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Tales From a Church Tea Room No2. Three Sweet Little Old Ladies


Tales from a Church Tea Room No2

Three Sweet Litle Old Ladies

Copyright by Frankie Lassut 2015

Published by Reader’s Wonky Books at Shakespir

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Old Edith was getting fed up! She had come to the meeting ‘for a chat’ she told me, ‘not for a stupid quiz’. The week before she’d had a little rant on temples and any other foreign houses of worship in the UK and how, she said, some people went around burning them. “Are you national Front?” I asked her. “No! But I wouldn’t feel guilty if I was.” She replied. One angry old girl. However, her words didn’t go amiss as a week or two later God used the wind and the rain to blow over a crane in Mecca which landed on a mosque and killed a lot of people. Shortly after that a load more people of the Muslim faith were killed in a stampede in another mosque; is God trying to say something? Maybe God does have a sense of humour after all.

Once again it was an AGE UK meeting for 55 year olds and over. AGE UK is an older person’s training ground for going into a nursing home. The only difference is that at an AGE UK meeting you aren’t allowed to rub shit into your hair and then expect someone to plonk you in a bath and wash it out again. The only stimulation in a home is a good slapping and having your hair grabbed and your head shaken, which doesn’t happen in an AGE UK meeting (that is all I can say as I signed the official Old People’s Organisation Secret’s Act; which was actually invalid as my hand wasn’t shaking nearLY enough and I could remember what the alphabet symbols were).

The quiz was thankfully over after four hours and the people who complained because they had to think (because at 55+ it is a cheek for anyone to ask you to do such a self-cruel thing) … were then allowed to go for a pee; not a crap because they might ‘you-know- what and that’s a bit messy, especially as there is no bath which can be filled with scalding hot water in which to dunk the offender to make sure they don’t do it again … remember, the more fun at work, the more efficiently the place runs.

“What are we doing next week?” one of them asked.

“Next week” said the man in charge “we’re going to be having a look at each other’s projects.”

“Projects?” someone else asked.

“Yes, everyone will do a project and next week we can have a look at them and decide who wins the prize.”

“What are the projects?” asked old Dave (old Dave is my mate who makes a splendid cup of tea).

“Anything you like, use your imagination.

I asked Edith what she was going to do.

“Something I’ve always wanted, my own waxworks, I will name it after Dear Vincent’s House of Wax and call it Pensioner’s Bungalow of Wax. Mind you, I won’t be able to bring it here; you’ll all have to come to my ‘bungy’ to see it. You can all have a cuppa and a biscuit while you’re there. It will take me two months to complete.”

A Pensioner’s Bungalow Waxworks. Well, gotta hand it to the old girl, she makes a few candles from a kit she must have, a birthday present from one of her children perhaps to try and gee the old girl’s mind up, and calls the display of candles a wax museum how lovely is that!

A week later some of the people brought in their creations. Mary brought a rather predictable display of flowers. Joe was a little more interesting, he brought in a hedgehog’s skin that he was curing in order to make a taxidermy model, which was something he has always wanted to do. Mary brought in a hat decorated with the feathers of a pheasant her husband had shot, and Eustace, a model of Buckingham Palace which he had made, unbelievably from one matchstick he had sliced up with a diamond knife. The slivers of matchstick were so thin that the construction was transparent AND magnificent.

“Has anyone else got anything?” asked the leader, Malcolm. No one had, so the next thing to look forward to for us fifty fives and over, apart from crosswords and quizzes, which are vital in these ‘concerned about age’ groups, as they have to keep us fucked up worn outs grey matter ticking … or we’re very quickly homeward bound (as in rest home) where there are no crosswords or quizzes to stop us sinking into dementia; only the one fun activity of rubbing your own shit into your hair (or onto your head if you’re bald) … ah! It is old age! Something to look forward to after spending fifty or more years in a depressing job and sixteen years preceding that having a shit time at school. Life’s a bitch and then you die (in utter fucking misery, probably with a smelly head).

