An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Of course Em wasn’t the only person to note the approach of the heavies. One of the majorettes whistled and a group of baton twirlers moved forwards, to be joined by what looked very much like the same group of Saturday night fighters as had words with the pipe band.
The group of security guards abated its pace somewhat in the face of a wall of fists and twirling wood. Another figure emerged from the mob. He wasn’t particularly tall, and he wasn’t a local, but he was as broad as an oak tree and he carried a chainsaw in one knotted fist, swinging it as easily as if it was a child’s toy. He gave a brief nod to Ginny as if thanking her for the opportunity.
“See them lot there,” he said, “they burned the house I grew up in because my father wouldn’t sell it to their rotten little boss. Dad died a month later from the burns he sustained. And them bastards got away with it.”
The biggest of the majorettes swung her nunchucks meaningfully. “Then they are due for a few bumps if they try anything, ain’t they.”
About half the majorettes and a half a dozen hefty young men stepped forward from the roadblock in the direction of DumpCorp Security. Who eyed the size and determination of the opposition, then shook their heads and retreated. The defection of his heavies seemed to be the straw that broke the dam of Dump’s insecure grip on reality.
“Get me my guns,” he screamed. “Gonna shoot my way through these rednecks and wasters. They are going to learn who is boss round here.”
Schilling laid a hand on his forearm. “This is England, Ron, you can’t have guns here.”
Dump actually stamped his feet. “I can have whatever I like wherever I like. I’m Ronald Dump, the most successful businessman in the world.”
That was about enough for the crowd and ‘the most successful businessman in the world’ was nearly buried in flour bombs.
The sound Ronald Dump made as the flour hit him was high and inhuman. As he keened his rage to the sky, Schilling grabbed him by his shoulders and shook him.
“Stop it Ron, control yourself. We can’t afford for you to lose your shit now.”
But Dump was too far gone in rage to listen to anybody. He slapped Schilling across his cheek before turning a feral grimace on the now quiet crowd. He bent his corpulent frame – in a manner that made Em think he might burst like an overstuffed sausage – and scrabbled about under his trouser leg. When he somehow levered himself to the vertical once more, he held a small, but serviceable, pistol in his fist. He waved it in the direction of the wall of people who blocked his route to where he wanted to be.
“Now let’s see who’s brave if it might hurt.”
Nobody reacted.
Dump’s hands shook and the hectic colour of rage ran up his fleshy luck to the top of his head.
“Move. Or I’ll shoot somebody.”
Schilling grabbed his wrist. “Stop it Ron. Get your head together and stop it.”
“Get my head together? You get your head together! I pay you to sort things out and you let this crap happen.”
Suddenly the gun was pointing at Schilling’s face. He must have been a good deal braver than he looked because he faced his employer without flinching.
“Stop it Ron. You are beginning to look like a loser.”
This wasn’t at all how Em had envisaged the scene playing out. To be honest, she was beginning to wonder if it could all be solved without bloodshed. The tableau was broken as Ginny walked over to stand at Dump’s other side. She said something to him in an undertone and he stiffened.
“What the hell is she doing?” Ishmael hissed. “Doesn’t she realise that she’s just engaged with a certifiable manic. With a gun.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Em felt slightly sick.
A hand came round in front of her and waved a familiar hip flask. “I’ve called the police. A picture of that wombat waving a gun seems to have galvanised them into action,” Agnes remarked. “I just hope they get here before he shoots somebody.”
“Me too. Particularly as somebody could easily be our newest sister.”
Ishmael grabbed Em’s arm. “She isn’t stupid enough to think she could survive being shot at point blank range?”
Em took a good belt of Agnes’ best cherry brandy. “I don’t think so.”
Whatever Ginny had said to Dump didn’t seem to be pouring any oil on troubled water, rather the reverse in fact, as the temperamental billionaire was waving his arms around and screaming unintelligible insults. He appeared to have forgotten his gun for the moment, but Em didn’t have a lot of hope of that remaining the case.
Schilling made a remark that brought flags of colour to Ginny’s cheeks. But she wasn’t to be deterred and her response came back whip quick.
Whatever she said must have struck a nerve, because Em thought Schilling would physically attack her, but he drew back and spat full in her face instead.
“Ever the gentleman, Mister Schilling,” this time Ginny spoke loud enough for the assembled company to hear. “I’m sure your lady mother, wherever she may be, is truly proud of you.”
He snarled but didn’t make any rejoinder.
Dump looked from one to the other and the muzzle of his pistol followed his little pink-rimmed eyes.
“I shall have to shoot both of you,” he announced. “We can’t have loose talk like that ruining my reputation.
Ginny put her hand up to the very ugly hat she was wearing and turned to smile at him. He must have seen something in her eyes because he took a step backwards. She followed him and struck his gun hand with whatever she had taken from her hat. He screamed as if his throat was being cut and the distraction was sufficient to allow a couple of the majorettes to pile in. One pushed Dump to the ground and sat on him, while the other kneed Schilling neatly in the gonads. He dropped to the ground retching and she stood over him nonchalantly waving a baton that Em was pretty sure had weighted ends.
Ginny bent down by Dump and removed something from his hand.
“Loser,” she said just loud enough for Em and Ishmael to catch it.
The sound of sirens came as a welcome distraction and Em tapped Ishmael on the arm.
“Shall we fade back into the crowd a bit?”

