Stephen Boyd Merriman

London Calling Riot.

2012-01-02T04:47:00.000-08:00

Bookshops were untouched in August riots. “I stayed open all day during the riots and no one came in,” a bemused Philip Griffter the proprietor of Neapolitan Books told our reporter, “I was really expecting some passing trade. It was chaos at Foot Locker next door, I was hoping to shift this load of celebrity biographies, but no one wanted them.” He looks ruefully about him at the burnt out and gutted buildings which are now his neighbours.
This is increasingly a common experience for the small independent bookseller. Down the road Bernie Bootle runs a second hand bookshop. “There were crowds running out of Comet with plasma TVs, I pads, fridges, computers and what not, but amazingly not one person stopped even to look at the boxes of paperbacks at fifty pence each, or three for a pound, and there’s some good stuff in there. It just goes to show.”
Philip Griffter reminisced about the days when people actually stole books, “I used to catch people on a regular basis nicking Penguin Classics, can’t give them away now.” So what is causing this malaise? “I blame education and this materialistic consumer culture for leaving bookshops unscathed during the riots. Remember the Nazis burning great bonfires of books? That image stays indelibly marked in the collective memory, not like a load of fat kids stealing sports shoes and raiding Pizza Hut.”
Other places unaffected by the looting included the Anarchist Press, “We were thinking fantastic, we’re going to shift a few books, nothing, not one person made enquiries about Proudhon, Godwin or Kroptokin, incredible.” And at the Women’s Centre the story was the same, “We were ready with an emergency theatre workshop to challenge postures and confront issues of gender politics and oppression but the rioters went right on past and smashed the windows of the Argos store instead.”

News from London Calling

2011-12-30T05:04:00.000-08:00

Legal News.

A couple who appeared at Marylebone Magistrates Court was again behind bars tonight. The two penguins from London Zoo pled guilty to two charges of fare evasion and illegal use of an Oyster Card, and requested that a further seven offences which occurred at Billingsgate Market to be taken into consideration.

Medical Story

A man who couldn’t fly has been cured when it was discovered that he was in fact suffering from attitude sickness. An expert deciphered his local doctor’s handwriting, along with another victim who was believed to be suffering from the plague when in fact it was plaque. “I had all these boils and sores for nothing; I only needed to go to the dentist.” Complained Mr Guru-Murphy of Bromley, who wishes to be known only as Mr X. The G.P. in question has written to the two patients offering his Apollo Cheese.

Religious Affairs

In a wide ranging interview Jesus revealed today that he feels deep sympathy for Prince Charles, The King in waiting, as the Queen embarks on the celebrations for her Diamond Jubilee in 2012. “My Dad is always going on about me and the second coming and all that, but at the end of the day he’s got no intention of retiring, even after two millennia, look at the Devil he was meant to be out in one, but he’s still waiting. It’s all very well being the Prince of Princes but what about the King of Kings that’s got more of a ring to it. So to be honest I do feel for Charles. He has his critics and so do I for that matter, people like Professor Dawkins are always saying they don’t believe in me, but they have to give me the opportunity to prove myself once and for all, but until the boss hands over the reigns there is no chance of that, and that goes for Charles as well.” More from this exclusive interview when we have made it up in a day or two.

A secret message regarding lost treasure: Mr X says he is extremely happy to hear that Mark’s found Spot the dog. Did you get that?

London Calling Christmas Extra

2011-12-28T05:23:00.000-08:00

Five people required emergency microsurgery after a Christmas finger food party went horribly wrong. “I would urge the public to take particular care especially at Christmas and perhaps avoid finger food mixed with alcohol.” Advised Professor Harman Tyne, having sewn back on two forefingers, two index fingers and a lady’s thumb.

He who laughs longest laughs….opps sorry about that we’re shut.

The sales frenzy began at six o’clock on Boxing Day morning as a mob of nine or ten, or perhaps even eleven, according to police estimates, flooded through the doors of Lurners Department Store in Holt. One maddened shopper said he didn’t care what he bought as long as it was half price. The vicar’s wife who wished to remain anonymous wanted a new handbag, but instead was elbowed in the face by Les Grout as he grabbed a handful of ladies underwear. Local shoplifters Ernie Spatts and his wife Enid stayed away saying sales made their job hardly worth the bother, but that they vowed to be back in the New Year.

St Mary´s Church in Weybourne has made an unusual concession to the weekender atheists in its congregation by adding to its Nativity scene a small figure dressed in a corduroy suit. It is standing by the crib and gesticulating at the Baby Jesus, and will remain there until the 28th of December, when it is is thought everyone will go back to London.

What next for Hemly village’s Knitting Circle now that it is complete?

The Tudor Tearoom in Holt is to be bought by arch rival James Stuart, it was announced to day. In what is being claimed will be a disaster for the customers. "This Stuart chap just isn´t my cup of tea, I´m sure I saw him popping into see the Catholic Priest with some cakes the other day." Said habitual client Mrs Lewd.

Norfolk

2011-12-26T04:57:00.000-08:00

Strange to hear in an orchard
(Where the bones of fish
Are caught in the grass
And the shade beckons
Some cooler secret
From the shrouded picnic),
A confession by way of a joke.
A voluble drunk
With amber
Whisky doses himself and
Launches tirades
Into the apple laden branches.
Half funny and equally sad
He moans on,
Like a mesmerised actor
No longer believing in his speech.
Shimmering fields
Make more sadness
Of his flightless words as they
Trickle out of reach.
Words learnt as a child
Lost as a man.
He decries his debtors
Who he believes to be his
Father and mother
And recently departed wife.
He holds his audience
In silent, patient attention
Guessing he is but a parenthesis
In the teaming sentence of life,
And that to be liked
Is surely the loneliest of things.

Portrait of an Old Man

2011-12-14T05:33:00.001-08:00

Portrait of an Old Man

He thought it was an undignified retreat
As he sat on the commode
Overlooking the Archway Road.
Driving traffic in its brutish roar
Passed his graffiti strewn door.
I expected to be some sort of a sage
Of an antique age,
Rather than a pensioner
With only tinned pilchards to eat
In tomato sauce,
Accompanied by a guilty whisky
Taken neat.
His eyes sunken into their sockets
His hands warmed in thread less pockets.
Now pulled down to his bruised thighs,
And his shirt un-tucked
Poked out from the jumper
A slave to his prostrate
A terrified refugee from cancer.

Calling London Health and Smoking

2011-12-14T03:47:00.000-08:00

Health and Smoking.

Being told by your doctor to kick the habit after over thirty years can be a bit daunting.

I grew up in a different era when smoking was socially acceptable, but at the time, as a lad, I thought people only smoked after having sex.

You saw it all the time at the pictures, and on the telly, man and woman kissing, fade to black then a train and tunnel, ram bashing at a castle door, or what not and then back to the happy couple having a smoke. So you can imagine my surprise seeing my Dad having a post match puff in the bar with his mates at the local football club.

Think of it, me back then as an eighteen year old gagging for a snout, but having to go through the rigmarole of queuing up in Soho’s red-light district to see a prostitute just so I could have a fag with my pint. Chain smoking certainly burnt a hole in my pocket as a young man.

I later found out that sex was part of life, not nicotine related at all, but by then it was too late I had syphilis and lung cancer.

Calling You With The News.

2011-12-03T06:28:00.001-08:00

A dentist who lost both his arms as a boy in a bailing machine, denied sexual assault and claimed today in Bugly Crown Court that the only way he could check his patients’ cavities was with his tongue.

Students were queuing up outside geography teacher Brain Greenwood’s classroom at Braintree Comprehensive when the rumour got round that his pupils were doing at least fifty lines a week.

A counterfeiting ring has been active at many North Norfolk car boot fairs, a police spokesperson said today. One of the victims was a Mrs Major Willoghby who bought a china ant for four pounds and was given a pound change. She left the coin outside the house for a few days before going on her weekly shop, and found to her surprise it was not accepted as legal tender. Police are warning the public to be vigilant and watch out for these coins which measure a foot in diameter, and weigh approximately 10lbs. “These coins are easily palmed off on the unsuspecting public so we do advise vigilance especially as we approach the Christmas season. If it doesn’t fit in a purse or pocket then don’t accept it.”

2011-11-27T05:54:00.001-08:00

http://soundcloud.com/merriman-s-ghost/heavy-air

Merriman´s Ghost

2011-11-09T04:35:00.001-08:00

Listen to a new song Warneford.

http://www.myspace.com/568283437/music/songs?filter=featured

Merriman´s Ghost

2011-10-31T06:04:00.000-07:00

New music from Merriman´s Ghosthttp://www.myspace.com/568283437

2011-10-12T11:24:00.000-07:00

There are four new tracks on Merriman´s Ghost, those being tracks 15,16,17,18

http://www.myspace.com/568283437

London Calling October 6.

2011-10-06T04:42:00.000-07:00

Fergus Chatham has died in a tragic accident at St Gattering High School. Fergus who had been accepted at Oxford at the age of fifteen to read Chemistry was implicted in the fatal explosion in the school´s laboratory. Some of the other pupils were carrying out an experiment on combustible gases when they saw Fergus saunter up to the door, they pleaded with him not to enter, but the school´s brightest spark ignored them and the whole place was ignited.

2011-09-15T03:34:00.000-07:00

Cottage Industry On Brink

A traditional craft patronized by the criminal classes since the Victorian era is under threat in the small Norfolk town of Holt. “We used to manufacture thousands of these products a year, but now with new technology the thieves, robbers, burglars and fraudsters who were our original clients are no longer buying our felt collars.” Said the owner Mrs Blinkinstop.

Phantom Moans

A ghost in Stuky-In-The-Hole is struggling to survive since he died. “No one prepares you for death and the council were around like a shot to take back my stair lift, which I still need. On the other side there is absolutely no help for the recently deceased and social services are woefully under funded, there are pirates here still on mouldy worm eaten crutches, and amputees from the Napoleonic War wheeling around on crude trays with wheels.” He told our reporter through a weegie board, “And the queues to speak on the weegie are horrific, and then you only get five minutes at most, and you have to spell each bloody word out, imagine if you have to pay a bill or claim a benefit.” No one was available for comment at the time of going to press.

Question Raised

The Rose and Crown pub quiz team lost the final to their arch rivals The Lamb on Saturday by one point. The question was about campanology, but a bemused team Captain Jimmy Paish said the word just didn’t ring any bells at the time.

And finally....

Retired Lorry driver Edward Studdard remains strangely unfulfilled after a life time of hard graft, “For fifty years I delivered coal to Newcastle, and whereas my mates seemed to gain some satisfaction from their work up in Middlesbrough and beyond, my run always left me feeling empty and a little disappointed.” He muses.

News

2011-07-06T05:23:00.000-07:00

Charlie Chewtree has finally buried his historic time capsule in Winchombe Park. Future archaeologists would learn much from the capsule when they stumbled upon it in a distant millennium, he told reporters. Asked what he had included, he said mainly fossils and examples of his flint collection.

Reg Peters decided to go private for his amputation and he claims it ended up costing him an arm and a leg.

Celebrated soul group The Commodores revealed today that their record company refused to pay them time and half for their hit song Nightshift in the 1980s.

Middle-aged men may be forced to wear slacks and cardigans it was revealed in a confidential report today. Pipe smoking could also be reintroduced for the over thirties, in a drive to make them more age appropriate, a government spokesperson claims low hanging jeans and hoddies could also be banned for the older man. Denims with a clear white crease, ironed and worn above the hip would be acceptable for washing the car.

There has been an increase in ghosts suffering from Alzheimer’s disease a study revealed today. A medical expert commented that as we live longer we will see more fumbling, mumbling phantoms, with dementia and mobility issues. But in a controversial move by Health Authorities wheelchairs, Zimmer frames and walking sticks will not be permitted to be taken to the other side.

An Incident Involving A Pigeon In 1933

2011-05-26T05:15:00.000-07:00

Margaret whiled away her time with a sandwich, looking down to the river. The evening was good, it demanded no notice, or overcoat. She did however have a rug across her knees. Raymond was just emerging from the house with an air rifle. He took a shot at a crow which spat back at him as it flew a ragged escape, feathers shed, Raymond thought he had hit him, Margaret disagreed. Raymond reloaded and pumped the gun. Margaret warned him to ‘look out’, he snorted at her in derision, did she now think he didn’t know how to handle an airgun? She simply wanted him to take care. He sat next to her and pulled out his spectacles purposely as if he suddenly saw something of interest, the trees filtered the air and light. His small rowing boat pulled at its rope, bobbing on the current. She asked him if he might be going fishing, he told her not to be absurd, she knew damn well it was closed season. He wondered why she insisted on saying such things, was it to get a rise out of him?

“Yes, rather, like a trout.” She answered and laughed.

He took his spectacles off to have a closer look at her, and this exhibition of sudden humour. His idea of a curt reply to this sort of ‘wifey’ comment was the particularly pointed snapping of the pages of the newspaper. Unfortunately he had no paper to hand. So he pulled his handkerchief out and had a good blow. He then grabbed the gun.

“Oh do stop for one minute, please Raymond. There is absolutely nothing in the garden to shoot, you’ll be hunting down the toads soon.”

His riposte was to aim at the sound of a cooing pigeon, he shot into a dark, verdant arbour, they heard a desperate clattering and a pigeon catapulted itself right at Margaret, it smacked into her head and she toppled from her chair raising her hands and screaming. It then gyrated in a desperate one winged circle about them, battering their heads. It then flew fifty feet into the air and plummeted back down to earth like a great grey pebble and landed, remaining quite still.

“Good God.” Said Raymond, he was unnerved by the bird which appeared to be dead but it was hard to tell. He was unmanned. He trembled. He felt for another pellet in his pocket, his fingers were damp and the lead shot slipped from his finger tips. He was also aware that Margaret was shouting at him.

“That was unforgivable.” Cried Margaret she was shocked and tearful, it had been so sudden, so violent. Both of them felt a little disorientated. She rushed towards the house.

It was hardly his fault but he employed a little real politic and apologised. He made a pretence of poking nonchalantly at the bird. “Could eat it, plump enough, but judging by its behaviour probably get awful indigestion.” These words came out feebly and not with the hearty unconcern he hoped for when uttering them. He felt an indescribable dread. He felt helpless and stupid, like a child who has been told with good reason not to do something but none the less, belligerently determined does it - sees the consequences and cries.

Margaret had stamped inside, a trail of shrill “reallys” strung the garden like bunting. Raymond still shaking and perspiring sat back down upon the seat. His breathing was laboured, the bird remained on the lawn, he wished it would vanish. He could see no sign of blood on its breast, no broken wing. He had a sudden fit of vertigo, and lowered his head between his knees.

The Stag’s head eyed Margaret coldly as she entered the hall, Margaret shook her head as she passed it. She was discomposed; her tight bun was loosened and her grey hair fell about her shoulders. In her bedroom she sat at her dressing table, she looked at her reflection, squinted and could almost imagine herself forty years younger. The tumble from the bench reminded her strangely of her youth, the knocks she had taken so blithely.

