This is from a Three_Headed_Sarahs web page. 

MADNESS ON XANGA! The following is from a mad geezer on Xanga, is he safe? Is he sane? Is he from our planet??? Does the FBI know?

 

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“By the Holy Cross of Jesus!” cried Forbes Senior. (yup, same name!) “I’ve gone and fecking died and I’m in hell!”

“Stop Jam, stop ham-acting sir, the whole of Dublin knows of us.”

“What do you want with me, I have no cat.”

“That’s our mothers, look, your grandson says you can play the flute.”

“You should hear my Danny Boy” he reached for his flute.

Gordon Bennet, we had to get to school! “Not here, can you charm the socks off leprechauns?”

“They don’t exist.”

“Maybe not here, but they must have sometime, myths grow from facts.” That was a lie, but still…

He was game.

We told the kids later on our new friend.  Forbes said “great!” and John C said “Bollox.”

“Pain can come so quicky to the old” we told Ms Lawrence.

“Will you stop kinaesthicating stuff across the room, if someone throws something at me, it falls to the ground on hitting me, that crayon just would not stop coming, kinaeswhatever is a force, a force that does not stop until it reaches it’s target…”

“And falls into their lap, if it wasn’t for us, poor Luke would have been squashed dead under your massive weight.”

“Shut up Larry, the three of you! A kid could get hurt!”

“That’s why we send things above their hight.”

“Wasn’t above mine, I swear the thing was alive.”

“You just got in the way!”

“Don’t bug me!”

The rest of the day was planning for a secret trip out on the morrow, Forbes Senior would bring Little Forbes and John C. to school the next day, and before school starts we’ll take the kids to see the little people.

What could go wrong?

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Three-Headed Goliaths’

Lord Pineapple. LordPineapple (the schmuk!)
 

Once again I woke up after dreaming of writing poetry. Sometimes I wake up bursting with poetry and by the time the urgent call of nature has been satisfied, forgotten the lot. Not today.

I dreamt of writing a Rev. Toby poem, woke up, and remembered it word for word, (though I did change some words later). It’s hardly a Tobias Trontby classic, in fact it’s a bit of a mean poem by him!

I’ll put it on the next LP blog entry, maybe tomorrow. Along with one of Tiffy’s rather bitter love poems.

I knew a Tiffy Witherington, a pub tenent and manager, cheerful but lonely, slowly drinking herself to death, I can’t say Tiffy is based that much on her except for the above facts. Tiffy’s collection of brass door-knockers for example is my collection of door knockers, but they sound better in a pub by a large message “See Tiffy’s Knockers!!!” (“Knockers” is British slang for breasts.)

For that matter, I knew a Rev. Toby, whenever anything, good or bad, happened in his tiny town, he’ll be there, often sans dog-collar, being nice to everyone.

Funny how most of my creations are lonely people, for the Rev. Toby is a true “Father McKensey”. I suppose the fact that only little Sophie is surrounded by love, reflects my own rather barren life.

Still, that’s enough wrote here, going off now to put that poem of Toby’s onto a web site.

I haven’t forgotten my history of personae, and will return to it shortly.

TTFN and don’t let the bed bugs take over your life.

LordPineapple ‘s site.

Commenting on Blue_Eyes17 ‘s site, gave me an idea to chart some of my early persona on this blog.

LordPineapple  has ten of my favt poems in the past year.

Three_Headed_Sarahs  has started on the Goliath’s school blog

Some wonderful blogs been reading lately like weasle3 life as a nurse and mimiwi on the love of being a grandparent, flaminredhead on a celtic marriage ceremony and so on.

All gist to this writer who never wants to stop learning.

My grandson Patrick (aged 5) is really funny. After he came back after three weeks in Canada (his father is Canadian) he chatted nine to a dozen. I wrote some of what he said down.

“I went to see the beavers gnawing up wood and I told my Uncle Patrick, Mummy says I was named after him, that I had never seen a beaver before and he laughed and so I asked Nanny Wise why did he laugh and she told Uncle Patrick off, so I asked my friend Tom why did Uncle Patrick laugh and he told me a beaver is what a lady had instead of a willy, I was upset that I couldn’t tell anyone else I had seen a beaver without someone thinking I was being rude.”

Boy, and people want to know where writers get their inspiration from!

ps Profile pic on comment page is of Patrick and Lord Pineapple

My poems are on this LordPineapple  page

 

Posted by The Three-Headed Goliaths’ in conjunction with ff % 243.

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I will visit you from this blog or Lord Pineapple’s blog. It’s pointless visiting you from both!

Having had a stroke, I had forgotten most of the below until I wrote it into  teacherangel site!

I must have been clever once!

