Tag: fiction

“The Maiden Of Procrastination” (A Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

This poem was meant to be written.

It was a close-run thing,

With pen almost hitting the page on multiple occasions,

However, Procrastination’s elk-like swiftness batted each of the pen’s tentative literary forays away.

Alas, The Pen didn’t make even a single “dot” appearance on the page – period.

But The Pen showed redoubtable courage under fire,

& if not for an unfortunate series of events – namely these:

Musical distractions of classic rock ‘n’ roll nature;

Dreams of past misdeeds towards various long gone & now fictionalised exe’s;

Too many tasty crunchy bloat-ey chocolatey snacks;

And the big daddy reason:

Multiple acute (but not very cute) pangs of self-doubt –

Yes….that old chestnut.

Yes it had seemed that in the end – Procrastination won this battle.

And oh my – what would have been!

It was going to be a real rollercoaster of literary truth & amusement.

The effervescence of true originality was set to bubble over all meridians & latitudes of Earth & beyond!

And I’m probably overstating it but –

The world may have tilted just a little off its axis in a slanted form of metaphorical joy.

Oh what a pity the battle was lost & alas nothing ever was written into the papery folds of space-time at all.

I’m sure someone far smarter & way more Ancient Greek-er said it before me, BUT:

When Procrastination wins – a bit of our future self, doth die.

Luckily there abounds one prescriptive partial solution to the sad wings of Procrastination’s foul swoops.

& It is thus:

Let ye write of thy valiant battles lost to that un-fair maiden-of-procrastination.

For then you have succeeded in the rare art of making something from nothing.

Which many of the more astute quantum minded of you will already know,

Is not entirely out of the realms of all possibility.

After all – is this poem not a testament to that oft disregarded fact?

The writer now wishes to congratulate the enemy of Procrastination for their hard-fought victory.

But the Pen holder is at least proud that they showed some old-fashioned last minute plucky-ness,

By retreating, recuperating & retiring to a handy place right behind the left ear.

& the would-be writer avows fiercely to return much stronger in the next Pen vs Procrastination theatre of war.

So ’till we meet again my anti-ephemeral anti-friend & arch enemy,

Till our next very weary psychological-warfare coupling,

Till our much-needed warring embrace,

Till in taking up arms we both inadvertently till the soil of that literary battle-scape called paper.

Or to modernise I guess I should really say ‘puter.

You never know – one of us may win the highly coveted “Iron Uncross 1st class”.

Yes, Fair thee well O’ our always defiant, ever-present adversary! –

O’ Unfair Maiden of Procrastination

Bye-Bye for now.

“Circa 1984-87, The Ballad Of NZ” ( A Prose Poem/Spoken Word)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The Politicians were too young,

Or too stupid,

Or too lacking in real life experience,

Or too Professorial,

Or too academic,

Or too Lawyerly,

Or in truth – they were all of the above.

High on bad Neoliberal theory.

The so called “Washington Consensus”.

The Corporate Raider Lobby got to them,

In true ‘Wolf in sheep’s clothing’ fashion.

They were sold a story of “growing up & becoming worldly”.

For the Anglo-American Wolf did cry:

“NZ’s is just a silly backwater – don’t you want to be suave, like us?”.

“You must sell all those great ‘bad’ assets at a fire-sale to us”

“You must work more for less, so we can charge more for less”

“You must be a part of our single-blind experiment & guess who the blind one is dummy!”

“Now be good little slaves now stupid-o’s & do exactly as we say!”

“You have reached your destiny – as our fully propagandised automoton living breathing data points”

“And don’t worry if your society becomes a living hellscape – we promise to buy you a coke”

“Oh, wait did I say that out loud? Please forget I said that O Backward-o NZ 1980’s Politicians”

The Dopey Politicians took it all in hook, line, & ‘stinker’.

The Corporate Raiders took over,

Took over the minds of our oh so feeble Politicians.

And while we “The People” sank further into the mire,

They all said to us:

“Oh look at that beautiful mire you’re stuck in – I reckon some daisies are about to sprout”

“Oh, look you’re sinking further, don’t worry breath through this plastic drink straw”

“Oh no! You’re not breathing – oh well at least you can’t ever lodge a protest vote”

This is the ballad of the giant swindle that shoulda-neva-‘appened.

Yes! This was the shit-show called “NZ Circa 1984-1987”.

Yes! – We now have no bananas!

Well – none at affordable prices anyway.

Which is pretty strange – given we’ve been in a Banana Republic,

For 41 consecutive mire-filled years.

Oh well! I guess this is our lot in life.

For we went from hard-truth-seeking-knowing-soldier-farmer-labourer-types,

To weak willed bender-over-ers & take-it-up-the-butt-ers,

In only Thirty-Nine short years.

Yup we the people folded to those Anglo-American-Politico-Demons to easily.

Alas we were so open minded, that we not only let our brains fall out,

But we let them roll under the ocean & all the way across the Tasman,

Stopping only when they landed in Keating et al’s far-lap.

This was Circa 1984-1987, The Ballad of NZ.

And PS – we never got the Coke.

To All The ‘Wild Bill’s’ Of The World (A Poem/Prose)

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By Anton Martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com

You are talking to someone you know.

Another person is nearby.

They try to introduce you this ‘new third party’ – let’s call him ‘Wild Bill’.

I’ll come back to Wild Bill in a second.

