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Twitter Stories Archie Stories Bits of writing |
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| Over the past few months I have been
writing little stories & other thoughts on Twitter.
Here are some. They are improvised, unedited, full of typos, and arranged in their tweets which have a maximum of 140 characters. Warts & all. The Man On The Corner If I Owned A Shop In The Forest The Storyteller The Devil Sherrif Human Cow Caught Out Shem Lacey An Evening In The Onset Of Winter A Dog Loose My Universe A Cold Morning The Choir Psychometric Emile Didlittle A Little Magic In The Barn One Tweet Stories A Twist Of Air Simple Spells for lovers Shopping Tips Oh Savannah! Insulation The Eel The Joke Echoes The Humming Man The Saw Horse Awful Gateway Cycles Beautiful Me Homecomers Audition I Had No Idea I Was Jesus The Correction Animal Projections Inner Workings A True Story Observations From A Train On A Bus A Pool Of Light I Have Left The Bellows Boy |
The Man On The Corner I popped down to the corner shop earlier to get some milk and to treat myself to a bag of Frazzles, when who should I bump into at the … crossroads but the Devil himself! Anyway, we got chatting and he tried to convince me to sell him my soul, in return for becoming the best at twitter. I said, Ah - now there we have a bit of a problem, you see, because I don't really believe in you. Oh, he said, so you think it's ok to have a God, but the Devil is just a lot of baloney? No, I said, I don't believe in either of you. Bollocks! he cried, you must believe in something. Well, I replied, I do sort of wonder sometimes if there isn't some sort of… I dunno… …maybe some sort of force, an entity, call it what you will. But I'm not sure. Don't you want to be the best at twitter? he continued, come on! All you have to say is I give you my soul and the deal is done! What harm can it do… especially if you don't believe in me? Ok. Fair point, I conceded. I give you my soul. We were suddenly distracted by a loud bang just behind us, I turned quickly, there was a sudden pungent whiff of sulphur. When I turned back the Devil - the so-called Devil - had gone. Of course I rushed home and fired up my tweetdeck and began feverishly typing these words. Part of me wondered, could he be real? Could I have been wrong all along. I pause, here, to look back over what I have just written. The tricksy bastard! I wonder who the hell it was, then, as it most certainly wasn't the Devil? [back to top] If I Owned A Shop If I owned a shop, display would be very important to me as part of my package of selling things expertise and know how. I would ensure that all products, be they tractors and/or herbs, for example, were beautifully and tidily displayed in their packaging. Everything would be organised in neat rows, all aligned on the shelves, with colours arranged in complementary sweeps. If I had a shop it would be quite annoying for me every time somebody purchased an item thus ruining the pattern, so I would have to build an extensive underground stock-holding chamber, with each shelf serviced by a complex computer-facilitated system of pneumatic tubes and conveyor belts so that as each time an item was sold it would be replaced quickly and neatly with another similar item. This would of course be superb. The only downside of this, if I owned a shop, would be the naughty children - or even adults who should know better - who would delight in deliberately moving the items on sale from one area to another, mixing up the patterns and misaligning all the carefully displayed product, be they tarpaulins, ropes, duct tape, bone-saws, ether, etc. or car accessories it doesn't really matter. Keep to the point, Moose. The thing that would be the problem is the bad children messing me about. So I would have to install either a) a human or b) a computer-facilitated system of look-out towers within the shop to prevent (if possible) or at least identify sites of wrong-doing. I would have a security hide, possibly in a separate building, but nearby anyway… I don't know if its location is relevant. Anyway, I would have the usual banks of monitors so that I could ensure all my instructions were being carried out according to my will and a small private police force to see to it that the software and hardware engineers and/or security personnel weren't in the pay of my nemesis, that I would inevitably have attracted by now who would probably own a very messy shop nearby. The more I think about it, the less I feel attracted to the idea of opening this shop. I already feel quite agitated by the prospect. I have a new-found respect for shop-keepers and all the things they have to deal with. Keep up the good work lads - and lasses! I wouldn't be surprised if some of them were lasses. [back to top] In The Forest I met an old woman in a forest and helped her home with her bundle of sticks. As a reward she offered me three wishes. I asked for a state of the art fax machine, a video cassette recorder and a palm pilot. They have just arrived. Remember: always ask for the upgrades. Also (there is another moral) if you do help an old lady, make sure that she has an effective quality management system in place. You have to remember that there were years of extensive tests before it was finally established that it's no use crying over spilt milk. Also (this bit has no moral) I noticed the old lady, in her cottage in the middle of the forest, was using a Ewbank rather than a hoover. She showed me photographs of her grandchildren. Bob was a 'systems architect', whatever that is. And her granddaughter was eaten by a wolf. Despite the fact that I have wandered through that forest many times since, gathering mushrooms or berries, I have never found that cottage. I would have wondered if it wasn't all a dream if it wasn't for the video cassette recorder, the fax machine and the palm pilot. I do remember her dog, Bunty, though. Sometimes I think I hear her snuffling round my toes. The old lady had a very strong woodlands accent. Sort of whispery, like leaves, and creaky like a bough. And her words seem to fall on moss. She talked of how her son had learned to tickle trout in the stream. If you stroked their bellies you could flip them out of the water. For a while they feasted on trout each night, but the time came when he enjoyed their laughter and regretted their untimely deaths. So he took to telling them jokes. But his fingers were funnier than his words, and soon they drifted away down stream. She didn't have a photograph of her son, Harold. But she said he looked like a cross between Derek Nimmo and Larry Grayson. So she had fashioned a flick book from scores of their portraits, interleaved. As I riffled the pages I believe I saw her Harold. And I believe she did too, for a tear crept out of her eye, stole down her cheek, and hid itself amongst the soft scrub of her beard. [back to top] The Storyteller Every night I would lie in my bed with the soft touch of Mother's kiss still warm on my forehead. I would wait, with eyes closed, for the crump of the front door closing, the murmur of voices and the soft tread on the stair. I would hear the door's familiar creak and the shift in the air, the delicate familiar smell, the chair's muffled protest. The Storyteller was here. I never saw his face, but his words would lift me and carry me off to the places he had been, the worlds he had flown through, the strange creatures he had encountered along the way. Finally the soft lilt of his voice would bear me in its arms to my own land of dreams. I never saw his face, but I knew his voice so well and it would stay with me through the day until he came to my room each evening. Then there came a day when I heard the front door close. Immediately the air jarred, voices raised, furniture scraped. Then silence. No footfall. No door groan and chair moan. No Storyteller. Where was he? My thoughts tumbled until finally I slept. In the morning there was a man at our breakfast table. An unfamiliar face. He stroked my hair. But he never said a word, just drank his tea in silence. My mother hugged him, then we left for school. When we came home that afternoon he was sat in the parlour. That same sad face of resignation, not a word passed his lips. That night I lay in bed after my mother had kissed me. I thought of the Storyteller and imagined where he might be. My thoughts set off on their long journey, every night from now on, searching for the Storyteller. I came to love the sad man in the morning and the afternoon. But I missed the Storyteller. Sometimes I wonder if I glimpse him from afar. I try to conjure him with my own words as I sit by your bed and carry you off to your dreams. Sleep well. [back to top] The Devil I once saw a devil. I was staggering back from the pub drunk one night down a dark country lane. Luckily I had a torch with me or I wouldn't have been able to see anything. I caught the shape of something moving in the beam, at first I thought it was a fox, but I could see it was moving upright, coming towards me fast. I could see its eyes glowing like coals and I could hear an unearthly cackling. Suddenly it was on me, biting into my knee, claws digging into my leg. I bludgeoned it with my torch, hitting it again and again until it lay still at my feet. I played the torchlight over it. A tiny, bright red little man. I kicked it into the ditch at the side of the road. A few minutes later I felt sick and vomited by the side of the road. The next day I came back and located the spot. I could barely bring myself to look, but in the ditch was a dead fox. What would you have done in my situation? And that question to number… 3 please Cilla. [back to top] Sherrif The sherrif entered the town on a variety of transport