tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61249663992484166782024-03-08T12:05:44.354-08:00The World Of Juanita & Colonel JuanBeing short stories, essays, satire and various works of fiction by an idiot writer and his delinquent daughterJuanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-37509317684184631202011-05-26T08:20:00.000-07:002011-05-26T08:20:21.033-07:00Isle Of Wight Fishmonger Fined For Displaying Naked Bream<span style="font-size: large;">Fishmonger, Ted Nugent, was fined £10 by Shanklin magistrates today for displaying a nude sea bream in the window of his High Street shop - writes chief crime reporter Juanita Juan.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Nugent pleaded guilty to improperly displaying a naked fish - and asked for five hundred similar offences to be taken into consideration.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"This apology for a human being - this odious philanderer - this loathsome stain upon the good name of the Isle of Wight - this nauseating dealer in seagoing pornography, is nothing more than a serial fish molester", growled Chairman of the Bench, ex Field Marshall Sir Vernon Blatchcock-Barnowl.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Not only has he subjected this innocent bream to the vile gaze of visiting perverts from overseas, he also admits to having similarly besmirched haddock, whiting, lemon sole, gurnard, sprats and a line-caught dog fish."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I have decided to leave on record further grave offences involving molluscs, crustaceans and sundry under-age whitebait", declared Sir Vernon.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Defending the accused, Herbert Digweed-Dambuster QC explained that his client had gone to great lengths to provide adequate cover for the naked fish. Which only served to make the magistrates even more angry than they were already.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"If he thinks the odd sprig of parsley is sufficient to spare the blushes of a stripped sea bream he's got another thought coming", shouted Sir Vernon.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"He will go to prison for fifty years."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The sentenced was reduced on appeal.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In a similar case, Ventnor magistrates decided that frozen fish fingers were not subject to the same decency laws as sea bream.</span>Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-64882320290443999922011-05-26T08:14:00.000-07:002011-05-26T08:14:43.893-07:00Miner Strikes Gold Under Bank Of England<span style="font-size: large;">A lucky gold miner from Bethnal Green laid claim to the top end of Threadneedle Street today after striking gold fifty feet below the surface. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Within an hour, city police reported thousands of men with shovels gathering outside Mansion House tube station.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I had a feelin' there was tons of gold down there", laughed Ron Varley as he triumphantly showed a group of prospectors a large ingot, clearly stamped Property of the Bank of England.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Varley explained he had started his mine six months ago, from a disused back yard just around the corner in Throgmorton Street. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"To an experienced miner like me, this whole area stinks of pure gold", he declared.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He revealed he had dug his shaft straight down for 50 feet before branching left in the direction of Threadneedle Street.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Once I was under the Bank of England, my electronic gold detector flew right off the scale", he said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"After locating the seam, it was a simple case of getting out the gelignite, blasting a hole through a solid steel wall and then winching the gold straight up to the surface".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Varley then headed off to celebrate with a slap-up meal at London's Savoy Hotel. Together with explosives expert Roy 'Banger' Bullman and 60 year old Reg Platt who drove the getaway van.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"We reckon there's diamonds and all sorts of priceless jewels somewhere under the Tower of London", he said as he tucked into a plate of red mullet with fries and onions.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Maybe we'll pay them a visit next Tuesday".</span>Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-15126035517937140402011-05-26T08:12:00.000-07:002011-05-26T08:12:17.961-07:00Maestro Varley To Play Albert Hall Prom Concerto For Washboard & Spoons<span style="font-size: large;">Islington's Ted Varley has agreed to give his washboard & spoons version of Beethoven Piano Concerto No 5 during this season's Albert Hall Promenade Festival.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Varley will play the 'Emperor' in E-flat Major at a special concert to commemorate the 400th Anniversary of the King James' bible. It will be held on Friday September 13th - with Daniel Barenboim conducting the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Varley plays the spoons like nobody on earth", said Barenboim. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"He's the Pavarotti of the Percussion Section". </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Aged 96, stone deaf and unable to read music, this man's a credit to the cultural values of saloon bars throughout North London", he added.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Everyone that counts from the world of classical music will gather in the Albert Hall that night", declared illustrious pianist and conductor, Vladimir Ashkenazy. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I shall be sitting with Lang Lang and the incomparable Martha Argerich, wondering post-Varley if any of us will ever dare revisit Beethoven's original keyboard version of this concerto.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Had he lived, Ludwig Van Beethoven would surely have written for Spoons & Washboard", declared pioneering Venezuelan genius, Gustavo Dudamel. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Kick off at 8.15. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Sold Out!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Live on BBC 2</span>Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-707915562823243592011-05-26T08:08:00.000-07:002011-05-26T08:08:30.781-07:00Man Entered For Crufts Declared BarkingBob Pomeroy, who entered this year's Crufts as a wolfhound, has been declared barking mad under the 1864 Mad Dog Act.<br />
<br />
Dorking Magistrates heard today how Pomeroy, a 56 year old supermarket manager from Leatherhead, entered Crufts as 7 year old wolfhound 'Beau Bob' in the Working Gundog section of this year's competition. <br />
<br />
"I immediately suspected Beau Bob was not a wolfhound", explained legendary 68 year old judge, Dora Cattermole.<br />
<br />
"For a start, he didn't appear comfortable on all fours". <br />
<br />
"Then, when I asked his handler, Mr Mundy, why Beau Bob's tail had been removed, he simply told me I'd have to ask the dog".<br />
<br />
"Finally, when I had my customary feel between Beau Bob's back legs, he got far more excited than any wolfhound I've come across in 30 years as a circuit judge".<br />
<br />
Eye witnesses revealed it took six male judges to drag Beau Bob off Dora Cattermole and into a ringside cage.<br />
<br />
"The dog had a paw up Dora's tartan skirt and was foaming at the mouth", declared ironmonger and poodle connoisseur Vernon Moult. <br />
<br />
Passing sentence, Chairman of the Bench Roy Figgis growled, "This tailless wolfhound, Beau Bob, is a disgrace to Crufts name and reputation".<br />
<br />
Seconds later, muzzled Bob Pomeroy, wearing a smart two-piece suit and red tie, was led away for further training at Her Majesty's pleasure.<br />
<br />
84 year old chihuahua, Vic Noblet from Kettering, won Best in Show.Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-91259973473718492662011-05-26T08:06:00.000-07:002011-05-26T08:06:18.160-07:00Dorking Man Walking Pet Snake Causes World's Worst Traffic Jam<span style="font-size: large;">Bernard Barnowl caused the world's longest traffic jam today when he put a lead on his pet Python, Monty, and took him for a walk down the A24 near Dorking.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Forty two foot reticulated python, Monty, is used to being taken for a constitutional along the lamp posts and woodland pathways on the verges of the A24. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Daily walkies are a vital part of Monty's lifestyle", explained 48 year old milkman Barnowl. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"He gets to stretch himself out, eat the odd lamb or hedgehog, have a sniff round the undergrowth and crucially mark-out his territory. Pythons are very much like dogs you know".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Things went wrong this morning when Barnowl decided to escort Monty across the road.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I waited for a long gap in the traffic, then led him across the A24", explained Barnowl.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'd just reached the other side, when the stupid snake decided he wanted the loo". </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"So I shouted at him. I told him straight. I said look here Monty, your head is one side of the A24 and your tail's on the other. This is neither the time nor place to go poo poo".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Would he listen. No way. He just looked up like I was a complete idiot - and began the lengthy process of doing his number twos. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Pythons are like that you know, obstinate buggers".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Thankfully the first vehicles to approach the scene were paying attention. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"As I looked ahead I immediately noticed there was a big python stretched across the road having a crap", revealed 53 year old delivery driver Ron Huggett. "So I pulled up and waited for it to finish".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">District nurse, Minnie Hardacre, did exactly the same from the opposite direction. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I know global warming's a problem. But I didn't expect pythons in Surrey quite so soon", she said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Within an hour traffic was at a standstill all the way down to Worthing. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Whilst the nearby M25 was at a halt from Heathrow right across Surrey and Kent as far as the Dartford tunnel.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"It's the worst traffic jam in history", declared Chief Inspector Bob Ballard of Surrey police. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Sixty five miles of cars and lorries all bumper to bumper".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bloody pythons!