Beware! Micro-Tales: Sherlock Holmes and the Grim Old Chair

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Sherlock Holmes and the Grim Old Chair

Freelance sleuth and social disaster, Sherlock Holmes, upsets Dr John Watson.

It was late afternoon and the winter sun was giving up on London. London, and Londoners, were used to this, and both city and folk continued to live to death as greyness swept through the capital like a river of unadulterated misery. It washed over Baker Street. Baker Street was immovable.

At 221b, Sherlock sat with his back to the window. He was naked, except for his deerstalker, and every few seconds he pushed back hard with his legs, causing his chair to creak. The chair was unusual, like one of those wicker frame chairs, but this one had a thin, beige material stretched over it. Umbrella-like, but with a broader, skeletal quality to it.

The door swung open noisily, its handle hitting the wall and continuing its excavation into the battered plasterwork.

“What the bloody hell is that thing still doing here? I thought I told you to get rid of it!”

Sherlock looked up and, having failed to notice the bang from the door careering into the wall, was now surprised to see Watson stood in front of him.

“Ah, Watson.”

“Yes? Is that it? I asked you a damned question!”

“You know very well why it’s still here. The case remains open.”


“What more can be gleaned from a chair made from human skin? You should have given it to the Yard when you discovered it.”

“The killer is at large and I need to make my deductions before the police are made aware. You know the pattern, Watson: the police learn of events and then the press gives the murderer a stage name. I detest stage names… They cloud everything.”

“You mean to tell me that you’ve kept this from the police? Lestrade will gut you… like a damned cat!”

Watson’s inelegant threat riled Sherlock enough to break the remainder of his concentration.

“Now, listen here, Watson. You know full-well that - wait, what did you say?”

“I said that he’ll gut you.” Watson wasn’t about to repeat the embarrassing ending.

“No, no, no. Human skin. How do you know it’s made from human skin? I’ve not told you that.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock. I’m not a complete idiot. That bloody chair’s got more tattoos than a merchant seaman.”

One-to-One With... The Conman Philip Green of Arcadia

In the voluminous category of Great British Arseholes, one of the most notable (and punchable) is Philip Green, the chairman of Arcadia Group and inexplicably knighted for his services to gobshitery. Beware! tracked him down by tracking deposits from his camel-hair coat.

B!: Thank you Phil for agreeing to this interview.

Phil: (glancing around nervously) You what? I didn't, and it's Sir Green.

B!: (pulls a face) Not what I've got down here. That's your name?

Phil: My name - you nonce - it's Green.

B!: Shits green? How much spinach would you need to... No wonder you looked so uncomfortable at the Select Committee.

Phil: What an unprofessional start. What publication do you -

B!: Hahaha (obscures press pass). Incredibly ironic, that, isn't it, you talking about professionalism.

Philip Green sweats sperm. (Andy Brain)
 - this design available via MoMoJaJa

Phil: Can we make this quick? I've got a massive yacht to go and view.

B!: Quick as a crash. Tell us how you got started.

Phil: I worked myself up from the ground.

B!: Bought up the stock of several bankrupt companies, stuck your own labels on, bish bash bosh right? Not a bad start. Reckon people will do the same with BHS stock?

Phil: It breaks my heart that things have worked out the way they have.

B!: So how does it feel to be the biggest con-man in Britain? When you're actually here that is.

Phil: Security? Who is this clown?

B!: (Being manhandled away) The voice of your swindled employees pricking at your conscience!

A few days later, we had another go...

Phil: Which one are you?

B!: Jeremy Bullingdon-Scythe from The Financial Arselick Times. (Belatedly crosses fingers behind back)

Phil: Oh are yer. Nice one. FT eh? That's the one that got sold off to the Nips. Shame that. Proud British publication. An institution.


B!: Taking good care of British institutions. That's something you would know all about of course.

Phil: (Missing any irony) I would, yes. I have advised the government on many things including productivity and efficiency.

B!: Did you perhaps advise them to drive wages and conditions down while extracting hundreds of millions of pounds out of failing businesses and spreading it around your family before leaving the country?

The face that appalled Philip Green so.
OK - our reporter had a mask on. (Andy Brain)

Phil: Eh? Actually would you mind not looking at me? It's really putting me off my pork pie.

B!: Not look at you? Fine fine - anything else you'd rather we didn't look at, like your tax arrangements?

Phil: Say what?

B!: Can you explain why your companies are registered to your wife's name and Monaco address?

Phil: What yew asking me about that for? Lady Tina is a Monaco resident and highly qualified to own ownership by name of the companies I own except I don't own them. Nothing could be clearer.

B!: What do you say to the term "asset stripper"? To those who think you should plough some money back into the BHS pension funds?

Phil: They have taken blood, sweat and shit from me already.

B!: Difficult stains to shift. So. A pound. You - let me get this straight - of your own free will, sold BHS for a pound. You wouldn't do that if you were playing Monopoly on your solid gold set, would you. What is it, a shop or a grab bag of sweets?

Phil: Now I've already said, we don't want any shit over this. I am willing to sit down with the regulators and give it a damn good go.

B!: A damn good go eh?

Phil: I'm giving up my free time for this.

B!: A lot of people would like you to give up a lot more free time, "Sir".

Phil: A lot of people never worked an honest day in their life. I built myself up from nuffin.

B!: Talking of honest workers - David Lachappelle eh? What does he know about fashion?

Phil: Dominic Chappell, actually, you cock.

B!: Oh you remember his actual name then. Did you know much else about him eh?

Phil: Dominic Chappell had all the qualities required to steer BHS through a difficult time.

B!: Christ you couldn't even pick someone who had a bit of retail experience! Might have gone better if you did sell BHS to David Lachappelle. They might have started stocking 30" trousers for a start.

Phil: There's no way you're from the FT.

B!: It's not FT any more, it's FAT. Pronounced "phat" because we like the way it sways off the lips and the hips.

(Phil washes his hands and exits.)

Not to be deterred, we gave it one last shot...

Phil: (Drops brandy) What the bloody cock...

B!: (Climbing in through the yacht window) Hello matey. *whistles* So is this the holiday home-from-holiday home? How is Monaco these days?

Phil: You've not been invited -

B!: Alright, no sweat, eh, No Sweat. But hey, with a sweat problem like yours, you can mop it up with a Topshop flannel made in one of your hellhole factories.

Phil: You should know better than to talk about hellholes when there's people like Idi Amin in the world. I've given tons to charity.

B!: Drop in the ocean.

Phil: (Advancing) You'll drop in the ocean.

B!: (Retreating) Missed out on The Apprentice didn't you! Ere I've got another lifestyle format, you'll love it: Brass Neck UK. The candidate who cocks everything up and keeps getting bailed out but still manages the most brazen cheek gets an excrement badge, how about that? Alright I'm leaving.

Phil: F*** off and stay f***ed off.

B!: (in the water) Are you Alan Sugar's little brother?

Johnny Cocktail - phone negotiation

Made it past the solstice, eh? Well done! Have a Cocktail to celebrate. Here, he's showing off his blistering mental acuity, in hope of delivering his latest clients something tasty for the New Year.

Johnny Cocktail - Phone Negotiation - Page 01 of 01 - written/illustrated by Andy Brain

Coming very soon: A brave wordsmith steps into the telescoping vacuum of Poetry Hallway.