Contradicting Ruby

Warning: This post contains language that may offend. It is deliberately intended to provoke a reaction. If you do not feel comfortable with language that could be deemed offensive, please do not read any further.

Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t no racialist or nothing. Me nan on me mother’s side was from Wales. But the way I looks at it is we’ve got to keep Britain for the British, right. I’m sick of all these coons, wogs, Pakis, Poles, and what nots coming over and nickin’ our jobs. I mean obviously the likes of Colin should be allowed to stay ‘cos he’s an OK geezer ‘cos he likes the Gunners ‘n’ that but most of them is basically just nicking our jobs.

‘ang on… go my son, go, yeeees. What a goal. I’m tellin’ ya, Heskey is fuckin’ ace mate.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, and, right, and, what about all them Pakis bloody taking over the corner shops when them jobs should go to decent British folk. My cousin, Kenny, right, he’s been on the rock an’ roll for years. Can he get a job? Not a bit of it. So ‘e goes down the job centre an’ they ‘ad the cheek to give ‘im some flannel about ‘ow ‘e should try getting some qualifieds but I bet that Paki tosser that runs Bertie’s doesn’t have any, but he’s got a fucking job. An’ e’s got two kids ‘n’ all; I bet they nick our kids’ jobs when they grow up. It’s like some kind of sick disease. I tell you what, it makes my blood boil.

An’ the Poles, right, the Poles: Josh, me brother, gets undercut by them fuckers all the time. ‘Oh yes, Mrs Hoity-Toity, I’ll do your plumbing for you for half what Englishman charges, no problem. Do tell all of your friends’. Tossers.

How’s he supposed to compete with that sort of shit? What he’s supposed to live in a fuckin’ hovel? He’s got two ex-wives to support, and the kids: Mikey, Sheena, Persil, Summer, Beckham, and Junior. How’s he supposed to do that when some Polish twat nicks the work from under ‘is nose? It’s his right… and it ain’t right that they can come in and just nick what is rightfully his. It just ain’t right.

I tell you what I’d do if I was in charge, right: I’d bloody get us out of Europe for starters, then I’d pay every nigger, wog, Paki, Pole, Eye-tie, and slanty-eyed Johnny-bloody-foreigner a hundred quid and put them on a boat back to where they come from, even the one’s what was born ‘ere. It would make for a better bleedin’ country that’s for sure.

Did you know that five thousand people come into this country every week. Five thousand. Not ten people or even twenny but five-bleedin’-thousand. I saw it on a UKIP poster. Think about it. Five thousand people comin’ in to steal the jobs away. Every week. ‘ow’re we s’posed to keep our jobs if we’re being swamped by all them lots coming in? And what do they bring? Oh yeah, that’s right, I’ll tell you: disease, thieving, gangs, drugs, and bad attitude.

My aunt works in an ‘ospital and she reckons the rag 'eads are the worst of the lot. They’re all Al Qaida, every last one of ‘em. Half of ‘em don’t speak no English and them what does ain’t does it proper like what we does, init.

Anyway, lads, I’ve ‘ad enough of this Stella malarkey. I’m off to get a ruby and a couple of jars of Kingfisher. You coming tfor a ram jam or what?

This piece was inspired by my travels around the world. The sentiments expressed are ones that I have encountered in Manchester, London, Frankfurt, New York, Paris, and Amsterdam; even in Mumbai. To find people like this is not that surprising I suppose but what gets me is the increasing frequency that I have been encountering this sort of attitude in recent years. Why has this happened? What causes the frequency of such an encounter to increase? I can only think that it is because the sentiment itself is spreading from its traditional bedrock of the uneducated and, worryingly, permeating into the middle class (where I guess I would place myself). I can say, with some sadness, that I have met people I would never (say ten years ago or so) have thought would speak this way (yes, they have more eloquent ways of saying it than my protagonist but the message is the same nonetheless) and to me it's a worry. I could go on, I won't. 
Hopefully you get the point and understand what's being said here. 
What do you think?

The Wolf's Tale

Us humans love a nursery rhyme but for some reason we always make them human-centric. Well, here's the real story of the wolf. I hope you enjoy.

Hieronymus T Wolf was as affable a wolf as one could hope to meet. In every way he was the perfect Wolfleman. Every way apart from one: his predilection for eating people.

      It wasn’t his fault, of course – he was after all, a wolf – but still, it was wise to avoid him when he was hungry. The rest of the time, however, he was nothing less than charming. Come to think of it, he was charming when he was hungry, which is why he was generally quite well fed.