Wouldn’t it be fun if it was discovered that people in rest homes that did that fun activity with their hair, had fabulously healthy, shiny hair. Someone would market it and call it Poopy Doo Poo Shampoo!

How would they get the shi Poopy Poo? Because it has to be from the correct age gut (gut flora fermentation maturity etc …). I’ll let you imagine that one. On second thoughts:

What if the collection tanker had a horrific smash and spilled it’s load on the bypass of an idyllic village? Doesn’t bear thinking about really, does it. You can do that one too … one hint I could hint at you …would the meadow flowers thrive? Would any local pig be happy? Because you know what they say ‘happy as a pig in Poopy Doo’.

Just think, the inmates could be let out in the garden in the morning (it’s all in the extortionate cost), especially if it’s cold and raining which refreshes them, to pasture and then at, or just before tea time they could be brought into the specially modified Poopy parlour, single KYd ‘teat’ shaped insertions, inserted where the sun don’t shine and then the Poop could be collected in a big jar; five inmates to each jar. Each inmate while this is happening could be given a bowl of Mono Sodium Glutamate (yummm!) laced porridge so they could have their tea at the same time, saving time and, it would stop them kicking a staff member behind them on teat insertion duty, which can hurt if they decide rather cruelly not to use the KY like the guy in the Green Mile who deliberately didn’t wet the electric chair sponge with water … and then they could be put into bed early while the staff have a good piss up; which, in my experience is very much like a hospital; except for the nice garden bit, and the nice porridge (and the nice teat insertion … which they weren’t doing on the occasions I was in, fighting to keep my organs) … Fighting to keep my organs? I tell you, it’s a bit offhand when the team of specialists come and stand around your bed in order to comfort you and tell you how well you are doing and how soon you can go home which you probably don’t want to do cos it’s poopy doo at home, and one of them is pushing along a 3D ultrasonic organ detector thing and finds that your kidney is fine despite your addiction to life’s a bitch antidepressants and alcohol, while one of them is trying to auction it on Skype. When they came to my bed (which I couldn’t get out of and skedaddle to the wet room as I had had a stroke) they were all wearing Vintage E Type Owner’s Club badges. Underneath the badges it said … We specialists would like to thank all ex- patients (who didn’t quite make it, in very small print) for our car collections, which don’t just include E Types.

What wankers those specialists are, eh?! They can’t accept that healing is in the mind, which is what Jesus knew and these people profess to be Christians. I’m not angry, I just think it’s all part of life’s Technicolor Dreamcoat Tapestry. Now, watch the hairpin bend …screech! …

Sweet little Edith then piped up.

“I’m working on my Pensioner’s Bungalow of Wax.”

“Really Edith!?” piped up leader man.

“Yes, it will be ready in about a month, which will be ahead of schedule, so I will invite all of you around to see the exhibits and to have a cup of tea and a biscuit, probably McVitie’s Digestives. I’m a pensioner you see and I can’t afford Hobnobs because they are covered in REAL chocolate; ‘are they bollocks!’ I say. It’s some chemically enhanced gloop that is set at room temperature … which is why we all have dentures because of the sugar content. We should all stop eating it and then we would live longer and piss the Queen off every hundred years when she has to write to us and also piss the government off when they have to keep crediting our E bank accounts with Winter Heat money. If we wear onesies we shouldn’t have to turn the heating on and then we can spend the allowance on fags and alcohol and be happy.”

The Monday meeting, one month later.

“Good afternoon everyone, welcome to Age UKs meeting, it’s good to see no one’s died. “It isn’t good for undertakers,” said Henry, an ex undertaker who had made a very good living from these very meetings.

“Maybe not.” Said group leader, but we’re here to be happy, not sad. Now, who is for a crossword?! First prize will be a packet of McVities Digestives, which help with our digestions by keeping our colon’s flora healthy.

