 
The Trial of Mr Splish Splosh

and Other Bizarro Short Stories

Copyright by Dave Lassut 2018

Published by Wonky Books at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Photograph by Frankie Lassut

The Trial of Mr Splish Splosh

The breeze from the sea blew just 'gently' in his face. It was Saturday, and Marcus Jones was really, really fed up. He'd lost his business and with it his wife, who, when she realised what had happened to Marcus's successful software company (he designed computer games), she upped and left with a man who owned a debt collection company. He could easily maintain the style to which she had become accustomed.

Marcus sighed and lowered his head into his hands; and cried.

The sea breeze continued to blow.

***

A few fishermen stood with their rods, in a line along the tide's edge, about 200 yards from each other. A young boy and his dad tried to get a kite in the air. That made in total, several happy people! And one sat at the top of pebbled beach the on the grassy bank, who was ready to top himself. Low vibration despair thoughts went through his head; they sounded like this: 'why me?!', 'that bitch!' 'That bastard!' 'What am I going to do now? I've lost everything!' 'God, you bastard! What did I ever do wrong to anybody to deserve this?!' 'My life's over!'

The man felt like some revenge, which lay there like icing on top of the hatred; not just for his ex who had left him; but for the cruel world in general. God didn't reply to such a request of course ... or did She? God always replies, without fail.

***

Some minutes passed ( a tiny, tiny, tiny x 1000000000+ fraction of eternity). Then suddenly! Marcus lifted his head from his hands so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash. An idea had whizzed into his mind so lightning fast he heard the whoosh! It was like getting hit in the face by a baseball bat, minus the pain of course. It was that powerful and intoxicating a notion that the fishermen and the kite flyer and everything else faded into obscurity and the idea took a bright visual priority. The sea just carried on innocently going 'splish splosh', and all the sea creatures everywhere carried on as normal. As it, and they, always had.

***

"Say all that again would you please" asked the bemused looking lawyer the next Monday morning. Marcus had marched into the office looking so excited; the lawyer had decided to see him without an appointment. And Marcus said...

"I have come to believe, for my own convenience, that all mankind is descended from Adam and Eve, and whether that means we're all here because of obvious incest as 'clearly' hinted at in the Bible, well, that's neither here nor there as far as my claim goes. The sea is water, and water is made, like everything else, from energy, and that energy is a Divine creation, as God created the earth and then the two people (well, so it says in the Bible; so, it 'must' be true).

Now, as God created the ocean and God knows everything that's ever happened, is happening, and is going to happen, which obviously includes everyone who has ever drowned. That was therefore pre-meditated murder, and, as everyone who drowned is related to me ... 'patent copyright applied for'... no one else can sue. Therefore, I'm suing the sea for all the treasure from its floor, with the extra demand that the sea, because of its terrible crimes... be jailed for life! This will clear all the seawater away, so that then I can go and pick up 'MY' treasure".

"Would life mean 'life' for the sea in this case Mr Jones?"

"Absolutely it would, or as long as it took me to pick all the treasure up; around about 30 years I reckon. Which is a 'life sentence times ten' anyway as far as the law is concerned. It would also mean life for all the sea creatures".

"Why would that be Mr Jones?"

"Why sir? Aiding and abetting of course".

"Aiding and abetting?"

"Yes. The sea kills, and then the creatures eat the bodies. It's hiding the evidence isn't it?"

"What about those who are washed up? Or found floating?"

"Their deaths are put down to drowning of course, but no one gets punished. Well, that doesn't satisfy the addictive craving of the masses. My lawsuit will sell newspapers and give the public what they want; someone to 'hate'. It helps them to get rid of their anger and stresses, and gives them something to rant about in the pub; make a change from the weather and the government don't you think?"

"I do yes. So, I'm going to offer my services to you Mr Jones. So, you want to take the sea to Crown Court and accuse it of murder? And you're also going to sue it for all the treasure which actually belonged to your relatives as proved by the Bible? Do I understand correctly Mr Jones?"

***

The lawyer did understand correctly. She also understood that Marcus had a patent pending copyright on the idea that everyone was his relative, as they must be if the whole game was started with 'the' two, and no one else's. That actually supported the general religious and government belief and wish that everyone else, apart from Marcus Jones of course were 'separate' entities, which worked perfectly in a hate, 'divide, and rule' system of society. In fact, Marcus too was separate in that respect, but, 'he' was legally related to 'everyone' and his family tree was phenomenally huge, compared to everyone else's 'bush' that is. Marcus was going to be vomitingly rich because of his new intellectual property. Everyone else of course were related to their families which were traceable 'so far' back, except that they were related to Adam and Eve in sin only, not blood, and were so required to feel very bad about being born 'bad'.

Everyone in a human guise, except Marcus of course, was stained. He could prove that he would never have picked the apple and certainly not bitten it as he was allergic to them; his doctor backed this fact. He also said, that if he had of been there, he would have grassed them up. Ordinary humans? Their very souls were polluted, but they couldn't Google the Adam and Eve 'blood' proof on their family trees.

***

How do you take the sea and all sea life which eats dead human evidence, and all other sea life which depend on other members of the sea life community which depend on each other i.e. the food chain, to Crown Court? To answer on several million (at least) cases of murder? And what about hiding the bodies internally? And possession of stolen treasure, with special emphasis on the Titanic, and especially that film about the two people who went on a diving trip and were left behind by the boat and got eaten by aiding and abetting shark criminals? In fact, if the sharks ate them before they drowned, and the sharks could be identified, they would get life for premeditated murder anyway ... that's the Law!

Diminished responsibility would not be taken onto consideration as sharks cannot be sectioned in a mental health unit (unless they had a swimming pool no one used?). Commoner class sharks were NOT above the law of humans, and if they couldn't be traced, two, or three, or four, or however many necessary to prove beyond reasonable doubt a multi-shark feeding frenzy had taken place illegally. They would be taken in and questioned.

'Be warned shark, anything you say may be taken down ... etc.

It was decided that the sea would be put in the dock in a seven foot by four-foot glass case, which would have iron bars in the glass to prevent any wet escape attempts. The cage would be put on uneven rollers to make waves, in order to give it soul and not make it appear stagnant and lifeless.

It would be known as Mr Splish Splosh, as Mr Splish Splosh is almost light hearted while Mr Sea was too close to 'Mysticism' or 'Mystery', and therefore not real and therefore science proved 'mumbo jumbo' as anything that couldn't be seen did not really, exist which is in fact Law.

If you the reader would like to check this out. The church and science have been divided for a couple of hundred of years now over the soul and the body. Science 'owns' the body and cannot accept anything non-physical as it cannot be measured, and the church owns the soul and the mind, neither of which incidentally cannot be measured either, only the mind can be 'controlled'. Science has more chance of measuring what can't be measured, but it is blind and set in its ways anyway. Psychics work on the unseen (by a physical eye that is) but have to now display their work as 'entertainment only', which I think is fabulous. But they just get 'mad'.

I believe that religion is for comedy entertainment only too, and that that should be written on Bibles ... that would be a great law!

***

The sea, or Mr Splish Splosh, or, a representative part of Mr Splish Splosh was put in a glass aquarium (aquari-cell) with iron bars embedded into the glass so it couldn't escape and harm anyone in a drowning sort of way, or make them wet and uncomfortable, in the courtroom, or beyond. Nevertheless, Health and Safety demanded that lifebelts be hung in the courtroom, and a lifeboat be placed in front of the judge; just in case.

The case began, in a flurry of publicity.

Every time the prosecution asked a question, the caged sea went 'splish splosh splish splosh, with the occasional gurgle'. This gave it no chance, as there was no interpreter who could translate the language of Mr Splish Splosh. If there had of been an interpreter, they would have got the secret of all creation, including human's creative lives, off Mr Splish Splosh, which is???

The path of least resistance, which means, everything water does is 'effortless', but everything humans do requires stress and coronary creating ... 'hard work'; humans have to fight for it, sometimes to warring levels; grrrrrrrr! In other words, Mr Splish Splosh is great at teaching the Law of Attraction, yet few listen to the Splish Splosh (or even the occasional gurgle).

The Defence? There was no defence, for who could defend against the huge sin committed by Adam and Eve which rendered the human race bad and destined for Hell. Except for Marcus Jones of course, because he was allergic to apples and a direct descendent of Adam and Eve and he would have grassed on them, clearing him of the crime of Original Sin. This was also looked upon from the perspective that everyone who ever drowned was bad and deserving and went to Hell for some eternal strife, but, the law said that 'some' of them were guilty according to 'the law', and the influence of Adam and Eve, when getting mixed with the law could add influence and ruin the whole pathetic game and stop them being locked up if the right defence lawyer appeared. And as a result, Adam and Eve were ordered to stay in the church building and not enter the courthouses, except in the sidelines, in the case of Mr Marcus Jones versus Mr Splish Splosh (with the occasional gurgle). I hope you followed that, because I didn't.

The arguments went on and got boring, and the wooden seats got hard on bums. However, after three years, the jury were sent out, and debated for six months, and then came out with a verdict. Mr Splish Splosh was found guilty of multiple counts of premeditated murder, with special emphasis on the Titanic, where Splish Splosh had 'currently' deliberately placed icebergs in the path of the ship, and then deliberately froze everyone to death (that was a lie, but Mr Splish Splosh couldn't argue). Military cases were also taken into account, for drowning our protectors after they had had their ships blown up by missiles fired by the enemy who bought them off our government. But that's business and that's war (at the end of the day, just after we don't know we're born).The Indianapolis which was sunk on July 30th, 1945 saw 500 American servicemen eaten by sharks. The guilty sharks are now being hunted and will be dealt with in the same manner as Mr Splish Splosh. It was seen as a waste of time hunting them if Mr Splish Splosh (with the occasional gurgle) was to be put in jail, as the sharks would be easy to catch then; but, the law is the law.

It was a double whammy for Marcus. He became owner of all of his relatives' treasure on the Mr Splish Splosh's floor, and, what's more, Mr Splish Splosh was jailed for life, in solitary confinement for its despicable and horrendous crimes. It was to be locked up (in Sand(!) Quentin?) for life! 25 years, with an appeal after 10 if its behaviour was impeccable and it didn't wet anyone in spite.

The Sentence.

This was a difficult one. Where to lock up Mr Splish Splosh (with the occasional gurgle)?

Build a massive wall around all the oceans, with doors so that family could visit? Who were family? Everyone? So, why build a wall? (because the law is right!) But, wait a minute ... solitary confinement wasn't it? No visitors! And, wait a minute, we're not all family, we're separate entities (or at least we think we are, but that's just clever design) and only Marcus was entitled!

Ok cool. Marcus can go to see Mr Splish Splosh, but, what if Mr Splish Splosh didn't want to see Marcus? Would you?

NO!

Solitary confinement it was, for such a dangerous and remorseless criminal. Splish Splosh had shown NO signs of remorse, and the public loathed 'him'? The world found it hard to believe that water could be so cold and cruel! Splish Splosh would get everything it deserved! It made the 'death-worthy' crime of naming a cute teddy bear Mohammed seem like something an innocent child would do.

It was decided by government, who jumped in on the act, to build many, many massive space rockets, and send the sea into orbit, in huge glass iron barred aqua-cells; the public would pay by a water tax (or a huge increase in water rates). In the meantime, because the elite government wanted the working class either suppressed or killed (Credit Crunch and Swine flu had failed by this time and they had to lock themselves away to avoid public slappings ... the Google equivalent of the the French Revolution). And so, while the rockets were built to hold the aqua-cells, certain sections of society were told that it was against the law to drink, as that was supporting a criminal by 'bodily' hiding incriminating evidence held in molecules of shark and crab shit which could be anywhere. Also, it could hold bits of people murdered by drowning. The people who were hit by this were scared to drink water in case they fell victim to the law, and as a last-ditch attempt, tried to say that the water came from lakes and rivers. They were counteracted by a top government lawyer who brought up sub section one subby subby glubby dubbydoo daa section 3 paragraph 20 of sub section 7, which said, evaporation was random, and so, their argument was made totally invalid, which was laughable really (but only to Oxford and Cambridge grads and similarly clever insane people who liked to ridicule lesser beings).

