The Word Cloud

Is it just me or is The Cloud behaving itself these days?

Ever since The Vaporous One humbly recognised our frustrations and intimated that, omni-patient as It is, the situation was, and I’m paraphrasing here, getting right on The Cloud’s tits as well, all seems to be lovely and, unlike most of you, stable. I have to admit that I did feel somewhat bad about my whinge after that, and despite my family motto “non sodomatium non sodomatius”, (not even remotely translated as “never do anything you’ll regret and never regret anything you do”) I did regret posting my drivel.

So a heartfelt apology to The Cloud in general, the administrators in particular and specifically any lurker that buggered off after reading just one, poorly considered, blog.

In light of the note from the powers that be, and the remarkably positive change that has miraculously occured, I would sincerely like to apologise to everyone for my lack of big lottery win. I am as disappointed as everyone reading this and would like you all to know that it is not within my direct power to rectify the situation despite, and I understand this is key to the process, only buying my first “ticket” last week. Just to say I share your frustrations and will be unlikely to contact anyone at Camelot to complain... so as to avoid looking a complete twat.

Re above paragraph; please do not read between the lines, as that way madness lies. The paragraph above should be mentally filed under EzWishes not under EzSarcasm or any possible negative connotation that I was comparing the running of this magnificent site with a lottery. Which I’m not. So don’t think that. And despite re-reading it again and it seems to scream “piss-taking bastard”. Which I’m not. Well, in this case anyway. This time I’m genuine and just being silly with the principle of shortfall recognition and resolution. (This place is bloody hard work sometimes; having to explain yourself to avoid upsetting anyone. Sigh.) All I was hoping was that the magic that fixed The Cloud washes over my bank balance and leaves large pools of high-life-giving glory. Knowing my luck, though, it will probably be deposits of human waste upon human waste; excremental deposits as it were… (See what I did there? No? Incremental/Excremental? No? Suit yourself. Sigh.)

Anyhoo. The point is, and always is, and always will be; one day soon I shall be as rich as Croesus and will then post, from my private yacht moored sedately off my private island nestled seductively in The Maldives, a suitably contrite and heartfelt apology for the situation up until then. I shall also regale you all with the insanely funny tale of my Angelina Jolie indecent proposal and the many wonderful days I subsequently spent in intensive care. Unless she says yes… in which case it will be un-gentlemanly to kiss and tell and certainly not PC to shag and tell. But, I’m presuming she’s going to say “no”, anyway… and, thinking about it, what the hell is an indecent proposal for the likes of Mrs Pitt? I’ll bet she’s got a quid or two so could well be insulted at the offer of a couple of million for five minutes of passion. (I originally wrote “night of passion” but then thought who am I kidding? Even five minutes may well be stretching it a bit; just the thought of that body, naked and in close proximity to my portly six-pack-if-it-were-not-for-the-packaging-(and-cheese-obsession), is almost enough to make me cream...) A couple of million for a thought that I could have for nothing at home were it not for EzBird asking “what are you doing?” or “Shelley? Where’s all the Kleenex gone?” seems a tad high. I wonder if I could haggle? Can you haggle with an indecent proposal? How?

She: “Oh go on then if it’s for a couple million.”

Me: “Ah, damn, forgot... have my other trousers on, so I’ve only got this tenner on me… what are my chances?”

Although... I do understand that the Hollywood ilk are very charity conscious. Maybe I could tempt her with a charitable donation? It’s at this point, disgusting reader, you are on your own and the disturbing path you follow leads to the woods where the bad people walk their dogs (you know who you are). No, I meant, despite the desperate and pathetic subject of this drivel, I wondered if I could offer the charity some money in exchange for a night (read five minutes) of passion with the Jolly Angel? No? No, I don’t think so either. Mind you, if she did say yes, that would be a charitable act in itself I suppose…

Anyway up until then you’ll just have to put up with me sulking and whinging and whining and moaning and groaning and grumping (whatever that is). And apologising afterwards. Just like sex then really…

Ez

Sigh.

Everything is just too sloooooooow today. I feel like I’m in an action shot from the six million dollar man. If I post and repost and post again will you still love me? I’m sure every single one of them will stick but I’m not a patient person and until The Word Cloud responds I just keep stabbing the enter key with my podgy finger of fate. Maybe it’s a Schrodinger’s web site? The post is there until you look for it and then it isn’t; existing in a twilight zone between pan dimensional space-time or maybe stacked twice (exists/does not exist) in the multi-verse and The Word Cloud is a surreal entity with the ability to know which universe you want to see… and then show you the other one.

Or… and I'm going to go out on a limb here suggesting to the powers that be that there may well be two major things killing this wonderful web site; music and location.

Music because it is bandwidth hungry and it also falls foul of many a firewall (it probably doesn’t, I just liked the alliteration.) and whilst I do love to hum along to the wonderful tracks that some of you (note I said “some”; not all, oh dear god not all.) have on here is it not likely that The Word Cloud Server is groaning under the excessive weight of all that extra bitty traffic? Maybe the server isn’t, but my bloody Pc is. Now, I appreciate it is an advanced version of the whizzy little applet that let’s people know what you are listening too, but really, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves, eh?  We are, after all, in the UK (some of us, anyway; but most notably The Cloud itself) and few of us have the bandwidth to keep the text flowing smoothly let alone piggy-backing it on top of “Tainted Love” (you know who you are). And what is next? Video? Really? Who wants to see Ancient Woodland in his string vest and Y-fronts covered in egg yolk (please god let it be egg-yolk) battering away at the keys with a fag hanging out of the corner of his mouth? Ok, so there are some advantages – some fine looking ladies on this site that would get a lot more attention (especially in the string vest… but I digress…) but then what happens to people like me? I’d end up with no-one talking to me except newbies and for just the one, short, one-sided conversation… no thanks. The static picture of me is likely to offend someone already and besides it is interchangeable with The Pitt (who I understand is a free agent now according to the gossip pages which means that The Jolly Angel is likewise open to some smooth EzBanter. I’m in with a chance just so long as she hasn’t already seen the EzPicture of the EzMug over the EzBelly…) and allows me to exercise my multiple personality disorder without being hunted down by Dr Van Helsing and his magic beans.

