Fag-Stop Killer

Bus stop pick up?
Driver-change?
Brake?
Stop.
Break.

Driver desperate, desires to kill – ten minutes,
just ten minutes of our time.
Spluttering stop; bus cranks out
in lullaby lay-by.
Engine gasps, grumbles, grizzles, groans;
passengers fidget and fudge –
ferocious and
desperate to kill.

Driver’s all chewed-up, choking, croaking –
“Just ten minutes!”
Holding up thumb with crunched-on nail,
pleading,
pleading for just ten minutes to roll
a fag,
for just ten minutes –

to kill.


Copyright owned by Jay Cool,  May 2017

 

Refuel

Cumin, chilli, coriander, turmeric –
combined, create
turmoil in my head …
Confused, dizzy and disorientated, I
resist
further intoxication,
hold my breath,
ignore the rumbling pleas from the labyrinth
within and stumble onwards to
Head Street to the
754, that waits
patiently for today’s meal, an undernourished battery hen,
past its best, unable to escape from destiny, and unable to lay its final
egg,
weakened, until

tomorrow, when in a last rebellious surge, I walk
again
down the High Street, knowing that the 754 wants more, wants to scrape up
yesterday’s chewy-old flesh, the gummy bit that it spat out, softened and mellowed now, ready
for a refuel.

Lingering, I hunt down the curry stall, its High Street spot – empty,
trekking further into the town to sniff it out, to fill myself up, to give me energy, to reach the end
of another day, to approach once again the 754, to make myself last out until …
No curry. No stall.
No egg.

754
Resistance is futile … I rumble on …

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2017

Tenner An Hour

‘Tisn’t bad, for
a tenner an hour,
to take the 87, for
a morning run, for
a couple of hours and
a couple of passengers, for
a break from routine, a drive to the town.

The money’s not bad, if you’re on the way out
From a life on the go … a pilot’s career …

From a lungful of particles; screams gathered in from foreign conflicts
and silenced.

‘Tisn’t bad,
For a morning run.
Just a couple of passengers.
A couple of ladies.
Quiet. Friendly.

Peaceful.



Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2017

Bus Youths

silhouette-3196273_1280
Flaps –
dark eye-shutters, open at right angles to head-windows –
clear, translucent, sparkling ports of access to a mass of perfectly-tuned, white-grey matter.
Still young, still sprightly, and polished, ready
to take on another day,
to make synaptic deliveries, to utter profundities to similarly fresh-minded acquaintances about:
the nocturnal habits of toilet rolls, enlisted as bed companions;
the wisdom of exchanging a liver-spotted, short-sleeved shirt man for a long-sleeved replacement;
the necessity of using quality three-ply tissues, not two-ply, on antique skin;
the importance of looking like Alice – hair smartened up and cleared away from eager eyes with
a youthful band or a silver clip.

An orange-spotted, crisply-starched blouse mocks my washed-out, un-ironed, double-denim –
outmoded, mid-range, middle-aged –  best left to ripen.

A purple, pink and mauve floral skirt swishes provocatively at
a white-hatted gentleman, proudly sporting a cream tank-top and beige slacks, whose
large sun-browned ears beat with boyish exuberance at the chatter of giggling ladies,
the whiskers emanating from his large cheek mole, twitching, eager to receive all incoming signals.
Whiskers gets off at the next stop, his loose-skinned elbows fluttering;
upper teeth grinning, beaming; black-socked feet in spit-glossed tanned shoes, striding;
wooden stick leading the way
forward …

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2017

 

Image by mohamed_hassan on Pixabay.com

Not Now

Two and a half hours, I’ve had to wait.
Two and a half hours, I’ve
been standing
waiting
here
at this bus stop
stuck
desperate.

See this hand here,
my hand.
See the hole here, in the
middle.
A knife hole.
Last night.

Last night I stopped
a fight.
Grabbed the knife. See,
the hole,
the blood,
And now,

I’m stuck here – on the bus. The slow bus, the late bus –
waiting. Late. Good thing there’s no-one late for their court case. Good thing. But I,
was going.
Was going to go. To go to the hospital. Not time now, though. Not going. Not now. See
this injury, this
hole.

This hole, my voice, my life. Needs
help. But I’m not
going.
Not now.

Not now.
Not now, because you’re not. That man’s not. That woman’s not. That child’s not. No-one.
No-one’s listening to me
Anymore.

