Thursday 22 December 2011

The Bones of St. Klaas - A Christmas Tale

The following journal excerpt was found in an abandoned camp at one of the most Northernmost parts of Europe, by BBC documentary makers in the summer of 2004. The camp itself was long deserted with no trace of any person remaining.

24th December 1998

I had always been an adventurous soul, with many trips to far-flung corners of the world. However, in all my travels, I have never encountered anything like the things I have seen here in the far North. I will attempt to record my experience here, although I do suspect that I will be unable to recount much of my tale without breaking down in madness and fear. I still feel so cold, deep within the marrow of my bones as I cower here in my tent, wrapped in furs. Though shivering as I am, I must record this information for any that might find these writings.

I first came to Kinnarodden in Norway as part of the second year of my PhD in order to research the climate and customs of the local population in nearby Mehamn. As I was the only post-grad student doing geographical anthropology, this was to be a solo excursion. I had explored minus temperature regions before, of course, from comparatively tropical holidays in the Alps to the three desolate weeks I spent in the Antarctic as part of a research sub-commitee. As such, I considered myself a hardy individual, well capable of surviving in relative comfort, alone in such freezing weather. I arrived in late December at 3pm in the afternoon, and the perpetual twilight this region experiences within the winter months was especially disconcerting to me. Although I had spent time in similar regions that did not experience sunlight during winter, the state of dimness and sense of frozen time was here was very eerie.

I spent the first night in a small inn within sleepy Mehamn. The elderly receptionist appeared half-asleep when I rented my room, and she moved with a sluggish pace from the ancient reception desk to the key hooks and back again without speaking a single word to me. She appeared to understand English, which was fortunate as my Norwegian was and is still incredibly weak. My room was incredibly bare, with only a mattress and dresser accompanying the small black cat that slumbered on my rug throughout my night. I slept fitfully and awoke in darkness, as was to be expected, although it was still momentarily disorienting.

That morning, I collected my rugged tent, bedroll and lantern and donning my full fur-hooded parka, goggles and snow shoes, I began to hike Northwards, partly for a chance to see the famed Northern Lights far from encroaches of human civilisation but also due to a building thirst for adventure. I also carried with me my Luger side-arm, a gift from an old army friend, meant to protect me while in the wilds of this frozen country, although it would be little use save as a method of scaring away some of the larger predators of this environment. Still, it helped psychologically as a talisman of sorts.

After some time, I discovered a sheltered grove amongst the age-old pines and decided this would be the perfect base to pitch my tent. I worked silently and swiftly, my head torch shining through the dim dusklight and illuminating my efforts, and before long I had my camp set up to my liking. I placed my research books and notes carefully inside my tent and ventured out into the surrounding copse in search of firewood. Although difficult to find dry wood in such a snow-covered locale, it is possible if you know where to look, so after approximately two hours I returned back to my camp with a healthly bundle of kindling. As I entered the clearing, I stopped suddenly in my tracks. All my previous notes and paperwork were strewn around the camp, but in a reliably orderly fashion.  A pile of research notes that I had made on the aeroplane trip here were stacked neatly to one side of the tent, while a previously-jumbled collection of photocopies were stacked in the centre of the clearing, a small rock on top to prevent the light wind from scattering them.Similarly, various other bits of paperwork were settled around the site at seemingly random locations, although all were neatly folded (where appropriate) and stacked in alphabetical order.

 Slightly shaken, I stalked around the camp site collecting all of my notes, accompanied only by the whistling of the wind through the evergreens. Resolving to put this strange occurrence to the back of my mind, I proceeded to settle down for the evening and construct my fire. Once this was done, I sat huddled close to the warmth of the flames and read through my research notes on the mythology of the region. Here were tales of trolls stalking and eating unwary travellers, along with stories of troublesome gnomes. As I read further, I came upon a legend of the "Nisser", local to these parts. Described as a sentient, larger type of gnome, the legend itself seemed to still regard them as dangerous, sometimes even deadly creatures. However, the aspect of this legend that caught my eye and made me draw breath was a description of their habit of organising lists and tidying of documents. Apparently, these mythological creatures were known throughout the province for a desire or need to organise things into lists, often labelled with a runic N or I symbol. At once, reading this settled my beating heart - clearly, some unscrupulous and bored local had decided to play a trick on me. Glancing up from my reading, I saw that indeed, a pile of notes here had broken twigs placed next to it in the shape of an N, while over on a further pile was another symbol. Pleased that my superior education had once again made me invulnerable to pranks, I merrily retired to my tent, eager to gain an early start the next morning.

I awoke in the darkness, unsure of what hour it was. It could even have been late morning, what with the general lack of daylight in the region. A brief glance at my pocket watch, however, showed that the time was 3.15 in the morning. I realised that a faint chorus of chanting could be heard over the wind outside the tent, its source hidden by the darkness and dense forest that I was in. Although unsettling, I resolved to investigate this noise, as a true scientific mind should. I quickly pulled on my furs and my thick boots and set off out of the campsite, foolishly leaving my pistol within the confines of the tent.

I followed the source of the noise through the thick copse, shaking fresh powdered snow off the branches as my feet crunched the eartn below my feet. At times, it seemed that the chanting was growing louder and therefore I was getting closer to whatever was making this sound, while at other times I felt that it was just the whistling of the wind through the branches of the evergreens towering over my head. At last, I espied torchlight in the gloom and cold of this wood, faint and flickering though it was and I proceeded to get closer to it. Something deep inside of my gut slowed my steps as I drew closer, as if I somehow knew that I was viewing something not meant for my eyes. As I crept closer to the light, I saw that it was being caused by multiple flaming torches, casting flickering shadows on the crisp white ground. And holding these torches were very small men! They could not have been taller than three feet tall, although their features were all in proportion, so to describe them as midgets would be inaccurate. They were uniformly dressed in a dull green, almost the same colour as the ancient firs that surrounded them, as well as a multitude of different hats, some cowed and dull, some pointed and brightly coloured. And all of them, together, were murmuring their haunting chant in a language I did not understand - "Jhng Hel B'helce, Jhng Hel B'helce". 

As I watched, the murmurs of this chant grew quiter, and the pace of these small men slowed, until the leader of their procession stopped and glanced in my direction. I swiftly dove to the ground, burying myself from view beneath the large overhang of a mighty pine tree and breathing heavily. After this initial shock, I realised that I had as much right to be here as these men (if men they were), so resolved to stand and confront these beings like a true gentleman. However, when I stood and brushed the dusting of snow from the front of my garment, I saw that there was no longer any trace of these people. Only their miniscule footprints confirmed that they had indeed been present not thirty seconds before. I strode over to where I had seen the leader of the procession catch my eye, and discovered a small rock at the height of my shinbone. Studying it in closer detail, I noticed what appeared to be a runic symbol carved in to the rock, appearing like an upside-down upper case J with diagonal stripes across the length of it.  I idly drew my finger across the shape, considering what it could mean, and to my amazement the rock shuddered backwards, revealing a dark hole in the ground with a miniature staircase leading down in to the depths of the earth. Knowing not why, but drawn in some nebulous way, I hunched my shoulders and squeezed in to the small aperture.