modes before finally deciding on the horse. The townsfolk greeted the sherrif in a range of manners before deciding on close-mouthed, fearful contemptuous suspicion. So there was a day when the sherrif arrived on a pogo stick to an envious reception. And another when the sherrif arrived by bus to be greeted by widespread ennui. He arrived in a clown car to the keening cries of a populace mourning their lost childhoods. His most enjoyable arrival was by sedan chair to find a town made merry with prankish whimsy. The day he arrived on a tiny tricycle to a palpable air of indifference would niggle long after. [back to top] Caught Out I took a shower this morning and realised I didn't have any clean pants. So I threw a towel around me and dashed into the garden to get a pair from the washing line. As luck would have it the postman chose that moment to arrive in his van. He pulled up in the driveway and I ducked down in behind a bush. Luckily he hadn't seen me. I was starting to feel the cold a little, but he'd be off in a minute. He had a parcel for me and I saw him push the bell. He looked up at the house. He could see the door was open so he knew someone was around. He left the parcel by the door and came back to the van and reached inside. A calling card, I expected. But no, goddamit, he pulled out a flask and a pack of sandwiches. I was starting to get seriously cold now, but I thought I'd brazen it out. I lowered myself quietly to the ground - he was only about 15 feet away - and started to cover myself with dead leaves. He checked his watch a couple of times, but kept on eating his lunch. This was disastrous. I was starting to shake and suddenly I sneezed. He looked up sharply. He peered over to where I was lying behind the bush. He took a couple of steps; I had to put him off. "Meow!" I mewed. I was quite pleased with it. Despite the cold I made quite a convincing cat. "Meow!" I mewed again. "Here kitty! Kitty!" said the postman. Oh shit. He was coming closer. There I was lying under a towel on the cold ground, covered in leaves. Mewing like a cat. That's how he found me. With a pair of fresh pants on my head. "Ah - there you are! I saw the door was open… got a parcel you need to sign for". I looked at him. "Meow" I said, nodding. As we walked back to the house I licked my hand and started cleaning behind my ear. "You've missed a bit" he said. After I'd signed for the parcel I wriggled between his legs a couple of times, purring. Then I went inside and shut the door. So, all I'm saying is, make sure this sort of thing doesn't happen to you. [back to top] Human Cow This is Chris, said Graham, Chris this is Moose. Chris took my hand and shook it. He slid his fingers up until they were holding my wrist bones. He shook my hand - Let it go limp, he said. I let the fingers droop. Graham produced a plastic cup. Chris held my hand over it. Now, let it relax, said Chris. I did as I was asked. Chris took my index finger and started milking it expertly. Before long the tears came and soon after there was a good half cup of milk. My hand felt an excitement my heart could not. Graham handed me the cup. Sip it, he said. Don't gulp. It was good, like a cow milk, but less dim-witted. Ok, I said. I didn't believe you. But I'm in. Chris and Graham slapped each other on the back. Good on you, Moose! I knew you'd love it. I do, I said. I'm impressed. What else can you do? Graham came forward. We think we can make a reasonable beef out of you. Thinly sliced. But it's a bit more strenuous for you. I'm all yours, I said. The joy in my hand was beginning to warm my heart [back to top] Shem The pigeon I came to know as Shem just came strutting into the shop one day. I shooed him out, but I noticed him later as I was smoking a fag in the alley during a break. He was sitting up on the wall, watching me as I sent texts to various mates. He came every day, and I started to bring little scraps out for him to eat. He seemed fascinated by the movement of my thumbs on my phone. After a while he got so tame that he'd sit on my shoulder, and then one day he hopped down onto my arm and took a couple of tentative pecks at the screen. His beak darted gently out and started to pick out letters. i am shem I laughed. What are the chances of his spelling out actual words?! I deleted them and he typed again. i am shem. Fuck. Wow. This was very weird. He carried on pecking away. i have a story to tell you. about how we came to be here. my people were brought by the men from the south many generations ago. they dragged us from the stone cities in the sun to the grey woods of the north. we yearned for the home of our ancestors. as time passed the southern men with their dark skins faded into the murk they had brought us here for food. that is why we shit on everything we see. the years took wing and the fair men came from the north. they turned us from our cages and set us free. they spoke the grandmother of your tongue who has grown old and gnarled in your mouths we see our cousins arrive from the south every summer and we long for them to take us home. but each autumn they leave and we, we stay and shit on everything again. they call us rats with wings. we only want to leave your sinking ship. I gave up smoking soon after that, and kept my head down running to and from the shop. I'm not sure if I saw Shem again, they're difficult to tell apart. Let's just say he picked the wrong person to tell his story to. But I'm so tired of cleaning the pigeon shit off my coat every damn day. [back to top] Lacey Lacey introduced me to her new boyfriend, a right pugnacious looking bruiser. Later I took her aside. What do you see in him? I asked. His insecurity, she replied. I looked at him again. I walked over, gave him a big hug, kissed his forehead and stroked his hair. I have great respect for you, I said. When I came round, Lacey was standing over me. What … what happened? I mumbled through swollen lips and uncooperative teeth. Like I told you, said Lacey. He's in security. [back to top] An Evening In I've been missing my wife Karen, she's been away such a lot recently. So tonight I took one of her favourite outfits (some slacks, a blouse a cardigan, and some fun socks) and I stuffed them with clothes and sat the figure in an armchair in the lounge. Lovely it looked, but lacked a head, obviously. After hunting around through various drawers (Karen would have known exactly where to look!) I found some balloons, and inflated a white one to just about the right size. In a flash of inspiration I found some of her hairs in her hairbrush & carefully sellotaped these to the top. Next I carefully drew a little smiling face on it. I took the balloon and, with a little more sellotape, affixed it to the 'shoulders' of the figure in the armchair. Suddenly 'it' was a 'she'. I popped a gentle peck on her cheek and went off to make some coffee, whistling merrily. I thought I'd surprise her with some biscuits. Some of her favourites: plain digestives! What a treat! As I walked back into the room I suffered quite a shock, I must confess. In the draught from the door the head bobbled a little and tilted towards me. In that moment the gentle smile turned to a smug grin. The balloon face I had drawn, I realised now, was none other than that of David Cameron. I affected not to notice, and carefully offered a biscuit (declined of course; not good enough for an old Etonian I presume) I placed the coffee - carefully - on a coaster (one of the ones depicting flamenco dancers that we picked up in Spain). Quietly I walked to the mantelpiece, afraid to turn lest David read my features and surmised the betrayal I was about to enact. I found there a pin attached to a poppy left over from the recent celebrations. Not celebrations. What's the word? Anyway, you know what I mean. I composed my physog and turned, approaching David with a smile that I normally reserve for my wife Karen when I'm after something, and made my way across to his armchair. Then, very gently, I found his 'fontanelle' the soft, thick part of the balloon, where as you know you can introduce a pin without the stupid balloon-faced idiot feeling a thing. In went the pin, and as I watched, David Cameron's pasty-faced leer began to subside. After a few minutes he was no more than a flaccid husk sitting on the shoulders of one of my wife's favourite outfits. I picked up David Camerons rubbery wrinkled face and walked to the mirror over the mantelpiece. I stretched it out, observing how the features moved, an eyebrow raised, a peremptory sniff. I looked at myself in the mirror. Lifted the rubber mask. Pulled it over my face. "Mr Speaker" I mumbled through the latex. I poked a hole with a finger. "Mr Speaker!" I intoned. This was more like it. I turned towards the headless figure on the sofa. Before I knew it I had another balloon out, the sellotape, fixing it to the shoulders. A beautiful face draw across the smooth curve. I stood back a little. Pulled David's face over my own. Beneath the mask my smile was bigger than David's licentious smirk. "Samantha!" I said, and knelt on the floor before her. [back to top] The Onset Of Winter By now your deciduous trees should be empty of leaves. If you find there are a few 'cling ons' it is worth shooting them off with a big gun. Squirrels have become increasingly slackerdaisical, relying more and more on takeaways during the winter months. Help them by sprinkling peanuts all over your garden. If you live in a classy area you may prefer macadamia nuts, or if you live in one of those 'vibrant' neighbourhoods a bag of mixed nuts will do. My now many of the creatures that bother us throughout the summer are safely tucked up in their nests for the winter. However, even at this late stage, you may see the occasional fly or horse scampering