Wildfire Watch


Morris and Yolanda are sat in their living room. Les Dawson Johnson is sat on cushion, shuffling uncomfortably, occasionally Yolanda looks slightly disgustedly askance at him but the back at the television. Morris is fiddling with a small plastic bag of nuts bolts and washers when she taps his arm “Morris, ooh look at that, ‘Wildlife Garden’ a new magazine for people who want to know more about the wildlife around them, that sounds good doesn’t it, and if you buy the first one it come at an introductory price of just £1.99” “Sorry my little wildlife magazine, what were you saying? I was just adjusting this bag of items to the correct geometric order.” “The wildlife magazine on the telly Morris, there was an advert for it, it looked really good” “I do not think that can be correct my whistling sandpiper, the television clearly shows an afternoon detective show, the name of which eludes me” “Mwaeerk!” Johnson interjects “Ah yes, the inspector Johnson mysteries, thanks Johnson” “No Morris, in the adverts just a minute ago” “What adverts I don’t see any adverts?” and he winks at Johnson “Maybe you mean…” “Not that shit again Morris, look its cold in here which makes a fucking change.” “It is because it is nofirelighteranuary my fish cutlet, I am surprised you haven’t heard of it, apparently its all the rage. Likes a cold house Johnson persuaded me of its virtues, hence we have no fire atm.” “Well I’m freezing and I want that wildlife magazine, please pop down to the shop to fetch it for me and pick up some sodding firelighters whilst your at it!” “Very well my little tripe pancake, I have seen this run of ‘Inspector Johnson’ before anyway. Let me just get my wellies on.”

As Morris vacates the seat, LD Johnson leaps into it, leaving the cushion on the floor in a bad state of repair. As he opens the front door she shouts after him “Wildlife magazine! Firelighters! Got it?” “Yes my sweet, most definitely.” Morris walks out of his front garden and turns towards the newsagent, already a thousand pressing tasks weigh upon his various astral selves and the matter in hand becomes slightly obfuscated. “Chickens to school, books to market…” he mutters to himself before setting of in the wrong direction. At length he finds himself walking past the the local nature reserve. Something chimes in his mind about what he is supposed to be up to, something to do with ‘wildlife’ and ‘firelighters’. “Ho ho now we’re onto it Johnson!” to a helpfully appearing Johnson, lets get the firelighters, and with a spring in his step he makes a topsy turvey way through the village towards the newsagent.

Yolanda, initially pleased to get a bit of peace and quiet, is curled up on the settee with the current book club novel, when she is struck by a sudden thought. “Wildlife. Firelighters. Oh god.” Memories of Morris’s charred cooterie and the image of Terry Nutkins’ hideous death dance through her mind. She shakes her head and tries to ignore her fears, but soon enough the novel lies ignored beside her as she monitors the BBC wildlife website on her phone, ears straining for the sound of fire brigade sirens. So it is with more relief than is usual that she hears the front door open and slam shut and sees him reenter the living room. Trying to keep her voice level, she sniffs surreptitiously, seeking the reek of burnt flesh. “Oh, I’m glad you’re back dear. Did you have a nice trip to the shops? You didn’t er, burn anyone or anything to death did you?” “Ho ho certainly not ‘Landa, ho ho what do you take me for? Some kind of lunatic incendiarist?  No Johnson and I had a most agreeable stroll down to the stream, where we watched the tiny sticklebacks disport themselves in the crystal waters, then we dropped by the low meadow and had a stroll down to the old Horse Chestnut and admired the early periwinkles. Most pleasant I assure you. Perhaps we should take a picnic down there when the weather is a bit warmer my little dehumidifier?” He cracks open a can of Hofmeister, then raises a hand, “Ho ho, nearly forgot dear, here you go, your wildlife magazine and firelighters. There’s also a box of maltesers in there I think, although they might of melted a bit when I burned the entire cast and crew of “Springwatch to death down by the little copse on Oldshaw Lane, you know the one, where the rooks nest every year.”

Published in: on January 19, 2017 at 6:06 pm  Leave a Comment  

Demolition Man: Addendum.

