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Mango Bubbles
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A New Year Queue
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The Flood
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Christmas Meltdown
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| ‘Sleepy Sitter’ by Jay Cool |
How ’tis to be – by soft brush swiped with chocolate shades of Christmas; to feel one’s cheeks, once so milk-white, wiped out – by melted orange?
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, December 2018 Inspired by the poem ‘False but Beautiful’ by John Rolin Ridge.
Profit Clamping
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| ‘Empty Car Park’ image from Wikimedia.commons |
Ex policeman’s on his rounds,
prowling Aberystwyth’s grounds.
He’s sniffing through the inner zone;
he wants to catch you all alone.
Dare you break the madman’s rules?
Don’t you go and break his tools.
Better get your permit out –
save yourself without a shout!
If you want to be released,
you’ll need to find the golden fleece.
Go and clamp his best toy car –
bet his parts’ll drop afar!
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, Summer 1992
Source: This news article, brought back to mind a time when, as a student, my own car was clamped (during the holidays) for having the audacity to park in an ’empty’ car park which, unbeknown to me, was in a forbidden zone (designated specifically for the use of the non-present academic staff). This led me to retrieve and publish, the lyrics I wrote, at that time, as a vent for my fury.
Grunts and Glurks at The Tap
And yet another exciting, ripple-inducing comedy evening, hosted by our emcee, PJ!
PJ’s on a bit of a roll already, telling rip-roaring jokes about Europe, pensions and Brownies. Pretty sure that there’s a connection – somewhere – between this trio, but I’m a trifle distracted by the contortions of our emcee’s lips. Somehow the dipped-upper lip and the red jumper have merged into one (helped along by the hallucinatory effects of my usual pint of apple mould – Aspall’s in this case!), and this is all I can see is a beautiful-pink fish blowing bubbles at me:
Such a beauty, puckering up its heart-shaped lips, puts me in mind of the one true love of my life:
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| Available via Bing, labelled as Creative Commons Licensed |
The resemblance is really quite astonishing. What haven’t you told us, PJ? Still, judging by the next pic, there’s hope for you yet! Your lips could be your fortune! And, what’s more, you could pull in the birds, rather than having to grab at ’em!
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| Image from Wikipedia.commons |
But, enough of PJ of the great lips. This is Jay Cool, Suffolk Punch Comedy Club’s Blogger Extraordinaire! I’m here at The Brewery Tap in Sudbury, and I’m here with (not that kind of with!) Ollie! Who? None other than Ollie, the stand-up protegee of Colchester. I say stand-up, not in recognition of Ollie’s fast-growing popularity in the world of comedy, but as tribute to his unique asset. Ollie comes with his very own stand. Being the only comedian in East Anglia, to have webbed toes, he can keep upright, and keep going, for hours and hours … and hours.
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| Ollie from Colchester |
And what’s more, with the custom-made shoes Ollie’s kitted out with, his appendages almost look edible!
Once more, though, I am led to suspect that PJ, like his doppelgangers – Trump and Jagger – has been floating the boat out, spreading his oats far and wide. How else does he manage to pull in the favours, and get such reputable comedians at a moment’s notice?
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| ‘Rubber Duckie’ by DeviantArt.com |
Of course, an alternative explanation for the Ollie-PJ resemblance, could simply be that both have to stand up for hours on end in their day jobs, talking at people; Ollie as a teacher, and PJ as a Trainer at public-speaking workshops. I can just see the crowds baying for their attention:
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| ‘Toy Ducks’ from Pixabay.com |
There’s nothing quite like having an audience of one’s own making – an audience to die for!
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| ‘Dead Duck’ from Flickr.com |
This is great! I’ve already done away with PJ and Ollie, and I’ve managed it without even given away any of their jokes. Want to know more? Want to know why these comedians are worth quacking for? Come and see for yourselves! Come to our special New Year’s gig ‘The Revival of the Fittest’ (no puns about inbreeding intended)!
Moving on.
