Humour

CONTENTS (Click on the title to go to the story)

Sir Trevor of Dewerlaigne - An epic battle between Man and Dragon (almost).

Reflections on Monetary Union - Pre-Euro, money changing could get very complex.

Speed Kills - Not every country relies on Speed Cameras.

Monkey Business - Evolution, who needs it!

The Other Othello - The one Shakespeare somehow missed. Dogism, I reckon.

Wilsonville Story - The invasion of the garden snatchers!

Goldberg Variations - No good deed goes unpunished.

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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.

Reflections on Monetary Union

My Father never really got to grips with the International Date line.

"If it's I2.00 o'clock in Rangoon it's Wednesday over here." He used to say. So how he coped in a small Italian hill village, on a Sunday, with nothing but 6000 Belgian Francs in cash, I don't know. But I think it's fair to assume, not well.

All the same, I was surprised to get the phone call from Helsinki. And although he was not exactly under arrest, I got the impression that the authorities were not all that pleased to see him. I think it was the camel they really objected to. Although as my father pointed out, it was properly crated and if the papers were not in perfect order it was really the fault of the Moroccan shipping agent.

"Bloody Finnish." He said on the phone. "Soul of a bunch of reindeer! Not happy unless they've got a patch of moss to gnaw at! Not like your Italians. Now there's a warm hearted and loveable people for you. Although I have to say it's mainly their fault I'm in this mess."

I knew it was a mistake but I had to ask.

"You were supposed to be going to Brussels. A long weekend. As advertised in the Reading Observer" I could hear myself getting a bit shrill, but it was a trying time. "Forty five quid, for two nights!"

"Be fair," he said. "That was two months ago!"

"I know it was two months ago." I was shouting. "Were the hell have you been!"

"Don't get excited. It's a long story."

"What about the camel!" I screamed. "Camel! Where did you get a camel"

"Steady on. you'll have a seizure or something."

"And what about Mrs Tomlinson. She's been out her mind with worry. One minute you're on the coach. Next minute you're gone. Going for a pee, and disappear for two months!"

"Very valuable animal. your camel."

I think I became incoherent at this point. I may have even passed out for a second or two. But my charming wife, resourceful as ever, bought me a glass of water and I felt a little better.

"Underrated in the West of course." My father was saying. "But greatly prized by your Arab peoples. I picked it up for a song. Well not actually a song as such, more of a young lady really." I choked on the water.
"Bit of a bargain really. This Arab bloke didn't know, but I'd have had to let her go anyway. Don't get me wrong. She was a lovely girl." There was a pause. "Lovely. But at my age. . . Well. Old Mrs Tomlinson was a bit slow off the mark, so to speak. But when you're getting on, a cup of tea, a nice scone and a bit of rumpo on a Sunday afternoon, it's all you really want. But Sophia, that was her name, she couldn't get enough of it. Fair wore me out, I can tell you. Me back's been a bit dodgy ever since. Never had any trouble with me back before did I? By the way, did you know that Helsinki sounds just like Heathrow in Arabic?

"Mrs Tomlinson!" I said. My dear wife, who had been listening at the earpiece, went quiet pale.

"Do you know." Father continued. "These villagers had never even heard of Belgium, most of them. So much for your E.U! There's only one bloke in the whole place who can speak any English at all, and that's mostly just the Liverpool forward line. Turns out the only thing that's open is the local brothel. Nice place actually. I stayed quite a while. I thought about opening one in Ruislip, got to be a gap in the market there. I've never seen anything like it. Not in the whole of Middlesex."

I must have gasped or something.

"No? Maybe not. Just a thought. Anyway there seemed to be a bit of confusion, you see I reckoned that 6000 Belgium Francs was worth about half a crown, but Madame seemed to think it was worth a bit more. More like ten thousand quid or something."

"Ten Thousand Pounds! Are you mad!"

"Well it didn't seem polite to argue, so I let it ride. When I came to leave I just gave her the lot. And she gave me an old truck and Sophia"

"Listen." I said very calmly. "Are you telling me you got from a hill village in Italy to Morocco in an old truck with no money and just a young tart for company." I could hear myself shouting again. "Why didn't you at least head for home you silly old bugger!"

