I love my wife when I'm driving in the countryside ...
I love the way she pretends not to notice as I reverse into a quiet parking space between high hedges with herb robert and foxgloves growing all around ...
I love the way she looks at me as I switch off the engine and reach out to touch her hair ...
I love the way she smiles demurely as I slide her over to my side of the car and ...
The morning was going quite well as Hoppy stumbled out of bed and down the stairs to make himself breakfast. He was even looking forward to using the bright new toaster which would be ideal to try out his great new recipe for Butter and Marmalade Toast.
'Butter and Marmalade Toast' was basically the same as ordinary toast, but Hopcott's idea was to put the butter and marmalade on before putting it in the toaster!
Considered by Hoppy as a truly revolutionary breakthrough in designer breakfasts, this was the first of his innovative recipes in his new cookbook, 'Cooking As You Never Thought Possible by Hopcott'.
Thankfully, this morning, Madame Hopcott was nowhere in sight to scream at him for some imagined misdemeanor and even Dacky the ever nippy feral dachshund was also missing so no need to run the gauntlet at top speed from the bedroom to the kitchen.
However, the message looped around the kitchen door handle looked ominous.
"Kitchen will be opened when you have a job and have earned some money, love Mrs H."
Experimentally, Hoppy tried the door but, as promised, it was locked.
Unfazed, Hoppy flopped in his slippers to the lounge and straight to the place under the mantelpiece clock that always had a few £5 notes hidden away. No money. Just a note.
"GET YOURSELF A FRIGGIN JOB, OR NO FOOD. Love Mrs H!"
An hour later, Hoppy was dressed but not breakfasted and the bird table nuts in the garden were beginning to look rather appetizing. However, moments later, who should turn up but Strogonoff, Hoppy's publisher?
"Morning Hoppy, you're looking a bit gaunt, today."
"I suppose you know what Madame Hopcott has done to me," said Hoppy, glumly.
"Locked you out of the kitchen, has she?" There was no hint of sympathy in Strogonoff's joviality.
"You know she has, it was probably your idea!"
Strogonoff just smiled beatifically.
"Well, anyway, Hoppy, you're in luck because I've got a job for you."
"What?"
"A job!"
"What sort of job?"
"A writing job."
"A writing job?"
"Yes, a writing job."
"You mean a writing job?"
"Yes, you sit down at a table with a computer and you write and I give you money - I appreciate for you, it's an alien concept."
"Yoh! Stroggy. Very funny! You should write the comedy and I'll come and listen to you. You'd have to pay me, though. What's the catch with this job?"
"There isn't a catch. One of my other clients needs his name networked around the Internet to get a bit of publicity for his new blockbuster 'Death of romance by A. N. Undertaker'. It's all about chick lit love in a mortuary. It'll be a smash hit.
"All you have to do is to visit lots of female blogger sites and talk with them about romance, love and similar whilst mentioning Undertaker's name. It'll be easy, women love that sort of thing. They'll be flocking over to his site in their droves and you always did have a way with the women."
"Er, I don't know I've got the blogging qualifications to be a blogger."
"Why is that?"
"My brain cells have never been exposed to crippling radiation."
"That's a good joke, Hoppy, but you shouldn't worry. You'll love it, just relax and enjoy the money!"
"Er, I'm a bit busy at the moment. Could I do it next year? You could let me have the money now, though. I'll need to prepare my mind - and maybe get a lobotomy - the job sounds about ten steps below ghostwriting. Perhaps Dacky could do the job better, or would that be considered as cruelty to a really dumb animal?"
"Absolutely not. I'll give you some money in advance but I'm not going to let you out of my sight until you're in my office and working. We'll pick up some food for you on the way over and you can eat it as you get down to work chatting up the women."
It has to be said that, when Hoppy sees the chips are on the table and he's hungry, he gives in fast and gives in gracefully. Hoppy also reckoned the oven ready chips he bought en route to Strogonoff's office would cook nicely in Strogonoff's office microwave.
As it turned out, Hoppy enjoyed the job so much, he worked overtime.
Eight hours later, a very Happy Hopcott sauntered into his favorite pub, The Brainless Burp, with a pocket full of money and the expectation of a very pleasant evening ahead.
His day in Strogonoff's office had, without any doubt, gone well!
Admittedly the oven ready chips had caught fire in the microwave, but then this sort of modern equipment was prone to failure, even when all precautions were followed, and despite Hoppy carefully wrapping the chips in kitchen foil.
The blogging really hadn't been very difficult. Admittedly, it was more typing than Hoppy was used to, since he hadn't written anything for a long time, but, once he got into the swing of chatting to the ladies, time had flown.
Being paid to chat up women was like work from paradise for Hoppy. He'd even wondered if Strogonoff might find some reason for not paying him, but Stroggy, as Hoppy affectionately called him when he was in good mood, hadn't even noticed the broken microwave.
