THE DROPOUT

'What the hell was that noise?' I said, rubbing my eyes. 'There's someone downstairs.'

I stretched out an arm to retrieve my glasses in the darkness, so I could better focus on the solid black around me.

A groaning from below was clearly audible.  

'Wake up,' I hissed. 'I'm going down.'  As I reached out to prod my wife, it became evident that the other side of the bed was no longer occupied. Suddenly, I could hear raised voices in French, and I remembered where I was.

That was our first and last treehouse holiday, and the end of my wife's somnambulatory episodes - you can't sleepwalk if you're paralysed from the waist down.

Even today, four years after the accident, the sight of her distorted limbs makes me shudder - a salutary lesson of the absolute necessity of taking out holiday insurance.

Ironically, my new wife won't go near a treehouse - she has vertigo, and gets dizzy reading a tall story.

FANCY THAT!

‘This is how it works. My mate Marv – sorry, my associate Mr Cooper – works in a fancy dress shop in the posh end of town.

‘A customer comes in and hires a costume for a party; they give Marv their name and address, and Marv engages in a bit of banter, finding out if the costume’s for a party or whatever.

‘In the evening, we follow all the likely leads on FaceSpace, find out which of their friends has a birthday for when the costume’s been hired, cross-reference against other recent hirers on our spreadsheet, go through any photos, biographies etc.

‘On the night of the party, I put on my costume, waltz in with a bottle of Blue Tower and chat to the guests.  If anyone asks, I know Tom from Leicester Uni, I used to work with Claire at HSBC – that sort of thing.  If the party’s not themed, I usually go as a burglar – striped jumper, mask, flat cap, gloves, bag labelled ‘swag’, the works – once I’m comfortable and the other guests  have had a bit to drink, I start filling my sack. It’s that easy.

‘Any problem – I mean if the cops are called – I’ve got Marv on one-touch dialling in my pocket.  Two minutes later, Marv and Jim (Marv’s brother) knock on the door in police costumes and arrest me.’

‘These people have serious mon…’

Click!

‘Hold on a minute; I need to turn the tape over.’

Dave looked around at the bare walls of the police interview room. He regretted now the deep sea diver suit that had slowed down his escape.

‘Ready to continue with your confession?’

Dave nodded.

‘Interview recommenced at 14:39 on tape one, side two.  Interviewing officer, Detective Sergeant Briscoe; also present, Constable …’

‘Peters, sarge’ said the tall youngster in the doorway.’

‘Also present, Constable Peters. Please continue, Mr Berwick.’

THE NIGHT SHIFT

With university fees spiralling and the economy in recession, it is hardly surprising that many teenagers are opting to join the growing ranks of the undead.  The popularity of films such as '28 Days Later' and 'I am Legend' has shown the zombie lifestyle to be varied and interesting.  Disused warehouses and factories, remnants of Britain's past as an industrial powerhouse, are being snapped up by zombie start-ups eager for new blood willing to work unsociable hours.

When I was a youngster in the Seventies, boys wanted to be astronauts and girls wanted to have a horse. By the Eighties, the Apollo programme had been shelved and the French had eaten all the horses; boys wanted to be footballers and girls wanted to be supermodels (not models). In the Nineties, the Premier League and Sky TV arrived; more than ever, boys wanted to be footballers and girls wanted to marry footballers. The Noughties arrived and boys realised you needed to be a Bosnian on a Bosman to be a footballer; now they wanted to be DJs or MCs and girls wanted to flash their surgically-enhanced chests on reality TV.

With worldwide financial meltdown, and all these traditional career paths seemingly closed off, the teenagers of today are giving a big WTF to the IMF and opting to work nights feasting on human flesh. If you're one of those youngsters who's already largely lost the power of speech, you could be on the fast track to zombie team leadership. To join the undead denizens of the night, log onto www.apprenticeships.gov.uk/zombies.

A GREEK TRAGEDY

Monsieur Trichet settled into his high-backed leather chair and sighed a deep sigh of pleasure. He wondered how Herr Hitler would feel if he could see a Frenchman sitting in the plushest office in all of Frankfurt controlling the purse-strings of Europe. Trichet had been born in Lyon in 1942 under the dark days of the puppet Vichy government, yet now he had several hundred Germans running around at his behest - the irony was not lost on him.

As President of the European Central Bank since 2003, he had overseen the emergence of the Euro as a rival to the US dollar as a world currency, and saw the Eurozone very much as his fiefdom. The global recession had raised his profile for which he was grateful, but solving the resultant problems was an intellectual task, not an emotional one. His Mercedes and his luxury apartment in Frankfurt were safe; nobody would be knocking on the drawbridge of his chateau in Provence with a repossession notice.

The phone rang; an internal call, his PA.

'Merci, Juliette.' He put down the receiver and walked over to the huge plate glass window that offered an uninspiring view of identikit tower blocks of the financial sector.

In the middle of the street, there it was, as Juliette had said - a wooden horse, perhaps ten metres high.
Four minutes later, he was standing beside the monstrous creation examining at inscription on its right foreleg: 'To the ECB: a token of our thanks for your support during our recent economic hardship. Presented to Jean-Claude Trichet by the People of the Hellenic Republic. PS Would look nice in your atrium.'
There were polizei and television crews everywhere. With his ever-present umbrella, Trichet rapped on the belly of the horse.

'Bonjour,' he shouted. Nothing.

'Bonjour!' he repeated.

A trapdoor swung open and a bald head poked out, a grimacing mouth visible below an elegant grey moustache.

'Ah, Monsieur Papandreou!'

'Call me George.'

'What are you doing, George - we don't even keep the money here?'

ROBINSON CURSE-O

It was the beginning of the rainy season on my seventeenth year on the island. Friday had gone to the northern side of the island to hunt wild goats and would no doubt spend the night in the cave outpost we had constructed there when he saw the brooding storm clouds moving in from the west. For my part, being well aware of the impending malevolence of the weather, I began to tether down as much as possible, and to ensure that my abode was as wind-proof and rain-proof as it could be.

