A Bigger Bat

I spend my days hanging around with my mates in the church belfry. When evening comes we pop out for a bite to eat and spend most of the dark hours flitting about catching moths. Sometimes we come across people heading back from the pub, or young couples getting friendly behind the church, and give them a bit of a shock by swooping up to them really close – you should see the expressions on their faces. I love it when the young girls scream and the men try to swat us away – they always miss of course.

This way of living suits me right up to the rafters. Lots of food, plenty of conversation and frequent opportunities for ensuring the next generation is produced – what’s not to like?

A couple of evenings ago my mate Rodney went out a bit early – it wasn’t dark, just twilight really. I think he wanted to show off to the people walking across the churchyard and along the path that leads to the high prison wall about half a mile away. His favourite trick is when somebody has bought a take-away cappuccino at the local Costa and they sit on a bench next to the path to enjoy it. Rodney can either swoop down low and make them spill the drink when he flies an inch from their face, or he can even let go with squirt of pee or poo right into the cup – that’s dead clever, that is. You should see how cross they get, but they can never lay a finger on Rodney who just laughs his stupid little face off as he flies away.

However, Rodney was hardly laughing when he came back to the belfry on the evening in question. He was quivering with fear and his face had gone a very odd colour.

“What’s up with you, Rodders?” I asked. “Did somebody manage to throw their espresso at you?”

“No”, he said, “I’ve seen something terrible out there. I think it must be a giant bat, but it’s not like any of us, or even like the horseshoes from the church across town. I can’t make it out at all.”

“Will you show me?” I asked. “Can we go and find it now?”

But Rodney had no intention of going out again that night. Instead, I went out by myself for a feed a bit later and saw nothing amiss. It was therefore only last night that I was able to persuade Rodney to take me to where he had seen this monster bat. He seemed to be comforted by the fact that there would be two of us to confront whatever it was.

We flitted around for a while and took a few moths, but at first nothing occurred that was out of the ordinary. However, we had just made our way across to the trees next to the prison path when we heard a most extraordinary sound. It was a buzzing noise like a swarm of very angry wasps. We looked towards where the sound seemed to be coming from but there was nothing to be seen at first. Then we saw it, and I could appreciate straight away why Rodney had been so alarmed. If I had been on my own when this thing had appeared I think I would have high-tailed it in panic just as Rodney had done.

All I can say is that it was a very strange-looking bat. It had one eye that seemed to be looking straight at us and it had four rigid legs or arms, each with a wing on top of it. At least, I suppose they were wings, although they simply spun round very fast and were what appeared to be the source of the buzzing sound.

“What the hell is that?” I shouted out to Rodney.

“I was hoping you might know”, Rodney shouted back. “What bothers me is that a bat that size must be eating so many moths that there won’t be any left for us.”

I could see what he was getting at. That thing must have been ten times the size of Rodney or me, and presumably it had an appetite to match. I could just see underneath where the huge eye was, and there was what appeared to be a pouch of some kind. Presumably this was the creature’s stomach, which looked as though it was pretty full already.

I don’t want to give the impression that we had oodles of time in which to study the new bat’s anatomy, because we didn’t. It was moving at just about the speed we could manage, and it was clear that we did not have much time in which to take action. However, the idea that this thing was stealing all our moths was enough to urge us forward. This monster had to be stopped, although it did not appear to be actually eating any moths as it sped on its way. Its destination seemed to be the prison – perhaps that was where it roosted.

Bats don’t have many weapons, so we had the use the ones that we had. I have to admit that Rodney was better at firing pee and poo than I was, thanks to all his practice with the coffee cups, but I can do my bit when the need arises, and this was just such an occasion.

We flew as fast as we could to get into position above the giant bat and let fly. Rodney was perfect – both barrels on to one of the spinning wings, which immediately stopped spinning. My first poo shot missed – I think I got some teenager on the ground who was looking up to watch the monster as it buzzed across. However, my pee shot hit the wing diagonally opposite the one that Rodney had hit. It too stopped working as the buzz turned to a screech and the bat stopped moving forward.

Instead, it lurched off course and headed for the ground which it hit with a crunch. It was a sad end for the giant bat, but – as we thought at the time - no more than it deserved. Bits flew off in several directions and the pouch burst open to release a number of small white packages. Presumably these were what it had been taking back to the prison – for what purpose was anyone’s guess.

I have to say that I was a bit sad afterwards. This new bat had not been eating moths after all, and we had killed it quite unnecessarily. Now that I have told the story, I really hope that the family of that enormous bat can find in their hearts to forgive us.

