Rising to the Challenge

(with apologies to William Shakespeare)

Pistol and Nym rang the bell on Sir John’s door but got no response. The followed this with many knocks and kicks, but answer came there none.

Given their wide experience as thieves and housebreakers it did not take them long to find a way in and they were soon standing by Sir John’s bedside. A huge lump under the bedclothes gradually rose and fell and a noise not unlike that of a medium-sized outboard motor issued from the bearded object at one end that was Sir John’s head. On the floor were at least a dozen empty beer bottles, the contents of which had clearly proceeded down the hole from which now issued the aforementioned noise.

During the previous evening at the Boar’s Head, which had also involved the ingestion of much alcohol, Sir John had told his friends about his plan to have his wicked way with two married women in Windsor. The plan involved Pistol and Nym taking love messages to the two wives, after which Sir John would turn up and turn on the charm.

Pistol and Nym weren’t so keen on the idea, but they reckoned that it would be a bit of a laugh to see their fat friend trying it on with two highly respected ladies of the town, hence their arrival at his house the following morning.

Clearly nothing would happen if Sir John stayed snoring in bed, so the first task was to rouse him from his slumbers. They began with the usual methods of shaking and shouting, but to no avail.

They then tried playing loud music at him, particularly of the kind that usually had Sir John tearing the walls down. The obvious candidates – Val Doonican and James Blunt – had no effect, so they upped the tempo with gradually worse performers all the way up to the most terrible of them all – Elton John – but they soon realised that their own sanity was at grave peril if they persisted too long with that approach, so went for another line.

Water suggested itself as a method, so several bucketsful were dumped on to the bed. The only result was to transform a dry snoring lump into a wet snoring lump.

If water failed, how about fire? Pistol suggested torching the bed, but Nym pointed out that not only was this likely to endanger three lives and not merely one, but this was impractical due to the now sodden condition of the bedclothes.

In desperation they tried tipping the bed on its side, but soon abandoned that effort for fear of putting their backs out permanently.

Nym then had a brainwave. Knowing Sir John’s past life in graphic detail he also knew what he most feared. He therefore crept up to his right ear and shouted the three words that Sir John feared above all: “Child Support Agency”.

The effect was immediate. Sir John came to life and shot bolt upright. “Where are they ? Where are they? Keep them away from me!”

He then saw his two friends who were laughing their stupid heads off on the other side of the room.

“We’ve come to see you try your hand at adding two more conquests in Windsor”, said Pistol. “That is your challenge for today. Mind you, given the skinful you’ve had, and the problems we’ve had to get you out of bed, it’s not a case of rising to the challenge, because it’s the rising that’s actually the challenge!”

© John Welford

Line 42: a story

The six Henrys were having a chat. They often did this, and had many opportunities for so doing, seeing as they were wedged together in just about every “Complete works” ever published.

The topic of conversation was Life, linked with the Universe and Everything. Six Part Three had been taking a sneaky look at a book entitled “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”, by Douglas Adams, that somebody had misfiled next to the Complete Works. That’s the problem with libraries run by volunteers – stuff ends up in all sorts of odd places if you’re not careful.

“It’s an interesting idea”, said Six Part Three. “According to something called a supercomputer, with the strange name of Deep Thought, the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything is 42”.

“42?” said Four Part Two. “”Whatever gave him that idea?”

“Who knows”, said Six Part Three, “I thought our writer had some queer notions, but this modern lot are all over the place”.

“Is he right?” said Five. “Suppose the answer really is 42? Have you looked for yourself?”

“What do you mean?” said Six Part Three.

“I mean”, said Five, “that we’ve all got lots of 42s of our own. Just about all our scenes run to at least 42 lines, so do our lines with that number say anything profound about Life?”

“Wow”, said Four Part One. “I’ll just have a quick look, if you wouldn’t mind averting your gaze while I do so.”

“You don’t have to worry about me”, said Four Part Two, but I’m not so sure about the guy on your other side, Richard II”.

