49greg
Literotica Hack
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2012
- Posts
- 1,663
People on here are too DEADLY SERIOUS and too FULL of THEMSELVES to laugh.
Say, isn't Handly Page an airplane company?
Love,
Jamie
Leading edge slats, Hampton, Halifax, Victor?
Humour in writing ?
- Thread starter Handley_Page
- Start date
Leading edge slats, Hampton, Halifax, Victor?
Handley_Page
Draco interdum Vincit
- Joined
- Aug 18, 2007
- Posts
- 78,287
Lions Roar and the tea-party tour
[ based on a true story ]
‘Lions Roar’, all five of them keen exponents of the heavy metal rock scene, had been getting gigs all over the locality, and apparently doing well, to judge by the frequency of the gigs. Truth to tell, anyone following their progress would be a trifle puzzled by their actions on and off stage.
For example, ‘Handsome Stan’ didn’t really want to play too far away from home as his Mother liked him to be in by 10pm. He’s about 24, by all accounts, and between tea breaks he nurses an old computer system for his father’s company. He’s the only one to have an all-black outfit upon which is the usual (almost obligatory) lurid scenes of death, animal fangs and blood. What made his appearance somewhat odd was the first time he’d turned up with a neatly tied scarf round his neck, placed there by his Mum, “ ’cos he does catch colds easily.” The other members of the band all looked on with silent amazement and much head-shaking.
Come the interval, Stan was once seen on the stage opening a plastic picnic container, with Ham & Cheese sandwiches (cut into neat triangles) and a flask of what turned out to be Earl Grey tea, which he drank from a decorated china cup. The heavy metal fans at the front of the stage were bemused to say the least. They were so surprised that they stared in silence at him.
Anyway, reality being at marked variance to the desired image, this was ignored one night when they’d been booked into a certain ‘live music’ pub popular with the local hell’s angels or whatever they called themselves this week.
The pub had a reputation so ill that the local coppers refused to go there unless defended by troops from the local army barracks or a battalion of Artillery and, for preference, both. Even the local strippers tended to keep away from the place. The lads knew something odd was happening when they were met on the Car Park by ‘the landlord’ who explained ‘the way things are round here’.
The normal routine for a gig was fairly straight-forward. Get on stage, on time, in tune and in good voice. Play the music they’d practiced and got more-or-less right. Play until they ran out of time or music. Get paid and back home for a decent night’s sleep.
“You don’t play what you want, you play what they want,” he said with a perfectly straight face. “You don’t stop at your usual time, you’ll stop when they let you,” he went on. “Getting in is easy, getting out might take a little guile & cunning, to say nothing of speed.” It didn’t help their confidence that the local Hospital’s A&E (Casualty) department was shut at night, due to a cost-reduction exercise.
The protective screen which had separated the audience from the performers had been ripped out during last week’s drunken brawl and the management had, in consequence, laid in an extra stock of First Aid material, rather to the surprise of the local Chemist.
It was Mad George’s birthday celebrations, and, as the boys got their gear from the van, a stream of heavy motorbikes all turned up and parked fairly neatly in the car park. Anyone actually driving a car was politely told to park elsewhere, sometimes in sign language.
The boys opened at 8pm in fine style and soon the room was bopping & bobbing to a heavy beat. It was just as the last, powerful chords of the first song faded that the first fight (some might define it as a brawl) started at the back. It was soon suppressed by other members of the audience, as were further eruptions. The broken glass was swept into a corner.
They had no chance of performing their next number as further ‘music’ was played at the behest (one might say ‘insistence’) of the audience in the Pit, according to the traditions of the pub. The boys did their best and their efforts seemed to reach an appreciative crowd, even when they were asked to play some tunes by Black Sabbath.
One keen and enthusiastic member of the audience (a large man with lots of tattooed artistry) was very keen to get to know Handsome Stan better, and kept plying him with pints of lager which Stan reluctantly drank (his preferred drink was Bacardi & Coke, a combination which seemed totally foreign and therefore unknown to the Barmaid). As the evening went on, Stan managed to settle into some semblance of stability and gained the courage to emerge from his hiding place behind his amplifier.
The rest of the evening wore on until about 2.30 am when Birthday boy Mad George passed out and was escorted by a great many of his mates away to wherever he called home. To Stan’s great relief, it included the Tattooed supplier of Lager.
