Executive Suite, Hell; somewhere in time post April 23 1616:  Satan has had a bit of a result.  You see, being virtually illiterate, he has for an age now been looking for a ghost writer to pen his memoirs. Good fortune has smiled; a stroke of luck no less as news reached him that William Shakespeare has been sent from Heaven to Hell.   The official reason for the Bard’s demise is that God believes that his play, ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ is too much on the ‘gay’ side – and simply will not do as it sends out all the wrong signals to Heaven’s other punters. In truth it is rumoured that He simply couldn’t face another day of Shakespeare wandering about Heaven speaking mainly in quotations from his plays.  Regardless, in the light his arrival in Hell William Shakespeare has been invited over to dine with the Devil in order to discuss the project at hand. We join the pair just prior to the meal being served. 

Satan: “Stroll on, that was a bit of bad luck you had there with God and all that. I always had you marked down as one of the good guys mate.  Still His loss is my gain what with you being a proper writer and all that.  So, as to me memoir Bill you’re up for the gig then?” 

Bill: “What’s past is prologue. What’s done cannot be undone. The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.”   

Satan: “That’s settled then, you’ll have a life of luxury here mate; no stoking the fires of Hell for you Billy boy. Good on you son, nice one. I think a little celebration is in order then. Oy, serving wench time for a bottle of bubbly.  Bring it on girl.” 


Bill: “Forsooth, doth mine eyes serve to deceive. The wench resembles Lucrezia Borgia methinks.” 

Satan: “Good spot, right on the money. There’s certainly no flies on you Bill, it is indeed Lucrezia herself. She got here a while back and I thought to meself that she was too lovely looking to be put to the torture of the damned in the Chasms of Hell. How wrong I bloody was though.” 

Bill: “How so?” 

Satan: “I’ll tell you ‘how so’ alright. Well I knew she had a penchant for a bit of poisoning yet when I appointed her to head up the kitchens – my God (so to speak) her pie and mash is to die for – I had no idea she’d gone a bit OCD on that front. I mean you can’t actually kill anyone here yet a drop of arsenic can give one a staggeringly awful guts ache. She adulterated the whelk soup and had me stokers coiled up in tortuous pain for days.  Hell nearly powered down – even I felt a bit chilly.” 

Bill: “Though she be but little, she is fierce?” 

Lucy: “Hang on a mo. Satan that’s a bit out of order. I told you I couldn’t help myself and you promised me that I could have a bit of incest if I cut out the poisoning. I’m gagging I can tell you.” 

Satan: “Look luv I’ve got nothing against incest – in fact I positively advocate it – but I’ve got to feel comfortable you’re not going on another poisonous rampage before I unshackle that brother of yours Cesare. Stay pure for another eon and he’s all yours. By the way you haven’t put a Micky Finn in Bill’s bubbly have you?” 

Lucy: “Er…….Um….No.” 

Satan: “Hold up I know that look Lucy girl – you have haven’t you?” 

Lucy: “Well….I might have….only a bit though.” 

Satan: “Bloody hell, Bill’s drunk his and we’ve not even had our starters yet. For Christ’s sake Lucy.” 

Bill: “Oh, I am fortune’s fool!” 


Satan: “Stuff me Lucy I was just about to impart me life story to Billy Boy and now you’ve taken him out of the game. It’ll be days before he’s back with us. Stupid cow.” 

Lucy: “Sorry Satan. Look I’m rather taken with Shakespeare if the truth be told. Do you think he’d write me my very own sonnet? If he does I give you my word that I will never, never ever poison anyone again – ever!” 

Satan: “What do you bloody think? When he comes back to us I imagine he’ll say, ‘Oh thanks Lucy for causing me anguish and pain; but look I’ve just written you a sonnet.’ Sonnet my arse. You just can’t help yourself can you?” 

Lucy: “A sonnet would have been nice though – I just have no luck with men and I so want to be normal. Look I think he stirs a little. Told you I didn’t overdo my poisonous infusion didn’t I.” 


Bill: “If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it; that surfeiting; the appetite may sicken, and so die.” 