Location because it is doing some very weird and not wonderful things all on it's own. And, right, because Yahoo Maps is sooo naff in comparison to the Google Maps, especially when looking for my location; The Maldives. No, really, it is! Honest! Look! All the pretty fishies! Look! Oh, ok, so it’s in my head but what the hell do you want? Have you seen Kettering? Have you? Well if you did then you too would disconnect from reality, jump into fantasy and live here in the gorgeous and magical Maldives with me. Well, obviously not with me as you’d see my naughty bits when I was getting undressed and stuff and that would be upsetting for your Husband (or Wife…but what are you doing in my room anyway? I’m not homophobic or anything but really, can you at least please not stare? I know it’s not exactly cold here but… well… um… every penny doesn’t fit the slot and all that, hmmm? And EzBird said it’s what you do with it that counts. That reminds me; rampant rabbit… is that a position?)

Where was I? Oh, yes… location, location, location. Why do we need to know where everyone is anyway? Well, other than a nod to the town in plain text? Let’s face it; if no-one knows precisely where, on a map of the UK, Kettering is, that is so not a hardship. And if they do know where it is then, when “memory scrubbing” becomes a reality, I’m pretty sure there will be many takers just on the basis of a brief, wide-eyed, mouth-open, pass through.

Why do you want to know where I live? Are you stalking me? If not, why not, am I not good enough for you? Hmmm? Or are you waiting for me to go on Holiday so you can break in to my house and tidy up? Trust me, you’ll want to tidy up… no self respecting burglar would be seen dead taking my possessions out of the house; “what’s this? A CRT Tv? What kind of luddite is this guy?! No flat-screen tv? No Sky+ HD? And that PC! I couldn’t sell it for scrap!” etc. etc. etc. I’d be sued by the burglar for injuring his back lugging the bloody tv out the back and over the fence, “in pursuant of his chosen career.”

Soooo… in summary;

Switch these two functions off, Oh Nebulous One, and let the site be dimensionally poorer but chronologically richer... please?

Ez

This is in response to Tony, Jill and myself having recently received more refusals.
When I am sad I take out Snoopy's Guide to the Writing Life and read a few cartoons. Particularly the ones where he receives rejection letters.
Usually they make me smile and keep life in perspective, sometimes they make me more sad.
You will have to picture Snoopy sitting atop his kennel and Peanuts bringing him the letter;
Dear Author, Congratulations!! we have decided to publish your novel.
First printing will be one copy.
If we sell it we will print another.

Next letter.
It's from your publisher.....they printed one copy of your novel.
(They sit down side by side on the grass)
It says they haven't been able to sell it.
They say they are sorry....
Your book is out of print now.

Oh I feel your pain Snoopy.
And from Shelly Lowenkopf, 'Rejection slips are living proof that I send my work forth, that I am being read, that I am casting my lot. They help me define my writing to myself.'
But she still gets them and the sight of them stings and they still rankle.
She has published over 12 books and non fiction.

Louis L'Amour received 350 rejection slips before he made his first sale. Then had two hundred million in print.
Amazing!!! How did he persevere sending out that many or did someone do it for him?
Dr. Seuss, was rejected by 27 publishers and it went on to sell 6 million. Well, that's hardly likely to happen in England but you never know......perhaps we need to do a deal with Royal Mail.......:)

Dear members,

Please be advised that I have recieved a disturbing message from a member named Kellylove - whose profile suggests she is not in fact a writer at all and whose message suggests she is either a scammer or at the least a sad soul, if at 22 she wants to make advances (in very bad English) towards a 52 year old lady. Not nice.
Who has the power to bump unsuitable members off the site? Whoever does should look at this one carefully.

e rose and wound his coverlet round his waist.  Livid, exciting thoughts filled his head and kept him awake all through the night.  Restive, he imagined the world outside - a world of freedom, which he had longed for, freedom of his soul and of his body from the fear and daily angst for what lay ahead of him, his misty future.  He yearned for freedom; freedom from the jeers of the village’s evil ones; freedom from the repression, oppression and unfairness of the village elders; freedom from the heckling and contemptuous glances of his fellows; freedom from the community where he could not assert his right, though he had been born and raised there. Freedom in its total sense was his craving.  His imagination was in flight. 

He was ready to go anywhere, settle anywhere: any village where his freedom would be assured.  Loathsome to him now was anything that had to do with Abule Wasimi, its elders, its youths, its women, its men, even its children.  Anything that stood for Abule Wasimi, even its soil, nauseated him.  He sighed, exhaling a long drawn-in breath. The set time is here at last, he muttered.  He ambled across the mat on which he had laid, mindful enough of not falling over the wooden box, which he had kept close to the mat. Many times in the night, he had sat up and lit the oil-lamp on a big tin by the box.  Twice he had opened the box and upturned its contents, returning them one by one to assure himself he had not forgotten anything that ought to be taken.  He did not want to forget anything, anything that would remind him of the village and compel him to return.  I will never return here, he had vowed each time with supercilious frown on his face.

He drew up the ragged curtain and unlatched the wooden window.  The vicious wind outside took the window from his hand and banged it with a thud against the wall outside, almost removing it from the slackened hinges.  A gale of wind blew against his face. He did not mind.  He held back the window against the wall with force at least to allow him have a passing glimpse of the happenings outside.  The moon had returned behind the mountains and darkness stretched over the land.  Sporadic lightning flashed across the sky, and rumbles that shook the earth followed. In the moments of the flashes, he saw dense, black billows of cloud hover in the atmosphere.  A howling wind rose again and whistled fiercely through the village.  There was tension in the air.  A stampede of goats, sheep and dogs scurrying for safety galvanised the tension.  He knew that a midnight downpour was close, and what’s more, it was still far from dawn. 

He shut the window, blew out the lamp and returned to the mat, lying on his back.  As he gaped at the dark void between him and the criss-cross rafters of the thatched roof, a revolt against Abule Wasimi was building up in him again and he was boiling.  The earlier I get out the better, he mumbled.   He remembered his little farm on the bank of the stream that bordered the village and the forest. What is there to worry about?  Let the elders take that as well, he said with a hiss, rolling over his face.

Not long, the threatening rain began, pouring down in torrents with a gust of angry wind.  He yawned and rubbed his callous face with the back of his hand.  The rain splattered on the grass-roof as though the heavens had been rent apart.  Gradually, he fell into a deep slumber, a rain-induced sleep.  Naturally, his sleep was often profound any time it rained heavily.  

