An Open Letter From Michael Bolam

This notice is blu-tacked to the staff room door.....

"To: Staff, Ladies, Gentlemen, Rank, File etc.
From: Michael "Mike" Bolam [unofficial head kitchen porter, leader of bins, and bar.]

Now,
I know what you're thinking, "Aw, 'ere we go - another bloody notice about how untidy the staff room is, what'll it be this time?" "Something like, "Believe it or not, fairies do not come into this space after you've gone home and clear away your dirty protests for you."?" "Yeah, the sort of notice that encourages you to drop your trousers and leave one on the table." [that was more of a conversation than what one person was thinking, but I got carried away and sincerely hope no-one actually thinks like that. Not pleasant at all. You should be ashamed of yourselves] Anyway, now, the difference is that this notice doesn't come from the big-wigs, the fancy-Dans in the office with their lunch boxes, apples, condiments and the rest - but from me, your representative if you like. You see I'm one of you - I am leader of bins, but you all get to put stuff in bins - so we're almost equal. I'm going to cut through all the red tape, flim flam and managerial jargon and talk to you ear-to-ear, eye-to-eye & brain-to-brain about THIS ROOM - our lunching environmental haven.

Now, in a few billion years time the sun is going to run out of power. I don't know the details [I'm not a scientist], but it's a bit like a coal fire that slowly goes out because the coal can't last forever. Or an egg-timer when the sand runs into the bottom bit but the sand is energy and we don't get the benefit of what's in the bottom bit only the top bit. Or a candle [yes a candle, should've probably tried this one between the last two, sorry] that goes out when it runs out of candle. You get the picture. So, to recap, the sun, OUR sun, will eventually stop heating and lighting The Earth [like one of the utility companies going bust - that's my second favourite one so far] and we'll have to find somewhere else to go won't we? I know it's a long way off but they'll decide to travel to a new planet eventually - what if there's not enough room for everyone on the spaceship? Take this place as a 'for instance' - that lot in the office will get a ticket [you have to have people to order other people about, that's democracy] and the Vice-Chancellor of course, and Ken the maintenance guy, everybody loves Ken, but what about the rest of us? I can see them giving a written test, there might be a height restriction, "no trouble-makers, non-smokers only", that sort of thing - will you be up to it?

Now, I'm here to give you a helping hand because I know for definite what one of the exam questions will be. We've all seen films where someone is in a spaceship or an airplane flying at high hightetude - what happens when they have a gunfight and a bullet goes through the hull/fuselage/roof/starboard of the plane/ship? YES! The evil one of the two gets sucked through the tiny hole and into the endlessly cold wastes of space. WELL HOW CAN YOU EXPECT TO GET PICKED TO GO ON THE SPACESHIP THAT LEAVES OUR DYING PLANET IF YOU CAN'T BE BOTHERED TO CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOR TO THE STAFF ROOM YOU IGNORANT, THUMBLESS, TOSSPOTS?

Now, please sign below to indicate you have read and understood the above notice."

Michael Bolam Writes

You may have read "I, Jed" a few weeks back where we were introduced to Michael "Mike" Bolam. Due to a local bereavement Mike came upon a ticket to Wednesday night's Capital One Cup match between his local side Norwich, and big smoke lah-di-dahs Tottenham Hotspurs. Moved by the experience he decided to put type to paper...

"To:
Ms Delia Smith, Manager and Chief Cook
Norwich City Football Team
Norwich City
Norwich, Norwich
Norfolk
Norwich.

Dear Delia,
Please call me Mike. Now, Delia my love, last night I got to see the team playing Tottingham and I'll tell you it's been a while! Luckily my ticket was free [it's what chipshop Steve would've wanted] otherwise you could've whistled for £30, especially as it wasn't The World Cup [as promised by Kevin at work]. Now, I found the seating position adequate enough, Delia, and the game was alright - but it's half-time where things went a bit south. Where was the brass band? Where was the bloke who used to chuck peanuts at you? Where was the "wear your colours!" man? I was narked enough by their absence to seek the bar, Delia - I don't mind telling you. More disappointment. Now, I like a drink, Delia, but whither [or 'wherever was' if you prefer] the 'K'? You not heard of 'K'? I know, I know you have the local ales and that but they aint got the kick [if you'll pardon the pun] of a 'K'. I take mine with a chaser from the trusty hip-flask but that's by-the-by. Pork pies - unseasoned, Delia! Luckily I always carry sachés of salt, pepper, vinegar, tomato ketchup, 'Daddies, Delia, 'DADDIES', mayonnaise and a little bottle of sweet chilli sauce too [because you never know].

When that other lot scored I pissed off - this was valuable drinking time at 'The 'Horses' I was missing - but I did sneak a look at your kitchens, Delia. Now, A dickie bird told me that your extraction system hasn't had a good deep-clean for two weeks, Delia. Now, I don't like to strum my own banjo but extractions is my middle name - you ask the fellas at 'Zaks'! You ask the head chef at the Wensum Valley Kentucky Fried! Now, I could be in and out of your gaff in two hours, Delia - I figure one hour on the canopy, one hour on the inner layer - as long as we're talking strictly cash-whistle-whistle-know-what-I-mean or a ticket to the United game and a couple of 'K's. I'm dead reliable, never smoke outdoors and since my ban the license has been completely point-free. Deal?

Yours in anticipation,
Michael "Mike" Bolam

P.S. Are you married? We're both men of the world and of that uncertain age after all, so no need for us to go through the embarrassed fumblings of a first date at a Berni Inn or such - what do you reckon? I've enclosed a picture but please remember it was the Christmas party and I was on painkillers too."

