PHONE HACKING INTRIGUE AT THE DUCK

PHONE HACKING INTRIGUE AT THE DUCK

Unsubstantiated reports have reached this writer of a phone hacking outrage at a suburban public house on the borders of Harrow Weald, Belmont and Stanmore. 

It has allegedly been reported that mobile phones belonging to members of the august and venerable group known as the “Duck Flat Cap Society”, have been “Hacked” by an unknown person or agency.

It has been strongly suggested by those in the know, that the nefarious activity is the work of a subversive renegade group known as “The Lancashire Socialist Commando Battalion”, who have close links with the outlawed “Eckee Thump Brigade”.

The northern groups are known to object to members of the Duck Flat Cap Society adopting the flat cap as their emblem and badge, stating that “those southern softy namby pamby cockneys are betraying the sacred flatty”. 

For a number of years it has been rumoured that the “Duck Flat Cap Society “ has been infiltrated by one or more of these embittered men, although to date there has been no positive proof. In fact, those members who have indeed migrated to the south for economic and sexual reasons, have shown only a slight preference for northern ale and only occasional slip in to the native vernacular of their homeland. 

“Chelsea Duck “a founding member of the society, has allegedly burst a blood vessel on being told of the suspected mobile hacking and is threatening to walk away from the Duck. This threat must be taking as debatable, as "Chelsea" has not shown any preference to vacate his favoured seat for many years. Indeed not since an earlier incident involving an antique painting, has “Chelsea” felt it advisable to down his ale in another hostelry. Chelsea has resolved to wear his flat cap at all times in fierce defiance of “The Lancashire Socialist Commando Battalion” or their sister group, the “Eckee Thump Brigade”.

It is also alleged that “Bazza Duck” has threatened to track down the interlopers and personally take his own revenge on those involved. This is a more substantial threat, as he is known to vent his ire at the slightest event, and a verbal landslide is sure to take place as soon as a suspect is apprehended. Indeed, it is most probable that medical assistance will be required if “Bazza Duck” lays his hands on these northern tyrants, before the appropriate forces arrive at the scene.

The other founding members of the “Duck Flat Cap Society” are also watching the every move of each and every member for the slightest slip that may reveal their allegiance to “The Lancashire Socialist Commando Battalion”. 

It is not yet known what the hackers trying to obtain by their nefarious efforts, but the personal conversations of the societies members are thought to include information regarding the annual general meeting of the consumption committee, although this information would be freely available to all members, including the alleged northern infiltrators.

However, it is more likely that they are after hacking the calls of the life time Honoury president “Driver Chard of El Hadji Douiff”, other wise known as “The Chard”, who will not reveal his telephone number, and only converses with those selected to be his confidents. It is known that the “Chard” regularly releases secrete information regarding his golf swing to certain members of the society, and it is believed that it is this information that the hackers seek.

We await further developments, and a further report will appear shortly.

R.I.P   JOHN CHARD 1933 - 2020

EX SERVICEMAN DONS FLAT CAP TO AVERT CATASTROPHE AT THE DUCK

UNDERCOVER EX SERVICEMAN DONS FLAT CAP TO AVERT CATASTROPHE AT THE DUCK

Flight Lieutenant Steve “Basher” Hurley, a member of the SAS, Special Boat Service, Royal Marine Commando’s and Parachute Regiment, recently broke cover to assist with a life threatening situation that developed in a suburban public house over the weekend.

During a normal evenings drinking at his local hostelry, Basher became aware that a group of rowdy boisterous revellers were occupying a table near to his own.

Basher Hurley had taken the normal precautions when entering the premises earlier in that evening, and had conducted his usual security sweep of the building, whilst wearing his standard issue Flat Cap. 

His trained eye had noticed the group of happy drinkers celebrating at the adjacent table.

He had acknowledged those in the building that he knew, and had taken a mental note of those that his memory did not recognise, and had taken his seat with his friends who were also members of the close-knit “Duck Flat Cap Society”. 

His training allowed him to arrange his seat in such a way that he was able to continue to survey the immediate area whilst enjoying copious amounts of Guinness. His drinking was under control although the use of a three pint pitcher as a glass had caused a ripple if whispers amongst his fellow Flat cap wearers. 

