Christmas

 A merry Christmas to everyone!

These splendid angels are from the Priory Church, Great Malvern, Worcestershire.

The Caucasus: Pagan Philosophy, by Peter Shilston

(I wrote this after a visit to the Caucasus. It took the Russians fifty years, in the first half of the 19th century, to conquer the tribes of this mountainous region. During this time, Lermontov set his nihilistic novel "A hero of our times", there, and Pushkin sent his hero, Eugene Onegin,to fight there. Tolstoy's early stories, like "The cossacks" tell of his experiences holding the line of the Terek river against the tribes, and his very last story, "Hadji Murat", concerns a Chechen chief who tries to defect to the Russians but as a result is mistrusted by both sides. At the end of the Second World War Stalin (who was himself a Georgian) deported entire mountain peoples, Chechens, Inguish and others, to Siberia, where about a quarter of then died before Khrushchev allowed them to return to their homeland - which,from a Russian point of view, was probably a mistake)

......................................................................................................    

The people are like their mountains

 beautiful, wild, untameable, hard, crushing any weakness, 

implacable in revenge on outsiders who show them no respect.

......................................................................

 Silly people in the cities 

may speak of dying for a cause 

but a serious man knows 

that for your cause to triumph you must kill.

......................................................... 

In the end we all die. What matters is how we die 

and what better way to die than in defence of your home

 surrounded by the bodies of your enemies?

............................................................ 

The only true immortality is to live in legend 

when your children's children 

tell stories of your mighty deeds. 

..............................................................

The mountains and their people

once inspired Pushkin and Lermontov and Tolstoy 

and now they inspire Vladimir Putin 

- a serious man. 

Psychoanalysis, by David Bingham

A psychoanalysis session conducted by Dr Oscar Schneider with the apparition of Frau Sabine

Bachmann, his deceased lover, at his consulting rooms in Vienna, 1909

He points to a painting 

of an Alpine scene 

and asks his patient what she sees.

‘I see rue Chabanais, that street of debauchery,

where high class whores pander to the wants

of privileged and powerful men.’

The good doctor lifts the cover from a porcelain plate,

decorated with red roses, and reveals a selection

of expensive sweets. ‘Please take one and describe its taste.’

She chooses a chocolate-coated truffle

and is immediately overcome with revulsion

as she recalls the acridness of bitter almonds.

He sets up his gramophone and plays

the famous soprano Jane Merey singing la Valse Rose.

‘What do you hear?’ he asks.

‘The prolonged and agonising cries of a fallen woman

reaching the end of her life

and then the whisper of her last breath.’

He picks a gardenia

from a bouquet of flowers and passes it to her.

‘Such a pleasing fragrance I think you’ll agree’

She puts it to her nose.

‘To me, it is like a rotting corpse left

in an unvisited room for many weeks.’

He reaches out to touch her.

‘Tell me how this feels?’ he says.

She grasps his hand; and, in shock,

he whimpers as drop by drop she drains the moisture

from his body, until all that remains is a skeleton

of dried bones covered in withered skin.

She looks down at what is left of him.

‘It feels good,’ she says,

‘it feels very, very good.’

© David Bingham, 2021 

Return to normal, by Peter Morford

 After more than a year I’ve got used to working from home. It was odd at first to wake at my usual time of 6am and be ready for the short walk to the station for the 7.10 up-train. I miss the regularity of

meeting my friends in the buffet car for our breakfasts. I say friends but we rarely exchanged names, all we had in common was a ninety minute trip from the coast to Victoria Station. We naturally broke up

into little cliques. There were the two chess-players who patiently ignored the misleading advice we gave them. There was the card school on table one. The argumentative set huffed and puffed about

the Government. There was the man who liked to tease the buffet attendant, who, in his best Jeeves voice, would ask how Sir would like his toast. After a moment’s thought Horace would say “Medium rare, my good man.” Sometimes, just to be awkward, he could demand “Very well done. I want to hear your smoke alarm.”

For more than a year one table hosted two women, two men. My friend Greene speculated about them. He also had theories about the men he called Trotsky and Churchill as they heatedly argued their left-wing-right-wing view of life and then politely shook hands as they left the train.

I remembered the retirement party for the old boy who had commuted for 45 years.

