Friday 11 October 2024

Grandad Patches’ Bedtime Fables: Crouch, Bent and Duff

 

 Grandad Patches’ Bedtime Fables: Crouch, Bent and Duff

 

Once upon a time, dear readers, there was a lowly Llama.

She was lowly mainly because she had been born with very small legs. This made her ideal to be the librarian of a small town in the valleys called Llanthickpizzle Major, which was just to the left and up a bit from all the abandoned pits and slag heaps.

But wait, I hear you say.

Surely, being lowly, she would not be able to reach the books on the top shelf?

Not a bit of it, my dears. On the contrary, she was perfect for rearranging those books on the bottom, saving many an aching octogenarian book hunter’s back into the bargain. Her name was Lindy Loveslace, and she was very pleased with it, thank you very much.

Now, being a librarian meant that she was wise. All that reading, you see?

Well, fairly wise – it did depend, of course, on the sorts of books she curated. But, by and large, she was respected by the citizens who most often went by names like Taff, Toss and Binty and were either slugs, crustaceans or invertebrates.

And also, she was very old. Like a donkey. She had seen a lot of most of everything.

For example, one day, a snail called Morgan Lookyew, came rushing into the library in what can only be described as a state of high dudgeon. Gouts of blood were fair making his face crimson – except, being a snail they weren’t, really – but I’m trying to convey to you his extreme frustration, aren’t I?

His antennae were bobbling about like deely-boppers, so excited was he. What? Oh, look it up.

“Lindy, Lindy, come quick,” he shouted, leaping onto her desk with admirable athleticism, given he wasn’t a flea, a frog or any other sort of hopping creature – or even had anything resembling legs, for that matter.

With a sigh, Lindy took a tissue and cleared the speckles of slime from her spectacles. She put her book down, reluctantly. “What is it, Morgan?” asked she.

“Jones the Traffic has introduced a 20 miles per hour speed limit over the valleys,” he cried, in horror. “Even now, Clwyd the Binbag is taking away all the 30 miles per hour signs and putting them into his trailer!”

Adjusting her spectacles, Lindy looked at the snail. “Do you drive?”

“No,” admitted Morgan, who found clutch and gas pedals something of a hardship, having nothing in the way of legs. Or indeed, nothing in the way of the legs he didn’t have.

“And are you capable of reaching speeds of thirty miles per hour?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m a snail, aren’t I?”

“Well, I shouldn’t worry too much then. In any case they’re always doing it. It’s so that the companies that make signs have – well – new signs to make. Next week they’ll either reduce it to ten or put it back to thirty. You can read it in the local rags.”

And with that, Lindy took a handily placed lettuce leaf which had become dislodged from the rest of her lunch, placed Morgan upon it and flung him back outside.

She was always being interrupted.

Why, later that very same day, a shrimp called Clifford Bach happened to be passing by and popped his head round the corner of the fiction section. “Yo, Lindy!” he cried, loudly, because he fancied himself as something of a cool dude, as far as shrimps go. “How’s it hanging? What’s occurring?”

He was carrying one of those glossy magazines you buy for 30p in all good supermarkets in his claw mandible. The sort of magazines that have half naked, balloon-boobed overweight pouting, pudding head celebrities pasted all over their fronts, usually from Essex.

They’re either always on hopeless diets or their boyfriends have been naughty with one of their friends. No, I don’t know why they bother, either. Probably there are some very, very stupid people in the world.

Anyhow, Clifford skipped up onto Lindy’s desk, waving his publication in front of her.

Taking a tissue, she frowned and dabbed at the patches of seawater he’d sprinkled all over her blouse. “Well?”

Clifford tapped the front cover in a most animated fashion. “It says here that Katie Jordan is taking revenge on the infidelity heaped upon her by a ‘The Only Way is Stratchclyde’ dude by never visiting Paisley ever again. Or any dudes. And then she’s having a rude and expensive operation that this dude must pay for.”

“So?”

