Time for a New Party of the Right

When pollster ask the British public about issues of governance, there is usually a majority in favour of policies which most people would typify as Right Wing.

This is particularly so when the questions are contentious. For example immigration, capital punishment, benefits and work, crime and punishment.

This Right Wing constituency is not well served by our current political parties.

The Conservatives are centrist. Although many of their MPs do actually favour proper Right Wing policies, the leadership cannot. This is for good electoral reasons. In order to win elections they have to appeal to voters outside their traditional supporters. That means attracting disaffected Liberal Democrats and Labour supporters who would be frightened off by policies too overtly on the Right.

So if there is a natural majority for Right wing policies, why don't the Conservatives have a natural majority?

Well, it's because many people do not vote for policies, they vote for a Party. Many of those with Right Wing views are from the British working class. They have a long and deeply embedded history of voting Labour, and tribal loyalties would never allow them to vote Tory. Despite many Tory policies that fit better with their basic instincts. (Many of these are BNP supporters, a surprising jump from the soft Left to the very hard Right).

A great many of these 'Labour by tradition' voters are in the Celtic fringes of Scotland and Wales. (In England the Conservatives have a majority almost 'built in'). In those areas, historically, the Conservatives are irretrievably linked to wealthy land owners and factory bosses. The decline of heavy industries and the 1980s Conservative government's removal of the subsidies essential for their survival hit those areas hard. Not only did that reinforce their traditional image, but much of the employment which replaced it was in the public sector. A long standing source of Labour supporters.

All very good reasons why the Conservative Party can never be a standard bearer for principled Right Wing views.

The BNP has been growing in popularity, and many of its policies do articulate the views of that inbuilt right wing majority. But - and it's a very large, deal breaking, but - It is hopelessly contaminated with the politics of hatred and thuggishness. Its current leader, Nick Griffin has done a lot to make it more electable. But, in the past he has been linked to outrageous statements, kept some very dubious company and encouraged hostility based entirely on race. He has tried to disclaim his former life, but his opponents will never let him forget it. And despite some decent and respectable supporters the BNP still has some very unsavoury characters in both its rank and file and its leadership. 

The natural standard bearer for the Right should be UKIP. They are respectable, untainted by violence or racism, have a charismatic orator as leader in Nigel Farrage and are generally to the Right of the Conservatives. So what's the problem?

They are clearly perceived as a single issue party. Even their name reinforces that view. Nigel Farrage is an MEP, so every well known speech he makes is about the EU. They do have distinctive Right Wing policies, but they all seem to eventually concern the EU. Their web site seems entirely concerned with - the EU. Even their party logo features a pound sterling symbol clearly in opposition to - the Euro.

Nobody can doubt the EU and our place in it is a critically important factor in the future of this country. But do voters regard it as the most important issue right now? No, they are much more concerned about the economy, immigration and unemployment. It is possible and maybe justifiable, to link these issues back to the EU. But in the simplistic world of political presentation the link is too extended to resonate with voters. It can too easily become "just UKIP banging on about the EU again".

I wish most sincerely, that UKIP could become the new party of the Rational Right, but sadly I see no signs of that happening.

So, it seems to me that the UK needs a new party of the Rational Right (just a provisional working title). One untainted by violence and racism. And certainly one unconnected to slightly crackpot religious groupings like the American Tea Party!  A secular party that reflects the views of millions of respectable British men and women. It would not be a party of government. There is not enough electoral support for that, and the British system works heavily against minority parties. But it would be a party that could take votes from the BNP, the Conservatives, traditional Labour party working class supporters and sadly UKIP.

So, a major plank of policy would be to openly state they would enter into a coalition government with the Conservatives. Certainly such a party would be a much more comfortable fit for the Tories than the current Liberal Democrat alliance. It would give comfort to those concerned the Rational Right was a stalking horse for rather nasty right wing extremism and it might even give comfort to traditional Conservatives concerned about the Party's drift to the centre.

As for other policies, I think they are fairly obvious. Just look at the opinion polls. And incidentally, I think the Rational Right should support far more direct democracy, with major policy matters being put directly to the electorate with referenda. As for the name, well it could be The Rational Right, but I would prefer something that connects with the middle and working classes, does not sound too nationalistic and without any historical baggage from this country or any other. The People's Democratic Party? Answers on a post card please to . . . or maybe just leave a comment here. 

                         

The Case for Capital Punishment

Recently there was a debate in Parliament about Capital Punishment. This was in response to a petition that attracted over 100,000 signatures. The motion was about a referendum on the Death Penalty. It was defeated easily. Yet whenever they are asked the British public always shows a majority in favour of restoring Capital Punishment. If the question asked includes the Death Penalty only for specific types of murder, the majority is overwhelming.

So why are politicians so out of step with the voters. One reason might be the presentation of the case for restoration.   

Whenever I see Capital Punishment discussed, those in favour are always (well, nearly always) portrayed as populist, knuckle dragging, brutal, right wingers with a thirst for bloody revenge. Whereas the opponents are presented as cool, intelligent folk with evidence based argument based on reason and logic.

I believe there is a respectable intellectual case to be made for Capital Punishment that is based on reason.

The deterrence argument i.e. does the threat of execution deter would be murderers is highly contentious. Reasonably compelling evidence can be found to support both sides of this argument. For example, murder rate per 100,000 of population has incontrovertibly doubled since abolition in the UK. On the other hand, it is often said that thoe US states without Capital punishment have higher murder rates than those with. 

My view is the Death penalty is important as a symbol. It says: even in our civilised, humane, society there are some things that are just too bad to tolerate. A line in the sand.

Symbols are vitally important to human society. There are a great many examples, but I think the most powerful is in your pocket. Money has no intrinsic value. It's just paper or small pieces of metal. or even just numbers on a computer screen! And yet it is a powerful symbol of value without which our society could not function (despite the pipe dreams of some rather potty anarchists).

So let's look at the counter arguments:

Number one: An innocent person might be executed. 

True, it could happen. But we accept thousands of innocent people dying every year so we can all live in a modern society. In the UK Over 2,000 innocent people die in road accidents every year. Around 4,000 innocent people die from accidents in their home. We all accept these risks as the price we pay for living in a civilised society. The risk of being executed for a crime you did not commit, is vanishingly small. Especially if you are not a criminal. It's a risk I am prepared to take for the benefit of living in a safer society. I am sure I am not alone.

Number two: A civilised society does not put people to death, it brutalises us.

