Great Expectorations

The old shamrock vs grass battle..

2005-12-04T21:05:00.000Z

So the Gardaí (the "police cops" of Ireland) have seized millions of euro worth of hash this last week.

I'm talking like a statue of liberty could be carved out of what they hauled in two separate operations.

The statistic on the news was that there's enough hash there to provide a joint for every person in the country.

And they're just sitting on it.

I mean, sure, rolling 4 million joints would be a tough job, particularly in a poorly ventilated sweatshop such as I'm envisaging, but it would provide employment for immigrants, gypsies and stoners alike, bringing people that are out of it, into it. Together. Sharing the love. And afterwards, they all get one hell of a day off.

I mean, logistically, it would be tough. Ecumenically... I don't even like to think.

But I reckon it could all be sorted by Paddy's day. Easy.

You'd send an envelope to every household, with joints for everybody. Even little ones for the kids, in cool skins.

Man, I'm telling ya, seriously, and I'm not joking now, it would be fucking MEGA.

A simple mission

2005-07-03T04:03:00.000+01:00

I want you, each of you free-thinking, sensible people who read this, to go out tomorrow, find one idiot (just go outside and through a stone) , and take his money.

Idiots with money are dangerous.

If idiots didn't have money, then people couldn't sell crap. It's actually that simple. For future reference, I'll talk about that as the "money/crap equation" and you'll know what I mean. Thanks.

So let's close the college doors for a while, take away all the qualifications a person can get and let those who still crave validation starve for it. You don't need it. Nobody is born stupid. I'm convinced it's reversable.

The whole thing more or less has to come down because we've got our world arse-over-head in a big way. It doesn't work. Docile, boring-ass masses distracted by pretty shiny things and stick-and-carrot wages. You work, you get money, you keep working, you keep getting money, but you don't get rich ("rich" is the carrot) - if you're not happy, you quit and you get the stick - no money at all. And the prospect of being rich just vanished too. So you keep going, cause you need a little money, then you see you can just keep earning the stuff like nobody's business. But THEN you need an iPod and a big TV. A car. A bigger house. Better clothes. Carpets. Wallpaper. Drapes.

It all adds up and basically you're broke again. But at least you feel fancy with your car and your TV and your drapes and your iPod. You spend all your money showing off how rich you are - and all that shit you bought won't sell second-hand for jack nothing. Except maybe the house. Which might have to go. Because your ass is probably getting fired. That hasn't got anything to do with being an idiot. It's just poetic justice.

But to the problem in hand, vis a vis idiots. People are idiots frustratingly selectively. A guy who can keep track of 200 players in a football league, and factor the permutations into an educated guess at a result but doesn't even vote is an idiot in one area, but not another. Not voting is a way of making the state irrelevant, and noble as such, but not voting because you don't care is stupid.

It doesn't have to be how it is. It actually doesn't. If ever there's been cause for a revolution, it's the Starbucks/MTV world. Global Warming is practically insignificant, apparently. Computer simulations are a waste of time because they assume we know what's happening with our planet in extreme detail. We can barely get the weather right for Tuesday.

In the past, farmers took their tools in their hands and fought their opressors when it went too far (a romantic image and symbol, but they didn't fight with AK-47s, did they?). Actually, it had been too far for quite a while before anybody really knew. But they didn't have anything to do but drudge. We still drudge, but then we go watch Pimp My Ride or Mythbusters (cool show by the way) and it goes away for a while. So we're kept safe and docile in the knowledge that the big things don't matter, as long as our "rides" are "fly".

MTV can fuck away off for itself.

But we don't have tools these days, do we?

Do you believe me?

We have tools. Better than tools. We have weapons. Shake your head around a bit.

But not too much. That's your brain you're sloshing around in there like a jackass.

It's not a fucking donkey. And it shouldn't be treated like one.

Actually, I don't even think DONKEY'S should be treated like that.

The whole carrot thing is pretty mean when you think about it.

Not just between the lines...

2005-06-23T03:57:00.000+01:00

But behind them as well.

Here are some headlines from today's google news aggregate. I moved some words about because they were in a mess, here's what I think they were trying to say (I added nothing, left out some double words and that's about it):

Fully Loaded Communist Party Against All Odds in heavy fighting NBA Finals - so that's where they went.

Ford Fighting Kills 4064 Taliban Rebels - so that's where they went.

Boy Scout Spy To Be Used In Space - finally NASA pull the finger out. So to speak.

Scientists Find New Ways For fighting bleak outlook on Ku Klux Klan - they just need a hug, really.

Afghans say Fighting Kills - well yes, they would say that. America says- what fighting? They only thing that kills us is slipping on oil.

US Spy Says Solar Power Hits Social Security in Kansas Confederations - poor Kansas. Will Dorothy ever come home?

Asia: Cup Rebels - take that saucer! And spoon! And dish! And plate!

Guantanamo Bay: 64 heavy Taliban fall in - so that's where they went.

US Military shares George Hawi, Phan Van Khai, Gavin Henson, Jacob Zuma - so that's where they went.

Man it's hard to read the news these days. It's all gobbledegoogle to me.

A New Poem About Caring

2005-06-20T04:43:00.000+01:00

My mobile phone,
is the most under-appreciated,
forlorn and lost looking thing
in the world.

Apart from homeless kids. Obviously.

----

It's been a funny week for Wilt. I'm lucky my creative juices are still up to the above standard.

Sounds like crap to me!

2005-06-13T04:22:00.000+01:00

My girlfriend is getting a new alarm clock. It can wake you up with the sound of birds or a forest or a fucking sperm whale for all I know. What the fuck. I might have to stop staying over. Or set my alarm (which BEEPS, by the way (it's a manly alarm)) a minute before hers so I can throw that shit out the window.

This throws light on a bigger problem.

What happened to the way shit sounds? Three instances of people fucking with the classics:

Mobile phone ringtones. Jesus. Ring, ring. That's how a phone rings. If I want to hear 50 Cent's (that should be on his records as the price, and even then it should be covered by a 70% discount sticker) latest pile of crap single, I'll turn on my radio. Or my TV. But I don't want to get a bus and hear that shit in the seat behind me. Even if it's a good song. It's not right. The reason a phone rings like it does is so when you hear it you know what's going on. Ring, ring. Oh, better get that. These days when a phone rings in public... well with each stupid ringtone I hear, the world gets closer to a mobile phone-related throttling spree. I swear to god. And that crazy frog... I found a game where you get to shoot him accross the land. It was good.

Lifts. Elavators, if your feel fancy. The one in my sister's building talks. Telling you what floor it's on. Except it's wrong the whole time. "But it's to help blind people." Man. Braille's never wrong. And besides. Lifts should bing. Doors open. Binnnggg!. Then maybe tell you what floor you're on. Maybe. It could give advice I guess. "Looking sharp" would be pretty cool. But they'd never do that. 'cause they're jerks.

The freaking alarm clock. I don't want to wake up to jungle sounds and think, omg! wtf! Where m I? or some stupid crap. At least not unless I'm good and hammered. Man. I should hear BLART! BLART! BLART! and wake the fuck up.