Millions died of dehydration, which they preferred instead of jail and bread and holy water (which was ok) ... that's the power of fear.

In the end, from far out in outer space, the earth looked very much like Saturn, except the rings around the earth were constructed of large barred glass tanks of Mr Splish Splosh, together with dead sea life. The rings glittered beautifully on the Sun, and the whole thing looked like a posh, richly spectrumed Pink Floyd album cover.

***

If you are reading this from another planet millions of years from now (you never know), or just a few years from now and you were a baby when your folks left with you, remember this. I don't know if you can see the dark lifeless planet with glittery rainbow rings round it from where you are, with the technology you have? But know this. It was once beautiful. It was blue and green, and it had the most amazing wispy things covering part of its surface. They were called clouds, and they were made from a splendidly gorgeous thing called water vapour. This came from things like rivers lakes and seas; all names for collections of water molecules. You could sail on them, swim in them and drink them (you were made of the same thing!) Water made you 'feel good', which was your only wish ...

What am I going on about?! If you can read this, you know, because the chances are your ancestors, or present parents (?) came from there, and you yourself are made of water. So, you must be looking from a planet with water?

The man who enabled you to be where you are now was called Marcus, but he was simply the trigger that signalled the beginning of the end for the human species via war over greed and power etc, which didn't last long, because everything died due to the lack of water which was now orbiting the planet. We tried to get it back, but the law said NO!

Why is the water in space?

Well, you see ...

There was lots of yummy treasure on the sea bed, and even though Marcus claimed it by copyright and had the sea emptied so he could get to the booty, others thought they would too, and that's when the fighting started, over coloured clear stones and metal etc. If you ever get to visit the dry earth and you find a skeleton with its arm around a treasure chest; that's likely him. He died of thirst ... a thirst which he created himself, and with a little help from his contemporaries.

Wherever you are and 'whatever' you are now?

Love to you (please don't make the same mistakes we did).

x

Did you spot the all-important economy boosters?

The building of the solitary holding tanks tanks (jobs).

'I'm with Marcus' T shirts.

'Mr Splish Splosh is a stinkin murderer!' T shirts.

'I hate Mr Splish Splosh' T shirts.

FKCU Mr Splish Splosh T shirts.

Mr Splish Splosh is a murdering CNUT, T shirts.

Rocket building (supported several different industries)

Newspapers

TV News

Marcus dolls

Mr Splish Splosh transparent money boxes etc...

Sealed bottles of Mr Splish Splosh (limited edition collector's items)

Seascape paintings and photographs.

Redundant boats and ships, to be converted into bars and clubs.

At least the earth died with a strong economy!

### Advertising Feature

### Things you can't do without.

You'll wonder how you've managed without them!

Things 'FOR SALE'.

In our fantastic

Summer Sale!

The Garden microwave oven!

£5,000 (it would be cheap at twice the price)

The oven is twenty feet by fifteen feet. Ok, it isn't a microwave, 'it's better!' This one was nicked from the Nuclear plant, Sellafield. It was covered with canvas and when the cops on the gate asked what it was, they were told 'a caravan. It was covered because it was a surprise pressy for someone. It had been kept at Sellafield because it was the only place available. The police looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and said "ok, pass!" It is now in a worker's back garden because he's having a barbie this weekend. It works like this:

No piddly sausages with the Sellafield 'Gammawave' (ha' ha! Fooled them!) Oven, this is for the big barbie! There is a window which is like an aquarium in Birmingham Sea Life Centre. In fact, it is an aquarium. It is filled with a liquid called Zinc Bromide which cuts the radiation down for those inside it. Yes! The Sellafield Gammawave Oven is the only one on the market which the owner gets inside!

Outside, behind the lead flap which is above the Zinc Bromide filled aquarium (with a large crack in the glass), are two spent Uranium rods from one of the reactors. Inside, there is a handle, which operates the flap which lets the two used fuel rods shine their glorious radiation on the world; this time without the luxury of a 'cover-up'. With this oven, you can feed a lot of people, because a full ox or a baby elephant can be zapped to how you like it (medium rare is nice! Yum!). The operators sit inside the oven to protect them when the rods are uncovered.

Roll up! Roll up! First come first served.

Disclaimer: If your hair falls out and your babies are born with claws and fangs.

I do not know why the Sellafield managers have left for Paraguay, and have different names and underwent plastic surgery? In fact, I don't know anything. Sellafield? Never heard of the place.

Signed:

The Rocking Horse Money Making Machine!

This is a special rocking horse. It has a tank inside it that holds brown plasticine. On the of its haunches there is a wheel that pressurises the holding tank. Under the tail is a hole (end of a pipe, called the excrement outlet). The horse can be moved anywhere and when is in a temporary position a turn of the wheel should be sufficient to produce the desired result (produce). You will come to realise that money isn't as rare a rocking horse shit when RHS is all over the place.

' **REAL FUN' AT TOWN THORNS**

The author spent a year and a half living in Town Thorns Sheltered Housing (posh way of saying Old Folks Home), so, if 'anyone' knows what goes on? (He does)...

Like a lightbulb attracts moths, an old people's home attracts old people (or young people wanting to get rid of them). That sounds reasonable doesn't it? Some age better than others and it's horrible (but true) to think that some kids who have parents in their 80's (or worse?) really want them to die so as they can have their money because they don't have any... blah, Blah (if they're honest). Some people who really hate their kids live until a ripe old age and require care in a care home which costs a fortune to normal folk. But, their kids love them and want them to live forever; they don't mind paying for the care (if you believe that there's little hope for you i.e. you're fucksd).

Gomers, or Get Them Off My Emergency Room, are really old people who refuse to die. You see them in hospitals. Their skin has gone yellow and transparent and you can see all the veins underneath pumping and pulsing away. They are in vein-gyms, which are found in the bodies of those who refuse to die to piss off their children...

You may see them sitting up in bed, with God stood there dressed as a doctor; signing an agreement for another thirty years of life!

And that's the belief in hospitals i.e. Gomers never die, young people die.

You see, if someone dies in a care home, it costs an arm and a leg; which is why that in small towns which sport a care home nearby, many of the people have one leg... and one arm (and one or no parents). Those who are bedbound with no limbs have lost both to the 'care' system.

BUT... one care home has come up with a solution! And it helps the children. Is this a dream?

Am I sleeping? Apparently so... zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

**Town Thorn** s in Easenhall, Warwickshire is the place where someone clever has come up with a solution. This was 'devised' when one of the ground keepers went up to a bush in order to cut it. When he began with the hand-held electric saw, eight undertakers ran out and made off; all in different directions. Like foxes, to confuse the attacker. To be honest, the maintenance man did wonder what all the hearses were doing in the car park.

They were staking the spot out with binoculars watching for 'death'. Death is hard to spot in a care home i.e. if the dead person is at a Wednesday night coffee evening, they have to be shaken pretty hard to collect their raffle prize should they win. It's always a nice surprise to find that they have died, because then someone else gets the prize (usually tea, coffee or biscuits). Father Gregory (who fancies himself as a priest) will immediately pull off his velcroed on normal clothes, to reveal full priest's regalia to perform the last rites. The person is then laid out on a table while the coffee evening carries on. How do I know this? Because I lived there for a while (I've seen things that 'younger – normal' people don't see... see!).

At first light, the person is de-clothed (no one's allowed to look) and laid on the grass on a large plastic sheet. Then Ken is released _. The photographer is also called Ken, or Papa-Ratsy. Hopefully he will never be released because not only is he old but he's completely mad; and would be a danger to the world_.

Ken 'the vulture' then circles the corpse a few times and then lands and dines. When he has finished, he's put back in his cage and the bones are gathered for the funeral. If the bones are buried at Town Thorns, Father Gregory gets a bit of practice for the big day i.e. conducting his own funeral; it's cheaper and no-one is more holy than him (not even the Pope).

It's maybe a good job that 'the' anagram of funeral is 'Real Fun'.

Ken the Vulture

Apparently, when he isn't feeding on dead bodies he likes cashew nuts and pork scratchings; but turns his beak up at Bombay Mix. The place is deserted because every Tuesday (it's Tuesday) a raffle is held and the three winners get water boarded. Apparently, it makes then feel alive and the audience enjoy it (rumour has it that it's the free popcorn that attracts the mases)...

THE GENIUS

It is worth knowing that Linda Falfa, wife of Al Falfa senior and mother to Al junior was a bit clever and liked to look into things. She knew for instance, that alfalfa was given to livestock because if it had been given to humans, they would become geniuses because of the brain development properties of the magical plant. Instead we humans are lied to, to keep us dumb, which is a very rare thing thank God. We are told that eating fish, or krill oil is the way to go to develop our brains i.e. Omega3.

So, Linda Falfa got her son Al to drink alfalfa when she liquidised it. She wanted her boy to be stand out from the crowd clever, a genius; he wouldn't have much competition. We have eaten Omega 3 cod for more than a hundred years... slaughtered all those fish and, well, let's face it, the hallowed halls of learning in Oxford, Cambridge and Eton are full of cod-stuffed working-class students, all being educated and groomed in readiness for their jobs guiding and ruling the middle and upper classes.

***

THE NEWS

"Good evening! This is the Six o'clock news. We do apologise as this report carries a message of gore with pictures, so if you are squeamish, go make a cuppa now.

This afternoon, five million humans who were all out walking on the new National Outdoor Healthy Walk Day, decided to jump up into the air to a height estimated to be six hundred feet at exactly 3pm. When they came down, the carnage was major. Heads here and there, some broken like melons and brain all over the place; street-cleaners are threatening industrial action if they don't get a break from it. Splattered bodies, intestines all over the shop too. Bodies on car roofs, bus roofs ... impaled on fences etc., etc. It will be a bit of a clean-up job as soon as the sweeper uppers are talked out of industrial action. The undertakers got overtime, and therefore great holidays out of it, and it must be said, stray dogs and crows had a feast. And now, the weather with Cloudsdale Rainfreak" ...

***

Albert Falfa (Al to his friends) climbed out of the chauffeur driven Jag and was led to the door of Number 10 Downing Street; he was let into the building by the nice policeman. The Prime Minister was waiting, eagerly; almost jumping up and down on the spot. Al entered the drawing room, the PM approached him with eagerness, said "hello Al, very good of you to come" and shook Al's hand. He shook AL,s hand that hard he nearly pulled it off. They talked.

"Your country and Government need you Al, are you willing to help us?"

"I'd love to sir, it would be an immense pleasure to do just that" replied Al.

Six weeks later, the people jumped ...

***

The meeting occurred because the Prime Minister had heard of a trick Al had pulled off in a little village in the countryside, as part of a fair/gala. One of the people watching him actually knew the local MP who was matey with the PM. Al was a brilliant geneticist and had managed to make a serum from Kingfisher DNA (he extracted some blood from a trapped Kingfisher (that was released unharmed) and the serum that was made from it was injected it into his male volunteers. After a while...

They all climbed into trees and bushes along the riverbank, sat on and hung on to branches, then dropped, trying to catch minnows. It was one up from being a chicken on stage under hypnosis.

"So, it wasn't hypnosis then?" the PM asked.

"No sir, they had the urge to do it from the DNA."

"What about afterwards?"

"Oh. I gave them a serum to destroy the Kingfisher DNA. They all went home quite normal, except for one."

"Oh really? What happened to him?"

"Well, he dropped to catch a minnow, but tragically he smashed his head on a rock, but I did tell him that fifty foot was a bit high to dive from. His skull broke in half and his brain stem was snapped, with the result that his brain came out and began to float down river. Luckily a fisherman caught it in his landing net before it got to the mini rapids where some kids were playing. They had just burst their football you see, so things could have got messy. By that I mean ... It's quite a way out in the countryside too you see, so if a velociraptor had got the scent ... carnage. The velociraptors had been developed by Al and were the size of chickens and tasted like crocodile; which tastes like pork, which tastes like chicken. They lay chicken's eggs which hatch out into mini raptors or are lovely boiled. Their skin also makes nice shoes.

