Anton's Ideas

Anton Wills-Eve on world news & random ideas

Category: humour


<a href=””>Struggle</a&gt;

a strangely unusual struggle


There are few things more  annoying in this world than knowing you know something but being completely incapable of recalling details, names, faces and quotes surrounding a key event in your life. Mine is somewhat esoteric in it’s subject matter but nonetheless infuriating for that. I have no recollection at all of my first encounter with K482. 

If you’re wondering,  it is not an animal in Star Wars or a similar space oddity, far from it. It is the catalogue number of Mozart’s 22nd piano concerto in Eflat major – no he didn’t write twenty two concerti in the same key, it’s just that this one was in Eflat major – and I know I was 14 when I first saw it played at a concert,  – Oh no! You won’t believe this. A twelve year old kid has just rung my door bell and tried to sell me a hair brush while pleading he had been made redundant in a steelworks more than 150 miles away. Teach me to live in a posh area! – where was I?

Yes, I cannot construct any mental images of my introduction to a performance of K482.  What annoys me most is that the concerto is one of my favourite pieces of music, the whole world knows the final movement – well everyone who saw Amadeus does, that’s HOW they remember it – and I have studied and played it many, many times now. I think it was my grandmother who took me to the concert, she loved good music and would have pinched my father’s press tickets. Ah, a clue. Yes!! Dad had tickets for every BBC Promenade concert at the Albert Hall every year from 1948 to 1960 so it must have been there. I think. So let me concentrate. I had heard it on the radio of course, and messed about with the solo piano score, but never seen it at a concert. Now it was almost certainly 1956 and I think school had not long broken up for the summer or I would have taken a friend.

You can’t hear it but I’m playing the concerto through my headphones while I write this. But it isn’t helping much. Ah, that’s one reason why. The pianist has just played the final cadenza, the one which Benjamin Britten wrote for Sviatislav Richter in 1966 when I was nearly twenty four! So it wasn’t that version. Hang on though, another clue. That cadenza. Many people play Britten’s version nowadays, and before that Paul Badura-Skoda’s cadenza,  (1958?) was very popular, it was not that either. I wish I could make my memory hear. It doesn’t have any trouble with hearing 1956 radio comedy shows so why can’t it pick up that concerto? I’ve been to literally hundreds of proms over the years so picturing the auditorium doesn’t help. Wait, but it does.

 – Oh blow! I’m doing the meal tonight as my wife’s ill and I haven’t prepared the Bolognese sauce yet. They’ll have to wait. No, they can’t there’s footie on the tele.-  Where was I? Yes another clue. I do remember that the soloist and the conductor were not dressed the same. Yes, of course. He was in evening dress and tails, they always were in those days, so the pianist must have been wearing a dress. It was a woman. Mozart so often is, especially this concerto. Now what women were around then? Hess, Lympany, Bachauer, Nikolyeva, Fuchsova, – Strewth! Of course. I’ve got a dreadful mind but that must be right. I made a joke about the pianist’s name when we got home and dad was not amused. So Lisa Fuchsova played the first ever K482 I ever saw? Really? She could have done, but if she did she always played the cadenzas by Hummel, never Mozart’s own cadenzas in either the first or third movements. And I can vaguely hear that particular passage in the final movement because the first time I ever SAW anyone play that Mozart concerto they definitely added bits by someone else. Hummel’s were the only popular alternatives in those days. So who was conducting?

It should  be easy now. Sir Malcolm Sergeant was the only conductor I saw at the proms before 1958 and he always directed the BBC symphony Orchestra. So the immaculate show off would have been in charge! –  hang on. I have to do this Bolognese for my gourmet trio, quartet if you include me. It’s a new original recipe I’m trying  by adding some Thai grains in with the green peppers when sauteeing them before adding them to the sauce. Mmmm….yes, lovely! Well they all seemed to like it. My son says it is just the thing before a match but Italy were playing last night so why didn’t I do it then? Can’t remember.

 – Talking of remembering let’s get back to K482. I’ve got the soloist, the Orchestra, the venue, the conductor and even whose cadenzas were played. That’s not bad. But what else was on the programme? Yes, got it. It was the first time I ever heard Richard Strauss’s Ein Heldenleben. It was dreadful, but then I never have liked his music. Hooray, I can retire satisfied to the lounge just in time to catch the Portugal game. My son’s just asked me what I’d been blogging about as I sat down. So I told him my struggle with my memory. Three minutes later he said,

“Dad, that was probably Tuesday July the 31st at the Albert Hall in a prom concert. It was being played by Lisa Fuchsova and Sergeant was conducting the BBC SO. Did you stay for that awful Strauss?” I gaped at him as he turned his i-pad towards me. It was on the BBC Proms archive site which has every concert listed, with full details, since the first in 1895. I could cheerfully have hit him.





















I had to write about the word ‘grain’


in France quite a lot of people eat

‘un grain de blė’, as we say, wheat.

many more on ‘grain d’orge” gorge,

that is barleycorn, at mill or forge.

but medically ‘grains d’orge’ mean

seeds in joints which can’t be seen.

in ‘grains de moutarde, ou de grenade’,

‘mustard or pomegranate seed’ is had.

to speak really posh, refined, you say

‘le bon grain finit toujours par lever’.

meaning quality always rises to the top.

‘la récolte de blé’ is grain’s harvest crop.

‘un entrepôt des grains’ we call a granary

‘un poulet de grain’, a corn fed chick for me.

être en grain’ pigs love all the world over

it simply means to find oneself in clover.

‘un grain de café‘ is a brown coffee bean

‘un grain de poivre’, a pepper corn green.

‘un grain de raisin’ is a grape, pip, the lot.

‘un grain de beauté’ a patch or beauty spot.

‘un grain de poussière is a speck of dust

for a grain of salt ‘un grain de sel’ is a must.

if physics in science, however, turns you on

‘un grain d’électricté‘ is just one electron.

‘avoir son grain’ tells us he’s drunk in his bed

and ‘il a un grain’ means he’s gone off his head.

‘côté grain de cuir’ is leather’s grainy side too

‘gros grain’ is coarse, or pock marks, a few.