I'm afraid a great many civilised societies do put put people to death. And they spend a great deal of money doing it. Virtually all states have Armed Forces whose only function is to kill people. The UK spends billions to that end every year. It uses its armed forces to protect our society and in doing so kills enemy combatants. And virtually always, innocent civilians are killed in collateral damage. I regard murderous UK citizens as my enemy. More so than many of the foreign combatants we have killed. So do many others.

Number three: Putting someone to death makes the state no better than the murderer.

Using that logic, when the state fines someone it is no better than a thief. When it imprisons someone it is no better than a kidnapper. When it goes to war it is no better than a murderer. The state is not an individual. Legal sanctions performed by the state are not equivalent to the same actions performed by an individual. To say they are is false logic.

Number four: It does not deter murderers, it's simply revenge.

No convincing evidence has been provided either way. So deterrence is not the issue. I have rehearsed the argument in favour above, and all legal sentences have a (fairly large) element of retribution, punishment or if you like emotive language - revenge. Prison seldom reforms serious criminals, despite our best efforts. Yet very few people are suggesting its abolition.

Number five: It is a "cruel, inhuman and/or degrading punishment"

Cruelty implies physical suffering, it is perfectly possible to kill humanly as anyone who has ever had a pet euthanized knows. Inhuman is an entirely subjective judgement. Imprisonment is certainly degrading, most legal punishments are. So even if execution is degrading, it's just a matter of degree.

Number six: It's too expensive.

This argument is always based on the US experience where very long delays are common. There is an old legal expression "Justice delayed is justice denied." It need not happen. And even if it was true, expense should not be a yardstick for justice.

Number seven: I think it's wrong.

Just about the only valid argument. Everyone is entitled to an opinion. But I don't think your opinion trumps mine, and a great many people seem to agree that we should restore Capital Punishment. We live in a democracy where the will of the majority is supposed to hold sway.


Which neatly leads me to the debate about which crimes should attract execution as a punishment.

It's a vexed question. Clearly not all murder is the same. And some would advocate the Death Penalty for child sex abusers and rapists. This is a subjective business. So the following are my personal views, not backed by evidence or even very strong logic. Exactly what I am accusing the abolitionists of! Still, I don't claim to be a lawyer or even a politician.

So, I think the death penalty should be reserved only for murder. it is our most extreme response and should be reserved for our most extreme crimes.

I believe the death penalty should be mandatory for all murder. But in most cases it should be commuted to imprisonment, whole life where appropriate or a lesser term if justified. Only where the crime is especially heinous, should the death sentence be carried out.

The reasoning is, anybody committing murder cannot be sure they will not face death.

What is especially heinous? Well every crime is different, but I think we all know evil when we see it. For example Child rape and murder seems an obvious candidate, and I would add indiscriminate murder of civilians by terrorists.    

Those who are against the restoration of Capital Punishment will probably not change their minds. That is not really my aim. I am just trying to lay the mythological arguments that have been put for abolition and against restoration. Everybody is entitled to an opinion and most of our opinions are primarily emotional. That's OK, my support of Capital Punishment is probably my emotional response to some truly terrible crimes we have seen in our time. But I am trying to prove that logic does not support the abolitionists case. And that restorationists (I may have just invented that word) are not idiotic, red in tooth and claw, reactionaries. We have logic and rationality on our side too.
 






  

  


            

In the footsteps of Dickens, or McCall Smith or someone.

I'm reading 44 Scotland Street by Alexander McCall Smith (the author of the No 1 Ladies Detective Agency series). In the foreword he explains that the novel was written in episodes for publication in The Scotsman. Charles Dickens did the same.

So I thought if it's good enough for one of our greatest novelists and the very enjoyable Mr McCall Smith it's good enough for me. I have got an unfinished novel (who hasn't) and I have decided to publish it here a chapter at a time.

Well it's your own fault, you clicked on the link!

I have always been fatally attracted to Science Fiction. I know it's not everyone's cup of tea, and I try and control the urge. But I'm afraid the novel is, well, SciFi. It's often said that Science Fiction is always about the present, just presented as a sort of allegory. If you read any older stuff, it becomes obvious that it is true. And much of it dates rather badly. I used to think Star Trek was just great, now it looks just pathetic.

A problem with writing Science Fiction now, is that the pace of progress is so fast that anything a writer can dream up is soon passed by reality. And I have suspicion that in the not to distant future technology will solve every problem almost as soon as it occurs. Which will be great, but does not make for a very interesting novel. So one is obliged to invent constraints to give the story some texture.

Modern Sci Fi writers often write in a rather obscure way. As you progress through the novel the technology becomes clearer and the attitudes more obvious. But it takes a bit of perseverance to get into the period and place. And like a lot of genres, Science Fiction has its conventions, a regular reader will understand the references and codes.

Compared with cutting edge stuff, my novel is rather homespun. I have tried to write a Science Fiction novel for people who do not like Science Fiction. When I think about it, that's rather a foolish notion, after all if you don't like it, you are vanishingly unlikely to buy a novel about it. But it's half finished now so I might as well carry on.

I hope you enjoy it, and please try it out - even if you don't like Science Fiction!

Star Treader

Prologue

I2I.4  Robotics.

Most of the machines you will encounter on the Star Treader have, at least, some rudimentary intelligence. This ranges from simple load bearers that are programmed to take materials from one point to another, without colliding with each other or ship personnel up to the primary ship computer, code name: VERA. Since its early development, Artificial Intelligence has been a problematic area for mankind. it is all to easy to regard these machines as fellow personalities,  merely limited in certain aspects of their nature. They are not.

At their most basic levels they will interpret their instructions in a very literal sense. More complex systems have usually been programmed by other machines. Their reasoning, while logical, rapid and very comprehensive, lacks any element of human intuition. In certain fields this will make them liable to error, sometimes on a massive scale. It also sets a limit on their usefulness in situations requiring judgement. Very large machines (e.g. VERA) will have safeguards hard wired into their operating systems.

The hyper intelligent systems required for gravity wave navigation (e.g. T3) are not able to be constrained in this way. Limits thus imposed would render them unable to perform their task of setting routes through interstellar gravity waves. (This enables ships to 'short cut' distances between the stars without exceeding light speed). Therefore, to avoid the danger of these systems becoming difficult to control, they are isolated from any physical contact with the ship. They are thought to be unaware of any presence on board, other than themselves. Their directions for navigation are relayed to a team of Drivers who interpret them and guide the ship on its course.