A few drops of rain fell on Raymond's motionless figure, and it was with horror that he saw the ghastly pigeon suddenly take flight. Raymond sat and watched it, he gripped the stock of the rifle, a nausea subsumed him in the gloaming.

On returning downstairs Margaret heard a thump, a knock perhaps at the back door, it was a muffled sound. She tentatively opened it and was beaten back by the pigeon which flew into the kitchen and wheeled about crazily. The bird battered her and then hit the windows, thumping against the panes. She heard some crockery smash. She hurried into the garden. She stopped.

Raymond lay flat on his back.

Merriman's Ghost Music

2011-05-20T04:16:00.001-07:00

I have uploaded some of my songs to Myspace the link is below
"http://www.facebook.com/l/7f050/www.myspace.com/568283437/music"

London Calling April

2011-04-12T04:26:00.000-07:00

Wedding Numbers Row

Paul Potts made a memorable groom’s speech last Saturday at the reception in Dugley Village Hall, “You are a one in ten,” he told the blushing bride Kim Bashford. Kim’s father Don Bashford asked Paul if he wanted to add another six noughts to that. “No thanks Don, she is definitely a one in ten, numbers never lie.” Potts who works as a civil service statistician, was then pushed over the table and into the cake.

Downhill all the way.

Monty Blagg has finally hung up his skies after a career spanning thirty years. “The last time I was in the Alps I was really feeling it by the time I skied to the top of the mountain. I had to take the chairlift back down. I still believe in uphill skiing but I’m leaving the sport to make room for a younger man.” Said a clearly exhausted Blagg. He was also disappointed by the derision aimed at him by countless foreigners who take the easy route up and then ski down.

Fractious rowing team told they need to pull together.

Author of obscene publications given stiff sentence.

Haunted sofa causes another false alarm for Blinkystone village fire brigade.

Séance unexpectedly cancelled.

Scouts sponsered bicyle ride ruined for third year running by theft of the local B128 road out of Plengay.

Saucy Dancing.

The Chiplley Women's Institute Salsa club closed unexpectedly when the ladies discovered that salsa means sauce in Spanish, “Some of the older members were sceptical right from the beginning, when Jorge, otherwise know as Derek Paster, started thrusting parts of himself all over the place, then we learnt we were dancing Latin Sauce, and that was it.” Said Margaret Perry, “It’s the Common Market gone crazy.” She added.

Hotel phantom might go to arbitration.

Gay ghost complains about homophobic remarks made at hotel he haunts. “I clearly heard two residents in the bar joking that they hoped I wouldn’t put the willies up them that night. I made the manager aware of the comments, but he dismissed them as a little light repartee.”

London Calling Exclusive.

2011-01-08T10:52:00.000-08:00

Court Battle as Worm Turns

A millionaire Hindu businessman and Conservative councillor, who has been reincarnated as a worm was carried into High Court today to appeal against God’s decision. He was said to be comfortable inside a family sandwich box, but aghast at his plight.

Village News.

Clairvoyant Sheila Liggy has been denounced as a fraud after complaints that all her predictions about the future are all to do with events of The Second World War. “It’s plain ridiculous that she claims to have powers when I’ve seen all same BBC documentaries as her.” Commented one disappointed client, “We know we’ll win the Battle of Britain for God’s sake! We’ve all seen the film a thousand times.” But local historian Edward Mottleshaw begs to differ, “Her information has proved very useful for my upcoming book on the history of the War, she warned me about when the Nazis would invade Poland to the very minute, that was before the narrator on the programme had even said a word, I know I was there. She has been an invaluable resource for my research. People shouldn’t be so cynical, thanks to her we know when the Nazis will surrender and I for one sleep a little easier in my bed.”

Upholsterer and rugby fly half Jonnie Simpkins had the stuffing knocked out of him in the last game of the season on Saturday.

Marjorie Pleasant suffered a shock on Thursday night when her daughter of forty years finally revealed to her that she does not in fact have an identical twin. “It was quite a shock and embarrassment to discover that my sister Daisy was my own reflection. And they say the mirror never lies. What hurts is that we got on so well, I feel at quite a loss at what to do without her. She was always there for a chat when I needed her, now she’s gone.” Said Marjorie wiping a tear from her eye. A neighbour Burt Butclear is clearly bitter about the entire episode. “She was so happy before, now there is no one to share her life with. And what’s more Daisy was a lovely lady, a real diamond. I was even thinking of popping the question to her until this disaster happened. Well, at the end of the day her daughter is the loser in all this. She used to get double presents from her Mum and her Aunty at Christmas and birthdays, now she won’t, and it serves her right for meddling.”

London Calling World

2010-12-31T07:49:00.000-08:00

Fog Crisis Deepens

Chaos spread across Continental Europe as it was cut off from the British mainland by a heavy fog for a fourth day in succession. Excitable Spaniards and Italians have been panic buying what remains of their stockpiles of Burberry and Hackett clothing. Instability could spread to other regions such as Germany if news filters out to the general public, who so far have been kept in ignorance about the situation, with a news blackout and archive footage being shown on state television of a sunny England.
United Nations Debate

Four lions and one gazelle are to discuss the merits of democracy.

Another Year of Silence.

God fails yet again to emerge from obscurity to give Christmas message. The pope is rumoured to be exasperated with the Deity’s continued absence from public life. The Queen is also thought to be losing patience and has called an angel to the Court Of Saint James to explain, as yet none has availed Her Majesty with their presence.

Show Business.

Laugh out loud comedian Johnny Drainpipe revealed today that he was disappointed not to receive a knighthood for the seventieth year in a row. “Impending knee surgery will make it next to impossible for Johnny to be knighted in the coming year.” Claimed an expert, “He can hardly kneel to say his prayers, before performing on Celebrity Pole Dance.”

Indigenous Finns to protest at new Lap Dancing Club.

Jinkie Toliver the Celebrity Chef claims the quick snack he invented which he has named “Scrambled Eggs”, was the inspiration for his new recipe book, Jinkie Toliver’s Meals in 30 Seconds.

London Calling 29 November

2010-11-29T04:55:00.000-08:00

Medical Miracle.

A Dagenham man who lost sight of his penis while urinating a year ago received good news today. Dave Toady was told by doctors it was only because his penis was now obscured by his distended, beer swollen belly, and there was nothing to worry about. A relieved Toady told us, “It came as quite a shock, I remember always being able to see it when I was having a slash. And then pow! The tip disappeared!” Toady who had taken to sitting on the loo in the Lady’s cubicle of his local pub since the trouble began said he was looking forward to being able to go to the Gents again and stand at the urinal with his mates.

Pope shifts his view on condom use.

Pope applauds use of condoms as party balloons in Africa. “I have no problem with people using condoms for recreational purposes, only the other day a Cardinal blew one up and stuck it on his head, it was hilarious.”

London Calling 22 November

2010-11-22T05:03:00.000-08:00

Government nepotism, or simply the best people for the job?

In another shock to the world of politics, petrol pump attendant Nigel Paish is surprise choice for new Energy Minister, as the appointments continue for the new government in which eight ennoblements including Mr (now Lord) Paish all come from Scrutton Secondary Modern, in Rainford, also attended by the Prime Minister. Another ex alumni Sharon West was amazed by the call to govern as she was just finishing her shift at Macdonalds. “I couldn’t believe it when Dave rang and said he was the Prime Minister and that he wanted me, as like a food advisor, that I’d be a Lady, never been called that before. You know Dave pretends to be posh, but he’s not really.” She added. Questions are being asked in the House if the nation is best served by the Prime Minister giving all the posts to his old school friends. The New Speaker former tractor driver Bill Biggins ruled that it was “Fair play boy.” And left the House for a pint.

Academic News.

Neophyte student Louie Sandys was last night recovering after four weeks of rigorous academic life finally took its toll. Studious Sandys is the first of his family ever to learn to read and write. He started at York University this October reading Linguistics. The Devonshire genius did not crawl into bed until half past eight on Sunday Morning, and was not up at the time of writing this article. Sandys who is ill, claims to have caught Fresher’s Flu, either at the all night house party, the poker marathon, the Halloween Rave, the other party the foreign girl had, the night in the pub for a quiet drink, the Student’s Union Vodka 100, the lunchtime cider contest, his party in his room when he lost his favourite hoody, the Saturday Night special at Sparkles Disco (students half price), The Paintball and Beer War, other party at someone’s flat, (forgotten who), or most likely from a draft in the library where he hasn’t even been yet.

Pages from history. Victorian News

2010-11-16T04:40:00.000-08:00

The incredible trial of the Honourable Horace Bunsen, the serial seducer continued in sensational fashion at the Old Bailey today. The prosecution admitted into evidence Bunsen’s most infamous device, a spinning wheel with over fifty ‘licking’ tongues attached to it, with which he tormented unsuspecting virgins into paroxysms of shame.

Two ladies in the public gallery fainted at the sight of the infernal machine as prosecution barrister FitzWilliam FitzStJohn demonstrated its use, the tongues moistened in a small reservoir of water below the wheel then flapped lasciviously against a strategically placed sponge, illuminating for the whole horrified court the demonic effect of the invention.

Defence barrister Jeremy Hadwilly pleaded with the jury to understand the man, and not condemn the notorious philanderer to prison and thus ignominy. “This man is not a maniac, his only sin was to love too much, and therein lay his obsession, to pleasure as many unfortunate young women of the lower orders as possible.”

“What man but a raving lunatic would have ivory dentures affixed to his anus?” Countered FitzWilliam FitzStJohn.

The case continues.

London Calling 9 November

2010-11-09T04:29:00.000-08:00

Factory Closure Ends Era.

As the last lead balloon goes down the conveyor belt, at Low & Sons Ltd. owner Reginald Low looks visibly shaken. “I never thought I’d see the day.” He says ruefully. But that day has come for this family firm in Barnsley with over one hundred and fifty years of history. The factory is to close with the loss of at least 30 jobs, as the market in lead balloons, cast iron stomachs, and small packets containing the last straw has collapsed.

He shows us one of the cancelled orders for pictures each individually packed with a thousand words, a shelf containing chocolate teapots, black pots and black kettles, and then piles of dirty laundry to be aired in public. Surplus albatrosses hang from metal beams, ready for someone’s neck. He picks up a packet of all fingers and thumbs, dating from the nineteen twenties, “A very popular line then.” He says ruefully as he gives me a paper bag containing ants ready added to pants. Over at the fireplace he sadly stokes a few old flames which will have to be extinguished soon.

Competition from China and changing markets is blamed for the death of England’s last Idiom factory which in its heyday exported to every corner of the British Empire.

Local News.

Bungalow suicide bungler Bill Sparrow has finally accepted defeat after attempting yet another bid for oblivion from his living room window. “This place is just not suitable for me, I’ve asked the council to rehouse me in a tower block and they flatly refused. It takes an amazing amount of time and effort to psyche myself up for the bid and each time it ends in the marigold border no worse for wear.”

Friends and neighbours have kindly clubbed together to buy Bill a ticket to Beachey head, but he says he has mixed feelings about this. “When I heard they were fundraising for the ticket I was touched, I know how much coach travel costs these days. But then I decided I wanted to wait awhile and keep the money they presented to me, to see how things shaped up with other opportunities, and then everyone got a bit annoyed when I said I wasn’t going.”

A neighbour who wishes to stay anonymous told us, “We did a raffle and a half marathon around the village, there’s a collection jar in the pub too, to raise the funds for him, and we feel like Bill has cheated us, we raised the money in good faith and we believe he spent it not on the ticket but in the Rose and Crown.” But Bill denies this, “The money I spent in the pub was legitimate beer money, although I did supplement a round from the collection jar on the bar.”

So as it stands there will be no more leaps into the unknown for Bill Sparrow, until maybe Christmas 2010.

London Calling 31 October

2010-10-31T10:28:00.000-07:00

British squid swimming in European waters refuse to be known as squeuros.

Man who claimed to plough lonely furrow and caused nationwide angst on late night phone in show, exposed as well known tractor driver from Sandford in Devon.

Did bacteria go two by two into the Ark? God remains silent.

Police revealed today that an amateur philosopher drowned while testing theory of “I sink, therefore I am.”

Glass ceiling an impediment to female executives in British glazing industry

Felt roofer sues for sexual harassment

Time and motion consultant up on drink driving charges described by prosecution as an habitual offender

A watch mender who spent his weekends making nuisance calls claimed today in court that he has too much time on his hands.

The Brothers Grimm make shock claim that the internet is rife with conspiracy fairies.

Philosopher questions beggar’s belief in town centre dispute.

This short story was part of a collection published by Metropolitan books of London.

2010-10-17T07:07:00.000-07:00

A Family Visit in 1939.

It was his wife’s idea, at their daughter’s suggestion, that just for the day they would travel like anyone else. Not in a furious wailing cavalcade, accompanied by out riders. But as a simple, unassuming, respectable couple making a family visit.

She was disciplining one of the maids. Why, he could not imagine, perhaps as part of the theme for the day, as an overture to the role of the simple housewife.

She could not countenance a rapid exit from their home, there was always some minor detail to attend to. (That did not count the other major cause of his spending half of his waking life waiting for her). She would have to urinate before leaving the home, at the station he imagined she might use the lavatory, (prior to boarding the train), on the train at least twice, and again before they left the station. She was like a dog, sprinkling on every corner. His man, Dieter was standing on the steps of the front door, he had told him to relax, have the day off, but he lingered on.

She came running, or tripping, like a clockwork toy, with short steps she crossed the street, waving at vehicles, all helpfully halting to aid her smooth progress. Gerlich looked once to the heavens, then over to Dieter and shrugged his shoulders. Dieter held his hands before his chest, to communicate by a sign that he would willingly drive them. Gerlich shook his head.

They then turned in the direction of the station. There were queues, shouting, scuffling in small tributaries, new lines formed, people challenging for ascendancy over each other.

Gerlich decided that this particular aspect of ordinary life could be omitted, after all they only had one day to live like this. So he pushed through, some people were about to admonish him but they soon lost their vituperative tongues. The crowd parted as he tapped on the counter of the window. Without looking up, the ticket clerk, sallow, corpulent, rheumy eyed, perspiring, and illicitly chewing a piece of gristly sausage, asked him what the devil he wanted? And almost choked when, finally looking up, he recognised Gerlich. Hopping from foot to foot he broke into a confused apology, saluting, and making a curious sort of double swallow.

The tickets were duly produced but it took some time before he could actually be persuaded to accept payment for the damn things. Gerlich turned and surveyed the rabble before him and marched with his wife to the train. The silence that had fallen was shattered first by one voice, and then by the answering chorus.

They soon found their seats. A few local businessmen followed them, but passed on to other compartments. His wife sat opposite him and pulled from her bag some knitting. Their daughter had recently given birth to a son, she was knitting him a pair of pale blue baby boots and a matching bonnet. The train suddenly shunted forward and then backwards, coming to an unsteady halt.

