I was going to write a diary but decided against

This book is dedicated to John Kettle who is in no way 

shape or form Jim Fettle…….well, maybe just a little.

Contents

The Marshmallow Mystery

The Sausage Roll Secret

The Search for Relief

The Bait Shop Debacle

The Discovery of the Tan Satchel

The Mystery of the Broken Seal

The Case of Mistaken Identity

The Tragedy of War

The Journey of Discovery

The Touch of an Angel

The Deception of the Mind

The Enemy of the State

The Pleasures of the Park

The Marshmallow Mystery

"A FURRY NUN!" I screamed, waking my wife with a start.
 "Not again" she said "That's the third night this week."
 She was referring to my late-night outbursts that were 
becoming more frequent and more nightmarish as the 
month went on. Neither she nor I knew the relevance of 
the word at that time and no connection had been made 
with the visions of black and white fur that had been a 
reoccurrence in my dreams that week, not until of course, 
that fateful weekend in August. 

 I packed my rucksack with the essentials, shorts, T-shirt,
24 hour deodorant(which I had been assured would 
do the trick after an earlier encounter on Twitter with the 
chief executive of Right Guard), pots, pans and an 
expandable water bottle which could hold twenty five litres 
of water but contract to the size of a standard mug, genius.
 The camping trip had been planned for some time. 
The wife and I were to supply the tents and our friends 
were to provide the food for the weekend. My request of 
"Plenty of meat!" when asked if I wanted anything in 
particular hadn’t fallen on deaf ears, as when we arrived at 
the campsite, a cooler box filled with a selection of 
delicious meaty treats sat proudly on a makeshift camping 
table. 

 As I was busying myself erecting the tents I noticed 
the two bags of jumbo marshmallows that had been 
unpacked and placed next to the bottles of ready to drink 
Pina Colada, I had unfortunately become addicted to pre-made cocktails at this time,
a decision between that and a bottle of prosecco was to change my life forever, but that’s 
a different story.

 The tents were ready and all was set for an evening by 
the camp fire as the sun set. It was late August and the 
evening sky bore colours I’d never seen before and the 
beauty of nature was set out in all its glory in front of us. 
The moment seemed to last for a good half hour but it was 
pointed out to me by the wife that it was only a matter of 
seconds. We put this down to yet another flashback from 
a dodgy "postage stamp" I’d licked back in the seventies.
 The meat was set on the rack over the camp fire and 
who knew the smell from the grill could spark off 
nostalgia, then we all reminisced about the days growing up 
and the first person you kissed, it was at this point I 
realised I was narrating the chart topping feel good hit of 
1991 Summertime by Jazzy Jeff and the fresh prince, 
technically speaking it was chart topping in the US where it 
had reached number one of the US billboard charts. Here 
in the UK however it only managed to reach the heady 
heights of number eight, which is a travesty especially when 
you realise that Cher’s Shoop Shoop song was at number 
one and would stay there for a further three weeks!!!
 We settled down after the meat fest and despite the 
assurance I was given on Twitter my deodorant was 
becoming ineffective. It turns out that not even the 
strongest antiperspirant can combat a severe case of the 
meat sweats. As the afternoon drifted away and dusk fell 
we decided to play some low level instrumental 
background music from Brazil as not to disturb our 
neighbouring campers, so as we sat there spinning a tune as 
the old folks danced at the family reunion.
 "You're doing it again!!!!!!!" shouted the wife.

 I had often strayed into the hits of Will Smith and his 
D.J sidekick Jazzy Jeff when talking but this evening was 
particularly severe.
 The meat had settled and the need for something 
sweet had taken over. I suddenly remembered spying the 
two family sized bags of marshmallows and got to my feet 
to collect them. To my dismay they were nowhere to be 
seen and after questioning the rest of the group it became 
apparent they were last sighted shortly after they had been 
unpacked.
 "Marshmallow theft is on the increase around here" a 
low gruff voice said.
 Slowly walking into sight from the inky blackness of 
the camp site was the owner of the field, a farmer who 
supplemented his crop growing by setting up the top field 
for campers. Even though his main staple was farming and 
his camp site was purely a side-line I have to give the 
facilities and cleanliness of his plot four and a half stars out 
of five. I knocked half a star off because when he wasn’t 
ploughing his fields in a tractor the farmer drove a Volvo. 
Following an incident many years previous which involved 
me having a collision with one whilst riding a motorcycle, I 
could not forgive the Swedish car manufacturer for the 
sheer strength of those cars, or their customers for buying 
what is in all intense and purpose a military vehicle.
 Perplexed I asked what he thought the reasoning 
behind such a crime would be, but he like the rest of us 
had no idea. Just then the muffled rustling of a bag 
silenced us all, there was some disagreement around which 
direction it was coming from but my trained ear pinpointed 
the sound to a nearby bramble bush. My sight may have 
been questionable but my hearing is as good as it gets. 
 Torch in hand I ventured closer to the bush, the 
rustling was now accompanied by a strange snuffling 
sound. The flash of black and white fur took me by 
surprise and my dreams from that week replayed in my 
head like a montage scene from a low budget B movie.
 "It's a badger!!" I exclaimed.
 This brought concern from the camp as they were 
notoriously aggressive especially when in possession of 
sugary treats. 
 With a swift shake of the bush the badger ran off into 
the night, I retrieved one intact bag of marshmallows and 
left the already opened bag in case the beast should return. 
The last thing we needed was for it to revisit with only half 
a fix of sugar inside it and for it to terrorise the camp in 
search of the rest.
 After the camp had settled down from the ordeal we 
spent the rest of the night toasting marshmallows whilst 
listening to smooth jazz which was just a little somethin' to 
break the monotony of all that hard-core dance, that has 
gotten to be a little bit out of control it's cool to dance, but 
what about the groove that soothes that moves romance.
 "You're doing it again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" she cried.

 According to a psychic I met later on that year, it 
turned out I’d had in those weeks before the trip was what 
the “experts” call a prophetic dream. Whilst sleeping I 
had glimpsed into the future but to my untrained mind I 
was unable to interpret what it all meant.
 It turned out that my subconscious was warning me of 
monochromatic animals, although in this case in the form of a nun.
I’d recently started to feel an intense hatred towards Pandas and
according to my psychic friend.
 “As there aren’t any Panda in England the closest 
danger in the wild would be a badger.” 
 It seemed like they were just joining the dots to make 
it suit their own agenda but I went with it anyway. I’d 
never really been a believer in the supernatural but after a 
passing visit to Greggs the bakers some months later my 
opinion was changed completely.
 It was the realisation that my life was littered with 
strange incidences like this one that had prompted the 
question of whether or not a record should have been kept 
so that it could be used for a trip down memory lane or 
even as proof to back up my story telling. (By my own 
admission I had often been known to include the 
occasional slice of exaggeration pie when telling a story or 
being a tad economical with the truth.) This could also be 
my way of living on after my river of life had run its course 
and spilled me out into the sea. 
So………I was going to write a diary but decided 
against it.