A careful sense of perspective is required when dealing with any Artificial Intelligence. Even in its lowliest manifestation.

Star Treader Handbook. Chapter I4 Section 5

Chapter 1 – Plastic problems

The Star Treader was in deep space, riding the gravity waves that rippled across the galaxy. She traversed the great caverns of empty space between the stars. They were far, far away from the civilised core of worlds that formed the hub of the Empire, in a dangerous, deserted place. Earth colonies were rare at the Rim of the Empire and rumours of Aliens were a constant feature of the bar room gossip. Like all unknown territories, Man had peopled the Rim with dark monsters of his own imagining.

Sam Cooke the Senior Commercial Officer of the Star Treader had other worries. He was peering into the flat screen inlaid into his desk and idly fiddling with the keyboard. Rows of numbers, all too familiar to him, scrolled across the screen. He sighed and sucked the end of his stylus.

“Star Chart, Vera." He said. Vera the Ship's Computer whose ears were everywhere, responded instantly to her name and a three dimensional star chart appeared above the desk top beside the screen. Tiny lights sparkled in a black cube a metre square. Sam Cooke stared into the dark.

“Show me the class four colonies, Vera.” Then, as an afterthought, “And the class five.”

A disembodied female voice of impossible perfection spoke.

“Class four colonies are in red. Class five colonies are in blue.”

Gentle and sincere but with a quiet authority it was mother, sister, lover, wife all in one. So much a part of ship board life that it was no more noticeable than the taste of the air they breathed.

A few of the tiny lights turned red and blue. Not many and far apart. A green spot marked the ship's position. Sam pressed some keys and threads of light joined the ship to various red points. He stared again at the flat screen. He must have done this twenty times before. The numbers had not changed.

This stuff's so old' He thought. Fifty years some of it. A class four colony ought to be a good market for plastic. Even a class five would be OK. A lower price probably, hut still saleable.  Class three or above and the stuff is nearly worthless, they can make all they need. Class six and below, they won't have the technology to use it. It should be easy. Near the core it would be easy. But out here! Anything can happen. Colonies can progress a lot in fifty years. Or regress. Or disappear completely.'

Sam looked again at the cost line on his screen. The cost of deceleration alone. Plus getting into orbit and extra payments to the landside crew. Anything less than Four hundred a tonne and we will lose money.'

And he had six cubic hectares of the stuff. It had looked like a good deal when he had bartered the smelting machines for these plastic granules. The ship's gold reserves were good and the profit on the granules should be high.  In any case large gold transactions were unwise in these parts. Stories of ships carrying large consignments of gold tended to attract unwelcome attention. Unlike Aliens, Privateers were more than just bar room gossip.

He decided to make another attempt to involve Vera in the problem.

"Vera, Some of this information is very old. How far do you think the colony, on Beta seven will have progressed?'I He tried to sound casual.

“That is a matter for human Judgement. I could not possibly comment.” The voice was distinctly icy. Matra 3 class computers were notoriously touchy about that sort of thing. He tried again.

"Vera, what about the topography, what's the chance of natural oil being discovered?"

“The information I have is insufficient to make an estimate Sam." She still sounded a bit huffy, he would try again later. He could not put off a decision indefinitely. There was a board meeting scheduled next Friday and the Managing Commander would want an answer. There was talk from the Engineers about a major refit and they would need gold to pay the bill. Rather a lot of gold if the rumours his wife had heard were to be believed.

Rica was in a good position to hear the engineering gossip. She worked as a Driver in the primary control centre. A member of an elite corps. The Drivers interpreted the complex navigation information from the ships second, far more sinister computer known simply as T3. It was this intense artificial intelligence that enabled the Star Treader to plot a course through the gravity waves of space, rather in the way that a boring machine might travel through the body of a planet while above slower surface vehicles travelled a longer but more obvious route. Unfortunately such formidable intelligence has its dangers. T3 machines are isolated from all ship controls. The information they provide is read by the drivers. And T3s live out a lonely existence unaware that their metal carapaces are host to a swarm of biological life.

There was frightening talk among the Drivers; a two hour time slip on their last short trip. God knows how much on this long haul between the stars. Sam leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and stared unseeing at the wall. Rica's gamin face swept into his mind and smaller more pressing worries displaced vague concerns about a catastrophic time slip. Rica wanted a baby.

She was thirty five. A life could be extended to almost two hundred years, But a woman's instinct was as it had been since women first walked the Earth, and her instincts told her it was time. Sam was much older and although men seemed to be able to reproduce into their dotage, he had doubts.

'It's not the age difference,' he thought. 'Or even the other kids. After all I never see them. It's the Ship. More than the Ship it's this life. This is no place to raise a family.' Again he sighed. He had been born in a colony under a yellow sun. He had played under open skies and bathed in salt seas. On their small farm he had, what seemed to him, an idyllic childhood. The war had made him a Void Rider, it was now all he knew. But he did not love it and sometimes dreamed quietly of that yellow sun.

Rica was different. Born to the Void, her family were high in the ships hierarchy. Now she too had taken the mantle of aristocrat and was a Driver. Sam always felt a little uneasy in the company of her friends from the corps. He had the suspicion that their easy confidence implied a disdain for
Commercials in general and himself in particular. His own intimates tended to be of rather a lower status, easier going type. But Rica did not share or even understand his concerns. As she said:

“Darling how can there be a problem? Our child will have everything it needs.  There's the park, and the farm, and the lake. It's almost two hundred hectares. That's more country side than most colony city kids would ever see.  Not only that but look at Randolph's family, they’re strong and healthy, well adjusted.” And so on.

'It was all true,' thought Sam. 'But a child should know that the country does not naturally curve upward over his head, following the outline of a hull. It might be far away, and difficult to see through the clouds, but the land above your head should simply not be there. They should know that animals bite and insects sting and that the air could be too hot or too cold. That it rained in the day, and - that Vera was not always there to save you.'

But would Rica desert the Ship that had been her life and join him on a colony world? From Space Ship Driver, Rider of the Void, Star Treader, to farmers wife. He doubted it. Very much.

To be continued

Wales in May

I have just returned from a four day motoring holiday in Wales.

I was with my son, and we drove in my 1953 Jaguar XK120. The motto of a US Harley Davidson club is: "The difference between men and boys - is the cost of their toys." All too true.
 
Wales rewarded us with 500 miles of completely breathtaking scenery - and a bit of rain. I have never driven so far, surrounded by so much unbroken beauty.

