Author Archives: Trevor Belshaw

Tracy’s Celebrity Hot Mail. Election Special


Hi Emma,

Did you see the local BBC news last night? I was on it, live outside the town hall. I’ve been up half the night watching a boring by Election program and I’m so tired, I can’t stay in bed today though, I’ve got a gig in Grimsby later on.

Shayne Slider, my agent, rang me early yesterday morning to tell me to get down to the polling station at the town hall because the local BBC evening news program wants to do a short feature about the way people vote. I had to hold a microphone and ask young people what they think about current affairs. I thought that was a bit weird. I know politicians like to put it about a bit, but should we really be discussing who’s banging who on the six-thirty news? I mean, it’s usually all boring stuff about new bus lanes, Grannies who knit coats for chickens and whistling lollipop men.

I wasn’t all that pleased when Dad first shouted me down to be honest. It was only half past ten and I really fancied a lie in, but when he told me what it was all about I got really excited. Dad was going to be there anyway, canvassing for the Labour party and Gran told him if he was going, she was going too and got her crayons out to make a Conservative party poster. Dad said Gran doesn’t even like the Tories; Gran agreed but said anyone was better than the Commie bastards Dad supports.

I had a quick breakfast of cereal, boiled eggs and soldiers, toast, jam, tea and a croissant, showered and got dressed in my low, white top, the one with the flower embroidered on the left boob, and that short, floral mini skirt that got blown into our garden when we had the high winds last autumn. I wore my black four inch heels but that was a bit of a mistake as my feet were killing me after a couple of hours.

Dad gave me a lift down to the town hall and set himself up with his, Vote Labour, placard near the entrance. There were already some people there from the Conservatives, the Lib Dems and UKIP. On the end was a little old bloke wearing a yellow, chicken’s costume and sunglasses. His placard said, Free Everything for Old People. Vote Yellow Chicken/ Blue Stilton Alliance Party. Near the door was a policeman in uniform, he kept checking his watch as if he was late for a crime.

The evening news crew were just setting up, so I wandered across and introduced myself to them. The Cameraman, a guy called Zac, gave me the once over, got me to stand in various poses, then saved the recording to a memory stick. ‘That’s for my own collection,’ he grinned.

The producer’s name was Timothy Taylor. He was a quite young to say he had such an old duffer’s name. He shook my hand and told me what he was hoping to get from me during the day.

After a couple of practice questions they let me loose on the unsuspecting public. First up was a girl of about my age with a short, spikey hair and a lip ring. I knew straight off that her clip would end up on the cutting room floor because her dress sense was abysmal. Continue reading

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NEW! Five minute Poem. El Paso

Here’s my latest five minute song. Inspired by the Marty Robbins song, El Paso, that has just been on the radio. You can sing these words to that tune. 🙂 Yeeee Haaaa

Down at the Mexican Deli, El Paso
I fell in love with a sweet Bradford girl
She had big lips with a hint of moustacho
I winked at her and she gave me a twirl

I thought that she was way out of my classo
I offered to buy her a drink at the store
She took the whiskey and drained the whole glasso
Burped a huge burp and then asked for some more

So me and the Yorkie went out on the lasho
We drank fourteen pints then she gave me a leer
She lifted her top and she gave me a flasho
And then she demanded some more bloody beer

I spent the whole of my wages that evening, that girl could drink like a fi iiiiii sh
I bought her sardines to soak up the liquid, she swallowed them whole, then threw up in the dish

Allthough it had rained we sat down on the grasso
I made my move, right there in the park
She said my knickers have stuck to my asso
I’m going home now, sod this for a lark


We hurried back to my flat in a Dasho
Trying to get there before more rain came
I showed her my bed, and said you can crasho
She said you haven’t yet told me your name

I said, my name’s Pedro and I love you dearly,how can I win over your hear aaaa aaart
She said my purse is so fecking empty, filling it up, would make a
good start


I took her down to the bank to get casho
She stood by my side as I typed in my pin
Then she snatched the dosh and was gone in a flasho
I said to myself there’s a lesson herein


I went back to my flat with no Brasso
No money left to pay the due rent
So now I am homeless because of that Lasso
So feckin skint that I live in a tent.

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The Book of Gran. Flavour of the Month

Flavour of the Month

We were all a bit racist during the war. We were allowed to say stuff you’d never be allowed to say these days. We hated the Germans, of course, but we didn’t like the French much either. To be fair, they didn’t think we were the flavour of the month; they accused us of running away at Dunkirk. That was a bit of a cheek, as they’d only been involved in two wars in recent history and they’d run away in both.

