Carrie

 Carrie

If it is the manner of your leaving,

if nothing in your life becomes you more,

then Carrie doesn’t live here anymore.

 

Across the water, jets strafe land,

inky fingers smear subterranean plans,

while keys are turned by iron hands.

 

Another skyward salvo wheels its weary way —

shall we live another day

if the watching world goes ballistic?

 

Yet if you ripped skulls apart

to find her thumbprints on the heart

of this torn world,

then Carrie doesn’t live here anymore.

 

Because it is the same for us all.

In bunkers, we see exits, crawl

with hands out for pocket change,

then shrug, claim

we chose the moment, set the terms —

but Carrie’s insides burn.

 

Now, her podium come round at last,

she slouches certain for the steps,

bilious-hearted, no regrets,

her sharpened teeth on edge.

She commands the Christian congregation

with words deaf to other nations,

voices departure, closed doors,

for Carrie doesn’t live here anymore.

 

She speaks of a slighted spouse,

how he had to leave the house —

a scandal with Jesus’ sandals,

skateboards, and the sin of wrath.

 

With tremulous voice she denies sloth,

how hard it is to raise a child,

how hard to raise a smile

nursing a stabbed back, while all the while

missiles fall like hail and farewell.

 

So now, you see, it’s plain to tell

that Carrie doesn’t live here anymore -

and if she left a forwarding address,

would they even raise a breath?

Bag

 Bag

 

That brown paper bag

tossed off street side,

late of leftover lunches

looks like a dog sitting on its haunches.

What’s that? Its back legs.

It’d jump up and beg

for something in your hands

if it wasn’t a sack with handles.

But it’s not vanishing,

like Hopkirk - when Randall

tells him to hop it, buzz off, take a hike

or when that Tory git said

get on your bike -

was it Tebbit or Lamont?

Well, bike is it? I’ll give you bike:

You probably don’t have one

and wonder why

wine stains don’t vanish

when you apply something magic,

patented, guaranteed to cure,

more a helper than an evil doer,

she pressed her iron

to the armpit - and wrinkles her nose

in disgust at the smell of labour -

it smacks of common sense

you’re sat on a fence that’s walking away.

Do that dog a favour,

before it’s blowing in the wind

to the sound of a Kevin Spacey voiceover -

look - she’s all moist,

dabs the liquid from her eye

with a Kleenex she just licked

then, with a rueful flick

of the wrist is rid of it.

Bomb the bastards someone said,

maybe Kenny Everett

maybe Brother Lee Love

and do it in the best possible taste,

the dirty work, that is.

Don’t make me laugh, nuclear waste?

That brown paper bag looks like a dog.

If you throw him a stick.

He will not fetch it.

Moment

 Moment

 

It could be of moment,

allies snarl, become opponents

anyway, anyhow, anywhere.

Red touch paper, ignite blue —

who’s done more

than his fair week’s share —

slams door, wages war,

tosses cope, throws shade,

resentment grew, fuse blew,

well, what’s a boy to do?

 

He considers primary colours

in England’s wild hedgerow,

how vast her gardens grew,

profuse in green and yellow.

Pauses; considers lilies in the field,

who toil not, of little yield

and only spin tall tales,

send screeds about sick days,

holidays, awaydays, cut pay,

and slashed seats or fares.

 

If red tosses hand grenades,

find him down the esplanade

Blue shrugs — outplayed,

spreads waters with palm oils

while covertly his insides boil.

Papermate

 

Papermate

 

A bleak midwinter’s day in June

icy winds descend the flume,

sweep the soot throughout the room

and the usual tunes

recycle through your head, don’t they?

Ah, something from A Hard Day’s Night, perhaps,

You Can’t Do That, If I Fell,

You Should’ve Known Better

and what’s that smell?

 

Yes, from the range, steam,

what a choker,

neck twisted, expertly broke,

there’ll be a feast

for here’s a potful of grease,

a slaughtered goose cooked -

and wasn’t there a game called that

one Christmas?

 

You’d balance plastic figures,

multicoloured - long before

that was even a thing

on a fake saucepan lid,

watch it pivoting,

shivering - imagine waters boiling

before plunging in,

and what’s sauce for the goose,

is sauce - well, you know.

 

Now you remember

that sheaf of paper

thrust into your hands,

like an afterthought before a forethought,

or barely any thought at all -

maybe it was half a ream;

late paper for paper's mate.

 

You’d been feeling sick -

a rare day off school,

swinging the lead, they’d say,

on your birthday -

pigheaded, thick-eared,

depressed heat oppressed brain,

still, mustn't complain

about feeling the strain,

tired of watching your back,

in this war of attrition

of constant attack

and the forces ranged against you?

Unequal in the extreme.

 

Such Masters of Risk,

rattling beads, rattling cups,

throwing six, throwing up,

positioned up mountains, marching plains,

searching subterranean homesick drains

to winkle you out

with a cocktail stick.

Gaddafi’s final chukka.

 

Run through, pricked,

adorning half a grapefruit -

a sandwiched chump

skewered beneath a pineapple chunk

and somewhere up north from cheese,

make it Edam, please,

something synthetic.

 

The table’s set,

under flickers of candelabra

that never quite banished

Herman’s creeping dark,

five places, six faces -

it’s all vanished

won’t come back, now,

within your fog - lost,

buried beneath ice and frost.

 

But on peeling paper, by the door,

if you peer hard enough,

it can still be seen -

sticky brown residual trickles,

where a grenade

of homemade pickles,

was hurled and smashed

above his head,

shattered into smithereens, it’s said.

 

Careful, now, here’s sentiment,

pinpricks the hairs on skin,

rising forensically to dust glasses

for onion peelings,

ripped up grasses,

rippling the drink

to swim in the water within.

 

Still, your turn for a good one.

Strange words, these, off-hand

like a refusal to commit,

delivered in steel and grit

through teeth, not lips,

and you’re left holding

these 250 sheets approximately,

like Queen Jane.

 

The paper’s plain

but ready to be typed upon

receive an imprint.

I can still see you

holding that pale, blue lidded

Smith Corona in something like light,

as though you’d just learnt to write.

 

And later, in the relative

safety of the trenches, delight,

mapping plans for flight -

while you never could win this fight,

there’s always tomorrow.

 

A strategic withdrawal,

you could claim,

although, to be more mundane,

truth is, there’s never choice,

only later, when you found a voice,

you expressed sorrow.

 

As for what happened next,

well, it served its time,

saw action, fought campaigns:

those keys were well-worn

by the time all doors were knocked

latches lifted and unlocked -

going with you as you travelled.

 

Before my ink ribbons unravel

or are replaced,

just this - you told them

about the typewriter -

and they asked you with a sneer at school,

was it a Petite?

 

But, looking back,

it was anything but that.

Pluck

Pluck

 

The scrolled headstock of the double bass

stands proud, dominates the pit - conduct it.

Your experienced hands should flex and grip,

bowing low groaned notes with supple grace.

 

His baritone's not yet tempered - guide it.

Place fingers over his, show where to press,

loose low cut silk kaftans, hot swelling breath,

breve him there in brave minims and crochet.

 

A resin dripped mystery to reveal

gold tresses, balled hay enough - play there.

Your curves you rest heavy beneath his hair

now awaken such melodies, he reels.

 

Your manuscript he trembles to unfold,

dreams lusty airs to scriven on your scroll.

Clay

 

Clay

 

Musetti retires — injured, hurt,

picks himself out of red dirt.

 

We’re not talking Mars

or women from Venus,

you understand —

he simply isn’t the man Andy was.

 

Sympathetic sneer from Alcaraz

rocking a fist pump

as he brushes himself down —

maybe another also-ran;

think Dimitrov, think Tsitsipas,

then bring the trainer on.

 

He was bagelled, third set —

didn’t win a Grand Slam yet,

modelled from clay,

on which he played —

and must someday return.

 

Which, of course,

is where he fails:

too far behind the line,

or too close —

one drop shot too many — he’s toast.

Serve volleyed

unforced errors, netted balls,

argued with the umpire’s calls,

twisted ankle — falls.

 

We do not judge too harshly

nor condemn;

as fallen men,

we are not thickened —

after all, could you?

 

Do it, I mean?

Use a racket edge to hit clay,

smashing dirt from your shoe,

watch it scatter — pray —

for closed roof, rain stops play,

covers the courts

and cleans the temple’s table tops —

throws them over,

up one set, lost the breaker,

your chin’s got to drop.

 

No, of course not —

but we do our own thing:

some of us ball boys,

net stretchers,

purveyors of headbands,

sweaty go-getters.

 

Yet how strange it is —

this n-shaped parabola,

rising, falling — listen —

you can hear my line judge calling

to me: define vertex,

would you? Oh sure —

 

I saw Rafa, I saw Roger,

I saw your actual fab four

crossing Abbey Road for a laugh,

unaware they were on a graph

as vertices or nodes.

 

We miss them terribly,

without irony,

but they called it out

within my span,

played on the clay that makes us man.

Seeds

 

Seeds

 

Somewhere within, there’s seeds

from where her bushes grew.

Like gorse blossoming from grit,

rooted in shallow, stony loam,

seems well pleased

with what she calls home.

As cunning ragwort colonises,

travels railways and road

uses any way winds blow,

to drift her shallow roots.

With little effort to offer little,

more the taker than the giver,

consumption will destroy livers,

spreading toxins through the body,

she flourishes by quarried graves.

Her blackened thickthorn

sprouting forth, take their course,

but she recoils with denial,

unctuous she buds wan smiles

as if she hadn't got a clue,

mouths what is it that I don't do?

Gazing upon her shedding seeds

you might ask what is it she believes

and how these bushes grew.

Picture

 

Picture

 

Picture this: a sky full of thunder,

no, no, cut that, Blondie.

A villain in a cowboy’s hat –

and the face just falls,

into frame

before they’ll put a bullet

in your brain.

Then again, long shot,

diegetic sound,

a man whistles through teeth,

softly, softly, offscreen,

polishing steel until it gleams,

then cocks, rifle shot,

and someone far distant,

far below,

sees it all, just for an instant:

just a dot, 

just a blot

in amongst the towering rocks

of Monument Valley.

Picture this: my telephone number,

no, no, cut that, just you, 

captured in Cinemascope,

high heels, coffee, cellphone,

strutting cross canvas landscapes -

with manic dream pixie eyes

picked out in pixels,

the centre of your own romcom -

credits rolling long

before you see 

the wheeling of starry skies.

Leaves

 Leaves

 

Winds shall whisper forgive

all the lives we lived

and we did.

 

But winds only are

what they nothing do –

 

have no voice

to heal bruises

that long ago took root;

flourish with just a little rain.

 

Weeds push at cracks

have power winds lack -

when you look back,

stones are split

concrete is grit

pavements you laid

are pothole bits.

 

Olive tree within a grove

where nests the dove

will topple, will bleed –

 

for winds must dust

this land with seeds

and come the fall

scatter and shed leaves.

Partial

 

Partial

 

What label can you sew

onto sleeves

for the slightly disabled

or special needs?

 

Like someone

in want of a patch

for a torn coat, a uniform,

lovelessly stitched,

and when picked at, rips—

gutted synthetic padding leaks—

she speaks.

 

Delivers dogma and diktats,

firm requests,

polite petitions,

final supplications—

 

from a far nation

bordering undiscovered countries

where mantras of Brexit

replaced the lotus prayer—

 

because they dared

so we must dare to stop them.

And he’s not coming back, of that

he feels certain.

 

He tried out his travelling feet:

left pointing due north,

right bound north-north-east—

shrugs—

it was always like this.

