tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77527920012438212322024-03-20T12:27:18.146+01:00Beejay's BabblesFor no apparent reason, everyone I know, and a few million I don't, seem to think having a blog is a good thing. Why? I don't have a bloody clue but here I am.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-83695084927852321272011-07-03T09:04:00.008+02:002011-07-05T09:15:17.247+02:00Life's like that.<div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"></div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">A lady friend I hadn't seen for some time bumped into me yesterday.</span></div></div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Hello," she said, "how are you keeping?"</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Not so bad thanks," I informed her, going on to tell her of my recent stays in hospital and newly acquired status as an invalid. (<i>two severe</i> <i>heart attacks, peritonitis and appendectomy leaves me a 66.6% invalid according to Social Services, which means 33.3% of me is fully fit and available for work, though which 33.3% I'm not entirely sure</i>)</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "So what are you doing with yourself now you can't work any more," she asked.</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "I'm writing a book," I told her.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Oh, that's a novel idea," she replied.</div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Wasn't much I could say to that really.</div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Some people (mainly grumpy, drunk, wrinkly old gits) complain when I'm having a conversation with a friend in English. </div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "<i>Je bent hier lang genoeg Nederlands te praten,</i>" one miserable old git shouted at me the other day in the café. He was right. I have been here long enough to speak Dutch. (<i>There is no such language as Flemish. It's just a dialect of Dutch</i>) Seventeen years I've been in this miserable dump. But I can and do speak Dutch when I need to. It just happens that some Belgians enjoy speaking English. Why shouldn't I oblige them?</div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> So, in Dutch, I asked him quite politely if I'd been speaking to him.</div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "<i>Nee</i>," he replied.</div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Believe me," I told him, continuing in Dutch, "if I have something to say to you, it will be in Dutch, even though more people in Belgium speak French (<i>Walonia is a lot bigger than the rest of Belgium) </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and let's not forget the little corner that only speak in German. So, when you think about it, you have three national languages. Why should I pick your favourite? Do you speak French or German?"</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-style: normal;"> "</span><i>Nee.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">"</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-style: normal;"> "Then you have no right to complain about what language I and my friends choose to hold our conversations in."</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-style: normal;"> He went a little quiet then so I asked him, somewhat sarcastically, "are you a friend of mine?"</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-style: normal;"> "</span><i>Nee,</i><span style="font-style: normal;">" he replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"> By this time, everybody in the place, grinning like morons, was listening in to the conversation. You could have heard a pin drop. </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> That's when I let him have it. Both barrels. Very loud. In English.</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <b> <span style="font-style: normal;"> "Then, you fuckin' dipstick, keep your fuckin' nose out of my fuckin' conversations."</span></b></div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div>Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-27363273175410385552011-06-30T00:59:00.004+02:002011-07-02T22:16:56.801+02:00InsomniaInsomnia; such a nondescript word that means one thing and one thing only. Sufferers simply can't sleep. The door to the mind is stuck fully open. No bloke in top hat and tails, grey pinstripe trousers and shiny shoes is going to close it for you while holding out a hand for a tip. Nope. It remains gaping, like the jaws of a hungry extant archosaurian reptile without a wildebeast in sight.<br />
Unlike Hypochondriacs who have a million deseases at their disposal; probably more now with the advent of Google. Every symptom of every known ailment to man and his imagination can be allowed free rein to torment the staff of medical establishments from Clapham Junction to Ulan Bator, from Haight Ashbury to Melbourne high street and very possibly Skegness..<br />
Then of course there's the Cleptomaniacs. Can't keep their hands of anything that isn't fixed down. But at least they have choices of what they're going to nick and where they're going to nick it from, depending on their mood. They come in all manner of class. From your low life who just wants to cop for a pack or two of Lucky Strikes, to the perfumed high society tart whose one mink coat looked lonely in the wardrobe 'til she discovered free shop 'til you drop.<br />
Not that we poor insomniacs don't have choices. Of course we do. We have ceilings and walls to stare at. We can toss and turn, take a stroll round the bedroom. Check to make sure we've turned the light off to the fish tank. Kick the cat; why should he sleep when we're looking through eyes that feel they're slowly being eaten by giant Jalopéno chillis. Wake up the kid and stick her on her drum kit, let her vibrate the walls, then offer to sell ear plugs to the neighbours.<br />
Nope, Cleptomaniacs and Hydrochondiacs get all the fun. Probably more so if they're blond. I'll bet Cindie Lauper Hypochondriacced the shit out of her doctor and then Cleptoed the hell out the jet set stores on Hollwood Boulevard.<br />
Ah well, I think I'll go back to bed now and see if I can dream of being a sick thief.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-91035542359604129222011-06-29T19:56:00.002+02:002011-06-29T20:00:53.709+02:00A Little Freeby<div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> This is the intro to my autobiography 'Who the F**k is Beejay Wells?' You can have this bit for nothing but if you want the rest you'll have to wait 'til it's finished...............then BUY IT........... Providing it gets published of course.</div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> Introduction, or moaning and groaning</b></span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span> </div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">It's the early hours of the morning and sleep just won't come. That's the way it's been for me as long as I can remember, never being able to switch off when I get into bed. Lucky are the people that can fall asleep as soon as they go horizontal. Me, I just lie there, tossing and turning, staring at the wall in the dark trying to remember the colour of the peeling wall paper. Sometimes I can't even remember where I am, I've moved from place to place that many times. </div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Now here I am, in my sixties, looking back over a life that seems to be full of ex-wives, ex-girlfriends, expense, kids, dogs, cats, fish tanks and people after money. There's also a whole lot of miles behind me spent in the search for something that's always eluded me. Still it could be worse, couldn't it? It might be back where I started from and wouldn't that be a bloody irony. </div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> So instead of waiting for sleep, death or retirement, (hopefully death 'cos retirement's too far away) I've decided to put my thoughts on paper, well at least on my computer to start with. Just between us though, me and the computer don't work well as a team so it could all end in tears, and I just know that this story is going to take me forever to do because I've only got two fingers that know how to type. I only use one though and leave the other one on the subs bench so to speak. </div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> This means that while you are reading this account of my pitiful existence I'm probably retired in some cockroach infested wrinklies home on the Costa del Misery, sitting in a rocking chair with only one rocker, waiting for a nurse with the facial features of a sad garden gnome to bring me a meal that a pot bellied pig wouldn't touch unless it was force fed with a rocket launcher. </div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Why am I even bothering? I mean, look at the odds. I'm sixty-two and my mother is in her eighties, so after the heart attacks two years ago I can only hope that I'll last long enough to finish it. And she'll last long enough to buy a copy 'cos I'm sure nobody else will. In fact I don't think my mother will buy one unless it comes with a free clip on wine rack for her zimmer frame, and my sister wouldn't even read it unless the S.A.S. decided she needed interrogating and used it for torture. </div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Still, I've made a start and for once I'm determined to finish something I've started even though there will be many people saying "<i>Yeah yeah. We'll not be holding our breath.