‘ruban gros grain’ is the rough side of photographs

‘temps à grain’, a sea squall, does not bring laughs.

there are so many variations of using ‘grain’ that we

avoid getting soaked by rain in a ‘fort grain de pluie’,

or being blown off the road and then onto the grass

by a strong gust of wind that’s called a ‘grainasse’.

but from nice folk we might ‘en prendre de la grain’,

benefit from their example, or simply ‘casser le grain’

that’s just eating as much as we think that we’ll need

until we all ‘monter en grain’, that means run to seed.



the prompt was a blog on the word ‘countless’


In Mediaeval central France, around the time King Saint Louis IX died in 1270 while on crusade, a small territory in the centre of the Loire valley found itself in a most unfortunate situation. Its countless peasants, merchants, burghers and noblemen found themselves literally Countless. Le Comte Pierre le Pauvre had died in penury, and being a bald bachelor had left neither hair nor heir.

It was by no means a huge Comté, indeed more like one of the small English counties which abounded at that time, still do. The size of Wiltshire? Yes, maybe so. But, although of little significance politically or strategically, it had one asset which every inhabitant knew  could make them very rich if properly managed. The wine grown on those few banks of the Loire  was of a magnificent quality. Indeed the seven vineyards which claimed to produce the finest wine all insisted that the Knight, Nobleman, merchant or Esquire who owned them should be crowned and consecrated the new Comte. The king was, dead they had heard, so if they arranged things fast enough their new ruler would be in place before any royal command could name another claimant to the title. But two serious problems faced them, one legal, one regal.

The legal one was simple. A scroll in the local cathedral, with copies in the largest chateau  and modest castle, dated back four hundred years to 873 laying down the rules for a Comte to obey  from the day of succession to the title. It said, en bref, that if the incumbent died childless and with no spouse, then whoever was appointed in his place, should both be married reasonably young and be expected to have children to succeed him in abundance. In short it was intended by king Charles II that the title should be hereditary. By an odd coincidence he was also bald, at least history has always given him the nickname  ‘Charles the bald’, but the coincidence ended there for he was succeeded by his son.

But the regal problem was much more in line with  typical French concern for the  taste of the grape than the defence of the realm. Or at least that part of it which produced fine wines. The Comte had to provide the monarch with a cask of the region’s finest vintage, voted by the seven vine growers, every three months. So how did the inhabitants of this typically sleepy Comté resolve the appointment and choice of a new Comte? Well first let us meet the seven owners of the vineyards. To start with by far the wealthiest and, under normal circumstances, the likeliest man to lead the countless people was Sire Robert Bonchance, who lived in the castle. His vineyard produced a really excellent dry, crisp white with a nose of strawberries and wild peaches mixed with gooseberry flavours, which had the added aroma of a South Australian eucalyptus. You know the sort of wine. Goes well with poached white fish and creamed potatoes. It would have been an absolute certain choice  except for the unfortunate fact that neither South Australia nor potatoes had at that time been made known to Western Europe. And Robert had another problem. His wife Mathilde was a positive shrew. She may have had four sturdy sons in five years but the locals all recoiled at the idea of her being given any higher social status than she had.

The two knights of the king’s bodyguard, honorary, who dwelt on that part of the Loire were twins. They each owned a vineyard and loved playfully trying to outdo each other every year when the grapes were trodden. Pierre and Jean-Claude Jumelles  were aged twenty nine, good soldiers, vintners and pals. But there the similarity ended. Much as they loved each other they also loved the same young lady, pretty nineteen year old Hélène Damnaçion daughter of a Basque merchant and his wife who had moved there when she was small.

“Eh alors?” sighed Pierre.

“Quoi, donc!” replied his sibling.”Nous allons ….”

No, look they both spoke perfect Oxford English  …”I say old chap we’d better decide who has the hand of the fair belle Hélène by a feat of arms.” He meant literally by feet and arms. “You game?” His brother was and so they raced each other for a few milia passuum down the Loire in rowing boats. Hélène stood on the bank cheering them on and shouting such loving remarks as, 

“Drown the bastard, Pierre, I never could stand him!”

Her prayers of pious devotion were heard and her knight errant won by a league as their two premierships skimmed the water. However, Jean-Claude took it well and made this proclamation to the crowds on the tow path. “Whatever fair maid shall cross my palm with two groats and a flagon of mead shall have me for a night!” On hearing this Lucette  Geaux whispered to Virginie Cémois,

“Je tink ‘e means knight.” But she was too slow, Charolotte Isine  had rushed forward, mead and groats at the ready, and told him she was already his. One might say she was ready maid and his luck was in. Unfortunately three of the older wine growers, while rich in money and with superior fruit, were all at least forty years old. Albert Orl, Pascale Planche  and Guy de la Musée all had good wives too and fine young boys, but their only hope of conquering the countless inhabitants was by somehow rigging the vote, for none had the bearing or  brains of a Comte. And then they all stared at the owner of the seventh vineyard. They had forgotten the rules or else, in the excitement of the chase for ça qui Comte, had not realised their dilemma. 

The seventh contestant was Blanche Neige, the most beautiful girl in the kingdom, let alone the Comté. What on earth were the countless countless to do. They could make her a Comptesse too, but did she have to be married to a noble? The scroll said nothing about gender, it had been hand copied by a scribe called  N.Carolina. So the six wine growers decided to ask her if she would be prepared to pick any handsome man of her choice, give him her grapes and then they would agree her wine would be the best and they would all withdraw in favour of her suitor. Blanche was staggered at their effrontery. “But, mes amis, ‘ow you say? I would win for my wine’s best anyway. I’ll be LA COMTE et mon mari”  (French for hubby bur she forgot, it was an English speaking plot) will be LE COMTESSE, what’s wrong with that?

Well of course nowadays nothing at all. But in France, some seven hundred and fifty years ago, transgendering the aristocracy was almost as bad as publicly admitting the nobles already had. So the vintners put it to two votes. First which was the superior wine because if a man won everything would be fine. And secondly, in case it was Blanche, they decided to create the first female Comte. In truth the countless countless could not wait to see what the new king’s reaction would be. But Blanche still had to find a hubby and suddenly had a super plan, hastening to the king’s coronation up North. He took one look at her and cried, “Ma Cherie!” which basically meant would she be queen? She agreed and told him she was also Le Comtesse, de somewhere on the Loire. He could not conte less. He just took down her title and added it to his own and added her possessions to the crown.