In fact, Stroggy was in the best mood ever and even admitted to having spent lunchtime with Madame Hopcott, who he reassured Hoppy was also very cheerful and had sent her best wishes for Hoppy's success in his new job and the promise to open up the kitchen again in the evening.
Hoppy reflected that it was probably a good thing he wasn't the suspicious type.
One thing had puzzled Hoppy all day, though. As he lifted the first glass of foaming beer to his lips and eyed the new barmaid, he made a mental note to query a small detail with Strogonoff, if ever he was asked to do the job again.
What exactly was meant by the phrase he'd seen almost everywhere he went that day online before being transferred to chat with the women on the blog sites.
'Click here to Chat to gorgeous women on our premium line service ...'
Whatever it meant, Hoppy reckoned happily, Strogonoff deserved a premium service. He deserved absolutely the best ... And nothing but the best!
The End
Bye for now
Rob Hopcott, Online Humor Author
You may also be interested in Kiss Audition a humorous flash fiction by Rob Hopcott.
Or perhaps you could enjoy Rob Hopcott's other flash fiction stories, many humorous.
Blogging Strogonoff is a light hearted fictional humorous short story joke about blogs and blogging which contains at least one joke and some humor and is copyright Rob Hopcott, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this light hearted fictional humorous short story joke about blogs and blogging are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.
This morning, as I had my shower, I found myself humming "Christ the Lord is born today".
"Oh my God", I thought. "I'm humming a hymn".
"Oh my God, I don't believe in God or religion, why am I saying 'Oh my God'"?
Before I could say "bust my braces!" or something equally strong and manly, I was off with the humming again.
"Fight the good fight with all thy might."
" Aaargh! I can't stop all this religion!"
"Where is it all coming from? It's in my head and I can't get it out. Has somebody crept into my mind overnight and planted these religious words to program me to hum them. Is my mind being controlled by an evil being?"
"Calm yourself, Hoppy," I thought. "It's just another ordinary day. Nothing special. The Sun will rise, even if it is behind the clouds, and then will go down at the end of the day. The world won't end and there might even be people at the tennis club to beat you at mixed doubles again on club night this evening."
So I had my shower, got dressed, went downstairs and fried myself an egg to put on some toast.
By the way, I've never understood why manufacturers can claim frying pans to be nonstick. They always stick for me, especially eggs. I crack open the egg and put the contents of the egg, and usually quite a lot of the shell, into the frying pan then cook it under a low heat and it always sticks to the bottom of the pan. What more can I do? I've used a low heat? Perhaps a stiff letter to the manufacturer would not go amiss!
So I scraped the egg off the bottom of the pan, popped it onto the blackened toast (another letter) and munched my way through my breakfast, contemplating how my mind had got programmed.
Of course, it's all to do with my education. At school, day after day, we had Morning Assembly and had to stand in neat lines to sing these hymns that keep going around in my head - "Stand up, stand up for Jesus!" Oh ... dear, not again!
So I have been brainwashed. I don't believe in God. In fact, I'm an atheist and a humanist. I believe in the world getting on better together through cooperation which is humanism not religion. I believe in one for all and all for one. I believe in truth and seeing things as they really are. I believe in evidence. I believe in careful forensic argument using known facts to draw a conclusion.
I even believe in avoiding cracking God jokes or other one liner religious jokes like 'Beer is proof God loves us and wants us to be happy!' It promotes the fiction by making it acceptable.
I believe I am a good person. When Madame Hopcott screams at me, I don't scream back. When Dacky the dachshund nips my ankle, I don't kick him. On the other hand, if I did, the movable contents of our house would probably be thrown at me and my body would be dented in multiple parts by Madame Hopcott. So my policy of non-retaliation is perhaps simple self-preservation rather than any question of being good.
However, by the time I've made my morning coffee, I'm feeling cross and grumpy with the injustice of this God thing.
What right has the Government to program my mind with all this rubbish?
As far as I can remember, nobody has ever offered me any proof that if I pray a particular thing will happen. It's all very airy fairy. I've been told something, day after day, which I don't believe is true and which nobody I know can prove.
Perhaps I should go to some Government Department and demand for them to prove the existence of God. I doubt if they would listen to me. They'd probably think I was a crank. Me a crank? I'm not the one who's telling people to believe in something I can't prove! All I'm doing is repeating back to them what they've brainwashed me into thinking ... and especially annoyingly humming.
I wonder whether I could sue the Government for misrepresentation?
Or perhaps I could sue God, after all, I never wanted to believe in him in the first place. Oh my God, I can't sue God, God doesn't exist.
Even if God does exist, which is highly doubtful in my mind, where does he live? He would have to have an address for me to send the writ to. If he hasn't an address, then probably he must be a very shady character. The Government requires that almost everything and everybody has to have an address these days, mainly so people can sue the owner of the address for this and that.
It seems that I am stuffed on the issue of this God thing whichever way I turn.