“If we want to keep our colons healthy why can’t the prize be a bottle of Yakult?” asked Eunice. To save the leader answering that toughie (why indeed! Good point! I just thought that and left it safe in physically unmanifest ideas land).

Edith piped up “My waxworks is ready now, would everyone like to come have a look?”

This resulted in twelve people, plus myself, over 55, clambering onto a number 26 bus which went right past Edith’s bungalow. I’m glad to say that they all had their bus passes, except me, as I’m not old enough; I’m the group’s spring chicken.

It was the faces that I found strange. The first ‘work’ was in the little hallway just behind the front door. The gentle-wax man was stood there, dressed as a butler, polishing a coat peg … he had a surprised, yet desperate look on his face, just like someone would have if they had been on one of those lung machines in hospital and a relative who was on the list in the will walked by and accidentally pulled the pipe off the connector and then walked away innocently whistling and pretending to look at the bare walls admiring the colour-to-wellness pictures (I actually failed the cynicism exam at school because I’m academically thick). That person, who is admittedly imagination, actually went to the reading of the will and received the choice of two polished oak boxes. Apparently, he chose the one with the best vibration feeling. He opened the box and found he had been left 30 of the guy’s vibrators, while the other box held, one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Unlucky? (Not if he’s a gay of the preferred preference).

Edith then led us into the living room. In the crystal refracted light from the Perspex Ikea chandelier was a woman bent over a vacuum cleaner, a beautiful Dyson suck-off which removes any dry or damp stain from any carpet or lino. This middle aged lady had the same pained expression on her face; an expression which said … ‘I just lost bingo to that bitch over there whose husband just received his pension twenty five percent lump sum when I’ve already spent mine! On the stairs was a man putting a dishcloth along the banister rail, with the ‘same’ pained expression.

What was it with the faces?!

In her bedroom was a body in a quilt cover and a pair of woman’s legs which were obviously kicking in panic as not only was one shoe on the floor, but the other was only half on the foot … they had been trapped inside the acre of cover and were asphyxiating in their own CO2, probably with a windpipe full of feathers. Their expression I guess would be too terrible to behold, hence the ‘hidden’ in the folds mystery (that sounds like an art galleries explanation of a shit exhibit of modern art bollocks).

Fact: Some quilt covers contain farts that were released up to twenty five years ago, ALL from women who are the only species who can change quilt covers.

Finally, for I have no wish to distress you any further, well ok, just a little bit.

In the toilet was a man on his knees scrubbing the toilet bowl with a brush. His face again was extremely pained in that same iron lung unplugged expression.

All the Age UK lot looked bored! ‘Goddam!’ I thought, this lady has produced a Pensioners Bungalow of Wax with a display which would delight even dear Vincent, which displayed a horror section which in turn displayed REAL horror, the one thing which goes beyond anything Hitler could do to distress people … Hatred! In Edith’s case, the universal hatred of doing domestic work in the house! Hammer House of Horrors has nothing to come close to such human degradation, and neither did Hitler come to think of it.

I had to know how she had done this wonderful waxworks and so I phoned the local radio station and they sent around a van with some recording equipment …

So Edith, how ‘did’ you do it?

How did you, a little old lady from Age UK manage to create a Pensioner Bungalow, erm, Theatre of Wax?

“Well, it was quite easy really. I wanted it to be different, not boring like the usual stuff. I like the chamber of horrors when I go to the waxworks so I thought I would go one better and do an actual theatre of hatred. I started by writing a letter and copied it several times then sent it to friends and some random people through whose doors I put it; here it is, I’ll read it out to you.

Hello Friend.

My name is Edith and I’m a regular at Age UK, without which the excitement would be a zero in my life. Usually we do a crossword or a quiz, which are so exciting they make dementia look like fun. Recently they have asked us all to do a project and I think the winner is going to receive a packet of Chocolate Covered Hobnobs from the hallowed Pure Gold Biscuit Tin which rarely comes from the cupboard. Unfortunately, on the packet it says covered in REAL chocolate which I think is bollocks. But even REAL chocolate is better than McVities Digestives; but who knows what our gut flora thrives on?