 

He’s twisted, out of kilter,

sloppy-angled, set square;

he cannot run, doesn’t care;

and if he swam,

right would always break surface,

cause a splash—

excuse me—must dash.

 

Except it’s not on the table,

never fleet of foot;

he recalls one hot day,

tramping up Valetta Way,

slopping in his shoes

and father blows a fuse:

excuse me, please,

I must refuse

to accept your pair of sandals.

 

Now—who is speaking?

A mind split into two voices:

one argues with

the other’s choices;

both can talk in far, far sunsets,

 

remember more

than they forget,

bring back words they should regret,

repent me of my fury.

 

Never shake your locks at me—

he studied hard and long,

dread books and more dreadful song:

why, yesterday, a blackbird

was fixing a hole

in tangerine skies.

Oh darling,

I must look through you,

so please, don’t pass me by.

 

Perhaps you felt you could try?

You had music in you,

words enough and time;

she’s in love with me

and I feel fine—

treading solitary that long

dark path up her mountainside,

 

where stories bubble brains—

slow-boiled black treacles

drip from wooden spoons,

sear flesh, rip wounds,

make red, crimson the face—

we got to get out of this place.

 

As driftwood, far out to sea,

maybe he gets lucky:

Blue waters calm,

a Chief, a Buffer,

a Master at Arms

rocks you in the Sargasso.

Tangling weed enough to stop,

propellor's locked,

so - maybe not.

 

The jury’s deliberating:

twelve good men and true -

all of them you.

So, tell me, in your defense:

what label can you sew

onto sleeves

for the slightly disabled

or special needs?

As we stand in front of

her Court Martial,

we judge ourselves—partial.

Screen

 

Screen

 

She, who raises a hand

is the flower blossom on the stalk,

rather than on another flower.

She, who only wants to talk

has not bloomed, and is still small,

so, how is it that her petals fall?

She, whose questions float

on air leaving cool vapour trails

dissipates in your hot fumes.

She, who has not yet power,

one day will make herself heard,

leaving your empty memories

and wasting words.

She, who is alone before you,

a notification left unread,

an unclosed tab you left for dead,

a lesson that remains unsaid.

 

She, who sits behind her screen,

is the lost within the drowning dream,

swiping up, swiping down.

She, who must forever squat

sedentary, slowly piling pounds,

cannot retain what she forgot.

She, with windows on worlds,

is ignoring the baying of her girls

left here to be charged.

She, who has always depended

on the kindness of others,

is buried deep beneath her covers

and has only ever pretended.

She, who has neglected

to wipe memory, close windows,

upon shells imprints dull shadows

that only ever cling to limbo.

Burn

 Burn

 

They have the same haircut—

ugly twins, staring at screens

at a village of the damned.

Cultivated their thick mops

of clot-stoppered tops

like flowers growing on flowers,

never seen a bucket,

never taken a plunge,

never wrung it through the rinser,

or cut through grease

where silence has lease—

while they stare at screens.

Undercut, grade one trim

around their pocked sides,

from top knot to nape:

those who don’t smoke, vape,

while they stare at screens.

Not one, not two - forming queues,

clutching 250 riyal Stanleys,

with straws sticking out of lids

pricking like nipples once sucked,

not forgotten—lately wiped soil

from baby bottoms—

while they stare at screens.

 

And you? You know

they don’t want to learn,

they don’t want to burn,

while you stare through screens.

Walking toward you

passing by, using screens

to screen the unwanted eye,

while you're reading books

to avoid the looks of all

you ignorant asses and fools

that lighted the way,

who spent your lives

borrowing currency from usurers

walking the schools,

while you stare through screens.

Your watching window gleams,

fluent in bubble-tea dialects,

words foreign to you, to me,—

new songs that drop

laying their Easter Eggs

in thirst traps, lampshading you,

mansplaining a soft launch,

all doomscrolling, ghosted,

burnt and toasted—

while you stare through screens.

 

We are Faber, we are Benjamin,

from outside looking in,

observing with our mocking grins,

and we put up screens.

We don’t talk things,

for courage is as courage sings—

and sings the body electric,

but only hears it through ear pods,

piped like the ire of angry gods

with flour-dusted aprons

on which they washed their hands,

and left this October Country

for other lands—

and we put up screens.

We are reminded of what

we already know:

we know the meaning of things

and we turn the pages, turn,

but those who don’t build must burn—

who think hell's a fable,

negligent counting of the cradle,

and witness pedestrians arrested,

never beaten, only bested,

and what will be has always been

blazing while we put up screens.

Howard

 

Howard

 

…as in the Duck.

You know, you have simply no reason not to like her. 

I mean what has she ever done to you?

Like…er, what have The Romans ever done for us? Sanitation, Roads, Law and Order…and then there’s that scene with Cleese getting Brian to write Romans Go Home or he’ll cut your balls off. Mr. MacKinnon. Your Latin teacher. Splendid. But, of course. Mrs. Rankine on Double Bass, Her tits all over your shoulders. Hey, did you write that one yet?

I’ll check my notebook.

Do you always talk to yourself using direct address?

You know I do. There’s always a conversation in my head between you and me.

Is that the same for everyone?

I don’t know. You just don’t know. You don’t know if your red is the same as her red.

There’s a boy. In your office.

What?

What?

What?

There’s a boy…in my office.

Where the fuck did he come from?

 

 

…Now, I’ve got to keep an eye on him. Damn.

That means he’ll be hanging around all day. Internal suspension, another of Jarier's ideas. Heap of dog doo doos.

Why did he steal a girl’s planner and flush it down the toilet, anyway?

This, they told me, is a more civilized place than back there. That’s why I signed for my two years, isn’t it?

Why can’t a boy just behave himself? He’ll be eyeing me all day. Eyes up, eyes down. Revolting thought. 

I’ll check my phone.

That’s another thing, how can I use my phone all day to message Steve?

Steve. He’s not bad, I suppose, that thing he does…that thing he does…that thing he did last night…I’ll check that one on Chat GPT, no I won’t, maybe it tracks you, keeps your data…then it’ll be me on a flipping internal detention, won’t it?.

Internal, internal, internal…stop. Wish he was taller. Bigger. Just that inch more. Maybe two

Because, the thing is, it doesn’t look so good being with someone shorter than yourself – and I’m not giving up heels – I’m just not.

They give you height. Height gives you power. Power to put boys who flush planners down toilets into  internal detentions.

Another cross on the tick sheet for him.

Cross on the tick sheet - wait, is that – no, no, there’s nothing there. I’ve filled in plenty of tick sheets in my time – it’s just, oh, look at him, look at him.

That boy’s piggy little eyes are travelling,…

Where shall we put him, where shall we put him, come on - think, think, think.

I don’t want him watching me all day, do I?

Oh yes. What if I put him an office? Not my office – I’ll say he has to be on the girls’ side, away from the boys – because…because…oh, just because.

 

The Office

 

No pictures

on the wall.

Nobody here -

none at all.

Just a black 4 string

guitar for company

And - if I had

another chance

to rethink my actions,

avoid her sanctions -

would I give 

that planner

a second glance?

That's what they want.

She’s put me inside.

So, I’m a perp

in a film called Havoc,

all Netflix funding

has me looting -

wide aperture red flame

night’s shooting,

all camera flares,

taking dares,

that’s me – look -

a tedious car chase

you’ve seen before,

same bombastic score,

blowing locks

off the door,

they put me 

in a gangsta suit,

bagging me up

wads of loot

luminous mask

covers my mouth,

it blocks CCTV, see?

No flies on me,

just your cliché

whip pan cellphone,

out of my pocket,

passes the time.

It's a fair cop,

who does the crime,

her planner

full fathoms five,

blocking the cistern,

rocking the system.

 

 

Well, went better than expected. What time is it? Ah, 7.30am. Can slip off to the coffee shop before I look at that spreadsheet I suppose.

Out through them pearly gates.

Got to be quiet, that’s where these heels become a liability. Ah well. Got to break some eggs, I suppose.

In any case. Their rules. Not mine.

No leaving the campus to get coffee. Silly. What civilized place does that?

Yes, I know, I know. There’s a kettle in the office. There’s a canteen downstairs. But, look. After a solid hour’s work, you need to kick off you heels, pull up the bonkette, plump a cushion, drink an iced macchiato.

Does the school canteen serve La Macchiata – feminized and Italicized — an iced espresso marked with microfoam and existential flair?

I don’t think so.

Now, we don’t hold with dictats like that, do we? We ignore them.

And, I’m not teaching until Period 4 – so who’s to notice?

In any case, like I said, it went well.

He moved that desk from classroom – OK – it very slightly interrupted a minor exam, but, you know, he should've put a notice on the door, n'est-ce pas?

Yes, yes, there was an email.

But who reads every email they’re sent, anyway? Everybody deletes them – if they’re really something, they always come back, like a tossed stick.

Tossed stick. Tossed it. Tossed. Titter. Tits.

Anyway, he’s stuck in that old fart’s office now, out of the way – and more importantly – out of my way.

We even dumped the desk. In his office. Like a permanent fixture.

 

So, I bloody told him, didn’t I?

What did you say?

Who the bloody hell are you, young snotty-me-lad?”

“No - you didn’t. I’ll tell you why. For a start that’s out of Blackadder and second, you’d be sacked, and third their CCTV cameras are everywhere, and fourth…there is no fourth.

Python.

No.

Yes. The Australian philosophers of Wallaballoo.

Get to the point.

Have we flipped over?

Who knows. Difficult to keep track. I told him, who sent you, who are you and why is that bloody desk in my office?

Did you take his poem?

Yes, of course. I’ll use that later. Don’t waste good material. So, anyway, he’s outside now, looking woebegone and I’m ticked off…

…is that what we say? Do we say that now?

Ticked off. It’s a bit…millennial, isn’t it? Yes. OK. Let’s not use that…we’re pissed off. We’ve always been pissed off, we are pissed off, we will be pissed off again. Pissed off with their fucking world.

Too right. You got it. That's my boy.

He tells me. Some sad story. Who exactly was. So, I marched over there, didn’t I? I’d guess she’s just back from the coffee shop, striding in those dopey high heels, a coffee in one hand, phone in the other…

…yeah, they do that don’t they? Bloody tiresome, isn’t it?

Always on their fucking phones.

What she say? How did she justify this unmitigated outrage, then?

Well, she’s sat at her desk by now. Looks up at me. All sneer – you know, her top lip curls over her bottom lip…

Now, look, she can’t help that, can she?

Well, what about her feathered hair, then? All Farah Fawcett Majors - before she lost the Majors.

OK – yes - that is pretty hateful, to be fair. Like a duck.

Yes, a duck. Shit and feathers. Hah! Then, she says, and I quote…him and his mates stole a girl’s planner and flushed it down the toilet. That’s pretty nasty, don’t you think?

And you laughed?

No, I stood there. It caught me a bit by surprise, actually.

You looked like a guppy. Like a grey guppy, spending his last years forever blowing bubbles.

I hate her. I hate her.

You’ve no reason to hate her.

Shut up. What’s that Sex Pistols lyric?

Um…she’s so pretty, oh so pretty…vacant…

No, no, no…now I got a reason, now I got a reason, now I got a reason…that one.

OK. Let’s call her Howard.

Howard it is.

Barrel

 

Barrel

 

Those tiny packets of creamer

with sticky peelers

tear before any useful hole appears.

The liquid interiors

refuse suitable passage,

afraid of the exterior—

what it might hold.

It won’t be told,

insists on clinging to what it knows.

So it goes.