So that left the countless countless countless still. But at least they did not have to cross dress every time they wished to relieve themselves in a public place.



<a href=””>Fork</a&gt;

for those who have eyes’ let them hear!


it was all alone when there it lay,

unremarked by all and sundry on a lovely sunny day.

just a picnic fork on a plastic tray.

cast aside, nonchalantly I suppose,

by a greedy, sated, bloated nobleman one of those

rich wayside revellers who chose

to quaff Champagne, kept cold on ice

by his ageing, faithful, travelling butler, on whose advice

they had already met there to dally; twice.

she, versed in the art of coquetry not amour,

and hoping to seduce him, through her fake passion once more

and so gain his wealth by pretending to adore

his bold masculine charm, his figure and his face

lauding his charismatic, haunting looks and aristocratic grace.

why else would they keep a tryst in such a place?

poor lass, his secret was well hidden from her mind

she had no idea he was a vile philanderer, a Don Juan so unkind

who wished only to enjoy ravishing his new ‘find’.

like the fork in the road, though without any tray,

on the grass verge, by a little copse, they most immoderately lay

he taking his pleasure ; she hoping ultimately he’d pay

for the rest of her days, and for all that she might need

while he never even thought, perhaps he might plant a seed

that would flourish soon in her and not satisfy her greed.

thus the harsh moral of my story, it is amoral after all,

is never picnic by a road, with a butler watching, or you’ll fall

for a vile lecher who will leave you with what you call

its father, when he reduces you to total destitution

unable to afford a fork to perform on him the type of execution,

 you daily contemplate in your sad state of prostitution.



<a href=””>Dream</a&gt;

Ah! a chance to ramble in aphasia and still be sane.


To sleep, perchance to wake up with cramp or the ageing need to use the loo. And it is still only about half past two in the morning. Still, I think I shall take a pill. One of those strong one’s that won’t let me stir. Six hours of solid snoring through, what wonders for such a span of time will my mind prepare?

First I saw that I was very handsome, was it really me? Well the beauties chasing after me seemed to think so, and oh  the pleasure I would get to know  when they descended on my bed.  But half-life is not like that; as the first girl who sat beside me was squat and fat.

Toothless she grinned saying “Ullo, dearie.” My soul was clean but so uneasy. In fantasy it had wanted to play with fire, and satisfy its lustful desire. But we all know dreams are not so accommodating, they twist and turn and leave  us waiting for all we want to appear before us while asleep. This must be lest awake we might sin, you cannot do that when your will’s not plugged in, for God only punishes sinners who know what they are doing.

Then my mind took a bellicose turn, and sword in hand, I confronted a fearsome cut  throat band of desperadoes with one aim, to cut me down and expunge my name from the list of people their kingdom  feared. A jungle of sorts, with temples and palm trees then appeared, surrounding me and the band all cleared. Wandering through falling fruit as my uncontrolled mind, asleep in a waking world, went on its unreasonable yet exciting way. Next I was invited to play a piano concerto , an orchestra was there already and the conductor beckoned with his baton. I asked what he wanted me to play, Mozart number 21 was what he said but the noise from the orchestra filled me with dread, and the piano keys numbered three hundred and four.  But The cut throats returned and to loud applause I bowed and returned to my earlier dream

This time a fair beauty with lips like peaches and cream, have you ever tasted them even in a dream? They were lovely , but melted as she then melted all over me, and the pills ceased working as I rose for a pee.

Two hours more sleep I had had, some good and some bad. But none of it memorable or if it was, I have no recall and think that such dreams are  far from what I expected at all. So disconnected, and the book that had fallen on the floor, with the light still on just by the door, was entitled “How to write poetry when you are asleep”.

Time for my alarm by the bed to  bleep. The stupid thing thinks I’m still asleep!




<a href=””>Brick</a&gt;

Sorry I’ve been silent for a week, my wife has had a major operation and everything’s been upside down. But she’s getting on well. Now to resume with the one word prompt , Brick.


When first reflecting on the single word brick, most people imagine many of them stacked together in all sorts of shapes and sizes to form buildings, towns and cities. But oddly I have never thought of a brick as anything other than just that, a single brick.

The first one I ever saw on its own was near the orchard wall on the side of our garden. It was very old. I was two so it probably had three hundred years more life than I, but it fascinated me by its dirty pinky brown colour and the bit chipped out of its side. I tentatively turned it over with my foot and recoiled in a toddler’s yucky horror. Stuck to its underneath was a nest of newly born beetles and two snails with slightly cracked shells. I felt sorry for them but was loath to touch them in case they might bite me. Insects and little life was something to be wary of at such an age. My sister, fifteen months older, was worse. She screamed and jumped backwards, tripped and fell over, ending up sitting in a patch of damp grass.

At that age I didn’t know how to tell her  “You’ve wet your arse”.

The second brick to challenge me all alone came much later when I had grown to nearly nine. There it sat on the garden path, between two sticks. But something was wrong. It was pristine, new unmarked and looking as though it had just been made and placed there on the gravel. My mind by now was curious and loved solving mysteries. Where had it come from, what was its purpose for no building work was going on at home. I was not afraid of bricks by then and picked it up to inspect it. The maker’s name, Thos James and Son. was clear to see,written on it’s gutter side. This had been embossed and stamped on it after leaving the kiln in which it was given life.  That made me wonder. Did it have parents, a whole family. Who were its kith and did its kiln have kin?

As I turned over in my hand the mason’s object, which he would coat with cement and change into an artefact of his trade with a triangular shaped tool, to add to many thousands more, I had a thought. Had this single brick been bought for its outstanding beauty, was it a pearl of its culture, cultured as pearls so often were? I only knew I had heard these words, I had no idea what one did to culture a pearl or anything else. But my boy’s mind wound magic properties round that brick, was it made uniquely for a jugglers  trick? Or had some foul felon commissioned just such a weapon, to throw at a millionaire’s window and gain entrance to priceless jewels in a study safe? That would be done by night, so was this brick fashioned by an alchemist at dusk and sold to some fiendish foe of Sherlock Holmes, whose tomes of detection were just entering the realm of my greedy young reader’s devouring mind? I dropped it on the ground, and later wondered was it ever found?