See this. This corkscrew. Metal on metal. Snapping.
See this. This knife. Four inches. Metal on metal. Metal on fabric. Slashed seats. Noise. Like drums.
Look. Listen. Look.
Listen to me.
Help.
Me.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2017

High Street Millionaire

Wrap me in;

keep the gap closed.
This is my space,
on the pavement,
in the High Street,
by the window.
My space.

Pirate flag.

Plastic cutlass.
Open book.
Marking
my page,
and
my space …
next to
and part of
McDonald’s.

A multi-millionaire.

A McDonald’s man,
with a little bit of pavement –
to call my own..

Buses stop,

start,
leave.
Taxis double-up,
huddle into lay-bys,
and clock up time.
People appear, pass and
move on.

I’m still here, in my space,

immobile,
secure. No drafts. No worries.
Wrap me in
to
my space.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2017

Note: This poem was also published by ‘Dissident Voice’ on Sunday, 7th July, 2018

Lost in the Lavender at Haughley

Lost in the Lavender at Haughley

It’s fortunate for some, perhaps, that my role as a Portacabin Loo Inspector is just a sideline. In reality, I’m here at Haughley Park Farm’s Sheepdog Trials, to inspect the comedians. It’s a difficult job, especially when one has shrivelled-up soaking wet (no, not that – I’m female – I think) feet, courtesy of canvas plimsolls from New Look. No-one warned me about the weather! Thought I was out for a toasty-summer-evening jolly!

Still, Carl Denham’s here. He’s an up and coming piece of fresh lamb, and he’s ready to be minted. From first impressions (Actually, this is about the hundredth? time he’s performed for Suffolk Punch Comedy Club! Are you paying him, PJ?), he appears to be vaguely intelligent. He’s kitted himself out in khaki-green wellington boots and, whilst the rest of us are shivering, cocky Carl’s having a lark. He’s laughing and joking (laughing at his own jokes) and he hasn’t even been on stage yet. What is he on? Where did he buy those wellies?

Chris Norton-Walker’s not quite such a wise cracker, though! The silly b*****’s just abandoned our holding table, complete with his notebook of jokes; his last parting words being: ‘Don’t steal my jokes while I’m gone!’ What an invitation! So, here I am; I’ve stolen Chris’ coat, ‘cos it’s freezing cold in Haughley’s O2, and I’m plagiarising as many jokes as I can before his comeback. Check this one out:

‘It must take balls to do stand up!’
‘No, you’re thinking of juggling!’

Ha, reckon I can use that one for my next set (the next being my first)! And,what about this one?

‘Why did the baker have smelly hands?’
‘Because he kneaded a poo!’

No, hang on, that’s not a Chris joke – I’m having flashbacks about Suffolk Punch Comedy‘s Leestock emcee, Pauline Eyre! See, Pauline, you really got to me with that hamster wheel, the smelly old baker on repeat play! Cheers, thanks for that – thanks a lot! Sorry, Chris – back to you now!

Seems, that Chris ‘finds the choreography of Dirty Dancing really uplifting!‘ No, there’s no way anyone rendezvousing with Chris, in a Pas de Deux, could ever give him a push up! It’d be like Phil the Minion, lifting up his master, Felonius Gru! IMPOSSIBLE! You should see this guy – the O2’s too small to contain him. Oops, he’s looking this way – think Chris is on to me – and he’s on his way back! Time for a second Portaloo inspection …

I trudge back through the wet grass – it’s a real shame Carl wouldn’t lend me his wellies – only to find that some yokelling farmer’s wife is standing in the doorway of the only available loo having a chat, with another Barbour-coated farmer’s wife. A long chat. A very, very long chat. I’m standing here hopping around from wet foot to wet foot, clearly in need, and they are carrying on – wittering and yokelling! I need to think on my sodden feet; immediate action is required. I sludge up to the second Portaloo cabin and, ignoring the red ‘engaged’ symbol, attempt a break-in! The door won’t budge and there’s an angry sound erupting from within. What to do? There must be more than two loos, mustn’t there? I slosh purposefully towards a clump of trees  to check out the view beyond. YES, YES, YES! There are two more Portaloo cabins hiding out on the other side. I go for it!

As I let loose, my favourite Adele song pops into my head and I linger a little longer, for the sensory experience of a sing song in a mist of lavender (Surely, the trees will form an effective sound barrier?).