 

But where? It’s forgotten,

ladled from a barrel’s bottom,

where it clung—stubborn—

like a limpet grips its rock,

blocked and locked.

Or a bivalve feels each passing tide,

sucking only what it needs inside—

knows nothing, stays alive,

safe in what it doesn’t know.

Watch Mary’s garden grow,

all quite contrary—

fermenting, curdling, souring, bubbling,

drips in thickness from the tap,

and lands unwanted in your lap.

 

Its third-rate degree and PGCE

in throwing parties, in long island iced tea,

in fleshy post pictures—

necking shots of cream liqueur,

see its eyes always flicker,

like a betrayed snake’s tongue:

testing the air, overhung,

on the lookout, on the run—

because they know, don’t they?

 

Be aware of what they will say.

Say it first. Use stone-age tools

to build bilge-hooped casks -

looking good in your mask.

Ingest any useful rules—

spit them like venom where you can,

your instant whip-escape plan,

have a doctor’s note,

and teach by rote.

Surround yourself with other woods,

cut and cover pulled hoods,

be bold in your apparel

and have them over your barrel.

Evaporate

 

Evaporate

 

Like as this hot sun’s breath brings oils

to clog your pores, shut down doors,

just as her sticky skin grows boils

that your typical sweaty student delights

in heated squeezing, a busy night’s

brass rubbing with grit felt fingertips,

so it is that your fevered brain lets slip

those ideas that were clenched by it.

Only yesterday it had you gripped

you thought it easily recollected,

could make some verse out of it yet

coin it, an original, some idea so neat,

once conjured from air, once created,

it could be dashed out, celebrated,

a baby ripped off Lady Macbeth’s nipple

and slapped onto paper to flourish.

But – wretched -your blasé boldness

made manifest, a notebook neglected

an arrogance, a feckless recklessness –

(if that’s not an oxymoron) all is lost.

Now you wish you’d written it down,

don’t you? Who was it who said

only fools leave notebooks by the bed,

beneath the bed, the bedside table,

anywhere, but here, oh, damnable!

It was you, wasn’t it? So near, so far,

here you are, chucked from the car,

in unexpected freedom from the herd,

only to find empty mind. Transpiration:

water rising from plants’ recycling,

evaporation’s fully more frightening.

Food

 

Food

 

If music is the food of love, Orsino,

play on—give us a song.

Make it bang up to date,

on time, not late,

something to make them feel great.

 

Those older singers got it wrong—

there’s no MC rapping,

no sampled backbeats,

no grunts like hogs humping fire.

Orsino -

put down your harpsichord and lyre.

 

So say all of us at the leavers' ball,

they're due to traipse through the hall

come noon, doomsday. We’re set up,

gears lit, cable snakes,

soundcheck’s done, the bass hums.

 

Adam's got his usual apple fingers,

sore throat—so draft in three singers,

last minute, Year 10,

one hour rehearsing,

confident grins,

to knock Bedingfield’s Unwritten

out of the park,

three more of us sit behind,

biding time,

on keyboard, bass, electric drums.

 

But no Viola, Orsino—Olivia comes.

Not one for micromanaging?

Oh, let it not be so—

no bureaucratic black hat,

no clef-chinned, crochety grin,

no poking her thin nose in

where it doesn’t belong.

Orsino, give us a song.

 

Wait—she says the singing’s wrong.

Bass is flat, hit the hi-hat,

“you don’t play keyboards like that,”

and ah—it’s her musical knowledge

we lack.

And where, she asks, is her beloved Adam?

 

Thank you for your help, madam,

but Orsino, the blood drains quick

from young faces taking places.

You can track the tears, traces

where confidence fled—

from singers come to sing the song,

celebrate those moving on

who leave today - graduate,

to step beyond her metal gates,

into the wild blue yonder.

 

Orsino, they were younger

when they first came through those doors—

weren’t we all?

Soft-eyed, half-sure, before inspectors

from overseas

left slime trails on those who lead,

stamped feet, stamped marks,

ticked sheets, broke hearts,

rewrote the ancient songbooks.

 

And as they go

through closed minds’ closed door—

enough, no more.

It’s not so sweet

as once it was before.

Rare

 

Rare

 

A belly laugh was a rare enough event

for him. At least, that’s how it was

if I was around. More likely a scowl;

he was British weather made flesh,

gathered clouds for a face, laced brows

straightjacketed up his spine

nostrils flared as though a crime

was taking place and me on the lookout

for any passing getaway driver.

A prescient field full of cows lying down,

but hark, here’s a clown,

turned up on Pebble Mill at One.

Why or how we were there, watching TV

for the present escapes me.

We should’ve been shoveling shit,

packing hay bags, raking straw off grit,

tearing up fences, digging the ditches

that would in time define the world.

But for now, look here. There’s a glitch,

a moment that insists it shouldn’t exist,

we are three, staring at a portable screen

for a second, sucking hot coffee.

She’s entranced, sipping blind faith,

watches as some charlatan claims

that Beethoven is inside his brain,

communicating even now, notes

the composer never wrote,

before he took his last, untimely breath

to leave the grieving world bereft,

and did you know that he was deaf?

Channeled by some ancient charm,

passed on, passed down,

into his fingers, through his arms,

and here, for the world, at last - the premiere,

of some five or six bar symphony.

I looked at him, looked again

and suddenly we’re both convulsed,

she shaking her head at two sceptics,

who are laughing like the drains never dug

to irrigate or bless those fallow fields.

But for one moment, something revealed,

blew the dust and shook the seal

of a legacy that never healed.

Cheese

 

Cheese

 

You’ve seen cheese rolling.

Watched in disbelief—

did someone, like a thief,

reach into your head,

remove your brain,

leave you for dead?

 

There’s no lesson here—

just the wry thought

that the cheese they brought

along for sport,

paid for and pampered,

embellished, answered,

takes more time to push uphill

than ever earns the effort.

 

Oh look, here it comes,

struggling to run

in pointed heels—

voice all practiced pleas,

a caretaker’s babbling brook

of excuses, a kettle of crooks,

and tears that threaten, boil,

pouring cauldrons of molten oil

on your honest soil,

swamping roots

rocking suits.

 

You reach each summit

only to find more hills.

Or worse—it rolls back and kills

the ones who sweat

and toil,

the ones who let

cheese have its curds and whey,

who stop to hear what it has to say.

 

It has always been this:

buttermilk betrayed by a kiss.

So close your eyes—

pray for cliffs.

Rattler

 

Rattler

 

Every killed hour, less than drole,

plate glass on castors: shake, rattle, roll

every time someone casually strolls

through or near that aperture.

Why not put your coffee shop there,

by an all too convenient thoroughfare?

 

Slap it down - invite your clientele,

to enjoy concertos conceived in hell

by slack composers late possessed

of decomposing brains long rusted,

who burn it up with McFly and Busted

compiled on tapes marked cacophony,

mixed and put out on public discords.

This, then, your hard earned reward,

chucked chairs on crack ceramic tiles,

gloat at customers getting riled

every time somebody walks out, walks in,

with that absent minded fucking grin

patting pockets - they forgot something

or think they might want for smokes,

and every time they go away, I die a little.

What sanity remains is peanut brittle,

oh, it’s a symphony in a lack of class,

thoughtless, careless, rumbling glass

extemporized like badly played jazz

by hacks that think they’re something neat,

who’d poke your eyes out while you eat,

with fiddlesticks or trombone slides,

or those hats they put on trumpets.

You're a foil to cry, grin and lump it,

mustn’t grumble: this noise always rumbles

along on castors, plate glass trundles,

coiled pendulums mutter sighs, moan

like ageing lungs that wheeze and groan,

while strollers scroll their fucking phones,

patient rattlers recoil on heaped bones.

Grandad Patches' Family Feuds

 Family Feud

 

In the smallish box that passed for a sitting room of number 36 Lumpslap Close, the air was thick with summer heat and several other smells that are probably best not to identify or put into categories – you know, the way your Science teacher would, before proclaiming something about global warming or carbon footprints.

Or global footprints caused by carbon warming.

In any case, only Morgan was holed up in there, fiddling in an irritated fashion with the knobs on their old television set.

Box brownie, Ma called it, on the rare occasions she was not at work.

Grandad Patches poo-pooed her sarcasm. “Pon my soul,” he would say, “Why, it worked good enough in the sixties, Morgan, my boy, and it will work good enough now.”

“What’s a box brownie, Grandad?” Morgan had asked and instantly wished he hadn’t.  It was the sort of question worthy of Faith.

“Po, po, po, po. Why, back in the sixties, I had the good fortune to be acquainted with Mr Brown of the Highways and Byways department. I was part of his team of stevedores. We were called ‘Step We Gaily’ and, by Jove, do you know what?”

“What?”

“I do believe, on our way to some wedding that old Browny was tasked with checking…”

“Checking?”

“The grit. He had to check the grit, you see?”

“No.”

“Being, as he was, the foreman of the Highways and Byways department…”

“This is rather a long explanation, Grandfather…”

“Yes, but you see, he’d forgotten his box. To put the grit into. My, my, my, there was a lot of rib tickling that day, I can tell you. ‘You forgot your box, Browny!’ We chortled, all the way to the Isle of Mull, where there were Tadcaster Sandwiches and shrimp paste.

“But it doesn’t get satellite or Netflix.”

Morgan hadn’t wanted to know what on earth Tadcaster Sandwiches might be. So, he didn’t ask. And he had given Faith a sharp kick before she opened her mouth.

In any case, back in the here and now, the television was taking ages to warm up. And Morgan had been hopeful there might be some wrestling on the box.

He was pragmatic about the whole affair. Ever since he could remember, times had been tough. None of his friends had satellite or Netplus. Only Timothy Beagle, who lived in one of the big houses up Sparken Hill had satellite or Netplus.

It was rumored.

But no one had seen Timothy Beagle for quite some time – ever since Doctor Snaptor had caught him cheating during an end of term examination.

How? Well, you see, he’d pretended he had a cold and written some equations on his handkerchief. Every time he’d snorked into the cloth, he’d have a quick look. During the inquest, he’d protested that nobody could even make anything out – it had looked rather like some raw eggs.

Unlucky for him, then, that the exam was a Biology one, all about chickens.

Morgan squinted at the television.

At last.

Something white, static and hopeful was beginning to bloom. Rather like some flowers. Damn. Morgan had wished someone had been around to hear him think that. Instead he thumped box brownie. Not too hard, in case Patience heard.

He looked at his schoolbag, on the other side of the room.

The white stuff finally morphed into a picture. Morgan grabbed a cushion, propped himself against the old sofa and waited, with a satisfied smirk. Wrestling.

“Darn and blast!” shrieked Morgan, then stuffed his fist in his mouth.

Why? You might very well ask.

Well, to his extreme irritation, instead of Big Mac Mac Tufter hurling Hulk Hankins against the ropes followed by a satisfying thud as he hit the floor, some prancing old people, in gnome suits had appeared, clumping up and down a wooden stage to the tune of ‘Step We Gaily, Off We Go.’

“Them again,” hissed Morgan, knowing exactly what he’d like to do with some octogenarian heels and toes.

Hearing the shriek of pain, Patience had poked her nose into the sitting room from where she had been parked at the kitchen table, looking gloomily at homework. She spotted Morgan, hunched and seething, about to hurl a large hardback book at the screen.

“Don’t.” She commanded.

Reluctantly, Morgan put it down. “But it’s them. Again. Evey time I turn it on, they turn up. It’s as though they somehow know.” And Morgan stole a furtive glance at the school camera. But it was not working, as usual.