There's a Lesson here.

Lesson of Justice #4:

Don't fuck with how shit sounds, ya dumbasses! Never, ever allow yourself to get involved in this kind of nonsense. Even if your family is starving and riven with disease, don't make an annoying ringtone or a novelty alarm clock. If there is a god, he hates that shit.

Asshole Manual

2005-06-04T02:40:00.000+01:00

Here’s the plan:

A manual. For assholes. That is, a how-to guide. A Being-an-assohle-for-dummies.

Things to include: how to spell like an asshole (inc DO NOT PROOF READ), how to speak like an asshole (inc DISREGARD OTHER PEOPLE), how to swim, drive, cycle, walk, dress, act and play sports like an asshole.

Some people don’t know how to be proper assholes. I’ve met many enthusiastic amateurs, but few who really had the whole (excuse the pun) package. This book will be for them. The wannabes.

Do you want to be an asshole?

See more progress on: Write an asshole manual

Lucas, you're off the team

2005-05-26T22:20:00.000+01:00

Another movie begets another Lesson of Justice.

Star Wars Ep III comes with the expected acreage of fight scenes, lightsabre juggling and robot bashing. In one such fight, Hayden "acting's not his thing bless him" Christensen (or however you spell that crappy name- back in the Golden Age of Hollywood if you had a crappy name you had the decency to CHANGE it) and Ewen "Tonker" McGregor stop for a chat in a fiery volcano world. Even Shakespeare knew that in a fight the only appropriate dialogue is along the lines of "Have at you, you lowly swineherd!"

"From my point of view, you are evil" - wussiest repartee ever! He deserves all the crap that happens to him.

Listen up Lucas:

Lesson of Justice #3: When fighting, real men don't stop to debate the nature of evil. Especially if they're holding lightsabres. On a volcanic hell-world. In a fucking Starwars movie. Jesus. I feel like the frikkin maid.

"Elusive" my left one.

2005-05-14T14:25:00.000+01:00

Lesson #2 is another point of language.

Use the right words.

This goes out to my man Ridley Scott, director of Kingdom of Heaven.

"Peace in Jerusalem remains elusive" is the closing caption of the movie. Sorry if I spoiled the ending, but this wasn't going to be Happily Ever After anyway, was it?

Peace in Jerusalem does not remain elusive. You know what's elusive? That thing you forget to do right after you walk into a room that you just had a really good thing to do in but have forgetton. That thought is elusive.

To the case at hand - here is how I would have phrased it:

Peace in Jerusalem remains violent.

You showed a priest being killed in the first fifteen minutes of your movie. The time for tact has been and gone.

Lesson of Justice #2: Tell it like it is.

Running low on !s captain...

2005-05-01T05:03:00.000+01:00

"wow sasha! did i ever tell you that whenever i go to read your poems, i have to turn off my music and like concentrate on your writing...your work just has that affect on me"

Aw. That's adorable.

I'm going to fill this blog, not just with the novel (to be resumed in a few weeks, June, I swear), but with a flaming assault silliness like the above. How can somebody say the above sincerely and not be a living joke? Must have used up too much energy spelling concentrate correctly... which is still impressive, given the fact that this is one of the STUPIDEST REASONS EVER TO SAY "WOW!".

Lesson of Justice #1:

Live as though the number of exclamations in the world is finite - do not waste them on stupid. Since I read the above, "stupid" has become a noun.

Magic beans

2005-03-27T03:24:00.000+01:00

How I loathe you,
magic beans.
I swapped a cow for you.
She was my friend.
My bestest friend.
You just sat
in the can
and settled.
I couldn't even
have sex with you.
Man, do I ever miss
that cow.
I should not have
gotten high before
going to market.
No one likes me anymore.
She talked to the Daily Star
and sold a video to You've Been Framed.
That's not the kind of shit
you can just live down.
I think
I will have to move.
All because of those
magic beans.
How I loathe them.

Every day

2004-09-09T16:42:00.000+01:00

Every day you "discover" something even more blindingly obvious than the day before and wave it above your head saying "Look what I have found!" You accept the applause and bow graciously and say "Oh, it was nothing!" You drag these things around with you all day and all night because the applause was shallow, the praise was fleeting and nobody wants to buy the shit you sell anymore. I hope that one day you drown in your discoveries and know you should have seen it all along. I will wash the bitter citrus aftertaste from my mouth and forget you instantly, knowing only that my victory means nothing and there is nobody left to hate except myself. You see what you have done to me. Will you smile from Heaven as I search for poisons in a cold and empty world? Knowing everything and having no-one to tell. Spitting venom at Satan, when there's just the two of us in hell.

Chapter Four

2004-08-26T19:47:00.000+01:00

Chapter Four - What the hell?

"I beg your pardon?" Giles was clearly distressed.

"Gone," Jeff said, "travelling."

"The town's done what?"

"Watch," said Jeff, "drive and keep an eye to the distance meter . . ."

He drove, and watched the meter.

"Oh my tits that's weird. It just . . . jumped!"

"The space is still there. But the time is gone."

"My word. Didn't you have any idea that this could happen?"

"Obviously there's more to this Grennitch business than meets the eye."

Giles turned of the engine.

"So what exactly happens when we drive past where Grennitch should be?"

"I'm not sure. It's as if we travelled straight through it. I mean, the car recorded the distance. But we didn't see anything. Nor did we collide with anything. What I believe is that the town is gone. It's somewhere else, and wherever it is, it doesn't exist because it has no space to exist in. But it has all the time in the world. So when we cross that area - it would probably look like a big black space, if we could see it. Which we can't. And we just continue across it as if we'd have kept going, but it's just recycling one instant, or jiffy, again and again - there's no time moving. Which is why we don't notice ourselves driving across. You'll see that you still have the same fuel levels, and the tires won't be worn out, but the meter still records the rotations even though they took place on nothingness. Zero resistance. It's very weird. I'm not certain that it should be possible. This is poorly researched."

"Soooo... What now? For now I believe you. Stupid as that may be."

"They could be anywhere. Here's the tricky part; they no longer occupy any space whatsoever - it's all still here. So what's moving through time is the essence of Grennitch, everything that gives the space substance, but without the space I don't know what good they can do."

"What are you saying? Where is Grennitch?"

"Oh," said Jeff, turning back to face the windscreen of the disastrous Renault-ghost-car-Porsche-bucket, "it's right there."

Indeed it was, like it had been plonked there for generations. Which of course it had, but a minute ago an observer would have taken some convincing.

"Tell you what, let's not go in there right now," suggested a nervous Giles. "Agreed. I knew we shouldn't have come straight here, why did you have to be so eager to find country road? If we'd had some lunch and gotten my bags first like you said then we never would have been upset by what just happened. But no, you had to go proving that the car really was a Porsche 911 and not a-"

"- careful!" Giles butted in, "Don't let's upset the Porsche, which is what she is and always was and always will be? Alright? Good." Giles patted the dashboard reassuringly, "There there girl, don't you worry about mean old Jeff, he's just grumpy because he's a small man with large head. They're all the same."