As I completed my preparations, I spotted what looked like an upturned boat on the incoming surf. The rain was already falling like daggers but the opportunity was too good to miss. I ran down the sand and grabbed the object from the arms of the sea before it was smashed to pieces on the rocks. On my own, and in the face of a biting gale, it was all I could do to pull the boat, a rowing vessel belonging to some wrecked galleon, a few yards up the beach before I had to flee and hope for the best.

My sleep was troubled by the shrieking wind and lashing rain until in the early hours I fell into a deep slumber in spite of my worries for the boat, my companion on the other side of the island and my livestock.

When I awoke, the storm had worn itself out and I became gradually aware of the sound of hammering in the distance. Pulling the furniture away from the door, I saw a black figure down the beach working away to some object; it was my manservant, Friday, returned to me safely.

I wandered down the beach to see to what object his endeavours were directed.

'Look', he said, beaming. 'I make raft.' He was surrounded by planks of wood.

'But where did you ...?'

Then I remembered the boat, and put my head in the hands and cried as I had not done since boyhood.

HAVING A LAUGH

The World Giggling Championships have been thrown into disarray by the disqualification of current world champion, Todd Anderson of Australia, for the crime of 'chortling' in a second round match against Spaniard Luis Lopez. Anderson claimed the 'chortle' was the first of his two permitted 'guffaws'. Audio playback was inconclusive, splitting former players down the line.

The umpire's decision, later upheld by the tournament referee following an appeal from the Anderson camp, could lead to a split in the sport with Anderson and other leading gigglers setting up a rival Freestyle Giggling circuit where chortling and chuckling would both be permitted during matchplay. Sniggerers are still likely to be disappointed.

THE MAN IN BLACK

Two o'clock in the morning. Dressed in black from head to toe, he moves through the foliage like a leopard. His prey: the rich residents of Belgium Hill and Luxembourg Crescent. His conscience is clear; Standard Union and Allied Mercia will pick up the bill. These people have insurance coming out of their ears.

He slides open a side window, and clambers inside the property known as 'The Beeches'.  The layout is familiar; he moves around quickly picking up items of value and placing them noiselessly in his black briefcase. Sometimes, it’s just too easy.

No more than four minutes later, he’s outside in the night air again, his luggage bulging with duty–free; a good night’s work.

A fine athlete in his youth, he vaults the surrounding wall with ease, and is back on the deserted pavement.  In the distance, a dog barks. He never pays a visit to a home with canine protection; too risky.

As he brushes himself down, a narrow beam of yellow illuminates his face.

‘Police’, says the young voice holding the torch. ’Step out of the shadows.’

He does as instructed, quickly evaluating his options. Fight or flight? Fight or flight?

‘Is that you … Father O'Rourke?

‘Tommy? Tommy Harrison?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘I heard you’d graduated Hendon.  Your mother was telling me after Mass a few weeks back.’

'I didn’t expect to see you at this hour, Father.'  apologises the young constable. ‘You see there’s been a string of burglaries on the area.’

'One of my parishioners had a stroke. His wife called me; distraught, the poor dear.'

‘I really am sorry, Father.’

‘Nonsense! You were just doing your job, Tommy. If it wasn’t for this,’ the priest goes on, pointing at his dog collar, ‘I could easily be your burglar, all dressed in black like Johnny Cash.’

‘Johnny who?’

He doesn’t have the time or the inclination to explain. Rain is beginning to fall, and he has phone calls to make, goods to move.

‘See you on Sunday, Tommy?

Pc Harrison looks down at his shiny boots.  He’s drifted away from God since school; maybe this is a sign.

‘Sure,’ he replies. ‘I’ll be there.’

THE WALLS OF JERICHO

The Israelites were camped near the city of Jericho. Jericho had a great wall around it and big, heavy gates. The people of Jericho had heard about the Israelites and were very afraid of them.

God gave Joshua a plan for the capture of the city. On six days the soldiers were to march around the city one time each day. Some priests were to march with them, and seven priests were to blow on trumpets made of rams' horns. No one was to speak a word.

On the seventh day, at God's command, the soldiers were to march around the city seven times. The priests would blow on the trumpets and the Israelites give a great shout. The walls would fall down flat and the Israelites would be able able to capture the city.

On the first day of the plan, a man with a clipboard arrived in the midst of the Israelite encampment. He asked to be directed to Joshua's tent.

'Hello, I work for Canaan District Council,' the man explained, flashing an ID card. 'This is green belt land under the Green Belt Act of 1938 BC; you'll have to move your camp twelve miles further from the city walls.'

Joshua was much troubled by this man's visit, but undertook the necessary measures to appease the official, so he could proceed with God's plan.

On the third day of the plan, another man with a clipboard arrived in the midst of the Israelite encampment. He asked to be directed to Joshua's tent.

'Hello, I work for Jericho City Council,' the man explained, flashing an ID card. 'These rams' horns of yours are producing excessive noise under the Environmental Noise Pollution Act of 1967 BC; please refrain from blowing them.'

Joshua was much troubled by this man's visit, but undertook the necessary measures to appease the official, so he could proceed with God's plan.

On the fifth day of the plan, another man with a clipboard arrived in the midst of the Israelite encampment. He asked to be directed to Joshua's tent.

'Hello, I work for Revenue and Customs,' the man explained, flashing an ID card. 'No duty has been paid on this so-called manna from heaven you've brought into Canaan as required under the Imported Foodstuffs Act of 1981 BC.'

Joshua was much troubled by this man's visit, but undertook the necessary measures to appease the official, so he could proceed with God's plan.

On the final day of the plan, another man with a clipboard arrived in the midst of the Israelite encampment. He asked to be directed to Joshua's tent.

'Hello, I work for Immigration,' the man explained, flashing an ID card.

'It's OK - we were just leaving.' said Joshua, consigning God's plan to the scrap-heap. 'By the way, what does BC mean?'

'Before Calendars!' replied the official. 'By the way, would you mind awfully filling in this Customer Satisfaction survey?'

Joshua shrugged his shoulders.

'Sure. Do you have a pen? I seem to have snapped all mine in half.'

NOAH AND THE FISSURE

It was Monday.
Noah's wife went to see God.
'Is it going to rain today, Lord?'
'Where's Noah?' asked God. 'Man flu?'
'No, he plunged through a crevice on his way here; he's dead.'
'Oh, I am sorry.'
'Never mind. Rain?'
'Thirty per cent chance. Take a brolly if you go out.'

