FLOATER

What's the matter with this flush
Don't wanna make the ladies blush.
Goddamn floater
Just won't goter
Where it's s'poster
Round the U bend
To the sewer
And Turdleigh End
Where prize tomatoes grow.
Give the handle a harder go
Hope to get a stronger flow
Damn it - no
It's back again
Never happened with a chain.

MELANCHOLY TIME

My mind is filled with sadness - the sadness of human loss, the sadness of human suffering, the sadness of injustice, the sadness of transient mortality. November 11 will soon be upon us. I will wear my poppy and stand in tearful silence at the eleventh hour.
Until then I shall reflect on the innate goodness and heroism of those I can never hope to emulate and make my small contribution to such causes as children in need. I wish I could do so much more. 

THE BIGGER PICTURE

. Why don't environmental and wildlife protection agencies see the link between overpopulation and destruction of habitat and species?
We received a begging letter from the Woodland Trust today
Here is my response.

Thank you for your offer to join the Woodland trust

Much as I love our natural woodland (what’s left of it),

I have little enthusiasm for donating to its preservation when we have a government committed to allowing in millions more EU immigrants over the coming years and consequently having to bulldoze huge amounts of our precious countryside to make ever more room for houses and associated infrastructure, of schools, factories, transport, health and education etc which in this small overcrowded island seems completely unsustainable.

 What chance has woodland got when the developers under Mr Cameron’s relaxed planning laws can build anywhere they like it seems on much more valuable land in terms of  food production.

I’m sorry to say that in years to come there will be little need for organisations such as yourselves, wishing to protect the natural environment because there won’t be any left to protect.

I suggest you start a campaign involving ALL wildlife and environmental protection organisations to reverse this trend before our country becomes uninhabitable.

Only then will I be prepared to part with any disposable income which is then hopefully not a lost cause.

Meanwhile I will continue to contribute to the UKIP coffers as the only place my money will do any good if it means we can exit the madness of the EU and restore sanity to our once green and pleasant land.

Regards

We received a begging letter from the Woodland Trust today

A DIFFERENT WORLD THEN IN PC TERMS

This was originally shown on BBC TV back in the 70's. Ronnie Barker could say all this without a snigger, though God knows after how many takes.

The irony is, BBC received not one complaint.
The speed of delivery must have been too much
for the whining herds. Try getting through it without converting the spoonerisms [and not wetting your pants] as you read.......

This is the story of Rindercella and her sugly isters.





Rindercella and her sugly isters lived in a marge lansion. Rindercella worked very hard frubbing scloors, emptying poss pits, and shivelling shot.

At the end of the day, she was knucking fackered. The sugly isters were right bugly astards. One was called Mary Hinge, and the other was called Betty Swallocks; they were really forrible huckers; they had fetty sweet and fatty swannies.

The sugly isters had tickets to go to the ball, but
the cotton runts would not let Rindercella go.



Suddenly there was a bucking fang, and her gairy fodmother appeared. Her name was Shairy Hithole and she was a light rucking fesbian. She turned a pumpkin and six mite wice into a hucking cuge farriage with six dandy ronkeys who had buge hollocks and dig bicks. The gairy fodmother told Rindercella to be back by dimnlight otherwise, there would be a cucking falamity.

At the ball, Rindercella was dancing with the prandsome hince when suddenly the clock struck twelve. "Mist all chucking frighty!!!" said Rindercella, and she ran out tripping barse over ollocks, so dropping her slass glipper..



The very next day, the prandsome hince knocked
on Rindercella's door and the sugly isters let him in.. Suddenly, Betty Swallocks lifted her leg and let
off a fig bart. "Who's fust jarted?" asked the prandsome hince. "Blame that fugly ucker over there!!" said Mary Hinge.
When the stinking brown cloud had lifted, he tried the slass glipper on both the sugly isters without success and their feet stucking funk..

Betty Swallocks was ducking fisgusted and gave the prandsome hince a knack in the kickers. This was not difficult as he had bucking fuge halls and a hig bard on. He tried the slass glipper on Rindercella and it fitted pucking ferfectly.
Rindercella and the prandsome hince were married. The pransome hince lived his life in lucking fuxury, and Rindercella lived hers with a follen swanny!


I have always thought Ronnie Barker hasnt been properley recognised as one of the all time best comedy writer and actors of all time!

GABRIELA MONTERO Trailer: Montero "Ex Patria"/Rachmaninov No.2/Improvisa...

