Out From Under the Rock!

Not everyone comes tap dancing out of the womb crying here I am come and get me world I’m a superstar!



Some of us-and we know who we are, like to slip into the world muttering hey just don’t hit me or ask me to do stuff ok! We sit at the back of life’s classroom, looking at the superstars with their hands up and secretly plan world domination!

(hmm that could just be a me thing-oops!) Oh bugger another plan ruined!


Point is this-The Superstars have the verbal market totally sorted from day 1.

So we write instead, those are our words! Those little smarty-pants, the big mouths with their shiny confidence attract all the other would be Superstars to them like a little sparkly magnet-leaving us to find a nice big rock to hide under and scribble where they can’t get at us.

It’s hard to come out of the shadows but sometimes you  just have to. It is truly terrifying for some of us!

To all the other rock dwellers I say ‘

Come out and look at the stars

The day belongs to them

But the night and the moon are ours!’

Here are a four more nubbins of Jonny Greeneyes!

I could hear them long before I saw them, gently squabbling as they played cards. There they were, ancient wizened Hugh in his wheelchair, still wearing that bloody hat, Sinclair as big as a barn and tiny Bernie chewing on a cigar that was almost as big as he was. Then there was dad, he did look tired but better than I had expected. Dad is the butt of many of their jokes, because he is and I suspect always will be ridiculously good looking. At 64 he is still tall athletic and willowy, with a definite touch of the Cary Grants about him now that his hair is slightly greying, and he has the most intense green eyes I have ever seen on a human being.


Dryads are great fun, they love sex and will give you a night you won’t forget in a hurry but… he leaned forward, confidentially when you wake up in the forest the next morning with your kecks around your ankles and only a tree for company, you do tend to feel a bit of a prat!


…. was incredible, he dispatched many an Elf to Hades or wherever they went. The Pixies dropped hot rocks, and screeched in viciously with silver knives and a load of Iron musket balls that some genius had thought to bring up from the museum.


I seriously need my fags he said, I dropped my last packet somewhere down by the lake when it all kicked off, he looked at Tony. Filthy habit but I just can’t stop that one a day!

Tony shrugged, but it was Marc that came to the rescue. I always bring a spare packet for emergencies he said, looking at me and winking. I grinned, we both knew why.

Dad without caffeine and his daily ciggie is a beast before 7 am. It’s just what he personally needs to start his day, if he doesn’t get it then he’s a grumpy old sod. Marc spent a weekend up here with him once when he was trying to quit. He told me later that for the sake of their long friendship and his own sanity he ended up driving down the mountain at first light, to find an all night garage and some emergency cigs. Now he takes no chances, it’s a ritual, he stops at the same garage and buys a packet on the way up!






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