Tag Archives: Humour

The Doctor

The Doctor

100 Word Wednesday – Week 28

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Image by Bikurgurl

Holmes was immortal, and distraught as he felt like an inanimate antique hoarded by an impulsive collector. He was in a delirious mood and was not making sense in his drug induce daze, mumbling about eternal regeneration and the beginning with no end to an infinitive universe.
“Quick, bring some hot chicken broth,” I called to Mrs Hudson.
Holmes leapt to his feet and sprinted from the room.
’Too late,’ I shouted. Running after him, I caught up and found him in a curiosity shop.
“Watson, we are but dusty relics,” said Holmes, and he blew dark smoke from his obnoxious weed across my face.
“I wish you’d refrain.” I coughed. “Why are we here? Pottery?”
“Why does the Doctor need this stoneware from Old Kent Road?”
“A gift or perhaps an inheritance?”
“Yes, his nostalgia for all things London.”
These days, I was at my wits end with Holmes as he had become obsessed, and I often recoiled from his constant rages, madness and frustrations. He was determined to uncover the identity of the Time Lord, the imposter.
“What does this collection tell you Watson?’
“He is having guests for tea.”
“No Watson, can’t you see his next location is surely eighteen hundreds mid-west.”
“Oh, I like the flowers, a nice feminine touch.”
“Damn Watson! It is a woman!”
“About time.” I chuckled, and couldn’t imagine Holmes with a wife.
“No, no, no.” Holmes fell to his knees. “I’m now searching for an elusive woman.”
I put my hand on his shoulder to console the poor chap. I smiled.

Black Coffee

Back Coffee –100 Word Wednesday; Week 23

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Image Credit Jesse Williams

Black Coffee

Of all the off beat diners in town Alma picked my haunt, Pearl’s.
‘Discrete,’ she said, ’it’s not in our neighbourhood.’
Yea, she’s a dame all right, black coffee, eggs over easy with chilli wings.
Seated with her long stockinged legs swinging, I know her type, a derringer inside her garter.
She nodded at the papers and photo on the bar, then offered to buy me a coffee. How sweet.
‘Just sign,’ she said, ‘or . . .  she’s dead meat.’
The picture said it all; Pearl’s eyes petrified and pleading, mascara running over the taped mouth, body trussed like a turkey.
I agreed, it wasn’t a great holiday snap.
I signed, and I let my lousy wife, Alma, walk away with a million dollar settlement.
Five minutes later, Pearl came screaming in, and she levelled a .45 Magnum at my forehead.
I’ll admit, she had a point.

Tempting Guacamole

Tempting Guacamole – 100 Word Wednesday.

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Dear Pips,

Please come back, I miss you, my darling Pips.
I’m sorry I was rude, about your lovely hips.
I love you and miss your gregarious smiles
I love you and forgive you for kissing Miles
Look, I’ve bought your favourite chilli tortilla chips
Because I know you love my guacamole dips.

Please come and trust me, my darling Pips
I’m sorry I was rude, about your lovely lips
I miss you, so let’s forget about you loving Jay
I miss you, see now, how my anger’s gone away
Look! I’ve spiced up your favourite tortilla chips
Because! I know you love my guacamole dips.

The Procrastinators

If and Only … Your friends in waiting.

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Glasgow Street Art

The Procrastinators

If and only are companions
They go hand in hand with fate
Like the dreams of millions
In retrospect, they arrive too late.

If and only trapped in meditation
Held back by dithering doubt
full of indecisive hesitation
In retrospect, just throw them out.

If and only may rule your life
with choices, hard to bare
what could have been was strife
In retrospect, do you really care?

Now if was your only thought
when you couldn’t make up your mind
of things not done or should or ought
In retrospect, if only you had more time.

A Rat in every Port

A Rat in every Port – Three Line Tales

 

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Photo – Timothy Meinberg  via Unsplash.

‘The Jellicle’ sails on the morning high tide,
Hurry Captain Growtiger, get on board,
and quick before Miss Kitty wakes.

Drifting in Time

Drifting in Time.100 Word Wednesday

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Image by Sandra Jane

My relief; we made it back to the docks. Exhausted, I’ve been rowing with the current ever since the Meridian sank. When? How strange that the harbour is in a dilapidated state and abandoned, all in a space of one week. I sense an eerie chill, of being observed, that bristles the hairs on my neck. This is no welcome and this is not home.

I nudged Holmes awake from his sleep, he is delirious due to his allergy to sunlight and I note his aversion to physical exertion, except puffing of hashish from his pipe. Well, Watson, he had said before we sailed, if I can’t get the true elixir then this potpourri will suffice.
‘We made it Holmes,’ I shouted, glad to be alive.
‘Yes,’ he said and sat up in the boat for a better look. ’We are indeed here, but at the same time we are not.’ He grabbed at his pocket watch and checked the hour. ‘Oh! What year is this? Ah! Doctor, yes yes how very clever.’
‘What!’ I didn’t get his demented drift. ‘Clever?’
‘Oh yes, the Doctor is afoot.’ He grinned. ‘Let’s tread with care.’
‘Who?’
‘Precisely, Watson. The Time Lord himself.’

Is She my Type?

Blind Date.