Well, other people in the group I know will be very, very predictable, so I thought I’d fulfil a lifelong ambition and create a House of Wax in my Pensioner Bungalow. Friend, I was wondering if you would like to lend your body to be one of the exhibits? You will then be famous for a while until they trash the lovely bungalows to make way for a tower block which they will fill with dear chavs. Please tweet me or get me on Facebook. I may be 80 but I’m up with it. My Twitter name is Wax Edith. Have a nice day and use all the discount vouchers you can.



I got my people and I saw them one at a time. As I hadn’t made a waxwork before, I devised my own method. I got the person to first strip off and lie on their back and did the bottom of their feet using a bathroom sealer gun with a tube of that sealer in it (obviously, duuuuhhh). When that had set, indicated by a fade in the vinegar smell, I had them stand up and did all of their body the same way, leaving just the face. When the person had ‘set’ I had them sit down and close their eyes. As a just in case precaution, I tied them to the chair. They asked me why and I replied ‘says so in the instructions’. “Oh, ok.” They replied. “It must be right then, like sell by dates.”

I then covered the face with the sealant, making sure to fill the nostrils which would give my models the 3D look, making them stand out and look very, scarily real. They struggled a little when I filled the nostrils which could have ruined the overall model, so I pushed a straw up each nostril, which stopped the struggle. I then relaxed them so as they didn’t ruin the mould anymore and gave them several good whiffs of chloroform up the straws. When they were finally still and so ‘cooperating’, I removed the straws and filled the nostrils again for that 3D look. This was very inconvenient because the exhibition I had planned was People’s Reactions to Household Chores, so I planned to twist the face into agony while the wax was still warm. So you see, it is quite easy to make a waxwork model that is very realistic.

When the sealant was set I removed it from the bodies, which was a bit like skinning a rabbit. I then sealed along the cuts and stuck the split sealant body together again, which was my mould.

My next task was to go to that council estate resident’s paradise the Pound Shop and get a shopping trolley full of candles. I had to pull a shopping trolley from the city pond which attracted a crowd but keeps me fit. As I made my way to the middle of the pond I tripped over what seemed to be an algae covered concrete block. On closer inspection it had skeletal legs coming from it which led to a full skeleton. There was a wire around the neck bone which had a plastic label attached to it, which said … ‘you refuse to pay your Council Tax?! Ok, have it your way. This is a warning to all residents of the city; pay your Council Tax reader. I got attacked by some angry swans, but I sorted those varmints out with my Pound Shop bow and arrow, the suckers of said arrows I removed and sharpened the ends of the sticks with my genuine Pound Shop Bowie Knife; those birds should mind their own freaking business, just because they belong to the Queen, they think they own the bloody place (the local Polish population have eaten them now and made birdcages from the sucked-clean bones which they sell in their shops, so all’s well and good).

I melted the candles three at a time in a saucepan. When it was melted and ready I made a slit in the mould’s head and then filled each one like a hot water bottle using an enamelled steel jug. I then had the time to shape each one into the required position for the wax house, domestic chore pose. I kept the wax malleable in the mould by shutting the door and windows and turning on the one bar electric fire. The storage heater was giving some good heat while it was cooling down from its ‘everyone’s asleep’ power blast … Keeping insomniacs warm, everywhere.

“That’s fantastic Edith, but what about the bodies?”

