A Salopian in Suffolk to paints and writes herself into existence …
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| Bluebearded Iris, courtesy of Pixabay.com |
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| My inspiration! |
Far from over.
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| Friendly Poo image courtesy of Pixabay.com |
Famous last words that have returned to haunt me. I, Jay Cool, am sitting here on the luxury loo in my ensuite at The Red Lion’s Lodge, faced with a stark (runny) reminder of yesterday’s indulgences at Ellesmere’s Asian Spice restaurant. Coriander, cumin and turmeric, smells that only yesterday drew me in to the finest eatery in Shropshire, today – are wafting under and out of a finely crafted door – threatening to turf Hubby and Sprogs out in record-fast time.
Okay, I get that you are thinking it’s not so respectful to be sharing my most momentous and private-morning moments with the rest of the planet, via Google’s Blogger. But, my friendlies – consider this! I, Jay Cool, Blogger Extraordinaire, am simply acting out the stories that are written into my DNA, the stories that run through my veins, my heart and – my bowels.
And something special is needed to splutter-start the action, Because today, I visit Shrewsbury – the capital city of the world! And today, I pay my respects to Sir Robert Clive (my 7th cousin, 6 times removed) (1). And I, Jay Cool, am ready.
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In view of Clive’s decorative-hat habits, and out of
respect for his de-hatted victims, I have obliterated the top of Clive’s head! |
Yes, cousin Clive and I have a very special connection where faeces is concerned. And, whilst I’m still sitting here, whiling away the time on this very comfortable convenience, I’ll fill you in …
Cousin Clive was the naughtiest of Sprogs. At the age of seven, bored with the usual pastime of climbing trees (sorry, Hubby – he wasn’t a tree obsessive! (2)), Clive went for the more ambitious venture of climbing the church tower of St Mary’s in Market Drayton.
It was surprising that Clive made it far enough to perch himself on top of a gargoyle – as he was carrying a chamber pot – but make it, he did. I suspect that there had already been a significant quantity of spillage on the way up (at least, if that is where Sprog 3 and myself inherited our clumsy-itis traits from) but, even so, there was enough left for the purpose of a few surprise landings. When the gentlefolk of Market Drayton had their best Sunday hats knocked crooked by a few thuds and thwacks – they knew it was a sign from above – plops from heaven!
If only I had been there …
I can see it now …. toffee-coloured deposits of re-processed potatoes and pigeon pie, parading and preening themselves on the brims of some quality headwear, all ready for the weekly fashion show at Saint Mary’s.
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| Hat & Bible from Pixabay.com |
Oh yes, the day is fresh. Fresh, and far from over.
And with fresh deposits completed, it’s time to move up, off and on.
I round the Sprogs up and everyone piles into (some more reluctantly than others) our coughing Dacia Sandero. According to my not-so-helpful Sat Nav, we need to head North-West, then take the A528 all the way to our destination. This is supposedly the quickest route. Clearly, the Sat Nav, in spite of all the funds poured into Artificial Intelligence research, has absolutely no awareness of the fact that it is an integral part of a Sandero! My trusty Sandero stalls twice before it has even departed from The Red Lion’s car park – and continues with it’s stop-start dance routine all the way to Shrewsbury.
The plan (my plan) had been to visit Lord Hill’s Column en route. Turns out this is a bit of a detour, a detour not worth the risk of a total breakdown, so the Sandero is pointed on towards the town centre. Sprog 3 will not, after all, ever forgive his wayward parents if today we fall short once again of locating a Game shop. In the scale of things, it’s no matter – not sure, anyway, I’d have been able to locate the exact stones laid on the column by my 4th Great Grandfather, stonemason Joseph Cool of Myddle (3).
The day pans out rather well. I park up next to a theatre (which for some unfathomable reason does not have a large poster up to announce my visit!), where Hubby, the Sprogs and I, meet up with my mother and Uncle Dan Cool, and proceed towards a pedestrian bridge – all ready for our grand entrance into the heart of Shropshire! I imagine being my 2nd cousin, 18 times removed Henry Tudor, later Henry VII, marching up to the town gates with his Welsh army, and demanding entry (4), only to have his pride damaged at an intial refusal by the town baliff, Thomas Mytton (none other than my 15th Great Uncle). But the illusion is somewhat dampened when we pass into Shrewsbury via a scenic 60’s shopping centre called the Darwin Centre (5). No-one bars our way. This pleases me. It seems the Cool family are high up the social hierarchy – we can travel wherever we please!
We are subsumed. Sucked into the bowels of Darwin, aka Poundland, it is some time before we manage to extricate ourselves from the bargain-priced-double-sided sticky tape that Sprog 3 has bought by the bucket load. Normal people wait until they get home before testing out such purchases, but Sprog 3 is not normal. The tape catches hold of Sprog 2’s shorts, and wraps itself around his legs and arms, whilst Sprog 3 takes pleasure in doing some strange kind of a circle dance around him.
It’s time to make a hasty exit, but this is not straightforward. Seems the only way to get the full benefit of Shrewsbury, is to ascend a steep-shopping street.
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| Higher and higher we must climb. |
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| And higher and higher must Mother Cool be pushed. |
But the view at the top is worth it! Subway!
(An appropriate moment at which to reveal my true mental age by inserting an excerpt from my all-time favourite nursery rhyme ‘And when they were up, they were up!)
Sprog 3 lends a helping hand in propelling her Grandmother towards the target, and my mother’s bionic hip does seem to be holding up, but ….
Without warning, Mother Cool and Uncle Dan are stolen from us …. A magnetic pull created by a heavily-laden-with-sugar-monstrosities cake stand, showing its powers off in an alternative tea-shop window display, is responsible.
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| Courtesy of Pixabay.com, i.e. probably not taken in Shrewsbury! |
Sprog 2, having protested all the way up the hill about the unreasonableness of buying food to eat on the go, when one can’t wash one’s grubby hands, drags Hubby off towards McDonalds.
