The Ballad of Jane Blythe

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Jane Blythe was having the strangest and worst day in the whole of her twenty-seven-year life. Fates were conspiring. Nothing could get much worse.

She’d been petulantly trawling through the cruddy array of second-rate jobs. It seemed that the only people wanting executive assistants right now were no-hoper crooks or low-life bums running shitty scams in backstreet dives – nothing remotely in line with her worth. Life looked pretty grim. Jane was experiencing an all-time low. It seemed that there was no way out of this hole.

A few days earlier, out of nowhere, Jonas had coldly announced that his company was suffering difficulties and she was surplus to requirements. She’d stood there stunned. She could have argued; she had enough on the slimy turd to have the Inland Revenue crawling all over the place. First mistake. She’d petulantly tossed her stuff in a box and stalked out with her head in the air, not saying a word. She hadn’t even negotiated severance pay.

She knew that the firm was doing OK. For crissakes, she managed the budget. She oversaw everything. It was an excuse. Jonas couldn’t find his own arse without a torch and a map. She’d been too furious to speak. She knew exactly what was going on. Jonas had his eye on the blond in accounts. She’d be sitting at Jane’s desk before the day was out.

That was only the beginning.

To top everything she returned home, inwardly fuming sufficient to blow the top of Vesuvius, to find her scuzzy, skunky, ratbag of a limp-dicked boyfriend in bed, in their bed, with that painted-faced chavvy tart from next door.

That’s where she made her second big mistake.

Instead of storming straight over, punching that garishly caked-up floozie straight on her bottoxed button nose, kneeing the whining creep Jack in the balls and booting the pair of them, as naked as day one, down the stairs onto the cold, wet street, she’d once again turned tail and stormed out, still stupidly clutching the tawdry box of her office possessions.

That’s how she’d ended up in this grimy little cupboard with no cash and no prospects while Jonas got his end away with the blond scrubber and Jack was probably gallivanting away to his heart’s delight, in their beautiful soft bed, in their gorgeous bijou apartment, with the brazen harlot of tinsel-titted scrubberiness.

Now, cramped up in this dingy cell, her blood undergoing superheated aeration, a continuous hundred megaton blast vaporising the effervescent volcano erupting behind her eyes, she was finding it hard to breath. Her teeth hurt she was grinding them so hard!

Not only that but the news was further winding her up. Someone had it in for her. The loathsome arrogant sexpest, whining liar Trump was visiting Peckham. Her town!! Apparently the lapdog, wanna-be megarich dictators Farage and Johnson were going to be there to pay homage to the petulant orange, overgrown baby of a conman! The fates were certainly conspiring! She couldn’t imagine anything worse! What were those three fascist clowns doing coming to fucking Peckham?? Why now?? Weren’t things bad enough?? The whole circus of corporate greed and populist crap was going to play out on her own doorstep!! She couldn’t bear it.

On top of everything both Jack and Jonas were big fans of the triumvirate of incompetent narcissistic clowns! That figured!! Jane could picture it: they’d be there cheering like the stupid tossers they were!

She simply could not bear it!!

On the day when her world imploded she been down the pub pouring it all out, and in, with a bunch of her friends, luridly describing in detail what she’d like to do to each and every one of the five most hated scumbags in her world. Crushed gonads were far too kind for the four arrogant creeps! And as for that vacuum-packed badly-painted tart……. Her descriptions of what she’d like to do to each and every one of them tested both the extent of her vocabulary and bounds of her imagination.

Now, here she was, nursing the mother of all hangovers, with molten lava spouting out of the top of her head, still running through the torture videos playing in her mind. Seething. She could not control it. Her thoughts kept churning over the stomach-curdling sycophantic scenes shortly to take place in the Town Hall two minutes down the road. They’d all be there – the five most disgusting apologies for human beings. Six if you counted Jack’s slapper of a slut.

That’s when the inappropriately cheerful postie delivered the parcel and left, deafened and bewildered, wondering what he’d said.

The parcel felt heavy.

She ripped the packaging off with all the venom she wanted to apply to ripping off Jack’s absurdly tiny procreative appendage or wrenching Trump’s throbbing liver out of his blubbery guts.

She found herself holding a sleek, brand new 9mm Glock Trump edition pistol complete with Trump’s image on the handle and a magazine containing six gleaming bullets.

36 Moments and Their Consequences

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36 Moments and Their Consequences

The heating was searing. The African sun beating down, causing beads of sweat to form on brows. Not that I cared. This was Africa. We were heading out on Safari. This was Botswana, the land of exotic creatures, and I, being a biologist, was in my element. I hardly noticed the heat but I did notice the light; perfect for photographing wildlife.

