Author Archives: wombat37
On #InternationalCatDay, here are three of the feline heroes from Warren Peace.
On Monday 24th July 2017 we said ta-ra to my mum, ‘Mombat’ to many of you out there in Internet Land. Here’s a brief thing about what turned out to be a very moving and celebratory day. As our three-car cortege left her house we passed her regular postman, Andy. He would regularly pop in and make sure Mum was alright, and she loved to give him mints. As we passed he stood and saluted in an emotional tribute, bless him.
“Blimey, she wasn’t half heavy”
The chapel at Poulton New Cemetery is small, and beautiful. My nephews, tall as the clouds, helped bear the coffin in to the strains of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy”, Mum’s favourite song. I don’t know how many the tiny chapel seats, but plenty of folk were left standing at the back as celebrant Jonathan Worthington began the service. Mum’s favourites, G-Line, had provided a coach to bring people to the service, since there was so little parking there, with Mum’s regular seat 3 left empty save for a picture of her, a simple gesture that touched my heart. Jonathan did us proud, taking us through Mum’s life, and including plenty of anecdotes to pay tribute to her humour as well as the song ‘Unforgettable’, which by crikey, she was. Mum had always told us that “if she went first”, she wanted bright colours and no religion, and Jonathan got it spot on. My sister Julie gave her own personal talk, and sang ‘Sunrise, Sunset’ with close friend Bernie, who called Mum ’Aunty Mum’. Brought a tear to my eye, so it did.
“Bye Mum, say hello to Dad for us”
After poems and more tributes, we moved out to the graveside accompanied by Andy Williams singing ‘Moon River’. Mum’s plot is between a Muriel and a Betty, so I reckon she’ll be alright for gossip. The pale sun hid behind a white veil as we held a short ceremony, including the poem ‘Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep’ which brought more tears to my eyes. I was amazed at how deep the grave was. We dropped pink carnations (which Dad used to buy Mum regularly) after the coffin, each saying our own goodbye. I noticed Kit kiss her carnation before letting it fall.
“I don’t want a sit down meal, I want a bloody buffet”
Cars and coach ferried us across town for the wake. At the Golf Club, large screens were showing a slideshow of photos from throughout Mum’s life, and a banner announced ‘Jeanne’s Jolly Send Off’. A memory tree slowly grew leaves as people wrote their Mum memories and tied them on. Mum’s favourite singer, Eryl, had travelled up from Wales, and sang a selection of songs beautifully. Her rendition of ‘I Dreamed A Dream’ had my eyes rimmed with tears again. Mostly, though, we had a right good knees-up, with Eryl leading Mum’s friend May (who had travelled from Llandudno by taxi) and assorted ladies in a dance. Sod it, even I danced – blame the Bailey’s. And it was wonderful to meet Auntie Janet and John again, whom I haven’t seen for about five hundred years, and be reminded by Bernie of the flat I lived in at University back in the last century, where spaghetti hung from the ceiling.
“No, Nay, Never”
As the wake wound up and we said goodbye to the kind people who had come along, we hard-core family hied us away to my sister’s sunny, green garden, where we chatted and laughed and sang many songs. Mum would have loved it.
There’s not long to wait now until the 2nd UK Indie Lit Fest in Bradford. Come along to this FREE book event on Saturday 26th August and have a good old natter with me, as well as the chance to meet a wide range of UK Indie authors, poets and publishers.
Visit the website here: https://www.ukindielitfest.com/
If you register for a FREE ticket before the day, you’ll be automatically entered into a prize draw to win a signed copy of a book from one of the attending authors. Get your tickets here: https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/uk-indie-lit-fest-tickets-31400928021
I found this a few years ago in a Lancaster charity shop.
Of COURSE I bought it – who wouldn’t? Prepare for a bit of a history lesson, along with (obviously) some piss-taking. Here’s the feller to thank for this tasty treat. Jay C. Hormel, son of a butcher, developed SPAM assisted by French chef Jean Vernet. It was ready by late 1936, but as yet was unnamed. Hormel held a New Year party and gave guests a free drink for every name they suggested, and $100 for the winning name. “By the 4th drink people started to show imagination” Hormel commented. The name SPAM was suggested by actor Kenneth Daigneau, and is short for Shoulder of Pork and Ham, as any fule kno. Some of the other products in this photo show doubtful taste – “Arf” (which I hope wasn’t dog meat), “Dinty Moore” and “Spic” (geddit? Spic and Spam?)
