Only in America

When Shylock presented himself at the Immigration desk on arrival at New York’s JFK Airport, the ensuing interview proved to be quite enlightening. 

“Where are you from?” asked the official in charge.

“Venice”, said Shylock.

“Is that Venice New York, Venice Florida or Venice California?”

“Venice Italy”, said Shylock.

“There’s a Venice in Italy?” said the official, clearly shocked by the news. “I never knew that”.

“It’s been there quite a long time”, said Shylock. “You’d like it. It’s full of canals and very old buildings.”

“We’ve got some old buildings here, you know,” said the official, defensively. There are some in New York that are over a hundred years old. Can you beat that in your Italy?”

“Just about”, said Shylock.

“Italy”, said the official, “that’s not the same as Iran, is it? They both begin with an I and I’m not allowed to admit anyone from Iran.”

“No”, said Shylock. “They’re very different places. Italy’s in Europe.”

“Europe”, said the official. “I’ve heard of that. It’s a big country near England, isn’t it?”

Shylock reckoned that trying to teach geography to an American was probably a complete waste of time, and was therefore very glad when the questioning turned to a different theme.

“Mr Shylock”, asked the official, “what is your purpose in coming to America?”

“I want to start a new business here”, said Shylock. “I’m a moneylender, and there are some people back home who don’t take too kindly to the ways in which I persuade people to pay me what they owe. They take the line that bodily mutilation is going too far.”

“Bodily mutilation?”

“Yes. I charge extortionate rates of interest and threaten to cut bits out of my customers if they don’t pay up.”

“That sounds enterprising”, said the official. “We tend to use guns rather than knives over here when wanting to stress a point, but apart from that it sounds like a reasonable enough business model. And I like the notion of getting rich quick by squeezing every last penny out of your victims. Very American in tone.”

“I gather that some of your leading citizens made their fortunes that way and then turned to politics”, said Shylock.

“That’s very true”, said the official. “Dodgy businessmen can go a long way up the political ladder if they want to. Even right to the very top.”

“Is that so?” Shylock asked. “Do you reckon I could do the same?”

“You mean become President of the United States?”

“That’s the idea”, said Shylock.

“Ah – you might have a small problem there”, said the official.

“Not dishonest enough, you mean?”

“No, it’s not that”, said the official. “In order to become President you must have been born in the United States, and I assume that doesn’t apply to you.”

“Indeed so”, said Shylock, “but that’s because I wasn’t born”.

“You weren’t born?”

“No. I was created”.

"Created?”

“Yes. By William Shakespeare. I’m one of his best-known characters – from The Merchant of Venice.”

“But that’s just great”, said the official.

“Is it?”

“But of course! America is jam-packed full of creationists! We’re very big on the Book of Genesis, Adam and Eve and all that, so to have someone running for President who’s virtually Adam’s brother would be a dead cert to win, no problem at all!”

“Let’s get this straight,” said Shylock. “You’re saying that a low-down crook like me, with absolutely no sense of morality, who’s prepared to cheat his way to a fortune and doesn’t care who gets trampled in the mud as he does so, but who wasn’t actually born, could rise to the very top? Where in the world is that possible?”

“Only in America, Mr Shylock. Only in America.”

© John Welford

The MasterChef Witches

Heaven alone knows what possessed the BBC to allow Mabel, Doris and Alice – the exceptionally ugly weird sisters who were the residents of Blasted Heath Cottage – to take part in their MasterChef cookery show. Perhaps it was a misguided belief that any reference to the works of William Shakespeare would be good for the ratings, or maybe some magical and other-worldly influences had been brought to bear on the officials who decide these things.

Whatever the reason, the fact remained that the MasterChef kitchen, presided over by the revered John Torode and Gregg Wallace, found itself hosting some unexpected equipment in the shape of three enormous cauldrons as well as the usual cooking facilities. Questions were raised about the health and safety implications of allowing cooking to take place on open fires within the confined space of the MasterChef studio, but – once again – the people with the power to decide such matters seemed to become strangely willing to put aside any objections, and they were also persuaded to change the theme music for the series to “I put a spell on you”, which was appropriate if nothing else.

As the rounds progressed, the other entrants fell by the wayside one after the other. It might possibly have been that their dishes were considered too unoriginal by the judges when set against what Mabel, Doris and Alice had to offer. After all, none of them could compete with the delights of bat wing surprise or dog tongue upside down cake. Alice’s newt and lizard turnovers were declared the star dish of the third show, and nothing could compare with Mabel’s adder’s fork ice cream in the semi-final.

