Village vignette

The civic hall had had better days but had only fitfully partaken of them. Once upon the time its floorboards had groaned to the foxtrot strains of Yeti Ibbotson And His Darling Tarzanettes, all teeth, Brilliantine and accidental syncopation. In later years it was the haunt of jumble sales and the village pig crayoning club. The pig crayoning craze was a nine day wonder: the pigs weren't much fond of it, the farmers didn't see a profit in it and there's not much that you can do with a pig once you've drawn a crude picture of a house on it in thick brown wax that you couldn't have done by leaving the poor beast well alone.

Don't mock: it could be one of your own

How bitterly disappointing: the lads at work tell me that Talbot Rothwell didn't write "Game of Thrones."

Nail clippings

Every so often a bit of stray verbiage will float into my head unbidden and I try to remember to make a note of it for one or other of the books I'll never get round to. Here are a few waifs and strays from the commonplace books...

• He was one of those tall men of indeterminate age and character who populate the middle reaches of the professions.

• Almost at once he had concluded that the visitor was entirely inconsequential and he spent the next hour doing everything humanly possible to make himself stupidly beholden to him.

• It was an old-fashioned door that looked impossibly flimsy but had rattled in the merest breeze for the past thirty-seven years without ever actually blowing open.

• He was tending his vegetable plot. Late Winter had passed into the thin pickings of early Spring: the last of the Brussels sprout tops and savoy cabbages and whatever carrots and parsnips were left in the store. It had been a bad few weeks, what with the cold nights and colder rains, and he was torn between keeping the cloche over the beans in the hopes of a half-decent harvest and taking the cloches off in the near-certainty of wood pigeon for supper.

• It's a good thing to be underestimated in high places. 

• "Every generation sees its economic crash as The Great Depression. The difference this time is that it'll be the harder for the men as write history to forget what it really meant."

• The train was on time. The train was always on time. They changed the station clock religiously to make sure that it was so.

• The two men at the bar spoke French. They spoke French abysmally, as only the French are allowed to do.

Set piece

Just over a decade ago I started writing a novel, set in the entirely fictional town of Helminthdale. As it happens I ran into the ground about halfway through as the conflicts between wanting to tell an intertwining set of daft stories plus what had become a sort of love story hit the brick wall of the central plot McGuffin. So I put it to one side and told some different daft stories set in a not-wholly dissimilar town of the same name. And every so often my thoughts would return to that question: just where was that story going?

And then recently I realised what the ending had to be. What it must be. It fit and it was inevitable. And I couldn't use it: the coincidence with what passes for real life was just too, too awful.

Damn.

Well, here it is in its first rough form. I may come to use it some time in the future...

---

They stood there in the light drizzle, the full complement of Helminthdale Council dutifully waiting for the moment. The Mayor stood by the entrance of the new town hall, idly fiddling with the ceremonial scissors. At last, fashionably-late as usual, Punch came to the party. The great hulking frame of Godolphin Penkage lurched out of the corporation Daimler and waddled uncertainly towards the ribbon, municipal smugness writ large about his face.  

At this point there was an uncertain creaking sound.

The thronging herd, well-trained over the years not to notice the great man's size, pretended to hear nothing.

Bricks and a piece of decking plopped noisily into the river by the west wing.

Clifford and McKendrick exchanged glances. Nancy shivered. Then a strange thing happened. Almost as one, without a word and with neither panic nor haste the whole crowd took three steps back. The Mayor and Godolphin Penkage, both of whom struggled to admit a world beyond their egos, noticed nothing and prepared themselves for the ceremony. 

A couple of concrete pilings detached themselves from the base of the north wall of the town hall.

"Oops," muttered one of the Borough Engineer's team under his breath. "Told them so," muttered his oppo. Glancing round, McKendrick realised that everyone in the Works Department was standing well to the back of the crowd. Members' Services had drifted over to the bus station entrance.

The riverside walkway lurched drunkenly to one side.

The crowd noiselessly took nine steps backwards.

By this time even dignitaries too full of themselves for ordinary life realised that something was going on. They stood ready like rather alert beach balls. The crowd scarcely cared. The walkway slid into the water, followed quickly by the pier supports to the west wing. 

The crowd held its breath. The dignitaries left the stage. Nancy bit her lip and unconsciously moved closer to McKendrick. Clifford whistled softly. McKendrick stood ramrod-straight trying - and failing - to conceal his sense of marvellous wonder.

And then it happened.

