The Cat Sat on the Mat
by
Ken Smith
The cat sat on the mat - either that or he'd fall down flat
For the cat next door, who was a bit of a go-er
Suggested they started a brat
This blonde young floozy (with a bell)
Was totally open, and well!
She told him quite straight that they were to mate
or she really would give him all Hell.
He gazed at this puss with some hauteur
And said you could actually be my own daughter
She laughed in his face - said, "I'm an utter disgrace
but get over here and do what you aughter.''
She turned on her elegant paws
And wiggled her way away out of doors.
She oozed down the path, he gave in, with a laugh
and followed her rear on all fours
He followed her trail to the bushes
where she turned and gave him a wink
Said she, 'Now's the time,' he said, 'Oh that's fine
But I really could do with a drink.'
She scowled at him over her shoulder
Her patience was starting to break
Said 'Get on with it do, I'm waiting for you . . . '
Said he, 'I'm getting this terrible headache and I want a lie down'.
& & & & & & & &
The Cat That Sat on the Mat
by
Jill Radcliffe
I’m sure you have heard of the cat that sat on the mat?
But, did you know that the cat that sat on the mat did not want to sit on the mat?
The cat that sat on the mat wanted to fly to the moon.
So she asked a bird if he could fly her there.
She asked the bird because the bird did not sit on a mat – and had wings to FLY!
But the bird that did not sit on the mat was very small.
And to him, the cat that sat on the mat looked very tall.
So the small bird, in a small voice, said to the tall cat that sat on the mat,
“No, I can’t fly you to the moon because you’re too tall.”
So the tall cat ate the small bird, wings, beak and all.
& & & & & & & &
The Cat Sat on the Mat
by
Simon Rogerson
They all come in
There’s a family din
But the cat sat on the mat
Tea time done
They have some fun
But the cat sat on the mat
It’s early evening
Kids are screaming
But the cat sat on the mat
Eight at night
Kids out of sight
But the cat sat on the mat
News at Ten
For Kate and Ben
But the cat sat on the mat
A cold winter’s night
Folk tucked up tight
But the cat sat on the mat
Three in the morning
The house is snoring
But the cat sat on the mat
Mice scurry past
Could it be their last?
But the cat sat on the mat
Seven in the morning
Milk is pouring
But the cat sat on the mat
What is wrong with this cat?
Oh - it’s dead!
& & & & & & & &
The Cat Sat on the Mat
by
Kate Briant
The cat sat on the mat and washed his whiskers
He’d had a very satisfying day.
He’d breakfasted on Gran’s left over porridge
And the butter mum forgot to put away.
Then he took a little stroll around the garden
And did those things a cat just has to do;
Then found a patch of sunshine in the bushes
And snoozed there till twenty-five to two.
A rumbling tummy signalled it was lunchtime
And he woke to a most tantalising smell.
‘Cos Mum was making fishcakes in the kitchen
So he thought he’d try his luck on her as well.
He sunbathed ‘til the kids got off the school bus;
They snacked on corned beef sandwiches and cake
So naturally, a self-respecting tabby,
Scoffed all the little titbits he could take.
The cat lay on the mat and sang his purr-song
His tummy was as full as it could be;
Then he dozed and dreamed of birds and mice for chasing,
And woke up just as mum put out his tea.
& & & & & & & &
The Cat Sat on the Mat
by
Thelma Turnbull
Like Martin Luther I had a dream.
Of plates of chicken and bowls of cream.
and soft warm hands to stroke my head.
Of pillows and duvets and cosy beds.
But home for me means draughty hedge.
and stolen nights in open sheds.
Until she shouted, “ Come in, cat!”
That’s when I saw the worn old mat.
So I sat on it.
& & & & & & & &
The Cat Sat on the Mat
by
Lois Mcgill (with a nod to 'The Gruffalo')
The cat sat on the mat
The mouse watched the cat
That was sitting on the mat
And he didn’t like that
The owl saw the mouse
Where it hid from the cat that sat on the mat
And thought – I fancy that
The owl swooped low with talons keen
The cat, the owl, the mouse between
Squeeked as loud as loud can be
And woke the farmer’s wife – Oh Me!
The farmer’s wife, she grabbed the broom
And brushed that mouse right out of the room
Shoo Shoo Away, the mistress cried
A mouse in the house I cannot abide
The cat returned to his soft warm mat
The owl to his leafy tree
And the mouse he laughed and laughed and laughed
Then had toasted cheese for tea
& & & & & & & &
Looping the Loop
(to be read largamente)
by
John Hadley Evans
My name is, or was, Karl Fraser. See, over there on that granite slab, with just the two dates: born 1990, died 2010. A bit stark isn't it? but that's lowland Scots for you, plain and simple, not much sense of style. First name Karl, of Germanic origin, meaning 'free man'. Surname Fraser – of Scottish origin, obviously – meaning uncertain, maybe 'of the forest'? I never found out why my father chose the name Karl, but knowing his enthusiasms at that time, it might have been after the composer Karl Jenkins, or the philosopher Karl Marx. Strangely, after he started making money as a lawyer, he lost his interest in Marx.
