 |
| "Look Clive! Those bloody humans get everywhere!" |
18: ”RESCUE!”
“I knew she was a bitch.” Maude said simply, wiping her face from sea spray and nodding to herself.
“Who?” I asked, shivering in the cold air.
“Kate Winslet – see, there was room for two on that toilet door - bloody selfish bitch.” She said and smiled at me, I laughed and noticed the door was marked ‘Ladies’ - “That's a relief!” I said, pointing to the sign, and for once, Maude laughed at one of my jokes!
That's when were heard the knocking, someone was tapping on the door!
We managed to open it and the Rabid Rabbi climbed up, shaking the water from himself, like a dog on the beach. “Evening.” Was all he said, and he sat on the door, trying to wring water from his coat and hat.
We helped them onto the door and did introductions all around.
There was more tapping and again, we managed to prise the door open and the toilet attendant emerged, she was a very nice pirate lady, dressed in black boots, a lovely white shirt and breeches, with a cutlass hanging at her hip, and of course, a wonderful pirate hat with a dripping wet ostrich feather.
Her and Maude hugged; “This is Kylie!” Maude introduced us, and the pair sat discussing just how much damage sea water can do to your hair. Mrs. Smith pitched in and was knowledgeable about the subject since she was a Hairdresser by profession – the girls were excited by that, “I mean Tom, what are the chances of finding a professional Hairdresser when you really need one!” Maude explained.
The door creaked open again and ‘The 3K’s’ Jazz band emerged, and after they had wrung out their hoods and dried their noose’s, started to play ‘Campdown Races’ and we all sang along until Kylie Forgerty (1698 – 1724) said; ”Quiet, I think I hear knocking.”
Through the open door emerged Maurice LeMerde (1905 – 1940) who had been the ship’s Entertainment’s Officer - But when a member of the living, he had been a French mime artist, who also played the accordion and his pet monkey, ‘Sellers’ collected the money in a little tin cup and danced.
He didn’t have the monkey any more – monkeys are not allowed either (well, except Lukas...) so he made do with a dwarf, in an ape suit, the little fellow was clinging to his back, but despite the sinking and near drowning, still held onto the cup which jingled with coins and a couple of bottle tops.
“Bloody shit ship!” LeMerde muttered and lit a foul smelling French cigarette, the little monkey...sorry dwarf, removed his mask and spat out some sea water.
“Tom and Maude!” He exclaimed with real joy – it was Gordon!
The first thing he asked was; “How’s Larde? Is he alight?” Apparently, he and LeMerde had been working the ‘Titanic’ cruise since we last met up, but this was the first time they had got their feet wet – “Didn’t hear the announcement about the bugger sinking!” He confessed and looked a little awkward.
Apparently, it was his task to warn LeMerde about the sinking, but having one Guinness too many, he slept through the warning played over the ship's tannoy system.
LeMerde just mumbled something in French and smoked another cigarette.
That’s when Maude said; “Quiet, I hear.....”
“Oh bleeding no! That’s it; no more buggers are going to fit on this bloody door!” I yelled, shaking my head, until a small pebble bounced off my surprised face.
“No, not knocking, a dog barking!” Maude pointed to the ice-berg which was now again visible and seemed to be getting bigger by the second: “The current’s taking us to the berg!”
I could see shapes on its rim, waving.
“We’ll get on the damn thing and wait for rescue.” I explained to the other passengers. We had time only for one more song from ‘The 3K’s’ and we sung everyone’s favourite; “Red sails in the sunset” – well, except LeMerde who just sat and smoked, pouring water from his soggy accordion.
He had never been happy since the occupying Nazi’s had shot him in 1940, He was apparently quite surprised by that, since he was drunk and asleep in the gutter of a Paris street and offered no resistance - But they lived up to their evil reputation – they shot the monkey as well, despite the poor little fellow raising his arms to surrender and one of the buggers even took the few coins from the dead monkeys cup and spent it on cheap wine - was there no end to their evil?
