Anton's Ideas

Anton Wills-Eve on world news & random ideas

Category: humour

A HOLE LOT OF LOVIN’


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/three-perfect-shots/”>Three Perfect Shots</a>

 

                                       A HOLE LOT OF LOVIN’

 

The top players all agree, golf is a game you play in your head. It’s all psychological.I’m so lucky. My study window just overlooks, if you lean out and use a pair of binoculars, the tenth hole at the Royal Liverpool Golf Club at the Wirral seaside town of Hoylake in North West England. It has staged the British Open golf championship twelve times, one of the world’s four ‘majors’, and so also more often than any other course in England. We had it again this year. The whole place was packed for a week with foreigners and it was all great fun.

But try playing Hoylake in mid winter. Gary Player, Tiger Woods and Jack Nicklaus all rate it the most difficult course in England and it probably also holds the world record for the most number of swear words uttered within a radius of 500 metres of any one spot in a year. I have probably contributed a high per centage.

But oh the short 13th (depending on how the course is set up) is a golf maniac’s dream. The only way you can do it in par three is to hit all three shots incorrectly. Play it as advised by the professionals and you will end up in a bird sanctuary, on a sandy shore with ten foot waves at the wrong time of day, or simply in a bunker in which you cannot even see your feet let alone the rest of the course.

Well if I MUST tell a ‘golfie’, let me take you back 28 years to that wonderful April day when I hooked my drive so badly it struck the pin on a neighbouring green and ricocheted  back onto the fairway, missing the dreaded bunker. This left me a delicate pitch into the wind, only 30 yards from the pin. I smacked it so hard it finished up 30 yards the other side of the green. My playing partner put his bag of clubs on the ground, we carried our own bags in those days. It was to the right of the flag, off the green of course, but towards my ball. He played a decent chip to within 15 feet from the hole and looked happy at the thought of a four. I decided to cut under the ball and try running it across the green and hope it went towards the flag. It didn’t. I tweaked it so badly it shot like a bullet into the the side of my friend’s bag, shot back onto the green and sped like lightening towards the hole. 

Oh wonder of wonders! I’d cracked it so hard it wedged between the flag stick and the side of the hole. I Knew I was allowed to remove the flag stick as long as I did not move my ball. I very carefully lifted the fluttering number 13 high into air and stood in stupor as my ball dropped into the cup for an unprecedented three. I really was on cloud nine.

Now if you wonder how I remember the details of that exploit so well imagine trying to perfect something and succeeding only once in 46 years. Anything at all, believe me you don’t forget a second of it. And every time you recount the feat the exaggerations get just that little bit more unbelievably brilliant. Ah  yes, the only way to play the greatest game really is in your head!

 

Anton Wills-Eve

WHENCE I CAME


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/local-flavor/”>Local Flavor</a>

on ‘word prompt’ about where I came from.

WHENCE I CAME

 

My father and mother were fourteen thousand miles apart, give or take the odd furlong, when they first heard about each other. He was eight years younger and she was reputed to be looking for a third husband, preferably a toy boy, and was impatient that she should captivate someone suitable before the war broke out, as all expected. This was in September 1938. She happened to be lounging by the pool of her Thames side mansion in Buckinghamshire opposite Windsor, give or take the odd furlong.

She was very attractive, one of the highest paid female entertainers in Britain, and her colleagues and cronies, one did not have friends in the theatre and film world in England in those days, all placed bets on which current up and coming matinee idol  would suit her taste. She was reading the back page of an Australian newspaper, which a fellow thespian had dropped in her lap out of spite, and she was intrigued by the photograph of a young dentist who had recently qualified to practise his science, and even won a scholarship to go to England and  start his career there. She drew a red circle round his name and dropped the paper on the outdoor coffee table  where she envisaged alleviating her boredom later that evening.

By chance that same day a young, newly qualified dentist, in Brisbane, Australia, happened to see an advertisement for a new film about to take Australia by storm, or tornado or whatever things take Australia by, and was overcome at once by an attack of paroxsyzmal atrial fibrulation  which continued throughout the voyage to England, six weeks on a boat via the Suez Canal.

As happy fate would have it he was walking down Piccadilly shortly after his arrival in London, one never walks up  this thoroughfare though for the life of me I have no idea why not, when who should he bump into but the film star of his dreams.

“You!” She heart throbbed at him,  –  you know like mad; really hammed it up.

“You,”he replied, for Australians are a race of few words and soon, he hoped, to be of fewer teeth.

Well a week later before the glitter of Fleet Street cameramen and columnists they were wed amid unalloyed joy and the whole of the west End was in raptures. Thirteen months later they had a daughter, an absolute cherub who was just a weeny bit too young to star in a war picture, but fifteen months after that they had a son. He was a child of immense charisma and obvious talent, even at that age, so I am told. And who am I to dispute this tribute for that little boy was I.

THE END

Anton Wills-Eve

 

BUCKETS AND SPADES 2035 AD


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/tourist-trap/”>Tourist Trap</a>

tourist destination prompt.

 

                             BUCKETS AND SPADES, 2035 AD

 

“Oh, mummy, look! The sea. And a big match stick going up into the air at one end.”

Her mother laughed.”Anita, that’s not a matchstick it’s Blackpool Tower. It’s famous. All the poor working class people used to go there for their summer holidays  because there were donkeys on the beach and they lit the whole town up at  nine o’clock at night. And look, see that bit going out into the sea for miles, that’s called Blackpool Pier. There are games and things all down one side of it. Or so I’ve been told. I’ve never actually been on it myself.”

