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.

One of the inescapable facts of being a twenty-first-century pensioner is that you have to deal with technology.
Oh yes you do.
Don’t try to tell me you live techno free. 
You need a bank. You need a phone. You watch television. And I bet you even FaceTime your grandkids.
Unless you live in a mud hut somewhere, with twenty cats and an effective system of barter, you are rubbing shoulders with technology every day.
And if you weren’t doing techno you wouldn’t be reading this erudite treatise.
*stops to light a ciggy and take a strengthening glug of Jim Beam*
So. Technology. I bloody hate it but I have to deal the same as you do. 
What’s to hate?
Numero uno. Too many choices. Mac or PC? Apple or Android? Laptop or tablet? Trackpad or mouse? The list is right about frigging endless.

So what you need is some life hacks that me and the girls put together to guide everyone over the age of internet competence:

Life hack number one: everybody has a grandchild, nephew/niece, child of a friend who is a geek. Have this young person brought before you. Give them a budget (twenty per cent less than you want to spend because the little shit will overspend) and tell them to go to it. And when (s)he has spent your hard-earned (s)he gets to set up the system and teach you how to use it.
At least that is what I did, got my nine-year-old great grandson and his dad along to sort me out…
Had to call young wossname (poor little sod has some schoopid middle-class name like asparagus or something, so him and me agreed on wossname)  back a few times until I got the hang of it but we are mostly okay now.
What did he get me? Laptop and dimphone. And a sinister looking thing with a blue light in it that sneers at me from behind the telly.

Life hack number two: if you don’t already have one and are doing Wordle on it daily, do not be sweet talked into buying a smartphone. They are fucking expensive and you WILL break it. And the monthly contracts are eye-watering. A dimphone is maybe twenty quid from a leading supermarket and it’s pay as you go. Stick in a fiver now and again, and you won’t be too bothered when you get wazzed and drop it down the john.

Life hack number three: passwords. Do not use the same one for everything. That’s dumb. Do not use your name and date of birth. Only twats do that. Finally. Do not assume you will remember them. You won’t. Keep a hidden list. 

Life hack number four: Do not allow yourself to be talked into one of these streaming services. Unless you really do watch a LOT of television/movies/musicals. In which case discuss it with your geeky niece or nephew not the pimply excuse for a human bean behind the counter at computersrshite 

Life hack number five: whenever your broadband contract comes up for renewal refuse to pay whatever they are asking. If you can’t get it below last year’s price you haven’t whined enough.

Life hack number six: have unlimited broadband. You might think you can never use forty-three helicopters (or whatever the things are called), but you will and then the grabby bastards will want your firstborn child and a Lamborghini to pay for the two days you ran over.

Life hack number six-point-one: do not buy an ‘upgrade’ it will make your laptop explode and your geek will sigh at you…

Right. That’s all for now. I’m going down the Dog and Trumpet with the rest of the dart’s team to see the male stripper.

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

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

Jane Jago

Two people are watching a flickering black and white television in a room lit only by the flames of a roaring log fire. They are sitting on a comfortable settee with the remains of a fish and chip supper on the low table in front of them. The woman feeds the remnants of her fish to a collie dog with one blue eye and one brown eye before rolling up the newspaper parcels and throwing them into the back of the fire.

“There,” she says comfortably, “dishes done”.
Her companion laughs, then leans over to plant a kiss on her smiling mouth.
“I never knew how much fun life could be.”
She pats his face, but says nothing. The dog, however, appears to endorse his sentiments as it stands up and wags its plumy tail.
“You want out?” he asks and the tail wags harder.

Outside it is bitterly cold, and the moonlight picks out trees whose branches are laden with ice. The man waits on the wide porch as the dog quickly does whatever is necessary before dashing back to where there is a promise of warmth. He bends to stroke the silky head and they slip back indoors together. His companion has moved to the kitchen end of the big homely room and is heating something on top of the wood-burning stove.
“Hot chocolate.”
The man grins, and runs a hand down her ample buttocks in appreciation.
“If you are going to get touchy-feely.”
She removes the pan from the heat and turns into his embrace.

A goodish while later they are back in the comfortable embrace of the settee and the television is back on. They are idly watching the news, and contemplating bed, when a story catches their collective eye.
“Major General, Sir Sidney Wotheringham has now been missing for seven days, and concerns for his welfare are growing. Sir Sidney, who is believed to be suffering from a brain complaint similar to Alzheimer’s Disease, left the hospital where he has lived for the past five months on the morning of Monday last. Staff assumed he was going for his usual bicycle ride.” The newsreader lowers her voice and screws up her face to much the shape and texture of a prune. “He has not been seen since. His bicycle was found near junction twenty-five of the motorway. But Sir Sidney has vanished without a trace.” There is much more in this vein, as the missing man’s son speaks on camera about the family’s worry and their hope that his father is alive and well somewhere. The son looks into the eye of the camera with all the practised bonhomie of the career diplomat although he is as smooth and cold as marble, from his neatly clipped moustache to his gold cufflinks and his old school tie. He speaks of care and concern for his missing father but it looks to the two people watching the flickering screen as if he is only going through the motions for the look of things. The piece ends with a picture of an upright soldierly gentleman riding an equally upright bicycle.