Jerry. Jerry from Essex! Seeing as he’s not associating himself with the late Ollie from Colchester, then I’m guessing that our Jerry’s from the darker depths of the county’s woodlands – Romford? Basildon? West Thurrock? Ikea? Regardless, then he’s a miserable sod, who fantasises about Stacey Dooley, whilst vlogging with God; aiming to go viral with a video diary about the riveting process of ark building with a flat pack – like I said, he’s from Ikea! I guess, if he uses the finished product to offer shelter to the homeless, he might even pull off a date with Stacey and, thanks be to God, give us a break for an evening!
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| Jerry. See what I mean? Miserable! |
Whilst Jerry’s off hot-dating with Stacey, we get a taste of Bethany from – Essex? I query the last point because, although she at some juncture in her set, claims to be a manhandling librarian from Romford, she also takes on a number of other personas, including, judging by her fixation with all things carpet-related, membership of the ‘munrung’ tribe from the land of Carpet!
With that mouth, though, and her claims to have captured dodgy gents in headlocks, I think she’s a dead ringer for ‘Fang’, the pet dog, of the munrung leader, Glurk!
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| ‘Glurk’ image labelled as ‘Creative Commons’ on a Bing search |
Violence aside (for now), I turn my attentions to the next comedian in this evening’s line-up – Dom Mackie!
Now, our Dom reckons he’s been mistaken for Sue Perkins, but I’m amazed that with all his hyperactive flailing around he manages to remain vaguely upright!
And for that reason alone, I henceforth nominate Dom Mackie is the one and only, original model of a Weebles Wobble:
‘Weeble Pirate’ image from Flickr.com
Either that, or he’s the spit of Daddy Pig!
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| ‘Daddy Pig’ image from DeviantArt.com |
Okay, Dom, you tell us you were bullied at school for having a ‘boring voice’, but think of all the little tots you’ve entertained with your grunts and snorts. And, let’s face it, looking around at the punters in The Brewery Tap, who are all roaring their cute little heads off, then the average mental age in this place, isn’t much higher. Sorry, PJ, I know you’ve gone all out to draw in the intellectually elite, but this is Sudbury – we’re all ‘p****d’ as ‘f***s’, on The Tap’s fine ales and ciders, and it’s just not happening. Dom’s turned us all into a hoard of screaming and screeching Reception sprogs, with weak bladders to match. And, right now all that’s on my mind, is whether I’ll last out until the end of Dom’s performance, before I have to spend a penny. Focus. I must focus; separate mind from bladder. But, Daddy Dom Pig reads my thoughts – and grabs a photo album from the Tap’s bookcase, taking great delight from a pic of the pre-renovation urinals. This is not helping. My bladder is now yelling at me and I’m hopping around from foot to foot. What it would be to be a gent, to avoid the queue for the single lady’s toilet cubicle, and nip into the men’s, whip it out and have done with?
Then, out of the sawdust inside my skull, an image emerges:
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| ‘Rolling Stone Urinals’ image labelled Creative Commons on Bing |
And I think that perhaps, after all, my bladder can hold on – for just a little longer.
But, with regards to Dom (and his closing pun), then at least we appreciate the poor ‘little thing’. When’s Dom Mackie back on the Billing, PJ?
PJ?
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| PJ making a run for it, down the gutters of East Hill! |
Come on, PJ – it might be 10pm and the end of your gig, but it’s not pub-chucking-out time yet – there’s really no need to swim off with all the punters!
Too late. We’ve lost him.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, Suffolk Punch Comedy Club’s Blogger Extraordinaire, December 2018.
If you want to see and hear our comedians for yourself, do visit The Brewery Tap, Sudbury, Suffolk: on the first Wednesday of every month – from 8-10pm. Free entry. All voluntary donations go towards prostate cancer research.
Day 6.3: Doomed in Dawley
It’s almost 4pm, and the day is over before it has begun. Over with a trip down Memory Lane to Telford’s Tesco store. Has my ancestral home of Dawley been subsumed by a supermarket’s bid to take over the world? I came to Shropshire to find traces of my Dawley DNA, and I’m here drinking substandard coffee in Tesco. Still, the DNA’s surely staring me in the face. Mother Cool is here with me, and some of Mother Cool’s ancestors were produced in Dawley. And Uncle Cool is here in the role of chauffeur!
