Becoming his Bobness, by Mark Anthony Wyatt



Try to visualise the future Bob Dylan’s soul. Before he was born here on earth….. Yes, I know, it’s not easy is it? We don’t really know for sure if souls even exist, let alone what they might look like. His soul doesn’t yet know of course that it is to be the future Bob Dylan. The name ‘Bob Dylan’ would mean nothing to it. To make things even more complicated Bob Dylan won’t even be born as Bob Dylan. He will be born as Robert Zimmerman and change his name later in life. But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself here; so let’s all take a step back for a moment and i’ll try to set the scene a little better.

This short story is set on the day leading up to his birth in 1941. The two characters having a discussion are not in this world, they are astral souls in another dimension that supplies souls to inhabit newborn babies as they are birthed to their new mothers on this planet. Our World is at war. It is a terrible time for mankind. Things are looking particularly bad in Europe. People are being killed daily in their thousands all over Europe and the far east.

I was musing one day on the possibility of reincarnation and how, if it is real, it might work. I had noticed whilst browsing the web that Trotsky, the infamous Russian revolutionary, died in 1940. I also noticed that one of my musical heroes was born the following year in 1941. Not very far apart. Perhaps you can already see where I’m going with this?

A long line of souls are waiting patiently in a queue coming out of a waiting room for souls. They are all waiting to reincarnate as newborn babies on to the earth plane. They’ve mostly all been here on earth before in other earlier lives, but some will be ‘first-timers’, and some perhaps have come from other galaxies! A heavenly ‘life fixer upper’, we’ll call him Jim,  glides down towards the very long queue and lands by the waiting room door. He spots the future Bob Dylan’s  soul deep in conversation about music with another soul just inside the door of the astral waiting room. ( This other soul talking music with ‘Bob’ would join the queue in a month or so, he was still resting between lives. I’ll let you know who that other soul was a bit later.) Jim beckons ‘Bob’ and says “Come on now,  say goodbye to your friend, you should be in the queue outside, we are finding you a new mother today for your next trip to earth! ”

So Jim says to the future Bob Dylan’s soul, “So what are you going to do with your life this time around then eh? Would you like to try our special offer ‘surprise life package’?”  The future Bob Dylan’s soul wasn’t at all keen to have the special offer ‘surprise life package’. He wanted to have some idea who he was going to be before he went back down to earth, and have a rough idea of what he was going to do with his next life. He wasn’t too keen on surprises. He had already given that a try the last time around,  some pushy trainee ‘surprise life package’ salesman had convinced him to give it a try. It had been a big gamble; and very stupidly he had taken it. Yes, he might have been born as a super rich good looking prince, with a harem full of beautiful sexy women all at his beck and call,  a few luxury mansions and flashy sports cars galore, that was what the prick of a salesman had suggested might happen in his smarmy sales spiel, but, just like winning the lottery, the odds had been very much against it. Once bitten, twice shy. No, his ‘surprise’ hadn’t gone very well at all.

Leon Trotsky 2
Trotsky. A crazy man with crazy hair.

He had been born as Lev Davidovich Bronstein, (future history would know him as Leon Trotsky.) He had arrived from between his mother’s cold, skinny white thighs in some awful god forsaken,  poverty stricken, freezing cold place called Russia. It had been a terrible shock to him. So much so that he had tried to climb back up into his mother’s womb again. He had been expecting warmer climes and clean silken sheets. But what he had got was a blizzard blowing through the rotten wooden shack that his parents laughably called ‘home’, and some coarse, flea-infested, urine stained, stinking blankets. No, it hadn’t been a great start for young Leon. He had been more than a little pissed off and had cried for four weeks straight. His poor suffering mother had almost smothered him to be rid of the miserable little bastard.

Trotsky did have a very interesting life though, it is true, but  what happened to him during that life isn’t relevant for the purposes of this little story, so we’ll just skip that bit and go straight to his horrible demise. His life ended very abruptly, very violently, and very painfully in 1940. One of Stalin’s murderous international assassins had tracked him down to South America, (where he had been trying to escape his vengeance after a bit of a ‘falling-out’). The assassin  buried an ice pick deep into his head. He would have much preferred to have died peacefully in his sleep, or perhaps even by a quick bullet to the back of his head, (a very popular method of murder by the Russian state at that time), but by a bloody ice-pick? No, given a choice he wouldn’t have chosen that.

“No!” Said the future Bob Dylan’s soul very aggressively; remembering his previous grisly end when he had played the part of ‘Trotsky’ on the world stage. “I definitely don’t want to try your special offer ‘surprise life package’ again mate, so you can just stick it where the Sun don’t shine!”

“O.K., O.K.,” said Jim the ‘life fixer upper’, “No need to get all worked up, have you got any preferences?”

Well”. Said the future Bob Dylan’s soul. “I now realise why you offer those ‘surprise life package’ deals to us re-incarnating souls. If you were to tell us  that we were going to be Hitler, Stalin, Trump, Pol Pot, or Tony Blair, or maybe the victim of a tsunami, we just wouldn’t take the life on.   We would refuse to play the part and we would just stay put here in our cosy, peaceful, ‘astral waiting room’! It’s the only way that you can get those lives ‘off the shelf’ isn’t it? But I’ve learnt my lesson, I’m not taking any more chances. I have been giving my next incarnation some very serious thought, I’ve had quite enough of revolting peasants, red revolutions, disgusting Russian food, massacres, mass graves and bloody ice picks. This time I  want to go for a quieter, more caring,   and more creative life. I’ve had it up to here with bloody politics, racism, freezing cold Siberian winters and all that hate!  I want to be a great musician, somebody who is loved and respected,  not somebody who is hated and feared. This time I want to be a brilliant, critically acclaimed, renowned songwriter who will be remembered and revered for thousands of years. Oh, and I’m not too fussed about the voice, you can make it an acquired taste only enjoyed by those with good taste if you like. Blokes like that Wyatt fella. Well? Do you think you can fix that for me then Jim?”

“You don’t want too much do you?” Said Jim sarcastically as he had a quick flick through the pages of his ‘Big book of new incarnations’. After much ‘soul searching,’ and a few calls to the boss lady up at ‘Gabriel H.Q.’ He said. “ Yes, we have a life here that just might be of some interest to you. It fits your chosen criteria to a ‘tee’. Yes, we can fix that for you. You will be born as a baby boy to your new parents. Their names will be Abraham and Beatricia Zimmerman and they will call you ‘Robert’. They are expecting you tomorrow morning, so please do get a bloody move on and glide down that dark tunnel very quickly when the time comes, but do remember to wait for that little bright white light! That means ‘it’s good to go’! Your parents are a very nice  respectable young  Jewish couple. They have a cosy, clean, safe, loving, warm home. I think you will really like them. I certainly do, and so does the boss”.

“Jewish?” Said the future Bob Dylan’s soul. Completely missing all the other good points Jim had mentioned. “Jewish for ***k sake?! Please don’t let me be born in Europe Jim, please no! I’ve heard all the awful stories in the astral waiting room. There have been thousands of the poor buggers coming back here lately, long before their soul contract was up, it’s not very nice down there at the moment for Jewish people!”

“Now don’t you go fretting about that, you’ll be alright because you will be born in the ‘Land of the free and the home of the brave’.

“What? In Britain?” Said the soul of the future Bob Dylan, now feeling somewhat relieved.

“No, in America stupid, in a place called Duluth in Minnesota.” Replied Jim the heavenly life fixer upper. “Oh well”. Said the soul of the future Bob Dylan.  “I guess I’ll have to just settle for second best then, but in any case it’s got to be much better than being born in Poland in 1941, hasn’t it?”

Bare-Chested Freddie
Freddie being a mega rock star. Is this the real life or is it just fantasy?

“Zimmerman?” The name had only just sunk in.“Did you say Zimmerman for Christ’s sake? The Robert bit’s O.K., well, it’s not too bad. I would have preferred something more like ‘Woody’ though obviously, but Zimmerman? Zimmerman? What sort of a bloody name’s that for a musical icon? Zimmerman? I’ll only ever get gigs down the pub doing those crappy, cheesy pop covers with a stupid bloody name like that! Zimmerman? Why don’t you just go the whole bloody hog and call me something really bloody stupid like Farrokh Bulsara!”

