Category Archives: This ‘n That

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 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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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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Misty with books


Misty, Trevor Forest’s number one fan with part of her stash.


Anyone who buys a T A Belshaw or Trevor Forest book in November, or anyone who leaves a review for one of my books in November (preferably both, will go into a draw to win a signed paperback book of your choice. (kids or adult,) postage free, in time for Christmas. Just contact me any way you like when you’ve done the deed.

You’ll find me on Facebook, Twitter,  at,  or simply reply via the contact button on this website. Thank you and GOOD LUCK.

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The Evening Walk

I just came across this 2009 reflection while I was sorting out an old writing folder. I had only been writing semi-seriously for a couple of months when I wrote this. Reading it bought back a lot of memories. We lost Molly last Autumn and we still miss her terribly, but Maisie is still with is and still as energetic, (putting it mildly,) as ever she was.


Molly (Left) Maisie (Right)



Walking around the Rushcliffe Country Park with my dogs is a treat we all enjoy. Molly and Maisie, (my Springer Spaniels,) always manage to make an adventure out of it even on the dullest of days.

My dogs are definitely mind readers. We don’t need to announce that we are ‘going walkies,’ or ‘off to the park,’ they already know, their built in atomic clocks tell them. There is always a mad five minutes as we attempt to fill the water bottle, check for poo bags and get their leads on.  Maisie pulls somersaults and Molly scratches the door, while looking over her shoulder at us. Excited yaps fill the air. It’s like Christmas and Birthdays rolled into one, but it happens every day.

I have a small 4×4 car, the backs seats are always folded down and they have their own plastic sheeting to protect the upholstery. Molly likes to look between the two front seats and out through the windscreen to see where we are heading, Maisie prefers the side window. Both are a bundle of pent up energy as they whimper and call for us to hurry up. Molly barks at any other dog or cat we pass on the way, boasting that she is off to the park and they aren’t.

A casual observer would most likely think that we walk Molly on her own, as Maisie is seldom in sight. If you look hard enough you’ll spot  her zigzagging through the tall grass, flushing out birds and rabbits while Molly trots happily with us, sniffing the track and its borders to see who’s passed by recently.

It’s a bit like the Wild West with Molly looking after the wagon train, (us,) while Maisie is out on the trails scouting for Indians and bands of robbers. Molly used to do both tasks before we got Maisie, but now she feels her job is to protect us from raiding parties or any ambush that may lie in our path. Continue reading

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Deep Thought Thinks


I’ve been thinking a lot about books just lately. AHA! I hear you cry, that explains the strange noise that has echoed around the place for the last few days. The clanging sound was my steampunk designed brain turning over.

The Facts

I used to be an avid reader. I devoured books like a chocoholic demolishes a tin of Roses at Christmas. I’d find something to read wherever I was; a book or a magazine in my tea breaks at work, the rules and regulations on the guesthouse reception wall; sometimes, even the fire drill instructions. At breakfast, in the digs, I’d even read the back of the cornflakes packet if there wasn’t a newspaper around. It didn’t matter which paper either. Although I lean to the left and have been an avid Guardian reader for decades, I’d still happily pick up the Times, or, dare I say it, the Telegraph. I even admit to reading the lofty ambitions of the page three girl as she smiled at me from just inside the cover of the Sun. Continue reading

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An Ode to the (Recent) Literary Past

Written following yet another conversation with a lady who thinks writing a book is as easy as making a coffee on the Tassimo

ErnestHemingwayAn Ode to the Literary Past

It used to be that writers, were looked upon with awe
and bookworms read with bated breath whilst clamouring for more
Books were treasured items, treated with respect, and,
scribes had readers at their fingertips, or words to that effect.

But now once mighty wordsmiths are, cast from the ivory tower
The storyteller’s silent, her words have lost their power
The writer’s art’s diminished, the alchemy all gone,
and anyone can publish, thanks to Amazon.

Books are ten-a-penny in the throwaway digital age
with publishing on Kindle, currently all the rage
And you hear the new-age Hemmingways, scream with great delight
‘This really is piss easy, anyone can write.’

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The Weekly Digest

daffs The Weekly Digest.

On Monday, a smug David Cameron tried to pull a fast one as he launched his government’s new education policy. Trust the Tories with your vote and parents will be rewarded with some, ‘flat cash,’ for their schools, he promised. (He was obviously hinting at the fact that those dodgy gits in the Labour party would only be offering, ‘lumpy cash).  There will be no cuts for schools under our government, he boasted. As con men go, and he is a Conservative with a capital CON, Dave is right up there with the best. When questioned by Nick Robinson about whether the lack of inflation rises amounted to an actual cut in the education budget, the Prime Minister snorted with derision. The absence of inflation proofed rises didn’t equate to actual cuts, if anyone needed proof they could go and ask the nurses. Continue reading

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