 I would need both hands, or more specifically all eight 
of my fingers to count the number of times I’d started to 
write a diary in my life. The anticipation of having a 
completely blank year set out in front of me filled me with 
nervous excitement. Three hundred and sixty five empty 
paragraphs, ready to be filled with not just the occasional 
excitement that may permeate my existence throughout the 
year, but also with the day to day mundane activities did fill 
me with wonder but more often than not, dread. After all, 
who would be interested in me keeping a note of when I’d 
last washed my smalls or my attendance, and pass with 
honours may I add, from an excellent and in-depth first aid 
course at the local community centre. 
 Before we go any further I feel I should explain 
something here, the inclusion of the thumbs within the 
“Ten fingers ten toes” method had bothered me for some 
time; if they were indeed fingers then we wouldn’t have 
named them thumbs. 
 Also there had recently been a headline in the news 
about a diary which included government secrets and 
passwords being left on a train, this injected a further layer 
of doubt in my record keeping, one which seemed to leave 
a lasting impression on me. 
 I had recently started a course in “Modern Russian for 
the Discerning Gentleman.” I had aroused suspicions at 
work and also with my local corner shop. Rumours were
that I was a spy and my weekly night course, which would 
span the forthcoming six months, was actually a front to a 
shadowy underground organisation, where conspirators 
and Russian sympathisers would meet purveyors of top 
secret government files and exchange regime secrets. 
There was an article a few months back in a national 
newspaper that declared Russian language speaking courses 
to be the “Gateway drug” to international espionage. I 
thought this to be complete and utter дерьмо. 
 Anyway I digress somewhat, not only was I battling 
with the internal conflict of keeping a diary I was also 
struggling with the idea of the diary concept in general. 
Should it be read? Or should it be secret and only read by 
the writer? I was torn. I had to think long and hard about 
it as this was in the days before the invention of social 
media where I could have taken a small poll to discover the 
thoughts of people I didn’t really know. Back then social 
media was a pornographic magazine shared between 
friends on a one night on, two nights off basis
Potential excerpt from The Diary of Jim Fettle;

Monday, 15th March 1993
Washed my underwear today, this is the 3rd time in as 
many months; I’m seriously considering ditching 
undergarments permanently. I also had a rather delicious if 
not slightly over peppered sausage roll from Greggs today. 
I will have to work that off in the morning when I shall 
be entering my 4th Week of trying to keep up with Derrick 
“Mr Motivator” Evans on GMTV the next morning.

Tuesday 16th March 1993
Woke up late today so missed my slot with Derrick so I 
decided to clean the flat, I was glad of the break to be 
honest, his Lycra clad penis had become off putting at such 
an early hour of the morning. Whilst cleaning I came across 
several photos and letters from my days in the Merchant 
Navy. I became very emotional seeing my old crew mate’s 
faces and started to numb the pain with rum, it’s currently 
11:11am (there’s that time again) They were the best of 
times but also some of the worst of times. 

As I’m sure you’ll agree, not exactly The Heroin Diaries 
by Nikki Sixx of 80’s L.A. rockers Motley Crue or equally 
The Diary of a Young Girl by Dutch diarist Anne Frank, 
both of which contained interesting but very different 
slants on a “Hidden inside a cupboard” entry.
So, the decision was made. 
 I’d scrapped the diary idea completely and should the 
day ever arrive that I wanted or needed to reflect on my life 
I would rely solely on my hippocampus. But, as I sit here 
some twenty five odd years later it is slowly becoming 
apparent that my memory isn’t quite as sharp as I was 
hoping it to be all those years before. 
 Sat in the kitchen I was hoping I looked as cool as Val 
Kilmer did in the Oliver Stone movie The Doors, which 
opens with Jim Morrison (Kilmer) narrating into a studio 
mic whilst drinking whiskey and yearning for tacos. As I 
simultaneously pressed the play/record buttons on my 
cassette deck, faint memories slowly started to emerge, 
almost like uncovering a hidden note by rubbing a pencil 
over a page to reveal what had been written before thanks 
to the indentation on the following page. The problem 
being that as my metaphorical pencil was rubbing against 
my pad various other messages were also coming through.
So what is truth and what is fiction in all of this, I shall 
leave for you to decide. 

 I say rely on my hippocampus, it is widely regarded 
within the scientific community that although associated 
with various memory functions it is not alone in 
responsibility for the storage of long-term memory, the 
catalyst maybe! But solely responsible? Far from it. 
 It was pointed out to me several times by my wife that 
I had a digital voice recorder on my phone but being 
somewhat of a purist (Phones should be used to phone 
people on) and as I’d already recorded the first memory of 
the camping trip to tape, I decided to continue to put my 
thoughts down on a multipack of ninety minute Memorex 
Cassettes left over from the invasion of Compact Discs. 

The Sausage Roll Secret

I notice that the clock is reading 11:11 again and as 
I’m sitting there at the kitchen table, the built in 
microphone of the single cassette deck I'd used back in the 
eighties to load ZX Spectrum games was starting to pick up 
the faint rumblings of my stomach. As I was, as the wife 
once told me "Beyond my sell by date" I had started to gain what is 
affectionately now called a dad bod. It was called a spare 
tyre back in my day but you get the picture. Well because 
of said tyre I had been put on a low fat diet, no longer 
could I eat without consequence. I had become middle 
aged and with this period of a man’s life comes great upset 
and trauma as muscles weaken and skin starts to sag. 
Anyway, hungry, I start to search the kitchen for something 
to eat; the wife was at work so the thought of getting away 
with eating something I shouldn't filled me with 
excitement.
Now I'm partial to a sausage roll but having to 
keep it a secret was difficult. General chit chat about how 
your day had been with the wife could trip you up at any 
moment. The best thing was to eat it and forget you've 
eaten it. The trouble with that is, a particularly tasty roll 
could leave you wanting to sing from the roof tops about 
it, like a child who shouldn't eat sweets but when they visit 
grandma's house they get to indulge.
 "Don’t tell your mum you've had these." Grandma 
would say, but what's the point in having something illicit if 
you couldn't tell anyone how good it was.
Anyway this reminded me of one particular day at work. 
Which saw the arrival of a mobile coffee van outside, 
which not only served some of the finest coffee I’d ever 
tasted, but also provided an array of snacks and sandwiches 
that would keep even the most ravenous office worker 
going through the day. I purchased my usual black coffee 
and moved to the side door of the van which held a fridge 
full of snacking delights. It was there that I spied a wild 
boar and apple sausage roll, it felt like a higher power (If I 
believed in such a thing) had placed this savoury treat there 
just for me. It was 10:30am and the van had already 
serviced many other offices, why had such a great sausage 
roll not already been purchased? It was a sign. Back at my 
desk I ate the snack, it was quite frankly one of the best 
things that had ever entered my mouth, and this coupled 
with a slight smear of bacon jam that a colleague of mine 
had brought in the day earlier sent me into pork heaven. 

Having finished I set back to my daily tasks and started to 
work on a method of forgetting my illicit pastry covered 
sausage, trouble was I couldn't get it from the forefront of 
my mind. This became more apparent in the weekly team 
meeting when I was asked to disclose the latest results with 
the room.
 “Sausage roll” I replied to the delight of my colleagues 
some of whom almost squealed with delight. Again the 
question was asked, 
"Sausage roll" I replied. No matter how hard I tried the 
only words that would come out of my mouth were 
sausage roll.
The afternoon came round and I’d worked in silence, 
partly due to the matriarchal office manager who ruled the 
room by fear but mainly because of the vocal affliction that 
had appeared earlier that morning. 
 “Would you like a brew I was asked?”
 "Sausage roll" I replied.
 It was at this point I started to panic, there was no way 
I could go home and face the wife if all I could say was 
sausage roll, this would cement my guilt without a doubt.
 The end of my shift grew ever closer and I was still 
professing my love of sausage rolls, luckily I had to walk 
home which would buy me some time to try and shake off 
this terrible affliction. The entire journey home I would 
repeat my mantra "Sausage roll, sausage roll" in a vain 
attempt to try and break the chain.

 I passed a Greggs on the way home that was just closing 
up for the night, I’d already dismissed the chemist as I was 
walking by and thought if anyone can help me with this 
then it would be a baker and especially one that specialises 
in sausage rolls as Greggs does. I entered the shop and 
started to write a note to the assistant behind the counter, 
their face dropped with sheer panic. It turned out just the 
night before they had watched a documentary where a man 
walked into a bank and robbed them via the power of a 
written note. After they realised I wasn’t strapped with an 
incendiary device and my demands were not to fill a sack 
with baked goods they took me into the back room and sat 
me down in front of an oven. They threw the light switch 
and the kitchen was filled with an eerie blackness, I’d have 
said it was black like a dolls eyes but the last time I quoted 
a line from my all-time favourite film Jaws it got me into a 
lot of trouble. Through the glass of the oven door I could 
see a small orange glow start to appear, slowly it grew 
larger and larger until I could feel the heat on my face. 
Then without warning a timing clock hit zero and with a 
“ping” the light went out.
 Slowly the oven door opened and there in front of me 
stood a tiny man, a man made entirely from sausage roll. 
He explained to me that my love of sausage rolls pleased 
him greatly and that if I wanted to end my repetitive 
mantra I would need to confess my meat and pastry 
consumption to my wife. At this point I was desperate and 
would do anything to stop it, I’d repeated myself more 
times than the Freeview channel Dave has repeated that 
episode of Top Gear, You know the one, where Clarkson 
is a bit of a smug git and him and “The Hamster” bully 
James May whilst driving three shagged out cars around a 
track.
 Anyway the man reached into the back of the oven 
and gave me a pill sized sausage roll. 
 "Swallow this" he said
 I did, as if by magic I could speak again, 

 "Remember the deal, you must confess if you want to 
be able to continue to speak normally again."
 I thanked him and with that I went straight home and 
told my wife everything, of course she thought I was 
mental and was going through some kind of breakdown, 
but, I had confessed my addiction to sausage rolls and my 
end of the bargain had been kept. To this day though, I can 
no longer eat a small snack sized sausage roll for fear of it 
being my magical oven man friend.

