Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

What do you want, Gav? There’s been a break-in! Well that’s a first. What’s missing? Don’t tell me. One of the barrels of embalming fluid? A few sheets of mahogany? Or one of our super-luxe caskets? It’s worse than any of them. It’s 105/20! Oh no! That’s Charlie Hughes, isn’t it. He was alright…but his relatives! So how did our Burke and Hare get in? Well that’s the thing. They must have got hold of a key somehow and what with the alarm being on the blink… So, it wasn’t strictly speaking a break in at all. Still – it’s not as if we’ll be claiming for him on the insurance. No, boss. What do you want me to do – call the cops? I suppose you’d better. Perhaps we can get them to break the news to Mrs Hughes. Wait a mo though. Maybe we should keep schtum for the time being. If we can find Charlie and get him back, she’ll be none the wiser. The cameras opposite might have picked up the body snatchers. Good thinking, Gav. When you talk to the police, don’t mention Charlie, just tell them we’ve...

  On top of an antique bureau, I find a packet of crisps. This is not my bureau nor is it my packet of crisps. I turn to the owner of one or both.             He is a little old shopkeeper with a fan of grey curls around the massive bald spot on top of his head. Only after I clear my throat does he take his slippered feet off his desk and come to my assistance. I point at the crisps. “Don’t you have a bin for that?”             The old man titters. “Actually, you’ll find that this is just as much an antique as the bureau.”             “How so?”             “It’s Golden Wonder.”             I shake my head, waiting for more.             At last he...

Four old friends used to meet regularly at their local for a few lunchtime pints and a ‘friendly’ game of dominoes. Everything would have been great, were it not for the fact that one of their number, Fred, won nearly every game he took part in. He swore he wasn't cheating, but, “How else could he win so often?” the others mused. Slowly but surely, the constant winning streak took its toll on their patience and they formulated a plan to sort spawny Fred out once and for all. The next day, after a particularly long, yet inevitably conclusive game, the two larger men grabbed their antagonist and held him down while the other stuffed the plastic dominoes into every orifice of poor old Fred's anatomy he could find. Dripping dominoes as he went, Fred waddled into town and headed for the doctors. He slammed open the front doors, dashed past the startled receptionist, through the busy waiting room and barged straight into Doctor Smith's surgery without a pause. Doctor ...

Pacing back and forth, back and forth Concrete not earth under his paws The last thylacine craves freedom. Striped bronze fur reflects the dying sun Though his dying will have no glory, no words, no laurels from the wars, just: ‘Extinct’. His prize - a day to remember the massacre. We weep at his grave, demanding action and cheap food; demonstrate for change and more houses, more space for humanity. Our species triumphantly insisting, we will save the world.   On 7 September 1936 the last thylacine, a marsupial species which had been in existence since the last Ice Age, froze to death in a zoo in Tasmania because his keeper forgot to lock him in the warmth of his den. The 7 September is now National Threatened Species Day in Australia. There is a short video clip of this animal on YouTube. What a loss to the world!