Ten year old Adam then asked, with a puzzled frown, “But why aren’t there any working class people playing at being tourists there now? Maybe that beach is all pebbles and you’d hurt your feet?” His father, behind the wheel of their Rolls Royce, chipped in. “No it’s not that, Adam, it’s just that nobody works in England nowadays. We don’t have factories or Northern families  any more, their not allowed by law. Well not in England. No, the last government banned them and gave them one thousand  pounds a head to go to Europe for three weeks every August so there’d be room for the illegal immigrants to have a good time in between working on the fiddle and not paying taxes. Well, we have to be good Christians and look after the destitute somehow.”

Adam was still very puzzled. He wondered what the plastic bucket and spade were meant for. He’d been given them when the Rolls entered “Blackpool, Gateway to the Sea”, nobody had told him what to do with them. He asked his mother about this. “Oh it’s all part of the fancy dress holiday we are having this year. Because daddy is rich, very rich, he has to wear a Fez when driving so we won’t be mistaken for English people. Especially in this hot bed of starving Lancastrians. If they thought we really were rich, white, English Christians our lives up here would be a nightmare. In fact I think we had better be getting back, don’t you Dear?” she suggested to her husband.

She did not have to. he had already turned back towards the exit to the motorway sign posted ” London and the South. Rich people only.” 

 

Anton Wills-Eve

 

WHY HELEN?


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Buffalo Nickel.”

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/buffalo-nickel/”>Buffalo Nickel</a>

 

WHY HELEN?

 

William, who hated being called Bill but could just about put up with Will, was in a state of serious apprehension. Although he was considered one of the better ‘catches’ amongst the first year students at his university he could have murdered his twin sister for lining up a blind date for him. All he knew was that she was called Helen.

“Look tell me something about her, please. You’ve given me two good seats for the concert and you know I like classical music, but does she? Come on Sally tell me something about her. I mean why did you pick her, did she ask you to or do you feel sorry for her? She hasn’t got anything wrong with her has she?”

Sally laughed, “Will, you know where I met her. The only reason you haven’t met her is because this is our first term at university and she and I are doing biochemistry and you are doing modern languages. Our campuses are nowhere near each other! But she did tell me she loved classical music and you know I don’t. I merely said I’d been given tickets for this do and had given them to you, adding that you would like to take her as you didn’t know your fellow linguists’ musical tastes yet.

“We were lucky getting places at the same university weren’t we? I’ve put her phone number on the envelope with the tickets. She said to text her.”

With the concert only four days away Will sent a very brief text to the mysterious Helen. It read, ‘I haven’t asked Agamemnon’s permission yet but I do hope you can make it over the Hellespont on Friday to take in the concert and a bite later. OK? Paris.’

Her reply told him two things that roused his curiosity enormously. She was well educated and had a sense of humour.

‘I know a short cut, via Thebes and Thermopilye  – You see it keeps my togas dry :).  Shame it’s the first date though, Paris never gets a bite until vetted. No, I don’t mean that sort! A painless vetting 🙂 But a fig or two later would be lovely.  H.’

Will could not resist his reply. ‘ Meet @ amphitheatre front arch’ I’ll be wearing a smart, casual laurel wreath’ expect you to be carrying smart casual Grecian urn.’ At this point anything could happen. Go for broke and laugh along in the manner begun, or dress normally and carry a laurel leaf for identification. It was too tempting. Will borrowed a full Greek tragedy outfit from the drama department. But on arriving at the concert hall on Friday night he nearly dropped. Helen did not so much arrive as burst upon the scene.

A figure clad in a sweeping white gown with her dark brown hair wound round her head like Medusan snakes, descended from a chariot, spear in hand and each toe nail painted a different colour as it peeped twixt the thongs of her sandals. Will was in heaven and took up his part immediately. He swept up to Helen, bowed and handed her a ticket’ The vastly entertained onlookers just thought it all a student prank and clapped when they took their seats in the hall.

As they looked at the programme and the first item, an, overture, began Will suddenly realised that neither of them had spoken a word. He wondered what joke Helen was leading up to next. She certainly kept it up well, really well. The overture finished and over the noise of the applause Will heard his mobile phone go off. Embarrassed, he opened it in seconds and saw it was a text. It said ‘We Greeks have all the inventions of the world, mine just vibrates so we will converse thus’. Helen smiled seductively at him and Will felt the missile from Cupid’s bow which she had aimed at him strike home exactly as she had prayed it might. All he replied was the texted image of a shattered heart.

They kept up the joke thoughout the concert and a really nice dinner afterwards which Helen allowed Will to pay for. As he took the bill she sent a message and a grin. ‘Just checking your bank balance.’ It was only a short walk across a lawn to Helen’s rooms and they sauntered, ever more slowly, to her door. Nobody was in sight when Will could contain himself no longer and finally broke their evening’s silence.

“Helen, thank you for the greatest date of my life. I have slowly fallen completely in love with you, and you never even said a word. No bites, promise, but may Paris kiss Helen goodnight?” The embrace lasted twenty minutes but she had the last word, texting,  ‘see you at Sally’s for lunch tomorrow’.

Will arrived early at his sister’s next day and she asked him how the evening went.  While he described it he was surprised to see tears starting to roll down her cheeks. It was then she explained. “Will, Helen has been keen to meet you for weeks but had to find out how you felt about her first. We concocted last night’s charade because, Will, your lovely Helen has an awful impediment. The poor girl is stone deaf.  She can talk perfectly well, granted, but last night she never heard a note of that music!”

 

Anton Wills-Eve

MANY MOONS AGO


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/undo/”>Undo</a&gt;

MANY MOONS AGO  

All the time that Adam spent learning to become a gardener would have been wasted if his huge tome had not included that chapter on fruit trees!

For a start  I could not even have written this post.

