THE BEACH BALL OF FREEDOM

strip-poker

An extract from the autobiography of Twattersley Fromage MBE – History explained!                                             

Ever the determined Englishman I had overcome the trauma of crash landing my trusty old Lysander just outside Deauville, breaking my collar bone in the process and thereafter was forced to accept the charity of an old equine breeder Froggie chum who had readily loaned me his top stallion in order to fulfil my covert quest. Yet after weeks riding across the agreeable terrain of Europe I had almost starved to death as both nag and I journeyed the deserts of Arabia. It is thus that you will understand my disappointment upon finding a McDonald’s on the outskirts of Baghdad only to discover there was nowhere to tether the horse!  Still when King and country come a ’calling a man must focus upon duty and duty alone. Onwards and upwards I always say!

This episode of my life had begun with a simple telephone message from darling Maud, my former lover from days gone by – indeed a lover who had left me all those years ago for a muscular bearded Russian Kulak (a peasant by any other name).  You see I had been out and about in the Shires of Blighty evicting plebs and my old butler Cribbins, silly old sod that he is had scribbled down the gist of Maud’s telephone call. The note he handed me upon my return read, ‘It’s been a long time Twatters hasn’t it! The thing is I’m in a bit of a pickle. You will understand I can’t say too much over the telephone yet I need both your body and, importantly, that much fabled beach ball of yours most urgently. You will be able to track me down by following the GPS co-ordinates. Let me just say it is a matter of the gravest international importance – plainly I would not have bothered you otherwise. Yours always, Maud.’

The clue was in her coded message, namely the ‘beach ball’ for that ball defied the laws of physics and had properties about it that no scientist could ever fathom. Whatever, Maud a double agent for the Soviets back in the day, had plainly remembered that I still retained that old family treasure, ‘The Beach Ball of Freedom’. Furthermore, such reference to said ball could mean one thing and one thing only and that thing meant the very sanctity of this great nation of ours and perhaps that of our Allies was at risk.

These days Maud still, I was given to understand from the tabloids, remained as beautiful a gal as ever; had returned to the fold and was ‘one of us’ once more. She had been the one who was there with me the very day I, using the very minimum of force, had bounced ‘The Beach Ball of Freedom’ against the Berlin Wall causing it to collapse thereby freeing the citizens of East Berlin from the curse of a communist dictatorship and ultimately unifying Germany.  This the same ball Joshua of Old Testament fame (a distant ancestor from my late mother’s lineage) had done the self-same thing with at Jericho centuries earlier; the same ball Uncle Cuthbert dropped overboard whilst aboard the Titanic on that fateful inaugural trip across The Atlantic – later mistaken by those on the bridge who should have known better for an iceberg no less! Regardless, that beach ball had history to it.

Upon checking out Maud’s co-ordinates I discovered that she was holed up in a little town in Northern Pakistan no less and had wondered what the gal might be up to. Albeit suffering with malnutrition, my trusty steed near death I eventually, aided so very well through the auspices of modern technology, arrived at a small bungalow in the middle of nowhere. I hoped against hope I was not too late – and additionally, given that Maud had mentioned she wanted both my ‘body’ as well as the beach ball I remained buoyed at the prospect she just might want to thank me for my endeavours in kind (so to speak)!

Imagine then my dismay upon entering her dwelling place unannounced only to find Maud sat upon the lap of a cigar smoking American general and in the company of a number of his senior staff all in various stages of undress playing strip poker!

A beaming Maud greeted me thus, “Oh I say Twattersley you made it at last. You’re a tad on the late side and frankly I don’t need your assistance now. You see I had an important message about the whereabouts of this terrorist chappie Bin Laden that I was so very desperate to impart to our NATO allies – hence I am now surrounded by soldiers from the nation that bought us Friendly Fire and very grateful they are for what I had to say. The thing was when I phoned you I had been stuck in the loo for hours what with the lock seemingly jamming and simply had to escape ASAP. I thought that that ‘Beach Ball of Freedom’ you have would be the perfect thing to open the toilet door with. In the event I realised I had simply turned the door handle the wrong way, silly me.” 