Part Thirty of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

Secret Santa’s Coming to Town

(To be sung brightly and enthusiastically to the tune of ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town‘)

We’re having a dance, right down the street
Feeling like we got wings on our feet
Secret Santa’s coming to town

We’ve been to the pound shop, got us some shite
Wrapped it up shiny, giggled all night
Secret Santa’s coming to town

Everything we purchased inappropriate and silly
From socks with individual toes to a tiny dancing willy

We’re hiding our smiles, keeping our face
Inside we’re proud to be a disgrace
Secret Santa’s coming to town

We’re waiting for the boss man to open his big box
He’s gonna get an awful shock, coz he’ll be expecting socks

We’re having a dance, right down the street
Feeling like we got wings on our feet
Secret Santa’s coming to town

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

anyib (noun) – the proper way to make stew, grasp handfuls of whatever you have lying about and bung in pot with wine

anythign (noun) – a large thighed man who has lost the ability to cross his legs

devous (adjective) – crablike and with unpleasant breath

ignose (adjective) – of social influencers having little or no education or empathy, consequently peddling click bait as if it was gospel

lical – (adjective) something small in the neighbourhood

lipump (noun) – the mouth of a woman who is addicted to plastic surgery

may flk (slang) – to slap an annoying teenager with a smoked haddock

pecenaket (noun) – peanut toffee sweetie that gums up your mouth

shalol (ejaculation) – laughing greeting

startistic (noun) – the number of stellar bodies in a constellation

tryign (verb) – testing the flavour of rocks

tyhan (group noun) – marks left on wrists by enthusiastic bondage session

yoi (noun) – contraction of oy you shouted by persons of little refinement when they espy acquaintances in the street

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

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

Christmas Shopping Dash

(To be sung cheerily and heartily to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells‘)

Dashing through the snow
In a very dangerous way
Oe’r the road I go, sliding all the way
Horns in cars all sound
Give me such a fright
Oh why did I come out to do
My Christmas shop tonight?

Oh bloody hell, shopping smells
And the town’s gone mad
It’s no fun to try and run
When there’s no gifts to be had.
(Repeat)

First I tried for toys,
Gifts for girls and boys,
All were too expensive
And made a lot of noise
So I thought of treats
Stuff them up with sweets
But then I past the dentists
And thought about their teeth.

Oh bloody hell, shopping smells
And the town’s gone mad
It’s no fun to try and run
When there’s no gifts to be had.
(Repeat)

So what can I get
In the slush and wet?
Tonight is my last try
To find some gifts to buy
Oh, I’m giving up
This is just too hard
They can all have gift tokens
Shoved in a stoopid card!

