Pedro

A link on another story site to the cartoon site ‘Scandinavian and the World has led me to this: https://satwcomic.com/multi-language I particularly liked this comment “I learned Quebecois in Canada, which is not the same as French, and Mexican Spanish in American schools. But, when I visit Europe, my Dutch friend has to change between Dutch, Flemish, French and German within a five hour drive. Within 20 hours of me, everyone speaks English. And of course, most Euros do, because English stalks other languages into dark alleys, clubs them over the head, and rifles their pockets for loose grammar. ”

For me it represents the can eerily kicking itself down the road (cue stabbing music from ‘Psycho’ or similar)., with no knowing where it will ever stop. One of those jokes that is too close to the mark to actually laugh at. The list of Youtube selections that came up for me after the clip finished included this from thirty plus years ago. It demonstrates the ambivalence that has always been there in the UK’s involvement with the European project.

You flatter me. I was never more than a cook - simple fare like steak pie, gammon and egg and chips (fries) with everything. It was twenty years ago before pub food started to go ‘bistro’ and now you do need a chef. Still, I have a couple of nice Bramleys - the British cooking apple - and some pork loin steaks so I shall give your recipe a try. It sounds good especially with the cinnamon in it. Thanks. Thread drift - don’t you just love it. Comparative definitions to recipe swapping in a few easy moves.

This has my vote. Apple juice is disgusting, even worse than the apples it is made from. There are only three thing apples are good for: apple pies, apple sauce to go with roast pork, and fermenting into (hard) cider , although in the latter case I would recommend steering well clear of scrumpy (see Bruin’s post above).

Is this a possibility? http://iomfats.org/storyshelf/hosted/ronyx/no-more-rainbows/01.html

I can easily imagine the last one being delivered by Dave Allen, an Irish comedian who used to be on UK tv back in the day. Definitely Irish humour. The others are more jokes at Irish expense

Wistful memories or maybe wistful memories or wishful thinking. Either way nicely put but I find the final tag leaves me with a feeling of ambiguity of motive in the narrator.

Sorry. I should have reported back sooner. I did manage to find Michael Duggan’s stories using the web archive, but no reason why they have been taken down. I haven’t done a rigorous analysis but I have the feeling some other authors might also have dropped from CRVboy’s listings - the index looks shorter than it used to. Finally, the story I was looking for was actually Wyatt’s Thanksgiving by David Lee. Some of his stories are on Castle Roland and IOMFATS, but the bulk of his ouvres are on Nifty.

Of Holly and Ivy. A Tale for the Christmas Season By Pedro Sat round the brass topped table I talk and talk with my friend Mabel Of places, people, life and plants (For she is a gardener most able) The subjects roam from Southern France And gifts we’ll get from maiden aunts Then it seems it’s shrubs and trees And I just know it is not chance For Mabel’s smile is such a tease As something she behind me sees And me to turn is impolite Oh come on, Mabel. Tell me please. She tells how Holly stands upright But bristles with those pricks of spite. Of how Ivy climbs and clings Smoth’ring all, embracing tight. I’ve never reasoned why one sings That Holly, or is it Ivy, brings Goodwill at time of Christmas cheer To me ‘tis one of life’s odd things. But Mabel’s tale is then made clear: Two yobbos full of festive beer And looking for a boozer’s fight Call out loud that someones queer. Ivy holds one in a Nelson tight As Holly puts out the other’s light (Her left hook the stuff of fable) And both yobs thrown out into night. ******************

I am indebted to Joe for this succinct commentary:

I was looking for a story that I thought was over on CRVboy. When my initial search drew a blank, I thought it might have been one of Michael Duggan’s but now find all of his stories are missing from the site. Does anyone know what has happened? Or how to contact CRVboy to ask as I cannot find any contact details. Thanks

Don’t bet your house on it. I was watching A program on CNN earlier about the dirty tricks the Militant Tendancy in the Republican party are using the try and rig the outcome of elections. Gerrymandering and all kinds of vote surpression techniques. Presumably the disenfranchised are taxpayers. What happened to ‘No taxation without representation’ or was that just a convenient slogan to pay lip-service to until you got your own way?