"Sense of direction." He said. "Always my downfall. Same when I got back on that coach in Brussels. How was I to know? One coach looks much like another to me. It was that Austrian woman who led me on."

"Austrian woman! Who's that for goodness sake."

"I just told you. She was the woman on the coach. Her English wasn't that good really, but it seems her husband had gone for a pee too. Well they weren't getting on that well, so I sort of stayed. I wonder what happened to him? He didn't go back with Mrs Tomlinson did he??'

I made a sort of strangulated sound. as I helped my wife into a chair.

"No? Oh well. I hope he had as much fun as me. But you know, to be honest, I doubt it."

Speed Kills

The hardest thing was the silence. The blackness he had become used to; pictures of light and colour were easily conjured up and recalled at will. One had only to move a finger to revive the sensation of touch. But the silence could not, would not be broken.

He wondered whether any of the other men in that place had similar problems and if so how did they cope? They had been in this place for almost a week now. After the first three days he had stopped feeling hungry and had stopped worrying about how to get out.

The small square metal hatch at the bottom of the door slid up with a crash that, in that profound silence was a small explosion. In the dim light that glowed at the hatch he could see a jug. Beside it on a tin plate was a large piece of coarse bread. He fell on the food ravenously, and was surprised to discover a thin soup in the jug. A veritable feast after his long deprivation. The hatch slammed closed and once again the darkness returned.

As he tore at the loaf he started to think of Kate and Jimmy back in England. Would they have realised he was missing yet? News travelled slowly in these parts. He had been out in the countryside when he had been taken, and was not expected back at the Office for several days. He must now be overdue. But by how much? It was so difficult to be sure. He felt it must be four, maybe even five, days since they were taken. His watch was one of the first things they stole, he remembered them squabbling over it. Strange, a watch that he had bought for five pounds in a petrol station in Egham had become a prize worth fighting for!

He had remained calm during the arrest. Whether that was cool heroics or pure fright he wasn't really sure. Either way he avoided the beating that the more vociferous members of the team had attracted. It was not a time to argue. He wondered how they were. Bad enough to be stuck in this pestilential hell hole without having to nurse a couple of broken ribs. But no, they did not seem that bad, not so much injured, more shocked at being roughed up.

All those guns! It was lucky nobody had been shot. Accidental shootings were a way of life in this country. Partly caused by inexperienced and untrained troops and partly as a way of disposing of inconvenient people. Foreigners were definitely inconvenient. Foreigners working for multinational companies and not fluent in the local patois (a kind of Dog Spanish) were a positive affront.

On reflection, he thought, being in a dungeon, in solitary confinement, even with the heat and the darkness - well, it compared very favourably with some of the more popular forms of penal reform currently practised under the enlightened regime of El Presidente. Finding small, but important, parts of one's body missing was not at all an unusual circumstance while a guest in one of the governments more remote establishments.
Other attempts at reforming the wayward had a less Koranic bias. El Presidente had enormous faith in the curative powers of electricity and the faltering power supply of the Republic was often pressed into the service of its more recalcitrant citizens.

If all else failed the offenders were simply released back into the local community. However to prevent them becoming a nuisance to their more law abiding neighbours, they were invariably killed first.

A wave of distaste swept over him. He found the thought of a colleague's mutilated body lying on a rubbish tip deeply unpleasing. Now he fought down panic as he realised that his mutilated body lying on a rubbish tip was far more profoundly disturbing. Suddenly he was able to be remarkably objective about the fate of the rest of team.

He lay back on his straw mattress and took deep breaths. His self-control returned gradually. He was after all still untouched. In fact he had been left completely alone. Bearing in mind the efficiency of the local police authorities that could just mean they had forgotten he was there. But the water had arrived regularly and today a positive feast. If a more perfunctory justice were to be, so to speak – executed - it would probably have happened by now. Probably.

As he strained in the darkness for any sound, he heard in the distance, the low mumble of voices. He could not make out the words but they were definitely drawing closer. He could now just hear footsteps, growing closer. Closer. They stopped outside his cell. His heart was pounding and his stomach clenched in fear, he shrank back into his straw mattress as he heard bolts being worked noisily along their shanks.

The door opened slowly inward and he felt his gorge rising. The single bulb in the corridor blinded him for a moment then he stood dumb struck by the incredible apparition before him.