A Walk With #TeamHarry

This is Harry, he's a cairn/west highland white terrier cross and about 11 now, he was 4ish when we got him. In the second enclosure of Snetterton's Dog Trust - number one housed a lovely female schnauzer but she couldn't be homed with other dogs and we had two. Harry's room-mate was a sleeping, elderly labrador but as we looked through the glass, The Pesky One did that on-hind-legs-tail-wag-and-scrabble-with-front-paws thing. No-one can resist that. "Can we have Harry please?"

We had to take Gracie & Ella [our twin newfoundlands] to the home to check they'd get on. Released into a pen, Harry set off sniffing for vermin & such, Gracie & Ella settled down for a kip.

"He'll take all the walks you can throw at him but we're not sure what he's like off the lead."

He came with a bed, two winter coats [they are hardy little animals and do not need them] and a shoebox full of toys. Obviously well loved and looked after, we suspect the couple who owned him either a) had a child & Harry got jealous so they played safe or b) left him indoors all day while they worked and his yapping annoyed the neighbours or c) he bit one of them. There may be a d), e) or mixture of a), b) & c) scenario but they didn't leave an address....

Eventually we tried him off his lead on the beach - he ran around in a circle for about ten minutes and with no vermin to chase, settled on a pattern of charge ahead/lag behind. I let him off over the park once and he tried to burrow under the footballer's changing rooms....

He arrived with a proper valeting and we hoped he'd enjoy being brushed but no - 'Carol' gives him a No.2 all over every six weeks or so and he needs to be muzzled. The Dog's Trust peeps must have pooch-whispering powers or something.

That's his posh lead, it's too short. The long pink one is Gracie's 'trainer' from when she was a pup - I hate those extending leads - the noise they make alone is infuriating.

He hasn't swum with the newfies but seems fascinated by water - when I try to pick him up near the drink he seems to guess what I might be going to do...

He loves the car - all the pooches do. He barks if it rains, if there are puddles, whenever we pass a usual walking spot, whenever the indicators go on, if we pass a cyclist, if we pass a postman.....

Harry.


Update: 9th January 2014

Sadly, Harry's owner, "Uncle Ray" has passed away and Harry needs a new home. We are going to give him a trial run in London, there are other parties interested so hopefully he won't have to return to The Dogs Trust. They are brilliant and he'd probably be snapped up, but it would be a betrayal to give him away - I wouldn't be able to see him, know when he's well or ill, he'd miss us, miss Hugo his Newfie friend....

Fans of the little pooch will be kept up-to-date with his progress. x

I, Jed.

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Scene: A college catering department, kitchen, restaurant, etc.

In the plate-wash area there is a carousel - the students place their trays on their side and Mandy takes them off when they get to her 'office'. So the day begins - Mandy releases the red STOP button, presses old GREEN and the cycle begins. It's Friday, so Mandy chooses 'London Eye' speed - why pressure yourself?

Meanwhile in the changing room, Bill, who DJ's at weekends under the name 'FutrAss', puts his cap on back-to-front. This contravenes health & safety regulations [the peak stops you getting beaned by Mandy's STOP button for one] but FutrAss does not bow to The Man and does not belong here. He is a kitchen porter but like all kitchen porters, he's waiting for Simon Cowell/Whoever runs the bangin' clubs in London/someone famous to spot him and take him away from all this.
'All this' is clearing up shit left by chefs who, to a man, don't feel they belong here either - they're waiting for those two who do 'Master Chef'/the Ramsay arsehole/a better college to spot them and take them away from all this as well.

Then there's Jed. Jed is at the peak of his powers. Jed lives twenty minutes from the college and purchased meals in the restaurant for two years before a) announcing he was not a student & b) pleading with anyone who would listen that he would love to wash up in their kitchens. Eventually there was a sufficient shortage of staff/lack of security on the door/lack of interest in H.R. and Jed was in. That was eleven years ago.

Today, like all the other days, Jed arrives in his high-viz jacket, carrying the biggest rucksack available without prescription and wearing his green protective gloves to keep his hands warm on the handlebars. In the rucksack are every item of Jed's uniform, clean or otherwise - he distrusts the locker system so carries everything backwards and forwards like a working class snail.
He works with Mike and Bill and the chefs...

Scottish John: "Blue roll up the top please, boys!"

Scottish John is the only chef in the union and hates working here as much as anyone. Because he gets time off to attend union meetings he is pretty much hated by all the other chefs. The porters love him because the other chefs hate him [making him a surrogate porter] and his scat singing is very entertaining.

Scottish John: "A-sqiddly doo-waaahhhh, bwaahhh waaahhhh Jesus, have we got gammon on again? For fuck's sake, when will they learn?"

Jed [in response to the request for blue roll]: "Okay, pardon."
Jed says "pardon" like teenagers say "like".

Mike is pondering...
"Saturday is a long, long time ago - in fact it's tomorrow!"
Jed: "What's that clicking noise, pardon? Have you got blakeys in your shoes, Mike? Pardon."
Mike: "Fuck off, Jed! I got these done proper, cost me six quid!"
Jed: "They make a lot of noise though pardon, I thought that Riverdance fella was coming just now pardon."

Mike has laid a booby trap for Jed - the waste-disposal unit has been stocked with yesterday's uncooked and unsold lasagne without being turned on, all Jed has to do is turn it on and...
*Jed is covered from head-to toe in lasagne*
Mark laughs, Jed gives the old-fashioned 'fingers' and goes downstairs to change. He replaces his dirty uniform for a clean one from the rucksack. 'Clean' in that it isn't covered in lasagne, unlike all his other clothes now in the rucksack. In no time he is back on duty, counting his changing-time as a morning break and still with lasagne in his hair.

