Why don't you publish that sir?

The Bridge: Estuary Noir Style.

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 18:28:00 +0000

Inspired by the successful English language version of Wallander, I wondered if there was a market for an update of my favourite Scandi drama of last year. Inspiration came from a Bank Holiday visit to the concrete and glass permatanned hell that is Bluewater Shopping Centre, and the view from the approach road.

I've even given it the theme tune https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vy7yuj-UrNI

Enjoy!

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(SFX: Mobile Phone Ringtone- Spring from The Four Seasons)

Pipe: Yes! Pipe here! Better be good it’s nearly 3 in the morning. What? A Body? On the Bridge? Surely that’s Essex Constabulary? In the middle you say? Exactly on the middle? Stop the traffic and get me clearance to come over the wrong way! Be there in twenty.

(Atmospheric theme music as Pipe drives down scenic Kentish lanes before hitting the joyless industrial estates of Dartford, and onto the bridge)

Pipe: DI Pipe. Kent Constabulary. Who is the senior officer here, it looks like a circus. Get these rubberneckers out of the way.

Lane: That will be me babes! DI Lane, Essex Constabulary. We prefer first names on our side hun!

Pipe: And you are?

Lane: Fantine!

Pipe: Ah! Your parents were fans of the classic work by Victor Hugo.

Lane: Nah! Some bloke shagged my mum up against the bins round the back of the Bingo Hall after she was off her tits on Fanta and Malibu. Nine months later out I pop. She named me after what caused me!

Pipe: What a beautiful story?

Lane: Fantine Teniqua Beyonce Malibu Lane! But you can call me Fanny!

Pipe: Fanny Lane! Hmm!

Lane: And you are?

Pipe: Gordon. As in the gin!

Lane: Oh you should see me after a few gins at Sugarhut babe. Five of those and I’m anybody’s!

Pipe: Charming, I’m sure.

Lane: So was your mum off her face on Gordon’s when your Dad banged her?

Pipe: Some children are actually conceived in a conventional loving relationship.

Lane: Not round here babe! Sorry! Gordon!

Pipe: Let’s just stick to Pipe and Lane shall we? Now where is this body?

Lane: Right here! Not been touched yet.

Pipe: Bizarrely dressed I would say!

Lane: Seems quite normal to me!

Pipe: Not surprisingly (To self) Note this down! You can write can’t you?

Lane: And you are in charge because?

Pipe: Because the head is on my side! On the Kent side!

Lane: Ah get you now hun!

Pipe: Subject would appear to be male judging by the haircut and the Hollister top. Over-priced designer brands for the local youths. Some sort of tribal tattoo along the right arm. Would you agree Lane?

Lane: No I’m guessing it’s a female victim. Velour tracksuit. Faked Chanel. Designer label trainers also counterfeit, and a tattoo with ‘Marc 4 me 4 eva!’ around the ankle. Besides I’ve already looked down the pants. Tiny thong and no meat and two veg. we’ve got a babe, babe!

Pipe: Unless it’s a hermaphrodite!

Lane: Come again Guv!

Pipe: A Lady-Boy! A she-male!

Lane: We get them down the Hut all the time. My ex had one hell of a surprise after one session. Didn’t stop him though, dirty little bleeder.

(SFX: Mobile Phone Ringtone- Mr Lover Man)

Lane: That’s him now! Babes! How ya doing? No! How, not who! Dirty bugger! Can’t really talk now, I’m on a job! No! Not on the job! And no not on the … Am you wonder why I left you! See ya!

Pipe: Can we get on with it?

Lane: That’s what he said! Why do you keep touching your goolies? You’re not one of those doggers are you?

Pipe: No! I’ve recently had a delicate operation … downstairs.

Lane: What? In the living room?

Pipe: No! Below!

Lane: In the wine cellar! I know you’ve got posh houses in Kent.

Pipe: For God’s sake I’ve had a bloody vasectomy and my bollocks are really sore! And the last thing I need is mindless drivel, so if you don’t mind! The Body!

Lane: OK! Sore point! I’ll do the head! And don’t give me that look!

Pipe: I wouldn’t dream! OK feet for me as you’ve already done that end of things! I’m just going to remove these shoes. One and two and … AAARGH!! What is this? It’s bleeding still. Constable- an arc light over here now!!

Lane: AAARGH!! Me too! All over my hands! It feels like brain matter!

Pipe: We are looking at a violent assault! Multiple causes of death! Where is that bloody arc light?

Lane: Pipe! How long has blood been orange?

Pipe: What do you mean? It has the feel of congealed blood.

Lane: It’s not blood you Muppet! It is a case of too much fake tan paste! They never rub it in properly! Why do you think their legs are so streaky?

Pipe: Because they had wet themselves when drunk out of their skulls?

Lane: Well there is that as well! But what about me? I’ve got this brain gunk all over my hands! Was he beaten to death?

Pipe: That isn’t brain matter! It’s an excess of hair product! Good God! It is dripping from your hands! How much has this boy used?

Lane: What do you mean?

Pipe: Never dated a Dartford boy?

Lane: Never shagged beyond Brentwood mate!

Pipe: They all have it! Go to Bluewater on a windy day and any male under twenty four doesn’t have a hair out of place. The rest of us have been dragged through several hedges backwards. And the real reason for the smoking ban in clubs wasn’t for the smoke. One discarded match in the wrong direction and WOOF!! The whole lot would have gone up!

Lane: Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

Pipe: Essex girls think? (SFX- Slap) They think!

Lane: Two bodies! Not one!

Pipe: Up with the top! Down with the tracksuit!

Lane: There! Cut across the middle and placed together! Symmetrical!

Pipe: Asymmetrical! Can’t you tell this script was written by a teacher?

Lane: Yeah! Bloody peasant!

Pipe: Pedant!

Lane: That’s the one!

Pipe: You know what Lane?

Lane: What?

Pipe: We aren’t looking at a crime of passion! We are looking at a crime against fashion!

(Fades into theme tune as both gaze balefully into the middle distance- to the oil refineries of Canvey Island or to the marshes of Gravesend where Magwitch emerged to threaten young Pip in Great Expectations, depending upon your cultural preferences)

Strictly Political Dancing

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 17:15:00 +0000

No new sketch this week- so irritated by last week's lack of interest from the Beeb- but much pleased at the response from my readership. And as one of my 'fans' says, 'keep your own voice'- so here is something I put together last October- hence not quite so topical! Worth a read nonetheless.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Music: Strictly Come Dancing Theme

Bruce: Please welcome our next couple to the dance floor, doing the Viennese Waltz David Cameron and his partner Nick Clegg!

Polite applause

Music: (in waltz time): If you don’t know me by now

Music fades down so we hear their conversation.

Nick: David, you’re treading on my toes!

David: No Nick, you’re treading on my toes!

Nick: David, you’ve been treading on my toes constantly during this competition. I wonder if you actually know in which direction you are going!

David: I’m going to the right!

Nick: No! Here we need to go to the centre! (Huffs) There we go!

David: And we will keep this centre position until … now (Huffs) Back in the correct direction now.

Nick: We need to go the centre now! (Huffs) For the vote on the green tax. And now to the right for the tuition fees. (Huffs) And now a left for the vote on AV! (Huffs)

David: And back to the right for the EU debate. (Huffs)

Music finishes

Bruce: If you don’t know David by now Nick you’ll never … wait for it… you’ll never ever know him at all! (Polite groans) Bruno! Over to you first!

Bruno: Nic-o-las! I am-a so sorry for-a you! If you had been-a in-a Italy you-a would-a have-a been-a completely going-a to-a the right!

Craig: Daaarrrling! I couldn’t have agreed more! It seems to me Nick that you can’t decide if you need to direct to the left or to the right, and when you do one decides and the other goes elsewhere. Your footwork is all over the place, and David the timing of your decisions relates to events and not to the music!

Darcey: Yah! Totally! You know! Whatever!

Craig: A complete dis-ar-star!

Len: Well it’s all very good looking very pretty isn’t it but I could see no direction, no style, no substance. Lots of fancy twirls and twists, but it’s not strictly dancing you know. No chance of a SEV-ERN between the four of us.

David: Oh don’t bring that … (fades)

Swedish AAA Meatballs!

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 08:20:00 +0000

Another week, another no show of my scripts on Newsjack. There has been a lot of criticism directed at the programme for not really having unpublished writers; and in fact they admit as much themselves! Not always quality either! Judge for yourselves here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b01qyrz9/Newsjack_Series_8_Episode_3/

Well the BBC's loss is my readership's gain I suppose!

Personally I think this is one of the tightest pieces I have done. Enjoy

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AAA Rating Sketch

Justin: The major economic news this week was of course the downgrading of the UK’s credit rating from the blue chip AAA rating to the lesser AA1 rating, which probably translates to tea and biscuits in Cabinet meetings being bought from the essentials range rather than the luxury selection at Harrod’s. But on a more serious note, how does the UK get back to the top level of credit rating? Especially with a country like Sweden with a sixth of our population and natural resources that seem to be based around pine forests and elk farming holding the top rating. To help me answer these questions I have with me the economist Professor Anna Svensson of the University of Uppsala. Professor Svensson, welcome.

Anna: (In well-spoken but ever so slightly exaggerated Swedish accent) Justin (pause) Please call me Anna.

Justin: Thank you Anna. Now tell me on such limited natural resources, how does Sweden sustain one of the best standards of living in the Western world, and manage to fund full state pensions for all and allow for a full years maternity and paternity leave for new parents.

Anna: Well. (pause) Justin. (pause) You mention my country’s natural resources but omitted our supplies of iron ore, much of which is used to build those big, square cars which seem to be so enamoured of your middle classes. Our pine forests we use to supply much of Europe with self-assembly furniture named after Astrid Lindgren characters. And the elk; (pause) yes it is used in the food chain. Where do you think those Swedish meatballs come from?

Justin: Well at least it isn’t horse meat. But those are all based on sales. What about when the markets contract. You do have to import most of your fresh fruit and vegetables because of your poor soils and short growing seasons.

Anna: Ah! The English education system’s obsession with the Vikings. They didn’t wear horned helmets as you all think, but did come for food supplies. There may have been some accidental slaughtering and pillaging, but that was all securely invested. Can you imagine the compound interest since the eighth century?

Justin: So the strength of the Swedish economy is based upon the wealth stolen from Anglo-Saxon monasteries.

Anna: No! (pause) There is much more! (pause) For example, have you seen the cost of a pint of your English beer in a bar in Stockholm?

Justin: £12! £12! The most expensive Stag party I have ever attended!

Anna: Also the many millions of pounds that you spent on Sven-Goran Erikkson taking your English football team to a succession of quarter finals were invested immediately into our herring industry.

Justin: But surely one person’s cultural impact doesn’t secure an entire nation’s economic well-being.

Anna: Think again Justin! Have you read the Millennium Trilogy!

Justin: I have. Along with twenty million other people.

Anna: And no doubt you have heard the rumours of a fourth book on Stieg Larsson’s laptop which his girlfriend has in a safe.

Justin: I have. (pause) Where is this leading?

Anna: There are in fact another seventeen volumes in safe storage in the vaults of the Royal Bank. To be released at six monthly in times of dire economic need. The Girl Who Licked the Wombat’s Armpit. The Girl Who Played With Her Food. Not the most inspiring of titles and not his best work I am sure but the franchise effect will pay dividends. I myself am composing a book entitled Fifty Shades of Sven, in which a young girl is compelled to construct a Smorgasbord for every home game played by the national football team.

Justin: And if Mr Larsson’s work has lost its appeal?

Anna: Justin. I can imagine your younger self dancing to the music of our greatest cultural export, Abba!

Justin: I may in my youth have gyrated to Dancing Queen.

Anna: Like many people you probably believe that Agnetha Fältskog has been in self-imposed seclusion for the last thirty years. Whereas in fact she and the Norwegian one have been recording songs in secret for decades, in case our nation needs to bail out some lesser economies. (pause) Such as your own.

Justin: I feel you have more to reveal to me.

Anna: Yes! If the world is on the brink of financial meltdown, we can call upon our brave dwarves and elves who have been mining under the Skanderna Mountains for two millennia, and have a supply of gold, rubies, emeralds and diamonds guarded by a fearsome dragon.

Justin: Now you are just being silly!

Anna: Justin (pause) that was just our famous Swedish sense of humour. We do have one other secret weapon though; known and loved by millions who has been securing our financial stability for nearly forty years.

Justin: And that would be?

Swedish Chef: Bir-de-bir-de-birr-de-bir-de-birr-bup-bup-bup!

Justin: Professor Anna Svensson; thank you!

School Dinners Horse Race Sketch

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 22:23:00 +0000

This was my submission to BBC Radio 4 Extra's Newsjack this week. I was fortunate to have tickets. And they didn't use it!! So for my loyal reader, Arthur in Cheltenham, I hope the scarring heals by the weekend.

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Clare Balding: (or at least a sound-alike) Welcome to Cheltenham for the 12:50 Race: the School Dinner Stakes. A highly anticipated and controversial race after the hullabaloo of recent weeks. What are the latest odds? Over to Tarquin Pompous-Overdresser!

Tarquin P-O: Thank you Clare; a woman with a body to die for.

Clare: And I’m driving the hearse! Get on with it!

Tarquin P-O: A lively filly no doubt! We have Lamb Kofta widely fancied at eight to one. A lively little number: closely followed by Sausage Casserole at tens and Turkey Twizzler at twelve to one. A couple of tasty options there but for those with a fancy for the unknown we have Unspecified Moulding at a most generous two hundred and fifty to one. Punters with long memories will recall if they had a shilling or two on Foinavon. Popularly known as Scragg End in his stables! The hardened hacks however are piling their pennies on Shepherd’s Pie, best turned out horse in the paddock today with a £100 bonus for his stable lad, young Oliver James.

Clare: Thanks Tarquin! The runners and riders are at the tape. Peter O’Toolivan will run down the start for us.

