The Real Housewives of Transylvania

The Real Housewives of Transylvania.

 

Chapter One

 

Renvield, Renvield, vhere are you, you vatbag.”

Coming Oh Most Beauteous One,” Renfield answered in his perfect English accent, hurrying towards his vampyric mistress, Grinfreda, six thousandth, six hundredth and sixty sixth victim of the infamous Count Fred Shufflebottom. Who, for personal reasons, changed his name to Dracula, whose dust is kept in an old powdered baby milk tin, in a sealed vault under the Vatican, guarded 24/7 by The Ancient Anti-Shufflebottom Order of Knights, their heraldic emblem is a crossed wooden stake and a lump hammer, surrounded by green garlic cloves, but that’s another story. Renfield hurried to her, undoing his collar on the way and baring his neck, hoping she’d do the dirty.

Fix yor kollar you vatbag, you know I vill never drink yor bluud, it tastes like kow dung, and I know because you smell like kow-dung.”

Reluctantly Renfield fixed his collar. “What does the most beautiful vampire in the universe want?”

She glared at him, her eyes like two black lasers burning into his soul. “Are you veing sarkastik?”

Renfield shook his head. “Never My Lady, but may I make a suggestion, which I’ve suggested before.”

Yor alvays makin’ suggestions, vot is it?”

Your pronunciation, it’s still Eastern European. You haven’t lost your accent at all, despite all those elocution lessons.”

And zhat is vy I drank his bluud, he vas useless.”

Well, he is now.”

Now vot?”

Useless.”

Enough you vorm, are my kases and trunks pakked?”

Exactly to your specifications Oh Most Brilliant One.”

Are ze koffins ready?”

Twenty four bags of your favourite, O-negative, and as a treat, five bags of AB Positive and five AB Negative. That should be sufficient for your journey to Sweden.”

I’m looking forvard to it. Those Svedes are so wholesome, zheir bluud is like a smoothie made with ze freshest fruit. Vhat about my sisters, are zhey ready?”

All twenty sisters are rearing to go, coffins are ready, enough blood to see them through their journey, and my relatives, all willing to serve.”

Good.”

But I must offer caution.”

Kaution. Kaution, ve’re vampyres, ve’re top of the food chain, ve’re equal to a ‘undred ‘umans.”

Of course yes, but things have changed in the last hundred years.”

Changed, how?”

Well, practically every human now believes in vampyres, vampires, zombies, the undead, wizards, and everything to do with the supernatural.”

Vhat?”

And they know how to kill vampyres, vampires, zombies etc, etc.”

How, how, do zhey ave zhis knowledge?”

Well, it started with that Bram Stoker.”

Who?”

A Victorian writer. But that’s besides the point it’s a different world, especially in North America and Great Britain.”

Vy?”

Because they believe.”

Oh Gott im Himmell.”

She doesn’t know what that means. “They know about garlic, holy water, crucifixes, sunshine. Although, it seems some vampires can walk about in the sunshine.”

Vhat?”

Oh yes, North American Vampires, that with every bite they convert.”

NOOO.”

Oh yes, vampires are ten a penny in North America. But that’s not the worst of it, it seems there’s a war going on between vampires and werewolves.”

Vervolves, vhat are vervolves?”

Humans who can turn themselves into wolves. Big wolves.”

Vhat? Ridiculous. ‘Ow ave I never ‘eard of zese vervolves?”

The Count got rid of them a couple of hundred years back when he was doing his conquering thing, and before he gave you ‘the bite’. And it seems the werewolves are winning.”

Vhat?”

The werewolves are winning.”

Change my plans, change the plans of everyvon, ve’re going to North Amerika.”

Renfield rubbed his hands together, North America, brilliant. Look out New York, here we come.

Later, after they’d tucked their mistresses into their coffins for the day, the Renfield clan met at their local tavern, The Black Bat. They were joined in their celebrations by the villagers, the ale flowed, a new barrel was tapped, and everyone was singing “New York New York, it’s a wonderful town”.

 

 

 

 

 

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Took the dog’s bedding out in the conservatory ready to be washed, District Nurse called to see the Missus, made arrangements for the doctor to come out and see her, chucked dog into conservatory as the doctor knocked, let doctor in, examining Missus, looked out into conservatory to see dog humping away at her bedding, tapped discretely, she ignored me and continued. I tapped louder, she stopped and gave me such a look as if to say, hey, a bit of privacy here. The doctor finished examining the missus and prescribed antibiotics for her, I thanked her, saw her out, came back in to see the dog, once again, humping her bedding. Either I’m going to have to have her done, or find her a dog friend.

The Real Housewives of Transylvania.

The Real Housewives of Transylvania.

 

My missus cracks me up sometimes. Take yesterday, I walked into the living room and she was watching telly, I said, ‘What’re you watching?’

She answered, ‘The Real Housewives of Orange County.’

I watched it for some moments and must admit the women are beautiful, long flyaway hair, gravity defying breasts, long, tanned, silky smooth legs up to their armpits, and their husbands were just as beautiful.

I said to her, ‘That would be a good idea for my next book.’

She grunted, not taking her eyes off the telly.

I continued, ‘I’d call it “The Real Housewives of Transylvania.”’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘what would that be about?’

Then she realised, ‘Oh, vampires.’

Since yesterday I’ve been thinking about this and my initial premise is along the lines of twenty female vampires, a feast of vampires, (my collective noun for a group of vampires) are running out of local sources for husbands, mainly because they keep drinking their blood and killing them, so they meet and decide what their next move will be. It become obvious, internet dating. Distance isn’t a problem for them, they’re super rich, and they begin bringing them back to Transylvania. Look out world, the real housewives are looking for husbands.

