Randy Hootler

“Hitler had a twin brother?”

“Identical to be exact” replied Colonel Blimley head of the under arm surveillance wing.

Under arm surveillance was the very basic forerunner to today’s more sophisticated under cover surveillance branch. In the early days the surveillance unit was untrained & financially disadvantaged. Agents would follow targets & if the target became suspicious or paranoid & looked round, the agent would just quickly put his arm across his face & peep. Hence the name. Obviously there was a very low success rate & a lot of paranoid suspects. For years the government used propaganda to deflect public suspicion blaming this wave of paranoia on cannabis use…

…”Doctor I think I am being followed by government agents.”

“Nonsense Mr Profumo. Now tell me have you ever smoked dope?”

“Hitler had an identical twin brother? I repeated in absolute amazement. “What was he called Sir?”

“Randolph.”

“Randolph Hitler!?” I could hardly believe my ears. “But what happened to him, how come no one has ever heard of him?”

“Peeler my boy” said the Colonel leaning back into his Chesterfield armchair in his favourite corner of the Gentlemen’s Club. “He wasn’t a soldier or a politician. He was nothing like his brother, quite the opposite in fact. He was a pastry chef of all things……”

So that’s when I first heard the story of Randolph Hitler, the pastry chef, the identical twin brother of old Adolf himself. Apparently towards the end of the war Randolph had realised that things weren’t going too well in Germany & had decided to see if he could get over to the Untied States of Barmerica to avoid any undue flack that might come his way. So legend has it that he approached the Barmericans & pleaded his case. The Barmerican Intelligence Service keen to get close to the enemy welcomed him with open arms.

Of course they insisted that he take on a new identity to help keep him secret, so they suggested he should change his name.

“What name did he choose Sir?”

“Hootler, he chose Hootler my boy.”

“Randolph Hootler Sir?!” I gasped trying to stifle a large guffaw. Easier said than done with big teeth.

“That’s correct Peeler, he ended up working in a diner in NewYodel. Although the Americans felt that he needed to go a little further with his identity change, so Randolph reluctantly agreed & further changed his name to Randy.”

“Randy Hootler!?” I blurted almost falling off my chair & spraying the Colonel with a mouthful of Earl Grey. “Strooth! Randy Hootler the identical twin of Adolf Hitler who would have thought it?”

“At first no one. They placed him in a safe house with a few other dodgy types one chap went by the name of Sumo Samovic ex Russian agent I think & the other was known as the Butcher of Birmingham”

Samovic earned his moniker Sumo because he was paranoid to the max, he thought that everyone was out to get him. He would wear his entire wardrobe at once when he went out so as not to leave anything behind that his house mates’ could steal & the result was he looked rather big. The Butcher of Birmingham on the other hand was in fact, a butcher, from Birmingham. He had also heard about the land of opportunity that was Barmerica & had set off to make his fortune there. All did not go to plan however. On his arrival the customs officials didn’t like the look of him & contacted the Barmerican Intelligence Service. They couldn’t understand his strong west midlands accent & didn’t like his large very hairy hands so they suspected he might be a spy. That’s how the trio came to live in the same safe house & become lifelong buddies.

Of the three Randy became quite successful. Whilst working at the diner he was able to keep his hand in as a pastry chef & was even credited with inventing the Surprise Birthday Cake. You have probably seen the giant cake which is wheeled into the room at parties & a scantily clad female jumps out surprising the guest of honour by shouting “Surprise!” or “Überraschung!” as Randy’s brother would probably have said on more than one occasion. In fact I suspect that Randy had picked up the whole Trojan Cake idea from Adolf & I strongly suspect that the dictators cake didn’t contain any scantily clad females either. In my minds eye I couldn’t help but picture a sinister uniformed figure with a little moustache jumping out of a German Überraschung Birthday Cake at some party or other und saying,

“Überraschung! Das party ist uber. Shtoppen sie laughing. Zis ist ein invasion”

Big surprise birthday cakes wasn’t Randy’s only success he went on to open a whole string of bars called “HOOTLERS” or some such name. I thing it had something to do with big birds. Probably Owls judging by the title. He never forgot his friends though I will give him that. He employed the Birmingham Butcher & Sumo Sam as doormen. Sumo’s larger than life appearance & the Butchers inaccurate reputation seemed to work out just fine. Indeed large clothing & dodgy reputations seemed to set a precedent for future doormen.

