The Word Cloud

The Slingback Soldier

 

I knew I shouldn't have joined up!, but they made it all look so glamorous in the posters. That moustachioed man in uniform,.... it was as if he was pointing right at me,his eye's piercin me soul..... made me feel ever so special... 'Adventure!, Excitement!, and a Uniform'!.....I thought, 'Ooo! Just up my street',.... more like a back alley in Hoxton.

Six weeks basic training at camp, .... 'You could do wiv an 'oliday', she said... me Mum that is... Hilda, lovely woman........ 'You go luv' she said, 'you deserve a break, an anyway I've got your Aunty Enid comin Monday for a couple of days'. So, I went.... I met some lovely fella's on the way down. Big and Strong,...'Real men', as me Dad would say, God rest 'is soul...... Thats as good as it got I'm afraid, from then on it was a nightmare. Up at 5am, I don't usually go to bed till then! After me night's out... well you know what I mean. Greasy fried breakfasts, I usually have a cup of tea and round of toast... does me till lunchtime....Anyway, I knew i'd made a mistake when they gave me the boots,...... 'I can't wear them', I said, ...well, ...what with me bunions and ballerina instep! I could be crippled for life!...' GET UM ON LAD,' he shouted, 'I beg your pardon' I said, 'don't they teach you no manners where you come from'........ 'You see', as I said, 'its me arches',..... 'SHUUUTTT UUUPPPP! YOU SQUIRMIN PISSIN MAM'S BOY!!', ...... very nice, I must say!.... 'GET EM BOOTS ON DOUBLE QUICK!!!!,

I sat on me bunk, which was another bugbare, I can't share a room with all these men, It's usually just me an Mum. We ave a routine see, Radio, Ovaltene, Bed by half past 8, unless I've got a job on, you know.......Anyway, I sat on the bed and put me feet in the boots, swimmin on me they were,..... 'Sergeant' I said, 'Look, they're much too big, play avoc with me bunions', and before I could open me mouth again, he was there, in me face, well, I started to laugh didn't I.........'WHAT'S SO FUNNY YOU LITTLE POOF'!, he said............ 'It's your Tash Serg, ticklin me, reminds me of an, Aquaintance of mine', well,.... he threw me all the way across the dorm,..... nearly broke a nail....' GET YOUR POOFY LITTLE ARSE TO THE STORES AND FIND THE RIGHT SIZE, ...QUICK, MARCH!!!

I knew he'd come round in the end, and he noticed my little arse,...bless him. The next day was hell!.......when we got back to the dorm I couldn't walk, one of the men had to carry me back on his shoulders. Then!, we had to shower...all together....with no clothes on!, no one's ever seen me in me altogether before, except Mum, not even me closest 'aquaintences'.... I won't go into detail,... But... they were all shapes an sizes, I'd never seen such a variety!.

Three weeks into 'Basic' trainin... 'if this is basic'!I thought,... 'I'd hate to be the poor sod's on the advanced course',.... we were given our special training orders..... Thank god I thought,.... I could do with a rest, ..... an what an addition to the concert party I would be, specially with Christmas coming...I'd make a great Dame! Well, I could ave cried!.... Paratrooper!, Para..Bloody..Trooper!, At what point in those first three weeks did I show any skills that would compliment me as a Paratrooper!... I don't even like heights, I get a nose bleed standing in me boots!.

Paratroopin it was then. For the next three weeks I was tossed about, thrown out of aeroplanes and taught... 'how to survive behind enemy lines'. Survive! BEHIND enemy lines!... 'Oh my giddy Aunt', 'this is it then I thought, the end!, ...'MY END'! I quickly scribbled a note to me Mum,

'Hello Mum, just a quick note to let you know I'm avin a wonderful time.... I met lots of new friend, and we go up in a plane five times a day, you should see some of the views. Hope your keep well How's Aunty Enid?, bless her, give her me love won't you. Tarra for now. Love and kisses, your, Nigel.

p.s. Won't be home for Christmas, we're all going on a secret holiday.

I didn't want to worry her or nothin, especially around Christmas.... Sad time you see. It was a Christmas Eve when Dad Passed. I was only 6 years old at the time, and he, God Bless him, thought it would be nice for his little son if Father Christmas Came down the Chimney, Only he'd ad one to many, slipped off the roof, crashed through the coal ole and landed on the Christmas delivery!, ......so I couldn't tell her I was about to be dropped slap bang in the middle of Berlin!... BUT, slap bang in the middle of Berlin I was goin!

It was 7pm and we was all havin a laugh in the mess hall when the Sergeant came in and said..... 'Right you snivelling little toe rags, get your kit, you is on your way to Berlin'!... this was it I thought, I will soon be joinin me poor old Dad! ...I crossed me self... not that I'm Catholic, but they do seem get a better deal when it come to death.

It was a mad dash back to our bunks!... 'now, what will I need to take'?, 'don't wanna be caught short or naffin.....Clean underpant and socks..Check..,'these army issue one's are playing havoc with me erticaria,.... Brush and comb set..Check,...Mirror..Check....'get me with me soldier speak',...Brillcream...Check,.... Slingbacks, well, you never know!... Check'. I was half way out the door when I thought,....'Bleedin Hell! I forgot me boiled sweets!...can't go on a trip without some'in to suck on'! Three hours later, somewhere over Germany the pilot come's over the tannoy,.....

