Blood of an Englishman

Pull The Other One

Well, at least we can say Jeremy Clarkson has done it all now. If there is anything left for him to trash after his latest African fiasco, it will be hippo-posthumous with a capital H.

Ey-up, Johnnie boy, what ARE you on about?

Well, first of all, he invents Abongoland, one racist stereotype of a failed state if ever there was. Then he peoples its capital, Ezroibii, with modern Arab slave traders & belly dancers of dubious gender. I ask you! He pollutes a flipping great river, the A'bongo, which is another fibble, with crap from Chinese miners. He insults the Krauts by buying a souped-up Mercedes convertible sporting... would you believe... the Legs of Mann for a logo. And when he sets out in the said motor, to cross a 400 mile stretch of desert, he has the whole thing filmed in the Australian outback.

Oh you mean that Jeremy Clarkson? I thought you were talking about the car wash twit on Channel Fork. You mean the chauffeur twit on the Other Side.

And that's where he'll be right now. In his last episode, he roars out of Ezroibii followed by a swarm of surveillance drones. A couple of distressed white totters are chained up in the rear of the motor, their headgear fluttering in the breeze. Throughout the episode, they say not one word on camera. Meanwhile, the Mercs, like the drones, is bristling with mikes & lenses, into which Clarkson moans about the heat, the flies, the stink of camel poo and prices at all the Little Chefs en route. Pretty soon, with the incomplete road system they has got over there, the magnificent Boulevard of King Abdullah Al Malarky peters out into a delta of meaningless tributaries. And thereafter, in a kind of de-mirage, the higgledy piggledy towers of Ezroibii disappear in Clarkson's rear view mirror. This is all c/o CGI, one supposes. After that, our mad dog Englishman has nothing for guidance but the midday sun and a state of the art GPS system.

I am with you, just. Still in the land of Oz, are we?

Quite. Well the GPS packs up after the first bend. Then there's a bit of whirlwind, which has yer man stopping to close the roof. Of course, with all that sand flying about, it soon gets jammed and he has to carry on driving with the roof neither up nor down, half blinded and with a scarf whipped round his bonce. Next off, he ploughs into a cloud of dreaded locust, splatting the windscreen and clogging up the wiper blade. Even a couple of drones are bought down by the insects, making an extended action sequence of excellent family viewing. Apart from the language.

Did you take a copy, then?

Funny you should ask... what the hell d'you think this is? So Clarkson stops to ask some slitty-eyed Berbers – very suspicious looking mob - the road to Mandalay, but they are more interested in pulling his human cargo than putting him on the right track. As a result, he roars off again, leaving a great cloud of dust – through which the galloping of camel hooves and musket shots are heard. If that sounds a bit Lawrence of Arabia, what happens next is ah Eighth bloody Pillar of Wisdom. Out of the shimmering horizon an authentic Disney oasis emerges, complete with palm trees, poolside loungers, hoochie-coochie music and cocktail bar. In less than five minutes, Jeremy has pulled up in the mercs, ordered cool beverages, had them served on board, imbibed, then he's straight off again, swerving to avoid the scrub.

Oh, I don't buy that - “swerving to avoid the scrub”? The real old Jeremy wouldn't swerve to avoid the blooming scrubbers, never mind save the bloody scrub.

Quite right, too. But tragedy, of course, is about to befall our intrepid motoring correspondent. With only the blistering sun for guidance, (“Child's play!" - he cries - "By keeping the overhead sun to my right, I must be heading either North-South or East-West.”) he fails to spot a single proper road. And since there are no petrol stations on any of these tracks, by four o'clock in the afternoon his little two litre Kompressor is running on vapour.

Well that's a load of bollocks for a start. There ain't no such thing as diesel vapour. And, speaking of which, I see we're out out of fags.

It's your round, anyroad. See what they got behind the bar. Well, the Mercs comes to a rest under the only tree to be had for miles. It's one of them whatchamacallit trees.

I know the type you mean. David Attenborough has them in his garden.

I'll come to Sir David's part in the story presently. So Jeremy is still quite cool, basking in the shade of the tree and chatting to the totters (who keep schtum). However, there's a tiger, sorry coupla tigers, also lounging under the tree who are not too keen on sharing it with a Mercs, even one with Jerry Clarkson at the helm.

Oh, I get it. He does the old Tarzan act.

Sort of. Well, when the female gets up and snarls at him, Jeremy's not a bit phased. He just reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a handy banana, which he throws in her direction. That really flummoxes the old lion, she sort of sniffs at it and then gives him a dirty look.