The barking of the dogs and shirrs of the singing birds that tore through the stillness of the dawn eventually woke him up.  As he did in the night, he opened the window and gawped outside.  The moon had announced its late appearance, its light dulled by the sky-blue after-rain-cloud that rolled over its face. 

It was chilly cold.  He felt he did not need a wash.  He dressed up in his short-sleeved dull flowery buba and soro that had many patches at the buttocks.  But the time was inauspicious for his departure, for it was yet too early, even though he did not want too many eyes to see him leave. 

He drew out a stool and sat.  Now, mixed memories of old mama Daodu, his foster-mother, flooded his mind.  He could not help looking toward the room at the other side of the isle that separated the doorless room where he slept and the room where old mama Daodu had spent her last days.  The room, too, had not a door but a ragged calico curtain suspended by a black wooden dowel nailed at both ends to the mud wall.  In her life, old Mama Daodu slept in that room.  Since her death, the room had remained uninhabited. He felt the urge to go into the room. ‘But what is there to take?’ he asked with a shrug.  

Nostalgic reminiscences of his life with the old woman whom he had grown up to know as his mother laced his eyes with tearful abandon. A fresh surge of love rose in his bowel for her.  Never had he realised how much he loved her. How time flies, he thought briefly.  It was now over four moons after her death.  She had been the only reason he had remained in Abule Wasimi.  Her death had removed the only impediment on his way out of the village.

Only one man knew about his leaving, his father’s old friend, the old Asafa whom he addressed as Uncle Asafa.  Asafa was a member of the village’s council of elders.  He alone had stood by him in all his travails and had approved of his leaving the village.

‘Go out, work and return a wealthy man,’ he had admonished him.

‘Return to Abule Wasimi?’ he had asked, grimacing.

‘Sure, you must return to your root, and this village is your root.’

‘No, I shall never return,’ he had vowed.

‘No matter what you become in life, you must not forget your root,’ asserted the elderly one again, a little upset.

‘I do not intend to return,’ he affirmed, unruffled.

‘You must return.  This generation of the elders will not always be there.  You and your like that have fled the village must return to cleanse the village of all filth.’

‘Why should I return to a village that cheated my father’s rights and seized my inheritance, declaring us aliens in the village of our birth?  Never! I shall not return, never return,’ he had stated furiously, snapping his fingers over his head.

‘The injustice of today will be redressed tomorrow,’ argued the elder.

‘By who – the same blind mouths?’ he blared, his eyes dilating.

‘No, by those who know what fairness is all about.’

‘Where were those ones when the gullible elders sold my father’s birthright and took away my land?  Where were they? Or, are they from another village?’

‘They are here, of course.  But be assured, a new breed of elders will emerge, though not immediately, after we have gone.  You are probably one of them.  A breeze of change will blow across the land.’

‘Until then, I shall never return,’ he had intoned with an air of finality, to end a conversation that was rather dragging gradually to a bad end between him and the elderly one.

‘A river that severs itself from its source shall dry up in no time,’ the elderly one added, not relenting.

‘Abule Wasimi is not my source, and they have told me so.’

‘I have told you, a change will come.  The village that once rejected you as its son would return to tell you your father founded it when you have become a man of worth. So, my son, you will return.’

He had stomped out of the elderly one’s hut and never went back to him again until the night that he went to tell him he was leaving. ‘I shall leave tomorrow at dawn,’ he had told him.

‘But you should not leave until I have come.’

‘Come?’

‘Yes, you shouldn’t leave until I have come.  I must be there when you leave the village.’

He had thought of the elderly one’s request as a gesture of love.  He would honour him in return by allowing him to witness his departure from the village.  Now, it was a worry that the elderly man was delaying to come and he was becoming edgy.  ‘What has held him back?’ he soliloquized.  He rose and came out of the hut, standing in the housefront with arms akimbo.  He stared in the direction from where he expected the elderly one to emerge.  It was a footpath, which snaked through several huddles of banana trees.  He paced up and down, rambling listlessly.

An unexpected gentle tap on his right shoulder compelled him to glare back over his left shoulder, frightened.  It was difficult to have a shufti of the fellow who had tapped him.  He swung round.  A tall man in black, stood, smiling profusely at him.  ‘Omo akikanju, ejiogbe leba ona, how are you?’ greeted the man. 

He was rattled and shuddered intensely. ‘Omo Akinkanju, ejiogbe leba Ona,’ old Mama Dawodu once told him was the cognomen his dead father fondly called him.  Who was the strange man who knew him so well and even his pet name?  Certainly, he knew that the man was not uncle Asafa who he had been expecting.  He stood frigid with fear, overwhelmed.  His head was spinning as the man stood still, smiling and staring into his eyes.  Strange enough, he felt a strong pull towards the strange fellow, who, all of a sudden, stopped smiling and drew nearer to him. This made him retrace his steps.

‘No!’ said the man in a lowered voice.

It was as though there was something in the voice that got him transfixed, for he could no longer move and, even now, he felt the strands of his hair stand to an edge frightfully. Without doubt, he knew there was something eerie, something beyond his understanding about the strange fellow.

‘Where is the sword?’ the strange fellow intoned.

‘Which sword?’ he found himself asking in spite of the tingling sensation he felt.

‘Did you ask “which sword?”

‘Yes, which sword?’

‘Don’t you know you are going on a great mission and, without the sword, you will make a shipwreck of it?’

‘Ah!’ was all he said, gobsmacked.

‘Yes, without the sword the journey is perilous.  Didn’t old mama Daodu talk to you about it?’

Now he recalled old mama Daodu once brought out a rusty sword in a weather-beaten sheath with a cracked hilt and said something he could now recollect vaguely.  Now they have taken everything from you but this sword…this sword… I do not know much about it but it is an ancestral sword.  Your father cherished it so much when he was alive.  He went everywhere with it.  I believe it was so precious to him.  So keep it, old Mama Daodu had said.

‘Now, go inside and bring it.  You must take it along with you,’ instructed the strange fellow.

Without asking any question, as though he was under a spell, he went into the late woman’s room.  He heaved up the pallet under which he had seen old mama Daodu return the sword that night.  He picked it and returned to the man outside.

‘This is it,’ he said, ready to give the sword to the strange fellow. 

‘Hold it, I shall talk to you about it later,’ said the strange fellow.