Briun, wonderful stuff as we have come to except from you! I had a good laugh at the trigger for the reveal - not enought to piss myself thankfully.

Now up to chapter thirteen and things are cooking nicely , getting this reader hungry for more. There is one story thread simmering on the backburner while more immediate concerns affecting our friends, old and new, are coming to the boil at the front. Most of the nosey people at the party know not to spoil things by looking but a gatecrasher has arrived with his wooden spoon and lifted the lid.... There is no significance in my choice of metaphor, but it does allow me to offer my compliments to the chef!

Thanks guys, I’m pleased you enjoyed it. Never having had much dealing with kids of any age since I was one myself, I find small kids, past the puke, piss and poop stage, can be fascinating to watch as they interact with their surroundings. But it was the sense of the inevitable that got me when I saw his name, Lucas, written on the side of his drink bottle.

Pedro has been on vacation in the US. Like Peter in his story 'The Tourist' he has been indulging his interest in railroads. Also like Peter, he met someone called Lucas: Lucas ........... A boyhood interest the same, In the railroad car you came Sat opposite to share the ride, It was foretold I’d meet your name. Not shy, no wanting face to hide Along the seat made impish slide And ‘til closed on safety grounds Too far through window leaning tried. Delight at all the railroad sounds Your curiosity knows no bounds And as you ate your picnic food Emotion in my heart compounds Because your table manners crude, Which really could be said most rude, Amuse me so that we both smile As I drink my coffee stewed. At times the other watch awhile And find no sign of risk or guile And times we look and watch the view So bond with every passing mile. And then you touch me with your shoe So footsie I would play with you But romance is not the game For you, my friend, are only two. ……………………………………. © copyright pedro October 2018

At the barbers the word used is ‘for’.

Official Announcement It was announced today that they are changing the National Flag to a CONDOM because it more accurately reflects the Government’s political stance. A Condom allows inflation, halts production, destroys the next generation, protects a bunch of pricks and gives you a sense of security while you are actually being screwed. It cannot get more accurate than that.

Absolutely delightful. The interplay between the boys is so well drawn and very clever the way the introduction of the key word kept its impact toned down.

Thanks, Gee. I enjoyed your story too. Anyone else coming to the fete?