At least, everyone said that these entries were the best things they had ever tasted, and that included all the guest gourmets who came on to the show at various stages. Was any undue influence brought to bear on their judgments in the form of strange incantations uttered over the cauldrons just before the tastings took place? Who could possibly tell? 

The final was therefore fought out between the three witches, who now found themselves in competition with each other as opposed to cooperating to get rid of the other entrants. Sisterly love soon gave way to sibling rivalry and no tactics were considered too underhand to be attempted.

Of the three final dishes, Mabel’s was clearly not going to win. The added ingredients supplied by Doris and Alice, when Mabel’s back was turned, had a devastating effect on the BBC presenters when they passed by and sniffed at the cauldron – all John Torode’s hair fell out and Gregg Wallace suddenly found himself sporting a luxuriant set of dreadlocks that reached down to his waist. The make-up department had a terrible time getting the pair back to their usual appearance, and Mabel was promptly dismissed from the show.

Doris had prepared a new approach to brunch, which was to combine breakfast and lunch on the same plate, in the shape of fairly traditional muesli laced with strips of raw yak meat. Doris being Doris, the muesli had a few added ingredients in the shape of dragonfly wings and chopped hedgehog spines, but it was definitely the pieces of yak that made Doris’s dish stand out as the main contender for the top prize. As usual, John Torode questioned whether it was sufficiently seasoned, but that appeared to be the only objection.

Alice was incensed. After all the effort she had made to get the right rats for her take on ratatouille, she had no intention of seeing her sister steal what she saw as her rightful crown. Doris knew all about doctoring a rival’s entry, so there was no way she was going to allow Alice to get close to hers. Alice had no choice but to win by bribing the judges. 

And that was what she did. As mentioned above, Alice had come to the show with a consignment of rats, and not all of them had been used in her dish. Indeed, she discovered just before the broadcast that some of them had given birth to litters of baby rats and she therefore had considerably more than she started out with. Her rats were direct descendants of those that that caused such devastation by spreading the Black Death in the 14^th century, as were the fleas they carried that were the real culprits.

Alice had the very weapon she needed. If she was not given first prize by the judges, she only had to release her highly fertile vermin for Black Death Number Two to be let loose on to the streets of London. She therefore had a quiet word with John and Gregg, urging them to favour her ratatouille over Doris’s unusual brunch.  The words she actually used had seemingly been provided for that very purpose by William Shakespeare when he wrote Twelfth Night:

“If muesli beef’s the food you love, plague on!”

© John Welford

The Darkest Hour: a poem

It’s often said, maybe it could be true,

That just before the sky gives hint of blue

The night does all it can to fright and cower

It’s what is sometimes called the darkest hour.

The task undone, impending daily grind,

Is all that sleepless you can bring to mind,

As thoughts forbear to cease their surly dance

And time, it seems, refuses to advance.

All that is vile is ready to ensnare

But must you yet fall victim to despair?

Take heart, be hopeful for the coming morn -

The world is darkest just before the dawn.

© John Welford

Stories and poems: an index to my blogs

The following stories and poems are available to view. The "Shakespeare" stories are so named because they involve characters from Shakespeare's plays - although not as imagined by Shakespeare!


Fictional Stories

100 Words for Christmas
A Bigger Bat
A Double Proposal
A Good Disco
A Journey to the Past
A Nip of Firewater
A Piece of Cake
A Winter's Tale
An Artist's Impression
Another Dimension
Apologies for Spillages
Contracting a Kidnap
Cruises Can Be Costly
Dreaming David
Fighting Back
Half a Lifetime
How Mark Became an Apostle
Hunting the Cobra-Preta
Identifying a Flying Object
In the Library
Last Day of the Month in Nohopia
Lucy in the Library
Maybe Not
Mother Was
My Acceptance Speech
My Hero
My Journey to Burnside Farm
Not Invited
Old Habits
One Too Many
Out of the Shadows
Over The Wall
Red Stains as the Sun Sets
Resolution
Send in the Clones
Single-sentence Stories
Something Raymond Forgets
Suitable Names
Terror Can Taste So Very Sweet
The Brothers
The Burnt Babe and Black Arthur
The Case of the Missing Doughnut
The Closure of Jimmy McTavish
The Old Man and the Mountain
The Racing Puzzlers
The Tailor of Horsemarket
The Three Bears
The True Story of the Gunpowder Plot (Maybe!)
The Waiter's Tale
Three Policemen Bitten
Trust Means Everything
Try Again, Ollie
Volunteering the Dark
Where Streams of Living Water Flow
Your Wish Is ...