“I heard that,” said Richard II. “Nothing has ever been proved about my inclinations. It’s Edward II who bats for the other side, and the Marlowe Complete Works were borrowed yesterday, so you can set your mind at rest on that score.”

During this aside all the Henrys had been ferreting about to find their Line 42s.

“There’s nothing very profound in my Act 1”, said Six Part Two. I can only offer “For eighteen months concluded by consent; Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtur’d Eleanor!; and Is this the government of Britain’s Isle?”

“Same here”, said Four Part One. “I start off with ‘A thousand of his people butchered’ followed by ‘a most sweet robe of durance’ and ‘And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by’”.

“This is pathetic”, said Five, who then offered ‘It was the excess of wine that set him on’. “Mind you”, he said, “I have got ’Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named’, which is a bit more like it”.

“How about ‘Here comes the Prince?” said Four Part Two.

“And which prince might that be?” asked Five.

“Well, it’s you, actually, “ said Four Part Two, “But you hardly count as the ultimate answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, do you?”

“Thanks”, said Five.

“That Adams guy hadn’t got a clue”, said Six Part Two. “I fail to see how anyone can solve all life’s riddles based on “His lady banished and a limb lopp’d off” or even “Sometime I’ll say I am Duke Humphrey’s wife”.

“You haven’t heard mine yet”, said Six Part One. “I can proudly offer ‘Their arms are set, like clocks, still to strike on’”.

“Meaning?” asked Five.

“Haven’t a clue”, said Six Part One. “But it sounds as though it should mean something”. At least it’s better than ‘So, rushing in the bowels of the French’ from my Act 4 Scene 7. But you’re right, that Douglas Adams must have been on something weird when he wrote that book. He should have taken note of my Act 5 Scene 3 – ‘I never had to do with wicked spirits’.

“I think I’ve got the best line 42 to fit the bill”, said Six Part Three. “This is clearly an exercise that is going nowhere, so let’s conclude this nonsense with my Act 2 Scene 3: ‘Now, lords, take leave until we meet again’.”

© John Welford

Mr Shylock of Little Venice

(With apologies to WS)

The judge at the bankruptcy hearing took his seat and called on the plaintiff to state his case.

“So, Mr Shylock, you say that you are without funds and unable to pay your debts?”

“That is so, your honour. I am broke, or – to put it another way – skint, in Queer Street, on the skids, brassic, stony, on my beam ends, financially embarrassed, without a bean and in straitened circumstances”.

“Quite. Would you care to explain how you came to be in this unfortunate position?”

Shylock gave a small cough and proceeded to do precisely that.

“Your honour, I was for some years in the moneylending business. I had some spare cash and decided to see what I could do to increase said sum by lending it out and charging modest interest on its return.”

“Quite so”, said the judge. “Did you not find that this was a profitable enterprise?”

“Oh, at first it was indeed so, your honour, especially lending to the merchants around Little Venice.”

“So what went wrong?”

“I had a few customers who were – shall we say – reluctant to pay me what they owed. I therefore came up with what I thought was a foolproof scheme for getting them to think very carefully before giving me the run-around.”

“I trust”, said the judge, “that you acted wholly within the law?”

“Well”, said Shylock, “that is for others to say, but it did involve going round to their place armed with a large and particularly sharp knife.”

“Really?” said the judge, “So you were quite prepared to employ mindless violence to gain your ends?”

“Oh no”, said Shylock, “hardly mindless. I thought about it quite a lot. I reckoned I would get paid every time if I put in the small print a clause that said that, should they refuse to pay up, I would use my sharp knife to extract a pound of flesh from them.”

“OK”, said the judge, “that sounds reasonable enough. So why didn’t your tactic work?”

“Well”, said Shylock, “the first time I tried it on I went round to this club owner’s place and had to get past his minder, who promptly searched my person and confiscated my knife. This made the removable of any pound of flesh a little tricky”.