AW-E

CINQUE PASTA


word prompt Feb 17/2015 five foods

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/five-a-day/”>Five a Day</a>

 

 

                                                     CINQUE PASTA

It was awful being flown to the island, especially as my kidnappers had hijacked a jet with nothing but first class seats on it. It was almost ready for take off to Florida when they threw me on board, the crew and stewards off board, and we were away into the scarlet sunset sky. I wondered who on earth they thought I was.

The US president? No my suit was obviously hand made in London or Milan. Emma Watson? Whoever made that mistake was going to get his face seriously rearranged! President of the European Bank? No that was obviously him flying the lane. Well Warren Buffet then? No I had no loan sharks with me. Then I got it. They had made a mistake!

“Wotta you take for me mister Bond? I noah spy in disguise anywhere. Saya your last words before I shoota you”

I had to play along. Well I’d been rumbled. I needed some last words quick. Oh God, and they had to be memorable too. “Dis guy’s what?”

“Dat guy’s Watt? You sure Mr Bond? Okay Watt, degame’s up.”

“I say’ what.” A voice whispered in my ear as I woke up over the Pacific. “The food’s very good on this airline’ isn’t it? Try the caviar’ But really old chap I do think you look like Bond.”

I was starting to like my traveling companion, and replied “Yes I have been taken for Daniel Craig once before.” As I was nodding off back to sleep almost at once I could have sworn he said, “Thinking of Sean Connery, actually.”

The highjackers brought the plane to a skidding halt on a deserted island and threw me into a wooden shack and grimaced, “Au revoir Senor Bondo. But we no starve you, wotta you ‘ave?”

“Well I’d love some crisply fried whitebate and some caviar. Then a tourndos steak Rossini, some very soft brie cheese and Strega drizzled creme brulee. For drinky poohs a Montrachet ’93 and a Crozes-Hermitage ’07……”

“Eh. Oo d’you fink you are? All we got is five Pizzas! An’ day are all da same!”

 

Anton Wills-Eve

 

 

WHATEVER NEXT?


                                 WHATEVER NEXT?

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Sliced Bread.”

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/sliced-bread/”>Sliced Bread</a>

 WHATEVER NEXT?

 “Put that bread knife down, Nicky! How many times do I have to tell you?  And don’t argue back. Seven year old little girls don’t use dangerous kitchen utensils.” Her nine year old brother was not so sure. He was a pompous little boy whom many people fantasised about strangling.

“I say mother, no really that is a bit much. Why only yesterday I caught you showing young Nicola  –  he never called his sister ‘little’, he thought it insulting  –  how to use the electric mixer to make cakes. Seriously, now, which is the most likely to harm her? An electric machine that could short circuit and kill her in seconds, or a blunt, outdated knife that might just scratch her if she’s unlucky?” 

Nicola said nothing. She was just beginning to realise the advantages of having a pompous older brother. She simply stared vacantly at her mother awaiting the court’s decision on whether or not she should continue hacking the loaf to pieces. She did a superb imitation of an angel.

“Christopher! How many times has your father told you not to start stupid debates with your elders?…..”

“Up to this morning at eight o’clock, seventy three times, that I can remember. He may of course have done so before I was two years and eight months old, but were that the case I fear my small brain would have been unable to recall such a censure. A shame, for I am certain I would have made a hilariously amusing reply, would I not?” His mother knew when she was losing and was letting the matter drop when little angel faced Nicola joined the conversation.

“Oh, Christopher. I can’t believe your brain was ever small. You are far too clever and must have said something if Daddy had told you off at that age. But he would not have done, surely?” Their mother was not the only family member becoming worried that her daughter was starting to imitate her brother’s way of talking.

Finally the parent took matriarchal control of the situation. “Christopher, your sister does not use a bread knife because her mother says so. That is the only authority either of you need in order to do what you are told in this house. Understand?” Christopher did not look as if he understood.

“Isn’t that a bit thick on poor papa?”He queried. “I mean to say if he can tell me how to behave seventy three times, and that on one subject only, he surely must have some standing in the judicial hierarchy of our little quartet?” Nicola liked ‘hierarchy’ and ‘judicial’, they were new words to her and she stored them up. Fortunately for all three of them the tone of the conversation changed as their father came in from doing an hour’s gardening. He looked none too happy.

“That bloody mower needs sharpening, I’ll have to take it to pieces again. The electric lead’s too short as well!”

Christopher looked at the head of the household with great disapproval.”Father, I may at times use words a little too esoteric for my audience in this house, but on your orders I never swear. Not very good at practising what you preach are you? Bad language, fiddling with a machine that will electrocute you and giving poor, innocent Nicola here the idea that she can play with really sharp things whenever she pleases. I don’t know what we are all coming to, I really don’t!”

At this point father and mother united to lay down the house rules once and for all. No arguing with elders, no swearing under the age of twenty one and no playing with or trying to use potentially dangerous tools and implements. The children meekly agreed, fully aware they had won the day. Their mother rounded off the talk with the following remark.

“That charter of behaviour  –  Christopher liked charter and looked at his mother with fleeting admiration  –  is the best thing to enter this house since sliced bread.”

Nicola looked at her stunned. “Mummy do you mean you can buy bread already sliced?”

“Yes, answered Christopher, and it is even rumoured they are soon bringing out self-sharpening lawn mowers that run on batteries and don’t swear!”

Anton Wills-Eve

More Must Save Items


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/burnt/”>Burnt</a&gt;

my second five items  in order of regret. following the top five items I saved from the house on fire yesterday.

                                            More Must Save Items

This is easy.

6. My Tablet

7. The second tablet I take to make the first one work.

8. The doctor’s emergency phone number because that second tablet didn’t look the right colour.

9. The clouds I usually float on after tablets 1 and 2.

10. Oh and of course tablet number three for my memory loss problems. You know, the one I usually Forget!

Anton Wills-Eve

Now listen to this!


