Tag Archives: Humour

Dog Food by John Holmes

A Shaggy Dog Story from John

Alright, big boy, what’d ya reckon it’ll be: beef or chicken? Let’s bet on it.
Fish.
Fish!? Stop messing about. Only cats eat fish.
Whippets eat fish too.
Maybe in your house. What’s he like anyway, the old boy?
Pretty useless. 
That figures. 
He’s kindly and forgetful. Always apologising. Not a pack leader. Not like yours.
OK, anyway, beef or chicken? 
Chicken.
No, I’m betting on chicken so you’ll have to choose beef. So how’s it going? Like it down here? 
Alright. Warmer than where I’m from. 
Oh yeah? Don’t start the old grim up north toffee with me, brindle lad. Where exactly you from?
Born in Boston.
Boston? That’s in bloody Lincolnshire. That’s not north, that’s midlands. 
Then we moved near Doncaster. 
Ok that’s a bit north. So was it always just the old boy? 
No there was an old girl too. She was the pack leader. She used to feed the cats but after two nibbles they’d clear off so I’d reach up and nudge the bowl off onto the floor. 
Clever. There’s an art to that.
There is. So I’d eat the rest of it in one go. She never minded. Made her laugh. 
Soft-hearted?
I don’t know about that. I used to get a few tellings off. 
Yeah? 
See she had this old Jack Russell. Ugly-looking. Had a docked tail. 
Really? That’s cruel in it? I wouldn’t want that. Mind you, if I could have chosen between losing that or me nuts…
That’s right. But I think it made him mean. He could be a bit of a bastard but he was like a dad to me in the end. Cunning though. 
Yeah? You got stories? 
Well, in the kitchen they were always leaving out stuff thinking we couldn’t get it. One day they left some pork pies in a bag on the counter. So the old Jack Russell said, You reach up and get em and we’ll share em. So I get right up on my hind legs, strain like mad to get the bag -  just about get my teeth to it - drag it to the edge then pull it over. It come crashing down to the floor, but before I had chance to get some he’d snaffled the lot, just leaving a bit of crust for me. 
What a bastard.
Yeah, but I gradually learnt how to bring things down so he didn’t get so much. He still got most of it, though. But it was fun. We had quiche - anything with egg in I liked best. Actually I could tell you a story about an egg. We had sausages, bacon, bread rolls, biscuits, fruit cake. And you can guess who got all the blame? Coz old shortarse could never get up there could he? 
Yeah, clever. But they’re all right, int they, terriers? You can have a laugh with them. Not like some of these other tossers.
That’s right. 
So tell me this story about the egg.
Oh boy. They had a huge garden once. Lawn was on two levels. They had four chickens. Vicious bastards.
They are int they? I’ve found that out.
So one day the old girl’s picked up some eggs from the hutch and put them in a basket, then she starts yakking to a neighbour like she always does. Distracted. So I stick my head in and get one in my mouth and run away with it. She starts shouting and I’m off racing round the garden. Leaping over raised beds and wooden steps and fish ponds. They’re shouting and laughing and they can’t catch me. Five minutes later I just stop, open my mouth and the egg’s still perfect. 
Wow. You were a master thief. 
And I got the tea.
Tea? What’s all that about? 
Yeah. She would always leave her tea on the window-ledge when she went to the bathroom. I found I could stretch up and put my snout right in. Never spilt a drop. Never knocked a cup over. I like tea. And she always had Earl Grey. Lovely and sweet. I had the lot.
Earl Grey? You’re having a laugh now ain’t you?
No. I’m not. 
Earl Grey? Is that what you grim-up-northerners drink? Not like softy southerners eh? 
I never say that.
So you ever get caught? 
Only by the old boy. He told her and laughed about it. She told me off. Then the silly cow left her tea out the next day too. 
So it was just you and him, this Jack Russell then?
Well, there were three of us at one time. We had a Jackawawa for a while.
