Macbeth Demands a Recount

 

Macbeth, recently defeated and beheaded at the hands of Macduff, duly arrived on the bank of the River Styx to be rowed across to Hades by Charon the ferryman. However, he proved to be a reluctant passenger, not least because he saw no reason to give the infernal boatman his usual fee.

“No cash, no deal”, Charon said.

“Don’t you talk to me about deals”, Macbeth replied. “I know more about deals that you’ll ever know. I wrote the book about deals – or at least my ghostwriter did.”

“But if you don’t pay me you don’t get across”, said Charon. “You have to wander about for a hundred years before you get a free ride.”

“Don’t you talk to me about free rides …”

“And besides that”, Charon interrupted, “Your nearest and dearest should have left a coin on your tongue as my payment, so where is it?”

“I ran out of any nearest and dearest early in Act Five”, said Macbeth. “Besides which, somebody cut my head off, so any coin would probably have fallen out of the hole where my neck used to be.”

“Yes, I see that,” said Charon. “Incidentally, somebody did a terrible job trying to stitch it back on so you could get down here. Don’t nod too vigorously or it’ll be off again”.

“Of course, I shouldn’t be here at all”, said Macbeth. “When I get to see your boss I’m going to demand a recount.”

“A recount?”

“Sure thing. When everything is looked at properly, everyone will see that I won that battle by a landslide.”

“I don’t think so”, said Charon. “According to what I’ve been told, Macduff and Malcolm won it by a woodslide.”

“You mean that terrible ‘Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane’ trick? You just wait till I take that little number to your Supreme Court. My mate Bill Shakespeare has been packing the bench for years with loads of guys who’ll back me up – Othello, Lear, Julius Caesar, even Falstaff if they’ve managed to keep him off the booze.

“I’m telling you”, he continued. “It’s all a witch hunt. And talking of witches, I’ll bet they were all in it too.”

“In what?”

“The conspiracy. They all wanted me dead right from the start. I could tell just from what they were putting in that foul cauldron of theirs.”

“Such as?”

“Wool of bat for starters. They clearly wanted me to catch Covid-19. And ‘eye of newt’? I’m positive they slipped in a fake newt. Those crones made a whole heap of forecasts that they knew could not possibly happen, unless they fixed it, so what did they do?”

“Tell me.”

“Isn’t it obvious? They fixed it! All that ‘man who is not born of woman’ nonsense, and they reckoned that because Macduff’s mum had a Caesarian that meant that he wasn’t properly born. What codswallop. And these people get paid huge sums of money …”

“Do they?” Charon asked.

“Of course they do. All these mystical types get paid a fortune so they can swan around on jet-powered broomsticks and live the life of Riley. They take all-expenses-paid luxury holidays in England, you know.”

“Can’t say I did, to be honest.”

“That’s why I had that wall built, you know.”

“Wall?” Charon looked bemused.

“Between Scotland and England. To stop hordes of foreigners pouring in and witches pouring out – but I’d forgotten that it doesn’t work if you’re on a broomstick.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong”, said Charon, “but I thought it was Emperor Hadrian who built that wall?”

“More lies”, said Macbeth. “Nobody gives me the credit for everything I’ve done for this country. Nobody!”

“But you’re dead now”, said Charon, “so it doesn’t matter.”

“That reminds me”, said Macbeth, “Another thing about that conspiracy. There were dead people who were allowed to get in on the act. If you’re dead, you can’t be allowed to affect the outcome of any future power struggle, and yet there was Banquo, who I am absolutely positive was dead – due to the fact that I had him killed – turning up at one of my parties. There he was, bold as brass! I tell you, it’s just not right, and I demand a recount!”

“Just get in the boat”, said Charon. “I’m breaking the habit of a lifetime and giving you a free ride. If I charged you, I bet you’d only claim it as tax-deductible.”

© John Welford

A Mixed-Up Bag

Mabel, Doris and Alice, the residents of Blasted Heath Cottage, were pondering what to do about their entry for the next craft show at Glamis Castle, the home of Lord and Lady Macbeth. This annual event was not to be missed, and the three ladies had been regular participants for many years.

However, comments had been made after last year’s show that maybe they should make a few changes, given that their entries in the Pickles and Preserves class had given the judges particularly nasty stomach bugs and even caused one of them to lose a toe and grow an extra finger. Nobody thought they should be banned altogether – apart that is, from the unfortunate judge who now had all the correct digits but not necessarily in the right order – but perhaps they should consider entering show classes that did not actually involve the judges having to eat anything they had prepared.

It was after a visit to Sainsbury’s that Doris got the bright idea of what they could do. She had been scanning the shelves for fresh supplies of batwing pressé - without success – when she spotted Lady Macduff who was carrying a very attractive shopping bag made from evenly-sized patches of differently patterned material sewn together. Surely, she thought to herself, the three of them could come up with something similar to enter in the Bags and Accessories class at the craft show?

“That’s what we should do”, she said to the others when she got home. “We’ll make a tote bag.”

“A toad bag?” said Alice, whose hearing was far from perfect. “Your pet toad for example? We could cut of his head, scoop out his innards …”

“No!” said Doris. “If you touch my toad, I’ll turn your cat into a bag …”

“Hold it, sisters.” said Mabel, pulling them apart. “I reckon this tote bag idea is a good one. We just need to get as many people as we can to contribute patches of material and we’ll sew them together to make a bag. Could be a winner!”

So the three of them split up, went their separate ways, and met again a week later when they had collected contributions from people they knew.