The Journey of Discovery

As a child I loved the outdoors. It was back in 
the days when you could finish school on a Friday and not 
come home until Sunday evening without your parents 
worrying about if you’d been abducted, murdered or even 
worse become vegan. I mention this because after the 
whole sausage roll incident my doctor, psychologist and 
also my local butcher advised that it may be for the best if I 
were to get away for a few days possibly even a week, I 
thought about this and decided some outdoor pursuits 
coupled with a trip back to the town I grew up in would be 
just what I needed. I currently lived just over twenty miles 
from the town of my birth and upbringing, which was 
nestled just on the outskirts of the Derbyshire section of 
the Peak District. It was famed for its moorland which was 
a natural wonder awash with greens, browns and purples 
like a bleak but also heart-warming Monet hanging in a low 
ceilinged country ale house. It was also famous for World 
War II plane wrecks and its main road being closed in 
winter due to snow but you can’t have everything I 
suppose.
 It had been several days now since I had set off on my 
journey back to my homeland. The wife and I had both set 
off at the same time although she had driven and phoned 
me not forty five minutes later to say that she’d arrived 
safely and was still questioning my reason for walking. It 
seems forty years not only changes the landscape of a 
county but also the ability for me to remember the 
moorland paths and walkways I’d once trodden as a teen. 
 In short, I was lost. My phone battery had died and it 
was late afternoon when I stumbled across what looked 
like a dilapidated shed in the middle of the moor and 
sought refuge overnight. It turned out to be exactly that, 
an old shed, but, this one had been used as a shelter for 
sheep in the bleaker months of the year. The smell was 
horrendous and upon entry made my eyes water, it smelt 
like pensioners day in a Chinese nail bar, acrid was the 
word that sprang to mind. After several minutes and once 
I’d gotten over the initial impact the shed had on my senses 
I tried to make it more comfortable.
It felt good that I would have a roof over my head as the previous
two nights I had been exposed to the elements and feared that I would 
wake up dead. If only I’d kept my Nokia 6210, the battery 
capability on that mobile handset was second to none and I 
could have been out here for a week without the need for a 
recharge. I had other things to worry about than trying to 
telephone my wife or the emergency services; I needed to 
do something about food. 
 I was down to my last couple of Lotus Biscoff biscuits 
that I had collected over the years which came 
complimentary each time I had ordered a coffee and how 
grateful I was for them now. 
 Three biscuits in and I started to think back a few days 
when I was packing for our trip. I’d noticed in the 
background on the television there was an all-day marathon 
of the fantastic Ray Mears bush craft series. My attention 
peaked whilst folding my shirts at an episode in which 
survival expert Ray lived off the earth for the entire bank 
holiday weekend in his local forest/nature reserve and this 
is where my idea to walk home whilst living off the land 
sparked from. This is the third time I had allowed a BBC 
documentary series to infiltrate my psyche and after the last 
time when I almost blew up the entire cul-de-sac trying to 
disprove the God Particle theory I really should have 
known better. 
 Well this time I wasn’t going to be defeated, Ray had 
taught me how to trap a wild animal and so I started to set 
a snare, I was hoping to catch myself a nice rabbit on 
which to dine on that evening, the thought of some fresh 
meat cooking on the open fire excited me greatly, so much 
so my stomach which had already been growling due to 
hunger really started to take it up a gear and made noises 
I’d never heard before. Although hungry my sense of 
panic at being stuck in the middle of nowhere subsided 
somewhat as on my hunt for fire wood I saw the sun start 
to set over the hills and this beautiful sight bolstered my 
inner peace and tranquillity. I had seen many a sunset over 
the years and in several different countries but they all 
paled into insignificance when compared with the wonder 
that was playing out in front of me. “Snap!” the pain was 
intense. The fire wood I had been collecting fell from my 
arms and to the floor as I grasped at my ankle. Cursing, I 
released myself from the snare trap and checked to make 
sure no major damage had been done; luckily I had 
purchased some excellent walking boots which had offered 
some protection against the snare so it could have been 
worse. Injured, I limped on back to the shed. I was warm 
but still hungry, I had said farewell to my last biscuit, so 
tired, and close to exhaustion, I fell asleep. 
 I awoke next morning to the sound of rain on the 
shelter roof, the fire was now just a smouldering pile of ash 
and I was no longer feeling the heat of the night before, I 
had to make a decision on whether to stay here and wait 
until the rain subsided or for a passing rambler to discover 
me, or to make a break for it. I decided that it would be 
best to get moving. I was now on day four of this journey 
and I was deeply regretting not getting in the car with the 
wife. 
 Moorland, on a Sunday drive in the sun is quite 
stunning especially when coupled with a stop off at a 
country public house to enjoy a ploughman’s lunch and 
half a bitter, but this was not the case for me right now. It 
was a dark, bleak wetland, full of peat bogs and 
dangerously deep chasms that should you slip into, could 
cause a nasty twisted ankle. I recalled an exhibition at the 
local museum back in the 80’s which showcased the Lindo 
Man. a mummified ancient that had been perfectly 
preserved for two thousand years in a peat bog and was 
found just outside of Wilmslow in Cheshire. Was this to 
be my fate? Years from now, I, Jim Fettle could be the 
next peat bog display travelling the museums of the UK. 
Due to hunger and exhaustion my mind had been 
wandering all day and my concentration levels dwindling. I 
must have been lost, deep in my thoughts because all of a 
sudden I heard the sounding of a car horn.
 The Audi A4 missed me by millimetres and I stood 
there, heart racing in the middle of the A57. The Snake 
Pass (currently open as it is summer) is hazardous at the 
best of times, even when driving, but to be a pedestrian 
facing oncoming traffic was almost suicidal. I dashed to 
the edge of the carriageway and saw the sign, it wasn’t a 
sign from god but it may as well have been. The Moor 
Top Pub 300 yards with an arrow pointing left. I fell to my 
knees and fought to hold back the tears. My ordeal was 
finally over. I entered the pub and asked if I could use the 
phone, I gave the wife my location and she said that after 
she had called Derbyshire police to cancel my search and 
rescue she would come and pick me up. As I tucked into 
my Ploughman’s and full pint of bitter (I felt after the last 
few days I deserved the full pint) I saw the wife enter the 
pub. The look on her face could only be described as 
somewhere between unconditional love and utter rage. We 
sat at the table for a further thirty minutes whilst I finished 
my meal and retold the adventure of the last four days to 
the wife. 
 Once done we walked out to the car park.
 “Come on get in” She said, “let’s get you home.”
 “It’s ok” I replied “I think I’ll walk.”

The Search for Relief

I didn’t realise how tiring recalling memories could 
be so I decided to take a nap. I awoke with a burning in 
my chest which at first was very worrying indeed but I 
remembered that I’d eaten six pieces of cheese on toast 
and washed it down with a pint of pineapple juice before 
shutting my eyes on the sofa. As I looked through the 
cupboards to find some antacids I had a sudden burst run 
through my head, my search for relief had reminded me of 
another tale to tell.