“Bodies?! Oh them!? Well. I had to pull them by their feet into the cellar, the home to my exclusive wine collection from Tesco’s … they take up room where I would rather place great vintages which I use occasionally to entertain my men from Age UK. I lie! I mean from the nearby Methodist Central Hall where they are a little more, erm, lively and sexier. I then thought better and the wine won so I had to get rid of them. I got in touch with the city hospital management and suggested that if they had any fridges available in the morgue they may want to fill them with these bodies which, as everyone knows makes fridge freezers more efficient. They were full though as the organ trade was good so supply and demand was in top flow. They did however have contact with a couple of dog food factories and so they asked me how much and I gave them a decent bulk discount and they sent a black van around one night … job done. All I had to do then was peel the sealant resin mould from the wax models, dress them with clothes from the Heart Foundation shop and hey presto, one Pensioner’s Bungalow of Wax Premier Exhibition. Someone said to me ‘if the police find out I’ll get De Throw, but, I already have one over my settee so they can keep theirs.

Eunice was indeed given the Chocolate covered Hobnobs with REAL chocolate from the Age UK Solid Gold Biscuit Box, from which the only other packet ever awarded, like the Victoria Cross was to John Dough for his horror stories, written in the Age UK Creative Writing Class. The Solid Gold Biscuit Box is rumoured to have been found in the tomb of Tutankhamhun. It was donated by Howard Carter who was a member of Age UK and found the box when he won an Age UK Projects Competition himself. No one came anywhere close; the nearest was a long deceased member called John who invented a heated bus pass holder for winter mornings. Because the holder was solar powered, the solar panels had to be worn like a sandwich board. Unfortunately, John didn’t account for global warming and one hot sunny day the panels were so efficient, the pass holder got so hot that the bus driver had to kick him off the bus because everyone was complaining that it was like a sauna. A disgruntled John had to cross the road to get another bus and as he was crossing he was knocked down and killed by a bus. The wiring got shorted out and John caught fire and by the time they put him out he was just a frazzled lump of carbon so they had to just sweep him up and dump him in a bin. No one knew who he was or where he had lived but it can be guaranteed that his electricity and gas were both turned off because he hadn’t paid the bills. The rest of his family were found by the Council, beaten, concrete blocked and dumped in the city pond because he hadn’t paid his Council Tax. I’m betting that organisations like Capital One credit cards are still sending him their immoral crap and some ambitious arses will be piling the pizza leaflets in his lobby … and I’ll bet the Jehovah’s Witlesses are still pounding on his door in the hope that he will get so annoyed that he will come to the door (his only defence in such matters) to tell whoever it is to piss off, only to see they have an innocent brainwashed child stood with them to stop such frustration outbursts) and OF COURSE to hear about how he can only be saved by coming through Jesus Christ (who was hardly saved himself), the holy (or ‘only’?) middleman.

It truly is a world full of activities, opportunities and stories to be told.

Sweet Little Old Ladies 2


Molly and Irene were both sweet little old ladies; guess where they met?

The leader man asked them if they would like to take part in the crossword competition, first prize, a packet of McVities Digestives. Ah but, they weren’t on the 55+ downward slope like the rest of us old fogies and had just popped in to the Unitarian Church tea room for a cuppa and didn’t realise it was an Age UK meeting. Maybe if everyone’s face had had an excited expression on it they would have realised, but alas, they were fooled.

At the end of the crossword competition, which they won, the boss man asked if anyone was doing anything interesting in their life or lives and would like to share it with everyone. In other words, it was like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, but that was taking place up the road in the Methodist Central Hall (where the bar was shut, stopping any chance of happiness in the AA meeting … tis a sometimes sad world we slaves inhabit).

Molly and Irene did find great value in the quiet meeting and told the boss man they did have something to share. They told the group that they were of advanced age and had actually just met; how was that for fate?! They had both raised children who had flown the nest and were now waiting for the money from the wills so they could really start to live, but, the ladies had today decided to sell up and pool their cash and buy a tea room in Cumbria in the fells, or actually just where the fells started to become lower ground where the population was greater…

House finding and purchase …

They now lived in an idyllic little ex-slate-mining village in a fairly large house, and ran a little tea room which topped up their pensions. They went out for little walks in the little field next to their house and got all the goods they wanted from the huge hypermarket nearby, which had replaced the beautiful duck, dragonfly and water nymph pond which had been the crowning glory of the picturesque meadow. Their dream was to have a bigger tea-room and they were on the lookout for a builder to build them an extension. It’s lovely to see such creativity and enthusiasm from people so old beautifully mature.