Satan: “Well I’ll be damned – you must have the constitution of an oxen Bill. How you feeling now? You look a bit rough.” 

Bill: “Dispute not with her: she is lunatic.” 

Satan: “How very true mate.  Lucy bring in the starters now and if you’ve tampered with them at all then rest assured I’ll be on your case. It’ll be De Sade for you girl.” 

Lucy: “De Sade you say? The very thought has made me come over all tingly. I still fancy Shakespeare though” 

Bill: “I pray you do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.” 

Satan: “Nice one mate. You tell her.” 

Bill: “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” 

Satan: “Kind of you for saying so. But looking at you I think it may be time you had a kip – you know sleep it off. We can reconvene in the am. You’re getting a bit delirious. Lucy that’ll be dinner for just the one now – you’ve buggered up the whole evening.” 

Bill: “These violent delights have violent ends.” 

Satan: “Yes mate, take of your leave I should. Lucy show him to his rooms before you serve up girl.” 


Bill: “Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” 

Satan: “And Lucy, just in case you’re thinking of any funny business with Bill remember what I said about De Sade.” 

Bill: “Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.” 

Lucy: “Hope he’s not talking about sex – don’t sound too good if he is. Still maybe that’ll give me time to have Shakespeare and De Sade all in the one night!” 

Satan: “Lucy girl hold that disgusting tongue of yours.” 


Satan: “Oh bollocks, maybe it could have been worse. I’ve got an eternity to write me memoirs.”

A PHYSICIAN, AN ‘APPENDAGE’ & ME – An embarrassing yet true story!



This story is a reluctant one as I fear ridicule – in essence it is for a wager that I post!  It is told by way of a letter I penned to my long suffering former secretary Chantal. 

Dearest Chantal, 

My confidante no less and such a long, long time since we have shared dark secrets. 

When you read this missive you will, I am sure, understand my plight, my fall from grace, my sorrowful demise.   First, let me paint you a picture.  As a delicate creature raised in that centre of nouveau Victorian culture and manners that is Hersham I do not expect you are – indeed never have been – familiar with the word ‘knob’ or indeed its alternative, more colloquial spelling of ‘nob’ in the context of the male appendage?  No?  Well you do now!  My very own ‘knob’/’nob’ is at the very nucleus of this woeful tale. 

“You bloody twat, why on earth haven’t you done anything; said anything about this before?  Did you think burying that fucking stupid head of yours in the sand would make it better?  Make it go away?”  So said Shirley. 

“Isn’t that obvious?” 

“What do you mean obvious?” 

“Well if I had told you before you wouldn’t have sex with me anymore for fear of damaging me further.” 

“Well you at least got that right.  Of course I wouldn’t.” 

Shirley knows very well that sex and Arsenal winning give me the most pleasure in life.  Anyway, with that last remark Shirley departs stage left slamming the door behind her.  The weather is inclement; she wears no coat, nor has she gloves or scarf. I am concerned for her safety. No matter five minutes later she returns.  

“Right, 9.20 Wednesday morning, Dr Offenheimer.  Turn up or expect to live the life of a celibate monk for the rest of your days – understand?”   Inevitably, the threat of celibacy and the fact she rarely makes idle threats ensures I agree. 

So what then was the source of my procrastination in recent times? It is this – a certain post coital soreness – most painful.  Too much information?  Surely not?  The unworldly girl that you are, you need to know these things for a fulsome life, yet right now you are likely wondering what on earth I am writing about.   Prudish and shy as he is, I can only suggest that you seek further elaboration from that husband of yours.  Hung like a dray horse that he is I wager he will know, he will explain – just touch on the matter with a modicum of delicacy so as not to offend the poor man and earn a brusque rebuff.  If you do not then this letter will have no worth; no meaning to you. 

And there is the nub of my dilemma.  When a chap has a problem with his, ‘knob’/’nob’ it generally means showing said item to a doctor.  ‘So!’  That is what you are thinking isn’t it?  And yes, I know you girls have your legs up in stirrups when visiting a physician for everything from earache to ingrowing toenails, but not us chaps.   I start to think of what would be my ‘ideal’ doctor at this time. I conclude that a kindly plump lesbian would be perfect. 