“Oh, no, we can’t do that I’m afraid”. Jim replied. “That name is already reserved for another soul who will be back here in the queue in about five years time. He will change his name later in life to ‘Freddie Mercury’. Apparently he wants to be a mega rock star, he wants to wear tights and mascara and make one of the finest singles ever made. It’s going to be called ‘Bohemian something or other’, it’s all here in the book of life you know. Some people are just so fussy, why can’t they just want to be Fred Bloggs the plumber and want to go around fixing people’s loos, or Susie Smith the bespectacled librarian, and be quite happy charging people for returning their books late? If you dislike Zimmerman that much you could always change your name later to something much cooler that the kids will really dig. Something with a bit of style to it. Perhaps something like….. oh, let me think……. yes I’ve got it… does ‘Bob Dylan’ sound to you? That’s pretty cool isn’t it, huh?”

“Bob Dylan eh? Yes, that’s really cool, yes I do like that. I will remember it!” Said the soon to be born Robert Zimmerman.

“So off you go then, and have a great life ‘Bob’, but do get a bloody move on or you’ll be late, but  don’t forget to wait until you see that little bright white light at the end of the dark tunnel before you make your grand entrance!

“Yes I know, that means good to go”. Replied the soul soon to be born as Robert Zimmerman.

“Oh, and by the by, that soul I saw you chatting with earlier, the one in the astral waiting room, you will see him again in a few years time, he will be a good friend of yours in this life. His name will be Otis Redding.  We’ve given him a really wonderful voice, but just between me and you, his songs aren’t as good as yours. See you next time around Bob!” Said Jim, as he hurried off to the next soul in the very long queue behind ‘Bob’. 1941 was a very, very busy period for Jim. They were sending them back up much faster than he could send them back down. These humans really had to start growing up. They had been given a wonderful opportunity and frankly they were blowing it, they needed to start loving each other more, and their beautiful home, but at least that last guy would be doing his little bit to improve life on earth. He would be writing some amazing poetry and setting it to great music.

“Beyond the horizon, in the Springtime or fall
Love waits forever, for one and for all”………..Bob Dylan from ‘Beyond the Horizon’.

images.jpgdylan guthrie
Bob Dylan doing his Woody Guthrie impersonation.


Written By Mark Anthony Wyatt

February, 2015

Find me on Facebook@ Mark Anthony Wyatt (Bude), or on my Fbk page ‘It’s a Dark, Dark Night’

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Constructive comments below are very welcomed. Glowing praise even more so. It’s how I know that you have been here. Offers of highly paid writing gigs, though unlikely, would be lovely too. But just for the record, all spammers can just go and……………

Note; Any written work, music, images or videos that Mark Anthony Wyatt has personally created, remains his personal intellectual property. Any other written work, music, images, or videos are the personal intellectual property of those who created them and NOT mine.






Some personal thoughts on life, the universe and everything……


You know how it is, I’d be very surprised if you  haven’t had this sort of experience too at some stage in your life. Try to picture the scene……It is a beautiful day. You are sitting in your garden, or perhaps on a beach. The Sun is warming your face. You are happy. You are content. You are at ease. Suddenly everything feels just right in your world. You are having one of those rare moments of complete clarity. You feel that you are on the verge  of finally understanding what life is all about, and why we are all here on this beautiful planet. But that sacred knowledge that you feel you are just on the cusp of finally grasping is just so elusive….. that you can’t….. quite…. reach it. It is frustrating. It is a similar feeling to the one that you have when you know the word that you are searching for in your memory banks, but you can’t quite remember it. It is so close and yet still so far away!

What do you mean you have never felt like that? Too busy to think about such things, huh? As a gardener I am prone to moments like those when I’m pottering about in gardens. I think it is maybe because we gardeners are so close to nature. Our working lives are dominated by the seasons. We see them all close-up and personal. We see them come and go. The natural cycle of all things. We put our plants in the soil. We tend to them. We watch them grow. We also see them die. But that’s ‘O.K.’ because their offspring will pop up in the spring and the cycle will start over.

Recently I got to thinking how lovely life could be if we just tried to stay focussed on just the ‘moment’ that we are living. To try to stay in the ‘now’. Forget yesterday. It’s done and dusted! You can’t change what happened, or didn’t happen. Forget tomorrow. It will be with you soon enough. Don’t wish your life away! Enjoy the company of all of those around you. Stare like a crazy man, (or woman), at your own offspring occasionally, (but not too much, as it might really freak them out!) Take in all of their beauty and take some credit for what you see, think to yourself “I created her/him!” (‘O.K.,’ so we all know that you had a bit of help!)

The following is just some of my thinking on what I call the ‘bigger picture’. I’m not saying I’m right. I really don’t know anymore than anybody else. It’s just my best guess and it makes a bit of sense to me!

We are all little ‘gods’, whether we like it or not. We are all co-creators. No, please don’t give up on this piece yet, don’t worry I’m not going to get all religious, or blasphemous, on you. Quite the opposite.  I knew from an early age that the religion that I had been born into, (Christianity, Church of England), like all of the other options on offer, had misinterpreted the whole ‘god’ question, or, perhaps closer to the truth, Christianity had been misinterpreted by some of those who followed its doctrines. Having said that it also helped mould me into the decent, caring man I am today, although most of the credit should rightfully go to my Mum and Dad! At the age of twelve, I discovered Erich Von Daniken’s books, and they confirmed my own suspicions. I was, and frankly I still am, amazed that the clergy in the church, establishment educated people, hadn’t put the pieces together years earlier themselves and come to similar conclusions. They just didn’t get it. Or perhaps they did, and they were just keeping it to themselves in order to stay in their cosy, safe careers? For me ‘they’, the so called ‘gods’ that they lectured us on from the pulpit every Sunday, and the great teachers like Jesus, were probably from somewhere else in the universe and they had visited the earth to spread their own civilisation, use our natural resources or teach us the power of love. Already at that age,  with the help of researchers like Erich, I had seen all the ‘clues’ to previous visitors from other planets. It just seemed so obvious to me, and frankly it still does.

I know of a lady who is of a very high rank in the C.of E., (she must be very high up because she gets to wear one of those rocket shaped hats on special occasions!) She is a decent, caring human being too but very trapped in her narrow paradigm. I saw the way she looked at my U.F.O. book collection, and then me, when she visited a few years ago! She probably thinks that I am totally bonkers for believing in such things, and that I need ‘saving’! These people blindly accept the miracle stories in the Bible without ever thinking them through. What they referred to as ‘miracles’ were more likely just very advanced technologies. I wonder if it ever crossed that lady’s mind where the idea of a bishop’s mitre originally came from?

I once knew a professor of chemistry, he was about the same age as me. We had a chat about U.F.O.s  in the pub one night. As I set out my case he listened patiently with his establishment educated brain and bits of rubber stamped paper telling him that he was superior, whilst simultaneously he was no doubt mentally already preparing his putdown. I finished my little opening gambit, leant back in my pub pew and took a sip of my lovely, warm ‘Timothy Taylor’s’ bitter. He looked across the table at me in a fatherly, patronising way and said “But Mark, don’t you understand that it is impossible, how would they get here?” His ‘education’ had told him it was impossible, and therefore it was. Of course they were capable of getting here. Why do these narrow minded people always assume that we are at the forefront of science? Anywhere? Ever? Our visitors would have been far more advanced than us of course. They would have seemed like ‘gods’ to the neanderthals or peasants who witnessed them. They had probably been created long before us, and had perhaps eventually created us, or maybe they had just adapted what they found already living here! Maybe they still keep an eye on us like any other kind, caring parents.   We may be their children; (Our Father who art in heaven anyone?) and like any good parents they want us to grow up and go out into the wider universe, when we are ready, to spread love and creation ourselves. Just like they did. It’s simple really. In my experience these establishment types, despite, (or maybe because of) their expensive educations, have got tunnel vision. They have been brain-washed to never lift the lid off of that box that they live in, to see the world from other non-mainstream perspectives. If they weren’t taught something at university or college then, in their opinion, it does not exist and is not even worthy of proper investigation. Religions are, in my opinion, disempowering, they are mostly about going down on your knees, prostrating yourself on the floor, and saying “Oh, please forgive me for this, and please forgive me for that, and I am not worthy, blah, blah” like uneducated peasants still living in the dark ages. We all need to take our personal power back with which we were blessed, and use it to create  something good. It’s all nature, like flower seeds blowing in the wind, or explorers ‘discovering’ the ‘new’ world, but  on a far grander scale. Our seeds will one day spread from planet to planet.

