Things that make us go poop…

Granny and the ‘ladies’ darts team of The Dog and Trumpet alphabetically collate their collective contempt for the inhabitants of the twenty-first century.

E is for: Educational Snobbery (subtitled Not Everybody Needs an Effing Degree)

What is the ever-****ing matter with society? If a person wants to be a carpenter (or a plumber, or a mechanic, or whatever) that doesn’t make them any less of a human being than someone who has ambitions towards more academic achievement. But we seem to be absolutely hell-bent on shoving the young into the often unwelcoming arms of academia no matter their ambitions or abilities. 

And what benefit does a barely scraped BA in tree hugging confer on its possessor?  Mainly none. Except, perhaps, at least one STD and an enormous load of debt.

Which must lead the less blinkered to ask themselves why it is okay to sneer at anyone whose education hasn’t progressed past A-level standard. The answer to that is it isn’t okay.

To illustrate the point:

There are three ‘ladies’ in the darts team and we grew up in the close proximity of a small town. The first went away to university, returning with a pretty acceptable MSc and a useless twot of a husband. One messy divorce and a second (happy) marriage to a gentleman of the soil persuaded her that academic excellence isn’t the holy grail. The second stayed in the home town, where she became a nurse (this was an apprenticeship in our day, not a degree course). She remained defiantly single, and retired with a comfortable pension after working for nearly fifty years. The third girl, who rebelled against expectations at a very early age, left school with two GCSEs and a swimming badge, although she did amass a lot of very useful skills as she aged (including tax accounting and lock picking). She and her (late and genuinely lamented) spouse ran a series of very successful businesses and retired with sufficient money to buy most of the town should they have so desired.

Three wildly divergent paths then, but we’ve remained fast friends and staunch allies through thick and thin. The broad spectrum of our formal education has proved no barrier to friendship. And as Brenda, who is our de facto leader by virtue of her purple hair, would have it. 

‘An education is f*** all use if you are a lazy sod. But all the hard work in the world won’t get you anywhere if you aren’t prepared to learn.’

But back to Educational Snobbery. Most people you are going to encounter in this life will be militantly disinterested in where you went to school. And, unless they require your professional services, bored to yawning by the collection of letters you can append to your name.

So all you proud public school boys, and people who have their BA as part of their Internet identity, remove your head from your anus and get a life please. Nobody cares. Nobody much notices. And those who do will just think you are either a right-wing weirdo or a bellend.

Honestly? In 2024 knowing a plumber has far more social cachet than being the intimate of some posh twat with messy hair and a lot of illegitimate children…

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

Reynard sat in the sun. It lit his fur and warmed him to his bones. He had almost everything a fox could need. Except a mate. He half closed his eyes and saw her against his eyelids as svelte, and smooth, and subtle as a snake.
When he heard the voice, he thought himself dreaming at first, but the  he realised it was a real happening and he looked to where the sound came from.
She sat about two feet from him basking in the same sunbeam that warmed him.
When the sun went in they walked the night together.

 Jane Jago

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design.

Things that make us go poop…

Granny and the ‘ladies’ darts team of The Dog and Trumpet alphabetically collate their collective contempt for the inhabitants of the twenty-first century.

So this is a bonus one it being that time of year…

E is for: Effing Fireworks!

What is the effing point of effing fireworks?
At any time.
They might look pretty for all of about ten seconds, but they leave disgusting litter all over the place when they come down that is positively toxic and someone always gets hurt.
At least the Americans, when they do it, is all about celebration – not remembering some poor bastard who got hung, drawn and quartered for failing to do something we’ve all fantasised about. And our colonial cousins have the sense to choose a nice warm time of year when you can sit out and watch the ruddy things without freezing your bollocks off.
But Brits on Bonfire Night?
Has no one noticed it’s November and freezing cold?
You stand shivering in your wellies in someone’s muddy effing garden and a drunk man in shorts sets fire to some stuff.
In November. In the cold.
Drinking iced strong lager and usually served some burnt offerings from the BBQ or break-teeth chestnuts thrown on the fire. And then you wind up with a jacket potato that’s raw in the middle, ditto a sausage…
Meanwhile your nextdoor neighbour’s cat has scratched someone in panic and your great-nephew little Oliver has singed his sister’s hair with a sparkler.
And then it always rains just as the fireworks begin.
We swore off the whole thing years ago and now me and Gyp turn the TV up and settle in on the sofa with a decent boxed set.
The sheer waste of money and effort beggars belief – not to mention you have frightened pets and toddlers all across the country whose idea of fun is not loud bangs and flashes.
And it’s not even as though it all gets over and done on the one sodding day!
Remember, remember the fifth of November…
Not the fourth, the third, the seventh or the ninth!
If you must set fire to your money please at least confine your efforts to one day so the rest of us don’t have to endure a whole bloody week of it.
Get a grip or granny and the girls will shove a riprap up your arse.

