25 April 2020.
Hello, Rose Roper here.
On behalf of my husband David, who is presently flushing his pipes ( sorry, I meant the beer pipes) I´m putting pen to paper to speak to you, our lovely customers and Sunday Club members.
During this difficult time we aim to support our local community by offering the use of our car park for you to exercise in. We think, and I know you will agree, that two pounds per hour is a realistic charge.
Because of the difficulty in obtaining bathroom tissue, we have arranged for our usual Public Bar customers to have access to our stock of Sun and Daily Star newspapers, Saloon Bar will have the Daily Mail and Sunday Club members, The Times.
When restrictions are finally lifted we will move into an equal period of lock-ins and all drinks will be sold at the price of two drinks for the price of a double. Excellent.
To end on a lighter note and, hopefully, amuse you.
You all know and love Lenny our bar manager. As I´m writing this he is trying to send a text message on a calculator that David has given him, commensurate with his status as a manager. Stupid boy.
Last, and definitely least, is our barman Terry. In this time of stockpiling Terry wishes it to be known that he knows a man who knows a man who can supply piles of chicken and fish stock at competitive prices. Mmmm.
Stay safe.
As always, your
Landlady.
P.S. Oops, I nearly forgot. Because of its success and popularity when I introduced it at The Grove Tavern in South London, I´m going to give my Sunday Club ladies a treat by hosting another Anne´s Summer Party when the situation hopefully returns to normal.
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
Hello, Rose Roper here.
On behalf of my husband David, who is presently flushing his pipes ( sorry, I meant the beer pipes) I´m putting pen to paper to speak to you, our lovely customers and Sunday Club members.
During this difficult time we aim to support our local community by offering the use of our car park for you to exercise in. We think, and I know you will agree, that two pounds per hour is a realistic charge.
Because of the difficulty in obtaining bathroom tissue, we have arranged for our usual Public Bar customers to have access to our stock of Sun and Daily Star newspapers, Saloon Bar will have the Daily Mail and Sunday Club members, The Times.
When restrictions are finally lifted we will move into an equal period of lock-ins and all drinks will be sold at the price of two drinks for the price of a double. Excellent.
To end on a lighter note and, hopefully, amuse you.
You all know and love Lenny our bar manager. As I´m writing this he is trying to send a text message on a calculator that David has given him, commensurate with his status as a manager. Stupid boy.
Last, and definitely least, is our barman Terry. In this time of stockpiling Terry wishes it to be known that he knows a man who knows a man who can supply piles of chicken and fish stock at competitive prices. Mmmm.
Stay safe.
As always, your
Landlady.
P.S. Oops, I nearly forgot. Because of its success and popularity when I introduced it at The Grove Tavern in South London, I´m going to give my Sunday Club ladies a treat by hosting another Anne´s Summer Party when the situation hopefully returns to normal.
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
1January 2020
Hello, Ray the landlord of The Grove Tavern here. The two lovely pictures above show the The Stringers Arms saloon bar and, from the left, yours truly, Dolly the missus, Mrs Rose Roper and Mr David Roper. Lovely or what!
I´m still the spokesman for David and Rose so I will do my best to report faithfully on the official opening night of the Stringers Arms, under new management. Also, the first meeting of the Sunday Club.
The Official Opening Night
The place looked magnificent and, with due deference to Rose´s lovely Sunday Club regulars, the event took place on a barmy Tuesday evening. Invitations had been dutifully sent out to all the village residents and a healthy take-up was expected. Fortunately, bar manager Lenny had managed to sort out the electrics so that the pub could be bathed in all of its finery without plunging the whole village into darkness. One of the village senior citizens had recovered after falling into a vacant open grave in the church grounds as a result of Lenny´s previous attempt at illumination.
David had thoughtfully laid on trays of ready-salted crisps, pineapple and cheese sticks and small wallys. Terry was in charge of drinks and offered small dry sherry´s and halves of bitter. No expense spared. By 8.30 the place was comfortably full after Terry had ejected a couple of fell walkers and their German Shepherd. We have subsequently heard that the German Shepherd, Herman by name, complained that he was being abused by Terry because he had no sheep with him. Terry denied all knowledge of the incident.
At exactly 9.05, David rang the bar bell and requested silence. Here is his wonderful speech, verbatim.
Dear friends and regulars. Thank you for attending the official opening of The Stringers Arms, under new management. This is a free house but the drink is not free, just my little joke. We hope that you will continue to enjoy the food and drink which is on offer, always at reasonable prices. My wonderful wife, Rose, is always available to give advice on a wide ranging selection of subjects and is still considering applications for membership to her Sunday Club. I hope that our darts team will go from strength to strength and that last weeks incident concerning the Alsatian and my third dart will soon be forgotten.So, please enjoy the evening, don´t steal the glasses and leave the toilets as you would wish to find them. Oops, I nearly forgot to mention that Ida Down,
yes really, owner of the All Things Wearable emporium in the village has asked me to thank you all for clearing her stock to wear at this function.
As expected, David´s speech was met with hearty applause and nods of agreement. The last punter was escorted off the premises just after 11.15 and a splendid time was had by all.
The First Sunday Club Meeting
Tuesday 17 September was special because it was the first meeting of the Sunday Club at The Stringers Arms, hosted by Mrs Eileen ´Rose`Roper.
The saloon bar had been decorated to Rose´s exact specifications by the always accommodating Mr David Roper. The ladies started to arrive at 7pm precisely. Nobody knew why the Sunday Club meetings were always held on a Tuesday and those with inquisitive minds, or downright nosey, were reluctant to approach Rose about it. Apparently, a member had asked Rose the question when club meetings were held in The Grove Tavern pub in Peckham, South London. She had replied, rather dismissively and with one of her looks, that if the answer wasn´t obvious then perhaps the member was in the wrong club. The issue never saw the light of day again in London.
Just before 7.15 Rose called the meeting to order. There were 15 ladies present and a miserable looking sausage dog who had sneaked in unnoticed. Rose spent the first 20 minutes going over the rules of the club and the special days she intended to host during the coming 12 months.
One of the ladies asked, ´Tell us about the cocktail`.
Rose blushed, not a common occurrence in the Roper household, and then proceeded to tell the ladies about Rose´s Fluffy Bellybutton cocktail. It was possible to hear a pin drop as Rose described how she had mixed Bacardi and Egg Nog into a fine froth and then added cream soda. To finish, a maraschino cherry and a very thin slice of extra strong cheddar cheese would be balanced on a rhubarb leaf on the top of the glass. Rose interrupted the round of applause to say that the cocktail would be ready for consumption exclusively at the next Sunday Club meeting on Tuesday24 September.
Bang on the stroke of 7.35, David Roper quietly entered the room with a tray laden with glasses of sweet and dry sherry and flutes of Blue Nun wine. Lenny, the bar manager followed David with a tray of pigs in blankets and bowl´s of mixed nuts. One of the ladies, a petite 75 year old grey haired local, tapped Terry on the elbow and whispered that she was a vegetarian. Lenny replied, with a beaming smile, that she should eat the fucking nuts. There were no more questions concerning the refreshments.
When the sipping, slurping and munching was subsiding, Rose continued with her presentation and, after questions, she wrapped up proceedings at just after 8.15.
The ladies thanked Rose and stood at the bar to receive a free drink from Lenny, who was busy serving both bars. Lizzie, one of the Sunday Club ladies, had hung back to speak to Rose once the room was empty. She asked if Rose would write a letter for her and Rose was happy to oblige. The letter was to Lizzie´s husband who was presently residing in one of Her Majesty´s walled establishments. He was serving a four year sentence for, as Lizzie rather embarrassingly described, inappropriate behaviour with a variety of farm and domestic animals. She had approached Rose because of her way with words. Rose smiled, said of course and gently squeezed Lizzie´s arm. After a series of probing, but sensitive questions, Rose penned a first draft of the letter for Lizzie to peruse. Lizzie placed her glasses on the end of her nose and, after asking Rose if it was OK, she read out loud,
´Dear Bernard. As you know, I´m not very good at putting pen to paper so I´ve asked the lovely Mrs Roper, landlady of the Stringers Arms in the village, to help me. She has a way with words.
So, here´s what I want to say. I think you are a dirty rotten stinking pervert bastard and I hope you rot in hell. Yours sincerely, your wife, Lizzie.`
Lizzie nodded and Rose smiled. Rose addressed the envelope and they both went to the bar for a drink.
More next time...
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
Hello, Ray the landlord of The Grove Tavern here. The two lovely pictures above show the The Stringers Arms saloon bar and, from the left, yours truly, Dolly the missus, Mrs Rose Roper and Mr David Roper. Lovely or what!
I´m still the spokesman for David and Rose so I will do my best to report faithfully on the official opening night of the Stringers Arms, under new management. Also, the first meeting of the Sunday Club.
The Official Opening Night
The place looked magnificent and, with due deference to Rose´s lovely Sunday Club regulars, the event took place on a barmy Tuesday evening. Invitations had been dutifully sent out to all the village residents and a healthy take-up was expected. Fortunately, bar manager Lenny had managed to sort out the electrics so that the pub could be bathed in all of its finery without plunging the whole village into darkness. One of the village senior citizens had recovered after falling into a vacant open grave in the church grounds as a result of Lenny´s previous attempt at illumination.
David had thoughtfully laid on trays of ready-salted crisps, pineapple and cheese sticks and small wallys. Terry was in charge of drinks and offered small dry sherry´s and halves of bitter. No expense spared. By 8.30 the place was comfortably full after Terry had ejected a couple of fell walkers and their German Shepherd. We have subsequently heard that the German Shepherd, Herman by name, complained that he was being abused by Terry because he had no sheep with him. Terry denied all knowledge of the incident.
At exactly 9.05, David rang the bar bell and requested silence. Here is his wonderful speech, verbatim.
Dear friends and regulars. Thank you for attending the official opening of The Stringers Arms, under new management. This is a free house but the drink is not free, just my little joke. We hope that you will continue to enjoy the food and drink which is on offer, always at reasonable prices. My wonderful wife, Rose, is always available to give advice on a wide ranging selection of subjects and is still considering applications for membership to her Sunday Club. I hope that our darts team will go from strength to strength and that last weeks incident concerning the Alsatian and my third dart will soon be forgotten.So, please enjoy the evening, don´t steal the glasses and leave the toilets as you would wish to find them. Oops, I nearly forgot to mention that Ida Down,
yes really, owner of the All Things Wearable emporium in the village has asked me to thank you all for clearing her stock to wear at this function.
As expected, David´s speech was met with hearty applause and nods of agreement. The last punter was escorted off the premises just after 11.15 and a splendid time was had by all.
The First Sunday Club Meeting
Tuesday 17 September was special because it was the first meeting of the Sunday Club at The Stringers Arms, hosted by Mrs Eileen ´Rose`Roper.
The saloon bar had been decorated to Rose´s exact specifications by the always accommodating Mr David Roper. The ladies started to arrive at 7pm precisely. Nobody knew why the Sunday Club meetings were always held on a Tuesday and those with inquisitive minds, or downright nosey, were reluctant to approach Rose about it. Apparently, a member had asked Rose the question when club meetings were held in The Grove Tavern pub in Peckham, South London. She had replied, rather dismissively and with one of her looks, that if the answer wasn´t obvious then perhaps the member was in the wrong club. The issue never saw the light of day again in London.
Just before 7.15 Rose called the meeting to order. There were 15 ladies present and a miserable looking sausage dog who had sneaked in unnoticed. Rose spent the first 20 minutes going over the rules of the club and the special days she intended to host during the coming 12 months.
One of the ladies asked, ´Tell us about the cocktail`.
Rose blushed, not a common occurrence in the Roper household, and then proceeded to tell the ladies about Rose´s Fluffy Bellybutton cocktail. It was possible to hear a pin drop as Rose described how she had mixed Bacardi and Egg Nog into a fine froth and then added cream soda. To finish, a maraschino cherry and a very thin slice of extra strong cheddar cheese would be balanced on a rhubarb leaf on the top of the glass. Rose interrupted the round of applause to say that the cocktail would be ready for consumption exclusively at the next Sunday Club meeting on Tuesday24 September.
Bang on the stroke of 7.35, David Roper quietly entered the room with a tray laden with glasses of sweet and dry sherry and flutes of Blue Nun wine. Lenny, the bar manager followed David with a tray of pigs in blankets and bowl´s of mixed nuts. One of the ladies, a petite 75 year old grey haired local, tapped Terry on the elbow and whispered that she was a vegetarian. Lenny replied, with a beaming smile, that she should eat the fucking nuts. There were no more questions concerning the refreshments.
When the sipping, slurping and munching was subsiding, Rose continued with her presentation and, after questions, she wrapped up proceedings at just after 8.15.
The ladies thanked Rose and stood at the bar to receive a free drink from Lenny, who was busy serving both bars. Lizzie, one of the Sunday Club ladies, had hung back to speak to Rose once the room was empty. She asked if Rose would write a letter for her and Rose was happy to oblige. The letter was to Lizzie´s husband who was presently residing in one of Her Majesty´s walled establishments. He was serving a four year sentence for, as Lizzie rather embarrassingly described, inappropriate behaviour with a variety of farm and domestic animals. She had approached Rose because of her way with words. Rose smiled, said of course and gently squeezed Lizzie´s arm. After a series of probing, but sensitive questions, Rose penned a first draft of the letter for Lizzie to peruse. Lizzie placed her glasses on the end of her nose and, after asking Rose if it was OK, she read out loud,
´Dear Bernard. As you know, I´m not very good at putting pen to paper so I´ve asked the lovely Mrs Roper, landlady of the Stringers Arms in the village, to help me. She has a way with words.
So, here´s what I want to say. I think you are a dirty rotten stinking pervert bastard and I hope you rot in hell. Yours sincerely, your wife, Lizzie.`
Lizzie nodded and Rose smiled. Rose addressed the envelope and they both went to the bar for a drink.
More next time...
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
30 June 2019
Hello, Ray the landlord of The Grove Tavern here.
I must apologise for not posting a current picture of The Stringers Arms. I hold the new bar manager responsible. Please read on.
At the specific request of Mr David and Mrs Rose Roper, lovely couple, I´ve continued to record their wonderful journey to becoming fully fledged landlord and landlady of The Stringers Arms. When I last reported to you, they were recruiting staff and preparing for the official opening night.
I´m now happy to report on the progress they have made with their preparations and to introduce you to some of their regulars (who have been allowed in to help and sample the traditional ale and Blue Nun).
As mentioned last time Dolly and I decided to stay on and help. David and Rose put us in the biggest of the spare bedrooms which has character, as Dolly described it. Rose kindly gave Dolly the use of one of the other bedrooms to store our luggage. When I say OUR luggage I´m being careful because I wouldn´t wish Dolly to think that I´m being flippant. So, I used one drawer of a chest of drawers for my kit which left Dolly free to use the other three drawers, a fitted wardrobe big enough to hold a séance in and a free-standing cloths rail. Lovely, sorted.
As the four of us sat down to discuss the arrangements in detail, David mentioned that he´d tasked his bar manager Lenny with the job of sorting out the external pub lights which were working when they felt like it. A couple of days later Lenny had reported back that the problem was solved. Job done.
David had waited for us to arrive before he unveiled Lenny´s handiwork. So, we all trooped outside and David gave Lenny the thumbs up to turn the lights on. Bingo, the front, roof and garden looked magnificent. As we gave Lenny a well deserved round of applause, Dolly leaned over and whispered ´why is the rest of the village in darkness?´ David and Rose were proudly admiring Lenny´s work and hadn´t noticed what we had.
I looked around and she was right, even the street and traffic lights were out. Not wishing to spoil the moment I suggested that we retire back to the saloon bar for hot toddies and crisps. As we did Lenny turned off the external lights and the village was once-again back to normal.
During the evening Dolly and I discussed whether or not to mention the problem to David and Rose. In the end, after a number of hot toddies we retired to bedland and left well enough alone. Lovely evening.
The following morning we were up bright and early ready for Rose to unveil her plans for the bar decorations. But before we started we (I) reluctantly joined Rose and some of her recently recruited Sunday Club ladies for 30 minutes of gentle keep fit in the carpark. Dolly looked cool in her Mary Quant one piece with matching pixie boots. Trish Oldham was limbering up in a tracksuit probably purchased in Mothercare. Christine Bowles was doing some weird stretching exercises in a 1966 World Cup football shirt and pink leggings. Jogging slowly on the spot was Avonia Carol who sported a sweatshirt emblazoned with the legend RHUBARB RULES KO. Rose looked magnificent in a loose fitting Donna Karan number topped off with a pair of high end garden shears she was using to tap out the beat we were exercising to..
I entered into the fun(?) and quickly worked up a sweat on my top lip. The braces holding up my suit trousers were beginning to chafe my shoulders so, after 15 minutes I retired sick. The ladies were unforgiving with their comments and even Dolly joined in until Rose called for verbal restraint. I made a mental note to discuss the matter with David who was conveniently practicing barrel changing in the cellar during my unfortunate experience. But, being the gentleman what I am, I put the matter behind me and replaced my braces with a stout leather belt.
Eventually, after a splendidly healthy breakfast of muesli and yogurt followed by eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding, mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans, hash browns, fried bread, toast and a small side of kedgeree, we sat back and Rose unveiled her plans for the bar decorations.
The saloon bar was lovely and warm and I must have drifted off because, for the life of me, I cannot remember a word that Rose said. I do know that I had a very nasty bruise across my lower ribs, right hand side, where Dolly was repeatedly elbowing me in the ribs. When I sheepishly owned up to Rose that I had missed the presentation she graciously forgave me and promised to provide me with a written report. Lovely lady.
Before closing this brief report it would be rude of me not to mention how well turned out our hosts were. As you know I´m a bit of a clothes horse myself so I was chuffed when David showed me his new wardrobe. No, not the solid wood, no laminate job that stands in the master bedroom, but the contents. A good half dozen Saville Row beauties, subtle pinstripes with beautiful linings. A side shelf of Turnbull & Asser´s finest finished off with a separate shelf of boxed Lobb loafers and lace ups.
I didn´t, of course, venture into Rose´s boudoir. One doesn´t, does one.
When I quietly enquired as to how David had acquired his extraordinary kit, he said that a friend called Daisy had stumped up the mullar. Mmmm.
Next time I will report on the decorations and what happened on the big day...
.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Hello, Ray the landlord of The Grove Tavern here.
I must apologise for not posting a current picture of The Stringers Arms. I hold the new bar manager responsible. Please read on.
At the specific request of Mr David and Mrs Rose Roper, lovely couple, I´ve continued to record their wonderful journey to becoming fully fledged landlord and landlady of The Stringers Arms. When I last reported to you, they were recruiting staff and preparing for the official opening night.
I´m now happy to report on the progress they have made with their preparations and to introduce you to some of their regulars (who have been allowed in to help and sample the traditional ale and Blue Nun).
As mentioned last time Dolly and I decided to stay on and help. David and Rose put us in the biggest of the spare bedrooms which has character, as Dolly described it. Rose kindly gave Dolly the use of one of the other bedrooms to store our luggage. When I say OUR luggage I´m being careful because I wouldn´t wish Dolly to think that I´m being flippant. So, I used one drawer of a chest of drawers for my kit which left Dolly free to use the other three drawers, a fitted wardrobe big enough to hold a séance in and a free-standing cloths rail. Lovely, sorted.
As the four of us sat down to discuss the arrangements in detail, David mentioned that he´d tasked his bar manager Lenny with the job of sorting out the external pub lights which were working when they felt like it. A couple of days later Lenny had reported back that the problem was solved. Job done.
David had waited for us to arrive before he unveiled Lenny´s handiwork. So, we all trooped outside and David gave Lenny the thumbs up to turn the lights on. Bingo, the front, roof and garden looked magnificent. As we gave Lenny a well deserved round of applause, Dolly leaned over and whispered ´why is the rest of the village in darkness?´ David and Rose were proudly admiring Lenny´s work and hadn´t noticed what we had.
I looked around and she was right, even the street and traffic lights were out. Not wishing to spoil the moment I suggested that we retire back to the saloon bar for hot toddies and crisps. As we did Lenny turned off the external lights and the village was once-again back to normal.
During the evening Dolly and I discussed whether or not to mention the problem to David and Rose. In the end, after a number of hot toddies we retired to bedland and left well enough alone. Lovely evening.
The following morning we were up bright and early ready for Rose to unveil her plans for the bar decorations. But before we started we (I) reluctantly joined Rose and some of her recently recruited Sunday Club ladies for 30 minutes of gentle keep fit in the carpark. Dolly looked cool in her Mary Quant one piece with matching pixie boots. Trish Oldham was limbering up in a tracksuit probably purchased in Mothercare. Christine Bowles was doing some weird stretching exercises in a 1966 World Cup football shirt and pink leggings. Jogging slowly on the spot was Avonia Carol who sported a sweatshirt emblazoned with the legend RHUBARB RULES KO. Rose looked magnificent in a loose fitting Donna Karan number topped off with a pair of high end garden shears she was using to tap out the beat we were exercising to..
I entered into the fun(?) and quickly worked up a sweat on my top lip. The braces holding up my suit trousers were beginning to chafe my shoulders so, after 15 minutes I retired sick. The ladies were unforgiving with their comments and even Dolly joined in until Rose called for verbal restraint. I made a mental note to discuss the matter with David who was conveniently practicing barrel changing in the cellar during my unfortunate experience. But, being the gentleman what I am, I put the matter behind me and replaced my braces with a stout leather belt.
Eventually, after a splendidly healthy breakfast of muesli and yogurt followed by eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding, mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans, hash browns, fried bread, toast and a small side of kedgeree, we sat back and Rose unveiled her plans for the bar decorations.
The saloon bar was lovely and warm and I must have drifted off because, for the life of me, I cannot remember a word that Rose said. I do know that I had a very nasty bruise across my lower ribs, right hand side, where Dolly was repeatedly elbowing me in the ribs. When I sheepishly owned up to Rose that I had missed the presentation she graciously forgave me and promised to provide me with a written report. Lovely lady.
Before closing this brief report it would be rude of me not to mention how well turned out our hosts were. As you know I´m a bit of a clothes horse myself so I was chuffed when David showed me his new wardrobe. No, not the solid wood, no laminate job that stands in the master bedroom, but the contents. A good half dozen Saville Row beauties, subtle pinstripes with beautiful linings. A side shelf of Turnbull & Asser´s finest finished off with a separate shelf of boxed Lobb loafers and lace ups.
I didn´t, of course, venture into Rose´s boudoir. One doesn´t, does one.
When I quietly enquired as to how David had acquired his extraordinary kit, he said that a friend called Daisy had stumped up the mullar. Mmmm.
Next time I will report on the decorations and what happened on the big day...
.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
5 March 2019
Hello, Ray the landlord of The Grove Tavern here.
You will, of course, be asking why the banner at the top of this page now reads The Stringers Arms. There is a very good reason for this.
As you will have read in my last notes, mid November, I hosted Mr and Mrs Roper´s leaving do at my esteemed establishment in Peckham. It was a thoroughly sad affair with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. I did not want to see them go but I understand their reasons for moving to pastures new.
So, why am I writing about The Stringers Arms? Because my dear friends have asked me to keep you all in the loop, so to speak, because they are busy making it fit for Her Majesty, should she be passing and fancy a swift half. I, of course, am happy to do so.
David and Rose, she doesn´t mind me addressing her by her special name, moved in to the Stringers Arms in mid December. As you can see by the photo, they are going to become regular receivers of the white stuff. They, rather wisely after taking advice from yours truly, decided to keep the pub closed until the New Year so that they could have a grand opening when everything was as they would wish it to be.
So, David phoned me mid January and asked if Dolly and I would care to journey up the M6, turn right near Carlisle and drive through the beautiful countryside to the village of Whittingham. I agreed and we borrowed Terry´s Ford Cortina 1600E for the journey. The trip was not without mishap and I have promised Terry to have his pride and joy resprayed when the weather takes a turn for the better.
Rose and David were waiting at the front door to receive us and a beautiful electric log fire welcomed us into the saloon bar. Rose had prepared plates of cheese and onion sandwiches, with side orders of radish and marmalade compote. Lovely, Dolly and I do love a bit of exotic.
After lunch we were given the grand tour and I must report that it was very nice. David had, of course, imported his eye for detail to the wilds of Northumbria, so the saloon and public bars had the ambiance of my Grove Tavern. Rose shared with me her plans for Sunday Club meetings, as usual, on Tuesday evenings. My ladies in Peckham miss her terribly. Formica-topped tables and a quality dart board means class. Lovely.
As we were enjoying glasses of the local brew, we were introduced to his bar manager, a strapping youth by the name of Lenny. David had quietly explained that Lenny was a shilling short of a full till but was reliable and had worked in the pub when it was under previous management.
When I asked Lenny how he had come to acquire what was left of a black eye and split lip, he smiled and gently patted David on the back. Apparently, when Lenny was being interviewed for the job he called David ´Dave`. Rose had intervened because she guessed that David had not heard Lenny use the D word. Despite Rose whispering a quiet word in Lenny´s ear, he answered David´s next enquiry by starting off with ´Dave`.
When Lenny was roused from unconsciousness, Rose went to great lengths to explain the folly of his ways. The lad nodded, doing his best to acknowledge Rose through his newly acquired lisp. His Met police eye makeup started to fade quickly in the cold weather.
David considers that, after the mishap, the lad has the makings.
So, we decided to stay on for a few days and be special guests at the official reopening of The Stringers Arms.
Next time I shall duly report on how well the evening went and also bring you up to date on events at The Grove Tavern.
Kind Regards,
Ray and Dolly.
Hello, Ray the landlord of The Grove Tavern here.
You will, of course, be asking why the banner at the top of this page now reads The Stringers Arms. There is a very good reason for this.
As you will have read in my last notes, mid November, I hosted Mr and Mrs Roper´s leaving do at my esteemed establishment in Peckham. It was a thoroughly sad affair with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. I did not want to see them go but I understand their reasons for moving to pastures new.
So, why am I writing about The Stringers Arms? Because my dear friends have asked me to keep you all in the loop, so to speak, because they are busy making it fit for Her Majesty, should she be passing and fancy a swift half. I, of course, am happy to do so.
David and Rose, she doesn´t mind me addressing her by her special name, moved in to the Stringers Arms in mid December. As you can see by the photo, they are going to become regular receivers of the white stuff. They, rather wisely after taking advice from yours truly, decided to keep the pub closed until the New Year so that they could have a grand opening when everything was as they would wish it to be.
So, David phoned me mid January and asked if Dolly and I would care to journey up the M6, turn right near Carlisle and drive through the beautiful countryside to the village of Whittingham. I agreed and we borrowed Terry´s Ford Cortina 1600E for the journey. The trip was not without mishap and I have promised Terry to have his pride and joy resprayed when the weather takes a turn for the better.
Rose and David were waiting at the front door to receive us and a beautiful electric log fire welcomed us into the saloon bar. Rose had prepared plates of cheese and onion sandwiches, with side orders of radish and marmalade compote. Lovely, Dolly and I do love a bit of exotic.