A dirty look? I thought you said they were tigers?

Tigers? In Africa? Who d'you think I am, William Reece Burroughs? The lioness then leaps at the car. Jeremy, in a sly move, opens the driver door on her side while slipping out on the passenger's. He takes off as fast as his legs will go. Having quite long legs this is not exactly slow. But the lioness is not fooled by the door for long. Pretty soon she has bounded after him, brought him down and pinned him to the desert floor.

I bet some viewers enjoyed that part.

Too right, they did. Doing Mexican waves from the hills of Patagonia to the shores of the Arctic Circle, they were. The tigress, sorry, the big feline... female... holds him down until up strolls her old man. Now the game of cat and mouse really begins. The King of the Jungle lets Clarkson get to his feet, but every time he tries to move off, bounds upon him again. The beast even seems quite friendly, puts one paw round his back and starts licking him.

They love their food.

And this is just a taste of things to come.

What did the lad have to say for himself, before the inevitable?

A-hem. At this point I should bring in David Attenborough, whose animals they were.

As pets, like?

Well, he had them mike'd and camera'd up for a documentary he was making. The whole thing was captured from the lions' point of view.

That must have been a bit of a scoop. So what did Clarkson have to say for himself? Any contrite morsels of comfort for his victims?

That's the dreadful thing. Every single word had to be censored. Right up to the moment his neck was broke and legs bitten off, it was facking bleep this, facking bleep that, quite shocking I thought.

I bet there were a few complaints to the Beeb (the BBC) about his language?

Got the Board of Governors out of bed on a Sunday morning.

Strewth, just goes to prove, you can't please all the punters all the time, now can you?

Filched the words right out of my mouth. Your round, I believe?

TT for now!

Turning Amateur

Turning Amateur

As hits on downwritefiction finally pass 10k, the proprietor summons his front of house staff. They assemble at a conference suite on the seventeenth floor of Sock Puppet House, expecting Lee to make an historic announcement. Peeled-back necks of vintage Champagne bottles stand erect in ice buckets. Sideboards belly dance with trays of canapés, fancy cakes & Belgian liqueur chocolates. Hundreds of coloured balloons, tied in rude bouquets, waft gently in the breeze. Several windows have been left open. As the crowd of employees roll in, faint honks of traffic from the boulevard below can be heard above loud whispers and excited giggles. Suddenly Philip Lee appears in person, raises his hand and opens his gob,

Now hear this. Yr ironies be darned, I'm sick to death of the lot of you, bloody shower of frauds, pseudos & time wasters. You're all sacked. Pack yr shit & leave.

Gasps, sobs, shrieks & bellows rebound from his words. A bevvy of St John's Ambulance men ferry out the faint of heart. Staff members queueing to leap from the windows are ignored by snotty security guards too busy helping themselves from the buffet. Hardened Ehacks, huddled in corners, give head to vapour fags & gabble into Moby Dicks. Champagne is passed hand-to-mouth by stack-heeled receptionists and lowdown office pros, swigging straight from the bottle. Balloons burst spontaneously. The sweet sickly pong of high end vomit mingles with a sharp stench of acetone as bewildered executives neck vials of pink nail varnish remover.

Meanwhile Lee has left the building. Exiting via service lift and back door, the former CEO and proprietor is disguised as a municipal dog catcher. In green cap and overalls he carries lasso pole and gunny sack slung over his shoulder. The streets are hot tho' not bothered, lazy sirens of ambulance, fire & police have converged too late to offer much succour to the dead or shocked onlookers. Lee ducks into an underpass that takes him to the far side of Punchnose Lane. He disappears into the district of all night wedding parlours and oldman early morning diners.

What's it to be, fella?

Two hash brownies, scoup of beans and eggs over easy. Gimme a coffee, there, too, matey. Oh, and a hunk of apple pie with molten cheese food.

Coming right up, sir. Sit yourself down & take the weight off.

This is the Cafe of Horlicks Wind Attempt stuck in the year 1974, patronised by homeless schmucks that nurse empty tea mugs, smoke Old Holborn butts and scratch. Radio cackles, too faint to make out tune or word, just the hiss & fry of distant galaxies. Yesterday's newspapers are marked & folded, phelgm chawed, yawns let out raw. Unemployment is kept alive here & flaunted like leprosy, women who enter abandon all hope, naked lunch boys shiver in long white trench coats, the letters FBI stencilled on their backs.

