© Yada Yada Yada

6th September 201216th July 2020 Andrew Gold Boring legal stuff

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Wasting our TV LIcence fee

6th September 2012 Andrew Gold Rant

What is the point of sending a corrrespondent, and a sound and camera crew, to stand outside a location where a story is based, BUT NOT ACTUALLY HAPPENING!? Yesterday we had a poor lady freezing her bits off outside No 10 Downing street, at 10pm, to tell us what had already been reported earlier in the day. I suppose we got to see the PM’s cat, live. Really useful. Well done the BEEB.

Dream Hunter – a lament for our dear dog

6th September 2012 Andrew Gold Writing

Dream Hunter

He lies at my feet, muzzle more grey than black, the once glossy coat dulled by age. Turning a page my eyes, temporarily cast adrift, fetch up on the irregular rise and fall of his chest, the tremble and flick of his feet. He’s hunting.

He lopes across a beach, chasing racehorses through shallow surf, catching rabbits, cornering a stag. His eyes are half-open: I can see the blood red rim of his inner eyelid, but not the darting eye rolled up into his head. His lip curls in a silent snarl, and a barely audible bark escapes. A soft “Good boy!” raises a silky ear. He calms.

Effortless and graceful only in sleep, and my memory, awake he can hardly stand; even his stretches are laboured, flexibility gone from his still muscular frame.

At our first meeting he was different. Alone in a barren pen, his huge noble head perched on an emaciated body. Sad-eyed, cold, afraid, imprisoned; his gentle nature corrupted by beatings. There was just something else there, in his eyes alert willingness. “Me. Choose me.”

We are alike: beaten into submission, rescued by love, growing old unwillingly, but the vet can only put one of us down.

For Clyde (1995 – 2009)

Andrew Gold

The Glass Tree – an adult fable

5th September 2012 Andrew Gold Short Stories, Writing

The Glass Tree

There once was a federation of countries whose leaders decided on a scheme to celebrate their success in creating a whole from many different parts. They had the notion of a stained glass sculpture; the colour and texture could represent the rich variety of the federation, and each country would contribute a part of the sculpture. In turn, each country could sub-divide its contribution, amongst its own communities, and ensure that their many peoples, cultures and faiths would be represented in the grand idea. A design was drawn up, and plans agreed, for a symbolic tree that would be adorned by fruits, and surrounded by animals, from across the federation.

In one small village, in one small country, there were two glass workers of different style but equal skill. It was agreed that they should work together on a part of the sculpture that would be sent as their contribution, and the village council decided on making a small bird, of fabulous colour and miraculous song, that lived only in their country.

From the start the two master craftsmen were obsessed by their own idea of perfection. While one was lost in the technical quality of the glass itself, its translucence, its refractive qualities, its strength and so on, the other was focused only on the brilliance and accuracy of the colour. After many months they produced a marvellous thing, a bird perfect in every detail: iridescent, colourful, perfectly proportioned and so strong that it could be attached to the main sculpture by the tip of one glass feather, as if caught in the first instant of taking flight.

The two men were pleased, the village was pleased, the country was pleased; and so it was in all the other villages, towns, cities and countries of the federation as brilliant craftsmen and women put their own skills, and ideas of perfection, into their unique contributions. And, when all the contributions were brought together in the designated place, and assembled, the federation was pleased too.

Came the day of the official dedication of the sculpture, all the leaders of all of the countries, their own civic leaders and their craftsmen gathered to witness the unveiling. A golden cloth was pulled from the sculpture and there was great acclamation: the sun shone brightly through the glass and the tree seemed to be alive and moving as magical coloured images flickered and danced in the light: however, although generally pleased, something troubled the designer.

She saw, remaining in the square after the crowds had dispersed, the figures of a small child, an old man, a cat and a dog. The child said to the man “Please tell me what it is like, for although it must be very beautiful, my sight is poor and I cannot see it clearly”. The old man described the tree in great detail and said “it is, indeed, very beautiful to look at, but there is a colourful little bird, high up on top-most branch the tree, which I cannot hear. My hearing is poor, does it make a sound?” The little girl listened, but there was no sound and she said, “I think you are right, the bird is silent and that cannot be right.”