RATS

The town clerk stretched out his arm.

'Mr Piper,' he said. 'Hope you didn't have any trouble finding us.'

'No,' the other replied, raising one eyebrow. The Town Hall was by far the largest building for miles; it would be hard to miss.

'This way,' beckoned the clerk. 'The mayor is waiting.'

They hurried along a wood-panelled corridor until they arrived at a door at the end. A couple of rats ran in the other direction. The clerk tapped on the door, opened it, and ushered in the interviewee with a flourish.

'Mr Piper, your Worship,' he announced before joining the mayor behind the huge oak desk.

The mayor, a rotund man in his late fifties stood and reached out a hand of greeting to the stranger.

'I see you found us, then. Please have a seat.'

All three sat down; the mayor and the clerk on one side of the desk, the Pied Piper on the other. The piper could see the curly script of his CV on top of the mayor's pile. Beyond the mayor, he spotted two well-fed rats sleeping on the window-sill.

'So, Mr Piper.' the mayor began. 'How long have you been in pest control?'

'Sir, first and foremost I am a musician. Here - my union card.' replied the piper, waving a card in the air. 'My ability with undesirable creatures is a sideline, and a happy accident arising from my musicality.'

'Describe yourself in three words,' the mayor said, looking over his half-rimmed spectacles at the angular fellow opposite.

'The. Pied. Piper.' he replied.

'Where ..'

'Where do I see myself in five years?' the piper interrupted. 'Miles from here...like your rats.'

'Rats?' said the mayor. 'Who said anything about rats?'

'But, they're everywhere.' said the piper incredulously.

The mayor laughed. 'A minor irritation.'

'What then?' asked the piper.

'Double-glazing salesmen. They always seem to be in OUR area.' said the mayor.

'I see.' said the piper, already trying to think of a suitable tune for this particular species of vermin.

'Well, we have other applicants to interview, so ...'

'No, you don't.' said the piper, immediately regaining control of the situation after this shock. 'I'll take the job.'

The clerk looked at the mayor. The mayor nodded.

'The salary will be paid directly into your bank account a month in arrears. Is that OK?' asked the clerk, concluding the administrative matters.

The piper scratched his pointy chin. 'I'd prefer a bag of gold.' he said.

The clerk looked at the mayor again. The mayor nodded again.

'Gold it is.' the clerk said. 'Now, holidays are ...'

The piper raised his hand, and stood up suddenly, surprising the clerk and the mayor.

'Enough.' he said. 'I'm keen to start.'

Without waiting for any further instructions he reached out his slender arm and shook the hands of the two officials vigorously, before executing a nimble pirouette and leaving the other two to stare at each other, wondering if they had just made the biggest mistake of their public careers.

THE RED MENACE

The fox nosed through the rubbish drifting against the scrubby hedge, lifting its head occasionally to sniff cautiously at the air. Ideally, he was after the remains of a Bargain Bucket or some other treat from the Colonel, but would make do with a morsel of burger or kebab if that's all that was on offer. Today, he was out of luck; it was mainly cigarette packets, empty cans and a few copies of the local free paper.

Oh well, it was still early and his rounds took in several other locations where the pickings might be greater, if one of his competitors hadn't beaten him to it.  Deregulation had hit him hard; in the old monopolistic days, he could saunter around for an hour and fill his belly.  Now, a group of young foxes had taken over the McDonald's concession and he'd heard that badgers had been seen in town cosying up to the proprietors of the ethnic restaurants. It was becoming harder and harder to gain the nutrients required to maintain a glossy coat and his once-magnificent brush was now a little threadbare. Worse than badgers and others of his own species, though, were the cats with their malevolent eyes staring out of their flat faces. Hissing, spitting, pissing, shitting – that was felines; every corner he turned, there they were, mocking him, taunting him, goading him, remarking on his overwhelming gingerness. Wherever he went, they’d always been there first and helped themselves to the choicest fare. The town stank of their presence.

Maybe it was time to leave the cat race and retire to the country.

HOW TO LOOK GOOD NUKED

I was satisfied with my lot in life, right up until that dreadful moment when he/she said (I was never sure about Gok Wan's internal plumbing) ........

'Satisified with your lot in life?'

'If you're not - hey - the next six programmes could totally transform your life,' Gok continued in the most serious voice in his/her limited armoury. 'Even if you think you are satisfied, don't settle for satisfied, girlfriend - life could be so much better.'

'Coming up, after the break - lesson one -"make friends with your colon!"'

I knew now that my hitherto happy life was lacking something, that I could never be truly happy until I had carried out the one task that had been nagging me for years, plaguing my subconscious, coming between me and my sleep every night. I had to kill Gok Wan.

THE WHOLE THING

The Knights of the Round Table were bored. It was raining, and their jester was visiting a sick aunt in Godalming.

'How about some magic?' suggested Merlin, standing up, but seeing Gawain roll his eyes, and hearing Lancelot whisper something under his breath to Galahad, the old wizard sat down again red-faced.

'What we need is a another quest?' suggested King Arthur, but the other knights just shuffled uncomfortably in their chairs at this idea.

'Look,' said Percival, rising from his seat. 'How many Holy Grails do we need?'  He walked over to a cupboard and opened it, and was almost buried in an avalanche of golden goblets.

'I see what you mean.' replied Arthur. 'Charades, anyone?'

Reluctantly, the others agreed.

'I'll go first.' said Gawain, dragging his bulky frame from its chair. And so it started ...

'Book.'
'Five words.'
'First word.'
'The.'
'The Once and Future King?'
'Yes!'

'Film.'
'One word.'
'Excalibur?'
'Yes.'

'Book.'
'What do you mean you three or four words?'
'La Morte d'Arthur?'
'Yes.'

'Film.'
'Six words.'
'Monty Python and the Holy Grail?'
'Yes.'

'Film.'
'One word.'
'Musical.'
'Camelot?'
'Yes!'

'Film.'
'Five words.'
'First word.'
'The.'
'The Sword in the Stone?'

'Yes!'

'Song.'
'One word.'
'Avalon?'
'Yes!'

'Film.'
'Two ...'
'First Knight?'
'Yes.'

'MERLIN!' shouted Arthur. 'How about some bloody magic?'