Shakespeare Stories

28 Pounds
A Bad Spell
A Happy Tale's Best for Summer
A Rose By Any Other Name
A Useless Organiser
Away With the Fairies
Enter Mrs Macbeth
Fairies Versus Witches
Getting Out
Ghost Swap
Immediate Response
Juliet: Hatched, Matched, Despatched
Lady Macbeth Does a Deal
Line 42
Meeting of the Brotherhood
Moving On
Mr Jakes
Mr Shylock of Little Venice
New Beginnings
Only in America
Prince Hamlet, Dimly Lit
Pursued by a Bear
Rising to the Challenge
Royal Conference
Seeing Red
Shakespeare 400 Years On
Survival at Stratford
The Doctor Looked At Me
The Glorious Twelfth
The Island
The Lear Family's Resolutions
The MasterChef Witches
The School for Scoundrels
Things That Bounce
Trick or Treat?
Valentine's Day at the Macbeths


True stories

A Helpful Person
A Lengthy Lunch in Moscow
Brake Failure
Clean Up
D-A-M
First Day At School
Flying to Moscow
Guarding the Castle
I Looked Over the Edge and Gasped
Library Rescue
Love is a Roast Potato
Nautical Rainbows From a Long Time Ago
Opportunities
Protecting the Princess
Put That Light Out
Random Meetings
Remember, Remember
RIP: A Funeral and an Ankle
Serious Injury to a Soldier
Taxed to the Hilt
The Parting of the Ways
The Tale of Dr Todd
What's In A Name?
Your Next Station Stop

Poems

A Poem About Cheese
Break
Clerihews
Cloudy Dreams
Familiar Figure
Forget the Fish
Haikus and Tankas
Kitchen Sink Thoughts
Poet's Block
Repeating the Past
The Darkest Hour
The Hottest Day
The Pockets of Power
Time: a quad poem
Tornado Twists and Shouts: a poem with introduction
Vote For Me
You Know You're Getting Older When ...


Other Pieces

A Walk on the Beach
Coffin Humour
Deadlines
Divided by a Common Language
Invented Saints
Partner Piece
The Reduced Canterbury Tales: Prologue to the Wife of Bath's Tale
The Reduced Canterbury Tales: Friar's Tale to Franklin's Tale
The Reduced Canterbury Tales: Physician's Tale to Tale of Melibee
The Reduced Canterbury Tales: Monk's Tale to Parson's Tale

Things That Bounce: a story

Ophelia’s knock at the door of Blasted Heath Cottage was answered by Doris, one of the three haggard old crones who had a reputation in those parts for preparing strange concoctions in their cauldron and issuing misleading advice to passers-by.

“Do come in”, said Doris. “We’ve just made up a new brew in the cauldron and we’d love you to sample it, just to see what effect it has”.

Ophelia gladly accepted the first invitation, but declined the second.

“What can we do for you?” asked Mabel who, if anything, was even more gaunt and haggard than Doris. “As you know, our advice can always be trusted. We always speak at least one version of the truth, although not necessarily the one that will do you most good.”

“That’s a chance I’ll have to take”, said Ophelia, “but it’s not really advice I’m after”.

“What is it then?” said the third crone, Alice, who was just visible through the smoke from the cauldron. “You don’t want our advice and refuse to sample our new potion, but you must want something? Old bitches like us don’t feature very highly on most people’s lists of folks to drop by on for a jolly little chat.”

“I want an idea,” said Ophelia. “I’m going round everyone I know because Hamlet has started a new writing group at Elsinore Castle - it meets in the library every Friday morning – and he’s set us a challenge that has left me baffled.”

“In what way?” asked Doris.

“The theme he’s set is ‘Things That Bounce’, and I really don’t know what he’s on about.”

“Balls”, said Alice.

“There’s no need to be rude”, said Ophelia. “I only asked.”

“Balls bounce”, said Alice. “Tennis balls, basketballs, footballs …”

“Table tennis balls, volleyballs, even cricket balls”, Mabel added. “They all bounce.”

