Knit Two Purl Two

 

Learning to knit’d do this bloke a lot of good. 

The cemented grimace might even crack after his first scarf or hat. 

Cast on thirty stitches, knit two purl two in a lovely shade of pink or blue. 

Legwarmers for the missus or a jumper emerging row by row. And cosy socks for Christmas with a snowman motif.

Needle in, yarn over, slide off, pull through.

And Be Thought She

She had an incredibly big nose which as things go these days meant she was expected to have plastic surgery to sort it out. 

But, being determined not to be squashed into some society-defined image of beauty she refused to, much to the consternation of her mother, boyfriend and her doctor who was well prepared for her to have surgery to repair this birth defect. 

‘In the future,’ he said ‘all people will be able to look as they desire. We’ll have a clone created at birth from our DNA to harvest parts from if, for example, we need a new hip or heart.’ 

He got very excited. ‘Cosmetic surgery will be the norm and we’ll choose how our children are going to look before they are born.’

...and be, thought she, with microchips implanted for mind control and ID.

Indulge

She loves his nose in particular and the way he swings his legs as he walks. He’s an individual alright, a gourmand from birth with a knack of knocking the wind out of any cooking expert. 

Ok, so he waffles and spills wine whilst looking at his watch to tell the time and such things irritate Marilyn to hell. And his history of drinking too much beer whilst she stifled her desire for cakes and pizzas by working out at the gym is another bugbear cos who has squandered their youth, her or him? I.e. which is best, beer or gym?

So what exactly does she see in him whisper the neighbours behind half drawn curtains to the sound of some romantic soundtrack downloaded in the hope of a loved up night of their own.

Well, what they don’t see in the first grey glint of morn’s light are Marilyn’s eyes animated by the aroma of fresh ground coffee thanks to Bob’s passion for breakfast in bed with marmalade dripping hot off toast, chocolate croissants and crumbs in the bed. You have to start the day off on the right foot and with a full stomach says Bob, belly bulged.

I.e. indulge.

The Mermaid Of Zennor Sequel

Once upon a stormy night a lass called Nat having spent rather too long down the pub went for a walk along the cliffs at Zennor for a bit of fresh air. Searching for a sheltered spot for a sit down she heard a song smooth as melted chocolate. It dripped deliciously into her ears and she was spellbound.

‘Oh my God’ she thought, ‘not only am I drunk and very dishevelled but I’m also hearing voices!’ Glancing over the rocks she clocked a green-dreadlocked woman with a fish’s tail. Never having experienced psychic phenomena other than the visual slur brought on by too much booze she was rather shocked. However, in spite of her shaking knees she crept forward for a closer look.

The mermaid, who was none other than Morveren, turned and took off her shades as she caught sight of Nat then slipped quickly into the foaming waves. There was a sudden gasp and the sweet song stopped mid flow. Nat swore she saw a man's hand emerge from the breakers, but was it in greeting or a request for help?

She blew her nose and was about to head back inland when a bloke, completely starkers, dragged himself onto the rocks. She didn’t know where to look. Seaweed tangled his hair and there was a greenness to his skin as if algae lived upon it. He was none other than Matthew Trewhella weathered by a decade of waves.

‘Kiss me!’ he shouted, ‘Kiss me!’ leaping over the rocks, but Nat legged it like there was a devil at her feet. Alas, mist made the path near invisible and though she scrambled she couldn't shake him off. Then BAM! right in front of her glowered Morveren and an enormous creature with long white locks and beard, a crown of crustaceans and a huge pitchfork in his fist. A fish tail long and green and covered in pearls and shells curled to his side.

‘How dare you steal the husband of my daughter!’ yelled he. ‘I am King Llyr of the Mighty Ocean and no one crosses me and keeps their life!’

Nat felt like she was going to throw up the several pints she’d earlier guzzled. Three, two, one puke...nice. Well, not nice at all. Then the naked man quick as a flash grabbed her and planted a smacker on her sicky lips. She nearly fainted with shock and embarrassment combined.

‘We’ve got to get to the village!’ he yelled and half dragged, half carried her along the cliff edge with the two mer creatures slipping along close behind cursing the jagged rocks, their anger instigating the adverse weather conditions of thunder, lightning and the mother of all gales.