Mamihlapinatapai By Pedro pedro@awesomedude.com A tale from a strange and far off place, which has oftimes been mistook for some hidden dale in the high Pennines of Yorkshire. ______________________________________ Happen, at thirteen wee Georgie were physically well on his way to manhood. Indeed them as had seen Georgie and t’other boys from village skinny dipping in t'lake behind the Big House could have telled thee, there were nowt wee about him no more. Emotionally things was different. Although he were no cry baby, he would still run for his ma if he were upset by summat and gabble at her nineteen to dozen until she calmed him enough to slow down so as she could understand what were wrong. The mean minded old biddies of the village would whisper in their gossip that Georgie were nobbut nineteen and six in pound and would ne’er grow up nor amount to much. Them as knew Georgie, knew better. He might appear dim but somehow Georgie allus got what Georgie wanted no matter who he asked it off. Mebee a better life skill than any bookish learning. Not that he were spoiled: his parents had no brass to spoil him wi’ even if they wanted. Now, like all o’t’village, they were of opinion that a boy should have a pet: to learn what keeping a pet learns a boy. So some years ago Georgie, whose nature was to be different, set his heart on having a pet rabbit. Not a proper pet for boy thought his father, which should be a dog if you could afford it, which they couldn’t, or a ferret which they could and ferrets could be used for catching rabbits. Georgie got a rabbit kitten which cost his father nowt ‘cos it were a feral orphan, it’s mother having found her way into the family’s cooking pot, and if Georgie lost interest in keeping the kit, it too could find its way to table. But Georgie didn’t lose interest in his pet. He diligently saw to its needs: feeding it and regularly changing the bedding in its hutch, which his father had made for him as his ma weren’t having no rabbit running round in t’house. Georgie worked his magic on the animal and soon had it tame enough to handle and groom, summat not easily done with a feral kit. It had cost Georgie a few painful nips, but no more than he would have had from a ferret. His father was sufficiently impressed with Georgie’s efforts that when he suggested his pet needed another rabbit to keep it company, he was happy to find another orphan kit for Georgie. Of course with two rabbits, it weren’t long before Georgie caught ’em doing what rabbits do and his father had to explain that one mun be male and one mun be female. The now tame rabbits were upended so as Georgie could see the difference in their anatomy. Living in a rural community Georgie already had some idea from watching the beasts and pigs and sheep in the fields around the village. Georgie also knew some of these animals were sold for slaughter to bring money into the village and put food on peoples’ plates. So when t’ litter arrived a few weeks later, he weren’t surprised to get a talk from his father on animal husbandry and how rabbits was bred for market before townsfolk had gotten squeamish about eatting ’em. “The breeders would geld t’ bucks,” his father had said. “It helped ’em put on mooar weight, and also made ’em less aggressive. Some used to call the geldings ‘lapins’, from the French. If tha’ doesn’t want to breed from ’em, tha’ should geld t’ bucks when big enough. Ah can tell thee how to do’un.” Since the doe were soon pregnant again, Georgie reckoned it were also a good idea to geld all bar one of t’ bucks to stop being o’er run wi’ rabbits. To keep bucks apart from does, Georgie helped his father build a second hutch for t’ bucks. To help keep numbers down, oftimes Georgie’s father would say that a fox had gotten into one o’ the hutches and killed a rabbit, usually a doe, and the family would have rabbit pie for supper those nights. Georgie were getting suspicious that the fox were actually his dad ­- which it were - when he happened to see a fox lookin’ in t’doe hutch and one of rabbits drop dead from fright. By a quirk of genetics, one of the litters produced a buck rabbit that were all black instead of usual grey wi’ brown ticking. Georgie wanted to know how that happened. It got him another talk from his father, this time about blood lines and why it weren’t a good idea to mate it with any of Georgie’s does which were all its sisters and half-sisters. It were agreed it would be gelded along with t’other bucks. His black buck growed into a fine specimen and Georgie spent extra care on him and trained him to be used to being out of the hutch and to follow him around. In fact Georgie lost interest in his other rabbits. Not to the point of neglect mind, but to where he no longer wanted to breed from ’em and was no longer upset by the predations of the fox or his father. So by the time Georgie was thirteen he were down to t’ black buck and a couple of does. Every year the village held a fete on t’green. There were no fixed date: it were allus held on first dry day in August which meant it were oftimes held toward end of September. In spite of its impromptu nature, it were a grand affair, well a grand affair for t’village, with competitions for best home-made cakes and jams or home grown vegetables. There were livestock classes for local farmers and small holders and a pet show for under-fifteens. All-comers would bring a picnic and spread themselves around spare areas of the green, enjoying the day. Sir Henry from the Big House would lay on a barrel of beer for all his tenants and workers. Georgie decided to enter the black buck in the pet show. It were now about fourteen month old. He groomed it to look its best. His father told him not to be disappointed if he didn’t win. Sir Henry would be judging and Sir Henry were a dog man. A dog, usually a gun dog, had