In any case, as Madame Hopcott points out regularly, the earnings from my writing for last year were hardly sufficient to buy a dog biscuit for Dacky so I could only afford about 30 seconds of the lawyer's time which might not be sufficient to take on the Lord of the Universe.
Perhaps I could find a lawyer to go pro bono. 'Where there's blame, there's a claim?' Or maybe the Church would take up my cause and help me sue God for misrepresentation of his existence. Or perhaps it would be a better plan to sue the Church, after all, it is them who are making all the claims.
I feel a lot better now. I have identified somebody who I could hold to account for these wretched tunes that keep going around in my head.
"In Dulce Jubilo, Amanda sucked my toe." Aahrgh, I can't blame that one on the Church and, what's more, I can't even remember which of my childhood friends altered the words that we used to sing in Morning Assembly.
On the other hand, perhaps to go up against the church in any form is a dangerous matter. I've heard of people getting blown up for less. "Fight the good fight with all thy might." And if he won't believe in you, blow him up! These religious people sound even more dangerous than Madame Hopcott.
I switch on the radio and there is a calm voice saying "Let us pray" and the sound of a church organ in the background.
Aaargh, they are getting at me again. I switch the radio off quickly.
Perhaps there is good money to be made out of de-programming people. It sounds like a great business to me. The aim of the business would be to persuade people not to believe in something that doesn't exist. It's a winner. How could the undoubted benefits be disproved?
I wonder if Strogonoff, my publisher, would be willing to give me an advance on a book entitled 'Suing God - how I made millions persuading people not to'?
It's a sure-fire winner ... As long as I don't get blown up first by all the good people.
The End
Bye for now
Rob Hopcott, Online Humor Author
You may also be interested in Kiss Audition a humorous flash fiction by Rob Hopcott.
Or perhaps you could enjoy Rob Hopcott's other flash fiction stories, many humorous.
Suing God is a fictional humorous short story about belief, brainwashing and questions of religion and religious belief which contains at least one joke and some humor and is copyright Rob Hopcott, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this humorous short fiction philosophical short humorous story are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.
Have you ever noticed how interviewers are always looking to blame someone?
A bit like Madame Hopcott, really.
I was being interviewed for a radio program the other day. The interviewer said he was from a small rural country close to France in central Europe where the people were obsessed with my flash fiction stories.
I'm not sure whether that's a recommendation for his country or not.
Or, perhaps they make better sense in translation!
Come to think of it, though, the interviewer did look a bit weird. He had very long hair and dark glasses. There was a long limousine waiting outside and his chauffeur looked rather well built.
Perhaps he'd really come to kidnap Madame Hopcott and hold her for ransom. Pity she was already out - probably looking for her friend Strogonoff. Never mind, maybe I'll have better luck next time!
Unfortunately, I was suffering from a hangover and feeling jaded, otherwise it might have crossed my mind to ask for a fee. Who know? Miracles have happened, especially since I appear to be a fully paid up A list celebrity in his country.
With Madame Hopcott out of the way, the day had started well. I'd wobbled very carefully down the stairs seeking nourishment and even successfully avoided falling over the chewed up squeaky things left by Dacky, Madame Hopcott's feral dachshund.
Dacky clearly sees objects on the stairs as an acceptable alternative to chewing me to death and a viable plan to eliminate me as competition for Madame Hopcott's affection.
Dacky, obviously disappointed, emerged at full speed from under the sofa and consoled himself with a nip to my ankle by way of saying hello.
Boiled egg for breakfast seemed a good idea and I decided to try the new microwave. Unfortunately, it was clearly defective and died in a shower of sparks. It couldn't have been anything I'd done because I'd remembered to wrap the eggs in kitchen foil before putting them in the water!
Perhaps a few articles on microwaving eggs might be a good earner for old Hoppy. I must put it down in the ideas book.
Then the interviewer arrived.
"Meester Hopcott, what are your views on compost?"
I'd made the mistake of claiming some expertise in gardening and had written an article about wiggly worms and the joys of an active composting life.
I resigned myself to bluffing my way through.
"I think worms are a great addition to everybody's garden and having a composter is a good way to encourage them. A composter is good at recycling all the vegetable scraps from the kitchen too and saves money on street collections. Just put your potato peelings, carrot ends and other vegetable offcuts in your garden composter and pretty soon you'll have lots of lovely compost and nice wiggly worms wriggling about inside, waiting to be transferred to do good work in your garden."
"And a good way to make this compost is in a compost bin, Meester Hopcott, that rats may get into and savage any baby who was playing inside?"
"Well I don't think that is very likely," I said.
"But it's not impossible, Meester Hopcott, is it not?"
"Well, I suppose it's possible, but unlikely." I resigned myself, knowing from experience which way the interview was going.
"And, Meester Hopcott, a message on the side of the compost maker might be sufficient to stop parents letting their babies play inside the composter and be at danger from rats."
