Greetings, felicitations, and fluffy dice.

GREETINGS, FELICITATIONS AND FLUFFY DICE

Now, you probably don’t know me, so let me introduce myself. My name is Jack Rowlands, although people tend to call me Mad Jack. I can’t think why.

Anyway, for my day job, I am an Alley Cat. What’s an Alley Cat, I hear you ask? In a very strange voice, I might add. Well, the Alley Cats are the Bomb Disposal team of National Security Command. So, if you’ve got something that you think is going to blow up, just give me a ring.

It’s a real man’s life in the Alley Cats. We do real man things, like weight training, marathon running, knitting, and highland dancing. And don’t believe everything you hear. One ballet lesson, ONE. Do they let you forget? Do they drumsticks! So, by way of relaxation, I entertain the team with a few of my hilarious stories. Well, I think they’re funny.

In among my own totally awesome original stories are ones based on tales I have heard. Some of them could be described as traditional. My grandfather would have heard them. Others are more modern. Now, I have tried to establish the copyright of these stories, but I have not been able to trace the authors. If you feel I have breached your copyright, first know that it was not deliberate, and accept my apology. Secondly, please let me know, and I will be happy to amend future issues. Now, is that or is that not fair?

Monday 12 November 2012

Another Case for Muller and Scurry


Roxy Muller put down the folder, “It’s only a matter of time, you know.”

“You don’t have a case against me. You might as well let me go.”

“I have a witness who saw you arguing with Clive Marx two nights ago.”

“Yes, but he was alive when I left him, and, as far as I know, he still is.”

“We know you killed him. You argued about his affair, then you killed him and disposed of the body.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You discovered that he had been seeing your cousin, Gertrude.”

“We split up months ago. Why should that matter to me?”

“Perhaps you still had feelings for him. Perhaps you felt betrayed.”

“And perhaps not. Perhaps this is all guesswork. Perhaps you have no idea. And perhaps you should let me go.”

Muller pulled out some photographs.

“This is your business – Wicker Wocker Woo – the one you started with Clive? You make wicker furniture and such. That hardly sounds like a profitable business.”

“You’d be surprised. We even export.”

“Yes. I’ve seen your books. You sell a lot to Kublastan.”

“Yes. So what?”

“Wicker is an interesting material. You use synthetics, don’t you?”

“Yes. Natural wicker isn’t strong enough for furniture.”


Over at the shop, Muller’s partner, Danny Scurry, was going over the forensic evidence. He checked a drawer and pulled out a bunch of keys, “We’re looking in the wrong place, guys. They have a warehouse.”

The team arrived at the address Scurry found and he opened the door. The air was heavy with the smell of resin, “This is where they make the wicker. Check the offices and the equipment.”

The team searched the building quickly and efficiently. In the meantime, Scurry went to the loading bay where hundreds of pieces were waiting to be loaded into trucks. He carefully examined them, opening the various boxes and baskets, looking inside the packs of chairs and tables. Then he smiled, “Magnus, come here. Check this out.”

There was a knock on the door, and Danny Scurry walked in, taking the seat beside Muller.

“We found him.”

“You couldn’t have.”

“We found an odd looking hamper, so we checked it out. In with the synthetic wicker material we found human DNA. Clive Marx’s DNA. If you had spread the material around, we might have missed it, but you made the fatal mistake.”

“What was that?”

“You put all your ex in one basket.”

Monday 1 October 2012

Pong tiddy pong

I sing a song
When things go wrong
Sing pong tiddy pong tiddy pong

It may be cold and wet
And dark but yet
Sing pong tiddy pong tiddy pong

Pong tiddy pong
Tiddy tiddy pong
Tiddy tiddy tiddy tiddy
Pong pong pong
Tiddy tiddy pong
Pong tiddy pong
Tiddy tiddy tiddy tiddy pong

When your bills are unpaid
And you balance is red
Sing pong tiddy pong tiddy pong

You sneeze and cough
And you feel so rough
Sing pong tiddy pong tiddy pong

Pong tiddy pong
Tiddy tiddy pong
Tiddy tiddy tiddy tiddy
Pong pong pong
Tiddy tiddy pong
Pong tiddy pong
Tiddy tiddy tiddy tiddy pong

Pong tiddy pong
Tiddy tiddy pong
Tiddy tiddy tiddy tiddy
Pong pong pong
Tiddy tiddy pong
Pong tiddy pong
Tiddy tiddy tiddy tiddy pong

Thursday 5 July 2012

The Dead Mobile Sketch

A customer enters a mobile phone shop.

"'Ello, I wish to register a complaint."

"Sorry, we just closed."

"Well, you can deal with my complaint before you have your cappucino and your dead cow sandwich."

"Dead pig, actually.. Lovely, crispy, dead pig."

"That's as maybe. I wish to complain about this mobile phone I bought from you yesterday."

"Oh yes, The GSB Blue. ER, what seems to be the problemeticule?"

"Problemeticule? Promlemeticule? What sort of word is problemeticule? The problem, my good man, is it don't work. It's dead. That's the problem."

"Nah, nah, nah. It just needs charging."

"Look, dude, I know a dead mobile when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now."

"Nah, nah, nah. It just needs charging. Amazin' mobile, the GSB Blue. Lovely shape, isn't it? Great apps."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Apps. I said apps. Great APPS."

"Sorry, I thought you were making a personal remark."

"Nah."

"The apps have nothing to do with it. It's dead."

"Nah, nah. Look, I'll plug it in here, and you'll see. BEEP."

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That BEEP!"

"That's the mobile. It's charging."

"No it wasn't, it was you."