After lunch we were given the grand tour and I must report that it was very nice. David had, of course, imported his eye for detail to the wilds of Northumbria, so the saloon and public bars had the ambiance of my Grove Tavern. Rose shared with me her plans for Sunday Club meetings, as usual, on Tuesday evenings. My ladies in Peckham miss her terribly. Formica-topped tables and a quality dart board means class. Lovely.
As we were enjoying glasses of the local brew, we were introduced to his bar manager, a strapping youth by the name of Lenny. David had quietly explained that Lenny was a shilling short of a full till but was reliable and had worked in the pub when it was under previous management.
When I asked Lenny how he had come to acquire what was left of a black eye and split lip, he smiled and gently patted David on the back. Apparently, when Lenny was being interviewed for the job he called David ´Dave`. Rose had intervened because she guessed that David had not heard Lenny use the D word. Despite Rose whispering a quiet word in Lenny´s ear, he answered David´s next enquiry by starting off with ´Dave`.
When Lenny was roused from unconsciousness, Rose went to great lengths to explain the folly of his ways. The lad nodded, doing his best to acknowledge Rose through his newly acquired lisp. His Met police eye makeup started to fade quickly in the cold weather.
David considers that, after the mishap, the lad has the makings.
So, we decided to stay on for a few days and be special guests at the official reopening of The Stringers Arms.
Next time I shall duly report on how well the evening went and also bring you up to date on events at The Grove Tavern.
Kind Regards,
Ray and Dolly.
19 November 2018
Hello, Ray the landlord here.
I´m happy to report that we have had a very successful summer and our burger and brown ale nights have been particularly popular. The good weather has been a contributing factor and Dolly has made the BBQ Sanctuary (the name was my idea) in the back garden particularly inviting.
Terry, my intrepid barman, was a little miffed when I insisted that he wear an apron to serve the food. He relaxed when I reminded him that he could wear clothes as well as the apron. Silly boy!
Ginger has been her usual busy and reliable self, paying particular attention to my Saloon bar regulars who were dining in the Sanctuary. Her idea to have a cordoned off area for them, using a length of white clothes line, went down really well. Class.
The only fly in the ointment was when a visitor to the Grove insisted in parking his arse on the Saloon bar stool normally reserved for Mr David Roper. In fairness, Ginger did ask the man to vacate the stool twice, and he failed to heed the warning in her voice. Fortunately, I have a mate who´s someone in the London Ambulance Service and he arranged for the man to be taken to a hospital off the manor. I´ve since heard that he was discharged after a week and will be off work for some months. Taking food through a straw must be a pain.
And so, to the part of my report that I have not been looking forward to.
Some months ago a little bird whispered in my ear that Mr and Mrs Roper were planning on leaving the nest, so to speak. I broached the subject with David and he confirmed that they would be leaving the Royal Manor of Peckham for pastures new. Something to do with a business opportunity offered by a Mr Daisy. When I enquired further he told me that they would be taking over a pub in the village of Whittingham, near Carlisle, called The Stringers Arms. He said that he had wanted to tell me but couldn´t seem to find the right moment. What a gentleman.
Mrs Roper joined us and with the help of a nice glass of cold Blur Nun and a light and bitter, they told me of their plans. They intended to model the place onThe Grove, including the benefits of a proper Saloon bar. I almost welled up with pride. Mrs Roper, I gave her the nickname of Rose because she´s so handy at planting stuff in straight rows, said that she would be starting a Sunday Club and holding her meetings on a Tuesday. Lovely. She also promised to continue her letter writing advice, via our fax machine, for our lovely ladies who´s better half´s are presently holidaying courtesy of HM. Outstanding.
When I told Dolly, she had a little cry and had to stick one of her eyelashes back on. Ginger and Terry were subdued and promised to make sure that their leaving do would be a night to remember.
So, we chose the last Tuesday evening in September for their leaving do. The weather was still nice and the Sunday Club ladies were back from their timeshares in Benidorm, Margate and Camber Sands. One thoughtful member had bought Rose a fluffy toffee apple. Nice.
The Saloon bar regulars were waiting patiently for me to open up at 5pm sharp. I don´t run an establishment that stays open all day because that would be unfair to my clients, no opening times for them to look forward to.
I digress. I had pushed the boat out and there were trays of dry sherry and jellied eels for the hungry hoard. Even my male customers sipped thoughtfully at the sherry. Nice.
Dolly came down to the bar at just after 5.30. She looked stunning in one of her favourite Biba dresses and long white boots. Top. Ginger appeared in one of her leopard skin patterned boiler suits and pink boots, as expected for a special occasion, and Terry had shaved and donned a waistcoat and clean jeans. Perfect. I´d chosen my best silver grey tonic mohair three piece with brown brogues. Done.
Just after 6pm, Mr and Mrs Roper arrived and were greeted by rousing applause from both the Saloon and Public bars. They were both beautifully turned out as only they could be. Class.
I greeted them with a glass of chilled Blue Nun, a perfectly pulled pint of light and bitter, and a plate of cheese and pineapple en stick and top and tailed whitebait. David shook my hand and Rose gave me a peck on the cheek.
Dolly had laid out a sumptuous spread of cold pie mash and liquor, gala pie and assorted crisps and nuts in the Sanctuary so everyone soon got stuck in.
Just before 9pm we all retreated back into the Saloon bar for the presentations and farewell speeches. Ginger had thoughtfully placed sheets of two-ply pink toilet roll at strategic points along the bar for those ladies who might have forgotten to bring a hanky.
The darts team presented David with a set of of gold-plated darts and a trouser press. The Sunday Club ladies presented Rose with a lovely silver necklace with the words Every Day Is Sunday picked out in gold letters. On behalf of us, Dolly presented them with an all expenses paid weekend in Southend, three star luxury, and an Elkie Brooks CD.
Tears were starting to fall and sobs were clearly audible when Terry accidentally stepped on Gladys Penfold, who was resting on the floor between drinks.
David made a lovely speech about growing up in Peckham and how standards had slipped, apart from in the Grove. I had to use my shirt sleeve to clear an itch on the end of my nose.
So, that was it, the end of an era. I was just about to ring the bell and announce that all drinks were on the house when a well-refreshed gent in the Public bar shouted ´Three cheers for Dave Roper`.
I looked at David and thought ´oh shit `as he walked towards the Public bar....
.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Hello, Ray the landlord here.
I´m happy to report that we have had a very successful summer and our burger and brown ale nights have been particularly popular. The good weather has been a contributing factor and Dolly has made the BBQ Sanctuary (the name was my idea) in the back garden particularly inviting.
Terry, my intrepid barman, was a little miffed when I insisted that he wear an apron to serve the food. He relaxed when I reminded him that he could wear clothes as well as the apron. Silly boy!
Ginger has been her usual busy and reliable self, paying particular attention to my Saloon bar regulars who were dining in the Sanctuary. Her idea to have a cordoned off area for them, using a length of white clothes line, went down really well. Class.
The only fly in the ointment was when a visitor to the Grove insisted in parking his arse on the Saloon bar stool normally reserved for Mr David Roper. In fairness, Ginger did ask the man to vacate the stool twice, and he failed to heed the warning in her voice. Fortunately, I have a mate who´s someone in the London Ambulance Service and he arranged for the man to be taken to a hospital off the manor. I´ve since heard that he was discharged after a week and will be off work for some months. Taking food through a straw must be a pain.
And so, to the part of my report that I have not been looking forward to.
Some months ago a little bird whispered in my ear that Mr and Mrs Roper were planning on leaving the nest, so to speak. I broached the subject with David and he confirmed that they would be leaving the Royal Manor of Peckham for pastures new. Something to do with a business opportunity offered by a Mr Daisy. When I enquired further he told me that they would be taking over a pub in the village of Whittingham, near Carlisle, called The Stringers Arms. He said that he had wanted to tell me but couldn´t seem to find the right moment. What a gentleman.
Mrs Roper joined us and with the help of a nice glass of cold Blur Nun and a light and bitter, they told me of their plans. They intended to model the place onThe Grove, including the benefits of a proper Saloon bar. I almost welled up with pride. Mrs Roper, I gave her the nickname of Rose because she´s so handy at planting stuff in straight rows, said that she would be starting a Sunday Club and holding her meetings on a Tuesday. Lovely. She also promised to continue her letter writing advice, via our fax machine, for our lovely ladies who´s better half´s are presently holidaying courtesy of HM. Outstanding.
When I told Dolly, she had a little cry and had to stick one of her eyelashes back on. Ginger and Terry were subdued and promised to make sure that their leaving do would be a night to remember.
So, we chose the last Tuesday evening in September for their leaving do. The weather was still nice and the Sunday Club ladies were back from their timeshares in Benidorm, Margate and Camber Sands. One thoughtful member had bought Rose a fluffy toffee apple. Nice.
The Saloon bar regulars were waiting patiently for me to open up at 5pm sharp. I don´t run an establishment that stays open all day because that would be unfair to my clients, no opening times for them to look forward to.
I digress. I had pushed the boat out and there were trays of dry sherry and jellied eels for the hungry hoard. Even my male customers sipped thoughtfully at the sherry. Nice.
Dolly came down to the bar at just after 5.30. She looked stunning in one of her favourite Biba dresses and long white boots. Top. Ginger appeared in one of her leopard skin patterned boiler suits and pink boots, as expected for a special occasion, and Terry had shaved and donned a waistcoat and clean jeans. Perfect. I´d chosen my best silver grey tonic mohair three piece with brown brogues. Done.
Just after 6pm, Mr and Mrs Roper arrived and were greeted by rousing applause from both the Saloon and Public bars. They were both beautifully turned out as only they could be. Class.
I greeted them with a glass of chilled Blue Nun, a perfectly pulled pint of light and bitter, and a plate of cheese and pineapple en stick and top and tailed whitebait. David shook my hand and Rose gave me a peck on the cheek.
Dolly had laid out a sumptuous spread of cold pie mash and liquor, gala pie and assorted crisps and nuts in the Sanctuary so everyone soon got stuck in.
Just before 9pm we all retreated back into the Saloon bar for the presentations and farewell speeches. Ginger had thoughtfully placed sheets of two-ply pink toilet roll at strategic points along the bar for those ladies who might have forgotten to bring a hanky.
The darts team presented David with a set of of gold-plated darts and a trouser press. The Sunday Club ladies presented Rose with a lovely silver necklace with the words Every Day Is Sunday picked out in gold letters. On behalf of us, Dolly presented them with an all expenses paid weekend in Southend, three star luxury, and an Elkie Brooks CD.
Tears were starting to fall and sobs were clearly audible when Terry accidentally stepped on Gladys Penfold, who was resting on the floor between drinks.
David made a lovely speech about growing up in Peckham and how standards had slipped, apart from in the Grove. I had to use my shirt sleeve to clear an itch on the end of my nose.
So, that was it, the end of an era. I was just about to ring the bell and announce that all drinks were on the house when a well-refreshed gent in the Public bar shouted ´Three cheers for Dave Roper`.
I looked at David and thought ´oh shit `as he walked towards the Public bar....
.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
19 May 2018
Hello, Ray the landlord here.
You may remember that, a couple of weeks ago, Mrs Roper (sorry, Eileen) asked to use the saloon bar for a Sunday Club Summers Party. I also agreed, with some private reservations, to allow Eileen to invite some of the landlady´s from establishments in the surrounding areas.
The big day arrived, Monday 7 May, and it was a sunny and warm, a rare occurrence for this neck of the woods. I blame this global worming thing that everyone is on about. How on earth can worms effect the weather.
I repeated my offer for the Club to use our beautiful back garden with the spectacular B&Q pagoda I recently had installed. But, no, Eileen insisted on using the saloon bar and also, much to my surprise, it was a ladies-only event. I also released Ginger from her usual bar duties to stand guard at the saloon bar door to stop any interlopers from gate-crashing the event.
David Roper, our darts team captain, invited me to join the junior team in a practice afternoon. When I said that I thought it was strange that
Eileen´s event was ladies-only, he smiled and said that he would have paid good money to have got an invite to a summers party. I still don´t know why he, and Eileen, used the word ´summer`in the plural, him being a man of words and the owner of a dictionary. Still, who am I to disagree with my best customers and, dare I say it, friends.
Just before two o´clock, Ginger was on door duty and looked as pretty as a peach. Her ´I F..k..g Love Benidorm` sweatshirt was pressed and she had her best pink curlers held in place by wooden skewers. Nice.
Most of my lady regulars from Peckham and Gloucester Grove were first in, no doubt attracted by the free drinks my darling Dolly was serving. I thought that 12 bottles of Blue Nun and bottles of gin, vodka and Bacardi with assorted mixers was a bit excessive but, as always, Dolly knows best.
Last to arrive were the two landlady friends who made time to attend. Gladys Penfold from the Temple Bar pub on the Walworth Road arrived, as expected, in her pink Ford Transit. Her husband Ricky had phoned ahead to advise us to limit Gladys to eight G&Ts because she tended to get a bit loud after that. Point taken and noted.
Brenda Blazer arrived in her faux fur coat, ripped jeans and Dr Martens. Most of the bottles of Blue Nun were destined to be imbibed by Brenda and we were not disappointed.
At two thirty, Ginger checked her list, winked and closed the saloon bar door behind her.
After about an hour I gave my excuses to David and after a swift light ale I decided to try and listen in on what was going on at the party. An upturned pint glass held against the frosted glass in the saloon bar door gave me the chance I was after.
As I was tuning my left ear into the bottom of the pint glass I could hear oohs and aahs and some laughter and, what sounded like a very
low-powered electric drill. Now I was confused but, knowing how multitalented Eileen is, maybe she was giving the Sunday Club ladies a bit of a DIY demo.
I heard one of the ladies ask if it would go in easily, and this attracted howls of laughter. Silly cow, of course the drill would do the job properly if the correct bit was used.
The silly questions continued when Brenda Blazer asked if lubricant was needed. More titters and cackles. Any fool knows that you do not need lubricant on an electric drill. I´m sure that Eileen corrected the misunderstanding. Another one asked about extra batteries which attracted giggles.
I lost interest when it became apparent that the afternoon really was about DIY when one of the ladies asked about ballcocks. I think that was what she said...
More next time...
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Hello, Ray the landlord here.
You may remember that, a couple of weeks ago, Mrs Roper (sorry, Eileen) asked to use the saloon bar for a Sunday Club Summers Party. I also agreed, with some private reservations, to allow Eileen to invite some of the landlady´s from establishments in the surrounding areas.
The big day arrived, Monday 7 May, and it was a sunny and warm, a rare occurrence for this neck of the woods. I blame this global worming thing that everyone is on about. How on earth can worms effect the weather.
I repeated my offer for the Club to use our beautiful back garden with the spectacular B&Q pagoda I recently had installed. But, no, Eileen insisted on using the saloon bar and also, much to my surprise, it was a ladies-only event. I also released Ginger from her usual bar duties to stand guard at the saloon bar door to stop any interlopers from gate-crashing the event.
David Roper, our darts team captain, invited me to join the junior team in a practice afternoon. When I said that I thought it was strange that
Eileen´s event was ladies-only, he smiled and said that he would have paid good money to have got an invite to a summers party. I still don´t know why he, and Eileen, used the word ´summer`in the plural, him being a man of words and the owner of a dictionary. Still, who am I to disagree with my best customers and, dare I say it, friends.
Just before two o´clock, Ginger was on door duty and looked as pretty as a peach. Her ´I F..k..g Love Benidorm` sweatshirt was pressed and she had her best pink curlers held in place by wooden skewers. Nice.
Most of my lady regulars from Peckham and Gloucester Grove were first in, no doubt attracted by the free drinks my darling Dolly was serving. I thought that 12 bottles of Blue Nun and bottles of gin, vodka and Bacardi with assorted mixers was a bit excessive but, as always, Dolly knows best.
Last to arrive were the two landlady friends who made time to attend. Gladys Penfold from the Temple Bar pub on the Walworth Road arrived, as expected, in her pink Ford Transit. Her husband Ricky had phoned ahead to advise us to limit Gladys to eight G&Ts because she tended to get a bit loud after that. Point taken and noted.
Brenda Blazer arrived in her faux fur coat, ripped jeans and Dr Martens. Most of the bottles of Blue Nun were destined to be imbibed by Brenda and we were not disappointed.
At two thirty, Ginger checked her list, winked and closed the saloon bar door behind her.
After about an hour I gave my excuses to David and after a swift light ale I decided to try and listen in on what was going on at the party. An upturned pint glass held against the frosted glass in the saloon bar door gave me the chance I was after.
As I was tuning my left ear into the bottom of the pint glass I could hear oohs and aahs and some laughter and, what sounded like a very
low-powered electric drill. Now I was confused but, knowing how multitalented Eileen is, maybe she was giving the Sunday Club ladies a bit of a DIY demo.
I heard one of the ladies ask if it would go in easily, and this attracted howls of laughter. Silly cow, of course the drill would do the job properly if the correct bit was used.
The silly questions continued when Brenda Blazer asked if lubricant was needed. More titters and cackles. Any fool knows that you do not need lubricant on an electric drill. I´m sure that Eileen corrected the misunderstanding. Another one asked about extra batteries which attracted giggles.
I lost interest when it became apparent that the afternoon really was about DIY when one of the ladies asked about ballcocks. I think that was what she said...
More next time...
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
23 April 2018
Hello, Ray the landlord here.
Apologies for not keeping you up to date with the goings-on at The Grove Tavern. The missus, Dolly, has had some health problems and is now on the mend. The Ropers and many of my other regulars have been so supportive, with offers to change the barrels, clean the pipes and wash the car, which Dolly normally does. Lovely.
Since we last spoke, Mrs Roper, Eileen as she likes to remind me, has come up with a great idea for her Sunday Club regulars. She wants to hold a Dande Summers party, I think that´s what she called it, and of course I said yes.
I always enjoy a chat with Eileen and this was no different,
´Hello Eileen, how can I help?`
´It´s about the party...`
´Of course it is, the Tavern facilities are at your disposal.`I must say that I was a bit flummoxed by Eileen´s reaction, all excited and giggly, with a slight blush. Anyway, I carried on, ´So, do you have a date in mind?`
Eileen consulted her Filofax and asked if she could have it on the first Monday in May. Of course, I agreed. She said that it would give her time to get all the bits and pieces, spare batteries and samples together. I was about to ask her why she needed batteries for a summer party but I
didn´t want to come across as a right thicko so I nodded and smiled.
So, we shook hands, standards have to be maintained, and I was about to go back upstairs and finish off my double pie, mash and liquor when she asked, ´ Can I invite the landladies from some of the pubs in Peckham, Camberwell Green and New Cross?`
I was a bit reluctant because some of the ladies in question are ´independent and outspoken`, the best description I can offer. Eileen started to frown because I must have looked surprised so I quickly recovered and said that, of course, no problem. It then occurred to me that she might want the back garden for the party, weather permitting, but she said that she would prefer the saloon bar for about three hours in the afternoon. Once again, I was surprised but I kept a straight face because I didn´t want to annoy her and attract one of THOSE looks. David had warned me that one of THOSE looks can wilt flowers and melt soap. Sound.
Once again, we shook hands and she left the pub whistling ´Ready For Love`by Bad Company. I only know the title because it´s on the public bar jukebox. I´m a Mantovani fan but I like my customers to enjoy different kinds of music.
So, we´ll be having a summer party on the first Monday in May and I´ll let you know how it went. I still can´t fathom out why she needs batteries....
.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Hello, Ray the landlord here.
Apologies for not keeping you up to date with the goings-on at The Grove Tavern. The missus, Dolly, has had some health problems and is now on the mend. The Ropers and many of my other regulars have been so supportive, with offers to change the barrels, clean the pipes and wash the car, which Dolly normally does. Lovely.
Since we last spoke, Mrs Roper, Eileen as she likes to remind me, has come up with a great idea for her Sunday Club regulars. She wants to hold a Dande Summers party, I think that´s what she called it, and of course I said yes.
I always enjoy a chat with Eileen and this was no different,
´Hello Eileen, how can I help?`
´It´s about the party...`
´Of course it is, the Tavern facilities are at your disposal.`I must say that I was a bit flummoxed by Eileen´s reaction, all excited and giggly, with a slight blush. Anyway, I carried on, ´So, do you have a date in mind?`
Eileen consulted her Filofax and asked if she could have it on the first Monday in May. Of course, I agreed. She said that it would give her time to get all the bits and pieces, spare batteries and samples together. I was about to ask her why she needed batteries for a summer party but I
didn´t want to come across as a right thicko so I nodded and smiled.
So, we shook hands, standards have to be maintained, and I was about to go back upstairs and finish off my double pie, mash and liquor when she asked, ´ Can I invite the landladies from some of the pubs in Peckham, Camberwell Green and New Cross?`
I was a bit reluctant because some of the ladies in question are ´independent and outspoken`, the best description I can offer. Eileen started to frown because I must have looked surprised so I quickly recovered and said that, of course, no problem. It then occurred to me that she might want the back garden for the party, weather permitting, but she said that she would prefer the saloon bar for about three hours in the afternoon. Once again, I was surprised but I kept a straight face because I didn´t want to annoy her and attract one of THOSE looks. David had warned me that one of THOSE looks can wilt flowers and melt soap. Sound.
Once again, we shook hands and she left the pub whistling ´Ready For Love`by Bad Company. I only know the title because it´s on the public bar jukebox. I´m a Mantovani fan but I like my customers to enjoy different kinds of music.
So, we´ll be having a summer party on the first Monday in May and I´ll let you know how it went. I still can´t fathom out why she needs batteries....
.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
26 January 2018
Hello, Ray the landlord here.
There we were, enjoying a lovely early Saturday evening. The public bar was busy, mostly pints of bitter, Bacardi cokes and GT´s with ice and lemon. My lovely saloon bar regulars were arriving and, as a special treat, I´d ordered portions of jellied and hot eels from Manzies pie and mash emporium on Peckham Hill Street, to be delivered just after eight.
David ´don´t call me Dave` Roper was getting some darts practice in, ready for a grudge match against the Bricklayers Arms, scheduled to start just after nine. Mrs Roper was setting up her Sunday Club meeting, due to start the same time as the darts. The ladies like the Sunday Club, particularly as it´s never held on a Sunday. Mrs Roper teaches them how to write proper letters, without the need for profanity every other word. Bleeding lovely.
Mr and Mrs Gutteridge were already in, studying holiday brochures for their next trip abroad. I told them that Canvey Island was always a safe bet for the weather. I allow them to bring their dog Donald into the saloon bar because he´s always well behaved. Unfortunately, our pooch Farton is banned from the bars because of his disgusting habits.
Dolly was putting her slap on ready for a busy evening, Ginger was nipping at the Famous Grouse, she thinks I don´t know, and Terry was trying to look less like a serial killer than he normally does. The boy does try. I was doing what I love best, which is checking the till receipts. That was when the saloon bar telephone rang ( this is a special consideration I had installed for my regulars). Lovely.
I answered it and, to my dismay, I recognized the voice. It was my cousin´s son, Terrence William Anthony Tyrone (?) Austin. Everyone, including his dad, know him as TWAT. The boy adds new meanings to the term ´walking disaster`but, somehow, he´s managed to earn a legitimate crust.
The conversation went along the lines of,
Me. ´Allo, Grove Tavern saloon bar speaking, who´s that?
Twat. ´Eh?`
Me. ´I said, allo, Grove Tavern saloon bar speaking. Are you fucking deaf?`
Twat. ´No, sorry, hello Mr Tavern, this is Terry Austin and I´m in the shit. Can I speak to Dave Roper, I´m supposed to be playing darts tonight.`
Me. ´Allo Twat. I´ll get Mr Roper for you and I´ll repeat what you said, word for word. You know he don´t like anyone using the D word.`
Twat. ´I don´t give a monkey´s what he don´t like, just get him to the phone.`
Me. ´Alright Twat, you cheeky twat, I´ll get him.`
Twat. ´Whatever.`
I called David over to the phone, explained what Twat had said and handed him the receiver. He listened, as calm as a nun on a bike, put the phone back on the stand and told me that he had to go to Peckham Police station. He said that he would be back in time for the darts match.
David got back, just as the Bricklayers Arms arrived, and told us what had happened. Here goes, no embellishments required,
Peckham Police Station was like a fortress. The ground floor windows had double sets of bars which, combined with the dirt, made it almost impossible to see in or out. The front desk was set at a height which made it possible to drag an unfortunate 'visitor' across the scarred formica surface and into the loving arms of the custody sergeant.
The sergeant on duty, Bob Cook, was on the four to midnight shift and in a particularly bad mood. His hangover wouldn't lift, courtesy of more than a few lunchtime libations in the Kings Arms public bar, his head was pounding and his wife had filled his sandwiches with peanut butter which he hated. He often moaned, to any one who was unfortunate enough to listen, that his wife did it on purpose.
Cook was reading an article in the Daily Mirror about internet fraud in Spain when Twat was dragged in, handcuffed behind his back. The lead officer Den Patel, a swarthy 25 year old, was about to speak when Twat yawned and was sick over the desk and Patel´s trousers and boots.
Twat didn't appear to have noticed what he had done so Cook slapped him once around the side of his face and ordered that he be taken to interview room number two.
The interview room was cold, really cold. This was despite the best efforts of an old fashioned radiator which was burbling away under the only window in the room. Patel was barely controlling his anger. His face was set in a grim mask and he was worrying the nail on his left pinky.
He asked Twat if he´d been cautioned by another police officer at the scene of the accident. Twat was now slumped in a chair on the other side of the wooden table. He nodded, smiled and let out a burp which smelled of alcohol and curry.
The officer was now getting seriously pissed off and cracked his knuckles.
Twat stood up and started to rant that, at twenty eight, he knew that he had it all. He was good looking, worked out three times a week and was never short of a shag. People laughed when he told them he was an estate agent but the laughter always stopped when he told them of his last years bonus. His Fiat Punto was his pride and joy and now some little low life had bounced off the bonnet and cracked the windscreen. He'd ring Direct Line when he was done with the old bill.
Patel, a nice boy who sometimes stopped in the Grove for a cheeky glass of orange juice, was now having trouble controlling himself, coupled with the fact that he stank of vomit. He told Twat that he was being charged with death by dangerous driving and, as he had failed the second breathalyzer, being in charge of a motor vehicle whilst being impaired by alcohol.
When asked if he understood the charges, Twat replied ´ 'I ain't killed nobody, you cheeky git,'
David Roper arrived at the station and, because of the ´special understanding `that the Grove Tavern
had with the forces of law and order, was allowed to stand outside the door of the interview room and listen in to what Twat had to say when asked if he would like to respond to the charges. It went as follows,
'Yea, well. The little bugger shouldn't have run out in front of me. It's not my fault if the parents can't control their brats. I've used that road a million times on me way home from the pub and never had a problem before. I've done you lot a big favor ain't I? One less poxy mugger and drug dealer in a few years, eh mate? I'd have made a good copper but the hours would have messed me up. 'So, Mr officer, can we get this over with because I'm now seriously late for a darts match.'
Den Patel was obviously struggling to contain the rage which was slowly engulfing him but he knew he had to. Without another word he stood, grabbed Twat by the arm and pushed him towards the door. As Patel opened the door, Twat laughed, turned and walked straight into David Roper´s fist.