"Well, I suppose so, but I must stress, it is very unlikely that any parent would let their baby play in the composter."
"But, Meester Hopcott, it is a free world and why shouldn't the babies play in composters, with the nice wiggly worms?"
"Well, I suppose playing with worms is all right for a baby, maybe under supervision by an adult."
"So, Meester Hopcott, you think that on the side of the composter, there should be a message saying all babies playing in the composter should be accompanied by an adult?"
"Well, I suppose, if they're going to play in the composter, an adult should be watching and looking after them."
"So, Meester Hopcott, you think there should be a law to protect these children playing in composters, also maybe there should be a big sign in the garden near the composter saying 'BABIES BEWARE!'."
"Well, I don't know if there should be a law but, obviously, any parent should be looking after their children."
"Are you aware, Meester Hopcott, that in my country, composters are being sold to make wiggly worms and they do not have any notice on the side about not letting babies play unsupervised or signs nearby saying 'BABIES BEWARE'? Do you not think this is a scandalous outrage?"
"Well, I'm not really sure ... Where did you say you came from, again?"
"And are you aware that the President of our Republic has no plans for such a law?"
"Er, no."
"And do you think that our President should resign as a consequence of allowing such wholesale danger to the sweet little babies of our great and glorious Republic."
"Um ... It might mean he's slightly non compost mentis." It was my best compost joke and it was ignored.
"I will write that down as a yes, Meester Hopcott. Thank you."
And then he was gone before I could say anything sensible like "Any chance of an interview fee?"
All I can hope is that the probably hard-working, elected and possibly long suffering President withstands the media blitz that an interview with his nations apparently most popular flash fiction author may have started.
It crossed my mind to question why he bothered to interview me at all. Since it was clear he knew what he wanted which was to find fault and blame the President. He could have interviewed himself and saved the journey from wherever he came from.
Who knows? If the people of wherever, really like my stories and have a revolution, perhaps they will vote me in as the new President!
I can just see me walking proudly along the red carpet in the Palace. Madame Hopcott would be on my arm, giving the crowds the evil eye, with Dacky the Dachshund nipping at my Presidential heels.
One thing is for sure, they'd never have another revolution with Madame Hopcott as Queen Bee.
They'd all be too scared!
The End
Your compost jokes, gardening jokes or other comments are very welcome below :-)
Bye for now
Rob Hopcott, Online Humor Author
You may also be interested in Kiss Audition a humorous flash fiction by Rob Hopcott.
Or perhaps you could enjoy Rob Hopcott's other flash fiction stories, many humorous.
Composting the Media Interview is a fictional humorous short story about composting, compost and media interviews which contains at least one joke and some humor and is copyright Rob Hopcott, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this humorous short fiction media compost short story are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.
It was one of those Saturday mornings when seeing the funny or humorous side of life seemed virtually impossible in the Hopcott household and Hoppy, who had a hangover, yearned to escape to a better life.
Madame Hopcott was bad-tempered, possibly because Hoppy saw the ankle height vacuum cleaner cable stretched across the top of the stairs, as he went downstairs to make the early morning tea, but also because Dacky, her beloved dachshund, didn't and nearly garrotted himself.
Dacky the dachshund expressed his bad temper by snarling viciously, in a sort of strangled way, and attaching himself to Hoppy's trouser leg like a limpet, which, since Hoppy was still wearing his sleeping shorts was quite scary.
Next Hopcott's breakfast cooking skills came under attack.
"Only a demented imbecile could imagine pizza should be cooked in a toaster! We'll have to get a new one and I suppose you won't be paying for it out of your microscopic earnings!"
Madame Hopcott's voice rose to a scream. "You waster!"
So Hopcott was almost pleased when greasy old Strogonoff, his publisher, dropped in and suggested Hoppy could buy a new toaster out of his winnings if he entered Dacky at the South West Dog Beauty and Obedience Show being held locally on that very same day and, maybe, there might even be a story in it for Hoppy with the potential for an advance on royalties.
Hoppy had strong doubts about Dacky's aptitude for obedience but, as Hoppy disappeared down the road in his camper van, he could see Madame Hopcott was looking much happier and Strogonoff had a smug look on his face. This might normally have prompted some questions about his wife's possible infidelity had Hoppy not been distracted by Dacky peeing in the corner of the camper van and then sliding all over the floor in it.
Nevertheless, Hoppy too was feeling happy that he'd escaped from the constant and unreasonable criticisms of Madame Hopcott for a while. True he'd been lumbered with the malignant minded dachshund from hell but he dimly remembered Dacky had a rather fine pedigree and there was actually a real possibility that Dacky might win a prize.
Prizes meant money which translated into a few pints at the local pub or the acquisition of a bottle of whiskey or two before returning home with sad tales of the strong opposition to justify the lack of prize money.