A series of very large cracks and creaks heralded the end. The last supports for the two riverside wings of the building collapsed. The platform supporting the town hall shifted and tilted. A lurch, a groan and then a wonder. The whole building slipped and slid backwards into the river.

"That'll upset a few tea breaks," muttered Clifford.

McKendrick smiled. Then he turned and hugged Nancy.

Twenty yards behind, the Accounts Department was humming "Nearer My God To Thee." And then it started to rain properly.

Holiday reading: rainy bank holiday afternoon

And a last burst for this weekend...

(I have to admit: "They Called Him Nighthawk" is only in for its cover art. I don't reckon Sidney Horler.)

Holiday second reading

And for just as little rhyme or reason, some more books:

Holiday weekend reading

For neither rhyme nor reason, here's a bunch o'books

Can you guess which one I haven't read?

So long Eddie

R.I.P. Eddie Braben

The passing of one of my heroes. An utter genius of a writer, a great artist and craftsman. We're the better for having had him round.

How could you improve Morecambe and Wise? Well, you could get them to drop the Abbott and Costello personae they often adopted in the fifties and sixties. Then you could write for deep-seated warmth of their friendship. And then you could add the daftnesses of childhood. And you get this:



Here he is talking to Miranda Hart about the experience:



(It wasn't until I read his obituary in "The Independent" that I knew about his head-butting Billy Cotton for not letting him follow Morecambe & Wise over to Thames when they left the BBC.)

It's a shame I don't have any links to clips of any of his radio shows. Mad compendia of music hall malarkey, gorms and grotesques, with Alison Steadman as Miss Tasker ("Shy of men. Always have been...") driven wild by men's thighs and the odd lurch into Comic Cuts surrealism that would lead Eli Woods to cry: "I've done some rubbish in my time, but..." And we'd laugh. Because it was warm and daft and funny.

Thank you sir.

Mag 168

"Did you remember to buy mints?"
"Yes, I remembered to buy mints."
"Peppermints?"
"Peppermints."
"You didn't get those soft ones did you? They stick in my teeth."
"I got those big white ones you like crunching up while I'm trying to hear the telly."
"Good. I don't like those soft ones."
"No."
"Did you remember to lock the back door?"
"I remembered to lock the back door. Then you went back to check that I remembered to lock the back door. Twice."
"Oh my God! I left the gas on!"
"No you didn't."
"I don't remember switching it off after I'd boiled the eggs."
"You did. And you made me go back to make sure that you had."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"I don't remember that. Shouldn't we...?"
"Stop your wittering woman. We're going on holiday and we're leaving all that stuff behind. And that's that."
"It's all well and good you saying that but what happens if we come back to find we've left the gas on?"
"If the worst comes to the worst and the house gets blown up we can always doss down in Molly's shed. Now stop worrying. We're supposed to be on holiday."
"Well, if one of us didn't worry where would we be?"
"We nearly weren't on that train in time. Pack it in and have a mint."
"Oh good, you got the ones I like."
"Good."
"It'll be nice to get away from it all, won't it?"
"Aye."
"How's your Dennis' leg?"
"You were right: it is teak."
"I thought so. You can't spend all those years watching "The Antiques Roadshow" without learning something."
"You don't see teak these days."
"No. Our Doreen's dining room set was teak veneer. It was very nice. Contemporary."
"Aye."
"I suppose you don't see teak these days because it's cruel to elephants."
"How do you mean, cruel? To elephants?"
"They had all them elephants in the logging plantations hefting the tree trunks all about. It was very cruel."
"That's what elephants do. They trundle round, knocking trees over and chucking them about the jungle."
"Those little men that sit on their backs. That's what's cruel. They tell the elephant what to do by poking it behind the ears with a sharpened stick."
"Aye, well I can see as that's not much fun."
"Cruel I call it."
"There's times when I think that our Dennis could usefully be poked behind the ears with a sharpened stick. If his mum had poked him behind the ears with a sharpened stick a few times when he was younger he wouldn't be the trouble to her he his today."
"Here. Have one of these."
"What?"
"I got you some wine gums."


More Magpie Tales

Blibala and the Forty Thieves, part the first

As promised a while back, here's the first chunk of "Blibala and the Forty Thieves, "A Seasonal Nosegay by Sundry Messrs. Especially ac messpots Kevin Musgrove, spinster, and Frog Dropwort, late Queen's Own Mounted Stewart Graingers.

(It might be worth warning you at this stage that this whole farrago was written as a game of email ping-pong between the two of us while we were having a particularly trying time in the bowels of Helminthdale Central Library. Just in case you thought any of it was supposed to make sense.)