I was recently thinking about what might happen to us when our earthly body dies; (not for the first time), and about the possibility that we all live on in some other better place, perhaps in an alternate dimension. In modern day ‘game- speak’ you could call it progressing to the next level.  I want to believe that there is something very pleasant to follow this life, and that we will meet our loved ones again, all of those lovely people, and our pets, who predeceased us. Is that just wishful thinking on my part? Perhaps it is. But I’m not going to just blindly accept our current 21st century science as ‘evidence’ that there is nothing for us to look forward to except darkness and oblivion. The experts once told us that the world was flat.  Get my point? Science will always evolve it is it’s very nature, it doesn’t stand still.

Maybe we will live on in some  kind of astral form, (well we can’t use the same knackered physical body that we used here on earth can we?) Perhaps we will all re-incarnate as ‘somebody else’ next time around. Our consciousness might get put back on this planet in a different body, or maybe on another planet in our solar system, or perhaps even in another solar system, or  another dimension, and at any point in time. I say ‘any point in time’ because time probably does not exist on a linear level as we experience it here in our earthly, three dimensional physical form.

Perhaps time is circular and we are all part of an ‘eternal return’? Now there’s a thought, maybe we just keep repeating the same life over and over until we finally ‘wake-up’ to it and then progress up to the next level. (Deja vu anybody?) Who knows? Not me. I haven’t got a clue. None of us do. If anybody says that they do know for sure then they are obviously deluded, and you really should avoid them. No, really, you should!  I’m not sure which is the worse kind of ‘expert’, those who try to sell you their religion or the ‘old school’ Darwinist scientist types who will not budge from their own out-dated myopia. Has nobody ever told them about the advances in quantum physics?

So, you may be thinking, where does all of this ranting and philosophising leave me on this topic, at the end of this little essay where I have asked far more questions than given answers, and where does it leave me on the biggest mystery of them all? Well my view is about the same as Iris Dement’s, (one of my favourite musicians). She wrote this very pretty and very wise little song. It is called “Let the mystery be”. And that’s what I think I will try to do too. Not that I will ever stop thinking about it. Here’s Iris in all her loveliness…….please listen to these wise words. She puts it far better than I ever could, and she’s far, far cuter too!



Written By Mark Anthony Wyatt

February, 2015. Edited June, 2015. ‘It’s a Dark, Dark Night!’

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Note; Any written work, music, images or videos that Mark Anthony Wyatt has personally created, remains his personal intellectual property. Any other written work, music, images, or videos are the personal intellectual property of those who created them and NOT mine.


‘Shalford boy’ (an original song by Mark A. Wyatt)



This is a nostalgic song I wrote a few years ago, it’s about my sixties childhood in the pretty Tillingbourne Valley of Surrey, in the rural south-east of England. It’s not a poem as such, but then I always preferred the Dylan approach to song-writing, cramming the right words in to a limited space! Reading it again now I also think I may even have been ‘channeling’ the great Laurie Lee!

We liked to go fishing for some brown trout,

Or go and climb the great old oaks.

Sometimes we’d play soldiers in the woods there,

I guess I’m still that Shalford boy at heart.


In the summer we’d play cricket on the village green,

Come autumn, football down the park,

One winter the meadows near Guildford, they froze over

I guess I’m still that Shalford boy at heart.


We made bonfires and effigies of Guy Fawkes,

We’d push him on our go-karts down the road,

we’d shout  “Penny for the Guy!” Then we’d burn him,

My Dad and uncle Charlie, they got themselves merry on ‘Woodpecker’ cider and set off ‘Jumping Jacks’ and ‘Bangers’

I guess I’m still that Shalford boy at heart.


At Christmas all us kids we did go singing,

“Hark those Herald angels sing”!

If we got lucky we might have got a mince-pie,

I guess I’m still that Shalford boy at heart.


I was so lucky to grow up there,

Mum and Dad gave me a lovely start.

Sometimes when I close my eyes, I go back there,

I guess I’m still that Shalford boy at heart.

Written by Mark Anthony Wyatt some years ago but first published

in February, 2015.

Check out my web-site, it’s called  ‘It’s a Dark, Dark Night!’ (If you type that in to your search engine, just add ‘Wyatt’ after it and it will come up!)

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Note; Any written work, music, images or videos that Mark Anthony Wyatt has created, remains his personal intellectual property!

Tillingbourne at East Shalford







Written by Mark Anthony Wyatt

Based on his Tillingbourne valley childhood in the sixties.



Orwell got it right


Were we ever a land of fair play, decency and cricket, of opportunities for ALL? Probably not, but it seems we’re now forever at America’s beck and CALL. Big business castrated our leaders; they’ve no longer got BALLS,  it’s our very own decline and FALL!

Many of our younger generation are in real DESPAIR,  the jobs and training for their futures just aren’t THERE. They’ll send them off to fight for ‘Queen and country’, to get maimed or DIE,  in greedy corporate conflicts overseas,  all based on LIES.

The mainstream media are guilty of COLLUSION, I’ve long since come to that CONCLUSION, they point their fingers and tell us who to BLAME, it’s a world-wide propaganda and chess GAME.

Our government tells us, with such fake SINCERITY,   ‘Tighten your belts, we’re all in this together, in a state of AUSTERITY’. But it’s funny how the money’s always there when they want another WAR.

It’s time we grew up and stopped consenting to their endless  WARS; I don’t want to see no bombed- broken- BABIES, or decapitated LADIES on my news-feed no MORE! Our leaders blindly follow the U.S. corporate AGENDA; their military bases around the world should all be marked ‘Not required any more, return to sender!’

dan dare
Well it’s not that far off is it?

Our UK coppers now dress like ‘Dan DARE’,  they ‘kettle’ us and act like robots with no semblance of human CARE. Armed to the teeth, SPOILING FOR A FIGHT, they always think might is RIGHT’. This is not ‘the British way’; it’s our darkest NIGHT, it’s a US Import like MacDonald’s, ‘C.S.I. Miami’ and G.C.H.Q. eaves-dropping SITES.

Well at least he he got that right.

They are taking away your right to protest, and restricting what you say in the name of ‘TERROR’, George Orwell got it right, only the date he gave was an ERROR. We are sleepwalking towards a police STATE,  if you don’t start resisting soon, it will be too LATE!

Written by Mark Anthony Wyatt

(between 2007 and 2015.)


Note; Any written work, music, images or videos that Mark Anthony Wyatt has created, remains his personal intellectual property! Any other images, videos, quotes etc., belong to those who created them, and NOT me. Thank-you.

Read more of my work on my Facebook page…’Mark Anthony Wyatt’ (Bude), or at my other Fbk page…’It’s a Dark, Dark Night’.

Constructive comments below are very welcomed. Glowing praise even more so. It’s how I know you have been here. Offers of highly paid writing gigs, though unlikely, would be lovely too. But just for the record, all spammers can just go and **** themselves.



The Dancing Geordie Burglars!


Note, before you start reading; for those of you who don’t already know, the term ‘Geordie’ generally refers to a person who is from the Newcastle area of Northumberland, which is in the north-east of England.


If you have lived in Northumberland you will know, as I do, that Geordies are a warm, welcoming people, and arguably the friendliest people in the country. Many call centre businesses employ Geordies because their accent is very popular among other Brits. Their voices are perceived to have a natural warmth and charm.

While living in Prudhoe, a small Tyne Valley town about ten miles west of Newcastle, I accidentally bumped in to some local burglars going about their nocturnal business. To my surprise I found that Geordie burglars were very friendly too, or at least this particular bunch were! Perhaps they had attended a burglar’s finishing school in Byker, on the banks of the urban Tyne, and had learnt how to be polite and sociable when speaking with any members of the public they might encounter. Yes, I know that the very idea of burgling people’s property is abhorrent, as I have been on the wrong end of a burglary. I am not condoning what these people were doing.  I am merely telling you about my rather strange encounter on a quiet up-market, residential road.


Walking Home from the pub……

The Adam and Eve pub. My local in Prudhoe for many years. I had some great nights in there with my Geordie mates.