“Also, she will never visit the valleys in case a ‘The Only Way is Valleys’ dude is unfaithful to her as well, don’t you know?”

Lindy snatched the magazine from Clifford. She quickly flicked through it and her eyes narrowed. I have to tell you that what she noted was neither pleasant or should be put into a story like this, so I won’t mention it. “It doesn’t say any such thing,” she announced, after a couple of minutes.

“Doesn’t it?”

“No. Tell me, Clifford, can you actually read?”

“Well, there wasn’t much call for reading in shrimp school,” Clifford answered, “Mainly we just learned stuff about paella avoidance, the mistake of taking a hot tempura bath and why Chinese mixed meats special fried rice is never as tasty as it sounds.”

“Did you, indeed? Kindly go back to your pond, if you would be so kind. And take this trash with you.” And she hurled the offensive reading material back at the shrimp.

Clifford protested. “But I’m a sea faring shrimp. I mainly hang about around sewerage outlets. Not ponds.”

And, upon hearing that, Lindy felt it was only fair to help her little friend by scooping him carefully onto some tissue paper, depositing him in her library lavatory and using her hoof to perform a mighty flush.

After all, she reasoned, it would be rather like a visit to Blackpool Pleasure Pavillions with added popcorn for Clifford.

Anway, her days proceeded rather like the ones I have described for you, dear readers. A quick shufti and dust of the bottom shelves, followed by mostly interrupted reading, dispensing wisdom and summary justice for those who messed on her clothing or face.

It was a satisfying life. Quiet, but satisfying.

Until one day, as invariably happens in stories like these, something occurred to turn her world entirely upside down.

For a bit.

 

This oncoming storm was foreshadowed by none other than Taff, Toss and Binty, three deaf slugs who were often to be found by the wet paving stones outside the cement factory that had been turned into a coffee shop for the hard of hearing, wetting the paving stones.

“Lindy, Lindy,” they shrieked, as loudly as slugs were able. “Something woeful is happening, just up the street by the tumbledown steel mill.”

As they hurried into the library, Lindy laid her book aside, switched off her reading light, pursed her lips and glared. “What is it this time?” And her hoof scuttled like an crab towards a salt cellar upon her desk she kept handy for dipping her celery into.

Her other hoof smacked the first. Reluctantly she put the salt away.

After an hour or so, the slugs had managed to heave themselves up to the top of the desk where Lindy’s elbows propped up her chins. She scrunched up her eyes, pretending to be interested. “Why, it’s Boff, Chip and Clitter, isn’t it?”

The three slugs shook their respective heads. “No. We are Taff, Toss and Binty. Boff, Chip and Clitter are brown slugs. We are black slugs. We don’t mess with the likes of Biff, Chip and Clitter. They are too tough for the likes of us.”

“I see,” replied Lindy, already feeling a tad bored.

One of the slugs, possibly Binty, but it could have been Taff or Toss for all she knew, pulled itself erect and stared her right into the eye. “Do you? Do you really understand?” And his voice conveyed a sadness, a despair – as if his days had been wasted and only now was he truly beginning to see.

But Taff or Toss, or maybe Binty, stopped Binty or maybe Taff or Toss. “No time for that now. Danger. Deadly danger!”

“What danger?” Lindy asked. A fair enough question, for outside the library it was a fir and sunny sort of morning.

“The Minister is here. The Minister for Books. And he’s coming right now. To this library.”

“Oh, poppycock,” snapped Lindy. And with that, she took our three friendly slugs by the horns and chucked them into the garden, where they were never heard of again.

Something of a relief, I think you’ll agree.

But, as she returned, Lindy was accosted by three severe looking personages who were stood to attention in front of her desk.

“What can I do for you three…gentlemen?”

She cast her critical eyes over them in an instant, summing them up. One was a stoat, dressed officiously in a suit, with a waistcoat and watch fob, a handkerchief triangle foppishly protruding from his breast pocket and a monocle screwed onto his right eye.

