Collected quotes, small sayings, irrelevant
writings, etc.
This page is for paragraphs, unstarted symphonies, overheard conversations,
miscellaneous graffiti and the like. Links as follows:
Arse on a Park Bench
Harry and Alistair
Martyn's Room
Towards a New Eden
Wormy
Arse on a Park Bench
I was there when it all happened. I remember watching as the sky came crashing
down to the earth like at big fat arse onto a park bench. Aye.
Overheard by compiler while burning cat carcasses on Tideswell village
green, Peak District.
Harry and Alistair
“I think today’s the day I’ll start work on my sitcom,” stated Harry in
decisive tones.
“You what?” replied an incredulous Alistair.
“My sitcom. For the BBC.”
“And what, pray, is it going to be about?”
“Oh, a few blokes down the pub. You know, lad talk, that sort of thing.”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that that particular furrow may have been
ploughed many a time?”
“Eh?”
“That idea may already have been used!”
“And?”
“What makes you think that you can suddenly create an amazing new sitcom
from a much sodomised idea?”
“My comic talents.”
Mrs. Erica Trampsforth 'accidently' noted down this overheard conversation
on the production line of a toy factory. It was later included in her (now,
luckily, out of print) tome, 'The Lost Kings and Queens of Surrey'.
Martyn's Room
Rotting, fetid and dank. That was how Gary would describe the room. Filth
dripped off the walls like gammon off a skewer, only wetter. Mould clung
grimly onto all surfaces, and snails grunted with effort as they tried
to summit the piles of decomposing peelings strewn about the floor.
However, Martyn called it home. He loved it.
The opening lines from Harold James Cauldswell's first unfinished
novel, 'The Bethesda Affair'.
Towards a New Eden
Towards a new Eden,
Ha, I laugh at your empty optimism!
Last time we got kicked out, mate.
Then again, I supposed it’s better than being negative,
I’d rather strive towards a better future,
Than fight for a tainted past.
A thought provoking essay, much discussed amongst Newent's literary
circle after being discovered on the right hand wall of the third cubicle
on the left in the Ladies conveniences in that same town (not seen by compiler).
Wormy
I can’t believe them sometimes,
With their hats and umbrellas,
Splashing my face as I drink off the pavement,
Oh how I wish I weren’t a worm.
'Repugnant trash, quite frankly,' was the view of the East Newark
Times' Literary Critic, when faced with Griselda Ermyntrude's third five
thousand page novel, 'The Beast and Her Preference For Two Inch Margins'.
This poem was the result of Griselda's novel being typed into a replica
of the Enigma machine. She died soon after.
I
retract it all. I apologise fully. Now in the name of everything that is
good, let me out!!