The next sole brick I used aged sixteen and for a sole purpose. I placed it oblong shape up beneath a window to peep in. My sister had taken a new boy friend into the withdrawing room and my mother forbade me to join them. What could they be doing? I had to see, so after a late tea I went round the side of the house and thought. ‘I’ll pick a brick’. First brushing off a lazy louse, I placed it at the perfect angle, stood on its top one footed and stretched up until I could see. They were only drinking cups of tea. In my chagrin I lost my balance as well, twisting my ankle very painfully. I watched it swell but could never say how I had injured myself that stupidly innocent day.

You would think as I grew older I would lose my interest in mundane things. Well on the whole I did, but on one glorious day at university I had my greatest encounter with a single brick. I was twenty years old and the college walls were half as old as time. The same one where someone wrote that famous Newdigate prize rhyme. The porter was helping to erect a wall,  just by the master’s lodge, to stop any bat or ball from breaking  downstairs windows. When from his wheelbarrow a brick fell free and, of course, it fell near me. Remembering my ancient passion for all things ‘brick’ I picked it up and took it back to my student rooms. There, amid  objets d’art and books,  I put it in a place of honour and soon it became a talking point. “That brick anything special, John?” I was asked.

“Worth several thousand,” I replied looking at its admirer’s aghast face.

“You paid that much just for a brick?” I nodded, but demurely refused to comment on what was the significance of the scratched engraving on it. Soon students came from all around to examine, marvel and shake their heads. It really was a wondrous hoax, that I kept up until the day I left. That was when  a rich American girl took me aside and offered me an enormous sum to buy it for her antique collection. When she left I had pocketed twenty thousand pounds, I never did hear if it was seen again. But I rather think not, for she took it home to Idaho. Where it’s probably got pride of place on her family’s old piano.




<a href=””>Chaos</a&gt;

OED definition: Chaos; complete disorder or confusion.


 Ticking the register.

“Present Miss Lear”


“Amy, where’s Dane?

“Oh no, not again.

“Anyone see him disappear?”

“Having a fag!”

“Giving Jane a shag”

“Behind the gym

“Smoking with Tim,

“Reading a porno mag.”

“With that tart in the third!”

“Don’t be absurd,

“She’s far too dear,

“But really fab gear.”

“Yeah. Rich, bitch that bird.”

“Probably gone to the game,

“Every week it’s the same.

“His bag, ciggies and booze

“Are behind the boys’ loos.

“Taking Linda this week. Shame.”

The chaos was too much for Miss Lear.

“Headmaster, I’m sorry. I fear

“After hockey today,

“I’ll be on my way.

“I’m resigning. I can’t take any more.

“The class register’s under your door.”

“Er. Miss Lear”, as the bell went,

“Is this really what you meant !?”

The Head read out, with a cough,

“The little sod’s buggered off!”

“I prefer;  Dane, Peter. Absent.”



<a href=””>Giggle</a&gt;


Today’s One word prompt and  two more Limericks for fun


A young girl with a really cute wiggle

Squirmed, and then started to wriggle.

Crying, “ Oh, I beg of you Sir.

Please stop tickling me there!”

Before giving in with an amorous giggle.


A middle-aged matron called Kate

Telephoned for a masculine Mate.

She quite fell for young Peter,

And he was happy to meet her,

But found her well past her ‘use by’ date.


Seeing a girl with two dogs, in the bars

Don Juan, was quick to re-fill her glass,

And to quieten her spaniels

He bought two Jack Daniels,

Before placing his hands on her rrrs.



<a href=””>Because the Night</a>

the most productive time of day, or is it night?

                OUR PRODUCTIVE HOURS

Isn’t it lucky I’m not a woman? No, listen; not that way! I mean in the context of the prompt. If I was a woman then I would know what  my most productive time was, all my kids would be born at times the doctors noted as they delivered the babies. It’s easy for the the fair sex to know such things beyond doubt.

But it’s very unfair on the unfair sex. How are we supposed to remember? I mean my late first wife and current second wife were gorgeous and eminently loveable at any time of the day. I am no prude but you surely don’t want me to go into details do you?

You do!? Okay, well firstly I have to count up the children I have and see if I can work it out. No, you’re right it’s hopeless. Gemma, my little girl who was killed, could have been begotten  at any one of four times between midnight and eight am. Then The twins were almost certainly sometime in the late afternoon. My eldest boy was the victim of gestation on a Malayan Beach at around 3.00am, I think, and my youngest son was definitely around eleven at night, in a hotel by the seaside in England. Then…..

What are you looking at me like that for? How the hell should I know how many more I’ve got? Some women never tell you anything!






<a href=””>Unexpected Guests</a>

the odd couple


I know you aren’t all as rich as I am and don’t own million dollar mansions near Las Vegas, but even those of you who could would have been amazed at what I found when I returned to my playboy’s castle in Nevada yesterday afternoon. I mean, who let them in? I asked my butler, Dashwood.

“I say, Dashers, old thing, who on earth are those people sitting cozily sipping tea and huge wedges of Dundee cake on the sofa in my lounge? I’ve never seen them before in my life. Did you admit them without even asking me?”

He drew himself up to his elegantly dressed five foot ten inches and deigned to enlighten me. “Indeed, it was with some reluctance, My Lord, but I felt I had no option. The rather self important middle aged gentleman with the well disguised hair piece slipped an identity badge into my hand, and the lady just puckered up and said ‘fruitcake, I’m with him.’ I mean, Sir, what could I do? The identity badge was an envelope with $10,000  in it and so obviously I had to be polite to his, how shall I put it, Moll.”

I sighed, it was so hard to get decent servants these days. It was my own fault as I had insisted that the successful applicant had to be openly devious but secretively cunning. I certainly got what I deserved when I hired him. “Well, did they give their names, or just order tea? ”

He coughed behind his hand. “I never admit strangers, My Lord. The gentleman said his name was Donald Trump – hardly likely to be a real name is it, I thought – and the lady said she had once been first, but was now just plain Mrs. Hilary Clinton. Obviously a fraud, Sir, I mean does she look plain?” But the names rang a vague bell in my Oxford educated ear, and I thought it might be amusing to join them. I wandered nonchalantly into my own beautifully furnished room and introduced myself.