THE JOY OF BEING POOR

The Joy Of Being Poor

I Let others sing of gold and gear, the joy of being rich; But oh, the days when I was poor, a vagrant in a ditch! When every dawn was like a gem, so radiant and rare, And I had but a single coat, and not a single care; When I would feast right royally on bacon, bread and beer, And dig into a stack of hay and doze like any peer; When I would wash beside a brook my solitary shirt, And though it dried upon my back I never took a hurt; When I went romping down the road contemptuous of care, And slapped Adventure on the back -- by Gad! we were a pair; When, though my pockets lacked a coin, and though my coat was old, The largess of the stars was mine, and all the sunset gold; When time was only made for fools, and free as air was I, And hard I hit and hard I lived beneath the open sky; When all the roads were one to me, and each had its allure . . . Ye Gods! these were the happy days, the days when I was poor. II Or else, again, old pal of mine, do you recall the times You struggled with your storyettes, I wrestled with my rhymes; Oh, we were happy, were we not? -- we used to live so "high" (A little bit of broken roof between us and the sky); Upon the forge of art we toiled with hammer and with tongs; You told me all your rippling yarns, I sang to you my songs. Our hats were frayed, our jackets patched, our boots were down at heel, But oh, the happy men were we, although we lacked a meal. And if I sold a bit of rhyme, or if you placed a tale, What feasts we had of tenderloins and apple-tarts and ale! And yet how often we would dine as cheerful as you please, Beside our little friendly fire on coffee, bread and cheese. We lived upon the ragged edge, and grub was never sure, But oh, these were the happy days, the days when we were poor. III Alas! old man, we're wealthy now, it's sad beyond a doubt; We cannot dodge prosperity, success has found us out. Your eye is very dull and drear, my brow is creased with care, We realize how hard it is to be a millionaire. The burden's heavy on our backs -- you're thinking of your rents, I'm worrying if I'll invest in five or six per cents. We've limousines, and marble halls, and flunkeys by the score, We play the part . . . but say, old chap, oh, isn't it a bore? We work like slaves, we eat too much, we put on evening dress; We've everything a man can want, I think . . . but happiness. Come, let us sneak away, old chum; forget that we are rich, And earn an honest appetite, and scratch an honest itch. Let's be two jolly garreteers, up seven flights of stairs, And wear old clothes and just pretend we aren't millionaires; And wonder how we'll pay the rent, and scribble ream on ream, And sup on sausages and tea, and laugh and loaf and dream. And when we're tired of that, my friend, oh, you will come with me; And we will seek the sunlit roads that lie beside the sea. We'll know the joy the gipsy knows, the freedom nothing mars, The golden treasure-gates of dawn, the mintage of the stars. We'll smoke our pipes and watch the pot, and feed the crackling fire, And sing like two old jolly boys, and dance to heart's desire; We'll climb the hill and ford the brook and camp upon the moor . . . Old chap, let's haste, I'm mad to taste the Joy of Being Poor. Robert William Service

PETALS IN THE CAT'S POO

PETALS  IN THE CATS POO                                                                                   213

Alice clambered off the threadbare old armchair and pressed a button nose against the window pane.

The big ginger cat in the garden glanced disdainfully at the child’s face before moving on.

It knew a good litter when it saw one.

Her eyes widened in horror. ‘Mommy, the cat’s doing it under the bush with the purple flowers’.

Alice’s mother smiled. ‘It won’t hurt Alice, and it’s called a magnolia. How lovely it is.’

Vivid mauve petal trumpets, glowed in the Spring sunlight in acknowledgement of her complimentary observation.

‘…But mommy what about Grandma and grandpa.’

‘They won’t mind, Alice, cats will be cats. It’s just their nature.’

Alice thought about it and screwed up an outraged nose . ‘Yuk!

She watched the cat as it scraped the soil into a heap before stalking off unashamedly.

‘Horrid Beast’

‘Mommy’ left her to it. That reminded her. She must rescue the urns from the wardrobe and dispose of them.

Outside, clouds gathered on a strengthening breeze and the first tears of rain ran down the window.

Magnolia petals fluttered gently to the ground.

If only the forlorn old empty armchair could speak, she thought. It would probably say

‘How bleak, how sad - the destiny of lives and love.  Petals in the cat’s poo.’   

    

Copyright Ben Corde 2015

LAST RIGHTS

Parrots were flying wild over Hanworth Crematorium yesterday as they delivered the last rites to our oldest friend. 
What did this mean?
 Gridlock everywhere. The car reigns supreme in this part of the UK. Every inch of parking space taken. Every garden gone. 
No thanks, won't bother with B & B. Must escape back to sanity while some movement still possible.
Crawled back down M3, headed West and left them to it.
 As freedom of movement increased it struck me. 
The parrots were an omen. The answer for the next life. 
'Free as a bird' as they say.
RIP PETER

Richter plays Rachmaninoff Prelude in D major op23 no4

Only men aloud - Band of brothers (New album: Band of brothers - 2009)

Ivana Gavrić BBC Music Magazine Awards Newcomer of the Year

MORIBUND

                                            MORIBUND                                            

Anguish hangs in the silence.

