Saturday, 5 March 2011

To whip or batter that is the question

Now is the winter of my discounted- my Rodger’s creative juices flow for another; he is so busy with his Sheila and her whip that my flower of Scotland has wilted like a soufflĂ© and my chandelier hangs dormant – it now, only swings, to the rumble of the bin lorry.
So I decided to ‘get’ political – went to visit the Edinburgh Parliament with a gaggle of woman whose idea of intellectual stimulation was the price of fish.
‘To breadcrumb or batter’ says Mavis a women who uses cookery books to roll her roll ups on.
Well my fish comes from Waitrose and as long as it’s microwavable and moist (to quote the bin man) ‘I’m no carin’. Mind you, I never said that...The wine was free as was the women’s opinions; give a woman cheap Chablis and the idea of listening for her, is as foreign to as a foreskin in Palestine.
So I kept my council so to speak and pondered what was going on in my Rodgers forelocks.
‘Give a man a whip’ I shouted ‘and his any bodies. Give a woman a whip and she cleaning her corners.’
‘My corners are fine as they are’ came a voice from the bar.
I looked over and there was my Rodger standing with his tackle slung over his shoulder like a comatose albatross... he and Shifty had been fishing and had caught 2 roll mops and a herring enough to celebrate with a double; so they said.
Truth was he had completed another creation ... and wanted his little cup cake to share in the celebration another chapter of the dyslexic Scfi he shouted for your blogging mates...


At half past three in the morning ‘She of the Iron Gusset’ arrived in Glasgow. With a small bump, she landed in a bus shelter two feet away from Woody, a midget peeing in the corner.
‘What the fuck,’ he said as he staggered, slipped and fell into the corner. He looked up at the vision and decided to lay off his mother’s anti depressants for a while. She was sleek, blond and dressed in a leather outfit which made even Cat Woman look like a dinner lady. She towered over him like a six foot gothic praying mantis.
‘Are you for real?’ Woody muttered, wiping some sort of dribble off his chin; he tried to stand but skidded on his pee and fell again.
She eyed him coldly; ‘Do you have nothing better to do than slip on your piss?’
He stared at her breasts cascading over the top of her bodice. She tutted, drew herself up to her full 6’.5’ height and waited for an answer. When none came, she pulled out a whip from her side belt, cracked it around his waist and hoisted him up.
‘Oh my god!’ he muttered not sure if the sensation was pleasant or not. The whip placed him gently on the ground, zipped up his fly and with a playful tap led him away from the pee.
‘On your way, good sir, and next time use a latrine like everyone else.’
Woody left stunned or stoned, he couldn’t work out which but as he wandered through the grey streets home, a sick feeling hit the pit of his stomach; he knew he’d see her again.
As instructed by Maxim, She of the Iron Gusset headed towards the West End. She had a B&B guide under her arm, a traveller’s backpack meticulously packed by her cleaner/assistant Pete on her shoulders and a list of orders a mile long and in triplicate.
‘Look for a reputable B&B,’ Maxim had said, ‘I hear the breakfasts are something else.’
She of the Iron Gusset had been summoned at six o’clock in the morning by the Council and handed one of Maxim’s ‘top secret’ envelopes along with the promise of up to date technology and a ‘there’s more in it for you’ speech. Once back at her upwardly mobile pad, she handed the envelope to Pete.
‘Tell me; your thoughts’ she said, while pulling out her spare leather apparatus.
Pete read the list of orders out loud, and then looked at his boss, ‘It’s simple, you just intercept those Paramours, find that Legless thingy, propose (whatever that means), then come back here where a promotion and that nice villa on the coast awaits.’
She of the Iron Gusset pulled the list from her assistant ‘It’s more complicated than that. Look, your Mission is top secret…’
‘My lips are sealed,’ said Pete.
‘You need to establish control over the Paramours, they must be kept illiterate at all costs and we want Rebel silenced?’
Pete sighed ‘I told you a piece of cake.’
‘And’ she pointed to the list ‘It says dispose not propose.’
Pete however had lost interested he was still smarting from the forgotten anniversary. Three years he had been with her good self and not even a card…He was a robot of the highest order and had worked his hydroponics Teflon not to mention nuts for her leathership and for what. He sniffed and pulled out a tub of ‘Betty’s best oil for leather’ and began to rub her spare suit with vigour.
‘I’m not ready for this Pete!’
‘I mean I was born to be leader and…’ she watched Pete polish her leather …. ‘Pete have you taken your lubrication today? You know how you get when…’
‘You don’t care who you hurt do you? Just as long as you get you leather oiled and you packing done. You know what they call you at the council.’
‘Yes I am aware and it not of the accurate variety.’

