A Watery Tale

by Anne Ward 

Legend speaks of strange goings on. Fact or fiction, it’s a compelling story of the day they flooded the village of Dracoe to make a reservoir on the moors.

There had been much protest by the locals, warning of a curse should even one brick be touched.

All to no avail. In came the bulldozers, the gravel grinders and an army of work men in yellow safety jackets and white helmets, they looked like mobile banana splits with ice cream on top (that’s the only humour there is in this account).

The tiny church bell tolled for the last time before it was removed, (or was it?)

With a roar like an unleashed lion the water gushed in raging torrents engulfing house after house, down the once bustling streets when the village had been a market place.

In the background people bewailing the warning that went on deaf ears.

The water reached the required level, a high wall was built round it, the crowd dispersed.

For a while all seemed quiet, the protestations of the villagers appeared unfounded, until...

The environmental health came to take samples for consumer quality, many a test tube and bottle were filled labelled and sent for analysis.

Meanwhile the scientists aware of the stories asked had anything happened regarding the curse (which said those who disturb the sleepers did so at their peril ).

At first no one came forward. Then like a sluice gate had been opened, report after report of ghostly sightings, cries of anguish , the bell tolling and the strange red stain across the water, was it dye, animal blood, or Human?.

It goes back to the name of the village (Dracoe), the disappearance of young girls once they reached eighteen, the bodies found with unexplained bite marks, something which started slowly and came to an abrupt end in mysterious circumstances, as if an agreement had been signed with something evil.

Now no attention had been paid the shadows had returned and they were out for blood.

The wind howled, the water from the natural springs trickled in to the reservoir, the bush grass and the bull rushes swayed nothing looked different to any other manmade lake on the moor except...

Floating on the surface was the body of the publican, the fact he had been missing for two days wasn’t unusual the outcome was not expected.

Once again the crowds gathered as the body was brought ashore. Questions were asked, was he dragged in by forces unknown, or too drunk to realise his plight. Peace is restored, the shadows have been quietened. On certain eerie nights the bell tolls, the water bubbles up and traces of a red stain are left on the edge of the wall...

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Blood on the Track

By Alan Wilkinson

*THE FOLLOWING IS A WORK OF FICTION*

I am afraid I was a sickly child-but it seemed to run in our family- but I made up for that being brainy. Not that I appreciated this at school, I got picked on beat up and chased. I was nerdy and weird, and back then the chase ended quickly because I was slow and awkward.

But I got into Princeton History.so up yours Brad Cooper and gang. I was reading European history and the Romance languages, I guess my interest and adeptness in these subjects was in part hereditary,- my great grandmother fled from Rumania pregnant with Joel , my  granddad –the story goes she came into Ellis island, apparently a poor emigrant, she then  headed into the American heartland –to apparently not be found by her husband. She wound up in Cincinnati and promptly brought the fine detached four bedroom house I was brought up in –she paid for it with jewellery she’d hidden about her person.

I grew up a sickly swot, fascinated with East European history and languages. I was a nerd but I was going to be a multilingual well paid nerd.

At Princeton it was Jane who changed everything.

Jane Hall was one of the brightest stars of our year at Princeton, even cleverer than me, but also attractive and a superb athlete. When I saw her at the track she was everything I wasn’t and, I realised everything I wanted to be.

She filled my daytime reverie and haunted my gothic dreams- I’d been assailed by what I would term Gothic mythic nightmares ever since I could remember. Those monsters now shared my sleep with Jane, where she took the role of heroine and monster slayer.

I tried to run, perchance to gain a lady’s favour.  On one of my painful jogs I cut myself badly and I needed a blood transfusion. It was hard to describe the effect of that transfusion-after it I had so much energy I could run, talk and socialise like never before. But after a few days it had worn off-leaving just a memory of what life could be like.

I wondered what to do, plainly I could not injure myself every week to get a transfusion,

Could I buy a blood transfusion? I could finance it by giving language lessons maybe?  I asked around students on campus and came up with the name of a guy at a nearby Hospital who would sell you blood -the price depended on the rarity of your blood. Mine including transfusion was $500 dollars a pint–boy that would take a few language lessons to afford on a regular basis –and I needed it to be regular.