And in Mandy's room the carousel creeps round - between the bars she ogles the builders having breakfast. Mike stops half-way across the restaurant floor, cups an ear to the speaker spewing Heart FM.
"Aw, Lady Gaga."

Scottish John: "Dandiddlygwahhhwahhh, blue roll in the middle dispenser please, boys!"
Mike: "Blue roll in the middle dispenser please, Jed."
Jed: "Okay pardon."
Mike: "Where the hell's Bill? Not still busting moves in the mirror downstairs I hope."
Mozef [enormous Hungarian head chef]: "Ah buddy - I forgots to tell - Bill hit his head on Mandy's machine, the STOP button perhaps. He go home, his mate Danny come in soon yeah?"
Mike: "Not Danny Dire? The 'best mates' are always worse, when will you lot learn?"

Scottish John: "Hot pot, boys!"
Mike: "Burnt pot, Jed."
Jed: "okay pardon."

later...

Scottish John: "Might've caught that one a little, boys!"
Mike: "Really burnt pot, Jed."
Jed: "Okay pardon."

later...

Scottish John: "Burnt pot, boys!"
Mike: "Okay, Jed - make your way quickly but efficiently to the nearest exit, then to the fire assembly point to await further instruction."
Jed: "Okay pardon."
"...Wah-wahhh, life is a bowl of cherries, sqiddlededeededee wah-ewah...."

Danny arrives.
"Hello girls! It's fucking pissing down out there and you know that. I gave up on getting the call to work - I was an hour late on Monday, again on Tuesday and phoned in sick on Wednesday, cunted I was, and they said they didn't need me yesterday. What's going on I ask myself! Anyway, girls the new regime is working - I stopped train-spotting and started at the gym as you know - the women have started to notice me, girls. They never gave me time-of-day before but all that protein I'm scoffing is doing the trick. Last night at the bus stop I tried my luck with this girl I've seen in the chippy - I don't really fancy her but you know... it was about half-ten and really cold and dark, she looked a bit scared so I said, "I'm not going to hurt you, but are you single?"
Stuffy cow got straight on her mobile and some drongo came and picked her up - might've been her dad or someone, wouldn't give me a lift. I might have to go for a foreign bird - I like foreign birds, more friendly, like. Or older. I've noticed that ladies even in their thirties are still attractive, and you know that to be true, girls......
What's going on anyway?" *huge fart*
Mozef: "Aw no, no, no, no! Not in da kitchen buddy! You can't do that in the kitchen fucksake!"
Danny: "Leave it out, Mo - better out than in and you know that."
Mozef: "Go home buddy and don't come back."

And the carousel creeps round....

Mike stops half-way across the restaurant floor, cups an ear to the speaker.
"Aw, Maroon 5."

Every now and then overtime is offered for the weekend. Mike and Jed fight to get in first because Mike has a gentle alcohol and gambling addiction and Jed still has the first pound he ever earned.

Mike: "Okay, Jed - overtime this weekend, we both know it's on offer - I can't do saturday because I'm already up at Wensum Valley. Now, I'm thinking two 'K's - one for the bus stop, one for the journey, don't want to be pissed before I get there and I don't  want to be up there all night this time. I figure one hour on the canopy, one hour on the inner layer, back to The Compasses by 11...."
Jed: "And I can't do sunday because it's the last chess match of the league season pardon."
Mike: "Aw, still playing are you? You've been very quiet about it."
Jed: "We are already assured pardon of coming bottom - we y'know what I'm sayin', haven't won a match pardon."
Mike: "Bottom eh? You'll get relegated - does that mean you have to play draughts next year?"

Mo: "John, do you want the overtimes this weekend, buddy?"
Scottish John: "No, no, no, no, Mozef - No in the boldest sans-serif font you can imagine, about six million point big with thirty or forty exclamation marks after it. Talk to me about overtime, Mozef and I'm in danger of dislocating both shoulders shrugging. Ask yourself, Mozef - do I look like a man who wants to spend any more time here than is contractually obliged?"
Mo: "It's double-time, buddy."
Scottish John: "You could square it, add a zillion noughts, then multiply it by the first number you thought of - I'd still tell you to stuff it up yer jacksie."

Mike: "What day are we open, Mozef?"
Mo: "Sunday, buddy - I need a porter for twelve hours, double-time."

Mike rubs his hands together, Jed gives him the old-fashioned 'fingers'.

The silver lids on the bain marie shimmer at the edges as the sauces within gently boil. The pulses of the bubbles send out tiny clouds of steam and a little tidal cloud goes away and back towards the minute gaps between them.

Scotish John: "Blue roll down the bottom please, boys!"
Mike: "Jed's on a break, John - he'll do it when he gets back."
Mo: "The bins need the emtying, buddy."
Mike: "That's Jed's speciality, Mozef - he'll be back in a minute."
Mandy: "Chips out! Someones knocked over the milk - can a porter come out and clear it up?"
Mike: "I'm just going for my break, Mand - Jed'll take care of that tout suite."

The carousel has stopped. An international student has placed their tray 'portrait' way-up instead of 'landscape', thus blocking the mechanism. Mandy straightens the tray and is in time to have a word with the student.
"Not doing physics then? ...*blankest of looks*... thought not."

