TTMFFTTM13

It was another of those things that my Father failed to tell me about, like washing your clothes in a bucket after caving to avoid mud and grit being distributed evenly through the wash rather than being got rid of.
I had been invited to my Godson Stuart's fourth birthday party and had been told that it had a pirate theme. After digging through my extensive wardrobe I liberated some likely materials, packed them in my trusty backpack and set off to have a walk through the Chilterns prior to arriving at the party, where I would change and appear piratelike in the back garden having climbed through the hole in the hedge. Well, I nearly managed all that, I got off the train at Chorleywood, where I procured a suitable present and card, then headed off up the Chess valley, keeping a weather eye out for fungi on the way (like you do). I failed miserably on the fungi (well on any edibles) but managed to navigate quite successfully until I emerged out of the woods at the back of Chez Lewis. After checking the surrounding area for pedestrians of a sensitive and potentially litigious nature or, in fact, an existent nature, I got changed, swapping my shorts for three-quarter lengths, pulling on my bright red knee socks to set off my well-trimmed calves, tying my kerchief firmly round my muscular neck and dropping a button or two to expose my hirsute but manly bosom, donning my brocade waistcoat to emphasise my breadth of shoulder and trim waist (you're correct this is fantasy but nevertheless that's what I did), and finally tying a red silk scarf pirate-fashion to conceal my luscious, but greying, locks. I then delved for the face paints, and knocked up a couple of scars and the odd tattoo before dirtying my face with gunpowder residue to highlight my three day beard, then I was complete!
I eyed (aya ayed?) the hedges. Nope couldn't recognise a bloody thing. I walked the row of hedges - nope. I walked back - no. Forward-no..... "BUGGER!" So there I stood in piratical flagrante, I produced my jolly roger mobile and phoned,
"Umm Steve.
Hi.
I'm somewhere near the back of your place.
Yeah. Umm can you come out and show me which is yours?
Ta."
Nothing for several minutes, then Steve appeared at the wrong end of the row, I hurried towards him, watching his eyebrows furrow as he took in my garb, he led me through the hole in the hedge (now moved to the other side, no wonder etc, etc.) and from thence into the house.
"Hi Ettie I .....oh."
"Stephen you left the pizza and now it's BURNT!"
"I... Oh. I.. Umm.. Sorry."
"Well, NO, it's aaaaAAARRGGHH!"
"Sorry Ettie it was my fau..... I'll just go and say hello to Stuart."

The actuality of the situation:

Steve is left in charge of the veggie pizza.
I phone and he pops out and hovers around the end of the garden expecting to see me, meanwhile I am at the other end of the row a scant 100 metres or so away.
Steve battles through the hedge having given up waiting, at the same time, the cheese on the pizza first crisps and then burns, blue curlicues of burning fat buoyed on the rising heat, head for the ceiling and the smoke detector.
Steve looks up and down the path and sees a somewhat panicked pirate waving and hurrying towards him, Meanwhile the alpha-particles leaving a small source of Americium 241, and hurrying across a small gap to complete a circuit, are interrupted by an emulsion of cheese and carbon. "Cripes!" says the Smoke Detector, "There's a fire! I'd better go off!" Which it does, with some stridency.
Next door, eight small children who have just settled down to await pizza after an orgy of dipping crudites, react to the urgency of the alarm as only eight small children can - stark terror and incomprehension.
Ettie flies from the living room to the kitchen and mutes the alarm as with one masterly, motherly sweep of her eyes, she takes in the smoke, the blackness of the pizza and the absence of her husband, who drifts in a few moments later with a bedraggled tramp of some sort. She is not in the mood for excuses.
The tramp moves next door, eight small pairs of eyes turn in his direction as do four or five adult pairs, he drops to Stuart's level and, in the tradition of all pirates (and trolls as far as he's concerned) adopts a West Country accent and roars, "HA, HAAAARRRRR!" Several of the boys roar back. On the other hand, Amber flies from the chair to the nearest bosom and breaks into inconsolable tears of fright after a fit of the conniptions. Some of the others, including parents are left wondering which of the three is the best reaction.
Pirate Nick, rather taken aback, adopts Amber's height for a chat, she retreats, bosomward, Ettie comes in and says,
"This is not an Entertainer, this is Stuart's Godfather."
Stuart's Godfather retreats to the sofa, out of Amber's eyeline, should she ever emerge again, and slumps, after a few minutes, Steve slips him a glass of Grog (red from Chile) before removing himself to the far end of the room where he slips himself one.
Moral: If you are going to dress as a pirate make sure you know where you are, and don't be too convincing.