Take a complicated subject you know more about than most people, and explain it to a friend who knows nothing about it at all.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/daily-prompt-2/”>(Your Thing) for Dummies</a>

 

NOW LISTEN TO THIS!

 

“That was a very good meal, Wally, beautifully done steak and the wine was superb.  You comfy Mate? Good; this brandy’s not bad either. What were we talking about?

“Cricket, are you sure I could have sworn it was magnetic resonance imaging, or MRI for short. You ever been in a tube, Wal? No not the underground the radio active x-ray thingy that rips all the metal off you to show up the bits of you that aren’t working properly. Sure you’ve never had one?”Here have another glass of this Armagnac , Wally, great little drop of stuff, ole, boy just the ticket after a meal like that. But you were telling me about your radio active television set. You weren’t? Oh no I’m the one who’s having one tomorrow, you’re playing baseball. Right?

“Cricket? Really, didn’t know they played it in Australia, Wal. You any good? You are. How interesting, but I was saying about this NM, that’s nuclear medicine to the thickies like you mate, or you can have a CT scan if you’re in the mood. Which would you prefer?

“Another of these Army knackered  drinks? Well why not, good drop of stuff. Always said the Poms knew their gin. I mean Aussies knew their brandy. Well, anyway Wal, you must hear this one. Stop me if you’ve heard it, as Bennet Cerf used to say. Cerf, ole man, Yankee story teller! Well they all are aren’t they? Ha ha ha. Well there was this scantily clad nurse, no nurse clad to do a scan, of an unclear medicine bottle full of iron magnets. Got the picture? You haven’t? Well look, just wake up a little and have another of these throat burners, and you’ll learn a thing or two about Cat Scans.

“No not pussey cats, these are radio active kittens scanning each other for bits that have gone wrong with the TV or the radio or something? Got the picture? Well the nurse hadn’t, she was still twiddling with the dials when the patient in the tube sat up and asked if we’d passed Piccadily yet, and I told him it was twelve o’clock which set him off a bit I can tell you.

“I say look, wake up old Wally, or you’ll miss the best bit where the scanner has another glass of some French drink or other and  … Wake up Wally.

“I say, where’s the fellow gone? Infernally rude to walk off like that in the middle of a match. I think I’ll just have another small one before the nuclear explosion tomorrow.”

Anton Wills-Eve

 

 

Solo Con Te


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Pens and Pencils.”                            

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/pens-and-pencils/”>Pens and Pencils</a>

 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

ME


You have three hundred words to justify the existence of your favorite person, place, or thing. Failure to convince will result in it vanishing without a trace. Go! <a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/do-or-die/”>Do or Die</a>

                                                  ME

Now be honest! Look at me. Handsome, humerous, cheerful always there to help a friend and always  willing to give money to the poor. Have you ever seen my equal?

And I really am the epitome of everything a beautiful young girl could want. Rich, generous, honest and happy to stand by her in any sort of crisis.  Oh, and those smiling, come to bed green eyes with ‘I love you’ written all over them. Go on, admit it ! I’m irresistible aren’t I?

But above all I treasure the smiling, holy spirit that God blessed me with when he created my soul. How did He get so much goodness, charity and kindness into one human being? It beggars belief, it really does. There are times when I can hardly believe it myself and can barely keep my hands off the mirror as my gorgeous image stares back at me.

Strewth,  the rest of you are so lucky being able to see such a gay – no not in that sense! – swashbuckling hero as me. And even more wonderful is the way I can prove I am everything I claim about myself.

If I’ve failed to convince you all of the truth about  wonderful ME then I must have vanished without a trace. You’ve said  as much yourself, have you not? So I just went out into the garden and pinched myself and to my great joy, though not surprise, I discovered that I’m still here. The best proof you could have of my veracity. And I agree!

Anton Wills-Eve

More Must Save Items


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/burnt/”>Burnt</a&gt;

my second five items  in order of regret. following the top five items I saved from the house on fire yesterday.

                                            More Must Save Items

This is easy.

6. My Tablet

7. The second tablet I take to make the first one work.

8. The doctor’s emergency phone number because that second tablet didn’t look the right colour.

9. The clouds I usually float on after tablets 1 and 2.

10. Oh and of course tablet number three for my memory loss problems. You know, the one I usually Forget!

Anton Wills-Eve

“You Don’t Need That!”


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/burning-down-the-house/”>Burning Down the House</a>

rather like the British ‘Desert Island Discs’ idea of saving what you most treasure, wordpress today wants us to grab five  items to save if the house catches fire.

 “You Don’t Need That!”

The children really entered into the spirit of the challenge. “Hey, this is great Mum,” cried Roger pulling a drawer out of her dressing table and emptying the contents all over the bedroom floor. “You haven’t worn that old blouse for years.”

My wife went puce. “Roger, stop! This game will cease now unless we all behave sensibly. Anyway how would a 12 year old boy know what his 36 year old mother wore  and how often? Now put everything back at once.” Then she turned to me. “And Tony, this is the last time you introduce one of your stupid  Word Press prompts  into this house. The children are just throwing things all over the place!” I was about to agree when I found a necklace Michele had not worn for three years at least.

“Hey! I wondered where this had got to. Do you remember that day I bought it for you when we’d had a rather liquid  lunch and you said you had coveted it for months?  You told me how it would turn you on, and then missed your drunken footing on a kerb stone and grabbed hold of my arm pulling two buttons off the cuff of my jacket? Come to think of it you haven’t worn it since have you?”

“Oh that’s unfair, dad,” butted in ten year old Anne. You had a flaming row about the cost of the only top mum could find that would match it! That’s why it’s never been worn. But twin brother Phil did not quite remember things that way. His version was,

“The dog ate it and  you were mortified, mum, remember? Then you used the housekeeping money to replace it so dad would not find out and be upset. I can remember it well. We didn’t have chocolates for a month!”