“Mrs. Clinton I presume, you are most welcome to take tea with me,” and shook hands with all the grace I could muster in the circumstances. Then turning to her toy boy I again offered my hand and said, “And you must be Mr. Trump? Well you must be, I mean there is no one else here, what?”. But don’t let me interrupt your conversation. They stared at me as if I was mad. Which of course I am.

“Say, My Lord, we heard you had this little place where we could meet up in secret to have a heart to heart chat. We knew, or our goons did, that you wouldn’t mind. Donald even said he’d been told in Scotland that you could solve our little problem. Can you?”

“Well, madame, if I knew what it was I am sure I could. I own an estate in Scotland like Mr.Trump, if you are genuinely he, “I added, looking questioningly at the fellow opposite me. “But unlike me, you do not have a title attached to your real estate, do you? But natter on my children, I am all ears.”

Wow, did they natter. Donald had an interesting proposition to put to Hilary and, as I have said, their chat was heart to heart. He asked her,

“Look Hill,  “I detected an American accent, “About this election for the presidency. I’ve wrapped up the GOP nomination, ” – the what?! – “and you’ve gotten the Democrats to put you up against me, so how say we do a deal? I’ll promise to tell everyone you’re a Muslim if you agree you are. That way I’ll get elected and you’ll find a nice little cheque for a billion green ones in your off shore bank account? I mean Bill need never know.” She smiled. Well, smirked actually, but in Britain we don’t say that about foreign ladies. Here was her reply.

“You don’t understand  how it works, honey, you really don’t. Look when was the last time your party ever took a risk and elected a ‘first’ in American history? We’ve done two and I’m going to be the third. Then when I’m lounging in my oval office I can have you arrested  for treason, the one crime I don’t have to prove, and that way we get all your money anyway. Every way you lose, Donald. It’s the one thing left that you’ve never done in life and I’m going to make sure you do it.”

Far from worried Mr. Trump was looking puzzled. “I don’t get you lady. What have the democrats done first twice, and you’ll make it a third first? I don’t understand what you mean.” She said she was already aware of the level of his IQ and so explained.

“In 1960, Donald, we were facing a tough fight with tricky Dicky, so we chose JFK  and he was the first catholic to become president. Then in 2008 we had the election won as soon as we chose a coloured candidate. Mr.Obama certainly made history in that election. And you know what, Donald? I’m going to be the first woman to be president. It’s a cert, I can’t lose.” But Donald was not as thick as so many of us thought. He suddenly had a briliant idea.

“Look, baby, if you bust up with Bill between the election and your inauguration and then marry me, I could become ‘First Man’. That would make me the greatest man in US history. Will you do it for me?”

She was still shaking her head as Dashwood showed them out, and the last thing I heard her say to him was, “Nice try, Don, but Bill’s already done eight years at the top and he’s really looking forward to being ‘First Man’, in every sense, for the first time in his life!”

I felt a heavy hand shaking my shoulder and waking me up on the sofa. “Dreaming again, Sir, are we?” asked Dashwood as he brought me my afternoon pills.



<a href=””>Life Line</a>

You’re on a long flight, and a palm reader sitting next to you insists she reads your palm. You hesitate, but agree. What does she tell you?


<a href=””>Handwritten</a&gt;

as this is the same as a prompt last year I am re-posting my experience.

Solo Con Te  

It was several months since I last wrote anything of any importance by hand, but recently a strange necessity arose to make me do so. Edgardo, the youngest of my three sons and four daughters,  just five years old at the time, had been asked to reply to a birthday party invitation and the card even had a reply form attached with  a lined space for a child of his age to write on. But it was beyond him.

“Eh, Papa, non possedo ecrire in questo language. Mio caligrafico es crap!”

When I was his age I would have received a clip round the ear for that reply but it’s illegal nowadays. Okay he was born in America and had been brought up in France, Switzerland and Italy by an English/Australian father and an Italian/Austrian mother, but that was no excuse. I knew where his deliberate bad language came from. His nine year old sister Lucia, one of twins, delighted in telling him how to really annoy me and pretend it was because he was linguistically over challenged. So I played along and tried to understand his difficulties.

“Mio bambino caro, this exercise will be all in English, capisce?”

“Capisce is no English. You liar, Papa. God will punish you”

A voice from the doorway did not help either,

“Si, and quoting from an Italian opera ain’t gonna teach the kid much English either, in it?” You know those moments when the woman you love most in the world suddenly changes from ‘my wife’ to ‘his mother’? Well this was one of them. I lost my patience with her.

“Francesca. I’m trying to teach Eddie polite English. Give me a break, please!”

She roared with laughter and said our two months in London wasn’t improving the children’s English or the family’s bonding. That was when I realised Edgardo had wandered off to play elsewhere so I just scrawled ‘thank you. I’d love to come. Eddie’ on the invitation, sealed it and addressed it to the daughter of the Australian High Commissioner. Francesca posted it that afternoon.

The farce concluded two days later when our eldest child, twelve year old Maria, came rushing up to me and said “Daddy, Daddy  is Eddie going to that girl’s party? Her brother’s just texted me to ask because they couldn’t read the handwriting on his reply.”

Anton Wills-Eve


<a href=””>Breakdown</a&gt;

in fond reply to the exquistely short four words that Judy Dykstra-Brown dedicated to me. The first two lines are hers, on the subject of a 23 year old porn star’s lament at the death of her 91 year old Husband. My addition sees it from the hubby’s point of view.


                                       FOR JUDY

Her grief

Was brief

His smacker

Much slacker.





<a href=””>Practice Makes Perfect?</a>

I wish I could conduct as well as I play the piano.




I stand to attention, bow, and hitch my cummerbund into position before slowly descending the steps to the hall floor, and then up again onto the conductor’s rostrum.

“Tap, tap, tap.” I look round the orchestra and raise an eyebrow at the third violins. They are sitting askew. Creates such a bad and disconnected impression. But they know this and I am left inwardly fuming but helpless.