On the face of it Randy appeared to have adjusted well to life in Barmerica & became one of it’s success stories but despite all the cakes, bars & Owls there was one thing that always seemed to bother him. It was what later became known in the nursery school world as “the evil twin syndrome.” Where ever he went people always seemed to stare despite all the effort he had gone to, in order to change his identity. He just couldn’t stand being compared to his murderous sibling & was really finding it hard with the ladies!

It was after closing time late one night that he confided his anguish to his two chums. All three were sat at the bar having a few beers when Randy started to bare his heart.

“I vish zey vud not stare at me so. How vill I ever find a vife if zey sink I am ze dictator. I haf changed mein name vat more can I do.”

“Da!” agreed Sumo “It is big problem, yes?” Followed by a sigh & a long silence before returning his gaze back to the large hairy hands of the butcher.

“You could always try shaving off your little square moustache?” offered the Butcher of Birmingham tactfully.

Mysteries Solved (1) Photographs Together (0)

in the future i will have curly hair & be able to sing opera

Cupboards are useful. They may look boring but they are in fact just the opposite. Apart from the obvious uses such as storage they make for impromptu hiding places to be used in emergencies.
Case in point when Mrs Peeler is on the war path. (Note to self. Put a lock on the inside of cupboard door & hide the frying pan, resistance is just prolonging the inevitable)

Subsequently I found the hall cupboard very handy when I bought my first time machine. This quirky little device was a little worn but generally in good condition. It looked a bit like a small shower cubicle but without the soap dish.

It was small cupboard size in fact!

“That cupboard looks smaller than I remember” growled the love of my life softly.

“It’s just a little cluttered dear” I squirmed, stuffing my hammer into a pocket of one of the coats hung up inside. Thankful that I had not fainted.

I bought said quirky time machine off a gentleman in the pub after sharing a few jars with him at the bar.

“It will make you wealthy beyond your dreams” he purred as he opened the boot of his Bentley in the car park.

‘Yes! I will be able to learn & understand so much about our history, I will become wise beyond my years’ , I thought to myself whilst breaking wind with excitement or was that the Guinness.
Although I didn’t think he had made the best use of his wisdom as he was driving a large gas guzzler & was wearing a very creased linen suit.

Now this chap must have loved horses. On the first few occasions I used the machine I always landed at one horse track or another. Horse racing is definitely not my bag, but hey each to their own. The other strange thing was, that he had only ever ventured a couple of days into the future, I could never work that out. I mean what is the point of having a machine capable of travelling back through the ages but only ever visiting the middle of next week. On one of my early trips using the pre-programmed coordinates I even appeared in a television studio where they were playing bingo or some such like game with numbered balls. I didn’t hang around long enough to get the gist.

After downloading some intergalactic charts off eBay & fiddling with the control panel I managed to get the hang of it.

I fully intended to see the dinosaurs, watch the Egyptians building pyramids & warn all the wealthy Italians about building with solid foundations. Oh & to tell them to avoid Smokey mountains as well.

This would not be my first experience as a temporal time & space line dancer. I had a few run ins with time travel when I was very young. Indeed I recall my parents buying me my fist Timex watch.

“What is it”? I asked excitedly. “It’s a watch” said mum, “It tells the time”. Fantastic I thought, my first miniature time machine.

I recall the long summer days when all the kids on the street would play out together.

“Be home by eight”, dad would say.

Oh but we had so much fun knocking on the neighbours door & running off, knocking on the neighbours door & running off, knocking on the neighbours door & running off, again & again & again & again &&&&& again. How annoying young children can be. “Are we there yet”? Eight O clock was far to early. Nobody else had to be in by that time.

…….& that’s when it occurred to me. ‘My time machine’. At eight, I wound it back to a quarter too. Then again every fifteen minutes. What a brilliant plan. This was the best present in the whole world.

THUNDER! Or was it? No it definitely wasn’t thunder. No such luck.

All the other kids look towards the heavens. It was in fact my dads voice booming up the street. I nearly fainted, but managed to maintain my balance long enough to run home. ( that was my first experience at travelling at the speed of light )

Now on arriving in the house for a period of less than three seconds I attempted to explain that it was only eight o clock according to my watch. My dad didn’t appear to understand me. I put this down to the time & space diferential, as we were in actual fact, in different time zones. He was in the present I was in the past. His zone looked a lot redder than mine. My father must have understood this & brought me back into the present by utilising a series of equalising strokes to my buttocks. Which apparently hurt him more than me but I could never see how. I must of inherited my time travelling capabilities from dad, as he managed to knock me from the past right into the middle of next week.