"Pillock," quoth Jeff absently.

"Quiet you toad. Let's get your bags and have something to eat while we think this out."

"Hurry up then, you inflated nipple of a man."

Giles pulled a u-turn and headed back for city country.

They retrieved Jeff's bags without incident and ordered some pizza on the way home. Getting pizza delivered in London has been and will always be a surreal experience. It's just something that shouldn't happen. It's an American thing. I don't think it belongs in other countries. However, it is something that only people FROM other countries can do well. You'll notice in movies that pizzas always arrive via a stern and competent generic Latin-American actor or a stupid, late, ridiculous American schoolboy. This is not a racist statement on the part of Hollywood (like how every black actor has to say "Hell no" twenty times a film) but Darwinian genetics. Americans are pizza-receivers. Delivering pizza is for them against nature. Just like a cat barking. They can (I am sure of this) - but they never would.

Almost immediately they entered the apartment the buzzer sounded and a thick foreign accent proclaimed "I have pizza for 2b."

"You go," said Giles. And Jeff went.

Shortly afterwards Jeff returned.

"He wants money."

Giles gave Jeff some money and the appropriate transaction was concluded. One large, slightly damp pizza found itself entering, by degrees in around the conversation, the digestive systems of the two men. And the circle of life continued.

"Tho," said Jeff through a mouthful of Double Pepperoni, "Wath eh than thow?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What's the plan now?" clarified Jeff, downing some toxic bubbly beverage or other.

"Well, the way I see it, we need to understand what really happened to Grennitch. Your theory is nice and all . . . but to be honest, it's a bit shit. I think we should call in an expert."

"Giles, mon amigo, I am the only expert. I built the technology they're using. Nobody else would really get it, because they all use 'logic' to solve problems. My science is based on a different view of the universe. Like it or not, things aren't what they seem. The universe has rules . . . but they aren't what we think they are. After matter and energy being different forms of the same basic 'stuff' became clear scientists began to worry and decided they could deal with it in the same terms they'd been using all along. Nobody wanted to get fired, you see."

"You're telling me nobody understands the universe but you and Finbar?"

Jeff sighed. "Must we call him Finbar?"

"We must."

"Fine. But I want my objection logged. Anyway. Yes, only I really know how it all works. Well . . . Okay, there is one other person. Dr Martindale. He wrote a book about it. His terms were different to mine, but I think he was thinking along the same lines. But unfortunately, he is dead."

"What? How?"

"Bubonic plague. It was an old book."

"Well why even bring it up?"

"To prove that I know what I'm talking about, Giles you old thing, and not just waffling on. I am the only one who can help you with the technical side of this. But what happened to Finbar? Where is he right now? You're the detective."

"You've made your point. Okay."

Giles finished his pizza.

"I'm going out. There are one or two people I need to contact. This mystery can be solved. When you have eliminated the improbable, whatever is left, however impossible, must be the solution. Or something. Either way, don't make a mess while I'm gone. And for Heaven's sake don't build anything."

And so Giles left the apartment. Walking the London streets he briefly considered the feasability of wearing a deerstalker hat but decided against it, deducing from his past experience and different name that he was not, in fact, Sherlock Holmes. So he just walked in the light drizzle that had appeared, and made his way to a pub, which an old, battered sign proclaimed to be: T e Ea l o rt A s. The Earlscourt Arms. An illustrius title for a broken-down old boozer.

The dinge in the bar was palpable. It must have been specially installed by professional dinge-installers, to cater for a competitive niche market. That niche best described by words like "shady" and "dodgy" and "geezer" and "it smells bloody horrible in here". Giles walked up to the bar itself and order a pint of Magners.

"Pansy," said the barman (who looked exactly like the fat bloke with a dirty towel you are imagining at this very moment. He could look no other way).

"Just give me the drink," said Giles, "I didn't come here to get ridiculed."

"Really? 'cause you look like that's exactly what you came for. Word of advice," the barman leaned closer, over the stained wooden counter, "get a bloody man's drink."

"Fine. Give me . . . I don't care, an ale or whatever." Giles was rattled by the intensity of the barman's stare.

"Here. Two pound fifty."

"Right. Thanks."

"No problem. You lookin' for Jimmy?" He indicated a suspiciously nondescript door towards the rear of the establishment with a nod of his head.

"I might be," siad Giles, calmly.

"I can't see a pansy like you coming in here and ordering a little girl's drink unless someone'd told him this is where 'e could find Jimmy." Another exaggerated nod from the barman towards the door.

"So where is Jimmy? Just in case I want to talk with him?"

"I'm sorry, mister, that's not the right question to ask in a place like this. You could get into trouble, asking a question like that. No sir, you wouldn't want to go around doing things like that."

"So why were you nodding at that door?"

"I was doing no such thing. I have a crick in my neck is all. You want Jimmy. That's fair enough. But unless Jimmy wants you, there's no good you lookin'. So why would," he dropped to a raspy whisper, "a master-criminal and theif like," back up to a normal tone, "Jimmy want to speak to the likes of you?"

"That depends. Who's asking?" Giles was tired of this nonsense and wanted to be done with the stupid barman.

"Jimmy. Now you might just be in a lot of trouble, sunshine, so why don't you sit down and tell me all about it?"

Giles looked doubtful and expressed this look vocally.

"How do I know you're really Jimmy?"

Jimmy signed and took a pocket-watch from, of all places, his pocket.

"Recognise this?" he said, holding up Giles's watch.

"Okay. Can I have it back, please, Jimmy?"

"When you tell me what's going on. Why've you come looking for me?"

"I think you already know. It's the same reason you stole my watch just now. It's a matter of time. You see, I have this friend, and he's in a bit of a predicament..."

So it was that Giles told Jimmy (master criminal, legendary thief and one motherfucker of a barman) the story of how Jeff had come to his place late at night and asked him to be detective. Jimmy listened patiently until the end of the tale.

"This Jeff bloke sounds like a right twat. How'd 'e build a time machine then?"

"Who knows? Genius often snuggles up to plankdom, I find. Trust me, this guy knows his time. But my question for you is: does any of this ring a bell? You must hear about O'Malley from time to time? Surely in a place like this a helpful barman can pick up all kinds of things."

"Well that's true enough," said Jimmy, casually examining a diamond engagement ring, "I picked this up just this afternoon."

"Don't change the subject. I need O'Malley. Imagine what he could do with a time machine."

Unfortunately for Giles, Jimmy could well imagine what could be done with a time machine. His mouth almost watered at the thought.

"O'Malley? Never 'eard of 'im," said Jimmy. The lying bastard.

"Really? That's strange. I heard he drinks here."

"You heard wrong. You should get them ears checked. Going around hearing things," said Jimmy, "could get a man into all sorts of trouble."

"So you won't help me? What? You're supposed to help me! You're the guy in the pub! How can you not help me?" Giles was confused. This wasn't going as per his Conan Doyle collection. "Can you at least sell me a pipe?"

"We're not all good guys. What's in it for me? I'm the best theif in the country. There's nothing in it that I can't steal if I want to. You, my friend, had best be off."