for shelter. For example, just yesterday I saw a butterfly helping a bee to find shelter. Gradually the butterfly was sapped of energy and eventually died. Quick as you like the bee through the butterfly over its shoulders and wore it as a beautiful poncho. I watched the bee curl up in a vacant chrysalis and before long the gentle buzz of bee snores were emanating from its winter home. Tempting though it is to intervene in these cases, it is important that you let nature run its course. However, it is quite good fun to set a beetle an assault course to negotiate before it can find shelter in your log pile. Wasps can be very annoying and drowsy at this time of year, like a boozy pub bore. Of course it is ok to punch them in the face. Finally, on those deep, quiet days of winter it's worth tiptoeing out & observing the utter silence of dormant life. Then let off a klaxon. [back to top] A Dog Loose Oh no, thedogre's a loose in my twitter and it's running about all over the place. I'm going to see if I can cdogorner it - please keep an eye on it! I'm going to try to back it slowly down tdogo one end of the tweet. Good boy, there's a good boy, easy now, thdogat's it. It's ok, we're not going to hurt you. There we are, there's a dog good boy. Got you! Dog Right, come with medog. basdogket [back to top] My Universe I've had a brilliant idea for a universe. For a start there would be many many more types of crisp. All just floating about. And the whole universe would be solid. With tunnels. And you could park anywhere, free of charge. As my universe aged it would grow a little grey and paunchy. But distinguished looking nevertheless. In my universe, gravity would be performance related, subject to review after a probationary period, with bonus opportunities. You would actually be able to poke your head out of a little window on one end of the universe and see God doing his chores. Every universe require a mystery, so when you shake it, it would make a helluva rattling but no one would know which bit was loose. There would be no governments, only feedback forms, enquiries and helplines. At the other end, angels in a holding pattern would occasionally swoop in to tidy away the universe's poo, and wipe its bottom. Oh, yes, it would be solid, with tunnels. But made of glass, so you could see everything crawling around everywhere. My universe. Smells would be made of light, sounds out of wool, and the sensation of touch replaced by something of which we have no concept. My new universe will have a pause button. [back to top] A Cold Morning It is cold this morning, so you might choose to wear a vest, or a cardigan - perhaps select a thicker sock. You might also reflect as you make your way from your flat to the bus-stop on the peculiar & well-known wistfulness of this time of year. You might observe that it is in the air: it smells of nostalgia, just as the first days of spring smell of hope, of the future, while the heights of summer and the depths of winter smell only of now. And, as you draw near to the bus-stop, you might see there the object of your desire. And you might wonder for a moment, if today is the day that you finally break the ice. Not a word has passed between you this last year, from autumn to autumn, but as the seasons pass you have come to know her scent, the rustle of her fabrics, even, on one or two occasions, the thrill of flesh brushing against flesh. And as you wait, each of you negotiating the petty anxieties of delayed buses, the anticipation of jostling, muttering coffee-breathed shuffling for a place, you realise that perhaps now is the perfect opportunity to float a few words in her direction. You might, for example say, as you catch her eye, "I wonder how many hours they've stolen from us?" and she might well smile, and reply "It's not fair is it? They owe us big time!" And you might, in these circumstances, take the opportunity to laugh at her little joke, "Ha! Big time!" and seal your path together by suggesting "We should start a campaign!". And at this point it is very likely that she will put her hand gently on your arm and say, quietly, "I'm right behind you". And you may smile, and the bus will pull up and you will jostle for position to be near her. And you might take this opportunity to reflect on how this time that you have both claimed has been stolen is in fact so precious to you. And it is a strong possibility, in fact, that you will account it as the most valuable minutes of your day. And you will, I think, as you pull on your cardigan, make that decision to put autumn behind you and put spring in your step. For, despite the fact there is a chill in the air this morning, the future is full of possibilities. [back to top] The Choir I decided, towards the end of my life, to form a choir. I was tired of pursuing foxes on horseback, and counting bottles for itinerants. I loved to keen at the moon, but the sad fact is I am graced with a voice like unwanted crockery rasped across a sullen tea room table. Nevertheless I refused to let this stop me, so I placed a notelet in the church notice board: Singers Wanted for a Tone Deaf Choir. I have an elegant hand, but unfortunately this does not extend to my writing. However, the message was clear, my number correctly digitised. Within a few days I had enough interest to give it a bash, so we foregathered in the church hall, stepping out of drizzly murk into its musty warmth. First in was Ruben. A man of few words and none of them acceptable in polite company. He brought with him a small amplifier and speaker, to which was conntected a contact microphone taped across his large gut. "Onions" he said. "Tons of the fuckers". As he adjusted the volume we heard a deep and resonant gurgling, a surprisingly rhythmic base with odd harmonics occasioned, Ruben claimed by the ingestion of a slightly dodgy pint half an hour before. Next up was Drew, a most lachrymose fellow, who had brought with him a portfolio of photographs of loves long lost. He flicked through them, back and forth, playing allegretto upon his emotions, from sniffle to wail and back down to a gentle throbbing sob. Cecily refused to emerge from behind the curtain on the stage. We never knew how she produced her cacophony and there were some who claimed ectoplasm was involved, possibly a spirit guide, maybe just a sack of cats. Who knew? Not us, but it mattered not a jot, for she provided an excruciating soprano that could peel a potato at 10 yards. Little Gavin came next. He declared a love of jazz singing and what he call hep hop. He wore a trilby, back to front in the street style. Gavin had one of those faces - either 8 or 80 years old. Horrible to look at anyway, especially with his tight little mouth all screwed up for his 'scat'. At least the dear chap had the gumption to improvise a few discernible words in amongst the din. Mostly, it appeared, invocations to complete our tax forms before the end of the year. The last member of our group was Nigel, the beatboxing pig. Oh, then of course there was I, in full hunting garb, whip and horn in either hand, I beat the walls and parp parp parped. For want of a score (we dare not attempt the standards) we downloaded user manuals from obscure fax machines steered our way to the small print before launching into a rousing rendition of Too Shy by Kajagoogoo or some such. This was our grand finale and when we sung for the end of year show, it left not a dry eye in the house, you can be sure. Sadly, after that highlight in our career, we felt out due to musical differences. The church hall was no longer available to us. Rumours were spread. Apparently a cow had fallen over in unusual circumstances and naked figures has been seen writing rude words on the vicarage lawn in shaving foam. Absolute rubbish, of course, but I felt it was time to withdraw into my shell a little rather than be pursued up the church tower by an angry mob. And yet, if you were to pass my door on a moonlit night, you might hear my howls and glimpse a figure in the shadows, cloaked in red, bonnet on my head, with my little granny glasses on my nose. [back to top] Psychometric Test Psychometric testing is an excellent way to find out what sort of person you are. To this end I've devised a test you might like to try… Scenario: you find you have returned from the launderette with one of Andrew Marr's socks by mistake. Do you… a) wear it for the rest of the day in place of one of your own socks b) return it to Broadcasting House in a jiffy bag c) sniff it and stroke it while murmuring "Oh, Andrew! Dear, dear Andrew!" d) Put it in a safety deposit box while it accrues value e) fashion it into a sock puppet, with little buttons for eyes. You call it Little Andy, and take it everywhere with you. You find that you increasingly start to confide in Little Andy your darkest secrets, your wildest desires. Little Andy is a silent witness. He never judges, he just smiles benignly with a blank look in his little button eyes. Eventually you are subsumed with guilt. You tear the buttons from the sock and burn it in a pile of leaves at the bottom of the garden, before going to the pub and getting lashed. Staggering home later that night, the local bobby comes across you sitting on the kerb, weeping. As he prises your hand open he finds you are tightly gripping two buttons. "Come on, time to go home sir" he says, gently fondling your beard. He dabs your tears with his hanky. It smells faintly of CK One. Thank you officer, I'm ok now. or f) bin it. If you are mostly a) This is quite normal. You may be discharged without further questioning. Mostly b) You are a right twat. Lighten up. Mostly c) You are Andrew's best friend. Mostly d) Stop watching Cash In The Attic. Do something with your life. Ps - send it to me. I will look after if for you. Mostly e) You are not alone. 