</span>Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-33141584063068672342011-05-26T08:02:00.000-07:002011-05-26T08:02:21.085-07:00Birdman Of Dorking Dies On Maiden Flight<span style="font-size: large;">Human bird Bob Pomfroy is dead! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He took-off from the summit of Box Hill at 8.15a.m today. But his body was discovered an hour later. In light undergrowth beside the A25, midway between Dorking and Guildford. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Locally born and bred, 56 year old Pomfroy made headlines in January, when he had 10,000 bird feathers implanted into his skin. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"At Bob's request, I turned him into the world's first flying ostrich", explained consultant surgeon Professor Arthur Mouton-Birdbath. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Pomfroy, a local ferret breeder and authority on suburban pigeons, believed humans would be capable of sustained flight, if only they had feathers. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"He spent fifteen years studying dead starlings at our dining-room table", wept his distraught wife Marlene. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Calculating what he called 'the precise mechanics of flight'. In the end he claimed he knew exactly how many feathers per square inch he would need".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"By Christmas there was nothing Bob didn't know about being a bird", she said. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"So we decided to go ahead with the operation. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"As I told Professor Birdbath. To most people my husband is a boring ferret breeder. Now make him the kind of man everyone will look up to".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Thousands turned out to see Bob Pomfroy take to the sky.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"We were standing two hundred feet below. Ready to rush him straight to hospital", said elderly paramedic Ted Warnock. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"The moment the band started playing the Dam Busters march, we started the motor in the ambulance. As Mr Pomfroy prepared for take-off, we had six of us waiting with an outstretched blanket. And a stretcher in case we missed him."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The great moment had arrived. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Pomfroy slowly squatted down, bending his knees. Eyes wide open and looking straight ahead, he took a deep breath. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Then with both arms flapping wildly, he leapt off the edge and out into the freedom of the open sky.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">To the amazement of everyone, ghoulishly gathered to witness a twerp plunge to his certain death, the local ambulance service turned out to be surplus to requirements.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"He went off like a startled crow", said disappointed bystander Reg Pillock. "Straight as an arrow and higher and higher in the sky. Until he vanished into a passing cloud".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Nobody clapped. We just stood there with our mouths wide open. Struck dumb. Gobsmacked by the sight of a middle aged man flying into the distance. With a smile on his face Like he was some kind of bird without a care in the entire bloody world".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Forty five minutes later, pig-breeder Len Normington was carefully driving his massive 68 ton lorry along the A25, midway between Dorking and Guildford.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I was heading to market. Peacefully finishing me ham and cheddar sandwich with mustard and pickle". </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"When suddenly I saw this crazy ostrich heading in my direction", explained shocked Normington ten minutes later.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I ask you! A bloody great ostrich". </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Diving straight down towards me".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Slap into me windscreen".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Stupid bloody bird". </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Never stood a chance".</span>Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-4826993981093997082011-05-24T11:07:00.000-07:002011-05-24T12:53:15.312-07:00Spoof Tribute To Peter Cook<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Peter Cook (1935-1995) was one of the greatest British wits of all time. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Comedy is rooted in the history of British theatre. But the second half of the 20th century saw television join the wireless as an alternative mainstream outlet for high culture. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Peter Cook, whilst not a pioneer, set the bar for most of the highest and the lowest standards we have today. Alongside Tommy Cooper, Spike Milligan and one or two others</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">He was a glorious man. Unambitious, carefree, born to make people laugh. The son of a colonial civil servant, Cook was public school and Cambridge. A traditional Englishman to his boots. Think Harold MacMillan meets Alfred Doolittle. Or Lord Boothby meets Brian Clough. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Naturally, Cook began in the theatre. But he was a sketch writer and a performer, not a playwright. Actually he was many things: satirist; publisher; comedian; club owner; film actor; TV guest - to name but a few.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Beyond his writing, every aspiring satirist should watch for Cook's imaginative and quick witted improvisations in performance. Creating lines off the cuff and on the hoof. Alongside his talent for memorable characterisation. Usually High Life pedants or Low Life nincompoops.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">My favourites are Sir Arthur Streeb-Greebling, nitwit Norman House with his metal detector, Scunthorpe FC manager Alan Latchley, rock legend Eric Daley, High Court Judge Sir James Beauchamp and of course Pete opposite Dudley Moore from the Pete & Dud stage and TV sketches.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Peter Cook was often outrageous. Witness his famous Derek & Clive 'cunt' sketch with Dudley. But he was never even remotely crude. He just dared to tread where others never thought to step.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">So forgive my pathetic attempt to capture just a hint of that surreal style. In this short sketch. With the ghosts of Peter Cook playing Sid and Dudley Moore as his colleague, Brian.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Sid & Brian Contemplate Lost Property At Dorking Station</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em>Sydney Parslow, a 48 year old ticket-office clerk at Dorking Railway Station is having a lunchtime pint with Brian Maggot, 46, who helps runs the snack bar on Platform One:</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: You seen what's been handed in to lost property Brian?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: No I haven't Sid. What?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: You're never going to believe this. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: Not a soddin' umbrella?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Close.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: A mobile phone?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Getting warm..</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: I know. A pair of brown leather gloves?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Getting very warm..</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: No good. I give up. You'll have to tell me.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Another bloody vagina.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: Oh No! Not another bloody vagina! Poor thing. How many's that since Sunday?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Four. If you count the one that escaped.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: Bloody hell. What condition's this one in?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Fine. Considering the ordeal it must've been through. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">I gave it a saucer of milk. Then it fell asleep with a smile on its face.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: Ah. Bless its heart. I don't know. What is it about these modern women?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Spoilt. That's what. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: You're right there Sid. I blame all that Reality TV..</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: You'd have thought they'd at least take proper care of their vagina. Given they've only got the one.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: Too right. It's not as if a vagina's a fabulous breast. Or a little finger. I mean, they've got a spare breast. And loads of fingers. But fancy losing your one and only vagina. If I had a vagina I'd take bloody good care of it. Keep a very close eye out. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: I know Brian. As I've often heard you say. I wish I had a vagina. If only I had a vagina my entire life would be far less complicated. My vagina would be the most loved, the most closely observed vagina in the entire world. It would be a well-watched vagina.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: Jealously guarded. Kept under lock and key.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Constantly in chains if it were mine. Bolted to the floor. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: So what have you done with it?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Put it in the hutch with the others.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: Poor bloody vaginas. What if nobody claims them?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: I'd rather not tell you that Brian. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: Don't say they put them down?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: No. But suffice to say, what happens is not very nice. Certainly not the kind of end I'd wish for any vagina of mine.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: Poor things. Someone should make an effort to repatriate them.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here, do you think this new one might belong to Cheryl Cole?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Cheryl Cole? What gives you that idea?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: I don't know. But it could belong to Cheryl Cole couldn't it?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: How on earth do you suppose Cheryl Cole came to lose her vagina on Platform 1 of Dorking Station?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: I don't bloody know. How does any woman lose her vagina? It could have been accidental. Whilst her mind was temporarily distracted.