Nick the Superhero

New from NIXCO PUBLISHING DIV, a part of JP Publishing

Nixco are proud to present the first draft of a manuscript by their recent discovery Master Edward Piron. While on a cycling tour of Cambridgeshire our Director came across burgeoning author Eddie Piron, labouring in his lonely garret on the edge of the windswept and mysterious Cambridgeshire Fens. He was given shelter from an impending Steppe-born blizzard by Master Piron where he was invited to share the Author's sparse meal of a bowl of 'Cocoa Rocks'. Later that evening while mooching around the house to keep warm, our Director came upon this ms on the pages of that budding author's vehicle of choice; the School Exercise Book. While perusing said ms, he managed to dislodge a molar-impacted 'rock' with his prehensile tongue, the sudden burst of chocolate on the tastebuds reminding him of the unstinting generosity of his diminutive host, he made a vow that such literary talent should not go unrewarded and so we present (almost unedited), for your delight:

NICK THE SUPERHERO

(A WORK IN PROGRESS)

BY

MASTER EDWARD PIRON

Nick the superhero
By Eddie Piron

First published by Jerry Piron in 2007
and illistraited by Gail Crow (also in 2oo7)
Nick the super hero

By Eddie Piron

Soon to be available from Nixco :
The Tom Landrover collection
By Eddie Piron

Tom Landrover and the wizards commentary (book1)
Tom Landrover and the indian duel cave (book 2)
Tom Landrover and the lost planet dividing (book 3)

Important message:
If you happen to be named “ Nick” , you probbably are a super hero but I am so-
rry to say this book will be about a “ Ni-
ck” you might not have met before. The
super hero by name is: Nick , Adrian , H-
ayes.
by Eddie
Contents
0. How to become a super hero
1. The beginning of Nick Hayes...
2. 53 years later
3. The humourous werewolf
4. The humourous werewolf ‘s helping hand
5. The evil army of werewolves
6. Nick the super hero!
7. Werewolves. Now known as the ultra evil werewolves!
8. Desert land
9. Nick the super hero saves the centurys!
10.1,000,000 years later...
11. Not the end of Nick!... but a very old
man!

chapter 0
how to become a superhero
To become a superhero you need a load of coloured cloth, a pair of scissors and a bannana incase you get hungry. Then you need to make sure its in your size otherwise you could look fat or, iff its too small you might get blown up. Once you’ve done that you need to fly off and do super things like mend fences and-
Iff you do that you’re not a superhero. First of all iff you’re hungry take a bit of the bannana. Then you need to do prop-er super things like save inocent people from firey biulding-s and things like that. But something even worse than that could happen in this story. Now you can go on to chapter one...