Wednesday arrives.  From a doorway Offenheimer calls my name. He is a ‘he.’ His demeanour is that of a very bored man. His room has indoor potted plants and is light and airy, although the window glass is neither frosted, nor are there net curtains.  This strikes me as odd as it is on the ground floor and looks out toward a busy car parking area.  Worse still – to my horror – the examination table is sat in the corner next to the window no less!  Any bastard can look in.  It gets worse.  With the tunnel vision that accompanies fear I hadn’t noticed that sat in that far corner directly aside the examination table and writing up some notes on a clipboard is a uniformed nurse. 

“What can we do for you today then?”  He is amiable, if a little curt.  

“Well it’s all rather embarrassing really and I’m only here because my wife made me.” 

I am conscious of the fact my eyes, imploringly bounce between him and the nurse trying to send out the subliminal message that I really don’t want to talk about my problem with the nurse sat there – especially as she has given up on her notes and is staring at me curiously, gaze fixed, as if I were a specimen in a jar. 

“Don’t worry; Nigella is training with me all day.  Say what you need to, she won’t mind.”  There’s me thinking, ‘but I fucking do’ but I can’t get the words out.   I think to myself that a trainee nurse called Nigella shouldn’t be a dyed black hair fifty-something, a tad overweight scary person.  To my mind a Nigella should be a curvaceous master of the double entendre, have come to bed eyes and a delicious smile.  This namesake bore none of those qualities. 

“Well?”  His smile curls upward yet only from one corner of the mouth.  I can see he is enjoying my discomfort.  Obviously seeing some twat in a compromising position amuses him.   No matter.  My darting eyes are studiously ignored once more so I tell as best I can the story of my symptoms and observe from the corner of my eye that Nigella is all ears. 

“Better take a look then.  Just take those off,” taking it as a given that I would understand the below the waist nature of the hand gesture made toward me, “and lay back on the table.” 

I look at the nurse still holding fort aside the examination area perched upon her chair and once again taking notes as a Parisian hag would idly knit awaiting the next victim of Madam La Guillotine.  I want to say, ‘can’t she just fuck off.’  Instead I resort to looking Offenheimer in the eye, tilting my head toward Nigella and grimacing.  He gets the message at last and indicates by another wave of the hand that the nurse should move from her seat.  That is something at least.  A curtain is partially drawn about the table as I undress and Nigella hovers close by to the extent that I am sure she will not resist the urge to gawp.  My atheism almost leaves me; I contemplate a prayer.  I wish I had the world’s biggest dick (check that word out with your husband for he will know) and that it never got embarrassed. 

“I’ve seen worse.”  His palm under his chin, elbow resting upon his other arm in classic contemplative pose, as he muses over this statement. 

“Worse what?” I’m thinking here, ‘worse ‘knobs’/’nobs’ or worse conditions? 

“Oh, nothing.” Nothing what? “Of course there’s always the option of surgery, but we don’t want that if we can avoid it do we?”  Who does he think he is Chris ‘fucking’ Tarrant or what! 

“Surgery, what sort of surgery?” 

“A circumcision obviously.” 

I am thinking on my feet – or should I say on my back, “No we don’t.” 

At last I get to put my clothes back on and take a seat beside his desk.  He explains that a steroid cream should do the trick.  He writes out a prescription. 

“Let’s say, give it a month then you can come back and we’ll take a look to see if things have improved.  If not, well there’s always the other option – the surgery that is.” 

I take my leave in the full knowledge that there will be a repeat performance too soon for my liking when no doubt there will be nurses by the fucking coachload getting trained in his surgery. 

Once home I start to feel a little brighter. And there has been one small bonus.  Shirley gets to put the steroid cream on the offending parts.  It was her kindly suggestion that she should as she was concerned that the skin condition about my hands that I have suffered for many years – and born of stress originally – might react with the steroid.  Of course I didn’t let on that that condition nuisances me no longer.  My heart is too big; too caring to let her down when she wants to feel useful! 