'OK Chaps 3 minutes to drop zone',
Bloody Hell! I thought
'you'd better prepare yourselves for the jump'

He sounds like that man on the BBC, I thought,

'You may recognise my voice... I was with the BBC'

Didn't stop me from a near miss in me combats though.

It was time, ...we all stood up in a line and hooked ourselves up.... I was too nervous and me hand was shaking that much I couldn't get me hook on.... never mind, I'll pull it off meself when I get out. As the line got shorter, me legs got wobblier, until, it was my turn. I looked down out of the doors... it was pitch black, I couldn't see a thing, 'how are we suposed to find where we're going if we can't', ....I felt a push and then the noise of the air whooshin past me at a hundred miles an hour. Bloody hell!!!!!, me chute, me bloody chute!!!....... I knew there was somethin I needed to tell the Sergeant....I forgot me Rifle!...NO! Me chute didn't open... I HAD forgot me rifle, but I wern't bothered about that right now. What was I to do?... then, at that moment of sheer panic, it all clicked in to place, all that time trainin, I knew exactly what to do.... I felt ever so proud.....So I pulled me cord as hard as I could,...several times,....success!, ...out flew me parachute. I didn't ave a clue where I was, and I couldn't see a bloody thing, but i felt wonderful, empowered, all me trainin in those few seconds came back to me. I can just hear me dear old Mum now....'Ooh you are a clever boy', she'd say, pinchin me cheeks and rufflin me hair. I was in a world of me own up there, smiling to me self,. Then! All of a sudden,... I was jerked back somethin rotten.... nearly did meself a damage what with that harness cradlin me privates... and then I looked..... Oh my good god!'.....I was only hanging from a flag pole on the roof of The 3 Riech HQ. Hangin there... like a puppet... waitin for me strings to be pulled..... I was just about to bang me button when......

 

Ooh! Ello! I said,.....(tryin to compose meself and look demure).......

 

Hans: 'Who is der!', ....(he said in a commandin voice., cockin his rifle).

 

Nigel: 'It's me..I'm up here'........ (Oo I felt a right burk).....

 

Hans: ?'Ver',

 

Nigel: 'Up here,.. On the flag pole love',... (well he nearly died of fright when he looked up and saw me stuck up there like a fairy on the top of a Christmas tree).....'

 

Hans: Voss are you doing up zer?'

 

Nigel: 'I was just passin love... thought I'd drop in'....(well... what was I supposed to say!)

 

Hans: 'Get'un zee downen' .....(he said, pointin his rifle at me).

 

Nigel: 'I would' ....'Only i've tried tuggin me button, but it won't come... couldn't give us an hand could you?

 

Hans: 'J'a, of course,... Nien! Englander!, you are a prisoner of war and I must take you to my Commandant!

 

Nigel: 'Oooh, dont be like that'... I've been stuck up here for ages and I swear I've got chaffin round me nethers.

 

Hans: Vait a minute zen,

 

He gripped me button and gave it a good tuggin, and before I knew it, I'd fallen into his big strong arms,...our faces touchin. We stared at each other for what felt like a lifetime. I could see straight in to his soul..... Nice.

 

Nigel: Aint you got beautiful blue eye's

 

Hans: Danka

 

Nigel: And lovely, thick, wavey, blonde hair

 

His nose wrinkled when I said that, must be a bit shy, ...Ooo!... I love a bit of vulnerability in a man.

 

Nigel: What's your name?

 

Hans: Hans.. vait! Stop! You are confusing me!... Zey told us dat in training camp, you English are tricky und vill stop at nassing to confuse us!

 

Here we go I thought...

 

Nigel: Your confused now are you, well I should have known.... Thought it was too good to be true!Me Mother warned me about men like you...givin off signals then twistin em around!

 

Hans: I'm sorry, I didn't mean............

 

Nigel: No! You never do, your sort!

 

I went off in a huff, sat down and took me boots off, corr they was hurtin. All that hangin around had made the blood settle in me feet. I was rubbin me balls when,.......

 

Hans: Here, let me....

 

He came over, lookin all broody and strong, picked up me feet and started to rub..... OH, MY, GOD!!!!!.... I'd never felt anythin like it in the whole of me life.... GOOOOD GOD!!!... I could have stayed there all war.

 

Hans: My farter voss a shoe maker so I know about feet and how you must look after zem. Zees boots,... are not good for your feet....... Zer, all done.

 

Nigel: No don't stop.(I said)

 

But he had finished, as was I,...completely wasted,... no good to man nor beast.

 

Hans: Voss is your name?.......(here we are, I thought.... down to business)

 

Nigel: Pocklinton, err err Nigel.....wait a minute!... your tryin to confuse ME now!..... Private Pocklinton 723865, and thats all your gettin out of me..... you can torture me all you like... I won't say a word!

 

Hans: Torture you? I only vonted o know your name.....