“I can see how it would”, said the judge.

“It gets worse,” said Shylock. “I was shown into the owner’s office, and there on his desk was a pack of lamb chops, straight from Tesco. He said ‘you want a pound of flesh, there it is. It’s actually half a kilo but as near as dammit to a pound as you could want’.

“I wasn’t having any of it. I said to him ‘You can’t fob me off like that. The contract said it had to be a pound of your flesh’. You know what he said?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me”, said the judge.

“’It is mine’, he said. Bought and paid for, and I’ve got the receipt. It’s definitely mine, and now it’s yours in settlement of my debt, as per your contract”.

“A bit awkward”, said the judge, “but it sounds as though he had a point”.

“Which is more than I had, after his goon had stolen my knife. I had no choice but to exit stage left, holding a pack of Tesco lamb chops”.

“Most unfortunate”, said the judge, “However, one setback like that doesn’t explain your current predicament”.

“Oh, but that wasn’t the end of it”, said Shylock. “Word got around, and before long everyone was fobbing me off with packs of meat. Every time I went to collect a debt I ended up with burgers, brisket, bacon, bangers, all sorts of stuff. Before long my cash flow was in desperate straits.”

 “But surely you could have found some way round this problem?” asked the judge.

“Oh, I did”, said Shylock. “I might have had a steadily emptying safe, but my freezer was filling up with masses of meat. I had to buy more freezers just to stock it all. I then came up with a really clever idea.”

“Which was?”

“I decided to open a modest little bistro in a barge moored on the canal at Little Venice. Naturally, the menu would be heavily weighted on the meat side, but I didn’t see that as a problem. I was also aware that most of the meat I was being given was way past its sell-by date, but I didn’t see that as much of an obstacle either. It’s amazing what can be covered up with lots of spicy sauce and stuff.”

“It sounds as though you were on to a winner, then” said the judge. “So what went wrong?”

“This did”, said Shylock, waving a copy of The Guardian above his head. “This report appeared in the paper, saying that eating meat would give you all sorts of nasty diseases – quite apart from those that you might have got from eating in my bistro anyway.

“All of a sudden my trade disappeared. My customers stayed away in droves as the entire population of Little Venice went vegetarian.

“I tell you, your honour, things have come to a pretty pass when a man can’t even run a dishonest trade without going to the dogs”.

“You have my sympathy”, said the judge. “Your attitude to business is one that I admire, and I will certainly see what we can do to help you out of your financial difficulties. For example, do you need any cash for your immediate expenses?”

“I certainly do”, said Shylock. “I can’t see myself getting to the end of the month as things stand.”

“OK”, said the judge, “here’s the deal. I can lend you a thousand out of my own pocket, no questions asked. How does that sound?”

“Very generous, your honour”, said Shylock. “I’m most grateful. By the way, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Sorry about that”, said the judge. “I’m Mr Justice Wonga”.

© John Welford

Trick or treat?

The three old ladies who lived at Blasted Heath Cottage, near Glamis Castle, Angus, were having a problem with their special Halloween stew and were scratching their elderly heads when there was a knock at the door.

Old Lady One opened it to find a young lady standing there, accompanied by a very large dog.

“Trick or treat?” said the young lady.

Old Lady One was on the point of saying “shove off” when she realised that the trick, if it involved the large dog, might not be worth the risk. She therefore plumped for “Treat”.

“You’d better step inside so that I can see what we’ve got, she said. “But our black cats, toads, and other familiars might not be so pleased to see your dog, so would you mind tying him up outside?”

“No problem”, said the young lady, “but I’m not familiar with the word ‘familiar’”.

“You must be”, said Old Lady One. “You’ve just used it”.

“That’s not what I meant”, said the girl. “What did you mean by ‘other familiars’?”

Old Lady Two piped up with “It’s an animal that’s a witch’s companion. You have read Harry Potter, haven’t you?”

