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A collision is what happens when two motorists go after the same pedestrian.

Bob Newhart.

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THE FUNERAL

Two beautiful black horses pulled a hearse over the hill into the village. The sides were glass and a glass coffin lay inside surrounded by flowers. A resplendent man in morning suit sat at the front, reigns in his hands. It was a spectacular sight.

A brass band played under a giant marquee. Next to it school children performed Morris dancing and a lady dressed in old fashioned clothes played a guitar. Outside on the pavements the pubs had tables and chairs full of people.

The hoppings were on the windy fields and it was like Race week on the Town Moor. Hundreds of people were laughing, talking and taking photographs.

Turning to a nearby man Sheila said, "Can you tell me whose funeral it is? Everyone should be sad but they're not. It must be someone important as the Lord Mayor's limousine and other posh cars are following the hearse."

"I don't know except it's a nuisance. Police have closed all the roads leading into the village until 5.00pm except the one to the cemetery." the man replied

Suddenly silence swept through the crowd. Sheila joined the procession and entered the cemetery where the Vicar was standing. That's strange she thought we're not going into the Church first.

The Vicar stood in front of the assembled crowd and spoke,

"Ladies and Gentlemen we are here together to celebrate the memory of John Oliver. He died one hundred years ago on 5m April 1900 aged 72 years. He was a blacksmith by trade and worked in the forge behind the library. It's open to the public to-day if you wish to see it later. "

He was an exceptionally good prize-fighter. He was 6' 6 " tall, a very strong man and he ran a boxing booth at Stella Haughs. He was only beaten once in his lifetime. He was nick named coffee Johnny as he only drank coffee because he believed the caffeine gave him strength.

He would stand outside the booth dressed immaculately in a black suit and a white top hat which made him look even taller. He was quite a character, an exhibitionist who told jokes and showed off to get clients into his booth.

He was well known in the surrounding areas and his name was mentioned in the last stanza of The Blaydon Races song. The funeral and procession was arranged by Gateshead Council to commemorate one hundred years since his death. The headstone has been installed over the original burial place.

He's lucky. There aren 't many people who have two funerals!!! the Vicar said smiling.

Stella Rutherford.

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It' a small world, but I wouldn't like to paint it.

Steven Wright.

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THE WEDDING

Tomorrow I will be best man at my friend Paul's wedding. Tonight, in bed, the bride-to-be has proved that she will satisfy all his conjugal expectations.

Their day has dawned a hazy lazy azure blue. Preparations are already well ahead at Arlington Manor, where peacocks strut the stage ready to share a display of open vanity.

The June sun is high in the sky. Guests are escorted to their rooms where silly women in hats and posh frocks address full length mirrors asking, 'Who is the fairest of them all?' An apprehensive bride, dressed in virginal white steadies her nerves with odourless vodka.

Extreme wealth is oiling the wheels of reception perfection. Staff practised in discreet subservience pick their noses behind potted plants before emerging to agree with drunken loud buffoons who claim that they could split the atom.

Paul made an erudite speech tempered with dry humour. He is a cultured, powerful man whose looks and presence command respect along with undivided attention.

Three o'clock, dawn is full of promise. Waiters show no signs of tiring, nor does the band playing sixty's music, reminding the stalwart few shufflers of times they had hair and could see their feet.

It has been a wonderful day, enhanced by the prospect of an affair that will include Paul who encouraged a relationship between us at boarding school extending beyond friendship.

John Frostick

I can only hope that when the enemy reads the list of my officers' names he trembles as I do.

Duke of Wellington.

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CROOKED CAPERS.

As I decant the loot into my duffle bag, the cops burst through the door, and I remember Kipling's words:

'If you can keep your head, when all around ..'

..You've clearly lost the plot. MY words. Run for it!

Diving through the ground - floor window, the bag protects me from broken glass. I leg it around the corner, where a W.P.C. gives chase. She has no chance. I'm over the wall and two streets away before she can say, 'Allo, 'allo.

Jimmy has the 'Beamer's' door open, and we're onto the M25 within minutes.

"I think you can take that 'Gordon Brown' face mask off now," chuckles Jimmy.

"I was beginning to get used to it," I sigh. "Keep your speed down, no point in pushing our luck."

"Everything go okay, Governor?"

I like that. Governor. Boss of the Bank. Makes me feel important.

(Jay T. Kay)

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I talk to myself a lot, but it bothers some people because I use a megaphone.

Steve Wright.

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AFTER THE FUNERAL

As the coffin slid slowly through the drapes, the young widow lifted up her head and filled the shocked crematorium with peals of merriment. It was the canned music that did it -the banality of the Sinatra lyrics, especially that bit about facing the final curtain.

'My Way! For crying out loud,' she thought. 'He was sitting at the bus stop and a bloody daft Labrador slobbered up and licked his hand.'

Yes, poor Philip Carey-Hunt, allergic to almost everything under the sun, had gone into anaphylactic shock and expired on the spot. Sad, but not the most heroic of deaths and certainly not one to be celebrated by that naff song.

After her friends had left the post-bonfire nosh-up of ham rolls and vol-au-vents, Cilia sat quietly in the kitchen rejoicing at her husband's demise. Before their marriage she had simply been Priscilla Carey and he, uncomplicated Philip Hunt. It is hard to understand how neither of them had foreseen the inevitable consequences of her insistence on parity with her fiance in the marital name stakes. Carey and Hunt! It was a combination that the Reverend Doctor Spooner would not have touched with his second-best punting pole. The hapless pair had been blithely unaware of the phonetic indelicacy they were about to assemble. As for her friends, surely at least one of them ought to have pointed out the less than covert obscenity in the double-barrelled moniker - unless, of course, they saw the pitfall only too well but preferred to keep mum and enjoy the fallout. So, for the whole of her brief married life the poor girl had endured the stream of nudges, winks, sniggers and unabashed guffaws the/awx pas had invited. And now, oh happy day, she could revert to her maiden name and be free at one bound from her self-inflicted handicap.

But there was more than cream in her lucky cake. There was icing on it. Now at last she could buy the dog she had longed for all her life but which her puritanical parents had forbidden her as a girl and her husband's allergies had rendered impractical when she grew up. She did not just want a loveable mutt to play with and cosset. She aspired to a dog with an aristocratic pedigree and was prepared to pay the earth for it. Her head was full of ribbons, rosettes, triumphs and trophies. She dreamed of sweeping the board at local shows but her eyes were fixed on the Himalayan heights of Crufts, on its foothills of Best of Breed then Best of Group and on the eventual Everest of Best in Show Champion.

Her house, however, was only a modest semi with an even more modest garden, so her choice of breed was restricted. Despite her Saint Bernardian dreams, she was still a practical woman and soon made the sensible decision. In next to no time, her purse lighter by more than a grand, she took possession of Aztec Montezuma XIV. She could not wait to show off her precious little chihuahua to her best friend who lived just a few doors down the Avenue.

Amazingly, Katarina Kerr had made a similar mistake over her marital name as had Priscilla. Her marriage to Foo King Wang, a Chinaman she had met at the laundrette, was less than satisfactory and the bridal path had not been smoothed by her blind insistence on sharing the new married name. Like Cilia, she was soon heartily sick of the dirty jests and laughs her new name occasioned. Though relief in the form of dog saliva had rescued Cilia from her predicament, there was to be no such deliverance for Kate. Her husband was young, healthy and disgustingly alive - and she drew the line at powdered glass. Steeped in Oriental philosophy, Foo revered all vows, ancient and modern, western and eastern. He was aware of the ribaldry the new name attracted but refused to compromise his principles by yielding to Kate's supplication to have it changed.

Cilia was blissfully unaware that a cloud was looming over their friendship. Kate would have been superhuman had she not envied Cilia's release from the titular millstone round her neck. The resultant touch of ice in her demeanour, however, was not noticed by an excited Priscilla as she arrived to show off her new bundle of yapping fluff.

After making a feigned fuss over the pooch, Kate, who had already nicknamed him Mexico Pete, said, 'Lovely little fellow! But do you think he's good enough to enter competitions?'

'Of course he is. Didn't I tell you he has a pedigree going back to the conquistadors?' replied her friend.

'Yes, you did. But genes are funny things. Sometimes they throw up anomalies. The elephant man must have had passably presentable parents you know. Not that Pete - I mean Montezuma - isn't a bad-looking dog. I'm just wondering about that clump of hair on his chin.'

'What about it? It's perfectly normal. Do you know how much I paid for this dog?'

'No. But I'm sure you're going to tell me.'

'Fifteen hundred sovereigns. There can't be anything wrong with that amount of chihuahua. Can there?'

'Probably not. Forget about it I'm sure he'll be a great success,' said Kate, slyly sowing seeds of doubt and leading her friend on.

'But what makes you think there's something wrong?'

'Well, as I've just said, it's that hair on his lower lip. I've got a dog book upstairs and I'm sure the picture of the chihuahua in it doesn't have any.'

Leaving Cilia somewhat deflated, Kate dashed upstairs for the volume. After the pair had perused the photograph for a moment, Cilia fell neatly into the trap and convinced herself that the illustration lacked the excess hair. Her pet was less than perfect! All her hopes were dashed! Whether the indistinct picture proved the point or not and whether it would invalidate the pedigree in any way did not enter the flustered victim's mind.

'What am I going to do?' she wailed.

'Hang on,' said Kate, who had carefully prepared her plan beforehand, 'I've just had a brainwave...'

The following day Priscilla made her way down the side-street in town towards the premises of the Chinese medicine man. She had left Monty with the scheming Kate who had suggested that Cilia should consult the dubious practitioner about a suitable depilatory agent for her underarm hair and then ask him if it would work on the dog...

'Now then,' said the herbalist, 'this cream is the answer. As you can see, it's called Shiftit. Rub a little into your armpits three times a day. Wait half an hour each time and gently wash the cream and hair away with warm water. That will do the trick.'

'Oh, great. Thank you so much. By the way I have a similar problem with my chihuahua. Will Shiftit work on it too?'

'Yes. No problem at all.'

'Thank you so much again,' said Cilia as she paid the man. 'You've been a great help.'

'Just one thing,' said the quack. 'There is a slight problem...'

Meanwhile in the Avenue, Kate was regretting the practical joke on her friend. They had been bosom pals since schooldays and she did not really want to destroy their friendship. She would confess all when Cilia returned...

Shortly after the reconciliation the two women collapsed in a heap on the sofa, hugging each other and shaking with laughter. Cilia had just told Kate of the herbalist's final piece of advice.