She of the Iron Gusset opened her B&B guide book at the top of Great Western Road and started walking. By the time she was standing on the Byers Road corner she was well and truly confused. Few places were open and those that were took one look at her and slammed the door. Maxim and his ideas she thought when would she ever learn?
A cab pulled up beside her. It was early Sunday morning and he was on his way home. The cabbie was a sympathetic man with a fondness for damsels in leather. He wound down his window and wondered if his luck was in.
‘You wanting a lift?’ he said.
She nodded.
‘Beryl’s?’ he said.
She of the Iron the Gusset went with her hunch and said yes. She jumped into the cab as the cabbie put his car into first gear. She staggered onto the seat and fumbled with her backpack.
‘Graveyard shift huh?’ he said ‘Not much on a Sunday morning and the rain don’t help.’
Graveyard? She thought, dumping her back pack on the floor. Shifting?
‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’
She looked at the cards attached to the back of the cabbie’s seat. Sheila’s Wheels was the first she noticed.
‘Australian huh? What you doing over here then Sheila? Doesn’t the rain piss you off?’
‘I have a job to do,’ said Sheila. ‘Once that’s done good sir, I’ll be off faster
than a cat with his tail on fire!’
The cabbie stared at the road ahead. He’d never met a working girl who talked like she read books before.
He pulled up by a shabby side street. On the corner was a rundown Church, beside that was a rubber clothes shop and beside that was Beryl’s Establishment. Within one inhale Sheila knew her instincts had been right. She could smell the remains of a Paramour’s night out anywhere; she had been trained and although she had no idea where Jimmy’s Arabic Tea Shop’s was, she reckoned, judging by the potency of the smell that the tea shop was just a few minutes jog away.
Sheila left the Cabbie with some money and just the smallest whiff of something unfamiliar yet sweet lingering in the car. The cabbie looked down at the fifty pound note ‘Your change?’ he yelled. Sheila dismissed him with a wave of her hand and walked down a side alley that led to the entrance to Beryl’s Establishment.
The cabbie watched the rain splatter off her leathers and then looked down at the fifty pound note again; ‘she must be something else,’ he muttered before pulling out a smoke, ‘aye, never met a working woman with a fifty before.’
Beryl’s Establishment was the sort of establishment where leather and whips didn’t look out of place. It was the sort of establishment, which was open all night and looked shut during the day. It was sort of establishment where someone looking like Sheila could earn a lot of money; if she knew what she was doing. But Sheila had no idea about that sort of thing. No one on Planet Hy-man had done ‘it’ for years and any name for ‘it’ had been erased from the dictionary years ago.
Sheila walked into the side entrance and past a glass cabinet with instruments not unlike those hanging from her belt.
A small woman in tight clothes appeared from nowhere and stood by the glass cabinet. She had a cleavage that almost stopped cars and enough pancake makeup to hide the soft down of hair underneath. In her time Beryl had been a catch and had earned a fortune, but thanks to a bad choice in men and a love of small dogs with a flatulence problem, she had lost most of it.
‘A room good woman,’ said Sheila ‘if you please’.
Beryl threw her a long hard look ‘Where you from, never seen you before?’
Sheila stared at the Tarsmarhal Carry out Menu on the wall and thought on her feet. Something she knew she was good at.
Beryl threw her another look ‘Fifty quid and I ask no questions.’
‘And breakfast?’
‘You takin the piss?’
‘I never take piss...I am hungry.’
Beryl pushed a key across the desk ‘Look Sheila from Bombay! You keep clean and I don’t ask no questions!’
‘And breakfast?’
Beryl let out a sighed.

Sheila sat on the bed. It was six in the morning and she was starving. She opened her back pack and pulled out her T/C (transporter/communicator). It was bleeping furiously; five messages from you know who.
Pete had made a complete balls up of the operation, at the last minute the Council had decided that Pete should operate the recording apparatus from earth and was ordered to accompany her with a ‘your capabilities exceeding your post’ letter.
Sheila had landed 5 miles from her destination a day early and was yet to discover where or when Pete would arrive. She unfolded her T/C
‘Is that coffee I see…’
‘Mam it’s what known as a Skinny lattĂ©.’
‘Where are you Pete we need to reconvene?’
‘I am at a superb coffee establishment shown to me by a nice young but small man by the name of Woody…he’s coming back to….’
A small tingly shot up Sheila’s spine; Woody; it rang to quote Maxim the ‘preverbal bell’?
She watched Pete face fade from view and cursed the Council’s save money at all cost policy; a higher quality T/C would never need recharging.
She pressed her T/C to charge, hung it on her belt and headed for the streets. She walked past the glass cabinet, Beryl peered from a door marked private.
‘You headin out?’ She said over the barking of a dog. Sheila stared at Beryl’s round face. ‘Cause I’ve made you a piece.’
‘A piece of what?’
‘Bacon, you wanting sauce?’ Beryl opened the door some more and a squirrel of a dog raced out to sniff Sheila.