"It was the mobile, Señor, the mobile."

"All right, if it's charging, I'll turn it on. Pokey, pokey, pokey! Shaky, shaky, shaky! There. Look at the screen! Nothing!"

"BEEP! There, it beeped again."

"That was you. Look, I'll tap it on this counter. Tap, tap, tappy!"

"The screen came on."

"No it didn't."

"It did. Just for a moment, it came on."

"Bang, bang, bangy! Nothing! That's what I call a dead mobile."

"Nah, it was working."

"Now look, Homey, I've had enough. This mobile is definitely dead. When I bought this yesterday, you said that it's total lack of activity was because it had a flat battery after being used for a long conversation."

"Well, it was probably needing an upgrade."

"Needing an upgrade? Needing an upgrade? Look, why did it fall to pieces when I got it home?"

"Ease of dismantling and assembly. Lovely apps, Mein Herr."

"You did say apps?"

"Apps, yes apps."

"Very well. It may have lovely apps, but how could I tell? The only reason there was a picture on the screen was that someone had painted it on!"

"Well, of course it was painted on. You have to protect the screen, you know."

"Protect the screen? What for? It's a dead mobile."

"It just needs a charge."

"It wouldn't work if you sent a million volts through it! It's dead!"

"Nah, it just needs charging."

""It don't need charging, it's dead! Defunct! It is broken, blitzed, defective, non-functional! It is brick-like! The only app it has is Paperweight! It is obsolete, unusable! It has joined the Vibraphone in Silicon Heaven! This is an EX-MOBILE!"

"Well, I'd better replace it, m'sieur. Er, we're right out of mobile phones."

"Excuse me, is this not a mobile phone shop?"

"Why, yes sir."

"Then how, pray tell, can you be out of mobile phones?"

"I've got a bluetooth earpiece."

"Can I make calls with it?"

"Well, not as such.."

"Then it's hardly a replacement, is it?"

"No, I guess not."

"Well?"

"Nice ass."

"Why, thank you, my good man."

Wednesday 7 March 2012

The Tyrant

NOW LISTEN! HERE ARE MY DEMANDS!
When I want you I will summon you, day or night, and you shall attend me.
I will not tell you what I want, that is for you to determine. I may want food: if I enjoy it all will be well.
If I don’t, I will spit it out or throw it across the room.
I may want to be entertained: if so you, will humiliate yourself for my pleasure.
I may smile, I may laugh, and you will consider this reward enough,

I may throw things for you to retrieve, and you will do so for as long as it amuses me.
Whatever vileness my body produces, you will dispose of.
Whatever I take is mine and woe betides anyone that thinks otherwise.
I am my own universe, and what are you in comparison?
You exist merely to please and to serve me,

Yes I am greedy and selfish, yet in all you think me blameless
After all I am only a baby…

Monday 5 March 2012

Nativity

It was a Sunday afternoon in the middle of December. Hazel was so excited, all she could think of was her new job. No more teaching sniffly, screaming children. Her future was the fashion industry for a career in fabric production. Her head was filled with ideas for new colour combinations. For days now her food had gone uneaten and her untouched coffee went cold. Then she had a phone call from her best friend at the school.

“Hazel, we need you at the nativity.”

“I’m finished with school. I start my new job tomorrow.”

“Please. The person that was to play Mary has taken sick. We need you to replace her. You did it last year.”

“Please, don’t ask me. I’m feeling rough at the moment as it is.”

“I know how excited you must be. Have you been starving yourself? You do that when you’re anxious.”

“Yes. I haven’t had a thing for three days.”

“Please, Hazel. Just for me. Eat, drink and be Mary, for tomorrow you dye.”

Saturday 3 March 2012

Pig Prosthetics


This is another story based on one I heard a long time ago. Once again, I have failed to find out who wrote the original. Whoever you are, thanks.

Robert was taking his family for a tour of a farm In Dustham. All was well until little Billy ran up to him and yelled. “Daddy, Daddy! That pig has got a wooden leg!” Robert told him not to be silly, but Billy yelled again “Daddy, Daddy! That pig really has a wooden leg!” So the whole family went over to the pen and, sure enough, there was a pig with a wooden leg.

Robert called to the farmer and asked him “Prithee, Goodsir, methinks ‘tis odd that yon pig has a leg of wood. Pray, what manner of thing is this?” (Robert had mastered the local dialect).

“Well, mate, it’s like this, innit?” (The farmer was actually from Watford). “When me and the missus was just starting up here, all we could afford was that pig. Got him when he was just a piglet.”

“Verrily, Goodsir,” (Robert was a bit slow on the uptake). “But why the leg as wooden as any oak?”

“Well, mate, it’s like this, innit? In the first week we got him he starts nuzzling the ground by that tree over there. We starts digging and there’s this huge pile of Roman coins. We got £250,000 for that.”

“Yes, but why the wooden leg?” (By George he’s got it!).

“Well, mate, it’s like this, innit? Abaht 6 months ago a burglar broke in tied up me and the missus, took all our money and jewellery and ran off. That pig jumped out of his pen, chased after the burglar, knocked him out, got into the house, chewed off the ropes on me and the missus, went back and sat on the burglar until the police came.”

“But why the wooden leg?”

“Well, mate, it’s like this, innit? Only last month I was working the lower field, when one of the tractor wheels sinks into the grahnd. The whole thing tips over and pins me dahn. I couldn’t move. I thought I was a gonner, and no mistake. That pig jumps out of his pen and starts digging away at the earth around me and drags me out. I owe my life to that pig.”

“Yes, yes, yes. But why the wooden leg!!!”