I did try to experiment with time travel on occasion whilst at secondary school.

“Peeler you are LATE”!

“But it’s nine o clock Sir”.

“It’s a quarter past”.

“It’s nine sir”

“It’s a quarter past”.

“But my watch says nine”.

I could see that my wonderous feat of folding time had failed to impress Mr Kennedy. & I was later to discover the reason. He like my dear father, was in fact a Time Lord himself. Later that very same day he managed to turn half past three into half past four.

Anyway back to the present. Well would you look at that! Now you’re travelling through time as well. Before I decided to visit the ancient past I wanted to nip a short distance into the future just to make sure I was healthy & everything was hunky dorey in the home etc. So off I popped, a year or so into the future.

ZZZZaaaaap, ZZZZZooooosh pop!

I opened the cupboard door & walked into the hallway. I could hear the sound of someone taking a shower upstairs. Sneaky, sneaky up the stairs I went. I peeped into our bedroom, nobody there, good. I can still hear the shower so into the room I creep. I open the door to the en suite ever so slightly & find myself face to face with my own backside. Yes I am in the steamy shower. But to my surprise I have let my hair grow & it is rather curly. I have a good tan as well must have just been on holiday. Well that’s a good sign. My biggest shock however was my voice.

“Volare, oh oh
Cantare, oh oh oh oh”

I didn’t realise my voice was so good & I had learnt Italian.

The futures bright, the futures tanned with a firm butt.

Happy with my expedition I decide to retreat back to my own time & smarm around the house for a bit…
….ZZZZaaaaap, ZZZZZooooosh pop! & return.

As I sneak out of my cupboard the door bell goes.

“Get that would you” sings my beloved from the cushion. “It will be the plumber”.

“Ciao” said Mario, the plumber who had come to fix the leaky tap which I had promised to fix.

I pointed Mario in the direction of the leaky tap which I had promised to fix.

“Mario has come to fix the leaky tap which you promised to fix” said Mrs Peeler.

“Cup of tea Mario” I offered whilst attempting to look both manly & to busy for leaky taps.

A few minutes later I took Mario’s tea up to the bathroom. I could hear him singing away to himself. It was a lovely song, Italian I think.

‘Now where had I heard that song before’?

Average Joe (0)
Tall Dark Handsome Continental Types With Loads of Charm who make me sick (10)

Will robots ever have a sense of humour?

I often wonder how far we are going with technological advancements’. I mean look, we’ve got wheelie bins, stretch jeans, waterproof plasters & pot noodles. Where will it all end? Stretch, waterproof, edible bins that can hover? Ah, but even if we get that far down the road of scientific wonder I bet they still won’t be able to empty themselves, not without moaning and scratching their electronic chins.
What prompts this tale is a recent run in I had with a satellite navigation system. If this is not the work of the devil plus a coven of mother in laws I don’t know what is.

You see my mother in law has recently bought me a Satellite Navigation thingy for my birthday and rather naively I thought,

“Ooh that’s nice, thank you very much”, kiss.
Oh how I underestimated the powers of darkness. This small inoffensive looking box is a malevolent beast incarnated from the bowels of hell itself. AND if there is not a spaceship involved somewhere with this wee contraption I will be very surprised. There I am going about my business on a sunny afternoon, off to the football. Which I secretly don’t think ‘the mother in law’ likes me doing although I have no evidence to the contrary.

“IN TEN METRES TURN LEFT”.

So I did. Then realised that I didn’t actually want to turn left, so I ignored it and took the next right.

“TURN LEFT”. I sigh and choose to ignore it.

“LEFT”

It shrieks in what I now think is rapidly becoming a mother in lawesque type of voice. A Shrill whilst gargling with gravel in a dark cavern type sound comes to mind. Is she actually in the car I wonder? In the boot, perhaps? With a megaphone?

“LEFT” it barks.

“NO” I find myself responding.

Note to self. Talking to yourself in a car is okay, provided: You never look to your left or right. It is at this point you will always find another car full of people staring and laughing at you. Also as I’ve mentioned before the only way to get out of this embarrassing situation is quickly look away (as if you don’t realise you’ve been caught) and start to sing, followed by a little seat dance as if you are listening to the radio. Obviously which method you use depends on what level your embarrassment threshold is at.

