Rolling Over Turnstiles A travelogue, in no particular order, of drunken rambler Salisbury Carrero. by C. Michael Simpson BSc
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Copyright 2013 by C. Michael Simpson All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. First Edition: February 2013 Printed in the United States of America ISBN: [ISBN number with hyphens]
1. Spickle Rotley ............................................................ 8 2. Kittys Wood ............................................................ 11 3. Base Infiltration (part 1) .......................................... 17 4. King of my Hill ......................................................... 21 5. Over Exposed ......................................................... 23 6. Eating Out ............................................................... 26 7. Fringe (part 1) ......................................................... 28 8. Internal Rambling ................................................... 35 9. Born to Roam ......................................................... 40 10. The G8 Riot .......................................................... 43 11. Beachy Head ........................................................ 48 12. The Sky L[a]s[t] Night ........................................... 53 13. Vertical Rambling ................................................. 57 14. Norman ................................................................. 61 15. H.A.N.K. ................................................................. 65 16. Frare Jaques, in Polish, in a London Taxi .............................................................................. 67 17. Glastonbury, the night Michael Jackson died .............................................................................. 77 18. Lie in ..................................................................... 84 6 19. The Did I Mention The Free Wine tour ................ 87 20. Elderston Mental Asylum (part 1) ......................... 92 21. The Shyer Traveller .............................................. 97 22. Elderston Mental Asylum (part 2) ......................... 99 23. Local Crazies ...................................................... 106 24. Coursework ........................................................ 111 25. The Urinators Map of Manchester ...................... 119 25. Duplicate entry to see if youre paying attention .................................................................... 119 26. Age Of Genocide ................................................ 122 27. Sheepshaggers .................................................. 126 28. Norman Chinaski ................................................ 129 29. Bishy Porkland .................................................... 130 30. Base Infiltration (part 2) ...................................... 134 31. The Other Side Of The World ............................. 136 32. Base Infiltration (part 3) ...................................... 142 33. 18 th Birthday Crane Climbing Bonanza .............. 145 34. This Cunted Circus ............................................. 151 35. Base Infiltration (part 4) ...................................... 157 .
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thing's I've ripped off in the making of this book: Richard Brautigan's Trout Fishing in America, Charles Bukowski's Norman Chinaski Hunter S. Thompson's Dr Gonzo, Arab Strap - The Shy Retirer Scroobius Pip The First Time I Met Musik Eric Idle Spike Milligan Charlie Brooker Smog In The Pines
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rambling [ram-bling] adjective 1. aimlessly wandering. 2. taking an irregular course; straggling: a rambling brook. 3. spread out irregularly in various directions: a rambling mansion. 4. straying from one subject to another; desultory: a rambling novel.
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Introduction:
Cover Story.
I laughed so much I had a stroke.
Two bottles of brown ale and one bottle of wine down, I started on the brandy. It was as I took my third, maybe fourth sip when Norm said it, something so funny that the right hand side of my skull shook as though tectonic plates in my cranium were grinding against each other and, like two sticks rubbing together, slowly creating a horrifically painful fire in my brain. It had snowed that day, the thought of lying down and packing my head with snow became very tempting. I'd heard of little tests you can do to check the early signs of a stroke: lifting both arms; talking without slurring your speech; looking for signs of numbness on one side of the face. I tried all these, but, being drunk, I couldn't tell the difference between myself right then and myself normally. I summoned the power of the northerner within me and just got on with it, after all, I had a stile to photograph.
I read a ramblers blog, Northern Pies, by Mike 10 Knipe. It's very good, I recommend you all read it, it's partly because of his blog that I wrote this book. I read quite a few different ramblers' accounts of their works and always fancied doing it myself, however I didn't have a car so couldn't drive off to the Lake District or the Scottish Highlands at will and 'bag' me a hill, One day I'm sure I'll have bagged loads of them, I'm only young and have plenty time, but if I started my own rambling blog now it'd be pretty pathetic. I walk along the same five or six footpaths each week, mainly because my drinking buddy, Norman Chinaski, and I, both love a good long walk. Then I got thinking about my previous adventures, starting as a kid when my great uncle would take me with him on his walks, the times I ran away from home after some paltry argument with my mum and walked miles across the county just to see how far I'd get. All the times I skived off school and hid in the woods or a graveyard, the epic walks to and from illegal raves in my late teens, to now, when I don't need an excuse to just go out for a walk anymore, I just do it because I fancy it. Plus I've got a posh camera now, there's an excuse if I ever need one. I finished this book in late 2012. Not long before the world, according to the Mayans, was supposed to end. Expecting an apocalypse is a great frame of mind to be in when writing, I fictionalized all the mundane bits of my journeys and added dragon slaying or explosions* to liven things up. Sometimes I'd just get bored with one story and abruptly end it with no reason, but if you're daft enough to read anything I've written then you deserve bitter disappointment at the end of a chapter every now and then. In early January, 2013, I was reading Mike's blog again and he posted a picture of a Public 11 Footpath sign that had been in an argument with "a browny-orange coloured car", leaving it strewn across a turnstile looking pretty battered. I'd already decided on the title of this book being Rolling Over Turnstiles as many of my best rambling memories are of me, strewn across a stile of some sort, looking pretty battered, so I sent him a message via his blog and asked him where this was, He replied, and later that week myself, Norm, a backpack full of alcohol and a posh camera made the four-mile round trip up one of the biggest hills in this awfully hilly little town and took ~120 photos of me laid face down in the snow after tripping over the sign. Unfortunately, none of them were any good, but a photo Norm took of me as we were leaving looked alright, so I bunged that on the cover instead (after an hour or so in Photoshop making the right hand side of my face look a bit less red - if any of you are looking to go in to modelling I advise you not to lie face down in the freezing cold snow for ten minutes before finally having your picture taken, it's a bit silly. The thing that caused my stroke? We were talking about a band from the eighties, Spandau Ballet, about how I'd recently discovered that 'Spandau' meant 'machine gun', and how that didn't suit this 1980's New Romantic band at all. Norm suggested that if this book were ever made into a rock-opera (god forbid) then they could call it Spandau Turnstiles. I laughed so much I had a stroke. *No Dragons were harmed during the making of this book, nor are there any explosions.
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1
Spickle Rotley
Spickle Rotley is an awful place. I should just end this bit there actually, save your minds the trouble of having to read about such an awful place. But I must get it off my chest, I apologise in advance. Spickle Rotley is an awful place, the kind of place where the dogs have an active role in the community, not like in inuit colonies where the work dogs are used to ferry everyone around on sleds, or on a farm where they round up sheep and warn of trespassers, no, the dogs of Spickle Rotley have to, by law, every Tuesday afternoon at 2pm, take over the roles that the humans have, such as post- man, shop keeper, policeman etc., At the same time, the humans of the town all have to go down to the stream and fish for Killer Whales. There are, of course, no Killer Whales in the 13 Spickle Rotley stream, there never has been, that would be silly, but the people of Spickle Rotley have upheld this tradition ever since a visiting drunk, my good friend Norman Chinaski, whom I've spoken of before, came here on a whim one summer and decided to tell the local people a story of how his forefathers had founded this little town, and the local people believed it. Norman had told me this story while we were out fell-walking one June evening, I didn't believe him, but just like the rest of his most unbelievable stories it would one day turn out to be true. I was on my way to see an old university friend in Manchester when the coach stopped on the A191216 just south of Burnington. The gastrolithic contraptor in the bus' engine had decided to stop working and needed repairing. Not to worry said the driver They'll send another coach out within the hour The hour turned into two, then three, then it was going to be an overnight thing and my adventurous instincts told me to take the opportunity to go see this bit of the country I'd never even heard of let along been to. I had my tent with me so I wasn't worried, other travellers stayed on the bus or arranged for friends or family to come and get them. I left them behind and headed towards Burnington. It wasn't until I'd walked about an hour and a half up the road that I saw the Spickle Rotley sign, My stomach sank, I immediately called Norman to apologise and double check everything he'd said was right so I didn't make a fool of myself, for it was, in-fact, a Tuesday afternoon & I really wanted to see this town run by dogs while the humans absent-mindedly fish for killer whales in a 2-foot stream. Norman laughed at me. 'Of course I was lying you blithering idiot' 14
Of course he was.
I walked into the town and bought a chicken pie and a chocolate bar from the shopkeeper, who wasn't a dog. Obviously.
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2
Kitty's Wood
I've spent twelve years frequenting this town, spending nearly every Christmas here as well as a few summers, and I'd never heard of Kitty's Wood. Then, one night while getting drunk at a friend's house, he mentions this 'Kitty's wood', I just nodded in acknowledgement, ashamed to admit that I wasn't a proper resident, but rather a tourist who only really comes here when he's been kicked out of everywhere else for further embarrassing himself, wearing out his welcome, running out of money or a mixture of all three. I made a mental note to look it up, and as soon as I'd woken up the next morning and had my customary pint of hangover-killing water, I typed Kitty's Wood into my internet machine. Surprisingly, not a lot of porn sites came up, I thought Kitty would be a great name for a porn star. Although it would have to be a boy to achieve 'wood', but there's weirder things out there. 16 Anyway, lets not get distracted by pornography this early in the story, there's plenty of that to come later on,* sorry! So, I typed Kitty's wood into the internet box and it lead me to a rambler's blog, I'd read rambler's blogs before, I like them, I know I'm young and hip (although I accept that by referring to myself as 'hip' I immediately alienate myself from the 'hip' community, but they can all go and bugger themselves with their iPhones and Death Cab For Cutie records) and what have you but I do love a good rambler's blog and this particular one had a devastating story to tell me.
"!it's been sold by the County Council and, suddenly, barbed wire entanglements and brush and tree barricades have appeared and general access is now not possible. As you can imagine, the good people of Crook, Roddymoor and Billy Row are a bit miffed about this and there are dark mutterings."
So just as I discover there's a new place for me to go and get drunk the council go and sell it to some bastard who's blocked it off and stopped letting people in. Mike, the blog's author, provided pictures too, it didn't look very promising but I wanted to go check it out myself, I loaded a map up on my phone and waited for the shitty weather to pass and give me a good day to go off exploring. Then, while out one night, I found myself having lots of excess energy just as everyone else was going home, so I thought I'd go and do a recce of the route. I had no alcohol left but this mysterious burst of energy kept me in line & although I had a coat with me I didn't wear it for the entirety of the 3 hour trek.
I got to the entrance to the wood and a group of 17 kids were leaving, If I wasn't intoxicated I'd not have let them see me going into the woods alone, however I was off my face and thought that they probably thought I was too crazy to mug if I was the kind of person who walks around, trespassing on someone's woodland on a cold night while only wearing a short sleeved shirt, and I was probably talking/singing to myself, if not I was definitely laughing away to myself at something funny I'd just thought of. I completely missed the entrance to the wood. I walked within 6 feet of it but, as I would discover when I returned in daylight, I walked straight past it and followed a path that goes round the outside. This was probably for the best seeing as how there's a 4 foot drop down to a stream right on the left-hand side of the path, I would definitely have ended up in a steam that night. I walked all around the circumference of the wood before getting unbelievably tired at about 4am and turning round, the path was hellish boring and I wasn't impressed at all. I went home and slept like a baby, a baby who'd been out drinking all night then went for a stupidly long walk in the early hours of the morning. A few days later the weather fared up and, having exhausted all our other routes, Norman & I decided to try out this wood. At first I'd changed my mind, seeing as how the path I'd walked on was long and boring and there wasn't even a seat or a log to sit on, but further inspection of the aerial photographs and the Ordinance Survey map lead me to believe that I was stupid and had missed the real path into the wood and instead followed a boing old bridleway that didn't go anywhere exiting. After a quick trip to the liquor pit we trekked off into this unknown territory to see what all the fuss was about.
18 The first stile, which I'd walked past and not seen at all on my recce, wasn't blocked off at all, someone must have knocked it down because I saw a picture where it was definitely blocked off, but no, we walked through it with no hassle. Then I saw the stream and realized I hadn't walked that way before. There was a waterfall, a small one, but a waterfall none-the-less. Crook has a waterfall! a fucking waterfall! in Crook! I was amazed, took a photograph and carried on, thinking 'bugger me, Crook has a waterfall'.
It does! it has a waterfall!
We carried on and sure enough all the other blockades had been taken down and disposed of. We found an opening into a field that had a lovely view of the town so I took a few pictures then we sat down to start our drinking. We'd earned it. Just as we started relaxing it turned into a horror movie. For the second time this summer a group of horses appeared from out of nowhere and made us aware of how unhappy they were to see us. we jumped up and pegged it. Norman first, he's a very nervous sort of character and really doesn't like being chased by animals that are bigger than him, me neither really, but I did take my time and took the chance to get some pictures of the horses. 'My mum likes horses' I thought to myself, 'She'll like that' We wandered on back into the woods and sat down on the first log, it was on a hill and looked like a good place to stop, we took some pictures of the interesting litter and proceeded with the drinking. Then, from nowhere, voices. So much for a quiet woodland. We quickly figured out it wasn't kids or murderers and decided to stay sitting but I'd get my camera out so they'd 19 think I was a photographer out innocently taking pictures, people don't like seeing young people outside just drinking, they worry that we'll litter or set fire to everything. I don't do that, I'm a professional. Their dog came over to talk to us as did the owner, he seemed like a nice fella but we left after a minute or two anyway, they sat strangely close to where we were sat and that's not what I go outside to do, sit near strangers, I ramble out into the middle of nowhere to do exactly the opposite of that, if I wanted to sit near strangers Id get a bus to a town and sit in a coffee shop, but thatd be shit. So along we went, we came to a clearing I'd seen on the map, it wasn't as welcoming as I thought it might be, it had no log to sit on, it was simply a crossroads in the path, it was like driving for miles and miles to go somewhere for a nice day out then finding out that the place you were going to was just a crossroads or a T-junction, so we carried on. Soon we found a dried-up stream, we jumped in and investigated, there we found an interesting selection of items: a saw; a screwdriver; a brick (this was particularly interesting to Norman, he loves bricks, it had something on it which caught his imagination, either a date or a town name or something, I can't remember, I'm not really a brick person, I like skies) and the innards of some kind of 1980's technology, perhaps an Amigas Motherboard or something similar. We took the items with us to a nearby log to play with them. After a while of sawing through the log with this rusty, blunt-as-a-cheeseburger saw we noticed something in the distance, and more-surprisingly it was only 10 feet away from us so we should really have noticed it earlier, but I said 'distance' to make us look a little more observant. It was a hole. A hole in the ground, with a metal cover and a thing inside it, a pipe or something, we had no idea what it was 20 but it was fascinating. Norman suggested we hide our newly found items in there and it could be a stash point for weaponry. This seems like a silly idea but you won't be laughing when the impending zombie apocalypse comes and you don't have a stash of weaponry in some woods miles away from the town. We'll be laughing. We're badass zombie slayers. We're not afraid of anything
Then some kids turned up and started a bonfire and we left because we were scared.