They all nodded.

CHECKPOINT

And gradually every day it comes back to me, like an outgoing tide reveals the contours of the underlying sand: the checkpoint, raised voices in two languages (neither of which are mine), a volley of automatic gunfire and an explosion.  The air is full of flying fragments: metal, rubber, glass, fabric, human bone, human flesh.  The border we are crossing appears on no map, the guards belong to no recognised army. Our light blue livery is no guarantee of safe passage; papers stating our humanitarian mission are worthless. In this land where the warlords hold sway, even the law of the jungle is broken every day.

And as the memories return, my twisted body gives up the struggle until my only question is 'why?' and my family's only question is 'when?'

MANY HAPPY RETURNS

Some birthdays are better than others. Expectations always run high, but you can never tell exactly how it's going to turn out. One year when my new teeth were too big for my old mouth, I had set my heart on a bicycle, and my poor mother, after I had broken her down psychologically over a period of weeks, finally admitted my present was 'something to ride' but would say no more.

On the day itself I was led into the garden with my eyes covered. I waited for the signal - a bicycle bell, I assumed - when I felt a hot, sour breath on my face. I opened my eyes to find myself face to face with the long white snout and deep chocolate eyes of a horse. A I widened my gaze to take in the whole beast, it became apparent that this was no ordinary horse, but the immortal winged horse of Greek myth, Pegasus himself, the mount on which Bellerephon had vanquished the Chimera.

My mother and father looked at each other, evidently pleased with themselves. Certainly, I thought to myself, no other boy at school had access to such a mode of transport. Just then a dog barked in the street out front, and the magnificent stallion rose up onto his hind legs and spread his lily-white wings to their full extent. Suddenly my teenage brother came to the garden door, carrying a beautiful saddle embroidered with my initials.

'Would you like to ride him, son?' asked Dad.

I imagined soaring effortlessly over the city and the countryside, while my friends pedalled furiously hundreds of feet below in a vain effort to keep up; I imagined whistling at the school gate, and Pegasus, in response to my summons, descending from the clouds to take me home for supper. I could feel a drop of moisture increasing in size in the inner angle of my eye.

The following day, I left the house early - to ride my BMX to Kevin's house. Pegasus had been returned to Argos, and the refund spent on a bicycle and helmet. I think Mum and Dad had learnt their lesson: if I had wanted a flipping flying pony I would have asked for one, but I had asked for a bike.

It was then I noticed that my front tyre was completely flat.

A SNAKE IN THE GARDEN

Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden?
And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden:
But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.
And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die:
For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.
And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she considered the serpent’s words.
Later, the woman went to see the man to explain what she had done.
‘Snakeskin shoes?’ said Adam. ‘You ARE a poppet.’

SOMETHING APPROACHES

It came closer and closer and it became evident it wasn't going to stop.
‘Look at that, Steg,’ said Rex.
‘What is it, Rex?’  said Steg.
‘I can never remember – it’s either an asteroid or a meteorite … or a meteor.’
‘It’s quite big.’
‘Yes. About the size of The Isle of Wight, I should say.’
‘I can feel a mass extinction coming on.’
‘Me too.’
‘Listen, don’t worry about returning that power drill.’
‘Thanks, Steg.’
‘Listen, I’m sorry about that business with your wife a few …’
‘Water under the bridge, old man.’
‘Phew! That was close, Rex.’
‘Don’t count your archaeopteryxes, Steg?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’ll be another one along soon, and next time it may not miss.’
‘When?’
‘Fifteen million years, maybe  twenty.’
‘I’m off. Countdown’s on in ten minutes.’
‘I’ll bring the Black and Decker back tomorrow.’
'Ta-ra, Rex.'
'Cheerio, Steg.'

THIS THING

There is this thing that oppresses me.

It follows me day and night, never missing the opportunity to pour scorn upon me when I falter in either word or step. I know not from whence it came or why it has chosen me as a vehicle for its contempt. During daylight hours it affects an appearance verging on transparent and seems to hover behind me.  As darkness approaches it becomes more agitated, sometimes flitting around like a bat, sometimes skulking in the shadows like a large rodent.  As night falls, it becomes bolder, brushing against me from time to time, quite aggressively it must be said. Its greatest pleasure seems to lie in nudging me as I attempt to complete some delicate task like lifting a cup of tea to my lips or lighting my pipe. On the occasions that my frustration overcomes me and I attempt to grab it, it has little trouble floating away out of range and its coarse laughter is heightened at my futile attempts to mete out the punishment which its behaviour deserves.

Perhaps one day it will find a new object of opprobrium and leave me to my own company, but I feel that somehow our destinies are inextricably linked and that this creature, whatever it is, has been put on this earth with the sole purpose of tormenting me. Its continued presence in my life has prevented me from maintaining lasting relationships or finding employment suitable to my intellect and disposition.  My family members, in an effort to save themselves from sharing in my distress, have disowned me, and polite society never tolerates me for long once I have mentioned this thing which afflicts me. Would that I could shed, or at least share, this burden.   

I have undertaken various ruses by which to separate we two, like passing rapidly through revolving doors or swimming considerable distances underwater, but it is of no use; this monster who hates me so much will not suffer itself to be parted from me under any circumstances. How miserable its existence must be, condemned to spend every hour day and night with a man, if I can still call myself such, whom it despises from head to toe. My only remaining hope is that we can, somehow, settle our differences and reach some king of accommodation whereby we agree to tolerate each other.  Should this lead to a gradual thawing of our relations, we may in the fullness of time reach a point where the occasional game of whist becomes a not unpleasant possibility. For now, though, the wounds are too raw and the hurt too real.

There is this thing that oppresses me.

I am this thing that oppresses it.

NOAH AND THE FISSION

It was Monday.
Noah went to see God.
'Is it going to rain today, Lord?'
'No.' said God.

It was Tuesday.
Noah didn't go to see God.
There had been a nuclear accident the day before.
'That Noah' said God. 'He asked the wrong question.'

DWAYNE'S SCHOOL REPORT: HISTORY

This term we have been studying the English Civil War. Either Dwayne can't get his head round it or he's treating it in a cavalier fashion. He should be head of the class, but he's come well behind his peers.