They heard a whistle and felt the carriage sway as another train passed. A minute later they left the station - his wife put down her knitting and went to Ladies. As she left an excited group of three railway officials came marching down the corridor and presented themselves smartly at the door. They managed to peer at him, as they stood at attention.

He lost his temper and told them to go away. This was not the idea. A pastoral visit to see his daughter was becoming a joke. The three turned on their heels, when he said, “Wait a minute aren’t you going to check my ticket and travel documents?” This was not what he had in mind at all. Why could they not simply behave naturally, treat him as they would any other passenger? It was ruining the whole journey before it had begun. All three remained frozen with their backs to him, a few metres away. “Who is going to inspect my ticket?” They turned in some silent agreement and synchronicity.

“Check my identity papers and tickets, do you understand? Do your duty conscientiously, my God its simple enough! Understand? ”

They most certainly did, and conveyed it by smartly saluting. His wife returned and seeing them standing in a line almost offered them a smile but then decided against it.

“You do want to see these don’t you?” He flourished the papers. The official took what was offered, gaping like a landed fish.

“You are assiduous in carrying out your duties are you not? Well aren’t you?”

“Yes Sir we are, absolutely thorough.”

“Good.” Gerlich replied relenting slightly.

The compartment had warmed up slightly, so he removed his overcoat, and jacket. He stretched his legs out, and lit his pipe. He became quite hypnotised by the rhythmic sound of the wheels on the track and the quick, small, smart repetitive clicks of the needles. He always likened knitting to a kind a feminine purr of contentment. This wholesome picture of femininity before him, the face changed from that of his wife to a much younger woman’s. He felt a growing inclination to reach over and swipe the wool from her, to take her brutally and then order her settle back down to the knitting. With regret he saw the face dissolve back into being that of his wife. But the other face, the forbidden face reformed quite easily, if he allowed it, so he continued his fantasy.

Gradually his muscles began to unclench, he was calm.

But it was not to last. To his horror another flustered railway official materialised. He felt compromised, in his shirtsleeves; as it were, dishevelled. The man announced that he was the Senior Conductor. Gerlich was obliged to snap back into his captious, didactic mode. He deplored the necessity to do so, and remonstrated with this man on the vexed subject of the other officials who had failed to request his ticket and papers.

The Senior Conductor made known his regret for the earlier incident.

“They did not wish to be impertinent Sir.”

Gerlich was astounded, “What are you talking about man?

They must check everybody’s tickets. That’s their job.”

“But you Sir …I …”

“Me who am I? Well who am I?”

“Well Sir you are …You are …”

“I am a passenger, I am to be treated as such, how dare you presume otherwise. Well?”

The senior conductor was at a loss now as to what was expected of him. “Tickets please.” He spluttered

“You oaf! I’ve shown them already. Haven’t you got other duties to attend to?”

Gerlich looked at his wife, she put down her knitting, and gazed at the Senior Conductor. “Do you have a wife?” She asked him, ‘Oh my God,’ thought Gerlich, ‘The homely matriarch and wisdom from the hearth!’ None of it ever made the slightest sense, he had time and time again witnessed glassy eyed but attentive young officers nodding at her egregious nonsense. He knew they laughed at him, had a good laugh at his expense afterwards, a bloody good one. He wanted to stick the ball of wool in her mouth.

“We must not wait to be prompted, the woman supports, with an immovable will, she knows her duty, she need not be told.” She faltered, “to do our duty, for the greater good of the Father Land, we must act, act, we all know… well enough, the wife knows her obligations…. It is to nature that she answers.” She suddenly trailed off completely at a loss as to how to continue, there was something about the Senior Conductor that stopped her, he was looking at her so intently that she was put off, “Why are you staring in that manner?” she asked him.

“Excuse me Madam, I lost my wife two days ago.”

There was a moment of silence, her embarrassment almost palpable.

“That’s as may be my man,” Gerlich rushed to fill the silence, before his wife could recover, “We are sorry for your loss, indeed we all bear the burden on our shoulders and in our hearts. But, but, you must stand firm and do your what?”

“Duty.”

“Duty and your duty is to work on, take all in your stride, you are senior conductor of the 8.15 express, you are not anything else, you are the senior conductor of the 8.15 express, we do not wish to hear about your wife’s demise. It is not your business to tell us, nor ours to hear. You may go.”

Gerlich felt he had saved the situation with this impromptu speech and his wife, the stupid bitch, appreciated it! Yes she certainly did. The Senior Conductor backed out of the compartment, he apologised for his inappropriate comments, whether he was to be pardoned or not would remain to be seen.

The rest of the journey was uneventful and Gerlich managed to regain his composure. No one bothered them, although someone had actually entered their compartment. Gerlich had observed the man with dry amusement as he asked if he might join them. Gerlich said yes, of course, by all means. He was a very conservative looking man, dressed in fine English tweed, a real country gentleman, he would have a small estate somewhere, thought Gerlich. The man remained dignified and taciturn, he did not venture a word of conversation which disappointed Gerlich. He felt in awe of these aristocrats, solid, atavistic, sure of themselves, haughtily confident of their place in the scheme of things, he hated them.

The man had not given Gerlich more then a cursory glance, and he nodded politely at Gerlich’s wife. He remained in their company for an hour or so, and then bade them good day and left. He behaved as if he was completely ignorant of whom he had shared his journey with!

Gerlich’s son-in-law, with a few security staff was waiting for them at the country station. They shook hands. An official lurked on the periphery, unsure whether to approach the great man. Gerlich was surprised, he could not understand how word of his visit had not got out, he had expected flowers at least and a small brass band. He felt vaguely unsettled, disappointed. It was then that Gerlich noticed Dieter and three other members of his staff lurking at the end of the small platform.

He was relieved, his confidence returned, he looked over at Dieter with a friendly impersonation of exasperation, shook his head and thus acknowledged his presence. Dieter was right to come, he really had no choice.

The three cars made the short journey to their daughter’s home. Gerlich felt eminently pleased with himself. They swept down the long drive. Dieter had a couple of men at the entrance in advance. They dropped the cigarettes they were smoking, but did not salute; they stood in their long overcoats, collars up, their hats pulled down against the chill.

Their daughter’s home stood at the edge of the forest on the shore of a lake, it was a large bungalow, with great expanses of plate glass. Gertrude, his daughter, awaited them on the threshold, beside her stood a nursemaid.

Rooks cawed, and the wood pigeons clattered from branches and showers of bronze needles fell in their wake. Mother and daughter immediately fell into each other’s arms and were soon discussing baby. His wife poked and prodded it, cooed and made various other sounds. It was chilly so everyone went inside.

There was a large fire burning in the brick-surrounded hearth of the sitting room, which looked out onto the lake. The French windows opened onto a deck, where one could sit in the summer, the water lapping two metres or so beneath your feet. You could literally listen to the wireless and fish at the same time! His daughter certainly showed a marked aptitude for matters of taste; he was proud of her, she had taken to the life excellently, had listened to their recommendations and made the marriage they suggested. How well it had turned out for her! God only knew what spectacular future this young couple had before them.

Gerlich studied the muted colours of the room, the burnt reds and browns, the simplicity, the clean lines and wholesome natural ambience, here and there examples of the latest technology were visible. It had an inimitable quality, effortless, compared with his own over stuffed opulence. He stared at the blonde, shimmering hallooed head of Gertrude, leaning elegantly towards her mother, who was holding her grandson in her arms. Gertrude, so like a woman of quality deigning in her magnificence to notice this squat and vaguely vulgar and over eager middle aged woman. It was bizarre this startling beauty should be the result of their coupling, pure alchemy he thought. He regretted not being of his daughter’s generation, how they stood on the shoulders of their parents, assured and elegant.

He caught a glimpse of his son-in-law, his shadow flitting outside, on the decking. He seemed to be pursuing something with a great deal of urgency. Gerlich rose from his seat, the illusive figure disappeared around the corner of the house. His daughter looked up at him and seemed frozen in a momentary anxiety.

Their son-in-law returned. He asked a few questions but was distracted. He was not paying Gerlich the attention he customarily did. They talked in a meandering and meaningless way for fifteen minutes or so, and then the son-in-law left them with a curt excuse. Gertrude making a quick apology, rose and followed her husband, then returned, took the baby away from Mrs Gerlich, and vanished once more.

Gerlich shrugged his shoulders at his wife’s silent inquiry. A minute later Gertrude reappeared.

She assured them everything was fine, it was just some business that her husband was urgently required to attend to and it would sadly leave him unable to spend much time with them. It was unforeseen. Unavoidable. She had not come back with the baby.

“Well did you travel here like an average mother and father?” Gertrude asked

Mrs Gerlich laughed, they had done exactly as she suggested and come as a normal couple, except of course for Dieter, who, as ever, aware of his obligations to the people and fatherland, had disregarded their specific and selfish injunctions not to come. Dieter of course had right on his side. His daughter then seemed to be distracted and barely attending to her mother’s words at the mention of Dieter. Suddenly her manner was condescending.

“Why don’t we have a stroll around the lake before lunch? We like a walk don’t we?” They both agreed enthusiastically, then with a vocal sleight of hand Gertrude revealed she was not herself to be included in the projected walk.

Both irritable and lazy, they walked on as far as they comfortably could. The realisation that the circuit was an interminable slog through overgrown paths and boggy ground put them both in bad humour.

The dark forest behind them emitted cracks and crashes, and the birds made dry retching sounds. Gerlich could quite imagine a monster emerging from the spiteful dark of the forest. It was strange. With the hardening and softening of the light as the clouds stole across the sun the trees appeared to grow in strength, to move, stir. A fish jumped, but only a tiny sprat.

They both felt slighted by Gertrude and their son in law, thrown to the margins, when their visit had been arranged weeks in advance. To be excluded from whatever it was that had suddenly thrown the house so obviously into a minor crisis was to Gerlich humiliating.

He now felt a growing sense of anger with his daughter, It was a careless Gertrude with an apron on, who had hurried, fussed and chivvied them along, in their borrowed galoshes out of the door and into the dour wintry atmosphere. He had felt the indignity of the treatment.

Mr and Mrs Gerlich stood on the shore and watched the tiny waves feebly lap at the mud. They looked over at the small boat enticingly rocking in the breeze under the banks of the opposite shore where the house stood, if only someone would row across and give them a lift back. They were now weary.

Gertrude should send a servant to find them. Gerlich recalled there being a little ferry further on, worked by an old man in all weathers, all seasons. But he remained where he was.

Neither he nor his wife could think of a single word to say. They stood in a primeval silence. He felt inside his pockets, he had forgotten his gloves, it was cold. They were rooted to the spot. It was quite extraordinary, as if they were being held there by some force. He felt faintly sick in his stomach.

Gerlich sensed rather than saw Dieter appear behind him with two of his other men, and was thankful for Dieter’s instinct and presence of mind. There must be access for a vehicle near here, so the march was over. They lingered at a distance only a few metres away and then advanced. Gerlich noticed their blank faces.

Dieter was his man. Dieter was his man, tamed and groomed on titbits and blandishments, punishments and caresses, scraps from the high table and eventually a seat at it with Gerlich. He had been ever vigilant in educating Dieter in the expediency of acting without question. His man!

Dieter made a gesture for Gerlich to remain silent. He did this with a revolver. He looked over at his terrified anguished wife, her face contorted with comical disbelief. The realisation that Dieter meant to do them harm had struck her instinctively, she had not seen it, but smelt it. She urinated, it was quite a gush, like a e bucket emptied from under her dress. Gerlich was taken aback. He then thought how even now, just about to slip the mortal coil, she had to piss! That damned peasant! voided herself! He laughed, he heard the crack near him and saw his wife of thirty years collapse, and felt a mild satisfaction. He saw the breath slip from her. There really was nothing to say, he felt a complete emptiness, a tedium, resting heavily on him. He would die bravely, not because of some inherent courage, but simply because there was nothing left except physiological functions and a certain necessity for what he perceived to be his spirit to quail tremulously at death. That was nature’s programme.

A flock of geese at that very moment, flew in their familiar formation above them, a V, palpating in the air, cast iron black against the sky. He watched the geese part and reform, their original V dispersed to realign themselves into a cross, each point with a right-angled tail, a ragged shape in the sky. So he had lived to see this, overhead, pointing east, like an aerial funeral cortege, come to collect their charges. He knew there would be no explanation, He knelt, quickly, as he felt himself too urinate, that was to be his last discharge of warmth, liquid terror, which did not belong to him but to his body, the functions, the mechanism. He was disgusted. He had a strange sensation, he didn’t want to fall and hurt himself that is why he knelt, not to genuflect, or beg for mercy. He remembered his daughter, and her brief question, ascertaining they had travelled in relative anonymity. He sensed rather than felt the crude muzzle. So he was to die by Genickschuss – a shot in the neck.

His last vision was that of his daughter; she stood over the lake and watched the geese in their unnatural pattern of flight, with her baby in her arms. She held her destiny wrapped in a blanket, and she thought of duty and not of her mother and father, the embodiment of the will to power. And his last breath was a curse, a malediction upon her.

London Calling October 11th

2010-10-11T05:19:00.000-07:00

A person with anger issues is more likely to be a cross dresser, claims report.

People who can’t stop talking could be a key to renewable energy. Windbags everywhere should be utilised, claims ecologist. “I have ten windbags at my home generating enough power for my entire house, unlike windmills they rarely stop, especially with regular supplies of the Daily mail and Express.”

As lightening destroys church tower, congregation asks who is to blame? Local priest makes no comment.

Wolves to be organised in tetra packs, says Russian Government.

London Calling Weekend Headlines

2010-10-10T05:31:00.001-07:00

Two eight year olds spend a horrific day in a colliery having been mistaken for miners.

Government cuts leave navy ghost ships running on skeleton crew.

Tommy Ticker, Olympic dreamer and marathon hopeful has run out of money to pay for his training taxi. Volunteers are being sought to drive him. “I am willing to pay the mileage which is officially 26 miles and 385 yards, plus obviously taking me home afterwards, which is another I mile.”

Zombie wakes up complaining of feeling only half dead, after night out.

Man sues Hot House Garden after his trousers are caught in Venus flytrap.

Harry the Novel Chapter 4

2010-10-04T04:53:00.000-07:00

Chapter 4.

