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?

Thursday 3 December 2015

The Assassins' Tomb

In the Eighties, the Israeli government commissioned a number of settlements to be built. One such settlement was Ain Makvim Chezh in the Negev. Work was suspended when surveyors discovered a sealed cave, partially underground. Benjamin Sukenek of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem was sent to investigate.

The team marked off the area to be investigated, then took photographs and measurements.  The ground around the cave entrance was carefully examined, and the artefacts that were found were photographed in place, extracted, and then catalogued. They found several coins and pottery shards, but nothing extraordinary.

It was a full three weeks before they turned their attention to the cave itself. The surface of the cover stone was examined for inscriptions, and then a portion of the substance used to seal the stone was sent to the university for identification.

Once they had formulated a plan to remove the stone with the minimum of damage, they prepared to enter. Inside, they could see that they had found a tomb. There were six vaults along the sides five of them were occupied.

The corpses were wrapped, indicating they had gone through funerary procedures. It was likely that the bodies were well preserved. Carefully, they transported the figures to the university for further study.

Beside each corpse was a pottery jar. These jars were also sent to the university. With their usual care, the team opened the jars, which each held a parchment written in Hebrew.

The first parchment told of Enoch. A soldier in the Israeli army. The parchment told of how he had gone to Egypt and Babylon on secret missions for the King. The team soon discovered that this man was more than just a soldier. He was a spy and an assassin. The scrolls in the other jars told similar stories. These were the King's elite agents.

The bodies were scanned using a variety of methods before being unwrapped. As hoped, they were well preserved. So much so that it was evident that each soldier had had their tongue surgically removed. The explanation for this was recorded in other parchments found in the cave.

The spies were part of a group created around the 10th Century BC for King Solomon in order to keep an eye on neighbouring nations. They voluntarily allowed their tongues to be removed as a test of loyalty, to show that they would never give away the King's secrets. All their communication was in writing, or in a series of pre-arranged signs and gestures.

That is when Sukenek  realised what they had discovered, After all this time; all this searching. They had found the secret of King Solomon's Mimes.

Thursday 3 September 2015

St Lawrence Fair

Carl always looked forward to the St Lawrence Country Show. The weather was just right - not overly hot, and with a cool breeze. He turned off the motorway onto the long road that lead to the town. In his head, he rehearses the pieces he was going to perform at the evening’s Battle of the Bards competition, when a bright red Porsche Carrera overtook him, horn blaring, and the two occupants screaming and whooping. Carl was suddenly very angry, but what could he do? All he had was his Honda Civic. His pride and joy.

He calmed down by the time he reached the showground.  He parked his car in an adjacent field and strolled into the show. He walked past the marquees and gazebos with their hog roasts, tombolas and games of skill to the main performance tent, situated strategically beside the drinks tent.In one corner of the tent was a desk, and behind the desk sat Angie, the organiser of the Battle of the Bards.

“Hi Carl, are you competing this year?”

“Of course. I might have a chance at winning. Can I sign up?”

“Well, two lads from Oxford put their names down for the last places half an hour ago.”

“So, I’m too late?”

“Of course not, silly. I’m only teasing. I reserved you a place.”

Carl bought himself a pint of Springfield’s Old Rocker, served in a plastic mug. There was loud laughter from the other end of the tent. It was the two from the Porsche. He decided to be friendly.

“Hello, lads. That’s a fine car you have.”

“The Porsche? That’s just something Daddy gave me when he got his new Ferrari.”

“Still, smooth lines and a good turn of speed. I’m Carl, by the way. That was my Honda you overtook”

“Tristram, and my friend is Hugo. Can’t say I remember your car. We drove over to take part in the Performance Poetry.”

“You mean the Battle of the Bards. I won it three years running, but I lost last year. I’m hoping to regain my crown, so to speak.”

“Oh, so you’re the enemy, then. We go around to all these kinds of things. We’ve won eleven competitions between us so far this summer.”