For example if you accidentally & suddenly break wind in a room full of strangers I see two potential types of people.

(a) The suddenly ‘go red & apologise’ types. (Eyes roll, sigh, fools)

(b) The ‘say nothing & walk away with a sly grin’ type. (Just remember there is now’t down for an early confession)

I have heard tell of people who will actually put their arms in the air and make a victory fist shouting “Ave it” even in a room full of strangers, but I suspect this is more fiction than fact. Surely nobody is that brave?

On the odd occasion this happens and there is a terrible smell and you don’t have time to escape, I find raising one eyebrow and staring at the nearest person with a look of disgust across your face followed by a “Tut” as you walk off helps to divert unwanted attention.

Anyway where was I? Oh yes replying to the demonically possessed Sat Nav.
I pull over and fiddle with its buttons in an attempt to turn it off. That should do it. I indicate and pull away continuing my journey. Periodically casting an eye in its direction. Was that a noise I just heard coming from it. I approach a set of traffic lights at a crossroads and drive straight through.

“LEFT, LEFT, LEFT” it screams, the noise reverberating inside my head. Oh my god, it’s alive.

‘Keep calm son ‘ I whisper to myself. ‘Just keep driving and it will all be okay’.

I accelerate with the notion that if I drive quicker I will get there sooner and this nightmare will end.

“LEFTLEFTLEFTLEFTLEFTLEFT”.

“NO NO NO NO WHY AM I TALKING TO YOU” I reply.

Did I just turn left then? No surely not. I definitely drove straight past that junction just like the next one which I fully intend to drive past ignoring the evil wee machine as I turn left into a side road completely against my wishes.

Did I just do it again? Two left turns on the bounce.

I need to take action to counter act this act of self-destructive mutiny. So I immediately take a further left turn in order to come back on myself and continue on my way to the football.
So left I turn. Ha that’s confused it, I think smugly to myself. Aargh! Heavy breaking. I screech to a halt. In front an angry looking large man with big eyes.

“What the f**ck do you think you are doing on my drive”?

Oops I have taken a wrong left.

“Sorry” I offer in reverse.

I’m back on the street, but which way? I get my bearings and suddenly realise that I am almost back at my own house. I jump out of the car and run the short distance to my home, I rush in shouting for my wife.

“The cars haunted, the cars haunted”.

“WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT” she bellowed gently.

I hurriedly explain what has just happened and pull her outside in the direction of the possessed motor.
“Let me show you” I cry.
As we fasten our seatbelts I explain how I am going to drive straight up the road passed all the side streets as if I am going to the football and how the demonic Sat Nav is going to tell me to turn left.

Off we set. As we past the first junction I hear,

“LEFT” – says Sat Nav.

“Left”, followed Mrs Peeler.

“What”?! I respond dumfounded. “I don’t want to go left”.

“Stop being awkward and do as the machine says, otherwise you will get us lost”.

“But we live around here. I know where we are – that isn’t the point! The Sat Nav has got a mind of its own, that’s why I wanted you to…”

“You’ve never liked my mother”.

“…what”!?

“Take me home”.

“LEFT” squawked the evil machine as we approached a cross roads.

We arrive home. I stop. The door slams quietly as Mrs Peeler exits.

“BURKE” barks the Sat Nav.

Pull, Rip, Open, Drop, Stamp and Smash.

“Hah” I respond.

I walk towards the house almost sure I heard a chuckle coming from the boot of the car.

‘Now where did I put that hosepipe’?…

Average Joe (0) Conspiracy Theorists (666)

The ancient martial art of Poo Shin

 

In the early days, the earliest days of manhood. When we are nearer to nappies than shaving, democratic decisions in the school yard are made using the ritual act of

“Poo Shin”.

Pushing! Now “pushing” is a form of fighting. But truth be known it is nearer to being grumpy than actual violence. I recall that some of the best pushers even used vocals.

“Yeah?” Followed by a push was seen as mildly serious, inflammatory even.

Where as a solid shove accompanied by a “Come on then” was just down right hard.

