Aunt Alice and Spot.

Written by Renee Bernard, Danny Kemp and Vonda Norwood as……Brenda!

Last week’s instalment left us hanging by our fingertips as Brenda, believing herself to be the rightful claimant to the throne of Wales and preparing to storm England, was assembling her ‘army’ of stripping Grannies! Spot as usual was useless, being besotted by face sucking Myrtle, and poor Aunt Alice was hanging on to her sanity by the merest of threads.

We open this week with Spot discovering Brenda speaking to her daughter Myrtle, and forwarding the message to the raven of mavens; Aunt Alice who resides, temporarily, in a care home.

Read on dear friends but be WARNED. Have a telephone directory nearby, in case you have need of urgent medical attention at the end!

******

Auntie, oh Auntie,

It’s a good job that I fitted that recording device to this iPad owned by that swine Danny Kemp, just look what Spot has found……

******

Myrtle? Don’t talk. I can’t hear anything, because the grannies are listening to that old song – You Can Leave Your Hat On, by the Welsh wizard Tom Jones. Tell that glutton for rugby, I think you believe to know him as your father, to stop calling me, and asking what happened to his friend’s sheep. And if our neighbours on the south-side are missing a few head too, I know nothing about them! Rustling is a crime that a Queen would not stoop to!  

While I was trying to figure out how I could raise money to buy a vehicle large enough to comfortably transport my army of elderly strippers, and not waste their terrifying talent against my soon to be loyal subjects, I did happen upon a herd of sheep who were wandering the halls inside your grandmother’s apartment building. 

Unfortunately we could find no one who would accept my stray wool as trade! But luckily, we found an abandoned UPS truck in the street. Looks like a package hoarder used to live in it. It took us a long time to toss out all the mess, but well worth the hard work. It’s a sturdy vehicle and will provide some comfort.

I did have one problem with that brown rectangle on wheels… The door beside the driver’s seat is very small, it must have been designed for show and not use, which explains why the truck was abandoned. Not to worry though, the interrogation time I spent with the English military pilots showed me that a dab of oil was all I needed to squeeze through that driver’s crack of an entrance, and I did, just like a well oiled Englishman invading a back door. You’d have been proud!

Holy daffodils…..Your grandmother used a screwdriver, and just kicked the engine over! We have a full tank of petrol, and to even the weight, the grannies are sitting in the back, lined up against the passenger side wall. Yes, my dear Myrtle, we’re finally ready to drive to England! 

I JUST HOPE WE DON’T SPRING A…..LEEK!

That was a joke from your mum. I have my smug expression totally ready to take over my beautiful face as I watch the unsuspecting Englishmen pay for the military might I shall use to whoop ’em into submitting Wales to me! Soon, I will reign as Queen of the Isle of the Mighty!

Let’s hope no one LEEKS our secret……I’m off on one again, aren’t I! Whatever you do, don’t repeat these jokes to Spot. They are probably far too intelligent for him to understand.

Well dear… I’m sure you DO have something you’d like to say to me, but you know how dangerous it is to talk on a cell phone while driving. We’re…..OFF. England here we come! Talk later, bye.

******

Auntie Alice,

Spot’s at a loss. The Welsh want to plant their flag in England and I haven’t planted mine in Wales yet. Not fair!

This usurper Brenda, posing as the Queen of Wales which I thought Myrtle was, could be dangerous, and I don’t mean just by telling jokes. Spot needs your wisdom, Auntie.

Spot

******

Auntie Alice, all-knowing, all-seeing. 

Here is another! She’s on a mission and not even ‘drop scones’ can stop her!

Read on, but beware; it’s not nice. Oh, and what’s a ‘Chiclet’ when it’s at home?

******

Myrtle darling, 

Stop slurping and sucking on that English Spot’s Chiclet. Listen to your mum! No. No, we haven’t made it to England yet. The authorities have stopped us at this very moment. I’m telling you, Myrtle girl, after all I have suffered for my precious Wales, once I am crowned, the God’s should grant me reign of the Isle of the Mighty, plus full control over those English fighter pilot’s physical aggressions for thousands of years!

Who knew women over ninety in age would have so much energy to waste on constant bathroom breaks? 

“Pull over, Brenda. It’s potty time again.” I heard those words a million times before twenty miles were behind us! 

Loading and unloading this group of elderly strippers requires the strength of four women, which I am designed for of course, but after the tenth stop your mum’s oil bottle ran dry. The man at the petrol station was correct. The oil he sold is a good lubricant, but my arms and hips are now stained reddish-brown and I pray my eyes will stop watering from the scent!

That’s not the worst of it! Whilst the grannies were in line for the ladies room at the petrol station, which was in the middle of nothing but hills and pasture, your mum oiled her luscious body up and down so as to be ready to squeeze through that truck’s crack of an entrance. As I was about to, I turned and saw your grandmother, and the one’s I now call The Dirty Dozen, sitting in a nearby field. It was dark by then. They sat eerily in a circle. From that circle I could see steam rising… I made my way gingerly towards them. They had encircled a giant black cauldron with a mighty blaze beneath it. I was informed mutton stew was on the menu.

