GREETINGS FROM THE RINKHA
SOUTH CLIFTON STREET | LYTHAM FY8 5HN

My First Book

THE
GOOD IDEA

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under Construction
my first book is called 'Brain the Size a Planet' and it is nearly finished

 

Brain The Size A Planet

© T.L.Morton 2021

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FOREWORD

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To the seven year old Ambrose Cornelius Eugene Victorian life in Tea Lane Baelfawst was a watering hole of wisdom dwelt on a childhood of creativity with peculiar pleasure. Three shoebox terrace and a trickle of water from the Mournes. Hardly Malone Road glam. Cooking fireside study. Lives of his siblings and ancestry compressed with happiness and tolerance in one room. His nickname the ‘Rinkha Thinka’ a charming childhood label it’s vanity to be interpretated as an enquiring tender age philosopher of many pure reason schools of thought over Ice Cream at the Rinkha Parlour of Rowland.His narrative never to illustrate the verity of the real World around him. Only the personality and soul of his autistic brillance. As few among the thinkers of his time possessed in as high a degree that delightful lucidity of thought and expression which seems to be a limited birthright of humans. Whatever Happened to the young and very expressive Ambrose Cornelius Eugene this ‘Rinkha Thinka’ the Memory Man is written in a depth of slang with ephemeral language and metaphors with no example of moral perfection. Saturated and totally soaked with anagrams. And if you haven’t worked it out yet. This is fiction. His personality is uniquely his own. Moulded from the moment of delivery. An extraordinary emotional landscape yet looking deeper the shape of his experciences are fudge all to do with fantasy. His life touched by the plague that ran rampant through the industry of his education. Overthinking.

SYNOPSIS

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It’s a good one. Pure verbal fantasy yet genius. Cathartic to the author. Discover all the secrets of a stage mentalist until you become one. And by doing so discover the parody of an Irish autistic savant starting life in Tea Lane Terrace Baelfawst who totally broken by his overbearing idiot father and his negative nauseous discipline who discovers quite by chance that the sychronization of his awesome imagination with simple techniques of association produced a stunning eidetic memory. And other gifts he discovered that took him to very unexpected places. Read the trappings of knowledge that generated his choices and follow every moment of strenght, triumph and learning curve that engineered direction with his gift as we follow his life and learning from the poverty and cobbles of Tea Lane Baelfawst his mind always aware that the best thing about poverty is that it does not cost much. And later pioneer his pipe dream joy hearing of the tradition of English Seaside Freakshows and Theatrical Circuits where he was of to Prettypool on the elegance and energy of his sit-up and beg bike. Later to become a Stage Mentalist to the Masses as The Unforgettable Memory Show from where any sense of understanding or comparsion to his mind only illustrated and served humanity’s capacity for stupidity. The story of Baelfawst Boffin Ambrose Cornelius Eugene begins. Would make a good fileem. His chemistry with genius and Darwinian parody of stereotypical seasiders as a satire surely a shocker of stupidness. Brain The Size a Planet is written with great artistic licence. The mind of Mister Ambrose Cornelius Eugene and his crash of assets did not become the next. He became the first.

BRAIN THE SIZE A PLANET

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THE CHAPTERS

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THE MIND’S EYE LEARNING YEARS

WORLD BENEATH MY BICYCLE WHEELS

YOU MAY SAY I AM A DREAMER

I DO LIKE TO BE BESIDE THE SEASIDE

THE UNFORGETABLE MEMORY SHOW

PRETTYPOOL THEATRE LAND & SUCKERS ON SEA

WIGGY O’SOCRATES PROFESSOR OF PIE & PI

SMARTARSE IN THE STRAND & THE HOUSE OF KISSES

FANTASY RARELY AN ESCAPE FROM REALITY

PLAYWRIGHT & POET OF PRETTYPOOL TO POLPERRO

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© Thomas Lorimer Morton 2021