Jacintha Farquhar, maternal parent of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV offers important life lessons to those who like to think they’ve got what it takes to write a damn book…

Jacintha Farquhar here again. Slightly the worse for life but still able to muster a thought or two. 

Rather bewildered by two sad females thinking their readership might benefit from my rather robust advice – particularly considering the sad steaming ordure my only offspring thinks of as his magnum opus. (There are times when he is very like the sad excuse for a human being who fathered him on one distinctly unmemorable ouzo-fuelled night. Unfortunately.) But if people have faith in you, you are kind of obligated to do your best. 

Today’s lesson concerns the thing most badly written about of all. If you discount lerv (which one may dabble in at a later date).

Lovemaking

The awful remembrance of just how large was my hangover on the morning after Moons was conceived, and the equally awful recollection, after much rummaging about in the grey matter, of how small and uninteresting was his father’s penis dragged my consciousness round to the elephant that sits in the corner of most rooms. 

Sex.

Okay. 

Let’s deal with the givens first. A sexually mature couple – whatever their gender or orientation is liable to dabble. Accept it and decide how you are going to deal.

You have options.

1. The drawn curtain
2. A peep between the sheets
3. Erotica 
4. Porn

Before you decide which avenue to investigate there are a couple of ground rules you will ignore at your peril. 

First. Before you set finger to keyboard, have a proper think about the age and experience of your protagonists. A pair of virgins is unlikely to leap straight into wildly imaginative sexcapades. The likelihood is that you will, if you choose not to gloss over the whole thing, be describing awkward fumbling, embarrassment and a very short-lived experience. Conversely, a forty-year old libertine is unlikely to be unmanned by a pair of blue eyes.

Second. Do. Your. Research. If you have any specific practices in mind, read them up, and establish both the physical possibility and the likelihood of such an act occurring between your chosen couple. 

Third. Avoid bandwagons. However many shades of whatever colour has been done already. Leave it alone….

And finally – do at least try sex before you attempt to write about it. Ideally you should try what you intend to write about, but I’m guessing that is unlikely amongst the assorted virgins, snowflakes, and prudes who are likely to be reading this. Porn sites are your friend.

Returning to our quartet of options…

It is my contention that in most cases only A and B are practicable alternatives. Most of your readers will be perfectly well aware that Tab A fits into Slot B so description of the mechanics is at best superfluous, and at worst cringeworthy. Be warned.

Let’s look at some examples…

Example A wherein it is pretty obvious what is going to occur but we the bedroom door is closed before anything actually happens.

He laughed and scooped me into a very satisfactory embrace.
“Who’s a clever girl then?”
“Me. And would there be a reward in it?”
His grin turned naughty, and we forgot all about our hosts and their problems.

Example B which is a little more descriptive

I dropped my bottom onto his lap and I knew what his problem was. He had a most impressive erection. I wriggled my backside, feeling the responsive jerk. He grabbed me by the shoulders.
“You better stop doing that unless you mean it.” he said very quietly.
I smiled into his eyes and wriggled some more.

As to C and D. Well they are more chacun a son gout. And to be bleakly honest if you need my advice you have neither the experience nor the balls to write them.

Now push off and get some experience of something that isn’t missionary position with the lights off….

Jacintha Farquar, put-upon mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.

You can find more of my son’s ramblings in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago, but I wouldn’t bloody bother if I were you!

Cold rain falls and hard winds blow
No, no, November, no, no.
Heavy clouds that threaten snow
No, no, November, no, no.

Plants and trees no longer grow
No, no, November, no, no.
All the fields lie fallow
No, no, November, no, no.

Cold sets faces all aglow
No, no, November, no, no.
Chills each finger and each toe
No, no, November, no, no.

Autumn soon we will see go
No, no, November, no, no.
Winter waits her face to show
No, no, November, no, no.

Cold rain falls, there’s talk of snow
No, no, November, no, no.
But should our spirits be low?
No, no, November, no, no.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in an alternative modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules.