To peels of laughter from the saloon bar regulars and the Bricklayers Arms, David ended the story by reporting that Twat´s facial injuries had been recorded as ´the result of slipping on a banana skin whilst trying to escape.` The boy was sulking in a cell and was due to appear at Camberwell Green Magistrates Court on the Monday. Lovely.
Oh, by the way, we won the darts match.
Don´t forget to pop in for a swift one.
More next time.
.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Hello, Ray the landlord here.
There we were, enjoying a lovely early Saturday evening. The public bar was busy, mostly pints of bitter, Bacardi cokes and GT´s with ice and lemon. My lovely saloon bar regulars were arriving and, as a special treat, I´d ordered portions of jellied and hot eels from Manzies pie and mash emporium on Peckham Hill Street, to be delivered just after eight.
David ´don´t call me Dave` Roper was getting some darts practice in, ready for a grudge match against the Bricklayers Arms, scheduled to start just after nine. Mrs Roper was setting up her Sunday Club meeting, due to start the same time as the darts. The ladies like the Sunday Club, particularly as it´s never held on a Sunday. Mrs Roper teaches them how to write proper letters, without the need for profanity every other word. Bleeding lovely.
Mr and Mrs Gutteridge were already in, studying holiday brochures for their next trip abroad. I told them that Canvey Island was always a safe bet for the weather. I allow them to bring their dog Donald into the saloon bar because he´s always well behaved. Unfortunately, our pooch Farton is banned from the bars because of his disgusting habits.
Dolly was putting her slap on ready for a busy evening, Ginger was nipping at the Famous Grouse, she thinks I don´t know, and Terry was trying to look less like a serial killer than he normally does. The boy does try. I was doing what I love best, which is checking the till receipts. That was when the saloon bar telephone rang ( this is a special consideration I had installed for my regulars). Lovely.
I answered it and, to my dismay, I recognized the voice. It was my cousin´s son, Terrence William Anthony Tyrone (?) Austin. Everyone, including his dad, know him as TWAT. The boy adds new meanings to the term ´walking disaster`but, somehow, he´s managed to earn a legitimate crust.
The conversation went along the lines of,
Me. ´Allo, Grove Tavern saloon bar speaking, who´s that?
Twat. ´Eh?`
Me. ´I said, allo, Grove Tavern saloon bar speaking. Are you fucking deaf?`
Twat. ´No, sorry, hello Mr Tavern, this is Terry Austin and I´m in the shit. Can I speak to Dave Roper, I´m supposed to be playing darts tonight.`
Me. ´Allo Twat. I´ll get Mr Roper for you and I´ll repeat what you said, word for word. You know he don´t like anyone using the D word.`
Twat. ´I don´t give a monkey´s what he don´t like, just get him to the phone.`
Me. ´Alright Twat, you cheeky twat, I´ll get him.`
Twat. ´Whatever.`
I called David over to the phone, explained what Twat had said and handed him the receiver. He listened, as calm as a nun on a bike, put the phone back on the stand and told me that he had to go to Peckham Police station. He said that he would be back in time for the darts match.
David got back, just as the Bricklayers Arms arrived, and told us what had happened. Here goes, no embellishments required,
Peckham Police Station was like a fortress. The ground floor windows had double sets of bars which, combined with the dirt, made it almost impossible to see in or out. The front desk was set at a height which made it possible to drag an unfortunate 'visitor' across the scarred formica surface and into the loving arms of the custody sergeant.
The sergeant on duty, Bob Cook, was on the four to midnight shift and in a particularly bad mood. His hangover wouldn't lift, courtesy of more than a few lunchtime libations in the Kings Arms public bar, his head was pounding and his wife had filled his sandwiches with peanut butter which he hated. He often moaned, to any one who was unfortunate enough to listen, that his wife did it on purpose.
Cook was reading an article in the Daily Mirror about internet fraud in Spain when Twat was dragged in, handcuffed behind his back. The lead officer Den Patel, a swarthy 25 year old, was about to speak when Twat yawned and was sick over the desk and Patel´s trousers and boots.
Twat didn't appear to have noticed what he had done so Cook slapped him once around the side of his face and ordered that he be taken to interview room number two.
The interview room was cold, really cold. This was despite the best efforts of an old fashioned radiator which was burbling away under the only window in the room. Patel was barely controlling his anger. His face was set in a grim mask and he was worrying the nail on his left pinky.
He asked Twat if he´d been cautioned by another police officer at the scene of the accident. Twat was now slumped in a chair on the other side of the wooden table. He nodded, smiled and let out a burp which smelled of alcohol and curry.
The officer was now getting seriously pissed off and cracked his knuckles.
Twat stood up and started to rant that, at twenty eight, he knew that he had it all. He was good looking, worked out three times a week and was never short of a shag. People laughed when he told them he was an estate agent but the laughter always stopped when he told them of his last years bonus. His Fiat Punto was his pride and joy and now some little low life had bounced off the bonnet and cracked the windscreen. He'd ring Direct Line when he was done with the old bill.
Patel, a nice boy who sometimes stopped in the Grove for a cheeky glass of orange juice, was now having trouble controlling himself, coupled with the fact that he stank of vomit. He told Twat that he was being charged with death by dangerous driving and, as he had failed the second breathalyzer, being in charge of a motor vehicle whilst being impaired by alcohol.
When asked if he understood the charges, Twat replied ´ 'I ain't killed nobody, you cheeky git,'
David Roper arrived at the station and, because of the ´special understanding `that the Grove Tavern
had with the forces of law and order, was allowed to stand outside the door of the interview room and listen in to what Twat had to say when asked if he would like to respond to the charges. It went as follows,
'Yea, well. The little bugger shouldn't have run out in front of me. It's not my fault if the parents can't control their brats. I've used that road a million times on me way home from the pub and never had a problem before. I've done you lot a big favor ain't I? One less poxy mugger and drug dealer in a few years, eh mate? I'd have made a good copper but the hours would have messed me up. 'So, Mr officer, can we get this over with because I'm now seriously late for a darts match.'
Den Patel was obviously struggling to contain the rage which was slowly engulfing him but he knew he had to. Without another word he stood, grabbed Twat by the arm and pushed him towards the door. As Patel opened the door, Twat laughed, turned and walked straight into David Roper´s fist.
To peels of laughter from the saloon bar regulars and the Bricklayers Arms, David ended the story by reporting that Twat´s facial injuries had been recorded as ´the result of slipping on a banana skin whilst trying to escape.` The boy was sulking in a cell and was due to appear at Camberwell Green Magistrates Court on the Monday. Lovely.
Oh, by the way, we won the darts match.
Don´t forget to pop in for a swift one.
More next time.
.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
8 January 2018
Hello, Ray the landlord here. I thought I would have a go at writing that poetry stuff. So, here goes,
When you sup in The Grove
Certain rules will apply
As you walk through the door
In your trilby and tie
With your missus or bird
Crisps and peanuts are free
You´ll see Terry and Ginger,
On the barstool
Is me.
Just to keep you amused, here´s a story that David ´Don´t call me Dave` Roper told me about a mate of his who had been ´away on business`.
Made me laugh. Trade is always good on Sundays. Mrs Roper likes Sundays, good for letter writing.
Anyway, I digress, here´s the story,
'Mogism.'
'What?'
'I said, mogism.'
'Pardon?'
'I said, mogism, are you fucking deaf?'
'I don't think mogism is a proper word, Dad.'
'I've told you before about thinking, haven't I? Well, haven't I?'
'Yes, Dad'
'Look where it got you last time, eh? Eh?'
'Yes, Dad'
'All you had to do was get the money, the old girl was terrified, for Christ's sake. But no, you had to listen to the bank manager. When he told you
to stop and think about what you were doing you didn't have to take him at his word, did you?'
'No Dad, but...'
'Let me finish.'
'Yes, Dad.'
'By the time you'd finished thinking, the old bill had arrived and you were nicked. Five bloody years in that young offender shit hole and no time off
for good behaviour. Have I taught you nothing?'
'Yes, Dad.'
'Alright, no harm done.'
'What is mogism, Dad?'
'Eh?'
'Mogism?'
'Oh yea. My mate Lenny told me. He's was doing a life sentence for murder. His cell was on the same landing as yours truly.'
'Yours what?'
'Never mind. So, Lenny was telling us about mogism, over a couple of drinks one evening and h...'
'I thought you couldn't have booze in prison....'
'What have I just told you about drinking, I mean thinking. You've bloody well got me at it now.'
'Sorry, Dad.'
'So you should be. Lenny was telling us about mogism. It's a thing you can suffer from, being a miserable old git.'
'What me, Dad?'
'Give me strength. No, not you.'
'Sorry, Dad.'
'The clue is in the word 'old'.'
'I think I get it, Dad'
'Good. The letters of 'miserable old git' spell 'MOG' and the 'ism' means he suffers from it.'
'Who Dad?'
'Lenny, for fucks sake!'
'Oh, right. I really get it now, but who told Lenny that he's suffering from this mogism thing?
'Lenny's wife.'
'Oh.'
'Yea, he had us in stitches when he was telling us.'
'Who did Lenny murder?'
'His wife.'
The End
................................................................................................................
Hello, Ray the landlord here. I thought I would have a go at writing that poetry stuff. So, here goes,
When you sup in The Grove
Certain rules will apply
As you walk through the door
In your trilby and tie
With your missus or bird
Crisps and peanuts are free
You´ll see Terry and Ginger,
On the barstool
Is me.
Just to keep you amused, here´s a story that David ´Don´t call me Dave` Roper told me about a mate of his who had been ´away on business`.
Made me laugh. Trade is always good on Sundays. Mrs Roper likes Sundays, good for letter writing.
Anyway, I digress, here´s the story,
'Mogism.'
'What?'
'I said, mogism.'
'Pardon?'
'I said, mogism, are you fucking deaf?'
'I don't think mogism is a proper word, Dad.'
'I've told you before about thinking, haven't I? Well, haven't I?'
'Yes, Dad'
'Look where it got you last time, eh? Eh?'
'Yes, Dad'
'All you had to do was get the money, the old girl was terrified, for Christ's sake. But no, you had to listen to the bank manager. When he told you
to stop and think about what you were doing you didn't have to take him at his word, did you?'
'No Dad, but...'
'Let me finish.'
'Yes, Dad.'
'By the time you'd finished thinking, the old bill had arrived and you were nicked. Five bloody years in that young offender shit hole and no time off
for good behaviour. Have I taught you nothing?'
'Yes, Dad.'
'Alright, no harm done.'
'What is mogism, Dad?'
'Eh?'
'Mogism?'
'Oh yea. My mate Lenny told me. He's was doing a life sentence for murder. His cell was on the same landing as yours truly.'
'Yours what?'
'Never mind. So, Lenny was telling us about mogism, over a couple of drinks one evening and h...'
'I thought you couldn't have booze in prison....'
'What have I just told you about drinking, I mean thinking. You've bloody well got me at it now.'
'Sorry, Dad.'
'So you should be. Lenny was telling us about mogism. It's a thing you can suffer from, being a miserable old git.'
'What me, Dad?'
'Give me strength. No, not you.'
'Sorry, Dad.'
'The clue is in the word 'old'.'
'I think I get it, Dad'
'Good. The letters of 'miserable old git' spell 'MOG' and the 'ism' means he suffers from it.'
'Who Dad?'
'Lenny, for fucks sake!'
'Oh, right. I really get it now, but who told Lenny that he's suffering from this mogism thing?
'Lenny's wife.'
'Oh.'
'Yea, he had us in stitches when he was telling us.'
'Who did Lenny murder?'
'His wife.'
The End
................................................................................................................
16 July 2017
THE GROVE TAVERN
Hello again, it´s Ray, the landlord of The Grove Tavern. Last time we spoke I told you about me, my lovely wife Dolly, Ginger our barmaid and some of the regulars. I forgot to mention Terry, our barman and pot collector.
Terry lives in the Grove and is always available to step in if Ginger has a day off or if we are really busy. He looks like he´s recently done 10 rounds with Henry Cooper and it always amazes me how he manages to breath up his hooter. He´s a nice man and says some lovely words when there´s a need. Sometimes, three at a time......
So, now you´ve met all the important people. Let me tell you a bit more about the place.
The public bar is open to all customers as long as they behave. I don´t like a lot of swearing but, in some cases, it´s justified. If I hear Ginger starting to kick off then I know that one of the punters is crossing the line. Most of my public bar men are pints of light and bitter and the ladies are gin and tonic or a small sherry. There´s not much call for wine, apart for Eileen, so I keep a dozen bottles in for her. I don´t allow any of my punters to swig beer straight from the bottle because standards have to be maintained. If public bar regulars have behaved and have a good track record then I might, just might, promote them to the saloon bar. It dosen´t often happen, but when it does it´s a joyous occasion.
I´ve already introduced you to my saloon bar clientele, nice word, so I don´t need to repeat myself. A dear friend of mine, Dennis, once said that drinking in The Grove Tavern was like stepping back in time. Just as I like it. We´ll be holding a saloon bar welcome-home party for Dennis when he´s released next month. Lovely man, I´ll introduce him to you then.
Funny things do happen at The Grove Tavern, so I thought I´d amuse you with a short story involving David´don´t call me Dave`Roper.
Right, if my memory is serving me well, this is what happened.
It was a Thursday evening, a couple of months ago. The public bar was doing good business and the saloon bar darts team were playing host to the team from the Apple & Pears public house, in Rotherhythe. My team are South London Pub Darts Team League leaders, much of which is down to our captain, David Roper.
Anyway, the evening is progressing nicely and my team are playing well. Terry is helping out behind the bar so that Ginger can throw some arrows. (Arrows are darts for anyone who isn´t cognisant with the lingo). I always lay on some food for important events such as darts matches. My specialities are pigs in blankets and cheese and pineapple on sticks. I like to show that I know how to treat my guests. Hark at me, showing off.
So, David is throwing against Neil Cotton, captain of the opposition. They both need a double top to win and it´s David´s turn to throw. As he´s taking aim, Neil interrupts him with ´ Come on Dave, how long does it take to throw for a double top?`
The crowd in the saloon bar went quiet. Neil had uttered the ´D`word. David was frozen on the spot, mid throw.
Neil, oblivious to his faux par, raced on with `Dear, dear, me, Dave, throw the fucking darts or we waiting for breakfast to be served?`
The bar was now pin-drop silent. Suddenly, the expression on Neil´s face changed. I think the penny had dropped. As this was happening, David walked over to Eileen and placed his darts on the table in front of her. She smiled. He turned and, cracking his knuckles, walked towards Neil who, by now, realised that he was in trouble.
David stood in front of Neil and, as he drew his arm back to deliver a Roper special, his elbow collided with Mrs Cotton´s nose. The silly cow had run up behind David to stop him and paid the price. This did, of course, raise a few titters from the other players as Mrs Cotton dropped gracefully on to my wool-weave carpet, dripping claret.
David, realising that his elbow had collided with something before he´d had a chance to teach Neil a lesson, turned to see what had happened.
Neil seemed to wake up and lunged at David, but only succeeded in colliding with the back of David´s head, resulting in a second bloody nose. He joined his wife on my wool-weave carpet. All the participants were rewarded with a three-minute standing ovation. Well deserved, in my opinion.
The action concluded with David retrieving his darts and throwing a match-winning double top. I rewarded him with a top shelf, double-brandy.
Dolly tended to Mr and Mrs Cotton and only charged them for the Dettol and swabs. The Apples & Pears team were unable to continue and forfeited the match. They left 150 quid behind the bar for me to have the carpet cleaned. Lovely.
The moral of this story is, if you are happy with how you look, don´t call David Dave.
Makes sense to me.
See you next time.
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
THE GROVE TAVERN
Hello again, it´s Ray, the landlord of The Grove Tavern. Last time we spoke I told you about me, my lovely wife Dolly, Ginger our barmaid and some of the regulars. I forgot to mention Terry, our barman and pot collector.
Terry lives in the Grove and is always available to step in if Ginger has a day off or if we are really busy. He looks like he´s recently done 10 rounds with Henry Cooper and it always amazes me how he manages to breath up his hooter. He´s a nice man and says some lovely words when there´s a need. Sometimes, three at a time......
So, now you´ve met all the important people. Let me tell you a bit more about the place.
The public bar is open to all customers as long as they behave. I don´t like a lot of swearing but, in some cases, it´s justified. If I hear Ginger starting to kick off then I know that one of the punters is crossing the line. Most of my public bar men are pints of light and bitter and the ladies are gin and tonic or a small sherry. There´s not much call for wine, apart for Eileen, so I keep a dozen bottles in for her. I don´t allow any of my punters to swig beer straight from the bottle because standards have to be maintained. If public bar regulars have behaved and have a good track record then I might, just might, promote them to the saloon bar. It dosen´t often happen, but when it does it´s a joyous occasion.
I´ve already introduced you to my saloon bar clientele, nice word, so I don´t need to repeat myself. A dear friend of mine, Dennis, once said that drinking in The Grove Tavern was like stepping back in time. Just as I like it. We´ll be holding a saloon bar welcome-home party for Dennis when he´s released next month. Lovely man, I´ll introduce him to you then.
Funny things do happen at The Grove Tavern, so I thought I´d amuse you with a short story involving David´don´t call me Dave`Roper.
Right, if my memory is serving me well, this is what happened.
It was a Thursday evening, a couple of months ago. The public bar was doing good business and the saloon bar darts team were playing host to the team from the Apple & Pears public house, in Rotherhythe. My team are South London Pub Darts Team League leaders, much of which is down to our captain, David Roper.
Anyway, the evening is progressing nicely and my team are playing well. Terry is helping out behind the bar so that Ginger can throw some arrows. (Arrows are darts for anyone who isn´t cognisant with the lingo). I always lay on some food for important events such as darts matches. My specialities are pigs in blankets and cheese and pineapple on sticks. I like to show that I know how to treat my guests. Hark at me, showing off.
So, David is throwing against Neil Cotton, captain of the opposition. They both need a double top to win and it´s David´s turn to throw. As he´s taking aim, Neil interrupts him with ´ Come on Dave, how long does it take to throw for a double top?`
The crowd in the saloon bar went quiet. Neil had uttered the ´D`word. David was frozen on the spot, mid throw.
Neil, oblivious to his faux par, raced on with `Dear, dear, me, Dave, throw the fucking darts or we waiting for breakfast to be served?`
The bar was now pin-drop silent. Suddenly, the expression on Neil´s face changed. I think the penny had dropped. As this was happening, David walked over to Eileen and placed his darts on the table in front of her. She smiled. He turned and, cracking his knuckles, walked towards Neil who, by now, realised that he was in trouble.
David stood in front of Neil and, as he drew his arm back to deliver a Roper special, his elbow collided with Mrs Cotton´s nose. The silly cow had run up behind David to stop him and paid the price. This did, of course, raise a few titters from the other players as Mrs Cotton dropped gracefully on to my wool-weave carpet, dripping claret.
David, realising that his elbow had collided with something before he´d had a chance to teach Neil a lesson, turned to see what had happened.
Neil seemed to wake up and lunged at David, but only succeeded in colliding with the back of David´s head, resulting in a second bloody nose. He joined his wife on my wool-weave carpet. All the participants were rewarded with a three-minute standing ovation. Well deserved, in my opinion.
The action concluded with David retrieving his darts and throwing a match-winning double top. I rewarded him with a top shelf, double-brandy.
Dolly tended to Mr and Mrs Cotton and only charged them for the Dettol and swabs. The Apples & Pears team were unable to continue and forfeited the match. They left 150 quid behind the bar for me to have the carpet cleaned. Lovely.
The moral of this story is, if you are happy with how you look, don´t call David Dave.
Makes sense to me.
See you next time.
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Let me introduce to you my lovely public house in South London, The Grove Tavern. You'll like me and mine. Welcome.
I live at number 20 and I go to the Tavern every evening. I have my own stool at the bar. Ginger, the bar maid, accorded me the accolade nearly six years ago after I'd responded to her request for help to remove a couple of piss heads from the public bar. A quiet word in the collective ears seemed to work. Always Mr Reasonable, me. Not long after, I bought the place.
A well known brewery were supplying the place but I soon put a stop to that nonsense when a snotty little git told me I couldn´t serve my favourite libation. The cheek of it. I´m proud to say that The Grove Tavern is now a free house and, no, it dosen´t mean that the booze is free, it means that I serve whatever I damn well please.
I was born in the Grove and the Tavern has always been like a second home. I have business interests in imports and exports and I go to the gym five days a week. I give to charity and never refuse any reasonable request for help. A real pillar, a mate called me, whatever that means.
So, you´ve met me, now let me introduce her indoors and some of my regulars.
Dolly is my gorgeous wife. She originally hails from Scotland but we don´t mention it or hold it against her. We met when I was a guest of Her Majesty, God bless her. Dolly, her real name is Margaret but I don´t use it because it sounds too posh, was a nurse at the prison up North where I was ´resting`. Certain things happened, which she wouldn´t thank me for bringing up, and she moved down South. Luckily for me, I was moved down South as well.
After I was released we got together and my brilliant idea of taking her for a look around Hatton Garden sealed the deal, so to speak. Was it James Bond who said ´Diamonds are forever`? She still does a bit of nursing and a lot of the regulars ask her advice about stuff. She never charges, of course.
I do call on her to administer first aid when there´s a bit of aggravation in the Public bar. My regulars in the Saloon are far too well behaved.
All the regulars love her and she cleans up really well. She´s recently started a new hobby, something to do with sewing. I thought it would come in handy for her to sew me skids, but no chance, Never mind.
Vic and Bet Gutteridge live at number 15.
They´re a lovely couple and moved into the Grove about ten years ago. They came from America but I think he was originally from Porto Ricky, I think that´s how it´s spelt. They got themselves into a spot of bother with the old bill, on the M6 motorway near Leicester, something to do with a gun and a bit of drugs. A mate of mine asked me for a favour and, of course, I couldn´t refuse. They´ve never forgotten my generosity and nor have I. It´s unusual for me to take to foreigners but these two are OK. Sound.
She works at Jones and Higgins and makes the windows look nice. I love to hear her swear and say stuff like ´you´re so cute`. Lovely. Vic works at Samuel Jones in their technical department. He also does a bit of work for me, on the quiet, if you get my meaning. Nice bloke, funny accent but that´s not his fault.
David and Eileen Roper live at number 6.
David was born in the same house shortly after the end of the war. He excelled at Gloucester Grove Primary School which means that he wasn´t expelled. David ( not Dave, definitely not Dave, I´ve seen him drop the nut on one unlucky punter who didn´t heed the warning), is a smart bloke and always well turned out. Eileen says that he even insists on wearing a tie when he goes to the little boys room. Class. He earns a crust by doing a bit of this and a bit of that and is El Capitan of the pub darts team.
Eileen was born at number 22 Wells Way but her parents quickly moved up in the world when they bought number 28 in the Grove after old Mr Simner didn´t notice that the manhole cover had been nicked outside his house. Poor old bugger was down the hole for 34 hours before he was found. Dead as a dodo.
She works in the wages department at Jones and Higgins in Rye lane. She´s bright and David knows that he was lucky to pull her. They´re both Saloon regulars and she likes cold white wine. The wine isn´t a problem but keeping it cold is. Fortunately, it doesn´t stay in the bottle too long. She´s good with words so we go to her when important letters need writing.
Ginger lives in a flat above the pub.
She´s worked behind the bar in the Grove for as long as I can remember. She´s been like a mother to me but I won´t bore you by going on about the real one. She used to have a wicked right hook as many of the old timers would tell you if they didn´t already reside in Forest Hill cemetery. She´s in her seventy´s now but as sprightly as a Spring chicken. I would definitely trust her as far as I could throw her and I know she´d kill me if I did. Lovely.
….......
Recently, a ruck happened. Two 'suits' had strayed on to my manor from the East End. The clothes and the accents were a dead give away. Always affable, I welcome visitors from the foreign parts of London, but this was a serious intrusion.
So, I'm walking into the saloon when, lo and behold, the suits are at the bar. Pint of Guinness and a pint of Carlsberg. No sin in their choice of drinks but Guinness, with the blond hair, is perched on my stool. My personal bar stool.
As I stepped forward to allow the door to close behind me, Ginger was frantically waving to me from the corner of the bar where the nuts and crisps are stacked. The suits had their backs to me and were laughing. I leaned over the bar and Ginger had eyes like wet marbles,
'I'm so sorry Ray, I told them two that the stool was reserved but the blond man told me to shut up and mind my business. I tried to reason with him but he told me to fuck off and pour the drinks or he'd teach me a lesson. Called me an ugly bitch. I didn't know what to do so I tried your mobile but it went straight to voice mail.'
I checked my mobile and, sure enough, a missed call from Ginger. I put my hand on her shoulder and told her that everything would be alright. She asked if she should call the old bill. I told her not to be so silly and we both laughed.
I turned and walked over to the two men. Guinness, sat on my stool, was now facing me. Carlsberg was also facing me. I seem to recollect that the conversation went along the lines of,
'Gentlemen, it would appear there's been a misunderstanding and you've been extremely rude to my friend, the bar maid.'
'Who the .?' Guinness grunted.
'My name's Ray and please don't interrupt until I've finished.' I flashed them a smile.
Guinness was grinding his teeth and Carlsberg gave a slight nod.
'Now, this is a nice quiet boozer and that's how we like it. Peckham is a solid manor where everyone knows their place in the scheme of things. Did you lose your way at the Blackwall Tunnel?'
'Who the hell do you think you are, Vinnie Jones?', Guinness said as he started to rise from the stool but sat down as his mate whispered something in his ear.
I moved closer until I was about a yard away from Carlsberg. 'I'm trying to be reasonable with you two and it's obviously not working so get off my stool and out of my pub.' Silence.
They looked at each other and laughed. 'Ok, Mr Mouth, we're from Mile End and we're here because we want to be, which is none of your fucking business. Now, be a good boy and go play in the traffic.'
I took the final two steps forward and chopped Carlsberg across the throat. Good shot, I'm good at that. As Guinness was rising from my stool I pushed him backwards. The stool tipped and he hit the back of his head on the bar divide. Carlsberg was in trouble, clutching at his neck. As Guinness was trying to get up, I chopped him across the throat and followed up with a superb straight left to his face. He went down. I side stepped and focussed my attention on Carlsberg. He was starting to recover so I rabbit punched him to slow him down. To show him that I really meant business, I smashed his pint glass on the edge of the bar and rammed it into the side of his neck. The claret sprayed everywhere. He was gone. Guinness was on his back so I punched and stomped his head until he was still. I gave it a minute to get my breath back. Hard, but not sweaty work. I checked both of them. They were both gone, brown bread, dead. Good riddance.
I looked up and Ginger handed me a bar towel and a plastic bag. I wiped my hands, placed the towel in the bag and handed it back to her. David and Eileen were playing cards with Vic and Bet. David smiled and waved, I nodded and left.
I'm telling you this in confidence, of course, because they've never found out who topped the two wannabe gangsters in the saloon bar of The Grove Tavern.
You wouldn't grass me up, would you? Of course not.