For another moment, the two men stood there, staring at each other. The strange fellow broke the ice.  With his right hand on his chest, he gestured, ‘So, you don’t know me?’

‘I’m afraid, I don’t.’

‘But you recall old mama Daodu, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.  But she is dead now.’

‘I know.’

‘But, who are you?’

‘I shall tell you soon,’ said the strange fellow, beckoning to him to follow as he took a few steps away from the front of the house.

Keeping a safe distance, the strange fellow spoke in a low but shaky voice: ‘I am glad you are leaving the village. This is good.  But your leaving is for a season.  You must return.’

‘I shall not return here,’ he said sternly, almost with an oath.

‘No, one day, you shall return.’

‘Here, they dealt unjustly with my father and took away my inheritance.’

The strange fellow grinned.  ‘So, old Momo Daodu told you the story of your father?’

‘Yes…and the same people took away my inheritance.’

‘I am aware.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes, I am.  For this reason you must return.’

He did not feel the need to argue with the strange fellow, so he kept quiet.

‘Injustice is everywhere, even in the village you are going.  Besides, the travail you will go through in the village you are going will compel you to return.  Injustice is everywhere.  Unfairness is everywhere – all in a measure.’

His puzzled gaze did not shift from the strange fellow.  ‘Travail and unfairness everywhere?  No!’ he said to himself.

‘Did you say no?’

That the man broke into his unspoken word made him tremble.

‘Yes, travail and injustice.  But there, also, you will discover yourself.’

To him, this could not be true.  Only Abule Wasimi stood for unfairness and cheating, and that was why he was fleeing it.

‘But one good thing is that there you will find the sword useful.’

‘Aha.’

‘You must be careful,’ warned the strange fellow in a whisper as though somebody was lurking around, eavesdropping on the conversation.

‘I have heard you.  But, who are you?’ He found himself asking quietly but courageously for the umpteenth time.

‘Don’t be anxious.  But listen carefully.’

He was slightly shaken and did not talk.

‘Yes and this sword in your hand…’

‘What about it?’

Again, the strange fellow chuckled, “I see, you don’t know?’

‘Yes, I don’t know.’

‘You must not lose it.  You must not part with it.’

‘Aha!’

‘Sure, you must not lose it.  You must not part with it.’

Again, he began to feel a strong kindred bond between him and the strange fellow so much that he made to embrace him as one would at a returning long traveller-kin. The strange fellow instantly stretched out his two hands, warning and keeping him at bay.  It seemed the strange one did not want any physical contact.  He was no longer afraid of him.  It was as if he had known him for several seasons.

Again, the tingling sensation returned and his head loomed large. 

‘Beware of money if you got it.  Watch out for deceitful women who throng you just for your money.’

‘Money and women?’

‘Yes, money begets women.’

‘I have heard.’

‘Especially, beware of your neighbour’s wife.’

‘I have heard.’

‘Beware,’ warned the strange fellow. ‘If you happen to lead a people, lead well.  Be honest.  Be fair to all.  Let the people be the first in your thoughts and actions.  Share your burdens with the people.  Share your joy with the people. Respect no persons in matters of justice.  Close your eyes when you judge but open your heart to appreciate. Be ruthless.  Be merciful.  Be honest.  I have warned you.  Also, work hard.  Till your own ground.  The earth will definitely respond to the sweat from your brow, causing the growth of your seeds and their luxuriant yields.  So, delight yourself only in the fruit of your sweat.  Fare you well.  May the Cloud Gatherer have mercy on you and keep your ways safe.’

Now, the day had actually broken but the weather was still cloudy and damp and the wind blew cold, reminding one of the heavy rain of the night.  The banana boughs flailed joyously and the wind swayed slender trees.

‘But the sword,’ he reminded the strange fellow agitatedly.

‘O yes, the sword. Keep it and tell no one all I have told you about it.  One more thing, do not part with it, not even for a moment.  It is more precious than diamond or gold.  It has an ancient value, more priceless than a thousand horses and donkeys.  Everything they have stolen from you is in the sword.  Some time, some day, you shall need it.’ 

‘The use?’

‘Aha, I almost forgot that.  To use it…,’ the strange one paused, then said, ‘look at this...’ his right index finger pointing at the sky.

His expectant eyes on the strange one’s pointed finger.  Just then, the long awaited uncle Asafa emerged from the opposite direction behind a banana groove. The stranger abruptly stopped mid-sentence, his frigid gaze on the approaching old man.  He knew him. 

Uncle Asafa did not instantly notice the stranger and, when he eventually did, he stood still, staring at him, flabbergasted. A wall of silence seemed to stand between them.  The astounded Uncle Asafa was expressionless.  In another moment, the stranger hissed and a whirlwind rose angrily from among the banana clusters.  The wind passed, and the stranger was gone, vanished.  Another heavy wind followed his sudden disappearance.

Horrified, the young man stood flustering like a reed in a gushing stream.  Uncle Asafa, too, was spellbound.  He leant on his walking stick, nodding erratically.  It took the twosome a while recovering from the jolt of the stranger’s mysterious departure.

‘Do you know the man who was talking to you?’ Uncle Asafa breached the panicky lull.

‘I don’t know him…'

‘I see, for how long had he been with you before I came?’

‘For some time.’

‘Aha, doing what?’

‘Just talking to me...’

‘About what?’

The young man was about to say ‘about the sword,’ but recalling the warning of the strange fellow, changed his mind.  Instead, he said, ‘About my journey, and I wondered who told him.’

The old man heaved. ‘He knew you were going away.’

‘But, who was he, and who told him of my journey?’

‘Didn’t he tell you his name all the while?’

‘He didn’t.’

‘But did you ask him?’

‘I did, but he wouldn’t tell me.  He was to tell me when you came, and he disappeared.’

‘I see.’

Uncle Asafa held his head low and nodded slowly a number of times. ‘You don’t know him?’

The young man shook his head for a reply.

‘That was your dead father!’ he said in a lowered voice but assuredly.

‘My father?’ exclaimed the young man.

‘Yes, your father.’

‘Ah!’ The young man yelped and fear seized the sword from his hand.

‘He’s your father,’ repeated Uncle Asafa in a quivered voice.

The young man stood still like a tree stump, dumb and livid with fear. Sweaty beads began to form on his brow.

