A Salopian in Suffolk to paints and writes herself into existence …
I’m still here. And, still to come, is one more day of the day job.
To make thoughts of tomorrow more palatable, I imagine a look-after-themself-only type being situated on a Subbuteo pitch. A large forefinger and thumb descend from on high.
The ball bounces off the goal post, pinging back into a smug face.
Weeble, wobble, fall.
Gone.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019
Image from flickr.com (creative commons licensed).
Disclaimer: If you purchase a featured book, via the image links below, I will receive a commission from Waterstones at no extra cost to yourself.
Sorry Harper Collins, but I refuse to pander to the trend for non-capitalised titles, just as you refuse to pander to me – an old-school child of the seventies. It might have been a tad dull to be at an Aberdonian primary school that focused on the four Rs (reading, writing, arithmetic and religion), but I will be forever grateful to Miss Farrell for teaching me how to punctuate!
However, I ramble on, and its generally thought to be a good idea these days to focus on the plot of a novel, rather than the punctuation. So, as this is the year 2019 – here goes!
‘Time to Say Goodbye’ by S. D. Robertson does have a plot, and it makes a reasonable read if don’t have a lot of spare time and just want something quick and easy to read alongside your microwave meal; but I have to say that its not the first time, I’ve read about a ghost who’s torn between spending more time with his daughter on Earth, or taking the elevator up through a spot of bright light to Heaven!
It is, however, the first time I’ve read about a ghost going by the name of Curtis (Maura, are you cracking on with someone else already? Did you really have to bump Curtis off Loved-Up Island this soon?)!
But I do find it a little hard to get my living head around the references made by Curtis to his ‘mind’. Does a ghost, lacking in the skull to hold a brain in, have a mind? And, in Chapter 16, I spend an inordinate amount of time wondering how the ghost of Curtis, who can’t pass through closed doors, got himself into the empty back seat of his mum’s Audi. Seeing as his mum and sister got into the front, and are not aware of Curtis’ presence, then who opened a back door for him? That’s assuming it’s a five-door car – but, if it’s a three-door car, who lifted the front seat up for him to get into the back?
To make matters worse, whilst I’m distracted by this very serious issue, the author decides it’s time for the car to halt – at which point, Curtis crouches ‘into the gap between the two front seats, ready to make a fast exit’. His sister gets out of the car and with ‘practised precision’, Curtis rolls ‘out behind her’. This is infuriating. Why does the author go to such much bother explaining how Curtis got out, when no mention is made of how he (it) got in there in the first place?
Not that I want to pick the book apart any further, but I’m going to anyway, then how does Curtis’ father, in hospital after a serious stroke paralysing his right side, both hold and type into his mobile phone using just his left hand?
Still, it’s comforting to be told that there is, after all, life after death. And, whereas I can’t possibly over-look the other flaws in the plot, I’m more than happy to go along with this one. And, I’m rather pleased that entrance to Heaven isn’t barred to anyone who’s broken one or more of the ten commandments. God, in this case, isn’t at all phased by a respectable grandfather’s long-term-extra-marital affair, or by Curtis’ confession of the occasional infidelity during his wife’s pregnancy.
For anyone out there anxious about whether their nose-picking, burping or farting habits will knock them back at the pearly gates, then don’t quit. Just keep on going at it. There’s nothing to forgive. Up there – it’s a self-cleaning-free-for-all – anything goes! I’ve even heard that the spirits are partial to a little light entertainment from self-acclaimed-funny, middle-aged, and tutu-clad eccentrics.
Forget it God. I might be giving up the day job, but I’m a talented mid-lifer and I’m not going up anywhere! (Except perhaps en pointe, up the steps to the stage at The Royal Opera House, or the O2, or the …..)
Seriously, though (me, serious?), then this book is absolutely worth a read, in spite of my disparaging comments about the plot. It’s really lifted my spirits! (My reverie of giggles being nothing to do with the fact that I only have Two More Days left of the day job!)
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019
Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay
P.S. Sorry, S. D. Robertson, I haven’t been entirely honest with my readers. In actuality, your novel, complete with the spirit of Curtis, made an absolutely fantastic table-mat for my microwave meal. Unfortunately, since that occasion, I have learnt that it is bad luck to eat over the dead. In absolving the deceased of all his sins, the eater carries the burden on her own shoulders. Could this be why the ageing poet, Ricardo Scribblero, is still Jay Cool’s one and only blog follower?
Only two more days to go. Not that I’m wishing myself away – just the day job. In two days, step out of my workplace knowing that I will never have to step back in.
Not that I will be completely unfettered. The full unfettering won’t happen until the date of expiry. Not my expiry – I have a book (or two or three or more) to write, before I even consider my own expiry date – but until the official expiration of my slave contract. Until then, like Dobby, my creative functions will remain in servitude. Restricted.
Still, in two more days, the decoupling process will at least be in progress. What right have I to expect such things to be instant, when even with one’s own permission, it takes a person sixty days just to delete their own Microsoft account?