Oh bloody hell, shopping smells
And the town’s gone mad
It’s no fun to try and run
When there’s no gifts to be had.
(Repeat)

Rules to Remember

Ah. Christmas the time of cheery carollers, sleigh bells, and happy families. Or, looking at it less romantically, the time of burnt dinners, family fights, and divorce.

That first Christmas together. That’s the one that sets the pattern for all the others. Do not go to his mother’s. Or yours. Ideally, see no one and do a lot of sex.

Given that that isn’t happening, here are a few ground rules.

1. Do not be cozened into buying them tins of mixed sweeties. There will be at least two thirds that nobody likes. You will be reduced to feeding them to the dog in August.

2. Booze. Do not buy eggy stuff. It looks like snot and it tastes like snot, and nobody will drink it. If granny likes a Snowball. Buy a couple of ready made ones in pouches. She will only go to sleep with her face in the sprouts if you give her proper booze.

3. The Turkey. You do not need something the size of a Shetland Pony to feed you, your husband, and granny. Small is beautiful. After all nobody really likes turkey anyway.

4. Cooking. There’s a lot of rot talked about Christmas dinner. Do plenty of roast potatoes and a ton of them little sausages wrapped in bacon, because that’s all anybody eats.

5 Most importantly. The Punch. It should be very strong. And to begin with it should taste nice. After The Queen’s Speech it pretty much stops mattering. By that time people will drink meths.

And that is the secret of Christmas in a nutshell (NB do not buy nuts. Somebody – usually your new husband’s cousin from Reading – will inevitably display the symptoms of anaphylactic shock if you do).

Granny’s Punch

1 litre brandy
1 litre vodka
1 bottle ginger wine
1 litre pineapple juice
1 litre ginger ale
1 net of baby oranges
1 large tin pineapple chunks
Loads of glacé cherries
Punch bowl/clean plastic bucket/WHY
Ice

Cut the oranges in halves, then throw everything in the punch bowl. Drink much of it yourself.

In the calm before the storm we walked. Two fools together
Spoke of this and laughed of that. Unmindful of the weather
When the first fat raindrops fell, we saw we’d wandered far
You pulled my hood about my ears. Said: race you to the car
But you didn’t run ahead. You waited at my pace
And smiled the smile that warms my heart. With raindrops on your face
Back at the car, you and the dog. Discussed your hopes and dreams
While I dodged the dancing rain. Returning with ice creams
We licked and laughed, and had no care. For those who judged us mad
Life is to short to hear their rules. Too precious to be sad
In the calm before the storm. The splashing puddles shined
Two fools who walked it side by side. Made everything sublime.

jane jago

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

It is that time of year again when tinsel and fake snow are seen liberally strewn over windows and every house in the neighbourhood is illuminated by thousands of watts worth of multicoloured flashing bulbs. Giant inflatable Santas bend at the waist as they slowly prolapse onto the lawn and herds of plastic reindeer can be found grazing on every municipal greensward.

Ah yes, Christmas!

The time every writer remembers the magic as a child of seeing the Christmas tree lit up after hearing swearing coming from the front room for an hour. Or the apparently endless amounts of food on a groaning board, whilst relatives are sitting, groaning, bored and picking fights for the sake of it. Or the sound of carols through the shopping-mall loudspeakers being interrupted by non-sequitur advertisements and announcements. Or the excitement of unwrapping presents so quickly replaced by the despair as another Christmas jumper hand knitted by Great Aunt Tracey is revealed beneath the gaudy paper or a pair of thermal, odour-reducing socks in vibrant tartan from Mumsie.

This, dear Reader Who Writes, is the very magic you need to ensure you capture on the tip of your quill and then spread in decorative loops and swirls of language to fill the pages of that essential for every aspiring author – the Seasonal Short.

To be honest, a wise beginner will start with the lesser festivals of the writing calendar. Maybe a little romantic flash fiction for Valentine’s, working through to a Halloween Horror so that by the time you reach the height of over-played, sentimentalism that is Christmas literature, you will have the technique somewhat practised.

But fear not, mes petites, even if you have not been preparing, even if you have never set pen to paper or finger to keyboard in a literary endeavour afore this moment, follow my three golden rules and you will be in with as much of a chance as the most famous author.