People only eat things like crocodile, so they can tell their friends and sound posh.

The PM then told Al an amazing fact, and asked if he could help?

"We have five million unemployed Al, can you help? "

***

No autopsies were carried out on the millions of corpses, but if they had, they would have discovered a strange DNA which was given to them in pill form as part of a government 'motivation' plan, to make them feel more optimistic about finding work.

***

A Fact:

A flea can jump into the air to one hundred times its own body height ...

The government figures on unemployment were now giving overtime to those who worked in job centres and crime levels were on the way up (but down according to the Government of course).

So how did Al help the Prime Minister and his country?

Al had removed a flea from his pet dog, a mongrel nobody wanted, called Smelly Nellie. He removed some of the flea's blood and then replaced the flea, much to the disgust of Nellie, who wandered off for a good scratch. He doesn't like to see things suffer does Al, as he knows what suffering is like having suffered himself in the past. His suffering was so sad that I can't tell you for fear of ruining your day. Honestly, you would weep.

And so. People, five million in fact, all unemployed, suddenly found the ability, and more importantly, the 'urge' to jump five hundred feet into the air at three p.m. on a Sunday afternoon. It was quite exhilarating on the way up I would think, but they all fell to their deaths. Not one survived.

Undertakers rubbed their hands together!

***

Back to the meeting:

"Yes sir" said Al "that won't be a problem. If you like I could even add a timer to the gene so that everyone jumps at the same time. Would you like that?"

"Al, that would be brilliant! We'll have a National Outdoor Healthy Walk Day!"

***

Actually, I lied. One guy came back down to earth at the usual rate of nine point eight one metres per second squared, and landed feet first on an eighty-two-year old pensioner woman Mrs Aggie Schmonk's head. He went straight through her and fell out of her botty, getting a great view of the inside of a human female in the process.

Kidney 1: "Was that a man?"

Kidney 2: "Yep. You don't see many of them around here"

She went to Accident & Emergency with a headache and a well stretched ass, and said "I felt a huge bump on my head, and a man just fell out of my backside, via my prolapse, but I don't remember swallowing him; (now, that could be interpreted another way, couldn't it?)

Surgeons took Aggie into the theatre, measured the hole in her head, had a look around and found a suitable skull in a cupboard somewhere. They carefully cut a piece out which they had marked with tracing paper with a trace from Aggie's skull ... and it fitted her perfectly! Luckily it still had hair on it (ok, ok. It was a head they found ... in a bucket ... in the canteen (don't ask). Luckily part 2, the hair was the same colour as Aggie's had been but ended up stuck to the man's shoe soles. Actually, she broke his fall and he died because his head was still stuck up her back passage and he passed due to arsephixiation (which was fortunate because it could have been an extremely smelly passage passing). Anyway, she got her skull fixed complete with hair (and a 666 blemish). Luckily part 3, the hair grew and covered the blemish, which her hairdresser saw but didn't know what it meant i.e. hairdresser knowledge = holidays. Luckily part 4, her brain was pushed to the side when the man went through her and although it was exposed to the elements, it was basically ok; which is phenomenally lucky.

After that unbelievably fantastical story from the Imaginarium ...

Does anybody want to know what Al's up to now?

Erm, I don't know, but I do know that he has another Government contract on, for what? I have no idea.

There we go, alfalfa! I have now used something I learned at a state school.

What an achievement! I've beaten the system!

Frankie!

THE DANCER

In the quiet back woods of Cumbria, in the English Lake District, there is the ruin of a small cottage. The cottage was once owned by Henry Pennington and his wife; Maude. Henry built the house using love, and his own hands. Henry and Maude began their married life in the cottage back in 1876, after their wedding in Ulpha Church in the spring of that same year.

Eight acres of land sustained them, by giving enough room to keep six cows, ten sheep, half a dozen geese and about twenty chickens. Excess milk and eggs could be sold in the local shop or swapped for other groceries. Other income was generated by Maude through the sale of tapestries, the product of her hobby. She really enjoyed this pastime because it was so relaxing.

Henry's favourite pastime was, of all things, tap dancing. It wasn't something that ran in his family, none of his present family, or any of his ancestors were or had been artistic. He was inspired to take it up after his father had taken him to Manchester when he was six, to visit an Aunt. He had seen a man dancing on the street with a hat in front of him, which contained a few pennies and halfpennies. Henry had liked the way that the man made clicking sounds with his heels and his toes.

"How does he make the clicking sounds Dad?" asked young Henry.

"Better ask the man son."

When the man stopped, Henry asked: "Excuse me sir", but how do you make those clicking sounds with your shoes? Is it magic?"

The man laughed. "Not magic son here look." He removed one of his shoes and held it upside down for Henry to see.

There was a half-moon piece of metal nailed to the toe part of the sole, and another larger piece fixed to the heel.

"You see son, not magic, just pieces of steel, some talent, and lots of practice."

Henry was transfixed, and the seed was planted. His father thanked the man and threw a penny into his hat, enough maybe to repair the hole in his sock?"

***

Thirty years after that inspirational event, Henry danced in the back room while Maude did needlework in the front. With his wife possessing such a talent for the needle and thread, Henry should never suffer with toes sticking out of 'his' socks.

One fine Saturday morning, Maude sauntered down to the shop with a basket of eggs and four pints of milk to sell. She would purchase groceries with the money she would make. She was, as would be expected in the countryside, very friendly with Mrs Preston who owned the shop.

"Good morning Maude."

"And the same to you Irene, I have some milk and eggs for you today."

"Lovely, Oh, by the way, Mrs Huddlestone from down the road left this for you, said you might be interested?" She handed Maude a page of a newspaper.

"Thank you very much, I'll read it later." said Maude, as she slipped the paper into her bag.

Upon returning home, Maude eyed the tempting chair and beckoning kitchen table and decided to have a coffee break, she read the article in coffee flavoured comfort before getting on with her chores. She could hear Henry moving around in the loft, busy fixing the leaking roof. The piece was about a woman who had been born with no arms. This amazing lady had learnt how to do tapestries with her feet, and rather lovely ones at that too, the tapestries I mean., judging by the black and white picture. She read with interest, gleaming a desire to improve on her own work through this unexpected encouragement. She left the cutting on the table then went outside to feed the animals.

Henry finished fixing the roof "Job well done, no more leaks I hope?" he thought, followed quickly by an even better one... "coffee time!" He sat at the kitchen table sipping his aromatic cuppa, thinking about nothing much in particular, when the cutting caught his eye. He read, thought nothing much of it, then went out to help Maude. That night, Henry had a very vivid and exciting dream. He left for town early the next morning. For the next week or so, Maude didn't see very much of Henry, as he was spending a lot of time in his workshop. His workshop was a little wooden shed in a corner of the garden, as far away from the house as he could get it, so as to not disturb Maude too much with any noise he might produce while crafting pieces of wood. He was a very good carpenter. Over the next few days, Henry did a lot of hammering and sawing.

The day the hammering stopped, Henry walked into the house with a box in his hands. It wasn't a big box, just the right size for a pair of shoes.

Maude said the obvious:

"What's in the box?" asked Maude.

"It's a surprise, said Henry, "I don't want to tell you yet, be patient with me for a while and I will amaze you."

Maude smiled, "Coffee dear?"

Henry smiled back, with accompanying nod. Early the next morning, Maude was woken by the sounds of sawing and hammering from Henry's 'Dancing Room'. She got out of bed, put on her gown and slippers and went to find out what he was up to and what was going on. Down the stairs she went, candle in hand. When she reached the room, she hesitated slightly, but then curiosity getting the better of her. She tap, tap, taped on the door... the noise stopped.

"Hello Henry dear, what are you doing?"

"Oh, nothing much love, just building a surprise for you. I told you yesterday, be patient and all will be revealed!"

She thought for a moment. "Ok dear, would you like coffee?"

"That would be lovely."

"I will leave it outside the door."

"Thank you."

Henry finished making his banging and sawing noises around dinnertime, after which, he and Maude have a lovely meal of fresh eggs and soldiers. She didn't question what he was up to; she loved surprises. He made himself rather scarce for the next week, locking himself in his dancing room. What emanated was the sound to tap dancing, only rather muffled. Maude tried to guess what was going on but could conjure nothing up in her mind that would give an explanation to satisfy. Her curiosity was growing, together with excitement.

"What was that man up to?" She chuckled to herself, shook her head, then went to feed the animals and collect the eggs. If anyone asked her how Henry was, she would have to reply "I don't know? I have hardly seen him for the best part of a fortnight. He's locked himself in his dancing room and all these strange noises keep coming out." She got a few questioning looks during this period.

One morning, as Maude was putting breakfast on the table, Henry came in and sat down. He had the shoe sized box in his hands which he carried into the house from his shed the previous week. He placed it on the floor by his chair and they proceeded to eat. When they had finished their meal and the crockery had been cleaned and put away **(** by both of them I hasten to add

... note: Women, if your man reads this and collapses on the ground, simply apply mouth to mouth, or use the Holger Neilsen method.

... Henry, smiling, placed the box on the table. Maude waited, her 'curiosity got dressed'and ready to party.

"This is what it's all been about Maude" He slowly took off the lid, then lifted out a pair of tap shoes, well, tap shoes, plus!

"What do you think?"

"Very nice dear. What are they?"

On each heel and toe was fitted a small metal contraption about one inch wide and three inches high. On the top of each construct was a bobbin of cotton, each one a different colour. The cotton from each bobbin had been fed through each small metal "box" and then through the eye of a sewing needle. On the bottom of each was the little 90 degree, 'stitch foot' with the groove along the bottom part, you know, exactly like on the manual Singer sewing machines that you can see in antique shops now. That is basically what each of Henry's inventions were, a modified version of a mechanical Singer sewing machine, or to be more precise, the complicated bit which did the actual sewing.

Henry laughed. "Come to my dancing room, I've got something to show you."

She followed him silently.

In the room, Henry had built a wooden framework on the floor (which was what all the sawing and hammering had been all about). Stretched across and clipped to it was a sheet of material. It was quite a big frame, about 10 feet by 5 feet, but Henry explained that he could adjust it to whatever size he wanted, from what it was at that moment, downwards. Henry put on the mechanical shoes and walked into the middle of the sheet. Puzzled wasn't the word for the expression on Maude's face, she stared at Henry as though he'd gone mad.

"Well Maude, it's now time for me to satisfy your obviously curious mind. Remember that cutting you brought home a while ago? The one about the lady who was doing tapestries with her feet, because she had lost her arms?"

"Yeees."

"Well, I read it while you were outside tending the animals, just after I had finished fixing the roof, remember?"

"Yeees."

"Well, I didn't think too much about it at the time of reading, but then I had a strange dream that felt almost real and I thought 'what if?' That's when I ran to the town and got all the parts I needed to build these special shoes.

"Yeees"

"Well then, ahem! Ladies and gentlemen, may I present 'The Great Henry Pennington', the world's first 'Cumbrian Tapestry Dancer'! Thank you!"

There was a muffled clicking noise as Henry's feet began to move. The mechanical boxes came whirring to life and the needles began to thread the cotton through the sheet. A pattern started to appear in front of Maude's eyes. It took Henry about ten minutes of fast energetic dancing to produce something he seemed happy with. A flower had appeared on the material, a red rose. "That's for you Maude.", he said.

She looked at her flower and her hands came up to her face in the shape of a prayer, with the tips of thumbs on the bottom of her chin and the sides of both index fingers gently touching her lips. "It is absolutely beautiful Henry, thank you."

"My immense pleasure."

