The Return of the Pied Piper
Copyright by Dave Lassut 2011
Published by Wonky Books at Smashwords
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Important note: Don’t forget to laugh.
EPUB ISBN: 978-1-907630-05-7
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-907630-06-4
I was watching a wildlife programme the other day (Oct 2011). It featured Chris Packham looking at the wildlife around and in the de commissioned power station at Douneray, Scotland. It jogged my memory, and inspired me to re kindle a story that has been sitting in my computer’s memory for years.
***
Since I first wrote this account, a lot of water has gone under the bridge. I write from inspiration in what’s called a ‘hypoberlic’ style (i.e. as though I’m on drugs, and good ones at that), and maybe because of that, publishers have never been interested, thank God. I always said I wanted to be in control of what I wrote, and never wanted some editor chopping my soul’s output to bits. This then is years later, so I can now do it again, knowing what I know now. Thank God again for the Kindle, and self-publishing; self publishers rule ok!
Bollocks to publishing houses.
Apart from writing, I’m also a well-being speaker, which means aiding people in their thinking, which is creative, which in turn enables them to work consciously with the Universe, instead of unconsciously with the Universe; it’s so easy to get into a rut.
The bits I’ve changed, or added to, are mainly the bits about the industrial workers and the management, a relationship that has never been harmonious. It’s always been the management dictating and the workers rebelling; there is normally no love lost ... but there are always exceptions to the rule.
If you yourself are having problems at work, there are a couple of things you might like to ponder, providing you aren’t too sceptical. I have recommended these to quite a few people who have come to my seminars and complained about someone at work, colleague or manager who is making their lives a misery. They are:
Cosmic Ordering, the Next Step, by Barbel Mohr (it contains a technique called Hopping, which will cure any problem you have with another person), and Ask and it is Given, by Abraham Hicks (which will do the same thing and more, in a different way). If you find the info useful, then you can do further research yourself.
But, the most important thing of all ... ‘Do YOU like you?’
Of course, all the people in this tale are real, although Lisa died a year ago; 2010. This work is therefore dedicated to her.
A quick autobiography
I was born in Ulverston, Cumbria and brought up in Millom Cumbria, a little Northern town. My Mother went shopping by breaking a hole in the ice and catching dinner. Socially conditioned, at age sixteen I was told that I had to get a ‘Proper Job’ as I woz academically fick, having no less than six O levels. Or should I say, Oh levels. “Oh … I failed maths”. “Oh … I failed English.” Etc. There aren’t any exclamation marks, because I wasn’t surprised, but I would have been if I’d passed; I’m actually glad I didn’t, because, if I had of been very clever, I would have talked myself out of being a writer, using the word ‘realistic’ most probably? I wanted to be a photographer though, but obviously wasn’t clever enuf, as everything enjoyable seemed to require cleverness and so many good exam passes ...
“Get a trade!” They said. So’s I did, at Eli ... a nuclear factory, full of fed up people, but all wiv ‘jobs for life!’ I wos here for fourteen years, and during that time, I saw and heard fings. Funny fings? Crazy fings!
I’ve always thought a ‘job for life’ sounded crazy and not a little frightening. I then, fourteen years later, fourteen years of things I didn’t like; which I’m told were ‘normal’, because us working lot aren’t supposed to enjoy life, got fed up and left. I managed, through the desire to enjoy myself, to acquire myself a cherished place in Blackpool Photographic College, and became an industrial photographer. I moved to Coventry. I became not a big fish in a small pond, but a big fish in an Atlantic Ocean. Lost the passion through starvation. Blessed the experience then gave up the lens (sold it actually, to survive).
I became a Classical guitar player, and paid teacher (which I’d done for years). Gave it up when the millionth person decided to cancel their lesson at short notice. Became a children’s worker in the rough areas. Contract ended. Became a sweeper upper in a factory. Saw fings … eard fings! Got fed up and left. Became an inventor, formed a company, didn’t work, got KGB’d, complained, and was subsequently kicked off the board. Joined a work agency, ended up in a warehouse, where I began to remember who I was! Hurt arm on a car wheel assembly track in a small grubby factory. Went on the dole for two weeks. Became a Bus Driver. Became inspired. Looked back, and decided to write everything down.
So, here we are!