Is there a downside to the recuperation of my ‘part’?  Yes! 

“No I’m not having full on sex, not with your rancid steroid ridden knob.”  Note Shirley says ‘knob’ the posh way.   Bit of a bummer I thought.  The worry is if I cannot convince her then I am faced with no sex for up to at least a month! And if the surgery does become necessary then, on top of all this, there is a six week recovery time thereafter.  So, that could mean celibacy way past my next birthday and likely beyond!  Suddenly the thought of the young ladies of Eastern European extraction working under lamplights takes on a whole new appeal.  They need know nothing of my plight! 

So then, you ask yourself why is he telling me all this?  My spouse denies me the one comfort that means so much to me, and, forgetting for one moment that you are my confidant, you Chantal; you are her friend.  A word in her ear from you might just bring her around don’t you think?  Just tell her you think it totally selfish that just because her husband’s dick is a bit iffy right now that that, in itself, is no cause to deny him his conjugal rights.  I know you can do this Chantal – I just know you can.  You must. 

A word from you and all will be well again in Camelot. 

With love and grovelling affection, 



Were it not the lovely Ms Samantha – ‘Farmer Farthing’ – I would not have posted this! It was when she posted a brave piece that my wife hit me with the fact that women can talk freely of ‘sensitive’ issues and are men such wimps! 

For more tales of my long suffering secretary Chantal;


THE DAY I KILLED A 1948 FORD POPULAR – ‘The Idiots Tale’ and ‘true story’ to boot!



At 19 years of age I was an unworldly accomplished idiot, so much so that I purchased an object of ridicule, namely a 1948 Ford Popular – a vehicle that was older than I was!  I had paid just a ‘tenner’ for what was, in essence, an ancient lump of shit. Whilst it was a ‘good runner’ the big negative was that in order to start the car I had to use a thing called a ‘starting handle.’ 

Let me commence with that wretched starting handle. Basically it was a lump of metal you stuck in a hole at the front of the car and turned with all your strength. Get it right, and pull away the hand you had used to effect the ignition in time, and all was well. Get it wrong and the handle would bounce back at you with impressive ferocity and break your wrist with the comparative ease of a mountain gorilla chewing bamboo. I got it wrong more often than not. I grew to hate that car with a vengeance. The thing was, it worked most times, and it was all I could afford. 

I mislaid it once. For the best part of two weeks as it happens. As a student of a subject I could not understand in part or at all I had, as was my want, taken time out from my studies and managed to get both totally stoned and severely drunk the night previously. Barely fit to drive I had, nonetheless, managed, against my better judgement, to cease my slumber and arise from my pit. Bleary-eyed, my head still on a different planet and with a merciless, quite savage hangover I drove off to college, the vile rumblings of my gut drowning the usually excessive noise of the car engine. You didn’t have to worry about the breathalyser back then. I parked up, went into college – having, a little earlier kicked off the day by smoking my first joint on the way in. Having not had a vehicle for some little time I was still in the habit of catching a train home. At close of play that evening, forgetting completely that I had a car, and still somewhat ‘off my head,’ I took the train home. I gave my Ford Popular not even a passing thought. I had, in my now deliriously tired, yet blissful stupor, forgotten its very existence. That is, until the next day. I used to park on the wide frontage between the pavement and the main road outside our house. The thing was, quite sober and batteries recharged the next morning, when stepping out toward the spot I usually parked my horseless carriage I was a tad shocked to notice it not in its usual spot. Hands on hips, locks tangling in the crisp biting wind I gazed curiously about me. No car. Gone! I fought a long and tiresome battle with what brain cells remained active until it dawned upon me that I had stupidly left the car at my place of learning the previous evening. Furious with myself, I spent my last few precious pennies catching a train to college. I was nearly late so I had to rush. With the tutorials over for the day I sought out my car. I could not, however, remember for the life of me where I had left it. I walked all the usual places seeking it out to no avail. In the end I gave up and walked the couple of miles or so across parkland home. I told my mum that I thought the car had been nicked and blagged her for some money for fares and food for a few days until I could earn some more working the bar at a local pub. Everyone, at home and in the pub was sorry to learn of my loss. 