Rule One: Make it Maudlin.

Do not stop at soppy and sentimental, instead toboggan through the more flaccid emotions and pitch straight into the point where Merry marries Melancholy and keeps up an affair on the side with Nostalgia.

Rule Two: Make it Short.

This is Christmas. Your reader will be well sozzled, exhausted from family rows and trying to avoid the Queen’s speech. Their attention span will not be long. A novella is too long.

Rule Three: Make it Shiny.

Use lots of words like ‘sparkle’, ‘glitter’, ‘glow,’ ‘luminescence’, ‘coruscation’, ‘shimmer’, ‘gleam’ and ‘twinkle’.

So there, in a Nutcracker Suite, dear Reader Who Writes, is my Christmas gift to you. Use it wisely and every future festive season will bring you joyous prosperity from your literary endeavours.

Happy Christmas.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

The police car drove to the bottom of the street at a sedate pace, turning around by the padlocked gate and returning to the main road equally quietly. Em’s mobile peeped. It was Agnes.
“Them buggers are on their way. We good to go, Em?”
“Yep. Let operation ‘thwart the bastard’ commence.”
Em and Ishmael walked to the top of the street where they waited in silence. First into their line of vision came an oddly formal little procession led by the familiar figure of Ronald Dump himself, flanked by Harmsley Gunn on his left and a thin man, with an earpiece in one ear and an iPhone glued to the other, on his right.
“Where are my pipers?” Dump’s strangely atonal voice sounded querulous.
“They said this is Dorset not Drumnadrochit. Then they effed off.” It was the thin man who spoke somewhat grimly.
“Schilling,” Ishmael spoke without moving his lips.
Em studied the man who was variously supposed to be either Dump’s right-hand man, or his boss, or even his boyfriend. She discounted the last strand of rumour, but which of the two other options was correct? The man himself was as unprepossessing as his boss if in a completely different mould. Dump was corpulent, bald, and smooth of skin, with one of those small heads that seems to have sunk into the rolls of flesh around the neck. Schilling, by contrast, was thin, bespectacled, saggy around the neck and eyes, and possessed of what looked to be a permanent five o’clock shadow.
The dynamic between the pair was difficult to decode, and Em decided it didn’t matter and gave up trying. Instead she stood quietly and waited for events to move along. The first sign of rent a mob came in the form of glockenspiel music and the sound of feet. Round the corner from the opposite direction to the Dump party came a group of sub-teenage girls, and a fair sprinkling of their grandmothers, playing a vaguely familiar tune on glockenspiel, tambourine, and penny whistle. They were followed by a troupe of trainee drum majorettes inexpertly twirling a variety of ‘batons’ – including at least two sets of nunchucks – and stamping their feet in approximate time to the ‘music’.
Ronald Dump positively beamed.
“Maybe we didn’t need the pipers after all, these lovely young things have come out to welcome me…”
Both lovely and young were perhaps open to interpretation, as was the musical skill of the orchestra. Em saw Ishmael frowning.
“Little Botheringham Marching Majorettes. Affectionately known in these parts as the panzer division. They don’t win many cups, but they’ve yet to be bested in a fight. If the Morris Men see them they run like blazes.”
Ishmael grinned his approval.
As the marching ladies bore down on his group, Harmsley-Gunn opened his mouth, then obviously thought better of it. Behind him, Em caught a glimpse of Ginny’s grinning face before the marching girls, and a crowd of local (and not so local) folk parted like the Red Sea as they encountered the Dump admiration committee. Coming back together again, the marchers turned smartly into the estate. The girls of the band stopped moving and marched on the spot, while those who accompanied them passed through their ranks and then turned to form a loose wall of flesh, duffle coats and Laura Ashley print. Having effectively blocked the road, the musicians turned around and broke into an enthusiastic if barely recognisable rendition of ‘We Shall Overcome’ led by Ginny who conducted with a baton that to Em, looked very like the one belonging to Major Harmsley-Gunn.
As the crowd behind them unfurled their banners and began to sing, it finally dawned on Mister Dump that this was whatever the opposite of a welcoming committee might be called.
He turned to his cohorts and snarled. “Get these people out of my way.”
Harmsley-Gunn stepped forward. “Go home all of you.” His little moustache bristled disgustedly. “And give me my cane back you atrocious female.”
Ginny ignored him but signalled the end of the singing as they completed the chorus, leaving the protesters standing in the silence of solidarity.
Harmsley-Gunn, face puce now with ill constrained fury waved his hands at them as if shooing a flock of chickens. “You are blocking the road to progress for the whole village.”
“What sort of an idiot thinks DumpCorp’s proposals are progress?”
The voice from the centre of the crowd was as resolutely middle class as Harmsley-Gunn’s own tones.
“The parish council thinks the plans are excellent,” Harmsley-Gunn spluttered. “We are unanimous. Now unblock the road before I call the police.”
The flour bomb that took him in the middle of his face burst just as it had been designed to do and left him standing like a forlorn ghost. Ginny slid the cane under his arm as if adding an accessory to a snowman.
“Not quite unanimous,” she said curtly.
Dump looked on in increasing amazement. He waved his pudgy little hands at the crowd. “Go away. Go away nasty people.”
Nobody moved.
Schilling spoke up. “Look here you lot. You can’t go about blocking public roads and refusing people access to their own property. Just go home and we will say no more about it.”
Ishmael grinned mirthlessly. “They most certainly couldn’t block a public road. But this isn’t a public road. It’s private. And there is no right of access to anywhere leading through it. So you’d be best advised to turn around and go home yourselves.”
Harmsley-Gunn, recovering from the assault to his person and dignity, drew himself up to his full height and flouryness. “As chairman of the housing association, I invite Mister Dump and his party onto the estate.”
“Nice try, old boy, but the trustees terminated their arrangement with the housing association two days ago. A little matter of malfeasance. The letter informing you is in the post.” He turned to Em with a slight smile “By the way do tell Jamelia that her work on that was watertight. I couldn’t have done better myself.”
As Ishmael spoke, Em could see a dozen or so DumpCorp security operatives moving purposefully towards the scene. The dog handlers were conspicuous by their absence and she idly wondered if Fang and Killer were still running.