"Ah, fuck it. Last time I waste my time in this dump."

"Oh, I wouldn't call it a waste. I hear they're looking for staff in the Grennitch Inn. Maybe I'll run into you again, Giles mate."

"You're just going to... my God, you can't actually think you can STEAL the time machine? What's wrong with you? Apart from the klepto thing, which let me tell you isn't a good start and the ladies hate it, what's actually the problem in your head? You are the BARMAN for fuck's sake. You're not suppposed to do this. It's un-Christian!"

"Where do you think you are, mate?"

"The Earlscourt Arms, of course. Where the friendly staff will always help you out. Especially budding solo private detectives. It's the law. I'm nearly sure." By this time Giles had become quite agitated at the unexpected turn of events. He hadn't been a detective for long and already things were going to shit.

"Oh. That place. Sorry pal, this is the Earlscourt Alms. You've been operating under a misapprehension. Round here we steal your ideas and milk them for our own good. Gosh. Didn't you know? Blimey. What a fuckwit."

"What? Really?" Giles looked at a beermat. There is was. Alms.

"Ah, FUCK."

On falling in love

2004-08-14T19:40:00.000+01:00

Cobbles were pushing up at the soles of my feet with that patient upward drift they seem to acquire if you walk on them for long enough. And believe it, I had walked for long enough. I was thinking about her again, staring at the stones and seeing just enough to avoid the occasional Big Mac half-eaten and discarded, scorned even by pigeons this early in the evening. The desperate ones would come back later. God, we were so wrapped up in each other back then. So . . . encapsulated by it all. It swept us away in a tide so strong we forgot the feel of dry land on our feet. I remember thinking that we had a chance, a real chance, to fall properly in love. That's when it hit me that "fall" was altogether a far too accidental term. Falling properly in love, as I saw it, meant throwing yourself into it, launching blindly and hoping for the best. Bungee jumping hand in hand, if you will, in the confidence that something will hold you up.

Even if you can't see it.

Even if, sometimes, it isn't there.

"Nige?" she said, slapping me in the face with the cold, wet towel of reality.

"What? Oh, sorry Niamh. I was . . . miles away."

"It's okay, honey. What were you thinking about? You looked . . . deep."

"Actually, I was thinking about the first time I fell in love. Sorry, maybe I shouldn't say this . . ."

"No, go on. Tell me about her."

"What's to say? I was sixteen and she was a pretty girl who liked me. That's what passes for love when you're sixteen, isn't it? Funny how things change." I wrapped my arm around her, trying to take some of the bite out of the wind. "Come on, let's get something to eat. Where do you like?"

And just like that I was back in the real world, Nigel Nobody walking his girlfriend Niamh through town on the way to a pizza place. The food was so hot it burned, but we ate hungrily. Like it was our last meal for a week. I kissed her goodnight when we got to her apartment, and she hugged me so tight it seemed impossible that we could ever separate. That we could ever wanted to. God, I loved her that night. Eventually we gently relaxed the hold we had on each other and she turned around to open her door.

"I had fun tonight, Nige. Give me a call during the week, okay?"

"Absolutely. Talk to you soon."

So things were on the mend. It had been a few weird weeks, what with one thing and another. But finally it looked like we were falling properly in love.

I smiled on the walk home, wishing I could afford a gift for her. Something to knock her off her feet. I wanted her never to forget the way things were tonight. My pockets housed lint and little else. There were no presents for Niamh that week. Nor the week after.

I felt bad about it, although after we broke up a month or two later I looked at it as money saved. Funny how things change.

Yubyub

2004-08-06T22:33:00.000+01:00

Wilt sits at his writing desk, scribing dutifully.

An attractive female aide approaches.

AIDE: Excuse me, Mr. Flowers, I don't mean to interrupt but-

WILT: - But you did so anyway, so come on then, out with whatever it is.

AIDE: Sir, there's a man here who says he's your father.

WILT: My father? My father? Don't you know the rule?

AIDE: Well, yes, I know the rule Mr. Flowers, but under the circumstances, I . . . didn't feel it was appropriate to make the decision myself, sir.

WILT: What circumstances would these be?

AIDE: I'd better let him tell you himself sir, it is rather a private matter.

WILT: Okay. Let him in. But go grease up the catapult anyway.

AIDE: Yes sir.

EXIT AIDE

ENTER WILT SNR

WILT: Hello father, what is it you want?

WILT SNR: Son, I have something to tell you. Your mother and I, well we've put of telling you but I think it's the time, your mother and I . . . we never married.

WILT: Oh. My word. Well that is a shock.

WILT SNR: I'm sorry son. But I got a letter last week from your solicitor suing your mother and myself for £3,000,000 for sub-standard childhood presents. That money went on your schools son. Remember how you kept getting expelled for doing harm to the other students? How by the end they wouldn't let you near crayons, never mind anything that was actually sharp. Poor Neville hasn't walked since, you know. Anyway son, we did carry you through those years and we were there when you left prison and decided to be a writer and I thought really, what with the lawsuit and everything, the time was right to tell you: you are a bastard, Wilt. A bonafide bastard.

WILT: SHARON!

SHARON(OFF-STAGE): Yes?

WILT: HAVE YOU DONE WHAT I ASKED?

SHARON: Just finished sir.

WILT: Father, you should leave now.

WILT SNR: Bastard. Bastard, bastard, bastard. How could you?

WILT: SEND IN THE CHAPS!

WILT SNR: What? What are you going to do??

WILT: Good-bye, Father. I hope you have life insurance, I'd hate for mother to have to sell the house.

TWO HEAVIES ENTER

To Be Continued . . .

Like everything else around here.

Nono

2004-07-19T12:52:00.000+01:00

Nono. Nono -
Nono. Nono
Nono THERE'S NO LIMIT

Oh I been futile
I been useless
I been servile
to the countess
but nobody gives a crap about me cause I'm in-vis-i-ble.

OH I can't be vissed,
I can't be vissed,
I'm like cola that can't be fizzed
Oh nobody gives a crap aout meeeee

Cause I'm invisible.

Howdy folks.

Sorry for the lack of novel.

Work is continuing.

Scientific kinks need to be levelled.

It's all about the jazz.

Boop-be-doop-do.

Oh mercy

2004-07-05T20:01:00.000+01:00

Oh lord of lords of Spain and Satire -
Wouldn't you like it if I lit a bonfire?
It'd be big and it'd be burning,
and it'd be curing my unusual yearning -

The yearning, that is, for things to be burning -
Fronds to be fronded and ferns to be ferning.
Oh lord of lords of Spain and Satire -
Wouldn't you like it if I lit bonfire?

Yes sir, no sir, three bags full!
Isn't it, wasn't it? Small boys in the park!
Jumpers for goalposts, postmet for sticklebricks!
Brickles for stickling over in Hull!

Shabadoo, Dhabadoo, Joey-joe-joe!
Joe of the Joey-joe, Joey don't go!
There's fires to lay and wood to be chopped,
Head to be headed-off at the pass near the old abondaned Bank of Ulster and there's also some shops to be shopped and popcorn to be popped!