PROLOGUE Chapter 1
Bob the AA man
It happened on a Saturday, late afternoon. Let me explain by using my two day diary:
Friday …
Unluckily, I had a long weekend off work. As soon as I walked down the road from the maternal building late Thursday afternoon, that invisible umbilical cord stretched to its limits ... snapped! Fear set in. Gulp! I had left my natural mother, and my life, instead of starting; had stopped!
Several thoughts somehow found their way into my closed down, socially conditioned mind; all fighting for pole position in my consciousness. They were horrible thoughts too! The likes of which should never find their way out of the ether and into heads (and to think ... thirty minutes EARLIER I had had the luxury of someone ‘higher’, and on a superior wage, thinking for me).
My thoughts went like this:
What would I possibly do during my absence from the ‘meaning of life’?
How would I occupy my now ‘empty, useless’ mind?
How would I cope with the boredom of having ‘nowt’ to do?
And the most cruel …Who would now think ‘for me’?! And listen intently whilst I complained bitterly at their decisions!
A period of craving; a welcome return to work ensued, and wouldn’t leave me alone, even through the expensive, opaque, alcoholically induced fog; which (mysteriously!?) appeared about twenty; nay, thirty(!) minutes later. I wished and wished (whilst staring through a pint glass) with all my might, that I was back behind the wheel of the Double Decker cruising the ‘litter free’ streets of Coventry again. It is important to note that my tale ... The Return Of The Pied Piper, was months away from even being inspired/triggered into me considering telling it on paper. I’d held the story back for years thinking it a waste of time to tell, as it was insane. So it wasn’t a part of my repetetivetetivetetive compromised life at all.
Saturday …
I was travelling up the well-worn M6 to Cumbria. My Mum lives in Millom, a tiny little town out on a pinnacle near Barrow in Furness on the wind-swept West Coast, a trouble spot for cockle pickers (as I was to learn a long time after I put this to paper ... and began hunting a publisher, with untainted optimism). I had called in to Horwich on the way to see an old (as the hills) mate of mine, and past teacher, the ‘was’ brilliant English Classical Guitarist Neil Smith; you should hear him play! Seriously special.
I eventually left his house, (fighting my way through a group of adoring female fans who had ‘crowded’ his living room hoping for a glimpse of him) jumped onto the 61 by the Reebok Stadium, and then shot back to the M6 Northbound carriageways. Shot not quite being the operative word, as I was pedal to carpet in a 1.1 litre, slightly rusty in the armpits, Citroen AX11, the fuel tank indigestionally filled with four star instead of unleaded. What the hell though, it had been a nice enough day, soon be ‘home’. Soon have mother spinning the old 78 about parental fingers being worked to the bone and how ‘I’ don’t know I’m born; and how she’s old and I don’t care, and she’s sick of the local supper club, and how her pension won’t stretch, and how she’s sure she will win the lottery, and how I’m out of her will in favour of a cousin, Chris, and how the butcher cuts the meat too thick and how it’s better to travel 40 miles to a supermarket cos bacon is 1p cheaper and how ... come I don’t listen to her!?
I always imagined I was going there to chill, not to go to war with a woman who saw the dark side of dark, and considered that every silver lining had a black cloud. And! Where did I get those ear muffs? And how I’ve got tooo much money if I’m buying ear muffs and how I’ll never have anything ... unlike my ‘friends’ who all wear suits have good jobs and have everything!
And how drinking three double malt whisky’s on the trot won’t do me any good and would I like a Pek chopped pork sandwich and how eating it out of the tin and not in bread will NOT cause it to ‘stick to my ribs’ ... and keep out of HER kitchen and how I can’t wash up anyway and to never mind cos she’ll do it ... as she doesn’t mind anyway and do I like her new ornament?
Then she takes a breath and expresses pure emotion on the touching subject of how it’s “nice to see her son again.” It’s generally known as insanity.
Lucky to see me, I say. It all went skew-whiff however as I pulled into Forton Services, I just felt I should ... you know, stretch the legs, shake hands with the unemployed, get some sports mixtures, somehow prepare myself for the monologue from Hell. On the slip road, my back brakes seized up; my heart quickly followed. Somehow? I managed to persuade the car into a parking place, and then wondered what the hell to do? Saturday afternoon, soon be evening, car full of gear, stuck! I phoned my mum and told her. She stopped practising washing up and went into worry mode, but hers couldn’t have been half as powerful as mine. She actually phoned some of my old buddies. The one that offered to help ... my mate Sharpo, a real friend. He said, … “I'll not see you stuck Frankie, call back if you’re desperate ok.”
