Laughter. Ageless.

Something new and something old.

The old being, as rip-roaringly, stitch-producing as always. Because nothing doubles up the punters more than a monthly dose of the usual. Everyone knows that the same-old jokes become even funnier in the retelling. Why else do we fail to switch channels when the same-old episodes of The Big-Bang Theory are replayed on our TVs over and over? And why do little and big kids the world over, laugh over and over, every time Spot peers out from every other page of the universal Lift-the-Well-Worn-Flap book?

And so it is when we are treated time and time again to the old classics:

Louie Green – Emcee & Comedian

Louie Green, the Emcee, with his gift for drawing in the disinterested. So successful is he, on this fine evening, with his dazzling wit, that he even wakes up the dozing old ladies among us, and in doing so, narrowly avoids being signed up as a participant in some local lady`s Morris dancing league.

Adam Bromley, an old familiar with a fresh new look. He arrived looking furtive but intact. The blessing of a face-mask, on his train journey over, gave him a narrow escape from a repeat encounter with his regular mob of celebrity hunters; each and every one of his deluded fans, obsessed with snatching a piece of whatever it is that keeps his doppelganger, Elijah Wood, the Bilbo Baggins actor, looking forever youthful! But, be he intact, or not, Adam is still able to churn up a few of the old jokes, a few of the old familiars, as well as throwing into the cauldron something of the fresh and new. Within seconds of taking the stage, Adam has the punters delving deep into their coat pockets, desperate to re-cover their ugly mugs, due to his astute observations about the self-improvement benefits of a face mask.

Spot the difference!

Elijah Wood – Actor Adam Bromley – Comedian

With Louie and Adam as regular pop-ups to the comedy scene, the punters of The Brewery Tap are happy enough, but nothing can stay the same forever. Times move on and our looks (cheers, Adam!) begin to fade.

Which is why the old and weary need to slow things down a bit and welcome in a pit-stop. A pit-stop in the form of our mid-way comedian, Steve Whittaker.

Steve Whittaker – Midlife Comedian

Steve`s sense of social responsibility soon becomes overwhelming, as generous to a tee, he invites everyone to step through his wardrobe and into the Land of Mid-Life. A land that turns out to be populated with birdwatchers and dog-walkers, wading their way through a pool full of bo***cks. Fatballs, mothballs, castrated-balls, frustrated balls.

And lots and lots of shrivelled-up balls.

But nothing plumps up and rejuvenates the skin more than a change.

Gareth Neale.

Gareth Neale – Parent of Toddlers

A change being better than a pit-stop. Ignoring the fact that most of us want to peel off the years, the desperate Gareth`s all for speeding ahead and diving straight into his predecessor`s open wardrobe; he`s happy to trade in his virility – if it means swapping parenthood for the relative calm of pet ownership.

With Gareth gone, the punters are still going. On and on. Up and up. Over and over.

More laughs required.

A fortuitous welcome to Suffolk Punch Comedy newbies: Victoria Shortley and Simon Hall.

Victoria Shortley – Menopausal Comedian

The New Vic perspires her way through joke after joke, hoping to shed off so much body mass she can shrink back into a pair of pre-lockdown denims. Over and over she cracks puns about how she`s contracted the royal sweating virus. But such claims fall short of the credible for an audience confronted with the epitome of all things menopausal.

Turns out that New Vic is aka Old Vic!

And that in itself, is enough turn up the heat as a bunch of ageing punters carry on laughing. Over and over and over.

Someone turn the volume down, please!

But all is not lost; the last-remaining viable egg cracks open and out comes newbie fledgling Simon.

Simon Hall – The Silent Comedian

So shell-shocked is Simon that he`s speechless; a trait not usually an asset for a wannabe comedian. But he looks so pale, gangly and awkward that when he shows dexterity enough to peel a banana, the volume-control goes awol!

Rejuvenated, the crazy-old punters rise up, as if one person, each one clambering on top of, over and in front of the next, in a bid to be first in the queue for a signed copy of The Silent Comedian`s Big Book of Jokes.

New chart-toppers. Surprisingly good.

And old classics. Predictably funny.

Lots and lots of ageless laughter. Over and over. On and on …

Copyright of text and photographs (excepting the Elijah Wood pic!) owned by the freelance creative, Jay Cool.

For the full 20 Years Younger experience, please welcome in a new year by stepping into The Brewery Tap, East Street, Sudbury, on Wednesday 12th January, 2022. Gig, courtesy of Suffolk Punch Comedy Club, begins at 8pm. Free entry. Donations, in support of research into prostate cancer, always welcome.

Sheridan Meets Bickles at Sudbury`s Brewery Tap!

Mega-excited to be back at The Tap for a booster by Bickles!

True, it’s not the kind of booster to protect me from Covid’s winter rage, or even from the flu. But a giggle with Bickles, after such a long period of deprivation from live comedy, is guaranteed to be a darn-sight more effective than this morning’s Vitamin D pill.

