The Horde

Chuck pressed himself into a shop doorway, guarding his precious bag. He glanced down the street. There were about twenty of them – whatever they were – coming his way. Hopefully, they would keep going.

It had started out as as normal day until something roared across the sky and exploded over the city, spreading a sickly sweet smelling blue fog through the streets. Chuck had been on an underground train when it happened, which is probably why he wasn't affected.

When he came out of the station, everything was in chaos. Cars and shop windows were wrecked. There were screams and howls from all around him, and the people. The people. Their skin had turned dark blue, their hair bright green, and they had a look of crazed anger.

At first they were just fighting amongst themselves, then they saw Chuck. Chuck ran. He felt weak. He felt as if he was going to throw up, but, most of all, he felt afraid of what these things would do if they caught him.

The mob had gone past. Chuck was safe for a while. He picked up his bag and continued to his destination. He turned a corner, and saw a double decker bus on its side. As he approached, three blue skinned things crawled out. Chuck ran again. He realised that he was headed into the centre of town. There would be too many people.

That is when Chuck’s luck changed. He saw an abandoned car, the keys in the ignition. He knew that the owner was probably changed or dead, and he also knew it was his best chance. Chuck stole the car.

He drove as fast as he could, narrowly avoiding other vehicles that had been left behind. Sometimes there would be a mob of blue people trying to block his path, but he closed his eyes and ploughed through them, trying to blot out the awful noises they made as the car hit them.

After a hellish journey, he arrived at his home. All looked clear as he grabbed the bag from the back seat. He practically collapsed into the house, exhausted. After a couple of seconds, he was aware of a shadow over him. He looked up. It was his wife, Annabel. She was unaffected by whatever it was. She just stood there, drinking from a mug of tea.

Annabel opened the bag. “It's no good.” She said. “You forgot the milk. You’ll have to back and get it.”

Putting Life Back Into Your Clothes

No one really knows how it started. The first people to see anything strange were Doug and Jane Hargreaves. They thought they had spotted a group of rats scurrying along the road. On closer inspection, the rats proved to be socks, somehow animated, and propelling themselves like earthworms.

Later that day, a pair of trousers walked themselves down the high street, and several shirts flapped and glided through the air.

Naturally, the call went out to Doctor Roxy Muller and Danny Scurry. Muller checked the socks for radiation and chemicals, while Scurry plotted the reported incidents.

“What do you make of it, Roxy? Science or magic?”

“I don't believe in magic, and you know it.”

“Well, what's your best guess?”

“And I don’t guess. I go by the evidence.”

“OK, what does the evidence tell you?”

 “It's a substance called Nescio. It's actually made up of microbes that are supposed to digest dirt in clothes, and is then washed out. Somehow, these have formed a kind of hive mind and control the clothing, apparently bringing it to life.”

“We have to stop it.”

“We can. A mixture of these three chemicals sprayed onto the clothing will disrupt the hive mind and kill the Nescio.”

Half an hour later, Muller, Scurry and several other agents were going through town with spray packs. The clothing was everywhere; suits, dresses, shirts, underwear all creeping or walking or flying. A blast of the spray, and they became still. Just then, a call came in. There was trouble at the local monastery.

The team burst through the doors to see robes, cassocks and albs swirling around. Scurry sprayed them. Nothing happened. Muller joined in. Still nothing happened. It took all the agents to spray every every drop of chemical for the clothes to fall to the ground.

“Why were these so difficult, Roxy?”

“I guess old habits die hard.”

Chelsea Flower Show

“Good afternoon, and welcome again to the Chelsea Flower Show. I am with celebrated horticulturist and herbalist, Topher Knight. Topher, your garden is an extraordinary patchwork, Can we go through the various themes? That pole there, for instance.”

“Thank you Johnny...”

“Bob.”

“Sorry?”

“Bob. I'm not Johnny, I'm Bob Marsh.”

“OK. Anyway, the pole with the Climbing Gertrude represents the Asclepius, The area is to remind people that most medicines are derived from plant material, which is why it is important to preserve natural areas that we have not yet fully investigated.”

“Thyme heals all wounds?”

“No. There are many herbs and plants that have medical uses.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I have a painful hand condition similar to eczema, so I made an emulsion of thyme, olive oil and water. It has proven to be very effective. I used some this morning.”

“So you have thyme on your hands?”

“Er, yes. Anyway, thyme is a very useful herb. The other day, a piece of fence fell and caught me below my right arm, bruising some ribs. I made a poultice of thyme and mint, and that took away the bruising.”

“Good thing you had thyme on your side.”

 “Look, Johnny.”

“Bob!”

“Sorry. Bob. Is this going to go on like this?”

“I don't know what you mean. Anyway, what herbs do you have in that part?”

“Sorrel.”

“I SAID WHAT HERBS DO YOU HAVE IN THAT PART?”

“Anyway, we have borage over there.”

“Good for breakfast?”

“Pardon?”