*There isnt 21
3
Base Infiltration 1: Discovery
Suddenly it was September. It didn't feel like any September I'd ever known. This would be the first September in twenty- one years where I didn't have to be somewhere; I didn't need a backpack, books, stationary and an excuse to get out of doing anything remotely physical. I'd been looking forward to this for so long, and now here I am, stood in a street, listening to the eerie silence. The sound of no kids. My travels have taken me to the biggest cities and the smallest hamlets, from London to Ludworth, but no matter where I went there was always this time of year when the streets were no longer filled with screaming children running havoc on the streets on their little scooters or BMX bicycles. Some genius had come up with an institution to lock these annoying little non-humans in for a few months on the run up to Christmas 22 each year so their parents could go out and earn enough money to buy them new scooters and BMX bicycles for Christmas ready for the next summer, where they could once again run havoc on the streets on their little scooters or BMX bicycles. I now had to time my walks so as not to coincide with the time the schools let these kids out. I didn't mind being out later, even though some of them are still outside, but at around 3.30 each day they were ALL out, standing at all the bus stops, outside all the shops, sitting on all the benches, generally using up all the things for an hour or two as if they might not be there the next day. Norman and I had taken a job walking dogs for elderly people in the village. We told them it was because we were broke and couldn't find proper jobs, but in reality we were avoiding real jobs and doing what we'd always done, wandering around, enjoying the world. No one else seemed to be doing it, the only time people went out was to commute, which they didn't enjoy. The didn't enjoy scraping the ice off their cars in the morning, they didn't enjoy traffic on the way to work, roadworks and diversions weren't a chance to detour, have an adventure and spice up their daily routine, but they were an inconvenience, taking them away from what they should be doing, being annoyed at the traffic on the same road they'd always been annoyed at the traffic on. So Norman & I decided to restore some balance and go out and enjoy the world, I'd read of ramblers, pensioners with so much time on their hands they could drive off to a beauty spot and walk 10 miles around it. I never quite understood it but I was always intrigued by the explorative part of it. I didn't have a car though so I could only walk around near where I lived, which was okay because I'd lived all over, my dis-jointed career choice had lead me all over the place, because I could, 23 because I didn't have somewhere to commute to the next day. There wasn't a traffic jam in Widness missing me. So we walked dogs. This put us in very good standing in the community, we didn't socialise much, but the people that did know us thought we were lovely. How could we not be? We walked dogs, dogs are lovely, we must be lovely. We'd return with pictures of the dogs having fun, the fatter dogs would slowly get thinner and healthier, their owners loved us and told all their friends how much they loved us. Not to mention all the conversations we had with girls in the park who were also walking their dogs. We were good lads, lovely lads. Little did they know our true intentions.
While returning from a boozy night-time ramble one night (without the dogs, of course) we heard the distinct sound of children coming from through the trees, across the stream. It was about 10pm, way after children O'Clock, and it was raining lightly, so they must have some kind of shelter, across the stream, in those trees. This could only mean one thing. They must have a den! As we walked further we kept spotting a light coming through the leaves of the trees, very dim, as though it were behind something, we imagined a tent or an awning of some sort, but they had light. We heard that faint tinny-sounding music which kids play on their mobile phones. They seemed to have a den a hundred times better than the one's we made when we were that age. Norman & I shared stories about how cool our dens were, his had trip-wires and boobie-traps, mine had little race-tracks for toy cars built in the mud and secret drawers and 'vaults'. I bet this den wasn't as imaginative as ours. 24 So we used the dogs, these lovely little dogs that made everyone think we were lovely little dog walkers, as an excuse to infiltrate these dens in the daytime, when the kids were all at school and their Bases were left unattended, open to attack from enemy den-makers. On day one Norman crossed the stream and took pictures, I stayed as look-out, mainly because the dogs couldn't cross the stream and they'd run off otherwise. He returned with photos of wooden walls, a window and a lockable door, strangely left unlocked. If this was our den that'd be locked at all times, with extra re-enforcements and security measures. Then he showed me the pictures of the interior. They had couches, two of them, two three-seater couches, with cushions, proper couch cushions, then two chairs, I looked closer, there was a carpet. A carpet! We noticed it was nearly home-time for these kids so we left everything as we'd found it and decided to return with a plan. We could just leave them be, let them have their den and pretend we'd never seen it. But that would be admitting defeat...
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4
King of my hill
I found this song amongst Normans belongings after the accident. Dont quite know what to make of it. I remember the night fondly, He met a girl, a really nice girl, but he was just getting over his last girl so he turned her down in favour of drinking with the boys. I'll let him tell you the story:
I came downtown with a bottle of brown and I've come around to talk to you All I want back is my black backpack and perhaps a sly look at your boob Tell me a story of how you adore me and how you really want me back Well the joke's on you, bitch, you haven't got a clue and a ba-da-ba-ba-bla-ha-ma-gah
Darlin I'm the king of my hill Join me on the top of my hill 26 Maybe you could teach me to sing
When the snow goes from the wear meadows and the sun is out, the sky is blue, Honest-a-ly the last thing I wanna see is a photo of a picture of you. Kickin a ball with a know it all who calls a spade a cauliflower. We meet a nice lass with a damn fine ass, a wah- wah-wee-wah-gabba-gabba-kaphar!
Friday night and I'm where that kid died, drunk and I'm talking to my friends. Supposed to be going up to see you at the Colliery but nothing happens. We hear karaoke coming from behind a tree, we didn't even bring a guitar There's dirt on the path see, so we leave early, make our way back to the car
Watchin football 'cause I aint got fuck all else I gotta be doing to me You're not impressed that I didn't even text for the weekend or the whole week I've written you novels girl, deleted it all girl, you don't deserve my shit to read And if you hear this, well you're gonna get pissed, cuz I think you're a gah-bla-jha-fee
Darlin I'm the king of my hill Join me on the top of my hill Don't be so expectant until You can promise you can fulfill You'll be here in stockings and kink !and you'll join me back on my hill
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5
Over Exposed
The trees are getting narrower. The spaces between them is growing, then shrinking. Are they getting fatter too? They were just then, not so much now. THERE! did you see that? they got thinner a bit then. Who's that? oh it's just a tree, I swear it waved.
Grotesque imagery flows through my eyes like paint mixing in water. Droplets of colour intwine with the colourless skies flooding my eyes with light. Am I overexposed? I could well be. This one time I was out of focus for hours, people kept telling me I was blurry and they couldn't quite make out the little details on my face or on my outline. It wasn't until later that night that people said they could see me clearly. We've not talked about it much since then, it was weird though, dogs barked 28 at me when I passed them, I felt fuzzy but I thought I was okay, when I looked at my hand, I could see it clearly, we attributed this to my eyes being blurry also. But this, this is different. I'm bleached with light, even when I stand in the shade. I don't trust mirrors but even in then there seems to be an odd contrast between my skin and the trees behind me. I am, I'm overexposed.
I walk towards the sun, up a gully-like hill towards the light. I get to the top, sweating and very tired. The sun isn't there, it was a reflection of myself, I'm giving off so much light I can't see the sun. I ask passers-by and they point at the sun but it too is a reflection of me. I pass a slim, beautiful woman wearing a thin, black scarf, it's quite wide, about 2 feet wide and 6 feet long, she wraps it around her head, perhaps for sun protection, I ask if I can borrow it to maybe act as a diffuser or filter and when I pull it over my head she mutters something. 'Pardon?' I ask, not being able to make out her words 'I was just shocked, you have nice eyes' she replied, sweetly. I guess the veil is working, but this is unacceptable, I thank her but tell her I need help, I can't just walk off with her scarf simply because I'm overexposed. She says it's fine. What if I go with you back into town and give you it back when I get there? I ask, partly worried about my current High-key lighting problem, partly wanting to spend more time with her. 'I'd like that' she says, smiling. We walk off back down the hill and toward the bridleway, I wonder what'd happen if we kissed, she had a dark skin tone, perhaps Italian or from somewhere like that, I don't know, I've not heard her talk much yet, would 29 she kiss an overexposed man, am I hurting her eyes? I worry far too much normally, but this, this is something to worry about, surely, I'm really bright right now, I've never heard of anyone being like this, not outside of a photograph anyway. I wonder how I can get into my settings, do I have an f- stop? Surely to change the aperture of me I need to configure everyone else's eyes? Are they opening up for too long and letting too much light in? No, that's absurd. We walk for hours and we're still in the same bit of the woods. I try to remember anything we'd talked about while we were there but I can't remember anything since she let me have her scarf. God, that was days ago now. I look around, she's gone. I'm not even in the woods, I'm on a grass verge next to my local pub, laid with my head in a hedge.
Oh, right...
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6
Eating out
Aside from freeganism (living off of the food other people throw out, since people throw out so much good food) foraging for food is probably the best way to eat when you're a walker of the earth, rather than a sitter on the couch and a shopper of the supermarket. Without the constraints of the modern kitchen food gets a lot more interesting, I wish I'd done a lot more foraging, hunting and gathering while on my adventures but, alas, packing Bovril sandwiches and an apple is just so much easier. Bigger trips get more interesting, whenever I'm going to be out for a day or two I make a load of sandwiches out of up to a whole loaf of bread, then re-pack it into the breads original packaging and suddenly it's a loaf of sandwiches, beautiful! One time, when in Scotland, I managed to live entirely off of food from one take-away which people had ordered but either not turned up for or left behind after they'd left (the un-touched stuff, of course) You'd be surprised how many people order burger & chips, eat the burger, eat a couple of 31 chips then leave it there. Not a lot of shop staff would be happy with you doing this but I'd made friends with the staff in one place (it helps to be interesting or entertaining, I am neither, but I can act!) & they seemed to enjoy my company. Making friends is an essential part of living in a city if you can't afford food, if you have friends you'll never be hungry. I go to Scotland every year with very little money and barely ever pay for food, yet I've been invited to people's houses and had massive dinners cooked for me, had kebabs and pies bought for me and even been invited to a restaurant with one group of actors from New York, but that's material for another chapter. One of the best parts of roaming the earth freely is all the food that's just growing out of the ground or on trees, unfortunately I've not been to many places where much grows, but I've had many a good meal that consisted of blackberries or raspberries. My favourite has to be my carrier-du- berrie - a carrier bag full of blackberries I picked one morning, I tied it up, repeatedly swung it at the trunk of a tree for half an hour until the berries had all crushed up, I added some crumbled fruit shortcake biscuits (I admit these didn't grow naturally, but I always carry biscuits in my holster) I cut a hole in the bottom of the bag, laid on my back and squirted it into my mouth. Absolute heaven, this made for two very good meals on that particular trip. I wish I had better stories of my foraging but again, this is England, it's very hard not to just get a 15p packet of biscuits and eat them all in one sitting (I never claimed I was healthy)
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7
Fringe (part 1)
The best thing about Scotland is clearly the fringe comedy festival, in Scotland's beautiful capital city, Edinburgh. Anyone who's been will agree immediately, but I bet you stayed in a hotel or in an extortionately priced shared house with other people who are there flushing their money down a toilet by taking a production of an awful children's play (I did that my first year, though I should add that I wasn't in the play, and it wasn't 'awful') Anyway, the story of the my first year at the Edinburgh fringe isn't suitable for this book, as I lived in a lovely big house with lots of friends, drank expensive wine and ate cooked food all the time with my lovely (now ex) girlfriend. That story belongs in a much more bitter, resentful and regretfully forlorn book. This chapter's going to be about my second year. After being bitten by the festival bug, I decided I had to return the next year. There's so many free shows on it would be stupid not to go, and I'm a weathered professional at living cheaply and living 33 outdoors in both cities and the countryside, of which Edinburgh is both. I packed my tent, a blanket, my trusty (cheap knock-off of a) swiss army knife, a few shirts (if sleeping rough, always wear a shirt, you'll get away with so much and no-one will suspect youre a bum if youre dressed smartly) & changes of underwear & I got on the trusty Megabus with just 40 in my pocket. On previous trips to the city I'd scoped good places to pitch a tent and found somewhere 20 minutes from the city centre, just far enough out to not be seen (although I've moved further out on more recent visits due to paranoia, but your first choice is never the best) but not too far to walk at 4am when you're off your face and can barely remember your name let alone where you stashed your tent. The tent I had back then was an unfortunately bright red colour, this is no good so after pitching it I thatched it in loads of thick branches, it was summer so they still ha their leaves on, I then covered the whole thing in long grass and viola, perfect camouflage. I was so proud of myself, I felt like a proper adventurer! However this didn't last long, after a few nights it was minging and one of the main reasons I left after 10 days & didn't stay the whole month. After pitching the 'perfect' secluded tent I went shopping. I'd brought enough food for a few days but I found a cheap food shop and treat myself to a carrier bag full of food for just 7 which would last me the whole 10 days. I had tinned meat (with a ring-pull, I didn't have a can opener) fruit, bread and lots and lots of biscuits. lots of biscuits. Biscuits are probably my main tip for a cheap trip to the fringe. The free shows are indeed free but the performers stand at the back with a bucket at the end asking for donations. There are much 34 worse comedians than them doing shows for 20+ in the big venues, but if I was to give all the free performers I saw even a fiver I'd need at least 300, I wish I could, I really do, I have a lot of respect for the free fringe performers, which is why I always wait until everyone in the audience has left before going up to the performer, apologising for having no money, then offer them a biscuit. I've never had so much as a dirty look from any performers; in fact one group of Australian comedians gave me money! The conversation rarely ends there, I've often gone on to spend the rest of the day or night with them, if you're lucky they may even buy you a drink, but I've always got the drinking bit covered anyway, there's a cheap orange cider in Scotland called Amber Jacks, it's bloody lovely and for 4.19 you can get off your face, but not too smashed you can't find your tent in the morning. After a while you will need to wash, I always carry soap with me but in the first day or two of being there you'll find the best toilets in the city pretty easily, I'd tell you mine but I'll be using them next year & I don't want anyone telling on me (not that anyone's reading this, other than maybe my mum, Hi mum!) The only tip I have for washing, as you've probably got plenty washing experience yourself, is to be thorough, you never know when you'll next be sat in a hot comedy club with no air conditioning and a beautiful member of the opposite sex comes and sits next to you, your smell can be an instant decider on that one, be prepared! After I'd settled into the city I found myself talking to anyone & everyone, I made great friends for life and soon found lots of people who didn't like me too. Some people are very good at not letting you know which camp they're in. Take Brutus, for example, that's not his real 35 name, I can't remember his real name, don't really care to, but he was about six foot nine and twenty stone, he came over to me as I sat on a bench enjoying the night and asked if I smoked, I said 'okay' to be sociable and he immediately started telling me how he's just gotten out of a Spanish prison after serving 9 years and 9 days (their sentences are like that, apparently) for killing someone. 