“
Well it’s working for me a treat.”
“
R-right. I'll g-give it a g-go then.”
Jones-Jones teed up and commenced to give it a go. However, as is generally the case, his actual swing was nowhere near the quality of his practice swings, and although he had more success than Treforest, inasmuch as he didn’t hit his foot instead of the ball, he did hit the ball in such a manner that it set off from the tee in the direction of the eighteenth green in by far the wildest slice he had ever hit in his life.
Dogleg Davis, playing his approach to the ninth, didn't even have Jones-Jones’s excuse that he was trying out something new to explain the violent hook he had just hit, which was now also homing in on the eighteenth green.
Irwin saw the fire engine bearing down on him when it was about thirty yards away. Horror-stricken he threw his putter in the air and raced off the green and down the fairway. By zig-zagging wildly as he ran he had so far been lucky enough to prevent the fire engine from flattening him. His luck now ran out when he suddenly found himself confronted by the pond beside the eighteenth green. Without even stopping to think about it he leapt into the shallow water, but too late, as the fire engine followed him in, running over him and killing him stone dead in an instant. Unable to stop, the fire engine ploughed on into the deeper water, where it sank with the loss of Mrs Rattray, Mrs Salinas and Fireman Blakey.
D'you fancy a shag?
No this isn't a gag
Or are you just taking the piss?
D'you fancy a shag?
You stupid little bag
If not you can suck on this
So if you'd like some, cop this, babe
Mr Captain surveyed the scene that during the last few moments had unfurled itself before him like all his worst nightmares rolled into one and then some. Although the Mayor hadn't said anything to him that would indicate otherwise he realised that his chances of becoming a councillor must surely have sunk along with the fire engine. Derbyshire Dales Radio’s top presenter Dirk Kirk now stepped forward to inadvertently put the final nail in his coffin. He thrust his microphone under Mr Captain’s nose. “With me here live at Sunnymere Golf Club, on wonderful Derbyshire Dales Radio, is the captain of the club, Henry Fridlington. Mr Captain, would you like to say a few words about events so far today?”
Mr Captain didn't have a single word that he'd like to say about events so far that day, let alone a few, but even if he'd had one it is doubtful whether he would have had the chance to say it before the helicopter suddenly plummeted from the skies and plunged upside down into the pile of manure. By flinging themselves clear at the last second Garland and Southfield just managed to save themselves from certain death, but nobody within a hundred yards managed to save themselves from being covered from head to foot in horseshit and shredded pieces of Armitage and Arbuthnott as the helicopter's propellers ploughed through the pile of manure, spraying it in all directions. Being right at the edge of the green, the Mayoral party received the brunt of it.
Before the Mayor had a chance to make a comment on this latest development Jones-Jones's ball hit him on the right-hand side of his forehead, a split second before Dogleg Davis's ball hit him on the left side of his forehead. He dropped like a stone at Mr Captain's feet.
Mr Captain had a word to say now, although it wasn’t one suitable to be broadcast. “Fuck!” he said, loud and clear into Dirk Kirk's microphone, for all those tuned in to Derbyshire Dales Radio to hear. “Fuck!” he repeated, for the Mayor, the Lady Mayoress, Bagley, Chapman, Garland, Fidler, Southfield, Fredericks, Huddlestone, Mickleover, Sturgess, Fearon, Eagles and Booth to hear. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!!
And the following day he resigned.
Addendum.
A further death occurred that day when the helicopter, after it had crashed on the eighteenth green, parted company with its rear propeller, which then flew through the air several hundred yards before coming down on the seventh green, whereupon it decapitated Alec Adams, instantly reducing the complement of Adams brothers to two and their nomenclature from triplets to twins – and therefore making it much harder in future for the surviving Adams brothers to cheat. Although wishing death on no one this was seen by the membership to be almost as good a thing as the demise of Mr Captain.
Following the carnage on the eighteenth green the Captain’s Prize competition was abandoned. At the next monthly meeting of the General Committee it was decided that the competition would be shelved for the current year, but in an unprecedented gesture awarded the trophy posthumously to the late Andrew Arbuthnott in deference to the remarkable card he would probably have returned. His name is now up in gold.
John Hargreaves, Hon Sec
October 2010
****
If you enjoyed reading Captain’s Day would you mind doing me a favour? If you are a member of facebook, recommend it to your facebook friends, if you have a Twitter account, tweet your opinion of it, or if you have neither simply tell anyone in your email address book who you think might like it. Failing that your next door neighbour will do.
Thanks for this
Terry Ravenscroft.
****
Also by Terry Ravenscroft and available on Amazon Kindle
Dolly was rinsing the tea cups in the sink when Don came in, quite agitated.
“
There’s a young couple sat in our car, Doll!”
“
A young couple?”
“
Teenagers by the look of them. Sitting there as large as life.”
“
In our car? Are you sure, Don?”
“
Come and have a look if you don’t believe me.”
Don took Dolly’s hand and led her to the front door. When they looked, the young couple were still in the car. Dolly took in the scene and turned to Don.
“
What do you think they’re doing there?”
“
I’ve no idea.”
“
They look very young.”
“
Not to mention scruffy. I sincerely hope they don’t soil the leopard skin seats.”
“
Perhaps they’ll go if we just ignore them.”
“
They look pretty settled to me. Oh no! Well if that isn’t the limit.”
“
What’s the matter?”
“
He’s lit up a cigarette.”
“
We can’t allow that Don, smoking in our car.”