"Mr Jenkins. How good to see you. We have all been so terribly worried." The figure stood in a three-piece suit, stiff white collar and striped tie. Only the rolled umbrella was missing.

"You will be glad to know that we have paid your fine. You are once again a free man.  Devil of a job finding you old man." The figure added conspiratorially.

He staggered out into the corridor, and the elegant man clutched at him as he fell. He rattled out some terse words in the local dialect and the guard lifted Jenkins arm around his neck and hauled him along the corridor. As they headed towards the large wooden door that led to the street and freedom, the man in the suit was talking to the still bemused Jenkins.

"Yes. As you will of course know, El Presidente is very keen that the Republic should have an impeccable reputation for law and order". The voice was heavy with irony. "So Mr Jenkins, the next time you decide to drive into the country you must be especially careful to observe the traffic regulations."

The massive main gate swung open and in the blinding sunlight the unlikely trio dragged across the dusty road to where a Land Rover with a small Union Jack pennant was flying. Jenkins thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

As the guard helped him into the passenger seat he noticed the other two were already in the back. Like him, they too seemed quite stunned at the speed of their transition from darkness to light. He slumped into the seat and the man in the suit spoke again.

"Just how fast were you going Mr Jenkins?"

Monkey Business

The lecturer moves onto the small raised dais. His audience quietens. The great mass of noise that first greeted him has subsided, but a persistent whisper lingers on. He subdues this by casting raised eyes over the gathered company.

When the last shuffle has finally died, he clears his throat and begins.

"Today, students and fellow seekers after truth, we shall be considering the mating habits of that most interesting of primates, the human being. . . "

A rustle whispers around the hall. It is part discomfort and part thrill of anticipation. The lecturer is aware of the stir he has created. He has their undivided attention.

". . . If we study the life styles of the great apes we find an interesting fact. Without exception, their family groupings are polygamous by nature. To be precise, the so called harem system of social organisation operates. This means a dominant male will gather around him a group of females to whom he will have exclusive access. . ."

He is good. His voice rises and falls with each phrase. His hands move deftly to illustrate the point. But he has given this lecture before. Many times. While he is delivering his address a part of his mind is free. 'The usual bunch of spotty youths and chubby girls. A pretty unprepossessing lot on the whole. Why is it that the fattest girls always wear the shortest skirts?'

He is becoming animated. Like all expert performers he can judge his audience. He has made a good start.

". . . Of course such social groupings are not without their tensions. Nor are they as fixed and rigid as it might appear to the casual observer. Each Dominant Male is under more or less constant threat. Younger males will persistently challenge his position. This challenge may be by direct threat. That is to usurp the dominants position completely, or by luring away members of  his harem,, either on a permanent basis or. . . "

He pauses for effect.

". . . What we would nowadays call 'a one night stand'" He beams a complicit grin at his audience, and an appreciative chuckle ripples slowly round the hall ". . .So what is the females attitude to this dalliance?"

He scans the young ladies in the hall. Holding the attention of selected victims for just long enough to watch them start to squirm. Flitting from one pink plump face to the next, until, in the front row, a little to the left, his gaze is returned with cool assurance.

For a fraction of a second the smooth delivery is broken. But now resumes as if nothing had happened. Nothing, after all, has happened.

". . . Well, of course," (heavy emphasis). "The females are quite delighted!" Again the complicit grin. "They naturally wish to spread the risk to their gene bank as widely as possible. By mating with strong - or at least opportunistic, males they improve the chance of producing viable offspring to carry their genes forward to the next generation. . ."

Again he scans the audience, but his eyes are drawn to the front row, a little to left. 'Not the normal student turn out! Cool, elegant, with a quiet intelligent face. And that wonderful red hair.' The object of his attentions returns his glance, eyes slightly wide. and crosses her legs with considered grace. She places her notebook on her raised knee, and smiles. Another fractional hesitation punctuates the lecturer's smooth presentation.

". . .No doubt many of you are asking 'what has all this to do with the sexual behaviour of our old friend Homo Sapiens? After all that is what this lecture is supposed to be about. At least that's what it says in the schedule." He pauses for the chuckles, and is gratified by the response. This is only partly amusement. Some of the more prurient members of the student faculty are getting restless. They have not come to hear about monkeys. They chuckle with relief that the meaty stuff is on its way at last.