His Mum was definitely not pleased by his late return, but the lads told her the whole story; she was shocked but thanked them for getting him home in one piece.
And Stan could not summon the courage to go and ask for their fee; he reckoned a whole skin was payment enough.
[ based on a true story ]
‘Lions Roar’, all five of them keen exponents of the heavy metal rock scene, had been getting gigs all over the locality, and apparently doing well, to judge by the frequency of the gigs. Truth to tell, anyone following their progress would be a trifle puzzled by their actions on and off stage.
For example, ‘Handsome Stan’ didn’t really want to play too far away from home as his Mother liked him to be in by 10pm. He’s about 24, by all accounts, and between tea breaks he nurses an old computer system for his father’s company. He’s the only one to have an all-black outfit upon which is the usual (almost obligatory) lurid scenes of death, animal fangs and blood. What made his appearance somewhat odd was the first time he’d turned up with a neatly tied scarf round his neck, placed there by his Mum, “ ’cos he does catch colds easily.” The other members of the band all looked on with silent amazement and much head-shaking.
Come the interval, Stan was once seen on the stage opening a plastic picnic container, with Ham & Cheese sandwiches (cut into neat triangles) and a flask of what turned out to be Earl Grey tea, which he drank from a decorated china cup. The heavy metal fans at the front of the stage were bemused to say the least. They were so surprised that they stared in silence at him.
Anyway, reality being at marked variance to the desired image, this was ignored one night when they’d been booked into a certain ‘live music’ pub popular with the local hell’s angels or whatever they called themselves this week.
The pub had a reputation so ill that the local coppers refused to go there unless defended by troops from the local army barracks or a battalion of Artillery and, for preference, both. Even the local strippers tended to keep away from the place. The lads knew something odd was happening when they were met on the Car Park by ‘the landlord’ who explained ‘the way things are round here’.
The normal routine for a gig was fairly straight-forward. Get on stage, on time, in tune and in good voice. Play the music they’d practiced and got more-or-less right. Play until they ran out of time or music. Get paid and back home for a decent night’s sleep.
“You don’t play what you want, you play what they want,” he said with a perfectly straight face. “You don’t stop at your usual time, you’ll stop when they let you,” he went on. “Getting in is easy, getting out might take a little guile & cunning, to say nothing of speed.” It didn’t help their confidence that the local Hospital’s A&E (Casualty) department was shut at night, due to a cost-reduction exercise.
The protective screen which had separated the audience from the performers had been ripped out during last week’s drunken brawl and the management had, in consequence, laid in an extra stock of First Aid material, rather to the surprise of the local Chemist.
It was Mad George’s birthday celebrations, and, as the boys got their gear from the van, a stream of heavy motorbikes all turned up and parked fairly neatly in the car park. Anyone actually driving a car was politely told to park elsewhere, sometimes in sign language.
The boys opened at 8pm in fine style and soon the room was bopping & bobbing to a heavy beat. It was just as the last, powerful chords of the first song faded that the first fight (some might define it as a brawl) started at the back. It was soon suppressed by other members of the audience, as were further eruptions. The broken glass was swept into a corner.
They had no chance of performing their next number as further ‘music’ was played at the behest (one might say ‘insistence’) of the audience in the Pit, according to the traditions of the pub. The boys did their best and their efforts seemed to reach an appreciative crowd, even when they were asked to play some tunes by Black Sabbath.
One keen and enthusiastic member of the audience (a large man with lots of tattooed artistry) was very keen to get to know Handsome Stan better, and kept plying him with pints of lager which Stan reluctantly drank (his preferred drink was Bacardi & Coke, a combination which seemed totally foreign and therefore unknown to the Barmaid). As the evening went on, Stan managed to settle into some semblance of stability and gained the courage to emerge from his hiding place behind his amplifier.
The rest of the evening wore on until about 2.30 am when Birthday boy Mad George passed out and was escorted by a great many of his mates away to wherever he called home. To Stan’s great relief, it included the Tattooed supplier of Lager.
His Mum was definitely not pleased by his late return, but the lads told her the whole story; she was shocked but thanked them for getting him home in one piece.
And Stan could not summon the courage to go and ask for their fee; he reckoned a whole skin was payment enough.
AnAngelReally
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Sep 21, 2013
- Posts
- 2,656
I don't know what you're complaining about.Ladies and gentlemen, please don't think I am being a policeman. I am not. But there is a thread for jokes. It's called the Humour Thread. (And it's not bad either.)
