Saddle up your ears Yummies and Daddies. Granny has wisdom to impart.

And before you pull your mouth into the shape of a cat’s arsehole you might just take a moment to think about which of us has grandsons who come and take her to the pub most Saturday nights.

So then, given that somewhere in the back of that cesspool of middle-class inspirational quotes that you laughingly call a brain you want to raise reasonable human beings who actually like you, shut up and listen.

Number one. The name. Do. Not. Saddle. The. Poor. Little. Git. With. A. Stupid. Name. Nobody deserves to be called Avocado, Pinot Grigio, Venice, Perpendicular, or any other meaningless collection of syllables you think may be ‘different’. Kids don’t want to be different. It’s bad enough that you bring them to school on a tandem without labelling them as wankers as well. Give the poor little sod a sensible name and stop being precious.

Number two. Social media. Stop posting pictures of your kids. It’s unkind. It’s boring. And those pictures will follow them throughout their lives. What may be cute when you are three is just fucking embarrassing when you’re forty.

Number three. The birthday party. Do not make strange brown poo-textured food.  Do not think it would be cute to lead an expedition into the woods to find the Bear (a poorly disguised Daddy). And do not put rice cakes and miso in the party bags. Take them to MaccyD’s (other fast food outlets are available) and buy party bags from your local cheapo shop. 

And if your little treasure is invited to a party Do Not, send him or her with a list of the things they are not allowed to eat. Accept that they will chow down on something foully synthetic. It isn’t every day so get over it.

Number four. Friends. You cannot choose your children’s mates for them. They don’t want to be friends with four vegetarians and a refugee. The want to be best mates with the big bully so he don’t bully them, and they really, really like the kid with nits who swears like a stormtrooper. Get used to it.

And finally. If their little friend comes to tea (or supper if you are a poncey bitch), do sausages and chips with tomato ketchup. No. Not quinoa and tofu salad with brown pitta (aka warm cardboard). Sausages (can be veggie at a pinch), and chips. Bury your prejudices for the sake of your kid not getting the crap kicked out of them tomorrow at school… 

There you have it. Attempt not to embarrass your brats any more than you can help. After all you’ll be old and incontinent one day and you really don’t want your ass wiped with a pan scourer.

Ella was angry. More angry than she had ever been in her life. How dare they? How dare her mother and her ugly-minded friends come here bearing rumour and spite? 

She pummelled the bread dough with her small work-roughened hands and slowly regained her composure.

By the time the black door opened, the house was full of good smells and Ella was just lifting a pastry lid onto a deep dish of apples and cinnamon.

Tom came and nuzzled the back of her neck. He looked at the evidence of an afternoon’s baking.

“Your mam been here again?”

©️jj 2020

I cooked a full English and as we sat wiping our plates with thick brown toast he raised an eyebrow.
“Can I ask you a geek question?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“What do you know about artificial intelligence?”
“Depends what you mean by artificial intelligence. On one level I’m the best there is. On other levels I neither know nor want to. So, if you are counting computers and games consoles as AI then I don’t suppose there is too much I don’t know. But if we are into the realms of androids and the like I know nothing, and that’s too much.”
“Why? What’s the difference?”
“A lot. But mostly it’s that computers need operators. Droids don’t. I mistrust AI with any kind of autonomy.”
He frowned at me. “Yeah, but they wouldn’t have free will. Surely they would only be able to do what they were programmed to do?”
“Maybe. But I know a lot of smegging flaky programmers… Look Aidan there’s no guarantees with any form of AI. So why give it arms and legs and stuff? I had a robotic foot once, and every so often the bar-steward would go feral on me. Made me think.”
“Surely there’s the first law of robotics.”
“Isn’t. That’s sci fi. We live in the real world not Isaac Asimov’s world. Plus. What has been programmed can be reprogrammed. Give me ten minutes with an android’s chip and I’m pretty sure I could have it do whatever I pleased, and it ain’t even my field. Bad shit!”
He grinned. “So my dream of a sexy android nurse who never needs a day off, and never has a period, is just a dream then?”
Good recovery boy, I thought, as I pasted a snarl on my face. “Only you could be such a bumhole.”
“Me and just about every other doctor under the age of ninety.”
I laughed and waved a hand at him “Finish your food and go away. I have work.”
“What sort of work?”
“Somebody in Nagasaki wants to build a supertanker, unfortunately there’s a big fat hole in their proposal, and a big fat bonus if I can drive a bus through that hole. I’m about halfway there.”
He grinned again. “It ain’t the bonus, though, is it?”
“Course it ain’t. It’s the challenge. The money is just a way to keep score.”

From Jackdaw Court by Jane Jago.