Now a partially half-well-adjusted-adult generally does this as an introduce-ee:

They muster at least a quarter smile, aim it towards those they are introduced to, & and emit at least a passably pseudo-cheery hello.

But No No No! – this is not always so!

In small towns throughout the cosmos, namely Earth – this skill is often missed.

Yes, our smalltown Wild Bill – instead of acting like a partially well-adjusted adult who knows how to say hello –

Decides he would rather look like he is at a funeral,

Looking at you cadaverously, without an once of good humour,

As frozen as an iceberg, while his tiny mind ticks over.

Wild Bill is trying to figure out whether you are worth talking to,

He’s hoping he might have known you for a minimum thirty years, but has temporarily forgotten.

Because Wild Bill knows that dealing with an entirely new person from scratch,

The ‘blank page’, if you will –

Is a bridge too far for him – in fact it is far far far far far too far for him,

& thats still putting it lightly.

For his fragile quadruple bubble wrapped ego can’t handle it.

For hidden deep in the recesses of his psyche – he knows if he does this – his cover will be blown.

He’d rather treat the ‘blank pages’ of the world poorly & so come across like a total hick,

Than risk actually being seen.

It is simply the price Wild Bill is more than willing to pay –

For he can stay comfortably unseen, invisible, without ever experiencing any stressful growth pangs,

& who cares what some total stranger thinks of me anyway, he tells himself.

Of course, I’m not hating on the Wild Bills of the world –

As it is always a fool’s errand,

To judge those who know not why they do as they do.

Especially as we are all like Wild Bill in some ways, or at least some stage in our lives.

But in saying that,

It’s bloody annoying when it happens to you all the same.

Unfortunately there is no polite antidote to it, other than to steadfastly not get sucked into their abyss.

This of course takes great practice.

One day I will rudely confront Wild Bill like this:

“Bill, Bill, Wild Bill – oh when will you learn to say hello properly for god’s sake?”

To which Wild Bill will probably reply stony faced:

“Not in this lifetime stranger”.

And then if I’m really lucky – a mutual disarming chuckle & will break out across these dusty windswept savannahs –

Finally allowing me & ‘The Wild Bills’ of this Earth to see eye to eye.

It’s a rose-tinted romantic hope, & as such, I won’t hold my breath.

So, all that is left to think to yourself about Wild Bill, is this:

Wild Bill – may one day your wounded soul find restful peace, with all your undue fears long gone.

You are now a-hoppin’-skippin’ & a- jumpin’ through the clouds with unremittent gay abandonment,

Greeting every otherworldly evanescent stranger you meet along the way like a manically happy labrador,

Who has just now seen his long-term owner & best friend, whom he had mistakenly thought was long dead.

God speed to you Wild Bill.

“Life Is A Catch-22 Problem” (A Prose Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The problem with being an intellectual, be it faux or otherwise,

Is that you can’t but help be trapped into negative thinking.

This is because ‘intellectuals’ want to understand ‘The World’,

Or should I say Need to understand The World –

And,

If you haven’t already noticed,

The world always but always, has a lot more problems than solutions.

This is why all in all, having ‘brains’ is far more of a curse than a blessing.

Yes – ‘The Garden of Eden’ orientation is correct:

Ignorance is (for all us distant dystopians) unfortunately – bliss.

Yes – ignorance of the unnecessary is natures ‘go to strategy’.

So – should we should ‘act dumb coz that’s natures leaning?’ – I hear you ask?

Well, that’s a tricky one – as ‘Nature’ is also often a beast in itself –

It will happily sacrifice the few for the good of the many –

With no tears shed.

Our indulgence in the unnecessary is why, by 2025, the only ‘true thing’ happening here on Earth is:

THE FABLED ‘CATCH 22’ Scenario – summed up with this dictum –

“You’re damned if you do & you’re damned if you don’t”

Now I could tell you the real solution to this – & forgive the vulgarity – this very “poopy sandwich” –

But then again, my latest money scamming psychiatrist has diagnosed me as ‘anally retentive’* –

And the prior souless shrink before that one also diagnosed me as ‘a narcissist’ –

And the one before that as a ‘compulsive liar’.

So I will respect their judgement –

So I’m not going to contradict those fine-living parasitic assholes, & tell you the answer to the aforementioned,

‘Life is a Catch 22 problem’.

But I will tell you what my suddenly retiring fourth-last-dodgy-money-grubbing-psychiatrist told me in my & his & my last session:

“You’re on your own buddy”**

With this casual undiagnosticly inclined in-passing phrase, he was inadvertently the only shrink ever who had ever told the truth, in the history of psychiatry.

And now my friends this prose must end unsatisfactorily –

But luckily, as always the only one who suffers is the reader/listener –

I the writer will scoot by the seat of my pants as always, & end up reaching for a well chilled beer from the fridge.

& Amen to that!

*This topic of anal retentiveness makes my mind wander – I wonder if it’s acceptable for a plumber to speculate on a customer’s bowel motions?

**This line should be said in a weird American accent.

P.s. I apologise for this bastardry, so badly disguised as a poem. All those cranks I’ve been seeing must be rubbing off on me. But I guess I should take that as a compliment.