I don't think HP intended this thread to be a substitute. Correct me if I'm wong, HP.
But your jokes aren't too bad, ladies and gentlemen. Maybe just in the wrong box?
Sam
There are some old jokes, but MissTCShore is hilarious.
If that's not humour, what is?
AnAngelReally
Literotica Guru
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- Sep 21, 2013
- Posts
- 2,656
H.P., you have a very twisted mind.
I love it!
AverageGary
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2016
- Posts
- 2,553
Writing this with simple words off-the-cuff, not giving much thought to making it flow. Just going for the humorous (defnitely sophomoric, or Chaucer-esque, depending on your point of view)
Jack and his girlfriend Diane were naked and starting to go at it.
They were in a lovely sixty-nine. Him on top, licking her pussy, her below sucking his cock.
He suddenly realized in the heat of their passion that the chili dog from the TasteeFreeze was not agreeing with him.
He had buried his tongue deeper increasing her pleasure as he let fly a fart. Loud as a thunderclap, but dry as the desert.
"You're so gross" she groaned as she released his dick. "This party is over because you're sick"
Jack and his girlfriend Diane were naked and starting to go at it.
They were in a lovely sixty-nine. Him on top, licking her pussy, her below sucking his cock.
He suddenly realized in the heat of their passion that the chili dog from the TasteeFreeze was not agreeing with him.
He had buried his tongue deeper increasing her pleasure as he let fly a fart. Loud as a thunderclap, but dry as the desert.
"You're so gross" she groaned as she released his dick. "This party is over because you're sick"
"Please don't be annoyed and angry at me" (as I try not to break into poetry!) "I tried like mad did everything I could. I squeezed and clenched, focused hard on your cunt, did everything possible to hold it in. Didn't want to spoil your pleasure. Thought I had the darn thing licked, it was just the fart being sneaky and hiding behind one of my colon corners!" He looked so very downcast. "Then it just reappeared with no warning with a massive amount of back pressure, it just blew out faster than I could clench!" All of a sudden he smiled. "I have an idea". He opens a window wide, moves the table up against it. "How's about a table fuck, then you can hang your head out the window, in case my ass decides on giving us some more applause!"
AverageGary
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2016
- Posts
- 2,553
AverageGary
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2016
- Posts
- 2,553
Josh and Dawn had gone camping in the mountains. Josh had gotten up early and walked out of the tent and saw the sun just beginning to appear over the horizon. He went back in and saw Dawn laying there naked, her sleeping bag open, and started to get turned on. He laid next to her and started kissing her neck while rubbing her breasts. She started to moan. He moved a finger into her pussy and started to pump in and out. Her moaning got louder. He rolled on top of her and started rubbing the tip of his cock against her pussy until he was fully erect. By this time she had woken up and reached down to stroke him "my this is a nice surprise," she said.
"The sun is rising and so am I. I'm just trying to give new meaning to getting up at the crack of dawn," he laughed before plunging into her.
She laughed at his comment as he pushed himself inside her and started thrusting rapidly.
"You should be an early riser more often," she moaned.
"If I knew it would be this fun, I would get up early more often."
"The sun is rising and so am I. I'm just trying to give new meaning to getting up at the crack of dawn," he laughed before plunging into her.
She laughed at his comment as he pushed himself inside her and started thrusting rapidly.
"You should be an early riser more often," she moaned.
"If I knew it would be this fun, I would get up early more often."
Handley_Page
Draco interdum Vincit
- Joined
- Aug 18, 2007
- Posts
- 78,287
Earth Tremor on Stage
A fiction by Handley_Page.
It was a long time before the whole story came out. The story, oft-clad in rumour and half-truth, of a minor disaster on a little-known stage. It was a story that became a cause célèbre for the proponents of Health & Safety.
It is true that Questions Were Asked about the curious earth tremor.
It is true that the dancer, Michael Michaelov (whom I knew as Mick), was directly involved.
It is true that the Ballet was composed following revelations about the cruelty in one of Stalin’s Gulags.
As it happens, I knew Mick quite well. We’d both worked ‘down the pit’ as electricians but got laid off when the Government had a fight with the Union. We always were fans of the ballet and Mick was one of the best Dancers in the locality, if not the county. Tall and perfectly formed, he’d modelled for statues of heroes and Greek gods at Art College. His wife, Doris, was the most sought-after woman of her day; she was admitted by most blokes to be “bloody gorgeous.” Their daughter took after her while their son was more compact than tall. Strangely, there was no rancour among the other young men at all when they wed.