98% of the poplulation selected e) too. Mostly f) You are a sociopath and ready to kill. I hope you found that useful and insightful. [back to top] Emile We were baffled by the gingery tufts glimpsed from Emile's cuffs, despite his total baldness. Until we saw him with his missal. A penitent. We suspected Emile might be a ghost. He was always out of reach. No one recalled ever having touched him. So we whacked him with a stick. He was real enough. Emile came to me one afternoon, showed me a small wiro-bound pad, full of numbers, jottings. A phone pad. I need help with doodling he said. Emile, I said, you just need to forget about the doodling, concentrate on the phone call, let your hand wander. He looked at me stiffly. Emile made a paper aeroplane. We cleared it for take off. It nose dived behind the photocopiers. That's why I refuse to fly, he said. Our jets, on cheap recycled everyday paper, circled in a holding pattern over our desks. The game was to land them on the ceiling fan. Emile smelled faintly of incense, of smoldering rosemary and the pungent resins of his faith. We knew that he'd forgive us. We took it in turns to drag Emile home in his suped up go-kart. He would read the Metro as we pulled him through Whitechapel. Land of my fathers he called it. Perhaps because that's where his fathers landed almost a century ago. One day Emile simply disappeared. All his trappings gone too. The bosses knew nothing. We began to wonder if he was a ghost after all. It's very hard to leave no trace. One afternoon I strolled through his neighbourhood. I nosed around the bins, looking for traces I suppose. A gingery dog walked by, and I entertained a thought. I thought to beat it with a stick to see if a powdery cloud of incense would emerge. Emile, I said. The dog turned and looked at me, then walked on. Back at the office on Monday morning I told my story. A few doubtful looks and we went about our business. About a year later we had a new printer installed, out went the old photocopier. There, in the dust, was Emile's paper plane. I picked it up and looked at it, flew it. It nose-dived again. I was about to recycle it when I thought to unfold it. Inside was a mass of tiny doodles, starting from the top left hardly recognisable, but by the bottom right, very clearly a dove. And in the middle he had written the words If I am good God will welcome me to Heaven. I lifted the paper gently to my nose. The faint whiff of incense was, I realise now, mere fancy on my part. [back to top] Didlittle I knew a man once, a real life Doctor Dolittle. I was a fresh-faced student when we met and he a sour, embittered old man. He was living out his days grabbing at anyone who was willing to listen to his story. I was such a one. Never have I encountered anyone with such contempt for the animal kingdom, in all its forms. He spoke of his distant youth, how he spent his days in the woods and meadows, tracking the beasts that so intrigued him. He would lie motionless for hours, watching, learning their ways, wondering what they had in the way of a mind. He devote hours to the robin. A decade or two passed in the company of this friendliest of birds, until he believed he knew as much about their language as it was possible to know. Such disappointment, he said. Such devastation, the emptiness of a robin's mind. He said they have but one word, a word that does for everything they could no. He said to imagine a word like food and a word like fear, a word like warmth and a word like fly. Put them in your mouth, chew them, and pass them through. Make a dung of them, he said, and that is as close as you will get to the mind of a robin. His grief over the hopelessness of the robin left him in a stew for a few years, but he resolved to try again with another creature, closer to the hearts of men. The dog, of course, his natural companion. As he told me this tale he bowed his head and lifted his eyes to mine. His jaw set firm, through gritted teeth he cursed them all to hell, fish foul and fur. The dog, he said was no better than the robin, if anything worse, for he felt at least there was a hope there of some primitve love, surely? He listed the dung language of the dog too, the bludgeoned shapes of half words: food, warmth, fear, flight, stubbornness and something he thought at first was joy. A tiny seed, or rather a gnarled nut somewhere in the protean dog-word. Something like a hope he thought. But it was useless, he told me. For years he worried away at that nut, trying to draw it out of the beast, to speak to it to find the point where language would bring their minds together. Finally the day came where there was a moment of despair, a distrust of everything that was other, a hatred of the non-self the abhorrence of the unfamiliar. It was here there minds met. He looked into the dogs eyes and saw himself reflected there, the dog looking back at him. He kicked the cur out, and shut the door. His experiments with language were done. After he had told his tale we sat in his room and watched his television. We drunk a beer or two. I was struck, I must say, at how the coarseness of his descriptions, his inability to get his ideas across clearly. What a bitter old man, I thought. A xenophobe, a bigot. I left him then, and vowed never to go back. I untied my dog from the post outside his house. Patted his head. Time to take him for a run in the park. God knows, dogs like to run about. They think with their bodies, just like we do most of the time. [back to top] A Little Magic Pick a card. Don't show it to me. I said don't show it to me! Start again. Pick a card. Don't show it to me. Good. Put it in your underwear drawer. Yes you have, we've all got one. Leave it there. Forget about it. One day you will find it there and maybe think of me, maybe laugh a little. Anyway favourite this for then. I bet it will be the seven of spades or something. * * *
To become a magician. Step 1: Line a top-hat with lettuce and wait by a warren. Step 2: Before moving on to endless streams of brightly coloured handkerchiefs pulled from your cuffs, practice with your anal beads. Step 3: Memorise the positions - and potential positions - of all the cards in the world. Step 4: Until you can successfully break a biscuit in half and seamlessly repair it, don't start on your human assistant. Step 6: Make Step 5 appear as if it never was. Step 7: Visit terrible vengeance on all those who believed it was but smoke and mirrors. They will be astonished by your tricks. Step 8: Return to the warren and unfurl your rabbit. Step 9: Rebrand yourself. [back to top] In The Barn Something waked me in the night and I stole out to the barn. There, through a gap in the slats, I watched my father wearing a sheep like a glove puppet. He voiced for her gently. Come on my beauty, come on girl, there's a good girl, come on my beauty, he made her say. Occasionally I heard her own voice, a mournfull bleat, but it was still sheep-like. I watched on, mesmerised by the puppet show. She would not learn her lines though, and he kept on working her, making her say Come on girl, come on my beauty, like he said to Mother. I became alert as something snuffled and shuffled out in the dark, and I scampered back to my cool bed under the eaves. I drifted off, imagining my father with a ram on one arm and a ewe on the other, dancing them round, mouthing their words. I dance to you my beauty. I dance to you my lord. In the morning I was waked again, by lamb cries. [back to top] One Tweet Stories The Preacher rode into town. Where can I get me a mess o' beans and a whore? he growled. Tesco Metro probably, we replied. Out in the marshes Alf stood still as a sentinel, his kebab skewer already loaded with pepper & onion. Waiting, waiting for a passing prawn. We cornered Lukas in the barn, hissing and spitting like a bobcat, his pockets crammed with stolen plans for revolutionary crochet patterns. I stood in the corner of the classroom, red with shame. I had learnt my lesson: I would never refer to him as William Wobbleforce again. I approached the Pick 'n' Mix counter with my shovel and a gunny sack. Best to convert hot cash into valuable goods super-quick, I reasoned. Edmund prised himself off Olivia's face. If this was ever going to work they were going to have to shed the fly costumes at some point. Barrington folded his napkin. He folded his cutlery, his chair, his table and finally his wife. He unfolded his bed. Time for a bigger flat. Alistair took the corner on two wheels, relieved for once his go-kart was covered in shit. The angry mob pursued him at a sanitary distance. When the last of the bubble wrap had been popped, Ruth and Emily sat for a moment in silence. They realised they had nothing more to say. Finally Alec's past had caught up with him. It was puffing, out of breath, on the sofa. He strolled across the room and proffered a fag. Crabb knelt, shamefaced, on his usual hassock. He'd learned a bitter lesson about the Sign of the Cross: if it ain't broke, don't fix it. Peter was the last dragon to be stretchered out, while the medical team struggled to release him from the deadly Soup Snorkel. Rafe sat despondently on his bed. He'd played his entire record collection backwards & the nearest he'd got was a doubtful "Not nice, Jeezy" Stupidly, Caddock thought that using the tiny hoof of a toy cow to caress her would make him appear dashing and outre. He was wrong. After Zoe's surprise party the guests quietly filtered away into the night. Scoffing nuts in front of the TV, she'd never suspected a thing. Nathan loved that scene in 9˝ weeks. But he was an impatient man & Kirsty often found him in his pants slumped asleep by an empty fridge. Jeremy watches. The dog pants. He looks up at Jeremy, wistfully it seems. Jeremy