“London 2038 – The London, The P.M. , & The P.A Episode 3” (A story – Work in. Prog)

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By Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

Yes, as I was saying – Arthur B. Pertwee was a totally different person from Britain & England’s PM Twotimer. It was very important that this was the case. Given the fact that Pertwee was the one who had the unpaid, undeclared, unadvertised job of saving England from Twotimer. Pertwee had , seemingly out of the ‘goodness of his own heart’ saved England from Twotimer’s as regular as a swiss watch, & forgive my crassness for effect – his fucking awfully thought out ideas.

As the declining returns that are the history of England & Britain post World War 2 prove, It never works out very well when an idiot is responsible for another idiot not making & installing their idiotic plans. Dear reader, it’s certainly worth a few direct comparisons between the man-boy Twotimer, & the real-man-in-every-sense Pertwee – the contrast is of course quite extraordinary.

Where Twotimer was rash, Pertwee was considered. Where Twotimer would slug back seven drinks back to back like the alcoholic he probably was, while at a uniquely important state reception, Pertwee on the other hand, would sit all night on a single glass of wine – for unlike the Twotimer, he had long the understood social risks of not doing this. It was no accident that Twotimer was still known by his old oxford pals ‘Sir Glugmeister’. Where Twotimer would shout down the wait staff, Pertwee would thank them personally for their excellent efforts & slip them a sensibly sized tip. Where Twotimer would spout off buzzwords from outdated social & economic theory to fool people into thinking he was knowledgeable, Pertwee actually knew about the economy, both from his ex-private-sector based life experience & from his often concerted & targeted diligent observation & research.

Where Twotimer would usually forget to comb his straw-like mop of blonde hair, or have a shower or brush his teeth, Pertwee’s personal grooming was reliably impeccable. Where Twotimer had cheatingly often paid someone else at Oxford to sit his narrow entirely non quantitatively orientated degree course consisting entirely classics exams, Pertwee had gained genuine straight A-plusses, all off his own back, in a multidisciplinary course that was laced with many difficult mathematically based subjects. Where Twotimer has had countless scandalous extra marital affairs, Pertwee was a on the whole a confirmed bachelor. A lifelong bachelor who had a few very good lifelong females as confidants, with perhaps two of them also doubling – but never during the same time period of course – as once-in-a-while-lovers who never asked more that was wise to ask for or expect.

Forgive me dear reader in laboring the point, but it’s worth it to underline the fact that Twotimer was a badly disguised bufoon, while Pertwee was the obvious-to-everyone-who-saw-or-heard-him – model of the gentrified intelligent man.

Pertwee would make a great the poster boy for the bygone period of history which was the true height of the modern enlightenment based western world. To illustrate the differences it is worth telling the reader or listener of a recent but very common themed private conversation between the two.

“Ah Pertwee, I don’t know how you do it! Keeping so ice cool all the time! I’m such a lusty fool, even though I’m now fifty, my loins have a heart attack every time a bit of skirt floats in front of me. I’ve tried of everything & nothing works. Nothing can stop my forever teenage boy libidinous ways! it’s outrageous Pertwee! Sometimes when, as the Australians say, when I’m atrociously toe-ie all it takes is that the woman in my crosshairs to have hair not much longer that a foot long, is of age under forty-nine, wears those clicky-clacky-high-heels, has a dress cut perhaps only a centimeter above the knees, & then she sends me her crooked-world-weary-smile from a hundred feet across any long stately room! Oh dear Pertwee! The pain of it all! These as yet undealt with constant erections that pop up are driving me mad! I’m sure the Chancellor of the Exchequer even saw one through my pants once! In fact, I think he looked a little to long for a married man, if you ask me – makes me think Nordston bats for the other team! – but I digress…where was I ah yes, my insatiable redder than red red-bloodedness!. I mean I try my best to disappear of to the lavatory where I can do my best schoolboy methods to make them go away – but Pertwee, I tell you what! when you’ve half way through a dryer than the Sahara desert, long-winded economic discussion with those boringly dunderhead heads-of-state & their long list of advisor’s slash Ministers slash entourage’s, sometimes it’s impossible for me to sneak away for a quick diddle to stop the crooked walking if you catch my drift!”

When Twotimer drew towards the end of this particular ‘why am I so teenage-horney all the time’ themed theatrical spiel, he always looked at Pertwee with open pleading hands and with a blank schoolboy face. He was waiting for the wise, soothing Pertwee reply. Like as if he was an alternate version of Oliver twist saying ‘please sir I’d like some more’, knowing that Pertwee in dishing out the soothing verbal sustenance he desperately needed, wouldn’t ever shout at him ungraciously – he knew Pertwee would effectively say ‘More – of course my dear boy – eat up’. Like Twotimer’s performance, Pertwee’s closing reply was as always almost exactly word for word the same:

“I am aware of your various emotional afflictions Sir – I mean you tell me a version of this story daily – often in fact twice a day, & every now and then three times a day – but this is no complaint of course Sir – don’t ever think that I’d openly criticise for no good return. As I always say Sir, & I know you don’t mind me observing – the problem with this kind of thing is that it stems from a dark hidden recess of your psyche. It’s love & acceptance that you are at heart dying for – not a flash of boob, or a hearty display of leg flank. Don’t worry Sir, I’m making it my personal mission to one day get you to learn to love yourself, as hard as that may be. This ridiculous over-sexed nightmare that you are forever sleepwalking inside of – is not entirely your fault – if in fact, your fault at all. You acquired this behaviour in true adaptive fashion, simply as a survival mechanism, if you will. In its wider form, your overall outlook & behaviour profile is a coping mechanism that enables you to stave off complete emotional collapse. I mean it’s not your fault you had near absolute zero love & affection from either of you parents, particularly your cold diplomat & businessman father. As I keep telling you – & I don’t mid that by the way, that’s why I’m here – this problem of yours is so common in the halls of power in England & Britain, & indeed certain patches of the privilidged world itself – ultimately it’s a wider boarding school syndrome type of affliction that you have. One day Sir we might even safely beat this motley assortment of afflictions than haunt you entirely. Peraps our combined efforts will one day leave you almost completely free of this type of emotional pain. Pain that spills over, nay manifests so freely into your daily affairs in the way you outline with words & show in your erratic self destructive, self-sabotaging behaviors”.