When Georgiev, that mad Russian producer, came round asking for ‘extras’ for a film ballet he was making, Mick was chivvied by the lads into volunteering. He soon got back into the old fitness routine. He was seen jogging everywhere and was often to be found in the old dance studio (a converted Industrial Ball Mill), practicing “on the bar.” He could be found with us, naturally, on rather fewer evenings in the Bar.
Georgiev has always been a bit of a mystery; his work was all very ‘experimental’; rather than getting himself known first with a more conventional repertoire, he plunged into modern ballet, complete with weird music and lighting. All very moody, but not easily enjoyed, as it were. He brought the full crew with him; the local hotels were full to capacity and chefs were asked to prepare some strange foods for the principals.
The plot, if that’s what it could be called this time, involved the Rhine maiden who escapes the Gulag with her lover, a Guard, so the action involved a lot of prancing about either side of a fence. The highlight was her escape to his arms as they were both shot by the other guards on the orders of the Chief Warder who was very enamoured of her.
Mick was invited to be the understudy of the leading man. As this involved doing the dances on the “outside” of the fence, Mick was delighted; all these pretty girls prancing about in front of him? Funnily enough, Doris wasn’t a bit apprehensive about it.
The performance was received with mixed reviews but a well filled auditorium. On the forth day, however, the Leading Man was struck down with stomach trouble. It later came out that he’d eaten the local food and the meat pie had not been heated properly. “The chips were fine,” he was quoted as saying.
So Mick, who enjoyed watching a ballet production, now found himself on stage for real — and being filmed doing it (“that’ll be one for the grandchildren in a year or three,” he said).
He managed very well, according to the local paper’s dance correspondent. His high leaps were well executed and of good precision. He got to the point where Gladys, as we called the Rhine Maiden, took off like a missile and Mick was to catch her mid-flight. They were supposed to share a doomed kiss as the rest of the guards shot at the pair.
Gladys was a very pretty maid.
The snag was that, unknown to most, Gladys had turned her ankle and was not able to do the leap. Angela took the leap.
Now, whilst Gladys could best be described as “sylph-like” with the sort of curves than made most men whistle in admiration and the better creations of the Lord, Angela is one of the more traditionally–built Rhine maidens; the sort that are conjured up when thinking of Wagner’s “Das Ring der Nibelungen.” She was what might politely be described as ‘fairly chunky’ in build. She was fine when pointing the spear at the hero, sharpening the spikes on her magic helmet or polishing the steel of her breastplate. But she wasn’t the first girl you thought of when long ballet leaps are considered. The Chorus of Lohengrin, perhaps, but not a manoeuvre involving actual flight.
The problem was, of course, that decisions had to be made very, very quickly, and Angela was the nearest to the chute; and she knew how it worked, propelling the dancer at good velocity across the stage. As Mick put it later, “Eighteen and a half stone of steel-clad Rhine maiden at considerable speed can make for some quick thinking: Half Emm Vee Squared is a lot of energy, you know; particularly in her case”.
When Mick saw a flying Rhine maiden of substantial dimensions heading his way, with a speed of thought that surprised even him, he took half a step to his left, leaving Angela with nothing to land on but the stage, as the Guards fired off their shots. Predictably, Angela was not a happy bunny, and gave vent to her feeling with as much volume as if she’d been wounded rather than killed. Mick just collapsed on the deck as he was supposed to. Mick later said he’d nearly gone deaf with her shrieking.
The curtains closed to appreciative, if slightly confused, applause. The ambulance turned up in a few moments with unusual discretion and Angela was carted off to the hospital “for tests.”
The Props mistress was less than impressed by the treatment offered to her steel outfit.
The impact of Angela on the stage caused what the local papers called a “seismic event” which was registered at the local Meteorological Station and was thus reported automatically. Within hours, several scientists turned up at the village loaded with instruments of amazing complexity. They then plugged them into the ground at intervals. Miles of wires were laid along the roads and the geoscientists all looked at their instruments, shook their heads and then wrapped the cables and bits up again, bundling them all into the back of a large van.
“An unusual one-off” they cried as they fled whence they came.
Our government kept a lofty silence until the media picked it up and soon the overseas press were getting in on the act. “Has Britain a new type of bomb?” wailed Pravda. Izvestia posed a similar question.
