The Wheeze and other larks
By Nicholas Saunders
1. The Wheeze
2. A Quick Scottish Tale
3. Another Quick Scottish Tale
4. Yet Another Quick Scottish Tale
5. The Final Scottish Tale
6. The Life And Times of Charlie Bradshaw 1911 - 1983
7. Bartley Jones - The People's Hero!
8. The Painter
9. The Frobart
I hope you enjoy these tales as much as I have enjoyed writing and compiling them. Gathered from all four corners of my living room I have selected tales to suit all types of people. So sit back with a nice glass of Bodmin Beastie (a huge bite yet mysterious) and let the tales take you right to the heart of the matter.......
Nicholas Saunders. 19th October 2003.
In 1887, on a remote Scottish Island called Slanlethclager, a scot was eating his tea in his ear in a humble down rottage. That scot was none other than Edgar McBugger. It was not his fault. Anyway, Edgar finished eating his breakfaster than you could ever imagine for a Northern cookie like McBugger. He then grabbed his hat and coat, then someone else's who happened to be passing by, and headed out for a brisk scottish walk to digest his scottish breakfast, totally unaware of the fate that lay ahead of him.
As Edgar walked along, he suddenly felt a shudder in his udder and he decided the best thing to do was to sit down on an armchair that just happened to be sitting there amongst the heather. All of a sudden and without warning and whistles, a rare large monster burst out of poor Edgar's stomach and ran away over the spills and volleys. It was "The Wheeze Monsterish". Prior to leaving on it's escapades Edgar was eaten for lunch, though there was some left over for tea.
Moral - Never eat haggis for tea.
A Quick Scottish Tale
Once upon a highland, a scottish boy named Angus McTickle for family reasons, walked into a butcher's shop in Aberdeen and asked for two lamb shanks to take back to his family who lived far beyond the highlands in a field called Marigold Fawn.
Now Angus had travelled many a lone hour for meat. Through torrential rain and horrendous sunshine in the darkness. What a silly fruit he was.......
Another Quick Scottish Tale
When Ewan McTeagle was 18 years old, he took his fathers rowing boat and sailed from his home on the Isle of Skye to the mainland in search of walk. He had no skills or confrontations as he did not attend schoolas, because instead he helped his father to repair kilts that had been sent over from the mainland for emergency sowing. A steady job, but Ewan was ambiguous. He wanted more than a sporran for memories, but sadly he didn't have a chance you see.
After sitting on a small peach for a while, Ewan decided to become a busker and readily acquired an old set of bagpipes. After a slow start he started gaining attention around the local pubs and taverns and became the talk of the town. Big things were expected of Ewan until one day, Ewan suddenly exploded.
Yet Another Quick Scottish Tale
One day, way up in Scotland, way back in 1917, way down the eerie glen of Castaiber, a bit left of a tree stump, there lived a man who wentby the name of Finnan Fergal. The scots like their breakfast as you have previously discovered and Finnan was certainly no expectation to the rule. The breakfast consisted of a piping hot bowl of porridge, a scotch egg and a pickled haggis. A feast fit for a large owl.
Upon finishing the breakfast, Finnan (real name unknown at last count), did the highland fling around the tree stump and headed out of the glen wearing only his native kilt, sporran, garters and an enormous pair of wellingtons that made the Duke of Wellington look like ballet shoes at the best of rhymes.
About noon, before the sun came up, Finnan started to perform an ancient scottish ritual which consisted of running naked whilst jigging some sort of ancient scottish reel and singing an ancient celtic song in scottish gaelic in an annoying high pitched moan.
Finnan was sentenced to 50 years imprisonment with a Turkish emu.
The End (said the Emu)
The Final Scottish Tale
Sparticus McTitican, a young poet from Aberdeen, had made it through to the final of the Young Poet of the Year 1983 and he was obviously very pleased with this achievement. Being an illiterate child did not help and adding the fact that he wrote in complete darkness with no lamplight proves beyond doubt that Sparticus was a truly gifted and somewhat special child.
The whole McTitican family were very proud of him, which brought about pressure on the young Sparticus who wanted so badly to win the final so he could put the McTitican's on the map in Scotland. His father had failed once when he tried to invent a gas fire using an oil wick.
The question on everyone's lips was "Would Sparticus win?" Unfortunately no one ever found out. Sparticus collapsed and died of nervous exhaustion at the tender age of 8, just an hour before the final. Rumour persisted that he was trying too hard for inspiration however his last words are believed to have been "Now then...."
The sad end to this tale of woe.
The Life and Times of Charlie Bradshaw 1911 - 1983
Charlie Bradshaw was born in Bolton, a small fising village just outside Scotland in Glasgow, at the age of 10. Now Charlie was a very angry young boy and when he was just 12 he massacred his entire family for no apparent reason and again the month after, but at a different venue. Charlie was pleased with the media attention he was getting and having his picture in the paper made him beam all over his lantern like face.