considers. Actually, the dog looks quite good in pants. Tom wanted to leap out of a cake on his wife's birthday but it was such a small cake he smeared it over his body & jumped out of a cupboard. As he bobbed amongst the wreckage, Hank rued more sharply than ever his attachment to Widgery The Woodworm, gnawing on the plank beside him. Ellie peered through the hatch into Keith Richards' vast attic. Her whole belief system somersaulted. It was an entire library of moss. [back to top] A Twist Of Air A man sits, contemplating the space where his navel should be. It's a long time since he has had the courage to look at his own body. Many years since he's dared to allow a glimpse of himself in a mirror He runs yellowed fingers through the coarse hairs the cover the smooth skin where surely there should be the dimple, the empty twist of air that turns inside and once connected him with his mother. He is as unfamiliar now with his mother's face as he is with his own body. The idea begins to take seed that perhaps he never had a mother. Is this what happens? Is this how you become an angel? Are the things you thought were yours gradually claimed back, packed away one by one until you are light, unburdened? Yes, that must be it. He feels so light now, nearly all the things that were once his have been, gratefully, given back. Light enough to float, up, out of this chair, just to watch the things which once were so familiar, drift down and away, untethered. Everything given back, unhitched, decoupled, left to fall away, and the lightness, now, the lightness, the warmth. The old man sleeps. [back to top] Simple Spells for lovers There are many ways to a woman's heart, but perhaps the simplest and most satisfying is the deployment of magic. For example, write the name of your object of desire on a map of her parish. Walk those streets every day until someone recognises you. Soon she shall be yours. Hair is full of powerful magic, so collect as much as possible from the beards, chests and heads of her idols. Spin it into a yarn and knit it into a special sock which you should wear under a normal sock whenever you meet for ice-cream. After three nights she shall be yours Women love flours, so grind a selection of rices, spelts and wheats into fine powders which you daub about your person. When she complains of your 'little clouds', her heart is nearly yours. It is time to bake her the winning loaf. When you walk out together, fall as soon as possible into step. Gradually slow the pace until it matches your heart's beat. A year of this should suffice for a lifetime of laughs and a laughtime of life. Women cannot resist flattery, but simple words are not enough. Draw her beauty, sculpt her wit, make a video installation of her wisdom. When finally she falls asleep, whisper sweet criticisms in her ear. The following new moon she shall be yours. There's nothing a woman loves more than to see a fool capering and desporting before a jeering crowd. Swallow a vial of tears before you attempt this, for it is well known that without such bitterness such tomfoolery is merely show. Bide your time. Eventually her memory of the catcalls and yelps of the crowd will ring hollow. You will then be able to kiss the tears from her cheeks as she mutters her sorries into your collar. A week on Wednesday she will be yours. If you have not executed any of these spells correctly the chances are they will not work. Your last resort must be the puppy. Fashion a tiny latex mask of Johnny Depp and acustom the whelp to wearing it. Perhaps a tiny brocade waistcoat seeded with pearls. Then, inveigle a friend to release the puppy into the path of your bicyles as you head off for a picnic. You will take a fall and the Deppuppy will bound forward to lick clean your grazes. This is the most powerful magic of all, and it never fails. But beware. If the puppy should be distracted by a sausage, all is lost and you will live your life loving from afar. [back to top] Shopping Tips There are various lagers and light ales on the market so why not sample a few before making a lifelong commitment to one brand? Shoes are notoriously difficult to choose, especially now there are more than a hundred models on the market. When selecting a new shoe it was worth bearing in mind all the different sizes. Ideally choose a shoe that is the same size as your foot and that goes nicely with your legs or whatever you have. Don't commit immediately to a pair of shoes. Try just one out for a while and if you like it, invest in a second. You won't regret it! Buying meat is often a fraught time whether you are single or double or a couple. Most modern butchers are more than happy to describe the sorts of animals their meat comes from and the noises they make. Don't worry if you are vegetarian. A good C21st butcher will happily & skilfully cut your chosen meat into the shape of your favourite veg. Thinking of buying a telephone? Don't! Ha ha, only joking, do… but not until you've heard what I've got to say. Since the invention of modern technology way back in what we can still call the 60s, a telephone was exactly what it said on the tin. These days a telephone is more like an office in your pocket, without the rampant idleness, bitching and sex pests. Where would you be without say a games console, constant weather updates, and all the latest news from the world of sport, leisure & goss! Well. Think about it before you buy a telephone because all of that can be yours for the mere price of renting an office per month. By the way, they're not called Smart Telephones for nothing. So: why not get smart, and telephone smarter too! Sofas. Sofas sofas sofas. It's almost impossible to buy a sofa these days, it's like they've gone underground like horse tranquilisers. If you think of a sofa, you probably picture something flowery with an old man snoring on it in 1950s garb. Well, open up your jazzy minds, people! Sofas now come in all different shapes and sizes with all sorts of different materials covering them From leather that's a bit like soft butter right the way through to rustic hessian, the world is your oyster when it comes to fabric. And sofas don't just have to be long. They can go round corners, they can have poofs with them, all sorts. They can be like shell, probably. So don't go rushing into buying a sofa just because every fucking scrap of paper that comes through your door is trying to sell you one. Take a deep breath. And imagine a world that's made just for you and your bottom. I think that's covered the main points. Thank you. [back to top] Oh Savannah! The penguins came. They decided to give up flight. They shredded the paperwork. Cold, inhospitable, no one would come looking for them here. Across the plain news spread that giraffe was coming to trim the tree-tops. "He's my cousin, you know" said Okapi. We soon forgot Okapi. The giraffes decided to wear their eyes like a great black marble sitting in a dish. Birds thought they saw their futures in them. Birds! Sombre birds looked askance at the flamboyant birds doing their fancy sex dancing. Their mothers said "Just ignore their show-boating". The smallest animals agreed amongst themselves that tortoise was a bore. Lunch with tortoise could literally last a life time for a mayfly. The tortoise decided to bide his time. Amidst the flurry & blur of activity around him, none of them seemed to notice he was tunneling out. I remember when the small ape invented the wheel. We stood round, scoffing. I said "Who's the prick with the machine?". I regret it now. [back to top] Insulation The insulation man is here. I've told him that I might have to 'send a few' emails. Hopefully he doesn't follow me on twitter. He's explaining cavity walling, wall ties, breather membranes. I've just said "beautifully presented documentation". He has a whistly nose. I'm gradually edging my chair nearer to his. I've given him a cup of tea with a straw and a cocktail umbrella. "Summery!" was his comment. Bloody hell, he's got his borescope out. I've asked if I can fondle the end. He says it's a sensitive instrument, not to be toyed with. He gives me that look, as if to say Are we not all sensitive instruments? Apparently the borescope can shine light into hidden cavities. He says it will require a little gentle drilling. Do I mind? He's got one of those impressive, varispeed drills, a superb suite of bits. He's talking me through them. This one can penetrate even the most resilient material. God it's quiet in here. Just the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece… The gentle whistling of a nose. Time to go and inspect my loft hatch. He's impressed by how neatly everything is in the attic. All boarded out, boxes neatly arrayed, cataloguing system. The small table with the ledger of my possessions. He can't resist flicking through the pages. He reads in silence, grunting, nodding approval. It's warm, smells of dust and cardboard up here. I squat beside him. Impressive, he says, very impressive. Quite a substantial collection of mid-20th century cravats. He's got one of those small Maglites, but he's carrying it over his shoulder like he's in the LAPD. He's disappointed by insulation. I bet your roof lets out a substantial quantity of heat he says, eyes drifting inevitably to my bald head. Probably spending rather more on fuel that you should, eyes now descending to my corpulent frame. Our attention is diverted for a moment, scuttling, difficult to tell where it's coming from. Sparrows! I say. If you say so, he replies. Time to see what your cavities are made of, he says, waggling his borescope at me. To be honest it's a relief to get out of that attic, back down the stairs, out into the fresh damp Devon air. He's about to start drilling. He's donned one of those plastic, disposable rain bonnets