The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into limerick form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…

Shopping, we know, is a bore
Buying clothing a right bloody chore
Because when you’re my age
Any colour but beige
Makes you look like a sorry old whore 

©️jj

…. or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

aoid (noun) – egg-shaped monocellular organism that smells faintly of vomit

atke (noun) – bright orange sandwich filling that smells suspiciously like yesterday’s dinner mushed with a fork

babry cream (noun) – ointment for under tit soreness

chouce (adjective) – of chocolate brownies the squidgiest most delicious bit

Freake Dout (proper noun) small Appalachian village famous for sourdough whiskey and revolting cheese

frysrtarting (verb) – heating up  the chip pan in preparation for frying pop tarts

hubting (noun) – the sound of a very expensive alloy wheel graunching against the pavement

hysical (adjective) – of teenage girls  in particular being in the state where hysteria is going to have them lash out any second

migth (noun) – small buzzing insect with a powerful sting. Lives on fish cakes and Irn Bru

papberback (noun) – male gorilla with identity issues

pepict (adjective) – having the colouration and texture of the cheeks of a person about to projectile vomit

remmeberd (noun) – spectacularly unkempt facial hair

serices (noun) – speciality rice dishes from south-east Asia

shepherherds pir (noun) – a small light that can only be brought on by chasing shepherds past it

thinng (noun) – the sound a flexible knife blade makes when flicked against a glass chopping board

trilogoes (noun) – a company or brand utilising three logos

withing (verb) – being wriggling and wormlike and prone to self-adhesion

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

Jenry chuckled a fat chuckle that went with his snowy beard and generous belly.

“Sup big man?”

“Them lot is looking for aliens. Again.”

“But they don’t see us?”

“They ain’t yet and we been here since before they crawled out of the fragging water.”

Jenry’s wife put aside her knitting. “Do we want them to notice us?”

“Well… I guess…”

“It’d be a lot of work, calling home planet and all that stuff, and I haven’t nearly finished this jumper.”

“You’re right missis. Better to be thought of as garden gnomes than to communicate with the horrid pink things.”

©️jj 2020

The downside was that living on Invercallus was like living in a furnace.
Jaz hated that you couldn’t go out in the daytime without wearing full on protective gear to shield from the heat and solar radiation. But at night it was very different. The air was cool and clear and the red rocky landscape looked beautiful. Even so the only habitable zone was at one of the poles – it was the only place water didn’t all evaporate away and the only place some stubby plants had managed to put the odd splash of colour on the dull ochre-grey background.
Jaz had never figured why they didn’t go full dome for the settlements here. Instead people shifted their way of life and spent the days sleeping and the nights transacting whatever of business or labour they needed to do. Maybe that was because many here came from Thuringen and were well used to days that were nights.
There were plenty of domes. But not connected in any proper way. The entire settlement was pretty much a huge spaceport and nothing else. Except unlike most spaceports, each bay had its own attached residential mini-dome. Maybe some of the privately owner-occupied ones had lavish fixtures and fittings, but as the Tarams didn’t even really live in theirs it was pretty basic. Jaz could compare it with the kind of comfort level he’d endured in barracks during his time with the Specials – except the food here was a lot better.
Much of the time, Jaz had the place to himself. Thuringen was a short hopper ride away and, like most else of the people who called Invercallus home, the Tarams preferred to be there, or anywhere else, as much as they could. He wasn’t surprised. Going over what they had was depressing enough. The bulk of their finances were tied up to pay for the bay. The ship, such as it was, belonged to them. And that had been the first big row – Day One of the new plan.
“Sell it. We need something newer, faster. Something that you don’t need to worry if it’s going to break up from gravity stress each time you hit into FTL.”
He had been sitting with Marche going over the team’s resources. Big lists on remote screens all over the walls. She shot up, her face snarling like he’d said something to insult her.
“It’s my ship. It’s all I got. If I sell we’d have to lease a ship and that’d eat more than we can raise from the work we got offering.”
Jaz ignored her snarling tone.
“The work you had offering. You might recall we agreed you’re not taking that kind of thing anymore.”
Marche had her fists tight and for a moment Jaz was calculating where he’d need to go to put her on the ground without hurting her too bad or damaging anything. But she didn’t attack. Just stood there glaring.
“So, we spend out on a lease ship and pay for it with what?” She gestured to the bleak land beyond the dome. “Sand? ‘Cos that’s all we’d be left with. We’d not even be able to pay the rent on this place.”
“You would. Even at breakers’ prices your flying scrapheap’s going to be worth enough to keep this place and pay the lease on a decent ship for half a year – and get you some specialist gear. But, I’m thinking you’ll likely find some scrimping freetrader willing to pay over that base. Besides, you got no choice. That deathtrap is getting to the point it’s going to cost you more to run it for a year than it’s worth. It’s holding you back, like a fucking great stone.”
Marche looked like she’d run into a wall. “Specialist gear? You mean more than standard stuff?”
Jaz nodded, trying to put as much conviction as he could into his words. “That’s what you need. Something you can offer others can’t. Something you can make a name for. The big mistake most teams make starting up is doing what you’ve been doing – taking whatever’s on offer and not thinking strategically.”
She was gawping at him now, like she wasn’t sure if he was looped or genius.
“And if we don’t make enough money in them six cycles?”
Jaz shrugged.
“Then you know you’re not good enough to cut it, and you go find a decent team that’s already established and sign up with them instead.”
“But if we still had the ship -”
“You could turn freetrader instead. ‘Cos by that time, with the big advantage you got in having me along on this, if you can’t make it as a team you’ll never make it.”
He could see she was unhappy. Chewing it over like the remains from a day old synth-meal.
“And if I say no?”
Jaz shook his head.
“If you say no, I’ll still give you some basic training. But won’t bring you much. Maybe get you the chance to tag on some mediocre commander’s reserve list in the long run. That’s the closest you’ll get to what you want to be.”
She’d still baulked.
“I need to think. Ask the others. It’s not just my future.”
“Take the time you need. Just not too much of it.”
She hadn’t needed much. He’d still been going over the lists, checking prices, juggling figures and looking into what kind of work was most in demand – or at least most in demand and not going to get them all stint in the Specials if they got caught doing it.
Marche came back with the others close behind, looking like school kids being up for misbehaviour in front of the class. Jaz wiped off the screens and stared at them expectantly. Shit. Just standing there, freshfaced, they made him feel ancient.
“Well?”
“We’re in. We’ll sell the ship.”
Result.