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: So what was a globe-trotting superstar like her doing in a state of distraction in Dorking?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: What's wrong with Dorking?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Nothing's wrong with Dorking. I mean you and me find Dorking a perfectly pleasant place in which to spend our entire life. We even find excitement within the confines of Dorking. But let's face it Brian. Dorking isn't exactly the throbbing heart of the metropolitan South East.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: OK. Maybe she was passing through. En route between her yacht on the south coast and the flickering lights of London.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Possibly Brian. Possibly. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: So why don't you ring and ask her?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: What me? Pick up the phone and say 'Hello, is that Cheryl Cole. Oh good. Only it's Sydney Parslow here from British Rail Dorking. I was rummaging through our Lost & Found articles and wondered if you might have inadvertently mislaid your vagina on our Platform 1.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: That's right. Then she could have a quick look below and give us an immediate answer.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Don't be ridiculous. Suppose she isn't alone.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: Maybe the person she's with could take a look. Either way we'd get a result. Clear up the mystery once and for all.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: That's true.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">BRIAN: Settle our minds and that.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">SID: Prove we've done everything possible to rescue a poor lost vagina.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">OK Brian I'll do it.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">DIALS MOBILE</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hello. Is that Cheryl Cole?</span></div><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">END</span></div><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div>Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-62564256863601917372011-04-13T05:31:00.000-07:002011-05-14T07:06:05.183-07:00Quentin Tarantino Directs Humphrey Bogart In Sauce Commercial<span style="font-size: large;">Hollywood rolled back the years today as the great Humphrey Bogart kicked the lid off his coffin, lit a cigarette and strolled along to Lot 1 in the MGM Studios to begin work. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Quentin Tarantino was already slumped in his Director's Chair screaming at a terrified young actor. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"This is a fucking sauce commercial you dick brained twerp of a one-legged halfwit moose", he screamed encouragingly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"All you gotta do is look at the girl as if you're gonna fill her with sperm. Put our client's food in yer useless mouth. Bite on it .. let the juice run out .. and then whisper the line with every ounce of meaningful passion you've got in you..</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong><em>"Say Sister The Sauce On This Sausage Sandwich Is Simply Sensational"</em></strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"It's that FUCKING easy", he screeched.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogie leaned against the doorway, stifled a grin, lit another cigarette and watched.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Rollin", called out the film cameraman.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"OK. Action", shouted Tarantino.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Actor looks at girl with best meaningful look. Then bites sandwich.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Say Sister The Sauce On This Sausage Sandwich Is Simply Sensational"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarantino: Cut.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Actor: Was that better boss?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarantino: Out you fuckwit! Get out of my fuckin studio before I fuckin get a loaded pistol and blow the fuckin air out yer fuckin empty brain and up through yer fuckin arsehole.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The actor leaves in tears. Never to work again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">After a pause, a vaguely familiar voice from the doorway</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogart: Mind if I have a go?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarantino: Who the fuck d'yer think you are? Humphrey fuckin Bogart?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogart: Maybe.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarantino: Bright guy eh? Done any acting?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogart: Bit. Not a lot. Few movies.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarantino: Such as?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogart: I don't know. African Queen.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarantino: What's that? Gay porn with black dick movie?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogart: Maltese Falcon.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarantino: Natural history crap don't count.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogart: The Big Sleep.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarantino: Yeah dickhead. That's what yer doin to me. Makin my eyes feel heavy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogart: OK! How about Casablanca?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarantino: Of all the fuckin' gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogart: What?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarantino: Don't come the crap with me dickhead! Next thing you'll be askin' me to play it again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogart: Why not?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarantino: I'll tell yer why not. Cos I don't remember the lines. That's why not!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogart: You did it fer her you can do it fer me!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarantino: OK Wise guy! Get yer arse down here and read the commercial.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogie strolls down onto the set. Lights a cigarette. Looks hard into the girls eyes. Her lips begin to part. Tiny beads of sensuous moisture appear as she slowly licks her bottom lip. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">She smiles tantalisingly back at the great star standing before her. Already they could be in bed and she could be sucking something else. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He smiles back. Grinds out the cigarette on the floor. Then takes a bite of the sandwich. The scene is rich with levels of sexual tension not seen on screen since 1941. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Brown juice trickles out of Bogie's mouth and down onto his chin.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bogart: Shay Shishter The Shaush On Thish Shaushage Shandwich Ish Shimply Shenshashional.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">SILENCE</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">CUT</span>Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-44791333965056088672011-04-12T08:39:00.000-07:002011-05-22T04:45:53.967-07:00Dorking Post Modern Triangulists Gather At Felcher's Bottom<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Followers of Dorking's thriving Post-Modernist Art Society travelled to the Isle of Wight yesterday for their annual weekend get-together, writes JPR Laidlaw, Dorking Review's Deputy Chief Rugby Football Correspondent.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Here we are once again on the dunes at Felchers Bottom", announced limestone sculptor and legendary Surrey Triangulist, Professor Roderick Chump-Parsnip, standing outside his own private tent. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Greetings to all Dorking-based lovers of fine art, as we gather again to celebrate a weekend of the most innovative talent to be found anywhere throughout the Home Counties", he declared.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Since my discovery of Dorking Triangulism in the 1970's, our Society continues to stand alone against the tidal wave of post-war neo-romanticism", he explained. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Resisting those same forces of philistine artistic globalisation that have destroyed the soul of every British artist from William Hogarth to Damien Hurst". </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"All art beyond Dorking is moribund. From Paris to Barcelona - from New York to Florence and from Shrewsbury to Leamington Spa", he declared. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Remember that and you won't go far wrong".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Children of Dorking. Immerse your brushes in the flow of divine inspiration. I hereby declare our 36th Annual Festival officially open!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Several hours later, as the glorious sun began to dip below the horizon, I met up with Professor Chump-Parsnip for a gentle pre dinner wander amongst the artists, clustered in small groups around the surrounding dunes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Felchers Bottom is where it's at", he whispered as we began our stroll.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Look about, if you wish to savour the intoxicating aroma of the English Channel. Blending with the rapier-like thrust of Dorking paint brushes wielded by the children of Apollo."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Have you seen Vernon Harding's "Virgin & Child Of Godalming", he asked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Which one is Vernon Harding", I enquired.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Surely you've heard of Vernon Harding", he replied sharply. "Runs the Kismet Oriental Grill in Mickleham. Couple of miles due north of Dorking town centre".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When I admitted I hadn't, the Professor launched into an interesting account that compared Pablo Picasso unfavourably to Harding.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Harding's work is everything that Pablo's isn't", he revealed. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">For one thing, Harding never uses blue". </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"For another, Harding depicts the female breast, not as a geometric symbol but as a sacred farmyard animal. A fundamental breakthrough that would never have occurred to Picasso, a mere peasant from Malaga".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I then asked the Professor to explain the artistic significance behind his own decision to sculpture rock only whilst completely naked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"What is naked", he replied. "What is the human form? Other than a stroke of the brush. Or the strike of a sharp chisel."