'Splendid' I thought. Unfortunately, before telling me this, he'd gifted me a bottle of Buckfast so I'd have felt rude leaving. That bottle, might I add, came from the inside pocket of his coat, after taking a sip I offered it back to him and he said 'nae mate I've got one' before pulling a half empty bottle out from between his arse cheeks. But that wasn't worrying me, that was his bottle, my bottle came to me full and the cap had never been opened. I was more worried about this giant murderer befriending me. Did I mention he had no front teeth? A lot of this book is fictionalised, loosely based on fact then embellished for my own amusement, because it's funny writing about Spickle Rotley or being over exposed, but this bit's true. Ask any Scottish person and they'll say 'Aye, probably' anyway, the place is full of them! So after a while of getting to know each other things got rowdy and he started shouting at a group of clearly underage girls on a nearby bench, he went over to torment them & I started drinking the Buckfast at super speed so I'd feel better about leaving. I'd made other friends in this part of the city over the time I'd been there and some of them came over to talk to me about what shows I had seen & what shows I was going to go see, I told them I was looking forward to seeing a comedian called Chris Cross who I make a point of seeing every year. Next thing I know a 15 year old girl is 36 attacking Brutus for asking her to sit on his knee, 15 year old scottish girls have a lot more balls than me, I'd have just sat on his knee and cried. She hit him. He hit her back, a group of lads saw this and came over & kicked the shit out of him. At one point he looked over to me & shouted something in an accent I didn't understand, I presume he was asking me to jump in & help. Right then a lad I'd only just met said "D'ya wannae go see this Cross fella then" "What?" I said, still thinking about Brutus "Fucking come on mate, you're dead if you hang around here" he said, grabbing me & pulling me up. I didn't argue. We went to the show & had a bloody good night. He bought me a couple of pints too, I'll never forget that lad. Though I can't for the life of me remember his name, but I was very drunk. So, the moral of the story is... I don't know, something about free drinks. It was great
That was just one night, every night was as good as that, don't let that put you off, I've never had a bad experience in Edinburgh, there's more good folk in the world than there are bad, and as long as you've got your head screwed on and you're not a miserable git you'll have a good time. For instance, on my final day I woke up in my soaking wet, bug infested tent (a problem I overcame at the following Edinburgh festivals) & decided It was time to go home, I booked a Megabus ticket at an internet cafe (I had to, my phone had been out of action for a few days, I awoke one morning to find it soaking wet in a puddle outside my tent. Broken phones are a recurring theme for me at the fringe, the previous year I smashed a phone off a concrete curb at the bottom of a big grassy hill when I, very cleverly, slid all the way down it while presumably showing off to 37 some girls or something, I can't remember, but that's the most likely story) and headed to the station. There was a two hour wait before my bus came. Now there are two busses to London, One that goes to Newcastle, where I was heading, and a direct one that goes down the other side of the country and doesn't stop. The 'direct' bus. Guess which one the conductor ushered me onto? I was passing Keele service station when the realisation began to take hold. I asked the driver if this was definitely my bus, funnily enough it wasn't. Funnily enough I was hundred of miles across the other side of the country, with no money, no phone, very little food and very little hope. I laughed. Quite a lot, it probably looked weird to everyone else, like I was over reacting, but I genuinely found it that funny. The driver let me off the bus at the service station and wished me luck. I sat near the coach station and hoped there'd be a cross country bus I could jump on and just forget it had happened, perhaps if I never told anyone I'd soon forget about it and just tell people about all the funny comedians I'd seen, all the crazy people I'd met, remember Brutus? That was funny wasn't it? I asked every coach driver who pulled up if he was, by any chance, going across the country to the northeast. It soon became apparent that this wasn't a route to the northeast. A worker from a fast food shop in the service station came out for his cigarette break. He let me use his phone so I could ring home & tell them why I wasn't there yet, and where I was. On his next cigarette break he brought me a marker pen and a bit of cardboard. I wrote 'NORTH EAST' on it & stood at the entrance to the motorway for 3 more hours. It got dark. 38 Then, like an angel descending from heaven, I saw a coach with a familiar name on it. I didn't know where I knew the name from, but the company name, 'Thinglands' rung a bell. 'You wouldn't be going to the north east would you mate?' I begged 'No mate, sorry, just Manchester' Then I remembered. I had a house in Manchester! Well, not a house, not technically, but I was a student there, and although this was August there were still people living in my student house there. People I knew. People who'd let me in and feed me and let me have a bath and... My bed! A much better bed than the one I had in Newcastle, this was a double bed, with 2 mattresses (I'd acquired one from another student when they moved out and put it under mine. over the next year I would eventually have 3 mattresses on my bed, that'd officially the amount of mattresses that make a bed into a fluffy cloud in heaven) I explained my predicament to the driver and he let me ride back to Manchester with him. To make it that little bit better their depot was really close to my house. By midnight I was home, I washed, I was talking to my old housemates and a couple of new ones. Loads of my things were still there that I'd left there for the summer, and my landlord HADN'T rented my room out for the summer like he said he would, so I got to sleep in my own bed. Best 10 days of my life. Well, until the next summer...
39
8
Internal rambling
When I was about 16 I contracted glandular fever. I wasn't allowed to go outside and have adventures the way I wanted because it was contagious; I'm stuck, quarantined in a little room off the side of ward 13 waiting to be operated on. I thought to myself: 'Ward 13, what a lucky number'
Anaesthetised, going under. Snook some food in 'cause I'm not allowed to eat I feel sorry for the doctor, that'll be a treat when halfway thru a textbook operation I puke up all over him & cause a botheration. It didn't happen tho, but while I was asleep I fell into something from a cliff so steep You caught me as always & taught me to dance I was an unwilling student but u gave me a chance 40 You told me not to worry & I said I never do. Then I woke up & forgot about you I remembered the fall, the dance & the feeling I thought about the point, tried to find the meaning But all I wanna know right now is who YOU were I know that I knew you, you seemed familiar It's 5 hours on, I'm on the road to recovery but somethings missing I need the discovery I look to my left to the bed next to me at the man with 1 leg & a bag for his wee but hang on, now his form had shifted to a beautiful lady, my eyebrow lifted I thought there was trickery going on in my mind she responded to that thought, said she WAS my mind she said 'come with me, we'll go for a ride slip into your thoughts, I'll join you inside' - I had nothing to do that day outside of my head so I decided to close my eyes & slip away instead It wasn't a long ride, I was there in a flash, I saw my insides & they looked canny mashed We drove past my sight, my sense of smell and hearing electric jolts told me what I was feeling less technical than I thought, we sped along this highway not a clue if I was going the right way but we got to this house & I knew it was mine it was both classical & modern in design. We got to the gate, asked the guy to let us in kinda recognised him, he was scrawny & thin he reminded me of me, thats a job I could have done if I wasn't that creative & would work for anyone I got dropped off & walked around the garden, under a tree I found Lord Byron he was writing a play but wouldn't let me see he said I'd be sick of it eventually I carried on along a crazy paved path 41 in the pond were some ladies taking a bath 3 of my ex girlfriends from when I was a teen they didn't talk much, just looked angry, banished from my house apparently by me I apologised & invited them back in they said its too late, never again I carried on walking & learnt not to get tied so a so called love that had clearly died so I wandered up a hill to what I thought as my house as I went to go in another bloke ran out I squinted my eyes until I could see the guy running out was, in fact, me. It wasn't long ago, I looked about nineteen but why was I running, what had I seen? things got weird, the atmosphere unsteady should I go inside? I don't think I'm ready. A voice from above said "if u don't you'll regret that" I looked up & there was my faithful pet parrot I knew I could trust what I saw before me he's like my best friend, only he never bit me. As I pushed the door I heard a little jingle recognised the tune, think I'd bought the single I forgot what it was so I just went in in the hallway was Blake, & he was writing I said "Hiya William, what u writing? do tell" he said "The Human Image" I said "I remember it well!" He asked "What rhymes with 'Cruelty would be no more'?" I replied "If we did not make somebody poor" I didn't know what to think, it was canny absurd I taught him his own words & felt like a fraud I carried on thru the parlour into the kitchen my Gran was cooking & singing, I stopped & had a listen. What a beautiful voice, I must tell her someday but thats not why I'm here so I went on my way up a spiral staircase 'til I got to the top 42 from the end of the hall a voice said 'stop' A sepia goddess stood in front of me, it pained me to think it was only a dream I knew this was the girl with whom I'd spend my future but she told me not to wait, it'd be ages 'til I met her. Put two & two together & slowly realized This was the girl I'd seen when I was anaesthetised. Her beauty was eccentric though somehow modest hair was wild like the darkest, deepest of forests many before me will fall at her feet and die but this night she's dissect me & show me inside 'cause she's the only person with the key to my mind until I meet her again I'll always be blind. I asked 'Why now? why are we here? She said 'hmm, ok I'll tell u, dear' I'm here, right, for the good of your health, see, before we get to meet you're gonna try & kill yourself. I thought if I met u now, things would be different. You'll spend some years down, heartbroken & skint I somehow understood & believed every word no matter how crazy & blatantly absurd. I moved forward to reach out & touch her But she disappeared as I got closer. I stood wide eyed, my mind now clear. Felt immortal, had nothing to fear. Went back downstairs & toward the door but there's icing on my cake, the story had more I walked past a room, saw a therapeutic bed. Stood at it was my mum, massaging my head Although I was represented by lots of little lights unorganised & hectic but she's putting them right. I thought 'I should thank her' but she knows the craic & its time for more painkillers, I should be heading 43 back I got about as far as the door, had a look outside, the car's not there no more I realized it's 'cause of what I didn't do before. You should always make time to thank your mother! So I went back in & she was no longer there It was then I learnt she didn't have to be there. She'll always know I'm thankful no matter where she's at but its the thought that counts so I turned & went back to the front door & sure enough theres the car the parrot flew onto my shoulder & shouted in my ear: "SAL There's a pause "SALISBURY!, wake up, its time to take your tablets & I need to check your blood pressure again, come on now, wake up." "Erm. Aww man" I grunt "Wake up, come on now!" insists the nurse. "Aye man"
I woke up & smiled, didn't have a clue why.
44
9
Born to roam
After my first day at Nursery school I got home, waited until mum wasn't looking, and embarked on my first big trek. I crossed the estate, all by myself, and went back to nursery to play on the swings and in the sand pit. I was missing for hours until my dog, Mel, found me. I'd always had dogs, I'd always walked dogs. Most of my favourite parts of growing up were on dog walks, exploring new places in the area I lived, places I'd never have normally found. I remember once, when angry at my mum for something which was probably just childish I got up early, filled a pillowcase with dog food and my action figures, I grabbed the dogs and ran away to begin my life on the road. I had such big plans. First we were going to hitch a ride on the back of one of those big pick-up trucks you see in American films with a man called Butch or Cletus, he was going to take us to a town where I'd find work at a shop, preferably a sweet shop or a toy 45 shop. I was going to lie about my age and get a girlfriend, go to the bar, get into fights with the son of the local mechanic over who was better, Batman or Superman. I'd eventually have to leave the town & I'd trek for miles across the desert until I found an old Chinese man in the woods who looked like Mr Miyagi and knew karate like Mr Miyagi and would teach me karate like Mr Miyagi teaches the Karate Kid karate. Eventually, when ready, I was going to go to a city, get a job, probably as a Ghostbuster or with the TV Station April O'Neil worked at. There I'd spend my life helping people, eventually I'd do something that was so nice, like save the city from a baddie, that I'd be on the news, the word 'Hero' scrolling across the screen. And my mum would be at home watching, That'd teach her to tell me off for being naughty, I'm a Goodie. I fighted the baddies and won. I had it all planned out. I started my new life by going to the field behind my house, this was visible from the upstairs windows of my house though so I quickly crossed the field to a hill known locally as the 'rabbit hill', where no-one ever saw any rabbits, and went just down it enough so I'd not be seen. I'd made it, I was out of sight of the house, and what's best is that mum probably wasn't even awake yet, so I had this much of a head start at least. I deserved a break. I unpacked my action figures from my pillowcase; a Ninja Turtle, Batman, three of the four Ghostbusters and a random, un-branded cowboy who always seemed to think he was cool enough to hang out with a Ninja Turtle, Batman & three of the 4 Ghostbusters. Silly cowboy. I played here until I got bored, I offered the dogs some food but it was the hard, dry kind that you need to add hot water to so they wouldn't eat it. It wasn't looking very good for us. I decided to 46 postpone the rest of my life until further notice & I was back home within an hour of absconding. Luckily my mum wasn't even awake yet. My real adventures started with my uncle David though, he'd drive us out somewhere, park up, we'd go for really long walks where he'd teach me all sorts of things about my home county that I'd never have known if it wasn't for him. He taught me to fish, although all I caught was a Luke Skywalker figure, which, years after his death, I learned he'd found in some mud in the woods somewhere and tied to my line before helping me cast it into the river. I don't think he wanted me to leave there empty handed. After he passed I carried on walking, whether with dogs, friends, on my own or indeed 'running away from home' - which I did quite a lot. I was a right little shit.