". . . Well, in fact it has a great deal to do with it! Because Homo sapiens is one if the great apes, one might argue the greatest of them all!" A pause for laughter, this time there is none. 'Also inclined to take himself rather too seriously' His eyes are drawn once again to the beauty in the first row. 'Interesting, the way she's looking at me - that smile. At least she seems to understand the joke.'

She smiles again. A direct, warm, smile. Her face, already lovely, glows with light. It is a smile for him alone.

". . . Man, uniquely amongst the great apes is monogamous. One man. one woman. This monogamy is so widespread, so universal in its application that it cannot be regarded as a mere social phenomenon. True, there have been societies that have, to coin a phrase, flirted, with polygamy. But this has usually been for a few privileged individuals. . ."

The girl in the front row is like a magnet. Or an itch that cannot be ignored. The urge to scratch it is quite irresistible. The legs, the red hair, the small and perfect breasts, all combine to draw his eyes back, again and again. 'She must be one of the mature students. I'd say about twenty-five. Pretty but bright. Careful, I'm losing concentration. Is that smile just for me?'

He starts to feel a little concerned that his attention to the front row might be getting a little obvious. And with a supreme effort directs his remarks to the back of the room. A youth in a white T-shirt with multi coloured bushy hair is the surprised recipient of the full weight of the lecturers stare.

". . . So this monogamy must be regarded as a fundamental human trait. As natural as our upright stance. But here we arrive at a paradox. In most, if not all monogamous species, fidelity to the mate is absolute. And why not? Monogamy is, after all, monogamy. But not, it would appear, with our old friend Homo sapiens. Fidelity may be a kind of norm. But it does not appear to fit comfortably into our behaviour patterns. Literature both ancient and modern is filled with our obsession, about our propensity to stray and the consequences of straying. Adultery and its varied results seem to be the very stuff of history. Surely this is odd behaviour for a monogamous species. . ?"

The lecturer carefully adjusts his gaze to the centre of the hall. The previously pinioned youth sighs quietly and slumps back in his chair with relief. The lecturer studiously avoids the front row. 'Wonder what her name is. Don't think I've seen her before. Must be one of the new intake. Probably one of the social science lot. Be nice to meet her. Let's, see - Diane is expecting me around 4.30. . ."

". . . So how do we explain this paradox? Well the answer is a bit like a pain in the back." He looks up and smiles to underline the joke. A puzzled titter ripples round the room. He risks a glance at the front row. A broad and appreciative grin adorns the face of a young lady sitting to the left.

". . . The natural stance of the primate is a shambling stoop. We have evolved an upright stance, which better suited our niche as an ape of the plains and Savannah. But we cannot entirely escape our primate ancestry, and evidence of our not quite perfect adaptation, can be seen in our propensity for back problems. However   not to worry   evolution is a wonderful mechanism. And over the next million or so years all will, no doubt, be put right. . !"

The class erupts with laughter. The lecturer's reputation is well deserved. They are enjoying the fun. The student in the front row sparkles with appreciation. Once more the lecturer finds his eyes drawn irresistibly to her. 'Perhaps I could phone and say I've got a staff meeting. No, bit risky. She might talk to Tom's wife tonight. Better just say I'll be delayed. She'll pick up the kids from school. I'll be OK 'till about 5.30.'

". . . In the same way, although our monogamy is a result of adaptation to our ecological niche, our old primate ways keep nagging at us. The desire of the male to build his harem and of the female to spread her gene base is buried deep in our primeval past. They no longer suit our evolutionary niche, but we cannot quite forget them. Like back pain they rise from our distant past to haunt us. . ."

He straightens and peers sternly across the serried rows.

". . . There are various theories as to why we developed our unique lifestyle, but they need not detain us long here. Most centre on the exceptionally long time required for the human infant to mature, or the newly acquired hunting skills of our distant ancestors. But you should not take this as a licence for promiscuity. . ."

'Most of this lot don't need a licence; they passed their test some time ago. Randy little rabbits! I need to talk to Red.'