Being the father of an increasing number of children I soon took over the children’s page of the newspaper, we couldn’t afford to buy much more than news so I wrote everything myself, a “diary” on a little girl in our home town, comic strips (which I also drew), poems I made up, and short little moral stories.

The Three-headed Sarahs’ started life here, as a series of stories about two kids hiding a lost alien pet. In those days the Sarahs’ did not eat pets or swear of course, though all three heads spoke, often saying different things at the same time.

I suppose you COULD call it published, the newspaper sold about ten thousand copies, and I had mt own mailbag, often up to thirty letters a day, some of which were from children with ideas. The best ideas I used (with photos of the children) one was about a gang of fruit, there was a Larry Lemon (umm, used that name in the Sarahs’ story) another was Graham Grapefruit, another was a Lord Pineapple. Thank you Angie Smith (then aged 9) for that user name!

I am not really very good at washing my dirty linen in public. But I am not too bad on a one-to-one comment.

So, rather pompously here are some comments I’ve made to other bloggers.

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Ah, I remember calling at an old ladies house once, to seek comments for my “Day’s Of Yore” page, and she said to me “my toilet’s blocked, can you unblock it?” Sure it was blocked, that hadn’t stopped her using it, fancy cleaning out a toilet full of s***? It took me twenty minutes. Then the old lady refused to give me the interview saying she never read local papers.
Posted 4/29/2004 at

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Many people suffer from media-lag, a complaint that stems from TV and films and papers that portray every human as a vile greedy little shit, whilst of course most of us are not. But the media isn’t interested in us whose hearts beat to a rhymn, us who will only grab a child when it is to save their life, us who only hate those who deserve nothing else, us that will not even pinch a fiver (or in America ten bucks) from a wealthy man who has dropped it. We are the normal people, we are 90% of society.

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I love early morning when I am not going to work. I get annoyed on holiday if the hotel won’t let me out just before dawn on cloudless dying nights. In the evenings I watch tv.

Oh and I often dine out when I can afford it. Had Toad-In-The-Hole for starters, and Spotted Dick for sweet (desert), in one place. Why? Because I had to share a table with an American!

He said nothing when I ordered (we were not known to each other) but when I got my Toad-In-The-Hole he shouted “Are those cow’s penises?”

Wished I still had the paper, that would have got in!

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I get both comments and xanga eMails with messages like “You’re ugly” and “You’re old” I used to retalate but I ignore them now, like I ignore dog-mess when I am looking at flowers.

I see it like cars. When driving became easy every crackpot dosser-kid learnt to drive, now every thick-o, every loser, every punk can drive.

Computers are getting easier to use so the IQ rate of bloggers is also going down.

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It is much easier to write under various user-names. Nothing new to me, like all newspapermen on small-print run newspapers, I wrote most things from the children’s corner to the gardening section to the science section. So writing fiction, much of it washed with facts, is nothing new to me, re my Rev Tobias Trontby prose. But writing about myself. That is hard.

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The English stiff upper lip states that if you are dying of cancer you still buy next year’s diary, but sometimes the cracks show in the way we breathe.

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The grass is only greener on the other side of the hill because on first sighting you do not see the weeds.

Sometimes we are so mesmorized by the rose that we step onto a rare orchid to get to it.
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if you show only your ass to the world, people will never see the love within your eyes.

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what greater thing can you give to those whom have passed on, but beautiful poetry?

I know of none.

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It used to be said that butterflies live no more than a day. That is of course wrong, but we all get old, all of us will end our days upon some leaf unable to fly back to the rest of the world.

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When you live in a desert you do not make sandcastles.

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The trouble with silence is if you are not careful, is you forget how beautiful sound is. It is like being blind and not seeing the rainbow or the sunset.

I do not think I could be without noise however much it annoys me at times.

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Weeds are as beautiful as any flower, they may not look so unusual, but they are still part of Earth’s Creation. To deny someone or something their due because they do not shine in our eyes is to deny most of the world. How many who have loved the owl have hated the crow, who have loved the cat hated the rat, who have loved the ladybird have hated the wasp, and not ask why, what are we missing in this world just because they are not so beautiful?

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In a way, the war still dominated the fifties and the sixties childhood in a way unbelievable now. So many times had some moaner said to me “I fought a bloomin’ war for thee lad, I dunna ken why I bloomin’ bothered” and “If it weren’t for the likes of me, we’d all be speaking German”.
There were many men who skived off work with “old war-wounds” as many as today skive off with “nervous exhausion”

School heroes were brave white men who held at bay uncivilized wogs who never washed and who ate funny food, and in Africa, ate babies. God was an Englishman, and Jesus a middle-east genie.

And no one else mattered, least of all us.