“Ok Steve will do.”
I still had my AA card though ... my trump. I phoned them.
“Okay Mr Lassut, the mechanic will tow you to the nearest garage as that is the level of your cover, he will be with you in about thirty minutes. Thank you.”
“Erm, can I pay for the full cover now with my credit card?”
I felt a convulsive movement in my back pocket?
“No sir, sorry.”
Towed to a garage!? It’s Saturday evening nearly! Gulp! Things were looking grimmer than Grimsby on a grim day. At least the old girl would have something legit to whinge about. Eventually he turned up. I was feeling pretty sick as he drove over to me. I didn’t suppose they ever broke down? Wouldn’t matter if they did, would it?
“What’s wrong with it mate?”
“I think the back brakes are seized. Just supposing I had to get it towed back to Millom ... sixty miles away and defended by hostile locals, how much would it cost me?”
He gave me a figure. My credit card leapt from my wallet and ran through some bushes into a field, then disappeared down a rabbit hole quicker than a rat up a drainpipe.
Dear Barclaycard.
Please send another card, the last one is hiding down a rabbit hole at Forton services, M6 Northbound, and refuses to come out ...
Yours
F. Lassut.
“I'll see if I can fix it,”… said the AA man.
It was actually the front brake, driver’s side, which had seized. He got a large pair of grips from the cupboard in the side of his magic yellow truck, and with some effort, managed to remove the discs from the pad which they were hugging with a fantastic show of mechanical affection. He then tried the car ... it wwwwwworked!!!!! It mooooved! It fecku-cadooding-wacko-doddyingly-mooooved! I was suddenly filled with Divine energy that made me feel like dancing round the car park in a yet unwritten Andrew Lloyd Webber hit musical.
‘Bloody good make Citroen!’
Hallelujiaaaah! God bless the AA! And give them a massive after tax profit this year to share with the workers.
“I always dooo!” Boomed the ‘it’s yooooo’ voice that used to accompany the lottery hand millennia ago.
So why don’t the workers get a windfall then? No reply?
Hmmmm?
A Frenchie was in order for this magic AA man! My saliva glands became hyperactive in anticipation and I dribbled down my shirt ... But he pushed me away!? Had the man no ‘happy customer hormones’? Obviously not. So instead, I simply thanked him verbally ...
“Thank you! Thank you! ... My mother will make you rich! Name your prize ... Euros? Assorted Spanish British laundrette coins? Flock of sheep? Herd of Cows? Jewels a plenty? Roast chicken dinner? Vera Lynne’s autograph? Unexploded Second World War bomb garden ornament? Or, if you’re partial to a little negativity, how about a signed copy of her new CD, Moaning Joan Moans? ... Contains two tracks where she verbally duets with Marvin the Paranoid Android”
“Okay mate”, he said, it seems to be okay. I would take it very easy indeed going home, and get it checked out before you drive back ... “could you sign this sheet please to clear me in case you are involved in a horrendous grisly mishap.”
I signed, and I can tell you … relief is the greatest feeling (a kiss would have been nice too, but there would be other times ... not with him I don’t think). I got out my little notebook in which I usually log interesting bus numbers, chassis serials, and times taken to do different routes; I use it as a chat up tool.
“Could you write me down your details please, I’d like to send you some beer money in the post ... I’m one grateful dude.” He laughed ... and took the book. Bob Brown. Cheadle Hume.
I did have the car checked ... perfect ... nothing wrong? It was a long while later on when the inspiration to tell the story arrived. I was still questioning why I had been placed in that scary situation in order to meet Bob Brown? Because, well, meetings with people through events like that are always for some good reason; aren’t they? I couldn’t work it out though? I did send him a tenner by the way ...weeks after we met (guilt trip in order).