A couple of weeks passed when, one day, quite by chance, a nerdy swot type from college walked up to me suggesting that if I left my car down the road where if it had been parked much longer the battery was likely to go flat. I didn’t realise that batteries, solid enough looking to me, could decompress in such a way. I wasn’t even sure if my car had a battery. Anyway, I enquired of said nerd where he had seen the car. He pointed to it, within spitting distance of the college gates. I must have walked passed it regularly since its loss, and, notwithstanding the fact that it stuck out like a sore thumb, it being so old fashioned looking, I had never noticed it. Probably it hadn’t helped that my head was in a different reality most of the time. Not for the first time in my life, I felt like a complete ‘twat.’ 

The only time I have ever (back then and including present times) undertaken vehicle maintenance was once when it wouldn’t start. I was working the bar bemoaning the bloody car and its unwillingness to function when an ex-soldier, a leftover from the Great War, and a man with knowledge of these things offered to take a look at it for me. 

“Grit in the carburettor,” was his diagnosis, adding, “Got any spanners?” 

“No,” almost saying, ‘what’s a spanner’. 

He went back to the pub and returned with a toolkit he had purloined. Removing this mystical thing called a carburettor he handed it me, saying, “Has your mum got a big saucepan?” I had no idea whether she had any saucepans at all but simply nodded intimating she had. 

“Well, what we did back in the war was boil’em up when they’re full of shit. They expand and all the grit falls out. Never fails. You get it boiled up and I’ll fix it back for you”. 

Common sense should have told me mum would have this thing called a saucepan and indeed she did – a big one at that. Mum must have wondered why I was showing an interest in things culinary but said nothing. I now know she had little interest, or for that matter accomplishment, in the art of cooking herself and certainly a saucepan of this particular size would be a redundant item, from days, long ago, when she actually cooked. 

And so it was that I boiled the lump of metal that was my carburettor, dried it off with a tea towel – she did get a bit miffed about that – and took it back over the pub. Incidentally, when the pan came to the boil the carburettor was bouncing around quite a bit and there was steam everywhere. That was the day, thinking ‘outside the box,’ I worked out that by turning the knob on the gas cooker anti-clockwise I could turn the flame at the ring down to a simmer. I let it simmer a good while. The old soldier duly re-fitted it and it started first time. 

“You owe me a pint I think”. 

Of course, I had no idea then that this one and only piece of car maintenance was unusual in the extreme. It was for that reason that I was totally baffled by the laughing hyenas that were my friends when I boasted about my mechanical prowess later. Many thought me a liar then, claiming that boiling a carburettor was ridiculous and in no way could it work. Some still think me a liar in this regard. Nonetheless I know it worked, and that I played some small part in a car repair. 

My love hate relationship with the Ford Popular lasted a few more months before I murdered it. The day of the fatal wounding must have been in winter. I cannot exactly recall, although I do remember it being bitterly cold. The sort of day my Dad would go off to work mumbling about it being, “So cold they are laying men off at the brass foundry.”  This was a remark he said with some regularity, and, I recall, was a twist on the then popular phrase of the day in respect of inclement weather, namely, “It’s so cold it could freeze the balls off a brass monkey.” 

Moving on, I put the starting handle in, turned over the engine. It went; ‘fut.’ Did it again. Same thing, ‘fut.’ Time and time again, just, ‘fut.’ Anger consumed me. I wanted to head butt the bloody thing. I thought better of it as I didn’t know how to head butt properly anyway. I began, even on this cold and frosty morn to sweat profusely. First of all I beat it up a bit with said starting handle. I smashed it against the radiator grill twice, denting it a bit, not so you’d notice really. I thought that that might just teach it the lesson it deserved. I tried again to start the car. ‘Fut.’ The car was not going to start. I wanted it to start. We had an impasse. I thought it worth having a fag in order to contemplate my next move. I opened the driver’s door and reached over to the passenger seat for my cigarettes. I bashed the back of my head on the doorframe getting back out of the car. It hurt a lot. 

“That’s it you f**king bastard.” Me, to the car! 

