Three Policemen Bitten: a story

Every week the Hinckley Scribblers writing group, to which I belong, sets a challenge, and this one was to make sense of the above newspaper headline, which is purely fictional. What could possibly have been the event that gave rise to it? Maybe something along the following lines - or maybe not!

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Barry’s career as a journalist was – it had to be admitted – off to a slow start. As with all young cub reporters, he dreamed of becoming the editor of a major national newspaper, this being the culmination of a glittering career liberally spotted with earth-shattering scoops concerning the great issues of the day. It would be his digging and delving that revealed truths that the high and mighty would prefer to keep hidden, and his incisive analysis would cause dishonest businessmen to spend years behind bars and force government ministers to resign in disgrace.

But that was clearly going to be a long way into the future. In the meantime, his reporting skills had to be limited to telling the good citizens of Market Snodsbury who had won the prizes at the local flower and produce show. It was going to be difficult to attract the attention of the London dailies with headlines about dahlia displays and giant marrows.

As any reporter worth his salt would do, Barry had made contacts with local people who might be the source of good stories. Any local gossip that might turn into a few column inches was worth seeking out, and there were plenty of people in Market Snodsbury who would spill the beans for the price of a pint or two. Likewise, Barry had cultivated an old schoolfriend of his who was now working for the local police force. So, when PC Paul Smithers gave him a call one morning, Barry was ready to listen in the hope that his luck might change with something juicy on which to exercise his journalistic skills.

And on this particular occasion, Barry really thought that this was the moment he had been waiting for. Paul’s voice on the phone was almost a whisper, as though he was trying to make sure that he was not going to be overheard, which was indeed the case.

“Barry”, Paul murmured down the phone, “I’ve got something great for you here”.

“You have?” Barry replied, suddenly excited.

“Shh!” said Paul, “You need to keep this quiet. It’s top secret.”

“OK,” said Barry, “go ahead. What is it?”

“It’s only that the Pope is due to read his poems on Friday afternoon at Little Snodsbury village hall.”

“You what?” said Barry. “The Pope? You’re pulling my leg!”

“I’m not,”, said Paul. “I’ve got the note in front of me. It says ‘Pope poetry recital. Little Snodsbury. Friday, 3 pm’. The sergeant wants a vanload of us to provide security, but he says it looks like a big secret, because nobody has said anything about the Pope even being in the country, let alone round here.”

Barry’s emotions were suddenly all over the place. He knew that he had to contain his excitement at this astounding news, and that he could not let anyone else see how enthused he was. But this could be the one opportunity he needed to make a name for himself. He could picture the scene. His Holiness would land by helicopter on the field next to the village hall, he would be whisked inside to present his latest poems to an invited audience of local literature buffs, then hustled off back to the helicopter and away back to Rome. And only Barry, the ace reporter, would be any the wiser.

Of course, it would probably have been more sensible for Barry to make a few enquiries about what the Pope was actually likely to be doing on Friday, and he would then have known that Pope Francis was actually on a tour of Latin America at the time; and he might also have asked a few questions about the likelihood of His Holiness descending on an English village to do what PC Smithers had indicated he would be doing. But the chance of a major scoop of this importance was enough to put paid to any vestiges of commonsense that should have been to the fore in Barry’s brain.

So, at around half past two on the following Friday, Barry turned up at Little Snodsbury village hall in full expectation of the arrival of the Pope to give his poetry recital. When he arrived, the police contingent, including his friend Paul, was already in place, occupying the entire back row of seats in the hall. There were only two other people there, on rows one and nine, so Barry had plenty of choice among the many empty chairs. He assumed that the bulk of the audience would turn up in due time.

They did not. 

Barry also assumed that the Papal helicopter would also make its presence felt before long.

It also did not.

Instead, as the clock moved to the stroke of three, the man who had been sitting on the front row stood up and climbed the three steps to the stage to stand behind the lectern that was already in place and on which was placed a number of ominously thick volumes. 