“Anyway, you should be doing homework.”

Morgan stared enraged at the television. “Look at them.”

Rubbing her eyes, Patience focused, and the gnome aged pensioners sharpened into view. Oh, they were having a super time – skipping to the left, skipping to the right, nodding their heads up and down to the music and occasionally executing a foolhardy pas de deux.

“Why are they always on?”

“It’s the recession.”

Then, as usual, the picture panned left to reveal a smirking, bearded face who was clapping along approvingly, downstage by the curtain cords. “Why, hello there, viewers,” he cooed, in the smarmiest way possible, causing both Patience and Morgan to cringe, even though they’d probably seen it a dozen times. “Say howdy to my Mincing Meters! Here for your delectation and delight. Let’s dance and enjoy this happy sight!”

And there was a clunky, amateurish crash zoom close-up on one particularly elderly, sweaty specimen – before the camera returned to the host.

But now his face was crinkled up and earnest. “But, seriously folks. Stay tuned. To receive some excellent promotions during these…difficult times. From Farmer Mick Summer McFudniss!”

And, horribly, he began singing: “Oh, recession, recession, don’t make it your obsession, there’s plenty o fun and plenty o gifts, with Farmer Mick Summer McFudniss.”

With a shudder, Morgan turned it off. ‘You know what, Patience, that bloke reminds me of someone.”

“Yes,” agreed his sister. “Reminds me of that idiot Farmer Pies and his mince pies. That’s what. Now, why not do your homework like you promised?”

Morgan scowled. “Because I’ve got no paper, that’s why. There’s a recession on again. Weren’t you paying attention to Farmer McFester?”

But Patience was having none of it. She flourished a pale brown sheet in front of him. “Well, what’s this then?”

“Call that paper? It smells.”

“It’s perfectly adequate for the job. Grandad spent a great deal of time making this, you know.”

“I’m not using his recycled paper. I don’t know where it’s been.”

At that precise moment, there was a howl of pain from the garden.

Morgan and Patience hurried from the sitting room, through the kitchen and leapt out of the back door that led into the garden.

At the far end, past the cucumbers, mung beans and peas, and adjacent to the loblolly tree, smoke was billowing into the air. Sparks, too, and small flames licking hungrily at some booted ankles. “Oh I say,” somebody was spluttering, “What a pretty peach of a predicament this is indeed.”

“Grandad,” snapped Morgan, grimly. “He’s on fire again.”

“I’ll get a bucket of water.”

“OK.”

As Patience hurried back to the kitchen, Morgan pulled a tatty looking cloth from his pocket and fashioned it into a mask, which he fastened around his mouth. As prepared as he could be, he strode calmly towards the smoking pyre. “Well?” He demanded. “What have you done this time?” And he resisted adding ‘stupid old duffer’ to the sentence.

“Morgan, my boy. Am I pleased to see you? I appear to have glued my hand to the fence.”

“And set fire to your legs.”

Grandad Patches looked down at his ankles. “Why, so I have. Yes, I should imagine that those dried leaves and twigs acted as kindling.”

Something heavy and metal fell from the lowest branch of the tree. It hit Grandad Patches on his forehead, leaving a dent there, before tumbling to the ground where it was obscured by smoke from the crackling twigs. “Oo-yah!”

“What’s that?”

“Po, po, po, po…I think it’s my solar heating lamp. Yes, my boy, that’s definitely what it is.  I tied it up there to dry the paper…”

“But, instead, it set fire to your feet?”

“It would seem so. Why, during the sixties, I now do recall I had a friend called Ray. Ray Beamish. He sold me this very lamp.”

“What an extraordinary coincidence.”

“What is?”

“That his name was Ray Beams, and he sold solar ray lamps. Did he live in Infraredington?”

“Infraredington? Where’s that? I don’t recall a place of that name, my boy. However, he did tell me to be careful due to the strength of the beams emanating from that infernal device. ‘Patches,’ says he, waggling a long and bony forefinger, ‘I must hereby issue notice that any individual planning to use my ‘Infra Red Sonic Sunray’ should do so with extreme prejudice’. He was right.”

“Was he indeed?”

Patience had returned. She flung the bucket of cold water at Grandfather, with a secret smirk, extinguishing the pensioner. “Take off those smoking socks.”

“Po, po, po and a picketty spot. I say, Patience old bean, I’m not sure these socks have ever smoked – bad for the health, don’t you know?” Grandad Patches spluttered, because water was splooshing all over his head. Some had gone up his nose.

“No, she means socks that you wear when you smoke.”

“Smoke? I don’t smoke. That’s the sort of thing Grandad Biggert would do.”

“Shut up the pair of you and you - take your socks off.”

“But my hand is stuck to the fence.”

Weighing the situation up with an expert eye, Morgan pushed the wooden panel carefully. With a slight tearing sound, Grandad was free – even if he had splintered piece of fence attached to his right hand. “I say. I wonder how long before that falls off?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Morgan waggled his eyebrows as though he’d said something terribly clever.

Ignoring him, Grandad looked crestfallen, at several tatty bits of burnt paper that littered the garden. “Oh dear. Your homework sheets are all brown and crispy.”

“So they are.”

“Never mind, Grandad. You come in the house and have a nice cup of bean-leaf tea.” Patience put her arm around the old fellow and guided him back towards the kitchen, whilst Morgan remained behind to ensure none of the recycled paper was useable by grinding it with his trainers into the smoky, muddy puddles left behind.

From above, it looked as though he was doing some sort of a war dance. In fact, the more that Morgan got into it, the happier he seemed to be, even issuing a sort of ‘Lord of the Flies’ chant – you know: “hi-yi-yi-yah, hi-yi-yi-yah, hi-yi-yi-yah.” That sort of thing.

As he did so, he looked up, hearing a wheezing, groaning creak, as a window above him was thrust open.

“Munton! Munton!” It was a familiar voice that hailed him, booming across the garden. “Stop that at once do’yah hear? If you don’t, I’ll come down there and poke you in the eye with a tuning fork. You’re disturbing the whole neighbourhood, you chanting cabbage soup bowler.”

Bowl of cabbage soup? Morgan sighed, muttered something, then answered with a fetching grin. “Sorry, Granddad Biggert.”

“You will be. If you don’t stop this instant, tomorrow you’ll go to school with newspaper for shoes.” And he slammed the window closed with a satisfied glare in Morgan’s general direction, as though he’d delivered a threat so vile, it had not even been thought of yet.

Feeling a bit ticked off, because he had been, Morgan wondered what had happened. He must have wondered aloud, because, almost instantaneously, Grandad Biggert’s window was flung open again. “I saw the whole thing.” he snickered. “Through my sonic Biggert-o-scope.” And he waved a cheap looking piece of dandy pants plastic in Morgan’s direction.

Morgan scratched his chin. “Did you?”

“Why, yes. That pith-helmeted pumpkin soup dispenser was drying wet clumps of mashed up pulp with a sonic death ray. Trying to make paper, if you please. By recycling old tat and sweepings he found in my gutter. That I had tossed away. During the worst paper shortage since Mademoiselle Papier got mâché raffia matting caught in the doorway of John Menzies’ shorts.”

“You mean this?” By now, Morgan had picked up the old sunbed lamp and was about to take it back to the kitchen. He hadn’t a clue what Grandad Biggert was talking about but thought it best to be agreeable.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. You tell that sieve of old spud peelings there’s plenty of good paper where I live.”

“Who’s John Menzies?”

“Go away, Munton.” And the window slammed shut again.

Shrugging, Morgan sauntered back up the path, towards the kitchen. Looking through the window from the outside, he could see various violent movements and motions within. No doubt Grandad Patches trying to extricate himself from his sticky situation with the fence.

Not wishing to involve himself in what he considered might be a trying twenty minutes, Morgan cut down the small path that led to the font garden, via the side of the house. It was a hot day, after all, and now there was less likelihood of any paper being available, recycled or otherwise, he figured he might be able to sneak off and play football.

No such luck.

There was a high pitched shrieking and gibbering heading towards him. It was coming from the end of the close and getting louder in volume. Morgan recognized it instantly.

Two small girls were racing at full speed towards the garden gate. They were waving something excitedly above their heads. Faith and Fenton.

He pursed his lips, irritated. Faith was beginning to get noisier these days, and, if combined with Grandad, was more than capable of ruining what could have been a fine summer evening.

And all Fenton did was argue, in a most obnoxious fashion. Morgan wondered if Grandad Biggert would heave himself downstairs to put a stop to the noise with a carefully judged swot of his newspaper.

Upon reaching the gate, the two young girls gazed in contempt at him. “Out of the way, Morgan,” snapped Faith, rather rudely.

“He’s soooo stupid,” sniggered Fenton.

“Watch your lip. And who are you calling stupid?”

“Shut up. I’ve got some very exciting news to tell Grandad.”

“Oh, have you? Well, I’m afraid Grandad is too busy to see you. He’s glued himself to a fence. Again. In fact, if you disturb him now, he might take…offence.”

“That’s not even funny.”

“No. You suck.”

But Morgan folded his arms, leaning against the gate, barring their access to the front garden, somewhat smugly.

He instantly regretted it. “Yowch!”

“Move away from that gate, Munton, if you please.” Grandad Biggert raised his newspaper. “I’ve had more than enough noise from you lot for one day. I intend to remonstrate with that wooden handed timbertop, Patches. “Patches!” He screamed. “Get out here this instant, you dough bellied ninny, or I will release my hounds of doom.”

Pushing Morgan in the chest, he raised the latch.

“But Grandad Biggert, you haven’t heard their exciting news,” Morgan protested, rubbing his head ruefully and hoping to buy some time.

“Exciting news? Pah!”  Grandad Biggert, snapped. “What is it this time? More rubbish about the return of the Muffin Man?”

“No Grandad Biggert.” Faith answered, wide eyed and innocent, obscuring Fenton behind her back. “Better than that.”

Rubbing his beard, Grandad Biggert glared at her, his hand still on the latch. Hesitant. “Well?”

“Well, what, Grandad Biggert?”

“What exciting news? By Jove, it had better be good.”

“It is Grandad. Very good news indeed.”

“You see? I told you, Grandad. Well worth your time.” said Morgan, with a conviction he could not truly get behind.

Faith was hopping up and down in her sandals, beside herself with pleasure. “The Baguette Man is coming.”

“What?” snapped Grandad Biggert. “Baguette Man? That sounds a lot like Muffin Man, with Muffin swapped out for Baguette.”

“I thought baguettes were banned – seeming as they come from France.”

“Hold your tongue, Munton. When I want the opinion of a stuffed onion, I’ll ask for it.”

“Ha, ha, ha, he called you a stuffed onion,” snickered Fenton, maliciously. And then yelped in pain as Grandad Biggert swotted her with his paper.

“Robert? Robert? What’s going on?” A high pitched, elderly woman’s voice was drifting downwind from the direction of the corner shop. It was accompanied by the sound of squeaky wheels.

Grandad Biggert, his hand still poised on the latch of the gate, looked suddenly shifty, his eyes darting from left to right. “That’s not the Baguette Man, you stupid girl, that’s Irene Adder. Did you two lead her in this direction? You malingering, hobbledehoys…”

But, it was too late. Irene Adder had arrived. She assessed the situation with all the swiftness of a snake – which is rather apt, isn’t it?

Grandad Biggert’s tone changed to that of a silken scarf blessed with a newly appropriated tongue. “Irene. My petal. How delightful. Have you brought me my afternoon sweetmeats?”

Morgan, Faith and Fenton looked suspiciously as though they were stifling giggles.

