‘This joke’s funny eh? It’ll make you larf, ma lav’
aka
‘Thus joke’s funay. Ut’ll make ya roar, pal’
A man rushes into his house and yells at his wife 'Brenda, pack ya things. I've just won the lottery,'
Brenda replies, 'shall I pack for warm weather or cold?'
'I don't care,' says the man, 'just as long as you're out of the house by noon,'
VIZ TOP TIP
Mothers, don’t use poisonous shampoos on your children’s hair to get rid of headlice. Scare them away using a dinner plate and an anglepoise lampt to cast a terrifying ‘Independence Day’ shadow over your child’s head
TODAY I WILL MOSTLY BE….
…procrastinating on i photo with my new university ID photo using teeth whitener, wrinkle eraser etc before sending it off to Edinburgh Napier
JERSEY AND WEST LINTON WEATHER FORECAST BROUGHT TO YOU BY JOOLS
JERSEY’S FORECAST, BY CRI
Awwwww, hill, it’s gonna be narce again, eh. Ahl be able to drink al fresco dan The Farmers, ma cock.
IS IT GONNAE RAIN AGAIN IN WEST LINTON?
Ah cannae believe uts gonnae be warm an sunny, pal.
REALLY? I DIDN’T KNOW THAT
Some unhinged adults think that The Wombles are fictional.
Boo’s Bulletin
Below a certain age, all Wombles are nameless. Upon coming of age, a Womble chooses his name by looking through Great Uncle Bulgaria's large atlas until they find a name that suits them.
Wiki
WORD DU JOUR
Wombling - to clear the rubbish on Wimbledon common and recycle it
Here are some examples of how you could use the word in a sentence…
….Underground, overground wombling free. The Wombles of Wimbledon Common are we.
Actually, that’s two sentences but you get the gist.
OR
Wombling is very eco friendly and we should all have idealogies like The Wombles.
JOOLS TRANSLATES FOR YOU
Anyone who thinks that The Wombles are real are a bit kwair in the head, eh? That blowk from La Pulente reckons he saw one dan the faav maal road once. I reckon he’d bin drinkin’ too mach scrumpy, mon vie.
Translates into
The Wombles are not real ya choob, ya ken wit ah mean? Ya shouldnae be allowed oot in the community
THINGS THAT GET ON MY WICK
- Cliches like ‘you’re a superstar.’ Bog off you condescending *beep*.
- People who talk loudly on their mobiles in public. I don’t want to hear their drivel.
- Women who stop to chat in supermarket aisles with their trollies and block the way. Move the *beep* out the way, I wanna get back home in time to see The Wombles on UK Gold.
- Nick Griffin
And now for something serious....
- There is no such thing as naturally occurring yellow food, items like bananas and corn kernels are painted by a relative of The Wombles called The Wimbles of Wombledon
- The Duke of Wellington got his name because he used to wear Wellington Boots in the bath
- In 1950 only one household in 50 owned a Womble
- Humans begin to shrink at the age of 30 and by the time you are 60 you are small enough to sleep in an old box of tissues
- If you cannot afford to go on a ski holiday, you could sellotape planks of wood to your feet, sit in a chest freezer for 3 hours and then throw yourself at a tree.
THE FUNNY STORY
Sadly, there is no funny story today. Instead I am going to inflict a draft copy of Chapter 1 of my novel on you. All comments very welcome, good and bad. If you feel I should change something or add something please let me know.
THE HALLOWED CHIEF
CHAPTER 1
His face lifted to allow the piping hot water to prickle onto his flesh; it was deliciously painful. Scrubbing at his skin with an exfoliating sponge was a release for him. He had bought the sponge because it was made from twigs and it had originally been used to bathe sacred chiefs. He enjoyed scuffing his skin until it bled, it made him feel more alive. He saw himself as being hallowed so it was a ‘must-buy’.
Returning to the bedroom he gazed down at the young woman’s naked form and smiled; she looked so peaceful. He perched on the side of the bed and swatted away the blowfly that had settled on her eye duct and gently ran his fingers over the red marks on her neck. A slice of dim dawn light peeped through a gap in the curtains; he scowled as a cockerel crowed. It reminded him of his ex-wife who once told him that he was ‘an egotistical bastard, just like a cockerel who thought that the sun rose to hear him crow.’
‘Bitch!’