Pertwee was always careful to add a certain ‘unfounded optimism ofthe chances of improvement’ into the equation. Privately of course Pertwee was highly skeptical that anything more than a cosmetic improvement in Twotimers emotional & behavioural life was ever possible. But he knew it was prudent to keep up an attitude of ‘overt hope’ towards Twotimer’s at heart deeply fragile ego. Some might assess this as a pig-headed refusal to look facts in the face – but this would be to ignore, as the American’s say the realpolik of the situation. Pertwee knew if he didn’t add some sugar frosting now & then, Twotimer wouldn’t get out of bed at all for acute depression, & he himself would be ex-communicated from his crucial, albeit clandestine, job – & then where would England be? It would go from the current state of ‘stable but fading grandeur’ to ‘collapsing anarchic tatters’ in a matter of weeks. Pertwee’s sugercoating would sdefinitely stay, & for good reason.

With this typical kind of adult-to-child conversation I’ve outlined above, Pertwee would always end his considered, owl-wise-words with a certain look over at Twotimer, looking squarely into his angling downwards, a little too-close-together eyes. It was the kind of look that a school principal might give when he charitably & once again spared the forever un-reformed naughty schoolboy who’d again re-appeared in his office. Saving him from any real punishment for his schoolboy crimes. At this point Twotimer would always defect with positive sounding bluster:

“Ah Pertwee, alas you are as always lamentably one thousand percent correct! I was never loved! Woe is me! I should probably be embarrassed now shouldn’t I? Here I am as the Prime Minister of a former glorious empire, & I still have these horrible situations that are essentially wide awake wet dreams! it’s a unmitigated travesty dear Pertwee! What are we going to do with me!? Ah I despair Pertwee! I’m truly truly cursed! But I think you are a bit wrong with your assessments – I did have some love as a child – remember my little dog Eccles? I’ve told you about him haven’t I? That was the sweetest little dog ever Pertwee! Whenever I had been crying my eyes out all semester long at Eton, I always cuddled up to fluffy little Eccles! Ah that helped magnificently Pertwee – it really did – don’t underestimate that Pertwee! I mean why can’t a boy get emotional love from his beloved pet? Surely he can!”

Even though the two had almost the exact same conversion daily, Twotimer could never quite accept that Pertwee was right about him in not ever receiving the unconditional love he sorely needed from his parents as a child. This was why he was the way he was in the world, & it explained his low self-esteemed internal dialogue. In the various repititions of the conversation, occaisionally certain phrases from above were forgotten, but the dog story was never left out. There was always but always in these ultimately entirely therapeutic conversations, the appeal to the fact he had a lovable fluffy dog called Eccles to cry away too as a palliative to his total lack of parental love as a child, and to combat the standard Etonian boarder stresses. Twotimers memory of fluffy happy Eccles was, like Pertwee himself, a constant tonic always on hand.

Pertwee as always ended with these same themed words, similar each time in fact almost to the letter.

“Well, let’s just pick this up again later shall we Sir, I’m sure we’ll reach a breakthrough on that matter one of these days – that breakthrough will come when you finally allow yourself to see the true darkest moments you had as a child. You’ll see them for what they are, without at all blaming yourself. As glib as it has become to say – one day you’ll learn to love yourself Sir, & I’ll darned well be there when it happens too”.

At this point Pertwee always made sure he smiled a little at Twotimer. On the face of it they were big words aimed at the boy-PM, but he had had long had Twotimer’s complete trust & confidence – for such a long time now that he knew their was no chance of any real offense, or ill feeling breaking out about the deeply personal matters Pertwee brought up. This being the case, it would be a lie to say that Twotimer didn’t feel a little embarrassment. Pertwee could see it easily as he could read him like a book, & new exactly who he was right down to his bones. That’s an understatement – he knew him down the level of his cellular dna.

Twotimer in a final retort to release his slight embarrassment, would always then ‘shut the book with a mighty clap’ on the particular daily revisited conversation in question by saying:

“Pertwee – god! – how long has it been since someone gave us a cup of Earl Grey? We’ve been standing around lwarbling like a couple of empty handed fools for at least an hour and ah half! Where’s the help when you need them most – god save us Pertwee let’s find some ourselves!”.

Then that was exactly what they did. They both walked over together & sourced the Earl Grey tea’s, pouring it for themselves at the nearest refreshment table. Once both standing there with full cups of tea they sipped away not saying a peep for the four point five minutes it took them both until they reached the bottom of the cup at the exact same time. Of course there was a final in unison Ahhhh sound – the universal sound signifying contentment.