“Well, the day’s nearly over!” remarks Mother Cool. “We’ll be off now!”
And my Dawley DNA is chauffeured away from me.
“Can we go back to our lodge in Myddle now? We’re bored!” complain the Sprogs.
“Yes, we’ll be on our way back soon!” I lie. “Pile back into the car!”
My own chauffeur chokes our Dacia back into existence. And we trawl on back through the busy highways of Telford.
“How much longer?” asks Sprog 2.
“Not long!” comes the second lie of the day.
“DAWLEY!” I screech. “That road sign says Dawley!”
The chauffeur groans, and knowing that there is no alternative but to follow my orders, turns in the direction of Dawley.
Dawley may have been eaten up by the new town of Telford. But, Dawley …
IS NOT DEAD!
And here is the evidence:
“Why are we stopping in this dump? I thought we were going back to the lodge! It’s dark and I’m hungry!” intercepts Sprog 3.
But, as I was saying … Here is the evidence:
But, I’m scared to be seen taking photographs of the monstrosity of the concrete block that looms over the parking space we’ve found. This is Universal Credit bedsit land. This is Dawley turned Telford, home of the Birmingham overspill. Still, I have plenty of ancestors in Birmingham. Whether this land still carries traces of the old Domesday settlement of Dawley or not, it will still be the home of some strands of my DNA.
“If you get out here, you’ll be mugged!” declares my chauffeur.
I get out. Why would any resident of Dawley mug their own DNA?
“Won’t be a moment!” I lie (third lie!).
Boldly, I step out. Boldly, I put one foot forward. Boldly, I venture around the corner, in search of a High Street. We are, after all, all of us – only one late mortgage payment away from Universal Credit.
I find the High Street – the hub of Dawley:
Dawley, Telford
It’s not yet five o’clock, so the shops are most likely still open, but it’s hard to tell. Darkness is closing in and the shutters are mostly down. What’s more, there’s not a single piece of my living DNA in sight (bar myself, of course). Quite frankly, the whole outlook is a bit spooky. I find my sense of reason. If nothing’s living; nothing can mug me. I’ll be fine. I hasten on up the High Street to beyond. And I’m not disappointed.
The view ahead is dreary, and I see no sign of any church. No grave-digging to be done here. I’ve been gone a long time (about five minutes). Wonder if the Sprogs and my Chaffeur are missing me?
Another snap, and I re-trace my footsteps.
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| Evidence that the gentry once lorded over the hoi polloi of Dawley! |
With my friendly Dacia in view, I linger a little longer to take some shots of a fine monument, with only small amounts of graffiti on its surface. I’m nervous about being seen taking a long-shot view, which might also encompass the concrete block of broken and boarded-up windows of bedsit land, so I go in for a more-subtle close-up shot:
And I enhance the whole with a long-shot, courtesy of a Creative Commons’ search on Google images:
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A view of Captain Webb’s water fountain taken
in 2010, in cleaner days! (Google CC image)
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My bravado now diminished, I take a look at the inscription – when back in my Dacia, snuggled up safely with my Motorola. And, I can’t believe it – Dawley was the home of Captain Matthew Webb, the first person to swim the English channel, minus a swimming aide. This man could well be another of my famous and great ancestors. I have the surname Webb in my family tree. And my Webbs were born and bred in Dawley-Magna. Could this swimmer be my cousin?
I think back to my own swimming career…
Second in swimming race in Felixstowe, Suffolk. Second at crossing the width of a primary school’s child-sized pool, aided by a polystyrene float. I recall the harsh words of my competitor – Jamie Ricicles – the one who came third.
“You cheated! I saw you put your feet down on the bottom of the pool! I’m going to tell!”
I said nothing. A wise decision, for little did he know, that I actually put my feet down three times!
He told.
But the teacher was busy.