‘You don’t have to be afraid,’ said the elderly one. ‘It’s like that, my son.  The dead visit the living but only when it is imperative.  At vital moments, they come to warn or advise their loved ones.  At times, if the dead were a victim of gruesome murder, he would come to reveal his killer or avenge his death.’

‘Aha! But they say if one sees the dead, one takes ill at once and dies shortly after, let alone when one talks with the dead.’

‘That is not true, my son, it all depends…’

‘Eeepa! Mo ti ku o, I am dead!’ he exclaimed, shivering.

‘No, you are not dead.  Yes, the dead, in apparition guise visit the living.  Yes, sometimes they do.  It seldom happens though, but when it happens, it’s for real,’ he said again and chuckled. 

Yet the young man still could not get out of his baffled consternation.  He stood, gazing at the face of Uncle Asafa while his head was crammed with weird thoughts.

‘Did he tell you anything outside your journey?’ his uncle wanted to know.

The young man did not utter a word but merely shook his head in response.

‘And the sword that fell from your hand, did he give it to you?’

He shook his head again. ‘Old mama Daodu gave it to me before her death.’

‘You must leave now!  Leave now!  Do not look back!  You must leave now!  From here, I leave for the regent’s place.  Five days from today, he will become the Baale.  But there is only one big log of wood on his path.  Today, this morning, the log shall be removed.  The log would have been removed in the night but for the rain.  To remove the log in the rain was a bad omen.  You are the log of wood...’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you.  For him to reign, as Baale, you must not live.  So, for you to live, you must leave now.    As long as you are alive, and in this village, he remains the regent.  He knows that, and that is why he wants you dead.  So, you must leave now!  But I know that one day, you shall return.’

‘No!  I will never return here!’ he bellowed as though in the shouting was the reinforcement of his will never to return.

Uncle Asafa chuckled, patted him on the back and left.

The warning was too strong for him to ignore and still stay around.  He understood its import:  his life was in danger!   Panic was setting in.  He dashed into the house and carried his box.   

Outside, he saw the sword on the ground.  At first, he was reluctant to pick it.  Then he had a change of mind.  He bent low and picked it, drawing it out from the sheath.  It was rusty and blunt on both edges.  He was curious.  Dread overwhelmed him.  Of what use was it?  At what point in time would it be useful and for what purpose?  He heaved and shrugged.  The sword had become a burden, a lifetime burden.  ‘There is no time to waste!’ a voice sounded in his head.  He sheathed back the sword and slung it across his right shoulder.  He meandered through the banana clusters to link up with the ancient footpath.

As he took the last step out of the village, he cast a backward glance at the old rustic village and his heart seethed with pity.  Why should I run away from my village, a village of my birth, where I first drank the water of life, where I have been raised?  My village!  My home!  Why run away from home?  Am I not a coward for fleeing my homestead because of threats to my life?’ he thought briefly.   In another moment, he shrugged and mumbled, ‘but for the elders’ unfairness and greed, and besides, he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day.  I must flee.’ 

Even then, he realised that his problem with the elders of Abule Wasimi apart, the village had its endemic challenges, which had retarded its improvements among several other villages around.  Abule Wasimi was a village that delighted in eating up its own illustrious sons and daughters.  Its children were adventurous, zealous and hardworking, but no one made it in life while still in the village.  But no sooner had one stepped out of its confines than one became a prince or a princess, a noble and notable.  And there were so many children of the village scattered over the hills, over the plains and over the mountains, in the cities and the villages, even in the hamlets under the sunbeams and the caressing moonlight, doing well in their various endeavours.

However, love for the village sometimes compelled many to return home, but arrived into the cold hands of death and were buried without a memoriam.  And so, many had exiled themselves eternally and taken the identity of accommodating villages and cities.  The young man knew that he, too, would become perhaps, one of them.  He hated this notion.  Why?  Why? Abule Wasimi, why? Why devour your own offspring? Other villages shield their own but you trifled life out of your own.  Why? Give your children the chance to return and build you up and give you a name among other villages.   Little drops of tears fell from his eyes. From then on, he took up a new identity and became a nomadic wanderer and a child of the universe but with a burning desire for greatness. He was obsessed with the dream of his ideal village where he hoped to settle.

Nevertheless, he had hardly left the house when they came for him.  They came with spears, arrows, guns and a set of strong ropes to bind him, but they came too late.  They met an empty house.  They were enraged and set the house aflame.  The elders were angry as well.  He was to be killed.  Being the only surviving son of Akinrogun royal lineage, his death would have meant the extinction of the famous lineage.  The elders of Abule Wasimi saw him a rebellious young man, who had dared them to demand for an explanation on the death of his father and why his inheritance should be shared among them.

‘You let him escape?’ howled the regent, shaking with rage.

‘Aha, you have allowed a deadly snake to escape just with a wound. Sooner or later, it will return when its wound is healed, with deadlier and vengeful venom,’ an elder warned.

'SHOULD'VE LEFT THE BUGGERS UP THE TREES'.

  
 It really was a stupid plan,
 For evolution to create man,
 What was this supposed to achieve?
 Should've left the buggers up the trees.

 But no! you let them down to walk,
 Then later on they start to talk,
 But before that they use thier mind,
 To make daft things of every kind.

 Firstly basics from wood & bone,
 Then knives & spears from wood & stone,
 Then iron came into thier hand,
 And mayhem spread across the land.

 'Coz by then the wheel came out,
In massive armies they roamed about,
Waring & killing they roamed quite free,
Should've left the buggers up the tree.

Then one said,"Let's name one king,
And let him do most anything",
But others said,"That's not right",
So once again they began to fight.

So battles raged on & soon 'wise' ones,
Had made new weapons & called them guns,
Now killing's quicker,spreads like disease,
Should've left the buggers up the trees.

Centuries passed & wars went on,
Then came the 'ape' who made a bomb,
"Now we'll kill hundreds as we please,
Or even thousands if we include disease".

Finally 'apes' made the super bomb,
It destroys the world & everyone,
Evolution said,"Come down ape please,
'Coz soon enough you'll have no trees".

So evolution you're to blame,
For killing,disease,fire & flame,
The world would see none of these,
If you'd left the buggers up the trees.

Murfy.

Pride.

