Well, I Guess It Is Something to Do

This Slightly Odd Tale is about petty office politics and unsportsmanlike behaviour.

If anyone ever asks me where I get my ideas...  Well, it's one of the many benefits of a cheese-rich diet.  

Probably more of a side effect than a benefit, admittedly.

                                                                                                                                      

As the Rider regained consciousness, he could hear voices.

'Is everything ready?'

'I think so.'

'Shhh!  He’s waking up. Go!'

'AHEM!  Bonjour, Maillot Jaune.  I trust you have rested well.'

The Rider slowly opened his eyes.  He was lying on a cold, hard bed in a simply furnished hospital room.  He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the overhead spotlight.

'Where am I?' he asked.

Next to his bed was an athletically built man in his early thirties wearing a black jersey, a white cap and fitted shorts.  He sported large sideburns.

‘You've have been asleep a long time.  Wake up and get changed into your Robes of Office, Maillot Jaune.  I shall return.'  Then someone outside the room hissed 'Allez maintenant!' and he bustled away.

At the foot of the bed lay a pair of Lycra shorts, a grey baseball cap and a tight-fitting yellow jersey.  The Rider stood up, coughed, and dressed himself.  He noticed that there was a plastic sports bottle filled with water beside his bed.  The Rider quenched his thirst, sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

A short while later the man returned accompanied by four severe-looking men.  They were also wearing cycling gear. 

'You shall follow us, Maillot Jaune.  Ralf, Florian, Karl, Wolfgang...  Begin.'

In unison, the men chanted 'Ah! HURRR!  Ah UR HURRR!' and then stiffly shuffled out of the room.  The Rider followed, uncertainly.  

--

The Rider was now inside a poorly maintained mini gymnasium.  At one end there was a ramshackle stage and at the other a worn pastel-coloured sofa.  The man with the sideburns bellowed 'Ah! HURRR!', then pointed at the sofa.  ‘Go!  Speak to Oh, Maillot Jaune’.

There was a slightly chubby African-American woman sitting there.  She waved at the Rider and beckoned him over.  ‘Sit by me, Maillot Jaune’ she instructed. 

At the other end of the room the chanters climbed onto the stage. They began to sing in a sonorous monotone while performing a slow, graceful dance.

L'enfer du Nord: Paris – Roubaix (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

La Cote d'Azur et Saint Tropez (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

Les Alpes et les Pyrennees (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

Derniere etape Champs-Elysees (Tour De France! Tour De France!)…

The Rider sat down on the sofa next to Oh.  Immediately the chanting stopped and the room went dark.  Suddenly the light from a single spotlight dazzled them.

‘Maillot Jaune, I expect you to tell the truth.’ stated Oh in a calm but firm voice.  ‘Did you ever take banned substances to enhance your cycling performance?’

The Rider looked at Oh, confused and horrified.  ‘Sorry?  What did you say?’ he replied.  ‘I don’t understand’.  The Rider could feel himself starting to sweat.

‘Did you ever take banned substances to enhance your cycling performance?’ she repeated, her voice sterner and more forceful.

‘Y-y-yes?’ the Rider replied hesitantly.

‘Was one of those banned substances EPO?’

‘I don’t know.  What’s EPO?’ the Rider replied.

‘ANSWER ME, MALLIOT JAUNE!’ Oh shouted.

‘I have no idea what you are talking about!’  The Rider tried to stand up, but Oh grabbed his forearm.

‘You sit DOWN, Maillot Jaune.  Tell me what I want to know and you shall be allowed to go.  Was one of those banned substances EPO?’  Oh glared at the Rider.

‘…Yes?’ he responded.

‘Good.  Now we are getting somewhere.  Did you ever blood dope or use blood transfusions to enhance your cycling performance?’

‘I guess,’ answered the Rider.  ‘But I don’t see what this has to do with…’

‘SILENCE!  Did you ever use any other banned substances such as testosterone, cortisone or human growth hormone?

’I suppose so… I’m not sure.’

In all seven of your victories, did you ever take banned substances or blood dope?

‘Erm… Yes?’

‘So you admit it then, Malliot Jaune.  SHAME ON YOU!  SHAME!  LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS MAN IS A FRAUD AND A CHEAT!’