They unpicked a lot of his earlier 'practice' works so that he could reuse the screens. Now of course, they would have been priceless, although we cannot regret things done, only things not done. Maude still did her own tapestry work because she enjoyed it and if you remember, it helped her to relax. This though, did not stop them forming a husband and wife team, with Maude drawing the designs, and Henry dancing them into a colourful reality. Eventually the neighbours were invited to witness the spectacle and naturally the word began to spread, firstly throughout the region, then the country and eventually to other lands. Requests came for the couple to travel, worldwide if they chose, the opportunity to visit Presidents, Kings and Queens a kind of fairy-tale result, all from a newspaper article. They were home-birds though, they loved the Cumbrian countryside, the fresh air, their animals, their friends, so they turned down all requests to roam.

Not to miss out, the requesters came to them, and many a dignitary and persons of Royal Blood had tea with the Pennington's in their little kitchen. The visitors would then be led into the Tapestry Dancing Room and be given a display and a very special gift, many of which ended up as parts of priceless art collections. The couple became wealthy, with gifts that came back in a non-requested return, which tends to happen when you decide to give without thought of repayment. The money, they enjoyed, with a large part of that enjoyment coming again from the actual giving away process.

Henry evolved his 'act', into a beautiful, one off, very special art form, which had the good grace to visit our Planet via a human mind. He eventually had shoes, thanks to the versatility of Singer's high-quality parts, which held eight reels of coloured cotton on each and many a rainbow appeared from his joyful dancing feet.

The story has a saddish ending. Maude and Henry both died in their seventies, he two years before her. The couple were childless, so all possessions went to brothers and sisters and their children. As time moved on, many of the younger family members moved away, some to work in cities and some to see the world, eventually settling in other climes. The cottage fell into a state of disrepair and eventually **(** as the wind and rain, cows with itchy sides and local farmers using the stones to help build new walls), it was almost razed to the ground.

The few stones remaining would not now tell the stranger, that on that plot, there once stood a building that housed a man, who loved his wife, who with him formed a team, and together delighted a portion of the world with a now 'dead and forgotten art form' ?

Cumbrian Tapestry Dancing.

THE CROWNING GLORY OF ROYAL ASCOT

The place wouldn't be the same without them ...

According to the National Association of Fancy Feather Hats at Royal Ascot (FFHARA), feather hats are coming back into fashion at this top racing meet after environmental issues nearly stopped them. That is superb news for anyone filthy rich who like fancy feather hats and the champagne and caviar tent.

A 'Feather Hats at Royal Ascot' fan and amateur song-writer has written an anthem, which you might like to memorise if you like feathered hats.

To the tune of Yankee Doodle (sort of, have a drink first).

Feather hats are coming back

Isn't that just dandy,

They'll look fab on ladies' day

Posh birds wea-ring head candy

The problem was/is, the world cannot afford to catch and kill something like a bird of paradise just to smack it over the head and pluck it for some posh ladies' hat. But never mind, there is now a solution in the pipeline. But first, here is ...

An ' **interesting' fact:**

Ascot got its name from the first ever lady to wear a hat full of pheasant tail feathers at the world-famous event. She was a Scottish Lady who lived on an estate with her husband, Lord Muck.

One spring morning she woke up and heard some weird music outside. On looking out of the window, she was shocked to see a group of feral Morris Dancers; obviously strayed cheekily from the woodland. She opened the window, got her husband's high – powered pheasant rifle from behind the wardrobe and shot the one who looked like the leader. The rest made off hopefully never to return.

She then had a servant get the hat from the dancer and dispose of the body in the local tip. It was on a Sunday, and you're allowed to dispose of bodies of Morris Dancers, but only if you're a Lord or a Lady. It isn't usual to see a Lady at the tip, because they do tend to get mucky and sometimes get their dresses dirty.

The hat was of the top type and had pheasant tail feathers stuck into it at the quill (the bit that fits into the bird/pheasant's ass) which made it look like a weird porcupine, or a potato with cocktail sticks stuck into it. It would be a vicious weapon if stuck on the end of a broomstick and placed in the wrong hands. Or, a useful tool for picking up autumn leaves. Or an even more useful tool if the practical joker hides in a park bush and pops children's balloons when they walk past. But, this hat was to be the start of the famous fad.

"Wear the hat for the top race meet!" she thought and, so she did. She was the first Lady to wear a fancy hat at the meet and it caught on like wildfire. Ascot was then called The Fancy Feather Hat Meet, which didn't sound right as it was a bit of a mouthful especially if the person attempting to say it had a really small mouth, like a fish. But ... as she was Scottish, The Hat of the Scottish Lady racing meet sounded better; it gradually became the name we all know i.e. Ascot, from Hat-Scot, worked out one year by someone who was plastered in the champagne tent. That's how Ascot got its name and why ladies feathery hats are so popular.

One posh lady, into one-upmanship, a year later turned up with a stuffed heron with its wings open stuck to her hat. Unfortunately, the hat was tied under her chin and there was a freak gust of wind; she took off and made like Mary Poppins and eventually landed on the top of a double decker bus and was never seen again until later; which was a near disaster for her' because her husband was an extremely wealthy racehorse owner. She managed to get off the bus at the Pound Shop... you write the rest.

After that incident stuffed birds with their wings in flight position were seen as too dodgy, although their husbands did passionately encourage them to do just that and, as a result, herons went down in number and taxidermists made a few bob. The posh ladies though got a taste for posh feathers such as those from birds of paradise and lots of birds of paradise found themselves rudely plucked, rendering them rudely erm, fuc ...

Now in 2017?

Well, now, due to lack of bird of paradise farming, it isn't possible to use their feathers for a thousand hats. It was considered to use hummingbird feathers, but they would obviously be the Devil's own job to pluck; never mind catch i.e. try hitting a hummingbird with a shotgun. But, a cancer specialist came up with an excellent solution, a solution which saved the future feather hat industry! This is it, to save all the beautiful birds before a handful of 'assholes' make them all extinct.

This is the 'in the pipeline solution' letter sent to all members of the Ascot Fancy Feather Hat Appreciation Society.

Dear Royal Ascot Fancy Feather Hat Wearer,

A hospital is planned to be built in a bird of paradise infested rain forest, a forest where you can't move for the things. Same in the Australian outback for ostriches, etc., etc. Instead of beds, cages will be installed. The bird hospitals will be run by the OUS, the Ornithological Unhealth Service (part of the portfolio of the NunHS). When the bird is ready it will be put in a cage with a perch (stick variety not a fish). The bottom of the cage will be a funnel mechanism leading to the output in a fish tank. The bird will then be put on chemotherapy; this will cause the feathers to all fall out falling into the fish tank; which has no water in it.

This is where science gets blindingly genius'ish. The first batch of feathers will be stuck to a bird of paradise shaped set of Lycra overalls and the bird will be what's called 'wigged', which topically sounds a bit like 'winged'. The bird will then be given steroid treatment which will cause it to grow a new set of feathers and the process will be started again. The process will be called 'plucking without erm, fuc ... (well, not too much).

**BY THE WAY** , if you are a posh lady and your husband owns fantastic racehorses, don't be tempted to go to Royal Ascot with your hat sporting a 'wings in flight mode stuffed swan', even (women take risks and endure great pain to be seen as a fashion icon-ette) because if the Queen is there she will have the Secret Service kick your posh ass. But....

A group of people have got together and called themselves The Anonymous Swan hat group. Getting the swans was the hardest because they had to be dead. So, they collected swans from beneath such things as power lines and swan rescue places. The swan rescue places proved to be a bit of a problem because they had to kill them. Swans are powerful birds and several members ended up in A&E with SWC (Swans Wing Concussion) through getting caught with a flap. In the end the members of the group decided to use the birds live. This involved firstly, catching the swan. This was easier than you might think. All the special forces team had to do was go in one of those helicopters with two sets of rotors on it (no good reason, only it looks good to the general public). Then they had to fly over a city pond, while one of them was lowered on a cable with some bread. They could have used a rescue helicopter, but that doesn't look as good to any fit women (or gay men?) who night be watching. The man is lowered (as already stated) and he begins to feed the swans; shooing any ducks off that try and get in on the act. Any chance to get rid of a swan and the ducks try and get in on the act; because they don't like swans as they're bullies; being bigger.

While the soldier distracts the swans with some bread (it is worth noting here that swans don't like bread because they're bored with it; so, if you don't want to risk being attacked and savaged... take some cake).

So, as the swan is eating the 'cake', the winch man lowers a head-bag towards the swan and, plonks it over the head. The swan, being a bit thick, thinks 'hey, it's night' and falls instantly asleep ( because, unlike a human, it has naff-all to worry about).

The swan can then be transported in the Chinook to wherever, where it is prepared to be a hat.

THE ROYAL ASCOT SWAN HAT FACTORY.

The swan is taken in still with the bag over its head; for safety reasons to the swan hat factory.

It is a simple process to make a swan hat. The swan's feet are simply glued to a hat. That's it really, but the manufacturers were getting a bit bored just gluing swan's feet to hats all day; so, they decided to form something never seen before. They decided to form a swan hat aerial formation team. They figured that it was only a step up from those people who film birds flying while speeding with them in a Range Rover or something similar. If you want to try this, use tame birds, because if you attempt to use wild ones... anything could happen. For instance, you could make a really huge kite, fasten your car to it, and get your mate to fly you past a skein of swans while you attempt to make a movie of them. What if the kite string snaps? What if one of the swans takes a dislike to you and flies into the vehicle to give you a slapping? It just isn't worth it.

So, you'd get a kicking in the sky from them and then when you managed to land, the National Swan Welfare Group may have something to say to you (don't forget, the Queen likes swans).

So, they decided to manufacture the hats with chinstraps and they could be fastened to the lady's head.

BIRD OF PERADISE HATS

Starring 'They'

These are relatively easy to make. Firstly, you have to kidnap your relatives to work on the production line without pay and a small amount of water to drink, as rates are very high in tropical rain forests. It's a bit of a mystery as to why because it rains a lot; hence the name 'tropical rain forests'. Not only does it rain a lot, it is, as the description says; tropical (which means hot). It must be because the people who run/own the water boards there just want ordinary people's money... nothing new there then.

Well. In the tropical rain forests are medium sized buildings which are like hospitals. Birds of paradise are captured and brought to these buildings. They are put into luxury cages, they're called luxury cages because then they can charge more for the bird's stay (who they actually charge is, as yet, unknown). When the birds are in the cages they receive Feather Removal Therapy. This is similar to chemotherapy i.e. the birds are injected with a cocktail of toxic chemicals, which makes their feathers fall out... simples! The feathers are collected in box and shipped off to wherever they make hats.

The birds are then put in recovery cages where the feathers grow back.

The process is repeated three times and then the birds are released back into the forest and another batch is collected and the process repeated.

People who have looked for these bird-hospitals know when they are near as they start to find feather-less, knackered looking birds of paradise hanging upside down from branches looking really depressed. All wildlife photographers will then have to do is flip the print upside down, so expect Mr Attenborough's films to look a little strange. This may be a resultant conversation:

"Mum, why does that bird look strange standing on the branch like that and, why is the man with the camera hanging upside down from the sky which is full of bushes and a man with a chainsaw?"

"I don't know, ask your dad. Anyway, shut up! Can't you see I'm texting!"

A great side product is from the down feathers continental quilts and designer pillows are made in local sweat shops.

***
A GREAT WAY TO CROSS AN INSANELY BUSY ROAD

Traffic is getting worse on the roads. This is because, experts think, roads are shrinking. With information like that, wouldn't it just be bet to leave experts alone... and let them stare out of the living room window in their asylum?

Near where I presently live, there is a road which comes out of the city centre like the spoke of a wheel. The number of cars which come up this road all day and most of the night is fairly high and, it is therefore very difficult to cross; and all I want to do us go to the shop (they sell Green Cross Code books)... Very few give way, temper flare, horns honk, drivers get heated i.e. the usual shit. My idea, which is 'brilliant' and not to be mistaken for that of an expert, is fairly simple. All you need do is surf the net, because you need to find one of those places that keep deadly viruses in underground storage in liquid C02. Go along and ask if they will sell you an Ebola kit. This comprises of a vial with a virus in it, and a mask with a filter.

