The Curious Survival of Wee Bobby Blunder

By Ian Peter Nelson

The story of events surrounding the apparent death and resurrection of a man with an unresolved ambition to be a stand up comedian. His near death experience gives him the determination to achieve his one great unrealised ambition but unwittingly gets some help from very unlikely sources but in a bizarre way. He is acutely aware that his close friends all believe they are funnier than he is. The Music Jammers play any and all kinds of music and it's interspersed with the black humour of those who don't have much else to live for but are determined to go on kicking against the odds. The focus of this story is on Wee Bobby Harris's conversion to Wee Bobby Blunder, Award Winning Stand-up Comic, and his often fractious interaction with his compatriots and supposedly Superior Being. Meanwhile, the explanation for the queer happenings lies in the discovery of the unofficial multifarious uses of Zeolites when inserted into the human body. These molecular sieves known as zeolites confer strange new properties which alters the basis for life support as we know it and enables the plot to continue against all obvious logic. Don't read this book alone, it may give you bizarre thoughts about experimenting on yourself. Wee Bobby Blunder is destined to become a cult hero because of his perverse ability to laugh in the face of all adversity and in recognition there is a distinct possibility of his nomination as 'Saint Wee Bobby'. Don't laugh! Stranger things have happened.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Peter Nelson
• Release date: Jan 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310701290

Ian Peter Nelson

Ian Peter Nelson, born in the post-war baby boom in 1947 in the South West of Scotland and fed on carrots and National Health Service Dried Milk Powder until he was 10 years old.Born too late for National Service thus has only fought in Imaginary Wars which suits his pacifist nature. After a wandering has settled and retired to very near the West Coast to fouter with broken musical instruments and commit to writing stories. I’m close enough to hear the waves crashing on the shores but it just might be the onset of tinnitus because none of my neighbours can hear it.I enlisted at Strathclyde University in Glasgow as a mature student aged 50 and to get rid of me they issued a certificate saying I had a Bachelor of Arts Degree. Strangely a degree in Scottish Studies also includes, Spanish, Italian, Economics, Politics, Psychology and Transport Geography as well as Scottish and Irish History and Gaelic Language and Culture. Much good it did me.I have on my computer FIVE unfinished stories so hopefully I’m now inspired to complete and publish them.I spend a lot of my time playing guitar and singing, mostly jamming for free but just now and then somebody's daft enough to pay me.My great unrealised ambition is to be a Proper Street Busker (Musician). I have already had a spell as a Glasgow City Tourist Guide on Open-Top Buses and Old Red Routemasters (London style buses of the 50s and 60s). Slainge mhath!

Book preview

Title: The Curious Survival of Wee Bobby Blunder

Published by Ian Peter Nelson at SMASHWORDS and Distributed by them

Copyright 2015 by Ian Peter Nelson

The moral right of Ian Peter Nelson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. (UK)

Smashwords Edition : License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

at the seashore

Chapter 2

having decided to try Stand-up, he meanderingly muses

Chapter 3

first proper night at the Ha'penny Bar

Chapter 4

on the phone to possible comedy venues in Glasgow and Ayrshire, phoning from home

Chapter 5

the breakthrough, the revelation of the Republic of Albanik

Chapter 6

leaving the hotel to go to the Strand after a fleeting meeting with GAWD's representative on earth, Edinburgh division, who advises Wee Bobby on how to proceed

Chapter 7

from the hotel to the Ulster Hall

Chapter 8

from the Ulster Hall to lying in state at Bogend Bar

Chapter 9

not quite the Pearly Gates ... the side entrance

Chapter 10

conclusions and explanations and the future

Part 2

Bio of the Author

The Curious Survival of

Wee Bobby Blunder

Chapter 1

at the seashore

Wee Bobby Harris stood in his stockinged feet and reached only 5 feet and 3 inches small.

He squeezed his size 5 feet into his running shoes without undoing the laces even though it crumpled his socks and was bound to give him a blister or two.

He had only recently moved westwards from Very Near Glasgow to the North Ayrshire coast, often referred to as the Barbary Coast, which includes Saltcoats to Largs.

Wee Bobby's recently developed ambition was to run all the way from his new home in Ardrossan all the way to Largs, a distance of 12 Scots miles.