Mariner, layabout, lazy sunshine,
swim like a fish in water sublime.
I'll hook thee and look thee square in the eye -
And make thee for supper into a pie!

Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows
everything is simply super-duper
when I'm in looting stupor and
I'm robbing things left and right and EVERYWHERE
And I don't CARE if it's not FAIR

because I'M ... NOT .... WWEEEARR

ing any underWEAR!

The above was discovered next to the comatose form of Wilt and half-a-dozen bottles of Jack Daniels. The critics are calling it his best work to date and a surpising-to-some Grammy award for Best Actor awaits the day he returns from the grassy fields of comadom.

Shine on, Wilt N Flowers . . . Shine on. In whatever crazy world you inhabit today, maybe tomorrow and maybe for ever more . . . Shine on, you lazy diamond.

I say

2004-07-01T21:53:00.000+01:00

You know what I mean.

You don't?

Ha - it's true.

You don't.

Little blissful wishing-me-well wonder,
I wonder would you wish me well without
wondering if I'd do the same for you someday.

Ha - it's true.

You haven't got a clue,
and I've got even less.
I don't know what to do,
to clean this up for you,
and avoid describing the mess.

Isn't it funny?

- and i'll wager it is -

To be here and not know where
here is . . .

when it's quite clearly Paris
we are in.

I ponder preoccupied among and between various poems and their meanings today, mixing and mashing them together to no great avail except to fuse them with my own thoughts an so make them indistinguishable from my true Wiltian wonderfulness. I move from place to place unconcerned at my lack of concern.

This concerns me. To a degree. I write in sounds and not words, melodies but not lyrics. Melodies made BY lyrics but not of them. You read and you hear but you don't try to understand. Do you understand?

Even if you do, you shouldn't.

Oh I amuse myself mighty prettily with little confusions and non-sense-makers. This world here Wilt's is a place where the untrue can be true, the true can be more than true and the positive can be negative. Blurry, blurry, blurry. This is life, isn't it? Blurry. Stupid and unsolvable. But ultimately wantable.

How utterly infuriating
for our budding hero
who has come so far alone.

Ha - and you haven't a clue.
Have you?

Hehehe. If only there were clues as to what clues to look for if there was something for clues to amount to. Which it seems there isn't, these clues are anomolous and contradictary.

And you don't even know what they are,
do you? Little blissful kitten unwritten.

Hey, have you ever

2004-06-30T19:52:00.000+01:00

Laughed out loud in an empty house because you've realised that something you thought was a secret is actually more likely as plain as day to everybody who knows you?

'cause guess what I just did!

It's terribly funny.

http://www.plicity.org - if you haven't seen it, make it your business to. Got nothing to do with my laughter.

Chapter Three

2004-06-28T22:05:00.000+01:00

Chapter Three - Expositions

Author's note - I researched the small English town my heroes are about to enter extensively and arrived at the conclusion that it was too boring for the needs of my story. I thought about this for awhile and just like Thomas Hardy and his Wessex I have created a place loosely based on some real details but broadly fictional and much cooler than the real thing. I have taken similar liberties with the naming of said town. Please, no imbecile correct the spelling of said town lest I have to kill you with your own enormous stupidity hurled at a great speed from a catapult of some kind.

"Rise and shine Jeff!"

Giles was now fully dressed. He stripped the blanket from the near-comatose form of Geoffrey Finbar Limpweedle and looked down with distaste. By the cold light of an October afternoon in South of England the comically oversized head lost its novelty and began recalling to Giles certain unpleasant memories which we shall expand up on in due course. Giles himself was in the region of six feet tall and of a slim build which didn't preclude athleticism but didn't exactly advertise it either. He wore a white shirt and grey trousers, set off undramatically by jet black shoes. His shirt was tucked in, showing a modest, refined belt with a thin brass buckle. His hair was cut in a manner reminiscent of Paul Weller in the Wild Wood video. If this is unfamiliar to you then permit me to elaborate. His hair was thin, just long enough to have a little bit of flop to it. If Giles were spun around at high velocity for some reason it would give about five inches of vaugely horizontal blur either side of his wildly spinning head. His hair was a light brown colour often referred to as "mousey". It was the colour of a light-brown mouse, that much was true. But the term didn't hold true for the countless other varieties of mouse and their repespective complexions. It was the kind of clumsy, inefficient language that Giles himself was all but campainging on the streets against. So he resisted mousey at all costs and made treat with light brown. He wore small oval glasses with thin black frames.

"What d'you call doing that to a person? I know what I call it, bloody inconsiderate, that's what." Jeff sat up.

"We'll have to get you some clothes before anything else. Didn't you bring a bag?"

"Of course I did, it's in storage at the airport. I just like the suit. What? You don't like the suit? It's a fine suit!" said the idignant Jeff.

"Indeed. We'll pick that up then, get you changed and have a think about where to go from here."

"Oh, all right. Any chance of some breakfast?"

"You missed it. Come on, we'll pick up lunch on the way back. Do you have any money?"

"Not really, no, not actually money." He had the decency to look sheepish. "But when I get me back I'm sure we can earn plenty as entertainer-twins."

"You know, you and Finbar have had different experiences since you split. You're no longer the same person. Do you understand? You, Goeffrey, stayed dancing in American while Finbar was manhandled across the Atlantic against his will and forced to build a time machine here in London for reasons unknown," said Giles, "- don't you think he might harbour some resentment?"

"Oh I never would. I knew. I've been thinking about the London thing. What's in London? Why here? And I got to thinking, what's the link between London and Time? And then it hit me. I almost woke you up, but you looked so peaceful..."

"What hit you Jeff? What are you talking about?"

"London . . . Time . . ." he said deliberately, "don't you see? What's the connection? It's so obvious I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner. There's only one place they could possibly be in the whole of England!" Jeff lept up, back straight, cane in hand and placed his hat on his head. Aside from looking a little crumpled he seemed full of vim and vinegar, or whatever means energetic in this bizarre vernacular.

"Tell me, Jeff, tell me for Christ's sake!"

A smug expression crossed Jeff's abnormal head and head looked up, directly into Giles's stern brown eyes. He spoke a single, glaringly-obvious word and watched understanding bloom in Giles's features.

"Grennitch."

"Of course! It's almost too obvious . . . The start of all time. Time everywhere is measured according to the time in Grennitch."

"Exactly. And here's what I didn't understand, but evidently one of O' Malley's goons figured it out. It's almost something a child would think of. If time stops in Grennitch-"

"-It stops everywhere. Jeff, this is amazing!"

"But also very troubling Giles. Let's get my luggage and some luncheon to be going on with, and I'll fill you in on a fuller stomach."

"Very good. Let us away."

The pair made their way to the basement carpark, Giles in a wonderfully "detective" trench coat and Jeff in the wrinkled, nevertheless impressive, tuxedo. Giles stopped at a Renault 5 from 1984. I don't know whether the reader will be familiar with the Renault 5 in general or the 1984 model specifically, but this was a good example of what a car should not be in 2004. It was built from what appeared to be pure, uncut Ugly. Ugly wheels supported an ugly chasis painted an ugly shade of week-old-shit-green which was fighting a hopeless battle against some ferrociously ugly old corrosion. It was as if (and given current plot developments this may not be impossible) somebody had taken a modern car (say a Ford Fiesta) with all the curves and things therein entailed and applied angles to anything that was smooth. Ugly mirrors clashed unnattractively with uglier door-handles.