“Maud, dear Maud you tell me I have risked life and limb crossing the continents only to find you did not need me in part or at all?” 

“Sorry Twats but that is just about the strength of it – save for the fact the General Knackertuglet III here (and I must say I have grown ever so fond of him and he I, cheeky rascal that he is) is of the view your ‘Beach Ball of Freedom’ is just the very item his troops could make good use of to breach the walls of this Bin Laden’s compound the details of which I have provided thus enabling the boys to retain an element of surprise when breaking in. Don’t suppose you’ll lend it him will you? Other than that, see you around sometime.” 

“Here General whatever your bleddy name is you can have the fucking ‘Beach Ball of Freedom’ and shove it up your arse for all I care.”

I left Northern Pakistan a broken man.

 

 

 

AN IMMACULATE UNION

black man white woman 2

The meanderings of

The lost tribe,

They walked

Seasonally repetitive

Perpetually exhausted

Well-trodden avenues

Surviving on the force of habit

Embedded in the DNA

Languid the ramble

Lackadaisical virtuosity

Yet adept for

It sufficed, safety in numbers

Safety in the philosophy

Of the ‘before’

Nourishment always assured

In all a fruitful collective life

Albeit it an antonym of

All that is spontaneous

 

Eons gone

Same-o, same-o

Then came the day

A mischievous daughter

Of the tribe

Took an exclusive decision

To ignore the tiresome

‘Parental lead’ habit

And to take

A lonesome path

Toward pastures new

 

Dust storms later

She found unlikely love

In the eyes of a man

He, of similar breed

Save he was coloured black

She white

 

Born of their immaculate union

A blessed mongrel of peace

 

Centuries later

When the totemic twain

Had followed suit

The obnoxious

Purity of race

Meant nothing.

Coffee now not just

The drink of choice, coffee

Now the ubiquitous

Hue of all skin

 

It was then that

The world became

A better place, triggered

Generations previous

When black and white

Were first as one

 

THE SEVEN SEAS IN A THIMBLE

CRESCENT MOON

Upon the three legged

Wooden stool

In the lantern room

Of the relic lighthouse

The last man standing

Kept the seven seas

In a thimble

 

Long since Armageddon

Had followed in the wake of

The cataclysm

Not that he could

Recall the event

He had been a mere mite

Back then,

Then, when the vital flame

Had given up the ghost

 

Within his orange jumpsuit

A subliminally treasured

Parchment of scribbling’s

Containing all the history

That there was –

Not that he knew that

 

Bereft of language

He spoke within himself

A dialogue of impressions

Some captured from experience

Others from flights of fancy

 

The miracle of sustenance!

Tinned nourishment aplenty

Sell by dates an

Extraneous cryptograph

A can opener and fork

Coupled with lucky logic

Served to fill his rumbling belly

Yet left to his own devices

And perplexing desires

He fanaticized

All manner of things

 

One chilly dawn

He chanced upon a telescope

Washed up on the beach

Fathomed its usage

Resolved night-time was best

 

Then, with the gelding of

The cumulonimbus and

The night sky stripped bare

A salacious heavenly body

Revealed a sensual convex

A sheer white crescent

With nowhere to hide

 

The ogler, his eye to the lens

As butler to a keyhole

From days of yore, he

Indulged in his intimate longing

Always hankering for

That little bit more

 

That she would return again

After thirty sleeps, a given.

Even so, there was always

The nagging question

‘Was there ever more than this?’

WARNING: The Following Post May Contain Traces Of Child Rape.

A cause worth the full weight of social media behind it I believe!

SOZ SATIRE

orphan

Quite an arresting title isn’t it my friends? It was absolutely intentional on my part I can assure you. I felt justified in using, what could be deemed as “shock tactics” in order to draw your attention to something I feel very passionate about. I refer to the abuse of children and, in particular, the rape and, in one case, the alleged murder of vulnerable kids by members of the British “establishment” in what is now being called The Westminster Paedophile Ring enquiry.