47
10
The G8 Riots
Another story, another Megabus journey to Edinburgh. This one was supposed to be different, I wasn't going with just a tent and a hope, I actually had somewhere to stay, with someone who had a car, I probably wouldn't have to walk around very much at all, obviously there'd be trips to the shops or maybe around the town, or to the toilet, but as for spending a whole day walking around exploring things, there'd simply be no need. I was up there visiting my mum, who was teaching English as a foreign language to people in a really posh boarding school somewhere on the outskirts of the city. The grounds of the school were gorgeous, big open gardens I spent a long time walking around, daydreaming, I didn't need to go off exploring because the gardens were vast enough to tire me out without losing sight of the building. 48 After a day or two in this big posh building I wanted to go off for an explore, I'd never been to Edinburgh before (I was about 16 or something, this was long before I'd discovered the comedy festival) so I asked if I could go explore the city. My mum was very weary of me going to a city on my own, the last time I'd done this was in London where I bought a large bag of magic mushrooms (they were legal in this country back then) and ended up getting lost after following a mischievous fairy along the canal from Camden Lock to god- knows-where. She was understandably worried but, being a good mum, she dropped me off in the city and gave me enough money to get the bus back. I loved the place immediately, it was like wonderland to me, there's streets built above streets with bridges above them, a seemingly endless amount of record shops and alternative boutiques, I read so many album track-lists and inlays, 'If I were rich' I thought 'I'd be poor within the hour here'. I'd have bought the whole city if I could. After walking around the smaller, more interesting streets I headed to one of the big shopping streets, the one with all the chain stores on, Princes street, I got half way down it before seeing the time, probably time to leave. I look on my little map, printed on the back of a tourist leaflet, and get my bearings, I was walking away from the bus station, great, I turned around and immediately heard sirens. This wasn't a good sign. Six police riot vans sped down the street, I was stood in the central reservation of a very wide street, I stayed there until they flew past me, but they stopped about thirty feet away from me, between me and the bus station, formed 2 lines across the road and stopped letting people past. This wasn't a good sign either. I asked one of the policemen what was 49 going on, he said something that sounded like a code. The 2000 and something G8 UN world leader's summit at Glen Eagles' house, or something like that. This sounded like MI6 jargon to me from a Bond movie, I didn't really read newspapers when I was 15 so I didn't know what while I was in Scotland, all the presidents, prime ministers, dictators, gods and warlocks from all the different countries around the world were also here, having a right good piss-up just up the road. 'Splendid!' I thought, 'I'll go try and blag a pint off them, they're all right, there's probably a wine table where you can just help yourself, or a waiter walking round with a tray with loads of glasses of wine on, why aye!' Then I heard drums. A faint drum beat coming from the opposite end of the street to where the Police were standing, ready to do their line-dancing or something, I don't know, I'd seen Scotland on the telly and they like standing in lines and marching about, maybe this would be like that, maybe I'd be on telly! The drumming got louder, there were whistles, being whistled, by whistlers! As they got closer I saw they were all dressed up, the Clown Army were there, I'd read about these, hippies/protest folk who went around the world to wherever there was something to protest about, and they dressed up as clowns, and... I don't know what else, that's as much as I remember, but I'm sue they do something. Black Bloc were there too, these are protesters who dress all in black and... bloc things? again, I don't know, but they looked serious, they had scarves covering their faces, black ones, and their hoods up over their heads, black ones! (hoods, I don't know what colour their heads were, I talked to one who sounded eastern- European and another couple of Scottish ones, so they're probably a multi-cultural group, ...Just like 50 all the guests at the world leaders' summit! maybe they should meet, they'd probably have a lot of good ideas to share!) Some had back flags, one climbed up a drainpipe about 3 storeys up to wave his flag about. The rest were just normal hippies, I could smell Marijuana everywhere, even though the police were just a few feet away, people were smoking drugs on the high street in front of policemen and nobody was doing anything about it! As a fifteen year old this was mental, especially since earlier that year I saw someone get a 30 fine for spitting chewing gum on the path back home, and I was only two hours up the road. I mingled around talking to hippies for an hour or so, it was fun, I didn't think about just going down a side street and around to the bus station, I thought I was trapped so I might as well enjoy it, I found a shop that didn't ask my age so I bought some wine and immersed myself in the protest. The Clown Army probably did my favourite thing of the day, they gathered around in a very tight circle, not too far from the police, and someone started screaming. Soon everyone was looking and there was a definite concern. After a while the line of policemen broke to let through a group of six or seven policemen and a paramedic, the policemen guarding the paramedic in a formation and pushing people out of the way, as soon as they got to the circle of clowns the circle spun out, waving their hands around like they're in the final scene of a musical, and a small, female clown rose up from the centre of the circle with a feather duster, & everyone around went 'aah' and 'ooh'. It was very theatrical and certainly tickled me, a fine example of peaceful protesting. There was also a streaker, but where as I'd thought a streaker just ran in naked then ran away, the police weren't doing anything about him, so 51 there was just this ever-present middle-aged naked man walking around. It was funny for a bit, especially when he did a wee up against Marks & Spencer's. I still giggle every time I walk past that shop. The fun soon ended though, one of Black Block threw a smoke grenade over the line of policemen & it landed in an ambulance, it was interesting to look at, a smoking ambulance, but I'm not much of an anarchist & think ambulances are probably more useful when they're not full of smoke, and the smoke might have been toxic, rendering all the insides of the ambulance useless for poorly people. Black Bloc - inconsiderate sods! A group of policemen saw the grenade- chucker & chased him through the crowd, pushing hippies out of the way (who were presumably weak vegetarians anyway). The protester ran through a small gate into Princess Street Gardens and disappeared into the crowd, the police couldn't get into the adjacent gardens because of a fence of hippies, which had formed to protect their friend from persecution. I saw all this from the top of a bus stop which I'd climbed onto with Norman, who I bumped into in the crowd, he was really buzzing off the protest vibe and heard this would be a good place to find loose women. Oh Norman! We sat atop the bus stop until the police line advanced and moved all the hippies up to the other end of the street, I let the police line pass, jumped off the bus stop and went to the bus station. Norman went off to some girl's house. Jammy get.
52
11
Beachy Head
Another trip that starts on a Megabus. A number of Megabusses in fact. Don't ask me how many, This was a long time ago, back before I'd lost Poison Ivy for good, but during the period where it was all coming to an end. I was feeling down one night, wallowing in my own pity and drinking much more than I normally would, I was in Manchester so I was alone and had no-one to tell me when things weren't a good idea. My memory of the time is a slushy mix of pubs that sell their own fluorescent orange moonshine, money being earned in seedy hotel rooms and at the end of unsuccessful nights out I'd resort to pulling girls in the gay village, (wannabe lesbians/bisexual girls are easy) or in the A&E department, there's always a crazy girl wanting attention in there. Anyway, No-one told me it wasn't a good idea to go to Beachy Head. No-one was stood over me while I was googling popular suicide spots, tutting disapprovingly. I read stories of the victims, the families, the 53 taxi drivers with special panic buttons to the local police if they think someone's going to kill themselves, the local pub landlord who see's people come in wreaking of sadness, order their drinks, then sit alone in a quiet corner, crying. 'Imagine going there!' I thought. I got excited, this was my kind of holiday destination. Imagine the atmosphere. Imagine sitting on the cliff-edge and swinging your legs off the side, feeling the wind gently blowing at you, like an evil friend with their arm around you, slowly trying to push you off the cliff. What would it be like talking to that landlord, Getting off my face, alone in his pub, constantly toying with his conscience, Would he serve me? if I sat at the bar and talked normally, didn't act miserable, would he believe I was just there as an intrigued visitor or would he think I'm a suicide tourist? More to the point, would I believe it? I'm either really interested in the place and have no intentions of killing myself, or I've every intention of jumping off the cliff and I'm not interested in anyone else's problems at all. The more I ask myself the more it seems obvious that I'm planning on jumping to my death. How absurd. I book the bus tickets immediately. It's 12.30am. The next bus is at 4.30am, I'm wide awake, I'll make it. it's a 2 hour walk to the station, I'll draw up maps (I don't have a printer but I have a pen & pencil, which is just the same) I pack my tent, a small blanket, some sandwiches, a book, my trusty swiss army knife (or a cheap knock-off thereof) and my sewing kit. and I start reading more stories of this grim destination. I slept on the bus, tired from the 2 hour walk, I woke up not knowing where I was, I find the hand- drawn map in my pocket and remember where I am and what it is Im doing, Im going to a notorious 54 suicide spot to not kill myself. This is how I get over a broken relationship. It all stared with an email from Poison Ivy and now, here I am hundreds of miles away and I've not even brought a coat. What am I doing? This was great! I text her 'Hi, thanks for the email, what you said about 'not doing anything stupid' inspired me to look up the stupid things people do after break-ups & I found out about Beachy Head, a cliff on the south coast, it's fascinating! Anyway, long story short, I'm there now, come to see what a place like this feels like' I decide against sending this message because 1) it's too long & I've not got much credit on my phone, and 2) when I read it back it doesn't come across how I meant it. I find a bench and sit down for a while. What am I doing? I'm enjoying myself but I can't tell anyone about this, they'll have me committed, no-one's going to believe I came here just out of interest. Fuck. I really wanted to go in that pub too, I'd only known about it for about 6 hours and already it was my favourite pub in England, and now, like so many other british pubs, I can't go in. I head towards the cliffs, if I can't go in the pub or interact with any of the locals I'm at least going to go & see what the fuss is about. I get to the edge, it takes me a while to muster up the courage and sit on the edge, but when I do it's amazing. There's certainly something strange about it, just knowing what's happened there, the story of the couple driving off the edge with their 2 disabled sons in the car, The broken hearted lovers who couldn't face life without their partners anymore, the old people who've just lost their husbands/wives and don't know what else to 55 do. I realize I'm one of the broken hearted lovers. I wonder if anyone's ever travelled hundreds of miles just to come here & think, then gone home alive. Did they find any answers? What were they looking for? Does breathing enough of the fresh sea air give you the strength to carry on? What's the ratio of people who walk away to people who jump? I imagine it's much higher than I think it is, loads of people must have come here to off themselves then lost the nerve. I start to feel a bit better about myself. I knew all along I didn't come here to jump, but it was always an option. Still is, but now I know for definite. I stare off toward France, my mind feels massive, I've taken in so much information and processed it into realisations & I've only been awake an hour or two. I'm not normally awake this early, but here I am watching the Sunrise over the English Channel and broadening my understanding about the big picture. Losing a girl is a tiny, tiny problem. Much smaller than the one I'd create by jumping off a cliff. "Don't do it" a familiar voice screamed from the distance. What the...? I mumbled. It was Norman. I've bumped into him in some strange places but this is mental. I reassured him and tell him what happened. Then I realize, if he's here, maybe he was going to off himself too. I had to get him away from the cliff, I suggest the pub & tell him the stories about the landlord and the taxi drivers. He doesn't seem as interested but he accepts the offer. We drink about 20 pints each, he books himself a room upstairs for the night & the landlord tells me a good place to camp. I worry about leaving Norman so I eventually ask him why he's here. 56 "You invited me, you daft bastard" he laughed "at about 3am you left me a message saying you were off to Beachy Head & that you didn't know if you'd be back, you said Id better come just in case, don't you remember?" "Nah mate, I was wrecked. Thanks for coming though" I was genuinely thankful "Ah that's alright, I was just going to ask if I could have your computer if you died, but nevermind"
Friends, eh?
57
12
The sky l[a]s[t] night
For my crimes in the cities of this country I have been placed on village arrest. It's like house arrest, but in a village. Basically I'm trapped in a village & I'm not allowed to leave. Because I was naughty. Much like in the old days before the internet, I have to just make my own fun, mostly on the internet, looking at pictures of cats. But that's not quite enough, In the city I'd walk 6 miles a day, there was a wealth of places I could go, free museums and galleries, little parks with little ponds with little ducks in. There's no ducks in this village, here, the main attraction is the supermarket, followed by the bakers, then the fruiters, and sometimes the chip-shop is a laugh. I once heard a story from a friend who used to hang around outside the chip shop with his friends, apparently one night a man pulled up on a motorbike. The whole town came out. As if that wasn't enough excitement he ordered a battered sausage... and that was it! Just a sausage, wrapped up with a 58 small bit of paper! He then left. On his motorbike! On a Tuesday there's a market, just a small market, but a market none-the-less. Theres a fruit stand, a biscuit stand, a man selling ladies underwear which we've always been suspicious of and a meat van - a man in an open sided van who sells meat, we don't ask where it comes from. Other than a weekly trip to the market and irregular trips to the supermarket there isn't much by way of entertainment. I sat home on the computer for the first few weeks of my village arrest and passed the time between meal times playing Grand Theft Auto, a game where I drove around a city, killing prostitutes and gangsters. Exactly like I did when I was in a real city. Well, almost. My job, in my previous life, was filming live music acts. There's not many bands in this village, and certainly no venue to film them in, a venue here would be preposterous, we're miles away from anywhere, however I still have my camera from that job, a Digital SLR that, although being a normal camera for taking normal pictures, can record exceptional quality video footage. I took some pictures around the house, of our pets and so on, once got a picture of a wasp with a macro lens so it was really close up and nice, that was fun, but this (rather expensive) camera was essentially going to waste. As well as this, I noticed myself getting fatter, the problem with living in this village is that I eat really well, which may be a good thing, but I no longer walk my usual 6 miles per day, so I'm filling myself up with up to three good meals a day and not doing anything to work it off, I'd hate to think how many lamb-chops I've eaten that are still inside me, poor lambs. One afternoon I got annoyed & decided to go exploring. I bought a large bottle of cheap alcohol and ventured off, following a route I'd seen 59 on an ordinance survey map on the Internet before I left. Although this was to turn out pointless, it might as well have got me a hundred meters out of the village then said 'thar be dragons', for a hundred meters out of the village, there was nothing, the footpath came to an end and went into a dense woodland, far too dense to walk through. I headed back to the village and decided to try another of the paths. I followed one which went out for about a mile, then turned right, on for another mile, then right again, and on for another mile until I was back in the village, Nice enough views, but not even so much as a log to sit on, let alone a bench, or even a wall. I do like a good wall. I prefer a wall with dry moss on the top to most dining chairs. The third and final path (I previously thought there was four paths, but the last path I walked, the one that went out of the village and back again, turned out to be two of the four paths. What a greedy path.) took me over a hill and far away, I followed it, it looked like it knew what it was doing. By now it was night time, and I was considerably more drunk than I'd planned to be while in the village, I'd planned to be at least five or ten miles away from here while this intoxicated. It took me an hour just to get a mile out of the village on the final path, the hill was so steep I had to keep stopping for a sit down, but it paid off, for at the top of the hill I was presented with one of the greatest views I'd ever looked upon, the sky was phenomenal, the clouds in the night sky varying so much from the one's I'd seen from the other side of the hill, the village was trapped behind this giant annoying mountain that blocked the gorgeous sight and atmosphere that this sky brought. I vowed to return the next day to witness the sunset, and probably for many more days after it, I'd found a new source of entertainment & it was something I 60 never witnessed in all the years I've spent travelling around the planet.
61
13
Vertical rambling
A council estate in either Kentish Town or Camden, not sure which, seemed smack bang in the middle of the two to me, I don't know, somewhere around there. It was one of those big horrible buildings, 20 storeys high, a broken lift & a piss-drenched stairwell. The entrance was also where they put the bins out, though not a lot of the residents used bins, most just chucked stuff out the window. I don't know what we did with our rubbish, I don't remember ever taking it out but I know we didn't chuck it out the window, we never opened the window - the noise was horrific. If you ever want to hear a cacophony of spousal abuse, inner-city teenage gang banter, gunshots and rape screams then move there and open your window. I remember finding it interesting on my first night. That soon ended. 62 I feel physically sick when I think of the things I heard in that building. There was always some beautiful dark haired darling crying on the staircase. I was in love with her, I asked her how she was or if there was anything I could do many times but she never heard me, I'd think about her all day & late into the night, I'm still kind-of obsessed with her.