He cleared his throat and began:

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I was hoping for a few more people here this afternoon, but I am glad to welcome Mrs Walters who represents the Guinness Book of Records”. He duly pointed to the lady sitting in Row 9.

“I am hoping today to set a new world record by reading aloud, in a single session, the complete poetic works of Alexander Pope. This is a special occasion, marking as it does the 330^th anniversary of his birth, and I believe that this feat has never been attempted before.

“As you will know, Pope was a prolific poet whose works ran to several volumes, and this attempt will clearly take a long time to complete. I am grateful to the Village Hall Committee for allowing me to occupy this stage for as long as I like, and I fully anticipate that we will still be here well into the night.

“I shall therefore begin with ‘The Essay on Criticism’. It took Pope three years to write this – hopefully it will not take me quite so long to read it.”

And off he went. 

After the first hour, it was quite clear that everyone in the audience had clearly had about as much of this as they could stand. Barry’s eyelids felt distinctly heavy as he took note that the same was true of most of the Police contingent. When he was next aware of anything, he could see that three of the policemen, and two policewomen, were no longer there. Mrs Walters from the Guinness Book of Records gave two or three gentle snores. The man at the lectern ploughed on relentlessly, now well into “Eloisa to Abelard”.

Barry needed a change of air, so he slipped out of the building as quietly as he could manage. 

The village hall was adjacent to a large open field in which several horses were grazing. Leaning against the fence, and admiring the horses, were the five missing police officers.

The sergeant in charge of the police squad now took the view that their presence was a complete waste of time. This had obviously been the case after only the first five minutes, but the sergeant reckoned that abandoning the task so soon after it had started might not look too good when it came to writing up his report. Apart from that, having a bit of a rest on the back row of the village hall was preferable to doing the paperwork that awaited him back at the station.

He therefore led the rest of his team out of the hall just as the five absentees headed back to join them.

“Bloody horsefly”, said one of them, rubbing his arm.

“You been got?” said another, “Me too”.

“And me” said the third victim.

The police contingent got back in their van and headed off. Barry, meanwhile, had a quandary. The event had not proved to be anything like as newsworthy as he had hoped, given the complete absence of anyone worth writing about, and he did not even know if the world record had been achieved, but the journalistic streak in him was not to be thwarted so easily. He could still get an eye-catching headline if he put his mind to it.

By abbreviating his name and leaving out a full stop, the answer was there sure enough. Hence the posters for the Saturday edition of the Market Snodsbury Telegraph read:

B RAWL AT POET’S RECITAL. THREE POLICEMEN BITTEN

© John Welford

Maybe Not

Have you ever wished that you could really tell what your cat or dog was saying to you? You may be an expert at reading their mews, miaows, growls, barks and gestures, but what if they could actually use words? Wouldn’t that be so much better?

Well – maybe not! Perhaps something along the lines of what follows might be the result.

Montmorency, the talking cat, was sunning himself by the back door one Tuesday morning when there was a furious banging on the front door. Claire - Montmorency’s owner - opened the door to find Mrs Bailey from over the road standing there with a particularly unfriendly expression on her face.

“That cat of yours!” she began.

“You mean Montmorency?”

“I do indeed.”

“Has he done something bad? If so, I’m sure …”

“Something bad?” Mrs Bailey interrupted. “I’ll say he has. He’s been teaching all the kids in the street to use the foulest language you can imagine. It’s ‘effing this’ and ‘effing that’ all day long. They can’t say anything these days without sticking at least one ‘effing’ into every sentence, and if I tell them off all I get back is a series of ‘eff offs’.”

“And you say it’s all my cat Montmorency’s fault?”

On hearing his name, Montmorency had got up and was now next to the two women at the front door.

“What seems to be the trouble?” he enquired.

“You are!” said Mrs Bailey. “I’ve heard you in the street having furious rows with that cat from Number 11. You use the most terrible language, and all the kids can hear you too. They gather round and watch you two spitting and swearing at each other, and then copy every nasty word that comes out of your mouth. Why can’t you just be a bit nicer with each other and stop polluting the street with all that vile garbage?”