Memories of her made him feel irritable, so he turned his mind to dumping his victim before full light. He pulled her from the bed by her ankles making a subdued thud on the carpet. He dragged her to the shower enclosure and rubbed away the fibres and fluids; he hoped the SOCO officers wouldn’t fumble around with her too much.
‘They’ll be poking and prodding you soon and you really don’t deserve that.. they’ll find fuck all you know.’ He mumbled to her.
He dressed her in an old musty school uniform and then, using his fishing knife he sliced at a large clump of her flaxen hair. He retrieved the wig block from his wardrobe and deftly weaved the hair into the wig lace. The wooden skull looked bizarre with just a few locks of hair; like those silly women at his ex-wife’s hair salon with the rubber cap on. He laughed out loud.
The sun was peeping over the horizon as he tipped the body into the rear of his truck. He covered it with fishing nets and lobster pots then drove at speed to the deserted beach. The truck bumped down the slip then sped across the large expanse of beach. He unloaded her haphazardly onto the line of salty stones and shells; the tide was about to turn. A gull screeched overheard and peered at him through it’s flint eye. He hated those scavenging creatures and screamed back at it.
‘Fuck off!’
***
Milly Matson sat astride her board, bobbing gently as the sea bulged intermittently. She was sixpence off six foot and her long legs dangled either side. She sometimes felt as if she was too tall and often thought she might like to be petite; a Kylie Minogue of the WPC world. But then again, she always seemed to attract short men, so being shorter may exacerbate the situation. For her, short men came in two categories. They were either attracted to her with thoughts of her taking charge in full uniform, kicking down their door and forcibly detaining them or the other type of short man who was scared of her and feared rather than fantasised about her taking charge.
It was a perfect day for surfing; the sun blazed in an azure sky and the early autumn swell had arrived. She closed her eyes. She was at peace in the sea; her soul belonged there. She remembered when she was a young child, she would spend all summer in the ocean. Her mother had told her that she must have been a mermaid in a previous life. Milly had believed her and had insisted to her infant school teacher that she used to be a mermaid. The teacher thought that Milly had become obsessed with the subject and had a quiet word with her mother. Milly smiled to herself remembering her childlike reaction when she realised that she had never been and never would be a mermaid. She hadn’t spoken to anyone for days and had shut herself away dreaming of singing to local fisherman whilst perched on a rock, combing her long blonde hair with a coral toothed comb; she had truly believed that being a mermaid was her ineluctable destiny.
A plane rocketed off from the airport runway that was perched above Les Mielles and she was jolted back from her day dreaming, she noticed the first of a set of waves creeping towards her. She flopped onto her tummy and exploded into frenzied paddling as the surf approached. She managed to catch the first one, jumped up onto her feet and crouched down. The feeling of flight and freedom was incredible. She swerved and bounced to shore then jumped off into the mashed white water. She was about to paddle back out when blue-flashing lights caught her eye in the distance. There was a burst of activity at the next slipway; police vehicles were arriving with lights and klaxons flashing and blaring. Officers alighted and walked purposefully down the beach. She followed their direction of travel and saw a crowd of people standing in a circle looking down. Her stomach clenched; Milly was the duty detective sergeant on call.
She raced with her board back to her ruck sack secreted amongst biscuit coloured dunes. There were a number of missed calls from police headquarters on her mobile and a text message from her CID partner, DC Simon Haines asking her to attend the beach. A member of the public had reported finding a dead body.
Milly returned to the gravel car park and dumped her board in the rear of her van, peeled off her wet suit and dressed in shorts and t-shirt. It was quicker to run to the scene rather than drive. She tugged her long auburn hair into a scrunchy, her pony tail dancing behind her as she pistoned towards the crowd. Milly filtered through her afternoon plans with a mental sieve as she ran. She would have to arrange child-care for her boy, Alex who was at a party. He was five and his parent’s had split up when he was a toddler. Alex’s father was a cop too and was due on duty later that day. She slowed down as she arrived at the scene and tapped out a quick text to her dad. He replied immediately bemoaning the fact he’d have to enter a room full of small, hyperactive children and ‘whiff their festering little feet.’ She smiled.
Once at the scene, Milly immediately took charge shooing the members of public towards uniformed officers; they reluctantly wandered off whispering darkly to each other. DC Haines was covering the body with a plastic sheet. He was in his thirties and had angular features with an undernourished appearance. His wife had once told Milly at a shift party that spooning her husband was like cuddling up to a bicyle.