One day, a gentleman came in for a lovely cream tea. He heard them talking about having an extension built, and their difficulty in finding a builder in the sticks … so, being a friendly and helpful person, he found it in his lovely good nature to pipe up.

“I say ladies. I can point you in the direction of the man who built my house if you wish. He lives in the next village, same as me, right next to the huge hypermarket which replaced the idyllic meadow and the bluebell wood which played home to frisky deer and hopping fluffy rabbits; not to forget beautiful meadow flowers and rare butterflies.”

“Is it a nice house?” asked Molly, who hated butterflies and if she was quick enough, liked to grab them off flowers, pull off their wings and then squash them between her fingers.

“Yes, come and see it if you like. I can give you a ride there and back; that would be a pleasure.”

“Oh, we only go for walks in the field and to the corner shop, we’re a little timid you see. We like our comfort zone” replied Irene; who hated flies but couldn’t catch them.

“Ok, said the man, no problem. Here’s his number, his name’s Burt … and my number too, in case you change your mind about seeing my place and in case you have any problems anywhere along the way. Just think, you could do your shopping on the same trip, have a quarter pounder with cheese, have fun with a few coins in the amusement arcade and walk guiltily past a few beggars who now sit with laptops demanding not change but credit cards … make a day of it.”

The ladies thanked him, and he left. The man had one problem himself; he was genetically like his great granddad, the great silent film star Ben Turpin.

Ben the cowboy building contractor

The builder turned up two hours after they called him, which they thought very efficient indeed. The ladies told him they wanted a shuttered French window with a decent inside windowsill for their tea pot on the first floor of the extension, and could they have Friends written on the underneath of the sill overhang, so people could see that they were warmest, best friends, as they sat in the window having their afternoon tea after their lovely little shop closed for the day; they had a massively high value on friendship.

The man said ‘certainly’, drew his plans, and got on with the job … which took him only a week, so was his marvellous efficiency. The ladies paid the man without properly inspecting the job, and he left with forty thousand pounds of their savings (the truth was, they just didn’t notice). The builder was pretty famous, but in words, so not someone you would recognise, although you may certainly have heard of him. Here’s something that was written about him.

There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile

He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile

He bought a crooked cat that caught a crooked mouse

And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

The ladies had thought he had a back a bit like Richard the Third, but they never said anything less they upset him (one shouldn’t mock the afflicted). It took the ladies a little while to notice their ‘friends’ window, because its ‘crooked’ wonky position wasn’t the sort of thing anyone notices for a while. They realised with a delayed shock when a visitor to the tea rooms pointed it out to them, and they weren’t too pleased, not too pleased at all.


They didn’t complain to the builder and demand a refund, but all the same, they hated being conned and cheated. They watched Dominic Littlewood on TV with his Rogue Builders thing, and they thought he was very restrained …

It took a couple of days for their anger levels to reach boiling point and then they planned their revenge on the two men who had done this horrible deed to them. Actually, revenge to them would be all in a day’s work, and very pleasurable indeed. They had been doing this work, not always in revenge, since they met many years ago and found that they both had this ‘pleasure’ in common. Most people thought that butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. The only mouth butter won’t melt in, scientifically, is a dead mouth … butter needs heat to melt (just thought I’d tell you that).

You see, even when two sweet little old ladies are livid and are planning revenge, they look lovely and cosy and friendly … and welcoming.

Hello dear, come in and have a lovely cream tea.”

There now follows a ‘traditional’ horror story … ‘yawn’.