 

Nigel: Oh,...(feelin a bit sheepish)... well then... why didn't you say so.............. Nigel, its Nigel. Pocklinton, Nigel Pocklinton.

 

Hans: Hans Grubber, very nice to meet you..... 'Old Chap'

 

Hahaha, we both fell about laughin, him tryin to do an English accent and me with me melodramatic strop, Hahaha.

 

We must of been there for hours, talking, lookin at the stars,... listnin to the RAF Flyin over head, bombs explodin everywhere, but none of that seemed to matter....

I'd taken me Slingbacks out me bag and put them on, well you need a bit of comfort. Hans thought they were lovely. Midnight Blue with Diamanties tracing the line from me little toe up the outside to the strap. He said he had a pair similar in Gold, with silver and Pearl embroidery and solid silver clasp fastener, His Dad made them for him for his 21^st Birthday. It was lovely...

 

Hans: Vi are you here any vay?

 

Do you know, I'd completely forgot I was on a Mission.

 

Nigel: Oh Yes! I knew I was here for a reason... Hang on a minute, I've got it written down somewhere,..... Thats it!, I'm here to kill a... Mr A Hitler.

 

Then all of a sudden, the mood changed! Gone was the tender, handsome man, replaced by a common 'o' garden German soldier!

 

Hans: UNCLE ADOLF!!!, OH MEIN GOD! VAS IS DA TIME..... SHEIZA,SHEIZA, DAS IS YOUR FAULT ENGLANER!...COMEONZIONNEN! YOU MUST COME VIS ME!

 

Nigel: Oooo! You changed your tune, one minute holdin hands in the moonlight, the next its Do This, Do That... Don't whether I'm comin or goin with you!

 

Hans: NO! You don't understand.....

 

Nigel: I THINK I Dooo!

 

Hans: NO! NO!.... IT IS MY UNCLE!... ADOLF!... He vil be vunderink ver I am!

 

Nigel: UNCLE ADOLF!...

 

Hans: YA, YA! He vil be....... Vait a Minuten!... You are on a mission to KILL mine Uncle Adolf!

 

Nigel: Yesss.... ang on, did you say UNCLE ADOLF... As in Uncle Adolf Hitler?

 

Hans: YA! YA!

 

Nigel: Well, in it a small world.

 

Hans:, Kvik, I must take you too him.

 

Nigel: Oh aint that nice... Introducin me to the family already, YOUR keen aintcha!

 

I gathered me stuff and we went, hand in hand like two starcrossed lovers in the first flushes of young love.

Eight flights of stairs!, nearly broke me neck in these heals. When we reached the basement, the 'Bunker' as Hans called it, amazin what different words we have for the same thing I thought.He told me to wait outside.

 

Hans: Vait here.

 

Nigel: Ooo, I love it when your masterful

 

He knocked on the door and went in. There was a mirror on the wall, so I took advantage and checked meself. Suddenly the door opened and Hans reappeared.

 

Hans: Comeonzeinnen!

 

Nigel: Don't mind if I do Love.

 

I entered the room, and sat there on a Chaise Long in a lovely deep red dressing gown and a beautiful pair of ruby slingbacks, listening to Jazz on his Gramophone was none other than the man himself, ADOLF HITLER!

 

Hans: Uncle, ze Einglander I vos telling you about.

 

Adolf: Comeonzeinnen... sit...Glass of Vine?

 

Nigel: Don't mind if I do Mr H.

 

Adolf: So!, Hans tells me you are here to kill me are you

 

I looked over at Hans.

 

Nigel: Tell Tail Tit!....Well.... yes,... in a way..... It wasn't MY choice, I thought I was going to the Concert Party.... Got the shock of me life when they put me in the Paratroop Regiment.

 

Adolf: And how do you propose to do zis visout a Gun?

 

Nigel: Well, you'd never believe it... I was packin me bag to come here, when the Sarg started is shoutin thing he does, put me right off me concentration, I even forgot me boiled sweets!, lucky though, I remembered um and went back,... can't travel without me sweets,... gives me summin to suck on, takes me mind off things. I'm not good traveller.

 

Adolf: So, you are veaponless.

 

Nigel: All I have is me wit and me charm

 

Adolf: Und a lovely pair of shoes.

 

Nigel: Charmer

 

Adolf: Ya, dat iz a sad misconception of me, I don't understand vy I am portraid as a Tyrant!. Look at me, I like American Jazz, French Vine, YOUR Shakespeare, und I like ladies clothes. I am not ze monster zat i am made out to be, so vy do you vont to kill me?.

 

Nigel: Wellll!,... I feel a bit stupid now,.... Hang on, I do remember the Serg sayin somethin about you wantin to invade Britain, and....... Oh yes, that's it! Me Mum said before I left to join up. 'You make sure you give that Hitler bloke a good seein to!, It was Im that bombed our ouse'!

 

Hans: UNCLE!

 

Adolf: Shutenziuppen Hans! How vos I to know it vos HIS house!

 

Hans: Sorry Uncle.

