Podcast : Patty does... Naughty elephants squirt water.

Another of those stories that rhyme. Due to popular demand, this one features Patty's dulcet tones rather than my hacking growl and wheezy cough. 

"Naughty elephants squirt water" 

on Audioboom and YouTube.

Naughty elephants squirt water.

He sniffed at the air with his wrinkly nose

And made his way on tippety-toes

To the washing line where he stole some clothes

And put them on then suddenly froze

He sniffed and sniffed and sniffed once more

Then followed the fragrance in through the door

Of the house of the lady that came home and saw

Those dirty great footprints across her clean floor

She'd only popped out to buy lemonade

To enjoy with her friends and the buns that she'd made

The buns that she'd placed on the table she'd laid

Before going to the shop on the shopping parade

She couldn't believe the mess that she found

China and table lay scattered around

No buns were remaining, just crumbs on the ground

Then, from up above, there came an odd sound

Those dirty great footprints carried on through

The kitchen and up the stairs, into the loo

She shrieked when she saw it, couldn't imagine who

Could do such a dirty, great, steaming, huge poo

She crept down the landing and peeped through the lock

In the door to her bedroom and got a huge shock 

An elephant winding up her alarm clock

Yawning and stretching and wearing her frock

"You cheeky, wee beggar" the old lady did shout

As she strode in the room waving her cane about

"You'll clean up your mess, of that there's no doubt

Now go flush that toilet, you wrinkly. grey lout"

Now, an elephant's feet were never designed to

Pick up broken plates or to fix them with glue 

And he'd never before had to flush away poo

'Til his recent and daring escape from the zoo

He'd spent many an hour plotting plot after plot

But managed no more than diddly-squat 

Then, this very morning, believe it or not

His cage was left open so off he did trot

He was spotted escaping by that daft keeper who'd

Left unlocked his lock and the keeper pursued

He'd found a disguise and some lovely, warm food

And a toilet upon which he'd sat and he'd pooed

His lack of fingers and thumbs aside

The naughty elephant really tried

To clean up the mess that he'd made inside

The house where the lady who baked did reside

She'd watched and she'd laughed as he'd tried hard to mop

The floor of the kitchen, but she'd had to stop

Him from making it worse with his slop, slop, slop, slop 

And sent him away to the local cake shop

He wore some dark glasses, a scarf and a hat

And crept through the streets as quiet as a cat

Purchased the buns and had a quick chat

With the baker, then turned around and headed back

He'd very near made it without being seen

But the local police force were really quite keen

To capture the beast, they'd rather have been

With coffee and doughnuts in the station canteen

The leaves on the path were hiding a net

That sprang up around him as fast as a jet

Then, quick as a flash, poor Jumbo did get

A jab in the bum from the zoo's friendly vet 

Back behind bars but he didn't feel sad

The pachyderm sat with his trunk in the bag

Of buns that he'd woken to find he still had

He smiled as he munched, life wasn't so bad

 He went and he sucked up a trunk full of water

And sprayed passers by though he shouldn't have oughta

He soaked a fat man and his red headed daughter

Who shrieked and who clutched the stuffed bear that he'd bought her

Then later that night with the moon overhead

And the visitors gone and the residents fed

The big, tired beast lay upon his own bed

And smiled as he thought of adventures ahead

All it would take was a little mishap

A gate left unlocked by that old keeper chap

But next time not stopping to take a quick nap

And not walking into a dirty, great trap

Next time he would make it, to freedom he'd flee

Stowaway on a liner and sail every sea

Or find a nice jungle and finally be

What all creatures want, just happy and free

J2H & PDF.

Podcast : J2H does... Hell hath no furry.

I wrote some stories that rhymed. Hear me say yet another of them out loud.

"Hell hath no furry" 

on Audioboom and YouTube.

listen to ‘J2H does... Hell hath no furry.’ on audioBoom

Hell hath no furry.