Too late now those unsaid words,

To heal the wounds of time.

Oh, that I’d got here quicker.

Has the Reaper been already?

Is the harvest gathered?

Wait….almost imperceptibly,

The rise and fall of the bed cover betrays hidden life.

The faintest flicker.

From the shadows of the ward Panacea emerges.

“Sit up…do please try”

Skinny wrists move almost imperceptibly,

Flopping feebly back onto the bed cover,

As if the clear plastic tube snaking up to the saline bottle is too heavy.

Grey blue lips emit a faint whispered response.

Or is it just a sigh?

It’s impossible to tell.

Unfocused eyes register neither pain nor emotion.

Gentle arms embrace bony, hunched shoulders.

To lift the head or raise the dead ?

A spoonful of grey ooze between sealed lips

Trickles uselessly down a stubbly chin.

She wipes it away and smiles.

“I’ll leave it here for him…when he’s ready.”

 I  protest,

“He’s very weak” she interrupts.

“We can’t force him…let him rest first”

She speaks to me as you would a child.

If only she knew!

My hunger;

His thirst.

I try once more to reason with her.

She smiles condescendingly. 

“We’ll see….he’s in no pain”

She moves away, a shadow in the distance once again.

There seems no point in staying further.

Next day he’s curled up like a foetus.

Not even covered by the bed sheets.

He hasn’t even tried.

On that bleak and lonely night something inside died.

Even his beloved Mozart stirs no flickering embers of life .

I regard the pathetic old broken husk and see myself.

Without grief. Without pity.

Copyright Ben Corde 2013

TOMB IT MAY CONCERN

                        

                                 

TOMB IT MAY CONCERN

      In the village of Combe Upstanding, life and death followed each other round in a rapid and endless succession. The newer headstones in the graveyard of the Norman church were smaller and packed together much closer now of course since cremation increasingly replaced burial but the mechanical digger still appeared at regular intervals amongst the well tended graves for those who preferred a slower decomposition.

       Topsoil as he was affectionately known, had been serving the undertakers for the surrounding area as long as he could remember and Combe was his favourite village and the pub was his watering hole.

     Nestling in the top of the valley and surrounded by hills, about twelve miles from the sea, it was off the tourist trail but by virtue of its isolation and the fact that the road through it provided a useful alternative North - South route to Taunton through the mysterious Blackdown Hills, it had managed to survive the upheavals of time and maintain a vibrant community supporting a school, pub, post office and two shops; bus service, hairdresser and a host of societies with their committees, most of whom conducted their business in the village hall. Thespians, campanologists, gardeners, keep-fitters and many others were all active in Combe. The farm workers had nearly all gone of course, along with the mills and small rural industries and garage but there was one large engineering factory and many retired incomers put the skills they’d been trained for to good use in their own cottage projects and for the first time in their lives were doing what they always wanted to do without interference.

           On the surface it was an idyllic place, not architecturally chocolate box but with houses, church and school clustered picturesquely and conveniently around two greens, one to which outsiders aspired to live, young or old. The surrounding lanes although quiet were not to be taken for granted. There was always a horse and rider round the next bend or someone walking the dog not to mention groups of ramblers with their state of the art outdoor kit, ski sticks and maps striding determinedly along, to or from one of the many footpaths, noting diligently any illegal obstructions or maintenance failures that hindered their progress.

      Topsoil never gave any of this much thought of course, he’d been part of the scenery too long. To him and others of his generation all change was bad and he longed for things as they used to be.

     He turned off the engine of his digger and relaxed. “That should do it; won’t get out of there in a hurry,” he announced cheerfully to his assistant, who was tidying up the spoil and positioning the trestles and covers. His name was Gladstone but everyone called him Happyrock. He gave new meaning to the word taciturn, never joining in a conversation and living a solitary life in a small flat somewhere, nobody knew quite where. Every night though, he’d sit in a corner of the Three Wheeled Wagon, listening and occasionally nodding to the regulars around him. Like so many others down the years, the pub played a large part in his life and no doubt later, his premature death. Any alien observer from another world might well wonder why there was so much debate about legalising suicide when mortals already seemed to be managing to do it so well already.

      Topsoil knew his job was safe. There would always be someone like him waiting at the end of the motorway of life, but it often struck him as a shame that all those youngsters in their brightly lit homes on the housing estates, never gave a moments thought to this their ultimate destiny. If they did, anti-social behaviour would probably become a thing of the past

     He contemplated the soon to be incumbent of this particular pit, the much loved and revered Mr Ben. He’d lived just down from the pub and been a regular, able to consume vast quantities of beer and scotch before closing time. His girth had become huge on an already large frame and consequently his health had been deteriorating for some time.

