Carte Rouge: The Naughty Story Series

By Sedley Proctor, Tony Henderson and M T Sands

How will Harry the painter escape from the bikers? Who is the mysterious hitcher in the frozen Canadian winter? Will the brat Kevin get his comeuppance? And will Anouk and Hans get away with swimming in the wild? Are you a sheep or a wolf in sheep's clothing? Do you like whips or quips? Do you soak it up, or dare you take it like a man? Or indee

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leopard Publishing Ventures Ltd
• Release date: Nov 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838178789

Sedley Proctor

Sedley was born in Poole, Dorset and grew up in West London where visits to the local library instilled in him a life-long love of books. Sedley always loved writing and English. In fact, when he was eleven, he began a historical novel, now lost to posterity, but, if memory serves, in the style of Henry Treece and Ronald Welch. At school in Winchester he started to dream about a writing career, and was even lucky enough to win a prize for a short story, the title of which he has now forgotten. For some reason, however, the final line sticks in his mind. "Was it a living or waking dream? - No, she must be dead." After a brief flirtation with archaeology, he studied English at Nottingham University where he was tutored, for a term, by the Northern Irish poet, Tom Paulin. In the 1990s, he worked in fringe theatre and was involved in productions of Macbeth and Bertolt Brecht's In the Jungle of Cities. His own play, Salt Lake Psycho about the notorious murderer, Gary Gilmore was put on at the now defunct Man in the Moon theatre in Chelsea. Salt Lake Psycho was directed by Sean Holmes, current associate artistic director at Shakespeare's Globe. For the best part of two decades, Sedley lived and worked as a teacher and translator in Southern Italy. Here he collaborated with French writer, Claude Albanese on the screenplay of Dirty Waters. Dirty Waters, which is a political thriller, written with Italian blood, English sweat and French tears, received a commendation at the 2003 Montpellier Festival. In Italy Sedley continued to experiment with his writing, devising an invented dialect for a novel about a young female brigand of the Risorgimento. He also experimented with performance poetry, accompanying local blues band, Big Daddy Lawman on their tours of Apulian taverns, churches and bars. Returning to Britain in 2013, Sedley wrote The Half Days (2015), an ex-pat adventure set in Southern Italy. He struck up a writing partnership with Tony Henderson. Together they quickly published two books: Over & Under i (2015) and Over & Under ii (2016), a series of naughty tales, inspired by the tales of the Arabian Nights. The Over & Under Series has subsequently morphed into the Naughty Stories Series. The first in this series, Ten Naughty Stories was published in 2019 under the pen name, M. T. Sands. Sedley has also published the sequel to The Half Days under the title, Accidental Death of a Terrorist. Accidental Death of a Terrorist (2019) is the second part of the Mezzogiorno Trilogy. Sedley and Tony have written a children's book, The Wolf Garden, under the alias F. M. Frites: A Totally, Completely, and Utterly Bodacious Adventure with Unicorns and Gnomes.

Book preview

Carte Rouge

The Naughty Stories Series

M T Sands

For all who like naughty things

Affaires d’amour or wanton flings

Look still to unbutton your mind

So profound make filth you find

Sterquiliniis Invenitur

CONTENT

Foreign Objects

Ties and Bonds

Waterloo Sunset

Risky Business

Predators

Corporate Reality

Frissonance

Quando Le Cose Vanno Male

Indiscretions

Carte Rouge

Vaffanapoli

M.T. Sands Interview

Foreword

G

iorgio’s café is situated in a part of London I used to know well; associated, as it is in my mind, with dancing on table tops with and to Bananarama, and the occasional recreational drug. Today it is curiously bereft of people, though not, it turns out, atmosphere or reflection.

The café itself is a little haven. There are no more than half a dozen tables, a selection of home-made Italian cakes, including divine Sicilian cannoli filled with creamy ricotta and sweet crumbles of pistachio. The proprietor himself is a Tuscan of medium height with a wisp of beard and a winning air. Giorgio loves his café. Is high concept, he says, pointing to a collection of postcards fanned behind the bar. All about communication.

That’s right, says George, a regular of the café and Giorgio’s friend and collaborator. People have been sending us these stories from all over the shop. - This one from Mark Hughes is about a corporate cricket match that goes rather pear-shaped and sticky.

My eye is caught by one of the stories, which is blown up on the wall along with an image of a girl painted like a Diaghilev firebird who appears to be doing the splits.

Ariel, explains Giorgio.

We want to put all of them in a book.

Mary, you will help us, won’t you, put together our little book of naughty stories, says George, wiping some sticky cannoli from his lips like a sheepish child.

To which I reply:

Of course. And indeed, perché non?