". . . Man's natural evolution has created a unique niche for him in very many ways. Marriage and the fulfilment of family life are the highest expressions of our love and care for each other. They are the cement that has enabled us to build the mighty civilisations we enjoy today. The family, with its unique cohesion and bonds has been the foundation of all successful societies. Those systems that have attempted to weaken and undermine the family unit have rapidly deteriorated into the most despicable tyrannies. Statistics show that most of you in this room will have come from stable, loving families. Because from that strong and secure base you have been able to confidently face the challenges that have been presented to you. And despite your undoubted experimentation. . ."

Once again the conspiratorial grin sweeps over his audience.

". . . You will almost certainly return to the fold, and raise families of your own. Thank you for listening so attentively. The next lecture in this series will be at 3.30 pm on Monday."

The temptation to applaud is too great, and a ripple sweeps across the hall. The lecturer smiles and with feigned irritation waves it down. He steps down from the dais, and watches as the students funnel away through the rear door. He exchanges a word or two with the odd familiar face as it passes. At the front of the hall, an attractive red haired female student, slightly older than the average, hangs back. The lecturer collecting his notes into a sheaf, moves forward and starts to drift along the front row, a little to the left.

The Other Othello

I never really liked Desdemona. When Iago first bought her home I knew we would not get on. She was not cruel, not even unkind. But the smell was wrong. You can tell.

Her voice was high pitched and somehow - demanding. Maybe it was just the fact that she was a woman, after all, our house had been a purely masculine place for a very long time. She seemed to assume so much authority, so quickly. No wonder my dislike matured rapidly to hatred.

I contained my feelings well, I thought. But I think she guessed. One night, early autumn as I remember, I had just finished supper and she appeared with my lead. The audacity of the woman! She actually thought I would allow her to take me for my evening walk. Something would have to be done.

Othello, Iago's dog was clearly put out when Iago arrived home with his bride. Some twenty years his junior, Desdemona loved Iago with all the passion of youth. She bustled around the house applying a feminine touch it had not seen for many years. Flowers appeared, lace and frills peeped provocatively from window and table. Othello hated it.

Iago was very concerned that his dog, his oldest and best friend, should be so grieved. But of course if a man must make a choice between a new young wife and well, an old dog - But fortunately such a choice was not necessary. After their initial difficulties they settled down, and became the best of friends.

In fact they became inseparable. During the day Othello would shadow Desdemona, if ever she left him he would lie pining for her return. His delight when he saw her was only equalled by her joy in seeing him again. In the evening he would lie at her feet peering up into her face, his eyes speaking adulation. As her hands caressed his silky coat she thought that here was the finest love, self-sacrificing, pure, undemanding. And without that coarser element that Iago seemed to find so important.

"No! Not in the bed! I will not have that bloody dog in the bed!" Iago was furious. How could she be so stupid. The damn dog was already with her all day, now she appeared to want it all night too!

"But please Iago. He gets so lonely at night. I can hear him whining downstairs." Iago could be so hard, even brutal, at times. She thought he would be pleased that Othello and she were so friendly. Instead he seemed positively annoyed.

"You spend all your time all your time with that stupid hound, what about me! You barely have the time to speak to me. It's Othello this...Othello that....That dog is making a fool of you."

"Iago! How can you be so heartless. Poor Othello has been a faithful friend to you years! Now you curse him and abuse the poor darling".

"A faithful friend is it? A faithful friend! He runs from me when I come in. He cringes when I lift my hand to stroke him. He runs whining to you whenever I go near him. The wretch is mad, possessed."

This was too much. Iago clearly hated her beautiful Othello. Poor Othello who had done nothing wrong, but befriend a lonely girl whose husband was to busy with affairs of business to bother with her. And this was the thanks he got.
"You swine." She cried. "You nasty brutal swine!"

Iago was enraged. Othello, his friend had turned against him. Now his wife had also defected. And was accusing him of brutality! He left the room slamming the door with a crash that bought plaster dusting to the floor, and headed for the spare room.

In the kitchen, Othello curled up in his basket with just the hint of a doggy smile on those shaggy old lips.

Wilsonville Story


Nobody knew were they came from. They just walked up the beach and through the small town of Wilsonville into the lush farmland beyond. At first it was just a small town story. It made the inside page of The Wilsonville Advertiser as just another East Coast curiosity. But after a while, more started to arrive. A dozen or so was not really big news, a hundred was more interesting. When it got to thousands even the National Networks were showing an interest.