'Just one thing,' the quack had said. 'There is a slight problem.'

'Oh, yes?' Cilia had replied.

'After you have applied the cream to your chihuahua, make sure you don't ride your bicycle for a week.'

Bryan Harbottle 26.09.08

WE WILL HAVE NO COAL INDUSTRY IF THE MINERS ARE DRIVEN INTO THE GROUND.

CLAIR BROOKS.

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WHO'S THERE?

'Who's There?'

Is how it started. My uncle was a mercenary guarding the nutty Danish Royal family on nightshift, when he saw a smoky ghost of the old king recently killed by a snake.

'Don't be so daft, there is no such thing as a ghost,' said the guard commander but next night, he too saw the wraith that instructed him to bring his son Hamlet along.

Hamlet was grieving the loss of his dad while being disgusted by his randy mum marrying uncle Claudius, dad's brother, weeks after hubby had died. Hamlet was thrilled to see the old boy even if he was transparent and smelly.

'My son, it was Claudius pouring poison in my lug, not a snake that done for me. I want you to kill the sod soon as possible, he's probably been knocking your mother off for years.'

'OK Dad, job's good as done.'

Now Claudius was king; a nasty bit of work, jealous as hell of Hamlet who he saw as a threat, so to knock the rotten uncle off his guard, boy Hammo acted daft, not too difficult in his case and life went its jolly way. He didn't kill the bad monarch at this stage because the story would have been too short.

It wasn't long before Claudius got sick of the daft boy putting the dampeners on palace parties so he packed him off to England where he would be in good company.

Oh Yes there was this nutty bird called Ophelia who had loved him but thoughts of a dribbling idiot sharing her bed made throwing herself into a duck pond a better prospect.

Eventually Hamlet stopped being the daft guy and booked a cabin from Newcastle to Bergen where he walked home chatting to ordinary people, endearing himself for when they saw him crowned on television. While snacking on a Big Mac he even watched a grave digger hauling out a skull for effect.

The end was just over the top. Hamlet's mum drank poison. The nutty girl's brother blamed Prince Hamlet for her death. They had a fight, brother bought it but not before popping in a poisoned blade. Claudius got what was due and Hero-Hamlet in Hollywood style emailed the Norwegian king asking him to take over before popping his clogs.

If you believe this you're dafter than all of them, my uncle was the world's greatest liar who said anything to get an audience.

John Frostick

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A woman told me she would fulfil my ultimate fantasy for £100 - so I asked her to paint my house.

Sean O'Bryan.

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THE BIRTHDAY PARTY.

His cold blue eyes stared into hers. The muscles in his biceps and chest bulged through his singlet. The light shone on his shaven head. He looked fearsome.

Sheila smiled at him, "Hello Danny, don't let anybody in without an invitation. I had 150 printed and they've all been handed out. Tonight my son Paul is 21 and my daughter Anna is 18. They decided to have a joint party."

"Don't worry nobody will- get in I've been a bouncer for years and I've asked-my mate to come later. He's a trained boxer like me."

Sheila entered the Club's concert room and looked around. Coloured balloons were suspended from the ceiling. The disco was set up on the stage and the D.J. was testing the equipment and microphone. One, two, testing he kept repeating and a man at the back gave him thumbs up. Everything was working. Red, blue, and green lights were alternating on and off around the edge of the stage.

"It looks -very nice. You can start playing background music for about fifteen minutes as people find their seats and settle down." Sheila said.

Two adjoining tables were filled with plates of food. On each one stood a birthday cake, one iced in pink and one iced in blue. Sheila was satisfied that everything was going smoothly.

The disco belted out loud music as people were daneisg aad smoochmg under a myriad of swirling lights. There was a happy atmosphere and everyone was having a good time.

Interval time arrived and everyone helped themselves to the buffet. The crowd sang Happy Birthday as Paul and Anna cut their cakes simultaneously and together made a speech. The disco began again.

The lights dimmed and the disco stopped. Sheila took the microphone and said "I hope you've all enjoyed yourselves. Thank you for coming. Have a safe journey home."

Sheila went outside to Danny and Jed. "The party is over and everything went off. without any trouble." she said.

"We had to punch two young men and push six noisy girls outside .They were trying to gate crash the part)' and were causing trouble. Their mates couldn't get away quick enough when they saw what we did." Danny said

Sheila was shocked when she heard this. "I hope they aren't hurt too much"

"They'll be O.K. Most of them know me because I'm the bouncer for the fish shop, the off licence and the pubs in Winlaton. By the way if you ever see me walking through the village in the evening don't speak.. You won't be popular if people know that we- work for the same firm. Just ignore me .Good night."

Stella Rutherford

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I'm trusting in the Lord and a good lawyer.

Oliver North.

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WHO'S THERE?

"Who's there?" Sheila said as she crept down the stairs. Muffled sounds had woken her up. The kitchen light was on. It shone through the glass panels of the door.

Sheila quietly opened the door and looked at the empty room. She heard voices. She walked through the arch into the lounge. The T.V. was on and her grand daughter was lying on the settee in her pyjamas

"It's 4.30 a.m. What are you doing up so early?"

"I couldn't sleep but I didn't think I would disturb you as this is near the time you get up anyway." Lynn replied.

"I do get up early but you always sleep until lunch time during School holidays. I had to come downstairs to investigate the noise."

"What would you have done if we were really being burgled. You're indecent dressed like that."

"I didn't think about what I was wearing. I suppose I am stupid to come down looking like this. What could I do to an intruder, especially if it was a man? Sheila said.

"Your eyes are squinting against the light, your nose and lips are touching as you took your teeth out last night. You're only wearing a pyjama top. You look like a witch and a burglar would take one look at you and run away in terror."

They burst into laughter and hugged each other.

Stella Rutherford.

Auntie did you feel no pain

Falling from that apple tree?

Would you do it, please again

Cos my friend here didn't see?

Harry Graham.

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A TALE OF THREE TOMS

Once upon a time, when the Great Queen in the South had been sixty years on the throne, there dwelt in the North Countrie a delver called Tom. A hundred dwarfs like Tom lived in a village called Spen. They dug coal out of the hills for Lord Bute, a cruel giant, who sat among piles of gold in his big castle while the poor delvers and their families were half-starved. Tom, his wife called Meg and their six children were squeezed into a miserable two-roomed hovel. They cooked what little food they had on a big fire in the kitchen, for coal was the one thing they did not lack. Tom's eldest son was called Tom too. To avoid confusion they were called Big Tom and Little Tom. Little Tom looked after the pit-ponies and earned just a few pence a week. Sometimes Big Tom got no pay at all because there was only stone, not coal, in his part of the pit, so the family often went hungry.

One day the pedlar from Gateshead Town came to Spen on his laden pedal-machine. The Spenners looked forward to his visits, for not only did he bring them bright ribbons and shiny buttons but also news from the outside world. This time he had some bad tidings for Big Tom.

Twenty years before, Big Tom's brother Ben had gone to seek his fortune far across the sea in the Land of Uncle Sam. Out in the wilds he was caught in a great storm and sought shelter at a little farmstead. The farmer had once lived not far from Spen before he crossed the ocean and he spoke the same strange language as Ben. The farmer welcomed Ben who stayed on to work for him. In a few years Ben had married the farmer's daughter Nan and was the proud father of four sons. He named the youngest one Tom after the brother and nephew he had left behind in Spen. At length Ben became homesick and sailed back to the North Countrie with his family. He started to delve again in a pit at Felling near the pedlar's home. Big Tom already knew this from the few scrolls Ben had sent him but he had not heard from him for many months.

The pedlar told Big Tom that Ben had been digging in a cold wet place and had become very ill and died. Nan had gone crazy with worry because the evil mine-owner threatened to throw her out of her house, so she was taken away to a prison for mad people at a place called Sedgefield. The four boys were put into Bensham Workhouse - a prison for orphans - in Gateshead Town. The pedlar said they had been there for three weeks.

Big Tom wept when he heard the news. But after the pedlar had gone he burst out shouting: 'The workhoose! Niwor i' the world! Nee nephews o' mine are ganna stop in a caad starvations hole like that.'

He was speaking the strange language his brother had used. It was called Geordie and was only half-English, so many people in the land, including the Great Queen down South, did not understand it.

It did not take Big Tom and Meg long to decide to rescue their four nephews and bring them to live at Spen, even though the house was so small and there would not be enough food to go round. Big Tom would tramp the ten miles to the workhouse to get them and bring them back on the new iron-horse that steamed along a rail-track from the mighty Toon near Gateshead. Meg would draw some pennies to pay for seats on it from their savings in a delvers' bank called The Store. The journey would have to be on a Sunday because Big Tom was delving away on the other six days of the week.

The very next Sunday Big Tom was up at five o' clock. He put on his best blue suit and stout boots and pushed his pit-bottle of cold tea in his pocket. Meg looked at him and shook her head: 'Them wee mites'll need mair than a drink o' caad tea afore they get here. Aa hope they gerra good breakfast but aa doot it. Anyhow, tek that little stotty cake ti put them off an' aa'll hood the dinner back till ye getyem. It's a pretty pickle wor in but we 'II just hev ti tighten wor belts and hope the Great King in the Sky'll provide.'

Big Tom kissed Meg and strode off along the street past the ugly pit-heap and the Bute Arms - a grubby alehouse where the delvers used to drown their sorrows and add to the giant's pile of gold with their hard-earned pennies. After tramping the two miles of cobbles he came to the village of Gill. This was where they would get off the iron-horse on their way home. Big Tom was beginning to sweat and would have welcomed a lift but there was no chance of a passing cart on the Sabbath. On he trudged for an hour until he came to the Derwent river. He sat on a wall and drank some tea before crossing the bridge into another delver village called Swalwell. From the top of the next hill he could see smoke rising above Gateshead Town. Just a mile away flowed the big coaly Tyne where some ships were moored. Next day their bellies would be filled with coal from all the pits for miles around. Down the river into the North Sea they would sail to fill the fireplaces of the palaces of the Great Queen and the rich fairy-folk in the South.

Soon Big Tom was walking along the dreary pavements of Gateshead Town. He stopped and asked a pinch-faced old hag in a black shawl where the workhouse was. She pointed him to a big grey building. He walked up the drive and knocked on the grim front door. A little sprite of a servant-girl squeaked at him from an upstairs window: 'Roond the back! Roond the back! Only important people can use this door!'

'Aa'm important this mornin,' said Big Tom. 'Tell the wardress Mr. Tom's here.'

