• Message from James Clarke

    "South Africa's Best Humour Columnist"

    - SA's Comedy Awards September 2008

    “South Africa’s funniest columnist.”

    - Financial Mail

    WELCOME TO MY BLOG

    The name is Clarke. James Clarke. I have been told by people who know their way around the electronic world with its iPads, USBs, processors, modems, 500 gb hard drives, Blackberries and microwave ovens, that as a writer I have to have a blogsite. Otherwise, I am told, it is like passing oneself off as a CEO and you haven’t a leather chair that tilts back.

    Yet after four years of having a blogsite I still don’t really understand what it is or how it helps sell my books which is my major concern in life apart from not stepping on cracks when walking on the pavement.

    I am also told that on a blogsite it is customary to refer to oneself in the third person. This enables one to grossly exaggerate ones attainments without appearing to have done so personally.

    Not being one to buck the system...

    London-born James Clarke is your average tall, dark, handsome fellow who writes books – fiction and non-fiction. As a humorist he has been compared with PG Wodehouse and James Thurber. (The Daily Bugle in Des Moines said “compared with the works of PG Wodehouse and James Thurber, Clarke’s writing isn’t worth a row of beans”.)

    He long ago settled in South Africa where he became a mover and a shaker in the world of the environmental sciences. As a youth, being a mover and a shaker, had made it impossible for him to follow in his father’s footsteps as a bottler in a nitro-glycerine plant. Hence he turned to journalism.

    But around the time he retired a few years ago he found a new pursuit as a humorist. He wrote a daily humour column in the Johannesburg Star (now syndicated) and began turning out books of humour in the UK and South Africa.

    Clarke very recently moved boldly into the electronic publishing world. It was, he said afterwards, like a non-swimmer diving into a pool without first testing its depth.

    In November 2011 he re-issued his latest book of humour, “Blazing Saddles”, as an Amazon Kindle e-book under the title “Blazing Bicycle Saddles”. For a mere US$4.99 you can download a copy of this seminal cycling book in a matter of seconds by clicking here ....


    ooo

    He did this with the full realisation that he is totally at sea in the electronic world with its telephones that take movies and receive faxes and sports results.

    The original edition of “Blazing Saddles”, published by Jonathan Ball, has been out of print for two years. It reveals the true story of how six retired men – five of them journalists – year after year set out (intrepidly) from the African continent on a series of exploratory expeditions cycling into “Darkest Europe” to bring back to the people of Africa tales of its funny natives.

    Clarke will also shortly be publishing, via Amazon.com, another of his action-packed autobiographical books – this time an account of his Second World War exploits as L*E*A*D*E*R of the Yellow Six Patrol of the 1st Streetly Boy Scouts in the English Midlands. He recounts the patrol’s ceaseless campaign to defeat Adolf Hitler’s plan to invade England.

    You can read about “The Yellow Six” within this blogsite.

    Clarke, apart from moving and shaking, is a travel writer and proud father of two highly successful daughters – one a biologist and the other an environmental impact analyst. He and his wife, Lenka, live north of Johannesburg.

The Yellow Six to the rescue

The Second World War, which 70 years ago was going well for the Allies, was a good time to be a Boy Scout because, apart from helping with The War Effort (which included collecting any kind of waste with which to hit the Germans) there was also such a shortage of manpower that it meant Scouts were often called upon when a lot of hands were needed.
One grey November afternoon I heard, over the radio, that the Warwickshire police were seeking volunteers to search nearby Sutton Park – mostly a marshland – for a missing woman.
We marched to the police station and, as most of us wore studs in our shoes, we made quite an imperialistic noise. As we swung into the police station everybody looked up including Chief Inspector Victor Rex Cogbill who had been seconded to co-ordinate the hunt. It was, of course, a Boy Scout’s duty to ‘serve God and the King’ and we instinctively recognised that the Inspector represented both.
But there was a distinct raising of the eyes when our village constable saw us. He towered above us, which was not difficult. He knew us collectively and individually and suggested to the Inspector that it would not be wise to have Boy Scouts wandering around the moors, especially as it was near dusk, and especially as the missing woman might have been murdered.
Murdered!
Now we were really keen. We all began tugging at the Inspector’s sleeve. He then nodded to the Constable who, with undisguised reluctance, allocated us a sector of the park which was particularly soggy.
We carried our patrol whistle which had a pea in it and we were told to blow it loudly if we saw or found anything.
We walked through strings of cold mist, down into the dale, singing patriotic songs in deep voices in the hope that if the murderer was around he would think the Eighth Army was bearing down. Although the sun was still two hours from setting the afternoon was gloomy and foreboding. Soon we were shivering and up to our ankles in black ooze.
Our voices trailed off and we lapsed into a silence. It was then we became aware of the distant baying of bloodhounds and our hair stood on end despite the weight of Brylcreem.
As it grew dark we closed up.
Each of us carried a scout staff, a long pole made from ash which Boy Scouts use for vaulting streams and building arch bridges similar to the Sydney Harbour Bridge. None of us had really mastered the art even of vaulting streams but we never gave up trying. As we advanced into the swamp I let Vincent Laidlaw go in front because, well, first it was good to give everybody a go at leading, and second, he had a bayonet lashed to his staff.
Darkness fell.
We were frequently sinking up to our knees in mud and were keeping so close together we kept standing on each other’s feet – except Arbuckle whose enormous feet enabled him to walk on the surface.
Somebody said ‘What if we run into the murderer?’ We closed up even tighter. It now became impossible to move in any direction. I decided to blow on the whistle but the pea kept popping out.
Late that night a huge spotlight that should have attracted enemy bombers from as far away as Schleswig Holstein began sweeping the marsh and it finally settled on us. There were dogs and voices and, in the white glare, some agitated mother-looking figures. A loudhailer said ‘Walk this way!’
We then learned that the missing women had been at a cinema. In those days you could sit there all day for a shilling.
The police had spent the evening looking for us.
There towered Constable Cope, his eyes raised up into his forehead so they gleamed like a pair of hard boiled eggs.
(Adapted from The Yellow Six – available via Amazon (kindle) and Smashwords.

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