Dear Brenda,

Please accept this my resignation. I have thought
long and hard about everything and burnt the
midnight oil well into the night. What did Bernard
say? 'I've burnt the candle at both ends and still have
the wax on me boots to prove it'.
Who could forget his dynamic pragmatic wit? Even
when the butt of the joke was on me I still smiled
I often sit playing the spoons and reliving those
moments. Like the time he said 'You can tell that
Mr O'Reilly got out of the bed on the wrong side
this morning-he's wearing Mrs Fenton's shoes'
But sometimes in life you meet a man that makes
you see what has always been apparent. A man
that makes you confront the demons within. A
man that makes you look in the mirror and see
what became of the little Irish boy who wanted to
be a Priest or work with sick animals. A man that
can act as the catylist to Christianity.
Bernard Wilson was such a man. If only I hadn't
been so obstinate and just said 'sultana and custard'
But no man is rich enough to buy back his past'
as Oscar Wilde said.
No Brenda I am leaving. I will make my way as an
itinerant washboard and spoon player (selling lucky
heather as a side line). Just me, the runt and the
open road).
Wherever there is an anguished cry of a down
trodden waif, wherever there is the wail of a beaten
child, wherever there is the thin hollow laughter of
a man grown fat on the fraility of others, wherever
a snowflake lands on a teardrop unfallen, I will be
there. And I will be there with the spoons that
George Formby once ate jelly off. And in the name
of Bernard Wilson I will beat spit the tune of the
oppressed. Though it be done through broken
teeth, rotting gums and calloused lips, it will be
done.


PEACE AND LOVE
EAMMON O'REILLY
(EX HOUSING OFFICER)

P.S. Give my 'Hull Kingston Rovers' cup to Fat
Janice on reception. She's always had her eye
on it and there's no tea to be drunk where i'm
going.

DEAR LACKEYS OF THE CAPITALIST RUNNING DOGS,

HOPE YOU ARE WELL. WE THE UNPOPULAR PEOPLES
FRONT FOR THE LIBERATION OF MONSALL (BUT FUCK
HARPURHEY WHAT THEY EVER DONE FOR US?) SEND
OUR COMMISERATIONS AND CONDOLENCES UPON
THE SAD NEWS OF THE DEATH OF CLASS WARRIOR
AND MAN OF THE PEOPLE BERNARD WILSON.
ME AND THE LADS WERE ALL SAT AROUND OUR
SECRET HIDEOUT (IN A CABIN AT THE BACK OF THE
ASHES CLUB IN MOSTON) LAST NIGHT AND WE ALL
AGREED THAT BERNARD WAS OUR FAVOURITE
KIDNAP (THE WORST WAS THAT AGRAPHOBIAC
FROM HEMDEN VALE. MORE TROUBLE THAN HE WAS
WORTH THAT ONE. LIKE TRYING TO GET A WINKEL OUT
OF HIS SHELL TRYING TO GET HIM OUT OF THAT TRAVEL
TRUNK. HE JUST DIDN'T WANT TO GO HOME. HE
ESCAPED AND CAME BACK THREE TIMES TO MY
KNOWLEDGE).
BUT BERNARD WHAT A GENTLEMAN!!!
WITH MOST KIDNAPPEES YOU HAVE DIFFICULTY IN
MAKING THEM TALK BUT WITH BERNARD WE HAD
DIFFICULTY TRYING TO STOP HIM.
I REMEMBER SAYING
'BERNARD WHAT IS YOUR GRANDMOTHERS
ADDRESS?'
'WILD HORSES WOULDN'T MAKE ME REVEAL THAT'
HE REPLIED.
BUT BEFORE I'D FINISHED SAYING 'TOMMO PUT
THE ELECTRODES ON HIS TESTICLES' HE'D SAID
'14 CLEGHEATON STREET. BACK OF THE BELL
CRESCENT NURSING HOME. SHE'S A SMALL
WOMAN. LIGHT OF FEET AND FINGERS. SHE CAN
BE FOUND MOST AFTERNOONS IN THE GALA
BINGO HALL....CAN I GO NOW?
YES A CARD INDEED!!!!

OUR FUNERAL DEMANDS ARE THREE IN NUMBER
1) 'I WILL NEVER PASS THIS WAY AGAIN' BY
SLIM WHITMAN AS BERNARD'S FUNERAL SONG

2)A FREE BAR AND BUFFET IN THE QUEEN ANNE

3)THE ABOLITION OF BRUSELL SPROUTS

THE RIVERS WILL RUN RED
WITH YOUR BLOOD
US

P.S.....CRY BERNARD FOR BESWICK AND LET
SLIP THE WHIPPETS OF WAR

Dear People,

I write to denounce the false prophet that was
the late Bernard Wilson. He who perished in a
Dublib B&B (£15 a night, £17 with an inside
toilet) fire. I have evidence that he was
embezzling the Beswick branch of the Burning
Branch church out of the meat pie money and
was serving spam on a best ham night to the
pensioners.
There is also the matter of him breaking his
oath of silence whilst a member of the Silent
Brothers of Beswick darts team. I mean we
don't mind the odd word. It was perfectly
reasonable when Odu Mwangabwingi cursed
our lord cos the Columbian all-night-netball
powder deal went down. But to spend £798
on chat lines is just not on.
I know you mealy mouthed liberal bleeding
hearts at the Housing are planning a memorial
of some kind.
I've heard it mooted a statue placed inbetween
Housing and Grey Mare Lane Police Station.
With Bernard giving his famous four fingered
salute in either direction.
But we the God fearing residents of Beswick
will fight.
It's not too late to arm the Neighbourhood
Watch!!!
Let's reclaim the parks and off-licenses. One
drive by shooting of some short skirted
lambrinied up cake faced bimbo should serve
as a shot across the bows.
Beswick is a seething cauldron of unrest, we
are in the white heat of hatred. There is hate
in the hood and blood in the air and despair
in the minute