Irene glared. “Sweetmeats? Talk properly, Robert. Would you eat in somewhere like the Station Café? Would you? Hmm? Well, neither would we.”

Munton could feel somebody approaching him from behind. It was Grandad Patches, now free from fence panels, but sucking at splinters noisily. “Po, po, po. Ms Adder, how delightful. And why, it’s my Faith. Who’s this hiding behind you? Goodness gracious, young Fenton. Well, this is all rather jolly, isn’t it? Shall we all skip, up and down the close, singing ‘Mango, Banana, Coconut?’”

“Grandad, Grandad! Guess what? The baguette man’s coming,” blurted Faith, unable to contain herself.

“Well, pon my soul, how splendid. I must say we might all benefit from a stuffed baguette, mightn’t we? Yum, yum.”

“I know where I’d stuff your baguette. Heh, heh, heh.”

“Watch your language, Robert Biggert, or there’ll be no sausage for supper.”

“But, Grandad? You told me that baguettes were banned.”

“Did I?” Grandad Patches rubbed his chin. “Ah yes. I suspect the problem lies in your use of the verb in the simple passive tense. They were banned. But now they are not, it seems. We should most probably change to the perfect: ‘had been banned’. Yes, yes, by Jove, that’s the ticket.”

“Why you are clever, Grandad Patches,” replied Irene, approvingly.

Grandad Patches blushed.

“No, he’s not,” snapped Grandad Biggert, swotting Morgan with his newspaper, because he was closest and at the right height to receive it about the ears. “He’s a grammatically challenged monkey stuffer, with wooden plates for hands.”

“Now then, now then, po, po, tiddly pom,” Grandad Patches replied, while Morgan rubbed his smarting ears. Ï do not, and have never held with monkey stuffing. Why, back in the 60s, when I used to work for Gerald Gerbil, well known zookeeper and collector of animals…”

“Shut up, Patches.”

But before anymore unpleasantness could unfold, there was a cheery jingle of bells and the clippetty-clop of donkey’s hooves on the road’s hard tarmac. Coming towards them was a gaily coloured caravan, all gleaming brasses and rainbow paints. It was making slow progress towards number 36, but as it gathered steam, the excitement was palpable.

“Look, Grandad! The Baguette Man!”

“Wow!” Fenton added, scuttering out from behind Faith. “Look, how pretty he is.”

The assembled party did indeed turn to look.

Even Patience had appeared from the kitchen, upon hearing the commotion.

On top of a seat that fronted the caravan, an elderly man, dressed in raggedy clothes was flicking the reins gently. As he did so, the donkey – wearing a straw boater with the legend ‘kiss my carrots’ stuck to the front – responded in kind, swishing its tail to and fro. And behind them both, another elderly man, similarly attired was following with a battered metal bucket and trowel.

Morgan pointed him out. “What’s he doing, then?”

“Best not to ask, my boy.”

“Baguettes, baguettes!” cried the first, in a voice so crackily and hoarse, the donkey could have borrowed it.

Patience prodded Morgan in the back. “Here,” she muttered. “There’s a recession. How did he come by bread? Grandad has to make ours.”

“Don’t know. But it’ll be nice to have something doesn’t taste like flour and water with salt for once. Let’s hope Grandad has some pension left.”

But, before anybody could act, Grandad Biggert pushed past rudely and accosted the oncoming cart. “I’ll deal with this, if you please. You. Smelly fellow. Let me see your bill of fare.” He turned to Irene Adder. “Now, my petal, what would you like? Do you enjoy a particular filling?”

“Baguettes, baguettes,” croaked the man, again.

Grandad Biggert scowled, producing a metal implement from inside his black cloak. “I know, you blind old fool. Heh, heh, heh. Show me your menu. Don’t make me repeat myself or I will subject you to the deadly rays of my Hades-Driver and condemn you to permanent exile on one of those benighted outer ice worlds.”

The old man rubbed his head confused. “Baguettes. Baguettes. Baguettes and bin its”.

Watching this from a safe distance – relatively speaking – Grandad Patches rubbed his chin. “Ah, yes. I think I’m beginning to grasp this.” He leant over and rubbed Faith affectionately on the head. “Why, Faith, my dear. You and Fenton have been silly-billys, haven’t you?”

“Can we have a baguette, Grandad?”

Grandad Patches chuckled. “Now, Patience. Why don’t you take these youngsters into the house? And come back with any trash, if you please.”

Morgan watched bemused as they hurried indoors. “What’s going on Grandad?”

But, before he could answer, there was a howl of pain from Grandad Biggert. Several in fact.

“Er, Grandad?”

“Yes, my boy?”

“Why is Irene Adder hitting Grandad Biggert with her brolly?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Oh look, now she’s pulling him by the ear into number 34.”

“So, she is. My, that does look painful, doesn’t it?”

Both of them ducked, as something the size of a boomerang and made of jagged metal came hurtling in their direction and clattered onto the path. Morgan picked it up. “Look. It’s Grandad Biggert’s Hades-Driver.”

From the doorstep, just before he was yanked inside, Grandad Biggert screamed something nasty in their direction. “I’ll get you back for this, Patches, you battered metal pail of donkey droppings.” The door slammed.

By this time, Patience had arrived with some large paper sacks. “Will this do?”

“Splendid, my dear.” Sweating a little, Grandad Patches took the bags across the street to the donkey and cart. There was some discussion, a little waving of arms and then a handshake. The old fellow chucked the bags into the back of the caravan.

Grinning triumphantly, Grandad Patches returned. He was holding two or three shiny coins and a gaudy looking leaflet.

“You see,” he explained, “In their excitement, dear Faith and her rapscallion friend misheard. This man does not sell baguettes.” And he waved, as the donkey and cart had now turned, and was leaving Lumpslap Close. “He is the ‘Bag-It’ man.”

Patience rolled her eyes at Morgan. “Well, of course he is.”

“His only interest is in our old bric-a-brac which, I imagine, he can turn into a tidy profit.”

“You forgot to give him the Hades-Driver.” Morgan and Patience looked crestfallen. “I was looking forward to a nice sandwich,” muttered Patience.

“Better than that!” Grandad Patches exclaimed, clinking the coins. “He paid me enough to buy fish and chips all round!”

“Well, that’s more like it!” Patience replied, cheerily.

But Morgan was looking at Grandad Patches’ other hand. The one that was clutching the brightly coloured leaflet. It was a little difficult to make it out – but there were words printed across the top – in a red, gothic font. And fire. Lots of fire. And, in blood coloured crimson-scarlet, the title ‘Coming To You - Ding Dong Fuego!’.

Now…what on earth could that be? And even though it was a hot day, Morgan shivered.

 

 

Two days later, a brightly coloured circus big top was erected plumb in the centre of Purridgeton park. My, it did look gay, all coloured streamers flags and stripey canvas and large model animals – elephants, tigers and lions to name but a few, all hand carved from finest plastic and pegged into the earth with large nails through feet.

On the sides of the tent and at the entrance, huge signage made grand proclamations. The words Robert’s Brother Circus had been scribbled out and replaced by: ‘He’s here. Nothing to Fear. Go! Go! Go! Ding Dong Fuego!”

And all around the big top? It was carnival.

The ‘Purridgeton Pensioners Paper and Combers’ were striding up and down, blasting out their finest tunes, whilst local schools had turned out their very best marching bands – all xylophones, glockenspiels and those raspy things you run sticks up and down that don’t take much time to learn.

It was a fabulous sight indeed.

Even the Mincing Meters had turned out, fresh from the filming of another splendid commercial.

Therefore, today was a very special day, it was the day. The day that had been promised on the handbills and leaflets bestrewn all over Purridgeton High Street.

The grand prize. The 15 minutes in the spotlight. Relief for somebody from the grinding engines of recession. But, who would it be?

Why look! What’s this?

From the far end of the park, a large cloud of sand and dust was whipped up into a frenzy and heading towards the big top, full speed ahead. From within the dust storm, some wheezing and groaning accompanied by shouted commands. “Faster, Scrynge, faster!”

“I be going as fast as I can, Master.”

As they came over the rise, all was revealed. It was Grandad Biggert, reclined on the back seat of a tandem tricycle. He was rather grandly puffing on a cigar, surveying the park in front of him, whilst an elderly gentleman pedaled furiously in the direction of the carnival. This was Brother Scrynge, the tobacconist, proprietor of the finest tobacco shop in all of Purridgeton.

“Hold hard, Scrynge.” commanded Grandad Biggert.

“Hold hard, Master? What fancy dandy-pants words be these?”

“Stop, you nincompoop. And don’t get fresh with me.”

“No, master. It be well known around these parts, your command of English be second to none.”

“Unlike you, you lexically challenged codpiece grinder.”

Quite relieved, the tobacconist braked and the tricycle contraption came to a halt. This jolted Grandad Biggert, who scowled. “Careful, Scrynge. Do you want me to get whiplash, you cringing cur? Anymore insolence from you and I’ll report you to the Monk-Lord Ministers of the Recurring Apocalypse of Handriginous 4.”

“Baint be my fault, Master. Them be rocks in the path.”

Grandad Biggert took a mighty suck on the cigar, hissing the smoke through gritted teeth and consulted a map. “Here,” he cried, jabbing the map in triumph, “The big top is here!”

“But I be seeing it, Master.”

“Shut up, Scrynge and pedal. And next time be sure you supply me with fresher cigars. These taste as though they are past their smoke by date.”

“But they are, Master. You took them from my ‘used by’ bargain bin.”

“Insolent dog. Faster. Faster.”

As the tricycle mounted the small hillock and rounded the curve, it was obscured from sight. But, behind it, a small party of pedestrians were picking their way more slowly through the sun-drenched park, also on their way towards the big top.

“Keep up, Fenton,” Faith giggled, trailing behind Grandad Patches.

Fenton had a large stick she’d found in the hedges, beneath a tree. She was pushing it in front of her onto the crazy paving, so that the friction of the wood against concrete made it skitter and bounce.

Morgan cast a sideways glance at his sister’s irritating friend. He jabbed Patience sharply in the side. “What’s she doing now?”

“Ah. Yes. I asked her. It’s her ‘banderlog’. It detects and extinguishes ants or any other minor nuisance before they can land on her ankles.”

“Stupid nit.”

“Well, it’s imaginative, I suppose.”

“You are being too generous. As usual. Watch this.” Morgan adopted the tone of a concerned junior nurse, with admirable skill. “Ah, Fenton? Fenton my dear? Your banderlog is exciting (with the emphasis on ‘is’ in caretaker language). May I see it, just for a moment?”

“Yes.” Fenton replied, passing him the stick.

Morgan grabbed it and snapped it in two and chucked it into the hedgerow with a flourish. “Heh, heh, heh.”

Fentan began to wail, loudly. “Morgan destroyed my banderlog, Grandad Patches.”

Faith also looked up at Morgan, crossly. “You naughty boy. Why did you do that? I’m telling Grandad.” She stamped her foot down on his.

Aware that his party had ground to a halt and that there was some commotion, Grandad Patches right wheeled and came up upon the rear. “I say. Po, po, po. What appears to be the problem? We don’t want to be late for ‘Family Feuds’, do we?”

“Stupid game show. Stupid Ding Dong Fuego.”

“Grandad! Grandad! Morgan called Ding Dong Fuego stupid!”

“And he broke my banderlog.”

“Did you? Did you really, my boy?”

Morgan nodded.

Grandad Patches looked at Patience inquiringly. “Now, Patience, my dear. Why would he do such a thing?”