It took us some minutes to unload the toilet door, the only real problem was Mrs. Smith, and she simply couldn’t climb a rope, despite the Rabid Rabbi pushing her up with both hands on her ample back-side. That started a fight with Mr. Smith – I left Maude to sort that out.
That’s when an armchair, floating past some distance away, caught my eye; I would have sworn there was a headless lady sitting there, with an angry head upon its lap.
I shook my head, rubbing my eyes – I had been dead too long, I was starting to see ghosts..
When, finally, we had reached the ice-berg’s summit, Maude and I could greet the fellow who had saved our lives.....sorry, stopped us from being O.D’d - Outer Domained.
He was a big fellow, over six feet in height, with a frozen black beard, snow goggles’ and a multi-coloured woollen hat, he was wearing a very old fashioned ice-jacket and breeches, with stout brown boots, laced up to his knees.
He pulled his heavy mittens off and held out his hand; “Hi Tom, I’m Scott of....”
I grabbed his hand with real excitement and genuine pleasure; “My God! I’ve always wanted to meet one of my childhood hero’s! Scott of the Antarctic – you and Shackleton were my favourite’s sir!”
He looked about, a little embarrassed; “It’s Scott of Shepherd’s Bush actually.”
I saw Maude start to smile, hugging her coat about her and then she just laughed, patting me on the back and saying quietly; “Tom! You’re priceless! If there’s a nutter within a thousand miles, you’ll find them!”
‘Scott of Shepherd’s Bush’ story is one filled with excitement, adventure and stupidity: his. Scott Gobble (1890 – 1910) had been born and raised in the London suburb, Shepherd’s Bush, his mind filled with the great adventures of Scott of the Antarctic, having read about the great man in the local library, He resolved that exploring that dangerous and forbidding continent would be his life’s dream and ambition. But having no real schooling, he knew he had little chance, but with great resolve, he decided to prepare for the epic adventure, as best he could.
So he trained every day, by running up and down the stairs of the tenement slum into which he had been born, the 9th child of a family of 14 – There were no TV’s in those days – and with regular visits to a local meat factory for cold weather familiarisation, Scott hardened himself for the unforgiving Antarctic conditions.
The distinguished factory owner, Lord Arthur Tommington-Snatchgrabber (1867 – 1933) allowed him to stand in the great fridges and freezers which stored his meat products – he nearly overdone it on a couple of occasions, but some plucky British workers, finding him frozen solid, set him alight and he was fine, apart from never having hair on his head again.
He worked several jobs and saved his penny’s, each night he read and re-read the adventures of Shackleton or Scott and that Norwegian git who beat Scott to the pole, whilst his mum knitted several woollen jumpers, hats and gloves for him – how she had the time is a miracle in itself – 14 kids! Well, his big chance came suddenly and he grabbed it with both hands.
Scott discovered an advertisement in the 'Shepherd's Bush Chronicle' asking for fit young men – he was disappointed, it was for a 'Turkish Health Spa' in Croydon, but a card in the window of the local Newsagent's held out some promise.
A leading Chinese explorer was seeking volunteers to help build a whaling Station in the Antarctic – Despite being unable to speak Chinese or Eskimo, Scott signed on immediately, using sign language and lots of shouting to communicate his desires, he knew his dreams were about to come true – he was accepted because the Chinese crew were great 'charade' players and found the stupid Englishman so amusing, they all agreed he would make the dark winter evenings fly by....
He soon found himself in the vast frozen wilderness, with a group of Chinese workers, six husky dogs and enough noodles to sink a ship (pun intended!).
Then one day, Damn Wang Kerr (1854 – 1920) the owner, sent Scott, with the Husky powered sledge, to a nearby British Scientific Station to fetch some cans of water-chestnuts. At last, he was living his dream, flashing across the snow and ice, the dogs barking, the sun glinting, he was exploring the great unknown Antarctica.
It was the pinnacle of his young life and he was never happier, mainly because it was his last day alive and he didn’t get the chance to be happy again.
Sadly, the Chinese owner overlooked one small detail, Scott didn’t have a clue where he was going – A little snow storm blew up and he was gone. They never did find the body, but the Huskies who are clever dogs, freed themselves from their harness and returned to camp – it hadn’t occurred to Scott to simply let the dogs take him home.