 

Nigel: Oh don't blame yourself Mr H!... You wer'nt to know.... Aww... don't cry!... Its alright, she's fine...didn't like the old place anyway... been on at the Council for years to get a new house. She's In a Pre-Fab now, lovely little place, she'e got it lookin right homely what with the bits and pieces the neighbours gave her, and the Sally Army have been ever so helpful! They gave her some lovely wallpaper.... Green with little Birds on it, sittin on Figleaves.... So don't you go worryin yourself, happy as Larry she is...... Here, have a Boiled Sweet... Make you feel better.

 

Adolf: Danka, you are very Kind.

 

Nigel: Don't you even mention it Mr H

 

Adolf: Vas Is Das Sveet.... It iz vunderbaa!

 

Nigel: Mint Balls... Uncle joe's Mint Balls, nice aint they?

 

Adolf: Ya!

 

Well I couldn't believe it! There I was Sharing me Uncle Joes with very man I was sent here to knock off! When all of a sudden he started bleedin chokin didn't he. Slappin his chest and barkin like dog. Well I didn't know where to put me self, Hans was running round the room shoutin

 

Hans: 'Uncle Adolf! Sheiza! Uncle Adolf!.

 

So I leapt up and started pummellin him from behind, bangin away like a good'un I was, well I didn't want him dyin with one of me balls in his mouth! All of a sudden, Hans starts goin at it from the front shoutin

 

Hans: 'FUCK ME! FUCK ME!

 

Poor Mr H, He was goin up'n'down like a whore's draws. Then all of a sudden he just keels over... DEAD!....

The Strange...Arse!...Case Of John Tourette!

It was the evening of 24^th of October 1642, the day after the bloody battle at Edgehill. Long into the night I was still attending the wounded from that most horrific of encounters. Working for the Parliamentarians under the tyranical rule of Oliver Cromwell, I found my belief in our Lord God waining. How could someone, in whom we put so much love, trust and faith, someone to whom we Worship?, destroy those He professes to love and be 'thy saviour' of. Brave men with the most horrendous injuries I had ever borne wittness to, limbs blown away, stomachs ripped open like fatted pigs at slaughter, eyes that will never more gaze upon their loved one's, nor wittnes the beauty of a setting sun, neither the perfection that IS Mother Natures splendour. All this, for the greed and control of one tiny nation and the honest folk whom reside therein. Whatever my thoughts, feeling, now was not the time to contemplate mine own place in this sordid war or question the wisdom of others who profess to be doing the 'Lords work', mine was to tend the sick and the wounded.

After fourteen hours of constant blood and guts, amid the stench of death, and the choral voices of the dying, moaning in a symphony of pain and anguish, I was presented with the most intriguing case of my medical career to date. As I staggered to my tent, exhausted, stained with the blood of a hundred men and drentched in sweat, deeply affected by what I had borne wittness to on this day, I heard the cries of the guards patrolling the perimitter.

'Lord av mercy.!.... poor sod!.....how can he still be alive! ......My God!, what was to befall mine eyes? What cruelties of bloody war, GODS WAR, were to present themselves? Nothing surely can surpass this days nightmares!............... I was wrong!............... For two days, this poor wretched soul had wandered the battle field, alone, without comfort or sucker, carrying around this most sickening of injuries, barely alive, almost, The Undead! As he reached me, bloodied, soaked in the rancid concoction of blood from a thousand men and the mud from the battlefield, he fell to his knee's, head bowed as if kneeling at the alter in preyer, preyers I thought would not help him now. I gathered him in my arms and took him to my operating table, his eyes wide as if pleading with me to save his life. My heart sank to depths It had never reach before. What was I to do for this poor soul?.......his injuries were something I had never come across, my medical expertese did not extend to this level of disfigurement,.....'how was I to give this man hope when I myself had lost all hope of ever saving him?.

As I lay him down, his mouth seemed to tremble as if forming words. I lowered my head and positioned my ear to his mouth in the vain hope of hearing perhaps, his last words, words that may, somehow, comfort those he would leave behind. His slow stuttering breath was inaudible. Bathing his lips with water I leant closer, praying to god that I could hear, that I may give him peace in his final moments, peace so that his tormented soul could rest. Once again I took him in my arms, tenderly stroking his face, awaiting the moment his eye's closed for the last time................ 'Hush now'...I whispered, smiling down on him,.....'save your strength', your war is over my friend,.....He mouthed some words that again were inaudible to mine ears,.....' make peace with your god' and sleep now..... My heart sank once more, rage welled up inside me, I raised my eye's to the heavens and cried, 'Why?!...why have you done this?!....... Holding him to my breast, a tear running down my cheek, his eye's open wide, staring as if in fear of the fate that awaits him, coughing, his blood spattering my face.... 'ARSE'!!!!!!!.......... What did this mean?.........'BUM CLAGG'!!!!, He shouted as his body spasammed into.... 'TITS'!!,...life, legs stiffening, arms stretched infront, fists clenched tightly. I carefully placed his head back down on the table, rejuvinated by his strong will to... SHAG!!,... live, I vowed to do all that was in my power to save him!.  Removing his breast plate and losening his....' BALL SLING!!!... blood soaked blouse, I listened to his heart, it was Strong as a....'MAN STAFF!!!'..... oxen!. I felt a surge of....'LOVE MUCK!!!,... joy,... this,.. man,.. to all intents and purposes, dead, had shown unbelievable courage and an even stronger 'COCK!!!'.... will to live, I could not fail him now. 'M..M..MM...MAN CREAM!!!'..... he cried, his body again spasmming into 'MUFF FLEECE'!!!....life. What was this strange affliction?. I started to remove the cannon ball that had lodged itself square in the middle of his forehead. How could one man withstand the impact of an 8oz....'TIT'!!!... granite ball, square in the...'ARSE'!!! .... face!. Withstand it he did, and now, 20 years on, John Tourette, back in the bossom of his family, working the land, lives an almost normal life. Afflicted still by the events of that day and what is now known in medical circles as 'Tourettes Syndrome', the one regret I have was my inabillity to surgically remove the helmet that had embeded its self in Johns head, the helmet that to this day remains in situ and worn with pride.