Back in 2007 the medium was film. I had a great Canon camera with a powerful zoom lens capable of taking superb close-ups. Back then film and processing was expensive. You never quite knew what you had captured until the film was processed and you could not afford to snap away. Each shot had to be carefully considered. Before we set off I’d loaded a thirty-six shot film – thirty-six precious images to play with.

We had already been on safari in Zimbabwe, rising at dawn’s first light, setting off in a truck with blankets over us to banish the chill, bouncing along dusty tracks to pull up close to giraffe, elephants, warthogs and hyena. The experience, while spine-crunching, had proved exhilarating; the wild beast so much more exciting than you could encounter in a zoo. To come face to face with a bull elephant, huge ears flared, trunk raised, great tusks directed at us, as he guarded his herd while they crossed the trail a few feet away, was simply awesome. To pull alongside a huge fully-grown giraffe and watch as her nimble tongue stripped green leaves off spiky acacia tree-tops, amazing.

Today was different. No early shivery start, or hurtling down dusty tracks; this was safari in style.

Following a rather too satisfying lunch a dozen of us boarded a small flat-bottomed pontoon boat with full canopy made ourselves at home on cushioned seats. A young boy brought us cold beer as we set off down the Zambesi in search of wildlife – the forward motion creating a soothing cool breeze. A full stomach, cool beer and magnificent scenery – what could be better?

I had my camera ready. Before long we came across a pod of hippos and our captain sidled right up close. We were surrounded with hippos; they surface all around us gawping at us as much as we were at them. I was in ecstasy, selecting shot after shot. On the shore a mother trotted along with her baby trailing her. I clicked, picturing each frame.

Further along, now on my second beer, the captain homed in on some lily pads. A giant monitor lizard was delicately picking his way in searching of prey. I waited and captured him with his long, pink, forked tongue fully extended.

By now it was mid-afternoon. Ahead of us a herd of elephants emerged from the bush making for the river. The captain quickly took us up close as they splashed, obviously delighting in the cooling water. The elephants were playing, squirting water from their trunks up in the air, splashing down over their backs turning the dusty grey to mottled black, baby elephants bounding into the water under the watchful eyes of the adults. I zoomed in as they frolicked. In one shot I caught one of the matriarchs spraying water in the air so it formed a rainbow arc of glistening jewels in the air above her. I carefully selected my shots, each one a chosen moment, a framed work of art – a mother with baby, a close-up of a face, an action shot.

Delightful.

Soon, sated with nature and beer, we headed back. We spotted a huge crocodile, mouth gaping and tick-bird at work. We drifted in close. I was on my thirty-sixth shot. I had to make it count. I waited and waited until I had exactly the right angle and clicked. I knew I’d got it. My thirty-sixth beauty.

I took a second. Thirty-seven. Sometimes you squeezed a further shot out of a reel. But by the time I got to forty I knew something was wrong. I clicked and clicked, wound on and wound on. With a sinking heart I knew. The film had not engaged with the sprocket.

All those thirty-six carefully chosen shots now only exist in my mind’s eye.

That was it. I made the jump and went digital.

In the Land of the Few

Posted on by Opher

A short story

It is Wednesday. I love Wednesdays. On Wednesday we can put the heating on for an hour. It melts the ice on the windows. You can still see your breath though!

I bet I know what we’re having for dinner today; potato stew!! I know that’s what it is because we have it every day. Dad bought a sack of potatoes. We don’t peel them like we used to because Mum says that the skin contains all the goodness.

Mummy is very naughty. She swears a lot. She says naughty things about Liz Truss. I don’t know what she is talking about. Liz Truss is our new Prime Minister. I don’t think mummy likes her. She says she’s worse than Boris. Mummy says she’s a cross between the Ice-Queen and Attila the Hun. I know who the Ice Queen is. She was not nice at all. I don’t know who Attila the Hun is though. Daddy won’t tell me. He says ‘Just ignore her’. It’s hard to ignore her when she swears such a lot.

Daddy says he would like Boris back. Mummy says he’s an effing moron! I thought Boris was funny. I liked it when he got stuck on that zip wire waving those Union Jacks. Mummy said that he should stick those flags where the suns don’t shine. There’s lots of places where the sun doesn’t shine so I don’t really know what she means.

Mummy says that ‘Fat Cat energy bosses getting £15 million bonuses while people freeze is obscene’. Daddy says Boris would have sorted it. Mummy says she doesn’t know what possessed her to marry someone without a single brain cell in his head.