The only down side to “pushin” was getting caught. …..Err by the other school kids I mean. What you didn’t ever want to hear were the cat calls of, “FIGHT, FIGHT” breaking out as a horde of badly dressed kids, eager for blood and relieved it’s not them, spotted you. Then charge across the yard & make a better circle than they ever did in geometry around you and your fellow pushee. No that was bad karma. Because then you would have to take your “pushin” to the next level, in front of everyone.

No, that was unthinkable, especially if you were not a good pusher. In that case you were likely made into the world’s largest laughing stock. Not only would you be seen as a bad fighter but a target for every up and coming contender who fancied their chances at “poo shin”. Failure, wasn’t just failure, no it was more. So much more. It meant you were thick, it meant you wouldn’t be good at sport; girls would laugh and even a few teachers. No, failure just wasn’t an option.

The smart money was always on delaying tactics. Give it some more aggressive “pushin” in the hope that Mr Kennedy the head of year would break it up in time. This is where the good vocals counted, as he who shouts loudest is generally perceived to be victorious.

Now I must say that I realised early on that “poo shin” just wasn’t my thing. I would try to avoid it at all costs. In my time I have used many ingenious techniques, picked up from a variety of sources.

I recall a wild life programme debating the merits of surviving an attack by a Grizzly Bear.

“Lie down & play dead” offered the khakily dressed genius. “The bear will lose interest & wander off”.

It doesn’t work.

Several kicks later I was forced to groan out loud and curl up into a ball as the rest of the school tried to practice penalty shoot-out.

Some of the kids at my school were so tough that even a Grizzly would play dead around them.

 

If there are any up and coming pushers reading this I would definitely advise against bursting into song as a way to defuse the situation. Singing in the hope of calming a volatile crowd and impressing the throng with a few verses of “Dancing Queen”, whilst swaying from side to side doesn’t work.

I still maintain that in theory, fainting and throwing a fake fit is a good idea. I mean it’s not my fault if school kids are dispassionate and don’t understand the frailties of disability.

Posing like the karate kid stood on one leg arms raised is also a no no and combined with an Abba song can appear camper than Butlins. and definitely don’t wrap your school tie around your head for added effect.

It was during one spectacular world title bout of “pushin” that I was almost on the verge of a famous victory. My opponent, a well renowned bully had attempted to steal some of my lunch. Now I didn’t mind when this particular chap copied my homework, but pinching my chocolate was the last straw. I responded with a quick upper push to the ribs. Before I knew it we were locked in a death struggle, “pushin” for pride. A crowd had gathered baying for blood. I almost had him in tears I could smell triumph. All of a sudden the crowd scattered as Mr Barratt the ferocious Headmaster appeared,

“MR KENNEDY……What the dickens are you up to?” he bellowed at the deflated head of year.

“………leave that schoolboy alone, I will see you in my office now and take that stupid tie off your head”.

Average Joe (1) Karate Teacher (0)

That’s never gonna fit in there!

“Tell us where it is or we will cut something else off”?

 

I glanced down at the bucket of water next to me on the floor. I knew what it was for. The sponge was dry. For now…

 

“Stop! Alright, alright I can’t take anymore I’ll tell you. Just don’t do anything else, please”

 

Cleaners & these were the worst kind.

 

Sent to collect a debt at any cost. They always seemed to work in pairs. The skinny gaunt looking one did all the talking whilst the big hairy ape just tied me to the chair and grunted occasionally. My compliance was inevitable, I knew that, they knew that but we had to go through this charade first. A game of cat and mouse or snakes and ladders even. Except these snakes had left their ladders outside. The skinny one smirked at the ease with which I had resigned myself, as he folded away his knife and placed it back in his pocket.

  

They had caught me off guard as I answered the front door, bundled me into the front room and sat me down in a dining chair. Skinny one had then proceeded to cut strips off my wife’s best curtains and the big ape used them to tie me to the chair.

 

Oh the agony! When Mrs Peeler gets home & casts her winky over this mess I will be for it. With the curtains gone she will go bonkers at the thought of having to do her fitness video in the front room in full view of Pervy Pete our neighbour across the road. I can just picture the scenario. She will be jumping up & down to the instructions of the leotarded dolly bird on the telly. As she shimmies to the left she will catch a glimpse of the Perv Master himself peeping out of his bedroom window. Then she will shriek my name and I will have to march across the road, knock on his front door and declare war.

 

Sigh! Eyes roll.