 

Jack the Ripper,NOT!

I stumbled out of the tiny ram shackled theatre in the bowels of the East End of London, my head spinning, sweat pouring profusely down my forehead. I loosened my cravat gasping for the cold night air. It was no use, my breathing became more and more difficult,………  I had to light my pipe!

Aaahh….Mellow,… Like a breath of fresh air, I imbibed more and more, sucking harder and harder, breathing easier and easier. As I stumbled along aimlessly,amidst the tumbledown grey buildings of this cesspit, peering into the gloom of the now descending mist, half lit in the yellow haze of the gas lamps,… angry,,,, feeling  cheated of my twopence halfpenny entrance fee, paid in good faith! to watch a revue of  ’soundly crafted songs’  from an alleged ‘songbird’!

Suddenly!, from the shadows of a nearby alleyway, a scream!, then the heavy, plodding sound of someone running…..running fast, as if escaping from some hideous crime scene. Momentarily, amid the ever thickening fog and urine yellow gaslight,  I saw the shadowy figure of what seemed to be a man in top hat and tails running as if in fright.

Wait! I said to myself, the words inaudible to the human ear, yet visible by the eruption of warm breath on cold night air. That’s not a man! It’s Jac….Jac….Jaaaaccc!

 It was no good, my breathing seemed to be worsening in the damp night air…….. I lit my pipe again, instantly regaining the ability to breath, the rush of nicotine spinning my head into clarity once again.

 I whispered to myself…… Jacquelynn Le Rapier! the ‘Star’ of the theatre revue I had stumbled out of…… Stop! I screamed….. I would get my twopence Halfpenny if it was the last thing I do. Sto…(cough, cough) I broke down again, my throat stinging…. Stop! Jac…. (cough), JAC…..my voice tailing off, ….. le rapier!

As if in an instant, from every alley, street and Bar!  like a stampeding herd of Penguins,…. a dangerous sight, yet strangely magnificent in standard blue Metropolitan issue uniforms and matching hats…. boots, gleaming, and truncheons like Felice’s standing to attention.

It was only Twopence Halfpenny, but under the circumstances, I needed all the help I could get in apprehending this…….scandalous excuse for a singer,…. cabaret she ain’t!

 As I ran faster and faster, the distance between me and my money shortened with every step, confidence building to a euphoric level, and the comforting sound of the countries finest Police officers running in support, two abreast in a line that seemed never ending , shouting Stop! stop! like a choir of Welsh Miners in hot pursuit….. God I love this City!… 

Finally I was within touching distance of this, this, ‘vocal fiend’ and with one last effort I pounced, only to be outdone by the boys in blue, who in a mass leap, reminiscent of a pack of jackals downing their prey stole my prize.

Great Cheers of delight rang around the streets, much congratulating and back slapping went on…… all this for such a small price!….my heart swelled with pride, a fine job I exclaimed! Jacquelynn Le Rapier was finally apprehended!

From behind me, a deep voice of authority seemed to ring in my ears for an eternity. It was the Sergeant from the Metropolitan Police, East End Division.

In a thick East End accent, that was in some way, comforting, if a little harsh on the vowel sounds, heavy on the consonants and almost no diction whatsoever, …..  He said…

‘Jac-Lynn the Rippaaa?, did oi jus ear you roight Sir! Jac-Lynn the Rippaaa?

‘No Sergeant, I said… Jacquelynn Le Rapier…….. you see Sergeant, there’s a differ….

Na you di’nt,… he said, rudely interrupting,…’you sed Jac…..

‘It doesn’t matter what I said, merely the fact that you have apprehended this…. ‘thing’..

‘But, but,…. he stammered, my confidence draining with every wrongly pronounced syllable.

‘We woz unda de apprehention da we woz ot on de eewls of dat no-torious villain an namba wan wont-ed feind… Jack the Ripper!