   In his eighties, unkempt and with a rebellious old soldier’s contempt for authority, he’d never been afraid to speak his mind. He’d been one of ‘Stirling’s Mob’; the forerunners of the Special Air Services and proudly still carried the photo of himself riding a camel across the desert in his wallet. If he liked you, as an evening progressed the conversation would often go hilariously downhill as would his corduroy trousers if he’d loosened his belt too much to make way for more beer.

      Topsoil had taken him home on several occasions; him and his dog that always accompanied him. The secret was to keep him away from the telegraph pole which wasn’t always easy. He had the strength of an ox and once clasping the pole it would be impossible to prise him off. He’d stay there with his trousers round his ankles until he was sober enough to move or be moved and nothing would budge him.

   He’d a thing about his brother in law and every night at some point the obvious enmity between them would surface in the conversation. He’d even asked Mr Harry, the retired copper if it would be a crime to dig up his old service revolver and shoot him. Give him his due, Mr Harry had told him it would be an act of mercy. They’d been friends ever since.

     His wife was a tiny frail little woman and how she managed to get him up the stairs to bed each night was the subject of much speculation. In the end he’d fallen down those same stairs; an ignominious end after surviving so many dangerous situations. Such was the fickleness of fate.

       At the end of this particular day, Mr Harry staggered from the entrance of the Three Wheeled Wagon to the gateway of the churchyard and paused, swaying outside. He was an early retiree, now middle aged and going through somewhat of a mid life crisis. His children were all but grown up and his sexual life, the romance and glamour of yore were somehow becoming a distant fantasy. He’d lost his way in more ways than one and also his friend Mr Ben.

     The powerful beams of the arc lights illuminating the front of the church shone up into the blackness. Mr Harry wondered if they were there to show lost souls the pathway to heaven.

   He stumbled up through the graveyard to the locked Norman      

front door and tried to open it before remembering the vicar had told him the key was kept at the vicarage for anyone with legitimate reasons of worship who wished to enter at unusual times. He didn’t think 11.45pm was too unusual. This would be God’s last chance; one to one, and if he didn’t get an answer he’d become an atheist. That would teach him to ignore a man in his hour of need.

    The vicarage was round the back, through another part of the graveyard. A powerful security light switched itself on as he reached the kissing gate entrance to the vicarage. He carried on up the driveway and rang the doorbell but there was no reply to that or repeated knocking; It crossed his mind there ought to be a law about security lights that made you feel like an escapee from the East at the Berlin Wall about to be shot.

       Frustrated at every turn he made his petulant, inebriated way back along the path to the kissing gate, kicking over a small, dim pedestal lamp on the way. He’d seen brighter Toc H lamps than that and anyway it could be a danger to an unsuspecting crotch. The powerful security lights turned off, rendering him temporarily blinded and disorientated and he deviated off the path across the graveyard.

      Shortly afterwards, The Rev and Mrs Defont were walking home through the churchyard after a pleasant evening at the home of one of the more illustrious members of their congregation. The wine had been particularly excellent.

   The vicar, like his wife, was tall and thin, insufferably sanctimonious and vain, even to the extent of personalised number plates on their car. They were extremely proud of their child prodigy trumpet playing son who went to private school 15 miles away from the village. He offered the same ministrations to horses as he did for humans and it was rumoured he’d an enormous portfolio of stocks and shares which was true if somewhat exaggerated. He didn’t discourage the rumours as they saw no conflict of interest or hypocrisy in the latter as there was no way a family could survive on his pitiful stipend in this day and age, especially with rising private school fees. He also knew there was speculation whether he’d do exorcisms, having heard snatches of conversation from the other bar, mainly amongst the older pub regulars who liked to cause mischief. But the subject was taboo as far as he was concerned and he never rose to the bait.  To anyone familiar with Richmal Crompton they might well have come straight from the pages of a William book.

    An unearthly howl horribly disturbed their until now pleasant, late night stroll.

     “What was that?” Mrs Defont whispered, clutching her adorable husband’s thin arm. “It sounded as if it was coming from one of the graves.”

         “Yes dear,” he replied, bravely protective, “perhaps it would be better if we went round the other way, along the

road. You never know these days, lunatics and drunken thugs everywhere.”

      “Perhaps someone is in trouble, needs help. Shouldn’t we at least see?”

    “Nonsense, not here, just a drunk probably, he’ll be gone in the morning.”

