Just thought I'd write a quick blog welcoming StarcoreA to my blog page and thanks for following.
I'm currently moving studio space from the smaller one downstairs at Platform Arts to a much larger one with skylights, which means that we now have plenty of natural light and I no longer have to answer the door to nutcases on the platform intent on the casing the joint.
I've got a reading coming up in Central Square Middlesbrough for the literary week at which I'm reading a piece about all the CCTV cameras in Middlesbrough. We're currently the most observed people in History here. There are more CCTV cameras here than in any other part of the UK (that maybe proprtionate to the population) and the UK has more than anywhere else in the world. Family in Canada have said that they've seen Middlesbrough on their news and on documentaries about how our civil liberties are being worn away. Suprisingly people here aren't making a thing about it, so I thought I'd start something up, which may lead to some positive action and a facebook group (the last form of democracy left).
What makes our CCTV cameras so special is that they have megaphones attched to them, just like out of The Prisoner, but instead of being told to go to the Green Dome, we are told not to to do some of the most mundane things that people can do and we are told off for doing them by a mystery man in the sky. Personally I think its a disgrace, having seen people being made out to be guilty for not doing anything really wrong at all, which is totally against our legal system, right? Aren't we supposed to be innocent until proven guilty here, instead of being hollered at by some disguised cretin in a box full of TV's god knows where?
I'll get back to posting chapters of my novel soon although its taking a bit of an overhaul at the moment I've suddenly realised that I've got loads of research to do on The Golden Dawn's rituals as my knowledge was a little too lacking.
I should point out too that I've had someone from my past following me about (or how about the phrase 'stalking me') on the net which is just embarrassing. I know that they've been here as well as other places so can I just say, because I know that they will read this, that their sad little games are only an embarassment to themselves and that they should find something far more interesting to do with their lives than play on the internet all day poking their nose into other peoples business... like get a job and some self respect. This blog page is for me to generate interest in my work as well as for publishing bits and pieces about what I'm doing and events that I've been to. I want it to stay that way and I hold the keys to the door, unless you've not noticed. If you want to play your freaky little spying games then really I am not the best person for you to do it to unless you want some legal trouble. Remember I know you too. I'm not into the CCTV cameras watching us all; why do you think that I would tolerate you and your special interest in me. The past is the past, it needs to stay there, so please move on, because if you meant anything to me you'd already be in my life right now and you're not.
For the rest of you who are more than welcome to be here, here's my reading, enjoy.
The Man Who Would Be God.
He did it because he could. Stuck without an idea of what to write for a public spoken word performance in the centre of town, which could only last five minutes, he thought ‘well why not?’
As the MC5 said it only takes two seconds to decide whether you are part of the problem or part of the solution. Maybe this was an opportunity to kick out the jams; in which case five minutes, as opposed to two seconds was a heavenly time scale to perform something unique.
So there he stood on a stage with a microphone in the most heavily observed town in the world and started with a friendly intro and then began to read. It was a piece about someone in the same situation as himself having been given the opportunity to read something under the exact same circumstances.
He read, ‘I’ve not written this to annoy or irritate the people who have given me this opportunity to read, for that I am extremely grateful. I’ve not written this to upset or offend. I’ve not written this in any way as an attempt to throw a gift back in the faces of those who have asked me to do this; I’ve done it because the opportunity is there and it should be done and Alan Ginsberg would have done the same.’
Of course the group of people who had come to see the readings had no idea to what he was referring. They watched him anyway and some looked at each other as if his performance was floundering and clutching at straws.
He continued.
‘There are more CCTV cameras in our country than in any other. There are more CCTV cameras in our town than in any other. We are the most observed people in the world and right now we are all being watched. There is a little man somewhere in a box room with a panel of televisions and he is staring at you. He is listening to you. He is waiting like a snake for you to do something that he does not like.
This man has a voice. This man can tell you what he likes if he wishes but he does not. He only tells you what he dislikes. He could tell you that he likes your hairstyle, that he likes your clothes, that he likes your car, your phone, your walk or anything else about you. He could be positive and spread happiness, this observer. He could tell people planting flowers that they have done a lovely job; he could tell people dressing windows that their work has improved the shop front and wish them the best for their sale; he could congratulate the lottery winner; give thanks to the lollipop lady; applaud the busker; wish the Big Issue seller luck and bless those people who are collecting money for charity by telling them that they are doing a selfless thing and encourage shoppers to be selfless too and give. He could encourage multi-culturism; he could benefit the arts; he could sing to us and cheer our day. He could warn us of rain; he could advise us on where to find a parking space; he could just wish us well. He could make a difference but he doesn’t. Yet he is there to make our society positive... allegedly.’
Again the crowd were stunned as to what to say. Some gave awkward giggles, the occasional person applauded but most looked around for the cameras as if a reaction was about to happen.
It did not.
Again he continued, ‘What he will do is expose your guilt. What he will do is embarrass you in public. What he will do is make you anxious. What he will do is make you feel small. What he will do is take away your freedom to walk down the street and go about your business like the human being that was born free to live free and not care about minding the gap or not. If you’ve dropped something he’ll tell you; if you parked in a place he does not like then he will shout at you; if you light a cigarette he will even dramatically inform you of where you can smoke and where you cannot. He will shout at you for running; he will scream at you for standing; he will threaten you for being lost. He will crush your spirit and ruin your day.’
‘We are the most observed people in the world. Not just in the world but in history. Not even Nero, not even Stalin, not even Hitler, not even Thatcher, Pol Pot, Idi Armin or General Pinochet spent this amount of time monitoring their public. This man is not your friend. This man is not god. This man is your controller. I speak from experience. This man told me off for lighting a cigarette as I left a bar. This man shouted at me because I accidentally dropped my phone. This man screamed at me because I stopped in the street when I realised that I’d forgotten something and an old man almost walked into me. None of the things that I did were crimes. But when I got attacked by two people on Linthorpe Road who had no reason to assault me than that I was passing them by, right underneath one of this man’s three hundred and sixty degree cameras, he said nothing. He didn’t warn me. He didn’t send help. He didn’t shout at them. He did nothing.’
‘Nothing comes of nothing my friends. We need to stand around these cameras in groups and smile at him. We need to let go of helium balloons with “Have A Nice Day!” printed upon them and float them upwards to his giant eye. We need to leave presents for him, such as paintings that he can look at, small sacrifices of pleasure to appease the thunder god. We need to dance for him; we need to sing our thanks to him for keeping us safe. My friends we need to worship him and make him feel special. All of these things are positive, not criminal and under no circumstances can they cause offence or arrest. Let's face it; he is taking the Mickey out of us. Let’s take the Mickey out of him.’
And to this the crowd gave a laugh and he felt as though they were on his side.
He pointed to where the camera was right there and right then and spoke, ‘What I would like you to do is join me in Middlesbrough’s first celebration of the man who would be god. On the count of three I want everyone here to turn to face the camera, hold out their arms to embrace him and shout ‘We love you!’’
And he counted to three. But only a quarter of the people followed him.
‘That’s not good enough,’ he shouted, ‘Once again after three.’
And the crowd listened and turned, held out their arms to the remote control godhead and shouted, ‘We love you.’
And the man in the box, hidden away and out of sight in a place that nobody knew where, felt his heart being touched and shouted back, ‘You are causing a public noise violation please disperse’.
But if you had been there and listened very carefully, you could have heard a smile break out across his face and seen the lense in the camera gleam just a little bit brighter as the sun shone down just a touch warmer for the rest of his and everybody else’s day.
Smile for the camera, before they tell you that you can’t do this either.
Monday, 24 May 2010
Sunday, 11 April 2010
Matthew Hopkins illustration
Just read through the chapters that I've posted this morning and realiesed how bad some of the spelling is and that there's the occasional garmmatical error and punctuation mark out of place.
Just out of interest I thought I'd post this image of The Witchfinder General Matthew Hopkins, so anyone who has read chapter 4 can see where I took some character names from. I thought that as they were 'familiars' in the illustration that it was quite fitting to name my Gypsies after them.
Dopplegangers - Chapters 3 & 4
Thanks to Michael Hann for his readings and comment of the last two chapters and for the anonymous reader who requested more.
I intended to get this up sooner than later, sorry about the wait but theres been life stuff to deal with etc. Had a shit virus over the last week that was crappy. There's something going around that makes you feel achy and debilitated, hopefully I've shaken it off now but it just made me feel like I couldn't be arsed with any internet stuff.
Anyway heres chapters 3 & 4 to make up for my absence, enjoy.
The Dopplegangers Chapters 3 & 4
copyright John Chadwick 2009
Chapter 3
‘Ah, there we have you.’ said Forrester Swift as I entered the room. ‘Mrs Buttress. Grace.’ He called, ‘Mrs Buttress our author is here. Could you be so kind as to bring us some tea and some of those scones that you made earlier perchance?’
‘Coming right up, Mr Swift.’ I heard the voice of one who could only be Mrs Grace Buttress call from the kitchen, in a bizarre marriage of many colloquial regional accents. She spoke with a tangled tongue, which was neither Geordie, Cockney, broad Yorkshire or a Somerset dialect, but strangely all of them along the way, from the start of her sentence to her full stop.
‘Right then young man,’ said Swift. ‘Sit yourself down, we must talk.’
I stood in the middle of the room looking suspiciously at him. Despite the clothes and appearance that I had given him earlier, he had an uncanny resemblance to myself, well myself as an older man. I didn’t understand what was happening here. I didn’t like it very much, but couldn’t really help feeling that I was somewhat out of control. I closed my eyes, and put my fingers in my ears and started to hum.
I opened my eyes and took my fingers out of my ears as I stopped humming and saw that he was still sitting there. He now looked at me suspiciously, as he took a notebook out of his jacket, followed by a pencil, and flicked through the pages until he found an appropriate space. He spoke as he wrote: -
‘First Impressions: Strange young man, who is unable to handle reality.
Could do with a good wash, a shave, a haircut and a change of clothes.’
I returned my fingers to my ears, closed my eyes and started to hum again.
‘Teas up, dearies!’ said that bizarre woman’s voice.
‘Oh no,’ I thought. ‘She’s entered the room. That’s two of them. I am mad. Its ok; if I drink some sugared water or some pure orange juice it will go away. This isn’t happening; I’m just tired that’s all. Insomnia, yep that’s what it is.’
‘He’s certainly a strange young man, Mr Swift, oh yes and begorrah!’ her words rolling off her tangled tongue.
‘Oh my god, she’s now slightly Irish.’ I thought, ‘What kind of a monster is she.’
‘He seems to be suffering, from the inability to believe that he is standing amongst his own creations, Mrs Buttress.’
‘How odd, Mr Swift. Ooh you are a clever one.’ she was really pissing me off but I couldn’t bear to open my eyes to take a look at her.
‘In fact as far as I am aware,’ he continued, ‘most creators suffer from this from time to time. A direct reaction to meeting their creations is an instant dislike of their own inability to create perfection. Most creators are as irresponsible, some ignore their creations for aeons, despite the fact that they tend not to go away! ‘
This had obviously been said, for my benefit. But what could I do. I didn’t dare to open my eyes, Grace Buttress sounded like a monster, but he was right, if I’d created him then I was also equally as responsible for her.
‘I should have paid more attention to her,’ I told myself, ‘It’s my fault that her voice is so fucked up, I just hope that she doesn’t have the dagger in her back from Chapter 3.’
But worse than that, far, far worse, was that I knew if I opened my eyes and looked at her that she would also look like me, and that would be too much. Upon her entrance into my novel on Page 39 I described her as a wizened, old woman with a pleasant disposition and curly white hair, but unfortunately with a ridiculous aversion to sunlight. This fear had been put in for the moment only, it was a space filler that I would change when I remembered, I’d only put it into amuse myself as much as the majority of what you are reading. It was only now that I was in her presence that I had remembered, and I presumed that this was a reason why the curtains had been drawn in the front room despite the fact that it was obviously still light outside. No, what was I thinking of, that was just me being typically skanky.
The picture that I had of her in my mind’s eye was becoming overbearing. I bit the bullet, removed the fingers from my ears and stopped humming and slowly opened my eyes.
She was hideous. She was me. Well not me but was at the same time, if that makes sense. She was me if I was frail, female and in my seventies. Still she was definitely me, except that she had a better hairline. I felt sick as I noticed her sagging breasts. I felt sicker as I realised that I was looking at my own sagging breasts, again, if I was frail, female and in my seventies.
Still if I ever was lost in Apache Indian territory, she would have made the perfect companion, I would only have had to look at her breasts and I would instantly know in which direction South was. As I don’t get round to being in Apache Indian territory as much now as I used to, I couldn’t help but look at her and think that she was already devoid of any use. Any use that is other than as a holder for the dagger that had been firmly shoved into her left shoulder, making a bloody mess of her servant’s uniform at some point in chapter 3.
‘I’ve cleaned right through the house for you.’ she said.
‘Urghm, th-th-.thankyou.’ I replied. I realised that everything had a use at some time or another, and even if I did feel putrid looking at her; she may come in handy again when it came to tidying up. Not knowing exactly what to say to her I tried to do something for her too, in as nice a way as possible.
‘I’ll try and do something about those breasts.’ I said.
‘Cor blimey, guv’nor, yes please that would be champion’ she replied, ‘I used to be quite a looker when I was younger you know?’
At this point she smiled at me, and for the first time I became aware of her remarkably hideous grin and I remembered that I hadn’t even given her any teeth. It hadn’t previously seemed important. It’s not as if I’d done it deliberately. It just hadn’t even occurred to me that I should have distinguished every infinite detail of her features, especially as she was only going to be in the bloody book for 30 pages. Half of that chapter would be spent with her face down in a ditch with a dagger in her back anyway. I started to feel guilty.
‘I’ll give you some teeth as well if you like?’ I said humbly.
‘Thank you lovey, it’s a right chore having to suck everything.’ she said with a wink.
Brilliant even as an old hag I had all the eloquence of a Julian Clary gag. I would have to remember to write another 40 or so pages in which she could lie in several more ditches with several other sharp implements in her back. I suddenly had a surreal idea of having her found in a ditch with a live walrus buried tail first in the back of her head. I could video that and make a fortune selling it to the news.
‘Anymore dreadful innuendos from you and I’ll have to open those curtains and let some sunlight in.’ said Forrester keeping the old woman under control.
‘Oh I am sorry sir.’ she replied, ‘Please don’t. I didn’t mean to be rude sir; it’s just at times I can’t help it. He made me do it anyway’ she said pointing at me.
I started to object but then realised that, yes, I was directly responsible for everything but I still did not understand how this was happening. At least one thing had been cleared up she was still terrified of sunlight.
She fell at Forrester Swift’s feet, gripping his legs as he sat on the sofa, and gazing up at him with terror, she became totally subservient, ‘Please don’t open the curtains, me lordy, you know how it upsets poor Mrs Buttress, I’ll do anything. Beat me, yes, beat me.’
‘Why on earth would I choose to beat you, my dear,’ replied Swift stroking her hair, ‘Now come on, dry those tears and pick yourself up, remember that we are in the presence of our author.’ He turned to me and smiled.
‘Is she alright,’ I asked.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘but she’s an excitable wench, but then I suppose you know that better than anyone; you wrote her.’
‘She wasn’t finished,’ I said, ‘She really needs some revising.’
‘Ooh yes, master, please revise me, Make me a busty young maiden with an eye for the gentry.’
‘Oi this is my great British novel, not some bloody technicoloured Barbara Cartland or Daphne De Maurier bollocks. There’ll be no busty barmaids serving up ham-shandy to a member of the gentry who likes a bit of rough in my masterpiece. This is an opportunity to appear round that table with those arseholes on BBC 2 drinking wine and talking shite about art! This is going to get me the Booker prize and a Pulitzer!’
‘Did you say, ‘Pull it Sir’ Oh yes I will if you make me a busty wench with an eye for the gentry.’ she said crawling towards me from her place at Swift’s feet.
I pushed her away and turned to Swift with disgust, ‘Look here, at what point did I put all of these innuendos into her mouth, I don’t remember writing any double entendres in the manuscript especially not from her. Jesus, she’s like a walking Carry on Film.’
‘Elementary, my dear author.’ he said with all the pomp of Basil Rathbone in a Deer Stalker, ‘You shouldn’t look for where you did write it, but perhaps where you did not suggest otherwise.’
‘What the Fuck’s that supposed to mean.’
‘I suggest you ask yourself. The words that I speak are in direct connection to your own mind, anything I might say whether it is factual or not, is based upon your own knowledge and your own perspective of the world around you.’
‘So why is she behaving like that then, with all the bloody master and servant bollocks.’
‘That is probably due to those appalling magazines that that poor unsuspecting young man from Nuneaton left behind in his room when you forced him to depart in such a flurry.’
‘But I didn’t write anything about her being some kind of subservient nymphomaniac.’
‘You didn’t suggest that she wasn’t, and unfortunately since your last relationship disappeared down the drain, your view of women has been’ he paused in a condescending manner and then said, ‘let’s say, not based on reality.’
‘Audrey treated me like shit; running round like a headless chicken, sleeping with everyone behind my back.’
‘Which is now why all women in your fantasy realm are totally under your control and want you; it is as if you are doing them a favour. Besides in reality you were as bad to Audrey as she was to you or have you forgotten the time that you went to that party in Leeds and you seduced that young girl from Huddersfield on the stairwell.’
‘I was drunk.’
‘Amongst everything else that you shoved up your nose and there were others.’ He said.
‘But that was because of her too. It was revenge. You know I really don’t like you.’ I replied knowing that he was right. I looked to my feet and apologised adding, ‘The truth hurts doesn’t it?’
‘There is no such thing as the truth, it is always and always will be strictly personal.’ he said.
‘Are you going to make me a busty wench master?’ Mrs Buttress asked from the floor as she started gouging herself on scones. She turned slightly and I noticed that the dagger was leaking blood down her back.
‘I don’t like her either.’ I said sulking
‘That is a shame,’ said Swift, ‘She speaks awfully highly of you, her loyalty towards you is, how shall I put it; almost passionate.’ A wry smile burst across his face.
‘God you’re an ugly bastard.’ I said and left the room, making for the stairs.
‘Don’t go too far, we still have lots to talk about,’ He called after me, and as I reached the top of the stairs I heard him say to Mrs Buttress, ‘These scones are lovely Grace, yum, the best I’ve ever tasted.’
‘Ooh thank you, Mr Swift, I made them special.’ she replied and then went on to talk about her Sister in Crewe, a family history that had been lifted directly from page 42.
‘God I hate myself.’ I said and entered my room, locking the door behind me.
I spent the next three hours in a combination of sitting on my bed, sulking, listening to a Morbid Angel CD at full blast (in more of an attempt to piss them off downstairs than to blast away my own blues), and finally on the manuscript. They were two hours well spent as I scoured it to prevent any other character misdemeanour thinking that perhaps that if I wrote a preface that corrected everything I may be able to cover almost all of my worries in one great foul swoop and at least if they turned up again they would be presentable.
Unfortunately this didn’t make great reading as it appeared more like a document of law. Well in actual fact that was how it was intended as I based it on ‘A Proclamation, For Suppressing Pirates’ from William III on September 5th 1717 that I had in my copy of Captain Charles Johnson’s ‘A General History of The Robberies & Murders of The Most Notorious Pirates.’ On the whole it seemed quite fitting to my own difficulties. The thought of Mrs Buttress swinging from the rigging with her dagger between her teeth made me snigger to myself, although nothing at the moment would have made me happier than having both of these psyche parasites, marooned on an island like Ben Gunn. I wondered if Forrester Swift liked toasted cheese.
‘Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum. Avast ye scurvy dogs of the devil prepare to be boarded and hand over ye plunder.’ I muttered as I began to type something far less interesting that went as such:-
‘Being the Lord, master and author of this scholarly work, and creator of all characters here within, and it having come to my notice that characters from the said work have seemingly come to life and invaded my own world, I have thought fit to issue this my Godly proclamation which must be taken into account by any personalities from the said work who may choose to invade my personal space, or the personal space of anyone I know, and invade my own world or the world of anyone I know especially in or on an occasion that may be of some embarrassment to me or them whoever they may be.