Chapter 1
The beggining of Nick Hayes
Once upon a time there was a zero year old named Nick. He died in I’mm not going to tell you because you’ll give it away years. A fact about the most spectacularly ordinary pupil imaginable. This chapter is called The beggining of Nick for a great, brilliant, spectacular, superb,fabolous and good reason. But in the last chapter of this book you might be in for a bit of a shock. I wouldn’t in one million years tell you what its called (because you might already know) but I can tell you something that would give you a very good idea of what it couldn’t be called: it isn’t the end of Nick.
By the way, I can tell you what chapter two is called because you won’t want this chapter to go on for years and years until you get to tired to read any longer. The thing is I’ve for-gotten what chapter two is and I don’t want to go back to the contents. Ha, ha! Ok, Ok, I’ll tell you. Its called 53 years later. Now days Nick is fifty-three years old. In the future he went on a wild adventure named chapter eight. But for now we’ll say that Nick Hayes is a zero year old who has just born and has no idea what will happen when he’s a grwn up. I should tell you something though. Iff you haven’t read chapter zero you must read it imedeately. This is serious as-well as amazingly humorous. The reason this is, is because only one person in a galaxy is aloud superhero responsabil-ity. Don’t ask yourself why I said that, it was for a brilliant reason. First of all this is not a true story ok?
Second of all Nick’s mum and dad were the only couple brave enogh to give Nick superhero responsability.
And third of all, don’t go thinking “everyone is gonna be a superhero!” because they aren’t.
So, you now no about superheros, their responsability and what might be happening later on in this story. But you’ll still be wondering how the rest of the story will go I haven’t told you the whole story yet. Wonder as much as you like but it’ll take a long time until you get to find out the mystery of mainly chapter eight, but also chapter three, four and five. Find out as chapter one comes to a sad end.

Chapter 2
53 years later

Fifty three years later, Nick Hayes sat on his bed being dificult with himself.

Here's a picture of the successful graduates of the Nixco School of Writing and Learning, well not really but here's some of last year's students at their Graduation last week. If you're viewing this page then you either have remarkably good taste or you've followed up the address from the WLM "flier" enclosed in the Pharmacology Students Welcome Pack.

So why have you arrived at one of my blogs? The simple answer is because someone dropped the address onto my flier "for a laugh". However, writing a blog can be a good way to expand your writing skills, you can use it to try and iron out the things that aren't making sense to you, you can use it as a diary of how miserable/ecstatic you feel (remembering that the entire world can read it of course), or you can use it to hone your web construction skills. I use them to become famous and have Publishing Houses begging at my door for copy, so if you know anyone in publishing then please push them in this direction.

TMFFTTM 12

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me, such as when cooking with wine always buy two bottles. Jerry had invited me along to provide moral support as he took Eddie to the Northants Caving Club Family Weekend (please don't launch [as everyone else has] into, "I didn't know there were any caves in Northamptonshire.", there aren't, it's where they all live). This involves camping, caving and a sort of communal meal/football match (dependent on age).

We had decided to go up on the Saturday (well Jerry had, as he was doing a run [the Colworth Five] on the Friday) so I arrived late Friday, bearing what I could carry without my back exploding, consequently, I would be caving in old clothes, as opposed to a weighty furry- and oversuit combination.

Actually, arriving late on Friday didn't go down to well as Gail had cooked, and it took me two hours from London to their door (Cambridge Public Transport Committee having decided that it was a much better idea for buses to leave the Station five minutes before the trains arrived, as opposed to, five minutes after), however the salmon was still delicious, if slightly unexpected.

In the morning I was treated to the usual "accidental" door opening and stage whispers, I rose to fulfill my duties as "Second-Best Tickler". While swimming lessons took place, Jerry and I hoovered (!) and finally got the DVD player in the car working. Then we packed, installed Eddie and headed North, pausing only to buy lunch and fire up HP plus Goblet of Fire. We arrived at Birchover and found the campsite by the simple process of knobbling passing folk from Northamptonshire and saying, "Where's the campsite?" They would stop and say, "Oh Hello! It's over there". After forking out an exorbitant campsite fee £7.50/$14 ("Humph! I'd rather not have the sauna and pay less!" J), we persuaded folk to move their cars off the flat bit, and pitched the tent.