       It was Friday and two days earlier, Hieronymus had returned from a rather successful mission to eat three obnoxious pigs that, until Wednesday, had lived nearby, in Porkshire. He’d had to do quite a bit of huffing and puffing but he’d managed to gobble all three of them up, despite one of them living in a house out of brick (he’d got that one by dressing up as the postman and pretending he had a recorded letter that had to be signed for).
       Now, though, Hieronymus was hungry again.
***
For work, Hieronymus was a self-employed flower seller and did rather well providing bouquets to the recently bereaved. (Somehow he knew just where to go to sell his flowers.)
       His job meant that he travelled a lot and he was sat thinking about his recent travels when he recalled that a new family had moved into the little cottage at the north end of Two-Mile Wood, on the outskirts of Wolferhampton (where Hieronymus lived).
       He decided to travel up there to check out their culinary potential so he set off that afternoon on his flower-selling bike. The cottage was set just inside Two-Mile Wood, just after the road turned into a dirt track that continued to the south end of the wood.
      Hieronymus hid his bike behind a clump of trees opposite the cottage, pulled out a pair of binoculars, then folded himself into a bush and watched the house.
       He’d been watching for about five minutes when he was surprised to see a dog come round from the back of the house, saddled up and riding a goat, which he rode up and down in front of the house while he danced on its back.
       This continued for a while until an elderly woman appeared carrying a smart coat in a bag that said ‘Emperor’s New Tailor’ on it. She draped the coat over the fence and the dog hopped off the goat, undid he package, and put it on. It was a perfect fit but somewhat transparent and the dog didn’t seem very pleased at all.
       The old woman left again and the dog spent a few minutes chasing the goat around before a young girl, who could have been no more than eleven years old, appeared from within the house. She said something, waved her arms around a bit, and the dog disappeared into the house.
       Hieronymus watched the girl for a while, looking her up and down. Hmm, he said to himself... tasty. It would take me a week to digest such a tender and succulent morsel. Realising that drool was slobbering off his chin, he wiped his face with his paw and went home; he couldn’t risk eating her before he knew her movements and, besides, he had a feeling that if he got his timing right there might be more than just her to feast on.
       Over the next few days he managed to ascertain that the woman was quite mad, forever going off to buy the most ridiculous presents for the dog: a hat, a wig, even some fruit on one occasion which would be all very well for you and I but, well... a fruit eating dog? The very idea made him sick.
       The dog, it seemed, was equally bonkers for every time she went out it would start doing something very un-dog-like, even quite deranged at times, such as dancing a jig or feeding the cat to the goat.
       One rainy day he dressed up as smartly as he could. Donning spectacles, a top hat, a waistcoat, and a fob watch, he knocked on the door of the cottage, and presented himself as a Doctor in Floriculture who was trying to get to a meeting in a placed called Gloucester.
       'I wonder if you might have a map I could consult,' he had said, and accepting her offer of a cup of tea, he found out that the girl was called Lilly-Red and that the old crone was her mother. It seemed that Lilly-red’s grandmother, on her father’s side, lived on the south side of the wood. She and Lilly-Red’s mother were arch enemies, having once been best friends living on a commune. Lilly-Red’s mother had seduced her friend’s son and they'd run off together after she became pregnant. Granny had paid a witch to put a spell on them but the witch wasn’t very good and, instead of turning Lilly-Red’s mother into a praying mantis had managed to turn her father into a border collie. Once a week, Lilly-Red would take a basket of food, filled by her father whilst her mother was out, to her granny’s, walking to the southern end of the wood. She would spend some time with her then walk home again before the evening faded to night. Her next trip was tomorrow.
       Hieronymus hatched a plan. He would cycle to granny’s, eat her, disguise himself as her, and then eat Lilly-Red when she arrived. Then, he’d nip back to Lilly-Red's house and eat her mother and father. A veritable feast that would las him a month. He could already taste their juicy flesh as he set off home.
       The next morning, he set off on his bicycle. He had just entered the wood and cycled past Lilly-Red’s (who was setting off for her granny’s) when all of a sudden he got a puncture. Bugger, he thought. Now how am I going to get to Granny’s before Lilly-Red? I can't eat her here; far to public, no no no. I could walk but there simply isn’t time to devour her, get changed, put on some make-up, and complete my disguise before she'd arrive. He thought and thought and forced his brain to think some more and then, as he was a bout to give up and go home, a plan began to take shape.