Scene One: A desert wadi

Enter two scurvy knaves, Mustapha Fagg and Mustapha Pony.

Fagg: We've been wandering the desert now for three days. Are you sure we're not lost?
Pony: No, we're not. In fact, we are nearing our destination. This is Wadi Youwantmatey, home of the forty thieves.
Fagg: But it is so desolate.
Pony: Don't be deceived... See those small streams over there?
Fagg: Yess..
Pony: Those small streams roll on to become the mighty Blue Nile.
Fagg: Oh, Juveniles.
Pony: That's right. And if you look over yonder -- see how the streams spread across the burning desert like some enormous hand?
Fagg: Fingerniles?
Pony: But come, we have another hour's walk before we meet with our new friends.
Fagg: Are the forty thieves really as evil as their reputation would have us believe?
Pony: Of course, who do you think sold me those last two jokes?

Enter a stranger (John Hanson with a curiously unbelievable mop of black hair and a bath towel over his shoulder)

Hanson: Ho strangers! What are you doing here?
Pony: We are but poor men travelling through the desert in the hope of finding some succour.

At this point, the audience are invited for the double entendre of their choice by pressing the little button on the underside of the person sitting in front of them

Fagg: But who are you?
Hanson: I am the Red Shadow, leader of the Rifs. (takes out stratofender guitar and plays a few choice licks from the Desert Song [Bert Weedon Songbook page 47])

Enter Hank Marvin and the rest of the Shadows (minus Cliff Richard who is appearing as "Heathcliffe" at the Snetterton Arms, Aylesford). They play a medley of hits from the Sex Pistols "God Save The Drag Queen" album.

Fagg: Oh, Red Shadow, can you help us to our destination?
Hanson: Strangely, oh stranger, we are making for the same place ourselves: Wadi Youwantomakethoseyesatmefor.

Enter, with full inevitability, full chorus

Hanson: But enough of this mirth, it says here. We mustn't tarry. These are dangerous parts.
Fagg: Wouldn't they best be kept in your trousers?
Hanson: What? And live in the dark? They'd go all white and weedy.
Fagg: Is that thing supposed to glow like that?
Hanson: That is the hotline to the king of thieves.
Fagg: And that?
Hanson: That was an unfortunate accident with a camel.
Fagg: You're nuts.
Hanson: Maybe but it's rude to point.

Enter a spear carrier

Spear carrier: Red Shadow! A rider approaches.
Hanson: Oh dear, this means trouble.
Pony: Who is it?
Hanson: It is Abu Ben Dover, the Kharzi of Baghmum.
Fagg: And who is that gorgeous creature by his side?
Hanson: That's his horse.
Fagg: No, riding it.
Hanson: Oh. You have been in the desert too long, haven't you? That is his Sultana, A'Ah Gra'isi.

The Red Shadow's entourage scatter into the wings shrieking "Eh mother!"

Hanson: Good day, oh exalted one.
Kharzi: (the late Frank Randal, who's too drunk to notice) Eeeeh, I've supped some ale toneet.
Sultana: Sally, Sally, pride of our alley, you're more than a raisin to me.
Kharzi: Oh dear, your breath smells of gin.
Sutana: I can't afford to drink Chanel No. 5.
Hanson: And what can I do for you, great Kharzi?
(The Kharzi falls off his horse, yelling: "It's my mother's birthday today!" As this isn't in the script all the other players shuffle embarrassedly while they wait for the Assistant Stage Manager to get the curtain down sharpish)

Some of the ones I should have saved for the secret secret blog

Some more post titles lost to the mists...

• Now look what you made me do: I've squashed a chaffinch!
• Can you hear the Trappists sing?
• Blue geraniums will mean your biro's leaking
• Jamming with the Freddie and the Dreamers tribute band
• Jimmy's magic patch: a social worker writes
• We've had to nail down the mobile chip shop
• The Girl With The Peggy Mount Tattoo
• Arsehole's Comedy
• Heaven and Charing Cross
• The Shrieking Pit and other lollipop ladies

Guilt tripping

That Savvy and that Scarlet have decided to embark on the 365 day challenge (or in Scarly's case the 509 day challenge but she's always been a one for the wild excesses). This makes me feel tremendously guilty, given my neglect of this place. So I'll have a bash at it myself.

Let's see if I can make it last a week...

By popular demand

Concerning the vision of loveliness that walked through the door, the charitable observer could only think she had a kind heart. Many are the words defined as beyond the pale in civilised society; a good number of these could be traced in her varicose veins. Time had passed by the stains on her T-shirt and so, I think, should we.