</i>" And while I'm not really a vindictive person I'll be hoping that some of them do. At least until I have finished what I've started. </div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> I won't name names though because I can't afford any lawsuits. In fact there isn't much I can afford right now, with money being so tight that when comes to paying bills I just shuffle them and deal one. Right now I'm down to my last pair of jeans and what's left of my T- shirts have more holes in them than a U.S. Presidents declaration of truth and a Baghdad hotel put together. </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="nl-BE"> I no longer own a suit which is fine by me as it means I can't go to funerals or weddings and as four of the weddings I've been to have been my own, you'll understand why I'm in no hurry to make an appointment with my tailor. </span> </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="nl-BE"> Four times is enough. Why four times you ask? Simple. You don't keep a car for life, yet the car takes you to the pub and brings you home when you're pissed. Does a wife do that? More to the point. Does your car keep telling you to mow the lawn or get a shave on your day off? I don't think so, plus the car is easier to turn on and it doesn't get headaches. Mind you neither of them listens when you're talking to them so you can't win either way. </span> </div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Learn from your mistakes my mother always told me, but how can you do that when you don't have the time to finish making them. Much better to watch other peoples mistakes and pick the ones that seem the most interesting. There are always new things to get wrong and if they are out there you can put money on me being the one to find them. </div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> When making a balls up becomes lucrative then I'll be a millionaire, not that I really ever wanted to be a millionaire. Not at all. I'll be happy just to be able to pay cash for my tobacco and ignore the health warning plastered all over the packet, and that's another thing. Why don't they also put the health warning in Braille so that blind people can know that smoking is bad for them? </div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> If I sound a little cynical it's because I am. Let's face it, being cynical can be a great asset, especially when some asshole is trying to sell you something. And when the Jehovas bloody witnesses knock at the door, you don't feel guilty about telling them to piss off. I've even known the Mormons to knock on the door and try to sell me their brand of religion and, as I believe that nearly all the shit going on in the world today is a direct result of dick heads '<i>spreading the word</i>', it is not a good idea to sermonise on my door step, thank you very much. </div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Don't get me wrong. I love people, I love helping people but I don't need to be a Jesus junkie to do that.</div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> I mean if there was a God who <i>'in the beginning'</i> created man in his <i>own</i> image, how the hell did he know that women needed tits, good legs and a nice bum. Let's face it, he would've been in Eves bad books right away for not taking the extra day to invent little necessities like make up, the wonder bra, the Philips lady shave, aspirin and Delia Smiths cook book. It would also have been extremely sociable of him to have given Adam a Mary Jane tree so he could chill out whenever Eve had a headache. </div><div lang="nl-BE" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Talking of headaches maybe I'd better get started so I can get finished and you can buy a copy, get bored and use it to prop up a wobbly table or something.</div>Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-2985613394736089262011-06-15T21:01:00.002+02:002011-06-16T11:19:51.546+02:00Never, never, take a kid into a music shop.Back in July 2004, two years after the death of my father, I was in back in Byfleet, England with my ex girlfriend and the Muppet, visiting my mother. While there I called in to a music shop to buy some guitar picks. All I wanted was half a dozen picks at 25 pence each. The mistake I made was letting Jessica-Marie tag along instead of leaving her at my mother's, with her mother. You have to know that the Muppet was still three and a half months away from her fourth birthday. It should have been a simple transaction. A short conversation with the shopkeeper (SK) and myself (Me) and I'd walk out with half a dozen picks and a Muppet (J-M). Easy eh? Yeah right.<br />
<br />
SK:- Can I help you sir?<br />
Me:- Yes, I'd like.....<br />
J-M:- Daddy<br />
Me:- Sweety, I'm busy. Could I see.......<br />
J-M:- Daddy. Drums. Look.<br />
Me:- Yes, very nice. Can you show me.......<br />
J-M:- Daddy, I want a drum kit.<br />
Me:- Yes, well I'd quite like a Baldwin bass, now be quiet a minute. Yes she is cute. Yeah, er, picks.<br />
SK:- Certainly sir. Any particular picks in mind?<br />
Me:- Yeah, I normally use medium.............. <br />
J-M:- Daddy, I want the red one.<br />
Me:- Jessica-Marie, I am not made of money. Now let.........<br />
J-M:- You could go busking, Daddy.<br />
Me:- Sweety, this is West Byfleet, I'd more likely get lifted by the Old Bill.<br />
J-M:- What's Old Bill<br />
Me:- Coppers near retirement, as opposed to Young Bill. Now can I finish buying these picks. Medium shark fin please, mate.<br />
J-M:- But Daddeeeeee<br />
Me:- It's no use you 'but daddeeeeeing' me. End of story. No drum kit. Ali Benito Finito.<br />
J-M:- But Daddy, I dream of playing drums. <br />
Me:- Dream on, Jessica-Marie, dream on.<br />
J-M:- I could play to your AC/DC songs.<br />
Me:- It ain't like your Barbie doll. Played with it once, ripped it's head off and threw it in the corner.<br />
J-M:- I'll look after them Daddy. Please, please, please, please.<br />
Me:- Sweety, I'm a bass player. What's going to happen to my street cred if we have a drummer in the family?<br />
J-M:- You don't love me.<br />
Me:- Course I do. I haven't put you in the microwave for months, have I............ Aw shit, this could be expensive. Birthday and Christmas present in one, right...... Okay mate, I think you'd better box up a drum kit.<br />
J-M:- WooooHoooo. We're on the Highway to Hell, dum, dum, dumdum, dumdum, Highway to Hell.<br />
<br />
Forty-five minutes later her dream came true. We left the shop with one pound fifty worth of picks and three hundred friggin' quids worth of red drum kit. Two months later she got a signed photo from Angus Young.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i222.photobucket.com/albums/dd198/strummerwells/Copyofdrumscutgif.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="http://i222.photobucket.com/albums/dd198/strummerwells/Copyofdrumscutgif.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Worth it though for the big grin and the chance to wake up the neighbours at 7.00 on a Saturday morning.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-27529843649518000602011-06-12T14:19:00.000+02:002011-06-12T14:19:56.560+02:00Just a taste.Seems half the folks on Twitter, well the writer type folks at least, have this thing called 'Sample Sunday'. Wasn't sure what it meant really. I mean, I've sampled Sundays all over the Northern Hemisphere for the last bloody 62 years. What could possibly be different about about sampling a Twit Sunday? Turns out it's just a reason to get us to try and buy. Bit like wine merchants really. Only they just want us to buy cheap plonk at Champagne prices. <br />
The good folks on Twitter though simply want us to recognise the talent, or lack of in some cases, employed in the art of writing a ripping, or possibly not so ripping, good yarn. Of course if you're a published writer without the backing of a major publishing company behind you, it's not a bad idea. A little exposure can't be bad. Providing it's not in public and nowhere near a policeman pounding a boring beat on a Sunday.<br />
Okay so I'm not a published writer but what the hell. I'm not going to let a little thing like that get in my way so, whether you like it or not, here's the opening of 'Why Danny'<br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">There aren't many of us old school blaggers left now, it's all drugs, computer fraud and identity theft these days but Danny the Dip – pickpocket, burglar, safe cracker, small time tea leaf, snout, biggest bender of the truth in the East End – knew one. Not only knew one, but got on the wrong side of him, and the wrong side of Harry Chambers was usually the side pointing a pistol. Though if Harry happened to be <i>sans pistolet</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, a baseball bat would do the job just as nicely, thank you very much. Fussy wasn't in his vocabulary when it came to making a statement. If you thought the Krays were bad –– well, let's just say, Harry was an evil bastard. Only been out myself two days, after doing a ten stretch; I didn't need to be getting grief, and standing at my door, Danny the Dip was telling me why I would.</span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Strange really, because the three of us had gone to the same school, grown up together and, for a short while, we'd worked in the same team. But while the Dip, a couple of years younger than us, had always been the odd one out, me and Harry had stayed close friends </span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">–</span></span><span style="font-style: normal;">– until now.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "It's still you 'e blames, Keef, an' you're out now while 'is bruvver is still banged up. If 'arry wasn't laid up wiv the flu you might 'ave copped it yesterday. You've 'elped me before so I thought I'd best give you the S.P. like, you know, tip you the wink."</div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Thanks. It wasn't me shot the copper though, Danny. All little brother Billy had to do was get his self into the bloody car, but no. He had to go all bloody macho and start shooting up the street with a Colt 45. It's a wonder that he only shot the copper. Always was two sandwiches short of a full bloody picnic. His bloody fault we got nicked. If he'd been around in the sixties same as us, either the Krays would have topped him or a bloody Judge would have hanged him. I'm surprised he didn't grass up his brother for sorting the job and supplying the shooters. He couldn't even spell loyalty let alone know the meaning of the word."</div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Wouldn't 'ave got 'im a lighter sentence anyway. Not after toppin' a scuffer it wouldn't."</div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Maybe, maybe not."</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-style: normal;"> "Right, I'll be orf then Keef. Don't want to 'ang around too long on your door step. Eyes everywhere an' all that. Watch yer back mate."</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> With the collar of his jacket turned up, hands thrust deep in his pockets, and baseball cap shielding his eyes, he turned and slouched away, having said all he'd come to say. That was the last I ever saw of Danny the Dip. </div>Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-49195646694473246692011-06-05T22:36:00.000+02:002011-06-05T22:36:12.874+02:00The Mouse and the ElephantMouse said to the Elephant,<br />