The sweet old women, who were very naughty pensioners (too old to be responsible for their actions), drugged both men with ‘special’ tea, after inviting them round as a little ‘thank you’ … you know what that was reader (with extra cream!). The men were then dragged into the meat room, lifted onto a morgue table using lifting gear … actually, they use hunchbacked Igor (topical nickname), who lived in the basement of the house/tearoom, but never came out. He was Lewis, the illegitimate son of one of the friends who was a bit backward (like his dad … who they, erm … tell you in a short while. Actually, you’ll guess).

The men were dismembered while they were unconscious, as it stopped the screaming and made the struggle small, the ladies liked to remove arms and legs first, it was sometimes fun if the person awoke and tried to struggle (you see!), they had laughed many times at that particular fun event (the screams were never heard). They flinched a few times, sweated rather profusely and showed REM eye movement, as their sub-conscious minds tried to warn them back into reality. Instead, they had awful to describe nightmares as they died in this horrible fashion. The bits they didn’t want were dissolved in an acid bath. They kept the prime cuts of meat, vacuum sealed them, and put them immediately in the deep freeze to keep as much of the blood in as possible; to them, there was nothing like the taste of almost fresh raw bloody meat. They would have some on their ‘private’ zombie vampire fetish night which they were holding soon. One of the heads had teeth while the other had crooked dentures (you know whose head that was). They kept the good one for a candle holder. They scooped out the brain and then boiled it to get the flesh off. Perfect!

Thank God for sweet litle old ladies and the Hyde personality

The Other? They melted it down (crooked was too complicated, especially toothless). The contact lenses from e bay arrived just in time for the party night … luminous red ones, the ladies would look good! On the night (it started late afternoon just as summer was leaving to the dismay of many), they put on the buffet with the special table of the (almost) fresh, bloody raw flesh, and they and everybody else had a good dig in, the ladies tore into a bit of good bloody rump, like ravenous (were) wolves. Just as it was getting dark, the ladies decided to have a cuppa on their ‘crooked’ windowsill, and have their picture taken; after all, it was a fun night worth remembering (or dismembering?). Their monster uniforms were their own clothes.

As they were having their picture taken by Dracula, there was a mine collapse underneath the house; surprisingly it was the weight of just one small lady guest who had achieved the tipping point, Miss Buckaroo!

A large hole appeared as the ground finally gave way and the house slid into it. It all happened so quickly that Dracula didn’t have time to move the camera before the ladies began to disappear out of the frame. Oh dear, that’s the problem with old mining villages. Down go the ladies. People who knew the old ladies felt that there was something about them and therefore didn’t like them, said … “That house was on its way to hell! They were evil old bitches, but still, sweet old ladies.”

People who saw Dracula’s last pictures of the lovely old ladies scrutinised their eyes … but, you know reader that the red dots were contact lenses from e bay (don’t you?).

“I think we’re sinking dear.”

“I think you’re right dear.”


Now the ‘proper’ horror story … normality (not as horrible as a ‘proper job’ though, or housework!). Actually, the house only fell forty feet … and everybody was killed. Lots and lots of people thought this a disaster, and were very angry when the remains were found by forensics (there hadn’t been much naughtiness going on in the area, and the forensics people who were on short time were very, very glad of this job. They loved the job, it was better than working in a factory, and much more interesting … roll on murder and stuff). People said the old ladies were evil, and rumours started of Devil worship, cannibalism, vampires, etc … the yum yum stuff for a disaster hungry media and public. The Newspapers called them The Flesh Eating Octogenarians, and told of the ‘bits’ that were found … the papers sold in their millions, and the bosses were chuffed to bits (better summer holidays this year!).

One form of ugly behaviour that was missing due to the ladies being dead; was the ‘non-happening’, in the circumstances, of the ladies undergoing trial, then leaving the court in the police van. One, maybe two estate chavs, with lists of socially ‘accepted’ crimes themselves, therefore didn’t have the opportunity to run to the side of the van, bang on the windows and shout obscenities at their own ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ reflections in the dark glass. It’s ok, its ‘normal’ behaviour (innocent until proven guilty … let they who have not sinned cast the first stone).