As Doctor Zeke Schiendler, a local veterinarian said,

"These are not really dangerous animals. They're just kinda big for rodents. Makes folk a little nervous I guess."

They certainly were large. They stood about three feet at the shoulder and were, on average, over six feet long. They were thought to weigh about two hundred pounds, but they were also remarkably agile for their size and so far nobody had managed to catch one. They were not exactly ugly but not that endearing either. Looking like giant guinea pigs, they just wandered around eating vast quantities of vegetation. Local residents at first just intrigued by these new arrivals became rather agitated when their neat back yards were wolfed down in a single sitting by one of these giant interlopers.

Questions started to get asked. What were they? Where had they come from? Residents became even more disgruntled when the Network News teams began arriving. Roads became congested as large trucks with cameras and lighting crews started patrolling the streets in the hope of tracking down a giant rodent.

Things were getting difficult, but the Mayor, Hiram T Potsdammer was an optimist. He had organised posses with nets and men with guns to scare the creatures away from the municipal conservation area. Although they had not actually caught a rodent yet, he was confident that in the fullness of time one of the little varmints would make a mistake, and then - they would have him.

He had not considered what they would do with the creature once caught, but in Hiram's experience, politics was about tackling one problem at a time. He was quietly confident at that time and never really gave up hope completely until Washington got involved.

John Wolfe from the DIP and the Mayor did not hit it off from the very beginning. Wolfe tried to explain that The Department of Interesting Phenomena was only there to help and assist the local people with their problems. But the manner, in which he immediately disbanded the posses and dismissed the wardens with their guns, implied that he was most definitely in charge. Zeke Schiendler was rapidly co opted onto the Wolfe team as an expert. (He had been interviewed on CNN).

As far as the Mayor was concerned things soon deteriorated into a complete shambles. The municipal conservation area was raided two nights running. With the result that it now bore a striking resemblance to Death Valley on a quiet Sunday. His fax to Washington about Federal help, even with its hints about declaring Wilsonville a disaster zone, had been curtly refused. He could see a fifty percent rise in local sales tax just to pay for the park, and with it, electoral doom.

Just when he felt things could not get worse, they did. The up tight buttoned down John Wolfe caught a Rodent. Every time the Mayor turned on his TV or radio there he was, modestly turning away all credit for this coup while clearly taking all the glory. The only grain of consolation the Mayor could feel was when they showed the tape of the beast itself. It just sat. It stared stupidly at the camera, chewing idly on a sunflower stalk that protruded from a ridiculous face. It was not the stuff of dreams. If Mayor Hiram T Potsdammer guessed rightly, great careers would not be built on the subduing of this dull item. When he played the recording again he spotted Zeke in the background prodding the animal with a stick. It did not seem to notice.

The following day Wolfe called him. He had some news, could they meet. Hiram was frankly suspicious. Wolfe had been in no hurry to involve him previously. He arrived with Doctor Zeke Schiendler and their rather evasive attitude did nothing to allay his doubts.

"Well I guess it had to happen someday." Said Zeke.

"Not something we could have expected of course." Wolfe was formal as ever. Although a little sheepish.

"Real surprise is how dang big they've gotten. Who'd have guessed?"

The Mayor was nonplussed. "One of you boys care to tell what this all about."

Zeke shuffled his feet. "Must've been eating seaweed all the way I guess."

"What in hell and tarnation you boys talking about." Hiram T Pottsdammer was loosing patience.

Zeke spoke. "The Lemmings." He said. "Some of them finally made it."

Goldberg Variations

It's surprising what even a mild mannered man will do, if he is pushed hard enough. It wasn't easy getting hold of a gun. I suppose if you are a gangster, or a terrorist or something it's not difficult, but for an accountant from Finchley (who still hasn't passed his finals even after four attempts) it's very hard.

I blame Goldberg for the four attempts, I'll explain later.

Even then I had to settle for a shotgun and saw the end off myself. I really wanted a 45 Magnum like you see in those Clint Eastwood films, but my local sports shop didn't have one and I could tell that just asking was making them suspicious. It took me almost three hours to saw the end off the shotgun and when I finished it was all crooked, like when you get to the end of a loaf. A bit of a disappointment really, and although I don't plan to keep it very long, it spoils the effect. But I really can't face another three hours of sawing, so it will have to do.