     They about turned and exited the churchyard the way they came.

      On the morning of the funeral, the pallbearers lurched and swayed with their heavy burden towards the chosen plot, followed by the vicar and the rest of the mourners. The front left bearer complained bitterly to the front right bearer about the weight, but they should have known what to expect. It had been hard enough getting him into the casket.

       The mourners, including Ben’s frail widow, brothers, sister, hated brother in law and their children, cousins and a handful of friends gathered round the grave as the pallbearers waited for the signal to proceed. Timing was so important in these matters.

       A small boy, who didn’t look very mournful, curious to see how deep it was, eluded the captive hand of his mother, ran to the edge and looked down. “Mum! Mum! There’s already one in here, he’s got out of the box, he’s loose.”

      “Come here, yer little so and so” Mum screamed, rushing forward to grab her wayward offspring. “If this is another of your stupid games I’ll bloody murder you.”

      Suddenly realising where she was her tone became gushingly upper crust Queens English. “ I’m so sorry vicar, take no notice of him. They’re nothing but trouble at this age, aren’t they.”

      She pulled him, still protesting, away from the edge as the vicar looked down curiously into the grave, idly speculating at the way children’s imaginations were prone to run riot at times like these. He suddenly stepped back in horror, slack jawed and mouth gaping idiotically. ”Good Lord!”

     One of the mourners also ventured to the edge and looked into the void. “There’s a body already in here.”  He said it in a matter of fact way as if it were an everyday occurrence. The effect though was amazing. The rest of the mourners crowded to the edge, nearly knocking the vicar into the hole. He teetered on the lip with arms flailing until a hand grabbed his habit and pulled him to safety.

         “Shouldn’t it be in a coffin?”

         “Somebody should call the police.”

         “Are we in the right place dear?”

        Suddenly the funeral had taken on a whole new dimension. This looked like being much more interesting than your average run of the mill burial.

The Rev Defont turned to the pall bearers who were now in severe discomfort. “I think you’d better take him back to the Chapel of Rest for now.”

     Mr Harry opened one eye, trying to work out why his bed was so cold, damp and lumpy, and why he could hear voices coming from somewhere above him. He stared at the bright oblong patch of sky and imagined he saw strange faces peering down at him. He’d no recollection yet of the night before. He shut one eye and opened the other one but the faces were still there. He opened both eyes and felt the cold, crumbly earthen walls of his tomb and realisation struck him. Memories of the fall into the blackness and his unanswered calls for help, trickled back. He must have passed out. They were burying him before his time. He shrieked in terror and scrabbled frantically at the sides of the grave. Any minute now it could soon be too late and he didn’t want to share this place with anyone, dead or alive. He briefly wondered whose headstone was up there and the awful thought occurred that it might be his own until he remembered Mr Ben. Movement returned to his limbs like an electric shock and he scrabbled frantically at the walls of his tomb, somehow propelling himself up the side of the grave like a man possessed. The mourners scattered in all directions. The vicar stood there in total bemusement.

       “Sorry” Mr Harry muttered sheepishly at nobody in particular. Then he noticed Mrs Defont, the vicar’s wife. “I’ll fix the light tomorrow, don’t let the kids go near it, there may be bare wires.” He slunk ashamedly away amongst the drunken headstones to the sanctity of his home and his beloved long suffering wife, vowing to call AA as soon as he got in.

         Mrs Defont turned to her husband. “Well that solves that little mystery. Who said dead men can’t speak.”

     Mrs Harry regarded her husband curiously as he entered the kitchen, looking distressed and dishevelled. It was well past lunch time. “Have a nice night? I notice your side of the bed wasn’t slept in last night. I was beginning to get quite worried” She didn’t try to hide the sarcasm, used to his occasional spontaneous disappearing acts by now.

      There was no point telling her the truth, she’d never believe him. “Sorry, stayed over at the Grimes” he lied. He’d stayed there before so it might just ring true.

     The first awful pangs of guilt and remorse engulfed him as snatches of memory returned. He knew the suicidal depression would last for days, before his next binge gave him temporary reprieve from reality and the past. He should never have been a policeman. His brushes with the worst aspects of human nature, his governors and the justice system had left him cynical and disillusioned. He couldn’t cope with the rapidly changing liberal attitudes. The shift work and stress had all taken their toll on his health. He was bowed if not completely broken.  Some called it mid-life crisis, male menopause, but he knew himself for what he was; a weak willed, drunken dinosaur who couldn’t come to terms with his lack of ambition or tangible achievements in life. He’d thought that early retirement to the country would somehow restore his self-respect. It hadn’t happened yet but it had transformed the life of his family for the better.

