Driving On

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When I was a kid, I wanted to be older… This is not what I expected. (Anon)

If I’m honest, I expected to feel a lot older than I do by now. Most of the time I feel exactly as I have for years. One of the few times when I can really put my finger on a creeping sense of age is when I am faced with a long drive, particularly at night, or ‘in weather’. As a young man I vividly remember listening to old people talking about the difficulties of driving at night and thinking ‘Get a grip! You’ve got headlights,’ but now I see headlights – other vehicle’s headlights – as the enemy. I am absolutely fine driving in the dark – as long as I am in the only vehicle doing so – although there is a creeping sense of shame nagging away at the back of my mind that I might be allowing the rationale of ‘Oh, there’s somebody coming towards me: I’ll just slow down a little bit,’ to take hold. So far, I steadfastly refuse to be cowed by the inability to see, but I can feel my confidence ebbing away along with my ability to chew toffee or to open a packet of peanuts without spilling the entire contents all over the floor.

I’m not certain whether it is a change in the nature of headlights or of my eyes, but the glare of an approaching vehicle – particularly in the rain – seems to flood my entire field of vision. It is like that moment of alien abduction in Close Encounters of the Third Kind (I sense that I might just have lost everybody under 50 years of age with that reference. It’s a film. Look it up!): everything else is engulfed in the blazing white glare that consumes all notion of light and shade. All that remains is a blinding light and the faint suspicion that Twinkle is playing on the radio…

My whole being is absorbed in the battle to stop myself from joining the ranks of elderly yo-yo drivers who speed up (sometimes to over thirty miles per hour) every time the road is clear and stamp on the brake every time there is something (anything) coming towards them. I have a nagging suspicion that it might be a battle I am losing.

How do I tackle it? Well, like all cowards, I turn my back on it. It is so much easier to face things when you don’t acknowledge them. It is so much easier to tackle a problem by avoiding it than facing it. I would sooner sleep on a park bench than tackle unfamiliar roads in the dark of night and I would, almost certainly choose to walk rather than drive like an old man.

I must admit at this point, that I have never really been a ‘car person’. A car, to me, has always been a means of getting from A to B (via Z if my wife is navigating), but never the reason for it. I cannot conceive of ever deriving any pleasure from ‘going for a drive’. I drive only when I’ve got somewhere to go: somewhere I need to be. When arriving at my destination is all that matters. If I want to enjoy ‘getting there’, I go by bike, or I walk. Age does preclude me from roller-skating, scootering, pogo-sticking and skipping, but it should not. I aim to address this – and I will – just as soon as the weather improves. My grandson does not approve of my using his skateboard or scooter. He thinks I might break. He could just be right – we’ll see.

I appreciate the car whenever the weather is… well, British. Rain, wind, hail, sleet, snow – all far better viewed from the driver’s seat than the bicycle seat.

And I look after the car because I dread the thought of breaking down. (I mean, of course, I dread the thought of the car breaking down. Although now I come to think of it…) To sit and wait for several hours until an overalled somebody turns up in a little green van, covered in reflective stripes, with the sole intention of making me feel inadequate by starting the car within seconds using nothing but a ‘surely you knew how to do that’ shrug… I have never felt ‘as one’ with a car (It’s a bloody car!) but I do, generally, know when it is not running properly, and I know the basics of what to do in those circumstances. (Phone somebody who is at one with the car.) I could not tell you if the engine sounds anything but normal, because I never hear it. I never travel anywhere without music playing. Whenever I hear the car engine, all that goes through my mind is ‘What’s wrong with the radio?’

I have fully embraced SatNav – it doesn’t seem to stop me getting lost, but it does at least give me some idea of where I did it and, occasionally, it helps me get back to where I should have been before I wasn’t (Huh?) – and I have now partially accepted hands-free, although, generally, I have to stop the car to do it. Whilst the internal combustion engine is a complete mystery to me, I am pretty much au fait with the inner-machinations of my brain and so I tend to ignore most other ‘driver aids’ which, in my own instance, would generally result in nothing other than tempting me to let my mind wander further than it really should – look! Rabbits! I cannot adopt the automatic gearbox as I know that it would thrust my brain into neutral. I have no need for parking aids as I never leave the car in a space that could not fit the QEII.

I think, If I’m honest, I would be perfectly comfortable as the passenger in a self-driving car – I have been married for forty years: I have no illusions about being in charge of anything – and it’s actually quite comforting to think that in the event of an accident, the two vehicles involved could haggle over blame whilst I sit serenely taking in the scenery. I suppose that this is one thing that old age does prepare you for: being a better passenger. In life, sooner or later, everyone becomes a bit of a passenger and, in the end, we all just go along for the ride.

Life is like a helicopter. I don’t know how to operate a helicopter. (Anon)

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Communism to Crucifixion)

COMMUNISM Doctrine that all goods, means of production &c. should be the property of the community. What a wicked system! Communism is currently frowned upon by most countries of the world, particularly the communist ones. It strikes me that the most obvious problem with the communist system is the confusion engendered by the paradox that those who are most doggedly communistic and therefore ardently opposed to all change and liberalisation, both socially and economically, are known as ‘conservatives’ and… actually, now I see that written down, it isn’t actually paradoxical at all, is it?

Most subversives are, nominally at least, Socialist¹ – except when it actually comes down to the principal of sharing things. The average subversive is more comfortable with a more theoretical observance of Socialist principals, whilst maintaining their shares in BT and the little nest egg in Zimbabwean diamonds.

A sort of user-friendly Communism, once much-vaunted in democratic societies, but now largely discarded in favour of personal advancement, capitalist expansionism and unparalleled levels of shoe ownership. Socialist principles in the UK have been progressively watered down since the Second World War, through the Worker’s Party, The Labour Party, New Labour, New New Labour, and Sir Kier Starmer.

CONFLICT Struggle, trial of strength. Oh dear me, no. No sensible subversive ever gets involved in such a thing: he/she is seldom well enough. I, myself, have been almost exclusively mentally subversive for six months, due to a heavy cold. Struggle is a very physical process and, should it become absolutely unavoidable, best left to somebody considerably fitter than yourself.

CONSCIENCE The complex of ethical and moral principles that controls or inhibits the actions or thoughts of an individual. E.G. ‘Am I likely to get caught?’