The other two, dressed in striped jerseys, were probably woodworm; it was difficult to be certain. They were having difficulty staying still, as – in all probability – they had been commanded to by the stoat.

“Allow me to present my credentials,” he pronounced, grandly, and offering an I D card.

“Bill Ford Haven.” Lindy read, aloud.

“No, no. Not Bill Ford Haven,” the stoat replied. “Bull Feurdeuven”. You don’t pronounce the ‘H’, don’t you know?”

“Dipthong, eh?”

“There’s no cause to be rude, dear lady. May I present my assistants, Bodger and Todger?”

“Not Beurgeur and Teurgeur?”

“No, no. Quite definitely Bodger and Todger. We are,” he continued, “From the Ministry of Education.”

“Of course you are.”

“And why did you say that?” Bill Fordhaven had the irritating throaty whine of someone who had been through an expensive school. Someone for whom things had fallen into place and he’d never had to do much in the way of work other than creating forms for people to tick and sign.

Before Lindy could answer, Bodger and Todger could contain themselves no longer and started to bounce vertically as though they were on springs. “Can we start, can we start?” one, or the other, was chanting, with extreme impatience.

“Yes, off you go lads,” replied Fordhaven, with an indulgent smile.

And before you could say ‘oily tick’ they were up and at it, scuttering down aisles, tearing through shelves, burrowing into books.

Lindy watched, nonplused. “What are they doing, Mr Fordhaven?”

“Ah, Feurdeuven. Well, it’s like this, my dear Ms Loveslace. Your library has been reported. To us. For having lewd and rude words in the books.”

“Really?”

“Yes. There’s been an outbreak of bad language in The Valleys and it is my job to root out the rot.”

“And may I know the worse that may befall me in this case?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What will you do if you find any rude words?”

“Ah, well, Bodger and Todger are trained in all the rude words known to man.” proclaimed Fordhaven. “And should they find them, they know what to do.”

“And what is that?”

“Why, eat them, of course!” The stoat smirked, as if everybody ought to know that this was precisely and exactly the fate that all rude words should suffer.

“Eat them?”

“Yes. And, of course, shut down the library.”

“But this is the best library in The Valleys,” Lindy, protested.

“Not if all your books have holes in them, it isn’t.” And with that, Bill Fordhaven strutted off in pursuit of his two underlings, to assess the state of affairs.

Lindy followed him, interested to see what was happening.

“Is ‘bum’ a rude word?” one of the woodworm was shouting, head stuffed inside some corrugated papers.

“That would depend.”

“On what?”

“Well, read the sentence, Bodger, and let’s hear it,” snapped Bill Fordhaven, Presumably, this was a conversation he had most days, given the nature of his job.

Bodger cleared his throat. “Ah…Ben Broadbent was a cheery old bum, and used to eat his lunch off fags.”

Bill Fordhaven’s forehead furrowed and he stroked his chin. “Doesn’t seem too rude,” he admitted after careful thought. “I’ll consult the Ministry’s Book of Forbidden Words.” He read some of these aloud, but as some of them were pretty darned rude, I’ll certainly not type them here in the middle of a children’s story.

Bodger waited for the result, his tummy growling like a wolf.

“Wait, wait.” Fordhaven looked up. “Yes, ‘bum’ in the same sentence as ‘bent’ and ‘fags’ can be considered rude…but the real problem here is ‘cheery’. It’s too much like ‘cherry’.

“What’s rude about cherry?” Lindy asked, perplexed.

“Don’t you remember that 60s hit single ‘Cherry Cherry’? Very dodgy. Very dodgy indeed.”

Lindy scowled. “No, I don’t remember that particular tune,” she snapped, as Bodger started eating the offending sentence, leaving some unpleasant looking evidence behind him.

“Oh yes,” continued Fordhaven. “Notorious, he was. And let’s not forget ‘Crouch, Bent and Duff. Or was it Muff?”

“Crouch, Bent and Muff?”