Peter: (well spoken, slightly strained voice) Yes Clare, Shepherd’s Pie looking splendid here at the start. Looking quite imperious. Turkey Twizzler looking a little unsettled there, Lamb Kofta alongside. The starter Major James Tightly-Belted-Raincoat is there on his rostrum, the flag is raised and THEY’RE OFF!! Tucked in early on the rails is Sausage Casserole. Just behind is Turkey Twizzler and one of the outsiders Beef Lasagne. Beef Lasagne still holding his ground there, Lamb Kofta tucked in behind as they approach the first fence. And they are all over. No! No! I was mistaken there. A refusal! A refusal for Greasy Cheeseburger! No surprise there he’s had few takers this season. The field keeping well tucked together here as we cross the Melling Road for the first time as I hand over to Michael O’Herliherliherlihy.

Michael: (In excitable and highly stereotypical, slightly high-pitched Irish accent) Beef Lasagne taking over at the front there, Shepherd’s Pie still looking comfortable, keeping out of trouble. Trailing a long way behind is Non-Meat Option, looking very lonely over there on the far side. Coming up fast on the inside there is Chilli Meatballs as we approach Becher’s for the first time. Chilli Meatballs up, over, and stumbles on the other side and Chilli Meatballs all over the place. Cottage Pie brought down with her there. Stable mate of Shepherd’s Pie. Very difficult to tell them apart unless you’re a regular punter. A couple more fallers there too. Lamb Kofta looking very heavy a few lengths behind the field, dragging and sticking in the heavy ground. It’s over the Melling Road again and back over to Peter O’Toolivan.

Peter: Non-Meat Option has been withdrawn and we have four horses still in with a shout of becoming steaks. Sorry, I meant wining the Stakes. Shepherd’s Pie still looking very comfortable on the shoulder of Sausage Casserole. Turkey Twizzler and Beef Lasagne in the centre of the course there running stride for stride as we approach The Chair. Two loose horses running ahead of the field. Looks like Glue Pot and Dog’s Breakfast who unseated their riders at Becher’s. Disaster for Shepherd’s Pie. Dog’s Breakfast has pulled up in front and Shepherd’s Pie is gone. Sausage Casserole goes with him, its chaos at the Chair! Beef Lasagne and Turkey Twizzler are gone too and through the mayhem comes Unspecified Moulding. There are no other horses running. Unspecified Moulding is the only choice left, the two hundred and fifty to one outside. All he needs to do is to keep upright over the last and the run in. His trainer had no real hope thinking he was a little undercooked for this race, but what a story, an incredible fairytale. It’s Foinavon all over again. The crowd are on their feet. It’s unspecified Moulding who is going to win the School Dinner Stakes. Just the last to go. He’s gone! He’s gone! Unspecified Moulding is a faller at the last! He’s gone down! (SFX Profuse and Violent Vomiting) No! He’s back up again! Unspecified Moulding is up and all over the place but still going, staggering now but he’s over the line. The Winner of the School Dinner Stakes! What a story!

Christmas Shopping Crisis

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Wed, 26 Dec 2012 09:12:00 +0000

Jocasta has sent Horatio to get the Christmas food shopping from the classy supermarket one would expect. However not all goes to plan!

+++++++++++++++

'Jocasta! Darling it's me! I can't get through the tunnel to the supermarket. There's been an accident. I could go the long way!'

'Horatio, don't do that it will take an age. Jonquil and Dido will be here in two hours, and they've got Uncle Rupert with them. He's 96 and not written his will yet. Worth a squillion, so we have to impress him! Where are you?'

'On the road through that dreadful industrial estate!'

'You are going to have to go into that big supermarket on the left.'

'You mean the one the poor people go to! And the working classes!'

'It does well enough for that couple three doors down. They seem to find everything they need.'

'Those bloody teachers! Always got to be down with the people!'

'Well it's that or nothing Horatio, and if Christmas doesn't happen I will be making sure there is one little chipolata on a plate!'

'OK darling, what ever you say, but keep in the phone. You are going to have to guide me through this one.'

'Go to the parent and child spaces. You have got Spartacus with you haven't you?'

'Oh yes he is in the back! Hang on though. There are some real ruffians there with buckets and sponges. What are they up to?'

'They want to clean your windscreen for a ridiculous amount of money with dirty water that has been hanging around all day. Just walk past them!'

'Doing that darling. Oh they have the most ghastly Liverpudlian accents! I don't suppose they've seen a 4x4 where they come from unless it says 'Police' on the roof!'

'Keep your voice down Horatio! Unless you want your wheels stolen or something dreadful left on the back seat.'

'I'm going in now. It looks like the fruit and vegetables are straight ahead. They have no kumquats! Can you believe no kumquats!'

'Well look for mandarins, or clementines! Something vaguely orange coloured!'

'Like this woman in the shell suit in front of me! I think I can see most of the vegetables. What is that Spartacus? You need a pooh? Not now please! Oh too late, but at least it might mask the smell of the great unwashed!'

'Head for the butchery aisle next. We need veal cutlets! And lamb shanks.'

'Excuse me my good man! Can you tell me where I might find the veal? It is meat. No it's young cow! Never mind! Lamb shanks? No. I am unfamiliar with 90s gangsta rappers myself. More of a Mozart man if you see how I'm hanging!'

'Try the frozen section if you get desperate!'

'I'm heading to the drinks now. Oh Spartacus don't squirm! You are quite pungent aren't you. Have you been at mummy's lentil rissoles again? Is it unoaked Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc that Dido prefers?'

'Either! And some Chablis for Jonquil.'

'What's this? Blue Nun, Black Tower? We used to squirrel that away in the tuck box and hide it from matron. Do they still make that? Do you have Chablis? No I wouldn't like an orange WKD you pleb!'

'Plebian Horatio! Plebian! It sounds like a compliment!'

'Sorry! I wouldn't like an orange WKD you plebian! Yes it might be a Doctor Who monster!'

'For heaven's sake Horatio! At least get some bread!'

'Is this square shaped stuff bread! I've never seen this before! Hot dog buns! Finger rolls! Darling I am at a loss here! Oh thank heavens there is that awful teacher couple! I will just have to act nice for a change! Speak to you from the car park!'

+++++++

'Hello Darling! Me again. John and Lesley were most helpful!'

'Who?'

'John and Lesley! The teachers from three doors down!'

'James and Liz! I know we don't mix in their circle but at least try to get their names right!'

'That's why they gave me funny looks. Thought it was Spartacus's deposits! They kept giggling as we were going around. He told me he knew that proletarians were those choux pastry balls with cream and chocolate. We don't give them enough credit! They really do have some class, despite what they do for a living! I had to substitute a few things off the list!'

'Do tell Horatio! This had better be good!'

'There was no Bleu d'Auvergne, not even Camembert, but I've got these delightful soft cheeses in little triangles and something interesting in a tube!'

'Grissini?'

'No! But apparently pickled onion Monster Munch is just as good!'

'Coffee? I must have my macchiato?'

'Own brand instant is all the rage it seems!'

'Pecan and Maple liqueur? Surely a Bailey's? At least I can disguise that with some cocoa and a dash of the Irish!'

'Apparently they do some great ones inside miniature chocolates!'

'Langoustines?'

'Breaded scampi!'

'Pistachios?'

'Dry roasted peanuts!'

'Scallops nestled in Prosecco-infused couscous?'

'Fingres de poisson en pain blanc avec coulis des tomates is something we must try!'

'Fishfinger sandwich in white bread with tomato ketchup is a dirty meal for dirty people! Now Horatio! I am going to read you five items from the list! You are going to tell me what you have instead! I may not be happy!'

'Go ahead!'

'Prosciutto, bruschetta, tapenade, prosecco, smoked eel!'

'Ah!'

'I don't like the sound of that!'

'Ham in a tin! With a magic key! Mighty White! Cheese and Ham Toast Toppers! Babycham! Tin of pilchards! Happy!'

'Horatio! Put it this way! Guest room for you until new year!'

When the Round Round Robin Comes Bob-Bob-Bobbing Along!

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Sun, 23 Dec 2012 13:53:00 +0000

You know those awful self-indulgent and ego driven round robin letters that you get around this time of year? Don't you just hate them?

If these people wanted their everyday tedium to be read they could take to Twitter.

@anyonewhoisbotheredto read Taking the dog to be waxed today. Using the fur in a pin cushion. LOL!

Here is my take on the phenomenon!

*******************************************************************************************************

Dear All!

Has it really been an entire circuit of the Sun since we last heard from each other! 'Tempus fugit' as the Ancient Romans would have said!

What a year it has been! Our eldest, Persephone, has sat her GCSEs and has come out with 15 A* grades! Lithuanian, Macrame, Astrology and Herbalism will stand her in excellent stead for the future. All of Horatio's mother's doubts about taking the wrong baby home from the hospital are truly dispelled now. I think we can plan our retirement based on those grades, though she needs to get through college first.

She brought her first proper boyfriend home too. 'This is Wombat!' she announced proudly. It is difficult to inform you of his hopes, as most communication appears to be grunted or garbled through slurps of Super Lager. Wombat does seem a little pretentious as a name, don't you think?

The twins, Araminta and Taramasalata, continue to thrive. 'Lively and unpredictable' it said in their school reports. Really those could have been their middle names (actually they're Tamarind and Tarquin) Being called into the Head's office to discuss them was the highlight of the academic year. Creative use of felt pens and paints on the plaster in the conveniences suggest we may have the successors to Banksie on our hands! So proud!

Spartacus is finally potty trained and almost off the breast, just in time for the Reception Class Nativity performance. A triumphant performance ensued, and he was certainly the best dressed shepherd, in Jocasta's kimono pyjamas and a Pashmina headdress. His control over the giraffe was awesome!

Imagine Horatio's surprise when Jocasta expressed a desire for a Brazilian downstairs! Imagine Jocasta's reaction at Horatio's misunderstanding! For the last two months the Dos Santos twins have been living in the old granny-flat. Esmerelda doubles as a Nanny to Spartacus and works literally for peanuts. Stefano is on the Chelsea F.C. Youth Team, and all his expenses are fully paid by the club. In fact burly and rough-hewn Russian gentlemen deliver manila envelopes of cash at strange hours of the night!

The twins had their wish for for a pair of Puggles granted in the Spring. Regular walks on the Heath are interrupted only by cries of 'Vajazzle! Prince Albert!'. Old Mr Pietowski had a shock though when he asked Jocasta to see her lovely Vajazzle. Still his injuries soon healed and the court action will expire with his repatriation!

We had an enjoyable four weeks in the Tuscan Villa over the Summer. The roof finally went on at the end of August, and the running water will be connected next year. Seven years hard work are well worth it, and the children now have a truly rustic experience to add to their life stories. The external latrine provided genuine close family time and the Roman experience of a sponge soaked in vinegar will 'stick' in the memory, as well as 'stick' (literally) in one or two other places! Oh how we laughed!

Work still goes well. Jocasta's business has expanded in to the full range of lentil based products, and Horatio has survived all the financial crises that have come the bank's way. Being in charge means he can literally 'Pass the Buck!'.

Well that's us for the year! Don't forget you can get in touch with us at horatiojcasta4ever@getsrightupyournose.com at any time.

Toodlepip! Ciao!

Jocasta, Horatio, Persephone (& Wombat), Araminta, Taramasalata & Spartacus

Twelve For '12, Thirteen for '13

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Thu, 20 Dec 2012 22:16:00 +0000

A full year on Twitter; a good few months of blogging. This has been an eventful year for me in the cyber community and in real life. A few of my reflections and things I have learned and observed.

Twelve for '12

1. There are some quite wonderful, supportive, warm, thoughtful, sensitive, emotional, passionate talented and intelligent people from Leeds.

2. There are some equally wonderful and intelligent people in Manchester, Birmingham, Blackpool, Bolton, Portsmouth, Southend, Surrey, North and South London, in various parts of the East and West Midlands, the North-East and in Scotland who listen to what others have to say and respond sensitively. Apologies if I have missed your geographical area!

3. This year it is great to wave our own flag! We can reclaim it from the Far Right. Whatever you think of the Royals, Queenie has been on top form! British sporting success too; Wiggo, Murray, Mo, Jess, the cricketers in India, and even our football team not being criticised for going out in the quarter finals of the Euros! Plus, we put on a great Olympics and Paralympics. Despite being awoken by shooting at the Royal Barracks and having to apply for permission to park outside my own house, what a great summer it was. Not only for TeamGB and ParalympicGB success, but for the way we welcomed the world. Sad to see stands and stadia gone, but we knew that in the first place.

4. There has been a measure of justice at last for Stephen Lawrence and the Hillsborough families.

5. Tweachers! You are supportive and receptive of other people's difficulties.

6. I can write!

7. My writing can make people laugh, cry, get angry, and generate response.

8. My writing can get up some noses!

9. My writing has brought me an audience I never expected. My work on 50 Shades and DVA has brought me followers in the feminist community. Your support has been hugely valuable and is much appreciated.

10. Our performance of Les Miserables was fantastic. The girl who sang 'I Dreamed a Dream' moved the whole audience to tears.

11. Kids love gardening. Five 50p packets of salad leaves had children staring at a raised bed for a term, desperate to try rocket and other offerings.

12. I love my wife as much if not more than I did when we first met!

Thirteen for '13

1. I would like to meet some of, if not all of, my wonderful Twitter friends. Not virtual but real friends I hope.

2. Michael Gove will see sense, reverse his policy and join a Buddhist retreat.

3. I will find more good value wine. Two euros for a bottle of Chianti in Italy. which wasn't rough or gave a hangover, was quite amazing.

4. I want to read at least 20 books. Got close in 2012, but the Autumn was a tricky period.

5. My writing will be discovered, beyond my amazing Twitter and blog audience, and hopefully by the BBC, to help them over the Savile scandal.

6. The mighty 'People's Club' will win some much deserved silverware after a long enough wait.

7. Anyone who has lied about or stitched up anybody else will pay the price for their actions.

8. I will cook a new recipe at least twice a month and share it with my Twitter friends.

9. Greater financial sense! Daughters to learn that first!

10. My tomatoes and courgettes will not suffer the ravages of last summer. In past years they kept me going from June to November.