It all started about five years ago. It was July I think, or maybe the beginning of June. . . I can't remember exactly. It was definitely a Sunday and very warm. I was fed up with studying and decided to take a walk by the river. Susan was on holiday or I probably would have gone to visit her. I used to see a lot of her in those days. She won't even answer my phone calls now. I blame Goldberg for that too. So I got out my bike and cycled down to the park that runs along by the river bank, you know, the one just down from the bridge. There were quite a few people about, what with it being so hot, and just a few rowing boats from that little green shed place where they rent them out.

As I was walking down by the bank, I heard a sudden shout and a loud splash from out in the river. I looked round and there was an upturned rowing boat and a man thrashing about in the water.

“Help.” He was yelling. “I can't swim!” I watched him for a little while. Then I realised that nobody was going to help him. Without really thinking, I pulled off my shoes and jumped into the water. The current was very fast and I had to swim hard just to avoid being swept away. As I struggled against the stream I realised to my horror that my strength was failing fast. I tried to catch my breath and choked on a huge mouthful of water. I flailed in the water, the current dragging me downstream faster and faster; then my feet touched the bottom.

Actually it was still quite difficult to stand up in the current, but there was not very much chance of drowning in four feet of water, so I felt a lot safer. I waded over to where the 'drowning' man was still crying pitifully to be saved, and dragged him to his feet. He was short and fat and pathetically grateful.

“You have saved my life!” He said. “Without your brave action I would be dead. You are a hero. I owe you my life.”

It seemed a bit unkind to point out that the water was only just above his waist and that even without my brave intervention he could have just stood up and walked to the river bank. But as we struggled to dry land I could see the people on the shore were chuckling to one another, and I began to realise why nobody else had rushed to the rescue.

Well it was a bit embarrassing, but I suppose he could have drowned. You hear about people drowning in their bath tubs, and that's only a few inches of water. But Louis Goldberg (that was his name) was effusive in his praise. He kept telling all the people that I had saved his life, I was a hero. He owed me his life. I tried to explain about the water being shallow, but he shrugged it off as modesty. I should have been suspicious when he asked for my address. I was young then, and innocent.

It started a few days later. I got a phone call from Louis. He just phoned to say how grateful he was that I had saved his life, I was a hero etc. etc.

The phone calls became regular. And then at strange times of the day and night. Finally, one morning at 2.00 a.m. I had had enough. I am not normally a rude person; after all, courtesy costs nothing. But I was abrupt with Louis and explained firmly that I did not wish to receive another single phone call . He was a sad and chastened person when he finally rang off, and although I felt a pang of guilt, I was also relieved that I had finished with Mr Goldberg.

He did not ring again for a long time. But shortly after I began to get the uncomfortable feeling that I was being followed. For some time I saw nothing. I would hear footsteps in empty streets, but when I turned round, nobody was there. Susan and I would be walking in the park, and I was sure I could see a shadow flitting from tree to tree. Then, in a crowded store I would occasionally spot a black hat I thought I recognised. From the corner of my eye I would sometimes see the sleeve of a camel coat disappearing round a corner. I was sure it was Goldberg.

At about this time, Susan said she thought it would be better if we did not see quite so much of each other. She never said why, but I have my suspicions.

One day, I was handling a particularly difficult letter of credit query involving a Nigerian gentleman, and I decided to take a short break to clear my mind. Glancing out of the window from my third floor office I saw him in the street! He was in a doorway opposite staring up at the building with a sort of rapt gaze. Like somebody in church. I think I must have jumped, because Mrs Timson of Bought Ledger asked me what was wrong. I fairly flew down the stairs but he must have seen me coming because he was gone when I reached the street. Mrs Timson said I looked like I had seen a ghost.

I moved flats shortly after that, and for a little while I didn't see him at all. Then one day I was coming home after a difficult day in the office and there he was, hiding in the front garden behind the privet hedge. I'm afraid I was rather irate.
  
“Got you at last, you    little bastard!”    I cried. I am not normally given to strong     language, but    I felt    these were exceptional circumstances. “You've been following me around for the last eighteen months, you sneaky little toad.” I grabbed him by the lapels and shook him rather hard. “What the hell do you think you're playing at, I've a good mind to punch you on the
nose!” His big brown eyes stared back at me and began, slowly, to fill with tears.