Big Tom stood in the hall and introduced himself to the black-frocked ogress in charge. She said, 'Ye've tekken ya time heven't ye? We cannit wait to get rid o' your lot. Wor packed oot an' we need the beds. The sooner ya gone the better!'

Big Tom was charmed. He remembered to ask if the boys had had their breakfast. Yes, they had had their porridge. Big Tom thought that was wonderful and remembered the tale of the little elf who dared to ask for more. The lads were ushered into the room. They were wearing woollen jerseys and Big Tom was pleased to see they had strong boots on for they had a lot of walking to do and little Tom (oh dear, Little Tom was at home at Spen) was only three. What would they call this third Tom in the family?

'Aa'm ya uncle Tom, your da's brother,' he said. 'Aa've come ti tek ye yem ti ya auntie Meg an' ya little cousins. Wor gannin' ti be a big happy family.'

They were soon on their way up the road. They crossed the bridge into the Toon and sat on a bench in the iron-horse station. They ate Meg's cake, drank the last of the tea and then they all fell asleep except for Big Tom who looked down on them and sadly shook his head. The iron-horse puffed in and they were no sooner on board than they were tumbling off at the Gill station. A weary two-mile walk uphill brought them to Spen. Big Tom opened the cottage door and they all fell over the thresh, asleep on their feet. Their new life had begun.

There were three Toms in the family now - Big Tom, Little Tom and the newcomer. This third Tom was only a baby so they called him Tom among the bairns and the name stuck until the day he died. I know all this to be true because my father told me -and he was that baby Tom.

For many years the family of twelve were happy in the tiny delver's cot until one by one the children married and moved out into their own hovels. Sadly, just when the two parents were left alone in the house, brave, generous Big Tom was killed in the pit.

Those bad old days are gone now. Today's dwarfs are free and have money to burn. Unwanted babies can be shunted into care. And doddery old dwarfs, instead of sitting in rocking chairs by family firesides, are stacked away in the Great Sky King's Waiting Rooms until they die while their offspring, apparently, live happily ever after.

Bryan Harbottle 17.02.08

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The first thing I do in the morning is to read the obituaries in The Times and if I am not in them I get up.

Noel Coward.

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Fifteen Minutes Of Pain

Fifteen minutes of pain? No, I’m not going to tell you of bearing excruciating pain for more than fifteen minutes without screaming my head off. Nor the pain of giving birth. ‘Hang on there, you are a man.’ That is why I am not going to mention it.

Of course I could tell you of the pain of stubbing my toe against the bedpost on my honeymoon night in Blyth. ‘Did I hear you say, what about the missus? Oh she wasn’t there, she took herself off to Blackpool, because she said she didn’t fancy Blyth

I’ve got to tell you this though. One Sunday morning bright and early, I came down the backstairs into the backyard to get a shovel-full of coal. Opening the coalhouse door to reveal the black diamonds gleaming in the sunlight, I bend down to get a shovel full and wham. A bright light exploded in my head and the pain was awful, then I must have passed out. The next thing I was aware of was lying on a door waiting for the ambulance, while the missus sorted out the insurance policies. To cut a long story short, I ended up being pulled and stretched, then encased in plaster from my waist up to my neck.

What about the fifteen minutes of pain you may ask? To tell you the truth I never felt any. I was pain killed up to my eyeballs and the Matron said, I was the bravest of the brave. She didn’t say that, I only put it in to make me feel good.

My real fifteen minutes came about when I was out with the darts team and I had to get the next round in and at a pound a pint, the pain was terrible.

‘Oh the pain, the pain.’

Bob Mather.

The scientific theory I like best is that the rings of Saturn are composed entirely of lost airline luggage.

Mark Russell.

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CRUISING

Jordan was with his friends Adam and Jamie on the Rugby Field. They were admiring the new amphitheatre. It was oval shaped, two meters deep and a ramp ran down the middle. They had brought their skateboards to practice.

"It's wickid", Jordan said. "Look at those two going up to the top then practically straight down. I wish I could do that."

"We can come every night after School now the football season has ended" Adam said.

One of the Fathers organised a competition amongst the local boys living in the area. It was to be held on August Bank Holiday Monday at 1.00pm. The Rugby Club gave permission to use the facilities.

There were ten teams competing, one from each district in the area. Two boys from different teams were performing together and whoever fell off first would be disqualified.

Jordan and another boy from a rival group were in the final. Jordan did a grind .The other boy made sparks. Jordan then did an olly.

"Mence" Jordan shouted as he cruised around the outside. He twisted, somersaulted, spun around and each time returned to the skateboard. He was fantastic. He was the winner.

Jordan pumped the air with his arm screaming "Lethal, Mental, Yea."

What was the prize? A new large skateboard.

Stella Rutherford.

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Whenever I feel like exercise, I lie down until the feeling passes.

R. M. Hutchins.

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The Woman At The Bus Stop

Jason Rooney picked up the bag containing his bowling ball, shouted, ‘Bye,’ to his wife and made his way to the bus stop. Friday night was his night out with the boys and since he always downed a few jars at the bowling alley, he had left his car on the drive. Reaching Fenchurch Street he joined the end of the bus queue. The queue was always long on a Friday night, filled with a mainly young crowd inbound for a night on the town.

As he waited he scanned the queue on the off chance that there was anyone he knew. There was no one. There were two women at the front that looked to be in their late twenties and apart from them, the rest were in their teens. In the distance a bus turned the corner and he stared at it until the number came into focus. Number 5, no good, but since it terminated in the town centre it would clear the queue and he wouldn’t have to stand when his own bus arrived. As the number 5 pulled up, his eyes were drawn to the front of the queue again. The women were about to board and as they did, the taller of the two, a really stunning blond, smiled at him and gave a little wave. For a moment the world seemed a brighter place and then she disappeared inside the bus and he was left wondering who on earth she was.

The number 16 arrived; he climbed on board, took a seat at the front and all the way in to the A1 Bowls, pondered on the identity of the mysterious blond. He couldn’t recall having met her before and if he had, he was sure he would remember someone with a figure like hers. He went over the times and locations where he could possibly have met her and came up blank. It bothered him, but it couldn’t have bothered him that much, because he forgot all about her when his team won the quarterfinals that night.

In fact he had forgotten about her completely, until he saw her again three weeks later. It was Friday night again; she was at the front of the queue again and just as she was about to board the bus she did that smile and little wave again. He swelled with pride, a Thirty-eight year old married man with two kids and he could still pull a class doll like her. But once again his mind was in turmoil over who she was. No matter how hard he tried he just didn’t seem to be able to place her and this time he couldn’t forget her. Next time that he saw her, he was determined to ask her how she knew him.

He got his chance sooner than he expected. On Tuesday as he was driving home from work he spotted her standing at a bus stop in the High Street. Hurriedly he searched for and found a parking place and walked back and caught her just as she was stepping into the bus. ‘Excuse me,’ he called.

She turned her head and smiled.

‘Do you know me?’ he asked.

‘Of course I do,’ she replied. ‘You’re the father of one of my children.’

He was stunned speechless and before he could recover the bus was off taking her with it. He ran to the car and began to follow the bus, his mind selecting and rejecting when and where he could have; to put it nicely, had a liaison with this woman. It had to have happened before he got married, so it would be eight years or more ago. But when? Ibeza? He had met a blond there but he knew who she was, he’d seen her several times in Tesco’s over the years. Majorca? No. Kos? No. Then it hit him; it had to have been his stag night in Budapest. They had bumped into that hen party in the cellar bar and when he woke up in the morning he couldn’t remember a thing that had happened.

He slowed down, the bus was stopping and she was getting off. He looked around wildly, a car backed out and he whipped into the empty space before the old codger who had been waiting for it could make a move. Jumping out of the car he race after and caught up with her outside the paper shop. ‘Did we meet … er, in Budapest?’

‘No don’t be silly.’

‘Where then?’

‘At school sports day, I teach your daughter Alice.’

F Watson.

If the Wright brothers were alive today, Wilbur would have to fire Orville to reduce costs.

Herb Kelleher (Southwest Airlines0

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STRANGER ON THE ROADSIDE

It was raining cats and dogs when William Simpson, also known as Bill, left his office for home.

As the cars headlights slashed a path through the torrential downpour and the monotonous click, click of the windscreen wipers forced him to be extra alert. The events of the day passed through his head. Why had Elizabeth phoned him up to say that she was ordering a pair of divan beds? True he was no Latin lover in the bedroom stakes, but he thought he did enough to satisfy her needs. Another thought plagued him; did she have someone else on the side, hence the single beds? Perish the thought.

Another thing crept into focus; he would have to speak to Sylvia the office maid of all jobs, about showing her underwear every time she bent down, and that butterfly tattoo on her back? He would have to get her an overall that should do it. What am I thinking about? I’ll have to see the doctor. I’m a bit below par and not getting enough sleep and the business is not doing so well. I’ll make an appointment tomorrow without fail.

As he turned into the road that would lead him home, Bill noticed a tall man standing on the corner beneath a lamppost. Bill thought he looked like a drowned rat, not surprising really seeing the state of the weather. On an impulse he stopped the car, wound the window down and shouted to the man, ‘Do you want a lift chum?’

The figure nodded in agreement, walked across the road, opened the passenger door and got in Giving his passenger time to settle in, Bill asked the obvious question, where was he going too? The stranger answered. ‘Number ten The Cresent.’

Bill gave a start and exclaimed, ‘That is my address.’

‘I know,’ his passenger replied.

‘Are you a salesman?’ Bill queried.

‘You could say that,’ his passenger answered.

‘I know!’ Bill said. ‘It is my wife’s doing, it’s about the beds.’ Bill continued. ‘Never mind, we will soon sort this out when we get home.’

‘No it is you I wanted to see,’ the passenger answered

‘By the way, I didn’t get your name,’ Bill said turning his head to the stranger.

‘It is death.’ The passenger replied.

It was then that Bill’s car left the road and plunged down the railway embankment into the path of an oncoming train.

Bob Mather

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Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some hire public reations officers.

Daniel J. Boorstin.

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BEAT THAT ONE

It was her day off and Maria had gone through the house from top to bottom, dusting cleaning and polishing. She had put new sheets and covers on the bed, taken down the winter curtains and put up the new flowery summer ones. The house sparkled, the carpets were cleaned and vases were full of heavily scented spring flowers 'That should do it,' she murmured to herself.

She and Rob had quarreled the night before over something stupid and like all arguments it had escalated into an almighty slanging match. Each had accused the other of ridiculous things.

‘You spend more time with you mates from work than you do with me,' she complained.

'Aye well I might come home sooner if I thought my tea would be on the table on time.'

