Dave the Crab and the Giant Called Ned

Here is a children’s poem wot I did.

There once was a crab who lived under a rock.

He had a nice sofa and a grandfather clock.

It was big and proud

And ticked ever so loud

And stood atop an ornate marble block.

The crab was called Dave and he was ever so brave,

For he once fought a giant called Ned.

 

Ned was huge and ugly to see,

And refused to let good people be.

A tattered old cap sat atop his big head

And he needed nine mattresses to make up his bed.

He’d growl and he’d roar and with one rumbling snore,

He could shake the whole Earth to its molten rock core.

He wore no shoes for his feet were too big,

And weighed him down when he did his giant’s jig.

But he wore one large and heavy and ever so smelly

Polyester and cotton blend sock.

It may sound silly, or come as a shock,

But the one thing he feared was a grandfather clock.

 

Ned came thundering along the beach one morn,

Swinging his club and blowing a big brass horn.

And anyone he should chance to meet,

Narrowly avoiding being crushed by his feet,

He’d bend over and shout right in their face:

“Get out of my way, make some space!

Get off my beach right now I say.

This is not a place for children to play.

I shall smash any sand castles on my way to the sea,

And anyone that should try to join me, I shall gobble them

Up – I’ll eat them for my tea!”

 

Now Dave worked nights, so was attempting to sleep.

He’d never been in a fight and this record he wanted to keep,

But a rude man eating giant was something he could not abide,

This brutish bully he would not let slide.

So Dave poked his head out from beneath his rock,

He strolled up to Ned’s tattered and horrible sock

And gave his toes one heck of a pinch.

But the giant did not move not even one inch.

Ned scooped up Dave and looked him in the eye

And said “Silly crab, I will make you cry!”

 

He gave a big laugh and he raised his club,

“any last words before I make you blub?”

 “Yes,” said Dave as of his life he took stock,

“Please take good care of my grandfather clock.”

Ned paused and he spluttered, he stammered and stuttered,

He whimpered and shivered until at last he muttered:

“don’t mention them or I’ll knock of your block.”

Dave said “Just listen, you might hear a tick-tock.”

Ned pricked up his ears and listen he did,

And from under the rocks from where it hid

He could hear those doleful tones of the grandfather clock,

He could hear every tick and every tock.

Dave, well he couldn’t believe his luck,

And like a chicken he began to cluck

“Mr. Giant I don’t mean to mock,

But imagine being scared of an old silly clock.”

 

Ned dropped Dave back onto the sand

And covered one ear with one very big hand,

And said “never again will I come to this land!

Get away Mr. Crab, get back under your rock,

Attend to that terrifying grandfather clock.

One second it ticks and another it tocks

It never ends and it never stops

The tolling of hours, oh that nasty chime,

The constant plodding of unending time!

It makes me shiver, it makes me feel cold,

Reminding me that one day I’ll be old!”

 

And with that Ned left never to return,

All the beach goers need fear now

Is a spot of sunburn.

So, when next on the beach,

Give Dave a thought,

Should there be a giant you need to thwart,

Make sure a grandfather clock is in reach.

 

 

There weren’t that nice? My collection of ridiculous and utterly pointless short stories is currently free to download, so if you don’t you’re a fool.

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My New and Improved Coffee Shop

This may seem absurdly melodramatic given the subject nature, but I’m afraid it definitely needs to be said. It is no secret that coffee shops are big business, they have become cultural epicentres of our society where folk from all walks of life congregate to catch up on the recent news, global and social, read books, write things, have meetings and all that nonsense, whilst getting our caffeine fix. We love coffee, it’s sophisticated. There are no longer any shops, just coffee places. Schools have been bulldozed and replaced with Costas. Hospitals have been demolished to make way for Starbucks and your house is soon to be knocked down so they can put in one of those infuriatingly pretentious cafes, where everything is organic and cruelty free and your latte is made by a bloke with a ‘quirky’ beard and haircut or a woman with an incredibly pierced face.