(End of Part 3….tune in soon for the next edition, coming very soon)

“London 2038 – The London, The P.M., & The P.A. Episode 2” (A story – Work in. Prog)

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(episode 2 – to read episode 1 click here https://antonmartinsmith.com/2025/06/12/london-2038-the-london-the-mayor-the-p-a-a-story-work-in-prog/

To say that Harrison Arnold Twotimer had a lot of personal problems was like saying that the universe had ‘quite a lot’ of stars. Harrison was the oldest of three siblings, & as such had followed the tradition of so many firstborns who are overly motivated to plunge themselves into leadership roles. Harrison’s first power grab was at Eton where his diplomat absentee father had managed to arrange him to attend a full year earlier than usual at age 12. Harrison knew what his father was up too – & like the millions of other aging ex ‘boarding school syndrome sufferers’ – he never quite forgave his parents, & his father in particular, for abandoning him so easily & swiftly like that.

Harrison had shown his true political & social climbing asperations colors early in life. This would naturally be noticed firstly in his schooldays. At Eton Harrison had put his name forward on the first day of school to be the ‘Class PM’ against a far more talented boy named Paul Pritch-Simmons III, who would later become a billionaire computer-chip making industrialist. The election was held after each boy made a spirited ten-minute stump speech to his fellow Etonians.

Where Paul had talked of the need for England to be more forthright as a nation again, & return to its manufacturing base, Harrison had argued that the price of sweets had trebled in the last three years, that & this was a travesty. Where Paul had astutely said that ‘under-unemployment in the Etonian region was a ‘festering problem which may result in less professionals in a decade’s time’, Harrison had said incorrectly that ‘Eton must do more to reverse the decline in mathematics scores – when grades had indeed improved significantly due to the targeted hiring more seasoned international STEM (Science, Tech, Engineering, Mathematics) subject teachers. Where Master Pritch-Simmons III had mentioned the need to look after the handful of homeless people who had been seen wandering around the outskirts of Eton, Harrison had retorted furiously “why should we spend our hard-earned fathers’ dollars on those stinky lazy sods”. Harrison was so unpopular with his classmates that the last minute of his speech had to be scuttled due to the boys throwing their pencils at Harrison, while they bellowed repeatedly “Out with Harrison up with Pritch-Simons”.

On the face of it from the view of his voter classmates, Harrison was in this election as they say ‘Toast’. Given Harrison’s poor rambling & speech, full of flagrant inaccuracies relative to his more polished opponent in Master Pritch-Simmons III, that’s what they would expect – but then they didn’t know of the ‘Yellowpoke situation’ yet.

The old maxim of ‘it doesn’t matter who casts the votes – all that matters is who counts them’ later became one that the future adult Harrisons mentioned in passing, & for good reason. This ‘first ever political election’ deserved to be Harrisons first ignoble defeat to a far more able adversary – but this was where Harrison’s at worst abhorrent sneakiness, or at best his Machiavellian guile came in.

Harrison as PM nowadays, uses ‘The bribe’ liberally wherever he goes & can easily get away with it. He learnt the value of a ‘well placed bribe’ from that from that first election as a sticky fingered grimacing fat little schoolboy.

Before he had came to school that first election day, he had been wise enough to steal a fifty pound note from a tin his mother had put all her countless “loose cash”. Had had the presence of mind in the prior week to his first day at school to call the Etonian secretary & asked “who would be counting the “Class PM” votes next week miss, as I plan to put my hat into the ring”. He had found out duly that it would be the schoolteacher that would collate, count & return the verdict. Armed with this information as soon as Harrison had entered his classroom with all his fellow classmates, he had made a bee line for the teacher – Mr Yellowpoke. his conversation went like this

“Ah Mr Yellowpoke – Harrison Arnold Twotimer here”. He thrust out his half sticky lolly-fingers to shake Mr Yellowpoke’s hand. With Harrison being particular short foe his age & Mr Yellowpoke a towering six-foot four, he had to practically hold his hand-shake hand vertical – it looked quite ridiculous. My Yellowpoke played along & agreed to shake his hand, & did so firmly, but also partly haltingly.

“I’m Mr Yellowpoke, nice to meet you lad – I believe your father Edward is a diplomat currently in Brussels?”

Harrison replied without pause.

“Yes father is currently in Brussels, I believe right now he is actually fittingly trying to increase our exports of Brussel sprouts to the EU!”

Mr Yellowpoke laughed, well it was more of a chortle. Harrison had many flaws as a child, & even more as an adult – but not having a sense of humor was not one of them. He continued his plan with Mr Yellopoke.

“Now Mr Yellowpoke, I won’t hold you up – I just wanted to say that I’m glad to be here in your classroom, & at Eton – & I advise I will be putting my name forward for Class PM”. He said all this with a natural sense confidence, this was his other main feather in his cap – unwarranted, unshakable, confidence. Mr Yellowpoke re-plied dryly, as his patience was now wearing thin.

“Oh well that will happen this afternoon – I’ll write you name down then – you’ll need to make a speech at the end of the day to your classmates – good luck & now you better take a seat with the rest of the class – we have a lot to go over this morning”.

“Oh yes of course thankyou Mr Yellowpoke, but there’s one more thing” Harrison sounding like a teacher himself.

“Oh yes – what’s that Twotimer?”