SPAM was launched on an unsuspecting world in May 1937, and was a huge success. During the war it was sent over to Britain, and to Russia where Kruschev said “Without SPAM, we would not be able to feed our army”. American troops were given a special cheaper American Government version of SPAM which lacked the true flavour, probably leading to the low opinion this true food of the gods has among large numbers of misguided people.
The book’s got a lot of recipes – some of them seriously WTF. On the left you can learn how to make Spam Cheesecake (no really), while there are also such delights as Spamdoori Chicken Wrap, Nutty Spamburger and Deep Spam Pizza. I have a soft spot for Spam Porcupine – chunks of SPAM, onions & pineapple on cocktail sticks, poked into a cabbage – “the cabbage can be used afterwards for other meals” it says.
My favourite though has to be SPAM scones, which appear to be normal scones but with chopped SPAM added to the mix. Haven’t dared to try them yet, but the recipe suggests using any leftover scones on top of a vegetable casserole and baked in a hot oven.
My favourite way to eat SPAM? Sliced thinly, fried to a crispy edge, and popped in a pitta with ketchup or summat. Yum. Do let me know if you’re desperate for me to share further SPAM recipes, you saddoes.
A short piece for Miranda Kate’s flash challenge using the picture on the right there. The title was a gift from my lovely friend @sparkleytwinkle, though obviously since she’s not a Forties blues singer in New York the protagonist is not her.
Miss Pink almost purred at the ethereal light that cascaded through the arched blue-glass roof. The old subway station was all curves, from the roof to the track and platform curving on a tight bend. The space would be perfect for her new venture, The Pink Blues Club. The station had been closed at the war’s end, three months ago, and sold off cheaply by a City Hall desperate for funds. The proceeds from her last record had easily covered the cost.
She could just picture it; the platform could be extended over the tracks to form a wall-to-wall floor, a bar would run along the inner wall, a small stage at this end, private booths around the curve at the other. She was willing to bet that the arched roof would give great acoustics. She cleared her throat and sang:
Willow weep for me. Willow weep for me.
Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me.
Listen to my plea. Hear me willow and weep for me.
Lord, but the sound was glorious! She could just imagine a packed Pink Blues Club, glasses clinking, blue smoke curling upwards, happy punters chattering, dancing and spending money, Dizzy playing up a storm behind her. She smiled at the vision. A high sound pierced the silence and echoed at the far end of the platform, around the curve. It sounded a little like a child, laughing. She waited silently for a minute, but it did not repeat. Damn her imagination. She should not have chosen that song. It brought back memories of two small bundles wrapped in black, and being covered with earth beneath a willow tree on a cold, rainy night. Miss Pink shuddered. She had started to hope that those memories might be buried forever. She considered leaving to find a bar for a big, dirty martini, but she had always hated to leave any song unfinished. It seemed as though it would hurt the song’s feelings to leave the end unsung. She snorted at herself; it was only a song after all. Nevertheless, she took a deep breath and threw herself into the second verse.
Gone my lovely dreams. Lovely summer dreams.
Gone and left me here to weep my tears along the stream.
Sad as I can be. Hear me willow and weep for me.
There it was again, that laughter … and now it was joined by another child’s voice, giggling away. Miss Pink jumped a little as two small shadows emerged from behind a rickety booth at the distant end of the platform. God in heaven. The figures skipped along the platform hand-in-hand, laughing. As they got closer she saw they were boy and girl, perhaps three or four years old. What on earth were they doing down here? Where were their parents? Come to that, how had they got down here? This place was locked up tighter than a rat’s fanny. Now they were closer she could see that they were dressed in simple black smocks, and skipped barefoot along the cold stone platform. It was winter, for Christ’s sake, what were their parents thinking of? The children halted before her. They were, she had to admit, remarkably pretty, although their hair could have done with a brush. The boy gave a small bow, and the girl a charming little curtsey.
“Hello, Mother,” they said in unison.
Whisper to the wind and say that love has sinned.
To leave my heart a sign and crying alone.
Murmur to the night and hide her starry light
So none will find me sighing, crying all alone.
Miss Pink’s blood pounded in her ears. Her fingers trembled. Ice pierced her heart. No. No, this could not be; it was impossible. These children had broken in here somehow and were playing some sort of malevolent game.
“Who … who are you?” she asked.
“You never did give us names,” the girl said. “You just squirted us out, smashed our skulls and buried us beneath the willow out back.”
“God in heaven!”
“Oh no,” said the boy, in a tone far beyond his apparent years. “Quite the opposite, in fact. It’s beyond time you paid for the innocent blood you spilled that night.”