Doris had been to see Iago, whose offering was the handkerchief he had pinched from Desdemona. “This rag has got everyone into so much trouble”, he had told her, “that sewing it into a tote bag is probably the best thing to do with it.”

Alice’s contribution was two bright yellow stockings. “I was given these by Malvolio”, she said. “He reckons that they should be perfect for a tote bag competition, as long as yellow-hating Olivia is not on the judging panel.”

“If she is”, said Doris, “we can always feed her some of our newt chutney before the judging starts. That should take her out of the reckoning for long enough.”

Mabel had been to see Hamlet, who had provided a piece of fine damask cloth that could be made into several patches.

“He said that this had been part of the arras curtain in his mother’s bedroom, but it had been ruined when he stuck his sword through it and killed Polonius who was hiding on the other side. He said that his mother was pretty cut up about it.”

“Presumably not quite as cut up as Polonius”, Alice offered.

“I got the impression that she was more bothered about the arras”, said Mabel. “She’d paid good money for it and gave Hamlet a piece of her mind afterwards. The bloodstains were very difficult to shift.”

“No matter”, said Doris. “That’s nothing new for Glamis Castle – her ladyship is always complaining about that sort of thing.”

Doris was able to supply some other bloodstained fabric squares, courtesy of Shylock who had explained that blood spatter was sometimes inevitable when extracting pounds of flesh from recalcitrant customers.

Richard III had also sent along some quite expensive looking pieces that he said were no longer needed by their former owners, although he was not prepared to give any further details.

“I reckon we’ve got enough”, said Mabel. “Now who’s going to sew them together to make a bag?”

“Not me”, said Alice. “With these great thick fingers? I can’t even thread a needle, let alone sew.”

“Nor me”, said Doris. “Same problem.”

“And me”, said Mabel. “Looks like we’re stymied then.”

“In other words”, said Alice, there’s no way we can make a tote bag, so we can’t enter anything at the craft fair.”

“It’s back to Pickles and Preserves then”, said Doris. “But we’ve been banned from entering that class, due to the fact that whatever we submit usually has unforeseen consequences.”

“We’ll have to cheat, then” said Mabel. “Suppose we enter our Cockroach and Slug Surprise but use someone’s else’s name as a cover?”

“Great idea”, said Alice. “Got anyone in mind?”

“Do you think we’d get away with calling ourselves Juliet Capulet?”

© John Welford

A Happy Tale's Best for Summer

Will Shakespeare was enjoying a third glass of mead after his opening night when there was a knock at the office door. He opened it to admit his agent, Cameron Overcoat, who was clearly in an excellent mood.

“That was brilliant”, he exuded, “An absolute triumph. The Winter’s Tale - one of your best yet. You had them rolling in the aisles.”

“But it wasn’t supposed to be a rip-roaring comedy.” said Will “Have you forgotten Act II Scene 1 – ‘a sad tale’s best for winter’?”

“But nobody was bothered by that at the end”, said Cameron, “The scene with the bear chasing that bloke off stage. Brilliant gag – how you keep thinking them all up beats me. Mind you, your comic genius has been flagging a bit lately – there weren’t too many laughs in King Lear or Othello as I remember – but now’s the time to set that right.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well,” said Cameron, “The clue’s there in the title, isn’t it? The obvious sequel to The Winter’s Tale has to be The Summer’s Tale. You bring back all the same characters, with the obvious omission of the guy who was eaten by the bear, on a jolly romp with lots of fun and frolic in the sun, with maybe a bit of gratuitous sex thrown in for good measure. I’m telling you – it’s the future of entertainment.”

Will needed a bit of persuading, but he was prepared to let his agent say his piece and fill in a few details.

“So where do we set this play, then?” Will asked.

“How about that sea coast in Bohemia that you had in Act 3?”

“You know, I’m a bit worried about that”, said Will, “One of the critics has already pointed out to me that Bohemia doesn’t actually have a coast”.

“If you say it’s got a coast, Will, it’s got a coast. With gorgeous beaches of course, full of beautiful people doing naughty things.”

“If you say so”.

“I certainly do, and I’ve a great scene already mapped out.”

“You have?”

"Sure do. You know that bit in your play when the statue comes to life?”

“That’s right. Queen Hermione in Act 5.”

“Well, in The Summer’s Tale, this takes place on the beach, and she throws her arms wide open as she does so, causing her costume to burst open and show everything she’s got. That should get a huge laugh.”

Will wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure that the English theatre is really ready for that? This is the 17^th century after all – I can’t see that kind of carry on getting past the censor.”

"Don’t worry, Will,” said Cameron. “I know the guy – a few groats greasing the right palms will get over that obstacle. And I know just the actress for the role.”

“You do?”

“Sure. She was in The Merry Wives of Windsor – Barbara her name was, if I remember rightly.”

“Have you got any more bright ideas?”

“Well,” said Cameron, “seeing as it’s The Summer’s Tale, set on a beach in Bohemia, why don`t we actually stage it in Bohemia and take all our first night audience with us?”

“To Bohemia? How much will that cost?”

“Not much”, said Cameron. “I’ve got this mate called Ryan who arranges trips like this really cheaply.”

“Ryan?”

“Yup. Ryan Aire his name is. He’ll get you anywhere for next to nothing, as long as you don’t want to take any luggage or actually eat anything on the journey.”

“But all the way to Bohemia. It’ll take ages – it’s not as though we could actually fly there, is it? As I said before, this is the 17^th century.”

“Of course we won’t actually go to Bohemia,” said Cameron. “Southend-on-Sea will do perfectly well, given that nobody in England, including you, actually knows where Bohemia is.”