The girl looked interested rather than alarmed. “Are you witches then?”

“Might be”, said Old Lady Three. “More to the point, who are you?”

“My name’s Ophelia”, said the girl. “I’m from Denmark. I had to get away from Elsinore because my boyfriend’s gone all existential on me.”

“Existential?” said Old Lady One. “”You’re the one who’s using unfamiliar words now!”

“He’s been reading too much Jean-Paul Sartre”, Ophelia said. “All that ‘To Be is To Do’ stuff. Or, as my boyfriend puts it, “To Be Or Not to Do”, or something like that. I wasn’t really listening at the time”.

There was a pause, after which Ophelia asked, “So where’s my treat then?”

“You can have a bowl of our stew when we’ve made it”, said Old Lady Two. “The problem is, we only do this once a year and we can’t remember all the ingredients. We know about the eye of newt, wool of bat, and blindworm’s sting, but I’m sure there’s more than that.”

“Adder’s fork”, said Old Lady One. “I’ve just remembered that one”.

“And toe of frog” offered Old Lady Three. “We’ve bought most of them already, but we did get some odd looks when we were going round Sainsbury’s this morning”.

“There’s something really important that’s missing”, said Old Lady One.

“So what do you reckon?” asked Old Lady Two.

“Alzheimers”, said Ophelia.

“Are you sure?” said Old Lady One. “That doesn’t sound very Shakesperean, or something you can buy at Sainsbury’s. Come on, can’t you remember all the lines from Act 4 Scene 1?”

“Hardly”, said Ophelia. “I’m from a different play, remember.”

“But that’s just the problem”, said Old Lady Two. “We can’t remember”.

“Just a minute,” Ophelia said. “I’ve got something in my bag that might help”.

So saying, she reached into her bag and pulled out a collection of flowers and plants that she placed on the kitchen table.

“It’s all here”, Ophelia said. “I carry this lot around with me just in case I feel like making a speech should I lose my reason and want to throw myself in the river. I’ve got rue, columbine, daisies, pansies, and this one – rosemary.”

“And?” said Old Lady Three.

“Rosemary – that’s for remembrance. Just chew a sprig and you’ll remember everything you’ve forgotten!”

“Are you sure that’s how it works?” asked Old Lady One.

“Well, it’s worth a try,” said Ophelia. “Give it a go and find out”.

So the three old ladies picked up a sprig apiece and started biting into them. The result was instantaneous.

“Got it!” said Old Lady Two, with a sudden brightening of her craggy countenance. She then looked slyly at Ophelia.

“Young lady?” she said.

“Ye-es?”

“That dog of yours, tied up outside.”

“What about him?”

“What breed is it?”

“What do you think? He’s huge, we’re from Denmark, so it’s not hard to guess, is it?

“No matter. The point is, it’s got a tongue, hasn’t it?”

“Of course he’s got a tongue”, said Ophelia, who then suddenly realised what Old Lady One had in mind. “It’s ‘tongue of dog’ that’s missing from your list, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is” said Old Lady Two, who had already grabbed a large sharp knife and was making for the door.

However, Ophelia was faster than any of the old ladies and had rushed out of the cottage, untied the dog and made off down the road with him before there was any chance of a de-tonguing.

“And that”, said Old Lady Three, “Is how to deal with trick or treaters. Anyone for fish and chips?”

© John Welford

Survival at Stratford: a story

(With apologies to the sacred WS)

It was the day of the Stratford-upon-Avon annual fete and sports day, and most of the Bard’s characters had turned up to try their best at outdoing each other.

The prize for flower arranging was surely going to be a shoe-in for Ophelia. Her inclusion of fennel, rosemary and rue among the pansies, daisies and columbines added a touch of originality that others would surely struggle to match.

Desdemona was going for the embroidery prize with a handkerchief she had designed. Unfortunately she seemed to have dropped it somewhere and was hoping that somebody had found it and handed it in to Lost Property. Mind you, it was only a handkerchief, and surely no real consequences would follow if it didn’t get back to her.