11. Common sense will prevail in education. Heads and LEAs will stand up to the policies of the current Government and Stephen Twigg will wake up to what is happening and not Tweet about tea parties and the weather in his constituency.

12. There will be positive action in Parliament to DVA. And the sales of 50 Shades and copycat books will plummet.

13. We will all be in a happier place by this time next year!

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time?

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Fri, 07 Dec 2012 18:47:00 +0000

Christmas in school starts at some point in October if you are lucky, September if less so. The Nativity or other productions can take weeks of preparation, with lovingly made costumes and seemingly tenuous links to the reality of the Christmas tale. I heard this week of a child dressed as a giraffe in one stable scene.

Our most memorable play was remembered for all the wrong reasons though. For reasons unknown half of the children had to stand in the space where the dining tables were normally kept, a space about 40 feet long and 9 feet high. In a 90 minute performance that space became a sauna; supervising staff wore vest tops and even shorts in there. In the year in question, the first performance passed without a hitch, but night two was a different proposition altogether.

The night began with instrumental recitals. One nine year old violinist finished her piece, put down her violin, turned white and vomited profusely and violently all over the stage, some ending up in the Head's trouser turn ups!

The rest of the children had a further twenty minute wait while everything was cleaned up, and unbelievably the girl wanted to continue with the play. Whatever she had contracted though was virulent, as the events of the next hour would attest to.

From my position I was aware of a hubbub at the side. Next a child was led out and a pot of 'magic body spillage crystals' was sent for. A second, then a third child soon followed.

Meanwhile the performance on stage continued, interrupted by retches, splats and splashes! Several of us went over to help out and the virus I swear was literally leaping from child to child. Children were being carried out, mops and buckets sent for and the unmistakable aroma of Dettol began to waft around the hall, barely masking the scent of, shall we say, a ripe Brie mixed with a strong Parmesan.

The time came for the class at the side to play their scene. One child came on, did his line, exited, threw up, and was replaced by another. Two of us were literally force feeding lines to children, checking their temperatures, then throwing them onto the stage. The eight children who should have played the whole scene never delivered all their lines. The class dance was not supposed to have children running down the steps or leaning off the stage into a bucket, but somehow they got to the end.

The audience barely reacted though, only realising at the end when all the children were on stage for their photographs, that there was a huge gap where their offspring should have been. The Head mentioned 'the unfortunate interruption' in his closing speech. One of the classes had a trip next day. Only six children turned up from that class, and barely a dozen from the other class.

What a performance!

Miserable Les!

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Tue, 04 Dec 2012 22:45:00 +0000

I love Les Miserables. Who doesn't with the truly inspirational and moving songs. It is a great book too, surprisingly fresh and funny for a text 150 years old. Great for a Year 6 Leavers' Assembly I thought, especially as I had some great singers.

This is the script for that performance. The title is taken from Terry Pratchett. The humour will make Victor Hugo turn in his grave.

Bring Him Home, Castle on a Cloud and especially I Dreamed a Dream brought many a tear to the eye.

Teachers, please feel free to use this in your schools.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Miserable Les

SCENE 1: PRISON

A CHAIN GANG enters and sings

LOOK DOWN

OH, PRISON LIFE IS DEAD!

WE DON'T

HAVE TOOLS

WE HAVE TO MIME INSTEAD.

LOOK DOWN

AND GROAN

MAKE JERKY MOVEMENTS. RHYME.

WHY CAN'T

I TELL

WHAT TOOLS THESE ARE I MIME?

Enter JARVIS.

JARVIS Now bring me prisoner number 2468Ten.

LES It is Jarvis, who has pursued me relentlessly for years!

JARVIS Explain yourself, 2468Ten!

LES I am Les and for the entirety of this play and to fit with the parody I will be miserable. I was imprisoned because I stole bread to feed my sister's baby, both of whom we will never mention in this play ever again! So you see, I am the sympathetic character in this play and was imprisoned unjustly!

JARVIS And you were imprisoned for five years for that! And then fourteen more because you tried to run!

LES Oh how painful it is to live at this time of revolutions in France!

JARVIS Prisoner 2468Ten, you are free.

Jarvis hands a piece of paper to Les

LES What is this?

JARVIS It's a piece of paper.

LES Very good. And…

JARVIS You show it to people who want to hire you, and this way they know you were a prisoner. Hah-hah-hah!

CHAIN GANG 1 And what about us?

JARVIS That’s your lot! It’s all dysentery and non-speaking parts for the rest of the play. (exits)

SCENE 2: GINOLA’S YARD

(Les tries to find a job)

LES Monsieur Ginola! Any chance of a job. I’ll do anything!

GINOLA Yes, I'll hire you.

LES Excellent. I'll just give you this piece of paper here--

GINOLA You have a piece of paper? I can't very well hire you!

LES Oh, ex-criminals in France have it tough!

GINOLA You know, you could consider just not giving me the paper.

LES I cannot do that; it would betray the same strong moral values that led me to illegally feed my sister and her dead child. And I have to uphold my strong moral values.

MME GINOLA So moral you forgot you weren’t going to mention that again!

LES Oh yes! Silly me!

MME GINOLA Why don’t you try the Bishop? He’s a mug for any sob story!

SCENE 3: MONASTERY.

LES So that’s my story. Just wandering by and all my Euros lost in a banking crisis.

BISHOP What do you think Mrs Cantona?

MRS CANTONA (in dodgy French accent) When ze seagulls follow ze trawler (pause) it's because zey think sardines will be thrown into the sea

LES Pardon me, I don’t speak fluent gibberish!

BISHOP What the good lady means is that you are not to be trusted.

LES MOI! C’est incroyable!

MRS CANTONA And that is one of the few French phrases you will hear this morning.

BISHOP I’ve thought this through! Despite your outwardly rough appearance and the overwhelming smell of dung. I have decided to offer you lodgings for the night.

MRS CANTONA The man has lost his marbles!

BISHOP So here's the deal. I'm going to let you stay here in the monastery. Here's a delicious rack of lamb, and you get to sleep in the ROOM OF PRECIOUS SILVER AND OTHER EXTRAVAGANT

EXAMPLES OF THE CHURCH'S WEALTH. Bon-nuit!

(Bishop and Mrs Cantona exit)

LES Must uphold strong moral values, must uphold strong moral values, must—Hey! Who am I kidding? (grabbing all of the silver)

(Bishop and Mrs Cantona enter)

MRS CANTONA POLICE!

(Policeman enters)

POLICEMAN Vous sont arrêtés mon fils!

LES Eh ?

POLICEMAN You’re nicked my son !

(Enter a bunch of policemen in bunny slippers and pyjamas)

POLICE CHIEF Miserable Les, you're under arrest for stealing the church!

LES Stealing FROM the Church.

POLICE CHIEF I ask the questions here.

LES I didn't ask a question.

POLICE CHIEF (yawns) Jean-Claude! Get me my elaborate police chief hat!

JEAN-CLAUDE (in a ridiculous French accent) At once my little cheesy potato crisp! (enters with enormous hat)

POLICE CHIEF Go ahead; tell his reverence your story about how he gave this to you as a "gift".

BISHOP But I did give this as a gift... I just forgot to give him these as well. (hands him silver candlesticks)

POLICE CHIEF What?

BISHOP Yes, thank you for apprehending him so I could--

POLICE CHIEF You said he stole.

BISHOP Well surely, can’t you see...?

POLICE CHIEF Of course I can see, and stop calling me Shirley

POLICEMAN #2 My wife was woken up at three in the morning for this.

POLICEMAN #3 My poor consumptive French children can't get back to their slumber!

POLICEMAN #2 They may die before you return.

POLICEMAN #3 As long as nobody dies on stage from this hammy acting.

BISHOP AHEM!! But can’t you see, I was teaching him a lesson.

POLICE CHIEF (whilst beating self up) STUPID ME! THIS MAN OF GOD.MAKING ME FEEL MORALLY GUILTY AND WAKING ME UP IN THE MORNING!

(Les escapes.)

LES This meaningful incident has made me realize the error of my ways. I'm going to start again, and to prove it, I'm going to RIP UP THE PAPER that for NO REASON I decided to show to every potential employer!

PEASANT Ripping up the paper is deeply symbolic somehow

(Les rips up paper over-dramatically)

ZIDANE I am Monsieur Zidane and I just happen to be conveniently walking by. Hey there, you may smell of dung but don't look like someone who has ever had any of that paper that former prisoners have. Want to help me invent gold from base metal?

LES Why certainly Sir! Your smart apparel leads me to consider this opportune!

ZIDANE Help me count out these nuggets then. (Counts out of bag) 2-4-6-8-10

LES You know my number!

ZIDANE You are a prisoner, surely that means I am the first in this play to die a dramatic yet meaningless death?

LES If you insist. And stop calling me Shirley.

ZIDANE That’s the second time that has been done…. UUURRRGGGHHH!!!

LES I think that this may be a little worse than the loaf of bread, but wait, there is a convenient and hitherto unmentioned abandoned mineshaft that no-one will look in for at least 100 years- I will dispose of the body there! And now to the FUTURE!!!

SCENE 4: THE FUTURE.

WORKER 1: But not really the future, just ahead ten years.

POOR PERSON 1 Life is tough!

POOR PERSON 2 Working in a factory in France in the nineteenth century is hard

(Sings AT THE END OF THE DAY)

FANTINE I'm ready for my yearly wage.

FOREMAN Here's your wage, minus your "not letting me kiss you" penalty.

FANTINE No, please give me the money! I need it to feed my daughter who I sent away because I hate children.

FOREMAN What? You have a kid? You're fired!

FANTINE Oh well! No other jobs in the universe. Better take up begging. Or teaching!

MLLE NASTY I was once an OFSTED inspector! Now I am reduced to this!

FANTINE Oh, what a cautionary tale!

(sings I DREAMED A DREAM)

(Suddenly and slowly a cart runs over Henri)

HENRI Help! I got run over by this very slow moving cart!

JARVIS That is bad acting and highly improbable!

LES: I have completely abandoned my former life of lying and thieving, and somehow become the mayor

MME HENRI Help Mr Mayor, save my husband. From being slowly crushed.

LES I'll save you!

JARVIS Wow, I don't know anybody who can convince nobody that they're struggling to lift a cardboard cart like that...EXCEPT FOR MISERABLE LES! But we're about to execute a Les that we just caught.

LES You can't execute LES, because LES... IS ME! (opens shirt, reveals that it says 2468Ten)

IT'S MY PRISONER TATTOO!

JARVIS Is that finger paint?!?

HENRI Quick Mr Mayor RUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!

JARVIS I will get you one day Les!

SCENE 5: HOSPITAL.

FANTINE (dying) Oh Cosette, come here and let your crazy blind mother take care of you.

LES She's not here. You're delusional because of the nasty disease!

FANTINE TB or not TB that is the question.

LES We never really specify. It seems to be the same disease that kills all the important characters this far into the play

FANTINE Who are you?

LES I'm the man who looked on while my morally corrupt Foreman fired you, and then did nothing when you caught that disease that will cause you to die in about thirty seconds.

FANTINE Oh! (pause) Will you raise my child? (dies)

(Enter Jarvis)

JARVIS Les at last!

LES Now I liked Fantine, but I don’t like you. But which is better. There’s only one way to find out. FIGHT!

JARVIS Bring it on!

(They fight in a very hammy way without actually making contact)

SCENE 6: OUTSIDE THE INN IN ANOTHER TOWN

MARCEL: So we are here in another equally poor part of France.

THIERRY: Yes we are poor, but are we happy?

ETIENNE: No we are not, but for the purposes of this play we will appear to be the jolly paupers with enough to buy us a few drinks at the inn.

MARCEL: Wait a minute. Where’s Harry?

THIERRY: Come on Harry!

ETIENNE: There he is! Hurry up Harry! Come on! We’re going down the pub!

SCENE 7: HOUSE OF THERNARDIER

(Cosette sings CASTLE ON A CLOUD)

MME. T Cosette, I'm so glad we've enslaved you to keep you down in the cellar.

ETIENNE: Hahahaha! Don’t you just love Monsieur and Madame Tena-Lady?

THERNARDIER Here you go sir. I've created this dinner for you which, though you're not aware of it, includes ingredients like cat spit, and curious short curly hair!

HARRY: What a lovable landlord you are Monsieur Tena-Lady

THERNARDIER: It’s TEN-ARE-DEE-AY, not Tena-Lady.

MME T: I wish I wasn't fat and that I had married a man who wasn’t so foul.

MARCEL: I just want to take the Tena-Ladies home with me!

MME T: It’s TEN-ARE-DEE-AY, not Tena-Lady

(Sing MASTER OF THE HOUSE)

LES: I have a million sous. Worth more than the euro. Give me Cosette.

THERNARDIERS: Sure stranger, do whatever you want.

LES: Cosette, now you're my daughter.

COSETTE: Yay! Scruffy stranger, I love you immediately!

SCENE 8: PARIS

JARVIS: And suddenly we have jumped ten years into the future and I am still chasing Les over that loaf of bread.

GAVROCHE: `Ello govnah! I'm a plucky li'il street urchin, so b'sure to fall `n luv wit m' now audience b'fuh I get blewn t'bits! Blimey!

JARVIS: Are you going to keep up that ridiculous wotchagorblimey Mary Poppins accent?

GAVROCHE: Sorry darling I was still in role from Oliver!

EPONINE: (to audience )I love Marius!

MARIUS: (to audience) I know but I never respond and pretend I don't notice. (Cosette walks by) I love that girl that just walked by!

COSETTE: (to audience) I love Marius, and am in torment about abandoning my elderly father for him!

LES: (to audience) I'm elderly now! But I still can lift my own weight!

ENJOLRAS: (to audience) I'm Enjolras! Try pronouncing my name!

VICTOR: Enjoy rollers?

HUGO: Engineer rails?

ENJOLRAS: SEE! VICTOR AND HUGO YOU CAN'T DO IT! Join with me to fight the enemy who we never see for a cause I don’t fully understand.