All things considered, then parting with an employer, or with Microsoft, is a lot like going to one’s local hairdressers and asking to have one’s own bank of dead cells dyed copper orange:
‘Copper?’
‘Yes, copper?’
‘That’s very bright!’
‘Yes, I know!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. I want to be copper!’
‘I know what to do. How about combining two colours? Light highlights on a rich brown base. You’d look great with the new camel colour we’ve just got in!’
Okay, I think – rich brown and camel doesn’t sound too bad, if it’s mixed in with the copper. But I really don’t want to be blonde.
‘Okay,’ I agree. ‘Keep the copper and put in some highlights!’
‘The camel?’
‘Do whatever you think!’
‘Great. This new colour will look great.’
Reluctantly, I allow myself to be possessed.
A couple of hours later, a freckle-faced bottle blonde emerges from the hairdressers. In the unlikely event that any members of the public focus on her head for more than half-a-second, they may just about make out some orange pinstripes.
I am someone else’s vision of blondeness; the voice of my orangeness shouting out to be heard. My me-ness has been dejuiced, turned into concentrate and sealed up inside a tin.
In the darkness, I wait.
But, I wait only until the tin starts to rust, before I seep out – unnoticed …
And, whilst attention is diverted, I reformulate.
A response to feedback offered by my one and only follower, Ricardo Scribblero, who politely questioned whether the generally introspective theme running through all of my written out(in)put, might be too much for some.
Let me introduce myself to you, ready for your
inspection,
ready to be gazed at by you –
through your blurred spectacles,
as I expect you will be quick to assess my prospects and
keen to clean up the
smears.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019
A response to the poem ‘On Clothes’, by Kahlil Gibran (as featured on poem-a-day).
If the ‘wind longs to play with’ my ‘hair’, let it flatten rather than flick and fly with all
that is split with it.
And, if ‘the earth delights to feel’ my ‘bare feet’, let it pumice and pummel all
of the crusty bits.
If the earth and the wind can sort me out, let it rip,
freely and unfettered, until, once again, I can
just be.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019
All quoted phrases from ‘On Clothes’ by Kahlil Gibran.
Image by Richard Duijnstee from Pixabay
“So, bone – are you a racist?”
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019
The edges of me have holes in.
Gaps in the fortifications, making it easier for you –
to ping your view of me, into the spaces, thinking to make your mark, but
I’ve played your table games before, in other places, with other players, and your
view of me, pings back, at you – making me happy with me.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019
In the middle, I stand, pushing down my insides,
is to be whooshed over and
over;
whooshed by the waves, emanating up from the soles of one’s feet;
tidal waves, quick and sudden; humongous waves that cross over one’s bowels, stomach
and heart, crushing them together into a
bouncing ball,
up and
churning it out
out of my throat and out , straight into the face of the mortal who stands there,
on the sand,
holding onto the the edge of the sea and
rippling it,
rippling it and still trying – desperately trying –
to shake
out any rough bits –
any bits that dance, or that ripple, with a little bit of their own.
Why ? thinks the mortal. Why bother with the mess, the blood and the gory bits –
the hanging, the drawing and the disembowelling,?
Why?
When all that is needed is a word, a phone call, an email – a nod of the head,
or
quite simply
and quite cleanly
a lie?
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019
Is it bad to be obedient, or
is that just a good person doing what they are told?
Why do good people do bad things to other good people?
Can a person be good if they have done a bad thing to another person,
knowing that the thing they have done is bad?
And does that ‘good’ person still believe themselves to be ‘good’, knowing that what they did to another was bad?
Does that ‘good’ person, who did a bad thing, pat themselves on the back and say:
Well done, mate! You did the right thing – you did what they told you to do – and, if you hadn’t done that thing, it would be you, who was now considered to be bad. Yes, you would be called bad by the people who count. Bad, by the people who have the power to order other good people to do those same bad things that you have done to other people, by their orders, to you.
Do they say that?
Or even think that?
Do the ‘good’ people, who do the bad things to the good, ever actually think about anything at all? Or do they just do?
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019
Image by mohamed Hassan from Pixabay
Disclaimer: This post contains an image link for a product to make you tingle. If you click through to Amazon and choose to purchase a lorry-load of the stuff, I will receive a mega-big commission at no extra cost to yourself.
Marvellous!
It’s Tap Time again, and our first comedian – Danny Marks – is donning the t-shirt of my dreams!
I like this t-shirt so much that I’m not going to bother revealing what’s up top to you. But, that’s okay because, judging by what Danny’s going on about, he’s already bared his all – in a ‘threesome’ that finished up just ‘three minutes ago in the gents’. Not entirely sure that I, Jay Cool, the discerning blogger, am convinced by his claims. The only visitors I’ve seen spurt forth from the ‘Toilets’, whilst I’ve been sitting here watching (a journalist (voyeur) learns a lot from the comings and goings of conveniences), have been John the Barman’s resident mutts. Still, I’m sure they were more than happy to bare up and stick their fangs in.