I had been out socialising with my mates down at the Adam pub,  and was, if I’m honest, ever so slightly inebriated after a late night lock-in.

Prudhoe castle, where my mate Howard lived and worked. Not a bad gaff.

I had said “goodbye” to my mates after staggering up the lower part of the valley-side road with them from the pub. We had then gone our separate ways. Ian had to climb the hill even further  and Howard had to head off towards Prudhoe castle, where he lived and worked. I was now walking home on my own, along the long valley side residential ‘Castle road’.

It had been about two O’clock in the morning when I had suddenly noticed, coming towards me,   (emerging unexpectedly from a little footpath), six  intimidating,   huge young men. All were far bulkier than me, and all taller than my mere six feet one and a half inches. They were wearing identical black Adidas track-suits,   white trainers and black ski-masks. They may as well have had the word ‘Burglars’ flashing above their heads in coloured theatrical light bulbs!


It’s not so much the width, it’s the depth and the weight. These old nineties T.V.s were HUGE!

But it wasn’t quite so much what they were wearing, as what they were carrying between them, that had given away their un-social night-time activity. They hadn’t needed to wear stripy tops or carry swag bags to convince me of their preferred nocturnal pastime. I knew instantly, with absolute certainty, that it wasn’t protecting Prudhoe’s burgeoning badger population from an impending cull. What these hefty lads were juggling between them, with great difficulty, was a late nineties state-of-the-art Phillips thirty six inch screen television, and a video player. (Bear in mind that back in those days the televisions were far bulkier than today’s modern flat screen models).

On spotting me walking towards them they had made a very feeble attempt at hiding the stolen goods behind their backs, and in the process they had almost dropped them on to the path. I knew I was in a tricky situation. I had briefly considered challenging them, to attempt a citizen’s arrest, or maybe heroically running away to hide in a conifer hedge, or in some old gadge’s allotment potting shed, until they had passed. I quickly ruled out the first idea on account of liking my body and face just the way that they were.

The ski-masks had given them the appearance of fundamental religious zealots,  not permitted to show their faces in public.  I braced myself for a Geordie burglar style fatwa, with the punishment for witnessing them in their crime, (or at least having witnessed them shortly after they had committed it), almost certainly, at the very least, a damn good kicking, followed by a quiet word in whatever might be left of my ears, to keep my mouth shut about what I had seen.

I was nervous and my adrenaline had rapidly started to kick-in. I  prepared myself mentally to hit back at the closest burglar if it started to kick-off. I thought about  running away, (very courageously of course), across my Prudhoe neighbour’s back gardens, and jumping over their six foot high fences as if I was jockeying ‘Red Rum’ over ‘Beecher’s Brook’ at Aintree. I had no plans to stick around waiting for the inevitable ‘kick-a-thon’.


The Showdown begins……

“You’ve not seen us, reet!”

But it was too late. I couldn’t run away. They were now blocking my path.

The biggest of them leaned down towards me, (he must have been at least six feet five inches tall). He addressed me just a couple of inches from my face. I was hit with a short sharp blast of beery breath, escaping from the mouth slit on his ski-mask. “It’s a lovely evening isn’t it sir?” He slurred very politely, in matter of fact, measured Geordie tones.  We could have been walking past each other on Tynemouth Prom on a Sunday morning. This opening gambit had caught me quite unawares. He was, I thought at the time, playing mind games.    He knew very well that I would be anxious and expecting something a little bit more traditional. Something like a huge, bony, hairy finger, poking away at my slim 42 inch chest, accompanied by the words “Who the fu** do you think you’re staring at?”  Which of course we all know is a very popular fight starter, known, loved, and frequently used by ignorant thugs all over the English speaking world.   I could smell alcohol on the rest of the lads too, and their slurred speech confirmed it. I was surprised by their nonchalant attitude, they seemed quite laid-back and relaxed, given the circumstances of our meeting.

“You’ll be betrayed by your accent and manners”. Paul Weller. (As strange towns go they didn’t come much stranger than Prudhoe).

They had reminded me of those German ‘S.S’. officers at the railway station in the film ‘The Great Escape’. You may recall them,  coolly checking on the identity papers of all of the passengers, as they tried to find the escaping allied prisoners of war. They caught out one of the British officers, (wearing French civilian disguise),   by wishing him “Good luck”. He had stupidly replied, in a very upper crust English accent, “Oh thanks awfully old boy.” So maybe that was their game, were they were trying to lure me into a false sense of security with their politeness? To quote Paul Weller, (from his excellent ‘Strange Town’), “You’ll be betrayed by your accent and manners (in a strange town)”.  I was a lone Southerner, (and like Weller himself, also a Woking lad). I’m a tall, slim bloke, not really built for scrapping after the pubs close, and I was facing six hefty Geordie thugs. I was three hundred plus miles from ‘home’, and I didn’t have any big Southern Vinnie Jones look-a-likes to help me out if it should all ‘kick-off’.

I raised myself as high as I could onto my toes, my heels now a few inches off the path, and I looked him right in the eyes. “Yes, it is a lovely evening, you’re not wrong mate”, I replied firmly, almost aggressively, in my blatantly Southern (Surrey) accent,  showing no fear.  He was flanked by two of his burglar mates, and behind them were the other three. They looked like they were rugby players preparing for a scrum down with Tynedale R.F.C. and the T.V. and V.C.R. were sandwiched between the two ‘rows’.  These big ‘farmer-boy stock’ lads were not a pretty sight. As I stood there, trying to quickly weigh up whatever options I might have had left, it struck me that despite the ever present threat of the ‘kick-a-thon’,  the situation was quite amusing, in a surreal kind of way.  I couldn’t help myself and a silly smile had slipped out. I was watching them struggling with the bulky weight of the T.V. and the V.C.R., and in their semi-drunken state I’m sure they thought I couldn’t see them. The leader, seeing my silly grin, addressed me again “You sound like a Southerner pal.”  He said accusingly. (Not much gets past you, I thought). I was secretly quite pleased at his use of the word ‘Southerner’ and not the usual ‘Cockney’. Yes, I am a Southerner, and very proud of it too. Well spotted ‘pal’. (I emphasised the ‘pal’ that he had just used on me). I much preferred that to being incorrectly labelled as a ‘Cockney’, yet again. “Yes”, I said, “Guilty as charged”.  I was still waiting for that first blow. I heard one of them mutter “Bloody Southerners, coming up here, taking jobs away from us hard-working night-shift workers.” The lad to his left had joined in. “Yes, and our women too,  they’re always so much better looking than us!” (O.K., I admit it, I may have made that last bit up just to annoy some of my Geordie mates). I braced myself ready for violence. Perhaps they had been worried that I might ‘dob’ them in at the local ‘nick’ in the morning.


If I had decided to run they wouldn’t have caught me. By the time that they had put the T.V. and V.C.R. down on the path, I would have been hurdling over my third fence. Adrenaline and fear have that effect, it’s a heady brew.  But I had decided to ‘front’ it out. They looked warily at me and then traded worried looks with each other. The boot, (or in this case the trainer), was now on the other foot. It was on my foot.  Had my apparent lack of fear suggested to them that it was me that was a danger to them, and not vice-versa? Just what was it, they may have been thinking, was it that I had, that was giving me such confidence against such overwhelming odds?  What exactly, they may have thought, would a lanky, jumper wearing, Michael Palin look-a-like Southerner have, that  would give him the supreme air of self-confidence that he so exuded ? Just what might he have lurking up his heavy-knit, multi-coloured Scandinavian sweater sleeves? Maybe they thought I was a black belt in karate, or perhaps that I had an ‘Uzi’ sub-machine pistol secreted away under my baggy jumper. Perhaps they were expecting me to give them an evil, sly grin, and then cut them all down in a hail of bullets and flying brass spent cartridges.

In reality of course I was feeling decidedly queasy, but they didn’t know that. Never show fear, that’s my advice to anybody who ever finds themselves in a similar situation.   Because if you do,  just like a rabid dog, they will smell that fear on you and launch their attack. I continued my pretence and kept my head held high, looking them each in the eye-slits of their ski-masks.

Star Gazing…..(a kind of ice-breaker)….