Incessant whirrs of Horlicks machines emanate from behind the steaming counter. Lee swills coffee and wipes his mouth with the back of a filthy glove. He eats slow with fork & spoon, paying with luncheon vouchers and tipping the waiter with fake chocolate money. As he makes his move for the door, a rent boy, old before his time, rises in unison. The blue skinned boy opens his jaw but before speaking, drops to the floor like a broken scarecrow. Purple smoke emits from the pockets and cuffs of his trousers. Somewhere out of shot, a cinema audience writhes in toothache boredom.

Back on the street the chase proceeds. A huntman's horn blares out as Lee hails a passing taxi,

Follow that hearse!

His yellow cab, lasso pole sticking from passenger window and followed by a pack of red-tailed vixens, pulls into the grim afternoon traffic.

Tallyho!

Meeting Herr Mann

Without Apologies

Diane, the very image of Punk Diva, stares into the eyes of Fanny Geezer,

Got no probs with kinky for inst. Hands on hips, white fingers bursting from black lace mitts, she pouts, You tie, I tie, all the same to me. A girl gone mental to be pierced in unusual ways, she wears a jewelled padlock on platinum necklace. Though the accent is half-borrowed, you can tell she half-believes all that way-out crap, You should see my regulars having their 'Specials'. She winks, Whereas you, my darling, will be on the house.

Manfred smiles, as the joke is pretty telling of her: staking a claim on his rent-boy arse, then fishing for a spot of the old barter. Very witty. Cast your eyes on her sluttish poise: Carnaby Street written all over it. Clearly this young femme means to GET THE LOT DONE before her last stab at fatale is carted from the building.

Picture me in a boy scout's outfit?

Manfred takes a sidelong glance. Her eyes, like a puppet's, slot away. She giggles,

Whatever.

He mirrors her far-gone look before answering. The long lip which follows really shows how much his feelings are meshed. Truth is, he's thinking, no pull should be this easy,

Aw, love-a-duck, not another bloody 'virgin'. How many ways there are to lose it these days? Still, I adore your taste in clothes, Sweetness. Certainly, you may come to the ball! Let me welcome you with this little peck. He kisses her primly on the cheek, But I'm afraid there is one itsy-bitsy issue. He takes two Gaulois from the crush pack, lights both and hands her the snout, I can't offer you the complete pleasure dome chez-moi.

Diane gulps down the smoke, bringing a dilation to her pupils. She almost twigs,

Oh my gosh, is someone waiting up for you?

And Manfred all but misses the beat, only to recover by tossing his quiff and speaking in rapid fire,

Er... No impediment on that socre, ducky. Even if I had some great hunk of a fella waiting on me - which I'm not saying I hain't - it would be no business of his anyroad, would it? So what about yours?

The answer catches in her throat,

My... what?

Manfred peers into her false-coloured eyes. She tries again,

My boyfriend? I ain't got one.

He tuts,

Silly darling. Couldn't face another threesome tonight, not with these nerves. What I meant to say was, can we stage this little tryst in your place rather than mine?

*

Di pretends to mull over the scenario, before committing to the inevitable. Which once settled, an empty bench-seat presents itself. They sit down like awkward sisters, sucking on their ciggies in silence.

To pull someone at a gig is great fun. Going round to theirs – especially a stranger's – even more so. Lately, she's seen enough of her own gaff in Victoria. To dive into any old hole would be preferable to kicking the stray unmentionables under her bed. But the last tube won't wait for a better catch. At least, now the deal has been brokered, she can relax and slip exploring fingers under that to-kill-for blue velvet jacket.

Brut mingles with patchouli, cool lips brush ticklish throat. The fine stubble of his cheek sends little shudders up and down her Lumbar vertebrae. Not that different really.

*

I told you it would work, Manfred. A dead cert every time. Des the Elder, provider of wisdom & snouts, proffers a No. 6 from his pack of ten, They're so curious they can't resist. You get loads of that sort down the old Drag Night. Didn't I tell the absolute?

It's only lunch-hour so our man, despite the fact he's having a drink, declines the cancer,

I feel a bloody fraud, and that's not the worst of it. This girl I got off with the week before last... She's called Diane... Well, we've taken to each other. I mean, she SAYS she's really into me. Meanwhile she happens to be the exact clever little sexpot I've been on the lookout for... forever...

So what's your problem?