I collected my badge – a blue badge for second place.
Matthew Webb? My cousin? Will have to check this out on Ancestry.com.
In the meantime, back in the Dacia, we proceed to stall our way away from Dawley and back to the highways of Telford.
“Stop! Turnaround!”
“What?”
“Turnaround, chauffeur! I’ve just spotted a sign for Dawley Cemetery!”
“Oh!”
The Dacia hops off down a side road into a remote and spooky location.
The Dacia stops.
“But, Mum!”
I get out.
“Won’t be a minute! Back in a jiffy!”
It is a bit scary, even scarier than Dawley’s high street, but I didn’t travel all the way from Suffolk to Shropshire, in a mis-firing 9 cc Dacia, not to see every last detail, every last remnant of my ancestral DNA.
And here it is:
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| Dawley graveyard |
Perhaps a dark and wet evening is not the best time to view the dead. But here I am, and I doubt there’ll be a second opportunity. I push forward:
Gateway to the Dawley Dead
It’s a bit squelchy underfoot, but nothing my New Look plimsolls can’t cope with. I tramp around in the quagmire. Things start to hot up when I locate some familiar surnames: Bailey, Webb and …
But, out of respect for my fellow-living descendants, I won’t mention all the names here – not until I’ve verified my own connections. I feel sad, though. Sad, that my ancestors are surrounded by some very dull modern-brick estate houses. Where is the church? Surely there was a church here once, wasn’t there? Was the church demolished to make way for Telford New Town? Was history destroyed in one fell swoop of a bulldozer’s wrecking ball? The back gardens of the surrounding houses are small, and edged close-up to the headstones of the Dawley dead. How much longer do my ancestors heads have, before they too are lopped off and bulldozed down to make way for another new housing estate?
My mind is made up. As soon as I return to Suffolk, I’ll be writing to Bovis, Wimpy Homes, Crest Nicholson, ……., etc. ‘For the protection of the deceased, all plans to build any more houses in Shropshire must cease … immediately!’
I’ve moved houses innumerable times, and given more than my fair share of business to every home builder that ever dared to breathe upon the planet Earth. They will listen to me! Won’t they?
“Mum, you were ages! We were scared! This place is haunted!”
“Well, I’m back now! I’m back, and we’re heading back to our holiday lodge in Myddle. Honest!”
Copyright of text and photographs (except where labelled otherwise) owned by Jay Cool
Who is Jay Cool, the Silly-Savvy Salopian?
Want to know more about Dawley?
Post-Humously Anonymous
Anon.
A wise choice of name for a teacher. Especially for a teacher who, in his spare time (what spare time?), parades around pretending to be a comedian.
A name that reeks of issues of disassociation with his true vocation as role-model for the young, as ‘surrogate parent’ for our nation of fatherless boys. Further hints of his discomfort with his paid profession, are revealed in his first joke. A joke about step-parents having less affection than biological parents for their charges, followed up with a retelling of a Bible story. Seems that Joseph and Jesus didn’t get on well, hence their attempted fusing of disparate genes in joint efforts over carpentry joints. Well, I’m sorry Anon, but our emcee PJ, isn’t up for paying you one single penny. So, best not give up the day job quite yet. But, not to worry – our PM, Theresa May, is introducing compulsory parenting classes for teachers. Pretty sure this’ll fix your bonding issues!
If any kids out there are wondering whether Anon is the teacher that ‘picks on them’, the one who lords it over them military-style, then I’ll give you a little clue to help with identification. First name rhymes with Anon, and his surname conjures up this image:
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A Certain Flower Festival (creative commons’ image from Flickr.com)
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And the great news is, that any reader who correctly identifies the first comedian in Suffolk Punch Comedy Club’s November line-up, gets free entry to our December gig! Just forward your best guess to PJ, via our Facebook page. Photo-shot of PJ coming up:
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| PJ, emcee of Suffolk Punch Comedy Club |
And, just to help you along, here’s the next clue:
ANON LOOKS IDENTICAL TO THE CHARACTER OF TWITTY IN EVEN STEVENS!