With that I slammed the car door with all my strength. Cars built so very long ago didn’t have protective glass. My Ford Popular certainly didn’t as both the glass in the driver’s door and windscreen smashed into a million tiny shafts over me, the inside of the car and the pavement. The cold chill that wafted into my face, whistling through the exposed metallic skeleton of the old beast at that very moment was, I believed then, and still do now, its death rattle. The car is dead; long live the car – except I didn’t have another one!






4 year old Eric Einstein has, we understand, printed a 3D Printer using his Dad’s 3D Printer no less.

In a development that has taken the manufacturers of this relatively new and expensive technology by surprise young Eric is now making decent pocket money at his nursery selling the printers to chums and staff alike.

Dad Albert is quoted as having said, “Wish I’d thought of that.”

The Stepford Wives Association are following developments closely.

THE MENTOR & HIS MESCALINE – A tale of ‘long ago.’



Two-dimensional visions of a man – a man I knew well – as a cartoon bear; of the crucifixion, with the Christ in female form, eerie and bloodless, her mother forsaken of her; to behold a forest, a very real forest, yet to see it as if drawn by a child using wax crayons; to touch the bark of great oaks and feel them as gelatine and broken glass; to panic under the attack of hallucinatory hornets – they give loud and violent chase; to see tired old lichen and moss enveloped granite gravestones transform to ones of gleaming unblemished marble before ones very eyes; the ghostly aura of daises awaiting the shears, sensing their coming; the capricious mood swings of dandelions for the same reason; to suffer the crush of a livid sky pulverizing my very being, like a great weight squashing my rib cage as it bears down on me and knowing its conjuror seeks to vanquish my soul; The Titanic slowly and improbably drifting past the egress of a cemetery, it’s four funnels steaming lilac, its horn beating out the tortuous, monotonous rhythm of the caution of fog, and, in the distance, a solitary fiddle playing a lament; to thirst for the elixir of life and to find it in a ‘can’ by the roadside, surreally too ponderous to carry away and with no ring pull to open it; to feel, to squeeze in my hands, the hunger and empty passion of a starving nation as vultures pick and pull at the wasted tendons of a million dead black babies; to stand by and gaze at a multitude of starlings devour first the clouds and then the sun until there is only darkness; to discover immortality is merely a treadmill; to take notice of music and treasure its energy and exquisiteness for the first time; to wear a vivid cloak of prosperity salvaged from, and stained by its benevolent source – an ultimate falsity. 

I have lived all these things and more.


Mescaline occurs naturally and is a product of certain cacti.  Native North American Indians favoured the peyote cactus variety and with alarming regularity got stoned out of their heads on it.  It produces profound psychedelic and thought inducing effects thus making it sought after by those seeking the best means of not only discovering their inner-self, but also as a means to behold the meaning of life.    It can be a little scary also!  The thing I particularly liked about it was that, in my experience, not only did mescaline turn one’s brain into the all-knowing oracle, the key to unlock the door of perception, yet also, by the very act of taking it, it flashed up in one’s mind, the penetrating questions to be asked that one, in the cold light of day, would, most probably, never thought of asking at all. 

On the downside, the problem with mescaline is that, in the immediate aftermath of its effects and thereafter, one can remember only the seemingly those colossal philosophical questions it induced and never the answers it offered.    This is particularly vexing as I am certain that I was, mid trip, granted access to both clues and in some instances explanations as to what the universe is all about – at least that is how reminiscence would have it.   

Before the influence of drugs I neither contemplated life’s meaning nor meditated upon its purpose like some do.   Me, I unwittingly idled through life unaware that about my being, in that convoluted mass of organic blubber tissue that is my mind, there was a flint, that when struck, would spark, then ignite the embers of such contemplation.  When the fire catches hold it burns away the junk of immaturity that both blurs and forestalls the unrolling of the person – that is the rub.  