Jackawawa? 
Yeah. More wawa than Jack though. You know, chihuahua cross. 
I see. Another annoying yappy thing.
That’s right. Hilarious she was. Silly as arseholes. If we encountered a German shepherd or something in the street she’d play the little Napoleon, telling him to get out her way and he’d just stare at her like she was a rat. Funniest thing was her trying to get up a tree once to catch a squirrel. Frantically trying to get her little legs up the trunk, she was. She couldn’t do it. The squirrel just sat on the branch laughing at her. 
That’s funny. Handbag dogs they call em. But I ask you, what’s the point? I mean, you ever been in someone’s handbag?
Yeah I have actually. The old girl’s.
Oh yeah, sure.
No I have. I’ve pulled out cosmetics, hair brush, hair net, notebook, cigarette pack.
You’re a right little kleptomaniac. Where’d you put ‘em all? 
I kept them on the lawn till she found them. I had hats, shoes - visitors were told to keep theirs on - even one of them little umbrellas.
Blimey. Could have had your own shop by the sound of it. 
I could. Except I’d never want to sell em. I just liked to have them. 
I see. So what happened to the other dogs? 
The Jack Russell died of a stroke and she—
The jackawawa?
Yeah. She went back to her original owner. She was trouble.  
That’s interesting. See,I think all these new breeds nowadays are either just vicious bastards or totally useless. All fluff and nonsense. Might as well be in the zoo. Breeds had a point once. You had your chasers like us, you had your catchers, diggers like your Jack Russell mate, and so on. This new lot -  we’ve had a few of them in here all dandified, prettified little tossers, but cross them and you’ll know it. Right mouth on some of them. I mean where’s the grace, where’s the elegance, and what’s the bloody point? 
That’s right. 
So how do you find it here then? Lots of little yappy things round your way, is there?
Yes. Quite a few whippets too. 
Some of the young uns? Boisterous little buggers int they? Need to keep out of their way. 
Yeah but we all used to be like that. I still am.
Yeah?
Yeah, when I’ve got my zoomies on.
Zoomies?
 Yeah I have my routine. I run from the lounge sofa through the hallway, to the bedroom, fling myself around like crazy on the old boy’s bed, race back to the lounge, leap clean over the coffee table straight on to the sofa. Then do it all again. It winds up the old boy something chronic, worried I’ll injure myself. 
Yeah? And after how many Earl Greys is that then?
None. He don’t drink earl grey. Darjeeling he has. 
Oh blimey.
Not as sweet though. Plus he’s crafty with it. 
Well, I’ve just seen something. I reckon it’s chicken so you can concede the bet now. 
Too early. 
OK. But i do know she bought some today coz I saw her taking it out of the car. So, tell me, you got any hard nuts down your way?
One or two. They don’t tangle with me.
Fancy yourself, do you? 
I’m used to it. I used to have three German shepherds on the regular walk barking away. 
Bark back? 
No just gave em me look. 
I bet that worked. Oh hang on I think the food’s coming now. So we’ll see who won. Winner gets first dibs.
Ok. 
You know, I’m glad you’ve come. We’ve had a good laugh. Whippets got to stick together. Better than the miserable bastards we usually get here. Always moaning. Owner does this. Owner does that. Get over it, I tell them. Oh no. No I don’t believe it. It’s bloody fish! I can smell it. What’s going on? She must be clearing the freezer out. Must be for your benefit. And it looks like she’s put sweet corn on it. Like that?
Love it.
So I guess since I chose chicken I won. 
How’s that? I said fish.
No we agreed it was between beef and chicken. And you chose beef. 
Alright. So it’s a no bet then.
No as I said, I chose chicken and, being white meat, that’s closer to fish, so I won. But you’re a guest so we’ll forget about it. 
Very gracious of you. 
And you can have some of the sweet corn since you like it so much. Have it with your Earl Grey. Come on tuck in, me first. 