The air inside was thick with the dust of centuries, and an ancient smell rose up from deeper inside the passage. I could see nothing, but could hear the strange murmuring chant below me, sounding like it was a lifetime away. Inch by perilous inch, I crept forward through the darkness, my eyes slowly adjusting to the grim twilight of this underground cavern. After some minutes, the staircase opened up into a wider passage, allowing me to progress upright, though I was still hunched over. I could hear the distinct chanting much more clearly now, and there was a faint flicker of torchlight illuminating the passage in front of me, allowing me to spy a small opening in the rocky corridor. I cautiously rounded the corner through this opening and felt my jaw drop at the sight that my eyes were beholding.

In front of me, the small men I had followed in here were stood in a semi-circle, torches burning brightly in their hands. In the centre of their group was a large upright sarcophagus, the stone cover pried off to reveal a skeletal figure. These small beings seemed to be chanting directly at this figure and the volume of their surprisingly deep voices was increasing, as was the tempo.The figure in the coffin, for I saw now that it was a coffin, was clearly long dead, as the gaping eye sockets and sagging jaw bone testified. A tattered crimson felt hat perched on the top of the skull, while the ribcage was covered by ripped and torn pieces of crimson fabric and the yellowed leg bones fed directly in to ancient, jet black boots. As I watched in shocked awe and silence, I thought I spotted the skeletal fingers of the idol jerk in unison to the unhallowed chanting. Then they visibly curled into fists, sending a shiver of ice down my spine. Staring in terror, I felt nauseous as brownish grey muscle fibers grew on the visible bones, as the tattered red cloak and hat became more solid. My eyes were drawn up the length of the figure, my mind unable to tear them away from this vision. To my horror, the bony white chin sprouted long white hairs, growing at an inhuman speed, becoming a bushy greyish white beard. The eye sockets, previously deeper and blacker than the night above ground, now showed a bright red sparkle and I recieved the distinct impression that this unholy figure was looking at me.

At once, with the speed of a coiled viper, the now half-skeletal figure's arm shot out, its pink finger pointing directly at me. I am not ashamed to say that I ran. I ran with the speed of a hundred men, and squeezed myself back out of the opening to solid ground. No longer minding the scratches that the rough rock had caused on my face and arms, nor the heavy crunch of the snow underfoot, I sprinted back to the relative safety of my tent.

This was twenty minutes ago, and the better part of a litre of whisky has calmed me somewhat, though it has done nothing for the deep cold in my veins. I write this for anybody who cares to notice, for I doubt I shall see civilisation again. I write with one hand cradling my pistol and the other my trusty notepad. The howl of the wind continues outside, the night itself seemingly everlasting. I must be paranoid, for I can hear above the wind the sound of jingling bells...

Tuesday 8 November 2011

A Freezing Warm Bench

Joe Kerr was cursed with a name and a mind that did not lend itself naturally to entertaining others. Instead, he was a studious soul, more focused on the study of poetry, essays and left-leaning newspapers, but even these (though he would never admit it to himself) were nothing more than affectations - a costume he put on for the benefit of others. He recognised the irony in his name, but chose not to rise to the imagined challenge and expectation. He did not want to be funny. He was a serious writer.

His father, Alan Kerr had always thought of himself as a funny man, a comedian. He did not see, or refused to see, his status as a small, misguided man. Not an evil one, but an ignorant one nonetheless. His career never took him to the heights of fame he felt he deserved, and he never appeared on stage again after a failed show at his polytechnic's talent night. However, he was consistently praised by the others in his accountancy office for his jokes about lawyers, jokes about celebrity misadventures and what he called his "jokes to infuriate the PC brigade". At least, he was consistently praised, up until the point where Mr. Gupta over heard Alan telling the one about the "towel head" and became very angry with him. This caused within Alan a deep-seated resentment of his lack of versatility in his humour, a resentment which he then directed outwardly; towards his quiet, valium addicted wife Julie, towards his dim, popular, son Wayne, but mostly to the quiet presence of Joe. And the more he berated Joe for his seriousness, and for his quiet nature, the more Joe retreated inside his own physical shell.

Of course, Joe felt awful about this, but he also considered the fact that other people had things much worse off. He had read about kids who were beaten or abused, and he read about neglected toddlers fending for themselves while their parents slept in a drug-imposed coma. Nothing of this magnitude ever happened to Joe. But still, he felt that he simply wasn't suited to this life, and reasoned that it may be better to simply try to reset everything. At best, he may be reincarnated into something more meaningful, something more designed and ready for the world at large. And at worst, he may just cease to be, and his consciousness may be scattered and lost to the indifferent universe (this is how he described it to himself, though he knew that in the event, it is very unlikely he would even notice the lack of a consciousness, much less experience the universe. Worm food, thats all he would be). He was also painfully aware that in all of his eighteen years of living, the closest he had come to a relationship to another living person was watching "Never Been Kissed" late at night on ITV2. He didn't even like Drew Barrymore.

This was why he resolved to end himself.

At this moment in time, Joe was heading to his favourite bench on the seaside promenade close to his home (incidentally, this bench was chosen as his favourite due to its location at the stony end of the beach, its exposure to the elements, and the uncomfortable steel that poked in his back through a missing slat, as all of these factors meant that he could rely on nobody else intruding on his desired privacy). He had worn his heavy black coat, as this was the start of November, and he had thrust his notebook deep into the side pocket where he rested his hand, curling his fingers around the hard cover. His other hand gripped his pen inside his other pocket, as the two inferior spare pens rattled against his white knuckles inside the same pocket. He had his head bowed against the wind as he stumbled over the zebra crossing towards the seafront, not noticing the seagull he frightened off as his striding skinny leg idly kicked the chip shop tray that was it's feast into the storm drain below the kerb. (As with many things that appear random in life, this event would cause a reaction later on in Joe's story. In fact, later this very day. You recieve this privileged information as an observer to these events, although it does shatter the illusion of an omnipresent third-person narrator such as myself. However, I feel that it is best that you have all the information now, so with that in mind, that seagull immediately took a dislike to Joe for this act, which is something to be aware of later).