“It’s his fault”, said Montmorency. 

“What do you mean?”

“My territory is the even numbers, from 2 down to 32. His patch is the odds, from 1 to 29. If he starts encroaching on my side of the road, he’s going to get what’s coming to him, and I’ll use what language I choose to tell him so. 

“And by the way”, he continued, “Has anyone ever told you it’s time you went on a diet? You really are extremely fat”.

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Pardon granted”, said Montmorency. “I always tell the truth, in every circumstance, and the truth is that you are beyond fat – you are obese. You are also incredibly ugly.”

Mrs Bailey could take no more of this and turned on her heel to storm off across the road back to her own house.

Claire turned to Montmorency as she closed the door and went back her chair. “You are bad sometimes”, she said. “I do wish you weren’t quite so unpleasant to people.”

“But I’m never unpleasant to you,” said Montmorency, as he rubbed himself against her leg before jumping up onto her knee. “You’re a nice person who does exactly what I want, feeds me when I want to be fed, and lets me sleep on her lap when the need arises.”

“That’s true”, said Claire as she tickled him under the chin. “I could never be cross with you, Montmorency. You look at me in such a special way, and say all the nicest things when we’re alone.” 

However, a worried look crossed her brow.

“What’s up?” said Montmorency. “Are you ill? It can’t be a furball – only cats get those.”

“No, I’m not ill”, she said. “It’s just that there are some things you can’t do for me, Montmorency, however good a cat you are. You have to understand that women like to have men in their lives as well as cats, and I don’t want you to be jealous if I bring him home and want to spend some private time with him.”

Montmorency now looked considerably less friendly.

“Is this likely to happen?” he asked in an inquisitorial tone of voice.

“Well, yes”, said Claire. “I’ve met this really nice guy named Nick. He’s asked me out this evening, and if things go well I might invite him back here for coffee.”

“Coffee?” said Montmorency. “I know what ‘coffee’ means. Coffee gets made in the kitchen and drunk in the lounge, so how come you’ve been tidying your bedroom and changing the sheets? You do that on Thursdays, not Tuesdays.” 

There was silence before Montmorency spoke again.

“His name’s Nick, you say?”

“That’s right”, said Claire.

“Do I know him?” he asked.

“You might do”, said Claire. “He lives in Rushey Close, Number 12. Tall guy, with a short black beard. I bumped into him a few days ago when I was shopping at the Co-op. He reached me down a packet of pasta from a top shelf that was too high for me and we got chatting. He told me that his divorce had come through and that he was now looking for company, and suggested we might go out one night. He was really nice, so I thought why not, and …” 

She continued in this vein for some time, but it was all lost on Montmorency, who had left the room and slipped out through his cat-flap shortly after the word ‘Co-op’. 

It was several hours before he returned.

“Where have you been, Montmorency?” asked Claire.

“I’ve just been over to Rushey Close”, he said. “There’s a lovely little lady cat over there at Number 10 that I happen to know. I use the word ‘know’ in the same sense that you use ‘coffee’. I really hope that her owners will find good homes for all the kittens when they arrive.”

“You’ve been to 10 Rushey Close? Next door to where Nick lives?”

“That’s right. After Trixie and I had renewed our aquaintanceship we slipped across the fence to Number 12 and had a good look round.”

“A good look round?” asked Claire. “How did you manage that?”

“You pal Nick was out, but he’d left a bathroom window half-open and we soon got in. You say he’s divorced?”

 “That’s right.” His wife left him for another guy. He was heart-broken.”

“When did she leave?” Montmorency asked.

“Over a year ago. He’s been on his own ever since.”

“He doesn’t have any interesting hobbies that you know about, does he?”

“What do you mean?”

“For example, he doesn’t perform as a drag artist, does he?”

Claire stared at Montmorency. “Why on Earth would you say that?” she asked.