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Lady Catherine Versey-Palmiston then approached, clutching a newly completed canvas.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"What do you think Professor"?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Ah! Nude Nymph With Dragon & Child", he replied. "It has form. Yes. And it has shape. Depicting the triumphant beast at rest over the fecund damsel. With the child, a subtle symbol of lost virginity. I particularly like your Dadaist montage of Dorking town square in the background. And your sensuous portrayal of a roaring River Mole in full flood, harking back to the Industrial Revolution".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"It is a triumph", he declared. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Thanks only to you", quivered Lady Catherine. Who seemed not the least aware that she too was stark naked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Later we walked across the dunes to pay courtesy visits on other leading artists.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Gabriella Fonsdyke and Brigitta Knatchbull from Brocketts Farm on the A246 near Polesden Lacey were roasting a brace of mallard by moonlight. Simultaneously, they were dropping ripe apples onto a pool of brilliant white emulsion.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"We are the niece of Henri Matisse", they chanted in unison.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"An erotic masterpiece on a theme of Sapphic resurrection", whispered Professor Chump-Parsnip as the two ladies continued their work. Oblivious to the gold oil paint smeared across their naked breasts.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"It's going to be "Venus & Diana In Paradise Beside Camilla's Organic Grocery shop in Leatherhead", he revealed as we crept away.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tarquin Bickersdyke from Cathcart Road, West Horsley in Surrey is a distant cousin of Paul Gauguin. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I've been following the Dorking School since I fell out with the Pre-Modiglianis", he said as he mixed us a Pimms. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"You won't find another Movement like this anywhere". </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> "It's as if Leonardo da Vinci had met Banksy in Epsom and they'd moved into a Guildford squat with Velazquez and Tracey Emin".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Right now, Dorking is the epicentre of World Art", he declared.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And on that bombshell I left for a quiet pint at the Mason's Arms.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-38874793324930215652011-04-12T05:50:00.000-07:002011-04-12T05:50:33.216-07:00Hip-Hop Glitterati Explore 'Valley Rap' In Rhondda<span style="font-size: large;">The sun had gone down over the Rhondda Valley. It was Sunday evening and the world of Hip-Hop was gathered in the lounge bar of the Miner's Arms in Ebbw Vale, South Wales. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">They were waiting for Kanye West to come and explain the origins for his new creation 'Valley Rap' which has taken the charts by storm. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Rap can be many things. It can come from many places. Particularly the cold pavements of New York and South London.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So what was it doing here in South Wales? Amongst these pretty cottages and their front gardens and the green hills that rise yonder to the north looking up towards Snowdonia? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">With Jay-Z, Eminem, Common, Dizzee Rascal, Dr Dre, Nas, Snoop, Lil Wayne and a room of other top artists, all seeking an answer, The Miner's Arms was the place to be as the beer began to flow and the spirits of Welsh forefathers began to gather round to listen.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Then the room went dark. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A giant screen was lowered from the ceiling. A projector flickered into life. This had to be South Wales. People were smoking everywhere. Clouds of cigarette tobacco mixed with ganja and marijuana danced in front of the screen.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We were looking at a coal mine. A giant wheel on the surface. Everywhere black steel ropes, darkness and misery. Shots of men with black faces. Sweat. Tin boxes. Lamps. Those who did things. Men who worked. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We thought for a moment. How could they ever have sung so beautifully.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Then Kanye West came to the microphone. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And the music began.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"You come here today and you pay and I say <br />
where that road took me next from satanical mills<br />
where they don't write no text for these valleys and hills<br />
You say<br />
Cos you know to connect to the bad how I feels<br />
Is to stay in the street where the beat is suspect<br />
And the man with the drugs has his own dialect<br />
for his plight<br />
Right here in the fields in a land with no shields<br />
And the stink of the coal from the man in a hole<br />
Is all gone for good like I told you it would<br />
Like today<br />
On the hill with the school and the black daffodil<br />
and the scream in the wind calling Aberfan ow<br />
as the sill hears the drill and the will dies<br />
Until<br />
It's so still and the gold turning black as the cold<br />
and the wail in the dale turns the wheel I am told<br />
as a lung like a dirge is spoke never sung<br />
Before<br />
Grime has its time like quicklime sometime<br />
diggin' deep in the soul like a mole in the soil<br />
when the coil of the wire takes him higher and higher<br />
Never out<br />
of the pit and the shit and the clay with his shout<br />
not a doubt every sum comes to nowt<br />
at the end of the day with his take home pay<br />
is still far away<br />
Turns his face to the wheel and the feel of the dust<br />
in the eye and the sigh as he sinks down to die<br />
and they cry to the sky as the man whispers why<br />
is it me<br />
Can't you see perfectly that's a lung full of soot<br />
that you put out the fire of men in the choir<br />
that sang in the hills in the land of their fathers<br />
As others<br />
have done when the sun does no favours to bathers<br />
on sands groaning shift as I budge to the trudge of the miners<br />
who crawl through the sludge to the lift that has come<br />
to take him<br />
away from this hell and the burn and the smell as you turn<br />
for the sanctity of a moment's alacrity from deep in the stern<br />
to the front of the queue and a view for the few of the city<br />
in London<br />
That's far from the station a distant relation who's making the money<br />
this nation's ovation our town hall's creation this really ain't funny<br />
when deaf are half blind Lord Nelson's not kind and neither has time<br />
for our pity<br />
full words as the wind blows again and again and again as it washes<br />
the stain in buckets of rain and again with the pain of the past<br />
that can't never last in our brain to explain when he came at the last<br />
To die"</span>Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-77971439902603470962011-04-03T10:55:00.000-07:002011-05-22T05:20:44.949-07:00Dorking Review Meets Sir Brent Burton-Trench On His 100th Birthday<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><strong><em><span style="font-size: large;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Today we are honoured to be granted an interview with Dorking's foremost celebrity. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Born up the road in Leatherhead (within the Borough of Dorking) Sir Brent Burton-Trench remained until, aged eleven, he was sent away to boarding school. Alas he was never to return.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Now living on the Isle of Wight - actor, matinee idol, diarist, raconteur - Sir Brent invites Dorking's own Trainee Gossip Correspondent, Timothy Langton, to chat about his famous home and his celebrated life in the arts:-</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Sir Brent. May I start by wishing you a happy birthday. And thanking you on behalf of Dorking for inviting me into your beautiful home.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Dear boy! The pleasure is mine.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: You've heard from the Queen?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Ha! Yes! Very witty. Dear child.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: You came to the Isle of Wight in the 1940s?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: That's right. It was 1948. During the run of Coward's Private Lives at the Vaudeville. I remember us catching the late train to Portsmouth. After the Saturday night show. Then popping on the ferry straight after Sunday morning kippers and brown toast. It was love at first sight.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: You imply "we".</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Oh. Yes. My Assistant. Anthony. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Ah. Did you know Coward?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Know him! We were like brothers. I did all his plays you know. Blithe Spirit. Hay Fever. The Complete Works. Charming man Noel. Supported the Arsenal. I remember him taking me to the 1950 Cup Final. The Gunners. I'm sure that's what he called them. They won 2-0. Do you know what we did to celebrate?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: No.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Went backstage to the team bathroom. Then Noel sang to the boys for a complete half an hour. Whilst they splashed about washing the mud off! All his famous songs. Entirely for free. They all loved him. Even footballers. He was like that Noel. Generous to a fault. Beautiful man. Yes.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Did Mr Coward ever come to the Isle of Wight.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Actually no. At least not to stay at Pitchers Bottom. But there's a reason for that. Coward hated the water you know.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Really?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Oh yes. Scared stiff of the sea. Sailed to America in '21 and was sick as a dog. Hated boats. Once the war ended, flew everywhere did Noel. Like a bird. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">PAUSE</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">We had Novello to stay.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Ivor Novello?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Yes. Cole Porter, Lorenz Hart. They've all been in this room. At that same grand piano. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Didn't Ivor Novello write "We'll Gather Lilacs"?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Well yes. I believe he did.