 My colleague had been suffering for some days, 
clutching his stomach and chest in pain and passing the 
now more than occasional wind which at first was not a 
problem, but as the week grew on it was becoming a bit of 
an issue. It was at this point I made it my quest to find the 
poor man some relief, not only to aid him, but to also allow 
me to breathe deeply without the fear of inhaling poo 
particles. It had not been long since my return from the 
excrement filled shed on the Moors and as I felt my lung 
capacity was only just starting to get back to some kind of 
normal I didn’t want to jeopardise any future recovery.
I started the search for some kind of antacid as you 
would with the easiest route first; unfortunately, a 
communication throughout the office via electronic mail 
bore no fruits so he continued into the afternoon with his 
pain and gas. It was then I recalled spying something down 
by the river on one of my dinner time walks.
 The office was just five minutes from the river so in a 
forty five minute lunch you could really escape the 
drudgery of work and stresses of deadlines on a daily basis, 
although more often than not it made it harder to go back 
into the office. The river on one side had a wonderful 
footpath, well maintained and for the most part flat which 
made the walk effortless. 
At a particular bend in the river the path sloped 
downward towards a build-up of sand and silt, collected 
over many years and deposited as to create a beach. At this 
meander on the beach there was a makeshift tent made out 
of a sheet of blue canvas, at first glance I thought it to be a 
fisherman’s hideout but on closer inspection it looked like 
the den of the local junkies. This is where I knew my quest 
would end up, I had spotted something here only the day 
before and my curiosity to see if I was correct along with 
my colleague’s misery spurred me on to make a move.
 I jumped up from my desk and ventured down to the 
river. 

A documentary earlier that week on channel five had 
brought to my attention the need for heroin addicts to 
carry Rennies with them as a good hit of Horse, Brown, 
Skag or whatever you want to call it could cause 
tremendous heartburn. I later realised I’d confused this 
with an episode of The One Show when they were talking 
about Onions and specific acidic fruits like Pineapple but at 
this moment in time it made perfect sense.
 As I came ever closer to the makeshift den I could see 
movement below the canvas, my heart raced, the last thing 
I needed right now was a coming together with an over 
protective smack head clutching his Rennies close to his 
chest. 
 What I did see on closer inspection made my eyes light 
up in delight, for there still with Marshmallow residue from 
the previous weeks camping, was the badger.
 He looked at me with a wry smile, it turns out he had 
sneaked into the trailer I was towing and escaped 
unnoticed when I unpacked around midnight on our 
return.
 We exchanged a look and I noticed that there, sure as 
the sky is blue, were the antacids that I knew I had seen 
before. Carefully I approached the badger as he was only 
inches away from them. I talked to him softly, gently so he 
would give up the tablets with ease, in the same way a 
soulful crooner would smooth talk a female member of his 
audience out of her knickers, it seemed to work. 
 The badger edged away from the tablets and almost 
gestured with his head towards them. I reached down and 
I don't know why but I had the urge to give him an 
appreciative stroke on his head. This turned out to be a 
very stupid error on my part, the taming of the badger with 
my sweet talk had not brought us close enough for touch.
 Before he could take a chunk out of my hand I 
snatched the tablets and ran back to the office with the 
speed of a gazelle that was in the sights of a hungry 
Cheetah.
I burst through the office doors holding aloft the tablets in 
a triumphant quest like pose, I felt like Frodo in lord of the 
rings but taller and with slightly less hairy feet. It was at this 
point I had noticed that my suffering colleague had gone 
home...... My quest was all in vain.

 The Bait Shop Debacle

Here is an account of one time when two modes 
of transport (my favourite and my least favourite) got me 
into a lot of trouble.
 I was once given the opportunity to join an aircraft carrier 
on a tour of the North Pacific Ocean, purely as an engineer 
and in no way involved in battle should anything “Kick 
off” whilst there. The ship was set up for training exercises 
and I was there to keep everything ticking over so to speak 
or “keep it afloat” as my Gran used to jest with her bingo 
buddies when discussing her Grandsons work. A joke that 
backfired somewhat when I pointed out the time I 
managed to sink a Peddalo, with her and two Aunts on-
board in the summer of seventy six, just off the coast of 
Malta when I was just eleven years old. 
 All this aside, my passion for boats and a life on the sea 
burst into existence at this very point in time. I remember 
the admiration I had for the lifeboat crew as they saved all 
four of us from drowning that day and I decided right 
there and then that once I’d left school and I was thrust 
into the real world that I needed to be afloat. 
 The aircraft carrier was bittersweet for a man like me as it 
merged my favourite mode of transport with my vehicular 
nemesis. The aeroplane. I had the upmost respect for 
pilots don’t get me wrong but their showboating and antics 
made them the Rock stars of the transport world. Sailors 
on the other hand had been inflicted with quite a different 
persona and reputation but that’s another story............

 So having never been a fan of things that fly, (Birds, 
wasps, flies, that white guy in The Offspring video) I was 
very surprised when some years later I found myself at an 
air show. I have to say, that as I am technically still under 
the jurisdiction of the joint US army and Royal Navy 
initiative to which I found employment some years earlier, 
what I am about to state is my opinion and has nothing to 
do with the afore mentioned government bodies. 
Planes are the work of the devil. Unlike Boats that are the 
transport of gods and things of legend. 
 I was on a fishing holiday in the US at the time and had 
been involved in a wager with a local bait shop owner as to 
whom could fit the greatest number of live worms under 
their eyelids. At first I thought that this was the most 
absurd thing I’d ever heard but if a life at sea had taught 
me anything it’s that you have to be game for a laugh, so 
the bet was on. I naively went with just four but the bait 
shop owner won when he unfurled his eyelids, which could 
only be described as ball less scrotums, and managed to 
hide twenty six of them (thirteen in each)
 Hank the shop owner knew about my contempt for 
planes and as I’d lost the bet my forfeit was to accompany 
him to the local air show that afternoon. Driving carefully, 
as my eyes were still contaminated with worm faeces and 
slime we pulled up to an American air force base. Now 
even though my interest in flight was minimal if not zero I 
was at the time trying to hone my photography skills and 
thought this to be an ideal opportunity to get some practice 
in shutter speeds, focus and exposure times. As it was a 
public event I felt no anxiety about taking pictures of the 
planes as they flew by. I found myself being drawn in by 
the undeniable skills of the pilots and even the occasional 
“Whooooooo” emanated from me when some plucky 
maverick pulled an acrobatic stunt. I’d only ever seen 
one Captain at sea attempt a loop the loop in his ship, a 
trick that cost one hundred and eighty-six lives and a full 
shipment of imported Chinese novelty stick on ears for 
dogs. In the words of the Gibbs, tragedy. 

 Suddenly as I was about to take a picture of a low flying 
two seater bi-plane I was grabbed on the shoulder by a 
military police officer and his somewhat rotund colleague. 
They took me to one side and questioned me about why I 
was taking pictures of their planes, somewhat perturbed by 
this I explained that I had lost my worm filled wager and 
had no real interest in their flying vehicles really, but as the 
hours of the afternoon passed I was starting to warm to 
them. This only seemed to infuriate them further, not only 
was I under suspicion for international spying but crimes 
against worms was on the increase in that part of the 
country and I had just become their public enemy number 
one.
 I explained that the underside of my eyelid was a safe 
haven for any worm and if anything, a protective shield for 
them, let’s face it they’ve done a great job for eye’s over the 
years so why not a fleshy cocoon for the worm. They 
weren’t buying it and they saw this as some perverse 
practice and asked if I was trying to infiltrate the order of 
the Lumbricus Terrestris and maybe persuade some of 
them to come back to the UK with me. It was at this point 
when I suddenly remembered, I had a wild boar and onion 
sausage roll in the minibar fridge back at the motel and 
couldn’t wait to get my teeth into it, now it was out in the 
public, my sausage roll consumption was no longer taboo. 
 So after much debate and sworn testimony from Hank 
that I was just a holidaying fisherman and in no way 
associated with espionage I was made to fill in a disclaimer 
and banned from ever coming into contact with US 
Worms ever again, an exemption at the bottom of the form 
allowed me to touch a worm if it would save the life of 
another worm but if the other worm then died, then the 
touching of the initial worm would become invalid and I 
would be sentenced to death……..Worm food.

The Discovery of the Tan Satchel

There was a time when I, like many other chaps I 
knew held the firm belief that a bag was purely a ladies’ 
accessory. After all, a man can generally carry all he needs 
in their pockets. Wallet? Back pocket,
keys? Front left pocket, snuff box? Front right pocket. My 
thoughts on this did change after the decline of the 
monocle as no longer could a gent slip his single lensed 
viewing device into their shirt pocket or waistcoat, no, I 
had to carry my glasses around in a bulky faux leather 
bound case. With all these accompaniments one had to 
deal with I decided to take the plunge and purchase myself 
a bag. 