I'm not sure she was even really there, she was the kind of girl my addled imagination would have made up at the time. Just my type. Crying on the stairs That's not what I meant. Thick steel fire doors shut the world out, but the single-pane windows let the world sneak in and steal your attention, the building was being done up, it was an awful shit hole but it's location warranted a multi-million pound make over, I've been back recently, just walked past, I couldn't afford to know anyone who lives there now, I don't think I could back then, I'm pretty sure my friend never paid her rent, how could she afford to? she never left the house. Scaffolding scaled the outside walls like a mechanical ivy that started off small and ended up eating the whole building before you could do anything about it, this lead to the biggest spate of burglaries it'd ever seen. Luckily we weren't targeted but I can't imagine anyone wanting to come in if they saw inside from the window, we were hardly living like kings, we didn't have computers or a television, just a clock radio, constantly flashing because the electric went off so often that we stopped resetting the time, plus the BBC are kind enough to tell us the time every now and again, and if not I can usually pretty much judge what time it is by who's voice I can hear on the radio, or the subject of what they're talking 63 about. And anyway, we never wanted to know the time, it was about 2007, that's all we needed to know, & that was still useless information to us, taking up space in our memory banks where we'd much rather have stored interesting anecdotes, poetry or jokes. One evening, just before it got dark, she suggested we go exploring. It was two years since she'd left the flat, at least that's what she'd told me. Turns out she meant via the front door. When I was out she'd climb out onto the scaffolding and smoke, looking out over the city, keeping watch over it like an agoraphobic Batman, listening to arguments, screams and sounds of car wheels spinning as they quickly sped away from the scenes of their drivers crimes. Seeing her climb out the window was a real moment, not just because of the sly look up her dress, but it was like seeing a caged bird set free at last, that moment of relief when you see that their wings still work after so much neglect. I'd never seen the wind blow her hair, I'd never seen her smoke and just flick the ash away, not carefully into an ashtray. I followed her out and was surprised at how well she knew where she was going, only passing empty flats so we didn't get caught & telling me which scaffolding bars were shaky or loose. We got to one window and she looked at me, gave a mischievous smile, the kind that brought her cheekbones up but her forehead down & making her chin look even more pointy and jaw more chiseled that it already was, she ran her fingers up the inside edge of the window and & heard a latch un-hook, it swung open & she climbed inside. I was shitting myself. I'm not a burglar, but I am an adventurer, so I followed her. If I was a burglar I'd be a pretty shitty 64 one, the flat was empty, but it was a bit bigger than ours, maybe it's just because it didn't have anything in it, not that we had much stuff, just a double mattress on the floor and a clock radio, but still, we didn't have the echo that this flat had. We snooped around a bit, found some cleaning products, she wanted to take them but I talked her out of it, saying that if we ever needed them we could come back for them, knowing fine well that we never would, we barely cleaned anything. We fooled around in every room, like horny adolescents finally left on our own, trying to keep our giggling to a minimum so people in the neighboring flats didn't catch us. While snooping through cupboards we found an old Variety biscuit tin, it had lots of letters, about 20 years worth, all to the same woman, mostly from prisons, turned out the bloke's a rapist. Or at least he was in 1967. The flat felt different now. She wanted to leave & I didn't want to stay so we spiderman'd our way back to our window. No wonder she never left the flat.
65
14
Norman
I said his hair looked like Jim Jarmusch's but he always argued it was like Tom Waits'. He sulks a lot & often disappears for days on end until he remembers how much he likes me. I think. Though I often think maybe it's just because he doesn't have any other friends. I've never seen him talking to anyone, I've definitely never seen him with anyone else, never even seen him on the phone to anyone & he never talks about other people in the present, all his stories are from a distant past that he doesn't like to talk about, actually, no, he loves to talk about his past, at great length, he just doesn't like to be asked about it. I certainly never know whether to believe him. The first time I met him was when I'd run away from home when I was about 6. I'd left home after a disagreement about whether or not I should be allowed to play with matches (I'd been caught playing with matches and got told off, I didn't like being told off, so I left home, supposedly forever) I crossed the field out the back of our house, past the rabbit hill, through the woods and along 66 the river until I got to the city. On the edge of a city was a bridge, I played under there for a bit, thought about how I'd build myself a shelter, mostly just chucked stones about though. An older lad crept up behind me to scare me. I don't remember the exact conversation but I remember him telling me he was 10 years old and he'd run away from home 4 years previously, when he was my age. He had tales of his travels across the country, hitching rides on open-sided train carriages like in the films, He had a half-sized guitar he used to earn money, busking on the streets of London and Manchester and Liverpool and Glasgow. He'd met all the famous people I liked, like Newcastle United players and Bill Murray and the girl who played Xena, Warrior Princess. Although curiously he couldn't remember her name either. (I've since remembered it, Norman reminded me actually, It was Lucy Lawless) I walked around the city with him for a few hours, we stole sweets from the Pick-n-Mix bit in Woolworths, we walked round the river, he showed me his den in the woods, said it was just his back- up though, and that he'd found an empty house, broken in, turned the electric on and made it his home. He wouldn't take me there though, not until he knew me a bit better. I never did see that house. He said I could stay in this den in the woods, it wasn't bad, a sheet of plastic across going from a branch on one tree to another branch on another tree, wooden crates made 2 walls, the other was just the mud of the hill it was built in to, and the front wall was open but the sheet could be pulled down over it. I told him I'd take it! After giving me a potato and expecting me to know how to cook it (I was just six) he left. An hour later I'd eaten the potato raw and it got a bit cold so I just went home & just apologised to mum. 67 The rest of my childhood was littered with visits from Norman, Never at home though, never even on the estate, it was always when I'd ventured far from home that I'd bump into him & be regaled with his tales of where he'd been and what he'd done since I last saw him. Most of the stories were of him being naughty, getting chased, breaking into abandoned buildings and the like. It acted as a deterrent to me, I was never one for, say, throwing bricks through people's greenhouses just so they'd chase you, for a 'thrill', but Norman's stories of him doing it put me right off doing it. Then I turned twelve & Norman's bad influence stopped acting as a deterrent. He was sixteen by now, listening to hardcore punk and drinking and he'd started getting in trouble with the police. I was walking my dogs along an abandoned railway line one day when I bumped into him, he was walking from nearby city Sunderland, his flat had burned down because he'd fallen asleep with a lit cigarette. 'Cigarette?' I asked, intrigued, and sure enough he had cigarettes, I smoked a whole one and was sick. I walked back into town with him, he stole some beer off the market & gave me half. I drank 'til I was sick. I wasn't having much luck making friends at school by the time I was a teenager, It was easy in primary school but once I moved into comprehensive I suddenly didn't fit in, I'd spend most afternoons & evenings taking the dogs out and exploring the countryside around the outsides of the city. I saw Norman more & more, we drank more & more & started getting into trouble, He got better at not getting caught & I seemed to get worse at it. It wasn't long before I got arrested for stealing twelve cans of beer from the supermarket & mum had to come get me. I couldn't tell her it was Norman that put me up to it so I just said it was 68 me. Norman's influence continued to worsen as I went to college and university. To this day I technically haven't finished a course, but for some reason I've got all the certificates and passed through the skin of my teeth, my only explanation is that my tutors must have liked me, I always kept in touch & kept them up to date with what I was doing, Just not mentioning that I had this friend who made me drink lots and fuck my life up a little bit more each night. Norman wasn't always there, there'd be long periods of time where he'd disappear, things would dry up around here for him, or he'd get into some trouble & have to skip town for a while, I always understood, it was usually when I was sick of him anyway. Sometimes, when off on my own travels, I'd bump into him, in the strangest places, the strangest being Mount Vesuvius in Naples, I was at a film festival in the city & he'd just moved there with a girl. He wouldn't introduce me to her though, I suspect she was ugly.
69
15
Hopelessness - A Needed Knight
Another thing I found while looking through Normans things after he died. It wasnt in his handwriting though, it was my handwriting, but I dont remember writing it.
The Norm.
Unbelievable Inconceivable Imaginary enemy with thoughtful alchemy You appear when needed Completely unheeded A welcome intruder & all-consumer Thanks.
I never expect you though I bring it on myself Causing terrible damage to my descending health I smile when I see you & enjoy catching up But I can't help but think that you don't give a fu*k.
70
Started off meaning well but got out of hand A role model in need of a complete re-brand Do you cause the situation - or does the situation call for you? I'm not sure it has your phone number. !see you soon?
-2005
71
16
Frare Jaques, in Polish, in a London taxi. (and the first death of Norman)
Summer 2011 started off innocently enough, there was a space in a car going to Wales so I jumped at the chance to bag Lord Hareford's Knob. By 'bag' I mean add it to the list of places I'd walked, and by 'Lord Hereford's Knob' I mean Twmpa, a mountain in south-east Wales affectionately known as what sounds like the penis of a stately gentleman. That's the kind of thing that float's my boat. I also wanted to visit the town of Hay-On-Wye a 72 few miles north. I'd heard it was known as 'the town of books' & I'd recently read Charles Bukowski's Ham-On-Rye, which contained many of the same letters as the town's name. (the title, not the whole book, I imagine it contained in it all of the letters the town's name did.) The journey there was utterly forgettable, in that I can't remember any of it due to my being asleep. I was awakened by the driver when we were already there and without saying a proper goodbye (I was tired and groggy from the uncomfortable sleep) I rudely just got out of the car, muttered a thankyou and walked off towards the hill, which turned out to be the wrong hill but I was in no frame of mind to be navigating. Luckily I'd brought plenty food and water. The mountain was great, a nice view, the weather was kind to me too. I did a lot of writing up there, I remember spending most of the day on a north-facing rock, gazing off into the distance for inspiration then writing for short spurts of time. I camped out there that night, not as near the top as I'd have liked, due to the wind, but still, I 'bagged' that Knob. The next day I visited Hay-On-Wye, a lovely little town I discovered was twinned with Timbuktu 73 and Mali. I don't know as much about Mali as I'd like to, especially their music, but I had Damon Albarn's album Mali Music with me and I remember spending a lot of the time listening to that, especially as I visited the town's brilliant castles. Talking to a chap in one of the town's pub I found out that Oasis' label manager, Alan McGee was from there, I stopped listening to Damon Albarn's album out of respect. Well, for a while. I called my friends to see when they were leaving & they'd elongated their stay indefinitely, most people would worry about where they'd go/how they'd get there but my eyes lit up, all restrictions on what I could do and how long I had to do it were gone. Splendid. As soon as I hung up the phone I heard a familiar voice coming from up the street. "It bloody well is you!" it shouted. I recognised Norman's unique kind of vocal swagger but for some reason he had a really Welsh accent, like, really Welsh, like he actually was a valley. "What're you doing here you awful bastard" I jokingly shouted, just as I would to a friend outside a pub up north. "And why're you talking like that" He shushed me and whispered "Shut up, these people think I'm local" I rolled my eyes though 74 secretly wanted to hear his stories of how he was trying to infiltrate Hay, the bloody idiot. I think the rowdiness of our greetings worried some of the locals, we were being very loud and boisterous and forgetting what a quiet town this was, the beer garden had emptied and there was just us. I learned his story; he was putting the accent on for a girl (surprise, surprise) whose father absolutely hated the English. He asked what I was doing this far from home, told him I was there to bag a knob, standard. I had nowhere near enough money to stay in the pub all day so Norman showed me the shop with the cheapest, strongest booze and we went on to a park where the local teenagers came to drink away their youth. We sat with the eldest group, some of them in their twenties, the youngest was perhaps 17, a lad nicknamed 'Hulk Hogan' due to his blond handlebar moustache, although he was more often ridiculed because it more closely resembled 3 yellow threads resting around his mouth, and only had it because he hadn't developed hair anywhere else on his face yet. The most intriguing character in this bunch of Welsh misfits was a girl named Poppy. She told me her name was Poppy Fields and her friends 75 vouched for her but Norman & I didn't believe her. Still though, she was pretty enough for me to just nod and not ridicule her in jest as I would with a male friend. She was 19 and had started drinking a lot earlier in the day than we had so she was very friendly and talkative, before long she was sat on my knee and telling me how bored she was of the town and how her family were keeping her from leaving, Poppy had a whole bunch of qualifications from the local sixth-form in art and design subjects, performing arts and other things I can't remember, she'd stayed on an extra year to do the ones she couldn't do in her first go, she was like me, enjoyed education, especially in artistic subjects, except, unlike me, she wasn't encouraged to go to university, in fact her dad just wouldn't let her go at all, full stop. I couldn't believe this happened, it was 2011, who stopped a nineteen year old from doing what they wanted anymore? Its like the second half of the last century never happened to Hay-On-Wye. I don't remember much of the rest of that night, I remember Norman had convinced the girl he was seeing to go home and get her tent, but I only remembered this when I woke up in my own 76 tent & heard his un-mistakable, even in Welsh, groanings in the tent next to mine. If he was with a girl, then surely... I opened my eyes, and sure enough, there was Poppy. I smiled a bit but before I could fully enjoy the situation I remembered a promise I'd made the night before. Poppy had told me she'd applied for a place at St. Martin's, this arty university in London & had an interview the next week. I told her I'd take her. 'Oh well' I thought, It's not like I had anything else to do, I just imagined I'd spend a lot more time in the countryside before returning back to a city again, and who cares if he fatherll come and kill me for kidnapping his daughter and taking her somewhere where she might, god forbid, get educated and be successful. Poppy met with her sister later that morning who brought her some clothes and money she'd gotten from her mother, who was supportive of her daughters but had no power over her husband. This made me feel better, at least I wasn't kidnapping a teenager from her strict parents anymore, well, not from both of them anyway. Her mum had given her a hundred and fifty pounds; I 77 hadn't seen that much money in a long time. She offered to buy my coach ticket and food/drink for a week if I'd look after her, she didn't want to go alone and I knew places to stay, I thought it was fair. The bus to London, the next day, wasn't as bad as most bus journey's I'd been on. Most of them were 6-10 hour cross-country jaunts where I was either leaving something behind or going somewhere I'd rather not have to go, but this one was different. This time I had somebody to talk to. Poppy was a great talker too, I think it was the sweet Welsh voice but it was most likely her intelligence, she'd not only studied at school and college but spent much of her free time reading up on things and becoming world weary. Her dad had never allowed her to travel so she read up on places she was interested in. She seemed genuinely excited to be on a Megabus. A bloody Megabus! It fascinated me & made the journey really enjoyable. We talked for the whole trip about music, books and poetry. She'd listen to my travelling stories then, instead of butting in with her travelling stories in a kind of one-upmanship I often experience with other well travelled people, then when my story finished she's ask a question about 78 the place and I'd have another avenue of the anecdote to travel down. We talked to each other for hours, but listened to each other for much longer. She was really excited, which made me excited. Norman & his girl, in the row in front of us, were much quieter. I suppose they'd already gotten to know each other. We all drank on the coach because, well, I forget the reason, but when we got to there we were off it. I'd normally just walk to my friend's flat in Tottingham but no-one else wanted to so we got a taxi, dramatically cutting into our funds but it was worth it when half-way between Victoria and Tottingham Poppy started reciting Frare Jaques to the driver in his native language, Polish.
Panie Janie, Panie Janie, Rano wsta", rano wsta". Wszystkie dzwony bij#, wszystkie dzwony bij#. Bim, bam, bom, Bim, bam, bom.