CONSERVATIVE In politics, one who desires to preserve institutions of his country against change and innovation. What a wonderful concept. In Britain, we have a whole party opposed to change and innovation. The only problem is that, these days, nobody is quite sure which one it is. Generally, in politics, innovations, such as everybody getting a fair and equal chance in life, are frowned upon.

CONSPIRACY An evil, unlawful, treacherous, or surreptitious plan formulated in secret by two or more persons. The most widely known conspiracy in the UK is almost certainly The Gunpowder Plot of 1605. The conspiracy was to blow up James I and the English parliament on its opening day, November 5^th, in the hope of prompting a great Catholic uprising. The brother-in-law of Francis Tresham (one of the conspirators) was warned not to attend the ceremony and the plot was subsequently exposed. Guy Fawkes, a paid mercenary, was captured, tortured and killed, as were most of his co-plotters¹. The plot back-fired as harsh anti-catholic laws were passed by the shocked establishment and November 5^th became widely known as Guy Fawkes Night (as it had a better ring than Thomas Catesby Night) and the tradition of scaring the living daylights out of the elderly and setting fire to half the neighbourhood, nightly from October 1^st to November 30^th, began.

Robert Catesby, John Wright and Thomas Winter originated the plot and, when Guy Fawkes was captured, they fled to Holbeach House in Staffordshire, where they were killed during a gunfight with the local sheriff and his deputies the very next day, having accidentally ignited their own gunpowder. Instant karma.

CORRUPT Make rotten, pervert, make evil. A common aim of all subversion and politics. Calling a Right Honourable Member a corrupt politician is a double damnation similar to evil devil, violent war and Michael Gove. If you believe that two wrongs can make a right, you may feel able to trust a corrupt politician. I do not, but then I don’t trust Dettol.

How To Corrupt a Politician: Elect him.

COSH A bludgeon. The subversive’s most subtle weapon.

CRISIS Turning point or decisive moment. I’m not certain that my interpretation of crisis is quite the same as my Dictionary. A subversive’s definition of crisis requires just one word – ‘Life’. Life is crisis, crisis is life. If I have a crisis it is seldom, if ever, a turning point, it is usually a rabid fear of being found out.

CRUCIFIXION A form of execution by being nailed or tied to a cross. Although the Romans did not originate crucifixion, they did use it widely, generally on slaves and despised malefactors. It would appear that Jesus of Nazareth, who could almost certainly be described as an early subversive were it not for the fact that both his motives and his methods were honest and virtuous, was killed in such a manner, with the intention that his importance was seen to be diminished to that of a common slave – well, that worked didn’t it…

In order to speed up death, which could be slow and tortuous, the crucified party often had his legs broken. This was considered merciful by the kind of person who regarded nailing an innocent man to a tree as justice.

As a subversive, you will have little time for religion, but you will have plenty of time to consider whether you are sufficiently committed to your own cause to run the risk of such punishment¹.

The answer is ‘No’.

HOMEWORK.

1. Describe in detail, the differences between Capitulate & Collaborate, Chaos & Crisis, Corrupt & Castrate, Capitalist, Communist & Conservative
Or
2. Don’t bother.

N.B. I had intended to see this guide through to Z, but as my already meagre readership appears to have voted with its feet on this particular little strand and headed off into the sunset, The Subversive A-Z will now take what might well become a very protracted break.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Cabal to Collaborate)

CABAL Secret plot. Most of your D.I.Y plots will be extremely secret: you will probably be the only person ever to know anything about them. If you feel that you are perhaps getting too much of a good thing, tell your wife¹, but expect to be held up for ridicule.

Subversion is a notoriously sexist occupation and ‘partner’ still sounds a little too ‘woolly hat and lentils’ for many ‘traditional’ subversives. If you are the wife, then tell your husband and expect the same result. If you are single, then tell anyone you can think of and expect total apathy. If you have a friend, then you are not a subversive.

CANT Hypocritical speech. This is not the word I thought it was and it doesn’t mean anything like the same, however, no turning back, and it is quite an appropriate word for our guide. Being hypocritical is one of the most essential subversive skills. Without it, you may end up saying what you really mean. Fatal. Never fall into the truth trap. Truth is a four-letter word to the subversive¹. Lie at all times.

Inevitable, as most of them cannot count beyond three.

CAPITALIST Owner of capital. Think of everything nasty, everything evil, everything you most covet – that is capital. Think of the owner of the capital – that is a capitalist – and sheer, naked envy will make him your sworn enemy. He has it and you don’t. Now, how can that be fair? Being fair is all about you having the capital and the capitalist slaving away in an attempt to get you some more. Life, of course, is seldom fair.

CAPITULATE Surrender on terms, give in. This is something the good, honest, decent subversive will never do – unless it is to his advantage. Surrender traditionally requires either the hoisting of a white flag or a good foreknowledge of the safe word. Capitulation is, in fact, the greater part of subversive valour¹ and very rarely results in bruising other than to the ego – which does not hurt anything like as much.

Oxymoron of the day.

CASTRATE Remove testicles. Not particularly effective as a political ploy, but great fun in the right company.

CEMENT Fine mortar. A fine, grey powder which, when mixed with sand and water, has many applications in building and construction work. Mainly employed by the D.I.Y subversive in the construction of concrete boots:

Place victim’s feet into two medium-sized plastic buckets¹.
Three quarters fill with suitable cement mixture.
Allow concrete² to set (usually 3 to 7 days, depending on conditions).
Throw victim in river or lake.

It is wise to take a few precautions before employing such conglomerate footwear:

Spread plenty of plastic around before mixing the concrete – splashes can be very difficult to remove from light-coloured carpets.
Ensure that the concrete is correctly mixed. Incomplete mixing could lead to surface cracking and eventually to the re-floatation of the corpse. Whilst this may be acceptable in the large marine environment, it can be unsightly in the home pond or swimming pool.
Ensure that the water depth is sufficient to cover the victim. Throwing a six-foot victim into a five-foot garden pond is never going to work³; the weight of the concrete will ensure that the victim remains upright and, even allowing for a certain amount of settlement, his nose is unlikely to sink below the surface. If you are not properly prepared, you may be forced to haul your victim from the water. Beware – wet concrete is even heavier than dry concrete. If you are unable to remove him from the water, try putting a small fishing rod in his hands or, alternatively, decorate his head to resemble a buoy.