The Rider looked directly at his interrogator.  He could see the rage in her eyes.   ‘B-b-but I don’t understand!  What is happening here?  W-w-who are you?’ he stammered.

‘You damn well know who I am, Malliot Jaune.  (Oh my me, pardon my French!)’  

The chanters resumed their song…

Galibier et Tourmalet (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

En danseuse jusqu'au sommet (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

Pedaler en grand braquet (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

Sprint final a l'arrivee (Tour De France! Tour De France!)…

Oh gestured to the man with the sideburns.  The Rider felt a blow to the back of his head and he passed out.

--

The Rider awoke on the bed in the hospital room.  He had a headache, but he appeared to be otherwise unharmed.  Beside him was a tattered box file. He opened it.  Inside was a single DVD-R with ‘Lance Armstrong – The Oprah Interview’ scrawled upon it, a brown envelope containing a music CD broken into several shards, an official looking letter and a small plastic case.

The Rider examined the remains of the music CD;  Kraftwerk.  Written on the envelope in small tidy writing was ‘How do you like them now?’

The Rider then read the letter.

 April 20--,

Dear Mr Armstrong,

In the light of current world events and the on-going austerity measures, I regret to inform you that your application for funds to purchase one (1) exercise bike for the Site Fallout Shelter has proved unsuccessful.  Additionally the decision to reduce the Shelter Entertainment Budget by 100% was regrettable, but necessary.  A memo instructing key shelter personnel to bring their own books, films and music will be distributed shortly.

As a personal favour to a fellow cyclist, I have provided alternatively sourced entertainment for you to enjoy if the worst were ever to happen.  I hope you agree that the music CD has several catchy little tunes; even if you cannot exercise on a bike as you originally intended, you could keep your spirits up by jigging about to the music.  Also, there is an important message to be gained from watching the DVD; cheats never prosper, Mr Armstrong. I know what you have been up to and I expect to receive your resignation from the cycle club at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,

E. M. Armitage

Procurement Officer (Civil Defence­)

Civil Contingencies Secretariat

 --

The Rider sighed and refolded the letter.  Then he noticed the Post-It note attached to it.  It read:

Sorry!  I was a bit rough back there.  You can be Wiggins next time and I’ll be Lance.

Inside the plastic case was a pair of false sideburns.  The Rider smiled.

                                                                                                                                      

Puzzled?  These links might help give you some understanding about what this was all about.  Perhaps...

That Oprah Interview

Kraftwerk - Tour De France

Once Upon A Time There Were Three Bears...

Here is a slightly silly reworking of a very familiar tale.

Okay...  It's very silly.  

                                                                                 

"Granddad!  Granddad!  Tell me a bedtime story!  Please?"

"Eh?  Sorry, dear.  What was that?"

"I've had my bath, Grandma has dried my hair, I have my bedtime milk here and Grandma says that you can tell me a story."  His six year old grand-daughter grinned at him.

"Did she now? Well, come here and crawl onto my lap and I'll see what I can do. Let me see, let me see... ".  He pushed his spectacles up his nose and thought for a moment.   "I know, here is a story about a family of bears that live in a house in a forest and a little girl who comes to visit."

"Oh, Granddad...  Not AGAIN!" She sighed.  "The little girl finds the bears' house, breaks all the chairs, eats all the porridge and falls asleep in a bed.  The bears come back and she runs away.  I've heard this story before."  She pouted at her grandfather.

"No, no, no, dear.  This is a completely different story.  Yes there is a family of bears and a little girl who is an uninvited guest, but this story is very different.  It has a happy ending too."  He smiled benevolently.  "Does that sound like something you might enjoy?"

"Um.  ...Maybe?  Okay, Granddad.  Please tell me the story."

--

Not so long ago and not so far away there lived a family of bears.  There was a Daddy bear - who was big, strong, furry and ever so slightly grumpy.  There was a Mummy bear - was also big, strong and furry and only very occasionally grumpy.  ...And there was a Baby bear who looked quite a lot like your teddy bear - small, not so strong, but very, very cute and fluffy. He might have also been a little bit grumpy too. And they all lived together in the deep dark forest, living on fruit from the trees, berries from the bushes, fish from the river and honey from the wild bees.  They lived in a cave and they were very happy and...  Well, exactly like you would imagine a family of wild bears would be.

