The Autolycan will take as its subject matter a number of unconsidered trifles that I have snapped up and developed. Sometimes, maybe, over-developed. Ever wondered what lies behind some of the smaller news stories that make it into the Oddly Enough or And finally... columns? Well, now I can reveal the answers. In this first edition I uncover the truth behind the Chinese couple who came home to find a live catfish in their small flat - despite the fact that all the doors and windows were locked - and look into the life of a 73 year old jailed for plotting robberies, telling the judge he was 'bored'.
I'm also fascinated by anagrams and will sometimes post ones I'm particularly pleased with. There may also be limericks from time to time, really anything based on words that I hope will raise a smile.
One more thing. Everything you read here is my own original work. Please feel free to make copies if you wish, but if so you must acknowledge The Autolycan as the source. I'll try to post something new every three or four weeks. Or so. We'll see how it goes.
Thanks for reading my blog. I hope you enjoy it.
Master Autolycus.
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CATFISH OUT OF WATER
A Changji couple, Xu Xianmin and his wife, both of Xinjiang province, China, claim that they locked up their one-room home, only to return to find that it had been trashed. They reportedly left an orderly home around 4 a.m. when they left for work, but when they returned at about 9.30am it seemed that thieves had entered and vandalized their house, although all the doors and windows were still locked on the outside. While cleaning, Xu “touched something cold and slippery, and it was moving!” It was an enormous catfish. “No thieves would leave a giant fish in the house while stealing nothing” said Xu, “All we can imagine is that the catfish somehow sneaked into the house in the time between us opening the door and then leaving for work.”
Crime Library
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Tricky one, this. Finding a marauding catfish in your house is presumably not an everyday occurrence in Changji, otherwise it wouldn’t make the papers, so we can’t just shrug it off with a casual ‘Haven’t we all been there?’.
Let us first of all discount the most obvious explanation – that there never was a catfish, that it’s all a put up job to get some publicity for the wily Xus who will soon no doubt be promoting their own brand of delicious catfish fingers to a delighted Xinjiang province. This explanation would require some subterfuge – at best – on the part of the Xus, the press and the Chinese authorities and it might be injudicious of us to arouse their ire by offering such a provocative hostage to their massive fortune.
We can also be sceptical of any suggestion that the Xus owned a particularly belligerent cat who encountered a stray catfish on an early morning sortie, and being unfamiliar - as cats are - with the etymology of the word ‘catfish’ hauled it through its catflap before going a particularly feisty three rounds with it and disappearing back through the catflap, leaving behind the kind of enigma in which cats delight.
What’s more, we can probably give similarly short shrift to the idea that Mr Xu brought it home at two o’clock that morning, having been for a quick half with the lads after work – just a quick one, OK but I’ll just get a round in before I go, how about another one, well that’s very kind of you, perhaps just one more, must be my shout now, oh look, there’s the others coming in, tell you what, let’s make a night of it – ending up in the fish market in the small hours and succumbing to his mates’ suggestion that nothing would delight Mrs Xu more than a nice bit of catfish for tea that night.
‘I got you a catfish. Look. ‘S lovely’
‘Whirrr…. Wha…..Errrr…….’
‘I got you a catfish. Look. ‘S thrashing its tail. Oh dear, ‘s knocked over the table lamp. ‘S f’ you’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘Am I?’
No, we have no reason to impugn Mr Xu’s sobriety or censure Mrs Xu’s lack of warm understanding, and so we come back to the Xus’ own explanation. There will be some, no doubt, who find this account improbable, but why? What is there to doubt? Most of us will know little of early morning routines in Changji, but it’s a fair bet that they’re much the same as they are the world over - stressful, fraught and bad tempered.
The alarm went off at half past three. For a moment or two, Mr Xu tried hard to ignore it but suddenly snapped awake. He’d forgotten to reset the alarm after they’d been on a slightly later shift yesterday and was now already running seriously late. Digging Mrs Xu sharply in the ribs in a forlorn attempt to wake her up, he leapt out of bed and into the shower, remembering too late that the boiler repair man was coming later that day to restore the hot water. He cursed and ran to the kitchen where his inexpert fumble with the bread knife resulted in a nasty gash to his thumb. He yelled to Mrs Xu, now awake but no better informed than he as to the whereabouts of the first aid kit. ‘Can’t you help me?’ he pleaded. ‘No,’ she replied ‘I’ve dropped a contact lens’. The dog started howling.
By now the children were stirring. It was always a bit of a rush to get them across to Grandma’s for a couple of hours before school.
‘Are you up?’ called Mrs Xu.
‘I feel sick’ whimpered one, tragically. ‘It’s PE and I can’t find my kit’ announced the other.
‘Well, look for it’
‘I have looked for it’ came the reply, between tears.
Mrs Xu tried to get a grip. She hurried to the kitchen and poured out some breakfast cereal – some into four bowls which she’d lined up and some onto the floor. As she turned away her dressing gown caught one of the bowls, dragging it to the floor where it shattered into an astonishing number of fragments. She hurried over to the fridge before remembering that they ran out of milk yesterday.