I was shocked.”Oh darling, is that true? How sweet of you. Of course I would have understood if you’d told me. You really are an angel.” And just as I hugged her and gave her a kiss the youngest of our progeny, seven year old Trevor, suggested we play the game properly.

“Let’s each make a list of five things and the items that get named most are saved. If we have a tie then Mum decides as she’s the one who moans most if we can’t find things in this house!”

“I don’t moan, Trevor, don’t be so rude. But it is a good idea.”  Well, it could have been, but have you ever tried to find seven clean sheets of paper and seven pencils in our house?  Have a go. It took twenty minutes before we all settled down round the kitchen table. The five kids, Roger,  Phil, Anne,  Mary and Trevor with  their two parents, behaved exactly like you would expect seven semi-bored children to behave. It was the silly questions that started the rot.

Mary raised her hand, God knows why, and asked, “Is there any limit on size? I’d have to take my new electronically controlled,  imitation show jumping horse.  We couldn’t afford to leave it behind could we dad?” I just looked at her with a threatening glare.  Roger had the worst problem though, well the most insane. 

“Dad does a pair of football boots count as two things or one?” I was about to lose my patience when Anne suggested

“You keep a size six right foot boot for Phil and he could keep a left foot for you. Then You could keep a cosmetic set for me.”

It was all getting too much for  Michele who got up from the table and said ,”Mummy  is going to make dinner  while the rest of you finish your insane Word Press inspired  game.” She stormed out of the room and we carried on boring ourselves rigid. I think it was Phil who first drew our attention to an odd smell coming from the kitchen about an hour later,

“Oh No! Dad, mum’s unconscious on the kitchen floor and the room is on fire!” Genuinely terrified, the children were helped from the smoke filled house as the fire brigade and ambulances came for us all.  While we were were gathered together in the accident and emergency ward of the hospital, checking no one was badly hurt, I suddenly realised  Michele was missing. I panicked and told the senior policeman with us,

” My wife, officer, my wife. She must be still back at the house. Tell the firemen.” But I calmed down almost at once when Michele’s voice whispered in my ear from behind the curtain by my bed,

“Darling, I’m so sorry, but it  was the only way I could stop you playing that dreadful load of on line rubbish you found!”

Anton Wills-Eve

My Hero


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/pleased-to-meet-you/”>Pleased to Meet You</a>

following the wordpress prompt imagining what happened when two famous literary or screen (or both) characters met for the first time.

                                       My Hero

Our story opens on the bustling set of a new Hollywood blockbuster. A young girl approaches a young man….obligatory in pre-war movies.

“Oh, Mr.Butler. At last. I’ve heard so much about you, and that great photograph by Matt Brady, you were so handsome in it. But in real life you’re even more attractive. I’ve gone all goose bumps, and feel shy which isn’t like me at all.”

“I’m sorry honey, I didn’t catch your name. If you want an autograph you’ll have to see my agent Mrs. Mitchel. They say we’re going to have a civil war any day soon and I don’t want that English creep Leslie stealing the lead role from me, so if you’ll  excuse me…”

“Oh No. So cruel. Cruel, too cruel, do you hear me? I too am English and on top of that  I can act. Take me instead of him. Please, ” and she aimed a swoon at two outstretched arms, not noticing they were trying to light a five foot long cigar.

“Cut!! For Lords sakes, honey the censor will never pass that scene. You missed his arms and your head hit his knee on your way to the ground. And what did you say your name was? Viv Pink? What sort of a name is that? ” But the debonair Mr.Butler rose to her rescue.

” She’s cuter than Leslie, give her the job and let’s get this movie started or people will have read the book before we have time to ruin it. Also the war’s getting closer and I don’t want to be caught up in Atlanta when the flames hit the fan.”

At this the hitherto unknown lady cried out in an ecstacy of overacting, ” Oh Mr.Butler, thank you. You’ve made my career. Oh just think, I’ll divorce you and marry Larry and have lost of little Scarlets and Retts and be famous and never have to beg on the street corners of Hollywood again.”

The director lost his patience. “Look lady you’ve just been given the lead part in Gone with ….Gone with… what’s this damn movie called? ‘The Wind!?’ No kiddin’! ‘The Wind.’ Okay. So I’ll make ‘The Wind’. Now act or that Olivia dame will get your part and you’ll be on the next boat back to Liverpool, England. Okay guys, roll!”

At that moment Clark Gable  – “who the hell’s he? Is he in this movie? You sure? News to me still I get paid thousands just to shout roll and cut so let’s get on with it” – strode onto the set his eyebrows twitching and his nostrils flaring as he tried to emote passion. Thomas Mitchell looked at him and said, “you sure Trigger didn’t get offered your part, bud?” They almost had the whole of the civil war right there and then but fortunately Raymond Massey was having a manicure so they had no one to play the lead in the sub plot, ‘death of a president.’

And as the sun set on the studio filled with our cine-celebrated characters, Viv Pink had a sudden call of nature and in her first natural remark to Clark  said, “Could you lend me a coin to go to the ladies?” To which he replied,

“I’m fresh outta dimes, baby, but I could give you a damn!”

And now we see the whole scene closing at sunset with a young wannabe actor struggling to think up a title for a cowboy film he wanted to star in with twelve year old Grace Kelly. On the pad in front of him he had written and crossed out,….  eleven seventeen….eight thirty four….six twenty pm ….

Hollywood legend has it that it took him another ten years to think up the eventual title. “Low Midnight!”

Anton Wills-Eve

 

My Week Link.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Brain Power.”

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/brain-power/”>Brain Power</a>

wordpress has asked what I would do if I had 90% more brain.