Later I asked her to write it down for me, she wrote it on my chest & went over it every time it'd washed off for the rest of the week. When we arrived at Tottingham there was 79 horrendous traffic. There was a police car up ahead and a man lying on the pavement, we didn't know what was going on but the taxis meter was ticking away so we called our friends. They came & met us and took us back to their flat. I was planning on taking Poppy out that week, showing her the city for the first time, the brilliant, multi-cultural city that was London, where yes, there was a stupid amount of crime, which really irked her, but the people were generally nice. But that man we saw lying on the road back in the taxi was Mark Duggan, and in the following week the London riots kicked off. Looting, fighting in the streets, cars being burnt out. Poppy was understandably scared, she'd never left Hay-On-Wye. We watched it all on the news and never left the flat other than to go to the local corner shop for drinks each day until our money ran out. We sent Norman out with our last 7.50 one day. Less than a minute after he'd left we heard shouting outside, we looked out the window and saw a gang of 30-40 hooded youths running up the streets with their faces covered, carrying weapons. They were smashing every window in their way and banging metal poles and baseball bats off everything. We worried about Norman. I re-assured 80 everyone, told them 'It'll be fine, every time something like this happens Norman walks in an hour later with amazing stories to tell', because he did, I wasn't lying. Not this time though. This time he didn't come back. There were reports on the news of 4 deaths on the streets surrounding the block we were staying on. We stopped watching the news after that. The riots stopped by the time Poppy's interview at the university came, but by then she'd changed her mind about moving to London, and probably about ever leaving Hay-On-Wye again. Her dad came to pick her and her friend up & take them home, and that was the end of that.
81
17
Glastonbury, the night Michael Jackson Died
It was 2009, I left London with just a small bag & eighty pounds to my name. I'd burned many bridges in the city through no fault of my own, just the words of a vengeful ex girlfriend upset that I'd broken up with her because she'd cheated on me, the words of an ex girlfriend can be lethal when all your friends are more her friends than your own. The air was sad, the night was spiteful, if they were the kind of people to believe a crazy drunk whore then I didn't want to be around them, these weren't the kind of people you can fall out with without changing your address either, these were the kind of people who played with guns and hard liquor, neither of which made me want to stay. I had my thumb out on the slip road onto the A1914162 for an hour before anyone picked me up, 82 I wasn't too surprised by this, I wasn't in the north anymore after all, up north I could thumb a lift in 10 minutes, even with this beard and scruffy hair combination I've been farming since I got here. I was picked up by a middle aged couple named Roy & Brenda, I could tell Brenda wasn't too happy about her husband giving me a lift but I could easily guess the method in Roy's madness, me being in the car kept his wife quiet, and from the little I did hear her say I could tell Brenda would have made the rest of Roy's journey very annoying. I never did understand how some couple's could stay together so long when they quite obviously hate another. The key part of settling down must be in the Settling, to settle for someone you hate in order to get your house cleaned and your meals cooked. Brenda must have been a great cook. They were only going as far as Derby, frankly I'd have been grateful if they were just going ten miles up the road, a warm seat and a nice chat with a seemingly good-natured man was a blessing when the alternative was to be constantly watching my back in the city. For two & a half hours Roy talked about fish. I have a, let's say 'limited' knowledge of fish, I've never even thought about the difference between cod & haddock, I didn't know you could get both from the fish & chip shop! But Roy knew. He spent most of the time talking about fishes I'd never even heard of. I remember a few of the more interesting things he told me, like how there's a type of eel (I think it was an eel, could have been anything) that only mate when it rains, and so to make them mate he ran a hose around the top of the tank, pierced loads of little holes in the hose and ran water through it, simulating rain. I'm trying to remember the other interesting fish story he told me. I can't. Ask me another time. 83 Roy & Brenda dropped me at the train station, I hadn't arranged to meet anyone or anything so I decided a day in the pub was in order, I'd just cashed in all my favours and all that was owed to me in London and had just over eighty pounds. No matter where I ended up that night I knew I'd at least be warm. I headed to the first pub I could find, turned out to be a sports pub, a football bar, and not just any football bar either, this was the football bar that stood exactly half way between the train station and the football ground, so it was the main choice for away-days supporters to grab a few not-too- expensive ones before having to pay four quid a can on the train. I got talking to the barman, he immediately noticed my accent & asked if I liked Newcastle Brown Ale. "Why Aye!" I replied, He brought through a crate of it. Apparently Derby had just played Newcastle & he'd stocked up ready for the away-day supporters & he'd bought one crate too many. "A pound each to you" "You what?" I said, bemused. it's usually at least 3 a bottle "A pound each, I'll not sell them now & they'll only go to waste" This was heaven. I gave him 12, took one and told him to put the rest in the fridge. Bloody brilliant. I then spent yet another day of my life talking about football. A subject I wouldn't exactly have as my specialist subject on Mastermind, unless it's narrowed down a little to be about Newcastle United's 1996/1997 starting 11, (I had the sticker-book that year, I was 10 years old, and before the internet used to listen religiously to the radio every match-day. you have to know the players' names when you're listening on the radio) 84 & even then I doubt I'd win. In mid-afternoon, I forget what time, I sent a message to my friend Greg, He was at university in the city and lived with his girl, Nelly, another couple called Stewart & Emma, and a connoisseur of high potency horse tranquillisers, Benji. Last time I was in Derby I spent a good amount of time getting off my face with those cats & thought I'd drop by and shake it with them one more time (they were in their final year, afterwards they all moved to different cities, Greg & Nelly had 2 kids and I haven't seen the others since. big shame, they were some of the coolest people I've lived/stayed with in the last 10 years of shared accommodation) Although I'd dropped out of film school when I left London I didn't tell the student loan company so I was expecting a nice little dropping of two grand into my bank account the following Monday, I made my eighty pounds last longer by drinking cheaply and not having my first drink until after six or seven in the evening, it's surprising what a difference that makes when living on a budget. I'm not the kind who needs a drink when he wakes up anyway. Monday morning came, I was up really early to go to the cashpoint, about 10am. I borrowed Greg's bicycle and rode into town, stopping at the first cashpoint I saw. Bling Bling! 2100 and change. I took out a couple of hundred, did a little dance & went to head off. As I turned around I saw a lovely looking Victorian-fronted pub, The Big Bell Inn. With a name like that I had to go in. Too funny not to. As I entered I wasn't looking where I was going 100%, I thought I'd seen the bar at one end of the room & I was looking at my phone or something so I headed towards it. After a few steps I looked up & I was walking towards a wall. Not even a wall with a bar pained on it, just a wall. 85 "You thought the bar was over there didn't ya?" said this beautiful blonde from behind me "How'd u know?" I asked, turning to see her "Happens to everyone their first time, was there an old man sat on one of the stools?" I hadn't really thought about it, but yes, now that she mentioned it, there was. "Yeah, beige jumper?" I replied. This was getting weird. She went on to tell me the ghost stories of the building and that it'd been featured on the television show Most Haunted. I was more interested in the female bartender than the history of the pub, but this changed when the chef came in at lunchtime, kissed her, and asked if I wanted a bacon sandwich, The best bacon sandwich in the Midlands he said. I accepted, gave them two pounds and got back to talking to who I 'd just found out was his girlfriend about ghosts or something. I can't remember, I was probably just sat hoping he wouldn't spit in my sandwich. I quickly became a regular at that pub, made some good friends I still talk to now, had some great nights and even pulled a few girls in the coming months, good times fondly remembered. Made a couple of good videos with some film students I knew, filmed a quite-famous-at-the-time band, The Automatic, played golf for the first time and spent a lot of time eroding a hole the shape of my arse into a stool at the bar of The Big Bell or into Greg's couch, but after a few months I thought it was time to move on. I was running out of money & was starting to feel people get sick of me. To send me off, on my final night, Greg got me more drunk than I'd ever been before on the kind of Absinthe that comes in a bottle with a worm in the bottom, the kind of worm which, when chewed, causes hallucinations. Greg spent the night laid in the corner, in front of 86 his speakers, listening to Zero7, one of the most chilled out bands Id ever heard. I, however, needed to go on an adventure. Greg's back garden backed out onto a field and some woods. I brought my wind-up radio with me and wandered off. Digital station BBC 6 Music were broadcasting live from Glastonbury that weekend and before long I thought I was lost in some woods near the festival & started following the music so I could go see some bands or comedians, I was quite excited, I always wanted to go to Glasto, only trouble was the music was coming from the radio I was carrying under my arm, so, looking back, I was probably just walking round in circles for a few hours, in a field hundreds of miles away from the actual Glastonbury. It was great though! Then, at some point in the night, I started noticing a lot of the bands were covering Michael Jackson songs. I wasn't a big fan of his but his songs are definitely recognisable and they were definitely his. I remember asking someone (who, in hindsight, probably wasn't there, perhaps I was talking to the DJ on the radio, I don't know) why everyone was playing Michael Jackson songs and he just said that there was an unconfirmed rumour that he was, in fact, dead. 'Don't be daft' I thought, and carried on toward the music. Rumour-spreading at Glastonbury is a well documented thing, every year I hear stories of rumours spread around the festival and, before mobile phones and tablet computers, these rumours snowballed from gossip into gospel and became common knowledge. Then the confirmed reports started coming in. 'Bloody hell' I thought 'when people ask me where I was when Michael Jackson died I'll be able to say I was at Glastonbury, and that all the bands started doing MJ covers and it was the best place in the world to be' and so on. 87 To this day no-one's asked me that, which is probably for the best, seeing as how I wasn't there at all, I was in Derby, being silly. The next day I was wired, had to move quickly, didn't have time to properly tidy up or pack, and when I got to the bus station we'd missed the coach by 10 minutes. I had to wait 6 hours in Meadow Hell, the worst bus station/shopping centre in the world, it's like purgatory for those in transit, I was neither in Derby nor at my destination. Just stuck somewhere in the middle. I've been there many times since and can confirm it's still bloody awful. I spent the 6 hours starring out of the window, telling myself I'd never drink again.
88
18
Lie in
I'm trying to get up but my bed's very comfortable. Still a bit drunk off the night before, there was football on so I had an excuse. Yesterday I was recovering from my first 10 mile walk in months, today it seems like both have formed an allegiance and ganged up on me to protest the poor treatment I've given it. I've got a driving lesson in 3 hours. I'll have a glass of water. The water goes down so easily, it's really nice, but then it hits the top of my guts and there's some kind of little stomach-acid fella in there saying 'ner like' and making the water not want to go in, it comes back up a bit but I manage to keep it down. I don't like that feeling. I burp a bit and change the position I'm lying in, seems to help. I keep moving around, slowly, not, like, tossing & turning, but, like, enjoying my lie in. Really enjoying my lie in. I don't work so I often get a lie in, in-fact today'll be one of the shortest lie-ins I have because of my driving 89 lesson at 10.30, but compared to most people this is a bloody good lie in. I'm still moving around, I've really nice thick cotton sheets on the bed, proper posh one's from Fenwick's. Of course, I didn't buy them, don't think I've ever bought bedding. Well, one burgundy fitted bed sheet from Primark when I was a student. Everyone had that bed sheet, I bet you know someone who's got that bed sheet, it's like four quid so it's a popular choice for the poor and/or studenty people. Other than that bed sheet I've never bought a bed sheet though. Or curtains. Or, like, doilies and that, but I've got loads of them, just acquired over the span of my life. Got loads of blankets too, never bought a blanket like, no need, I've got loads. Im half awake and I'm having long conversations with myself in my head [and now on paper] about blankets and bed sheets, half-way through that thought I turned to my radio & turned it off, then decided I liked the song that was on, Curtis Mayfield's Superfly, so I turned it back on, then I had a good long think about the thing in my subconscious that heard the song, decided it was maybe too early in the day for funk & soul music, turned round, twiddled the knob & turned the radio off before letting the active part of my brain decide whether I wanted to listen to it. It's far too early for making my own decisions, all by myself, on my own. I roll back into my bed sheet & immediately appreciate the quality of it. A really posh thick cotton bed sheet, I always appreciate this bed sheet. Even when I'm not in it, the memory of all the good times I've had laid on my front, slowly, over the course of the night, digging myself into the bed in a really comfortable slow-motion dream like I'm Oh I don't know what I'm going on about. My bed sheets are nice. There.
90 > In future I must remember to at least have a point.
91
19
The 'did I mention the free wine' tour
There was never a boring moment when I lived in London, mainly thanks to a brilliant website called Londonisfree.com, which sadly no longer exists, but about five years ago when I was a resident of the big smoke I used it most nights of the week. Through it I ended up going to premieres of really interesting little British indie films, album launch parties, art fairs, photography exhibitions and all sorts, lots had free cake or a buffet or even just tea & coffee, but then one afternoon I saw these beautiful words.
Felix Dennis: The 'did I mention the free wine' tour
Two key points in this title drove me to attend this soiree. Firstly, Felix Dennis, a brilliant poet, his gritty tales of Soho and so on have always been an 92 inspiration not just to my writing but also playing a part in my taste in film, music, other poetry and even TV Shows. Secondly, free wine! I finished my classes at the film school I was studying at at 3.30pm, killed some time in Dalston for a bit with some friends then headed to Euston. When I arrived the queue was massive. Bloody massive. Seems a lot more people liked Felix than I'd imagined, I never expect the poets/bands I like to have big queue's, especially since whenever I ask anyone I know about them I'm met with blank looks 99% of the time. Or they could have just been there for the wine. I joined the queue, the building looked big enough, maybe there'd be room for all of us. who knows? I was queuing for about 15 minutes when the man in front of mE took down his hood. I recognised the big Jim Jarmusch barnet immediately, but so as not to embarrass myself I edged round to get a look at his face, in a city like this lots of people have the same haircuts, even if they are unmistakable one-of-a-kind's. I moved around, the big neck and skinny cheek combo was also of the unmistakable variety. "What the fuck are you doing here?" I grunted into his ear in a deep, sinister voice, trying to make him jump. It didn't work, Norman was the kind of cool customer who didn't flinch at threats made by deep voiced strangers queuing to see even deeper- voiced poets such as Dennis. "Heh, I thought you'd be here" he snarled. I almost thought he wasn't happy to see me. I was certainly happy to see him, there was an hour and a half to kill before this gig started and I was getting bored of my own company pretty fast. Norman had brought his own bottle of wine, I had a few sips before he told me to get my own & 93 he kept my space in the line while I ran to a supermarket up the road. I returned five minutes later with a 4.99 bottle of Shiraz. So much for the free wine! We spent the hour and a half catching up, turned out Norman had joined a band called The Skankster, playing Saxaphone to Ska and Reggae. I was really intrigued to hear it, he'd smoked the entire time I'd known him almost, he can't have that much puff left in his lungs, surely! The queue started moving, finally we were moving. After a while though the doorman stopped us going in. Worried we wouldn't get in I asked the doorman if it was worth us waiting. He said he didn't know. We clandestinely drank our wine and waited patiently. The queue started moving again, there was more space inside, hooray! Then it stopped again, then started, then stopped, then started, then finally, when we were right at the front, I heard an usher from inside shout to the doorman 'Room for another two' The doorman, a strangely slender and weak looking man, said 'right you two, get in' and we got in, a victory glance was had between Norman & I, a kind of surprised eyebrow raising followed by a smug grin before our eyes got back on with the mission of locating the free wine. The lobby was full, there were tables dotted around with servants (I know they were probably paid workers, but I prefer to call them servants in this situation, I did, after-all, feel like a Victorian upper-class dandy being hosted by one of the Soho elite at a night of poetry and wine, lah-dee-dah!) stood endlessly pouring wine into glasses being constantly refreshed by other servants who were bringing them out from the kitchen by the dozen. Norman & I walked around every table trying 94 each wine, two glasses at a time, then back to the first table and repeating. By now we were very, very drunk. Felix's show was brilliant. His stories entrancing, when we left we couldn't stop talking about how glad we were that we made the effort and came out for it, it was alright for me, I lived close by, well, Finsbury Park, but still, relatively close compared to Norman, who Id just found out was living on a boat, tied up in a river about 4 miles north, a bit far to get back to this late at night. I offered him a bit of my floor to sleep on & we made the trip across town, stopping at the first pub we saw. Across from the pub was a dodgy looking lad, no older than 16, on the street corner. Norman kept watch of him, saw a few different people stop, exchange something with him, and go. Intrigued by what he was selling, he went over to the boy. A second later he waved me over. I finished my pint and cautiously crossed the road to see what he wanted. 'Can you lend me twenty quid til I can go to the bank in the morning' he asked. Uh-oh 'Erm, aye, why aye, what for?' I couldn't really say no, he knew I had my student loan fresh in the bank. "The boy's got Russian absinthe!" 'Oh dear, here we go' I thought. Not in the mood at all, but drunk enough to partake in a wee swig. I needed a cashpoint, the lad pointed me toward one and joined us for the walk, turned out he'd nicked it from a specialist drinks shop in Mile End. Little bugger! I didn't think he'd talk so candidly about how he obtained the wares he was peddling either, He was a definite mug.