Target number one was just 3 miles up the coast road to Seamill where there was an excellent grand HydroPathic Hotel, where he could stop for a breather before jogging back along the seashore pathway to Ardrossan.

From the shores of the Firth of Clyde he had a wonderful view 12 miles to the west of the whole of the Island of Arran.

Wee Bobby was enjoying life on his new reservation and was counting his blessings as he gently jogged past Jumbo Rock ( a massive 500 ton boulder on the beach with 'Jesus Saves' daubed in magnolia paint) heading for his house overlooking the North Shore and the Harbour and Breakwater at Ardrossan.

He veered from the footpath onto the grass verge to avoid an ugly barking brute of a strange breed of dog ( Erik, the Giant Great Dane ) which had jaws like a shark and a drooping tongue like a donkey’s dong and which was supposedly under the control of its handler, a local worthy known as Rab the Tool and this caused Wee Bobby to have to sprint all the way up to 12 mph.

This was his undoing. A sharp pain travelled from his chest up the side of his neck and into his brainbox. He stopped running. He stopped breathing. He stopped standing. He collapsed to the ground. He stopped understanding. 'What the fuck ?' he asked himself, without moving his lips. He started shiting. He started pissing. He started crying. He opened his eyes. The big ugly bastard of a dog was licking his face with a slevery tongue.

He heard a remote and oddly Irish voice shouting, ' Jist send us a fuckin' ambulance - never mind that who is calling shite, jist get wan sent, right! this jakeys croakin' it ! '.

Wee Bobby could see the dog sitting down and twisting its body sideways so it could lick its arse which it managed even though it was a Giant Great Dane.

'Erik, stop licking that, you'll get fed when we get home!', the guy barked at his dog.

Then Wee Bobby watched Erik come over to him again and as it licked his face with its shitey slevery tongue he tried to push it away but his arm wouldn't move. In fact, nothing would move. He was in a state of True Collapse.

The ambulance arrived driven by Denise the Bagpiper who wishes to remain anonymous in this book so hereafter she’ll just be referred to as Paramedic One.

When they'd finished their teabreak the ambulance paramedics briefly checked for vital signs and decided there were virtually none so they lifted Wee Bobby onto a canvas stretcher and stumbled over the sea-grass verge and into the back of the ambulance and they rolled Wee Bobby's body onto the bed and strapped it in.

'Aw for fuck's sake! Look at that dogshit, man o’ man. It's bloody honkin'! ' said Paramedic One.

Paramedic Two said, ' You cannot, I repeat cannot, go into the hospital with dods of keech stuck to your boots. Better get it off. I'll drive' so saying he jumped out the back of the ambulance and clambered into the driver's seat and fired up the engine and drove off towards Crosshouse Hospital.

Paramedic One gingerly avoided getting any faeces on her hands as she wiped her shitey boots on the blanket which was lying across Wee Bobby's limp and apparently lifeless body.

When she was satisfied they were clean enough she banged on the partition and shouted at the driver to stop the ambulance and allow her to transfer to the front cabin, just to get away from the horrendous stink.

at the hospital

Whilst on their way to Crosshouse Hospital they debated whether they should turn on the siren and the flashing blues. The First one said, ' It was last Tuesday, I think, yes, that was the last time we had a real emergency and could flash the blues and sound the siren.' The Second one thought about it for a while then agreed it could be done on the approach to roundabouts because it gave him a migraine if it was all gongs blazin' for too long.

' What about our cargo ? Do you think he's pan breid yet ?' asked Number Two.

'Naw! Not yet. but I think he's corn beef so he'll not be bothered.' replied Number One.

They skidded to a halt at A & E because they were on security cameras and just in case there was a later review it would show they were hurrying, not dawdling.

They transferred Wee Bobby's seemingly lifeless body into the Emergency Admitting Theatre and kicked on the trolley's footbrake.

' Would you please sign my release form Sister Maggie ?' asked Number One.

' Surely, Shirley, but where's that helluva smell of dung coming from ?' she enquired sniffily.

' Can ye not see he's shat himsel'? ' said Number Two.

The Ambulance Operatives quickly left the zone and headed for their bothy for another well-earned teabreak.