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Street Art in Glasgow, Scotland

They said she’s nice, so don’t be late
You’ll recognise her beautiful smile
And she’ll be wearing the latest Prada style
My nervous excitement, on a blind date

I saw her, gorgeous, laughing at the bar
Dressed in fashionable hugging stripes
Enchanting, attracting extroverted types
Like a prowling stag, ready armed for war

There is something about the fading light
That brings out an instinct in my mind
A sort of sublime emotional mating kind
That drives survival, but perhaps not tonight.

 

 

Fortune Teller – Aunty Rose

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Tarot Cards – Image from pixabay.com

Aunty Rose.

Tea leaves, tarot cards and a glass crystal ball
Aunty Rose has a special gift she can read them all
Holding hands in circles, she’ll speak to your lost friends
Relaying their sad voices with promises to make amends

One summer fete she had sat in her fortune teller’s tent.
Where Mrs Gilford asked, and then all her money spent
To know where her dead man Alfred had hidden his secret gold
Alas, thought Rose, how awful for this wife not to have been told.

They sat and pondered over Alfred’s wealth while sipping sweet tea.
And Rose swirled the leaves around in a glazed white porcelain cup
To form some shapes and symbols that would settle for her to see
The location of the treasure, but alas Aunty Rose had to give up.

Let’s consult the Book of Thoth to reveal the secret of his hoard
So Rose dealt the Tarot cards into rows across the table’s board
It was looking good dealing mostly cards showing golden jewels
But alas, the next was a row of snakes, then jokers and dancing fools.

Not to worry Mrs Gilford, said Rose, I have a mystical crystal ball
Let me gaze into its misty haze, and as the clouds of ether fall
they will reveal exactly the perfect place where to seek and search
Alas, all she saw was a scabby bird holding in its beak a dying perch

Next, Rose lit some candles and in the silence of the subdued light
She held Mrs Gilford’s hands and called to Alfred about their plight
A freezing chill filled up the tent and a ghostly voice spat and roared.
But alas, Mrs Gilford could not understand and declared Aunty Rose a fraud.

Oh this failure was a terrible shame that Aunty Rose could not endure
She pack her bags and said farewell, with no predictions for her future.
Then one day a letter came with pictures of Rose on a Caribbean beach.
And a view of her new home, a sixty meter yacht – ”Alfred’s Sweet Peach’

Traditional Christmas Sentiment.

My piece below is a reflection on a well known Christmas Ghost Story.

Mr Scrouge.

I was never happy nor gave a festive care
When carol singers screeched outside my door.
They seemed so full of seasonal Christmas cheer
With good tidings and joy that I found such a bore.

My name is Mr Scrouge not Santa Claus.
I didn’t give presents and I didn’t send cards
Nor hung baubles or tinsel on a coniferous tree
Instead I’d count my gold and cackle aloud with glee.

Then I saw an apparition over St Nicholas’s church in town
A ghostly creature laughing, his finger pointing down
Mr Scrouge, he called, your time on Earth is running out
What use is your pointless life full of bitterness and doubt.

What do I care of others and your empty ghostly threats
I am off to the bookies now to collect my winning bets.
Then a tiny ragged boy appeared holding out an empty bowl
Sir, he said, my mother’s dying, please a penny for her soul.

And from the dirty rags in the doorway by the ironmonger Jacks
She rose up and I saw an evil face laughing on a boney rack
Her skeleton chattered, Mr Scrouge, it is clear for all to see
That death is knocking on your door, but you’ll never be free

My heart stopped beating, I shivered and felt a creeping cold
The ragged boy and mother laughed at my life becoming mould
I cried for an Angel to rescue me from this dark despotic death.
So I promised to spend my wealth to end all poverty on Earth.

The boy and mother warmed me from a pitiless lonely end
And we celebrated Christmas with all their wondrous friends
It cost me all my hard earned gold to bring them happiness and good cheer
And so the moral of my sad story to you must now be very clear.
That having lots of family and friends at Christmas is wonderfully dear.

Book Week Scotland -Simply Read Too

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I had a book and CD launch today with the completion of my project for Book Week Scotland.

The book contains the transcripts of a collection of poetry and short stories written by Lanark Writers, which I published. The recordings on the Audio CD, which are the authentic voices of the authors, were arranged by the gentleman on the left, Mr Boom. He also composed the music and did the sound engineering. The result is a professionally finished piece of entertainment. Mr Boom is a TV entertainer as well as a sound recorder for local music groups and bands.

Here is an example of one of the poems; Villanelle for an Ancient Lover by Edith Ryan.

 

How did this lover get to be so old?

Who once was young and in his prime

In whom the fire of the love has not gone cold.

This ardent mate with passion bold

Whose days were full of summertime,

How did this lover get to be so old?

A lover with a heart of beaten gold,

Now slower, all he needs is time

In whom the fire of love has not gone cold.

Life’s race is run, perhaps life’s story told

In fireside tale or ballad rhyme

How did this lover get to be so old?

I thought that he had split the mould

Eternal youth, an ardour so sublime

In whom the fire of love has not gone cold.

Time’s etched his face with line and fold

And on his hair there’s frosty rime.

How did this lover get to be so old?

In whom the fire of love has not gone cold.

*****

Simply Read Too in Other Writings