Come on, Desmond. I'm serious and she thinks I'm a shirt-lifter. She hasn't even guessed I might be just another rag-and-bone merchant. So what if there's more to me than a quick mash-up of eel & pie? I am licked, mate. And it's all your fault.

For a few moments, Des seems to remain deep in thought, stroking his chin between deep puffs on the short cigarette. Actually, it's his round and probably the kitty is bare. He's spent the last ten minutes toying with an empty beer glass in hints that young Manfred – who's training to be something in the City - can finish the job. Surely, having scored on Des's sound advice, the winner should do the honours at least one more time? But this complication over the girl's assumption has queried the pitch. His frown seems to ask, what's her game, anyhow? Wait on, though, perhaps something is smouldering in there? Desmond smiles,

Easy-peasy! You GO STRAIGHT on her, my man. TURN HETERO. You say she's been a revelation. Tell her you're in love with a woman for the second time in your life. He drops his voice to a stage whisper, I take it she's worth the countdown?

Manfred's eyes go 5-4-3-2-1. Des winks,

That's sorted, then. Tell her you never thought tart could taste so sweet. Say she's cured you of the bug.

Manfred leans across the table and draws a cigarette out anyway,

Steady on, there, old fruit. Being gay is not an illness in the modern world. Besides... blimey, how shall I put this? I adapted certain mannerisms on that cabaret night which I just can't shake off without giving the game away.

Des shakes his head in disgust,

What d'you mean? Looking at men's bums and whistling? Sitting with your pins crossed?

Manfred stares down at his legs, which are thrust out in front of him. He draws up his knees,

I do that anyway. It's these little flicks of the head I've picked up, and the way I hold my torso... He sticks his chest out and rocks from side-to-side on the bones of his arse. Also I've been using camp phrases like, “Spectacular, Mrs Coward!” or “I'd give my left testicle for a pair like those!” I think she's even turned on by my Cliff Richard impression.

Stone the crows, sunshine, you are in a jar.

Manfred already knows Diane's hair is naturally light brown and red-wedged. In case the reader hasn't already sussed, we're in the late 1970s here, the very Zenit of original punk. Not that this archetypal dilemma isn't somehow outside of all time warps. But in those glorious days, the tyrannous era of women uprooting their privets is still some ways off. Diane's secret garden has been well explored: by touch in the dark recesses of The Lyceum and Camden Town's Electric Ballroom; and by sight, at her place in Victoria under the glare of lights on. So when he finally clocks her stepping off the District Line at Wimbledon tube, he is trebly gobbed. Firstly because she has dyed her top knots anything other than jet black. Secondish because she has somehow chosen that natural reddy brown of her own. Furthermore, the plank-in-the-eye truth is, she's wearing a green blazer, white skirt and tennis shoes without - and here's the clencher - socks. The pleated skirt is short and her long curvaceous pins are utterly bare. The whole effect is simply spectacular, Mrs Coward,

So you've changed, Diane, my pet.

I know. I look and feel completely ridiculous.

She doesn't look as if she feels ridiculous. Manfred puts a hand over his heart,

You could be the young Virginia Wade. So where's your tennis racquet?

Incredibly, and in spite of her complete switch of image, the green blazer carries something over from the military fetishes of yesterday's punk outfits. The girl is a true artist. He takes her arm, as chivalry seems to be the state of play,

You have done it again, haven't you?

Diane smiles innocently,

Have I? What have I done?

Never mind. I've forgotten what I was going to say in the first place.

As they turn out of the station and head towards the High Street, the object of beauty looks about her with relish. Despite living in London all her life, she claims she's never been to Wimbledon before,

So, Manfred, you're finally taking me back to your place?

He nods, having stuck his neck out on the phone to say that yes - purely on spec - a quick pop in and out was called for.

Can't wait for it! Quite posh round here, innit? Got any room-mates? 

She'll have to take him as found. Gives his hand a little squeeze in store. Her palm is already sopping. As soon as they're indoors, she'll expect to leap onto leather sofa, strip off and bonk each other's brains out. That sofa, what a dirty lie! And what will become of him, strutting indoors, arm-in-arm with this bare-legged smasher? For Pete's sake, she's dimpled behind the knees! What will she say when he leads her into the old family living room, sits her down on the settee and does the introductions,

Diane, my precious, this is the jolly old Mater and this smarmy-faced schoolboy is my brother Herman?

A suitable pause, then?