I here do strictly declare that from here on the following articles will be adhered to by all characters from the said work:-
All characters will have a full human body unless otherwise stated in their description within the work itself. This means that even if a description of the aforesaid characters does not give an infinite detailed account of every tooth, eye, limb, hair, head or internal organs or external organs it will be taken as for granted that the character or characters are fully intact as to appear normal, unless, as previously stated, that it is suggested otherwise in any part of the said work; the word ‘normal’ not being a point of philosophical debate but based on my own taste and interpretation of the word.
All characters must be hygienic. No body odour, bad breath, greasy hair or unhygienic toilet habits will be tolerated unless stated otherwise in the character or characters description or descriptions within the work itself.
The personality of all characters must solemnly reflect the personality that has been given to them in the manuscript as written by the author, under no circumstances may any of the authors personal hang-ups be contrived into the personality of any of the characters from the aforementioned manuscript unless it has been subconsciously injected by the said author and is a necessity of their role within the unfurling story of the work within its entirety.
At no point may any of the characters of the manuscript enter into the vicinity of the author at night time in an attempt to scare the author out of his wits or under any other circumstances even if it has been written into the characters personality within the aforesaid manuscript.
Any character that does present him or herself in direct conflict with this decree will be, hereby as required, be struck from the manuscript by the author.
Given at my Court, at Chipchase Road, Linthorpe Village, Middlesbrough, on the thirteenth day of April, of the 1999h year of our Lord and the First year of My Reign as author and creator.
God Save the KING (Who is me).
It was as I saved the new addition to my document on the laptops hard disk that I heard a cry from downstairs that infiltrated every room throughout the house.
‘Oh my Lord Mr Swift come quick and look I’ve got a lovely set of pearly white teeth.’
‘Wonderful news Grace,’ I heard Forrester say, ‘now you look much better. I presume you are very pleased.’
‘I don’t know if I am’ said she, ‘I’m neither overjoyed or displeased. I suppose I’m really somewhere in between. ‘
‘I don’t know, Mrs. Buttress. You cannot help your disposition. Alas you will always be somewhere in between.’ He replied with a chuckle.
‘Sitting on the bloody fence’s more like it,’ I said to myself and shut the computer down. I stayed in my bedroom playing Quake III on the computer until I got bored and dared to go down stairs. There was no reason to be scared as the house was now empty and my creations had pissed off at last. Satisfied that I had solved the problem with my decree against piracy, I then made myself Super noodles on toast and a cup of tea and went back to playing games on the computer. The evening flew by as it often does whilst wasting your time blowing demons up on a computer game and before long I found that it was two o’clock in the morning and decided to go to bed. Of course I couldn’t sleep with the flashing images of Quake III replaying on the back of my eye lids and I drew the conclusion that I’d played that game for far too long if the images had been burnt on the back of my retinas. I tried to sleep I honestly did but found it really hard too as I started to wonder if Eliphas Levi’s life had been similar to playing Quake III; well after all if that black sage summoned these entities he presumably had to dispose of them somehow. I wondered if he had a wood and iron equivalent to a BFG (that is a Big Fucking Gun in Quake circles) to blow their brains out with. That’s when I started to wonder if Demons had brains and if so what kind of thoughts did they have. This then led to me wondering what demons did when not being summoned by Eliphas Levi and Aleister Crowley and if they actually held down some other worldly job. This then led me to think about producing a comic strip about the mundane life in the diabolical regions that demons lived in as they queued up at job centres in Hades and tried their best to get out of being employed as night watch men and shelf stackers. Bizarrely this led me to go off on a complete tangent and consider Morrissey and whether or not he had some form OCD and that was the real reason why he hadn’t got a shirt to wear; it wasn’t a case of him not actually having one and more a case of him being unable to find one that matched the colour of his socks. This led to me wondering if in fact he wasn’t a miserable, misanthropic loner at all and if instead he just had the inability to read other people’s emotions correctly and make sense of the around him; my diagnosis was that he had Aspergers Syndrome.
I was satisfied that this was possible and eventually fell asleep at around five a.m. having realised that due to his Asperger’s Morrissey must be quite a cold logician like Mr Spock and wondered if he was half Vulcan too. Then it occurred to me that it was unlikely that a vulcan and a human could cross breed due to both species evolving under different planetary conditions; the probability that their genitalia could fit together let alone that their DNA would match was bound to be millions to one and therefore Gene Roddenberry had proposed something scientifically implausible. Still, you never know.
Chapter 4
I was rudely awoken by the sound of sniffling and scratching at my door, followed by loud whistling and the almost Neanderthal grunting of a man screaming, ‘C’m’ere, Greedigut or I’m going to tan yer nancy!’
This was almost instantly followed by the sound of a large thwack and a yelping that could only have come from a dog.
‘Oh no, what kind of fresh hell is this?’ I asked myself as I pulled the pillow over my head.
‘Don’t you hit that lovely little dog you ruffian, or I’ll take my rolling pin to the back of your head!’
‘Leave it out you saggy titted buor or you’ll feel the back of me belt too.’
To this I heard the mangled linguistics of Mrs Buttress insist, ‘His Authorship is very particular, he won’t like you talking to me like that; I’m the one who cooks his supper.’
I felt like objecting finding it preferable that he hit her with his belt as much as he liked, and upon realising that this was probably quite sexist and that I found domestic violence intolerable I justified my thoughts with hoping that while he was at it he would do the same to the pain in the arse detective too; at the end of the day I was an honest misanthrope and not a misogynist and so violence towards one sex had to be balanced out with violence to the other.
‘I don’t know why you’ve come round ‘ere anyway, I bet you’re the one who stuck this dagger in my back.’
‘Aye, well, that is yet to be proven ain’t it, as his lordship ain’t finished the stupid blummin book yet. A man of his intelligence isn’t likely to pin the murder on us gypsies, that’s far too obvious. Still I’m glad someone shut you up you old whore.’
‘Well I saw you following me to the cow shed on page 146, and whether he’s written it or not I think it’s you and if it’s not you, it’s somebody else innit?’ she replied.
The argument continued, as I lay in bed now staring at the ceiling. ‘Of all the characters to turn up next, why is it one of the fucking gypsies. Somebody tell him we’ve already got plenty of clothes pegs, I don’t want lucky charms or heather wrapped in tin foil.’
‘We don’t want any of your pegs, lucky charms or heather wrapped in tin foil, round here and the sooner you’re gone the better.’ I heard her say, ‘In the meantime lovey would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Is it made from nettles’ he grunted.
‘No it’s not, it’s Dwyers and Briars finest blend.’
‘Yeah alright then. Make one for the lads, and bring Greedigut some gin, she loves a bit of strip-me-naked.’
‘Coming right up sir.’ she replied
‘’ere, what in the name of Hampstead Heath is tin foil?’
‘I don’t know, it just sprang into my head and I had to say it.’
Their voices finally fleeted into nothing. I dozed off with the thoughts that I had planned to blame everything in my novel on the gypsies in the final chapter and that now on top of being accused of sexism by literary critics I was likely to be accused of racism too. ‘
What the hell!’ I thought ‘You can’t bloody win either way anyway’ and thinking ‘I’m not a racist or sexist I hate everyone.’ Then I realised that this was Bernard Manning’s excuse too so I punished myself with guilty thoughts hoping that I was nothing like that fat, bigoted arsehole and eventually returned to slumberland.
What a strange and curious dream I had. I found myself in the company of some of the world’s greatest wrestling celebrities, competing in a 2 day wrestling festival set up by an unknown business man.
The rules were as such:-
There was a fine manor house, which was deemed fit to be a mutual and neutral ground. It was here that we would be staying for the weekend hoping that one of us would win this non-pay-to-view, to be rewarded with the miserly prize of a $100. Anywhere outside of the house was deemed to be no man’s land, where we could roam around at will wrestling with any of the other contestants that got in our way. It seemed to me that somewhere in the house there was a league table that should have informed us as to who was winning but from what I can remember no such thing was available.
I do remember a billiard table being in a drawing room somewhere, where monocled gentleman wrestlers, relaxed in each other’s company after a hard day of busting each other’s chops. I had found that my best form of defence had been to run away a lot, before another steroidal Samoan sprang from behind a wall and bust my chops.
‘My chops are my own and no one will bust them but me.’ I decided as I hid in corners practicing my Steiner Recliner on an inflatable doll that I had with me for no apparent reason. It looked like Bruce Forsyth. I remembered how I had dreamt of him a lot on previous occasions. (The weirdest one was when I was pushing him in a Supermarket Trolley up one of the steepest suburban streets that led down to the beach in Brighton.)
One such Samoan had somehow become my tag team partner, but wrestling is a fickle sport and the entertainers can turn traitor at any point and sell out your spandex clad buttocks to the other team at any time. I knew this, as I had seen it happen to the master Terry Funk on many occasions during my crap delving into cable television.
I stood with my Samoan partner in the derelict room of a dilapidated terrace house somewhere near a water flooded rugby pitch near our neutral manor. The Samoan looked at me and raised an eyebrow. It was him or me I thought and as everybody else had already trounced me it seemed fit that I should use my wily wits to prevent this from happening again. I could see a devilish glare in his eyes and I knew that he could not be trusted.
‘You and I could take the whole lot of them on, man.’ he said, ‘I’ve seen your style, your good.’
What style? I was rubbish, I’d been flung into bins, had been hit with steel folding chairs, whilst barbed wire and thumbtacks had been rubbed into my forehead. Is that style?
‘You remind me of the master Terry Funk,’ he continued, ‘together we could be an unstoppable team, I’m going to see Jack about fitting us up for a tag team stretcher match with the Mackleson Twins at the next Royal Rumble. Yeah, man, New York City. Can you imagine that? You, me and the Macklesons together in the ring beating the living daylights out of each other and grappling to the roar of twenty thousand, screaming, trailer park trash live in Madison Square Gardens.’
‘Oh I can’t go.’ I told him, ‘It’s not that I don’t want to but I don’t have a passport.’ The very idea of going anywhere with him scared ten tonnes of shit out of me. Something had to prevent my journey but weirdly this felt very much like the excuses I used to give P.E teachers at school for not being able to do cross country running.
‘You don’t have a passport, fool!’ he screamed, his face terrifyingly close.
‘Urghm, no.’ I said somewhat uneasily.
‘Who doesn’t have a passport?’ said an 8 foot, bearded, straggle haired, bear of a man who had just smashed his way through the now broken door.
‘He doesn’t have a passport!’ said the Samoan pointing at me.
‘You don’t have a fucking passport!’ said the giant and then turned to the door, pushing his head through the smashed frame and yelling down the stairs, ‘Boys, this foolsonnovabitch doesn’t have a passport!’
There was then the terrifying sound of a herd of large mammals clambering up the unstable staircase outside the room, and mutterings of ‘No passport’ and ‘Dumb Fucker!’, ‘Who the hell does he think he is’ and certain phrases familiar to grappling fans everywhere describing what would be done to me if they ever got me in the ring.
Then they were in the room. They were giant men; ugly men; men with a miniscule amount of intelligence and others who were just there for the money. All were wrapped in spandex and leather. There were shorthaired, bleached boys and long haired lumberjacks all of whom had their own firework entrance and music, their own costume and their own complicated grudges and special moves. Then they all shouted, ‘Who hasn’t got a fucking passport!’
The Samoan pointed at me, all heads turned, and like a hive they stepped towards me with outstretched hands and monstrous fingers.
‘Stop he’s mine’ said my traitorous partner. He stood up and all 12 feet of this humongous man suddenly seem to boil. His flesh grimaced, pulled taught over his ridiculously over toned torso which stretched and shuddered, grew and then burst from underneath his tight fitting costume. His eyes bulged to the point of popping and he stood between them and me like the great Colossus of Rhodes.
Slowly a bald headed moustached man in a cheap tuxedo pushed his way through the wrestler rabble, escorted by long legged beauties (who as always, promised that they would be stripping off but never would) and passed him a glittering microphone.
‘Thank you.’ said the Samoan, he wandered now around the inner circle that had been formed around us by the brutes and bints, like some grotesque circumference woven by Faust for some evil purposes that had not been practiced for centuries. The mutterings of the crowd settled, I backed away trying to find my way out through a hole in the crowd, but Jake ‘The Rake’ Hubbards blocked my way with one of his huge glittering boots and pushed me back into the middle.
‘Now some of you people here know me as a friend, others of you know me as an enemy!’ the Samoan continued into the microphone marching in circles and staring at the ceiling, ‘Now those of you who have wrestled with me, know that there is one thing in sports entertainment today that makes me sick; It makes me sicker than a grown man who fiddles with children, and god I hate those perverts; It makes me sicker than those peddlers of communist pamphlets that threaten the very essence that this country has been built upon; It hurts me, deep inside to see this kind of snivelling shit going on today in this wonderful country of ours. It hurts me more to see this kind of criminal behaviour being held up in fervour by the youth of America; pulling them away from pure American democratic values and Mom’s apple pie! And this man, this man who stands before you is responsible for the whole muthafucking lot of it! Don’t let him out of my sight, this fool is going nowhere.’
I cowered under his mighty accusing index finger, sniping me down with its colossal size. He continued, ‘And so tonight in front of you all I’m going to prove to you that...’ and suddenly he began screaming, ‘HE KILLED THE ZELATOR BY HAVING HIM RUN OVER. YES RUN OVER BY A STEAMROLLER LAST WEEK IN DETROIT CITY. Now I’m a patient guy but this man has NO PASSPORT!’
‘So what, I know lots of people who don’t have passports. I don’t really see what the relevance of it is to anything.’ I started babbling in my defence.
‘THIS IS WRESTLING, MAN, THERE IS NO RELEVANCE TO ANY OF IT, WE AIM TO CONFUSE YOUR TINY MINDS WITH EVERY TWIST OF THE PLOT.’ cried Jake The Rake and then he leaned in close to me and whispered ‘But don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret.’
‘I think that the audience know actually.’ I replied.
‘NOT IN ALABAMA’ He screamed, ‘MY GOD THEY THINK IT’S REAL IN ALABAMA.’
‘IT IS REAL, IT IS REAL’ cried the Samoan, ‘AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN LOTS OF PEOPLE DON’T HAVE PASSPORTS? DO YOU KNOW THESE SCUM? MY FRIEND I AM GOING TO SHOVE MY FIST DOWN YOUR THROAT AND GRAB YOUR HEART!’
The crowd gasped with horror.
‘I AM GOING TO GRAPPLE YOUR HEART!’
The crowd gasped again.
‘I AM GOING TO REMOVE YOUR HEART’
Once again they gasped.
‘I AM GOING TO PULL YOUR HEART OUT!’
They gasped so hard I thought that their lungs would burst.
‘AND I’M GOING TO SHOW THE WORLD THAT YOU HAVE NO HEART!’
After a huge gasp from the muscle bound crowd, there was an overwhelming silence and then slowly there was a murmur. It started with someone saying, ‘Eh?’
Another stuttered ‘Th-th-th-that c-c-c-can’t be d-d-d-done!’
Then others joined in saying ‘That’s just plain stupid!’ and ‘How can you pull it out if he doesn’t have one?’ and the wisest remark of all which came from a 3 foot nest headed, blonde guy wearing make up who just said, ‘You dumb fuck!’.
It was at this point that they started to throw steel chairs that rained down on the huge Samoan as if the ceiling had collapsed.
I dropped to all fours and scuttled between mountains of chairs and wrestlers legs in their huge boots and when I got to the other side I suddenly found myself in Liverpools infamous Cavern Club watching a very young and amateurish band called The Silver Beatles. They were rubbish and I woke up.
I needed coffee. I needed a cigarette. I needed any kind of a pickup that could stimulate my numbed brain and wash away the cobwebs.
‘Speed. Cocaine.’ I mumbled to myself and suddenly it started again. At first there was a slow quiet whine, then a scrape and then the sound of huge gnarled paws digging at the door.
‘What the fucking hell?’ I said still in a daze, daunted by the unseen terror.
‘GREEDIGUT!’ a voice bellowed through the house. Then the door flew open and in stormed my first acquaintance with my own personal five horsemen of the apocalypse, followed by the mangy mutt that had been hammering at my door. A creature so fowl that if there had ever been a fifth seal to be broken, there would have been little revelation for me, if it would have been this beast that had sprung out to reap havoc on the cursed Earth. I named her Infestation; Infestation of the apocalypse; The fifth, revolting horseman, infested with everything from ringworm, to mites. Her stench was truly indescribable and despite the fact that she was such a small dog, her head was probably twice the size of the rest of her body.
She leapt onto the bed, her flea ridden face inches from my own, and the communion was completed. I received cunnilingus of the head as she lapped every facial orifice that I possess, her tongue exploring with infinite detail every crack and cranny. I shoved my hands under her front legs, grabbed her chest and held her as far away from me as I could reach, her hind legs digging and kicking for stability, as a pup held over water for the first time. And that was when I realised that despite the fact that she had the body of a terrier and the head of a rottweiler her face was mine.
I flung her from my grasp, she whimpered and moaned as she flew over the CDs and books, strewn across the floor, smashing into my computer, knocking it over on the untidy desk, breaking finished wine bottles and mouldering mugs and causing more turmoil. She stood, looked at me, and then tucked her balding tail between her legs, and in attempt to curl her entire rear under her, she ran like a storm back through the door and down the stairs. The gypsies her comrades stood aghast. They stooped over me, shadowy men in rags and ribbons like a David Essex lookalike competition. They were me. My new identical replicas dressed like members of Dexy’s Midnight Runners.
I screamed and pulled my soiled duvet over my head, hiding myself from the Truth.
‘I do like this room. Yeah very nice. Wouldn’t mind living in here myself.’ said one in a ridiculously stereotyped, villainous voice.
‘Why’s he hiding, Tom?’ said another in an equally absurd tongue.
‘Well why do you think? He thinks we’re trassenos, don’t he?’
‘I think you’re what?’ I replied from under the covers.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know, sir!’ he said, ‘All our words are yours.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about, there’s no such word.’ I said abruptly.
‘Cause you do. It’s Romany voker, aint it?’ replied the first speaker.
‘What?’
‘When you were five years old, in North Ormesby market, you met an old market stall holder friend of your Grandmothers. They used to stand North Ormesby market together. She took a shine to you and gave you a farthing.’
‘I don’t see what the relevance of this is. I don’t even remember, get out of my house, go on fuck off.’
‘Oh dear, sir, whose the Trasseno now, eh?’ the other said.
And then the second speaker informed me, ‘She taught you several Romany words. Romany voker; gypsy speak.’
‘How am I supposed to remember that!’
‘You don’t have to’ he laughed, ‘But we do.’
‘Trasseno is a bad person.’ said the first voice, ‘Do you think that we are Trassenos‘, master?’ With this he pulled the duvet away from my face and glared at me.
‘No not at all,’ I cowered, ‘I think that you are some of the nicest gypsies I have ever met, and your little dog is divine.’
At this the third lifted up his bent and raggy top hat, shoved his hand in it and flung its contents onto my lap. ‘There’s a present, sir. Just to let you know that you are one of us.’
I sat upright staring agog at what appeared to be a large dead rabbit strewn across my legs.
‘Caught that me’self this morning. Snared it good and proper. You can have it if you like it.’
‘I don’t want it. Here get rid of it.’
‘No. It’s yours, you’ve got to skin it and stick it on the boil. Lovely’ said the fourth.
‘Get that out of my fucking bed. I don’t like rabbits, especially dead ones.’
‘It’s not a rabbit it’s a hare.’
‘I don’t care if it’s a fucking armadillo, I don’t want it, it’s bleeding.’
‘The dog got it sir.’ said the first gypsy.
‘Oh well that changes everything, just leave it’s fucking carcass strewn on my bed; as long as the dog got it that obviously makes all the difference.’
They laughed and walked out the room. ‘Told you he’d like it didn’t I Tom?’