I, Jay Cool, am left standing at the top of a hill, perusing my land of plenty. Now, where to go hunting?
Sprog 3 tugs at my hand.
No choice involved.
Subway.
She orders her usual, a rabbit-food Sub, with cucumber and olives. And, after weighing up the numerous vegetarian options: vegetable pate, vegetable pate, or vegetable pate, with an alternative of the rabbit-food Sub, I go for the vegetable pate.
Simple.
Simple, but far from satisfactory.
So, I insist on the additional features of jalapenos and hot chilli sauce. Us veggies take our nosh out onto the streets of Shrewsbury, and with filthy hands, go in for the kill. I consider creating a You Tube film in which my pate miraculously comes to life and squeals out in objection to my approaching gnashers; but it only takes a couple of seconds to reach the conclusion that it’s not going to go viral like the one about the pre-cooked fish jumping off a plate in a Chinese restaurant. There’s fake news and there’s really fake news, even if Donald Trump doesn’t make the distinction.
Suitably refreshed, we once again join forces with our regiment, ready for the descent downhill to the castle. I had rather anticipated a red-carpet entrance, but they don’t even seems to be expecting us. My castle in the clouds is closed.
So, I take stock and soak up the view over one of my many dominions:
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| View from Shrewsbury Castle |
Shrewsbury railway station doesn’t look especially conducive to a visit. But ..
… the prison is open.
Are the prison guards expecting us? I’m tempted to put the question to the test, but there’s a hefty price-tag to qualify for a family stint in the cells, so I give it a miss. Maybe next time, when unaccompanied, when they’ll be no-one to notice, if I don’t manage to bribe my way out …
Instead, I keep in step with the others, and continue the descent to …
… the River Severn.
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| The River Severn, Shrewsbury |
(‘And when they were down, they were down!’ Sorry, but it was never my intention to graduate from Mrs Merbury’s nursery school in Wem (6))
I’d rather not descend any further, but the dark and murky waters of the Severn are lapping over the towpath, and threatening to draw us all in. And it appears that the Council ran out of funds before completing the safety barrier.
My maternal instinct kicks in (rare) and I sweep the Sprogs and the Mother and the Uncle back onto dry land. Being male, and susceptible to all the weaknesses of that sex, Hubby makes an executive decision.
He continues along the towpath. Has he forgotten that he can barely swim? Has old age and it’s associated confusion caught up with him? Does he think that he is I? I, Jay Cool, descendant of all famous Salopians, including Matthew Webb (7), the first man to swim the English Channel? But, no Hubby is not confused. Why would he want to be I? (I am so sorry to let you down, Matthew but I, Jay Cool, cannot swim at all!) Hubby is far from confused. But he is old. And he is ..
… stubborn.
The Severn laps at Hubby’s feet. From our renewed great heights, the web-footed Cool descendants flap our wings down at Hubby. Essex-born and bred Hubby takes one last look at the bird bath and takes flight.
Back together again! Essex and Shropshire and it’s hybrids, my Sprogs, unite!
United, we make the return journey, up the hill and into a quaint little alley that transports us into the world of Harry Potter. Surely this is Diagon Alley? And isn’t there a bookshop in Diagon Alley? Shrewsbury is now talking to me in serious terms. Shrewsbury and Jay Cool have merged. We are at one with each other. Sure enough, the alley conjures up a shop selling Harry Potter memorabilia, and even the Sprogs get worked up into a frenzy of excitement. I see the price tags and mutter a quick spell. The prince tags stay put. We make a quick exit. Entry to the Magic Circle is not for the likes of I.
But coffee in a Diagon Alley tea-shop is just about affordable, Mother’s feet are knackered, my toes are screaming out with sympathy pains, and the Sprogs are just screaming – at each other! Mother parks her weary rear-end onto a dainty little garden chair, I perch on a brick wall, and the Sprogs put forward their arguments for why they are entitled to marshmallow-topped milkshakes, and Hubby … Hubby?
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| Henry IV, a Creative Commons Wikipedia image |
Hubby has vanished. This is a most unfortunate side-effect of my Harry Potter spell gone wrong. I dig into my own purse for the coffee and milk-shake funds, and send Sprog 3 in with the order. Sprog 2 runs after Sprog 3 in a bid to change his order from a strawberry to a mint milkshake. It’s a noisy scene. I smile sort-of-sweetly at the do-not-disturb-our-peace-and-quiet childfree couple seated at the next table. They move on. It’s no surprise that my nineteenth-Great-Grandfather, King Henry IV, found it such a doddle to defeat the father-in-law of my first-cousin-eighteen-times removed, Sir Henry Percy (alias Henry Hotspur), at the Battle of Shrewsbury in 1403. Shrewsbury’s defences are a walkover. A few screams from the Cool Sprogs and Shrewsbury spews out it’s contents within seconds.
Job done.
With the town now devoid of normal life, I feel that I need to give something back to Shrewsbury.
Hence, in not-such-silent tribute to the town Lorded over by cousin Rob, we (I) spend much of our time browsing through the wares on offer. Books are purchased for bargain-bucket prices at Works, from shouldn’t-really-stretch-the-budget-that-far WHSmiths, and from one-only-lives-once-so-why-not-splash-out Waterstones. Okay, so perhaps I could have had as much fun purchasing the same books from the same chain stores in Bury St Edmunds, Colchester or Ipswich, all of which would have saved me a holiday booking at the Red Lion in Myddle. But, there’s definitely something extra-special about shopping in the inanimate company of Rob who, rather sadly for one so high up on his pedestal, can no longer chuck handfuls of c**p at us lesser mortals.
The pleasure is somewhat cut short, however, when Sprog 2 reappears at my side, tugging at my sleeve:
“I’ve been to Game. Can we go home now?”
Closely followed by Sprog 3 and Hubby, who are kind enough to remind me about the aforesaid cracked ceilings caused by the weight of my books at home. But none of it bears any weight with me, as there’s one more must-do stop to make before I give in to the weight of family responsibility. Candle Lane Books is the home of rare and second-hand books, and definitely worthy of a visitation from Robert Clive’s cousin, Jay Cool.