Daddy says that Liz Truss will sort the cost of living crisis. Mummy suggests that killing off half the population through hypo … hypotermites, or starvation is not exactly sorting the problem. Daddy says she’s daft. The Tories know what they are doing. Mummy says she knows what they are doing too. She says they are giving tax cuts and bonuses to the effing rich. They are a bunch of cnuts. I don’t really know what that word means and daddy won’t tell me. I think it’s very bad and that Mummy is very naughty. If she’d said that in school Mrs Iverson would have sent her to the Headmistress. I’m trying hard to remember all these words Mummy says about Liz Truss because Billy thinks I’m really cool when I repeat them to him at break-time.

Anyway, Mummy and Daddy seem to know a lot about politics. Mummy says that it’s Boris Johnson who gives us potato stew but I think it’s Daddy. She doesn’t always get it right.

Mummy and Daddy don’t agree about Boris or Liz Truss. Mum says that if she had to choose between the pair of them and a bucket of shit she’d choose the bucket of shit any day – at least it’s good for the roses.

A Hobby (A short story based on two neighbours of mine)

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A Hobby

Alfred Reginald Bester was one of the nicest old men you could ever hope to meet. Nothing was ever too much trouble – a man who spent his time looking for ways to help others.

Now in his eighties, widowed for twenty years, with arthritic back, two hips that needed replacing, a dodgy heart and failing eyesight, you might be forgiven for thinking that it might be his turn to be looked after for a change. Not a bit of it. There wasn’t a day when Alf wasn’t busy doing something for someone else. He called it his hobby and always said that it was them who were doing him a favour, keeping him young, fit and healthy (at least in his mind).

On Alf’s wall was a big calendar with all the jobs that needed doing. It had to be big or he wouldn’t be able to read it.

His week started with the shopping. Mrs West from next door was housebound so she depended on him. At nine o’ clock sharp he’d rap at her door and she’d provide him with a list. He’d trundle along to the local store, he would never used the supermarket; they were too rushed in there. He liked to have a friendly chat while the shopkeeper, Maisie, packed his goods. They always had a good laugh. Then he’d trundle back a little more slowly. He had bought a special large shopping trolley so that it was big enough to get the goods for both of them. Not that their needs were that great. Neither of them were big eaters, both skinny things. ‘Nowt but rags, skin and bones,’ he’d laugh at how the years had treated him.

When he got back he’d help Elsie West put things away, she’d put the kettle on and always joked ‘I’ll put the kettle on Alf, even though it doesn’t suit me.’ He always laughed. They’d have a cup of tea and a biscuit.

In the afternoon it was the same for Harry from round the corner. Tuesday was picking up Rosie Symmond’s prescription, playing draughts with John – it used to be chess but John kept forgetting the moves. On Wednesday and Thursday he volunteered to serve in the Help The Aged charity shop, on Friday he went to the local school to listen to the boys and girls read. That was a highlight. On Saturday he visited the old peoples’ home where he played them some songs on the piano, if his fingers weren’t playing up too much, and they’d have a right good singalong. Which brings us to Sunday. Sunday was very special. He always spent the day at Shelby Hall – a home for children with severe disabilities. The kids were always eager to see him and he loved working with them on their various projects, whether gardening, art, music or other creative ventures. Alf always said that there was nothing wrong with their brains, imagination or humour.

Suzie was fifteen, as sharp as a splinter of glass, even though the cerebral palsy had robbed her of the proper use of her limbs so that she was confined to a wheelchair. Alf always made a point of sitting with her for a half hour or so. Suzie was a whizz with computers and was designing a very lively animated game in which a miserable old man, always groaning and moaning, would have a series of mishaps as he set off to do his shopping. One thing after another. Every time he tripped over, fell down a hole or was knocked down he exploded with a loud bang and big burst of colour. They used to chuckle like mad about it. ‘Is that meant to be me?’ Alf asked, peering short-sightedly at the shambling old grump. ‘Of course it is,’ Suzie chortled.

They both had a laugh as Alf tried to get his character to the shop and back without exploding and always failed. After he’d exploded the old man would be back at the start with steam coming out his ears, jumping up and down, fuming and shouting expletives. It was a fun game. ‘What are you going to call it?’ Alf asked.

‘Curmudgeonly is the name of the game,’ Suzie grinned teasingly delighting in baiting him. He tried to look shocked but failed miserably. Her distorted grin and dancing eyes always filled Alf with joy.

Emily knows best.

Posted on by Opher

Emily knows best.