A tall praetorian came into the room and stood kicking his feet like a schoolboy. Decimus sat abruptly upright.
“All right man, what don’t you want to say?”
The hard-bitten guard looked into his commander’s eyes.
“We obtained entry to the Rufus apartment and there we discovered two females. Identified as Lydia Augusta Severius and Octavia Tullia Scaevia. Both females were deceased. Preliminary examination suggests poison. I’m sorry sir.”
Decimus stood up and clapped the man on his hard, muscular shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said simply and the soldier left, walking quietly.
“Oh. My dear friend,” Julia felt incapable and suddenly very small and useless.
Fortunately Boudicca was well able for the situation. She went and put her plump, motherly arms around Decimus and he laid his head on her shoulder. Julia walked over to them and patted them both.
“We’ll just leave you then…”
“No lass,” Decimus’ voice was thick with tears, but he spoke with authority. “You two should at least hang about until we find out if my lads caught up with Marcella. Though I doubt it.”
“I do too,” Julia said moodily. “I think the futatrix will be long gone.”
Dai looked on, and his face clearly expressed complete puzzlement.
“Tell him, lass. I can’t speak about it right now and he needs to know.”
“When Decimus was offered the job as Tribune in charge of the Praetorian Cohort of Britannia, which was a huge promotion, there were strings. Or rather there was one string. The Praetor had a problem daughter who he wanted married and off his hands. Decimus was single, and with the reputation of being a tough man to cross. The Praetor thought him the perfect man to take his daughter off his hands. Decimus wasn’t given the option of refusal. He married the girl. And she never forgave him. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Yes, but…,” Dai was groping for words.
“But why am I shedding tears for her?” Decimus provided, stepping away from Boudicca and gently gripping her arm in gratitude.
“Sorry, dominus. But yes…”
Because the poor silly futatrix got as little out of the marriage as me. Maybe even less. She wanted some little wastrel, who was the only son of a senator. But his father didn’t agree. Even when it was proved the girl was spoilt goods. Spoilt by his spoilt son. And that’s why I was weeping. I was weeping at the waste of it all – and because no one should die unmourned. Even simple piety demands tears be shed for her.”
“Oh. I see…”
Julia gave him a little punch on the biceps.
“You probably don’t, and neither do I. But that’s the way they do it in the first families. Lydia was supposed to be grateful to Decimus for marrying her and he was supposed to be grateful for a patrician bride. Sadly, neither felt gratitude. He felt pity. She felt loathing.”
She watched Dai’s face carefully as she spoke, willing him to at least try and understand. Try to see that Romans could be as trapped in their lives as he was in his. When she wound down, he gave her shoulders a little squeeze as if to reassure her, before speaking directly to Decimus.
“I’m sorry dominus. Sorry for what you are going through and sorry for my own crassness. I think I just always assumed that being a Roman Citizen meant you had at least half of the world at your feet. I never thought that might carry its own set of problems.”
Decimus looked at the tall Celt and dredged up a wry grin.
“Just keep it in mind when you are dealing with Julia will you? She’s had it a lot harder than me.”
“Shut up, Decimus,” Julia said, feeling the heat in her face.
“Why should I? Am I not speaking truth?”
“You are. But…” her voice was tense, willing him to leave it alone. This was not the time.
Boudicca gave Decimus a little shake.  “Not yours to tell.”
He subsided, still grumbling under his breath, while Julia tried to deal with the twin demons of memory and loneliness.

Part XVIII will be here next week. If you can’t wait to find what happens next you can snag the full novella here.

Things that make us go poop…

Granny and the ‘ladies’ darts team of The Dog and Trumpet alphabetically collate their collective contempt for the inhabitants of the twenty-first century.

D is for: Dogs as Fashion Accessories

The incandescent rage this provokes can only be contained with copious amounts of Guinness and Tia Maria, loud swearing, and much kicking of rubbish bins. But confront it we must.
Each of us has a dog who is dear to our heart. They are: one Jack Russell terrier notable mostly for the frequence and aroma of his farts; one teacup poodle (rescued from a person not fit to ever own a dog) who will fight any other quadruped (up to and including a cow who was once unwise enough to wander into his garden), and a farm collie with mismatched eyes and a sweet, gentle temperament. The only thing these animals have in common is utter disdain for any dog who is treated as if they are an accessory.
Not, you must understand, in the criminal sense of the word as at leat two of our pets would be only too happy to take a leading role in any nefarious goings on. No. We’re talking about crimes against canine companions. Crimes such as dying dogs pink, carrying them in handbags, and dressing them in inappropriate versions of bad-taste human clothing.
Scrapper the teacup poodle is sort of white. ‘Sort of’ being a way of making allowance for the fact the earth he loves digging in is reddish brown so he is never pristine, no matter how often he is stood in the scullery sink for a wash. Even with this utter disregard for his mistress’ preferences, and her soft furnishings, it would be a crime to dye the poor little sod to match her predominantly purple wardrobe.
Gyp, the aforementioned windy terrier, would never forgive anyone who was to put him in a handbag and carry him like a trophy. In fact, the stubborn little sod won’t even get a lift in the basket of his ‘owner’s’ bicycle no matter how tired his stumpy little legs may be. The moral? Let your dog have his pride and don’t pretend he’s a plastic doll.
And finally. Clothing.
Macintosh coats are acceptable, as are warm winter fleeces. Bow ties and bandanas are sort of okay if the dog doesn’t mind. What is not acceptable is a much longer list: tutus, pyjamas, strange onesies to make your dog look like a unicorn/dragon/lion/why, hats, party dresses, tuxedos…
One could go on for a very long time. However. The exigencies of a 26-letter dissertation, and the collective blood pressure suggests we draw this letter to a close.
Thus. In conclusion it is necessary to understand that a dog is a friend, a protector and a partner in crime. Let them have their dignity or we’ll send Gyp to fart on you.