Alternative Procedure: 3,000 tonnes of concrete spread evenly across the bridge of the nose will silence even the most stubborn of dissenters.

Traditionally, the wearer of concrete wellies will be dead. If this is not the case, you may need some help in holding their feet still while the concrete sets.
Mixture of sand, cement and water is known by builders as ‘gobbo’ and is used in building walls – concrete (below) actually relies upon the addition of a harsher ‘ballast’ – usually pebbles or grit – in precise ratio. It is a well-known fact that these ratios are never actually precise enough and the resulting mix is either too dry to lay, or so wet that next-door’s cat is consumed by it three weeks later.
This is especially relevant if you are trying to submerge a living victim. There is a very useful technique for ascertaining the vitality of your victim involving a small hand mirror, but I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it would be best to gag the victim whether alive or dead, but not with the monogrammed handkerchiefs that Aunty Sheila has bought you every Christmas for the last twenty years

CHAOS Disorder, confusion. The ultimate aim of the subversive group is to spread disorder and confusion throughout society. The ultimate dénouement is usually the spreading of disorder and confusion amongst the subversive group itself.

COLLABORATE Aid an enemy in occupation of one’s own country. To vote Conservative. In a war (subversives are always engaged in a war – even if it’s only with the car) collaboration is perfectly acceptable, providing you do it with the winners. In the Second World War, the French collaborators made three basic mistakes:

1. Collaborating with a party that offered little in return.
2. Collaborating with the losers.
3. Being French.

In order to make a real success of collaboration, you will first have to persuade somebody to occupy your country. If you are American, Chinese or Russian, I think you might as well give it up as a bad idea straight away. If, however, you live in Lichtenstein, you have a fighting chance¹. Your first step is to talk to someone with a larger army and persuade them to invade. Negotiating with a foreign power is not always easy:

HOW TO TEMPT THEM.

Advise them of the richness of your natural resources.

Offer them money.

Ask very, very politely.

HOW TO DEAL WITH THEM.

Be certain of their aims.

Be certain of your aims.

Get everything in writing.

IS IT WORTH IT?

No.

Although the non-fighting chance is always the preferred option.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion Index is here.

A Little Fiction – Frankie & Benny

“…So, you know what it’s like, you’re well into discussing the state of your underwear when you realise that the person you are talking to is not the person you thought you were talking to, but you can’t stop now, can you, without drawing attention to it? Without, as it were, looking an even bigger pranny than you already do.”
“Perhaps it would be wiser to keep the on-going condition of your undercrackers out of the conversation until you had a little more time in which to ensure clarity, viz a viz the ‘who am I talking to’ conundrum, in future.”
“What?”
“You do tend to introduce your grundies into the chat rather more early than is altogether seemly, if you want my opinion Benny.”
“I don’t!”
“Fine, that’s fine then… So, who were you chatting to in the end, anyway?”
“Turns out she was from the council. She’d come to discuss the complaint I’d put in about the smell.”
“And you thought it was the ideal time to introduce your trolleys into the conflab?”
“I thought it was a long-lost aunty or somesuch. I’d even offered her a Yo-Yo.”
“Mint or toffee?”
“Mint.”
“Classy.”
“Well, I thought she might have turned up out of the blue to tell me that I’d inherited some money or something. You can’t go offering Rich Tea in those circumstances, can you? That’s a Penguin conversation at least.”
“I have Viscount myself. Superior quality of tin-foil on a Viscount I find: stay fresh for week’s they do.”
“Yes, well, we’re not all superannuated you know.”
“Right, well, I can see why you got the Yo-Yo’s out Benny, need to make the right impression in such a circumstance, but what drew your shitty pants into the discourse?”
“She mentioned the smell.”
“From the yard?”
“Of course, that’s why I’d rung the council in the first place – not, of course, that I realised that she was from the council at that stage – but I thought that, if she was indeed a solicitor or somesuch, planning to make me the sort of offer that could see me as the proud owner of an automatic washing machine or an induction hob et cetera, then I needed to make her au fait with the fact that, whilst the money to make my laundry days a little less time consuming than my current trip to the laundrette in Morrison’s carpark would be most welcome, those same arrangements were not the cause of the unpleasant odour at that time permeating my whole flat and, to that effect, I thought it legitimate to mention that my pants were clean on last Thursday.”
“That being?”
“Monday. So a good few days left in them at that point.”
“And how did she react?”
“Well, that’s when I began to suspect that all might not be as it seemed, Frankie, that things were, indeed, somewhat at odds with my expectations.”
“Go on.”
“‘The Council is not in the habit of handing out loans to those who are – for whatever reason – unable to stop themselves from being the source of unpleasant odours,’ she said. ‘We do not, in short, expect to be called out to the properties of unsavoury old men in order to experience for ourselves the smell that they give off due to not being able to keep themselves clean. I bid you good day,’ she said, and made to leave. ‘Now just you wait on,’ I said, but she was ready for me. ‘If you think,’ she said, ‘that you can threaten me, Mr Anderson, you’d better think again,’ and she scooped up her Yo-Yo and left without a by-your-leave.”
“Oh dear. So what will you do now?”
“Well, we need to get out there and find out where the smell is actually coming from.”
“We?”
“I’m an old man, Frankie, you wouldn’t have me out there on my own would you? ‘Now, what’s causing that smell? Oh my God, look at that! It’s a…’ Exit Benny, gripping chest in agony. Alone and friendless in a smelly backyard.”
“Alright, point made. You are certain of your underwear situation, aren’t you?”
“Would you like to take alook for yourself?”
“No, no, definitely no. Ok, I’ll accompany you onto the patio. I’m not touching anything, mind.”
“Right, let’s go to it then: strike while the iron’s hot. I want to find out what’s causing the stink and rub that old luxury biscuit thief’s nose in it.”
“Ok. How do we get in there?”
“Where?”
“The backyard. How do we get in there? The door’s always locked, but I’ve never seen a key for it. Who’s got the key?”
“Ah, I’d never thought of that. I bet it’s that bloody TFW on the ground floor. I’m not knocking on his door to ask for it.”
“I’m not sure he’s even in. There’s an old lavvy outside his front door and about three week’s milk.”
“He took the lavvy out himself – with his head. It was annoying him, apparently, but the milk… You don’t suppose he’s dead do you? It would explain the smell.”
“I’m not sure that he could smell any worse dead than he did alive, my old chum. He had what I believe the BBC would term an ‘uneasy relationship’ with soap. Ten years I’ve been coming to your flat Benny, and other than the day of the gravy incident, I’ve never seen him change his clothes. I hear that David Attenborough is preparing to do a whole series on the life contained within his jogging bottoms… You want to get rid of the smell, you need to get out of this flat my friend.”
“But what if he’s dead?”
“Does he have any cats?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Nobody to eat him then. He could lay there decomposing for months. They say that you can never remove the smell of a dead body.”
“Particularly one that is welded to his clothes. I’ll phone the council again. I’ll say I can’t manage the stairs… Have you still got that spare room, Frankie? Just as a stopgap I mean. Just short term. Until they sort me out with a new flat. There are some empty near you aren’t there?”
“There are, yes. They are constantly becoming vacant, in fact there is a permanent hearse on standby at the end of the block. We used to run a sweepstake on who would be next, but there’s not enough of us left now. There’s more chipboard around me now than a kebab shop. Come on, let’s not bother phoning, we’ll just wander round and see them. Get your stick. Put a marble in your shoe, that’ll help.”
“Ok, I will… Shall we just have a cup of tea before we go?”
“Ay, why not. Don’t suppose you’ve got any of those Yo-Yos left, have you?””
“No.”

