Author: wdfyfe

Before WD called himself a writer, he worked at a number of different jobs from stacking lumber to interior design. He studied English at UBC and creative writing at ASU where one of his teachers, Rita Dove, taught him the importance of the tale. He has written for radio, magazines and newspapers, but never television. He’s published both fiction and nonfiction in Great Britain and the US. He reads French passably and speaks enough Spanish to get from A to B and find the toilet. He has interviewed John Cleese, Peter Ustinov, Margaret Drabble, Kenneth Branagh and enough other famous people to make him a hopeless name dropper. His not-so-secret passions are history and trivia, and he has never lost a game of Trivial Pursuit — although he did come 4th one drunken Quiz Night at the Uxbridge in Notting Hill. He lives on the Pacific Ocean, although, not close enough to see, so he spends his days looking at a computer screen. It’s a wonderful life and he has only one regret: he can’t type faster.

St. Patrick’s Day 2016

Oscar_WildeI love St. Patrick’s Day, and, in two more sleeps, we’re going to be practically bathing in everything Irish.  However, before I write another word I have to tell you I’ve got so much Irish in my gene pool that the deep end is bright green.  Half my family came from the Land of Blarney, so on St. Paddy’s Day, I’ve got a ton more right to have a howl and a dance than most people singing “Whiskey in the Jar” and sucking on the Bushmills.  And, truth be told, I’ve done my share of singing and sucking over the years.  With that in mind, here is some interesting stuff about Ireland.

The reason they call it “The Emerald Isle” is it rains in Ireland — a lot.  In any given 24 hour period — summer or winter — it will rain for 12 of them.  However, it’s a little known fact that the rainstorms in Ireland last exactly the amount of time it takes to drink a Guinness (2 Carlsbergs.)  So as the Irish go about their business, every day when it starts to rain, they nip into a pub, order a pint and wait it out.  This is why the Irish have a reputation for drinking — they’re smart enough to come in out of the rain.

James Joyce is a wonderful writer — a Nobel Prize winner.  He wrote The Dubliners, The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Ulysses — all worthy efforts.  However, in the English-speaking world James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake is the international symbol for Bullshit!  If you meet someone who has read/is reading/is thinking about reading or even owns a copy of Finnegan’s Wake, stop — don’t make eye contact, and back away slowly.  You have encountered A Pompous Ass.  The fact is Finnegan’s Wake is unreadable — anybody who tells you any different is an off-the-charts intellectual git.  And I can’t prove it, but I think the only reason Joyce wrote Finnegan’s Wake is so the world would have an easy way to recognize this brand of Academic Nincompoopery.

There are no female leprechauns.  This is yet another example of the Irish constantly getting screwed.  Simple biology aside, what other culture has an all-male mythology?  Hell, even the Smurfs got a girl — eventually.

“The Luck Of The Irish” is a total misnomer.  Think about it!  The history of Ireland is a litany of war, conquest, rebellion, oppression, famine, another rebellion — oh yeah, a little more famine — oppression again, one more rebellion, even more oppression, civil war, soul-eating poverty, a couple of economic tsunamis and yet another civil war.  Plus, on the days the Irish weren’t shooting at each other or slowly starving to death, they were leaving Ireland in a Diaspora of biblical proportion.  LUCK?  I don’t think so!  But the weird thing is even after a millennia of catastrophe and calamity, the Irish are still the friendliest people on this planet.  They’re worse than Texans!  Show up in Ireland with a smile on your face and you’ll think you landed in Celtic Disneyland.  The locals simply can’t do enough for you.

And that’s Ireland’s gift to the world.  If they can still live, love, laugh and be happy after all the crap they’ve been through, there’s hope for the rest of us.  So, on March 17th, go out and have a grand time.

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.

Fiction (Part II)

The Ballad of Lisa and Lacey (Part II)
For Part I click here

            The next day was easy.  There had been a few “what ifs” from the shadows the night before, but with her rent paid, $306.00 in the bank, a credit card (with not that much on it) and bankable parents, Lacey finally went to sleep — with Lisa taking her picture in front of the Eiffel Tower.  In the morning, she found her passport (sock drawer) and telephoned Lisa with all the details.  They agreed to meet for dinner at Lisa’s hotel.  Then she telephoned work and killed off her grandmother (not the live one.)  Tony, the assistant manager, who’d “accidently” brushed past her ass more than once, was really totally sorry and offered to talk if she needed to but could only give her a week off — without pay.  That didn’t bother Lacey.  It was only a part-time job, and she didn’t really like it that much anyway.  Besides, she had a feeling Tony would probably re-hire her.  Then she went out to the university and borrowed a suitcase from Shannon, who was really totally sorry as well and said she’d cover Lacey’s classes for her — just in case.  At some point, she thought about telephoning the parents, but she just wasn’t up for the trial by combat her mother would put her through.  And she already had a pretty good idea what kind of mountain of grief they’d give her if this thing went bad.  It wasn’t worth it to start the process early.  And that was that.  It was that simple.  By the time Lacey was back in her apartment, looking at the open, empty suitcase, she had disconnected herself.  For the next two weeks, she could say and do — and be — whatever she wanted to be, including, as it turned out, Lisa’s daughter.

lisa and lacey1

That’s what they decided to do, at dinner that evening, just in case anyone on the tour asked — and, according to Lisa, somebody was bound to ask.  Actually, it wasn’t that big a stretch: the two women had similar colouring and hair, and anyway it was a lot easier to explain than “we met at a coffee shop three days ago.”