“Why yes. The manager of some football team or other made the mistake of putting them on the same team sheet. Well, it was chocks away for young Bodger and Todger here. And that manager’s feet never touched the ground. Cancelled immediately and whisked off to some lower league, overseas – Arabia, I believe.”

“Really?” Lindy’s voice was dripping with venom, but it made no difference. Hardly a moment had passed before Todger piped up from the Medical Section. “Mr Feurdeuven. I’ve got a breast here.”

“Well done, my boy. I’m utterly fed up with those. Do the necessary, will you?”

“Certainly, sir.” And Todger was up and at it, chowing down heartily on the offending ink and paper.

“But it’s a medical encyclopedia,” protested Lindy.

“Quite so. An absolute menace. Full to the brim with unhealthiness. What if our youngsters set their eyes on that?”

And so it continued. But what made it worse was that every time they found another rude word, and believe me, they found plenty, Mr Fordhaven wrote it down on a large form he had, attached to a clipboard and, every so often, Lindy would have to sign it.

“I will be asking you to type all these up later,” he declared, in such a manner that suggested it was not up for debate.

“But your eliminating words from the book and replacing them on the form,” Lindy pointed out. “You’re creating a much worse lexicon than the ones Bodger and Todger are destroying.”

“This is a Ministry lexicon.”

“Well, how does that make it good?”

“Shut up. I give these to my superiors. After that, I have no idea what happens to them.” And he took a few pictures of Lindy on his camera, printed them out, and attached them to the forms. Occasionally, he was not totally happy with the results, so she would have to pose – by the shelves, on the desk and under the umbrella stand.

By the time they were finished, barely a book remained without some holes in it.

“May I use your office?” asked Fordhaven, grimly. “I have a report to write.”

 

 

Lindy Loveslace sat at her desk, somewhere between infuriated and depressed, looking at what remained of her beautiful library. But, as you know, dear readers, she was not one to be beaten down so easily. You will recall what happened to Clifford, Morgan and their friends Taff, Toss and Turnip?

Indeed, it was with Clifford in mind that she repaired quickly to the bathroom.

She lifted the lid. “Clifford?” she hissed, hopefully. “Are you there?”

To her relief, a voice answered. Somewhat shaken, to be sure, but definitely a voice. “Lindy? Is that you? Somebody tried to flush me down the bog. I’ve been swimming around here for ages, trying to make an ascent, but the bowl is way to slippery for a shrimp.”

“Are you alright?” Lindy replied, with as much concern as she could put into her voice, given her mixed feelings.

“I guess so. One of my mandibles is a bit clogged up with brown tissues.”

“Grab hold of my hoof, Clifford.” Lindy flinched as she lowered her limb gingerly into the water.

Clifford hopped aboard. “Cheers, dude.”

“Glad to be of service,” Lindy lied, because the shrimp was becoming clogged in her fur. And he smelt. She took him back to her desk and helped him up. “I have a problem of my own.”

“Well, one good turn deserves another, dude,” Clifford replied, “How can I help?”

Lindy smiled. “Just hop in between these two bread slices, will you?”

“Sure thing, dude.” Clifford did as he was asked and was surprised to find that, instead of butter or mayonnaise, the bread was lined with several signed sheets of very rude words indeed. But before he had a chance to protest, Lindy had wrapped the bread in cling film and was trotting towards her office. “Mr Fordhaven?”

The stoat looked up from his report writing. It had taken longer than he had anticipated.

But then it always did. Bodger and Todger would insist on eating bits of it as he wrote. “What is it, Ms Loveslace?”

“I…er…thought you might be hungry. I prepared this shrimp sandwich for you.”

“Why, that’s my very favourite kind of sandwich,” replied Fordhaven. “I can only say thank you. Thank you very much indeed.” And, unwrapping the package, took a mighty bite, chewing thoughtfully, before gulping it down. “I only wish my report was more favourable,” he admitted, perhaps feeling guilty by her kindness. “But I shall have to recommend closure.”

“Closure?”