I´ve got to go and water the garden so, until next time................
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
11 May 2017
This story is dedicated to our beautiful Siamese boys Marcus & Giorgio, whose birthdays would have been on 7 May.
Tricky Tracks
The sun was beating down and the tiles were hot. Spain at its best.
The Mediterranean shimmered in the distance and the smell of over cooked barbecued meat was everywhere. The twins, Marcus and Giorgio Siam-Eze, were stretched out on identical custom-made sun beds as their bemused housekeeper attempted to rescue something edible from the barbecue. They were laying with their backs to each other because THAT subject had crept in to the conversations again.
Mr and Mrs Siam-Eze had moved from Thailand to London in the 1950s and lived respectable, quiet lives. Marcus and Giorgio did not take after their parents. In 2012, their business interests had dictated that it was time to relocate to quieter climes and Spain seemed to tick all the boxes.
Marcus had fronted a company which owned a large apartment block in West London and rented out the rooms by the hour. Clients did not have to provide references. The company had proved to be so successful that Marcus apparently sold his majority shares to a cross-eyed Burmese gentleman who lived in a nursing home.
Giorgio had apparently made his money by dealing on the Stock Exchange. At the time when he was planning the move to Spain, rumors had begun to circulate that he was, in fact, the boss of a criminal organisation called 'The Claws'. He had been arrested, once, early in 2004 but was released without charge.
Shortly after their arrival in Spain they had received a visit from a senior Guardia Civil officer. In perfect English he had advised them that they would be watched carefully because he had received chapter and verse on them from Scotland Yard. Despite their protestations of innocence and the offer of €5000 towards the Guardia Dependents Fund, they were left in no doubt that their cards had been well and truly marked.
For six months they had remained virtually villa bound, not even venturing out to the Hot Tin Roof club near the village on the N332. One rainy, winters day they decided that enough was enough. They would need to build a cover story that would convince the Guardia to back off. The presence of Guardia vans on the road outside the villa and the helicopter circling overhead most days wasn't helping their feeling of isolation. The money was still rolling in, quietly, from the UK but they had little to spend it on.
Giorgio had been watching Sky News when his attention was grabbed by a feature about global warming. He had recorded it and watched it over and over. Initially, Marcus showed no interest because he had been trying to chat up a young French lady who lived two villas along, and had failed miserably much to the delight of the watching Guardia officers.
Eventually, Giorgio managed to sit Marcus down and explained how he thought they could move forward. Over the next two days they worked on the plan, all thoughts of the gorgeous mademoiselle forgotten.
Through their solicitor they arranged to meet the village mayor. They had, thoughtfully brought an interpreter with them. His name was Lenny and his recently broken nose did interfere with his translating abilities. But all seemed to go well when they laid out their ideas to improve services and the global paw print in and around the village. The mayor sat up straight in his chair when they informed him that they would fund all the work involved. There were tears in his eyes when they handed over €500,000.00, in cash, as a sign of good faith and the icing was truly on the cake when they didn't ask for a receipt.
Things started to happen quickly. Large pot holes were repaired, street lights were switched on and a new, user friendly bus service was introduced which visited the urbanization's surrounding the village. Most importantly for the twins, the Guardia vans vanished and the helicopter went off to annoy somebody else.
Over the next two years the twins were models of kindness and affability. No request for money was ever refused and the work on improving the global paw print of the village went on without interruption.
Their business interests in the UK were managed safely and quietly, from a distance. All requests for information about their activities in Spain, from the UK police, were either ignored or refused. Regular visits from known London 'faces' seemed to go unnoticed.
They lived their lives in the slow, untroubled Spanish way until THAT subject raised its head in 2016.
Because of their philanthropic work they had become celebrities, which was a situation they tolerated but did not enjoy. They politely refused to attend public events, preferring to make a donation or send a gift. That was the norm until they received an invitation to appear on a local radio show. Their collective egos, the size of the national debt, would not allow them to refuse the offer.
The radio station, TotalFM 91.8, was based in Javea, a limousine ride away from their sumptuous villa. They would be guests on the popular Sunday afternoon Lock Down Blues Show hosted by presenter Nelson Wilcox. They would be encouraged to talk about their lives which, they quickly agreed, would be a carefully fashioned pack of lies. Also, they would have to select, between them, their most favorite four music tracks which would be played on the show.
Selecting the tracks quickly became THAT subject.
The barbecued-to-death meat was thrown on to the empty plot next door for the numerous feral cats and the housekeeper was given the rest of the day off. This had been the ongoing situation for weeks, anytime THAT subject was raised, and the housekeeper had quickly perfected the art of ruining the meat to ensure that 'the rest of the day off' was a regular feature of life at Casa Muneca.
Two days before their radio appearance the tension and violence ended and they finally agreed on the track list. They had fought, spat, smashed things and tried to drown each other in the pool. But, finally, they had the list.
The big day arrived and they met Nelson at the studio. He made them comfortable with beer and tapas. The show started and during the first 30 minutes he asked them about their lives and they lied comfortably and easily.
He then asked them to select the first track to be played, and that was when it kicked off....................
The End
Ray Wilcox
2017
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
This story is dedicated to our beautiful Siamese boys Marcus & Giorgio, whose birthdays would have been on 7 May.
Tricky Tracks
The sun was beating down and the tiles were hot. Spain at its best.
The Mediterranean shimmered in the distance and the smell of over cooked barbecued meat was everywhere. The twins, Marcus and Giorgio Siam-Eze, were stretched out on identical custom-made sun beds as their bemused housekeeper attempted to rescue something edible from the barbecue. They were laying with their backs to each other because THAT subject had crept in to the conversations again.
Mr and Mrs Siam-Eze had moved from Thailand to London in the 1950s and lived respectable, quiet lives. Marcus and Giorgio did not take after their parents. In 2012, their business interests had dictated that it was time to relocate to quieter climes and Spain seemed to tick all the boxes.
Marcus had fronted a company which owned a large apartment block in West London and rented out the rooms by the hour. Clients did not have to provide references. The company had proved to be so successful that Marcus apparently sold his majority shares to a cross-eyed Burmese gentleman who lived in a nursing home.
Giorgio had apparently made his money by dealing on the Stock Exchange. At the time when he was planning the move to Spain, rumors had begun to circulate that he was, in fact, the boss of a criminal organisation called 'The Claws'. He had been arrested, once, early in 2004 but was released without charge.
Shortly after their arrival in Spain they had received a visit from a senior Guardia Civil officer. In perfect English he had advised them that they would be watched carefully because he had received chapter and verse on them from Scotland Yard. Despite their protestations of innocence and the offer of €5000 towards the Guardia Dependents Fund, they were left in no doubt that their cards had been well and truly marked.
For six months they had remained virtually villa bound, not even venturing out to the Hot Tin Roof club near the village on the N332. One rainy, winters day they decided that enough was enough. They would need to build a cover story that would convince the Guardia to back off. The presence of Guardia vans on the road outside the villa and the helicopter circling overhead most days wasn't helping their feeling of isolation. The money was still rolling in, quietly, from the UK but they had little to spend it on.
Giorgio had been watching Sky News when his attention was grabbed by a feature about global warming. He had recorded it and watched it over and over. Initially, Marcus showed no interest because he had been trying to chat up a young French lady who lived two villas along, and had failed miserably much to the delight of the watching Guardia officers.
Eventually, Giorgio managed to sit Marcus down and explained how he thought they could move forward. Over the next two days they worked on the plan, all thoughts of the gorgeous mademoiselle forgotten.
Through their solicitor they arranged to meet the village mayor. They had, thoughtfully brought an interpreter with them. His name was Lenny and his recently broken nose did interfere with his translating abilities. But all seemed to go well when they laid out their ideas to improve services and the global paw print in and around the village. The mayor sat up straight in his chair when they informed him that they would fund all the work involved. There were tears in his eyes when they handed over €500,000.00, in cash, as a sign of good faith and the icing was truly on the cake when they didn't ask for a receipt.
Things started to happen quickly. Large pot holes were repaired, street lights were switched on and a new, user friendly bus service was introduced which visited the urbanization's surrounding the village. Most importantly for the twins, the Guardia vans vanished and the helicopter went off to annoy somebody else.
Over the next two years the twins were models of kindness and affability. No request for money was ever refused and the work on improving the global paw print of the village went on without interruption.
Their business interests in the UK were managed safely and quietly, from a distance. All requests for information about their activities in Spain, from the UK police, were either ignored or refused. Regular visits from known London 'faces' seemed to go unnoticed.
They lived their lives in the slow, untroubled Spanish way until THAT subject raised its head in 2016.
Because of their philanthropic work they had become celebrities, which was a situation they tolerated but did not enjoy. They politely refused to attend public events, preferring to make a donation or send a gift. That was the norm until they received an invitation to appear on a local radio show. Their collective egos, the size of the national debt, would not allow them to refuse the offer.
The radio station, TotalFM 91.8, was based in Javea, a limousine ride away from their sumptuous villa. They would be guests on the popular Sunday afternoon Lock Down Blues Show hosted by presenter Nelson Wilcox. They would be encouraged to talk about their lives which, they quickly agreed, would be a carefully fashioned pack of lies. Also, they would have to select, between them, their most favorite four music tracks which would be played on the show.
Selecting the tracks quickly became THAT subject.
The barbecued-to-death meat was thrown on to the empty plot next door for the numerous feral cats and the housekeeper was given the rest of the day off. This had been the ongoing situation for weeks, anytime THAT subject was raised, and the housekeeper had quickly perfected the art of ruining the meat to ensure that 'the rest of the day off' was a regular feature of life at Casa Muneca.
Two days before their radio appearance the tension and violence ended and they finally agreed on the track list. They had fought, spat, smashed things and tried to drown each other in the pool. But, finally, they had the list.
The big day arrived and they met Nelson at the studio. He made them comfortable with beer and tapas. The show started and during the first 30 minutes he asked them about their lives and they lied comfortably and easily.
He then asked them to select the first track to be played, and that was when it kicked off....................
The End
Ray Wilcox
2017
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Beating Drums & Blinding Light
Margaret eventually made the permanent move to Spain in 2002. The offer of a job in the Intensive Therapy Unit of Alicante Hospital was too good to turn down. Margaret had first visited Spain in 1990 after a very acrimonious divorce from husband Alan. She visited the Costa Blanca and fell in love with the area and, most importantly, the Spanish people. She purchased, outright, an apartment in a town called San Juan. She was able to do this by using the compensation money which had been wisely invested by her parents many years before. In her early teens Margaret had been struck by a cricket ball during a lunch period at her grammar school in Cheshire. The ball had shattered a section of her skull and only emergency surgery had saved her life. During frequent visits to her apartment and the little free time she had after work in England she would study the Spanish language. After five years she was fluent in Castilian.
Although happy as a ward sister in a hospital in Warrington she knew that life could offer her more if she only had the courage to go for it. Her qualifications as a registered mental and general nurse would help. One of her growing number of Spanish friends worked at Alicante Hospital and floated the idea of employing a Spanish-speaking English nurse with her boss. Margaret met the manager and the offer followed. When Margaret filled in the application form she described, in depth, her head injury but failed to mention that the extreme, blinding headaches had started again.
Emilio was comfortable in the ITU in Alicante Hospital. He was a drifter and enjoyed any form of pleasure and relaxation he could lay his hands on. He was known to the Guardia but they treated him as a joke. He treated them with caution. Early one Sunday morning, Emilio had been stumbling along a narrow mountain track near Alicante looking for magic mushrooms. He had tripped and fallen a few meters resulting in a head injury and extensive bruising. Luckily he was spotted and was eventually rescued and taken to Alicante Hospital.
Examination identified that he had cracked a vertebrae which was effecting his ability to walk. This was explained to him but the morphine drip numbed his understanding. The Guardia Officer who visited him laughed when he saw who it was and left without a word.
Margaret came on duty the morning after Emilio's admission and when she saw him she froze. She felt dizzy and the pain started. She rushed from the ward and locked her self in the wash room. As the dizziness subsided she realized that the man in the bed was the teacher who had shattered her skull all those years before. She ran from the hospital and phoned the ward manager on her mobile saying that she was sick and was going home.
Margaret locked herself in her apartment and refused to answer the door bell or the phone. She knew that the man couldn't be the teacher but, as the days ground on all sense of reality was vanishing. The headaches were like beating drums and the light seemed to sear into her eyes. Her nightmares were real and reached into her soul. Sane reason had gone and she believed that Emilio was the teacher.
Margaret returned to work two weeks later and resisted offers of comfort. After a while the staff ignored her. Two mornings later Emilio was found dead. He had been struck on the side of the head by a round, hard object. Extensive enquires turned up no clues to the assailant. The Guardia seemed content to put it down to mistaken identity.
Four weeks later Margaret would arrive for duty in the ITU and, once again, freeze. The man in the bed with his head swathed in bandages was the teacher..............
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Margaret eventually made the permanent move to Spain in 2002. The offer of a job in the Intensive Therapy Unit of Alicante Hospital was too good to turn down. Margaret had first visited Spain in 1990 after a very acrimonious divorce from husband Alan. She visited the Costa Blanca and fell in love with the area and, most importantly, the Spanish people. She purchased, outright, an apartment in a town called San Juan. She was able to do this by using the compensation money which had been wisely invested by her parents many years before. In her early teens Margaret had been struck by a cricket ball during a lunch period at her grammar school in Cheshire. The ball had shattered a section of her skull and only emergency surgery had saved her life. During frequent visits to her apartment and the little free time she had after work in England she would study the Spanish language. After five years she was fluent in Castilian.
Although happy as a ward sister in a hospital in Warrington she knew that life could offer her more if she only had the courage to go for it. Her qualifications as a registered mental and general nurse would help. One of her growing number of Spanish friends worked at Alicante Hospital and floated the idea of employing a Spanish-speaking English nurse with her boss. Margaret met the manager and the offer followed. When Margaret filled in the application form she described, in depth, her head injury but failed to mention that the extreme, blinding headaches had started again.
Emilio was comfortable in the ITU in Alicante Hospital. He was a drifter and enjoyed any form of pleasure and relaxation he could lay his hands on. He was known to the Guardia but they treated him as a joke. He treated them with caution. Early one Sunday morning, Emilio had been stumbling along a narrow mountain track near Alicante looking for magic mushrooms. He had tripped and fallen a few meters resulting in a head injury and extensive bruising. Luckily he was spotted and was eventually rescued and taken to Alicante Hospital.
Examination identified that he had cracked a vertebrae which was effecting his ability to walk. This was explained to him but the morphine drip numbed his understanding. The Guardia Officer who visited him laughed when he saw who it was and left without a word.
Margaret came on duty the morning after Emilio's admission and when she saw him she froze. She felt dizzy and the pain started. She rushed from the ward and locked her self in the wash room. As the dizziness subsided she realized that the man in the bed was the teacher who had shattered her skull all those years before. She ran from the hospital and phoned the ward manager on her mobile saying that she was sick and was going home.
Margaret locked herself in her apartment and refused to answer the door bell or the phone. She knew that the man couldn't be the teacher but, as the days ground on all sense of reality was vanishing. The headaches were like beating drums and the light seemed to sear into her eyes. Her nightmares were real and reached into her soul. Sane reason had gone and she believed that Emilio was the teacher.
Margaret returned to work two weeks later and resisted offers of comfort. After a while the staff ignored her. Two mornings later Emilio was found dead. He had been struck on the side of the head by a round, hard object. Extensive enquires turned up no clues to the assailant. The Guardia seemed content to put it down to mistaken identity.
Four weeks later Margaret would arrive for duty in the ITU and, once again, freeze. The man in the bed with his head swathed in bandages was the teacher..............
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
The first verse to The Lock Down Blues came to me during an incredibly busy time in our lives.
We had sold our beautiful house in Ashington, in advance of our eventual move to Spain, and were staying with a friend near Pontefract. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. My journey to work at Castington prison was now 134 miles so I was staying in a pub three nights every week. Whilst this was going on Margaret broke her foot and was wheelchair bound. The situation was further complicated when my mother had a stroke. Many of you know about my relationship with my mother so it´s not worth repeating but, as the only next of kin, trips to London had to be made. She died which meant funeral arrangements and everything else involved.
I was laying on the bed, in my room in the pub in Ashington during one of my freqent stays. The weather was wet and windy. I had just finished speaking to Margaret and was trying to decide whether to go down to the bar for a glass(s) of wine, when the first two lines of the poem came to me. The lines ´The bell is ringing, it won´t stop now`, was about the day I´d had at work. We´d had several incidents of staff activating general alarm bells because of prisoners causing problems. It had been one of those days.
I continued to work on the outline of the poem for the next three hours, not bothering to go down to the bar. I finished writing it during 2004 and added three chapters in 2009.
The poem inspired me to write my first novel Lock-Down Blues, and the sequel, Unlock These Hands, which will be published this year. My radio show bears the name so, all in all,
The Lock Down Blues has been very good for me.
We had sold our beautiful house in Ashington, in advance of our eventual move to Spain, and were staying with a friend near Pontefract. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. My journey to work at Castington prison was now 134 miles so I was staying in a pub three nights every week. Whilst this was going on Margaret broke her foot and was wheelchair bound. The situation was further complicated when my mother had a stroke. Many of you know about my relationship with my mother so it´s not worth repeating but, as the only next of kin, trips to London had to be made. She died which meant funeral arrangements and everything else involved.
I was laying on the bed, in my room in the pub in Ashington during one of my freqent stays. The weather was wet and windy. I had just finished speaking to Margaret and was trying to decide whether to go down to the bar for a glass(s) of wine, when the first two lines of the poem came to me. The lines ´The bell is ringing, it won´t stop now`, was about the day I´d had at work. We´d had several incidents of staff activating general alarm bells because of prisoners causing problems. It had been one of those days.
I continued to work on the outline of the poem for the next three hours, not bothering to go down to the bar. I finished writing it during 2004 and added three chapters in 2009.
The poem inspired me to write my first novel Lock-Down Blues, and the sequel, Unlock These Hands, which will be published this year. My radio show bears the name so, all in all,
The Lock Down Blues has been very good for me.
The Lock Down Blues
The bell is ringing
It won’t stop now
There’s nothing for you to choose
If you fight the man
He will lay you down
And play you The Lock Down Blues
You can bang your head
The whole night through
But no one will comfort you
Kick and hit the door
Will only make you sore
And give you The Lock Down Blues
If you taunt the man
He will wrap you up
Chastise you for being you
Try a different way
And restart your day
To the sound of The Lock Down Blues
As you close your eyes
Will you dream of light
Or the nightmare that follows you
If your time has come
And your day is done
Say goodnight to The Lock Down Blues
Does your blood run cold
When you think of her
Have you finally paid your dues
She has nothing left
Not a single breath
As you cry to The Lock Down Blues
At the time of this
With a feather kiss
On a distant day
When your life was fine
Can you see your way
Will you go or stay
Are you sure you can toe the line?
If you make a sound
You will kiss the ground
As you pause to admire the views
From the dusty floor
To the ancient door
Don't give in to The Lock Down Blues
Turn inside yourself
Get to know your mind
Realise what you have to do
Analyse yourself
You will have the time
For embracing The Lock Down Blues
Give yourself the time
To relax and think
Take a trip to a place that’s new
You can nod your head
To the Grateful Dead
And jam to The Lock Down Blues
In you're pain and fear
Through a single tear
Know a change will come
Can you hold it tight
Keep it in you're heart
Never let it go
Are you sure you can make it right?
In your darkest hour
When it’s closing in
Feeling tired and without a clue
You may hear a scream
From a distant dream
As you stir to The Lock Down Blues
In the early morn
At the break of dawn
It will all be the same to you
Try to settle down
You will hear the sound
Telling you it’s The Lock Down Blues
As the creaking door
Opens wide for you
Take your time with the different view
Make it your last time
To embrace the dark
Say goodbye to The Lock Down Blues.
..........................................................................................
The bell is ringing
It won’t stop now
There’s nothing for you to choose
If you fight the man
He will lay you down
And play you The Lock Down Blues
You can bang your head
The whole night through
But no one will comfort you
Kick and hit the door
Will only make you sore
And give you The Lock Down Blues
If you taunt the man
He will wrap you up
Chastise you for being you
Try a different way
And restart your day
To the sound of The Lock Down Blues
As you close your eyes
Will you dream of light
Or the nightmare that follows you
If your time has come
And your day is done
Say goodnight to The Lock Down Blues
Does your blood run cold
When you think of her
Have you finally paid your dues
She has nothing left
Not a single breath
As you cry to The Lock Down Blues
At the time of this
With a feather kiss
On a distant day
When your life was fine
Can you see your way
Will you go or stay
Are you sure you can toe the line?
If you make a sound
You will kiss the ground
As you pause to admire the views
From the dusty floor
To the ancient door
Don't give in to The Lock Down Blues
Turn inside yourself
Get to know your mind
Realise what you have to do
Analyse yourself
You will have the time
For embracing The Lock Down Blues
Give yourself the time
To relax and think
Take a trip to a place that’s new
You can nod your head
To the Grateful Dead
And jam to The Lock Down Blues
In you're pain and fear
Through a single tear
Know a change will come
Can you hold it tight
Keep it in you're heart
Never let it go
Are you sure you can make it right?
In your darkest hour
When it’s closing in
Feeling tired and without a clue
You may hear a scream
From a distant dream
As you stir to The Lock Down Blues
In the early morn
At the break of dawn
It will all be the same to you
Try to settle down
You will hear the sound
Telling you it’s The Lock Down Blues
As the creaking door
Opens wide for you
Take your time with the different view
Make it your last time
To embrace the dark
Say goodbye to The Lock Down Blues.
..........................................................................................
11 November 2016.
This is a short excerpt from
Unlock These Hands
´David, I´ve just listened to the most horrific five minute phone call. Some of it is almost unbelievable, but I believe it, all of it. Listen.`He recounted the call, almost word for word, and Stackley believed him. If anyone else had told Stackley the same story, he would have told them to fuck off and get treatment.
David Stackley was Mitchell Hagen´s Staff Officer. He ran the North West Area Office the way Hagen liked it, lean and tight. Hagen trusted and liked him. The feelings were mutual. It was Stackley who had named Raymar, much to Hagen´s amusement.
´David, that´s it. I´m tempted to ring Roger Mason but I think it will be more prudent for you and I to get over there PFQ.´
´ I´ll be on the road in ten minutes, see you there.`Stackley said as Hagen agreed and ended the call. It would be the start of a day both men would never forget.
In the SSU, he found a black felt tip pen in one of the office desk drawers. The expanse of white wall next to the Unit entrance gates was ideal. In big capital letters, he wrote,
I´VE PASSED THIS WAY BEFORE
YOU LOCKED ME IN A CAGE
AND CHAINED ME ON THE FLOOR
THE BODIES YOU WILL FIND
ARE, SADLY, NOT ALL MINE
I WORKED ON ONLY TWO
THE REST ARE UP TO YOU
IVÉ PASSED THIS WAY BEFORE
AND NOW I´M GONE................
MR TOM COLLEY
2005.
.........................................................................................
This is a short excerpt from
Unlock These Hands
´David, I´ve just listened to the most horrific five minute phone call. Some of it is almost unbelievable, but I believe it, all of it. Listen.`He recounted the call, almost word for word, and Stackley believed him. If anyone else had told Stackley the same story, he would have told them to fuck off and get treatment.
David Stackley was Mitchell Hagen´s Staff Officer. He ran the North West Area Office the way Hagen liked it, lean and tight. Hagen trusted and liked him. The feelings were mutual. It was Stackley who had named Raymar, much to Hagen´s amusement.
´David, that´s it. I´m tempted to ring Roger Mason but I think it will be more prudent for you and I to get over there PFQ.´
´ I´ll be on the road in ten minutes, see you there.`Stackley said as Hagen agreed and ended the call. It would be the start of a day both men would never forget.
In the SSU, he found a black felt tip pen in one of the office desk drawers. The expanse of white wall next to the Unit entrance gates was ideal. In big capital letters, he wrote,
I´VE PASSED THIS WAY BEFORE
YOU LOCKED ME IN A CAGE
AND CHAINED ME ON THE FLOOR
THE BODIES YOU WILL FIND
ARE, SADLY, NOT ALL MINE
I WORKED ON ONLY TWO
THE REST ARE UP TO YOU
IVÉ PASSED THIS WAY BEFORE
AND NOW I´M GONE................
MR TOM COLLEY
2005.
.........................................................................................
' Pearl'
This short story is true.
It was 1965. My relationship with my mother and father was the same as usual. Terrible. They had moved to the relatively posh area of Forest Hill in South London. This was a far cry from Peckham. The view was stunning and panoramic. On a clear day it was possible to see the Ford Motor Factory in Dagenham and then sweep across to the tip of St Paul's Cathedral in the City of London. Truly amazing.
In the May I had started work as a messenger boy at the Daily Mirror, in Holborn, Central London. For a long period, prior to 1965, I had drifted along, sometimes living in Peckham but mostly sleeping on the streets of Soho in West London. I realised that the situation had to change if I was to hold down a job and earn some decent money. When my parents moved from Peckham Grove they effectively severed links with my grandfather. Unfortunately for me, this also meant that he severed links with me as well. Prior to that he had been the only real constant in my life, always happy to put his hand in his pocket to keep me in food and cigarettes.
I had no alternative but to accept their offer, with strings attached, to occupy a spare bedroom in their place in Forest Hill. The strings included paying rent for the room, which I didn't mind doing but when she (Mother) told me that I would have to dress 'properly' and stop smoking I told her to fuck off. Fortunately, she didn't press the point and was happy to take the money so I became a reluctant resident of Forest Hill, London SE23.
As autumn moved into winter I was selected to play for the Daily Mirror Advertising Department football team. We mostly played against teams from other parts of the print industry but on one particular Sunday ( I can't remember the exact date ) we played against a local team from the Forest Hill/Sydenham areas. What I do clearly remember was that one of the opposing forwards was the son of my parents next door neighbours, Lil and Jim. His name was Michael Simner.
The match was played on Hackney Marshes, an area in East London famous for the number of football pitches. I don´t remember much about the actual game other than when Michael collapsed.
No one was near him, he just collapsed and was unconscious when the referee reached him. One of his teams supporters ran back to the changing rooms and eventually found a phone box. Michael was taken to Whipps Cross Hospital where he died. Some days later I was told that Michael's heart had given out.
The match was abandoned and, after changing, I made my way home. When I got there I went straight in to see Lil and Jim. They were devastated and kept asking me questions that I couldn´t answer. All the while, Lil was clutching a string of small fake pearls that Michael had bought her years before. I left them to their grief and went next door to get something to eat and sleep. I confronted by Mother. She asked me why I had let it happen and what a disgrace I was. I remember staring at her and, taking the line of least resistance, told her to fuck off. Nasty words but sincerely meant, from both sides.
In 1974 I was working at Charles Barker Recruitment in Farringdon Street. I had been accepted to join HM Prison Service but had agreed to stay on for a further few months to help with their bid to retain the Civil Service Commission account. I was beavering away one afternoon when I took a phone call from Jim Simner. We hadn´t really spoken in years, apart from the odd hello and passing the time of day. He told me that he had prised my phone number from Mothers claws. I believe that he had the same opinions of her as I had but, being a gentlemen, he never voiced them.