'You b****rd, I work too and I don't see you giving me a hand.'

'You only work part time.'

'Yes I do. I also do the cleaning, the washing, the ironing and the cooking too.'

'So did Helen and the house was like a new pin.'

That did it; she wasn't having his ex thrown into her face. "No my house couldn't be as clean as your sainted Helen's.'

'You said it. Not me.' he replied with a sneer.

That really hurt and from then on the insults from both sides became ever more hurtful until finally she had thrown a lamp at him and flounced off to lock herself in the bedroom. He had slept on the sofa and had already left for work when she had come down this morning. Well, she wouldn't be beaten by him or his holier than thou ex wife. The arrogance of him, she'd show him. By the time he came home from work she would have the house gleaming and his favourite dinner would be on the table.

The cleaning done, she prepared the casserole, checked the time on the kitchen clock and satisfied that it would be ready on time, slipped the dish into the oven. A quick cup of coffee and she went up to have a bath; she was looking forward to a nice long soak before getting ready. The bath was full, she had poured in her favourite bath oil and she was about to step into the water when she froze. She couldn't for the life of her remember whether she'd switched on the oven. It was no good. She would have to go down and check..

Dressed as nature intended she hurried downstairs. Reaching the kitchen door she bent almost double, scurried across to the oven, turned it on and set the dial. That was when someone knocked on the backdoor. She glanced at the clock; it would be Bill from the farm shop, delivering her box of organic vegetables and if she didn't answer the door he would walk in and leave the box on the kitchen table. Scurrying back the way she had come she only just managed to slip into the hall cupboard as the back door began to open. Pulling the cupboard door shut, she held her breath and waited. The footsteps crossed from the backdoor, came straight through the kitchen into the hall, stopped and the cupboard door swung open. Rob, about to hang up his coat stood there gawping at her.

Oh God what was she going to do now? Then suddenly she had the answer, she leaned forward kissed the tip of his nose and said, 'The house is spotless, your dinner is cooking and if you come with me you can have your dessert first.'

She smiled as she led him upstairs and whispered to herself, 'Let Saint Helen beat that one.'

Fred Watson.

We're overpaying him but he's worth it.

Samuel Goldwyn.

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TWICE UPON A TIME

Twice upon a time there were four little pigs... 'Surely it is once upon a time and three little pigs,' I hear you say. But we live in inflationary times and it cannot be long before our interfering government decrees that not only must prices rise but all numbers in pieces of prose must rise by one as well. Thus not only will once become twice and three, four, but words like wonderful will become twoderful and anticipate will become anticipnine. If that happens then our fairy tale will have to read like this:

Twice upon a time there were four little pigs who decided three leave their mniner and pniner's home and seek their fivetunes. 'After all, we're only young twice,' they said. So they sallied fifth into the twoderful world. 'We must find somewhere three sleep befive threenight falls,' they grunted. But at an open gnine they met a man with a load of straw and the second little pig bought some five himself. While his three brothers went on their way, he built himself a house in a triple of ticks. Soon along came the wolf. The little pig was very aginined and nearly evacunined his bowels but the wolf crenined havoc, blew the house down and nine the little pig.

The other three pigs soon met a man with a load of sticks and the third little pig bought some. While his brother was smelling the threelips in the grass, the second pig built himself a house with the sticks. Along came the wolf again to aginine the little pig who nearly defecnined himself. The wolf again crenined havoc, blew the house down and nine the third little pig.

The fourth pig met a man with a load of bricks and he bought some and built himself a house. The wolf came and knocked at the door and said, 'Little pig, little pig, let me come in.'

But the pig replied, 'No, no, by the hairs on my fivehead I will not let you in.'

'Then,' said the wolf, I'll huff and I'll puff till I blow your house down.' Well, he huffed and he puffed but he couldn't do it.

Later the wolf came and knocked on the little pig's door and said, 'Little pig, I would like you three be my best mnine. I will meet you threemorrow morning at six o' clock at farmer Brown's field and we'll get some potathrees five our dinner.'

'Grnine,' said the pig. But he anticipnined the wolf and rose at five o' clock, got his potathrees and was safely home before the wolf could get him.

Next day the wolf came three the door and said, 'Little pig, I'll meet you threemorrow morning at five o'clock and we'll go three farmer Green's orchard and get some apples for our tea. And I'll get myself a melon.'

'Grnine,' said the pig. I'll get two three.' But he got up at four o'clock and went three the orchard. Unfortuninely he was up a tree when the wolf arrived but he threw an apple for him and while he was chasing after it, the little pig got down and ran home.

Next day the wolf came three the little pig's house again and said, 'Little pig, I'll meet you at the fair threemorrow afternoon at four o' clock and we can go and have a ride on the shuggy boats.'

'Grnine,' said the little pig but he went three the fair at two o' clock, had his ride, bought a butter churn and set off home. On the way he saw the wolf coming so in one and a half thirds he got in the churn and accelernined himself at the wolf and knocked him down. The wolf ran away and the little pig got safely home.

Next day the wolf lost patience and came three the little pig's house and said, 'Little pig, I'm going three climb onto your roof, come down your chimney and cook you into the elevenderest pork chops I've ever eaten.'

The little pig replied, 'Fivegive me for saying this but you have got three of the evillest eyes I've ever seen and I've always known you were a three-faced treble-crosser but you'll never take my two and only life.'

While the wolf was climbing onthree the roof, the little pig boiled a big pan of water on the fire. When the wolf came down the chimney he got stuck and was asphyxinined. Then he fell in the pan and was scalded three death. 'Three-de-loo,' said the little pig as he celebrnined with a tasty wolf steak and went on to live happily ever after.

Bryan Harbottle 01.02.08

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Television is still in its infancy - that's why you have to get up and change it so often.

Michael Hynes.

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MOVING HOUSE

David, his wife Lynn and daughters were^in the car with Jack, Sophie and their family. They took one last look at the house and followed the removal van to their new house.

They were feeling a little sad at leaving but wanted a bigger house with a large back garden in the country. They had lived for a few years in the City and it was now time to move on. The children ran from room to room so excited. One of her daughters said "I want this room. It overlooks the gardens below. Just look at it?"

There was an archway covered with roses which lead onto a large stretch of lawn where the musical tinkle of a fountain came off the flower scented air. Butterflies were flying from flower to flower. It was fabulous.

"We'll unpack a few things sort out the kitchen and have something to eat. First we must attend to Jack and Sophie" Lynn said.

Jack and Sophie and their six puppies ran around the garden barking in excitement as they sniffed the hedges and explored. Their tails wagged with joy. They were beautiful Bichon Frise with white curly hair and their three week old puppies were adorable.

Lynn had practised as a Vet but give it up when she had children to look after. She now bred dogs and loved looking after them. The dogs would sleep in cages in the large shed at the bottom of the garden and have the run of the place.

.

Gusts blow over windy fields

Where a mill stands unconcealed

High on a hill above a village

Where once Scots pillaged

.

Below runs the river Tyne

At the bottom of an incline

Where Ships sail to the Rhine

Returning with crates of wine

.

The mill has gone, demolished

People gave each other solace

A new Estate is on the site

In the sky above fly Red Kites

Stella Rutherford.

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Rock journalism is people who can't write interviewing people who can't talk for people who can't read.

Frank Zappa.

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AT JIMMY'S HOOSE

Hi Tiffany. Sorry aa hevven't been in touch for a few days but aa've had me hands that full ye wadden't believe it. What? Ye've hord aboot it on the grapevine. Notaallofit? An' ye want iz ti fill ye in? OK then just so ye divven't get haad o' the wrang end o' the stick aa will. It started wi' wor Jimmy as per usual. 'E's been up tiv 'is manky tricks again burr 'e's gone weell ower the top this time. Me mother's shot ti hell win 'er norves an' me father hoyed such a hell of wobbly 'e nearly ended up in the big hoose. Things have went doonhiii faster than s**t off a stick. Ye wadden't believe it. It'll be a relief ti gerrit off me chest an' tell ye aall aboot it, Tiffany. Innit? So pin back ya lugholes an' enjoy - 'cos aa knaa ye will.

As aalways, wor Jimmy was in the thick o' things. 'E'd been getting' me mother doon wi' one trick eftor another. Like the snails in the cabbage. Not that bad, ye say. Snails belang in cabbages. Aye, but this cabbage wasn't in the garden, it was on wor plates at dinner time. Me faather said if 'e done owt like that again 'e'd yark 'is backside Burrit was like watter off a duck's back. Ye'll remember the snow we had a couple o' weeks ago? Why that mornin' wor Jimmy was as good as gold. 'E went into the garden and spent 'oors buildin' a big snowman. 'E got one o' me da's aad trilby's an' a muffler an' put them on. The snowman, not 'isel', ye daft faggot. 'An he got some bits o' coal for 'is eyes an' 'is buttons an' a carrot for 'is nose. An' when it was finished 'e snooted for us to come an' see, an' we aall said worra clivvor job 'e'd med of it. So far, so bloody good.

Burrin the eftornoon Father Ignatius caalled roond ti see hoo me faather was 'cos 'e'd been under the weather for a few weeks. An' just afore 'e went me mother says, Come into the back garden Father, an' see what our James has done. As ye knaa, she could put the Queen's lingo on a bit if she wanted. So we aali trooped ooi ti admire 'is handiwork as if 'e was Michaelbloodyangelo. But the little sod'd been oot afore us an' shifted the carrot doon below the snowman's belt. Aa wadden't care burrit was a whopper, 'ight inches lang. Why, me mother borst inti tears an' me faather torned porple. As for Father Ignatius, 'e was shakin' like hell an' aa swear 'e was laughin' fit ti bust 'is cassock. Why, when 'e'd gone me faather brayed wor Jimmy win 'is aad pit belt. Burr eftor 'e dropped the belt, 'e had a sort of a fit an' me mother just lay on the settee sobbin' 'er heart oot. Aa had ti ring the doctor an' the top an' the bottom of it was me faather was sent inti hospital for observation, me mother went ti me gran's for a few day's rest an' aa was left with the sh***y end o' the stick - wor Jimmy. Innit? Of course Bernard was neewhere ti be seen was 'e? Off ti Leeds on a fortneet's course on hoo ti sell male cosmetics from door ti door. Shurrup Tiffany wi' ya sarky comments. Aa knaa as much aboot Bernard noo as ye dee. Aa divven't want ti talk aboot 'im.