Emily lived in her own pre-Raphaelite world, totally apart from other humans, serenely content.

In summer she would cavort naked through the wildflower meadows, tendrils of her red wavy tresses trailing in the warm breeze like fingers of fire. Adorning herself with daisy chains she would sit cross-legged on the grass immersed in the buzzing activity of insects; a gigantic queen overseeing the industry of her subjects – the bees collecting nectar and pollen, the ants herding their aphids, the long-legged, spindly daddy longlegs, the bugs, beetles and flies, scuttling and feeding. She made herself small, slipping down an invisible microscope, falling into their world; a great metropolis of activity; a busy complex latticework of commerce and exchange, completely losing herself. Short hours would pass as Emily absorbed herself in the miracles unfolding before her.

Sometimes she lay on her stomach, engrossed within this miniscule universe, feeling the rays of the hot sun piercing her skin, jiggling the molecules, warming her spirit, charging her batteries with its golden electricity, turning her nut brown. Then, when the warmth became too much, she would drag herself away, rush to the brook and slide into the deliciously cool waters of the rock pool among the trees, hold out handfuls of sparkly water and allow them to stream in diamond drops from her fingers as they fell back through the dappled air into the stream.

Emily watched with dismay as the poor butterfly became trapped in the spider’s web, felt its terror and the desperation of its efforts as it tried to free itself. Tears stung her eyes. But she also felt the great need of the spider consumed by hunger. It broke her heart but she made no attempt to free the distressed creature and save it from its horrendous fate, intuitively understanding the way nature worked.

In winter, safe within the soft warm cocoon of her rich brocade and sensuous velvet, she would shut her eyes and turn her face to the cruel north wind and delight as its icy fingers pricked her nose and numbed her cheeks. Emily would lift her chin and smile as the jabs of a thousand tiny swords of driven rain tingled on her skin. Every sensation was there to be savoured. Nothing was wasted.

The other children teased her unmercifully, calling her dappy, pinching, kicking and punching her, but no matter the torment, Emily did not react. She endured without so much as a whimper.

Her teachers and parents despaired of her. They could not engage her with their lessons or entreaties. She stared blankly at books and responded like an automaton as they enticed and cajoled. They called in experts who declared her in need of medication and cited great tomes as they pronounced long Latin names to describe her condition.

Emily cared not a jot. Everything in her world was alive with colour, beauty and meaning. She understood it all and knew exactly how she fitted into the jig-saw puzzle of its amazing flow.

A Short Story – There’s a stench In here!!

Posted on by Opher

It took me ages to get this to exactly 500 words. I had to cut lots out!

There’s a stench In here!!

My home is very claustrophobic. I’m hardly ever allowed out. The mood gets scary sometimes. There’s a lot of shouting.

I’m in a very strange family and I have grave doubts about my leader. He’s arrogant and cocky and he blathers a lot but I can smell when he’s being devious – and that’s all the time! I don’t think he really knows what he’s doing. Still, you have to make the best of things. I get plenty of food and it’s warm here.

There are about five hundred of us. I haven’t even met most of them. My leader hardly ever takes me out, just passes me to some lesser member that I haven’t even smelt before. I don’t know where I am in this family!

Every time we go out they shackle me to stop me doing anything! My mates leave messages but no sooner have I started to read them than I’m jerked away. I quickly leave my own messages but it’s far too hurried. Is this any way to run things?? Good communication is the heart of any group! I’m missing out on gossip! Who’s not feeling well? Who’s up for it? I hardly get to converse! If we do meet up I’m not even allowed to say hello, just unceremoniously dragged away! I’m being kept a prisoner here against my will.

Then there are the petty rules!! There are all these comfy beds but I’m not allowed to lay on them. They’re reserved for fellows further up the pecking order. My leader has these sumptuous meals and I have to watch him guzzle them down, then they give me crud to eat!

New members of the family constantly stream into my home. We’re never introduced and I’m not even allowed to sniff them. I ask you? On top of that they all get to sit on the comfy beds! It’s outrageous. Like I haven’t got any status at all! They all pompously pontificate and my leader pretends to be bigger than he is, smelling of self-importance and greed. He loves to dominate!

Then there’s my love life! I haven’t one. Every time I try it on with one or other of our transient guests I get well and truly told off! What am I supposed to do??

I have fantasies about my family meeting up. Our leader out there in front, loping along like the shambling wreck he is; his mate nipping at his heels, the rest of us spread out in a big fan behind him. But it’s never going to happen. I can smell a rabid family of wolves outside, baying. They want blood. Every time my leader stumbles out there are horrid flashes and howls.