“Well, mate, it’s like this, innit? Last Tuesday our niece went for a paddle in the pond. She slips and hits her head on a rock. That pig jumps out of his pen and drags her out. Then it does CPR on her. It saved her life.”

“Look, if you don’t tell us why that pig has a wooden leg, I’m going to beat you senseless.”

“Well, mate, it’s obvious, innit? You have a pig that good; you don’t eat him all at once!! Streaky bacon anybody? Fresh!”

Wednesday 29 February 2012

The T Team

Mavis Black read the card that someone had slipped into her bag. It said "If you want to hire the T Team, be at Ye Olde Saxon Violets Coffee Shoppe at exactly 10:00." She checked her watch. It was 10:00 precisely. She looked around anxiously but, apart from the waitress, did not see anyone that looked like a troubleshooter. The waitress came over to her table and sat down.

"You can't sit there, I'm waiting for someone."

"Mavis Black?"

"Yes, that's me."

As if on cue a bright pink GMC Vandura screamed to a halt outside the coffee shop. Two women burst out of the van and, along with the waitress, bundled Mavis inside before speeding off.

The waitress pulled off her blonde wig to reveal a head of blond hair styled in exactly the same way. "Mavis Black, you've just hired the T Team. I'm Anabelle Smith. What can we do for you?"

"I represent a group of people that are trying to keep a children's hospice open. But there are developers that want the land. We need you to help us raise enough funds to buy the land outright."

"Leave it to us, because WE ARE... THE T TEAM."

Mavis was startled by a military fanfare. A young woman dressed in clothes that had clearly been curtains recently and wearing a peaked bunny cap pulled a mobile phone from her jeans. "Robert, I told you not to phone me at work." She shut the phone off.

"Your husband?" Mavis asked.

 "My psychiatrist." Responded the woman.

--

Anabelle Smith looked over her team. They had stood together loyally for many years. Yes, there had been disagreements, even conflicts, but somehow they were always sorted out. "OK, ladies, these good people need our help and they are going to get it. Agreed?"

"Agreed, Anabelle." They chorused.

 "Temperance, your job is to get the sponge. Beatrice, the jelly. Aysha-Emma."

"Don't tell me. It's the fruit. It's always the fruit." Aysha-Emma Maddox turned her cap so the peak faced backwards, thrust her hands in her pockets and strolled out.

"Do you trust her, Anabelle?"

"Beatrice Anastasia Bacchus, how can you say that? Maddox has always come through for us."

"She's a crazy fool."

"That's not nice," said Temperance Pike.

"She's helped you out on many occasions."

"You mean knocking me out all those times?"

"Well, at least you didn't get seasick."

"I don't get seasick. I just hate boats."

"Ladies, ladies. We have jobs to do. Let's get to it."

In a couple of hours, the team reassembled and set to work. Once the ingredients were combined it was put into the fridge to set. The ladies of the Rotary Club applauded the team when they were presented with the finished product.

 Annabelle turned to the other ladies and just said...

 "I love it when a flan comes together."

Tuesday 28 February 2012

Lost in the Jungle

I admit I had been foolish not to listen to the advice I had been given. I had decided to drive from Pho-Lat to Kai-Tam by myself. When I had gone about a hundred and fifty miles, my land rover completely seized up. I inspected the engine, but there was no way I could get it to start again. I reached for a map and my water flask. The flask was empty. Again, I had been so sure I would arrive safely at my destination that I had not worried about running out of water. I checked the map. There was a small village about fifteen miles away through the jungle. There I would find food, water and help. 

I set off in a direct line to the village, or so I thought. After several hours, and without anything to guide me, I realised I was quite lost. I was also hungry and thirsty. Now, having grown up in Pho-Lat Province, I did have some jungle craft, but I had not needed to use it for many years. I looked around until I spotted some berries, about the size of a grape and the colour of lemons. They were not good for food, they were highly acidic and would bring on terrible stomach cramps. I did recognise the broad, shiny leaves of a plant I knew to be related to the potato. I dug it up and hungrily ate the root. I had difficulty in swallowing it because I was so dry. 

That is when I spotted the toad. It was bright red in the dark green of the jungle. I knew it was poisonous, but I also knew it could help me. I captured it and started feeding it the berries. The toad was highly addicted to them and devoured berry after berry. It stopped for a while and vomited out an acrid mass before returning to the fruit. Its skin colour started to change through orange to the colour of the berries. This was what I had been waiting for. I threw the berries away. The toad just sat there for a while. Then it started jumping through the undergrowth. The berries had given it a mighty thirst and it was using its natural instincts to find fresh water. And all I had to do now was to follow the yellow sick toad.

Monday 27 February 2012

A Tale of World War II

This is based on a shaggy dog story which could be described as traditional. It was the first shaggy dog story I ever heard. This is my version.

Shortly after the start of World War II the call went out to craftsmen and skilled workers to come to the aid of the Nation’s defence.

One such was Nigel Webster. He had just finished his apprenticeship as an Oglogel Box Maker and was very keen to serve his country.

He went to the Army Recruitment Office.

“Well, Son, what do you do?” The Sergeant asked.

“I’m an Oglogel Box Maker, Sir!”

“What is an Oglogel Box?”

“Well, it’s about 20 feet across, and 20 feet high...”

“That’s too big for the Army to use. We would need to have special vehicles just to carry it. Try the Air Force.”

So Nigel went to the Air Force.

“Well, Son, what do you do?” The Squadron Leader asked.

“I’m an Oglogel Box Maker, Sir!”

“What is an Oglogel Box?”

“Well, it’s a cube that weighs about 30 Tons...”

