It was the on summer soltice of 1985. The year Bono had that gastly mullet hair-cut on live-aid and which my barber, one of the smedeley twins, reluctantly fashioned on my large bonse.

It was the first time we made love, Maria and I - who has since become my one and only true love. We did it in a patch of organic carrots on my allotment which is down by the village of Bloomfields river, the ISIS, which is used to water all the vegetabels and plants.

Maria and I, were at one with mother earth and her carrots that beautiful night, stars twinling brightly. Me, with my new short hair-cut, cut this time by Maria who had said - I will not make passion with a fishes head, Harry. You are mad as the moon to have copied Bono.

Both our bottom cheeks got covered in earthy mud during the throws of passion; and it was so passionate my spectacles became detached - left dangling precariously from my left ear. We lost ourselves in the passion, and found each other when it came to an prematurely abrupt end.I apologised after Maria told me a few rudimentary facts about how women like to be loved and passioned.

Maria then asked me if I liked licking ice cream off the cone. Answering in the affirmative, she insisted
- Pretend this is a peach and vanilla ice-cream Harry - as she puhed my head downwards. Mmmmmmnnnnn!

How we laugh now about that now. The second bout of love-making (there was to be a third, good heavens, I had thought - a bus doesn't come for a year then three arive in one night) involved Maria something quite unmentionable to me with a carrot, which made rational thought impossible and caused me to make random, not very gentlemanly, wild, animal-like noises.

I'd never expereiced this before for which I have never thanked her properly. Because, i became a man that night - a man that could love a woman properly (weel, when not too beer up). So today I will send her 20 roses for they are the number of years that have passed since we really fell in love.

Since then Maria has taught me much about vegetables and the earth. She has taught me cooking too. And I have shown her how to place bets at ladbrooks, and how to differentiate a good pint of beer from a bad one. How to jump the queue at the bar, and how to blagg a drink after closing time. All useful stuff.

We are both eco-sex lovers, and would like to subscribe to your journal. And if you are promoting group weekends in the country, to be collectively at one with mother earth, we would be interested - although I would have to confirm this with Maria first. Not sure she'd be up for it wih her Catholic background.

Yours in love

Harold

LOL!! :-)

...indymedia is really all about. Publishing bollocks like this whilst suppressing many legitimate pieces. No wonder everyone is laughig at you.

Oh Berty,

if you are going to make a criticising comment on an article such as this one, at least make sure you spell all words in your argument properly.
To me and presumably others I am sure your poor grammatical skills have gone down as the musings of a notorious criminal, a car thief if you will.
If you ever decide to raise the ugly head of inadequacy again in terms of others views on this website, I advise you use a different name. I have my eye on you boy.

Stephen XxXxX

Bert? Have they let you out? Or are you on the run, you daft old bugger.

Look old boy. Donut be better … oops! I mean don’t be bitter. Hells bells my typing need attention.. What's done is done can’t be undone. Lets move on!

I had to call those doctors in because you were hallucinating and threatening to kill the Vicars wife, in a very evil sounding voice. Then in another - and if I am not mistaken, it was a reasonable take on a non-singing Elvis - that you wanted her babies. If you had poured your scorn on the Vicar, himself, I would have welcomed the intention: "I will rip out your heart", as you growled sinisterly, holding that Machete.

Sorry, we had to put you in the funny farm, for your own good. You have to be cruel to be kind sometimes in life.

[Harold made a quick telephone to Brampton Mental Hospital, and returned to his computer, and continued typing his comment on Indymedia, or the news real as he liked to call it]

You scared me fo a moment there, Bert. Congratulations Bert, you have mastered tinternet. They teach everything down on the funny farm these days, heh!

So get back to your old self, and you'll be out in a few years. Back with your old mates in the Goose necking back the ale. Although you should keep it down to few pints a night when you start your life all over again, and attempt to re-climb the mountain. Your were up to a eleven and half a half-a-dozen whiskey chasers before you "emigrated to Australia" as we told everyone including your daughter. It’s tot good for the mind or for the wallet. But you live and learn old boy dont you.

Your wife's grave still needs tending so you'll have something to do. But your daughter will no longer be a burden; she died of a heroin overdose last Christmas. So two graves to tend! What a busy bee, you’ll be. And we sold that Chieftain tank you had in the back garden and spent the money on a day at the races, Cheltenham Champion Hurdle Day. And what a day that was!