“Far beyond,” the girl said. “And look: here comes your train now.”
The rust-red rails began to sing, and a hot wind was pushed out of the tunnel behind Miss Pink.
“But I was … I was in a panic, terrified!” Miss Pink said. “Your father left as soon as he found out I was pregnant. And I was unmarried – if people had found out, my career, my life, would have been ruined. The shame, you see. People don’t forgive that sort of thing.”
“You stole our lives from us that night,” the boy said. “Now it’s our turn to steal yours.”
Miss Pink spun about as the noise from the tunnel rose to a screech. A subway train emerged from the dark mouth with a roar. The driver grinned at her, rotting teeth in a naked skull, and in utter despair she read the destination board: ‘The Flames of Hell’.
Willow weep for me. Willow weep for me.
Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me.
Listen to my plea. Hear me willow and weep for me.
Nah then, sexpots. The Sixth Annual Wombat Anniversary YSP Tweetup will take place on Saturday 24th June 2017 at (colour me surprised) Yorkshire Sculpture Park. Come and meet a fat old wombat and his beautiful consort for art, countryside, sexy rabbits, picnics, shiny balls and sociability. Here’s a few things to know.
Where is YSP?
Meet between 10 and 10:30 near the main car park, by the entrance to the main building (check the map down below). If it’s chucking it down, you could always pop inside.
What’s the car parking like?
Admission to YSP (a charity) is free. The parking fees keep the place going. Car Parking is £8. You pay by machine that takes cards or cash, and asks for your car registration number (or you can pay online up to a week after). Motorbikes are free. The car park is HUGE and everyone will fit in.
What about food, Wombie?
Bring picnic food & drink, for we will PICNIC BABY! And I want to taste your goodies, obv. Alternatively, there’s both a restaurant and a café. Tap water is always available free.
Sorry, I meant books. If I bring your books, will you sign those?
Oh books. Oh … yeah, OK then, bring them along.
Is there anything else?
As usual, dogs and kids are more than welcome – it’d be nice to keep up the tradition of kids climbing on that sculpture that no-one’s supposed to climb on. Otherwise, the agenda is mostly the having of fun! We usually manage that without trying. We don’t have to stick together the whole day, of course, but I hope we can at least get a big team photo of the whole company as on previous occasions.
Here you go. Click it to see a much larger version.
And CLICK HERE to visit the YSP site – there’s more information there than you could possibly need.
“We’re here,” Lovell said. “Remember that the Professor might not be what you expect.”
“An eccentric professor?” I said. “What are the odds?”
“Just let me do the talking.” He pulled a handle by the door and a bell rang somewhere inside the cottage. It had taken me much guile, and not a little expense, to persuade Lovell to effect an introduction to the mysterious Professor Cuthbert. Many of the incredible inventions that we now take for granted as we approach the twentieth century originated in the mind of the reclusive Professor; the fountain pen and the gramophone to name but two miracles of the modern age.
When Lovell had told me at the club that he knew the Professor personally, I was determined to elicit an invitation to visit. Who would not want to encounter such a remarkable mind? To ask a hundred questions, and perhaps be made privy to what was coming next? It had taken me no little time, but finally Lovett had agreed to take me to see the Professor, and after a long railway journey and a bumpy ride in a brougham, we stood before the front door of a small country cottage in rural Suffolk.
In response to a second tug of the bell-pull, the door opened to reveal a woman with a cloud of grey hair held flat by a pair of goggles pushed back over her forehead. She wore a leather apron, a man’s shirt and trousers, and she held a hammer in her left hand. She seemed to me to be very old indeed, perhaps even into her fifties.
“Jamie!” she cried to Lovell, “How lovely to see you!” Her lined face crinkled even more as she smiled broadly.
“Good afternoon, Catherine,” Lovell said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve brought along a friend who has been dying to meet you.”
“Not at all,” the woman said. “You’re just in time for afternoon tea. There are more than enough scones to feed a regiment. Do introduce me to your chum, dear boy.”
“Of course,” Lovell grinned at my shocked expression. “Catherine, I would like to introduce you to my friend, the right honourable Cecil Tilbury Moffat. Cecil, please meet Professor Catherine Cuthbert.”
“But you’re a woman!” I blurted out.
“He’s very observant, isn’t he?” Professor Cuthbert said to Jamie.
“Don’t let that vacant expression put you off, he really is a big admirer of your work. Cecil, where are your manners? Doff your hat.” I lifted my topper absent-mindedly, staring at the woman in front of me.