“It’s just that the false eyelashes and lipstick that we found in the bathroom suggested that that was a possibility. But I agree with you, it’s a not a very likely scenario, especially after what Trixie found in the bedroom.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was absolutely convinced that the discarded pair of frilly knickers had last been worn by a woman, and quite recently too.”

Claire’s shocked expression told Montmorency that he had said enough. The angry phone call that followed, cancelling the evening date, was proof of this.

Before long, Montmorency was back where he wanted to be, on Claire’s lap, looking forward to his next meal.

Claire was just thankful that she had been spared a terrible disappointment at the hands of a local philanderer who would be bound to let her down when his next pretty victim came along. She remembered what Montmorency had said to Mrs Bailey, namely that he always told the truth in all circumstances. 

As for Montmorency, as long as Claire went on in that belief, that was fine by him.

© 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

The closure of Jimmy McTavish

An absent-minded history teacher nearing the end of his career in a boys-only secondary school is quite likely to become the target of practical jokery from some of his pupils, especially if his teaching style is not particularly inspirational. The best part of a really good practical joke is that – if managed properly and if the perpetrators maintain straight enough faces throughout – it can last for months. There is every chance that the victim will never notice that he has become the source of much after-class merriment.

Hence the experience of Mr Arthur Simpson, Senior History master at Newbold Grammar School. It began one morning when he spotted an empty desk as he was about to start teaching a fourth form class about the intricacies of the 1832 Reform Act.

“Who is missing from class today?” he asked.

The reply, coming from the boy sitting next to the empty desk, was not what anyone else was expecting.

“That would be McTavish, Sir”.

“McTavish?”

“Yes, Sir. Jimmy McTavish. He has an emergency dental appointment this morning.”

The other boys soon appreciated that this invention was much more fun than the truth, which was that Justin Reynolds was off sick, and so nobody was willing to contradict what ace class joker Simon Turner had said. 

However, when class was over they gathered round Simon to ask him what he was playing at.

“We haven’t got anyone called Jimmy McTavish”, he was told.

“We have now”, he said.

And the next time Mr Simpson took Class 4B, the previously empty desk was occupied by Jimmy McTavish, a boy who looked remarkably like Simon, but sporting an unlikely crop of bright ginger hair. Simon’s place was taken by the returned Justin Reynolds, who had been briefed by Simon not to spoil the joke.

When Mr Simpson asked a question, up went Jimmy’s arm and the answer was given in what Simon imagined was an authentic Scottish accent. 

As term advanced, other class members wanted to take their turn at being Jimmy McTavish, so the ginger wig was passed around the class and everyone took their turn at pretending to be Scottish.

It was soon realized that Mr Simpson would expect Jimmy McTavish to produce regular homework, so the class rallied round to take it in turns to cobble together a few pages with Jimmy’s name at the top and hand them in. They knew full well that Mr Simpson never actually read the essays that landed on his desk – he just looked at the first and last sentences and counted how many pages there were in-between. The Jimmy McTavish essays therefore consisted mainly of copies of earlier essays, often on completely different subjects, that started and ended well but were complete rubbish in the middle. It didn’t seem to matter – Jimmy had a very good term and got excellent grades.

However, the class eventually realized that trouble loomed in the shape of the end-of-term exam that was a feature of the routine at Newbold Grammar. There was no way that a class of 24 real boys could produce 25 exam scripts. They held an after-school class conference. 

“Jimmy’s got to go”, said Simon. “I think we need to kill him”.

Justin was shocked to the core. “You can’t do that”, he said.

“Why not?”

“Because that would be murder. You can go to prison for life for committing murder!”

“It wouldn’t be murder”, said Simon.

“Wouldn’t it?”

“I think you’re forgetting something”, said Simon.

“Which is?”

“That Jimmy Tavish doesn’t actually exist.”

“Oh yes”, said Justin, “You’re right. It’s just that Jimmy has been so real all term, sitting there with that ginger wig and answering all the history questions. I’m going to miss him.”

“Which is why”, said Simon, “we need a suitably memorable way for him to depart from our class, not to mention this world.”