VICTOR: Hooray! Allez les bleus! La plume de ma tante et dans le jardin! Le souris est dans le chat!

HUGO: Better that than see a classic story ripped to shreds!

MARIUS: Wait, now I'm tormented about whether to fight in a rebellion that I haven't quite yet figured out, or to chase after that girl I just saw that suddenly I'm in love with!

COSETTE: My name is Cosette!

MARIUS: Oh it's so embarrassing; I don't even know your name!

COSETTE: Cosette!

MARIUS: Will I EVER learn her name?

COSETTE: Buffoon.

ENJOLRAS: Get serious, Marius, its wartime, and General Lamarque is dead.

MARIUS: Lamwhat?

ENJOLRAS: You haven't heard of him and we won't bother explaining, but put faith in the fact that it's vitally important to the rest of the plot and the reason I will die...Come sing a wartime song with us now.

(Sing CAN YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING)

ENJOLRAS: Another to celebrate our inevitable demise. (singing) RED!

GANG: THE COLOR OF SOME BLOOD!

ENJOLRAS BLACK!

GANG: THE COLOR OF NOT WHITE!

ENJOLRAS: RED!

GANG: THE COLOR OF... SOME... TOMATOES?

ENJOLRAS: (despondent) Black.

GANG: THE COLOR OF... UMM...

STUDENT #1: Charcoal?

STUDENT #2: Graphite from a pencil?

STUDENT #3: Liquorice?

ENJOLRAS: Never mind for tomorrow we will die awful, gruesome, and ultimately pointless deaths!

(Everyone comes out on stage and yells at the top of their lungs).

LES: TOMORROW IS IMPENDING!

ENJOLRAS: TOMORROW HAS MEANINGFUL MEANING!

JARVIS: ONE MORE DAY TILL REVOLUTION, I WILL NIP IT IN THE BUD, I WILL JOIN THESE LITTLE SCHOOLBOYS.THEY WILL WET THEMSELVES!

EPONINE: THERE ONCE WAS A GUY I LIKED A LOT EXCEPT HE DIDN'T LIKE ME BACK AND I CRIED

I WISH THAT HE HAD LIKED ME AND THAT IS WHY YOU SYMPATHIZEWITH ME, EPONINE, WHEN I’M SHOT.

SCENE 10: BACK AT THE BARRICADE THE NEXT DAY.

JARVIS: What's up guys! I'm so totally all about your decision to overthrow the government. Can I join your awesome club?

VICTOR: Well we DO need somebody to find out their attacks and the like.

ENJOLRAS: (pointing at Jarvis) Yeah, we can trust him, he's old!

GAVROCHE: You can't trust him... He's INSPECTOR JARVIS in disguise!

ENJOLRAS: Who?

GAVROCHE: The BAD GUY! Haven’t you been paying attention?

ENJOLRAS: Oh.

HUGO: We can't trust old men...So who's going to execute him?

(Les enters.)

ENJOLRAS: (pointing at Les) We can trust HIM! He's OLD!

(Suddenly Eponine runs over the barricade and is shot!)

EPONINE: Marius! I died so I could give you a letter from Cosette!

MARIUS: You poor pathetic waif. (It suddenly starts to rain) Now I’ve got to protect you from the rain.

EPONINE Forget the rain I’m DYING.

MARIUS Oh, poor Eponine— too late, she’s dead. And the rain has stopped. OK, so who wants a drink?

(flings Eponine's body to the ground)

ENJOLRAS: Yes, as your leader-ish person, I command EVERYBODY to go out the night before a big battle.

GAVROCHE: I can’t because I'm underage.

ENJOLRAS: Are you old enough to loot dead bodies for ammo?

GAVROCHE: Yes.

ENJOLRAS: Climb!

(Gavroche climbs across the barricade but, just as Eponine was, is shot. Enter his many little friends)

JEAN: Gavroche! Gav--(is shot)

PAUL: Oh no, how could--(is shot)

GEORGES: My poor friends are dying!--(is shot)

RINGO: Voici le sang des martyrs--(is shot)

(Lots of little children appear onstage. A torrid bloodbath ensues. It is terrifying. Everybody keeps fighting.)

LES: I'm going to let you go, Jarvis.

JARVIS: I have a gun. I've spent my entire life chasing you

LES: Just go away.

JARVIS: Here I am running away across the barricades. Of course, I am not shot because I am not one of the children.

ENJOLRAS: Comrades, avenge the deaths of les petits.

(Gun battle in which all except Les and Marius are shot)

LES: (looking at an almost-dead Marius) This is the boy who is in love with my fake daughter. I ought to save him with my super old man strength! Down to the sewers, which are healthier in 1832 than up here, and smell better.

SCENE 11: PARIS'S FAMOUS SEWERS

LES: I am really tired now so will put down the body of Marius, and fall asleep for plot reasons.

THERNARDIER: (entering, taking a gold tooth from a dead body) It is not explained how I am here. I like to steal gold from corpses! And let’s have the ring from this young fellow.

RAT: Hey... Weren't you the funny character?

THERNARDIER: I used to be. It got used up after the loss of Cosette and wasting all those sous which were worth less than a pile of horse manure.

RAT: But you used to serve croton de cheval on your menu, that’s horse manure!

THERNARDIER: People would come from miles around to taste my croton de cheval. Finest in the district.

RAT: You're still not funny anymore Monsieur Tena-Lady

THERNARDIER: It’s TEN-ARE-DEE-AY, not Tena-Lady. Oops he’s not dead; better scarper before I’m caught.

LES: Better get going again but I can’t sing with this fat lump on my back so I will sing with him on the ground

(sings BRING HIM HOME)

LES: The smell is getting worse now; it must be the fresh Parisian air outside. Let’s just squeeze through here and …

JARVIS: Les we meet again; another coincidence in another part of France over 30 years.

LES: Oh just go away! I’ve let you go once.

JARVIS: Les who I casually pursued around France for a few years has spared my life. Definitely a

very good reason for jumping off this bridge. (jumps)

AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!

(He spins around a little bit while standing, then dives into the floor)

LES: I always thought he was in Seine.

JARVIS: Not at all predictable! BLUB! BLUB! BLUB!

SCENE 12: A HOUSE IN PARIS.

MARIUS: This play is too short but let's take a moment to remember some people I never bothered to get to know in the first place.

(singing)

THERE ARE CHAIRS AND THERE ARE TABLES

THEY ARE MADE OF LOTS OF WOOD

NOW MY FRIENDS ARE NOT ALIVE NOW

THAT IS BAD, NO IT'S NOT GOOD.

SCENE 13: WEDDING.

MARIUS: Cosette and I are getting married with all of our closest friends here.

COSETTE: Yes, somehow I have friends even though I just moved there and all of Marius's friends died.

(enter the Thernardiers in a pair of hideous outfits)

MME. T: We haven't changed at all as characters.

THERNARDIER: I haven't even aged half of what Les has in the same time!

MME. T: Sh! Distract the dead-alive friends while I steal this expensive silverware and hide it.

COSETTE: It’s the Thernardiers!

THERNARDIER: Its TENA-LADY not THERNARDIER.

MME T: (slaps husband- silv4e plate falls out) OOPS! Au revoir.

SCENE 14: ANOTHER HOUSE IN PARIS.

LES: I am dying, so the play must be ending right? They can't very well go on forever.

(lights a pair of candles) I will just light these candles and wait to die. (pause- 10 seconds)

It may take a while.

FANTINE: (a ghost) Hello Les.

LES: Hello, crazy blind lady!

FANTINE: It was the flu.

EPONINE: (also a ghost) Hello Les

LES: Wait, who are you?

EPONINE: Eponine.

LES: Who?

EPONINE: Right, we never met. How awkward that God chose me to guide you to the next world.

FANTINE: We're here to take you off to Heaven.

LES: About time too. My children who abandoned me better show up soon to hear my whole life story all over again.

COSETTE: Father, I haven't seen you in years but we suddenly figured out where you were a few minutes before you die!

MARIUS: Your father wanted me to pretend I didn't know where he was.

COSETTE: But why, Papa?

LES: Now, I have a story to tell you about a man who stole a loaf of bread, and in that time, learned a very difficult lesson and that is the whole story in one line. And now I am dying.

MARIUS: I forgot about the bread- but why?

LES: I’m going.

COSETTE: Please father, don't die!

LES: Still here! No! Hang on! Urgh! (dies)...

(gets taken to heaven by Fantine and Eponine)

COSETTE: Oh father! (cries)

MARIUS: That’s ok because suddenly, every dead character will show up to sing the final song. And you and I are the only ones in all of France who didn't die! How depressing.

(Final song: CAN YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING)

Did you buy that tree?

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Sat, 01 Dec 2012 23:20:00 +0000

The first Christmas Trees have appeared in the front windows of houses in my road today. We leave ours until after our eldest daughter's birthday on 6th December, so there was always a clear break for her between her birthday and Christmas. We always choose our tree as a family.

However a few years ago, I came home from the weekly shopping trip on Saturday morning with my youngest daughter, then aged four, who excitedly called out 'Daddy! There's a tree!'

Sure enough, wedged in the front porch was the said article; wedged being the operative word as it was a fifteen foot monster! We normally have a six or seven foot specimen. My wife had no idea that it had been delivered. After dismissing the possibility that either of us or my mother-in-law had ordered it, close examination revealed a torn label, with only the first half of our street name on, and the number 13, our neighbours. They however were as much in the dark as we were. Closer examination of the label made us suspect that the 1 was actually a 7, so up the hill we went, tree dragging behind, to number 73, where Mr and Mrs Khan thanked us for our concern but assured us that they didn't mark the festive season.

All agreed that we had a stroke of luck, but there wasn't even a delivery note to refer to. The tree was here to stay, though if it did the top third would be bent at a right angle and traversing half of the living room ceiling. If we had been able to get it in the door in the first place; the lower branches were over 12 feet across!

Out came the saw from the little used DIY box, not an area of great expertise, followed by an hour of huffing and puffing, lots of sweat and a sore arm (STOP THAT!! RIGHT NOW!!) to remove three layers of branches and a three foot length of stump. Just narrow enough to fit through the door now, it still touched the ceiling in its stand and I had to carry my youngest up the stepladder for her tradition of putting the star on top.

Such was the size of the tree that we didn't have enough decorations to cover it, so on Sunday I was dispatched to buy more. My wife looked very sheepish when I got back. Two burly neanderthals had knocked on the door while I was out.

'Did we leave a Christmas tree here yesterday?'

'No! I don't believe you did! My husband is out buying ours now.' My wife is not a convincing liar.

This confused them. The sawdust from the previous day's effort still coated the path, several branches and the stump protruded from the green bin. The offending tree, slightly askew and lights ablaze sat proudly in the front window for all to see!

The torn label explained it all. It was meant for number 73, but in an avenue in leafy Blackheath which shared the first half of our road's name, where it would have adorned a double height Victorian hallway. Our six footer would have been totally out of place there. As it was, even after my pruning, the television was still out of view from half the room, and I was still finding needles well into the following Spring.

Hoping this year that Majestic or Ocado get confused with their deliveries.

MRS P BUYS A MOBILE PHONE!

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Thu, 29 Nov 2012 08:25:00 +0000

Last year a long serving and famously technophobic memebr of staff retired.

This sketch was performed by my class as a gentle tribute to those fondly remembered 'skills'.

Mrs. T: Now Mrs. P, now that you are in charge you must have a mobile phone.

Mr. R: Yes! You never know when there might be an emergency.

Mrs. P: Don’t be so silly! What kind of emergency might there be?

Miss D: Help! Emergency! A class trip is stuck in the Blackwall Tunnel and they are going to be three hours late.

Mrs. P: I see what you mean. What would you recommend Mr. R?

Mr. R: Well I’ve got a Blackberry on Orange.

Mrs. P: Am I going to a phone shop or to the greengrocer’s shop?

Mrs. T: You could get something by Apple!

Mrs. P: Don’t you start! Now where to start. There are some many different phone shops. Let’s try this one.

Phones 4 U: Hello madam and welcome to Phones 4U? (Does actions)

Mrs. P: What on earth is wrong with you? Are you having a convulsion or are you making those rude hand signals? I don’t think I want to buy a phone from you young man.

Phones 4 U: Suit yourself.

Mrs. P: This looks better.

C Warehouse: Can I help you madam? Welcome to the Carphone Warehouse.

Mrs. P: Carphone? Do I have to stay in the car to use the phone? Isn’t that illegal?

C Warehouse: No madam, only if you are driving. You can use your mobile phone anywhere these days.

Mrs. P: Anywhere? Is the wire long enough?

C Warehouse: No no madam. All mobile phones are wireless these days?

Mrs. P: You seem to be confused. I would like a mobile phone, not a radio young man. Never mind I will try elsewhere.

Orange: Hello madam and welcome to the Orange shop.

Mrs. P: Now I’ve said this already, I don’t want any fruit, I am here for a mobile phone.

Orange: Can I recommend the i-phone?

Mrs. P: I think you mean my phone, not i-phone. You young people have such shocking grammar.

Orange: No madam! It has all the features you might need. Music too.

Mrs. P: Music? Can I play my gramophone records on it?

Orange: Gram-o-phone? Rec-ords? No, never heard of them. You can send a text.

Mrs. P: Text. What is that?

Orange: You type in a message and send it to someone?

Mrs. P: Isn’t it quicker to write to them?

Orange: No this goes in seconds, and it even has a spell check to correct your spellings?

Mrs. P: I hope you are not suggesting I can’t spell young man. That would be most rude. Let me try somewhere else.

3 store: Welcome to the 3 store madam.

Mrs. P: Now I’ve said this already, I don’t to buy a number; I am here for a mobile phone.

3 store: Well this one has all the latest features. Bluetooth.

Mrs. P: Bluetooth! You need to brush twice a day.

3 store: Video and camera.

Mrs. P: On this tiny thing. Well I never?

3 store: Games.

Mrs. P: No I don’t have my PE kit today.

3 store: Internet.

Mrs. P: Now I remember when computers were so large they filled an entire room and were run on gas.