Though it was not quite what the Designer had in mind, the cat, seeing what it took to be easy prey, stalked to the bottom of the tree and climbed up the sculpture, where it pounced. The bird, dislodged, fell to the ground and shattered into a thousand fragments on the hard stone at the feet of the man and the girl.

The sculpture was imperfect but, as the shards scattered across the ground, the girl described the musical tinkling sound to the old man, and he was able to think of this as a song that seemed right for such a fabulous bird. The old man, in turn, described the pieces of coloured glass and the girl imagined them as the bird’s bright feathers: between them they were able to fulfil the designer’s intent. The dog, seeing only a cat and a tree, chased the cat off and, then, returned to lift his leg on the tree before trotting home for his tea. Then, the Designer was satisfied.

And what is the moral of this tale? We are not the Designer of our fragile tree, we are only craftsmen and women interpreting the design as best we can. We are not, and cannot be, perfect in our interpretation. We should not, therefore, expect perfection in the actions of others when they interpret their lives, or us, or what we do. We should accept the gifts, however imperfect, that their lives bring to ours.

Such gifts, however destructive they may seem, allow the blind to see, the deaf to hear but, occasionally, the dog also pees on the tree.

Mai Mung Bean – a story about minority vegetables

5th September 2012 Andrew Gold Stories for Children

Mai Mung Bean

Mai Mung Bean has come from Asia. It’s a long way to Plantwell City. She lives with her sprouts in a window box at the top of Haricot House. Far below she can see roads and houses and lots of people. It makes her feel quite small and lonely. In the distance she can see some trees. It is Plantation Park.

She decides to take her sprouts to the park. Perhaps she can find some friends for them all there. In the park she can hear music playing, and see people dancing. Mai likes the sound of music so she follows the banging and twanging and tootling towards a bandstand. “That looks like a good place to meet people,” she thinks.

Along the way she meets a small round person with red hair. It is Calum Coconut. “Hello,” says Mai. “My name is Mai Mung Bean. My friends call me Mai. We are new here, how do you do?” Calum looks at her but says nothing and keeps walking. “Perhaps he is in a hurry to listen to the music,” Mai says to the sprouts, “Let’s try somewhere else.”

Mai sees someone selling sandwiches at the bandstand. It is Walter Cress. “Hello”, says Mai. My name is Mai Mung Bean. These are my sprouts. What is your name?” But Walter carries on selling. “I expect he is too busy to talk”, says Mai to the sprouts.

Then Mai sees a very extraordinary person listening to the band. He is big and purple and is wearing a green spiky hat. “Hello,” says Mai, “I’m Mai Mung Bean. How do you do?” The very extraordinary person looks down at her. He has a kind purple voice to go with his smooth purple skin. “Yes?” he says, “and I am Mr Aubrey Aubergine. Can I help you?”

Mai explains that she is new to Seed City and wants to make new friends for her and her family. “The trouble is, everyone seems so busy. Nobody will talk to me. Do you think it is because I am different? I am small and green. Everyone is so big here, like you.”

“I don’t think so,” says Aubrey. “I felt like that when I first arrived. People thought I was posh, and I do rather stand out!” He smiled and shone in the sunlight. “I have lots of friends now. I suggest you go over there,” says Aubrey pointing to a colourful building. It has writing all over the walls, and a big red roof. A sign over the door says Community Hall.

“Always something going on there. Always need new people to help out. Be there myself later. Got to go. I’m meeting my friend, Baba Ghanoush, for lunch.” And with a cheery wave off he goes. Mai thinks, “He seems very nice. So, the Community Hall is the place to meet people.”

Inside the Community Hall there are lots of tables, all around the walls. Every table has a sign above it, like ‘Baking’, ‘Re-cycling’, ‘Swap’, ‘Allotment’ and ‘Face Painting’. Mai reads the signs out loud to the sprouts, but they are gone, happily running in and out of the tables, with all the other little ones. One table has a tent with a long queue of people waiting to go inside. A sign says “Sal Ad the Mysterious”. Mai is very curious and she joins the queue.

Inside Mai finds someone dressed in a fantastic suit of different colours. It is Aubrey Aubergine. “Well, hello again Mai Mung Bean!” says Aubrey.