Reader, I shall not waste anymore words. Here is a collection of some of the stories that decorate Giorgio’s cafe for which we have to thank the psychiatrist, Patrizia (Patti) Vaniglia; the Canadian producer and concocter of horror flicks, Sven Johansson; the Count, Germano de Cillis; the performance artist, Anastasia Fleming aka Miss Bliss (now appearing in Travels with My Carpet Bag), Astrid, the Amsterdamned architect and Celeste, the Riviera gallery owner; Mr Resolutely Non-Corporate, Mark Hughes; Bill Sykes, the Dorset journalist, and last but not least, Bruno, the Swiss ski instructor and king of the milk floats.

Lastly, let us raise a toast, or as the Sheik insists, Fe Sahatek, good luck, George and Giorgio.

Mary Sands

Foreign Objects

I have the body of an eighteen-year old. I keep it in the fridge.

Spike Milligan

F

rom my point of view this Milligan is pretty dark. You don’t expect a comic to think like a mass murderer. In Italy we have many comics. Unfortunately, they are all in politics. My friend Patti says they are like little Caesars: once they reach the Rubicon, they dare not get their feet wet. People, and I don’t exclude George’s English tribe, are afraid of the foreign objects they find in their fridges (for which of course you need icy balls). If you ask me, we are all a bit disturbed, or as my friend Patti prefers, disordered. But, if this is your problem, why not decorate the fridge with magnets like the ones here in the café?

Seriously. The Pope, I am told by my friend Germano (who you may also know as the Count) is a very efficacious calamite (He means magnet - George). He Germano is not remotely religious, nor for that matter am I. Merely superstitious.

Sheep in the House

B

rothers Nicola and Michele Campanile were farmers from the backwaters of Basilicata in Southern Italy.

They lived down a woody dirt track several kilometers from the local town in a shared farmhouse. On one side of the house, Michele lived with his wife; Nicola lived on his own on the other side of the house.

Early one morning, when Nicola was already out on the tractor, Michele went next door to look for some coffee.

"Non ci credo. I don’t believe it, he said, returning with coffee. C’è una pecora in casa. He’s got a sheep in the house."

Michele’s wife put on the gas. Well, she said, I expect it’s sick.

"Sick. È mio fratello che è amalato. My brother is the sick one."

When he came in from work, Michele made up his mind to speak to his brother. Nicol’, he said, what’s all this business with the sheep?

"Niente, said his brother. Nothing."

"What do you mean ‘niente’"?

Mice’, I’ll be frank with you, he said. She’s come to live with me.

Michele went back inside and sat down.

His wife put the pasta on the table.

Michele did not say a word, as he tucked into the rigatoni with tomato sauce.

His wife looked across the table at him.

What’s the matter, Michele?

"Niente."

"What do you mean ‘niente’?"

I’ll be frank with you, wife, he said. "La pecora dorme a casa di mio fratello. The sheep has moved in next door."

*

Hilarious! said George. I never thought Italians would have to resort to shagging sheep!

What do you mean?

This one from Patrizia, it’s all about a sheep shagger…

Be’, it’s obvious. He lives in the middle of nowhere. He’s either too busy or too lazy to get himself a girlfriend!

Seriously?

Of course.

You seem to know a lot about it.

The Ladder

H

arry was a painter. He had painter’s overalls, a van and a ladder.

Harry was pretty fit and good looking but, while he had some successes with girls, his big mouth nearly always got him into trouble long before he could test his charm on female company.

One barmy night in June he finished up in a pub after a long day’s work.

There was a gang of bikers behaving rowdily at the end of the bar and after a few pints Harry was in the middle of them, mouthing off.

I don’t mind tattoos. I once had a bird with a tattoo. Mind you, when I found out, I dumped her.

The bikers were not going to do anything about him inside the pub, but when Harry left, they were waiting for him.

Who do you think you are, you tosser? started the leader as Harry made for his van.

Episodes such as this had sharpened Harry’s wits and, although drunk, he made to lunge at them and then dived inside the van and roared off.

He knew he couldn't outrun them but he did have a head start.

He made a left, then a right. Then he parked, jumped out and grabbed his ladder off the roof.

He could hear the bikes behind him but there was a second-floor window open.

Ladder down, steady, he shimmied up, muscular arms pumping hard.

He jumped through the window, pushed the ladder into the flower bed and crouched down to see.

In the darkness a long naked arm snaked around his neck.

I haven’t had a gift like you since my lovely Harry died.

*

What is it about Saturday night and the English, drinking and cockfighting?

We haven’t invaded France lately. We have to take it out somehow.

Anyway, a painter in Italy would never get that lucky.