Mo "Mad Dog" Stoneskin
People watching is an art form. It requires dedication if not intoxication. You sir are a master craftsman, a black belt in voyeurism, a creator of merciless mirth. Stay out of my local, I’m concerned that you’d have yourself one hell of a field day. (Jimmy Bastard)
67
Sorry about my absence last week, I was sick and then needed some time out. Sue me if you like. Rubbish has been sending abusive texts all week and apparently Braja was distraught. It’s nice to be missed.
Anyway, while I’ve been absent the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival (Harrogate) has had a programme launch. Old Peculier, incidentally, is one of my favourite beers.
Quoting from the launch page:This year, in an exciting new collaboration to mark the programme launch, festival-sponsor Theakstons Old Peculier has teamed up with six of the UK’s leading crime writers to create a series of limited edition labels on bottles of their famous ale. The authors – Val McDermid, Mark Billingham, Stuart MacBride, Simon Kernick, NJ Cooper and Simon Beckett – were tasked with writing a brand new crime story for the back of the beer bottle. The twist? They could only use ten words.
Esther Leach, of Yorkshire Life, challenged us, the laypeople, to write a ten word crime story, and even suggested there might be a pint for the best one. Blimey. I texted a couple of mates and here’s what they came up with. Some take a few liberties regarding apostrophes, but I’ll let them off:
- Mum’s boyfriend’s still missing. He would’ve liked the new patio. (Flix)
- Dog ate dog food. Tin unopened. No sign of Trevor. (Flix)
- “Can’t…unnh…breathe…you’re…standing…on…my…unnh…unnh…” “Throat?” (Flix)
- BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! “Er, you missed.” (Flix)
- The scream, the shot, Mother had been murdered by Father. (Maryanne)
- Never saw his killer. Friend jailed. But it was me. (Ray)
- While stamping books, she saw the body in the library. (Edward)
- She saw the murder but was the silent witness: mute. (Bion)
- Inspector flatulence examined the assembled family and pronounced them drunk. (Peet)
- Murderous crowd, hauled him high, nailing him to the cross. (Danny)
- Man steals can of baked beans from local Sainsbury’s store. (Di Marco)
- Whirlwind bereft of mercy buffeted:Wallet gorged; my curses drank! (Jamie)
Jamie then moved into a league of his own, telling a tale about smuggling illegal aliens while using the numbers one to ten:
- Juan, to free foreigners, thrived successfully, serving native ninnies tension.
My own entries:
- House asleep, shadows creep, floorboards creak. Crunch…crumbs…biscuits gone.
- Stormy night, frantic quacks. A duck, dead, killed by Fred. (no collection of crime stories is complete without a gruesome farmyard murder)
- Dead man found with crow in his mouth. RSPCB outraged.
- Jack killed Jill on the hill then swallowed deadly pill.
- Inspector baffled. Hotel and guests vanish. Replaced by butchers.
Go on, write me a ten word crime story. I know there are some brilliant minds among you.
They wandered into the restaurant with purpose, determination and if I’m honest, laughable coordination. She was thin, very thin, he was fat, very fat. As they read the menu he kept touching her. A gentle squeeze of the hand, a rub down the back, an occasional tickle of the ear with a movement like a maid dusting a vase. Quirky to the extreme and (bless him) exceptionally chivalrous.
She wore extraordinary glasses, black and orange, giving her the bizarre appearance of some sort of exotic insect, accentuated by the fervent way she sucked her G&T up through a straw. He was probably a banker and in all probability, a rich one with a penchant for fatty foods, neatly and uncomfortably encapsulated in his suit, like a pistachio bursting from its shell. But what struck me was their coordination.
“In a moment,” I said to my wife, “glance over your shoulder. The couple over there are in matching pin-striped suits. What would lead anyone to do that?”
She waited a moment. “Some couples like to coordinate outfits,” she said, glancing over my own attire as if to remind us that we were not that type of couple.
I’m not one to psychoanalyse (I’d never do that) but seriously, why would any couple wear matching pin-striped suits? Matching to the extent that the stripes were of equal thickness and frequency, fitted no doubt by the same tailor, she in a black blouse, he in a black shirt. In a game of Suit Snap it would be, well, unequivocally snap.
“What shall we wear tonight darling?”
“How about our matching Levis and white shirts?”
“What are we, a pair of Texans? Besides, it’s a slightly up-market Italian place, how about our identical green polo-necks?”
“They’re both in the wash, we wore those on Tuesday remember? Let’s go for our matching pin-striped suits.”
“Excellent idea, and they fit so perfectly too, I LOVE that tailor.”