Suddenly we all saw a shooting star and all of us exclaimed different variations of “Wow, did you see that?” (Many with swear words added in). We all continued to look up at the clear night sky  and made small talk about constellations  and planets. As you do. I asked them if they watched Patrick Moore’s ‘Sky at night’ T.V. show. They all did. I pointed out ‘Pegasus’. They in return, not to be outdone on their knowledge of astronomy by a mere Southerner, showed me where ‘Hercules’ was to be found, (and as they pointed up they had almost dropped the T.V. again). These Geordie burglars were not only courteous and friendly, but well educated too. I was impressed.

The Geordie Burglars decide against using me as a football…..

But to my relief I don’t think they were in the mood for violence. They  stepped aside and then continued on their wobbly way, probably to go and visit the local ‘fence’ up at a pub in the town centre,   or perhaps to go to one of the lad’s homes, to play the latest computer games on their recently acquired big telly. I just hope that they remembered to nick all the relevant cables too.

They’re going to Graceland, Graceland…..

As they continued on their merry way,   the probable leader called out over his shoulder, “Good night to you sir!” One of his gang added pleasantly

“It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance sir, what did you say your name was again?”

The excellent ‘Graceland’ album, by Paul Simon. “Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum!” Buy it.

“I didn’t”. I replied, in the deepest, manliest Southern voice that I could muster. “But you can call me Al”. Al? Why Al you may be thinking. Well Al was the first name that I could think of, as I didn’t want to give them my real name. I had been listening to Paul Simon’s brilliant ‘Graceland’ album a lot at the time. They giggled at my response and replied in unison, “Good night Al!”  I responded by asking him for his name. Showing the usual Geordie quick wits he didn’t disappoint. He told me his name was “Houses….. Robin Houses”. We laughed. (I hope you did too). Another burglar piped-up, “My name’s Yertelli, Nick…… Yertelli”.  These lads were on a roll. They should have been on a social club stage, not nicking tellies. Who said burglars can’t be comedians too? They could always ‘break-in’ to the big time! (Enough with the cheesy jokes already!-Ed.)

As they walked drunkenly away giggling,   still struggling to carry their illicit cargo, they  spontaneously began to sing and rhythmically sway……

“If you’ll be my bodyguard, I can be your long lost pal”. (The leader sang the “Dum-dum-dum- dum-dum-dum-dum-dum” bit).

I stood there for a couple of minutes enjoying the spectacle, watching them slowly moving away from me down ‘Castle road’, swaying from side to side as they did so, Zulu style……

“I can call you Betty, and Betty when you call me, you can call me Al!”


Waking all the Neighbours Up…..

A little further down the road a bedroom window opened, and a man shouted “Do you do requests pal?” The burglars stopped singing and dancing for a moment. They looked at each other first, and then up at him and replied, “Why-aye man, we can do like!”

“Well ***k off then and let the rest of us sleep!” Came ‘window man’s’ instant reply. I think the burglars were offended by his use of the ‘F’ word. Their leader said “Now there’s really no need for that sort of language! What if you woke up a bairn and they heard you cursing like that?” The man at the bedroom window had suddenly looked quite ashamed. He apologised profusely to the burglars,  said “Goodnight lads”, and then shut the window. The burglars shook their heads in horror at the declining social standards, and then continued on their merry thieving way up the steep Prudhoe bank road. That telly was heavy and their backs were going to know about it in the morning. I turned away and continued on my own way home. Those lyrics went through my head again….I began to sing and sway from side to side too….

“Far away, my well-lit door, Mr beer-belly, beer-belly,  bone….digger, bone…..digger, dogs in the moonlight, why am I soft in the middle now?”

The Next Morning…..

I can’t  recall getting home that night, but I do remember waking up on my sofa the next morning and feeling like a hamster had crawled into my mouth during the night, been sick a couple of times, died, and then got stuck in my windpipe. That bloody song was still going around and around in my head too…..

“If you’ll be my bodyguard I can be your long lost pal, dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum”.

The Burgled Brummie Burglar…….

There is an odd little footnote to this strange tale. A couple of days later I heard, through the usual gossip-grapevine down at the ‘Adam’, that there had been a burglary further up the road on our estate that night. Apparently a big telly, a video player and some other smaller items had been stolen, including, strangely enough, six ski-masks.

The man they had burgled that night was also a burglar. He was an incomer to the region, (from Birmingham), who had somewhat belatedly taken Norman Tebbit’s advice to ‘Get on his bike’, although in his case it had more than likely been on somebody else’s. It was believed that the local burglars had soon fallen out with him over disputed thieving territories. The Brummie had apparently been robbing on their patch and they weren’t at all happy. So they had decided to burgle him. (A tip off had told the Geordie burglar lads that the Brummie burglar was away thieving in Spain, he was on a sort of ‘busman’s holiday’).

When he had returned, the police, who at the time did not yet realise that he was a burglar, had called around to speak with him to discuss the burglary on his property, and to offer him some counselling via ‘victim support’. The burgled Brummie burglar had been very reluctant to speak with them, and this had aroused the detective’s suspicions, that, and probably also the many boxes of ‘Adidas’ track-suits and trainers, and the big pile of video recorders that the police had found in his utility room, oh, and the stripy jumpers,  the swag bag,  other ski-masks, and the sawn-off shotgun hidden away in his garage in a trunk. (They were all a dead giveaway). I also suspect that the jemmy bar that he had left lying carelessly on the kitchen table wouldn’t have helped his defence much either.


While the detectives were there dusting everything down for fingerprints they had also taken his, in order to rule them out from any others that they might find around the house, or on any future recovered stolen property.  A sharp eyed copper at the local Prudhoe station had met the Brummie guy once before in the near-by ‘Falcon’ pub,  and with his policeman’s instinct he had thought there was something a little bit dodgy about the Brummie,  (other than his strange accent). He had also heard the rumours in the local working men’s clubs about the Brummie’s industrious, nocturnal activities. He had visited the Northumbria police H.Q. at Gosforth, and checked the Brummie’s fingerprints against many unsolved robberies around the Tyne Valley area in recent months.  He soon realised that the Brummie burglar was a one man burgling epidemic of epic, biblical proportions. The burglary rate in Birmingham must have significantly fallen after he had nicked that bike to go north. No wonder the local Geordie burglars weren’t happy with him moving on to their patch. They had a living to make, children to feed, mortgages to pay, and ‘trophy’ wives who liked to spend lots of money on sunbeds and at the ‘Metro Centre’ to make themselves look ‘glamorous’.

The Brummie burglar was leaving them with so little to steal that some Geordie burglars were taking drastic action. Some had even written to the then prime minister John Major, and even to the ‘E.U’. commissioner, demanding something to be done about it. Some had even started looking for ‘proper’ daytime jobs where you didn’t have to hide your face. Since he had arrived in the Tyne Valley the local Geordie burglars had broken into many Tyne Valley homes, only to find a dusty space where the telly and video recorder had once sat, and a little note saying “Sorry lads, but that bastard Brummie burglar has already nicked all of our electrical appliances, and my wife’s treasured family heirloom jewelry too, so don’t even bother coming upstairs. You’re too late. But do feel free to put the kettle on and have a brew while you’re here, the chocolate biscuits are in the cupboard above the draining board, and do please remember to shut the door quietly on your way out so as not to wake the bairns. Oh, and please don’t disturb the dog either, we wouldn’t want him to bite you”. (Didn’t I tell you those Geordies are very hospitable folk?) The Brummie was working far too hard and giving them all a very bad name. His prints were found on literally thousands of unsolved burglaries in the area.

What Goes Around, Comes Around…..

O.K., so they aren’t Geordies by birth, but all three lived and worked in Newcastle during the 90s, (at Newcastle F.C.,) and are all good examples of the Geordie ‘look’ of the time. Terry McDermott, (on the right with the moustache), with Kevin Keegan to his right, (he was practically a God in 90s Prudhoe), and the brilliant Micky Quinn, (sitting behind our Kev), using his perm as a makeshift moustache.