**

I took a spare bedroom for my home office. For the first week or two I dressed in my usual City suit, white shirt, regimental tie, shiny shoes. After a while I gradually dressed down. I was respectable above the waist in deference to the daily Zoom meetings, but below that – jeans, shorts, flip-flops. Only two vital things were the same. I was always at my desk 9.15 to 5.30, took 45 minutes for lunch. After a tea break I was back at the keyboard for another 30 minutes, the time I had always spent working on the home-bound train.

Now there is talk about a return to the office. We’ve all been vaccinated months ago and tested weekly. It should be safe, we are told. My colleagues viewed the prospect in different ways. Some would miss the freedom and trust they had enjoyed. The Bank ruled that, as long as all tasks were completed on time, they were happy.

We had all saved money. My Bank balance is padded with the unspent £5000 for a yearly season ticket and I would guess, £3000 for lunches in The Bistro.

Old stagers like me had certain figures on our minds. I was a 30-year commuter. Think of the numbers. I had made the 140 miles round trip about 7000 times, over a million miles. I had spent 21,000 hours on dusty seats or, on the homeward trip, waiting for a seat. I had the skills of a homing pigeon. If I dozed I knew instantly where I was when I awoke, in darkness or light. I had never missed my stop. Did I want this return to The City? I could retire or, perhaps find a local job. But what would I find in a sleepy seaside town?

Fear, by Pat Askew

 I found myself on the outskirts of a large burial-ground. The light was murky. Some distance away, with her back to me, a young girl in a red dress was laying flowers on a grave. Closer to me, but somehow much less distinct, was another figure, who seemed to be a woman in beige, who was watching the girl. I was seized with a terrible fear that they would notice me and turn round, and I would find they had the faces of werewolves; or even worse, they would have no faces at all. I decided to tiptoe quietly away. The figures did not move, and I realised the scene was only a picture. But then I discovered I could not move either, and that I was part of the picture too. 

The Great British Fake-off, by Mark Lovett

 A bald man and a Goth stared at an Autocue. “Bakers, welcome back to the tent for your Show Stopper Challenge”, shouted Matt,  “today Prue and Paul would like you to bake, not one, but two cakes”. 

“That’s right”, opined Noel, wiping mascara from his eyes. “One should be an image of how you see yourself, whilst the other should be how others see you; no Doppelgängers allowed!

“On your marks, get set – Fake!"

Weighed down by a surfeit of hair gel, Paul Hollywood sashayed across towards an overweight blonde baker.

Alongside Paul stood an eighty-one-year-old Dame from Cape Town, looking like a Mondrian painting with glasses.

“Now, Mr Johnson tell me about your cakes”, queried Prue, “How are they different?”

 “Well, yes and no, whilst on the other hand, maybe. Post hoc ergo propter hoc is the key to this culinary triumph you see emerging before you. By the way would you like an intimate dinner this evening; Carrie is away”.

“I’m sorry Mr Johnson but I am 24 years older than you and my son Paul is now one of your MPs!”

 “I don’t care about Backbenchers and what is more, 24 years, is nothing – that is exactly how much older I am than Carrie”.

Remembering that Johnson had insulted Scousers in 2011, Paul Hollywood adjusted his stare to warp speed eleven and sneered at Boris. “Answer Prue’s question!” 

“Oh, I never do that, people might at last realise that behind the charisma lies a mendacious fraud. Vox populi is not in my Latin Primer.”

Thus, they had to wait to find out that Boris’ first cake was Winston Churchill in a blonde wig, whilst his second was Pinocchio.

Johnson didn’t win the Star Baker apron. That went to Emmanuel Macron for his two gateaux of Napoléon and Napoléon.

Angela Merkel was a close second with Catherine the Great and Mutti, whilst Joe Biden was third with Franklin Roosevelt. He failed to produce a second cake as he could not decide between Statler and Waldorf from the Muppets.

Boris didn’t actually finish, as Pinocchio’s nose kept on growing; he wondered why. Non ducor, duco Boris whispered to himself, although he worried whether Vincit qui se vincit still applied.

As the detritus was being cleared away, Matt and Noel sat in the corner. “Before I met you” said Noel, “I used to think Alopecia was a mythical European State, much like Ruritania”. 

“If only that were true” replied Matt, “then we could make Boris the King and get the Brothers Grimm to write his speeches”.

