Going Fishing

Grok and Urak were walking out of the settlement one morning, going fishing.

Grok was carrying a fishing spear, a pole, a net and some hooks, Urak had the rest of the gear.

"How much further?"

he grumbled, starting to sweat under the weight of the large pot of freshly brewed beer.

They passed Brownlie, proudly lugging a full bucket homewards, and hurriedly refused his offer of a drink.

"Why didn't you tell him it was the cow mammoths he was to milk?" Said Urak.

"Where's the fun in that?" Grinned Grok evilly.

They reached the fence, and as usual Tavish was firmly astride it.When asked if he wanted to come he hummed and hawed for so long they left him to it.

They were not long out of the settlement when they became aware they were being followed.

Fooks and Steerpike*Murphy were lurking in some bushes.

"Can we come?" Whined Fooks his eyes greedily gazing at the beer.

"You can come, if you carry the gear."Said Urak sternly, piling it on.

"But you; you are fucking useless at outwitting Salmon, sling yer hook!"

Steerpike slunk off, humiliated again...

*Thanks Monty.

*****************

Round the campfire later that night, while Fooks snored away, his arms tightly round the empty pot, Grok said

"Fancy a piece of Sturgeon?"

"Not half" said Urak, smiling.

A post, somewhere.

About time I did a post.

Just been to the Doc, off for another three weeks at least, so there should be no lack of time...

I've written a few things, saved them, then thought "what a load of crap!" and then deleted them all...but I'm going to post this stream of consciousness drivel, whatever.

As for Grok and Urak, there are a few ideas kicking about, but there is only so much you can do with a stone age hunter gatherer pair as a metaphor for twenty-first century Scottish politics!

[I'm pretty sure I have totally mystified a few American visitors;-)]

Some good personal news; I'm a grandfather. Again.

One last, but not least, thing; thanks to all the people who have commented on here.

Their encouragement kept this blog-and me-going.

On the Ahmed bandwagon, but not texting.

If only the author had waited a year or two, he may have got much more information...

The IQRA Trust was set up in 1993 to support the educational and training needs of imams and prisoners. Its aims include raising awareness of issues affecting Muslim prisoners and promoting the importance of education and training in the successful resettlement of Muslim prisoners once they are released.
I am particularly thankful to Lord Ahmed of Rotherham and the Director IQRA Trust Prisoner Welfare, Mr Salah El-Hassan for this opportunity to present my findings at the House of Lords. The event was attended by a large audience, including many prison imams, members of the Prison Service, members of associations, the government and police forces. I hope that my research and findings can contribute to a better understanding of the issues that we are facing within prisons and to help the Prison Service and the Government to change its current security policies.

Author details here.

http://tinyurl.com/dc3ym9

Holiday Job 1976

0100110101100001011000110110100001101001011011100110010100100000

011000110110111101100100011001010010011101110011

011000010010000001100010011000010111001101110100011000010111001001100100

Nightmare V. The Dawn of Civilisation.

Dawn.

In the distance a leopard coughs.

A mammoth trumpets, looks around fearfully and trundles off, followed by a determined small boy with a bucket.

Grok yawns, stretches and scratches, then stumbles outside the shelter to relieve himself.

A few seconds later he is joined by Urak, and they stand in companionable silence for a while.

"What's that?" Says Urak. "Wh's wh't? Mumbles Grok.

"What we're pissing on."

Grok dribbles a few last drops.

"A big black thing."

They both look for a while.

"Wasn't there last night."

Says Urak finally.

"Aye...what the fuck is it?"

"A really big stone?" Ventures Grok.

"...I suppose...anyway, breakfast."

They return to their shelter leaving the carbon black monolith absorbing the morning sun, apart from two glistening patches.

*****************

Three months later.

Inside a large shelter, Grok and Urak are standing behind a split log supported on two piles of stone.

Grok is polishing a soapstone beaker with a rabbit pelt, while Urak is putting the finishing touches to a very small arrow. Two others rest on a small disk with a red bullseye painted on it.

Mike comes in. Without a word Grok dips the beaker in the foaming vat behind him and lays it on the log. Mike puts a bead on the log, scoops up the beaker and scuttles to the hearth where he stares into the flames and cackles quietly to himself.

A small bedraggled creature stumbles through the entrance and falls over an old woman.

He extracts himself with difficulty, and staggers to the log, bloodshot eyes fixed on the vat of beer.

"No way Fooks, you've had enough." Grok says sternly, "Go now before you get logged." Nodding at Urak, who was slapping a large log in his palm.

"Have a heart lads." Whined Fooks.

"You offered them last time, Vlad wasn't happy..."

Fooks florid jowls paled and shakily he turned away.

They watched as he zigzagged his way out. "Some people eh?"Says Urak, contemptuously.

"Anyway, I'm starving, fancy some pork scratchings?"

"Ugh-I'd rather have deep fried toenail clippings!" Spat Grok.

"Well you're in luck, here's some I made earlier." Urak puts a basket on the log.

"I reckon we can get away with one bead a dozen?"

"Genius" Says Grok, admiringly.

"Ain't civilisation great?"

Nightmare IV. The shape of things to come.

Grok and Urak stood back and admired their handywork, an igloo shaped medley of branches, mud, pelts and mammoth dung.

Grok, wiping his hands on a passing child, said;-

"A Good Job, Urak, twenty beads at least."

"Hmm, maybe last winter, but now..."

Replied Urak hesitantly.

"Robus and Aitchbos lent all their beads to-"

Screwing one eye shut, he then grabbed an imaginary chicken by the neck and shook it up and down at chest level, simultaneously jabbing a thumb at the chiefs shelter.

"Wah!" Screamed the small child. "I've got to milk the mammoth!"

Grok patted the ululating child on the head, adding to the debris nestling in it's hair.

"On you go Brownlie, we're having a grown up talk about beads."

Turning back to Urak.

"What on earth for?"

"So he can lend them back again?" Shrugging his shoulders.

"There goes the shelter making way of getting beads, then."

Said Grok, scuffing the mud with his toe.

"-nkers." He mumbled.

"That's a good name for them." Said Urak.

"What will we do now?"

"I'm hungry, Mandy said he fancied us around for a spit roast."

The two men looked at each other.

"Naw." They said.

The Lothlothian Question

By Tam Thebamothebinns.

Hey man it's not, like...right, dig...?

Like, those little dudes in the Shire, man, can do what...they want see?

But the righteous dudes of Middle-Earthingland, can't say shit to them...

Well...apart from Soreon the Eye Broon and his lickspittle dude Borrowmore Darling.

The little munchkins are always whingeing about the Ringwraiths on the Brandywine.

But it makes sense...like, we don't want them on the Entwash dude, that would just be too dangerous!

But they do export really gnarly pipeweed...Look at the smokerings...