Let's assume that you have to cross the road to get the usual i.e. a paper, a bag of crisps, some milk and some bread for toast. This means you are on the side on which your house is located. Of course, you can't cross the road and the longer you wait, the more out of date the paper will be, which doesn't really matter but you want to see what's on TV later ... Wimbledon and the World Cup, so nothing interesting, so even that doesn't really matter.

So, calm down. At the side of the road, get your virus mask, the Virus at bay MK1 is the best one. Put it on and then open the vial. Place vial at roadside and go home. When at home, borrow some milk from the neighbour and maybe some bread, and then wait ... patience?

Of course not.

After a week or two, go back to the busy road. With any luck, the cars will have stopped and will be full of rotting corpses, reminiscent of a Stephen King movie. You may have to step over a few bodies on the way, so have respect, don't kick or trip over any. Carry a can of fly spray too (if you have one) and spray a cloud of it around you, which will keep the thousands of flies away from you, because they may have landed on dog poo. It is now a simple matter to cross the road, and hopefully the shop keeper will be dead, so you won't even have to pay for your stuff.

How good is that?! That is my Ebola virus Road Crossing Kit, and if you get one from me (I keep a few in the deep freeze), it will be a bargain at £44.999.99p

Councils here and there are considering this method to replace those crossings where you press a button and have to wait for the thing to say 'cross'.

**C** **IRCUS LUMBERJACK**

So how about doing the pack of sweets trick i.e. mother buys a bag of sweets, kids pester and pester for them. Eventually she is fed up and gives them the packet ... 'here, have them then that's that!'

I went to a poetry night one time, which was bland until someone read out a Haiku and nearly turned me to alcohol (I love Haikus) ... but, the guy who read out one he had written to save the whales was the best. It was complete with whale sounds made by him. Fabulous, BGT material. When it was over, the boss said 'what did you think? The piece is going to be put to music to Save The Whales, and we would like to offer our support John ... clap clap clap ...

I said 'maybe we should support killing every last whale'...

'Why?!' Was the response.

A fair response.

"Then people would stop moaning about them."

All the Laureates went red and I thought the Haiku man was going to explode. There were a few comments and I never returned. It was a great night. They all ignore me when they see me now, although I think they have started to croak (LOL!).

So, my proposal is that the effort to clear the forests is trebled and, where the mahogany trunks are, my idea can be set up. The cleared forest around them can be used for spectator seating and, we can have a circus style show.

This solution may sound wacky, so it must be good. I call it the 'Spectacular Falling Tree'. I'll try and draw diagram later, but I'm no artist. No, forget it. The thought of drawing it is too horrible, so please use your imaginarium. (Your mind)

The first thing needed here is the base, probably strong concrete with the mechanicals inside. Attached to the mechanical bits is a big powerful engine. Not being an engineer, I'll guess here. The tree will be made from a shaped metal framework and have steel sides which will have weights on the side that will be falling first if you know what I mean. Because when a real tree falls, the circus is ruined by the branches that hit the ground first which tend to cushion it, aided by the undergrowth. The offending branches will be fixed by ball and socket joints to the main tree, these will be lifted and locked in place; overtime for the loggers!

Halfway along the trunk, in the tree, will be a large water tank, with outlet pipes on the side of the trunk. Upon impact, the water will be put under great pressure and will then shoot spectacularly into the air as though the tree has fallen into a pond ...

There will also be dynamite charges along the inside of the trunk which will blow out of explosion exhaust pipes upon impact, making huge, spectacular, earth shaking bangs. But that's not all, the side of the tree that doesn't hit the ground will have a long sliding door in it, and just after impact, there will be a firework rocket display to celebrate another old growth tree gone. After the show, the engine will be started, and the tree will be pulleyed upright again, pinned into place, ready for the next show to satisfy the tree falling lust of humans thousands of miles away with TV sets ...

Trouble Loomin' for the Moomins

Moominvalley is beautiful, unspoilt land; unfortunately, because it's unspoilt, it is in the imagination. One fine day through, cause unknown (fate or destiny?), a large tear appears in the barrier between fantasy-land and the earth. People from the earth gather on the 'other side' of the rip and discover Moominland. Being human, they see profit in the unspoiledness; an unspoiledness that means 'riches'. Say no more.

The Moomins discover 'money'.

Well lookee here! Obviously' Tove isn't a cynic.

That's a spliff!

Moominpappa, a fine, respected figurehead of the beautiful, unspoilt Moominvalley, walked into the living room of Moomin house from the beautiful garden. He had been writing his memoirs and he had an inch-thick pile of A4 sheets under his arm, describing his shopping exploits with Moominmama.

'Been writing your memoirs papa?' asked Moomintroll, who was sat in the armchair reading Moominlife magazine. Yes son, although they're a bit of a boring read up to now, all I have in them for the last twenty years is my 'went shopping with Moominmama,'

'And what's wrong with going shopping with me?!' came the disgruntled voice from the kitchen Moominmama was in the kitchen (her territory) making pine needle sandwiches which protect tummy-wummies from all known assaults.

Moominpappa looked scared and confused, as he knew what a complete bitch Moominmama could be when disgruntled, so he shouted back ... 'Nothing dear, some of our best times together have been when shopping.'

"Ok"! Shouted Moominmama, "but, I have to punish you, so, no 'up close and personal' for six months!" Moominpappa breathed a big sigh of relief. He couldn't believe his luck! Only six week ago she passed the same punishment sentence, he couldn't remember why, but as his sentences ran consecutively, that was now a twelve-week withdrawal of pleasure ... ' 'I'm a very lucky old Moomin' he said to himself under his breath, with the slightest chuckle.

The Snork Maiden then walked in. She approached her 'boyfriend' Moomintroll and kissed him on the cheek, "Good morning my darling," she said. Moomintroll blushed, he was very shy.

***

The Snork maiden has a brother, he's a Snork. Because they look like trolls, if she and Moomintroll have any kids, they shouldn't look too strange i.e. they won't have three legs and cross eyes.

"Let's go for a walk in the forest and listen to the birds (and the screams of small mammals, dying at the claws of bigger mammals)" suggested the Snork Maiden," I need the exercise as I need to lose weight for our wedding".

'Wedding!?' Thought Moomintroll. That was the first he had heard. "Ok" he said, and they bid their farewells. Everyone then got on with their days. Moominpappa went upstairs to his study with his perpetual memoirs and Moominmama went back to the kitchen to practice new recipes with pine needles.

***

That evening, Moominpappa sat by the hearth making notes for his memoirs ... he wrote ... "went shopping with dearest Moominmama on Saturday, but not sure about these self-service things, all the Moomin till girls and boys are going to be out of work and that will probably mean less forest creatures needed to stack shelves!"

Moominmama sat there mixing a bowl of dough to which she had added some forest anemone petals, which were good for constipation, which Snufkin had been complaining about for the last couple of days 'what's constipation?'! Asked Sniff, in his excited high-pitched voice at the breakfast table that very morning.

'It's when you can't shit Sniff', answered Snufkin.

'Please!' Piped the Snork Maiden, 'there's a lady present'

'Where?' said Moomintroll ... and she gave him daggers.

It should be known that Moomintroll and the Snork Maiden are like Kermit and Miss Piggy although the Maiden has never karate chopped Moomintroll on page (no one knows their private concerns).

Moominpappa then said "Moomintroll, may I see you in my study for a few moments please.

"Yes of course Papa." replied Moomintroll. He then asked the Snork Maiden if she wouldn't mind doing some flower arranging for a while, while he went to chat with his father.

"Not at all, I like the fact that you are going to have a man to man meeting with your father at last; he can see you're grown up now and therefore ready for the responsibilities that moomin-elders have, you see?"

(Moomintroll then felt very important)

_(the reader should know, because it's interesting, that the Moomin forests were full of forest nymph farts. These were common with forest nymphs after eating pine needles for constipation after drinking slug-slime Tequila_.)

Moomintroll was ushered into the study by his father. The first thing he noticed was the aroma of a fine pipe tobacco (his father only smoked the finest). He looked around the study, no one but his father had ever been in there, save a group of fine upstanding looking Moominpappas; to other families no doubt. When they visited, Moominmama was always going upstairs to the study carrying pots of Moomin Forest Folia tea and biscuits ... pine needle flour crunchies with raisins and flavoured with Moomin lavender. His Father's desk, the large oak table and the floor were all covered in piles of typewritten paper.

"What are all the piles of writing papa?" asked Moomintroll.

"They're my memoirs son, I have had a long eventful life up to now. So how do you feel son?"

"I'm ok papa, but, some Moomins are talking about a book of Humanland??

"Yes son, that's true. This one we're appearing in now is called or was called Finn Family Moomintroll. The human version is called Dysfunctional Family Humankind.

We appear in another called Comet in Moominland, theirs is about some people who go on a night out in Ibiza and see a comet through their drunken haze, it's called Vomit in Humanland.

***

"Do humans have names papa and not only 'Humankind', like I have Moomintroll. I may one day like my own identity."

"Yes son, they do."

"Well, if Moominmama and yourself were to have given me a human name, what would it have been?"

"We did discuss it, and your mother suggested 'Wendy'."

"Wendy?! But isn't that a human female's name, it sounds like one."

"It is son and, the reason why? It's a tough, hard and cruel world son, and your mother thought that if you had a girl's name you would be almost forced to fight and toughen up; or forever be the coward of Moominland.

It turned her into a professional worrier. She won't always be there to wipe your mouth and face with her hanky in front of all the vicious trolls who may slap you for being a cissy. But, as it is you are just named a troll to keep you just the same as the common mass of trolls around here, and you can just be one of the crowd ... she stopped spitting on that hanky when you were 12.

You were getting slapped too often by your contemporaries and were in a neck brace for a while; which scared her. When you're older and live separate from the working trolls and have my businesses, then you can choose another name, something such as Shirley, which your mother also likes, to keep you tough. Anyway; you may also want to attend boxing classes, but, it's best to run, unless you carry a shank of course."

"Do mother and you have human identity names?"

"We do son, hers is Mildred and I am Horace, names for special private use you will understand."

"Ok. What do you actually do papa, apart from your memoirs that is?"

"Well son, I have my finger in many pies, which one day will be yours. Firstly, I have interests in the Krill market.

"What are Krill papa?"

"Little saltwater shrimp which larger marine life live on."

"Really! Well, good on them! They don't have supermarkets like we have, do they."

"Ah but son. Us trolls need the Krill. They contain omega 3 which us trolls need for brain development when we are young, or we grow up thick as pigshit and we can't get proper jobs and then our children get silly ideas about getting jobs they 'enjoy', such as magicians. Every Moomin knows that you don't go to work to have a good time and being a magician is airy fairy rubbish. So, we hoover up the Krill in big ships, extract the oil and sell it to Moomins as an essential supplement for their kids. Everyone wants the very best for their young, you see son."

"So, don't you have a job where you aren't happy papa?"

"No son, I have a superb portfolio and millions of Moomin pounds in the bank. The bank's offshore for Moomin tax reasons.

We will soon be going on a Mameluke hunt as a pod has been seen offshore, they must be killed as they do actually eat Krill together with fish! ... It is the same problem as penguins, seals and whales, all must go if the Moomin-trolls are to survive and progress into the happy future in a Moominland: that will eventually be industrialised.

One day, Moominland will be called after the Human Brummie district, the Black Countrooooy because of the soot deposits everywhere. The landscape will not be wasted as it is now i.e. beautiful forests and mountains and crystal streams, oh no, there will be factories as far as the eye can see ... here there are similarities between the book we're in called Finn Family Moomintroll and the human equivalent Dysfunctional Family Humankind.

"But papa, Moominvalley is beautiful with its forests."

"Ah, trees. They are in the way of golf and industry son and will be going in the next few years."

"Papa!?"

"Oh, don't worry son, you won't notice. You see, my friends and I are part of Moomin Valley Progress Development, and we have hired a company from a long way away to de-forest the valley. Art students at Moomin University will be given the trees and will redesign the trees artily and rebuild one tree using three former trees, which will then be concreted into the ground. The bark will come on a roll of rubber resin and will be wrapped around the length of the tree. There are lots of creatures in the forest which like to chew bark off trees, so to stop this the bark will contain a poison, so they won't do it twice and ruin 'our' forest. Leaves will be provided by Moomin schoolchildren, the Krill Generation, so there is an art project for them too. It's all Moomin-government sponsored, so I should make a good stash from it with which to pay the bills."