The alternative was to rob the bank, the blood bank-ha ha. Trouble is that might end in a blood bath ha ha! So maybe I would have to resign myself to maybe one or two pints a month.

Which would be most beneficial to me, a little every day or splurge the lot when some special event came up? I would need to read up more and test things. I needed to research this vital subject. As I read I came across something athletes used to do to improve performance which was classed as cheating and is banned now. Blood Doping- this requires you to take out a pint of your blood and put it in the freezer, your body replenishes the missing blood, and then you put the other blood back increasing the bloods efficiency.

Doping might be cheaper –but I doubted it would be enough on its own, my blood was weak stuff –on its own -it was not as effective as other peoples donated fresh blood.

So I did both-the same medical guy helped me blood dope every week for £60 dollars on top of monthly transfusions. You might wonder at my standing the cost and inconvenience of all this –but to me it changed my previously grey world to a new multicolour world.

So there was no question, it was my way forward –giving as many lessons as I could–I had the energy and the drive as long as I kept freshening up my blood

And my running was improving

Then a third darker phase came with my blood obsession –a side which chimed with those nightmares dreams I’d had since childhood.

There was an unfortunate incident by the canal one dark night, a guy fell over cut himself called for help, no I didn’t push him over, honest. I went to help. I accidentally got some blood on my lips before I knew it I was sucking his blood, he fought but I knocked him out.

After that things started to change quickly-I was literally becoming a different person; vigorous lively passionate and starting, for the first time in my life to be good at games. Running not jogging.

What with running, studying and starting to chase the lady’s, I needed to keep topping up my blood with fresh blood-from not two but my three sources. Transfusions, doping and now, a drink of the occasional passing vagrant’s blood. Poor souls who would wake up with headaches and feeling tired and listless, ha ha. This way was dangerous but it boosted me as much as the transfusions but cost nothing and was weirdly empowering.

My life was changing Blood doping and the blood of dopes was transforming me

I was running well, I was on the edge of the track team now and nearly, in rubbing shoulders distance of Jane. She was in my dreams and nightmares-I hoped soon she would be in my life. She had a boyfriend, also a track star, Jeff Wiles. I’m sure I could do something about him.

There are always problems in life, but my life was coming to life.

….to be continued

                                                                                                                  Friday 17^th May 2013

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Money, money, money – how did it make so much?

by Anon

Mamma Mia the movie was released in 2008. It went on to become the highest grossing musical of all time internationally. It’s the sixth highest grossing film of all time in the UK behind Skyfall, Avatar, Titanic, Toy Story and Harry Potter. You could say it’s in good company.

Nominated for two golden globes and three BAFTAs, I had high expectations and rightly so I thought as I glanced at the stellar cast list on the back of the DVD case recently, having never seen the film or the musical it was based on.

Set on a Greek island, with songs of Abba, the story revolves around a young bride-to-be, Sophie and her desire to find her father. The film opens with Sophie looking forlorn and out to seas as she sings “I have a dream”. From then on in, the film goes rapidly downhill.

After reading her mum’s diary from around the time she was conceived, Sophie writes to her three possible fathers to invite them to her wedding because obviously the mum had the foresight to write their full postal addresses in her diary and nobody has moved house in the last twenty years.

Regardless Colin Firth, Pierce Brosnan and Dominic Cooper turn up and it would have been better if they hadn’t bothered. Their singing is absolutely terrible and as the film goes on, there is a glint in Firth’s eyes to suggest he too is unconvinced that taking this role was such a good idea for his career.

Meryl Streep jumps around for most of the film singing and dancing under some delusion that she is   captivating and irresistible to these three men that have come back into her life even after Firth’s character, without a clue or hint throughout the film, announces he’s gay - maybe it was practicing all the Abba songs that did it.

The film culminates in the daughter’s wedding that in the end doesn’t take place so after twenty years of not seeing each other Meryl Streep’s character and one of the three fathers decide to get married instead to save wasting the souvlakis.

Not even Abba’s music or the stunning location could save this film from being a Greek tragedy.

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A Female Perspective

By Pamela Winning.