Then one day a swirly star fell from the sky and landed near the Bear Family's cave.  To their surprise ...it spoke to them.

"Greetings, Ursine Family Unit.  I bring you salutations and I mean you no harm.  As a sign of my goodwill, I will bestow on you intelligence, speech and opposable digits.  In return I would like to observe you."

("That's very silly, Granddad."
"Yes.  Yes, I know.")

There was a flash of multi-coloured light and Bear family fell asleep on the forest floor.  When they woke up they felt a bit different.  They didn't want to live in their draughty old cave anymore.  ...And walking on all fours didn't seem quite right either.  So they stood up on their hind legs and went house hunting.

Not long after the family had their own cottage in the middle of the forest with pink shutters, a blue door, comfy beds, wooden chairs and table and a small, pleasant garden outside with a shrubbery and a path.  It was very nice indeed - and the Bear Family loved living there.

Daddy Bear took to wearing an undersized green hat with a collar and green necktie.  He found work as an assistant park ranger in charge of picnic basket procurement. Mummy Bear starting wearing a cute blue mini-skirt, putting a daisy behind her ear and going for walks with her parasol.  ...As for Baby Bear - he liked to wear purple bow ties and he spent a lot of his time getting his father out of sticky situations.  The swirly star visited them occasionally; he examined them and asked if they liked their new lives.  Daddy Bear was always quick to point out just how much cleverer he was than the other bears in the forest; Mummy and Baby Bear knew different but they just smiled and humoured him.

--

One day, when the Bear Family were out at a farmers' market buying minute jars of locally-sourced organic honey, a little girl came by their house.  Now this little girl wasn't a very nice little girl.  Yes, she seemed very pretty and pleasant with her long, golden curls, sweet rosy cheeks, sparkling blue eyes and her funny, silly laugh, but unfortunately...  she wasn't.

She walked up to the door of the Bear Family's house and starting banging on it very loudly, without a second's thought for all the other woodland creatures going about their daily business.

"OI!  BEARS!  I'M HUNGRY!  LET ME IN NOW!" she yelled.

Obviously there was no answer - the Bears were twenty miles away licking honey spoons and discussing the merits of blended versus single flower honey in great depth with their favourite bee-keeping artisan.

"RIGHT!  I'M COMING IN!" said the little girl.

She stepped twenty feet back from the house, took a deep breath and charged at the door. "AAAAAAAAARGGHHH!" she yelled - then there was a crash and the door fell off its hinges.  "THAT'S BETTER!" said the little girl.  "NOW...  WHERE'S THE GRUB?"

In the kitchen there was a cupboard filled with jars of honey and jam, loaves of bread and pats of butter; the little girl helped herself.  ...And she had a little bit more.  Then a little bit more and more and more until there wasn't a scrap of food left in the cupboard.  '"HEY!  I'M THIRSTY!  WHAT DOES A SWEET (burp!) LITTLE GIRL LIKE ME NEED TO DO TO GET A DECENT GLASS OF MILK ROUND HERE?"

("Oooohhh.  She's very rude, isn't she Granddad?"
"Yes.  Yes, she is.")

Meanwhile the Bear Family were making their way back from the market.  They had just bought a second hand car from a rather hairy gentlemen who had a animal skin coat and a rather nice line in monomania when he got over-excited.  Daddy Bear wasn't sure if a vintage camper van was really appropriate for his family, but the man had wielded that club of his very, very persuasively.  Those three young ladies of his were also, very, um, attractive too and he could tell Mummy Bear didn't approve.

Back at the Bears' house, the now not-so-little girl was now looking for somewhere to sit down.  Or maybe sleep; the kitchen floor seemed a good enough place as any.  She closed her eyes and within a couple of minutes she was snoring loud enough to rustle the leaves in the trees.

Some time later the Bear Family pulled up outside.  First they noticed the door, or rather the lack of one.  Then they got out of the car.  Then they noticed the muddy footprints leading from the front door into the kitchen.  Then they noticed the open, empty cupboards, empty bread wrappers, emptied jars of honey, broken glass, puddles of milk and - in the middle of the room - a rather mucky looking, rotund little girl with honey, butter and jam smeared in her curly blonde hair and on her frilly white dress.  ...Who was snoring, loudly.  The Bear Family went outside, got out the lunch they had bought at the market and began to eat.  And why not?  It was a warm, sunny day; confronting their uninvited guest could wait.