Lost Content, by Martin White

 At the back of a room of junk and forgotten things, I find a cardboard box. Inside, a tangle of lifeless wooden heads and knotted limbs; the remains of a troupe of marionettes that were part of the puppet shows that my friend and I presented at children's parties and village fetes a great many years ago. We had a rudimentary theatre: proscenium arch, wings and backcloth, which we would quickly set up. There were over a dozen puppets to unwind and hang ready for the show. This varied cast of characters had trod the boards of the fit-up, long consigned to the tip.

   Pelham puppets were a poular children's toy of the time, and we added to them puppets we had made ourselves. And so there would be a variety of turns, presented to music on the Dansette record player: Lullabelle with her maracas and grass skirt on the fringe of racial parody as she danced to a West Indian beat; clowns, acrobats and jugglers in a circus sketch; and Mr MacBoozle, a red-faced Scot, always ready to raise a bottle of whisky to his lips and stagger across the stage; Wag the dog enthusiastically running here and there; and, most popular of all, two skeletons cavorting to the tune of Danse Macabre, limbs flying apart, heads rising into the sky, bringing gasps and screams from the young audiences.

  These puppets had lain lifeless for years, their strings knotted and entwined, until a friend with more patience and dexterity than I could muster untangled them so that they might be able to move again.

.........................................................................................................................................

forgotten puppet troupe

   I still remember

 which strings to pull

 

Poetry, by John Garland

 As I lay in the darkness I tried reciting a certain poem to myself. I felt it was important: if I completed my recitation, something of great importance would follow. It was an awkward sort of poem, full of strange words and unusual turns of phrase, but the real problem was that my attention kept wandering and I found myself thinking of something else entirely, and I had to start again. Eventually, after much concentration, I managed to recite the entire poem without a break, though it didn't hold a great deal of meaning for me. I then waited for developments. But nothing happened; nothing whatsoever.

Perhaps it was the wrong poem?

Scratch, by Graham Attenborough

 Scratch

It’s the loneliness that gets you.

The mundane silence of the company you keep,

the monotony of your own repeated sighing in unlit streets.

And the scratch of the match repeats,

over and over,

lighting up darkness briefly.

Graham Attenborough 1959-2021

R.I.P.

The fame of Ray Sweet, by Peter Morford

 He could plant a tree faster than anyone else without appearing to hurry. He would dig the hole, ease the sapling into place, heel it in, stake and enclose it in the time that most planters would need to barely scrape the dirt. Turfing, he would cut a perfect oblong, gently slide the levelled blade and up would come a turf as precisely shaped as a brick, ready for stacking and, later, for warming the hamlet’s cottages.

On a late summer’s day in 1970 Ray loaded his trailer and, just as he was thinking of stopping for the day, decided he’d cut one or two more turves. His spade struck something hard. He knew it wasn’t a rock. He shifted the cut but the blade still stopped only an inch or two below the surface. He dug carefully around until he exposed the end of a log. Instinctively, Ray knew what it was.

He dug carefully round it. As he expected, the log had been driven at an angle. He started to dig another hole about a yard away –found nothing, Tried again and struck timber. Ray Sweet had found an “X”. He moved 6ft away and found only one pole But he again excavated to reveal the remains of another timber “X”. He looked around and saw nobody. He partly refilled the holes and went home for supper. All he had to do now was to unload his trailer, stack the turves into neat cairns to dry.

   Emma had a nice mutton joint from the butchers, fresh vegetables from the garden and ice cream from the village shop. As it was Friday they would dress up and head for the pub. Emma would join her women friends at their favourite table and the men would roam between table and bar. He collected his beer and Emma’s shandy and joined his friends at the big table where they would talk about farming, football and films on the telly. A coarse joke or two would be told, just too quietly for the coven to overhear. 

“I passed your field this afternoon,” Joe Banks said. “You looked as though you were digging deeper than usual. Treasure hunting?”

Ray said, “I think I’ve found a bit of an old causeway. Two crossed poles.”

“Christian cross?” Joe asked.

“No. An “X” – like Cedric uses when he signs his name.”

Cedric pretended to be insulted. “Cheeky blighter. If you don’t mind, Ray, I’d like to have a look at your field – shall we say 9 o’clock tomorrow?”

He asked his friends not to talk about it yet.

In the morning Ray uncovered the posts and watched his friend trowel the dirt away.

“As I thought, Ray it’s a prehistoric causeway or raised track. This part of Somerset is full of antiquity and legend. Avalon, Camelot, Glastonbury, The Tor; one of King Arthur’s grave; they’re like the day before yesterday compared with this structure. I need to get Flinders.”