       He wished Mrs Harry would scream or shout abuse at him rather than her condescending acceptance, but it wasn’t in her nature. Sometimes, when she was asleep he’d stare at her face and he loved her so much it hurt. Why couldn’t it be like before, he wondered bitterly? Why did it have to change? Why had there been no trestles or covers over Mr Ben’s grave.       

       Next day, Mr Harry had just finished mending the light as The Rev and Mrs Defont emerged from the vicarage

      “There you are vicar, good as new. Sorry about yesterday.”         “It’s those people at the funeral you should be apologising to. You disrupted the whole days schedule.”    

      “Yes, well it won’t happen again I can assure you” Mr Harry replied shamefacedly “I’m giving it up.”

      “What! You’ve done it before then?” The Rev Defont replied facetiously, knowing full well what he meant.

      It was lost on Mr Harry though in his present humiliating circumstances.

     “No, no, drink I mean. Someone from Flaggon AA is coming down to see me this evening.”        

      “Aaaah there, you see, sometimes our Lord works in mysterious ways, does he not.”

   “You said HE, vicar. Do you think there’s any chance it could be a woman?”

  The man was unreal. The Rev Defont blinked uncertainly before answering somewhat vaguely that he didn’t think you could refer to god in terms of flesh and blood. A female god didn’t sound right anyway. It would have to be a goddess. There was no mention of a goddess in the scriptures.

   Later, when the AA volunteer finally arrived on his doorstep Mr Harry was disappointed. It wasn’t an attractive young woman, but a middle aged nondescript looking man with spectacles; a bit like himself in fact.

      “Mr Harry?”

     He nodded doubtfully, having harboured second thoughts. It would have been easy to deny all knowledge and send him away but a small glimmer of the last vestiges of his self-respect still glowed deep inside him and he decided to give it a chance.

     The man showed him a scruffy identity card.

     He showed him in, waiting with waning enthusiasm for the prognosis.

      “Yes, well firstly I think you should know that I’m an alcoholic too. We have to face the truth about ourselves. It’s the first step. There’s no cure, we can then deal with it day by day.”

       “Well that’s encouraging, do you mean to say, there’s no tablets, medication or substitutes then?”

      “Afraid not, we just have say I will not drink today. We hold meetings every week where you can talk about your problem and listen to others in the same boat.”

     Mr Harry wondered whether he meant sinking ship.

    “You’d be surprised at the people we get. They’re not all down and outs you know. We get celebrities, all sorts. In fact there’s a meeting tomorrow night if you’re interested.”

         “Are there any women?”

       The AA man looked puzzled. “Er yes we have a mix of sex; no discrimination in our organisation you know. I take it you have no problem with women then.”

     “Chance would be a fine thing,” Mr Harry replied sardonically.

     The AA man blinked uncertainly. He was beginning to wonder if he was at the right address.

     The following evening, Mr Harry arrived on time outside the brightly lit hall. Through the glass doors he could see them all seated round the perimeter as if they were waiting just for him. So many and so respectable looking he observed with some trepidation. Like a goldfish in a bowl he made his way uncertainly to the only unoccupied seat.

       “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure…”

        Mr Harry glanced up at the tall, distinguished looking man who’d miraculously appeared from nowhere and shook hands gingerly.

            “I’m the chairman….and you?”

            “Mr Harry” he mumbled. “This is my first time” adding inappropriately “as the actress said to the bishop…everyone seems so civilised.”

            “What did you expect, drunks falling about all over the place?”  A few sniggers greeted his remark.

            He looked pleased with his comment but Mr Harry thought it was odd. That’s exactly what he would have expected.

            “We’re all looking forward to your inaugural address” he went on, “so please tell us about yourself and what brought you here.”

        Mr Harry made his way to the centre of the room and coughed self-consciously. He noticed one or two promising looking female faces; things might work out. After a moment of embarrassing silence, sudden inspiration saved his blushes. He’d give it them straight; just as it had happened. This lot didn’t look as if they’d ever been outside the vicar’s social circle.

     “Good evening,” he began, “My name is Mr Harry…I’m here because I spent the night before last in an open grave and was almost buried alive.” He articulated each word carefully for maximum impact. The sniggers now turned to outright laughter. Mr Harry felt a sense of outraged betrayal.

        “I can assure you it wasn’t funny……”

        “I’m sorry I think there’s been a mistake,” the chairman interrupted humanely before things got out of hand. He led Mr Harry to the door and pointed to a flight of stairs. “I think you want AA; this is the Temperance Society meeting.”

          “What did he say?” the chairman asked.

           “Bloody Christians I think,” the secretary replied. “We really must get AA to change to another evening.”

         Mr Harry glanced briefly at the stairs before fleeing humiliated into the night without a backward glance.