--

("Granddad!  What are you doing?  Where's the bit about 'Who's been sleeping in my bed?' gone?"
"I thought you said you didn't want that?  No, these are polite, friendly bears who don't go around frightening small children, even those that invite themselves into stranger's houses and then eat everything in the house.")

--

The little girl woke up, her hair sticky with honey.  "Ooohhh, I don't feel well!" she said.  "Ahem!" said a gruff voice behind her.  In front of her were the three bears.  "Uh oh," she said, nervously.

"Hello? Little girl?  Care for a sandwich?" said Daddy Bear, offering her the open picnic basket.

--

As I said, this is a story with a happy ending.  The little girl apologised for raiding the Bear Family's house.  She mended the door and cleaned up the mess in the kitchen.  Finally she helped the Bears replace the food she had eaten by helping Daddy Bear set up a hive in the garden and by cooking some scones with Mummy Bear and Baby Bear.  ...And do you what?  They all became friends.  The little girl and her family became very close to the Bear Family - which they remain to this day.

And the little swirly star?  He was very happy too, and so were his superiors - he got his promotion.  "And it's about time too, " said his boss, Mr. Warner.

--

"I liked that story, Granddad.  Thank you. ...Though I don't quite understand that last bit." said the grand-daughter.

"You're welcome, my dear. Now, it's time to go to bed.  Say good-night to Grandma and we'll see you in the morning."

--

Later the grand-parents were sitting in their living room.

"That story just gets sillier and sillier," said the grandmother.

"I know, I know."

He paused.

"...But it is all true, isn't it?  We did all become good friends, didn't we?" he answered, resting a paw gently on her hand.

"True...  But I don't remember ever being that rude.  And my mother had to wash my hair three times before she got all the honey out.  Did you know that?"

He laughed.

"I know...  Hey, are you sitting in my chair?"

"Oh, you silly.  Good night, Baby Bear."

"Goodnight, Goldilocks."

Woman Driving, Man Sleeping

There is a song by Eels called, yes, 'Woman Driving, Man Sleeping'.  You might recognize echoes of the lyrics in this story.  You can listen to the song here: Eels - 'Woman Driving, Man Sleeping'

Before you ask 'Is this story autobiographical?', let me say this...  Some of the emotions are but the scenario is not.

I believe the story benefits from a certain economy of words.  I hope you agree.  

                                                                                 

Man Driving:

It had been suggested with the best of intentions.  One of her friends had offered the use of a cottage in the middle of the Welsh countryside - miles from anywhere - for a long weekend.  'It’s nothing special, but it would do the two of you a lot of good - to get away - to spend time together.  ...Just the two of you again,' she said.

We both knew that her friend was right.  Life had been tough recently - she had lost her father, the children were still fairly young, we had both been working long hours.  We had tried our best, but yet...  There just hadn't been the time to really let ourselves be the people we had once been. Something similar had happened to our friends - marriage, mortgage, kids, responsibility, careers - it was just part of life, wasn't it?  You hit your late-thirties, early forties, and that's what you do, isn't it?  Everyone does it.  So you just get on with it, muddle through.

Woman Sleeping:

A beach.  The sound of waves.  Warm sunshine. 

You feel that, don't you?  Calm.  Tranquility.  I want to stay here.

Man Driving:

We dropped the children off at my parents' on the Thursday evening and arrived at the cottage Friday lunchtime.  Her friend had been right.  The cottage had been simply furnished yet comfortable.  And secluded?  Oh yes.  The nearest farm was a good ten miles away.  The friend had joked that the mobile reception was pretty poor around those parts.  Pretty poor?  Not a single bar. Work couldn't contact me here.  In fact no-one could.  It was just me and her - just like it had been before.  It had been kind of, well... liberating.  I remember loving that - I'm incommunicado.  I'm free.

She's still sleeping.  Good.  It's been a long weekend.  Too long.