Also, it was a warm and sunny day, the birds were singing and the South West Dog Beauty and Obedience Show was taking place in a field on the outskirts of the local town where there was a strong chance nubile young maidens may be sunbathing and willing to be entertained by the life story of a highly successful international author and dog expert.
The first problem Hoppy had was the admission money to the show, quickly solved with Madame Hopcott's credit card number which Hoppy had conveniently committed to memory.
The second problem was that Dacky took an immediate and passionate interest in the many female doggies that were all around, to the anger of their owners. Since Hoppy had little idea about how to control Dacky's malignant and lothario mind, it took all his powers of concentration to prevent Dacky fathering a new dynasty forthwith.
Dacky also attracted much attention for another reason, he was a very good looking dog and several owners of competition dachshunds immediately made it clear that, however much they were devoted to their own doggie, they thought Dacky had a strong chance of winning.
One husband, wife and dachshund combination drew Hoppy's particular attention because the woman had wonderful curly brown hair, an hour glass figure to kill for and the sweetest of smiles imaginable. When she came over, to check Dacky out, Hoppy was more than pleased.
"Hello," she said, "I'm Patty. That's a lovely looking dachshund you've got there, were you really keen on showing him?" She gave Hoppy a radiant smile that melted his soul.
"Not hugely," admitted Hoppy. "Being here is more an opportunity of getting away from the wife than a liking for dog shows."
"My other half is the keen one too," she sympathized. "I'd much rather be walking on the moors or reading poetry."
All this was music to Hoppy's ears.
"My big problem," said Hoppy, "is that Dacky is rather over excited today with the other dogs," said Hopcott. "It's my fault - I really must get around to cutting the lawn."
Patty smiled. "That's the oldest dachshund joke I've ever heard."
"Look," she said, "this contest is a stepping stone for our dog to get to the Regional Finals, which is really important to my husband. I wouldn't normally jump right in and say this but you look like a nice guy who might understand. Is there any chance you might, well, not enter your very fine dog in the competition. My husband would be willing to compensate you suitably. Probably equal to the prize money which doesn't amount to very much and, unlike him, you wouldn't want to get onto the Regional Finals anyway, would you? It's not like cheating, if you don't enter, is it?"
"And when would I get this compensation?" said Hoppy, slowly, evil minded working overtime.
"If you like, I can give it to you as they close the entrants lists. My husband is the one who usually shows the dog so he will be in the entrants enclosure, lining up with the others."
Patty smiled archly.
"Deal," said Happy Hopcott, giving Patty his best and most understanding grin.
"I'll be with Dacky in my camper van in the car park. I'm sure we'll have lots to talk about, I like walking on the moors too and literature is my greatest passion - after good looking women."
So Happy Hopcott spent a delightful morning in the company of a very charming lady - talking about poetry and literature and other things - while her husband paraded around and eventually won the dog beauty and obedience competition.
Dacky got bored and went off by himself only to come back later looking very tired but fulfilled and extremely self satisfied.
Patty blew Hopcott a kiss as she departed back to her husband, after giving Hoppy her cell phone number, to arrange to meet for literature walks and talks on the moors.
Even Madame Hopcott was looking happier at the end of the day when Hoppy returned in his camper van, with several delicious bottles of whiskey hidden under the back seat, and handed Dacky back to her fond embrace. She didn't even mind her precious Dacky had not won a prize.
Which only goes to show, reflected Hoppy, as he boiled up an egg in the electric kettle to accompany a few glasses from his newly acquired alcohol stash there is nothing better to cure a hangover than a hair of the dog that bit you.
The End
Your dog jokes, dachshund jokes or other comments are welcomed below :-)
Bye for now
Rob Hopcott, Online Humor Author
You may also be interested in A Day Out at the Hyper Mall, another humorous short story by Rob Hopcott.
Or perhaps you could enjoy Rob Hopcott's flash fiction stories, many humorous
Dachshunds and Dog Shows is a fictional humorous short story about dachshunds and dog shows containing jokes, humor and a spot of romance and is copyright Rob Hopcott, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this humorous short fiction wiener dog story are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.
Happy Hopcott had two reasons for wanting to pack his clothes and tennis rackets and depart for a tennis holiday in a tropical paradise. The first was fear and the second was opportunity.
Fear because Madame Hopcott was moaning even more than usual about his lack of earning ability and his need to get a proper job.
"Ever thought of emigrating to an economy you can afford, Rob? They say in Afghanistan, you can live on a dollar a day!" she quipped, as she worked to extract Hopcott's blackened bacon out of the toast-maker.
"Far too safe over there, darling. I'd miss the adrenaline surge from your daily humorous threats of death!" said Hopcott, then ducked as the wet dishcloth sailed through the air.
Unfortunately Diamond, Madame Hopcott's black dachshund, was not so quick and yelped as it caught him squarely in his hind quarters.
Seeing the way the wind was blowing, Hopcott almost exited the kitchen fast enough to avoid Diamond's revenge on his ankle - but not quite.
