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Last 10 Posts [ In reverse order ]
peter.howden Posted Y'day, 03:28pm
The facts;

In 1968, the population of a Greater Metropolis of this narrative, was 1,209,143, each individual had a tale. Ladies and gentlemen: the story you are about to read is true, only the names, and locations, have been changed to protect the main character… one chancer.

" Just the facts, ma'am "

Due to his occupation at the time, the chancer used a shortcut between two community boundaries, a sizeable strip of land, known locally as the ‘Moles Mire’. Hidden from public view from the main road, existed an oasis of trees, and bushes, in this desolate terrain, giving temporary secret campsites for ‘Shelta’ talking gypsies.

The main character, an amiable soul while passing the travellers site, stopping to conversed as best he could. The nomads were extremely gracious, totally squashing their ill-gotten mischievous reputation. At the furthest end of the mire, stood an auld sawdust pub. One very hot day, making his way to the other side, the chancer almost passing the tavern, dropped in for a slight refreshment.

Approaching the bar, observing the place was nigh empty, except one individual at the counter. Being of a free will affable nature, the character, using Scottish banter, engage with the stranger. Within a short time, the repartee was like a house on fire, with the stranger explaining he had just been demobbed from the S.A.S. Heading for the manky loo, the listener found the tale hard to swallow, yet, he was going to why cause problems.

Returning to the company to say bye, suddenly the stranger’s face changed into apparent anger, then produced a real firearm, and in a terrifying manner, poked the barrel of the gun into the chancer’s ribs, pushing him out the pub’s door.

Not another word was spoken, however, fear of his intentions, the chacner’s sweat turn cold. The pistol forcefully moved both of them into the isolated shortcut territory. What fate had instore was unknown…but undoubtedly grim, being threated beyond belief…not to turn his head.

Suddenly a shout, almost audible, came out from the abyss…then again, but, much…much louder, as the chancer’s name rang through the air. This gave him courage to turn around …then to see the gun offender fleeing from the scene, and a welcoming gypsy friend running down towards him…was this fate…who knows…but it was unquestionably…real keech time.
peter.howden Posted 6th Oct 2019, 10:16am
  My Chronicles 06/10/2019…

Rebecca and I, are so grateful, for all the smashing cards, Phone-calls we received…thank you all

Rebecca and I, decided quite a while ago, having our 50th celebration with our family, Chris, Kirstie, Nikki, Simon, Fergus, Lauren, Josh, Andrew and partner…last, but not least Emma, in a Greek, Italian restaurant. The evening was an intimate affair, parallel to Saturday’s kitchen table, but with no dishes to do. The family surprised we two, with tickets to a ‘rare tear’, on 25th November at Musselburgh racecourse, plus fish & chips supplied, then off to a fancy hotel (complete with hot tub) for two days, to revive… or regain breath. We received other personal gifts, which we will cherish

‘She who must be obeyed’, and I, have another date, with special company, on the 16th of October, for a slap-up meal. During October/ November, we will plan, with several very close friends, when and where the opportunities arrives, for both parties. Early next spring, our intentions are to visit the wider family members who live down south, and Jersey.

Today Rebecca is flat-out in bed, suffering with a long linger flue/cold symptoms, but also a shivering fever. We both had indications of heavy colds over the last week or so, but nothing would prevent missing the big event.

Monday, when leaving her brand-new home, walking Aunt Becky to the car, stopping at the one and only step in the courtyard. Slowly Becky moved, somehow lost balance, seemingly in slow motion, turning away her body, to land on her bum, then flat out. Lucky for us, security cameras are all around. Two members of staff rushed to her aid, checking if any injuries had occurred, especially her head…gratefully no. Aunt Becky’s only complaint was her arse was freezing.

I checked each day, she is O.K. Today is her flue jag. From now on, I will make sure, we have an escort…to and from the car.
peter.howden Posted 2nd Oct 2019, 10:22am

This encounter with Peewee was no different from previous meetings, although unexpected, this was early October, chilly winds kept the locals of Saltcoats wisely indoors. On the other hand, I left the warmth of a delightful inn, as a challenge against nature’s impatience, wobbling along the shore, before taking a respite in the shelter of the dunes. Removing Uncle David’s silver flask from my inner pocket, a few generous sips past my lips before becoming aware of my feather-friend’s company.

As you may be aware, Pee-Wee has more than a tint of magic about him, vital while protecting the ‘Lord Provost of Glasgow’, and all previous Provosts, since the dark unwritten scrolls of the mysterious middle ages. Firstly, Richard De Dunidovis, followed by John Stewart, the original named ‘First Provost’, and his regrettable misplaced…Incident?