Herr Mann? Such a brilliant name? Charming place to be brought up? And jolly pleased to meet you, too, Mrs Noone? I'm afraid I've been dragged here under false pretences? The victim of a heartless conman? But enough of that, already? Herr Mann, don't squint at my legs, dear, you'll go blind. Tell me straight, how are your grades?

Far Be It From Me

(transcript at foot of post)

Face-to-face criticism of someone's grammar, eating habits, the way they dress... all risky enterprises. Like the average Joe or Josephine, I'd as soon tell a ticket happy traffic cop she were a corrupt little snitch as ask the man at the supermarket checkout for a bag of oatmeal on tick. Such things are taboos, hypothetical situations best left to rise and fall in nightmare visions. Therefore, when Ramazan comes round and most good folk are supposedly fasting, I tend to keep the old trap shut in public.

It's better to stick to what you know than to stick your head in where it's surely unwelcome. For instance, I was brought up in what we would innocently call a Christian country. Nowadays, that kind of remark has become politically incorrect. Though I've lived for over twenty years in a country that is overwhelmingly Muslim, even here the urge to use such language precludes many people from calling this a Muslim country, so as a rule I don't. And even a coupla decades is not long enough for me to become that familiar with the practices here to write critically of them. I can't even speak about circumcision, for example, or the wearing of headscarves, without hedging my remarks down into meaningless banalities. "My mum always used to wear a scarf to go out," I say, "until along came hairspray." Or, "My cousin was circumcised at birth and he's neither a Jew nor a Muslim." Heck, what do I even know about anything?

What the heck I know about fasting is based only on personal experience when, around thirty years ago, I took part in a series of sponsored fasts that were organised by peace movement groups in conjunction with the charity War On Want. For example, we did one over Christmas '82 outside the Royal Ordnance Factory at Burghfield near Reading. Starting on the 24th of December, we all went without food for five full days. Unlike the Muslim fast, which ends at sunset each day with a feast, we ate nothing at all. However, also unlike the Muslims, we allowed ourselves drinks - water and black unsweetened tea. Of course, had we not drunk anything, we would all have been in hospital long before the five days were up. Thirst is not something anyone would want to do for twenty-four hours, which everyone should know.

Going without food for a few days is hardly as risky - provided you're not a diabetic, suffer from heart disease or even mild digestive conditions. It also helps if you're not alone in the undertaking. Stamping outside the gates of ROF Burghfield, we got through the first day - Christmas Eve - without much trouble. I think those of us who were drinkers craved our Christmas ales & tots more than the mince pies our friends and relatives at home were scoffing. The only physical side effects of the first 24 hours were waking up on Christmas morning with wrenching guts, a touch of nausea and a strange light headedness.

That lightness of being persisted throughout the second day, during which we were visited by many sponsors, other well-wishers and the odd reporter, most of whom curious to know how it felt going hungry when everyone else was getting stuffed. While some fasters were happy to rattle on about the politics of spending trillions of pounds on weapons of mass destruction as a quarter of the planet went starving, some of us spent much of the day dreaming up and sharing menus - food lists that became more and more bizarre as the sun went down.

It was at various times during Christmas Night that several of us got up to be sick. "That's the bile coming out," said one experienced faster, as though vomiting were part of a healing process. Our stomachs being empty - apart from the residues of many cups of tea - there was nothing to chunder that wasn't a throat burning, foul smelling slime. Morning on day three was when the smokers found they couldn't smoke any more. Having happily puffed their way thus far, the nicotine now went straight up to their heads and down into their guts. Those poor souls had to cope with drug withdrawl as well as hunger. So Boxing Day was a day of ears buzzing in the brittle December wind and an inner chill settling in.

Surprisingly, the fourth and fifth days were much easier than the second and third. We started to shun tea for plain boiled water. We had headaches but felt little pain and less nausea inside us. Our food fantasies lingered on, became even more abstract indeed, but less craving. One guy kept going on about kippers with custard, which became a lovely image for even those of us who were vegetarians. Food morphed into an abstract concept. Around this time, a psychologist supporter turned up and told us we were now like primitive hunter gatherers who had been out in the field for so long that our instinctual survival mechanisms had kicked in.  Natural opiates were dulling our hunger and the jokes we were sharing were evidence our brains were drawing on fat reserves to keep us sharp. He then went on to show a parallel between our situation and that of people living in drought areas of Africa. This was interesting and prescient (in retrospect) since the famine in Sudan and Ethiopia which led to Band Aid was still a year or so in the future. Some of us began to suggest that, having attracted some local media attention, we extend the fast indefinitely and make a bid for World Peace. We were hallucinating, of course.