“I’m still not sure”, said Will.

“OK,” said Cameron. “How about Plan B? In your play you mention the Isle of Delphos. We could set The Summer’s Tale on this isle – Canvey Island would do as a substitute – and we have a cast of hunky men and gorgeous women, dressed in not very much, who all fall in love with each other – or at least they pretend to.”

“I don’t know”, said Will. “I can’t see myself being able to get much of a plot out of that scenario. I want kids in 400 years time to be studying my plays for GSCE and A-level, and they’ll need a bit more complexity than that.”

“OK”, said Cameron, “maybe we could tone it down a bit. Not so many raunchy encounters, maybe. But you like the idea of the island?”

“I think I do,” said Will.

“And you’ve no objection to young people falling in love in your plays?”

“Of course I haven’t,” said Will. “It happens all the time, as you know full well - with a bit of magic thrown in from time to time, like in A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”

“So there we have it”, said Cameron. “You’ve already done lovers in Summer, and magic, all you need to add is the island.”

“I’ll get writing straight away”, said Will. “But I won’t call it ‘The Summer’s Tale’. Given the state of the weather this summer so far, how does ‘The Tempest’ grab you?”

© John Welford

Meeting of the Brotherhood

"Brothers, I hereby call this meeting of the Brotherhood of Brothers Ignored by the Bard to order. I am delighted to welcome a special guest today, but before I introduce him to you maybe it would be a good idea if some of you said a few words to give him an idea of your particular grievance. Can I start with the Brother to my left?"

“Thank you, Mr Chairman. My name is Eggslet, the result of a rare example of humour shown by my somewhat dour and gloomy Danish parents when I was born a year after my better-known brother.

“It was a huge mistake leaving me out of the play. I’d have sorted everything out in no time at all. For one thing, I’d have whisked that gorgeous Ophelia off her feet and out of Hammy’s reach, so that awful father of hers wouldn’t have spied on him and got himself killed. There are far too many nasty deaths in that play, and I’d have saved quite a few, you mark my words.

“Mind you, I’d soon have sorted Claudius out. None of that ‘To be or not to be nonsense’ from me, I can tell you. That’s one death that I’d definitely leave in.

“On the other hand, I might also have put paid to my dear brother. He’d have made a terrible king, and with me being next in line … ”

“Thank you, Brother Eggslet”, said the Chairman. Let’s move on, who’s next?”

“That’s me”, said the tough-looking guy sitting next to Eggslet. “My name’s Branwell Lear. It’s a great name, maybe it’ll set a trend for future brothers who have three sisters, who knows?

“I reckon Dad got it all wrong when he only visited his daughters after dividing the kingdom. If he’d turned up at my place with all his knights we’d have had a whale of a time, jousting, hunting, all that sort of thing. There’d have been no need for him to go bonkers and if either Regan or Goneril had caused any problems we’d have settled their hash pretty quickly.

“But Will Shakespeare chose to leave me off the cast list and we all know what happened as a result. Death and misery all over the place – who wants to go to the theatre and see that sort of thing? They can get their fill of that by watching Eastenders.”

The next Brother to speak was a suave Italian who introduced himself as Milaneo Montague, brother of Romeo.

“I should certainly have been in the play”, he said. “It was awful when Romeo topped himself, along with lovely young Juliet. I wept buckets when I heard about it.

“It was all so unnecessary. If they’d only left the wedding arrangements to me, instead of that stupid Friar Laurence, it would all have worked out so differently. I’ve got a mate who runs the perfect wedding venue just outside Verona, everything laid on – wine, cake, flowers, the lot – and all for a very reasonable price. My best man’s speech would have been wonderful, then I’d have whisked them off to start a romantic honeymoon in Sorrento with a short cruise round the Bay of Naples. They’d have loved it. If only I’d been in the play.”

“That was my problem too”, said the next in line, who gave his name as Brashlock. "Everything went wrong for my brother Shylock. We’re in the same line, namely moneylending, but he had a misguided notion about the best way of dealing with bad debts. Far too carnivorous, if you ask me. Now, if the Bard had let me give Shylock a bit of advice I’d have suggested that he adopt my vegan approach. I never demand a pound of flesh. A pound of carrots will suit me just fine, and the following day I’ll demand a pound of potatoes, then leeks and then parsnips. A different vegetable every day until I get my money back, plus interest. By the time the debtor is in the clear my larder is usually full enough not only to feed my family but allow me to stock a veggie stall in the local market. If Will Shakespeare had given me a part in his play, he could have called it The Fruit and Veg Merchant of Venice – much more wholesome if you ask me.”

“Thank you, Brother”, said the Chairman. “Before we go any further, I see that one of the Brothers is handing round a bag of sweets. Going by past experience, I would advise you all not to actually eat anything he offers you.”

“That’s a bit unfair”, said the Brother in question. “It’s months now since anyone has actually died from any of my products, which is more than be said for what my weird sisters turn out. Their death rate is starting to attract the attention of Health and Safety, which is why I reckon that the Bard should have let me have a role in their culinary offerings.”

“You see,” he continued, “those recipes of theirs, with newts’ eyes, dogs’ tongues and the rest, always lacked a certain something. They could have made it big in the world of catering if they’d only listened to their brother’s advice and got the taste balance right.

“You see it’s all very well sticking Turks’ noses and dragons’ scales into the pot – the latter are very difficult to get these days, I can tell you. Sainsbury’s hardly ever have them in stock – but where’s the seasoning? No salt or pepper, and the closest they get to herbs are yew slips and hemlock roots, which do the digestive tract do good at all.”