Now, I could get worked up into a sweary tirade at our pathetic existence, the way we cannot go a day without a latte. I could lament the fact that we all gladly spend £3 for a cappuccino (which according to adverts is enough to save an abused child, or a hard worked donkey). I could decry our obsession with Frappenappiatos and various quantities of frothed milk, but I shan’t. Instead, I shall – with almost zero self-awareness – that we need a coffee shop that tailors exclusively to the sad, single losers with no friends.

I.E me.

The first reason for this, is I fucking hate other people’s children.Unless they’re somehow related to me, and therefore have some evolutionary reason not to hate them, or at the very least a social obligation to somehow want to keep them alive, I find them the most irritating creature on the planet. Yes, they are more irritating than the pigeon that keeps me up at 3 in the fucking morning with its relentless cooing. The world is too densely populated, yet people insist on churning out sprog. I shan’t go into that here, as we haven’t the time, nor have you the patience. Also, every time I speak about it I question my sanity.

I am by no means an expert on the human child, but I’m fairly certain that should you ask one what it would see as a pleasant day out, it would not respond ‘Oh, that nice little coffee shop, the one that does the paninis.’To me it is obvious that, to a child, there is nothing more boring than a couple of long hours in an establishment where the primary purpose is to produce drinks children do not like. They get restless, they get bored and they start to fucking run about making endless amounts of noise. They become the definition of little shits, whining moaning, pointing at things or giggling away like the stupid little twats that they are. It is for this reason that I hate them. Their parents are usually of a middle-class persuasion and therefore less than useless, because the middle-classes are raised to believe that whatever happens in life, one must never make a scene. Even if their legs exploded they would politely sit there and wait until someone offered to put them in a wheelbarrow and wheel them to the nearest hospital, before it is turned into a Pret a Manger. So kids run riot, and the parents ineffectually shush them whilst reddening with embarrassment and social unease, making it very difficult for lonely old me to sit in the corner contentedly staring into the abyss.

Then there are babies, the smaller variant of the human child. On the whole, these aren’t as bad in themselves, but modern parents are no longer content in wheeling them around in what is effectively a potato sack on wheels. Now they must have the best all terrain vehicles to transport their child. HUge things with gargantuan wheels, wing mirrors, sat-navs and wide screen tvs. They decide that the best place to take these things are our coffee shops, forming the most challenging of obstacle courses that even the fucking SAS would struggle to complete. And if you dare bump their pushchairs, or look at them in exasperation, they look at you like the scum you are. They pull Tomahawks from their handbags and kill you dead.

New mothers think it acceptable to meet in these coffee shops, they are naive, think they can still have lives despite the little parasite feeding off them. They take their babies and try to chatter away about their school catchment areas, what was on the telly that evening, what Beatrice the nosy cunt of a neighbour has been up to.

‘She’ll get a jar of acid in the face if she isn’t careful.’ They say as their babies start to fuss.

‘That’s if she’s lucky.’ The babies will get louder as their mothers try and pacify them everything to hand.

‘I’d knock her down with my car, then when she’s incapacitated cover her in petrol and set her on fire!’ they’ll continue with that strained and desperate look to their eyes as they try to ignore the fact that they’ve ruined their lives.

All the while making it harder for sad sacks of shit like myself to plot how they’d go about hanging themselves.

Then there are those with friends and families. Those that enter a busy coffee shop when I am at the front of the queue, when seats are scarce, but I am at the front. I have waited patiently, listening to the hiss and whine of the machines. I have waited without complaint as the gormless turd behind the counter fumbles with my change. I am at the front, so I should be fine, there are a few seats left. Then they come in.

‘Ooh, it’s busy, do you want to get the drinks I’ll get us a table!’

Fuck you. Fuck you until you die!

You can’t do that. It’s not fair.

It puts those without friends at an unreasonable disadvantage.

Some times these bastards are old. And seem to use their age as an excuse. Because of their bad legs. But they spot a table and they’re leaping over scattered pushchairs, weaving between bored and misbehaving children, intent on getting that seat before me – who being at the front of the queue – deserves that table. It is my right! Fucking old people, why don’t they have the decency to die like in the good old days.

So in short, I have a dream of a coffee shop in which people like me can get coffee in a place they feel at ease, where they needn’t even make eye contact with another living creature and can contemplate the pointlessness of it all in peace.

And they sell whiskey.