So hello from the other side
I must’ve cr***** a thousand times
I tell you I’m sorry
For making a mess
But when I call you …

And I’m back. I’m back in the O2 at Haughley Park Farm and the I-didn’t-quite-catch-his-name Paul(?) headline act is on stage. Seems he’s already very famous, due to a series of appearances on Embarrassing Bodies – involving various explorations of his piles! And that’s not all – our Pile-Man Paul can do magic! He’s persuaded one of the only three farmer’s wives (sorry for being sexist – I do of course mean to refer to lady farmer’s)  remaining on site (the other two are still nattering across the Portaloo) to join him on stage. And he’s reading her mind. He knows exactly what she’s thinking about and she’s even confessing that she does it five times a day! Five times! Wow! What a life these farming folk have. That’s why most of them go home early, and that’s why the Portaloo is permanently occupied by the remainder. Gee, thanks Pile-Man Paul – I’m really getting an insight into the energising effects of a rural lifestyle. What I don’t quite get, though, is why Suffolk’s population density is the lowest in the UK. Just what exactly is going on here?

Janet Garner. Janet’s going on! Pile-Man’s off and Janet’s on. And she’s a classic example of a rural Suffolk lady. She’s telling us all how she was rudely awoken, at the crack of dawn, by the bin, or more precisely by the bin-man; a bin-man, who didn’t even take his gloves off! Not only does Janet have a penchant for bin-men, she also has a thing about younger men – keeps them chained up to her cooker and kitchen sink! But, sadly, her accent turns out to be a bit of a giveaway. Janet’s a fake. She’s not from Suffolk at all! She’s an Essex girl from Southend. What a let down!

But it’s no matter, because Paul Merrick‘s up – and he’s Suffolk born and bred. Born during a dark, stormy night in Suffolk hospital, he caused quite a stir! Why? Because when the nurse dangled him upside down and slapped him on the bum (yes, he’s that old), he refused to respond in the appropriate manner. He didn’t cry – he ‘farted’! And even worse than that, he gave the nurse ‘a series of cheeky winks’! That proves my first point – Paul’s a true Suffolk man – seems he was born ‘without a moral compass’! He realised his future was orange and moved across the border to Essex! TRAITOR! WHAT A TRAITOR! All these ready and willing farm ladies in Suffolk, and he moves to Essex! Still, I suppose he does have a point. What sane man, or woman, would want to wade through a bogmire to have it away in a Portacabin, that’s been scented up, not with cinnamon (for desirability and creativity) and not with ginger (for opening the heart) – but with lavender (for minor burns and bug bites). Still, moving on, I suppose the lavender might be of some use, for punters who get into a tangle with the blood-sucking Carl Denham.

Because it does seem that our young Carl enjoys a challenge. Not only is he excited by a booking in a field potentially full of sheep, he is also a victim of the New Right test-your-kids-to-death-in-British-schools culture. As the youngest of this evening’s comedian’s, he’s had a harder life to bear than most, and the constant testing’s really got to him. He’s in his twenties and he’s still in full swing, going along to testing centres, and offering himself up for further experimentation. He’s not fooling me though, with his claims of thriving on accomplishment-by-test-results. It’s no excuse for his frequent visitations to the STI clinic. Visitation being the appropriate word, because there’s nothing mortal about Carl; he’s a self-confessed-own-scab eater. How desperate for a feed does a comedian need to be?

Well, I’ll leave Carl gnawing away at his knees, because Ali Warwoods’ on! She’s on, and she’s charging head on into another flap, and she needs assistance.

I can still recall, with horror, the debacle Ali created with her tent antics at the Leestock Festival. But, even though she’s tried to repress her inclinations since then (keeping herself busy birthing babies with her trophy wife), she’s still not content!

Ali’s back – she’s here – and she is, at this very moment, scrambling into a sheep pen.

It’s okay, Ali, I’m here to rescue you. Blood runs thicker than water, and we’re both from Wolverhampton, which must mean we’re connected by our genes (and if not, when I’ve done a little further work on my Ancestry.com family tree, we soon will be!), so I’ll get you out of this particular flap. But – it’s the last time! I’m a Blogger – not a soothing piece of lavender, not a cure for all ills – and I’ve had it up to here today, already! Take that incident earlier this evening, when I had to dive in and save our emcee, PJ, from the scrum of comedians. After this rescue, Ali, this one last rescue, I’m done with it all!

Even Bloggers need a break!