Mescaline, along with vast quantities of cannabis resin, grass, LSD and, on one occasion opium were my drugs of choice during a relatively short period of my late adolescence until the day I knocked them on the head at around the time my first child was born.  I have no qualms when it comes to extolling the virtues of narcotics.  The only reason I refrained from their use, was, in the end, my honourable and practical desire to ensure my family did not starve, and, I guess to enrol and take up membership of the soulless club of consumerism.   As base as that club might be, it is a fool who takes no heed of its necessity in the absence of a universally satisfactory alternative.  Inadvertently it was my good fortune to use drugs rather than have drugs use me.   That is an obviously important point.   Cannabis – weaker and not tampered with as it is, I understand, in its ‘skunk’ form these days – may well be a potential source of world peace.   As profound as that statement is, I cannot imagine, and never once saw aggression (or for that matter, addiction) caused by the many I have known, who took it.  Not so prosperity though.   No, the only problem with cannabis is the lethargy it gives rise to.   To both hold down a job, and further a career, cannabis, sadly and in particular, is a ‘no-no’.   


In days of yore, in times of great change, a bland and timid youth is in the place where a King holds court.  The King is a jocular soul, balding on top, with otherwise long reddish hair and ruddy complexion, blessed with malevolence and incisive wit in equal measure and always on the lookout for a new jester, or ‘victim’ as he prefers to name them, as he quickly bores of those he has.  His loyal subjects feed him vast quantities of fine ale and offerings of exotic foods from the east.  In return the King gives pronouncements of some magnitude alluding to the ways of man and nature.  The youth, blissfully unaware he is in the presence of the great monarch is merely enjoying the company of friends and partaking in a form of archery.  In the near corner, resting on a stone floor of spit and sawdust a mongrel gnaws at a bone, pausing every so often to lick out the marrow whilst invisible minstrels play songs of the day from a box in an alcove.   Noticing an unfamiliar face amongst his courtiers the King suddenly halts his dialogue, much to the dismay of his subjects who are hanging on his every word, and rises from his throne.   To appease their disappointment the King belches loudly then bellows toward a comely serving wench for more ale for one and all.  At this there are rapturous cheers from the assembled company.   The crowd hush their merriment and part in order to let their ruler through.   The unfamiliar face is the shy youth who has his back to the King.   The youth feels a tap upon his shoulder and turns about. 

“What is your poison?” the King asks of him. 

The youth is taken aback and replies that he already has a sufficiency of ale.   Nearby a number of liegemen draw breath in shock.   It is, after all, extremely poor manners to deny his Majesty.   The boy overhears mutterings as to the status of He who has offered a drink and makes note of this.   Regardless, the King takes a sip from the youth’s tankard and determines the type of ale he favours and orders more of the same.   Sensibly, the youth thanks him for his generosity and returns to his previous distractions.  The King does not move.   The throng stand aghast waiting to see what happens next.   Once more the youth feels a tap upon his shoulder. 

“Are you not going to drink my gift of ale?” 

“I haven’t finished this one yet,” replies the boy unintentionally dismissively. 

“Look,” says the King as he proceeds to down his large and full to the brim goblet in just one almighty gulp, “I’ve finished mine.  Now you yours.” 

A little perturbed the youth thinks it best to follow the Kings lead and he makes an attempt to imitate the King.   Sadly, his one gulp becomes twenty and wet and sticky beer dribbles down his chin drenching his tunic much to the delight of the King and the other revellers. 

“I can see we need to put you in training,” announces the overlord.  “More ale wench, and make it quick.” 

Despite feeling uncomfortably dank the adolescent, already on the cusp of drunkenness and not a little humiliated swiftly grabs the offerings of the lackey damsel and does his level best at outshining the King.   Such antics are, however, not his forte and once more he spills more than he swallows, much to the amusement of everyone.  The King has a twinkle in his eye for he now knows he has a new stooge. 

“Come join me at my table.”   

The boy acquiesces.   He sits and marvels as he is regaled with tales of lust and love, life and death, bestiality and clemency and of other earthly matters.   The King has guessed correctly that the boy is a timorous one with little knowledge in the ways of the world.     Whether or not it was intended so originally the King now has a new charge and a friendship is born – one that will change the boy irrevocably.

SECRETS & DARK PLACES – A piece of ‘silly’ verse!