A couple of cop cars and a van were sent speeding up to his house on Castle road. Their wailing sirens accompanied by the sound of hundreds of flushing toilets, as worried residents spotted them coming and chucked all their weed and coke down their toilets. The burgling Brummie was promptly nicked. His prints had also turned up in a Prudhoe sportswear shop. That was of course where he had stolen the track-suits and trainers. In nineties Prudhoe no self-respecting fashion conscious Geordie man could ever be seen out in public without wearing a track-suit, or a moustache, and preferably both if you didn’t want to stand out. If you went into a Newcastle pub back in those days without the ‘uniform’ you would have, at the very least, raised eyebrows, and people would definitely have pointed at you as you entered the pub.  The Brummie burglar had been selling them out of the back of his car, (the track suits and trainers that is, not the moustaches), around the local industrial estates. He had sold some of them on to one of his new Geordie mates, who had then sold them on to his own mates down the working men’s club in Prudhoe, who by chance just happened to be the same lads that I had met that night, who had of course  burgled the Brummie’s own home a little earlier, while he had been out sunning himself in Spain, and robbing  ex-pat Cockney criminal’s gaffs, while they were all out down the local ‘British’ pub bragging about how they had masterminded both the ‘Great Train Robbery’ and the ‘Brinks Mat’ warehouse job. What goes around comes around.

So, to recap on a small point……just in case you weren’t paying attention, (well it was a little complicated to be fair), the Geordie burglar lads I met were wearing track suits, trainers and ski-masks that the Brummie burglar had previously stolen from the sports shop in Prudhoe. Well it was a small town. It’s all quite ironic. You really couldn’t make it all up. Some of it, yes perhaps, but all of it? Probably not. The End.

This story was based on events that really did happen to me in Prudhoe in the late nineties. At the time it wasn’t quite so funny.  If you have enjoyed this daft story keep a look out for more from me.




Constructive comments below are very welcomed. Glowing praise even more so. It’s how I know that you have been here. Offers of highly paid writing gigs, though unlikely, would be lovely too. But just for the record, all spammers can just go and **** themselves.

All written work by Mark Anthony Wyatt, Bude, Cornwall. February 1st, 2015. Edited April, 2016.

Note; Any written work, music, images or videos that Mark Anthony Wyatt has created, remains his personal intellectual property. But any other images, videos, quotes etc.,  remain the intellectual property of those who created them. You can also find me on ‘Facebook’..@ ‘It’s a Dark, Dark Night’

The Japanese Silk Kimono


Alan was, like me, a Bude resident and a huge Bob Dylan fan. He was also one of my earliest gardening clients and would soon become a good friend too, but sadly it wasn’t to last very long, as within two years of our initial meeting he would be dead from a heart attack.

Occasionally, if I drive down Killerton road, (mostly on my way somewhere else), with its beautiful red brick Edwardian three storey town houses, I catch sight of his house. The memories all come flashing back. How I wish he was still around. I could stop by for a coffee, or perhaps something a little stronger, and catch up on what he’s been up to, where he’s been, who he’s recently met, and listen to his latest music purchase. (He always had such diverse tastes). Perhaps, in some other alternate dimension, he really is still in there, maybe in the front room, and he’s probably still wearing that awful kimono that he had on at our first meeting! Sometimes I feel the urge to pull up outside his old escallonia hedge, (worse for wear these days without my care), and his little wrought iron black garden gate. I will slide my car door window down, recline my seat a little, put my head back, shut my eyes for a few minutes and listen…… really listen, and i’ll swear I can still hear Alan singing along with Bob…..

Alan was in his late sixties, perhaps even his early seventies when I first met him. His face and build were as you might imagine the classic ‘Coca Cola’ style Santa Claus. Although Alan was at least twenty five years my senior when our paths first crossed, we had immediately bonded. It was a bright, sunny early spring morning and I was a bit early for our initial ‘face to face’ meeting to discuss the gardening job, which we had set-up a few days earlier on the telephone. Having rung the doorbell I had politely stood back a little and waited. I was not really sure if he had heard the ‘ring’ and was contemplating ringing the door bell again. I could hear the unmistakable nasal sound of Bob Dylan Dylanblasting out of his opened front room bay window, and I do mean blasting. His speakers were obviously turned up to eleven. Bob was being accompanied by a much deeper, bassier voice. Was it Johnny Cash? Well no, it wasn’t. Was it Tom Waits? No. Was it Ramblin’ Jack? Err, no, it wasn’t him either. It was, of course, yes, you’ve guessed it, Alan! They were singing together and sounded (almost) as good as any other musical duo.  Simon and Garfunkel,  the Everly brothers, the Milk Carton Kids, Frank and Nancy Sinatra. O.K., so they weren’t really that good, but with a little practice, who knows? Bob of course had no knowledge of it, he was probably sitting in a log cabin in a forest somewhere at the time, perhaps he was reading very old newspapers from his local library to gen up on ideas for new songs. The brilliant line….. “She opened up a book of poems and handed it to me, it was written by an Italian poet from the 15th century”, floated out of the window. Genius. Shakespear? Who’s he? I already liked the guy!  Anybody who likes ‘His Bobness’ is O.K. by me. Now, if it had been Whitney Houston’s “I will always love you” I might well have got back into my van and driven away fast. Very fast. My wheels spinning and tyres screeching along with Whitney.

Alan looked very much like this, especially at Christmas time when he played Santa for local playgroups, but for the purposes of this story try to think of him dressed in a sexy Kimono. Not easy, I know……

I was later to realise that Alan had some serious hearing issues, but as with the chicken and the egg story, I don’t know which came first. Did Alan need to have the music very loud in order to hear it, because he was a bit deaf, or was it the constant loud music that had actually caused his deafness?
Just as I was about to push the little white button again the deeper, bass voice stopped singing, and a bloke that looked like an off-duty Santa Claus had opened the front door.  He stood there, almost filling the door frame. He was a very big man! He took a long, hard, serious look at me, before, after about ten seconds, his expression had changed to a warm welcoming smile. I think he had decided that he liked me! There was already an unspoken bond. He was wearing a Japanese silk kimono, open at his ample waist,  with his pallid, saggy stomach hanging over his baggy boxer pants. The boxers had clearly seen better days, (probably back in the late nineties judging by the state of them). They were emblazoned with two large caricature head portraits. On my left was Tony Blair and on the right was George Bush junior. (Junior? As if one George Bush wasn’t enough for the world.) They reminded me of the ‘Beavis and Butthead’ cartoon characters and looked as if they were deep in conversation. (Maybe they were dreaming up excuses to invade more oil rich, strategically located sovereign countries, who knows?) I had involuntarily giggled at this odd, unexpected sight. Alan, following that age old actor’s wisdom, ‘Unexpected laugh? Check your flies’,  had looked down and quickly realised that the cause of my sudden mirth was the silly pants that he was wearing.

His smile was put on hold as he looked down intensely at the two cartoon heads,  as if he was only now seeing them for the very first time. “Oh, the boxers.” He said, now smiling again. “That’s nothing, you wait until you see my backside!” I quickly protested that I really had no desire to see his backside, that it was far too early in our ‘relationship’, and told him that it was not that long since I had digested my Cornflakes. But Alan was far too quick for me and had already done a ‘twirl’ that would have put Anthea Redfern to shame. He now had his back to me, facing away from me towards his stairs. He bent forward theatrically and with a flourish he raised the kimono up and over the rear of his boxers. Now you are going to have to take my word on this, but it really was not a pretty sight. At that precise moment Dave the postman had sauntered by behind me on his Killerton road round. He was an old pal of Alans and was used to his odd ways. He stopped for a moment, wolf-whistled and said, “You’re not still showing those bloody pants off are you Alan?” Before walking briskly off, giggling like a five year old.
Emblazoned on the rear of Alan’s boxers was the slogan. ‘A right pair of assholes!’ He stood back up and turned back towards me laughing, shaking the Kimono so it fell back down his legs, and he tied up the waist-band. “Hi!” He said, (we shook hands), “You must be Mark? I’m Alan. My missus bought these boxers at the quayside in Bristol, what do you think of them?”

”I love them Alan, and I have to say that I totally agree with your backside”. Alan laughed. “Just the one question Mark”. He looked me deep in the eyes. “Do you like Dylan?”

“What’s not to like?” I responded quickly with a grin.