France and Germany declared that unless the UK produced the evidence, chapter & verse, they’d “develop their own small weapons.” For reasons still unknown, the New China Peoples Daily said nothing, which in the opinion of some UK papers was as damning as it could get, hinting at collusion and, quite possibly, espionage.
Then some fool (probably a news reporter looking for a story) called the Health and Safety people, who were Not At All Happy. The Inspector went through his routine, checking this, ticking the boxes on his form, and then moving on to the next item.
He checked the chute and interviewed all those who could and did use it. He was disappointed to note that all were fully clued up about its operation and what to do in the event of a problem. He ticked several more boxes on his form.
Despite all manner of announcements, press releases, speculation, and talking heads on local TV, nothing wrong was discovered. In fact, Gergoriev was complimented on his approach to safety, something that some were not keen to see broadcast. But one of the reporters, a stringer for a national paper, always made sure that the correct facts were stated and eventually the matter dropped.
Angela was released from hospital via the back door, to confuse the waiting reporters who’d been alerted by some clot in the Press Relations department. A statement later proclaimed that “tests revealed nothing broken and she’d be fine after a few days rest.”
When the film was shown on TV, Georgiev was proclaimed a genius and Mick was offered a job at the Royal Ballet. However, he was also offered a good job more locally so he stayed with us. Visiting ballet folk called to see him and he kept up with his exercises, much to the delight of Doris, who wangled tickets to all manner of performances.
Angela was in a bad mood for ages afterwards but took to heart the advice of the hospital dietician, and in about a year had turned into a spectacular beauty. She went down to London and the last any of us saw of her was she was on page 3 as ‘Nina of Nottingham.’
But we all have a copy of the recording, and play it when we need a good laugh.
== eof ==
A fiction by Handley_Page.
It was a long time before the whole story came out. The story, oft-clad in rumour and half-truth, of a minor disaster on a little-known stage. It was a story that became a cause célèbre for the proponents of Health & Safety.
It is true that Questions Were Asked about the curious earth tremor.
It is true that the dancer, Michael Michaelov (whom I knew as Mick), was directly involved.
It is true that the Ballet was composed following revelations about the cruelty in one of Stalin’s Gulags.
As it happens, I knew Mick quite well. We’d both worked ‘down the pit’ as electricians but got laid off when the Government had a fight with the Union. We always were fans of the ballet and Mick was one of the best Dancers in the locality, if not the county. Tall and perfectly formed, he’d modelled for statues of heroes and Greek gods at Art College. His wife, Doris, was the most sought-after woman of her day; she was admitted by most blokes to be “bloody gorgeous.” Their daughter took after her while their son was more compact than tall. Strangely, there was no rancour among the other young men at all when they wed.
When Georgiev, that mad Russian producer, came round asking for ‘extras’ for a film ballet he was making, Mick was chivvied by the lads into volunteering. He soon got back into the old fitness routine. He was seen jogging everywhere and was often to be found in the old dance studio (a converted Industrial Ball Mill), practicing “on the bar.” He could be found with us, naturally, on rather fewer evenings in the Bar.
Georgiev has always been a bit of a mystery; his work was all very ‘experimental’; rather than getting himself known first with a more conventional repertoire, he plunged into modern ballet, complete with weird music and lighting. All very moody, but not easily enjoyed, as it were. He brought the full crew with him; the local hotels were full to capacity and chefs were asked to prepare some strange foods for the principals.
The plot, if that’s what it could be called this time, involved the Rhine maiden who escapes the Gulag with her lover, a Guard, so the action involved a lot of prancing about either side of a fence. The highlight was her escape to his arms as they were both shot by the other guards on the orders of the Chief Warder who was very enamoured of her.
Mick was invited to be the understudy of the leading man. As this involved doing the dances on the “outside” of the fence, Mick was delighted; all these pretty girls prancing about in front of him? Funnily enough, Doris wasn’t a bit apprehensive about it.
The performance was received with mixed reviews but a well filled auditorium. On the forth day, however, the Leading Man was struck down with stomach trouble. It later came out that he’d eaten the local food and the meat pie had not been heated properly. “The chips were fine,” he was quoted as saying.
So Mick, who enjoyed watching a ballet production, now found himself on stage for real — and being filmed doing it (“that’ll be one for the grandchildren in a year or three,” he said).