The man on the settee snorts then grins and his companion takes his hand in both of hers.
“It’s an awful shame to think of that poor old soldier out there in the coldest winter we have had for a decade,” he says softly.
“Never mind, love, perhaps somebody has taken him in.”
The man kisses her hand and goes to stand in front of a mirror which hangs on the wall beside the fireplace. He studies his bearded reflection and thinks how different he already looks from the sad soldier on his bicycle…

© jane jago

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

If Tim hadn’t overslept that Monday morning, having been up all night with an emergency plumber in his flooded kitchen, he’d not have been late meeting those important new company clients. And if he’d not tripped over carrying their coffees, he might not have ruined his boss’s new Armani suit and he might have kept his job.
And he might have afforded the repayments on his car, so not have needed to be on his pushbike to go to a job interview and got a puncture right outside a diner and got talking with the owner – Lily, his future wife.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Ponies and Progeny or the graceless art of equine management as envisaged by the pen of Jane Jago and inspired by the genius of Norman Thelwell (1923-2004)

Today we consider why certain vital checks are needed…

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

Today we are old
And we’re drifting together
Away from the winds
To find milder weather
There’s no need for words
On this one bright day
We’ll just be ourselves
And drift softly away

jj 2024

Sometimes we walk the edges of reality…

Annis got up and went to the small drawer where she kept her few personal possessions. She took out an obviously old newspaper and handed it to Jess.
“You read.”
Jess took the paper in careful hands and read the story of that catastrophic night. She handed it back to Annis, who gave her another yellowed sheet. This was dated some six months later and concerned a memorial service for the dead. The report contained three photographs: the funfair at the height of its popularity; the burnt out wreck; and the cleared site after the wreckage had been demolished.
“So the fairground isn’t really here. But what about the thugs at the gate?”
“Were here before bulldozers came.”
“Okay. So I’m sitting in a cabin that doesn’t exist, in a fairground that doesn’t exist, being pursued by a vampire that I don’t believe in. Am I talking to a girl child that doesn’t exist?“
She watched Annis closely as she asked the question and saw something that could have been sadness briefly touch her face, then fade back into uncertainty. The girl gave a small shrug.
“I don’t know.”
“Fair enough.”
Jess reached over and squeezed Annis’ hand.
“Friends?”
“I never have a friend.”
“Well you do now.”
“May change your mind before this is over. The thing I think you must do is hard. Needs brave.”
“Then you probably have the wrong woman.Maybe I used to be brave. But now – well, now I’m just broken.”
Annis snorted. “Stop silliness. If you had no brave you would be curled in corner crying. Or under vampire’s will.”
Jess shrugged and Annis went so far as to give her a sharp little shake.
“Stop stupidness. You don’t have to even try. But if you can’t you are stuck here. With blonde bloodsucker for company. And you see, he not so pretty when he here.”
Jessica managed to smile at that.
“No he’s not. But you are here, aren’t you?”
“Me and cats. But I not make good company.”
There was a longish silence while the sounds from the fairground outside grew more and more hectic and less and less controlled. In the end Jessica lifted a shoulder resignedly.
“So what must I do?”
Annis stared into her face for a long moment, trying to weigh the chances that telling the truth would send her guest screaming into the night. But she couldn’t bring herself to lie. Not here. Not now. And not to the woman who had called her friend. She squared her slight shoulders and spoke with care.
“Underground there is a place. Belong to the oldest of the Old Ones. There is black basalt throne, and beside throne is Stone of Remembrance. Stone is green jade, striped red with the blood of sacrifice. If you would be free you must sit on the basalt throne, and give blood to the Stone. Must cut your own wrist with the Stone Knife. Blood given willingly will break circle….”
“And then what happens?”
“I know not.”
“But we have to try. Don’t we?”
Annis nodded and said no more, being unwilling to push, and having nothing to say that wouldn’t sound as if she was pushing. Jessica sighed.
“Will I even get to this throne?”
“Yes. Is not problem. I can get you there.”
“I was afraid that might be the case. But once I’m on the throne?”
“I can help no more.”
“I was afraid that might be the case too. Is there any way I can see what I’m getting myself into?”
“I have pictures. I draw.”
Annis fetched a thick sketch pad from her drawer and handed it shyly to Jess. The older woman opened it and her mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. There were sketches of the cats, the fairground, and a whole group of pictures of a swarthy teenage boy whose arms were covered in tattoos. She opened her mouth to ask about him then saw the stark misery in Annis’ dark swirling eyes. 
“Mine. I still hear him whistling.”
Jess put the book down and cradled the teenager in her arms.
“I’m so sorry.”
Annis sniffed unromantically.
“Not you fault. Next pages is what you need.”