The afternoon progressed with tea, and Eddie coming over all shy, so we, Eddie and I, decided to head off for an explore, and a bit of a climb up and down a bank or two, this went quite well, only two assaults by brambles (one each) and one sitdown on a very pointy rock (Eddie). Plus, there was still tea waiting when we got back.

Eventually the caving trip was declared and we all set off for Jug Holes. Having the Ordnance map I guided Jerry onto the most direct route, after a mile or so of terror, we decided not to come back that way, and so pulled in behind everyone else at the parking for the cave. We changed, Jerry into a furry and oversuit combination, myself into my crotchless cycling trousers ( I should say that this indicates wear and tear rather than perversion ) and horridest t shirt, later followed, reluctantly, by a fleece, Eddie into "whatever young boys get dirty in" clothes.

The cave came in two parts, the first part being a large cavern entrance with a series of small muddy (very) chambers at the back. As I sat in one, waiting for Eddie to negociate a slippery slope I glanced at the boulder next to me, it glanced back at me, it was blue! I hefted it, it was blue - and heavy. I picked it up and took it into the sunlight, it was now muddy and only vaguely blue, but it was still heavy. I broke it. "Cor!" A big lump of Blue John. Thus happy we went down the hill to entrance two and the possibility of the "round trip". The entrance was a large pipe, inside there was a mine adit and halfway along a mine cart (very Indiana Jones) and a small laminated notice saying, "Don't touch the ceiling - Loose Rocks" (very Big John), after that a chamber, another truck and a bit of natural cave, muddy and tight natural cave. We squoze on, the mud lubricating our passage by the simple process of coming off on our clothes. Eventually we met the party coming the other way, some elected to carry on, others to go back with us, though sadly no-one knew the way. After a ten minute faff the through route was discovered and the shorter people (not me - for a change) assisted over, under, down and between things. The end was a twelve foot ladder climb, that was much easier if you didn't use the ladder (or eschewed it, as we say in the Lake District). This caused the most heartache for the junior members, as they were too short to climb anything but the ladder, I agreed with them, I hate the bloody things. Back in the sunlight I surveyed myself, blue Bedford cord (crotchless) trousers - now brown, grey fleece - now brown, natty striped undies - now brown (mud - thank you), horrible t-shirt - not brown enough due to intervention of fleece. We broke out the binliners and changed.

Back at the campsite there was a lot less grass visible, most of the site seemed to be full of fifteen year old school parties. I went and checked my bag, yep, there were the essentials of happy camping, ear plugs and a sleep mask, they just might work against the undoubted onslaught of RnB and rioting. Jerry, Eddie and I went to sleepmat at about 10.00, and so did the school parties, consequently we were only kept awake by the riot and ghetto blasters of the Northants Caving Club.

Morning, heavy cloud flying in from the west, casting a weather eye we dissembled the tent just as it began to rain, then we went for a little walk, which became littler as the rain became heavier. So we went home.

A couple of days later, and after an extensive flailing to remove loose mud, I did the washing, lobbing in a pair of grey trousers with the fleece, this was a mistake, I had forgotten the tenacity of cave mud (so tenacious that most cavers have a pair of underpants dedicated to caving trips, as they never wash sucessfully), consequently I now have a pair of grey trousers and a fleece that are impregnated with a fine grit, giving them a certain stiffness and a mild abrasive nature (rather like myself).

Moral: Been caving? Use a bucket!