My parents met at Glasgow University, married when they graduated, and I was their first child. Naturally they encouraged me to go to university too; so, at the age of eighteen I enrolled at Edinburgh, and two years later I died, falling off a church spire which I was climbing for a Rag Week stunt. If I hadn't visited the pub first, I wouldn't have fallen off the spire; but then without a few drinks, I probably wouldn't have made the climb in the first place.
Well that was it: my 213th life. It was a short one this time, but one of my better lives: pleasant whilst it lasted, with a quick ending. I can remember all my lives, although the earliest ones were hardly worth remembering. If only we could keep our memories when we're in a body! Then we might have a chance of learning from our past mistakes, although perhaps too many memories would be confusing to a developing child.
Overall, my lives are definitely getting better. I only survived childhood once in the first five times around the loop – sorr
y, that's shorthand for life, death, and back to spirit again. I think it was about my thirtieth life when fire was discovered; and a while later we started to grow food instead of running around trying to kill it. It makes a huge difference, when you can keep warm and eat regularly.
Over the years I've died in every possible way – I've been shot, stabbed, hung, and drowned. I've died of every disease known to man, and several that don't have a name yet. I've even been crushed by a mammoth; though that was a long, long time ago.
Most spirits consider it in rather poor taste to visit the place where one's last body is buried, where sorrow clings to the stones and the mouldering flowers. After all, we can go anywhere. We can admire the view from the top of Everest; or inspect the craters on the moon; or visit forgotten tombs where kings still lie, amidst piled treasure and walls covered in scripts that only we can read.
But I've always been interested to see how I am commemorated. My favourite monument, so far, has been an angel in white marble with a very touching inscription – which was odd, because it wasn't one of my more virtuous lives! I remember where all my graves are; some are marked, most are not. In the earliest days we just used an unusual stone, or maybe a carved wooden marker, although those don't last long in countries where termites are common.
Before long, that strange tugging sensation will come and I'll be drawn back into the cycle again: to lose my memories for a while; to be born; to learn to walk and talk once more – any language – anywhere on earth. Why we have this merry-go-round of living and dying, I don't know. People now don't seem so very different from when I first started looping the loop. Maybe the goal isn't so much improving individuals as getting the whole species to pull itself up by its own bootstraps. It doesn't seem like a very efficient way to make progress – unless you're working to a very long timescale, and have lots of patience.
Anyway; whilst I still have the freedom I'll travel a bit; socialise with old friends to find out who's in the flesh and who's out; and maybe I'll board the express train on Thursday. My father's due to have his heart attack on the 5.15 out of Glasgow, and I could ask him why he chose the name Karl. Not that names really matter. After all, they change each time around the loop.
Bill Burgess
by
Lois Mcgill
It had upset his mother, when Bill had had to change his name to be allowed in the Screen Actors Guild. She now had to work hard to bring the conversation around to the latest films on general release when meeting new members of the WI, who had not yet sat through the bulging scrapbook of Bill’s notices and clippings. It seems the name Bill Burgess was already bagged by an actor of some advancing years who was still travelling the country playing ageing lotharios in second rate plays in small provisional theatres.
It had not upset Bill - or Will, as he now liked to be called. Will Wonderman: now there was a name that could conjure up any number of possible characters. Unlike Bill Burgess. Whenever he thought of that name now he would hear it said with a strong Lancashire accent - a long Burrr, pause, and then the ess. A Bill Burgess would be a salt-of-the-earth Northerner, married to a Deidre with three grown up children,Tracy, Darren and Sandra, the last of whom would go to university. Bill would have an allotment, keep pigeons and support Accrington Stanley.
Will admired character actors who brought Alan Bennet’s and Willy Russell’s plays to life but Bill Broadbent (now there was another Bill Burgess name) had all the best roles sewn up and, anyway, he hadn’t start acting to portray real life. He had had enough of that living in Barnsley.
According to Barnsley’s own city website the most famous son of the town was Stuart Bennet, a snooker referee for international matches in the 90’s, although his dad would argue that Dickie Bird was a much better candidate for such a position. Barnsley was dull, but not depressed enough to be an inner city slum from which a gritty and determined youth could drag himself up from. Not that that stopped Will embellishing the truth somewhat about the extent of the poverty in the area, when being interviewed by southern softie journalists aching for an angle on which to hitch the emergence of a butterfly from the grub.
In truth Will had had a happy childhood, but boring. His dad had a steady job, mum did some cleaning, but was always home after school. Holidays were spent in Morecambe – more genteel than Blackpool – and their council house was well kept and had Nana installed in the upstairs back bedroom.