Over the centuries. under the political banner of the Auld Alliance, Pee-Wee made many trips during war and peace, particularly throughout the terrible times Madame Guillotine ruled, with the old hags and their needles of knitting revolution in those chilling years. Peewee recalled visiting a valiant Scot mercenary soldier from Glasgow, who saved France in the Italian Campaign, becoming a French nation’s hero… to this very date.

After the customary warm-hearted greetings lifelong friends do, a rather subdued Peewee explained, his latter trip to France’s capital may be his last, due to the crazy political ether, here in U.K. We Scots, having a cantankerous history of being argie-bargie creating treaties…however…once made…our word was our bond.

Peewee looked despondent, saying, regardless what other nations do, how could he tell the French people, and Europe’s population, we will not honour our agreement.

Taking a sneaky sip, from Uncle David’s flask…turned around…Peewee was gone…fingers crossed we will meet again
peter.howden Posted 29th Sep 2019, 10:14am
  Acting Snobs

“I can’t believe it!…it’s an outrage to be treated this way, a guest of my calibre, who in stately homes has mixed in high society, brushed against royalty dynasties throughout this fair land… and further afield I may add!”, bellowed such an angry voice, which mercilessly continued, “Is this some sort tragic wheeze, a bizarre joke, cruel revenge of a spiteful insignificant acquaintance ?”, said the haughtily voice, with just a tinge of venom.

“I agree with you dear”, a gentler feminine voice, then hesitantly adding, “Though sometimes, just now and then in the past, you’ve lost your head in the heat of the night, almost scaring me out of my wits!”, spoke the female colleague, “still sweet, but with more emphasis, “it’s not right, so there”,

The male took little notice, continued his rant, “ For yonks, I’ve tread the boards of the great empire theatres in this land, and no stranger abroad on occasions, with comical plays, and tragic performances, as me, yes me as the main theme, including Shakespeare and the gifted Scottish Bard from Ayrshire”, the snooty voice ran out of breath, then faded.
“Should we not attempt to make the best of it, even though fate has cast us so?,” quietly but more firm than before, came the dainty tone of voice. “We have been together for such a long time…ever since the incident…you know?”, abruptly stopping her, with a almighty outburst; “be quiet!”

Silence fell, until a quieter, but still gruff voice addressed, “Sorry …its just here, once proudly possessing a country high society grand house, on a hill overlooking roaming countryside, belonging to the ‘Bishop of Glasgow’, was when I began travelling from place to place , but this puny, so called residence, is harshly unimportant, no space to be flamboyant, no hide hole to prepare” spoke the male voice…almost in tears.

‘Suddenly, with resolute firmness, he added, “we will go on strike…tell the guild we refuse to give nightly performances here”. “Now, let us both fly off, confront the union, demanding better conditions, and total respect for our art!

The inhabitants of 12 Calvay Place, Barlanark, were tucked up cosily in bed, fast asleep, oblivious to the fact, two such phantoms had visited their home
peter.howden Posted 25th Sep 2019, 10:00am
My Chronicles 25/09/2019…

It was deliberate not to see Aunt Becky for quite a while, allowing her, and the staff, time to settling in their daily routine after moving to a brand newly built expansive home. The actual shifting date for Becky, changed a few times, due to rearranging essential works completed by ‘City Building’. Some two weeks ago, took advantage of the invitation given to have a saunter around this spacious establishment, proved to be impressive, where Becky and her cronies will spend most of their time.

Becky’s in room 13, overlooking what will turn out to be a pleasant variety of flowers and trees. All the mod cons, including a massive screen attached to the wall facing the bed. This means when the Proms are on late of an evening, the carer can switch it on, allowing Becky to enjoy all her music in privacy. I certainly believe, that although the premises are important, it is the staff personal abilities which counts in such homes. The plan is for tomorrow, to take Aunt Becky for a new route hurl… heading for the beloved hills.

Glasgow’s city centre has changed considerably, with only a few landmarks which reminds a simple mind of many a happy encounter. The new one yesterday was meeting up with Salty, for a jar or two, although the final ‘Alcohol Chess’ challenge is still to be determined. Retiring from the sea next month, he is always good company, however my ability to stay sober is more than wobbly. Salty is planning to renovate his cabin, so with luck we may hold the ultimate game then.

I often rambled around my brain, chiefly when I was younger, who, what, why and how are we on this earth…the theories where wild , many of them stolen from others, books, even comics, but still didn’t managed to get my head to quite work it out. Is there a thing called love…or is this just a gift-wrapped excuse, to blindly follow so called mother nature… copulate to populate?