But, before then, with Ali all sorted – the closing act is on. It’s the one and only …

CHRIS NORTON-WALKER! And the great thing is, that this means I can take my leave – early. I don’t need to blog about Chris; I nicked all of his jokes earlier. I’m almost done. It’s time for the Blogger to depart, but Chris isn’t letting up – he’s still banging them out …

‘When I was a kid, I used to knock on people’s doors and run away,’ he’s boasting. ‘I still do, but now I work for Amazon!’

What a nasty b***** Chris is! He’s the one responsible for …

Well, Chris, here‘s a taste of your own medicine. I’m gonna give you a wave, make you think I’m listening, make you think I’m all ears and all pen, sitting here writing about you, blogging about you, about to make you famous – immortal even … and then?

Then, …. I’m going to run away ……………………………………

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2017

If you hated this blog, and would like to see the aforementioned comedians in action, rather than plough through any more of the Blogger’s self-agrandiosing rants, please visit The Suffolk Punch Comedy Club, first Wednesday of every month  – at The Brewery Tap in Sudbury. And, whilst there, drop a generous donation into our charity pot in aid of Prostate Cancer Research.

NEWSFLASH! Chris Norton-Walker is performing at The Brewer Tap, Weds 2nd August – bet not to miss it! (But, if you do, don’t worry – I’ve already stolen some of his best jokes! Make a small payment into the Prostate Cancer Research charity pot, and we’ll see what we can do!)

BIG NEWS EVENT! I have just been reliably informed that Pile-Man Paul’s real name is El Baldinho (but PJ tells me I can carry on using his alias, Pile-Man Paul – if I really want to!)

Acknowledgements:

The following websites were used for reference during my extensive research into aromatherapy!

http://thegreendivas.com/2014/07/25/eco-sexy-aromatherapy-7-essential-oils-that-turn-on-the-passion/

http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/265922.php

 

The Story of Haughley Park Farm’s Lost Mutton

I’m pacing up and down in a wet field at Haughley Park Farm, on a desperate quest to locate Suffolk Punch Comedy Club’s latest venue. ‘Just head straight on in there,’ PJ, the emcee, instructed (ordered), ‘and follow the ‘Competitors’ sign!’ What he neglected to inform me about was that, in order to compete, I’d need to be donning my best Sean the Sheep costume.

This is no comedy venue – I’m at the Suffolk Sheepdog Trials and the rain’s chucking it down! But, in spite of the downpour, I’m sure that no cats have ever been near the place, and the dogs – the dogs? Where are the sheepdogs?

In one sense, the lack of a canine presence is a positive – at least it means that this particular piece of lost mutton will avoid the stockpot long enough to tell the tale (thus avoiding a nasty confrontation with the emcee PJ, for missing yet another blog post deadline!). But survival aside, if there are no sheepdogs, or even any sheep, then what about the punters? Where are all the punters? And where indeed is the comedy tent? Is it just me?

Am I all alone in this world? No, there’s a great black beast of a cow in a flimsy-looking enclosure checking me out – is it a cow! Or a bull? When in doubt, seek out the familiar!

I head for the Portaloo cabins.

Further investigation ascertains that there are only two of the sit-down variety, one situated either side of a free-for-all urinal cabin. It is clear to me that farm folk, much like teachers, don’t ever go for a s***! They don’t go for a s***, because they don’t have time to go for a s***! And my suspicions are further verified when, even though it is now dusk, and the bulk of the traffic has been and gone, the toilet rolls are still intact – no-one has even ripped off the first piece! And the squidgy-disinfectant dispensers are full to the brim. The punters have not only been and gone, they’ve taken their s*** home with them! And why not make good use of economy by-products, by reserving them for home territory?

Still, I can’t complain. The seats are actually clean enough to park my backside upon and there’s a beautiful smell of lavender in the air. I’m feeling all relaxed and comfy, and it’s dry in here. I could stay for …

But, alas, an incensed PJ enters my neural pathways, and I am called to duty. Somewhere, somewhere out there amongst the damp bales of hay, my bidders await. Okay, so perhaps no-one’s interested in putting in a high bid for a piece of lonely old mutton, but I’m here on a mission. I have a purpose. I exit the health spa and refocus.

I spot my destination and it’s not a tiny comedy tent. This is no token effort – this is mammoth! It puts the O2 to shame! No wonder I couldn’t find it before. I set the bar too low. Suffolk Punch Comedy Club has made the big time – this time it’s really happening!