 I recalled a conversation held over a dinner time stroll by 
the river which took place between my colleague and I 
about a mythical bag shop in the local town in which he 
grew up, a shop where all bags were just £3.50, no matter 
what style or size. I didn’t believe it at first and thought my 
colleague to be pulling the wool over my eyes, however 
there I was, Saturday afternoon stood outside the bag shop.
 “Any bag £3.50” was emblazoned on an A3 piece of Day￾Glo yellow card, subtlety not a trait the owners of the shop 
possessed I thought to myself, but it caught the eye and did 
the job so I moved on into the shop.
 I wiped the residue of the day’s earlier burger from my 
fingers, not only had I discovered the bag shop in this 
town but also one of the countries few remaining Wimpy’s. 
It was 1985 when I first tasted a fast food burger. 
Having always been a traditional pastries man it had taken 
me a while to get on-board with the American imports, no 
matter how persuasive certain company representatives 
were, (Clowns, Mr Wimpy or a Colonel should chicken be 
your thing) but that’s another story altogether.
 Once inside my ears fell upon what soon became 
apparent was a heated argument between the owner of the 
shop and a lady who from a distance and in the low light of 
the room looked to be in her eighties possibly even 
touching ninety, this however didn’t stop her from scolding 
the shop owner about the poor quality of the chequered 
shopping trolley she had purchased the week before. This 
did call into question the build quality of a bag for £3.50 
but as the discussion continued I decided to browse the 
shop, which by all intense and purpose was just a large 
room filled with every type of bag you have ever seen. 
Suddenly I saw it, well; I saw a glimpse of it. In amongst 
the pristine shiny leather bags I noticed a dull, slightly 
frayed tan leather strap. I pulled gently at the strap as not 
to disturb the ceiling high pile of stock and create an 
avalanche of fashion bags. I felt a rush of excitement run 
through my body as if I were pulling a trapped child free 
from a building that had been destroyed by an earthquake; 
I must save this bag I thought to myself. The bag came free 
and I cradled it like the dusty earthquake hit child I had 
imagined it to be. I was amazed and also impressed with 
the style of the bag, it was an Indiana Jones style satchel 
which when I threw it over my shoulder felt like I had 
grown a limb, a limb that I knew had been missing my 
entire life. Satchel in hand I was finally complete.

After asking the man in the shop if he had any preference 
on how he structured his beans on toast, (some preferring 
the toast in halves, triangles, whole slices etc… I myself 
opting for halves but with some cheese mixed in with the 
beans as they are warming) I paid for the bag with 2 pence 
pieces. I had found them in my change from a previous 
night’s kebab, I hadn’t noticed at the time that Pablo my 
local doner merchant had given me so much copper and 
that my trousers consisted of so much weight. This only 
became apparent the next morning when I struggled to lift 
my jeans over my knees.

The Mystery of the Broken Seal

I’d filled two of the ninety minute tapes so far, 
snapping the protective dubbing tabs on top of the 
cassettes and writing a short description on the card inserts. 
The tabs were a sure fire way to ensure that your recorded 
material stay shielded from being overwritten with a 
teenagers top twenty or with a recording of a séance. Now, 
any adult or child for that matter, especially from the 
seventies through to the nineties know, that this could only 
be usurped by two strategically placed pieces of sticky tape 
across the now punched out tabs.

 I only mention the séance as at one time in the past 
the wife and I had invited a medium to come round to try 
and channel her great Aunt Hilda but to no avail. She did 
however mention that I had a spirit guide called Alfonso 
who I’d inadvertently picked up on my travels, more 
specifically when I once docked at the port in Barcelona, 
but back to the tapes.
 So there within the spools of magnetic tape encased 
within a plastic outer shell were just a few stories of my life 
so far, but with many others to dictate I inserted a blank 
cassette and pressed play and record once more.
 
I was an early bloomer so to speak and had been in 
possession of facial hair since my mid-teens, I’d had many 
styles throughout the years but the white goatee and slim 
line moustache I was currently sporting was my favourite. 
There had been a time though when I had to part ways 
with my beloved facial hair, not for my sake no, but for the 
sake of mankind itself…… 
It was sometime around May or possibly even August; 
I’m not sure what year as my memory is not serving me 
particularly well today. Newly clean shaven and without 
my trademark moustache and beard, I looked down at my 
new business card. “Jim Fettle – Saver of Lives.” The 
thought had crossed my mind that I may have gone too far 
with the idea of being a vigilante medical superhero but 
after watching an episode of 999 what’s your emergency 
the previous night, and being disheartened with the slow 
response times of the ambulance crew, it struck me that the 
proles needed emergency treatment quicker and decided to 
crack on. The opportunity had come to me to after I 
attended a recent first aid course. My ability to dress 
wounds, tend burns, make slings and assist in amputations 
had increased dramatically over the three day course and I 
was awarded with a certificate which now hung proudly on 
my living room wall. The course was very in-depth and 
even I, with my years of sailing hand and hand with many 
of the worlds armed forces and having seen many shocking 
things, was left slightly queasy when the instructor showed 
us how to transplant an eyeball of someone who had been 
involved in an industrial welding accident.
 It reminded me of changing a headlight bulb in an old 
Morris Traveller I used to drive. It was sage green with an 
extended back, fine wood panelling on either side and a full 
walnut dash display and an AM radio, “The first in the 
county to have in car entertainment” or so I was told by 
the salesman in the showroom, I remember feeling a little 
miss-sold as I signed the paper work but that’s another 
story. 

 My certificate stated that I had excelled in all areas of first 
aid, although the instructor and I both knew that this 
wasn’t strictly true. As the class of first aiders sat there, the 
call for the first volunteer for CPR was given. My hand 
immediately shot up, this was my time to shine as I had 
always been complimented on for my tender kiss and 
thought to myself “I’ll show them how it’s done.” 
 “Pinch the nose and tilt the head back slightly” I was 
instructed, “And then a clear deliberate breath into the 
mouth of the patient.”
 I approached the CPR dummy and stared into its doll 
like eyes, I decided I would call it Stevie after the delicious 
Fleetwood Mac hippy chick Stevie Nicks; this eased the 
tension although it did increase my arousal as I went in for 
the kiss of life. 
 Disaster!!!!! Due to my facial hair I was unable to produce 
an air tight seal around mine and Stevie’s mouth. No 
matter how hard I was trying I could not expel enough air 
due to the leakage of my life giving breath. I realised that 
although it had given me a distinguished look for many 
years, if I wanted to make a difference and save lives then 
my facial hair would have to go. I looked down at Stevie 
and started to weep as I saw the life drain out of the 
woman who I had lusted over for most of the seventies 
and into the big haired early eighties. It was at this 
moment I started to panic and realised I may have 
jeopardised any future reunion tour that Fleetwood Mac 
may decide to do. 
 “Ok Jim, that’s enough.”
 My instructor had seen the grief on my face and as the 
tears streamed from my eyes they picked up the dummy 
and put it back into its storage box under the table. 
 “Thank god” I said aloud as I realised that of course it 
wasn’t seventies sexpot Stevie Nicks.
 
My habit of naming inanimate objects had almost bitten 
me yet again, something that’s not happened since the 
infamous naming of a letter box I used to pass on my daily 
walk to work, but enough about that for now. 
 Anyway, here I was several days later, clean shaven, now 
able to produce a seal so airtight that even when the space 
shuttle docks with the international space station it doesn’t 
create something as impermeable. 
 Standing there I was ready to take to the streets, prepared 
for the fall of an elderly lady or for somebody to rush out 
of a coffee shop with burns from an over pressured milk 
steamer. It was then I noticed that Vista print had 
incorrectly and ironically titled me as “The Shaver of 
Lives” so I retreated to my living room and ordered them 
again, ready to leave my calling card the next day, subject to 
the free twenty four hour delivery.