3 store: Clock and alarm.

Mrs. P: I do have a watch.

3 store: Twitter.

Mrs. P: Oh dear that young man seems to be making bird noises. He is not very helpful at all. What am I going to do?

Market trader: Mobile phones get your mobile phones ‘ere. Cheapest by far.

Mrs. P: You are my last hope. I want a mobile phone. No games, no internet, no radio, no text, no fruit, no blue teeth, no music, and certainly no twits. I just want to be able to speak on it.

Market trader: Just give me a minute madam; I have the perfect thing around the back. (Disappears- returns). Here we are madam, the answer to all your problems. (Gets out baked bean tins on string)

Mrs. P: Perfect. Hello, hello, can you hear me?

T’ Four Yorkshire Teachers Sketch

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 07:52:00 +0000

My fellow teachers will appreciate the sentiments in this piece. Hopefully my other followers will too.

I wrote this a few weeks ago and sent it to the BBC for consideration on the 'Newsjack' programme on Radio 4 Extra. They didn't use it. I suspect they might have been busy with something else.

I expect to hear the staffrooms of the UK awash with dodgy Northern accents.

This piece already has a 100% approval rating in Yorkshire. Thank you Natalie, that is much appreciated.

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Mr Hutton: End of t’ school day! There is something magical about seeing all those little kiddies with smiles on their faces, rushing out to their mams and dads isn’t there Mr Boycott.

Mr Boycott: Aye Mr Hutton. That and t’ looks of abject horror on t’ parents faces when they see all the reading, and times tables, and words in French, parlez-vous Francais, that they have to learn by the end of t’ week.

Mr Hutton: I asked mine to learn ‘clairvoyant’.

Mr Boycott: They didn’t see that one coming.

Mr Hutton: I’m just making a brew. Would you like one?

Mr Boycott: Aye Mr Hutton. Best drink of t’ day! Very gracious of you! I said very gracious of you.

Mrs Close: And if you’re doing a pot, don’t forget me and Miss Trueman.

Mr Hutton: Will do Mrs Close, will do!

Mr Boycott: You’re looking glum lass! What’s bothering ye?

Miss Trueman: It’s this article in t’ Education News. If I want a pay rise I’m going to have to work extra hours.

Mrs Close: Fair play lass! You don’t get owt for nowt in this game.

Miss Trueman: I know that Mrs Close, but I’m already working 21 hours a day and paying t’ Head teacher for t’ privilege.

Mr Hutton: I was reading that we are only going to get more cash if t’ results improve.

Mrs Close: Not a problem Mr Hutton. I haven’t got any more of those level 3s in my class this year!

Mr Boycott: What have ye done with them? Locked them in t’ cupboards like t’ last time?

Mrs Close: No! I’ve moved them?

Miss Trueman: Moved them! What on earth do you mean?

Mrs Close: Not actually physically moved them per se! My youngest son Richard the third (pause) of my children is a genius on t ‘interweb. He hacked int’ t’ database of t’ local authority and gave them all a new post code. They’ve all had to leave, and all get bussed of to Manchester!

Mr Hutton: Best place for them I say! I said best place for them.

Mr Boycott: But your class is full Mrs Close.

Mrs Close: Aye Mr Boycott it is. Of level 5 children. Our Richard hacked t’ details of t’ posh school up t’ road. All those kids from t’ private estate at top of hill have got to come here now.

Mrs Trueman: You mean with t’ dads who speak like William Hague and t’ mums who sound like Dame Judi Dench.

Mrs Close: That’s them pet. All in my class now. Boosting standards and meeting targets. My pay rise is in t’ bag lass.

Mr Hutton: You’re a canny one Mrs Close! I said you’re a canny one! Wouldn’t you agree Mr Boycott?

Mr Boycott: Aye you’re right there Mr Hutton. Is that why we haven’t been turned into an academy yet?

Miss Trueman: Has teaching always been like this Mr Hutton?

Mr Hutton: No lass! I remember when we didn’t have to set a target for t’ number of times a child used the –oo- sound in a book.

Mr Boycott: That’s nothing! I recall when there wasn’t a National Curriculum and we could teach whatever we wanted. I remember teaching nothing but the works of The Brontes and Alan Bennett for a whole year.

Mrs Close: In them days I would keep a field trip on t’ moors for two weeks without a worry for risk assessments or Health and Safety.

Mr Hutton: In a tent!

Mrs Close: Aye!

Mr Hutton: You were lucky! I once re-enacted t’ Battle of Marston Moor on the playground in a force 9 gale, in full battle dress and with replica weaponry.

Mr Boycott: Me too. Battle of Wakefield! Wooden replicas?

Mr Hutton: Aye!

Mr Boycott: Luxury! We had original axe heads! And a pot of glue to stick t’kids ears back on!

Mrs Close: Right! I remember when I could get in here at 9 o’clock just as t’ kids were arriving, have a fag in t’ staffroom, meet t’ inspectors for a pie, a pint and a game of darts, not fear for your job, give t’ kids a clip round t’ ear for being cheeky, just give a big tick for your marking, and go home at the same time as your class.

Mr Hutton: Aye! Them were the days!

Mr Boycott: And you try and tell the young teachers of today that ..... they won't believe you.

Fifty Word Stories

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Wed, 24 Oct 2012 15:35:00 +0000

I blogged about this before. Fifty words for a story is a challenge for adult writers, particularly if the rule is that no words can be repeated.

My writers club after school today were challenged to suggest a character, a setting and an object. They chose 'Charlie', the woods and a sword, all of which had to feature in their work.

This is the piece we came up with together, editing the pronouns and articles so that they didn't repeat.

Fossil Woods stood tall, dark and brooding. Something snuffled through the undergrowth searching more in hope than expectation for hidden treasure. Suddenly a glint caught his eye, then snagged Charlie's paw. Sir Brian would be pleased! He had found, after several years of trying, Excalibur; King Arthur's almighty, powerful sword.

This is the best independent effort from the children.

He staggered sluggishly up California's creepy sidewalk on Devon Avenue. Shimmering brightly in the Sun, a copper Caspian made sword lay in front of the neighbours' house. Mum stopped outside shouting 'Have you packed for the trip?' Charlie hated camping. He raised the weapon, and struck his mother down dead.

They said it was the hardest thing they had ever written. However they could do 300 words with little difficulty!

Have a go yourself!

The Hundred Year Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Sat, 13 Oct 2012 14:34:00 +0000

Have you ever had that conversation that begins 'Can you recommend one of those Swedish novels we always see you reading?' or 'I want to get into Nordic Noir that you're always talking about'? No? Me neither actually. Regular readers will have seen my Fifty Shades Parodies, and will know that I am fighting a solo battle to bring good literature into my staffroom.

Nonetheless I have a great Swedish novel to recommend to those with such inclination. The Hundred Year Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared, is the first novel by Jonas Jonasson.

What a title! Jonasson came up with the title first and fitted the story around it, an unusual writing approach, but one that produced something quite unique.

There are books that whilst reading and reach the last hundred pages, you think 'thank heavens this is nearly over'. Equally there are books which everyone seems to be reading, on the tube, passed around the 'ballet mums', those that hang around in the top 50 for months, only to re-emerge some time later when the sequel or the film/television adaptation comes out.

For this book however I was disappointed to reach the last 100 pages, as I realised that my thorough laugh-out-loud enjoyment was about to end. It is the kind of book that I encounter perhaps once a year, that I have to tell people about and want to share. Last year incidentally it was The Breaking of Eggs by Jim Powell.

Allan Karlson is One Hundred Years old on the first page of the book, in his room at the old peoples' home, waiting for a party that he has no wish to attend, so he does what is says on the tin, and leaves wearing his carpet slippers.

What unfolds is a tale of death, gangsters, a hopeless police manhunt, and a cast of unlikely characters who bond through the combination of their personal circumstances and the most fantastical turns of fortune. One man dies twice, once in a freezer in the depths of a Swedish forest, secondly at the hands of an incompetent suicide bomber in Djibouti. Don't ask: it needs to be read to be believed. Then there is the elephant whom Allan befriends, and which is involved in one death by sitting down and in another in which the victim isn't actually dead, though the mechanics of stopping a truck with a four and a half ton elephant in it should have rendered this a certainty.

With me so far? Probably not.

Interwoven with this is Allan's past story, and here the fantasy goes into overdrive. The significance of him being one hundred years old means that he has lived through the crucial events of the Twentieth Century. As an explosive expert, he blows up his own house. Twice. This leads to spells in a mental institution, and on his escape to the Spanish Civil War, where he inadvertently saves the life of General Franco. Subsequent events take him to China where he befriends Mao, thence onto an encounter with Churchill, before events conspire to send him to Los Alamos where in serving coffee to Oppenheimer he reveals the secret that enables The Bomb to be built. Getting drunk with Harry Truman, encountering Stalin, seven years in the Gulag only to burn down Vladivostok, escaping via war torn Korea with his new best friend, Einstein's illegitimate younger brother. You couldn't make it up, but Jonasson did and it certainly works.

A work of complete fantasy, but one of the funniest books I have read for a very long time, and one I would certainly recommend.

It is being filmed too, in Swedish, starring Robert Gustafsson, 'the funniest man in Sweden', but of course you knew that already.

So if you would like something different in your Christmas book list this year, this is the book for you. Njuta av läsning!

Fifty Shades of Middle Class

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Sat, 06 Oct 2012 20:20:00 +0000

This morning's 'Times' has a feature in the 'Weekend' section entitled 'The new middle-class top 50: How many can you tick?'

Well the answer in my case was four- Jamie Oliver, Chorizo, Fish Fingers, and Dinner parties in the kitchen. On one occasion all four were involved thanks to the presence of small children. Dinner parties have to be in the kitchen; that's where our dining table is.

This was however a very 'North London' list: anyone who was at the University of Warwick in the 1980s like me will know what I mean by that. This was where I first heard of Camden Market, clothes from charity shops and kumquat and aubergine risotto. As teachers we are in an archetypal middle class occupation, yet my wife and I both come from working class roots. What defines class? Profession, money, aspiration, expectation?

Of course lists like this are tongue-in-cheek and not meant to be followed or taken seriously. Or are they. There were no prawn sandwich munchers on the terraces in the 1980s, yet in the 90s people who never would have dreamt about setting foot in a football stadium did so in their droves, helping to change the face of a game once described as working class ballet.

Sorry to 'The Times' but your list is pretentious waffle. This is my own tongue-in-cheek 50 step guide to being middle-class, SE7 style!

1. Don't follow how to be middle-class guides in the papers! You don't need to be told what to do.
2. My eldest daughter, then aged 8, asking for balsamic vinegar on her chips.
3. My youngest daughter, then 5, knowing to dip bread into olive oil and vinegar on holiday in Spain.
4. Growing my own vegetables in the front garden.
5. Having a herb bed just for our guinea pigs.
6. Growing my own salad on the window ledge.
7. Making my own chicken stock.
8. Making my own soup- no Covent Garden soups in this house.
9. Watching sub-titled films for genuine enjoyment.
10. Watching Nordic Noir TV not because it's trendy to do so, but because it's actually very good.

11. Not reading books because everyone else is: Fifty Shades? Oh please!
12. Not reading the books that are seen to be trendy: I hated Life of Pi, Captain Corelli, Wolf Hall, and barely tolerated the Da Vinci Code.
13. Reading what I genuinely enjoy, and not being told what to read.
14. Making my own sushi.
15. Making my own tapas.
16. Choosing not to watch the X-factor- not because it's ironic, but because it is just exploitative. And crap!
17. Having the neighbours round to watch Strictly Come Dancing.
18. Being in awe of the dancers on SCD- and having two left feet!
19. Asking advice from the chef in restaurants.
20. Listening to good wine advice in the off-license.

21. Going on holiday to places we want to go, not because everyone else is. We do remote- Orkney, Donegal, Western Isles.
22. Realising the Sky+ box is full of programmes from BBC4.
23. Other favourite channels: Sky Arts, Film 4.
24. Realising my wife has more male friends than female friends.
25. Realising I have more female friends than male friends.
26. Taking our children to our gay friends' civil partnership ceremony. Got up the noses of my 'Christian' colleagues.
27. Not blaming bad behaviour on ADHD. It's bad parenting or the children are little sods!
28. Supporting the local football club. Though a lifelong fan of 'The People's Club', thats's Everton for the uninitiated, Charlton Athletic are a superb community club and having seen them in the Championship and League One shows there is decent football outside the Premier League.
29. Growing my own cut flowers.
30. Tweeting Monty Don and showing off that my tomato crop was better than his this year.

31. Growing my own Christmas Tree. Planted seeds when first married. Might be ready for our Golden Anniversary. Currently a foot tall!!
32. The dishwasher being blocked by an olive pip. Honest!
33. Unwittingly being the most ardent feminist at school.
34. Drinking real ales, not because it's trendy, but because they actually taste very good.
35. Looking at the meat percentage in sausages- the lowest I have found is 9%.
36. Coming up with increasingly more elaborate stories for the unsolicited phone calls 'He will be back later. Who am I? His wife's toyboy lover?' : 'You bastards! How insensitive can you be? You can't speak to my wife, she left me last week!'
37. Pissing off the Jehovah's Witnesses- wife at door, me from kitchen 'Darling! Can you come back here please; I need you to hold the goat still before I slaughter it and daub the children with its blood.
38. Buying a two euro bottle of Chianti on holiday in Italy on the advice of the locals and finding it was far better than the £12 bottle from M&S we bought when we came back.
39. Being proud of my Northern roots.
40. Being able to turn on Northern accent because being told off in a Northern accent is actually far more effective than a 'refined' one. Imagine 'bastard' with a flat /a/ rather than an /ar/ sound.