Mike is trying to console Jed.
Mike: "Don't worry, Jed - you must have thousands in those shoe boxes under the bed, you never go out for a start."
Jed: "I do pardon - all I'm sayin' is I'm going out tonight pardon."
Mike: "Well good for you, Jed - where are you off to?"
Jed: "Never you mind!"......"pardon"
Mike: "Forget it, Jed. Why don't you sneak some of those sausages home for the cat?"
Jed: "Pardon? I told you I don't have a cat anymore - that was when I was little."
Mike: "Oh, that's right - what was it called?"
Jed: "Never you mind."
Mike: "Oh come on Jedmund. I bet it was Tiddles - all cats were called Tiddles when we were kids."
Jed: "Pardon? You're older than me aren't ya?"
Mike: "I should fucking hope not, Jed! You're fifty seven aint' ya?"
Jed: "Yeah, pardon - all I'm sayin' is that you've got some grey hair and I pardon haven't. Some say I carry my age well."
Mike: "It's the worry of wondering what you're bloody cat was called - WAS. IT. TIDDLES?"
Jed: "I'll tell you later pardon."
Mike: "Later? LATER?! It's a word, Jed! One poxy word. Unless it's Tiddles-Fotheringay-Fiddlesticks or something stupid like that. You can tell me now, please."
Jed: "Nooo! Pardon, anyway it was a girl cat."
Mike: "Jesus, Tiddley then?"
Jed: "Nooo! I'll tell ya later pardon."
Mike: "If you don't tell me now I'll shout cat names at you for the rest of the shift and turn up at your chess match on sunday holding cat names written on placards behind the head of the bloke you're playing. Mable, Gertrude, PHYLLIS, HELEN!...
Jed: "Noooo! Pardon, it begins with an  'F'."
Mike: "What? 'F' for Fluffy?"
Jed: "Yeah, pardon."
Mike: "Fiona, Fearn..."
Jed: "Noooo! It's Fluffy! Pardon."

And the carousel spins round......

Gregus, the front-of-house deputy manager walks by the kitchen into the restaurant.
Mike: "There 'e goes look - The Flying Dutchman. How come just because he's dutch he gets to wear an orange apron and we have to come dressed as the butcher's boys?"
Scottish John: "I think you'll find he's from Poland, Michael old son."
Mike: "Weeeell.... someone needs to tell him he's got the wrong apron on then and how come he gets to use one of those hands-free houndstooth phones as well?"

An international student has a question for Mandy.
"Please, what is the soup du jour?"
Mandy: "The soup of the day is tomato with basil but I'm not Du Jour - he's over there eating tomato soup with Basil, who fixes the lifts."

Jed: "Pardon, all I'm sayin' is have you seen the replacement porter yet pardon?"
Mike: "Nah, what's he like, even stupider-looking than Danny Dire?"
Jed: "No pardon, her name's Jessica."
Mike: "Jessica?! Woman?! Women can't port! Can't reach in the soup kettle, can't empty the Henny Penny, can't lift the lids on the skips, can't do Bratt Pans, talking of Bratt Pans Jedmund, they want you to do a second audition on the one you did earlier - still some gammon trauma on it apparently."
Jed: "Okay........ pardon."

Scottish John: "Hot tray, boys!"
Mo: "Hot, very hot!"
Mike: "Not so bad yourself, honky-tonk."
Mo: "Have you guys been to the office for the uniform measuring yet?"
Mike: "I'm off the peg, me - large and 32-regular - if he comes near me with that tape measure.... I remember being measured for my suit, look a million dollars in it I do, any excuse to wear it too - Christmas party, funerals, even wore it to visit my mate in hospital when he fell off his ladder. Anyway, Mo - Jed & me go home in a minute - Jed! Do some bulk-buying on those burnt pots and we'll be off...."

Mandy presses in the big red STOP button and cleans the machine, the cavalry porters for the evening shift arrive and Mike heads for the changing room. He stops half-way across the restaurant floor and cups his ear to the speaker..
"Aw, Bohemian Rhapsody."
He has a bus to catch, Jed has his bike - there is no need for them both to leave together or to converse again until tomorrow. Jed packs his entire kit into the old rucksack, turns the light off in the changing room and heads up the slope to the bike racks. In the distance he sees Mike at the bus stop as his bus turns the corner.....
Jed: "MIKE! MIKE! The bus is coming, Mike!!"
Mark looks the other way, mumbles "shut up, Jed for Chrissakes" and pretends he hasn't seen him. Why does Jed do this every night?

Jed still has his green protective gloves on - providing good grip on the handlebars and protection against the chilling air. He heads first to the chip shop - his usual order will be waiting, what he hasn't realised is that he failed to zip his rucksack securely. As he peddles, articles of kit, aprons, polo shirts and caps form a trail leading back to the college bike racks - by the time he wordlessly pays the chip shop girl his load is feather light. As he leaves the shop he looks back and sees the line of black, blue and white and motions towards re-tracing his steps - then he stops, smiles... "Too late, my time has come, body aching all the time, goodbye everybody, I've got to go..."

The staff are outside looking up at the stars...
"Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see...."
Above, across a full moon, is that the silhouetted figure of Jed on his push-bike?

Some names have been kept the same to protect the guilty.
All events and peeps are a coincidence, as they say.
Queen might be pissed off about the lyrics being used but who's going to tell them, eh?







Copyright @Bacony_ghost 2012

999 Isn't A Joke

On Tuesday I watched Uncle Ray have a heart attack. He's not my Uncle Ray, but housemate Sal's and everyone whose ever met him calls him that too. So, a heart attack eh? It wasn't like Don Corleone's or Superman's adopted dad's, no gripping of the upper arm, no giant redwood fall to the ground, just, "I don't feel too good."