Walk-on parts

Bud McNasty walked through the door. His name isn't really Bud McNasty but we'd been calling him that since he was five years old and we weren't stopping any time soon. Bud McNasty walked through the door, his jutting chin making him look like the truculent ape that he is. He ordered a coffee and a piece of seed cake and sat at the table near the window.

I looked at him.

Time and nature hadn't dealt him a kind hand. The shabby hems of his raincoat reflected the shabby hems of his face and his eyelids had disappointed the flies of four counties. He sat there, near the window, a picture of The Ascent Of Man.

"How's it going, Bud?" I asked him.

"Bog off fart face," he replied.

Bud only ever on his best manners when he had something big doing. This must be some quite considerable venture, then. I wasn't sure how interested I was, either scarcely bothered or not at all, so I returned to my crossword. The answer to nine across was "macaque" and I unconsciously glanced over to the window. Bud McNasty was keenly staring out of the window like a cat watching after a spider.

I returned to my crossword.

Five or ten minutes later, I'll never know which, I was conscious of a sudden increase in the nervous energy of the room. I looked up. Bud McNasty was waving. Bud McNasty was waving out of the window like some kid on the summer holiday ferry. I'll admit to have been unnerved by it.

And then she walked through the door. And Bud McNasty turned to her and smiled like a lovesick puppy.

Just when the world could hold no more fresh horrors, Bud McNasty was in love.

The answer to fourteen down was "bewildering."

Wallace (no Gromit)

Some of the reasons why I enjoy reading Edgar Wallace.

"…at that moment he wore the facial expression peculuar to managing editors at midnight — which may be likened to that of a man who has an engagement with the public executioner and is anxious to commit just another tiny little murder before he dies."
— from "The Caretaker In Charge," The Novel Magazine, August 1919

Titularity

If ever I get round to writing a book I shall call it: "Tales Of The Greased Anaconda"

Detective rules

"in all the detective stories I've read there is usually a good-looking and highly educated young officer who falls in love with a rich and beautiful girl and, after rescuing her every ten pages from a fate which is popularly supposed to be worse than death, marries her on page 366 and lives happily right up to the end cover."
— Edgar Wallace
"The House Of The Candles

More most we pissed...

Part the second of a very occasional series...

• The parting of the gravy
• It's not your birthday yeti
• You can tell it's real, it's got plastic fingers
• Sometimes the only solution to organisational failure is Dale Winton in a tutu
• The funeral was a gay affair and everybody laughed
• Thus do the wives of great men help save their husbands' modesty
• Two shakes of a lamb's doo-dah
• On hearing the first bunyip of Spring
• Waggling their MBEs
• The head of the herd was calling far, far away
• I have a spontaneously-combusting log
• A Corby Viking press
• A bed full of pamphlet pokers
• Bringing up "that clear thing"
  

Some posts we missed

Madame De Farge was asking about the whereabouts of the post titles I haven't used in the other blog. I may be using some of them for the secret history, but I thought I might share a few from the lucky bag once every so often. Here's a random selection.

• Plagued by spider kittens
• A flash of masculine idiocy
• Just like Nelson did at the Battle of Waterloo
• Could you give a loud whistle just in case anything cracks
• If this works I'll be known as somebody with healing feet
• In the line of duty I've had to put things up people's noses
• Did he actually say: "Ahoy there!"?
• On passing lilac urine
• Prince Philip said: "Get your finger out!" and that cut us to the quick
• The Jane From Hell's Kitchen
• Kindly Omit Flowers

All things have their season?

The advice for story tellers was to start at the beginning and carry on until you get to the end and then finish. The more I read the last post in the other blog the more it feels like the last post in the other blog. It just feels right.

In many ways this is a good time to stop it. The story's become harder to tell, for reasons I've outlined before, and to be honest my heart's not in it any more. These are dangerous times, as usual, but whereas in the past the taking of the risks added a frisson to the game, these days it's just another layer of boredom on top of the same old same old...

I think that's the top and bottom of it: I'm bored shitless with it all. There are fresh new challenges, which look all too much like the same old challenges not even dressed up to disguise it a bit. And the deathless dramas are the same old deathless dramas we've repeated oh so very many times before. There may be a different number of people chasing a different number of chairs but when the music stops it's still the same old parlour game.

So I think I'll stop it there. I may change my mind but until I do I'll put those energies into making a better fist of keeping in contact with the blogosphere than I have been doing.

I'll still be posting to this blog; it serves a different purpose again.