He’s pumping out wrong messages. He says one thing and smells another. They know it. He doesn’t smell like a proper leader at all.

Why are we going to have to leave and find a new home? What does all this Partygate mean??      

 Dilyn – 6.2.2022

The Idiot Wind – by John Philips

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The Idiot Wind

‘It’s a hard rain’s a gonna fa-a-a-all’

Dominic kicked the door shut and tossed the bundle of papers onto the table.

Michael looked up and smiled.

‘You’re sounding a bit chippa today Dom.’

‘Too damn right I am,’ Dominic smirked. ‘Two more of those civil service bastards have resigned. I tell you Mike I’m going to have the lot of them out before I’m done.’

‘Well done Dom,’ Michael nodded. ‘Yes the times they are a changing.’

Dominic chuckled ‘You’re down in the groove, Mikey baby. They’re gonna be ‘knockin’ on Heaven’s door.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Where’s fatso? He said ten and it’s nearly ten past.’

Michael sniggered.

‘Something about a phone call, but I reckon he’s called in at number eleven. He’s got the hots for the new aide.’

‘You reckon? I’ll be your baby tonight eh? Figures. He’s never been able to keep it in his pants.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, when’s Pompeo’s bitch due back?’

‘Sometime tomorrow I think,’ Michael winced. ‘You want to be careful with all this name-calling Dom. You know what a temper our esteemed Foreign Secretary has.’

Dominic grinned. ‘If you think I’m scared of the Karate Kid you can think again. I know where the bodies are buried.’ He winked at Michael. ‘All of them.’

For a moment a shadow crossed Michael’s face but as he went to reply the door opened to reveal a familiar bulky figure who entered, ran his hand through his wild, blond hair and smiled.

‘What ho, how goes it chaps? Sorry I’m a bit late, but you know how it is; things to do, people to see.’

Dominic smirked ‘Honey just allow me one more chance to get along with you,’ he chanted.

Boris shook his head. ‘Still on with the Dylan theme, eh?’

‘But of course. It’ll be thunder on the mountain tonight, you hope?’

‘Of course not and anyway you ought to pack this Dylan lark up. ‘I’ve just seen Matt. It’s really freaking him out.’

Michael nodded. ‘He’s right Dom. Last night’s offering of ‘Only a Pawn in their Game’ really hit home. I thought he was going to cry. He’s sure he’s being set up to take the blame for the way the pandemic’s been mishandled.

Boris grinned. ‘First time he’s been right since I gave him the job.’ A look of self-satisfaction crossed his face. ‘His legacy is going to be…’ he paused for effect….. ‘Corona Corona.’

Dominic clapped his hands. ‘Nice one Boris. I’ll give you that one.’

Boris smirked. ‘Yes that’s the way it will be.’ He paused again. ‘When the deal goes down.’

Dominic sighed. ‘OK, OK, don’t milk it. Anyway, what are we doing here? Why have you called this meeting?’

Boris fiddled with his hair. ‘Well you see, there’s a couple of things have come up and I’m a bit worried about my ratings. I mean the pandemic and all this dying and stuff. It’s dropped me right down in the polls. I’m way behind Starmer at the moment.’

Dominic laughed. ‘Oh come on Boris. You’ve an eighty seat majority and people have short memories. Once this lot’s over, as far as the punters are concerned it will just be a case of ‘OK, so bad things happen but it could have been worse. Could have been me,’ and then they will move on. Plenty of other things for them to think about. Brexit. Immigration. That’s what it’s all about. Don’t forget – this is good old racist Britain – we’re on a winner there!’

‘Of course I’m right.’ Dominic leaned forward in his chair. ‘By the time ‘Malice in Wonderland’ has done her bit, you’ll be quids in.’ He smirked. ‘I Priti the poor immigrant,’ you know what I mean?’

Boris looked baffled. ‘Never heard that one before. Have you Mike?’

‘Can’t say that I have.’

Dominic grinned triumphantly. ‘John Wesley Harding’ 1967 or thereabouts. A classic.’

Boris beamed. ‘You know, I think you’re right Dom. I just wish this other problem was as simple.’

‘What other problem?’

‘Foreign Sec on the blower just now, reckons Trump’s going for it.’

‘Going for what?’

‘It’s this Chinese business Mike. Looks like it could be military action.’

‘You what? Against the Chinese?’

Boris nodded. ‘Raab reckons so; says the trade deal depends on it and we’ll be expected to send some troops.’

‘Sounds like Talkin’ World War III Blues.’