I decided to revisit some old ‘Little Fiction’ friends and whilst I was doing so, I met these new ones… N.B. my thanks to Billy Connolly for ‘TFW’ – Tattooed Fuck-Wit.

Frankie and Benny reappear here: A Little Fiction – Goodbyes (Frankie & Benny #2)

A Trickle of Spring

Having spoken to an ex-lawyer in the pub, and in line with disclaimers carried on all TV and Radio output at the moment, I have decided to include the following warning: This item may contain jokes that some people do not find funny.

The Spring has sprung, the grass has ris,
I wonder where the birdies is.
Some people say the bird is on the wing, but that’s absurd
For I would say the wing was on the bird. (Traditional)

The air still carries the chill bite of winter, even while the sun shines down through the transient, undiluted diorama of crystal blue skies. Birds squabble over the last few hips and berries of autumn past: males puff out painted chests whilst females – avifaunally plainer – spring clean homes of yore, or gather material with which to pitch new tents, cosy enough to raise a new generation. One by one the new year’s flowers bloom: snowdrops, aconites, crocus, daffodils, dandelions, something sharp and spiky that lodges under the fingernail and refuses to be removed until it has had the opportunity to throb with an intensity only otherwise felt with the death of a star. The world is suddenly abloom and there is nowhere to tread in the garden that is not ‘the wrong place’; nowhere to stand that is not on something only just emerged, or in something more recently – although insufficiently – buried.

Tiny pricks of green emerge in trees and bushes even as much bigger pricks emerge in white vans bearing aerosoled signage – D. O’Brien, Qualified tree surjon. Hedges clipt. All clipping’s removed and ecologically burned. Dogs groomed – and start door-knocking and leafleting anyone who might not have seen them coming. Now is the time to assure all of these peripatetic Samaritans that you do not need your gutters cleaning, your drive tarmacking, nor your valuables independently assessing. Now is the time to resist the siren call of all of those who can do everything that you do not want doing, better than you cannot be bothered to do yourself.

Spring is the time when everything is on the rise (Oh, come on!) and atop the list of ‘rising things’ is the word ‘ladder’ (or, more precisely, in my case, the words ‘next-door’s ladder’, as I have studiously avoided any temptation to own my own for forty years and more now.) Ladders are for reaching up and washing down, painting over, cleaning out and falling off. Ladders have tiny steps only to facilitate ease of falling. It is impossible to remain steady on these slender rungs without cramp setting in within thirty seconds. I am master of the knock-kneed teeter, the over-stretched swipe and the grip of steel around something that should not be, but almost certainly is, moving. Ladders are an inescapable fact of Spring and my only advice to anyone preparing to climb one in an amateur capacity is ‘don’t’: employ a professional; someone who is competent in ladder-usage and not so apt to find themselves doing it on their back from the ground with a twig up the nostril, a paint brush in the ear and a hole in the conservatory roof. It is an unwritten Rule of Spring that wherever you land following an uncontrolled ladder descent will be in ‘full spike’. Spring landings are never things of fragrant bud and luscious foliage, but are inevitably spiky and underpinned by cat shit. Winter-softened flesh is easily breached.

There is an old country saying: ‘When the first cat of spring leaves a semi-digested mouse on your doorstep, it is time to remove your lawnmower from the shed and discover that plastic can actually rust – or at least look like it.’ Spring’s first cut is an unavoidable trial – you might as well get it over with whilst it is still possible to blame something else for the carnage you are about to wreak. Step one is to open the shed door. All shed doors exist simultaneously in both of the two possible states: a) Shrunken so far that mice, rats and, at times cats, can sneak through the gaps without touching either side and b) swollen to such an extent that it is impossible to open. It is widely known that all shed doors exist only in the latter stage whenever you want to open them. This is the point at which the door knob falls off. Entrance is usually gained by forcing the door with a garden spade. The garden spade is in the shed. Do not worry, in this post-winter season you will be able to enter through the gap where the roof used to be before it made its way onto the floor of next-door’s ex-conservatory along with several desiccated panels of larchlap fencing and what might quite possibly once have been a stoat.