Charles King, Head of History

ESKIMO ROLE-PLAY

Oh to be an Inuit!
I wish it every minute
Catch a seal and skin it
Face a bear and chin it
Spear a whale, de-fin it
Enter a poetry competition for indigenous peoples and win it
And live in an igloo, innit?

FINIT

NOAH AND THE FISH II

It was Monday.
Noah went to see God.
'Is it going to rain today, Lord?'
'No.' said God.

It was Tuesday.
Noah didn't go to see God.
Noah had drowned the day before - April 1st.
'Poisson d'Avril!' said God.

MONSTROUS REGIMENT WEEKLY

I was lunching with a few girlfriends the other day following a busy morning hitting the plastic hard (Don't tell hubby - ED) when that eternal question came up - can a Virgo and a Sagittarius ever be happy together - well, CAN THEY? Now, sure things don't look too promising, particularly if he's the Virgo and she's born on the cusp, but surely there's hope for every relationship if you work at it!!!

One of my friends - let's call her Alice (even though her real name's Betty) - is a 'Saggy' and once found herself engaged to Clive - a Virgo - when things started to go wrong!  A romantic trip to Venice only made things worse (bet the ice-cream was nice ,though? - ED), so they split - two years down the line, they're both happily married - both to Capricorns, by an AMAZING coincidence!

Anyway, by the time we'd polished off our desserts (mmm  - delicious) , it was unanimous - Virgo and Sagittarius just DO NOT gel! Period! Or Pernod as my friend, Jayne, prefers to say!!

Next week: Organise your knicker drawer in FIVE easy steps!

THE OLD MAN AND THE CANDLE

It was time for bed.

'Blow the candle out, husband.' said the old woman.

The old man slid across the floor to the mantelpiece where the candle burned.

Taking a deep breath, he blew. The candle went out, the window fell out of its frame, trees were uprooted, pigs were left homeless and a house in faraway Kansas was ripped from its foundations and sent hurtling into an imaginary world where it kllled a passing witch.

The old man went to bed.

NOAH AND THE FISH

It was Monday.
Noah went to see God.
'Is it going to rain today, Lord?' Noah asked.
'No,' said God.

It was Tuesday.
Noah went to see God.
'Is it going to rain today, Lord?' Noah asked.
'No,' said God.

It was Wednesday.
Noah went to see God.
'Is it going to rain today, Lord?' Noah asked.
'No,' said God.

It was Thursday.
Noah went to see God.
'Is it going to rain today, Lord?' Noah asked.
'No,' said God.

It was Friday.
Noah went to see God.
'Is it going to rain today, Lord?' Noah asked.
'No,' said God.

It was Saturday.
Noah went to see God.
'Is it going to rain today, Lord?' Noah asked.
'No,' said God.

It was Sunday - God's day off.
Noah turned on the TV.
'It's not going to rain today.' said Michael Fish.

It was Monday.
Noah didn't go to see God.
Noah had drowned the day before.

KAFK-22

Background:


1. Write your own piece to follow your chosen first line (from five famous opening lines), and do the same to precede your chosen last line (from five famous closing lines - different books). You can make your two pieces connected or entirely unconnected.

Chapter One

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.

He rubbed his compound eyes with his sticky front legs, opened his mandibles wide and yawned. 

Glancing down at his segmented body, he tried to recall how much he’d had to drink last night – definitely no more than two pints. He noticed with some annoyance that his shiny, black abdomen had popped the button on his pyjama bottoms.

Hearing the self-important tones of Chris Moyles, he reached to switch off the bedside radio-alarm – his sister had probably switched it away from his preferred station, Radio 3 – but it was not on. The signal was being picked up by his newly-grown antennae.

‘Great!’ he thought. ‘I’m stuck with that fat, opinionated ignoramus until nine o’clock.’

Chapter Two

Being no great entomologist, Gregor removed his pyjama jacket to find out whether he was a winged insect designed to whirr on high o’er hill and dale, or some kind of beetle doomed to scuttle through the damp, dark recesses of the earth.

Yes, there they were – four magnificent, translucent wings. He scratched his thorax, relieved that his destiny was not a world of dung-rolling.

‘Breakfast’s up!’ shouted Gregor’s mum, flinging open the door without knocking – as usual. ‘Bacon, eggs and tomatoes.’

She screamed.

‘Where’s my son, you monster?’

Before Gregor could reply, she lunged forward with the cutlery.  The fork rebounded off his tough exoskeleton and fell harmlessly to the floor.  She moved forward again, her face contorted in a mixture of fear and rage.

The knife came down, missing him by inches, and he took off.

Apologies to Franz Kafka and Joseph Heller.

THE TRUE EXTENT

My love from Kent

Was Heaven-sent

Fluorescent

Luminescent

Phosphorescent

Iridescent

Effervescent

Flowers sent

I a true gent

The world she meant

I paid her rent

My car I lent

So content

Money all spent

Every cent

I became obsolescent

Promises unmeant

No letter sent

She went

PS

Now she's a Member of Parliament

For Stoke-on-Trent

While I repent

THE ENT

IF ...

If Bigfoot and the Yeti are abducted by aliens, and the Loch Ness monster spontaneously combusts in the Bermuda Triangle, how can we be sure they ever existed?

ONLY A 'B'

'The problem with your story, Benny, and why I've only given you a B,' said Mr Brock, the elderly English teacher, 'is anthropomorphism.  What does that mean?'

'I don't know, sir.' replied Benny, his large brown eyes beginning to water.

'Go and look it up, then!' snapped Mr Brock, handing Benny back his story.

As Benny turned around to return to his desk, a single tear rolled down his long black and white snout, found its way to the end of a whisker and dropped silently to the floor. Nobody saw and nobody knew.

HIDE AND SEEK

Molly sat there with her knees up to her chin and her chubby arms clasped around her shins to make herself as small as possible. She giggled to herself at having managed to squeeze into such a magnificent hiding place.  Peter had yelled that he was coming ages ago, and he hadn’t even set foot in this particular room yet, let alone twiddled the knob of the old wardrobe in which Molly was secreted, covered by an old raincoat.