All I know is, ‘She who must be obeyed’ and I, have a bond…that no known words can analyse…50 years wedding anniversary ….and it is not long now for the family’s celebrations
peter.howden Posted 22nd Sep 2019, 11:34am

A visit to Aberdeen proved splendid, though unnerving cold winds blew wildly across the Granite City’s beach, near Queens links, as the North Sea roared across virgin sands. Meanwhile, snug folks in the hotel’s bar, were paying extortionate prices for wee 5th of a gill measures of, “The Water of Life”, Scotland’s national drink.

Unwilling to pay the extra coins, I crept away from all the hubbub, entered my room with great expectations, finding Uncle David’s bequeathed silver flask, now filled with Highland Park Valkyrie single malt, worth many a bawbee. The heirloom carrying the precious cargo was swiftly found.

Prudently twitching the lid anticlockwise, which led to the golden nectar inside, aspirations were at fever pitch, my wants were truly wanting, as the screw became looser and looser, until free completely. Instead of pouring it into the alternative drinking vessel, I decided to slug it straight from the lovely silver neck.

The taste of paradise just passes my lips, slowly the golden liquid to be nurtured onto the roof of my anticipating mouth, and… shit, it was putrid. I rushed to spit this dire solution free of my mouth. Luckily a makeshift quaich was close at hand and the whole amount fell. This foreign fluid was green in colour.

Then I recalled I had used dental Steradent active false teeth cleaner, to deep clean my treasure flask last time in use.

Tragically and obviously, I had forgotten to empty this vile stuff.
peter.howden Posted 20th Sep 2019, 11:04am
  More news from the village of Dreimire

The reputed author, learnt to scribble before learning to read, which became confusing because he could not cypher anything he accidently wrote. Now remember; what is seen in these said scribbles, not for the intellectually minded, only in the imagination of the reader of words….

Dreimire, as with all growing metropolises, there is a portion of dog fouling, mainly in the park, that proudly takes the name of the founder of Dreimire, Sir MacMount,

It is obvious this cannot be allowed to continue, for as well other dog fouling occasionally laid in the village lanes, this had been solved, not indeed to be swept under the carpet, as some other skulduggery regions do. When an offensive toley was discovered, operation ‘Cinderella was put into practice’. The dislocated dog toley was placed on a red cushion, scrutinized and measured, then frozen. Every dog from every knock and cranny in the district, physically checked for fit. Whines, moaning… and again bulging eyes, where present when the discipline was taking place.

No bum was left unturned, no hurdies to low. Once ownership was established, by process of elimination, an appropriate fine was made to pay, together with a severe handling charge imposed, also, the price of a new pair of gloves. The humiliation did the rest…illegal dog pooing was wiped out, in a single chilled stroke

Also, within the famous park, Sir MacMount, a competitive, activity between dogs and their owners, some may even see it as sport. Dogs crouching down, in deep concentration, waiting for their balls to be flung. all dogs are busy chasing bouncers from one corner to the next

The dilemma is, some enthusiastic mutts are tripping up other dogs, just to get their balls, long after the fetch whistle has been blown. They seem bent not to understanding the offside rule. One owner chucked a Chihuahua’s (nicknamed Techichis) in an effort to foul the other owner. Several dog lovers believe the reason why Chihuahuas have bulging eyes, is this very fear of being tossed onto the pitch, while kilts are dangerously swaying above, revealing all… in such a limited space.

After diligent research, this is not the case. They were used as ceremonial sacrifices by the Aztecs and the Toltec’s. Now, if you were the smallest dog in the world, and a dirty great Teuchter came up to you for such a ceremony, then your eyes would bulge as well.

It is rumoured, the first rugby teams formed in Dreimire village, the packs decided to practice unseen in the scrum, not with the oval ball, but with Chihuahuas…much more cuddly
peter.howden Posted 18th Sep 2019, 08:40am
  More news from the village of Dreimire

Welcome…welcome…welcome to our quaint village, where the residents of “Dreimire” certainly don’t have their heads in the sand, realizing the practice of the oldest profession in the world, takes place in the red light district, specially selected to be as discreet as possible, even with the protests of the minister, who unfortunately has a lisp.

What causes real excitement, is the clone life-size drawing of ‘Dolly the sheep’, tied up, outside the village mobile sex shop, every second night. with a notice secured in an obvious place, of the dangers of whiplash for passing motorists

Health and safety is always paramount, when choosing a blow up wellies for such a dancing occasion. Blow or suck to scale your own size, complete with tempting and tantalizing flavours hiding the taste of Dettol. It certainly makes the eyes water, while the ‘Military two step’, is performed by the gay Gordens trio, all privates, no dashing sergeants.