Still Anon’s classroom experience makes him ideally placed to bend down at the feet of his successor, comedian Danny Mac!
Our Mac’s struggling with his shoe laces, after his local Clarks’ shop ran out of trainers with Velcro-fastenings. Anon, get yourself down there, before Mac starts tripping himself up! Don’t hang around down there for too long, though, no time for any arse licking! Mac’s a little accident prone. Lost his last job, driving buses, after his ex got hit by a double-decker! I can see tomorrow’s headline now:
‘POPULAR TEACHER STRANGLED BY SHOE-LACE!’
Funny how, post-humously, the most-hated of teachers, are always the best!
Sadly, the sight of a mangled mess of Anon and Mac, on the once-pristine floorboards of The Brewery Tap, is too much for our third comedian – old John the traveller. In spite of having a weak stomach (clearly not a descendant of Elizabeth I), our John’s managed to set sail across choppy seas to experience Delhi belly and Turkey tummy. Even so, he’s ill-prepared for the takeover spot! Where’s the bar manager when he’s needed?
‘Oy, Barman, get yourself over here and clean up the vomit. Get the sand ‘n’ sawdust bucket out!’
‘What’s that you’re saying PJ? John is the Barman!? Time to step out of your comfort zone, PJ! Time to step up to the occasion. Vomit bucket needed! NOW!’
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| John, prior to his dodgy-belly days! |
Out with dodgy-belly John, and in with Big Dan from Ipswich. In his own words, our Dan’s ‘one pork-pie away from a heart attack’ and a sufferer of ‘toilet anxiety’. Little else is needed by way of summing up this particular lump, except that he’s saved from the aforesaid heart-attack by a pork-pie and beer induced squelching sound, and a run to the conveniences. He’ll be in there a while, as he tries to work out how to depart from his chosen cubicle, without every punter in the place photographing the perpetrator of the eggy toilet stench – evidently, he likes the type of pork-pie with a golden egg shoved into the centre. His efforts are in vain. Here is the eggy-poo perpetrator:
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Notice the connection between Big Dan’s
egg-shaped shiny scalp, and the eggy-poo stench!
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Next up’s Dylan Dodds, and a plea for us to sign up to his campaign for inside-out dildos for men, to be available on the NHS.
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| DD (alias Dylan Dodds) |
Like the deceased Anon, DD’s not ready, yet, to be a father, and he stands in front of us mocking celebrities who name kids after awards. Personally, though. I’ve come to the conclusion that DD needs to put a dampener ASAP on his campaign, unless he wants a pint-sized kid, identifying as a gender-neutralising lump of plastic, going by the name of Dildo Baggins.
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| Dildo Baggins (alias Adam Bromley) |
Just as well, that Adam Bromley’s our headline act. But as the shorter-than-a-pepper-pot comic launches into a tirade about how his comedy works best without an audience, hence why he prefers his own front doorstep as a platform for his performances, the amateur genealogist in me cannot help but begin to speculate about any possible connections here. Surely Dylan Dodds isn’t old enough to be the father of …? Is he?
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, Suffolk Punch Comedy Club’s blogger extraordinaire!
Photographs by photographer extraordinaire Jay Cool (with the exception of ‘John’, who was stolen from The Brewery Tap’s Facebook page!).
If you have enjoyed reading my nonsense, please come and see our top-performing comedians for yourself, by joining the crowds at The Brewery Tap, East Hill, Sudbury, Suffolk, from 8pm, every first Wednesday of the month.
Existence
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| Image courtesy of Pixabay.com |
At night,
I dive into whirlpools,
slip-sliding and twizzling
round and down, round and down,
on pillow-seat into
the depths and
the coils
of my
mattress springs.
At night,
I spring into life,
into my real existence,
into my mortal world.
If my mother were to meet me
here,
would she know me?
At night, my toes grow deep
into myself, into
my roots.
By day,
I am nothing.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, November 2018
Inspired by ‘Self-Portrait as Semiramis’, by Mary Kim Arnold.
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 