How to Write an Eastender story

Harry and Effie are, and I hope you don't mind me saying this, stereotypes. Somebody has to be. They are like those collectibles you find in flea markets and junk shops. If you do collect them, you would have to have the pair, as they are married. They have been married as long as anyone can remember, and Effie will say to you, it only seems like yesterday when we had a do at the old Bacon & Eggs. It was actually the time before... radio. Marconi had not even started on his experiments. You see, Harry and Effie are old. They were born in the 1850's. Why so long ago? Well you don't want to compete with the Eastenders series. They just made it into their nineties together, when Hermann Wilhelm Göring with incredibly poor taste, decided to decimate the Eastenders - who so 'appened to be provided without adequate shelter, on account that they were not "toffs". The old Bacon & Eggs with many pubs and churches was bombed to extinction. This tragedy tugs at the old ticker. We see Harry and Effie on a parkbench. Her stockings are half-mast. They have the colour of colonial dust tea. The colour of what today looks like a very dried tea bag. Her conversation does, as you expect, turn on tea, and 'arry's on beer. I fancy a cuppa. I think I will go for a quick half. Is the kettle on the boil? Don't be too long, remember what the doctor said. In their eighties, they tend to return to the good old days. They are solid Victorians. Solid like those chairs that go for auction. They do, have a tendency to repeat themselves. What did you say? Nothing dear. What was that? I said nothing dear. Nothing? Yes, I was saying nothing. In this they can be like two budgies. However, something remarkable 'appened to 'arry. One morning. You must be careful not to go all Monty Python. 'arry woke up with a stigmata in the hand. 'ow the 'eck did 'e get that? It 'appened in a Saki way. Yes you know Hector Hugh Munro the writer, born some twenty years later than the Potboilers.

Usually in a Saki story, the focus is on children. 'ere its the old 'uns. It is not really to be expected of a stereotype that one suddenly has a stigmata. Bloomin' 'ell. But it 'appened. 'arry, bless his soul, was 'aving a rough night, and woke sweating a lot. Then lo and behold. A bloomin' miracle. Effie scuttled over to her other 'alf. Wot's you got there, 'arry Potboiler, what you know dun to yourself. I dunno. I dunno. Life is a paradox sometimes. You go to sleep as a stereotype - and wake up as a Saint. Why did 'arry 'ave a stigmata? He went with Effie to see the doctor. The doctor took 'arry's 'and in 'is 'and and looked puzzled. Then after much deliberation, the doctor said to 'arry. I think I know what we have got here. Wot doctor? We have a case of wanting to further a short story of little or no consequence, and what better way than giving you a stigmata.

How to write a story about how to lose a cool trillion

Jackie the guy with the bling and cheesy smile and a rug that he got from Wal-Mart comes onto the stage. He is someone trying to be Jackie Mason or is it Gleason, he ain’t made up his mind yet, the audience have. This guy couldn’t warm up a hot dog let alone this crowd. So, he plays with his cuffs, gives him his quick impersonation of Sammy Davis Jnr and has them yawning already.
"You are a tough lot tonite, but I got a story.”
"Oh yeah, you gotta story. I got one for you. You washed up Jackie you sonnofabitch.”
"Hey, look guy, if you wanna be hard, we can take it outside.”
"You go fuck yerself.”
"Harry, it’s you aint it? My own fucking manager screwing me. You can take off those glasses, I’d know those vase handles anywhere.”
"What gives Jackie, at least you got attention.”
"Attention? You giving me tension! ”
"So tell him Jackie, the story.”
"Oh yeah the story?”
"You wanna hear it?”
"Yes!”

"Well this guy he wants to make a fast buck."

"Don't we all!"

"Jesus Harry let me get on with it."

How to write a Mafia Story (ii)

You left Irene standing there pouring all her change into the machine, and now you with the deft movements of a Cinéma vérité director take in all the minute details on the fake brownstone floor, the crud of decades now flattened into the surface of the tiles. You then bring the focus to a group of three elderly men. They are discussing some business in a low voice. One of them through his body language suggests dominance over the others. They are all wearing Moss Brothers' coats imported over twenty years ago. They also go to the same barber. From quite a distance you can smell the same aftershave.
"So Jimmy, you think the boy has the balls?"
"Fuck he has and some more."
"You telling me he has three balls?"
"Knock it off Carlo. We are being serious. The kid is just a cugine"
"Serious, you know the meaning of that fucking word!"
"What did you say?" "Can't hear a darn thing cos of that racket"
"You need a fucking hearing aid."
"So Gina is she still giving you head?"
"Giving me head? Tommy, I ain't had a b-j since Bush told lies."
"Ya kidding me."
"Not after the prostrate job. Like raw meat, it is."

How to Write a Mafia Story

Setting: we are in a small bar somewhere in New York. The game is on. Let's say for the sake of accessibility, it is the Mets versus the Yankees. You are there taking notes. Not in person. Just a stooge for the author. You quickly surmise that the barman is Irish. He goes by the name of Pat. Pat's an old timer. Looks as if he is in his early sixties. Wiry kind of fellow like a fox terrier. Seen it all, has Pat. You ask him about the neighbourhood and he will give you his potted history. Knows everything there is to know. But don't get me wrong. He is discrete and can keep his mouth shut when promised to do so. Another thing, you will never get any of the old blarney from Pat. He is economical with his words. His mouth by the way is small with paper clip lips. When he speaks it's through a slit. He doesn't drink either. Stays sober even on his Saint's day. He doesn't smile much, except through those grey eyes of his. He has a daughter who has more of the Celtic in her. A redhead who is pursuing classical music. She will drop by sometimes. Lives with her mother. She's the apple of his eye, and in the back near the row of fine malt whiskey you'll see a number of photographs of her from when she was a bairn to now. That's it. Now we have started with our obvious ethnic stereotyping, we can conveniently move onto the woman pouring money into the fruit machine as if there were no tomorrow. That's Irene. She is not from Queens. She wears a mangy mink that looks like her dog, all year round. Irene has a sallow complexion and you would need to check the lateral meristem beneath the make-up to age her. You think that using tree-ring dating might be funny. It could back-fire so you leave her there. She serves no function except to lend atmosphere like the fake Tiffany lights.