The scene is a festive looking small office room. Morris is writing something at a desk.  Yolanda comes in “What are you doing Morris? I’ve been shouting you for ages, your tea is ready” “One moment my sweet lichen filled parakeet, I am just putting the finishing touches to this Christmas card to the late David Attenborough.” “What the fuck are you talking about Morris? David Attenborough isn’t dead?” “Ho ho not yet my sweet, merely a little precognitive jape at his expense.” “What are you up to Morris?” “It seems the terminal roasting that Nutkins received has caused some offence in the broadcasting naturalist circles, Attenborough in particular has cited it as vicious and cruel. Hence in the spirit of good will I am sending him this seasonal epistle.” “Well that’s nice of you, are you saying sorry then? are you going to bring him back, I mean bring him back properly not just some zombie or disguised as Terry Nutkins Johnson?”  “Not a bad idea my sweet, maybe later. But no this is no friendly greeting, this card has special warming properties, allow me to demonstrate. Johnson!” ,Johnson comes in with disguised as David Attenborough Thompson at gun point. Morris gets up and Thompson is seated at the desk. Johnson then puts a postman’s hat on before handing Thompson a card like envelope. Thompson nervously fiddles with the envelope before getting out the card. Nothing happens. “No Johnson he has to read it!” A clout with the butt of his gun and a poke makes Thompson open the card. Still nothing. Thompson looks terrified and soils himself. “Morris my carpet!” “Johnson he can’t read! My sweet the real Attenborough would read the card, hang on my perilous napkin holder.” Morris peers over Thompson’s shoulder. “Merry Christmas you turkey bastard from Morris.” He reads, after which the card ignites with a terrible heat instantly setting fire to the seated Thompson. Thompson utters a hideous “wakark!” Johnson delivers a swift well placed cranial blow to prevent Thompson from flailing around the room. He thuds onto the desk, as the  flames lick round him. “See my love, a reading activated incendiary device. Johnson! The fire extinguisher. That will teach him eh?”

Published in: on December 2, 2016 at 1:39 pm  Leave a Comment  

David Bowie Tribute Skit

Morris: “Why are you moping around my little moustache holder?”

Yolanda: “Oh Morris, I just feel a bit sad, David Bowie just died.”

Morris: “Dave and Zoe are coming round? Who are they? Are they bringing swan tartare?”

Yolanda: “No Morris, David Bowie died, you know the singer?!”

Morris: “Dave and Zoe are bringing a pie in a singer vogue? What are you talking about Yolanda?”

Yolanda: “No Morris, for fuck’s sake, the singer and icon David Bowie just died, I just feel a bit jaded that’s all.”

Morris: “Did someone burn him to death?”

Yolanda: “Errm I don’t think so.”

Morris: “Anyway I know something that will cheer you up my little highland heather, apparently Dave and Zoe are coming round with a swan tartare pie. Listen, I can hear their singer vogue in the drive now.”

Sure enough the sound of a vehicle can be heard pulling up. Shortly after the door knocks.

Yolanda: “What the fuck are you up to now Morris?”

Morris: “Ho ho well my dear, seeing how sad you are I’ve arranged for a little surprise for you, not only are Dave and Zoe here with the swan tartare pie, but also I have arranged for you to meet no one other than…”

Pauses for effect and opens the door to a garishly wigged Johnson in a tight colourful suit clutching a guitar, behind them can be seen a confused looking couple with a pie dish.

Morris: “…David Bowie Johnson!”

DB Johnson: “Mwaaerk!”

Morris: “Pleasure to have you here Johnson! Baked potato?”

DB Johnson: “Mwaaerk!” He comes in the house followed by Dave and Zoe and hungrily begins to eat a supplied baked potato.

Yolanda: “What the fuck is that Morris?! or rather I know what it is, one of those things with a, err sort of Ziggy Stardust outfit on?!”

Morris: “Do not be so ungrateful Yolanda, now see Dave and Zoe to their seats, cut me a slice of that pie  and Johnson will be begin the entertainment!”

Yolanda: “He’s not just going to go ‘Mwaaerk!’ is he Morris,?” (serving the pie)

Morris: “Not at all my little mononuclear hyacinth, he will now perform one his most celebrated songs!”

Yolanda looks across at DB Johnson polishing off the remains of the baked potato when there is a sudden a familiar roaring hissing noise and a sheet of flame engulfs him, within few moments DB Johnson is a nothing more than his smouldering carbonised remains.

Morris “It was ‘Ashes to Ashes’! Ho ho eh Yolanda!”

Published in: on January 11, 2016 at 12:30 pm  Comments (2)  

Saturn Retrograde Supermarket

Yolanda:               “Morris, I’m just popping out to Freshways, do you want anything?”


Morris:                 “No no Yolanda, I will not hear of it. It is an ill starred venture, and no good shall come of it.”