Wednesday, 26 January 2011

Celticus oh Maximus

It was a water pipe like no other; a water pipe so large it took a camel and 2 monks to carry it!
So Rodger said.
But Rodger’s a bit ‘random’ at the moment; if he not talking about his ‘Sc Fi for the dyslexic novel’ he’s talking about his latest creation - his tomatoes that defy winter. Although with the co op nearby selling ‘buy one get one free’ and ‘last chance before it off offers’; why we need to grow our own is beyond me.
Rodger claims they are ‘organic’.
But as I says to my little ‘cup cake ’day old teabags do not improve one’s greens, nor is burying one’s condoms in a compost heap I mean what good is a bio degradable condom? ....
Even the slugs turn up their nose at our compost.
I just think Rodger fancies a green house (shed with a Velux) ; he spends his time smoking his water pipes there while pondering Sheila and her whip. And now Shifty has joined him; a barman who thinks karaoke is class! Shifty claims that a water pipe stimulates his intellectual prowess, soya implants for the menopausal is his latest idea. Talk about bringing something to the table!
So you can understand me not getting excited about the suggested night out. Water pipes at the ABC . The world largest water pipe or hookah making an entrance with the Celticus oh maximus pipe band, don’t get me wrong, to see a man master the art of blowing is quite an impressive thing but is it worth a 2 hour journey in the car with Shifty driving – a man in touch with the woman inside?
‘I am ‘feng-chewing’ my bedroom’ he says while negotiating a roundabout in fifth ... Apparently decluttering you smalls along with having a well hung wardrobe is what it is all about when it comes to attracting a male of the Elton John variety... As I marvelled at the cars abilities to judder and over take at the same time Shifty continue on with his ‘all things Eastern theme’.
‘It’s all to do with freeing up the life force’ he says, stamping on the clutch, ‘allowing things to flow’.
The only thing I need to get a free flowing life force is a few prunes...
I didn’t say that to Shifty though, the car’s juddering had turned it an epileptic fit and the said vehicle we were overtaking was playing his horn like a bugle.
Celticus oh maximus was ok if you into underage brave hearts with an aging (if that is possible) Rolling Stones band. They played music of the ‘we have funked up the bagpipe’ variety and hipped it up even more with a dance group called Random as !! .
Now if Shifty has discovered the woman inside these dancers had taken the woman inside and thrust her onto the audience like a filleted herring. They were doing that street dance which unless you’re American of the dark skinned persuasion looks as gay as Liberace in panto. The fact they were dressed out a track suit from Primart didn’t make any difference. Their face said it all, ‘love the woman in my pelvis darling’; ‘ I fill your bag pips to the brim hot buns’ or ‘I am mad as hell but nothing a little butter wouldn’t cure!’ . It was a painful thing to watch as painful as watching an Ole Rudgy attempt to chat up his cleaner while balancing on a Zimmer with his dentures vainly trying to bungee jumping from his gums.
But when the hookah was brought (on pantomime camel) onto the stage I just about chocked on my Bacardi.
To suck or not to suck that is the question,’ shouts a voice from the audience. (I presume they meant on a Hooka) and I had had enough.
I headed for the chippy!
I am sorry but I as an esteemed belly dancing mentor I cannot stand by and watch the abuse of an Arabic pleasure tool. I’d rather drown my lips in salt and vinegar – my hips, darling can take it!
Still Shifty enjoyed it, mind you, he was under the influence of enough Dolly Parton cocktails to make swanking ( a walk only to be seen in Glasgow ) in Ugg boots not only possible but in time with the Celticus oh maximus . A feat that even I could not attempt but then darling Ugg boots are so not Nefertiti...I am more a straps with slight discomfort woman.
I am sorry but no more instalment of the Sheila and her whip variety this week. Rodger printed his latest instalment out on organic wheat free paper; which turns out to be far more biodegrade than his condoms...oh well at least the slugs hit the big time!

Saturday, 15 January 2011

In my job an entrance is everything

According to my Rodger the 'Scott Fitzgerald' of Ardrishaig an entrance is only as good as one's exit; and my exits according to him, needs a little work.

‘Work’ I said ‘on my exit?’

‘Yes.’ he said. ‘Your exits lack a certain sincerity, they smack of hesitantancy; unbecoming of a woman of your statue.’