By now Mr Xu had found a strip of bandage for his thumb, and had cut four slices of bread. Still bare footed he crossed to the toaster, treading on the shards of cereal bowl that now littered the floor. Fortunately, there was a bit of bandage left. He manoeuvred the slices of bread into the toaster and when they popped up – a bit burnt but not too bad, considering, nobody’ll notice at this time of day, should be fine – he spread a generous layer of marmalade on each. Things were starting to look up.
Only a moment later they started to look down again. His son dropped his slice of toast marmalade side down onto the new rug, where the dog immediately trod in it. The boy claimed tearfully he’d only dropped it because his sister had nudged his elbow; she denied it furiously, and before the Xus could restore order she’d spilt orange squash over his homework and he’d smeared marmalade into her hair.
At this point the phone rang, which always set the dog off. It turned out to be only a wrong number, but the caller was inclined to argue that it couldn’t be because she was sure she’d dialled the right number and it took Mr Xu an unfeasibly long time to convince her that she was wrong. Trying to replace the receiver without looking at what he was doing he managed to drop it into a vase of flowers. It occurred to him that he’d topped up the water in the vase only the previous night, but he sensed that now might not be the time to own up to his ineptitude.
Mrs Xu decided that breakfast was over and despatched the children to get dressed. There were the usual wails about missing trousers and odd socks from the boy, and initially at least an outright refusal to wear her uniform from the girl - I can’t wear that, it’s gross, nobody does, they’ll all laugh at me, why can’t I wear my Goth, everybody’s wearing Goth now, the teachers don’t mind a bit. Meanwhile, Mr Xu was cutting himself shaving and couldn’t get the toilet to flush. He’d been promising to look at it for weeks.
At last, and only fifteen minutes late, they were all lined up and ready to go. More or less. One of them hadn’t got their dinner money, one had only one shoe and Mr Xu couldn’t find the car keys. The dog jumped up and put his front paws on Mrs Xu’s blouse, smearing it lightly with marmalade. They opened the front door, walked to the car and got in. Somewhat surprisingly it started at no more than the sixth or seventh attempt. Mr Xu started to pull away. ‘Did you lock the front door?’ he asked his wife. ‘No,’ she said ‘I thought you had.’
He stopped the car and she got out and ran back. The door was indeed wide open. In the darkness she momentarily thought she caught a glimpse of something shadowy slipping into the hall. Another morning, she might have checked, but today - to hell with it.
‘Good job I went back’ she said to her husband when she returned to the car. ‘We could have had a real problem there. I think the dog must have got out but I’ve locked him in now. He’ll be asleep all day, as usual’.
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THE PARTY’S OVER………
A reputed Chicago mobster who gained notoriety 32 years ago for
stealing the 45-carat Marlborough Diamond from a London jewellery store was jailed for plotting more robberies, telling the judge he was bored.
Arthur "The Brain" Rachel, 73, was sentenced to eight and a half years for his involvement in planning robberies with two other accomplices, both of whom are also in their 70s.
"It's the way we are," Rachel said. "We got nothing better to do. We sit around talking."The Independent |
La Duchesa, aka Mrs Marjorie Rachel, settled into her favourite armchair in the conservatory, poured herself a cup of tea and began leafing idly through the pages of Good Housekeeping. It hadn’t been a bad life, she reflected, being married to Arthur all these years – how she hated the soubriquet “The Brain” bestowed on him by a prurient press. True, he’d been ‘away’ for long periods, but generally she’d been comfortable, had never wanted for anything and felt secure as old age approached.
Arthur. The Brain. He was in the front room now with a couple of friends. He never told her any details of his ‘business’, but she could make an astute guess that they were planning another raid somewhere. She smiled to herself. For years now he’d sat round with fellow conspirators, talking about pulling off daring raids, but she felt quite confident that this one would get no further than all the others.
She got up, walked through the house and knocked on the front room door.
‘Yeah!’ shouted The Brain, ‘Whaddisit?’
She went in. Apart from Arthur there were two men in the room – Roger ‘Scarface’ Mainwaring, whom she recognised as an old accomplice of Arthur’s, and one other.
‘Say’ said The Brain to the third man. ‘Meet da liddle lady! Crusher, La Duchesa. La Duchesa, Crusher’.
Crusher stood to shake hands. ‘How do you do?’ he asked politely. ‘Awfully pleased to meet you’.
Marjorie acknowledged Crusher and glanced down. In front of him, each man had a pad of paper on which he was compiling a list of equipment for the planned robbery. At the top of Arthur’s list she saw that he had written
**!!BOTH PAIRS OF SPECTACLES!!**
She smiled. Last time the gang had planned a raid Arthur had waited patiently in the queue at the Halifax. When his turn came he had shoved a piece of paper under the window, reading ‘10 grand in used notes. Now. Do as I say and nobody gets hurt.’ The girl had glanced at the paper before inspecting her fingernails briefly, scribbling something on it and passing it back. Arthur had patted all his pockets for form’s sake, but knew he hadn’t got his reading glasses and had to ask her what it said.