 

I recall the last time we fell out. That was the start of the Great Corset War. He was so miffed that I had stopped him cocking an eye over at Mr Peelers living room acrobatics that he made his wife parade around their bedroom in her corset with the lights on at bedtime. FOR A MONTH! Now that might cause one or two to raise an enthusiastic eyebrow but let me tell you, just one glimpse of her rippling flesh would turn even the most robust peeper to stone.

 

Gladys I’m afraid was no oil painting and she would only make it into the glossy magazines in the before and after section as “a before” well to be perfectly blunt “a before, before” or should it be a long after? I am not saying she was ugly but the local council had fired her from her job as a lollipop lady because none of the school kids would cross the road at her crossing point. She would in my opinion have been excellent at keeping young children away from the fireplace. I resolved to tell her husband this next time I was driving past him in the street.

 

I had once suggested to the love of my life that we invite her mother around in order to retaliate but I never heard the answer due to the ringing noise in my ears which had coincidently started at that very precise moment.

 

I was snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of the door slamming shut. The cleaners had left. I was lucky to be alive and needed to get out of the chair before my beloved returned so I began to shuffle out of the front room down the hall and into the kitchen. If I could only open a drawer with my teeth and get hold of a knife or a pair of scissors, then perhaps I could escape and clean up this mess. After what seemed like an age I managed to get one of the drawers open and with gritted teeth managed to force my head in. I nosed around for a bit then bit onto something.

 

A cheese grater. A f***ing cheese grater. Strooth.

 

Well beggars can’t be choosers and all that, I bent my head forward and eventually managed to un-grate myself just as Mrs Peeler came in the front door. I quickly glanced over at the book shelf and noticed that the tin had been opened. Damn! They had found it.

 

She glided into the kitchen and took one look at the mess.

 

“You didn’t pay the WINDOW CLEANER again did you?” She yodelled sweetly.

 

 “They didn’t really do a very good job dearest” I replied manfully.

 

 “It only costs four quid you tight fisted Muppet” she answered lovingly.

 

 

 

Pride (0) Smears on glass (3)

At the end there will be lots of tubes and hushed voices

Have a read

Flash! Bang! Wallop!

The first Trans-gendered football megastar in the modern age of the game. That’s what it said on the news at the new First Ministers first feel good press conference. It was really my story of course, part of my new job to keep the leader up to speed with the type of stories that would appeal to the younger generation.

Morgan Frown, the newly un-elected First Minister of Tingland. Not an easy accomplishment getting yourself the top job when no one has asked you to do it. I mean normally whole nations speak up and say I would like that chap to be in charge. I suspect Morgan sneaked into the job on a bank holiday weekend.

It was around the time of Morgan’s back door entry into number 13 Clowning Street that I got my first break as a journalist. I became the press officer for the cupboard.

“Cabinet” said Giles my editor. “It’s not called a cupboard. Government is run by the Cabinet”.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. A cabinet is just a posh cupboard I thought to myself. Giles was posh but he was more of a closet man. Well at least that’s what I overheard one of the girls in the canteen say.

“Like a closet, you mean” I replied hopeful that I was catching on with this high powered double meaning political speak that everyone around Number 13 appeared to use.

“What do you mean?” whispered Giles loudly as his eyes narrowed. “Who’s been talking about closets?”

“erh…well I overheard that you had been compromised in the cupboard with one of the secretaries.” narrowing my own eyes in the hope of achieving similar credibility.

As my eyes narrowed Giles eyes opened wide as he stood quickly upright. Now this was getting confusing, narrowing & opening of eyes. How would I know when to use each technique?

“Nonsense” blubbered Giles convincingly, “Loose lips sink ships old boy. I was looking for a pen.”

“Ah! The Navy” I said opening my eyes as wide as I could then realising that I was doing the same with my mouth. I quickly shot a look at Giles who appeared to be staring closely at me and slowly opening and closing his mouth with a rather puzzled look on his face.

“Navy???…NAVY. One fancy dress party and they won’t let it drop” hissed a now slit eyed Giles leaning closer to my face.

“Well I just thought that perhaps you meant that you were discussing military secrets in the closet with the secretary. You know ships code for navy and lips code for discussing secrets!”

One of his eyes’s popped open while the other remained slitty. His cheeks now a funny shade of purple. I would never be able to master this facial opera. Giles was obviously a giant in the subtle art of cat and mouse.