Part 12 of Maybe by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook will be here next week…

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.

Unlike many octogenarians, Gran here is well up with the youf and that which is laughingly called ‘social’ media. I like to think my Twitter feed is both informative and entertaining, while my Facebook page is a fountain of wisdom and wit. I’m not going to even attempt to teach you how to become a force like me, all I can hope for is to give you some hints about internet security.

Let us consider photographs… 

Holidays: tempting though it may be Do Not post photographs of your crew giving it large in Jamaica all over the web. You are only storing up trouble. For every person who enjoys your innocent joy there will be one who thinks you are an entitled bitch who deserves to be taken down a peg and another who reckons your empty house is ripe for being burgled.

Food: nobody gives a flying **** where you are eating, or what you are eating. Stop it. Now.

Selfies: unless you have managed to turn your hair green or you have climbed Everest unassisted, then one a week is more than plenty.

Children: yummies Stop Posting Endless Images of Wheatgerm and Claustrophobia. You are doing the poor little blighters a great disservice. What is cute when you are three will be nothing but an embarrassment when you are thirty-three. Unless you want one of your children to smother you in later life don’t document their lives for all the world to see.

Other content…

Inspirational quotes: just don’t…

Cute memes: these are okay as long as they are reasonably fresh. If you are gonna be the three millionth one to share – don’t 

Internet ‘chain letters’: nobody wants to copy and paste stuff no matter how worthy you think it is. Neither do most people want to share unamusingly PC perorations. And as for ‘I think I know which of my friends will share this’ – just send it to them ones then.

And finally…

Remember the internet is the twenty-first century incarnation of the saloon bar. The difference is that saloon bar trolls generally got their clocks cleaned by those they offended. Internet trolls hide behind keyboards and avatars and the like and are probably sitting in their bedrooms dressed only in crunchy underpants and mismatched socks while they criticise your sartorial efforts.

It’s a jungle out there kids, and sometimes even a Kardashian backside ain’t wide enough to deflect the bullets….

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

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

Jane Jago

This, Carla realised, was what was meant by ‘tea and sympathy’. Only, in this case, it was coffee and sympathy – well latte to be exact – and some comfort-eating chocolate cake.
“So it’s over this time?” Her cup, broad and deep, clicked back on its saucer. “Really? Truly?”
Emmy gave a sad smile. Over the last hour and the chocolate cake, she had burdened Carla’s soul with a gory, forensic dissection of the breakdown of her relationship. Cut by painful cut, from the first misconstrued comment to the final brutal insult.
“Oh it’s over. Dead. Buried. Jake knows it, I know it.”
“You’re sure? Last time – ”
“Last time I was still half in love.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not.”
“So what about Chris?”
Emmy’s blue eyes blinked once, stating clearly that the name was not relevant in her love life and never would be. “I heard from Miranda the other day. Sienna is starting school. Isn’t that incredible? It only seems like last week the three of us were sitting in these very chairs discussing baby names.”
“Emmy – you can’t pretend forever.”
The blue eyes clouded. Emmy grabbed her coffee cup from its brightly coloured saucer and hid behind it. The words ‘I Love Cappuccino’ danced around the rim in bold, red letters.
“Chris won’t just go away,” Carla spoke to the cup.
Emmy lowered the coffee, her face tightly resentful.
“Chris is not involved with this.” Then, suddenly appealing: “Let’s not go there today, Carla hun, please.”
Not for the first time, Carla felt herself being torn between loyalties. Emmy’s baby-blue eyes, pleading, and Chris – dependable Chris – bleeding from a dozen wounds he had never known were being inflicted. Carla shook her head slowly, as the waters of the Rubicon flowed away beneath her feet.
“He’s your husband, not a meal ticket. You have to – ”
Instantly Emmy was by the door, the cup still in her hand.
“I don’t ‘have to’ anything! Don’t you understand? I don’t care!”
The coffee cup arced across the room heading for shattering impact and landed at the moment the door slammed. It bounced on the carpet, with a little spray of coffee and rolled, until it stopped on its handle by Carla’s feet, still safe and in one piece.
Carla bent to pick it up, the words facing her read: ‘I Love…’. For a moment she clutched it close, then she placed it with extra care on its own saucer, where it belonged.

E.M. Swift-Hook