Toddle-pip Berty-Bert.

Remember that we are here for you.

Harry.

Bert...get laid.

There was a young man named Berty
Who's clothes were terribly dirty.
His trousers were stained
(no clean bits remained!)
and brown marks covered his shirty.

So come on then lad, tell us what lovely stuff you've written that's been censored. It'll be good for a laugh to see what absolute crap you've posted. Was it about the illuminati or the "truth about 9/11"... or are you one of those holocaust denying bnp trolls?

At least the eco-sex bollox was funny.

Harry, do you know Tim Froggat?

Were you on the mashed-up list?

The Adventures Of Harold Hamlet (A Novel)


Chapter I

I- The Letters (Draft 1 21-june reworking of previous text)

In novel fashion, for all that knew Harold would not have seen this expression before, he acknowledged the strong sun radiating light across Bloomfield village, from just above the forest trees on the horizon. His face was broke into a fixed smile and eyes opened wide he stood on the step to the mound on which the pagan stone lay crafted into cross.

He raised his arms, with hands pointing upwards and declared - The Gods have blessed this place! As some paper with words on it fell to the ground.

What an extraordinarily beautiful morning it is today … Saturday …– he went on thinking. And Maria at this time will probably be scrubbing the wooden floor in her kitchen, making sausages or polishing her bronze sculptures … my love … why has God kept us apart.

He lowered his arms and head, and returned to his normal countenance and disposition, returning to the pleasant morning and thinking about the day ahead, and the village fete. And out loud inquired
- What are days for? – Expecting an answer from the heavens, he surprised not only the vicar, who was walking his dog, and approaching Harold from down the hill, but himself too by proclaiming
- For living in! …

- Morning Harry - the vicar said matter-of-factly. Surprising Harold because it wasn’t the heavenly body that he was expecting to speak. Harolds normal awareness of all around him had been cut off by the odd frame of mind to which he had just been moved – somewhere in space between two heavenly bodies the gods of love perhaps – another planet in the vernacular of Harold which he had before never visited.

- Didn’t now you recited poetry. It’s a celebration of the creations of God, you know, my boy. -

Harold replied tersely – I don’t. No it’s not. Your 10 ten years younger than ME! That makes me a man!

- Than I, Harry. Than I, dear boy. Good grammar makes good sense. You must have been praying then son. It’s time you joined us in the chapel on Sunday Harold – Harold never attended church on Sundays. He disliked the vicar intensely, especially his clam and unruffled manner, which Harold wanted to crack, and expose the Vicar as the troubled man Harold knew him to be.

Harold muttered a growl, inaudible to the vicar’s woolly-hated ears, feeling the stirrings of anger in his stomach, which were actually hunger pains. He turned away sharply, politely wishing his foe – good morning - letting the vicar get the upper hand this time. He bent down and picked up the letter to Maria that he had written the night before.

He gripped it tightly in his hand slightly angry at being out-witted by the vicar who had taken him from behind by surprise. He started to think about the letter’s fate. The job in hand was to send that letter and not to give the vicar a good kicking – Harold had thought, consciously restoring his internal composure and balance, for he had nearly tripped on executing his turn so swiftly which caused him to see the letter which had dropped to the ground. This discovery had stopped him from retaliating.

He mused - Will she even read it? I don’t know. I really am not sure she even reads the bloody things. Harold had asked her once if she read his letters, to which she did not reply. But she went on asking - What do you think my dear Baggy Pants? … Don’t ever ask me that again Harold - in her quiet gruff but very sexy (to Harold) Spanish accent.

There were times when Maria was to be obeyed and questioned no further. This was one of them. Harold had once only broken this rule of their relationship. She insisted on separate beds for the rest of that holiday they spent together in France. After which she returned to her devoted husband in their farm just outside Grenada. Every year, sometimes twice a year, they spent two weeks together, on the pretext that Maria was on a religious retreat and Harold was reporting on a far off brewing festival for the “Grape, Hopp aand Malt.” A trade brewing journal, which in reality, did not exist.

He sent her over 700 letters now and Harold considered them as a record of his adult life – he considered that he became an adult male only after having met Maria. Perhaps they would be published one day, he thought, when he had become famous. His recent appearance on the “Richard and Judy” show, he thought, was the beginning of his inevitable rise to fame – albeit without the presence of Richard – who hated Harold, for amongst other things, Harold’s vegetarianism and support of Animal Rights.