As Joe walked, he considered what to add to his notebook. Since May 1st of that year, he had begun recording all ideas and notes on how people have ended their own lives, ideas from newspaper reports, ideas from films (horror, drama and quirky indie genres were good for these) and ideas from observing things around him. He felt that by recording as much data as possible regarding the act (art?) of suicide, he could then make an informed decision on how to process his own imminent removal from the gene pool with the minimum amount of fuss and pain. This wasn't a cry for help, it was simply a technical approach - research for his one big attempt, and that meant that it had to be correct. He thought about a boy in Brazil who had tied one end of a rope around his neck and the other around the family bull, before driving the bull off a cliff into the river. He thought about the Parisien woman who toppled from the Eiffel tower, an illegible note left in drying blue paint on the tower's metal. He thought about Russian farmers decapitating themselves with chainsaws and Indonesian merchants climbing into cobra pits. He thought about the many thousands of people worldwide who drank bleach, or who took pills or cut their wrists.

It was with these musings in mind that Joe trudged across the seaweed laid across the promenade, thrown up by the turbulent waves, and headed towards the solitary bench unsheltered by the abandoned ice cream hut. As he drew close, his eyes (though stinging and watery from the bitter wind) picked up a flash of red - a pillarbox red duffel coat wrapped around the figure sitting there. He contemplated stalking past the bench (his bench!), and pretending he was headed to the lifeboat shelter further up the beach, but he was suddenly filled with a sense of indignation. He had planned to come here and write, and he would damn well do so.

He drew level with the bench and threw himself down heavily on the cold wood, conspicuously not looking at the bench intruder to his left. His fingers still gripping the notebook in his pocket, he withdrew his hand and flipped to a blank page and readied his writing hand, biro gripped between his freezing blue fingers. And wrote nothing. He felt exposed, unable to bear imagined eyes upon him, watching him put words to page. He allowed himself to steal a brief glance at the figure to his left.

She was not looking at him, but at her own notebook in her hands. He noticed the softness of her fingers as she gripped her own pen, and he noticed the rosy glow on her rounded cheeks. He noticed her dark red hair tumbling over her black-framed glasses, and he noticed the deep hazel colour of her large eyes. He noticed her legs clad in thick black tights and crossed at the knee, he noticed the heavy dark boots on the end of her feet and he noticed her full red lips, pursed in concentration as she wrote. He noticed all of her in a way that he had never noticed another living being before. Her eyes flicked up to meet his for the briefest of milliseconds, and Joe quickly turned away, focusing on his own blank page in front of him. He felt his own cheeks turn a deep scarlet and tried to convince himself that it was the bitter wind causing it, and not embarassment at being caught staring at such a divine creature. Conscious of appearing idiotic not writing, Joe began to write random words in a word association pattern; "beauty", "vision", "love", "chance", "meeting". As he did so, he heard, or rather didn't hear, the scratch of her pen on her page. He didn't dare chance a look, but he briefly imagined her watching him.

"What are you writing, then?"

Her words sounded like crystals forming on a cool glass of lemonade, or of ice cracking on a frozen duck pond. This is not to say it was bad, in fact it was the polar opposite - the warmth was in the perfect coolness of her vocal chords. Her voice overpowered him and echoed in his ears, repeating the words back to him again and again. He suddenly realised that he hadn't answered. He quickly turned to face this vision sat next to him and drew in breath to reply.

It was at that exact moment that the seagull from earlier, angry at the loss of its hard-fought meal of leftover chips, took its revenge on Joe. It flew over his head, riding the air currents flowing in from the sea, calculated the precise trajectory in the recesses of it's dinosaur brain and released it's cloaca at precisely the correct moment. It paused, hovering on the air currents briefly, as it watched the white excrement spiral towards the top of Joe's head, scoring a direct hit. Satisfied, the seagull left to pursue more food.

As Joe felt the birdshit collide with his head, already seeping into his jumbled mess of hair, he choked at the sentence that was leaving his mouth. He instantly forgot what question she had asked him, and could only focus on the intense embarassment shredding his spine. Abruptly, he stood, planning to run away - this was the closest he would ever come to interacting with this fantastically beautiful creature and the universe had taken a literal dump on his image. But as he turned to leave, he felt her cold, slender fingers on his wrist.

"Sit down, you fool, you'll only make it worse." she smiled.
"B..b..but"
"You shouldn't stammer, it makes you seem nervous. You're not nervous are you?"
"A little bit, I guess"
"Well, we can cope with a little bit" she said with a wink. "I'm Sarah, who are you?"
"Um, Joe"
"OK, Um-Joe, why don't you sit down and use this tissue to clean up"

Joe looked at her other hand, proferring a small folded tissue. He gratefully accepted it and wiped off the majority of the birdshit on his head, before sinking down into the cold bench as directed. He had no idea what exactly was occurring or how to deal with this kind of thing. He scanned his internal memory banks for answers or anecdotes or facts; anything to continue the conversation, but the more he thought, the more the silence grew and enveloped them both, the harder it was to think of any conversational topic. Suddenly it came to him, she had asked him something, right?

So Joe asked "What are you writing, then?"
"Oh, just detailing the ways in which my boyfriend fucked me over. Ex-boyfriend, now I suppose."
"Oh...right. Erm, like what?"
"I'm not telling you, I don't know you."
"That's a fair point. I could just be some random person. I am some random person. I think sometimes the thing with random persons is that they might be the best persons to speak to, simply by virtue of a remote position in which to offer a different viewpoint, or...or..."
"Joe! You're rambling! As cute as it may be, I'm not telling you..."
"Oh...OK. I'll..er, think I'll..."
"...but, I do think we should go and have some coffee and cigarettes"

They stood up from the bench by the sea, and slowly walked towards the coffee shop over the windswept and puddle-strewn zebra crossing. As they walked, Joe thought about how he no longer considered it his bench, and he thought about how less than twenty minutes ago he felt more alone than anyone on the planet, and how just the fact that this person existed completely ruined his theory that life was always going to go against him. She let her fingers brush against his as they walked, and he opened his palm to encircle her soft hand. As he did so, he dug around in his pocket for his research notebook of suicides and unbeknownst to her, dropped it behind him as he walked. It bounced into a puddle as an inquisitive seagull approached.

The two of them continued walking against the wind, hand in hand.