Aching shoulders and weary knees. The whole me, weighted down with books about Shropshire. Time to give in to reality.
Middle-age.
But, middle is the new beginning, and there’s still plenty of time to write that book. I can see it now…
‘From the Myddle, to Everywhere and Back Again’ by Jay Cool.
An epic, authored by the cousin of Sir Robert Clive, sitting in prime place in the local history section of Waterstones. The whole vision being completed with the addition of Jay Cool herself, in her favourite splashed-paint effect trousers and best pink wig, signing copies for …
… zero customers!
But – there’s still time. Jay Cool is not finished with, yet …
The Game has only just started.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2018
(1) To find out more about Robert Clive, please refer to ‘Bloody British History: Shrewsbury’ by Dorothy Nicolle, or look out for my forthcoming blog post on backtomyddle.blogspot.com.
(2) Tree obsessives may read all about tree-filled estates at http://backtomyddle.blogspot.com/2017/08/1600-1652-jane-lyttleton-1600-1652.html or they can join Hubby on the Ellesmere tree trail at
http://backagainmyddle.blogspot.com/2018/05/day-2-close-encounters-prehistoric.html
(3) Read all about stonemason Joe Cool at http://backtomyddle.blogspot.com/2017/11/joe-cool-1760-1833-myddle-shropshire.html
(5) Not entirely sure that Charles Darwin would approve of his name being attributed to the monstrosity that welcomes us with open mouth but, unless he is a so-far unidentified ancestor with his memories immortalised in my genes, I don’t suppose he’ll ever know about it now!
(6) Please refer to http://backtomyddle.blogspot.com/2017/07/ribbons.html to read about my days in Mrs Merbury’s nursery school in em.
(7) Find out about Jay Cool’s trip to see Captain Matthew Webb of Dawley, by following this blog and being the first to read her forthcoming post: ‘Dawley’s Consumption by Telford’s Tesco’.
A small chain to bind.
An invitation.
A catapult.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, June 2018
Bill.
Bill the newbie comedian. Fresh talent to take the stage.
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| Bill Newbie |
And I, Jay Cool, blogger extraordinaire, am here at The Brewery Tap to enjoy a slice of the action. But, first things first! A pint of mango cider, please!
With mangoes in hand, I proceed.
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Fresh mangos comforting each other at The Brewery Tap
(image courtesy of Pixabay.com)
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I proceed just in time to witness our Bill doing a demonstration of his favourite bedroom activity. He’s buckarooing, bronco style, with PJ’s new mic, whilst announcing to all and sundry that he’s about to morph into a mobile phone. Seems that’s the only way he’ll be in a position to exchange his imaginary partner for the real deal – the only way he’ll get close up with a lady in tight trousers.
After a barrage of jokes about bondage and gagging, and the adventures of Noddy, I begin to empathise with Bill’s big issue. Cross-breed the actors who play the Mitchell brothers, add on another thirty years to the image, and place a Noddy hat (two might be necessary) onto the bald bits – and there you have it!
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Noddy image by TheDevilMay Cry,
courtesy of deviantart.com
(Creative Commons)
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Bill.
The Mitchell brothers have not, in general, had any shortage of bed partners as, even in times of famine, they’ve been able to improvise with a lot of wife-swapping. Like their pirate ancestors, they’ve always been beyond the long-arm of the law, so their dietary habits of ‘share and share alike’ have continued unchecked.
But, if you consider that all of the Mitchell conquests have been pure fantasy, and dreamt up entirely for the entertainment of the masses – then you’ll see where I draw the parallels with Bill. Dress the three of them up as mobile phones and stick Noddy hats and Big Ears on their neckless roundheads, and they’ll still be no real takers on the bedroom front.
Personally, I, Jay Cool, am sticking with the mango cider for my own thrills.
But, it’s time to turn my attention to the young ones, the up and coming talent, nurtured in the bowels of Sudbury’s very own Suffolk Punch Comedy club: Danny Mark and Louis Meers.
Danny, with his ruddy cheeks and exuberant grin, is a picture of good health:
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| Danny Marks or Donald Trump? |
And the reason for this transformation is revealed. Danny’s given up on the double D: drink and drugs are now a no-go area, and he’s been ‘clean for sixty days’. The side-effects of scrubbing himself for that ‘long’ in ‘the shower every day’ have been responsible for producing Danny’s new tomato-red complexion.
Danny moves swiftly on to a rant about oxymorons. It’s odd, when you consider Danny’s past, how much he hates this particular literary device. After all, he did once write on a job application that the close friends to contact ‘in the event of an emergency’ were the ‘Avengers’! This, by all accounts, was an ill-thought -out security clause to ensure he didn’t fall victim to a sacking without payment. But why, if you hate oxymorons, would you want to call on the assistance of Eitri – a dwarf-giant?
And why would you present yourself as a raw-ruddy redface, with a resemblance to the dippy-diva Donald Trump? Also, I’m taking issue with Danny’s mockery of the term friendly-fire. Doesn’t he know that my younger self was a singer with the very first successful pop music band of that very name? And bearing in mind that this blog post is supposed to be for the purpose of promoting the comedians on offer, rather than myself, then here is the evidence (alongside the reason, neatly worded by a modern and socially-aware FB user, why my talent wasn’t spotted back then!):
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| Your band were called ‘Friendly Fire’ in ’91-’92? I guess you weren’t bothered about getting airplay on Radio 1?  |
And, because I’m promoting Bill, Danny and Louis, and not the young and gifted (but socially inept)Jay Cool (standing in a pothole with her bandmates), I’m moving on now to Louis’ second set.
This fast-forward action has got nothing at all to do with the fact that: so lost was I in a reverie of self-agrandiosement that I didn’t actually make any notes at all about his first set. It’s more that I’m finding Louis’ ‘stretching out’ of his material for a second run at the mic act highly entertaining. I’m mesmerised by Louis slowly twizzling himself around in circles, playing games of adjustment with the mic, and putting off the moment when he has to begin telling jokes.