Thus his frozen remains lay undisturbed until a particular warm winter in the Antarctic, broke off several large ice-bergs, which floated down the Labrador Current – he was on one of them – and typical of his luck, the first ship that turned up, hit the damn thing and sunk!
I sat next to Maude and watched the blackness of the sea, I told her about the headless woman who appears to be haunting me and she just laughed; “You’re dead Tom! How can you be haunted? You should be haunting a ‘Lifer’, I'm just glad we're away from those pirates and their perverted Captain."
Then Max, who had borrowed Scott of Shepherd’s Bush telescope yelled; “A ship! I see a ship!” We all rushed over and Max handed me the telescope; “It’s a little wooden ship with sails.”
I peered through the telescope and could make out the schooner gliding towards us – Max was right, it was a sailing ship under full sail – “Can you make the name out Tom?” Scott of Shepherd’s Bush asked.
“Yes, I sure can.” I said and sighed loudly - the only luck I ever had was rotten; “It’s the Mary Celeste.”
What horror's awaited us? Could they be worse than Pirates or Taxmen?
Was their Captain a big pervert? Were dogs allowed?
More importantly, would this bugger sink!
Bye for now readers, and remember ‘worse things happen at sea’ – for Captain ‘Dagger’ Jones it was not searching his prisoner for half a house brick!
PS: "We have some great holiday snaps!"
No.18 OF A 'SKELETON'S LIFE SERIES:
Copyright © 2011-2021 Stephen Williams. No reproduction of any part without permission.
“I knew she was a bitch.” Maude said simply, wiping her face from sea spray and nodding to herself.
“Who?” I asked, shivering in the cold air.
“Kate Winslet – see, there was room for two on that toilet door - bloody selfish bitch.” She said and smiled at me, I laughed and noticed the door was marked ‘Ladies’ - “That's a relief!” I said, pointing to the sign, and for once, Maude laughed at one of my jokes!
That's when were heard the knocking, someone was tapping on the door!
We managed to open it and the Rabid Rabbi climbed up, shaking the water from himself, like a dog on the beach. “Evening.” Was all he said, and he sat on the door, trying to wring water from his coat and hat.
That’s when we heard more knocking – again we managed to open the door and were surprised to see the Smith family emerge, they were lovely people we had met whilst Treasure hunting, I understand Mrs. Smith (1969 – 2010) found a spin-dryer, whilst Mr. Smith (1966 – 2010) and the daughter Miss Smith (1990 – 2010) had discovered a WWII Japanese Bomber, complete with the crew playing cards.
 |
| "Our friends: The Smiths!" |
Her and Maude hugged; “This is Kylie!” Maude introduced us, and the pair sat discussing just how much damage sea water can do to your hair. Mrs. Smith pitched in and was knowledgeable about the subject since she was a Hairdresser by profession – the girls were excited by that, “I mean Tom, what are the chances of finding a professional Hairdresser when you really need one!” Maude explained.
The door creaked open again and ‘The 3K’s’ Jazz band emerged, and after they had wrung out their hoods and dried their noose’s, started to play ‘Campdown Races’ and we all sang along until Kylie Forgerty (1698 – 1724) said; ”Quiet, I think I hear knocking.”
Through the open door emerged Maurice LeMerde (1905 – 1940) who had been the ship’s Entertainment’s Officer - But when a member of the living, he had been a French mime artist, who also played the accordion and his pet monkey, ‘Sellers’ collected the money in a little tin cup and danced.
He didn’t have the monkey any more – monkeys are not allowed either (well, except Lukas...) so he made do with a dwarf, in an ape suit, the little fellow was clinging to his back, but despite the sinking and near drowning, still held onto the cup which jingled with coins and a couple of bottle tops.
 |
| "LeMerde and Gordon." |
“Tom and Maude!” He exclaimed with real joy – it was Gordon!