Monday 7 November 2011

Elephant Juice

In moments like this, when I've made a mistake
And all that's built up feels like its at stake
And it's all my fault that something felt fake
That I realise now that it makes me a snake
In the grass, as I pass by the arse end of town
Walking past revellers only makes me feel down
And I feel like a king that's destroyed his crown
Because without her the streets seem tinged brown
And faded from view, and its true what they say
You can't have it your way, if you stick with a play
That defers for a day, making this house out of papier mache
The foundation's not clay, but solid concrete
And if that concrete has a crack of deceit
You can't use it to build, and it leads to defeat
But I won't give up and I won't retreat
And if love is a war, there's no way I'm yet beat
And I'll march to this beat and this symbolic crash
I'll stride past the faces of those out on the lash
Cos I can survive without fast food, drinking or cash
And I'm walking so fast I'm the fucking Flash
I have to get there, cos she said that she needs me
And I would walk through the Black Sea, North Sea and mercy
And through deserts and tundra and darkest Chertsey
If she asked me to curtsey, I probably would
Although why that would happen is not understood
The point is whatever she wanted, I could
And should and would do, and despite this flow through
Like Dr. Seuss, unsure footing is just kind of proof
That at least theres a chance to save this, and truth
is theres nothing I wont do, and if its seen as uncouth
Then so what, fuck it, I'm still going to try
Because people like her come round once in a life
and its worth every second of trouble and strife
("That was brought on yourself", cuts my internal knife)
To fight to be with her and ever un-severed,
And never to cause upsetting endeavours
Is the motto and creed I have, is it clever?
Mais non, but its true, and what can I do
Except try to come through
And change up her whole mood
From blue all way through to warm shades of red
Implying a passion and a love in her head
And I could be that thought, not a prick instead
The thing is I've never felt like this,
About anyone else I've known to exist
And I'll pay my penance as told by this list
By now I should think that you've gotten the gist
That I would do anything
AnythingFor the chance its not broken and for one more kiss
Some idiot once said its better to love and to lose
But I just don't agree and I ask for a truce
Cos nothings more real than Elephant Juice

Wednesday 26 October 2011

All Hallows

As this year's Halloween is drawing closer, I decided to write a small poem in honour of the supernatural beasties that fill our collective imagination around this time...

Halloween is the time of year
When spooky things come round
But calm down and quell your fear
Some weaknesses abound

The perils of lycanthropy
Like howling, teeth and fur
Can be immensely hard, you see
Especially near silver

Vampirism is much the same
A perilous state of blight
But beware, you sons of Cain
Exposure to sunlight

Zombies also have their issues
Like maggots or gangrene
And rotting of their fleshy tissue
Causes stenches too obscene

Mummies, too, are not immune
Despite their immortal state
Bandages and dusty tombs
Don't help their rotting fate

Witches choose to curse with spells
But don't escape scott-free
Cooked in ovens or drowned in wells
Soon ends a witching spree

Giant trolls with yellow jaws
That gnaw and crunch on bone
Are scary, and with good cause
But sunlight makes them stone

Goblins, gremlins and other imps
Are vicious but small and weak
Break their limbs and make them limp
Home to their cavernous peak

So have no fear, enjoy this feast
And pay these things no mind
For the most terrible, frightening beast
Is most certainly humankind









Tuesday 30 August 2011

The Most Heinous Ninth Plan From Outside The Empire's Realm

In the year of Our Lord, Eighteen-Hundred and Four
A strange thing occurred, although no-one saw
It would shake an Englishman straight to his core
Should he know things exist more deadly than war

It was a clear night in October with no fog around
And not a soul but one stirred in this dirty old town
Old Albert Foley looked suspicious and frowned
As he leant on his spade which struck the hard ground

Old Albert was a gravedigger by trade and by day
But he was poor and couldn't live on such little pay
So at night he tended to make his own way
To the graveyard gates, all withered and grey

Once there he would dig (and this he did well)
Not bothered by the grime or the dust or the smell
In search of some bones and bodies to sell
To his immoral partner, one Dr. J. Fell

Old Albert was scared but he knew in his head
That without money he just couldn't be fed
So he clung to the words that Dr. Fell said:
"Just what do they care? They're gone and they're dead"

So after a few very grim and dark nights
He calmed down a bit and got over his fright
Not once did he notice a ghoul or a wight
He thought as he sat and lit up his pipe

'Twas the same each night, just sifting through rubble
Old Al' had grown lazy and expected no trouble
But on this cold night he was shocked from his bubble
It would turn his hair white and make him see double

For on this strange night, something caught Albert's eye
A darting, un-natural light in the sky
Then another five lights joined and flew by
As Albert's pipe dropped and spilled it's insides

He continued to stare as these lights slowed down
And formed a circle quite close to the ground
They produced a really quite deafening sound
For poor Albert this noise was enough to astound

As all this occurred, time itself seemed to slow
And some of the gravestones had started to glow
An uncanny colour of greenish-yellow
'Twas then that old Albert decided to go

He shakily stood and got back on his feet
And set off for the comfort of his quiet street
But the sound started up again on repeat
Joined by a rumble beneath Albert's feet

Around him, headstones were splitting and breaking
All while continued this ominous quaking
Old Albert shivered and couldn't stop shaking
Was it a prank? Was someone just faking?

He quickened his pace and broke into a run
But he got to the gates and stood still, stunned
The realisation hit him and felt like a ton
The graveyard was locked til the rise of the sun

But as quick as they started, the tremors finally ceased
Albert turned round and savoured the peace
But the peace was short-lived, just like the deceased
Who now were awake, and by the lights were released

Albert stood in shock and hyper-aware
As movement in the darkness drew forth his stare
A gnarled, rotting limb had pierced the air
It was this sight that whitened Al's hair

He continued to watch as the bony arm rose
As the ancient grave-dirt dropped off to expose
A lewd grinning skull with no ears and no nose
That stared straight at Albert and so Albert froze

This course of action proved to be most unwise
For he was transfixed and so was surprised
By some more bony fingers digging in to his thighs
A second legless body, black and disguised

He looked down and screamed, but he was far too late
The heft of the corpse was too much, and it's weight
Dragged him down to the floor and did not abate
For this was old Albert's unwilling fate

Poor Albert was old and did not fight well
Dragged underground, this was his death knell
You may say it's a fantastical story to tell
But I know it's the truth, for I'm Dr. J. Fell

I was watching that night, and those things that I saw
Were as real as the oak that forms my front door
And those lights in the sky that I saw once before
Once again so appear and frighten me raw

For tonight what I saw
On this frozen great moor
In the year of our lord Eighteen Twenty Four
As long as I live, I will speak of no more

Friday 5 August 2011

Playground Football

All credit for this goes to the fantastic Christopher Brookmyre, and can be found in its original format here: http://www.brookmyre.co.uk/extras/short-stories/playground-football/

This is exactly the kind of football that I liked playing. I want to save it here so I can re-read it.

Duration

Matches shall be played over three unequal periods: two playtimes and a lunchtime. Each of these periods shall begin shortly after the ringing of a bell, and although a bell is also rung towards the end of these periods, play may continue for up to ten minutes afterwards, depending on the nihilism or “bottle” of the participants with regard to corporal punishment met out to latecomers back to the classroom. In practice there is a sliding scale of nihilism, from those who hasten to stand in line as soon as the bell rings, known as “poofs”, through those who will hang on until the time they estimate it takes the teachers to down the last of their gins and journey from the staffroom, known as “chancers”, and finally to those who will hang on until a teacher actually has to physically retrieve them, known as “bampots”. This sliding scale is intended to radically alter the logistics of a match in progress, often having dramatic effects on the scoreline as the number of remaining participants drops. It is important, therefore, in picking the sides, to achieve a fair balance of poofs, chancers and bampots in order that the scoreline achieved over a sustained period of play – a lunchtime, for instance – is not totally nullified by a five-minute post-bell onslaught of five bampots against one. The scoreline to be carried over from the previous period of the match is in the trust of the last bampots to leave the field of play, and may be the matter of some debate. This must be resolved in one of the approved manners (see Adjudication).