The evening was drawing to a close when it became clear that the party of revellers who had been seated opposite Flight Lieutenant “Basher” Hurley appeared to be in some bother. A member of the party began to slip below the table but was rescued before completely submerging below the parapet of the wooden table. However, a few moments later it became noticeable to all, that the unfortunate member of the celebrating party had imbibed far too much alcohol, and was struggling to stay seated on his chair. 

Minutes later, whilst being assisted through the door of the establishment, he fell and collapsed in the doorway.

Basher Hurley looked up from his pitcher of Guinness and appraised the situation. He noted that a number of the inebriated party were attending to the still prone patient, although there appeared to be confusion amongst there ranks. A number of other people seated with the Duck Flat Cap Society also noted the situation and rallied to the clarion call for assistance. However, at this stage Basher remained silent and seated. 

It was soon being suggested that the patient was lifted from the cold floor and transferred to his residence, which was only a few hundred yards away, by way of carrying his body upon an improvised stretcher, consisting of two pub chairs.

At this stage, Basher Hurley jumped in to action and was soon placing the prone body in to the recovery position. On checking his air passage and pulse it was considered that the patient was stable, but unwise to move at this particular moment in time.

As Basher Hurley pondered his next move, the air of the pub resounded with the sound of the last bell. Flight Lieutenant Hurley stood upright in a state of shock , his mind franticly filing through the various options available to him, and within an instant turned to those about him and stated -

“halt, I must buy a couple of pints as that’s the last bell. Don’t move the patient. I will be back shortly”. 

With this, Basher Hurley slowly and methodicaly paced across the floor of the now near empty establishment, and on reaching the bar placed his order for two pitchers of Guinness. These were soon poured, and as they settled, he returned to his fellow Flat Cappers awaiting his next sip of the bitter black stout.

Having ensured all was well with the black velvet, he returned to the still prone reveller, and initiated a lifting procedure that resulted in his being able to return to his place of residence without further assistance from the good Flight Lieutenant. 

Basher returned to his table and surveyed the scene, slowly swivelling his head so that he could view the complete building, but ensuring that his flat cap was still placed firmly upon his thickly tousled head. 

All was now quite and still and the event was over. Hurley swilled the remainder of his pitchers and after gesturing goodby to his fellow Flat Cappers, slowly moved to the exit and left the premises, acknowledging a job well done. 

Moments later he was seated at home and writing up the evenings proceedings in his military standard issue journal, ready for submission to his handlers. 

This completed he changed his clothing to camouflage combat pyjamas and donning his standard sleeping Flat Cap, retired to his bed. 

Further reports on Basher Hurley's behaviour will be published subject to the appropriate approval by those who administer the official secrets act.

R.I.P   JOHN CHARD 1933 - 2020

FUNKING PARTY SCORE DRAW FOR A HUNGOVER WWB

FUNKING PARTY SCORE DRAW FOR A HUNGOVER WWB

Reports are reaching this blogger that the self styled Buddha of soul and funk, WWB, has made another unsuccessful attempt at a return to the highlife.

The aging somnambulist and ex Wembley Foot tapper, was suffering from the standard hangover as he began his stylish set. As usual a soulful mix of fusion, jazz and hard core old skool reverberated from the clubs speakers, leaving the occupants of the largely empty auditorium grooving and strutting with glee.

For a while, those of us lucky to remember the hay day of the Wembley Foot tapper phenomenon, were transposed to 1979 and the seedy dance floors of Atlantis in Margate and Lacey Lady in Gants Hill, Ilford, just off the north circular road.

However, the empty venue was a sure pointer to the symbiotic ennui ,which the followers of this ex prince of the dance floor, continue to suffer.

As Eddie Henderson, Brass Construction, Dexter Wansel, Donald Byrd , Ronnie Laws, Grover Washington and the like, drifted across the dance floor, those who had attended the event drifted through the door on to the cold and unforgiving Cricklewood high street.

A small band of bald and greying Anglo Irish converts, attempted to raise the atmosphere of the club, but were unable to move far enough away from the bar to save the evening. Alas, they soon also drifted away towards the warmth of a Kilburn “lock in” and a pot of Guinness.

