Blue Birds

A short interjection in amongst all my lovely fictional posts. Otherwise you'll forget who I am!

My long affair with the British public house is finally over. Saturday night was several beers and one violent stare too many. I had to concentrate on my friend's face in order to avoid eye contact with a drunk man with an evil look. And I swore I'd never drink in the same pub as my dad ever again!

As for the beer, I felt sick all Sunday and all I could manage that evening was a soothing gin and orange. Wine? Oh yes, wine too. But the rush I used to get from beer just isn't there any more. It's been replaced by nausea.

In other news, my mum's friend's over from Canada, mainly to see Vera Lynn in concert. At 92, I doubt Vera will be up to much singing. But I'm sure it will be an emotional afternoon and a jolly good sing-song, though the audience will mainly be the sons and daughters of Vera's Wartime fans.

Vera's chart comeback makes me wonder who was the Vera Lynn of our War, The Falklands.

Clare Grogan, perhaps?

The Nostradamus Eleven

Nostradamus (pictured above) is probably most famous for his amazing prophecy which predicted the Second World War, to be instigated by an evil, shady character called Hister (our "Hitler").

What is less known is his prediction that an England football team would win the World Cup. Incredibly, the old goat kept a notebook in which he wrote down the names of all the players in the 1966 England World Cup Final team, other characters involved in the competition and even drew remarkable sketches which, thanks to modern computer technology, have recently been transformed into monochrome and even colour photographs!

So, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I am pleased to present to you...

ALF RIMSEY'S GOLDEN WONDERS


Head Coach: Alf Rimsey


Gordon Bonks


George Coben



Jackie Chilton


Bobby Mayre


Ray Wilkins


Alan Balls


Nobby Steel


Martin Peterson


Bobby Chilton


Roger Hunter


Geoff Hister

Nostradamus had such incredible powers he even foresaw that the cup itself would be stolen and then thankfully found by a remarkable animal...


Dog, Biggles, with owner and World Cup

And who could forget the mascot of that great tournament?


World Cup Wally

The Edible Shrinking Man

I walked through the open microwave oven door.

"Do me!" I said.

"I can't do it," she said.

"Shut the door and turn the dial!"

The oven ceiling was a good two inches above my head. I was ready for death, though I could have done with a plastic horse to sit on as the plate rotated.

"If you loved me you'd do it!"

Margaret rushed out of the kitchen in tears. Left me all alone.

What had made me think she could kill the man she loved? She'd stayed with me, hadn't she? Through months of watching me shrink from a six foot hunk to a five inch mouse. I jumped out of the oven and made my way to the intercom.

"Margaret, I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

She came and got me and put me on my chair in front of the plasma tv. The big screen.

"So, what's it to be?" she said, sorting through the DVDs. "Gulliver's Travels?"

I shook my head forcefully. I'd had enough of that shit, night after night.

"Inch High, Private Eye?"

She gave me that smile she gave me when she told me she was pregnant, all those years ago. She couldn't have! How could she have got it? It wasn't out for another three months by which time I'd be the size of an ant!

I couldn't contain my glee.

"You've got it! You've got it!" I jumped up and down for sheer joy.

"That's why I couldn't cook you, my darling. Maybe after we've watched this a few times, eh? Maybe when Graham comes round on Sunday. We'll watch this for the last time, all together. Then I'll do a nice roast. With all the trimmings."

The Greens' Staycation

Mr & Mrs Green planned their staycation with military precision. Each day they were to rise early, take breakfast on the patio, pack their rucksacks with books, sun cream, hats, umbrellas and medication, and take a gentle stroll to the train station with plenty of time to buy tickets for their destination.

The Greens were not affected by the credit crunch. They just wanted a carbon-neutral year. They wanted the local economy to benefit so their budget was to be without limit. By not spending all that money on travel and accommodation, they could do whatever they wanted to, without reason.

Mrs Green fancied the London Eye. Mr Green didn't so much as he had a terrible fear of heights. He didn't mind flying but those pods looked so exposed up there!

On the other hand, Mr Green liked the idea of the London Aquarium. But guess what! Mrs Green had a fish phobia!

But, of course, the beauty of a staycation is that all that money saved on fares and hotels can be spent on things that don't damage the environment. And it so happened that Mr & Mrs Green knew exactly what to do to ensure they both enjoyed every second of their two weeks off.

They would spend the money on seeing a hypnotherapist to conquer their fears.

So for the equivalent of two weeks in the Bahamas they got to go on a big wheel and see some cunting fish. And it pissed down with rain most of the days.

The Busker

An old geezer once asked me to play some Dylan. Wrong generation, mate. Your classics are not necessarily mine.

The oldest song I play is Every Breath You Take. Most of my set is stuff from the 90s. Losing My Religion, High And Dry. I might even throw in the odd Wonderwall or Don't Look Back In Anger to please the masses.

I had this group of lads once, stopped and sang along. Wanted me to do an Oasis medley. I didn't mind doing it. It was a laugh. You don't get many laughs as a busker.

Sometimes you might see a married couple and you get eye contact with the woman. On her way to M&S or Sainsbury's, the old man in tow. At that moment you feel like you're singing just to her. That's a sweet feeling, that connection. A sweet feeling.

Nothing Idyllic (For Liz Jones)

Country life is not for the faint-hearted, It is red in both tooth and claw. Yet it happens time and time again that a city dweller has a totally unrealistic chocolate box idea of the country and without a great deal of research foolishly ups sticks and moves to what they think will be a rural idyll.