It was Halloween, and the toys had built a bonfire next to Eeyore’s tent. They had ginger beer and marshmallows to share, and they took it in turns to tell spooky stories and scare each other spitless.
They were having so much fun that the only person who went home to bed was Kanga, because she thought that if baby Roo ate any more he was going to be sick in her marsupium.
It was past eight o’clock before everyone conked out, and Piglet was lulled into sleep by the comforting sounds of Eeyore’s snores and Pooh’s tummy rumbling like a passing goods train.
Who knew how much longer it was when he awoke. The fire had died down to a pile of reddish embers and there was a breeze whispering in the tops of the aspen trees.
“Piglet, Piglet,” it called, “come and play.”
Piglet knuckled his eyes, and when he looked up there was a big, pink lady pig sitting on a log regarding him soulfully.
“Aren’t you coming to play? I’m so lonely.”
A tear lingered on her pale, bristly eyelashes and Piglet felt pity so he stood up and dusted down his onesie.
“Where shall we play?” He asked politely.
The lady pig beamed. “We shall play everywhere.”
Before Piglet had a chance to think that one through, she grasped his trotter in hers and he felt himself rising into the sky.
Not being the bravest and most stoical of toys, Piglet screamed loud and shrill but his friends around the dying fire slept on undisturbed.
“They can’t hear you. This is your adventure.”
Piglet looked down on his sleeping friends and wondered if he would ever see them again. But he was of a sanguine nature and this was, as the lady pig said, quite an adventure. He ventured a look at his companion thinking her a fine figure of a sow and wondering if that would be an appropriate thing to say.
She must have caught his glance because she frowned.
“Is there something wrong with my face, small pig?”
Piglet essayed his most charming smile. “No demoiselle. Piglet was just thinking how be-you-ti-full you is.”
The she-pig blushed and simpered. “That is very kind of you small pig. What is your name?”
“I is Piglet.”
“Yes, I know you are a piglet, but what is your name?”
“I doesn’t has a name. I is just Piglet.”
The she-pig shrugged her shoulders and Piglet was shaken to the roots of his teeth.
“Ouch!”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
But it came to Piglet that she didn’t sound a bit sorry. He was about to say so, but something warned him and his mind’s eye saw Tigger with a paw to his lips.
“Where is your mummy, little pig?”
“Piglet doesn’t know.”
“Your daddy?”
“Piglet doesn’t know.”
“There appears to be a lot you don’t know, small and ignorant pig.”
Piglet rather resented being called ignorant, but didn’t see what he could profitably say so he kept his mouth shut.
She-pig gave him a sideways glance. “Nearly there,” she said and her voice was as cold as the sky they were flying through.
“Where is there?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Piglet felt her trotter tighten about his own small foot and he understood that she wasn’t going to let him go.
They were quickly losing altitude and before Piglet had time to formulate a thought about where they might be they landed in a clearing beside a cottage that seemed to be constructed of cake. The door flew open and a bent old woman leapt out.
“What have you brought me?”
“Bacon mother.”
The she-pig let go of Piglet and he started to run, only to be stopped by a bony hand. He turned his head and sunk his sharp little teeth into the thumb that was pressing into his arm.
The old woman screamed, and dropped his arm. Her scream of pain was just as piercing as Piglet’s scream of fear and he ran as fast as he could. He thought he had made good his escape, but the old beldame muttered a word of power and his feet could no longer move.
The moon came out from behind a cloud and his captor saw what she had got. She turned on the she-pig in fury.
“This isn’t bacon,” she accused, “this is wool and felt and stuffing and boot button eyes.”
She leapt towards the she-pig with her hands hooked like claws and they fell to the forest floor biting and scratching and squealing.
A soft voice behind Piglet bade him come away, and he felt himself being drawn gently back to the campfire where his chums snored.
He dropped back into his body and for a second he thought he felt loving arms surrounding him. A prickly snout brushed his forehead.
“Bacon? Not my piglet.”
Then the presence was gone and he tumbled into a dreamless sleep.

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

Here I set my heart within your hands
Here I swore my soul unto your lands
Here I took my first breath as a fae
Here I lived until your dying day
Here I bore the child you’ll never see
Here I lit the flame to set you free
Here I kneel and weep my final tear
Here I lay a rose for you…
Here…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this piece on ART with IAN