The first thing he asked was; “How’s Larde? Is he alight?” Apparently, he and LeMerde had been working the ‘Titanic’ cruise since we last met up, but this was the first time they had got their feet wet – “Didn’t hear the announcement about the bugger sinking!” He confessed and looked a little awkward.
Apparently, it was his task to warn LeMerde about the sinking, but having one Guinness too many, he slept through the warning played over the ship's tannoy system.
LeMerde just mumbled something in French and smoked another cigarette.
That’s when Maude said; “Quiet, I hear.....”
“Oh bleeding no! That’s it; no more buggers are going to fit on this bloody door!” I yelled, shaking my head, until a small pebble bounced off my surprised face.
“No, not knocking, a dog barking!” Maude pointed to the ice-berg which was now again visible and seemed to be getting bigger by the second: “The current’s taking us to the berg!”
I could see shapes on its rim, waving.
“We’ll get on the damn thing and wait for rescue.” I explained to the other passengers. We had time only for one more song from ‘The 3K’s’ and we sung everyone’s favourite; “Red sails in the sunset” – well, except LeMerde who just sat and smoked, pouring water from his soggy accordion.
He had never been happy since the occupying Nazi’s had shot him in 1940, He was apparently quite surprised by that, since he was drunk and asleep in the gutter of a Paris street and offered no resistance - But they lived up to their evil reputation – they shot the monkey as well, despite the poor little fellow raising his arms to surrender and one of the buggers even took the few coins from the dead monkeys cup and spent it on cheap wine - was there no end to their evil?
"This particular nasty git, Hans Von Guttsucker (1924 - 1945)
ended up in the 'Wild Domain', spending eternity shovelling Dinosaur
shit despite the protests that he had changed since giving up Nazism
and life - But the Goddess Florence had dealt with his case and
everyone knows how much she loves animals........."
Tom.
Tom.
 |
| "Two bloody Franc's! Just to use the f*****g toilet!" |
That’s when an armchair, floating past some distance away, caught my eye; I would have sworn there was a headless lady sitting there, with an angry head upon its lap.
I shook my head, rubbing my eyes – I had been dead too long, I was starting to see ghosts..
When, finally, we had reached the ice-berg’s summit, Maude and I could greet the fellow who had saved our lives.....sorry, stopped us from being O.D’d - Outer Domained.
He was a big fellow, over six feet in height, with a frozen black beard, snow goggles’ and a multi-coloured woollen hat, he was wearing a very old fashioned ice-jacket and breeches, with stout brown boots, laced up to his knees.
He pulled his heavy mittens off and held out his hand; “Hi Tom, I’m Scott of....”
I grabbed his hand with real excitement and genuine pleasure; “My God! I’ve always wanted to meet one of my childhood hero’s! Scott of the Antarctic – you and Shackleton were my favourite’s sir!”
He looked about, a little embarrassed; “It’s Scott of Shepherd’s Bush actually.”
I saw Maude start to smile, hugging her coat about her and then she just laughed, patting me on the back and saying quietly; “Tom! You’re priceless! If there’s a nutter within a thousand miles, you’ll find them!”
 |
| "Scott of Shepherd's Bush!" |
So he trained every day, by running up and down the stairs of the tenement slum into which he had been born, the 9th child of a family of 14 – There were no TV’s in those days – and with regular visits to a local meat factory for cold weather familiarisation, Scott hardened himself for the unforgiving Antarctic conditions.
The distinguished factory owner, Lord Arthur Tommington-Snatchgrabber (1867 – 1933) allowed him to stand in the great fridges and freezers which stored his meat products – he nearly overdone it on a couple of occasions, but some plucky British workers, finding him frozen solid, set him alight and he was fine, apart from never having hair on his head again.
He worked several jobs and saved his penny’s, each night he read and re-read the adventures of Shackleton or Scott and that Norwegian git who beat Scott to the pole, whilst his mum knitted several woollen jumpers, hats and gloves for him – how she had the time is a miracle in itself – 14 kids! Well, his big chance came suddenly and he grabbed it with both hands.