“Where is Sal Ad the Mysterious?” says Mai. “I am he,” chuckles Aubrey, “It is my stage name: I’m also known as Salata the Greek and Signor Insalata. I’m looking for ingredients for my new act. Would you like to join?

Mai thinks this sounds very exciting, but is worried about leaving her sprouts.

“Bring them too,” says Aubrey” “They’re so full of life: along with ‘The Flying Adukis’ they’ll be my stars. Sal Ad the Mysterious’s shows are always fantastic, but with them it will be amazing. And you’ll meet hundreds of new friends, at every performance. What do you say?”

Do you know what Mai said?

YES PLEASE!

Art & Gerry – a story for adults who lose focus

5th September 20128th April 2020 Andrew Gold Short Stories

Art and Gerry

Gerry was a sort of mechanic, and he could fix anything. At least his neighbours thought so, judging by the continuous stream of requests to fix this, or that, or for his advice. If it didn’t work, as long as it had nuts and bolts, screws or wires, metal or wood, he could fix it; even if it did work, he could make it work better. He was always busy.

Even on his days off he could be found pottering about ‘fixing stuff’. He could take a pile of seemingly unconnected parts, or materials, and make something useful too – a bit like an inventor. It seemed as if the parts lived somehow in his hands, talked to him, insisted that he use them for a purpose (sometimes a purpose that he hadn’t thought of before that moment) rather than lie in a box, or on the shelves of his workshop.

One day, after a long week’s work fixing ploughs, washing machines and DVDs, Gerry went into his workshop to…..well, actually he didn’t have a particular reason, just a feeling that he was supposed to do something. You know, that kind of feeling you get when, finally, you have time to get round to that ‘something’ you’ve been putting off for a long time, something you go past every day that nags at you, but so familiar that now you can’t quite remember what it was? Gerry had a lot of moments like that, setting off to do something important and, on arrival, thinking to himself that he’d forgotten what it was he was supposed to do. You know, that feeling.

Anyway there he was, in his workshop, having one of those moments, and scanning the shelves in the hope that he would remember what it was he was supposed to be doing, when he accidentally kicked a small, discarded, something. The clatter made him look down and there, in between a bag marked “might come in useful sometime” and a box marked “SAVE FOR LATER” his eyes lighted on something not of metal, plastic or wood: it was a mouse. In the blink of a gnats eye Gerry said to himself, in a kind of benign inventorly way, “Hello, what are you doing here; there’s nothing to eat, do you live in my workshop?” and fully expected the mouse to disappear. But it didn’t, it just sat there looking at him, right in the eye. And it spoke back.

“What am I doing in here? Hey, man, what are you doing in here is more the question, don’t you think? Well, if you’ve come to tidy up, this place is cool as it is thank you very much, and, as for food, I do ok. You dig? And now, if you’ll excuse me, some of us have work to do.” At that it turned and, muttering a sarcastic imitation “Hello, what are you doing here”, pattered off between the half empty paint tins and a box marked “FUTURE PROJECTS – PARTS”, and out of sight.

Gerry was, understandably, taken aback; after all it was his workshop. He was used to talking to himself, and to his tools if it came to that, but not having a lippy, Hippy, mouse to deal with. What did it mean “Tidy up?” It might be a bit jumbled, but everything had its place and he, at least, understood the theory of the system. Gerry was almost offended, and the unexpected confrontation had put his mind right off whatever it was he couldn’t remember in the first place, so he locked up the workshop again and didn’t come back until the next day when he was, very definitely, going to fix something.

The morning was planned to be busy: there was a chair to mend, two lawn mowers (one to sharpen and another whose engine just wouldn’t run sweetly), and a teddy bear to patch for his grand-daughter. Gradually the parts and the tools were gathered on the bench and Gerry set to work. It was while the ¼ inch open-ended spanner was saying, “I think the 6 millimetre ring spanner would be better on this, Gerry” that he noticed the mouse again – sitting on the edge of the bench watching him. “What gives, man?” it said rather dismissively. The spanner slipped on the nut and Gerry skinned his knuckles; “Told you”, said the spanner. “I’m fixing this lawnmower,” said Gerry and, nursing his hand, “would you mind not distracting me?”