The rutted, sub-Passchendaele expanse of lawn will, by now, be covered in patches of frost-hardened corrugation and swamps of recently thawed gloop, and the winter-dried and rusted drive shaft of your ancient electric mower will ensure that the freshly trimmed lawn will resemble the very worst of your lockdown haircuts, but it doesn’t really matter because, as the mower will have blown every fuse in the neighbourhood and welded your consumer unit to the garage wall, nobody can see it after dark. Although, of course, the cover of night is decreasing: daylight expands to cover a greater percentage of the grey and drizzled day. March winds and April showers punctuate the meteorological lope towards summer. Spring in the UK is a time when the clouds leave the sky and descend to earth, breaking just long enough to reveal the steely blue of tomorrow’s sky: to let the sunshine in; to allow the unexpected cold snap full access to buds and nethers. Spring is the promise of tomorrow. It is never to be trusted. The icy-white blush of sun in an acid-clear sky is not a promise. It is an aspiration. It is what the world would like to be. Each little snowdrop, crocus, aconite and daffodil is an illustration of what the world hopes to become – just as soon as the first trickle of spring finds its way to summer and the full panoply of opportunity to self-harm in the pursuit of the perfect garden is laid before me.

I can’t wait.

Oh hang on – yes I can…

Ivan

Photo by Kostiantyn Stupak on Pexels.com

Ivan, Crown Emperor of all Delusia, scratched nervously at the arm of his ermine throne. His petulance had risen to such a degree that he was on the very cusp of calling upon his Royal Foot Stamper to make the point for him. He could feel the hair prickling on the back of his neck. Perspiration began to collect in the folds of skin under his once-muscled chest. The girdle made him look so much better, but my word it was warm. He had tasked the whole might of his entire scientific community on finding a solution, but all they had come up with was ‘cutting holes in it’. He felt like he was wearing a peep-hole bra. When he took his shirt off in front of his Dresser, she had laughed. Once. Replacing a Royal Dresser was such a fuss. He could not believe how much he had to pay the Impreial Dresser Finder to identify the right replacement, nor why they would even want their own Caribbean island in the first place. Still, the job was done and the new Dresser was perfect. She never smirked; she never cupped his sagging man-breasts and whispered ‘Phwoar!’; she never questioned his choices and she always found ways to fit a new row of medals onto his jackets, to co-ordinate a new band of ribbons. She had sewn epaulettes onto everything he owned.

He cast his mind back to the days of his physical prime – in his late fifties. The days of bare-back horse riding, black belt karate battles and river swimming were all behind him now. His greatest servant was Adobe Photoshop. Obviously he had found new and discreet ways of ensuring the respect of his people. They were called Gulags. He actively encouraged free speech and dissention – without them his security forces would have had too much time on their hands. There are only so many teenagers you can club before boredom starts to kick in. Shoot enough people and it starts to lose some of its appeal. They needed a new challenge.

Like all mortal souls – it was proving very difficult, even for him, to change sufficient rules to evade Death itself, but he was working on it – he lived with doubt: could any one person be right about everything? Well, only one person could, obviously, and his burden was that it was him. Being right all the time isn’t easy, but dealing with all those who could not see that he was… well, that was a doddle: just make them realise how wrong they had ever been to doubt it.

The main problem about being the absolute ruler of anywhere is that you always want to be the absolute ruler of somewhere else as well: somewhere bigger; somewhere richer; somewhere the people know instinctively how to obey. Successfully smack the arse of somebody outside your own kingdom and the respect of your own people will grow and, after all, respect is your absolute right. Those who do not respect the Emperor do not respect life. Well, certainly not their own.

Is absolute power wrong? Well, Ivan had never met anyone who was prepared to say so. He had also never met anyone prepared to say ‘No’. He no longer had a physique that inspired obeisance, but he was surrounded by many, many people who did. Nobody would believe now that he could climb Everest bare-chested, without the need for oxygen – if he was honest, he feared that half an hour out in the cold without his vest could have severe consequences for his nipples. Three times now the state surgeon had honed and tightened his re-muscled chest for him and three times it had fallen straight back to where it was. (So that’s three times he had to replace the state surgeon.) God-alone-knows where his nipples might be now were it not for the surgeon’s knife. Maybe stitched to his knees. Not even the most enfeebled of his karate opponents could any longer fall convincingly at his chop. His eyes had been lazered, his ears aided, his prostate removed and given a stern talking to. He could not deny that his body was beginning to fail – almost as if he really was mortal – but at least his brain remained razor-sharp. He could still beat anyone at chess simply by warning them of the consequences of an Imperial loss. He could still complete the crossword in record time, in the certain knowledge that any questions over the veracity of any of his answers could easily be countered by having the compilers ears nailed to the ceiling. He could still remember his own name, address and age, providing somebody wrote it down for him in large letters on a piece of paper. Those who claimed that he was not as sharp as he had once been need only ask those around him. He was as sharp as a… what are those sharp things? If ever he needed to justify his actions he could easily demonstrate that they were simply a defensive reply to those who wished him harm. There was absolutely nothing to gain by allowing people to think otherwise. He had checked with the goblins and he most certainly was not delusional.

The Crown Emperor of all Delusia scratched nervously at the arms of his ermine throne. He felt boxed in. He was alone and afraid. Paranoia had led him to exclude all of his closest confidantes whose repeated assurances of his infallibility had helped him to be certain that there was really no point in worrying about whether people might disobey him. Why would they? He tried to think his way out of his current situation; he tried to consider what to do next and eventually the solution came to him. He did not need to consult anybody else on the way ahead, because everyone that mattered to him had always assured him that that was so.

Ivan’s eyes flicked around the room even as he felt the very last vestiges of rationality gurgle down the pan. Now, where had he put that big red button?

A Little Fiction – An Item (Dinah & Shaw part 10)

Although, unofficially at least, an item, Dinah and Shaw had kept their own separate homes. The fact that Shaw slept in the office, was his reason for keeping Dinah’s name off the door – it would lead to confusion within the organisation of the Royal Mail he insisted – an inaccuracy she countered by sticking a large Post-it across the glass during office hours when she was, for the most part, alone with the phone and a laptop that was, for reasons known to Shaw alone, permanently connected to a Scandinavian server which had a default ‘wallpaper’ that left her feeling giddy and not a little nauseous. She considered herself a woman of the world, but not necessarily that part of it. Each Google search had to be translated into something that vaguely resembled English before she was able to make use of it. All attempts to use Google Maps to plot a route stalled at the earliest possible stage as the software refused to let her begin her journey from anywhere other than Copenhagen. She had not been able to afford data for her phone since meeting Shaw – a relationship with Shaw came along with few certainties other than poverty – and utilising the only local source of free internet access she could find ensured that she constantly smelled of kebab.