“I think we’ve heard enough now”, said the Chairman. “So let me introduce our guest, who I think might be able to satisfy most of you with his proposed scheme. Given that you are all ignored brothers, it is only appropriate that he should be another one. He wears flowers in his hair, he writes potted versions of his twin brother Bill’s plays, and his name is Ben Shakespeare.

© John Welford

Valentine's Day at the Macbeths

Breakfast at Glamis Castle, home of Lord and Lady (soon to be King and Queen) Macbeth was never a particularly jolly affair. Apart from the appalling draughts that blew down the length of the dining room through all the ill-fitting windows, there was the recurring problem of the awkward questions that flew across the breakfast table between the castle’s chief occupants.

These quite often referred to missing guests. It was a common occurrence for a distinguished visitor to enjoy a hearty supper the evening before but not put in an appearance at breakfast. His lordship would ask her ladyship what had happened to Lord McX or Duke McY and be fobbed off with the news that he was a particularly heavy sleeper. Macbeth always doubted this, knowing just how uncomfortable all the beds were at Glamis Castle. His suspicion was that the only way to lose consciousness for any length of time in a castle bed was if one’s throat was attended to courtesy of a sharp knife, and his wife had never said anything to allay that suspicion.

However, on the morning of 14^th February the questions were about a very different matter. Four envelopes were propped against his lordship’s box of cornflakes but there was none within reach of Lady Macbeth at the other end of the table.

“Where’s my Valentine’s card, then?” she snapped.

“Oh – is it Valentine’s Day today, my sweet?” Macbeth replied.

“You know full well it is”, said her ladyship. “And you’ve forgotten to buy me a card!”

“Oh dear”, said Macbeth. “Sorry.”

“What’s the matter with you?” asked his wife. “Don’t you love me any more?”

This was a question to which a straight yes or no answer was not easy to give. It was the “any more” that was the problem. Had Macbeth ever loved his wife in the first place? This was the question he was forced to ask himself, and he racked his brain trying to remember if this had ever been the case.

The fact was that theirs would have been a shotgun wedding had shotguns been around at the time. Determined to get herself an aristocratic husband she had put the word around that Macbeth was the father of her unborn child and gathered an impressive force of violent thugs to frog-march Macbeth down the aisle of the local kirk to put a ring on her finger. 

For his part, Macbeth could not recall ever having been to bed with his bride, and this situation did not change after they were married. The supposed pregnancy had all been a trick, thanks to some well-placed cushions that disappeared immediately after the wedding.

“So how come you’ve got four Valentine’s cards today?” she asked. “I know who one of them’s from, but what about the other three? How many floozies have you been seeing behind my back?”

Macbeth knew that any answer he gave would only lead to further trouble, so he stayed silent.

“Open them”, she said. “I want to know who sent them”.

“Valentine’s cards are always anonymous”, Macbeth said. “You wouldn’t be able to tell.”

“Give them here”, she said. “I can always tell”.

So Macbeth flung the offending cards down the length of the table. Lady Macbeth started to open the first of them, using a knife that looked as though it might have used for other purposes in the past, judging by the suspicious red stains on it.

“I know the perfume used by every woman within 20 miles of this castle”, she said. “If you’ve been playing around with any of them I’ll know after a single sniff”.

So saying, she gave put her nose to the open envelope and nearly collapsed on the floor, grabbing her throat as she did so.

“My God!” she gasped. “That’s appalling! What female could possibly smell like that?”

“Like what?” Macbeth asked.

“Like a ton of dog poo mixed with the pong from that corpse I forgot to bury until it had been dead for a fortnight”.

“What corpse was that, my precious?” 

“Never you mind. At all events, this pong smells worse.”

“And what does the card say?” he asked.

Lady Macbeth gingerly extracted the card and read the verse on the front.

“Roses are red, Violets are blue, You will be mine, I’ve put a spell on you”.

“I wonder who could possibly have sent that?” Macbeth wondered, having a pretty good idea what the answer was.

“You can read the other two”, said Lady Macbeth, throwing them back in his direction. “I don’t want them anywhere near me”.

“OK”, said her husband, holding his nose as he extracted the cards from their envelopes.

“This one says: “Some roses are yellow, Others are white, You’re a lucky fellow, Come to dinner tonight.”

“And the third one?”

Macbeth picked up the final mystery card with trepidation, knowing full well where it had come from. Why those hags from Blasted Heath Cottage thought of him on Valentine’s Day was anyone’s guess, but it was hard to imagine that their intentions towards him could have been even remotely friendly ones.

The third card read:

“Roses are red, Violets are blue, You never could guess, What we’ve put in the stew.” On this point they were entirely wrong. He could.

Lady Macbeth was staring at him down the length of the table. Although Macbeth did not have the slightest intention of accepting the invitation to dinner, his wife did not appear to be so sure. 

“I think you’d better look at my card”, she said. She was holding her knife in a somewhat threatening manner, testing its sharpness with her thumb.

Macbeth promptly did so. Its message was clear enough:

“Roses aren’t blue, Violets aren’t red, Start messing around, You'd be better off dead”.

© John Welford

Seeing Red

Dear Regan,

I am absolutely furious, not to mention seething. Daddy has gone too far this time, and I’m sending you this email to warn you that he is on his way to your place with every intention of being as unreasonable to you as he has been to me.