My dear I love you so.<br />
Let's elope and get married<br />
without letting anyone know.<br />
<br />
Well, Elephant she took her time<br />
Indeed time was required<br />
while she thought and thought and finally<br />
to the little Mouse she replied.<br />
<br />
There is no other in my life<br />
that I would rather wed<br />
but what happens on the honeymoon<br />
if we can't find a big enough bed<br />
<br />
No problem there said little Mouse<br />
we'll sleep beneath the stars<br />
because if we sleep upon bare boards<br />
you'll get splinters in your arse<br />
<br />
So in a jungle clearing<br />
they were wed by a one eyed bat<br />
but that night while entwined in 69<br />
Elephant squashed the little Mouse flat. <br />
<br />
<br />
All say, aaaaaahhhhh.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-29622331338171915552011-06-04T22:53:00.011+02:002011-06-10T17:25:09.112+02:00The bits I like to miss outI don't think I'm a lazy writer, more, well ecconomical I suppose. There are times when things just aren't needed. As a musician I'm well aware of the adage, <i>'it's not always what you play that makes an impact on a song but sometimes what you leave out and also singing off the beat can be a huge dynamic.'</i><br />
<br />
I find the same in my writing, and yes I've been hauled over the coals about it on more than a few occasions but I refuse to bow to the conventional. Same as I don't give a shit about show and tell.<br />
<br />
If two detectives are interviewing a subject, possibly about a murder, we know the standard questions, the usual '<i>where were you on the night of bla bla bla, what were you doing at a certain time of day on the bla bla bla. </i>That's the bits I find superfluous. The story will take care of those bits.<br />
<br />
Anyway, here's an extract from 'Why Danny, Harry?' Two Detective inspectors, one, D.I. Waters, a posh Surrey bred copper, not given to emotional outbursts and the other is a Geordie who's lived in the Smoke (London) for forty years and never lost his accent. That can be a culture shock if you happen to engage someone from Newcastle-upon-Tyne in conversation for the first time.<br />
<br />
In this extract from ch.13 I think I've done a reasonable job of representing the three characters and their somewhat tenuous friendship. Anyway, the interviewee is a cockney who's done his best to shed the rhyming slang image of the East End.<br />
.............................................................................................................................................................<br />
<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Another mind whirling forty minutes, before the door creaked open and D.I. Stone squeaked his way across the room, double tape deck in his hands, while D.I. Waters quietly shut the door and followed. From under hooded eyelids I watched with indifference as the tape deck was set down on the table. Waited until they'd both sat opposite me before a word was spoken. To them, it would have been a game of quiet intimidation. To me? Well, I really didn't give a shit. I hadn't done anything; why should I worry. Jack Stone spoke first.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Morning, Keith, man. Before we gan on, just want to say like, that me an' Pete are not in the mood for pleasantries today. We've had a hard couple of days, like. Interviewing scum that tark in nothing but y' bloody Cockney rhyming slang. Please Keith, an' ah am asking politely noo. Divn't tark like them, eh. Be nice to have a tape we can use in court wi' oot the need for translators like. Y' kna' worra mean, man."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Well, that was too much for me. Nearly falling off the chair, shaking with hysterical laughter, I shot at glance in Pete Waters direction. Through the tears that wouldn't stop flowing, the only emotion I could see on his face was a wry smile.</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> "He is joking isn't he Mr. Waters?" I spluttered, "Christ sake, he's been here four decades, still hardly anybody understands a bloody word he says and he's asking </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">me</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> to speak in clear, precise, Queens English. Maybe you'd best ask the questions. That's the surest way if you're really worried about not needing a translator in court. Personally, I think he's just taking the piss. Whatever, let's get this over with."</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Keith," said Waters, unwrapping a couple of tapes and placing them in the deck, "this is not a joking matter. Two weeks you've been back in society and we've already got two bodies. Both of them friends of yours. If you'd rather wait till you get yourself legal representation that's fine. But.......you won't be going anywhere while you sort that out."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Am I under arrest, Pete?"</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Nah, not yet man, but divn't worry yersel," Stone butted in, "if y' hear us reading you' y' rights like, y'll kna' y'are."</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> So, repressing the urge to say ––– 'Aw, come on Guv. On'y wen' up to the Dipper's Mickey for a butcher's and a Graham. [</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Micky Mouse – house, butcher's hook – look, Graham Gootch – mootch</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">]</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Right ol' Porgy's it were an' nah mistake so I wuz in an' aat in a couple of ducks. Y' know,</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">after I done a quick parrot, like. [</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Porgy and Bess – mess, ducks and drakes – shakes, parrot's perch – search</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">] ––– I told them just to get on with it, as I'd nothing to hide, well, except for the briefcase, and no way were they getting that. </span></span> </div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> The fallout if I'd done the Cockney thing would definitely not have given me a feeling of joy and well being. Most likely it would have led to a spot of 'watch your elbows' CLANG.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Two and a half hours and four coffees later Pete Waters leaned forward slightly and said – thankfully, before reaching to switch off the tape recorder, "Interview terminated at," – a quick glance at the watch on his left wrist – "twelve forty-eight."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Well, Keith man. If it's any consolation we divn't think y'are guilty like."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Ignoring the Geordie, I turned to Pete and after he assured me there were no other bits and pieces, hidden in the walls, still bugging our conversation I said, "You two will be put out to grass soon. How would you both like to end your careers with the biggest bust you've ever had?"</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> The two of then looked at one another, then, each with a quizzical expression, leaned forward, elbows firmly on the table, chins resting on clasped hands, staring back at me. Seems I had their interest.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Howay y' gan man. Wor listening."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "First a question. Have you given Harry Chambers a tug yet over this?"</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Ah. Problem there Keith. He's in St. Georges. A bit sick. Nurses swear he never left his bed."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Yeah, well in my experience, nurses spend most of the night in the rest room gossiping over coffee and biscuits. Start looking at patients around five or five thirty in the morning. Three hour window of opportunity there somewhere. And it wouldn't be that hard to make it look like there was still a body in a bed. Prisoners of War did it all the time and if they could fool the Waffen S.S., then Harry could certainly fool a couple of Essex nurses."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Wye aye, Keith man but proving it is something else like." </div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Yeah, well I can give you the bastard's head on a plate but I need an immunity from prosecution deal. Queen's evidence and all that shit."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Withholding evidence is also a crime, Keith."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "I'm not withholding anything, merely looking after something that could help you two become legends."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> "Need a little bit more than that, Keith."</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> "Okay, Mr. Waters, how about this. Twenty-five years ago a woman disappears. Never been found to this day. Apparently Chambers got tugged for questioning about it but the Old Bill couldn't prove he knew her. Even I didn't know he knew her back in the day. Well, now I can put him in the frame plus I think I know where her body is. That's the easy one but imagine how much nicer it would be, on top of that, to put Harry away for topping his missus and Danny Parker </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">and</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> running drugs, because that's what I think he's into now. Give me three weeks. If you don't you'll be running round in rings and disappear up your own arses before you get to collect your commendations and your gold watches."