I think I must have missed a vital point somewhere. I thought we had gender equality in the UK. I was shocked to the core when the Church of England’s General Synod voted against women bishops. It made me angry that the Synod could get away with it. Personally, I’m not so close to church or religion to feel affected apart from what I see to be blatant discrimination. Women can be ordained priests but not allowed to progress. Why not (for God’s sake)?  It’s like telling women teachers they can’t apply for a headship. At least, that’s how it looks to me and this must be the point I’m missing.  So the Church of England is a law unto itself, living in the dark ages yet concerned about dwindling congregation.  How sad to be seemingly lacking in any forward thinking.

My generation has grown up with equal opportunity. Thanks to Mrs Pankhurst, I cast my first vote at the age of eighteen. I passed my driving test in 1973 and I was already earning a wage in 1975 when the Equal Pay Act 1970 came into force.  Discrimination against women, however subtle, is still there in various forms and we’re still fighting it.

Women in so called ‘men’s’ jobs often have a hard time. Women drivers come under a       constant barrage. We handle it all because we have to and luckily, most of us can. Strangely, it seems acceptable to have topless models but breastfeeding in public can still raise disapproving eyebrows and requires specific legislation.

A quote from Unicef:  “The Equality Act 2010 gave explicit protection to breastfeeding mothers, requiring that they should not be discriminated against because they are breastfeeding.”

Sometime in the future, there will be women bishops; strong minded women who will fight for their right to be where they belong. It’s how it has to be.

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Sell by Dates

 By Anne Ward

 Has the world gone mad? If a product hasn’t got a date on it, even if it doesn’t need one, some consumers have become so obsessed by them they just won’t buy the item!

There are care lines printed on the back of margarine tubs. What’s it going to do? Shout “help” when it’s empty?

A sell by date is there as an advisory aid – more for the shop than for the purchaser. It’s to tell them how long to display the item before it has to be removed from the shelf. The sell by date doesn’t mean the product is no good once that date has passed.

This is where the confusion lies. This is why perfectly edible food is being needlessly thrown away.

It seems common sense has been forgotten.

If you’re unsure about using or eating something : smell it. Check to see if it’s gone from liquid to solid. Or maybe grown a fungus. If any of these things have occurred then don’t use the item. An advisory date will not tell you that.

There are some instances when the date is of no use at all. Milk is a good example. On the carton it may have a sell by date but at certain times of milking, milk can turn very quickly. Milk may even go off before it’s put on the shelf. It pays to look carefully at the product - not to rely on the date.

Eggs – always open the container to make sure none are cracked.

In my opinion, by putting sell by dates on products, supermarkets have (metaphorically speaking) shot themselves in the foot. By the end of the trading day some goods will have to be reduced in order that as many are sold as possible, otherwise they will end up as waste and be deposited in land fill. The public are aware of this and many plan their shopping times to coincide with the shop’s actions thus grabbing groceries at a knock down price.

It’s good to know that someone is profiting from this madness.

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Cameron No More

 By Alan Wilkinson

You may have heard they are going to vote north of the Border about whether they’d be better off without the rest of the UK.

So? If it wasn’t for the oil who’d care?

That’s the only trouble. They’re swimming in oil. So they think they can go it alone.

But it’s the UK’s oil really, it just so happens they’re the nearest part of the UK to it.  The Scots didn’t make the stuff for Pete’s sake. It’s always been there-all the time we were in charge of Scotland - oil was there- waiting to be used when someone invented engines. If it had been 300 years ago there would be no argument it would have belonged to our King.

But now they have us over a barrel, an oil barrel.

Ok let’s look on the bright side just think what we could get rid of.

Scots get £12 MILLION extra from the exchequer. Why? It’s called bribery for staying in the UK, but they wouldn’t get that anymore.

And think what else we can get rid of…

Glasgow no more…

Midges no more…

Deep fried Mars bars no more…

Nessy no more…

Bagpipes no more…

No I can’t wait for Scotland to vote to separate itself from us

The Edinburgh Festival you say? That’s easy, the BBC can do our version, ‘The Edinburgh Festival in the Park’ with Matt Baker, Alex Jones and lots of UK comedians who daren’t offend the Beeb.