“I don’t know, Grandfather. Possibly, it’s heat exhaustion. Gone to his head. Seeing double. Feeling faint.”

Grandad Paches rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. “Po, po, tiddly pom and blow the man down, Billy. Why yes, of course. Heat exhaustion. Now, back in the 60s, I was temporarily engaged to work for a small company who manufactured remedies for…”

Morgan groaned.

“…those packets that other companies put raw lemon jelly into. Now, then, what was that company called? Hmmm. Let me think.”

“Jelly Box and Sons?”

“Why yes. Yes, that was it. By Jove. Jelly Box and Sons. How did you know, Morgan?”

“Oh, it was just a mad guess.”

“Goodness me, you are as sharp as a button, dear boy.”

“Can buttons actually be sharp?” Patience asked, with a slight edge.

“Yes, they can, if they are on a lemon jelly jacket.”

“How?”

“Well, some lemons can be jolly sharp indeed.”

Faith was still stamping her feet and Fenton was still blubbing ostentatiously. “What about the banderlog, Grandad?"

Grandad Patches frowned. “Well, it is a poser, isn’t it? Tell you what. I’ve just had a sharp idea myself.” And he beamed at all of them, then disappeared into a huge rhododendron bush. For five minutes, there was an enormous amount of crashing and thrashing about, and the leaves were shaking with tremendous vigor.

Finally, he reappeared. In his hand were five decent sized sticks. “Hurray! Now, we can all have banderlogs.” And, with a flourish, he distributed the sticks amongst them all.

“Hurray for Grandad Patches!” Faith and Fenton shouted, eagerly seizing theirs, and skipping on ahead. Grandad Patches followed them, wielding his stick and grunting, trying to keep up, leaving Morgan and Faith behind, each holding theirs.

Patience flung it away, looked and her watch and glared. “Well done. Now we’re late.”

Morgan watched her stomp away.

The trouble is, he reflected, bitterly, was that too many people were overindulged. That Fenton, for one. Why, only the other day at school, he’d seen her ambling up and down the bleaches with her coat slung across her shoulders on hat-peg Wednesday. If it had been him, he was pretty sure that he would be on Doctor Snaptor’s carpet.

He shrugged, broke into a trot, and caught up with the others.

It was not as if his family would be picked for the game show anyway. That sort of thing only happened in fictions which were structured around improbable coincidences, after all.

He joined them in a long, snaking queue for the entrance to the tent.

Faith was skipping up and down in a most irritating fashion, waving her stick and singing some appalling song she’d heard at school. “Fiddle- dee – dee – mango tree – Ding Dong Fuego – big hairy coconuts.” At least that’s what it sounded like.

Grandad Patches was gazing at the big top in awe. His mouth was open. His hand was gripping Patience’s elbow. “Goodness gracious, Patience, my dear. Why this is a magnificent specimen. Magnificent.”

“Yes, Grandad.”

“Po, po, po. You know, my dear, it reminds me of something. Why, yes. Back in the sixties, I was put to service by…”

But Patience cut him short as though she were a pair of rather sharp garden shears. “Shouldn’t you do something about Faith? I think she’s beginning to annoy all the other people in the queue.”

“I do believe you’re right.” Grandad Patches scuttled over to where Faith was still skipping and dancing. Of course, by this time, Fenton had joined in by smacking her stick up and down on the kerb stones – keeping time, loudly. She was good at that. “Now then, now then, what’s going on, Faith my dear?”

“Fenton and I are singing the Ding Dong Fuego tune to keep the queuing people entertained.”

“Are you?” Grandad looked at the lines of old people waiting for admission. They didn’t look very entertained. Then, he smiled. Of course. “You know, Faith, I think I understand why these good people of Purridgeton are not enjoying your performance.”

“You do?”

“Of course. It’s the line ‘big hairy coconuts’. It doesn’t scan, do you see? Or rhyme.”

Faith and Fenton looked puzzled.

“Allow me, my dear.” Grandad Patches took his stick and waved it vigorously at the tent, then began skipping, in and out of the line. “Fiddle- dee – dee – mango tree – Ding Dong Fuego – one, two, three.”

Well, that did the trick.

Faith and Fenton joined in, forming a line that would have graced any Morris Dancing performance. They weaved in and out, up and down, hither and thither – and soon, the waiting pensioners were chortling, snorting and clapping in time. My, it was a heartwarming sight.

Patience shivered. Somehow, they looked like the walking dead.

But it was drawing admiring glances from Farmer McFudniss and his Mincing Meters who were making preparation for later, by gnoming up.

Before he could sidle over to them to enquire if Grandad Patches had ever fancied becoming a gnome, there was a loud clatter followed by a hideous scream from the other side of the big top. Quite nerve shredding it was, too.

“Blast your hide, Scrynge, you peddling peasant. I’ll dock your wages for this indignity.”

“Oh no, it’s Grandad Biggert,” snapped Patience. “He must be in some kind of trouble.” Quickly, she sprinted around the tent’s circumference followed by the rest of the queuing pensioners – Grandad Patches, Faith and Fenton bringing up the rear.

They were greeted with a pitiful sight.

The tricycle had somehow up-ended. Perhaps a ditch or a bump in the tarmac? Grandad Biggert was splayed all over the road, shaking his arms and legs in rage. But worse? His cigar had somehow ignited a fire by his ankles – no doubt burning summer’s dried leaves. It was a clear and present danger. A danger to Grandad Biggert’s inglorious life.

“Help! Help!” screamed Faith. “Grandad Biggert’s on fire. Someone call the fire brigade!”

“Po, po, po,” muttered Grandad Patches. “You know, that reminds me of a magnificent song from the sixties…”

“Be quiet, Grandad, and fetch a pail of water.”

“That, too.”

“Where’s Grandad Biggert?”

In all the commotion, Grandad Biggert had vanished. But they heard his voice. A gloating voice it was, too. “Heh, heh, heh. Gullible idiots.”

Morgan had seen it all. He nodded in grudging respect. A reluctant sort of admiration, to be sure. Scrynge and Grandad Biggert had run around the crowd, got to the front of the queue and had disappeared inside. Quite…masterful.

“Now Grandad Biggert will be the first to meet Ding Dong Fuego,” he chuckled. “No doubt he will win the grand prize.”

Once they had realized that some fraudulence was involved, and the panic was over, the queue shuffled back to the entrance of the big top. “I think,” said Grandad Patches, “It might be…ah…safer, if you allowed me in first. There might be mischief afoot, dear people of Purridgeton.” But no one was buying that, were they?

So, one by one, they entered into the dark depths of the big top.

And eventually, it was Grandad Patches’ turn to be swallowed up.

 

 

Inside the tent, there was an unmistakable scent of damp canvas – you know that smell?

It sends you back to lazy days fishing in streams for sticklebacks, using old, half painted, abandoned wooden doors for rafts and setting off to explore, before toasting damp socks on forked sticks over small fires.

You lay on your back, looking up at the canvas, dreaming of days to come.

Now, here they were, those days arrived, inside the biggest top of all, waiting for the ringmaster.

Patience and Morgan sat side by side, somewhere in the middle of everything – alongside Grandad Patches, of course. They were squinting around the colosseum of seats in the semi-pitch, because, far overhead the spotlights were set to half-light.

What could they see?

Rows of old-age pensioners, of course – fans of ‘Family Feud’ - munching and mumbling over hashed up corns, sucking bottles of sugar waters through straws and murmuring excitedly to each other.

If they listened hard, they might hear the snatches and gobbets of chatter: oo, I hope I get to meet Ding Dong…no, Betty, if you compete, you might get 2000 pesos…really, Agnes…well I would spend it all on my cat…imagine the knitting needles such a sum could buy…knitting needles, pah! I will buy crotchet hooks…crochet hooks, pah!

It was hard to deny that there was a building sense of expectation.

Ding Dong Fuego. Here in Purridgeton.

And his game show – the most popular in the Philippines – on tour. Who would have thought it?

But where was he? Where was the great man himself? And who would he choose? Which families would be the lucky ones? Which families would get to feud for that star prize?

Patience thought she knew. She nudged Morgan. “Look.” She pointed downwards to the circus ring.

Below them was the unmistakable silhouette of Grandad Biggert, his black, high collared cloak pulled tightly around his neck.. He had managed to secure some of the best seats in the house, no doubt hoping to influence the outcome in some way – even get picked to play, being so close to the action.

After all, there was a recession. And 2000 pesos was more that just a hill of beans on top of a small potato.

But he seemed to be berating Scrynge about something.

Unusually, it was hard to hear his words, because, as you know, he has a big, deep, booming voice. Patience strained and thought she heard something like ‘use the unicycle.’

Rudely, Grandad Biggert now pushed the hapless Scrynge into the circus ring.

Some of the crowd stopped mumbling and began to take interest.

‘Oh, look, Agnes, a lion…That baint be a lion. That be Dickie Scrynge…Is Dickie Scrynge a lion now? Oo no…I can tame him with a whip and chair... Watch your mouth, Betty…OO, look Petunia, he’s mounting a unicycle…’

Faith nudged Grandad Patches. “Is that Ding Dong Fuego, Grandad?”

“Who dear?”

Fenton snickered. “Your Grandad is silly, Faith, isn’t he?”

Sniggering back, Faith jabbed Fenton in the rib. “Which Grandad?”

“They’re both silly.” She raised her voice. “Mr Patches? Mr Patches? Is that Ding Dong?”

By now, Grandad Patches had reached into the pockets of his romper smock – the nasty one with the purple foxglove motif – and had found a decrepit looking spyglass that looked like it had seen service in the battle of Trafalgar.

He clapped it to his eye the wrong way round, then grabbed Morgan’s sleeve. “By Jove, Morgan, we’ve shrunk. We appear to be in ‘Fantastic Voyage’ with Raquel Welch driving the submarine. Po, po, po, I say, she’s damned attractive, isn’t she?”

Wisely, Morgan ignored him and clipped Faith around the ear with his handbill. “Stop being rude to Grandad, you horrible midget,” he snapped. “You know very well that’s Grandad Biggert, up to some nonsense.” He glared at Fenton, too, for good measure. But his eyes were irresistibly drawn back to the ring.

Scrynge had mounted the unicycle and was now racing around the circus ring, rather skillfully, arms held aloft. There was a whooping and cheering from the toothless crowd as Scrynge whipped down the tunnel that led from the ring into the interior. Minutes later he had returned, holding a torch of blazing fire, peddling furiously.

Grandad Biggert hopped from his ringside seat with a nimbleness that belied his age. Scrynge was heading straight for him.

“Grandad, Grandad,” Morgan whispered, urgently. “Look. Scrynge is going to torch him!”

“Oh, no!” Sitting bolt upright, Grandad Patches snapped his spyglass into action. Then, puzzled, he passed it to Morgan. “You’re wrong my boy. All I can see is a glow worm on a miniature cocktail umbrella.”

“Never mind that now. We’ve got to do something. Hurry up, Grandad.”

Patience watched, holding Faith and Fenton back as Morgan, followed by Grandad Patches hurtled down the steps towards the circus ting.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The camera was being undercranked. Morgan was getting flashes, as though through a stroboscope.

As he arrived, Scrynge was upon Grandad Biggert, like some infernal octogenarian devil-peddler, smoke billowing from his ears. But, to Morgan’s consternation, Grandad Biggert stood his ground, unperturbed amidst the general commotion and screams of horror.

“Heh, heh, heh,” snickered Grandad Biggert, producing a cigar. And, as he passed by Scrynge balanced masterfully, igniting the tobacco, and zooming away with a flourish as Morgan watched his Grandfather take his first, mighty lungful.