In the garden, Peter and David, cousins and rivals, batted a shuttlecock back and forth with gusto, laughing at their latest ruse to rid themselves of David’s little sister.  As usual, the game degenerated into a series of squabbles over the imaginary boundaries of the court and whether the score was nine-six or nine-seven.  Molly was forgotten.

Watching from the kitchen window, the two mums agreed that it would only be a matter of time before the boys would be hitting the shuttlecock at each other, then one or both would come in crying with accusations of racket-throwing.

‘Lemonade and crisps!’ shouted Karen, David’s mother, hoping to avert the usual tantrums.  The boys dropped their rackets with the shuttlecock still aloft and raced for the back door.

‘Where’s Molly?’ asked Karen, puzzled.

Molly gasped, having held her breath for thirty or so seconds having heard footsteps in the corridor outside the bedroom. She imagined the greedy hands of seekers, prying in every recess, being directed towards her by some magnetic force; in fact it was just Gran padding slowly to the toilet.

THREE SIDES TO EVERY STORY

1. BOB'S STORY

I was watching The Godfather the other night when it came to me! Marlon Brando doesn’t go around strangling people himself. And he hasn’t shot anybody since he was Robert De Niro in Part 2. He has henchmen to do the dirty stuff for him; usually fat guys who leave the room when the important stuff’s going on.

When I told Hal he was going to be my henchman, or else I’d cut off his head and put it in mum’s bed, he cried, but now he’s part of the family business. He’s too small to kick anyone’s butt yet, but he’s handy as a lookout and a messenger and – bonus - he can climb through tiny windows.

2. MUM’S STORY

At long last, Bob and Hal seem to be getting on a bit better.  There was a time when Bob used to either completely ignore Hal or turn on him in a flash, but now he even takes him out to play cricket with his mates.  I wish they wouldn’t stay out so late, though – they’ve both got homework. It can’t be easy for Hal; he was so young when his dad left, but it seems like Bob’s assuming a father figure role at last.  Looks like even a leopard can change its spots, eh?

3. TEACHER’S STORY

That’s it – if Hal’s not at school tomorrow, I’m going to have to involve Social Services.  He’s a nice lad and I don’t want him to turn into a thuggish wastrel like that brother of his – what was his name, Rob or Bob or something?  I haven’t seen any homework all term, and Hal’s been absent all week – no phone call, no note. That poor Mrs Mackenzie doesn’t have a clue – two jobs, no husband, spaced out on Prozac. I bet that older brother runs rings around her.  Something’s going on, and it looks like it’s my job to stop it.

KANGAROO TALE

It was the seventh year in the war between the placentals and the marsupials, and the armies of the pouch were close to total defeat. The surrender of the wallaby commander to the prehensile tails left only the wombat armies of the South to oppose the antelope advance to the sea. All seemed lost until there came forth an opossum who would change history.

'OMG,' spluttered Ruth. 'What is this shite?'

'It’s your history book, pet,' said Mum. 'LOL.'

Ruth tapped her hind feet furiously.

'WTF? I think I’ll do my Physics first,' she said, popping the history book into her pouch and withdrawing its replacement.

'Mu-um,' said Ruth.

'What now?'

'Tell Joey to turn the TV down! FYI, I can’t concentrate.'

FIXED PENALTY

'Does that pterodactyl belong to you, sir?' the young police office enquired.

Hugh shook his head. Did he look like the type of person who'd take a prehistoric flying reptile to Sainsbury's on Saturday?

'I'm going to have to give you a fixed penalty, sir,' the officer continued, pulling a book of tickets from his pocket with a flourish.

'But I said it wasn't mine.' Hugh protested.

'It's wearing a t-shirt with your face on it, sir.  How do you explain that?'

'Coincidence?'

'That'll be £120 - how would you like to pay?'

A GHASTLY MISTAKE

In the middle of a most enjoyable evening spent in the company of a young lady of impeccable breeding, I made some excuse that allowed me to escape to my writing desk, whereupon I dashed off an epistle to an old chum from Repton regarding how lucky I'd been to meet up with such an exquisite and thoroughly charming creature. I then made the ghastly error of scribbling the young lady's address on the envelope, rather than that of my intended confidante, before passing it to my manservant to execute its delivery. When the extent of my foolishness dawned on me the following morn, I realised how lucky I had been to eschew first-class post.  The next day, a hastily-assembled parcel bomb - this time sent by first-class - arrived at the young lady's residence in advance of the letter.  It blew her face off, thereby saving mine.

SIMON AND NIGEL

‘Nigel, what are you having?’ asked Simon, turning his head briefly to consult his friend, but it was too late – the barman was now serving someone who’d bothered to prepare his order first.

Simon could wave his military-creased £20 for eternity, but you cannot catch an eye that does not want to be caught.

RUMPELSTILTSKIN II

Once there was a miller who was poor, but who had a beautiful daughter. Now it happened that he had to go and speak to the king, and in order to make himself appear important he said to him, "I have a daughter who is a writer."

The king said to the miller, "That is an art which pleases me well; if your daughter is as clever as you say, bring her tomorrow to my palace, and I will put her to the test."

And when the girl was brought to him he took her into a room which was empty apart from a desk, a chair, some instructions for a writing activity, and an old PC with a noisy dot-matrix printer, and said, "Now set to work, and if by tomorrow morning early you have not completed the activity, you must die."

Thereupon he himself locked up the room, and left her in it alone. So there sat the poor miller's daughter, and for the life of her had no idea how to complete the activity as she never come across soya milk, and she grew more and more frightened, until at last she began to weep.

But all at once the door opened, and in came a little man, and said, "Good evening, mistress miller, why are you crying so?"

"Alas," answered the girl, "I have to complete this writing activity, and I do not know how to do it for I have never come across such a thing as soya milk."

"What will you give me," said the manikin, "if I do it for you?"

"My necklace," said the girl.

The little man took the necklace, seated himself in front of the desk, and began to type. His hands flew across the keyboard until the activity was complete and the printer was clattering away.

“You may soon need my services again,” declared the manikin and handed the miller’s daughter his business card. “Drop me an email.”

By daybreak the king was already there, and when he saw the results he was astonished and delighted at the use of imagery and the surprise ending, but his heart became greedier still. He had the miller's daughter taken back into the room and handed another activity and commanded her to complete that also in one night if she valued her life. The girl knew not how to help herself, and was crying (having realised the computer was not connected to the internet) when the door opened again, and the little man appeared, and said, "What will you give me if I complete this activity for you?"