    The doors of the Three Wheeled Wagon beckoned invitingly. It wouldn’t hurt to have just one before bed. He ordered a large gin and lemonade. His breath mustn’t smell tonight. The crispy snacks on the counter looked inviting. There were a few sniggers as he spat the polystyrene packing material out in disgust. 

     “Bloody realistic aren’t they” smirked Laas, the half Swedish landlord.

     “Almost as good as the real ones,” Mr Harry retorted. It wasn’t his idea of a joke.

     One of the regulars was missing.

      “Where’s the Commander?” Mr Harry asked.

      “Don’t think he’ll be back, didn’t you hear he’s back in hospital. Liver; it was only the scotch keeping him alive. He should never have given it up. Doctors orders; the shock will kill him.”

    “Good God! How many more? At this rate you’ll be out of business.”

    “I don’t think so, not while Jimmy’s still around.”

    Jimmy was Scottish and drank himself into oblivion by the end of every day on single malt. He used to be a surgeon but his main interests now were golf, woodwork and avoiding his dragon of a wife who regularly locked him out of the house.

      Mr Harry waved across the bar; “Hallo Jim.”

      “Och it’s ma ol’ Sassenach pal, Mr Harry. Yorl reet then?  Let me get ye a wee dram.” He leant back to get his wallet out of his trousers pocket and fell backwards off the stool.

        Mr Harry made the cardinal error of trying to help. As Jimmy got to his feet he started to flail furiously with his heavy walking sick.

        “Get yerrr hands off me. Nae Scot ever needed help from a sassenach. Now shut yersel up and drink that doon.”

        He grinned sheepishly; the others had known better. Jimmy carried on as if nothing had happened.

      Brenda the barmaid would be described as bonny in Jimmy’s vocabulary. She knew Mr Harry as a frustrated middle aged retiree as were many of her customers. She cruelly enjoyed flaunting her assets and wore a short tight skirt and top showing deep cleavage. The Three Wheeled Wagon’s patronage owed much to her presence behind the bar

         “Yes please, Brenda; in a jug this time; usual; can’t drink any more of this bloody stuff.”

         “You do like your handle don’t you Mr Harry.”

         “Yes, my psychiatrist says it’s insecurity from childhood. I need to hold something firm.”

        She giggled, “Ooh, I bet you do,” demonstrating her point on the handle of the pump and leering at him in what was supposed to be a sexually provocative smile. It wasn’t without effect. He started to feel uncomfortable and shifted his position self-consciously to make more room in his trousers.

    Laid back Hippie Dave was on his usual bar stool, with his long straggly hair, full beard, bright red complexion, purple nose and blackheads. He’d spent most of his adult life with the Hells Angels but now lived alone with his ailing mother in their tiny cottage. He was deferred to by even the most conservative members of the clientele who all knew what he really did in the toilet; their silent collaboration somehow compensating for their own inability to cross the divide into the mysterious world of weed and grass.

    The Brigadier was in, along with knock-kneed Mr Giles of the hunt brigade; some of the horsy-set and an assortment of thespians and rustics. He greeted them all in turn.

       A local gas fitter whose hobby was shooting came in. He’d been several years in the army and could be difficult after a few drinks. It was wise to humour him when he reached that stage.

     “I’ve brought those pheasants I promised you.”

     “Thanks, Jules,” Mr Harry replied with dismayed gratitude. “I’d forgotten all about them. We’ll have them tomorrow for dinner.”

        “Better if you hang ‘em for a couple of days first.”

. Hell with that thought Mr Harry. He couldn’t go through all that again. He’d had enough of birds to last a lifetime. It was too soon after the goose business; bad enough killing the thing, but he’d had no choice. It had made their small orchard a no go area for Mrs Harry, so his brief foray into keeping livestock had to be brought to an end. He’d never plucked a goose before and after exhaustive effort had been appalled how little impression he’d made, even though he could have filled a mattress with the feathers he’d already wrenched out and which now smothered everything in the shed including himself. He’d tried to burn the rest off with a blow torch but almost set the shed alight. Finally a damp sponge had made the remaining down disappear. He’d used a hedging tool to cut off the head, feet and flight feathers. Cleaning out the inside had been a nightmare. He’d struggled desperately to get his hand inside the bird, getting ever more frustrated, until he realised he’d been trying to get in through the neck end. The anus had made for easier access and he’d managed to remove some giblets, but there’d still been a large object he assumed was the gizzard at the far end. His arm was inside right up to the elbow but he hadn’t been able get a good enough grip or find enough strength to tear whatever it was up there away. Doreen, the egg delivery lady had come just in time to rescue him as he’d emerged from the shed covered in feathers and with what must have looked like a badly swollen arm. She’d agreed reluctantly to hold the neck end while he pulled from inside but without anchorage he’d just towed her round the garden. She’d hung onto the rose arch which came down on top of her and even her normally unflappable rural stoicism had been tested to the limit. A red object, the size of a tennis ball had come adrift though and as Doreen had stormed off without waiting to be paid for the eggs he’d noted with satisfaction he could see daylight through the shattered goose which by then had a greatly enlarged rectum. Worst of all, the damn thing had been almost inedible; all skin and bone and tough as old boots.