to keep his - admittedly rather super - hairdo dry. That's a fuckload of emails you've been sending he says, drill in hand. I look for a moment at the business end of his masonry bit. I'll be in doors if you need me. Stuff to do. I beat a hasty retreat. I can hear his drill boring into my brickwork. Quickly I rifle through his papers, find the forms for the next customer. I draw two adjacent circles with dots in the middle and write 'tits' underneath. On another form… quickly now, the drilling has stopped… I hastily write 'sex'. Finally in his appointment book I draw a penis. He's back in, I'm adjusting the items on my mantelpiece. Just a bit of paperwork to go through and then I'm done. He wipes the end of his bit with a damp cloth, and replaces the drill in its formed foam case. The paper work comes out. Pray he doesn't see my embellishments. I think I might just get away with it. A couple of signatures. ISO 9000 2011 to flick through. I help him into his grey blouson leather jacket. It's been a pleasure. Learnt so much about insulation. Look forward to his quote. Shut the front door. He's gone. I look down. A trail of brick dust; glass fibres everywhere. How odd. And still I hear that nose whistle. [back to top] The Eel I remember when I first slipped into my eel skin suit and headed out into the town centre, a world of possiblities in front of me. After months of bleeding fingers needling sinew into skin, it hung for a while in my room. And I'm no believer in the supernatural, but this suit had a special quality. It rendered me… not invisible, but slippery to the eye. No sooner seen than forgotten. And so I wriggled my way through the crowds unnoticed. Those nimble fingers of mine, finally heeling, dipping into purse and pocket, rummaging in bags, sliding up sleeps, all the while relieving those I passed of their precious and mundane possessions. Here a photograph of a loved one. There a watch, unlatched, lifted and pocketed. Earrings, necklaces, badges of honour, letters folded in wallets, still faintly scented. A child's toy delicately unfurled from a tiny hand, and clasped for a moment in mine, before returning it to the grip of shadows. And so my days passed, swimming through the tangles of pedestrians, unremarked except perhaps for the faint whiff of eel. They would seem to stare right through me, nostrils flaring as they sought to catch that essence - not of day-old fish, but the real eel smell, of salt-marsh, silt and samphire. Just a hint of something, their minds not sure with which sense to place it. Glimpsed or sniffed, felt or heard, a jumble of minor irritations immediately replaced by shop dispalys and bus count-downs. I took each object home. Glad to slip out of my eel suit once more, to feel myself come back once more into the world. I laid them out before me and began the tedious process of cataloguing them. Time, date, location. The name of the owner. Each carefully photographed, a written description, and then a full hour with each. Contemplating it, feeling it, wondering, giving the full attention it deserved. Honouring each beautiful specimen, before filing it away in its air-tight bag. And then the other date before filing. The date for return to the owner. Some of them a few weeks. Some of them months, others years. I knew that I would be watching them, watching them grow up or grow old, waiting for the date, the time to don once more my eel suit. And to slip amongst them, and place their cherished object, just so, into the corner of their eyes, just in their peripheral vision. What's this? My… my Grandmother's ring! No, I can't believe … I thought it lost all these. Oh sweet joy. Never did I realise how much I missed it until I found it again. It's a hard task, and the taking is the hardest part, knowing their dismay when they find it gone. But I know, I know more than any other, that the joy of finding again far outweighs the misery of losing. It is thus I spread my love through the world. [back to top] The Joke It's always irritating when a practical joke goes awry, with completely unforeseen consequences. For example, one evening, feeling knackered I headed off to bed early. My wife seemed to be taking ages to finish off her bits and bobs, but eventually I heard a tread on the stairs and suddenly felt compelled to dart into our wardrobe & hide, snuggled up under my suits and coats, with just a narrow gap to peer through. I heard her nightly ritual in the bathroom and finally she came in and slipped into bed. At this point I confess I nearly burst out giggling but I contained myself, and waited for her to sit up, puzzled, wondering where I had got to. But she didn't. She settled down with her book soon started nodding off. Before long she was asleep. She woke a moment, turned off the light and there we both were, in the darkness. By now my breathing steadied, and I could hear hers as she slept. Soon our breathing came together I shut my eyes, there nestled in wool and cotton. Breathing in, and out, in, and out. The next I knew our alarm was going off. I saw her sit up, turn off the alarm, look around, feel my side of the bed. She lay awhile, then got up. Went about her morning business. I heard her go downstairs, crockery be moved about, a radio on. I was dying to stretch out, but I felt that I had come this far, clearly it was her turn to make a move, to look for me. After a while I heard her shower. Then I could see her towelling herself dry, hair wrapped in another. This was it, I was holding my breath again. I knew she would reach into the wardrobe, I would grab her arm… The door, on her side, slid back. I saw her arm enter the shadows, selecting a dress. I couldn't grab her arm, of course, the shock might kill her. A dress was pulled out her arm slid back. She had no idea I was there. I saw her pass the crack, dressed. She gathered her things. Down the stairs. The front door closed. I slid back the door on my side, rolled out, stiff onto the floor. What had happened? I suppose occasionally I got up in the night, went for a walk, or sat smoking out of the window. Not so unusual. Then in the morning… we hadn't spoken much. Perhaps she thought I had gone to work early. I spent the day in the house, pottering about, eating, making sure I didn't leave too much evidence of my presence. Then the answering machine went and I nearly jumped out of my skin. "HIgh, Moose, don't know if you're back yet. Don't cook for me…" "I'm heading out for a drink and something to eat with the girls. Don't wait up". I confess I felt slightly deflated. She hadn't even noticed my little trick! How infuriating! I couldn't spend a whole night in the wardrobe without her discovering me there. Telling her… well, how lame would that be? So, of course, I waited until I heard her key in the lock and then dashed back to my hiding place. I could tell from the tone of her movements that she'd had a few. She clonked into the bedroom and flopped down on the bed. "Fuck" she said. I heard her move, throw her shoes off. "Where the fuck are you Moose?". This, then, was the moment! She'd noticed my absence! I felt the butterflies rising, ready to be discovered. If she just called my name, I would slide back the door and say "Guess where I've been? Narnia!". But she didn't. Before long, she was snoring. And so was I. The next morning, the same thing. More groans on her part, admittedly. But her morning routine, breakfast, shower, into the bedroom. The door slid back on her side. In came her arm. I couldn't resist. I reached out, touched her forearm gently with my finger tips. I expected a scream, if I'm honest. I wanted to punish her, really, for not missing me enough. But no scream. Her arm stayed still. I heard her sigh, deeply. Then, she pulled out a sobre, navy blue dress with white detailing, and slid the door shut. When the front door closed, I rolled out once more. Work would be wondering where the hell I was, calling her. What would she tell them? I exercised fed myself, read for a while. Daren't go out. I'm an indoorsman now.Waited, actually. Waited for my life to begin again, when the key turned in the lock and I dashed back to my hiding place. A long, evening. Tense. Waiting, wondering if she would come up, urge me to come out. I laughed. Come out of the closet! I waited until her bedtime, her familiar familiar routine, this time not dancing round mine. And then, just before she slipped into bed, the door on my side slid back, just an inch or two more. Her arm came feeling in. Found my cheek her fingers gently grazing it, running up and under my eyes, as if trying to read my expression, feel for tears. And then down, to my lips. For the gentlest of kisses. Goodnight. [back to top] Echoes News is just coming in that many of the world's echos are malfunctioning: looping repeats from weeks ago, or bouncing back profanities. Some echoes are stealing back into your ears in the quiet of the night, or repeating your lines back to you to make you sound racist. Other echoes will be replaced with the sound of sobbing, or indistinct mumblings about computer problems. In one location which authorities are keen to keep secret, the echo is shouting back winning lottery numbers. Several English echoes are returning the call "…to see you, NICE!", whatever you shout at them. In another location, it is said that an animal's cry will be returned with a human voice. Visitors be warned: your psyches may be damaged! There are also warnings that echoes that disappear in one area may reappear in others. You may received a second echo free with the first, or bundled in monthly installments for ease of consumption. Wherever you find yourself, whatever you are doing, it is suggested you should read the small print on everything. Very quietly. It is recommended that you conduct