‘Where’s the duty inspector, Si?’
'Fucked if ah know. It's Semtex. He's probably stuck in traffic behind SOCO and the FME.’ He had a muted Scottish accent that had faded after spending a few years in Jersey.
‘Oh, crap! Is Semtex duty D.I.?’ Milly groaned as she snapped on the rubber gloves that Haines had passed her.
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Semtex’ was the worst supervising officer she could have wished for. DI Roane had earned his nickname because he was liable to explode at any given moment and the slightest slur on his investigative skills sent him to DefCon 1. He was emotionally shallow and too slick for Milly’s liking. He was a six foot three burly man made up of thick, solid muscle that was starting to wobble in places as he aged. Milly could have sworn on one occasion when he walked across the CID office his gargantuan frame had caused her coffee to move in ever decreasing circles like the approaching T-Rex scene in Jurassic Park.
‘Find out DI Roane’s ETA.’ Milly shouted to the uniforms. ‘And seal off the beach, slip and car park.’
She turned back to Haines. ‘Let’s have a butchers then. Any ID?’
‘Nah, empty pockets. One of the wooden tops gave her a quick pat doon without gloves before ah could stop him.’ Haines replied.
Milly rolled her eyes.
Haines lent down and gently lifted the plastic sheet. The violet aroma of decomposition collided with the fragrant smell of Milly’s coconut sun screen; she made a conscious effort to breath through her mouth. They stood silently gazing at the body as the sun blazed down like the glaring eye of a daisy stigma. Flies buzzed excitedly in every direction like toddlers at a party.
Milly heaved a sigh, 'What a waste.'
‘Aye. I’d say she was in her early twenties, serge, but why’s she dressed in school uniform?’
Milly cocked her head to one side and frowned. ‘You’re right. I’d give her early to mid. How odd! Maybe she’d been to a fancy dress or… some sort of sexual role-play? We’ll need to do a bit of digging…see if there was any fancy dress parties on the island last night.’
She looked away from the body and gazed at a dog galloping amongst the tangle of seaweed at the water’s edge. ‘The tide’s on its way up, this scene needs to be preserved in some way.’
After establishing that the batteries of the digital camera’s with both patrol cars were flat she hurried off to find a camera. She left Haines to draw a plan of the scene using a nearby Groyne as a fixed point of reference. During the German Occupation of Jersey a number of anti-tank measures were implemented on the beaches to prevent a British invasion. Tree stumps and old telephone poles had been sunk 4 or 5 metres into the sand with 3 metres sticking up out of the sand. Many of them had mines attached to the bottom. After the war the mines were (find out word) and the poles were sawn down to sand level. Over the years the sand had eroded and depending upon the tide movement the groynes were exposed. Haines looked up and down the beach and could see the pattern of the groynes. They were not always exposed so he was aware that it may be a futile should the shifting sands hide the groynes, but it was better than using diddly-squat.
Milly sprinted up the slip negotiating the blue and white tape an officer was threading around the periphery. She found the public huddled together like fans at a movie premiere. They were a mish mash of holiday-makers, dog walkers and surfers straining to get a view. She stood in front of the crowd, took her warrant card from her rucksack and flipped it open. She explained that she needed to use a camera and was eagerly offered several. The best offer came from a young lad half wearing a wet suit; the top half of it hung down as if he was having an out of body experience. He ran to his van and thrust a Canon G12 at Milly.
Milly dashed back into fog that had started to tumble in like a dull grey blanket slowly shrowding the beach. She photographed the victim and the surroundings, flicking it on to macro for the tyre treads in the sand. She doubted the countless overlapping shoe prints would be of assistance but photographed as many as possible, just in case.
Milly noticed a minute twig on the victim’s neck and glanced concerned at the tide bubbling towards them, it would soon be swirling around the body. She had to act quickly. None of the officers had any evidence bags; inefficiency at it’s worst. She resorted to using cellophane from Haine’s cigarette packet to bag the item. As she photographed the red marks on the victim’s neck, she was reminded of the Chinese wrist burns her brother gave her when they were children. She shook her head thinking how inappropriate her thoughts became during times of stress. Having photographed and examined the body in situ she decided that she could do no more to preserve the scene and rather than leave the sea to wash away any evidence unseen by the naked eye, she decided to drag the victim up and away from the incoming tide. Four officers lifted and placed the body onto an old cell blanket from one of the patrol cars and carried her past the high tide line.