Part Twenty-Nine of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

The Choir’s Lament

(To be droned loudly and nasally to the tune of ‘Gaudete‘)

Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day
Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day

Tiddly tiddly, tiddly pom, tiddly tiddly tiddle
I have lost half of my brain and I need a widdle

Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day
Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day

Stand we all inside the choir, masters come to school us
Tempers fuggit, Dominus, smacks us with a ruler

Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day
Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day

Deus, homo sapiens, strange sounds with no glory
We don’t understand a word, cannot see the story

Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day
Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is Latin
And we have to learn it by Christmas Day

Puer nobis nascitur, rector angelorum
What the hell does this all mean? We could die of boredom

Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is boring
But we have to sing it, on Christmas Day
Bloody hell, bloody hell, this stuff is boring
But it’s now an earworm. Won’t go away.

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

beilliance (adjective) – of elderly ladies the belligerent desire to hit people with their walking sticks

cazenda (compound noun) – Charlie and Danni from the trailer park. You will find this written over the windshield on Charlie’s truck

dence (verb) – to move to music in a very refined manner

differnet – (noun) the weird Internet

excitigns (adjective) – of rocks, prone to giggle and wet panties

fangipan (noun) – sweeties with added blood

hersute (noun) – business garment belonging to a woman

migth (noun) – furry stuff on the teeth of vagrants and others who can’t be arsed with dental hygiene

noccyer (proper noun) – rurally owned mobile phone company

oka (noun) – small rodent inhabiting the underarm area of very fat people

papperbok (noun) – erudite antelope

prasie (noun) – small ego-sucking insect

qweer (adjective) – asexual specifically of frogs 

ratehr (noun) – what your plumber charges per minute

sill (adjective) – not actually interesting enough to be called silly

teasco (noun) – a disaster in a shopping mall

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