"The ring on my finger," answered the girl.

The little man took the ring, and again began typing at a furious rate. By morning, the activity was finished.

The king rejoiced beyond measure at the piece of work, savouring the metaphors and delighting in the characterisation, but still he had not enough, and he had the miller's daughter sent back into the room, and said, "You must do this activity too, in the course of this night, and if you succeed, you shall be my wife."

Even if she be a miller's daughter, thought he, I could not find a richer wife in the whole world.

When the girl was alone the manikin came again for the third time, and said, "What will you give me if I do this activity for you this time also? I can see you have no idea what colour are wet slates!"

"I have nothing left that I could give," answered the girl, sliding her iPod out of sight.

"Then promise me, if you should become queen, to give me your first child."

Who knows whether that will ever happen, thought the miller's daughter, and, not knowing how else to help herself in this strait, she promised the manikin what he wanted, and for that he once again set the keyboard dancing.

And when the king came in the morning, and found all as he had wished, with every required phrase included in a naturalistic way, he took her in marriage, and the pretty miller's daughter became a queen. How delighted she was to marry a man three times her age, a man who a day earlier would have happily executed her on a whim.

A year later, she brought a beautiful child into the world, and she never gave a thought to the manikin. But suddenly he came into her room, and said, "Now give me what you promised."

The queen was horror-struck, and offered the manikin all the riches of the kingdom if he would leave her the child. But the manikin said, "No, something alive is dearer to me than all the treasures in the world."

Then the queen began to lament and cry, so that the manikin pitied her.

"I will give you three days," said he, "if by that time you find out my name, then shall you keep your child."

“No need,” she cried. “Your name’s Rumpelstiltskin; now be gone.”

"The devil has told you that! The devil has told you that," cried the little man, and in his anger he plunged his right foot so deep into the earth that his whole leg went in, and then in rage he pulled at his left leg so hard with both hands that he tore himself in two.

“What a temper” the young queen said to her maid. She glanced one last time at the little fellow’s business card – ‘Rumpelstiltskin: the Odd Job Manikin’ - before she tore it in two and threw it on the fire.

“I guess I won’t be requiring that again,” she sighed.

PRIMATE BOTANY

The petals, once glorious in scent and hue, were now blackened and shrivelled, but such was the rhythm of life in those days in the copses that punctuated the woodlands of the Southern regions of P___shire; in one such clearing by a gurgling, translucent brook, stood our cottage. I recall well how the spring tamarins gave way to a carpet of luscious sifakas while, here and there, a marmoset, resplendent in aquamarine, erupted into bloom and tilted its head towards the lemon sun of early June. Langurs with their distinctive bespeckled leaves and star-shaped flowers duelled for light with slender lorises and crimson geladas. Fragile tarsiers in orange and gold were interspersed with rapidly-growing indris while the heads of russet bonobos collapsed onto the ground under their own weight.

My idyllic boyhood was brought to an abrupt end when war came to our land and the sound of frogs and dragonflies were drowned out by that of enemy bombers passing overhead towards the industrial heartland intent on destruction. At the age of 18, I followed my father in taking the King’s shilling and swapped the green of the woodland for the blue of the Navy. Within a month, my father was dead, skewered by a bayonet in Bessarabia. Six months later, my mother too was dead, killed by a tumour that was detected too late. I sprinkled their ashes into the brook and returned to the Atlantic fleet.

When hostilities ceased, both the winners and losers retired to lick their wounds and began to set about carving a new world from the remnants of the old. Having no discernible skills, but having a strong arm, I took up a pick and spent twenty-two years hacking rubidium from underground seams in every far-flung corner of the world where that metal is desired above all others; Mesopotamia, the Yucatan peninsula, Tierra del Fuego. Caring not for life or wellbeing, I became a rich man, but at a price; my lungs are worn away to nothing by the hot, poisonous dust of the earth’s core and now I have but one desire – to smell, once again, the heady aroma of wild orang-utans in summer in the glades of my youth, before my remains too are cast into the clear water.

WOODEN

My mother was made of wood - there I've said it.  There's no point proclaiming her many qualities, and many there were, without stating this fact up front. When I say 'wood' you may imagine she was constructed from some exotic tropical hardwood, but not so. Neither was she made of hard-wearing pine, hewn from a renewable forest in Scandinavia. From head-to-toe, she was a creature of willow and it was willow sap that pulsed through her veins. She was lithe and supple, generous and loving and she gave me everything she had. She was still young in rings when she was taken from me, and even now in the evening of my own life, I weep bitter tears for my loss.

My father, on the other hand, was metal - and had wheels.

THE INJUN INSPECTOR

Geoff  Kennet was the victim’s name. He was found in the driver’s seat of his black taxi with severe bruising to the neck and torn-out pages of the London A-Z stuffed into his gaping mouth.  The meter was still running, and showed a touch under £90. 

The first policeman on the scene, Sergeant Jim Brewis, joked that the murder must have occurred in the last ten minutes as the meter hadn’t gone over £100 yet.  But to Jim’s superiors, this was no joking matter – Geoff Kennet, 56, of Balham, South London was the third cabbie to meet a similar end in the last month.

‘Bit of a rarity.’ said Brewis as he went through the dead man’s glove compartment, searching for a contact number. ‘A cabbie willing to go south of the river, even if it was just to go home.’

Martin Proud-Fox was a member of the Sioux Nation, one of a new breed of Native Americans, who’d abandoned the reservations, fought his way through police academy and found himself the first redskin in the Kansas City homicide department where he’d earned a reputation for bringing killers to justice.  Now he was on a 747 to London Heathrow on his way to a non-existent conference on forensic methods.

CAROUSEL

When I was young, I cried and cried to go on the merry-go-round. Eventually a sixpence was found to stem my tears.   The transaction complete, the man operating the ride pointed to a particularly fine horse. It being early in the day, there were no other customers, so I was to have the entire ride to myself.

I was too little to clamber onto the beautiful white horse with golden mane, so my mother placed me carefully on the saddle, kissed me and told me to hold on tightly to the reins at all costs. Her eyes were watery as she moved reluctantly away.