Now, as he sat next to the original Bill Burgess at the Oscar ceremony nervously waiting for the comedian on stage to announce the winner of the best actor award, he regretted his choice of movies. He had accepted the easy ones, scared at the prospect of being stretched and not being elastic enough. His acting roles had been limited – he had to admit he was typecast – and the latest, “Love is a Four Letter Word,” was a rom-com. Better than most he had made, but he regretted the name he had chosen. It had certainly been a childish homage to the superhero; and magazine articles sometimes sniggeringly hinted at possible narcissistic tendencies. The good-looking boy next door look had kept him in work, but he had been unable to break the mould as Di Caprio or Jude Law had done – perhaps he just wasn’t that good.
Of course Bill would get the Oscar. It would be Hollywood’s charity award to an aging actor lifted out of obscurity to play the role of a lifetime as an escaped Nazi living in Chile. Any holocaust movie had a head start in Hollywood, so his box office rom com hit didn’t stand a chance if the industry wanted to be taken seriously. It had been a surprise to even be nominated and he was working on the look he should adopt when the result was announced and it wasn’t him.
“And the Oscar goes to . . . Bill Burgess, for Love is a Four Letter Word.”
There was confusion, both of them stood up then sat down. The host read the result again. Bill and Will looked at each other. Suddenly it dawned upon the compère and the audience – a lackey rushed on stage, a terrible mistake had been made – the right actor; the wrong film. It was quickly decided that for this year only there would be joint winners of the Best Actor Award.
Bill walked up the steps leaning heavily on Will’s arm. It was agreed all round that an embarrassing situation was salvaged by the humour and generosity of Will, who refused the prize with aplomb and wit.
The audience had laughed at Will’s on the spot jokes about the mistake, their embarrassment gratefully avoided, and a thankful Academy never forgot how he had saved them from a disastrous evening.
So much so that the following year he was offered the job of the host at the Oscar ceremony and later a part in an historical drama about the Boer War, and became in great demand on chat shows. In an interview with 'Hello' magazine he was the first to admit he owed a lot to the name Bill Burgess.
The Plate of Cakes
by
Kate Briant
Molly put the last gingerbread square on the heaped plate and smiled to herself. The boys will soon polish off this lot. She glanced fondly at the framed photograph on her sideboard. It showed two laughing boys squinting into the sun; her grandsons Bobby and James. She seldom saw them nowadays, since Michael’s work had moved him to Norwich. So far away.
At last the doorbell rang and she flung the door open in welcome.
“Michael, I’m so glad to see you.” She gave him a hug and looked expectantly over his shoulder. “Where’re Sally and the boys?
“They can’t come, Mum. Can we go in?”
She closed the door behind him and followed him into the sitting room. “What do you mean, “They can’t come?”
He smiled in reassurance. “Oh, it’s nothing much, Mum; Bobby’s got a bug and Sally’s keeping an eye on him. James is staying at his friend’s house for a few days.”
Molly could have cried with disappointment. “Why didn’t you ring me and let me know?” she asked reproachfully. “We could have arranged a different day, when Bobby’s better. I would like to see them before they go back to school.”
“Sorry, Mum,
I didn’t think. It’s difficult getting time off work at the moment. First we had to get the new office up and running and now we’re starting a big advertising campaign.”
He did look tired. She seated herself at the table and relented. “You must be worn out. Come and sit down. Help yourself to something to eat.”
He looked at the plates piled with food. “This looks terrific, Mum. Were you expecting the Royal Family to turn up? You shouldn’t go to so much trouble for us.”
She smiled at him. “Michael, you, Sally and the boys are my family. I wanted to give you all a treat.” She waved her hand at the food. “Perhaps you could take some of this home with you.”
He picked up a wedge of pork pie but didn’t eat it. Instead he turned to her. “Mum, I’ve got something to tell you. The Directors at work are making plans. Big plans. They’re setting up a franchise in New Zealand.” He paused. Molly held her breath, her heart sinking. He continued, “And, they’ve chosen me to manage the branch in Wellington.”
Molly couldn’t speak. She sat there trying not to cry. Norwich had been bad enough but New Zealand?
Eventually she asked the terrible question, “When are you going?”
“I’m leaving in two months. Sally and the boys will be joining me when I’ve found us a house.”
This time her silence lasted much longer. New Zealand. So far away. It felt as though they were already gone from her. She looked at the photograph of the boys. They would be on the other side of the world.
The plate of uneaten cakes mocked her.
No Conversion
by
John Griffiths
He was playing rugby football
On the day he got his bus pass
They took him to hospital
When he took a hospital pass
And it came to pass
That he passed away
On that long-awaited
Bus pass day
He thought he’d play soccer
When he got to heaven
Be like Gareth Bale, Number Eleven
But it was not to be, no, alas
He’s forever the scrum-half
With a quick long pass
The Elements
by
John Griffiths
‘Tis the element that makes
The kettle boil
Unless you’re using
Gas or oil
Or throwing coal or wood
Onto a fire
But earth for me
Is a green and yellow wire
And with water and tea-leaf
To complement
I am in my element