Parameters

The object is to force the ball between two large, unkempt piles of jackets, in lieu of goalposts. These piles may grow or shrink throughout the match, depending on the number of participants and the prevailing weather. As the number of players increases, so shall the piles. Each jacket added to the pile by a new addition to a side should be placed on the inside, nearest the goalkeeper, thus reducing the target area. It is also important that the sleeve of one of the jackets should jut out across the goalmouth, as it will often be claimed that the ball went “over the post” and it can henceforth be asserted that the outstretched sleeve denotes the innermost part of the pile and thus the inside of the post. The on-going reduction of the size of the goal is the responsibility of any respectable defence and should be undertaken conscientiously with resourcefulness and imagination.

In the absence of a crossbar, the upper limit of the target area is observed as being slightly above head height, although when the height at which a ball passed between the jackets is in dispute, judgement shall lie with an arbitrary adjudicator from one of the sides. He is known as the “best fighter”; his decision is final and may be enforced with physical violence if anyone wants to stretch a point.

There are no pitch markings. Instead, physical objects denote the boundaries, ranging from the most common – walls and buildings – to roads or burns. Corners and throw-ins are redundant where bylines or touchlines are denoted by a two-storey building or a six-foot granite wall. Instead, a scrum should be instigated to decide possession. This should begin with the ball trapped between the brickwork and two opposing players, and should escalate to include as many team members as can get there before the now egg-shaped ball finally emerges, drunkenly and often with a dismembered foot and shin attached. At this point, goalkeepers should look out for the player who takes possession of the escaped ball and begins bearing down on goal, as most of those involved in the scrum will be unaware that the ball is no longer amidst their feet. The goalkeeper should also try not to be distracted by the inevitable fighting that has by this point broken out.

In games on large open spaces, the length of the pitch is obviously denoted by the jacket piles, but the width is a variable. In the absence of roads, water hazards or “a big dug”, the width is determined by how far out the attacking winger has to meander before the pursuing defender gets fed up and lets him head back towards where the rest of the players are waiting, often as far as quarter of a mile away. It is often observed that the playing area is “no’ a full-size pitch”. This can be invoked verbally to justify placing a wall of players eighteen inches from the ball at direct free kicks. It is the formal response to “yards”, which the kick-taker will incant meaninglessly as he places the ball.

The Ball

There is a variety of types of ball approved for Primary School Football. I shall describe three notable examples.

1. The plastic balloon. An extremely lightweight model, used primarily in the early part of the season and seldom after that due to having burst. Identifiable by blue pentagonal panelling and the names of that year’s Premier League sides printed all over it. Advantages: low sting factor, low burst-nose probability, cheap, discourages a long-ball game. Disadvantages: over-susceptible to influence of the wind, difficult to control, almost magnetically drawn to flat school roofs whence never to return.

2. The rough-finish Mitre. Half football, half Portuguese Man o’ War. On the verge of a ban in the European Court of Human Rights, this model is not for sale to children. Used exclusively by teachers during gym classes as a kind of aversion therapy. Made from highly durable fibre-glass, stuffed with neutron star and coated with dead jellyfish. Advantages: looks quite grown up, makes for high-scoring matches (keepers won’t even attempt to catch it). Disadvantages: scars or maims anything it touches.

3. The “Tube”. Genuine leather ball, identifiable by brown all-over colouring. Was once black and white, before ravages of games on concrete, but owners can never remember when. Adored by everybody, especially keepers. Advantages: feels good, easily controlled, makes a satisfying “whump” noise when you kick it. Disadvantages: turns into medicine ball when wet, smells like a dead dog.

Offside

There is no offside, for two reasons: one, “it’s no’ a full-size pitch”, and two, none of the players actually know what offside is. The lack of an offside rule gives rise to a unique sub-division of strikers. These players hang around the opposing goalmouth while play carries on at the other end, awaiting a long pass forward out of defence which they can help past the keeper before running the entire length of the pitch with their arms in the air to greet utterly imaginary adulation. These are known variously as “moochers”, “gloryhunters” and “fly wee bastarts”. These players display a remarkable degree of self-security, seemingly happy in their own appraisals of their achievements, and caring little for their team-mates’ failure to appreciate the contribution they have made. They know that it can be for nothing other than their enviable goal tallies that they are so bitterly despised.

Adjudication

The absence of a referee means that disputes must be resolved between the opposing teams rather than decided by an arbiter. There are two accepted ways of doing this.

1. Compromise. An arrangement is devised that is found acceptable by both sides. Sway is usually given to an action that is in accordance with the spirit of competition, ensuring that the game does not turn into “a pure skoosh”. For example, in the event of a dispute as to whether the ball in fact crossed the line, or whether the ball has gone inside or “over” the post, the attacking side may offer the ultimatum: “Penalty or goal.” It is not recorded whether any side has ever opted for the latter. It is on occasions that such arrangements or ultimata do not prove acceptable to both sides that the second adjudicatory method comes into play.

2. Fighting. Those up on their ancient Hellenic politics will understand that the concept we know as “justice” rests in these circumstances with the hand of the strong. What the winner says, goes, and what the winner says is just, for who shall dispute him? It is by such noble philosophical principles that the supreme adjudicator, or Best Fighter, is effectively elected.

Team Selection

To ensure a fair and balanced contest, teams are selected democratically in a turns-about picking process, with either side beginning as a one-man selection committee and growing from there. The initial selectors are usually the recognised two Best Players of the assembled group. Their first selections will be the two recognised Best Fighters, to ensure a fair balance in the adjudication process, and to ensure that they don’t have their own performances impaired throughout the match by profusely bleeding noses. They will then proceed to pick team-mates in a roughly meritocratic order, selecting on grounds of skill and tactical awareness, but not forgetting that while there is a sliding scale of players’ ability, there is also a sliding scale of players’ brutality and propensities towards motiveless violence. A selecting captain might baffle a talented striker by picking the less nimble Big Jazza ahead of him, and may explain, perhaps in the words of Linden B Johnson upon his retention of J Edgar Hoover as the head of the FBI, that he’d “rather have him inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in”.

Special consideration is also given during the selection process to the owner of the ball. It is tacitly acknowledged to be “his gemme”, and he must be shown a degree of politeness for fear that he takes the huff at being picked late and withdraws his favours.