The second reason came under the heading of opportunity because his publisher suddenly offered him free accommodation in his newly purchased holiday home for a week.
"I need to be surprised," said Hoppy's publisher, "why don't you shock me with something potentially useful - like a tennis story line. Something that would sell into the tennis club fraternity and become a blockbuster. You never know, there could be a small advance in it for you, which would enable you to pay back the lifetime of free drinks you owe me. Don't worry, I'll get somebody else to write it and you won't have to lift a finger after the initial idea. How good am I to you, Hoppy? Say thankyou."
Happy Hopcott said "Thank you."
Happy had often wondered why his publisher, who incidentally was called Strogonoff, was so unreasonably nice to him. He'd appeared one day, commented on one of Hoppy's short story blogs and then provided a constant flow of benefits which Hoppy was pleased to accept.
Occasionally it crossed Hoppy's mind that Strogonoff often seemed to turn up unannounced at his home and was chatting to Madame Hopcott on many occasions when Hoppy returned in his authors camper-van after a hard day's walking on the moors seeking inspiration.
Coincidentally, too, Strogonoff's suggestions for writing opportunities often took Hoppy to remote places far away from Madame Hopcott, often for several days. That, combined with the fact that, Madame Hopcott always seem to be in a most agreeable mood on Hopcott's return, suggested to Hoppy's feverish author's mind that all might not be as it seemed.
However, a week on holiday free from being slapped around the face with a wet dish cloth or being unjustly criticized as a "useless waster", together with the opportunity of relaxing and playing tennis in a tropical paradise, pushed such thoughts from Hoppy's mind.
So, with a smile on his face and a skip in his gait, Happy Hopcott that very same day with a £10 one-way air ticket bought at the last minute, sped across the open waves to one of his favorite tropical paradises, and by six o'clock in the evening was searching his hosts fridge for alcoholic beverages or alternative sustenance.
Disappointed but undeterred, Hopcott quickly discovered there was a bar offering food besides the apartment's swimming pool. So Hoppy settled himself down into one of the comfortable leather padded chairs and chomped his way through a pizza, sluiced down most satisfactorily with a bottle of cold beer, whilst checking out the play on the nearby tennis court.
Before long, he found himself admiring the tennis shots of a particularly unpleasant and arrogant but, nevertheless, annoyingly proficient American player.
Now Hoppy didn't usually enjoyed watching men, whether they play tennis or not, but this man had a particularly attractive wife who was rather gloomily lying on a lounger nearby watching her husband humiliating her son. The boy, probably not yet a teenager, was doing his best but just wasn't a strong enough player to withstand the top spin lobs, the backspin slices and the power serves of his unyielding Dad.
"Ever thought that, to a tennis player - love means nothing?" said Hopcott. It was an old tennis joke but it suited the moment.
"Game, set and mis-match," she agreed, sadly. Her voice was low, sultry and perfectly matched to her dark Greek looks.
Her contempt for the way her son was being treated by her husband was obvious. Hoppy smiled his sympathy and was amply repaid with a gorgeous smile of gratitude and complicity.
It was a smile that gave Hoppy a nice warm feeling throughout the evening and probably even brightened his dreams that night.
The next day, Happy Hopcott signed up for the weekly tennis tournament and was soon working his way through the tournament listings. Tennis had always been one of Hopcott's favorite sports and a source of much time-wasting and anguish to Madame Hopcott, to whom it seemed of little purpose.
To Happy, it was an art. He loved the spin of the ball and its sound against his racket. He enjoyed the mental game of gazing into the opposition's psychology and the satisfaction of making small adjustments to his play that would unbalance the opposition and ease Hopcott into a winning position.
A week later and Hoppy had successfully advanced to the Resort Tennis All-comers Final and was on the Club's Centre Court facing up to no other than Harry Hammer-Peers who, as it turned out, was the man he had seen earlier in the week humiliating his son at the apartment complex. His wife was again sitting by the pool nearby with her son and Hoppy's pulse quickened, as she briefly dispatched him a cosmically radiant smile.
Sadly, for Hoppy, the match didn't go well. In fact, after two games, Hoppy was wondering if his sight needed testing, after four games, he was convinced that the referee needed his eyes testing too, and, well into the second set, after losing the first, the line judges had joined the growing list of people never likely to make it onto Hopcott's Christmas list.
In between games, as they exchanged ends, Harry Hammer-Peers smirked and smiled at his wife and told his son that he should 'look on and learn good'. Strangely, he also seemed to be very chatty with the referee and several of the line judges.
Happy Hopcott had no trouble getting into Harry's mind. He wore it on his sleeve and it wasn't particularly pleasant. However Happy Hopcott, in the face of line decisions that seemed to be from another planet and an indifferent gaggle of spectators who chatted amongst themselves, clapping politely occasionally, but otherwise hardly noticed the match, was heading for defeat without any possibility of appeal or second opinion.
