugh.”
“Why yes I will, indignant few,
what makes me laugh is watching you.
But what I find is more than funny,
how foolishly you part with money.”
Oh-Ummm and on, the chanting goes
guided by the one who knows.
Disbeliever shakes and giggles,
but even Gurus suffer niggles.
“Perhaps you’d like to share by half,
what it is that makes you laugh.”
“Why yes I will, indignant few,
what makes me laugh is watching you.
But what I find is more than funny,
how foolishly you part with money.”