His hands were dark red, the rest of him ashen white, he didn't want to make a fuss but people ring 999 if they've forgotten their lottery numbers so...
I've watched tele so knew what to do - I loosened my clothing, boiled up some towels and waited for Quincy to show up.

The local rapid response guy appeared first, followed closely by an Amazon delivery ['Yes Minister/Prime Minister' box set, a snip at £13] followed by three men in an ambulance. Mister Rapid Response was soon muscled out of things and I felt sorry for him, craning his neck to get a look at the machine that goes 'ping'...
A ticker-tape [no pun intended, and hopefully none taken] reading came out of said machine, Uncle Ray covered in plastic nipples and wires...
"Vent 1, fine........vent 2, nothing there....vent 3 WHOAH! Asprin!"

There now followed an interview where Uncle Ray was economical with the actuals - he didn't tell them about his nothing-until-2PM diet, his smoking, his parents history of heart problems or his brother's triple-bypass operation...
"I did take an asprin years ago and it upset my stomach a bit..."
"Take it, just take it."

Mister Rapid Response was visibly shaken. Uncle Ray was strapped to a chair and lifted into the ambulance...
"The suspension on those things are appalling, I was thrown all over the shop!" He would later remark.

It was lucky I was on a late shift and there when it happened, but I don't believe Uncle Ray would've left it much longer before ringing for help - basic desire to survive kicks in eventually. If you feel unwell and it's not a normal sort of unwell - a cold, sore throat, something you tend to get anyway - ring 999.

He's back home, reunited with pooch Harry & contemplating a low-fat fridge, there's also an ounce of 'Drum' hand-rolling tobacco on ebay.

Sadly, on New Year's Eve 2013, Ray had another heart attack while driving. He passed away a few days later. We have Harry now.

Travel Broadens The Feet

Travel broadens the behind too. I wish my suitcase had wheels - I don't like those little Sholley® jobs, but still. A journey of a billion miles begins with a single step into a cab at 01:30 a.m. on a blustery cold doodah in May.
I'm going to look for America, as if it hadn't already been looked, not by me anyway, at - I'm expecting to jump off the plane [wheee!] and fall into a huge mattress of Americanness. 'Wroxham Travel' - you are my first quarry - when you book someone a flight and a bus to take him to the flight, make sure the bus timetable doesn't change between the booking of the bus and the getting-on of the bus. Arseholes. I should thank them really, they erred [and ummed, if I remember correctly] on the correct side of arsholeness, to wit [to woo?] they gave me a wait of 2 hours for the bus, not a cab ride to Heathrow or a trip home and: "Well I tried but it just wasn't meant to be, y'know?"

Here I am then, dressed for Miami. I look at the notice board and get that little feeling in the middle of the belly. It's the one that's triggered when you realise you've dropped your car keys on the beach at midnight trying to impress someone with your pebble-chucking skills and you're going to have to ring your mum to come & pick you up and that girl is *never*, I said *NEVER* going to speak to you again. That one.
Then hope, cruel hope, crueler than cruel. Up turns a bus with 'Heathrow' on the front. Not 'NOWHERE' or 'DESPAIR', but 'Heathrow'. Out step passengers, like those poor buggered-senseless peeps at the end of 'Close Encounters' and then the driver, lit by glorious glory, hands leathered to a patent leather by decades of chivalrous taxiing......

"Ah, you're the Heathrow bus [well duh, but we've only just met], I thought I might have a wait..."
*studies ticket, strokes chin, looks less fanciable as doubt, realisation & shadenfreude [whatever happened to them? That first L.P. was so promising] take hold*
"Blah, blah, blah, change of timetable, blah, blah, blah, you've got a two-hour wait..."
"So it's not this bus going to Heathrow then?"

Long pause. Suspicious pause.

"Erm, [another one, as if it were possible] nah, he'll pull round here on time, just before 04:00, be sure to have your ticket ready blah, blah, blah"

Have you guessed it too? No? I saw his face so had an advantage. "He" was "me" or "He'll was "I'll". Laughing Boy [amazing how you can fall out of love with people] climbed back into his cab, would have done a big "HHHUUUUGGH-HHHUUUGGH!" on the horn if it had one & drove 40 yards to the other side of the bus station for a cup of tea, a read of the paper, a wank and a sleep.

I could hear nothing but two gulls:
"Look at that idiot down there, waiting for what might be two hours with only flimsy clothing and a suitcase without wheels. If it had wheels he could go for a stroll, nothing's open at this ungodly hour but the.."
"Squawk!"

 Thank fuck for that, his mate was already getting on my nerves. A sign says "CCTV in operation at all times" so I do 'West Side Story' in full and make a bloody good job of it too.

Disclaimer: The assertion that National Express drivers masturbate on duty is not necessarily true - this guy was on a break.

Conversations With Joseph

I Posted this yesterday and believe it or not it took two days to write; forty years if you include the time these images have haunted my tiny mind. This is a fiction of course, but I did see this skeleton [or a replica of it] in that tawdry little freak museum on The Isle Of Wight and I remember dad crying too. This all lay dormant in the brain until 'The Elephant Man' came out. Dad got 'The TRUE History Of The Elephant Man' from the library and did resist the film but not because of sympathy for Tom Norman [the freak show owner who paraded Merrick] but because, like myself he couldn't stand to see this poor helpless man humiliated. I usually write nonsense on here, for one thing you don't have to worry too much about grammar or tense or sentences going on too long and the rest. This is why this was doubly difficult for me to do. I need editing. The most haunting image from the film [still to be watched in it's entirety] is when the maid is sent up to Joseph's room to give him tea. She has no idea what is in the room, it's typically David-Lynch-spooky and dark and black & white and harrowing. That is also a ridiculous trick being played on us - Doctor Treves [who 'rescues' Joseph from Norman's grasp] is no angel - he goes on to gain much from Merrick's misfortune - but surely no-one would deliberately let that happen. I maintain that Lynch made a horror film, one where the monster is the victim like King Kong or Frankenstein's creature. There is also guilt here - kids dressed as Merrick shuffling through the playground, pretending to be him on the cricket field, doing the voice...