Brain The Size a Planet

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Chapter 1

THE MIND’S EYE WONDER YEARS

Every night my Mother tucked me in on Tea Lane Baelfawst with  Steampunk Daisy. Only I could see the Ice Cream Moon. So where there is light I make Memory looking into anthropomorphic Daisy who animates my imagination and follows me on my adventures. I whispher to Steampunk doll so not to disturb the Italians on Matterhorn Milo Rooms next door. ‘‘Look at Mister Marshmallow Face like Wordsworth wandering lonely as a mass of water particles in air’’ Those cloudshapes I say ‘‘He is so like a pig from the Shankill Shambles Slaughterhouse. As he covers the Cow on the Moon.’’ Steampunk Daisy as a story telling device does not answer. The doorstop doll from Downpatrick listens to my endless fables and how my intervention with the senses make childhood happy with the chemicals in my brain doing their thing. Steampunk Daisy so unaware that sometimes our brains go a bit funny and that is okay. Her stuffing has no substance or soul and this my actual imaginary friend the Punk of Steam agrees. In morning my Mother’s logic and mathmatics that nourishes me calls for breakfast. The sense grabbing taste of fare of filled soda. Fried farls amidst potato bread and the eggs of dairy with that heart desisting cardiovascular of bacon. Touting sauce too. Nothing tasted like Tea Lane Ulster Fry. Chambers of the heart cried in fear. Departing Father at the door ta-ta goodbye bye, bye, bye, bye for his sunrise walk to work at the yard of Tietonic Docks. Wrap of the delicious business of breakfast and bye-bye. His gift of chandlery and way with wood at the City Docks of nautical architecture building his boat the SS Arne Crab. Consumed by his own Top of the Morning Father Show with every monopoly of thoughts insensitive to the life around him. A gifted ethical man of low intelligence who knew the difference between a big dinner and a little dinner. He provided. He loved. Yet his empathy to creative thought was icy and like his ships sank into nothingness. He had a real value of top cat person of influence until that someone of negative disparage becomes a irresolute memory. His moulding to me. He was that likeable yet liable nemesis that could not see Mars for the Moon or the light for the train. Such a ridicule to my reasoning. Blind as the three mice. And so the intellectual darkness of mankind. With Father I always craved in hidden tears. His damage you carry forever. By hook or crook hoping the day shall come that he should understand when it shall be considered as great a disgrace to abuse a child’s savant mind as it is not to read a good book. The Village Idiot I was in his fun stories of my childhood. Seizing the great moments of my life around him I cloned my Father. My role archetypal. In fear I became the mould of him. In light of every eccentricity of life I always thought. Even close to home. That your Father is someone you are asserted to be able to rely upon. Yet I was continually unoccupied, empty and abandoned. Many a Moon with walks on the Cave Hill cooking Breakfast Sausage with Haricot beans. Such the happiness of the campfire cooking Sundays. Yet no help with my mind by days of air and nature. His Father’s uneducated choice. Never roused on my reflection of any flight of fancy. Now I at the door in the passage of Tea Lane. My turn to depart. Looking up at my bed window friend as I leave for formal early education with the basics of social structure and vacuum skull boneheads at Amy Connor National. Thinking in the vision of thoughts I say. ‘‘It is not goodbye Steampunk Daisy. Knitted rabbit pulling contorted faces on the blown glass bullseye by the mullion. I will see you later. ‘‘Keep being awesome my treasured doorstop doll.’’ Next moment impending smiling to embrace the good life of my friends Chocolate Charlie and Fiddlehead’s mutually timed to perfection arrival. ‘‘Whadaboutye Mucker’’ Their almost alien Ulster accent. Our impact of toes on cobbles to Amy Conner the House of Knowledge deafened by the Terminus of the Ulster Railway next door. Our laughing hearts aim regardless. This Chocolate Charlie a tender age chum of the local landmark and haunt A Quarter of Sweet Shop and Fiddlehead not his real name but his pseudonym as son of proprietor of the local Stradivavrius Violin Shop. Well every Victorian Quarter of Baelfawst seemed to have this santuary of musical genius. Chocolate Charlie and Fiddlehead while walking with words to Amy Conner they say tell me why I do like Mondays. Is it greeting myself with prolonged pleasure reading the Three Bears today for the House of the Three R’s. That scent and excitement of a new book. That moment you sink and escape from the World. Whatever the adventure of education is I think while walking to Amy Conner National School to Teacher Sadie