The interior was month-old-shit-beige sticky plastic. The kind that on hot days welds itself to your skin and you must peel yourself out of the car. Assuming, of course, you can get it to run. The skill required to start the engine of a Renault 5 is an idiosyncratic art and only consistantly available to a select number of highly-adept monk-like creatures who live under a small go-kart track in France and do nothing but start Renault 5s and cackle menacingly at little kid racers. Now you know.

"You told me this was a chariot of inquiry for the modern detective's every need. It turns out that was Gilesian for heap of bollocks shit-ferry." Jeff kicked a tyre in disgust. The car rattled something at him in a threatening response.

"Be nice to her," said Giles, dropping to a whisper to add, "I think she may be haunted by the ghost of a Porsche 911, so never mention that she's anything else or we don't know what might happen. On the upside I don't need to change the battery any more . . . It's the ectoplasm. Does wonders. She may look like a Renault 5 - but that's where the likeness takes a hike. She drives like a Porsche."

"That's messed up, Mister," said Jeff, but resolved to be careful never the less, lest he set the obviously unstable Giles off on some kind of wobbler. That wouldn't do anybody any good.

They got into the vehicle, so-called simply because it held together, by some miracle, long enough to carry its passengers the required distance. About an hour after they left the city - Jeff suffering from a bad case of the freak-outs as the car pushed 70 mph on the motorway and he worried that it would disintegrate, then stall and propell him through the windscreen and across lanes into the path of a Bell truck that was pulling past them on the right-hand side in a recklessly illegal maneouvre - they arrived in the charming small country town of Grennitch.

Or at least, they passed a signpost saying "Welcome to Grennitch - it's about time!" and chuckled a bit before realising they were five miles further than they thought. Giles reversed about ten meters and was back in front of the signpost.

"What," said Giles, "this all about?"

"They've done it."

"Done what?"

"What they shouldn't have done." Jeff sighed. "Grennitch is gone."

Cue dramatic crescendo and end of chapter.

I sit me

2004-06-26T15:53:00.000+01:00

. . In a netcaf in Dublin with a page on my mind. It's one that has been written on so many times and in so many languages that nothing makes sense. Words crowd the page, struggling with each other, some occasionally fight a space clear for themselves and beg to be noticed before they become swamped by the constant tide of scribbling that happens here. Scrawl upon scrawl, nightmare literature nestles up to to cozy memories of slow days full of simplicity. Journal-thoughts obscure public outcries. Scrawl upon scrawl. These words fight, even the nice ones written in calm times, fight for attention because this means survival. If words aren't read they are just ink here. And new letters get dug in over old, the pen presses so hard now to make an impact. Small tears and creases litter the page, it is full of words. Sentences that make no sense now all have become unreadable.

Nothing to do but tear this out and start again. This time to write more orderly, in paragraphs and chapters, left to right, line by line. Headings, sub-headings and footnotes. All laid out so pretty and none of it meaning anything. So tear this unreadable mess to pieces and stop the fervent jostling and violence of these words. If they could kill each other there would be none left. And by the constant scribbling, they have done something worse. Words on words on words, and none of them understandable. Words on words on words. All still alive, none capable of life.

Tear this out and start again. Breeze in shade on cool grass. Suicide is so melodramatic these days. The only real way to go is fighting for every last word, knowing you won't rescue them all and that those you do won't thank you. Nothing to do but close my eyes, tear them out and start again to see.

Wilt got no shame

2004-06-23T19:31:00.000+01:00

Some say, "Mr. Flowers - you spell so poorly, puncuate so randomly and leave letters out where they should reside, how can you justify such nonsense?" To you, oh great unbeliever, I ask the question WHY SHOULDN'T I, FUCKER? If I don't care to spell-check like a little pandering Microsoft PANSIE then that's my choice. I'm a revolver. A resolution. A revolution! A revolutionolver! I'm a resolutionolver and that's why I fly my way, not bound by rules left in archaic dictionaries and pathetic grimoires. I don't even know what a grimoire is but I'm sure they SUCK. I am not going to bow down to Gatesian English just because Word puts a little line under something. I don't even use word! So shut up. Shut up. Shut. Up.

And let there be no more of this foolish behaviour, you hear me?

You guys. You guys. You guys need to chiiilllll out. That's what you need to do. Look at me. You ever see me all freakin' out and losing it for no reason? No, that's because I have control. I have inner piece. And I have a selective memory.

So srew your DEMOCRACY that's what I say, away with the whole cotton-pickin' lot of it. I want to see the real men in charge. I want to see Johnny Knoxville run the country for a week, I want Zane Lowe in charge of foriegn affairs. I want Charlie Mc Creevy to give me a large Chicken Royale Meal with no mayo and a Fanta WITH ketchup and salt and a baffling number of unessential napkins. I want to be President. But nnoooo. We have to let people who are QUALIFIED do jobs. Greedy people. People who want to be on top of the heap shouldn't be allowed to be there. We should all have jobs we hate and not be happy. You capitalist fuck. You snivelling, whining little ad-break muppet-face. You, you. You greedy money-chasing pill-popping frog-eating SHOCK of a person you. You think I'm crazy, don't you?

Well you WOULD. Fuck this.

And the secret to inner peace is not outer joy and fulfilment. The secret to outer joy and fulfilment is inner peace. Find your centre and let no-one else mess with it. You have the power. You are the power. You are DEVINE. And in Hell you can whore your soul you pathetic non-being.

Yours in unfathomable rage and yellow spandex,

Wilt N Flowers - Brings value HOME

On politics

2004-06-22T18:45:00.000+01:00

I think that all political discourse should take place on the Johnny. Imagine a cabinet filled with hygeinic toilet facilities side by side.

Bush meets Blair, they sit trousers-down seperated by a modesty screen up to stomach height on opposite latrines.

"Hello Tony, my little lapdog, who's a good boy then?"

"Woof, woof, me! Me! It is me, right?"

"Yes it's you. Now, I'm gonna need to kill some more of your army dudes 'cause I got this election coming up and all so you know, looks better than Americans getting shot. So you're on the front! How you like that?"

"Great work sir. We'll so Muhammed al-Jihad what's what's, by George."

"Heh. Funny. So you're - excuse me a minute while I - uhhnn - lay a little cable here - nnnnnyeeeah, huppp, awww yeah. That's the stuff. So. Are we pulling out of Iraq and signing the Kyoto treaty or just sitting around like dicks?"

"Out! Out! Sign! Sign! *pantpant*"

There you have it.

I'm telling you that's how it would happen.

Chapter Two

2004-06-20T22:53:00.000+01:00

Chapter Two

A month previously in Chicago, Il.