won every year since Sir Henry had taken over judging from his late father. The surprise was that Sir Henry did not do the judging. He thought somebody nearer the contestants’ age should judge and handed over the job to his son Thomas. Thomas were also thirteen, but not quite as far through puberty as Georgie. He were however emotionally more mature and self-assured. Serving time at a second tier boarding school had given him that confidence. Georgie had seen Thomas in the village when he were not away at school, but although he thought he would like to know more about the boy it was not his place to start a conversation with someone from the Big House. Similarly Thomas had seen Georgie around but had lacked some excuse for talking to him. They had shared looks before as though wanting to start something, but now Thomas had a chance to talk, a very good chance. Thomas took his judging seriously, and asked meaningful questions of each contestant and inspecting the pets carefully. He spent the longest time talking with Georgie about his rabbit, inspecting not just the animal but Georgie as well. So long that Sir Henry, who was there just in case, had to cough discreetly to get Thomas to move on to the next pet. The buck won Georgie a commendation for best rabbit, but didn’t win the overall prize. That went, not to a dog, but to a nicely turned out and obviously well-kept ferret with unusual markings. Sir Henry was heard to mutter something about ‘choosing a bloody ferret over all those lovely dogs.’ Georgie and his rabbit were headin’ for where his parents were sat, when he was intercepted by Thomas. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give the prize to your beautiful sable buck,” he said to Georgie. “I would have been accused of favouritism. I used to keep rabbits myself before I was sent away to school.” “That’s alreet,” replied an uncharacteristically bashful Georgie. “It were a grand ferret what you chose.” Thomas suggested they sit down and they fell into talking abaht rabbits, but it were one of those talkings punctuated by long pauses where each were thinking t’same and it weren’t abaht rabbits. They were disturbed by a loud shout from the man of the family picnicking next to where they was sat. “Get away from them pies you thieving black boogger.” The boys looked round to see the sable with the remains of a small pie in its forepaws being brushed away from a plate of pies by back o’ the man’s hand. Georgie was starting to apologise to t’man and gather up his rabbit when it dropped dead from shock of being shouted at an’ cuffed. Upset, Georgie upped and ran for his ma. “Mamihlapinatapai,” he wailed to her as she took him into a comforting hug. “Anaman cuffeditanits deyd!” His ma calmed him enough to get him to repeat what he’d said only slower. “Oh Ma,” he said, “mi lapin ett some man’s pie, so ’ee cuffed it awa’ an’ now its deyd.” By now Thomas had mollified t’man as had shouted at the rabbit o’er his lost pie - cheese an’ spinach it were - picked up the corpse and found Georgie and his ma in t’ throng. Thomas was able to reassure Georgie that the man had meant his rabbit no harm, an’ these things happen to rabbits if they gets o’er stressed an’ the fete would have been stressful. For them as were watching they would have seen that by time Thomas had finished talking he were holding Georgie by the hand and were leading him off to bury the corpse in t’garden behind Georgie’s cottage. Georgie’s father were thinking it were a waste of a good rabbit, but Ma told ’im not to say owt. There were still the two does. From that day on, whenever Thomas weren’t away at school, he and Georgie would oftimes be together. The biddies would say in their gossip that Georgie were different, and Thomas, being from Big House, were different from ordinary folk by definition. If they were being different together they weren’t disturbing other folk. Just how different they were was showed up when Thomas reached the age to take a wife to ensure the blood line. He found one with a friend who would make a wife for Georgie who by then had a job in the Big House. More than one maid was telled to keep her trap shut when she questioned why the two husbands shared one bedroom and the two wives another. Both men did their duty by the blood line – heir an’ spare - but the biddies had more to talk abaht when Thomas’ second looked like Georgie an’ Georgie’s second took after Thomas. An’ when Thomas inherited, Georgie became his chief steward. Not bad for a boy who was thought would ne’er amount to much. © copyright Pedro May 2018 Picture: Public Domain by Jastrow via French Wikipedia

Mike We all appreciate the care and effort that you put into running the site. You got the forums up and running again as soon as you could after realising there was a problem. I am sure we will all survive having to look at the default theme for however long it takes for IPS to come back with the upgrade to the normal Black/Orange/Grey theme. I guess I am saying -Don't beat yourself up over something you have no control over.

When the hood was removed, he could hear the slow strains of a Bach Air filling the room. The high back of a leather chair confronted him. Slowly, it turned to reveal its occupant. “Ah, Mr. Bond,” said Blofeld as he languidly stroked the white persian in his lap, “We meet again.”

Thank you for your kind words of approval. I have had a little email feedback that has asked to know more about what happens to Stephen and Van. You are the only one to ask about Sr. DeSilva. I am afraid that he is one of life’s enigmas.

Wonderful stuff. My favourite is ‘The synonym strolled into a tavern.’ Two more pub-crawlers to add to the list: The tautology walked into the bar-like tavern. An alliteration ambled into ‘The Bard’s Bar’, a bar in Bargoed, but was barred for barracking the barman.