At the forefront of this long and convoluted struggle to bring the guilty to book, many of whom are extremely powerful political figures, along with well-known faces from the entertainment world, is a tiny London news agency whose diligence, dedication and bloody-minded determination to see the guilty punished, and for the victims or “survivors” of these filthy crimes to see justice done, is finally beginning to bear…

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WALKING INTO LAMPPOSTS

PARIS CAFE 1

To live a life unceasingly confused was, he found, a hopeless affliction. That others considered him painfully shy perhaps the only bonus. Being thought of thus saved having to engage in idle chit chat with all and sundry.

Long since this young impoverished artist, Jérôme by handle, had hankered after a girlfriend; a soul mate by any other name yet the likelihood of finding one was slipping away with each passing year. Even so he did have his love affair with that morning hit of caffeine that chased away the demons that had strayed over the border twixt dreamland and his awakening. Moreover the chill of early morn and his stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg from his lonely garret to his café of choice served as adequate daily exercise in his book.

Previously he always had his nose in a paperback en-route yet invariably he had found himself walking into lampposts, sometimes mistaking them as humanoid, sometimes even apologizing to them out loud!  It was thus that he determined that having had fun poked at him by onlookers made him feel unnecessarily uncomfortable. The walking and reading habit duly ceased. Instead Jérôme now plugged his earphones in and sought sanctuary in music.  On the occasion when his life was about to change forever his chosen piece, Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini – sublime!

Somewhat annoyingly a group of labourers were sat at his regular window table filling their faces with plain croissant washed down with a little red notwithstanding the early hour.  Worse still the only available spot was immediately behind and next to them.  Waiting for his usual order to be taken he could not help but overhear the workmen debating as to who, in the event of a bare-knuckle fight between Jesus and Mohammed would come out the winner. The conversation drew his attention. Ideally he would have intervened and pointed out the philosophical flaws in their respective arguments in support of their favoured champion. Plainly such intervention was beyond his timorous competence.

Ever since adopting this café as his own cockcrow haven the owner, a life weary old Armenian had taken Jérôme’s order. He rather liked him for he barely gave any customer the time of day. Not so on this day though. For slinking over in his direction was a new waitress of bounteous, yet inviting proportions. He found himself nonplussed as he had never seen her before and thus had no time to prefabricate an appropriate disposition. It hardly mattered though as he soon discovered she never stopped talking; barely paused for breath spouting out a diatribe of utter drivel – a veritable Spector Wall of Sound of irrelevant nonsense from chocolate fondue to eyebrows; soap operas to thongs; pets to American pop stars. In essence her words were an impromptu discourse that he found quite beautiful (an art form even) and, most importantly, unchallenging! Impressively he reflected the tripe she spoke was devoid of questions meaning he did not have to engage with her at all, merely listen. The fact that the girl was scatter-brained jumping from inconsequential subject matter to subject matter faster than one could say Jacques Cousteau had a certain appeal. Indeed, and unusually for him Jérôme felt a potentially embarrassing stirring in his loins. He had found his perfect woman.

In due course, the girl returned with his double shot Expresso.

“You don’t talk much do you?” 

“No.”

“Are you the strong silent type? I like strong silent men.”

Panic born of that dreaded confusion yet again! Jérôme decided to run once more with the single syllable riposte albeit a lie.

“Yes.” 

In a matter of fact manner, and taking no account that this was not a leap year she added, “Do you want to take me out later? You know, on a date…when I’ve finished here of course. Don’t mind where we go or end up. By the way my name is Monique. I already know you’re called Jérôme the artist, the propriétaire told me so.” 

The fearful voice inside his head advised him, ‘Big decision coming up Jérôme.’ However his mind-set was all wrong. His abashment levels as blended as soupe à l’oignon. In short he had no idea as to how to answer the question. Panic now held Jérôme in its grasp and as he well knew from previous experience, panic begets panic attack.

And thus it was Jérôme fainted, fell off his perch head first onto the tiled flooring. In doing so and as a less than accomplished prize fighter who had dropped his guard once too often might, he took a blow to the temple – one that left him concussed and in a crumpled heap.