Lee’s monotonous dull as dishwater regimentation of arithmetic and writing bellowing ‘‘Wait til I tell ye’’ as what they hear from her is the Gospel truth. This knight of Grammar. So brutal and engaging teacher with one classroom. Scrapping for seats. Heated by a single hearth. Brains on a budget for an audience of early literates chicken-hearted and cowed by the cane. Rocking the week’s first day of school. Singing assembly. The Invisible Man in sky with the Magic Baby lark where our hearts of history set us apart. The system asking early uneducated minds to believe blindly and to degenerate the human soul with invented stories of after life. My mind never adjusting to this stupidity with Vicar of Chalkboard Reverend Lee washing our brains with fictitious religious beliefs. It is like talking to the wall with the conditioning of the Dark Ages and Medieval system putting your hopes your fears even your secret longings into the hands of the Invisible Man you cannot see hear or even feel. Then almost instantly reality emerged and and we became versed in real chalk talk of an inventory of new phrases shaken from the Englishman of Stratford called the Bard with more gift of the gab and soft soap of the Blarney. The time of life is short, All the World’s a Stage and Love looks not with eyes but with mind. Then this mornings units of language and words Onomatopoeia, encyclopedia and thesaurus my vocabulary is versed in speech this classroom sunrise. Each word virgin to my mind only seven rotations of the Sun old. I am a little darling of seven. Aware these untried words are precendent to this day. ‘‘And learn to talk proper we must.’’ Says Sadie. Deep in irony reading the language of body no-one gets that Friday feeling like saddo Teacher Spinster Sadie Lee. Abiding to the duty of homework after the odyssey of the shoeless walk I read to the younger elements of the class the assignment of the Three Bears. Aroused with fun and confidence. A simple story for their guileless imagination with all the escapism for sure. Looking at my captive audience. And I thought how. The class were curious about the science and drive of my mind. They seen that my vision for pen and paper was more fun and games than the misery of bread and butter Baelfawst. Top dog was I. Back to the babe of the book. So this picky blonde Goldielocks with the Looks broke into the House of Bears and ate their oats. Bit of an innuendo that one. Then all that swopping beds thing. Next week I expect the rendition of the Dwarfs telling their version of the Snow White story. And Sadie did not sink with the joke that I expected a seven figure deal. That wit was wasted on her. Thereafter a morning of reading and soon School dinners attack the basic senses now. The urn of Leek Potato Mushroom soup a starter for Broccoli dripping in white sauce. And the queue for the two at the John. No Armitage Shanks at the bogs of Hades. Toiletry lost in time with no honey water nor oil of roses. Only an oasis of maglignant fevers and the smell of pungent body ruin in a hole in the ground. The worst excuse for a toilet ever. No curtain at the powder room where the kids went Train Spotting through the bellowing steam. Then apres soup gourmet from Hell’s kitchen school scullery. The Euphoria of playtime. Learning the trains. Shapes in clouds of Missus Marshmallow Face, Chasing games, Hopscotch, Skipping and Kiss Chase with Agnes Bogbrush. Then Sadie Lee the Pied Piper of the Amy Conner classroom with bell and vocals called the rats to room. The Count of Calculus now. The numbers class. After dinner algebra. Not some pretend political Dracula the Count from Transylvania I imagined. Around the World with numbers we learn to reckon. The international language. First she looks at the eyes of her childlike trusting fools ‘‘Seven and nine is what?’’ Says Lee. ‘‘What sort of class is this?’’ Say Me. ‘‘It is a class where you don’t speak without permission.’’ Says She. ‘‘Everyone knows seven and nine are sixteen Miss Lee. Even the Bonobo Monkeys from the Congo Rain Basin could tell you that.’’ Says I. ‘‘Then intellect and animation of my ace student Ambrose what is sixty-four and Eighty-three please?’’ ‘‘Just a hundred and forty-seven Miss Lee throw them at me. ‘‘And Ambrose my boy you can add now can you in addition to this attribute multiply? Count with me Boffin Ambrose Cornelius Eugene from Baelfawst back street of Tea Lane what is twenty three by sixty two?’’ Immediately I make known ‘‘Fourteen twenty six Miss and I am not taking the piss.’’ And Miss Lee in reciprocation says ‘‘Profanity my little sprout. Language like linen looks best when it is clean and every time you talk your mind is on display but now my mathmatical genius Eugene with the innocent sterile mind yet foul mouth. Give me your magic. How many days passed of this juncture of 1872?’’ ‘‘Leap Year Miss Lee. MDCCCLXXII started Monday on Gregorian. Today Tuesday 24th October with clouds of custard cream is day two hundred and ninety eight.’’ Sadie in shock she says ‘‘How mind blowing is this my Ambrose. Amazing work. Where did this come in when you cannot see things for what they really are. Really advanced sums for seven my son. No-one can hang with you Ambrose. Alone with your needs and genius. Everyday a parody of proof of this recapture emerged. Yet humour was wasted on Miss Sadie Lee. I once retaliated with asking her to take the largest prime and multiply it by the Imperial volume of the Sun and then request during which calculation that she close her eyes. ‘‘Dark is it not!’’ I said. That line and laugh lost like the fool’s paradise Gospel Grail. Even when she shouted at me across the class to name two pronouns and I whispered back in tone of question ‘‘Who, me?’’ She was not exhilarated by my wit. So constantly the systematic sanity that was Sadie found formative ways to amuse the class with my play the clown and readings. They so loved my literature and superior writings of lasting artistic merit. And cooperate I did blessed that I could inspire. Yet so many times my humour was wasted on these classroom clowns. Sometimes I slipped into thought of Jellyfish Creatures that have survived since Jurassic without Brains so that gives me great hope for this next generation. Nevertheless returning to class and a crowded class of persons to learn then many times they threw cities of the World at me. Their neck of the woods or Urbanity I knew. ‘‘Where is Moose Jaw?’’ Asked Molly Morelli. Her Father who rides with conviction the out of the ordinary three wheel Ice Cream Bike. I answer ‘‘Evolving fur trading village of Saskatchewan Canada.’’ Then Penelope Jacobs the classroom cracker asked ‘‘Do you know Ring of Brodgar?’’ ‘‘Orkney Archipelago.’’ I answer instantaneously ‘‘Neolithic Henge six miles from Stromness.’’ And then the precious hearts and minds sometimes ask the biography of Kings and Queens I know these things since that immortal Bayeux Tapestry punch-up at Hastings of ten six and six the day of optics and arrow. Always happy to oblige indebted to Sadie’s eternal respect. Yet she tolerated my talented intelligent power and humour. She once in fun decided to promote her authority and asked for anyone in the class of Amy Conner who thinks they are stupid to stand up. Their fear and unease I sensed as they resolved to believe she was serious so I stood up forthwith to protect them. ‘‘Surely you are not so stupid young Eugene playing class clown as with each and every original intellectual advantage.’’ My reply ‘‘Not quite Miss Lee however the class just hates to see you standing there all on your own by your lonely singular self.’’ Her smile to vanish like the Romans or the riches of Elgin Marbles. Yet only in my tender self-taught age of seven soon eight with my agenda of incessant literature her appreciation was the father figure confidence I craved as I always felt his message in this world was to mock me. Not model me. He only seen the faults and ineptitude of my difference with society and certainly not the make-up or any science of the mind. Though constantly grateful my father was my heredity genetic code inheritance and inborn character yet only a fraction of my thoughts. A beautiful man of the highest order in many ways but not thinking. He found no patterns or meaning. Only faults where there were not any. The gifts he did not gather. My Books of the Glover library in the outhouse for his bowels not my brains. And now returning to Amy Connor National School in the Sea of Gecks where every day followed the same words and routine of class closure. ‘‘That’s it for today Cherubs of Amy Conner. Class over.’’ It was a caring happy nuture of goodbye taxed with treadmill of effortless duck soup homework. Walking home for the love of Mum and high tea. Tonight is Irish Cottage Steak Pie in dressing of French Regent Potatoes layered in gravy sauce marinated all soaked in Baelfawst Blue Murder cheese and clotted Cave Hill Cream maybe the eggs of Italian eaterie next door and then the never ending story of the ten hours odyssey of education before my defunct devotee called Steampunk Daisy. ‘‘Helloooo my human friend Uneeka’’ says doorstop Daisy. This stuffed doll scaling my imaginary ventriloqism. ‘‘That head of yours matching your name loaded with genius. Did teacher see?’’ said fantasy creatural rabbit. ‘‘Not quite.’’ Said I. ‘‘To many people a gifted child born with an intellect that is out of proportion with the child’s personality can of course be as great a handicap in life as a physical deformity. My wit so endlessly unaddressed by her fool’s paradise Charlotte Bronte brain.’’ Never mind said face of Steampunk Daisy. That look that said there is a whole new wonderful World waiting for you.