Dolly is certainly not the original call sheep, as there has been a few Shelia’s before… and a Morag if memory serves me well, though after the high jinks of a Friday night, complete with fish and chips, plus a bottle of Vimto… then anything can happen,

The lure of the night when hot blooded young men, and women, seeking more enticing things to satisfy their particular needs. Some young mistresses have to accidentally pass a dozen or more times, before setting upon more experience of this and that…whatever this and that is? … more news in the next edition .
peter.howden Posted 17th Sep 2019, 06:03am

The modern way in communication, via the computer’s reality of the internet, can mystify, and worry the older members of this crazy wonderful life. Yet, olden ways of contact can still disturb even the clearest and honest minds. The dreams of our ancestors carry messages bearing adventures of your soul (guise in different titles), equally essential as life itself,

Last night was one heck of a night for the collection of mysterious dreams rambling through my sleep, transporting my semi consciousness into the wonderland of dreams of the sea’s booming waves, animating their own stories of roving seahorses throughout the globe, landing on a distant shore…then way beyond.

Somewhere I sensed the belief in an imaginary friend, always there for me, but sadly shocked to discover my imaginary friend, has an imaginary friend he prefers to me. How can I compete? not to converse with him, whatsoever his name was

Strangely in the distance, I could see individual minute dung beetles, as if they were just underneath my feet, coming closer and closer, larger and larger, until one huge monster was above me. This fertiliser beast began to roll me in a ball of muck

Whisked forward into an emotionless structure, as an overzealous tattered prophet, dispersing his pious news, indulging in homemade text and phrases, how you are what you earn, reap what you sew… some two eons late.

Now wakened, how may I analyse the intricate jigsaw communication from the twilight zone, a sort of reverse in father Ted’s explanation to Dougal, what near and far away, meant !

For so many years my diary was dictated by other organizations agendas…now I’m free to impose my own agenda, with minor interference from anyone…. I’m still manure at organizing myself ….
peter.howden Posted 12th Sep 2019, 05:55pm
  The Journey

Jim stepped down from the train, immediately knowing where he was. “I’m dam sure this was not my original destination when I boarded the carriage, but I definitely know this place!” he thought inwardly. The guardsman hollered; “We’ll stop here for exactly two hours, repairing vital parts of the locomotive, don’t wander too far, but don’t worry folks, you will arrive at your unique destination, mandatory on your own personal ticket!”

It was at this instance or there about, Jim realized they had stopped at the township he grew up in. Jim appeared to walk aimlessly, for his feet seemingly had taken on an agenda of their own, leading him to an old run-down shop. This establishment had been his family’s business, almost as old as the township itself, seen the store in its prime and glory, but now about to collapse.

He left the tiny enterprise during the depression, while his parents were in dire need of unpaid help, but he needed to “Get away” and make his mark. He might have stayed on, yet the lore of bright lights, dictated his departure. His father suffered a stroke shortly afterwards, his mother never recovered from the gruesome toil to make ends meet. They are both gone now…Jim can’t remember being at their funerals. Sad, how things do change without warning, especially when there is a wanting not to see.

A stroll left him standing outside the church, used for all religions and ceremonies within the tiny community. The past intensely crept back into his mind, of his girl, Jane to be precise. The result of a unbridled fancy, a seed of life, formed with embraced love, the need to marry, to keep his beloved’s reputation being torn by the biases straight laced core in the small town…. he promised a hasty elopement. Not only did he take cold feet at the last possible moment, but swiftly vanished without trace. Not a word, as Jane waited at the hall door; causing her to face constant disapproval from the righteous bible brigade,

Jim swore he could hear the organist playing, rather badly, but with gusto and heart. He was almost sure catching a glimpse of his old love, but gnaw, it could not be. “I wonder what happened to her and my child”, Jim mutely moaned to himself. She was forced out of town, as the gossip’s glances were never of the kindly type.

Somehow, as if by magic, or some mysterious force, he was standing in front of the bank. It had managed to keep its business, struggling against two possible runs on the bank, common for that period of time. One thing, above all else, kept it going was it belonged to the people, and the community trusted everyone, for they were all in the same boat. Times were desperately hard, and the silver dollar was but a dream, and Jim had so many dreams.

This was the very reason he chose to scarper… however, I would not suppose the town would have given this act two thoughts, had he not taken $4,000 of their money. He persuaded himself having to get out of such a dreary place and make good of himself. The trouble was; he never did.

Perhaps nostalgia or time had placed soft sparling coating over his eyes, for the township looked warm to his mind….and after all, it was where he grew up… becoming the man he is.

A call out from the train’s guard, to hastily boarding the Pullman, then the train shot off like a bullet out of a gun. As it clattered along, the faceless ticket collector was high above him, as Jim slunk on the couch of the carriage, wondering if he had been fantasizing, as he could not remember where his journey started, or if he been sleeping all the way. . He was just about to inform the guard of his destination, when his ticket was punched, handed back without a word being spoken.

Jim glanced at his ticket, frowned with distrust at the words printed boldly; “a one-way ticket to Hell”
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