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I see they found a bust of Dylan Thomas, a poet my mother loved. Thomas died of booze in 1953 at 39, but was still the poet of the Anglo-Welsh middle class, those that was taught never to speak Welsh.
“Please don’t drop cigarettes on the floor as they burn the hands and knees of customers as they leave” (Dylan Thomas:”Under Milk Wood”)
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Do not see tomorrow as a darkness, see it as a light yet to shine.

Relations do end, we mature as others mature or else we see new things and they see old.

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I used to have a boxer dog that used to wrap up with newspaper food he didn’t like, once he had his paw on the peddle bin and was dumping the paper (and food) in it. To be seen to be believed!
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When you start to age, you remember the dead more than more. It is strange, but as the living start to melt away, the dead comes to take their place. Maybe it is because death itself isn’t that far away.

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Clever people think to much. Stupid people just talk too much.

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As an athiest I don’t believe in any form of afterlife. But I was on the island of Iona once, an island noted for it’s saints and monks. I was looking at a ruin when a man spoke to me from behind. As he was a monk, I didn’t of course profess my lack of religion, but after we passed a few pleasentaries, the monk (his cowl down) said “I see you do not believe. Look over there my son. I turned and nothing was there I turned again and the monk was gone. There was nowhere at all for him to hide, but he was no longer there.

It might have been my imagination, it might have all been a super trick, but he was not there. I looked at my watch and what I thought were minutes was nearly a hour and I missed the ferry back to the mainland, so I spent the night on the island and that started me off writing some the best poems I have ever wrote.

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There are days you live through that you know will turn into nostalga, that you know will always be burning a small fire inside your brain.
Posted 5/3/2004 at 9:31 AM by LordPineapple

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Oxford is a beautiful city, one only has to sit in a college quad (court) at dusk, watch the bats fly from Mysteria to the turrets, someone playing Bach on a flute in their room, and lights on sandstone walls that have lived for 500 years, to understand it at all.
Posted 5/2/2004 at 6:59 PM by The_Clowne_from_Clown

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Of course most of my comments i never kept, I only started keeping them in fact after I started this blog and realised I would never do it justice.

The Clown From Clowne

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PS: Nonffpercentpoems
These are poems I have loved or I have found and want to give to other Xanga users, some are funny, some are sad, all are great but NONE ARE BY ME! (Terry-Lord Pineapple) PS Remember that Twoberry!
Site last updated 7/2/2004 at 7:37 PM

These days it’s a cliche to write “To have the patience of a Saint” These days it’s better to write “To have the patience to use a Microsoft system”
  I had a denial of service of a sort, I could not fragment my computer, it just kept coming up as “Re-starting due to disk write”, I went to google and tried most things from there, but in the end Norton’s had the answer. My computer was only 80% defragmented. It’s 99% now, I had to by-pass that one percent, I could get rid of the thing in my registry, but I’m starting with my new computer next month (I hope!)

 

One always hears funny stories from people when one is a reporter, some of them are made up, but sometimes you know that someone who always tells the truth. I heard this from a phone call, then our cleaning lady, (who couldn’t have told a lie to save her family) confirmed it. Both were passengers on a Chesterfield-Clay Cross bus, when this little boy kept putting his thumb in his mouth, his irate mother constantly told the boy, “remove that thumb!” only to it being back in his mouth in seconds. In the end the Mother smacked the boy’s hand, and in a loud clear voice the boy said “When I looked in your bedroom ‘other night, you had daddy’s willie in YOUR mouth!”

I can just imagine the other passengers trying not to laugh, my cleaner said the driver nearly crashed the bus.

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Glastonbury pop-festival is on, I was sent there one year to write about it, and like this year it didn’t stop raining, no naked bodies, just mud and more mud, kids crying, wives moaning, men swearing, and that was just on stage! My buddy took a few photos, I wrote a lot of waffle and we then got drunk in a bar. As the loudspeakers fused in the rain (they are better quality now) we couldn’t even hear the music.

Our paper was a small one with few staff, we had dedicated amateurs writing for us, but because the pay was low or non-existant, they never bothered to write most weeks, so Joe Muggins here became all sorts of people, old young male female… (which is why I can write as a blackie fortuna one day, A Rev Tobin another, Tiffy Witherington another and Sophie Morgan another, the newspaper trade demands it in both verse and prose!) Quite often I wrote the gardening column, the Prayer for the week column, (so much for being an athiest) a children’s column (which I’ve wrote about before) as well as country matters and “stories”.

Good work, but it was very draining on my marriages.

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Re: Spiderman. I used to work with a Peter Parker, rum old chap, he was married to this great big woman who led him a dog’s life, she was always phoning him up, bossing him, one day he went out to write a piece about suicides off a Matlock Cliff, High Tor. He never returned. He had wrote, “good idea” in his notebook, they found his body the next day, the coroner said he must have died slowly. His wife didn’t go to his funeral.