Tucked in by Mother to share the sleep with Steampunk Daisy. The life of dreams arrived. Involuntarily theatre that interpretates every philosophical meaning in my mind. It is the Irish dream so to speak. You have to be asleep to believe it. This is my world of synesthesia and snore where facts and fiction have fun. Dreaming in light and colours I feel sand and water on my feet. Crabs, jelly, donkey, A stick of rock and sea. Dream Spoon Ice Cream parlours everywhere. Then a future seaside romance with a Clairvoyant’s daughter who dumps me three weeks before we meet. Punch and Judy on a Prom. Darkness of the dead of summer and the great unwashed living the nautical look. A dream that carries meaning and sequel some contininuity of my waking life and future mind. Be as they may the bells of First Presbyterian Church Baelfawst wake the dead in morning and disolve the natural dreams of many. Some in torment yet a portion in utopia. Here is to another day in Tea Lane paradise less the invented paradise. No tears. This is all happening as I prepare for my life and next adventure of apprehension with knowledge. The ringers with their hallelujah moment of masochism. Enjoying the pleasure and pain of waking the workers of a city. Now thanks to the song of these souls I am sweepingly awake and alive in a psychological World of motion. So wish the bells and organ would cease it’s wordless song of praise. Only this arising emotional state is invented with every impact and implication of being unique. Having from birth an unconventional chemistry with the World that makes most people awkward. But not me. It is the morning mind games again with my mates on the mile to Amy Conner. Hunting faces. Name that song. I spy. Even the Quiet Game The Dummys Meeting where you could never cut the silence. Always across the street to Chocolate Charlie from the A Quarter of Sweet Shop and Fiddlehead the corner busking celebrity of next terrace of Cluan. His family the heritage and tuners of Stradivarius. So both on a different page of the book. Yet beautiful likeable people. And out of my friends. I still wasn’t the charismatic empathetic one. Nothing in common but Ice Cream and face to face laudatory speeches. We like talking. Everytime we talk our minds are on display remembering the philosophy of our inspiring verbal disciplinarian Sadie Lee. Imaginative with ingredients we three so loved the Rinkha of Rowland. Ice Cream Ruocco utopia. Islandmagee Lemon Meringue to Donagahadee Strawberries and Cream. Our taste was a virtue. Whatever money we could make it went here. My love and weakness of Ice Cream a reputation within understanding. And talking. We were geeks of every necessity of knowledge. Endless hours of principle and knowledge at the Rinkha. Always the flair to find. Questioning the advances of World’s Fair and to write our own history daily. Against the Irish Order We imagined there was no heaven and all our troubles were so far away. Devices and industry we loved. The rain or shine School walk always punched the clock on time. My morning joke today crowned the atmosphere at the school gates to Amy Conner caked in coal from the Victoria Terminus of the Ulster Railway. This crack of dawn wit ‘‘Free Monday to Friday. Knowledge…bring your own containers.’’ My own be possessed of copyrighted joke laughed before it’s close. It’s the way I tell them I said Frankly. However in sedateness in class I grew to understand it was never what you learned from the chalk or the cane. It was every angle of life and error. Every social anxiety. Every interaction and boo with the human race. The punishment of every uncertain moment was itself an education. We made mistakes. And we studied from them. I learned versions and bias of conditioning, prejudice and discrimination. A passing apologetic joke in class to say that once I thought I was wrong until I realised that I was mistaken. Sometimes I thought this Amy Conner school was useless as for to learn English as I already speak it eloquently at the inquisitive golden wonder years of seven soon eight as a student to the books of Tea Lane liberated from the Glover