Man and Woman Awake:

'Would you like me to drive now?  You need to rest.'

'Okay.  Let's pull over at the next service station, get a coffee and we'll swap.'

Woman Driving:

I had enjoyed the first day or so with him.  We hadn't spent that much time together recently, so it had been pleasant to just potter around, enjoy the countryside, curl up on the sofa by the fire.  I saw some of the man I once knew, yet...  The doubts remained. I had hoped that being there would make them vanish, but no.  They remained.

Sunday morning.  We had been sat down at breakfast, exchanging small talk, like we always do.  Then I said it, just like I had rehearsed in my own mind too many times before.  I told him that I loved him, yet...  Not now.  Not in that way.  His expression changed - his usual calm, amiable manner vanished.  He sat there, looking down, a small wedge of butter balanced on his knife, never quite touching the toast.  He said he was sorry, got up, put on his coat and walked out.

I didn't see him for the rest of the day.  He returned in the evening, wet and cold, still in a state of shock.  I ran him a bath, made a cup of tea and we held each other.  We tried to make love, but...  No.  He slept on the sofa.  I regretted feeling this way about him, but he needed to know.

Man Sleeping:

Once I came home from work early when she was out.  The house seemed big, empty.   It had never felt that way before.  There was obviously something missing, goodness knows what it was but, My God, I needed to find it.  I opened all the doors, checked all the rooms.  I still couldn't find it, whatever it was.  I left the house, defeated.

Woman Driving:

He's just turned over in his sleep.  At least he can sleep.  Why did I tell him?  Could I have carried on pretending?  It's too late to think these things now.

Man Sleeping:

I came back later.  She was there in the living room, sat on the sofa using her smart phone.  I greeted her, asked her what she was doing.  No response.  I wanted to grab that phone from her and smash it, crush it.  Then she would pay me attention.  Oh yes.  Then she would.

Woman Driving:

This morning we had a long talk about what we would do next.  The children, the house, what we would tell friends and family.  ...Or at least I did.  He just sat there, blank faced, apparently not quite comprehending what was happening, what I was saying.  He asked if I would consider marriage counselling; I agreed.  We hugged after our chat.  Yes, I was physically close to him at that moment, yet I had never felt so distant.

Man Sleeping:

It's summer.  Sunshine.  I'm meeting someone.  I can't wait to see them.

Woman Driving:

It's getting dark.  Both of us need to be at work tomorrow morning; we should have taken another day off.  We are going to be exhausted.  I don't think we'll feel much like working but we have to get through this, don't we?  We have to get back.

H'mmm...  No-one around.  Full beam it is then.

Man Sleeping:

I can't believe that I hadn't noticed her before; she had been sitting two rows in front of me in the lecture theatre all year.  Then one day she turned around and smiled at me...  At that point I just knew.  It took me a good week or so to summon up the courage to ask her out for an ice cream.  Why an ice cream?  Oh I don't know; it had been warm and it was the first thing I managed to blurt out.  I couldn't believe just how nervous I felt.  She said 'Yes', thank God. 

...And here she is now.

Woman Driving:

What's that?  No!

Man Sleeping:

She takes my hand, kisses me and I can't express just how ...happy I feel.  

I'm so glad that she is here, with me, right now.

Woman Awakes:

Where am I?  What happened?  The car?  There was a deer... Oh my God, is he alright?  Is that blood?  Oh my God, there is so much!  Is he alive?  He's breathing!  Ambulance!  Where's my mobile?  OhmyGodohmyGod.  Crap!  Crapcrapcrap no signal.  NO SIGNAL!  WHAT DO I DO NOW?               

Man Sleeping:

We are lying on a blanket in a park, under the shade of an oak tree. Her head is resting on my chest; she's playing with the sleeve of my t-shirt.  She's laughing; I'm laughing.

Warm dappled sunlight.  You feel that, don't you?  Calm.  Tranquility.  I want to stay here.

The Idea Generator.

If you are like me the problem isn't writing the story - it's getting the initial idea for it in the first place.  

So I'm going to give this short story ideas generator a go...

http://shortstoryideas.herb.me.uk/index.html

Tommo And The General

Christmas is nearly here.  Yes, it is!  At the time of writing it is only erm... 39 days until the big day.  Which - judging by the antics of my local supermarket - means it's practically Easter.