“Nobody should ever be that coordinated. It’s hilarious,” I said. “Mind if I take a few notes?”
“Suit yourself,” said my wife, “I’m going to the ladies’ room”.
They wandered into the restaurant with purpose, determination and if I’m honest, laughable coordination. She was thin, very thin, and he was fat, very fat. As they read the menu he kept touching her. A gentle squeeze of the hand, a rub down the back, an occasional tickle of the ear with a movement like a maid dusting a vase. Quirky to the extreme and (bless him) exceptionally chivalrous.
She wore extraordinary glasses, black and orange, giving her the bizarre appearance of some sort of exotic insect, accentuated by the fervent way she sucked her G&T through a straw. He was probably a banker and in all probability, a rich one with a penchant for fatty foods. Neatly and uncomfortably encapsulated in his suit, he looked like a pistachio bursting from its shell. But what struck me was their coordination.
“In a moment,” I said to my wife, “glance over your shoulder. The couple over there are in matching pin-striped suits. What would lead anyone to do that?” She waited a moment. “Some couples like to coordinate outfits,” she said, glancing over my own attire as if to remind us that we were not that type of couple.
I’m not one to psychoanalyse (would I ever?) but seriously, why would any couple wear matching pin-striped suits? Matching to the extent that the stripes were of equal thickness and frequency, fitted no doubt by the same tailor, she in a black blouse, he in a black shirt. In a game of Suit Snap it would be, well, unequivocally snap.
“What shall we wear tonight darling?”
“How about our matching Levis and white shirts?”
“What are we, a pair of Texans? Besides, it’s a slightly up-market Italian place, how about our identical green polo-necks?”
“They’re both in the wash, we wore those on Tuesday remember? Let’s go for our matching pin-striped suits.”
“Excellent idea, and they fit so perfectly too, I LOVE that tailor, and it will give us that dubious Mafia look.”
“Nobody should ever be that coordinated. It’s hilarious,” I said. “Mind if I take a few notes?”
“Suit yourself,” said my wife, and I might have noticed a slight eyeball-roll. “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she said.
Ageing gangsters, Mafia bosses, or perhaps leaders of warring factions of the elderly population. Two old men, one at each end of a long bar. They ignore each other, pretend the other doesn’t exist, a bizarre and pointless rivalry. I witness this daily, the contrast between these two rogues is intriguing.
At one end of the bar the gentleman sits upright. With his huge forehead and high hair he looks like a cross between Beavis and a toothbrush. His skin is taught, doll-like, and his mannerisms stiff, like a mannequin. He drinks Peroni, always in a polo-neck, Italian heritage surely? People come, people go, all acknowledge him and stop to shake his hand. All apart from his opposite number.
The gentleman at the other end slouches, slumped in his chair like a giant reclining slug, a giant reclining slug in corduroys. He holds a paper close to his face, just inches away, turning a page every ten minutes or so, a slug reading at a slug’s pace. No Peroni for this one, he drinks real ale. Makes sense, I guess, everyone knows slugs favour real ale.
Not once have I seen them acknowledge each other, exchange weather predictions, moan about the youth of today or even wave from their respective ends of the bar. Every so often they pass on route to and from the toilets (elderly bladders) yet even then they pretend the other does not exist.
Beavis and Slug, stoical to the extreme. But one day there’ll be a gunfight and I intend to be here to witness it.
Ageing gangsters, Mafia bosses, or leaders of warring factions of the elderly population. Two old men, one at each end of a long bar. They ignore each other, pretend the other doesn’t exist, a bizarre and pointless rivalry. I witness this daily, the contrast between these two rogues is intriguing.
At one end of the bar the gentleman sits upright. With his huge forehead and high hair he looks like a cross between Beavis and a toothbrush. His skin is taught, doll-like, and his mannerisms stiff, like a mannequin. He drinks Peroni, always in a polo-neck, Italian heritage surely? People come, people go, all acknowledge him and stop to shake his hand. All apart from his opposite number.
The gentleman at the other end slouches, slumped in his chair like a giant reclining slug, a giant reclining slug in corduroys. He holds a paper close to his face, just inches away, turning a page every ten minutes or so, a slug reading at a slug’s pace. No Peroni for this one, he drinks real ale. Makes sense, I guess, everyone knows slugs favour real ale.
Not once have I seen them acknowledge each other, exchange weather predictions, moan about the youth of today or even wave from their respective ends of the bar. Every so often they pass on route to and from the toilets (elderly bladders) yet even then they pretend the other does not exist.
Beavis and Slug, stoical to the extreme. But one day there’ll be a gunfight and I intend to be here to witness it.
Back to top
