THE WIND OF SHAME

 THE WIND OF SHAME

As they waited for their cab, Dr Doyle and his small entourage of cronies huddled together for protection against the inclement weather.  It was still early in the morning but last nights alcoholic effect was beginning to wain, and the need for booster shots was evident.

The battered Mercedes drove in to view with its windscreen wipers working furiously to extinguish the flotsam and jetsam thrown up by the turbulent weather. 

As usual, Dr Doyle entered the front passenger door and placed his overweight arse in to the welcoming refuge of a sick covered seat. The rest of the roustabouts squeezed in to the back seats and shuffled about until all of their corpulent and unwashed bodies were secure.

 As the taxi engaged gear and began to enter the sparse early morning traffic, they each individually glanced back at the hotel that had been their refuge the previous night. The various incidents were unsettling to all involved and each inhabitant of the cab shivered as they recalled the nights biggest surprise.

The mini cab driver gruffly inquired of there destination, and suggested the airport. Shaking his head and thick red neck, the Doctor drew in a deep breath and explained that he wished to be taken to a run down area of town adjacent to the canal and derelict Victorian era wharfs and docks. 

Dr Doyle's target was a well known establishment was situated next to a small humped back bridge over the canal, which was renowned for selling good fried breakfasts, cheap well stocked ale and lager, and the best stout in the city.

The pungent smell of formaldehyde was still thick in each of the groups nostrils as they exited the vehicle and strolled nonchalantly towards the shabby structure of the building. A gaggle of geese swam eagerly towards them as they approached the entrance, eagerly awaiting some form of reward. However, they were not expecting the half brick that was flung in there direction by the Doctor.

Pushing the door open, the team scanned the premises seeking out there target. Eyes darting from left to right soon settled on the large, overweight and balding character seated at a large table by a window, with a flickering candle on the checked tablecloth. A  small tot of Jameson's sat in front of him, beside a freshly brewed cup of black coffee and an empty ashtray.

 Noticing the arrival of Dr Doyle and his associates, he gestured for them to come over to him, and gently stood up.  

To be continued......

MAD ALBERT - THE LOST YEARS

 MAD ALBERT - THE LOST YEARS

Much of Mad Alberts life has been documented in a variety of digital and non digital documents, but a vital part of his storey has so far eluded publication. 

As teenager learning how to live in the relative tranquillity of rural Wembley, he was astonished to learn that a number of agricultural fields adjacent to the main railway line between Euston and the North West of England, were earmarked to become an aerodrome for the fledgling aircraft industry.

The land had been part of Wembley Farm for centuries, and was ultimately owned by the local Lord Of The Manor, who resided in the mansion known as the White House which was located at the Wembley Park Estate. 

As a child Albert had often traipsed across the hay fields with his friends and marvelled in the ability of dragonfly's to hover over ponds and ditches and the agility of frogs as they leapt about the margins of the drainage ditches and dew ponds. One of the fields was agricultural in its use, and grew on rotation market garden crops such as potatoes, peas, cabbages and turnips.  Albert and his chums would often purloin samples of these vegetables and haul them home for supper.  All this was to be lost if the aerodrome was completed and the land enclosed behind barbed wire forever. 

 A cunning plan was required to prevent this and Albert began to think !

Deep in thought, Albeit wondered how best to derail the intended destruction of his beloved countryside, and decoded that the best course of action was to copy his father and uncles and take to alcohol to clear his mind and liberate his thoughts. So even though he was only of tender years and no taller than a garden gate, he started pinching tankards of ale from the garden of the Norfolk Arms public house.

 As the years passed and he grew taller and older he was able to gain an entrance to the public bar and covertly order tuppence worth of cheap porter and stale ale from the governor. He didn't know this at the time, but this development was to eventually bequeath him with the epitaph of "Mad Albert".

To be continued.....

A CHRISTMAS PARTY

 A CHRISTMAS PARTY

 Cancelled.

ODE TO MCKENNA

 ODE TO MCKENNA

Mad Mo McKenna was a mild mannered man, with a love of stamps, coins and fine bone china.

