Extract from "The Legend of Turnpike Lane"

Told to me by my grandfather who was told it by his grandmother and is now to be told to my grandchildren, so now the legend will continue….

If you walk from the market place in Gresley Station along Turnpike Lane, towards Witham Moor you will come upon a ruined house, burnt to a shell and decayed by years of neglect. This was once a great house, home to one of the most mysterious residents of Gresley Station, Jacob Fryor, his story begins long ago in the dimmest parts of history just after the railway arrived.

On a damp cold morning in the mid 1860’s a train pulls into Gresley Station, huffing and puffing as it makes the final climb, it comes to a halt and spews steam onto the grey platform. Out of the shroud of mist walks a figure, tall, dressed in black, with scarlet gloves grasping a black cane entwined with two serpents. 

Jacob Fryor had arrived.

Walking … no flowing is more apt, for Fryor moved like smoke on a winter day, drifting amongst the buildings, casually caressing the pavements in an almost weightless manner, Fryor headed into town and took lodgings at the Red Bear (now The Howling Woman) ...

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An Extract from "Werewolves and Werewives"

A Conversation overheard in the Howling Woman, Gresley Station

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Put yours next to mine so we can compare …

There see what I mean?

All length.

Look at mine it has girth as well as length.

That's what makes it, that combination of length and girth, pleasing to the eye and beautifully formed, good deep even colour, even ridges and a tip that is both pointed and rounded at the same time, pure perfection.

I have to admit I do admire it.

So, how do you get the extra girth?

Massage, young man, massage

Massage? You're joking.

No, it works, over time with patience and regular application.

Go on then tell me how.

Get yourself some olive oil, rub it on, all over the length then starting slowly from the end, massage the oil into the skin. Grasping it firmly, slowly take your hand up the whole length till you reach the end then reverse and slide your hand back down. Then keep it up for about 20/30 minutes, making sure you keep it well oiled and do it slowly or you will damage it. Squeeze too hard and it’ll go limp and that’s a disaster. Keep it gentle but firm for best results and you get other benefits as it tastes better, goes further and keeps nice and firm for much longer so that’ll keep the wife happy!

So how does it make the girth bigger?

The oil keeps the skin supple and lets it expand rather than putting on any more length.

Ah I see so the earlier you start this massage the better.

Well you need to let it get to a good length first or it will be all girth and short which is just no good at all.

                                       

Ok, so how often do I need to do this

Two or three times a day

2 or 3 times a day !! Don't know if I have the time for that

You have to make the time young’un if you want that magical combination.

So how long does it take?

Not that long a few weeks, couple of months at most, but it always comes with a bit of perseverance

Hmm it's a big commitment

Listen lad what you are trying to achieve is hard work but if you take my advice it won’t be long before you rise in stature amongst us all and you can stand proud before anyone. They will know that you have made the effort into making it the best there is, even if it cannot compare with mine!

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Exquisite Joy

Ah, the joy of Christmas is upon us. You know what I mean, that perfect moment when you realise that all your credit cards are maxed out and you still have to buy presents for your family.

Oh the joy of it.

Then there are the parties, office, friends, family or just one you stumbled upon. The amazing feeling of that first festive drink soon followed by the "I should never have had that last drink" moment generally served with regurgitated half digested mince pies slathered in beer sauce.

Oh the joy if it.

Shopping for Christmas food is somewhat akin to providing provisions for all the ravening hordes of Ghengis Khan. The entire contents of provender shops are poked into bags and carriers which are transported home to languish in dark corners until the smell of rotting food finally reminds you that they were bought for Christmas and it is now nearly Whitsun; all those mint chocolates, toffees, candy canes, mince pies, iced cakes and all the trimmings of course including brussel sprouts and chestnuts none of which anyone wanted but had to be bought, just in case, let alone the bags of nuts no one could crack or the clementines that dried to an orange version of a golf ball sat in a fruit bowl offering their sweetness and sneaky pips to one and all.

Oh the joy of it.

And the Muzak, such sweet renderings of classic yuletide songs that generally induce migraine within seconds or it is Kirsty McColl screeching alongside a more than croaky Pogues eulogising about some fantastical NY city.

Oh the joy of it.

Then the fatal day arrives at an ungodly hour for parents, whose little cherubs have decided that 4 am IS morning and time to see how much Santa has spent this year. For those of us without incumbent children, a lie in until one of the brood decides it is time to visit at around 8am to 'gift' us. Mountains of carefully wrapped presents are reduced to unwanted dross and tossed aside in seconds  never to see light of day save to be re given next year to some poor unsuspecting person.

Oh the joy of it.

Once the alcohol and dinner have wreaked havoc with our digestives systems, all is quiet save for the snores and farts of Christmas day afternoon, while the Queen regally extols us with her views.

Oh the joy of it.

Boxing Day is a day of recovery for some, if not most, but some of the more mentally challenged seek out sport or outdoor activities, sometimes for the  first time as it is the festive 'must do', who then return hours later swearing 'never do'.