All in all, this was another small step on WWB’s return to the heady heights of his youth, and again we can only hope that provided excessive alcohol intake does not continue to seep the seed from this ex musical masters brain, the future may still be bright !

A recent return to the broadcasting studio may prove to be the stimuli needed to return him mentally to his hedonistic youth, however, his recent deportation from the UK and embroilment in the Kingston, Jamaican underground could still thwart any return to the highest stage for the soon to be pensionable aged WWB.

Updates will be posted as soon as the Jamaican authorities release him from his self inflicted home imprisonment, and his agreement to pay the going rate to the local gangsters for protection.

CHAIRMAN SUN YET BLOGGS

CHAIRMAN SUN YET BLOGGS

Reports are reaching the west, that an expatriate cockney, the self styled "Chairman Sun Yet Bloggs" has unsuccessfully attempted to overthrow the government of Xiang gang (Hong Kong).

Bloggs, as we shall call this eastern potentate, has made numerous visits to this far eastern enclave of capitalism, usually under the undignified guise of an English Rugby Union fan.

He has often been spotted at the Excelsior Hotel drinking large quantities of Guinness and Real Ale in the British Bar located in the basement of the bourgeois building.

His rent activities have reportedly included clandestine meetings with members of the Cantonese Triad Mafiosi, and playing mahjong whilst smoking opium in to the early hours of the morning.

It is with these associates that Bloggs allegedly made an unsuccessful mad dash for control of this Chinese enclave, only being thwarted by his use of Cockney Rhyming slang confusing his followers when they tried to follow his instructions .

Further details of this intriguing storey will be posted in due course.

Ageing "Wembley Foot Tappers" put on a surprise performance at the O2, followed by an impromptu performance on the top floor of a no. 18 night bus.

AGEING "WEMBLEY FOOT TAPPERS" PUT ON A SUPRISE PERFORMANCE


It has recently been disclosed that an alcohol fuelled WWB, together with a number of the ageing "Wembley foot tappers", put on a surprise performance at the O2 recently, followed by an outrageous impromptu performance on the top floor of the 18 night bus.

This bid at regaining some of his former glory, is a sad indictment of the descent in to despair of the self styled Professor of Funk , as the allegedly overweight and rambling “One Seed” tries to re ignite the hedonistic life style of his youth.

It has been suggested that by setting up the new revivalist Jazz Funk troupe “Global Village, the very name its self a sad throw back to the clubbing life style of the 1970’s, he is setting himself a challenge that many commentators believe may prove unattainable.

However, time will prove whether the sad return to the upper floors of the 18 night bus is just a temporary blimp on WWB's return to the top, and the recently announced Xmas event in the name of "Global Village" could well turn out to be the turning point for the "Professor of Funk" . 

Recent developments have seen WWB deported from the UK for undisclosed offences involving copious quantities of red wine, Guinness, lederhosen and talcum powder. 

It is alleged that he is currently holed up in a secret location in Jamaica, whilst he undergoes therapy and treatment for his delusions of grandeur, alcoholism and a severe handkerchief fetish.  

Further details will not be released.

1 / 11 / 2019   -  RIP Winnie Brown

THE IMAGINERIOUM OF DR HORSE

THE IMAGINERIOUM OF DR HORSE

First let me set the scene.....

Its 1855, and the cold dark basement of a creaking hovel in Jacobs Island is shrouded in dry ice, as a strange man dressed in a tall black Top Hat and dark clothing , shades his face with a cloak. He slowly reveals his facial features, revealing a large pointed nose, which support a pair of circular wire framed glasses, suspended by large jug like ears that are partially hidden by long flowing jet black hair.

In the mans left hand is a glowing Kaleidoscope emitting rays of colourful light, whilst in his right hand is a screeching Hurdy Gurdy discharging the eerie sound of death.

Apart from the black hatted mystery figure the room was empty, as was the remainder of the building. Outside all was still and even the Rats had abandoned the filth ridden rooms above the basement. 

In the street adjacent to the stinking hovel, out of the gloom appeared a huge upright white Bear, striding forward at pace followed by a naked Congolese Pygmy whose hands were tightly gripping the strong chain that hung around the Bears bloated neck.