“Tap,tap,tap, tap. We’re off. Da Da Da Dum!” The leading cellist quietly whispers,

“Oh God. Beethoven’s fifth! We could all play this with our eyes shut and certainly don’t need any help from that idiot with the stick. He wouldn’t know his Mozart from his Mendelsohn. Just look at the pompous show off. What the hell he thinks that last twirl was meant to tell us to do I don’t know. Heaven only knows!” The pretty little Chinese viola player cannot hide her smile or contain her reply.

“Oh Gregor! Look his cummerbund has cummadrift, at the side. Some of the audience can just see and are tittering.”  The first movement, which is largely a series of variations on the same four notes, was  the first major work produced by Ludwig when he was going deaf as he composed it. It gives the conductor great scope to diversify.

Well, this is what I told the orchestra at rehearsals and a lot of them, I assumed, murmered agreement. I was told later that what actually happened was a hilarious conversation between the bassoonists which went like this, lst bassoon:

“It’s the twit with the baton who’s going deaf! My score includes five bars here which he seems to have overlooked completely.”

“Never mind”, says the second bassoon,” the rest of us know this so well we have just carried on and inserted it. The old idiot hasn’t even noticed.”

I fear that the mutterings among the players continued throughout the work but nobody minded. We were famous for our interpretation of the symphony and the audience didn’t notice at all. Mind you, this was probably also because half of them were asleep and the rest bored stiff. The concert was in Helsinki and they assumed my reading of the score was brilliant, modern and way beyond their comprehension. It was certainly way beyond mind!

The wild applause at the end gave me the chance to ask the players to take a standing ovation and bowed often enough to show that I thought they were applauding me. Indeed the crescendo of sound reached such a pitch it woke me up and I made my way over to the piano, a musical instrument I had mastered. But as I began practising Liszt’s sixth Hungarian rahpsody I started to wonder why it was so much more difficult to produce beautiful music with just one piece of wood in one hand, instead of a using a whole range of black and white keys, two pedals and all ten fingers?!



<a href=””>Futures Past</a>

what do I see before my eyes?


The other day I was trying to find a copy of the great 1957 recording of Rachmaninov’s fourth piano concerto with Miachelangeli playing and Gracis conducting, recorded at Abbey Road. I found it eventually but in the meantime I was interrupted by a You Tube advertisement for a video featuring someone called Taylor Swift who was news to me. But Wow, she was sexually very stimulating and a great 20 second interruption.

Unfortunately I didn’t know what she was trying to do. She had no voice so wasn’t singing, she pouted a lot so I had an idea what her favourite dessert was, but apart from a skimpily clad frame I really couldn’t work out what was happening. Was she turning me on? Oh yes, she was doing that, but that was all. And she gets paid for this. Well I suppose it’s a form of legal prostitution but I still much preferred the piano concerto. I am happily married with a lot of kids and a great family life, so my wife would not begrudge me the 20 seconds of keeping up with the current generation’s excuse for entertainment, not least because it did entertain me. I told her to watch it and got a bit worried when I saw the way she reacted to it, but all this is beside my main point which is, ‘why make a fuss about whether or not untalented nobodies should be paid for doing nothing, and doing it badly’?

One might almost say her taylor had clothed her swiftly and she had disrobed even faster. Isn’t 2015 getting interesting? You know with Greece bringing down Europe, ISIS terrifying the world, 20.6 million people working for the federal government having their computers hacked, the confederate flag – a historical artefact of great significance – being picked out for public attention in case people still think the civil war resulted in any sort of conferring of human rights on coloured people, and all sorts of policemen toting their gats at will to accentuate my last point. I wonder what will happen next? I mean before Taylor falls off whatever that thing is she is trying to climb! I suppose it could be a U Tube.

Anton Wills-Eve


Toy Story

my favourite toy


I lost my favourite toy when I was 68. I was gutted, totally washed out. My world was at an end, it really was. How on earth would I sleep without  Nou Nours. I mean big brown bears defend you from all sorts of things.

When I was just two and a half  my French god monther gave him to me to protect me from the Germans. I used to sleep with my head tucked behind him to protect me. And boy, did it work. Not a single bomb ever hit me. That was some bear.

Then when I was four  I was playing in the garden when a snake crawled on its belly towards me through the grass. But Nou Nours saw him first. He jumped off the top of my shoulder and landed so hard on the snake that it leaped and rolled all at once and actually fell into the water. I was so proud of brave Nou Nours that I gave him an extra helping of merigue at tea. Of course I had to eat it for him as bears aren’t allowed meringue.

But as I grew older he wasn’t forgotten. At sport he became my mascot. Surprisingly for a French bear he was a good cricket coach. I always batted with him tucked in my cricket top, just his eyes peeping out. But he could tell which way a ball was going to swing or spin and in some of my biggest innings he had a lot to do with my success. I even learned the French for, ‘I think the next one’s going to be a bouncer by the way he’s walking back’. “Je pense que le prochain un sera un boncement bal parceque le bowler a l’air tres malin”! And at rugby he really was a god send. I squashed him inside my jock strap and many a possibly unpleasant tackle awasn’t too bad at all.

But when I reached that age when a fairer attraction threatened to replace Nou Nours in my affections the fact that he was French turned out to be a blessing. One very pretty girl was only too pleased to get the come on from me but he was having none of it. “Mais, non, mon vieux. Elle est bien belle, d’accord, mais regarde sa bouche. Elle ne sait pais donner une grosse bise” If you think you’ve worked that out, you’re right. And if you’re lost, your imagination will be good enough. Actually she kissed like a wet dishcloth and I decided to take his advice in future.

It was when I was twentytwo that I saw a rather ordinary looking girl but she had something about her sad smile that made me feel sorry for her. I asked Nou Nours. He came and gave her the once over. His elbow was digged so painfully into my side that I looked up at him in suprise. He had a huge smile on his face and was nodding his head vigorously. “You sure?” I said in disbelief.

“Ba, mon ami. Pourqoui demander mon avis si tu ne le veux pas?” He had a point, so I found it easy, much to her surprise, to take her out to the cricket club party that weekend. She was certainly good, if very shy, company. But as the night wore on we realised we had started to like each other quite a lot. Actually an awful lot by four in the morning when I was asked in for a coffee as her parents were away that weekend. No, Nou Nours couldn’t have fixed that! Could he?