Okay, so I’m somewhat late – not my fault – no-one dropped by my art studio (shed) to tell me Lockdown was over! It`s all Grayson Perry`s fault; thanks to him, I hooked up with a paintbrush way back in April 2020 and have been stuck-fast to my easel ever since. This is what happens when `make-do and mend`is made a la mode by by a clever revamp.

Upcycling, they call it!

Mixing up the contents of one’s garage and kitchen had to be more environmentally-friendly (and considerably cheaper) than ordering in a Daley-Rowney set of gouache paints from Amazon. How was I to know that combining my food colourants with magnolia emulsion and multi-purpose silicon was a bad idea?

Whatever. I’m here now.

As is my easel. And as is Trevor Bickles.

Trevor Bickles – Comedian

And I’m in just enough time to guffaw loudly at Trevor’s jokes about Daniel Craig, Todd Hardy and Shamima Begum. But ee bah gum, not sure what connection, if any, he’s just made between these three, as I missed the preamble, but whatever it was or wasn’t, I know it was and is very funny – everyone else is laughing, so whether I’m stuck at the tail-end with my own pun, or not, I see no reason why I shouldn’t join in!

And, before long, exorcists, guinea-pigs in snoods and Superhero dads are all given the Bickles’ treatment, but nothing tickles the fancy of the old regulars more than the grand finale, when our stand-up finishes himself off with some kind of an unseemly fantasy involving his partner and Sheridan Smith! More of a let down, if you ask me (you didn’t? oh well!); I mean what ‘s wrong with sticking to the tried-and-tested ways of old, when gags always ended in the same way they began?

Daniel Craig?

Moving on. And swiftly.

Buble? Is it really Michael Buble? Here, at The Brewery Tap?

Jake – Comedian

But I stand corrected. Seems that this is not Michael Buble or, indeed, any other Buble – and this guy, Jake somebody-or-other, is by far the more famous in this part of the King (Queen?)dom. Okay, so he probably can’t sing (no offence, Jake), but to give him due credit, he’s cracking on with the jokes. To be fair, then he’s got little choice but to try and make something of himself on the comedy circuit, having turned down a teaching career. Seems he read some headline about a London school being taken over by a bunch of feral kids. And which school would that be Jake?

Surely British kids are as feral as feral can be, wherever they be? Something to do with feckless parentage, as in confused parentage, with so many of them (if your predecessor, Bickles, is to be believed), claiming to have DNA connections with the Smith family. And all of them, dead ringers for Trevor’s hot favourite – Sheridan!

Still, in spite of a highly-entertaining rant about the state of our schools, Jake ends his set with a ‘proud to be British’ declaration. Odd or what? Claims that Britain has the best buildings. Personally speaking, I’m not entirely convinced. Take a look at this report! And, if you don’t count the source as being credible, how about this? News without bias. And, even the most iconic buildings of them all are of such shabby construction that they appear to require essential makeovers of a most frequent nature, just to remain habitable:

11 Downing Street

Frogmore Cottage

Buckingham Palace

Oh, what it means to be British!

But here I must leave Jake to dream on about all that is best and British, as he mistakes an abandoned KFC takeaway box for a hat from Christy’s of London, as I haven’t even reached this evening’s halfway point yet!

As always, I’m too busy trying to shoehorn in my own witticisms (all responses to which will be heavily censored), instead of blogging about the subjects to which I’ve been commissioned. **

And I still have Danny Mark and Louie Green on my itinerary – not to mention the new kid on the block – up and coming compere, Matt!

Sadly, just blogging about Trevor and Jake, has already consumed all of my creative juices for today.

It’s the interval and I haven’t partaken of my favourite mango cider, since before the first whiff of a virus,*** so I’m heading off for a chat with barman Johnny.

*Warning – Do not try this at home, with or without parental supervision! Please note that the author failed to secure a qualification in Chemistry, with very good reason.

** Please note that tonight’s gig is a charity event. My payment comes in the form of laughter rather than cash. Unfortunately.

*** That’s a lie. Just finished the first pint.

Keep A Grip

Gas prices rise.

Keep a grip.

Income Support dips.

Keep a grip.

One for the price of two.

Keep a grip.

Profits drop.

Pubs shut.

Empty shelves.

Employment hit.

But keep that grip,

says Boris.


Copyright owned by Jay Cool

Image by mohamed Hassan from Pixabay


P.S. Out of politeness, I decided against the alternative ending of ... keep that grip, says Boris` ***t.

Nasty Beets

A zillion jumping beetles, with some flair,

play dodgems, and they do not care,

`bout who did plant such seeds that grew.


That grew and grew `til leaves anew

tiered up and out as if they could

be stands held out –

as if they should


be hosts to louts that leap about,

that crash through


that care`bout nowt.


Copyright of text and image owned by Jay Cool, 19th September, 2021


Spent a happy few hours colouring in this drawing, inspired by Sunday evening`s #LifeDrawingLive – the BBC art show presented by Joe Lycett. I never got the attraction of colouring books, in which the consumer takes pleasure out of colouring in drawings and patterns produced by someone else. But adding the colour to my own creations is mega-mega therapeutic. Cheers to Joe Lycett!