And here is the reason for my interest in the slow-motion routine. Just take a look at Louis’ leg tattoo:
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Louis’ calf tattoo (love the new grass carpet in The Brewery Tap!)
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This calf is worthy of it’s own plinth in the University Museum at Aberdeen; it would be well-placed alongside the glass case containing the Chinese foot preserved for eternity in formaldehyde (*). Has Louis taken out insurance on that leg? Must remember to check this out with him later.
And, regardless of the high-quality of Louis’ skin etchings, just take a look at his t-shirt!
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| Louis’ June t-shirt |
This t-shirt represents Sudbury. All the June flowers currently rearing their heads along the embankments of Sudbury’s East Hill and Waldingfield Road, the red carpets of The Brewery Tap, are woven forever into the design of Louis’s t-shirt.
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Stop by at McDonald’s, continue on over the roundabout, down Waldingfield Road, and East Street – take snaps of the flowers – and then get yourselves into The Brewery Tap for a gallon of mango cider!
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At the age of thirty, still single and, still believing that his greatest achievement in life to date is his ‘first pee in a potty’, Louis Meers still qualifies as a symbol for Sudbury’s ‘youth of today’ and, with a fine example of a calf that can only increase, over time, in value – Louis also represents Sudbury’s ‘future of tomorrow’! I’m assuming here that what Louis meant by using that last phrase in his jokes, was that he won’t be around after tomorrow – once I’ve blogged about the value of his leg as a museum piece!
For the latter reason, then I end this blog post with my nomination of Louis Meers as Sudbury’s ‘Comedian of the Day’ and, due to his longer shelf-life, nominate Danny Meers as ‘Comedian of the Month’.
Also, I’m sure that the rest of Sudbury’s ladies would agree with me, in wanting Danny to come back for a second run, in that he has a very similar bottom-revealing routine to every middle-aged lady’s hero – Robbie Williams.
Okay, so Danny’s rear-end might not be quite so compact as Robbie’s, but it’s still of note – especially with that very cute tattoo on his left buttock! So Take That!
Danny, I think it’s time you had a little chat with your insurer!
Please come along to all of our Suffolk Punch Comedy Clubs gigs, first Wednesday of every month, at The Brewery Tap in Sudbury. Comedians show off their assets at 8pm sharp, at which point donations can be dropped into our charity buckets. All proceeds help to fund research into prostate cancer, rather than into our comedians’ insurance funds.
* Visit Aberdeen’s University Museum for a chat with a Chinese foot, or read my genius of a poem based on my own visit: http://xcitable.blogspot.com/2017/10/preserve.html
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| Image courtesy of Pixabay.com |
David Davis back-stops
with a double-dip, and a back-
flip,
tips his hat … to
Dani Dyer.
Dani Dyer with double-decker,
fudged-up lashes and pink-sugar sparkles;
old candy-floss sucked on and dried out.
Now
r o t t i n g.
David, done with, and done in, d e p a r t s …………………
Exits.
May, deflated, dazed, goes day-shopping.
Puffed up? Padded out?
Blown up? A double
D?
Support?
A d r e a m.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, June 2018
(Inspired by a scan through the ‘Free Metro’ on Friday June 8, 2018)
A baby.
No mother.
A lesbian.
A fling.
And a hammer swing.
Shotgun pellets.
Stab attack.
And
a drill.
Tributes to a King.
And Mimi
in trouble.
All wrapped up
in a
Metro
bubble.
Lost lives
and
rubble.
Trapped.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, June 8th, 2018
And here he is – Richard Maddox, the ancestor from Myddle, responsible for the unfortunate revelation that my hubby is very likely some kind of a distant cousin, and – my – he’s huge! He’s carrying a great barn (1) on his vast Herculean back.
He’s more giant than the humungous-dwarf oxymoron in Marvel’s ‘Infinity War’ film. Where’s hubby? Why isn’t he here to meet our lots-of-greats shared ancestor in the flesh? Surely he hasn’t gone to make a coffee at such a significant moment …
Oh.
My sleep-time imagination is rudely interrupted by the sound of a mug of coffee descending upon my neighbour. The bedside cabinet – in the, fit-for-a-Marvel-sized giant, bedroom – clonks appreciatively. Reclaimed or not, the ancient tree (so rudely pulled away from it’s roots to make way for a stone quarry) is in desperate need of a feed.
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| The Lodge, The Red Lion Inn, Myddle, Shropshire |
Reality slowly kicks in. And I have the fleeting realisation that the sloping beams of this converted attic-room would not blocks off the heads and chins of all the Marvel comic heroes. But more pressing concerns take over, as I recall that, in spite of being up until 2am, I never did get a hit on Ancestry.com, to connect hubby’s (or even my) family tree, up with Richard Maddox, founder of The Red Lion. Still, there’s time yet. I take a quick slurp of Tesco Value coffee, the taste of which is reminiscent of morning-run-inducing crushed Bran Flakes, and make a lunge towards the carpet (it’s a long way down) for my laptop.
It’s still showing my previous search for Maddox and Myddle – this is exciting – I can carry on from where I left off!
“Are you looking up what there is for the kids in Ellesmere?”
“Err … I was just …”
“Only, I’ve told Sprog 2 (2), we’ll be going there today! Are there any birds to keep him happy?”
“Eh? He’s a bit young to be interested in birds isn’t he? Thought he hated the opposite sex!”
“What? You’re on Ancestry.com aren’t you? Look up Ellesmere! Is it good for bird-spotting?”
It’s hopeless. With such demands on my time, I say goodbye, for now, to Ancestry.com – the love of my life. And, I resign myself to the birds of Ellesmere. We’re in luck. There’s a lake called The Mere renowned the world over for it’s wild fowl, in that very location. And, more importantly, I also happen to know that there are sure to be plenty of graveyards to dig through en route.