Any way Belinda was everything I wanted and it appeared I was rather high up on her delectable list too. This could have been why seven months later we got married.  The only serious problem we had on our honey moon was that Nou Nours jumped on to the bed and snuggled down between us. No way, “Eh, Nou Nours. What do you think you’re doing. Out!” As he grumled and growled his way out of the bed he remined me that after all he was a French bear and anyhow he thought he had to protect both of us!

Over the years Nou Nours suggested he might help play with the children and he went down a treat and was known to all three of our children as Daddy’s French bear. That was actually what Belinda called him when she first met him, you can see why she and I got on so well. It was getting off that was the problem. But the children thought Nou Nours might be lonely and found him a lovely English girl bear for company. She was called Lucy, but at first all he said was  “Une Anglaise! Mon Dieu, eh bien quand a Rome!” But she blushed next day and whispered in my ear that she now knew Nou Nours was French for Teddy Bear.

But years passed, which is what God invented them to do, when on a short weekend away together, we were both 68, Belinda discovered Nou Nours was not in the car. We were distraught. “Oh no”, she said, tears starting to trickle from her eyes, what shall we do?” We went back and hunted high and low to all the parts of the hotel where we had stayed, and retraced out steps on our walks, but all in vain. We were both inconsolable. We finally gave up and drove home. And there, in the hall way stood Nou Nours looking more cross than I had ever seen him.

“Eh alors! Je ne merite pas un weekend avec vous deux, quoi?” We’ld left him behind. Belinda hugged him harder and longer that I did,  but he forgave us as long as we never did it again. Well that was ten years ago, and he now has ten cubs and grand cubs, I won’t go through all their names. But we are just starting to get a bit forgetful, but do you know in all those ten years we  have never forgotten him, or Lucy or the kids or grand cubs even once!!

Anton Wills-Eve


<a href=””>Festivus for the Rest of Us</a>

the day I was elected ruler of the uiverse


Heavens that was close! Five recounts. Of the 17 planets we could contact eight had the Venusian first and eight had me first, and the final count was Venus. But they don’t count like we do so we had to have five recounts before they conceded and I was ruler of the universe.

It’s a great feeling, but fortunately a very humiliating one as well. The entire part of all reachable living people had at last come to an agreement to work together to keep all living beings able to devise a safe way of carrying on living. Planet earth’s major problem was still how to preserve the energy sources it had, how to stop them diminishing and how to ensure that all people on earth should have a living wage and that what food there was was rationed fairly amongst the 220 nations ruled by the United Nations. It was the plan which I had devised to do this that had led to the world choosing me as their representative in the ruler of the universe contest. I still don’t know how I won.

But I had been a leading planetanian since leaving Oxford University with a first in Universality and then a doctorate in the subject. As a Scots Australian I qualified to work in the top echelons of the UN and having working command of seven earth languages and four different planets’ method of communication I soon rose to the top in inter-planet conferences. But what were the problems facing me most urgently when I took the highest office ever created?

For a start four planets had problems exactly opposite to ours. They had a fuel and food surplus of 330% and were only too happy to come to some sort of an agreement with earth over how to help each other. Transport was the biggest difficulty as you can imagine. Then the newest discovered planet that we could talk to, Luvya, had a ratio of ingestible water and vegetation of 3-7 against the people. They were on the edge of starvation and had a population in which there were twice as many women as men. I could see my first job would be trafsering food from Pogo, a very comfortably off planet, to nearby Luvya as fast as possible. Again transport was the problem.

It was Hans Von Lederhosen, from the leading Austrian Universe study Centre, who solved this problem by devising ‘cracking’, a method of shooting bundles of matter through space at an unbelievable speed, unharmed, who went on to win the first Nobel Universe Prize in 2631AD. The ad was retained when it was dicovered that eleven of the planets were Christian. You really must read the story of how this came about. It’s the best true story you’ll ever read.

But I think I’m digressing. I’ve been asked to tell you how I would celebrate my election. I’m afraid I don’t think I would. Well, not in the sense the prompt setter means. I would certainly mark the occasion, but my emphasis would be on them not me. For a start I would introduce a new currency, the Universalis. It would be a seventeen sided titanium coin worth one per cent of a Uni, the main note in circulation. Don’t ask me how its relative value was worked out to satisfy each planet but a Martian called Klunk was the economist behind the scheme which won him the 2632 Nobel economics prize. I held up the first minted coin in my right hand as the orb of office was placed in my left which just about had the strength to hang onto it while I took the oath of office. “ I, Anton 1st, protector of the Universe, do hereby swear, by that deity in whom I believe, to devote my tenure of this office entirely to the good of all inhabitants of the seventeen planets that come within the boundaries of my jurisdiction.”

Not very long, I know, but mt left arm had nearly come off so it was long enough. There was to be a celebretory banquet, or street party as they are called on earth, in every planet at which at least one item of food from each other planet was part of the feast. Now for Lvyans, for instance, it was hardly a treat, but what mattered was that it made them feel part of a brotherhood and sisterhood of all living creatures everywhere and this bucked them up no end. Each one was also presented with a Unorbisate. The was a medal on a chain worn round the neck, or a suitable part of that planet’s inhabitants’ anatomy.

But for me, the best part of that day was that all my own family were present with me as I was invested protector of everyone. My wife Francesca could not keep back her tears, while my seven children, Maria 13, Giovanni 12, the twins Lucia 10, Violetta 10, Dido 8, Aeneus 7 and little six year old Edgardo, lined up three on each side of me at the ceremony. But it was not the pomp and glory of the day that I will always remember but cheeky little Eddie, whom I could not see, waving a banner saying “My dad can beat your dad any day. And now it’s official.” It had to be Eddie.

An elbow dug into my ribs, and the fingers of a soft, tickly hand awoke me fully. “What are you dreaming he’s done now, David?” Francesca’s lovely voice asked me as she kissed my neck.

“Oh I’ve just become ruler of the universe, I sleepily replied. “

“Oh poor everbody,” said my adorable Francesca as she could not stop laughing.

Anton Wills-Eve



In a Crisis

reacting to a crisis


We were faced with a crisis once, the whole family, and it was my little boy, Freddie, aged eleven who whispered in his sister Ginney’s, ear an idea of how to save us all. She ran to the front door and shouted, “Help, Rape! Rape!” 