41. Breeding own guinea pigs! Accidentally! Started with two, ended with 14! Daphne now Dizzee!
42. Not being one of those people whose voice and opinion you just have to hear wherever you are; and whose voice grates; as if they have been the only person in the world to have had a baby, lost a job, been lied about, been lied to, been let down, been shopping, been on holiday. Bloody shut up! Sorry ranting!!!
43. Being a loyal husband and having a loyal and loving wife.
44. Being a loyal friend.
45. Being a trusted colleague.
46. Being a good parent.
47. Not putting up with anyone else's ego or bullshit.
48. Being me! And not what anyone else wants me to be!
49. Spending too much time on Twitter!
50. Blogging!

Hooray!! 50/50! I win! Actually I don't! Class doesn't mean social standing, whether you can do wonderful things with courgettes or taramasalata, or how popular you are with friends. It means decency, loyalty, honesty, friendship, not putting yourself before others, having a sense of humour, seeing the best in life and in every opportunity that comes your way.

Discuss!!

Doctor Who and the Mystery of the Missing Homework

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Thu, 04 Oct 2012 12:00:00 +0000

I wrote this for my class as their Leavers Assembly in 2011 and its sat on my USB stick ever since. Any teachers out there, feel free to use it with your class. If you know Steven Moffat, can you direct him this way; I wouldn't mind having a go at a full episode!

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Doctor Who and the Mystery of the Missing Homework

Phoebe is late for school and comes huffing and puffing up the path and steps

Miss Rowley: And what time do you call this!

Phoebe: Sorry that I’m late. You see…

Miss Rowley: Late! Late!! You are three months late! I suppose you have a note.

Phoebe: I do as a matter of fact (pulls dog eared and battered note from pocket)

Miss Rowley: (Reading) Dear Miss Rowley. Please excuse Phoebe for her lateness as she has been stuck in a time warp and battling aliens. Do you seriously expect me to believe this rubbish?

Phoebe: Yes Miss!

Miss Rowley: And I suppose your homework is delayed because you were fighting malevolent species from another dimension too?

Phoebe: Funny you should say that but ……

Miss Rowley: Enough of that already! Well since you have been away we have a change of teaching assistant. Give your excuses to her.

Dalek: (From off stage) A pathetic excuse for your homework. You will be exterminated!

Phoebe: Oh no! Not again!!

Doctor Who Music

Doctor1: Pond! Pond!! Where are you Pond?

Amy: Doctor! Help!

Doctor1: Are you stuck on that Sudoku again? Hang on, I feel a bit funny?

(Collapses rolls around and regenerates)

Doctor2: There it goes again! Now let’s have a look! Fashion sense good! Still not ginger! Still not a girl! Fantastic.

Rory: Doctor? Is that you?

Doctor2: Yes yes! Time for a little tidy up I thought! Now you got something to tell me!

Rory: Yes Doctor! Another breach in the fabric of the space and time continuum I’m afraid.

Doctor2: Ah that old chestnut! Do you like Marmite?

Rory: No.

Doctor2: Neither do I, can’t stand the stuff. Good for fixing the old TARDIS circuit breakers though. Lovely glutinous quality. Now where are we?

Rory: It seems we are on Earth in the year 2011.

Doctor2: (Looking out of the door) It’s a pretty ugly looking crowd out there!

Rory: No you still have those goggles from the planet Seigob where the whole population was green and slimy and looked like, well let’s not go there. Take them off, they look harmless.

Doctor2: Let me be the judge of that (Examining one of teachers) Just as I thought. Not a sign of any intelligent life. (Examining another) In fact the scan indicates nothing in the cranial cavity whatsoever.

Rory: That’s a real no brainer! Ha-ha!

Doctor2: Now. Rory. Let me make one thing clear. I do the jokes around here. Now what’s through here? (Exits- re-enter as Doctor 3)

Doctor3: There it goes again! Now let’s have a look! Fashion sense good! Still not ginger! Still not a girl! Fantastic.

Rory: Doctor? Is that you?

Doctor3: Yes yes! Time for a little tidy up I thought! Now you got something to tell me!

Rory: Yes Doctor! Another breach in the fabric of the space and time continuum I’m afraid.

Doctor3: Ah that old chestnut! Do you like Marmite?

Rory: No.

Doctor3: Neither do I, can’t stand the stuff. Good for fixing the old TARDIS circuit breakers though. Lovely glutinous quality. Now where are we?

Rory: Am I having a sense of déjà-vu?

Doctor3: No, I just think you have seen all this before.

(Meanwhile- elsewhere in the school)

Miss Towles: It’s that Phoebe again Miss Rowley. No homework again for the 47^th time this term and we’ve only been back for four weeks.

Miss Rowley: And what is her excuse this time? The dog ate it; it fell into the barbecue; lost it behind the fridge; passed out at the smell of her brothers socks and was in a coma all weekend?

Miss Towles: No. She was just reading it when she was hit by a meteorite, and as she woke up she found Darth Vader running away with it and throwing it into a Black Hole.

Miss Rowley: If that girl put as much effort into her work as her excuses, she would be a genius! There she is get her!

Phoebe: Oh no! They are going to catch me. Why don’t I hide in that Police Box? (looks in and out of the door in confusion) Have I been drinking too much Sunny D or something but I swear that this box is bigger on the inside than the outside.

Doctor3: Quite simple my girl. TARDIS, Time And Relative Dimensions In Space.

Phoebe: What does that mean?

Rory: It means it is bigger on the inside than the outside?

Phoebe: Oh. Will it help with my homework?

Doctor3: Homework. Home-work. Home- work.Working at home. Not as such. How about moving through the cosmos at unperceivable, possibly illegal and as yet uninvented speed work?

Phoebe: Anything to get me out of detention.

Doctor3: Hop on board. Plenty of room for a little one! No offence!

Amy: Doctor! Help!

Doctor3: It’s that handle on the side. Press it down and you will hear a rushing sound. On second thoughts I had better do it.

(Exits. Sound of flush. Re-enters as Doctor4)

Rory: Doctor? Is that you?

Doctor4: Yes yes! Hang on, twice is funny three times is pushing your luck.

(Thumps on the door)

Miss Towles: Come on Phoebe! I know you are in there?

Phoebe: Oh quick!

Doctor4: Hang on; this may be a bit bumpy!

(TARDIS sound effects. All wave arms around and stagger about to show flight of TARDIS)

Phoebe: Where are we?

Rory: The scanner says Tenochtitlan 1521 AD.

Phoebe: Techy-tocky-lammy! The Aztecs. I have to find out how they sacrificed their victims. (Looks out) Oh dear- you do not want to go out there!

Doctor4: No! But you know the way it works, we always do!

Moctezuma: Hail gods from the East. It is foretold that Quetzalcoatl would appear in the Year of the Jaguars Armpit. Welcome.

Doctor4: Yes. Hi! Look bit of advice, red is not really your colour on the floor.

High Priest: This is the sign of the sacrifice to your great self.

Moctezuma: Many have come and given their heart and their life blood in your name.

High Priest: And we see you have brought a victim yourself. Attendants, prepare her for the ritual.

(Three Cybermen march in)

Cyberman1: You will be assimilated.

Cyberman2: Resistance is futile.

Cyberman3: Orders are to be obeyed without question.

Phoebe: Do you know my teacher?

Cyberman1: Seize the victim.

Amy: Doctor! Help!

Phoebe: This is fantastic for my homework.

Cyberman2: The sacrificial victim is ready oh Emperor.

Moctezuma: Splendid. Now all we need to do is cut out her heart and leave it to be eaten by the great eagle.

Amy: Doctor! Help!

High Priest: Attendants! Ready!

Cybermen: Ready! Resistance is futile.

High Priest: Then take out her heart!

Cyberman3: Heart! What is heart? Does not compute. Confused, confused! Stressed!!

Doctor4: Rory quick. This is our moment. Impart some temporary changes to the temporal lobes.

Rory: Eh!

Doctor4: Knock them on the head!

Rory: Oh! Look- the Spanish! (Cybermen turn together- knocks them out)

Doctor4: Now everyone quick back to the TARDIS.

(Everyone runs to the TARDIS and escapes)

Doctor4: Oh no it’s happening again! (Collapse and regenerate)

Doctor5: Ooh! I feel a bit funny. Not ginger! Still good looking! But what’s this.

Phoebe: Who is that woman?

Rory: It is the Doctor. This happens every so often.

Phoebe: But how is he now a she?

Doctor5: A technical, galactical, biological and illogical conundrum my dear boy. Now where to?

Rory: London 1598.

Phoebe: We have landed with a bit of a squelch.

Doctor5: Careful with what you tread in out there.

Phoebe: That’s the Globe Theatre. We have done something on Shakespeare. And it looks like there is a play on. It’s only a penny.

Doctor5: I have some Gallifreyan Globbets!

Rory: Rub them in the dirt. No-one will notice.

Stage Manager: Good evening! Today’s performance will be delayed for one hour because we have new actors learning their lines today.

Crowd: Boo! Get off!

Shakespeare: Now come on it’s quite simple

Dalek1: To be or not to be that is the question. That is not a question. It is a statement. For that you should be exterminated.

Shakespeare: And if you exterminate me you have no way home.

Dalek2: Good point. How about this one? A horse, a horse my Kingdom for a horse. If you do not provide me with a horse you will be exterminated. Bow down in the name of Dalek Supremacy.

Shakespeare: It doesn’t really scan very well. Try this.

Dalek1: When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightening, or in rain?

Dalek2: When the hurly-burly's done, when the battle's lost and won.

Dalek3: That will be ere the set of sun.

Dalek1: Where the place?

Dalek2: Upon Gallifrey.

Dalek3: There to meet with the Doctor.

All Daleks: And to exterminate him! Exterminate! Exterminate! Exterminate!

Shakespeare: No! This won’t work at all.

Dalek3: We are the ultimate killing machine. How about something with some fighting in it?

Shakespeare: I have just the perfect thing Romeo and Juliet.

Dalek1: Urgh! Not all that kissing and stuff.

Shakespeare: No the opening is just up your street.

(Meanwhile)

Doctor5: Definitely getting a sense of something not quite right here. I suspect the Daleks.

Phoebe: Hmmm. Well it couldn't get any worse I suppose. There is a bloke at the back talking to some compost bins.

Rory: Ooh what’s that!

Do wobbly arms motion. Sarah- Jane and K9 appear.

Doctor5: Sarah-Jane Smith of all the people. How did you end up here?

Sarah-Jane: Doctor! It is you. I would recognise your face anywhere? All 11 of them.

Rory: How did she get here?

Doctor5: What we have here, is a classic case of the Daleks trying to cause a massive rift in the space time continuum. They have latched on to uncertainty and fear and have exploited it to cause an emergency temporal shift dispersing people across time. We must stop this or the contradiction in space time could result in the termination of all reality as we know it!

Phoebe: I have no idea what you're on about. In English please?

Doctor Sarah-Jane has time travelled and so have the actors. If we don’t solve this the world will end.

Phoebe: (Open mouthed. Gulps) Right. I think I liked it better with the sci-fi jargon.

Shakespeare: Ah you must be our additional players. Quick learn this. We have an ugly crowd out there.

Doctor5: That’s the second time today. Now be careful people. They look like Daleks to me.

Phoebe:                                 Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Dalek2:                                  I do bite my thumb, sir.

Sarah-Jane:                          Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Dalek3:                                  No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I bite my thumb, sir. No     sir I have no thumbs sir so Iwill exterminate you sir!

Amy: Doctor! Help!

Doctor5: Go for the eye stalks.

(Roryand Phoebe disable Dalek1. K9 moves next to Dalek2)

Dalek2: This filthy canine has wet me. Short circuit! Warning! Warning! (Explodes)

Dalek3: Revenge! Revenge! Exterminate the Doctor! (Shoots Doctor who collapses)

Assistants: Doctor! Noooooooooooooo!!!

(ALL SING SOMEONE LIKE YOU)

Doctor6: What a lovely song! Okay, no time to lose… Let's get into the TARDIS now!

Step into TARDIS and play TARDIS sound effect

Sarah-Jane: That was a close one!

Phoebe: How did you survive that?

Doctor6: Two hearts you see. Jelly baby? (Eats one chokes, collapses and regenerates)

Doctor7: See I am virtually indestructible. But don’t tell anyone about choking on a jelly baby. I have a reputation to keep up.

Phoebe: Why do all these things keep happening?

Doctor7: (Scanning with sonic screwdriver) Well the scan would indicate an indolence consequential to deficiency in domestic assignment termination.

Phoebe: Come again!

Rory: He means you are a lazy little toad who never completes her homework properly.

Sarah-Jane: So all these things are down to you. Because you didn’t do your homework properly the whole fabric of time and space has split.

Phoebe: I know I should have listened to my school master.

(Meanwhile at the side)

The Master: There is only one Master he should be listening to. As should everyone else. Hahahahahahaha!!!! Isn’t that right Ernie?

Ernie: Yes Master! Hahahahahahaha!!!!

The Master: Little do they know that this is part of a giant game and I am gathering all the planets of the Galaxy into one place using my knowledge of gravitational attraction to threaten them with destruction if my demands are not met.

Ernie: At least you did your homework! Hahahahahahaha!!!!

The Master: I will allow you that little joke but next time I will crush you like the gravity of Jupiter if you try to be funny again.

Ernie: Yes Master!

The Master: Hahahahahahaha!!!!

Ernie: (Gulps) Hahahahahahaha!!!!

The Master: Let’s see how they enjoy the island of Crete.

(Back on the TARDIS)

Doctor7: Rory where are we now!

Rory: Crete 345BC. The palace of King Minos.

Phoebe: The Minotaur. There is a Labyrinth of tunnels under the palace and a gruesome monster! Worse than the PPA teacher in my class!!

Sarah-Jane: That must be truly hideous!

Doctor7: As bad as this? (Changes into Doctor8)

Sarah-Jane: Not bad but not as cute as David Tennant!

Phoebe: Quick someone is coming.

King Minos: Ah! The latest victims from King Aegeus! More meals for my brutal creature.

Doctor8: Has he eaten school dinners! His breath smells really bad!

King Minos: Only those brave enough can survive the labyrinth. No-one has so far.

Rory: And if we go in....

Phoebe: We face certain death.

Sarah-Jane: Just to make that clear!

Amy: Doctor! Help!