As you no doubt recall, when he gave that poor sap Cordelia no more than she deserved, Daddy decided to divide his kingdom between the two of us and pay us the occasional visit when he felt like it. What he did not say was that he was going to turn up with a full entourage of a hundred knights and expect us to feed and entertain the whole damned lot of them. But that is just what he’s done.

If you remember, Albany and I decided to go in for a low-key economy monarchy, so we downsized to a three-bed semi in Oadby. We therefore had to hire an enormous marquee for the garden to accommodate all the knights.

I have to admit that the knights themselves are not a bad bunch of guys, although Albany is unhappy that they are all knights and there’s not a single dame among them.

Richard Branson laid on a special train to South Wigston, which arrived horribly late. Mo Farah decided to run instead, and beat the train by over half an hour. Chris Hoy and Bradley Wiggins came on a tandem bike and Matthew Pinsent and Steve Redgrave rowed up the Grand Union Canal.

Feeding them wasn’t a problem – one of the knights runs John Lewis, which includes Waitrose – and  clearing up was a doddle – James Dyson ran round afterwards with his latest machine.

The entertainment side was also dead easy – the concert given by Cliff Richard, Elton John, Tom Jones and Paul McCartney went down very well, although Mick Jagger expressed dissatisfaction with some aspects of it. The comedy turn by Lenny Henry was also well received.

However, things started to go amiss when the actor knights did their party pieces. Mark Rylance, Michael Caine and David Jason were fine, but then Antony Sher and Derek Jacobi started claiming that each was a better King Lear than the other, and proceeded to prove the point, completely forgetting that the actual Lear was sitting in the front row of the audience. When Daddy stormed out in a rage that was far more convincing than anything that Sher or Jacobi could manage, he got a standing ovation, which annoyed him even more.

But that business with the knights is only the half of it. It’s what Daddy is turning into that really annoys me. For one thing, he’s gone an odd shade of orange, and he’s done something very strange with his hair.

You know that comedian who always goes around with him? The guy he calls his little fox? Well, it turns out that he’ll only believe what the little fox tells him, and everyone else is lying. It’s “Fox’s news or fake news” according to him.

Daddy just loves to tell everyone else what he thinks of them, sending out dozens of tweets every day, and I’m not at all sure that he’s correct with his facts. Somebody told me that Daddy tells six lies every day, and I’m not convinced that it isn’t even more.

I asked him yesterday if he would like me to spread marmalade on his toast. He said he would, but when I handed the toast to him he threw it on the floor, saying that he meant to say that he wouldn’t like marmalade. Everyone knew full well that he never had marmalade, so how could anyone possibly imagine that he would ever say that he would?

He has now decided that his knights are not as trustworthy as he thought they were. Some of them are out to get him. Not only that, but there are “illegals” among them who are capable of committing horrible crimes if they are allowed out of the marquee.

I think he`s particularly worried about Tony Robinson. As you know, Daddy spends hours every day watching TV, and he tells me that he has seen Sir Tony digging holes in the ground. I’ve tried telling Daddy that “digging the dirt” does not always mean finding incriminating evidence against him, and that it might have far more to do with Tony’s interest in archaeology, but I don’t think that I’ve won the argument.

Anyway, last night I was woken up by strange noises outside. When I looked out of the window I could see Daddy with a wheelbarrow full of bricks, which he seems to have taken from the neighbours who are having an extension built. I went downstairs to ask him what he was up to.

“I’m building a wall”, he said. “We’ll keep all this nasty people away from us. It’ll be a truly beautiful wall, and that Robinson man will pay for it”.

So – not only has Daddy stolen from the neighbours and lost me all my friends with his awful insulting tweets about them, but he has also made me a laughing stock with the whole town. I’m the daughter of the stark staring mad father. Can you imagine what this will do to local property prices?

Hence my anger. I’m sorry, dear sister, but once he realizes that’s he’s no longer welcome here he’ll up sticks and head in your direction.

I wish my news was as fake as Daddy’s tan, but it’s not.

Your loving sister,

Goneril

© John Welford

A Useless Organiser

Have you ever wondered where the saying “Couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery” comes from? Like so many well-known phrases and sayings, we have the immortal Bard, William Shakespeare, to thank for that. 

Well, to be fair, it wasn’t really his fault, because it all happened when he was chatting to one of his characters, by the name of Hamlet, about the lines that he intended to give him for Act 3, Scene 1, when he gets a bit annoyed with Ophelia. 

“How does ‘Get thee to a nunnery’ sound?” he asked.

Hamlet thought that it sounded like a wonderful idea. That was because he had a particularly large wodge of earwax at the time, and he mistook “nunnery” for “brewery”. It never struck him that “Get thee to a brewery” would be an extraordinary line for him to utter in the context, but then his mental processes were never all that robust at the best of times.

His thoughts therefore wandered off in a completely different direction, although the expression of dreamy abstraction that possessed his features for the rest of the day convinced Bill Shakespeare that he was on to a winner here. He could foresee the takings at the Globe hitting the roof – or he would have done if the Globe actually had a roof, which most of it did not.

“I’ll give my mate Charlie a call”, said Hamlet.

“Charlie?”

“Charlie Burg – although, being Danes, we sometimes call him Carl. He tells me that he’s invented a fizzy drink with a bit of a kick to it, and he’d like a group of us to try it out. If it takes off he might start selling it.”

“Can I join you?”, asked the Bard. “I can think of a few people who might be good judges of something like that.”

“Sounds great,” said Hamlet. “Let’s do it”.

Hence the motley crew who assembled at Carl’s brewery a few days later. Carl was a bit downcast when they turned up, because his girlfriend Stella, from France, had just left him. Carl’s particular worry was that she had snaffled his recipe and might try going into production herself.