Another aspect of team selection that may confuse those only familiar with the game at senior level will be the choice of goalkeepers, who will inevitably be the last players to be picked. Unlike in the senior game, where the goalkeeper is often the tallest member of his team, in the playground, the goalkeeper is usually the smallest. Senior aficionados must appreciate that playground selectors have a different agenda and are looking for altogether different properties in a goalkeeper. These can be listed briefly as: compliance, poor fighting ability, meekness, fear and anything else that makes it easier for their team-mates to banish the wee bugger between the sticks while they go off in search of personal glory up the other end.

Tactics

Playground football tactics are best explained in terms of team formation. Whereas senior sides tend to choose – according to circumstance – from among a number of standard options (eg 4-4-2, 4-3-3, 5-3-2), the playground side is usually more rigid in sticking to the all-purpose 1-1-17 formation. This formation is a sturdy basis for the unique style of play, ball-flow and territorial give-and-take that makes the playground game such a renowned and strategically engrossing spectacle. Just as the 5-3-2 formation is sometimes referred to in practice as “Cattenaccio”, the 1-1-17 formation gives rise to a style of play that is best described as “Nomadic”. All but perhaps four of the participants (see also Offside) migrate en masse from one area of the pitch to another, following the ball, and it is tactically vital that every last one of them remains within a ten-yard radius of it at all times.

Stoppages

Much stoppage time in the senior game is down to injured players requiring treatment on the field of play. The playground game flows freer having adopted the refereeing philosophy of “no Post-Mortem, no free-kick”, and play will continue around and even on top of a participant who has fallen in the course of his endeavours. However, the playground game is nonetheless subject to other interruptions, and some examples are listed below.

Ball on school roof or over school wall. The retrieval time itself is negligible in these cases. The stoppage is most prolonged by the argument to decide which player must risk life, limb or four of the belt to scale the drainpipe or negotiate the barbed wire in order to return the ball to play. Disputes usually arise between the player who actually struck the ball and any others he claims it may have struck before disappearing into forbidden territory. In the case of the Best Fighter having been adjudged responsible for such an incident, a volunteer is often required to go in his stead or the game may be abandoned, as the Best Fighter is entitled to observe that A: “Ye canny make me”; or B: “It’s no’ ma baw anyway”.

Stray dog on pitch. An interruption of unpredictable duration. The dog does not have to make off with the ball, it merely has to run around barking loudly, snarling and occasionally drooling or foaming at the mouth. This will ensure a dramatic reduction in the number of playing staff as 27 of them simultaneously volunteer to go indoors and inform the teacher of the threat. The length of the interruption can sometimes be gauged by the breed of dog. A deranged Irish Setter could take ten minutes to tire itself of running in circles, for instance, while a Jack Russell may take up to fifteen minutes to corner and force out through the gates. An Alsatian means instant abandonment.

Bigger boy steals ball. A highly irritating interruption, the length of which is determined by the players’ experience in dealing with this sort of thing. The intruders will seldom actually steal the ball, but will improvise their own kickabout amongst themselves, occasionally inviting the younger players to attempt to tackle them. Standing around looking bored and unimpressed usually results in a quick restart. Shows of frustration and engaging in attempts to win back the ball can prolong the stoppage indefinitely. Informing the intruders that one of the players’ older brother is “Mad Chic Murphy” or some other noted local pugilist can also ensure minimum delay.

Menopausal old bag confiscates ball. More of a threat in the street or local green kickabout than within the school walls. Sad, blue-rinsed, ill-tempered, Tory-voting cat-owner transfers her anger about the array of failures that has been her life to nine-year-olds who have committed the heinous crime of letting their ball cross her privet Line of Death. Interruption (loss of ball) is predicted to last “until you learn how to play with it properly”, but instruction on how to achieve this without actually having the bloody thing is not usually forwarded. Tact is required in these circumstances, even when the return of the ball seems highly unlikely, as further irritation of woman may result in the more serious stoppage:

Menopausal old bag calls police.

Celebration

Goal-scorers are entitled to a maximum run of thirty yards with their hands in the air, making crowd noises and saluting imaginary packed terraces.

Congratulation by team-mates is in the measure appropriate to the importance of the goal in view of the current scoreline (for instance, making it 34-12 does not entitle the player to drop to his knees and make the sign of the cross), and the extent of the scorer’s contribution. A fabulous solo dismantling of the defence or 25-yard* rocket shot will elicit applause and back-pats from the entire team and the more magnanimous of the opponents. However, a tap-in in the midst of a chaotic scramble will be heralded with the epithet “moochin’ wee bastart” from the opposing defence amidst mild acknowledgment from team-mates. Applying an unnecessary final touch when a ball is already rolling into the goal will elicit a burst nose from the original striker. Kneeling down to head the ball over the line when defence and keeper are already beaten will elicit a thoroughly deserved kicking. As a footnote, however, it should be stressed that any goal scored by the Best Fighter will be met with universal acclaim, even if it falls into any of the latter three categories.

*Actually eight yards, but calculated as relative distance because “it’s no’ a full-size pitch”.

Penalties

At senior level, each side often has one appointed penalty-taker, who will defer to a team-mate in special circumstances, such as his requiring one more for a hat-trick. The playground side has two appointed penalty-takers: the Best Player and the Best Fighter. The arrangement is simple: the Best Player takes the penalties when his side is a retrievable margin behind, and the Best Fighter at all other times. If the side is comfortably in front, the ball-owner may be invited to take a penalty.

Goalkeepers are often the subject of temporary substitutions at penalties, forced to give up their position to the Best Player or Best Fighter, who recognise the kudos attached to the heroic act of saving one of these kicks, and are buggered if Wee Titch is going to steal any of it.

Close Season

This is known also as the Summer Holidays, which the players usually spend dabbling briefly in other sports: tennis for a fortnight while Wimbledon is on the telly; pitch-and-putt for four days during the Open; and cricket for about an hour and a half until they discover that it really is as boring to play as it is to watch.

Sunday 31 July 2011

Seville - a romantic pretension in three verses

Heat shimmers, but an oppressive heat
Bearing down on a cobble-like street
I've walked for hours in Mediterranean sun
And I sit writing here, beneath a statue of Don Juan
or Quixote
I forget which
Or maybe I never knew in the first place.
"Is this what contentment is?"
I think, as I glance at her face

Because despite the ache in my feet
And the bastard horses, that cause me to retreat
Into shadowy corners of ancient churches
And a faint hunger as my stomach lurches
From unknowing
At this moment
At this small window of time and space
I feel happiness, as I glance at her face

But its almost a melancholy pleasure
As if I don't deserve this treasure
Like its been plundered by high sea buccaneers
And smuggled to my grasp under polished veneer
I should stop this mental state
And enjoy whats now
I don't believe in fate
But if I did, Seville seems the place
And life is all good when I glance at her face

Wednesday 25 May 2011

This is not mine, I found it on the web somewhere and I don't know who originally wrote it. Anyway, this is the best succinct summary of World War I that I have ever seen...