Doctors and children can tell you everything you need to know about refusing food. Doctors will say, eat regularly if you want to stay healthy and the best diet of all is three light meals a day. As most children know, the best way to get what you want is to refuse your food. The hunger strike takes fasting to its illogical conclusion, death. Bobby Sands had gone that way only a year or so before, refusing food while imprisoned for Provisional IRA activity. Actually, I believe many of us in the peace movement at the time had much sympathy with the so-called Nationalist side in The Troubles. But the death of Bobby Sands was a feature of the struggle with Margaret Thatcher's Conservative government we cared not to identify with in public. There are so many taboos associated with the eating and non-eating of food - or certain foods - but our aim was not confrontation. Perhaps our protest was idealistic or even child-like, but we really were seeking to heal the planet.

Towards the end, there was a great feeling of togetherness at the temporary Peace Camp; but finally the fast broke up with most of us going our separate ways on the evening of the fifth day. I got a lift into London, where I spent the night with some old friends. I broke my fast with a bowl of vegetable soup. I wasn't ravenous at all. Perhaps my stomach had shrunk? The next morning, I had a half a bowl of muesli and then caught the bus back to Liverpool, a door-to-door journey of about eight hours. Not looking particularly thin, nor demanding a whole Christmas pud to myself, the old family and friends were dubious I had really gone the full five days without eating. So, somewhat disappointingly for a stoyteller, there was no slaughtering of fatted calf at the return of this prodigal.

When you finish something like this, it's tempting to talk about "the conquest of desire" as though a battle has been fought and won. In fact, fasting's parallels with military conquest are scanty or, at best, dubious. Though the importance of comradeship is paramount (to employ one of Margaret Thatcher's favourite words, as in, "the wishes of the islanders are paramount"), there is no orgy of victory. Instead, the participant is left with a quiet strength. In this kind of fasting, hunger is curbed and so no feasting is either desired or appreciated.

Transcript of above from Reading's Red Rag (Britain's only newspaper) Dec 1982:

A MOST BORING HEWS ITEM

Britain's only newspaper interviewed a spokesperson from the Burghfield Peace Campaign who are currently holding a fast outside the Royal Ordinance Factory at Burghfield. 25/12/82.

r.r. How many of you are taking part in the fast?

s.p. About 20 or so.

r.r. Where are you actually holding the fast?

s.p. Most fasters are sat at a brazier by the back gate of the factory, but there is continuous presence at the front, entrance and we've got a portacabin for shelter.

r.r. Have you had a lot of support?

s.p. Yes, we've had a steady stream of visitors, and lots of support from passing cars.

r.r. What about madia coverage?

s.p. We've been interviewed by the Post and Chronicle, Thames and TVS television and Radio 210. On the other hand the BBC said it a was the most boring news item they'd ever heard. We said the person in question was the most cynical person we'd ever spoken to.

r.r. What did you have for Christmas dinner?

s.p. A cup of hot water.

r.r. What about the vegetarians?

s.p. Ecologically and Ideologically sound water.

r.r. Fluoride Free?

s.p. Oh No! Blast!

- The fasters will be there 'til midnight on Tuesday pointing out the connections between Arms spending and world hunger. They are also raising funds for War on Want and any donations or support are of course welcome.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

2014 Summer Beach Book Bitch

"No, not that Moon again!"

Sock Puppet's Annual Summer Beach Book Bitch is Back on the Rack!

At no. 1: "Sh*t H*pp*ns" by D*gl*ss T*rd. When the sleepy seaside resort of Bogton-under-the-Mere is plagued by an invasion of the old killer crapweed, Inspector Ernestina Gobshight is called in to investigate. Incapacitated by a severe case of the galloping runs, Ms. Gobshight turns her stinking en-suite at Ye Olde Fisherman's Hole into a Major Incident Room. Includes the welcome return of dastardly Professor Nosegay Von Pfart, plus dirty sox scenes interpolated by guest writer Yoni McEwans.

New at no. 2: "Foreign Matters" by Señor Coconut Macarooni. Entirely set during a single episode of downtown Llanfwllpyllgwyllediddion's all night fish'n'chip saga, "Cae-yr-Gerg", Macarooni's latest native alienation in South Wales is a tour-de-France of South Wales Native Alienation. Undistinguished by its weak links, this multi-lingual hipper text is typeset in no less than twelve hundred and thirty-four fonts. Comes complete with free pair of X-rated Spics and a packet of Mabinogion shorts (lubricated with 100% Welsh margarine).