I realise that the night-time tapping on the window panes denoted ongoing down pourings of rain, rather than Richard Maddox’s, or Great Auntie Cool’s skeletal knuckles, so I force myself out of bed,
dispose of the side-effects of drinking bran-flake coffee, and don my most attractive daywear – bright turquoise raincoat, tomato-red jeans, and orange-laced walking boots.
“We’re not going out with you in that!” declares Sprogg 3.
“You are right. You are not going out in this. These are my clothes and I’m wearing them! Find your own!”
A couple of hours and five minutes later, Sprog 2, spurred on by thoughts of birds of prey, joins the rest of us in our Dacia Sandero Stepway.
“You can’t blame me that it’s nearly lunch-time!” he exclaims. “Today, I was two minutes and five seconds faster than yesterday, so we’d better not be too late to spot something interesting!”
And we prepare for take off, with the Sandero (do not be talked into buying of these by a smooth, slick salesman) spitting, spluttering and stalling it’s protests all the way along the A528, giving itself over to a smooth ride only when we take the turning left into Ellesmere, and I glide expertly into a mud-bath.
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| Arriving at Ellesmere on a wet day! |
Never mind Trump’s fake news – this is fake labelling. There is no way that this can possibly be the car park! With three leaps, we each land at our respective squidgy destinations with a few Peppa Pig-style squelches. Sprog 3?
It’s still chucking it down, three of us are standing around getting drenched, and Sprog 3 is still in the Sandero.
“I haven’t got any socks!”
“Surely, you noticed that before you put your trainers on?”
“I haven’t got my trainers on!”
“What? You sat in the car, waiting for Sprog 2, for an eternity, complaining about Sprog 2 for an eternity – and you didn’t even think to put your own feet into gear?”
Four crazies (one looking like a bad experiment from the Chelsea Flower Show, one sockless and whining about uncomfortable trainers, and two trailing behind keeping their safe distance) doggy paddle their way out of the mud bath.
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| Hubby Cool and Sprog 2 |
“Hold on, son! Let the ladies go ahead!”
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| The Mandarin Duck, posing as the author Jay Cool |
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| Jay Cool, dressed for action |
“Er, yes son. Yes, you could be right. It certainly is SOMETHING quite rare!”
We shake ourselves down and, all kitted out with binoculars, we head for one of Ellesmere’s many hotspots: The Mere. Google informs me that this beautiful lake attracts 240,000 visitors a year. I take in the view and soon cotton onto the fact that the visitors are mere seasonal travellers, flocks of migrating predators, departing no-sooner than landing, due to the scarcity of humanoid-shaped titbits.
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| Being wetter-than-wet at The Mere, Ellesmere |
“This is boring!” complains Sprog2. “My trainers are hurting me! Can we go back to the car?”
“Mum, mum, mum!” interjects Sprog 3, right on cue (saving my small brain from having to come up with a witty response). Is that a bird of prey? Look, look, look! Here, grab my bag, so I can hold the binoculars properly!”
Hurt haven’t-gone-anywhere-yet feet. Unidentifiable flying objects. Exotic duck turned bag lady.
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| One of the locals, inspecting an alien invader |
Shacks huddled together for warmth. And more rain.
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| A bird’s bottom at Ellesmere |
A beautiful lake: dark, dreary and dismal – almost spookier than the graveyards I frequent.
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| Residents of The Mere, Ellesmere |
A walk-out-as-far-as-you-like plank for getting up close with our fishy ancestors (3).
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| ‘Walk the plank’ activity at Ellesmere |
Hope in the distance. Is that The Boathouse? The one-and-only Tourist Information Centre, and Café in Ellesmere.
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| The Boathouse, by The Mere, Ellesemere |
“Coffee?”
“But, mum, mum! That’s selfish. I want to look at the birds …. Hey, is that a bird of prey overhead. Look, look …. It’s swooping down at us. Dad, dad, dad! Can birds of prey attack humans?”
“Only if it’s a prehistoric Argentavis swooping in from Argentina, looking for an all-in-one snack!”
And, with than, Sprog 2 takes off and runs for cover.
By the time the rest of us step over the threshold, Sprog 2’s already settled himself at a table, and has resumed bird-watching – in safety.
I utter a ‘Thank you!’ prayer to God, in the hope that he passes the message on to the inventors of glass, central heating and coffee. And I make a mental note to Google these dudes, just in case one, or all, just happen have ancestral connections with the Cools. Who needs to appeal to the Middle Man, when the lines of communication are all right here – within our DNA?
Although undoubtedly attractive, the Boathouse cakes are priced beyond the budgets of us simple folk, so we fob the Sprogs off with crisps. But, the coffee’s adequate in a needs-a-lot-more sugar-to-make-it palatable kind of a way, and in the time it takes us to drip-feed it down, the rain slows down to a spit. Replenished, we rev ourselves up and venture back over the threshold to the lands beyond.
Gathering up speed, we make our way along The Promenade towards the town centre (it’s a town?).
Sprog 3 is now gassing on about the certainty of there being a Game shop in Ellesmere – all towns have them! And Sprog 3 is on the lookout for an affordable snack. I begin to see the way ahead – an opportunity to be free of my shackles
“You three run ahead to the shops, and I’ll catch you up when I’ve taken a few more pics of the views (checked out that graveyard over there)!
Hubby has other ideas. Seems that the purpose of this trip was to walk the circumference of The Mere. But I know what Hubby’s view of “It’s not a long walk!” really translates into. And, I also know that he’s picked up a leaflet about the ‘Tree Trail’. Bad news. Hubby’s as obsessed with the various species of trees, as Sprog 2 is about birds and Nintendo games. My favourite tree is Enid Blyton’s faraway tree, which I’m sure was not inspired by the ‘Fagus sylvatica’ species, which supposedly graces The banks of The Mere with its medicinal properties. So I decide that Hubby can go and hunt out his own leaves, and that Sprog 3 can capture his own grey herons. The pair of them can boil up their own swelling-reducing poultices and wild fowl pastries.