“Is that so, Mr. Moffat?” the Professor asked. “Which of my inventions caught your interest first?”
“You’re wearing trousers!” I babbled. The Professor and Lovell burst into laughter
“Come,” the Professor commanded. “You have arrived at an opportune moment. I am in sore need of a person of just your height to test my latest invention. And then we shall have scones.” She led us around the house and through a back-garden jungle to a large wooden shed. Projecting horizontally out of the left wall of the shed was what appeared to be a garden fence, clearly very securely attached for it stuck out some six feet above the flower beds. Professor Cuthbert struck a pose as if demonstrating a particular clever trick performed by a music hall prestidigitator.
“Ta da!” she said. I stared at her. “Well?” she asked. “What do you think, Mr. Moffat?”
“It’s … a very nice shed.” I was bewildered. Lovell had warned me of eccentricity, but even so. The Professor sighed and stood normally.
“Put him straight, Jamie,” she said. Lovell grinned. He was enjoying my discomfort far too much.
“This shed,” he said, indicating the shed, “is not a shed. This is Professor Cuthbert’s remarkable vessel to facilitate the exploration of the echoing cosmos above our heads.”
“What?” I said. I realised that perhaps that was not the considered response that might be called for, so I spoke again. “No, what?” I said.
“Young man,” Professor Cuthbert said. “This is an airborne vessel. It uses the invisible power of magnetism to free it of the bonds that bind us to this earth.”
“It’s made of wood.” I suggested, helpfully.
“Yes, well spotted, for a metal vessel would interfere with the magnetic forces needed to lift it beyond our atmosphere. This, my deliciously vacant chap, is a craft that will travel into space itself. A space-ship, if you will.”
“A space-shed?” I ejaculated.
“Ship,” said Lovell. “Space-ship.”
“Now, young man,” the Professor said. “Would you be so kind as to do me a favour? Would you please enter the craft and sit in the pilot’s seat? Jamie is way too tall, and it is imperative that I adjust the outer buoyancy cogs to allow for the weight of a passenger.”
“And then shall we have scones?” I asked.
“And then scones, yes,” she said.
“Very well,” I agreed. “What would you have me do?”
“Go inside, and sit in the seat before the window. Put on the air-helmet that you will find there, and then just sit back and enjoy the pleasant view that you will have of my cherry tree.”
“That’s all. I shall make my adjustments, then call you out for scones once I have finished. Whatever you do, however, do not touch the red lever.”
“I shall certainly venture nowhere near any levers, madam,” I promised. I entered the shed, and wound my way through a clutter of equipment to what was clearly a captain’s chair by the shed window. On the chair sat a large glass bubble, presumably the Professor’s air-helmet. I removed my hat and put the helmet over my head. It was surprisingly comfortable, although it took some time to get the thing the right way round so that I could see. I sat in the captain’s chair and looked out of the window.
The Professor’s cherry tree was nowhere to be seen. The Professor’s garden was nowhere to be seen. The shed now hovered high in the arched heavens. Miles below a vast sweep of sunlit cloud swept across the surface of the planet. Somehow, I was now many leagues above Suffolk. But … how? I lifted my top-hat from the hat-peg. The red hat-peg. Or, as I now realised it must be, the red lever. I had inadvertently launched the space-shed with my hat.
What next? I had no idea, but now that they were out of my reach I truly fancied a scone.
”But Wombie,” I hear you ask, “How on earth did that picture inspire this story? What has a jetty to do with a Victorian inventor?” When you get no inspiration, try a different angle – I just flipped the picture … and there my tale was: a wooden spaceship floating above a cloud-cloaked planet. Tricksy.
Yes, yes, I know you could go check the “Buy my books” page, but to be honest can any of you be arsed to do that? I doubt I’d bother. With that thought in mind, here’s a list of my published books so far (of course there’s much more Wombie out there in Kindle standalones, stories in magazines & the like, but it would take YONKS to list them). If you fancy reading any of these books, find them on Lulu or Amazon. If you already HAVE read any, thank you and I love you and please leave a review somewhere.
WARREN PEACE: Novel. The Magnificent 7 with fur. “Warren Peace got me through the day”.
FOG: Novel. Sexy, funny, violent – Best Mystery, 2016 #Siba Book Awards. “Had me gripped from page one”.
CUBIC SCATS: Essays. A smorgasbord of Northcentric nonsense & recipes. “Where did you put the bread knife?”