Raising my eyebrows skyward I said,…… ‘I do not know, whom, gave you that idea my dear Sergeant’… ‘I was in pursuit of this woman for the return of my Twopence Halfpenny admission fee, cruelly taken from me by wanton deception under the trades discrimination act, for falsely advertising herself as a, and I quote, ‘Singer of Finely Crafted Song’s from Repertoire of Melodic Parisian Love Songs’, Sergeant! I give you…Not Jack The Ripper, but!, Jacquelynn Le Rapier!….. THE BUTCHER OF EAST LONDON  VAUDEVILLE !!!!!!!!!……..

Meanwhile….. Back in Hanbury Street, East End London!

We've just received notice - very late it seems to me! - about an upcoming event in London: the Comedy Writers Festival. If you're interested in writing comedy for film or TV especially, then this seems like a must-see event. Details are on our website here. Or go direct to their website here. Either way, if you enter writersworkshop as a discount code, you'll get some lovely money off. Oh, and I think the more tickets that the organisers sell using that discount code, the more £££ they'll give to Comic Relief.

Meanwhile, preparations for York seem to be going OK. Now what have I forgotten ...?

(NB - If you haven't already, read Part 1 first - it'll make much more sense that way!)

And then we were on the trolley, crashing through double doors like they do in ER. My girlfriend was left beyond the last set of doors after issuing a final warning; “You’ll be fine, as long as you don’t think about getting a boner!”

Suddenly six people were working on me simultaneously. A stab in my hand for the anaesthetic, oxygen mask over my mouth and nose, two doctors taking turns in asking me questions whilst another wired me up to blood pressure and heart monitors.

“Wait!” I shouted. “I need to wee first!”

And that was the last thing I remembered.

When I woke up I felt great. High, even. And inexplicably my bladder was empty. Oh shit. That probably went some way towards explaining the look on the surgeon’s face. At some point during the procedure I must have pissed all over him. “Welcome back,” he said, none too convincingly. I had a brief thought that if there ever was a guy not to urinate on, this was him. The man with the knife. Thank God I was still attached.

An enormous tube snaked out of… well, out of the end of me. It led to a bag full of… well, you can imagine. A recovery nurse followed my gaze to where the bag hung from my gurney.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. We’re going to give you one of these.” She flung a packet into my lap. It contained a kazoo.

“What, I whistle when my bag needs emptying?”

“Ha! No. Here…” With a deft touch she whipped off the bag, opened the packet and attached the kazoo to the end of my tube. The tube from my end, that is. “You use this,” she explained.

Quite how was left to my imagination.

My cock was gigantic. Unbelievable. I wondered if they’d added collagen – either that, or there’d been a cock-up (no pun intended!) and they’d accidentally transplanted the knob off a giraffe. “It’s just fluid absorption,” the nurse informed me. “Don’t worry, it’ll be back to normal soon.”

Ah. Bugger.

As I left she offered me a syringe of clear liquid. “You use this if it gets sore,” she said. “You use it in… that area… you sort of… squeeze it in… put a bit in…”

I had to stop her. She was almost making me embarrassed. “Honestly, you can say it,” I told her. “I’ve just had my penis routed out. A whole operating theatre full of people have had their fingers up there. I’d really rather you told me where to put that stuff.”

“Okay. You squeeze it inside the end of your penis. It’s anaesthetic and lubricant. It’ll help.”

“Thanks. I’m sure it will.”

And it did.

For the next two days even moving was an agony. Going to the toilet was an experience I’m working hard to forget. I had to shuffle around the house legs akimbo, as though I’d lost my horse and had a chapped arse to boot. Climbing our rather narrow staircase was achieved mostly with my arms and teeth. By the time I’d shambled up, and weed, and got back down the stairs, I invariably needed to go again… It was two very long days and sleepless nights before the nurse came to remove my kazoo.

I was in so much pain that the weirdness of the situation didn’t strike me until I’d wrestled my pants down around my ankles. There I lay, naked on my bed, whilst a middle aged woman I’d never met made small talk about the weather as she poked my penis with the end of a biro. “You didn’t have to take all your clothes off,” she said. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me to drop trouser without first shedding my t-shirt. To be honest I was just thinking about the industrial-sized cable that appeared to connect my willy to the musical instrument of choice for football fans everywhere. And about how much it would hurt when it was removed.

Down to business. The nurse was donning a rubber glove. “That’s a massive one,” she observed. And yes, she was talking about the tube.

“Well, I overheard the doctor discussing drill bit sizes before the op,” I told her. “You know that thing they bored the channel tunnel with? I think they borrowed that in the end.”

Nervous laughter followed. It was mine. Because the nurse was doing things with syringes, shooting me regular smiles in an encouraging manner – which could only mean one thing. She was about to inflict a massive amount of pain.

“This might be a little uncomfortable,” she warned.

Why the subterfuge? I mean, I knew it was going to hurt like hell. Sure as shit she knew it. So why the pretence? At least treat me like a man! Even if I am about to squeal like a pig. Honestly, I don’t think she was kidding anyone in the room. Had she said, “Okay, brace yourself, tense your arse cheeks and bite down on this piece of wood, ‘cause this is gonna feel like I’m raping your penis with a red hot poker covered in battery acid…” – well, at least I’d have had some respect for her honesty.

It wasn’t actually that bad.