Most of her ‘work’ hours were spent fretting over the payment of bills. Shaw’s tendency to insist that his investigative methods only really functioned in full effect when he stumbled into cases rather than being employed to solve them meant that she was often left bereft of anyone to invoice. Dinah, for her part, contributed all that she was able; taking what money she could for locating lost cats, flyaway budgies, errant husbands etc, paying bills only as failure to do so became increasingly critical. Shaw painstakingly kept for himself all of what he considered to be the ‘big cases’ – although he seldom gave Dinah any indication of what, exactly, they might be and they rarely added anything other than expenses to the company accounts. On the few occasions Shaw called on her to help him, he did so by furnishing her with the very minimum of information possible. Often she had to adhere to Shaw’s own methods, taking the first bus she encountered and getting off somewhere that, for reasons unknown, seemed the right place. Sitting in a café with the dregs of a cup of coffee hoping that something might take her attention: that somebody might, in some indefinable way, strike her as suspicious. Hoping that she might find somebody to follow before the café owner (again) remarked on the fact that she had spent two hours over her latte and that he had placemats that were more profitable than her.

It was to her undisguised chagrin that whenever she did encounter somebody she felt there might be some point in following, she invariably found that Shaw was following them too, although he always claimed to have been ‘on to them’ first. Shaw always complained about this duplication of efforts but Dinah was always quick to point out that a) there was no discernible effort put into such ‘tailings’ by Shaw, who, as far as Dinah could tell from his crumpled ‘expenses’ at the end of the week, seldom left the pub and b) as nobody was paying for either of them, what difference could it possibly make? “When we find out whatever it is that we’re looking for,” was Shaw’s stock reply, “then whoever wants to know it will pay us.” To be fair, they often did, but almost always after it had cost Dinah Lunch and a bottle of wine. From that point on, although working together, they always worked apart. Their methods of tailing a suspect could not have been more different: Dinah employed stealth – ducking into doorways, hiding behind newspapers, carefully observing her suspect in shop window reflections, taking mobile phone photographs whilst pretending to be absorbed in a protracted phone call – whilst Shaw wandered around aimlessly, hoping that, in the fullness of time, his path would somehow cross with that of his prey again.

It never ceased to amaze her that she, Shaw and suspect would almost always find themselves together at some point, along with the client who was invariably blithely unaware of the very existence of the investigative duo. Dinah knew only that Shaw would wander away at some point whilst she dutifully stood in the pouring rain outside an office, or a bookies, or a lover’s flat for hours on end. When they were reunited some time later, a usually slightly flushed Shaw would drown her in beer breath and inform her that he had found the client who by some fluke of chance, wanted to know exactly what Dinah had found out in the previous few hours. It was seldom anything that Shaw himself did not already know – or at least so he claimed. The biggest annoyance was usually that he had already informed the client of whatever-it-was she had only just learned, without ever needing to discuss it with her and without ever leaving the warmth of whatever bar he happened to be in. How he did it, she had no idea, nor how he always managed to smell of beer when he never had a penny in his pockets.
“You know I couldn’t do it without you,” he always said.
“Yes, I know,” she replied, but it didn’t help.

…And so it was, her mind whirring over every detail of their relationship, their work, the mystery of how they ever paid for anything, of why nobody ever threatened to break their legs when they did not, that she entered the office expecting, as usual, to find Shaw absent and a scribbled note in his place. But there was no note. There was a real-life Shaw, a grinning Shaw who, had she not known better, she would have taken for excited, pointing at the glass panel on the door which now read ‘Shaw & Parnter. Investigators.’ “What do you think?” he asked.
“Well, I’m not sure what to think,” said Dinah. “What’s a Parnter?”
Shaw peered at the door. “Damn! I thought he was cheap. Do you think we can afford to get it changed?”
“No, parnter, it’s fine,” said Dinah. She hugged Shaw. “It’s fine.” She looked around the office, confused, and opened the door to the back room. “Where’s your bed?” she asked.
“I paid the signwriter with it,” he said. “I thought that if we were going to be… ‘parnters’ and this was going to be a proper office then I ought to find somewhere else to live.”
“Oh right,” said Dinah. “And have you?”
“Well, not quite yet,” he answered. “I wondered, well, what are you like for space in your flat?…”

It’s been quite a while since our last visit to Dinah and Shaw, which I managed to work into the ‘Writer’s Circle’ strand, so in case you want to catch up, episode 1 is here, and the last episode (Slight Return) is here.

Railcard

I have just seen myself as I very much hope that others do not. You see, I needed to renew my Railcard and they (the railway powers that be) required a new photograph of me, so I took a quick selfie, uploaded it and Bob, as they say, was my Uncle (even though, strangely, my father had never mentioned him). Job done. I awarded myself a gold star for being tech savvy and down with the kids. Great.

Except that I now have a Railcard that looks like it belongs to a deranged lunatic who has just awoken to find that he really should not have done so.

There were questions to be answered. Obviously, first of all, I had to ask what kind of idiot would blithely use such a photograph without checking it first? Well, the kind that looks like some kind of malnourished ginger Rasputin, obviously. You know the famous photograph, taken after he was dead? I know it’s hard to imagine anybody looking worse, but I do. How could I have failed to notice it before uploading? Somehow, it would appear, in the short distance between my face and the camera’s lens, I had lost about three stones in weight – and most of it from my neck. I have more wattles than Bernard Matthews¹. My eyes appear so sunken that I could probably see through the back of my head and something has happened to my hair that could only have been achieved with a chainsaw. The mirror tells me that I have a short and fairly neatish sort of beard, but in the photo it looks like somebody has pushed a couple of doormats into a giant amorphous blob of pink plastecine: Wallace after a three week bender. All of this under the shade of W.C. Field’s nose. I could not look more like a Victorian convict if I tried.