Harry sat on his bed pressing his hands under his thighs. His eyes studied the weave of his trousers, his mind emptied. He got up and opened a chest of drawers underneath the window. He drew out several sketch books, small A4, looked through them, spread some on the floor, and crouched over them. The women, all the sketches were of women, were drawn in various positions, common pornographic poses. Each a crudely rendered life drawing copied from magazines. He traced around the thigh and the buttock of one picture, the folds of the woman’s midriff pleated as she turned her head towards the viewer. He studied it as if he had no idea of what he was seeing, he then stood up and opened his cupboard and took out a magazine from which the original had been copied. He looked closely at the woman’s face, tried to divine something of her, and then put it away. He did not keep stacks of material, only what he was working on at the time. He picked up another sketch of woman in stockings vacuuming, the long pipe held too suggestively, naughty housewife. He pulled out his box of charcoal and sketch pad and began to draw, this time from a picture of a woman lying on a bed, her buttocks slightly raised in the air. He heard McClain fiddle with his keys next door, and enter his flat.
He looked about him. And saw nothing. He went to the bathroom, he stood for a few seconds in front of the mirror, he rubbed the stubble on his chin, pushed his hand through his dirty grey hair. His teeth were yellowed, he listened to the pipes, a toilet flushed and a bath was being run, the couple above him, McClain to his side and Mrs Green below him, all together in this plaster and board house separated by fragile walls. He went into the small bedroom and looked out of the window onto the backyard, smashed concrete blocks and black rubbish bins with their numbers crudely swabbed on them, a bicycle locked and rusting. The paint on the window frame was peeling; it came away in his hands. He heard the click of the emersion come on, a light rain began, spitting at his window.

In the kitchen he took tin a of beans and sausages and poured the contents into a dirty saucepan, the sauce hardened on the sides and base, too hot, the beans bubbled and spat at the tiny sausages. He found some bread, stiff, but good enough to toast. He turned the radio on as he waited, stirring the food once in a while, not hungry, not caring. He allowed himself a laugh, as the phone in program discussed modern art; the usual characters rang, sharing what they didn’t know with the rest of the metropolis. But then the host was as bad as his audience, although Harry felt sympathy for his sentiments, he thought him patronising. The food done he took it into the sitting room and set the plate down on the long low coffee table and turned on the television.
They were covering the same story, The Shock-Art! Biennial and the scandal surrounding the exclusion of Gavin Stampe. Stampe’s gallery were represented in the interview by a woman who tried hard to articulate her arguments despite the constant interruptions of her opponent Geoff. Harry knew Geoff well, he liked him, liked him a lot. He had known Geoff for a long time, drinking in the same bars. Geoff he thought looked a little gaunt, his jowls were sagging.

He could smell Mrs Green’s damp dinner, sprouts, pie, mash and gravy. The odour lingered over his empty plate. He sighed, turned the television off, and looked at the clock. There was time for a quick pint, round the corner.

The orange fluorescence of the street, struck him, the colour of anonymity, as sad as the telephone directory, which he leafed through, a great dry lost social network.

The Horse Shoe was empty. No Dolly, she must have sloped off somewhere else. He stood at the bar, and Danny appeared, from the cellar. He raised his eyebrows by way of hello and set down the plastic crate he was carrying.

“Dead in here. Don’t know where they’ve all gone.” Danny said.

“Down to the Odeon.” Harry replied, the new super pub down the street.

“Aye, well how am I to compete against them? One forty a pint, shit I’d go and drink there myself.”

He began placing the bottles on the shelves below the bar. He stopped, remembering he needed to serve Harry, but not until he had finished the job, he decided, then he stood up and stretched.

“What are you having?”

“I don’t know, use your imagination.”

Danny poured him a pint of bitter.

Harry took it and drank.

“Give me a packet of cheese and onion and change for the cigarettes.”

He went over to the machine slotted in the money, the pound coins were spat out, until he found some more, which were accepted.

“Pissing down.” He commented.

The wind thumped against the window, the bar could have been cosy but wasn’t, too many bodily fumes and regrets pervaded the place, too many men, breathing in the same air, conversation, jokes and lies.

“You seen Dolly?” Harry asked.

“Lunch time.” Danny replied, looking up from the paper.

There was no food served here, except for a roll or two, preserved under a plastic hood.

“What was she doing?”

Danny looked up at him quizzically. “What do you think?”

Harry shook his head at the question and looked around him, there was nothing here to help him start a conversation, no prompts that hadn’t been used before, Danny always kept his newspaper away from the drinkers so there was no chance there.

Harry took some change for the fruit machine, knowing this would make Danny happy, waste some more cash in the place. He lost five pounds in as many minutes, but in the meantime someone else had come in. Two people he hadn’t seen before, young, confident, probably moved in, trying the local, the one and only time. He ordered another pint, stared where he always did, at the spot at the very top of the back shelf of the bar, where his eyes had rested many hours, he could almost fancy that the varnish was worn in that spot.

“She say anything?” He asked.

Danny was now standing leaning on the bar, smoking, his skin pale and freckled, he was balding, a ring of coppery hair around his shiny pate.

“No she didn’t say nothing.”

“She paying was she?”

“You having a laugh? Think I’d give her a slate?” Danny felt a twinge of shame, or pity, it could be either, but he said no more, instead turned to see two more people come into the bar, another young couple, meeting the other two.

Harry eyed them in the jaundiced light, what could they want from this place? The new arrivals looked over what was on offer and both ordered bottled beer and glasses, the distinct likelihood being that this they deemed to be the most hygienic option as they both used a tissue each to wipe the glasses. The conversation was self assured, for newcomers, they paid no attention to Harry, or the pub, they looked at the juke box and put on a couple of songs, he didn’t know and then was surprised to hear one of his favourites Rhinestone Cowboy. The women were laughing and the men were writing something on a sheet of paper on the table, then all four began to become involved in a serious discussion.

London Calling Celebrity News

2010-10-01T17:39:00.000-07:00

"Larger than life" actor Archie Blackstock's family complain about purchasing third coffin since his death.

Jonnie Trembles the celebrity ventriloquist claims words were put in his mouth by Special Constable Gary Cross in Curry House fracas in city centre.

Aspiring "Dead pan" comedian Garth Cukney loses day job in hardware store.

Disgraced Olympic slalom hopeful, Ronnie Prosser claims skiing career was downhill slope as he is jailed for six months.

London Calling Special

2010-09-29T02:48:00.000-07:00

Watch Dog condemns sharp practise in new report on cutlery industry.

Lumberjack who claimed he couldn’t see the wood for trees loses his claim of unfair dismissal.

As global warming increases the temperatures in hell have rocketed in recent years to an unprecedented 1000 degrees, up by 5 degrees in one millennia. But wild swings in temperature could also see hell freeze over according to one expert. The Devil claimed hell could be unsustainable within a decade. Meanwhile in heaven the mean temperature has dropped by one degree and angels are to be given subsidies to buy tank tops. Both heaven and hell blame supine governments in thrall to the petroleum industry for the disaster.

London Calling News

2010-09-28T02:51:00.000-07:00

Hypocrisy to be rebranded as pragmatism.

God tells priests “Get out more!”
God claims priests waste half their time in prayer pleading with him to curb their lusts and carnal desires when they should be out doing good in the community.
“I’m sick of listening to them going on and on about sex and asking for forgiveness. Do these wankers really think they’re getting into heaven?”

Latest Headlines

2010-09-22T04:31:00.000-07:00

Late night jigsaw hooligans are becoming a menace to public safety in Stroud town centre. At approximately Midnight on Friday night a group were seen illegally attempting a five thousand piece puzzle of The Flying Scotsman, in Marchmount Street Multi-storey car park. Police were called to the scene, but were too late and the puzzle was completed. “This is a growing phenomenon and is a nuisance crime.” Said Inspector Dawn Railings.

Beached whales throw caution to the wind claims Coast Guard, “They deliberately land on the beach and then expect hundreds of volunteers to push them back into the sea again. I’ve heard them laughing about it, it tends to be the younger whales larking about, but sometimes it can end in tragedy.” Said a Coast Guard official.

London Calling as it happens

2010-09-21T04:20:00.000-07:00

A man whose wife was mistakenly beatified by the Pope in Redditch claims she has become impossible to live with. “She’s got a halo around her ruddy head and it keeps me awake all night because she can’t switch it off. Moths are attracted to it, and it’s at least 100 watts, far too bright. I think the Pope should be held to account. He should have at least given her some instructions.” The Vatican has declined to comment.

London Calling Late Extra

2010-09-20T05:08:00.000-07:00

Jigsaw thief bound over to keep the peace.

Mr Morris of Blithe Avenue, Hove, who claims to collect Japanese people has been forced to break the collection up by the council, the oldest is believed to be ninety years old, and the youngest twenty. “It’s a disaster for the nation, this collection will now be lost to Japan, it has taken years of time and investment to create.” There are believed to be at least five people in the collection which Mr Morris kept in his garden hut with his budgerigars.

Headlines London Calling

2010-09-20T04:41:00.000-07:00

Celebrities can remain anonymous, thanks to new super size sunglasses.

Crisis hits city centre muggers. “Before we’d make fifty quid an hour now we’re lucky to get five.” Complains Ron Rearways, “We would ask the public to think carefully before fighting us off in these difficult times.” He added.

Lilo Sales buoyant despite inflation.

Government plans cap on schoolboys.

Honest people warned to avoid low lying regions such as East Anglia.

Pontiff claims Pope does not sell ice-creams after thousands crowd around Pope mobile demanding refreshments.

Have a go Hero Henry Jinson turned down a golden opportunity to save another life in the very same lake where he rescued a child exactly a year ago, “I was with my wife and it was our anniversary, we could see the man waving and screaming, but she gave me one of them looks of her’s which is like just so don’t go there.”

“He‘s very selfish sometimes, I would have killed him if he would have ruined our special day again.” Said Mrs Jinson. Police named the dead man as Martin Stoat a well known suicide from Droitwich.

Government plans to control the migration of Swallows, Swifts and House Martins. “There were simply too many of these foreign birds flocking into the country under the last government. We need controls to save our native species. They take advantage of the sunshine and when things get a bit chilly off they go to Spain or somewhere hot.”

A Swallow spokesperson said the economy would be adversely hit if their numbers were lowered.

London Calling Extra

2010-09-13T04:18:00.001-07:00

Tommy Trimmer last night failed on his fifth suicide attempt in a week, "When the police arrived and it was the same officer as the other times I could have killed myself with embarrassment." He said.

Harry the Novel Chapters 1 - 3

2010-09-06T04:31:00.000-07:00

Chapter 1

It was after eleven. He'd been up early. Working, or trying to work, but with no success. He read the story again, the cicadas chirping, a dog barking, its chain straining from the shadow to the sun. He spat, watched the saliva arch over the terrace and hang from the leaf of an olive tree. He opened the paper and read the headline once more.

“Bitch.” He said.

Of course he knew about it already. Had done for a week now. There had been phone calls. There had been offers, promises, grovelling even, and then threats, all to no avail. It was a problem emanating from personal enmity, of which in this business there was plenty. Investments were protected, no one could allow him to slide, there was too much involved, internationally, if he went, money would be lost. But it was his pride, which was hurting as well. It was what she was doing to him, what she knew she was damaging, that behind all the words, the earnest proselytising she was enjoying his exquisite torment. He imagined the kind of bloody mess he could make of her, what he would like to do, only day dreams, but the sweat on his lips gave it the salt of reality. He could remain aloof, but some reaction would be expected. That was an obligation. He felt a hand on his shoulder, he pushed it off.

“I’m burnt.” He said.

The hand lingered above his head, but did not ruffle his hair.

“Fucking burnt.”

“You want to go surfing?”

“No I don’t.”

“You don’t get out in the sun enough.”

“I don’t like it that much. I like rain, and grey days. I’m not a fucking Californian. I told you, I don’t like the fucking sun.”

“Why are you here then?”

“Because I like it here, it’s not just fucking sunshine is it? There’s more to Spain than the sunshine, ain’t you noticed?”

“Back then you liked the beach.”

“Back then? Back fucking when? Back in the day.” He looked up at her.

“Oh forget it Gavin.”

Back then. Holly and Gavin abused drugs and drinks together, she, straight off the Californian surf, laughing at his pink body on the beach. She joined his crowd, he’d brought his cousins on holiday with him, they were already drunk and raucous, their stringy bodies dashing in and out of the waves, more staid sunbathers questioned the claimed exclusivity of the beach with these lily white, tattooed English hooligans trying to do cart wheels in the water. Apart from his family there were a few artist friends and musicians sharing the picnic, cocaine and drink. When the rest of the crowd left for the beach house, they stayed up all night, in the morning she asked his name. Sitting with her back to him, playing with the braids in her hair. She played her part well he thought pretending she didn’t recognise him, he gave her a false name, and watched her back tense for a moment and then relax as she heard him laugh. Holly the surf siren. Back then. Fifteen years ago.

He’d taken everything he could, and it was so easy, he never quite believed it. He got up and walked over to the swimming pool. Until now, now began the backlash, when you hit a certain age, with younger ones coming up behind him, dismissing him, just as he dismissed his seniors in his own time. But he still held on to his position no one had dared attack him too openly, he was still powerful, the most powerful, but he sensed, they smelt a weakening, a lessening of his charisma, his presence, his exploits, his outrage and outrageous acts.

Holly wandered away from him, the stud in her belly button glimmered, her sarong wrapped by the wind around her buttocks as she turned. They stood at opposite sides of the pool.

“I got a class at 12.”

“Where? Who with? Not that mosaic shit again?”

“No with Douglas.”

“The ex-city hippy hammock weaver?”

“He’s great come on, he’s doing so well. You know he’s really got something going on in Gualchos, they love him up there. They’ve got so much respect for him. He left it all behind man.”

“Did he fuck. He likes his working class in blue overalls, preferably with a few goats and spouting bollocks. Give him one of his own oiks down there on the fucking coast eating McDonalds in replica Chelsea shirts and the cunt would run a mile.”

“What’s got into you today?”

“Oh you don’t know?”

“No.”

“That’s fucking wonderful that is isn’t it, she don’t know. You don’t know.”

“No, you want to do some yoga?”

“You are having a laugh.”

Holly walked away from the pool, away from him. She threw her arms up in the air, and he stood watching her back, he could have dived into the pool but he didn’t.

“Hey.” He shouted, but she ignored him, disappearing into a violet haze of Jacaranda.

Vim came out of the house, leaning on the terrace he began to talk to Gavin. Gavin shook his head in frustration.

“I can’t hear you, come down here you lazy cunt.”

“What’s up?”

“What do you mean what’s up you dozy bastard?”

“I mean with you. What’s up with you?” Vim lowered himself into a chair, his shaven head glistening, he rested his sandwich on one of the folds of his shirt.

“How can you eat that in this heat?”

“Marta did it.”

“Because you asked her.”

“That’s what she’s there for, cooking and that. Just a sandwich.” He waved it in front of Gavin who tried to swat it out of his brother’s hand.

“Get off it.”

“Where’s Bay Watch going?”

“Hammock weaving.”

“With that muppet?”

“Douglas.”

“Whatever.” Vim chewed on his sandwich, “Not the same as English bacon is it? Got more fat and that.”

“Well get down to Gibraltar you lazy fucker.”

“I ain’t knocking it.”

“Oh no?”

“You know what I mean, Spanish food in general ain’t the same I mean I like to experiment.”

“Oh yes where do you eat Vim, when you get off your arse?”

“Like I’m saying their food ain’t the same, don’t know what they do with them Big Macs, but it don’t taste like it does at home, more salad in them or something like that.”