‘I do like hares,’ said Tom, the gypsy who had flung away my duvet, who from what evidence I had seen seemed to be there leader, ‘I do like Hares. They run and play in the fields all day. They have a lovely time.’
These words he had just said seemed so familiar to me but I couldn’t for the life of me work out why. I could have sworn that I’d heard it somewhere before and of course Tom was there leader, I’d written him hadn’t I!
The weird thing was that they only had a bit of the book so far. I was going to bring them all back later on in the narrative and do more with them. It struck me that it clearly didn’t matter how much of my book had been dedicated to the manifested characters in respect to them somehow being relevant in my real life; the question as to which of my characters was going to haunt me bore little relevance to the amount of words that had been dedicated to them so far. I cursed my look that I had to be haunted by the gypsies and Mrs Buttress and not the two sultry, village lesbians that I had introduced for some light relief.
My fantasies were shattered by the instantly returning sound of paws upon the stairs. ‘Greedigut, come here.’ cried Tom, ‘Quick, Ilemauzer, grab her’
‘I can’t, she’s like a little rat. Jamara don’t let her go’
There was a scuffle, several bangs and the sound of four men falling down the stairs, and then once again she burst through the door. She leapt with powerful feet outstretched and a look of determination on her contorted and desperate face. She hit me full on in the chest, knocking the wind out of me and standing on my groin, I bent double in agony as she started to savage the poached hare in my lap. With one huge bite she grabbed it by the throat, flung it around as if she was attempting to kill it again. The head was torn clean off, splattering my face with the limp torso. And then like lightning she pelted back out of the room and down the stairs.
‘My god, I’ve been murdered,’ I yelled staring at the blood in my groin.
‘Greedigut! C’m’ere’ I heard them cry following the cacophony of scrambling feet and things being smashed.
There was nothing for it; I’d been hiding away from the world for too long; I decided that I had best get up and face the music downstairs.
I intended to get this up sooner than later, sorry about the wait but theres been life stuff to deal with etc. Had a shit virus over the last week that was crappy. There's something going around that makes you feel achy and debilitated, hopefully I've shaken it off now but it just made me feel like I couldn't be arsed with any internet stuff.
Anyway heres chapters 3 & 4 to make up for my absence, enjoy.
The Dopplegangers Chapters 3 & 4
copyright John Chadwick 2009
Chapter 3
‘Ah, there we have you.’ said Forrester Swift as I entered the room. ‘Mrs Buttress. Grace.’ He called, ‘Mrs Buttress our author is here. Could you be so kind as to bring us some tea and some of those scones that you made earlier perchance?’
‘Coming right up, Mr Swift.’ I heard the voice of one who could only be Mrs Grace Buttress call from the kitchen, in a bizarre marriage of many colloquial regional accents. She spoke with a tangled tongue, which was neither Geordie, Cockney, broad Yorkshire or a Somerset dialect, but strangely all of them along the way, from the start of her sentence to her full stop.
‘Right then young man,’ said Swift. ‘Sit yourself down, we must talk.’
I stood in the middle of the room looking suspiciously at him. Despite the clothes and appearance that I had given him earlier, he had an uncanny resemblance to myself, well myself as an older man. I didn’t understand what was happening here. I didn’t like it very much, but couldn’t really help feeling that I was somewhat out of control. I closed my eyes, and put my fingers in my ears and started to hum.
I opened my eyes and took my fingers out of my ears as I stopped humming and saw that he was still sitting there. He now looked at me suspiciously, as he took a notebook out of his jacket, followed by a pencil, and flicked through the pages until he found an appropriate space. He spoke as he wrote: -
‘First Impressions: Strange young man, who is unable to handle reality.
Could do with a good wash, a shave, a haircut and a change of clothes.’
I returned my fingers to my ears, closed my eyes and started to hum again.
‘Teas up, dearies!’ said that bizarre woman’s voice.
‘Oh no,’ I thought. ‘She’s entered the room. That’s two of them. I am mad. Its ok; if I drink some sugared water or some pure orange juice it will go away. This isn’t happening; I’m just tired that’s all. Insomnia, yep that’s what it is.’
‘He’s certainly a strange young man, Mr Swift, oh yes and begorrah!’ her words rolling off her tangled tongue.
‘Oh my god, she’s now slightly Irish.’ I thought, ‘What kind of a monster is she.’
‘He seems to be suffering, from the inability to believe that he is standing amongst his own creations, Mrs Buttress.’
‘How odd, Mr Swift. Ooh you are a clever one.’ she was really pissing me off but I couldn’t bear to open my eyes to take a look at her.
‘In fact as far as I am aware,’ he continued, ‘most creators suffer from this from time to time. A direct reaction to meeting their creations is an instant dislike of their own inability to create perfection. Most creators are as irresponsible, some ignore their creations for aeons, despite the fact that they tend not to go away! ‘
This had obviously been said, for my benefit. But what could I do. I didn’t dare to open my eyes, Grace Buttress sounded like a monster, but he was right, if I’d created him then I was also equally as responsible for her.
‘I should have paid more attention to her,’ I told myself, ‘It’s my fault that her voice is so fucked up, I just hope that she doesn’t have the dagger in her back from Chapter 3.’
But worse than that, far, far worse, was that I knew if I opened my eyes and looked at her that she would also look like me, and that would be too much. Upon her entrance into my novel on Page 39 I described her as a wizened, old woman with a pleasant disposition and curly white hair, but unfortunately with a ridiculous aversion to sunlight. This fear had been put in for the moment only, it was a space filler that I would change when I remembered, I’d only put it into amuse myself as much as the majority of what you are reading. It was only now that I was in her presence that I had remembered, and I presumed that this was a reason why the curtains had been drawn in the front room despite the fact that it was obviously still light outside. No, what was I thinking of, that was just me being typically skanky.
The picture that I had of her in my mind’s eye was becoming overbearing. I bit the bullet, removed the fingers from my ears and stopped humming and slowly opened my eyes.
She was hideous. She was me. Well not me but was at the same time, if that makes sense. She was me if I was frail, female and in my seventies. Still she was definitely me, except that she had a better hairline. I felt sick as I noticed her sagging breasts. I felt sicker as I realised that I was looking at my own sagging breasts, again, if I was frail, female and in my seventies.
Still if I ever was lost in Apache Indian territory, she would have made the perfect companion, I would only have had to look at her breasts and I would instantly know in which direction South was. As I don’t get round to being in Apache Indian territory as much now as I used to, I couldn’t help but look at her and think that she was already devoid of any use. Any use that is other than as a holder for the dagger that had been firmly shoved into her left shoulder, making a bloody mess of her servant’s uniform at some point in chapter 3.
‘I’ve cleaned right through the house for you.’ she said.
‘Urghm, th-th-.thankyou.’ I replied. I realised that everything had a use at some time or another, and even if I did feel putrid looking at her; she may come in handy again when it came to tidying up. Not knowing exactly what to say to her I tried to do something for her too, in as nice a way as possible.
‘I’ll try and do something about those breasts.’ I said.
‘Cor blimey, guv’nor, yes please that would be champion’ she replied, ‘I used to be quite a looker when I was younger you know?’
At this point she smiled at me, and for the first time I became aware of her remarkably hideous grin and I remembered that I hadn’t even given her any teeth. It hadn’t previously seemed important. It’s not as if I’d done it deliberately. It just hadn’t even occurred to me that I should have distinguished every infinite detail of her features, especially as she was only going to be in the bloody book for 30 pages. Half of that chapter would be spent with her face down in a ditch with a dagger in her back anyway. I started to feel guilty.
‘I’ll give you some teeth as well if you like?’ I said humbly.
‘Thank you lovey, it’s a right chore having to suck everything.’ she said with a wink.
Brilliant even as an old hag I had all the eloquence of a Julian Clary gag. I would have to remember to write another 40 or so pages in which she could lie in several more ditches with several other sharp implements in her back. I suddenly had a surreal idea of having her found in a ditch with a live walrus buried tail first in the back of her head. I could video that and make a fortune selling it to the news.
‘Anymore dreadful innuendos from you and I’ll have to open those curtains and let some sunlight in.’ said Forrester keeping the old woman under control.
‘Oh I am sorry sir.’ she replied, ‘Please don’t. I didn’t mean to be rude sir; it’s just at times I can’t help it. He made me do it anyway’ she said pointing at me.
I started to object but then realised that, yes, I was directly responsible for everything but I still did not understand how this was happening. At least one thing had been cleared up she was still terrified of sunlight.
She fell at Forrester Swift’s feet, gripping his legs as he sat on the sofa, and gazing up at him with terror, she became totally subservient, ‘Please don’t open the curtains, me lordy, you know how it upsets poor Mrs Buttress, I’ll do anything. Beat me, yes, beat me.’
‘Why on earth would I choose to beat you, my dear,’ replied Swift stroking her hair, ‘Now come on, dry those tears and pick yourself up, remember that we are in the presence of our author.’ He turned to me and smiled.
‘Is she alright,’ I asked.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘but she’s an excitable wench, but then I suppose you know that better than anyone; you wrote her.’
‘She wasn’t finished,’ I said, ‘She really needs some revising.’
‘Ooh yes, master, please revise me, Make me a busty young maiden with an eye for the gentry.’
‘Oi this is my great British novel, not some bloody technicoloured Barbara Cartland or Daphne De Maurier bollocks. There’ll be no busty barmaids serving up ham-shandy to a member of the gentry who likes a bit of rough in my masterpiece. This is an opportunity to appear round that table with those arseholes on BBC 2 drinking wine and talking shite about art! This is going to get me the Booker prize and a Pulitzer!’
‘Did you say, ‘Pull it Sir’ Oh yes I will if you make me a busty wench with an eye for the gentry.’ she said crawling towards me from her place at Swift’s feet.
I pushed her away and turned to Swift with disgust, ‘Look here, at what point did I put all of these innuendos into her mouth, I don’t remember writing any double entendres in the manuscript especially not from her. Jesus, she’s like a walking Carry on Film.’
‘Elementary, my dear author.’ he said with all the pomp of Basil Rathbone in a Deer Stalker, ‘You shouldn’t look for where you did write it, but perhaps where you did not suggest otherwise.’
‘What the Fuck’s that supposed to mean.’
‘I suggest you ask yourself. The words that I speak are in direct connection to your own mind, anything I might say whether it is factual or not, is based upon your own knowledge and your own perspective of the world around you.’
‘So why is she behaving like that then, with all the bloody master and servant bollocks.’
‘That is probably due to those appalling magazines that that poor unsuspecting young man from Nuneaton left behind in his room when you forced him to depart in such a flurry.’
‘But I didn’t write anything about her being some kind of subservient nymphomaniac.’
‘You didn’t suggest that she wasn’t, and unfortunately since your last relationship disappeared down the drain, your view of women has been’ he paused in a condescending manner and then said, ‘let’s say, not based on reality.’
‘Audrey treated me like shit; running round like a headless chicken, sleeping with everyone behind my back.’
‘Which is now why all women in your fantasy realm are totally under your control and want you; it is as if you are doing them a favour. Besides in reality you were as bad to Audrey as she was to you or have you forgotten the time that you went to that party in Leeds and you seduced that young girl from Huddersfield on the stairwell.’
‘I was drunk.’
‘Amongst everything else that you shoved up your nose and there were others.’ He said.
‘But that was because of her too. It was revenge. You know I really don’t like you.’ I replied knowing that he was right. I looked to my feet and apologised adding, ‘The truth hurts doesn’t it?’
‘There is no such thing as the truth, it is always and always will be strictly personal.’ he said.
‘Are you going to make me a busty wench master?’ Mrs Buttress asked from the floor as she started gouging herself on scones. She turned slightly and I noticed that the dagger was leaking blood down her back.
‘I don’t like her either.’ I said sulking
‘That is a shame,’ said Swift, ‘She speaks awfully highly of you, her loyalty towards you is, how shall I put it; almost passionate.’ A wry smile burst across his face.
‘God you’re an ugly bastard.’ I said and left the room, making for the stairs.
‘Don’t go too far, we still have lots to talk about,’ He called after me, and as I reached the top of the stairs I heard him say to Mrs Buttress, ‘These scones are lovely Grace, yum, the best I’ve ever tasted.’
‘Ooh thank you, Mr Swift, I made them special.’ she replied and then went on to talk about her Sister in Crewe, a family history that had been lifted directly from page 42.
‘God I hate myself.’ I said and entered my room, locking the door behind me.
I spent the next three hours in a combination of sitting on my bed, sulking, listening to a Morbid Angel CD at full blast (in more of an attempt to piss them off downstairs than to blast away my own blues), and finally on the manuscript. They were two hours well spent as I scoured it to prevent any other character misdemeanour thinking that perhaps that if I wrote a preface that corrected everything I may be able to cover almost all of my worries in one great foul swoop and at least if they turned up again they would be presentable.
Unfortunately this didn’t make great reading as it appeared more like a document of law. Well in actual fact that was how it was intended as I based it on ‘A Proclamation, For Suppressing Pirates’ from William III on September 5th 1717 that I had in my copy of Captain Charles Johnson’s ‘A General History of The Robberies & Murders of The Most Notorious Pirates.’ On the whole it seemed quite fitting to my own difficulties. The thought of Mrs Buttress swinging from the rigging with her dagger between her teeth made me snigger to myself, although nothing at the moment would have made me happier than having both of these psyche parasites, marooned on an island like Ben Gunn. I wondered if Forrester Swift liked toasted cheese.
‘Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum. Avast ye scurvy dogs of the devil prepare to be boarded and hand over ye plunder.’ I muttered as I began to type something far less interesting that went as such:-
‘Being the Lord, master and author of this scholarly work, and creator of all characters here within, and it having come to my notice that characters from the said work have seemingly come to life and invaded my own world, I have thought fit to issue this my Godly proclamation which must be taken into account by any personalities from the said work who may choose to invade my personal space, or the personal space of anyone I know, and invade my own world or the world of anyone I know especially in or on an occasion that may be of some embarrassment to me or them whoever they may be.
I here do strictly declare that from here on the following articles will be adhered to by all characters from the said work:-
All characters will have a full human body unless otherwise stated in their description within the work itself. This means that even if a description of the aforesaid characters does not give an infinite detailed account of every tooth, eye, limb, hair, head or internal organs or external organs it will be taken as for granted that the character or characters are fully intact as to appear normal, unless, as previously stated, that it is suggested otherwise in any part of the said work; the word ‘normal’ not being a point of philosophical debate but based on my own taste and interpretation of the word.
All characters must be hygienic. No body odour, bad breath, greasy hair or unhygienic toilet habits will be tolerated unless stated otherwise in the character or characters description or descriptions within the work itself.
The personality of all characters must solemnly reflect the personality that has been given to them in the manuscript as written by the author, under no circumstances may any of the authors personal hang-ups be contrived into the personality of any of the characters from the aforementioned manuscript unless it has been subconsciously injected by the said author and is a necessity of their role within the unfurling story of the work within its entirety.
At no point may any of the characters of the manuscript enter into the vicinity of the author at night time in an attempt to scare the author out of his wits or under any other circumstances even if it has been written into the characters personality within the aforesaid manuscript.
Any character that does present him or herself in direct conflict with this decree will be, hereby as required, be struck from the manuscript by the author.
Given at my Court, at Chipchase Road, Linthorpe Village, Middlesbrough, on the thirteenth day of April, of the 1999h year of our Lord and the First year of My Reign as author and creator.
God Save the KING (Who is me).
It was as I saved the new addition to my document on the laptops hard disk that I heard a cry from downstairs that infiltrated every room throughout the house.
‘Oh my Lord Mr Swift come quick and look I’ve got a lovely set of pearly white teeth.’
‘Wonderful news Grace,’ I heard Forrester say, ‘now you look much better. I presume you are very pleased.’
‘I don’t know if I am’ said she, ‘I’m neither overjoyed or displeased. I suppose I’m really somewhere in between. ‘
‘I don’t know, Mrs. Buttress. You cannot help your disposition. Alas you will always be somewhere in between.’ He replied with a chuckle.
‘Sitting on the bloody fence’s more like it,’ I said to myself and shut the computer down. I stayed in my bedroom playing Quake III on the computer until I got bored and dared to go down stairs. There was no reason to be scared as the house was now empty and my creations had pissed off at last. Satisfied that I had solved the problem with my decree against piracy, I then made myself Super noodles on toast and a cup of tea and went back to playing games on the computer. The evening flew by as it often does whilst wasting your time blowing demons up on a computer game and before long I found that it was two o’clock in the morning and decided to go to bed. Of course I couldn’t sleep with the flashing images of Quake III replaying on the back of my eye lids and I drew the conclusion that I’d played that game for far too long if the images had been burnt on the back of my retinas. I tried to sleep I honestly did but found it really hard too as I started to wonder if Eliphas Levi’s life had been similar to playing Quake III; well after all if that black sage summoned these entities he presumably had to dispose of them somehow. I wondered if he had a wood and iron equivalent to a BFG (that is a Big Fucking Gun in Quake circles) to blow their brains out with. That’s when I started to wonder if Demons had brains and if so what kind of thoughts did they have. This then led to me wondering what demons did when not being summoned by Eliphas Levi and Aleister Crowley and if they actually held down some other worldly job. This then led me to think about producing a comic strip about the mundane life in the diabolical regions that demons lived in as they queued up at job centres in Hades and tried their best to get out of being employed as night watch men and shelf stackers. Bizarrely this led me to go off on a complete tangent and consider Morrissey and whether or not he had some form OCD and that was the real reason why he hadn’t got a shirt to wear; it wasn’t a case of him not actually having one and more a case of him being unable to find one that matched the colour of his socks. This led to me wondering if in fact he wasn’t a miserable, misanthropic loner at all and if instead he just had the inability to read other people’s emotions correctly and make sense of the around him; my diagnosis was that he had Aspergers Syndrome.
I was satisfied that this was possible and eventually fell asleep at around five a.m. having realised that due to his Asperger’s Morrissey must be quite a cold logician like Mr Spock and wondered if he was half Vulcan too. Then it occurred to me that it was unlikely that a vulcan and a human could cross breed due to both species evolving under different planetary conditions; the probability that their genitalia could fit together let alone that their DNA would match was bound to be millions to one and therefore Gene Roddenberry had proposed something scientifically implausible. Still, you never know.
Chapter 4
I was rudely awoken by the sound of sniffling and scratching at my door, followed by loud whistling and the almost Neanderthal grunting of a man screaming, ‘C’m’ere, Greedigut or I’m going to tan yer nancy!’
This was almost instantly followed by the sound of a large thwack and a yelping that could only have come from a dog.
‘Oh no, what kind of fresh hell is this?’ I asked myself as I pulled the pillow over my head.
‘Don’t you hit that lovely little dog you ruffian, or I’ll take my rolling pin to the back of your head!’
‘Leave it out you saggy titted buor or you’ll feel the back of me belt too.’
To this I heard the mangled linguistics of Mrs Buttress insist, ‘His Authorship is very particular, he won’t like you talking to me like that; I’m the one who cooks his supper.’
I felt like objecting finding it preferable that he hit her with his belt as much as he liked, and upon realising that this was probably quite sexist and that I found domestic violence intolerable I justified my thoughts with hoping that while he was at it he would do the same to the pain in the arse detective too; at the end of the day I was an honest misanthrope and not a misogynist and so violence towards one sex had to be balanced out with violence to the other.
‘I don’t know why you’ve come round ‘ere anyway, I bet you’re the one who stuck this dagger in my back.’
‘Aye, well, that is yet to be proven ain’t it, as his lordship ain’t finished the stupid blummin book yet. A man of his intelligence isn’t likely to pin the murder on us gypsies, that’s far too obvious. Still I’m glad someone shut you up you old whore.’
‘Well I saw you following me to the cow shed on page 146, and whether he’s written it or not I think it’s you and if it’s not you, it’s somebody else innit?’ she replied.
The argument continued, as I lay in bed now staring at the ceiling. ‘Of all the characters to turn up next, why is it one of the fucking gypsies. Somebody tell him we’ve already got plenty of clothes pegs, I don’t want lucky charms or heather wrapped in tin foil.’