“Well my father just wanted to pass on this $50 dollar note – he said to me that the teachers & their partners were known to have a ‘first week party’ & he wanted to shout you & your wife a drink”. Harrison had the 50 pound note folded in a small square in his hand – which he proffered up to Mr Yellowpoke under the guise of a “goodbye handshake” – something he’d seen done on old American films & was copying. Mr Yellowpoke suddenly blanched, this made him nervous, which then made him make the unwise decision to accept Harrison’s handshake & the 50 pound bribe. Mr Yellowpoke spoke twice as quickly as usual, wanting the conversation over.

“Good luck this afternoon Harrison – make your speech a good one & I’ll count the votes afterwards – say hello to your father or me”.

“Yes sir Mr Yellowpoke – and thanks a lot” A giant triumphant ear-to-ear child’s grin filled his face – a look he would never grow out of. He still had the exact same ‘child’s big grin look’ decades later, even now as the real PM of England.

Later with both master Harrison’s & Master Paul’s speeches over, Mr Yellowpoke came out from the teachers back room to the class again. With the small wooden ballot box still locked & held firmly between his lowered two hands he slowly announced the fateful words

“The winner of Class PM – by a landslide I might add – is Harrison Arnold Twotimer”

Master Pritch-Simmons III’s looked visibly ill, as did his fellow broadsided & ashen faced classmates. they sat like they’d been turned into stone, not saying a word. Until of course Mr Yellowpoke urged them to clap for Harrison, which they did in miserable fashion, with Master Pritch-Simmons aborting the clap simply maintaining his silent head down vigil.

Becoming “Eton Class PM” was Harrison’s first of many ‘shonky’ political victories to come. He sat beaming like a lighthouse, caring not a jot for the claw claps & muted jeers of the voters. Incidentally this ‘seemingly meaningless’ stolen schoolboys election wouldn’t be the first run in with Pritch-Simmons either. ‘The Billionaire & the PM’ as the tabloids now billed the adversaries as became sworn enemies after that first vote & are still at war as we speak – with the only slightly more honorable Pritch-Simmons’s victories still few & far between.

And I know you want to know – what of Mr Yellowpoke? He left teaching at age 55 when he was outed by a student kissing the 21-year old student teacher Ms Artichoke on the schoolgrounds. Being a very married man, with his wife working at the school office it was best for all concerned. After the divorce his wife initiated, he finally entered a profession he was better suited to – real estate sales. (Now lets get back to the main characters).

Now it goes without saying that Arthur B. Pertwee was cut from a very different cloth than Harrrison Arnold Twotimer – but It’s worth saying it again:

Arthur B. Pertwee was cut from a very different cloth than Harrrison Arnold Twotimer. . .

(End of Episode 2…..be here again soon for Episode 3……)

This article is owned by Martin Smith Creations ltd (NZ).

If you are a person or a small non-profit please read or reproduce freely.

Commercial Users or NGO’s: If you want to purchase for reprint of this work for a commercial project to reach a wider audience – then contact me via martinantonsmith@gmail.com to gain written legal permission.

Ep 1. Crashlines Incorporated – The story of Yassap I. Y’tae (A Serialised Story)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com

Hi my name is Cal, short for Calvin. Last name Coolix. Yes my parents gave me a cartoon name – Cal Coolix but it’s been good to me – no one forgets my name. In business & in life that’s a plus. But I’m not here to tell you about me. There’s someone far more interesting than me that’s shown up on my radar.

Yassap I. Y’tae….is a very underrated international businessman…at least I think that’s what he is right now. Not exactly a mystery of a man, not an enigma – but certainly perhaps best described as a riddle-that’s-only-half-written. You have not heard of him yet – no one has.

Mark my works he will change the world. He is not on the internet! He is biding his time, choosing his words carefully, doing his due diligence, crossing his t’s & doting his I’s. Like a cornered Tiger, he is waiting to pounce. Well that’s what I’d tell you if I had to make a pitch about Yassap I. Y’tae right now. You must always sound confidant – even if you have zero intel.

There is slight static on the line. He informs me he will be launching soon. I pressed him what “soon” meant – he chose not to elaborate only saying in his true mysterious fashion: “If I gave you a specific date when the best date possible to launch has not yet materialized, I will only let both of us down – but I will contact you soon, that is my promise”. I said “ok but can I ask…” before I could finish I heard the engaged sound. I felt foolish, as I should have left it at “ok”. It was not my first or last “schoolboy error” & I hung up the phone.

I was overdue for a Cappachino, perhaps that’s the reason I felt a little off my game on that call. “stop beating yourself up Cal, you just need coffee – that’s all it was”. I began my journey to the lobby cafe – short walk through my small rented workspace, I would enter the lift, & go down three floors.

In the lift was Anne, she was also renting some space just like me – but for her own project. We exchanged pleasantries, but no more than that. For these were cold hearted hard business times, & both Anne & I knew it. All anyone cared about right now was business survival.

With so many ventures going to the wall these eighteen months since the crash, just surviving was almost like being a billionaire nowadays. Although my hunch was that Yassap I. Y’tae probably wasn’t in the same boat as me & Anne or anyone like us. I didn’t know anything about him other than his energy was all different. In my half century on this Earth, I’d learnt that what that old 20th Century physicist Nikolai Tesla said was right – energy, namely vibrational energy is everything.

The doors opened with a weird low pitch ‘ting’. As I heard my boots step on the hard polished concrete ground floor, all I could think of was getting caffeinated & figuring out who the hell was Yassap I. Y’tae??……..

(End of Episode 1. . . .the next will be coming soon!)