Monique looked down at poor Jérôme quizzically. What to do? In a haste born of matronly concern she kneeled down next to him placing the hands of her rainbow painted fingernails firmly about his bristly cheeks. Lifting his head up just a little, yet entirely overlooking the fact that he was out for the count she suggested to Jérôme it would be for the best if he woke up.  In the absence of an audible response Monique determined that the kiss of life was fast becoming a necessity. With that she promptly rolled Jérôme onto his back, knelt astride him and performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation with some aplomb.

Somewhat disorientated yet now coming to his senses, her lips still glued to his he quietly and as best he could in the circumstances uttered the words, ‘Tongues?  The kiss of life doesn’t involve tongues insofar as I recall!” 

Having disengaged herself and now sitting up straight backed upon his belly Monique looked down at Jérôme, giggled bewitchingly then winked the wink that sealed the deal, all to the riotous applause of even the haughtiest of the habitués.

Such is the way of things in Paris!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SHE WED THE ZEPHYR

ZEPHYR

One September night

Lakeside, during

The period of

The Harvest Moon

She wed the Zephyr, was

Carried off upon

The Great Storm

Following in its wake

Became unwrapped

Disintegrated

Before his very eyes

Never to be seen again

 

From the outset

He knew something

Was amiss, just

Simply could not

Put his finger

On what was awry.

Too transcendent

Too flawless

For this dimension

 

To elucidate,

She proved to be, the

Classic exemplar of

The gentler sex

Possessing as she did

Delicacy, grace

And magnetism,

The key facets

In his view of

The archetypical

Female, and superlatively

She ‘owned’ the role

Of courtesan

As the fancy took her

 

Doubts beget demons

Subliminal reflection

Circumstantial inklings

Sneaking suspicions

All paid testament that she

Was of the rarest breed

 

A little checking

Called in a favour

An old chum, a

Government official

Of sorts

Reported back, that

The databases held

No record of her

Neither then

Nor now

 

Somewhere in time

She must once

Have breezed into

The continuum

Surely?

 

Fate denied him answers

Long years passed

At an uncomfortable

Rate of knots

Then came the day

He chanced upon

An envelope

He instantly recognized

The calligraphy as hers

His name thereon

As a work of art

 

A paper knife

For neatness

A careful hand

For posterity

 

Inside kind words

Penned upon wove

 “Where time gone

Caresses destiny

Is all there is.

I never lived, nor died

I am but make-believe

A mere Judas kiss

Betraying loves flame

Yet for one tick of life’s clock

Let it be known

I was yours,

Nimue”

THE RAMBLINGS OF AN OLD DYING KING

death of a king

“By sneeze or by God’s grievance

By Adam’s putrid ale

Or by those recalcitrant whores

I am ruined

 

Can you then

Mix me an ointment

Fashion me a potion

Find me a cure

Can you?

If not then go forth

And multiply

The pox is still with me

What use the charlatan quack?

 

Child, bring me water bright

I thirst

Bring me water bright now

So I can toast my maker

Get in his good books

I’ll meet him soon enough

 

Girl, yes you

Why do you gaze

At the floor?

Chin up, be brave

I do not bite wench.

I have a need about me

Bring unto me

That big sister of yours

The one who fills

Her bodice so well

That she might lie

With me

One last time

 

I had a dream once you know

A dream that kingdom come

Was a gypsy girl

Dancing to a fiddle

Raven hair, rouge lips

Naked, flaunting her wares

Just for me, and

Lusting for the sake of lust

 

Tell me I’m wrong

Tell me that my

Gypsy girl is not

A fallen angel

Sent to piggyback me

To perdition

 

Then again, I am dying

What does it matter?

A single glass of mead

That’s all I want

Full to the brim mind

Then, I’ll die happy

 

You there, you boy

Don’t pretend you

Can’t hear me!