This is a story entered for the The 2013 Post Apocalyptic Book Club Christmas Short Story Competition.  The theme was a Post Apocalyptic Christmas story, based on "A Visit from St. Nicholas" by Clement Clarke Moore - hence the doggerel at the start of the story.  Poetry never really was my forte.

The frozen turkey cannons were a half remembered idea purloined from a long forgotten board game called Sleigh Wars.  The idea of rival Santa Clauses battling it out over the rooftops using festively-themed weaponry was almost too good not to use.  Xmascette, anyone?

                                                                                 

…For outside on the grass was a funny wee chap,
Dressed in army fatigues and a little pointy cap
He begged ‘Let me in, Sir, and to the cellar make haste
Before The General attacks, laying your village to waste!’

It was dark, yet cosy – almost festive – in the cellar.  The children had had a few of their friends over for ghost stories yesterday evening, so there were plenty of blankets and snacks to go round.   As we settled, the little man seated himself next to the Hurricane lamp and introduced himself.  His voice was quiet and nervous.

’Thank you, kind Sir, kind Madam!  Thank you indeed for allowing me to take shelter in my hour of need!   My name is Tommo, and yes, erm…  I’m an elf.  Until half an hour ago I was a private in The General’s army helping with his seasonal offensive but then I erm…  Accidentally forgot to get back on the sleigh.  You see…  And The General doesn’t like elves who... Forget to get back on their sleighs.’  He grabbed my arm tightly.  ‘You won’t tell him where I am, will you?’

‘Don’t worry, old chap!’ I replied cheerfully.  (I’m always a bit effusive when I’m merry.)  ‘I understand completely.  Christmas Eve is jolly hard work for the likes of you.  I don’t mind you staying here a while to get some rest.  I’m sure Old St. Nick won’t miss you for a couple of hours.’

Tommo’s face grew ashen.  ‘If I was still working for The Old Man, then I would agree with you.  …But The General is in charge now and all the other Santas are trying to overthrow him and it’s Christmas Eve and…  WHY WON’T ANYONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?’

‘I’m sorry?  Other Santas? ’ I queried.

‘Oh…  There’s lots of Santas now.  There’s Banality Claus, Anti Claus, Auntie Claus, Sancti Claus, Indemnity Claus … Lots of them.’

‘Really?  When did that happen?’

‘Well…  The Old Man came into money when Coca Cola set up that sponsorship deal.  No more making wooden toys for him!   He invested wisely and made a ton of money.  Then his wife Mary ran off with Black Peter.  That was not a good time to be an elf, I can tell you; no-one was on the Nice List that year.  Well, obviously he couldn’t do everything by himself – he wasn’t getting any younger after all - so instead of getting some new hires in, he decided to buy up a biotechnology company and got them investigating erm…  cloning and cybernetic augmentation.  Soon he had a whole army of Santas, just like him.  Well, almost like him.  They could do cool stuff like supersonic flight, high precision present throwing from sleighs, time dilation – all sorts.  Suddenly the workshop was full of jolly fat men, laughing merrily all bloody day long.  You have no idea how…  upsetting that was.  Then the Old Man bought Christmas Island, made it a tax haven and went on holiday, leaving the other Santas to mind the workshop. ‘

‘…Except it didn’t quite work out the way.  You see…  The clones weren’t perfect and they started to develop… quirks.  Most of the Santas were harmless, if a bit, well...  odd.  Like ‘Sancti Claus’ – or ‘Dave’ as he insists on calling himself.  His speciality is the ‘Goat Voucher’.   If you want to see a five year old cry, tell them that some other kid has been given a goat on their behalf and they can never see it.  …But you try telling THAT to Dave.  If you like lectures about the crass commercialism of Christmas and how it is directly responsible for the death of at least a thousand Emperor penguins on an Antarctic ice floe every hour on the hour between Christmas Eve and Boxing Day, then complain about the goat voucher.  Go ahead.  I dare you.’

Tommo looked at me.  I could see that the poor elf had indeed had had words with Dave about goat vouchers.  Many times.