“But I owe you my life” he said tearfully.

“Never mind all that!” I said harshly. “You are making my life a bloody misery. Just leave me alone!”

“I am so sorry, but you are my hero. You rescued me from that terrible river. Without your bravery I would be dead.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and I softened.

“Look” I said, “I understand you’re grateful and all that, but you just have to stop following me around and phoning me. If you really are grateful – then do me a great favour and just leave me alone”

“I truly promise.” He said looking sad and remorseful. “If that’s what you really want – you will never see me again.” Those big brown eyes looked at me pleadingly – but I stood firm.

“Right then – just – leave – me - alone!”

He turned on his heels and walked slowly away. Head hung low, a broken man. And although I was little guilty about how I had treated him, I knew it was the right thing to do. I slept better that night than I had done for months, and decided to ring Susan at the weekend.

And for several months things really did seem perfect. No phone calls, no glimpses of black hats or camel coats. I had seen Susan a couple of times and although to be honest, she did seem a little wary, I thought given time she might relax more.

Then one day as we were walking in the park, I saw a brief flash of camel coat disappearing behind to tea rooms.

I tried very hard to maintain my sang-froid, and thought I had pulled it off. But Susan suddenly remembered she had to meet her mother in town and left rapidly.

Drastic measures were called for.

I got a little bag for the shotgun and started my campaign. Our last encounter had made Goldberg cautious. So tracking him was not going to be easy. And of course you can’t just shoot someone in the High Street at lunchtime! So this hunt called for cunning and resourcefulness.

First I needed somewhere quiet.  That rather ruled out Finchley. But I managed to find a medium size industrial estate in nearby Holloway. It was bustling with people during the day. But at night, especially later on it was completely deserted.

I had to hire a car for this reconnaissance. Goldberg was already cautious; if he got suspicious too I would never catch him. I chose a small model, but what with the cost of the shotgun this assassination business was getting quite expensive. They never mention that in the movies. And there’s another thing about the movies . . . but more of that later.     

I stayed late at the office a couple of nights, and although I wasn’t certain I had a strong feeling Goldberg was watching the building.

So on Wednesday morning, I decided tonight would be the night. That evening after everyone else had left the office (I checked just to make sure) I got out the shotgun.

Despite the crooked end where I had sawed it off, it still looked dark and menacing. I carefully oiled the trigger bit and loaded in two cartridges. I had to buy a whole box at over £150! A terrible waste of money when I only wanted two! I slipped it into my bag and set off for Holloway.

I could not see any sign of Goldberg in the Underground Station and he didn’t appear to be on the train either. I was starting to wonder if this was all a waste of time. But when I turned off into the quiet back streets of Holloway I was sure I could hear careful footsteps behind me.

I turned into the deserted Industrial Estate. It was poorly light and the shadows from the anonymous buildings were daunting. I began to feel quite nervous, which was a bit silly as I was supposed to be the deadly hunter. I got a good way into the estate and found a secluded corner I could hide behind. I quickly sidestepped into the deep shadow, slipped the shotgun from its bag, and waited.
 
Sure enough the footsteps drew falteringly closer, and I struck. I grabbed at the small fat figure and it was Goldberg! I thrust him against the wall and held the shotgun to his chest.

Then I made a mistake. I spoke to him. They always speak to the victim in the movies – but it’s a real mistake.

“OK” I said “This is it – payback time! I warned you, and now. . .”

Goldberg turned his great brown eyes on me, and wept.

“Please don’t kill me” he sobbed “I’ve done nothing wrong, I don’t want to die”

I felt for the trigger. I could have squeezed it. But I’m an accountant; I am not an assassin, or a murderer. I was eighteen when my mother took our dog to the vet to be put to sleep – and I cried like a baby. What was I thinking of? I couldn’t kill anyone, even Goldberg.

I lowered the gun, and felt a wave of relief sweep over me. Tears came to my eyes. Goldberg and I stood in the middle of a Holloway industrial estate at 10.00pm crying our eyes out. 

Although relief was mixed with a sort of profound despair, I think it’s fair to say I never completely lost hope; until Goldberg said:

“You know, in a strange sort of way – you have just saved my life. Again”