A mutual friend of Michael´s, and mine, had contacted Jim to invite him to a wedding scheduled for the following month. The invite was also extended to me, so I accepted.
The big day arrived and I met Lil and Jim outside a Spiritualist Church in Lea, near Lewisham in South London. We were some of the first to arrive. The groom, a genuinely nice man who´s name escapes me, walked us in to the church. Apparently, there was no protocol as to where anybody sat, so we had the whole place to choose from. As we walked down the aisle, I turned to ask Jim where they would like to sit. He said he didn´t mind so I picked an empty row about five from the front on the left side.
I edged in and sat down about half way along. Lil was next to me with Jim to her right. There were black books in shelves fixed to the back of the chairs in the row in front of us. Lil leaned forward, picked up one of the books and opened it. All I heard was ´Oh my God.´
In her cupped hands was a small, fake pearl which had fallen out of the book. Lil stared at it and it disintegrated into dust. She started to cry. One
of her tears fell on to the tiny mound of dust and it disappeared. Just disappeared.
Lil stood, wiped her nose on her sleeve and pushed past Jim, who was also crying.
I followed them out of the church but they ignored my offers of help. The groom arrived and asked what had happened so I told him. He asked me if the pearl was of any real significance so I told him about the string of small, fake pearls that Michael had given Lil all those years ago.
He smiled and said that maybe, just maybe, Michael had come to bid a proper goodbye to his mum.
I wonder.........
........................................................
3 July 2016
Excerpt from my new novel
They both stood upright, slowly, Colley quietly laughing, Crossland weeping. Colley released Crossland’s ear and snatched the paper. Crossland gasped and shuddered.
‘You fucking dirty bastard, you’ve pissed yourself, but I won’t be letting go just yet.’ Colley whispered. ‘I’ve written you a poem and now I will share it with you. Concentrate now, I’m only going to read it once.’ After clearing his throat he began.
“Try to imagine
What it’s like to be me
Killing my girls
As they try to break free.
Try to imagine
What it’s like to be you
Gasping for breath
With your lips turning blue.
Try to imagine
What it’s like to be dead
Down in the fires
Where I live in your head ….’
‘How was that, pretty good eh?’ Colley said as he gave Crossland’s crotch a last squeeze as he pushed him backwards. As Crossland landed on his back he cried out. Colley turned, walked over to the bunk, climbed on and feigned sleep.
.......................................................................
Excerpt from my new novel
They both stood upright, slowly, Colley quietly laughing, Crossland weeping. Colley released Crossland’s ear and snatched the paper. Crossland gasped and shuddered.
‘You fucking dirty bastard, you’ve pissed yourself, but I won’t be letting go just yet.’ Colley whispered. ‘I’ve written you a poem and now I will share it with you. Concentrate now, I’m only going to read it once.’ After clearing his throat he began.
“Try to imagine
What it’s like to be me
Killing my girls
As they try to break free.
Try to imagine
What it’s like to be you
Gasping for breath
With your lips turning blue.
Try to imagine
What it’s like to be dead
Down in the fires
Where I live in your head ….’
‘How was that, pretty good eh?’ Colley said as he gave Crossland’s crotch a last squeeze as he pushed him backwards. As Crossland landed on his back he cried out. Colley turned, walked over to the bunk, climbed on and feigned sleep.
.......................................................................
For Your Consideration
Believe It Or Not
That Green House
Most of you know, or have heard of, Orba Valley. We lived on one side of the valley for 10 years and we now reside in a beautiful village situated on the other side. The floor of the valley is known as the campo. This short story is about a journey across the campo, at night, in search of a mysterious place called That Green House. Stay with me, it gets better.
I took a particular right-hand turn on to the campo about a kilometer outside the village of Benidoleig. The street lighting had ended well before so, initially, it was lights on full beam and off we go. My eventual destination was the village of Sagra, nestling at the foot of the mountain range on the opposite side of the valley. I had Led Zeppelin on the sound system of the Merc, a nifty little number called Kashmir.
Although I'd traveled the route in daylight, at night it was a totally different kettle of meat. I quickly adjusted my speed because the chances of something coming from the following direction without lights, was quite high. Anyway, I carried on at snails pace and changed the music to Norah Jones, telling myself to concentrate. If you have a vivid imagination, don't attempt this journey. Trust me.
Anyway, I digress. As I was proceeding along, the walls were getting higher and the road was definitely not as smooth as I remembered. Suddenly, I hit the breaks. A man was standing in front of me with a clearly-agitated German Shepherd straining at its leash. I lowered my window and the conversation went something like:
'Hi, can you........'
'You're on fucking private property'
'Oh really'
'Yes, oh fucking really'
'Where am I then?'
'On private fucking property'
'Does everything have to have fuck in it?' I asked.
'Yes, it fucking well does.'
'Well that answered that then, didn't it?
'Are you taking the fucking piss?'
By this time I'm starting to run out of patience, so, ignoring the well-spoken gent in front of me, I started to reverse and after a few seconds, lo and behold, ran into one of those beautiful two-hundred year old dry stone walls. Shit. I climbed out to inspect the damage and, as luck would have it, just some scratches and bits of stone. Easily fixed. I got back in, started the engine and I'm just about to try a sharp left hand turn when Mr Fuck is tapping on the window. I ignored him and, much to my surprise, I'm back on the pitch black lane. Mr Fuck is still walking by the side of the car insistently tapping on the window so I wind it down.
'Yes?' I asked, staring at the man, no dog this time.
'I just wanted to ask if I could help. Sorry about the bad language before but it's one of the bad habits one slips into when one is living on ones own. One wonders how I cope some times. It gets so lonely here in the middle of nowhere. The dog is company but not much at conversation.
So, I was wondering if I could offer you a libation by way of an apology.'
His voice seemed to trail off and this arrogant man almost seemed to grow smaller in front of me. Being the nice, forgiving person that I am I thought about his offer.
'No, fuck off,' and I drove merrily off into the darkness.
The problem with campo driving at night is that distance is difficult to measure particularly if you don't know what the speedo read before you set off. Anyway, I'm negotiating the twits and turns, being careful to stay in the middle of the lane to avoid those unforgiving stone walls. All of a sudden (yes, all of a sudden) two round shiny things appear a short distance in front of me. As I slowed to a halt, the two round shiny things start to become part of a large and obviously very ant-social wild boar. Oh fuck, now what does one do.
I tooted my horn and edged forward. The boar didn't move. I tooted again and revved the engine. The boar just nodded and, if this is possible, looked bored. As I was thinking about another maneuver, the beast walked forward and started to circle the car. I froze, expecting the door to open. Then I told myself that the boar would have banged on the window instead of opening the door. I was still frozen when the animal walked passed the car, stopped and deposited fresh manure for me to drive over. Then it vanished. Just like that.
It took me a few minutes to compose myself before I was on my way. Eventually, and it seemed like hours, I could see lights in the distance. As I got closer I recognized the church tower. Sagra.
It was a beautiful night and I drove carefully towards the welcoming lights. I was a short distance away from the first street lights when my attention was drawn to a shimmering thing in the distance, to the right of the clock tower. Was this it? Had I found that green house?
I drove into the village and, after parking the car near the font, I made my way towards the green house.......
That green house
In the distance
Real
In the mist
Fading
But fine
I wonder what lives
Inside
Shadows move
Behind the curtains
Flimsy
Shifting in the breeze
Knock
But there is no answer
Shall we
Leave them be?
Knock
Creak, it opens
Dare we
Look inside?.....
..............................................................
Believe It Or Not
That Green House
Most of you know, or have heard of, Orba Valley. We lived on one side of the valley for 10 years and we now reside in a beautiful village situated on the other side. The floor of the valley is known as the campo. This short story is about a journey across the campo, at night, in search of a mysterious place called That Green House. Stay with me, it gets better.
I took a particular right-hand turn on to the campo about a kilometer outside the village of Benidoleig. The street lighting had ended well before so, initially, it was lights on full beam and off we go. My eventual destination was the village of Sagra, nestling at the foot of the mountain range on the opposite side of the valley. I had Led Zeppelin on the sound system of the Merc, a nifty little number called Kashmir.
Although I'd traveled the route in daylight, at night it was a totally different kettle of meat. I quickly adjusted my speed because the chances of something coming from the following direction without lights, was quite high. Anyway, I carried on at snails pace and changed the music to Norah Jones, telling myself to concentrate. If you have a vivid imagination, don't attempt this journey. Trust me.
Anyway, I digress. As I was proceeding along, the walls were getting higher and the road was definitely not as smooth as I remembered. Suddenly, I hit the breaks. A man was standing in front of me with a clearly-agitated German Shepherd straining at its leash. I lowered my window and the conversation went something like:
'Hi, can you........'
'You're on fucking private property'
'Oh really'
'Yes, oh fucking really'
'Where am I then?'
'On private fucking property'
'Does everything have to have fuck in it?' I asked.
'Yes, it fucking well does.'
'Well that answered that then, didn't it?
'Are you taking the fucking piss?'
By this time I'm starting to run out of patience, so, ignoring the well-spoken gent in front of me, I started to reverse and after a few seconds, lo and behold, ran into one of those beautiful two-hundred year old dry stone walls. Shit. I climbed out to inspect the damage and, as luck would have it, just some scratches and bits of stone. Easily fixed. I got back in, started the engine and I'm just about to try a sharp left hand turn when Mr Fuck is tapping on the window. I ignored him and, much to my surprise, I'm back on the pitch black lane. Mr Fuck is still walking by the side of the car insistently tapping on the window so I wind it down.
'Yes?' I asked, staring at the man, no dog this time.
'I just wanted to ask if I could help. Sorry about the bad language before but it's one of the bad habits one slips into when one is living on ones own. One wonders how I cope some times. It gets so lonely here in the middle of nowhere. The dog is company but not much at conversation.
So, I was wondering if I could offer you a libation by way of an apology.'
His voice seemed to trail off and this arrogant man almost seemed to grow smaller in front of me. Being the nice, forgiving person that I am I thought about his offer.
'No, fuck off,' and I drove merrily off into the darkness.
The problem with campo driving at night is that distance is difficult to measure particularly if you don't know what the speedo read before you set off. Anyway, I'm negotiating the twits and turns, being careful to stay in the middle of the lane to avoid those unforgiving stone walls. All of a sudden (yes, all of a sudden) two round shiny things appear a short distance in front of me. As I slowed to a halt, the two round shiny things start to become part of a large and obviously very ant-social wild boar. Oh fuck, now what does one do.
I tooted my horn and edged forward. The boar didn't move. I tooted again and revved the engine. The boar just nodded and, if this is possible, looked bored. As I was thinking about another maneuver, the beast walked forward and started to circle the car. I froze, expecting the door to open. Then I told myself that the boar would have banged on the window instead of opening the door. I was still frozen when the animal walked passed the car, stopped and deposited fresh manure for me to drive over. Then it vanished. Just like that.
It took me a few minutes to compose myself before I was on my way. Eventually, and it seemed like hours, I could see lights in the distance. As I got closer I recognized the church tower. Sagra.
It was a beautiful night and I drove carefully towards the welcoming lights. I was a short distance away from the first street lights when my attention was drawn to a shimmering thing in the distance, to the right of the clock tower. Was this it? Had I found that green house?
I drove into the village and, after parking the car near the font, I made my way towards the green house.......
That green house
In the distance
Real
In the mist
Fading
But fine
I wonder what lives
Inside
Shadows move
Behind the curtains
Flimsy
Shifting in the breeze
Knock
But there is no answer
Shall we
Leave them be?
Knock
Creak, it opens
Dare we
Look inside?.....
..............................................................
We first met Wilf and Sheila nearly ten years ago. Very private people, much like ourselves, we struck up a friendship which has grown over the years.
Wilf and I quickly discovered our mutual love of music. Wilf was very much into Delta blues, with me being a little more main-stream. Our tastes seem to merge , down the years, and we both discovered new artists, or albums, which we quickly shared.
We often spoke about how good it would be to actually have a go at making music ourselves. I was a 'so so' guitar player and Wilf was troubled by an old injury to his left arm. But, still, we talked.
A couple of years ago, Wilf started to collect stringed instruments. His first purchase was a three-string cigar-box guitar. It made a strange, old bluesy sound. Wilf continued collecting guitars and dobro's and started to learn to play slide. I started to practice on my Fender accoustic, concentrating on chords.
We continued to talk and, finally, decided to have a bash at playing together. We started to practice and called it 'noodling'. After a while we settled on one song to try and master so at least it sounded like it should! It was called 'Little Red Rooster'. We then had to decide who was going to sing. The honor fell to me. I remember that first time but, unfortunately, not the date. I must dig back through the diaries.
So, we started to play and I started to sing. We got through it and stopped. We looked at each other and I came out with something meaningful like 'fucking hell, that wasn't bad.' Over the following weeks we continued to work on it and, I must say, we improved. Wilf really got into his slide playing.
The next song we tried was 'Love In Vain'. We had the chords and slide worked out really nice but I could't get the vocal right. Still can't. We then started to try and master 'Dust My Broom' but lack of time beat us.
The forth song that we worked on, which was to become a favorite, was 'Floatin' Bridge', recently recorded by Gregg Allman. We loved that but it was the last piece of music we played together.
Some months before, we started to look into how we could record our efforts. Initially, we used an old fashioned dictaphone, but then progressed on to using the GarageBand application on our iMac.
Our efforts at recording produced good versions of 'Little Red Rooster' and 'Floatin Bridge' plus an unfinished 'Dust My Broom'. Wilf did sing on a version of 'Little Red Rooster' and I think it's excellent. He said he couldn't sing. Wrong.
Margaret and Sheila listened to our 'recording sessions' and clearly enjoyed what we were doing and had achieved. We were right proud.
We had big plans to perform at least two songs live at a blues event in a nearby village but, alas, we never made it.
I did play a couple of our recordings on The Lock Down Blues Show on TotalFM, Sunday 12 April when the show was dedicated to Wilf.
Playing music with Wilf was a real pleasure and I'm immensely proud to have known the man. This is a poem I wrote on 9 April, called
That Moment
I know that moment's over
Never visit there again
When we crossed that line, forever
Will we, won't we
Let's begin
Pulled that Rooster
Off the pages
Nice and easy
Good to go
The smiles that crossed our faces
Start the show
We tuned
And, nodding sagely
Played the Rooster to the end
I didn't know
You could play like that
Nor did I
My friend
I know that moment's over
Never visit there again
When we crossed that line, forever
Will we, won't we
Let's begin
Floatin' Bridge
Pulled us closer
Give me plenty
Play that slide
The smiles that crossed our faces
Filled with pride.
..................................................
Wilf and I quickly discovered our mutual love of music. Wilf was very much into Delta blues, with me being a little more main-stream. Our tastes seem to merge , down the years, and we both discovered new artists, or albums, which we quickly shared.
We often spoke about how good it would be to actually have a go at making music ourselves. I was a 'so so' guitar player and Wilf was troubled by an old injury to his left arm. But, still, we talked.
A couple of years ago, Wilf started to collect stringed instruments. His first purchase was a three-string cigar-box guitar. It made a strange, old bluesy sound. Wilf continued collecting guitars and dobro's and started to learn to play slide. I started to practice on my Fender accoustic, concentrating on chords.
We continued to talk and, finally, decided to have a bash at playing together. We started to practice and called it 'noodling'. After a while we settled on one song to try and master so at least it sounded like it should! It was called 'Little Red Rooster'. We then had to decide who was going to sing. The honor fell to me. I remember that first time but, unfortunately, not the date. I must dig back through the diaries.
So, we started to play and I started to sing. We got through it and stopped. We looked at each other and I came out with something meaningful like 'fucking hell, that wasn't bad.' Over the following weeks we continued to work on it and, I must say, we improved. Wilf really got into his slide playing.
The next song we tried was 'Love In Vain'. We had the chords and slide worked out really nice but I could't get the vocal right. Still can't. We then started to try and master 'Dust My Broom' but lack of time beat us.
The forth song that we worked on, which was to become a favorite, was 'Floatin' Bridge', recently recorded by Gregg Allman. We loved that but it was the last piece of music we played together.
Some months before, we started to look into how we could record our efforts. Initially, we used an old fashioned dictaphone, but then progressed on to using the GarageBand application on our iMac.
Our efforts at recording produced good versions of 'Little Red Rooster' and 'Floatin Bridge' plus an unfinished 'Dust My Broom'. Wilf did sing on a version of 'Little Red Rooster' and I think it's excellent. He said he couldn't sing. Wrong.
Margaret and Sheila listened to our 'recording sessions' and clearly enjoyed what we were doing and had achieved. We were right proud.
We had big plans to perform at least two songs live at a blues event in a nearby village but, alas, we never made it.
I did play a couple of our recordings on The Lock Down Blues Show on TotalFM, Sunday 12 April when the show was dedicated to Wilf.
Playing music with Wilf was a real pleasure and I'm immensely proud to have known the man. This is a poem I wrote on 9 April, called
That Moment
I know that moment's over
Never visit there again
When we crossed that line, forever
Will we, won't we
Let's begin
Pulled that Rooster
Off the pages
Nice and easy
Good to go
The smiles that crossed our faces
Start the show
We tuned
And, nodding sagely
Played the Rooster to the end
I didn't know
You could play like that
Nor did I
My friend
I know that moment's over
Never visit there again
When we crossed that line, forever
Will we, won't we
Let's begin
Floatin' Bridge
Pulled us closer
Give me plenty
Play that slide
The smiles that crossed our faces
Filled with pride.
..................................................
A Case of Murder
(The Coming Out Party)
My name is Merlin, I'm a black cat and I'm dead. I've been in a cupboard under the stairs in our basement flat for just over four years.
I hated that little shit. Mum and Dad called him Richard, I preferred to call him Dick. He was nine when IT happened. He was always moaning to Mum about how hungry he was. He smelt of wee and seemed to have his right index finger permanently up his nose. Mum loved him and dressed him like Prince Charles when he was a child.
You know me, always Mr Reasonable. I always did my cat stuff for Mum and Dad particularly when they had friends visiting. I would rub against legs, purr and meow, all the normal stuff. Dick would try and 'trip over me' but I always dodged him, crafty little bastard.
Anyway, I had my routine as we all do. I would wake up, stretch, scratch, eat, crap and go back to sleep. Demanding stuff but I was good at it.
So, it was a lovely June afternoon when I'd completed my routine and was drifting back to sleep. Dick was off school because he was moaning about having a sore throat. His usual 'oh, poor me' routine.
I heard the front door slam, tensed and then guessed that Mum was off to the shops. She loved shopping. I started to settle back down when Dick cracked me over the head with one of Dad's sticks. Jesus H Christ, did that hurt. How I didn't hear him creep up on me is still a mystery to this day. I was shaking my head trying to clear it when he poked me in the guts with the stick. Bastard. Made me feel sick. I decided to leg it and sort the problem when I was feeling better. I made it to the door and was half way through when the lights went out.
When I came to I was in the cupboard under the stairs where I used to store my mouse supplies. The problem, which stunned me, was that I was looking down on myself. My head was a mess, blood everywhere and my beautiful black fur was past repair. I knew I was dead because I looked into my eyes and there was no sign of life. Not a flicker.
I felt strange because the realisation dawned on me that I was a ghost. Bloody hell!
I must have sat looking down on myself for ages and I admit that the smell was becoming a bit ripe. Well, more than a bit ripe.
Since IT happened I've dedicated myself to messing with Dicks head. I do a mean nightmare.
I've made him terrified to even walk past the cupboard and I've filled his head with thoughts about how I'm going to get him. He's a bigger boy now but still a shit.
Although I'm a ghost I'm still handsome but I have put on a bit of weight. If Dick has to walk past my cupboard I make the walls creak. He hates it.
I've decided that I've waited long enough to make him pay for my death. The big day is going to be tomorrow. It's going to be my 'coming out of the cupboard' party. Dick will love it to death....
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
(The Coming Out Party)
My name is Merlin, I'm a black cat and I'm dead. I've been in a cupboard under the stairs in our basement flat for just over four years.
I hated that little shit. Mum and Dad called him Richard, I preferred to call him Dick. He was nine when IT happened. He was always moaning to Mum about how hungry he was. He smelt of wee and seemed to have his right index finger permanently up his nose. Mum loved him and dressed him like Prince Charles when he was a child.
You know me, always Mr Reasonable. I always did my cat stuff for Mum and Dad particularly when they had friends visiting. I would rub against legs, purr and meow, all the normal stuff. Dick would try and 'trip over me' but I always dodged him, crafty little bastard.
Anyway, I had my routine as we all do. I would wake up, stretch, scratch, eat, crap and go back to sleep. Demanding stuff but I was good at it.
So, it was a lovely June afternoon when I'd completed my routine and was drifting back to sleep. Dick was off school because he was moaning about having a sore throat. His usual 'oh, poor me' routine.
I heard the front door slam, tensed and then guessed that Mum was off to the shops. She loved shopping. I started to settle back down when Dick cracked me over the head with one of Dad's sticks. Jesus H Christ, did that hurt. How I didn't hear him creep up on me is still a mystery to this day. I was shaking my head trying to clear it when he poked me in the guts with the stick. Bastard. Made me feel sick. I decided to leg it and sort the problem when I was feeling better. I made it to the door and was half way through when the lights went out.
When I came to I was in the cupboard under the stairs where I used to store my mouse supplies. The problem, which stunned me, was that I was looking down on myself. My head was a mess, blood everywhere and my beautiful black fur was past repair. I knew I was dead because I looked into my eyes and there was no sign of life. Not a flicker.
I felt strange because the realisation dawned on me that I was a ghost. Bloody hell!
I must have sat looking down on myself for ages and I admit that the smell was becoming a bit ripe. Well, more than a bit ripe.
Since IT happened I've dedicated myself to messing with Dicks head. I do a mean nightmare.
I've made him terrified to even walk past the cupboard and I've filled his head with thoughts about how I'm going to get him. He's a bigger boy now but still a shit.
Although I'm a ghost I'm still handsome but I have put on a bit of weight. If Dick has to walk past my cupboard I make the walls creak. He hates it.
I've decided that I've waited long enough to make him pay for my death. The big day is going to be tomorrow. It's going to be my 'coming out of the cupboard' party. Dick will love it to death....
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
This is an excerpt from the sequel to 'Lock-Down Blues'.
…........Poge and Sear were finishing their burger and chips, no salad, when Sear noticed two police vehicles arrive in the parking area in front of the restaurant. One was a patrol car, the other a van. A police officer appeared from around a corner and walked towards the vehicles.
'Could be a problem,' Poge managed to say, using a serviette to dab at the grease and tomato ketchup leaking from the corners of his mouth.
'I think you might be right, I'll go and check on the van.' Sear answered, wiping burger fat down the front of his sweatshirt.
Poge was just about through his third burger when Sear came back in, his face white, his brow flecked with sweat. 'They're all over the van, all over the van,' he whispered, leaning over Poge's shoulder. For once, the stale smell of body odour didn't cause him to flinch. Poge stopped eating and dropped his knife and fork on to the formica surface of the table. The clatter caused other customers to look over at the two men. Their interest didn't last more than a few moments and they returned to their meals.
'What shall we do?' Sear squeaked, visibly shaking as he sat down.
'I don't know, let me think.' Poge replied, wondering what the hell they were going to do.
'I guess there must be at least two of them, ' Traffic officer Chess ventured to the superintendent who stood in front of him. They had remained by the two vehicles, guessing that the suspects were in the vicinity. They had purposely turned their backs to the restaurant, trying to convey the impression that they had no interest in any of the diners. Two other vehicles had arrived and sealed off the motorway in both directions. This would not have been apparent to any of the occupants of the restaurant because the roadblocks had been set up a good half mile away in both directions. The officers were, of course, aware that they had only a limited amount of time before somebody noticed that there were no new customers at both the restaurant and the service station.
'OK, The area is now secure. Nothing is moving on the motorway and all exits from this place are sealed. Unless our suspects have already fled the scene, which I very much doubt, they are going to be in the restaurant. The service station and facilities are all empty. I want you, Mr Chess, to go back to your vehicle, collect the loud haler and position yourself in front of the restaurant. We will then proceed.' Chess nodded
and sauntered off back to his vehicle. The superintendent made his way back to the van, climbed in and waited.
'What the fuck is happening?' growled Sear, sweat dripping from his forehead on to the plate in front of him.
'I don't know, but it doesn't look as though there's anything that concerns us. Probably a crash on the road, who knows? Best thing we can do is finish our meals and go and have a look at the van. If anything looks suspicious then we'll split up and go for a walk across the fields. We'll meet up later at mine. OK?.
Sear thought about it and nodded. Poge had never got it wrong and things were too good at the moment to panic and lose it. 'Yea, of course, you're right.' Sear replied, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his anorak. They finished their meals and were about to leave when they heard,
'Attention, staff and customers. I repeat, attention staff and customers. We are presently dealing with an incident on the motorway and I require all customers to return to their vehicles and wait for a police officer to speak to them. All staff are to make their way to the area behind the service station where a manager will brief them on what is happening. Please comply with my instructions and we will keep any inconvenience to a minimum.' Chess repeated his speech, turned and made his way back to his vehicle which was still parked out of site of the restaurant.
The restaurant staff immediately began locking the tills and started to make their way to speak to the customers. A young West Indian waitress spoke to Poge and Sear and they just nodded but made no attempt to move. After about five minutes they were the only ones left in the place apart from the waitress who had, twice more, asked them to leave. She stared at them, shook her head, turned and left. Poge whispered to Sear and they both made their way to the gents toilet just to the left of the tills. Poge entered one of the closets, climbed on the basin and strained to look out of the window. He gasped as he saw armed police aiming their weapons at the restaurant. He turned, slipped off the basin and fell on to Sear. They untangled themselves, exited the closet and opened the door to go back into the restaurant. Armed police officers stood in a semicircle in front of them.
'Armed police, armed police. Walk forward two paces with your hand raised, kneel down and await further orders. Do it, now.'
Both men did as they were told because there was nothing else to be done. They were taken to a police station in Canterbury, interviewed and charged with grievous bodily harm and the abduction of a minor. Bail was refused. They were held on remand in Canterbury prison.
During their first week both were threatened and, due to the timely intervention of staff, Poge escaped being maimed with a solution of scalding water and sugar. The Governor decided that both men would be safer in the Segregation Unit. Two days later, Sear was stabbed in the arm by a local thug on remand for a string of burglaries. After discussing the problem with his opposite number at Belmarsh prison, the Governor called in a favour and both men were transferred to the fortress-like establishment in South London.
After lengthy telephone discussions with the Spanish National Police it was decided to send a small team of Kent Constabulary detectives to the Costa Blanca. They based their enquiries on the information which had been gathered as the result of Poge's hysterical boasts about 'being busy in Spain'. What Poge didn't know was that a number of British paedophiles were living quietly in the coastal towns of the Costa Blanca. Because they were 'retired' they were happy to be paid to inform on the 'active' players that they knew about.