‘We don’t want any of your pegs, lucky charms or heather wrapped in tin foil, round here and the sooner you’re gone the better.’ I heard her say, ‘In the meantime lovey would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Is it made from nettles’ he grunted.
‘No it’s not, it’s Dwyers and Briars finest blend.’
‘Yeah alright then. Make one for the lads, and bring Greedigut some gin, she loves a bit of strip-me-naked.’
‘Coming right up sir.’ she replied
‘’ere, what in the name of Hampstead Heath is tin foil?’
‘I don’t know, it just sprang into my head and I had to say it.’
Their voices finally fleeted into nothing. I dozed off with the thoughts that I had planned to blame everything in my novel on the gypsies in the final chapter and that now on top of being accused of sexism by literary critics I was likely to be accused of racism too. ‘
What the hell!’ I thought ‘You can’t bloody win either way anyway’ and thinking ‘I’m not a racist or sexist I hate everyone.’ Then I realised that this was Bernard Manning’s excuse too so I punished myself with guilty thoughts hoping that I was nothing like that fat, bigoted arsehole and eventually returned to slumberland.
What a strange and curious dream I had. I found myself in the company of some of the world’s greatest wrestling celebrities, competing in a 2 day wrestling festival set up by an unknown business man.
The rules were as such:-
There was a fine manor house, which was deemed fit to be a mutual and neutral ground. It was here that we would be staying for the weekend hoping that one of us would win this non-pay-to-view, to be rewarded with the miserly prize of a $100. Anywhere outside of the house was deemed to be no man’s land, where we could roam around at will wrestling with any of the other contestants that got in our way. It seemed to me that somewhere in the house there was a league table that should have informed us as to who was winning but from what I can remember no such thing was available.
I do remember a billiard table being in a drawing room somewhere, where monocled gentleman wrestlers, relaxed in each other’s company after a hard day of busting each other’s chops. I had found that my best form of defence had been to run away a lot, before another steroidal Samoan sprang from behind a wall and bust my chops.
‘My chops are my own and no one will bust them but me.’ I decided as I hid in corners practicing my Steiner Recliner on an inflatable doll that I had with me for no apparent reason. It looked like Bruce Forsyth. I remembered how I had dreamt of him a lot on previous occasions. (The weirdest one was when I was pushing him in a Supermarket Trolley up one of the steepest suburban streets that led down to the beach in Brighton.)
One such Samoan had somehow become my tag team partner, but wrestling is a fickle sport and the entertainers can turn traitor at any point and sell out your spandex clad buttocks to the other team at any time. I knew this, as I had seen it happen to the master Terry Funk on many occasions during my crap delving into cable television.
I stood with my Samoan partner in the derelict room of a dilapidated terrace house somewhere near a water flooded rugby pitch near our neutral manor. The Samoan looked at me and raised an eyebrow. It was him or me I thought and as everybody else had already trounced me it seemed fit that I should use my wily wits to prevent this from happening again. I could see a devilish glare in his eyes and I knew that he could not be trusted.
‘You and I could take the whole lot of them on, man.’ he said, ‘I’ve seen your style, your good.’
What style? I was rubbish, I’d been flung into bins, had been hit with steel folding chairs, whilst barbed wire and thumbtacks had been rubbed into my forehead. Is that style?
‘You remind me of the master Terry Funk,’ he continued, ‘together we could be an unstoppable team, I’m going to see Jack about fitting us up for a tag team stretcher match with the Mackleson Twins at the next Royal Rumble. Yeah, man, New York City. Can you imagine that? You, me and the Macklesons together in the ring beating the living daylights out of each other and grappling to the roar of twenty thousand, screaming, trailer park trash live in Madison Square Gardens.’
‘Oh I can’t go.’ I told him, ‘It’s not that I don’t want to but I don’t have a passport.’ The very idea of going anywhere with him scared ten tonnes of shit out of me. Something had to prevent my journey but weirdly this felt very much like the excuses I used to give P.E teachers at school for not being able to do cross country running.
‘You don’t have a passport, fool!’ he screamed, his face terrifyingly close.
‘Urghm, no.’ I said somewhat uneasily.
‘Who doesn’t have a passport?’ said an 8 foot, bearded, straggle haired, bear of a man who had just smashed his way through the now broken door.
‘He doesn’t have a passport!’ said the Samoan pointing at me.
‘You don’t have a fucking passport!’ said the giant and then turned to the door, pushing his head through the smashed frame and yelling down the stairs, ‘Boys, this foolsonnovabitch doesn’t have a passport!’
There was then the terrifying sound of a herd of large mammals clambering up the unstable staircase outside the room, and mutterings of ‘No passport’ and ‘Dumb Fucker!’, ‘Who the hell does he think he is’ and certain phrases familiar to grappling fans everywhere describing what would be done to me if they ever got me in the ring.
Then they were in the room. They were giant men; ugly men; men with a miniscule amount of intelligence and others who were just there for the money. All were wrapped in spandex and leather. There were shorthaired, bleached boys and long haired lumberjacks all of whom had their own firework entrance and music, their own costume and their own complicated grudges and special moves. Then they all shouted, ‘Who hasn’t got a fucking passport!’
The Samoan pointed at me, all heads turned, and like a hive they stepped towards me with outstretched hands and monstrous fingers.
‘Stop he’s mine’ said my traitorous partner. He stood up and all 12 feet of this humongous man suddenly seem to boil. His flesh grimaced, pulled taught over his ridiculously over toned torso which stretched and shuddered, grew and then burst from underneath his tight fitting costume. His eyes bulged to the point of popping and he stood between them and me like the great Colossus of Rhodes.
Slowly a bald headed moustached man in a cheap tuxedo pushed his way through the wrestler rabble, escorted by long legged beauties (who as always, promised that they would be stripping off but never would) and passed him a glittering microphone.
‘Thank you.’ said the Samoan, he wandered now around the inner circle that had been formed around us by the brutes and bints, like some grotesque circumference woven by Faust for some evil purposes that had not been practiced for centuries. The mutterings of the crowd settled, I backed away trying to find my way out through a hole in the crowd, but Jake ‘The Rake’ Hubbards blocked my way with one of his huge glittering boots and pushed me back into the middle.
‘Now some of you people here know me as a friend, others of you know me as an enemy!’ the Samoan continued into the microphone marching in circles and staring at the ceiling, ‘Now those of you who have wrestled with me, know that there is one thing in sports entertainment today that makes me sick; It makes me sicker than a grown man who fiddles with children, and god I hate those perverts; It makes me sicker than those peddlers of communist pamphlets that threaten the very essence that this country has been built upon; It hurts me, deep inside to see this kind of snivelling shit going on today in this wonderful country of ours. It hurts me more to see this kind of criminal behaviour being held up in fervour by the youth of America; pulling them away from pure American democratic values and Mom’s apple pie! And this man, this man who stands before you is responsible for the whole muthafucking lot of it! Don’t let him out of my sight, this fool is going nowhere.’
I cowered under his mighty accusing index finger, sniping me down with its colossal size. He continued, ‘And so tonight in front of you all I’m going to prove to you that...’ and suddenly he began screaming, ‘HE KILLED THE ZELATOR BY HAVING HIM RUN OVER. YES RUN OVER BY A STEAMROLLER LAST WEEK IN DETROIT CITY. Now I’m a patient guy but this man has NO PASSPORT!’
‘So what, I know lots of people who don’t have passports. I don’t really see what the relevance of it is to anything.’ I started babbling in my defence.
‘THIS IS WRESTLING, MAN, THERE IS NO RELEVANCE TO ANY OF IT, WE AIM TO CONFUSE YOUR TINY MINDS WITH EVERY TWIST OF THE PLOT.’ cried Jake The Rake and then he leaned in close to me and whispered ‘But don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret.’
‘I think that the audience know actually.’ I replied.
‘NOT IN ALABAMA’ He screamed, ‘MY GOD THEY THINK IT’S REAL IN ALABAMA.’
‘IT IS REAL, IT IS REAL’ cried the Samoan, ‘AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN LOTS OF PEOPLE DON’T HAVE PASSPORTS? DO YOU KNOW THESE SCUM? MY FRIEND I AM GOING TO SHOVE MY FIST DOWN YOUR THROAT AND GRAB YOUR HEART!’
The crowd gasped with horror.
‘I AM GOING TO GRAPPLE YOUR HEART!’
The crowd gasped again.
‘I AM GOING TO REMOVE YOUR HEART’
Once again they gasped.
‘I AM GOING TO PULL YOUR HEART OUT!’
They gasped so hard I thought that their lungs would burst.
‘AND I’M GOING TO SHOW THE WORLD THAT YOU HAVE NO HEART!’
After a huge gasp from the muscle bound crowd, there was an overwhelming silence and then slowly there was a murmur. It started with someone saying, ‘Eh?’
Another stuttered ‘Th-th-th-that c-c-c-can’t be d-d-d-done!’
Then others joined in saying ‘That’s just plain stupid!’ and ‘How can you pull it out if he doesn’t have one?’ and the wisest remark of all which came from a 3 foot nest headed, blonde guy wearing make up who just said, ‘You dumb fuck!’.
It was at this point that they started to throw steel chairs that rained down on the huge Samoan as if the ceiling had collapsed.
I dropped to all fours and scuttled between mountains of chairs and wrestlers legs in their huge boots and when I got to the other side I suddenly found myself in Liverpools infamous Cavern Club watching a very young and amateurish band called The Silver Beatles. They were rubbish and I woke up.
I needed coffee. I needed a cigarette. I needed any kind of a pickup that could stimulate my numbed brain and wash away the cobwebs.
‘Speed. Cocaine.’ I mumbled to myself and suddenly it started again. At first there was a slow quiet whine, then a scrape and then the sound of huge gnarled paws digging at the door.
‘What the fucking hell?’ I said still in a daze, daunted by the unseen terror.
‘GREEDIGUT!’ a voice bellowed through the house. Then the door flew open and in stormed my first acquaintance with my own personal five horsemen of the apocalypse, followed by the mangy mutt that had been hammering at my door. A creature so fowl that if there had ever been a fifth seal to be broken, there would have been little revelation for me, if it would have been this beast that had sprung out to reap havoc on the cursed Earth. I named her Infestation; Infestation of the apocalypse; The fifth, revolting horseman, infested with everything from ringworm, to mites. Her stench was truly indescribable and despite the fact that she was such a small dog, her head was probably twice the size of the rest of her body.
She leapt onto the bed, her flea ridden face inches from my own, and the communion was completed. I received cunnilingus of the head as she lapped every facial orifice that I possess, her tongue exploring with infinite detail every crack and cranny. I shoved my hands under her front legs, grabbed her chest and held her as far away from me as I could reach, her hind legs digging and kicking for stability, as a pup held over water for the first time. And that was when I realised that despite the fact that she had the body of a terrier and the head of a rottweiler her face was mine.
I flung her from my grasp, she whimpered and moaned as she flew over the CDs and books, strewn across the floor, smashing into my computer, knocking it over on the untidy desk, breaking finished wine bottles and mouldering mugs and causing more turmoil. She stood, looked at me, and then tucked her balding tail between her legs, and in attempt to curl her entire rear under her, she ran like a storm back through the door and down the stairs. The gypsies her comrades stood aghast. They stooped over me, shadowy men in rags and ribbons like a David Essex lookalike competition. They were me. My new identical replicas dressed like members of Dexy’s Midnight Runners.
I screamed and pulled my soiled duvet over my head, hiding myself from the Truth.
‘I do like this room. Yeah very nice. Wouldn’t mind living in here myself.’ said one in a ridiculously stereotyped, villainous voice.
‘Why’s he hiding, Tom?’ said another in an equally absurd tongue.
‘Well why do you think? He thinks we’re trassenos, don’t he?’
‘I think you’re what?’ I replied from under the covers.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know, sir!’ he said, ‘All our words are yours.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about, there’s no such word.’ I said abruptly.
‘Cause you do. It’s Romany voker, aint it?’ replied the first speaker.
‘What?’
‘When you were five years old, in North Ormesby market, you met an old market stall holder friend of your Grandmothers. They used to stand North Ormesby market together. She took a shine to you and gave you a farthing.’
‘I don’t see what the relevance of this is. I don’t even remember, get out of my house, go on fuck off.’
‘Oh dear, sir, whose the Trasseno now, eh?’ the other said.
And then the second speaker informed me, ‘She taught you several Romany words. Romany voker; gypsy speak.’
‘How am I supposed to remember that!’
‘You don’t have to’ he laughed, ‘But we do.’
‘Trasseno is a bad person.’ said the first voice, ‘Do you think that we are Trassenos‘, master?’ With this he pulled the duvet away from my face and glared at me.
‘No not at all,’ I cowered, ‘I think that you are some of the nicest gypsies I have ever met, and your little dog is divine.’
At this the third lifted up his bent and raggy top hat, shoved his hand in it and flung its contents onto my lap. ‘There’s a present, sir. Just to let you know that you are one of us.’
I sat upright staring agog at what appeared to be a large dead rabbit strewn across my legs.
‘Caught that me’self this morning. Snared it good and proper. You can have it if you like it.’
‘I don’t want it. Here get rid of it.’
‘No. It’s yours, you’ve got to skin it and stick it on the boil. Lovely’ said the fourth.
‘Get that out of my fucking bed. I don’t like rabbits, especially dead ones.’
‘It’s not a rabbit it’s a hare.’
‘I don’t care if it’s a fucking armadillo, I don’t want it, it’s bleeding.’
‘The dog got it sir.’ said the first gypsy.
‘Oh well that changes everything, just leave it’s fucking carcass strewn on my bed; as long as the dog got it that obviously makes all the difference.’
They laughed and walked out the room. ‘Told you he’d like it didn’t I Tom?’
‘I do like hares,’ said Tom, the gypsy who had flung away my duvet, who from what evidence I had seen seemed to be there leader, ‘I do like Hares. They run and play in the fields all day. They have a lovely time.’
These words he had just said seemed so familiar to me but I couldn’t for the life of me work out why. I could have sworn that I’d heard it somewhere before and of course Tom was there leader, I’d written him hadn’t I!
The weird thing was that they only had a bit of the book so far. I was going to bring them all back later on in the narrative and do more with them. It struck me that it clearly didn’t matter how much of my book had been dedicated to the manifested characters in respect to them somehow being relevant in my real life; the question as to which of my characters was going to haunt me bore little relevance to the amount of words that had been dedicated to them so far. I cursed my look that I had to be haunted by the gypsies and Mrs Buttress and not the two sultry, village lesbians that I had introduced for some light relief.
My fantasies were shattered by the instantly returning sound of paws upon the stairs. ‘Greedigut, come here.’ cried Tom, ‘Quick, Ilemauzer, grab her’
‘I can’t, she’s like a little rat. Jamara don’t let her go’
There was a scuffle, several bangs and the sound of four men falling down the stairs, and then once again she burst through the door. She leapt with powerful feet outstretched and a look of determination on her contorted and desperate face. She hit me full on in the chest, knocking the wind out of me and standing on my groin, I bent double in agony as she started to savage the poached hare in my lap. With one huge bite she grabbed it by the throat, flung it around as if she was attempting to kill it again. The head was torn clean off, splattering my face with the limp torso. And then like lightning she pelted back out of the room and down the stairs.
‘My god, I’ve been murdered,’ I yelled staring at the blood in my groin.
‘Greedigut! C’m’ere’ I heard them cry following the cacophony of scrambling feet and things being smashed.
There was nothing for it; I’d been hiding away from the world for too long; I decided that I had best get up and face the music downstairs.
Sunday, 14 March 2010
Alan Moore and Stephen O'Malley - Simultaneous Conjugation Of Four Spirits In A Room
Myself, Kath and my good friend Pete Heselton (curator of ThePython Gallery and fellow conspiritor down at Platform Arts) spent part of yesterday afternoon in the presence of the mighty black sage Alan Moore (From Hell, The Watchmen, Swamp Thing, 2000A.D)at The Laing Gallery, Newcastle. The performance of Moores 'Simultaneous Conjugation Of Four Spirits In A Room' took place between two paintings and was part of the AV Festival 10 and acompanied by the live distorted music of Seattle musician Stephen O'Malley from bands such as Sunn O))), Thorr's Hammer, Burning Witch, The Lotus Eaters, KTL, Khanate, Gravetemple, Ginnungagap, Aethenor, Teeth Of Lions Rule The Divine and Fungal Hex.
The audience were asked to be seated on the floor around the walls; the lectern being in front of the door and the Guitar stacks and pedals being next to the audince with candles flickering all round them and on top. The audience sat under both paintings that hung on adjacent walls and waited for the sage to enter.
The two paintings in question were of course:
John Martin’s infamous The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah (1852) and ...
JMW Turners Snowstorm: Hannibal and his Army Crossing the Alps.
Both paintings share almost exactly the same composition, both illustrate historical (or legendary depending on your opinion) events and both use tiny detailed figures of people in some cataclysmic danger. Moore drew upon all of this whilst describing a similarity in both Turner and Martins humble upbringings in the infancy of industrial Britain and how both men were deemed outsiders by the art world of their day, yet were extremely popular amongst the people. It makes me wonder if Moore feels this way too about his own work.
He went on to describe how these men were born of a true Britain, and a world of grit; nature and industry in conflict. In Moore's mind this all hearkened back to our Pagan past and obviously being Alan Moore he of course mentioned horned gods, to which he concluded that the compositions of the paintings hanging on adjacent walls were the eyes of this true British god staring back into the room.
O'malleys acompanying music was incredible with big ,strong, distorted noise stroked from within a stunning Gibson SG guitar with metal neck, crackling through two huge amps and continously looping feedback. Truly awe inspiring.
The moment that Moore enetered the atmosphere changed. I've only really witnessed this effect once before and that was when I had the weird opportunity of being in the presence of Shiva. Yup... that hindu god. I was at the Uni doing my MSc and the 26th incranation of Shiva was visting from India on some networking mission to do with digital media (You can't make this shit up). I was sitting in my friends office when Shiva walked in and it was like someone had just switched a light on in the room. With Moore it was the complete opposite. He entered the room, you knew about it, and the atmosphere changed considerably almost as if a light had gone off. I spent quite a lot of the performance watching him reading and his aura kept changing shape giving off slight spectral fluctuations as he read, I make no apologies for the stuff that I percieve that others don't but hopefully someone else reading this will know what 'm talking about. It was just incredible to be in this mans presence. As He continued to read I felt a presence around me that I can only describe as being similar to being in the occult section of The Boscastle Witchcraft Museum in Cornwall. The last time I felt anything like that I was standing between two sets of artifacts... one being Austin Osman Spare's scrying crystal and the other being Alesiter Crowleys ceremonial goblet and knife from his own public performances of summonings in London when he was a younger man. Excuse me for drawing similarities between the Moore event and the Boscastle experience but I think its necessary to do so.
The only downside of it for me was that the PA could have been better from the lectern as there was quite alot of what was read out that wasn't 100% discernable and I would have liked to be able to get hold of a copy of what was read, or even better a recording of the piece as was given away at The Silent Sound event. It would also have been nice if we could have had a better view of the paintings whilst the event was going on. Fortunately I had the capcity to see the Turner perfectly and if twisted my head I had a pretty good view of the Martin painting. It did strike me that Moore and O'Malley had a better view of the paintings than we did as we were sitting facing the artists with our backs to the paintings.
Of course the proceedings would also have been better if it wasn't for the body odour from the comic shop owner from The Simpsons sitting in front of me with his builders arse crack on display. There were three gaping chasms in that room and only two of them were incorporated in the paintings on the walls. I could have fitted a copy of the tumultous From Hell in the third crevice to obscure it if only I'd had a copy and the desire to get any closer to the behemoth in front of me.
In all it was a fantastic event and one that I won't forget. As with Henry Rollins if you get the opportunity to see Alan Moore speak then do sieze it. So tonight the three of us going to The Sage at Gateshead to see the second Moore and O'Malley performance for the AV festival this time with Ian Sinclair and several other conspirators as they explore JB Priestleys 'An English Journey'. If its anything like yesterdays experience its going to be a good one, the bonus being that we are on the front row so the sweaty behemoth can't sit in front of us this time.