“Well then my new friend in that case I think that we are going to get on just fine. The job’s yours! (There were no questions about my gardening qualifications or ability to do the job.) Well don’t just stand there grinning like a village idiot, come on in, shut that door behind you and follow me. There are some nice new foreign bottled beers in the fridge, ‘three for a fiver’ from Sainsburys, have you bought any yet? We’ll grab one each on the way through to the back garden”. I walked through his very long ground floor, (these Killerton road houses were like Dr Who’s Tardis, far bigger than they appeared from the outside). I followed his swishing kimono,  carefully side-stepping piles of old newspapers and other old clutter as I did so, (Alan was a compulsive hoarder). Soon we dropped down a couple of concrete steps and arrived in his long galley-style kitchen. He stopped for a moment by the back door and opened up the huge American style fridge door. He handed me a cold bottle covered with condensation, took one for himself, grabbed a bottle opener, and then led me out into the rear patio area. It was a beautiful, traditional, very long cottage-style garden. We both sat down at an ornate wrought iron and wood patio table in the sunshine. Alan took the lid off of our bottles, and then raised his bottle above his head. It glinted in the morning sunshine. “Up yer kilt!” Alan toasted.

“Don’t you mean up yer Kimono?” I replied. Working for Alan was going to be a lot of fun. Up until meeting him that morning even getting a coffee and a biscuit on a gardening job had been a bit of a rarity, but now here I was not only getting free beers, but also getting great music thrown in too, and…… being paid for it! Life was good. Real good……….

This was written in memory of my old mate Alan, see you again sometime….. if I make the grade!

Written by Mark Anthony Wyatt, of Bude

February, 2015. (Edited Dec 2015)

Find me on Facebook at ‘Mark Anthony Wyatt (Bude) or at my Fbk page ‘It’s a Dark, Dark Night’

or e-mail me at

BIG “Thank-you” to ALL of my other friends who have supported my writing…but especially to the late Maurice Willmott, (R.I.P. Maurice, we all miss you), and my lovely friend Chrissie Sullivan, another gardening client who also became such a good friend. She used to tell me to “write it all down, people will love your stories like I do!”

Constructive comments below are very welcomed. Glowing praise even more so. It’s how I know that you have been here. Offers of highly paid writing gigs, though unlikely, would be lovely too. But just for the record, all spammers can just go and **** themselves.

Note; Any written work, music, images or videos that Mark Anthony Wyatt has created, remains his personal intellectual property! But any other images, videos, quotes etc., that were NOT created by me remain the intellectual property of those who created them, and NOT me!

February, 2015

Uncle Will, a working class hero is something to be…..

Many of us grow up hearing the names of fondly remembered relations on our parent’s tongues. Those who died long before we got the chance to meet them. One such for me was William James Wyatt, (1868-1957), he died three years before I turned up on the scene. He was better known in my family as  ‘Uncle Will’.  I had heard his name mentioned so often around the house when I was young that I used to think he must be still alive, that he was out there, somewhere, and that maybe one day mum and dad would take me to visit him on the train! (We went everywhere by train as dad didn’t drive). Often, if I looked at my mum or dad in a particular way, or maybe cruelly took the mickey out of my sisters or little brother,  mum and dad would exchange their ‘knowing looks’,  laugh, and say “Oh, he’s so much like Uncle Will, he’s a little rascal isn’t he?” I liked the sound of the guy.

Bob Wyatt - school days portrait
My dad as he was about the time of the ‘Battle of Britain’, when the R.A.F. beat the far bigger Luftwaffe, and saved England from an imminent Nazi German invasion. This was four years before ‘D’ day.

Will had spent much of his life working as a kitchen gardener  at  Ardingly public school (public being the opposite of what it is the U.S.A.), in rural Sussex. He lived there for many years in a tied cottage with his wife Elizabeth, his daughter Rene, and a live in ‘companion’ , a lovely lady that my dad just knew as ‘Aunty Lizzie’. Aunty Lizzie would borrow books from the grand Ardingly school library to let my dad read when he visited from his home in Woking. The college was a very ‘well-to-do’ fee paying private school for boys from wealthier families. Dad loved to tell me stories about his Uncle Will, and some would probably still be considered a little bit risqué even by today’s more liberal standards.

As a very young lad my dad would regularly visit Uncle Will and the family. One such visit had been during the height of the Battle of Britain, (the long hot summer of nineteen forty), when dad was just seven years old. Uncle Will and dad had been stood together in the school’s productive walled gardens. Those walls were covered in espaliered apples and other fruit crops, and the gardens were all laid out in the Victorian manner. As they stood there they looked up and watched the deadly aerial combat taking place in the cloudless blue skies overhead. Our Spitfires and Hurricanes were taking on the Messerschmitts and Heinkels of the Luftwaffe. My dad, even in his seventies, said he could still vividly  recall the rattle of the aeroplane’s machine guns in the ‘dog-fights’ going on over their heads. Every now and then they would see one of the unlucky  combatants, with smoke billowing from their plane’s fuselage, plummeting down to the sun parched patchwork-quilt fields of Sussex far below. Sometimes they would see the pilot of a R.A.F. or Luftwaffe fighter plane, or perhaps the crew of a German bomber, escaping their cockpits to parachute down. At other times they wouldn’t see anybody escaping from the plummeting flame engulfed death traps. It was a shocking memory that dad could never forget.

On a slightly lighter note, my Uncle Will loved to show dad around the grounds of Ardingly College. He liked to teach him about the growing of fruit and vegetables, and also tell him about his daily work maintaining the school boy’s cricket and rugby pitches. The productive gardens supplied produce for the school boys to eat, and also for their school masters and  the other staff employed at Ardingly, including of course Will and his family. On one memorable occasion dad had been out watching his Uncle Will at work. He had got a sudden urge to find a toilet. Uncle Will led him towards a small, damp, moss covered, victorian brick built out-house, at the end of the kitchen garden. Dad always called them ‘Khazis’, even in later years when we had more modern facilities! (Khazi was a term brought back to Britain by British soldiers who had fought in the Boer war in South Africa).

Before he went in to the ‘Khazi’ Uncle Will had smiled and cryptically said, “And don’t you go reading too many of them there dirty rhymes while you are in there doing your business my boy, it wouldn’t do for you to go back to your mother  and repeat that sort of thing now would it?” It may have amused Will to think of young Bobby going home and shocking his mum with some fruity ‘industrial’ language, and quoting dirty old rhymes at the breakfast table!

Dad went in to this dark, gloomy little structure, and he secured the latch. He said that the walls were  covered in old graffiti, put there mostly, he had surmised, by gardeners from earlier eras. One of these rhymes had read “Give a grunt and give a squeeze, and it’ll come out like rotten cheese.” (Pam Ayres eat your heart out). Hopefully that one didn’t make my lovely Nan spit out her cream scone,  if young Bobby had recited it during afternoon tea with the vicar. The khazi had an oak bench plank with a circular hole cut-out in it, and under that was placed a large ash pan, with straw laid in to it. This was not unusual at that time, as water closets, (W.C.s), were still not universal, well not in British working- class homes anyway. So, undeterred by this, and probably in a bit of a rush, dad had dropped his trousers and pants, and sat himself down, facing outwards towards the back of the door.   Dad finished his call of nature and stood up. After cleaning himself with some old newspaper cuttings hanging on a string on the back of the door  he was just about to pull his trousers back up. It was at this point that he heard from behind him the sound of a scraping on the concrete floor. He quickly looked around, half expecting perhaps to see a large rat looking back up at him with beady eyes from under the bench seat; but instead of that he was just in time to see the ash pan disappearing backwards through the rear wall,   complete with his very fresh recently released ‘waste contents’. Puzzled by this, (bearing in mind his young age at the time), dad had quickly wiped his hands on a dirty towel hanging on the rear of the door, then unlatched the door and re-emerged into the fresher air and brighter light of the kitchen garden.

As his eyes had re-adjusted to the Sun light he had just been in time to see his Uncle spreading his poo onto the school’s cabbage patch.  He was using it as a form of manure.   Uncle Will saw his bemusement and said “It makes the cabbages a lovely, healthy, luscious green. It makes me smile to think that these posh blighters here at the school, the sons of cabinet ministers, diplomats and the like,  are eating our working class poop.”

“Oh,” said my (seven year old) dad, “So is that why my daddy and his friends say that politicians are ‘full of shit’  Uncle Will?”

old family photos no 2 640
Will J. Wyatt aka ‘Uncle Will’ in his later years. By all accounts he was a lovely sweet old boy and very popular.