Gavin threw his arms up in exasperation. His watch caught the sun and glinted momentarily.

“You want that? Tag Hauer?”

Vim looked at him in surprise.

“No here you have it Vim.”

“Straight up?”

Gavin took the watch from his wrist and tossed it in his brother’s lap.

“Thanks.”

“That’s all right , I’ll go and get another one this afternoon.”

“All right then.”

“What you doing today?”

“I might go down the club, have a round with Charlie.”

“Oh that’s nice yes. A round with Charlie.”

“He likes you he does. He admires you; he’d like to meet you.”

Gavin nodded.

“He’s all right, he told me this story about this geezer, artist right, world famous he was, anyway he’s sitting in this restaurant and this mug’s lost so this…”

“Picasso.”

“Hold on that’s it, this mug only asks Picasso the way, and Picasso draws him a map and that, and the mug says…”

“Can you sign it?” Gavin interrupted

“Yes. Cause if he signs it, you know what I mean, it’s worth a lot, he won’t do it see?”

“I fucking heard that story Vim. Got any new ideas? Because that’s what we need, a new idea.” Gavin jumped into the pool. When he got out Vim was still there. Doing nothing, apart from picking at his feet. He took a towel and sat back down having dried himself off a little.

“You’re supposed to be having a break taking it easy, chilling out?”

“Forty year old men don’t fucking chill out.”

“What has got into you? You miserable cunt?”

Gavin threw the newspaper at Vim. “Read that you donkey.”

Vim picked it up and scoured the back pages. “Ain’t nothing here.”

“Not the football, the fucking arts page.”

“Perhaps the biggest surprise of The Shock Art! Biennial has been the non admittance of Brit-Art’s most influential artist Gavin Stamp. There has been little comment from his Finca in Andalusia. And a similar lack of response from the curator of the show Adrianna Skirk. The show opens on the 24th of April next year. Fuck me.”

Chapter 2.

You might have found Harry anywhere. In this pub for instance. The Dunned Scrivener on Commercial Road, famous as a rookery of rag trade shops and Bangladeshi cafés. A brute of a road, constant traffic, beneath which the ringing of alarms dwindled away, ignored. On the door was a fluorescent poster declaring - work boots and high heels welcome, an ironic riposte to the nearby city pubs. A jostling, busy boozer on a Friday night. The yellowed light gave them all a patina of reckless shame, the smoke billowed from their mouths like so many ghosts of jokes.

He was, drinking, quite hopelessly caught in this tiny cavern of alcohol. Stuck on the beer sodden carpet. The customers around him were mostly labourers, lowly clerks, and a small group of thieves. A real London stew, the hapless, the helpless, and the criminal.

He was lonely, the bar maid changed from plain to passably attractive the longer he drank and stared at her. She was well used to this phenomenon as she added to the spell by pulling him another pint.

“Why don’t you have a couple of these? Brighten you up.”

He looked up at the man who was now standing at his shoulder, breathing a heavy fug of cigarette, cod and chips, the vinegar was in his eyes, reddened, the last truly soft part of him.

“Why don’t you fuck off, better still why don’t I?”

With that Harry heaved himself up from the bar and pushed past the man. He walked down Commercial Road, littered with large cardboard boxes; he took the underground from Aldgate East to Farringdon. The city workers were gone, sandwich shops closed, pubs moderately full, it being the better side of midweek.

The front door was ajar, he kicked it shut angrily, Mrs Green shot her head around the corner, from her ground floor flat, his ever vigilant neighbour.

“It weren’t open were it? She hissed

“Yes it was.”

“McClain, I tell you, that council’s got to do something about him. I can’t stand much more of it, I leave him notes and he don’t read them, he’s got glasses I seen them.”

“Oh yeah?”

“What do we want with the likes of him?” She stabbed her index finger accusingly.

“He’s a dirty old man. He just brought another one in. You don’t do nothing about it do you?”

“What do you want me to do?” Asked Harry wearily.

“Have a word, warn him you’re the law ain’t you?”

“It’s up to him what he does in his own home.”

“So it’s alright with you then? He can bring who he wants in here, and them unnatural acts just above me head, I got pictures of my grandchildren hanging on them walls.”

McClain had met a young man at the bus stop, a young man who innocently became engaged in conversation with the elderly West Indian, McClain then invited him back to his flat. The young man felt a little honoured to be going home with a West Indian, he had never been to the house of a West Indian.

McClain had made tea, and tentatively suggested a nip of something stronger and when this was rejected politely he asked if they might have a game of darts. A board hung on the opposite side to the sofa above the television. The young man although slightly nervous agreed. McClain then added a little rum to the tea and handed it to the young man. He drank it retching slightly. He felt a little reassured when he saw a photograph of a young man and woman in what was obviously a wedding photograph, McClain jutted his finger at the picture. “My wife. Passed away now fifteen years.”

“Do you have children?”

“No I got no children, them children got no father.”

They played a desultory game of darts for a quarter of an hour and then McClain seemingly a little exhausted fell back on to the sofa.

“Are you all right?” The young man asked.

“Yes, yes, just bring me that little bottle will you on the shelf there, that’s the one. Would you just put the television set on, I believe there is a video show already in it, you sit yourself down and watch the film a while.”

“I should go.” But he sat on the narrow sofa, the men’s thighs touching.

“No you can watch a little of the movie, you like the movies, the films. Young fellow like you.”

“Well ok for a little while, but my girlfriend is waiting for me.”

“Oh your girlfriend oh yes I see, I’m sure she wouldn’t begrudge you spending a little time with me. That’s correct, pass me the remote control, there. Now give me the bottle thank you.”

The picture on the television stretched and then the image consolidated into a coherent picture, the young man felt the older man’s hand on his thigh.

“Have a little sniff.”

The young man watched the first gasps of anal sex, and the man’s hands were at his flies. McClain’s other hand waved the bottle under his nose. The young man swept the old man’s hand off his crotch, but it crawled back, and the neck of the small bottle was at his nostrils. The young man tried to move a little, naive, not wishing to cause offence whilst trying to extricate himself from this feeble molestation.

“I don’t like this, please take your hand off.”

He tried again to get the young man to sniff the bottle, but he refused, McClain felt the other man’s flaccid penis, as soft as his own, the sounds from the television were stark and metallic. The young man got up, he was scared but polite.

“I have to go, I’m sorry I can’t stay here.”

“Come on you like the porno, don’t you?”

But the young man was scared, heading for the door; he looked like he might scream. He thought they might have a nice afternoon together, but it wasn’t to be.

McClain looked up at him mournfully, “Then I shall come downstairs with you, otherwise you’ll be locked in, Mrs Green is very security conscious, happily for the rest of us.” They walked down the narrow twisting stairwell together and sure enough in the hall Mrs Green was waiting.

“My friend has to go now.” He patted the boy on the shoulder, he was pale.

“Well how nice to have met you love. Be seeing you again I hope?” The young man wan and frightened said nothing just left hurriedly on the release of the dead lock.

“And I’m just going for some chocolate fingers Mrs Green.” Said McClain and followed the young man into the street.

And now he returned he saw Harry and Mrs Green sure she had been gossiping, he bent his head down ready to pass them. He didn’t like Harry knowing his business. He pushed on upstairs but Harry was behind him.

“Mr McClain.”

“Yes?”

Harry stopped at the top of the stairs. “Mrs Green was chatting with me. You want to watch it.” Harry nodded downstairs; McClain opened his mouth as if to protest. Harry unlocked his door and walked into his flat saying no more.

“Watch what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“That’s no business of hers who the devil she think she is?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders and opened his door.

“She got no business talking bout me, you got no business neither, I got my privacy, you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Yes.”

Harry smiled wearily and closed the door gently on Mr McClain.

Chapter 3

He took a taxi to the hotel where the meeting was to be held. Gavin had taken a sedative, was trying to be calm. He was sweating and the car’s air conditioning was bothering him, but the heat was worse. He hadn’t wanted Holly to drive him; he didn’t want to drive, Vim couldn’t be trusted so here he was in a cab.

The money was in the bank he knew, he kept repeating that, no matter what, the money was in the bank. But he was obsessed with neurotic disaster fantasies, what if the bank crashed? Investments went down, short selling, things like that; he didn’t know what, his brokers worked for him, but what if they were all a bunch of shysters? What if he put it all in gold? Would it be safer? What if he dug a hole and buried it in Epping forest?

Now thee buyers were getting shaky about him. One bad exhibition and prices had dropped, another failure and perhaps that would finish him, it had happened before. Too much money at stake, got to keep the naked emperor clothed now. His Rochdale Miniskirt had been sold for half a million at Sudby’s, way under the original asking price.

The phone calls had started then. A collector from Maimi, making enquiries, soft gentle voiced anxieties about Gavin’s next project, when and how and what? Was he aware of the fall in price of the Rochdale Miniskirt? He had tried hard not to lose his temper, stayed calm, the man from Miami was polite, but ignorant, he wanted to say to him. “You ignorant cunt you bought anti-art, art that rejected art, art that laughed at value of any sort, and now you’re worried about it’s fucking value, or lack of, you fat fucking pimp arsed yank.” But he didn’t of course.

He swore under his breath, the driver was chewing gum and listening to flamenco pop on the radio, a luminous virgin swung from the mirror, interlaced with a feathery dream catcher.

He felt sick and almost asked the driver to stop so he could get out. The car was snarled up in traffic, hire cars and tourists, lurching forward, and then stopping suddenly, the driver was bad. He tapped a beat on his side of the dashboard; the driver glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Gavin popped another pill, his throat was dry, he had to gulp hard to swallow the thing. He felt like punching something, but he didn’t. He looked outside, along the sea front, people, sun burnt, piercings and tattoos, pint wielding youths and the smell of roast dinners in 40 degrees of heat.

He was relieved when they then left the main drag and began to climb, up away from the coast. Driving past small narrow shaded streets, where he occasionally glimpsed a person sitting on a chair in the shade. The taxi took him through the gates of the hotel, and parked by several golf buggies.

His heart beat faster when he saw Ralph’s back, bent slightly over the bar reading the Express. He felt uneasy; Ralph was wearing a pink Burberry polo shirt and blue slacks, his gold Rolex weighed heavy on his wrist. Ralph was drinking a gin and tonic. He moved over slightly to allow Gavin to sit down on the stool next to him.

“Thanks for coming over.” Said Gavin.

“Always a pleasure, looking at a property as it happens just down the coast. Get away from this.” He pointed at a headline in the Express about immigration. Gavin ordered a beer. He drank.

“You look into that investment I told you about?” Ralph asked.

“Yes, didn’t do anything with it but thanks anyway.”

“How’s Holly?”

“She’s all right.” Gavin sighed.

“So what’s up?”

“I got to get back to work.”

“I thought you was doing ok.”

“I am. I was, I mean, there’s a big fuck off exhibition being put on by The Tite and the curator, how shall I put this?”

“I don’t know what?”

“She’s fucked me good and proper, I’m not in it. It’s major, it’s important; it’s a fucking problem Ralph.”

“But you got enough muscle to get in there haven’t you?”

Gavin smiled and thought about Adriana Skirk, Cheltenham Ladies College, Oxford, and Harvard, curator, art historian, and Italian cookbook writer.

“She won’t have it. Got to think of something else. She don’t like me never has.”

“What about the press?”

“They’re out to get me, saying I haven’t done nothing decent since 98, there’s no help there, no I’m fucked.” He finished his beer and ordered another. “Fucked.”

“Unless you come up with something new?”

Gavin nodded.

They were now joined by more people at the bar, golfers, salmon skinned from the sun, tight lipped.

“Unless we come up with something.” Said Gavin, “You’ll get your usual cut. What do you think?” He was scratching his head, he couldn’t settle on the bar stool, he stood up, sat down again, stood up again, a few people were looking at him, perhaps they recognised him, he didn’t know, didn’t care.

“Always happy to do business with you Gavin.”

“What d’you think then, come on, what’s your analysis?” Repeated Gavin.

Ralph hummed, a little too dramatically Gavin thought. He was in no hurry to give him an idea, a piece of inspiration.

“I’ll have to think about it, but it’ll cost you.”

Gavin regretted having shown how worried he really was, fidgeting, he tried to sit still to calm his nerves. But it was too late now. The price had risen that instant, would continue to do so, Ralph didn’t miss opportunities, but then he had supplied some of Gavin’s greatest work, with his technical skill, and imagination.

“We need a real headline grabber, we’ve got to get you into that show, somehow, make a stir there. We’ll get you in, don’t worry, just take it easy, you’ll give yourself an ulcer if you carry on like this, don’t let them get you on the windup. Look at you, fucking hell mate calm down. It’s all going to be fine. Give me a couple of days. You want another drink? Have another drink, my shout. Relax you silly bastard.” He tossed back the remains of his drink.

“Ok. Go on then. Is Muriel here?”

“Yes she’s by the pool, you want to see her?” There was a slight change of tone, a glimmer of something in Ralph’s eye.

“No, you’re alright, just say hello.”

London Calling

2009-01-26T03:21:00.000-08:00

Laugh out loud comedian Doggie Shill chuckled all the way to prison for five months today having been found guilty of shoplifting in London’s luxury Haggards department store. Spencer of Glebe Close, Swanage was detained by store detectives on the 15th of March 2007, he was discovered to have a tooled leather sofa lashed to his back and a packet of Duchy Original condoms in his pocket. Shill denied the charges and claimed the goods had been “planted” on him.

Johnnie “Two Trousers” McGee, Europe’s greatest Lothario and serial adulterer has announced that he is to retire on the 14th of February. “It seemed like a fitting date to hang my jock straps up. I have no definite plans for the future, but I am interested in becoming a driving instructor for ladies.”

“Why did God leave evolution out of the bible?” Parishioner asks.

London Calling

2008-12-18T05:42:00.000-08:00

John Mennett who has been hiding behind his mother’s skirts for twenty five years was devastated to find her wearing tight red slacks last Saturday night. “I used to go everywhere with her, secure and well hidden, and now this.” June Mennett told our reporter she was attending line dancing classes with her new friend local businessman Keith Sherman

______________

Cub scouts complain of fibre glass in their shorts. “It itches and makes my bottom sore.” Said seven year old Nigel Hartley, who didn’t wish to be named. The local canoe club denies responsibility.

______________

Traditional English life and culture in the village of Chaldon is under threat according to Mr Reeses Wideshorts. “We have a village green, a Morris Dancing group, the W.I., an amateur dramatics society and newly developed retirement homes.” All this is now under threat he claims as a Pakistani family from Coventry are set to buy the village newsagents.

______________

I particularly enjoy seeing homeless people on the streets at this time of year, it reminds us all of the story of our Saviour’s birth, and they do seem to fit so well with the season, reminding one of one’s cosy drawing room and log fire. Without these people Christmas would loose some of its meaning.