Suddenly they stopped, and the Bear turned to the Pygmy and pointed with his huge paw towards the door of the hovel.

Across the winding lane, hidden behind a half full barrel of rotting waste, was Artimous Cooper, a barrel maker who lived further down the lane, on a small houseboat moored just off of Jacobs Island.

Artimous watched in amazement as the Bear and Pygmy opened the door and entered the small dingy building, the stale air filling the lungs of the Bear making it let out a small whimper as it strained to control the urge to spew its guts across the floor. The Pygmy was not bothered by the bad air and motioned to the Bear to go down the stairs towards the haunting sound of the Hurdy Gurdy and the strange lights emanating from the flashing kaleidoscope.

Intrigued, Artimous followed the pair and gingerly descended the steep wooden stairs, stair by stair, as his heart throbbed in his chest and his eyes strained to behold what was ahead of him.

Artimus reached the bottom of the stairs and blinked his tear filled eyes. The great bear and minute pygmy were ahead of him and he shuffled forward a few yards and was soon almost upon them.

Artimus strained his eyes at the black clothed figure whose bespectacled eyes were staring at the hurdy gurdy that he held in his spindly white gloved hands. The screeching whine that emitted from the instrument began to decrease in volume, and the bright rays of light diminished in intensity.

Artimus turned his head towards the bear and pygmy and was surprised to see that they were now quite close to the strange black clothed musician. Suddenly the Top hated figure turned and disappeared in to the dark morass behind him. The bear and pygmy soon ventured to the place where the strange scene had unfolded and as with the darkly dressed figure disappeared in to the darkness.

Artimus swiftly blinked his eyes and motioned towards the centre of the room. As he neared there last position he could just make out a series of doors in the far wall. The doors looked like those he had seen in his youth, whilst apprenticed to a master Cooper.

Artimus had served his time in Rotherhithe, but had spent a year in Cadiz assisting his mentor complete a contract for the King of Spain. Whilst in Cadiz, he had seen various depictions of the New World, rough sketches and note book scribbles brought back to Spain in the past by the sailors who had conducted the Spanish conquest of central and South America.

The doors were made of wood, and appeared to be bolted at both the top and bottom. Artimus approached a door and was surprised to see that the bolts were undone, and the door slightly ajar. Artimus slowly opened the door and viewed a long corridor running of in to the dark.
Ahead of him he thought he could see the back of the bear, and after slowly partly closing the door behind him, he stepped in to the dark corridor.

Creeping slowly along the dimly lit passage, Artimus ran his right hand along the wall and suddenly paused as his hands stumbled across a large cold handle. Pushing the door attached to the handle released the partially open door hinge and the heavy barrier began to ease open.

Artimus gradually squeezed his head around the opening portal and drew a deep breath as he gazes upon the vista before him. As Artimus pulled the rest of his body through the partially open door way, his short neck was straining to propel his stocky head from side to side as he tried to take in the view before him. Artimus shut his eyes and wiped his hand across his now slightly moist eyes. 

Fully opening his eyes he now fully took in the scene before him, a rolling Steppe of undulating grasslands stretching in to the far distance, where snow capped mountains towered in to the bright blue firmament. The mountains appeared to curve in a great sweep across the horizon, and before them the lush steppe rolled forward in a never ending verdant carpet of lush grasses. 

Artimus strained to locate something or somebody familiar and soon noticed the Bear and pygmy lumbering forward approximately five hundred yards ahead. They were following a trail that seemed to be a permanent track through the grasslands.

Ahead of the duo was the strange darkly dressed figure that Artimus had last seen in the cellar of the building at Jacobs Island. His black top hat sat upon his head and a number of birds were hovering above him in the bright azure sky. 

THE EINSTEIN INCIDENT

THE EINSTEIN INCIDENT

Kram Toille was tired.

He had arisen early that morning to go fishing and had travelled a long way for that enjoyable experience. The modern car made the journey relatively simple, although the traffic was at times frustrating.

Returning in the evening, and on reaching his comfy suburban home, he had quickly bathed and after checking his E Mails, watching television with his partner and eating his dinner, had fallen asleep in the armchair.