As the ride began, slowly at first, I found myself carried away with the music as I galloped through fields and mountains of the imagination.  My mother and father stood by the railings and waved at me on each revolution, my mother enthusiastically, my father self-consciously, but I could not wave back as I had promised to grip the reins.  On my brave stallion, I rescued princesses, vanquished evil knights and dodged the flames of dragons.  As the ride began to accelerate, I noticed I could now reach the stirrups, and that on each successive rotation, my parents appeared to be ageing, their hair going grey and their bodies crumpling under the weight of the passage of time.  Soon, my legs were longer than my horse’s and it became apparent that my mother stood alone.  Around me, children appeared briefly on other horses, some growing as tall as I now was before disappearing again. My mother briefly acquired a stick then she too was gone.

Suddenly, the ride shuddered to a halt and I was almost thrown from my miniature pony. It was cold, dark and late, and I was ushered to the exit of the park by invisible hands.

SHOPPING LIST

Nick rubbed his eyes - he'd been shooting Japs, impaling Saracens and driving a Pontiac Firebird around Las Vegas for four hours. He swigged the dregs from the can next to his monitor - warm, flat lager - and regretted doing so immediately.

He was just about to turn in for the night when he noticed the stern, glassy eyes of Martin Luther King staring at him from the fishbowl.

'Yeah, I know- you have a dream of being fed.'

Nick shook the container of 'Aquari-yum!', but not a solitary flake emerged. He noticed that Agamemnon and Tony were becoming agitated too.

Nick was lucky; he lived in a part of the city where nearly every shop was open 24 hours.  He scribbled a quick shopping list - 'FF' (for fish food), and added 'milk' to make the exercise worthwhile.  He pulled on his trainers, but then a wave of doubt came over him - the chances of making the journey to the nearest shop without being pestered, propositioned or threatened were minimal.  Worse still, he could find himself in the middle of an armed robbery or gang war.

The choice was stark - feed the fishes, or sleep with the fishes.

Martin Luther King would have to wait until daylight to fulfil his dream.

MOUSTACHE

When the pressure of growing a moustache grows too great, you need something to fall back on.  For George, emotionally short-changed throughout his childhood, there was nothing.  To be honest, I felt more than sorry for the guy.

It is not easy to marshal unruly facial hair at the best of times, but to try to do so without an effective support network in place is folly.  George was doomed from the start, but never saw it coming until it was too late.

THE PROCEDURE

For years now, she had thought of doing this.

It was early afternoon.  The window was ajar, and Sarah could hear girls singing and laughing in the distance, revelling in the innocent pleasures of youth.  Beyond the garden wall, there was a school. She had been a pupil there herself; not because she was wealthy like the others, but because her mother taught music there.

She took one final, lingering look in the mirror, pushing her cheeks up with her fingers. The mirror was set in a gold frame, and she remembered the day he had bought it for her.

‘You’re so beautiful, Sarah’, he’d said, as she first looked into it.  Marriage followed, and more presents.  On the Wednesday she’d found out about his affair, he’d arrived home with flowers and a book.  Sarah had thrown the book out of the window, and the flowers at Paul; how she wished now it had been the other way around.  On Friday, it was all over.  That was five years ago, and she hadn’t seen him since.

She recalled a particular phrase her mother had once said.

‘If he seems too good to be true, he probably is.’  Paul was.  Nine years of wedded bliss, and nothing to show for it – no children, no career – and all the time he’d been using his business trips as a cover for a double life.

Mum had been around for lunch yesterday.  Her dress was the colour of wet slates according to the catalogue; just a little treat for herself.

They’d had ham and eggs for lunch again.  When Sarah brought the subject up, her mother had refused to countenance it.

‘If you even think it, I’ll disown you.’ Mum had protested, throwing both arms up. ‘And stop calling it a procedure; it’s a face-lift.  Like any surgery, it can go wrong.’

Mum was right about one thing, though – Sarah’s fear of needles.  Bravery, she knew, was often underrated, but now was the time for courage.

The doorbell rang.

‘Taxi,’ a gruff voice called from the doorstep.  Sarah grabbed her overnight bag. Looking and feeling ten years younger, she might be able to reclaim something of what had slipped through her fingers over time.

HOUSE

I’ve searched for years for the perfect house. Now, perhaps, I’ve found it. The problem is that, although it's clearly unoccupied, there are no obvious signs that it's for sale.

When I enquire into its ownership or history the locals make their excuses and leave, or change the subject.  All I can glean is that it once belonged to a reclusive old woman. Sure, it's in grave need of repair, but the location is perfect. It sits in a clearing in the wood and is constructed from an array of materials not typical of this, or any other, region.

Dusk is turning into dark when I visit my dream cottage to find some clues to its past; somewhere in the long-neglected shrubbery, I imagine I hear a cat miaowing mournfully, perhaps pining for its long-lost mistress.

WINDOW

Laura was standing by the window. She watched Adam and the boys kick a ball around for a few minutes when it became apparent that Kitty wasn’t with them.

She banged on the window, but the family’s males were oblivious to the increasingly frantic pounding of her fist.

‘Mother, what’s wrong?’ said a disjointed voice behind her. Laura span around, but still there was no sign of her precious four year-old. Something moved in the shadows and her head blazed with a brilliant fire before a blanket of black rolled over her.

PROJECT

It started off, as these things often do, in hospital.  One minute I was having a frozen pea removed from my nose with a pair of tweezers - how it got there is another story, and why it was no longer frozen when it emerged is something to do with thermal equilibrium - the next, I was gazing down from above on a scene that included myself. Like a helium balloon, I felt inexorably drawn towards the ceiling and could only manoeuvre myself for a better view by pushing myself off any object within reach such as the fluorescent lights.  Having seen a Channel 5 programme on out-of-body experiences no more than a fortnight before, I realised that to continue my adventure, I would have to ensure that as much space as possible was put between my earthly body and my astral projection to stop the two reconverging.  To this end, I bounced myself into the hospital corridor and made for the exit, bobbing as fast as I could. As I emerged into the hospital car-park, I was aware of sound like Velcro being detached which seemed to signal that my two selves had parted for good.  My initial aim was to go where the prevailing winds took me, and just savour the experience.