“That’s far too heavy to go in one of our aircraft, try the Navy.”

So Nigel went to the Navy.

“Well, Son, what do you do?” The Midshipman asked.

“I’m an Oglogel Box Maker, Sir!”

“What is an Oglogel Box?”

“Well, it’s a cube that weighs about 30 Tons.”

“That’s heavy, but our ships could carry it easily. How big is it?”

“About 20 feet per side, Sir.”

“That’s not a problem. What exactly does it do?”

“Well, Sir, I’m not allowed to say, but if you will let me make one, I can demonstrate it.”

“OK, you’re in.”

Some weeks later Nigel was on the HMS Fearless. Under his instruction, huge tarpaulins were erected on the deck and fastened securely. These rose up to form a wall so that no-one would see the secrets of the Oglogel Box that Nigel had sworn to preserve.

Over the next month, timber and nails and equipment were taken inside the work area and the air was full of the sounds of sawing and hammering.

At the end of 6 weeks, Nigel reported to the Captain that the work was done. HMS Fearless set sail for a demonstration of the Oglogel box's strange properties.

As the ship positioned itself off of the coast near Penzance, the deck gradually filled with admirals and generals, politicians and nameless figures that stayed in the shadows.

The crowd watched, hushed now, as a crane swung over the area where the Oglogel box had been constructed. The hook went down and, after a while, Nigel called out that all was secure.

The crane took the strain. The motor rumbled with the effort of lifting the box. Slowly it rose from behind the tarpaulins, Nigel on the top steadying it. The crowd stared, fascinated by this strange object.

It was, as Nigel had said, a cube about 20 feet per side. It had a large hole (about 3 feet across) in the centre of each of the sides. There were slots irregularly spaced above and below the hole. Also on each side were sets of arrows pointing upwards.

Nigel gave the signal and the crane turned so that the box hung over the side of the ship. The crowd surged to the guardrail to see what would happen next.

The box was lowered, gently, to the surface of the sea. Nigel very carefully unhooked the box and was lifted back onto the deck.

All eyes stared at the box, now floating a few feet away from the ship. Then they saw a spurt of water coming from the holes and it began to sink. And as it sank, it went

Oglogel, oglogel, oglogel

Friday 24 February 2012

The Road Trip

“I’m telling you Brad, if you don’t turn off that Sat Nav, I’m going to throw it out the window.”

“No, Jenny. I need it. It’s vital for work.”

“But why does it have that voice?”

“What voice?”

“That..that. Oooh! You know.”

“What’s wrong with it? It’s clear, and tells me exactly where I need to go.”

After one hundred yards, turn right, you sexy, sexy man.

“I’m telling you,  Brad , I’ve just about had it with the voice of that – that - Hussy!”

“Do people still say that?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Look. How will we know where to go without Sat Nav?”

“I can read a map.”

“OK, I’ll turn the Sat Nav off, you direct us to Lemster, and we’ll stop for lunch.”

Jenny reached round, and grabbed the map book, riffling the pages to Worcester where they had begun their journey. She followed the roads with her finger, then stopped and stared at the book. Then she turned to the index, turning a few pages, then traced down with her finger, then went back to the map page.

“Lemster?”

“Yes, Lemster.”

“A little village north of Ludlow?”

“What are you talking about? Lemster’s a big place. Famous.”

“Well, I can’t find it.”

Brad braked sharply and grabbed the map book.

“Look. Here! Here! Lemster!”

“That says Leominster.”

“It’s pronounced ‘Lemster'.”

“Well, why didn’t you say you wanted to go to Leominster?”

“It’s pronounced ‘Lemster!’”

The two quietly fumed during the rest of the journey.  Brad changed gears sharply and Jenny shot him angry looks that contained more acid than words ever could. They pulled into the restaurant car park, went in and sat down. Eventually a waitress came over to them to take the order.

“Before we do that, could you answer a question?”

“ Brad!”

“Look, Jenny, I just want to settle this once and for all.”

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s just eat our meal in peace.”

“Miss. My wife and I had a disagreement on the way here. Please could you tell me the correct way to pronounce the name of this place?”

“Jol-ly Chef.”

Thursday 23 February 2012

Normally Speaking

“Ah, Dr Baxter, Come in. Sit down.”
“Thank you, Chancellor.”
“I’ve been meaning to speak to you about this paper you’ve written.”
“Yes?”
“‘An Analytical Method for Diagnosis of Mental and Personality Disorders’.”
“Yes.”
“What is your purpose in writing it?”
“I thought it would clarify psychological and psychiatric diagnoses.”
“Indeed. I have a few questions to ask. Do you mind?”
“Not at all, Chancellor. Go right ahead.”
“Ludic Voyeurism Disorder - How do you define it?”
“It’s the unhealthy preoccupation of observing organised recreational physical activity.”
“Or watching sport.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you call this a disorder?”
“Because it serves no purpose.”
“Many people enjoy watching sport.”
“That just goes to show how widespread the disorder is.”
“Phantastic Voyeurism Disorder?”
“Unhealthy preoccupation of observing people behaving in imaginary ways.”
“Such as?”
“Watching fictional shows on TV, theatre and cinema.”
“Don’t most people do this?”
“Yes, Chancellor. That doesn’t mean it’s healthy.”
“Dr Baxter. Can I ask a personal question?”
“By all means.”
“Do you watch TV?”
“No. I’ve never had one.”
“What about sport, do you play sport?”
“No. I don’t see the point of it.”
“I see. Now, this paper of yours lists 235 disorders.”
“Yes.”
"Including aversion to prawn curry?"
"Yes sir. Not liking prawn curry is just not normal."
“I see. How did you come up with these disorders?”
“I analysed a number of studies.”
“And who performed these studies?”
“I did.”
“I thought so. Now, if I read this right, you have disorders relating to driving cars, flying in aircraft, going on holiday. All these would seem to be quite normal.”
“Not according to my studies, Chancellor.”
“I can see at least twelve of these that apply to me. The same for other people I can think of. As a matter of fact, I think there is only one person they don’t apply to.”
“Chancellor?”
“You’ve defined yourself as normal, haven’t you?”
”Well, according to my studies...”
“And anyone who is not you, is not normal?”
“Well...”
“You have devoted a whole paper to proving you are the only normal person on the planet.”
“So it would seem, Chancellor.”
“Baxter, that is not normal.”