He awoke with a start at approximately 4.30 in the morning, the room was dark and strangely unfamiliar. A strange mouldy smell enveloped his nostrils and he strained to view the dark room ahead of him. Both hands pushed down on the arms of the chair so as to propel his body on to his tired legs.

Immediately he noticed that the arms of the chair were unusually cold and hard, rather than the expected cushioned warmth of the modern upholstering.

Startled, he ran his hands back across the arms only to be shocked that they were fashioned from cold, hard wood!.

His eyes started to adjust to the lack of light and he was drawn towards a flickering image to the end of the room.

Unsure if he was dreaming, he stumbled towards the flickering light source and quickly noticed that it was the remains of a candle that had just about extinguished its supply of wax, and was about to go out.

Kram Toille frantically searched for the room’s walls and electric light switch, so that he could reveal the contents of the room. However this was to no avail, and after stumbling about the walls he reached a course curtain that covered a small window opening in the wall.

 

He pulled the curtain aside to reveal a truly unbelievable vista. In the far distance the sun was starting to rise against horizon of gently rolling hill covered in deciduous forest. He closed his eyes and blinked.

What was going on !!!!

Kram Toille had been born in 1959 and lived in a 1930's semi detached house, on a suburban road in “Betjeman’s” celebrated metro land.

The nearest countryside was a couple of miles away, but there in front of him was a truly rural landscape.
In the near distance was an old thatched cottage with a cottage garden surrounding the building. Next to this property were a farm house and an old barn, with its doors open revealing bundles of hay strewn about the building.

Other rural buildings were dotted about the scenery, although the majority of Krams view was that of idyllic countryside.

Kram rubbed his eyes and turned round to view the room with the benefit of the sunlight starting to enter the premises through the small windows. He was staggered to view the contents of the room which reminded him of a vintage Victorian photograph published in a historical magazine.

The floors of the room were wooden with a small rug in front of the open fireplace. A small wooden chair was at angle beside the hearth, and the chair that Kram had earlier risen from was on the opposite side of the fire.

The walls were covered in simple hessian wallpaper, and a sepia photograph of Queen Victoria, and her extended family hung above the fire place. 

Pushed up against the wall were a small wooden table and two simple stools. The table was uncovered, apart from a small Bible which had a leather book mark wedged in to its pages.

On the floor next to the table was small copper coin and Kram stretched down to pick it up. 

Having recovered the coin he quickly noticed that it was a gleaming new Victorian penny, with a portrait of Queen Victoria on the reverse and the date 1870 stamped on the base.

Kram stared at the coin and was amazed at its quality. He had collected coins as a child and had indeed owned many old Victorian pennies. However, he had never seen one in such fine condition. He quickly placed the coin in his pocket and continued to scan the room.

Kram’s head was spinning as he quickly motioned towards the door so as to escape from this nightmare. As he passed through the opening he slipped and fell hard, smashing his head against the cold wooden flooring in the hallway.

All was quite as Kram lay there, his breath easing to a gentle intake of musty damp air, and his eyes tightly shut.

Kram awoke some three hours later with thumping headache, and the thought of his "dreamed" Victorian odyssey flooding through his terrified brain.

He slowly opened his eyes expecting to see the floor and walls of the dingy building that he had slipped and fell in some hours earlier, but was amazed to see familiar furnishings in his own hallway.

He quickly rose from the ground and opened the front door.

His head thrust through the open portal and he was greeted with the familiar view of his normal suburban surroundings, the cars parked in the street, the post box at the end of the road, and his neighbour’s cat strolling across his front garden.

Completely bamboozled, Kram moved to his kitchen, switched the electric kettle on and sat on a wooden stool. He strained his memory trying to remember the events that had earlier befallen him, and he soon dismissed the complete episode as a strange, but very vivid dream. 

As he sat on the stool his nose began to run and he placed his hand in to his trouser pocket to retrieve a tissue. His hand entered his pocket and immediately touched a cold small object.

Kram's hands quickly retrieved the object and he shivered in disbelief, as he held a brand new, mint condition 1870 Victorian penny in his hand.......