Imagine for a start our dilemma. We had just received a last demand for payment on an item we still owed about two hundred dollars on. At first sight Ginny’s action outlined above would appear completely useless. But just think. Who would you get flocking round your house?

The Police? Yes that’s a good answer. About ten of them, three women and seven men. The chief male cop burst into our hall screaming, “Let me get at the bastard. Where is the little girl? ” This is the point where granny came in very useful. 

“I was the victim, officer, 52 years ago. You know, down by the canal on a sunny evening. Young Jimmy Johnson went just that bit too far, you know how fellas do, and I whacked him a backhander that sent him straight into the water amongst those iron girders and other rubbish. He didn’t try that again, did you Jimmy?”

“No I Goddam didn’t, wheezed grandad from his Norman Rockwell pose in the kitchen nook. But see here, officer. Next time I saw Jessie here she was awful nice and forgave me and was real sorry for cutting my leg so badly. We told our parents about my acident and they left us at home, even though we was too young, and that’s when we first had it off, while she was bandaging me up. Tricky position, officer, you should try it some day.”

“Then the woman cop said to the chief, “Heston, your weapon’s slipping out,…..”

“Yeah, just what Jessie said to me , ma’m,” grandad butted in and effectively closed the conversation. But think how much we benefitted. The newspaper  reporters were round en masse, and they got quite a different picture. My eighteen year old girl was crying, prostrate across her mother’s lap, and I was screaming obscenities throught the open French windows into an empty garden.

“Yes sir, he was about six foot seven and muscles like a wrestler. Little Ginny here didn’t have a chance ’til my wife spun round with the skillet and nearly knocket him out. But he still got away. All these police are chasing after him even now. These are just the few who stayed to make sure we was alright.”

Then A lot of the people who lived in our street started using our house as a museum, open to the public for just one day, and started calculating the value of all our possessions. But when Hal Billbender tried to pocket my silver pen holder enough was enough and I grabbed a cop and said “That fellow looks very like the guy”, and pointed at Hal. I’ve never seen a man put a silver penholder back on a desk so fast. But a few of the others got the message and a lot of our things were given back in haste when the felons saw we really were prepared to shop them.

Eventually the crisis cooled down as my daughter refused a medical examination, although grandrad got quite chatty and suggested the chief cop ought to have one. He also asked the chief woman cop if she’d heard the one about the police station that put up a notice ‘man wanted for rape’ and they got a hundred volunteers in ten minutes. Through gritted teeth she told him she had, many times. One of the reporters had heard it too and thinking it was a party at which such stories should be told  the female cop smacked her baton across the back of his hand breaking his quarter bottle of bourbon. The neighbours gradually left. Finally at one in the morning everything was back to normal and we went to bed.

The next day the local papers were full of “Brave Ginny beats off band of abusers” and such like headlines, but it was a huge help at eleven am. That was when a smart dressed man in a necktie and glasses rang the door bell. I asked him what he wanted.

“Oh how do you do Sir. I am sure this won’t take a moment. I believe you have gotten some two hundreed dollars behind in your … Oh my God.”

“Ginney appeared behind me with a hankie to her face and grasping my arm. Not more of them dad. Oh please I couldn’t recite it all again.”

The impeccably dressed man told me he would not dream of intruding at such an awful time for us and told me not think any more about the bill.

I didn’t. But I often think about how to deal with a crisis.

Anton Wills-Eve


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Blogger in a Strange Land.”

<a href=””>Blogger in a Strange Land</a>


I was tweeting at the time this happened. I can’t remember to whom. I was looking out the first floor sunset window, the room that looks straight into the setting sun and is furnished exactly as I want it both to relax and work. Well I heard the cat definitely miaowing outside the window. But it couldn’t be there, there was no ledge. I hurried over to see what was happening.

As I pushed open the double glass windows and strained to look down I lost my balance and was literally left hanging by my feet some thirty feet from the ground.  I looked down and luckily it was a flower bed, but even so I thought I’d rather be rescued, and luckily I still had my tablet in my hand.

Upside down the tablet looked all wrong. The keyboard for a start was downside up and when I texted my sister to help me, I knew she was in, I tapped all the wrong keys. I could not wait much longer as my left leg, which was taking most of the strain, was going numb.

So I threw the flaming tablet away in the hope of being able to find a more conventional way of clambering back in the window. From down below I heard a loud miaow and the cat shot our of the flowers as my tablet hit it.  My indignant sister came out of the garden door to see who was torturing  her pet, spotted me the wrong way up some thirty feet above her and shouted,

“Serves you right for throwing things at Kiwi – what else do you call an all black cat? – you can stay there all night, and serve you right.”

At this point a felt two hands grabbing my ankles. It was my ten year old daughter. “Help. Daddy’s about to fall to his death. Help!”

“Well he is if you push instead of pull,” I answered and politely requested a piece of rope first tied to the window frame. I got one, but only after a major exercise in girl guide knot tying which consistently failed until my wife appeared on the scene and hauled me back in.

As I retrieved my tablet I remembered that famous question, how long would it take one million monkeys typing at random to produce the works of Shakespeare? It made me wonder what I had written. A load of rubbish no doubt. You can imagine my amazement when I saw that I had typed, quite unwittingly, ‘The other way up, you idiot!’

I couldn’t believed it and ran indoors at once to show my wife. “Jane, look you won’t believe this!” She didn’t, because she and my sister were bent double with mirth on the floor as my sister managed to say, “And the raving fool even fell for it!”



<a href=””>Smell You Later</a>

The prompt was on smells and transport



The very smell of your scent is enough to transport me to your side. For it is only there I sense that the fumes of your perfume can carry me away, locked in carreses and the smell of the flowers next which we lie. Does my after shave do the same to you,  my love? Are my manly scents the only smells for which you yearn and cannot wait for on days like this? Oh, the bliss of a kiss from your pert pouting lips, and the smell of the odour that goes with your dress. Lord bless all our senses when we are trapped thus in love. But especially bless our noses and the bed of roses that makes  both of us  adore, for ever more, the lavender of our  love as we sense the blossom of our embrace…….  etc….etc until I am actually sick.