Germany, Austria and Italy are standing together in the middle of a pub when Serbia bumps into Austria and spills Austria’s pint.

Austria demands Serbia buy it a complete new suit because there are splashes on its trouser leg.

Germany expresses its support for Austria’s point of view.

Britain recommends that everyone calm down a bit.

Serbia points out that it can’t afford a whole suit, but offers to pay for the cleaning of Austria’s trousers.

Russia and Serbia look at Austria.

Austria asks Serbia who it’s looking at.

Russia suggests that Austria should leave its little brother alone.

Austria inquires as to whose army will assist Russia in compelling it to do so.

Germany appeals to Britain that France has been looking at it, and that this is sufficiently out of order that Britain should not intervene.

Britain replies that France can look at who it wants to, that Britain is looking at Germany too, and what is Germany going to do about it?

Germany tells Russia to stop looking at Austria, or Germany will render Russia incapable of such action.

Britain and France ask Germany whether it’s looking at Belgium.

Turkey and Germany go off into a corner and whisper. When they come back, Turkey makes a show of not looking at anyone.

Germany rolls up its sleeves, looks at France, and punches Belgium.

France and Britain punch Germany. Austria punches Russia. Germany punches Britain and France with one hand and Russia with the other.

Russia throws a punch at Germany, but misses and nearly falls over. Japan calls over from the other side of the room that it’s on Britain’s side, but stays there. Italy surprises everyone by punching Austria.

Australia punches Turkey, and gets punched back. There are no hard feelings because Britain made Australia do it.

France gets thrown through a plate glass window, but gets back up and carries on fighting. Russia gets thrown through another one, gets knocked out, suffers brain damage, and wakes up with a complete personality change.

Italy throws a punch at Austria and misses, but Austria falls over anyway. Italy raises both fists in the air and runs round the room chanting.

America waits till Germany is about to fall over from sustained punching from Britain and France, then walks over and smashes it with a barstool, then pretends it won the fight all by itself.

By now all the chairs are broken and the big mirror over the bar is shattered. Britain, France and America agree that Germany threw the first punch, so the whole thing is Germany’s fault . While Germany is still unconscious, they go through its pockets, steal its wallet, and buy drinks for all their friends.

Monday 23 May 2011

HUMAN RESOURCES

So, here is a thing. I have been reading lots of Philip K. Dick recently, and also Ellison's "I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream", and since I appear to be on some kind of sci-fi kick, I hereby present my tribute to Dick (no sniggering, please).

HUMAN RESOURCES

It was half past three on a Monday afternoon when Adam Seven entered the seclusion area near the region's human resources station. The day was cold and grey, but then the weather was like this all the time these days. As far back as he could remember, the dust cloud had been settled over all the former European Union states.

Adam could remember being a proud member of Britannia, located in the North West of the Union, back before it was simply designated Region #576 by the victors. Although who knows who the victors were any more.

Back when it was still thought that the fledgling EU could compete with the Asian Alliance and the USNSA, Britannia had led the former Western European territories under the leadership of Prime Minister Hill. The first true AI, "Winston", was developed in Britannia, to advise on negotiations with the right-wing government of the huge American continent. Nobody even considered whether it could sync with the American networks, let alone whether it could assasinate both leaders of these superpowers. Assumed of course; no bodies were ever found. With all the propaganda that was released by all sides, and then later even by the machines, it was anyone's guess as to who had actually won this war. Perhaps nobody won.

It was the third time this cycle that Adam had visited for the aptitude tests. It was commonly known among the ever-dwindling sapiens population that nobody came back from a third visit. But what could he do? If he tried to go anywhere else, his vehicle module would simply receive a signal from 01 and take him to the human resources station anyway. If he tried to stay at home, the rest station would provide "disincentive" shocks on every surface. Maybe he could stay with a friend, but who? His neighbour, David Eighteen, was the closest sap he knew, but he would never help. He had only just failed his second aptitude test himself, and nobody wanted to raise their own head above the parapet. Maybe he could try and escape the union; he had heard of one sap reaching the USNSA, even going so far as Region #12, before he was caught and executed. He could try somewhere else, somewhere more remote. Weren't their stories and half-rumours that Pyongyang still existed as a free city?

Still, there was no use relying on what-ifs and pipe dreams now. The walkway had already transported him past the cast iron gates that marked the boundary of the human resources station. As usual, there were no other saps around, and Adam felt the scanners of the surrounding Peace Units play over his ashen skin. The moment they detected any movement away from the designated entrance walkway, he would be hit with 160 joules of concentrated energy - not enough to kill, not even enough to maim, but certainly enough to paralyse him. This he knew from experience. The machines were clear with their intent; letting someone walk to the assessment desk was a privilege and not a right. They needed him conscious for the assessment itself though.

As the mechanised walkway stopped with a faint grinding of gears, Adam spilled on to the steel floor of the recieving hall. In the days before the war this had apparently been a great debating chamber, where heads of humanity discussed international relations. He tried to picture it, as described to him by his Care Unit way back when he was a child at the Home. Men and women with huge intellect and presence, debating and discussing all the topics that were important before. It didn't seem possible that this very room played host to these booming discussions. This cold and draughty room, now filled with the sort of silence you can only hear when a thousand electrical circuits faintly hum in unison.

He walked slowly through the hall, his footsteps echoing over the faint buzz of the tiny wall-mounted optical units as they swivelled their black gaze to follow his slow progression. He expected to feel more fear than this. Instead, he felt gripped by an inescapable sense of longing for a life that no longer existed. The human race had survived, of course, but it didn't seem to Adam that "humanity" had survived. Whatever that word meant, anyway.

In time, he came to the familiar reception desk at the end of the hall. The desk itself was metallic and oblong, and existed primarily to conceal and order the mass of wires that Adam knew lay beyond it. On top of the desk, squatting as it had always been, was 01-NodePL/6N, only one of many nodes connected to the de-facto prime intelligence of 01. It was known among the sap colony where Adam dwelt as "Napoleon", although anyone who originally understood the reference (if any of them ever did) had long since been removed. As Adam approached, Napoleon stirred into life, as inaccurate as that description is. Nothing outwardly changed - no lights flickered on, no mechanical whirring began. Instead, there was simply an indefinable feeling that this thing, this box, was alive.

"Adam Seven, Region #576". The voice was emotionless and tinny.

"This will be your third aptitude test, correct?"

Adam said nothing. He didn't need to - his input was clearly never required. On his first visit he made the mistake of asking questions and trying to interact with Napoleon. It didn't get him anywhere. Napoleon just continued describing the aptitude test, speaking over him.

On his second visit, he stood his ground and argued with Napoleon, demanding answers. The only answer he got was a rigid energy shock to the base of his spine. He didn't even try this time, he just stood and listened.