‘I was bewitched by the mermaid a few years back and forced to live beneath the sea. Only the kiss of a mortal woman could break the spell and you set me free me. I don’t half crave some chips and a pint of ale.’

A bolt of lightning struck nearby scorching Nat’s hair giving it a metallic whiff, though it wasn’t as potent a smell as the fishy reek exuded by Llyr and his daughter of the waves. With one last scramble Matt and Nat made it onto tarmac amongst the amber glow of street lights.

‘Back at last!’ yelled Matt of the golden voice ‘and it’s straight to the Tinner's Arms for me.’ With that he dropped Nat and dashed to the pub door.

Nat herself was less fortunate. King Llyr, having caught up, carried her off to the fishy depths where she now shivers with the tide and cries like a seagull for the kiss of Matthew Trewhella who doesn’t hear as he’s too trolleyed and loved up anyway with a local bird.

The Mermaid Of Zennor

Once upon a time not so long ago there lived a man called Matthew Trewhella. He was the finest singer in the Land’s End area of Cornwall and knew all the old ballads as well as some raucous ones too. He sang at folk nights, in a couple of bands and in the church at Zennor on a Sunday, a village nestled amongst granite rocks and yellow gorse.

One day a beautiful woman came to the service, slipping in the back of the church. She had heard his haunting songs drifting over the waves of Pendower Cove that was her abode for she was a mermaid of the sea and her name was Morveren. 

She begged her father King Llyr that she may go on land to see the man who sang such exquisite songs and after many a plea he agreed but on the condition that she let no human see her and that she return before high tide else she would be trapped on land and perish. So she swam to the shore and hid her tail beneath a sarong embroidered with pearls and coral. Painfully she crossed the tarmac of the road and entered the church where she gazed at the golden-haired man before her.

Each Sunday she returned, always disappearing before the service ended that none may see her. But one week she sighed so deeply he looked to the back of the church and saw her and fell instantly in love. 

She slipped out of the church as fast as she could but Matthew ran after her and as she fell he lifted her up, catching a glimpse of her fish’s tail. But his love was so great he cared not and in an instant made the decision to spend the rest of his life with her in the deep turquoise sea.

People ran from the church and tried to catch the couple but magic was on their side and Matthew raced over the rocks to where the tide crashed white. They dived in and all that was left was his t-shirt floating on a wave’s crest.

To this day if you wander out at night onto the headland at Zennor you may be lucky to hear the sweet singing of Matthew Trewhella and see Morveren sat on the rocks combing her luxuriant green hair.

Nightshift Nick

He escaped the northern town he grew up in by playing bass for a band who toured Europe before falling out with each other which is a lot further than most bands get.

At present he works the nightshift down the out of town massive monstrosity hub of capitalism supermarket where he suffocates nightly and very nearly goes mad with boredom. 

As a sideline and lifeline he places bets on anything and everything and is amassing a tidy little sum. He dreams of the sun.

The Romance of Margaret and Dan

'Beware women with red hair' that’s what his dad told him and he is actually one of those kids who does listen so when he saw Margaret with her fiery locks down the shopping precinct he darted fast as you could say Jack Sprat down the aisle of well to do kitchen shop. 

Alas, not fast enough cos as he sneaked a look around the aisle end hung with strainers, wooden spoons and stainless steel sieves, there she was stood!

Being a lass who doesn’t take no for an answer she marched him straight down the pub and treated him to seven pints of ale after which he threw up. 

A year on they’re a couple.

Anti-Establishment (Got Angst To Vent)

It’s been a difficult few months for republicans and anarchists alike with the royal wedding hoo-hah. Thank God this bloke doesn't have a TV, or a girlfriend either, into the intricacies of wedding dresses and etiquette.

Singledom has its uses.

Sweet Dreams Luv

This morning he’s a little somber, a little dazed. And the grey sky doesn’t help, or his hangover. 

So we’ll leave him his peace cos he’s in no mood to natter.

And I reckon after a nice cuppa he’ll be straight back to bed, duvet pulled up over his head to block out that one chink of light that ever escapes the curtain’s side. 

And we won’t ask him what he got up to last night cos I’m sure he was an impeccable guest and didn’t drink tequila like a maniac or run around wearing nothing but a straw hat. 