‘It says no’ she told him. ‘Just like last time. Now clear off, you silly old sod.’
Arthur had looked round in panic for Scarface, but he was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where…’ he began.
‘Your friend got a bit uncomfortable’ said a kindly woman in the queue. ‘Had to ask where the nearest gents was. We thought the station was closest. He shouldn’t be more than ten minutes. Well, maybe fifteen’.
Marjorie smiled at the memory.
‘Would anyone like some tea?’ she asked brightly.
‘Oh, rather!’ said Scarface and Crusher together.
Marjorie began ticking off on her fingers – ‘I’ve got Darjeeling, Lapsang Souchong, Earl Grey, Peach Oolong…..’
Impressed, the boys debated their respective merits before finally agreeing on Earl Grey.
‘Biscuits?’ enquired Marjorie.
‘Shouldn’t really’ said Crusher, patting his expansive stomach, ‘but perhaps if everyone else is….’
‘Lovely!’ put in Scarface, ‘but preferably not Hobnobs – the crumbs always get under my plate’.
Marjorie withdrew. The Brain waited until he could hear her bustling with the tea things before continuing.
‘Now get this’ he said to Crusher. ‘You da wheels man. And dis time ya’d better be da best wheels man dere ever was. Dis time, no stickin’ to da lousy speed limit, goddit? Dis time, use da goddam bus lane or we got two Scarfaces in this mob!’
Crusher looked uncomfortable. ‘Do I have ta remind ya’ continued The Brain remorselessly ‘of da Barclay’s job?’
He turned to Scarface. ‘We gets to Barclay’s. Me an’ Slasher jumps out, all da guy has to do is sit dere wid da engine runnin’. What happens? Next thing we know, da punk’s drove off to park in da Council parkin’ lot.’
‘Well, I obviously had a few minutes in hand’ began Crusher defensively, so I’d put the recycling boxes in the boot – you can get rid of it all at the bottle bank now, you know. I do think it’s important to recycle’ he continued by way of explanation ‘it keeps the amount going to landfill down, and…’
‘Shaddup!’ growled the Brain, but Crusher was growing in confidence and ignored him.
‘Besides’ he went on, ‘I was the one who lobbied the Council and the local paper on behalf of the People! Please Park Pretty! campaign, so how could I of all people park on the double yellows…’
‘Should have been prettily interrupted Scarface. ‘I said so all along. Should have been an adverb, not an adjective. How on earth can we expect to maintain standards with that sort of example?’
‘Shaddup, losers!’ rasped The Brain, as Marjorie returned with tea and biscuits.
‘Now wise up, and wise up good’ he began, once Marjorie had gone, ‘here’s da deal’.
Expertly, The Brain ran through the details of the heist, making sure each man knew exactly what he had to do.
‘OK’ he concluded. ‘We go Thursday. 10.00 outside da NatWest. Goddit?’
Scarface and Crusher confirmed that they had indeed got it.
‘Buona fortuna!’ concluded The Brain.
‘I’ll be out on Thursday morning, dear’ he said later to Marjorie. ‘Me and the boys thought we’d have a round of golf.’
‘The boys and I, Arthur’ corrected Marjorie, gently.
‘Oh. Yeah.’
About midday on Thursday, Arthur arrived home looking sheepish.
‘How was the golf?’ enquired Marjorie. ‘Or should I say – the robbery’ she added knowingly.
He couldn’t look her in the eye.
‘We got to the NatWest’ he said in a low voice, ‘Crusher stayed outside, me and Scarface…’
‘Scarface and I…’
‘What? Oh, yeah. Scarface and I burst into the bank just as we’d planned.’
‘Then what?’
‘Once we were inside…’ his voice tailed off, and there was a long silence before he took a deep breath to compose himself.
‘It was embarrassing, just embarrassing’ he continued at last. ‘Once we were inside...’ he paused again, then continued brokenly, ‘once we were inside neither of us could remember why we’d burst in.’
Marjorie stifled a laugh. ‘So what did you do?’
‘We burst out, then burst back in again. Sometimes that jogs your memory.’
‘Did it?’
‘No. Fortunately, I happened to have the gas bill on me so I paid that. I don’t think they suspected anything.’
She looked at him lovingly.
‘I see’ she said, and drew closer to him. ‘Arthur’ she murmured gently, ‘don’t you think you’re getting just a bit too old for this? Call it a day, darling, for my sake. The party’s over, Arthur.’
He raised his eyes and looked into hers for several seconds.
‘Si,’ he replied, slowly. ‘la festa è finita’.
‘Si,’ he replied, slowly. ‘la festa è finita’.
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ANAGRAM CORNER!
Wayne Rooney and Sir Alex Ferguson make it into the first edition of The Autolycan
WAYNE ROONEY - YON WEARY ONE!
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SIR ALEX FERGUSON - LAXNESS OUR GRIEF!
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