After a lot of probing, and threats, the detectives were able to put together a rough idea of what Poge and Sear had been up to on their Spanish holidays. They were horrified and shared their findings with the Spanish. Unfortunately, it was all here say and rumour, although both sides knew that there was truth in it. The police left Spain in no doubt that, if Poge and Sear had been captured there, both would now be dead...........
.................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
…........Poge and Sear were finishing their burger and chips, no salad, when Sear noticed two police vehicles arrive in the parking area in front of the restaurant. One was a patrol car, the other a van. A police officer appeared from around a corner and walked towards the vehicles.
'Could be a problem,' Poge managed to say, using a serviette to dab at the grease and tomato ketchup leaking from the corners of his mouth.
'I think you might be right, I'll go and check on the van.' Sear answered, wiping burger fat down the front of his sweatshirt.
Poge was just about through his third burger when Sear came back in, his face white, his brow flecked with sweat. 'They're all over the van, all over the van,' he whispered, leaning over Poge's shoulder. For once, the stale smell of body odour didn't cause him to flinch. Poge stopped eating and dropped his knife and fork on to the formica surface of the table. The clatter caused other customers to look over at the two men. Their interest didn't last more than a few moments and they returned to their meals.
'What shall we do?' Sear squeaked, visibly shaking as he sat down.
'I don't know, let me think.' Poge replied, wondering what the hell they were going to do.
'I guess there must be at least two of them, ' Traffic officer Chess ventured to the superintendent who stood in front of him. They had remained by the two vehicles, guessing that the suspects were in the vicinity. They had purposely turned their backs to the restaurant, trying to convey the impression that they had no interest in any of the diners. Two other vehicles had arrived and sealed off the motorway in both directions. This would not have been apparent to any of the occupants of the restaurant because the roadblocks had been set up a good half mile away in both directions. The officers were, of course, aware that they had only a limited amount of time before somebody noticed that there were no new customers at both the restaurant and the service station.
'OK, The area is now secure. Nothing is moving on the motorway and all exits from this place are sealed. Unless our suspects have already fled the scene, which I very much doubt, they are going to be in the restaurant. The service station and facilities are all empty. I want you, Mr Chess, to go back to your vehicle, collect the loud haler and position yourself in front of the restaurant. We will then proceed.' Chess nodded
and sauntered off back to his vehicle. The superintendent made his way back to the van, climbed in and waited.
'What the fuck is happening?' growled Sear, sweat dripping from his forehead on to the plate in front of him.
'I don't know, but it doesn't look as though there's anything that concerns us. Probably a crash on the road, who knows? Best thing we can do is finish our meals and go and have a look at the van. If anything looks suspicious then we'll split up and go for a walk across the fields. We'll meet up later at mine. OK?.
Sear thought about it and nodded. Poge had never got it wrong and things were too good at the moment to panic and lose it. 'Yea, of course, you're right.' Sear replied, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his anorak. They finished their meals and were about to leave when they heard,
'Attention, staff and customers. I repeat, attention staff and customers. We are presently dealing with an incident on the motorway and I require all customers to return to their vehicles and wait for a police officer to speak to them. All staff are to make their way to the area behind the service station where a manager will brief them on what is happening. Please comply with my instructions and we will keep any inconvenience to a minimum.' Chess repeated his speech, turned and made his way back to his vehicle which was still parked out of site of the restaurant.
The restaurant staff immediately began locking the tills and started to make their way to speak to the customers. A young West Indian waitress spoke to Poge and Sear and they just nodded but made no attempt to move. After about five minutes they were the only ones left in the place apart from the waitress who had, twice more, asked them to leave. She stared at them, shook her head, turned and left. Poge whispered to Sear and they both made their way to the gents toilet just to the left of the tills. Poge entered one of the closets, climbed on the basin and strained to look out of the window. He gasped as he saw armed police aiming their weapons at the restaurant. He turned, slipped off the basin and fell on to Sear. They untangled themselves, exited the closet and opened the door to go back into the restaurant. Armed police officers stood in a semicircle in front of them.
'Armed police, armed police. Walk forward two paces with your hand raised, kneel down and await further orders. Do it, now.'
Both men did as they were told because there was nothing else to be done. They were taken to a police station in Canterbury, interviewed and charged with grievous bodily harm and the abduction of a minor. Bail was refused. They were held on remand in Canterbury prison.
During their first week both were threatened and, due to the timely intervention of staff, Poge escaped being maimed with a solution of scalding water and sugar. The Governor decided that both men would be safer in the Segregation Unit. Two days later, Sear was stabbed in the arm by a local thug on remand for a string of burglaries. After discussing the problem with his opposite number at Belmarsh prison, the Governor called in a favour and both men were transferred to the fortress-like establishment in South London.
After lengthy telephone discussions with the Spanish National Police it was decided to send a small team of Kent Constabulary detectives to the Costa Blanca. They based their enquiries on the information which had been gathered as the result of Poge's hysterical boasts about 'being busy in Spain'. What Poge didn't know was that a number of British paedophiles were living quietly in the coastal towns of the Costa Blanca. Because they were 'retired' they were happy to be paid to inform on the 'active' players that they knew about.
After a lot of probing, and threats, the detectives were able to put together a rough idea of what Poge and Sear had been up to on their Spanish holidays. They were horrified and shared their findings with the Spanish. Unfortunately, it was all here say and rumour, although both sides knew that there was truth in it. The police left Spain in no doubt that, if Poge and Sear had been captured there, both would now be dead...........
.................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
I've been lucky enough to have had sufficient interest, locally, in Lock-Down Blues, to be signing copies at various venues during most weeks since publication date at the end of July. For a person who, by nature isn't nervous, the experience of meeting people who want to buy something that you've written is a surreal experience. I'm going to share with you my experiences of meeting three of those people.
Dawn came along to a signing after having borrowed the book from a Spanish lending library which had a small English language section. She'd enjoyed it and, knowing that I would be in Javea on that particular day, came along to buy a copy. I thought that was lovely. She was a really nice person and a real book buff. She also showed me a picture of a guitar which she had made out of ceramic tiles. This was a stunning piece of art. Dawn, if you read this, get in touch and send me the picture, I would love to share it.
Brian came along after having been told about Lock-Down Blues by a mutual friend. We spent a long time discussing the plot and the characters and I was happy to sign a copy for him. Brian then told me about the book he was working on. It has a very interesting story line and characters. Brian has very kindly allowed me to read some of the chapters and I hope that I'm helping him avoid some of the pitfalls that I fell into. Brian is a great guy who's bursting with enthusiasm. He's certainly got the writing bug. I wish you every success in the future. Keep in touch.
Margaret came along to see me a few days ago. She'd listened to an interview which I did with Hannah Murray at Talk Radio Europe. She is one switched on lady. We talked about the Prison Service and she was fascinated and threw some really searching questions at me. I signed the book to her husband Sam who is experiencing poor health at the moment. Margaret, I really enjoyed meeting you and I hope our paths cross in the future.
These are just three of the people I've been lucky enough to meet during the past four months. As this is not one of my regular short stories, I've decided to finish it with a poem which I wrote two days ago. For your consideration, 'Other People'.
Other People
Lately
I've been surprised
Not just once
Or even twice
But many times
In different ways
By other people
A quiet hello
A nervous laugh
Or just a smile
To break the ice
So many ways
Of being nice
By other people
No hidden wish
No point to prove
Or silly games
Which have no rules
Just simple words
Which mean a lot
By other people
Lately
I've been surprised
Not just once
Or even twice
But different times
In many ways
By other people.
..................................................................
Dawn came along to a signing after having borrowed the book from a Spanish lending library which had a small English language section. She'd enjoyed it and, knowing that I would be in Javea on that particular day, came along to buy a copy. I thought that was lovely. She was a really nice person and a real book buff. She also showed me a picture of a guitar which she had made out of ceramic tiles. This was a stunning piece of art. Dawn, if you read this, get in touch and send me the picture, I would love to share it.
Brian came along after having been told about Lock-Down Blues by a mutual friend. We spent a long time discussing the plot and the characters and I was happy to sign a copy for him. Brian then told me about the book he was working on. It has a very interesting story line and characters. Brian has very kindly allowed me to read some of the chapters and I hope that I'm helping him avoid some of the pitfalls that I fell into. Brian is a great guy who's bursting with enthusiasm. He's certainly got the writing bug. I wish you every success in the future. Keep in touch.
Margaret came along to see me a few days ago. She'd listened to an interview which I did with Hannah Murray at Talk Radio Europe. She is one switched on lady. We talked about the Prison Service and she was fascinated and threw some really searching questions at me. I signed the book to her husband Sam who is experiencing poor health at the moment. Margaret, I really enjoyed meeting you and I hope our paths cross in the future.
These are just three of the people I've been lucky enough to meet during the past four months. As this is not one of my regular short stories, I've decided to finish it with a poem which I wrote two days ago. For your consideration, 'Other People'.
Other People
Lately
I've been surprised
Not just once
Or even twice
But many times
In different ways
By other people
A quiet hello
A nervous laugh
Or just a smile
To break the ice
So many ways
Of being nice
By other people
No hidden wish
No point to prove
Or silly games
Which have no rules
Just simple words
Which mean a lot
By other people
Lately
I've been surprised
Not just once
Or even twice
But different times
In many ways
By other people.
..................................................................
Mogism - A Prison Tale
This is a conversation between a father and his son, overheard in a prison Visits room.
'Mogism.'
'What?'
'I said, mogism.'
'Pardon?'
'I said mogism, are you fucking deaf?'
'I don't think mogism is a proper word, Dad.'
'I've told you before about thinking, haven't I? Well, haven't I?'
'Yes, Dad'
'Look where it got you last time, eh? Eh?'
'Yes, Dad'
'All you had to do was get the money, the old girl was terrified, for Christ's sake. But no, you had to listen to the bank manager. When he told you to stop and think about what you were doing you didn't have to take him at his word, did you?'
'No Dad, but...'
'Let me finish.'
'Yes, Dad.'
'By the time you'd finished thinking, the old bill had arrived and you were nicked. Five bloody years in that young offender shit hole and no time off for good behavior. Have I taught you nothing?'
'Yes, Dad.'
'Alright, no harm done.'
'What is mogism, Dad?'
'Eh?'
'Mogism?'
'Oh yea. My mate Lenny told me. He's doing a life sentence for murder. His cell's on the same landing as your truly.'
'Yours what?'
'Never mind. So, Lenny was telling us about mogism, over a couple of drinks the other evening and h...'
'I thought you couldn't have booze in....'
'What have I just told you about drinking, I mean thinking? You've bloody well got me at it now.'
'Sorry, Dad.'
'So you should be. Lenny was telling us about mogism. It's a thing where you can suffer from being a miserable old git.'
'What me, Dad?'
'Give me strength. No, not you.'
'Sorry, Dad.'
'The clue is in the word 'old'.'
'I think I get it, Dad'
'Good. The letters of 'miserable old git' spell 'MOG' and the 'ism' means he suffers from it.'
'Who Dad?'
'Lenny, for fucks sake!'
'Oh, right. I really get it now, but who told Lenny that he's suffering from this mogism thing?
'Lenny's wife.'
'Oh.'
'Yea, he had us in stitches when he was telling us.'
'Who did Lenny murder?'
'His wife.'
The End
Ray Wilcox
2014
This is a conversation between a father and his son, overheard in a prison Visits room.
'Mogism.'
'What?'
'I said, mogism.'
'Pardon?'
'I said mogism, are you fucking deaf?'
'I don't think mogism is a proper word, Dad.'
'I've told you before about thinking, haven't I? Well, haven't I?'
'Yes, Dad'
'Look where it got you last time, eh? Eh?'
'Yes, Dad'
'All you had to do was get the money, the old girl was terrified, for Christ's sake. But no, you had to listen to the bank manager. When he told you to stop and think about what you were doing you didn't have to take him at his word, did you?'
'No Dad, but...'
'Let me finish.'
'Yes, Dad.'
'By the time you'd finished thinking, the old bill had arrived and you were nicked. Five bloody years in that young offender shit hole and no time off for good behavior. Have I taught you nothing?'
'Yes, Dad.'
'Alright, no harm done.'
'What is mogism, Dad?'
'Eh?'
'Mogism?'
'Oh yea. My mate Lenny told me. He's doing a life sentence for murder. His cell's on the same landing as your truly.'
'Yours what?'
'Never mind. So, Lenny was telling us about mogism, over a couple of drinks the other evening and h...'
'I thought you couldn't have booze in....'
'What have I just told you about drinking, I mean thinking? You've bloody well got me at it now.'
'Sorry, Dad.'
'So you should be. Lenny was telling us about mogism. It's a thing where you can suffer from being a miserable old git.'
'What me, Dad?'
'Give me strength. No, not you.'
'Sorry, Dad.'
'The clue is in the word 'old'.'
'I think I get it, Dad'
'Good. The letters of 'miserable old git' spell 'MOG' and the 'ism' means he suffers from it.'
'Who Dad?'
'Lenny, for fucks sake!'
'Oh, right. I really get it now, but who told Lenny that he's suffering from this mogism thing?
'Lenny's wife.'
'Oh.'
'Yea, he had us in stitches when he was telling us.'
'Who did Lenny murder?'
'His wife.'
The End
Ray Wilcox
2014
4 October 2014
When I'm working on a piece and looking for a particular word or sentence I often find myself staring at the mountain. We are lucky to be living opposite a mountain known locally as the 'Sleeping Indian'. It might sound a bit poncey to be using words like 'awesome' and 'stunning' but these only go part way to describing 'the mountain', It forms one side of the valley which leads to the village of Orba. The road which runs along the valley connects a number of small villages. Don't nod off, that's it for the local history lesson.The mountain interests me because it seems to fire up my imagination. When I'm staring at it, often I'm not seeing it. It's a bit like a mantra word, it starts you off on the journey to where you want to be. Still with me? Good.
When I was working on the stuff to be included in this web post I thought, wouldn't it be good to write a poem about the mountain. Some of my previous work has made reference to the mountain and, years ago, I even had a go at capturing it on canvas but enough said about that.
So, for your consideration, 'Mountain'.
Mountain
Storms are hiding on the mountain
You can shelter next to me
Put your diamonds in my pocket
All the compliments are free
If you shiver at the thunder
I will sooth your fears away
Don't believe the silly rumours
Everything will be OK
Trees are bending in the morning
Shedding branches to survive
Watch your step, the mountain listens
If you want to stay alive
Mother Nature holds the meetings
Father Time is in the chair
If they send an invitation
Make damn sure that you are there
Single drops as big as boulders
Crashing through the weaker clouds
Bow your head before the mountain
Stand out from the crowd
Doesn't matter what you're wearing
Nothing ever stops the rain
I will never cease to wonder
If our path's will cross again.
..........................................................................................
When I'm working on a piece and looking for a particular word or sentence I often find myself staring at the mountain. We are lucky to be living opposite a mountain known locally as the 'Sleeping Indian'. It might sound a bit poncey to be using words like 'awesome' and 'stunning' but these only go part way to describing 'the mountain', It forms one side of the valley which leads to the village of Orba. The road which runs along the valley connects a number of small villages. Don't nod off, that's it for the local history lesson.The mountain interests me because it seems to fire up my imagination. When I'm staring at it, often I'm not seeing it. It's a bit like a mantra word, it starts you off on the journey to where you want to be. Still with me? Good.
When I was working on the stuff to be included in this web post I thought, wouldn't it be good to write a poem about the mountain. Some of my previous work has made reference to the mountain and, years ago, I even had a go at capturing it on canvas but enough said about that.
So, for your consideration, 'Mountain'.
Mountain
Storms are hiding on the mountain
You can shelter next to me
Put your diamonds in my pocket
All the compliments are free
If you shiver at the thunder
I will sooth your fears away
Don't believe the silly rumours
Everything will be OK
Trees are bending in the morning
Shedding branches to survive
Watch your step, the mountain listens
If you want to stay alive
Mother Nature holds the meetings
Father Time is in the chair
If they send an invitation
Make damn sure that you are there
Single drops as big as boulders
Crashing through the weaker clouds
Bow your head before the mountain
Stand out from the crowd
Doesn't matter what you're wearing
Nothing ever stops the rain
I will never cease to wonder
If our path's will cross again.
..........................................................................................
2 September 2014
I dedicate this short story to the wonderful people of S.C.A.N. Society for the Care of Animals in Need.
S.C.A.N., based in El Vergel on the Costa Blanca in Spain, provides shelter, food and LOVE for the many cats and dogs who find themselves without a place to stay. Their website is www.scancostablanca.com
MAGIC
This is the story of Marcus and Giorgio, Siamese cats and brothers, who moved to Spain in 2005 after retiring from demanding jobs in a small town in the North East of England.
Flying first class from Newcastle Airport ensured that they had a thoroughly splendid time. They enjoyed glasses of Vino Catnip 1984 and canapés filled with smoked salmon. The other passengers in first class, two Burmese and a hyper moggie of unknown origin, were good if demanding company. The moggie, Arthur Pendle, kept going on and on about global warming and greenhouse gases. The brothers were hoping that Spain was still warm when they landed and, having no reason to buy a greenhouse, it had nothing to do with them.
Giorgio did, however, mention a television programme he'd watched a couple of nights earlier about how the planet was heating up. It had shown melting icebergs. He had been upset to see a Polar Bear stranded on a small piece of floating ice. Marcus chirped up saying that he hadn't seen the programme. Giorgio glared at him and said that if he'd spent less time chasing the black and white cat from number eleven he might have taken the opportunity to further his somewhat limited education. Marcus glared at him but proceeded to give himself a thorough grooming. Although he feigned disinterest, Giorgio's comments had struck a nerve. He would put it in his box of things to think about.
The flight was uneventful apart from a little turbulence. A white Mercedes taxi was waiting for them and the journey to their new, dream home took just over an hour. After driving through the village of Pedreguer they rounded a bend and saw Monte Solana which was dotted with beautiful villas. As they approached their villa, the gate was open so they paid the taxi driver and walked slowly up the drive. They let themselves in and did a slow tour of all the rooms and once around the shimmering swimming pool.
The first few days were spent finding cold tiles to stretch out on and extra cold water to drink. They feasted on chicken and fish and had a high old time.
They quickly made friends with other Siamese on the mountain as well as the moggies who were forever passing through. Early in October the weather was starting to cool so they decided to explore the surrounding villages. It gave them the opportunity to have the top down on their newly acquired blue sports car. During a visit to the nearby village of Alcalali, for tapas, they were introduced to two extremely well behaved dogs. Not having a dog phobia they thoroughly enjoyed the company of Earl, a German Shepherd, and Freddie, a Golden Retriever. The meeting would bode well for the future.
Towards the end of October the weather turned and it started to rain. Not showers but stair-rod type rain. Marcus, in particular, hated the rain because it prevented him from doing his never ending rounds of the property. Giorgio didn't mind because he didn't mind.
The brothers were avid television watchers and had spent a few hundred euros on a big satellite dish so that they could watch their beloved wild life channels and Sky news. As the weeks passed by and the rain continued, most days, they would spend their time in front of the television. More and more they would hear the words 'climate change', 'CO2 emissions' and damage to the planet.
One particularly wet day saw them surfing the Net and found, to their dismay, there were literally millions of sites devoted to the problems being experienced around the world.
Marcus, no longer a chaser of skirt because of the bad weather, became obsessed with finding out more about the greenhouse effect, global warming and improving their carbon paw prints. As the winter took hold an incident happened that would spur the brothers into action.
Early in November the brothers were taking a casual meander down to the village to enjoy a couple of catnip beers in Bar Gatos. It started to rain and they sheltered under an old delivery van. Two things happened in rapid succession. Firstly, puddles on the road suddenly became torrents of water with nowhere to go. There were no drains to take the water away. They were soaked and ran to hide under a sheet of wood propped-up against a door. Secondly, as they reached relative safety the driver of the old delivery van jumped into the cab and started the engine. The black smoke and fumes nearly choked Giorgio, a sensitive soul at the best of times. The van drove away and after much coughing and retching they watched the stream of passing vehicles until the rain stopped. They were staggered by the amount of foul-smelling smoke being dumped on them and other passers by.
Christmas passed in a flurry of party's and all of a sudden Spring had arrived. The weather was warm at the end of April but not yet hot. The brothers were looking forward to their birthday party in May. They invited friends who lived on the mountain and from the surrounding villages. The big day was perfect and the guests started to arrive. There was chicken and fish on the BBQ and a huge bowl of catnip punch. When Earl and Freddie arrived a number of guests retreated to the roof until they saw how nice the two dogs were.
Local politics were discussed including the election of the new village Mayor, a particularly suave tomcat called Signor Carlos Angel Torres. As the evening wore on and more than enough punch had been consumed the main conversation moved from politics to the state of the planet. The brothers recounted their nasty experience the previous November and were shocked to hear other similar story's recounted by their guests. By the end of the night there was a unanimous agreement that action was needed and that they should start to try to make a difference in their wonderful little corner of Spain.
Earl suggested that Marcus and Giorgio should investigate what changes could be brought about because they clearly had more background knowledge than the other guests. He hoped that they would form the basis of a committee that might include Freddie and himself. He suggested that it be called 'Marcus And Giorgio Investigate Change' or 'MAGIC', for short. This was greeted with a round of applause and it was agreed that they would circulate progress reports by email with a full meeting to be scheduled before September.
The following weeks proved to be a cauldron of activity for the MAGIC committee. The knowledge base was building by the day and information was being circulated around the committee which now numbered six. As well as the brothers and Earl and Freddie there was Elton, a Border Collie and Carmen a beautiful tabby of unknown origin.
They all worked hard and began to really understand just how serious global warming was to the future of the planet and the individuals lucky enough to be living on it. They also understood that to be successful they would have to initiate change in small but manageable ways so as to ensure that the local community understood and agreed with what was being suggested. So, they came up with a number of really workable ideas and a long list of maybes for the future.
The committee wrote to the Mayor on MAGIC headed notepaper and requested a meeting. When they met the Mayor ten days later they found him to be intelligent, friendly and very enthusiastic about their ideas. He agreed that to start change in a small way was good. He thanked them for writing to him in Spanish and added that he had an idea of his own to contribute. That was when he mentioned the bus service.
The committee finally decided that the first full meeting would take place on the last Sunday in August. MAGIC flyer's would be posted on and around the mountain and the surrounding village communities. The committee took a well deserved break, went on long-awaited holidays and enjoyed grooming sessions at the four-star Hotel Catalan.
The big day arrived. Earl and Freddie had agreed to host the meeting on a flat piece of land near their villa. The meeting would begin at sunset to avoid the oppressive heat. Giorgio had toured the site marking his territory, so to speak, leaving the heady scent of hope and expectation in the air.
Refreshments, provided by the Mayor, consisted of catnip beer, water and dried food. Juan the Goat and Julio, a bad tempered Wild Boar, had been allowed to attend on the strict understanding that no biting, fighting or unusual noises would interrupt proceedings. The audience were settled just after six when Earl called the meeting to order. He introduced the other committee members and their special guest, the Mayor.
Apart from a warm breeze sneaking through the nearby orange groves the silence was total.
Marcus leaned towards the microphone and opened proceedings, 'We are gathered here today...'
Giorgio placed his right paw over the microphone and whispered, 'We've come here to speak about climate change not to marry them. Keep up!'
Apart from a couple of sniggers from the front row, the comments went unnoticed.
Marcus began again, 'Friends, fellow committee members and our special guest Signor Torres, we have all worked hard to be in the position to hold this meeting today. Many, many weeks have been spent looking at ways to enhance the quality of our lives by improving our environment and slowing down the damage being inflicted on our planet'.
A polite round of applause was interrupted when Juan the Goat was asked to leave after trying to eat a table cloth. No second warnings would be allowed today.
Marcus continued, 'We have looked at a whole range of measures and options open to us and, with the valuable assistance of our Mayor, Signor Torres, we have come up with a number of suggestions to put to you. We believe it is important to start in a small way and, hopefully, succeed rather than introduce loads of new schemes that would be doomed to failure because of the sheer amount of work involved.'
A further round of polite applause followed.
'So, here they are. 'One. The Mayor has pledged to introduce a bus service which will follow a route around our small communities four times a day. The first bus will be at seven am with the last one returning to the mountain at 10pm. The bus will stop when hailed, will stop at the hypermarket and will turn around at the beach near the Parrot Bar. Our commitment will be to restrict the use of our many vehicles to emergencies only during bus times on week days. We estimate that the savings on the use of petrol and diesel and the resulting emissions will be substantial. Oh, and by the way, the bus service will be free for at least the first six months. Questions at the end please.'
Marcus paused to take a sip of water. He continued. 'Two. We will pledge to use less water for showers, washing our cars and the sometimes unnecessary watering of our gardens. Cactus really don't need to be watered twice a day. After all, I've never heard of a watering system in a desert!'
This last comment attracted howls of laughter and nods of agreement.
'Three. We will pledge to make every effort to conserve water from the heavy, unpredictable rainfalls that we are now experiencing during the autumn and winter months due, as we now believe, to the effects of climate change. Large plastic containers are available at virtually nil cost in the village and the water saved can be used to water needy plants and top up pools. Also, we will adopt a common sense approach to the use of gas and electricity.
Marcus paused to gauge their reactions. Comments were flying back and forth but the crowd appeared happy with what they were hearing.
'So, those are our suggestions. Start in a small way and I believe that we will succeed. As you have heard, the Mayor is with us all the way. I want every family to keep a daily diary of their achievements so that we will have an accurate record of our hard work. Any questions?'
Debate followed until the field was illuminated by the full moon. A vote was taken and the raised hands were unanimous. Magic.
Only time will tell how successful their efforts will be in improving their carbon paw prints.
©
Ray Wilcox
All Rights Reserved
2014
.........................................................................................................
I dedicate this short story to the wonderful people of S.C.A.N. Society for the Care of Animals in Need.
S.C.A.N., based in El Vergel on the Costa Blanca in Spain, provides shelter, food and LOVE for the many cats and dogs who find themselves without a place to stay. Their website is www.scancostablanca.com
MAGIC
This is the story of Marcus and Giorgio, Siamese cats and brothers, who moved to Spain in 2005 after retiring from demanding jobs in a small town in the North East of England.
Flying first class from Newcastle Airport ensured that they had a thoroughly splendid time. They enjoyed glasses of Vino Catnip 1984 and canapés filled with smoked salmon. The other passengers in first class, two Burmese and a hyper moggie of unknown origin, were good if demanding company. The moggie, Arthur Pendle, kept going on and on about global warming and greenhouse gases. The brothers were hoping that Spain was still warm when they landed and, having no reason to buy a greenhouse, it had nothing to do with them.
Giorgio did, however, mention a television programme he'd watched a couple of nights earlier about how the planet was heating up. It had shown melting icebergs. He had been upset to see a Polar Bear stranded on a small piece of floating ice. Marcus chirped up saying that he hadn't seen the programme. Giorgio glared at him and said that if he'd spent less time chasing the black and white cat from number eleven he might have taken the opportunity to further his somewhat limited education. Marcus glared at him but proceeded to give himself a thorough grooming. Although he feigned disinterest, Giorgio's comments had struck a nerve. He would put it in his box of things to think about.