In the pickles, sauces and condiments tent the judges were ever-so-slightly worried about tasting the items on offer, given the reputations of some of the contributors. Claudius and Laertes were competing against each other with their henbane delight and aconite surprise, while over on the beers and spirits table there was some concern over whether Cleopatra’s snakebite was as safe as she claimed it to be.

On the sporting front, the main interest seemed to be in the fencing contest, as many of the characters seemed to be excellent swordsmen. The organisers fervently hoped that there would be somewhat fewer fatalities this year than last, when the body count had been particularly high.

However, a sudden blast of trumpets announced that the final of the sumo wrestling contest was about to take place. Everyone rushed to the main arena where two enormous competitors were ready to do battle.

The warriors emerged from their respective tents – Sir Toby Belch on one side and Sir John Falstaff on the other. They were the reason why the cakes, pastries and pies competition had had to be abandoned early – not only had this pair eaten all the pies, but most of the cakes and pastries as well.

When the judge dropped his flag – which Desdemona was relieved to see was actually her handkerchief – the wrestlers began circling each other and stamping the ground as they looked for an opportunity to gain a hold. Sir Toby made a grab for Sir John’s girdle – it was the one that Puck had put round the Earth in forty minutes, which gives you some idea of its size. However, Sir John was careful to sway out of reach and thus thwarted the attempt.

Sir John went for the direct approach, namely barging at Sir Toby and hoping to knock him backwards. Sir Toby stood his ground and the two grunted and swore as they stood belly to belly in the middle of the arena. It was hardly a pretty sight, but the crowd loved it as each person cheered on their preferred fighter, with support being evenly divided between the two.

With the two men being so close together it was possible to see that Sir John had probably consumed a few more pies than Sir Toby had managed. The extra weight eventually started to have its effect as Sir Toby was forced to give way. Red in the face and fighting for breath he could hold out no longer and fell backwards, landing on the ground with an impact that everyone in Stratford could feel as the Earth shook, compounded by a second blow as Sir John could no longer keep his balance and fell directly on top of Sir Toby.

The contest was over and Sir John was acclaimed the undoubted winner.

Next day’s newspapers carried the full story of the Stratford earthquake, coupled with news of Sir John’s victory. The main headline read: “Survival of the Fattest”.

© John Welford

The Lear Family's Resolutions

(With heartfelt apologies to William Shakespeare)

On the morning after the night before, namely New Year’s Eve, Mr Lear sat round the breakfast table with his three daughters and his old friend, whom he liked to call “Fool”.

Mr Lear had lost his wife some years before. Or maybe she had lost him. They had been going round Sainsbury’s, he had set off for the wines and spirits while she headed for the Deli counter and that was the last they ever saw of each other. She might still have been there for all Mr Lear knew.

“OK”, said Mr Lear, “who’s going to make a New Year’s resolution?”

“I will”, said Regan. “I resolve to marry someone who’s extremely rich then go off and forget all about all of you, especially you, Dad.”

“Me too”, said Goneril, “You are a complete loser, Dad, and I can’t wait to see the back of you. As it happens, I’ve already got someone waiting to whisk me off to his place where I resolve to live life to the full and never darken your door again!”

“That wasn’t quite what I was expecting”, said Mr Lear. “Don’t tell me you feel the same, Cordelia? I couldn’t bear it if you all upped and left me.”

“Who are you kidding?” said Cordelia. “What makes you think I’m going to hang around here with my sisters out of the way? It’s bad enough putting up with you when I’ve got Goneril and Regan for support, but without them – no way! My resolution is to get out of here as soon as possible!”

With that, the sisters flounced out of the room to see if there was any more vodka left over from the previous night’s party.

Mr Lear looked across to where Fool was sitting in the corner. “Now what do I do?” said Mr Lear. “I haven’t had a chance to tell them what my resolution is”.