Checkout John's latest novel, now published

WINTER IS NEARLY OVER by Joan Saxby


Winter is nearly over
We all hope as we rise each day
But we don another pullover
Because it’s not going to be today!

The snowdrops have made an appearance
As they do every year at this time
But they have not as yet made a difference
Because down comes the snow again.

The wind blows a gale through the hedgerows
And the rain’s turned the field to a lake
Birds are not singing and wild life’s still in burrows
But we hope soon that the season will break.

Sometimes we get rays of sunshine
And we all rush outside with glee
We’re hoping for Spring and some free time
And a day or two out by the sea.

But we will have showers in April
And we’ll all have to still wear our macs
But it could be the end of the cold spell
But the weatherman will give us the facts.

Press by Michael Kebble

The button said “press”. 

I had been a bit of a loner as a teenager.  My big sister wanted to spend time with her boyfriend and the last thing she wanted to do was to spend time with me, my parents both worked and I had no real friends where I lived so I would spend many hours simply walking through London, visiting the sights, the museums and the parks.  If I didn’t feel like walking, or time was a bit short then buses were my principal mode of transport as they allowed me to see where I was going.  On the top of the bus one could see into the upper windows of the shops and houses that one passed as well as looking down on the crowds scurrying along the pavements on their way to somewhere.  Occasionally I would use the tubes, but they didn’t have the same attraction for me.  It always seemed to me that by the time you had walked from the entrance to the platform and then, if you had to change lines, walked between lines, you might just as well have walked all the way. 

My walks would take me all over London, past the old markets of Smithfield, Billingsgate, Covent Garden and Leadenhall, strangely quiet in the afternoon.  Into and around the great Royal Parks always buzzing with activity of one kind or another.  On a weekend I would love to venture into the City of London which was ghostly quiet with so little traffic I could walk down the middle of Cheapside without fear of being run down.  But my favourite trips were to the great museums.  Of course, I would go to the British Museum because it was such a grand building with such extraordinary treasures, and then the Natural History Museum with its fabulous architecture and the displays of dinosaur skeletons and models of huge elephants and the Blue Whale, but to a young boy, the best and greatest of them all was the Science Museum.  Nothing could beat the displays of vast steam engines which, at the press of a button would whir into life or the aeroplanes and locomotives and cars on display all available at no cost.  In the basement there was a special children’s gallery which was a paradise of button pushing and automation.  I spent many a happy hour in that museum and knew the basement so well I think I could have navigated it with my eyes closed.

I am older now, but I still cannot resist the lure of a button to press, nor have I given up walking through London.  It was on one such walk that I came upon the button that said “press”.  I had been made redundant a month or so before, and I was at a loose end.  It was a weekend and I decided to head into the City to see if it was as quiet as it used to be when I was young.  I headed down Goswell Road, onto Aldersgate and into the Barbican Centre.  I had seen this modernist development being built when I was growing up and found it fascinating, not least because it gave one an opportunity to walk on pedestrian only walkways without fear of traffic.  It was like nothing else in London with shallow lakes and raised flowerbeds surrounded by towering skyscrapers containing residential flats overlooking the roofscape of London.  The high-level walkways were hung with creepers and the lakes were filled with huge carp.  It hadn’t changed much.  The trees were more mature as were the gardens and the whole thing had softened, but it was still as fascinating now as it had been then. 

I crossed London Wall and into the old City by the Guildhall across to Cheapside and then into the myriad of alleyways and courts that make up the old city.  I am familiar with the City, having worked there for some time and, as I have said, walked it many times at a weekend, so I was not afraid that I could get lost.  I turned to left and to right, sometimes coming out into places that are familiar to all like the Bank and The Royal Exchange, sometimes into less familiar places like Cowper’s Court.  I could feel the history of these places as places of commerce, and I could almost hear the bustle of the coffee houses that must have lined each of these alleys and streets in the past.  I reached a crossing of two alleys and instead of following the alley I was in, I turned to the left and found myself in a place I had never been before.  I walked for about 50 feet at which point the alley took a slight turn to the right and narrowed to a dead end.  I was about to turn to retrace my steps when I noticed the button.