Sometime later, I had almost finished the manuscript for the first time, and thought that it would be a nice touch to place the author of the original ... ‘story’, or so I thought? in the actual script. After interrogating the staff in my local bookshop, I was told the name; so I used a slightly modernised version. Actually, I wasn’t given the name of the storyteller/s, I was given the name of a guy who’d written a famous poem concerning the event. The story was written apparently by the Brothers Grimm (from Grimmthorpe?), while the poem was by ... tell you in a minute.
It still didn’t register with me though.
Yonks later, I was on the way to Cumbria again (taking the sheep and lambs back to graze on their granny's lawn), when I approached Forton Services. Parts of my body tightened up and I wondered how the credit card was getting on? Had it been accepted by the rabbits? More importantly though ... is Bob Brown here fixing someone’s car? I didn’t really want to know and drove past without stopping.
Bob Brown? Bob Brown? Then it hit me in the face like a baseball bat in the hands of a law-protected mugger ... and I got instantaneous Goosebumps. When you click on to what I’m talking about, you’ll probably say ... “Oooh, what a coincidence!” But I’m very sorry; there are no coincidences in this Universe (or any other for that matter). And lastly. For God's sake ... join the AA, they’re brilliant!
Robert (BOB) Browning (1812...1889)
The Pied Piper of Hamelin (Hameln)
Rats!
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And eat the cheeses out of vats,
And licked the soup from cooks’ own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women’s chats
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.
Thank you Robert (Bob!). But for the time being …
Let me tell you the tale of …
The ‘RETURN’ OF THE PIED PIPER’
And Please ...WELCOME TO … Somewhere you will probably never have heard of …
Elinham
Chapter 2 Today’s Recipe
English Countryside Cake
(Eat your heart out Jamie Oliver!)
Take a couple thousand acres of quiet English countryside, which, it has to be said, is fairly modest amount really on the larger scale of things; providing you know the size of an acre that is. Put into a mixing bowl. Add an average sized cosy village. Blend together with a little pinch of tranquillity; then add a generously heaped tablespoon of ‘quaint’. Mix well until firm. Add to the mixture the name Elinham, and twin it with a German town in Lower Saxony on the (V) Weser River, near Hanover; of the same name ... only different. Mix well. Pour mixture into a greased baking dish and place in the oven preheated to 212 Centigrade … for quite a while... and you should then have, perfectly done, the subject of a tale I would like to recount; should you be gracious enough to listen that is? And importantly, don't forget to clean up the kitchen after yourself. People can be so messy and untidy.
***
Elinham, in the days when I lived there, was (and still will be, bank on it) one of those gorgeous, relaxing, meditative kind of places; the likeness of which you send to family and friends via an oblong piece of card, with the message “wish you were here,” when you don't really, or you would have asked them to accompany you in the first place, wouldn’t you? Beatrix Potter-esque thatched cottages, abundant trees, well cared for gardens ... larvely. Mmmmmmmm!
The village was though ... under siege! It was surrounded by and under fire from nature’s artillery, fields of barley and corn, hedgerows almost shaking with life; the odd characteristically frail gate, tickled by grasses and colourful weeds which I couldn’t name (displaying my ignorance there) ... craving the watercolour brush of the artist. Flowers (posh weeds), whose different species prided their petaled selves on their display of colours which would make the flutterbys, bees, and Kodak technicians simply drool.
The river, crystal clear, with no shopping trolley(?) held fearless fish that loved nothing better than to sunbathe, play in the currents, and fight with the mini white-water rapids; never with each other. Well come on, it’s logical to a fish, even with a small brain. The well-fed, dazzlingly colourful Kingfishers, understood and enjoyed natures abundance meaning plenty to eat for everyone and plenty more left for another day. No living ‘thing’ that has managed to somehow find its way onto this battered bruised and bleeding Planet ‘need starve’.
There was of course woodland too, nice for a walk on a lazy afternoon, perhaps? Listen to the leaves and the branches rattle and ‘schoosh’ together as the multi-strength breeze bent the parental canopy. Branches really are great parents, raising their children to be strong, healthy and independent: so there would raindrop tears maybe, but no worries about waving goodbye in the autumn when the brothers and sisters leave and go their own separate ways. The leaf children, dressed in coats to shame Joseph’s ‘collection of rags’, (I'll bet) race to the ground with a little help from their friend the multi-charactered wind, in order to once again become the fertile soil and gratefully nourish the many grateful parents (it's a two way thing, which could be a three way thing, but humans don’t wanna play), ready once again for a future Springs re birth. And of the fruit children? What is nicer than a crispy, juicy apple for example? Each containing several seeds, each in turn containing ... abundant parents for infinite children ... nature surely is?
