King Of The Cats

Did you know your cat may be of aristocratic lineage? Yes, our very own moggy with his meal time meow and habit of leaving muddy footprints all over the house may in fact be descended from the Cheshire cat or the Egyptian cat goddess Bast.

If you don’t believe me the fact can be verified, here’s what to do: cut off a piece of his ear (just the pointy top bit will do), and if your mog is of blue blood he’ll shriek, “Don’t do that to me! Do you know who I am?” And he’ll proceed to tell you in detail which king or queen was his uncle or aunt and that Dick Whittington’s cat was his cousin’s great great great great great great great great great great great times seven grandparent (cats are a fertile lot).

He’ll also impart to you a few home truths that you’d rather not hear, things you don’t want the neighbours to know, titbits he’s gossiped about whilst sat on the fence by the wheelie bins with his moggy mates, one eye on the lookout for rats and the odd bit of chicken from a rubbish sack. Such stuff is what cats get up to having slipped through the cat flap.

One man a few centuries back did something terrible to his cat: he cut off its head and chucked it on the fire. As the eyes popped out the mouth twisted and hissed, “Go tell you wife you’ve cut off the head of the King of the Cats. You shall be avenged for such an act.” 

A year on he was playing with his wife’s new kitten (women in those days couldn’t get a divorce, alas) which was sweet as pie till it lunged at his throat, sinking its claws and teeth into his windpipe. The bloke died in agony that very night.

So be warned, you may have a Royal Cat sat right now on your lap, or meowing to be let in for his tuna chunks and a nap on your favourite cushion which he’ll cover with hairs as he’s curled up dreaming malevolently of birds.

Beware.

Rare Bird

She logged out for the last time last year and has been offline ever since, a New Year’s Eve resolution and challenge she can't resist. 

I heard her stash of sloe gin helped ease her through January’s grimness and those long nights of wanting to post, tweet or update status. 

In fact the crimson potion did its thing in sending her remarkable visions such as one of Piskey sat on her bed knitting a cardie for her.

She also began to imagine she was walking around wearing a dress like the one Scarlett O’Hara was wont to wear. So a friend said. 

In fact her friends are concerned and noticed a change in her like she no longer cares, she's even stopped looking in the mirror before she goes to work and has begun singing to herself. And she smiles a lot. 

Unfortunately her blog is no longer updated cos I’d love to know what’s in her head, this offline girl of the 21^st century, a rare bird.

Ice Cream

I met him down t’pub the other week in the queue for the bar. We were standing beside a black gloss-painted post that held the ceiling up and which retained indents of past drunken bouts. His name was Phil, a northerner down south with northern vowels. He hated motorway services, laundrettes and modern traffic management systems such as sleeping policemen, speed cameras and bollards which he often hit.

His mother had recently had a fall out with Age Concern which he told me all about and he swore he’d never been abroad in his life and had never had a passport. He lived on his wits, charming the women who swooned like lilies on a hot summer’s day with desire for him.

I offered to buy him a pint, in fact I felt obliged as he regaled me with the story of his life. But he went off on one about beers, lager, spirits and alcopops, their merits, after tastes and cost. On and on he went as he couldn’t decide which beer he best liked, he was so desiring of the lot his eyes fizzed with lust.

Myself, I got fed up, so bought him the cheapest can on sale and made a quick escape leaving him with the barmaid.

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.’