At the cashpoint Norman stood with the boy about 5 feet away from me, but I could tell he was 95 inching closer as I was typing in my PIN. 'Uh-oh' I thought again. I'm not too brave in confrontations and knew the only way to win was to get the first punch in then run as fast as I could, I glanced at Norman, a much more confrontational man than myself & he gave me an understanding nod. He looked excited too, I don't think he'd had many fights recently, playing in a reggae band with loads of hippies & rastas and all. When the machine ejected my card the young lad lurched forward from the right of me. I grabbed the card, spun out to the left to try and elbow him but Norman had already grabbed the back of his head and smashed his face into the metal corner of the cash machine. I placed my boot on the back of his head as he laid on the floor (so he couldnt get up and continue robbing us) I waited for the machine to dispense my cash, Norman grabbed the Absinthe and we ran. We ran like fuck! Hiding in the beer garden of a closed pub because we realized the lad was probably a lot faster than us and could probably run for a lot longer than we could, we only got round the corner before we needed to stop, this little thug was probably used to running. We drank in this empty beer garden for hours, until the absinthe was gone. Dangerously drunk, we made our way across town. When I woke up Norman was gone, he did say he had somewhere to be, I can't remember where though.
Oh well, it was good seeing him again.
96
20
Elderston mental asylum (part 1)
After another night of drunkenly making a fool of myself I woke up drenched in a pint of snakebite I was holding when I fell asleep. Not good snakebite either, a mixture of a local supermaket's own brand beer and the cheapest cider the local corner shop sold. It was vile. As if ripping off my stinking bed sheets and turning my mattress on it's side to air out wasn't shameful enough the memories of the previous night flooded back. I'd once again told people far too much, told them what I really thought about them! again! The kind of things a normal person would just never talk about, and there I was, telling people who'd already heard the shameful tales many times before. As I was spraying the mattress with a home-made concoction of bleach, 97 water and washing-up liquid I remembered nearly jeopardizing one of my friends, an underage drinker who was with us, by acting like a complete fool in front of a policeman. Luckily the policeman saw the funny side, but it made me less-than popular with my friends. Who was I kidding? I was never popular among my friends. As I scrubbed at the stinking cider-y beer stain I decided not that I had had enough of this town, but that this town had clearly had enough of me. I wasn't going to stop, I was only in the beginning stages of the long journey of youth, I was only twenty, maybe twenty-one. I wasn't going to just give up hope like so many of the people I knew and get a job, get a house, a steady girlfriend and/or a dog. Fuck that. I wanted to travel & have the kind of experiences I'd either write about one day or take to my grave, laughing to myself thinking 'If only they knew' While the washing machine did its job I packed my things. I had forty pounds and a weeks worth of food and drink. That made my bag heavy so I drank as much as I could in the hour and fifteen minutes it took the washing machine to work. By the time it'd finished and I'd hung the sheets on the drying stand in my room I was ready & already had the beginnings of a brilliant plan in mind. I'd just started reading blogs on the Internet by photographers who liked travelling around the country to interesting abandoned buildings and taking pictures. Urban Exploration (UrbEx) they called it. It fascinated me. I read a lot about squatters too. The idea that I was paying fifty to seventy-five quid a week for a shitty room in a shared house full of kids living off their daddy's money when there were magnificent old buildings just standing empty was mind-boggling. The only history my house had was thirty years of 'and that's 98 where Tarquin, the philosophy student from Bournemouth was sick' and 'that's the couch where we walked in on Danny, the music student from Essex, fast asleep with his head in a bucket full of his own vomit' and, well, just lots of puke stories. Some of the buildings I'd read about on UrbEx blogs had real histories, there was old factories where thousands of people worked for fifty-odd years, there was tunnel networks under cities which were used by smugglers and the city's underclasses for centuries, all sorts of interesting buildings with atmospheres not crafted by vomit. I had these notebooks back then, page-a- day diaries I used for my uni notes and poetry & other teenage/early-twenties essential writings. I liked them because they kept my notes in chronological order, made stuff easier to look up afterwards, or if I just flick through them leisurely I can go to a particular part of my life and see what I was thinking/studying back then. If I flicked to, say, when I was eighteen there'd be lots of happy stories about my time with Flora, like my birthday entry, where she came to stay for a week from the 14th, Valentines day, til a few days after my birthday, how we planned to go out and do loads of stuff but each night changed our minds and just stayed in & enjoyed each other's company, except for on the night of my birthday, when at about midnight, when she was asleep, my friend's messaged to say they were in the pub, so I crept out, got really drunk, climbed up some cranes that were dotted around the re-generation sites in the city, got stopped by the police & gave fake names before stumbling home and slipping back into bed. Flora never knew. Well I never really carried a map, looking back, I should have, but my only map for this particular trip was that year's notebook. When reading these UrbEx reports I scribbled down the city & the name 99 of the building. I had two pages of notes, never thinking I'd use them but that day I was equipped with the kind of shame that'll send you off looking to have adventures on your own in abandoned buildings just to prove to yourself that you're better than the townies and local-folk that considered themselves to be worldly-wise because they've been to Benidorm and once met her off of that reality show where they dance and people ring in to vote them off I was ready. The nearest interesting abandoned building to me was a derelict mental asylum in Elderston. I'd read up on it & some of the country's biggest nutters had been there, the wife of the Rochdale Ripper, the children of Henry Alingsdale (the man who locked his wife up in a shed for 12 years, constantly breeding with her and her offspring) and the notorious necrophiliac Tommy Dair. Of course I thought it'd be a good idea to go there, why not? I walked the three miles into town and got the bus out to Finchurch, a neighboring town, busses didn't go to Elderston anymore & I'd find out why as soon as I got there, it wasn't really a town anymore since the hospital closed. All the houses belonged to it's staff and security workers, there were a few farms dotted about but I was that age where you watch Withnail & I and Straw Dogs and The Wicker Man a lot and I was fearful of local country-folk. I was quite glad about how empty the place was, my biggest fear of abandoned building was that they'd have a bunch of people living there, especially in cities with large homeless populations. I'd always got on with homeless people but I wasn't in the mood to really get to know people, I was shutting myself off from anything like that. The driveway up to the building had massive iron gates which, at one time probably had a point, stopping crazed psychopaths from getting out, but now they just swung open and shut, I snook in like 100 a ninja in case there was anyone in there but it soon became clear the place was empty. Eerily empty. I explored around the outside for an entrance & all I could find was a fire escape up to a door with a broken window, the fire escape didn't come right down to the floor though so I had to stack some wooden pallets up and climb up. I felt around for a lock on the inside of the door & there wasn't one, it'd been nailed shut, it was the only opening I could find though, and I'd seen pictorial evidence that the UrbEx bloggers had been inside so I figured this was the way they got in. Climbing in was a doddle & I set off exploring the interior.
101
21
The Shyer Traveller: Cocky on the coach
We met on a Megabus we were waiting for at Auld Wreaky coach station All that we had in common was we would be late fuckers at our destination I made you laugh a while You brought a little smile To the aching bones I had acquired.
I had been to the festival, I had been camping out at the foot of Arthur's seat You were from here originally but now you're going to see Newcastle and visit your daddy Although I had a new shirt on I was unshaven and I must have smelled badly You were a full on Scottish lass with a rounder arse and your hair was fiery I should have sat next to you but I was only bothered about the view It was gonna be a while before I next saw the sea.
102 As we reached Berwick-upon-Tweed I got horny and started fantasizing. My main fantasy was one of you and me, I found that to be enticing. I stood up and I got cocky Said "How'd you like to count to 30? then come and meet me in the W.C."
I didn't wait for your reply I just went up the isle and I waited patiently Didn't think you'd come but as a rule of thumb I washed my cock in the sink so it would be clean Then the door started to open You closed it behind you and I bent you over and wore protection 'cause I didn't know where you'd been
103
22
Elderston mental asylum (part 2
Creeping around the old halls of the asylum really put the shits up me, there were padded cells which'd been burned out, leaving charred material hanging off the walls, groups of kids must have travelled here over the years as there was graffiti everywhere, I wouldn't be surprised if there were a few raves here in the nineties. There was a few sofas in what was probably once the common room and they looked heavily used, perhaps homeless people had lived here at times, perhaps other adventurous run-aways like myself had come here to get away from their lives too. The creepiest room was the bathroom; the bath came out of the corner diagonally into the centre of the room, probably so the staff could get either side of it when bathing the patients. The window had been broken (like many of the building's windows) 104 and a tree had grown into the room, climbing the walls and along the ceiling, spreading out as wide as it was long, it wasn't as tree-like as it was outside the window though, the lack of sunlight made it look like the kind of trees you get in a Tim Burton film, withered and menacing. The biggest surprise about the room was the number of electrical outlets and machines there was built into the walls, one, which had wires stretching out as far as the bath with blue and red circular pads on the end looked like the kind of wires you see on hospital dramas that monitor your heart rate, I wondered if electro-shock therapy was administered in bathrooms, how crazy would that be? I must have spent an hour in the doorway of that room, never going in, just imagining the kinds of things that happened in there, the kinds of people who must have been in there, crazy, shouting at the nurses, fighting them off while they're naked and the poor nurses were trying to clean them. Some of the tiles were cracked; all I could think about was the violence the staff there must have had to endure. To this day I think of that place whenever I'm in someone's bathroom, and think about the kind of things that've happened in there in it's lifetime. It's never usually pretty thoughts. Considering the building was the kind of building once judged by how many beds it had, I was surprised to find there were none at all. There were a few metal bed frames with broken slats but nowhere seemingly comfortable to lie other than the couches. I headed back to that common room after inspecting the bedrooms and offices (now just empty rooms of varying sizes, all with the same clinical feeling off-white & blue colour scheme and the odd bit of shoddy graffiti) and the dark, damp- smelling basement I'd decided against exploring and had my first sit down since the bus & started 105 reading one of the four books I'd brought. I ate a couple of the sandwiches I'd brought before digging into the drink - two cheap bottles of brandy. I thought they'd at least last a couple of days but by 7pm I was onto the second bottle and made plans to go back to Finchurch the next morning to buy more. I passed out not long after the sun went down, I didn't have a clock with me but it was summer so could have been after ten, I don't know. I woke up to a dog licking my face, worried that the dog would have an owner I tried to shoo it away and hide but it didn't work so I accepted I'd probably have to explain myself to either a dog- walker or a security guard, I didn't expect there to be a security guard because if he was a security guard he'd be a pretty shit one, I'd been here nearly eighteen hours already and anyway, this dog was a shit guard dog, it was about a foot tall, probably a cross breed between a Lurcher and a Jack Russell, (imagine them breeding!) licking my face and being friendly without barking or alerting anyone to my presence at all. I got up, folded my blanket, got everything in my bag ready to go and went looking for the dogs owner. Not a soul anywhere. I guess you're mine now! I said to the dog. come on then, licker I said, naming after the first thing I saw it do, thinking it was like a great Native American way of naming something, and not thinking about the amount of 'liqor' or 'lick her' jokes it'd no-doubt bring. It wasn't until I got to the window that I realized the dog's entrance to the house must have been a lot easier than mine, except I'd scoped the entirety of this building and there was no other way in. I went to re-investigate and there was nowhere, until I walked past the door to the basement again. I decided it wasn't worth going in and went back 106 upstairs, chucked the dog out of the window, climbed out myself and took the easy route out down a metal staircase with the wooden pallets at the bottom. Licker wasn't happy. We walked off to Finchurch, I was a bit worried at first about the dog walking with me along the pathless roadsides but after a while the distinct lack of traffic settled my mind, the one tractor that did go past scared the dog into a hedge anyway. Finchurch was very small, about three streets wide, fifty houses long and very, very grey. The roofs were dark grey, the walls, mostly pebble- dashed, were grey, the paths and the roads were grey and most of the people I saw were grey. We headed to the local shop and bought 25 worth of drinks, leaving me enough money for a bus home and an emergency phone call if needed (I'd left my mobile phone at home, this was to be a contact free trip) The shopkeeper took a shine to my dog, I perhaps thought she recognised it, maybe she knew it's owner & I could return him, perhaps get a reward, but no, I should have known by how much she liked him and kept asking things about him like his name or why he looked so scruffy. 'you needn't talk' I thought, the shopkeeper herself was wearing a grey cardigan with more holes in it than the plot of a Michael Bay film, her hair was clearly unwashed and the shop smelled of wet dog, at least Licker smelled of dry dog. I paid and left, as I walked out of the town a man in a long black raincoat who was stood at the bus- stop started shouting at me, I was a fair way up the street but I figured he might be Lickers owner so I didn't ignore him. As he got closer to be I recognised the long, tall stance of the man, I'd recognise it anywhere, it was only bloody Norman! What're you doing out here ya dafty? he shouted. I told him about my retreat from the city 107 and he laughed at my stories of embarrassing myself again. He'd seen me much worse. I must have asked him why he was there too but for the life of me I can't remember, he spun me so many yarns back then that I only half- believed him and probably just nodded and excitedly told him about this building I was staying in. He cancelled all his plans and came with me back to Elderston. Norman & Licker were best of friends within a minute of meeting, He had a kind of control of him that I didn't, I'm a softie around animals, Norman immediately showed Licker who was boss and Licker respected Norman a lot more for it. I was kind-of jealous but sod it, I was happy being the good cop. Luckily Norman had a lot of food with him, I hadn't thought about feeding the dog until later in the afternoon when, back at the asylum, I started eating one of my many packets of crisps and the dog started looking at me. Without Norman I'd have probably just fed the dog a packet of crisps and the crusts from my sandwiches, but Norman had all sorts of tinned goodies with him. I don't think there was a time when he didn't carry a tin of Bacon Roll with him, he loved it, He swore by it because it had a rectangular tin and a ring-pull top, which, once opened, would act as a knife to cut it and eat it off. Clever stuff! After three or four days of drinking, talking, and generally running amok around the asylum we woke up one day and the dog had gone. By then we loved that dog, most of the laughs we had were due to that little fella, I told Norman about the basement, saying that must be where he got in, so he made a fire, lit a rag on a stick with it and went down to investigate. There was indeed a hole in the exit to the basement, not big enough for a human but 108 definitely big enough for Licker. We held him a belated leaving party, drank to his memory and decided that if he wasn't back by the next day we should leave too. That night we heard noises coming from the basement. Norman went down to investigate, without a torch. Then the noises moved around to the side of the building, it was people. Gutted. We hoped it was Licker. Norman & I got our stuff ready to do a runner if there was trouble and went to greet the newcomers. I was a bit scared but Norman seemed pleased there was new blood. Was he bored of me? Probably. I would be, especially since Licker left. We forgot how drunk we were and instead of approaching the newcomers gently and not scaring them off we ran to the fire escape, shouting and scared them off. I wasn't all that bothered, maybe only because now they might come back later with more people to murder us in our sleep, but Norman seemed pretty gutted they'd ran off, Perhaps he was getting sick of me. Either way there was drink to be finished and plans to be made for the next day. The next morning I woke up and Norman was gone. Unlike me he had his phone with him so god knows what he'd arranged and where he went. I never really knew where he was, or if he was, anyway. I read one of my books, drank a little to get over the hangover and headed back home. Surprisingly I was missed. No one had a clue why I'd left and no one remembered the night I was so embarrassed about. I told them about my adventure, I didn't think it was anything special, nothing of note happened, but they were fascinated that I stayed in a mental asylum, made friends with a dog, ran into an old friend and slept in a derelict building for days. That was exciting to them. I'm still not even sure it was 109 worth writing down.