Look at it there, curled up on the mat

In front of the fire, your lovely pet cat

Snoring and twitching as dreams it does dream

A look on it's face like the cat that got cream

But make no mistake as you tickle his ear

That sleek, silky creature's a beast you should fear

See, the Devil's last job, before banished below

Was to design the critter to be the dog's foe

He took essence of cruelty and oil of brute

And poured them both in to a small, furry suit

Equipped it with teeth and with claws that could tear

And eyes like a demon and soft, shiny hair

The love of our dogs was already established

We'd chosen to love our terriers and mastiffs

Boxers and Shepherds, Pugs and Shit'zu

Cockers and Spaniels and Rottweilers too

Some bred to protect and some bred to work

Each with his own unique, special quirk

Our dogs had been curling up beneath our feet

Since long before Lucifer first felt Hell's heat

"Never return" bellowed him with the beard

"And take that cat with you, it's icky. It's weird!"

Cast down from Heaven the ex-Angel fell

Screeching and flailing and plunging to Hell

Construction of fiery pits underway

The Devil was toiling away every day

His time now more precious, his project forgotten

Pooing on Brimstone and licking it's bottom

It sat and it watched as Evil was born

Cold and disinterested, yawning a yawn

Soaking up evil, the cat honed his skills

And learnt the dark arts through eons until

Bored with his lot the cat made his way

From Hades to Horwich, via freshly dug grave

He skulked and he stalked his way through the town

Peering through windows, not making a sound

He watched as an infant stirred in his bed

And awoke with a wail to be straight away fed

By a mother who smiled as she cradled him in

Close to her breast and tickled his chin

Son sated and sleepy, mum returned to her bed

Where, now exhausted, she slept like the dead

While in the next room Satan's own handiwork

Slipped in through a window and in the gloom lurked

He sniffed at the air and leapt into the crib

Of the baby now snoring and lay 'cross his ribs

He lapped at the air and did hungrily feed

Upon the sweet breath that the sweet baby breathed

Now, the food in the underworld isn't the best

They've nothing so tasty as milk from the breast

Of a smiling, tired mother while sat by the bed

Of her offspring who'd cried when he'd had to be fed

But it isn't so easy to feed on a child

When your very presence sends it's family's dog wild

So he turned on the charm and he hung round the house

Occasionally killing a rat or a mouse

And chasing off birds and burying turds

Or lying in sunshine, purring his purrs

Until that fateful day, while licking his paws

He came up with the plan that would get him indoors

Old Nick had lost interest before finishing off

The voice of the cat, all it had was a cough

But if the cat coughed, and coughed the cough right,

He found he could sound like a babe in the night

A sound no good mother would ever ignore

A sound that he found could open a door

Or bring forth a bowl all laden with fish

And a splash of cow's milk poured into a dish

Big eyes designed mainly for hunting at night

Lost their evil shimmer when viewed in daylight

So, once he'd licked all the milk from his chin

The infant's daft mother invited him in

The smartest trick Beelzebub managed

Was to bottle pure evil within a cute package

Then let it loose upon the world

Where now upon our laps it curls

And naps and dreams and looks so cute

A demon in an angels suit

But make no mistake, once fast asleep

Upon your chest he'll silently leap

He'll open his jaws and he'll drink in your breath

Feasting until you start to near death

Then back downstairs your cat will creep

To lie on your jacket and go back to sleep

They'll poo in your kitchen and scratch your best chair

They'll bring home what they kill and they'll leave it lay there

On the mat by the door, or worse still on your stair

And watch as you shriek when you tread on it there

They'll purr and they'll preen and they'll watch as you fetch

A dustpan and brush and they'll laugh as you retch

They'll jump on your lap and they'll claw at your belly

Whenever you settle in front of the telly

They'll hate you and long for the day that you die

The day that they'll feast on your cheeks and your eyes

What kind of person, knowing all that

Would choose to share their home with a CAT?

J2H.

Podcast: J2H does... Old lady on a Honda.

I wrote some stories that rhymed. Hear me say another of them out loud.

"Old lady on a Honda" 

on Audioboom and YouTube.

listen to ‘J2H does... Old lady on a Honda.’ on audioBoom

Old lady on a Honda.