</span></span></div>Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-25051287640472521642011-06-02T09:21:00.003+02:002011-06-02T19:06:51.608+02:00Bloody Mobile Phones<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Not that I really need one – my old mobile phone still works – but I thought, being as it's my birthday today, I might treat myself to one that looks a bit prettier or maybe has a longer battery run before needing to be charged. But when all you want to do is use it to make and receive calls, all the other shit that comes with them can be a nightmare. Especially if you're not a tech freak. I mean, first it was smoke signals and a flaggy thing called semaphore. Then someone invented postage stamps so you could write to people and if you were lucky, they'd write back. Nice. Genteel. Civilised. And then the telephone appeared. Seemed simple enough. What would Alexander Graham Bell think, if he was alive today?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <b>Choices, choices</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I only went in really just to check out the selection.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Spotty faced little salesman brought out hundreds for inspection</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Sony Ericson and Vodaphone, Samsung and Nokia.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">L.G. and Blackberry and some from Motorola.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Slide tops, flip tops, different coloured cases.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">You could even change their languages to suit the varied races.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A few were even waterproof, in case you dropped 'em while out sailing.</div>And you can connect to the internet to do all your e-mailing.<br />
It was explained, not without pain, about all the applications.<br />
You can take photos and videos and record conversations.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Big screens, small screens, touch screens in high definition.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I'm not too sure but I think I saw, one that carried ammunition.</div></div>.<br />
I-phones, Smart phones, phones that boot up your computer.<br />
Before he finished, how I wished, I was carrying a shooter<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Half way through the special deals he was getting on my tits</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So I grabbed him by his collar, and I kneed him in his bits.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Staring him right in the eye I said, "Now look 'ere son.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I only want to make phone calls, so trot out your cheapest one."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Think I'll stick with the old one. </div>Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-78202840033347354692011-05-28T22:21:00.002+02:002011-05-31T22:55:47.671+02:00Death of a friendHaving read a bunch of poetry on <a href="http://www.jeffreyhollar.com/">Jeffrey Holler's website</a> ( moving stuff for anyone who cares ) I thought of a poem I wrote just after I'd done a tour in Northern Ireland in 1970. It's taken a little while to dig out the manuscript of all the shit I penned back in those days as a young Royal Engineer. Stuff I still don't have the heart to chuck away after 40 years of dragging it round half the Northern Hemisphere.<br />
<br />
Hope you enjoy this one Jeffrey. I don't normally touch serious. Sometimes it gets a bit too close.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b> Death of a Friend</b><br />
<br />
Walks slow; the street, silent<br />
in the cold night air.<br />
Dark shadows hold the dangers,<br />
can't see them but they're there.<br />
<br />
Stops at every hungry doorway,<br />
every greedy corner on the block.<br />
Scared, shaking, hesitates.<br />
Doesn't hear the Armalite cocked.<br />
<br />
Fails to see the barrel<br />
pointing mockingly at his breast<br />
never heard the whistle of the round<br />
that smashed into his chest <br />
<br />
Now the not so silent streets<br />
too late, echo the siren's wail<br />
While the moon reflects bewilderment<br />
on the soldiers face, so pale<br />
<br />
I knelt down beside him<br />
tears streaming from my eyes<br />
and though I'm not relgious<br />
I prayed, 'Lord don't let him die<br />
<br />
The only friend I have<br />
He's committed no sin<br />
There's only one mistake he's made<br />
dressed in the clothes he's in.<br />
<br />
Coming here to Ireland<br />
as a soldier of the Queen<br />
so proud of a fucking uniform<br />
and he's only seventeen<br />
<br />
<i>M. Wells (July 1970)</i>Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-88388907331201013002011-05-28T10:38:00.002+02:002011-05-28T15:21:05.644+02:00I wonder why....................Despite the fact that I have American friends in and around a circle including WashingtonDC, California, Arizona - okay, forget Arizona. She was a bitch, really. - Tennessee, Florida, New York and Maine, the publishers and agents over there don't seem to want to touch my work. I, personally, am not anti-American, even if I can't stand Hershy bars and refuse to eat in McDonald's fast food establishments. With the amount of people in the queue it's not that fast anyway. <i>(made the mistake of trying one when I took the Muppet to Antwerp during Easter vacation to visit <a href="http://www.aquatopia.be/">Aquatopia</a>)</i> Anyway, just for the hell of it, here's an extract from <b>'No Justice'</b>, my latest piece of drivel. It would have been a full novel if the U.S. Navy SEALS hadn't screwed the ending.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mahmoud Bakrah, or Moody as we knew him, leaned forward and threw a handful of what he humourously called local chopped herbs over the carcass. I wasn't sure what to make of the raised eyebrow and cheesy smile. Moody was an Arab, so most likely his version of flavour enhancers wouldn't tally with mine but it did add to the aroma and, possibly more importantly, the anticipation of our first hot meal in two days. </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Moody – a short, thick set, ugly looking fifty three year old with narrow, piercing black eyes, a hooked nose you could ski down and a thick black beard the size of a small rain forest was, to be more precise, an Iraqi. An Iraqi who – in somewhat of a hurry – <span style="font-style: normal;">gave up</span> his commission as a Major in the Republican Guard not long after the Cruise missiles began rearranging the architecture in and around Baghdad early in the spring of 2003. He was bright enough to know what end of a camel the shit came from. Rumour has it, he was about to relieve Saddam Hussein of his breathing abilities in December the same year when the Yanks stopped him and claimed the capture them selves. Another of those "how good are we" moments.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> I guess giving the credit and reward to a rag head wouldn't sit well with the good folks back home; sitting in their comfy arm chairs, bottle of Bud in one hand, fat cigar in the other, cheering on their gung ho Marines as they shot and stormed their way across the truck sized plasma screen T.V., boosting the body count and collateral damage. All this along with the shock and awe tactics of bombing the shit out of Baghdad. The only shock to us on the ground at the time, was that any of the super technology credited to the U.S.A.F. and U.S.N. managed to put a smart bomb or missile on the right target, or indeed <i>find</i> the right fucking target in the first place. </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> I dread to think of the failure rate in American colleges and universities when it comes to geography exams. They think the Middle East is a point halfway between Jerusalem and the Gaza strip, and that Belgium is a suburb of Brussels. If al-Qaeda's map reading had been as bad on 9/11 they'd have taken out two tall chimneys and a bouncy castle, although the bouncy castle might have given them trouble coming to a dead stop.</div>Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-63325841639594936532011-05-27T12:15:00.001+02:002011-05-27T12:16:03.582+02:00Well, that wasn't too bad. Hmmmm.Well, the bike ride wasn't so bad, apart from it's bloody cold out today. On a scale from, being booted up the bum by a size nine, to getting thumped on the nose by an Essex night club bouncer, I'd have to go with the first. That is, if I don't count having the stitches being taken out by a doctor who I'm sure used to be anchor man on the Belgian tug-of-friggin' war team.<br />
Didn't even have the front to give one of those 'this won't a bit hurt' smiles. Nah. Straight in. Snip, pull. I know. I should've known better. I should have had his balls in my hand first. There hasn't been a scream of pain come out of my mouth that loud since the cat got me with two sets of claws when I tried to steal his leftovers.<br />
Worth it though to see the looks on the faces of the four pensioners sitting in the waiting room as I left his torture chamber.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-69842223778924926842011-05-27T08:05:00.000+02:002011-05-27T08:05:19.364+02:00Back in the saddleSomeone, somewhere, once wrote or said - maybe even both - "What doesn't kill me can only make me stronger."<br />
Well obviously, the stupid git hadn't had two near fatal heart attacks, peritonitis, a recent appendectomy and faced an uphill, four kilometre cycle ride to his doctor for a check-up.<br />
<br />
IF..... I make it back with nothing more than the usual sore bum - bicycle saddles were never designed for comfort - I'll be as happy as a politician who's expenses scam hasn't been discovered yet.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-19193431691205270042011-05-26T15:49:00.001+02:002011-05-27T12:20:16.305+02:00Verbal doodlingI read the news today, oh boy.<br />