What an awful word. What a painful word. There I was, proud of my competition entry, perfect, contains the necessary content, maintains a descriptive illusion through clever dialogue. Drop humour into the mix and there can be no better entry! No, seriously. I think my work is good. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m self-deprecating in time but from the minute I can find no more fault, be it speling (Sorry… there is just something insanely funny for me about misspelling the word spelling) or grammar or content or – and this is a first (can you imagine the agony for a verbose buffoon such as I? 200 words? 200? I can blow that bugger just describing sunsets… oh, wait… yeah, maybe there is a point there… nope… can’t see it…) – word count, then just crown me now, because nothing is going to top that bugger. Since posting, all that time ago, all those long, long days, my nerves have knotted and rolled my (not-so-inconsiderable) stomach. Every day, I checked. Every day. And as each entry came in; pah! What is that!? Pathetic! Oh, wait. Hold on. No… just read it again. Ooooo, bugger… that’s actually really good. Oh sod it. That’s actually really clever. Ha ha ha ha! Ahhh, I liked that one. What am I saying?! No! Not that one! It’s no-where near as good as mine… is it? No. Nope, definitely not, no. I mean, to be fair, it is good, but it’s not as good as mine is it? Nah.

So, when’s this bloody competition going to close? Aha! A couple of days! Phew. And look! IE is completely stuffed! Ha ha ha ha ha! No-one can enter a new one! Ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ahhhh. Oh for fucks sake. I suppose I’d better tell Harry. Why did I ever start this bloody “honest for a day” malarkey? Although… to be fair… er, not telling anyone the threads bust isn’t exactly dishonest is it? He he he. Heh. Ah. Ugh. Hold on, though… what if Harry doesn’t know it’s buggered? What if he sees my brilliance which is now showing up as belonging to C.W.Dukes. No! Oh dear, no! What if Dukes wins! With my entry! No! Now I don’t feel good about not saying anything. Oh sod it.

He he he he. Harry’s not done anything about the comp thread –so that bottle of bubbly is sooo mine! He he he he! Well, I’ll take a squizz round TWC see if there are any other threads I can monopolise. Oh. Bollocks. A new competition thread? Fuck a duck. Still, doesn’t look too bad. Not many entries. And none of them are as good as mine. Phew.

Last day! Wayhay! Ahhh. I am so excited. I have my acceptance speech all typed out; “I’d like to thank the academy… all those that voted for me… Harry for giving me this opportunity to shine.” Etc. etc. Ha ha ha! It’s going to be soooo funny! What the?! There’s bloody loads on here now! What? What is it with people?! Oh, hello! Caducean Whisks has modified her entry on the broken thread and re=posted it here. Sneaky snaky bugger! Damn it! Why didn’t I think of that? What to do, what to do… can’t move mine too; that would be way too obvious. Bollocks. No. Don’t worry. Sit tight. It’s going to be fine. Fuck me, there are a lot of new entries. Shit. Still. None of them are as good as mine. They just don’t flow as well. ‘Cept that one. And that one. Oh crap, that one’s good as well.

Stobbit! Just pack it in! Nothing to worry about. Mine is still the best. It’s still the funniest.

No winner announced yet. What are they up to, ffs? Come on, how hard can it be to type “And the winner is EzBloke”…? God, I hate waiting.

What?! What the fuck? Caducean Whisks? What? But it’s crap! Seriously, seriously crap! None of it made sense! It was all meaningless drivel!

“Yippee, FREE!” yelled Radical, “Look!  The brown dog jumps over a lazy quick fox!”
“Hooray!” cheered Moth-to-a-flame, chopping off her cliché.  Twinkle twinkled her toes.  “When we’re grown, we’ll conjugate, make babywords, emigrate to foreign lines!  Preposition proposes a tome of our own – it’s soooo crunchingly curdy.”  She dandled her letters, dotting her ”I” with hearts.”

Uh? Dandled? What the fuck is dandled for Christ sake? It’s not even a word! Oh, I’m not having this. I’m going to complain. Uh… best check Google first. Awww tits. It is a word. And I can see what she was doing there too. Fuck it. While I’m at it, best check out conjugate, I know I know the word, I’ve even used it. Might be about time I found out what it meant really… hmm, it means loads of things. “Joined together”… ok, I don’t get it. Ahhhhh! I see “babywords”… very clever. No it isn’t. Stop it. Aha! Emigrate to foreign lines! Ha ha ha I see what she did there. But still. The rest is garbage. Isn’t it…?

Whilst I’m on google…

prep·o·si·tion ¹ (pr p -z sh n) eh? Anyway…

n. Abbr. prep.

A word or phrase placed typically before a substantive and indicating the relation of that substantive to a verb, an adjective, or another substantive, as English at, by, with, from, and in regard to.

 

Eh? n.? Nun? Nunchucks? Nob? I Don’t understand.

 

Abbr.? I always loved Abbr. I especially liked dancing queen on account it so reminded me of my dad at his sixtieth birthday party… Oh, wait! I got it! Abbr! Abbreviation! Ha ha ha ha; see, that’s dictionary humour that is! Awesome. Ahhh.

 

Prep. Hmmm? Prep? Preparatory school?

 

So let me see if I can get this right… a preposition is a Nuns “eighties” dance at a school for young ladies…?

 

Oh, noun. Noun! I get it. Noun. So preposition is a noun! Abbreviated to prep… Really? You sure? No it isn’t. I could abbreviate it to prp. If I wanted.

Right… noun… oh, really... *cough* sorry, did I say noun? I meant, um, substantive... yes... that's the one...

Substantive… adj;

Grammar: Expressing or designating existence; for example, the verb to be.

Or Grammar: Designating a noun or noun equivalent. So how does that work in her piece…?

Oh, wait… n. Grammar: A word or group of words functioning as a noun.

Aha! Now I understand. *cough* Actually, no I don’t…

Noun...
 

Oooo – a palindrome is a word that reads forwards as well as backwards. Well who’d have thought it? Aha! But dressed isn’t a palindrome of desserts is it! Ha! Oh, wait… yes it is. Bugger.

Spoonerisms, yeah, yeah got that…  motivation, urging, blah blah blah… ooo, so that’s what an adverb is… excellently done, methinks… Mixed metaphor, yeah, I can see that… aha! Got it! “icy heat fogging his plastic glass” Terrible! Surely that should be Glasses…? And then an anagram… wow. Rāga man, totally Rāga.