Wherever life is taking us, take time to look around

To see the world outside of us and the marvels that abound 

Travel to lands both near and far, it won't matter how far you wander

You'll see nothing quite as wonderful as an old girl on a Honda

She smiled as she passed me on a street close to here

The one with the chippy and the shop that sells beer

A twin set and pearls she'd more obviously suit

But had opted instead for leathers and boots

She wove through the traffic all queued in a queue

Past drivers who sweated and turned the air blue

Whose frowns turned to grins as the old lady swept by

Blue tint in her hair and a glint in her eye

She pulled up to the pump on the garage forecourt

Filled up, grabbed a paper, paid for that which she'd bought

More lipstick applied and helmet in place

She started her engine, a grin on her face

A left and a right and a couple lefts more

And the little old lady drew up to her door

Then smiled, turned around and rode back down her street

She'd forgotten to buy her husbands best sweets

I say she'd forgotten, but I'm pretty sure

She just wanted a reason to ride there once more

She zigged and she zagged and she swept through the town

Taking her time and the scenic way round

His licorice purchased, she opened the packet

Popped a sweet in her mouth and the rest in her jacket

Then, once again, she rode her way back

To the house that she shared with her husband, Jack

I don't know that's his name, I'm guessing you see

But I wanted to name them for clarity

So, from my point of view, the old girl on her Honda

Is just going to have to be thought of as "Wanda"

The beauty of life, the drama of thunder

This world where we dwell is jam packed with wonder

I've been many places and lived many days

I've seen lives created and ebbing away

The flowers, the birds and the fish in the sea

All of Earth's wonders revealed to me 

But of all these great things I couldn't be fonder

Than of the little, old lady riding her Honda

J2H.

Uncle Billy lost his willy on the motorway.

I didn't only have a mass-murderer for a grandfather.

The grandfather that did the majority of the grandfathering had indeed, as I mentioned in a previous post, been responsible for a whole heap of innocent lives being taken, but my other grandfather, the one I only had the pleasure of knowing for a couple of years, was the Spandex and armour clad, cape wearing, masked vigilante who'd been responsible for bringing down many of Gotham City's most murderous miscreants.

My grandfather was Batman.

Hard to believe, I know. I struggled with it myself when my father, the son of Batman, mentioned it whilst teaching me to use a grappling hook. Turned out, though, it was true. Kind of.

The only memories I have of my father's father are of a slight man lay on a beige, leatherette settee, clad in a dressing gown and smiling. I remember his voice from just one of those occasions, the occasion upon which I'd come home from the local Co-op with a red butterfly net, bought with the coin he'd pressed into my hand as I'd kissed him goodbye on my way out of the door with my grandmother. I can still remember the sweet smell of his skin, a smell I became more familiar with in later life.

I asked him if he could take me fishing with it and he said he would, but not this time.

The sweet smell was the sweet smell of the cancer, in his case of the lungs, that had ravaged his body and transformed him from the mountain of a man in the old photographs I still possess to the painfully thin and fragile bag of bones that is my memory of him. By now, his illness had made any fishing expedition impossible but, on the following visit, he kept his word courtesy of a paddling pool, some metal fish and a couple of magnets on homemade, Huckleberry Finn style fishing poles. My granddad had never had a garden before the garden in which we spent that afternoon fishing. He had been lucky enough to be given a lovely, new, three bedroomed council house in Sale as a result of the slum clearance program undertaken in Miles Platting and he loved both of the gardens that came attached to his new, and final, home.

I wore a cowboy hat and sunglasses and had his pipe clamped between my teeth while granddad wore a knotted handkerchief upon his head. It turned out that I was really good at fishing and he was shit, I caught way more fish than he did.

But back to his Super-Hero days. He wasn't, as I'd imagined, THE Batman (even if, by the end, his voice had taken on the timbre of Christian Bale's portrayal). He was just A bat man. No capital "B" and a space in the middle, very disappointing.

Whilst in the army he'd been bat man to Lord Gort, the chap in charge of sneaking our boys back from France in 1940. There has been debate about whether Gort's decision to abandon a counterattack on the German forces alongside the French was brilliant or cowardly. I've no idea, but if we're ever forced to fight that war again I'd vote for taking the same course of action, just in case. I'm sure Hitler saw the retreat as a victory of might and aggression over weakness and cowardice, but look where that got him. The prick.

Before he'd left for France (then returned before leaving again to spend most of the remainder of the war under siege in Malta) he'd come from Monmouth, our ancestors having drifted slowly west since, hundreds of years earlier and during the retreat of the Spanish Armada, our last Iberian ancestor had jumped ship and settled in Wales. The Welsh hated the English more than they hated Johnny Foreigner so he and many of his like minded shipmates had been welcomed warmly into the communities. So much so that, today, the Spanish colouring has become more commonplace among the Welsh than the Celtic colouring that existed before. Take a look at a traditional Welsh doll, you'll not see many ginger examples.