10,000 holes in Blackburn, Lancashire<br />
<br />
The Beatles wrote that in the '60's. Wonder how many holes are there today.<br />
They wrote Penny Lane around the same time. What's that worth with inflation?<br />
And, 'Baby, you can drive my car'. Obviously not a Belgian baby. Their <i>adult</i> drivers are lethal enough<br />
<br />
The Beatles inspired a lot of musicians. They inspired me to become a Rolling Stones fan.<br />
<br />
My little Muppet had me download a bunch of stuff for her new MP3 player a short time ago. High School Musical and a load of people I've never heard of, plus Justin bloody Bieber. She's a little mad at me though. Right in the middle of all the bubblegum pop crap, I stuck AC/DC's Highway to Hell. No reason she shouldn't listen to some good stuff.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-40467116152777500052011-05-25T23:29:00.003+02:002011-05-26T15:58:59.640+02:00Bloody smart smart arse kidsAs I do on virtually every Wednesday evening I had a phone call from the ten year old Muppet tonight. I haven't seen much of Jessica-Marie in the last few weeks, what with hospitals and operations and stuff getting in the way of trying to function normally. That's normally in inverted commas, most of those who know me would say. Anyway, the conversation went something like this.<br />
<br />
<i>Hello Sweety, how are you?</i><br />
Good, how are you?<br />
<i>Wow, you actually remembered to enquire about my health. That's a first.</i><br />
Yeah, well.<br />
<i>Only pulling your leg, Sweety. How was was drama class this afternoon?</i><br />
Didn't go.<br />
<i>Oh, and why not?</i><br />
Teacher was sick.<br />
<i>Oh, shame. What about school this week? How's that going?</i><br />
Good.<br />
<i>You can talk in full sentences if you like. I won't mind.</i><br />
Okay.<br />
<i>What did you have for lunch today?</i><br />
Don't remember.<br />
<i>Gordon Bennet, Jessica-Marie. You get 100% in all your exams, well, except art and religious studies, and you can't remember what you had for lunch. Never mind. You know what's special about next Thursday?</i><br />
No. It comes before a Friday, like tomorrow does.<br />
<i>Yeah right, you little smart arse.</i><br />
I know.<br />
<i>What? You know you're a smart arse?</i><br />
No, I know it's your birthday.<br />
<i>Well done. Anyway I started on Twitter today. You know what that is?</i><br />
<div style="color: yellow;">( I know. I left myself wide open)</div>Of course I do, Daddy. Doesn't everybody?<br />
<i>Yeah, well it took me a while to get get it sorted.</i><br />
That's because you know nothing.<br />
<div style="color: yellow;">( I should've quit right there)</div><i>Oi, you little Muppet, have a bit of respect for your old man</i>.<br />
<div style="color: yellow;">( There's where I walked right into it)</div>Operative word being old, eh, Daddy?<br />
<i>Thank you very much. The nurses at the hospital said I didn't look nearly sixty-two.</i><br />
<div style="color: yellow;"><i>( I should've known better)</i></div>What did they think you were? A hundred and two?<br />
<i>You are so in bother when I see you next.</i><br />
No problem. Got to go now and eat, Daddy.<br />
<i>Okay, talk to you at the weekend.</i><br />
Okay, Daddy.<br />
<i>Bye, Sweety. Love you, miss you.</i><br />
Love you, miss you too, Daddy. Bye.<br />
<br />
<br />
Ten years old and a bloody answer for everything <i>and</i> English isn't her first language. Still, it shows where her sense of humour comes from. Proud of her. She'll grow up breaking hearts and bank accounts. As long as it ain't my bank account, that's dodgy enough as it is.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-60224873719809008742011-05-25T14:05:00.008+02:002011-07-21T07:30:34.352+02:00Meet my friend Steve<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1tUfmdTXz8DvyLpdWiQXBdOyxTTC9pmxpKb1ZiKiZsG1dEQY-MnClDw11FHSt-EmtzexmP3292Hy9iDb2abxMXeOOySkUqjIQ5lO4cGti93oAnGGkDeRshWeoIQytjrxygwpy8tqf1U/s320/RBP18010_SteveEmmett_002.jpg" width="256" /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It is with a great feeling of pride <i>( and more than a little envy ) </i>I welcome a good friend and fellow author to my blog for a bit of a banter and an interrogation. <i>(Damn, the backspace button isn't working; that should read interview.)</i> <a href="http://chukkienator.blogspot.com/">Steve Emmett</a>, whose novel <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Diavolino/dp/B004NIFIC0/ref=as_li_wdgt_js_ex?&camp=2486&linkCode=wey&tag=thechukk-21&creative=8882">Diavolino</a> has been recently published by <a href="http://www.etopia-press.net/">Etopia Press</a> and is currently <i>( as I grind my teeth and check for spelling errors )</i> receiving rave reviews, while my rave rejection letters are mere specks of deleted cyber dust. Hey, enough of my inadequacies. They're as much history as is my recently dear departed appendix.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>MBW :- </b>Steve, thanks for taking a little of your time out of what must be a very hectic schedule. Now you're a published author, possibly on the way to a best seller, earning a bit of wedge - nudge, nudge, know what I mean - have you got any change for the coffee machine?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>SE :- What? After having forked out for a costly repair to my beloved Gaggia? I felt like an alcoholic at a Muslim wedding when it broke down. When they told me it would take twenty-one days to fix I broke down in tears.</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>MBW :- </b> What the hell's a Gaggia? Never mind I'll Google it while you get the expressos. Seriously though, we've known each other since before you moved back to the U.K. from Italy and during that time you've been lucky enough to read, critique and heap glowing praise on some of my work, so didn't you feel a tad, an intzy wintzy tad, guilty, when your publisher gave you a deal just a week after turning down some of the best stuff you've ever read? <i>(note for readers: You give something, you gotta take something back. Heh, heh. Okay so I'm fishing for compliments to soothe a battered ego.)</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>SE :-</b> <b>As a lapsed Catholic I cultivate guilt on my back. If I have nothing to feel guilty about I invent something. But, yes, my elation at my own success was tainted somewhat at your rejection and, presumably, the utter crushing misery that followed it (note to readers: this is a joke). In my opinion, publishers are missing out on something really big by not taking you on (OK, maybe a big overdraft but I doubt it). You write so fluently and have a unique voice. Few writers can make me laugh out loud – but you do. Perhaps they are afraid of you because you refuse to bow to political correctness, but how would that explain the success of someone like Frankie Boyle? I know you are not a fan so, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning his name?</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>MBW :-</b> Ah, Frankie Boyle. Talk to him on the phone and you wouldn't need a scrambler. As for being P.C. In my case it probably stands for Piss-takingly Corrosive. Anyway, the only other author that springs quickly to my non literary mind, who writes as vividly and as locally, so to speak, as you do, is Ian Rankin, with his novels set in and around Edinburgh. Did you ever consider any other setting for Diavolino or did it seem the natural thing; to write about the area you were living in at the time?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>SE :- Diavolino was never going to be anywhere except Italy. My knowledge of the locations, characters and the ever-present Church was too much to ignore. Although I had tired of living in Italy – I started my business there in 1987 – I do love the country and the ordinary people so it will always be a huge influence on me. Interesting you mention Rankin as I have never read him. (Better switch on the WiFi on my Kindle). Other readers have compared me to Stephen King and Dan Brown which is kind of a mixed blessing I suppose. In the end what I want to do is entertain the reader and leave them waiting for my next book…Martin? You asleep? *slaps table*</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>MBW :- </b>Sorry, you caught me waiting for your next book. Let's not get into Dan Brown comparisons. I can't afford a lawsuit. Can't afford any kind of suit really. My t-shirts have more holes in them than a Baghdad hotel. I know you've been asked before about where your inspiration to write horror fiction came from but did you have a bad experience as a kid that you've drawn on? Bigger kids stealing your sweets, giving you wedgies, ripping up your homework?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>SE :-</b> <b>Here’s twenty Euro for coffee, you may need it. I didn’t have a bad experience as a child – my childhood was one long bad experience! You don’t realise how grim it is when you’re a kid. Materially we were well off but I was starved of affection. When I look back I understand that I was always insecure and afraid. The fear was stoked by what I was told at the Catholic school about Purgatory and burning in Hell. So do you wonder that I now write about those places?</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>MBW :-</b> You worry about purgatory yet you chose to move back to Yorkshire. There must be an oxymoron in there somewhere but that'll do for a later discussion. As you know, I lived for a time in Starbeck, not exactly the Paris of the North, and Bram Stoker (author of Dracula ) spent his summers in Whitby, on the Yorkshire coast, so it doesn't surprise me that stories of horror from that county are plentiful. Do you think you'll eventually set some grim tale in or around the Yorkshire moors? Or perhaps a story of a Yorkshireman dropping the last ball in the County Cricket Championship, giving Hampshire, or heaven forbid, Lancashire, the win. Now there's a nightmare scenario for a Tyke.