As for wor Jimmy, 'e's that weird aa think 'e needs ti see a trick cyclist. No Tiffany, we're not thinkin' aboot sendin' 'im off to join the circus - though that wadden't be such a bad idea. Aa mean a sick trialist. It starts wi' a 'p'. Noo divven't start aall that taalk again aboot peein'. Ya still in the dark aren't ye? It's a pykyatrist - a brain doctor! Somebody needs to work oot what's gannin' on in 'is dark little mind. Mebbee the big carrot's a clue. Wor Jimmy's only gorra little one like a piglet's pizzle. Aa was readin' aboot it in the Sunday Star last week. Accordin' to Doctor Freud it's called penis envy an' it caases aall sorts o' problems. Ye divven't knaa we Dr Freud is? Eeh but ya ignorant Tiffany. 'E's aalways on the tele. 'E's that fella what looks like a bloodhoond caalled Clement. Divven't be see clivvor Tiffany. The bloodhoond wasn't caailed Clement. Ivrybody knaas Clement Freud. Burra must admit aa didn't knaa 'e was a shrink. Noo where was aa?

Aye. Doctor Pillman was horrified when 'e saa what me father'd done ti Jimmy. If it hadn't been for the fact that 'e knew the family weell an' hoo the little psycho was drivin' us aall up the wall an that 'e thowt me faather was hewin' a heart attack lyin' there on the linoleum, aa'm sure 'e would hev caalled in social services. As it was 'e was very understandin' an' 'e torned a blind eye. Why, it torned oot ti be a false alarm. Me father was alreet eftor a few days lyin' doon hevvin' a fuss myed of 'im by the norses. 'E was syun back yem an' the doctor telt 'im 'e hadn't ti yark Jimmy nee more. 'E said me faather needed a holiday and recommended a cruise for aad folk. Neebody under sixty years aad allowed on it - that's just the passengers, though but. Me mother wad be alreet for a week or two at me grannie's. Jimmy could gan into care for a month an' that might give 'im a shock an' settle 'im doon. Innit? An' aa could gan wi' me father as 'is carer, even though aa was under the age limit.

Why, we thowt it ower an' we aall decided it was a great idea - even Jimmy thowt of it as a big adventure. We gorra late booking on a cruise ti the Med wi' Gaga Holidays sailin' oot o' North Shields. The doctor helped we ti arrange it aall. So, ti purrit it in a nut-case, Tiffany, aa'm boond for a fortneet in the sun next Monday. Me faather'11 tek nee lookin' eftor so aa'll hev plenty o' time ti mesel'. The other passengers'11 be a bit lang i' the tooth for iz burr aall dee me best to pull a few o' the crew. Innit? Aa'm off to the MetroCentre this eftemoon to stock up on suncream at Superdrug an' gerra couple o' bikinis at Primark so aa can wow the lads an' start a few heart attacks amang the wrinklies. Things are lookin' better aall the time. Pity ye cannit come win iz, Tiffany. We'd hev a baall. Anyhow aa'll hev ti gan noo. Wor Jimmy's got the cat in a half-nelson an' me faather's got used ti bein' pampered by the norses so aa'll hev to cut the crusts off his triangular cucumber sandwiches. Not! Aa'll bell ye as syun as aa get back an' gi' ye chapter an' vorse of me journey into foreign parts.

So long, Tiffany. See ye next month. Aa'll bring ye a Spanish gigolo back as a Christmas present. Byee.

Bryan Harbottle.

When I want to read a novel, I write one.

Benjamin Disraeli.

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THE LOST PURSE

School was closed for the day and pupils, Teachers and helpers were on a bus singing on the journey to Beamish Museum. They alighted and children were assigned to one adult, who had to be responsible for them. Mrs. Smith had six boys aged seven years, her grandson being one of them.

"O.K. boys put haversacks on your backs, pair off into two, with two more following, then the final two at the back. We must keep together all the time. If any of you should get lost make your way back to the Shops and wait until I come for you. Do you all understand?"

"Yes Mrs. Smith" they chorused.

They looked at animals on the farm, went into the School and sat at desks when they were told how boys and girls were taught years ago. They then went for a ride on a tram car, the first they had ever seen. They sat on the open top deck and had such fun. Eventually they arrived at the Station and had a ride in the carriage that was pulled along by an old fashioned train bellowing out black smoke.

"Time for lunch boys. We'll sit on the steps at the side of this Monument." They sat quietly having their picnic then jumped up and began rolling down the grass verge running wildly. Mrs. Smith took a few photographs then they packed their belongings and moved on.

They visited a house containing old fashioned furniture which was very interesting. They then went into the next house which had been a Dentists. They were in awe at some of the instruments.

"Look at the size of that drill. I wouldn't like that in my mouth" one of them shouted.

A shop at the end of the Street was selling toffee, candy rock and sweets. They went into the back and watched a man rolling out long strips of candy rock into small lengths. Everything was made on the premises. The children thought it was cool.

"As you're been so well behaved I'll buy whatever you want" Mrs. Smith said. The shop was crammed with excited children all trying to be served at once.

"Look what I've found. It dropped and hit my foot" Thomas said handing Mrs. Smith a black leather purse. She opened it and inside was a bus pass, two £5 pound notes and several coins.

"Give it to the lady behind the counter. It belongs to an old person and they may come back to see if it has been found" Mrs. Smith said. The lady took the purse and laid it on the shelf next to the jars of sweets.

"As you've been so honest in handing the purse to me I want you each to choose something you like as a thank you." The children were so excited as they chose their reward.

"We've enjoyed going on the trains and buses but the best thing is all these sweets and candy we've got given by the lady in the shop and Mrs. Smith. We've had a great time" they all shouted and each of them gave Mrs. Smith a hug.

Stella Rutherford.

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I have nothing to say I am saying it and that is poetry.

John Cage.

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CRUISING

Patsy the kerbside professional had Trevor's number plate on her favourite list. Middle age had left him impotent, made worse by his unsympathetic wife, 'you're only fifty, I know for a fact George Cole still does it twice a week; you need to see a doctor.'

Trevor didn't question his wife's certainty about their neighbour's sex life indicating that she might be part of it herself which made him miserable enough to find solace cruising and Patsy became his chosen lady of the night.

Slim, blonde and leggy, her age and identity masked by Max Factor. Patsy was not in great demand but she was understanding. Of course, like most prostitutes kissing was prohibited, which restricted Trevor's thirty-minute backseat slot to holding hands and verbal comfort, which was satisfactory as even when his equipment was serviceable he had no imagination and probably the reason for his wife's fecund experimentation.

A typical night tariff was Patsy cooing in Trevor's ear. "There little one, mummy understands you.'

This was accompanied by fingers run through thinning hair and wiping away tears of self pity.

Trevor would then return home to his wife who didn't take her eyes off the television as he sat silently beside her.

Patsy returned to her apartment, pulled off a blonde wig; washed away layers of makeup to reveal a five o'clock shadow. Tight high heels were kicked into the corner before she collapsed into bed. In the morning Patsy became Pat, a strong agile man who joined Trevor on the council refuse lorry both of them aware of the others double life but both separating fact from fantasy until the next session.

John Frostick

Once a newspaper touches a story the facts are lost forever, even to the protagonists.

Norman Mailer.

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TAME ANIMAL TURNED WILD.

Willow was a pet cat and lived in a house with a large garden that overlooked the Derwent Valley. The view was breathtaking. Red Kites swooped down and caught rabbits, rats, moles etc. Willow watched them dive then soar up and away into the distance.. Sometimes they left animals that were too small so Willow took them.

Jack and Jill were having personal problems. He hated cats but Jill loved them.. Willow had 4 kittens, all different colours, and they ran all over the house. Jack disliked the mess and noise they made.

Unfortunately the couple separated and Jill rented a furnished house. Willow and her kittens went with her but then the kittens were given away. Willow returned to sleeping in the familiar garden where she had grown up. Jack took her back each time but she couldn't settle in her new home.

Soon afterwards Jill moved to another rented house on a small estate with a view along the riverside. It was so peaceful and quiet. Willow explored the area and loved to lie in the sunny garden. She had another set of kittens and was happy. However Willow disappeared when her kittens were given away. Jill went to the two nouses she had previously rented and asked the new tenants if they had seen Willow.

Months later Jack was walking his dog through the fields when he saw two cats viciously fighting. One of them was badly bitten and covered in blood. It limped away howling in pain. Jack looked at the other cat licking its wounds clean. The cat crouched in the grass and eyed him warily with its yellow green eyes. It had a pink collar around its neck. Willow Jack whispered and moved closer to get a better look. The cat exploded into a fire ball. It flung itself at him hissing and scratching, It was completely wild and didn't recognise him. It had turned into a dangerous animal.

Stella Rutherford.

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I'm writing an unauthorized autobiography.

Steven Wright.

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Curiosity

It is said that curiosity killed the cat.

To get an answer to that statement I asked my cat, if she had ever heard of it. She told me, ‘No, man, dogs, and cars did kill cats, but I’ve never heard of curiosity. Was it a large animal?’

Getting nowhere there, I turned to my trouble and strife and asked her opinion. Her opinion? Her opinion was, the only thing I was curious about was what was down the vee neck of her blouse and what was under her skirt.

‘Get your body down to the pub and ask them halfwits you call mates about curiosity.’

Well, here I am in the pub with my mates, all two of them, and from the look on their faces they are all eager to be asked about curiosity. Like hell, all they want to know is if I am getting the next round in. Oh they were curious all right, one was curious about the size of the barmaid’s bust and the other, did the team’s centre forward have two wooden legs or just one. Yes, my wife was spot on they are halfwits.

Well with my search to solve the mystery of curiosity not answered. I left the pub and made my way home.

On my way home I passed the town hall, curiosity got the better of me and I made my way up the imposing flight of steps to the main entrance. On the right hand pillar of the portico was a large notice, which read. In the event of a natural disaster like Bubonic Plague, Flood, Firestorm, and another woman becoming Prime Minister, press the bell once.

Before being overcome by my curiosity of the notice, I should have remembered that it was the first of April, all fools day. Of course I didn’t remember the date or the day. So my curiosity got the best of me and I pressed the bell.

I come out of this little episode a sadder but wiser man. How was I to know it was the fire alarm button?

Bob Mather.

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The single, overwhelming two facts were...

Paddy Ashdown.

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A Line In A Picture

I said goodbye to Elizabeth as the bus came in to take her to Gateshead. After having my lunch I proceeded to my heaven on earth.

I sat down in front of Our Lord – he was exposed to the world, not in a chalice but high in the monstrance. In seconds he was through every pore in my body and a feeling no words could fully describe, the soft sensation of His peace I received at the chapel.