‘There is nothing wrong with my statues ‘I shouted from the kitchen, 'they are as perky as Posh Spices OVERIES!.’ I was making a cappuccino at the time and for the first time ever I felt like doing something to his froth apart from sprinkling cinnamon on it..

You should leave with you fanny shouting 'maximus oh screwius’ he adds. At the time he was sitting perched over his laptop like a small gremlin watching Nigel Lawson whipping cream for her French cones.

My Rodger has taken to speaking like how he thinks an intellectual American would. The fact that he sounds like a dyslexic Latin student who refers to 'fanny' like someone out of dubbed porn film completely passes him by and is a habit that often gets him into trouble.

'Rodger' I says 'telling a woman to shift her fanny when she picking her weekly veg from the coop is bound to lead to more than a clash of trolleys'. But does he listen (sigh!) My Rodger is as deaf as my chandler is still...all he can think about is his novel.

So here is my Rodger’s novel extract for you to peruse at you leisure; tell me what you think; is my Rodger sooo talented as a writer that he can use fanny at will?

Missionary Impossible
(A novel after my heart sigh!)

A thought provoking epilogue
by himself

With secret handshakes the Paramours greet each other…they live for the night when they can fanny around in the dark and women on the whole are more amicable.

On a hot afternoon, while huddled behind a hedge, Legless caught a glimpse of a woman in an apron. He watched as she bent over a basket of washing and was overcome. Surprised at his lust, he decided to take action; an action which had not been spoken about for centuries in his world.
Thirty seconds later he slipped away…
The woman felt something peculiar, a small flutter but nothing too drastic; nothing a little Epsom’s salts wouldn’t cure. Nine months later a Paramour was born…
That year the sales of Epsom’s salts soared as women all over the world while bending over their washing felt something peculiar …

(Jimmie’s Arabic Tea Shop)
(Just now)
Two Paramours sat crossed legged on a raised floor passing a water pipe from one to the other. Just in front off them were two women, one consoling the other. Madge’s heart was broken and Yvonne, a young woman with spirit, was doing her best to mend it and getting nowhere.
‘It’s the same every year you always fall for the lead in the panto,’ said Yvonne.
Madge let out a sigh. ‘He’s so hot in those legging. Oh Yvonne, he’s the dog’s bullocks.’
Hamish the largest and hairiest of the two Paramours inhaled the strawberry tobacco, flared his nostrils and blew a smoke ring; it floated across to Madge and dissolved onto her jumper. Hamish caught her eye. Madge blinked, smiled and then looked away, unaware of what had just happened, unaware that later on that night she would return to the teashop and discover a pleasure never experienced before and the male lead in leggings would not even be a memory.
Mustard watched with a seen it all expression. ‘We have important things to discuss,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ muttered Hamish with his eye still on Madge.
‘It’s no ordinary meeting tonight.’ Mustard continued. ‘There’s a speaker.’
‘Rebel, from the south, they say he’s big in the Midlands.’
‘BIG; in the Midland?’ Hamish sniggered; any mention of size had most young Paramours sniggering.
‘He says he met the great Legless himself!’
‘Aye right and I’m a Jehovah’s witness’


(On Planet Hy-man)
Maxim pulled out the remote and pressed stop. The screen flickered, crackled then slowly folded into a box. The committee sighed, watching Mustard and Hamish smoke a water pipe was not their idea of fun.
‘Thank god that’s over,’ muttered one member.
Maxim heard but chose to ignore.
‘I told you he would turn up’ said Maxim ‘but did anyone listen?’ Maxim paused for effect. ‘If this gets out, then the proverbial will really hit the fan.’ He waited for a response with his best steely stare. When none came he continued. ‘There is only one thing for it’.
The members exchanged looks.
‘We must scan this planet earth and attempt some sort of control; we shall send down the best we have.’ He waited with his best dramatic stance. ‘We need the best…and the most discreet,’ (still no response) ‘we need… ’
‘She that is the pain in the butt…’ someone finally muttered.
‘She of the Iron Gusett!’
Some of the committee began to chuckle. Maxim sucked in his breath.
‘You know what to do’ he barked at a footman. The footman stretched, stifled a yawn and wandered out the door.
‘Sir is this really necessary?’ said Offal one of the more important porters.
‘I mean earth is so not now!’ piped a young voice from the back.
‘Look’ snapped Maxim ‘This Rebel is trouble he has the curiosity of a cat, the body odour of a camel and…’
‘And the eyesight off a mole,’ said the young voice from the back.
The committee continued to chuckle. Maxim sighed and looked out off the window. Some days he wondered if it was it all worth it.
‘He is half human. What’s there to worry bout!’
‘But LEGLESS isn’t’ snapped Maxim.
The committee fell silent. To mention Legless at a conference was like an actor mentioning Macbeth back stage.