Not this chap…tho he is having some worrying flashbacks.

Ssshhh now, he’s made it to bed, his head’s beginning to nod. 

Sweet dreams luv.

The Ship Inn

‘I was down The Ship Inn t’other week and this lass walked in like no other lass I’ve ever seen before for more like a cat was she with head of brindle fur touching lightly her tracky top. 

'If I’d’ve been into psychic phenomena I’d’ve said she was a visitor from a parallel realm or the consequence of some fairytale enchantment. 

 


‘But, being  a simple bloke who loves reality TV, pub grub and a nice cup of tea all I could do was sit, mouth agape, staring into those fathomless eyes until a well hard bloke piped up, thus breaking cat girl’s tingly spell.

‘Oi, where’s my pint?’ yelled he. 

I glanced amongst the empty glasses on the table, drips sticking beer mats to table top.

‘I see not your pint mate, maybe you finished it?’

‘With that he aimed a ferocious swipe throwing me from my comfy fire side seat, spittle splatterering the wood chip wall of decades old dart holes.

‘He then staggered out, beer gut squishing. I fell to drinking my ale but, looking around, I perceived cat girl had disappeared! 

'I heaved a weighty sigh as I feared I had fallen in love with this enchanted lass now heading down some darkened alley where tom cats howled.’ 

Madgy Figgy's Chair

In days of yore it was rumoured that ‘ugly old hags sold themselves to Satan’ merely to get some spiteful revenge on their neighbours. But really there was a lot more to being a witch than cursing, though of course this was a perk of the job. 

For example, the buzz of riding on a broomstick, three legged stool or even a piece of yellow-flowered ragwort and getting blind drunk on medicinal brews whilst having a right old knees up (which if you are ugly and old beats sitting hunched up in a damp cottage darning stockings). Magicking away some of the stingy squire’s favourite rum and making yourself invisible through use of ‘fairy ointment’ to do a bit of shoplifting down the local market also rank high on the list of a witch's must-dos.

If the local devil deigned to join in the coven’s full moon festivities then all the better because even more fun could be had leaping over the golden flames of the bonfire hand in hand with his devilish lordship the Bucca Boo (to give him his Cornish name), singeing hems and heels in the process, and diving for a quick snog in the bushes for good luck and prosperity.

Madgy Figgy was a witch who lived in the Land’s End area of Cornwall and her reputation has stood the test of time. She even has a pile of rocks named after her, ‘Madgy Figgy’s Chair,’ high up on the granite cliffs edging the turquoise Atlantic Ocean. Figgy sat there whilst calling up the spirits of the winds and was wont to swing herself from side to side when a storm was brewing to lure the vessels, struggling against the winds to reach the safety of the harbour, onto the jagged rocks beneath. Many a shriek echoed around the cliff tops as the witches croaked their miserable delight over the perishing crews whom they were about to rob of the treasures they were bringing home from distant lands. 

From the Chair Figgy poured forth all manner of curses and none could escape her noxious spells. She would take flight like some terrifying bird, mounted on a stem of ragwort. Figgy headed a band of witches who flew to Wales or Spain where they partied, stole milk from cows and plundered veg from the land. On their return each one alighted with all her goodies in some convenient spot near her cottage, hopefully avoiding the brambles.

No one can say for how long the Chair has been the midnight rendezvous for witches. Many a person now sleeping quietly in the nearby churchyard could attest to having seen the witches flying by on moonlit nights carrying with them the things necessary to make their charms and potions. And to this day Madgy Figgy, some say, can still be seen flying high over the windswept cliffs like a bird of prey, her cackle the sound of drowned sailor’s cries.

So Are You Listening?

...Her husband didn’t and ended up with his riled wife armed with a very large sword pinning him to the wattle and daub wall. Fortunately for him, she let her angst out on his beard rather than his jugular, severing it from his aghast face with one fatal slice.

Unfortunately for him, his beard was his pride and joy, a fiery ginger carpet tumbling down to his fleshy knees and praised in many a poem by the clan bard.