TMFFTTM 11

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about, such as never re-arranging furniture until guests are pounding on your door. I was meandering about the supermarket looking for something for my evening meal (I'd already found a do-it-yourself Bhel-Poori kit) when I found myself pondering the rice selection.
"Aha!" I thought (fortunately, as I find that spoken soliloquies on the relative merits of various dried cereals or farinaceous goods, tend to attract attention to oneself, and not in a "How fascinating me too, did you know wild rice isn't actually rice?" sort of way), "I've never actually done a proper risotto, pilafs yes, oodles, but never a real 'stand over the pan and stir things till they fall into a glop of the right consistency for one's own taste' sort of risotto." My hand stirred, hesitated and darted forward. Hence it was that I left with a packet of Arborio rice.
"Why - " you may ask, "with all your culinary expertise, and with all your spare time in the evenings, as I know you have no social life, have you never attempted a risotto before?"
"Well - " I reply, "what with, as you know, no social life, and the consequent malaise engendered by the same, I spend a lot of the time slouched in front of the TV. Therefore, for me to take time away from said TV, to stir rice, seems as pointless as watching the TV in the first place."
"But..." you counter, "..."
"I know!" irascibly.
Thus it was that the anxiety started, for, as you probably know, the basis of a good risotto is wine, dribbled into the pan to be soaked up by the parched rice grains, till they swell and deliquesce with oenous aromatics. But how much? I poured a sloosh, the rice glooped it down, loosened it's belt and gave me the stare of an orphan. I poured more, it did the same again this time jutting its lower lip. After the next go, I carefully inspected the bottle, took the risotto off the heat, went and got a glass, put the risotto back on the heat, poured a glass, re-inspected the bottle. I became an aid-worker in the Camp, feeling guilty, though eminently sensible, I turned on the kettle, and lobbed some East-European veggie stock into the pan.
It was a good risotto, though I ran out of wine halfway through the plate.
Moral. When wine is an essential cooking ingredient, buy two bottles.

TMFFTTM 10

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me, like the fact that Supermarket staff may have more about them than you give them credit for.
It hadn't been the best of times, we'd had gales that had marooned my brother and family in London, and, Gent that I am, I'd abandoned my bed to them, occupying the sofa in a sleeping bag. The sofa proceeded to destroy my back, already in a parlous state from shopping and humping computers, consequently I had had to abandon my trusty steed and use Public Transport, the resulting bout of flu had laid me out for two days, during which time I caught up on large amounts of sleep, a fair amount of pain, and perfected my listless sigh.
I was due to go to a Beer Festival on the Thursday with a younger friend of the female persuasion, and exercising cold logic with the precision of a surgical instrument, had decided to prepare the sleeping arrangements prior to our, potentially unsteady, return from the Fest. First however, I was beset by the inevitable anxieties that face a man of a certain age when about to play host to a "young gell": would my puissance overcome her so that I would have to succumb protesting, would I be ravished(though in my post-flu state I would have served better as hot-water bottle than sex-object)?

Reality intervened, and I sorted out the bed clothes and towels, then opened the sofa bed by exerting a back-friendly downward pressure to shift the cantilevers, there would, at least, be two of us to reverse the process.

Thursday. Snow. A text message, "There's snow. I'm not coming. Sorry" I went to work, the handbasin belched forth the sort of miasma normally associated with the undead, necessitating extensive furniture moving, panel removing, flooding and calls to non-existent College plumbers. The Tube collapsed on the way home (due to severe weather conditions - my arse) causing me to skedaddle under most of the City as I sought a way home. I arrived after an hour and a half (double the normal time). My brother called to tell me that I was to be an uncle again, such was my mood that I am afraid to say that I was churlish, "Oh great, another dependant, another birthday to remember, more present expense".

I put away the bedclothes and towels, and opened the gin, later I tried to close the bed, I failed. As I applied upwards pressure, I could feel my lower back saying things along the lines of, "I really don't think you should be doing this." and "I may not know much about levers but I know what I like and I don't like this!"

My living room still contains the sofa in bed mode, perhaps it adds a bit of BoHo chic.

Moral: Never re-arrange the furniture till they're at the door or you may do yourself an injury.