MOTH GIRL v THE BATS: Novella. Steampunky sci-fi fun. “There’s a real excitement to this work”.
BLOOD ON THE GROUND: Short stories. A dozen dollops of wicked whimsy. “Good reading even for a scary cat like myself”.
SOUL OF THE UNIVERSE (editor): Stories inspired by music. “This collection will captivate you, pervade your senses and absolutely enchant you”.
CUTTHROATS AND CURSES (editor): An anthology of pirates. “The greatest assortment of pirate stories anywhere”.
MURDER AT WOMBAT TOWERS: Private novel with a limited print run.
HUMAN 76 (editor): Collaborativer. Fourteen authors take you on an unprecedented post-apocalyptic journey. “Thought-provoking, layered: a real gem”.
THE MUSEUM OF WHITE WALLS: Forty-one monkeybonkers tales & three poems. “The only book for you if you want to see this quote on the back cover”.
A short love story for Miranda Kate’s Midweek Flash Challenge.
I first met Midge beneath the Timothy Whites clock about a week ago. In the blackout it is sometimes difficult even to see your own hands, let alone other people’s, and she’d walked right into me. It was the first night of my week’s leave, and I was lonely as hell. When your whole life consists of sitting in a Halifax bomber with six other chaps, interlaced with periods of drinking yourself semi-conscious in the company of those same men, going on leave comes as a bit of a shock to the system. It’s hard to know what to do with the silence, for a start.
I am the bomb aimer; the bod who actually pushes the button to drop the bomb. I must admit I’ve never thought too deeply about what I do. I push a button, the bomb slides silently through the darkness, and an orange flower blooms below to delight the stars that look down. The thought that there might be people down there has never entered my head.
That evening I’d been to the cinema to see ‘The Stars Look Down’; a slow film about injustices in the mining community. Margaret Lockwood is in it, but even her considerable charms had proved insufficient that night to retain my interest, and I’d left half way through. The blackout was in full force, but a hazy half-moon cast enough of a glow to see. Or so I thought. Her fists caught me full in the family jewels, and I’m afraid to say I let out rather a girlish squeak.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you. Is that an RAF uniform? Very good for hiding in the shadows, isn’t it? I usually carry a little torch, but the battery ran out.” I fell in love with her voice before I even saw her face. And her scent; a heady crescendo of sandalwood, amber, clove and bergamot.
“Are you quite alright, Miss..?” I left the question there for her to answer, or not. My heart did a little twist when she did.
“My name’s Midge,” she trilled. “Well, it’s Margaret really, but that’s only ever used by Mother when I’m in her bad books.”
“Flying Officer Hillary Fields,” I bowed, though I doubt she could see.
“Well now, Flying Officer Hillary Fields, perhaps you might assist a lady in distress? I seem to have got myself turned around in the dark. I was trying to find the cinema.”
Squadron Leader Charlton always berates me for my reticence with ladies; for not grasping opportunity when it is presented to me. “War is the biggest uncertainty there is, Hills, my boy,” he’d said that very morning, “and in uncertainty lies endless possibility. Promise me, when you’re in The Smoke you’ll grab the very next opportunity that presents itself.”
With these words in mind, of course I turned on my heels and escorted Midge to the cinema. Of course I paid for us both to go in and watch the film that I’d walked out of an hour previously. And of course I saw her home safely afterwards, and arranged to meet her at a small cafe the following afternoon.
Every day after that we met beneath the Timothy Whites clock. We visited art galleries, museums, and more than one cinema; Midge had a bit of a thing about Michael Redgrave. One sunny day we went boating, and one evening we even went dancing. Me, dancing! This woman had freed a pilgrim soul in me that I did not know existed. Over the course of six days I fell for Midge hook, line and sinker. This very afternoon I bought a ring from a backstreet jeweller in Soho, and had smiled to imagine Midge’s face when I dropped to one knee to present it to her. I heard the bomb go off, funnily enough, a low muffled roar beneath the traffic noise as I left the jeweller’s. Just the one bomb, most likely dropped by a straggler from a raid many miles away.
The Timothy Whites clock was shattered, though half of the face still clung defiantly to the remains of the brickwork. The Timothy Whites building itself had been transformed into rubble. Midge, who had been waiting for me as usual beneath the clock, had been ripped apart as a German pushed a button, letting slip a bomb into the darkness, and an orange flower bloomed below him. War doesn’t even know that we’re here, and it won’t notice when we go. War is uncertain, and the stars look down upon the tatters of my dreams.