The following Monday an excited Professor Flinders declared that this could be a major historical find. Those two crosses indicated the direction of the path and it justified a full investigation. They might even find the planks which rested on the crosses.

“Cover up the holes and the Natural History Department will fence off the site for a major dig,” Flinders said. “I’ll get my students to help. This find won’t make us rich, but you could be famous.”

The rest, as they say, is history. The experts carefully removed what they could. They carbon-dated the timber, they counted the tree-rings and produced a report. Ray Sweet had found the oldest and the longest Early Neolithic causeway in the world. Flinders confidently dated it to 3807 BCE. Acidic peat had protected it for nearly 6,000 years’

“We’ll name this The Sweet Road,” Flinders said to Ray.

That’s what it’s called on the Ordnance Survey Map of the boggy Somerset Levels.

Two coffees, by Sandie Zand

 Way back, when it mattered, I'd said: "There's only one rule and that is there are no rules."

You laughed. “You can’t do that,” you said. “Can’t say there aren’t rules and make that a rule – it’s a contradiction.”

“Okay,” I said. “Call it a guideline then. No rules, that’s the guideline. Agreed?”

“Yeah, cool,” you said. You laughed again, you sounded full, and I knew I had you.

You were making coffee. Instant. You didn’t drink the proper stuff back then. Even with coffee, you wouldn’t follow the rules; you’d pour hot water into the cups then sprinkle granules on the surface where they’d float in belligerent denial of purpose. You had to stir it for ages before they dissolved.

Now you’re making coffee again, in the espresso maker we bought last June, and you hand me mine – black, just as it comes. Into yours, you shake sugar from the bag, not caring whether you get one measure or five, and you stir the sticky brew with an egg spoon for ages.

“I was wondering,” you say, “what the guideline would be for seeing other people.”

The coffee burns my top lip, hits the roof of my mouth and burns that too. I swear, jerk the cup away, hot liquid curls over the edge and spills onto my shirt.

“I mean theoretically,” you say, “you know.”

“Why ask me?” I dab at the spill with a tea-towel, but it’s seeped right through and is clinging fast. I go to the sink, dampen a cloth and press the stain gently, glad to have my back to you. I wait for you to speak.

“Well, as guardian of guidelines,” you say. “I mean they are always yours, right? So I thought, well, you might have... you know... one in reserve…”

You move forward and peer over my shoulder.

“Rub soap on it,” you suggest.

“It’s silk,” I say, “dry-clean only.”

“They always put that, just covering their backs, it needs soap.”

You do the laundry with the same reckless will with which you sweeten your coffee. I had to make it a guideline in the end – after the first couple of months of sludge-grey whites – that we each take care of our own clothes.

“So…” You drain your cup in one mouthful, swallow it down on the pause. “What say you?”

“I suppose it’s a case of to thine own self be true,” I say.

“That’s the guideline?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Okay,” you say. “Cool. It was just theoretical, just curiosity, you know.”

You put down your empty cup.

I stand by the sink, a circle of damp encroaching on my chest.

And I wait for you to leave.

Boris prepares to invade Russia, by Mark Lovett

             The Charge of the Blond Brigade 

“Carrie my love", said Boris, "Now that the COVID scare is starting to fade, how are we going to divert the electorate’s attention away from this scandal-ridden Government of ours? It is a bit too early to play the UFO card and climate change will have to wait until COP26, so howabout a foreign war? Plucky Britain faces the might of - oh, who shall it be? - I know: Russia!"

“Go ahead, mighty Caesar” cried Carrie “just as long as one of my close friends is given a contract for any ammunition you might need.”

  And so it came to pass that HMS Defender, en route to Georgia, came, in the eyes of the Russians, a tad too close to the Crimea. How fortunate it was that the BBC just happened to have a correspondent on board to report on the incident. It brought back memories of another Johnson who, in August 1964 was the beneficiary of an alleged incident in the Gulf of Tonkin. It occurred just after the Republicans had nominated a Super Hawk candidate (Barry Goldwater) for the forthcoming Presidential elections and just before the Democratic Convention when LBJ sought to legitimise his Presidency. How kind of the North Vietnamese to help in that regard.