Now, I am under no illusion: I am no oil painting – although having spent an afternoon in the Tate Modern recently, I’m quite pleased about that. My face is not so much lived in as abandoned, but – and here’s the crucial point – it has never been as bad as that. I look in the mirror and it’s ok. No Brad Pitt – more disused colliery – but definitely human: a hint of a smile, a glint in the eye. It is a pretty normal, if bland, face. It fills the space between my chin and my hat quite adequately. It might not be anything to write home about – unless, perhaps, you have the free loan of somebody else’s pen – but it’s ok. It kind of suits me. I don’t think that it would frighten the horses – although I must admit that in certain lights it does have a tendency to look as though it has been kicked by one or two of them. It doesn’t look hideous in the mirror and it doesn’t look anything like so awful in the photographs of me holding various babies that are scattered around the house – wherever there are stains to be hidden. None of the babies appear too shocked by the fizzog on whatever-it-is that’s holding them. But the more I look at my Railcard, the more I am shocked by it. It is as though the camera had the ability to see into the future – a very long way into it I hope. The photograph certainly gives every indication that it might have been taken post mortem. It doesn’t even allow for the possibility of being a good-looking corpse. It leaves me wondering what I have to do if I am not to face a future walking about under a visage that serves employment as the ‘after’ photo on a thousand life insurance policies.

I’m relatively fit (for a man of my age²): I don’t smoke, I eat properly, I still run and exercise regularly³. I have spent my lifetime looking younger than I am and now, quite unexpectedly, I am faced with a photograph in which I look older than it is probably possible to be. I look like Keith Richards must look before he receives the attentions of the mortician (I’m sorry, I mean make-up artist) in the morning.

And then the hope kicks in. If, at the future date at which my Railcard photograph appears to be set, I am still looking younger than I actually am, then I must be very old indeed and, instead of hinting at a very bitter future, my phone could, instead, simply be predicting a very long one.

Of course, none of this helps me when I get to the train station. Imagine how irked I will be if they refuse to accept the card because it looks nothing like me. Imagine how much worse I will feel if they decide that it does…

¹A famous – in Norfolk – turkey farmer.
²This phrase can be attached to the end of any sentence which is clearly untrue, with the aim of making it seem vaguely possible.
³Once in a blue moon – regular as clockwork.

A Prose by Any Other Name

A return to a very old idea: a change of scene, the little Bluetooth keyboard and the mobile phone that keeps tipping over as I type. The same old words, just a different way of using them…

I was mulling over a return to The Writer’s Circle – exactly why I’m uncertain, as so very few people read it the first time around – but I think that I was really just hoping to find a new way of telling an old story. ‘What story?’ you might well ask. (Perfectly acceptable as long as you do not do it aloud and on the top deck of a bus.) Well then, here’s the thing…

Not unusually for me, I sat down with the ken to do something – in this case to write a little fiction – but with no real idea of the specifics eg what it was going to be about; how would it start; how should it finish; who kills the butler and why? You know, the usual trivial stuff: nothing to get too worked up about. I would, I thought, start with a name and see where that would lead me and… well, it led me here.

I toyed with Dirk Valiant initially. (Please don’t make up your own jokes – especially if they’re going to be of that ilk.) I couldn’t fail to build a plot around a name like that. Dirk would wear a suit, scarlet velvet probably, with a cravat. Possibly a hat. He would almost certainly be from the sixties – although not in them – and probably a secret agent of some kind, battling against some unlikely acronym or another. Oh yes, I was ready, except I couldn’t drag my mind away from The Avengers, or, more correctly, Tara King, which was an issue I had in fact faced before, in my childhood, long before I had any real idea of why. So I did away with Dirk and I tried to think of something a little more… erm… well, a little less Steed, all in all.

Geoffrey Chelmont, with whom I subsequently trifled, was an altogether different kettle of fish. Also impeccably dressed, although probably more chalk-stripe 3-piece lounge than velvet lounging, Geoffrey, I felt, was almost certainly ten years older than Dirk with a little of the Raffles about him, although with less of a tendency towards nicking other people’s stuff. Geoffrey would be an amateur Private Investigator – I pictured a male Miss Marple (more Hickson than Rutherford) with slightly less in the way of broderie anglais collars and sweet sherry, but with a tendency towards the odd ‘lost day’ in the seedy environs of a smoky Soho casino in the company of somebody, the like of which he hoped his mother – or his father come to that – had never become familiar.

He would need a sidekick of course, probably female, who would make his tea, straighten his tie and solve the crimes when he wasn’t looking. She would be called… not easy is it? It’s got to sit right: Morecambe and Wise, Ant and Dec, Eisenhower and Stalin, it has to trip off the tongue just so, and somehow the only thing I could think of was Lady Cecilia Pencroft, which was altogether too Agatha Christie. I couldn’t see me succesfully pulling a Whodunnit? together when, more often than not, I struggle to fully comprehend a whatdayisit?, so Geoffrey and Lady Cecilia remained, scrawled and embryonic for all eternity, on their little cradle of Wilkinson’s cash receipt and I hoped they would be happy there.

Anyway, if I’m honest, I didn’t really see myself writing about the past. Maybe the future might be more my kind of thing. Perhaps a future hero would need only one name: Trieste perhaps, Andromeda, Maffei, Doris… I became becalmed upon the seas of Blake’s Seven (which towards the end, I seem to recall, featured only five people, and none of them called Blake) and the memory of Servalan, who way-back-then managed to turn my young head in directions it really was not designed to be turned. Like a decidedly less wholesome Sally James, she made ‘leather-clad’ so much more interesting than a Hardback ‘Confessions’ Anthology and the ‘straight-into-lens’ Servalan sneer beat Samantha’s* cheeky nose-twitch into a cocked-hat when it came to stirring up hormones. However, as I don’t have as much of it left to me these days, I thought it might be better for me to forget the future for now and concentrate on the present. At least I know where I am with the present**.

Simeon*** Atterbridge sounded so familiar that I had to Google it in case I’d seen it somewhere before – a Liverpool gravestone perhaps, or a London roadsign. It sounded like a country name to me. It conjured up images of cycling in a raincoat, scraping the who-knows-what out of the tread of wellie soles with a teaspoon, and murder by gin-trap. It has a solid sound to it, like a restored country pile (and God Knows, I’ve suffered with those for years). Simeon sounds like the kind of a man who, although he might take a little time about it, will always get there in the end. He sounds like the kind of man who can simultaneously handle a glass of wine, a fork, and a plate of canapés without once dropping vol-eau-vent crumbs on the floor, tipping his Chateau Neuf on the cockerpoo, or dipping his tie into the punch whilst leaning over to help himself to the hostess’s cupcakes. He would, I think, be equally at home in Dinner Jacket, lounge suit or pastel-coloured M&S chinos and Ralph Lauren ‘T’ shirt. He would never stand on the dog’s favourite toy, tread something brown and sticky across the living room carpet, or sit in the baby’s dinner when visiting somebody for the first time. He would never drop a jam doughnut in a lady’s lap and attempt to rub the consequent mess off with what turned out to be a recently divested nappy. ‘Young’ Simeon Atterbridge – anything under fifty years of age, own teeth and tonsure that can be hidden under the average radius of a flat cap qualifies – would be able to handle himself, but only if he was attacked by a rotter who fully deserved a good thrashing anyway. Oh yes, I really like the sound of Simeon Atterbridge.