"Blimey papa, you've certainly got a lot going on."

"Yes son, but that's not all, I also have a pretty good property portfolio."

"Property, like Moomin Houses?"

"Well yes, but a more lucrative growing market, student accommodation. You see son, when I was a boy and my memoir A4 pile was only four inches thick, you had to be almost a genius to get into University, so young Moomins who went to private schools and who were given Krill bars and Krill pot noodles etc with REAL Krill flavour in their lunchbox, or were given such things in their Michelin 7 star canteens always got places, the Moomin riff raff? Who cares? Plenty of them to do the boring, hot and dirty jobs. But now, cleverness doesn't matter, just as long as the parents are loaded. If their child is thick and wants to be a doctor? No problemmo, all they do is chuck pills at the person from a catalogue then go home. Peasy!"

"Where do you come in papa?"

"Well son, as Moominland is raised ready for heavy industrialisation, students will need a University AND accommodation. So, my colleagues and I have looked at the Windy Cliffs at the Southern end of Moominland, a popular place apparently for suicide. You see, Moomins who are being forcibly ejected from their homes to make way for the industrial revolution, which will, I am thrilled to say son, include F ..."

"Not 'Fracking' papa!"

"Yes son! One day you will be Fracking rich! You can have a big house at the top of Moominvalley and think 'I own all of that' ... you will find the smoke from all the hundreds of chimneys very beautiful."

"OH! I love watching the sea birds flying at the windy cliffs! So beautiful."

"Well son, beauty isn't all that profitable, so, the birds will be netted, killed then stuffed and given to Moomin schools, which is a very nice idea. Platforms will then be attached to the former nesting cliffs, and small student flat-lets placed on each platform. Their University will be on a permanently anchored luxury cruise ship a few hundred metres off the cliff. On the front of the platform will be the transport pod, all they need do is open the pod door in the morning, climb in and sit in the seat. The crane, which will be on the deck will be used to direct the transport hose to them. The pod will then be sucked up into the hose and be transported under a vacuum to the deck of the University luxury liner. Vice versa will happen at night. And that son, is that. That is your legacy which you will inherit. Now, I must get on with my memoirs and you must get back to your lovely lady."

Moomintrol bid his father goodbye and they agreed that the family would go on the Mameluke hunt in a month's time when the Moominland Harpoon Mameluke and whale flensing boat was ready.

He went back down the stairs and into the conservatory where the Snork Maiden was stood with a large Moomincroft vase busy arranging some Moomin roses, Moomin lupins and some forest anemones into a lovely display. He cleared his throat and she turned to face him. "Oh, you're back! How was it?"

"Erm, interesting." He said, "What do you think of trees?"

"Trees? Well, I've never quite seen the point of them. I think it would be fantastic if someone was to deforest Moominvalley and then give the trees to Moomin University and let clever talking art students loose in a saw mill and a carpentry workshop. Couldn't they then chop them up and make them into arty trees, maybe so they look nothing like what they are described as, as art students tend to do? Each new tree could then be concreted into the ground and a little plaque could be put by it with a totally incomprehensible explanation as to what it is depicting? An explanation from the mind of a student, or better still a drunken art professor who lost his marbles years ago? Think of the economy, tourists could be charged to look around the exhibits. We could have some Moomin psychologists handy in case anyone cracked at the arty thinking made real on the information notices with the different exhibits. Gosh yes, and schoolchildren could make leaves to stick on them.

Moomintroll: "Really? What about factories, you know, that new concept that is on the grapevine? Manufacturing, chemical plants, nuclear plants? For the furture ...

The Snork Maiden: "Oh yes, I've heard about this. I think its very exciting news. If Moominvalley is to be industrialised, it will be a few years from now and I think factories, which provide jobs would be a great replacement for boring old trees, why did the God of Moomins make them in the first place? He must have had a headache that day. There again, the art student's trees will be good for a while, and then it would be easy to bulldoze them to make space. Yes, I was thinking of doing industrial design and space creation at University. If we could also have hypermarkets, I could make some good wedge being an economist and then we could have a lovely wedding and loads of kids ... what do you think?"

Moomintroll though, kids with the Snork Maiden? Hmmmm? Snufkin as best man? ...Then a life spent working with his 'great' father?

A week later, the Sun was out and Moominvalley covered in its beautiful forests looked B ...ooootiful.

Moominpappa, in a fabulous mood, sat on the garden swing smoking his pipe, which was filled with the finest Moomin tobacco money could buy, his cigars were airing for later ... held at .678945 degrees below ambient room temperature; his brandy swirled around his brandy glass. Moominmama was hanging out the washing. Suddenly, Moominpapa's skull lifted from his ear up and flew off his head. The brain underneath tore almost in half and it wobbled jellylike as if flew through the air also, just like JFKs did in Humanland; his brandy then fell to the floor and Moomin ants had a right good afternoon. Unfortunately, the brain was stopped by Moominmama clean sheet, which it slid down and landed with a wet plop on the grass, narrowly missing a long-haired forest nymph who was just minding its own business; it squeaked and ran to the bushes.

Moominmama screamed and then looked up to Moomintrolls open window ...

"It's all right mother, I only wanted that crazy old bastard ... him and his cronies are going to wreck Moominvalley by hacking down all the trees and then industrialising it, so I had to stop him with my mini war on deforestation.

"But! But! Look at my sheet! Look at it! I've just washed that and now look at it! Now I will have to turn the machine on again! Again! I can't believe it! I work my fingers to the bone for this family! To the bone! And what thanks do I get!? Your father's brain down my clean sheet! And where did you get the money to buy that computerised optical/led big game scope and rather beautiful magnum .303 sniper rifle with a Moomin 'Whisper' silencer!? And now who is going to get money to pay all the bills?! You?! You only have a paper round! You stupid littl ...

Her vertebrae crumbled as the crossed bullet entered her mouth, hit flesh, and expanded, the same mouth by the way that had spoken his human name 'Wendy' for the first time ever, the bitch! It passed through her neck at the base of her skull, leaving a small entry hole but a large exit hole.

Moomintroll smiled in satisfaction and reloaded ... he then shouted "Hellooooo! Snork Maiden! My darling! Where are youuuu?! It's Moomy! I have a little gift for you! Come and get it!"

And to this day Moominvalley stands beautiful ... only joking. The whole lot has been tarmacked and now sports some fine Moomin shopping centres, and a processed food factory and a Moomin Mahogany Furniture World, with its 365-day extended Boxing Day Sale. There is a 44000-space car park with park and ride, and a train station, just outside of which stands a fantastic gold plated statue of Moominpappa; the whole place is named after him in his honour; Moominpappa's World. Moomintroll is still being questioned by police who insist on calling him Wendy, because they knew his dad who gave them white powder in exchange to beat up any members of the Valley who gave him shit ... so he refuses to answer.

One day Moomintroll escapes after beating the crap out of all the cops and will eventually be played by Jason Statham.

***

FISH ONCE CONSIDERED STUPID TURN OUT TO BE MORE CIVILISED THAN HUMANS.

It's funny that communicating by breaking wind gets herrings considered to be more civilised than humans. Imagine being in a room full of humans talking if they did it by farting .... how marvellous! What would women do, as women don't do such awful, disgusting things?

REST HOME LUBES

Saturday morning, time to go to the supermarket.

I approached the cashpoint and as I did, a little old lady came out of the store. She stopped and started fumbling with her purse. I had almost reached the cashpoint, and as usual, half of Coventry suddenly ran for it from nowhere and there was then a queue. As I stood there behind the line of people, none of which seemed to remember what they had come to the thing for, so they stood thinking hard about which button to press. But, I'm patient, but patient in the correct way ... I began to observe the little old lady, instead of cursing the people in front of me; as you do. I noticed her trolley contents. It was a half sized one and was jam packed with cardboard carriers full of booze. Being a bit of a photographer of things unusual, this to me was fantastic, refreshing, enlivening ... and I don't usually take my camera shopping, and I did the usual photographer thing and cursed myself. She really looked like she should be in a rest home. I went over to her and said, " That's the best filled shopping trolley I've ever seen."

She looked at me and smiled....she replied, "You ought to try pushing the fucking thing."

She didn't say ought, so don't worry about it. I thought...' blues in the rest home tonight', because, of course, blues anagrams to lubes, and there would be plenty of mind lubes later on no doubt.

For that moment, she was the best cottontop I've met yet.

THE LIGHTBULB

(This storey was written before LED bulbs!)

Lightbulb! Lightbulb! Burning Bright!

What makes you glow? All day, all night?

You must be happy, to shine so true

Is there nothing here to make you blue?

Like a friend, you're always there

To make the darkness seem less 'bare'

But, sadly, I know, come one day

Your shining light will go away

And then replace you, I must do

To then befriend, some lightbulb new.

It was 5 p.m. on a cold winters afternoon. The house was quiet, but warm, as the central heating had hummed into life an hour earlier. Pete hung there in the kitchen. It was nearly time for the routine evening shift to begin, as it wouldn't be long now until the owners were back with the children. It isn't 'too' taxing a life being a lightbulb.

At long last, a car pulled up into the driveway. Doors opened and chomped closed, children's voices, parent's voices, excited relief at being home again. The key went into the front door and the family entered the dark, silent house.

Click! Burt lit up in the hallway.

Click! Jennifer... living room.

Click! Simon... stairs.

Click! Lisa... toilet, bathroom.

Click! The all-important coffee! Pete... kitchen.

Finally,... Click! Click!... Helen and George... kid's bedrooms.

Pete hung there glowing incandescently, banishing the darkness to the far side of the garden. The darkness (as per usual) was unable to resist the light, and it was forced to site the night out beyond its aura, which spilled out over the grass in the projected shape of a long window; just licking the sides of the shed; before disappearing in the branches of the resting apple tree. He hoped the owner wouldn't pull down Ian, 'the kitchen blind' for a few moments more; because he wanted to carry on looking at the bright bulb across the back gardens; he didn't know her name; but he did know that he loved her. She hung there very elegantly, wearing her formal lead crystal chandelier dress. Pete had fallen in love with her at first sight. She had replaced some grumpy looking, obviously faulty, 50-watt dropout, who had insisted on sending flickeringly 'obscene' Morse code to him. Pete was quite a bright bulb really, 100-watt standard. He sensed that she was 100 watts too, judging by her 'glowing' smile... And! She was a peach, soft tone! Ohhhh so very, very beautiful!

Julie hung in the cosy living room. Ever since she had seen Pete glowing way, she knew that she wanted to be with him. It had been love at first sight for her too. BUT; being soft tone, and wearing such a splendid dress, 'dripping' with lead crystal, she hoped that he would not be 'put off', by thinking that she was from a wealthy, upper class roots; and therefore, out of his league? The worst part of the night for both bulbs, although neither suspected 'both', was at the closing of her owner's curtains, or Pete's owner's blind. They both yearned for early evening the next day.

Some weeks later, they had been staring lovingly along the same sight line for hours, but felt like minutes... when, Julies' owner began to pull the curtains together. She grew sad as twins Cecil and Harry's velvet sides came close to meeting. But that sadness was nothing compared to the 'shock horror' which then struck...A second before the velvet touched... Pete's glowing filament... snapped! The kitchen was plunged into darkness. Julie paused for a while; until she realised what she'd just seen. The tears which followed were real, but in this physical reality, they appeared only as illusions on the shiny surface of her glass (invisible to unaware humans). It was crisis time for Pete. His life as a working bulb was all, over! He watched his male owner, a reflection on a large convex eye, start to get bigger as he climbed on a chair... to change Pete. The hand went from small to huge as it wrapped its fingers around Pete's strong, yet delicate body. The careful fingers removed Pete from the socket, which he had called home for so long. He was then shaken, until a piece of his snapped tungsten wire broke off and went bouncing around the inside of his inert body. The owner's eardrum confirmed this fact.

