said he hardly ever uses it! And do you want to know something else?” he asked.
“What?”
“With days such as this, I feel school is going to be anything but boring from here on. Now what shall we do tomorrow?”
As our story finishes, with Lousy Linda having got her comeuppance, and with Horace and his best friend happy that they had been instrumental in it coming about, we see a middle-aged man, donning his helmet and gloves. Sitting casually atop his beloved old motorbike and sidecar, he is looking forward to a nice drive out into the countryside, then CRASH, BANG, WALLOP, the whole caboodle falls apart beneath him.
Pardon? You want to know what Horrible Horace did with the tarantula? He hid it inside Miss Battle-Scars desk. That is what he did with it. Horrible Horace’s school days will without doubt never be boring again.
THE END
The Cat Sat Smiling at Alice
I am a Cat, it said smiling at her,
A Cheshire Cat, you can tell by my fur,
My paws and whiskers are also a hint,
But the smile on my face is most significant.
I can see by your fur, said Alice –I do,
And also your paws and whiskers; it‘s true,
But that smile on your face has me all in a tizz,
Coming and going in such a whiz.
Still smiling at Alice, the Cat dryly replied,
You’d never believe me; you’d think I had lied,
If the smile on my face was gone; it’s a fact,
No one would listen or look at this Cat.
Without offering Alice the chance to reply,
The Cat went on with his horrible lie,
Creeping closer and closer, until ever so near,
Then he pounced, lashed out, and cut her poor ear.
Feeling the hurt and the blood running down,
Alice said, Oh, I was such a clown,
To have ever believed a Cat with a grin,
Take that, and that, you horrible thing!
Dustbin Man
Dustbin man, dustbin man,
Ho, ho, ho, I‘m the dustbin man,
Smelly bins, dusty bins, full of pongy stuff,
The dustbin man says I must rush!
Milk cart man, milk cart man,
Ho, ho, ho, I‘m the milk cart man,
Ice cold milk, fresh cold milk, milk so good to drink,
The milk cart man says, drink, drink, drink!
Bread van man, bread van man,
Ho, ho, ho, I'm the bread van man,
Fresh hot bread, white hot bread, bread so good to eat,
The bread van man says, eat, eat, eat!
Dustbin man, dustbin man,
Ho, ho, ho, I‘m the dustbin man,
Smelly bins, dusty bins, full of pongy things
The dustbin man says sing, sing, sing!!!
Louco’s Preferred Drink
My drink of choice,
My choice of drink,
It gets me going,
Keeps me in the pink.
I keep it there,
Up on the shelf,
Close by me,
my very own self.
And when I feel,
So tired and low,
It perks me up,
From head to toe,
It’s… Lucozade
The Tales of Beetle About
The Circus of Grotesques
While I was attending the afternoon performance of the Circus of Grotesques, a show that I had heard so much about (and not all of it being good, I might add), a most peculiar thing happened; something appeared on the back seat of my classic Volkswagen Beetle...
Exiting the marquee, I scrunched up the piece of paper the girl in the ticket booth had given me, when purchasing my ticket, a flyer advertising the Circus of Grotesques, and all of its eccentrically gross abnormalities. Dropping the flyer, I grumbled, “The Circus of Grotesques: it will change your life forever. Hah, that was certainly a load of old codswallop. It certainly hasn’t changed mine!”
Arriving back at my bug, glancing casually through the side windows, onto the rear seat, I saw what appeared to be a bundle of cloths stacked upon it. Confused, knowing only too well that I had not left anything there, I concluded that some person or persons unknown must have broken into my car while I was at the circus, and put them there. Tentatively placing my hand upon the door handle, I tried to open it. The door, however, didn’t budge; my car was still securely locked. Withdrawing the key from my trouser pocket, I inserted it into the lock and carefully, ever so slowly turned it. With a reassuring click, the mechanism unlocked. I cautiously opened the door.
Staring in at the mysterious bundle that someone has quite obviously taken a great deal of time and effort to put there – and all without forcing entry into my beloved old bug, I scratched my head. I could not understand why anyone would want to do it in the first place, let alone go to the bother of locking the door again when they were finished.