Back to the Levant. Although much has been made of HMS Defender, little has been made of the Aircraft Carrier, HMS Queen Elizabeth in the eastern Mediterranean launching its F 35-Bs in support of US actions against “Islamic State”. That carrier group is remarkably close to the Russian base at Tartus on the Syrian coast. Boris peered at an old Atlas. He remembered a cynical Eton Beak telling him that Britain had not had a good track record in the Crimea and that Arabia had always been a source of conflict, even though Foreign Office panjandrums had always dreamt of desert postings. Also, those Naval Johnnies had pointed out that to sail from one Sea to the other meant transiting the Dardanelles.

 “Good Grief” cried Boris, “my hero, Winston, had a tough call at Gallipoli; I had better not make the same mistake!”

Carrie was aghast at her husband’s reticence. “Remember that Russia was our ally in 1915 and you are part Russian yourself.”

 “Yes, yes”, sputtered Boris, “but you forget that I am part Turkish as well”. He decided to break the habit of a lifetime and embark on some detailed research before he made a decision. He found out that The Ukraine, so long regarded as the heart of Russia had, very briefly, been an independent State after the Russian Revolution. Also, that Stalin had nearly destroyed The Ukraine in the Holodomor famine of the early 1930’s; no wonder the German army were greeted as liberating heroes when they invaded in June 1941.Thus there was no love lost between the two conflicting nationalities. Furthermore, the lack of natural borders made the whole area an irridentist’s dream.

In a rare moment of self-reflection, Boris mused that if he were to make History then knowledge of the great leaders of the past would be a handy aide memoir. Peter the Great saw the importance of the Sea of Azov and the Straights of Kerch, but failed to hang onto them, whilst Catherine the Great did. Thus Putin, in asserting his authority over The Crimea, and the aforementioned Straits, is emulating his forbears.

“Don’t forget Victoria Nuland” whispered Carrie. “She allegedly organised the 2014 coup in Kiev which put a pro-western Government in power; well, she is back in the State Department”. 

“I remember her” cried Boris, “didn’t she teach me IT?”

 “No, that was Jennifer Arcuri” an angry Carrie replied. “Victoria Nuland is a career diplomat, who also just happens to be Ukrainian: (paternal grandfather)”.

“Well, whether it is Victoria or Jennifer I should get on with them as, after all, I am American myself. “Now if there is to be a conflict, I had better read War with Russia by Richard Shirreff. I know the General’s book is meant to be fiction, but whenever has fiction stopped me from making a decision”?

“Come off it, you are a Classicist - Thucydides on the Peloponnesian War would be far more apt” cried Carrie, projecting her inner Amazon.

“True,” replied Boris, “Something about a trap?”

Precept, by Annabelle Jane Palling

 

You do not wait.

You do not want or wonder, or

Conjure the unreal so that it

Blinds and flares and burns what’s here, or

Dwell on dreams too saccharine.

You do not travel back to nestle

In absent hugs you missed at seven, or

Set to rights unsettled scripts, or

Apologise for knives you threw.

You move, because

They say life is short and

You are better than that, and mostly

Because you are afraid

Dream Converstion, by C.Z.F.

 George and I shared a supervisor in the person of the superintelligent and rather alarming Dr. Helen Brayford: she of the short tweed skirt, black tights and piercing gaze. Her husband, an accountant, was self-effacing to the point of complete insignificance.

   "Tell me", I once asked George, "Do you ever feel any sexual desire towards her?"

   He considered, and then replied, "Only to the extent that when she ridicules my work I have a strong desire to spank her!"

   "I wonder if her husband ever does that?" I said.

  "He certainly ought to!" George replied. 

  

Two Men and a Woman in aTraffic Jam; by Peter Morford

The woman in the Mini thumps the steering wheel in frustration. She has to collect the children from the child-minder, fix their tea and, an hour later, Paul would join her for dinner. She’s already late when her phone buzzes. Feeling guilty, she answers it while waiting in the jammed traffic.

“This is St Judes Hospital. I’m sorry to tell you that your husband collapsed in his office and is in the Covid19 Ward. You cannot visit him. You and your family should isolate yourselves and get tested.”

There was nothing for her to say except – thank you Doctor. The traffic moves twenty feet and stops. She can see the lights 100 yards ahead. There’s a lot to be said for working at home, she thinks; only I can’t. I’m a Tesco cashier.

When will this pandemic be over?

Behind her the man in the new Jaguar is also worried. Only last month life had seemed so good. On January 10 th he had sold his late father’s house, cleared his mortgage, bought this car and invested the rest in carefully-selected shares. The market was at a peak but the omens were good. A three percent yield on his portfolio would more than double his income and there was the prospect of growth. Good indeed.