I had my rosary beads ready to pray the Divine Chaplet, but my fingers remained still, reminding me I was tired. He never takes what we can’t afford to give. So I sat for an hour enjoying his outpouring of grace.

Later on at home, I thought of the picture of the backpack and the line in the sand. About ten years ago I had a dream of a green overnight bag. On Christmas Day, my daughter, Sharon came with an identical green bag. I use it quite a lot and I took from the picture that I would be using it a lot more.

The line in the picture made me think about our discussion on the bill in parliament, concerning the experiments on embryos. Someone’s comments were that, ‘We need to draw a line under this type of experiment.’

In the picture there were footprints each side of the line. This could indicate persons facing one another, maybe in friendship. I hope that it isn’t misconstrued as the conflict we have with each other in the world today.

Ann Crompton.

What do you mean 'we' paleface?

Tonto.

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IT IS NOT EASY TO WRITE A STORY (When you have been off for three weeks)

The page is blank before my eyes. No bright idea encourages the pen in my hand to deflower the virgin page. No it is not easy to lay down the plot that will spur the reader to read on. Different ideas float in my head but are discarded as not worthy of my talent.

The thought comes to me, am I too old to write of my time long gone? Do the young want to know of depression years or dole queues or wars fought and lived by a generation long passed away?

It is not going to be easy to write a story to attract the younger crowd. Romance and sex, meeting the handsome stranger on the Costa Lotta, the fast cars, the unwanted baby, it is their life.

I feel I am not up to the task, so it is back to old Joe Bloggs going to the post office for his pension. But there I go, there are no more post offices for old Joe to go to.

Well what about buying a packet of Woodbines. No good you can’t smoke anywhere these days.

I have it! I will write about a bloke who committed the crime of leaving his dustbin out the night before collection. What a villain.

Well, I have made a start and the page is no longer blank.

Bob Mather.

I don't know what people have against the government - They've done nothing.

Bob Hope.

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A SCARY RIDE

It was a cold December night. Tom was on his way to pick up people beside the Church in Winlaton. Three young men were standing and one hailed him down. Tom stopped and wound down his window.

"We're waiting for a taxi to take us to the Sage on Gateshead Quayside. Have you come for us?" one asked.

"Yes, hop in the back."

Tom drove through the village and onto the Al. Suddenly two hands covered his eyes.

"Can you see?" one of them said giggling.

"You bloody fool, we could have crashed," Tom shouted as he pulled the hands away from his eyes. The other two men apologised and said it wouldn't happen again.

A few minutes later hands were covering his eyes. Tom pulled onto the hard shoulder, grabbed the man and pushed him onto the ground.

"You silly sod. I don't know if you're drunk, on drugs or just stupid. I think probably all three." The man lay curled up in a ball and laughed and laughed.

"Get out you two," Tom shouted brandishing a cosh at them.

"You can't leave us stranded here. It's starting to snow and we're nowhere near a bus stop. We'll have to walk to the nearest turn-off. We didn't do anything wrong."

Tom looked at them, slammed the door and drove into the distance out of sight.

A few weeks later Tom picked up two elderly men and a younger man in Newcastle. He was on night shift and very busy at 1.30am on a Saturday. They were travelling along Chain Bridge Road, past factories, the Co-o p Dairies dispatch yard., and a large scrap yard. It was virtually unoccupied at night.

"Pull over here, I've a score to settle with you mate. You're the taxi driver who threw me out of the taxi at Christmas. I recognise the scar on your head also the gold sovereign ring on your left hand." a voice whispered in his ear.

Tom reached towards the dashboard and pressed the transmit button on the handset and said "Car 13. Chain Bridge Road".

The taxi stopped and Tom was flung to the ground. The young man took the cosh from the glove compartment and repeatedly hit Tom over and over again. He lay bleeding and unconscious.

They laughed and the older man said "It's a warning to other people not to interfere or do anything to harm members of our gang. This is our pitch and we're in charge."

Meanwhile the desk clerk in the office dialed 999 and the police were on their way within minutes. The taxi drivers from that Office and every driver in the area who heard Tom's message knew he was in trouble. The nearest taxi in the area headed for Chain Bridge Road.

Two police cars and an ambulance reached Tom within minutes. He was taken straight to hospital and the Police took the three men into custody. They were standing arguing as to who would drive the taxi to Winlaton and were shocked when the Police arrived so quickly.

Later, when the police were interviewing Tom one of them said "We know these three men are troublemakers and criminals. Apart from charging them with grievous bodily harm, we can add attempted murder to the list of charges. We've never caught them committing a crime before. They'll get at least 15 years for this."

Unfortunately Tom never drove a taxi again but he loved to tell his story. "There is no Car 13 anywhere. It's a warning a driver is in danger. Other taxi drivers, the police and ambulance are all alerted. I never thought I would ever have to press that button. It saved my life."

Stella Rutherford.

_______________________________________________________

Women who can, do. Those who can't become feminists.

Bobby Riggs.

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LADETTE AT THE WRITING CLASS

Hi ya Sharon. Tiffany here. It's aboot time aa gi' ye another bell ti let ye knaa what the score is. It must be fower weeks since ye rang to calm iz doon aboot ye gannin' oot wi' Bernard. Hey but worra laugh! Ye really took the 'lastic oot ov 'e's Y-fronts that neet. Thanks for tekkin' 'im doon a peg. Burra shurra done it mesel'. Nivvor mind, aa thowt aa'd just keep ye up ti speed wi me latest gannins-on. Aye. Me father's still trying to keep iz on the stright an' narra'. Fat chance! As much as Gazza orderin' lemon tea at the Marriott. Anyhow, Aa'm playin' alang win 'im at this moment in time. The latest is - him an' Father Ignatius thowt it wad be good for me soul if aa joined a local writin' class an' thowt aboot meanin'ful things an' expressed meser, on paper. Why, aa've got nowt against expressin' mesel'. As ye knaa, aa like nowt better than a few bevvies doon me gullet and deein' a Amy Winehoose at the karayoke. But that's not what they had in mind. So last Monday neet sees iz offti the chorch haall wi' me biro an' a writin' pad in me anorak pocket.

Why, ye bugs man! Aa've seen nowt like it ootside a museum. There's these siven examples o' the livin' deed sittin' roond a table. Why, they're not exactly wrinklies. They've gone past that - aa think crumblies wad be the best word ti describe them. Anyhow, this aad fellow, thin an' bendy in a broon suit, says, Hello Tiffany, how very pleased we are to see you. My name is Roger. Take a seat beside Isabel here an' let us have a look at your portfolio.

The dorty aad sod. Roger, eh? More like Roger the bloody lodger, aa thowt. Me portfolio? Aa'd nivvor hord it caalled a portfolio afore. Anyhow, neebody sees my portfolio as easy as that. Not on a forst date anyway. An' sortainly not an aad buffer like him what waddn't knaa what ti dee win it even if it jumped up an' bit 'im. An then the penny drops - Your poetry and prose, 'e says. 'E's not taakin' dorty efter aall, 'e just wants to see what aa've wrote. He'll be lucky. Aa hevven't wrote nowt since aa left school, except notes for the milkman. An poetry - aa d read nen o' that unless ye coont, There was an aad lady from Leeds.

Noo this Isobel, ye wadn't believe it, but she's gorra thick for coat on an" a bloody fox aroond 'er neck. Aa looks doon at aa shoes but they not red, so I decides she is wearing' knickers. Anyhow she seems a canny body cos" she pats the empty chair an' says tiv is, Welcome to our little literary gathering, Tiffany. I trust that tomorrow we will be repairing to your place of residence for breakfast, ha, ha, ha.

Place o' residence, me backside, thinks aa. Aa'm bloody sick ti the back teeth o clever-clogs crackin' that feeble joke again an' again, so aa says tiv 'er, Pardon me French, missus, but aa'm nee Holly Gostuffinlightly an' ye'II get nee Breakfast at Tiffany's even if ye sleep wi' me father.

Noo aa nivvor said stuffm' cos' aam tryin' to be polite - but ye get me drift. Anyhow, aa knaas striteaway that aa've gone weell ower the top, so aa apologises an' says it's cos' aa'm norvous. An' give the woman credit, she says, That's alright dearie, we understand. We've all been young ourselves you know.

Eeh, aa'm an evil bitch, me, aa knaa, burra couldn't help thinking That musta been when ye wor at school wi' Florence Nightingale.

Nivvor mind. Isobel introduces iz ti the other five specimens that should really hev been in jars o' surgical spirit. There's William wi' the droopy tash, Claud in his pepper an' salt suit, Minnie in 'er twin-set an' porls, Bessie wi" crew-cut an' collar an' tie - a rampant lezzie an' nee mistake, an' Antoinette, stright oot o' The Scarlet Pimpernel, a French piece wi' pompadour hair. Ye get the pitcha.

When aa tells them aa haven't wrote nothin', Roger, the chairman, says, You mean, you haven 't written anything.

Why aa thinks, That's what aa've just said. Is the aad duffa deef, or just away wi' the fairies?

Anyhow we settles doon an' they aa'll read their bits o' composition an' pat theirsel's on the back an' say hoo clivvor they are an' hoo their bits should aall be published in The Woman's Weekly.

Then aa gets put on the spot when they decide we'll dee what they call extempory writin'. Roger says some aad codger caalled Ornest Hemingthingy once won a bet he could write a story in six words He wrote, For Sale, Baby Shoes, Never Worn.

Why even aa thinks. That's clivvor, aa waddn V mind hevvin' a go mesel' So we aall sets away scratchin' wor heeds wi' wor pens an then scribblin' bits an' pieces doon. Then we reads wor stories oot:

Roger puts, Everybody What Loved Iz Is Deed. That figured, aa thowt. Isobel came up with, Fower weddin's, Three Kids, Then Cancer. Oh poor owld lass, aa was sorry aa'd been see nasty tiv 'er. The others were quite canny an' aa!! - Not Quite What Aa Was Plannin’- Trust iz Aa Did Me Best-I Am Here For A Porpose-Just Beginning To See The Light- and To Save Humankind He Died Again.

They wor aal! the kind o" things that aad folk wi' one foot in the grave wad write But even a slag like me was touched. Eftor that aa didn't want to read mine oot but they med Iz Aa knaa ye'll laugh but this is worra wrote. Milk, Lemonade, Alcopops, Tetleys, Aftershock, Diamorphine. Gi’ them their due they aall laughed at it an’ said it was good as we drank wor teaan’scoffed wor wagon-wheels.