Can't wait for tonight it's going to be another lifetimes experience.
John
I thought I'd put my cthulu illustration up again to celebrate the event.
The audience were asked to be seated on the floor around the walls; the lectern being in front of the door and the Guitar stacks and pedals being next to the audince with candles flickering all round them and on top. The audience sat under both paintings that hung on adjacent walls and waited for the sage to enter.
The two paintings in question were of course:
JMW Turners Snowstorm: Hannibal and his Army Crossing the Alps.Both paintings share almost exactly the same composition, both illustrate historical (or legendary depending on your opinion) events and both use tiny detailed figures of people in some cataclysmic danger. Moore drew upon all of this whilst describing a similarity in both Turner and Martins humble upbringings in the infancy of industrial Britain and how both men were deemed outsiders by the art world of their day, yet were extremely popular amongst the people. It makes me wonder if Moore feels this way too about his own work.
He went on to describe how these men were born of a true Britain, and a world of grit; nature and industry in conflict. In Moore's mind this all hearkened back to our Pagan past and obviously being Alan Moore he of course mentioned horned gods, to which he concluded that the compositions of the paintings hanging on adjacent walls were the eyes of this true British god staring back into the room.
O'malleys acompanying music was incredible with big ,strong, distorted noise stroked from within a stunning Gibson SG guitar with metal neck, crackling through two huge amps and continously looping feedback. Truly awe inspiring.
The moment that Moore enetered the atmosphere changed. I've only really witnessed this effect once before and that was when I had the weird opportunity of being in the presence of Shiva. Yup... that hindu god. I was at the Uni doing my MSc and the 26th incranation of Shiva was visting from India on some networking mission to do with digital media (You can't make this shit up). I was sitting in my friends office when Shiva walked in and it was like someone had just switched a light on in the room. With Moore it was the complete opposite. He entered the room, you knew about it, and the atmosphere changed considerably almost as if a light had gone off. I spent quite a lot of the performance watching him reading and his aura kept changing shape giving off slight spectral fluctuations as he read, I make no apologies for the stuff that I percieve that others don't but hopefully someone else reading this will know what 'm talking about. It was just incredible to be in this mans presence. As He continued to read I felt a presence around me that I can only describe as being similar to being in the occult section of The Boscastle Witchcraft Museum in Cornwall. The last time I felt anything like that I was standing between two sets of artifacts... one being Austin Osman Spare's scrying crystal and the other being Alesiter Crowleys ceremonial goblet and knife from his own public performances of summonings in London when he was a younger man. Excuse me for drawing similarities between the Moore event and the Boscastle experience but I think its necessary to do so.
The only downside of it for me was that the PA could have been better from the lectern as there was quite alot of what was read out that wasn't 100% discernable and I would have liked to be able to get hold of a copy of what was read, or even better a recording of the piece as was given away at The Silent Sound event. It would also have been nice if we could have had a better view of the paintings whilst the event was going on. Fortunately I had the capcity to see the Turner perfectly and if twisted my head I had a pretty good view of the Martin painting. It did strike me that Moore and O'Malley had a better view of the paintings than we did as we were sitting facing the artists with our backs to the paintings.
Of course the proceedings would also have been better if it wasn't for the body odour from the comic shop owner from The Simpsons sitting in front of me with his builders arse crack on display. There were three gaping chasms in that room and only two of them were incorporated in the paintings on the walls. I could have fitted a copy of the tumultous From Hell in the third crevice to obscure it if only I'd had a copy and the desire to get any closer to the behemoth in front of me.
In all it was a fantastic event and one that I won't forget. As with Henry Rollins if you get the opportunity to see Alan Moore speak then do sieze it. So tonight the three of us going to The Sage at Gateshead to see the second Moore and O'Malley performance for the AV festival this time with Ian Sinclair and several other conspirators as they explore JB Priestleys 'An English Journey'. If its anything like yesterdays experience its going to be a good one, the bonus being that we are on the front row so the sweaty behemoth can't sit in front of us this time.
Can't wait for tonight it's going to be another lifetimes experience.
John
I thought I'd put my cthulu illustration up again to celebrate the event.
Saturday, 6 March 2010
Friday, 5 March 2010
The Dopplegangers Chapter 2
Not wanting to keep Les 'Dog Soldiers' Simpson waiting (on the off chance he comes round my house in those funny little pants he wore in The Descent) here's the next chapter...
... by the way the protagonist is supposed to be a sexist misanthrope, in case anyone thinks it's me. That was all part of my character flowcharting and stuff, trust me this one has been planned not written off the cuff... although alcohol did help.
THE DOPPLEGANGERS
CHAPTER 2
Copyright John Chadwick 2009
My parents say that when I was a child I didn’t sleep. For the first three and a half years of my life, I stayed permanently awake. I didn’t cry. I just didn’t sleep.
On a visit to Canada in 1974, to see my Uncle, Aunt and newly born cousin, I apparently refused to sleep throughout the entire 7 hour plane journey. This resulted in my father, trying to amuse me by carrying me from one end of the aircraft to the other, until eventually collapsing out of exhaustion and falling asleep himself. In retrospect, he once claimed, ‘I should have got that flight for a fraction of the price. I walked half the way!’
So it seems that insomnia comes naturally to me. Being unable to sleep is a rare gift that many people overlook. Yes, you can get in the record books for all kinds of weird and wonderful talents such as being buried alive for 3 years or for my particular favourite being a Siamese twin on a tiny, little motorbike, but as far as I know nobody has yet beaten me for staying awake. So why aren’t I in the Guinness book of records?
Well, who the hell wants to spend the next three years, with the boredom of not sleeping and with some scary know-it-all like Norris McWhirter hanging around to adjudicate your every sleepless move?
I imagine the experience on occasion would be like this:
‘Is he still awake, Norris?’
‘Yes, that’s 200 hours on the trot now. We’ll be out of the bathroom in a minute, ok?’
‘Ok, keep him in there for a bit I’ll check his mattress for a pea; see if he’s got any tricks up his sleeve.’
It must be said that I have sleep depravity down to a fine art. It’s not as though I actually don’t want to sleep, it is honestly, simply because I cannot. Insomnia is a finely tuned skill that few people can really master. It’s not just about lying awake, and tossing and turning until after the dawn chorus, the sound of the milkman and then the familiar light of day shining through your Star Wars curtains. God no, good insomnia is about thought. Deep thought.
I am often asked by people, who know of my rare skill, ‘What is it that you are worried about?’
They presume that I am like Atlas with the weight of the world on one shoulder. The only thing on this shoulder baby, is a chip big enough for that record book. Let it be said that I do not lie awake worrying about my problems.
They also ask me, ‘Do you drink a lot of coffee, how many cups do you drink a day?’
Well, now let’s see, it is now pushing 4 O’clock in the morning and since I got up I’ve had one, two, no one. Yep, one cup of coffee at half past three this afternoon. Shove that into in to your instant decaffeinated and stir it.
As far as the ladies are concerned, my insomnia has a benefit. Unfortunately it has been so long since I’ve had the opportunity to prove this that the talent has fallen short of one of it’s really useful purposes. Back in the days, when I had the attributes of a lady magnet, there was only one unfortunate flaw; they either fell asleep before I did, or ask me very politely to stop talking. Generally if I do spend the night with someone else, even if it is kipping round on a mates floor in a flea-ridden sleeping bag, my sessions of sleepless, deep thoughts do tend to become verbal.
The thing is, is that staying wide-awake all night is so much fun, I can’t help but feel the need to share it with everyone. An ex-girlfriend once informed me that my late night ranting was far better protection against vampires than garlic ever could be. I tactfully informed her that her snoring could actually force a vampire to do the best thing and stake its self. Typically she refused to admit that she snored. I, however, was happy to live with the knowledge that she did. In the end she had to go. Well, it was like sleeping with Birmingham airport. Every five seconds the sound of an aeroplane would take off then land again, then take off and then land again, whilst Motorhead’s PA system (stacked on top of the flight control tower) blasted out the sound of walrus’ mating in the nearest zoo.
I once tried to shut her up by sticking one of her socks in her mouth. The plan was foiled when she started to choke, at which point I pretended to be half asleep and wake her, and gave her a good telling off:
‘God, you scared me half to death…what on earth were you thinking of going to sleep with that in yer mouth for; silly cow!’.
She was left stunned and confused.
‘It’s your snoring, that’s what it is, every time you breath in, the nearest loose object is sucked towards that gaping cavern of a mouth of yours. It’s no wonder there’s cracks in the wall.’ I never did tell her that it was me that put it there, but instead made jokes for the next few days about how I was going to have to nail the mattress down and fasten myself to bungees for my own protection.
But above all insomnia has its uses. And for an artistic Jack-of-all-Trades as myself, it is an unbelievably useful tool. Deep thought brings great ideas. Great ideas bring great cartoons, great paintings, great poetry, great literature; well great ideas for a story or whatever else it is that I am trying to compose that week, in the name of celebrity recognition and a spread of my décor in Hello magazine.
To be honest my soul motivation for any of my creative ventures tends to be an awkward attempt to meet and have the courage to ask Phillipa Forrester out on a date. Oh my beautiful TV presenter muse, surely you are my Beatrice; I don’t know if I’m prepared to walk around the rings of hell in their multitude for you, but there is a certain sentiment there, my angel of the airwaves.
It is really quite sad.
So what kind of things come out of the late night ramblings of my over active mind?
Well last night I lay awake thinking about Socrates and why he took the poison instead of wandering off and living in the wilderness, when I suddenly started to consider Spiderman. What a strange and peculiar person he is. What is it that drives a normal photographic journalist to behave in such a strange manner?
Did Kevin Carter also feel the drive?
There he was one day, the young Peter Parker with a cool, sensible sixties hair cut, minding his own business in a scientific lab, when suddenly he is bitten by a radioactive spider. Anybody else who would have been bitten by such a thing would probably suffer from loss of hair and teeth, but not Peter ‘alliteration’ Parker, oh no!
Instead he suddenly finds that he is happier hanging out on rooftops and (‘oh what a feeling’) dancing on the ceiling, like a dodgy Lionel Ritchie. He also discovers that he has a strange new talent for premonition, known as his ‘Spider Sense’ presumably one of many characteristics that a human being can benefit from after a cross mutation with an arachnid.
What exactly does this arachnid attribute mean?
In a truly scientific experiment I decided to find out. I thought that I could send my findings to Tomorrows World and they might send a certain blonde haired TV presenter out on a mission to discover science as it happens.
Aim:-
A scientific experiment to discover what is meant by ‘Spider Sense’.
Apparatus:-
Several Arachnids
1 conical flask
1 testube rack
1 bathroom
1 foot
1 index finger
1 bathtub
1 tap
Method:-
Remove the side of the bathtub and wait for spiders to come running out. Upon the appearance of any arachnid carbon based life form, quickly collect them and put them in the conical flask.
Experiment 1:-
Take spider from conical flask and release it onto bathroom floor (loss of legs matter little at this stage). As the aforesaid arachnid tries to escape quickly stamp on it, and/or squash it with index finger. Measure ‘Spider Sense’ on how well the spider expected to be extUrghminated by attempting to run in opposite direction from slamming foot or squishing didget.
Experiment 2 :-
Take spider from conical flask and drop in bathtub (loss of legs matters little at this stage). As arachnid tries to escape turn on tap and guide the individual towards water and plug hole with test tube rack. Measure ‘Spider Sense’ on how well the spider expected to be exterminated by attempting to run in opposite direction from water torrent and large metal hole in bath with whirlpool.
Results:-
Spiders attempted to escape but were not fast enough. In their attempt they either dangled on web lines shot out of arse or ran in straight lines. No squiggly lines were observed from their heads in a comic book stylee, and the world around them did not glow in shades of green suggesting presence of danger.
Conclusion:-
‘Spider Sense’ is not the most useful of spider attributes. The ability to shoot webs from ones arse is much better. Presumably Stan Lee found this to be obscene and so gave Peter Parker the ability to shoot webs from wrists. All in all the experiment was a success. It was proved that what is meant by ‘Spider Sense’ is hip, 1960’s, jive talking slang for a load of old bollocks. In short, as far as any sense is concerned, spiders have little if any.
I thought that my results showed a clear misunderstanding of the arachnid, by the writers of Marvel Comics. For a spider this is demoralising but for Peter ‘alliteration’ Parker it is worse. The trials and tribulations of carrying this kind of responsibility to the innocent is generally kept quiet.
Consider what it must be like knowing that every day, you are going to have to climb out of bed, and go and sit around on a roof or in a dirty back alley, waiting for the criminal tip off to turn up with the goods. It’s cold out there, and you’re bored. You know that you are going to have to have a couple of fights with some gangsters. They are going to shoot at you because everyone wants to be the guy to nail the freaky dude in the stupid outfit. You also know that some mad, muscle-bound, mutant with a Phd in rocket science is behind it all. And that you are probably going to have to have a ruck with his twenty foot high robot monsters and then finally with him too before the day is out. You are fully aware that half of New York will again be demolished during the fighting, and that it will be the Tax payer who will have to pay for the holes in the road and buildings, after giant robot feet have smashed everything up. The damaged cars and other personal belongings, will lead to the insurance for living in this part of the world increasing, this in turn will affect the price of living, bank interest rates, mortgages and eventually the stock exchange. Surely the little sense of a spider (as I have proven in my experiments) would make you stay hanging from a wall whilst the sense of a human, I hope, would lead you to remain in bed and avoid getting up except to watch the Cartoon Network.
Actually when I think about it this is crap. The sense of a man would really be:-
‘Cool, any minute I might get a scrap, and then some bird might be watching and then I might get lucky, when she sees how great and masculine I am.’
As opposed to the sense of a spider, which would be as such:-
‘Danger. Danger. Quick, run to the ceiling and hide. Danger. Danger. Pretend to be dead. Pretend to be dead.’
As an extension to this great scientific (if not philosophical) discovery, I started to consider what would happen if a spider was to be bitten by a radioactive human. I wondered what fabulous spider abilities would be transformed and complemented by those of modern man. Not wanting to be too much of a nihilist I finally satisfied myself with the knowledge that spiders are best being left as spiders. After all, what attributes are there that stand up in mankind that fall flat in the arachnid world. We can both eat flies if we wish, but the spider has an uncanny ability not to be able to create microwave ovens. Surely these are far more complicated and beautiful than any web.
How pleasant it would be, to see one of those gaudy Christian photographic posters; a stream or a waterfall or a spiders web, illustrating the glossy ‘Jesus Loves You’ written in bold text, or a quote from Corinthians on joy and love, if only a microwave was also present. A wonderful Toshiba, Panasonic or Sharp model hanging from a tree, dripping in the dew of day break and shot through a soft focus lense. ‘Jesus is The Light of The World.’ encapsulating this rare gift of poor graphic design yet pushing the beauty and wonders of creation home like a pygmy’s dart in Dr Livingstone’s butt.
How much better the comic would be if other spiders stopped and stared as Manspider philosophised, ‘I think therefore I am.’ invented the wheel, agriculture, the boat, the phalanx, and the pyramid before breakfast. Then continued into mid morning studying the stars, myths, legends and art. By lunchtime mathematics are common nature to him, the renaissance is in the past, he is wearing fashionable clothes and burning witches by the time Childrens TV kicks in and by teatime he is planning on invading Poland, exterminating 6 million funnelwebs, Nuclear holocaust and B-movies. At last, it is evening, and as the sun starts to set he has achieved his greatest creations that far out ranks psycho-analysis, post-modernism, the blues and jazz; he creates speed metal, the Nintendo Gameboy and American wrestling. By midnight he laughs, as he tries to find the opening in his complicated Manspider outfit, so that he can urinate; and says, in the way that only Superheroes can, ‘All in a day’s work, Mr President.’
Oh yes, our friendly, neighbourhood Manspider, is a wonderful being, he is as sensitive but as tough as a man on a Gillette razor commercial. He flexes his muscles whilst holding babies, hugs his father regularly, he is concerned about the world ecology, he is the righter of all wrongs, justice emanates from his sweat pores and the women love him. That of course would all have been true, if only my grandmother’s shih-tzu hadn’t licked him off the patio door and sucked him half to death before spitting him out onto the carpet in a crumpled mess, where only a careless vacuum cleaner could put him out of his misery.
As the Dyson approached, a tiny voice was heard crying, ‘Father, Why have you foresaken me?’ and then the sky turned black.
I started to consider a further experiment to test my theory, but it became outlandish, and there was no viable way on earth that I could possibly have afforded to pay the flight costs in getting a Hiroshima survivor to come round and bite a house spider. I finally, satisfied myself that the difference between spiders and men is that, statistically, a human being swallows ten spiders a year whilst sleeping, without having knowledge of it. Unless I have missed it, in all of my copies of the Fortean Times, as far as I know spiders do not tend to swallow human beings whilst asleep. If they did I think they probably would know about it. Although this could happen in rainforests and Australian soap operas, it is something of which I know little about. Albeit I do recall one trying to swallow Doug Mclure in a film once, but as far as science goes that was ridiculous. Afterall despite already shooting a Pterodactyl and pinning a Tyrannosaurus Rex with a figure four leg lock he didn’t even scuffle his hair. The film should have been entitled ‘The Wig That Common Sense Forgot’. Last time such things happened to me, I had to have the full Vidal Sassoon treatment, but then I, unfortunately, am no Doug Mclure. Oh father why have you forsaken me?
And so if it wasn’t for my glorious sleepless nights what on Earth would I rant about. I admit that I have bollocks for brains. There is nothing in the above passages that are really worth reading. I am not like Dosteyvesky or Nietzche trying to give some incredible statement, needless to say upon reading this you have already realised it on your own accord. Search for double meanings if you want, but if you find them, don’t bother informing me, once I have written the final draft it is no longer in my hands. I don’t want to inspire the next Charles Manson, but really feel free to interpret my bullshit in anyway you feel.
And so after displaying the areas from which my greatest works sprout, I feel that I must continue with the plot of this book, afterall that is the reason that you bought it. And so, without any further ado, the plot will attempt to thicken. Attempt being the operative word. If in any doubt try stirring several table spoons of cornflour amongst the pages and simmer it for several minutes.
And here it is;
I had spent the evening doing little; arsing around as always watching crap Channel Four quiz shows and dreadfully shot local news broadcasts. At seven o’clock I decided to walk to the end of Chipchase Road, and into the village to get some beer and a packet of fags (That’s right I had found my Switch card). On my return I passed something that amused me for the rest of the night. I even considered telling them except I thought that it would lead to a Victorian melodrama.
On the corner of Chipchase and Linthorpe Road; opposite the fabulous Chipchase Chippy, a large Police van thing had pulled over and the coppers inside were getting out to go to the fish shop. I couldn’t help but notice the usual gang of tracksuit wrapped teenagers skulking away around the corner to avoid the good, old law enforcers.
‘They’re up to no good’ I thought as I walked their way. They vanished round the corner but as I reached the corner myself I almost walked into one of them as he hurriedly peered round into Chipchase Road to see if the Rozzers were still there.
So I thought that this event was wonderful; the buffoon may as well have had a large neon light up above his head that shone out in true illuminous glory: -
‘Oi, over here, I’m a dodgy git that’s up to no bloody good. I probably haven’t done anything yet, but give me half an hour and I’ll do something outlandishly devious and spiteful to someone somewhere.’
I imagined him as a Mountebank in a play by Ben Jonson, suddenly stepping up onto his stage awaiting a handerkerchief to be dropped by a fair maiden above at her window.