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: My favourite song. "We'll walk together down an English Lane - Until our hearts have learned to sing again - When you come home once more". </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Are you alright sir?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Fine! Don't mind me.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Have I said anything to upset you?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: No dear boy. No. Sorry. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: What was he like?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Who?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Ivor Novello?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Oh. Him.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Great song writer. Genius. Didn't he also write "Keep The Home Fires Burning"?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Yes, I believe he did.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Look..</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">If you must know, Novello was a bastard.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: I have upset you haven't I?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: No. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: It was you who brought him up. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Quite. I really am most terribly sorry. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">The song. We'll gather lilacs. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">That English Lane. It's right there. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Outside the back door. Takes you down to Swanley's Folly. Pretty little lane. We'll gather lilacs. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yes. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">That was the last I saw of Anthony.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Sorry?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Novello. Stole my Assistant. Just like that. Left high and dry. After thirteen bloody years. Had to start signing my own photographs. Darn my own socks. Make the bed.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: You never married?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Yes. What? Marriage? No. Thought about it of course. One always thinks about these things. Never seemed to come across the right girl. Never at the right moment. Ships passing in the night I suppose.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: So you moved to the Isle of Wight.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Yes. Summer of 49. Seven thousand pounds this house cost me. Do you know what it's worth now?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Gosh I don't know. A fortune.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Go on. Take a guess.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: A million pounds.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT. Treble it. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Three million. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: And the rest.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Wow. Must be the finest house on the Island.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: We did things to it naturally. Bathrooms. The pool. That rose garden. Yes. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Novello died suddenly you know. '51 that would have been. Bastard. Coronary thrombosis. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: So your Assistant came back?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: You mean Anthony? No. Anthony went to America. Drifted around I'm told. Usual stuff. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Started working for Rock Hudson apparently. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: You keep in touch.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Mmm? Oh no. He died. I think. Yes. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">That would have been the 80's. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lots died around that time. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Back in those days.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: You played Romeo on seven occasions.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: That's right. The first was 1932. For the opening of the new theatre in Stratford. With Hermione Langrage as Juliet. And dearest Vernon Peacock as my Mercutio. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yes. The last was at the Theatre Royal Windsor. Shortly after my sixtieth birthday. I remember the Duke of Edinburgh coming back after I'd taken seventeen curtain calls. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">With Benjamin Britten as I remember.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: You knew Britten.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: But of course. Everyone did. Although it was Peter who was my closest friend.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: The tenor Peter Pears.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Yes. They had the Red House in Aldeburgh and I had the Pink House in Pitchers Bottom. They came to stay for a fortnight every summer. Then I'd go back to theirs. Benjamin used to tease Peter that he and I were two shades of the same colour.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Some critics used to compare you to Sir John Gielgud.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Gosh, you have been doing your homework. Yes. That's true enough. Johnny and me were always going up for the same things.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">PAUSE</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">What I mean is, we often went up for the same part. In a play. Or film.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Did you ever share the same stage?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Oh no. That would have been quite wrong. We both knew. We were far too similar you see. If one was giving his Hamlet the other would do his Henry. Of course we would always meet up afterwards. Lamb chops in the Savoy. Sparkling wine with spotted dick. The whole gang. Swap notes. Sign autographs. That sort of stuff.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Gielgud stayed here didn't he. At the Pink House?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: How do you know that?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: It's in Sir John's autobiography. Page 438.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Ah. You are referring to my Silver Jubilee Weekend Party in 1977. Yes, Johnny came. Along with half of London. As I recall he arrived on the Friday and left before breakfast on the Saturday. Tuppy Brimstone said something about Binkie Beaumont. Can't tell you what. Even now. Anyway, Johnny told Toad to organise an immediate departure. So yes. Johnny did stay. But only for one night.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Do you mind if I ask. Who was Toad? There's no reference to him in the Gielgud book.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Neither should there be. Toad was Johnny's Personal Assistant. He had nothing whatsoever to do with his public life. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Any gentleman must surely be allowed to draw the line somewhere. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Draw the distinction. Yes?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: I see. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Yes. There's public and there's private. Ne'er the twain should meet. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">He was a splendid chap Toad. Loyal to a fault. Did everything for Johnny. Right to the end.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Of course. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">You love this Island don't you sir.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: The Isle Of Wight. Oh yes. It's been more than a home. Or a haven. I suppose you could say it's been my mother. In a strange sort of way. Maybe my wife even. My sanctuary. It's... </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">PAUSE</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">People here are quiet. We keep ourselves to ourselves. The little things are far more important than the so-called big things. The stuff newspapers are interested in. The Tittle-tattle.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: So you'll be staying here.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: I shall die here. Hopefully in this chair. Chatting to someone pleasant such as yourself. Drinking a pink gin. If I'm lucky.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: There's a reception this evening?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Yes.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: And a dinner.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: I know. The Lord Mayor has been very kind.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: You must be excited.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Excited! Ah yes. I remember.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">No dear boy. Excited isn't the word. Content. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">You do realise I don't know anybody any more. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">They've all gone.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: You're getting the Freedom Of The Island.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">That makes you friends with everyone.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: How terrifying.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Mmmm. You're not afraid of anybody are you?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: No. Not any more.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Did you ever get stage fright?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Oh yes. Once upon a time.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was always scared of what people might think.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: But now you're not.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: No. There's no point any more.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Time's moved on. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Those days are long gone..</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">BEAT</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">You're coming tonight.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Me? You must be joking.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">They always give two tickets to the Press.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">One for the Editor and one for his wife.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: I said you are coming.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">I want you to come.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">I want someone I can talk to.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">I want you to be sitting there. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Beside me.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: But..</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: No buts. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's been decided.