If only I could think what to do with him?…

*The oh-so delightful Elizabeth Montgomery in Bewitched.

**Usually lost.

***Pronounced ‘Simon’, the additional ‘e’ serving only to a) thoroughly hack off the registrar and b) lend an air of gravitas, particularly when wearing a name badge with gold stars attached.

N.B. In case you should think that I am ignoring the enormous and fearful problems currently engulfing this general part of the globe, you are quite right. I am just as terrified as everybody else about the possibilities that are presenting themselves, just as sick about the terror being experienced by innocent people, just as appalled by the absolutely pointless loss of life propogated by one man and a raging ego, but I am also utterly certain that there is absolutely nothing that I can say or do that will improve things in any way. There are plenty of wise people who might have the words to make an impact (although none of them has yet managed to lodge a whisper in the ear of the idiot in the Kremlin) but I am not amongst them. If I have a function – and it is very much open to discussion – in this world, it is not to change things, but to take minds off them. At worst, I hope that we all live long enough to regret it…

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Blindfold to Burglary)

BLINDFOLD If you have ever played Pin the Tail on the Donkey, you will know that it is practically impossible to properly blindfold anybody, especially if they do not want to be blindfolded. Placing a bag¹ over the victim’s head is generally more successful and easier to do. If you must go for a blindfold avoid handkerchiefs, which are never big enough; silk scarves, which are never opaque enough, and pink fluffy elasticated eye-masks, which, in my opinion, are never tight enough.

It is generally worth investing a few pence on a ‘Bag for Life’ rather than a supermarket plastic carrier, as, not only are they more environmentally friendly, they have less of a tendency to leave your abductee dead.

BLOOD It is my firm opinion that blood should be neither seen nor heard. Spilling blood is never good. If you feel the need to prove your commitment to the cause with the acquisition of a physical injury suffered in the pursuit of your principles, try to develop a blister or bloodless abrasion. Pain is one thing, we all know the discomfort a paper-cut can cause, but bleeding to death is quite another. Remember, blood on the external surfaces of the body is almost always a bad sign.

BOMB Explosive projectile. Explosives, effective as they are, are expensive, difficult to obtain and apt to blow bits off the unwary – so why not avoid them altogether and pop an empty crisp packet instead?

BOURGEOIS A person whose political, economic, and social opinions are believed to be determined mainly by concern for property values and conventional respectability. The Bourgeoisie are held in contempt both by those who have no property and therefore no interest in its value, and also by those who determine just what, exactly, amounts to ‘conventional respectability’. Heads you lose, tails you lose. This dichotomy was experienced most acutely during the French Revolution when the Bourgeoisie were reviled by both factions of the Gallic Class War. To be honest, I don’t think they lost too much sleep over it. ‘Here’s your options – the nobility are going to treat you with contempt because of your petty concerns over conventional respectabilities, whilst the proletariat are going to hold you down on a block of wood so that Monsieur Guillotine’s latest invention¹ can permanently separate you from the full range of bodily functions – now, who are you going to support?’ The Bourgeois are currently known as Liberal Democrats and, strangely, have a deep affection for over-priced French Red and pieds-a-terre² in Normandy.

Monsieur Guillotine did not actually invent, but rather improved, this instrument of capital punishment – formerly known as the Scottish Maiden (Demoiselle Ecossaise). The guillotine replaced the previous method of execution, known as the Breaking Wheel (Rupture de la Roué) which was so barbaric that not even the French could stand it – and remember, this is the nation that dismembers frogs.
Literally ‘foot on the ground’ – because the kind of hovel that the French generally sell to the English will have mud floors, three walls and a roof that is fine as long as it doesn’t rain.

BREAK What you do to legs, arms etc.

BRICK What you do it with.

BUBO Pus-emitting swelling in groin or armpit. See Policeman’s Boot (below).

BURGLARY The act of entering a building or other premises with the intent to commit theft. Whilst this is not strictly an ethical act, it can be a highly efficient, if risky, method of raising funds, but then again, so can spending the day in a bath-full of baked beans. As with all such endeavours, the primary objective is ‘don’t get caught’. If you feel that this objective is not achievable, it is always advisable to pursue the secondary objective ‘persuade somebody else to do it for you’.

A TYPICAL D.I.Y BURGLARY – Walking along a quiet street, you notice an open window on the secluded side of a luxury, detached house. You scale the fence and climb in through the window, using the wheelie bin as a step. As you push your way through the open casement, the wheelie bin scoots away and demolishes the garden gate depositing week-old Indian take-away all over the drive way. Stepping from the window ledge, you catch one foot in the sink and the other in a giant potted hibiscus, which crashes to the floor followed by a) the better half of a twelve-piece dinner service and b) you. You attempt to clamber to your feet but find yourself staring into the glowering, yellow eyes of a giant, snarling bullmastiff. You exit the window in one bound, smashing your shin painfully against the kitchen tap and your forehead against the window lintel. Once outside you try to flee the scene, but slip on an extremely viscous Tarka Dahl and fall to the ground where you are immediately accosted by thirteen spitting feral cats and a postman with something brown and odorous on his shoe.

EXERCISE – Grow a beard:

Do not shave for at least six weeks.
Do you have a beard? (If the answer is ‘No’, you are a) a woman, b) a child, c) looking in the wrong place)
Eat a soft-boiled egg.
Try to look in the mirror, post soft-boiled egg without being repulsed by the aftermath.
Shave it off.

Letter ‘C’ of The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion will appear 22^nd & 25^th March.

The Beginners A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion Index is here.