The flight was uneventful apart from a little turbulence. A white Mercedes taxi was waiting for them and the journey to their new, dream home took just over an hour. After driving through the village of Pedreguer they rounded a bend and saw Monte Solana which was dotted with beautiful villas. As they approached their villa, the gate was open so they paid the taxi driver and walked slowly up the drive. They let themselves in and did a slow tour of all the rooms and once around the shimmering swimming pool.
The first few days were spent finding cold tiles to stretch out on and extra cold water to drink. They feasted on chicken and fish and had a high old time.
They quickly made friends with other Siamese on the mountain as well as the moggies who were forever passing through. Early in October the weather was starting to cool so they decided to explore the surrounding villages. It gave them the opportunity to have the top down on their newly acquired blue sports car. During a visit to the nearby village of Alcalali, for tapas, they were introduced to two extremely well behaved dogs. Not having a dog phobia they thoroughly enjoyed the company of Earl, a German Shepherd, and Freddie, a Golden Retriever. The meeting would bode well for the future.
Towards the end of October the weather turned and it started to rain. Not showers but stair-rod type rain. Marcus, in particular, hated the rain because it prevented him from doing his never ending rounds of the property. Giorgio didn't mind because he didn't mind.
The brothers were avid television watchers and had spent a few hundred euros on a big satellite dish so that they could watch their beloved wild life channels and Sky news. As the weeks passed by and the rain continued, most days, they would spend their time in front of the television. More and more they would hear the words 'climate change', 'CO2 emissions' and damage to the planet.
One particularly wet day saw them surfing the Net and found, to their dismay, there were literally millions of sites devoted to the problems being experienced around the world.
Marcus, no longer a chaser of skirt because of the bad weather, became obsessed with finding out more about the greenhouse effect, global warming and improving their carbon paw prints. As the winter took hold an incident happened that would spur the brothers into action.
Early in November the brothers were taking a casual meander down to the village to enjoy a couple of catnip beers in Bar Gatos. It started to rain and they sheltered under an old delivery van. Two things happened in rapid succession. Firstly, puddles on the road suddenly became torrents of water with nowhere to go. There were no drains to take the water away. They were soaked and ran to hide under a sheet of wood propped-up against a door. Secondly, as they reached relative safety the driver of the old delivery van jumped into the cab and started the engine. The black smoke and fumes nearly choked Giorgio, a sensitive soul at the best of times. The van drove away and after much coughing and retching they watched the stream of passing vehicles until the rain stopped. They were staggered by the amount of foul-smelling smoke being dumped on them and other passers by.
Christmas passed in a flurry of party's and all of a sudden Spring had arrived. The weather was warm at the end of April but not yet hot. The brothers were looking forward to their birthday party in May. They invited friends who lived on the mountain and from the surrounding villages. The big day was perfect and the guests started to arrive. There was chicken and fish on the BBQ and a huge bowl of catnip punch. When Earl and Freddie arrived a number of guests retreated to the roof until they saw how nice the two dogs were.
Local politics were discussed including the election of the new village Mayor, a particularly suave tomcat called Signor Carlos Angel Torres. As the evening wore on and more than enough punch had been consumed the main conversation moved from politics to the state of the planet. The brothers recounted their nasty experience the previous November and were shocked to hear other similar story's recounted by their guests. By the end of the night there was a unanimous agreement that action was needed and that they should start to try to make a difference in their wonderful little corner of Spain.
Earl suggested that Marcus and Giorgio should investigate what changes could be brought about because they clearly had more background knowledge than the other guests. He hoped that they would form the basis of a committee that might include Freddie and himself. He suggested that it be called 'Marcus And Giorgio Investigate Change' or 'MAGIC', for short. This was greeted with a round of applause and it was agreed that they would circulate progress reports by email with a full meeting to be scheduled before September.
The following weeks proved to be a cauldron of activity for the MAGIC committee. The knowledge base was building by the day and information was being circulated around the committee which now numbered six. As well as the brothers and Earl and Freddie there was Elton, a Border Collie and Carmen a beautiful tabby of unknown origin.
They all worked hard and began to really understand just how serious global warming was to the future of the planet and the individuals lucky enough to be living on it. They also understood that to be successful they would have to initiate change in small but manageable ways so as to ensure that the local community understood and agreed with what was being suggested. So, they came up with a number of really workable ideas and a long list of maybes for the future.
The committee wrote to the Mayor on MAGIC headed notepaper and requested a meeting. When they met the Mayor ten days later they found him to be intelligent, friendly and very enthusiastic about their ideas. He agreed that to start change in a small way was good. He thanked them for writing to him in Spanish and added that he had an idea of his own to contribute. That was when he mentioned the bus service.
The committee finally decided that the first full meeting would take place on the last Sunday in August. MAGIC flyer's would be posted on and around the mountain and the surrounding village communities. The committee took a well deserved break, went on long-awaited holidays and enjoyed grooming sessions at the four-star Hotel Catalan.
The big day arrived. Earl and Freddie had agreed to host the meeting on a flat piece of land near their villa. The meeting would begin at sunset to avoid the oppressive heat. Giorgio had toured the site marking his territory, so to speak, leaving the heady scent of hope and expectation in the air.
Refreshments, provided by the Mayor, consisted of catnip beer, water and dried food. Juan the Goat and Julio, a bad tempered Wild Boar, had been allowed to attend on the strict understanding that no biting, fighting or unusual noises would interrupt proceedings. The audience were settled just after six when Earl called the meeting to order. He introduced the other committee members and their special guest, the Mayor.
Apart from a warm breeze sneaking through the nearby orange groves the silence was total.
Marcus leaned towards the microphone and opened proceedings, 'We are gathered here today...'
Giorgio placed his right paw over the microphone and whispered, 'We've come here to speak about climate change not to marry them. Keep up!'
Apart from a couple of sniggers from the front row, the comments went unnoticed.
Marcus began again, 'Friends, fellow committee members and our special guest Signor Torres, we have all worked hard to be in the position to hold this meeting today. Many, many weeks have been spent looking at ways to enhance the quality of our lives by improving our environment and slowing down the damage being inflicted on our planet'.
A polite round of applause was interrupted when Juan the Goat was asked to leave after trying to eat a table cloth. No second warnings would be allowed today.
Marcus continued, 'We have looked at a whole range of measures and options open to us and, with the valuable assistance of our Mayor, Signor Torres, we have come up with a number of suggestions to put to you. We believe it is important to start in a small way and, hopefully, succeed rather than introduce loads of new schemes that would be doomed to failure because of the sheer amount of work involved.'
A further round of polite applause followed.
'So, here they are. 'One. The Mayor has pledged to introduce a bus service which will follow a route around our small communities four times a day. The first bus will be at seven am with the last one returning to the mountain at 10pm. The bus will stop when hailed, will stop at the hypermarket and will turn around at the beach near the Parrot Bar. Our commitment will be to restrict the use of our many vehicles to emergencies only during bus times on week days. We estimate that the savings on the use of petrol and diesel and the resulting emissions will be substantial. Oh, and by the way, the bus service will be free for at least the first six months. Questions at the end please.'
Marcus paused to take a sip of water. He continued. 'Two. We will pledge to use less water for showers, washing our cars and the sometimes unnecessary watering of our gardens. Cactus really don't need to be watered twice a day. After all, I've never heard of a watering system in a desert!'
This last comment attracted howls of laughter and nods of agreement.
'Three. We will pledge to make every effort to conserve water from the heavy, unpredictable rainfalls that we are now experiencing during the autumn and winter months due, as we now believe, to the effects of climate change. Large plastic containers are available at virtually nil cost in the village and the water saved can be used to water needy plants and top up pools. Also, we will adopt a common sense approach to the use of gas and electricity.
Marcus paused to gauge their reactions. Comments were flying back and forth but the crowd appeared happy with what they were hearing.
'So, those are our suggestions. Start in a small way and I believe that we will succeed. As you have heard, the Mayor is with us all the way. I want every family to keep a daily diary of their achievements so that we will have an accurate record of our hard work. Any questions?'
Debate followed until the field was illuminated by the full moon. A vote was taken and the raised hands were unanimous. Magic.
Only time will tell how successful their efforts will be in improving their carbon paw prints.
©
Ray Wilcox
All Rights Reserved
2014
.........................................................................................................
This is the very short story behind a poem I wrote a few days ago.
Margaret attends tap dancing classes most Thursday afternoons in the village of Orba, not far from here. The classes are held in an old building next to the church in the village square. Although now home to a large population of ex-pats, Orba still retains its rural charm and beauty.
Ever the dutiful husband, I generally travel with her and wait outside the classroom on a beautiful, rustic plastic chair. The building is cool and there is always the temptation to nod off but I do try and make good use of my time. A few weeks ago I started to really notice the prints which line the walls of the landings and stair well. Most of the scenes are of parts of the mountains and valley's which surround the village. One. however, really grabbed my attention. There is a lane, with trees, and an old stone wall which has seen better days. The building behind the wall is derelict but still beautiful. The ground is dry from the relentless sun and there is little shadow to provide relief for the wildlife who call the place home.
I've tried to convey my impressions of the print in a poem called 'Old Walls' which I offer for your consideration.
Old Walls
The dust was waiting to billow and cloud
Old walls, still happy to stand in the sun
Were waiting to brace at the sound of the hooves
Not ready to lay on the ground
Crumbling mortar, as old as the days were long
Fighting for space with the hovering dust
Pushing the moss to the head of the queue
When the man with the hammer came tapping
The horses arrived, so proud and aloof
Their swishing tails fanning the crickets and flies
Who couldn't resist not giving a damn
About the pageant invading their lane
All it took was a badger running late
The mare was too busy to take a deep breath
She fought but it dragged her into the flint
But the time wasn't right to give way
The walls were a study in sorrow and pain
A couple shook loose but they hid it quite well
Our badger was gone but not for the count
His mind was a lifetime away
It didn't take long for the lane to repair
The mare would bray for all to hear
Old walls, content to stand their ground
Were happy as the sun went down.
........................................................................................
Margaret attends tap dancing classes most Thursday afternoons in the village of Orba, not far from here. The classes are held in an old building next to the church in the village square. Although now home to a large population of ex-pats, Orba still retains its rural charm and beauty.
Ever the dutiful husband, I generally travel with her and wait outside the classroom on a beautiful, rustic plastic chair. The building is cool and there is always the temptation to nod off but I do try and make good use of my time. A few weeks ago I started to really notice the prints which line the walls of the landings and stair well. Most of the scenes are of parts of the mountains and valley's which surround the village. One. however, really grabbed my attention. There is a lane, with trees, and an old stone wall which has seen better days. The building behind the wall is derelict but still beautiful. The ground is dry from the relentless sun and there is little shadow to provide relief for the wildlife who call the place home.
I've tried to convey my impressions of the print in a poem called 'Old Walls' which I offer for your consideration.
Old Walls
The dust was waiting to billow and cloud
Old walls, still happy to stand in the sun
Were waiting to brace at the sound of the hooves
Not ready to lay on the ground
Crumbling mortar, as old as the days were long
Fighting for space with the hovering dust
Pushing the moss to the head of the queue
When the man with the hammer came tapping
The horses arrived, so proud and aloof
Their swishing tails fanning the crickets and flies
Who couldn't resist not giving a damn
About the pageant invading their lane
All it took was a badger running late
The mare was too busy to take a deep breath
She fought but it dragged her into the flint
But the time wasn't right to give way
The walls were a study in sorrow and pain
A couple shook loose but they hid it quite well
Our badger was gone but not for the count
His mind was a lifetime away
It didn't take long for the lane to repair
The mare would bray for all to hear
Old walls, content to stand their ground
Were happy as the sun went down.
........................................................................................
22 May 2014
Forever Yours
Alicante Airport was a seething cauldron of disgruntled travellers. The storms sweeping across North Africa were seriously effecting air travel throughout Europe. Although the UK-bound flights were still on the departures board, passengers were being advised about delays of at least three hours.
Jeff Ward and Sandra Berry were in a long queue waiting to check-in for their flight to
Liverpool John Lennon Airport. They had spent an idyllic week soaking up the sun in a rented villa in the Altea Hills just north of Benidorm. The week hadn't been totally stress free because work did have a way of intruding in to down time. Jeff's print/design business was experiencing the same problems as other small firms and he wasn't really upset when his personal assistant, Barbara, rang with a couple of queries. Barbara had made it abundantly clear, almost from day one, that her PA duties could encompass anything that Jeff might wish to add to the job description. Jeff hadn't commented, deciding to leave it on the back burner.
Sandra had bought into the business in 2003. She had known Jeff for years and the business was providing her with much-needed income. She took care of the paperwork because Jeff couldn't be bothered with it. Approaching her fifty second birthday, she was slim with long wavy hair and a dirty laugh. Jeff said she was a fit bird which always made her smile. Their yearly trip to Spain was tax deductible and well deserved.
She managed to find a seat on a nearby bench and sat down. Jeff was waiting by the bags but was near enough to be able to speak without shouting. The families standing nearby were moaning but had, by and large, accepted the fact that they would be delayed.
The previous evening had started with tapas in a local bar and they had followed it with a delicious dinner in a near-by Indian Restaurant.. The wine and brandy had flowed before they had packed for the following day. The copious amounts of water she had drunk on the way to the airport now demanded a trip to the restrooms. She gestured to Jeff, who nodded, but was working on his laptop. Entering the restroom, she had to stop and lean against a wash basin because she suddenly felt short of breath. She put it down to the previous evenings excesses. Feeling a little better, she entered a cubicle but was gripped by a burning sensation in her chest. Her legs started to give way and, as she fell against the back wall her head crashed into the toilet bowl. She started to gag on the taste of blood as she drifted into unconsciousness.
Jeff was so engrossed in his laptop, he hadn't noticed that twenty minutes had passed since Sandra had left to go to the restrooms. As he closed it down it suddenly dawned on him that Sandra hadn't returned. He rang her mobile but, after four rings, it went to voice mail. The couple standing in front of him, obviously from Liverpool by their accents, were quite happy to guard his luggage while he went to look for Sandra.
After a few moments hesitation, he entered the ladies restroom, which appeared to be empty. As he was about to retrace his steps he heard sounds which were a mixture of sobs and moans. He identified the cubicle and banged on the door. Nothing. Calling Sandra's name he went into the next cubicle and, pulling himself up, looked over the partition. The sight of Sandra trying to pull herself up made him cry out in anguish. He jumped down, stepped out and kicked at the door of Sandra's cubicle. It flew open. As he reached for her she seemed to shudder and collapsed back in to a pool of blood which was spreading across the tiled floor. She looked dreadful. He felt panic starting to consume him.
After a minute, or so, Sandra's eyes started to flicker and she tried to lick her lips. He felt completely useless as he stared down in to the eyes of the woman who had come to mean so much to him. He knew that he had to do something because she looked terrible. As carefully as he could manage he pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and stopped. Who did he ring? What was the emergency number? Then he remembered that Barbara had put the Spanish emergency number in his phone, just to show how indispensable she was. Thank God.
He speed dialled the number and was met with silence. No signal. Damn. As he shook the phone and poked at the keys, Sandra started to pull at his sleeve. He stopped what he was doing and caressed her forehead. She was trying to speak but only managing to dribble. As he started to speak to her she shuddered, again, and started to rub at her chest. Finally, the penny dropped and Jeff realised that she was probably having some kind of heart attack. He knew that he would have to leave her and go for help before it was too late.
He bent his head and whispered that he would have to leave her for a few seconds and fetch help because his phone had no signal. She didn't seem to hear him but, as he struggled to get up, she grabbed at his jacket trying to stop him. He whispered that he wouldn't be long and tried, again, to stand. Again she pulled at his jacket and was trying to speak. He wiped her mouth and, between short breaths, she managed to speak. She told him that the pain in her chest was getting worse and she was frightened. Tears welled up and ran down her cheeks. Between shallow breaths she told him that she had been having chest pains, on and off, for the past few weeks but had thought that work pressures were causing them. Jeff told her not to be silly because there was no pressure. She frantically shook her head.
Sandra looked up in to his eyes and cried. Long, deep sobs. She told him that the bank had phoned her just before they had left for Spain. The manager had informed her that he was withdrawing their overdraft facility and that, if funds weren't forthcoming, they would have to cease trading. She hadn't mentioned it because she had placed some of her money in a joint business account to start to sort the problem. She was going to tell him when they got back to Liverpool .The problem, now, was that the manager wanted a meeting because the funds would need to be transferred by the following afternoon. As she tried to continue, she started to shake and then appeared to fall asleep.
Jeff was trying to digest the information when a voice came over the tannoy informing passengers that their flight to Liverpool John Lennon Airport would begin boarding in 30 minutes and passengers should proceed to check-in without delay.
He stood, looked down at Sandra, and left the cubicle closing the door behind him. When he got back to the queue he thanked the couple for minding his luggage, and waited his turn to check-in.
The End
©
Ray Wilcox
All Rights Reserved
2014.
..................................................
Forever Yours
Alicante Airport was a seething cauldron of disgruntled travellers. The storms sweeping across North Africa were seriously effecting air travel throughout Europe. Although the UK-bound flights were still on the departures board, passengers were being advised about delays of at least three hours.
Jeff Ward and Sandra Berry were in a long queue waiting to check-in for their flight to
Liverpool John Lennon Airport. They had spent an idyllic week soaking up the sun in a rented villa in the Altea Hills just north of Benidorm. The week hadn't been totally stress free because work did have a way of intruding in to down time. Jeff's print/design business was experiencing the same problems as other small firms and he wasn't really upset when his personal assistant, Barbara, rang with a couple of queries. Barbara had made it abundantly clear, almost from day one, that her PA duties could encompass anything that Jeff might wish to add to the job description. Jeff hadn't commented, deciding to leave it on the back burner.
Sandra had bought into the business in 2003. She had known Jeff for years and the business was providing her with much-needed income. She took care of the paperwork because Jeff couldn't be bothered with it. Approaching her fifty second birthday, she was slim with long wavy hair and a dirty laugh. Jeff said she was a fit bird which always made her smile. Their yearly trip to Spain was tax deductible and well deserved.
She managed to find a seat on a nearby bench and sat down. Jeff was waiting by the bags but was near enough to be able to speak without shouting. The families standing nearby were moaning but had, by and large, accepted the fact that they would be delayed.
The previous evening had started with tapas in a local bar and they had followed it with a delicious dinner in a near-by Indian Restaurant.. The wine and brandy had flowed before they had packed for the following day. The copious amounts of water she had drunk on the way to the airport now demanded a trip to the restrooms. She gestured to Jeff, who nodded, but was working on his laptop. Entering the restroom, she had to stop and lean against a wash basin because she suddenly felt short of breath. She put it down to the previous evenings excesses. Feeling a little better, she entered a cubicle but was gripped by a burning sensation in her chest. Her legs started to give way and, as she fell against the back wall her head crashed into the toilet bowl. She started to gag on the taste of blood as she drifted into unconsciousness.
Jeff was so engrossed in his laptop, he hadn't noticed that twenty minutes had passed since Sandra had left to go to the restrooms. As he closed it down it suddenly dawned on him that Sandra hadn't returned. He rang her mobile but, after four rings, it went to voice mail. The couple standing in front of him, obviously from Liverpool by their accents, were quite happy to guard his luggage while he went to look for Sandra.
After a few moments hesitation, he entered the ladies restroom, which appeared to be empty. As he was about to retrace his steps he heard sounds which were a mixture of sobs and moans. He identified the cubicle and banged on the door. Nothing. Calling Sandra's name he went into the next cubicle and, pulling himself up, looked over the partition. The sight of Sandra trying to pull herself up made him cry out in anguish. He jumped down, stepped out and kicked at the door of Sandra's cubicle. It flew open. As he reached for her she seemed to shudder and collapsed back in to a pool of blood which was spreading across the tiled floor. She looked dreadful. He felt panic starting to consume him.
After a minute, or so, Sandra's eyes started to flicker and she tried to lick her lips. He felt completely useless as he stared down in to the eyes of the woman who had come to mean so much to him. He knew that he had to do something because she looked terrible. As carefully as he could manage he pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and stopped. Who did he ring? What was the emergency number? Then he remembered that Barbara had put the Spanish emergency number in his phone, just to show how indispensable she was. Thank God.
He speed dialled the number and was met with silence. No signal. Damn. As he shook the phone and poked at the keys, Sandra started to pull at his sleeve. He stopped what he was doing and caressed her forehead. She was trying to speak but only managing to dribble. As he started to speak to her she shuddered, again, and started to rub at her chest. Finally, the penny dropped and Jeff realised that she was probably having some kind of heart attack. He knew that he would have to leave her and go for help before it was too late.
He bent his head and whispered that he would have to leave her for a few seconds and fetch help because his phone had no signal. She didn't seem to hear him but, as he struggled to get up, she grabbed at his jacket trying to stop him. He whispered that he wouldn't be long and tried, again, to stand. Again she pulled at his jacket and was trying to speak. He wiped her mouth and, between short breaths, she managed to speak. She told him that the pain in her chest was getting worse and she was frightened. Tears welled up and ran down her cheeks. Between shallow breaths she told him that she had been having chest pains, on and off, for the past few weeks but had thought that work pressures were causing them. Jeff told her not to be silly because there was no pressure. She frantically shook her head.
Sandra looked up in to his eyes and cried. Long, deep sobs. She told him that the bank had phoned her just before they had left for Spain. The manager had informed her that he was withdrawing their overdraft facility and that, if funds weren't forthcoming, they would have to cease trading. She hadn't mentioned it because she had placed some of her money in a joint business account to start to sort the problem. She was going to tell him when they got back to Liverpool .The problem, now, was that the manager wanted a meeting because the funds would need to be transferred by the following afternoon. As she tried to continue, she started to shake and then appeared to fall asleep.
Jeff was trying to digest the information when a voice came over the tannoy informing passengers that their flight to Liverpool John Lennon Airport would begin boarding in 30 minutes and passengers should proceed to check-in without delay.
He stood, looked down at Sandra, and left the cubicle closing the door behind him. When he got back to the queue he thanked the couple for minding his luggage, and waited his turn to check-in.
The End
©
Ray Wilcox
All Rights Reserved
2014.
..................................................
7 April 2014
Slip Of The Tongue
Peckham Police Station, in South London, was like a fortress. The ground floor windows had double sets of bars which, combined with the grime of years, made it appear dark and forbidding. The front desk was set at a height which made it possible for an unfortunate 'visitor' to be dragged across the scarred Formica surface and into the arms of a custody sergeant.
Peter Boyd, duty custody sergeant on the evening shift, was regretting his decision not to call in sick. Still suffering from a hangover, his mood deepened when he opened his plastic supper box to find peanut butter sandwiches, which he hated. He knew that he was destined for better things but, at that moment, a banging headache was all that came to mind.
Boyd was trying to concentrate on an article in the Daily Mirror, about internet fraud in Spain, when Andrew Major was dragged in, handcuffed, by two traffic officers. The lead officer, a swarthy 25 year old, was about to remove the handcuffs when Major yawned and vomited over the desk and the officer's trousers and boots.
Major, oblivious to his actions, was knocked off balance when Boyd punched him in the face. Boyd returned to his paper as Major was taken to the interview suite.
The interview room was freezing in spite of an old radiator burbling away under the only window in the room.
Barely controlling his temper, the young officer addressed major.
'You were cautioned by my colleague at the scene of the accident. Is that correct Mr Major?'
Major, slumped in a chair on the other side of the wooden table, nodded, and smiled.
'For the benefit of the tape, I need you to confirm what I have just said, sir.' Major looked up and said that he did.
Aged twenty eight, Major knew that he had it all. He was good looking, worked out three times a week and was never short of a shag. People would laugh when they heard he was an estate agent but the laughter always stopped when he told them about his last year's bonus. Five figures. Nice one. His blue Mercedes SLK 230 was his pride and joy and now some dirty little low life had bounced off the bonnet and cracked the windscreen. He'd ring Direct Line when he got home.
'Please pay attention to what I am about to say, Mr Major'
'Yeah, whatever.'
'Mr Andrew Major, I can now confirm that you have failed the second breathalyser test and you will soon appear in front of the custody sergeant and be charged with driving a motor vehicle whilst being under the influence of alcohol and, more importantly, death by dangerous driving. Do you understand what I have just said, Mr Major?'
'Eh?'
'Do you understand what I have just said, Mr Major?'
'I ain't killed nobody, you cheeky git,' Major answered.
'A four year old boy, whom you struck with your car, was pronounced dead at the scene. Do you wish to comment on what I have just said, Mr Major?'
'Yea, well. The little git shouldn't have run out in front of me. It's not my fault if the parents can't control their brats.' Major was thirsty but started to get into his stride. 'I've used that road a million times on me way home from the pub and never had a problem before. There's too many of them little buggers in this country, anyway, stinking of curry and stuff. I've done you lot a big favour ain't I? One less mugger and drug dealer in a few years, eh mate?'
The officer, Den Patel, struggled to contain the rage which was slowly engulfing him. He so wanted to get up, move round the table and beat the racist, murdering bastard to within an inch of his life. But he knew he wouldn't, couldn't.
'So, Mr Paki Plod, can we get this over and done with because I'm now seriously late for a darts match.'
Patel knew it was too late as he rose from his chair......
The End
©
Ray Wilcox
All Rights Reserved
2014
Slip Of The Tongue
Peckham Police Station, in South London, was like a fortress. The ground floor windows had double sets of bars which, combined with the grime of years, made it appear dark and forbidding. The front desk was set at a height which made it possible for an unfortunate 'visitor' to be dragged across the scarred Formica surface and into the arms of a custody sergeant.
Peter Boyd, duty custody sergeant on the evening shift, was regretting his decision not to call in sick. Still suffering from a hangover, his mood deepened when he opened his plastic supper box to find peanut butter sandwiches, which he hated. He knew that he was destined for better things but, at that moment, a banging headache was all that came to mind.
Boyd was trying to concentrate on an article in the Daily Mirror, about internet fraud in Spain, when Andrew Major was dragged in, handcuffed, by two traffic officers. The lead officer, a swarthy 25 year old, was about to remove the handcuffs when Major yawned and vomited over the desk and the officer's trousers and boots.
Major, oblivious to his actions, was knocked off balance when Boyd punched him in the face. Boyd returned to his paper as Major was taken to the interview suite.
The interview room was freezing in spite of an old radiator burbling away under the only window in the room.
Barely controlling his temper, the young officer addressed major.
'You were cautioned by my colleague at the scene of the accident. Is that correct Mr Major?'
Major, slumped in a chair on the other side of the wooden table, nodded, and smiled.
'For the benefit of the tape, I need you to confirm what I have just said, sir.' Major looked up and said that he did.
Aged twenty eight, Major knew that he had it all. He was good looking, worked out three times a week and was never short of a shag. People would laugh when they heard he was an estate agent but the laughter always stopped when he told them about his last year's bonus. Five figures. Nice one. His blue Mercedes SLK 230 was his pride and joy and now some dirty little low life had bounced off the bonnet and cracked the windscreen. He'd ring Direct Line when he got home.
'Please pay attention to what I am about to say, Mr Major'
'Yeah, whatever.'