The Case of Mistaken Identity

Just days later whilst visiting my local supermarket 
under duress I may add, my hatred for “Everything under 
one roof” shopping had stemmed from my time as a 
mystery shopper, where I had sworn that I would purchase 
at least 92.7% of my shopping from local shops that aren’t 
determined to replace the human with an extremely 
annoying automated self-checkout, but I’ll tell you about 
that at a later date. So here I was walking aimlessly up and 
down the aisles like the rest of the consumer cattle 
sourcing my 7.3%, when suddenly I glanced across the 
shop floor towards the clothing department and could have 
sworn that I’d seen her face before. Stood there she was 
oozing class and sophistication even in what could only be 
described as the affordable fashion of the day. She was 
definitely familiar to my eyes, even from this distance and 
with my medium sight prescription eye glasses on. It was 
then that it hit me and hit me hard. She looked very much 
like Stevie. 
 I had tried to forget about the CPR dummy that had 
for a brief moment taken my heart, but here she was and 
with all her limbs attached in front of me not thirty yards 
from where I was stood. I gave myself a brief talking to 
and plucked up the courage to go and chat to her; after all 
it wasn’t every day that you came across a woman like that. 
I moved ever closer, my mind racing, trying to think of 
something witty to say to break the ice but it was too late 
and within moments I was upon her.
 As I was sat in the office waiting for the store manager to 
finish speaking with the local authorities, I questioned the 
need for Mannequins to be so life like; after all they were 
just glorified coat stands. How could I, for the second 
time in the space of a week have fallen for a latex and 
plastic humanoid. After several hours of ridicule and 
interrogation from the store manager I was allowed to 
return home, only after signing a disclaimer that I was 
forever from that day unable to enter this particular store 
again. After my dealings with the Americans I was 
finding the world to be less accessible to me as the years 
went by. 
 I was left with no choice but to stop at the local Tesco’s 
on the way home to pick myself up a pre mixed bottle of 
Pina Colada, my addiction to ready-made cocktails still 
raged on but after the day I’d had it was needed. 

 “Clean up on aisle three” a voice exclaimed over the P.A. 
system. 
 The voice was panicked and there was obviously an 
urgent need for cleansing assistance but I sensed there was 
more to it than that. Call it what you want but something 
sparked my first aid intuition, I felt as though I had been 
put here by some universal force and being ejected from 
the previous shop was fate. This wasn’t just a case of some 
spilt fabric softener or a split carton of double cream, on 
no! This was much more than that. 
 I rushed to the aisle to see there, flat out on the floor an 
elderly lady who had unfortunately been unable to avoid an 
altercation with a bottle of Italy’s finest olive oil. She lay 
there covered head to toe in oil, looking like Jamie Oliver 
was just about to tear a rocket salad over her and mix her 
up with goat’s cheese and walnuts.
 My dislike of Jamie Oliver was described as irrational by 
most but once I’d pointed out his excessive use of the 
overpriced oil with every dish he’d ever prepared I had 
many on-board and some even started boycotting his 
restaurants, something I myself did not agree with but as I 
had started the whole movement felt I had to publically 
agree with.
 Being well versed with woman, and oil, I knew 
instantly what to do. I ran and collected a pack of baby 
wipes, these things are soft enough to use on a baby’s skin 
but for some reason could remove grease off an engine 
block. I also sourced some flour (to be used to soak up the 
residual oil from the floor.) After thirty minutes of wiping 
not only did the lady have a lovely olive sheen on her, she 
also smelt like the innocence of a child, something she had 
given up on a back street of Ancoats at the age of fourteen, 
but that’s another story.

A note to Jamie Oilover (Oliver)
Should you ever hear this Jamie or should someone in 
there boredom in the not too distant future listen to these 
tapes and decide to write down my thoughts please don’t 
take offence with my opinion around your oil usage. I 
agree in some circumstances a drop or two of olive oil can 
enhance the flavour of a meal but to cover food to the 
extent you do I can only surmise that you have trouble 
passing hard stools and need them greasing up before 
exiting your bottom. If this is the case then I feel for you, I 
also had a spell of troubling faecal evacuation and found 
that with the help of a strong cup of coffee in the morning 
coupled with a cigarette I was flushed out within fifteen 
minutes. I’m not condoning smoking but by god it eased 
my bowel strife almost immediately.
Love Jim

The Tragedy of War

I had decided to rest my brain for a while as I had 
been recording nonstop now for hours (Bar the heartburn 
inducing nap) and settled on the sofa to watch a 
documentary on the history channel. I usually avoided 
programmes about war, it would normally send me into a 
spiral of tropical cocktail abuse but there was something 
intriguing about the colourisation of old film that drew me 
like a moth to a flame. Part way through and during one of 
the many advertisement breaks I felt the need to tell of my 
experiences during a time of conflict. So I paused the live 
TV programme, amazing!!! And pressed play and record 
once more.
 
 The ones who had lost their grip and perilously fallen 
over the edge were getting cold now and given the 
circumstance it wouldn’t be long until they were freezing, I 
was close to tears. In my twenty years at sea, I hadn’t lost a 
single man overboard, yet now, I had them streaming off 
the side like pooh sticks falling over Niagara Falls on an 
annual boy scouts visit during summer break. The clock 
seemed to slow and I found myself recalling the time I had 
spent with some of those that had fallen, being a ranking 
officer I had nurtured them, kept them contained and away 
from anything that could contaminate them and made sure 
that they had all the ingredients needed to satisfy the Naval 
command and not leave a bitter taste in your mouth.
 It was dark and I was finding it difficult to see them 
now, I’d been trained to keep calm under such pressures 
but I’m not ashamed to admit that panic was starting to 
rage inside me. Suddenly a huge flash of light and I was 
momentarily stunned, had we been hit? After a few 
moments my eyes adjusted and looking down again I saw 
with a huge relief that the bulk of the baked beans were still 
on the toast and only a few had gone over onto the 
coldness of the plate.
 “Fettle!” I heard somebody shout.
 My superior officer had let this kind of thing go in the 
past but my fascination with the preparation, followed by 
the inevitable consumption of my beans on toast was 
becoming somewhat obsessive. I had been involved in 
arguments, bar fights and one time what could only be 
described as a duel to the death with a man, who was 
adamant I should be cutting my toast into triangles before 
pouring on the beans. The man was a moron and got what 
was coming to him.
 “Jim” my commanding officer said with concern in his 
voice, “You really need to snap out of this.”
 Snap out of it! He made it sound like it was some kind 
of school boy crush, this was no crush, I was madly in love 
with Henderson’s Relish and the introduction of it into my 
beans had been my equivalent of splitting the atom. Could 
you imagine Fish without chips, Ant without Dec or the 
BBC without Paedophiles? It just wouldn’t be the same. 
This is now how I viewed my student snack which was 
made into a culinary delight with the inclusion of said 
relish. Think on Jamie, no olive oil. 
 Suddenly I heard a Boom! Shake, shake, shake the 
room, Boom! Shake, shake, shake the room. Tick tick tick 
tick Boom!!
 Oh no, not only had we been hit by an enemy torpedo 
but my affliction of singing Will Smith songs had also 
returned, it had been over a year now since I’d been free of 
the Fresh Prince, but now he was back with a vengeance. 
 We rushed to the deck and saw in the distance the source 
of the weapon that had impacted us. 
I shouted the command “Fellas!”
 “Yeah!” was their reply.
 “Are ya’ll with me?” “I said fellas!”
 “Yeah!” 
 “Are ya’ll with me?” “Why don’t you tell the girls what 
ya’ll wanna do?” 
 Then another bright flash of light came with the flick 
of a switch.
 “Are you nearly finished in that bath?” “I need to get 
ready.”
 The wife was stood in the doorway and had been 
waiting for quite some time. My bi-annual bath had been 
extended due to the inclusion of two replica warships that 
had been bought for me on my birthday. 
 “You can stick to showers from now on.” She said.
I feel the need to explain my twice yearly bath. Having 
spent so much time at sea a bath is not an option and a 
consequence of this was a strange intolerance for sitting in 
one’s ever increasing liquid filth. The thought of it used to 
turn my stomach, not only that but the continued need for 
topping up with hot water made them more effort than 
they were worth. 
Obviously personal hygiene was maintained throughout 
the years with regular showers which were taken quite 
regimentally. 
 My disdain for bathing was eased slightly though with 
our maiden visit to a holiday cottage in Scotland. Found 
amongst the pull out section of a Sunday magazine we saw 
the ad for a country cottage getaway. 
 We had booked the long weekend away to get over the 
defeat of a custody case I’d battled with a neighbour over 
who had ownership of a rather splendid Sycamore tree that 
bordered our houses. Once the judge had pointed out to 
me that the tree was actually a good four feet inside my 
neighbours boundary and the fact my only argument was 
that I thought the tree to be such a beautiful specimen and 
not worthy of a man who hailed from Bury, threw out my 
claim and made me pay the court costs.