The Guru

“Good evening. Tonight we meet Guru Kaun...”

“Please. You must use my full name.”

“Alright, forgive me if I mispronounce it. Guru Wobble Butt...”

“No, no, no. It is Guru Woh Bol Bahut Laykin Laghana Thora Kaun.”

“May I just call you ‘Guru’?”

“Please.”

“Thank you. Now, Guru, your recently published biography makes some amazing claims. Would you like to back them up?”

“By all means.”

“You were born in Jaipur?”

“Yes.”

“Ah yes. I know Jaipur very well. The Pink City, with the Jal Mahal, the Lakshmi-Narayan Temple and the Amber Fort. I lived in the Sindhi Colony for some time, you know. Where exactly in Jaipur were you born?”

“The bedroom just above the kitchen.”

“I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

“My father owned a restaurant in Peckham. I was born in the apartment just over it.”

“So, not in India?”

“No. Peckham.”

“You weren’t born Wobble Butt…”

“Woh Bol Bahut Laykin Laghana Thora Kaun. No. I was given that name after I attained enlightenment.”

“What was your name when you were born?”

“Neville G. Cooper.”

“What did the G stand for?”

“Arthur.”

“Arthur?”

“Yes. The G is silent.”

“I see. Now, your book says that you are an Astral Traveller?”

“Yes. A very good car.”

“Sorry?”

“The Vauxhall Astra. Very good.”

“And what is this about walking between the stars?”

“Ah yes. I have not done that for many years.”

“Would you like to tell us about it?”

“I learned to walk between the stars when I was in the United States. I was taught by a wise man called John Glenn.”

“John Glenn the Astronaut?”

“No, John Glenn the USPS Letter Carrier. He delivered the mail in Beverley Hills. Many stars there.”

“How did you become a Guru?”

“It was in May 1978. I achieved enlightenment and ascended into the heavens. Then I found myself in the scented garden of the wise woman. I told her of everything I had seen. That is when she gave me my new name.”

“You levitated?”

“Certainly.”

“How did you do that?”

“I sat in the Lotus Position on a bamboo mat, repeated my mantra, emptied my mind, and rose up into the air.”

“What was that mantra?”

“Cut the cords.”

“Can you demonstrate this levitation to us here?”

“I would need a hot air balloon.”

“Tell me how you met the wise woman.”

“As I say, I found myself in her scented garden. I was dazed by my experience. She called to me and we talked for hours. It was then she gave me my new name and bestowed upon me the title of Guru.”

“How did you know she was a wise woman?”

“By the deep spiritual questions she asked.”

“Such as?”

“Who do you think you are? Why did you crash your balloon in my greenhouse? Who is going to pay for the damage?”

“And she called you Guru?”

“Yes, although I did not immediately understand her accent. It sounded more like Gerrout.”

“What actually do you do as a Guru?”

“Each day I go to my chambers. When people seek my guidance, they are ushered into my presence. There I listen to their stories, their appeals for help. I do what I can with the powers that I have. Sometimes it is enough.”

“And how do you help them?”

“I offer them a loan. Low interest, easy terms, six months for first repayment.”

“So, you aren’t a Guru, are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are, in fact, a bank manager.”

“OK, guv’nor. It’s a fair cop. I’ll go quietly.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, that was Neville Cooper, bank manager.”

“Psst! Want a mortgage?”

Gerrout!”

Tuesday 21 February 2012

The Perfect Marriage

I’ve been wed for 30 years,
Happy now as we were back then
The secret I will share with you
And you will be wiser men

Find a woman that sears your mind
Who turns your blood to fire
Who melts your legs into jelly
And fills your heart with desire

A woman whose face and form
Haunt your every thought
First thing in the morning
And very last thing at night

Buy her clothes and jewellery
Take her to the finest places
Dine with her and dance with her
Compliment her graces.

A long stemmed rose for valentine
And twelve on her birthday
And bouquets for no reason at all.

Give her all your energy,
Your passion and devotion
Give her your heart, your strength
Your love and adoration.

Make this woman’s happiness
The goal of your very life
But, above all, mark me well,
Just don’t tell the wife.

Sunday 19 February 2012

My Dog Rex

I have a dog called Rex
A lovely dog is he
I'd really like to show you, but
He's invisible, you see.

He's part Alsatian
A guard dog, first class
If any intruder comes
He'll bite them, on the leg.

I have tried to teach him
Many old dog tricks
He'll stay, and walk, and heel,
But he just won't pick up sticks.

He's part Terrier
He chases squirrel and hare
But they just don't seem bothered
You'd think he wasn't there

He's very economical
I don't feed him a lot
Just a bowl of invisible food
And some water in a pot

He's part French Poodle
An affectionate sort of chap
When I'm watching telly,
He'll sit there on my lap.