“Great. You two can take a walk around The Mere, and I’ll meet you over there – at that graveyard. Sprog 3? You have a choice. Either be dad’s photographer or mine!”
There’s no choice to be made. Sprog 3, a non-vegetable eating vegetarian, hates all things deceased. Sore feet abandoned, the limp becomes a trot and accelerates into a sprint, as she takes off after the ‘lads’!
Alone at last. Time for some grave-digging. And I’m not disappointed.
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Look at the gravestones – not the elegant townhouses!
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| A more attractive building than Tesco! |
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| Llangollen Canal, courtesy of Sprog 3 |
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| A Cool half-dozen legs! The absent two legs are acting as a camera stand! |
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| A blue houseboat that doesn’t go anywhere at any speed (much like my Dacia Sandero!) |
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| A dinosaur egg posing as a meringue! |
“Sprog 3! You are needed! Get snapping! Take a photo of me wrapped up in that doily over there!”
“What doily?”
“That doily, the one that your Great Grandparents used to put on silver cake stands to impress important guests. Only that particular one merged itself into the cake stand and then got itself remodelled into an arty-farty pirate boat – before mooring itself onto land.”
“Mum, what are you babbling on about?”
“It’s history, me hearties – pirate history!”
“But, we’re nowhere near the sea!”
“Exactly. There’s the point entirely. The people of Ellesmere wanted to see the sea, but couldn’t afford the trip, so they asked the Council for paddle boats to use on The Mere. The Council refused, due to the cost. Instead, they agreed to display a pirate boat replica, made by a local volunteer. And that volunteer was your ….”
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| Jay Cool, trying to blend into the grey. |
At this point, I realise that Hubby, Sprog 2 and Sprog 3 have albeit vanished. And I’m being stared out of my pirate shelter by a gaggle of aggressive-looking alien sprogs, who want me out, so that they can get on board. I’d like to stay put – it’s starting to rain again out there – but, seeing as they are backed up by a big muscly-looking dad, tapping away at his top-notch mobile phone, I make my move. Not that I’m scared of him, of course! But, I have a hunch that he’s texting the men in the white van over there, to make themselves sharp, to bring over a straight-jacket for the crazy lady.
I jump into a lifeboat, refer to my compass, and orientate myself …
“Land ahoy!”
“We’ll be waiting for you back at the car!”
“Okay, won’t be a minute!”
And I float out to take sanctuary in the nearest graveyard.
I, Jay Cool, blogger extraordinaire, am here in Shropshire on a mission. And, it’s far from over …
Burial at sea?
Sources: Photographs of The Red Lion at Myddle and of Ellesmere are the author’s and Sprog 3’s own. All other images are Creative Commons Licensed and from Pixabay.com.
(1) Richard Maddox, a savvy opportunist from Staffordshire, was said to have relocated an old barn from his house against the Lich Gate, to the site where The Red Lion Inn, of Myddle, now stands, for the sole purpose of selling ale from its premises.
(2) If you are wondering, and even if you are not, Sprog 1, being of maturer sensibilities than her parents, made the wise decision to distance herself from the Crazy Cools and attach herself to alternative hosts for the duration of the holiday. Why take the Myddle route, when you can stay on the Edge?
(3) Read ‘The Aquatic Ape’ by Elaine Morgan, if you don’t believe me about our fishy ancestors. If it’s been published in a book, it must be true!
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| Neil Barber, aliases Prince Harry & Kenny Everett |
Blunt scissors and flat notes. Turns out our Neil Barber, like his doppelganger Prince Harry, is not so sharp after all.
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“You got the brains; I get the celebrity!”
(image labelled as Creative Commons Licensed from
http://www.theurbangent.com/2011/04/prince-william-of-wales.html)
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Barber’s notes are so flat that he hates musicians with a vengeance. (Not at all sure why voice-of-the-year, Gavin Milnthorpe, is hanging around to watch Barber’s set – that’s just politeness gone crazy!)
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| Gavin Milnthorpe, comedic singer |
So sorry, Stevie, but I really hadn’t heard of the phrase ‘cultural appropriation’ back then! And only, six years prior to that, I had been a big collector of the token’s on Robinson’s jam. Jay Cool, in middle-age, is a lot more PC – honest”
That’s why I’m Pea Crazy and wearing my pea-green wig, complete with pea pod outfit. (And, no I am not trying to look like Kelis, or any particular member of the Jackson Five! Barber, get yourself over here with those scissors – blunt, or not, I need a skinhead cut!)
Time to play it safe – time to get Neil Barber, his useless equipment, and his anti-musician thing out of my mind, and there’s no-one’s more PC than our next comic …
Lizanne Davis!
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| Top left to right: Neil Barber, Lizanne Davis & Bim |
Lizanne, a highly successful career lady, (currently ‘chauffeur to a hairy-arsed dustman’) on her way to the top! Meghan, does Prince Harry have a hairy a***? Does he need a chauffeur?
Royal Chauffeur (stained-mattress collector for the council) aside, what I’m really impressed about with Lizanne, is that her cultural references are spot on! Everyone she jokes about, I know about. This is fantastic, but it generally takes me half-an-hour or so (with the help of trusty Google), to work out who our other comedians are blabbing on about. But, in the nano-second it takes Lizanne to wave her arms around, in an impersonation of who she would least like to have as a passenger in her dustbin lorry, I’m with her! It’s pretty clear that she has an eleven-year-old daughter. Only, yesterday, I nearly crashed my Sandero, when my youngest sprogg decided that she needed a wee, and did a hyperactive imitation of a windmill – just to emphasise the point. “Mum, mum, mum! How much longer until we get home – I need a wee?!” But, no! Lizanne has no daughter! She’s taking off, into the air, helicopter-style, as none other than Magnus Pike! Magnus Pike? The Magnus Pike! My childhood hero! A man of the seventies!