My Week Link

Basically this prompt is asking me what would I do if I had 90% more brain. Well, let’s see. For a start I would immediately take out a life insurance policy for several million dollars or pounds or whatever currency I could get it in, because if I exerted myself that much more I’d be dead in a week. So What would I do with  90% more brain power in my last week?

For starters I would say an extra 90 % of the prayers I say every day, which take about 25 minutes a day on average. That would account for four hours approximately. Then I would do all I usually do in 20 hours nine times faster leaving me with 16 hours to do something extra. Now what would that be? I suppose sport would have to come into it so I’d watch another nine hours cricket,rugby,baseball, gridiron, golf, motor racing  and snooker. That would take care of my eyesight for a start, and would leave me with just seven hours .

Three hours would go on eating and enjoying drinking to keep up with the extra energy I’d need. So Now I have just four hours. I have a sneaking suspicion this would be spent sleeping as I’d be tired out. I’d make sure my dreams were 90% better than usual though, and boy is that saying something! And then at the end of the week I’d have to face God on Judgement day. What would He make of me I wonder? I think I know what He’d say though.

“That was a helluva waste of a week wasn’t it? But don’t worry. I still love you baby so I’ll tell St.Peter to let you in. But next time don’t take any notice of those awful prompts. You may not be so lucky!”

Anton Wills-Eve

Concerto in A Major Hurry


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/in-due-time/”>In Due Time</a>

 

The music impressario was never off the phone. The first performance of my third piano concerto was due to be given at the Festival Hall with the London Symphony Orchestra  in three days time and I had not even finished the orchestra’s score to give to the conductor, Sven Gottstein, to start some sort of rehearsals. My mobile went  again and I almost lost my temper,

“Look, Johan, I can either compose in silence with just my piano, or I can throw the whole work out of the window because it cannot be finished with all these interruptions. Okay? Now you have no options at all. I will finish the score for Sven by midnight and he’ll have it in time to print off all the copies he wants and start work on it at noon tomorrow. Tell him I’ll be there to advise him when he asks and to play the solo part. Now go away. Capisce?!”

I don’t think he did understand  but at least he left me alone for the rest of the evening. I was actually doing very well with the first and final movements finished and very much as I wanted them. It was the quiet, lilting melody of the slow second movement that was driving me mad. I almost had a glorious tune in my head, but not quite. The more times I played it over and over the more frustrated I became. It sounded dreadful when I introduced the main theme again, borrowed from the opening bars of the first movement and recurring three times in all during the whole concerto. But it just sounded wrong played at the tempo at which I played it to myself about twenty times.

It was nearing midnight and I just gave up. To hell with my reputation or my career. this would be remembered as the one major work that did not quite come off and I would be slated in the music reviews on Sunday morning. But by now I could not care less. I just printed off everything I had written and put in order before ringing the bell for Jane to come up to the music room on our top floor and ask her to take the music score round to Sven. She looked worried.

“Darling, are you all right? You’ve gone pale and drawn and you look ill. Have you been overworking again?”

“No, just trying to keep to Johan’s stupid deadlines. That’s the best I can do. Tell them I’ll be at the Hall at 1.00pm. Sorry if I sound  short tempered. I had a really good melody going there but it just wouldn’t come out. Still it’s the best I can do in the time.” When she had delivered my manuscript to the temperamental conductor she came back to the flat and curled up on the sofa with me, calming me down and kissing some sort of serenity back into my fevered mind.

“You know I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you, Jane. But as long as I have got you I don’t care about my music. You’re the only thing that comes between me, the piano and heaven!”

I actually turned up at the Hall at about half past two and Sven was looking at the end of his tether. Also some of the orchestral musicians looked at me rather oddly as I joined them all. Sven beckoned to me with his curled fingers and said, “Eh, amigo. Come here.Look at wot you ‘ave done. Is this ‘ow you really want this piece to be played? Eh? Really?” I looked down at what had happened, smiled to myself and replied,

“Of course. It is a new concept in the structure of the concerto. Just play the whole orchestral accompaniment to me right through and don’t say a word. And Sven. Let the orchestra play what it feels as well as what you direct. Now do you  begin to understand? Both the conductor and the musicians seemed to realise what I had done as they played the music through in its entirety but without the soloist accompanying them. When they finished they were stunned. Several of them whom I knew well just shook me by the hand, tears in their eyes and even Sven could not resist asking,

“What put such a brilliant idea into your head? I could not believe it at first but I am certain it not only works but will revolutionise the concept of symphonic harmonic structure from now on. I cannot wait to hear it with your piano accompaniment.”

That Sunday the classical music reviews were unanimous. But perhaps Justin Porkington-Cringe of the daily Bugle summed up all his colleagues’ opinions best when he wrote,

“And then, to hold back the beautiful slow andante, with its soft and spell binding melody until the very end, and finish a concerto with just the soft notes of the weeping solo piano as it slowly fell away into the sad ending of a wonderful variation on the main theme, was both a daring and brilliant innovation.”

Jane, doubled up with mirth on the floor of our sitting room as she read this, could not resist pointing out to me that in my haste I had given her the movements in the wrong order and the second movement had been played last. But I explained to her that it was only as I came to play the finale, on the night of the first performance, that the tune fully developed in my mind.

Anton Wills-Eve

 

 

 

Hear It As You Want To Understand It!


Ready, Set, Done!

The mess room was crowded and everyone knew young ‘Tuppy’ Musgrove had been having a fling with Elizabeth ‘Twice’ Knightly, the 18 year-old daughter of regimental colonel Sir Garth Knightly. DSO (and always at thebar). Will Chanceit turned to Freddy Betterstill and asked, half jokingly,

“What odds the colonel has a go at Tuppy this evening?”