So what follows is what I did yesterday, I had to write it, or something like it, to hopefully remove some ghosts. I'll stick to nonsense from now on.

Joseph was dead to begin with.
I first saw him on The Isle Of Wight, near Ventnor, in a little museum of the strange. Only much later did I wonder why dad had dragged the Norman family to this weird place on such a miserable afternoon. Apart from Joseph, there was a ram with two heads, various hideously deformed foetuses in jars - the liquid preserving them clouded with age and the glass green with molds - and a 'cricket match' being played by 22 guinea pigs. The guinea pigs were stuffed of course, so too the ram, and Joseph was a skeleton. As the rest of the family wandered this rather shabby tourist trap, my dad Frederick stayed in front of Joseph's remains. Crying. My other memories from that holiday are seeing sugar lumps for the first time, sand in my cream cheese rolls on Sandown beach and a minor bird in the café where we used to have our tea.
"A little birdie tells me your name is Tom" said the café owner every day...
"...but I'm John."

Tom Arnold was later portrayed as the brutal, heartless freak show owner who paraded Joseph Carey Merrick to the paying public in the film 'The Elephant Man'. Dad looked into his family tree and found that his great grandfather was no saint, but not the monster seen in black and white. The film seemed to bring a huge cloud over dad however, he refused to let us see it and his behaviour became increasingly strange. One night I crept downstairs to get some milk and found mum asleep on the sofa, upstairs dad paced the spare room muttering to himself. Soon after, mum left us. She took my sister and brother with her, I felt I had to stay with dad - I knew what was wrong.

The second time I saw Joseph was the day of dad's funeral. It was a foul morning with horizontal rain and a gale whipping it into mourner's faces. As we drove back to the house for the wake we passed our childhood playground, the tennis court overgrown with moss and weeds, the mesh fencing rusty and holed. In a corner, huddled in a black overcoat, face covered with a grubby stretch of cloth, stood Joseph. He watched us pass and in the rearview mirror of the hearse I saw him creak open the tennis court door and start following. As the wake dispersed I found myself alone for the first time in the old family home. Now living 200 miles away on the Norfolk Broads,  the old place was already for sale, I went upstairs to double check if anyone had left a coat or umbrella in the designated cloak room. There in the spare bedroom, sitting up in bed, was Joseph.
"You have to look after me now."

So Joseph was now haunting me.
I drove home east and there he was in the guest room, cozily tucked up waiting to be read a story. Every night, an hour before lights-out, I would read to him until a slight raising of his left hand signified 'enough'. He would also turn up during my days, watching in shadows and alley ways of the city as I travelled to and from work. I had a wife and two little girls of my own, soon to leave because my life was taken over by Joseph, the guilt of my ancestors compelling me to care for this ghostly man.

One night Joseph said he didn't require a bedtime reading, he said he was too tired. I noticed the pillows were not ready for his usual upright sleeping position, instead he lay flat, wished me a good night and waved me away. The next day I was free, I'd slept soundly and woke up fresh and carefree for the first time in years.

Sugar Puffs®: The New Cheese

There was a competition on the back of the Sugar Puffs® box, "Describe in no more than 500 words what effect Sugar Puffs® have on your stools." Amazingly, my entry ["None whatsoever"] was chosen as best. My prize was a years membership of The Inspector Morse Appreciation Society and I only had to wait a week before my first payout - number one of twelve monthly meetings in Oxford's spiring dreams, all expenses paid.

I was picked up in a 1968 Lancia Flaminia [the saloon, not the coupé] and driven to the venue in silence. Morse drove 'a Lancia' in the early books, the MkII Jag is a bit of a cliché in classic car circles and not as good a car as the contemporary 'S-Type' with independent rear suspension and John Thaw would have seen plenty of those on 'The Sweeney' and should have known betterANYWAY I got there. We were shown into a huge room with book-shelved walls, everything dark wood and a huge roaring fire at one end. Those book shelves had a tiny rail track, criss-crossing the various subjects and on it a little steam train toot-tootling along, stopping at 'Geography' and [with a minute robot hand] taking a book and passing it forward to our lecturer. The man himself [not his real name] sat in a huuuge wine red Chesterfield holding a giant stick. I guessed the stick was for pointing at the large tv screen perched high above the nooky ingle, I was right about that but wasn't going to find out just how right until later.