Magic! How blessed we are (If only were weren’t blind and ignorant too).
There’s more.
Birds of a hundred varieties sang multitudes of sweet songs. I’m including the ‘caaark’ of the multi-coloured carrion crow, why not?
“Multicoloured? But aren’t crows black?”
Course they aren’t, it’s all a matter of perception and knowledge. Ever seen a splash of old black engine oil when it graces a puddle? A rainbow is born which has more colours on display than its relative in the sky. So no, crows aren’t black. Flutterbys fluttered, hence the name, in their colourful numbers as though sprinkled from a large ‘chrysalis design’ pepper pot. It is amazing to me at least, that people are prepared to actually ‘kill’ in the name of the Deity which lovingly created all I’ve humbly attempted to describe. Our God designed for instance, flutterbys wings, (and gave us eyes to see them ...) so very delicate, yet strong enough to enable flight; and as if that isn’t enough, a brilliant colourful design ... made from tiny scales which to all intents and purposes seem to be powder! Or what about a beautiful, intricate, ‘perfect’, (no two alike!) snowflake? It’s all awesome; there is no doubt about that!
YET ... WE humans feel proud to ‘still’ manufacture, sell, live with, and actually STILL ‘use’ on each other; weapons of mass destruction. UN – B - LIEVABLE!
Hey up though! Mind you! Know what I mean? The above ruralities do tend to induce a craving for City life, don’t they? The great community idea that doesn’t work. Ride on baby! Give me concrete, fumes, trash, abandoned cars, joy riders, goons in baseball caps and hoods, angry ignorant people, abuse, muggings etc, any day of the week ... and I’ll send a postcard to you in your cosy village ... “I bet you’re glad you’re NOT here.”
But anyway.
All this glory, for a very long period of time, was not to pay host to a human foot. This though doesn’t mean that there were no intelligent inhabitants (I said ‘Huuumaaaan’ foot). Now. I know that what I’m going to say next is bound to make you groan in response and say “Oh no not again,” or words to that effect; but honestly, all the other stuff you've either read or seen, involving the cause of the following, erm ... fault? Which has admittedly been used with many and various walking talking organic subjects ... except for the fact that ... the past versions have been made up in pubs and other places where thoughts can be; sorry; are! Moulded by alcohol.
Sometimes too, from what I’ve heard, very copious amounts of the stuff! This abuse of malt plus hops plus water, has caused some minds to completely turn turtle. Not mine though, oh no! Although, I do enjoy a ‘non influential’ drink which doesn’t. Oh never mind. The following information will also have cause to make me feel embarrassed and humiliated, because you are going to ‘laugh’ at me. I just know it.
The village was playing host to an infestation of rats, as did its twin town a while back, so the legend says.
“So?” You say, (without laughing?) “Get Rentokil.”
Fair comment ... only... their traps aren’t big enough. Errrrm, not even nearly actually.
Because you see ...
It’s all downtoacoupleofinc identswh ichhap penedatanearbynu clear
plantsee!
There! That’s it! I’ve said it!
You’re laughing!
I’ve gone red now.
T her ats areallbetweenfiveands ix fo ottallw hi chiswhyt het rap sar
en'tbigenough.
Now it’s all off my chest! Phewee! Thank goodness for that!
I feel much better now having bared my soul for the first time in a long while. It’s very refreshing you know ... venting.
Say it slower?
Why?
You heard me but you don’t want to believe me and now you think I’m mad. But really, I don’t care. Laugh if you must, but I know the truth. Anyway, think about it ... no one thinks Harry Potter’s author is mad do they! And Harry MUST be real!
Mustn’t he?
If it’s maybe true then, and you’ve now, I hope (?) decided to give me the benefit of the doubt (maybe because you fought someone in a queue for the new Potter novel), if so, I thank you for your trust.
But what sorry?
Where did I get all the info?
Ah well, I lived there and worked in the plant. I also knew Luke, who you will meet soon.