“Not a chance”, said Hamlet, who was always an excellent judge of any matter that involved a woman.

To prove this point, he had suggested to Bill Shakespeare that he invite Cleopatra to the party, his reason being that she had invented a drink called “snakebite” that Carl might like to sample.

Hamlet’s organizational skills were called into question not long into the event. Bill Shakespeare had suggested that, in order to bring a little magic to the proceedings, he let Prospero, or the combined forces of Oberon and Titania, wave their wands and make things happen, but Hamlet would have none of it. His only concession to this idea was to allow Puck and Ariel to help behind the bar, serving the spirits of course.

However, things really went to pot when Hamlet decided that the best person to pour the pints was Sir John Falstaff, accompanied by all his companions from the Boar’s Head. Presumably Carl the Brewer was not all that concerned about the place being drunk dry, but presumably he would have preferred this to have been at the hands of the customers rather than the bar staff.

Fortunately, Shylock was willing to supply the party with extra alcohol – at a price. Hence another well-known phrase or saying that Bill Shakespeare might have come up with, when he told Shylock:

“When you said that this lot would cost an arm and a leg, I thought you were joking.”

“I’m sure you could put your literary skills to work here”, Shylock said. “Why not call your next play ‘The Vintner’s Tale?”

“It’s more like a comedy of errors”, Shakespeare said.

“As you like it”, Shylock replied.

When the debacle was finally over, and the customers had all departed, save for the pile of inebriates stacked behind the bar, Bill and Hamlet talked things over. 

“I think that was quite a success”, Hamlet said.

“If you’re going to tell me that all’s well that ends well, I might just hit you where it hurts”, said Bill.

“No, I was just thinking that you might rename one of your plays”, said Hamlet.

“Don’t you start”, said Bill. “Which one did you have in mind? The Extremely Merry Wives of Elsinore? Titus A Newt?”

“No”, I just thought that this whole event was not much ado about nothing but potentially the start of something really big. Carl would be delighted if you could produce a new version of one of your earlier triumphs. A few tweaks and a change of title and he could be made for life.”

“And what title did you have in mind?”, asked Bill.

“Isn’t it obvious? The Naming of the Brew, of course.”

© John Welford

The School for Scoundrels: a story

When Miranda and Ferdinand were looking for a suitable place to educate their son Edward they did the rounds of a number of possible schools in Shakespeareville and eventually happened across an institution on the edge of town that looked as though it might just fit the bill. 

This was the intriguingly named School for Scoundrels, proprietor and head teacher S Hylock. They asked for an interview with the man in question, which he was only too pleased to grant. 

“Do come in”, said Mr Hylock, “take a seat and let me tell you all about our wonderful institution”. 

“This is the first I’ve heard of the School for Scoundrels”, said Miranda. “Is it a free school?” 

“Free?” said Mr Hylock, who looked somewhat offended at the very idea, “Free? I should say not. Our fees are substantial, not to say extortionate, but worth every pound, although I stick to sterling pounds rather than fleshy ones these days. I had a little run-in with the authorities in Venice some time ago, which you may have heard about.” 

“I’m not sure we did”, said Ferdinand, “We were stranded on my father-in-law’s enchanted island at the time, and there was something of a news blackout.” 

“Perhaps that was just as well”, said Mr Hylock, “otherwise you might have heard things about me that could have put you off coming here.” 

“Such as what?” asked Miranda. 

“No matter, no matter”, said Mr Hylock, “let’s just stick to getting your little treasure into my clutches ... I mean into my school, shall we?” 

“Do you teach the National Curriculum?” asked Ferdinand. 

“I prefer to call it my Notional Curriculum”, said My Hylock. “Of course, we offer the three Rs, as you might expect.”

“The three Rs?” 

“That’s right – Roguishness, Rapscality and Racketeering. We take the latter right through to A-level. I teach the classes myself”. 

“Are your members of staff properly qualified?” asked Ferdinand. 

“They certainly are”, said Mr Hylock, “I’ve got Julius Caesar himself teaching Latin, and real kings on the payroll. King Henry V gives fencing lessons, and King Richard III is on the domestic staff of the boarding side of the establishment – he tucks the little darlings up in bed at night, and most of them are still alive in the morning.”

 

“What about lunchtime?” Miranda wanted to know. “I hope your catering arrangements are of a suitable standard?” 

“We have an excellent team of caterers”, said Mr Hylock. “They were recommended to me by my Scottish friend Beth, known as Mac for obvious reasons. Blasted Heath Catering use a range of unusual ingredients that can be locally sourced – newts, bats and suchlike – and do remarkable things with them. I can honestly say that you will never have seen anything like the meals they produce.” 

“And what about physical education?” Ferdinand wondered. “I want our Eddie to be given every opportunity to develop into a fit, healthy individual.” 

“I can give you every assurance on that score,” said Mr Hylock. “None of our children are overweight, although I must admit that the fact that nobody seems to eat much at lunchtime might have something to do with that.” 

“Let me also say”, he went on, “that our general educational ethos in the School for Scoundrels, namely to ensure that our charges get rich quick by foul means and even fouler, might sometimes result in them having to scarper pronto from the scene of the crime, so physical fitness is very high on our list of priorities.” 

“Well, that all sounds pretty reasonable,” said Miranda. “Just tell me, though, where do you rank on the educational league tables?” 

“Right at the top, of course”, said Mr Hylock. 

“Why ‘of course’?” asked Ferdinand. 