And that won? I must be doing this wrong. How can that have won? Yeah it’s clever but who needs that, eh? Yeah it shows a fundamental grasp of the English language but why does that matter? I mean, it’s not as if it’s that hard… anyone could have thrown that winning entry together. If they really thought about it. I mean, maybe I couldn’t have. Mostly due to the number of words that I didn’t understand and had to look up… but, well… my entry was good. Wasn’t it?

I feel sick. Is my piece really that crap? Couldn’t I just catch one break? Yes, I understand that Whisks has been around for bloody ages and I’ve only just started, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t knock out a manuscript to rival Shakespeare in my first weekend, does it? Oh. It does? But my work is brilliant. It’s fresh. It comes at the whole writing philosophy from a completely new angle. Its rule breaking, which is the sign of genius; the difference between the common man and a genius is that the common man conforms to the rules of the world and a genius changes the world to conform to their own rules. So I must be a literary genius. It’s the only explanation. You wait, when I’m long dead, when they write about me they will say things like “ahead of his time” and “so misunderstood” and “no-one could see he was a genius”. Yeah, ok, maybe not. Maybe that’s pride talking. Maybe, the pain of waiting was in fact the subconscious pain of truth – knowledge that dare not raise its head above the parapet. Maybe… I knew it wasn’t good enough. Maybe, I need to be more honest with myself. From the outset. Then, maybe, it won’t hurt so much when someone else wins.

This is how I felt. Honestly. Uglily. (…?)

I’m not that good. And why? Because I have barely started. Practise will make me perfect. Practise and a lot of help. Some of which is not available on the NHS… some of which is. Some of the help I need is write (he he he see what I did there?) here. It’s good to have ambition. It’s good to be confident in my own abilities. BUT it is more important to not let that confidence-bloom stink of pride.

Ok. Self-pitying misery over. There are two ways forward; wallow (done that, see above blog) or pick yourself up, dust yourself off and get back on the horse. Or you could write a pithy cliché. I chose the latter.

Blow CW a kiss… what’s the word for that sucking-kissy noise? Ha! There’s a word you missed clever clogs; onamatopea. Ha ha ha ha! And I bet you can’t even spell it, either! *cough* Ok, so the word is onomatopoeia, but who’s counting, eh?

Anyway... I can’t wait for the next competition. Well I can, but, in theory, I can’t. In practice, I have to, so therefore I actually can. Amazing what you can get away with in print isn’t it?

So, Harry, you’re up next fella; hit me with it. Let’s see if Whisks can pull the double. Bless Her. (There doesn’t appear to be a means of highlighting words that translates to “through gritted teeth, gritted so hard that they can bite through grit… which is hard…)

So, in summary;
I can be a right twat sometimes and it doesn't look to be stopping any time soon...

Ez

Some days we just feel like letting rip - don't we ? 
Here's an answer to your problem...
 
THE SHAKESPEARE INSULT KIT
Choose a word from Column 1 , match it with a words of your choice
from columns 2 and 3. prefaced with "Thou"  



Column 1                Column 2            Column 3 

artless                base-court          apple-john
bawdy                  bat-fowling          baggage
beslubbering           beef-witted           barnacle
bootless               beetle-headed         bladder
churlish            boil-brained        boar-pig
cockered            clapper-clawed      bugbear
clouted             clay-brained        bum-bailey
craven              common-kissing      canker-blossom
currish             crook-pated         clack-dish
dankish             dismal-dreaming     clotpole
dissembling         dizzy-eyed          coxcomb
droning             doghearted          codpiece
errant              dread-bolted        death-token

fawning             earth-vexing        dewberry
fobbing             elf-skinned         flap-dragon
froward             fat-kidneyed        flax-wench
frothy              fen-sucked          flirt-gill
gleeking            flap-mouthed        foot-licker

goatish             fly-bitten          fustilarian
gorbellied          folly-fallen        giglet
impertinent         fool-born           gudgeon
infectious          full-gorged         haggard
jarring             guts-griping        harpy

loggerheaded        half-faced          hedge-pig
lumpish             hasty-witted        horn-beast
mammering           hedge-born          hugger-mugger
mangled             hell-hated          joithead

mewling             idle-headed         lewdster

paunchy             ill-breeding        lout
pribbling           ill-nurtured        maggot-pie
puking              knotty-pated        malt-worm
puny                milk-livered        mammet
qualling            motley-minded       measle

rank                onion-eyed          minnow
reeky               plume-plucked       miscreant
roguish             pottle-deep         moldwarp
ruttish             pox-marked          mumble-news
saucy               reeling-ripe        nut-hook

spleeny             rough-hewn          pigeon-egg
spongy              rude-growing        pignut
surly               rump-fed            puttock
tottering           shard-borne         pumpion
unmuzzled           sheep-biting        ratsbane

vain                spur-galled         scut
venomed             swag-bellied        skainsmate
villainous          tardy-gaited        strumpet
warped              tickle-brained      varlot
wayward             toad-spotted        vassal

weedy               unchin-snouted      whey-face
yeasty              weather-bitten      wagtail

 

The Write Life: Ok, this is me. Barbara Jane, a woman of the Middle Ages living on the 'South Island', as the locals like to call the sunny Isle of Wight. I life in Ryde, the town with the longest Pier, the longest beach, the longest memories. I say 'the longest memories', as the locals here, the REAL ISLANDERS look in disdain at we 'Overners' ('Oo come over 'ere and buy up all our 'ouses!) with a knowing, superior misty-eyed look as they recount the 'good old days' of this island - before, as I say, we 'Overners' and 'Grockles' came over. I didn't chose this Island. This Island chose me.

That could sound like a highly Writerly (well, I AM a writer!), or pretentious (yup! Guilty of that too!), wanker-ly (I'm this side of that for sure and am a woman who likes myself finally!), or attention-seeking (I do need an agent, that's for sure!), but ultimately it's TRUE. This Island chose me. Ok, how? Well, I'll tell you. Grab a Cafe latte from your Espresso machine, shut your study or office door, dear Writers and Readers, and let me gather you round, as you warm your hands on the crackling fire of my story-telling ...