‘Good Evening Ladies and Gentleman! May I have your attention please? I the magnificent Scotto, have brought myself amongst you again, to sell my wonderful merchandise. Yes, I am dressed in downtrodden Kappa crap, and sport the type of haircut that looks neither gelled nor shaven, but the quality of my product is far beyond any other. I bring to you pure dodginess in a bottle. For only five shillings, my miraculous lotion will cause you to cower from all Rozzers. It will help you to look shifty in alleyways. It will aid you to scare people of any race including my own. It will cause old people to cross the road and most of all make stolen car stereos, video recorders, televisions, hi-fi systems and half a pound of pure Morroccan amazingly appear in your pockets, without, of course, needing your own prior knowledge (honestly constable). One swig will aid you in failing all qualification examinations that you may be undertaking. One draught will help you also to become 3rd generation unemployed with nothing to live for except hanging around on street corners, and being severely beaten by your father who has done time. Just one swig will give you the achievements to do nothing with your life, even the Green Howards wouldn’t want you and they only consider cannon fodder. Drink a mouthful of this illustrious, charming, substance that is manufactured in the most elegant of ways, (with the finest ingredients; Sony Playstations, bad Stallone movies, four cse’s and just enough dope to make a joint); and you will no longer feel your ailments. You too will satisfy your lives by wearing sweatshop sportswear in the name of fashion. And most importantly don’t forget the ability to sign on for the Old King Cole for the rest of your life. Can you lend me 25p so that I can get a cup of tea’.
The stupid bastard deserved to be picked up. Not only for the several crimes that he was bound to commit that evening; not only for his offensive day-glo sportswear and inability to speak whilst moving his lips within a fraction of an inch whilst pronouncing, ’Fuck off!’; but because of his absolute stupidity in making it obvious that he was up to something. Needless to say the Coppers didn’t bat an eyelid, but then that was probably because they were related.
And so smirking at the local behaviour, to which I had become regularly accustomed, I made my way over the road towards the old Rec and then back home.
Upon entering the house and pondering upon my curt observations, I had a strange sensation that something wasn’t quite right. Something alarmingly different was in the air, although what it was I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I entered the hallway, shut the front door and then stood looking around. At first glance, everything seemed normal, but then I suddenly became aware of an odd smell. A sweet smell, something that reminded me of childhood, and all the family Christmas’s rolled into one. It was an uncanny fragrance that reminded me of relatives visiting, and suddenly I could vividly see, in the small of my mind, a picture; a memory; a vision; varnished wood and a bright yellow duster. Of course the answer hung over me, screaming to be plucked like a bunch of grapes. It was furniture polish.
That’s what was different; the penny hadn’t exactly dropped as much as penetrated through the atmosphere from some unknown alien source, and was plummetting to Earth with all of the speed, density and fervour of a comet; a burning hulk of fire breathing, chemical wire that would lay the reign of the dinosaur to waste and force the world into an era of wintery peace.
The penny hit home hard.
‘How strange,’ I thought, ‘Someone’s tidied up.’
The letters that had built up to one side of the front door, all addressed to previous occupants (and onetime non-cleaners of the bath and oven) were now tidily stacked on the third stair. The air that had previously smelled of too many takeaways and cigarette stagnation had been replaced with an overzealous presence of carpet cleaner, that not as much put the freshness back as burnt holes in my sinuses. As far as the nose could smell, there were combinations of furniture polish, bleach, aerosol fragrances, the thin plasticity of air fresheners and all things Harpic. It was digusting.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I thought, ‘The bastards finally done it. He’s moved a bird in!’
The landlord, who I unfortunately only saw once a fortnight, had been threatening for 3 months to take on more people in the house if I didn’t pay up the full rent for the unoccupied rooms as well as my own. I thought that this was vastly unfair. My contract had been for my room only. When I first moved in there had been one other person living here. He was a peculiar bloke from Nuneaton and as I soon found out, was socially inept.
I wasn’t aware of how stupid the Midland accents could sound until I met him. It always sounded like he was taking the piss, but, as I soon found out, he never was. It took me two months to realise that he had no sense of humour. It had been replaced by a keen interest in lower to non-league football. I’d been laughing out loud whilst he’d been talking for ages, I thought he was informing me of amusing things that had happened to him during the day and that his demeanour was dry and deadpan. It was only after he had left that the landlord informed me that I had to pay his rent, as it was my fault he’d gone.
‘He said he couldn’t take it anymore. Apparently every time he tried to talk to you, you burst out laughing.’
‘Well he was a funny guy, I can’t understand it. We had a real good laugh.’
‘He thinks you hate him.’
‘Why?’
‘Well every time he tried to talk, he thought you were taking the piss out of him. Apparently he’s tried to discuss, the joint payment of the television license with you five times, and you just fell about laughing.’
‘Get out of it! That was his Woody Allen. It was hilarious, not quite as good as his Terry Waite, but then that was a gem.’
‘How can anyone do a Terry Waite impression. You wouldn’t be able to tell. I mean what does he sound like?’
‘Oh it was a physical thing, he ran upstairs and shouted, ‘Well if you like my Woody Allen, you’ll love my Terry Waite!’ then he’d stay in his room and lock the door. Wacky Guy. Comedy genius; I can’t believe he thought I hated him. I mean he came back out and then I laughed and he did it again. I didn’t see him for two days. It was fucking brilliant. A bit persistent but fucking brilliant!’
Still, in his hurry to leave he left his collection of Razzle mags, under the bed in an old, yellow Fine Fare carrier bag. He had the entire 2nd volume from 1983. What a find, there were some of the ugliest women that I’d ever seen, posing alongside adverts for the Sinclair ZX81, apparently, ‘The most powerful home computer you will ever own!’
Some of the cartoons were great too. There was this one of a bloke at a doctors. The doctor says to him, ‘Mr Smith I’m going to need a faeces, semen and urine sample from you’ to which the protagonist replies, ‘Sorry Doc, I’m in a hurry, can I just leave you my underwear.’
This was a social discovery. I felt that I had rediscovered the mind of the 80’s man. It was like being transported into the style and fashions of an ‘Only Fools And Horses’ episode. One of those old ones that still had Grandad in it, and Rodney’s mate Mickey dressed like a 2 Tone gansta. Quality. So in time I forgot about that ginger haired idiot from Nuneaton, and moved in with the porn mags. Well his room was bigger than mine, and had more locks on the door.
So I stood in the hall and my thoughts of having a new flat mate who was a female, ranged from denial, to hormonal and pornographic and then finally to guilt. It was at this point that I heard an unfamiliar yet recognizable voice call from the front room.
‘Are you going to stand out there in the hallway with your guilt conscience on show for all and sundry, or are you coming in, if you wish I shall call for some tea?’
I looked to the closed door to the front room, and then to my feet. I looked to the door again and remembered, that perhaps I should respond. But who the hell was it. Oh my god, my new housemate was royalty. I mean I can’t stand the idea of a monarchy myself, but if I’d been warned I could at least have vacuumed or something. At least I could have opened a window and let a bit of air in.
I looked at myself in the hall mirror. I looked as good as ever, which generally by anyone else’s standards is dog shit rough.
Should I shave?
Nah, bugger it.
‘Will you abstain or not, inquiring minds need to know?’
I scuttled across the hall and opened the door.
And there we have it.... want more, then post a comment.
Tatah for now
John
... by the way the protagonist is supposed to be a sexist misanthrope, in case anyone thinks it's me. That was all part of my character flowcharting and stuff, trust me this one has been planned not written off the cuff... although alcohol did help.
THE DOPPLEGANGERS
CHAPTER 2
Copyright John Chadwick 2009
My parents say that when I was a child I didn’t sleep. For the first three and a half years of my life, I stayed permanently awake. I didn’t cry. I just didn’t sleep.
On a visit to Canada in 1974, to see my Uncle, Aunt and newly born cousin, I apparently refused to sleep throughout the entire 7 hour plane journey. This resulted in my father, trying to amuse me by carrying me from one end of the aircraft to the other, until eventually collapsing out of exhaustion and falling asleep himself. In retrospect, he once claimed, ‘I should have got that flight for a fraction of the price. I walked half the way!’
So it seems that insomnia comes naturally to me. Being unable to sleep is a rare gift that many people overlook. Yes, you can get in the record books for all kinds of weird and wonderful talents such as being buried alive for 3 years or for my particular favourite being a Siamese twin on a tiny, little motorbike, but as far as I know nobody has yet beaten me for staying awake. So why aren’t I in the Guinness book of records?
Well, who the hell wants to spend the next three years, with the boredom of not sleeping and with some scary know-it-all like Norris McWhirter hanging around to adjudicate your every sleepless move?
I imagine the experience on occasion would be like this:
‘Is he still awake, Norris?’
‘Yes, that’s 200 hours on the trot now. We’ll be out of the bathroom in a minute, ok?’
‘Ok, keep him in there for a bit I’ll check his mattress for a pea; see if he’s got any tricks up his sleeve.’
It must be said that I have sleep depravity down to a fine art. It’s not as though I actually don’t want to sleep, it is honestly, simply because I cannot. Insomnia is a finely tuned skill that few people can really master. It’s not just about lying awake, and tossing and turning until after the dawn chorus, the sound of the milkman and then the familiar light of day shining through your Star Wars curtains. God no, good insomnia is about thought. Deep thought.
I am often asked by people, who know of my rare skill, ‘What is it that you are worried about?’
They presume that I am like Atlas with the weight of the world on one shoulder. The only thing on this shoulder baby, is a chip big enough for that record book. Let it be said that I do not lie awake worrying about my problems.
They also ask me, ‘Do you drink a lot of coffee, how many cups do you drink a day?’
Well, now let’s see, it is now pushing 4 O’clock in the morning and since I got up I’ve had one, two, no one. Yep, one cup of coffee at half past three this afternoon. Shove that into in to your instant decaffeinated and stir it.
As far as the ladies are concerned, my insomnia has a benefit. Unfortunately it has been so long since I’ve had the opportunity to prove this that the talent has fallen short of one of it’s really useful purposes. Back in the days, when I had the attributes of a lady magnet, there was only one unfortunate flaw; they either fell asleep before I did, or ask me very politely to stop talking. Generally if I do spend the night with someone else, even if it is kipping round on a mates floor in a flea-ridden sleeping bag, my sessions of sleepless, deep thoughts do tend to become verbal.
The thing is, is that staying wide-awake all night is so much fun, I can’t help but feel the need to share it with everyone. An ex-girlfriend once informed me that my late night ranting was far better protection against vampires than garlic ever could be. I tactfully informed her that her snoring could actually force a vampire to do the best thing and stake its self. Typically she refused to admit that she snored. I, however, was happy to live with the knowledge that she did. In the end she had to go. Well, it was like sleeping with Birmingham airport. Every five seconds the sound of an aeroplane would take off then land again, then take off and then land again, whilst Motorhead’s PA system (stacked on top of the flight control tower) blasted out the sound of walrus’ mating in the nearest zoo.
I once tried to shut her up by sticking one of her socks in her mouth. The plan was foiled when she started to choke, at which point I pretended to be half asleep and wake her, and gave her a good telling off:
‘God, you scared me half to death…what on earth were you thinking of going to sleep with that in yer mouth for; silly cow!’.
She was left stunned and confused.
‘It’s your snoring, that’s what it is, every time you breath in, the nearest loose object is sucked towards that gaping cavern of a mouth of yours. It’s no wonder there’s cracks in the wall.’ I never did tell her that it was me that put it there, but instead made jokes for the next few days about how I was going to have to nail the mattress down and fasten myself to bungees for my own protection.
But above all insomnia has its uses. And for an artistic Jack-of-all-Trades as myself, it is an unbelievably useful tool. Deep thought brings great ideas. Great ideas bring great cartoons, great paintings, great poetry, great literature; well great ideas for a story or whatever else it is that I am trying to compose that week, in the name of celebrity recognition and a spread of my décor in Hello magazine.
To be honest my soul motivation for any of my creative ventures tends to be an awkward attempt to meet and have the courage to ask Phillipa Forrester out on a date. Oh my beautiful TV presenter muse, surely you are my Beatrice; I don’t know if I’m prepared to walk around the rings of hell in their multitude for you, but there is a certain sentiment there, my angel of the airwaves.
It is really quite sad.
So what kind of things come out of the late night ramblings of my over active mind?
Well last night I lay awake thinking about Socrates and why he took the poison instead of wandering off and living in the wilderness, when I suddenly started to consider Spiderman. What a strange and peculiar person he is. What is it that drives a normal photographic journalist to behave in such a strange manner?
Did Kevin Carter also feel the drive?
There he was one day, the young Peter Parker with a cool, sensible sixties hair cut, minding his own business in a scientific lab, when suddenly he is bitten by a radioactive spider. Anybody else who would have been bitten by such a thing would probably suffer from loss of hair and teeth, but not Peter ‘alliteration’ Parker, oh no!
Instead he suddenly finds that he is happier hanging out on rooftops and (‘oh what a feeling’) dancing on the ceiling, like a dodgy Lionel Ritchie. He also discovers that he has a strange new talent for premonition, known as his ‘Spider Sense’ presumably one of many characteristics that a human being can benefit from after a cross mutation with an arachnid.
What exactly does this arachnid attribute mean?
In a truly scientific experiment I decided to find out. I thought that I could send my findings to Tomorrows World and they might send a certain blonde haired TV presenter out on a mission to discover science as it happens.
Aim:-
A scientific experiment to discover what is meant by ‘Spider Sense’.
Apparatus:-
Several Arachnids
1 conical flask
1 testube rack
1 bathroom
1 foot
1 index finger
1 bathtub
1 tap
Method:-
Remove the side of the bathtub and wait for spiders to come running out. Upon the appearance of any arachnid carbon based life form, quickly collect them and put them in the conical flask.
Experiment 1:-
Take spider from conical flask and release it onto bathroom floor (loss of legs matter little at this stage). As the aforesaid arachnid tries to escape quickly stamp on it, and/or squash it with index finger. Measure ‘Spider Sense’ on how well the spider expected to be extUrghminated by attempting to run in opposite direction from slamming foot or squishing didget.
Experiment 2 :-
Take spider from conical flask and drop in bathtub (loss of legs matters little at this stage). As arachnid tries to escape turn on tap and guide the individual towards water and plug hole with test tube rack. Measure ‘Spider Sense’ on how well the spider expected to be exterminated by attempting to run in opposite direction from water torrent and large metal hole in bath with whirlpool.
Results:-
Spiders attempted to escape but were not fast enough. In their attempt they either dangled on web lines shot out of arse or ran in straight lines. No squiggly lines were observed from their heads in a comic book stylee, and the world around them did not glow in shades of green suggesting presence of danger.
Conclusion:-
‘Spider Sense’ is not the most useful of spider attributes. The ability to shoot webs from ones arse is much better. Presumably Stan Lee found this to be obscene and so gave Peter Parker the ability to shoot webs from wrists. All in all the experiment was a success. It was proved that what is meant by ‘Spider Sense’ is hip, 1960’s, jive talking slang for a load of old bollocks. In short, as far as any sense is concerned, spiders have little if any.
I thought that my results showed a clear misunderstanding of the arachnid, by the writers of Marvel Comics. For a spider this is demoralising but for Peter ‘alliteration’ Parker it is worse. The trials and tribulations of carrying this kind of responsibility to the innocent is generally kept quiet.
Consider what it must be like knowing that every day, you are going to have to climb out of bed, and go and sit around on a roof or in a dirty back alley, waiting for the criminal tip off to turn up with the goods. It’s cold out there, and you’re bored. You know that you are going to have to have a couple of fights with some gangsters. They are going to shoot at you because everyone wants to be the guy to nail the freaky dude in the stupid outfit. You also know that some mad, muscle-bound, mutant with a Phd in rocket science is behind it all. And that you are probably going to have to have a ruck with his twenty foot high robot monsters and then finally with him too before the day is out. You are fully aware that half of New York will again be demolished during the fighting, and that it will be the Tax payer who will have to pay for the holes in the road and buildings, after giant robot feet have smashed everything up. The damaged cars and other personal belongings, will lead to the insurance for living in this part of the world increasing, this in turn will affect the price of living, bank interest rates, mortgages and eventually the stock exchange. Surely the little sense of a spider (as I have proven in my experiments) would make you stay hanging from a wall whilst the sense of a human, I hope, would lead you to remain in bed and avoid getting up except to watch the Cartoon Network.
Actually when I think about it this is crap. The sense of a man would really be:-
‘Cool, any minute I might get a scrap, and then some bird might be watching and then I might get lucky, when she sees how great and masculine I am.’
As opposed to the sense of a spider, which would be as such:-
‘Danger. Danger. Quick, run to the ceiling and hide. Danger. Danger. Pretend to be dead. Pretend to be dead.’
As an extension to this great scientific (if not philosophical) discovery, I started to consider what would happen if a spider was to be bitten by a radioactive human. I wondered what fabulous spider abilities would be transformed and complemented by those of modern man. Not wanting to be too much of a nihilist I finally satisfied myself with the knowledge that spiders are best being left as spiders. After all, what attributes are there that stand up in mankind that fall flat in the arachnid world. We can both eat flies if we wish, but the spider has an uncanny ability not to be able to create microwave ovens. Surely these are far more complicated and beautiful than any web.
How pleasant it would be, to see one of those gaudy Christian photographic posters; a stream or a waterfall or a spiders web, illustrating the glossy ‘Jesus Loves You’ written in bold text, or a quote from Corinthians on joy and love, if only a microwave was also present. A wonderful Toshiba, Panasonic or Sharp model hanging from a tree, dripping in the dew of day break and shot through a soft focus lense. ‘Jesus is The Light of The World.’ encapsulating this rare gift of poor graphic design yet pushing the beauty and wonders of creation home like a pygmy’s dart in Dr Livingstone’s butt.
How much better the comic would be if other spiders stopped and stared as Manspider philosophised, ‘I think therefore I am.’ invented the wheel, agriculture, the boat, the phalanx, and the pyramid before breakfast. Then continued into mid morning studying the stars, myths, legends and art. By lunchtime mathematics are common nature to him, the renaissance is in the past, he is wearing fashionable clothes and burning witches by the time Childrens TV kicks in and by teatime he is planning on invading Poland, exterminating 6 million funnelwebs, Nuclear holocaust and B-movies. At last, it is evening, and as the sun starts to set he has achieved his greatest creations that far out ranks psycho-analysis, post-modernism, the blues and jazz; he creates speed metal, the Nintendo Gameboy and American wrestling. By midnight he laughs, as he tries to find the opening in his complicated Manspider outfit, so that he can urinate; and says, in the way that only Superheroes can, ‘All in a day’s work, Mr President.’
Oh yes, our friendly, neighbourhood Manspider, is a wonderful being, he is as sensitive but as tough as a man on a Gillette razor commercial. He flexes his muscles whilst holding babies, hugs his father regularly, he is concerned about the world ecology, he is the righter of all wrongs, justice emanates from his sweat pores and the women love him. That of course would all have been true, if only my grandmother’s shih-tzu hadn’t licked him off the patio door and sucked him half to death before spitting him out onto the carpet in a crumpled mess, where only a careless vacuum cleaner could put him out of his misery.
As the Dyson approached, a tiny voice was heard crying, ‘Father, Why have you foresaken me?’ and then the sky turned black.
I started to consider a further experiment to test my theory, but it became outlandish, and there was no viable way on earth that I could possibly have afforded to pay the flight costs in getting a Hiroshima survivor to come round and bite a house spider. I finally, satisfied myself that the difference between spiders and men is that, statistically, a human being swallows ten spiders a year whilst sleeping, without having knowledge of it. Unless I have missed it, in all of my copies of the Fortean Times, as far as I know spiders do not tend to swallow human beings whilst asleep. If they did I think they probably would know about it. Although this could happen in rainforests and Australian soap operas, it is something of which I know little about. Albeit I do recall one trying to swallow Doug Mclure in a film once, but as far as science goes that was ridiculous. Afterall despite already shooting a Pterodactyl and pinning a Tyrannosaurus Rex with a figure four leg lock he didn’t even scuffle his hair. The film should have been entitled ‘The Wig That Common Sense Forgot’. Last time such things happened to me, I had to have the full Vidal Sassoon treatment, but then I, unfortunately, am no Doug Mclure. Oh father why have you forsaken me?