On my table [round, holding 7 others, nice & shiny] everyone else had notepads, calculators and thesauri [no red line under that, could be my lucky day] open and ready.
"Did they not tell you about lunch?"
"No." said I, truthfully.
"The menu is cryptic, like the crosswords that the great detective used to solve during his cases. You're given clues to each dish and have to work them out to ensure you eat what you want."
"I'll just pick a number, I'm sure everything on the menu will be nice."
*ascanced face*, *snooty face*, *what have I trodden in? face*, *another ascanced face*, *derision face*, *Kevin Whately having been denied a day off face* and *wanker face* [there's always one]
"But what if you're a vegetarian and you choose the lamb medallions? Or get the nut roast and, well you can guess the rest..."
"I'm not, I'll be fine, when do we eat?"
"After we've solved the menu."
*slightly pissed-off hungry face*

All that taken care of [goats cheese starter, baked halibut in a lobster bisque, banana pancakes, since you ask] the lights dimmed and our honcho rose to introduce today's episode. He pointed his big stick at the screen [told you!] and the titles began. I like watching old episodes of Morse and this was a good'n, it had Frances Barber in it playing a sexy opera singer, Morse fancies her and uses the term 'diva' to describe her [possibly the last time this happened properly, now any female who sings or refuses to use stairs gets labelled the same way]. When our heroes entered a pub a waitress appeared at our table to take our orders. Everyone said either "Morse" [pint of best bitter] or "Lewis" ['Florida orange' or pint of best bitter if off duty]. Luckily they visited three pubs in this episode so the drinks kept on coming, I was asleep just before the end.

Woken by the undimmed lights and slight shuffle of seven people scribbling I did a big stretch and started gathering my things [a coat] together.
"Where are you off to?"
[looking at watch] "Erm, I thought that might be it, I've a long journey home."
"Did you guess who did it?"
"They told you at the end, they always do, I'd feel cheated if they didn't."
"But did you guess who did it?"
"I thought it would be Frances because she's the love interest and they're always wrong'uns, why? Was it her? I fell asleep."
"You are supposed to record the moment you realise who the culprit is and put a case for you being the first to do so."
"Well I'm not on the podium this time, sorry. I noticed a couple of continuity errors though...
*seven startled meerkat faces*
...Morse's collar is tucked into his jumper as he leans towards that witness and almost flat to his shoulder as he withdraws, there's no way he moves with enough force for that to occur naturally...."

The seven gathered round, one gave me a little hug, one gently massaged my shoulders from behind.
"You're with us now, put your coat down and have another pint of best bitter."

H.R., Puff & Stuff

Hi! The name's Stuart, Stuart D'Buckét, close friends get to call me 'S.B.' [few of them can be bothered to go from 'Stu' to 'ét', so use the initials and forget about the 'D' altogether, I'm cool with it, not a problem]. They could call me 'Stu' [only just thought of that and made a note of it, thanks]. I am the mild-mannered janitor at Randolph, Bruins & Hardacre - a TOP EXECUTIVE DESIGN CONSULTANCY or so it says on the front door. My bosses are Harry Randolph, who is always grumpy and smokes the funny stuff aaaall day and Ms. Patricia Bruins who is a lot nicer and prefers crisps. There is no 'Hardacre', they just added the name to make them sound BIGGER. I was going to suggest they change it to 'Randolph, Bruins & Associates' but I was working on a particularly tricky u-bend at the time and clean forgot. Our offices are above 'Knuts' joke shop, opposite The Theatre Royal, The Marquis Of Anglesey public house and my rooms* [*cupboards] look down on the statue of Sir Henry Irving. Around the statue sit three tramps drinking clear liquid from bottles wrapped in brown paper - they appear to be discussing the 'Christmas Tree Formation'.

I want promotion folks. Nothing against janitoring, it's a good honest profession and I'm in the pub by 11:30 - but man cannot live by cleaning the toilets alone. I've asked H.R. [as Mr. Randolph is called by all except me] and Ms. Bruins to extend my range of responsibilities but have found myself on stoney ground. Mr. Randolph did hand me a large bowl of loose staples and 38 staplers once - the task was to get the staples neatly arranged in the guns instead of going for my usual pint & pie in The 'Marquis, and he was very, very happy with the results. Never seen a man laugh so much. Ms. Bruins allows me to get her coffee from the rude man in the coffee shop and once let me carry her bags when she went shopping for shoes. I wanted her to get the red ones, she chose blue. 'Ce life such', as they say in France.

"Ms. Bruins? Erm, promotion, have you thought any more about...?"
"I'll see what I can do S, leave it with me."

She called me 'S' - that's even more familiar than 'S.B.'! To celebrate I went to The 'Marquis for a pie and a pint. Dennis Waterman was in there nursing a foaming one, I asked him what he was playing in, he asked if I could be quiet as he was listening to the Barnet game on his headphones. This struck me as strange - he appeared to have no headphones and I can't remember football matches taking place at 11:35 on a thursday morning before. Then Ms. Bruins walked into the pub. Then she walked towards me. Then she trod in some chewing gum. Then she just strode on regardless like a TOP LADY EXECUTIVE DESIGN CONSULTANT does....

"Wear a suit tomorrow, bring a watch, take a shave, buy me some crisps."

I didn't clean the toilets that friday. I did a bang-up job on thursday so... ah, I'll worry about that later, I was suited and booted. This was a problem as the standard issue safety wear which complies with health & safety law 6 [subsection 9] doesn't go with blue serge. I looked down at my be-socked feet and wondered if I could fulfill today's challenge shodless. I'd be alright if it was just an interview but if I had to walk out on the streets with these socks on?
[Sock note: there's a hole in the left sock, the toe to the right of the pinky is poking through and will not return inwards. The hole is cutting off circulation to the toe rendering it numb, if the upcoming journey is a long one then the toe may fall off like those of bi-polar explorer Sir Ranulph Fiennes. End of sock note.]

"Here S.B., try these babies for size."
Ms. Bruins handed me a pair of Doctor Martens shoes, blood red, my size, with laces and everything, for me.
"In the foyer are two packages, all you have to do is get them to Delaroche within the hour and H.R. will grant you promotion, fail and you will be fired, that's the bet. I'm banking on you S.B. Don't let me down."
She winked, you saw it too right?