Dropping to no. 3: In "The Swimming Cap" by Nylons De Spinster, Wroittenmouth Parish Council's decision to introduce a swimming cap at the local duck pond is greeted with flatulent berries, cries of outrage and an alliance between postal voters and Euro benefit touts. When the mean two-circuit pond limit is hiked by a Changing Booth Tax and increase in Locker Key Charge, the action moves to an election campaign in which voter turnout turns out against shades of wrotten again ent it missus?

No. 4: is a disqualified entry which is "Not on the coupon", no refund will be given and all deposits are forfeit. Passengers found reading this alleged book will be bound over to keep the peace for a period exceeding twenty shillings hardback. For copyright reasons, "Not on the coupon" is nfs in the USA or Canada.

Still at no. 5: "Six on the Beach" by Henrietta Clitorice is a thriller set in Times New Roman and bundled with Chelsea Clinton's 3 vol saga, "My Father", "Your Husband" & "Her Mouth". Recommended as easy reading for panty-hose supporters and accumulators of fake orgasm.

New entry at no. 6: "You Take The Highlands" by Citizen O'Cain. When Malcolm O'Busstop inherits Northern Scotland from his Uncle Ebenezer O'Sidcup, at first he is only dismayed by the odious responsibilities of Laird Provost that ownership of man & beast entails. However a couple of wee drams plus a smile or two from crumbly old Janet O'Craddock warms Malcolm O to his fate. Contains spoilers, traces of nut and artificial sweetners.

Achtung, diss banana iss loaded!

At no. 7 for its twenty-seventh year: "Jeanette Winterbum Is Not The Only Fruit" by vivisection expert, Gaye Wales. This collection of Northern English bush meat recipies is a must for all badge cullers and hunters of Tweety-Pie. Contains instructions for strangling and eating live stoat, hot-potting squirrel, half-baking weasel cake and - everyone's favourite - the ultimate buyer's guide to home made toad with wild pony sausage.

* All titles published by Shikser & Goy except "You Take The Highlands" published by Little Brown Jug.

Wondrous ten-bob Slap-Up with Toast

Crowned with Homburg

(from the album: Memories of The Lad)

And a right royal occasion it was, all and sundry being gathered in the Dog & Duck where a television set had been installed for regular customers to view the coronation of the old Queen In Person. Present in the boozer on that august afternoon was The Lad Himself, a ten-bob note itching in his pocket and a spark of joy in his heart. Licensing hours had been extended to an all-day drink-in, and the only thing missing was some poor blighter ready with the loot to play footsie with the bill.

How it then transpired that The Lad Himself was able to stand treat to a smoking parlour fairly chock-a-block with clientèle who can say - except that the Hand of Divine Interference had shown its... hand?

The Sock Puppet spoke with Sid, who was there in person at the event,

TSP: So how come The Lad Himself put his hand in his pocket? Was he known for such munificence?

Sid: Oh he had previous, but not on the same scale. And this was, after all, tantamount to a miracle.

TSP: In your own words, could you describe what occurred?

Sid: Well, there was no flash of lightning as such. More like a wobble in the mains supply, which caused the screen to flicker just as the actual crown was being placed on Her Royal Majesty's barnet by that geezer in a long cloak. The Lad took this as a sign, “See that?” he says. “There's a proper ripple in the Time-Space Consortium for you! Now, if we were ancient Romans, we would all be whistling three times and tossing salt & sesame seeds over our left shoulders. Talking of which, I could murder a chish and fips. Anyone care to join me?” Very stream-of-consciousness was The Lad after he'd sank a jar or two. Well, he must have spoken up a bit voluminous as next thing the whole parlour had taken him up on his offer. And before he could qualify what he actually meant, a young lad who had been hanging around at the off-sales door trying to scrounge a few coppers for some empties was packed off to the corner chippie with an order for over a hundred cod, chips mushy peas & a scallop each.”

TSP: Blimey!

Sid: Exactly what he said.

TSP: How much would all that grub come to?

Sid: In the old money? You wouldn't have got much change out of a pony. Chips had just gone up to a tanner, a nice piece of fish was half a dollar plus your peas and scallop would be thrown in for a groat. No 'family specials' in them days

TSP: Phew! But how did he of slender pockets manage to pay for that lot with only a brownie in his trousers?