She told me we all have a ‘dark place,’

A place we don’t want others to see,

And that she’d only share her perceived secret,

If I promised on my life to agree,


To keep to myself what she imparted,

In good faith and never to share,

With others who might think her a weirdo,

And of her they just might despair.


Yet keeping things unto myself,

Is a skill that I hardly possess,

And so it was that when I promised,

I had my fingers crossed no less.


So now I can pass on what she told me,

That secret she stores in a ‘dark place,’

It seems this beauty, my lover,

Is not of our human race!


She comes from a planet named Zorg,

And at this I beg you don’t mock,

For alien she very well may be,

Yet so lovely it’s no stumbling block.


To fall in love with an unusual life form,

That did not evolve here on Earth,

Is truly a thing I am chuffed about,

And do you know what that is worth?


A place on the front page of tabloids,

A story sold on for a fee,

Some spoke out and pronounced me plain greedy,

But I think that’s just jealousy.


So the girl from Zorg and yours truly,

Are living the good life right now,

Quid’s in at the bank; and light years away,

Her ‘dark place’ was it seems a ‘cash cow.’




For our lovely brave womenfolk,

Seeing the physician triggers no alarms,

They are prepared for indignities,

Yet unlike men have no qualms.


Blokes will delay visiting a doctor,

When they fear of trouble ‘down below,’

Well in truth and in reality,

Most men do although,


If men weren’t so embarrassed,

To visit the quack thus,

More would get treated early,

And avoid all of the fuss,


Of leaving it all too late,

Burying their heads in the sands,

And eventually costing the NHS,

Many, many grands,


In expensive treatments,

Often to no avail,

Yet if treated early enough,

Such cure might succeed and not fail.


So I have come up with an idea,

That should appeal to most men,

Get your ‘bits’ checked out at a clinic,

Run by buxom, delicious nurse Jen!


For Jen doth have about her,

Assets that may contrive,

A desire for a consultation,

And thus more chaps would survive,


Without the need for surgery,

And as she leans to check out your ‘bits,’

There is an added bonus for,

When you glance down you’ll eyeball her………patient notes she’s formulated regarding your case!


I had read somewhere that when it comes to getting checked out at the doctors men fall way, way behind women statistically hence more men die of things that maybe wouldn’t have killed them had they got seen to earlier. It was with this in mind that I penned this piece of ‘silly’ verse!

GUY FAWKES & THE LOBSTER – A piece of ‘silly’ verse!



Summary justice to a lobster,

Is to be boiled alive I say so,

Its right up there with hung, drawn and quartered,

Believe me I’m a lobster I know!


And yet as I drift through the ether,

In this afterlife I go with the flow,

I bumped into a bloke they call Guy Fawkes,

And to my point he agreed but although,


He perceived that with him being human,

His capacity to feel pain outweighed mine,

My riposte though was to explain to him,

“How dare you belittle me sunshine.


At least your remains were not eaten,

Scoffed in the gobs of mankind,

At least you were tried and found guilty,

Even though your appeal was declined.”


So next time you’re boiling a lobster,

A live one the like of which once was me,

Consider that my only crime was,

Just crawling around in the sea!




To laugh and cry in tandem,

Is a gift that true lover’s know,

The emotions of a sublime passion,

That must forever ebb and flow.


Good fortune it smiled upon us,

On the day we first met in Paris,

That was many years ago now,

When I said, “You’ve a lovely harris.”*


And yes I really meant it,

When just the other day,

I dropped down onto my one good knee,

And said, “Can I have my way,


With you once more in Deauville,

Maybe in Nice as well,

Yet in this inclement weather,

I’ll settle for Camberwell!” 


*Editorial Note – ‘Harris’ means “Arse.” It’s actually Rhyming Slang for Rhyming Slang. The correct rhyming slang for “Arse” is “Bottle & Glass.”  However once people knew this the term couldn’t really be used anymore without offending people, that prompted people to use the slang for “Bottle”, which is “Aris-totle” as slang for the first insult. “Aristotle” became “Aris” which in a London accent sounds the same as “Harris”