Geoffrey F Limpweedle, entertainer for a living and a keen inventor in his spare time, adjusted the tilt of his bowler hat and checked the shine on his shiny red shoes in a mirror. Deciding that all was acceptable he clicked his heels together thrice for luck, got a firm grip on his cane and issued the command to start his journey through time. This was it, the culmination of years and years of testing and research and getting pies thrown at him. He was now about to use his all-new time machine for the first time. Every nuance was intricately calibrated, and the date was set for the 1950s. He had the suit. He had the gait. He had the cigars. He was ready.

"There's no place like home," he said.

It may be worthy of mention that he was standing inside his wardrobe at this point, which he had patiently converted into a time machine earlier that week. A fine, stout wardrobe it was, made of dark, heavy wood and perhaps a hundred years old already anyway. Somewhat like my grandfather. After he said the words into a little computer panel he had installed, various whirring sounds were audible around him and the world filled up with a brilliant, blinding light. He opened the door cautiously and marveled at what he saw once the purple spots had gone away. He stepped out of the wardrobe through a small amount of inexpensive theatrical smoke in disbelief. After all his time, effort and money had been poured into this project, this was something. He couldn't find words for the sense of elation he was completely not feeling as the machine simply hadn't worked. At all. Not even a bit. He looked around his own room in sheer desolation. He whimpered. He sagged. He turned around and banged his fist on the wardrobe door, followed closely by his head.

The door began leaning outwards, pushing against Geoffrey F Limpweedle's dejection and scaring the absolute shit out of him too. He took a step back and watched himself poke his head out of the wardrobe. He stood facing his own person of a few moments earlier in confusion.

This tableau remained in-situ for about five seconds, resembling how a cat reacts when it first discovers a mirror.

"This is weird," said he.

"I'll plug it out then?" said the other one.

"Do yes, good idea," he replied. A sharp tug at the wire trailing from the wardrobe to the socket near the bedside lamp put a halt to the low background hum of a computer in the top drawer.

"You're me," one of them said.

"I am you," said the other.

"It didn't work."

"It did something."

"We're in trouble."

"That we are."

They each sat down on the end of the bed and sighed.

"What happened?" they asked in unison.

Before either got a chance to answer a knock came from the door.

"Hide!" each told the other. One ducked under the bed while the other took off his hat and fidgeted, which made identification a lot easier, not that it was going to matter for much longer in any case. Another knock arrived, in a more insistent manner, as if the fact that it hadn't been answered the first time was an unexpected affront such as to plant a seed of doubt in the mind of the knocker as to whether he had, in fact, knocked at all. This was the knock of somebody who was used to not having to knock more than once.

"Are you going to let us in, Mister Limpleweed?" a thick, American accent. "We got business to discuss, unless you'd like your whole building to hear what I have to say?"

"A second, give me a second." Jeff's hair was short but surprisingly curly. He left the bedroom, closed the door and then went to the front door and opened it. "Oh, no." He was lifted about a foot and a half from the ground, meeting the eyes of an angry-looking gentleman in a sharp business suit. He let his bowler hat fall to the floor.

"It doesn't work, does it? You fucked up. I can't believe this. Listen buddy, you are gonna come with us to England, rebuild that heap of shit in London like you should have done in the first place and you are going to make it WORK this time or else it's curtains for you, you understand that you little Charlie Chaplain fuck?"

"But I don't - I didn't - it was only the first - mmhumphlarkumphfleah..."

Jeff II or perhaps Jeff I listened in cowering horror from beneath the bed as his doppleganger was taken rudely away with a bag over his head, legs flailing amusingly. He heard footsteps on the hardwod floor from about three men. That could have been me, he thought. That IS me, he amended and decided he had to sort this out. This was the very beginnig of Geoffrey's long and unusual quest to find himself.

It took a few weeks before he saved enough cash from his entertaining antics at office parties and weddings to get a ticket to London, but that's how it was that he rolled up outside Giles's apartment at 4.15 in the morning that wet October.

***

Giles leant back in his chair.

"Well that was convenient," he said, " - very effective."

"I do my best," replied Jeff.

"You know the men who took . . . you?"

"Of course, a time machine is not simple or cheap thing to build. Certainly not within my budget alone. But I was so consumed with being the first man to make a time machine that worked that I agreed to funding from a certain . . . international multi-level criminal organisation working under the business front "Mc Donald's" in exchange for sending them back in time to score several coups in the crime world. They wanted to bring Al Capone to the 21st century, at least eventually. But the project ran long and in the end they lost patience. I was banking on it working first time." Jeff sighed. "I still don't understand what happened. It made a kind of loop in time, localised inside the machine. I think. We stopped it before there was time to see if ANOTHER me would have turned up. So will you help me?"

"The case is interesting. I have one stipulation. We give the other you a different name, for the sake of the narrative," said Giles. And he was interested, detective work has always been the dream. Half the books he owned were Private Eye stories.

"Like what? He's me!"

"Roger?"

"Roger? You want to call me Roger? What's wrong with you?"

"Well you pick one then. Or we'll use your middle name. What does the F stand for?"

"Well, it's for Finbar, but . . ."

"Finbar it is!"

"Aw, Giles!"

"You want my help, we call him Finbar."

"Fine."

"And I must buy a pipe."

"I thought you didn't like smoking that filth?"

"That was then. I'm a detective now. One has to preserve a certain impression."

"I'll take your word for it."

With that, it was done.

"Can I stay here?" asked Jeff.

"Just for tonight. Tomorrow, I will squirrel you away in a safe house and search for clues as to who might be your kidnappers."

"I know who they are, I told you."

"Yes, it might take days, weeks, months or even years but I promise to track them down and come to you with a name within the decade or I'm not Chester A Lampwick!"

"You're not Chester A Lampwick."

"Figure of speech, figure of speech."

"They are lead by a man named Mark O'Malley, 3rd generation American but insanely Irish."

"You knew this all along? And still allowed me to assemble ardour for the search? Ooh, you fiend you."

"Shuddup, y'crusty old idiot." Jeff sat forward, meaning business. "Look, all we need to do is find out where I'm building the time machine, why in London, and when it's going to start working. If it goes wrong again all hell could break loose. I have no idea what might happen. Are you with me?"

"I see. Yes then. Let us get some sleep, it's almost bright outside. Your woeful timing aside this has been most intriquing. My tea's gone cold. Dammit Jeff. You know I can't abide cold tea." Giles was perturbed by the fact that he'd forgotten to drink his tea. He stood up and pulled the bed back down. "You're on the couch, here's a blanket."

"Posh," said Jeff.

"You are lucky I even let you in the door. I haven't forgotten what happened last time you were in the country. Did you think I had?"

"I had sort of hoped . . ."

"Well now you know. When I find you, you're going to have some serious questions to answer. Good night to you."

"Thanks Giles."

Giles turned off the light and got into bed.

"Giles? Could I have a pillow?"

..

Thud.

"Now go to sleep, shortarse." Giles had been waiting to say that all night long. It felt good. Like narrowly escaping death, then watching someone else do just the thing that you didn't do and die. You don't want to be happy, but you whistle and skip anyway. Just one of those things.