Richard Madely had become a target for the Animal Liberation Front. Well so he himself thought. He wasn’t in fact; his paranoid tailspin and decent into delusion arose from the response arising from the reckless and provocative comments that he made when interviewing a prominent animal rights activist on the “Real Fox Fur is Sexy and Fun” debate to coincide with London Fashion Week. A few TV viewing odd-balls wrote letters to the show afterwards threatening Richard in no uncertain terms. This wasn’t because of his relish for eating all things meet, but because He wore only a fox fur jock strap throughout the whole show at the insistence of Judy. It was really a prudish fundamentalist Christian from Glasgow who had threatened to kidnap and serve his penis up on a platter for Richard’s own dinner.


Harold’s stream of conscious thoughts flowed to observing the villages shiny red post box as he imagined a huge scythe cutting it down by sweeping through the base. This was a very odd image that made him very uncomfortable, but was probably aroused by what was in his hand that, the letter to Maria. He swiftly dispatched it into the post-box and walked away briskly and with purpose towards the Goose to take breakfast before attending the annual summer garden fete.

Harold took his usual stool at the bar, and ordered a vegetarian breakfast and a pint of Marston's Bitter from Lucy, who was pretty, sharpe as a needle (but not quite slim as one) vibrant and friendly in equal measure. Full of joy life and energy which Harold loved. Perhaps the daughter he longed for, or a girl that would beome a woman he could love. They were good friends,and looked out for each other. One of the few friends Harold could really trust.

Lucy gave him his change, and commented - Dont often see you hand over a £20 note in the Bar Harry.

- Had a small win on the GG's darling. Here - buy yourself a soda, or something - Harold handed her a fiver, which she took with thanks.

- By the way. There's a couple of letter's for you - Lucy disapeared into the backroom and retrieved the letters fromthe safe. Harold used "The Balls and Gooseberry Bush" pub as a person mail box, telephone calls and messages. He called it his back-up office.

One letter was addressed:
HH
The Goose

Harold knew who it was from - probably details of their next outing, he thought.

The other was
Harold Hamlet, Esq.
Bloomfield
Oxon

Postmarked today, Jun 21, 2005 - The summer soltice - he thought, smiling apreciatively recalling the night of 20 years ago. On the back was the sender's details: Tim Froggart - The Mashed-Up Club, Tel: 07910837112. Who the blazes is Tim Froggat - he thought, adopting a penisive and slightly quizical look. He pocketted the letters even though very to discover Froggat was. There was a distan tinkling in his memory that it could be a former member of the supposedly secret Cambridge University "Mashed-Up Club" of which Harold was very familiar.

He took a a mouthfull of beer, swiftly followed by two more. And, started memorising names of the 42 malt whickies that the Goose had on display. He could remember 33 that moring - not bad, his mind was in reasonable order, but not tip top. He could get 40 of them if he was on top form. But this moring th name Froggart kept popping up in his mind -distrating him.

Breakfast arrived with a smile from the lovely Lucy, - you going tom the barbeque tonight Haz?

- Yes, he replied.

- Good. See you there then ... Kelly's coming too.

Harold tucked into his breakfast, thinking that the girls would liven up the Vicar's solstice party who liked to acknowledge pagan infuence in christianity. looking forward to a promising day.






(Reworking: Draft 1 Tues June 21).

I received another letter from Harold today. He has been arrested under the prevention of terrorism act ... I can't believe it, Harry is a good boy, he is NOT a terrorist.

He is being charged with possession of two guns and explosives. This is serious. Poor Harry. My sweetie can not eat porridge for years; his testicles will dry up.

Only three days ago I had a another letter from him. He was very happy, but related this long story about what happened on a sunday, nearly two weeks ago in the Pub, when the Lord came in with his dog to drink their champaign and port. And how a TV personality Richard Madley. ANd there was a body of a dead person in the lords house.

It was strange.

Harold is not going to be able to carry on playing himself in the Novel now. It will have to wait until he gets out of Goal. Perhaps someone else can replace him in the Novel for the time bring. I will suggest this to the Author.

Next time when I come into town to the internet cafe I will bring the strange letter Harry wrote to me before he got arrested.

Have a nice evenning.

Maria (Harolds Girl-friend)