Isn’t real horror fab?! Boy oh boy, now the death men and women really started to move in.

The funeral of the ladies took place, and lots of police got overtime trying to keep the angry crowds back, the priest got overtime money and a special payment for sending off such a high level of sin.

Actually, the coffins were empty. The ladies were taxidermically mounted and put into a Black Museum’s ‘secret’ room … people with the cash could come in and see the gruesome figures, set over a medically designed bloody wax corpse, eating the flesh. The customer could even sleep in the room overnight with them. Their brains were used for neurological research to see ‘why’ they had done what they had done (research would go on indefinitely, when completed, the people of the world ‘save a small hate group’ would have forgotten what it was all about … blessing or a curse? Ignorance IS supposed to be bliss remember).

The bodies? Well, why waste the meat and just think, they wouldn’t get a proper burial because they were hardly Holy (just make sure the public think they were incinerated and in Hell (which doesn’t exist except as a state of mind). Their skeletons? Were they left in the mounted pair? Or were they a separate ‘private’ exhibit (for rich ghouls) in the same Black Museum? A film may be made about them one day, which will employ hundreds of people, and the DVD should sell well, which is fabulous. The rest of the dead from the house were buried, making thousands for the massive death industry. A platform was built across the gaping hole twenty foot down and soil was put in it and a large flower display was put on top … it attracted lots of ghouls that supported the town’s economy. Fancy dress shops sold the old ladies masks which were popular on Halloween. The resultant book sold quite a few copies.

Implements from the ladies ‘meat room’ were sold to the highest bidders (surgical saws, knives etc) …

You must admit, it is a fascinating world. Fascinating!

You could also admit that Age UK has a lot to answer for … maybe.


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Tales From a Church Tea Room No2. Three Sweet Little Old Ladies

In a Church tea room yes you do find young people, why wouldn’t you? But, obviously in an Age UK meeting in a church tea room, you will sometimes get the New 30 type 55 year olds like me, on a mission to test out the ‘old years’ to see what it’s going to be like. There are also those who have miraculously managed to take the bullets of life, they have survived terrible weather forecasts, voted in new and out the old governments and immediately begun to complain as this new lot do exactly the same as the others and then wait, with bitter twisted long faces until that magical time when they are called upon through the debris of another war, Civil or other, to demand yet another bunch to abuse them ... people never learn on that one i.e. if a man wearing his war uniform i.e. a grey suit and tie appears on television and refuses to answer yes or no, immediately switch to Judge Rinder or top star Jeremy Kyle, King of the chavs, where you will get a hands down better show with fewer promises and lies Jeremy’s biggest lie is ‘No! Graham and I are NOT trying for a baby! Although Graham has always wanted to openly breast-feed in public’; both Messer’s Rinder and Kyle would make better stand-ups though (which is a compliment). Well all of that necessary sheep flock slavery type life (at least the church calls them the flock, thus proving the likeness to sheep with a sugar coating) lived for those who have by some miracle made seventy or eighty years of age on meagre rations as the money is for the kids to blow takes its toll and, it can produce two people in one, the Jeckyl and Hyde mind syndrome. Hyde, the naughty gene, of course lays dormant in public, avoiding detection, but sometimes shows itself in January sales, or in bus queues where something flips Hyde into action, sometimes bloody if they have a stick which is a prop to justify Disability Allowance and Jeckyl is forced to take a back seat (no, not on the bus); because she is nice and wants nothing to do with obnoxious Hyde. But, Hyde always acts in innocence, or so it would seem. Hyde appears mostly in sweet little old ladies and, of course it is ‘always’ a pleasure to meet her’; of course it is ...

  • ISBN: 9781310167539
  • Author: Frankie Lassut
  • Published: 2015-10-11 17:20:14
  • Words: 6569
Tales From a Church Tea Room No2. Three Sweet Little Old Ladies Tales From a Church Tea Room No2. Three Sweet Little Old Ladies