Though before you breathe that sigh of empathetic relief, please re-read the sentence above; it wasn’t that bad. There was no acid. Just searing, red hot agony from bell-end to bowels as the tube was wrenched into the light of day.

Oh. My. God. Ouch. I swear you’d need a general anaesthetic to get a tube that thick down my neck, let alone up my willy. Thankfully it was now back outside of me, where it belonged. And as a token of her respect for the courage I’d shown, the nurse quite thoughtfully left the tube on my desk. At least I guess that’s why she did it, as I can’t think of any practical use she expected me to put it to. I could probably make 25 good strong straws out of it, but who would I get to drink out of them?

Anyway, back to me. I bled rather substantially and passed out.

And that, as they say, was that. I could walk again almost immediately. The pain subsided, as did (regrettably) my cock. I did consider illustrating the swelling with ‘before’ and ‘after’ style photos but luckily enough Krista hid the camera until I came to my senses.

And the consequence was, I have now regained the ability to pee up a wall. And write my name in the snow. In fact, with my new high-pressure nozzle, I could probably carve my name in plate steel. So if in future you see me running for the loo – get the hell out of my way! I could wee through you, and cut the next five guys behind you in half. Next time I get into a pub brawl I’ll have the rarely observed option of urinating my way out…

(And in the meantime – probably best not to stand next to me at the urinal.)
 
THE END. 

DISCLAIMER! The following could be said to be in bad taste. In fact it’s disgusting. What can I say? That’s just me I’m afraid. I have bad taste in everything except women (I love you Krista!)

Once there was a boy called Tony, who thought he had a very fun game. He used to race around the top of the climbing frame, stepping quickly from bar to steel bar, amazing all who saw him with his daring.

Until one day he slipped. One foot went in front of the bar; one foot went behind it. And all the weight of an eleven year old boy, multiplied by the average acceleration of a small body in free-fall, went crashing down on to his testicles.

The boy thought it was the end.

He screamed and moaned in such horrendous pain that all onlookers vanished instantly. He was left alone to crawl home, bleating his sorrow and cradling his squashed spuds.

Fast forward to the present, and that boy has never been on a climbing frame since. In fact, he can barely remember the reason why he holds them in such dread. What is apparent to him is that his willy no longer functions like that of a normal man. It can’t shoot round corners or anything, but neither can it squirt. It wees in a dribble and is a constant source of frustration for the small boy, now a man (well, kind of).

Yes, it’s me. And I no longer dribble. Because last week a letter arrived that I’ve been waiting for  for a long time: my appointment for Open Cock Surgery.

I had less than three days to psyche myself up. Unfortunately I’d made the mistake of asking a doctor what this operation actually entailed. Bad Idea. Because he actually told me.

Suffice to say it would involve opening my willy as wide as it would go – then a bit wider – and inserting an arc welder. Or what I envision as an arc welder at any rate. Chuckling, the doctor said it was far more like a television camera – with a knife blade on the end. I chose to picture the arc welder. It seemed safer.

As the day arrived, questions bounded into my mind, some of them helpfully placed there by other people. “What if you get an erection during the surgery?” my girlfriend helpfully supplied. “Make sure you ask them,” instructed my mum, who was keenly planning our holiday to Jordan, “ask them how long before you can ride a camel!”

There’s a certain kind of tension which is only to be found in a surgical waiting room. Now imagine sitting in a room with six other guys – all of whom are about to have surgery on their cocks. To say the air was thick with fear would be an understatement on a par with saying the surgeon was unnecessarily cheerful. “All-righty-roo!” He poked his head around the curtain where I was undressing. “We’re gonna have an ittle-bitty look at what’s wrong with you.”

At this juncture I’d like to point out that there is nothing ickle, or bitty, about the area involved. In fact my size was a bit of a concern. “Whew, if we nick that you could bleed to death in seconds!” he said. I think the doc was making a joke. I think.

There was a form to fill out. Choice of anaesthetic? Hm… lots please! If I was placed under local anaesthetic, would I like to be conscious? If so, would I like a ‘tent’ over the operation site or would I like to watch… WATCH? Are you frigging kidding me? They’re going to cut open my penis! That is something no man should ever see. I’d need counselling for the rest of my life if I witnessed it. So… no, thank-you. I’d prefer not to watch you attack my precious, precious sausage with a power tool.

I was moved up this list – being a rare specimen of fitness and health (other than, you know, a block in my cock), they decided to operate on me first. Which was good news, as it meant they weren’t anticipating any problems. I like to hear that when my willy is on the table. But it also meant that my time to mentally prepare myself had just elapsed. I was going in now…

To Be Continued...  (But you don't have to read it. Ugh!) 

'I've won twenty thousand on the lottery!'
That was last April. It was pre-ordained. Praying to Buddha - being a 'good' person worked for my Thai wife, plus interpeting her vivid dreams into the correct numbers...

400 hundred quid bought her a COW. Her brother in law was chosen   - he is a herdsman - to look after it for LIFE - not sell it or anything - just take care. We had the cow ceremony, many cousins attending and wrapping garlands of marigolds around her neck and the cow being blessed by the lady fortune teller.

