Just 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.   
          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.
          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'

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 sans pistolet, 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.

          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 –– until now.

         "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."

         "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."

         "Wouldn't 'ave got 'im a lighter sentence anyway. Not after toppin' a scuffer it wouldn't."

         "Maybe, maybe not."

         "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."

         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.

The Mouse and the Elephant

Mouse said to the Elephant,
My dear I love you so.
Let's elope and get married
without letting anyone know.

Well, Elephant she took her time
Indeed time was required
while she thought and thought and finally
to the little Mouse she replied.

There is no other in my life
that I would rather wed
but what happens on the honeymoon
if we can't find a big enough bed

No problem there said little Mouse
we'll sleep beneath the stars
because if we sleep upon bare boards
you'll get splinters in your arse

So in a jungle clearing
they were wed by a one eyed bat
but that night while entwined in 69
Elephant squashed the little Mouse flat.


All say, aaaaaahhhhh.

The bits I like to miss out

I 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, '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 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.

If two detectives are interviewing a subject, possibly about a murder, we know the standard questions, the usual '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. That's the bits I find superfluous. The story will take care of those bits.

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.

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.
.............................................................................................................................................................

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.

         "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."

         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.

         "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 me 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."

         "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."

         "Am I under arrest, Pete?"

         "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."

         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. [Micky Mouse – house, butcher's hook – look, Graham Gootch – mootch] Right ol' Porgy's it were an' nah mistake so I wuz in an' aat in a couple of ducks. Y' know, after I done a quick parrot, like. [Porgy and Bess – mess, ducks and drakes – shakes, parrot's perch – search] ––– 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.

         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.

         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."

         "Well, Keith man. If it's any consolation we divn't think y'are guilty like."

         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?"

         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.

         "Howay y' gan man. Wor listening."

         "First a question. Have you given Harry Chambers a tug yet over this?"

         "Ah. Problem there Keith. He's in St. Georges. A bit sick. Nurses swear he never left his bed."

         "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."

         "Wye aye, Keith man but proving it is something else like."

         "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."

         "Withholding evidence is also a crime, Keith."

         "I'm not withholding anything, merely looking after something that could help you two become legends."

         "Need a little bit more than that, Keith."

         "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 and 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."

Bloody Mobile Phones

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?

                       Choices, choices

I only went in really just to check out the selection.

Spotty faced little salesman brought out hundreds for inspection

Sony Ericson and Vodaphone, Samsung and Nokia.

L.G. and Blackberry and some from Motorola.

Slide tops, flip tops, different coloured cases.

You could even change their languages to suit the varied races.

A few were even waterproof, in case you dropped 'em while out sailing.

And you can connect to the internet to do all your e-mailing.
It was explained, not without pain, about all the applications.
You can take photos and videos and record conversations.

Big screens, small screens, touch screens in high definition.

I'm not too sure but I think I saw, one that carried ammunition.

.
I-phones, Smart phones, phones that boot up your computer.
Before he finished, how I wished, I was carrying a shooter

Half way through the special deals he was getting on my tits

So I grabbed him by his collar, and I kneed him in his bits.

Staring him right in the eye I said, "Now look 'ere son.

I only want to make phone calls, so trot out your cheapest one."

Think I'll stick with the old one.

Death of a friend

Having read a bunch of poetry on Jeffrey Holler's website ( 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.

Hope you enjoy this one Jeffrey. I don't normally touch serious. Sometimes it gets a bit too close.


      Death of a Friend

Walks slow; the street, silent
in the cold night air.
Dark shadows hold the dangers,
can't see them but they're there.

Stops at every hungry doorway,
every greedy corner on the block.
Scared, shaking, hesitates.
Doesn't hear the Armalite cocked.

Fails to see the barrel
pointing mockingly at his breast
never heard the whistle of the round
that smashed into his chest

Now the not so silent streets
too late, echo the siren's wail
While the moon reflects bewilderment
on the soldiers face, so pale

I knelt down beside him
tears streaming from my eyes
and though I'm not relgious
I prayed, 'Lord don't let him die

The only friend I have
He's committed no sin
There's only one mistake he's made
dressed in the clothes he's in.

Coming here to Ireland
as a soldier of the Queen
so proud of a fucking uniform
and he's only seventeen

M. Wells (July 1970)

I 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. (made the mistake of trying one when I took the Muppet to Antwerp during Easter vacation to visit Aquatopia) Anyway, just for the hell of it, here's an extract from 'No Justice', my latest piece of drivel. It would have been a full novel if the U.S. Navy SEALS hadn't screwed the ending.

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.

             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 – gave up 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.

             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 find the right fucking target in the first place.

             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.

Well, 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.
       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.
       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.