She meant Delaroche's 'The Execution Of Lady Jane Grey', my favourite painting, housed in The National Gallery. I remember nearly bumping into her while gawping at it one afternoon, we both said "sorry" and moved on. I was to deliver lunch to her at 12:00 sharp to gain my promotion. The only other De La Roche was a print services on The Strand where all Randolph, Bruins & Hardacre projects were realised. The irony is that you can see Delaroche's 'The Portrait Of Lady Jane Grey' from a little window in the fire-escape door on the second floor of De La Roche Print Services. I *facepalm*ed my anger and looked at my watch. Time was almost up, only a fire escape escape could get me to the gallery on time. I kicked the door open, overbalanced and fell the two flights of black metal stairs to the ground. The heavier, squarer of the two packages softened the fall a little, the flatter, A2-sized one did nothing of the sort, in fact the corner got me somewhere on the noggin half-way down. At least it meant I didn't feel the ground as I hit it.

The tramps found me first. The smell of chicken and falafel was enough to bring them through the pigeons to my side. They didn't bother with the fold-away table in the A2 carrier but had the good grace to wrap the tablecloth around to keep me warm. As I woke I saw a bottle of clear liquid wrapped in brown paper to my right, to my left the most gorgeous pair of mirror-shined red brogue-toed high-heeled shoes I'd ever seen. No bow to make them look too girly, perfect.
"I thought you'd need a drink, dungbrain. You stood me up, you're fired. Get the suit cleaned and you can re-apply for the janitor's job at Randolph, Bruins & Associates tomorrow."
"Randolph, Bruins & ASSOCIATES?"
"Yeah, there's no Randolph, it's there just to make us sound bigger. Now I've got to get back to the office and clean the toilets. In these shoes."
She winked, you saw it too right?

CountryWars

A long time in the future in a galaxy exactly, exactly like this one, this one in fact......

It is a time of great calm. Every year, on a saturday they have an air show at Southend, every other saturday there is a world war. This particular saturday the weather is fine [they learned how to sort that out] and there is not a cloud in the sky [they learned how to sort that out]. Yesterday's 'Off-White' hosepipe warning was roundly giggled at because they learned how to get it to rain at night when all the gardeners tell you it's best. So we have an air show, this year coinciding with one of the 26 world wars in the year [think of an impressive leap in year number from 2012, I don't see why I should do all the work]. These world wars are not the clumsy sprawling affairs you are used to, they begin at the sensible hour of 8:00 and are always over in time for the football results. 'Our' side is referred to as 'EUSA' since Great Britain won the 4698 Eurovision Song Contest with 'Jiggggxy Jiggggxy Gleep-Gleep' by the transient gas 'Geton', and Europe's Queen Peaches XXXHI married President J.Z.Vax IIIIIIII in an uncivil ceremony.

Having ingested their beer through osmosis, the crowd gets restless, fighting is forgotten about because everyone is as soft as shite these days. The new calm is maintained by ancient readings from the 'Hotel California' scriptures, read over the 'Tannoy' [stupid name I know, but this is the future, so cut me some slack] by the 'Voice Of America'. She's hot, that's all you need to know.

"Air show? That'll be all zappy light-speed ninjaships right?"

No, please feel free to butt in with further questions but you're so wide of the mark that the mark has given up on you ever turning up and pissed-off home. No, [as I was about to say] the space program was called off somewhere back in the deep, deep distant recessions of time due to lack of funds, lack of interest and lack of aliens. See, man eventually came to the conclusion that he was an idiot, incapable of asking directions from a directions-to-be-asked-of Droid so thought "hey, if these aliens are so clever let them find us and hopefully they'll call ahead so we can get some vapourBeer® in and ultranibbles. They never called. They never called because there aren't any out there [sorry to get all Maulder on you, or is it Scully? No that was that scouser thing by Alan Bleasdale ... sorry] we are actually in a little crystal ball in God's little fortune-telling tent. The League Of Gentlemen's Papa Lazarou, is the closest you'll get to Jesus, so get the DVD. So no spacey ships, just old ones carried around on strings suspended from even older elastic-band-powered airships. No more petrol. None. All gone.

Lovely day. Really can't stress enough how pleasant it is. The only tension in the air is caused by the world war happening during what is, as I may have mentioned, a smashing air show. The highlight of these things is always the big victory fly-past with Lancasters, B-52's, Jonathan Richman, Spitfires, Red Arrow and T.I.E. all in formation available on-line and in leaflet form. [press the red button] But you can't have a victory fly-past without victory...

Silence, it's 4:45, all football matches will have been hosed away ready for tomorrows, the crowds mate, reproduce and die all in the space of a turnstile and the cycle begins once more. Meanwhile in Southend, the 'Tannoy' crackles...
"Is this thing on?...Ah,....this is The Voice Of America!! Hi Patriots everywhere!!... *cheer*
"..Hope you're having a swell time in your country here ! *cheer*
"..Well, here's todays world war result......... *hush*
"..WE WIN!!! *larger cheer*
"..No casualties on either side, no lateral damage, water prices to remain fixed, unemployment figures to be lowered, imbibe responsibly and BUY WAR GARY U.S.BONDS!!"

Although there is no fuel, the crowd still hear the rumble of distant engines as the majestic fly-past flies near towards the point where it will pass rendering it a 'past' once it is indeed passed that point. The sound is generated by the mile-high surround speakers on The Isle Of Grain. You should see the size of those elastic bands, little does man know that they are powerful enough to send him into orbit around the bearded lady beyond the coconut shy.