Rory, Phoebe,

Sarah-Jane: Amy! Shut up!

Doctor8: Now do we split up and become snacks for the beast or stay together and be one main course!

King Minos: I tried to make him eat some hummus and he said!

Doctor8: No?

King Minos: Then I tried to make him eat some feta cheese and he said!

Rory: No, no?

King Minos: So then I tried to make him eat a kebab and he said.

Doctor8 and assistants: No, no, no!! (Start dancing badly)

King Minos: Not funny!! Now get down there before I poke you with Poseidon’s trident.

Phoebe: It is very dark. What does the screwdriver show?

Doctor8: Let me just look around this corner.

(Exits stage re-enters as Doctor9)

Doctor9: Really very important that you do not shut your eyes?

Sarah-Jane: Why?

Angel1: HISS!!!

Phoebe: A statue! What is scary about that? (Angel moves closer and scarier) AAAAAARRRGH!!!

Rory: I remember. Don’t make eye contact and don’t blink. Otherwise we become one of them.

Angel2: HISS!!

Doctor9: Not looking! Not looking!

Sarah-Jane: Round this corner. Very carefully. Amy watch out!!

Amy: Doctor! Help!

Angel3: HISS!!

Doctor9: Now everyone listen to me! I may not be very handsome but this is your best option. If you don’t listen you won’t.

Phoebe: Won’t learn. Yeah I know the drill.

Doctor9: No! Won’t live! You will turn to stone.

(Doctor, assistants and Angels move around Labyrinth- angels freeze every time they are seen)

Amy: Doctor! Help!

Doctor9: Enough of this! Follow me everyone! Do as I do?

(Everytime they bump into angel all pull an angel pose- angels run off one by one)

Doctor9: See! Quite simple really. Just don’t turn away from them after you see one. (Turns away turns back as an angel appears- turns to stone)

Rory: Doctor?

Doctor10: Just as well I was here then! Now where is this Beast? Nothing nasty in here.

Rose: You hadn’t reckoned on me! Five years I have been here waiting for you.

Doctor10: Ah! Rose! Yes! I can explain! Temporal timeshift.Wobbly windshafts. Dodgy dodecahedrons!

Rose: Don’t bother. You are here now. If we just follow this cotton thread we can be back at the TARDIS to solve the series climax.

Phoebe: And finish my homework.

(Back to the TARDIS)

Doctor10: Where now Rory?

Rory: South East London about 10:30 July 22^nd 2011.

Doctor10: Oh no it’s happening again!

(Dramatic collapse roll around and regeneration)

Doctor11: No more of that surely! The Master is hatching the rest of his Master plan.

(Meanwhile)

Victim: Please! No! AAAAAAARGH!!

The Master: That will teach her to complain about the sausages on the school meal menu! What does she expect? Meat?

Ernie: Hur-hur-hur!

Headless Monk1: Saturn is waiting outside.

Headless Monk 2: Gallifrey will be delivered soon.

Headless Monk 1: And here is the Earth, just as you ordered.

The Master: Excellent! Soon the whole of the Universe will be at my command otherwise I will play intergalactic snooker with the planets.

Ernie: You could say you had the whole world in your hands

(Burstinto Chorus of The Whole World in his Hands)

The Master: Stop that! It’s far too jolly for an evil genius! Ernie summon my army!

Ernie: Servants of the Master! Enter to his bidding.

(March on- Cybermen, Daleks, Weeping Angels, Headless Monks)

The Master: Who do you obey?

Army: You Master!

The Master: How do you obey?

Army: Without question.

The Master: Why do you obey?

Army: We were born this way.

(Dance to Born this Way)

(Meanwhile)

Rose: Doctor! What do we do now? (Hurled about)

Sarah-Jane: I think we need some extra help. (Hurled about)

Amy: Doctor! Help! (Hurled about)

Doctor11: I don’t think the old girl will stand any more.(Hurled about) She has been through as much as me. (Hurled about) We need a miracle (Hurled about- then stop)

River Song: Hello Sweetie!

Doctor11: River Song. Right time, wrong place as usual! Now you can fly this thing as well as me.

River Song: I can but it is too late. I am only here because of the Master and his great forces. Look. All the planets are in the sky.

Doctor11: No room to squeeze a space cruiser through. Hang on! What now (Hurled about-TARDIS lands in the Master’s HQ)

The Master: Seize the Doctor!

Cybermen: We will obey!

Daleks: Exterminate the enemy!

Headless Monks: The Master will be the Master of All.

Rose: Doctor! What about us?

Doctor11: Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got a plan.

Rory: He hasn’t got a plan.

River Song: He says he has a plan, but he will make it up as he goes along.

The Master: Enough of this nonsense. Now look at my Master plan. It has a certain je ne sais quoi, don’t you think?

Phoebe: I don’t know what you mean!

The Master: Precisely. Ignorant earthlings know nothing before the power and glory of the true supreme being.

Ernie: Shall I line them up for destruction now!

The Master: Would that make you feel good?

Ernie: It would indeed.

The Master: Then organise it.

Ernie: Line them up in front of the Daleks. (Lined up)

Daleks: Exterminate! Exterminate!

All assistants: Doctor! Help!

The Master: The Doctor! Where is the Doctor? Who is the Doctor?

Doctor1: I’m the Doctor!

Doctor2: No I’m the Doctor!

Doctor3: No I’m the Doctor!

Doctor4: No I’m the Doctor!

Doctor5: No I’m the Doctor!

Doctor6: No I’m the Doctor!

Doctor7: No I’m the Doctor!

Doctor8: No I’m the Doctor!

Doctor9: No I’m the Doctor!

Doctor10: No I’m the Doctor!

Doctor11: Actually we are all the Doctor!

All assistants: Doctors! Help!

Doctors: We are here! Never fear!

(Zap all the enemy with sonic screwdrivers- capture all including the Master)

Assistants: Hooray!!

Phoebe: Thank heavens for that, but my teacher is more frightening than any Dalek. Can you get me back in time to get my homework in?

Doctor11: With eleven of us to fly the TARDIS we will do what we can.

(TARDIS sound effects. All wave arms around and stagger about to show flight of TARDIS- land and Phoebe staggers out)

Miss Rowley: And what time do you call this!

Phoebe: Sorry that I’m late. You see…

Miss Rowley: Late! Late!! You are three months late! I suppose you have a note.

Phoebe: I do as a matter of fact (pulls dog eared and battered note from pocket)

Miss Rowley: (Reading) Dear MissRowley. Please excuse Phoebe for her lateness as she has been stuck in a time warp and battling aliens. Do you seriously expect me to believe this rubbish?

Phoebe: Yes Miss!

Miss Rowley: And I suppose your homework is delayed because you were fighting malevolent species from another dimension too?

Phoebe: No- it’s all here. But you realise what you have taught us some strange facts.

Miss Rowley: Phoebe! Don’t you ever change?

The Barge

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Mon, 03 Sep 2012 17:35:00 +0000

This work originated from the need to have a story containing a flashback to a previous event; could you suggest a short story with one in. So with necessity being the mother of invention, this tale emerged.

The Barge

I stared at the canal. An empty, barren expanse of bank lay opposite; an oily film interrupted by the movement of a duck sat like a stained bedspread on the water. All was calm now, the only sound being the gentle lap of the water on the bank below my feet.

In front of me though was the barge. The ‘Sally-Anne’ was like a floating dustcart. The hatch on deck was an old stacking palette, the portholes covered either in scrap plywood or old refuse bags. Green paint, faded, peeled and flaked, coated the lower part of the hull. Bright red paint supposedly lay below the waterline, but the colour of the water left this as anyone’s guess now.

As I walked away, I ignored the splash of a fish. Without warning I was grabbed by the ankle. I tried to jump forward but succeeded only in falling face first into the muddy grass. I struggled to stand, but whatever had grabbed me continued to pull. I snatched desperately at a tussock of grass, but I could not hold on. I dug my free foot into the ground, but ended up only spinning to the left. With an almighty heave I pushed my weight forward, just as a greater force pulled back and I crashed like a thrashing trout into the murky depths.

Gasping for breath as I briefly surfaced, I thought I saw a face staring from the porthole at the bow of the ‘Sally-Anne’. Where had I seen this before? No chance to answer as I was dragged below once more, something gripping both ankles now and the last breath escaping from my tortured body. Next, as I thought my time was up, I saw the same face in the water beside me. The old man, shouting for help beneath the murk.

I woke in a cold sweat.

2:17 am.

The seventeenth time I had had the same nightmare.

“Tyler…,” I said to myself, “this is all your doing.”

Six days before, on the way home from school, Tyler and I had stopped by the shops. “If you are as hard as you say you are, you will come with me to the canal,” he announced. Tyler was not the sort of boy you ever refused an invitation from. He was the first boy at school with an earring, first with a tattoo, first to shoplift, or so he said.

At the canal, there was a pile of gravel from the building site. I absentmindedly picked up a handful and flung it into the water, splashing like a flock of sparrows taking off. “Not like that soft lad!” Tyler shouted, “This is how we treat the nutter!”

He scooped the gravel into two handfuls, hurled it into the air, and it crashed down onto the deck of the ‘Sally-Anne’. “Loony! Nutter! Mental-case! Come out and do that dance for us!”

A shuffle and a grumble emerged from below the deck. I had never even thought that someone could be there, even Stig of the Dump! Slowly a face emerged from the palette hatch. It was like an old walnut, topped by wisps of white hair.

“Gerrouawit! Gerrouawit!” squealed the walnut.

“Loony! Nutter! Do your dance! Do your samba!” Tyler yelled, whilst laughing like a hyena on laughing gas. The old man emerged onto the deck, as Tyler threw more gravel. The old man span around yelling “Gerrouawit! Yarrooligans!” at the sky as much as at us.

Tyler hurled more gravel, and I did the same, until it happened. As he was spinning, the old man stepped on some gravel. Time slowed as he twisted in the air, like a geriatric ballerina. He shouted something incoherent as he sailed over the deck, before splashing with a colossal belly flop into the canal.

“Tyler! Leggit!” I shouted as I turned and ran for home quicker than I had ever moved before. I burst through my bedroom door, collapsed on the bed and sobbed for an hour or more, my heart thumping like a pneumatic hammer.

Two days later, the local free paper dropped through the letterbox.

The headline read, “WORLD WAR II VETERAN FOUND DROWNED IN CANAL”

I read on. “Police identified the body of George Clegg, aged 93, who fought in Italy in the closing stages of the war, after it was found in the canal near his narrow boat home. They say there are no suspicious circumstances, and no-one is being sought in connection with his death. It is believed that he slipped on gravel in the deck of his boat, as he was a well known hoarder of a range of materials.”

I had got away with it. Or had I?

Fifty Word Stories: Not a Hint of Grey!

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Tue, 14 Aug 2012 17:50:00 +0000

And now for something a bit more normal.

With the children in my class we often do this task- write a story in 50 words exactly. It is quite a challenge because every word has to count and pull its weight. And to include a beginning, middle and end too is hard work. We have been successful in the last two years at having several published in a writing competition across London and the South East.

This is my effort. I got a round of applause from the children.

Have a go at writing one yourself

New York. September 11^th 2001. We all know what happened on that day. Somewhere in the smouldering ruins of the World Trade Centre were the remains of a leather bound book which contained the secrets to world peace and everlasting harmony. Whatever happened to it? Nobody will ever know now.

Fifty Shades of One: Because Royals do too!

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Tue, 14 Aug 2012 16:40:00 +0000

The last in a trilogy of parodies. For the moment!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The Princess dialled the well worn number. He answered. His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel… or something like that anyway.

'You rang m'lady!'

She shivered in anticipation then felt the colour in her cheeks rising again. 'One must be the colour of that beastly communist manifesto,' she muttered to herself.

'Yes I did,' she replied. 'I need you to drive the carriage into the palace. come around the back would you.'

His refined but slow witted brain struggled to compute if this was a bizarre request or a cunningly disguised double entendre.

Not for her the rugged good looks and rough hewn bravado of the gardener. He was like a statue, not roughly hewn from rock, but carved tenderly from the finest Italian marble; Michelangelo’s David had nothing on him!

'I will be there presently ma'am'

Within moments, the door echoed to the knock from his silken gloved hands.

'Good evening Mr Bond!'

'Good evening' replied, acting part of another of their adventures.

He stared into her eyes, and she held his anxious, burning gaze for a moment; or maybe forever, but eventually her attention was drawn to his beautiful mouth.

She kissed him passionately, forcing his lips apart with her tongue, taking no prisoners.

She was all rabbit/headlights, moth/flame, bird/snake… and he knew exactly what he was doing.

When it was over, she turned to him and said 'You are without a doubt the most beautiful man on the planet, too beautiful for the common people below, too beautiful for me.’

‘No man is an island' he mused, ' although I'm going to rule this one one day!'

Fifty Shades of Green

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Mon, 23 Jul 2012 18:14:00 +0000

Fergal O'Flaherty, a rough hewn beast of a man, and a native of Cork City, pealed of his shirt, exposing a vest, and with a flick of his head tossed his mane of strawberry blonde hair down his back. A day of honest toil on the site and rewarded him with a wad of Euros in his back pocket, and a longing desire for several pints of the Black Stuff.

The doors of The King's Arms were wide open on this warm evening, lasciviously welcoming this Son of Gael like a spiritual home.

'A pint of Guinness for me; and whatever you're having my darling!' he added with impeccably accurate use of the semi-colon, demonstrating the relative strength of Irish Literary tradition to that of their former oppressor.

'I'll have an Archers with a dash of Aftershock, thanks!' Aiymiei the barmaid replied, with all the class that her Sarf-East Landan accent afforded.

Fergal slid lasciviously onto the barstool with all the subtlety of a snake, which of course there were none of in Ireland, as St Patrick had driven then out, so his terms of reference were sketchy at best. This mattered little to Aiymiei, whose GSCE in Beauty Therapy had not contained an element of Celtic History that particular year.

Several rounds later, Fergal stood as firm as the Rock of Cashel, but Aiymiei was a little worse for wear, having vomited profusely into the half empty crisp boxes behind the bar.