The homework for next week's ti write a short poem. Buna divven't knaa if aa’m gannin’ back or not. Aa’11 hetta taak it ower wi’ye. Ye might even come win iz. Anyhow, if aa dee gan back aa think aa'l! write a bit startin" wi'. There was a young fellow from Ryton. Aa can think ov a good rhyme for Ryton but aa divven’t think it'll dee. It's ower crude. Aa've been gannin" on like a fishwife aal! this time an’ ye hevvent getten a word in edgeways. Burra hev ti gan noo, me father’s shootin’ e’ wants e’s byuts cleanin. It’s alreet for some. Aal gi ye a bell the morra neet an’ aa promise ti keep me gob shut an’ let ye dee aall the taakin. Keep a haad Sharon. Byeee.

Bryan Harbottle

Always choose the oldest customs' offical. No chance of promotion.

Somerset Maugham.

_______________________________________ ______________________

GREY TORNADO

Nine o'clock on a June morning that promised to be a topcoat day for Bill and Vera Hargreaves busying themselves for a visit to the Metro Centre where they had recently graduated from tea to grande latte's for which both felt embarrassed at not knowing whether to use the long A or abrupt T when ordering.

Bill had been retired for six months during which time he had decorated theie Dunston house end to end. Afternoon television was now a feature in his life and,'House Guest' essential viewing, making a three o'clock return essential; a programme that would lure them to their death later that day.

Tornados' were a rare sight over Gateshead, they normally visited Otterburn from Coltishall in Norfolk using the North Sea corridor and pilot, Paul Miles left the Northumberland Range for home and dinner.

It was the flight control computer and its backup that failed causing the plane to veer to the West in steady decent as it travelled a hundred feet and falling over Tynemouth. Paul didn't panic, his brain worked out a logical path to avoid disaster but the controls locked sending the multi million pound killing machine on a relentless path of its own.

Like the captain of a stricken ship Paul waited until the last moment pressing the eject button to be blown into the air and safety

Bill dozed in the dull afternoon light, his hands signature to a lifetime of hard work. An empty coronation mug stood on a small table, tea drips staining the surface. Vera stood at the kitchen sink scrubbing new potatoes for their, lamb-chop dinner. She did look up and she did see the evil grey monster for a split second before being swept away with husband and house in a cataclysmic fireball reeking of aviation fuel.

John Frostick.

_______________________________________ __________________

Start off every day with a smile and get it over with.

W.C. Fields.

_______________________________________ ______________________

Married Bliss

‘So that is it.’

‘You are leaving me?’

‘I am bloody sick of your nagging and complaining.’

‘You’re sick of me complaining. Well let me tell you, Mr Smart Ass. I’m up to here with your behaviour, drinking and womanising.’

‘My drinking, womanising? Where did you get that from? Your interfering mother no doubt.’

‘Don’t you dare call my mother she is the salt of the earth and besides, Mrs Bloxham told her she had seen you with a Salvation Army lass.’

‘For god’s sake I was only buying a bloody War Cry.’

‘There is no smoke without fire and are starting to use perfume.’

‘Is there on end to this stupid woman? It is only aftershave lotion you dim wit.’

‘And another thing, you promised to fix the washing machine two weeks ago and it is still not fixed. I have had to use the launder mat, all expense.’

‘I had forgotten about it, I’ll get Jackie Tweddle to look at it.’

‘Promises, promises.’

‘That’s it, I have had enough,I will get the hell out of here when my next gyro comes.’

‘I’ll pack your bags for you, ass hole.’

‘Have you a fag?’

‘There’s a packet on the table. Light me one as well and hurry up. We’ll be late for the bingo it’s the thousand pound flyer tonight.’

‘How do I look?’

‘Smashing.’

Bob Mather.

Housework can't kill you, but why take the chance?

Phyllis Diller.

_______________________________________ _________________

WHEN THE TORNADO HIT GATESHEAD.

The house warming party was in full swing. Sheila and Lynn sat outside on the balcony. Dunston Staithes was in the middle of the river Tyne in front of the building and Redheugh Bridge was on the right hand side.

"What a great place to live. It's fabulous." Lynn said.

"I've only been here a few weeks but I love the flat, the view of the river and everything around me. It's called the Seasons Estate. Every section of flats, houses and bungalows are named after a month. This is called July Close. Each area has a separate communal garden with a built in B.B.Q. wooden benches and lots of trees and flowers. There's even a plastic covered building to keep cycles and prams outside some of the flats .1 sit here most evenings either reading or talking to whichever friend calls."

"Would anyone like to go for a walk along the riverside to look at the various buildings? It's ultra modern architecture ." Sheila said.

It suddenly turned windy and wet. They ran back to the flat soaking wet. They stood on the balcony watching the torrential rain. It was eerie. The sky was black.. Thunder clapped overhead and lighting flashed across the sky. This lasted for a while then it stopped as suddenly as it had started. Suddenly large cardboard boxes flew past in front of them, followed by a garden shed, a few dogs and cats, garden furniture. They stared in horror.

" My God what's happening?. I've never seen anything like it before." someone whispered.

They stared in fear as they saw a rotating column reaching from the clouds to the ground spiralling towards them. They ran down to the ground floor as more garbage flew overhead. A rowing boat fell near them and smashed into fragments.

"It's a tornado. I'm terrified. I've only seen them on films." Lynn shouted.

As they looked around the ravaged area, people were crying. Streets of houses were demolished. Dunston Staithes was a tangled mess. Trees were uprooted. There was destruction and devastation everywhere.

It was silent as if time stood still. It was unbelievable

Stella Rutherford.

_______________________________________ ____________________

No comment, but don't quote me.

Dan Quayle.

_______________________________________ ______________________

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

Tommy married Emma the week the Titanic went down. Two years later, the father of twins, he was working hard at the coal face to provide for his family and did not envisage anything else but an arduous existence for the rest of his days. It was, however, 1914 and fate had devised a more convoluted path for his next four years than he could ever have imagined.

As the war clouds gathered and eventually broke over Europe, Tommy faced a dilemma. He could continue to hew coal and never face a German bullet or he could go and do his bit for King and Country. By 1915 the pressure on the youth of Britain to enlist had increased. Young women were casting doubts on the manhood of stay- at-homes and flinging white feathers in their faces. And Kitchener's famous poster with its intimidating finger and challenging words glared down from billboards on every street corner.

Tommy was increasingly disturbed for he was a good chapel lad and had qualms about bearing arms and breaking that Sixth Commandment. But one sunny Saturday as he paraded in his St. John's Ambulance Brigade uniform at a fete at the Big House, the solution dawned on him. He would volunteer and join the RAMC as a stretcher-bearer before the government introduced conscription. In next to no time, amidst tears and doubts, he was separated from Emma and the toddlers and was training at a camp on Salisbury Plain. By June 1916 he was in France.

On the morning of July 1st Tommy, a member of the Fifty-Ninth Field Ambulance, was in the trenches about to play his part in the Battle of the Somme. After five days of constant ear- splitting bombardment the British guns had fallen silent and skylarks were heard again. At 7.30 whistles blew and the infantrymen went over the top. By the end of the day almost twenty thousand tommies were dead and seventy thousand lay wounded in No Man's Land. As night fell Tommy's task began. With his three mates and a stretcher he clambered onto the stricken field to bring casualties to safety. For twenty seven nights he braved bullets and whizzbangs and was just beginning to feel immortal when a shell fell almost on top of him. Blown as high as a house, Tommy was knocked out. When he regained his senses he thought he was unscathed - until he tried to stand up and discovered his left leg was shattered. His three pals had not been so lucky. They were unmarked but had been killed by the blast. And the poor guy they had been carrying was nowhere to be seen.

Tommy dragged himself over the broken ground and eventually reached the safety of the trench. In the field hospital they removed a piece of shrapnel as big as a golf ball from his calf. Great, he thought, I've got a 'blighty'. I'll be home in a couple of weeks. No such luck The surgeon had got the shrapnel out of his leg but had left the piece of stocking and putty in. Within days infection had set in and Tommy was delirious. They had to operate again to remove the putrifying mess and save him from gangrene. Eventually he had recovered sufficiently to travel away from the war zone to convalesce.

Ambulance, train and boat - Tommy thought he was bound for England but woke up one morning to find himself in Dublin. This was 1916, just a few months after the Easter Rising! The makeshift hospital was just across the road from the Post Office that had been at the heart of the fighting. It did not take Tommy long to realise that he and his wounded mates were in enemy territory and were loathed by the Irish nurses who pointed proudly to the bullet holes in the ward ceiling. Nor did he do himself any favours when he confessed to being a Methodist when asked by the forbidding matron if he was a Roman Catholic. A worse ordeal was to follow. As soon as they were capable of walking, the casualties were dressed in their conspicuous bright blue jackets and trousers and sent out to walk O'Connell Street. They could not stay on the pavement but were continually spat on and jostled into the gutter by the anti-British Dubliners.

Fortunately, for once, the British Government realised the mistake and acted swiftly. Tommy soon found himself in a Belfast hospital where he and his mates were given heroes' welcomes. In the warm hospitality of Northern Ireland they thrived and within weeks Tommy was back home with Emma and the children on leave. But the happy reunion was soon over. Tommy was back to his unit and passed fit enough to return to the hell-hole of Northern France. This was just what he had dreaded but at the eleventh hour it appeared he had been given a reprieve. His unit was posted to Salonika in Northern Greece. After the long journey through the Med on a troop ship he arrived and was bivouacked on the heights above the town. He thought this warmth and peace was going to be a tea-party compared with the Somme - until the unit was deployed on an anti-malaria campaign. They were sent into the mosquito- infested swamps in short sleeves and shorts to spray the stagnant water with oil to kill the submerged larvae. Another piece of Top Brass stupidity! Almost eaten alive by the flying insects, the men went down like ninepins, suffering from the fever. Indeed, when the Armistice was signed in November 1918, Tommy was unconscious and took no part in the celebrations in Salonika. By the beginning of 1919 he had recovered but was to suffer from recurrent bouts of the disease for the rest of his life.

It seemed an eternity before Tommy had recovered, made the interminable journey back to England by sea, been demobilised and returned at last to the family he had often thought he would never see again. Although there was joy in those village households whose loved ones had survived the slaughter, there was grief for many who experienced no such happy ending. And while private rejoicing around individual firesides was natural and appropriate, it was hard to justify services in churches and chapels thanking God for the deliverance of the survivors but ignoring the awkward corollary of why the Omnipotent One had allowed millions to perish.