He was duly arrested for the murders and the trial lasted 82 years, with only a 5 minute coffee break. The verdict when it eventually came was unanimous. However the word "unanimous" was thrown out of court for sounding too aggresive and instead the verdict was "total" and not "unanimous". The judge was relieved. His wife had instructed him to get a loaf of bread on the way home.
Charlie was sentenced to be burnt on a family sized barbecue. but they couldn't find one so they used a stake instead (medium to well). He was escorted to the stake (situated by boots chemists in the high street) in a wheelchair that Charlie had made by strapping a rocking chair to a rubber tyre.
Once at the stake, the old young looking Charlie stood up and made his final request. He asked if he could cancel his dentist appointment and after much deliberation between the officials this request was granted.
As the torchman approached the stack of wood and furniture (kindly donated by the B&Q), Charlie had a cunning trick up his sleeve. Just as the bonfire was about to be lit Charlie keeled over and died from a sudden cardiac arrest. Then from a liver complaint, which was mostly about the crowd that had gathered and why they had mainly been japanese boys. To everyones disappointment the council came to a late decision not to burn Charlie at the stake anymore. The decision was close but went through on the away goals rule. The crowd, whilst restless, decided to stay and soak up the carnival atmosphere that had been building. The soaking became too much and eventually the crowd perished due to lack of oxygen. It was carnage with a capital 'K'.
Up in heaven, Charlie was waiting for them all with open ears. They rejoiced with a slap up meal courtesy of St. Peter's Fish and Chip Restaraunt. And Charlie's poor family who fell to his hands of death? Well don't ask me, I only wrote this storey of furnished flats in my spare time. However, I did hear that Charlie had been re-incarnated as an ego-centric chimney sweep. Serves him right.
Bartley Jones - The People's Hero!
Bartley Jones was the next best thing to God. Well, for the people of Jack City anyway. Whenever there was a problem, no matter how big or small, you could always be sure that Bartley would turn up to save the day. He was a born saver, which I believe the local bank loved too.
Bartley Kingsmead Jones was born on 7th October 1968 in the town of Dinskurk, about 4 miles from the epicentre of Jack City. His mother, Nancy, always knew he would be a very special individual, from the moment he performed open heart surgery on a gentleman from his pram whilst out with his mother. Aged just 7, Bartley had performed open heart surgery 17 times with his bare hands, 15 delicate brain operations using a cork screw and by the following year was travelling the length and breadth of the Country giving lectures in medicine and bio-chemistry at various universities and institutes.
Bartley never attended School. There was little need as he was a natural living book of knowledge and skill. He was forever helping people out whether it be changing a wheel for a distressed motorist or calming a restless crowd in the middle of a political protest. He always seemed to appear at the right moment and would disappear as soon as he had rectified the problem. Bartley enjoed his rare talents, however he did occasionally allow himself to rest. He relaxed by writing classical opera and he had composed 52 symphonies and 11 requiems.
One day in 1986 a fire broke out in Jack City. Bartley was nowhere to be seen and he has never been seen since that day to this. Rumours persisted that he had fled the City to fulfil his dream of becoming a catholic priest. However nothing is truly known and the dissapearence of Bartley Jones as become one of the biggest mysteries of all time.
In 1976 it became apparent that there was a new person visiting Crapstones Park in Wavertree, Liverpool. That person was an old man and he painted. He painted 24 hours a day, every day, until he died (whilst painting) in 1992. He never spoke and passers by would eventually just leave him alone.
Scandal broke out in the summer of 1984 when he was arrested for painting a tree with no bark on it. However there was a public outcry and the case was thrown out of court and the strict artistic codes of Wavertree were changed so that painters could now paint with more freedom.
The strange thing about this old chap is that after he had finished a painting (which sometimes took weeks), he would destroy the piece.
It all happened about 5000 years ago, long before cricket and ludo beganit.
The Frobart approached the man called Alfred and knowingly looked at him and spaketh to himself "he seems withdrawn from the place of places!" Indeed, Alfred was not an artist but a withdrawn Hibbot who lived on a hill not 100 years earlier. As the Frobart looked on curiously at the Alfred he wondered what he could do to help this perplexed withdrawn Hibbot. "I know" declared the Frobart. "What you need is a purpose". "A meaning?" asked the Hibbot most restless and sytherned. "No, a puropese" the Frobert declared, this time with a lipse.
"Oh" signed the Hibbot. "Ah" signed the Frobart. And so they set off up to the cellar of purposes and whence there found a jar with Alfred's name on it, scribbled in white ink!
"Father Majesty left this for you" the Frobart told the withering Hibbot, handing him the jar whilst pruning himself. "It tells you to puropese the way of the Hibbots!" And so the Hibbot dideth. And from thence on was purposeful with a gleaming grin of glees. And so he should!
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