The twitchingist guy

2004-06-20T13:50:00.000+01:00

I'm awful twitchy lately. Prone to random outbursts and unexplained monkey-theft. The number of things that I go crazy when I think about is getting higher and higher, and pretty soon the whole structure is going to start to lean and require ugly, awkward lead weights on the south side to balance it and keep it from goin kaput, which would probably do just fine anyway.

Sometimes I wish I could take a few people I've met over the last few years and just sort of . . . un-exist them. Not like killing them. But wouldn't it be basic politeness for somebody who gets under your skin to not exist when you're around? I mean, I'd do it for somebody else but unfortunately I am flawless and loved by all. It's a burden, let me tell you. But one I shoulder with grace and style that makes people love me all the more.

Hugs'n'kisses,

Wilt N Flowers - Today's BEST bread.

PS Intolerable Cruelty is very good, George Clooney is a splendid comic actor who was wasted on ER for too many years. Cohen Bros. Hardcore. Obviously my screenplay will be slightly funnier, but we can't lower our standards any further I'm afraid. In constant sorrooooooow ... all through his days.

Great Expectorations

2004-06-19T14:32:00.000+01:00

Chapter One

Giles awoke surrounded by darkness. Not in a vindictive way, it wasn't like the darkness was there to beat him up or something, it just happened to be hanging around on account of it being the middle of the night. He rubbed his eyes and checked his digital watch, pressing a couple of random buttons before he found the backlight. 4:15. The doorbell rang again. Ah, so that was what woke him.

"Excuse me a moment, you roused me from my slumber and I shall be with you as soon as I am suitably oriented and attired!" he shouted.

The bell rang again. Just as it would if somebody inconsiderate was standing outside ringing it like a complete bastard.

"Just a SECOND!" said Giles, clambering into a robe and hurriedly putting on his thin glasses. He moved dizzily towards the door of his studio apartment, where he reached an undignified halt with one hand on the door jamb. Steadying himself he took a deep breath to calm down and right in the middle of the slow, satisfying in-breath the doorbell rang a forth time. Giles turned the handle, viciously tore the door open then got angry when its course was cut short by the chain he'd forgotten to unlock. With a grunt he slammed the door shut again, yanked the chain from its rail and finally opened the door a little more calmly, as if the preceding simply hadn't happened.

His eyes travelled down to meet those of a uniquely proportioned man. Blue eyes peered up from under a bowler hat and above a very large nose indeed. A moustache, if we are to continue downward and why shouldn't we, followed, close-shaven and dark, framing his lips and pointing to a sharp chin. He word a tuxedo with a red bow-tie that matched his shiny red shoes. But this man was unique in that the head abovementioned was about half-again the size that fit comfortably with the rest of his body, speaking aesthetically. Add to this the hat and the hallway light above his head and if he hadn't been looking up he would have been swathed in a deep shadow, two red shoe-tips poking out at the bottom. He was about four and a half feet tall and carried a cane with a tacky gold-painted ball on the top.

"What," Giles felt entitled to inquire, "do you want?"

The tacky gold-painted ball prodded him in the chest. "You, you daft bugger. That's why I rang the bell just now."

"Oh that was you was it? Indeed. So what can I do for a man such as yourself at four in the morning?"

"You can give me a cup of tea and listen to my story, or shall I just stand out here like an idiot?"

"Fine, come on in Jeff," resigned Giles. He hit a light switch and closed the door after Jeff, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. He yawned.

"Ah, don't start that, you'll get me going and all," said Jeff with a little stretch. He then yawned. "That was your fault, y'pillock."

"My sincerest apologies. Have a seat, I'll put the kettle on."

Jeff sat on a green couch in Giles's tidy living room/kitchen/bedroom arrangement. There was one of those folding beds you always see in films but never in real life that just seemed to vanish into a wall. One even saved the life of James Bond in You Only Live Twice. Folding it up, as he was now doing, always called that scene to mind for Giles. "You only live twice, Mr. Bond," he would say to himself. He didn't this time, because Jeff was sitting right there. But he really wanted to and felt as if Jeff was purposefully denying him the oppertunity. He went to the sink and filled the kettle, placing it on a small counter at the kitchen end of the apartment and hitting the on-button like the nose of a puppy that had misbehaved in some minor way.

"It'll just be a minute. So what news from the world of being Jeff? What brings you to my home after all these months out of the blue in the middle of the night ringing my doorbell like it was getting you off?" asked Giles, settling in to an armchair facing Jeff's side of the couch. With the bed gone the room had a pleasant sense of space. It was sparsely furnished, the main feature being a bedside locker and two big, full bookshelves. A coffee table sat in front of the couch. Jeff eyed all of this critically.

"Still no telly? Tsk, someday you'll wish you had one," he said.

"Slim chance, unlike the rest of England, it seems, I can read." A fact Giles held very dear. He took a weird pride in not owning a television set. Why exactly was anyone's guess.

The kettle made the universal click of all kettles everywhere to let you know that another job has been well done and it would like you to consider promoting it to a toaster or something, no pressure. Giles got up and made the tea in an uneventful manner. While he did this Jeff examined the ball on top of his cane, considering that it didn't really look all that authentic and he should probably get a real one.

His musing was interrupted by a cup of tea, with "World's Best Mum" written charmingly on the side, blocking his view.

"Thanks, Giles."

"No problem. You didn't answer my question. Why exactly was it that you went to the considerable trouble of waking me up at four in the morning to tell me a story? It better be a good one."

"Well remember a few years ago you told me you were thinking of becoming a private detective? I think now's the time. And I'm your first case. Cigar?" Jeff had produced a pack from inside his jacket.

"No thank you, and please refrain from smoking that filth in here."

"Right, right, whatever," he said pocketing the pack, "Sorry for trying to inject a little bit of class into proceedings. Anyway, do you still want to play detective?"

"What? Not now, no. I have a real job, I consult for the college, remember? You're talking about a long time ago. I'm sorry Jeff, I've grown up."

"Look, I need help and you are the smartest person I've ever met. I need *you*. At least hear me out, then decide whether or not this is childish," pleaded Jeff.

"Okay, fine. You may as well fill me in now that I'm awake. What's your predicament?"

"I've been kidnapped."

"But your sitting right here!"

"There's two of me. This is where it gets tricky. We should probably go to a flashback, come to think of it."

"I agree, best not to weigh the narrative down so early with cumbersome dialogue."

The pair having sensibly agreed on the manner of the next chapter then sat back to observe events as they had unfolded previously and brought Jeff to seek the help of Giles at such a satanic time of the night.

Bloggy

2004-06-19T14:00:00.000+01:00

I haven't blogged in years.

I mean actual years, not those fake years we have nowadays, since a project called Phasual. I wonder if anything came of that in the end.

I shall perhaps ramble here from time to time. Occasionally I shall quote from the novel I intend to spend the rest of my life writing.

I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded. Poem good on here. That's Jean's page. She's nice, but small. And, if reading, probably angry that I just called her small and intending to slap me quite hard at some unexpected juncture.

Expectorations of the finest sort be with you all.