For some reason, we English don't have a traditional, national doll. However, we do at long last have our own national bird. I say our own, we have to share it with the rest of Britain, but fairs fair, they've had to share their oil and coal.

After much debate and a recent national vote we have a winner. Having staved off stiff competition from birds of prey, from puffins and penguins, from kingfishers and from tits both great and small, one bird has emerged from the flock and been officially recognised as our favourite bird, as the bird that epitomises Englishness,

The robin.

Small, brown and generally unremarkable creatures (aside from a brief spell in winter when, for goodness knows what reason, their chests turn red and we send Christmas cards with their image on), famously territorial and aggressive. I didn't agree with the choice at first, but I suppose it's quite fitting.

One notable and little know fact about our new national bird is that they steal bikes from small children.

Whilst out walking with Dickfingers and her son back in the early days of our relationship during that stage where everything was new and we were still pretending to like one and other we came across a robin. It being close after that season in which we must be jolly, the robin was sporting it's crimson waistcoat. Also as a result of that recent bell jingling season, the spawn of Dickfingers was riding a still-shining new bicycle along a tow path a few feet in front of us. He pulled up suddenly, his progress barred by the aforementioned red breasted robin,

"Shoo!" He called, wafting his hands in the air, "Shoo!".

Up until this point, I had been under the impression that "shoo" was pretty much universally accepted to mean "piss off out of my way", but no. Apparently, to a robin, "shoo" means "fly at my face screeching and scare the shit out of me". The bike clattered to the ground as the terrified child fled.

I didn't laugh but, fuck me, it was funny.

Eager to impress the latest-current-potential-second-Mrs-Spacey I strode over to the bike to reclaim it and vanquish that pesky bird. Turns out, those pesky birds are feisty. He wasn't for giving up his new found and completely impractical mode of transport easily and, my being unwilling to hit him with a branch, I found myself to be the very epitome of a paper tiger. Big enough and with the capacity to smite this winged bully but lacking the killer instinct. And didn't he bloody well know it? I'm sure the blasted bird saw my retreat as a victory of flight and aggression over my own weakness and cowardice, but fuck him. He's probably dead now anyway. The prick.

Eventually, once he'd tired of taunting me and having evacuated his bowels furiously all over the bicycle, robin did as robins do and flew away, taking with him a good chunk of my dignity. Still, to the child hiding behind his mother I was, at least, the bloke who'd valiantly wiped the bird shit from his saddle after being forced into retreat by a currently-remarkable unremarkable bird. To the child's mother, I was the man whose hand she now refused to hold until he could wash it properly.

Sometimes running away is a valid option, sometimes based on instinct and occasionally on cunning or guile. Take, for instance, our pets. Proper pets, not bloody budgies or hamsters. Real pets.

Besides the obvious differences between cats and dogs (the most obvious of which being that cats are evil and dogs are the best thing ever) there's another, less obvious, difference. If a dog gets hurt he returns to the protection of the pack. A cat does the polar opposite. A cat runs away to die, a dog comes home. Both have perfectly fine reasons for their actions. They don't know if their way is the best way, and they'll never know because they only get one shot at shuffling off this mortal coil

People run away a lot. They run away from their problems, run away from bad situations, run away from fights. They run from advancing armies, from big, scary birds and from stricken warships, but running away is subjective. Anyone running is running both away from and toward something. Running from danger is running to safety, hopefully. Whether they're coming or going depends at which of those two points we ourselves are standing.

Whether it's the safety provided by the English channel, the Welsh valleys, your pack or that which the latest in a long line of mummy's new boyfriends can offer, we all need somewhere to run to when things get tough. Loving arms, a warm Welsh woman or a paddling pool in a beloved back garden, they're all in the future and that's the ultimate destination. We can't help but arrive at it, but we can choose where we are when we do. Those points in our lives where we ran away appear as a zig or a zag on our timelines, making for a far more interesting journey before the flat-line of contentment morphs into a very different flat line.

J2H.