“Granted.”

“Look. This is getting silly.”

“Well, to be frank, this is a silly garden. I mean, what are those mange tous doing in a herb garden.”

“Er, its...”

“It's a pun, isn't it?”

“Might be.”

“Well, go on, say it.”

“It's peas in our thyme.”

“And those herbs made into blocks. What are they for?”

“My assistant Norman uses them for exercise.”

“So what do you call them?”

“Thyme weights for Norman.”

“Well, I guess our thyme is up. Thank you, Mr Knight.”

“Any thyme.”

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.

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.”

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.”

The Eye in Time

It was a Sunday afternoon. We had eaten a delicious roast dinner prepared by the Professor’s staff, and retired to the library. We sat in our customary seats, and glasses of brandy and whisky were distributed among the guests.

Suitably nourished, and with minds lubricated by alcohol, we were ready for our usual weekly pasttime. Our host, the Professor, stood dramatically with his hand resting on the mantel, staring into the flames below.

“Gentlemen, I would like you to consider this proposal. That, in addition to three dimensions of space, there are also three dimensions of time.”

He paused, then looked at the faces around him to see how his guests reacted. The Colonel made a sort of coughing sound, then studiously swirlled his brandy.

“Your thoughts, Colonel?”

“Load of nonsense, if you ask me. Scientific mumbo-jumbo. What good is it?”

“It may surprise you. Any other thoughts?”

The Mathematician straightened himself up, hands clasped behind his back. “It has long been accepted that Minkowski Space, with three dimensions of space and one of time, is far too simplistic. M-Theory suggests there are ten or eleven dimensions. How does your theory relate to that?”

“You misunderstand. I did not say it was a theory. I state it as a fact. Gentlemen, let me draw your attention to the screen at the back of the room. What do you see?”

The Reporter glanced quickly at it. “It’s a view of this room. What of it?”

“From which vantage point, sir?”

The Reporter examined the picture, then the room. He began to look more and more puzzled, checking and rechecking the picture. “Where is your camera? It has to be here somewhere.”

“There is no camera as such, The image comes from the machine in the basement. Now, watch this.” The Professor went to a console and made a few adjustments. The image changed. It was almost dark.

“Colonel, would you reach into your left jacket pocket?”

The Colonel did so and, on the screen, they saw the pocket open and fingers appear. “What the devil?” The Colonel fished around in his pocket, trying to find a camera.

“Let’s take this to the next level.” The Professor’s fingers flew around the console interface, and the image changed again.

“That’s us.”

“Look closer. For instance, examine the Chesterfield.”

“Then this image comes from..”

“...Last month, when our Politician friend was here. And now...”

The picture was no longer the library, but the high street. There was something strange about the view. It sank in when they realised how many cars were Ford Cortinas and Morris Oxfords. Somehow, they were looking at the town as it was in the Seventies.

“What, exactly, is going on here, Professor?”

“Well, we are used to moving relatively easily in three dimensions of space, but we can only move in one dimension of time, and that in a single direction. My viewer makes use of a dimension of time that is perpendicular to the time dimension we know. Using it, I can view any place and any time.”

“Surely, this is a trick. I am well aware of the theories. I have a computer model of Calabi-Yau that I use in my lectures. What you are claiming here, though, goes well beyond the theoretical.”

“Indeed it does. And I now offer you a challenge. Name anywhere in space and time, and I will show it.”

“Very well,” The Reporter said, “What about the assassination of John F Kennedy?”

The Professor smiled, made a few changes, and there was the motorcade coming through Dallas. They saw the shot, saw the President die. Then the Professor froze the picture, zoomed closer until they could see the bullet’s entry point. Then he reversed the apparent flow of time. They followed the path of the bullet back...back...until.

“Well, I’ll be...!”

“So that’s what happened.”

After a pause, the Mathematician posed his challenge. “Show us this planet fifty million years ago.”

Another smile from the Professor, and he set the controls.

“Well, Professor?”

“I don’t understand it.”

“Yes, the screen appears to be blank. Is this in a cave at night?”

“No. There should be something. Let’s move forward to one million years ago.”

“Still blank, Professor. Try something more recent. Say, five thousand years ago.”

The screen sprang to life. The view was of a forest. Birds flew through the air, and a wolf roamed among the trees.

“OK, go back to ten thousand years.”

Again, the screen went black.

The Professor checked the view every hundred years. It was still blank, until they reached about six thousand years.

On the screen, clearly displayed, was a message:-

STAGE 5 OF 7. INSTALLATION 75% COMPLETE. PLEASE WAIT.

Monkey Island

We had seen the adverts, so we thought we would give it a go. A weekend on Monkey Island. I don’t know what we expected, but we had to admit it was an  unusual place. The area where we stayed had been especially built for tourists, so we did not get a flavour of the island in its natural form.

In the centre of town were a number of night colobos.  We went to the Duoc Titi, where the speciality act, a woman called guenon, appearied in native costume with a yellow gibbon tied in her hair. She performed traditional dances while playing a green tamarin.