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>SE :-</b> <b>Shocking as it may be, I loathe cricket. My great grandfather was a Yorkshire player and actually got picked for England, but he got dumped as he was too fond of booze and women. I wish I’d known him. Erm, his son, my grandfather, grew up to be a pillar of the community and played cricket as well as soccer (he gave up soccer when they stopped wearing ‘boots’ and moved to ‘slippers’ as he said, sometime after WWII I think). But yes, I shall be penning a Yorkshire tale soon and I will give you a little exclusive news item right now: next month I am going to stay in the UK’s most haunted building to garner ideas. It’s not actually in Yorkshire but it is ‘up north’. I reckon that a ghost with a gripe and a Yorkshire outlook might make an interesting character.</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>MBW :-</b> Ha, visions of the great Harvey Smith on a phosphorescent stallion, scaring the crap out of anything on the North Yorkshire moors. <span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Steve, it's not often a Hampshire lad, with Lancashire parents, gets to take the piss out of a Yorkshire Tyke in the name of publicity so I'd like to say many thanks for being a good sport and wish you the best of luck with Diavolino and the sequel when it comes out. It's been a pleasure to have a banter with you, an even greater pleasure having you as a personal friend and if there wasn't 350 miles and the English Channel between us I'd give you a big hug, mate.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>SE :-</b> <b>I can only say likewise. One day I will manage to call on you in Belgium and I hope it will be to celebrate your own book deal. Don’t give up!</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b>MBW :- </b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> I'll look forward to that immensely. Not you coming over; I mean a book deal.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">For a more comprehensive (and probably more sensible) look into Steve's life as an incredibly talented horror writer visit his blog and don't forget to tell him I sent you.</span></i></span><b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> <span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://chukkienator.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: normal;">http:chukkienator.blogspot.com </span></a></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>You may also want to take a peek at his website </i></span></span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="http://www.steveemmett.net/"> http://www.steveemmett.net</a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQZ7Wd8nsMk0ZM0mpoEY2xmusrxnpBEFoMfq4WaYcRqPYL2FHFEz1PBKIS4T7l6D_J1EwMP8KEmWcQYbZqW96qw7iKdTYdwZWttUnxEQ2QlSy0uQMhdnndYMRFamHy-O09EJWI48kY_lE/s400/Diavolino_200-300_300dpi.jpg" width="266" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Diavolino/dp/B004NIFIC0/ref=as_li_wdgt_js_ex?&camp=2486&linkCode=wey&tag=thechukk-21&creative=8882"></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-63111533337017166332011-05-24T21:19:00.006+02:002011-05-25T10:22:43.969+02:00Some of my internals have goneAfter cultivating appendicitis and subsequent life threatening peritonitis during the last five days of April, followed by ten days in hospital with instructions 'nil by mouth except water', <i>( in Dutch, 'aleen water, nul te eten')</i>, intraveinously pumped full of antibiotics and pain killer, sent home on a course of antibiotic pills the size of small friggin' house bricks - <i>I swear you could've built a small bungalow with the amount I had forced upon me</i> - they finally took out my appendix Wednesday 18th May and let me leave hospital on Friday afternoon the 20th, probably thinking I had somebody picking me up.<br />
No friends answering their phones. No buses without waiting for two more hours. No wedge to pay for a taxi. Nobody available so I hoofed it. Not the best idea I've ever given fruit to. I twice threw up some green liquid with white lumps <i>( no tomato skins or chunks of carrot )</i> on the walk to the bus station. Normally a ten minute walk but this time it took me thirty-five minutes. Pain and walking sit on opposite ends of the subs bench apparently. Then I threw up the same sort of green slime four times outside the door to the building where I live. Needless to say, it was a little while before I plucked up the courage of a geriatric moggy and dragged myself, very, very slowly, up the 58 steps to my apartment. I think they may well have let me out a day or two too early.<br />
Still, it saved putting more money into a greedy, expensive hospital system. Mind you, I did have my bits shaved by a pretty nurse before the op, while another two spectated. Shame I couldn't read their minds or perhaps it's just as well I couldn't. Of course that's small <i>(maybe that's what they were thinking )</i> consolation for the pain afterwards. Seems the only time my bits get handled by a woman these days is either during a bed bath or having the bloody things shaved. So, looking back, now I feel somewhat better, I suppose hospitals do have their good side.<br />
Of course, appendectomies aren't what they used to be. There's no bloody great scar to brag about and show off down at the local. Nowadays it's done through three small holes in the abdomen. One apparently is to blow air in which I presume is to enlarge the workspace, so to speak, one to shove a camera in so the surgeon gets a clear shot of what he's ripping out and one for, well, the knife and needle I suppose. Whatever. When the plasters ( see below and I make no appologies for flashing my belly on the net ) are removed, there won't be a lot to show for the pain and suffering. At least in some countries you can earn some wedge for flogging a kidney. Naturally not if you're a newspaper hack or a detective. It takes too many whiskies to learn their trades. Probably written in their contracts somewhere.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><u>Not a pretty sight </u></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-48089867084726938942011-04-24T22:07:00.001+02:002011-04-26T08:30:59.614+02:00Requiem for a TVFor five years my TV (second hand I must admit) gave valliant service. Switched on when I pressed the button, changed channels when required and went to sleep whenever I decided to go horizontal for the night. Okay, so the picture wasn't digital or high definition. With my eyesight it wouldn't have made much difference anyway.<br />
This evening, however, my purveyor of entertainment and information decided it was time to self destruct, and no amount of CPR managed to resuscitate the damn thing. It didn't matter whether I thumped it on the top or on both sides. One handed or two, it made little difference. Just a box of defunct electrical bits and pieces collecting dust is what it is now.<br />
There is however, a good side to the demise of said telly. I no longer have to put up with the pathetic patriotic fervour that rocks the world whenever some balding geezer, who might be King one day, (if the UK doesn't become a republic first) decides it's a good idea to get wed.<br />
I'll bet he's got a TV that works though.<br />
Still, if he gets a spare one as a wedding gift he can send a chauffeur in a Rolls over to Zoutleeuw with it, being as I never got the Queen's shilling when I joined the Army in '64. Inflation should make that shilling worth a flat screen TV in today's money.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-8484517658384140312011-03-15T01:15:00.000+01:002011-03-15T01:15:39.636+01:00New faceWhile checking in I see a new face on my followers list. Well when I say new face, it's actually a disconcerting blue eye, surrounded by blue skin. I have no idea who this Smurf look-alike is but if the other eye is as pretty as the first there could well be a beautiful woman keeping tabs on my occasional ramblings. As beautiful people of the female persuasion don't normally take an interest in what goes on in my head - you only have to ask the four ex wives and the ex girlfriend ( mother of my little muppet ) I don't hold out any hope of being turned from a frog into a Prince on a white horse. Actually I'd prefer a Palomino but I'd spray paint a donkey if I thought it would work.<br />
Still, this could possibly lead to me having to iron my jeans and a clean t-shirt and slap some polish on my sandals. Damn it, I may have to tune my guitar and write a love song to a stranger. Not so bad though. At least I'll look clean and tidy while I sing ( most probably ) to myself.<br />
And the elaborate miraculous cullinary creation will most likely end up with half of it in the freezer as the guest didn't turn up and thereby won't realise what she's missed. Mind you, as I'm purely a busker and rather experimental ( or is that just mental ) in the kitchen it could simply be another disaster averted.<br />
Now I fear I shall always wonder if the feet start directly under the georgeous blue eye or would there be a magnificent specimen of the female form twixt eye and toes.<br />
What ever. Welcome L. Carol to the world of my moronic mumbles where sometimes by a freak of nature I may write something sensible. Don't hold your breath on that one though. Sense and me don't always bat for the same side but I have high hopes of a gold medal or two in the severely retarded Olympics.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-31295299613813553522011-01-22T01:01:00.000+01:002011-01-22T01:01:45.171+01:00Temperatures or the lack there of.Today I had to do my usual once a week cycle ride to the doctors. The purpose of this heart pounding ( well half a heart pounding ) excursion is to give a blood sample to test for the safety of one of my medicinal neccessaries.<br />
A wrong dose can cause internal bleeding, which to my mind seems to make sense. Where else should your friggin' blood be but on the inside. Not much use if it springs a leak and you look like a breakdancing claret fountain. Anyway it was bloody cold this morning but the weather man said it would get warmer. Where? In the friggin' Caribbean?<br />
Technically I suppose he was right. Just. It rose from -6°C to -3°C . Problem being, coming back is more downhill thereby adding a wind chill factor of three crates worth of iced lager and a semi intelligent word from the ex who learned her entire vocabulary in the last ice age. About the same time she learned her sexual prowess or lack of too.<br />