I was once a fully fledged young Media Professional, working in TV Commercials and Documentaries in that 'boom time' of the 80's, living in Camden and grooving it up in the clubs and pubs of swinging Soho, with Art Directors, Film Producers, Actors, Models, Photographers - you name it - anyone who could dance, dance, dance as 'Chic' so famously urged us all to do! - surrounded by a posse of people, all doing similar. Highly attractive in my mid-twenties and working as Production Manager at a Film Company, the fridges were stacked with champers and fizzy water (for our ever-present hangovers!), and life was a non-stop GROOVE! Young, free, high-earning and single, I lived in a high-rise Council Flat (the Council called it 'Hard to Let' as it was on the seventh floor!) with three other friends - we were ex-Hull University friends all, Media wanabees and high achievers. Parties??! WOOF?!! What Parties did we not have back in that coke-tinged, champagne-sipping era? We danced on rooves, we danced on tables, we danced on the streets ... We were young, talented, child-less and child-like. We ONLY thought of our hair-cuts, all done at 'Sissors' on the King's Road, our latest outfits, put together from the swinging Camden Market, our evening arrangements and of course ... who was shagging who!

Shagging, you ask, as the milk from the Cafe Latte catches slightly at the back of your throat - why 'shagging'? It was the 80's, for Chrisssakes?! An ERA of SHAGGING!!!! CHIC should have followed their hit 'Dance, Dance, Dance!' with 'Shag, Shag, Shag!' as we were FREE and Aids/HIV had not YET hit London Town! Ok, we're getting a bit impatient here, Barbs. You sound like some Media 'Has Been', farmed out to fatten and slowly die on the sunny - but forgotten - Isle of Wight. What the FUCK are you doing there and why did you drop in that irritating tease, 'the Island chose me'?! Patience, Dear Reader and Writers and Agents, who are reading. I come from the 'world' of 'Screenwriting' and have never yet written a 'Blog', so my Script-Shrunken didgits are slipping around a bit too eagerly and indulgently on this keyboard, do DO bear with me, while I tighten my story. AHEM!?!?!

Ok, WHY did THIS Island 'chose' me? I will have to take you out of the drug-dance-drink Frenzy that I was very central to in Central Soho and move you off to the NEXT CHAPTER of this Writer's Life, when I became, very early on, a young Channel 4 Producer at the tender age of twenty seven, when I EMERGED from the EXCESSES of the EIGHTIES into the PURITANICAL PULL of the late Eighties and Nineties, and the Fridges, at all the TV Production Companies started to empty and the budgets started to reign in ... NEXT CHAPTER 'My Naughty Nineties' tomorrow!


CHAPTER TWO - THE NAUGHTY 90's!

It ALL then changed in the very late 80's.  Excess was receding and self control was the new 'mantra' - for our bosses, at least!  The fridges in the TV and Advertising companies slowly emptied out and all they seemed to be buying now (sadly!) was fizzy water.  Every meeting we would have, we would offer our Clients ... WATER.  Water was everywhere, with the lunches, at social get togethers, waist lines were tightening, and the MESSAGE was clear for us Naughty, party-loving, Eighties Chicks and their men in their mid twenty-somethings:  GET STRAIGHT OR SHIP OUT.

And this is JUST what happened to me, dear Reader.   After a year of Production Managing the odd documentary, my befuddled Boss, who was HUGELY fond of me, but HUGELY frustrated too at paying a decent salary to a young woman who wasn't pulling her weight (frustrated WRITER that I was and errant Saleswoman!), decided to pull the plug.  Barbara - you are OUT.  Go and be a Writer, you are talented, he said, in deep torment.  But you must GO now.   That's OUT - OUT of the DOOR! 

As a die-hard and rather spoilt party girl from a privileged background and with a permanet entourage of male admirers - Scarlett O'Hara meets Lindsay Lohan  - running from lunch (all paid) to drinks parties (all free) to Soho nighclubs, Heaven, The Blitz, The French Bar, Madame Jo' Jo's - I was in a state of SHOCK!  I would now have to REALLY WORK at the tender age of 27?!  My (then) boyfriend, a South American champagne and cocaine sniffing Lighting Cameraman, Ronaldo, was there to whisk me away in his red convertible, WHAM playing loudly!  I felt wobbled and upset that I had to leave this 'family' of girls at the Film Company where I word and now go FREELANCE ...................?!?!

But help was at hand for this wanna-be-but-yet-to-be-Writer-who-had-a (forgot to MENTION this!) - well-known-TV-Writer-as-A Dad in the form of TONY, my (now)  husband, who arrived, a shining white knight (well, in reality, an earing pierced, spikey haired young TV Director from Brighton who was hustling in London for bigger and better things) - 'I have a job for you' he cried, as he stared adoringly at me on the wooden settle where I was lounging in the Film Company's Reception.  CHANNEL 4 needed new blood and as a bored/frustrated (remember, I was hacked off with the Soap Commercials I was working on!) young woman with PLENTY of ENERGY, I was a willing BLOOD DONOR!

'Have me!', I cried.  I will follow you, Tony, into the World of Channel 4 Production and enter headfirst into the dark depths of Documentaries (Tony had been offered a job with a Documentary company making TV Progs for the Channel!).  'I am young, female, good looking and willing!'. 

Tony was THRILLED, as he had fallen in love with me on the spot.  Ronaldo, however, was not so pleased, and when Tony and Ronaldo started to vie for my attention, sparks would fly in the most unusual ways.   But MORE on that tomorrow, Good Reader and Potential Agents (who are marvelling at my story-telling ability as they sigh and wince at my prose).  Tomorrow, as I tell more about 'My Naughty Nineties', I will take you on a path of Wheelchair Athletes, Drugs smuggling, Pop Promos and sex in a B&B.  DO  PLEASE follow me in my journey into my past.

Just came across a great book in my office (I thought I'd lost it) 'Anguished English', a collection of genuine (American) mispronounciations, mispellings etc. These were taken from students' essays -  A triangle which has angle of 135 degrees is called an obscene triangle.  The problem with intersexual swimming is that the boys often outstrip the girls.  I expected to enjoy the film but that was before I saw it.   The dog ran across the lawn, emitting whelps all the way.  A virtuoso is a musician with really high morals.  We had a longer holiday than usual this year because the school was closed for altercations.   It is bad manners to break your bread and roll in your soup.  Arabs wear turbines on their heads.  The bowels are a, e, i., o, u, and sometimes w and y.  In 'Great Expectations' Miss Havisham puts herself into conclusion.  In 'The Glass Menagerie' Laura's leg keeps coming between her and other people.  At the end of 'The Awakening' Edna thinks only of herself. Her suicide is selfish because she leaves all who care about her behind.   H20 is hot water and CO2 is cold water.

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