And so it was. When – on the last day before the history exam was to take place – there was once more an empty desk in the classroom, Simon Turner stood up to give Mr Simpson the sad news that Jimmy McTavish had departed this life, having fallen from a great height while attempting to climb Ben Nevis. 

“That is very sad news”, said Mr Simpson. 

“Indeed so”, said Simon. “We’re all distraught. Jimmy was very special to all of us.”

“Let me tell you something”, said Mr Simpson. “That’s not the only sad news I’ve had today. It would appear that one member of every class I’ve taken this term has come to a terrible end in the past few days. 

“Let me see – there was Dai Evans-Rees, who had a truly awful Welsh accent in class 5C. He was blown up while trying to defuse a bomb. Heinrich Goebbels-Himmler, in 4A, was eaten by a great white shark, and Akio Okami, who sounded half the time as though he came from Karachi rather than Kyoto, apparently went one round too many with the all-Japan Sumo wrestling champion.

“Maybe – just maybe – I’m not quite as dippy as you all seem to take me for. To be honest, I saw through your ploy very early on and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed seeing how far you – and all the other classes who got wind of your clever idea – would take it.

“I can take a joke just as well as the next man. But next term – try a bit harder, perhaps?”

© 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

Divided by a Common Language

(Please note: This piece is NOT designed to be taken too seriously!)

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I have never really got the hang of Americans. For one thing, they do the oddest things such as electing seriously strange oddballs as their Presidents. For another, they purport to speak English but don’t quite manage it. 

It’s not helped by their extraordinary attitude to sport. How can their kids possibly grow up speaking proper English if they think that football involves virtually no contact between foot and ball, and that a touchdown consists of running across a line and throwing the ball in the air?

And they’re useless at cricket. In their perverse version of it they can’t even put an “s” at the end of “innings”, and they insist on calling bowlers “pitchers”. Utterly weird.

They are also useless at place names. For example, why can’t they understand that there is no such place as Low-b-row? Can they not grasp the obvious fact that the first o-u-g-h is pronounced “uff”, the second syllable is “buh” (at least my enquirer got that one right) and the final o-u-g-h is “uh”. Surely that’s not too difficult, is it?

I was once stopped in Bognor Regis, on England’s south coast, by an American in a car who asked the way to the “ocean rout”. I gathered afterwards that he meant the coast road, so why couldn’t he have said so in the first place? It’s the English Channel for goodness sake – hardly an ocean. And what’s an ocean rout? Something like the Battle of Trafalgar? In which case he was not only heading in the wrong direction but nearly 200 years too late.

My worst experience with American English was when I was doing a Saturday shift at my place of work four storeys up a building in London. An American came up and said: 

“Do you have a restroom around here?”

This was the first time I had ever heard a toilet or loo referred to as a restroom. It’s not the sort of place I go to for a rest! So I thought he must have said “restaurant” - hence my reply:

“Sorry – we do have one, but it’s closed on Saturdays”.

He gave me a very strange look. However, wearing my best “helpful” face, I offered to get him out of his difficulty. I pointed through the window towards the streets below.

“There’s quite a good one a couple of streets away. You can just walk in – you don’t need to book.”

“You need to book in advance in London?”

“You certainly do at the most popular ones, but this place should be OK, even on a Saturday. Even if it’s full up inside you should be OK outside on the pavement.”

The American backed away from me, the look on his face being an expression verging on horror. I imagine that on returning to his home country he was full of stories about weird English hygiene.

At least he didn’t ask for the bathroom – now that would really have got me worried.

© John Welford

The Case of the Missing Doughnut: a story

The island of Eastray, somewhere off the coast of somewhere else, had a population of around ten thousand generally law-abiding people, which is why its Police Station did not see a great deal of activity. Its complement of one station sergeant, two police constables and one detective constable was therefore more than enough to keep law and order on the island, and the occasional visit of an Inspector from the mainland was a welcome break from the general monotony.

On the Monday morning in question, Inspector Jarvis turned up bright and early, bearing a gift. This was a paper bag containing one doughnut for each member of the station staff.