“The Party’s Over” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I think men age better than women,

But women want to party more as they age.

But by age 50 men & women are in the same place on that matter –

Neither of them wants to leave the couch.

That’s when the old party animals all marry each other,

Always in the now traditional ‘Western De-facto way’ of course,

With both the man & the woman finally both admitting total military defeat.

And while they have both agreed to unconditional surrender,

They can still argue peace terms until one of them dies.

So they can now pick away at each other equally, like cohabitating pigeons.

Sometimes pecking softly, other times the pecks reign down like the falling Sword of Damocles.

And all is good.

This one-part misery, one-part part heaven, is after all what they’ve been training for all their lives.

This all keeps both of them mentally agile,

Helping both parties stave away ‘early onset dementia’.

And all this sillyness is the correct amount of punishment for all that ‘wanting to be free’ for so long.

All in all,

I’d sum it up it like this:

All’s well that ends well.

Or as my old dusty old Chemistry Professor said:

“Like dissolves like”.

For it is true, isn’t it?

The world’s problems & most divorces for that matter,

Are surely mostly caused because people insist on trying to mix oil & water.

Can’t you see it’ll never work baby?

Even those old shabby co-habituating party animals can see that!

Let us always remember,

Wisdom comes in many guises,

And it often ain’t so pretty.

“Jerry & Sam Successfully Negotiate Their Way Home ” (A Skit or Short Story)

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by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Two drunkard old timers are wobbling back towards home from the pub together & see something that makes one of them become startled.

“What’s that?” Said Jerry to his mate Sam & pointed at a black scorch mark on the ground.

“Oh Jerry my man!, That was our old mate George – it’s such a pity – ‘e couldn’t contain his excitement & ‘e just self-combusted”

“Oh yeah Sammy!, I remember ’em, ‘e walked with a limp used to live for the beers before ‘e got married – what was ‘e so excited about Sam??”

“Well Jerry, ‘is wife had finally relented – after a decade of locking ’em inside, she finally relented & said ‘e could go down to the pub for a few beers with ‘is old mates – so by the time ‘e was ten meters from the pub, ‘e was so revved up ‘e self-combusted! All that’s left of ’em is that black scorch mark in front of us!”

“Aw..that’s a terrible…terrible way to go Sammy – ‘e didn’t even get to the pub, didn’t get to say hi to us, ‘e didn’t even get ta wet ‘is whistle at all!”

“Well Jeer – that’s how many of the blokes are going these days matey, things have changed! They’ve even got a new name for it – I saw it on ol’ Georgie’s death certificate – it read “death caused by overexcitement brought on by toxic marital henpeckery”.

“What are we gonna do about it all Sam?”

“Well Jeer, you get the Janola & I’ll get the scrubbing brush.”

“You idiot Sam! That’s all that’s left of ‘em, we gotta show our respects to ‘em, not scrub him away.”

“Right you are Jeer – what was I thinkin’!? Let’s just stand ‘ere next to ‘im & ‘ave a can of beer & ‘ave a minutes silence.”

“You mean a minutes silence AND a gulping of the beers, Sammy.”

“It’d be disrespectful to Georgie if we didn’t! In fact Jeer – we ought to empty a can of beer on ‘is black scorch too as a sign o’ respect!”

“’ey let’s not go overboard Sammy – have you seen the price of a pint lately! Let’s just spill a few mouthfuls for ‘em from each of our beer cans, & after all it’s ‘is own fault for marrying that jailer henpecky Mrs of ‘is”

“Your right Jeer! To ‘eck with ’em – let’s just nod at ’em whenever we walk over the scorch while comon’ & goin’ from the pub!”

“Not even that Sammy, fetch the Janola lad – looking at that scorch is now is just making me think of that yellow belied boob – let’s erase our so called chum Georgie or should I say “Georgie the scorchie!”.

“Yeah great idea! ‘e always kinda annoyed me anyway…..but Jeer… there is another way to look at it all”

“What’s that Sammy?…& this better be good”

“Well Jeer – that scorch mark will be bloody ‘ard to get off, even with Janola & a stiff bristled brush, it’ll take us ‘alf an ‘our at least – maybe an ‘hole ‘our!”

“………………………er…….Great bloke that George was….great bloke….Sammy…Let’s go buy a can o’ beer each from the ol’ off liscense, ya’know…that Supermarket down there…& one for our pal Georgie, we’ll be back ‘ere in no time to honour ’em & ‘is scorchmark!”

“Jeer, you’re a gentleman & a scholar man! – I agree Great guy that Georgie….we owe it to ‘im & ‘is scorch mark to spill him a few glugs – ‘eck maybe even spill a couple of cans on the ol’ scorchmark”.

“Settle on Sam, we didn’t like ’em that much – ‘e’s worth exactly one can of spilt beer, bought from the off liscense…that supermaket…once a week – tops.”

“Right on Jeer, we’ll let’s walk to the Supermarket, it’s only two blocks away”

“…..Two blocks!…Is it that far??? …..er…Boy that George was a total bastard – no wonder ‘is mrs didn’t ever let ‘em out – am I right or am I right Sam?”

“Totally agree Jeer – let’s go back to the pub & forget we ever met that scallywag…‘Georgie the scorchie’ indeed!

“I bloody agree Sammy! We can raise a glass to ‘is Mrs too! Lively lass she was! Full of joy she was! Never ‘urt a fly that one! ‘ow far away are we from the pub now?”.