I want my mutt

At my side

Idle, filthy beast

That he is

He remains my

One true, loyal friend

Fetch him

 

I want him close at hand

More than ever”

 

THE MAN WHO LIVED APART

hiccups

Entirely unaware

Of the world about him

He lived apart

Inside his own head

Paradisiacally ignorant of

News, art and currency

 

That is

Until the day

He got hiccups

 

As a bolt of lightening

To Stone Age man

He stumbled upon the

The requirement to surmise

As to the root cause

Of this event

It being so

Alien to his

Apprentice disposition

 

It was thus that

He determined

With haste born of

Urgent need that

Hiccups were a sign

A latent omnipotence

 

A good half hour on

Hiccups had not abated

If anything had worsened

He felt discomfort

And more than a little fear

As to anonymous origins

Of his demise

 

At this juncture

The man who

Lived apart

Found himself

Composing what

Transpired to be

A prayer

Offered up to

The new found

Great God, Hiccup

 

Following in the wake

Of such invocation

His hiccups ceased and

All was well

 

Now in a contemplative state

Introspection took hold

He surmised someone else

Mightier and more potent

Than he was

Sharing his genius

For he had not

Spoken his embryonic

Yet plainly adequate

Prayer aloud

Bringing forth

A cure to his malaise

 

Then again

He was on mescaline

At the time

 

His neighbours heard

The scream of

Abject terror as the

Enormity of revelation

Hit home

The authorities put him

In a strait jacket

Took him to a

Cushioned place

 

His epiphany

Became big news

Aldous Huxley

Penned him a

Letter of comfort

Andy Warhol

Sung his praises

Far and wide

Edgar Allan Poe

Was moved

To write a poem

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Dreamed another dream

Howard Marks smiled.

Of course

His mother

Disowned him

 

Yet all was not lost for

Quite out of the blue

Groupies as neo-disciples

Lovely girls one and all

Thinking him a prophet

Descended upon

His padded cell and

He was a virgin no more

Both in actuality

And figuratively

 

As to the common

Tabloid reading man

He would say,

In the near vernacular

That on balance

Things were

‘Looking up’

 

DRIFTWOOD GIRL

driftwood girl

Immense the sea

Gnarly the surge

Onyx the cloak

The language of Teutons

Shrieks subjugation

Howls revenge

Storm Force 10

Shows no remorse

Takes no prisoners

 

Driftwood girl

She does not

Have a care!

She travels on the tide

The harbour wall

Her occasional gîte

The beach

Her catwalk

 

To this day

She sings songs

Of destiny

Love and loss,

Seaweed, faith adrift,

The sudden dive

Of the cormorant

Seeking breakfast, and

The message in the bottle

Penned by the

Desolate marooned one

 

I am old now

Once I knew her well

She defies time, does

Driftwood girl

She remains

Forever new

 

Her axiom

‘Time and tide

waits only

for the cuttlefish’

Always serves

To amuse

 

The big sea

Has yet to find a way

To intimidate her

Though even now

Without malice

Without forethought

There are the hearts of

Generations of credulous

Fledgling mariners

Still to be broken

 

THE RETURN OF LENNY NOGGINS – THE LUNATIC ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT

lenny noggins

THE GIRL FROM THE COUNTY OF ESSEX!

“Well, well, well if it isn’t Mr Lenny Noggins! Crikey mate where have you been…not seen you for an age?”

“Sadly Landlord the reason for my extended break from this here boozer of yours is a bit of a tale of woe.”

“Best you have a pint of the usual on the house then…you know, before you spill the beans on what you’ve been up to. Here you are, and in your much favoured pewter tankard to boot…good health mate.”

“Cheers Landlord, this one won’t touch the sides methinks.”

“Right then Lenny boy fire away.”

“Well Landlord what I have to tell you is a story of the curse of being an illegal immigrant always aware that I might be hounded by both institutional authorities and indigenous populous alike in this oh so very cruel world we live in.”

“Crikey that sounds a bit serious…tell me more.”

“Well heralding from this County of Kent as I do, yet unable to find either the love of a good woman or gainful employment here, I took the view that I should make my way across the River Thames into the County of Essex where I had heard tell the womenfolk all bang like shit house doors in a gale and where, if one is prepared to work one’s bollocks off there are jobs aplenty.”