Only days later the Market plunged by a third. His stomach hurts at the thought of what he has lost. And now three months later he’s still 20% down and feeling foolish for his hasty purchase. Worse, he thinks that dividends will be cut and he has no spare cash to invest at what must surely be a buyer’s position.

“Damn this virus, JJ Baring shouts. We’ll all be bankrupt at this rate.”

A cyclist squeezes through the traffic all the way to pole position at the lights. His visi- jacket bears the words Save our Planet. Stashed in a pannier are the leaflets he will be issuing at the illicit demonstration in Town Park. Sitting there, waiting for the lights to change, he mutters. “Cut down on travel; save the

oceans, ban plastics, stop using fossil fuels and pesticides. You’ve seen the storms, the fires , floods and pestilence. We caused it, only we can stop the abuse of our planet Earth. If we don’t change our ways, we’re doomed. If we carry on the way we are, there will be no recovery because it’s later than you

think.”

The lights change. The bike and a few cars get through. The woman phones her child-minder to say that she’ll be late. She keeps her engine running because she was worried about her battery.

On this warm summer evening, the drivers shut their windows and turn the air-conditioners on full. They listen to the traffic report. A flashing, wailing ambulance nudges its way on the wrong side of the road.

Baring, in his Jaguar, coughs again and worries because his can’t taste his throat pastille.

On the radio the Prime Minister says, “We’re all in this together.”

Tennis on Purple Grass, by H.T.

 The world of tennis has been shaken to its foundations by the rumour that the grass at Wimbledon Centre Court is about to be replaced by a genetically modified form of grass that which is not green but purple. This is said to be as a result of a sponsorship agreement with the tennis enthusiast Sheik Othman abu Din; purple being the national colour of his oil-rich state. 

   The Sheik first played tennis during his years at Eton, following which he was national champion of his state every year for the next fifteen years, though he was somewhat less successful when competing abroad. He was excluded from the Australian Open following allegations that he had attempted to bribe an umpire, though nothing was ever proved; and following this he contented himself with being a lavish sponsor of the sport.

   A spokesman for the Lawn Tennis Federation, when asked to clarift the position, would not either confirm or deny the rumours concerning the purple grass, but praised the great generosity of the Sheik.

   The public is eagerly awaiting future developments.

                                 (Dateline: Wimbledon: 1/4/2021)

.

Persuasion, by Annabelle Jane Palling

 I am a woman

Of infinite persuasion. I can cajole

Certitude from shadows, or a

Palace from a promise. Easy.

Clever, aren’t I?

See how detailed my deductions;

How fast I follow scent,

Straining at leash and

Nose to the wind.

Good girl.

Of course, the wind changes.

Rivers flow back or cannot be forded.

The trail is lost – still, I persist,

Resourceful and focused.

A new route is found.

Next I embroider tapestry moving:

History will sing its rich, vivid truth

(For what is more true

Than deceiving oneself?).

I will feel the relief

Of cloth nubbed with emotions,

Eyes gently closed, and

Fingers quite raw.

Badlands, by Peter Shilston

  I found myself in a desert of mounds and hollows. In places the soft rock of which it was composed had been warped and twisted into fantastic spires and towers. Dark caverns gaped.  Everywhere was a pale yellowish brown, save where the livid sunset ahead of me stained some the colour of old blood. Nowhere was there was the least sign of life: not a single insect, not a blade of grass or the skeleton of a dead tree. Nevertheless I pressed onwards towards the light; there was nothing else that I could do.

Dragons' Den, by Mark Lovett

"As all three of our hopefuls tonight are Bishops, perhaps the programme should be called Lion’s Den. Let us pray that none of the hopeful entrepreneurs is named Daniel!"

First into the Den this evening is Peter des Roches. He is a butterfly  farmer and is wishing to expand the business. He seeks 100,000 Marks for a 10% share.

Peter Jones was perplexed. "I have so many companies, so why on earth should I invest in butterflies; an ephemeral business if ever there was one?"

"I think you will find that Damien Hirst has made millions out of them.… and just look at his sell-out exhibitions at Tate Modern and White Cube!"

Theo Pahitis interjected, "As you imply Damien is a millionaire, so why not ask him for an investment? Mrs P. would never forgive me if I lost money on what are little more than colourful moths!"

Touker Suleyman was angry. "Are you the same Peter des Roches who led the Sixth Crusade? Why on earth should I help finance you after your antics in the Levant?"