“No bet,” was the reply. “It’s a certainty.”

A few minutes later the colonel approached Tuppy and silence fell. “Well Sir. Well!.”

“Tolerably, thank you Sir. Tonsils been playing up a bit but . . . .”

“Don’t you play the ass with me Sir. Do you hear Sir? I have it on good authority that you have been trying to seduce my daughter! What? What? Is it true, Sir? I shall have a straight answer in plain English, please. None of your flummery bar talk.” Tuppy looked up at the ceiling, hoping for a miracle and thinking of his English lessons at school. An idea came to him.

“Well as you asked for a straight answer in grammatically correct English, Sir, I shall give it to you. I can assure you, Sir, that your daughter Elisabeth is the most chased girl across whom I have ever come!” At which the mess room collapsed and the Colonel twisted his finger in his ear to make sure he had heard the answer correctly.

Sorry Smart Phone


Sorry Smart Phone

“I am so sorry, Smarty. It was all supposed to go so well too. Waiting for days for you to arrive, and then in you walked with your shiny silver suit on and smiling at me as you were all ready to set me on the way to months of good fun. But you had not been warned about my total lack of expertise.

“Firstly I found I couldn’t send any of the texts I wanted. My shorthand text spelling was totally unintelligible to anyone but me, and then with difficulty. But the really unfair bit was the way my friends blamed you. ‘Not much of a phone you’ve got there if you can’t even text with it!’ Honestly I really did try.

“Then there was the farce of my photography. Bent into extraordinary postures while holding you at all the wrong angles I produced fuzzy images of the river at sunset near our home. The zoom was too close or too far, the shakiness of my hand made the street lamps wave, and some pictures were even upside down or sideways. I felt I was letting you down because your manual promised you’d make an ace photographer of me in a week. I’m sure you tried.

“Then there were the straight forward calls. At first I could  call people okay but my economics were all wrong. After a couple of weeks I signed up to a stupid plan and a fortnight later I found I had to phone ten hours a day up to the end of the month!  Well nobody has that many friends or contacts. Yes, I know YOU have now, but I haven’t! Who were half those people I didn’t know and still don’t?

“But you never gave up. You told me I could email using you and you were right. But I have three email addresses and I got them mixed up and nearly choked to death on a diet of spam until I binned the lot!

“Dear Smarty . Thank you for playing your part so well and trying to make life easier, faster, happier and full of more friends for me. I know how hard you tried. It was my fault you failed. But I can still get a lot of enjoyment out of just looking at you as I take you out of my pocket and you glint in the sunlight.

But I’m afraid dear friend, that your mission will never be accomplished. I am well into my seventies and by the time I have mastered even half the things you can do you’ll be out of date and I’ll be six foot underground. But I have one consolation to look forward to. When my time does come, instead of hearing the last trump I shall just be soothed by the beautiful dulcet sound of your soft ring tone calling me home to my maker. Thanks a million, Smarty, and I do apologise.”

Anton Wills-Eve

White House and Green Grass


 

 

The question under discussion at our seminar was how far would the United States get in saving energy if it was green for five years. Well the following is one theory.

“I bet it ain’t easy being green,” said the White House to its lawn, “How do you manage it?”

The grass cupped its blades in its golf-green like symmetrical sheaths and browsed for several minutes. Then, with one huge “Whoosh”, for its voice was necessarily loud, it replied, “Well, to me it happens naturally, but if you want to be green I suggest you try a coat of green paint. This would serve two purposes. Firstly the President would be living in a house that looked politically correct and, secondly, terrorists who only had out of date maps of Washington DC, would never find you. This would kill two birds with one stone.”

The White House was astounded. “Oh boy, just wait until I suggest this to Barry. It saves mega bucks. He’ll love it. So cheap and so neat too. Hey, Grass, you really have gotten some good ideas. Strange for a substance with so little visible energy.”

“Ah, Whitey, now you’re getting the idea. Low energy. Everything green is low on energy so together we could combat all the fuel pollution in the country with just a few cans of paint. Cute, eh?”

The White House was all for it. It really thought they had a winner here. But, as with all government funded projects it wanted to know the cost, especially who to bribe to get the cheapest job.

Grass put its blades into ‘house painting’ mode. After pondering for a few more minutes it asked Whitey, “Do you remember that Irish guy, really green Catholic, who was the boss here from January 1961?”

“You mean John Baby, whose dad was a diplomat?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy. Well he wanted to send all of us Americans to the moon – Oh boy does Joe Public land some real back seat drivers on us! – well Johnny fell for the old Mark Twain theory that the only good rocket scientist is a German rocket scientist. And you know what, Whitey? That made me think. Germans led me to think ‘house painters’ and wasn’t there a famous one back in the thirties? The flag on my tenth hole told me he ended up in a bunker and was never seen again. But rumour has it he retired to St. Andrews in Scotland and fell asleep after his one thousand two hundred and sixty first stroke at the seventeenth hole, and he’s still in the bunker there. Now when you talk house painters, Whitey, you don’t talk just anyone. You talk old Adolph! Whitey, he could double coat the Empire State in three days. He’s your man okay. Shall we go get him?” 

“Sure,” Whitey replied, “but I’ve got a problem. If you’ve got no energy and I can’t move at all, how are we going to cross the Atlantic?”

Grass was impressed. “Gee I didn’t know your geography was so good. How come you knew where Scotland was?”

Whitey roared with laughter. “Oh Grass. Don’t you know your Federal history? Ever since Ike got the key to my front door in January 1953 the only subject discussed here has been golf. Hell, Ike even bought an apartment off Queen Liz 2 in a Scottish castle so he could sharpen up his short game. Whenever there were no crises going on he’d snuck of to Balmoral for a quick eighteen holes. He wasn’t missed at first, not until the Fall of 1956 when Adlai Stevenson said something true about him in the presidential campaign and nobody could find him to reply.”