And a possy of my followers await. There they are, waiting for me, huddled up a corner, looking tiny, and clinging on to each other for warmth. Although all blue-tinged and more-closely resembling the Smurfs than a bunch of up and coming comedians, I manage to identify a few – there’s Chris Norton-Walker, Ali Warwood, Carl Denham, Paul Merrick and my all-time favourite, Janet Garner. And, there, in the centre of the scrum, a red-faced PJ! Poor PJ – all hands are on him – and it’s not his fiery furnace they’re after – it’s his money!

And Carl Denham, the blood-sucker, is close to his goal – he’s going to bleed him dry!

It’s okay, PJ, I’m here! The Blogger is here; she’s hidden the collection pot, and she’s coming to the rescue!

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2017

If you enjoyed this post, please follow me, and read on to find out more about the antics of your favourite Blogger (and, of course, as a little aside, some of your favourite up-and-coming and even some-who-are-already infamous comedians!)! Then take a visit to The Brewery Tap, East Street, Sudbury, Suffolk, on the first Wednesday of the month, and drop a generous ‘voluntary’ donation into our charity pot – all in aid of Prostate Cancer Research – before hanging around for a lot longer to enjoy the show!

A Grilling at The Tap

Grilled.

I’m red hot, so hot that I’ve turned white-hot and I’m here at The Brewery Tap gagging for a pint of their speciality ‘mango’ cider. But, alas, it’s not to be. My timing is not so hot as the rest of me!

I’ve been pipped to the bar by the most generous punter in Sudbury. Not content with ordering his own pint of Adnam’s, he’s now buying pints for every single punter that comes through the door. This is all very well, but look at me! I’m here – I’m red-hot, and I need a pint too. Where’s mine? I’m thinking that, perhaps, if I go out the window and re-enter via the door, he’ll extend his generosity to me – might be a quicker way of getting hold of those thirst-quenching mangoes! But, I’m not that bold and I’m not that devious – I am, after all a vicar’s daughter – so I wait and wait and wait some more.

‘All good things come to those who wait!’ At least, that’s what my good-vicar’s-wife mother told me. And it’s so true, isn’t it? Just look at the evidence – my nemesis, vicar’s daughter Theresa May. Only yesterday, on MSN news, she said, “I will serve you as long as you want me!”

Oh, and it’s going to so worth waiting for, isn’t it? Her downfall, when it comes – it’s going to be so catastrophic – so entertaining! So good for us all!

But if Theresa can produce the goods, why am I still here, still standing at the bar in Tap, waiting for my mangoes? Hey, my wait’s up – I’m being served …

My wait’s up and I’ve given up. It’ll take ages for the barman to go out the back to get my mangoes from the barrel, so I make a wise decision (Take note, Theresa May!): I give up on my heart’s desire and opt, instead, for the on-tap Three Berries’ Aspall cider. It might not be ‘mango’, but it’s still refreshing and it ‘plumps’ up my ageing skin, just like my so-called-rehydrating-Garnier face cream claims to do (I must start up a beauty blog – might get some sponsorship from Aspall’s!).

The grill’s cooling down and Liam Sullivan, has-been-grill-chef-turned-comic, is taking the stage. The timing of everything is all so wrong this evening. I’ll have to have words with PJ. But, it’s clear why Liam gave up his day job. So tall! A danger to himself! A health hazard of a hulk, who most likely hit his block a few times on the overhead extractor fan. Could be why he’s a bit thin up top!

What’s this? Liams’s refusing to start his set until we all tell him he’s handsome. This is tricky; I’m as honest as they come and I’d like to tell him that with the two reddish tufty bits at the side of his head and the strawberry blonde beard, he reminds me Yukon Cornelius, the mountain man! (Who’s that? Get with it! Look him up and see for yourself at: https://laraandthereelboy.wordpress.com/2009/12/25/facial-hair-friday-week-19-christmas-edition. I do, however, think better of this – mainly because now that some female’s actually told him he’s ‘handsome’ (a plant), he’s rewarding the rest of us by ranting on about how he sometimes gets ‘stabby’. He’s big, he’s had a few head knocks, and he’s ‘stabby’? I’m off back to the bar. I still need my mangoes and I need to psych myself up for the next act. No, I’m not going to be performing! I’m just the slave – the unpaid Blogger – the reject! And, Jo Fletcher-Cross, the over-friendly Glaswegian’s on next.