As John Lennon once famously said “A working class hero is something to be”. Now John Lennon, as much as I love the guy for his great music, his amazing, way ahead of his time wisdom, and his rebellious attitude to authority, we have to be honest here, he was never really a proper working-class lad at all. He was practically middle-class. I bet he even had violin lessons. But I do think that in a very quiet, modest way, my dad’s uncle Will was possibly waging his very own little guerilla ‘class war’, and he actually was a genuine working class hero of his time!

The End.

Written by Mark Anthony Wyatt

February, 2015

Find me on Facebook…. @ ‘It’s a Dark, Dark Night’

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“There’s a blackbird in the fridge!”



The following is a (slightly) tongue-in-cheek little rant about some ‘up-country’ attitudes to Cornwall and the Cornish……. I should first say that although I have lived here in Bude for 15 years, I‘m not Cornish born, despite having ‘proper’ Cornish relations in the far west who’s surnames begin with the prefix ‘Tre’. No, I’m a North Downs lad from rural Surrey, and very proud of it. That said, I think we’re all much the same anyway, we are all descended from multiple blood lines, however much some of us like to put labels on ourselves, such as ‘Cornish’ or ‘Londoner’.

I get a little irritated by the lazy journalism of a largely London based mainstream media. I feel that Cornwall in particular, and Devon, Dorset and Somerset to a lesser degree, have long been lumbered with an up-country/mainstream media image that condescends and patronises. They love to portray Cornwall as a ‘quaint’ place and its people as little more than simpletons.

According to most Cornish themed television programmes of the last thirty odd years, the likes of ‘Doc Martin’,’Jamaica Inn’, ‘Poldark’ (the original series) and ‘Wycliffe’ for example, the county is positively heaving with people who like to  say “Ooooh-arrrrgh” and “Tedn’t reet, tedn’t fitty, tedn’t proper, Cap’n”. Entertaining and amusing programmes like ‘Doc Martin’ and ‘Wycliffe’, (well the ‘Cornish’ accents are hilarious if nothing else), have an underlying subtle propaganda message. They seep in to our collective consciousness and gently remind us simple  Cornish folk that we need ‘specialists’ from “that there Lunndunn”, (you know, detectives, surgeons, and the like,) to help drag us all in to the 21st century by the collars of our fishing smocks.  What would we do without those clever, sophisticated, fashionable London folk?


Caroline Quentin; perhaps she is wondering why her T.V. series, which was supposed to be all about Cornwall, had an opening sequence filmed on the Devon coast. I know I do.
Jud Paynter from Poldark "Tednt reet, tednt fitty, tednt proper Capn!"
Jud Paynter from T.V.’s original ‘Poldark’ “Tedn’t reet, tedn’t fitty, tedn’t proper Cap’n!” If he were around today he’d probably be drinking ‘Rattler’ and singing sea-shanties.
Wycliffe; sent down to Cornwall to help out the 'stupid' local coppers!
D.S. Charles Wycliffe; how a detective that slow could ever solve any crime is a mystery to me. We must have had brighter coppers in Cornwall than him.



This under-lying patronising attitude is evident in the type of questions I am sometimes innocently asked by people I know ‘up-country’. It is as if they have a default position that states that the ‘London way’, in all things, is what we should all aspire too. Well count me out. I love Cornwall. I like the Cornish. (Well O.K., I don’t like all of them. Some of them are bastards. London hasn’t got a monopoly on them either!)

I love the Cornish way of life. I love the laid-back, friendliness of the people. I love living in a small beautiful Cornish coastal town where I know so many people, if not in person then at least by sight. Just driving up Belle Vue hill is an experience that backs this up. One day I was waved at by at least ten different friends from the Triangle to the post office. (At least I think they were waving, my eyes aren’t as good as they once were!) It makes you feel a valued part of this lovely little community. Bude is a special place where your neighbours will stop and chat and people care for their environment.

Even members of my own south-east based family and friends will sometimes ask, without realising how condescending their questions sound…. ”Have you got any super-markets in Bude?” Or “Make sure you fill-up with petrol before you drive home,” (from Surrey to Cornwall). The implication being that we don’t have petrol stations in the West Country. They might just as well say “Have you got electricity down there yet?” and have done with it.

If I should tell them that Cornwall has one of the leading tourist attractions in the World, (The Eden Project), or that towns like St Ives and Bude are regularly voted to be the towns that most English people would love to move to, a glassy eyed stare usually overcomes them, and they start talking about the London-Eye or Lego-land. They just don’t want to hear it. My words are about as welcome as a fart in a lift.

The Triangle at Bude
The Triangle at Bude
St Ives
St Ives
The Eden Project
The Eden Project

Television production companies continue to make their cheap, throw-away, twee, glossy, no substance shows about Cornwall. (Take a bow Caroline Quentin, come on up and collect your Oscar!) One recent series featured opening shots of the sea crashing on to the cliffs….in Devon. Many of these shows feature affluent incomers with double-barrelled surnames. (I know the sort of double-barrel I would like to introduce some of them too, ha, ha!) They delight in showing off their barn conversion holiday-lets, or their luxury Yachts moored down on the Fal estuary.

They play for our sympathy by telling us, “We gave up everything, yah? We took a huge risk when we moved down to Cornwall, didn’t we Hugo?” Yeah right. Of course you did. The rest of us ordinary folk who moved down never had a farm in Oxfordshire to sell up.  The only sacrifice these wealthier in-comers made was to take young Tarquin and Sebastian out of their posh public school or make Lena, their pretty Polish au-pair redundant. They soon get their money back anyway when they sell us their crappy memoirs…’A cow in the kitchen’, ‘A badger in the scullery’,  ‘A blackbird in the fridge’, ‘An adder in the f****ng larder’, you know the sort of thing.

Their sleeve cover notes should read. “The story of an ex-public school publisher from the city who gave it all up to buy a quaint little cottage in a deserted little Cornish coastal town, (the Cornish having all already left because they can no longer afford to live there). The story of how she and her family struggled to survive,   and how she eventually had to learn to pass other cars on our lanes, without scratching her B.M.W., or stopping and freezing like a deer in the bleeding headlights in the middle of the bleddy road when  another car approached her”.

If these ‘Hello’ level productions ever do deign to speak to an ordinary ‘local’,   they usually pick the village idiot. They like to film him eating a pasty whilst he loudly holds forth, (bits of pasty flying everywhere), on how all Cornish people love to spend every night in harbour-side pubs drinking ‘Rattler’, wearing stripy tops and fishermen’s caps, and singing sea shanties!  True there are some that do that, I’ve even done it myself, but that’s like saying all English people eat jellied eels, speak in Cockney rhyming slang and go Morris dancing every weekend.

But, surprise, surprise, there is another side to our dear Cornwall. Most of the residents here are very well educated, much travelled,  intelligent and cultured people, and they really don’t need to be patronised by anybody.

The great Richard Trevithick
The great Richard Trevithick

The Cornish culture is ancient, and without their early development of steam technology; (the fruits of which were passed on to the Northerners), we would not have had the industrial revolution with which the wealth of the old British Empire was built!  Have these patronising media people never heard of Richard Trevithick, Humphrey Davy or the Holman Brothers? (No, they’re not a band!)  So come on Quentin and the rest of you, move over, and let’s make way for the real Cornwall!

The End.

Mark Anthony Wyatt



What some friends said about “There’s a blackbird in the fridge” (on Facebook)…...Dave John Pritchard “Nice piece – cage rattled ha, ha, well played.” Jane Baker… “Brilliant! I love you, well said. So when’s the book of rants coming out?”…Ado Shorland... “Good piece Mark, I liked it before I read it!” Angela Westaway…. “Bleedy brilliant! Love it. I’m living with the ex-London Journalist who came down here to buy the f***off barn conversion. His ex wife took it all so he’s forgiven.”….Derek Thomas “Nice one Mark!” Kate Bates “Brilliant Mark! So good I read it twice! May I share it please?”

All written work by Mark Anthony Wyatt of Bude

February, 2015

or find me on Facebook @ “There’s a blackbird in the fridge!”

Note; Any written work, music, images or videos that Mark Anthony Wyatt has created, remains his personal intellectual property! But any other images, videos, quotes etc., that were NOT created by me remain the intellectual property of those who created them, and NOT me!


Constructive comments below are very welcomed. Glowing praise even more so. It’s how I know you have been here. Offers of highly paid writing gigs, though unlikely, would be lovely too. But just for the record, all spammers can just go and **** themselves!