Did you know your cat may be of aristocratic lineage? Yes, our very own moggy with his meal time meow and habit of leaving muddy footprints all over the house may in fact be descended from the Cheshire cat or the Egyptian cat goddess Bast.
If you don’t believe me the fact can be verified, here’s what to do: cut off a piece of his ear (just the pointy top bit will do), and if your mog is of blue blood he’ll shriek, “Don’t do that to me! Do you know who I am?” And he’ll proceed to tell you in detail which king or queen was his uncle or aunt and that Dick Whittington’s cat was his cousin’s great great great great great great great great great great great times seven grandparent (cats are a fertile lot).
He’ll also impart to you a few home truths that you’d rather not hear, things you don’t want the neighbours to know, titbits he’s gossiped about whilst sat on the fence by the wheelie bins with his moggy mates, one eye on the lookout for rats and the odd bit of chicken from a rubbish sack. Such stuff is what cats get up to having slipped through the cat flap.
One man a few centuries back did something terrible to his cat: he cut off its head and chucked it on the fire. As the eyes popped out the mouth twisted and hissed, “Go tell you wife you’ve cut off the head of the King of the Cats. You shall be avenged for such an act.”
A year on he was playing with his wife’s new kitten (women in those days couldn’t get a divorce, alas) which was sweet as pie till it lunged at his throat, sinking its claws and teeth into his windpipe. The bloke died in agony that very night.
So be warned, you may have a Royal Cat sat right now on your lap, or meowing to be let in for his tuna chunks and a nap on your favourite cushion which he’ll cover with hairs as he’s curled up dreaming malevolently of birds.
Beware.
She logged out for the last time last year and has been offline ever since, a New Year’s Eve dare by a friend who’ll give her a hundred quid if she lasts out to December. I heard her stash of sloe gin helped ease her through January’s grimness and those long nights of wanting to post, tweet or update status.
In fact the crimson potion did its thing in sending her remarkable visions such as one of Piskey sat on her bed knitting a cardie for her. She also began to imagine she was walking around wearing a dress like the one Scarlett O’Hara was wont to wear. So a friend said.
In fact her friends are concerned and noticed a change in her like she no longer cares, she’s even stopped looking in the mirror before she goes to work and has begun singing to herself. And she smiles a lot.
Unfortunately her blog is no longer updated cos I’d love to know what’s in her head, this offline girl of the 21st century, a rare bird.
I met him down t’pub the other week in the queue for the bar. We were standing beside a black gloss-painted post that held the ceiling up and which retained indents of past drunken bouts. His name was Phil, a northerner down south with northern vowels. He hated motorway services, laundrettes and modern traffic management systems such as sleeping policemen, speed cameras and bollards which he often hit.
His mother had recently had a fall out with Age Concern which he told me all about and he swore he’d never been abroad in his life and had never had a passport. He lived on his wits, charming the women who swooned like lilies on a hot summer’s day with desire for him.
I offered to buy him a pint, in fact I felt obliged as he regaled me with the story of his life. But he went off on one about beers, lager, spirits and alcopops, their merits, after tastes and cost. On and on he went as he couldn’t decide which beer he best liked, he was so desiring of the lot his eyes fizzed with lust.
Myself, I got fed up, so bought him the cheapest can on sale and made a quick escape leaving him with the barmaid.
Learning to knit’d do this bloke a lot of good.
The cemented grimace might even crack after his first scarf or hat.
Cast on thirty stitches, knit two purl two in a lovely shade of pink or blue.
Legwarmers for the missus or a jumper emerging row by row. And cosy socks for Christmas with a snowman motif.
Needle in, yarn over, slide off, pull through.
In days of yore it was rumoured that ‘ugly old hags sold themselves to Satan’ merely to get some spiteful revenge on their neighbours. But really there was a lot more to being a witch than cursing, though of course this was a perk of the job.
For example, the buzz of riding on a broomstick, three legged stool or even a piece of yellow-flowered ragwort and getting blind drunk on medicinal brews whilst having a right old knees up (which if you are ugly and old beats sitting hunched up in a damp cottage darning stockings). Magicking away some of the stingy squire’s favourite rum and making yourself invisible through use of ‘fairy ointment’ to do a bit of shoplifting down the local market also rank high on the list of a witch’s must-dos.
If the local devil deigned to join in the coven’s full moon festivities then all the better because even more fun could be had leaping over the golden flames of the bonfire hand in hand with his devilish lordship the Bucca Boo (to give him his Cornish name), singeing hems and heels in the process, and diving for a quick snog in the bushes for good luck and prosperity.