Scratching my head, still as confused, I tilted the driver’s seat forward and, leaning in, delved a hand into the mysterious bundle. Yanking it back fast, frightened, I raced away from my car as fast as my legs would carry me. You see, the thing that had frightened me, that had scared me half to death, was the bundle of cloths had suddenly moving. There was something ALIVE within it.
After several minutes in splendid isolation, far away from my car – and the thing lurking within, I gathered my composure and nerve, and cautiously, ever so cautiously returned to it. Re-entering my vehicle, I could feel my newfound bravery slipping, sliding away. All that I wanted to do was to run, to run away as fast as my legs would carry me, but I did not. No. For some peculiar reason, I stayed put, waiting, watching, listening for any more signs of life from the mysterious bundle before me.
I did not have to wait long, for all too soon the bundle began to move. In fright, I felt the contents of my stomach, my wonderful breakfast of hot, sticky porridge, trying its utmost to escape – and by the wrong route. At the last second, the very last second before I took flight, I heard a noise, I heard something that I had never in my wildest dreams expected to hear – I heard the unmistakable sound of a baby, a baby contentedly gurgling and glooping away to itself, and uttering the nonsensical mutterings that only babies are capable of doing.
My fears abating, I delved a hand into the bundle. After peeling away layer upon layer of pastel coloured cloths, I revealed the happy, smiling face of an ever so tiny little baby child. Tears of joy welled in my eyes; I was young again, staring down at the innocent, helpless tot before me.
Looking around, thinking it might be some sort of a sick, practical joke being perpetrated upon me, I was afraid that someone would spot the wee article in the back seat of my car, a baby that was quite obviously not mine, and I panicked. “They might think that I have kidnapped it!” I whispered. But no, no one appeared; no one came to claim the baby, to speak for it – or against me.
Calming down, I come to the conclusion that it must have been abandoned. Leaning in further, I tried speaking to it, but because it was so very young all that I got by way of return were more giggles, gloops and nonsensical mutterings, interspersed by wet dribbly bubbles discharging from its ever so tiny mouth.
“What are you doing here?” I asked it questioningly. The helpless article smiled up at me, blowing yet more bubbles, its little arms thrashing about erratically, but still saying nothing. Knowing only too well that I would never get an answer from the little tyke, my thoughts drifted to the problem of what I should do with it.
“Shall we bring you to the police?” I asked. “Surely they’ll know what to do with you, and how to find your mummy and your daddy.” Upon hearing these words the baby began crying, wailing so loudly I feared that if anyone had been passing, they would most surely have believed I was murdering it. “Okay, okay,” I said, “we’ll give the police a miss, for now.” To my utter surprise, the wee bairn stopped crying. Relieved, I whispered, “You win the first round
, little one. But whether you like it or not, I still have to work out what to do with you.” This time, thankfully, the baby did not cry. It just stared up at me with its huge, round eyes, pointing. Yes, it pointed – I am sure of it. Yes, yes, its little arm were still thrashing about in all directions, but amidst all this thrashing I believed – I knew, for some peculiar reason, that it was pointing to the driver’s seat. You are probably now thinking, ‘He’s a crazy man, loopy-doopy in the head,’ please allow me to continue, to explain...
Concluding that the wee tot wanted to be taken for a drive (yes, I truly believed this), I settled it, sitting up, within the pile of pastel coloured cloths. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I inserted the key into the ignition switch and turned it on. Gurgling and glooping in its own peculiar way, the old engine burst into life, and Betsy (the name I had many years pervious affectionately given to my old bug) pulled away from the curb.
In little more than a few minutes of pleasant driving – and on such a wonderful day – I had forgotten that the wee bairn was actually there (you see, it had been so very quiet). It was only after I had taken a left turn, onto a road that I always enjoyed driving along, with its twists and turns and ever so wonderful scenery, did I remember that I had a passenger. “Are you alright, back there?” I asked, glancing into my rear view mirror, to see. With that, I lost control of Betsy. Swerving right, left again and then right again, along the road that had suddenly lost all of its appeal, a road that if I did not regain control of Betsy – and fast, had every chance of taking my life, I glanced into the rear view mirror, shocked by what I had seen. Spotting a lay-by, I wrestled with the steering wheel and managed to guide Betsy to a safe halt.