He managed very well, according to the local paper’s dance correspondent. His high leaps were well executed and of good precision. He got to the point where Gladys, as we called the Rhine Maiden, took off like a missile and Mick was to catch her mid-flight. They were supposed to share a doomed kiss as the rest of the guards shot at the pair.
Gladys was a very pretty maid.
The snag was that, unknown to most, Gladys had turned her ankle and was not able to do the leap. Angela took the leap.
Now, whilst Gladys could best be described as “sylph-like” with the sort of curves than made most men whistle in admiration and the better creations of the Lord, Angela is one of the more traditionally–built Rhine maidens; the sort that are conjured up when thinking of Wagner’s “Das Ring der Nibelungen.” She was what might politely be described as ‘fairly chunky’ in build. She was fine when pointing the spear at the hero, sharpening the spikes on her magic helmet or polishing the steel of her breastplate. But she wasn’t the first girl you thought of when long ballet leaps are considered. The Chorus of Lohengrin, perhaps, but not a manoeuvre involving actual flight.
The problem was, of course, that decisions had to be made very, very quickly, and Angela was the nearest to the chute; and she knew how it worked, propelling the dancer at good velocity across the stage. As Mick put it later, “Eighteen and a half stone of steel-clad Rhine maiden at considerable speed can make for some quick thinking: Half Emm Vee Squared is a lot of energy, you know; particularly in her case”.
When Mick saw a flying Rhine maiden of substantial dimensions heading his way, with a speed of thought that surprised even him, he took half a step to his left, leaving Angela with nothing to land on but the stage, as the Guards fired off their shots. Predictably, Angela was not a happy bunny, and gave vent to her feeling with as much volume as if she’d been wounded rather than killed. Mick just collapsed on the deck as he was supposed to. Mick later said he’d nearly gone deaf with her shrieking.
The curtains closed to appreciative, if slightly confused, applause. The ambulance turned up in a few moments with unusual discretion and Angela was carted off to the hospital “for tests.”
The Props mistress was less than impressed by the treatment offered to her steel outfit.
The impact of Angela on the stage caused what the local papers called a “seismic event” which was registered at the local Meteorological Station and was thus reported automatically. Within hours, several scientists turned up at the village loaded with instruments of amazing complexity. They then plugged them into the ground at intervals. Miles of wires were laid along the roads and the geoscientists all looked at their instruments, shook their heads and then wrapped the cables and bits up again, bundling them all into the back of a large van.
“An unusual one-off” they cried as they fled whence they came.
Our government kept a lofty silence until the media picked it up and soon the overseas press were getting in on the act. “Has Britain a new type of bomb?” wailed Pravda. Izvestia posed a similar question.
France and Germany declared that unless the UK produced the evidence, chapter & verse, they’d “develop their own small weapons.” For reasons still unknown, the New China Peoples Daily said nothing, which in the opinion of some UK papers was as damning as it could get, hinting at collusion and, quite possibly, espionage.
Then some fool (probably a news reporter looking for a story) called the Health and Safety people, who were Not At All Happy. The Inspector went through his routine, checking this, ticking the boxes on his form, and then moving on to the next item.
He checked the chute and interviewed all those who could and did use it. He was disappointed to note that all were fully clued up about its operation and what to do in the event of a problem. He ticked several more boxes on his form.
Despite all manner of announcements, press releases, speculation, and talking heads on local TV, nothing wrong was discovered. In fact, Gergoriev was complimented on his approach to safety, something that some were not keen to see broadcast. But one of the reporters, a stringer for a national paper, always made sure that the correct facts were stated and eventually the matter dropped.
Angela was released from hospital via the back door, to confuse the waiting reporters who’d been alerted by some clot in the Press Relations department. A statement later proclaimed that “tests revealed nothing broken and she’d be fine after a few days rest.”
When the film was shown on TV, Georgiev was proclaimed a genius and Mick was offered a job at the Royal Ballet. However, he was also offered a good job more locally so he stayed with us. Visiting ballet folk called to see him and he kept up with his exercises, much to the delight of Doris, who wangled tickets to all manner of performances.
Angela was in a bad mood for ages afterwards but took to heart the advice of the hospital dietician, and in about a year had turned into a spectacular beauty. She went down to London and the last any of us saw of her was she was on page 3 as ‘Nina of Nottingham.’
But we all have a copy of the recording, and play it when we need a good laugh.
== eof ==
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