Whitey fell into a reverie. “Boy, did he teach tricky Dickey his trade! Dickey was the guy who told him where Korea was so he could play soldiers again and then ended up in my oval sitting room in 1969 trying to settle a little dispute in Vietnam. Oh those were were fun days, Grass, fun days. But this ain’t getting us to Scotland without energy.”

They were both temporarily stuck for ideas when three men came walking out of the White House and strolled across the lawn, apparently lost in contemplation of matters deeply important to the state and also to each of the three of them. Grass didn’t know them, he never grew fast enough to keep up with re-shuffles. Whitey introduced them. “The tall guy is Barry, my current boss, surely you know him?” Grass knew him, but not the other two. “That’s Joe Biden, Barry’s number two and the other’s John Kerry, Secretary of State. Then Whitey spotted something odd.

“Hey look Grass, Joe and John are discussing something secret with Barry.” They were each swinging bands of beads with Crosses on the end and Barry was examining them closely. He asked Joe first, “This is your secret weapon Joe? Some sort of anti-bugging device? Gee it’s cute, especially the little guy on the end.” John broke in, “No, Sir, these are called rosaries. The beads on them are for counting prayers on.”

“No kidding,” said Barry. “How do you turn them on? Can you reach Moscow with them?”

“No,”said Joe, “They really are for counting prayers and also letting everybody else know we are Catholics. Dual purpose energy savers.” He laughed, but Barry didn’t.

“Joe, Joe baby did you say energy savers?”

“Well yes, but only in the sense that……”

The president crouched the three of them into a grid-iron huddle. “Do you realise we are about to corner the world’s energy abolition technology.” And he just resisted kissing them. “Tell me boys, do they make these things in green? They would be easier to sell if they looked the part.” Joe seemed to think the new humble Pope Francis would love to produce any number Barry wanted provided the money went to feed the starving and housing the homeless.

“Look, I don’t know who this Frankie guy is, Joe, but give him whatever he wants. I want 200 million of these in green. Oh boys, you’ve made my day.”

John coughed, “Just one problem, Sir, Pope Francis is a South American. He’s got the whole of Argentina in his pocket and the Brazilians will do anything for him.”

“Leave him to me John, if he managed to get to the top of the Catholic Church he must be some dealer. I’ll fly over to see him in Spain, (“Italy,” interrupted Joe), yeah, right, and we’ll corner the world’s anti-fuel market. And you say he gives all the dough to the homeless and unemployed ? Oh this gets better, that’s two more of my problems he could solve”….. and they slowly walked out of earshot.

Whitey resumed his chat with Grass. “Guess that leaves Adolph at the seventeenth. Pity. Was he a nice guy?” 

“Couldn’t say,” replied Grass, “The flag never told me. But boy wasn’t it great watching our leaders hunkering down for a change and freeing the world from all those terrorists with no energy left to blow people up with. Makes me proud to be bringing up all my little blades Americans.”

I honestly believe That’s how close they’d get in five years! But much worse is the fact that the US would still believe it was the greenest country in the world!!

My First Counting Book


November 30th 2014

Firstly all good wishes to my Scottish friends and relations for Saint Andrew’s day. Now here is a brief little story for today

My First Counting Book

 I opened the big, coloured book, a copy of which I had given to each of the twelve pupils in my infants mathematics class. They were a special selection of four to six year-olds who were having difficulty grasping the introductory concepts of adding and subtracting. But in every other aspect of learning they were all showing real promise.

 “Turn to page one, everybody please. Now can you see the picture of John holding an apple?” Vigorous nods all round.

 “You will see in the next drawing that Mary is giving John a carrot. Underneath is what is called a mathematical symbol. It is how we show that one and one added together make two. It is written 1 + 1 = 2. Do you all understand that?

“Yes, Jean?”

“Please, Sir, why has John got two? Mary gave him a carrot, so he has one apple and one carrot. So one and one make one of each, surely.”

I looked at the child, then at the book, then muttered under my breath who wrote this rubbish?’ Then I remembered that I had. I could see the class thought Jean was very clever. So I explained.

 “Jean, it doesn’t matter what the object is that John is holding, or Mary giving. Just pretend that Mary has given John an apple, now how many apples has he got?”

“Three, Sir.” The others could see genius in Jean’s logic.

“No, Jean. He has two. He had one, received a second, so that makes two.”

“No it doesn’t, Sir, because he had two. You’re forgetting the first one that Mary added a carrot to.”

 God give me strength! “No we started from the beginning again, Jean. Forget the first apple and the carrot”.

Jake was not having this. “But, Sir. We can’t forget it, it’s in the book. Books can’t be wrong so Jean must be right.” I quickly looked back at the lovely coloured book. Yes, we were still on page one. So I asked for help.

“Does anybody agree with the book, or even begin to understand it?” The nerd of the dozen, bespectacled little Chloe,shot her hand in the air.

 “I do Sir. You are asking us to imagine that the book is wrong and Mary is really giving John an apple and so the symbol 1 + 1 = 2 means in mathematics that an apple is spelled 1 and two apples are spelled 2 and =spells, . . . . spells . . . Well it spells equals. Whatever that means.”

 It was break time. I wished sincerely that I had never written ‘the guide to teaching infants to count’ and quietly shut the book. “We’ll go to break now, children, and I’ll tell you about 2 next lesson”.

 At this Jimmy piped up. “Oh, goody, Sir. I knew you would. Last night my daddy told me all about 2 and how it could be a prime number and an even number at the same time. Can I explain to the class my proof of Goldbach’s conjecture when we resume?”

I have never been nearer to suicide.

______________