‘It’s not funny Dom.’

Dominic laughed. ‘All this even after we’ve flogged them the N.H.S.?’

‘Yes that’s what the Masters of War say.’ Boris scowled. ‘Look you’ve got me doing it now.’

Dominic sighed.

‘Calm down the pair of you. You’re worrying about nothing – Don’t think twice, it’s alright, so we lose a few hundred squaddies, so what?’

‘Oh c’mon Dom,’ Boris interrupted, ‘I don’t give a toss about the squaddies, but it’ll play havoc with my ratings.’

‘No way,’ Dom shook his head. ‘Listen and learn. Joe Public loves a good war, assuming he’s not personally involved of course. Look at Maggie and the Falklands. Best election manifesto ever, bar none.’ He turned to Michael. ‘I’m right aren’t I?’

Michael nodded thoughtfully.

‘You know Boris, I reckon Dom’s spot on.’

‘But what if we lose? I mean, it’s the Chinese. Even the Yanks can’t guarantee winning. The answer’s Blowing in the Wind.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Dominic thumped the table. ‘So we lose? So what? We lie. For goodness sake man, it’s what you’re good at. You claim victory. The press will back you up, well most of them anyway.’

Michael, face flushed with excitement, jumped to his feet. ‘Yes, and when it’s all over we have a nice big remembrance service. Bring in the Royal Family. God On Our Side, and all that.’ He smirked with inspiration. ‘Get Charlie on the job, bit of multifaith, Gods and so forth. The people will love it! It’s a winner Boris! Yes, definitely!’

Boris beamed and rose to his feet. ‘You know, I think you’re right. I feel lots better now. OK, I’m off, things to do. You know what I mean.’

Michael sneered – he was good at it. ‘Are you off to play hide the snake?’

Boris opened the door. ‘That’s for me to know and you to ponder, but don’t forget the motto.’ He grinned evilly. ‘It Ain’t Me Babe. See you Thursday morning. Nine o clock meeting. Cioa.’

Dominic stared after the rapidly retreating figure. ‘The Drifter’s Escape,’ he muttered, and turning to Michael. ‘What a prat!’

‘I know what you mean.’ Michael nodded. ‘Thinks he can get away with anything.’

Dominic grinned, ‘That’s what he thinks, but me and you know different, don’t we, Mikey baby? I’m off. Catch you later.’

He swaggered off down the corridor accompanied by a surprisingly tuneful rendition of ‘It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue.’

Sleepy John Miller – a little story I woke up with this morning.

Posted on by Opher

Sleepy John Miller

Sleepy John Miller was an itinerant Blues busker who played for dimes on the corner of Michigan and East 43rd in Chicago, outside the diner, during the height of the depression in the early thirties. Most days he made enough to enable him to eat. He needed nothing more. His home was the park bench in Jackson Park. Sleepy John was unusual because he only played his own material, autobiographical songs of poverty, hard times tinged with hope for better times to come.

The Chesk brothers were Polish immigrants who ran a hardware store on Wabash Ave. Above the store they had a small recording studio. It was very primitive, not really a studio at all, just a bare room with a portable recording machine. They ran a little side-line recording the local talent and selling the old 78 records to the black population who lived in that part of town.

On a summer evening the sound of those records could be heard leaking into the sweltering streets. Sleepy John would smile to himself when he heard one of his own songs being played. He took great pleasure in knowing it was being listened to.

Sleepy was a regular at the Chesk store. He’d come in, record his new songs, accept a pittance, along with a promise of royalties that never seemed to materialise, and leave. He never asked for much and seemed content just to know that his songs had been recorded.

In 1933 the Chesk brothers were sitting together in the back room with a glass of brandy holding what they called their business meeting, a meeting that usually went on into the early hours and involved cards.

‘You know that guy Sleepy Joe we’ve been recording?’ Len Cask remarked. Phil and Henry looked expectantly at him. ‘His records are selling like hot cakes. I can’t press them up fast enough. His sad old songs seem to be hitting the spot during this depression.’

The brothers divided up the work. Phil was the one who usually carried out the recordings. Len ran the shop and Henry oversaw the ordering and saw to the business side of things. It worked well. Even in the hard times of depression they were making a good living.

‘Yeah, I noticed that,’ Phil said, thinking back to the recording sessions. ‘He’s got something about him.’

‘I’ve sold hundreds in the last year. Literally hundreds. We owe him a fortune in royalties.’

‘Does he ever ask?’ Henry said abruptly, placing his glass purposefully on the table.

Phil and Len looked at each other. ‘No, never.’