“You do know it isn’t just poetry, don’t you? It’s poetry, story or song, and you can’t do any more than one of each.”

“No probs. We’ve got superb singing voices.”

Out in the Display Area, local children were demonstrating their dressage skills, then prize-winning livestock and pets were paraded. Time passed. The Showground’s day visitors left, and people began to gather in the performance tent.

Angie took the mike, “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to this year’s Battle of the Bards. This will consist of three rounds, during which the competitors may recite a poem, read a story, or sing a song. Each piece must be the performer's own work and last no longer than four minutes.

“We have a panel of five judges. For each round, they have ten points to distribute amongst the performers.

“We start with sixteen performers for the first round. Eight will be eliminated, then four. The remaining four will compete for the first, second and third prizes.

“Now the boring part is over, here are the prospective bards. Let battle commence.”

It was no surprise that Tristram, Hugo and Carl got through the first round, and Carl had to admit that they were good. Tristram was an excellent singer, and Hugo put amazing voices to the characters in his story. Carl’s story was received with loud laughter throughout the tent.

After a break, the remaining eight were called together for the next round. Tristram was about to sing again, when the judges reminded him that he could only do one song, so he read it as a poem, and very effective it was, too.

It was Hugo’s turn to sing. His voice was almost operatic, and his choice of song got everyone clapping along.

Carl did a song as well.  He sang of heartbreak and love lost. When he finished, the tent was silent for a minute or two, then there was thunderous applause.

The three got through to the final round, together with an old man who specialised in songs and stories about cows.

For the final round, Tristram read a story, Hugo, Carl and the man all read poems.

There was a hush as the marks were totalled up, then Angie took the mike.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. The final scores are these; Hugo McLaren, twelve points. Tristram Baxter, thirteen points. But, with twenty five points, Carl Newman is, once again, crowned Bard of St Lawrence.”

The contestants congratulated one another. But Carl could not resist a dig at his rivals.

“I got as many points as both of you put together, You know what that means, don’t you? A bard in a Honda is worth two in a Porsche.”

Sunday 28 June 2015

Family Feud

James sat heavily in his armchair. “I am fed up with this family feud. How did it start in the first place?”


Ralph settled himself into storytelling mode. “It’s complicated. You know that your Uncle Walter was Operations Manager in the factory, but you might not know that your Aunt Debbie was a Production Line worker there.”


“I did know that. They met at a Christmas party.”


“That’s right. There was a spark from the first time they saw each other. They started going out together, but had to keep it a secret from the family.”


“Why was that?”


“Well, the family frowned on work romances, especially between a family member in a position of authority and a lowly line worker.”


“So, what happened then?”


“Your uncle Arthur found out. He saw Walter and Debbie at a restaurant and told your grandfather David. David brought Walter into his office and tried to tell him to stop. Walter refused, and your grandfather sacked him.”


“That’s why Walter didn’t work for the family business.”


“That’s right. He started his own company, but never competed with the family. He was always honourable. Anyway, after a couple of years, Walter and Debbie got married, but Arthur, Horace, and Elizabeth didn’t even show up at the wedding.”


“But when Debbie died, she and Walter had been married for almost sixty years.  You’re saying that this has lasted all that time?”


“Yes. Arthur and Elizabeth never spoke to Walter or Debbie until they died. Horace still won’t.”


“But this is stupid. How can we fix this? Are they going to their graves still fighting?”


“Horace’s health is declining. He was a heavy drinker for years until he became diabetic. He became teetotal, but that was too late to save his eyes. He finds it very difficult to get around now. On the other hand, Walter has always said that his door was open. He has never borne a grudge. All he wanted was for his family to recognise the marriage. Just to raise a glass as they should have done at the wedding breakfast.”


“If I spoke to Horace, do you think I could persuade him to sort this out if I got them together?”

“I don’t know, you can lead your Horace to Walter, but you can’t make him drink.”