“A little something to have with your mid-morning coffee”, he said, before turning to Detective Constable Harris to ask if there were any cases on hand that might be of interest.

“Nothing in the detecting line”, he said, “but I’m due to give a talk to the children at Coldbeck School this morning about the work of a detective”.

“Can I come along with you?” asked the Inspector. “I’d like to see how that goes.”

So the two of them set off together, after the detective had first of all taken his doughnut from the paper bag and placed it on his desk, so that he could enjoy it later.

When the two men returned to the Police Station later that morning, the rest of the station staff had already had their coffee break, so Constable Harris put the kettle on to make coffee for his guest and himself. When this was ready, the detective wanted his doughnut, but – to his surprise – it was missing from his desk.

“It looks like you’ve got a real case to solve”, said the Inspector. “After everything you told those kids this morning I’d like to see you in action. What was that about means, motive and opportunity, and gathering all the available evidence?”

So Detective Constable Harris got to work. The “means, motive and opportunity” bit was no problem at all. Nobody had visited the Police Station in their absence, so the only suspects were the three remaining staff members. All of them had plenty of opportunity, and lifting a doughnut off a desk and conveying it to one’s mouth took no more “means” than a single hand.

But what about motive? Which of them was greedy enough to steal a second doughnut on top of the one they had already had?

Constable Harris’s finger of suspicion pointed straight at Sergeant Glover, who was – to put it politely – of above-average girth. This man would surely be hard pressed to resist the temptation of an extra snack.

“Did you eat my doughnut?” the detective asked.

“Certainly not”, the sergeant replied.

“Can you prove it?”

“Yes”.

This surprised Constable Harris. “How?” he asked.

“I’m borderline for Type 2 Diabetes”, said the sergeant. “I never touch anything with all that sugar. I split my doughnut between the other two, and I certainly didn’t eat yours.”

The constables nodded at this. 

Detective Constable Harris was left with no choice but to search for evidence. But what would count as evidence in a case like this? He had an idea.

“I reckon that it’s impossible to bite into a doughnut without spraying jam all over the place”, he said. I know that I never can. I will therefore search the place thoroughly for signs of red jam, and when I find it I’ll track the jam back to the culprit who sprayed it.”

“That sounds like a good plan”, said the Inspector. “Off you go”.

It did not take him long to find a red smear on the keyboard of Constable Bright’s computer.

“Gotcha!” he yelled, “Banged to rights! You owe me one doughnut!”

“I don’t think so”, said the aggrieved constable. “I had a nosebleed this morning, and that’s blood, that is.”

The Inspector was not impressed. “I thought that even you could tell the difference between blood and raspberry jam”, he said. “Or don’t they teach that sort of thing in Police College these days?”

Undaunted, Detective Constable Harris tried again. Another shout of triumph arose when he examined Constable Campbell’s desk. There was definitely something red there that could not possibly be blood.

“That looks like jam to me!” he said.

“You want to taste it?” suggested the constable.

So the detective did so. It was not jam.

“I love a dash of ketchup on my breakfast bacon butty”, Constable Campbell said. “My mum always said I was a messy eater. She was right.”

Detective Constable Harris was flummoxed. “Somebody must have taken my doughnut”, he said. “And it must have been one of you.”

“I took it”, said Sergeant Glover.

“But I asked you just now,” said the detective, “and you told me that you didn’t”.

“No”, said the sergeant. “You asked me if I ate it, which I didn’t. But I did take it, and I put it in a safe place just in case one of these other greedy bastards took a fancy to it, and here it is.”

So saying, he presented the detective with his doughnut.

“And one other thing”, said the Inspector, “when you eat your doughnut you will find that I gave everyone a custard doughnut this morning, so your search for raspberry jam was always going to be a fruitless one – literally as you might say”.

As laughter rang round the room, Sergeant Glover accidentally on purpose remembered that he had forgotten to change the wall calendar that morning and now did so – to reveal the date as April the First.

© John Welford