“Because”, said Mr Hylock, “the tables are compiled by one of our brightest ex-pupils. There are School for Scoundrels alumni all over the place, especially in America. Wherever there’s dodgy dealing going on, there’s an excellent chance that our thorough grounding in everything that’s underhand could be behind it.” 

“So are you saying that our little Eddie could turn out to be a complete scoundrel?” asked Miranda. 

“Absolutely!” said Mr Hylock. “Honesty gets you nowhere these days. Your son will be far better off lying and cheating his way through life, and this is just the place for him to learn the necessary skills, for a substantial fee, of course. 

“If I might misquote a certain famous playwright, ‘All are born straight, but pay me the agreed rate and I’ll soon extract the straightness from them’”.

© John Welford

Pursued by a Bear: a story

In Act 3 Scene III of The Winter’s Tale, by William Shakespeare, there is an interesting and unexpected stage direction. A character named Antigonus exits the stage “pursued by a bear”. Antigonus’s role has been to take the baby daughter of Queen Hermione to – would you believe – the coast of Bohemia and abandon her to the wild beasts of the region. What actually happens is the baby survives but Antigonus does not, and we are given to believe that it is the bear in the stage direction that is the cause of Antigonus’s demise.

But where on earth did the bear come from? There is no earlier stage direction to say when the bear enters, and are stage managers really supposed to arrange for a live bear to appear on stage – however briefly – at every production of the play? What happened at the original performance, both onstage and off? This last question has never been satisfactorily answered – until now, that is.

Will Shakespeare had a problem, as did the owner of the entertainment venue bang next door to the Globe Theatre on the south bank of London’s River Thames. They decided to have a meeting to see if their difficulties could be solved in an amicable way, over a beer or six.

The next-door establishment was a bear pit, run by a guy named George. He offered bear-baiting as his way of drawing in the crowds, who delighted to see dogs attacking a chained bear who would get his own back by swiping a few with his sharp claws. This was a necessarily noisy process, what with the yelps of the dogs, the roar of the bear and the shouts of the crowd.

It was the noise that bothered Will. It was not easy to get his audience emotionally involved in a tender love scene when it was constantly interrupted by the noise of animals – human and otherwise – letting loose only a few yards away.

George’s problem was that the plays at the Globe were so popular that his audience numbers at the bear pit took a nose dive whenever Will Shakespeare staged his latest blockbuster. It was hardly worth opening his doors on such occasions, especially if more blood was being spilled at the Globe than in the bear pit. George had never got over the time when Titus Andronicus nearly drove him out of business. 

Will had let on that he was also having a problem over how to despatch one of his characters, namely Antinogus, who had nothing more to offer to the plot after he had done his baby abandoning. It was George who offered the solution:

“Buy me another beer and I’ll lend you my bear”, he said. “He’d love to have something to do. He could chase your man offstage and everyone will think that he has been eaten by the bear.”

“But what about my actor?” said Will. “What will he say when I tell him that a hulking great bear is going to chase him off stage? He may decide to go on strike, and then where would I be?”

“Don’t tell him”, said George. “Just stick ‘exit, pursued by a bear’ into the stage manager’s copy of the script but not the actor’s. He never know until it happens. Tell you what, I’ll bring the bear along – his name’s Cuddles by the way – just before the opportune moment, then release him when the stage manager gives me the nod. Your actor will do the rest.”

“What about Health and Safety?” asked Will. “Won’t they have something to say?”

“That’s unlikely,” said George. “This is 1610 – Health and Safety won’t be invented for at least another 300 years”.

And so that is how the famous stage direction got into the script of The Winter’s Tale. As to what actually happened on the night – well, that’s a different story, which might have been something like this:

Will Shakespeare visited his actor in hospital on the day after the opening night.

“You OK, Tom?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Tom replied. “Have you seen my leg?”

“It looks all right from here”, said Will, “judging from what I can see poking out from underneath the bedclothes.”

“That’s not what I meant”, said Tom. “I was talking about my other leg, and when I said ‘have you seen it’, I meant ‘have you seen it’, because I certainly haven’t – not since I lost consciousness, that is.”

“I have to say,” said Will, “that your offstage shouts and screams were extremely good. You really are a brilliant actor, you know.”

“Guess what”, said Tom, “that wasn’t acting”.

“Are you all right for tonight?” Will asked. “We could have sold all the tickets three times over, going by the interest generated by the reviews after last night. Everyone wants a repeat performance.”

“By which”, said Tom, “I suppose you mean that they want to see that hairy monster eat the leg he neglected to consume the first time round? I think not!”

“No matter”, said Will, “I’ll get one of our spare actors to stand in – there are not too many lines to learn – and I’ll make sure that it’s not someone who was at the first night or has read the morning papers. I’ll also make sure that Cuddles has a decent meal just before the show so that he doesn’t feel tempted to eat too much of the actor in question.”

“Just one question”, Tom said. “Are you anticipating a particularly long run for this play – given the preference most actors have for retaining all their body parts after they come off stage?”

“Can’t say that I am”, said Will. “It’ll probably be Titus Andronicus again next week.”

© John Welford

Prince Hamlet, Dimly Lit: a story

(This story was written in response to a writing group challenge, which was to begin a story with the words: The room is dimly lit, one bare bulb swaying slightly in an invisible draught.)

*****************************************************

The room is dimly lit, one bare bulb swaying slightly in an invisible draught. In a corner, on the floor, sits a man who gives every impression of having just woken up from a disturbed night’s sleep.

He looks just like the sort of man who might suddenly start talking to himself, for no apparent reason.