It’s a bit much, though. She says that her kind don’t like to share their emotions, whilst simultaneously telling us all about her record-breaking-only-man-to-reach-the-age-of-eighty-in Glasgow, father, and I can see the tears of pride welling up in her eyes. Why can’t these Glaswegian’s just be honest about things? And now she’s saying that Glaswegians hate green veg, whilst talking animatedly about the concept of a ‘hot cucumber’. Really! Please, Jo, take advice from us vicar’s daughters (May’s in with me on this one!): Honesty really is the best policy!

But, Jo’s not the only one partial to a bit of hyperbole. Winter Foenander, the Scandinavian’s now on, doing a fake Scottish accent! (Something to do with his fears about Brexit, perhaps?) And he’s sharing anecdotes about his allergies to smoke and housedust. In the meantime, some passer-by pedestrians’s stubbed her fag out on the open window of the Tap;  and PJ the emcee has been carried off choking! And Winter?

Winter’s still standing. PJ’s missing. And Winter’s still talking. And talking. And talking some more. But, to give him his due, he is doing his Edinburgh Preview. And I guess he’s got to try it out somewhere. But a ‘tandem parachute jump with his nan and his mum’? Really? We believe you, Winter – get real!

But do come back, Winter! Come back, because you’ve had us all in stitches (and you stitched PJ up good and proper)! Only, next time, bring your nan and your mum with you. A little bit of honesty goes a long way and we need to see the evidence! And, like you say, the quest to find an honest comedian is like ‘buying the wrong toilet roll – within a week, you put’ the rejects ‘behind you!’ Then you bring them back, recycled, refreshed and ready to go again!

Come back, Liam; come back, Jo; and come back Winter. And, please, please, please come back, PJ, because we can’t run this joint without you!

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2017

If you enjoy comedy, and you’d like to see Winter’s nan, please visit The Tap on Wednesday 3rd August at 8pm, and then keep on coming back every week until she makes an appearance. Entry to the comedy night is free, but donations for Prostate Cancer Research are always more-than welcome.

Groundhog Day at Leestock

Suffolk Punch Comedy at the Leestock Festival

Suffolk Punch Comedy’s show, hosted by the emcee Pauline Eyre, every child’s nightmare of an embarrassing yes-I-think-I’m-funny mum, gets off to a cracking Sunday start:

     Why did the baker wash his hands?
     We don’t know Pauline Eyre! Why did the baker wash his hands?
     Because he’d kneaded a poo!

Imagine being a Blogger, located in a comedy tent at the Leestock Festival, sandwiched between a battalion of Portaloo cabins and a beer tent … and you start to get the picture.

1) As it is extremely hot, and as the comedians on today’s billing are also extremely ‘hot’, the Blogger’s priority is to make a short trip over to the beer tent to secure a sample of cider. Being a logical sort of person, without the least-tinsy bit of sense, she starts at the top of the extensive list of consumables with a request for ‘Black Dragon’. As it’s a charity event, the barman refuses to hand over any free tasters, so the Blogger is forced to purchase half a pint; the alcohol content is 7.2%, so this is a sensible start to a big (long) day.

2) The Blogger returns to the comedy tent, eager to lap up a dose of Adam the Bailiff. Instead, this is what she gets – Pauline Eyre and a second dose of:

    Why did the baker wash his hands?
    We don’t know Pauline Eyre! Why did the baker wash his hands?
    Because he’d kneaded a poo!

It was humorous enough the first time but, thanks to the ‘Black Dragon’, it is now really funny and it even starts to sound as if it might be a Pauline Eyre original.

3) Adam the Baliff’s first on, and he soon sweetens up the Blogger with his associations between orange-faced Essex girls and Sunny Delight, but the Blogger is impatient – she wants more of the real stuff – as a Tipexed-white-faced Suffolk-Shropshire hybrid, she’s feeling unwanted, redundant – almost lonely. So Adam is abandoned ….

4) As it is extremely hot, and as the next up and coming comedian is going to turn the ‘heat’ up a notch, the Blogger’s next point of call is  …. the beer tent. She makes a second attempt at securing a free taster, by homing in on a different barman – but he’s having none of it either. So out comes the purse, and a request for half a ‘Dog Dancer’ (only 6.5%, so perfectly acceptable).

5)  The Blogger returns to the comedy tent eager to lap up a dose of Tom Caruth. Instead, this is what she gets – Pauline Eyre and a third dose of :

    Why did the baker wash his hands?
    We don’t know Pauline Eyre! Why did the baker wash his hands?
    Because he’d kneaded a poo!