© John Welford

My Acceptance Speech

To the entire population of the planet Zarg.

I am deeply honoured and humbled to be invited to become your supreme Deity, and I am delighted to accept. This advancement will look absolutely great on my CV and will no doubt be an obvious talking point at any future job interviews. One quick question – is the post hereditary? If so, I am sure that my son will fill the post admirably when the time comes.

I have to admit to a degree of puzzlement as to why you have singled out little old me for this special role, given the countless other billions of sentient beings in the known universe, at least some of whom must be every bit as qualified as me – and some perhaps even more so. Presumably you’ve come across some of the articles I’ve written on various subjects and realised that such undoubted talent cannot go unrewarded. Maybe it was my analysis of Craig Raine’s poem “A Martian Sends a Postcard Home” that gave you the idea – I can see how aliens from other worlds might appreciate that one.

I am also astonished that you were able to read my blog from such a long distance. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I understand Zarg to be at least a thousand light years away from Planet Earth, so your ability to read items on our Internet, so soon after they have been written, suggests that you have access to broadband that is considerably faster than ours and would indeed appear to contradict all the known laws of physics. I only hope that this reply reaches you with the same sort of speed, although I fear that by the time your planet gets to read it the intended recipients will long since have been pushing up whatever counts as daisies in your neck of the Universe.

No matter. Let’s assume that such minor details can be set aside and we are able to proceed with the arrangement you have suggested, namely that for all intents and purposes I will act as your god with immediate effect.

As far as worship goes, I can assure you that my demands will be modest. As you may already know, the people of Planet Earth have gone to great lengths to construct places of worship for their various deities, and many of these buildings have turned out to be remarkable and beautiful edifices. My own country is awash with what we call cathedrals – utterly stupendous places that we would certainly not want to be without – but they are a devil to heat and cost an absolute fortune to maintain. So I just want to say that you don’t need to go those extremes on my behalf – nothing larger than a 3-bed semi is really necessary. If my worship cult takes off in a big way you just build more of them, and if it tails off you’ve then got a ready source of affordable housing.

You’ll need to decide which day of the week to worship me on. Do you have days and weeks, by the way? I’ve no idea how fast your planet spins round, so your day might be as long as our week anyway, or all be over in half an hour. A worship day that was that long or short could be a problem for all concerned.

On the assumption that your days are the same as ours, could I ask that you avoid Mondays and Fridays? I’ve got this part-time evening job on a Monday and I’m busy at New Bold Words on Friday mornings. If I’m being worshipped I’d rather like to be able to wallow in the full effect without too many interruptions, if that’s OK by you.

As for prayers, they will of course be acceptable and I’ll do what I can to answer them, but I do suggest that you get hold of a copy of “Bruce Almighty” before you start encouraging your people to start praying in bulk. As you will discover when you watch the film, your average deity can get completely overwhelmed if this sort of thing gets out of hand, and even with supernatural powers it can prove to be a real downer if you can’t give every prayer its proper consideration. Quality is always better than quantity, in my opinion.

As for the sort of deity I’ll turn out to be, I’d better make it perfectly clear at the outset that I’m all in favour of personal morality – up to a point – and I’m a real stickler for justice and fair dealing, but I’m not really into thunderbolts and smiting. Wrongdoers can expect a severe ticking off, but that will probably be as far as it goes. If you can have a laid back god, that’s me.

Oh, wait a minute, I can see that another email has just come in. This is from the planet Teleos – they apparently want me to be their everlasting deity as well. How flattering! And here’s another – apparently there’s a planet called Gotcha …

OK, you bunch of losers, you’re that lot I met down at the pub last night, aren’t you? Guess what – I take back what I just said about thunderbolts and smiting. I think I feel a smite coming on …

© John Welford

Repeating the Past: a poem

(The challenge was to write a poem that incorporates the sonnet convention of the “volta” or “turn”, by which is meant a change of direction about two-thirds of the way through – after line eight in a 14-line poem)

The Heraclitan river flows

Through every life and every age

What happened once has gone away

Stored in memories remembered

Well or ill, or maybe confined

To myths retold to later folk

And then believed as certain truth,

Confusing less enquiring minds.

A very rich man, just because he could,

Bought Rome’s top job, but it did him no good.

And now we have seen someone I won’t name

Do what you might think is almost the same.

May I quote Mark Twain? Historical time

Does not repeat, although it tends to rhyme.