“About two and a half blocks Jeer”.

“The off-liscense Supermarket’s ‘alf a block closer Sammy…come to think of it….George wasn’t really that bad all in all, & his Mrs was indeed a bloody ‘enpecker!”

“She was a total jailer warden Jeer! Doing that to that Saint of a man! Lockin’ ’em in like that for year after year! Let’s get some beers for ‘em & us, & we’ll be back tipping it in remembrance over ‘Georgie the scorchie’ in no time!”

“Yep Sammy, I reckon ‘alf a can will do ‘em well enough!”

“Right you are Jeer, as I’ve always said your a gentleman & a scholar”

“Shaddap & get your wallet ready Sammy!”

“….ah….yeah…no problem Jeer…ah are we sure ‘e wasn’t a bastard Jeer?, I mean I haven’t paid the overdue rent this week yet! I’m bloody skint!”

“My shout then Sammy – after all a mate’s a mate!”

“Boy that George was a great man! Jeer Let’s honour Georgie & his scorchie! I mustn’t have been feelin’ so well just then, you know I never doubted old George the Scorch for a second!”

“You’re a strange bloke Sammy, always changing ya mind like that – buy the way when can ya pay me back for the cans of beer I’m about to shout us all?”

“Might be a couple weeks Jeer – I mean I ‘aven’t paid the electric yet either!”

“That George was a bastard! Screw him, screw ‘is blimey scorch too! I’m off home Sammy!”

“I’ll follow your lead Jeer, I know you’re always right! Always ‘ave been! I’ve forgotten about George already & his stinkin’ scorchmark!…PS Jeer matey, when we get to your place you’ll have some beers for me won’t ya?, I mean that fridge of yours is always full – you can spare a ‘alf a dozen or two for your ol’ mate Sammy can’t ya?”

“….Look Sammy, I won’t have you talkin’ badly of ol’ Georgie, not now, not ever! Now I know you’re not feelin’ so well, so you prob ‘ave been imagining things, ‘earing things all funny like – now let’s get those cheap beers from the off liscense Supermarket for me you & our blessed Georgie the Scorchie – God bless ’em! & nuts to that damn ‘enpecker mrs of his too!”

“Never doubted you for a minute Jeer! I’m feeling much better all of a sudden! As I always say – gentleman & a scholar you – ‘e was a great bloke that Georgie, bloody pity ’bout ‘is henpeckery wife. God, I feel like a beer though….I mean we outa get a few extra in in Georgie’s honour, I mean three beers between me you & George the Scorch is bloody nothin’”.

“Look Sammy, I keep tellin’ ya – George was just an OK guy, not good not bad – just ok – three beers is what me, you & ‘e needs…..look at a stretch maybe ‘e’s good enough for me to have three, you to have two & him to have one…ok!?”

“That’s a deal Jeer!…I mean, yeah….you’re right ‘e was just kinda ok wasn’t he, not good, not bad – just ok– same for ‘is Mrs too. Ah that cheap off liscense supermarket beer is just what an ok man like Georgie needs right now! It would really ‘it the…er..I mean…. it would ‘it ‘is spot, ‘is scorchmark, if ya know what I mean Jeer!”

“Thanks Sammy mate…I got ya fella….lets go. By the way, ’bout time I properly introduced you to ‘ol Georgie’s widow soon – I mean after all -she’s an ok kinda lady, I mean – what’s the worst thing ‘at could ‘appen t’ya???”

End

“My Comic Book Days” (A Poem)

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Sometimes I wonder….

Am I what’s left after making the decision many years ago to not to do myself in?.

For there a few stints of bed-riddled-ness when I was younger.

It would have been easy to seriously contemplate ending it all.

But for some weird reason I always had at least a kernel of hope,

To stave off the dark reaper, the destroyer most grim –

Pick a name.

Perhap’s I mostly keep myself alive for the hobbies.

The 60s-90s Rock music, The writing, The coffee-houses.

Yes that all seems so glib,

But it’s amazing how those things can keep you going,

Even when carrying such a wounded soul,

Even while being left holding a quiver full of broken Cupid’s arrows.

Even after this process repeats with the next long-haired spell-caster.

For I probably wouldn’t try a short haired one – call me old fashioned.

But then again, who am I kidding? –

The Port O’ Love has long been closed indefinitely –

This wasn’t so much a choice per se,

More of something external that chose to wash over me –

These the oh so quiet waters of self-preservation.

Or is my entire life just an ode to undiagnosed ADHD?

ADHD that was masquerading as Depression?

I’m sure all the Docs know this & that’s the swindle –

I am convinced there will be a shady medical profiteer’s book called:

“There’s nothing more profitable than misdiagnoses”.

But here I am at middle age – 46 almost 47.

Still Alive & fighting each day to not become what I used be:

“Self-destructo”

That guy unfortunately squashed a lot of my chances to be young & happy.

Though he did provide plenty of empty drunken highs along the way,

So, I guess I shouldn’t complain too much.

I guess a wise man would simply be grateful for it all & soldier on,

& be happy for the bonus wisdom squeezed out along the way.

And I guess this is our fate anyway:

To live in a world that doesn’t really work,

With the real well-designed one,

Forever just slightly out of reach.

To the more troubled life, the thought is soothing.

And so as the sun goes down, now the comic ends.

And as always….

Once again by the end of the day, the city is safe.

……….but for how long?