I've had Rex for years
He followed me home one day
And as he's such a friendly thing
I thought I'd let him stay.

He's part Greyhound
The fastest dog in town
All of a sudden, woosh, he's gone
And then he's back again.

Rex ran off the other day
While I was having tea
So, if you should find an invisible dog
Just send him home to me.

Friday 17 February 2012

Lady Chervil’s Birthday Party

Lady Rosemary Chervil sat in her solarium drinking tea from a bone china cup and listening to the music played by the Valerian Violins. The door opened and a dour looking butler led an equally dour couple into the room.

“Basil and Artemisia Burnett, ma’am.”

“Thank you Borage. Please send in the other guests as soon as they arrive, and tell Anise to lay out the buffet. We will be dining shortly.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Basil and Artemesia walked to Lady Chervil’s table and Basil sat down. Artemisia looked embarrassed and coughed in a significant way. Suddenly remembering, Basil stood up. pulled a chair back and, after his wife stood between the chair and table, he pushed the chair forward. As she sat down, she saw she was too far from the table. Basil had not spotted this and just sat down. Artemisia looked around and tried to shuffle the chair forward surreptitiously.

“Countess Angelica Fennel, ma’am.”

“Thank you Borage. Angel, darling. You must tell me about your trip to the Riviera.”

“Well, it was all very...”

“Wonderful, I’m sure. Now, do you have, er, anything for me?”

“Of course, Rosemary. Happy birthday” Countess Fennel produced a small box. Lady Chervil did not take her eyes off of it as it was placed before her. It was wrapped in black and gold paper, with golden ribbons tied to form a flower. Lady Chervil tore the paper off, screwed it up and threw it over her shoulder with a giggle. She opened the box and her smile faded.

“A watch?”

“Yes, Rosemary.”

“A watch?”

“An expensive one. I had it flown in from Switzerland last week.”

“Well, thank you, I suppose. I notice you two haven’t given me anything.”

Artemesia smiled and punched Basil on the arm. He winced, then reached into his jacket. He brought out a small package and passed it to Lady Chervil with a trembling hand. She snatched it and had it apart in less time it takes to draw a breath.

“But it’s a diary.”

“The cover is pure gold. Well. gold leaf.”

“Yes, but it’s May. Almost half the year’s gone.”

“You can put new pages in it next year. Look, you just unfasten these...”

“Yes, yes, yes. Quite so. Very nice, I’m sure.” She dropped it on the table as if it was something dirty. Anise poured out tea for the visitors.

“Miss Santolina Perilla, ma’am.”

“Santy, How are you?”

“I’ve just come back from a photo shoot in Jamaica. As a matter of fact...” Santolina passed a tube to Lady Chervil.

Lady Chervil opened it with dread. “It’s a calendar.”

“Yes. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

“They are pictures of you.”

“Yes.”

“In the nude.”

“I know. Wonderful pictures, aren’t they?”

“You expect me to hang this up?”

“Not until next year, darling. It’s next year’s calendar. You are the first person to have one.”

“Honoured. I’m sure.”

“Miss Tansy Caraway, and Mr Rupert Woodruf.”

“Here you are old girl.” Rupert handed Lady Chervil a cylinder wrapped in plain brown paper. She tore the paper off. The cylinder was protecting a plant pot. She looked at it open mouthed, then, realising how foolish she looked, glanced around and laughed.

“Why, Rue, It’s a plant.”

“A herb actually. For your herb garden. I noticed that your thyme is dying off, so I brought you a fresh one from my garden.”

“Well! That’s...that’s ... that’s very thoughtful of you.”

“I knew you’d like it. It’s like I told the others, there’s no present like thyme.”

Thursday 16 February 2012

The Hurfl


By a river, by a field, by the dark, dark wood
Stood the house of Peter's Gran
She was old, she was sick, Peter did what he could
He was such a kind young man

Daily, he went to the dark, dark wood
To gather some logs for the fire
His Gran said "Come back before night.
If you don't, your fate will be dire

For every night in the dark, dark wood
The Hurfl roams abroad
Of those that have stayed there in the night
There's never been any word"

Peter wasn't afraid of the dark, dark wood
He thought the Hurfl was a sham
But he still came home before night
For the sake of his sick, old Gran.

But nights grew long in the dark, dark wood
And finding logs was hard
Peter had ventured too far in
But, still, he wasn't scared

Then he heard a snap in the dark, dark wood
And his heart began a racing
A black shape sped from tree to tree
It was Peter it was chasing.

So Peter ran through the dark, dark wood
The shape was ever nearing
He zigged and zagged, and zagged and zigged
Until he saw a clearing

Then headlong through the dark, dark wood
Peter ran, and fell, and tumbled
And in the distance came a voice
A growling kind of rumble

Peter ran on through the dark, dark wood
He could hear the sound of breathing
He could almost feel it on his neck
Then a tree root sent him reeling

So, there, within the dark, dark wood
Peter met his fate
A heavy paw upon him fell
And in a voice from the depths of hell
The Hurfl growled "You're it."

Tuesday 14 February 2012

The Dinner Party

It was a cold night, street lamps sent beams of yellow through the billows of fog that floated around the street. A silver car pulled up outside a suburban house and a couple got out, the man carrying a bottle of wine.

“Well, darling, here we are.” Jack said, succumbing to Jenny’s fumbling as she attempted to straighten his tie and brush off imagined dandruff flakes from his jacket.

“Yes, I wonder what she’ll be like.”

“We’ll find out soon enough. Ring the bell, will you darling?”