Which he does.

“Good Heavens”, he says to nobody, “why is there a glass thing swinging on the ceiling, giving a dim light to the room? Considering that this is the 16^th century, I haven’t got the faintest idea what could possibly be causing it to glow like that. On the other hand, there are very few things about which I have got the faintest idea, so there’s nothing new there.”

“I have”, he continues, “got lots of questions to which there may or may not be answers. For example, here I am in a room that seems to have a door that is almost certainly locked. I ask myself whether it might, or might not, be worth my while to find out if it is locked, and if so, whether there is a key that I can use to unlock it and get out of this room. 

“In other words, should I see, or not see, if there is a key, or not a key, and – if there is – whether I can be free, or not be free. That, quite clearly, is the question. Or is it?

“I really do need to make a decision here, and the best way to decide something is to debate all the pros and cons with someone else. But there’s only me here. So I have to talk with me, or not with me. I could do that to a degree and then agree, or I might disagree – to a degree. And that’s another question.

“If there is a key, and I set myself free, would I then become an escapee? To flee or not to flee? 

“And what then? I could climb a tree, despite my bad knee, and maybe see the sea, or not the sea. I could go to the port and take a boat from the quay, but where would I go then? To Capri or Dundee, that is the …

“I’ll then tell my story as I sit in a marquee, as an interviewee, to a reporter from ITV, or should it be the BBC? 

“He – or it could be she – might offer me a hot drink, and then I’d forced to say: ‘tea or coffee, coffee or tea?’

“Oh dearie me. My poor brain can’t cope with all this repartee. And I’m almost sure that I need to take a leak. To pee or not to pee?

“I seem to be in a cell - an internee. If someone comes to me, should I make a plea or should I not make a plea? They might set me free, but there’s no guarantee.”

The imprisoned Prince will sit there all day, doing nothing but talk to himself. Invisible draughts of rhyming thought will continue to wend their questionable way though the bare bulb of Hamlet’s brain, which is always dimly lit. 

© John Welford

Lady Macbeth Does a Deal: a story

It is well known that William Shakespeare often twisted the facts in order to get a good story, so that what is presented as history on stage may well be far removed from what actually happened. This is a situation that must not be allowed to prevail any longer.

It is high time, for example, that the truth about Macbeth is told. Did Lady Macbeth really go mad and kill herself out of guilt for the murder of King Duncan? Of course not! Here is what really happened.

It is true that Macbeth killed Duncan at his wife’s prompting, and that he then became King. However, what is not generally appreciated is that Lady Macbeth paid a visit to Banquo’s DIY stall in Inverness market the following day.

“Good morning, Banquo,” she said, “It’s a lovely day today.”

“It is indeed, your ladyship”, said Banquo.

“Not so much of the ‘ladyship’”, she said. “It’s ‘Your Majesty’ now, you know, with Duncan being dead and Macbeth being offered the job. Now that he’s the King, that makes me Queen.”

“So what service can I offer Your Majesty?” Banquo asked.

“Well, the thing is that we’ll need to upgrade the castle a bit now that it’s home to royalty. For one thing, the dungeons will need a makeover because we’ll be torturing a completely new class of prisoner from now on. We’ll need a new set of thumbscrews and the rack we have at present is simply not up to the job. Can you help us with anything from your stock?”

“Thumbscrews I can do, but I don’t keep racks as standard”, said Banquo. “Mind you, I’ve just had a big thick catalogue from some guy in Sweden who can supply all sorts of torture kit in self-assembly form. I’ll see what he has in the way of racks and get him to send one over.”

“From Sweden, you say?”

“That’s right. He tells me that he has the answer to every castle equipment challenge you can throw at him. In fact his business slogan is ‘I Know Everything Already’, which strikes me as being a bit boastful, to be honest. I can’t see that sort of claim lasting long.”

“Well”, said Lady Macbeth, “that sounds like one problem solved, but I’ve also got a problem with the guest bedroom that you might be able to help me with.”

“Which is?”

“It’s the bloodstains on the walls. When Macbeth stabbed Duncan there was blood everywhere. His late majesty was only a thin rake of a fellow, but who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”

“You know”, said Banquo, “that’s not a bad line. If anyone ever writes a play about all this he might like to use that.”

“That’s as maybe”, said the new Queen, “but it’s the way it’s ruined the décor that bothers me. There are damned spots of the stuff everywhere and I can’t get them out. Have you got any ideas?”

“It’s funny you should mention that”, said Banquo. “One of those weird sisters from Blasted Heath Cottage was down here last week and she offered to supply me with a new stain remover that they’ve just concocted – I don’t know what ingredients they used, and to be honest I don’t think I want to know. However, it looks to be very powerful against just about anything, blood included. 

“The problem is that the price they’re asking is a bit steep and I don’t see myself being able to sell it with any kind of profit margin.”

“I might be able to help you there,” said the Queen. “If I can persuade my husband to murder a king I can surely get three old women to drop their price. Suppose I can arrange a decent discount that allows you to buy in bulk and bottle the stuff as a universal stain remover, do you think we might be able to come to some sort of long-term business deal?”

“What do you mean?” Banquo asked.

“We go into partnership. Your business would get the massive advantage of royal patronage, and I would get everything I needed to run the castle as a first-class centre for torture and murder, with maybe a little bed-and-breakfast concern on the side.”

“I like it”, said Banquo. “But what would we call our joint venture?”

“It’s your business, so your name would come first. How about Banquo and Queenie – unless you wanted to abbreviate it of course.”

And the rest, as they say, is history.

© John Welford