Scott discovered an advertisement in the 'Shepherd's Bush Chronicle' asking for fit young men – he was disappointed, it was for a 'Turkish Health Spa' in Croydon, but a card in the window of the local Newsagent's held out some promise.
A leading Chinese explorer was seeking volunteers to help build a whaling Station in the Antarctic – Despite being unable to speak Chinese or Eskimo, Scott signed on immediately, using sign language and lots of shouting to communicate his desires, he knew his dreams were about to come true – he was accepted because the Chinese crew were great 'charade' players and found the stupid Englishman so amusing, they all agreed he would make the dark winter evenings fly by....
He soon found himself in the vast frozen wilderness, with a group of Chinese workers, six husky dogs and enough noodles to sink a ship (pun intended!).
Then one day, Damn Wang Kerr (1854 – 1920) the owner, sent Scott, with the Husky powered sledge, to a nearby British Scientific Station to fetch some cans of water-chestnuts. At last, he was living his dream, flashing across the snow and ice, the dogs barking, the sun glinting, he was exploring the great unknown Antarctica.
It was the pinnacle of his young life and he was never happier, mainly because it was his last day alive and he didn’t get the chance to be happy again.
Sadly, the Chinese owner overlooked one small detail, Scott didn’t have a clue where he was going – A little snow storm blew up and he was gone. They never did find the body, but the Huskies who are clever dogs, freed themselves from their harness and returned to camp – it hadn’t occurred to Scott to simply let the dogs take him home.
 |
| "Couldn't have put it better Mr. Husky!" |
Now dead, he sat on a nearby outcrop of ice and rock and said simply: “Bollocks!”
And thus ends the terrible story of wasted courage and ambition, Scott of Shepherd’s Bush is not mentioned in any history book, there is no memorial to his adventures, he is simply forgotten – even his large family didn’t know he was dead – they thought he had popped out for a paper and got lost – he was always getting lost apparently.
"Haunting 'Lifer's' is a common hobby amongst some of the
'deadies', there are Clubs and various Societies dedicated to the
practise, but Angel Peter/Betty-Jean is trying to clean up the whole
scene by having haunting’s properly licensed and regulated. He wants
all ghosts and spirits to undergo training before scaring the shit
out of the living!
If the Licensing system comes to fruition and being a 'Lifer'', you’re not happy with the standard of haunting, poltergeist actively, ghoulish terror or ectoplasm dripping down your toilet wall, then you can complain – just obtain the spirits licence number and lodge a formal complaint at your next séance......."
Tom.
If the Licensing system comes to fruition and being a 'Lifer'', you’re not happy with the standard of haunting, poltergeist actively, ghoulish terror or ectoplasm dripping down your toilet wall, then you can complain – just obtain the spirits licence number and lodge a formal complaint at your next séance......."
Tom.
“Now
that’s interesting for us ‘Lifers’, so if our demonic
possession is not up to standard – we can at least now complain
about it.
Fantastic!”
The Ghost Writer.
Fantastic!”
The Ghost Writer.
I peered through the telescope and could make out the schooner gliding towards us – Max was right, it was a sailing ship under full sail – “Can you make the name out Tom?” Scott of Shepherd’s Bush asked.
“Yes, I sure can.” I said and sighed loudly - the only luck I ever had was rotten; “It’s the Mary Celeste.”
The famous ghost ship of the seven seas was speeding towards us, and I could see figures moving about the deck.
Was their Captain a big pervert? Were dogs allowed?
More importantly, would this bugger sink!
Bye for now readers, and remember ‘worse things happen at sea’ – for Captain ‘Dagger’ Jones it was not searching his prisoner for half a house brick!
 |
| "The Holiday snaps!" |
No.18 OF A 'SKELETON'S LIFE SERIES:
 |
| "SORRY MATE, BUT I REALLY CAN'T FIND THE REST OF YOU!" |
 |
| FORWARD TO EPISODE 19. "BLITHE SPIRITS." |
 |
| RETURN TO EPISODE 17. "HOUSE BRICK." |
 |
| "THE GHOST WRITER." |
Copyright © 2011-2021 Stephen Williams. No reproduction of any part without permission.