They tried it out on the bright smile hotel server when he brought the bill, and he seemed particularly pleased that they’d confided in him — after admitting that he thought they were sisters.

“I don’t have a sister.” Lisa said, after he’d gone.

“Neither do I.”

Lacey laughed, “Brothers?”

“Brother,” Lisa replied.

Lacey held up three fingers.

“All older,” she said.

“Oh, my God,” Lisa said. “I had one and that was bad enough.”

Lacey held up her wine glass and shook her head.

“You don’t wanna know.  But here’s a toast to the sisters we never had.”

Their glasses barely touched, and the high-pitched single tink was inaudible — except to the two of them.

“And  I want you to know, I promise to be the best daughter you never had.”

Lisa drank at her wine, set it down and smiled.

“I have a daughter, Lace, and a son.”

Lacey held the wine glass to her mouth to conceal her surprise.

“And they aren’t very much younger than you are.”

Lisa waited.  Lacey set her glass down.  She wasn’t sure what her reaction should be.  This changed things.  It wasn’t “just us girls” going on an adventure anymore.  Lacey knew that Lisa was older but … she had never suspected she was anybody’s mother.  Mothers and girls were different.  Mothers didn’t get dumped by bastard lovers; they got divorced.  Mothers had things, possessions — stuff.  Things they had to worry about.  Girls worried about whether or not their underwear matched.  Mothers had responsibilities.  But the big problem was mothers and girls weren’t equals.  Lacey picked up her glass again.

“I’m only 37, Lace.  I  had Ben and Courtney when I was quite young.”

“Where are they?”

Lacey sipped her wine and set it down.

“At home.”

“What?  How come — uh?”

“Let me show you.”  Lisa picked her telephone out of her handbag.  She tapped and swiped a few times and then handed it to Lacey.

“That’s them at the airport when I left on Monday.  Ben, Court and Bertram — my husband.”  Lisa said, reaching her finger across to point.

“I don’t understand.  Who’d you have the fight with here on Tuesday, then?”

“That was something that hasn’t been working out for a couple of years, but neither one of us knew how to end it.  So we just conjured up a big fight and now it’s over.”

“So your husband?”

“No. Bert’s safe at home,” Lisa looked at her watch, “Probably just climbing into bed with his receptionist.”

“Oh,” Lacey said with some distaste.

“It’s no sin.  What do you think I was doing Monday night?  We live in a very small town, Lacey.  Everybody knows everybody.  I just prefer to keep my marital lapses away from the local rumour mill; that’s all.  So every year, rather than have my particulars discussed around the local campfires, I take a business,” Lisa made finger quotes in the air, “trip to Europe.”

“And your husband knows?”

“He knows something.”

“What about the kids?”

From the picture they obviously weren’t children.

“They’re both old enough to hear the gossip,”  Lisa shrugged, “That’s why I try to be as discreet as possible.”

“So why drag me along?”

“Spur of the moment.  Like I said, we click, you and I.  You’re smart, witty.  You’re kind.  You were kind to me.  It feels right, Lace.  I can talk to you.  I just want to go and have fun for a couple of weeks.  A ‘just us girls’ adventure.”

Lacey drank the last of her wine.  Oddly, she felt very sophisticated, just then.

The Rich Are Different

wedding-cakeCall me a hopeless romantic, but there’s something seriously icky about Rupert Murdoch and Jerry Hall getting married last week.  I’m not one to deny anybody happiness, and if it makes you happy to throw a big party and invite Bob Geldof — knock yourself out.  (Murdoch? Geldof? There’s some irony there!)  My problem is they called it a wedding.  WTF?

People get married for all kinds of reasons, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out even one for these two.  Murdoch is the king of the sleazier suburbs of the media world, and Hall was an A-list celeb whose best-before-date expired when Mick tossed her ass.  Murdoch recently weaselled his way out of jail time (it helps to have a roomful of lawyers and 12 billion dollars) and Hall appeared on Strictly Come Dancing, the supermodel equivalent of doing Depends™ commercials.  What could these two possibly have in common?  Well, I guess that depends.

Geriatric sex aside (which is so kinky even I don’t want to contemplate it) both of these folks have enough money to find far more supple bed partners — and in the past, they haven’t exactly been shy about doing just that.  Besides, Murdoch is rich enough to buy Viagra™ — all of it, including the patent — and rebrand it Halls Sugar-Free Warm-ups™ if he so desires.  So it ain’t lust, folks.

Nor is it money.  Rupert might be rich, but Jerry’s no slouch herself. When you’re worth north of 15 million, it’s not like you’re looking around for lunch money.  Besides, I would think Rupert and his kids had a couple of pre-nups up their sleeve before anybody walked down the aisle — and if they didn’t, that roomful of lawyers I mentioned earlier probably did.  So, the most recent Mrs Murdoch might be a gold-digger, but she’s not using a very big shovel.

Personally, I think Rupert and Jerry just wanted to throw an in-your-face party to show the world exactly how don’t-give-a-shit rich they are.  However, in our Post-Kardashian universe, one more glitzy party isn’t really news now, is it?  So, Rupert, (remember, this guy owned News Of The World) found a headline to hang it on: “I Thee Wed.”  Honestly, if they really are in love and want to live happily ever after, why don’t they just buy Wales and go live there?