_______________

Adrian Cheeseman has forsaken his comfortable life of conformity to take up udder enhancement. “Many people visiting the country mistake cows for bulls if their udders are not big enough. It can cause anxiety and ruin a day out if you believe a herd of bulls are blocking your public right of way, many people abandon the footpath in panic. Udder enhancement will help both the farmer and visitors clearly differentiate between the bulls and cows.”

_______________

Chris Spencer who has been charged with 7 counts of harassing nuns vowed to kick the habit last night.

London Calling

2008-11-26T04:30:00.001-08:00

An embarrassing moment for Saint Christopher on his annual walking holiday in the Lake District when heavy cloud came down to cause a ‘white out’ and he lost his way “It just goes to show no one is infallible.” The clearly relieved Saint commented as he descended from the Mountain Rescue helicopter.

London Calling

2008-11-26T04:21:00.000-08:00

Reg Barley was turned away from the British Museum a disappointed man on Friday morning. “I was on holiday in Egypt and while I was there we had a lovely trip laid on to the Valley of Kings where I bought half a kilogramme of a pyramid. I thought it would be a nice little investment in ancient history. Now they tell me it isn’t worth a thing.” The British Museum was unavailable for comment.

Serial nervous breakdown sufferer Irene O’Connor said she had nearly given up the ghost until she discovered the joys of bartering with her local Bangladeshi market tradesmen.

History could be a thing of the past claims expert.

Successful kidnappers Jackie Hall and John Peterson have decided to retire, they plan to open a small Bed & Breakfast business in Whitstable, Kent. They said that old clients would be welcome as long as they didn’t stay too long! Everyone wishes them all the best.

Father John Holland was fined for leaving the scene of an accident at Witney Magistrates Court today. Father Holland double parked his car outside Spangles Lap Dancing Club in Hazlehurst Road. On leaving the club he reversed into a Ford Sierra damaging the left hand head light and denting the front bumper. Father Holland then fled the scene. Witness Amanda Luxton who happens to be a Special Constable took down his registration number. In court he claimed to have panicked because it was raining heavily and he was being pursued by the Devil himself all day. Catholic officials said Father Holland is shattered by the whole experience and will be joining an isolated community of priests to meditate upon his sins.

London Calling

2008-11-10T04:31:00.000-08:00

“My brother-in-law Nigel Morris always comes to see our fireworks, in fact it’s the one time of the year when he’s busy socially. Although they are dull and boring and can spoil the party a little, we do advise people to invite at least one wet blanket to this year’s Bonfire Night celebrations.” Said Chief Fire Officer Ron Hubbard

Meditator Paul Heathcoat-Jones who downsized to Totnes in Devon five years ago is furious with marketing company Cloud Finder Incorporated. “Every time I achieve a transcendental state messages suddenly pop into my head about ethical banking, sustainable energy, organic food and who knows what else.” He told our reporter. “I worked as an advertising executive for twenty years so I know all about this kind of marketing, and it’s not on.” He added, helping himself to another cup of Fair Trade Tea. Trisha Watts head of Cloud Finder Incorporated is unrepentant, “We have several dedicated Meditation Centres in Bombay serving our clients marketing needs, it’s a very ecological form of communication and we have some of the very best Yogis delivering our service. Our consumers are very carefully targeted and many are happy to receive our messages when in a higher state of being, it facilitates clear decision making and inspires informed choice. You know this is more than just about us here, it’s about consciousness raising, and that’s what marketing is at the end of the day.” But Heathcoat-Jones remains unconvinced, “It’s an intrusion into my personal space, but more importantly they are exploiting those yogis in India, even if they are advertising Birkenstock shoes which I happen to like.”

Helpful life model Alan Hanks always wears socks and mittens for his artists. “Fingers and hands are so awfully difficult to draw. I do what I can to help my artists, they don’t have nasty toes and feet to paint, just a nice pair of clean socks. It makes life easier, and I must admit it keeps me from getting too chilly in the Scout Hut. I got the idea from Greek statues, they were geniuses, but even they knew their artistic limits. ”

Enthusiastic architect warned to keep his plans in perspective.

London Calling

2008-11-08T13:41:00.000-08:00

An inflatable doll could be a thing of the past for randy emphysema sufferer Derek Short. A breathless Derek told us, “My sister promised to buy me a foot pump for Christmas, I lied and told here I needed it for my bike. The s**t will really hit the fan if she finds out what it’s really for.” Derek Short like thousands of men all over the country looks for companionship from his inflatable doll and feels misunderstood by society. “She’s more than a you know what,” he winked from his porch window. “But try telling people that when we go out for a quiet curry in town. She dresses provocatively I know, but that’s no reason to insult her, it’s her choice and it should be respected. She goes topless on the beach in the summer, so what? It’s natural. I think they’re jealous. The tragedy is that now she’s just an empty shell of her former self, and my neighbour Nigel won’t even blow her up for me.” He panted before having to close the porch window.

London Calling

2008-11-07T05:09:00.000-08:00

A Missing persons club in Horsham opened this month. “It’s great to come here and meet so many other missing people,” said Ralph Pandy who has not been home since 1985. “It’s a chance to get together and swap stories and give each other support.” Missing people have a lot of problems which normal people take for granted, such as opening bank accounts and finding accommodation. “Being a missing person I don’t know where I am from the one week to the next.” Complained Alison Ross, who hasn’t seen her husband for twenty years. “A missing persons club is a fantastic idea; I’ve met a bank manager here who gave me some super tips.” When asked about her husband she said he was amazingly supportive and was still photocopying pictures of her and appearing regularly on Good Morning Radio appealing for information. “He’s the best! I couldn’t have done it without him! We’ve got a contract now to write a book which has given me more financial security, I can’t really complain about my life.” The club’s next location has yet to be confirmed.

BBC cleaner Howard Appaih was celebrating last night as he clenched his new contract worth a staggering eighteen million pounds over three years. Other ancillary staff are said to be unhappy and believe the wage is way too inflated, especially as cutbacks on stars are continuing. But Mr Appaih was unrepentant, “They know how good I am and that they could lose me to another network, but now I’m staying here - for the next three years at least.” TV's Terry Wogan spoke in defence of Appaih, “Who wouldn’t want eighteen million pounds? Let’s be honest here, people are just jealous of Mr Appaih.” Sources close to Mr Appaih added the he was offered a nightshift slot at GMTV but he turned it down in favour the BBC.

In a shock move by the FA the next England international will be played by writers. “Wayne Rooney is too busy redrafting his latest biography and Steve Gerard has commitments promoting his new book, so I was asked to join the team." Said a visibly thrilled Magnus Mills. Mills is seen as being the safest pair of hands in goal for a revitalised England. “The team is really hungry, Andrew O’Hagan from Faber and Faber will play a key role in midfield." David Peace is rumoured to have got the call up in Japan last night. "We can really prove something to the nation this time. It’s a great opportunity for the lads. And what's more I can drive the team bus which will save us a few quid.” Mills added, before taking the wheel of the team coach to drive to the first training session in Hertfordshire. Others thought to have been selected include, Sceptre’s dark genius Jake Arnott, and Harper’s Ian Sansom.

London Calling

2008-11-04T04:04:00.000-08:00

Red faced bank robber Ray Bentley had to wait for the council to unclamp his getaway car outside Barclays on Friday morning. “It’s ridiculous the parking restrictions in the High Street these days, do they seriously expect me to get the Park and Ride Bus, like some muppet of a shoplifter?” The council claims the zoning has been in effect for over six months now.

Constable Spencer Cahill has been given a commendation after foiling an attempted escape at Kingly’s Pet shop in Satterfield Road. “We had the pets under surveillance for over a year; the suspects include a group of four Andorran rabbits and two particularly nasty Columbian guinea pigs. It was thorough police work and excellent intelligence which helped us resolve this case.” It was claimed late last night that a canary with its head covered by a blanket had been taken into protective custody by armed police officers.

A man was found wandering around the town centre last night. Luckily his progress was monitored on closed circuit TV as he repeatedly failed to find his way. He was first seen sitting on a bench and consulting the town plan in the square. Cameras then recorded him walking towards the Blair Road light industrial estate, from which he returned twenty minutes later. He then went up Ford Street and spent ten minutes in Appleford Avenue where he stood outside the Clarence Hotel. He attempted to knock on the hotel’s door, but luckily police were on hand and finally arrested him at the Bingley Road bus stop.

Advertising News.

2008-11-01T13:25:00.000-07:00

Kevin Pratt, a life long Chelsea supporter, was “Gob smacked” on Friday having been sacked from his position at direct mail marketing company, Direction Data Mail Corporation. “I've been stuffing envelopes, doing deliveries and all the other dirty work around here for over ten years now, when suddenly news comes down from on high that I’m wanted by the Vice President of Marketing and Client Relations - that’s Tracy Barker to you and me.” Tracy who once appeared in a documentary on single mothers with high pressure careers had something to tell Kevin. “It was a brief meeting,” said a clearly bemused Kevin, “She told me advertising was all about sex, and I just didn’t have it, sex that is. We’ll see what Peter has to say about this when he gets back from Spain,” snorted Kevin, referring to Peter Dew the owner of the successful company. “I was here before her and I’ll be here a long time after her too.” He confided to our reporter.

When we rang Ms Barker we were told she was unavailable for comment. An anonymous source within the company, however, has made a shocking claim that Tracy’s demands on junior members of the team are often inappropriate. “I knew trouble was starting when she gave me a lift home and she was playing one of those CDs of one hundred top opera moments. She kept flicking her hair around and missing the gear stick and grabbing my knee. Her skirt was riding up her legs and she was talking about me having to assert myself more. Luckily her ex and father of her child, (the President of Brands City & Corporate Meat Caterers, Douglas Shelly) rang and wanted an urgent half hour conference with her, so she dumped me at the bus stop.”

Indeed all ended happily for Terry when a tanned and relaxed Peter Dew fresh from his golf trip in Malaga immediately had Terry reinstated, saying the whole thing was nothing more than a harmless joke.

Advertising News

More from DDMC

Top advertising executive Tracy Barker celebrated twenty years of success with Direction Data Mail Corporation last night with an Oscar style ceremony at the Sheldon Park Hotel. The evening was hosted by her brother Giles, an actor from Godalaming in Surrey. The Tracys, small statuettes specially crafted to resemble the Oscars were on display in the lobby area for all to see at the champagne reception, before the festivities began in the conference suite.

The awards included Best Female Support which went to Shelly Barker, Tracy’s mother. The Tracy for Best Director went to her boss Peter Dew. Tracy’s award for Best Male Lead went to colleague Simon Trumps, the Tulip Telecom account manager. The Top Creative award was won by Chris Lichen for his outstanding creative input on the Parckard Oscillator account. There were no surprises when Best Male Support went to Giles Barker.

Tracy could not hold back the tears when she was unexpectedly nominated and then, in a fairytale ending won the Lead Female award. She was given this very special Tracy by Peter Dew. Peter’s speech was fulsome in its praise of her, which she modestly tried to deflect saying these awards weren’t about her, but for all the people working so hard behind the scenes doing the unglamourous jobs.

Perhaps the most emotional and shocking moment in the evening was when Tracy herself presented the Lifetime Achievement Award. All the experts had confidently predicted it would go to her father. But in an amazing and controversial decision this prize of prizes went to her estranged partner, and father of her child, Douglas Shelly. The auditorium exploded at the announcement. A pale and visibly shaken Mr Shelly was cheered as he sat at his table in disbelief. "It didn't sink in until she repeated it and then Chris Lichen took me by the arm and escorted me up to the stage."

Said the clearly overwhelmed Douglas Shelly.

Mr Barker was rumoured to be bitterly disappointed at the outcome, cancelled his speech and left with his wife, refusing to speak to reporters.

London Calling.

2008-10-26T12:43:00.000-07:00

Football is less and less of a spectator sport according to the manager of Chadlington United, Ted Gumdrip. “At the last home game there were more players than spectators; we outnumbered them eleven to one, not including the subs and Cyril of course.” A clearly bemused Gumtip continued, “A lady did watch for a minute or two, but then her dog made a pitch incursion and we can’t have that.” ‘Bims’ Jewson, Chadlington’s veteran defender blamed a lot of it on girlfriends and wives. “If it’s pissing down, they can’t be arsed to come out, my Mrs was sitting in the car in the car park, she had a right egg on her when I see her in the club house. They all think they’re Wags or whatever you call it, going down the hairdressers every Friday, and that. Drinking Breezers what costs an arm and leg. Can’t live with them can’t live without them.” He added philosophically. So what future for football? Ted Gumtrip is pessimistic, “If Cyril was took sick or something that would be about it, no one cheering for Chadlington, Cyril’s the most fanatical supporter we ever had. I don’t reckon we could carry on without him.” So the future looks bleak for football unless an unwilling public can be enticed back onto the terraces.

Part-time magician Nigel Hanley had to conjure himself out of a dilemma last night when he found himself locked out of his Bradfield home with only a white rabbit and a wand on him! He had left his keys at Rose Crescent Retirement Home where he had been performing for residents in the Sunny Saturday Variety Show. Mr Hanley claimed he repeatedly rang the doorbell to no avail. He then threw a pebble in desperation at his mother’s window, but he couldn’t wake her. Recently bereaved Margaret Hanley was fast asleep recovering from a particularly rainy episode of Jack Frost, starring David Jason. She told Bradfield local radio that she heard nothing during the night. Luckily for Mr Hanley his neighbour Rita Carter invited him to stay with her. She spotted him from her bedroom window, just as things were getting desperate for Mr Hanley, having run out of ammunition from the rose border. Nigel’s mother is reported to have said it was quite a surprise to see him walking out of Rita Carter’s house at eight in the morning, holding his wand and smiling. Mrs Hanley has now said that she wants to draw a line under the whole affair. A police spokesperson said they were delighted with the happy resolution to the incident but did warn the public against the advisability of throwing pebbles at windows. Nigel Hanley was given a hero’s welcome when he returned to work on Monday.

Trans-trans-sexuals were celebrating last night when it was announced they are to receive an E.U. grant. Jeff Muller, formally Jane Muller and before that Jerry Muller is to head the new organisation. “We aim to give a voice to people in the cross over, cross over again community. We’ll hold workshops on trans gender return and bridging the difference, as well as celebrating the more light hearted side of life, with line dancing, bingo and Socks and Tights Nights.” Ted Duncan, a recent member, has lost count of how many times he has changed sex, “My wife stands by me, but she is getting a bit sick of us swapping and changing every six months. If it wasn’t for the caravan I think we might have divorced by now.”

A jigsaw thief was bound over to keep the peace at Tedminster Magistartes Court today.

Serial killers are to be banned from all Tesco stores. The move is seen in industry circles as a somewhat cosmetic move in response to the bad press Tesco has been encountering recently in the liberal press. Experts say Tesco wishes to be seen as more socially responsible after its court battle with The Guardian Newspaper. “We need to take the lead in discouraging antisocial behaviour; we are not here just to make money but to serve the community.” Said a Tesco spokesperson. Consumer Groups last night however reacted cautiously, “We welcome the news, but question just how much good this move will do.” Defiant serial killers pledged to fight the ban and threatened to take Tesco all the way to the European Court Of Human Rights.

