Thursday 18 December 2014

THE END OF THE KNOB

THE END OF THE KNOB

It was a strange mission and details of it were kept secret even from the

climbers. The team chosen were all experienced, veterans of the Himalayas,

and set about reaching base camp with a unifying sense of professionalism

and a common desire to get to the end, wherever it was.

At base camp they were told they were to climb Peter’s Knob.

‘Non heard of dis one,’ said Pascal Piste, the team leader.

‘It’s a penis, gentlemen,’ replied the Base Camp co-ordinator: ‘my name is

Peter and the penis is mine!’

The tent was silent for a moment for this was an astonishing thing to hear, but

then one by one the elite climbers began to laugh.

‘You can laugh all you like but tomorrow morning you begin my ascent. I

commend your aptitude and skill and wish you all the luck in the world.’

‘Mes amis,’ spoke Pascal. ‘Le Knob de Pierre, c’est dificile, mais un climb est

un climb, non? Nous must travail et succeed, oui, oui?’

‘Yes, wee,’ said the climbers and the next morning they allowed themselves to

be miniaturised and set to work.

It took seven arduous hours, jagging and faltering amongst bumps and

crevices, vein cracks and old love scars, but eventually they arrived at Peter’s

Summit, where they planted their flag.

Peter looked down at them disdainfully, and with a series of monkey like

scratches sent them plummeting into a dark abyss.

‘Never said anything about planting a flag you egotistical amateurs!’ he cried.

‘Are we in a cave?’ asked climber Two.

‘It’s warm and the odour is profound,’ said climber Three.

Climber Four kept coughing, and Pascal voiced what surely they already

knew: ’how do you say dans le postérieur dans Anglais, mes amis?’

‘It sounds almost the same in English,’ they said, before a terrible thing

engulfed them all.

Thursday 27 November 2014

FROM CHAOS

 
FROM CHAOS
From low, the semi-elongated-dwarf–bird-cat looks up at the absurd magnanimity of the metropolis and sighs. A cloud drops low and showers the steps before him. He will go no further.

Up in a bone tree in the high part of the city, a squat owl surveys everything. He has nothing wise or profound to say. He is looking for mice.

It is left to a parakeet busy sucking on the trail of a tsetse fly to explain but it’ll take a near eternity to hear his words, as birds either cannot speak or we cannot understand them if they do.

No matter, we know a bird who swallowed a fly . . . 

Monday 24 November 2014

JAZZ ROCK

 
JAZZ ROCK
The cry of a trumpet: ‘I beseech you to go JAZZ’, it says and the spiky tail rocker transforms into a giant, pubic fuzz ball.

‘You is scrambling my brain in pussy weed, my horny friend,’ says the rocker.

The jazzster keeps blowing those difficult notes and the shaggy rocker rolls off, all hairy biker and tumble thatch.

‘Look at her go,’ croons the trumpet, suddenly sad and slow. ‘She’s got a bearded mass and a furry ass!’

‘Not she, I’m he,’ says the rocking fur ball, spitting hairs. ‘Just stop the jazz!’

And the horn is done.

LITERACY AND GOOD MANNERS (COUNT FOR EVERYTHING UP NORTH)

 
LITERACY AND GOOD MANNERS (COUNT FOR EVERYTHING UP NORTH)

The giant bad ass Penguin (call me Admiral) stomps forth.
On the way he meets a basking whale.
‘Heh, Penguin, where you heading?’ asks the whale.
‘Call me Admiral,’ says the Penguin.
‘Admiral, where you heading?’
‘Where am I heading?’
‘Yes, where are you heading?’
‘North.’
‘Give my regards to the Polar Bears.’
‘Yes, I will.’

The giant bad ass Penguin (call me Admiral) stomps north.
On the way he meets a spoilt child.
‘Heh, waiter, bring me lollypop,’ says the child.
‘Call me Admiral,’ says the Penguin.
‘Admiral, bring me lollypop.’
‘Bring you a lollypop?’
‘Yes, bring me a lollypop.’
‘No.’
‘Give my regards to the Polar Bears.’
‘Yes, I will.’

The giant bad ass Penguin (call me Admiral) stomps, and stomps.
The Polar Bears wait on an ice cap.
‘Heh, Admiral, it’s good to see you,’ say the Polar Bears.
‘Thank you for your literacy and good manners,’ says the Penguin.
‘Come closer so we can shake your hand.’
‘I’d be pleased to.’
‘Sorry, but this may hurt.’
‘Ouch, go easy if you will.’
‘We’re hungry, please don’t take offence.’
‘None is taken.’

Friday 21 November 2014

CLOWNING AROUND




CLOWNING AROUND
Coco was more than usually annoyed; he was downright angry: ‘which of you freaks called me a clown?’ he barked.
It was Bum Face Martin but he was never going to own up so the swans confessed instead.
‘I knew it,’ said Coco. ‘Never trust a bird that’s named after matches.’
Bum Face Martin sniggered and whispered ‘clown’ but Coco didn’t seem to hear, he was busy banging on about swans: ‘evil critters with long beaks and stupid feet!’
Bum Face Martin wondered about saying ‘just like clowns’ but he thought better of it, there was no way of knowing how Coco would react when he was in this kind of mood.
After enduring a tirade of insults the swans flew off and Coco turned to Bum Face Martin and said: ‘I knew it was you, Bum Face, but I just don’t like swans!’

Friday 21 February 2014

WaterWorld

 
An old lady and an old man sit on an inflatable sofa.
He said it was like 1938 to 1939 all over again.
I know.
Teetering on the brink, dithering in the face of disaster. All all too late, nothing to do about it, we were all doomed. Doooomed! No one believed him.
Not now.
Earth heating up, waters rising, washing us away in the swell!
Leave it. Let’s rest a little.
I worked for him after they put him in a nursing home, tight as a tack he was.
Was he?
He was! I put his dentures in a tin and shaved his whiskers with my fingers to save on razors.
Of course you did, makes sense now you say it. Now, are you going to buy me a drink, I’ve come a long way.
I don’t know you, do I?
You do, we talk ever day. My drink? Please?
Another one said Noah’s ark was real, found the planks and everything.
Everything?
Don’t need Noah now, and a boat would be a waste of time. They’re building rockets to Mars. Branson’s in on it; he’s one of them.
One of who?
The chosen ones, been selling tickets on shuttles to his rich friends for years; we’ll be left to fend for ourselves.
He wouldn’t do that. He’s got a nice smile.
Dinosaur teeth, they all have: Cameron, Charles, Camilla, Cilla.
Cilla?
Black! Cilla Black! My scrotum is litmus. All that itching, it senses things, can tell a bad one from a good one, it knew the deluge was afoot.
Rained 400 days so it must have been very itchy.
And 400 nights, sandpaper on nylon sheets. I’ll get you that drink now.
Daft sod, I was teasing you. Where are you going to get me a drink from?
Their sofa wobbles in a swell, the gloop of dark water twisting and spreading under the moonlight.
Could use a cup to scoop it out.
We don’t have a cup. And we can’t drink; it’s contaminated.
We’re done for then?
Of course we are.
Can you swim?
Can you?
Used to be able to.
There you are then. Why don’t we hold hands, have a kiss maybe, share some of the old air raid spirit?
My scrotum is telling me this isn’t going to end well
You don’t need your scrotum to tell you that. Now shut up and give me a kiss.
But I don’t know you.
We’ve been married for sixty years you silly old fool, now hold my hands and give me a kiss.
Bert takes Mary’s hands in his, and kisses.
‘Oh, your lips are dry, love’, he says.
And a wave suddenly moves them from view as a large rocket passes over the moon.