Jenny rang the bell. After a few moments, the door opened. Framed in the light from the hall was a tall, slender woman with the physique of an athlete. Straw blonde hair cascaded onto her shoulders. Her deep blue dress was elegant to the point of perfection. Jack’s heart rate went from calm to overdrive in seconds as he took in her beauty, causing him to gasp sharply.

“Jack. Behave yourself.”

The woman extended a thin, carefully manicured hand, shaking theirs in turn. “You must be Jenny and Jack. I am Angelique. Robert has told me so much about you.”

“Well, he’s told us nothing about you.” Jenny said under her breath.

Angelique escorted them into a luxuriously furnished lounge. Jack remembered the wine, which Angelique accepted graciously.

“Please. Sit. Robert will be down soon. I have prepared a special meal for you. In the meantime, please help yourself to some Chateau Rothschild.” With a smile, Angelique disappeared into the kitchen.

There was a series of thumps as Robert ran down the stairs and into the lounge. “Sorry I wasn’t here to greet you, just finishing up on some work.”

“So, that’s your new wife. No wonder you’ve been keeping her under wraps. You sly old dog.”

“Jack!”

“Well, I was expecting some boiler, but she looks like a model.”

“As a matter of fact, she was for a while. You might have seen her in the last Jack Bland movie.”

“My word, yes. She was the spaghetti woman.”

“What spaghetti woman, Jack? What do you mean?”

“Not now, darling. Didn’t she bring out a CD or something?”

“Three. They shot into the top ten as soon as they were released. They were all her own work. She sang, played all the instruments, and produced them.”

“Amazing.”

Jenny looked around the room. “Well, Robert, you have been busy. Pardon me saying, but this place looked a bit shabby last time we were here. It’s a palace now. She is certainly a good influence on you.”

“I’m afraid I can’t take the credit for that. It’s all Angelique’s doing.”

“She chose the decorations?”

“She did the decorations. Angelique painted the frieze by hand, and the wallpaper is her exclusive design. She had it specially made.”

“It must have cost a fortune.”

“No, it cost less than £200. That wouldn’t matter to her though.”

“She’s rich as well?”

“Yes. She made seventy million on the stock market.”

“Do you think she could invest some money for me as well?”

“No. She got bored with it after a month.”

“So, where did you meet?”

“You’ll never believe it. I met her at the Accident and Emergency ward in a hospital in Geneva.”

“Really, what was she in for?”

“She wasn’t in for anything. She was one of the surgeons. I had broken my leg skiing. Well, it was love at first sight, I can tell you. But we had to wait until after I was out of hospital.”

“Then you both flew over here?”

“Yes. We had a free flight on account of the time when she was an air stewardess.”

Angelique brought out a tray of steaming bowls. “Here you are. I hope you enjoy this.”

“Mmm. It tastes delicious. What is it?”

“It is Pheasant Soup with Chestnuts and Truffles. To follow I have prepared Stuffed Rigatoni, Scampi Tancredi and Medallions of Veal. Dessert will be Earl Grey Sorbet.”

“Wow! Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“My father was Chef de Cuisine at the Ratz, Geneva.”

“I’m sorry, Angelique, I have to ask.”

“Yes Jenny?”

“Where did you get that dress? It is divine.”

“You like it? I made it myself. I make all my clothes.”

“Robert, I presume you’ve got rid of that wreck of a Cortina, have you?”

“It’s in the garage, Jack. I can take you out for a run in it if you want.”

“You’ve got it working? It’s been stuck in there for years.”

“Well, actually...”

“Don’t tell me, Angelique fixed it.”

“But it was quite simple. I have two older brothers who are brilliant with cars. A girl can learn a lot from such brothers, no?”

“We keeping you up, Jack?”

“Was I yawning? I’m really sorry. I was up last night watching one of those reality cop shows. They were trying to break a drug ring. You should have seen the car chase! There were twelve police cars, but they could not catch them. Then this Interpol car weaves through all of them, overtakes the drug car, and forces it off the road up an embankment. The gang tries to run away but this woman ran after them from the Interpol car. She launched herself at the gang and took them out with some kind of martial arts. It’s a shame, but all you could see of her face was a blurry disc.”

“Well, how would it be if everyone knew what we looked like? And those English police have still not fixed my wing. I could have done it myself by now.”

“That was you?”

“That was me.”

“You are an Interpol agent?”

“A girl must do something worthwhile with her time, no?”

“So, Angelique, you have been a model, an actress, a singer, an air stewardess, an amazing chef, an incredible interior decorator, a successful stock market player, a surgeon, a fashion designer, a car mechanic and an Interpol agent? How is it you can do all these things.”

“Why, it is because of my parents. I come from a military family.”

“You mean?”

“Yes. I am a Swiss Army Wife.”

Thursday 9 February 2012

Archaeological Find

In the County of Meath in Eastern Ireland lies the Boyne Valley. An area that has fascinated scholars and archaeologists for centuries. There you find Brú na Bóinne, the Palace of Boyne. There you find Dowth, Newgrange and Knowth; Dozens of burial tunnels criss-cross the area. They were built about 3200BC making them older than the Pyramids or Stonehenge.

Richard Watkins of Stanford University was part of a team that was investigating Tunnel 22 that runs north-south through Newgrange. About 122 metres down the tunnel, he discovered what appeared to be an ancient cave-in. After 3 days careful work, Watkins and his team discovered that the rocks concealed the entrance to a roughly circular chamber about four metres in diameter.

There were clear signs that this was not a burial chamber but had been inhabited at one time. There were the remains of a fire below a gap in the ceiling that was once, presumably, a primitive chimney and source of light. There were the tattered rags that may have been bedding or clothing and some artefacts (one of which was a knife dated about the eighth century AD).