And so if it wasn’t for my glorious sleepless nights what on Earth would I rant about. I admit that I have bollocks for brains. There is nothing in the above passages that are really worth reading. I am not like Dosteyvesky or Nietzche trying to give some incredible statement, needless to say upon reading this you have already realised it on your own accord. Search for double meanings if you want, but if you find them, don’t bother informing me, once I have written the final draft it is no longer in my hands. I don’t want to inspire the next Charles Manson, but really feel free to interpret my bullshit in anyway you feel.
And so after displaying the areas from which my greatest works sprout, I feel that I must continue with the plot of this book, afterall that is the reason that you bought it. And so, without any further ado, the plot will attempt to thicken. Attempt being the operative word. If in any doubt try stirring several table spoons of cornflour amongst the pages and simmer it for several minutes.
And here it is;
I had spent the evening doing little; arsing around as always watching crap Channel Four quiz shows and dreadfully shot local news broadcasts. At seven o’clock I decided to walk to the end of Chipchase Road, and into the village to get some beer and a packet of fags (That’s right I had found my Switch card). On my return I passed something that amused me for the rest of the night. I even considered telling them except I thought that it would lead to a Victorian melodrama.
On the corner of Chipchase and Linthorpe Road; opposite the fabulous Chipchase Chippy, a large Police van thing had pulled over and the coppers inside were getting out to go to the fish shop. I couldn’t help but notice the usual gang of tracksuit wrapped teenagers skulking away around the corner to avoid the good, old law enforcers.
‘They’re up to no good’ I thought as I walked their way. They vanished round the corner but as I reached the corner myself I almost walked into one of them as he hurriedly peered round into Chipchase Road to see if the Rozzers were still there.
So I thought that this event was wonderful; the buffoon may as well have had a large neon light up above his head that shone out in true illuminous glory: -
‘Oi, over here, I’m a dodgy git that’s up to no bloody good. I probably haven’t done anything yet, but give me half an hour and I’ll do something outlandishly devious and spiteful to someone somewhere.’
I imagined him as a Mountebank in a play by Ben Jonson, suddenly stepping up onto his stage awaiting a handerkerchief to be dropped by a fair maiden above at her window.
‘Good Evening Ladies and Gentleman! May I have your attention please? I the magnificent Scotto, have brought myself amongst you again, to sell my wonderful merchandise. Yes, I am dressed in downtrodden Kappa crap, and sport the type of haircut that looks neither gelled nor shaven, but the quality of my product is far beyond any other. I bring to you pure dodginess in a bottle. For only five shillings, my miraculous lotion will cause you to cower from all Rozzers. It will help you to look shifty in alleyways. It will aid you to scare people of any race including my own. It will cause old people to cross the road and most of all make stolen car stereos, video recorders, televisions, hi-fi systems and half a pound of pure Morroccan amazingly appear in your pockets, without, of course, needing your own prior knowledge (honestly constable). One swig will aid you in failing all qualification examinations that you may be undertaking. One draught will help you also to become 3rd generation unemployed with nothing to live for except hanging around on street corners, and being severely beaten by your father who has done time. Just one swig will give you the achievements to do nothing with your life, even the Green Howards wouldn’t want you and they only consider cannon fodder. Drink a mouthful of this illustrious, charming, substance that is manufactured in the most elegant of ways, (with the finest ingredients; Sony Playstations, bad Stallone movies, four cse’s and just enough dope to make a joint); and you will no longer feel your ailments. You too will satisfy your lives by wearing sweatshop sportswear in the name of fashion. And most importantly don’t forget the ability to sign on for the Old King Cole for the rest of your life. Can you lend me 25p so that I can get a cup of tea’.
The stupid bastard deserved to be picked up. Not only for the several crimes that he was bound to commit that evening; not only for his offensive day-glo sportswear and inability to speak whilst moving his lips within a fraction of an inch whilst pronouncing, ’Fuck off!’; but because of his absolute stupidity in making it obvious that he was up to something. Needless to say the Coppers didn’t bat an eyelid, but then that was probably because they were related.
And so smirking at the local behaviour, to which I had become regularly accustomed, I made my way over the road towards the old Rec and then back home.
Upon entering the house and pondering upon my curt observations, I had a strange sensation that something wasn’t quite right. Something alarmingly different was in the air, although what it was I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I entered the hallway, shut the front door and then stood looking around. At first glance, everything seemed normal, but then I suddenly became aware of an odd smell. A sweet smell, something that reminded me of childhood, and all the family Christmas’s rolled into one. It was an uncanny fragrance that reminded me of relatives visiting, and suddenly I could vividly see, in the small of my mind, a picture; a memory; a vision; varnished wood and a bright yellow duster. Of course the answer hung over me, screaming to be plucked like a bunch of grapes. It was furniture polish.
That’s what was different; the penny hadn’t exactly dropped as much as penetrated through the atmosphere from some unknown alien source, and was plummetting to Earth with all of the speed, density and fervour of a comet; a burning hulk of fire breathing, chemical wire that would lay the reign of the dinosaur to waste and force the world into an era of wintery peace.
The penny hit home hard.
‘How strange,’ I thought, ‘Someone’s tidied up.’
The letters that had built up to one side of the front door, all addressed to previous occupants (and onetime non-cleaners of the bath and oven) were now tidily stacked on the third stair. The air that had previously smelled of too many takeaways and cigarette stagnation had been replaced with an overzealous presence of carpet cleaner, that not as much put the freshness back as burnt holes in my sinuses. As far as the nose could smell, there were combinations of furniture polish, bleach, aerosol fragrances, the thin plasticity of air fresheners and all things Harpic. It was digusting.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I thought, ‘The bastards finally done it. He’s moved a bird in!’
The landlord, who I unfortunately only saw once a fortnight, had been threatening for 3 months to take on more people in the house if I didn’t pay up the full rent for the unoccupied rooms as well as my own. I thought that this was vastly unfair. My contract had been for my room only. When I first moved in there had been one other person living here. He was a peculiar bloke from Nuneaton and as I soon found out, was socially inept.
I wasn’t aware of how stupid the Midland accents could sound until I met him. It always sounded like he was taking the piss, but, as I soon found out, he never was. It took me two months to realise that he had no sense of humour. It had been replaced by a keen interest in lower to non-league football. I’d been laughing out loud whilst he’d been talking for ages, I thought he was informing me of amusing things that had happened to him during the day and that his demeanour was dry and deadpan. It was only after he had left that the landlord informed me that I had to pay his rent, as it was my fault he’d gone.
‘He said he couldn’t take it anymore. Apparently every time he tried to talk to you, you burst out laughing.’
‘Well he was a funny guy, I can’t understand it. We had a real good laugh.’
‘He thinks you hate him.’
‘Why?’
‘Well every time he tried to talk, he thought you were taking the piss out of him. Apparently he’s tried to discuss, the joint payment of the television license with you five times, and you just fell about laughing.’
‘Get out of it! That was his Woody Allen. It was hilarious, not quite as good as his Terry Waite, but then that was a gem.’
‘How can anyone do a Terry Waite impression. You wouldn’t be able to tell. I mean what does he sound like?’
‘Oh it was a physical thing, he ran upstairs and shouted, ‘Well if you like my Woody Allen, you’ll love my Terry Waite!’ then he’d stay in his room and lock the door. Wacky Guy. Comedy genius; I can’t believe he thought I hated him. I mean he came back out and then I laughed and he did it again. I didn’t see him for two days. It was fucking brilliant. A bit persistent but fucking brilliant!’
Still, in his hurry to leave he left his collection of Razzle mags, under the bed in an old, yellow Fine Fare carrier bag. He had the entire 2nd volume from 1983. What a find, there were some of the ugliest women that I’d ever seen, posing alongside adverts for the Sinclair ZX81, apparently, ‘The most powerful home computer you will ever own!’
Some of the cartoons were great too. There was this one of a bloke at a doctors. The doctor says to him, ‘Mr Smith I’m going to need a faeces, semen and urine sample from you’ to which the protagonist replies, ‘Sorry Doc, I’m in a hurry, can I just leave you my underwear.’
This was a social discovery. I felt that I had rediscovered the mind of the 80’s man. It was like being transported into the style and fashions of an ‘Only Fools And Horses’ episode. One of those old ones that still had Grandad in it, and Rodney’s mate Mickey dressed like a 2 Tone gansta. Quality. So in time I forgot about that ginger haired idiot from Nuneaton, and moved in with the porn mags. Well his room was bigger than mine, and had more locks on the door.
So I stood in the hall and my thoughts of having a new flat mate who was a female, ranged from denial, to hormonal and pornographic and then finally to guilt. It was at this point that I heard an unfamiliar yet recognizable voice call from the front room.
‘Are you going to stand out there in the hallway with your guilt conscience on show for all and sundry, or are you coming in, if you wish I shall call for some tea?’
I looked to the closed door to the front room, and then to my feet. I looked to the door again and remembered, that perhaps I should respond. But who the hell was it. Oh my god, my new housemate was royalty. I mean I can’t stand the idea of a monarchy myself, but if I’d been warned I could at least have vacuumed or something. At least I could have opened a window and let a bit of air in.
I looked at myself in the hall mirror. I looked as good as ever, which generally by anyone else’s standards is dog shit rough.
Should I shave?
Nah, bugger it.
‘Will you abstain or not, inquiring minds need to know?’
I scuttled across the hall and opened the door.
And there we have it.... want more, then post a comment.
Tatah for now
John
First Blog Post Of The Year
Mr Aqualung cartoon of the day
March 2010 Already!
Yes of course you are right, I should have put something up sooner, for gods sake its now March. Truth is I've simply been busy. As lots of you are probably already aware, we've just bought a new puppy... another Tibetan terrier to put alongside our other one and the cat.
So its been a bit like a cross between the films 101 Dalmatians, Road House, Dr. Doolittle and Mrs Doubtfire at our house since she arrived.
We spent a week and a half trying to get down to Boston (thats Boston UK not Boston Massachusetts, one looks like a cross between Stockton and Beaconsfield and The Lemonheads and Pixies are from the other) to pick her up during the mental snow that we had in January. It had all thawed out up here when we set off but still looking like the ice age around Sheffield, needless to say the Sat Nav was useless. We eventually found the Breeders (thats where we got the pup not to be confused with The Breeders who by a strange occurence of synchronicity are from Boston, Massachusetts) who lived in a weird Bungalow on a rural road next to a crop of potatoes (Banjoes unfortunately were not being played on the porch) where I was promptly told by the overweight man in charge that I should never have children. I joked telling him that I had several but not to worry as I'd sold them all into slavery at birth, to which then he told me that I was quite astute in my business affairs. We eventually left unviolated.
So my year so far:
1. Got a new dog... she's bossy but cute.
2. Saw Wolfmother on their British tour... they blew me away.
3. The Writers Block opening event was astoundingly good.
4. Read The Psychic Tourist by William little... it was hilarious.
5. Did a talk at Berwick Hills library on Ghost Hunting... was lots of fun, even though the location was scarier than my talk. Nice group of people at the talk though.
6. Platform Arts Birthday celebrations... met some new people, good to see old friends, had a fun afternoon with James Harris and Ian The Magician with his mind reading tricks... bastard won't tell you how he does it, but he's brilliant.
7. Did an Investigation at The Studio in Hartlepool... nice to see that Baptist Ministers are still scary even after death. Picked up a few interesting Iron Maiden links and got some weird dust/ orb anomalies.
8. Got the Camper Van fixed up again and now she's ready to go.
9. My dads prostate operation was a success... but now theres some really crappy news that I can't go into.
10. Bought tickets to see Alan Moore events at the AV festival in Newcastle... can't wait for these performances; Hermetic madness will no doubt ensue.
11. Got a nice exhibition in planning with Ajoy Kumar at The Python Gallery. Ajoys work is delicious so that should be a good one.
12. Made a good start on adding extra details and editing my Nano Wrimo novel. Its a bit like unpicking dreadlocks getting the crap out of it, but the deeper elements of character construction are coming on a treat. I just can't believe I wrote an entire chapter on wallpaper in an attempt to build my wordcount up... what was I thinking of.
13. Got a new burglar alarm to keep the chavs out. So if the alarm doesn't work, hopefully the dogs will bite their nylon tracksuits off.
14. Did another NGI event at Acklam Hall; got trapped by Richard Felix tearing into his old workmates for a good twenty minutes. He's a nice bloke but lets face it he's right Most Haunted is bollocks. I coaxed him by suggesting that there was more fishing line than paranormal activity involved, he went off one one for ages about it but without going into too much detail he started off by screaming 'EXACTLY!'. If you watch this programme and buy into it I do apologise for bursting your balloon, but really theres more fact in the Braveheart and thats ropey to say the least.
So I thought that I would post the first chapter of a novel that I've put to one side for the time being to concentrate getting the Nano Wrimo one finished. Its been a while since I took a good look at this one, so I may be ashamed of myself for putting it up here, there's probably loads of grammatical errors etc so bear with it. Your comments are always welcome and if people like it I'll post the next chapter. Who knows this process may get me finishing the bloody thing.
I should make a point of saying that it's set in the late 90's.
Here it is Chapter One of THE DOPPLEGANGERS copyright John Chadwick 2009
Chapter One
Between dozing and sleeping, I find myself in a state of oneness with my own imagination. It was during one of these many states of mind that I encountered him for the first time. I wasn’t asleep, and I certainly wasn’t awake; I was somewhere in between where sheep attempt to leap fences as I try to count them into my own slumber. As an insomniac I often find that these sheep would rather just graze, than jump the fences; perhaps I should force them over with a stick or a large dog. Instead I give up and forget about them. They care little, as they feel nothing for me. I sometimes wonder if they are even aware of my existence as they chew the cud into R.E.M.
So it was during such a moment, that I was lying in bed half asleep getting boredom and hunger confused again (which could explain why I am so big and seldom bored), when I felt suddenly aware of my bedroom door slowly opening. I cannot start to fully explain the immense fear and daunting that crept over me. I didn’t want to look but felt totally unable to move. In a state of paralysis, I simply lay, terrified, and could not help myself as I observed a shadow slowly seeping between door and frame. Suddenly there he stood, without speaking, without even breathing. He stood and looked straight ahead and then slowly he turned his head and faced me. His stare observed my every inch, glaring at and glaring through me, as though he was searching for something that I knew not of. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. All that I could do was watch him too and feel invaded.
‘I am asleep,’ I told myself. ‘This is a dream. He is not there.’
It was at this point that I found myself doing something that I hadn’t done for years. I started to pray.
‘Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven. Please wake me up; please get rid of him, who is he, I don’t know? Hail Mary full of grace.’ and on and on I continued like a babbling mess.
He was gone.
‘The Lord is with thee,’ I continued, ‘blessed art thou amongst women, blessed is the fruit of thy womb Lord Jesus Christ. Holy Mary mother of God pray for us. I’m not a catholic.’ I remembered, ‘Okay, forget all that, Urghm, protect me from this.’ I lay in palpitations. I eventually calmed down and the herbal sleeping tablets kicked in. And then I slept.
The next day I woke late. Watched an hour of daytime TV and then managed to clamber out of my pit, downstairs for the ritual cup of coffee and cigarette. I stood in the yard outside, amongst the bricks and old pieces of chicken wire that are always found in the yards of run down rented housing. I stood in a daze and slowly remembered my strange encounter. The hairs on the back of my neck started to rise like an old man on Viagra. That sense of foreboding over shadowed me. I finished my cigarette, threw it into a bucket of rainwater and returned inside.
‘Okay,’ I thought, ‘Back to the book.’
I had been writing my first great British novel for the first 3 months of the year, having made a new years resolution to do so since the turn of 1998 into 1999. In the first fortnight I had finally plucked up the courage to turn on the computer, open the word processing package and type my first draft. Type in the broadest sense of the word, meaning that I really looked at the keyboard and pressed the keys with my index fingers, eventually scanning the screen for mistakes. If there was a mistake it would generally be underlined in green which suggested something I didn't understand and so I tended to either put a full stop in there somewhere or ignore it. A red line suggested a spelling mistake, I couldn’t ignore these as they annoyed me.
‘A spelling mistake for Americans only, ‘ I had noted, ‘everyone knows that colour is spelt with a ‘u’. ‘
Even as I write this I am aware that that very word is sitting on an evil red wavy line of Coca-Cola condescension with no concept of irony. Yeah that’s right, you, silicon chipped language snob; you can correct my grammar but you can’t figure out the concepts of reverse discourse and paradox. You think you’re clever don’t you, but I could teach you a few things about stuff.
A friend of mine once asked me, ‘If your computer could talk what do you think it would say to you?’
I can’t help but think that it would object, ‘Oh no it’s you again. Do you really have to use that tiled background of the bunny?’ and that would be the end of that conversation.
So for three months I had been considering plots; sub plots and main plots; characters; attitudes and appearances, limbs and rickets; repetitive themes and use of language; good English, bad English; colloquialism and American things that fit neither category (ahhh! how I would reap my revenge).
I considered the clever part that only clever people on The Late Show would get; ‘This shall be a nod and a wink to those people who feel like me about everything I think about. This shall not only be a comment on society but also a satire of philosophy, religion, politics and plasticine. I shall be as sly William Burroughs, as sardonic as Hunter S. Thompson, as observant and as witty as Wilde, as up my own arse as William Shakespeare and as full of shit as Erich Von Daninken. I shall be as slimy and aim to stroke the egos of my readers as Jeffery Archer and I will be as upsetting as Lee Chicken Scratch Perry after an Ital breakfast. I am a genius before I have even lifted a pen!’
And then I got carried away with thoughts of my acceptance speech for the Booker Prize, and forgot to write anything for two and half months. After day in and day out of Richard Madeley merging into Australian Soap operas and then children’s television presenters hopping up and down in glee like monkeys with wasps up their arseholes, I remembered my novel. ‘Aha’ I thought, ‘ I shall write my first Victorian Detective story.’
There just aren’t enough books on the shelf with smoggy back lanes and horse drawn carriages, with over the top protagonists hailing, ‘To Primrose Hill Cabby, and hurry lad, there’s a farthing in it for you!’
Ahh, how sweet and pleasant it is to be in the realm of hardened mistresses, fainting wives, stupid police inspectors, the smell of gunpowder from an antique firearm and the pretence of the disguised genius detective impersonating a wretch in the bleak and depressed bowels of an opium den. And as for the sexual overtones of such a macabre tale, I can only think of the old joke, ‘Lemon entry my dear Watson, Lemon entry! ‘ as the Great Detective probes his suspect with more than just his startling use of logic.
This will be a novel about what it is like to be inside my warped mind. Oh you lucky readers, at last you can see for yourself my genius. My mind, the brain of Charles Derenger is open to you all. I bid you welcome to the greatest show on earth. Step this way, the cover charge is £17.99 that is if you can’t wait for it to come out in paperback. I solemnly advise that you don’t, as it only cost 50p to produce, and I get a 40% cut either way. Apart, of course for the fee for the cover artist, but then I have been so generously gifted in the art too, that this will be mine also. You can gawk at my wonderful artwork when you leave it on the coffee table to show off to your friends.
‘Yes, I read Derenger, he is truly my favourite author to date, I admire his wit and I also hear that he is hung like a horse.’ you will say.
‘Yes, Mr Parkinson, that’s right I am a true genius and so young, so better than all of your other guests. I presume that is why tonight’s show is dedicated to me alone. Well yes I was aware that Muhammed Ali was to be appearing, but I beat the shit out of him in the green room and I’m afraid he has legged it with Billy Connolly. There simply wasn’t any competition.’
Cue laughter and applause, and later a standing ovation and oral sex from the girls from The Corrs who played their latest hit on the show in tribute to my GREAT BRITISH NOVEL. Where else could my fame lead to after all that?
Possibly Live Aid II, This Is Your Life and then perhaps it’s shell suited, younger brother, Through The Keyhole.
And so it was whilst reading over my first chapter, which planted the seed that would grow into a great oak of a book, that I observed the similarity of my hero to the chilling spectre from my encounter the previous night. How strange, I must write to the Fortean Times, I wondered if anybody else had experienced such a weird moment or should that be a nervous breakdown. But then all great authors have nervous breakdowns; Virginia Woolf and well they all do.