My Aunty Flo, a cantankerous old sow, who had been to France as a girl, said they lost the war because they have no proper standards. She used to rant on about the state of their toilets. ‘Nothing more than a hole in the ground.’ She didn’t like the fact that they drank wine and ate soft cheese, either. Mum used to argue with her and say that our toilets aren’t much better, being stuck at the bottom of a garden in a draughty, brick, outhouse, with a six-inch gap under the door and a flushing mechanism that had been used since Roman times. We had never eaten soft cheese, most of the stuff we got had an inch-thick, rind on it that was tougher than steel. Fritz used to say it was so hard, we should use cheese rind to make tank armour. Continue reading

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The Saturday Report. Stop Press

It’s Here! The Saturday Night Report.

Out on the 8.10 bus, home on the 11.10 which came at 11.13 ish.
It was a strange night. My first port of call, the Cross Keys, had so few people in the bar, it would have struggled to live up to its name if everyone inside belonged to a swinger’s club and had thrown their house keys into a wine glass for their end of evening frolics.
The next pub was a bit busier; full of fifty to sixty year olds and the odd bunch of twenty somethings out celebrating a friend’s birthday, wedding, new job or divorce. I’d never seen the DJ before, and to be honest I wouldn’t shed a tear if I never saw him again. He was in his fifties, with a thickening paunch attempting to make up for this thinning hair. For some reason, he seemed to think the mainly, elderly clientele, were desperate to listen to nonstop trance music that might have gone down well in an ecstasy-addled brain of a twenty-year-old in the late eighties, but didn’t do much for the Tramadol addled brains that made up the bulk of the gathering. Some old gals were giving it a go though, feet still, bodies swaying with open fingered hands moving in front of their faces like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. Then, horribly, at some unseen signal, they began thrusting their pelvises in a brutal parody of the time warp. Good luck to them, it’s all right me taking the piss, but it’s them that won’t be able to get downstairs without the help of a stair lift on Sunday morning. There will be so many cracking knee and hip joints in Bullwell, it will sound like the rifle range has opened early. Continue reading

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Excerpt from The Westwich Writer’s Club

This morning, I was looking through the contents of an old hard disk, when I came across this. It’s just one part of a series I was working on a few years ago. It’s about a wannabe writer’s experiences when he joins his local writers group.

Excerpt from The Westwich Writers Club.

Stephen King, a wannabe author, joins his local writer’s group only to find it run by a bunch of geriatric nepotists. Stephen arrives at the group meeting venue after an angry, parking altercation with a female driver.


Stephen was still seething as he entered the institute. He took the stairs two at a time and threw open the door to the classroom. He froze as his eyes fixed on a naked, elderly woman lying on a small white towel on the floor.

‘Are you Ricardo?’ she asked.

‘No, I’m…’

‘He’s late,’ sniffed the old woman. ‘I’m getting cold and my hip has locked up. Be a love and see if you can find him?’

For some reason, Stephen stuck up a thumb. ‘Yes, I’ll err…just see if I can… find him.’

Stephen hurried down to the bar and found Margot, the writing group leader, sitting at a table by the door. ‘Is there someone called Ricardo here?’ he asked.

‘No idea,’ said Margot. ‘Ask Joe behind the bar, he might know.’

Stephen walked to the bar and waved to get Joe’s attention. ‘Do you know someone called Ricardo?’

The steward nodded. ‘Yes, he’s an adult education instructor, teaches art and photography.’

‘Is he here tonight?’

‘Yes, he’s taking an art class in room ten.’

‘Room ten, art class? Ah, that explains it,’ said Stephen.

‘Explains what?’ Joe was puzzled.

‘There is, what I assume to be, an elderly female model in room one,’ said Stephen. ‘She’s getting a bit nippy.’


‘She’s naked.’ Continue reading

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A Poem for Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Poem

When I look at your face
My heart starts to race
My passion fires off like a nuke
When I think of your lips
My tummy does flips
I love you so much I could puke

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Tracy’s Christmas Special.

Miniblanchepocheszippes01Hi Emma

How was your Christmas? I bet it was a bit weird spending it in Cornwall. Their accent is hard enough to understand when they’re sober so it must be just about impossible when they’re pissed. I met a bloke from Penzance at a party once, he spent all night betting me that I couldn’t handle his scrumpy. He was only about five-foot two and his trousers were so tight they hid nothing, so I’m pretty sure I could have. I wasn’t really interested anyway; he was drinking homemade cider, it looked like baby shit in a glass.  It was full of lumpy bits, I think he must have dropped his Cornish pasty in it.

My Christmas was okay, Mum got a bit drunk and Dad and Gran had their usual three rounds of all-in verbal wrestling. It was better entertainment than those crappy 1970’s reruns of Morecombe and Wise though.