But their Nemesis is on the horizon in the shape of Sidney Hirem Isabod Tribottom, a religious nut and well known idiot who loves nothing better than whittling wood and chewing on his homemade garlic lollypops.

Can S.H.I.Tribottom save the young men of our world?

 

Last week when the missus was in hospital, the staff arranged a palliative care meeting, and it was during that meeting the doctor told us the bad news. My wife is end stage C.O.P.D. (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) There’s not much more they can do for her except keep her pain free and comfortable. She expressed her wish for me to look after her and to end her days in our home, which I’m more than willing to do. She took the news both bravely and remarkably well, but in reality, I think she’s known for a long time. In fact, she took the news a lot better than I did, I couldn’t help it and the tears welled up, and she was comforting me. How ridiculous is that? After some moments I composed myself and tried to make a joke of it, I said, “Sorry about that, I was thinking of Bambi.”

Funny really, even during times of sadness and stress, we can still find humour. The doctor, a young chap, probably in his late twenties, but looked a lot younger, turned to the nurse next to him and whispered, “Bambi?”

That brought a smile to everyone.

The problem with clowns

Thirty years ago I dressed up as a clown for my daughter’s birthday, all the kids were looking at me as if I was about to eat them. A knock sounded at the front door, I went to answer it, opened it, and the little girl and her mother both looked at me with horror. I thought I was brilliant, especially when I pulled a bunch of flowers out of the front of my barrel trousers. They both screamed and ran away. I chased them down the road, waving my flowers, but they were too quick. The mother never spoke to me again, don’t know why. I mean, it’s not as if I was waving a ten inch combat knife, they were artificial flowers, they came with the outfit.

It seems the term for a fear of clowns is coulrophobia (don’t quote me on that, that was off another website). I mean, how can anyone be afraid of them? They’re brilliant, with their zombie white faces, big red vampire lips, black shadows under their eyes, red hair sticking out, all the elements of a rollicking good laugh. 

That reminds me of one Sunday long, long ago when we drove to this isolated spot in Lancashire, I think it may have been Pendle Hill, to have a look around. We climbed, well walked up a fairly steep incline, to the top to have a look around, when this guy, wearing a bull’s head over his head, dressed in black rags ran around the corner. He stopped, we stopped, I stepped in front of the wife and kids, for a moment he glared at us, then turned tail and ran away, and I turned to the missus and kids and laughed, trying to relax them. You’ve never seen a family so relaxed walk back to their car so fast.

The Joys of Old Age

The Joys of Old Age.

 And they are many, for example, young attractive women tend to patronize you, mainly because they think you’re going to keel over and die before they see you again. They sometimes put a hand on your shoulder and give it a gentle rub, or a one armed hug that’s saying, you’re a good person and I know you’re going to heaven. Older women know you for what you really are and are ready to punch your lights out.

That’s like at family gatherings, it’s “sit here Grandad” and they bring you a can of lager and a glass, but pour the lager for you and don’t leave you the can, because they think you’re going to spill it all over their new shiny laminate floor. It’s only after half an hour that you realize they’ve sat you on a commode, just in case. Perhaps even worse, you notice there’s an empty bucket at the side of you, and a new box of tissues on the other side.

I know I’m a little “mutt and Jeff” but is having the music so loud for my benefit?

And it’s funny, when you get up to go the toilet you are instantly arrested by two young women asking you if you’re all right, if you need any help, where are you going?

Then it’s feeding time, and the women are still sober enough to wait on you, in other words get the food for you because they don’t want you walking around in case you fall. Hey, I’ve only been given a small glass of lager. They bring you a paper plate containing little triangular ham sandwiches with the crusts cut off, no one else had their crust cut off. Anemic looking little party sausage rolls that have been cut into four. Vol-au-vents filled with something that looked like the cat had just regurgitated, a sad, limp lettuce leaf, a slice of cucumber that looked like it had committed suicide a week ago, and a slice of tomato that was too old even for a Bolognese sauce. And all around you are people ripping apart chicken drumsticks, “the bones Grandad”. Shoving king-sized prawns down their gobs, “seafood Grandad, it wouldn’t agree with your digestion”. Really? When did you develop x-ray eyes that could see my digestive system?

This party is so dull, how to liven it up? Time to get my kit off. 

“GRANDAD!!!”

 

I gave my youngest one of my print books about eight years ago, and every time I went to her house my book was in exactly the same place on her bookshelf, gathering dust. I asked her if she’d read it? Her reply, I will Dad, I’ve just been a bit busy lately. Yeah. She moved recently, and my book was no longer on her bookshelf in her new house. As I ploy I asked her if I could have it back because I wanted to check on something. She went to her bookshelf, spend about two minutes looking through all the titles. I was on the verge of shouting it’s not there. She said, and this is great, Dad we boxed some books for the charity shop and it must have got mixed up with them. Well, it’s certainly not a bestseller, but at least it’s helping a charity for cats.

Anyway, I console myself with the dream, “In a thousand years, what with technology and science whatever, I will be facebook friends with everyone on this planet, the news feed will be fed directly into my brain, which, of course, would be enhanced by a quantum computer, and ten billion pictures of funny dogs, cuddly babies, men with fantastic six packs, and all the other paraphernalia, I would be sharing with another ten billion on the outer worlds, where ever they may be.”

Give me a break, I’m fantasying here. But the future looks good.