But there's nothing idyllic about mucking out your own husband's shit. Nothing idyllic about having a ewe vomit into your face as your husband pulls out a bloody, gunky newly-born lamb as his shit runs down his legs into his Wellington boots. Nothing idyllic about having to drive 30 miles to a chemist for Imodium as your husband sits in the back of the Land Rover, shitting into a bucket. Nothing idyllic about having your husband shit on you during intercourse as he cannot control his bowels as he ejaculates. Nothing idyllic about hosting a dinner party round the Aga and as you tuck into your organic lamb you hear your husband in the adjoining lavatory, evacuating for England. Nothing idyllic about having lunch in a quiet country pub and your husband coming out of the Gents letting loose a noxious smell which permeates the bar for the next 20 minutes.

No, country living is no bed of roses. But I would not want it any other way.

Billy Bus

Billy Bus was a big red beast, a gentle giant. He moved through town with extra special care, looking out for pedestrians and other vehicles, never jolted forward like some other buses, and treated all his passengers the same, from the most courteous to the very rudest. He bore vandalism, sex, violence, fast food and body odour like the trouper he was. He never complained but worked hard from morning till night.

About a year ago, some middle class fucking cunt wrote a children's book about him and made a fucking fortune. The stories are currently being made into a very profitable television series.

Did Billy get any of the proceeds? Did he fuck! He continues to work as hard as he ever did for absolutely no reward.

The Face Off

They were in the pub, the rugby crowd. Having a good time with their pints and their rugby songs. The landlord had never had any trouble with the rugby crowd. Boisterous, yes, but good humoured.

Then things turned nasty.

A gang of golfers walked in, fresh from the links. Every one was in a bad mood as they'd each shot a 10 on the 18th hole. They were spoiling for a fight.

The smallest golfer caught the hooker's eye. They were brothers and hated each other for their choices in life. The golfer had left school at 16 to become a plumber. The hooker was a chartered accountant. They both had large houses on the same estate, but never talked to each other, were never at the same family gatherings. The last time they'd spoken there'd been blood.

"Alright, lads," said the landlord. "What can I get you?"

"Little drinks for little balls," said the hooker, looking directly at his brother.

"Now come on, lads. We don't want any trouble, do we?" said the landlord.

"We all shot a 10 on the 18th," said the smallest golfer. "Our weekend can't get any worse. We've come here to drown our sorrows. We don't want any trouble, either. But if trouble comes looking for us..."

"Hear! Hear!" said the other golfers, as one.

The rugby crowd put their pints on the bar. Each of them stared daggers at a separate golfer. The hooker had fratricide in his eyes.

"Come on, lads," said the landlord. "Let's settle this like gentlemen, shall we? What about a nice game of darts? Winning team gets a free round."

Suddenly, in walked Mr Cockle, Purveyor Of Fine Seafoods.

"Seafood!" he growled, in such a smooth, sensual way.

The tension was broken, the brothers' stares melted, the rugby crowd picked up their pints, and they all mingled like long lost friends, feasting on whelks.

Antisocial Basterds

You've probably guessed by now that the scenes described in the last couple of posts on this blog didn't really happen. Real-life events are so unreal at the moment that the only way I can conceive of responding to them is to write fiction. So please bear with me as I go completely mad.

I've got a two week break coming up and will be taking another "staycation". I have the following activities penciled in. Will we enjoy ourselves or are there other things we could be doing or seeing within an hour or so's train ride of London?

1. Oxford
2. London Zoo
3. Inglourious Basterds
4. Little Venice Circular Walk

These are all daytime activities, of course. Evenings are for sitting in front of the telly, drinking ourselves into oblivion. Antisocial basterds that we are.

Bob Boskins

An old actor friend of mine died a few weeks ago. At his funeral there were all these luvvie types saying how he would have wanted us to celebrate his life, not mourn his death. You know the scene from Four Weddings & A Funeral? Just like that, it was.

This twat in a beret got up and performed a poem. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light." His was a very soft voice which did not rage well but there was not one dry eye in the house, save mine.

It was a Humanist funeral, full of smug cunts. A Dawkins-lite tosser in a cream suit took the service. Fuck knows how he managed to sneak Darwin into it, but I suppose the deceased was a bit ape-like.

The spit of Bob Hoskins, in fact. I used to call him the cockney Bob Hoskins. I did this short at film school, Bob Boskins, in which he played the leading role. You've seen Being John Malkovich? Based on Bob Boskins, that was. Did I get the credit? Did I, fuck.

So they played a Rufus Wainwright song as we all took a few minutes to remember our friend. Rufus Wainwright. I hate him. My dead friend hated him. He obviously wanted me to suffer because he knew all those luvvie types like all that fake emotion.

Bastard.

Four Hands

"Free Kleenex tissues!"

It happens about once a month. I exit the train station and they're there, blocking the pavement.

"Free tissues!"

Free tissues. A little pack of Kleenex tissues. The anti-viral sort that kill germs.

Not very useful for me. I use more toilet paper than I do tissues most days. And I don't think anti-viral tissues are suitable for wiping your arse.

"Free tissues!"

People are lapping them up. Look at him! That bloke over there! He can't get enough free tissues. He opens one of his packets. He takes out a tissue. He holds it to his hooter and blows. He feels good. He feels so good he might wipe his arse on one of the tissues later. I wouldn't if I were him. But I think he's going to. You don't get much for nothing nowadays and what you do get you've got to get maximum value out of it. Not only blow his nose and wipe his arse, he may well have a little wank into one when he gets home. Just a little one, half a teaspoon or so. They're not mansize you see, but they will kill 99% of the germs in his jizz. If only he could do all three at once. Blow his nose, wipe his arse and have a little wank. But he'd need four hands for that. Count them.