"It's blown." said the owner to his wife, "I'll replace it, have we got a spare one in the cupboard." His wife handed him the new bulb and took Pete.

She placed Pete carefully on the kitchen top, where he rolled around in a small closed circle, with a slight bayonet pin limp. Then, to his horror, the owner walked past him (small LARGE small) with a 150 watt, male, soft tone, white finish! His lady was bound to fall for this muscular replacement. Pete became very depressed and readied himself for a life on the refuse dump. The man lifted him, and the world went dark, as he was placed in a black polythene bag called Norman. Norman, although a bag of few thoughts, sympathised with him.

Sometime later, Pete woke abruptly, to find himself being tipped unceremoniously, into somewhere? Which was again very dark. He heard the chinks as he bounced. He closed his eyes and placed his imaginary face into a grimacing smile, bracing himself for breakage and the end, but it didn't happen. There was a small rectangular opening through which he had fallen, and with the silver sliver of light which managed to creep through, he could make out other curved shapes around him. It didn't take him long to realise that he wasn't going to the dump after all. He was off to the recycling plant. Oh no! He thought, from a lightbulb to beer bottle, how unromantic. He missed his light lady terribly; her inert heart ached.

One day, there was a lot of noise outside the dark room. Banging and crashing, followed by a jerk! Everybody in the dark room began to vibrate and rattle together as the panic of change set in. An engine roared! with angry raw power. They began to bump along the road, to... their futures? Again, they were tipped from their temporary home, into a large trolley. This must be the factory?! It was warm. This was it! What would he be next? The thought was frightening. He imagined that whatever it was to be, his heart of gas would always ache for his lost love. The trolley was lifted; Pete and his companions were tipped into the furnace. Again, he survived the fall, landing on top of the pile. The furnace door was half closed. Pete could feel his real, imaginary heart, beating fast with anticipation. He could also hear the conversation outside the furnace.

Man 1: "Is this load ready to be melted yet?"

Man 2: "Hang on, just waiting for Joe, he has the documentation to sign, then we can melt it all down. Ah! Speak of the Devil, here he comes now."

Joe: "Thanks for waiting lads, here's the paperwork. Oh, and while I think on, could I chuck this in as well? It's been lying around the house for ages, kept forgetting to take it to the recycling bin. Funniest thing you know, fine one minute, then just went dim all of a sudden, weird? Thought it was something to do with the electricity? But no, all the other bulbs in the house were fine. Funny eh?"

The door opened, and in rattled and chinked a certain 100 watt peach, soft tone, landing right beside Pete... their imaginary eyes met. As the door closed on the furnace, they held bayonets, both glowing, with electric love.

Fate and destiny being what they are, their bodies and their lightbulb souls merged tin the flowing heat. A small part of them both became part of all the other glass, as it must be... but, they did of course happen to merge beautifully with each other. A lovely triad was formed as solid became liquid. They were, they realised... individuals, two as one, and a singly, magnificent part of the whole.

No glass-blower on earth, possessed the skill to separate them. Humans may do well to realise this (pronto).

Now, in case you're wondering? They both sit, in love, on a windowsill of an idyllic little country cottage, in the form of a special miniature vase. Pete and Julie like to call themselves a warm, friendly, guest house, for small groups of, or single flowers, who regularly call in for a short stay, on passing to their own particular destinies.

A Nice Romantic Man

I wrote this ditty after an old, 'vanished from radar' friend, Jenny, from Sunny Scunthorpe said... "I have a partner! He took me walking the other day. We went to the countryside. He took me to a secret wooded area. There was an old church and graveyard. It was lovely!

***

Yeah right!

Men!

All the bloody same!

All I want is a nice one! Not too much to ask is it God.

It shouldn't be difficult for you. All he has to do is be interested in me and me alone! It would be lovely if he'd throw rose petals in my scented bath (which he ran) just like in American Beauty!

Not much to ask is it?

I deserve it!

***

Time passed (not much of it to be honest) and she met a really nice bloke one night when she was out with friends on a girly night. To cut a longish story short, he asked her out. She said yes. The next day he picked her up from the end of her street and took her out into the countryside. He tool her to a quiet bit that he knew.

***

She walked in the countryside with him, hand in hand; there was plenty of energy in the new romance.

Love was in the air!

Wildlife could sense this.

Birds sang, grasshoppers rasped, and butter-flies just did what they do i.e. flutter by.

They came across a copse.

He said "I've mountain biked here with my friends. I have a surprise for you. Do you like history?"

"Yes!" she replied. She could have thought; because she'd been hurt in the past... (A bloke who has the ability to think! And with muscles! And he's nice! I wonder where his spaceship is?)

They entered the copse.

"No one else comes in here you know, it's a secret place."

Fear shot across her mind but was quickly replaced by gratitude. He was showing it to 'her'! Love! At last. In her head she thanked God, and immediately thought she would tell 'him."

"I've just thanked God for sending you to me." She said, looking into his eyes.

"Oh yeah! I'm an atheist, but ta anyway." He replied, after thinking for a few seconds.

A few seconds later, he led her into a clearing.

"Tra laaaa!" he exclaimed! What do you think?"

"Wooooow! What a wonderful place" she replied; hugging his arm.

"It's quite old" he said... referring to the ruined church.

She screamed in a squeaky manner and gripped his arm tighter.

"What's up?" he asked.

"What was that scream above us in the trees!?" she asked.

He laughed. "That wasn't a scream, it was the cry of a carrion crow... look up."

She did and squinted a little. There were two large black birds in one of the tall trees.

"Oooooh! They're looking at me!" she exclaimed.

"No" he laughed and replied. They nest here each year, and it's spring! Love is in the air ... can't you feel it?"

"Ooooh yessss, she said" hugging him now and kissing his chin.

"Look up again, follow my finger, see their nest?"

Her eyes followed his finger.

"That black thing with sticky out bits? The sticks?" she asked.

"Yes" he replied... chicks in it probably."

"Babies!? How do you know?"

"Because they're both looking for food. All bird chicks are very demanding."

He put his hands round her waist and pushed her gently away and walked on..."Look! Here!" he said.

She looked once more at the crows, who were preening, (she thought them horrible) and then went over to him.

"What?" she asked.

"Gravestones! Wa haaaaa!" He replied." You're stood on 'dead people'!"

"Don't be horrible!" She said. But, really, she was interested.

"I'm going to study these, and she began to look closer. Hey look! 1782 when this woman died. And this one, 1783, buried with her husband. How sad."

He had wandered a few feet away and was looking at the crows again.

"Sorry?" he asked.

"These gravestones ... aren't they old. Why are you staring at those birds?" she asked him.

"Ahhhh. Just watching. I'm in the RSPB you know... the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. They're fascinating. Look over there if you're into old graves, by the edge of that bramble bush."

She walked over, avoiding sticky bramble stalks, and did. There was a large flat gravestone, with a large cross at the head of it.

"Wooow!... 1637! I can't read the slab, it's all faded. Can y......"

The rock (his one and only favourite love) smashed into the side of her head as she turned it to look at him. She fell to the floor, blood quickly gushing from the open wound made by the sharp-edged weapon. The expression on her face was that of a confused Jesus as the first nail went home to mamma. He hit her twice more, until she was still, forsaken by her non-existent maker. The crows just carried on preening, well used to the sight of death; all in a day's crowing actually.

When he was sure she was 'gone' (an expression of non-atheism) he walked to the side of the flag gravestone (made from wood), bent down, and put his fingers under it. With little effort, he lifted it (bot no one looking at it would ever know). It fell with a whooshm onto the floor. No open grave greeted him. No rotted dry corpse. Not a bone!

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

His own special mancave.

He pulled her by the arms and dragged her down the steps. Her head banged on each one... twenty in all. She had stopped bleeding by now, the platelets hadn't realised they were homeless and would soon die and decay ... how sad.

***

In the room below, there was a lorry battery with a cable coming from it. He hit the switch, and a light came on. Kinda dim really, but enough. There were two tree-trunks, both four and a half feet tall, with a large flat gravestone atop of them... his 's-lab'.

He got her on her back on it and stripped her bare. He threw her clothes into a black bin-bag. He went to an old set of drawers in one corner of the room and opened the top one. There was a selection of scalpels, other small instruments and a saw. He would give it a couple of hours to let the blood congeal in the veins; and then he would begin. He took a book out of the drawers and sat on a chair and began to read.

Time passed...

The blood should now be congealed in the veins, so he began:

He put her on a table which he'd used twice already.

Using a scalpel, he cut through her flesh all the way around her neck to the resistance of her neck-bone. Then, using a small saw cut through the neckbone. He then put her head aside while he placed the body in a corner. Then he went to work on the head.

He turned the radio on and whistled to a tune on radio 2.

He then went through the procedure to release the skin from the skull.

When the skull was released from the skin, he put it aside.

He then got out his camping stove and a large pan.

He put the skin in the pan and turned the stove on. It's okay, if that gas bottle ran out he had more. He was aware that the stingy bastards didn't put as much gas as they should in the bottles; but what could you do.

He boiled it for two hours and then turned the stove off.

He then dried it and then filed it with sand and hot stones, and to get rid of the wrinkles in the skin, smoothed the outside with hot stones (he wore gloves).

He then let it dry, it was like a fine leather.

Out of his cupboard he then got his piece de resistance. He had carved a head our of wood, to her measurements (he had studied her skull over time). To cut a long story short, he fitted the skin over the wooden model... it fitted perfectly!

He then got his needle and thread and sewed the eyes and the mouth shut.

The finished product looked like the girl sleeping; perfect!

He then glued a circular wooden base onto it and mounted it onto a polished wood base. The brass plaque said JULIE. He wondered how to make her smile? She looked really nice when she smiled.

He then got a scalpel, and the cutting began. Thin strips. Three inches by one quarter of an inch. He placed them on a tray which he got from the second drawer down. When the flesh was cleared, he cut the bones with a saw, from the third drawer down, and put them in another bin bag.

He was perspiring now so he decided to take a rest. He opened the fourth drawer down (there are five) and took out a Mountain Biking magazine he hadn't yet read, and a torch. He bought them, didn't read them, and put them in the drawer to read whilst resting in the middle of a dissection. That way he didn't get bored. He put the used ones in the bones bin bag; who would know?

Organs? He had a boiling pot heated by a wood fire ... very Hannibal Lecter, but... so what?

Kept him healthy! She was healthy ... and now at least, she would be 'with him' forever ... even after shits. Intestines? Well, he squeezed out the contents into the bones bin bag, and then gave them to a 'friend' of his who made very popular sausages skins.

The skulls? Well, he first de-brained them and then boiled them at his home. These were sold with candles within to Goth shops in London. It was better than working! Christ! All you had to be was romantic! Romance paid his bills.

He got his tray and covered it in meat strips. He then opened the fifth drawer and removed the contents. Taking all this equipment, he then climbed to the surface again, and called:

"Goldie! Bill! Food!"

The crows dropped from the trees and landed on the gravestone cross he was stood by (their old poo on it said it was their favourite landing place), and he fed them the girl... some of it they took for their hungry chicks. He then walked out of the copse and onto the grassy bank. He put on the leather glove and tied some meat he'd saved onto the end of the leather string. He then, lasso like, waved it in a large circle around his head.

"Jenny! Jenny! Come on girl!"

The Kestrel caught the bait... and feasted.

It made a made a change from shrews.

He made four more visits to his lair until the head was dried and ready. He put it with the other two from the small bedside cupboard he had bought from a second-hand shop. These three lovely ladies would go on the private shelves of private collectors; and bring a 'good' price. They were a special group of people, ghouls he'd found on the Dark Net; they paid excellent money for the right product.

***

The next day, he took the bin bags to the tip and threw them into the incinerator... then went to feed his pets again... before the body started to rot.

One week later, he went out for a drink, and met a lovely girl... she was single.

"How would you like to go for a nice walk in the country with me tomorrow?"