Yolanda:               “But Morris, we need lots of things, there’s hardly any coffee or breadsticks, and there isn’t an onion left in the house.”

Morris:                 “Very well, my sweet. This grocery based excursion is of your own choosing, but you have been warned!” (Exit Yolanda) “Now then, Portent of Doom Johnson go and hang around in the freezer aisle looking gloomy.”


Later, at Freshways PoD Johnson is hanging around said freezer aisle as Yolanda rounds the bend to it. He has painted some poorly applied magpie stripes to himself and a sampled sound of a great bell issues tinnily from some small electronic device about his person.


Yolanda:               “Oh for fuck’s sake Johnson, can’t you go and portend somewhere else? It was bad enough having Johnson of Ill Omen sat behind me on the bus with that terrible cough of his, without you obstructing my access to the potato waffle section.”


PoD Johnson:    Gloomily “Mwaaerk!”


Yolanda sighs and manages to work around his obtrusive presence. The task done she returns home and is just bringing the shopping into the house when she sees Morris at work on the hob with a frying pan, he seems to be singing the tune of three blind mice until she draws closer.


Morris:                 “Three fried mice, three fried mice, served in a bun…”


Yolanda:               ‘Morris what are you doing? Wait a minute is that my mice in that pan?”


Morris:                 “Why yes it is my little parakeet impersonator, would you care for one with onions and a boiled egg? Maybe a glass of sparkling Prosecco to wash it down though I am well aware of the wastefulness of the word sparkling involved as a predicate for Prosecco, its function was merely to inform you, were you were not aware of the sparkling nature of the beverage.”

Yolanda:               “Morris my mice!! First Blossom, then junior, now my poor mice.”


Morris:                 “I cannot pour the mice Yolanda unless I liquefy them which would probably involve adding some kind of extra liquid for I do not forsee the current fluid quotient being sufficient to create more than an oily paste, you will note in saying that I am presuming we blend the fat in the pan and said rodents. Possibly some of this soya milk would render them sufficiently fluid, though I rather had my mind set on the bun thing than a smoothie.”


Yolanda:               “Morris what the fuck are you talking about, I don’t want the mice blended or fried, I’d like them back alive in there little house with their wheel!”


Morris:                 “As you desire my little dramatis personae, I’m sure Johnson can help us out with this one. However, in the meantime, you cannot after all say that you were not warned. Had you not taken that fateful excursion to the supermarket then in all likelihood your trio of rodents would still be merrily scampering around in their makeshift play area of cardboard tubes, instead of rapidly congealing in a pan full of hamster fat.”


Yolanda:               “Morris! Not Squeaky too!”


Morris:                 “I am afraid so my little partially depleted strategic diesel reserve, but never mind, I will provide you with more furry playmates…”


He waves a hand and Hard Of Hearing Johnson limps in dressed in a brown nazi uniform.



Published in: on September 14, 2015 at 1:37 pm  Comments (1)  

Blossom’s Miserable Day.

Yolanda:           In wellies and an outdoor coat. “I’m off to take Blossom to the blacksmith to have her shod, I’ll be back for tea ok Morris?”

Morris:              “No no my little cherokee pie, I will not hear of it, Johnson will do it for nowt and you can put your feet up for the afternoon.”

Yolanda:          “Are you sure he’s up to it Morris? those things can be a bit ham fisted?”

Morris:              “I do not know about a ham/fist combination, but I am sure Johnson is up to the task.”

Yolanda:           “Well if you’re sure then yes that would be very nice. She’s just round the back.”

Morris:              “You heard! See to it Johnson!”

Johnson:            “Mwaaerk!”

Yolanda:            “Afternoon on the sofa when I though I had to go out in the wet, what a treat.”

Yolanda settles herself down when suddenly she is startled out of her novel.

Johnson:          “Mwaaerk!” *BLAM*


Yolanda:          “Morris! What’s happening out there?”

Morris:              “I imagine my dear, Johnson has shot Blossom as you requested.”

Yolanda:            “Shod! not shot! Shod! not shot! Oh for fucks sake poor Blossom!”

They go to inspect the corpse.

Morris:            “Ho ho never fear my little automated traffic control system, Necromantic Horse Whisperer Johnson will soon have her up and about again. Well he has hasn’t he! Look!”

Blossom:         *Neiighsssss!”

Yolanda;         “Aaagh! Morris! She’s biting me! Stop her!” etc etc etc.

Published in: on August 27, 2015 at 12:15 pm  Leave a Comment