(Apart from an occasion when I was very much younger, and took a young lady of my acquaintance to France. And that was nothing to do with scenery. Oh to be young again!)

Meanwhile back in Wales, nobody goes to Wales for a suntan so we could not complain about a little traditional Welsh weather. In fact we had 2 days of rain. The first was surprising enjoyable. We put the hood up, which is a bit of an engineering accomplishment in itself. And despite the rain, visibility was near perfect, so we were able to enjoy the magnificent views unhindered.

Driving the Jag is always a bit of a challenge. And driving through single track roads, up 1 in 4 hills (and down the other side) was exhilarating. The engine is remarkably powerful for a 60 year old car (for the petrol heads: a 3.4 litre, double OHC, straight six, with two 2" carburettors). But it shows its ancestry in its petrol consumption - 14 miles per gallon on this trip!

We used the AA book of Best Drives. By linking up three circular routes, the Black Mountains, Mid Wales and Snowdonia, and driving up the West side and down the East side of each we had an excellent circular drive.

It was around 150 miles per day, which with the benefit of hindsight was just a little too far. The roads are not built for speed, and although we managed the distances comfortably, a bit more time to linger would have been nice.

On the last day, it was raining and misty. So we truncated the tour and headed home. We would have been home a little early but the old lady decided to show her temperament. So we cruised to halt on the A40 about 20 miles from home! The RAC man did his best, but it's an intermittent fault in the wiring. Hard to trace. We managed to coax her into life, and gingerly pottered home.

Not the perfect finish, but for 480 miles she was a perfect lady. And she is quite an old girl, so I can forgive her little tantrum. Although it will mean a visit to the garage, and yet another largish bill. But, beautiful women are never low maintenance!

So, onto June's featured writing. I haven't written much poetry, and I know a lot of people will be clicking away as soon as they see the word. With some justification. An awful lot of amateur poetry is, well, awful.

Mine might be too, so I have only put a couple of what I hope are the better ones below. Give them a try, you might like them. And at least they are short!

Cat and mouse game

Cat by the mouse hole,
With patience and care,
Just waits for his moment.
Yes, Pussy is there.

I wait for my lover,
With patience and care.
It seems like forever,
But I know She's there.

I learned from that feline,
And I learned it well.
The journey to heaven,
Is a little like hell.

But, purposes different,
Were soon to begin.
Pussy wanted it out. . .
While I wanted it in.

Incident

She was cool and beautiful, sleek as a cat.
Her presence quite filled the bar where we sat,
Scented, successful, Business Woman complete,
The world was her oyster, it lay at her feet.

Conversation meandered as talk often does,
We spoke about life and our various loves.
I mentioned my children Gerry and Clare,
And as soon as I did, felt a chill take the air.

“I do not like kids” she said with contempt,
No room for some brat with his life all unkempt
I have my career and a Golf GTI
A flat in the town. What I need I can buy.

And as for lovers. I've been through the test,
A key to all doors and a man for each breast.”
So bright and so brittle. But caught in the lie,
A tear, like a diamond was fixed in her eye

Perfect Love

Perfect love is white marble.

It is clean, it is pure, it is clear,
Incandescent with light.
Incontrovertibly right.
Sparkling bright as a baby's first tear.
But please spare a thought,
For the commoner sort,
That is complex and veined at its heart,
In its lines and its whorls,
Are two different worlds,
That are mingled but still held apart.
Is its beauty reduced,
By its intricate use,
Or enhanced? It is all in the eye.
Is it danger you see,
Or a life bursting free,
A heart broken, or touching the sky?

If you liked them, there are a few more in the poetry section. Just click on the tab at the top of this page.
    

AV and all that

It's May and we have just had the result of the AV referendum (it lost, horribly).

I was very unsure about which way to vote. I liked the idea of voting for a smaller party which more closely represented my views, and also being able to nominate my second choice who stood a realistic chance of being elected.

But - It was very clear that AV would mean more coalition governments. Which is of course why the Liberal Democrats insisted it was part of their price for joining the current government. So that would mean more instances of the party with with the least votes deciding which party would be in government.  


So it's not the 10 million who voted Conservative or even the 8 million who voted Labour who decide the party of Government - it's the 6 million who voted Liberal Democrat. And this is decided not by the voters, but by politicians doing deals - with each other.


The referendum itself was a prime example. We were denied a referendum on the EU Constitution/Lisbon Treaty which many people felt quite passionate about. But we get one on voting reform, which most people do not care about at all. Why? Because of a coalition agreement, made entirely between politicians. Doesn't seem right to me. Which is why I finally voted - No.


Onto May's showcase work. This is a piece from the Family Life page. A domestic story of ordinary people and an eccentric, rather troublesome neighbour who is less than he says, but more than he seems.


All His Works

When Old Joe was taken ill they called me. Silly really, after all I hardly knew him. But then again, nobody really knew him. At least nobody ever visited that run down old bungalow. And I found out afterwards that they couldn't trace any relatives. So, as chairman of the local Residents Association, they called me.

"What can I do?" I said to Wendy, my wife. "I can't just say no, can I? I mean, he's ill; maybe it's serious."

"But it's none of our business," she said. "We don't know him. It's not an Association matter."

She was right of course. In fact old Joe and I had had words on several occasions about the state of his garden. What a mess! Weeds as tall as your shoulder, no wonder the other residents of the Close complained.

But it was no use complaining to Joe. Several times I hacked my way up the overgrown path to that green front door. I suppose once it was a nice glossy green but now it was blistered and dull. Such a shame I thought, to let it go to rack and ruin that way. Of course the bell did not work, so each time I had to hammer and bash on the door until Joe finally responded.

Nobody knew how old Joe really was, but he looked about eighty to me. He was short with a great mop of silver hair. I never saw him without a little black beret on his head, and he always wore the same baggy corduroy jacket. Our conversations never really got very far. Sometimes old Joe would be a Great Sculptor, sometimes a Great Engineer, sometimes a Great opera Singer. At least he was consistent in one thing; they were always Great. Joe had no truck with the second rate.

It's difficult to have a serious discussion with a Great Fighter Pilot about the state of his garden. I suppose it all seems a bit trivial to him, what with the fate of whole nations depending on the success of his next mission. In some ways I could see his point of view, but it didn't cut much ice with the Residents Association. At times the meetings got quite heated. As I said to Simpson at one of our recent gatherings;

"If you feel that way about it, why don't you say something yourself. You see him walking by often enough." And do you know what Simpson said?