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now be off with you.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Before I change my mind.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">PAUSE</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Can you drive?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Well yes as a matter of fact.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Good.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">We'll take the Roller.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">I take it you can drive a Phantom Rolls Royce?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Good.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Come back at seven.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: But...</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: You've a date with a girl?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">TIM: Oh no. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">I haven't a girlfriend.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">SIR BRENT: Good. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">That's settled then.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Be here for seven.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bring your toothbruth.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">END</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div></span></em></strong></div>Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-88778411288901403322011-04-01T08:11:00.000-07:002011-05-26T06:32:27.375-07:00"Needle & Thread" - Letters From The Stoat Marriage<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em>This is the story of a marriage. As revealed through the separate correspondence of a loving husband and wife.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
<em></em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em>Brenda Stoat has a ten-a-day letter writing habit and can usually be found sitting at her dining room table in 37 Acacia Drive Dorking complaining about something or other. </em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
<em></em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em>Meanwhile, upstairs in the back bedroom, her husband Ronald is doing exactly the same on his laptop:-</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sir,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am moved to complain most seriously about your vile monthly periodical 'The Complete Spanker' delivered to this household in error today via brown envelope. Imagine my shock to discover a private snap of myself, taken 30 years ago, included in the disgusting article you call 'Readers' Wives'. My only consolation is that I no longer resemble that innocent young woman in the bathtub. You should pray my dearest husband never finds out about this outrage.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours angrily </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brenda Stoat (Mrs)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Lord Big Balls,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Let me congratulate you on your excellent ancient history feature 'Readers' Wives'. And thank you for including my modest contribution. I am in receipt of your cheque for £50.00 and look forward to next month's powerful modern history feature. I feel the 'Complete Spanker' provides a valuable service to our quiet suburban community.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sincerely,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ron Stoat (62)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Mrs Pomfroy</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Please find enclosed our cheque for £25 as deposit for a two week stay on your caravan site in the isolated woodlands of Flenwynthllgollen in North Wales. This is the sort of holiday my husband and I look forward to. Total peace and quiet with just ourselves for company. Perfect bliss! We shall arrive on Tuesday fortnight.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours gratefully</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mrs Brenda Stoat</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Sir,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">With reference to your advertisement for striptease artists in 'Totally Thai Tits'. I am a 62 year old retired decorator (references available) and active supporter of local wildlife. That said, I am currently seeking a new challenge and wonder if you have openings for experienced Wardrobe Staff in Bangkok. I am a single gentleman, prepared to relocate immediately.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sincerely,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ron Stoat </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Sir,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">May I draw your attention to the recent epidemic of sex offences in the Dorking area. I believe this has much to do with the so-called clothing commonly worn by young women locally. When will they realise that drawing attention to themselves with items such as lipstick, visible brassiere straps and the occasional showing of flimsy undergarments, merely converts them into targets for inappropriate advances. Despite leading an active life in every respect, I have never been bothered by perverts.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours ever</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brenda Stoat (Mrs)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Madam</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">May I politely ask if there are any vacancies within your underwear department. As you are surely aware, many women select their underwear with a gentleman in mind. So perhaps some customers would welcome the honest opinion of an experienced Lingerie Selection Consultant such as myself.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours respectably</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ronald P Stoat</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Sir</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">I write to complain about your recent marketing campaign which I deem aggressive beyond belief. What on earth made you imagine my husband Ronald would be in the least interested in sampling three pairs of leather thongs from your new 'Naughty Lucy' range? I return them forthwith at your expense and trust you will learn your lesson.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours in exasperation</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brenda Stoat (Mrs)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Sir</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wish to register a complaint about breast feeding facilities in the Dorking branch of your Supermarket chain. Why have you now confined these natural activities to your new Mother & Baby Suite? Frankly I miss the heartening sight of young mothers feeding their babies on the chairs on Aisle 9 (by the checkout tills). There's nothing rude about breast feeding in public.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ron Stoat</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sir</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">I write to complain about your database. Why on earth do you presume to send your filthy periodical 'Totally Thai Tits' to number 37 Acacia Drive under cover of a plain brown envelope? Can't you understand there's nobody living here remotely interested in such vile pornography. Suppose my husband, Ronald, were to come across it! Kindly strike us off your list with immediate effect.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brenda Stoat (Mrs)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Sir,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">I write to say how informative I found your article about Russian women seeking true love with men from the west. This is the sort of work our Ministry For Overseas Development should be doing. With reference to your list. May I draw your attention to 19 year old Oxana (blonde bombshell on page 96 column 5 second from the left). I believe we are ideally matched and would be obliged if you would forward her my full details, currently held on record.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours faithfully</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ron Stoat</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Doctor Mould</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">I write with bad news. Those pills you gave me have had little or no effect. My flushes have failed to subside. Even worse, the snakes I told you about are now appearing whenever I shut my eyes. Furthermore, I am starting to dream of telegraph poles and poplar trees. I can't take much more and am afraid I might eventually submit to the inevitable. Is it possible to increase the dose?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours gratefully</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mrs Brenda Stoat </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Sir,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">What became of the leather thongs I ordered from your 'Naughty Lucy' range? Please forward them without further delay. On a separate issue, I too sympathise with the tribal people of the Andaman Islands. I found your article most informative. Particularly the photographs of naked females cleaning themselves in the river. The way extremely young girls mixed freely with older women was an astonishing revelation. Could we have lots more of this sort of thing.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours faithfully</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ron Stoat</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Father Brown</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">I'm sure my husband, Ronald, would be delighted to volunteer for bellringing lessons every Monday night until further notice. He'll be free to start next week.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours always</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mrs Brenda Stoat</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Mrs Lubbock</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Please consider me for the vacant position of Female Shower Attendant at Dorking Swimming Baths. As an elderly married man of limited vision and no interest whatsoever in young ladies, I am an ideal candidate. I believe local girls would soon come to look upon me as a father figure. May I suggest I come for a trial session at 3.00 pm next Wednesday.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours sincerely</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ronald P Stoat Esq</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sir</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am not a complaining sort of person. But this time the Postage Department of your Company has gone too far. A junior clerk within your organisation still insists on sending a monthly copy of 'Private Wives' to this address. In spite of my 40 minute telephone conversation of 14-7-2011, when I assured the kind gentleman that my name was not Dora from Devon. Please now strike 37 Acacia Drive Dorking from the computer database of both Private Wives and 'Bosom Buddies'.