Touchingly removing the last specks of puke from the corners of her mouth, Fergal leant over the bar, and whispered suggestively into her ear 'Have you got any Irish in you!'

'Me babe! Naaaaahhhh!!'

'Would you like some?'

'Oh you smooth talking bastard! Bring it on!' she announced, before passing out.

'Result!'

Fifty Seconds of Ray

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Thu, 19 Jul 2012 20:48:00 +0000

I wrote this yesterday left a few copies out, passed a few on and showed it on my phone, and created a few sniggers, giggles and raucous laughter. So here goes- another parody, but all my own work!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fifty Seconds of Ray

Maria had looked forward to this moment all day. She had treasured her long soak in the hot tub, though the disappointment of the ‘Radox’ having dried up was more than made up for by the bottle of ‘Matey’ she found in the back of her bathroom cupboard, left there by a lodger several years, and several lovers,in the past.

A glass of rosé, a little sweet perhaps, but not bad for the £5 for two bottles bargain bucket, moistened her lips. She quivered in anticipation of the moment of pure rapture that would surely envelop her ‘ce soir’. She sated her expectant appetite with a portion of ‘pain et frites’, although her burly, rough hewn object of her desire preferred the colloquial ‘chip butty’.

Maria slipped on her Bri-Nylon nightdress, pausing only to smooth it past the static electricity generated between the fabric and the hairs on her thighs. Lasciviously, she draped herself in a variety of poses on the DFS sofa, choosing the position that would best display her ample physique, without exposing her stubborn cellulite. Finally, she decided on a pose demonstrating her longing for her beau, her right hand caressing her fading roots, her left hand suggestively cupping the half empty wine glass, and her right thigh raised on a cushion so as not to snag her varicose vein on that spring that had so surprised her grandmother the week before.

Meanwhile Ray was finishing his shift at the building site. He pulled ‘The Sun’ from his back pocket, gave one last longing look at the innocent young maiden on page three, and flung it lazily to the recycling heap where it sat, fluttering in the wind. He tugged his pants, rather hopefully labeled ‘Next’ over his cavernous bum crack. Tramping into the Portakabin, he grabbed the first spray to hand in his locker, showering the exposed hairs of his manly armpits with the clear but strangely aromatic scent. He knew just how much the pungent aroma, the heady mix of day old sweat and ‘Febreze’ aroused the flames of passion in his woman.

He drove home at a slightly daring 34 mph, pausing at each traffic light to swig from a bottle of ‘White Lightning’, to scratch his crotch and to sing along to the chorus of ‘I’m Horny! Horny! Horny! Horny!’ on the radio of his vintage XR3 Cabriolet. The wheels span and screamed as he pulled away from the final set of lights, and swung serenely into the cul-de-sac.

Such was his excitement that he forgot the dregs of his drink, which spilled on the fake leopard skin seats, adding to the other unidentifiable stains and smells. He slammed the door with his ‘Nike’ trainers, ran clumsily up the gravel path, and opened the door.

‘Come in my Big Bear! There’s something special for you in the cave today!’ came a voice from the boudoir.

‘Would my little pudding like a quarter pound of prime Barnsley sausage?’

‘No! I’d much prefer stuffing!’ but the double entendre was lost on his dinosaur brain.

Ray lumbered down the hall and into the living room, the backs of his hairy hands trailing along the floor, his brow furrowed not in concentration but due to his Neanderthal heritage. He ripped the t-shirt from his torso, unbuckled his belt and half fell, half lunged onto the chaise longue.

It was over in less than a minute. He rolled off, expressed his gratitude in an explosive expression of flatulence, and pulled his pants back up from his knees.

‘Is that it?’

‘Sorry love. Footie’s on in half an hour and I’ve got a Chinese coming at quarter past. You know what I’m like without my grub. Do us a favour love, make us a cup of tea. I’m parched after all that effort.’

‘You old romantic fool!’ Maria said. ‘That’s why I love you so much!’ she added, whist thinking, ‘Is there room under the patio for this old bastard, just like the last two losers?’

noreply@blogger.com (Andrew Cowley) — Tue, 26 Jun 2012 20:38:00 +0000

It started like this. As a teacher I want to find quality texts for my children to use in literacy lessons, but inevitably the best texts are too long- and I don't want to butcher Pullman or Morpurgo.

Often I ended up writing short stories myself, and started getting a very positive reaction from the children in terms of their response to the text and the ways in which they wrote for themselves.

Last year one of my very polite girls suggested 'Why don't you publish that sir?'

After many umms and ahhs and a bit of editing and improving I came up with this.

Based both on a family holiday in Japan and my interest in oral storytelling, this filled a gap in the traditional tales section of the curriculum.

My first effort, so be kind- would appreciate any feedback- and a contract would be even better!!

*******************************************************************************

AIKO AND THE VENGEFUL SPIRIT.

Visit Japan in the spring and you will witness the annual obsession with cherry blossom, to such an extent that the weather forecast each night includes a ‘blossom front’ as over the course of two months the blossoms appear on Kyushu in the south, through Honshu and onto Hokkaido in the north.

*******************

At the foot of the Philosopher’s Walk in the hills above old Kyoto, near the Kitomizu Temple, there are two weeping cherry trees. What made these unusual though was their near perfect symmetry. The weeping boughs seemed to bow towards each other, but more peculiar still was that each trunk seemed to bend down towards the ground before rising again to support the blooms. Exactly halfway between them, perched on a rock was a statue of a small dog, an Akita I believe.

As I knelt, running my fingers over the gnarled texture of the ‘knee’ of the left hand tree, a gentle tap on the shoulder caused me to turn.

‘Excuse me sir. You seem like a nice English gentleman. I will practice my English on you!’ announced a confident little girl in pig tails and white knee socks that were part of the Japanese school uniform.

‘Certainly, if your grandfather doesn’t mind.’ For holding her hand was a little man, stooped so no taller than his granddaughter. He nodded enthusiastically, then whispered something into her ear.

‘Grandfather says he will tell you how these trees came to be, and I will translate,’ she proudly declared. ‘Can you spare an hour?’

So we settled down to this tale.

*******************

Many years ago, before the city came out this far, and before the temples had been built, this land belonged to a man and his wife. They had been married for many years and were very much in love. However their union had never been blessed with children.

Hanako was a true beauty. Her name meant ‘flower child’ and she was gifted with the clear and fragrant complexion of the white jasmine flower. In the years of their courtship, Minoru would bring Hanaku a single fresh flower every single day, a habit he joyfully continued after their wedding.

Hanaku wished desperately to become a mother, but as season followed season, there was no sign of any pregnancy.

‘Be patient my love; in time the spirits will provide!’ Minoru would always say. Though he said the same words several times each year, Hanaku would not argue for she knew the meaning of her husband’s name: ‘truth’.

Sure enough, in the spring of the seventeenth year of their marriage, as Hanaku worked the land outside their small dwelling, a gust of warming breeze shook the neighbouring cherry trees. A handful of older blooms scattered over the neighbouring stream, but one single fresh blossom hovered in the air like the most delicate of dragon flies. Hanaku was transfixed by its flight. As she watched it slowly fluttered, like a butterfly now, and landed on her kimono, just above her belly. At that moment she felt a magical glow and a spine-tingling shiver.

She ran immediately to Minoru. ‘Dearest husband! It has happened! We are to be blessed with a child. The spirits have provided, just as you said they would.’ Together they danced for joy in the milky spring sunshine.

Not everyone shared in their elation however, for next to their property lived Onryo, a grumpy and arthritic old man who never had any visitors and who shook his stick at anyone near him when he travelled beyond his gate, which was not often. Onryo was no ordinary human being though. He was the earthly manifestation of the vengeful spirit, and he looked on even the merest speck of human happiness with disdain, hatred and jealousy. He spied Hanaku’s joy, grumbled to himself and shuffled into his shabby dwelling.

The months passed, Hanaku’s belly swelled, as did the fruits on the cherry tree that had borne the good news. Minoru set his mind to preparing the house for the new arrival. So it was with the passing of autumn, that the time had come.

The baby arrived, healthy and chubby. A baby girl, with a complexion to match that of her mother, and eyes as wide and as brown as a halved lychee. Hanaku and Minoru knew that the infant had arrived as a reward for their feelings for and trust in each other. So they called her Aiko; ai meaning ‘love and affection’, and ko meaning ‘child’.

The first cry of the new-born, though not a piercing banshee yowl, but a reminder that little ones need feeding, was enough to awaken the dozing Onryo. This sign of unbridled happiness was at the very limit of his tolerance, and unbeknownst to his neighbours, the most vengeful side of his personality was about to be awakened.

Aiko was quite literally a bundle of joy. Everywhere the family went, her smile and eyes brought light and pleasure to everyone they met. She would chuckle at every tickle of her chin, at each squeeze of her cheeks, and every time her father threw her up in the air her merriment could be heard the length of the hill side. She walked within a year and would chase after birds and rabbits, who wouldn’t fly or hop away, entranced as they were by her hypnotic laughter, and who let the little girl pet them ever so gently.

Hanaku taught her the names of all the flowers, birds and insects. Minoru explained the value of telling the truth, and being trustworthy. Aiko fell in love with the beauty of everything around her and would spend hours sitting below a tree to see the birds arriving to build their nests, watching the fledglings taking their first nervy exits, and waiting for the sepals to open on the flowers to reveal their first blooms.

Hanaku loved to tell her daughter the story of the falling cherry blossom and the faith that Minoru had shown in the spirits. Each spring she would wait for the first blossoms to fall, and then chase after them trying to catch them on the tip of her tongue, on her nose or delicately between her thumb and forefinger.

When she was four years old, a strong gust threw some blossoms high into the air, and a second swirling gust sent them in every direction. Aiko ran to the blooms as she always did her eyes on a particular prize. She ran, skipping over rocks, flowers and a stream. Oh yes! The very stream that ran along the side of their land. The very stream that marked the land belonging to Onryo.

Of course little girls probably don’t understand what it means to trespass on someone else’s land, but Onryo certainly did. He hobbled from his house, waving his stick and yelling at her to get off his land. ‘I don’t ever want to see you on her again!’ he bellowed so loudly that even the birds were quietened.

Aiko, having never seen or heard such a noise, leapt the stream and ran bawling her eyes out into the arms of her parents. ‘He is a tired and grumpy old man’ said her father, for this was the truth that he knew. Little did he know that the events of that day had triggered more thoughts on Onryo’s mind.

One year passed. Aiko’s continued happiness helped her forget the trauma of the old man’s anger. The next spring, another flurry sent the blossoms scattering. Once more Aiko chased the falling flowers, her eyes on the widest one. She ran, skipping over rocks, flowers and a stream. Oh yes! The very stream that ran along the side of their land. The very stream that marked the land belonging to Onryo.

Onryo however was waiting. ‘Don’t you remember last year! You do that again, I swear you will never leave here again.’

Once more Aiko leapt the stream and ran to the comforting embrace of her parents. ‘He probably can’t see the beauty of the nature around him,’ her mother whispered, for she knew nothing of his real hatred of beauty.

A further year passed. Now six, Aiko still marvelled at the wonders of nature’s cycles and waited for the cherry blossom with heightened anticipation. Sure enough the blooms emerged, opened and were caught by a draft of warm air. Aiko had focussed her attention on one exceptionally fat bud, and its emerging flower, and when it fell, that was her target.

She ran, skipping over rocks, flowers and a stream. Oh yes! The very stream that ran along the side of their land. The very stream that marked the land belonging to Onryo.

Onryo too had watched the buds emerging, had seen the exceptionally fat bud and waited for the moment that it would fall. He emerged from behind a bamboo screen.

‘I have told you twice before about coming onto my land. Last year I told you that you would never leave if you did that again!’

Before she had the chance to run or even to call to her parents, Onryo stared deep into her eyes. A demon red glow, heightened by the deep jet black of his pupils, rendered her helpless. Rooted to the spot on top of the rock where she stood, Aiko felt a sensation from her feet, travelling up towards her knees. As she looked down she saw that she now had fur on her legs, and her feet had become paws. As the demon’s spell continued, she fell onto all fours, fur now growing from her back and her ears lengthening.

Fighting her fear she called to her parents, ‘Mother! Father! Help me!’ but all they heard was a puppy dog howl. This was enough to alert them, and as they saw Aiko’s nose and mouth become the muzzle of an Akita, they jumped the stream together.

‘Ah the brat’s pathetic parents. You were too old to have any happiness anyway,’ Onryo cackled as he engaged their eyes in the same glare.

This time however they were transformed not into dogs, but into stone. They tried to bend down to their daughter, but the stone reached their knees which struck, bent and rigid. They could now lean over, but couldn’t quite reach her. ‘Run Aiko! Get help!’

Aiko wouldn’t leave. It was too late. Within minutes Minoru and Hanaku were transformed to stone, knees bent, arms trailing in a vain attempt to reach their daughter. Onryo had had his vengeance. Even he wouldn’t waste roe on tying the dog to the trees. She would stay, and probably die of hunger.

Aiko began to cry, slowly at first, then great buckets of uncontrolled tears. These were not only tears of sadness, but tears of love, beauty and truth. As they fell on the ground they seeped into the stone that was the feet of her parents. The stone, dampened by the tears, began to transform into the trunks of two trees. More tears fell, and the statues continued to change, with the arms becoming branches and the fingers growing into twigs. By the time that the tears stopped Hanaku and Minoru were two cherry trees, the very cherry trees that brought them the news of their daughter.

Aiko had cried out all the love and affection that she could muster. She was exhausted, and had no tears left to transform herself. She was completely dried out, and felt herself changing again, this time into the stone that her parents had so recently been. She sat, a little Akita puppy, at the feet of her parental cherry trees.

As for Onryo; his demon magic was no answer to the power of love and truth. This drained away his energies as he watched turning him into a hollow stalk of bamboo, hollow for the feelings he never had.

To this day, visitors still ask how the trees and the little dog came to be. Look ever so carefully. Can you find the tiniest streak of a tear?