The mouse laughed. “Me, distracting you? Ha! That’s rich coming from a man who has conversations with spanners. What d’ya want to be fixing it for anyway. Don’t you dig, man, that machine is murderous out there in the grass? Why do you think I live in here? Certainly not for the view!”

“Hey, just wait a minute,” said the spanner as it clattered back into the toolbox, “what’s wrong with talking to spanners – it’s not listening to them that’s your problem, Gerry.” The lawnmower joined in, “Not so much of the “murderous”, fur face, or I’ll shave your tail. I’m needed out there, and if it wasn’t for me you spanners would never see the outside of the toolbox.” “Oh yeah? Well if it wasn’t for us you’d never get off this bench, much less make your pretty little stripes on the grass. Buzz brain.” “Quiet”, said Gerry. There was a discontented murmuring from the screwdrivers, “That’s right, you tell him” before Gerry slammed the toolbox lid shut, with a firmer “ QUIET. Q.U.I.E.T, QUIET – all of you.” And at that Gerry scooped up the mouse, gently but firmly, and said “And you, outside, NOW”.

The mouse was still sitting on one of the big stones that Gerry used to prop open the workshop door when he came back from cleaning up his hand. “Still here eh, mouse?” “Where else would I be?” said the mouse, “I’m waiting for you to put me back in there. There was no need to be so rough you know, I’m just doing my job. And the name’s Arthur, not mouse; you can call me Art.”

Gerry sat down on the other doorstop and looked at the mouse with something that slipped through the crack between bemusement and tenderness. He started to roll himself a cigarette. “I’m sorry, Art, you’re right of course. I lost it in there for a while – sassy spanners. You’ve no idea what it’s like having everyone expecting you to fix stuff all the time, and no time to remember what I’m supposed to be doing for myself. You know: me, me, me, me me Anyway, what do you mean, ‘just doing your job”?

“What makes you think you’re the only one with a job to be done, Ger?”, said the mouse, which had, by now, clambered up onto the toe of Gerry’s work boot. “For example, take those spanners of yours. Sometimes they ‘hide’ don’t they? – I’ve seen you searching through the box for a special tool that ‘mysteriously’ can’t be found, only to reappear, just as mysteriously, after you’ve stopped looking. Well, their main job is not to turn nuts and bolts – it’s to remind you that, sometimes, the thing you most desperately seek is right under your nose. And that crazy lawnmower, the one that runs perfectly well except in the workshop? That’s there to remind you that there are things that work quite well without your interference. You dig, yet? And blow some of that over here.”

Gerry, though not completely comfortable with the idea that a mouse was, apparently, a casual smoker, nevertheless blew a smoke ring that curled gently across the space and settled elegantly over the mouse’s shoulders. “But I asked you about your job” he said.

“My job, Ger? My main job is to create chaos, so that you have to think harder about what the heck it is you are supposed to be doing. I move stuff around, so it isn’t where you last left it; I watch what you’re doing and, if I get the chance, I hide the next thing you’re going to need. Oh, and I turn the mixture screw on that lawnmower’s carburettor. Generally, I mess up. My other job is to eat your lunch. By the way, I prefer wholewheat bread, not those ditsy crackers that get stuck in my teeth – and don’t believe what they say about mice and cheese – it ain’t true – I prefer fruit. Could we have avocado once in a while?”

Gerry sat quietly for a while before asking the, unavoidable, next question. “And who, Art, dishes out all these jobs in my workshop?” Art was close to exasperation and scrambled up Gerry’s leg, onto his wrist where he could see his eyes and, it must be said, closer to the smouldering end of the cigarette. “Oh Man, you really don’t get it yet, do you? It’s you, you dipstick. You create exactly, and only, what you need around you. None of this is real. Your reality is not the same as mine, is not the same as the spanners’, is not the same as the lawnmower’s, is not the same as anything or anyone else’s. What happens in your workshop, is what you want, or need, to happen. And only that.”

“I see,” said Gerry, “so what you’re saying is that you don’t really exist unless I need you to exist.

“BINGO! And…..?”