conversations in whispers, mouths pressed into heavy velvet drapes. Footwear is best swathed in rags, veiled insults should be avoided lest they manifest themselves in full form. Do not speak ill of others. Many are finding the careless condemnation of so-called friends seeping through ventilation ducts into earshot. Avoid holding sea shells to your ears. You may hear more than you wished. Meanwhile, hiss white noise and it may come back as sense. And above all, try to avoid repeating yourself. [back to top] The Humming Man There was a fellow coming towards me in the street, wearing a black and yellow stripy jumper, humming contentedly to himself. We ended up doing that funny little dance when you both step in the same direction, one way then the other. When finally we passed each other, I somehow discovered I knew where to find all the polleny flowers. [back to top] The Saw Horse In the cold morning air I could see my breath as I started work on the log pile. Axe swinging, I was soon wiping sweat from my brow. It felt suprisingly nice. I put down my axe and ran my hands over my brow. How lovely! Gradually my hands moved down my face. Delving. Finding their way into various orifices. I could tell they wanted to explore further. So I let them. Before long I had loosened my clothes enough to be able to run my palms over my torso. It was probably no more than five minutes later that my wife arrived with a cup of tea to find me writhing and panting on the frosty ground, clothes torn and covered in saw dust. I've left you a biscuit too, I heard her say as she walked back up to the house. I'm not sure she heard my half-strangled cry "thank you darling, I'll be up with a few logs in a jiffy". I needed that biscuit, I can tell you. [back to top] Awful Gateway I have come to realise that I am no good at the internet. Even getting onto google is a problem for me. Each time I try to summon it up… I am greeted by a notice saying "Are you sure it was google you wanted?" There is one button to click. It says no, so I click it. A dialogue box comes up, saying "Thought not". I manage, somehow, to summon up the page once more. "You again! What do you want?" it asks. This time I can type "to search" in a tiny text box the same size as fly. After a minute or so google comes on, looking grumpy. And this is about as far as I can get with websites. After that it's a constant stream of error messages. Four hundred and four. You are mistaken. There is no website here. Move on. The website you are looking for no longer exists. We are sorry. Awful Gateway. An error of type four hundred and four again, sir. Not your lucky day, sir, is it? Perhaps you'd be better off ironing the dog or something. This website is not for the likes of you. Very occasionally I will think I'm onto something. Welcome to our website! It will say in orange and blue. With vibrating barbecue graphics. I will think that I have finally got onto a barbecue website, but no. No. Just page after page of men looking straight at the camera. Expressionless mainly. Eventually I will get to a page that says: sold out. Other websites say under construction, buy a domain name, or warn me that the content may break my legs. One website, ostensibly for sun-loungers, is just a photograph of a butter dish and a loud buzzing noise. Even when I turn off my computer there is still the buzzing noise. That, I think, is the worst website of them all. It may have won awards. So, all in all, as you can see I am not very good at the internet. But I will perservere because I am determined to browse garden goods. And I will not be defeated. [back to top] Cycles They looked at me and said Are they bruises? And I said Yes, but I bruise like a quince, when people lift me up and breathe me in. They ran their fingers over my skin. Peachy soft, they said. Yes, but a heart of stone. They waited for me to ripen, waited for me to fall. But some fruits wither on the vine. I walk the rows, planting seed after seed. It has been a good year. A good year and a good year before that. Ever on, ever before. Worm casts that turn the soil, plough shares that turn and turn again. [back to top] Beautiful Me I am a man of jaw-dropping clumsiness and drawer-dropping beauty. Faces have been known to give up after seeing mine. I am so beautiful that sometimes people break into spontaneous applause. People have been known to question the very idea of atheism. Just from looking at me. Bird & bee populations noticeably wax in my presence. I'm not allowed near weddings. Even furniture gradually moves towards me if I spend too long in a room. When I walk through the shopping precinct there's a crackle and a sizzle. Buttons pop and humidity rises by at least 1%. Occasionally old ladies slap me for the thoughts I've made them have. You can hear the pips squeak. I even have my own regulating body, Ofwivvem. In some universe, somewhere. [back to top] Homecomers We gathered on the foreshore and stared out into the night. Just when we'd given up on dawn, lights appeared on the horizon. As the darkness faded we watched small boats take shape against the sky. We waited until we could see them waving, washing away the bitterness of the night's long vigil. There would be a lifetime to work through our petty vengeances, but now an occasion for warm embraces and stroked faces. All that changed when we found them empty handed and fat. [back to top] Audition For some reason I failed my audtion as a continuity a noun, sir? Sorry, can I try that again? For some reason I failed my audtion as a contin, you witty announcer! No. Sorry. Once more, if that's ok? For some reason I failed my audtion as a continuity announcer. BUGGER! Sorry? Oh yes. AUDITION. I haven't got my readers on. One final attempt, perhaps? Thank you. For some reason I failed my audition as a continuity announcer. Perfect! What do you mean? It was Welsh. A Welsh accent! Oh for god's sake DOES NO ONE UNDERSTAND MY ART?!? [back to top] I Had No Idea I Was Jesus When I first came out of the desert I had no idea I was Jesus. I awoke already walking, aware at first of a grinding thirst and a dull ache of limbs grown used to the pain. I thought at first of my wife waiting for me, the comfort of our marriage bed, the sound of the children playing with beetles in the shade of the courtyard. So weary I would just fall asleep once more to the sound of trickling water. But as I walked across the dry hard ground and followed the ruts into the village, the fear grew in me that she had gone away. I found it hard to picture her face. My children, run out of the gate, left banging on its hinges. I heard their laughter fade as they ran away. Eventually I stood by the well in the main street of our village. Dried and cracked and matted, unrecognisable. A few figures staring my figure swimming into focus, back into their memories. Thought gone these forty days and forty nights, and suddenly dawn in that mid-afternoon, the dawn of dread. All gone. For I am Jesus. I am alone. I have no wife no children. And my father too is dead. This was Satan's finest wrought work. [back to top] The Correction As I've grown older, I've become increasingly effete, offended by what one can only call… ugliness. So I have surrounded myself with beauty. The walls of my boudoir are hung with finely woven tapestries depicting our most delightful celebrities. My carpets are ever strewn with the blooms of fresh flowers. Tiny humming birds flitter through my halls, only to be swept aside as their feathers fade in the half-light. And so it is that when I venture out (as I must, occasionally), I carry with me a crystal pot wrapped in delicately wrought silverwork, brimming with the finest Tipp-Ex™ money can buy. As I tread the pathways that surround my manor, I expunge from view the hideous sights that occasionally assail my eyes: a stunted functional low-maintenance shrub on a trading estate, every branch and leaf coated in the white. An infelicitous font on a shop sign, an unpleasant stain on a child's bib, a face that only a mother could love - all these Tipp-Exed™ out. Where once the locals might have taken offence, they now have begun to understand the benefits of a world where that which hurts the eye is carefully daubed with correcting fluids. Of course, it would be wrong to make these things disappear entirely (I'm not a monster!), yet every day the pleasure increases of walking through a world where I do not have to avert my eyes to the fine embroidery of my slippers. And gradually my world disappears beneath that spreading soft white crust, leaving only the most mournfully beautiful sights to behold. [back to top] Animal Projections It is very easy to project human qualities onto animals. For example, by printing out spam email and sellotaping it to your cat. Tattooing 'LOVE' and 'HATE' on the knuckles of your chinchilla. Making your horse wear a sandwich board with the words "We're All Going To Hell In A Handcart (50p a ride)" on it. Training your parrot to say "I'm sick and tired of the hurtin' games we keep on playing, honey". Covering yourself with lampreys and calling friends round for a few ice cold beers. Getting all arsey about the passive-aggressive behaviour of your tortoise. Feverishly thumbing through your collection of owl pellets hunting for meanings you missed first time round. Making your dog wear a mask of the Richard Littlejohn so you don't feel tempted to kiss it. Throwing a tea-towel over the budgie's cage when you have a wank. Starching up your worm. Giving your pets names. Fleeing the country to start a new life with your fungal infection. [back to top] Inner Workings It seems very quite on twitter this evening, which seems the perfect opportunity to let you in on some of my inner workings. I've got some pumps (two, mainly) one is for air (in/out) and another shoots liquids around (internal) but not out. I may have other pumps because sometimes stuff can squirt out. I have at the core something like an elaborate lolly stick all wrapped around with meat & its juices and there is a profusion of elastications that allow me to ping and propel my parts about in a semblance of order. I shovel fuel and sundry medical lozenges in at the top end, and eventually this converts into laughter tears movement and by-product. We have big large special cups in our house for capturing the by-product. One day I cuddled my wife so hard and professionally that eventually (months) two little pips popped out (currently growing, doing well). Every night I have to turn everything off & lie down or keep walking round til I fall over. I watch my eyelid insides until that gets dull. Thank you that's it it's good to share these intimacies with you don't you think can I lick your face now it smells marmitey? [back to top] A True Story A true story. The other day I was sat at a cafe sipping coffee, chatting with my wife when I felt a tap on my shoulder & a shout in my ear. A youth wearing a rubber horse mask put his face right up to me and neighed. I managed to retain my composure & merely said "Hello Horsey!". I thought the incident had receded into the past, but now I find I lie awake at night. I am scared of horses, shouts, taps, shoulders… …coffee, cafés, wives, youths, masks and rubber. [back to top] Observations From A Train Today I'm travelling to London on the train with my old man. He's not my dad; I won him in a slave auction. I missed my train while faffing about in the car park failing to pay for a ticket. I HATE... machinery/things in general. I just saw a heron do a big poo. Just passed a field with a party of blindfolded farmers trying to pin a tail on a donkey. In another field the farmers were moving the hedges around to baffle the cattle. I saw a plough in a low speed chase pursued by seagulls. I saw a farmer tickling a cow's tummy until milk came out. The cows are plodding to the milking shed so slowly the farmers have started a slow hand clap. A farmer just lifted up the corner of a field and kicked an untidy cow pat under it. Again, the crows, just arsing about with virtually nothing to do all day. The farmers here have covered their fields with houses, shops, car parks, an old church and a gyratory system. Here the farmers have finely mown fields with sandy hollows. They hit the ground with sticks until little round white eggs pop out. The Kennet & Avon canal is one of the nation's loveliest bits of water organised in a long line. The businessman in the seat in front of me has just said "I'm a bit of a maverick". Tempted to tap him on the shoulder with my cock. Every time this train goes into a tunnel, we cut to a shot of a couple having sex. [back to top] On A Bus A man was drumming his fingers annoyingly on the bus today. Then I realised he was tapping "Help, we're trapped in this body" in Morse code. Another man kept saying "I love you, Oh god I love you" into his phone. I noticed that his phone was off. He just loves his phone. A woman twiddled with her hair, engrossed in her book. Eventually her whole hand was so entangled I had to chew through her silky locks. A child sat at the back of the bus, pulling faces. When he pulled mine, I cried out in alarm. I had been asleep. A child sat at the back of the bus pulling different faces. Every time she did so, the wind changed direction. I licked my finger and wrote the words 'Clean Me' in the grime on an old man's face. I sat in the middle of the bus humming Thomas Tallis's Spem In Alium to myself. By the end of the journey we had the full 40-part motet on. A woman was running for the bus. Stop after stop she couldn't quite catch up. Then I realised we were running away from her. On the bus a child squeezes a balloon. It pops and suddenly there is too much air on board, crushing our faces. A young woman opens a bag of maltesers but they spill everywhere. They are full of helium and float off round the bus. We gobble them up, fish-faced feeding in a pool, our laughter making us giggle and squeak like dolphins. Elsewhere, I searched for change down the back of the bus seat. But everything remained exactly as it was. There's no easy way. The bus stopped suddenly and all our hats flew forwards one seat. The bus driver reversed quickly and jammed on the brakes. Order restored. The bus conductor walked to the front, tapped his music stand, and gradually brought in the high keening note of a solo violin. Beautiful. I gave up my seat to an old lady. She pulled off a mask to reveal she was young! My ire peaked, she pulled off a rubber tummy to reveal… …she was pregnant. My dander subsided. She pulled off her bump to reveal she was fat! I reddened. She pulled off her fat to reveal… she wasn't there at all. I sat down in relative comfort. Every time someone presses the bell, the camera zooms in and a voice-over says "Corpus Christi, Carruthers" or "Gonville & Caius, Pettifer". On the bus I noticed a gentleman make repeated journeys to the front where he would stand a while with his hands in his pockets. Curiosity got the better of me, so I found an excuse to venture nearer, looking at an advertisement or some such subterfuge. I was startled to see a small pile of earth amassing there. Throwing caution to the wind, I followed him back to his seat. I was astonished to see three sweaty men trying to tunnel out of the bus. Just then a Nazi guard swept a spotlight over us. We all pretended to be inspecting an advertising panel. [back to top] A Pool Of Light I have stepped in a pool of light. I look up. The bulb in the ceiling is leaking small drops of phosphorus. My foot glows gently. As i walk barefoot across the carpet i leave a small trail of phosphorescence. I fetch a little jar to collect the gobbets of light. I shall keep it under the bed and sprinkle it all over the sheets the next time i awake afraid in the dark of the night. [back to top] I Have Left The village the village the village will be more vigilant the next time I pass by. I have left them with upturned water butts and bundles of polecat kits nailed to the vestry door in burlap sacks. I have left them with minor threats and invocations turfed out of pinstripe lawns I left them with yelps in the night more human than foxy, of thundering footfalls in quiet lanes at dusk, & keaning from the rookery at dawn I have left them with quiet kisses on their sleeping brows as they doze on the bench by the bandstand. I have almost loved them enough to stay But in the end I have left them. And they will wait for my return at the long reach of the year. [back to top] The Bellows Boy For my 10th birthday I received a gift of which every boy-child dreams, surely: a set of good, functioning bellows. Shaped like the spade of aces, its fine wood, copper nozzle, brass studs and pleated leather filled me with a sense honourable duty. The bellows, so often abused by other boys of my acquaintance, would, in my hands, be a force for good, and ever at my side. Sure enough, the wheeze and squeak of its mechanism was as familiar to those who knew me as my own gentle panting. On the fourth or fifth day - I can't remember now (does it matter?) I decided to take my bellows out into the world and right some wrongs. It was a breezy day, ideal conditions for bellow-work, whether for good or ill, and soon I found my first task. Along the lane by the duck-pond a frail gentleman in a broad cape leant into the wind, but could make no progress. I planted my feet firmly behind him and began to pump, puffing and puffing into the wind. I must have done enough to create a little pocket carry him as far as the off-licence. He threw a "Thank you lad!" into the wind, and the edge of my ear caught it as it blew past. Satisfied with my first good deed I looked for other opportunities to pump my bellows in a good cause. In due course I found myself at the window of the village tea-rooms. Peering in I saw a family of four sitting glum faced around a table of still-full soup bowls. I went in. They looked up at me dolefully, and then down at my bellows. For a moment a gleam of hope shone in their eyes. "Too hot?" I mouthed. Eagerly they nodded. A few gentle puffs across the meniscus of their broths and within a minute or two they were tucking in heartily, even feeding me the odd spoonful by way of thanks. The elder of their group slipped a shiny five new pence piece into my palm, and off I went with a skip in my gait and my bellows swinging by side. Feeling it was time to return home, I took the back alleys - the jitties as we call them - and came across a scene that sickened me, as it does even the braves firemen who witness it - a cat up a tree! Even more repulsive were the attempts of a clan of baying oiks trying to shake the poor cat from the relative security of the limb. As luck would have it I arrived just in time as a vigorous jerk on the spindly trunk of the tree dislodged the poor beast and flung it into the air. Without a thought my bellows sprung into position and immediately began a vigorous puffing towards the falling cat. Oh, beautiful bellows! The cat found itself buoyed on the cushion of air formed by my stolid pumping, and drifted gently to the ground like a leaf. Of course it landed and scuttled off without so much as a backward look. The oiks, jaws now dangling somewhere near the neck tattoos stared in disbelief, but a few well-place wheezes from my bellows sent them scampering for their mummies too. I blew across the top of my bellows like I'd seen the cowboys do in all the films, and skipped off home to help my daddy get the fire going in time to toast the tea-cakes. [back to top] |
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