My ears, sticking out as they do ( not at 90°, wind breaks they are not. Well not quite ) caught the brunt of the chill but the bike and I survived. Tomorrow I'll have to do a similar distance to go to the stables to watch the Muppet riding her horse. At least she's worth the effort. Gotta love the huge grin she sports while trying to get a 17 hand stallion to do what she wants.<br />
I used to be a bass player with rock and blues bands on podiums all over Europe and East Africa.Now it's time to concede the spotlight to a ten year old girl and become a frozen spectator cheering her on while being ready to stick her straight back on the nag if she falls off.<br />
Only happened twice in the last four and a half years. Hasn't daunted her in the slightest. I'm proud of her and love her to pieces.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-2799102781739430172011-01-13T10:49:00.000+01:002011-01-13T10:49:51.447+01:00Good news for a changeMy sister is now out of intensive care. Apparently they'll move her soon to a hospital nearer where she lives. At least this time she'll remember the ride in the ambulance.<br />
<br />
My little one will also be happy this weekend. She'll be back on a horse for the first time since before Christmas.<br />
Last saturday she went to a horse show in Antwerp. Spanish Riding School and their very special horses. When I asked her what was the best thing about it she said the costumes. <i>"They were really glittery and sparkly, Daddy."</i><br />
Bit like a bloke going to a pole dancing club and coming out saying, <i>"wow, you should have seen how shiny the pole was."</i><br />
Ah, well.<br />
And I'm happy 'cos she'll be with me this weekend.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-32897241891215168612011-01-10T01:29:00.004+01:002011-01-10T01:51:10.821+01:00How to make the most of not a lotI woke up at 07.30 this morning with a thought threatening to do serious renovations to parts of my brain I probably wouldn't consider using at that time in the chronological order of the day. Normally the first thought I have when I wake up is to do maximum damage to a cup of coffee and to swallow the first ten pills of the day the cardiologist assures me will do wonders for my longevity, while not doing a great deal for my abililty to attempt arduous and possibly heavy tasks.<br />
Not known for my rash decision making it took me til 10.45 to decide the coffee and pills would be the better option. By this time the original thought had long since ceased to have recieved any thing but a cursory appraisal. Of course the one or two moments of slipping back into a semi state of Zzzz bashing may well have helped in the temporary misplacement of the aforementioned thought, not that I actually aforementioned the content of the thought. Only that I had one.<br />
Anyway, after chucking some java and hot water in a mug and troffing the medications I checked a site I'm a member of. (there is life after Litopia) There was a debate going on about the use of the word 'nigger' and whether it should be edited out of books. Seems strange when my experience shows that 'niggers' use the word 'nigger' more than white people.<br />
Maybe there's a case to ban the use of words like 'honky', 'white trash', 'dago', 'greaser', spick', 'wop', 'limey', 'pomme', 'abbo', 'kraut', 'frog or kermit', and 'rag head', to name a few derogatory terms for people most folks don't take the trouble to learn about. And we're supposed to be <i>civilised</i>. Yeah right.<br />
Somewhere there's an amoeba thinking ,"shit we were more sensible when we only had one cell."<br />
Nobody ever told Picasso " best get rid of the red in that picture, it might get you accused of being a communist." So why take the colour out of our language?<br />
Diversity of insult is what makes life more interesting. That and being able to take an insult without breaking out the AK 47's and killing kids who can't think or run so fast.And it's the kids who suffer most. Not the troops who signed a piece of paper, put on a uniform and knew exactly what they were getting into. Truck drivers and motorists get killed, police and other emergency service personel get killed and an nobody bats a friggin' eyelid, but if one of 'our brave boys' gets wasted, it's all hue and cry. They didn't have to buy a ticket to Iraq or Afghanistan. There is no glory in war. Just blood, snot, stink and mix and match body parts.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-46784646306895086162011-01-01T11:58:00.001+01:002011-01-05T00:08:02.563+01:00Happy New Year?Yeah right. Not if Merry Christmas was anything of a benchmark.<br />
The week before Christmas, my mother, and four of the younger members of the family managed a 2000 mile round trip to Spain to visit my sister in hospital. How they managed to get a flight while hundreds of miserable would be travellers were sleeping on airport floors will remain a mystery.<br />
Here in Belgium, on Christmas Eve, we couldn't even get my little Muppet ten miles from her mother's place to mine. No buses, no trains, no taxis and not a friendly Eskimo with a snowmobile any where in sight. Finally got her to my place on Monday morning 27th and she had to go back on the Wednesday afternoon.<br />
We did have one special moment though. While taking a walk in the snow covered countryside outside the town, a male Hen Harrier flew directly over our heads. Twenty feet above us. A beautiful hawk. White underside with black wing tips. First time I've ever seen one in the wild. Jessica-Marie's reaction to my enthusing about this event?<br />
"It's just a bird, Daddy." <br />
<br />
Anyway. Apparently my sister is recovering slowly. Can't be too bad now. She's fit enough to complain about the hospital food. Makes me wonder if the chef from the hospital where I lost 10kgs in 2009 has emigrated to Granada. <br />
<br />
Well, I digress. This was supposed to be about Happy New Year but 2011 has begun where 2010 left off. I'm on my own, it's nearly lunch time and no one has called. Maybe I'll call the hospital in Granada and check on my sister. Perhaps I'll get a good paella recipe at the same time. Oh no, wait up. Almost forgot. Hospital paella?<br />
<br />
Still, let's hope 2011 brings a bit of luck to everyone who needs it.<br />
<br />
Happy New Year to one and all. Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-67842217766623513552010-12-22T12:01:00.001+01:002010-12-22T16:20:51.867+01:00Best of Times, Worst of TimesI'm looking forward to Christmas this year. My little Muppet will be with me for five days. We'll have a lot of fun. She's ten years old now so it's time we had a formal dinner on the 25th. Menu's planned. Nothing too fancy. Just a bit fancier than the hamburger and French fries she was hoping for after she's done strewing the living room with discarded wrapping paper. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately there's a downside to this year's festivities. Now, while my friends and family know that I had two bad heart attacks in May 2009 (not that anyone cares) that left me with a ticker working (well nearly working) at less than half the rate of a normal healthy one, my sister, Christine, has gone one better. <br />
<br />
She's in a hospital in Southern Spain fighting for her life after having her chest opened up so some Spanish surgeon could get her ticker kick started. Being as Spain are European and World football champions I hope the geezer wasn't patriotic enough to try for a penalty shoot out. I was lucky enough to have mine restarted with electricity, though the tubes and things shoved up femoral arteries did piss me off a tad and three and a half weeks of hospital food cost me 11kgs/24lbs in lost weight.<br />
<br />
Anyway, apparently the team that have been sorting her out reckon it's up to her now so I hope she makes it. I'd hate to think that 40 years of her insulting me would be wasted. Apart from me, there's a bunch of people she's never heard of here in Zoutleeuw, Belgium rooting for her.<br />
<br />
One more thing. I hope she'll realise now, how precious family is, and send me a Christmas card next year. I'd send her one but noone wants to give me her address. Seems I'm not on the need to know list.<br />
<br />
<b>Don't you dare friggin' die on me Christine. I love you Sis, and we've got insults we haven't used yet.</b>Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-20677276160547724562010-10-30T00:16:00.000+02:002010-10-30T00:16:01.683+02:00Still strugglingSince Litnohopia decided to dispence with my wit and wisdom, not that I had a lot of wisdom but it seems that even a single niggle can get one banned by the prima donnas. Too many fragile egos unable to take what I thought was a resonable subject for debate. Forget the too many word counts over the limits. Apparently certain word processors hate each other and put out different word counts. Mmmmmm. I 'll agree that this can cause a ruction or two.<br />
But I totally stand by what I said about formatting competition entries. Think about how you're asked to submit to an agent. It's for a reason. Makes things easier to read, especially when not every body has 20-20 vision. Point in question.<br />
This afternoon as I was carrying home my shopping two georgeous girls walked by and I didn't get lustful. I simply wondered if they were strong enough to carry my shopping. Get to my age and priorities change. And to be classed as a trouble maker is beyond belief.<br />
In the mean time I'll struggle to emulate Steve (Chukkie) and see if I'm good enough to follow in his published authors shoes.<br />
You'll notice I retract nothing and neither do I apologise. I don't believe I have anything to apologise for.<br />
I must admit I made some friends at Litnohopia, and recieved some sound advice too.<br />
So as I ride my imaginary Ducati 999 into the sunset, my middle finger is raised as a symbol of goodbye.<br />
Actually it's a symbol of up yours but I'm trying to be politeMartin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7752792001243821232.post-43006190247922774702010-02-12T02:51:00.004+01:002011-05-26T09:21:47.022+02:00Another short storyWell actually it's more of a rough idea than a story.<br />