"Every time I try to speak to him, he just goes on about his latest painting or statue or mission or something else damn silly." Well, of course, I replied:

"Well there you are then! It's just the same for me. What do you expect me to do?"

Although I got the support of the meeting to move onto the next item on the agenda, it was a bit grudging I felt. The discussion on the new street light for the corner was a little strained.

"It's all very well Mr bloody Simpson getting all hot and bothered about the weeds blowing into to his garden," I said to Wendy afterwards, "but it's not him who has to go and represent the Association."

"You encourage him" she said.
This was too much. I was frankly annoyed.

"Simpson is a pompous overbearing ninny, how could I possibly encourage him."

"Not Simpson; Old Joe!" She said, rather scathingly I thought. "Something really ought to be done about him. That old bungalow must be a public health hazard. And as for all his silly talk about that Great Novel he's writing, I don't believe a word of it."

I suppose I did have a secret soft spot for the old boy. After all it's not often that you get the chance to meet a Great General and Great Author in the same day, let alone the same man. And not every suburban street can claim to have a Great Painter in residence.

So I went to see him at the hospital. As always, the hospital was a foreign country. The long windy walk from the car park to the usual antiseptic maze of corridors with incomprehensible signs and closed doors to worrying rooms. And of course, that Smell. I suppose people who work there get used to it, but to the casual visitor it's the trademark of sickness. That special blend of boiled cabbage and antiseptic, accept no substitute.

I finally found the ward where Joe was supposed to be. By the time I got there it was late and very few visitors remained. The trouble with modern hospitals is they don't have fixed visiting hours, so you have to invent some important appointment, or pretend that you are overtaxing the patient in order to get away.

Fortunately the patient is usually as bored as you, so it works out all right, but some of these visitors, poor devils, looked trapped. They stared at me as I walked down the ward, willing me to announce the end of visiting for today. I peered embarrassingly up and down the rows of beds trying to recognise him. He was right at the end. So, feeling conspicuously vertical in this horizontal world, I walked to his bedside. Lying in those totally alien stiff white sheets poor old Joe was smaller, diminished. He also looked very, very, ill.

"Hello Joe." I said, "How are you feeling." I think he recognised me, but it was hard to be sure. He turned his head to me,

"It's my greatest work, you know."

"I'm sure it is, but how are you. What happened?"

"Not too good. It's my heart they say. But what do they know. Young kids most of 'em. Now when I had my practice. . ." He stopped and drew a long, laboured breath.

"All the residents back in the Close wondered what had happened to you" I quickly lied.

"Those bastards, they wouldn't recognise great art if it bit their bum. All they care about is their bloody front lawns." He gasped, getting a bit red in the cheeks. "Fascists all of 'em, we fought a war to keep England free of Simpson and his kind. He relaxed back onto his pillow.

"Little shit." He said more quietly. A Nurse arrived she looked about thirteen.

"Is everything O.K. Mr Greenslade?" She said briskly. Joe grunted something.

"Please take care not to over tire him. He needs lots of rest." She said to me in a rather pointed manner, and bustled off.

I sat by the bed not quite knowing what to say. I certainly did not want to provoke another outburst. But I could not think of a damn thing to talk about. Soon Joe came to the rescue.

"It's my greatest work you know" he said again. "Not that the other stuff was bad. Oh no. It's just that this is my, er, whatchamacallit. . . you know."

"Masterpiece?"

"Yes, that's it. Masterpiece. Now they'll have to take notice. It's a conspiracy you know. They're all against me. But I'll show 'em, you mark my words." Once more the colour was starting to rise in old Joe's cheeks.

"Yes, a conspiracy" he said, starting to warm to his subject. "They want to keep me down, you know. I know things. But they won't do it you know. You can't suppress Great Art. . ."

"Don't tire yourself Joe." I said hastily, but his breathing had become very laboured and I started to panic. I pressed the bell push by his bed and then started to walk down the ward to get the nurse. She arrived quite soon and looked accusingly at me. Before I could properly explain she drew the curtain around the bed and went inside, a few seconds later she emerged and swept rapidly off down the ward.

She soon returned with a young male Doctor and the two of them disappeared into the tented city. After a very long five minutes he came out and said he had something rather serious to tell me, and would I follow him. As it was pretty obvious that poor old Joe had finally departed this world, I started to get very nervous. Was he going to tell me Joe had some dreadful infectious disease and I was going to have to spend weeks in isolation while they carried out tests to see if I would live?

We went into a tatty waiting room filled with those steel tube and Rexene chairs that must be specially designed for National Health hospital waiting rooms. You never seem to see them anywhere else. But then who else would buy the awful things? The doctor put on a special sincere look.

"Were you and your Father very close?" He said. I was momentarily confused. Then I realised this was the new sympathetic 'bedside manner' programme recently introduced to the Health Service. I read about it in the local paper. I quickly explained that Joe was really just an acquaintance. The Doctor looked a bit put out. I suppose he wanted the practice.

I felt a bit guilty; after all he was only trying to help, so I tried to look deeply moved. The trouble was, all this play¬acting somehow rather got in the way of the real sadness I felt about poor old Joe finally ending his days in this place. It was not exactly a fitting end to a Great Artist. I had the vague feeling he should have died in a hut on a south sea island, or in a plane crash or even a motorbike accident, something with a bit of glamour. I tried to explain to the doctor, but it was a mistake. I could tell by the way he looked at me, that he thought I was as barmy as old Joe. Eventually I made a few sheepish excuses and left the hospital feeling a bit of a fraud.

When I got home and told Wendy that old Joe had gone, we both went through the familiar and comforting routine. Had a good innings, did not suffer, best way to go, and many other hackneyed and true clichés were aired as they must be. I went to bed suitably depressed.

The next morning was a Saturday and I woke feeling in oddly good spirits considering the events of yesterday evening. It seemed in rather poor taste to appear too jolly so I tried to look a bit subdued. But I could feel Wendy's disapproval, so I don't think I made a very good job of it.

"Poor old Joe."  She said pointedly. "We shall miss him you know."

"Look, I'm sorry he's gone," I said, "but we didn't really know him that well, and with the best will in the world I can't help feeling a tiny bit relieved that I won't have to go through all that nonsense at the Residents Association again."

I could tell Wendy was shocked. She pursed her lips.

"You must get the Association to buy a nice wreath. I wonder when the funeral will be?" Wendy seemed to like Old Joe a lot more now he was dead, I thought. No doubt many others would feel the same. Still most great artists had to wait until after they were dead to get the recognition they deserved.