London Calling

2008-10-25T02:53:00.000-07:00

Foxes met in Birmingham to discuss the increase in the human population, as the number of humans ‘culled’ in hunting accidents hit an all time low.

Messages in bottles are now a thing of the past a report claims. “Old sailors were amongst our best customers. They were always using bottles to send messages when they were castaways, and then of course when they retired they made model ships and, put them in bottles. We are an industry in crisis.” Concluded Kelvin Flowers, British Bottlers Association spokesman, he added, “New technology is to blame, mobile phones and package holidays to desert islands have hit us hardest.” One old castaway Tom Peel however welcomed the news, “I’d been waiting for an answer to my SOS messages in bottles for twenty years without luck. Meanwhile the whole island changed around me what with the development of condominiums and so on, until I was able to send a message from a cyber café. Now I’m back at home in Bristol, my ordeal is over! No thanks to bottles.”

Lady Sophia Stucky, the heiress, has been disowned publicly by her father Lord Stucky for allowing a tradesman to take her mantelpiece. “It has long been tradition that the Stucky daughters are married with their mantelpieces intact, this has brought unspeakable disgrace upon the family.” He said. Lady Sophia claimed that most girls lost their mantelpieces at age sixteen these days, and no one was scandalised.

Life will never be the same again for Kevin Bowen, a resident of Deane Street in Michael Haven after his experience last Saturday night. On leaving his local pub at around one in the morning, he claims to have looked up and seen what could possibly be millions of stars and the mind boggling idea of infinity struck him so hard that he almost fell over. Workmates welcomed him back on Monday to his Canvas Comforts factory in Dripton-on-the-Dale as a hero and were keen to ask him questions about his revelations. The BBC is set to make a drama documentary about Mr Bowen. But killjoy scientists and astronomers claimed last night to have known about these phenomena for years.

Atheists could be hard hit this Christmas, with new banning orders coming into force which could see them barred from midnight Carol services and Christmas dinner. Stockings are also likely to be confiscated until they learn to believe. It could be a hard holiday for leading God basher Dr Richard Dawkings who is said to look forward to his season of good cheer. Interviewed outside Hamleys where he had been with his parents to give them ideas for this year's jumbo gift fest. “I can’t believe this! God has got it so so wrong yet again! As if we needed more proof. And, hello! I’m the one to suffer. It’s just so not fair!” He said and then had a tantrum.

Born again Christian Rita Ryder of North Yorkshire who believes that God created the world only six thousand years ago has been banned from using petrol and other fossil fuels. “It has left me high and dry.” She told reporters, “How am I going to do the school run? How am I going to heat the house?” But authorities who see this as a test case are unlikely to compromise. “How can she possibly take advantage of these precious resources which according to her cannot exist?” Commented Doug Strange the Enforcement officer responsible for the case.

London Calling

2008-10-20T05:43:00.000-07:00

Illegal bungee jumper given three month suspended sentence.

God blames rebranding problems and heavy workload for two thousand year absence, but he will be back promises Fraud PR agency.

Disappointment might not be all it has been made up to be, say psychologists at Reading University’s department of cognitive science.

A man was fighting for his life yesterday, after getting his head caught in a pair of retro nylon pants, after a stag do went horribly wrong in Leicester city centre. Police say it is the fourth near fatal incident involving underwear in Leicester this month alone.

Criminals met in Blackpool this weekend to discuss the crisis which has seen a forty percent drop in productivity. Government intervention, which most rejected roundly last year, is now being seen as the only way to save swathes of bank robbers. “I got there and there wasn’t nothing in the safe, that’s after months of meticulous planning, and I still got to pay my team.” said Ray Bentley of Bentley Event Security Ltd.

Meanwhile other speakers at the conference demanded nationalisation of protection rackets. Foreign gangsters, especially from Poland and Russia are coming in with cheaper prices, complained Les O’Riordan of O’Riordan Event Security Ltd, and millions of pounds invested over the years in the police has failed to stop the rot he added.

People with faces like a wet weekend are being asked to volunteer some of their time in drought affected countries.

London Calling

2008-10-15T14:43:00.000-07:00

Senior angels where today caught up in yet more controversy when it was revealed that some have been working for Allah, God and Jehovah. This is not the first time embarrassment has been caused by angels holding multi-directorships. Gabriel today claimed that there was no conflict of interest and was determined to continue working as usual.

A ferret that spent five weeks being used as a sound boom on TV’S I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here has been squashed.

A man who failed to pick his wife out of an identity parade has been found not guilty of adultery at Guildford Magistrates Court.

Children In Greed. Kids from one parent families are being offered an amazing opportunity to take up top jobs in British banks. If you eat chocolates until you are sick and refuse to share your toys with other children, and do as your carer tells you, then ring this number and help your country.

What kind of dirty bastard makes TVs out of plasma? Asks outspoken Radio Rental retiree Reg Wossop.

No Smoking bans in pubs could inhibit the growth of wet snails publicans claim.

Short selling bankers should stay away from my stall, warns Bill Mungo of Leather lane Market.

Literary London is a buzz with the news that God is planning a follow up to his first book for two thousand years.

Archaeology

2008-10-13T13:34:00.000-07:00

“Just down to a metre, don’t dig no further, you’ll find it there.” But we do not find it there, nowhere near it but we do find a pipe. Jerry, so self assured, is proved wrong. And if he ever has a woman looking after him she will have to be strong, patient and forbearing, God help her. Just down there and the two of us covered in dust, and all the time Mr Brenner bringing us mugs of tea, asking have we found the problem? Of course it could be that Jerry, the irreproachable has got his bearings wrong. But that wouldn’t be at all possible now would it? “No Mr Brenner we’re not quite at the crux of the problem.” “The crutch of it you say?”

Mr Brenner sits at the kitchen table worrying over the leaky pipe in his cellar that he hasn’t seen but is damaging the foundations of the house next door. His neighbours aren’t speaking English, that’s how Mr Brenner puts it. “Them, they aren’t speaking English.” Not that they can’t, they aren’t. He states it as a fact, nods at them in greeting, smiles, and occasionally gives the little girl sweets when he remembers.

We come up for a break, we’re crouched terribly low down there and my back’s not good, the lumbago stirs at the very sight of a sack of cement. Jerry follows me up, mumbling. Jerry takes the chair and I have the box to sit on. I share my sandwiches with Mr Brenner; he doesn’t have much in, some tins of spaghetti, sad sort of stuff like that. Doesn’t do you any good at all you tell him, and he says “Look at me seventy three and never a day off sick in my life.” We try not to look and wonder if he hasn’t missed his right arm ever. Or his left ear for that matter, if we’re discussing lost property. Jerry pointed out he might have been born without them, made on the Friday afternoon shift as they say. Which seems careless. We ask him how he lost his arm and he laughs and says at cards. We don’t go any further.

Mr Brenner claims to have been a mercenary in the Belgium Congo. But that is just so much of that says Jerry waving his hand in front of his face as if he’s after smelling something bad. Of course Mr Brenner forgets and denies being in the Congo. We think he’s had a bang on the head, a thrombosis or something because he’s forever making up stories. “So you didn’t lose it in the Congo?”

“I did not,” he says outraged “I lost it down the Jackdaw Lane to a Missy whose name I forget, Jesus I felt like Jonah in the whale, I went right up inside her. Thought I’d never get out.”

“I thought I’d seen you somewhere before.” Says Jerry they both laugh at that one, I find it in bad taste.

Mr Brenner prefers my sandwiches, so I bring extra rations. I don’t let him prod them too much in the lunch box. I try and get them out there on the table double quick, it’s the more hygienic thing to do. He can give them a poke then if he wants. He’s not too fond of the sight of Jerry’s teeth, he tells me in confidence, it puts him off eating. He has a point, Mr Brenner, because I don’t savour sitting opposite Jerry at tea time if he happens to have a blocked nose, the potatoes going round and round his mouth, the self same mouth he says he uses for kissing. I can’t see it myself. Not him, he looks like an unemployed Jesus, and what’s the good of that? Or a Marxist. Mr Brenner has never said anything about it. His hair is short back and sides, he does it himself, I don’t quite know how, but he does.

We get back down there and dig another bit of the hole. Jerry bends down and pulls up a fragment of something, but that’s not a piece of pottery, I can tell that. Mr Brenner is behind us now slowing things up. He has a picture torn from a book it looks like, or a magazine. He wants to show us. We stop to have a look at it, a woman, not bad, dressed up as an Indian. “That’s me old girl friend Cloud Dancer. A genuine Puma Indian she was. Came over here thirty five years ago. Ran The Fox she did. She gave me a name. On account of the fact that I was from here, I was called Cloudy With Sunny Intervals.” Now that was a good one, and we both put our tools down for a laugh. Mr Brenner could have been on the stage. He peers down into the hole, he can’t see any water. There’s no burst pipe. “Makes you think doesn’t it?” He says, and we ask him about what? He sighs and tells us we have all got to go sometime. Mr Brenner has the blues now, so we all stop at that signal for a brew.

He’s already got the kettle boiling so his fit of melancholy is well timed. He wonders when we might be finished with our work? Jerry says for a while yet, we’ve not located the pipe that’s causing all the havoc next door. “How do you know if they aren’t speaking English that they’re having any trouble at all?” He asks. “You know I never see them myself? What are they?” We don’t know, we haven’t spoken to them, they don’t have water in their cellar. We are in truth excavating for a 3rd Century Roman Villa in the foundations of Mr Brenner’s house. We’re after Roman artefacts, not fixing burst pipes.

Mr Brenner doesn’t believe in the Stone, Bronze or Iron Age, anything that comes before Adam and Eve is nothing but an invention he tells us. Dinosaurs? “Are you after seeing them, great monsters they want us to believe in?” No Mr Brenner is having none of that. And you might think then that Mr Brenner is a religious man, a God fearing man, not at a bit of it, he just can’t stand bullshit. If an Evangelist knocks on his door and tells Mr Brenner the good news, God is coming soon, well says Mr Brenner if he is arriving soon he can come round himself the next time. Mr Brenner gets the biscuits out, they are soft and stale but if you dip them in your tea they are passable. I don’t think much of our chances of finding the villa. More chance of finding an old coal mine.

I don’t know what we would do with that if we found it. Mr Brenner might not be too happy to have a long line of miners queuing for the use of his toilet every minute of the day, not that he would notice the coal dust in the basin. It would be a tight squeeze for the tea break in the kitchen, they’d be wanting a social club as well, God knows where we’d put that, but then it would be handy for a cheap pint.

We’re back down there for the final haul. It’s Friday so we’ll be off for a drink later. Get back to the room and have a wash, then out, hope is the anchor of the spirit – and that is where we will be headed. I’m sorry we have found nothing, not so much as a coin. This dig is not going so well. We hoped to have something to sell by now. Mr Brenner asks where we go for a drink. We tell him no where special.

Well Monday comes around again and we get back around there to Mr Brenner’s house, we start there good and early. Jerry is a little frustrated by the lack of progress and he is hacking at it down there. I’m trying to find the sugar and Mr Brenner has a woman at the door telling him she’s from the social services and Mr Brenner tells her he’s sorry but he thinks he’s too old for that carry on. The woman says; “I don’t think you understand.” She is interrupted by Jerry who has run up from the cellar cursing. He pulls me back down with him. Water is filling the hole! Jesus! Water! We crouch down and peer in, bubbling up it is. He’s only gone and hit a bloody pipe. Mr Brenner comes down next, and he’s happy, he says, “You’ve found it.”

Then as suddenly the flow stops. It’s a bad smell, very bad. Jerry says; “That should fix it.” I inspect the hole through the stink, the pipe is not damaged, we’ve no idea where the water came from. I’ve had enough now, we could flood the whole place and then where would we be? Two weeks we have been down here, sweating away, for what? For nothing. Mr Brenner’s got no Roman remains down here.

We go upstairs. “Is that the end of it then lads?” Mr Brenner asks. Jerry says it could well be, although he mentions that we could always check for Roman remains while we are down there with the hole open.

“Will you do that?” Asks Mr Brenner. Why not we tell him, it won’t cost extra. He’s happy about that. Jerry is very pleased with himself now. “At least we fixed his leak for him.” We made it in the first place and it stopped if its own accord. We have permission to dig, that’s piece of good news.

“Do you think we might get in the paper?” Asks Mr Brenner. Jerry says it’s by no means certain, but there’s always a chance. Mr Brenner says he better put his blazer on, we say there’s no hurry, if we discover something he’ll be the first to know. Plenty of time for putting on the best suit, as it were. All three of us feel buoyed up by this happy conclusion to the day.

We sit outside, on the wall, and watch the people pass down the street going to the shop with no cheese. Mr Brenner doesn’t go there, they’ve no cheese he says. He shows us a photograph, of a Chinese woman, a page torn from a magazine “She ate no cheese. They don’t you know?” He says putting the picture back in his pocket. “She liked that shop. No milk in her tea neither, didn’t like cream. Wouldn’t touch it, nothing from a dairy.” We are amazed by this, “What happened to her?” Mr Brenner shakes his head lost in private reminiscences of his lost love. “Was she before or after the Puma Indian?” Asks Jerry, the fool. Mr Brenner is shocked, “I’ve never been with an Indian in me life, whose been saying that?”

Vicar of Sniffwick

2008-09-29T10:51:00.000-07:00

To Mrs Parry-Smith at Bailey House. She is most concerned by council plans to build several “affordable homes” on the land she sold for development. We have quite enough to contend with on the council estate as it is. Mr Parry-Smith joined us having put the condensed milk out for the gardener.

Later I was invited to Doctor Chaplin’s beautiful regency residence; there has been some little misunderstanding about his handling of Ms Robinson’s breasts. I’m sure a normal girl might be flattered to have them referred to as God’s own golden orbs. But Ms Robinson was not. I believe her close female companion who works in the Comprehensive School has mooted augmentation, or at least Mrs Whyte, she being a governor of the benighted school has told me.

I meet with a new and a very upset resident to our village, the distinguished StJohn Fowler, who bought Cleatherhope Cottage on the Playing Close for three quarters of a million. He complains that the youths are gathering at the pond and marring his view. I sympathise. He has rung the police, but to no avail, they do nothing, they could at least move the mob on,. Much the same has happened to the residents of the Old Primary School, who have to contend with the din from The Rose and Crown.

Letters in a Bedsit

2008-09-27T05:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr Bennett,

Further to your allegations against my budgie apropos the alleged pecking incident I can only reaffirm that to my knowledge he has not left his cage for two weeks. That you are now claiming to have a severe case of psittacosis leads me to believe that rather than being assaulted by my budgie it is more than likely that you are erroneous in your visual knowledge of birds and you were in fact the victim of an attack by a parrot. (Why not go to the library and borrow the Observer Book of Birds?) As you know Mrs Murbbles has such an bird in her room, to whom she addresses herself on a daily basis. I suggest you take your complaint and lay it at that door. A budgie as you may or may not be aware has an extremely weak heart and the stress of the allegations made against him has done nothing to improve his health. I know you to be reasonable when you are not (how shall I put it?) in the cups. So I hope that this letter may find you in a sober and reflective mood.