And the border, would be a real border. Border Controls just north of Hadrian’s Wall.  With a vast toll gate. Every Scot who entered England would be charged. No the Scots would not get off scot free

Hold on, I can hear you say. Hold on a wee Scottish minute. If we did that, they could do the same. Yes but more would be trying to come out than would want to be going into Scotland, wouldn’t they?

 As the situation escalated the Scots would commandeer Hadrian’s Wall which would take on a new sinister modern purpose. Keeping out the English and keeping in the Scots.

Give it ten years and it’ll be like North Korea and South Korea, those poor scots will be living in a desolate half-starved environment, living off haggis and whisky, swimming and washing in oil. That would teach them. Petrol, petrol everywhere: but not any proper food to eat. Just like Scotland now really.

While on our side of the wall there would be Free Nessy protestors walking up and down for the TV. And a land flowing with milk and honey.

So think on Scotland think hard before you vote for freedom from England

If you do goodbye to …to…

Cameron, no more,

Expensive student loans no more,

Greedy bankers no more

Wonga no more

The One show no more

Liberal Democrats no more

Hang on a minute I just have an urgent appointment …in Scotland… before the wall goes up …and I hate milk and honey too!

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A Ghost Tour of the Grand Theatre

By Pamela Winning

My friend and I had visited the Grand Theatre many times. We’d laughed and cried and sung our way through lots of productions over the years. We didn’t know what to expect when we booked our places on a Ghost Tour, but we were ‘up for it’ and arrived dressed for warmth, carrying torches and giggling like nervous schoolgirls.

We were part of a small group, taken round by an informative guide. He fascinated us with his knowledge of the theatre’s history and renovation. He took us backstage, where, in one of the dressing-rooms, I had a feeling of being unwelcome. We went on to the stage where my friend and I sensed different things. She became lightheaded; I experienced a sudden, sharp headache. Both of us were perfectly fine when we stepped down from the stage.

After the guided tour, we were left in the semidarkness to wander around or sit in the theatre. At the back of the stalls, my friend was aware of a strong smell of cigar smoke. I have no sense of smell, so could only take her word for it. There was no explanation for the wafting of a curtain across a closed doorway. We watched our shadows on the wall. There was the shadow of a third person: but there was nobody else anywhere near us. We stood slightly apart and the third person was between us. We were sure that the man watching us from the dress-circle was not from our group.

Later, the group sat together at the front of the stalls. The guide listened to our reports and told us things he’d been keeping to himself until this point in the evening. Years ago, someone had an accident on stage which included a head injury. A past manager of the theatre used to stand at the back of the stalls smoking a cigar. Someone had fallen to their death from the gallery to the stalls. A particular seat in the circle gave the occupant the sensation of being shaken … this was something that happened to my friend when she’d gone to see a show. There was an area in the centre stalls where people felt someone tap their shoulder or grab their arm. This had happened to me sometime previously when I’d been to see a play and I knew it hadn’t been my imagination. The guide had no explanation to offer; he just said that many people at different times had mentioned it.

It was an interesting way to spend an evening. My friend and I were enlightened, but not scared. Fear came another time, on a Ghost Tour of the Spanish Hall. But that’s another story.

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Lest we forget

 by Anne Ward

The Cenotaph (from the Greek for Empty Tomb) designed and built in 1923 by Ernest Prestwick, is of white granite ashlar, it stands 100ft high and is dedicated to the courageous soldiers who gave their lives for freedom.

It stands on Blackpool’s Promenade, positioned between the North Pier and the Metropole Hotel. On each of its four corners are sculptures of fighting men representing the armed forces. Amongst the host of other figures captured in action on two sides of the monument is a tiny figure of the artist Gilbert Ledward’s cat.

Surrounding the Cenotaph are many short pillars depicting the heads of lions as if on century duty. In recent years a choir stall has been added containing the words: “Sing Softly, Be Still, Cease.”

Throughout the year there are many battles to commemorate which means, regularly visible on the steps, are wreaths of red poppies made by the Royal British Legion.

Set in a well of green lawns it is a place of tranquillity were we can pause reflect and be thankful; where for a moment in this busy seaside town, buzzing with excitement and laughter, time can stand still. 

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