We had just finished breakfast when the doorbell rang.

"It's the Milkman," shouted Wendy from the kitchen, "I didn't pay him last week and I haven't got any cash, will you deal with it? I'll settle up with you later."
I quietly grumbled my way to the door but when I opened it, it was not the Milkman. A young man in a tweed jacket stood there and announced he was from Social Services or some such, and he had come about Mr Greenslade. It took me a moment or two to realise that he was talking about Old Joe.

I invited him in and introduced him to Wendy. I must say I got a certain smug satisfaction in seeing Wendy going through the deeply moved act that I had performed for the doctor yesterday. This time I felt no obligation to perform.

The young man explained that he wanted to go to Joe's bungalow and go through his papers to see if he could identify any next of kin. And for some reason he wanted me to go with him. Perhaps he thought it would take two of us to fight off the bacteria. More likely, he thought I might have a key. I didn't. He said we should probably call a policeman to help us get into old Joe's place, but that seemed a bit excessive to me.

"You don't really need the police to get into Joe's old Bungalow," I said. "You could break into that place with a penknife and a piece of string. I'll come with you if you think you should have a witness."

"I'd be very grateful if you would" said the young man.

I popped out to the garden shed to get a screwdriver so we had something to prise open a window and off we strode down the Close to old Joe's place. Word had already got round about Joe's death, and several residents asked about him as we passed. I felt quite important for a while, escorting this young chap to the bungalow, it was like approaching the tomb of some long dead Egyptian Pharaoh, passing all the natives aghast at the great archaeologist about to defy the curse of the overgrown garden and enter. But when we got there it was just poor old Joe's tatty old home with its green front door and peeling paint. I pushed at the door and it opened easily. It wasn't even on a latch; Joe did not have much worth stealing. There were two rusty bikes in the hall and a significant collection of old milk bottles.

"We had better take a look in the front room first, and then work our way round the house." Said the young man. I actually hated the idea of rummaging through this sad house, now like its owner, lifeless and still. But I could not think of a better plan, so I agreed.

The front room door was ajar, and as well as his masterful collection of milk bottles I could see Joe was also something of a connoisseur of old newspapers.

Perhaps, I thought idly, he was a Great Collector too. The young man interrupted my reverie.

"Bit of a DIY man was he? Your friend?"

I never really thought of Joe as much of a do it yourself enthusiast, what with the state of his bungalow. Not to mention that garden!

"Er, not exactly. More of a don't do anything man I would have said."

"What's all this then?" he said, pointing to a large pile of cans in the corner of the room. I walked over and peered at dozens and dozens of empty paint tins. There were gloss and emulsion, even some of that thick stuff you put on the ceiling to cover those horrible little cracks. And every colour you could think of.

"He must have had a very unusual colour scheme in mind." I said.

"It looks like he's already done it," said the young man, "most of these are empty."

We looked in the bureau in the corner of the room and in all the cupboards. It was just the usual sad detritus of a life now over. There were papers galore. Joe obviously did not believe in throwing anything away. There were gas bills going back twenty years, but certainly not in chronological order. The young man from the Council looked a bit glum.

"It's going to take weeks to sort through this lot," he said. "To be honest it looks more like a job for the refuse department than for my lot."

He picked up a pile of papers and peered at them with a sort of forlorn look.

"I mean," he said "how am I supposed to find anything about his next of kin from this lot? Look at this! It's a petrol coupon! Must be fifty years old."

"There might be some more up to date stuff elsewhere." I really just said it to make him feel a bit better. Knowing Joe, it was more likely that the rest of the house was also full of interesting curios from the distant past.

We went into the back room. I suppose it was once the sitting room. But it was hard to recognise it as anything very much now. The carpet was strewn with some of Joe's comprehensive newspaper collection and the furniture, floor and just about every other available surface had something on it. There were buckets, cups, vases, an old teapot and of course plenty of milk bottles. The curtains were drawn and it was very gloomy

"What on earth has he been doing in here?" Asked the young man.

"Search me." I said. "Open those curtains; I can hardly see a thing." He stumbled noisily across the floor to the window. The curtains dragged jerkily open and light flooded into the room.

"That's better," he said. "Now let's see what's been going. . .on. . ."

His voice trailed away as he stared over my shoulder into the room. I turned to see and there on the far wall was a large piece of hardboard about eight feet square, and on it was a painting.

I was quite astounded. I am not an artistic person; I don't visit art galleries and that sort of thing. But even I could see that this was indeed Old Joe's masterpiece. There was a forest, dappled with a hundred shades of green. It seemed to glow where the sunlight touched the leaves. And yet other parts were dark and seemed almost threatening. The forest ran almost down to the seashore, and the sea and the rocks sparkled in the sunshine. It was so beautiful I admit a tear came to my eyes. I moved a step closer and now I could see clearly the figures in the foreground.

They were lying on the beach naked. A man and a girl in an embrace. It was not openly explicit, but it was clearly sensual and certainly erotic. They were obviously lovers in this paradise, this English Eden.

Smiling gently from the painting I could now recognise Joe in his youth, strong and beautiful. But the naked girl in his arms, strange how memory can play tricks, it could almost have been Wendy, thirty years ago.

              ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bit Of A Change

Up until now, I have been publishing my writing in this section of the blog. 

But I have realised it's really not designed for supporting permanent items. It's quite hard to present stories in a way that's easy to find and easy to recognise what might interest you. So I have made "pages" which are categorised by subject. At least the visitor now stands a chance of finding something interesting and hopefully, amusing.

It also gives me a chance to air some of my more outrageous views on Life the Universe and Everything - which is nice (at least it is for me).

For example, I have been trying to make up my mind which way to vote in the forthcoming AV referendum. Well, I have decided. I will be voting No. I think there are valid arguments both ways. But seeing assorted luvvies gathering round the Yes cause finally made up my mind.

Why is it somebody who is quite good at acting or telling jokes or singing thinks their opinion on politics is worth a damn?  Can't understand it.   

Anyway . . . The writing I am going to showcase this April is a piece I wrote about a Dragon Slayer. Everybody loves a fairy story, and this is my attempt. Hope you enjoy it.

(Showcase - doesn't that sound grand! It really just means it's going on the front page) 


Sir Trevor of Dewerlaigne

It was late afternoon by the time Trevor reached the Castle.

The day had been hot and the road dusty. He needed a drink. His sword belt slipping from his hip dragged its scabbard on the ground. The shining breast plate that had looked so dashing when he first wore it was now just hot, heavy and dirty.