He sighed then continued.  ‘Some of the Santas were a little less, erm… Festive.  Like The General.  He seemed pleasant enough at first, a bit brusque perhaps, but he liked to be in charge and we elves… sort of let him.  We liked being led by someone who looked after himself, someone who didn’t go out in a red dressing gown and keep snacks in his beard. …Even if he does have a bit of a medal fetish.  He's got a crack squad of elves for that, you know, raised on a strict diet of Valerie Singleton, sticky backed plastic, gold top milk bottle tops and ribbon.’

‘…But then he stopped taking orders.  Obviously The Old Man wasn’t happy at all about this, so he got his remaining faithful elves and Santas to make ‘arrangements’.  …And I don’t want to be around when these ‘arrangements’ meet The General.  I’m really, really sorry.  You may want to consider moving in the New Year.  If there is one.’  Tommo curled up under the cellar table and sang ‘Silent Night’ quietly to himself.

--

Ten minutes later there was a loud knocking on the cellar door, followed by someone clearing their throat in anticipation of making an inconsiderate amount of noise.

‘PRIVATE!  …AH SAID PRIVATE!’

Clearly this was someone used to giving orders and having them followed.

‘There’s no-one here,’ whispered Tommo. 

Suddenly there wasn’t a cellar door.  Instead there was an enormous muscled buzz-cut of a man in red, fur-lined army fatigues and mirrored shades.  He raised his voice from a reasonably unfriendly bellow to a slightly less reasonable shriek.

‘GREETINGS, AH SAID, GREETINGS TO YOU MERRY GENTLEMEN!  AH BELIEVE YOU ARE A-HARBORIN’ ONE OF MAH ELVES!’

‘How dare you barge in like that, Sir!’ I countered, finding a hitherto unexpected reserve of courage.  (It must have been that last brandy.)  ‘I kindly yet firmly request that you leave immediately.’

‘DON’T YAH UNNERSTAND ME, BOY?  AHM GENERAL NICOLAS ZEE FER ZACHARIAH CLAUS III, PRESIDENT FAH LIFE OF THE DEMOCRATIC ELVEN REPUBLIC!  AND AHM MISSIN’ AN ELF FROM MAH SLEIGH.  YOU SEEN HIM, HAVE YAH BOY?’

Oh dear.  Hammy overacting is obviously no hindrance to a career in the military.  ...And poor old Tommo - he didn’t stand a chance.  The General grabbed him from his hiding place, bundled him into the hessian sack he was carrying and then threw it over his shoulder.  Then the General turned to me.

‘AH NEED SOMEONE TAH GUIDE MAH SLEIGH.  YOU GOT THE NOSE.  GIT, BOY!’

Well, how could I refuse?

--

Parked outside my house was a sleigh unlike any I had seen before.  Yes, it was big, red, shiny and loaded with presents.  It also had lots of dangerous looking armaments jutting out at inappropriately lethal angles.  And instead of reindeer the sleigh had wings, over-sized jet engines and a complete disregard for how many miles it got to the gallon.  I didn’t think Dave would approve.

The General noted my nervous admiration.

‘BEAUTIFUL, AINT SHE?’  he bellowed.  ‘THE SLEIGHSLAYER 9000 COMES WITH DOUBLE SELF GUIDIN’ FROZEN TURKEY CANNONS, PLUM PUDDIN’ BOMBS AND ADVANCED EGG NOG ANTI AIRCRAFT WEAP’NRY.  AND AH’VE ADDED A LITTLE SOMETHIN’ EXTRA…’  He patted a large squishy globe on the rear of the sleigh – it looked like a Christmas Pudding about the size of a pony.  ‘A LITTLE INSURANCE, IF YOU KNOW WHAT AH MEAN…’ he grinned.

--

The General emptied Tommo out of the sack and instructed him to prepare for attack.  The elf loaded the turkey cannons with Norfolk’s finest then took cover amongst the presents.  He was singing ‘Silent Night’ to himself again; he had the thousand yard stare of someone who had seen far too many Christmas seasons.

Soon we were flying high above the rooftops of the village, flurries of snow swirling seasonally around the heavy artillery.   As a young boy I had dreamed of being on Father Christmas’ sleigh - I had so wanted to experience the magic of this wonderful night first hand.  I wasn’t expecting Foghorn Leghorn crossed with Colonel Kurtz on a flying festive fortress, but…  I was indeed profoundly exhilarated.