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Foreword<br />
<br />
When I first split up with Jessica-Marie's mother, in March 2006, Jessica-Marie was only five years and four months old, and I did a deal, whereby the little one would stay with me three weekends out of every four.<br />
I found a nice appartment, but, as it's only a one bedroom place, the bedroom had to be split in two. Half for myself and half, obviously, for Jessica-Marie. This arrangement, while not particularly ethical, suits us, although she is want to sleep with her bedside light on, which can be slightly annoying. I have, however, got used to it after three years. <br />
What took a little longer to get used to was the hour of the night or day, she would wake me up to ask, "Daddy. What time is it?" This led to some rather interesting and amusing conversations, not all of which took place at a decent hour. In fact many took place in what most people would consider to be the middle of the night. <br />
Not all the conversations recorded here, however, are about being woken up for a check on chronological moments, but that seemed a good place to start. Some just go to show, how a kid, from the age of five and a half years, can run rings round a guy fifty one and a half years older than herself. <br />
Not withstanding, the fact that, in mathematics she's a year ahead of her classmates, and in reading and writing, six months ahead, she is an extremely bright kid with a sense of humour to die for. That's what this book is about. The little Muppets sense of humour. Well, that and bemoaning all the sleep I've lost. <b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>Moments in Time</b><br />
<br />
<b>Early one Saturday morning.</b><br />
<br />
Daddy?<br />
<i>Yes</i><br />
What time is it?<br />
<i>5,32, go back to sleep</i><br />
But Daddy<br />
<i>Gordon Bennet, what?</i><br />
I can't find sheety<br />
<br />
Sheety was a face cloth she used to sleep with, having given up using a dummy since throwing it across the living room at the age of thirteen months. I found sheety under the duvet at the bottom of her bed and went back to my own bed. A few minutes later it felt like the ceiling had fallen on me as she crept across the room and jumped on me like a ton of bricks.<br />
<br />
<i>Jessica-Marie , you are a pain in the butt and I want to go back to sleep</i><br />
But Daddy it's time to stand up<br />
<i>No it's not</i><br />
Yes it is<br />
<i>No it's not</i><br />
Yes it is , yes it is<br />
<i>No it's not , no it's not , no it's nooooot. Go and watch cartoons</i><br />
Daddy?<br />
<i>What?</i><br />
Cartoons start later on the weekend<br />
<i>S</i><i>o why are we talking at 5,45am?</i><br />
I'm hungry<br />
<i>It must be Saturday then</i><br />
Daddyyyy<br />
<i>Mmmmmmmm</i><br />
You're silly<br />
<i>That's a given , now go wait for the cartoons</i><br />
Daddy , will Mitch be on line?<br />
<i>If he's got any sense he'll be having the sleep I should be having</i><br />
Daddy ( <u>a serious voice now</u>)<br />
<i>Yes</i><br />
I'm still hungry<br />
<i>Jessica-Marie</i><br />
Yes<br />
<i>I'm still awake</i><br />
Yes, but I'm very hungry<br />
<i>You're a kid. What's the difference between hungry and very hungry?</i><br />
About five minutes<br />
<i>Hey, I do the jokes.</i> <br />
<br />
Her answer to that was just muffled giggles, so being in a no win situation I surrendered.<br />
<br />
<i>OK. I'll get your breakfast</i><br />
<br />
<br />
This is from one of the rare occasions when I woke her up. I really must find a two bedroom appartment.<br />
<br />
DADDYYYY<br />
<i>Mmmm, what?</i><br />
Say excuse me<br />
<i>What for?</i><br />
You did a prot, and woke me up ( <u>prot is the Flemish word for fart</u> )<br />
<i>Oh, sorry. Excuse me</i>.<br />
<br />
After that I managed to go back to sleep, but not for long. Oh no, not long at all.<br />
<br />
DADDYYYYYYYY<br />
<i>What now?</i><br />
Stop snoring<br />
<i>If you let me sleep I'll try.</i><br />
Daddy<br />
<i>Yeesssss</i><br />
What time is it?<br />
<i>6,15 am</i><br />
Daddy, will Mitch be on my computer?<br />
<i>No , it's too small</i><br />
Silly<br />
<i>Always</i><br />
Daddy, it's too warm in my bed<br />
<i>Well, go sit in the fridge</i><br />
Can I watch cartoons?<br />
<i>Yes, of course sweety but not from the fridge.</i><br />
OK<br />
<br />
Ah , peace again<br />
<br />
<br />
The next morning<br />
<br />
Daddy<br />
<i>Go away</i><br />
What time is it<br />
<i>Jesus H , it's only 5 to 5</i><br />
Oops<br />
<i>Go back to sleep</i><br />
But I'm awake<br />
<i>Well , lie down and pretend , so I can go back to sleep</i><br />
<br />
Daddy finally got up at 7,03 after she'd been told the time at 5,25 , 5,45 , 6,10 , 6,28 and 6,50.<br />
<br />
<br />
Sometimes kid's have no idea of time what so ever. When they're awake, everyone is awake, or at least that's how they think it should be.<br />
<br />
<b>The middle of the night</b><br />
<br />
Daddy<br />
<i>Yes</i><br />
What time is it<br />
<i>Gordon bloody Bennet, it's only quarter to two in the morning</i><br />
Sorry , Daddy.<br />
<i>That's OK . Everyone has a death wish occasionally</i><br />
Daddy<br />
<i>YES</i><br />
Night night<br />
<i>Good night , Sweety</i><br />
Daddy? <br />
<i>What now, my little human alarm clock?</i><br />
Is that a record?<br />
<i>Unfortunately yes. If you get any earlier you'll wake me up before I've gone to bed</i><br />
<br />
Jessica-Marie is getting better at sleeping later on a weekend. Not a lot but then anything after 05.30 am is a bonus for me<br />
<br />
<b>06,56 on a Sunday morning</b><br />
<br />
Daddy?<br />
I try to ignore this first call of the wombat, and being a nature lover, I decline to throw the nearest heavy object at the source of the noise.<br />
<br />
06,56 and 10 seconds<br />
<br />
DADDYYYYYYYYYYYYY<br />
<i>Yes my little morning star</i><br />
What time is it?<br />
<i>Nearly seven am</i><br />
Daddy. Romy's mummy and daddy won't let her believe in God<br />
<i>At this time of day I'm not surprised</i><br />
No silly, all the time<br />
<i>Well then, they're wrong to do do that. I don't believe in God but I don't say you can't.</i><br />
Daddy?<br />
<i>Yes my little keeper of the daybreak</i><br />
Is Mitchell on line?<br />
<i>No , but if I give you his phone number you can annoy him instead of me.</i><br />
OK<br />
<i>Better not, he needs his beauty sleep</i><br />
<br />
Which goes to show how quickly the female of the species can change the subject from annoying one person to wanting to annoy another.<br />
<br />
<b>Another Saturday morning</b><br />
<br />
Daddy?<br />
<i>Yes, my little muppet of the morning?</i><br />
What time is it?<br />
<i>I don't know, phone your mother.</i><br />
The clock says six nineteen.<br />
<i>Why are you asking me then, if you know?</i> (<u>I sense here the beginnings of female logic.</u>)<br />
Just testing.<br />
<i>OK so phone your mother and test her.</i><br />
She won't like that.<br />
<i>And I do?</i><br />
But you're funny in the morning.<br />
<i>Yes I know sweety, I'm a real riot.</i><br />
Is Mitch on line?<br />
<i>He was when I went to bed at ten after four</i>.<br />
<br />
Next time I say goodnight to Mitchell at one thirty a.m. I will not keep talking till after four.<br />
<br />
**********************<br />
<br />
<b>Other Pearls of Childhood Wisdom</b><br />
<br />
It's amazing what kid's think, about conservation and that kind of stuff. Now, I detest flies. Their constant buzzing really gets on my nerves. That, and the fact that, no matter how many times you swat them, they just keep coming back to drive you crazy. A bit like kids really.<br />
<br />
Daddy?<br />
<i>Yes</i><br />
Have you got a tin with a lid?<br />
<i>What for?</i><br />
I want to catch flies and let them out of the window<br />
<i>Just spray them</i><br />
No, I don't want to kill them I want to let them out so they can fly away.<br />
<i>Sweety, as you grow up I will support you 100% in everything you do. I'll play the silly games you invent, even though you make up the rules so I can never win. I'll teach you to cook, even though you leave the kitchen looking like a bomb site. I'll even clean up the mess you leave when you've finished painting pictures, but I adamantly refuse to join your save the flies campaign.</i><br />
<br />
I'm quite sure that if I'd gone along with her plan of giving flies time off for good behaviour, she would still have asked me "what time is it", so she could have recorded the time and date of the flies release. Ah well, at least she didn't think of satelite tagging them. <br />
<br />
<br />
We participate on one of the internet forums with Mitchell, a friend from Chattanooga, Tennesee, which as everybody knows is in the U.S.A. and is six hours behind our time in Belgium. He is the Mitch that Jessica-Marie always asks about at strange times of the day or night.<br />
The following are some of the questions put to her on the forum and the answers she gave.<br />
<br />
"What do you love most about your Daddy?"<br />
"<i>I love my Daddy because he's funny in the morning when I wake him up."</i><br />
"Doesn't he get annoyed when you wake him up early?"<br />
<i>"I don't think so. He never shouts at me, and he does get my breakfast."</i><br />
<br />
When I first posted on the forum about her starting horse riding lessons, a couple of months before her sixth birthday, she was asked,<br />
<br />
"What kind of horse do you ride?"<br />
<i>"The usual kind." </i>she replied<i>, "Head, tail, leg on each corner."</i><br />
<br />
I guess that she's a half Belgian kid with a full English sense of humour.<br />
<br />
What worries me now though is when she starts to bring boyfriends home and I get introduced to some long haired spotty teenager, and my dicky ticker may not be enough of a reason to hold me back from attempting to break a leg or two. Well that and old age. Still it might give the defibrillator a work out.Martin 'Beejay' Wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512347158001546468noreply@blogger.com2