He trudged up to the front of the great wall that reared from the countryside like a massive cliff, towards huge oak doors studded with bronze nails. Quite suddenly he realised there was a moat. It had been hidden from the roadway by a rise in the ground, but it was quite clear now. The water was black, sullen and still, the drawbridge firmly up.

"Bloody hell!" He said out loud. "All ruddy day I've been walking and when I finally get here no bloody dragon! In fact, no bugger at all!" He sighed. "Sometimes I wonder why I bother."

The castle was quite deserted and still. Casting a sinister pall over the surrounding countryside. But Trevor was not daunted by this fearsome place and he shouted a challenge at those dark walls.

"Oi! Anybody there! Come on, Let's be 'aving you!" But no sound came from those tall grim walls, save the dying echo of his own brave challenge. So, reluctantly, the courageous Trevor decided to walk around the castle by the edge of the moat to see if there was another entrance to this place of doom. The grass was long and overgrown away from the main gate, and he spoke softly to himself to keep up his spirits as he toiled through the undergrowth.

"All this bloody way - Think he'd at least have the decency to put in an appearance. Ouch! - Bloody nettles. That's all I need - Where's the bloody dock leaves" And so on.

After about half an hour the grass became a smooth green sward, a lawn stretching from the moat away to a distant wood. From the black stone wall a round tower swelled. High in the tower was a large open window, and a low rumbling, like the purring of a gigantic cat, indicated that the dragon was at home. Trevor peered up at that sinister black hole; and for just a moment even his stout heart quailed. Dragons were not to be trifled with. Then resolutely shrugging his shoulders, he called up to that dark tower.

"Oi, dragon, come out and fight!" There was no reaction. "I said, come out and fight! You in there, you got cloth ears or something!" He was now screaming at the top of his voice. "OI, OI COME ON NOW. I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE."

There was a loud snorting as the dragon awoke. A voice, deep and filled with menace spoke unseen from the window.

"Who's making all that bloody noise?" It said.

"At last." Breathed Trevor quietly, then loudly he said "It is I, Trevor of Dewerlaigne. Come to challenge you, foul worm"

"Drury Lane! Are you kidding? And not so much of the 'foul worm' if you don't mind."

"Dewerlaigne. It's just down the road a bit from Camelot. Look, you coming out to fight or what!"

There was a sound like chain mail being dragged across the ground, and a terrible face appeared at the window. The dragon was indeed a prince of his kind. His scales were brilliant green and his eyes burned red like hot coals. Sir Trevor took an involuntary step backwards as the dragon looked him up and down. As it opened its mouth to speak, small wisps of black smoke trailed from its mighty throat.

"Bugger off." It said shortly, and disappeared.

Trevor was mortally insulted; and maybe just a little relieved. The result was never in doubt of course, but dragons are tricky animals. Even quite a small one can give you a nasty burn, and the big ones can turn very unpleasant indeed.

He started to walk across the lawn towards the wood, when an uncomfortable thought began to nag at him.

"Trouble is," He thought. "They're not going to believe this back at the village." He stopped and scratched his chin. "I can say the dragon was too scared to fight, and in any case he'd already eaten the virgins, but," He looked down at his now grubby breast plate, "I don't think they'd buy it. I can see me gettin' a bit of stick over this, particularly now I've spent the money." He also did not relish the idea of meeting the lady who commissioned him without a rather more substantial story. "Say what you like." He pondered. "But I never heard of District nurse with a pointy hat and a black cat following her everywhere," He started reluctantly back towards the tower. There was only one way to get the dragon out: The Insult.

He was a little nervous about using it. dragons were notoriously touchy at the best of times, but The Insult drove them quite insane.

"OK You. . ."  He stopped. His voice had somehow come out high and squeaky. He cleared his throat and started again. "Ahem. OK Dragon." (He felt he knew It well enough to use a capital 'D') "OK Dragon, this is your last chance. COME OUT AND FIGHT"' There was a long pause. Then a dreadful voice spoke from inside the dark tower.

"Not you again. Can't you take a hint. There's people trying to sleep up here. Why don't you be a good lad and push off"

"Right then." Said Trevor softly. "You asked for it." He took a deep breath, then said very loudly. "COME OUT AND FIGHT YOU - LIZARD!"

There was a loud gasp from inside the room. Then a strangulated cry and, finally, a deafening roar of fury. Black smoke poured from the window, and an anguished cry.

"OH NO! I'VE ONLY GONE AND BURNED ME BLOODY CURTAINS! I'll kill you for this you little toe rag."

The great green beast burst from the window, scattering masonry from the wall, as it flew in a sweeping circle to land on the lawn in front of Trevor. Stones crashed into the moat beside them. The Dragon stared at Trevor, its red eyes burning into his very soul.

"It took me six months to get them curtains!" It screamed. "Have you ever tried to get anything from Habitat's mail order department? Out of stock, they say. Back in a few weeks, they say. Then when they finally send them. . . Wrong bleedin' colour, so it's back on the phone and the whole bloody thing starts again! I get it all sorted out at long last, then you come along and - Whoosh the whole soddin' goes up in smoke. Stroll on!" He glanced up at the window where smoke was still curling lazily around the remains of the lintel. "And look at me window! Do you have any idea just how difficult it is getting a proper brickie round here? Every bleedin' Pikey in the county'll be round here now:
'just passing Soir, and I noticed yers got a little problem with yers window Soir. Oi can easily fix that fer yer Soir, foive tousand quid orter just cover it Soir.'
But try and find a proper builder, real craftsman, you can't do it. Dying breed y'see"

Trevor thought this a bit rich coming from a dragon, but he said nothing. The beast was calming down and becoming quite melancholy.

"It's the same with the virgins. Can't remember the last time I tasted one. They give you all this old toffee about how they only tried it once and didn't really like it, but It's not the same. I blame the parents myself. Now I got some snotty nosed little berk calling me. . ." He shuddered, and glared at Trevor. "A. . .Lizard"

The Dragon moved a step nearer to Trevor and opened its huge jaws. A great billow of smoke and fire burst forth. Trevor leapt back just in time, but he felt the stinging heat roll over him. Black pungent smoke engulfed him and he felt his eyebrows singeing. As the smoke drifted away he emerged, face and breast plate blackened with soot, eyes watering and throat gasping for air.