library. Relevant to the many endless unessential facts too is that I don’t know where I would be today without Pythagoras. And to find your gift in imagination. Not even Enquire Within Upon Everything book by Houlston of Loondon could lick that. My observation was my greatest teacher. A somewhat simple mentalist mentor. Everyday we three walked to school and only could we tell the trees and lamposts if we counted them or the colours of curtains on Tea Lane and Cluan Place if we observed them. There was no pictorial memory in the mind. No sense of photographic. That theatre in you the thinker you cannot unsee. That Vaudeville that likes to look. Aware in the youth of my eighth year that Memory is unwise and regenerating. It constantly repictures every moment. Somehow unknown to science this Earth dominating centre of nervous system with all it’s mystery and potential constantly reinvents it’s portfolio. Every memory in my mind when retraced is always thought better and seen in a new light. The human mind with it’s extraordinary persistence of vision was indeed a biological cinematography. The conflict of school term continued with the war for the tender years ensuing even as maturity had it’s pleasures. Footsteps of father with wood industry explored. To me a trade of tension with no congratulation to my thinking as his poison would always repress. However my heart and mind more prolific with enterprise and merchantry. With such happiness I discovered years of independence that could talk, sell and vend. Visiting doors by day I fixed locks. And seasonal I sold Cherry Liquors and Chocolate Bottles. With Brandy & Rum. Get drunk on a box of chocolates I traded. It was my talking that set me apart. Not my product. There was something spectacular in my chatter as this brand of gift of the gab grew. Years of come of age. Shooting up a chaos postdates. I was different like night and day. Suviving to unimaginable logic and contradicting everything normal poles apart from common sense. Mind marching to a different drummer. Animated by life beyond the Cosmos yet sharing the same oxygen as God Fearing Flat Earth societies. Never once thinking that I liked the good old days only because I was younger then. I so loved and lived the moment. Aware that all we own is this moment in time. constantly thinking the framework of the future and would history and invention evolve. Repetitive interests against my animation and vitality continued to appear. Behaviours I could not float or understand like my obsession with a World of my own in numbers. An outlet for this. The new Norn Iron Baelfawst telephone exchange Company brainstormed. Allegedly patented by Scottish born Alexander Graham Bell his claim to this technology. Numbers for names. I found I could be master of every entry. Learning every number in the city. Ambrosia the Baelfawst Boffin the locals joked. Lost Leonardo and savant of Sandy Row they said. So one night out the Baelfawst Empire Theatre of Varieties. A luxurious and beautiful peerless stage of famous Ventriloquist Paddy the Protestant and dances and monologues from eminent Baritone Vocalist Subrina Boil. With time permitting was hypnotist Barny Carl Iris. That time arrived. Orchestra and instrumentals introduced this act. Master of ceremonies came to the stage. His words. ‘‘Ladies and Gentlemen of Empire Theatre, With your kind attention and permission I have the honour of presenting to you one of the most remarkable men in Ireland. Every show he entertains with his hynotic sleeps. Please put your hands together for Barny Carl Iris. His power is beyond belief.’’ The audience claps and erupts. ‘‘Thank you all very much for coming here tonight. You are all very welcome. I really appreciate your company here tonight.’’ he says. Immediately working the room. His tux and handsomeness a hit. The Mesmerist Mister Iris immediately People watches for extroverts for his mood altering and comedy hallucination show. Seats on the stage they posture. A compliant collection of people now for trance and induction. Barny Carl Iris says ‘‘We are going to have some fun with these folk and fool them. Sleep, sleep, listen only to my voice now sleep.’’ They see other people as celebrity. They travel in time. They forget who they are. They are cruelly made insane. They become love for other people. The Audience entertained and home in awe. That sideshow is the one they talk in the town. His enigma of mirth and mystery. Hiking home to Tea Lane through the restaurant quarter after the gusto of Pizza at Vico’s with toppings of Capricciosa cooked to prefection by our family friend Manfredi. I then emphatically follow entertainer Iris to the Crown Liquor Hello Rooms. Daring I open the door and join him. Not to ask the secrets and curiosty of his show. I want to see and feel the motivation of his brillance. I stand him a Guinness in a Gin Palace snug. Our casual nonchalant introduction exchanging names and common view as we connect and mingle with understanding. Our talk two-sided. We keep one’s eye on each other’s words. I at that point flaunt over with gaiety my gift for numbers as if reciprocation for his muse of stage coma. Producing a book of numbers from the bar. That in the first place a primordial phone book of historical perspective The Baelfawst Telephone Company. Barny in interrogation tests me. Leafing through lightly the thousands of random writings. ‘‘Crown Liquor Hello Rooms of Great Victoria’’. This palace. His first coincidental fortuitous call. ‘‘Three one eight seven’’ I make known. ‘‘Knocking me dead young Sir, How do you do that? Try this one, Social Graces Café of Shaftesbury’’ At the drop of a hat. ‘‘Two Five Eight Nine’’. I quick as a wink say. ‘‘Please, Piece of Cake Baker of Botanic’’ he puts forth. ‘‘Two nought five eight’’. I befittingly say. The atmosphere of awe. Barny Carl Iris lighting his eyes on my own like he has seen an unstoppable force and gift of the Century. ‘‘How does your mind know these three thousand phones. Take yourself to Prettypool this fablicious-on-Sea between Lakes of Beatrix Potter and Cities of Manchester’’ He says with excitement. ‘‘Seaside vaudeville, lots of irons in the fire, The Ocean Sheba, The Magic Music Hall, The Chicken Palace, The Beach Hut House. You could play them all. You will reign man. Make this pageant by the Pier take place my new friend Ambrose Cornelius Eugene, You are literally the Unforgettable Memory Show. And mad. I am afraid to say this but you are entirely bonkers. And I will let you into a secret that all the best people I know are nonsensical!’’ Yet both inspired by what we shared. Amidst opportunity and opening we talked into the small hours. ‘‘You would so like to be beside the seaside.’’ Said Barny ‘‘And there our futures will meet. And in the life of luxury we will repeat this resume and the dark Irish stout of Arthur Guinness will be on me. See you soon at the Foxhall Taproom by Stewpit Street of Prettypool my class act genius friend. Take this new year of Eighteen Ninety Eight and discover how to live on twenty four hours a day. Go for dander cross the water and flee with speed. And when not working your act. Work on your act. Good luck and happiness always. Make opportunity to meet my Manager Jehanna Rocket of the Harbour House of Oats and this should meet expectation. This unkempt straggly hair mentor of Management and Master of the Music Halls putting the bums on seats of the Prettypool Bucket & Spade Brigade who so happens to live in a retired windmill by the Prettypool Shipyard.’’ This night in famous gas-lit House of Ale Barny Carl Iris the imminent Stage Hypnotist on the Irish Music Hall Circuit became instrumental and inspiring in suggesting Stewpit Street of Prettypool as a stage and theatrical enterprise with target audience for my gift of Memory and expression. My mind and lips of sugar became a kindle of ignition. I was seemingly moved by the supernatural power of his poise. Only a fool would not then go to Prettypool. This World beneath my Bicycle Wheels.

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ADDRESS

The Rinkha

Lytham

FY8 5HN

HOURS

OPEN DAILY

9AM-5PM

CONTACT

thegoodidea@mail.com

Tel: 07736905517

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