“I know”, said Ophelia, “but that all sounds a bit too obvious, and I’m not sure that I could write a decent story about table tennis balls or any other sort. That’s why I’m looking for suggestions for other things that bounce.”

“Fortunes”, said Doris. “They can go both up and down. Lots of people have suffered loss of fortune and bounced back up again.”

“And how many people do we know to whom that’s happened?” Ophelia asked. “Shylock pointed out to me that his fortune went in two directions, but after it went down it hardly bounced back up again.”

“Reputations”, said Mabel. “They can bounce”.

“Same problem”, said Ophelia. “You should hear Othello go on about reputation – you can’t stop him. But once his went through the floor there was no upward bounce. All the “reputable” characters in his play ended up dead.”

“So who else have you spoken to?” asked Doris. “Surely someone must have an idea about what can bounce?”

“Well, I did have word with Falstaff”, said Ophelia. “He thought I’d said ‘Thugs That Bounce’ and went on for hours about all the gorillas that have ejected him from every club and pub in Windsor, London and just about everywhere else. He’s far more deserving of the title “The Barred” than our beloved creator.”

“I’ve got an idea”, said Alice, who was quietly stirring the cauldron. “You see this alphabetti spaghetti? Just pick out all the letters you need for ‘Things That Bounce’ and drop them into the cauldron”.

This puzzled Ophelia, but she did as she was asked and selected the sixteen letters that made up the words of the title. She dropped them into the steaming mess of the cauldron and was surprised to see that they did not immediately dissolve. Alice moved her hands across the surface and muttered an incantation. The letters promptly disappeared downwards.

“What’s happening?” asked Ophelia. “How does this help?”

“Don’t worry”, said Alice. “I may be a bitch but you can trust my magic. I’ve put an anagram spell on the letters. They’ll bounce off the bottom of the cauldron and re-appear in a different order. Just wait and see.”

Sure enough, a few seconds later the letters came back into view, but this time they spelled out the words ‘Gaunt Honest Bitch’.

“That’s me”, said Alice. “That should give you an idea for your story.”

“Thank you”, said Ophelia, “I think it has!”

© John Welford

Cloudy Dreams: a poem

Dreamer, what are your dreams?

Is your brain frozen cold in a cloud?

Is reality less than it seems?

Are your visions silent or loud?

Cumulus, cumulo, cumular

Banality, fluffy and white.

Do you dream of a faraway star?

Is your day exploding at night?

Can stratus level the mind,

Greyness obscuring all thought?

The dream has nothing to find

Some fish can never be caught.

Fly high, your Cirrean dream,

Your castle founded on air

A non-understandable theme,

Hopes and ambitions laid bare.

Dream of nimbucular rain

Torrents of darkness and fear

Anticipation of pain

Only waking can make disappear.

Dreams held fast within dreams

Clouds – grey, white and immense -

See there, as daylight first gleams,

The dreamer searching for sense.



© John Welford

Forget the Fish

The challenge was to write a piece that ended with the words: 'Forget the Fish. We need to leave. Now!'

This is my effort - not to be taken at all seriously!

Forget the Fish

I had a hope, when we started tonight,
That, just this once, we would get something right.
No dreadful mistakes, or terrible flaws
To stop us receiving tons of applause.
Our audience large, delighted and wowed
We’d earn loads of cash and make our mums proud.
We’d perform all our tricks, end with a song.
But – oh dear – it’s all gone horribly wrong.
Perhaps what first got us into this mess
Was when I tripped and caught hold of your dress.
As the darned thing ripped and fell to the floor
The women all screamed, the men shouted ‘More!’
I just hope they heard my shouted out pleas:
The programme did not include a striptease.
And was it really such a good plan
When sawing the girl to use a large can
Of highly authentic bright red fake blood?
A smear is OK, but that was a flood.
The blue lights outside were not a good sign –
At least five people had dialed 999.
The card tricks were dud – could I find the Jack?
I wish you’d told me I’d brought the wrong pack.
Tapped with my wand, pulled the hat from my head
How was I to know the rabbit was dead?
And as for the doves, why didn’t you say
When windows are open birds fly away?
Now we’re approaching the end of the show
Do we continue, I ask – yes or no?
I have to say I’m beginning to doubt
If I can pull off the juggling with trout.
We have to admit our act’s a disgrace
A ripe tomato just hit me full face.
There’s not much point in us taking a bow -
Best forget the fish. We need to leave. Now!


© John Welford