“Now listen here Peeler. It’s the FM’s first press conference tomorrow and he wants to finish off with something up-beat, cutting edge, something that no other newspaper has picked up on yet. So get me a story!!!!” he rasped soothingly. I was a little disheartened at this to be honest knowing that I would never be able to make the veins in my head swell and move with the same flare as Giles.

“Hello Arty. What have you got for me?”

Arty Buckle was a local football scout. He and my dad used to drink in the same pub. I had gotten quite a few stories off Arty when I worked for my first paper “The Farmers Cheese”.

I fondly remembered one of my earlier scoops.

CUT PRICE FOREIGN CHEESE SPARKS CHEDDAR WAR IN CHESHIRE

That snappy headline was followed up by

TINGLISH COWS FURIOUS which was loosely based around some mad cow apparently.

“Yes I can just about hear you Arty it’s a bad line. He’s going where? He does what? Yep you’re right it is spicy.”

“Are you sure about this Peeler” squinted Giles? “Absolutely, straight from the scouts mouth” I answered, deciding to open and close my eyes at the same time just to cover all the bases.
“Right I’m off to brief the FM” crooned Giles.

“…..and to end my first official press conference” said Morgan Frown to a packed gathering of the world’s media in the press office of Number 13 “….I would like to congratulate Mavis Peckham. The first Trans-gendered football megastar in the modern age of the game. He is certainly a wonderful role model for all young aspiring transgendered sports persons. Any questions?”

“Trans-American Sir” chuckled a reporter for the Tinglish Telegraph. “Mavis Peckham is the first Trans-AMERICAN soccer star Sir! He went over to play football with the yanks. But would you like to comment further about him wearing a dress?”

Morgan Frown, frowned, his eyes narrowed then widened, his face purpled.

“GILES.” he shrieked diplomatically.

My gaze turned to the far corner of the room along with that of the FM & the worlds media just in time to see a rather flushed looking Giles coming out of the closet with a rather important looking chap.
“Home Secretary, what are you and Giles up to in that cupboard?” bellowed the First Minister.

FLASH! CLICK! FLASH!

“Ah! …S-E-C-R-E-T-A-R-Y secretary” I smirked to myself whilst walking slowly backwards towards the exit.

Average Joe (1) Mobile Phone signals (0)

At the checkout no one can hear you scream

When I go shopping in Morrasdabury’s I always feel a sense of gloom. The slow walkers, the switchy direction at the last second types, the I’m gonna stand right in front of you whilst your gazing at the cereal people, the I bet I can clip your ankles with my trolley, at least three times, without even apologising morons, the I’m gonna stop in the middle of the isle with my trolley and park it right next to another trolley just so you can’t get past, loon. They will all be there. Just to hinder ME.

It starts in the car park. The whole world needs to park as near to the entrance as possible. I stop my car, the last bars of a dull eighties hit playing on the radio. “And that was Rick Astley, with I’m never gonna give you up” announces the DJ. I groan, my eyes roll. The agony, Rick Astley and shopping on the same day. I leave the relative safety of my car and struggle to find a trolley. When I eventually do it starts to squeak, just as I get into the store. Squeaky trolley develops a life of its own and decides it wants to go in the opposite direction from me.

I survey the crowd. I sigh. I move in. My trolley moves out. I sigh again.

I do my best impression of a crab walking sideways with my trolley doing the same. As we pass the electrical section I notice a promotion for a universal remote control. It occurs to me that, it is probably one of life’s great inventions. Even though I’m not sure what it does. It just sounds good.

I continue on, doing a 360 degree spin in order to get trolley back on track, narrowly missing one of the Morrasdabury shelf stackers. I fight my way through the exotic fruit and veg area ignoring the aubergines, courgettes and all the purple coloured produce, opting instead for the safer looking greens. And a few small potatoes for good measure.

I rush for the sanctuary of the toilet rolls. I am soon cheered up by the sight of a small child lying on the floor screaming and kicking in absolute rage whilst a bewildered parent looks on forlornly. I smirk to myself, in the knowledge that somebody else is having a worse day than I.

I carry on around the maze collecting various items with an increasing unease at the impending doom of the checkout. I complete my task, approach the endless line of tills with about three staff along the whole row. I pick the shortest queue knowing full well that I have in fact just picked the longest. There are two people ahead of me. As I stop, I can hear the woman at the front of the line who is engaged in holiday conversation with the checkout girl.