It was a plain button with the word “Press” printed in its centre.  It was quite unlike one of those wonderful buttons that used to be on the old Routemaster buses; red buttons inside a silver-coloured metal ring with the words “Push Once to Stop” engraved around it, or any of the small brass buttons in the Science Museum.  It was about an inch in diameter made of some ceramic material set in a metal frame, itself set into a brick wall about two feet wide.  The short alley that I had turned into led under a building, so it was more of a short tunnel than an alley.  There were no windows on any side, and, because of its position, it was quite dark.  I hesitated.  The button did not seem to control anything.  There was no door, no speaker that I could see and no bell that I was aware of.  But the button said “press”.

I pressed the button.

I AM PLEASURE by Barrie Purnell


I am pleasure you will always desire me,
An addiction I’m forever in your brain.
Without me there’s no delight no satisfaction,
Once you’ve had me you will want me again.

I’ll only ever be with you in the moment, 
I’ve no morality, that’s yours to control.
You cannot have me, but only feel me,
I’m part of happiness but not the whole.

Don’t confuse me with excitement or joy,
I’m a feeling not emotions like those two,
They come more from what’s on the inside,
I’m a response to things outside of you.

You find me best in the anticipation, 
And then again in memory of the same.
You’ll find that it’s difficult to share me
Unlike my close colleague named pain.

Pain’s not my opposite but my closest friend,
When pain leaves I often make an appearance,
It’s boredom that lives furthest from me
And is the biggest danger to my existence.

I may come with your god as something spiritual,
Or come to you in the passion of your senses,
Unbidden by a friend’s triumph or an enemy’s sorrow,
I am transient often disguised within pretences.

You’ve found me many times by remembering
How you kept me a secret when you were young,
I was there when you travelled and after, when I let you
Still taste those golden beaches on your tongue.

I hide behind your acts of so called charity,
Which others see as your benevolence,
Because I know it’s really to be with me again,
That you give that poor beggar his tuppence.

It is when you have put aside your conscience 
I often appear with my old friend guilt,
I’m sometimes there when your actions harm others
And you hide me behind barriers you’ve built.

I can be with you during a moment of sin
You know may lead to a lifetime of regret,
You throw yourself at me without restraint
Like a suicide whose future’s already set. 

I don’t wait so when you want to write
It is desire that’s with you in the waiting,
But I am with you when you pen the words,
And with you once again in the reading.

You’ve sought me out everywhere you have been
Since the earliest of years I’ve been with you,
Now you are old it’s getting harder to find me
But imagination has come to your rescue.

Remember those young girls who gave me to you,
When you thought that you had nothing to prove,
When you were living the moments I gave you
Without thinking too much about love.

Now is a long way from then, and you draw 
A smile on your face in some rare infatuation
Just to pretend that at that moment I’m with you,
But I’m not love I’m at best just a poor imitation. 

Now those teachers of everything we know
Say that I’m nothing more than a rush of dopamine,
But without me happiness will prove elusive, 
So treasure me, when you find me in art or sex or just caffeine.

Brought to book by Kevin Murphy

Kevin's response to the trigger 'book'

Ginny Lynn sat in the light and airy atrium, which is the waiting hall of her city’s new law court. She was hugging her hessian shopping bag, knowing that the look on her face was a smug smile. She was proud of herself.