“Yes. I’m very much afraid we found every rude word there was in your library. The whole kit and kaboodle. And connotations a go go” And he swallowed the rest of the sandwich, thoughtfully. “Closure, it is.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t?” Fordhaven frowned, unused to such defiance, particularly from a lowly llama. “Whyever not?”

Lindy smiled a triumphant smile. “Because that sandwich wasn’t just a shrimp sandwich. It was also full of those papers. Signed by you. In fact, you’ve just swallowed every rude word in your book. This makes you full of more rude words than my entire library, you officious little stoat. You wouldn’t want me to report that, would you?”

“Oh my God, I’ve just eaten my words!” screamed Fordhaven, “But nobody saw.”

“We saw,” replied Bodger and Todger.

“Me too!” Clifford cried from somewhere within Mr Fordhaven. “I saw the whole thing.”

“Damn you, Lindy Loveslace, I’ve been bested.” And with that, the three officials stumbled out, thoroughly browbeaten. “We’ll be back.” Bill Fordhaven snarled. But he was fooling no one, was he?

And, to this day, Lindy Loveslace is still chief librarian of Llanthickpizzle Major. She may be lowly, but she reads every day, and sometimes, even books with rude words. Her friends Morgan Lookyew and Clod, Twig and Hopper still pop in from time to time to check out her half-chewed novels and semi-masticated magazines and she treats them as she always has and always will.

As for Clifford the Shrimp, you’ll be relieved to know that, on the fateful day he was chomped, Bill Fordhaven spat him out, along with some tissue, complaining that he didn’t taste nice.




Friday 27 September 2024

A Luvvie Expired

 

A Luvvie Expired

 

There’s chippapersfull of portraits in grim

imposturing of, oh, this national treasure,

a true legend and your tolling bell ends

gawping in awe, wail and gnash,

and maybe there's a bit of cash

and grab in it, fingering those foreskins

at her panoply of stupid hats,

like that wizard’s with a crooked spire

sitting on top like her chimney stack

sucks up hungry flames of hidden fires

from stone grates far below.

As expired as your lemon marmalade,

that impulse buy from IKEA

on a library daytrip to pay your fines,

for books you thought you’d never read,

‘Harry Snot and the Sisters Sacked’,

‘Nancy McPee Shuts her Trap’

or something equally topical like that

and wasn’t she in that shitty piece of crap

about Abba? You know, where for a finale

the bastards come back on to do an encore?

But we’re begging you, please, no more,

and don’t let that trapdoor

smack you on the way through the floor

and that sorting hat can fuck off, too.



Sometimes, the Few Choose You

 Sometimes, the Few Choose You

 

Sometimes, you can just get chosen.

When it happens, it’s best not to think

too much on it, not much you can do,

something in the way she looks at you.

A flash of black between her buttons

pushing pink under the opened collar,

tight in slacks that slip past, fill cracks

and a smile as though you’re the last

or first, it’s all much the same, really.

Like Daniella puts down her violin

with a hush-hush grin is bringing in

on her lap a stray ginger scrap of cat.

Why this one? Everyday millions

born wanting shelter, a  place to stay,

one of her chosen few. And it happens

probably more than you’d admit,

if you consider it - first upon her lap,

then, under a blanket in her box

with sides as sheer as stocking tops,

he will grow; begin to test his world,

and all that he can find confined,

until some day dawns; he can choose

to leap over or stay without biting.

And sometimes if you’re found fighting,

it comes in her silk eyes or satin lips,

you’ll take her offered hand and grip.





A Better Class of Decking

 A Better Class of Decking

 

Say it as you see it

you'll have your fill

as towel taggers

spill like pigs at swill

or queues that snake

in eyes that rake

up untouched food

upon your plate

twitching like a junky

before that fix

of picking bed bugs’

needle-pricks

ripping at scabs

to air good blood

bleeding poisons

from under skin

last night’s infected

mosquito mainlined in

testing the planks

with swollen feet

it flexes springs

pushing back

offer out cushions

with a critical eye

then settle plump

your plus size rump

yield in squeals

and agonized groan,

of lamentations'

indentations; all is spent.