The horror!

This detailed discussion will obviously go on forever. I must escape; as I turn I am blocked in by an elderly couple who have just arrived at my rear.

Trapped!

No choice now, I am committed. I will just have to suffer. I pick up a ‘next customer sign’ and place it on the checkout behind the shopper in front of me. She has just joined in the holiday conversation.

‘Bitch’.

I unpack my trolley. I even consider carrying out some general repairs on it wheels whilst I wait in purgatory. The couple behind are pushing their trolley ever closer to my spine. I am sure it is intentional. At that age they have far superior intellects & have obviously developed telepathic powers. They know I am struggling & are basking in my misery.

It is at this moment my luck changes, I hear the old chap moaning to his wife that I have not put a ‘next customer’ sign at the end of my shopping. I can see one further ahead and could probably reach it with a slight stretch. But he has no chance.

She purses her lips and “Tutt’s” at me. I respond with a “Sigh”. She tutt’s again. I sigh back. Tutt, Sigh & on it goes. She tutt’s a bit quieter. I sigh under my breath. I get the last one. I think!

He tries to move past me so I lean to the right. He tries to manoeuvre to my left flank, but I have seen through his feeble plan and counter it with a lean to my left.

He is defeated. I am victorious!

I rejoice, at last a moment to enjoy. But I must be careful they may read my thoughts and bore me to death with a volley of tutting. I wonder if all of them in my queue are talking to each other telepathically about holidays or the missing ‘next customer’ sign. I bet they are laughing at me with my squeaky rebellious trolley. Oh god! The thought of synchronised tutting sends my head into a spin.

That’s when it hits me. The Universal remote control! That is the answer to my dilemma. I rush off, the elderly couple at first bewildered but then shock turns to anger. I have left the queue now it is they who are held up by the holiday conversation.

I can see the promotion stand twelve feet away; I leap over the screaming child still on the floor rolling around like an Italian footballer. I stretch and grab my Holy Grail. “The Universal Remote Control”! Frantically I pull the packaging apart. Then it hits me, BATTERIES. I spin around. Eyes wide, searching. I spot them, grab a packet & open them in one quick silky smooth action. I load my remote and start my sprint back to the checkout.

I spot him. Our eyes lock. His narrow slightly. I close one eye, just to lessen the effect. He is trying to read my mind. But he must never know of my plan if it is to work.

Once again I am ahead of him. It plays out like a scene from an old movie called “The Village of the Damned”. His face contorted with rage. Then it changes to puzzlement as it dawns on him that what he is hearing in my head is not my plan.

“Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna turn around and desert you….”.

I see him mouth the words “Rick Astley” towards his wife in slo mo. “Nooo” she mouths back as she shakes her head in despair. In my head over and over I am singing Mr Astley’s cheesy hit. The old chap will never break through such a robust defence as that.

I stop. We face each other. I raise the remote and press the pause button.

Silence.

The Universe is frozen in shopping limbo. I spring into action. First on my list is revenge. I grab his trolley and put everything back on the shelves. I replace his weekly shop with a large box of condoms and two bottles of whiskey. I return his replenished trolley to its original position back at the checkout. Next, the woman directly in front of me. I gather her things off the checkout and put them back into the trolley. I push her in and trundle her to the back of the longest queue I can find.

I savour the best to last. The holiday woman, I run over to the toiletries isle. I select shaving gel and pack of razors, before returning to the checkout. I quickly perform my act of retribution. When I am done I notice a black marker pen near the till and as an afterthought I pick it up, I have an artistic thought.

I gather my goods, place them into carrier bags.

“No I don’t need any help with my packing, thank you” I offer to the frozen Morrasdabury employee, as I glide past. I stop near to the exit, turn around once more & gaze at the tranquil scene before me. Then I lift up the remote control.

And PLAY.

Chaos!

“Aaaaaaaargh”! Screams the checkout girl, with the false moustache.

“Aaaaaaaargh”! Screams the holiday woman, with the freshly shaven & completely bald head.

“You dirty little pervert” shouts the elderly telepathist at her boozy oversexed husband.

“Bugger”! He whimpers in response.

I look directly into her eyes and I “TUTT”. It is the mother of all Tutts.

Her eyes drop away she deflates.

Average Joe(1) Telepathic Alien Body Snatchers (0)

I write. You read. We laugh. Yes?