“And what is that?”

“I was going to sell up, cash in all my shares and annuities and go and live in sheltered accommodation in Bournemouth. My resolution was to divide most of my not inconsiderable fortune between my daughters as thanks for how nice they’ve been to me all these years. But now that they’ve said what their resolutions are, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing”.

“I wouldn’t worry if you were you”, said Fool, “Nobody actually keeps their New Year’s Resolutions, do they? They may say that they’re going to abandon you, but do you really think they will?”

A smile passed across Mr Lear’s face. “Thank you for that, Fool. I’ll let you into a secret – I was going to tell the girls about my resolution but I had absolutely no intention of carrying it out”.

“Well that’s all right then”, said Fool. “If none of you actually do what you resolved, everything should work out fine”.

“That’s such a relief”, said Mr Lear. “But you didn’t say what your resolution was”.

“Oh that’s easy”, said Fool. “My resolution is the same as it’s always been, namely to always offer you sound and fully considered advice on which you can rely absolutely to get you out of trouble”.

© John Welford

Suitable Names

The Bard – so called because he had been thrown out of every pub in Stratford, London, and most places in between – was having an infernal afterlife chat with some of his fellow authors. After celebrating the fact that the booze in Hell was a thousand times better than the insipid ambrosia that was reputed to be on offer at the other end of the Cosmos, and they had therefore had the best of the deal when failing the Pearly Gates admission test, the conversation turned to the problems they had had in naming their characters.

Shakespeare bemoaned the fact that he had been persuaded by theatre managers to change so many of his play titles from what he was convinced would have been sure fire box office winners.

“If only they had let me stage The Tragedy of Bear and Trixibelle – what a great line “Bear, Bear, wherefore art thou Bear” would have made”.

“Maybe open to misinterpretation”? said George Bernard Shaw, who had always wondered if Eliza Doolittle should have been called Tamiko Kardashian.

Charles Dickens wandered over. He was miffed that Jane Austen and the Brontes had ended up in the other place; he reckoned that being daughters of clergymen had given them an unfair advantage.

“If I’d been around 150 years later I’d wouldn’t have had to invent such silly names for my characters”, he said. “There are so many real ones to choose from now. “Suppose my ‘Tale of Two Cities’ could have included Chelsea Clinton and Paris Hilton, for example? And I’m sure I could have found a role for Brooklyn Beckham in the American chapters of Martin Chuzzlewit”.

“That’s only because of where he was conceived”, offered GBS. “I don’t think you’d have got away with Round-the-Back-of-the-Bike-Sheds Twist”.

They all suddenly became aware of the presence of Dame Barbara Cartland, who was steadily getting outside an enormous pink gin. “If you want good character names”, she said, “you can’t do better than a good road atlas. I could write a decent romantic novel based solely on Dorset and Somerset”.

“Go on then”, said Shakespeare, “How would you start?”

“Sir Nempnett Thrubwell was looking forward to a good day’s hunting, but his main concern was finding a suitable husband for his wayward daughter, Priddy. Maybe the assembled group of horsemen taking their stirrup cups included some possible candidates.

There was Shepton Beauchamp, for example, a quiet man who owned a large estate in the south of the county. Or maybe Charlton Mackrell, or Rodney Stoke, both fine upstanding men. Sutton Waldron was another possibility, as was Milton Clevedon.

On the other hand, he didn’t fancy Creech Heathfield or Brympton D’Evercy as potential sons-in-law. The first was too creepy by half and the second had a seriously recessive chin.

As for young Priddy, her eyes were looking at none of these. For her it had to be the dashing rake Hardington Mandeville. Little did she know that he had already proposed marriage to Priddy’s schoolgirl friend Ryme Intrinseca, whose own heart had long been set on the poet Melbury Osmund.

Sir Nempnett could have no notion of the pain and trouble that was about to unfold.”

The authors had to concede that maybe Dame Barbara was on to something there.

© John Welford