I can’t believe it! Here, in front of me, is a world-famous comedian – who is female and somewhere not far off the age of fifty! There’s hope for us all – even for me, Jay Cool! In two years time, I too, will be officially middle-aged (as at 100, I have every intention of being around to receive my, signed-on-behalf-of-the-Queen birthday card, from the hairy-a**** man’s grandmother!), still female, and I’ll be world famous!
Feeling celebratory, I join Lizanne, propel my wings – and prepare for take off. And, Lizanne’s take-off moment, seems to set the scene for things to come! Whoever knew that so many young twenty and thirty-something young male comedians, would rather be fifty and female! Just take a look at this lot ….!
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Top: Gavin Milnthorpe, Louis Meers & Adam Bromley
Middle: Dom Mackie & Bim
Bottom row: Gee Noble, Aaron Spalding & Dom Holland
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Not satisfied with being a helicopter (and, let’s face it, who wants to join forces with the Duchess of York?), Dom Mackie, did his very own impression of The Angel of the North.
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Dom Mackie, alias The Angel of the North
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In honour of my parents, Mr & Mrs Cool of Salop, currently masquerading as Geordies, Dom Mackie’s impersonation entitled him to the award of ‘ Jay Cool’s Comedian of Leestock 18’.
Copyright of text, and photographs of comedians, owned by Jay Cool, May 2018
P.S. For those still not convinced about Dom Mackie being worthy of such a prestigious award, take a look at this!
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| The Angel of the North, alias Dom Mackie (Wikipedia Commons) |
I take a merry jaunt next-door to the beer tent, momentarily lamenting the loss of last year’s neighbour, my green-footed portaloo pals! But no matter, the loos have been replaced by a rocking ambulance. Red lights and frolics, or a dry run for the resuscitation of our headline act, Dom Holland?
Dom Holland, so I’ve heard, is renowned the world over for passing out if (when) the braying crowds of try to heckle him off the stage. Still, he’s a resilient old soul – keeps coming back for more! Reckon he’s got a bit of a thing about our Suffolk nurses. The good old NHS, reliable and consistent. Anything to keeps old Dom standing.
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| The NHS have even provided a gibbet – to hold up old Dom’s rotting remains! |
Worms, drawn out of their underground hobbit tunnels, by the promise of sweet rain, find themselves intoxicated senseless. Heads chase tails, as they try to lick their own a***s. (Do worms have arses?) Such images, once again, bring thoughts of Dom into my mind, and I contemplate whether Dom too, like his partner in middle-aged self-aggrandizement, Jay Cool, would welcome an opportunity to become a stakeholder in the mango cider business.
Contemplation aside, I return to my trusty friend, the beer tent, and beg for a refill. It doesn’t come cheap! Must make a bigger effort with the crowds on my next outing. A different wig, perhaps? The Ed Sheeran orange? Or Cher’s sleek-black raven? Alas, my thoughts are rudely interrupted by the think-of-me-only chords of Gavin Milnthorpe!
Is it really Gavin? Gavin Milnthorpe, my hero?
My hero worship is only slightly dampened by Gavin’s forthcoming declarations that he’s a ‘window-cleaning pervert’ with an ‘Oedipus complex’. He can stop by my window with his bucket anytime, just so long as he tops up my now-empty-again pint glass. A few fruity squeezes of the mangos are acceptable, but I’ll give Gavin’s ‘father-in-a-stew recipe’ a miss! Sounds a wee bit chewy and gristly to me – us middle-aged ladies have to look after our sensitive gums! Sainsbury’s Little Ones Simply Organic Mango Puree is more up my street (or, to be more truthful, the Tesco’s Value equivalent, diluted, and by the barrel!)
I refocus. Gavin.
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| Melford Hall |
Cast aside your ‘Stanley Young is Planning a Murder’ effort and get working on ‘Milnthorpe’s Oedipus Delights’. And I, Jay Cool, will get working on the sequel: ‘Milnthorpe’s Mush for Middlers’. Come on, Gav! Together, we can make a fortune …
A Barber called Neil!
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| Neil Barber |
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| A Creative Commons image from Wikipedia.org |
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A Creative Commons image featured on
‘The Duchess Diaries’ blog Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2018.
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Can things get any lower?
He may well have been booted off Britain’s Got Talent by the great man himself (and no I’m not referring to our pal Simon Cowell – the great man is David Walliams, Jay Cool’s role model), but, personally speaking, I confess to having a bit of a soft spot for ‘our’ Martin.
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Martin Westgate at The Brewery Tap, Sudbury
(photographed by Jay Cool’s Motorola)
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I say ‘our’ Martin – not because I model myself on the beautiful redhead, the late Cilla Black – but, because, with his skills in the scaffolding trade, Martin Westgate‘s always in demand at Sudbury’s very own Suffolk Punch Comedy Club. Sudbury’s a property hotspot and it’s essential that our current residents utilise all of Martin’s efforts in patching up and holding up our Bovis houses, before the whole lot collapses.
He’s young and long and lean, and can surely manage to stiffen up enough to prop us up – just until some rich Londoners buy us all up (sorry, buy our Bovis homes up), and allow us to live the lifestyles we were born for (I have my eye of a comfortable cave home in Great Ness).*
I, Jay Cool, blogger extraordinaire, wouldn’t at all mind if Martin propped up my abode. To some, the very idea of a limpet screwed onto their already-cracked-up brickwork might be just a tad too much, but Martin and I have a special connection. With my ballet dancing talents, and his pole dancing skills, we’d spin a fine duet together. The age difference would be no matter – I’d be the new and fresh ‘Paddy’ and he could be my ageing ‘Nico’; together we ‘could give people pleasure’. David Walliams would love it! Golden Buzzer, here we come …
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Paddy & Nico image labelled on Bing as a
Creative Commons image from oddityworld.net
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On second thoughts, going away from that train of thought (How the heck did I get from sticky-taped-together mic at The Brewery Tap to a high-tech performance at the O2 in front of David Walliams?), I perhaps ought to hold onto the idea of Martin shoring up the town of Sudbury. Take the underpinning away and we’ll all be rigor mortis under a mass of rubble.