“
We most certainly can not, Doll.”
“
That won’t do the leopard skin seats any good at all. I mean sitting in our car is one thing, but....”
They made their way down the drive and stopped at the car. The occupants were oblivious to them. Don tapped on the window, businesslike. The boy would down the window.
“
Excuse me but just what do you think you’re doing in our motor car?” said Don.
“
We’re living in it.”
Zephyr Zodiac will be published early in 2012
****
I’M IN HEAVEN
I pinched myself. I felt it. So it couldn’t be a dream. But if it wasn’t, if I really was in Piccadilly Gardens, how have I got here? I couldn’t have sleepwalked all the way from the hospital, it was over two miles, through city streets. Had leaving patients in corridors due to a bed shortage moved up a level? Had one of the nursing staff dumped me here until I wake up? I wouldn’t put it past them - only yesterday a down-and-out who’d collapsed in the street had been left outside in a wheelchair for want of a bed and only prompt action by a security man had stopped the bin men taking him.
Before I could think of another test of my consciousness - I was still far from convinced, despite pinching myself, that I wasn’t dreaming - a tall man carrying a brief-case and a clipboard approached me. He was aged about thirty-five and dressed in casual but expensive-looking clothes. His long, thin, pleasant -looking face smiled down at me as he indicated the place on the bench beside me.
“
Mind if I join you?”
I was still too wrapped up in wondering just what on earth was going on to answer. He sat down next to me nevertheless.
“
Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I’m The Archangel Phil. Your mentor. I’ll be meeting with you from time to time until you’re nicely settled in.” He opened a packet of cigarettes and offered me one. “I believe you indulge in these things?”
My mouth fell open. Slack-jawed I looked from the man to the cigarette packet and back. He indicated the clipboard. “My information is correct? You do like a smoke?” He took a cigarette from the packet and pushed it into my hand.
My mouth opened and shut silently a couple of times. Words eventually came out. “Can you tell me what’s going on here? I mean why am I in the middle of Piccadilly Gardens?”
“
You aren’t. You’re in heaven.”
“
What?”
“
Heaven.”
Amazon Readers Review -
This is the best book I have read in years! The subject matter is dealt with in such a humorous manner but this is a real page turner! I have read all of Mr Ravenscroft’s books and in my opinion this is THE BEST! Hilarious, sad, fascinating and a scintillating plot to boot! A must read! Very funny.
- Martin K Davies
Buy at –
****
JAMES BLOND – STOCKPORT IS TOO MUCH
He took the cool glass and looked straight into the eyes of the object of his affection. “Please, all my lovers call me James.”
Pisa Vass returned his look, unblinkingly. “But I have never been your lover, Mr Blond.”
She turned from him as if to walk away, but before she could he caught her lightly by the shoulders and applied just enough pressure to persuade her to turn to face him. “A state of affairs I am now going to take the greatest pleasure in rectifying,” he said, permitting his hands to slide down her arms to encircle her slender waist. He nodded towards the bedroom. “Come, my lovely Pisa Vass.”
“
No.” She pushed him away, not at all violently, but firmly enough to make it clear she meant what she said.
Blond was surprised to say the least. He raised a puzzled eyebrow. “No?”
“
I can't.”
His brow furrowed. “Can't? What do you mean, you can't?”
“
I'm having my period.”
“
Having your period?”
“
Yes. Sorry.”
He was completely baffled. “But....I mean you can’t be….the girls I meet are never having their period.”
“
Well I'm having mine,” said Pisa, simply.
Blond simply couldn’t credit it; for he was speaking the gospel truth. Just like the James Bond of book and film fame not once in his entire career had he encountered a girl who happened to be having her period when he came a calling; that sort of thing just didn’t happen to famous secret agents.
The girl smiled pleasantly. “I could manage a hand job?”
*****
Amazon Reader’s Review:-
I'd come across Terry Ravenscroft quite recently via an author peer review site, and was delighted to discover how many amusing books he had written. This one lives up to the standard of the others I've seen, and keeps carefully just on the tasteful side of crude - I don't like crudity, sick humour or 'smut' but Terry somehow manages to avoid these things while still dealing with the fundamentals of human existence. And James Blond's spoof credentials don't stop him from reminding us sometimes of the original, which highlights Ravenscroft's skill in humorous writing. There are even aliens!
– Janey Fisher
Buy at –
****
“
There seems to have been a long gap between the date of my brother’s death and his funeral,” observed Pugh.
“
There was a rather unusual burial request,” explained Oldknow. “Certain difficulties had to be overcome in carrying it out.”
“
An unusual burial request?”
“
He wanted to be buried in a vagina.”
“
In Virginia?” Pugh raised his eyebrows. “What’s so unusual about that?” He knew that Aneurin had connections in the southern states of America, and whilst he could see why it might be a bit awkward, not to say inconvenient, burying someone in America who had met his end in Ramsbottom, Lancashire, he could see nothing particularly unusual about it.
The solicitor leaned back in his seat slightly and peered at Pugh over his spectacles. “Not Virginia, Mr Pugh. A vagina.”
Pugh wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “My brother wanted to be buried in a woman’s minge?”
Oldknow winced at the crude language of the former Minister for Culture. “I’m afraid so. Not a real one of course. A coffin designed to look like one. He left strict instructions as to its design and construction. He was particularly insistent it should have lots of black pubic hair. ‘Like a bush’ was his most graphic way of describing it. And real hair. It cost a small fortune.