Soon it was all over. They shook hands as a matter of formality, not through any semblance of friendship. It marked the end of hostilities but didn't take the sting away from defeat in what Hopcott now realised was probably a completely unfair and rigged combat.
Out of politeness, Hoppy joined Harry, his gorgeous wife and his son by the pool. It was an invitation Hoppy would have refused if it hadn't have been for the opportunity it presented of saying hello to Harry's wife, who turned out to be called Gwendoline.
Then, finally escaping from Harry's gloating, Hoppy headed for the Club showers while the victorious Harry drove off with his son to try out the swimming pool in a local real estate park he was thinking of buying.
In the clubhouse shower, Unhappy Hopcott allowed the water to stream across his face and down his body. The soothing water slowly relaxed and massaged his sense of injustice. After all, it was only a game and Hoppy had played many really great shots. He knew, after the shower and after a period of reflection, together with a large pizza and a few strong drinks, his humiliation would soon fade into a distant memory and there were still the pleasures of all the resort's bars and clubs waiting for him.
When Gwendoline suddenly peeked around the shower curtain, smiling rather mischievously, it was something of a shock.
When she offered to share a secret with Hoppy and then confessed that her husband habitually rigged tennis matches because he hated to lose and had enough money to get whatever he wanted, Hoppy was only surprised that she was willing to admit it.
When she slid into the shower besides Hoppy and asked if he believed in getting mad or getting even, Hoppy's heart skipped more than a single beat.
And when Gwendoline explained she was staying for a second week but her husband and son weren't, Hoppy knew he was in for a week of serving aces that would only have one outcome - game, set and match.
As a bonus, just before Hoppy's mind was overtaken by the scent and sensations of his more than willing and sensuous consolation prize, Hoppy the author knew he would have a really great romantic tennis story to offer his publisher when he got back.
The End
Bye for now
Rob Hopcott, Online Humor Author
You may also be interested in Shops and Retail Therapy another humorous short story by Rob Hopcott.
Impromptu Tennis Holiday is a short fiction humorous short story containing jokes, humor and romance and is copyright Rob Hopcott, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this humorous short fiction tennis story are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.
There was a smell of burning toast and Madame Hopcott was moaning about money again.
"What's the problem?" said Happy Hopcott, sympathetically, as he unjammed the scone from the blackened toaster.
"You're not earning any money!" snarled Madame Hopcott. "The last check from your web sites was so small it wasn't worth cashing. I've got a full-time job while you're loafing about all day doing I don't know what .
Hopcott put on his best sympathetic expression full of understanding. He knew the difficulties of balancing the books when married to a creative type whose income went up and down as certainly as night follows day.
"You could work weekends," he said hopefully.
It was a constructive suggestion and Hopcott reflected later that Madame Hopcott really had no reason at all to slap him around his face with the wet dishcloth quite so hard.
So Happy Hopcott decided to take up fishing. If he couldn't earn much cash these days, perhaps he could be a 21st century warrior and catch some food off the nearby pier!
How difficult could it be?
So, the very next day, Hopcott sauntered down to his local fishing tackle shop, determined to look like a proper fisherman.
Now Hopcott was very keen to develop his range of saunters and had spent a lot of time on them. He would walk up and down in his office for hours listening to popular classics and trying out different types of expressive walk.
He was sure there was a walk somewhere that would make him look the super efficient, successful, Internet entrepreneur that he really was (if you ignored the small size of his pay checks).
The green wellies looked the part too with jeans worn outside. They hadn't fitted too well, so Hopcott had cut the jeans up the side which meant they flapped like sails in the wind - but they looked cool - even if the jeans were almost new.
Hopcott also had this really snazzy hat, a cross between a TV western sombrero and an Aussi backpacker hat with corks around, but without the corks.
So, with his best fishing experts gait, Hopcott sauntered cheerfully up to the sales counter breathing in deeply the intriguing fusty bait laden fishing shop smells as if he was an old hand.
There was an old wizened man wearing a trilby with funny little feathers and hooks around the brim. He didn't look at all like a proper fisherman and for a moment Hopcott contemplated giving him some style advice.
"How can I help you," Wizened Man said, before Hopcott got around to framing his tactful fashion suggestion.
Hopcott pretended to look at the array of fishing rods and other tackle that was stacked everywhere whilst, at the same time, doing a bit more sauntering.
"Just thought I'd pop in and check out some new equipment," Hopcott said, jauntily.
"What sort of fishing do you do," Wizened Man said.
Hopcott looked at him incredulously, as if he was a worm waiting to be threaded onto a hook. Incredulous expressions were an area Hopcott had been developing acidulously. They worked particularly well when he wasn't sure what the answer should be to a rather complicated question.
Wizened man tried to be more helpful.
"We have some excellent new deep sea fishing rods in stock."
Hopcott instantly went into dream mode.