"Hold on a minute." He spluttered. "I wasn't ready. I haven't even got me bleedin' sword out yet!" So saying he drew the mighty broad sword from his side. It got a bit stuck at the end because his arms were not quite long enough, but he finally managed to wrest it from its scabbard. "That's better." He said. "Now, come on then. . . Let's be 'avening yer."  He stood, sword in both hands legs firmly braced apart and waited for the onslaught.

But the Dragon was suddenly reticent. It cocked its great head on one side and looked at suspiciously with a single malevolent red eye.

"Hang on a minute." It said. "Where did you say you came from?"

"Dewerlainge." Said Trevor. "It's just outside Camelot. Well about fifteen miles outside actually. It's not exactly handy for the Castle, but have you seen the prices in Camelot! My Gawd! Do you know, a friend of mine's got this little place, I mean it's nice but nothing special, know what I mean? He gave two goats for it, must be oh ... three or four years ago. Now he reckons he could get a whole flock of sheep! I mean, what chance has a young squire Just starting out got? I blame the shepherds myself. If they weren't so free with their bleedin' livestock there just wouldn't be the ovine around to pay for it, would there?"

"Never mind all that! How come we're both speaking English?"

Trevor looked uncomfortable. He stared at his feet, then started to fidget with his pommel. He tried a show of bravado.

"Look! You scared or something are you? Let's get this over with!" He waved his sword in the air.

"Not so bloody fast, you little toad." Said the Dragon. "It's all beginning to fall into place. I must have eaten a dozen or so fully loaded, genuine knights over the last year or so. And very good they were too, apart from that chain mail stuff that gets stuck in your teeth. Now, suddenly, I'm confronted by some raggedy arsed little tit with his Dad's sword, who can't wait to have a go. We are in a bloody story, aint we?"

"Might be." Said Trevor defensively.

"I bloody thought so!" Roared the Dragon. "No wonder you're so bleedin' eager. Can't lose can you? I mean, when does the Dragon ever win in a story?"

"Could do." Said Trevor without conviction.

"Leave it out." The Dragons voice was heavy with scorn. "What! Do you think I was born yesterday? My old mate Smaug was all right for hundreds of years. Hundreds! Then some silly sod puts him in a story, and ... Phhhut! A Hobbit does him in. A hobbit!! I ask you, is that sense? Ridiculous. But these writers got no reason. Out of touch. What can you do?"

"Does this mean we don't get to fight?" Said Trevor forlornly.

"Do me a favour, Sonny! What do you think I am? I might be a bit green but I'm not a bleedin' cabbage!" So saying the Dragon opened its great leathery wings and with a mighty rush of air sprang into the sky. As it climbed away towards the high tower, Trevor casually tossed his sword at the beast in frustration. The sword leapt through the air like a mighty Javelin, speeding towards its target it slashed the Dragons side as it passed. Only a last minute twist of its body prevented the Dragon's black heart from being pierced.

"See what I mean!" It screamed down at the opened mouthed Trevor. "No sense of reason! Bloody useless, the lot of them" The Dragon alighted sulkily on top of the tower and as it did so, vast black clouds began to gather in the west.

Trevor saw the thunder heads roiling and boiling as the clouds drew ever nearer. He could already hear the roll of distant thunder and see brilliant streaks of lightning under lighting the dark belly of the cloudscape. In no time the storm was upon them. The thunder crashed with an unbearable din and forked tongues of lightning split the sky.

The Castle was lit in startling relief as blinding flashes of light flared In darkness. Trevor could see the Dragon silhouetted against the sky roaring its defiance to the storm. A great bolt of lightning struck the tower. For a moment the Dragon reared up, taller than before, clawing at the sky, alight with blue flame. Then slowly, like a mighty tree, it swayed and fell, crashing from the parapet as if in slow motion, out beyond the moat onto the lawn below. Behind him, the tower began to crumble. It slid slowly down, a landslide of hard rubble bridging the moat, exposing an open wound of half rooms and shattered staircases.

The Dragon was not dead yet. Trevor could hear its rasping breath as it struggled for words. He approached the smouldering hulk. He was a Christian man and thought that even the great evil that resided in this beast might be shriven at its last breath. He reached that giant head and listened for that final confession.

"Struck by bleedin' lightning." It gasped. "Talk about corny. Nobody's going to believe this load of balls."

"Look - About the virgins. . ." Said Trevor.

"Any minute now you're going to wake up and say "Oh gosh it was all a dream." I mean to say, what a load of rubbish! Look the bloody clouds have gone already. This is awful; he's never going to get published with stuff like this."

"About the virgins. You haven't eaten them already, have you?

"Couldn't face it mate. Why do you think they stayed virgins for so long?" Trevor looked puzzled and the Dragon gave a long heartfelt sigh.

"Rubbish." It said and breathed its last.

Trevor heard a shrill cry. He looked over to the bridge of rubble and could just make out two distant figures picking their way across the fallen masonry. As they drew closer he could soon discern two of the fattest women he had ever seen.

"Cooo eee." They shouted and waved.

"You the virgins!?" Said Trevor incredulously as soon as they were near enough.

"We are indeed, Brave Moor." Said the fattest one. "I'm Sharon and this is my friend, Tracy."

"Give us a kiss, handsome knight." Said Tracey. "You hear such stories about these black men; let's have look at your willy." She lunged at Trevor's groin but he side stepped neatly.

"Leave it out!" He said. "It's just soot."

"Oh." Sharon was clearly disappointed, but she quickly recovered her composure,  "Never mind. Give us a kiss anyway."

Trevor decided to head back to the village straight away. Much to the girls chagrin he insisted they kept going all night. As the trudged back he had to endure much 'accidental' rubbing of huge bosoms on his back, grotesque wiggling of acres of flesh and many none too subtle references to the fact that he had lost his sword.

When they finally sat down to rest he discovered that neither of them could cook and their main topic of conversation was the various cures for acne that they had tried. Although he could sympathise with the Dragons sensibilities, Trevor could not help feeling a bit annoyed that he hadn't even managed one of them.

By the morning they had reached the village and Trevor was given a hero's welcome by everyone. (Except the virgins' families who had been rather relieved to have got them off their hands and were a bit miffed that they had turned up again).

And they all lived happily ever after. Except Trevor who got turned into a frog by the District Nurse for pretending he had a wife and five children back home in Dewerlaigne. He was trying to avoid marrying one of the virgins, a long standing tradition for rescued maidens in those parts.

And although he wasn't exactly happy - on the whole, he still thought he'd got the best deal available.