***

Hieronymus put his bike upside down balancing it on the saddle and handle bars. Then he started making himself look jolly busy spinning wheels and tutting a lot.
       He’d only been there a couple of minutes when, sure enough, Lilly-Red came along.
       ‘Hello, young lady,’ he said.
       ‘Hello Dr Foster,’ she answered in a gay smiling voice.
     ‘How lovely to see you again. And where might you be going on such a wonderful day as this?’ he enquired.
    ‘Oh,’ said Lilly-Red who thought nothing of talking to hairy, bearded, strangers, ‘I’m off to see my granny on the other side of the wood. My father sends me to take her food every so often.’
     ‘How very delicious of you,’ said Hieronymus, his enthusiasm for his dark deed almost getting the better of him. Then, remembering that he should be acting normal he asked, ‘why, if you love your granny so, maybe it would be nice to take her some flowers too?’
     ‘I do love her very much,’ said Lilly-Red, ‘she teaches me things my parents can't. Dad just barks at me the whole time even though I'm thirteen, and Mum is never there.’
     ‘I'd love to give you some but I’ve none left and I can’t even offer to get you fresh ones from my depot because, as you can see, my bicycle has a puncture. Ah, but what's this, yonder, I see? Lovely tulips and daffodils. Why, you could just pick them in the woods, couldn't you? What a nice thing to do,’ and he pointed at a small clearing in the woods not far from the road.
     ‘You know, I think I will. Thank you, Doctor,’ and she wiggled off into the woods.
    ‘I would help,’ said Hieronymus. ‘but I have a dinner engagement. Still, I expect a strong healthy girl like you will do just fine.’
    Suddenly Lilly-Red turned and shouted, ‘I’m not a girl, I’m a boy,’ before flouncing off once more.
    ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Hieronymus and, a tad perplexed, he ran off to Granny’s house.
 

***
 

Despite the mix-up with Lilly-Red’s gender, Hieronymus’s plan was a masterstroke. He knocked on granny’s door and was called in. 'It’s unlatched, come on in,’ croaked granny and he had done just that.
     The poor old bat had atrocious vision so when he’d told her he was a District Nurse she’d willingly taken her nightgown off and he’d pretty much swallowed her whole. She was a bit stringy he decided but she’d at least keep the hunger at bay until Lilly-Red arrived.
      He struggled into granny’s gown, put on some of her make-up, and had just picked the last bits of her from between his teeth when there was a knock at the door. ‘Hi Granny, it’s just me,’ came the voice. Hieronymus recognised it at once as Lilly-Red’s and jumped into Granny's bed, pulling the sheet tight up to his nose so as not to expose his face too much. ‘Oooh, granny, can I have some of your make-up? I’ll wash it off before I go. They still don’t know, you know,’ said Lilly-Red.
      Out of the corner of his eye Hieronymus saw granny’s eyeliner and realised he’d forgotten to put it all away. ‘Er, of course, my dear;’ he said putting on the most falsetto voice he could muster.
     ‘Ohh Granny, what a big hangover you appear to have,' said Lilly-Red. 'Tell you what, I’ll do you first, you look dreadful.’
      Hieronymus realised he had no choice but to sit up and have his face made over by the mincing queen of the north. ‘Oh granny, what big, bloodshot, eyes you’ve got,’ said Lilly-Red.
     ‘All the better to see you with,’ said Hieronymus.
     ‘And, granny, what a large hairy beard you have,’ said Lilly-Red.
     ‘It's an age thing,’ said Hieronymus, 'don't be so rude'.
     ‘Oh granny, what big ears you have. Have you ever thought of having them pinned back?’
     ‘Yes, yes.’
     ‘And, ooh Granny, what big teeth you have.’
     At this Hieronymus lost his patience and gobbled the little brat whole. He tasted a bit salty but Hieronymus put that down to the makeup.
     When he’d finished flossing with granny’s g-string he walked back up to the north end of the wood. Old Mother Hubbard and Father Fenton were standing opposite each other bowing and curtseying alternately, which made it very easy to wolf them down.
    Feeling rather smug and in need of some exercise, Hieronymus walked home, picked-up a new inner tube and walked back to his bicycle. He changed the wheel and set off for home, whistling and belching as he cycled.
     He was in such a good mood that he didn’t notice the gates going down on the level crossing. His bike was hit by the 16:66 to Wolfverhampton Central as it flew across the crossing, and he was, alas, cut to ribbons. It just so happened that the king's horses and his men were on exercises round the corner and they came over to look at the mess. However, having recently failed to put an egg back together they weren’t feeling very much like trying the same exercise with splattered train kill.