It’s now not just humorous, or really funny, or a possible original – it’s ground-breakingly fresh and 100% orginal! The Blogger starts to spit and splutter. Everyone in the audience gets a taste of the ‘Dog Dancer’.

6) Tom Caruth refuses to do an impression of C3PO, so the Blogger gets that sweaty-under-the-long-armpit-hair feeling that she always gets when Caruth does his French Chewbacca performance. And, she does a little wet-dog shake to relieve herself of the excess.

7) As it is extremely hot, and as the next up and coming comedian, Carl Denham, has made a point of asking for a generous press review, the Blogger’s subsequent point of call is  …. the beer tent. She makes a third attempt at securing a free taster, by homing in on a bar lady (sure to be more generous than her male counterparts) – but she’s having none of it either. So out again comes the purse, and a request for half a ‘Farmhouse Scrumpy’ (only 5.3% this time).

8) The Blogger returns to the comedy tent, eager to deodorise herself with the sweet music of the James Arthur doppelganger, Carl Denham. Instead, this is what she gets – Pauline Eyre and a fourth dose of:

    Why did the baker wash his hands?
    We don’t know Pauline Eyre! Why did the baker wash his hands?
    Because he’d kneaded a poo!

It’s now not just humorous, or really funny, or a possible original, or even ground-breakingly fresh and 100% original! The raucous laughter that now emerges from the Blogger’s mouth is so Earth shattering that Organiser PJ‘s deckchair, gives out a creak and a crumble. Inspired by the effect she has on others, the Blogger considers launching into her own rendition of the ‘Apple Crumble’ song as a kind of Britain’s Got Talent Preview. But, a little shell-shocked by her own earthquake, the Blogger decides it might be kinder to check on the well-being of the next I’ll say-and-do-anything-to-get-into-the-press comedian.

9) But Carl Denham turns out to be a blood-sucker, with a thing about ‘Twilight’ – and a morning slot just isn’t really him. He’s a repellent, rather than a deodoriser, telling his audience to come back later on – the glare from the Blogger’s sunny pink hair disturbs him. The Blogger takes the hint and leaves.

10) As it is now sizzling, due to all the hot lava, and as the next up-and-coming comedian, Alex Oliver, is going to show a snippet of his best Edinburgh peek show, the Blogger’s subsequent point of call is  …. the beer tent. She makes no effort to secure a free taster, as all of the bar staff are looking like we-all-need-some-of-this-cider grumpy, and this time she has double-the-usual money ready. Slurring out of the Blogger’s mouth comes a request for a pint of  ‘Two Trees Perry’. (Only 4.5% alcohol, so why go for a half, when she can practice her ‘doubling’ skills?)

8) The Blogger returns to the comedy tent, eager to lap up a dose of the young and dashing Alex Oliver. Instead, this is what she gets – Pauline Eyre and a fourth dose of :

    Why did the baker wash his hands?
    We don’t know Pauline Eyre! Why did the baker wash his hands?
    Because he’d kneaded a poo!

It’s now not just humorous, or really funny, a possible original – or even ground-breakingly fresh and 100% original, or earth shattering. It’s explosively – flat! The loud bomb-like sound that let loose out of the Blogger’s a***, has made an impact crater beneath the stage (the vegetable crates) and the safety of the young Alex Oliver is in doubt.

9) Alex Oliver screeches and squeals and squeaks, not because he’s fallen through the flimsy crates and into the crater below, but because – his mum votes Conservative! Worse, he hasn’t even got a dad with ‘long hair’ to make up for it! He’s so much into slating his mum and dad that the Blogger, now with a thing about doubling,  makes a note in support of Alex’s declaration that he’s two twelve year olds stuck together. But doing the doubling undoes the Blogger. If two twelves, make twenty-four, then two twenty-fours make … No – that means that Alex is half the age of …. The Blogger makes haste …. desperately in need of a refresher ..

10) As it is now scorching, the Blogger’s has-seen-better-days skin is shrivelling, and she needs something to plump out the wrinkling effects of mathematical-brain overuse. She dives under the cover of the beer tent. Perhaps things can be ironed out a little before she has to face the next comedian in the line-up – Si Deaves! She goes for ‘Autumn Magic’, a cider which seems aptly named – a spell out of the summer sun, without venturing into the dark shades of a Carl Denham winter. The Blogger doesn’t hesitate this time – she orders a pint and a half. (It’s only 4.0%, so the extra consumption makes perfect numerical sense!)