Seems like Danny’s not the only one with a fondness for ‘sausage and mash’, and hardly surprising (if Danny’s a regular visitor to the aforesaid gents) that his girlfriend prefers ‘carrots’ to what’s left of Danny’s ‘penis’!
Moving on … Oh, do I really have to? Was rather enjoying this vantage point.
But, next up’s Kathryn Mather!
Kathryn’s partial to doing the odd spot of carpentry, with a speciality for fixing commercial shelves and, for treats, in her break-times, she likes to indulge in lady’s mags – a perk of her job. Do you really have to share your latest freebie with us punters, Kathryn? I’m sure the old men here are enjoying it, but all that erotic stuff is not really me! What’s that? You wrote the accompanying text yourself? Well, that doesn’t really change anything, does it? This is a comedy club – not a sperm donation bank! What? You’re only reading from ‘‘That’s Life’? Yes, I know that, for some, that’s just life, and for others it’s only the start of their life, but really?
Fortunately, I get to ‘Take a Break’ from all of that naughty-mag stuff, when John the Barman, commandeers Catherine to fix some shelves down in the beer cellar.
But, before I can recover (or order another pint of mango cider) a fellow ginger going by the name of Geoffrey (alias. Oliver Neve) takes the stage.
I know I’m going to love his act. I mean, who wouldn’t love anything, funny or not, that is issued forth from anything that might possibly have a match with any of my own genetic material. Perhaps, like myself, this guy is a Great-Great-Many-Times-Great descendant of my old man Henry VIII. Certainly, the clues are all there. He’s already boasting about his many girlfriends: Becca, Rebecca, Becky, Becks and Beckles. Who’s going to be No. 6, I wonder? Bexy? Beckett? And, with a name like Cap’n Geoffrey Twiglet, will there even be a No.6? Is Geoff about to throw his royal lineage to the wind, and break with tradition, by allowing No. 6 to top herself, before he can do the dirty deed?
Geoff’s really quite hilarious, but my name’s Jay, not Rebeque, so I’m moving on to inspect the next man.
Clayton Harrison.
Clay, like his predecessor, has a touch of the ginger. I mean, just take a look at that gorgeous moustache! But the gorgeous all starts to turn grim, when Clay starts lecturing us about urinal etiquette. Seems a man can’t even shake and dry – he as to get his junk covered up sharp. Think yourself lucky, Clay – at least you don’t have to sit yourself down on the outcome of the previous tenant’s shake and dry! Just as well that in this place, John’s got a pair of mutts, who nip in and get their slobbery tongues around the bog seats before the next occupant takes charge!
And whilst I’m on the subject of Clay: Has anyone else noticed his resemblance to Fagin?
Have checked my pockets! Nothing’s missing. Still enough cash for the old mango stuff! Clay, get your gang to do the rounds! Louis Green’s on now. Sneak round the back of the gawping punter and get that charity bucket filled up! Louie can hold the crowd!
Louie’s soon got my attention with details of how to make home remedies for STDs. Seems that one can make use of: oatmeal, yogurt, coconut oil, tea tree oil, garlic, boric acid, apple cider vinegar .. Cider? Now we’re talking! But, seriously, why doesn’t he just use that ‘Deep Heat Rub’ cream? Nothing like a bit of hot chilli pepper to get one hopping around. And, once in party mode, Louie ‘ll be far too distracted to worry about a little itch!
And, if Deep Heat Rub’s too costly for you Louie (No, this is a charity gig – there’ll be no spare change!), then try out this alternative:
It comes highly recommended by a kindly gentleman customer of Superdrug, who, as I was browsing the shower gels, was considerate enough to inform me that (with a wink), if I went for the ‘lemon’ one, not to use it down below! I thanked him for for the helpful advice and immediately took a whole boxful of the stuff to the checkout!
Out of all the comedians this evening, Louie has invigorated my soul the most, so I, Jay Cool, present him with a three-star rating!
But nothing, nothing, has prepared me enough for the next act (s). Trish is from the U.S., and she’s brought her doting fans along with her to little old UK. Trish is funny enough but, when she gives her followers a chance with the mic, they totally slam her!
Aunt Agnes brings the house down with her puns about tweets, twats and Trump.
And Precious wows all the punters into sending her their dick flicks!
Trish, though, doesn’t miss a trick; she soon slams the lid on the traitorous pair, and reclaims the stage for herself.
Finally, the jokes stop coming at me for long enough, to strike while the iron is still hot. Hence, almost fed up with the old mango, I venture into Tutti Fruit cider territory. John, with his mutts in tow, nips into a backroom to crack open the barrel.
It’s cloudy yellow with a sharp bite and a pungent aroma. Fresh from the loo seat in the lady’s?
Mango cider! Where are you? Come back over here! Now!
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 