Seeing him, Grandad Biggert rudely thrust the cigar in Morgan’s face. “Want some, Munton?”

“No, he does not, Grandad Biggert. He does not indeed. You filthy old man, encouraging smoking in public places. This isn’t 1997, you know.” Grandad Patches spluttered, sizing his old nemesis up.

“Patches, pah!” Grandad Biggert spat. “I should have known you would not pass up such a chance to make merry with my money. Get back to your pots of lemon curd, you fruit fondler.”

“Fruit Fondler? Po, po, po, po, how dare you, sir. It is you I have seen rubbing pears on ‘poke-a-plum-Sunday. You are well known for it in these parts. What are you doing in the ring anyway? No doubt you hope to curry favour with Ding Dong Fuego and be picked to be a family in the forthcoming feuds.”

Grandad Biggert took a enormous suck, blowing smoke into Grandad Patches’ eyes. “Blast you, Patches. That money is my certain right. Think you have rumbled my ruse? Well think again, you whey faced dandelion clock with fish fingers for hands, pointing at the round window.”

“Round window? Pah. Only you know what is to be found by going through the round. Hah. You don’t even have a family. Irene Adder does not count.”

“Gah. I will have a family. I will use yours. Patience, Morgan and Faith.”

“Shah! Never. They will never agree to such a dastardly machination!”

“Spah! They most certainly will, when they see what I am offering. Dominion. Mastery over the entire five systems!”

Before Grandad Patches could respond, however, from the tunnel a sight and sound emerged to delight the onlookers, and, lest you forget, they were indeed delighted. With the hooting and clamoring of bells, a rickety cart emerged, disguised as a fire engine, trilling with a ring-a-ding-ding, powered by five or six clowns.

Oh, if only you could have heard the crowd, eh?

And, of course, by this time, Faith and Fenton were ringside, followed by a grimly thwarted Patience. They had arrived just in time to hear Grandad Biggert’s nefarious proclamations.

Faith screamed.

Clowns with fire buckets were swarming towards them with intent. But they ignored Grandad Patches, instead throwing the pails of water all over our puffed up Grandad Biggert. Their accuracy was a bit suspect. Several pensioners were drenched and began to retreat.

Grandad Biggert, however, was extinguished. There was some thick smoke followed by a soggy mess where his cloak had been.

The chief clown spoke. He had a sinister tone. He hissed. Dripping in venom. Rather like Grandad Biggert was, at this moment. “Kindly return to your seats, sir. Ding Dong Fuego. He is arriving.”

And the chief clown grasped Grandad Biggert’s shoulder. Firmly.

“Unhand me, you painted pebble,” snapped Grandad Biggert, “Or tomorrow, you will be going to clown school with ship’s biscuits for your snap.”

Morgan sniggered, nudging Patience. “And he will go to school with only bread and dripping,” he whispered. Emphasizing the word dripping, as though he has being terribly witty.

Patience rolled her eyes.

Grandad Biggert’s threat had no effect on the chief clown whatsoever. If anything, his grip tightened.

Due to the buckets of water that had been randomly flung in Grandad Biggert’s direction, the pensioners in the ringside seats had scuttled back, leaving several vacant seats. Grandad Patches wasted no time in mopping them free of water with his bandana and beckoning his family to sit.

They watched with interest.

“Damn your hide,” blustered Grandad Biggert, “We’re not finished yet.” And he snapped his fingers at Scrynge, who passed him an old tin that once held toffees. It looked like it was from the 1930s and had rusted hinges.

Nevertheless, Grandad Biggert opened it with a cunning look. Inside, several small shapes were squirming in sawdust. “Try one of these sweetmeats,” he urged, pointing at the tin, and extracting a wriggling grub with some tweezers. He held it in front of the chief clown.

“What is it, Grandad,” asked Faith, excitedly. “Can I try one of those sweetmeats, too?”

“Po, po, po, po, I would not advise it, Faith my dear,” Grandad Patches replied. “It looks like that maggot has been impregnated with some sort of luminous chemical designed to rob the eater of sleep.”

And the clown was not impressed either. He swept the tin aside with an imperious gesture. “Be seated,” he insisted. “If it is that you will be wanting to take your participation of this to be Feud.”

“Damn you. I’ll turn you into a tree.”

“No, you won’t.”

Finally, then, Grandad Biggert and Scrynge sulked back to their seats, noticing, with a glare, that Grandad Patches had taken full advantage of the diversion.

But for once, Grandad Patches had no interest in Grandad Biggert’s proclivity. Instead he’d extracted an oily old notebook from the pocket of his romper smock, had licked the end of the pencil for maximum blackness and was scribbling something furiously onto the stained pages.

“Don’t do that, Grandad,” snapped Patience, “It’s not hygienic.”

Faith and Fenton tittered. “Dirty old Grandad. Patience? Tell Ma.”

“Licking pencil stubs went out with Enid Blyton,” added Morgan, who was, nevertheless interested in Grandad Patches scrawling.

“Look at this, Morgan, my boy.” He passed the notebook and pencil over – as though offering him a lick.

Morgan pushed the pencil away but read the words. “What is it, Grandad? Hieroglyphics?”

“No, my boy. Indeed no. This is proof positive, if proof be needed.”

“Proof of what, Grandad? Come on spit it out.”

“What? The pencil?”

Morgan leaned left, smirked, whispered to Patience ‘stupid old duffer’ and then leant back. “Tell me what you’re on about.”

“It’s the clown. His syntax was all wrong. He said ‘if you will be wanting to take your participation.’”

“So?”

“That, my boy, is not even close to an English construction.”

“Grandad Biggert says stupid stuff like that all the time,” Morgan pointed out, correctly.

“My dear boy, I suspect a foul play. We will, I fear, have to play this one very, very carefully indeed.”

“You suspect alien spies? Again?”

“It is not beyond the bounds of possibility. We should be on the look out, my boy.”

“As usual,” snapped Patience, who had been listening with a growing sense of irritation. “I mean, why can’t this family just have a normal day out for once?”

Faith and Fenton had managed to seize hold of Grandad Patches’ spyglass and were playing some irritating game that involved nearby pensioners, a stick and passing it to them the wrong way round. Fenton was chanting a rhyme along the lines of ‘avoid a beating by spotting someone cheating’.

The pensioners looked scared.

“Give that spyglass to me before I get Grandad Biggert to swot the pair of you with his newspaper,” she snapped, snatching the offending piece of brass from them.

Talking of Grandad Biggert, who was just a few seats along, the lights were finally going down.

In the crowd, an expectant hush descended.

And from the tunnel, to the sound of klaxons and marching music, the chief clown and his minions reappeared in triumph. “Behold,” cried he, with a flourish, “Family Feud!”

Curtains fell with a whoosh and a drum roll; the spotlights focused on a grand looking set that had been previously concealed.

“Wow!” screamed Faith, clutching her Grandad’s hand. “Family Feuds!”

“Po, po, po, oh, I say.” Grandad Patches replied. “Look, my dear. This was worth the price of the entrance tickets, wasn’t it?”

In front of them, looking beautifully gaudy, the set had two arms that seemed to beckon the onlookers forth – two elongated desks with four microphones poking upwards like sunflowers reaching skywards. These, no doubt, for contestants to stand behind.

Between these two limbs, the podium, where upon contestants beckoned forth would answer those devilishly hard questions. ‘We asked one hundred people what sort of insects they would most like to be in another life,’ or ‘which flavour of jam or jelly was most popular on a Saturday during Grandstand back in 1976’.

No tinsel had been spared. No sequins had been forgotten. Only the sturdiest cardboard had been used.

And, balanced on the top, a flashing police car light bathed the audience in blue, illuminating the grand placard that proclaimed, in gigantic dayglo letters, ‘Family Feud!”

The audience sucked in so much excited breath, there was barely any left in the tent to breathe.

Was this the moment?

The chief clown looked at his watch, shaking it as though it had a fault.

Grandad Patches stiffened, clutching Morgan’s shirt.

“Latelys and Gentlemums.” He announced. “I have been informed of…a delay.”

There was a collective grown from the audience and a lot of breath expelled simultaneously.

The Chief Clown continued. “Ding Dong Fuego he has delayed been. He stuck behind tractor on A721 near Uddingston.”

Grandad Patches was nodding calmly, his eyes narrowing, as though he had been expecting this news.

“He will be here within the hour.”

Grabbing Morgan’s sleeve a second time, Grandad Patches muttered. “I doubt that, Morgan my boy, I doubt that very much indeed.”

“What’s a delayed bean, Grandad?” asked Faith, loudly.

“Yes, what’s a delayed bean?” Fenton shouted, unnecessarily.

As if he had heard then, the Chief Clown glared at the two children, causing them to shrink back a little. “Fear not,” he snapped, “I bring glad tidings of great joy. We entertainment will have until Ding Dong arriving. Please welcome…Father McMudniss and his Mincing Meters.”

“Oh good,” said Patience, in a tone of voice that suggested it was bad. “A commercial break before the show starts.”

If there had been a band, it now struck up a jolly dancing tune. There wasn’t. Morgan suspected a tape deck or CD Player was hidden somewhere behind the set.

The tune was familiar, though. ‘Step We Gaily.’

He groaned as a familiar set of bearded gnomes were shunted onto the stage. They looked reluctant to be there and had to be prodded and poked with sticks in order to start dancing.

“This is hell, nor are we out of it,” he muttered, gloomily, wondering how long it would be before Patience set off for home. She had a lower threshold than him. That was her secret weapon.

He gritted his teeth.

Looking to his left, here was Faith and Fenton, banging banderlogs clumsily on the circus ring, in time to the music, jumping up and down on their bucket seats. To his right, here was Patience looking grim. A few seats along, at a non-too safe distance, Grandad Biggert was about to explode.

And in front, the Mincing Meters, in a long showtune line, huffing and puffing, looking as though they might faint and any moment, beads of sweat dripping onto the sawdust.

Even as the oldest Mincer stumbled forwards in a swoon, misplacing his old bamboo cane, the tune ratcheted up a tad in volume and he was once more energized by a glare from the Chief Clown: ‘Step we gaily, off we go, heel to heel, toe to toe, off to Farmer’s Market…’

“Yes indeedy!” a familiar voice called from behind the line of prancing oldsters, “Indeedy, Indoodly! It’s me, your favourite Farmer. Farmer McFudniss! With my farmer’s market of recession free goods. Come on down! The price is right! We won’t split hairs over a gross of pears!”

“Yaaaay!” screamed Fenton and Faith as though it was the most exciting thing they’d ever seen. As one, they bounded into the ring and did a victory lap, waving their sticks like spears, narrowly avoiding Mincing Meters, some of whom scuttled for cover, whilst the other tried vainly to hold their shape for the ‘Gay Gordons’.

“Get back here,” snapped Patience, and she looked to Grandad Patches for support, but he seemed preoccupied, rummaging around in the nether regions of his romper smock and occasionally grunting. He has paying no attention to his beloved Granddaughter, now on her second victory lap.

The crowd were whooping it up, rattling beads in approval. This, if anything, seemed to encourage Faith, as Mincing Meters scattered like nine pins smacked by a billiard ball.

Morgan was sniggering uncontrollably.

“Grandad,” Patience wailed, in despair, then hopped over in pursuit, narrowly missing Farmer McFudniss who was fondling two oversized beetroot. “Beat the route to depression and recession,” he was shouting. Through a tin megaphone he’d pinched from the chief clown.