 So here we were in the wondrous country side of 
Scotland with no other residents within four miles, Bliss. 
Bliss until a visit to the toilet was met with dread when my 
eyes scanned the room and there wasn’t a shower in sight. 
My eyes fell upon a solitary bath tub (One of those huge 
fancy free standing Victorian style ones with the brass legs). 

 After the first days rambling across the wild 
countryside in order to find a ploughman’s and a pint, I’d 
worked up a bit of a sweat and had to bite the bullet. Since 
my brush with death on the Moors of the Peak District, the 
wife had insisted that I wear a tracker so as not to get lost, 
unwrapping this from my leg like a guest from Jeremy Kyle 
once their licence had ran its course, I ran myself a bath 
and submerged. I‘m not ashamed to say it was like no 
other bath I’d taken, the inclusion of one of the wife’s 
fizzing bath bombs, although at first was slightly 
unnerving, turned out to be really rather pleasant and really 
made this bathing experience work.
 So we now visit the cottage twice a year, once in 
Summer and once over Christmas not just to wash away 
my Yule time woes, but to consume quite possibly the 
greatest ploughman`s lunch I’ve ever tasted. 

The Touch of an Angel

I’m close to the end of this particular tape so for 
once in my life I shall keep this one brief.
 “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a 
nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an 
oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in 
it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that 
means comfort.” 
Several months had passed since my epic journey 
across the Moors and as I sat there reading the opening 
lines of The Hobbit by Tolkien (Available in all good book 
shops and the occasional Menzies) I wondered what 
similarities I would encounter between my own journey 
and Bilbo’s. 
It had been several years since I last saw a Menzies 
Newsagents never mind stepped foot into one and started 
to wonder if my recommendation to purchase a book from 
there was a sound one. 
 I’d had a lot of time to reflect on that fateful trip, 
recalling the relief of finding shelter, finding the odd 
Blackberry and Loganberry and the accomplishment of 
staying alive in conditions that could only be described as 
well……...pretty damn uncomfortable. On the second day 
I had resolved myself to the idea that I wasn’t long for the 
world and that I were to shortly meet my maker, it was at 
this point I had talked to god for the first time since cutting 
my finger on a rather badly designed cheese grater. 
 I say cheese grater, it was actually a multipurpose 
grater but in our house used strictly for cheese. The 
grating of vegetables had been taboo since the wife had 
made a particularly rancid attempt at home made coleslaw, 
substituting carrot for sweet potato. Anyway, I digress. 
As I sat there contemplating my communication with a 
higher power something hit me hard, so hard that I felt a 
physical blow to my temple, a blow so strong it knocked 
me off my chair to the ground and onto my knees. There 
was only one conclusion from this experience. 
I had felt the power of god.
 I had questioned the belief of a creator or higher 
power my entire life. Even from my early teens I would 
look to astronomers and scientists for the answers to the 
mysteries of the universe. I did have a flicker of doubt 
once when Professor Brian Cox was released to the masses, 
should this ex musician with his calming almost meditative 
voice really be the poster boy for modern science? I met 
the man once at a village fate and after speaking to him for 
a good seven minutes I realised he was actually an 
extremely clever individual and not a goofy, smiling puppet 
for the BBC. He was also part way through eating a 
Cornish pasty which apart from the sausage roll is the heir 
to the King of all pastries. So I decided to wash clean my 
previous thoughts about him and made him my first follow 
on Twitter. @FettleJim for those who are interested in my 
daily musings. (Rants) 
 Pulling myself up from my knees I felt a warmth inside 
me run down from the top on my head to the tips of my 
toes. I felt like I was in a nineties Ready Brek advert 
surrounded by a luminous glow and ready to change the 
world. I had been sceptical in the past, hearing stories of 
people who had been touched by god, but I, like most, had 
written them off as some kind of priestly encounter in the 
confessionals, but no! I had experienced this in the 
seclusion of my own living room and not a member of the 
cloth in sight.
As I was coming to terms with what had just 
happened, a single white feather drifted before my eyes. 
My grandmother had always taken this as the sign of a 
visitation from a guardian angel and who was I to question 
this logic, especially given the circumstances. 

 As I say, for many years I had been a man of science 
and reason but at that point I realised this way of thinking 
was all in vain and I instantly started to view the world in a 
different light. I felt awakened and full of power. Power 
that I was in no doubt had the potential to change the face 
of the earth for the better. 
 I understood now what it must have been like for Neo 
(Keanu Reeves) from The Matrix but without the full 
length black leather coat and visual self-imagery of one’s 
digital self. I had metaphorically swallowed the red pill. 
After what felt like maybe thirty minutes I decided to take 
my new-found powers out to the streets, this coupled with 
my first aid certificate would surely have me healing the 
sick and curing the lepers within no time.
 It was at this point I looked down and saw the bird 
lying there at the bottom of my feet.
 “Well that explains the feather” I muttered to myself 
wiping the residue of bird splatter from my forehead and 
with that I calmly walked over to close the opened window 
that was across from my chair.

Click! 
The tape had ended and just in time

The Deception of the Mind

I was tired, so tired that I could no longer keep my 
eyes open. The blackness fell around me and the weight of 
my limbs left me helpless, lying on my side with my face to 
the floor. I could feel the cold on my cheek and even 
though every other part of my body had shut down, the 
sensation that was crawling through my face was almost 
unbearable. I was praying for death.
 It felt like I had been tortured now for weeks, although 
in reality, it had only been around forty five minutes. 
 Wired for Sound by Sir Cliff had been on continuous loop 
for the last half hour and I was slowly losing my mind, I 
had contemplated ending it all there and then but as I 
looked around and saw all their smiling faces I decided to 
have a hot chocolate, get back to my feet and carry on. 
 How or even why I’d agreed for that matter, to take place 
in a charity remake of the wired for sound video, was now 
a distant memory.
My skating technique was hap hazard at 
best so rolling around in a large crowd, coupled with the 
choreographed dance routines made for a disastrous recipe. 
Suddenly I was woken by the alarm; I recalled 
immediately the dream and wrote down the details. I had 
been disturbed by the recent vividness of my dreams so 
under advisement of Rullah, the owner of the local crystal 
and new age store I had decided to keep a dream diary. I 
wasn’t one to fall for the mumbo-jumbo of incense sellers, 
I generally find their tie-dyed appearance rather off putting 
but after a discussion with her at a local craft fair she had 
given me a book which would soon explain each and every 
dream I would have. Subject matter, theme, reason, this 
was all contained within the book to help me interpret my 
nightly episodes. 
I got out of bed and put on my slippers, but when I looked 
down they weren’t slippers at all, they were laced up boots 
with a wheeled sole. I must have still been dreaming, a 
dream within a dream.
 I knew that watching Inception the night before 
starring Leo Di Caprio was a bad idea. The last time I was 
so caught up in a film I was banned from the local 
swimming pool for shouting “You’re going to need a 
bigger boat!” when a rather rotund gentleman had belly 
flopped into the deep end. 

 Frightened, I dashed for the door, forgetting that my 
feet were enclosed in skates I rolled straight through the 
door and into the barrier at the top of the stairs. My head 
had taken a nasty blow and as I woke, dazed and 
disorientated I got to my knees and looked around. There 
in the middle of the rink and to the soundtrack of Wired 
for Sound I watched as thirty underprivileged kids 
practiced their moves, approaching the camera for a close 
up and then skating away, making it look as though the 
camera had past straight through them. It was at this point 
that I really started to panic. Was I still dreaming? Was 
waking up a dream? Was this all due to the mild 
concussion that I was suffering from?