“I’ve heard that about Essex girls myself funnily enough.”

“Anyway…and so it was that I decided to venture to pastures new yet, as ever my life outside Kent would be again blighted by my status as an illicit migrant. As ever prior to taking that drastic step across Old Father Thames I’d done my homework. In point of fact I’d met a girl online through one of those dating agencies…an absolute stunner by the name of Davella. You should have seen the selfies she posted. Drop-dead gorgeous, stiletto heels, silicone implants, blond streaks, a perfect fake suntan and very little else, although in one snap she’d stretched the elastic waistband of her knickers out a bit revealing cheeks of perfection and displaying the fashion house label she said was her motto in life, NEXT!  What more could a virile chap like me ask for.”

“She does sound a corker Lenny.”

“Over the period of a couple of weeks online we got to know each other well and she suggested I move to Romford in said Essex and stay with her no less.  Better still she said her old Dad, Dave would find me a job driving for his firm. Things were on the up.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Of course, first thing I had to do was figure out a covert way to cross the river and thus gain entry to Essex. To my mind the safest bet…what with me not being a strong swimmer…to transverse the estuary would be to smuggle myself across under cover of darkness using the passenger ferry from Gravesend over to Tilbury Docks. This I achieved by supergluing ginormous magnets to the palms of my hands and soles of my feet thus enabling me to affix myself to the hull of the boat without attracting any attention. The plan worked a treat and as arranged previously Davella was there waiting for me on the other side with an oar to prize me off. It was thus that I had arrived in Essex undetected by the authorities. The thing was I couldn’t get the fucking magnets off my extremities and as the magnetic effect was so strong as to play havoc with her satnav on the sixteen mile journey back to her pad she let me attach myself to the roof of her shocking pink Fiat 500. Not that I complained but it was pissing down and a howling gale had begun to blow. Sadly she’d left the oar in Tilbury so that night she had to let me sleep atop the vehicle wrapped in a thermal blanket. Yet for the sake of true love I cared not, although all night long I was busting for a Jimmy Riddle.”

“Crumbs Lenny you could have died of the cold, it is winter after all.”

“True, yet I’m a hardy soul and came through the ordeal unscathed, albeit still attached to the roof of her car. Well at dawns first light she came out to me and fed me a bacon butty by hand as well as holding out a cup of tea with a straw in it enabling me to take in both nourishment and liquid. The thing was in broad daylight Davella wasn’t the girl I’d seen in the selfies online. Indeed this girl had something of a beached whale about her very being. Whatever she said she’d given her Dad a call to come over and detach me from the motor and once detached she suggested we make straight for the bedroom so as to get to know each other a little better. Dad duly arrived, took one look at me and called me a ‘tosser’ and stated quite eloquently that there was no way his ‘Firm’ could use me on the bank job they had planned for that very afternoon – shame really as I’d always fancied working in the banking industry. He did however get one of his burly chums to wrench me off the car though.”

“That was handy.”

“You’d think so wouldn’t you yet given that he placed me down upon a manhole cover of metallic construction I was you will understand effectively bent over on all fours at the roadside. The ever so burly Davella looked me up and down a bit saying that I didn’t look as handsome as in my photograph and that she’d gone off me so I may as well, ‘Fuck off home’ – her words. So there I was an illegal immigrant in Essex with no girl and no job.”

“How did you get back then?”

“Well it took me seven weeks of jiggling my body up and down in order to gain forward momentum but eventually I got back safe and sound, via the Tower Bridge route and had Syd down the garage take the magnets off using some special fluid or other. As it happens along the way folks presumed I was travelling in this unique manner for a charity event and they kept stuffing money into my back pocket as I went about my way…made a cool £1750 if the truth be told.”

“So you’re quids in then…nice one Lenny boy. You do realise though that you don’t need a passport or entry visa to get into Essex and you could have simply taken a bus there.”

“Now you tell me! I never knew that.”

“True Lenny, though do tell me one thing how did you manage with your number one’s and two’s en route?”

“Don’t even go there Landlord…mind you Syd down the garage was somewhat overwhelmed upon my arrival.”