So then, that’s the difficult bit out of the way, so, if you’re ready and willing, I’d better start hadn’t I ... but first, please let me just flick back to the wildlife bit for a sec, I was enjoying that.
Badgers and foxes roamed free round Elinham. Mice hid from hovering Kestrels and grasshoppers grated their mysterious messages to each other. The main residents, the ‘townsfolk’ if you like, were ... I’ve already told you, and you know why. You know radiation is dodgy, that’s common knowledge? (Maybe not).
The rats were ... by name
RAMBO
GIGGS
NIPPER (girl)
MISCHIEF (girl)
ROLO
POLAR BEAR
RASCAL
Now my wish here, at this extremely early point, is for you, my valuable reader, to please stay with me, especially if you are an adult, because you are possibly thinking or saying right this second ... (if you have even managed to get this far that is?)
“I’m not reading this garbage! It’s kid’s stuff!”
It isn’t you know; and anyway, even if it was ... is there no fun in your life? I’ve just recently reread all the Moomintroll books, they are simply fabulous! Good old Tove Jannsson, what gifts she left us. Life is the art of growing up, without growing up. Anyway, how do you know you won’t learn something from the rats? You don't do you? I did, I learnt a lot. They are mega intelligent. Also, if it were a kids fairytale ... I would have started out with ...
Once upon a time ... wouldn’t I?
So...
Once on up - time, (up - time is positive time, do - wn time is negative) ... a group of seven upright rats the size of adult humans inhabited the small village and the sewers of Elinham. These rats could talk to each other in excellent English, and also think very clearly and logically ... which is a side effect of gamma radiation ... plus a small extra ingredient.
Although the ability to think and hold an interesting conversation on a variety of topics, would have been a handicap only if the rats had come into contact with a regular human. It may also be common opinion that rats are filthy animals because they live in sewers, etc. Not so, rats are clean animals attracted to filth ... a ‘practiced to perfection’ human trait.
Just take a look around you.
These furry boys and girls kept their sewer sparkling! The floors were clean enough to cook on and the walls were as snazzy as that red brick wallpaper you can buy, or the outside of a detached middle class residence. The type of house which working class bozos such as myself, cycle past, shouting terrible jealous abuse, such as ... “Snobs!” They also kept the village in tip top condition (drinks advert, my 10% please). If it had been officially there, it would have won best kept awards. They used the houses and gardens as would humans, as life on top without the stress of having to avoid dogs, cats, kids with sticks, rat catchers etc made a sunny, refreshing delight, from the sewer with its artificial glow ...
They also used the cellars for the storage of grain and fruit from the abundant fields bushes and trees. They possibly grew mushrooms too, although you cannot match the taste of those grown wild in the fields. I myself have had my wellies wet with dew before the dawn searching for those magic white orbs and disks in the grass ... my bacon and egg accompaniment at breakfast. Yummy .
There was also the odd bottle of wine to be found in one of the group of tame, cobwebbed wine racks which the rats liked to farm with passionate (organic) enthusiasm, and then share the harvest with giggly love. Sounds nice doesn’t it, and maybe there is a small hint or two in there which us Un-furry mob could do well as to listen to? However, mumbo jumbo aside (who wants to share anyway? It’s all mine mine mine!)
However, an acquaintance of mine once said to me ... through a rather thick veil of disappointment, “Every time I manage to get things just right ... Pow! It all louses up.”
Hmm? True or what?!
***
One afternoon, a transit van arrived in the village. Rambo and Nipper watched from a living room window. It scared the breath out of them to be honest. They quickly turned off the TV set; missing a good bit on Eastenders ... (only God knows how long they will have to wait for another?) and ran to the window. They watched the activity through net curtains, wondering where the van was from? And the purpose of the visit? Two guys climbed out from the cab, both were dressed in white shirts and blue pants. These were worn underneath full PVC suits, with plastic hoods, each with a battery operated oxygen supply and pump on the back. On their feet, the men wore wellies (You’ll have seen this sort of thing on TV). The rats were fearfully fascinated.
Rambo: “What do you suppose they're doing Nipper?”
Nipper: “I haven’t got a clue? Wonder what those small boxes they’re carrying are?”
They continued to watch, as the info silently rose from the sub conscious, and re-entered the conscious mind of ...