Gerry went on “And….my job is….?”

“And your job…is….?”

“And… my job is…. to work out why I need to create these things, sorry, create this particular version of reality?”

“BINGO again! And…?”

“I’m sorry, Art… I don’t know; and what?”

Art stamped his feet with frustration and pointed over his shoulder with a thumb, “Oh man, don’t give up now, you’re so close. Think! Nothing happens in there without your say so. The accidents, the machines that won’t run just right, the tools that go missing, the forgotten ….come on man, the forgotten……”

Gerry searched round his head, swatting at ideas like a butterfly collector with a net. The penny finally dropped and he said, rather tentatively, “The forgotten…… reason for me being in there in the first place?”

“Yay! BINGO! BINGO! BINGO! Give the man a prize from the top shelf! The whole point of this reality is to remind you of your reason for existence, why you get up in the morning, why you breathe. It’s all about focus.”

“So, when I’ve worked out the why, and I remember it, what then? But Art had vanished.

Over the coming weeks and months a subtle change came over the workshop. Things stayed where they were put, tools didn’t hide so much, the lawnmower got out more and Gerry remembered, most days, why he opened the workshop door. Some of his lunch still disappeared though, especially when there was avocado.

V3 2011

Anakin Landwalker and Princess Padme-on-the-Bottom

5th September 20128th April 2020 Andrew Gold Stories for Children

Anakin Landwalker and Princess Padme-on-the-Bottom Go into Space

Anakin Landwalker and Princess Padme-on-the-Bottom are little and a bit bigger.

Princess Padme (for short) is little and Anakin is a bit bigger.

Anakin has a light sabre and Padme has a gun. The gun goes pop and the light sabre goes whizz. They are very scary and very dangerous.

One day Anakin and Padme decide to go into space. They are going to Jupiter. It is very far away and it is very dark in space. They have to take some sandwiches, made of ham and white bread with the crusts on. And some space lemonade (without bubbles so that they don’t blow up). They take a torch and a box of matches and a candle to see by. Their mummies don’t let them play with matches but they take them anyway. Naughty.

To get into space they have to catch the number 49 spacecraft. They wait a long time for the number 49 to come and then three come along together. It is usually like this.

On the spacecraft they have their sandwiches. They keep floating away, so Padme has a bright idea and ties them down with her hair band.

After dinner they look out of the window and see another spacecraft. It looked oval from the top but when it turned over it was round. This was very interesting so they decided to go across and see what it was like inside. They put on their spacesuits (Padme wore a space skirt with frilly edges and pink patches). The strange spacecraft was locked, so they had to break in. Anakin says “I’ll use my light sabre to make a hole in the side.” Padme is worried that they will get into trouble for doing this, so she takes out her gun and fires it at the spacecraft’s door. Pop. It breaks open. That’s a surprise isn’t it? Padme thinks that if they get into trouble that she will say it was Anakin’s idea. Clever Padme.

They didn’t know that Darth Moll was watching them from the top of the round spacecraft with some Battle Dudes. The Battle Dudes have guns and baggy shorts. They like surfing.

Darth Moll has two light sabres stuck together with glue so that he can twizzle them like a windmill. He jumps out and twizzles.

Anakin takes out his light sabre and twizzles back at Darth. They bash away for ages. Padme’s gun has run out of space bullets so she has to bash the Battle Dudes with her gun and her handbag.

Padme’s bag catches in the battle Dudes shorts and they fall down. The Battle Dudes run away in embarrassment leaving Darth Moll without any help, so in his desperation he twizzles so hard that he cuts himself in half. What a mess. He was never heard of again.

Anakin and Padme go back to the number 49 but the conductor won’t let them on with mess all over their spacesuits and half-eaten ham sandwiches. They have to wait for the number 48 and they are so late getting to Jupiter that they have to come back right away, to be in time for their mummies coming back from work.

When their mummies come home they ask “Where have you been today? Have you been good?” Anakin and Padme say “Yes. We have been here all day. We haven’t been out at all.”

Do you think this was true? Will they get into trouble for telling fibs? Watch next week for more exciting adventures.

For, and with the help of , Dylan and Millie Glover aged 7 and 4

August 2009