TMFFTTM9

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about like the fact that you can never get away from the TV. I had been dragged kicking and scheming to the pub by drinking protagonist Dean, and had just had a pint of my favourite beer put in front of me (Timothy Taylor's Landlord from Keighley in Yorkshire, which has been my favourite pint long before Madonna even discovered where Yorkshire was).
I eyed it somewhat sceptically, it lay in the glass, moribund, a few bubbles of the kind normally associated with pond scum disturbed its otherwise featureless surface, they clustered together at the centre like musk oxen attacked by wolves. I nosed it, sadly the pungent reek of aldehyde failed to prick the back of my nostrils, there was no scent of pear and pineapple, the beer was perfectly sound, just flat and lifeless, a badger that had failed to cross the beer highway. Call me stupid, I felt duty bound to drink it.
As I ploughed through the listless beverage my mood followed the meniscus on its downward curve, I ended up vaguely depressed about the whole London bitter scene; "You pay us a fortune, we deliver the average.".
Dean departed, and I decided to cheer myself up by buying some prawns to bang into Tom Yam soup. I defy anyone to be depressed after Tom Yam soup, the amount of pain it causes releases enough endorphins to get an elephant doing cartwheels. At Sainsbury's I decided to get some cash, the machine sucked in my card and counted out the notes, I heard it. The little door did not open, the sheaf of crisp, warm banknotes was not pressed in my hand. The machine counted again, the little door did not open, the sheaf of crisp, warm banknotes was not pressed in my hand - again. The machine cogitated and then produced an apology, "I'm sorry I cannot give you the money at the moment. Do not worry it has not been taken from your account."
--------------
I waited, the card did not appear, as I waited my dudgeon rose. Customer services scenting the aroma of not very good beer, glazed as I explained my predicament, then told me I'd had it, as if the Bank had ordered my card retained, that was it. I tried again, twice and once more with an overling. The upshot was that they could do nothing, I suggested they turned off the machine at least, they acquiesced, well, they said they would. I stalked off to the bus stop with two pounds forty three to my name, fifteen minutes later I was on the phone to the bank, cancelling the card whilst contemplating the credit card that could have been my soupy saviour.
The day after, I discovered my card, nestling, where it has always nestled, in my wallet. It is, of course, impotent, no matter how many slots I shove it in nothing will ever come out, what happened during that interval I do not know, did my flash of hubris obscure card retrieval, did a microwarp happen in the monetary space-time continuum, is some other card (apparently recognisable) gumming up the works of the apologetic machine?
My new card arrives next week.
Moral. While you may think supermarket staff are jumping to conclusions, they may have a point.

ADVERT

With current Government criticism of Carbon offset schemes ("You fly, we dig up a peat bog in Scotland and plant a tree." sort of thing) Nixco is proud to announce its Genuine Offset Scheme, GOSH.

GOSH covers you for life, not just one trip.

How does it work?

In the world today there are many people facing problems, many who feel they can no longer cope, many who wish the world would just stop so that they can get off. Our team of gifted counsellors seek out these people and ask them to join our Time-Out Scheme offering them peace of mind in return for the cessation of corporal function. So no more exhaling eco-dangerous Carbon Dioxide for them and an eco-enriched conscience for you!

Flick through the catalogue and decide which of these Unfortunates you would like to adopt as your Carbon Buddy. You will then be sent a Death Certificate to inform you of their progress, together with the actuarial report on how many years guilt-free travelling and squandering you have purchased. This, of course, will vary with the age of your Carbon Buddy. Not enough, simply adopt another!

Also available: An active Corporate scheme for the Business Industry. Our team of experts will work carry out a Carbon Footprint Audit of your business, recalculate this into Person Units (PU's) and, after sufficient remuneration, harvest the PU's in an "Area of Active Conflict".

And how about this Executive Deal !!

Money no object but conscience pricking? Other firms stealing your share of the Market? Yes? Then you need the Positive Offset Scheme !

Simply nominate one (or some) of your rivals and our team of ex- KGB and Stasi will harvest them for you. Our team are expert craftsmen, no mess, no comeback and no evidence, GUARANTEED!

Wipe out the competition at a stroke (or heart attack or cerebral haemorrhage).