On New Year’s Morning, admittedly many months ago, but that was Covid’s fault, not hers, Ginny was alone in the house and thought the noise she heard might be one of the family sneaking guiltily back in. Her ears alert, she heard no more. No spoil sport, she didn’t want to reinforce any pangs her children Will or Amy may feel about staying over at his or her girlfriends’, so she stealthily donned her mules and crept out to the landing and peered over the banister. 
No one in the hallway below.
Ginny stole down the stairs taking a stretch over the known creaky step and peeped through the glass-paned lounge door.
Her hand went to her throat. Her new Christmas table cloth was spread out on the floor in front of the TV. She froze, only her eyes exploring. Will’s new virtuality goggles were peeping out of their box, and Amy’s fancy new hair rollers were sitting on top of their box. Was that her own new coffee machine behind it?
There was a movement under the Christmas tree. 
A pair of legs.
Ginny tip-toed towards… but froze again at a clicking of plugs and Bill the Burglar let out a quiet gasp and tried to extricate himself from behind wires and unopened twelfth-night presents. His rustling allowed Ginny to look around for some defence. She saw her Dad’s family bible, long in need for purpose and clutched it with the firmest grip.
The deep-pile of the new Axminster, allowed her to silently hover as Bill turned to hear ‘Die Bill!’ and see the white and gold tome flash into his face.
It was the last thing he saw.

‘Mrs Hyman,’ said the voice of her new best friend, PC Hamed Johnson. ‘Your big day. Thank you.’ 
He offered her a hand up, but she handed him the bag and sprung herself to her feet. 
‘So this is what saved the day,’ he said, realising the significance of the bulk in the bag.
‘Yes, Hamed,’ she said. ‘Not the Koran, sorry.’
He chuckled as he steered Ginny towards the courtroom. ‘My Mum might regard it as less blasphemous. But I see it as our saviour.’ He took the Bible out of the bag, placed it on the bench back in front of them. He stroked the white leather, traced the gold lettering, his finger stopping beside a small maroon stain. He looked across to the accused hanging his head in the dock.
Ginny saw both and nodded. ‘Yes, it’s his blood. Just a drip - like him. Something to tell the grandkids. Proof, eh?’
‘Indeed. How Dai Bwlch was Retford’s most elusive cat burglar and their brave grandma saved the day and brought him to book.’

Weight Watchers by Joan Saxby

Image by pikisuperstar on Freepik
When one attends the Weight Watchers
You have to get in a queue
They eye you up like vultures
And then ask "What did you do?"

They ask "Have you been on the biscuits?" 
You say, "I had but a few.
I also had chicken drumsticks,
Thought that was the right thing to do."

They shake their heads and frown at you
And tell you, you must try harder.
They say, "Drink water, lay off the vino
And don't go into the larder.

Eat more lettuce and go play tennis,
And never, ever sit down.
Go to the gym, don't drink Guinness 
And take a walk into town.

Learn to dance, take a trip to France
Try to chew on frog's legs. 
Whatever you do, don't take a chance 
You must stop eating up dregs.

If you don't do what we tell you to
You'll never get any thinner. 
Whatever you do, don't eat stew 
We want you to be a winner.

Eat less bread, dilute the spread 
And keep off the herbs and spices. 
Cut out the white and eat brown bread 
And don't have too many slices.

Learn to love prunes and eat more greens 
And think how they live on the Med. 
It's really not as bad as it seems, 
And learn to go early to bed.
 
Be ever so good, don't eat a pud, 
It will be on your hips by morning. 
You'll stay awake, so be really good 
Or you'll listen to hubbie snoring.

Try not to sin, give up the gin 
It's not very good for you. 
You're better with water and we think you oughta 
Never eat vindaloo.

Don't lick your lips, take tiny sips 
And don't eat too much sugar. 
If you fancy fruit, just suck on the pips 
We know it's a bit of a bugger!

Don't eat chocolate, it flies to the bust, 
You'll regret it if you do. 
Take all the icing off the cake 
And throw it down the loo.

Never hide some crisps in a drawer, 
Eat water biscuits, be careful with dips. 
Always suck your soup through a straw
Count your calories, never eat chips.

Do the right things and don't learn to cook 
Instead dance like John Travolta. 
Throw away your recipe book 
Instead do the rumba and salsa.

Jump up and down, thus you'll get thinner 
You'll take an inch off your hips.
If you really, really want to be slimmer 
Squeeze a lemon through taught lips.