Sid: Search me! A bloody miracle if ever there was. The best thing about it, as soon as the packets of fish and chips started to arrive, he blurted out, “I suppose you'll all be wanting a pint or two to wash that lot down?” “Too right we will, Squire!” came the answer and the next thing everyone in the house was ordering themselves doubles on his tab.

TSP: Strewth, doubles?

Sid: Oh yes, they was blatant: two pints of this, two of that, Aussie Whites in schooners not docks, port and lemon by the lady's glass and bottles of Mackesons in fist-fulls. Pretty soon they were panicking behind the bar lest the place was drunk dry before the crowning was over and Her Royal Majesty was tearing back to The Palace in her coach and six.

TSP: Now that would have been a crying shame. Did they run out of sauce?

Sid: Did they wax! The Landlord was a crafy old so-and-so, putting rumours like that about. "Steady on," he shouts, "there'll be nothing left to toast Her with when She appears on the balcony."

TSP: What do you mean by crafty?

Sid: He said it while tipping a wink at The Lad Himself, who being caught off his guard, says, "A Toast?" in a questioning-like voice. Of course, all the savvy punters in there took it to mean he was offering another, so they'll all piped in with more orders.

TSP: You don't say!

Sid: I do!

TSP: This is a pack of lies, innit?

Sid: Suit yourself, mate!

TSP: I will, thank you very much. A black & tan with a packet of pork scratchings, there, please.

Sid: Put a sock in it!

Pull the other one!

Old Queen Meets New Popeye

wiv apologies to, erm... David Bailey

A Sock Puppet Exclusive

Reports that Her Majesty The Queen had “been in to see the new Popeye” had been circulating within the Circle Line since the end of Lent. The Sock Puppet, speaking on a party line, managed to track down Ms Windsor and here is a transcript of the royal convo...

HMQ: Good mawning, Buckingham Palace, how can one help you?

TSP: G'day, Yer Royal Madge, it's the old Sock Puppet here...

HMQ: Sooo naice of you to cawl...

TSP: Etcetera, etcetera... flipping heck... the clocks running at five hundred quid a minute... Nah wot's all this about you going in to to see the new man in the white sailor-suit?

HMQ: Mr Popeye? Simply charming fellow! Weed been meaning to drorp in on him for yaarz.

TSP: So where did this historic investiture take place?

HMQ: Wee believe it was in the home of his long term companion, a Ms Olive Oyl. They share a charming cottage, just this side of the tracks, one believes the saying goes.

TSP: Gosh, that musta been an adventure for yuz. Was yer old fellah to hand?

HMQ: Philip Duke of Edinburgh? He did put in an appearance, yaas.

TSP: Drove you there in the old Coach & Six?

HMQ: We really don't recall.

TSP: Did Ms Oyl offer yuz owt in the way of a bevvy? I don't suppose there was any scones, wot? How about the hot apple pie with the old melted cheese?

HMQ: Delicious! We hev always been partial to American delicacies.

TSP: I take it there woz the traditional exchange of graft?

HMQ: If you are referring to the pyramid of tinned spinach in the place yard, yaas there was a spot of gifting in the air.

TSP: Wot did you give in return?

HMQ: We believe a solid gold briar was involved.

TSP: Quite the practical momento. But it's generally thought your royal madge was strictly Walt Disney?

HMQ: Hmm, these days one has to have catholic tastes in one's job. One meets so many different characters.

TSP: So one would say one was amused, would one?

HMQ: Upon our word we would!

TSP: Any what if old Johnny Newshound should get hold of the story?

HMQ: We should have him sent over to the Tower dog house!

TSP: So who's next for the Royal vulture-swoop? Alf Garnett? Andy Capp?

HMQ: We shall tell you whom we hev always longed to visit...

TSP: Not Steptoe & Son's is it? The blooming Royale family?

HMQ: What ghastly thoughts! No, it would be to Christopher Robin's haice. We would SO like to be introduced to his friend Mr Bear.

TSP: To young Christopher Robin's place? Well, that would make a change for the guards. I suppose Alice would have to be in on it?

HMG: One dares say she would.

TSP, Thank you Ma'am for your kind condescension in speaking to one as lowly as I.

HMQ: Oh don't mention it, you old footster. Just be a good fellow and let us hang up first...

[brrr.....]

TSP: She's gone, bless 'er 'art. Spose it'll be orf wiv me big toe if I publish this?

Ed: Nah, go on! Love it, doan they? Probaly a new set of garters in it for yuh.

never dorf!