He was on a high powered boat in the Mediterranean. In his flared nostrils was the salty smell of the sea. The powerful and macho motor boat had a rod attached to each side as it swept through the waves.
Wearing the captain's hat, Happy Hopcott strolled nautically backwards and forwards across the deck to the admiration of his slim, young and admiring female entourage.
It was a good image that presented only one problem. Hopcott didn't have the fast motor boat on account of having recently received only very small pay checks from his web sites that weren't worth cashing.
So Hopcott used his pensive expression and sauntered backwards and forwards a little bit more, as if he was thinking about the proposition.
Wizened Man waited patiently.
"Perhaps not today," Hopcott said, eventually.
"I was thinking about something more on the lines of fishing off the end of the local pier. The sound of the water splashing against the rocks is so relaxing and my wife has been complaining that I haven't been spending enough time at home recently. So I think the deep sea fishing is out for the time being."
Madame Hopcott had actually screamed at the top of her voice:
"Why don't you go out and get a job you waster."
But Happy Hopcott was used to literary license as an author.
"If you fancied some river fishing, we've got a very nice fly fishing rod in today," continued Wizened Man. "It's the same type as the one used by the winner of the National Fly Fishing Championships?"
Hopcott sauntered backwards and forwards a bit more, still with his thoughtful face on.
"No, I don't think I want to have to go far enough away to justify flying," he said, thoughtfully. "Haven't you got something that might be appropriate for off the pier, perhaps with a nice colorful float?"
"Ah, you will be wanting one of these," Wizened Man said, understandingly, reaching into a rack that looked suspiciously as if it was catering for children. However Hopcott had to admit that the shrimping nets looked rather useful and they had a nice colorful patterning up their handles.
The rod Wizened Man pulled out was about two metres long with a rather fetching red cord attached to the end. It was ideal. It had no messy reel to get tangled up and it would easily fit into the back of the Hopcottmobile and, being such a short rod, it wouldn't need dismantling after use, ideal.
But Hopcott didn't want to look eager so sauntered backwards and forwards waving the rod about quite expertly with a special 'considering it' expression on his face.
The Wizened man waited patiently.
"And have you got any fine bait to go with that rod," Hopcott beamed knowledgeably, in a way that suggested he was always willing to try some innovative new bait in order to achieve ever higher fish capture rates.
"Bacon rind?" Wizened Man suggested.
"Or pork scratchings work very well. You can get them in your local pub. Just tie a bit of the pork scratching to the end of a line and drop it in the water. Your arms will get tired hauling them in you'll be so successful."
So Happy Hopcott sauntered out of the fishing tackle shop with his new rod and line and made straight for the local pub with its noisy juke box for the pork scratchings.
To be fair to the landlord, Happy Hopcott felt he had to buy one or two pints to justify his presence in the pub. One can't exactly walk into a pub and just order pork scratchings, he reflected. It just wasn't done.
Three hours later, an even Happier Hopcott lurched merrily down to the local pier with his new fishing rod, his pork scratchings and a borrowed plastic bag to put his catchings in.
Hopcott resisted the temptation to lie in the sun and fall asleep listening to the splashing water against the rocks and the scream of the Herring Gulls, just.
Deftly, the pork scratchings were attached to the line and, true to the fishing equipment retailer's promise, Happy Hopcott immediately started hauling them in.
Later, to say that Madame Hopcott was pleased would be an exaggeration.
She was fuming.
Happy Hopcott, always sensitive to the female mood, could tell Madame Hopcott wasn't pleased.
Of course, it was a bit of a give away when she kept hitting him with the heavy, wet and slimy plastic bag containing his catch.
Disconsolately, Hopcott returned to his office to recount the day's events into his laptop. The ways of women would always be a puzzle.
However, he brightened, perhaps his thoughts on women would be of interest to a ladies magazine. He immediately resolved to look into writing something girly perhaps entitled 'Women from an Inner Perspective' - an ideal read for the executive woman during the long Summer break.
Why Madame Hopcott had not gone all gooey eyed over his catch was beyond Hopcott. After all, she had always seemed very appreciative of the fish menus in restaurants they had visited.
The fact was that Hopcott the Hunter had successfully come home with food, and he felt somewhat aggrieved that his efforts hadn't been recognized.
After all, he'd spent hours strenuously roaming the pier all afternoon - and even fitted in some jaunty fisherman's walking in the late evening sun.
The local Herring Gulls had shown more appreciation and had been very happy to come down into the garden and gorge themselves noisily on the contents of Hopcott's plastic bag.
Which, in Hopcott's opinion, proved beyond doubt that the crabs were really very tasty after all.
The End
Bye for now
Rob Hopcott, Online Humor Author
You may also be interested in Lost souls and tickled trout, another fishing story by Rob Hopcott.
Fishing for fish is an online humorous stand up comedy flash fiction short story copyright Rob Hopcott, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this humor short flash fiction story are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.