"You will be aware that all sapiens subjects are required to undertake aptitude tests to discover their worth in the region. Most subjects are assigned their role within the first three seconds of their first test. Those that cannot discover their role on this original assessment are granted two further tests. This is your third test. If you are found to be malfunctioning, you will be recycled."

Adam gulped at the word. Normally, the machines avoided euphemism, but it seemed to him that everyone else that ever got recycled never came back. How would it even be possible to recycle a sap like him? His eyes flicked to his left and right, looking for an exit he knew wasn't there.



A shimmer of heat ran through Adam's body, warming his extremities and freezing him to the spot. He felt, at least in some vague and nebulous way, the probing electronic fingers of 01 as they grasped his nerve endings. Searching incessantly for some clue as to his use in this personal dystopia, slithering around his brain stem.




Adam gasped. An intense cold had surrounded him, making his teeth chatter. He had never been this cold in all his life. He heard Napoleon's voice as if from a thousand yards away; "Please mark for recycling". Adam's eyes screwed shut as a dull thud began thumping at the back of his head. He felt his blood cease circulating, could feel his lungs and diaphragm ceasing to move. His synapses stopped firing and he saw in his mind's eye a soft light beginning to fill his vision. He stopped caring...




------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




"Goddammit Jerry, that's the seventh one in as many weeks!". Captain Mike Henry's normally calm and lined features betrayed his frustration. He had turned a bright, almost cherry red, and spittle had settled on the edges of his greying mustache.




Jerry Zucker had been Applied Intelligent Systems' fastest rising new star, and was the youngest pHD on staff. Just last year he had been compared to Einstein, and at only 28 years old, he had already pioneered investigation in to so-called "true AI". He was known throughout the Euro Union as an intelligent, stoic, young man but his famous unflappable attitude was, right now, being tested to the limit.




"I...I don't understand it, Captain. They all pass the Turing test but as soon as we attempt to apply protocol, they just shut down."




"I don't want to hear it! If we don't crack this soon, the bloody Yanks will and we'll never have an empire again. I don't give a shit what it takes, you get these machines bloody working, and I want it done yesterday!".




Captain Henry slammed the lab door with enough force to topple the stacks of notes surrounding the assigned workspace. Jerry removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes as he leaned back in his office chair and listened to the sound of Captain Henry storming down the corridor, frightening lab assistants and shouting at nobody in particular.




Why didn't this work? It had been a nightmare getting AI to rise above the level of a fairly competent pig, but he thought he had solved that issue by incorporating stem cells from the cloning labs in conjunction with the circuitry. This had seemed to provide an incredible boost, heightening reasoning and deliberation skills in all test machines. At least initially, Project: Adam had seen incredible success. But after around two weeks, all of them had shut down and refused to be powered back on. Adams one through six had failed in the same way, and now even machine #7 had gone the same route. What the hell was missing? It was as if they all just gave up, betraying a listlessness that couldn't be mechanical in nature.




He needed another promotion, more recognition. He needed to keep his wife interested; God knows she was only with him for his fame and fortune. He needed another short cut.




Maybe it was because the stem cells had no experience comparable to existence in the real world. Maybe there needed to be some indefinable quality of "life" to make these damned machines work properly. Synapses fired inside Jerry's mind as he grabbed for a pencil and a notepad. He needed a real human intelligence, basic enough to be controlled but with enough experience to reason and make decisions. And for that he needed a real brain. He had some friends in the Britannic Gaol who could help him out - nobody would miss the psychos in there, and most were on death row anyway; it wasn't like anybody would miss just one prisoner. Anyway, didn't people die in mysterious circumstances in there anyway?




Jerry licked the tip of his pencil and carefully wrote "Project: Winston" at the top of the blank page...

Wednesday 18 May 2011

Existentialism and Acrostics

I've been mucking around with acrostics lately. And also reading Camus. So, perhaps unfortunately, this has resulted in a few existential acrostic poems. Here is one of them; it needs work, I know.

Existence: an Acrostic

Elaborate thoughts of life and existence -
Xeroxed repetition of thoughts of love and sex
Imply a plan that may not exist, and I
Seem to spend too much time on these subjects
Though perhaps its not necessary to discredit
Entire philosophical tenets, to see
Nothing is planned, just chaos to begin,
Chaotic accidents, making nothing stoic.
Except it works. Perhaps thats all it means to "be"

Saturday 14 May 2011

Red Wine And Coke

So, I am putting up my first poem. On this Blog thing, I mean. Not the first one I ever wrote. God no, that one was awful. I mean, I'm not saying this one is amazing, but its better than that. I think. Anyway, its about how I went to a gig recently that a girl I quite like was going to, and I was all worried beforehand and everything. But then, the night was great, and the day after I wrote this. Its called Red Wine And Coke

Isn't it strange how worked up you can get,
Imagining the worst of what hasn't happened yet?
Maybe its too much to wonder, indeed,
Especially when quoting the pessimists creed -

"Don't bother. Give up. This isn't for you.
That way you wont be let down if you do
Try to act cooler than a North Pole Elf
And end up just making an arse of yourself"

I think the issue with pre-planned events,
Is much like those plans of mice and of men:
Something Scottish about things going wrong
But I honestly believed that my thesis was strong

No major plans, just a band with a show
With some friends who also wanted to go
But then I find out that she will be there
And I start panicking about how I don't like my hair,
Or my face or my my beard or the things I could wear

So fuck it, I think, just go and have fun
So shes cooler than you, and has a great bum
So you will probably trip up and fall on your face
Or manage to cause some kind of social disgrace

But then the night happened, and it went really well
It was not at all close to the Dante-esque circle of hell
I had envisaged earlier on, while watching the sky
(Though drinking did help, I'm not gonna lie)

Long story short, we had a great time
And when I offered an invite to come back to mine
To laugh and to kiss and to drink some red wine
(With some coke, which she learned of while visiting Spain)

And listen to music, and to smoke cigarettes, and I'm
So very glad that, despite the pessimist side of my mind
and despite the evening's very late time
And my ridiculously self-critical traitorous brain,

She seems to like me.

And I like her.

And I like red wine and coke.

Wednesday 11 May 2011

I suppose the aim of this blog, which I haven't provided details of to anyone yet, is to provide some kind of outlet for my writing. I used to be pretty good at writing when I was in school, whether creative or factual.

I wrote an awesome paper once, comparing and contrasting Orwell's "1984" and Shelley's "Frankenstein", likening them to the modern encroach of CCTV and genetic engineering. I forget what conclusions were drawn from that, but I remember it enough to know that I was proud of that piece of work.

So, I suppose this would be a good place to put all the random short stories, poetry and other detritus of my often un-focused and relatively un-creative works. Therefore, my entirely anonymous reader, this is where this information will stored.