The thing is that I’m standing here, in the audience at The Brewery Tap, having all of these highly creative and imaginative lightbulb moments of my own, when I realise what it is that I’ve been missing out on.
Martin.
Martin Westgate.
The great I’ve-only-been-buzzed-off-once comedian himself, is right here, in the here and now – right in front of me, telling the very best of his jokes. Everyone’s laughing. All the punters are right there with him. They’ve all got fistfuls of golden confetti ready to give him the seal of approval – the seal of Sudbury (please note, that we are famous on the back of Simon of Sudbury‘s decapitated head, and that the pieces of confetti we so readily distribute take on the shapes of poor men’s blunted axes), and ….
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the-reconstructed-face-of-an-archbishop-who-was-beheaded-in-the-14th-century/
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… I – I, Jay Cool, am just sitting here, enjoying my alternative reality, tuning back into the action only just in time to hear …
… Martin’s announcement that, fed up of being a ‘supporting act’ for a loser’s gig in our neighbouring county of Norfolk, he’s followed in the departing wake of old Simon, upped sticks and ‘moved to London’, with some foolish idea about putting himself out there (’tis rather foolish, in Jay Cool’s mind, to expose oneself so readily – to put one’s head on one’s own scaffolding)!
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‘Traitor’s Heads on Old London Bridge’,
a Creative Commons image from Wikipedia.org |
This is, in my view, a foolishly premature move on his part. Piers Morgan is hardly going to invite ‘our’ Westgate onto his TV show for an interview, when he just got pushed off the stage by easier-than-most-to-please David Walliams. Unless, of course, he’s thinking of signing on with me for our double-act, our up and coming …
‘S***!’ (Jay Cool, vicar’s daughter, is forbidden from blasphemy or faeces smearing!) But, I can hear some rumbling in the distance, from the Sudbury beyond The Brewery Tap, a rumbling from the outskirts.
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| A Creative Commons image from Pixabay |
It’s all caving in, falling into the depths of the valley. There’s no longer a West Gate out of here.
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‘Traitors’ Gate’ a Wikimedia.org image
made available via Creative Commons Licensing
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We are all doomed.
Sudbury?
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| Pompeii, a Creative Commons licensed image available from Wikimedia |
Pompei!
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2018
Photographs: All photos of comedians taken by the author, Jay Cool.
Links: * To find out more about Jay Cool’s cave home world, read: http://backtomyddle.blogspot.co.uk/2017/08/feckless-fools.html
Disclaimers: I, Jay Cool, blogger extraordinaire, apologise profusely to all of the other comedians who graced The Brewery Tap with their presence during May’s comedy club gig. I apologise because, so fixated was I with the thought of Westgate’s head perched upon his own scaffolding that I totally forgot to blog about the rest of you. But, forget the sighs of relief – you are not allowed to relax yet! Here is a little (long) treat of a Postscript:
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| Dan Farmer, a Fens’ dweller – considering whether his webbed hands might save him from his fate |
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| ‘Dog on Stilts’ by Shay Hahn, available by Creative Commons Licence at http://th09.deviantart.net/fs70/PRE/i/2012/213/a/6/dog_on_stilts_by_shayhahn-d59e1bv.jpg |
(If you still don’t believe me, here is a link to a site describing the stilt-walkers of the Fens: https://theodora.com/encyclopedia/f/fens.html).
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Paul Kerr, hairy man from Bedford, imitating an evangelist dissing the masses about single mums and illegitimate wasters, who have to resort to unpaid comedy, due to the stigma of their existence
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This is Paul Kerr, who claims to be ‘not a religious person’ from Bedford. He boasts about having ‘hairy shoulders’ in spite of the fact that he’s the offspring of a ‘single mother’, and has a ‘family tree’ consisting of a ‘single twig’.
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Paul Kerr visiting his ‘family tree’,
a Creative Commons Licensed image from Pixabay
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And this guy? I have no idea what his name is, because all that stands out in my small, but Cool, brain is that he’s hit a record as the most frequent user of both the ‘Grinder’ and ‘Tinder’ dating apps. But even that is enough to dampen his unsatiable sexual appetite. He tries to add our emcee’s partner to his hitlist. Good thing this ‘Grinder’ of a loon comes free, ’cause I’m pretty sure PJ’s not in any mind to dish out any of the takings to him now!
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| The Grinder (our emcee’s partner isn’t ‘tempted’!) |
Still, I, Jay Cool, can relate to him on one level at least. The Grinder has a penchant for ‘dressing up as an alien’, and I have to admit that I too, like to indulge in the odd costume change!
Darrell Pickles? This comic reminds me of my late Nanna Cool’s pickled onions.
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Nanna Cool’s pickles, which somehow found
their way onto Pixabay!
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Round, hot and spicy. Not at all like the ‘Milky Bar kid’ he’s claiming to be a doppelganger for.
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| Darrell Pickles, son of Paul Merrick, and grandson of Donald Trump |
So strange that Pickles got ‘teased’ at school for not knowing who his dad was! It’s pretty clear to of us punters here at the Tap, so why didn’t his enemies see the obvious.
The latter point brings us onto, Paul Merrick, Jay Cool’s personal favourite. Sorry, Martin Westgate, a was lying just a teeny bit when I said it was you! With you, Martin there was a significant age gap and, although in theory, age is no obstacle to success, I do feel that I have more in common with ‘getting old’ Paul. He’s self-professedly a middle-aged ‘semi-functioning alcoholic’. And he shares a certain tomato-like ‘fat-flatulent pig’ appearance with my hero Donald Trump. A Donald Trump who is, in turn, a dead ringer for a certain jar of pickles!
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| Paul Merrick, alias Donald Trump |
Like grandfather, like father, like grandson. The genetic trail is here – here at The Tap!
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| A public domain image from Wikimedia |
And, what more, indeed, could a lady want?
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 