 I decided to get to my feet and return my rented skates 
to the desk, I had endured far too much for that evening 
and needed to get home and return to reality. 
On the journey home I tuned into a Radio Four 
documentary which charted the psychological effects of 
music on our brains, it was interesting to know that 
different types of music affected our brains in certain ways. 
I was just pulling up to the house when the bombshell was 
dropped. Cliff Richard had been employed by the army 
during the first gulf war to perform Wired for Sound at full 
volume on a daily basis, to flush out insurgents from an 
afghan village, a method also used by Wimbledon to try 
and remove people from centre court when it rained. I 
pulled up at the house and looked forward to getting inside 
and having a cup of tea, when………
 The alarm woke me with a start; I looked at the clock 
and hit the snooze button. That was the strangest dream 
so far I thought to myself, as I reached for my dream diary.

The Enemy of the State 

My palms were sweaty with nerves, my training 
had been intense and I was top of my class but to be out 
there in the field for the first time was quite frankly, pretty 
damn scary. 
 “See and not be seen.” My training officer had said to 
me.
 He had personally selected me for this mission as I had 
been exemplary in the classroom and thought it would be a 
great introduction to the world of espionage. It was a small 
job, I had to tail somebody for the afternoon, somebody 
who we thought was dealing in secrets that were imperative 
to the safety of our nation. 

 I had pulled up to what looked like an abandoned 
warehouse and entered cautiously, on entering it became 
apparent that it wasn’t abandoned as several people were 
going about their duties. The place was split into different 
sections but I had it on good authority that the guy I was 
looking for would be close to the back exit.
 “я могу вам помочь” a voice called.
 Thankfully being fluent in Russian I knew that this 
chap was asking if he could help me with anything.
 “Нет, спасибо” I replied and went on my way.
 I’d not needed his help but had thanked him for his 
concern. 
 I thought quite highly of the Russian and made a 
mental note that should things go astray that I would try to 
avoid killing him. I headed towards the exit and as I 
rounded the corner I saw him. I gathered my thoughts and 
took a deep breath, everything I had learnt was to be tested 
in this moment, it was make or break from here.
“Could you recommend a starter for a vegetarian who’s 
attending my dinner party?” 
 The question burned deep inside me and made me 
feel physically sick. Not only was I certain he could see 
through my façade but the thought of having a vegetarian 
for dinner was abhorrent. Time slowed and the next two 
minutes felt like a lifetime. As he described several 
different tried and tested dishes and asked me in depth 
questions about what they liked, he left me no choice but 
to score him a perfect ten, his customer service was 
fantastic and I made a mental note of his name, although I 
forget it now. I thanked him and so to not draw attention 
to myself picked up some of the Linda McCartney sausage 
he had recommended, I could feel the bile in my stomach 
bubble as my hands came into contact with the packaging. 

I ditched the so-called sausage in the snacks and crisps aisle 
and had a little chuckle to myself as I scored it down for 
this product being out of the fridge and defrosting on a 
shelf. 
 My mission here completed, I made my way to the 
BWS.
 “What’s that Jim?” I hear you cry.
 Well, that is what people in the business call the Beer, 
Wines and Spirits aisle. I scanned the spirits and found 
that to my disappointment that they no longer stocked my 
favourite rum. It was at this point that a decision was made 
that would affect my life for the next four years. I looked 
at the bottle of Prosecco and thought that would be a nice 
change and it would certainly surprise the wife if I came 
home with something so…… lady like. It was then I 
glanced upon the readymade cocktail section and it was 
there, Pina Colada, readymade. I tossed a coin and the 
random selection of heads made the decision for me. The 
wheels to my Pre-made cocktail addiction had been set in 
motion.
 As I turned to the checkout I noticed that an elderly 
lady had hurt herself trying to lift her basket onto the 
conveyor. She had trapped her finger between the handles 
and I thought to myself I really must take that first aid 
course I’d seen advertised. Supermarkets it seems are a hot 
bed for accidents. Anyway, it would have to wait as I was 
due to go camping the following weekend, a couple of 
friends of the wife and I had invited us to a “Closer to 
nature” weekend to try and relieve the stress of the job and 
the city, but that’s another story, in fact, one you already 
know.

Disclaimer*
This is if you like a recorded prequel. I have neither the 
inclination nor skill to edit this into the beginning section 
of the first tape. It is also the seed sown which grew into 
my hatred of supermarkets. As a mystery shopper, judging 
people in their place of work seemed somewhat evil and I 
would like to apologise profusely to any members of staff 
who were affected by me marking them down for not 
displaying their name badge or something equally as petty. 
I have also decided that the next story will be my final. 


 

The Pleasure of the Park 

“Well, that was worth the ninety quid!” I said 
to the wife sarcastically.
 She turned scowling and said, “Yes, I do believe it was!”
 At this point I feel I must point out we both have very 
different opinions regarding fairground attractions, she is 
highly entertained by the twists and turns, peaks and 
troughs of a ride. I on the other hand find it all a tad 
distasteful, as having survived several conflicts and been 
close to death on the odd occasion, don’t need the thrill of 
the ride to churn my guts or tingle my senses. I once got 
into trouble after sparking an argument with a fellow rider 
of a roller coaster telling them at some volume that 

 “The sanitised adrenaline rush that he was seeking was a 
dishonour to many fallen men, and that if he wanted to feel 
the real force of what his adrenal gland could produce, he 
should sign up for the armed forces.” Embarrassingly I 
had to retract my statement once we got off the ride when 
the wife pointed out that I’d been lecturing a six-year-old 
child who had spent the two minutes of the rides duration 
crying. On the up side, it was the day that I realised I 
needed a third pair of glasses for close to medium distance, 
but that’s another story.
 Now don’t get me wrong, there are a couple of rides 
that occasionally pardon the pun “Float my boat” one of 
these being the Log Flume. That closeness to the water, 
even if in a fake plastic tree trunk brings a smile to my face 
not seen since the birth of DAB Digital Radio, the sound 
quality on these things is just phenomenal, the ease of 
tuning and the lack of distortion bringing more value to my 
listening pleasure. The channel availability is quite limited 
and people are almost force fed a certain type of music but 
don’t get me started on that!
Another of my favourite rides if you can call it that is 
the Ferris Wheel, now I know what you’re thinking, sitting 
in a bucket whilst it moves around on a giant wheel at an 
excruciatingly slow pace isn’t worthy of being someone’s 
second favourite ride but, it gives me a beautiful, peaceful 
moment to slowly contemplate the world and reflect upon 
my life.

I digress as the point I was making is that adrenaline 
fuelled rides with their loop the loops and enormous drops 
are exactly the ones I try and avoid, up until this particular 
day that is.
 “We have to go!” said the wife.
 She was referring to the opening of a new ride at the 
local theme park, the fastest, tallest ride in the UK with five 
stomach churning consecutive loop the loops. Well you 
can imagine my delight when I found out that the day it 
was opening also coincided with our wedding anniversary.
 Two birds, one stone. 
 To cut a long story short, we queued for two and a half 
hours for a ride that lasted a little over ninety seconds. The 
last time I’d spent that amount of money in such a short 
space of time I was in a Brazilian brothel, but that’s 
another story. Anyway covered in my own vomit we 
returned to the car.
“Well, that was worth the ninety quid!” I said to the wife.
Sarcastically, she turned scowling and said “Yes, I do 
believe it was!

My Final Thoughts

Although I have enjoyed most of this exploration 
of my mind it has also highlighted to me that there could 
be something inherently odd going on up there in my skull. 
I will agree that for the most part it has been therapeutic, 
but I do feel that it is a time to close the chapter on these 
particular memories and as they are now down on tape it 
feels like a good time to move on, safe in the knowledge 
that they will always be there should I need to access them. 

There is a complete blank B-side left on this final tape so 
should anyone ever come across these recordings I will 
leave the protective tabs intact so that you may fill the 
second side with whatever you like without the need of 
sellotape, just not Wired for Sound by Cliff Richard. 

Absolute final thought, maybe it’s about time as a species 
we decided to ban the production of spoons.

Jim signing off, Lets go get some Taco’s.

Stop/Eject!