Henry nodded and picked up his glass.

‘Probably enough to get a nice place,’ Len remarked whimsically, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

No more was said about Sleepy Joe.

In the winter of 1933 a blizzard blew in off the lakes. The temperature dived to -27 degrees. The next day, under a pile of newspapers on a park bench in Jackson Park, Sleepy Joe Miller was found to have taken his last sleep – frozen stiff, his arms cradling his battered guitar.

As there were no next of kin the city hurriedly buried the frozen body in an unmarked municipal grave.

‘At least he’s left us another eight sides,’ Henry remarked to his brothers.

A Blue Moon for Boris

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A Blue Moon for Boris

‘Hhhhrrrmmmph, by gad, gadzzoooks. We’re gonna bash that Marxist Corbyn back into his commie politburo.’ Johnson spluttered, piggy eyes screwed up, shoulders hunched in his characteristic Churchillian slouch.

‘Yes, but that might prove harder than you think,’ Dominic Cummings deliberated, easing himself back into his armchair and sipping his single malt. ‘What Corbyn is putting forward makes sense and what we are pushing is a bunch of lies, fake news and promises that we have no intention of keeping.’

‘Hmmm, gosh, since when has truth got anything to do with it?’ Johnson blustered. ‘All they care about is Brexit. Brexit. We can do anything we want.’

‘Just as long as we keep it focussed on Brexit,’ Cummings murmured. ‘That’s where we’ll win.’

‘Yes, by gad, hmmmppphh, snort, snort, get the job done. It’s all sealed – like an oven ready chicken, what. Prick it, slap it in the microwave on gas mark 4 and baaamo. There’s your baby. Die in a ditch and over my dead body.’

‘Yes,’ Cummings muttered. He was studying Johnson with a critical eye. The man was a loose cannon. Could he be trusted to deliver and not go off on one? Unsure. But he was all they had – an Eton toff, bumbling Billy Bunter on amphetamine. For some reason the public seemed to love him. ‘Just keep it on Brexit.’

‘Wilco, hrrmmpphhh’ Johnson said with a flourish. ‘te potest numerare in me!’ (You can count on me)

Cummings raised his eyebrows, took a sip of his whisky and sighed deeply. At least they stood a good chance of getting Brexit done, crashing out and sending the whole country flying. That might just make it worth it.’

‘Cripes, I mean blimey, I’m putting blooming billions into the NHS, police and, and, and bally education! Won’t that bally well please the blighters!’

Cummings shook his head. ‘No, no, no.’ He sighed again. ‘You keep off of that. Brexit is it. Stick to Brexit’

Johnson nodded like a dopey-eyed hound eager to please his master.

Cummings fixed him with his sternest look. ‘Brexit. Brexit. Brexit. Alright?’

‘Yes, by Jove, I know, but well, well cripes, it’s like wasting all that loot,’ Johnson protested.

‘We’re not wasting any loot,’ Cummings reminded him. ‘We’ll never spend it. They are just election promises. After the election nobody will remember. Once you’re in, they can’t do anything about it can they? They expect it. Nobody keeps election promises, do they? Not even Labour.’

‘But, but, but bloody hell, blithering bilgehooks, bloody Corbyn might,’ Johnson blustered. ‘He means it! The man’s a, a, a, a blinking real socialist. He’d give all the bloody loot to the oiks, to every Tom, Dick and Harry! He’s a bloody commie through and through.’

‘Yes he might,’ Cummings agreed, sipping the single malt, which now seemed to have lost its appeal. ‘That’s precisely why we’ve set the media running at full steam painting him as a dangerous extremist who would break the country. But we don’t want him deflecting us onto the NHS, Education or the crime wave do we? That would be a mistake, wouldn’t it? You’ve been shafting them for the past ten years, haven’t you?’ He rolled his eyes. It was like training cats to chase and fetch.

‘Well, well, cripes,’ Johnson spluttered. ‘What have they contributed to the bally country? Bunch of parasites.’

‘Yes,’ Cummings sighed with more than a hint of exasperation. ‘Precisely. But if you want to get elected you have to pander to the common people. One Nation Toryism and all that. Make them feel you are on their side and they’re getting something out of it. You don’t remind them that you’ve spent ten years screwing them to give more to your chums, do you?’ He peered hopefully at Johnson but remained unconvinced by what he saw. ‘Brexit. Brexit. Brexit. Alright?’ He continued to pound the message home more in hope than expectation. ‘And while you’re at it don’t ever say anything that leads into plugging tax loopholes, food banks, homelessness, more doctors, knife crime, Windrush, hostile environment, climate change, Trump and the NHS, fiddling expenses, Russian donors, May’s husband making a killing from bombing Syria, Tax cuts for the wealthy, tax cuts for corporations, doctoring Kier Starmer, housing, letter boxes, bank robbers, battle bus promises, Hunt’s backhanders, fake news, chlorinated chicken, social benefits, universal credit, student fees, potholes, councils, nurses, firms fleeing abroad or anything other than Brexit, Brexit, Brexit! Those are all things we’ve lied about, failed to deliver, messed up, or stink of corruption. Got it??’