'Mr Andrew Major, I can now confirm that you have failed the second breathalyser test and you will soon appear in front of the custody sergeant and be charged with driving a motor vehicle whilst being under the influence of alcohol and, more importantly, death by dangerous driving. Do you understand what I have just said, Mr Major?'
'Eh?'
'Do you understand what I have just said, Mr Major?'
'I ain't killed nobody, you cheeky git,' Major answered.
'A four year old boy, whom you struck with your car, was pronounced dead at the scene. Do you wish to comment on what I have just said, Mr Major?'
'Yea, well. The little git shouldn't have run out in front of me. It's not my fault if the parents can't control their brats.' Major was thirsty but started to get into his stride. 'I've used that road a million times on me way home from the pub and never had a problem before. There's too many of them little buggers in this country, anyway, stinking of curry and stuff. I've done you lot a big favour ain't I? One less mugger and drug dealer in a few years, eh mate?'
The officer, Den Patel, struggled to contain the rage which was slowly engulfing him. He so wanted to get up, move round the table and beat the racist, murdering bastard to within an inch of his life. But he knew he wouldn't, couldn't.
'So, Mr Paki Plod, can we get this over and done with because I'm now seriously late for a darts match.'
Patel knew it was too late as he rose from his chair......
The End
©
Ray Wilcox
All Rights Reserved
2014
Time To Go
Robin Jackson sat in his cell and stared at the wall. It was just after four thirty on a freezing January morning and he was convinced that he didn't have many more days to live.
At 22 years of age, Jackson had been in a gang for as long as he could remember. The other members, all about the same age, had been born within a few hundred yards of each other on a sprawling council estate in Peckham, South London. Peckham was a hard place to grow up in and
Jackson's dad, a vicious thug called Eric, had remarked that people would jump at the sound of a car backfiring but not at the sound of gunfire.
Jackson had rarely been to school and was proud that the only way that he could sign his name was with a red X. He knew that his mates called him 'Robin Bastard', behind his back, but he wasn't sure if they were taking the piss. When he asked his dad all he got was a playful clip around the ear.
Belmarsh Prison, in South London, had welcomed Jackson on a number of previous occasions but never for a crime so serious. Normally, he would have cruised through his jail time, enjoying any extras which would be available to the prisoners who were seen to be untouchable. But not this time. The black gangs had put a price on his head. Jackson was a racist who had murdered a well known Afro Caribbean shopkeeper.
Unable to leave his cell, even to buy items from the main prison canteen, he was dependant on the officers who worked his landing in the Special Segregation Unit. Jackson was the only resident. The main reason was that he had been sentenced to death for the murder of Peter Golding , mini mart owner and father of the Member of Parliament for Peckham, Max Golding. The Golding's had arrived from Jamaica in the Fifties and were well respected in the council estates, blues clubs and pubs of South London.
One officer, in particular, enjoyed winding him up. Carson, a huge black man, was on the Golding payroll and his main duty was to keep Jackson alive until the sentence was carried out. If Jackson avoided the hangman, Carson had orders to kill him.
Jackson would spend the endless hours going over the mini-mart balls up. He'd planned it with care. Only Riley, his closest friend in the gang, had be in on the raid. It wasn't that he didn't trust the others it was solely for economic reasons. Better to split the money two ways than six. It made sense.
So, they chose a Saturday evening when there was a Lottery roll over because the till would be full of cash. They waited until just before closing time. Jackson had a pistol, a Glock knock-off, which the gang members had clubbed together to buy from a well known East London gangster friend of Eric's. The pistol was heavy and shiny. Jackson loved shiny things.
Riley had entered first and, checking that the place was empty apart from old man Golding, had gestured for Jackson to enter. Riley pulled the balaclava down over his face but Jackson didn't bother. Who was going to finger him. It would never happen.
Jackson walked up to the counter and tapped it with the barrel of the pistol. Peter Golding looked up and asked if he wanted directions to the local primary school. Jackson said that if Golding wanted to enjoy living he should cut the sarcasm and empty the till. Just notes, the old man could keep the coins.
Golding stared at him for a long moment, smiled and told him to fuck off out of the place before he took the pistol and taught the boy a lesson.
Jackson felt anger and embarrassment explode in his head and his hands started to shake. He turned to look at Riley. As Riley started to move forward to grab his right arm, Jackson fired and hit Golding just below the left eye. The back of Golding's head exploded in a mash of blood and bone. The old man fell backwards and crashed in to the Walkers Crisps display. Leaning over the counter, Jackson shot Golding in the chest. It was a futile act because the old man was dead before he hit the floor. Jackson started screaming that no black man was going to disrespect him, the fucking nerve of it.
Jackson was starting to froth at the mouth and Riley managed to wrestle the pistol from his grasp. He told him to forget about the money because it didn't matter any more. Back out on the street Jackson started to calm down and they both ran down an alley which led to the back of the row of shops. When they were clear Jackson stopped and burst out laughing. He told Riley that no fucker would ever disrespect him again. No way.
When Jackson got home he was still high and Eric had the sinking feeling that things had not gone according to plan. He sat down and, after cracking open two tins of Special Brew, listened to the story. He'd laughed when he heard that Golding had been the victim because the blacks were slowly taking over and the shooting would certainly give them something to think about.
When he asked how they had disabled the CCTV cameras, he was met with the blank expression he so hated. He bombarded him with more questions and got the same response. He knew, then, that his son was in trouble.
Early, on the following Monday morning, a Metropolitan Police Tactical Firearms Unit entered the house and arrested Jackson . Eric had tried to protect his son and had also been arrested. Both were taken to Peckham Police Station where Jackson was formally charged with the murder of Peter Golding. Eric was charged with assaulting a police officer and released on bail. It would be revealed, during the subsequent trial at the Old Bailey, that best friend Riley had turned Queens evidence for a lighter sentence.
Jackson had sat through the trial only really getting annoyed when Riley's part in the proceedings had been revealed. The jury had found him guilty of murder and Carson told him to remain standing whilst the judge passed sentence. As the judge started to speak, Jackson decided that he'd had enough and tried to jump over the rail. Carson grabbed him and threw him to the floor. The judge stopped speaking until other prison staff had restrained him. He only really started to focus on the judge when he heard the words,
'and you will be taken to a place of execution where, at a date and time to be decided, you will be hung by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul.'
The court was totally silent until Eric started to scream. Jackson didn't know what was going on. He was taken down to the cells and sat in shocked silence until his barrister, Maureen Tap, arrived. The enormity of what had happened finally sank in when she patiently explained that they would appeal the death sentence. When he asked how the judge could sentence him to death, Tap explained that it was an option available since the death penalty, for murder, had been reintroduced 18 months previously in 2011.
Jackson started to cry that he'd had no idea that the death penalty had been reintroduced. Surly his dad would have told him. Dad read the papers and watched the telly so he didn't need to. Tap hid her shock but felt no pity.
The following evening, Eric visited his son in the special unit. Jackson was hysterical, repeatedly asking why he hadn't been told about the reintroduction of the death penalty. Eric stared at him and left the room without uttering a word.
He never came back.
The End
....................................
Ray Wilcox
February 2014
Robin Jackson sat in his cell and stared at the wall. It was just after four thirty on a freezing January morning and he was convinced that he didn't have many more days to live.
At 22 years of age, Jackson had been in a gang for as long as he could remember. The other members, all about the same age, had been born within a few hundred yards of each other on a sprawling council estate in Peckham, South London. Peckham was a hard place to grow up in and
Jackson's dad, a vicious thug called Eric, had remarked that people would jump at the sound of a car backfiring but not at the sound of gunfire.
Jackson had rarely been to school and was proud that the only way that he could sign his name was with a red X. He knew that his mates called him 'Robin Bastard', behind his back, but he wasn't sure if they were taking the piss. When he asked his dad all he got was a playful clip around the ear.
Belmarsh Prison, in South London, had welcomed Jackson on a number of previous occasions but never for a crime so serious. Normally, he would have cruised through his jail time, enjoying any extras which would be available to the prisoners who were seen to be untouchable. But not this time. The black gangs had put a price on his head. Jackson was a racist who had murdered a well known Afro Caribbean shopkeeper.
Unable to leave his cell, even to buy items from the main prison canteen, he was dependant on the officers who worked his landing in the Special Segregation Unit. Jackson was the only resident. The main reason was that he had been sentenced to death for the murder of Peter Golding , mini mart owner and father of the Member of Parliament for Peckham, Max Golding. The Golding's had arrived from Jamaica in the Fifties and were well respected in the council estates, blues clubs and pubs of South London.
One officer, in particular, enjoyed winding him up. Carson, a huge black man, was on the Golding payroll and his main duty was to keep Jackson alive until the sentence was carried out. If Jackson avoided the hangman, Carson had orders to kill him.
Jackson would spend the endless hours going over the mini-mart balls up. He'd planned it with care. Only Riley, his closest friend in the gang, had be in on the raid. It wasn't that he didn't trust the others it was solely for economic reasons. Better to split the money two ways than six. It made sense.
So, they chose a Saturday evening when there was a Lottery roll over because the till would be full of cash. They waited until just before closing time. Jackson had a pistol, a Glock knock-off, which the gang members had clubbed together to buy from a well known East London gangster friend of Eric's. The pistol was heavy and shiny. Jackson loved shiny things.
Riley had entered first and, checking that the place was empty apart from old man Golding, had gestured for Jackson to enter. Riley pulled the balaclava down over his face but Jackson didn't bother. Who was going to finger him. It would never happen.
Jackson walked up to the counter and tapped it with the barrel of the pistol. Peter Golding looked up and asked if he wanted directions to the local primary school. Jackson said that if Golding wanted to enjoy living he should cut the sarcasm and empty the till. Just notes, the old man could keep the coins.
Golding stared at him for a long moment, smiled and told him to fuck off out of the place before he took the pistol and taught the boy a lesson.
Jackson felt anger and embarrassment explode in his head and his hands started to shake. He turned to look at Riley. As Riley started to move forward to grab his right arm, Jackson fired and hit Golding just below the left eye. The back of Golding's head exploded in a mash of blood and bone. The old man fell backwards and crashed in to the Walkers Crisps display. Leaning over the counter, Jackson shot Golding in the chest. It was a futile act because the old man was dead before he hit the floor. Jackson started screaming that no black man was going to disrespect him, the fucking nerve of it.
Jackson was starting to froth at the mouth and Riley managed to wrestle the pistol from his grasp. He told him to forget about the money because it didn't matter any more. Back out on the street Jackson started to calm down and they both ran down an alley which led to the back of the row of shops. When they were clear Jackson stopped and burst out laughing. He told Riley that no fucker would ever disrespect him again. No way.
When Jackson got home he was still high and Eric had the sinking feeling that things had not gone according to plan. He sat down and, after cracking open two tins of Special Brew, listened to the story. He'd laughed when he heard that Golding had been the victim because the blacks were slowly taking over and the shooting would certainly give them something to think about.
When he asked how they had disabled the CCTV cameras, he was met with the blank expression he so hated. He bombarded him with more questions and got the same response. He knew, then, that his son was in trouble.
Early, on the following Monday morning, a Metropolitan Police Tactical Firearms Unit entered the house and arrested Jackson . Eric had tried to protect his son and had also been arrested. Both were taken to Peckham Police Station where Jackson was formally charged with the murder of Peter Golding. Eric was charged with assaulting a police officer and released on bail. It would be revealed, during the subsequent trial at the Old Bailey, that best friend Riley had turned Queens evidence for a lighter sentence.
Jackson had sat through the trial only really getting annoyed when Riley's part in the proceedings had been revealed. The jury had found him guilty of murder and Carson told him to remain standing whilst the judge passed sentence. As the judge started to speak, Jackson decided that he'd had enough and tried to jump over the rail. Carson grabbed him and threw him to the floor. The judge stopped speaking until other prison staff had restrained him. He only really started to focus on the judge when he heard the words,
'and you will be taken to a place of execution where, at a date and time to be decided, you will be hung by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul.'
The court was totally silent until Eric started to scream. Jackson didn't know what was going on. He was taken down to the cells and sat in shocked silence until his barrister, Maureen Tap, arrived. The enormity of what had happened finally sank in when she patiently explained that they would appeal the death sentence. When he asked how the judge could sentence him to death, Tap explained that it was an option available since the death penalty, for murder, had been reintroduced 18 months previously in 2011.
Jackson started to cry that he'd had no idea that the death penalty had been reintroduced. Surly his dad would have told him. Dad read the papers and watched the telly so he didn't need to. Tap hid her shock but felt no pity.
The following evening, Eric visited his son in the special unit. Jackson was hysterical, repeatedly asking why he hadn't been told about the reintroduction of the death penalty. Eric stared at him and left the room without uttering a word.
He never came back.
The End
....................................
Ray Wilcox
February 2014
Shiver
By
Ray Wilcox
My name is Nelson and I work for a government agency which doesn't exist.
We have no office, telephone or email address. We are contacted when 'something really unusual occurs'. How are we contacted? If you know, keep it to yourself. If you don't, well...
I should have moved to my villa in Spain some years ago but, to us, retirement is a concept and not reality. Some say that I don't exist. Wishful thinking? Perhaps. You decide....
Twenty seven months ago, to be precise, a company called La De Da Holdings (honest) purchased a plot of land on the edge of a picturesque village in Northumberland. The company sought, and were granted, planning permission for a cul de sac of five detached houses. Apparently, there was a waiting list of clients with money to burn. Despite their silly name the company were smart and professional in their work practices. They proved their environmentally-friendly credentials during the infrastructure phase and, after 15 months, the ground work was complete. The site was left in a pristine condition to await the individual build specifications for each of the five properties.
I was contacted during the afternoon of Thursday 7 April. A lady, Hilary Close who was walking her dog, noticed that a house had suddenly appeared on plot number five in the cul-de-sac. She was adamant that it had not been there the day before. Apparently, as she walked towards it she had started to feel strange and something, which she couldn't explain, had forced her to stop. As she was taking her mobile from her pocket to ring her neighbour in the village she said that the house had shivered. She was adamant that it had shivered, couldn't explain it any other way. She dropped her mobile and ran the half mile back to the village. Her dog, Jamie, had snarled and appeared to have a small seizure before it recovered and ran after her.
Some hours later the site foreman confirmed that, indeed, no house should have been on the site because the work had not started. He said that he was contracted to visit the site every day, to prevent fly-tipping, and he was adamant that no building of any type had been constructed on the site
My train journey up to Northumberland had been uneventful. I was met at Morpeth station by a police officer and taken to the site. The whole place had been cordoned off with yellow police tape. The police were there in numbers, a superintendent deep in conversation with the MD of
La De Da Holdings. I introduced myself and fended of the usual questions with the vague answers I had refined down the years. The words 'Ministry of Defence' always seemed to calm nerves and satisfy the most curious of inquisitors. After a few minutes I excused myself and went to the mobile command post to speak with Ms Close. She was still shaken but recounted her experience to me in a detailed way. It was time for me to take a look.
The house was, like the rest of the site, immaculate but it didn't look new. The roof slates, flashing and brick work were obviously of high quality but weathered. The door was painted black and the varnish sparkled. There were manicured lawns either side of a stone path. The rear garden also had a lawn as well as two apple trees and a fountain, which was dribbling water as I looked. Keeping a good ten meters away from the house I walked around it. There was nothing to impede my progress other than the feeling that I didn't want to be any closer. I'd experienced the feeling once, many years before and had filed it away in the 'do not revisit' part of my brain.
I kept on walking my self imposed perimeter looking for signs of life. There was none. I gestured to a police dog handler to join me. Within a meter of where I was standing the dog stopped and refused to move. Wouldn't budge. The officer pulled at the lead. The dog growled and sank to the ground. As I turned and started to walk towards the stricken animal the noise behind me began.
A strange, memory jogging noise. I turned and the house actually started to shiver just as Ms Close had described. The windows started to bulge but nothing shattered. The handler lifted the German Shepherd and rapidly retreated back to the police cordon. The noises behind us had stopped and there was a stunned silence amongst the watchers.
Two civilian police photographers approached me, white faced and desperate to talk. They had taken dozens of frames of the handler and me approaching the house and of our retreat. They confirmed that the house had filled their view finders, with us in various positions in front and to the side, but when the frames were checked the house had vanished. They confirmed that the cameras were not faulty. As nightfall descended spotlights were trained on the house. It was there for all to see. Other cameras were used to try to capture the images of the house but without success.
As distant church bells were chiming 11pm, the front door creaked and opened. Lights came on, I heard music. I then noticed a large, rectangular brown rope mat on the step in front of the door. The word 'WELCOME' was etched in black letters. It hadn't been there before. I looked around and everyone was staring at me, their eyes tired and frightened.
I deliberated and decided, a little reluctantly, to go and take a closer look. There was no point in being there if I didn't. The police handlers had taken their dogs back to the vans'.The ground was wet where they had been waiting. The local vicar tried to press a small cross into my left hand. I smiled and politely refused. I suddenly felt chilled and borrowed a great coat from one of the constables. I was nervous but I had discovered many years before that it was the ability to control the nerves which was the key.
I walked forward and the house started to shiver again and made sounds like someone taking deep breaths. I stepped on the 'WELCOME' mat, which immediately vanished. The door remained open but the house was now quiet. As I stepped into the hall I became aware of the smell. Not nasty, somehow comforting, but I couldn't identify it. A door began to open at the end of the hall, on the left side.
I was drawn forward but sensed no danger. I reached the open door and looked into the room. It was empty apart from a high-backed leather armchair facing away from the door. The hairs bristled on my arms. As I concentrated on the back of the chair a figure started to rise and turn. I was rooted to the spot but then a calm came over me.
I recognised the figure.
It was me.
'Welcome home, Nelson'.
The End
...................................................
Bar None
by
Ray Wilcox
I thought I would share these fragments of my life with you, us having just met, so to speak. Rumours can be nasty and hurtful, so take them with a pinch of salt. You'll like me and mine. Welcome.
I go to the Peckham Grove Tavern every evening and I have my own stool in the saloon bar. Ginger, the landlady, accorded me the accolade nearly six years ago after I'd responded to her request for help in removing a couple of persistent trouble makers from the public bar. Drunks, threatening this, that and the other. A quiet word in the collective ears seemed to work. Always Mr Reasonable, me.
I was born at number twenty Peckham Grove and the Tavern is like a second home. I have various business interests in South London, mostly imports and exports, and I go to the gym five times a week. I give to charity and never refuse any reasonable request for help. A real pillar, a mate called me, whatever that means.
A while ago, a drama occurred in the Tavern. Two 'suits' had strayed on to my manor from the East End. The clothes and the accents were a dead give away. Always affable, I welcome visitors from the foreign parts of London, but this was a serious intrusion.
Anyway, I walk into the saloon this particular evening and the suits are at the bar. Pint of Guinness and a pint of Carlsberg. But Guinness, I named them after their choice of drinks, is perched on my stool. My personal bar stool. Carlsberg is leaning on the bar, picking at his nose with his index finger. Gross.
As I stepped forward to allow the door to close behind me, I noticed that Ginger was frantically waving to me from the corner of the bar where the nuts and crisps are stacked. The suits had their backs to me and were laughing. I leaned over the bar and Ginger had eyes like wet marbles,
'I'm so sorry, Arthur, I told them two that the stool was reserved but the blond man told me to shut up and mind my own business. I tried to reason with him but he told me to sod off and pour the drinks or he'd teach me a lesson. Called me an ugly bitch. I didn't know what to do so I tried your mobile but it went straight to voice mail. You don't think I'm an ugly bitch, do you?'
I checked my mobile and, sure enough, a missed call from Ginger. I put my hand on her shoulder, told her everything would be aright and assured her that she wasn't a bitch. She asked if she should call the old bill. I told her not to be so silly and we both laughed.
I turned and walked over to the two men. Guinness, sitting on my stool, was now facing me. Carlsberg was also facing me. I seem to recollect that the conversation went something like this.
'Gentlemen, it would appear there's been a misunderstanding and you've been extremely rude to my friend, the landlady.'
'Who the ...' Guinness grunted.
'My name's Arthur, please don't interrupt until I've finished.' I flashed them a smile. Guinness started to rise from the stool but sank back down as Carlsberg shook his head.
'Now, this is a nice quiet boozer and that's how we like it. Peckham is a solid manor where everyone knows their place in the scheme of things. Did you lose your way at the Blackwall Tunnel?' I ventured, still smiling.
'Who the hell do you think you are, Vinnie Jones?', Guinness said as he started to rise from the stool a second time but sat back down, again, as his mate whispered something in his ear.
I moved closer until I was about a yard away from them. 'I'm trying to be reasonable with you two and it's obviously not working so get off my stool and out of my pub.'
For a couple of seconds they looked at each other and then, with synchronised movements which would have done 'Strictly' proud, they put their right hands in the breast pockets of their jackets and withdrew wallets. I waited until they thrust their warrant cards at me.
'OK, Mr Mouth, I'm Detective Inspector Shane Evanyk and this is Detective Constable John Costigan,' Carlesberg growled, ' We're from Mile End CID and we're here because we want to be, which is none of your damn business. Now, be a good boy and go play in the traffic.'
I took the final two steps forward and chopped Carlsberg across the throat. He didn't see it coming, staggered backwards and sank to his knees. As Guinness was rising from my stool I pushed him backwards. The stool tipped and he hit the back of his head on the bar divide. Carlsberg was in trouble, clutching at his neck.
As Guinness was trying to get up, I chopped him across the throat and followed up with a superb straight left to his face. He went down and lay on his back. I side stepped and focussed my attention on Carlsberg. He was starting to recover so I rabbit punched him to slow him down. To show him that I really meant business, I smashed his pint glass on the edge of the bar and rammed it into the side of his neck. The claret sprayed everywhere. He slipped on the spilt drink and dropped to the floor. Guinness was still on his back so I smashed my stool into his head until he didn't move again.
I gave it a minute to get my breath back. Hard, but not sweaty work. I checked both of them. They were gone, brown bread, dead. Good riddance.
I looked up and Ginger was handing me a bar towel and a plastic bag. I wiped my hands, placed the towel in the bag and handed it back to her. I nodded to Ginger, who smiled. None of the drinkers in the public bar had bothered to see what the commotion was because that's how we are in Peckham, we mind our own business.
I'm telling you this in confidence, of course, because they've never found out who topped the two old bill in the saloon bar of the Peckham Grove Tavern.
You wouldn't grass me up, would you?
The End
by
Ray Wilcox
I thought I would share these fragments of my life with you, us having just met, so to speak. Rumours can be nasty and hurtful, so take them with a pinch of salt. You'll like me and mine. Welcome.
I go to the Peckham Grove Tavern every evening and I have my own stool in the saloon bar. Ginger, the landlady, accorded me the accolade nearly six years ago after I'd responded to her request for help in removing a couple of persistent trouble makers from the public bar. Drunks, threatening this, that and the other. A quiet word in the collective ears seemed to work. Always Mr Reasonable, me.
I was born at number twenty Peckham Grove and the Tavern is like a second home. I have various business interests in South London, mostly imports and exports, and I go to the gym five times a week. I give to charity and never refuse any reasonable request for help. A real pillar, a mate called me, whatever that means.
A while ago, a drama occurred in the Tavern. Two 'suits' had strayed on to my manor from the East End. The clothes and the accents were a dead give away. Always affable, I welcome visitors from the foreign parts of London, but this was a serious intrusion.
Anyway, I walk into the saloon this particular evening and the suits are at the bar. Pint of Guinness and a pint of Carlsberg. But Guinness, I named them after their choice of drinks, is perched on my stool. My personal bar stool. Carlsberg is leaning on the bar, picking at his nose with his index finger. Gross.
As I stepped forward to allow the door to close behind me, I noticed that Ginger was frantically waving to me from the corner of the bar where the nuts and crisps are stacked. The suits had their backs to me and were laughing. I leaned over the bar and Ginger had eyes like wet marbles,
'I'm so sorry, Arthur, I told them two that the stool was reserved but the blond man told me to shut up and mind my own business. I tried to reason with him but he told me to sod off and pour the drinks or he'd teach me a lesson. Called me an ugly bitch. I didn't know what to do so I tried your mobile but it went straight to voice mail. You don't think I'm an ugly bitch, do you?'
I checked my mobile and, sure enough, a missed call from Ginger. I put my hand on her shoulder, told her everything would be aright and assured her that she wasn't a bitch. She asked if she should call the old bill. I told her not to be so silly and we both laughed.
I turned and walked over to the two men. Guinness, sitting on my stool, was now facing me. Carlsberg was also facing me. I seem to recollect that the conversation went something like this.
'Gentlemen, it would appear there's been a misunderstanding and you've been extremely rude to my friend, the landlady.'
'Who the ...' Guinness grunted.
'My name's Arthur, please don't interrupt until I've finished.' I flashed them a smile. Guinness started to rise from the stool but sank back down as Carlsberg shook his head.
'Now, this is a nice quiet boozer and that's how we like it. Peckham is a solid manor where everyone knows their place in the scheme of things. Did you lose your way at the Blackwall Tunnel?' I ventured, still smiling.
'Who the hell do you think you are, Vinnie Jones?', Guinness said as he started to rise from the stool a second time but sat back down, again, as his mate whispered something in his ear.
I moved closer until I was about a yard away from them. 'I'm trying to be reasonable with you two and it's obviously not working so get off my stool and out of my pub.'
For a couple of seconds they looked at each other and then, with synchronised movements which would have done 'Strictly' proud, they put their right hands in the breast pockets of their jackets and withdrew wallets. I waited until they thrust their warrant cards at me.
'OK, Mr Mouth, I'm Detective Inspector Shane Evanyk and this is Detective Constable John Costigan,' Carlesberg growled, ' We're from Mile End CID and we're here because we want to be, which is none of your damn business. Now, be a good boy and go play in the traffic.'
I took the final two steps forward and chopped Carlsberg across the throat. He didn't see it coming, staggered backwards and sank to his knees. As Guinness was rising from my stool I pushed him backwards. The stool tipped and he hit the back of his head on the bar divide. Carlsberg was in trouble, clutching at his neck.
As Guinness was trying to get up, I chopped him across the throat and followed up with a superb straight left to his face. He went down and lay on his back. I side stepped and focussed my attention on Carlsberg. He was starting to recover so I rabbit punched him to slow him down. To show him that I really meant business, I smashed his pint glass on the edge of the bar and rammed it into the side of his neck. The claret sprayed everywhere. He slipped on the spilt drink and dropped to the floor. Guinness was still on his back so I smashed my stool into his head until he didn't move again.
I gave it a minute to get my breath back. Hard, but not sweaty work. I checked both of them. They were gone, brown bread, dead. Good riddance.
I looked up and Ginger was handing me a bar towel and a plastic bag. I wiped my hands, placed the towel in the bag and handed it back to her. I nodded to Ginger, who smiled. None of the drinkers in the public bar had bothered to see what the commotion was because that's how we are in Peckham, we mind our own business.
I'm telling you this in confidence, of course, because they've never found out who topped the two old bill in the saloon bar of the Peckham Grove Tavern.
You wouldn't grass me up, would you?
The End