"Oh! I'd love that!" she replied.

He seemed such a nice romantic man.

FAMOUS WITCHES

There have been quite a few which have graced both the small and the large screen and the stage. The Wicked Witch from the Wizard of Oz, the Witches of Eastwick, the one from Hansel and Gretel, Roald Dahl's Witches, Grotbags, and probably quite a few more. I wanted my own, a new kid on the block ... and, as per usual, she turned up when I wasn't thinking about her.

I was browsing on My Space, when I came across a possibly interesting 47 year old lady called Grandma H, from up North. I went to read her profile, and my computer locked up ... a 'ctrl alt delete' jobby. Ok Granny, you're obviously a witch. Thanks for the trigger and the inspiration. What evil can she possibly do? Ah yes!

Juicy cruelty to the vulnerable. I'll call her ...

GRANNY FLATTS

Granny Flatts was one of those old women who looked like a witch and lived in a big gothic mansion. Granny Flatts though, 'was' in'deed' (and word ... and definitely thought) a witch.

The word 'witch' means 'Wise Woman'. Witches started out as herbalist healers, and most probably Pagus, or 'Pagans', (Earth People); not in an Earthman/alien sense, but in a sense of living with the earth i.e. knowing which toxic chemicals to use to encourage growth and poison feed the masses. Some though, used a bastardisation of the Pagan 'and killed animals and buried them in 'bless' the earth' rituals to cast 'spells'... vibrational essences that move on a psychic level to 'negatively' effect another human, should the other human believe it on many a hallowed evening.

Granny Flatts was an original 'wart on the nose' witch, an ugly evil old cow. This was of course due to early childhood abuse which had gone on through the years with boyfriends, husbands, and even a girlfriend she had had, and loved, who put her down all the time destroying her self-worth. Granny Flatts (it was actually Mavis Flatts), as all the locals called her, did actually have grandchildren, which she never saw, because her daughter wouldn't bring them anywhere near her. Of course, the local kids were all scared of her too, as is always the case, as they didn't want to be turned into anything nasty with four or more legs.

One day Granny Flatts looked at her finance books. She had been quite good with money, and had invested well, but the credit crunch had hit her right in her 'broomstick sore' ass; she had a bike and a broomstick, and no, she rode neither through the air ET wasn't real. She wondered what to do, and as she did so, her snow-white cat, 'Cemetery', rubbed against her legs, purring. She bent down and stroked her head, and two sets of emerald green eyes looked understandingly into each other.

"Cemetery go catch and torture something, I need to think."

Understanding her, Cemetery made her way out of the house, and perused the overgrown orchard garden, looking for apple and pear scrumping kids; mice and stuff bored her, and kids actually screamed as her claws mentally ripped into their cherubic faces.

Cem was so glad she was white and not traditional black, because the blood looked much better on white fur, and made it easier to see when she licked cleaned herself. Cem was a clean cat, and the blood tasted, to her, like marmite would taste to you.

Granny Flatts looked in her larder, it was bare! Except for one almost 'bare' ham hock bone. She didn't have a dog, and so she threw it over the high wall for the neighbour's dog, but, there was a smash as it went through the greenhouse. It was ok though, the neighbours wouldn't say anything to her as they were scared to death of her, and they didn't fancy being turned into hairy four (or more) legged nasties either. However. It was time to go shopping. She went into her cupboard and got out her shopping trolley. It was one of those big, red, four wheeled ones, the bag bit held in place by a chromed cage ... the ones that look like that shark cage in Jaws. Anyway. Off she trundled to the supermarket

In the Supermarket:

She trundled even more around the supermarket, putting this and that into her sizeable shopping trolley. People who knew of her obnoxious self gave her a wide berth, or, if they saw her coming up an aisle and they were coming in the opposite direction, they changed direction and missed the aisle out. She hissed at them and gave them dirty looks and waved her hand spellfully in their direction.

Funnily enough, it was only the pensioners who weren't bothered by her? Why was that? Did they identify? Well, they identified with her image wise, because she looked like them; and they all had shopping trolleys. The one difference was that their brains had packed in with the loss of their minds years ago, and now all they did was/all they had to do was ... shopping. Yes, her age counterparts were in their hundreds, nay thousands, nay millions and unlike her; brain dead. Their minds had moved on into the great infinity to begin new lives in new bodies ... while ... their bodies carried on with less than great determination, unawares that this had happened. The rich people who ran rest homes, waited, circling in the air ... their next pieces of profitable flesh would be ready for some 'rest home fun'.

Two Chinese Students:

Two young students who didn't know her, but were experts on pollution and killing Tibetans, because they were from China walked past her, they laughed, and one said "Look, her trolley is big enough for people to live in!"

This made Mavis's ears prick up. 'Hmmm she thought, a way to beat the credit crunch and thrive!'

If the MPs had heard her they would have had hired assassins out to kill her.

The Tape Measure:

She trundled home, emptied her shopping trolley, and got her tape measure out ... 'ha haaaa!' Pound signs flew around her head like lovely cawing crows. She then rang a local joiner, and ordered the pieces of wood she would need, and the local doll house shop for the rest of the necessaries. She had the stuff delivered, because her bunions were playing up, and one of her hips were sore from the walk to the supermarket, but, never mind, she could make a 'fix a hip in 10 hour tincture'... all she needed were her spell book and some cute puppy dogs eyes, and a bat, and there were plenty of them hanging around in her mansion's loft... she would net a couple.

Flats in a Trolley?:

After all the goods were delivered, she set about converting her shopping trolley into flats, 8 in all. Each one would have 3 windows i.e. kitchen, bedroom, and living room. She cut the windows out with a Stanley knife, and luckily, the way the wires crossed on the chromed cage, the windows were easy to cut and, they had lovely silver frames. She stuck pieces of acetate plastic on the insides. The floors and dividing walls were built from quarter ply, and the rest of the decorating and furnishing was done with gear from the doll's house supplies shop.

Perfect.

Next. How to get tenants? Yes! How to get loads of tenants, and help save England in the process?

Her intuitive mind, which was still lodging with her, sorted it out in a second.

Ha haaaaaa!

She made a sign for the luxury flats.

GRANNY FLATTS

LUXURY

GRANNY FLATS

(Granddads welcome too)

She also made this into a card, and paid two English students who didn't know her, to hand them out She even put a spell on them just in case they took her pound coin and binned the cards. "If the students I pay to hand these out for me bin them, may they receive no grant money! Wa ha ha haaaaaaa!"

Also, on the card were some instructions reminding the pensioners that there was such tech **loony** gy as telephones, and how to use them to call her, and, why 'not' to put their stash of farthings and florins in the coin slots as they jammed them ... use real up to date money, your pensions you worked so hard for for God knows how many years aren't all that bad. And for £200.00 a week, all in, including food; that wasn't bad.

It wasn't long until Mavis's gothic door knocker went clonkkk k k k clonkkk k k k (echo), and when she opened the door, there were a sea of dazed looking cottontops staring at her. "We've come for the flats."

Mavis was amazed, but she could only take 8, and she had to turn the rest away. But, her mind spun, and she told them to come back in four days, and to bring anyone else who was after a bit of luxury to come along.

Okay then, how to get 8 full grown people ... sorry, 'pensioners' into a shopping trolley?

Easy. A 2-foot half circle miniaturisation spell around the door, and the rest of the spell to hang around in the flats. As she handed them their keys, she told them to just walk to the door 'dear' or 'granddad' and keep walking. As they stepped into the half circle, they immediately reduced to one inch in size, and went into their respective flat.

Perfect!

***

It all went well. When it got cold at night, all Mavis did was put a hairdryer fitted with a flexible tube into the heating hole at the bottom of the flats and turn it on for a while.

Mavis worked like a champion over the next 3 days in preparation for the fourth. She bought 1000 shopping trolleys and fitted them out, this time with ten flats each (ok, the ceilings were a little lower, but that made minor difference) and put them in rows in her huge gothic dining room, and all the city's pensioners that turned up as if by magic, she housed them. She soon had a thriving community, with the minimum of moaning, except during flat committee meetings ... but, it was quite high pitched, and she had thick walls, so she didn't have to listen.

Food and drink?

5 large pans of oxtail soup a day, 8 chickens, 95 chips, and 8 pots of tea.

***

Suddenly, the City was empty of pensioners? Bus drivers rejoiced! Shopkeepers rejoiced. But, there were also negative effects, well ok, two ... manufacturers of blue rinse went bust, and meals on wheels nearly went bust, but found that they could sell their steaks to the shoesole industry; yes, I said shoesole. Arsehole is the toilet roll industry?

Mavis then came out with plan 2 ... she franchised, and people in all cities filled houses with the special shopping trollies.

Quickly followed by plan 3.

She wrote to the old folk's rest homes asking if they wanted some early admissions.

The sick pensioners sometimes tried to leave the flats to seek help in Britain's overfilled with 'healthy people' (well, they were before the side effects) hospitals. But, Mavis had a plan, and a spell.

She asked Cemetery, who was bored, to pick the pensioner up directly as they left the flat and were still in the 'miniature spell zone', and, if Cem did this, the pensioner would remain small, and then Cem could take them and torture every twentieth one, before dispatch.

Mavis could then add them to the soup ... who would know?

But. Plan 3.

Mavis wrote a great letter to the old folks' homes.

Dear old folks' home.

I hold all the pensioners in blah de blah city. I keep them in shopping trolleys, a rather special one with four wheels so it doesn't tip. What if I supplied you with them, full size (I also have a useful spell which helps me) so that you can look after them properly? If you charged the same as me, the families wouldn't complain I don't think? You could have some good wholesome fun with the infirm as their minds pack in, as you do ... you know, behind closed doors ... ????

Yours truly

Mavis Flatts

Seeing the potential for fun and anger cruelty, the managers of the homes contacted Mavis, and took pensioners off her ... oh what fun! Mavis became rich, again, and toured, giving talks to politicians, especially on how to save on the unneeded extra heating money given out during the Winter.

The story of Cem isn't so successful. She caught and tortured to death many pensioners; and then gave them to Mavis as gifts, Ahhhh! (Which she turned into pâté).

But she, Cem, one day ... fell asleep on the job. Mavis found her that evening, dead, with her paws tied together, and a walking stick shoved way up her ass (the rubber end...whoever it was did try the curved end; but it was a no-go).

Mavis's only suspicion was that the pensioners had grown large again while Cem slept, tied her legs together as she blissfully chased mice in dreamland. When she awoke, they talked 'terrible weather' to her, which she will have understood (spell), which will have driven her insane, and caused voluntary self-euthanasia by pure mind power. During this moaning 'met' onslaught, they would have had cruel 'fun' with the walking stick. In fact, Mavis hoped that that was the only bit of dying pleasure Cem received, and the only doubt she had about that, was induced by the rubber end on the stick, which she saw on removal ... that may possibly have been painful? (those rubber ends have a lot to answer for) Then they would have become small again.

Where they had got the terrible weather info? Well, even Mavis couldn't work that one out, as they didn't have radios or TVs, which pissed most of them off.

Mavis cried as she slowly, removed the walking stick from Cem's ass, and ... it was covered in a clear jelly like substance??? Where had they got that?

As she did this, all the windows of the flats were full of staring faces. Mavis shouted "Right! That's it! You all ... diiiiieeee! Ha! Haaaaaa! I'm turning the heat off and spending your cold allowance on whisky!

And then, she thought of the excellent income from her now thousands of inmates, countrywide ...

and she also thought ... "Well, I can get another cat."

***

Mavis was given an award by the government for paying so much tax, and at the same time, giving a one-million-pound gift to the ruling party. She was told, by the Prime Minister, on camera, in public; that because of her, the economy would gain strength and Britain would NOW 'thrive'.

It also proved that money is much, much more important than pensioners.

The government are RIGHT!

If your town or city is crawling with cotton-topped blue rinsed useless old people, and you would therefore like to take out a Mavis Flatts Granny Flatts Shopping Trolley franchise ...

Just joking (some of my best friends are useless old cotton tops).

The End
