Black Country joke to be articulated in your best brummie:
Aynuk drops in on Ayli. “Oim gonna paper owr frunt rowm. Ow many rowls did yo boy for yorn?” “Oi got foiv.”
Next day Aynuk returns. “Ere, owr Ayli! Oi had a roll left ower!” “So di Oi!”
(This was prompted by the news that B’ham Council’s voice recognition software can’t cope with locals.)
Some years ago I bought Claire Tomalin’s biography of Samuel Pepys (The Unequalled Self) and have enjoyed re-reading it several times since. Ms Tomalin offers all the pleasures of academic study; every source is noted; every reference given its provenance. But she is also a lively story-teller – no dusty tome, this! And Sam was a perfect subject: not a saint but a reluctant sinner, living during England’s most troubled times – the 17thC, the Commonwealth, the Restoration; with politics, war, plague and fire; all played out in the heart of London. The book presents the context for Sam’s often gossipy, irreverent views both as a family man and a successful civil servant coping with the turbulence of his times.
And now I have bought another of Claire Tomalin’s biographies, this time Charles Dickens (A Life), which promises to be equally engrossing. Another subject whose life was spent in critical observation of his species, again centred on the capital during an interesting age.
The last I heard, wee Alex was defecating defecting, but obviously One either didn’t know or is happy if the wee defector still sings his liege lord’s song. Not sure who’s paying the piper here, whoever the Bonnie Lass of Fyvie may be. But maybe it’s all over for defection when the fat man sings with One.
Dexter raved and drooled whenever he had something on his mind. Cleopatra’s, the new eatery on Floyd Avenue was the hottest place in town according to his sources. We’ll hit the place at lunchtime, he said. Parking the car round the bend we headed for the entrance.
“Not today, gents.” our way was blocked by an imposing male, impeccably dressed.
“We have a reservation.” pleaded Dexter. Continue reading “British Psycho”
The pretty young woman dropped her glove on the pavement. As she stooped to collect a young man beat her to it.
“Let me get that for you. It’s bad luck to pick up a glove you’ve dropped.”
He handed her back her glove and received a big beaming smile in return. The woman tilted her head slightly to the side and said. “Thank you.”
The young man was taken aback by the reaction. He was called Keith Stone and his experience with the other sex was limited to a few stolen kisses at school dances. Continue reading “The Flame that never dies”
The neighbours were complaining of the heat. The top floor apartment of the modest Forbes building was owned by Herman P. Herman and he wasn’t answering his door. It was agreed by the other occupants that the caretaker should be called. While they waited, the heat was getting worse.
The caretaker arrived with a spare set of keys. He inserted them in the lock. He did not need to turn them in the slot.
“The door’s not locked.” he said. “It must be locked from the inside. I’m going to call the police.” Continue reading “The mystery of the hot house”
Ratty had returned from the ale house stinking of Hobgoblins. He emptied himself of his denim jacket but kept on his black muscle T-shirt. He had great affection for his T-shirt stained as it was with the bloodied sauces of defeated kebabs. It also doubled as a good night shirt. Plonking his torso down on the settee Ratty readied himself for sleep awaiting his nightly nightmare with relish.
“There’s nothing better than a good nightmare.” he said to himself. “I wonder what devil Beelzebub has put aside for me tonight?” Continue reading “The War Journal: And The Bands Played On”
Holidays are for catching up on reading, among other things.
I took a book of short stories: in fact ‘The Best British Short Stories, 2012,’ edited by Nicholas Royle. Quite how we can have the best short stories of 2012 half way through the year, I’m not quite sure – but this was a fine collection, including my favourite ‘The Heart of Denis Noble’ written by Alison MacLeod, which won the BBC short story award in 2011, (which again raised the question of the title claiming to be the best from 2012) so you may have head it read aloud on the radio. Continue reading “Good reads”
Ralph let out a weak sigh as he missed another easy putt on the green. “I don’t know what’s the matter with my game today.” he said.
Ralph’s friend, Jeff, was his rival at today‘s friendly match play contest. Jeff had an answer.
“You’ve got the yips.”
“The what?” Ralph, although a keen golfer was unfamiliar with this saying.
“The yips, you‘ve got them. I know yips when I see them. You’re yipping all over the place.” yapped Jeff and he proceeded to give a demonstration of yipping using his putter.
“Does the yips hurt?” asked Ralph.
“No, it’s just a spasm you get before you putt. It’s psychological not physical.” muttered Jeff. Continue reading “Horror and more Horror”
Boadicea's Chariot 
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