Just as they had lain her back down, a car skidded to a halt on stones at the slip. DI Roane stalked towards her, he was the size of a small Outer Hebridean island. The SOCO officer, DS Alan Dodd scurried behind him. Dodd was lilliputian by police standards and wore slightly oversized clothes thinking it would hide his stature, it gave him the look of one of Ken Dodd's sidekicks, hence his nickname ‘Diddy’ Dodd. Milly and Dodd had joined together and were great friends. He had a ruddy complexion and his features were squashed together like mashed beetroot. But he was such a nice bloke that everyone loved him and being unkind to Diddy was like poking your finger in a Labrador’s eye.
'It took you long enough to get here Diddy. You come all the way from Knotty Ash then?' Milly asked.
'Yeah, how fucking tickled I am, Matson. It must be a laugh a minute working with you, eh?' He spoke with a local accent and added eh to the end of many sentences; Jersey's version of the French 'hein'.
Milly smiled and winked at him.
She turned to Roane who was strutting around like an ostrich and explained the situation whilst Diddy sloshed around in pools of seawater. He was photographing what little was left of the scene.
‘Well this is a fuckin cock up, we’ve probably lost vital evidence….let’s have a look at this stiff then.’ exploded Roane.
He had once been a heavy smoker and as a consequence sounded as if he gargled with gravel. He had a hideous wiry beard large enough to house a dozen fledglings and flecks of his previous meal often balanced precariously on individual wiry strands. The specks of white, pink and yellow gave her the impression he’d had his usual bacon and egg roll for breakfast. Milly thought that he probably ate quite a few greasy rolls, his face was so fat it looked as if he was recovering from a quadruple wisdom tooth operation.
‘I’ve done the best I can in the circumstances, sir.’ She put emphasis on the word “sir”.
‘You’ve done your best, have you?’ The fog was making the heat more humid and rivulets of sweat flowed into his grey pellet eyes. ‘You’ve moved the body - the worst thing you can do in a murder case.’
‘She’d’ve ended up floating away if I’d’ve left her there….anyway, Haines’s sketched the scene and measured up from a fixed point. I’ve photographed the important stuff and I’ve bagged evidence. SOCO will do everything else…all’s not lost.’
‘Haines! What the fuck did you use as a fixed point in the middle of the beach? A fucking sand castle?’ Roane grumbled.
‘Ah used one of those anti tank posts the Gerries buried during the occupation, sairr.’
‘You are joking? For fucks sake, you numpty. Don’t you know anything. It’s only once in a blue moon those things get exposed, it all depends upon bollocks like the tide and sand erosion. We’ll have to get a JCB down here to locate the fucking fixed point if we need to know where she was dumped exactly. Didn’t they teach you anything at Tulliallan?’
‘Funnily enough no, they didn’t mention the ins and oots of anti tank defences left behind oan the beaches of the Channel Islands during the war.’ Haines mumbled quietly.
‘What was that Haines?’
‘Nothing sairr, Ah’ll make sure I use a mair suitable fixed point next time.’ He replied and then under his breath, ‘I’ll see if they have a tape measure that’ll reach La Rocco Tower.
The paramedics were next to arrive with a stretcher and a body bag. The smell of body bags always conflicted her; an odour that floundered in her memory. The sight of the bleak sacks was grim; a sign of death, but the smell was that of children’s inflatable pools. Lazy summer afternoons in the garden with Alex splashing in paddling paradise clashed with death and decomposition.
Roane stood quietly for a moment watching the paramedics then had to lumber backwards to avoid the tide nipping at his highly polished brogues. He wanted something else to rant about.
‘Hmmmm, I see. Well there’s not much else we can do here now that the scene has been washed away. What’s with the casual attire, Matson? Too hot for a suit?’
Milly couldn’t be bothered to explain herself to Roane. Whatever she said would be wrong so she erred on the side of insolence.
‘Yeah something like that, sir. Do you think the look’ll catch on?’
He glared at her, turned claret and started to say something then changed his mind and unsuccessfully tried to storm off; his shoes sinking in the sand.
Milly snorted quietly.
‘Leave uniform and Haines to speak to any potential witnesses. We’ll get back to set up an incident room and…..’ The demonic growl of a foghorn obliterated the end of his barked order.
Julie Myatt ©
