View From The Side’s Weekend Theme – Opening Lines

Opening Lines.

http://viewfromtheside.wordpress.com/2013/11/30/weekend-theme-128/

From the South African political satire, Identity, Cry *Sies!

The almost familiar country of Sarfrica is about to get a new president. But there is a problem. A serious problem. He is  English and worse, a Manchester United supporter.

Oh, my god!

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Identity. Cry Sies!

Chapter 1

In South Africa a stoep is the part of a house outside the front or back door; usually the front. The closest English equivalent would probably be verandah or porch.

The South African stoep generally conjures up mental images of a rustic, unhurried way of life. Rustic clothes, rustic furniture; a battered old rocking chair is always good, zebra grazing on the dusty horizon, tails swishing and ears twitching, ever alert for the  lion whose flattened body can just be made out by a pair of ears poking above the grass. Ah, Africa!

The above example is a genuine, honest to goodness description of a true stoep.

The tiled (imported) area fronting the almost palatial home, owned by the immaculately dressed (imported), albeit casual, individual sitting on designer furniture (imported), drinking a double scotch (Black and White, naturally) at ten o’clock on Saturday morning, using expletives that began with the sixth and nineteenth letter of the alphabet doesn’t quite have the same appeal.

This individual however, did not give an expletive that began with the sixth letter.

To him it was still a stoep. His stoep. He was a Son of Africa. The problem was he was not an African.

* Sies is an Afrikaans word meaning, for shame, bah! pooh!

It is generally used to denote disgust.

Okay, be honest. Did you count your ABC on your fingers? 🙂

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Book Extract – Gloop

A short extract from the fourth novel, Gloop,  in the Mining of Lif series

Chapter 5 

The Siege of Brothelingham

‘I could probably hit it from here, sir.’

‘Hit what, corporal?’

‘Their barn, sir.’

‘You may refer to it by its proper name, corporal.’

‘Just don’t like to say the word out loud, sir.’

‘I realise it may look like a barn corporal, but nothing dire will happen by using the word Mosk.’

‘No, sir.’

‘So. You were saying. About hitting the Mosk?’

‘Yes, sir. Reckon I could.’

‘Oh, really? As we have no canon I can hardly see the point of taking pot shots, other than alerting them of our presence. And I am not about to indulge you merely so you can demonstrate your marksmanship, corporal.’

‘Sorry, sir. I meant with this.’

‘A signal flare?’

‘Yes sir. I’ve made a sight for the tube. Like my rifle, sir.’

‘So I see,’ said the captain, his curiosity rising.

‘So…er, if I rest it on my shoulder like this,’ the corporal demonstrated,

‘Ah, I think I follow. Mmm.’

‘If we wait ‘til they’re all inside, praying…’

‘Yes, corporal, I get the picture. A weapon of mass destruction, you might say.’

‘Only a proper church has a Mass, sir,’ the corporal said indignantly, not picking up on the pun.

‘You are correct. And quite a large one if one considers all the stone.’

‘Beg pardon, sir?’

The captain sighed.

‘It doesn’t matter, corporal. However, I do not think fire-bombing a religious building full of worshippers would be the right thing to do. Even in war there are some lines I will not cross.’

‘’Scuse me sir, but our priest back ‘ome said it weren’t a sin to kill anyone who practices infidelity.’

The captain’s eyed narrowed. ‘The term you are looking for, corporal is Infidel. It refers to one who follows King Infidel Castrol. Also, if it was morally right to kill the other kind a fair portion of Judysear would be wiped out in the first attack and that would include most of the priests.’

Copyright© Douglas Pearce

In the Pub….couldn’t stand the weather.

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I posted this before but as it has just started widdling down I thought I’d post it again as my mojo has run off temporarily.

 

Alf was supping his pint as Bert walked in and joined him at the bar.

Trevor, the barman, nodded and began to pull a pint of bitter.

‘Lo’ Alf,’ Bert said.

‘Af’noon, Bert,’ Alf acknowledged.

‘How was that weather last night?’ Bert asked.

Alf frowned. ‘T’were raining cats and bloody dogs.’

‘Yes, I know. But I meant the weather on the telly. Did you see it?’

‘No I didn’t see it. I was in it. Helping the vet deliver a calf. Was up half the night with the cow,’ said Alf.

‘How is your mother-in-law by the way?’ Bert asked, his face a picture of innocence.

Alf grinned. ‘So what weather did I miss on the telly, then?’

‘They got a new weatherman: Ishmael’s cousin, Fazel,’ Bert said.

‘Really? ‘S’one of them eyefimative action things is it?’ Alf asked.

‘No. Ishmael says his cousin went to meteorological school and everything. Knows his stuff, apparently.’

‘Wonder if we’ll get better weather, then,’ Alf asked.

‘Doubt it. I asked Ishmael the same question and he says the weather is in the hands of Allah,’ Bert replied.

‘Maybe we should ask Ish if he could get his cousin to put a word in. What with him being so religious and all that. If it don’t stop raining soon my taters are going be ruined.’

‘Won’t happen, Alf. The weather’s the same for them as it is for everyone else. And in this country it’s either Sunni or Shi’ite.’

Copyright DSP©