I was too hungry to enquire how, or where, they received a cauldron, wood and the lamb, plus bowls and spoons, napkins, silverware, the cups, soft drinks and dropped scones… My dear, it was FOOD! I was served a large bowl of stew, then I was handed a plate piled high with somehow; steamed and buttered Leeks. I ate and I ate… Yes, I had to apply more lubricant and yes, I look quite tanned! Never mind that! 

As I ate, I heard a voice, a man’s voice among the circle of women… I looked to my left, and there between your grandmother and her friend, who then was sporting a new metre in height wool hat, was a man. I asked the strange man who he was. Well, dear Myrtle, he doesn’t speak much English. The only words that have yet to come out of his constantly grinning mouth are, “Greet, my name Mack of 89 years. Older women be good for me. Big one’s too!”

I didn’t like the way he looked at my breasts when he said, “Big one’s too.” No, I wouldn’t call them obscenely large! Say what you will Myrtle, but your mother’s bosom is quite useful! Especially during long road trips, where my arms tire. These enormous breasts, the things you call outlandish, have come to my aid by holding the steering wheel steady while I eat.

I prepared to chase that Mack away, but your grandmother hit me over the head with a long dried leek. I gave in when The Dirty Dozen came at me with the longest dang leeks I’d ever seen! He’s now coming along with the group. I have to admit though, it is a relief of mine. Mack’s presence has cut down on the need for potty breaks. But I can’t explain why that is.

Once we were off again, I glanced toward the passenger seat, and your grandmother had around her neck, a white, fox fur stole! ‘Where did that come from?’ I screamed! And then that wrap of hers reared its head and growled at me! At this very moment, I tell you dear child of mine, I swear I can hear it snoring.

It’s time, Myrtle… 

The officers are now opening the back of the truck… Don’t worry, The Dirty Dozen are clutching their skirts and okay, the doors have slammed shut and yep, the two men in police uniforms are rubbing their eyes and shaking their heads…

The officers are on the run! … I’m starting the truck… I can’t talk now, love. I’ll call you when we park at the nearest bed and breakfast in England! What a joy it’s going to be for me when we finally conquer England! Soon I shall be Queen of the Isle of the Mighty!!! Yes, I said me! Tell Spot, I said to grow a metre taller and to stop chewing gum. No mobile phone chatting while on the road. Safety first. Bye.

******

Auntie,

Is she a megalomaniac, a nymphomaniac or just a plain maniac? What can Spot do?

Spot

******

Dear Spot,

In between the enforced quiet, prescribed naps and lavender baths, I nearly recovered my wits with one exception.  Your letters.  Just when a woman of a certain age thinks to have regained her balance—yet another one of your notes would arrive!  The staffs are enjoying your adventures tremendously and have even taken to stalking the postman in hopes of more.

I, on the other hand, am not amused!  All this unseemly talk of Welsh juices and incorrigible elderly women in trucks!  It’s ridiculous!  No matter what your insane friends think, there isn’t an Englishman worth his salt who will so much as raise an eyebrow if a sheep-riding nudist of any age enters a pub!  A gentleman never reacts to the ridiculous to fend off any chance of being mistaken for a clown himself!  Decency dictates that they are to be ignored, and your Brenda is in for a stiff lesson in English etiquette.  Conquest?  I scoff at the notion!

All your Brenda will achieve is an uplift in tankards sold in British pubs and a boon to our economy…and when the hangovers set in, she can cart her grannies off, stew in her juices and leave well alone!

Spot.  I am very disappointed.  This adventure is beyond disastrous.  Except of course, in that you are finally wearing pants.  (Please, dear God in Heaven, tell me you have managed to locate your pants, at least!)

Stop flying about like a dragonfly.  Stop keeping company with women who plot treason and steal vehicles that do not belong to them.   And Most of All: STOP KEEPING COMPANY WITH PEOPLE MAKING TERRIBLE PUNS.  The pun is the last bastion of the ignorant and I am mortified to think you have stooped that low.

Ah, it is time for my foot massage and the delights of warmed brandy.

My wisdom dictates that you escape with your flags folded and make a run for it.

Good luck, dear boy.

Aunt Alice

PS Forget about maniacs, most are unhealthy and of no use to you dear boy.

PPS I am FIRM in my belief that no English gentleman would bother himself to be bothered by naked old ladies…and fire cannot mete it out of me.

PPPS I have not the SLIGHTEST idea what a ‘Chiclet’ is, and neither would I want to know!

Will Aunt Alice recover from all this shock? Will The Dirty Dozen shock all red-blooded Englishmen and will Spot be shocked? Tune in to Female First for more shocking revelations……next week. Remember, never stand in a puddle during a lightning storm; you could be shocked.

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About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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