From Not To Be, the penultimate book in both the Iconoclast trilogy and the Fortune’s Fools series, by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into limerick form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…

When attending a social event
Here’s an idea to keep you content
Drink as much as you can
Then select a young man
And stalk him with evil intent

©️jj

The Rabid Readers Review A Twist in Time by Brent A. Harris 

What happens when a pickpocket steals a watch that proves to be more than just a watch? Or. Equally. How would Oliver Twist fare in a steampunk world? Or. What if the Artful Dodger was a girl?

These are just some of the sort of questions I think Brent A.Harris was asking himself when he begun A Twist in Time. He weaves a clever mashup of Dickensian London’s grimness with the bright inconsequence that is steampunk – and it works.

For me, the drawing of the characters was the outstanding feature of this novel. That and the light handed world building.

I was less fond of the time slips at the beginning of the book. They jarred me out of my comfort zone, but not really in a good way. However, I persevered and I was glad I did.

This book grows on you.

There’s a good storyline acted out by characters one comes to care about and a nifty twisty end. Brent has a nice grasp of language and his writing style is clean and clever. I’d happily give this book four stars and recommend it as an entertaining read.

Jane Jago

Dickens Goes Steampunk – With Time Travel Too!

When Oliver Twist is caught having stolen a watch from its owner, he expects to pay the ultimate price for theft. But Mr Brownlow has other ideas and the street urchin Oliver finds himself swept up into a new life which includes adventure, romance and time-travel.

What I enjoyed.
The atmosphere. The author really summons up a steampunk feel – the mix of the squalor of nineteenth-century London and the extraordinary magical technology.
The writing style. Often drawn into poetic prose, the book is a delight to read for the way it uses language.
The characters. These are all well crafted and are what make the story come alive. They are all engaging, believable and very well drawn. Knowing a bit about their Dickensian precursors adds to the delight.
The end. A wonderful extra twist in time, which is very much worthwhile.

What I Struggled With.
The beginning. This is a book that starts three times. The first chapter begins with what seems to be a ‘story present’ prologue – but isn’t really. Then we meet Oliver as a child and that finishes when we are told he has a time travel event – but not what that event is or what happens. Then the story suddenly starts again with Oliver as an adult. It is very disjointed and makes the book hard to get into.

Overall
Once past the choppy opening, this is a wonderful tale for teens and older who love steampunk, time travel and thundering good adventure stories.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Barry had always wanted to be a gangster. In his mind he was Tony Soprano, or maybe Vito Corleone. He wanted to wear a fedora and spats, and carry a concealed handgun.

He burned to be outlawed, to be feared, to father a dynasty of shifty-eyed sons who carried razor blades in the peaks of their ball caps.

And he had most of the requirements for the job. He was mean, shifty, dishonest and naturally violent. He would, to coin a phrase, be willing to sell his mother for a pittance.

But then there was his face.

Sorry Barry.

©️jj 2020