Oh the joy of it.

Then we can all return to the normal, grumpy, immoral hordes that we are in real life and leave the fantasy behind for another year.

Oh the exquisite joy of it.

A New Week

Moanday - Fill the world with anger

ChewsDay - Eat cake

WhensDay - Dream of the future

ThrowsDay - Chuck out the junk

FryDay -  Eat Fish & Chips

SatterDay - Slob on the couch

SunDay - Enjoy the sun

Badger Rebellion

News is reaching us that a band of guerrilla badgers have caused chaos in the wake of the failed cull in this locality.

White Stripe, a spokesbadger for B.U.T.T.E.R. (Badgers Using Tunnels To Eradicate Roads) told us earlier “We are committed to causing total chaos, we will undermine roads, we will not be moved, we will prevail, and none shall pass"

Nobody from the local community was available for comment, he warned the badgers "If they buggers, damage moi tracter then they be gonna see some akshun frum moi boot"

Tales from Gresley Station

The Tower of Passion

It must be the water around Gresley Station that helps breed such a collection of peculiar people or maybe it's just the weather and living in such a hell hole of a town with no entertainment.

Take Lynda Heatherpatch (please!!), once she was a shy unassuming EMO-Goth teenager who kept herself to herself and bothered nobody. Looking, from a distance, like a black vertical line drawn on the horizon, dressed in her customary all black attire with matching long lank raven coloured hair which was never cut let alone washed. During a typical Gresley summer, not so long ago that all changed as Lynda became someone who could clear a street just by being on it.

                             

The heat had been oppressive for days and you could feel the impending doom of rain and thunderstorms as you approached Gresley Station. Shrouded in dark grey clouds the entire population was waiting for the inevitable storm. 

I was walking home through the churchyard after a couple of swift Rat Blasters at the Howling Woman hoping to outpace the impending storm, which was going to be immense judging by the way the thunder and lightening had been circling the town for hours.

Gresley Station stood firm like Custer, but knew its fate was sealed.

The churchyard was a short cut to my house and a regular route for me as it allowed me to spend a few moments at the Moorwood Tunnel Memorial, remembering that awful day. Lengthening shadows and a sudden quietness warned me of the closeness of the storm so I hurried on towards home when a movement and the sound of voices froze me to the spot.

There had been much suspicion around the town after the May Fair Withering, the whole town now especially cautious about strangers wandering around after dark.

The hushed whispers were coming from the side of the church tower where there was a small door leading to the tower. Expecting to find villains trying to force the door I crept forward keeping hidden as much as possible.

Two figures were stood by the base of the tower.

Peering into the gloom I recognised the figures as Lynda Heatherpatch and her latest boyfriend Frank.

I had been expecting to find villains fiddling with the door locks but truth was the only locks being fiddled with were Lynda's nether-locks.

It suddenly dawned on me that the pair were engaged in what shall I call it? Docking Manoeuvres? (Sounds more polite than shagging doesn't it?)

Lynda had pressed Frank up against one of the buttresses of the tower and was thoroughly enjoying being 'probed'.

Not wishing to reveal my presence and be labelled a peeping tom or pervert I kept quiet and just watched as the action became more frantic.

The sky was riven wide with light as the storm announced that it had arrived with a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder. My eyes flew upward to see the lightning strike the church tower, luckily hitting the lightning conductor but not so lucky for the conjoined pair at the bottom of the tower. Frank and Lynda had unwittingly perched themselves over the said conductor. I swear that I saw the blue pulse of electricity as it passed down the copper strip, where it passed through the couple on its way to earth. The effect was certainly spectacular.

Frank spasmed with such force that he definitely “touched bottom” to use a local phrase, flinging Lynda skywards into the murk and the surrounding gravestones. Frank shuddered again then lit up like a devotional candle, burning brightly, illuminating the tower and Lynda's landing spot.

I rushed to try to extinguish Frank but the rain reached him first, dousing the flames. Unfortunately Frank appeared to be rather well done, judging by the smell of roast pork in the air.

Lynda was spread-eagled against a gravestone, her normally long straight hair now turned into a giant Afro and with the most demonic smile on her face. Stooping to help her she grabbed at my arm and with an evil leer spoke the last words I ever heard her say "Damn that was some orgasm; Want to try it?"

Making my excuses I left knowing that she was obviously ok, hurrying home to phone the police so they could deal with the aftermath.

Lynda was released from hospital the following week after recovering from Endorphin overload. It was during her stay that the ‘new’ Lynda strutted into life causing chaos on the wards as she stalked them looking for suitable partners to feed her new addiction, orgasm by lightning or electricity bringing a whole new meaning to the term ‘Jump Leads’.

Even now she strikes terror into the town when the skies blacken and the lightning threatens, trawling the streets with that manic smile, the iconic Afro (which from a distance makes her look like a huge black pompom on a stick) and a pair of industrial jump leads in her hand looking for her next Endorphin high.

Terror has never been so simply drawn.