But human nature always strives to explain difficult situations, even when no explanation is to be had. If religious answers leak like colanders, there seem to be ancient wisdoms, adages and proverbs to fall back on. But they are just as fallible. For those whose war ended in happy reunions it would seem that the old proverb, All's well that ends well, fitted the occasion. The truth, however, is that all is not well that ends well. Thousands who returned had lost arms, legs, innards and sanity. Tell them that All's well that ends well! Tommy was comparatively lucky. But even for him the rest of his life was plagued by deafness, malaria, asthma and heart trouble - all the direct result of his wartime experiences.

Bryan Harbottle 13.05.08

I can resist every thing except temptation.

Oscar Wilde.

_______________________________________ ____________________

Finds On A Beach

My eyes were first drawn to the only footprint on the beach. Was there a new man Friday lurking somewhere? Then the branch with a dividing line drawn on the sand, was it a warning of some sort? I come last to the small blue rucksack lying empty, as if the owner had just shrugged it from his or her back to be free of its burden.

I scanned the horizon in search of a swimmer or dare I say it, a body. I need not have bothered the sea was free of bodies or anything else, from where I stood to the coast of America.

Feeling somewhat apprehensive I took a step back from the objects of my attention and raising my voice shouted, ‘Is there anybody there?’ only to hear the echo borne on the wind, ‘Is there anybody there?’

Conscious now that I was the only person on the beach. I retraced my steps back to the line of the sand dunes, to observe the bay, the stick and the footprint from a safe distance.

I must make a confession here; I did feel a wee bit windy. There is something about a lonely beach on the west coast of Scotland, with only the sighing of the wind and the sound of the sea lapping the shore that could give one the impression that you might have company of the unseen kind. Another thing I noticed on my retreat to the sand dunes that I had left no tracks, the surface of the sand was as hard as cement.

That being the case how come the single bare footprint in the sand?

I waited till the tide came in and fully expected the stick, the bag and the footprint to be erased by the incoming sea. I am going to tell you the reader of this missive something you will find it hard to believe. When the tide came in, the sea did not wipe the slate clean. Here is the difficult part for you, the sea swept around the blue rucksack, the stick, the bare footprint and the line drawn in the sand and made an island of them.

I am sorry that I could not find the answer to the puzzle, but I know if I go back to that haunting lonely beach. I will find the rucksack and the stick and the footprint just as I left them.

Bob Mather

_______________________________________ _____________________

Hope springs eternal in the human breast.

Alexander Pope.

_______________________________________ __________________

THE STRANGER ON THE ROAD.

It was 8.00am on a frosty dark Sunday morning. Sheila was walking her dog and called at the shop for a newspaper. This was her usual routine each morning.

As she left the shop, which was on the corner of a block of flats, she saw a tall thin man standing on the road. He turned and walked around the end of the building, out of sight.

Sheila slowly walked towards home and passed a man also walking his dog, She stopped every few minutes for her dog to have a sniff and a wee. She was outside the Care Home. She looked around and saw the tall man. He darted through the gates into the grounds and disappeared from view. He must work there she thought.

She reached the edge of the Rugby field and let the dog off the leash. She wandered slowly around waiting until the dog returned .She saw the tall man come onto the field and felt the hairs on her neck tingle. I'm frightened. Is he following me or is it coincidence he's going to the same place? She called the dog and quickly left the field. Sheila reached her house and turned the key in the front door.

"Help me," a voice whispered behind her.

She turned. It was the tall man. She screamed then Yelled, "What do you want?"

"I'll not hurt you. I come from Poland on bus. I am to stay with my Aunt" He gave her a piece of paper with a name and address on it She looked at it and gasped.

"This house is only two Streets away from here. I know the woman by sight but not her name. I'll take you there."

"I see no one to ask and don't know where to go so I follow you. I have job to drive bus"

Sheila took the young man to the house he was looking for. They knocked and an elderly woman opened the door. She hugged and kissed him.

"He is my sister's Grandson. I lived in Poland but met then married an English soldier after the war. I came to England in 1947 and have lived here for 50 years. I hope my grandson (as I think of him as I have no family) will like his job. He was a student but couldn't get a decent job so decided to come to England to learn the language and earn some money then maybe emigrate to Australia or America. He can stay with me as long as he wants as I'm alone since my husband died"

Sheila said "I was terrified when I kept seeing a tall man following me but it was fate. I hope he enjoys his life in England and his dreams come true. Pop in to see me anytime and keep me updated about him. It was nice to meet you."

Stella Rutherford.

_______________________________________ ____________________

Brigands demand your money or your life; women require both.

Samuel Butler.

_______________________________________ ____________________

DOON THE QUAYSIDE

Hiya Tiffany. Sharon here. Aa knaa, aa knaa, ye wor ganna give me a bell the neet burra thowt ye'd got ya knickers in such a twist aboot Bernard that aa'd berra put ye oot o' ya misery as soon as aa could. Oh stop whingein' on aboot iz betrayin' ye an' shurrup an' listen 'cos aa've been on your side aall the time an' aa just wanted to put me knee in 'is groin for ye. Innit?

Eftor aa hord hoo 'e tret ye, aa thowt, This crocodile wants 'is teeth pullin' oot sharpish. So aa put me brains in ti steep an' aa comes up wi' a cunnin' plan, just like Tornip oot o' Blackadder. Not Tornip? Paul Drake? Ner, he was Perry Mason's sidekick. No'e wasn't, that was Delia Street. What are you on about Tiffany? Baldrick? Oh, aye aa see where ya comin' from noo. Anyhow, aa thowt, Aa 'II gan oot win 'im an' lead 'im on an' then when 'e's defences is doon aa 'II put the boot in. Burr it might tek a couple o' neets.

Why, things fell oot perfect. Innit? A fortneet ago aa happened ti be standin' next tiv 'im in the queue at MacGuires waitin' for me Kebab Geordie Delight - accidentally on porpose, if ye get me drift. Aa smiles at 'im an says, 'Aa hearya not gannin' oot wi' Tiffany nee more.'

'Ner,' he says, 'She's a bit rough for me. Aa 'm lookin' ti gan upmarket a bit in that department.'

'Aa knaa exackly what ye mean, aa says.'

Calm doon Tiffany. Aa didn't mean it like that. Nee way wad aa think ye was as rough as a badger's *rse - why, a waddn't say it oot lood though but. Just teasin'. Aa was just softenin' 'im up afore aa went in for the kill. So aa flutters me eyebrows at 'im an' smiles provocatationally. Innit? Aa says, 'Ye mean somebody like me!' Why aa had 'im hooked stright away. Taalk aboot tekkin' candy off kids. The upshot was we arranged ti gan ti the pictures at the Metrocentre the next neet.

Why, aa met 'im ootside Wetherspoons an' aa must say this for 'im, 'e was wearin' a cannylike suit but 'e canna dee nowt aboot them aaful tattoos. 'E was aall blinged up as usual an' stinkin' o' Brut or Lynx or some aaful cheap scent. We went in the pub an' sank a couple o' pints while we decided what picture we were ganna see. 'E said 'e hord aboot a goodun caalled 'Wee Rogered the Rabbit?' Typical. 'E thowt it was aboot animal sex so aa had ti enlighten 'im that it was caalled 'Who Killed Roger Rabbit?' an' it was a morder mystery an' anyway it was lang gone.

Ti curra lang story short we went doon ti see the latest Harry Potter one. Aa med sure aa gorra bucket o' popcorn oot ov 'im an' aa'd prepared mesel' for the wanderin' hands approach by wearin' me thick jeans an' a big sweater ti keep 'im at bay. Innit? Aa lerrim tek iz yem though an' aa give 'im a birrov a snog ti keep 'im bitin'. No, no, aa didn't enjoy it one little bit. Why, mebbe just a little bit. Aa'm teasin' ye again Tiffany. Anyhow the next day was Friday an' we decided ti gan doon the Quayside. Me plan was developin' nicely.

Aa met 'im at the bus stop this time an' aa had me shortest miniskort on. Ye knaa, the one ye call a belt. Aa put me fishnet tights on an' aall an' a low-cut blooze that left nowt ti the imagination. Why ye should a' seen 'im slaverin'. Innit? Aa canna really blame 'im eftor the iron maiden costume an' tin knickers aa had on the neet afore. 'E must a' thowt aall 'is borthdays had come at once. Oh, an' most important, aa was swankin' wi' me cheap plastic Gucci handbag. No, Tiffany, no, no, no. Aa wasn't enjoyin' mesel' at aall. Aa was sacrificin' mesel' for your benefit!

Anyhow, 'e wanted ti caall in at a few bars doon the Bigg Market hurra wanted ti get the Job ower as syun as possible so we went stright doon the Quayside an' into the Jug an' Joanna where ye said 'e humblifled ye. We gorra seat in the corner an' when 'e went ti the bar aa thowt aa could see the stain on the carpet where ye cowped ya boilie. 'E come back wi' a bottle o' Broon for 'esel' an' a Reed Bull for me. Aa wanted ti keep a clear heed so aa telt 'im it was ganna be a lang neet an aa was pacin' mesel'. Tiffany, what are you like? Aa said, pacin' mesel'. An' while waa on that subject - aa wondered hoo lang it was ganna be afore 'e went ti the gents'. Three pints aa reckoned. An' sure enough aa was reet. Aa peered ower me shoulder till 'ed gone. What are ye laughin' at, ye silly mare. Aa said, peered not peed aa'm not a bloody contortionist! Stop interruptin' an' listen. Aa dashed oot eftor 'im an' into the ladies'. Aa mussed up me hair, smudged me lipstick an' mascara an' tore me blooze reet off me shoulder. Aa dashed oot inti the lobby an' shooted, 'Aa've been attacked!' A bunch o' lads surrounded iz an aa telt them me attacker'd just gone inti the bog. They looked at iz an' at the bog door but couldn't mek their minds up what ti dee, so aa sobbed, 'E said 'e was a Sun 'lind supporter.' That done it. They were off like a swarm o' wappies. Bernard waddn't knaa what hit 'im. 'E must hev felt like Basil Brush eftor the hoonds gorrim, poor b*gger.

Me - aa dashed back inti the ladies', weshed me fyece, pulled a lang black dress, a blonde wig an' a pair o' shades oot o' me bag an' put them on. Then aa hung me bag on a hook near the mirror an stuck a big note on it that aa'd prepared orlier. Aa soond like that Connie Huq off Blue Peter. Diven't aa9 Innit? It said, 'Bernard never done it. I was just having a laugh.' Noo, Tiffany, diven't be vicious. Enough's enough. Aa didn't wan