WRAP UP WARM
ELSIE CARR (Widow but still looking)

P.S. I've poisoned the cheap peaches in
Netto, as we speak half of Hemden Vale
are in a catatonic trance

Dear Housing,

who will hold me oh so tight?
in the darkest, darkest night?
who will be my candle light?
and guide me through every fight?
now that daddy's gone

who will wipe away my tears?
tell me stories, kill my fears?
watch with love through the years
who will be my eyes and ears?
now that daddy's gone

who will put me down to bed?
and pat my worried little head
who will listen to what i've said?
and not love someone else instead?
now that daddy's gone

YOURS SINCERLY
EVERTON WILSON (AGED 9)

Dear Yous,

Who will be after paying? Is what
i'll be after wanting to know?
Four nights yer man and his whore's
melt had at my boarding house (£15
a night. £17 inside toilet, No Tinkers)
And him with his pack of dogeens
wailing like Banshees half the night
(Jasus, Mary and Joseph' I said to
himself 'would you but listen to it?'
And didn't yer man tell me he was an
English 'lucky heather' salesman?

An Phoblact Abu
Katleen MacDermaid

P.S. you'll be hearing from Big Pat
so you will.

BERNARD WILSON THE AFTERMATH......

this is a series of about six letters......thanks for bearing with me

Dear All,

It is with great sadness and unabiding sorrow that I must
tell you of the demise of my husband the late great Bernard
Pandit Wilson. Who was tragically burnt to death in a Dublin
flop house (£15 a night, £17 inside toilet) fire.
Burned so badly that only his grieving mother could recognise
him (who could forget the harrowing moment that she stared
at his charred remains and said 'yep that's the little Asian get'
Why? oh why? oh why O'reilly?
The tragedy of it all, a fallen jostick catching the hem of his
kafkhan. The finest man i ever met snatched from me like a
pregnant woman's handbag on Conran Street market.
Oh why? (keep an eye on Mr O'Reilly....you know what them
Paddies are like)
What have i got to remember him by? Apart from eleven
whippets, seven children, five pups, one runt and a guitar with
'I'll get even with you Bert Weedon' scratched on it.
Do you know what it's like? The lonely bitter nights that I
stare at an empty chair that was once filled with laughter. The
bare swinging lightbulb casting shadows over objects that he
once held and cherished. An array of empty bottles lying empty
and finished in the corner. But they can't mask my hurt or avert
my agony. The memories of nights and double giro's ringing
in my ears. Taunting me, taunting me, taunting me.
How do I carry on when a mere tot says 'Where's Daddy?'
And I have to look little Everton in the face and say 'With Jesus'
The loneliness of holding a pillow and pretending it's him. Of
talking to a picture on the wall. Of reliving favourite moments
over and over and over again. Of a searing pain that knows of
no respite and torments and tortures your soul. That eats away
at the very fabric of your existence. Till you've forgot how to
wash, how to clean, how to laugh talk and think. Till you can't
walk to the shops or feed yourself and you're left face turned
to the wall crying.
Then you look at the tablets. Yes those tablets. His tablets. And
you count them like a kid counting smarties. And you look out
at the dark uncompromising night. The night that knows no end.
Knows no relief. Knows no sanctuary.
And it's then. Yes! Yes! Yes! It's then that you know you must
do what you must do.
But hey enough about me.....how's everybody there?

LOVE AND PEACE
DENISE WILSON (NEE TREMBLER)

Dear Mrs Fenton (or dare I say Brenda),

I'm not going to beat about the bush (actually i prefer
smoking it). I've got to put my true feelings on the
table. It's not been an easy week, last Sunday I
dropped me ganja tin in the buscuit barrell (face down)
and i've spent the last three days smoking ginger snaps.
I nearly O'D'd on a jammy dodger.
Picture with me, if you will, my prostrate body lying by
the cat flap. My head in the dogs bowl trying vainly to
either drink it or drown in it.
I went down for the third time and my whole life
flashed before my eyes and i decided you were the for
me. I know i've done more ballooning
than Richard Branson but that's all behind me now.
Give me one last chance!!!
I remember the first time we gazed across a housing
desk at each other, there was a complete fusion of
souls, linking of hearts and meeting of minds.
The sort of moment that great poets write poems about,
great artists paint about and great muscians play the
ukelele about. I never did write back and thank you for
cleaning my gutters. But since then i've known it could
only ever be you for me. On the windscreen of the car
that is my heart, on each side of the fluffy dice it reads
'BERNARD and MRS FENTON'.
Make a man of me. I will run through your hair barefoot
(Tuesday is best that is bath night).
I know I am married to Denise but it is a sham and a
lie. We've had words (when i could get one in edgeways)
I wear the trousers in our marriage (well apart from a
bit of cross dressing) and Denny has agreed to a Druids
divorce, which is slightly different from a Church of
England divorce (I have to amputate my left gonad with
a blunt butchers knife, take it to Stonehenge, and grill it
in virgins blood on soltice eve, before eating it.....a bit like
a bush tucker trial).
But it's all worthwhile for you.
It will be tough at first, just you and me (and the eleven
whippets, seven kids, five pups and a runt) but as soon
as i've finished my MANCAT course in Aggresive Begging
then the Earth is ours.
Brenda let me take you into my garden and show YOU to
my roses (as Brinsley Sheridan once so beautifully said).

LOVE AND PEACE
BERNARD WILSON

P.S. My heart is forever the prisoner of Brenda