Wee Bobby was lying face down, contrary to all known regulations, but it clearly showed his stained posterior. The nurse loosened the restraining straps and called for assistance to turn him over. She grabbed the blanket and began rolling it up. She felt, then smelt, the squishy goo lumped into a corner of the blanket. She screamed. She screamed bloody murder. She ran for the toilet to wash it from her healing hands.

She scrubbed them 3 times and dried them then dolloped the gel from the wall container over them and spent another 5 minutes wringing her hands over and over.

She was distraught.

Meanwhile Wee Bobby had regained a modicum of consciousness and self-movement.

He was alone.

He wriggled until he had turned onto his back and just managed to not fall off the trolley bed.

He closed his eyes again, exhausted by the effort.

The nurse returned, looked at the body and wondered who had turned him over.

Then Bobby opened his eyes. She screamed, ' You're no deid! Whit the fuck dae ye think yer playin' at ?'.

She was now doubly distraught.

She tried to steady herself by reaching out but grabbed onto the discarded blanket. She squeezed it tightly to avoid falling. Too tightly. The khaki keech oozed through the weave of the blanket and covered her hand like a kaolin poultice glove. She screamed in horror.

She was now distraught for the 3rd time. She dashed once again to the toilets.

After another 5 minutes had elapsed she returned once again to Wee Bobby. ' If you're like that ower a wee bitty dodie whit ur ye like with blood?' said Wee Bobby, except it didn't sound like that because of his condition.

It came out more like ' Ya whooor, lick that wee bit dodie ... witch that ye are ... lick wur blud ... dribble '.

Nurse Maggie was aghast. ' I'm taking nothing to do with you, ya wee scunner!' she said as she blazed off in a fury towards the hospital's ards muttering, ‘ Cat poo, horse dung, cow’s pats and even vegetarian octagenarians’ poops I can Strand without trouble but I bloody hate manky dogs and that smell is not of this world’.

The doctor eventually arrived and organised getting Wee Bobby undressed and washed and smocked up so he could examine him.

He sat Wee Bobby up and peered into his eyes with an eyescope. Dr. Ramaputra was in the habit of giving a running commentary during examinations as if he had a cluster of medical students listening in.

' Ah yes... signs of TIA, very definitely a CA ... dose of bisoprolol fumarate, losartan and warfarin and we'll get him up to the Jubilee for an MRI scan.' mumbled the good doctor, remembering the wee cash commission they paid backhand for NHS referrals.

Wee Bobby looked around and saw no one. He presumed the doctor was talking to him.

He asked, ' So doctor, what's a TIA when it's at home ?'.

The good doctor replied ' Transient Ischaemic Attack'

Wee Bobby nodded his agreement, ' Aye, yer so right there doc, attacked by a bad bastard ' of a dog. Whit's a CA ?'

The good doctor replied, ' Cerebral Accident'.

A suddenly angered wee Bobby retorted, ' It wisnae a fuckin' accident. He tried it, it wis deliberate'.

'Calm down, calm down, you'll do yourself no good getting excited!' said the good doctor.

' Who do you think you are ... Michael bloody Winner ... fucking calm down ... I am calm .. you should see me when I'm no calm. Barking bloody mad!' shouted Wee Bobby, adding, ' Sorry Doc. I'm just upset. I've had an ordeal. Say, where are you from anyway doctor ?'

'Patna ' replied the good doctor.

'Aw right.' said Wee Bobby, ' Patna, heading for Dalmellington, my uncle lives in Patna, just ower frae the pitheid '.

Dr. Ramaputra decided that further explanation would be wasted breath.

Wee Bobby recovered almost all his useful senses plus a new sensation. He had a new sense ... of foreboding. He wasn't sure what it meant but it made him feel uneasy for the future. He'd had a bad scare. He wondered if he had a future.

At the Jubilee Hospital between Clydebank and Dalmuir they inserted a stent into a collapsing artery in Wee Bobby's neck.

He was aware of something greatly different now. He seemed to think differently, as if every thought was now examined by his er being, scrutinised and internally debated over and his new alter ego made BIG decisions on his behalf and in his best interests. His best interests were now wrapped up in completing his unaccomplished ambitions before the, the last breath ...

He especially had always been ambitious to be a Stand-up Comedian.

He had played backing guitarist in pop & rock bands and later in wedding bands but always in the background, never the front man.

His whole life had been given over to jollity and quipping