A siren began to wail and a hypnotic voice boomed over loudspeakers, menacing in pitch and almost in slow motion. “No contestants in the ring,” it proclaimed. “Emergency, emergency, we are invaded. Dispatch the clown cart, immediately. All clowns to the ring now.”

“Grandad! Grandad!” Morgan cried, with urgency, and snapped his fingers. “They’re sending in the clowns!”

“Yes, yes, my boy. There ought to be clowns.” At last he finished fishing around in his smock, having found whatever it was that was making him grunt. He whipped it out and held it up. “Look, mt boy.”

Morgan wasn’t sure he wanted to. Reluctantly, he ripped his gaze from the chaos in the ring. Grandad was holding up a gigantic, leather bound book. Morgan squinted and read its title. “AA New Book of the Road. I say, Grandad, couldn’t you have used Google Maps?”

“Google Maps? Po, po, po, po, a recipe for shortcuts and wood shaver-me-snappers, my boy. With this, we can be sure. No trap streets in this beauty.” And he began thumbing through its grubby pages.

“But, shouldn’t you be doing something about all that?” Morgan jerked his thumb at the cacophony in front of them.

“But, I am, my boy, I am.”

The clown cart had, by now, appeared and had joined in the chase. It’s warning sirens wailing malevolently over the chaos and disorder, heightening the panic.

As if hypnotized by its flashing lights, several pensioners, befuddled and bemused, began climbing into the ring, arms outstretched, dribbling uncontrollably, risking live and limb. Why, they could be hit by sticks, clown cars, Mincing Meters…anything might happen.

Some of them were muttering, over and over, like a mantra “2000 pesos, 2000 pesos, my kingdom for 2000 pesos.”

The Family Feud set was struck with a mighty force. Faith, Fenton, the Clown Cart and two or three Mincing Meters ran, full pelt, into the cardboard construction and it collapsed in chaos, burying the populace beneath several inches of cheap tat.

Grandad Biggert had seen quite enough. “Scrynge!” he commanded, imperiously, “Bring forth the Hypersonic Transmat of Trundos!”

“Yes, Master.”

From beneath his jerkin, Scrynge unwound a coil of knitting yarn and passed it to Grandad Biggert.

“No, you fool! Not the Cobalt Cob Webbing of Nebulous Nine! The Transmat!”

“Sorry, Master, I think we be leaving your carpet back at Biggert Mansions.”

“Darn and Blast. Well, so be it. We will proceed with Contingency Plan Omega Cygnus.”

Grandad Biggert leapt into the ring, his black cloak trailing behind him, looking rather like a penguin plummeting from the sky after it had been tossed from an Antarctic Environmental Survey Helicopter.

“Push off, you straw haired carrot cruncher.” He shoved Farmer McMudniss, who had graduated from fondling beetroot to squeezing pears, violently in the chest, snatching the tin loud hailer from his grasp. “You’ll sell no turnips here.”

Grandad Biggert now spoke loudly into his mouthpiece. His voice boomed across the circus ring. Even Grandad Patches looked up from his road atlas.

“Wretched citizens of Purridgeton,” he snarled, “You turned your backs on the lord of the fire mountain and listened to his enemy.” And he pointed dramatically at the Chief Clown. “Now, there will be no two thousand pesos for you. Or you. Or you. Return to your dwellings. Return to your abodes and abase yourselves before the Headless Monks of Minkus, late of the Nebulus Systems of Minkus Minor.”

Everything stopped.

As if by magic, the hypnotized and the transgressors started to shuffle back to their seats in a woebegone manner.

Then he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. “Give that to me.”

It was the Chief Clown.

Flanked by Farmer McMudniss, who was brushing sawdust delicately from his tunic, he seized  the loud hailer and booted it firmly in the direction of Scrynge. It did a couple of forward rolls, executed a back flip, then struck the tobacconist square in the jaw, with a hollow echo.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of Purridgeton. Behold. Ding Dong.”

The lights went down.

Morgan jabbed Grandad Patches in the ribs. “Grandad. Ding Dong arriving.”

“What’s that you say? Ding Dong Rising? Po, po, po, po. No. No. dear me, no. That can’t be right. Can’t be right at all.” He tapped his book. “The clue’s here, do you see? Here, my boy.” And, finally, Grandad Patches stepped into the ring.

Grandad Patches’ foxglove romper smock billowed like a magician’s cloak. He strode forth, with his stick and huge road atlas then checked his progress.

From the other side of the ring, The Chief Clown, Farmer McMudniss and Grandad Biggert watched, suspiciously.

Turning towards the huge pile of cardboard, tinsel, balsa wood and flashing light, Grand Patches bent down and tugged some of the debris aside. “Patience? Faith? Fenton? I say, po, po, po, are you in there?”

“Yes Grandad.”

“Well, jolly well go back to your seats.”

He watched until he was sure they had returned, then strode purposefully towards the other side. Sizing up the Chief Clown, Grandad Patches gave him one of his hardest stares. “Where is this Ding Dong Fuego, then”

“Blast you, Patches, you putrid plum plucker,” snapped Grandad Biggert. “I’m not finished yet. It is I who will lay claim to that 2000 pesos.”

“Oh, will you, indeed? Well, we will see about that, dear me, yes.”

Father McMudniss was seized by a compulsion. “Bring on my Mincing Meters!”

“No thank you,” replied Grandad Patches, firmly, “We’ve had quite enough of their nonsense for one day. Try harder.”

The Chief Clown glared with a deep, snake-yellow malevolence in his eyes. “Ding Dong, he will decide of all this business.”

And then, at last, what was left of the spotlights converged in a blinding, angelic halo of light, tracking forward as somebody approached. The drums rolled, as if they knew. The crowd gasped once again, each seat was gripped, each togue was stilled.

The somebody, the man, broke through the meniscus of light, still bathed in a throbbing of power.

Grandad Biggert raised his hand to shield his eyes, palms outward, staggering slightly backward towards the exit. “Back,” he commanded, “Approach no further. Back to your echoing void! Back, I compel you by summoning the power demon of Zantos Major!”

But his words seemed to have no effect.

Morgan hurled himself over the barrier and into the ring, to join Grandad Patches. He was in a fever pitch of excitement. “Grandad! Grandad!”

“What is it my boy?”

“That’s not Ding Dong Fuego.”

“I know that my boy. Dear me, yes. Po, po, po. Tiddly pom-pom-pom. Why the clue was here, like I told you.” He showed the assemblage his road atlas. “You see, the A721, is merely a spur route of the A72 that crosses Lanarkshire, on it’s way to Peebles and Biggar. It’s nowhere near Purridgeton, my boy. Now, if that had been the real Ding Dong Fuego, he would have known such a thing, wouldn’t he?”

“You mean he would have been stuck behind a tractor on the A379?”

“Exactly, my boy. Exactly.”

“Or the A381?”

Grandad Patches nodded, impressed. He sized up the newcomer with a critical eye. “Now then, young fellow. Would you like to tell us exactly just who you are?”

The Chief Clown interposed himself between Grandad Patches and the others. “That is Ding Dong Fuego.”

“No it isn’t Ding Dong Fuego.” Grandad Patches replied, firmly. “And I doubt you’re even a real clown.” He leaned forwards and took hold of the clown’s left ear with his right hand. He gave the ear a sharp tug – and – behold – a mask peeled off in his hand and dangled limply in his grip.

“It’s the baguette man!” Morgan shouted.

“Yes. It’s the baguette man. I suspected as much when I noticed the clown was wearing Ma’s old makeup. I’d only placed in the trash that very morning. This whole thing has been a travesty and mishmash of lies, no doubt perpetrated by enemies of the state. Spies. Sent here to do  mischief under the cover of a game show. Perpetrators of chaos and Farmer McMudniss saw this whole enterprise as a way to increase his profits. Worthy of Grandad Biggert himself.”

“Damn you, Patches,” snapped Grandad Biggert. “Always one step ahead. If you weren’t so infernally clever we could have taken that 2000 pesos.”

But now, the stranger himself stepped forward. “You still can.” he said, smoothly. “Grandad Patches is wrong.”

“He is?”

“Yes. I may not be, as you say, Ding Dong Fuego. But I am, how you say, Ding Dong Flamingo.”

Grandad Biggert scratched his goatee. “Hear that, Patches? as usual you’ve muddled up the entire thing. He’s Ding Dong Flamingo.”

“Yes. Grandad Biggert. With your supernatural wisdom and arsenal of hi-tech gadgetry, you have it right. Now. Let’s play Family Feud!” And he strode off towards the piles of collapsed set and lights, no doubt in an attempt to erect a podium to play on.

Then, he seemed to vanish.

For a while, there was a confused silence.

Then Morgan coughed, quietly. “Ah. Grandad Biggert?”

“Shut up, Munton.”

“Who actually is Ding Dong Flamingo?”

“I don’t know, do I? Fuego’s younger brother, probably. That pink one.”

“Pink one?”

But it was too late, In the confusion, they had all scarpered. Farmer McMudniss, The Baguette Man and Ding Dong Flamingo had completely disappeared.

Grandad Patches smiled. “Never mind, my boy. We may not have won those 2000 pesos and beaten the recession, But it’s not all doom and gloom, is it? We foiled an international plot and you’ll never see Farmer McMudniss and his Mincing Meters ever again.”

Morgan nodded. Well, that had to be something, he supposed.

And he followed the merry citizens of Purridgeton as they snaked back home.

 

 

Later that evening as the summer sun was just arcing below the horizon and number 36 Lumpslap Close was settling itself for the night, Morgan was still fiddling with the television controls.

Patience was in the kitchen, helping Grandad Patches and Faith clear away the supper dishes.

They all stopped when they heard an outraged shriek from the living room. “It’s them! It’s those Mincing Meters!”

All three rushed in and joined Morgan, focussing on the smallish black and white screen.

Sure enough, there was a familiar sound of the accordian and fiddle; the strained sound of a heavily accented male singer. “Ohhhhhh. Yeel tak the hee rurrrd, and eel tak the laargh rurrrd…”

“Grandad? What’s a hee haw?

“Po, po, po, po. Well, pon my soul, I imagine it’s some kind of motorized donkey, Faith, my dear.” replied Grandad Patches, without conviction.

They watched miserably as the Mincing Meters bumbled to and fro, back and forth.

Then, a sly looking face appeared in front of them from the left hand side of the screen. He held a microphone.

“Grandad? Look. That’s McMudniss, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure, Morgan, my boy.” Grandad Patches was squinting at the screen, somewhat puzzled. His eyes are not what they were, you know?

Anyway, they were soon told: “Howdy, dear viewers. It’s me, Green Grocer Gordon O’Clumpoland! Say hello to my Prancing Porkers!”

Morgan switched the television off in disgust. “He’s not fooling anyway, is he?”

Patience sighed. “You cannot fight the power of the capitalist. You just have to grin and accept it.”

“Well, dash it all, I won’t” snapped Morgan. “I’m sick of those Mincing Meters ruining the television schedule. I’m mad and I’m not going to take it anymore.”

Before his sister could reply, the doorbell sounded, shrill and insistent.

“Well, po, po, po, po, who could that be at this time of night?” Grandad Patches wondered aloud. “It’s almost bedtime, isn’t it?”

And all four of them trooped to the door to find out. As Faith opened it they looked, as one, in utter astonishment.

In front of them, dressed in the finest designer clothes, was a man they all instantly recognised.

“It’s you!” Faith shouted.

“It is indeed my friends. Ding Dong Fuego. Tell me, do you know the way to the Family Feud Big Top? I was delayed, you see? On the A721. Somewhere near Uddingston.