Madgy Figgy was a witch who lived in the Land’s End area of Cornwall and her reputation has stood the test of time. She even has a pile of rocks named after her, ‘Madgy Figgy’s Chair,’ high up on the granite cliffs edging the turquoise Atlantic Ocean. Figgy sat there whilst calling up the spirits of the winds and was wont to swing herself from side to side when a storm was brewing to lure the vessels, struggling against the winds to reach the safety of the harbour, onto the jagged rocks beneath. Many a shriek echoed around the cliff tops as the witches croaked their miserable delight over the perishing crews whom they were about to rob of the treasures they were bringing home from distant lands.
From the Chair Figgy poured forth all manner of imprecations and none could escape her noxious spells. She would take flight like some terrifying bird, mounted on a stem of ragwort. Figgy headed a band of witches who flew to Wales or Spain where they partied, stole milk from cows and plundered veg from the land. On their return each one alighted with all her goodies in some convenient spot near her cottage, hopefully avoiding the brambles.
No one can say for how long the Chair has been the midnight rendezvous for witches. Many a person now sleeping quietly in the nearby churchyard could attest to having seen the witches flying by on moonlit nights carrying with them the things necessary to make their charms and potions. And to this day Madgy Figgy, some say, can still be seen flying high over the windswept cliffs like a bird of prey, her cackle the sound of drowned sailor’s cries.
‘I was down The Ship Inn t’other week and this lass walked in like no other lass I’ve ever seen before for more like a cat was she with head of brindle fur touching lightly her tracky top. If I’d’ve been into psychic phenomena I’d’ve said she was a visitor from a parallel realm or the consequence of some fairytale enchantment.
‘But, being a simple bloke who loves reality TV, pub grub and a nice cup of tea all I could do was sit, mouth agape, staring into those fathomless eyes until a well hard bloke piped up, thus breaking cat girl’s tingly spell.
‘Oi, where’s my pint?’ yelled he. I glanced amongst the empty glasses on the table, drips sticking beer mats to table top.
‘I see not your pint mate, maybe you finished it?’
‘With that he aimed a ferocious swipe throwing me from my comfy fire side seat, spittle splatterering the wood chip wall of decades old dart holes. He then staggered out, beer gut squishing. I fell to drinking my ale but, looking around, I perceived cat girl had disappeared!
‘I heaved a weighty sigh as I feared I had fallen in love with this enchanted lass now heading down some darkened alley where tom cats howled.’
‘Beware women with red hair’ that’s what his dad told him and he is actually one of those kids who does listen so when he saw Margaret with her fiery locks down the shopping precinct he darted fast as you could say Jack Sprat down the aisle of well to do kitchen shop.
Alas, not fast enough cos as he sneaked a look around the aisle end hung with strainers, wooden spoons and stainless steel sieves, there she was stood!
Being a lass who doesn’t take no for an answer she marched him straight down the pub and treated him to seven pints of ale after which he threw up.
A year on they’re a couple.
She had an incredibly big nose which as things go these days meant she was expected to have plastic surgery to sort it out. But, being determined not to be squashed into some society-defined image of beauty she refused to, much to the consternation of her mother, boyfriend and her doctor who was well prepared for her to have surgery to repair this birth defect.
‘In the future,’ he said ‘all people will be able to look as they desire. We’ll have a clone created at birth from our DNA to harvest parts from if, for example, we need a new hip or heart.’
He got very excited. ‘Cosmetic surgery will be the norm and we’ll choose how our children are going to look before they are born.’
…and be, thought she, with microchips implanted for mind control and ID.
There was once a pirate around these parts whose name has long been forgotten, though some remember him as being tall, some remember the bells he hung in his black beard and others remember the long green coat he wore and swung around to great effect whilst emphasising certain gestures especially when he was under the influence.This story has nothing to do with this picture, alas.
She loves his nose in particular and the way he swings his legs as he walks. He’s an individual alright, a gourmand from birth with a knack of knocking the wind out of any cooking expert.
Ok, so he waffles and spills wine whilst looking at his watch to tell the time and such things irritate Marilyn to hell. And his history of drinking too much beer whilst she stifled her desire for cakes and pizzas by working out at the gym is another bugbear cos who has squandered their youth, her or him? I.e. which is best, beer or gym?
So what exactly does she see in him whisper the neighbours behind half drawn curtains to the sound of some romantic soundtrack downloaded in the hope of a loved up night of their own.
Well, what they don’t see in the first grey glint of morn’s light are Marilyn’s eyes animated by the aroma of fresh ground coffee thanks to Bob’s passion for breakfast in bed with marmalade dripping hot off toast, chocolate croissants and crumbs in the bed. You have to start the day off on the right foot and with a full stomach says Bob, belly bulged.
I.e. indulge.