At an early age he had learnt the art of the one liner,

And his dress sense couldn't be finer.

Ni.

Hootenanny, haggis is finer.

Tartan is fine but not for a dyner.

                                          Ni.

                                          Nini Ni....

                                         Thus the start of an another day in rural Toxadenia began, with a wing and a                                                 wang and a fermented stang............mmmmm! 

THE MIRE YEARS - WAS IT ALL A DREAM ?

 THE MIRE YEARS - WAS IT ALL A DREAM ?

Drunken days and nights rolled in to one huge humming dystopian epoch, characterise memories of the Mitre. .......

Damp cheese and onion rolls and pickled eggs fermenting in specimen bottles perched on the bar. Just what you need on a Saturday afternoon as you start your all-day session.

Sunday lunchtime drinks, with peanuts, crisps and roast potatoes located strategically on the bar. 

Sticky carpet and beer splashed stools at the bar. The dart board surrounded by hundreds of pricks and the pool table ready for the next 50p.

Discuss !

THE FOOTBINDERS DAUGHTER

 THE FOOTBINDERS DAUGHTER

Sui Sun was not wealthy. As mother of a single child and a carer for her elderly parents, she was unable to live an active life.

Her father had been the official foot binder to the court of the Emperor Ni, but had fallen on bad times after failing to correctly bind the foot of the Emperors youngest daughter Ni Ni.

 Expelled from the Forbidden City and the Emperors court, Sui Sun's  father, Sun Sui, was effectively a non person and reduced to the status of a shit shoveller. Unable to ply his trade, Sui Suns father soon became little more than a dishevelled caricature of his former self. It was a this time that he met his wife to be, and began there matrimonial courtship. 

After a short engagement the wedding took place in a small mountain village notable for the quality of its inhabitants feet. The average toe structure in the village was remarked to be on a level higher than that of the Gods.

 Indeed  XI Xan Toesuker remarked in his infamous journal that the villagers had feet like angels but stank like feted sewers. It was in to this village of the feted but angelic feet, that Sui Sun was born.

She attended the local village school from the age of four and learnt the basic skills of needlework, corn grinding and cleaning. However, due to a random discovery of a long forgotten foot binding kit in her fathers hovel, she started to practice the art of foot binding whilst locked in her corner of the family home whilst supposedly darning garments and spinning twine on a dilapidated wheel. 

After a short while she soon realised that she had an inbred skill that had been held latent by her circumstance. Foot binding was to be her way out of her current predicament and the road to enlightenment and riches. 

To be continued.....

THE GONG FARMER

 THE GONG FARMER

Sylas Shytschuvler was a fifth generation "gong farmer" with a passion for filth.

Being of Dutch heritage he loved cheese and clogs, which he he ate every day and wore on his feet. Trudging the fields around Clerkenwell were a delight whilst wearing the generously proportioned clogs imported from Eindhoven. These ingeniously designed clogs floated on the crud soaked ground as if hovering above the filthy mulch below him.

 The fields of Clerkenwell were of particular interest to Sylas, as the valley of the river Fleet was beginning to clog with shit, and thus was a superb hunting ground for his staple. Although the shit blocked river was fed by sparkling fresh springs and wells located a few miles to the north west, in Hampstead and Kilburn, by the time the river had reached the fleet valley it was an open sewer. 

The flood plain of the river was rapidly being encroached by industries relying on abundant water, both for the production of their product and the dumping of the effluent and waste that the production created.

 However, there were still plenty of small market gardens, kept fertile by the nutrients in the shit, that produced bountiful quantities of fruit and vegetables for the nearby city of London. It was these small but profitable micro businesses that Sylas targeted with his pungent product.  

He would wake before dawn and tramp the river banks and rivulet's emptying in to the river, collecting surface effluent and trapped turds left beached by the burst banks of the Fleet. He would then venture in to the crowded streets beyond the fields, closer to the thriving metropolis, and offer his services to empty their cesspits and privies of their succulent turds and night dirt.

 It was a laborious process that involved many return trips to and from his hovel located on the edge of the built up area, shovelling his putrid product in to hessian sacks and storage pits.

To be continued......