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brenda Stoat (Mrs)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Headmistress</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">In respect of your advertisement for a Gym Instructor at St Mary's Convent School. I wonder if you would consider an all-rounder. I am an experienced Olympic Games coach who once prepared the Cambodian ladies indoor volleyball team. I also specialise in everything to do with the swimming pool. Particularly the breast stroke, in which my hands-on teaching methods have been recognised around the world. I'm confident your girls would soon appreciate having me around.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours faithfully</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ronald P Stoat</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Lord Big Balls</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Following last month's outrage, why on earth have you sent me yet another edition of your vile periodical 'The Complete Spanker'? It is now on the fire together with your invoice. You are a despicable person and a disgrace to the House of Lords.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours etc</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brenda Stoat (Mrs)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Big Don</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Where is my copy of this month's issue of 'Private Wives'? My annual subscription of £52.99 was paid on June 1st as requested. Please check account of Dora From Devon and supply me ASAP with such back issues you neglected to send. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours in confidence</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ron Stoat</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Sir,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">As Executive Producer of the Nine o'clock news, may I implore you to have a quiet word with every one of your female newscasters. Without exception nowadays, they find occasion to lean forward and expose the upper part of their chest. Whilst others have picked up the unseemly habit of continually crossing and uncrossing their legs, drawing attention to that most sensitive area of their anatomy. Things got so bad last night, I was forced to switch off and send my husband, Ronald, out to make tea!</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours sincerely</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brenda Stoat (Mrs)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear TV Boss,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wish to complain about newscaster Kate Silverton who does not answer my mail. As an employee of the BBC, I am prepared to accept she will never show me her breasts live on air. However, I have written to her privately on numerous occasions, enclosing a photograph of another woman's breasts which I believe to be similar in every respect. All I request is a simple yes or no answer that my theory is correct. Is that too much to ask?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours sincerely</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ron Stoat (62)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Sir,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">May I confirm that my husband, Ronald, and myself will be happy to attend your clinic next Wednesday at 11.00a.m to donate blood. Neither of us takes sugar with our tea and we are not fussy about biscuits. Two Shortbread or digestives will suffice.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours sincerely</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brenda Stoat (Mrs)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Sir</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Further to your advertisement in this week's Dorking Review, may I offer to donate sperm. I'll see you next Tuesday afternoon when you'll be welcome to as much as your nurse can get. Might I request Nurse Karen who I noticed when I checked you out. Or perhaps Sister Denise who looks to have a promising career within the local NHS.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours sincerely</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ron Stoat (62)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Doctor Clackett,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was planning to take my husband Ronald on a hill-walking holiday this autumn. Possibly in Yorkshire. Or maybe North Wales. However, he now tells me that you have strictly forbidden him to walk further than half a mile at a stretch. Furthermore, he now claims you have advised him to take a complete rest by himself on a beach somewhere in south east Asia. Might I ask you to arrange for a second opinion on all this. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours sincerely</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brenda Stoat (Mrs)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Nature Lovers,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Further to your advertisement in this month's 'As Nature Intended', I wish to confirm that I'm keen to have a go. My wife and I haven't yet booked a holiday for this summer so we are definitely up for it. Brenda is an avid bird-watcher. Could you send her a list of what birds she might expect to see at your colony. In a separate brown envelope, could you send me photographic evidence of other sights I might expect to encounter. You know the sort of thing: pictures of your guests playing volleyball. Or leaning over a barbecue. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yours sincerely</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ron Stoat (62)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div></div>Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-40081662866722124562011-03-23T06:16:00.000-07:002011-03-23T06:16:40.885-07:00Orwellian Thoughts On Being Kicked Off An Internet Forum For Using A Four Letter WordBack in 1984 the arrest would have been done differently. <br />
<br />
In those days the inmates followed a code of conduct that any idiot could understand. Break one of those rules and all that remained were those few seconds grace they allowed for the mad transgressor to stare at the computer and mutter stupidly to himself, "We are the dead". He got to repeat the line once more before the screen suddenly went dark and the iron voice everyone feared most barked out - "You are the dead". Then they came and dragged him away.<br />
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A quarter of a century later they've done away with the rigmarole. All that happens nowadays is the appearance of a polite note on screen saying - "account suspended". There's no explanation, no voice shouting at you from a hidden loudspeaker and no sign of those black-suited men from the Ministry of Love breaking down the door to make the arrest. It's all very civilised. And it's very different. Today, Mr O'Brien doesn't lock you up in his asylum - he locks you out!<br />
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The suspended nincompoop is summarily flung out of the cuckoo's nest head-first onto the cold pavement and the giant Forum doors are slammed shut in his face. Think about it. You're a typical Forum regular - mad as a fruitcake, almost certainly institutionalised, drug dependent with a need to regularly post poppycock, the wife/husband/partner might just as well be living abroad for the amount you speak to them, your friends only exist in print - and there are enemies galore queuing up to poke invective in the general direction of your laptop. It's a good job Forum addicts aren't quite normal else they'd all do something desperate to themselves - and some do.<br />
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Looking skywards from his lonely gutter, the newly-exiled addict often hears a twittering in the trees on the other side of the wall as some of the inmates - a bit like pigeons - look around and about and up and down and behind and across and forwards and backwards - and then realise via a garbled message from the pea which serves as their brain - that someone's not where he should be. <br />
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A few of the pigeons then squawk madly and flutter straight to their keyboards to create a new thread - shaking their claws at Mr O'Brien and demanding the immediate return of the 'missing one'. Some go off to study the rulebook and busy themselves posting theories as to why BB had seen fit to pull the plug on the sad offender - or why BB should show mercy and reinstate him. In another corner, a few of the most deeply troubled inmates attend evensong and sing out in praise of BB for his almighty wisdom in dealing harshly with all who offend, whilst others flap their wings in glee at seeing the back of a name they've always hated because he once said something vaguely nasty about them. And some are so sanctimoniously drenched in goodness that they shake knowing beaks in orchestrated disapproval - whilst taking the opportunity to confirm in print that the offending culprit wasn't part of their inner or outer personal dinner circle. But soon the hubbub dies down and the Forum returns to normality.<br />
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All alone with his guilt, the wretched outcast recollects spelling out a four letter word in an innocuous posting that same morning. It began with an eff and then a you, followed by a see and ended with a kay. But he hadn't aimed it at anyone. Then he googles the banned word - just to check if his was a lone voice - and is offered 176 million sites in which to ponder samples of its everyday use. But sadly it then occurs to him that the desperately humourless BB would be quite happy to offer anyone a free masterclass on how to shut a stable door some considerable while after the horse had bolted. <br />
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And anyway, he thought, as he read a posting from another pigeon in which quotes were used thus: I'm f***ed, you're f***ed, we're all f***ing f***ed! - what sort of a contradictory world is this when the pigeon who posted such a consummate example of immoderation was spared by the axeman and still lives to tell the tale? <br />
<br />
He muses upon this. When a star replaces a letter but leaves an unambiguous impression of exactly which letter it stands for - is this not equally as offensive as putting the letter down in the first place? Or indeed, is it not - in its coyness and Forum-wise cowardice - actually very much more offensive. And isn't the Cuckoo's Nest saturated in such barely disguised illiterate obscenity? He makes a vow to never again swear in print on the Forum. But as he continues to contemplate all acts of censorship and the massive power wielded by O'Brien he realises - for the first time - that he has been thinking about, with certain knowledge, a member of the Thought Police. <br />
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It's at this point that the distraught exile buries his head in his hands and wrings his memory in the last hope of discovering in some dusty corner a shred of evidence that might explain why Mr O'Brien had become so deeply upset. As he does this and as he studies the Code of Conduct which demands everyone must post in their real name, it occurs to him with considerable irony, that had this been 1949 and had it been a certain D Cameron or E Miliband posting on some ancient Forum under the false name of George Orwell - at least that person would have known exactly what he'd done so wrong.<br />