We were hungry after that. Fortunately, the restaurants and cafes are open 24 hours. We went into one that specialised in fish. They gave us a plate of Kipunji cooked under their gorilla, together with a bowl of chimps, followed by lemon meringue utan pie. We ate all that with a some mugs of hot, steaming capuchin.

The following morning started with fog. We walked along the mangabey, but the air was quite muriqui. Fortunately, it cleared by afternoon, so we could  fly home in a hot air baboon.

The Masked Man

Jerry Marsh stepped out of the lift, coffee in hand, and pushed through the door of Bristol Bureau of Investigation.

"Fifteen minutes late, Jerry."

"Ain't my fault, boss. Dave's gone missing again."

"Nothing new about that. As I recall your parents spent loads of time chasing after him. He'll be back. In the meantime we have a thief to find." Inspector Jarvis played a video of the robbery. It showed the inside of a supermarket. The door opened and a figure in a cat mask entered, opened the chilled cabinet, took out some plastic pots, and vanished. It had taken less than five minutes, and the alarm was silent throughout.”He has robbed seven supermarkets, but doesn’t take any money. Just pots of cream.”

"That picture don't give us much, boss."

"True, but check this out." Jarvis hit a few keys and zoomed in on the mask. "That mask is a little too tight. Forensic IT managed to map his face."

'"Any luck?"

"Just got this in. We have three hits; Alex Philips, Robert Harvey, and David Ross.”

“Well, it ain’t Ross. I dealt with him before. He’s doing five in the Scrubs.”

“And Philips hasn’t been seen in years. Word is he’s got married and gone straight.”

“So, Harvey it is, right, Boss?”

“Seems that way.”

Marsh organised undercover cars to watch over local supermarkets. At about 3am word came that a shop had been robbed and officers were in pursuit.

Marsh and Jarvis drove through the streets of Bristol to meet with the arresting officers. Marsh looked in the back of the car. He turned to Jarvis, utterly shocked.”

“What’s wrong, Marsh?”

“He ain’t Harvey, he’s my brother.”

Escape From Red Island

"Well, Pastor, looks like we have a problem."

Peter put a friendly hand on Pastor Max's shoulder. They were standing over what was a path to a causeway that joined Red Island to the mainland. Now it was under six feet of water.  Behind them, the members of The Church of Fair Dinkum had packed up the barbecue and sports equipment.

"I messed up, Pete. Shoulda paid more attention to the tides. When's it go out again?"

"According to this, one in the morning."

"We got families here. That's far too late. Any chance of the coastguard coming out?"

"No way to call them. No signal."

"Streuth! I suppose we could stay here overnight and go home tomorrow."

"No chance, Pastor. Weather's gonna turn and there's no shelter here."

They both fell silent as they watched the waves roll further up the shore.

After a while, Max shrugged and marched back to the congregation.

"Well, folks, I'm sorry, but it looks like we're stranded here, unless anyone's got any ideas?"

There were shrugs and murmurs, but no-one offered any suggestions.

Then Danny stepped forward.

"I've got an idea. I won't say what it is, because it will sound daft, but something in me says it will work."

"OK, Danny, do it. Can't make things any worse."

Danny stepped towards where the causeway started and took his boomerang out of his belt. He placed a hand on it and looked up to Heaven and prayed, "Lord, we need a way home, and you can make one for us."

Then he threw the boomerang over the sea. Just as it reached the furthest point, instead of coming back, it spun around and around in the air, faster and faster. An unearthly howl filled the air, and the water below the boomerang started to turn with it until it became a whirlpool. Then the water lifted up into a column, into a waterspout. The water reached the boomerang and continued to climb.

The sea along the causeway receded and solid ground appeared. The congregation grabbed their stuff and walked carefully along the path until they were safely ashore. When the last person stepped onto dry land, the waterspout collapsed and the causeway was flooded again.

From that point on, Danny was known as the Oz Moses.

Ash

Ash, Battleship, Blue

Cadet, Cement, Charcoal

Chrome, Cinder, Cloud

Cool, Dark, Davy's

Dim, Dingy, Dove

Drab, Dun, Dusk

Dust, Favillous, Flint

Fossil, Fuscous, Gainsboro

Glaucous, Granite, Gray

Grizzly, Gunmetal, Heather

Iron, Jet, Lead

Light, Livid, Lyart

Medium, Mouse, Oyster

Pearl, Pebble, Pepper

Pewter, Platinum, Plumbaceous

Plumbago, Powder, Puce

Quartz, Roan, Rocket Metallic

Rose, Russet, Sad

Sand, Sere, Shaded

Shistaceous, Silver, Slate

Smoke, Somber, Soot

Steel, Stone, Storm

Taupe, Titanium, Xanadu

That's 51 Shades of Grey.

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.”

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

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."

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…

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.”

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!”

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."

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.

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