But Deborah Meadon was more optimistic. "As you know, I own many holiday centres in the West Country. Having a Butterfly farm at each of them would be a great idea. Therefore, I am going to make you an offer. I will give you all of the money, but for 49% of the equity."

"I will have to speak to my partner, King Arthur. It’s all very much in his hands."

Next into the Den is Henri de Blois, who is seeking finance for his publishing venture. He wants an investment of 250,000 Marks for 20% of the business. "I am having a magnificent illuminated Bible produced, but there is also a demand for more modest Bibles from the same source. Sadly, the Prior is not keen for further Monks to form a production line in the Scriptorium; I am searching for solutions, some of which may be expensive."

Duncan Bannatyne was sceptical. "As Johannes Guttenburg and William Caxton have yet to be born, how on earth can you hope to increase production?"

Before Henri could reply, James Caan interrupted. "You are one of the richest men in Europe, so why are you here? Can’t you sub-contract to Glastonbury, or even Cluny?"

"I am anxious not to let the Scribes of Cluny near it as they may use a different font."

"I thought you were an expert on Fonts!" quipped Kelly Hoppen.

"Dragons: all I need is finance to increase production. There is a market and thus a profitable business – please join me!"

Peter Jones relented. "I will give you all the money for 30% of the business, but only if let me digitise it and place it online. If you don’t like the sound of that, you had better contact Mr Morgan in New Amsterdam!"

Finally, stepping out of the lift is Richard Fox. He is seeking 500,000 Marks for a 25% share of his new funeral business: Colourful Coffins. "Dragons, before I invite you to lie down in one of my Italian prototypes: just think how dull funerals have become! Let’s celebrate life with vivid colour, not unvarnished oak! Dante in the Divine Comedy took us on a journey through Hell, Purgatory and finally Heaven. Wouldn’t this be better if we are cloaked in colour rather than camouflaged in sepia?"

"These are very comfortable", said Theo Paphitis, "but they would take up too much room in my Rymans stores."

Duncan Bannatyne was more optimistic. "I run a chain of Old People’s homes: and, not to be too mawkish, that is an obvious market."

Deborah Meadon was horrified at the Glaswegian’s interjection. Also, she was worried about the references to Dante. "I prefer John Bunyan. I’m out!"

Another very short myth, by Peter Shilston

 Perseus killed Medusa the Gorgon and took her head, which turned everyone who looked on it to stone. Passing along the coast, he found the beautiful Andromeda chained to a rock to be devoured by a sea monster. Perseus rushed to help her, but lost his footing on the slippery rocks and dropped the Gorgon's head. Without thinking, he bent down to pick it up and WHOOPS! 

Unmasked, by Peter Morford

Sir Thespian Mountebank is the leading classical actor of the age. He graces Shakespeare, Ibsen, Wilde and Ayckbourne. He spends three months a year on stage, and about a month filming spectacular movies like Star Conflicts 6, CatMan and Pirates of the Bylet. While his first love is the stage, it is the films which have enriched him beyond ambition.

He is a contented man with just two regrets. “I’ve never created anything,” he will modestly say. “I’ve only been the interpreter of other men’s work.”

His second regret is that his wife, Lady Tracey, IS a creative artist. That her nine literary novels, travel books and her chairship of the Booker earn her a pittance compared with his massive fees…is not the point. She invents, he merely acts.

“As I’m free for a few weeks I’ve decided to write a novel,” he said, after dinner.

“Good idea, Thespy. With your name you’ll sell thousands and make a fortune…”

“It’s not about money, it’s an old ambition. I’ll write under a false name. I’ll be Harold Bennett, a man who doesn’t give interviews. The book will fail or succeed on merit alone.”

Next morning he started to write. Six enjoyable weeks later he had 150,000 words and a neat ending. It was time to email it to an agent.

After five agents had politely rejected him with their best wishes, he decided to self-publish. He opened negotiations with a vanity publisher who drew up a contract. They accepted “Mr Harold Bennett’s” deposit of £15,000 towards editing, publicising and printing the first 1000 copies.

While this was going on, he had time for a season at Stratford and then to be a Dark Ages wizard for his friend Steven and two million dollars.

Meanwhile Burbage, his publisher, emailed to report that every literate newspaper and magazine had been sent a copy of the novel. Stacks stood in Waterstones and Foyles. All he wanted was a tv interview which, of course, he had to decline.