An examination of the chamber provided evidence that the occupant was connected with a monastery near Drogheda on the River Mattock that pre-dated Mellifont Abbey built on the same site by some 200 years. Records discovered at the abbey site indicated a monk called Muireadhach was entrusted with a “Pagan relic so foul it must be forever banished from the world of the living.”

This reference led Watkins to re-examine the chamber, whereupon he found a hiding place cunningly carved into the chamber wall and hidden behind a close-fitting stone. There was a solid mass about one metre by one metre by 0.5 metre behind the stone, and great care had to be taken in order not to cause any undue damage.

The mass was packaged up and sent to Truro University where Professor John Dean led the team that was to analyse and preserve the find.

It was discovered that the outer part of the mass consisted of about five goat skins; each had to be removed separately. Within was an ancient book. The cover was made of wood and fastened with metal clasps. The pages were fastened to the covers with cords that had only survived because of the protection of the goatskins and the atmosphere of the cavern.

At last, the team could see the first few pages of the book. They contained drawings, now faded, but were once rich in colour. Alongside these drawings were the spidery writings of the scribe in an ancient version of Gaelic (it pre-dated the use of Roman letters).

The search was on for someone who could translate the book. That search ended in Adelaide, Australia with Bryan Tewkes. Tewkes had done extensive research on Pre-Roman Civilisations of the British Isles. It was he that finally identified the book that had filled the ancient monks with so much horror:

“Irish Dancing Part 2: The Hand & Arm Movements”

Who is Killing the Monster Killers?

Danny Scurry leant against the door frame watching his colleague, Doctor Roxy Muller.
“You been working all night?”
Muller pulled off her mask. Exhaustion etched on her face.
“What do you want, Scurry?”
Scurry offered her a cup of steaming coffee, which she took gratefully, nursing it in her hands as if it was something precious.
“Just fill me in on what you’ve found, then you can go home for some rest.”
“It’s pretty much what it looks like. He’s been dead for approximately five days. Death was by massive blood loss. No blood was found at the scene, and no marks on the body except for this.”
Scurry’s eyes followed where Muller was pointing. All around the skull was what looked like a ring of raw flesh.
“What is it? An allergic reaction? A rash?”
“I can’t say at the moment. I’m waiting for a toxicology report. What did you find out about him?”
“His name is Father Charlie Collins. He came into town two weeks ago. Part of some Vatican investigation into the supernatural. The landlord hadn’t seen him for a few days. When he discovered the room was locked from the inside and no-one was answering his knocking, he barged the door down. Apart from that, no sign of forced entry.”
“So, you think something went bump in the night and killed him?”
“You tell me. What could kill a man in this way?”
“You OK, Scurry? You drifted off for a moment.”
“I’ve had an idea. The room where they found Collins is secured, isn’t it?”
“Totally.”
“Then meet me back there in, say, three hours.”
Muller’s car pulled up outside an apartment block. She flashed her ID card at the officers posted outside, strode in, and knocked on the door of the investigation scene. Scurry opened the door, pulled her in, and secured the door behind them.
“Look at these pictures, Muller. Notice anything familiar?”
“Ivan Helsinki, about a year ago. He has the same mark around his head.”
“He was involved in a vendetta against certain eastern European families. Two days before he died, he brought a lead box into the country from Romania. When he died, the box was found empty.”
“You think whatever was in there killed him?”
“Look at the next set of pictures.”
“That’s Buddy Winters, the werewolf hunter. I remember reading about him. He died last Autumn in mysterious circumstances. Case unresolved.”
“Same marks again. And on his minder, Robert Gale. They were looking into Helsinki’s death, and whatever killed him, killed them.”
“Who is this woman?”
“Sally Kane. Comes from a long line of ghost hunters and witch finders going back to the 17th century. She was the last of her line.”
“Cardinal Lex Anders?”
“Again, the same ring around the skull. He worked with Father Calhoun who died a month afterwards. I’m thinking that it was the deaths of these two men that Collins was investigating.”
“John Rook, Dick Bayliss, Annie Black, Harvey Coe.”
“All died the identical way. All were paranormal investigators of one kind or another. And so we come back to Collins.”
“And you think whatever killed them is still here?”
“It has to be, Muller. Look around for anything unusual. Anything out of place.”
“Heyy, I’ve been wanting one of those?”
“What’s that you’ve found?”
“They call them Russian Trooper Hats. This one looks like real fur. It feels so warm.”
“Can we concentrate on the job in hand?”
“Hold on, Danny. Let me try it on.”
With one quick movement, Scurry grabbed the hat and threw it to the floor.
“What’s got into you, Roxy?”
“Sorry, Scurry. I don’t know what I was thinking about.”
They searched everywhere, in the cupboards and wardrobes, in the bathroom, but they found nothing unusual.
“Well, Roxy, I’m stumped.”
“Have we finished now?”
“Why?”
“Because I want that hat.”
She went to pick it off the floor, then stopped.
“There’s something inside it, Danny.”
Cautiously Scurry flicked it over. The hat was empty.
“Look around the rim at the hat-band.”
“That’s a curious design. It looks like rows and rows of tiny teeth.”
“That’s it, Roxy!”
Scurry grabbed a wooden chair, smashed it, broke off a leg and thrust it into the fur. A pool of blood flowed from the hat across the floor.
“That’s what killed all those people?”
“Yes, Roxy. It made people want to wear it, then it fastened itself to their head with it’s teeth, then it sucked all of their blood.”
“You mean?”
“Yes, Roxy. It’s a vampire hat.”