11) The Blogger returns to the comedy tent rejuvenated, and keen to share her tips for a do-it-yourself-with-a-pint-of cider tips for a face lift with Si Deaves. Instead, this is what she gets – Pauline Eyre and a fifth dose of :

    Why did the baker wash his hands?
    We don’t know Pauline Eyre! Why did the baker wash his hands?
    Because he’d kneaded a poo!

It’s now not just humorous, or really funny, a possible original – or even ground-breakingly fresh and 100% original, or earth shatteringly flat – it’s – it’s really something. In fact, it’s kind of sensual … The thought of the baker with his large hands kneading the same old dough is all just a bit too much … The Blogger turns to Si Deaves and is drawn to inspect his hands – they are tiny! Tiny Si turns out to have Tripophobia – a fear of small holes close together. The Blogger does her calculations: lots of small holes getting closer make one big hole or one massive crater, and Tiny Si is standing directly above his very own Room 101. She’s not going to be the one to tell him; she’s off …

12) As it is now tropical, the Blogger is hallucinating. She thinks it’s Happy Hour at the beer tent and demands a barrelful of ‘Thundering Molly’. It claims to have a ‘well-balanced finish’, and the world at Leestock looks a little topsy-turvy, so the 5.2% cider ought bring the Blogger back into the centre of things.

13) The Blogger re-enters the comedy tent refocused and with an ambitious plan – to stay upright during Martin Westgate’s Leestock debut! But, instead is confronted with a renewed bombardment of  …..

    Why did the baker wash his hands?
    We don’t know Pauline Eyre! Why did the baker wash his hands?
    Because he’d kneaded a poo!

It’s no longer just humorous, funny, nearly or wholly original, flat or sensual – it’s now … a killer! The Blogger is knocked flat. She’s on the ground and out for the count. She’s actually a bit of an embarrassment, especially as her pink wig has flown off into the crater, revealing her in all her ageing baldness. PJ sees the Blogger. There’s not much of her left. She hasn’t made much of a mark. And she’s a bit of a liability. He looks down into the crater beneath the vegetable crates. No-one would notice if ….

14) But PJ’s feeling generous. Martin Westgate’s jumping up and down on the vegetable crates playing ‘Spot the Difference’, inviting the kids to shout out every time uses a substitute in a once-was-a-space-for-a-swear-word in his jokes. PJ, thinking that he’s an adult, excuses himself.

15) He wanders over to the beer tent and purchases (with his last intended-as-a-pay-off-for-a-comedian-but-kept-for-himself beer ticket!) a couple of barrels of ‘Black Rat’. At 6%, it ought to finish the Blogger off good and proper.

16) PJ returns to the comedy tent – his very own comedy tent – and is welcomed with a chorus of:

    Why did the baker wash his hands?
    We don’t know Pauline Eyre! Why did the baker wash his hands?
    Because he’d kneaded a poo!

It’s all a bit much. The cider would be wasted on the Blogger, and anyway she’s snoring! So PJ cracks open a barrel, puts the other aside for later, and settles in for the Headline Act.

17) It’s Janet Garner. She’s sharing her romantic candle-lit meal recipe for corned-beef-and-malteser omelette – PJ guffaws as loudly as a Gruffalo! Janet admonishes her errant husband (foolish enough to be in the audience) for his tactless rejection of her lovingly-made sausage roll curry – PJ’s guffaws are transformed into a kind of unable-to-breathe-choking sound.

18) Janet, a qualified first aider, jumps down from the vegetable crates and rushes over to PJ’s side. And Pauline Eyre, always ready to be a distraction, steps in and up to offer some relief:

    Why did the baker wash his hands?
    We don’t know Pauline Eyre! Why did the baker wash his hands?
    Because he’d kneaded a poo!

19) PJ vomits.

    Why did the baker …..?

As the official blogger for Suffolk Punch Comedy Club, these are the kind of conditions within which I am forced to work. Please give generous donations to our charity, so that PJ reaches his target, and so that I can retire from blogging and take up my true vocation  – as an immortal cider taster, destined to prop up the bar of The Brewery Tap for ever more.

And please visit the Brewery Tap on every first Wednesday of the month to see each and every one of the Suffolk Punch Comedy Club shows. Free entry, but all donations for Prostate Cancer Research are gratefully received!