© John Welford

Kitchen sink thoughts: a poem

(The challenge was to write a piece beginning with the opening line of Dodie Snith's "I Capture The Castle", namely "I write this sitting in the kitchen sink")

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink

A place to marinade the brain and think.

To cleanse and rinse the green stuffs and the grey

And send all gritty nonsense on its way.

Beside me lies the draining board of thought

Where dripping plates and notions newly sought

Assume their former or a brand new sheen

Or are they just pretending to be clean?

I rise with care and step down to the floor

Where brush and pan have swept up peel and core

The shining tiles have nothing left to say,

As bare of meaning as a wasted day.

Great thoughts depart and brainwaves all retreat

Perhaps I should resume my former seat.

© John Welford

Moving On

“Well, if it isn’t my old mate Shylock”, said Tubal. “How have things been since that little business in Venice when your pound of flesh scam came horribly unstuck?”

“Not so bad”, said Shylock. “As you know they forced me to become a Christian and hand over all my money to my daughter Jessica, so we’ve both moved on to pastures new.”

“So Jessica’s taken over the moneylending business, has she?”

“Not exactly. There’s no profit in moneylending for independents these days, not since people like Wonga cornered the market, so she’s taken to the next best thing in making a quick buck, namely estate agency and property development – not that she does much development of the properties that come her way, mind you.”

“And you?” asked Tubal.

“I run my own Christian sect, all Hell and damnation for wicked sinners, with Jessica’s help. We call it God’s Own Theoretical Christian Housing Academy.”

“That’s a bit of a mouthful”, said Tubal. “How does it work?”

“Well”, said Shylock, “We call it an academy because that way we can con the government into thinking that it’s one of these new free schools, and they give us lots of money to educate the kids of our members.”

“And do you?”

“Of course! We teach the three R’s – reading, writing and racketeering – and our pupils soon learn a very important lesson.”

“Which is?”

“The meaning of the word “theoretical”.

“Tell me more”, said Tubal.

“Jessica finds our church members some nice cheap housing - cheap for her, that is - and I make them sign our special contract. I don’t do the pound of flesh thing any more – I find that small print is much more effective. Do you remember that fake lawyer who got me into so much trouble in Venice?”

“You mean Portia, who married Bassanio?”

“I certainly do. She turned out to be a very clever cookie and moved on to become a full-time dodgy solicitor. We became quite good friends after things died down following that trial, and so I went to her office and asked her advice. She suggested that our contracts should contain clauses in print so small that even an ant couldn’t read it.”

“So what do your clients sign up to, then?”

“Let’s just say that once they’re in they don’t get out. They have to live in one of Jessica’s houses for life – pets are encouraged, and a very good idea for keeping the rats and mice at bay – and they have to pay a monthly fee for hearing my sermons every Sunday. Again, it’s for life.”

“Can’t they just walk away?”

“We find that the iron shackles bound to their ankles are a bit of a disincentive to that”.

“Remind me”, said Tubal. “What was your organisation called again?”

“God’s Own Theoretical Christian Housing Academy.”

“I’ve worked it out”, said Tubal. “You might have moved on, but you’re still a right little Scumbag However It’s Termed”.

© John Welford

New Beginnings

It is not generally realised that Macbeth made a third visit to the witches on the blasted heath, in addition to the two that are recorded in the famous Scottish play by that bloke from Stratford with the receding hairline.

“Hi there”, Macbeth offered in greeting, as cheerily as he could manage under the circumstances.

“You again?” said the chief witch. “What do you want this time?”

“Well”, said Macbeth, “the thing is that I’m getting ever so slightly worried about the way things are turning out”.

“That’s hardly surprising”, said witch number two, “given that you’ve already slaughtered half the cast and your wife has gone completely doolally. On those grounds, ‘ever so slightly worried’ would appear to be something of an understatement”.

“And what do you expect us to do about it?” asked witch number three. “We told you what would happen, but if you chose to conveniently ignore the bits that didn’t suit you at the time, that’s hardly our problem, is it?”

“Yes”, said Macbeth, “I’m sure you’re right, but it looks very much as though I’ll end up dead by the time the curtain falls at the end of Act Five, and I’d quite like that not to be the case.”

“Let’s get this straight”, said the chief witch. “You’re the title character in ‘The Tragedy of Macbeth’ and you expect to still be alive at the end of it? Have you ever seen a Shakespeare tragedy? Hamlet? Othello? King Lear? How many of those plays conclude with a jolly little song and dance number?”