Kind critics called the book “a promising first novel. The next would probably be better.” But sales were a trickle and booksellers reduced their displays. Sir Thespian felt crushed and depressed. Lady Tracey said some soothing things.

After a quick trip to India to perform five short speeches in a Bollywood film, (fee $65,000), he was back. He had an email from Burbage. “Read today’s Guardian.” The prominent headline read  ; “Sir Thespian Mountebank is the mysterious author. See page 6.”

Carper of The Guardian had written a fresh review. He rated the book as being poorly-plotted, with wooden characters, boring plot and disappointing finale. “But,” he added, “Sir Thespian should keep

writing. Sadly, his great name alone will sell his book by the truckload. “

Sir Thespian flung the paper into the fireplace. In his King Lear voice, he roared, “I’m a failure.”

The phone rang. It was the BBC inviting him to be appear on The One Show.

“I suppose I’ll have to go. Dammit.”

Haikus, by Catherine Redfern

 1. red and yellow leaves

    thick-layered

   on the art gallery steps

2. black scribbled

    on the horizon

    winter oaks


3. April morning

    his laughter entangled

    with the scent of hyacinths


4. these loved poems

    the pages know

    where to turn


5. birthday candles

    the memory of her twin

    flickering

Baldrick is tested: a superficial Covid parody, by Mark Lovett

 “Baldrick, you are late.”

“Sorry Mr B, but I had to be tested. I made the mistake of eating one of Mrs Miggins’ pies and was so ill I was advised to have a swab stuck down my throat.”

Unfortunately, not far enough mused Blackadder.

“Do you know, Mr B, that the test is so accurate that it can detect a virus that has yet to be isolated?”

“Yes, I know” retorted his employer. “I am a member of Sage”.

“Sage, Sage, isn’t that what Mrs Miggins puts in her pies?”

“No that is hemlock Baldrick, why do you think you were so ill? No, Sage is a group of selfless individuals who only have the interests of the public at heart. They have no political views and totally disregard the economic interests of those who sponsor them. We are all concerned that a virus with a survival rate of over 99% will devastate the country, that is why we are all working night and day, including those of us who can count, to invent new ways to keep the people fearful.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr B, that doesn’t sound like you.”

“For once, Balders, you are correct. But the truth is I met General Melchett and Captain Darling and they told me of the work they are doing with 75 other officers, to make sure the people are properly informed.”

“But I thought that the General was a barking buffoon and that Darling wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“We know that’s true, but Matt Hancock thought that if the people believed those two, they would believe anybody”.

Then the door flew open.

“I’m back” roared Lord Percy. “I have just been talking to the Prince Regent and he thought about sending a delegation to Cathay to see whether they had a cure.”

At least that is what they thought he said, as much of his tirade was muffled by a mask.

“Take it off Percy, it is just a token of submission, in fact it is pointless, as somebody called Chris Whitty explained way back in March.”

Percy was nonetheless pleased to see that Blackadder was conforming to Social Distancing.

“That’s nothing to do with Covid” argued Blackadder. “If you have to live with Baldrick you will know that things like baths, soap and deodorant are unknown to him, thus Social Distancing is a constant necessity and not a passing medical fashion.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Nursie bursting in.

“Baldrick” she screeched, “Your test was negative, but you still need to be vaccinated. So, my little Dumpling, come with me – and, yes, you can bring your turnip.”

Baldrick was confused. Should he obey this scatty Tudor Wet Nurse, should he listen to Lord Percy, or should decide for himself. He chose the latter; in fact, he devised a Cunning Plan. 

Instead of repeating the same policies that didn’t work, as General Melchett would do, or consulting dim Royals as Percy had done, or even bombing Wuhan, as Lord Flashheart would certainly do, he thought he would try something different. He decided to make a video.

He had done this before - Ten exciting things you can do with a Turnip had had millions of hits – this time it would be about comparing earlier epidemics with Covid. He would need a Team of people to go back in Time, but who did he know who could help him. Who had the expertise?

He soon discovered that the Plantagenets did not lock everything down, nor did they shut Churches. Also, Mr Pepys, three centuries later, had been far calmer than the Diarists of today – and even when he was a young guttersnipe, Baldrick remembered far less fuss about the flu in 1968, even though the deaths were far greater.

Thus, Baldrick took to the airways to promote his original ideas. Sadly, no one saw the video as YouTube immediately took it down.

Damn you Captain Darling...