‘Cor blimey Dom, er, er, I mean, cripes. That’s quite a list, quite a list I tell you. How the bloody hell am I meant to remember all that?’

‘Just remember Brexit, Brexit, Brexit,’ Dominic Cummings said wearily, ‘And be glad the elections only come around once in a blue moon.’

Perspectives – a true story

Posted on by Opher

Perspectives

 

Billy and I were ten years old and standing in front of a display cabinet at the Natural History Museum in Kensington. This was a favourite place for us. Regularly we would make the journey on the train and underground to visit the museum. We were only ten years old but we were au fait with trains. Our parents thought we were competent and afforded us plenty of freedom. We lived twenty miles from London.

Billy was interested in geology. I was more into natural history and animals. So we alternated. Each week one of us would choose a section of the museum and we would both study it in detail. Billy nearly always chose minerals and I chose the displays of animals or evolution. We enjoyed ourselves and would jabber excitedly about the exhibits.

On this particular day we had found ourselves peering at a wall-display of the contents of a penguin’s gullet. It was full of stones, shells, bones and assorted debris. We were engaged in deep discussion as to why the various objects had ended up in this bird’s digestive system.

A gentleman was standing behind us. He seemed ancient, all of fifty, in a tweed suit with waistcoat, neat, tidy and respectable. Initially we paid him no heed. He was listening in to what we were discussing and then began asking questions.

We explained to him all the theories we had come up with for the presence of the stones and bones, from buoyancy, to breaking up the fish they ate, or providing calcium for egg shells. He seemed really interested. He smiled a lot and seemed very kindly – a pleasant, friendly gentleman. We talked and we told him all about ourselves. He took us to the canteen and bought us sticky buns and lemonade, sitting back, smiling benignly, smoking and watching us excitedly gulp it all down while incessantly gabbing. It seemed to amuse him. He asked us many questions and seemed to enjoy our company.

We made our farewells and clubbed together to buy him a packet of cigarettes for his kindness.

We arranged to meet up the following Saturday.

 

I saw the two young boys standing in front of the display cabinet. They were very vivacious and were precociously discussing the exhibit. I was smitten by their liveliness and enthusiasm.

I sidled up close so that I could listen in. Their excitement was contagious. Just the type of lads I liked.

I began asking questions and they were eager to respond. Their innocence was delightful. I was enjoying myself.

I tentatively invited them down to the canteen for buns and lemonade. They continued to excitedly discuss the exhibits as I sat back and observed. Their energy and enthusiasm was exhilarating. It amused and thrilled me. I was enjoying myself immensely.

When they had finished their food they declared that it was time to go. They unexpectedly bought me a packet of cigarettes. I arranged to meet up with them the next Saturday.

It was something I would look forward to.

 

‘So what did this gentleman look like?’ my Mum asked suspiciously. My Dad was listening in as I recanted the story of our encounter. I explained how we had met and how he had kindly taken us for lemonade and buns and how nice he was. I described what he looked like.

My Mum gave my Dad a serious look. I could see that they were not at all happy with this development.

They were even unhappier when I explained how Billy and I had arranged to meet up with the man next Saturday. I could see the worried glances exchanged. I did my best to explain how kind and pleasant he was but that did not seem to make an impression.

‘They’re too young to know about those types of people,’ my Mum said to my Dad.

‘What people?’ I asked, completely baffled.

Apparently I was too young to understand. They had a short discussion which I found hard to follow.

‘You’re not going,’ my Dad pronounced. My Mum nodded approval. I was extremely upset. I kept thinking about that kindly gentleman left waiting, expecting to see us. How disappointed he would be.

Billy and I never resumed those visits. That phase of our life was cut short.

 

In later life I often wonder about that time. If we had have met up that Saturday would it have been a day that would have radically altered our lives? Was that respectable looking gentleman a member of the Royal Society who might have taken us under his wing and helped transform our future? Or was he not as he appeared – someone who might have altered our lives in a different way?

 

I shall never know.