Copyright of images owned by Jay Cool, Monday 13th September, 2021














Jumping Flea Beetles

So much for a lie-in.

I`m wide awake at 6.40am, unable to return to my slumbers for fear of the multitudes of little menaces that might, during the night, have taken advantage of my absence to get stuck in. I can see them now, tucking into their third or fourth breakfast of the most tasty of my once-beautiful nasturtiums. They must be stopped.

Before the kettle is given any opportunity to partake in my usual morning ritual – coffee followed by more coffee – I`m miraculously teleported from my bed into the world beyond.

My left hand steadies me by taking hold of a fence post, whilst my eyes focus, and my right hand, clutching its weapon, takes aim.


Wheeeeeeeee …..! screeches the first little speck.

Wheeeeeeeee …..! screeches the second.

Not meeeeeeeee …..! taunts a third. I`m staying put, right where I am, in the very heart of this incredibly succulent nasturtium bud.

“Think again!” I shout, as I nip said bud off its stem, complete with inhabitant, and proceed to deposit it on my compost heap.

Returning to inspect the battlefield, I find the first two specks, far from having the decency to at least play at being dead, still very much alive. Still very much alive and – albeit on a different flower-head – still breakfasting. Breakfasting, and now in the company of others.

Ha! mocks the first.

Tee-heeeeeeee …..! giggles the second.

Can`t get rid of us! rejoins the first.

But thanks for the free lift, anyways! whoops the other.

“Like a good tidal wave, do you?” I challenge. “Well here comes another and another and another. And this one`s for your friend.”


“And this one, for the other.”


“Not so clever now, are you?



And I keep hopping around, trigger-happy and determined. Obstinate.



Something`s underfoot. Under my foot. Probably a squished green gage. Time for a quick inspection of the ground troops.


Real crap.


The soapy solution in my water dispenser is redeployed, diverted away from the battlefield to the sole of my right boot. WHAM, BHAM, CRAP!

Cat crap.

A neighbour`s cat`s crap, stuck to the bottom of my right boot, obstinate, refusing to shift. A cat`s stinking crap, laughing at me.

Calling a temporary surrender, but by no means defeated by the opposition, I pull at the lace and kick my boot off, aiming it at a hole in the fence I share with a cat-loving neighbour. But it turns out it`s with good reason my childhood self never made it onto any sports team, be it basketball, netball, football, or any other that involved goal-scoring. Bouncing off a fence post, some inches off target, my crappy boot decided, if it was going to go it all alone and legless, it would take up residence amidst my strawberry plants, rather than take any chances by passing through into an unknown beyond.

So be it. Let nature do its worst. With any luck, the retreating specks will leap off the nasturtiums, try to take cover in the bed of strawberry plants, and get stuck – forever – to my crappy-right boot.

As for me, it`s left-foot forward. And –


Back in that I really need to take back control of my life, to get that kettle to boil, to get the day started off properly with a couple of coffees. The caffeine does its best and I stand at the kitchen window surveying the garden. From this distance, the nasturtiums look quite fine and healthy again ……. wine-red, citrus-orange and golden-yellow, spicy-sweet bonbons, beach balls, all breezing around upon a sea of nutritious-green-soap bubbles.

Shame about the all-too-familiar stench that seems to be hanging around my person. Should my left boot, too, have been kicked into oblivion, or at the very least, abandoned at the door? I lift up my left foot, still booted and, fortunately, still reasonably sanitary; but, in doing the examination, I notice that my usually fine and white (if somewhat thread-veined), left calf, is sporting a large patch of something yellow-ish brown …

It`s not a suntan; I`m a redhead and we don`t tan. Neither is it a spillage from a tube of burnt-umber paint; haven`t set foot (or calf) inside my art studio for weeks, and besides which, the last time I did, I was in my blue phase. And it isn`t a ….

Hang on –

Did I just happen to scratch my left calf with my right boot, before I kicked …..?

Indefinite surrender. Abdication.

Time for a shower.

Teeee …. Heeeee…. ! giggle the specks, still mocking and still multiplying. Still gathering in their troops. Still all settling themselves in upon my day-bed of golden nasturtiums. All of them, thousands of specks; all of them obstinate and ready for their sit-down protest. Each and every speck, stuck-in and ready for the fight-


All ready for the big tuck-in.


Copyright of text and photographs owned by Jay Cool, Saturday 11th September, 2021

Other posts by the freelance creative, Jay Cool, aka The Silly-Savvy Salopian:


Swan Takes A Stand



P.S. If, despite my sorry tale, you still wish to partake in your own war against an army of jumping-flea beetles, you could always try loading your spray bottle with a solution that is 5 parts water, to 2 parts rubbing alcohol and 1 part liquid soap, as detailed in The Farmer`s Almanac.

I left out the alcohol, as the only sort I possess is for drinking, rather than rubbing – and why waste good booze on woozing out a few beetles? It`s fair to say that washing-up/ liquid diluted with water, proved to be utterly ineffective, but at least I now have the means by which to console myself from a humiliating defeat. Whoever heard of a house cat, volunteering itself as decoy for a load of bugs?