       “Some people get a sexual thrill having their hand inside a bird.” Brenda commented lewdly, acknowledging the smirks with a giggle as she watched him placing the pheasants down in the corner. From Mr Harrys perspective, far enough away from his stool to be able to conveniently forget to pick them up.

      Mr Giles tottered to the door. “Got to go, my young bride awaits me.” It was his trademark departing declaration. He waddled out, feet splayed, knees knocking, before painstakingly getting into his brand new mini. All eyes turned to the window expectantly. A car coming up the main street took frantic avoiding action as he pulled out from the car park. There was a moments silence then all eyes reverted back to the bar and conversation returned as though nothing had happened.

     “He’s getting better.” Hippie Dave commented dryly. “Sound as a pound.”  He sauntered off to the toilet.

      Laas appeared on his mobile phone looking angry. “I’ll give you my beer’s crap…” He became suspicious at all the badly suppressed sniggering that had suddenly broken out as if at some unseen joke. “Who is this?”  He noticed one of the village football team putting his mobile away and the penny dropped. He stormed off red faced.

 Laas didn’t take a joke well unless it was on someone else.

   Mrs Harry was reading in bed when Mr Harry came in trying to appear sober. “Good meeting then dear?”

        He tried not to slur his speech “Yes, very good, it’s a pity it clashes with the creative writing course on the same night though. It starts next week. I think I’ll enrol for that instead.” He turned out the light and rolled over.

      “I’m still reading if you don’t mind dear…Oh my God, do you have to make those awful smells?”

     Mr Harry pulled the duvet over his head and started to giggle.

    The demons would return in the morning.

    Five years passed. Jimmy, Happyrock, The Commander, The Brigadier and Mr Giles had all crossed to the other side to join Ben.

   The sun rose one day to a golden spring dawn of Daffodils and Dandelions. Mr Harry closed his eyes for the last time but for the first time in his life he felt totally, sublimely at peace with himself. He briefly imagined he could see a small boy and the tearful face of Mrs Harry; his family, Topsoil, The Rev Defont and other mourners looking down on him. He thought he saw Mr Ben and a host of old friends queuing up to greet him. It had been his headstone up there after all.

                      

    THE END

Copyright Harry Hunt 2014

THE GREEN DRAGON

ABSINTHE MAKES THE FART GROW STRONGER

The Green Dragon will be the death of me.

So it will.

The cold wetness soaks into my groin,

Spreading down thighs like a sirens grope.

Staggering numbly, too late, to my feet,

I grab the stool, my only hope,

Of rickety support.

The dragons brew, still dribbling from the overturned glass,

Adds to the puddle and cigarette ash. 

Someone shouts “Go home,kick the bugger out.”

“Bloody lout”

Half-knowing what’s coming I face the inevitable humiliation.

With glassy eyed, stupefied, futile, defiance.

“Get yer hands off me. Who cares what you think.”

“You all stink.”

Then wheedling, pleading, “Alright I’m sorry,”

“… just need a mop… I’ll pay…  ‘tis only money”

Arms grip vice like, dragging me from the stool,

a fool,

 flailing feebly, stumbling, clutching, into the night air.

Then leaving me there, alone,

to stagger and vomit to somewhere called home.

(Where those I betray remember the days of a man, not a clown.)

Bastards!

The world conspires against me;

The stars,

Mock my curses,

bouncing emptily off cottages and cars.

Inside walls, unseen, timid souls, cowering fearfully in bed,

promise themselves for the umpteenth time

they’ll sleep in a back room in future instead.

The white dash stepping-stones across the junction beckon irresistibly.

One, two, three, four and thirty-five more, just like the film.

Left foot, right …steady now, don’t fall in.

Then walk the white line without lurch, to the church,

where the beams of the arc lights thrust upwards to heaven,

beacons, for spirits ascending to life never ending

for those that believe that it’s there.

Not mine though, not yet, I won’t hold my breath,

I still have my cross to bear.

The pain and despair,

the guilt and remorse of a living death,

a stranger to myself.

The Green Dragon will be the death of me. 

So it will.

Copyright Ben Corde 2014