“But that’s just the point”, said Macbeth. “I want you to fix it so that this play is different from the others. How about ‘The Tragi-Comedy of Macbeth’? Everything looks terrible half way through Act Four but it all ends up OK by the final curtain.”

“And just how are we supposed to manage that?” asked witch number two. “We said you’d be king, and your wife decided that killing the guy who was actually king at the time was the way to make that happen. We said that Banquo’s descendants would be kings, so you bumped off Banquo and nearly got his son as well. It’s your own stupid fault you’re in the mess you are now, not ours”.

“That’s what tragedy is all about”, said witch number three. “Some idiot gets above himself, does some stupid things and ends up paying the price. In the current case, that idiot is you.”

“But can’t I make a fresh start?” Macbeth pleaded. “Suppose I go to Macduff and say that it was all a terrible misunderstanding and I’m really sorry that I murdered his entire family, and would he like to go with me for a walking holiday in the Trossachs? I’d even offer to pay his bar bills”.

“And how you think he’d react to that?” asked the chief witch. “You reckon he’d let bygones be bygones, do you?”

“”It’s worth a try, surely?” said Macbeth. “Especially if I tell him some of my best jokes, like the one about the Englishman, the Scotsman and the pound of pork sausages?”

“I don’t think I’ve heard that one”, said witch number two, “how does it go?”

Macbeth was on the point of telling her when the chief witch pointed out the fatal flaw in his plan.

“That’s all very well”, she said, “but don’t you think that Mr Shakespeare’s audiences will be just a teeny bit disappointed with all the build-up to the gory battlefield death of the central character, only to end up with the protagonists having a belly-laugh and exiting stage left arm-in arm?”

“OK”, said Macbeth, “how about Plan B?”

“Which is?”

“You suddenly reveal that everything that happened in the first three acts took place in a parallel universe, and that the whole thing was a figment of somebody’s imagination? Duncan is actually alive and well, and so is everyone else.”

“Presumably”, said the chief witch, “your wife is not a raging homicidal maniac but a Sunday-school teacher from a small village in Dorset?”

“Now you’re talking!” said Macbeth. “I like what you’re saying! You simply make a whole new set of predictions and we all live happily ever after!”

“You’ve convinced me”, said witch number two. “Leave it to us and we’ll sort everything out. New beginnings! Don’t you worry about a thing.”

And with that Macbeth marched back down the hill from the witches’ camp, whistling a merry tune. It was just as well that a strong wind was blowing in his face as he walked away, because it rendered him incapable of hearing the guffaws of laughter that came from the trio round the cauldron.

© John Welford 

Invented saints

Great Britain (particularly but not exclusively England) abounds in towns and villages that take their names from those of saints. Examples include St Albans, St Ives and St Davids. However, with a little imagination, and tongue planted firmly in cheek, one can pretend that it is only accidents of typography that have prevented many other saints from receiving their due reward as British place names. Here are some suggestions.

St Evenage

Presumably the patron saint of new towns, he suffered martyrdom when he was hit by an overbalancing ticket machine at the town’s railway station, which is on the line from King’s Cross about 30 miles north of London. His sainthood comes from being overheard saying “Give me strength” as he exclaimed at the exorbitant price of the ticket and the fact that the machine had short-changed him. The miraculous strength he then obtained caused him to pull the machine over on top of him as he shook it.

St Ratford-upon-Avon

The patron saint of terrible Shakespearean actors met his end during a particularly dire performance of The Taming of the Shrew. His Petruchio convinced nobody, least of all the actress playing Kate (the Shrew) who took her part far too seriously and ended up beating him to death on stage in front of an audience of twelve (the rest of the audience having walked out some time before).

Ratford was observed lifting his eyes to the heavens several times before the fatal scene took place, but he was almost certainly searching for the prompt screen as he was notorious for forgetting his lines. However, having also forgotten to wear his contact lenses that night he was looking in entirely the wrong direction and would not have been able to read the screen anyway.

St Ansted

Ansted, or Ann Stead to give her preferred spelling, is the patron saint of queuing for hours at the airport when somebody, somewhere, has loused up in one way or another or has decided to go on strike for an indefinite period. On one famous occasion, when the queues went three times round the terminal building, Ann was noticeable as being the only person there who was not tearing their hair out with frustration. As somebody said: “She has the patience of a saint” – so a saint she became.

St Aines

Aines is the patron saint of really bad jokes. This is courtesy of his observation that if you say the words “Railing Staines” you sound like the Queen referring to Mick Jagger and his friends.

© John Welford