What the fuck was I thinking of. I couldn’t allow anybody to know of this, I would be ridiculed, I would be taunted; small dogs would bark at me as I walked down the streets; housewives would lead their children across the road from me so that our paths would never cross and as for The Corrs and the oral sex, well, not even that tart from T’pau would bat her eyelids at me.
Well, it was definitely him alright, right down to the brylcreemed moustache and the monocle. I didn’t like the colour of his waistcoat, so that would have to be changed.
‘Perhaps he’d suit aubergine’ I wondered, no that would look too gay. I didn’t want him coming back with any funny ideas. Actually, it felt quite good that I’d seen him, now I could completely finely tune his appearance and if he did come back, well at least he might look suitable enough for an acquaintance with my genius.
Okay, so a deerstalker was too clichéd and he’d already done enough stalking for my liking, so how about a trilby; did they have trilbys in 1835?
Probably not.
‘What about one of those little leather caps that Freddie Mercury and that bloke from Judas Priest used to wear, don’t think he’d like that very much.’ I couldn’t help but laugh but then I got scared and gave him a trilby. ‘That will suit you,’ I thought as I typed it into his description on page 34. So now my main character, the master detective by appointment to the Kings and Queens of Europe and the common man alike, appeared as such:-
• 6ft 4
• One handle barred moustache (as two is unnecessary)
• Silk shirt (as worn by gentlemen)
• Tweed suit and waistcoat
• Monocle
• Brylcreemed shoulder length hair, slightly grey
• Walking shoes (for walking on Dartmoor)
• Those big socks that cover the bottom of your trousers
• Pipe but not a big daft one like Sherlock Holmes
• Piercing eyes that makes perpetrators terrified (yeah, he had those alright)
• Pocket watch (his prize possession, the last thing his father gave him before he died)
• Bad breath; smells like pipe smoke.
• Incredible intelligence and use of logic
• Incredible general knowledge (anything that I can pull off the internet or that Encyclopedia Britannica CD ROM)
• Master of disguise
• Good personal hygiene
• Loves his mum (his only weak spot, a bit like kryptonite to Superman, but not as painful if it gets stuck under a contact lens).
All I really needed was a name. Let it be said that all other writers would have had all this planned previously, with great, intricate, flowing flowcharts that monitored every twist and turn in the plot from start to finish. That had seemed too boring, so I thought I would settle for the other way of writing, i.e. make it up as you go along.
I could have also got strung out on drugs and written in delirium, pretending that it was great art like Burroughs. But drugs make me paranoid, and what with Lurch (my pet name for my hero) stalking me at night I thought better of it, plus I was skint and couldn’t even afford a can of beer.
I had to think of a good name, Lurch, no matter how fond I was of it, just wouldn’t do. Something weird and eccentric would do the trick. Something like Sherlock Holmes or Indianna Jones, two odd words that wouldn’t really fit together but would become instantly recognisable. I looked on my bookshelf for names I could string together.
‘John Irving; I could turn Irving into a Christian name, nope, too much like Irving Welsh. Umberto Eco; now there’s a good name, unfortunately in use by Umberto Eco, however I could call him that out of tribute to Umberto Eco, and people might also see the name on the front cover and buy it thinking it had been written by him. Ahh, yes, I like the tribute thing, very much but they’d probably end up giving Umberto Eco my Booker prize. Right who do I like?’ I thought, ‘Philipa Forrester; oh yes, now I’m onto something, that might also lead to an acquaintance with the lovely lady. Yeah!’
Okay, so his first name was Forrester, now that I liked very much, ‘Forrester, Forrester, Forrester,’ my eyes glided past my Specials Cassette lying aimlessly on my desk, ‘Terry Hall; Forrester Hall.’
‘Hello my name is Forrester Hall, nice to make your acquaintance, your majesty,’ I said in a gravelled voice with rich undertones of pomp and pretense and then decided, ‘No that’s shit!’
‘Forrester, Forrester,’ aha, my copy of Gulliver’s Travels, complete and unabridged and slightly knackered from the time that I had dropped it in the bath, beckoned me from its place on the shelf, ‘Of course. Forrester Swift. How do you do Forrester Swift?’
‘Not bad at all.’ I heard him say behind me. I span round but he had gone.
Hope you liked that, if not... well thats fair enough I suppose. Feel free to leave comments and as I said if it goes down well I'll shove chapter 2 up here... bear in mind that some of it has already been posted on a previous post. One note before I go, the name Charles Derenger isn't doing a lot for me so that'll probably change yet. Unfortunately the charcter Felix Trumbo that I discoverd in the Jacob Polley workshop at the Writers Block event has already decided that he wants to be in the Nano Wrimo novel and not this one, so that names taken.
Tatah for now and thanks for reading,
John
March 2010 Already!
Yes of course you are right, I should have put something up sooner, for gods sake its now March. Truth is I've simply been busy. As lots of you are probably already aware, we've just bought a new puppy... another Tibetan terrier to put alongside our other one and the cat.
So its been a bit like a cross between the films 101 Dalmatians, Road House, Dr. Doolittle and Mrs Doubtfire at our house since she arrived.
We spent a week and a half trying to get down to Boston (thats Boston UK not Boston Massachusetts, one looks like a cross between Stockton and Beaconsfield and The Lemonheads and Pixies are from the other) to pick her up during the mental snow that we had in January. It had all thawed out up here when we set off but still looking like the ice age around Sheffield, needless to say the Sat Nav was useless. We eventually found the Breeders (thats where we got the pup not to be confused with The Breeders who by a strange occurence of synchronicity are from Boston, Massachusetts) who lived in a weird Bungalow on a rural road next to a crop of potatoes (Banjoes unfortunately were not being played on the porch) where I was promptly told by the overweight man in charge that I should never have children. I joked telling him that I had several but not to worry as I'd sold them all into slavery at birth, to which then he told me that I was quite astute in my business affairs. We eventually left unviolated.
So my year so far:
1. Got a new dog... she's bossy but cute.
2. Saw Wolfmother on their British tour... they blew me away.
3. The Writers Block opening event was astoundingly good.
4. Read The Psychic Tourist by William little... it was hilarious.
5. Did a talk at Berwick Hills library on Ghost Hunting... was lots of fun, even though the location was scarier than my talk. Nice group of people at the talk though.
6. Platform Arts Birthday celebrations... met some new people, good to see old friends, had a fun afternoon with James Harris and Ian The Magician with his mind reading tricks... bastard won't tell you how he does it, but he's brilliant.
7. Did an Investigation at The Studio in Hartlepool... nice to see that Baptist Ministers are still scary even after death. Picked up a few interesting Iron Maiden links and got some weird dust/ orb anomalies.
8. Got the Camper Van fixed up again and now she's ready to go.
9. My dads prostate operation was a success... but now theres some really crappy news that I can't go into.
10. Bought tickets to see Alan Moore events at the AV festival in Newcastle... can't wait for these performances; Hermetic madness will no doubt ensue.
11. Got a nice exhibition in planning with Ajoy Kumar at The Python Gallery. Ajoys work is delicious so that should be a good one.
12. Made a good start on adding extra details and editing my Nano Wrimo novel. Its a bit like unpicking dreadlocks getting the crap out of it, but the deeper elements of character construction are coming on a treat. I just can't believe I wrote an entire chapter on wallpaper in an attempt to build my wordcount up... what was I thinking of.
13. Got a new burglar alarm to keep the chavs out. So if the alarm doesn't work, hopefully the dogs will bite their nylon tracksuits off.
14. Did another NGI event at Acklam Hall; got trapped by Richard Felix tearing into his old workmates for a good twenty minutes. He's a nice bloke but lets face it he's right Most Haunted is bollocks. I coaxed him by suggesting that there was more fishing line than paranormal activity involved, he went off one one for ages about it but without going into too much detail he started off by screaming 'EXACTLY!'. If you watch this programme and buy into it I do apologise for bursting your balloon, but really theres more fact in the Braveheart and thats ropey to say the least.
So I thought that I would post the first chapter of a novel that I've put to one side for the time being to concentrate getting the Nano Wrimo one finished. Its been a while since I took a good look at this one, so I may be ashamed of myself for putting it up here, there's probably loads of grammatical errors etc so bear with it. Your comments are always welcome and if people like it I'll post the next chapter. Who knows this process may get me finishing the bloody thing.
I should make a point of saying that it's set in the late 90's.
Here it is Chapter One of THE DOPPLEGANGERS copyright John Chadwick 2009
Chapter One
Between dozing and sleeping, I find myself in a state of oneness with my own imagination. It was during one of these many states of mind that I encountered him for the first time. I wasn’t asleep, and I certainly wasn’t awake; I was somewhere in between where sheep attempt to leap fences as I try to count them into my own slumber. As an insomniac I often find that these sheep would rather just graze, than jump the fences; perhaps I should force them over with a stick or a large dog. Instead I give up and forget about them. They care little, as they feel nothing for me. I sometimes wonder if they are even aware of my existence as they chew the cud into R.E.M.
So it was during such a moment, that I was lying in bed half asleep getting boredom and hunger confused again (which could explain why I am so big and seldom bored), when I felt suddenly aware of my bedroom door slowly opening. I cannot start to fully explain the immense fear and daunting that crept over me. I didn’t want to look but felt totally unable to move. In a state of paralysis, I simply lay, terrified, and could not help myself as I observed a shadow slowly seeping between door and frame. Suddenly there he stood, without speaking, without even breathing. He stood and looked straight ahead and then slowly he turned his head and faced me. His stare observed my every inch, glaring at and glaring through me, as though he was searching for something that I knew not of. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. All that I could do was watch him too and feel invaded.
‘I am asleep,’ I told myself. ‘This is a dream. He is not there.’
It was at this point that I found myself doing something that I hadn’t done for years. I started to pray.
‘Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven. Please wake me up; please get rid of him, who is he, I don’t know? Hail Mary full of grace.’ and on and on I continued like a babbling mess.
He was gone.
‘The Lord is with thee,’ I continued, ‘blessed art thou amongst women, blessed is the fruit of thy womb Lord Jesus Christ. Holy Mary mother of God pray for us. I’m not a catholic.’ I remembered, ‘Okay, forget all that, Urghm, protect me from this.’ I lay in palpitations. I eventually calmed down and the herbal sleeping tablets kicked in. And then I slept.
The next day I woke late. Watched an hour of daytime TV and then managed to clamber out of my pit, downstairs for the ritual cup of coffee and cigarette. I stood in the yard outside, amongst the bricks and old pieces of chicken wire that are always found in the yards of run down rented housing. I stood in a daze and slowly remembered my strange encounter. The hairs on the back of my neck started to rise like an old man on Viagra. That sense of foreboding over shadowed me. I finished my cigarette, threw it into a bucket of rainwater and returned inside.
‘Okay,’ I thought, ‘Back to the book.’
I had been writing my first great British novel for the first 3 months of the year, having made a new years resolution to do so since the turn of 1998 into 1999. In the first fortnight I had finally plucked up the courage to turn on the computer, open the word processing package and type my first draft. Type in the broadest sense of the word, meaning that I really looked at the keyboard and pressed the keys with my index fingers, eventually scanning the screen for mistakes. If there was a mistake it would generally be underlined in green which suggested something I didn't understand and so I tended to either put a full stop in there somewhere or ignore it. A red line suggested a spelling mistake, I couldn’t ignore these as they annoyed me.
‘A spelling mistake for Americans only, ‘ I had noted, ‘everyone knows that colour is spelt with a ‘u’. ‘
Even as I write this I am aware that that very word is sitting on an evil red wavy line of Coca-Cola condescension with no concept of irony. Yeah that’s right, you, silicon chipped language snob; you can correct my grammar but you can’t figure out the concepts of reverse discourse and paradox. You think you’re clever don’t you, but I could teach you a few things about stuff.
A friend of mine once asked me, ‘If your computer could talk what do you think it would say to you?’
I can’t help but think that it would object, ‘Oh no it’s you again. Do you really have to use that tiled background of the bunny?’ and that would be the end of that conversation.
So for three months I had been considering plots; sub plots and main plots; characters; attitudes and appearances, limbs and rickets; repetitive themes and use of language; good English, bad English; colloquialism and American things that fit neither category (ahhh! how I would reap my revenge).
I considered the clever part that only clever people on The Late Show would get; ‘This shall be a nod and a wink to those people who feel like me about everything I think about. This shall not only be a comment on society but also a satire of philosophy, religion, politics and plasticine. I shall be as sly William Burroughs, as sardonic as Hunter S. Thompson, as observant and as witty as Wilde, as up my own arse as William Shakespeare and as full of shit as Erich Von Daninken. I shall be as slimy and aim to stroke the egos of my readers as Jeffery Archer and I will be as upsetting as Lee Chicken Scratch Perry after an Ital breakfast. I am a genius before I have even lifted a pen!’
And then I got carried away with thoughts of my acceptance speech for the Booker Prize, and forgot to write anything for two and half months. After day in and day out of Richard Madeley merging into Australian Soap operas and then children’s television presenters hopping up and down in glee like monkeys with wasps up their arseholes, I remembered my novel. ‘Aha’ I thought, ‘ I shall write my first Victorian Detective story.’
There just aren’t enough books on the shelf with smoggy back lanes and horse drawn carriages, with over the top protagonists hailing, ‘To Primrose Hill Cabby, and hurry lad, there’s a farthing in it for you!’
Ahh, how sweet and pleasant it is to be in the realm of hardened mistresses, fainting wives, stupid police inspectors, the smell of gunpowder from an antique firearm and the pretence of the disguised genius detective impersonating a wretch in the bleak and depressed bowels of an opium den. And as for the sexual overtones of such a macabre tale, I can only think of the old joke, ‘Lemon entry my dear Watson, Lemon entry! ‘ as the Great Detective probes his suspect with more than just his startling use of logic.
This will be a novel about what it is like to be inside my warped mind. Oh you lucky readers, at last you can see for yourself my genius. My mind, the brain of Charles Derenger is open to you all. I bid you welcome to the greatest show on earth. Step this way, the cover charge is £17.99 that is if you can’t wait for it to come out in paperback. I solemnly advise that you don’t, as it only cost 50p to produce, and I get a 40% cut either way. Apart, of course for the fee for the cover artist, but then I have been so generously gifted in the art too, that this will be mine also. You can gawk at my wonderful artwork when you leave it on the coffee table to show off to your friends.
‘Yes, I read Derenger, he is truly my favourite author to date, I admire his wit and I also hear that he is hung like a horse.’ you will say.
‘Yes, Mr Parkinson, that’s right I am a true genius and so young, so better than all of your other guests. I presume that is why tonight’s show is dedicated to me alone. Well yes I was aware that Muhammed Ali was to be appearing, but I beat the shit out of him in the green room and I’m afraid he has legged it with Billy Connolly. There simply wasn’t any competition.’
Cue laughter and applause, and later a standing ovation and oral sex from the girls from The Corrs who played their latest hit on the show in tribute to my GREAT BRITISH NOVEL. Where else could my fame lead to after all that?
Possibly Live Aid II, This Is Your Life and then perhaps it’s shell suited, younger brother, Through The Keyhole.
And so it was whilst reading over my first chapter, which planted the seed that would grow into a great oak of a book, that I observed the similarity of my hero to the chilling spectre from my encounter the previous night. How strange, I must write to the Fortean Times, I wondered if anybody else had experienced such a weird moment or should that be a nervous breakdown. But then all great authors have nervous breakdowns; Virginia Woolf and well they all do.
What the fuck was I thinking of. I couldn’t allow anybody to know of this, I would be ridiculed, I would be taunted; small dogs would bark at me as I walked down the streets; housewives would lead their children across the road from me so that our paths would never cross and as for The Corrs and the oral sex, well, not even that tart from T’pau would bat her eyelids at me.
Well, it was definitely him alright, right down to the brylcreemed moustache and the monocle. I didn’t like the colour of his waistcoat, so that would have to be changed.
‘Perhaps he’d suit aubergine’ I wondered, no that would look too gay. I didn’t want him coming back with any funny ideas. Actually, it felt quite good that I’d seen him, now I could completely finely tune his appearance and if he did come back, well at least he might look suitable enough for an acquaintance with my genius.
Okay, so a deerstalker was too clichéd and he’d already done enough stalking for my liking, so how about a trilby; did they have trilbys in 1835?
Probably not.
‘What about one of those little leather caps that Freddie Mercury and that bloke from Judas Priest used to wear, don’t think he’d like that very much.’ I couldn’t help but laugh but then I got scared and gave him a trilby. ‘That will suit you,’ I thought as I typed it into his description on page 34. So now my main character, the master detective by appointment to the Kings and Queens of Europe and the common man alike, appeared as such:-
• 6ft 4
• One handle barred moustache (as two is unnecessary)
• Silk shirt (as worn by gentlemen)
• Tweed suit and waistcoat
• Monocle
• Brylcreemed shoulder length hair, slightly grey
• Walking shoes (for walking on Dartmoor)
• Those big socks that cover the bottom of your trousers
• Pipe but not a big daft one like Sherlock Holmes
• Piercing eyes that makes perpetrators terrified (yeah, he had those alright)
• Pocket watch (his prize possession, the last thing his father gave him before he died)
• Bad breath; smells like pipe smoke.
• Incredible intelligence and use of logic
• Incredible general knowledge (anything that I can pull off the internet or that Encyclopedia Britannica CD ROM)
• Master of disguise
• Good personal hygiene
• Loves his mum (his only weak spot, a bit like kryptonite to Superman, but not as painful if it gets stuck under a contact lens).
All I really needed was a name. Let it be said that all other writers would have had all this planned previously, with great, intricate, flowing flowcharts that monitored every twist and turn in the plot from start to finish. That had seemed too boring, so I thought I would settle for the other way of writing, i.e. make it up as you go along.
I could have also got strung out on drugs and written in delirium, pretending that it was great art like Burroughs. But drugs make me paranoid, and what with Lurch (my pet name for my hero) stalking me at night I thought better of it, plus I was skint and couldn’t even afford a can of beer.
I had to think of a good name, Lurch, no matter how fond I was of it, just wouldn’t do. Something weird and eccentric would do the trick. Something like Sherlock Holmes or Indianna Jones, two odd words that wouldn’t really fit together but would become instantly recognisable. I looked on my bookshelf for names I could string together.
‘John Irving; I could turn Irving into a Christian name, nope, too much like Irving Welsh. Umberto Eco; now there’s a good name, unfortunately in use by Umberto Eco, however I could call him that out of tribute to Umberto Eco, and people might also see the name on the front cover and buy it thinking it had been written by him. Ahh, yes, I like the tribute thing, very much but they’d probably end up giving Umberto Eco my Booker prize. Right who do I like?’ I thought, ‘Philipa Forrester; oh yes, now I’m onto something, that might also lead to an acquaintance with the lovely lady. Yeah!’
Okay, so his first name was Forrester, now that I liked very much, ‘Forrester, Forrester, Forrester,’ my eyes glided past my Specials Cassette lying aimlessly on my desk, ‘Terry Hall; Forrester Hall.’
‘Hello my name is Forrester Hall, nice to make your acquaintance, your majesty,’ I said in a gravelled voice with rich undertones of pomp and pretense and then decided, ‘No that’s shit!’
‘Forrester, Forrester,’ aha, my copy of Gulliver’s Travels, complete and unabridged and slightly knackered from the time that I had dropped it in the bath, beckoned me from its place on the shelf, ‘Of course. Forrester Swift. How do you do Forrester Swift?’
‘Not bad at all.’ I heard him say behind me. I span round but he had gone.
Hope you liked that, if not... well thats fair enough I suppose. Feel free to leave comments and as I said if it goes down well I'll shove chapter 2 up here... bear in mind that some of it has already been posted on a previous post. One note before I go, the name Charles Derenger isn't doing a lot for me so that'll probably change yet. Unfortunately the charcter Felix Trumbo that I discoverd in the Jacob Polley workshop at the Writers Block event has already decided that he wants to be in the Nano Wrimo novel and not this one, so that names taken.
Tatah for now and thanks for reading,
John
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