This marital incident was immortalised in verse due to the two them already being notorious characters involved in many an infamous cattle raid of the Celtic era. The stanzas, performed by quick-witted bards singing along to enchanted harps, were passed down through the ages by subsequent poets, troubadours and random delinquents, culminating in the collected works entitled, ‘One Woman One Sword: The History Of A Warrior Queen And A Beard.’

The epic poem has been translated into modern vernacular by Professor Hilary Figg to mark Women’s Day 2011. The original, being 1,279 verses in length, has not been printed here due to issues of space and reader’s attention span. However, the Celtic Queen herself who went by the name of Angry Ethel has been immortalised in this portrait discovered rolled up in an urn in the damp recesses of a cave in Pembrokeshire in 1971.

Mr Myxomatosis

Your rage is ill-formed and unable

To fit into sentences which would enable

You to vent your hatred so instead it stews

Contorting muscles and distorting your view

As if myxomatosis had spread right through

You.

Fun

Being a party animal is not something this bloke knows about. I mean, you have to neck back the beer and jump around enthusiastically to music whilst retaining some level of kudos and an ability to pull.
Mmm...not to mention the three day hangover and flashbacks.
Deffo not his cup of tea. 
Though he did tell me t'other day he's thinking of having a makeover.

The Bucca-dhu (Black Spirit)

The old Cornish word "Bucca” belongs to the same family of words as the Irish "Pooka" and the Welsh "Pwcca" meaning a person of a mischievous disposition, one about whom there is something weird or wisht (in the old-fashioned magical sense), and also a frightful apparition. Bucca-dhu is a black spirit and Bucca-gwidden a white spirit.

There is a story told of an old lady who lived long ago in Cornwall who was so fond of card-playing that she would walk almost every winter's night, in spite of wind or rain, to a nearby village that she might enjoy her favourite pastime. 

The old lady's step-daughter wished to put a stop to what she regarded as a rather scandalous past time, as the old dame seldom arrived home before the small hours of the morning!

With this in mind she persuaded a local lad to array himself in a white sheet to impersonate a ghost that was often seen wandering about a lonely spot over which the old dame had to pass. This was to scare her so witless she'd never walk that path again and thus bring an end to her card-playing proclivities.

 

The winter's night was dark and rainy when at about midnight he seated himself on a stile, whereupon he had to wait another two or three hours; the dear old lady was in no hurry to leave such pleasant company! 

At last she passed by, seated herself to draw breath, and sensing some mischief upon seeing the white figure said, 

"Hello Bucca-gwidden, what cheer? And what in the world dost thee do here with the Black Bucca-dhu so close behind thee, ready to take you away to his firey realm?"

That an evil spirit might be right behind him so frightened the young lad that he ran off as fast as he could lay feet to ground, throwing the white sheet into the brambles at his side. The old lady scampered after, clapping her hands and calling,

"Well done Black Bucca-dhu, now thee will catch White Bucca-gwidden and take him away with thee!" 

 

Of course the old lady was playing a fine trick on the young man who was so frightened he fell into a fit and was never right in the head again, thus becoming a real Bucca, as was wont to happen in the olden days when folk were far more suceptible to visitors from the spirit realm than us lot today with our heads immersed in tweets. So, the strong-minded, sociable old lady enjoyed many more years of her favourite past time and in fact her descendents still live in the area to this day. 

Success

“Prescription drugs give me love of a certain kind,
Pills I pop to relieve the tensions of my mind.
Prozac gives the feeling of the softening of reality
And with Viagra I make love with huge vitality.
Got dumped by the ex, now my life's a success -
Full of drugs and sex.”

Psycho Dog

"Had a dog I couldn’t get rid of, a psycho terrier who barked incessantly at any provocation whatsoever. 

And in an irritating high pitched yap at that like chalk on blackboard or a bus screeching to a halt.

Tried to palm him off on my boyfriend, my mum, my mum’s boyfriend, the bloke down the pub.

No takers.

They all knew his nature.

DAMN!"

Stilettos

Stilettos make him shake cos when he was a pup he was a sweet little darling and the girls loved his big round eyes and tickled his ears and stroked him under the chin and on his belly and he’d roll over in puppy delight until one angsty stilettoed lass came along and spitefully stood on his puppy dog tail.

This incident ended his innocence when it came to women.

‘Happens to us all’ said his dad.