The blessing worked. Lo and behold a calf appeared last month. He was a gangly thing with legs that seemed to stick out sideways when he ran.  But cute.  

It's Chinese New Year now. Last night many crackers were set off - the noise frightened the calf and he ran away to the woods. The calf's mother bleated all night: we were worried that someone or something would take him away. 

The Cow was let out this morning at dawn. With tears in her eyes, she sniffed out his trail - followed it all the way to where the calf was cowering.  Overjoyed they were reunited.

We're going to have a great celebratory barbecue tonight...

At a time when it seems that 30-minute Radio 4 comedy shows contain barely five minutes of humour, it's a joy to see that the new Ed Reardon series is back from Monday (11.30). Highly recommended. It's about a crusty and embittered writer who may be past his best.  Wonder why I like it so much?
 

As far as the title goes I dont know if the question mark should go inside the closing apostrophe or outside then full stop. I'm a drama queen not a grammar queen, I've waited ages to use that, anyway, just a little blog to hopefully start a thread on the things that irritate, that grate the senses, the pointless things, the idiotic things in life that when observed causes me to think 'is it just me'. Really just a little survey to see if I am the only one that gets annoyed at lifes little trivia. Amongst the main things that melt my head are, Politicians, Bankers, Royal Weddings, really Anything Royal, Taxes, Vegaterians, Smugness, getting old, losing hair in places I want it and growing hair in places I dont, Weight Watchers, People who run a marathon - or a snickers as they are known now, Religion, Wars, Parking Tickets, Traffic Wardens, Racism, finding a toe nail in my Blueberry Muffin, People who let the dogs of the lead in Parks, non smokers........... You get the gist, you might like some of the things I don't. I don't really care, no seriously I don't care, just tell me what gets you foaming at the mouth and if I agree I will put it in Room 101. The first thing to go into Room 101 is the family pet of the one that tells me how the title should be punctuated. Grammar is good but this is an edit free zone, just express yourself. My first offering for Room 101 and as its mine it WILL go in, is that well known High St nuisance, SKATE BOARDERS. Noisy adolescent 28 yr old men who think its cool to scoot up and down the shopping precinct on a plank. Trying to do tricks to impress the Ladies, Paaaaalease!!! Get a job, buy a car, leave your mummy and daddy's house and ask a girl out. It is a well known fact that after losing their virginity all Skate Boarders stop Skate Boarding. It is only after much soul searching that I have decided to put Skate Boarders in Room 101 after all I will miss the spectacular testicular crunching crashes, they do make me laugh, but the nuisance value far outweigh the benefits, I can get my laughs out of other things. So there you have it folks, now it's your chance to banish annoying things forever, but be quick I have a multitude of things that are going in Daydreamer xx NB Please note that any facts or statistics quoted on this blog might just be made up.:)

I’ve come to the conclusion that I must be one of those people who exudes guilt; why else would they stop me almost every time I go through customs?

 

I’m not a bad sort. I do not have a criminal record, don’t do drugs, don’t smuggle contraband, am tolerant of and empathise with all religions, creeds, colours and do not hold radical political beliefs. I don’t even have points on my driving licence! Oh, and I’m married to a judge. Does none of this count for anything?

 

Don’t get me wrong, after 9/11 who wouldn’t agree with tough security measures at airports. However, having observed one woman in Boston Airport totally abandon her luggage to go off and fetch coffee and text her mates for quarter of an hour without so much of a batting of an eyelid by security, I wonder how effective can the other stringent security measures be.

 

When you enter the U.S. you are required to have your fingerprints and photograph taken and a copy of your passport is scanned. (This seems a little odd that as even our own government authorities are not entitled to hold our fingerprints without good reason.)

 

Upon leaving the U.S., having scanned my passport again, the customs official offered my passport back to me, then held on tight to it when I tried to relieve her of it. She stared me out for a good long while before eventually letting it go. I didn't know what to say and chose to say nothing. Was this the wrong thing to do? At the hand luggage scanner, my laptop was scanned, re-scanned then examined even more closely before it was finally returned to me; everyone else’s went through without a hitch, I noticed.

 

When I recovered my named-strapped suitcase at Heathrow, the padlock had been bolt-coppered and a leaflet stuck inside the case along with the severed lock to say that my luggage had been subjected to a ‘random search’. Yes ladies, to my horror someone had rummaged through my smalls without even having the decency of having me present at the time.

 

I ask myself why? All that's different about my laptop is, being a former accountant, I had purchased one with a number keypad attached. All that was different about my luggage was that it contained a couple of bottles from Boots – one containing a multi-vitamin supplement and one containing Evening Primrose Oil, oh and a blister of paracetamol  just in case. What was so threatening about these items? Do they think that I was about to use the number keypad on my laptop, in-flight, to send a numerically coded message to the Evening Primrose to make it spontaneously combust?

 

I tell you, as a fifty year old, hormonally challenged woman currently subject to extreme hot-flushes, the only thing in danger of spontaneously combusting in-flight was me.

 

Why? I feel violated. ‘s not fair! Do I look that dodgy to you?

 

...(On second thoughts, don’t answer that.)