The General tapped a glowing panel on the front of the sleigh then snarled…

‘IT’S UP AHEAD, BOY.’

On the outskirts of the village I saw what looked like a young, rather slender woman, only she was roughly 100 feet tall and made of metal.  She was wearing what appeared to be beige undergarments and precious little else.  Being the gentleman I am I tried to avert my eyes, but there was something almost horribly pernicious and compelling about her.   She noticed us then wrenched a fully grown Scots Pine from the ground, roots and all.  Then her hips started to move suggestively.  And her tongue was lolling from left to right, like a bulldog licking an ice cream cone.  Then the singing started…

Dear Reader, I cannot describe the true insanity of the monstrosity I saw before me, quite apart from the fact that I am rapidly running out of words and this is a family friendly story.  Needless to say, her voice was shrill and tuneless, the tongue was like a bloated, elongated slug and her hypnotic hip movements were most unbecoming.  And certainly, to my dying day, I will never, ever be able to admire the arboreal diversity of the Glens without recalling what she did next with that poor tree.

‘THAT, BOY... IS THE TWERKBOT!’ yelled The General.  ‘IT LOOKS LIKE THE OLD MAN IS IN LEAGUE WITH THE MOUSE!’ 

I didn’t understand what he meant, but it can’t have been good.

The General pressed several buttons on the panel.  Three hundred pounds of frozen poultry crashed into the side of the Twerkbot, knocking her off balance and into the Rectory.  The Vicar wasn’t going to like that.  Rising to her feet, the Twerkbot picked up her tree and tried to swat the sleigh.  Again she lost her balance and crashed posterior first into the Village Hall.  The General unleashed more frozen turkey to little effect, followed by a couple of equally ineffective plum pudding bombs.    And so it continued – the Twerkbot would try to hit us with her tree then fall over and we would unleash a volley of Christmas fare, leaving her unscathed.  It occurred to me that, despite being inherently a bit unsteady on her feet, the Twerkbot was utterly impervious to the firepower of the Sleighslayer 9000.

The General had realised this too.  ‘DAMMIT!  AHM GONNA HAVE TO DESTROY CHRISTMAS TAH SAVE IT!’ he bellowed.  He pressed another button on the sleigh.  Nothing happened.  The General climbed over to the back of the sleigh and started pushing against the giant Christmas Pudding with his feet, all the while using language that would make a sailor blush.

Suddenly there was a strong smell of burning brandy and a loud whooshing noise.  Below The General was riding the Christmas Pudding towards the Twerkbot, hollering like a cowboy.

Then everything went white.

--

A few hours later I woke up.  Christmas Morning!

I appeared to be in the cellar.  Except the cellar didn’t have a ceiling. Or walls.   Fortunately my family had sheltered under the cellar table; singed, but otherwise unharmed. 

I examined the blackened remains of my vegetable patch.  There were lumps of charred Christmas pudding everywhere, hissing gently in the traditional festive drizzle.  I realised that this year Christmas dinner wouldn’t be that different after all.

--

Later, a big jolly man in sandals and a red ‘Save The Aardvark’ t-shirt rode up to me on a battered bicycle, smiling expansively. 

‘Helloooo….  Sorry about the garden.  And the village.  And most of the country too I’m afraid.  Never mind, Christmas Pudding is great for growing radishes.  Here – this’ll help with the old post-apocalyptic self-sufficiency thing.  Merry Christmas and remember…  Hoe hoe hoe!’

It was a voucher - for a goat five thousand miles away.

Welcome To Slightly Odd Tales!

Readers of a certain age will remember a television series called 'Roald Dahl's Tales Of The Unexpected'.  In this series every episode would feature an off-beat story with a twist.   Being young and rather impressionable at the time I remember very little about any of the stories featured on the show, but I do remember the title sequence: wiggly naked lady in silhouette, flames, wibbly fairground music, masks, skulls, cut to fade.

I can't and won't pretend that this blog will match the penmanship of the illustrious Mr Dahl.  ...But it will have a similar format to his unexpected tales - slightly odd little stories with a twist.

I hope you enjoy them.