Neil was playing the hero at the police station on Christmas Eve, saving us all from gangsters, drug dealers and other, scummy, low life, so he couldn’t come out with me. I was going to go to Tossers with Pauline Potts and her sister, Tia, but Pauline had a dodgy curry on Tuesday night and spent all day Wednesday on the lavvy. She was gutted because she had to miss her office party at work and Tia pulled the bloke that Pauline’s been lusting after for the last three months. Tia texted me to say she was going out on the piss with him on Christmas Eve, so it meant I had to make alternative arrangements. I rang around a few people but most of them were going to Spanners, that garage music night spot in the precinct. It was all ticket and no one had a spare. Continue reading

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William Hackett VC

William Hackett VC

vcwilliamhackettThe battlefields of France saw many an heroic act as the British and German armies bombarded each other from their trenches during the insane slaughter of World War One. Above the ground, wave after wave of senseless attacks saw men die by the thousand as they attempted to gain a few yards of muddy ground.

Deep beneath the mayhem and slaughter on the surface, a second, secret war was being fought; a war that the vast majority of people know nothing about, even today. Deep beneath the killing fields of France, miners from Britain, New Zealand and Australia, dug their silent way towards the enemy lines in an attempt to blow up their trenches from below.

Up to 20,000 men, on both sides were engaged in this activity. The men toiled away in conditions that would have made the cramped galleries of the coal mines at the time, seem almost luxurious. One such man was William Hackett.

William was born in the 11th June 1873 in the aptly named, Patriot Street in Sneinton, an inner-city area of Nottingham. William never learned to read and write and scraped a living as a miner, working the dangerous seams of the Nottinghamshire-South Yorkshire coalfields.

In his early 20’s William moved to Mexborough in South Yorkshire where he met his bride to be, Alice. They were married in Coningsborough in 1900 and had two children, a boy called Arthur and a girl, Mary. Continue reading

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A Ghost Story. The Vicarage

The Vicarage

Part One

victorian-vicarage‘Will you at least have a look? It might be interesting and you did say you need ideas for the new book.’ Maggie tipped her head to one side and gave me her best smile. ‘This is really freaking her out.’

I grimaced. ‘I don’t know, Maggie, ghosts aren’t my thing. Isn’t there a paranormal society in the area? She could ask them. Maybe the church could help… anyway, I write about Zombies, not spooks.’

Maggie picked up her steaming coffee mug, wrapped both hands around it and took a sip. ‘It’s high time you took a break from bloody Zombies, Sam, they’re boring, and here you have absolutely everything you need for a story under one roof. Creaking floorboards, drawers opening on their own, lights dimming and flaring, voices in the attic, you have to admit, it’s intriguing.’

‘I like Zombies and so do my readers. You may find them boring but they pay my rent.’ I looked around my cramped, one bedroomed flat. ‘Dead Dawn gives me all this.’

If Maggie was impressed she didn’t show it. ‘Doesn’t it pique your interest, even slightly? I thought you writers were open to all sorts of influences. She’s not asking you to perform an exorcism, Sam, she just wants someone with an open mind to talk to. Anyway, she won’t go to the church, you know what she’s like with any form of religion. She crosses the road if she spots a nun on the pavement.’

I nodded. ‘I know, that’s why I could never understand why she bought an old vicarage.’

‘She didn’t buy it. The house belonged to her grandmother, she left it to her in her will.’

I thought about it for all of three seconds. ‘I don’t have time, Maggie, I have a deadline on a short story for Gothic Tales magazine and I haven’t written a word yet.’

‘Don’t they publish ghost stories too?’ Maggie wasn’t going to give up easily.

I nodded slowly. ‘They do, yes, but I don’t write them; I have my own audience.’

‘Oh, come on, Sam, it could be fun.’ Maggie bit her bottom lip and leaned forward. ‘You’re not scared, are you?’

I snorted. ‘Maggie, I make my living out of blood and gore, remember? I’m not scared, I just think there’s about as much chance of finding a brain-munching Zombie hiding in her attic as a ghost.’

Maggie sipped more coffee. ‘Just talk to her, Sam. Please. She’s my best friend, she just wants some reassurance. I can’t help, you know me, I totally believe in that stuff and she needs an alternative viewpoint. Look, I’m going to see her on Saturday, why don’t you come with me?’

I scratched the three-day stubble on my cheek and reached for my own drink. ‘Saturday?’ Sorry, I’m going to the match. We’re playing City, it’s the biggest game of the season.’

‘Then come after the bloody game. I’ll meet you in the Red Lion, she only lives around the corner.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Mags, I…’

‘We can go back to mine after.’ Maggie tipped her head again and winked.

I groaned and rolled my eyes heavenward. She had me, and she knew it.


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The Zombie Poets (extended version)

As Halloween is coming up soon I thought I’d share my story; The Zombie Poets. This is the extended version rewritten for a Creative Writing OU course I took a few years back.  The original version didn’t include Ant, Dec and Cowell.


The Zombie Poets.

Journal: 1st November. 2012.

I’m sick to death of these bloody Zombies, they are everywhere now. I can’t walk down the street without being accosted by them. They’re in the library, my local pub, and the gym. When I’m at home they squash their faces up against my windows and peer through my letterbox. I can’t escape them. They don’t want to bite me, eat me or rip off bits of my body. It’s much worse than that. They want to recite poetry to me. Continue reading

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