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Thankfully, by the time it got to this stage, nothing mattered because the glorious moment of release had finally arrived. Which is a rather topsy-turvy way of saying he was being admitted back into the asylum. It had taken a long while and a great deal of corrective thought. But now, as two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose, he knew that everything would at last be alright. The struggle was over. He had learned how to love Big Brother - without telling him in public precisely what he fucking well thought of him.Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124966399248416678.post-85575455134503806572011-03-22T10:41:00.000-07:002011-03-22T13:37:09.201-07:00Can't Smell No Holocaust Gas At Auschwitz?<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><em>Englishman David Irving creates headlines as a holocaust denier posing as an historian. </em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><em><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><em>By sheer coincidence, Colonel & Juanita Juan have just returned from a visit to Auschwitz. Below is the Colonel's report. Written as an apology to Poland for Irving's offensive and unpardonable activities. And a guide to others who might, one day, follow the trail to visit the infamous Death Camp..</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I didn't exactly plan a trip to Auschwitz. Although I knew I was soon to be relatively close. Like a few hundred miles away. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It was early September and I'd arrived to spend three weeks in and around Lviv, capital of the Western Ukraine.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Lviv is beautiful. Take my word for it. A dilapidated, crumbling, fascinating drop-dead gorgeous gem of a city. Cobbled streets. Trams. Glorious architecture. Krakow, eat your heart out (sorry Poland).</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Except there's no need to apologise to the Poles. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Because Lviv was once one of theirs. Part of Poland. As it was once part of Germany when it was called Lemberg. As it was also once part of the Communist Soviet Empire, going under the Russian name of Lvov or Lwow.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">For Lviv is a place that has unluckily straddled one of the greatest political fault-lines to have ever divided Europe. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Over hundreds of years, whenever the tectonic plates have shifted, Lviv has been a city that has learned what it's like to wake up one morning and discover someone else is in charge.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">As happened several times over, in the run-up and aftermath of WW2.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">First, in the 1930's it was a Polish city. Then, in 1939 it was taken over by Stalin under the terms of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. At which point Ukrainian dissidents, nationalists and intellectuals were rounded-up and murdered by the thousand.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Until July 1941. When Hitler's Nazi Germany invaded. And remained for three long years. The period this article is about. A time never to be forgotten. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">These were the years of the Holocaust. The so-called 'Final Solution' to the Jewish problem. The darkest hours of mankind's existence on planet Earth. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Back to my holiday. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A few days in, with me in desperate need of a glass of Georgian Red wine, we stumbled on a fascinating restaurant called 'Under the Golden Rose'. Inside was a TV screen showing newsreel of Lviv in the 1930s. It turned out to be a Jewish restaurant. And we were eating and drinking on the site of the Golden Rose Synagogue. Which had been burned down by the Nazis in 1943.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Everything about Lviv suddenly began to make sense. Obvious! The rest quickly fell into place as we remembered our history. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In the 1930's this place was riddled with Polish Jews. As we watched the TV screen and drank our wine we understood we were sitting right in the heart of Holocaust country. From which over 300,000 people had been deported to Auschwitz alone.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Inside Lviv and in every town around, are signs of the old Jewish ghettos. Immaculate memorial gardens with fresh flowers and hundreds of names carved in granite. It's a land where pilgrims, particularly Americans, come to honour their murdered ancestors.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A few days later, just as hundreds of thousands did nearly seventy years previously, me and my 20 year old daughter boarded the midnight sleeper train to Krakow en route to Oswiecim and Auschwitz-Birkenau.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">We were to return. They didn't!</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">There's no ideal way to visit Auschwitz. It isn't a happy place. So a visit isn't meant to be fun. Neither should it be.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In that mood, we were glad to be suffering the minor discomforts of an ancient Soviet style overnight train. One should suffer a bit, we thought. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Far more appropriate than taking a City break to Krakow, staying at a 5 star hotel, then catching one of the numerous plush coaches that offer return tourist tours to the Death Camp with breakfast included!</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Particularly for us non Jews. What better way of showing our respect than to arrive by train. Keeping up ancient traditions.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So, after surviving attempted blackmail by a Ukrainian border guard and a fractured few hours sleep, we spilled out at dawn into the main square of sleepy Krakow.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Three hours later, after a hotel breakfast and a quick wash, we were off again. On the two hour train journey through Eastern Poland that would finally take us to Oswiecim - the remote village the Nazis called Auschwitz. Quite literally, the end of the line!</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">We talked. A brilliant 20 year old university student with her old man, raised in London suburbia during the baby-boom years immediately after the war.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">As I watched the birch forests rushing past, I tried to tell her what this adventure was about. In reality, she knew it all too well. So we shared our thoughts. About Racism. Bigotry. Bullying. Intolerance. Sadists. Communism. Fascism. Pig ignorance. Nick Griffin. The BNP. Holocaust denial. Europe today.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">And we remembered Brecht's chilling warning about Adolf Hitler: particularly the final words of his play The Resistible Rise Of Arturo Ui - [i]"The Bitch That Bore Him Is Still On Heat!"[/i]</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Nothing prepares you for Auschwitz-Birkenau. It doesn't matter how much you've read. Or how many documentaries you've watched. Being there is different.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">But not for everyone!</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">There are those who rush about. Pushing prams. Out on a day trip from Krakow. Having seen the castle and cathedral and now with time to spare before the plane home.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Pointing their mobile phone cameras at gas chambers. Or yard after yard of human hair. Whizzing past piles of long forgotten shoes. Staring blankly at a massive pile of pre-war artificial limbs. Gawping at chimneys down which cans of Zyklon-B were emptied onto countless unsuspecting souls waiting for a shower. Photos of naked women and children. Striped uniforms stained with blood and much else beyond description. Passing a walled room without so much as a twitch - a room with just enough space for four bodies to stand up when they are squeezed tightly together. Before the door is closed. Forever. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Having their photo taken - smiling happily in front of the famous sign saying 'Work Makes You Free'. Or on the rail platform at Birkenau with a background view down to the infamous 'Gate of Death'. Looking for bullet holes at the horrendous wall, before which thousands of tottering skeletons stood for a final time. Before a bored Nazi with a smoking gun pulled the trigger.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">But no. That's not fair. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Perhaps this is their way of trying to comprehend something so bestial, so barbaric that it's way beyond natural 21st Century understanding. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A modern, semi-detached, TV generation's reaction to something so far removed from the X Factor that it's way beyond the imagination. Anyway. Who am I to say? And who am I to condemn?</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Anna showed us round. A Polish mother of two who wouldn't be alive today had not an SS guard in 1943 accepted a gold watch from her grandfather as a bribe that saved her grandma from the cattle-train to Birkenau.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">We were lucky. Anna was a marvellous guide who knew her facts. The only thing that worried me was that she kept going on and on justifying the very things we could clearly see with our own eyes.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So much so that eventually I asked her: </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"Anna. Why do you keep on trying to substantiate what you're showing us? We can all see it. We believe it happened. Why are you taking such trouble to legitimize the history of Auschwitz? Are you really that concerned about Neo-Nazi Holocaust denial?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"Yes", she replied. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"They're out there everywhere. They'll never go away. Which is the main reason for our Museum."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Which takes us back to the exact place we began. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">With bogus English historian David Irving.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">And the whispering ashes of countless murder victims, scattered anywhere and everywhere across this chilling landscape in a secluded corner of Eastern Poland.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div>Juanita & Colonel Juanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07521700232327684866noreply@blogger.com0