Don't eat gravy, go join the Navy 
And help them to raise the flag.
Scrub the deck when the sea's all wavy 
Do this and your boobs won't sag.

Never, never put sauce on things
Especially if you're not sure.
Don't open the fridge for things
Be firm and slam the door.

Swim a mile before breakfast, learn to hurdle 
You'll lose three inches or more 
This will help you to tighten your girdle 
So make it your Weight Watcher's law.

When you attend we'll measure your hips 
I'm sure you know the score. 
Don't go home and eat fish and chips 
Next week you might not get through the door.

Leant to love a celery top
Try not to lick the trifle dish.
Soon you'll be able to shop at Top Shop
If you scrape the batter off your fish.

Think of England and double the sex 
You'll be thin like Posh,
And fit like Becks
And very soon you'll fit in those frocks.

Show concern and you'll have no ills 
And learn to look after your heart. 
If you don't you'll have to stay on the pills 
So promise us that you'll start.

Try to think thin, don't raid the bread bin
And take a good book to bed 
Remember these rules and don't give in 
It's better than being dead!

NEW BEGINNINGS IN RHYME by Joan Saxby

New beginnings began with The Creation
Whether by a big bang or some other causation
The earth has continued to go on forming
With new rivers and mountains and animals swarming.

Then man appeared from goodness knows where
A new earthly beginning from which to compare
The changing of man, the birds and the bees
The evolution of everything by degrees.

Man has slowly changed everything and calls it progress
And the genius of some we must not suppress
From the wheel to the steam engine and now space travel
One wonders with what other inventions men can battle.

Trips to the moon and possibly Saturn
The weather confuses us with its changing pattern
Our seasons start with four new beginnings
All caused because our earth is spinning.

So where will it all end one wonders sometimes
As we contemplate past to modern times
How it began and where will it end?
I'm sure that most of us can't comprehend.

Complete and Unadorned by Cheryl Richardson

I’m sassy, I’m classy
And a little bit bad assy!
I sing and I dance 
And I take every chance
To enjoy every minute
Of this life while I’m in it

There’s trouble and strife 
In this funny old life
But I rise above
Look up to the light
And keep myself positive 
Cheerful and bright

I’m not melancholy
And mostly I’m jolly
And value my friendships with all
When life is a struggle
And I get in a muddle
There’s one thing for sure
I know I’ll endure
I’ll always stand fast 
I won’t fall

So be of good cheer
All you gathered here
And let not the world get you down
Get up and get snappy
You deserve to be happy 
Awake to the beauty around !
Simples ! 

(Sometimes I get a bit sad 
- being of a sensitive 
nature … )

DREAM by Frank Carter

DREAM by Frank Carter
 
I'm lying, I'm listening;
It’s all I can do.
Listen.
It’s stopped now.

See the silence.
Feel the waiting.
We were real, living men once,
Now just bits and shadows
Beaten, broken, breathless.

Speak to me, Tommy.
Remember, how you talked
Of those summers in Margate and
Building sand-castles with the kids?
Scrumping apples at Lord Whatsit’s place
And playing hookey so’s you could lie in the grass 
with Mavis from the Bakery?
Your wedding speech, Tommy, when
Everyone laughed in the wrong places?
And how your missus’ smile
Is the light in your life?
Listen.
It’s stopped now.

And there’s my dear, old Deepdale:
Cloth caps and Bovril.
Dubbin and sweat.
Half-time oranges,
Cyril centre-half,
Arthur on the wing
Crossing for me
To head the goal
That wins the cup
For Preston-North-End.

Back then and yesterday,
Yesterday rain.
Four years of yesterdays
Raining shells and bullets.

Today, the guns are silent.
The song-thrush isn’t singing.
The sun doesn‘t shine.
The air is all stench and decay.
And there's more rain tomorrow,
Tommy.

I'm lying, I'm listening
All I can do is
Dream.