See that pulsing

at her sweaty temple

now says she was

just checking

that here you'd find

a better class of decking.




Friday 20 September 2024

If You Sit On It, It Is

 

If You Sit On It, It Is

 

It comes across my desk, and that’s a bit rude

in itself, isn’t it? Could certainly be construed

that way. I always thought if Ferguson put

Crouch, Bent and Duff in his starting line up

it was dodgy; even back then, you’d titter.

There you go. So, really, what’s this all about?

I’ll be straight, which reminds me of Zoe Gadsby

who wasn’t. In fact, she was fat, well, plus-sized

and there was something desperate in her eyes,

maybe she guessed, or saw it; unsurprised

that time we wrote our team down on paper

when pissed, of all the ones least likely to score.

Anyway, today there’s a knock on my office door,

cos next week, visitors, and a flustered librarian

with 500 dictionaries tossing off rude words

with gay abandon, ones that shouldn’t be heard,

haram; would I take my magic marker to them?

To put it plainly, be a lexical filter, verbal scrubber,

put foul English language to the rubber,

pictured myself squatting for hours with piles

of books that came from the dreaming spires

of Oxford – or some other dump like that, anyway.

Now, she’s a lovely girl, but I told her, ‘Sorry, super,

it’s a bit soft.’ Then explained - not that, but that,

with the emphasis on ‘that’ and pointing at books,

but even so, she left my office with such a dirty look

that it reminded me of Blackadder’s erect turnips,

and how it's nothing rude - until you sit on it, that is.


You Made Him Cry, You Know?

 You Made Him Cry, You Know?

 

With a grimace another day, find your seat

behind the driver, say something Arabic,

sun up, beginning its long journey west

to dip below Khalifa and come to rest,

and his bus smells like burning clutch,

you're thinking nests, eggs, hens that cluck.

Lucky, that, cos here’s one, she’s getting on

coming up front, behind her, gawky son,

you’ve clocked him a few times, fair hair,

from that cut off land without a prayer

for sunset, bright sparks who assume

it was they that wrote all the best tunes,

like pull up the ladder, batten hatches,

leaving keys for kids who lift the latches;

in blazer pockets, the burning matches.

So why are they here? Ah, it don’t matter,

he’s had your seat that time you were late,

but you let it go. She’s fire behind grates

burning somewhat, shakes fist fingers,

the mist descends. ‘You left him behind,’

she accuses our driver, naming crimes.

In Arabic he speaks of departure times

and looks, careless. She, heaving breasts,

raises her voice as if he must be deaf,

shrieks: ‘You made him cry, you know?”

As if these words deliver some final blow,

she’s glaring, turns to all us other ones

for understanding, surely we can see wrongs

when they’re as clear as this one appears,

but the clock has spoken. It seems no tears

will move him, cos he shrugs, shifts gears,

spins the wheel as the flow up front clears.




Friday 13 September 2024

A Bag of Suet

 

A Bag of Suet

 

Comes in placed; boxed red, yellow, blue,

moved from one shelf to another, sits still,

a bag of suet, and still sits, gathering dust,

knowing all autumns fall coloured in rust

and here’s her fingerprint patterns unique,

imprinted, powdered; the outlook’s bleak.

You see, all suet's solid, suet's expanding,

becoming something nasty in the kitchen.

You clocked it first in print, decades ago,

it was inside at large or maybe helps out,

not at the boulangerie, not at the piscine

swimming - that was never her scene,

an excess of water mixes sticky messes,

falls in globs upon her patterned dresses

depicting leaves in brown, dun, skeleton,

once they've carelessly lain in shagpiles

decaying in wintery heaps for far too long.

After all, a bag of suet only is a sack of fat,

mixed with flour, bubbles on top of stews

sweats gelignite, all out to get me and you,

blind of reason, scraps that fall like snow,

get stuffed on shelves and obesity grows,

maybe one could be enough to keep afloat

or else tie that sack to your neck with rope.