PS I would not like to stop you nailing whatever pieces of wood you are nailing in your room, but would it be possible to desist by midnight? I was kept awake by your hammering until ten pm. I do not wish to be a killjoy, live and let live and so on, but the hammering and the yelling and Irish jigs do nothing for the sleep patterns of myself and of course the budgie.

I remain Sir

Your Neighbour.

------------------------------

Dear Mr Bennett,

Further to our conversation of Tuesday 4th I would like to assure you I will have a set of your finger prints. If you had been more vigilant, you might have noticed the plasticine strategically placed along the top of the cupboard door. If you do not have something to hide then why not submit to my request and have the prints taken? But you refuse. (I wonder why?). As you know Mrs Murbbles made no protest and came into my room voluntarily to answer my questions. She will vouch that she was treated fairly and that none of her rights were infringed. She has since been cleared and has resumed her normal life. You might talk to her if you care to. She was offered tea afterwards; she accepted and ate a digestive biscuit in a perfectly civilised atmosphere. She said that I was a stern but impeccably fair interrogator.

To claim that I have no right to carry out this impartial investigation can only be viewed as obfuscation. You will be given every opportunity to defend yourself as Mrs Murbbles did. She looked justice in the face, she did not creep away! And justice did not find her wanting.

The fact that I am on your landing at certain times is irrelevant it is a communal area. If I choose to rest outside your door, then blame my asthma and not me. I would not think a Christian would begrudge an old man a moment to catch his breath.

It would be in everybody’s interests if the tranquillity of the household was returned by your co-operation in this simple request.

I remain Sir

Your Neighbour.

------------------------------

Dear Mr Bennett,

I write with reference to last weeks misunderstanding. Perhaps you could have saved us all a lot and time and bother if you had explained that rather than ignoring my knocks you had been away in Spain for two weeks. Why you couldn’t come and tell me yourself I don’t know. I try to be a good person, I like to think I practise a Songs Of Praise Christianity which does not chastise unduly. It does not however preclude the fact that you have still not filled in the questionnaire I have been circulating. How am I to have a proper over view of the Boltings if residents are tardy in returning the forms? As you are aware there is also the incentive of a prize draw? I want to send the survey to the landlord as soon as possible. If you need a biro then there is one available which I am happy to supply. Otherwise there is one on the string by the W.C. The survey will take no more than thirty minutes of your time. I might add Mrs Murbbles enjoyed it very much. This survey is for everyone’s good. I urge you to fill it in.

I remain Sir

Your Neighbour

------------------------------

Dear Mr Bennett,

Further to our conversation at the bus stop on 14th June, I feel I must respond to your accusations. My days are not ones filled with ‘ennui, onomism and angst!’ I have many varied hobbies, and eat a well balanced diet! so much for your accusation of onomism and as for ‘angst’ I don’t think you know how to spell English!

As we are neighbours who in the past have had one or two minor disagreements I do not wish to exasperate the situation. I am therefore in this instance prepared to accept a full and unreserved apology from yourself written forthwith. If you fail to respond as requested then you may well hear from my attorney at law Mr Tinker, (offices above the Laundromat), who I believe you know has represented me several times in actions of the past. It was I might add especially disingenuous of you to avail yourself of his services knowing full well that I was his client first. But that is another matter.

I look forward to receiving your retractions forthwith.

I remain Sir

Your Neighbour.

------------------------------

Dear Mr Bennett,

I am not asking you to touch my sardine with a barge pole. I never asked you to do anything with it. I bought it, I shall keep it. Was your help too much to ask? A chance for you by way of a good turn to join the happy household has been offered and foolishly spurned. To goad me by challenging me to try my worst is deeply unhelpful. The fact is that afternoon, 20th June I went to my fishmongers, Hatts, on Essex Road and bought my usual two sardines for my tea. I have done so ever since my Portuguese cruise of 1974, when I was first introduced to the fish, but I digress. On returning home I took them from their wrappings to observe their freshness Hatt always hurries so when he serves me. As I put them on the dish prior to gutting them, I received a rather unpleasant and heart wrenching shock. One which could cause permanent damage. One of them, the larger of the two wriggled in my hands! I dropped it! My heart pounding, throat dry, legs trembling, I peered closer and its mouth gapped open. It wriggled again and when I picked it up, it jumped out of my hand. So I ran to the sink, not a little disturbed and put the thing in a bowl of water. Then somewhat shaken I rang Hatt to complain. He was extremely unhelpful and said that was the first complaint he had ever received about a fish being too fresh! The next thing I know I have the Islington Gazette knocking on my door wanting a story. Hatt has informed them of our private conversation! But back to the matter in hand. You cannot fail but to appreciate the miraculous nature which precipitated my request to borrow your vacant goldfish bowl. I know it is vacant! And I don’t see why I should have to rent it! Think what I have sacrificed, half my supper, I was left hungry as the fish swam before me as I digested his cousin. Is it too much for you, to give me the fish bowl? I know you said you keep old bus tickets in it but surely you can find somewhere else for them!

I remain Sir

Your Neighbour.

------------------------------

Dear Mr Bennett,

To laugh at bereavement is cruel at the very least. I may not have as you appear to posses a constant stream of female masseurs as close friends but I do have I believe an affinity with our Royal family. The sad passing of two of its number is not a time for indulging in disruptive republicanism but standing together and mourning. The observation about me and my flies at half mast was puerile and offensive. Commemoration cups are not to be used as I am sure you are aware for whisky debauches, the fact that you had purloined all four from my cupboard leaves me to believe it was a deliberate act. That you had invited three Irishmen in for a drink I will pass over. But to then find my Princess Diana cracked and chipped on the draining board was a matter of some regret. So I state now and unequivocally, that I will not, do not, nor will I ever negotiate with terrorists. You can smash all the crockery you want to, but you will not smash the heart of this loyal lion, or the morale of the Royal Family.

I remain Sir

Your Neighbour.

Vicar of Sniffwick

2008-09-26T13:32:00.000-07:00

I have been out and about over the Christmas period, busy meeting my parishioners. I was in the Red Lion on Boxing Day having a festive half pint when I heard a conversation in which Nigel Sommers mentioned that he knew the televisual presenter Jeremy Clarkson awfully well. How I laughed at the gasps from my fellow drinkers, how impressed they were with Nigel! Well as a priest I pointed out, I can honestly number Jesus Christ and God amongst my closest friends, now that is name dropping!

To the Dunhams in Wiltshire for the weekend, where I met once again a dear old friend, Miss Bone, who happily will be staying here with Mrs York at Granchester House in February. We spent many an hour in prayerful thought and meditation. How nice to have a break from one’s housekeeper!

I am very keen on attracting young people back to the church and to this “groovy” end I plan to run a Faith Club for our youngsters every Thursday evening from six until half past eight. “Fat Boy” Trevor will be in situ as it were, running the thing. Any one interested can just turn up and enjoy the fun and informal atmosphere. Bring a guitar if you want to rock and roll! How about a rape song about Christ? Get the synthesisers going!

For the older parishioners we are hoping to hold a monthly tea party at the vicarage to which everyone is welcome! We will provide tea and cakes, at a modest price, which should see off any undesirables, apart from the two required to serve said tea. Note to self, ask Mrs Clapworthy and Mrs Prunes.

There has been some consternation about my comments on the new youth project, as you know I am not au fait with modern vernacular and of course I meant to say a wrap song about Jesus Christ. Can this error now be laid to rest?

Went to bless the river for the upcoming coarse, (quite agree with that) angling season. Mr Clapworthy, the Chairman of the club, (Chairman indeed! how they do arrange things these people!) smoked right through the Fishers of Men, then insisted I make the first cast, snagged the blessed hook in a weeping willow! Succour was provided by Mrs York at tea time, who was quite as traumatised by the experience as I!

Made a pastoral visit to the new estate, where cars are parked on “Drives.” Forgive me but I thought a drive stretched more than eight feet! What would dear old Sir John have to say about that? Save us from the ghastly hot house atmosphere of the porch! What purpose does it serve? Where does one knock, or ring? Does one enter this appalling annex or not? Welcomed by a row of pungent shoes! The bell did not work and the letter box snapped my fingers off. A Mrs Bennett was accommodated in what they called the “front room”. It made me almost tearful to think that this was once the site of Lady Murray’s orchard, what gay times they were! The woman dipped her biscuits in her tea, heaven must be better organised! Eternity with this digestive dredger just won’t do.

London Calling

2008-09-25T11:26:00.000-07:00

A nationwide strike by hairdressers is set to continue for another gruelling week, salons across the country remain closed. The Prime Minister has called for calm and is rumoured to be thinking of sending in the army barbers. Hairdressers meanwhile reacted angrily to the accusation that secondary picketing by beauticians was illegal. Meanwhile thousands of perms have been cancelled, and a state of panic is spreading amongst the nations blondes as roots begin to show. Bus drivers, pilots and rock stars claim their fringes are getting dangerously close to their eyes and it is only a matter of time before a hair related disaster occurs. Negotiations at ACAS broke down when the hairdressers refused to discuss anything but their holiday in Ibiza and how mad they and their boyfriends are. Many retro mullets look now to be threatened. Pedicurists could be the next to follow in copycat actions.

A forum of animals has decided that the dove's long standing monopoly as universal peace symbol must be brought to an end. The doves reacted angrily to the move and said they would fight to maintain their status as the premier internationally recognised icon of brotherhood and love. Their main challenge is thought to come from the Hamster's Federation for Disarmament who claim to have achieved more for lasting peace than the doves. The doves ridiculed the image of a hamster holding the olive branch in his paws… because he couldn’t resist nibbling it.

God dismissed claims that he moves in mysterious ways as mischievous scandal mongering. He was somewhat embarrassed when caught making one of his famous mythical shimmies out of the back door of a Hollywood massage parlour! An archangel grabbed a photographer's camera and allegedly smashed it during a brief scuffle with the paparazzi. A man calling himself Pope John Paul, thought to have been obsessively stalking God for many years now, was arrested but is yet to be charged by police. God later attended an 'open forum' during which he launched his new automated call centres, the call centres have drawn much criticism with some claiming that prayers have been left in a stacking system and most remain unanswered.

Particularly slow snails have been asked to remain at the edge of their lanes to ease congestion - ants claim this as victory for their transport policy.

Mrs Phyllis Twinkle found a wrinkle when she sprinkled a little sugar on it by mistake.

A famous knitting pattern for all-butter Scotch shortbread was auctioned at Sotheby’s today for a record 20 pence, a Japanese collector is rumoured to have bought the piece. It was hoped the pattern would remain in the country but The Scottish Society for the Preservation of Oat Cakes, failed to raise the requisite funds. Some worry this will set a precedent and the complex and putatively Mesolithic embroidery pattern for the Digestive biscuit might now go the same way. The Royal Society of Custard creams was said to be crumbling at either end and to have gone soft.

Other news....

A man who claimed his wife had mistakenly got herself stuck between his teeth has been released on bail pending an orthodontist's report.

At a conference at the NEC in Birmingham today, Swallows demanded that they be known by a nicer name; in effect they are seeking a rebranding . Ornithologists worry this may encourage complaints from other aggrieved birds such as the Blue Tit, the Gamecock and the Thrush. It has long been a contentious issue as to why we have chosen such ignominious names for our birds. Pheasants are said to feel devalued, but then they lisp.

International News...
A controversial study at the University Of Southern California claims that George W. Bush has had an intelligent non planet threatening thought, but experts remain cautious: "Any study completed with absolutely solid empirical proof of this phenomenon would be of great significance, but we are unable at this juncture to refute or accept the veracity of the claim." A scientist informed us, the thought is believed to have been a mediation on the concomitant relevance of toilet and paper.

In Kashmir tensions rose again when Chandeed Patel threatened to put on all of his twenty pullovers, unless the Pakistani army removed its knitting squads from the Luki Valley. Mig jets of the Pakistani air force have been 'buzzing' Chandeed Patel's v-necks as a show of military strength and resolve in the face of such intimidation. Chandeed Patel has retaliated with a show of his underwear. The situation remains unstable.

A chicken has won a landmark victory at the Supreme Court today where it was claiming compensation for injuries caused by the barbecuing of its legs. The organisation, Fowl Freedom, a radical chicken group, who brought the action, was pelted with coleslaw and French fries & buttered corn on leaving the court room. But remained defiant responding with their mantra, "Fuck off!" Fowl language indeed.

A claim eggs come out of hen's bottoms has been strongly denied by the Hens in Business League. The hens assert that the eggs are manufactured as they always have been on a potter’s wheel from thin porcelain, the filling added at the end. They dismissed the photographic evidence of some of their members appearing to excavate egg shaped objects from their anuses as preposterous propaganda published by their rivals. When pressed by several journalists as to who exactly these rivals might be, the hens became quite aggressive and the news conference was ended abruptly.

And that is the news as it happens, when it happens from London Calling....London Calling....

Staff on Capital Hill in Washington have been placed under quarantine after a letter sent to the office of Congressman Daschle was believed to have contained thoughts. This represents a devastating attack at the very nerve centre of government. More worryingly experts agree that the thoughts if they are extra fine could affect staff. The thoughts from the letters could also seep into the air-conditioning and heating ducts, spreading as far as the Oval Office itself. An official was quoted today as saying; "Thoughts entering the seat of government illicitly leaves us in new terrain and we are feeling our way through right now. But we in America are confident of remaining a thoughtless nation no matter what the terrorists throw at us" Meanwhile the Senate has been evacuated until such time as it can be ascertained that it is totally thought free. Questions were raised as to how the Centre for Thought Control and Prevention could have got it so wrong, following the first case of thought attacks it was said there was no risk of exposure to ideas from merely handling sealed envelopes. Angry postal workers were wondering why the big shots on Capital Hill were treated immediately whereas they were not tested until five days later. A White House Spokesperson reassured the Nation that no thoughts had entered the Oval Office and that Mr Bush was confident that his presidency would continue to be untroubled by them.

Evil is on the increase. Politicians scarcely get through a speech without reminding us of acts of unmitigated evil. Evil is believed to have tripled in the month after the September 11th attack, compared with the previous month. Experts say this could represent a boom time for evil and a canny investor should be moving his money away from goodness and into the high risk but high return of evil. "A run on evil could be about to occur, investors are deserting Goodness in droves." Goodness has collapsed, falling by nearly 98 percent in the first financial quarter. Goodness might have to sell assets and its long standing stake in certain sectors.

Prayer addiction endemic in Tipperary convent.

Avocado and mayonnaise cocktail proves fatal for suicidal prawns

Man with crease in his trousers admits to eating sausage roll in Methodist chapel.