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23
Local Crazies (An exercise in Breath writing, written to music by Thelonious Monk in a failed attempt to write like Jack Keroac because I've just watched On The Road and it's like when I watch karate films and think I'm a ninja for the rest of the night.)
It struck me as I lay in my bed one night, anxious about the following days driving lesson, that the instructor would be one of the few sane people I talk to this year, I never tend to find myself spending more time than I have to with sane people, Shopkeepers, the lady at the bank, even the barman at my local doesn't interest me enough to keep my attention for very long, I bet tomorrow at the end of my lesson the instructor doesn't invite me out for a drink to carry on the awkward conversation we'll be having for four hours. The people I tend to fall towards as friends are the insane ones, the maddest of the mad, the one's who can't be saved, the people who's lives are so colourful my conscience has an epileptic fit just 111 listening to their stories, there's nothing worse than a dullard who's stories all end with 'and then I went home' and never got much more exciting on the run up to the punch line. I recently heard somewhere 'Alcohol: because no good story ever started with someone eating a salad' I don't completely believe this, I think if I woke up and ate a salad I could probably still have an interesting day, but say you take that as a metaphor, change 'Alcohol' to something else, as I have done in this book only backwards, a couple of the times I've written about alcohol in this book it was used as a metaphor for something else, usually a feeling, say, if I was on a buzz I couldn't describe with words and get the feeling across. Now take that phrase about the salad, Imagine that alcohol is, say, a look shared between two strangers: so, A look shared between two strangers: Because no good relationship ever started with two strangers looking at their phones all the time & ignoring everyone they met. See! Now, eating a salad and constantly being on your phone when in social situations are the same things to me, they may be good for you, you might be sending a nice message to your mum or arranging a big-money making corporate deal, But they're fucking boring, about as boring as someone who's stories all end in happy resolves, yes it's nice, but its also beige. I'd rather hear stories from people who lost limbs than stories from those who went into battle and came out fine. I've spent hour after hour sat on streets listening to homeless people tell me what brought them there, what happened to make them end up talking to me, and do you know what? We got drunk and laughed more than I ever have with someone who I sat drinking tea with while I listen to them tell me about their day at the office. Just last month I was up north watching some comedy shows at a free festival, I wasn't really homeless, just living as cheaply as possible 112 and I came out of one show, had half an hour before I would see another so I sat down with the first homeless man I passed on the street, I apologised for not having any cash but I offered him a drink, he offered me a cigarette. He had a dog with him so I gave it some crusts from my sandwiches and the man gave me a packet of crisps, there was a man sitting on the street begging but I couldn't seem to give him anything without him giving me something in return, he wouldn't let me turn anything down either, he told me to keep the crisps for later when I told him I didn't eat when I was drinking, made me feel ill, that man was nicer than any of the people I met that week and after a half hour of talking to him I realized he was a nutcase, an absolute smack- head, he had an eye missing, took me 15 minutes to notice it because his good eye was barely open at the best of times but when I did notice it was because he told me the story behind losing it when his girlfriend showed up, now she was a scary one, I could smell the trouble on her a mile off but if she was a friend of his she was a friend of mine, anyway he started telling me the story of how he lost his eye, and instead of being miserable about it he was laughing his head off, his girlfriend, the girl sat just along from me in a tracksuit top over two hooded jumpers and scraggy jeans and trainers, stabbed him in the eye one morning because she wanted him to go to the shop for cigarettes & he wouldn't get out of bed because he was comfortable, I'm surprised they're still alive, a right pair of idiots, but they looked so happy with each other, reminds me of a couple I saw in Leeds once, I had a while to wait for a coach I was getting, can't remember where to, but I asked a bloke in the bus station where the nearest pub was and they directed me to one called... I can't remember, but it was the nearest so I went, I had loads of bags and 113 a guitar with me & as soon as I walked out from the bar to the beer garden a young lass, not unlike the one I was just talking about, shouted What's up mate has yer girlfriend kicked you out? 'Great' I thought, there's some nutters in, this'll be a laugh. I walked over and sat with them, there was her, a young lad who I first thought was her boyfriend, an old man with a black eye so bad that the coloured bit and the pupil were completely see-through, and an old woman who I presumed was his wife. From the get-go I was laughing, they looked like complete scum, and to be fair they probably were, the kind of family that have their own parking spaces outside the Jeremy Kyle studios, anyway I got to know them and soon found out that the girl and the old man were a couple, not the girl & young lad as I'd presumed, then, just when I thought that'd be the craziest thing I'd hear all day, the girl started bragging about how it was her that did that to the old man's eye, and that it was just the night before in a drunken fight in the same pub, and he wasn't going to go to the hospital about it. I spent the next hour or so trying to figure out if she was abusing him but no, they loved each other to pieces & anyway, he gave as good as he got and wasn't afraid of slapping her back, as he did a few times while I was sat with them. I'm sounding as though I condone this, I don't, but dear god they were fun to talk to. Now, if I compare those two stories about people so crazy they're blinding each other then laughing about it with, lets see, I'm trying to think of someone boring that I know but I don't tend to get to know them if they're boring, so lets say my friend Greg's brother, he gets up on a morning, drives to work below the 30mph speed limit, gets to work where he puts bits of paper into files all day, then he drives home, below the speed limit, eats something (probably a 114 salad) and plays computer games all night, spending all the money he earns on games or his car - then only using his car to get to work. That story wasn't as much fun to tell, I'm sorry you had to hear it, but which story was more fun to read? None of the characters I've written about in this book are sane people who the vicar would approve of because I'd quickly run out of things to talk about. Every town has it's 'local crazies', I was talking to another lad from Leeds once about making a documentary about local crazies, they make the towns better and should be given a weekly allowance for doing so, and I should be in charge of deciding who gets it, so I can have them audition for me. That'd be fun! wouldn't it?
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24
Coursework
Thursday, October twenty-fourth, two thousand and something, twelve maybe, probably, aye. Been a while since I last went anywhere, there's a booze shop just over the market square and a nice big double bed with the internet on it in my house so I've mainly been getting drunk, watching films then writing to ex girlfriends when I'm too drunk to realize how much I'll regret it the next morning. That's a habit that becomes so easy that going out on adventures soon becomes a distant memory, and I bloody love me adventures, me. One night, while reading some online forum consisting mainly of pictures of cats I stumbled upon free courses you can do online that give you certificates from posh-sounding universities, now I've no need to do this, I've already been to film school, got a university degree, a couple of college diplomas and countless other certificates on my CV, I don't need to pad it out with more qualifications, but then I found this course in creativity. The course title had me, then the video 116 introductions and accompanying TED talk had me signing up immediately. Considering I signed up at about 5am one morning last week when I was as drunk as a poet on pay day this was one thing I didn't regret when I woke up, instead I got thinking about what I could do. I scoured the website for my group so I could crack on with the first assignment, a getting-to- know-you thing, but found out that because I signed up after the course start date I had to wait to be assigned a group. 'Oh well...' I thought 'Fuck it' and I got on with writing another chapter of this here book, aren't you glad I signed up late. Anyway, the next assignment popped up in my inbox last night, it read thus:
1) Go to at least 6 different stores. They can be at the same shopping center or different locations. Spend at least 15 minutes in each store making OBSERVATIONS using the lab guide for reference. Take photos to capture your observations. 2) Create a presentation that captures your INSIGHTS. What types of things had you missed before? What were your biggest surprises? Are there opportunities you never noticed before? Use your photos to highlight your insights. Your presentation can be in the form of slides or a short video. Add the link to your presentation so that everyone can see it. 117
'So, go round the shops, sorted, I'll crack on with that tomorrow' I thought. I had a few bits and pieces to get from the supermarket and the fruiters anyway. I spent the rest of the night learning I'm Shakin by Jack White on the guitar and fell asleep.
The morning came, this morning, earlier on today, before the afternoon, you know how it goes, the morning. I wasn't too awake when my alarm went off, in fact I wasn't awake at all, that's what tends to be the thing when my alarm goes off, I'm not awake, then it goes off and I am, funny that, you take it for granted don't ya? but no, I was asleep, dreaming about a parrot and a go-cart or something, I can't remember, anyway, right, to the shops! Then a message popped up on my phone.
'Driing lesson, 10.30am'
I presumed 'Driing' lesson meant 'Driving lesson', mainly because I wrote it and I remember things I've wrote, plus, what else could it have been, Drinking lesson? nah, not at 10.30 in the morning, I certainly don't need help with that, I was 118 a student for eight years! Plus this morning I wasn't hung over, a weird state for me on a morning, but that meant I mustn't have drank the night before, and if I didn't drink it probably meant I had something important the next day, like a driving lesson. So, I necked a cup of coffee, brushed me teeth and went and drove about for a bit while a man called Gary told me I was doing everything wrong. Standard. 12.30pm came and I was back home, had to feed the birds, cook some dinner, empty all the photo's off of my camera's SD card then head to the shops. Three O'clock came, finally. I grabbed a backpack and headed out. I live right on the market square so the journey wasn't much to write about, except to say that some kids have scratched a swastika into the window of the new library, little bastards. The library's in enough trouble as it is.
First shop - the chemist. The lass in there knows me well, I'm always in picking up prescriptions for me grandparents, I wander in, have a natter on with her for a bit and when she asks if I'm there to pick anything up I say no and tell her about this creativity course, and how I'm just supposed to go round the shops and notice things, I start asking 119 her questions and this is what I scribbled down in me little notebook.
1 - The chemist's name is Emily Pankhurst, (the same name as the woman's liberation wifey, that's interesting) 2 - There's a brand of paracetamol where you can get 32 of them for 16p 3 - This particular chemist has been open for 52 years 4 - That means they must have served multiple generations of the same family many times over 5 - There's a poster up on the wall saying something about having a word with your chemist, and on it are two Eclectus Parrots, a red and a green one, the green one's are male and the red one's are female. I imagine the chemist is the red one, female, and the customer is the green one, male, and that the male is only talking to the chemist because he fancies her, and that each week he makes up new illnesses so he can talk to her again, but she doesn't get it, and just thinks he's riddled with diseases. poor fella 6 - Emily's phone number is 079447***** (I've replaced the end numbers with little stars, if you want her number you'll have to get it yourself)
SCORE! 120
Right then, off to the next shop, the supermarket, I notice they sell raspberries and 4 different kinds of milk and crappy eggs as well as free range ones (who the hell buy's crappy eggs anymore? it's two thousand and twelve or somat, what's the craic with that like?) and the fella on the counter is called Bob. I didn't get his number though.
Then I went into the computer shop. Never been in there before, The man looks a bit like Hulk Hogan, that's something new I've noticed, now I've got a talking point when telling my friends about where I live. 'The man in the computer shop looks a bit like Hulk Hogan' ...That's class craic that is, why aye! Then I find out he's my friend Dave's uncle. Mebbe I won't spread it about that I think his uncle looks like Hulk Hogan, Dave's canny hard and he might knack us like.
Next up: the fruit shop, where I will buy fruit, off of the man who works in the fruit shop. I have a shopping list app on my phone and i can tick off the things as I walk round, makes it feel like an accomplishment. I get bananas, pears, apples, a lettuce, grapes, tomatoes, potatoes, plums and pea-pods, the lass in there must think I'm proper healthy, but I'm not, I just have eight parrots that 121 eat loads of fruit, I don't tell her that though, I want her to think I'm proper healthy, so one day she might ask me if I want to go round her house and touch her and stuff, that'd be class. I walk out of the shop twelve pound lighter (in money) and about forty stone heavier (in carrier bags full of taties and that) and realize as I've left that I haven't noticed anything and in-fact failed with my task. Bugger! Next stop, Sproats'. This is a nice family run shop, a mini-market I suppose, where they sell a lot of the same stuff as the supermarket but a little bit cheaper. in here I want soups, crisps, orange juice and mint sauce. I venture down the magazine isle, an isle I might never have walked down before, and notice they sell Hello! magazine, and that Hello! magazine has an exclamation mark, as if it' happy to see me, it's not happy to see me, it is a magazine They also sell OK! magazine, and again it has an exclamation mark after its title. They sell Empire, a film magazine I used to respect before I realized they were just selling opinions of people who I've very little in common with, they sell many news papers but not as single good one like the Independent or the Guardian, just them ones with the titles in red and big pictures of celebrities on the front to catch they attention of the 122 single-celled organisms as they head to the Coca- Cola isle and the tills before heading back to their council houses with empty bookshelves and 50 inch televisions. I get angry at the world, buy my soups and crisps and mint sauce and leave. I think I've noticed enough for today. It occurs to me that the more I notice about the world, the more I dislike its inhabitants.
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25
The urinators map of Manchester
My adventures wandering around Manchester all seemed to involve taking in lots of liquids, namely this fluorescent orange home-brewed cider, the kind you had to ask for behind the bar because the legalities of selling home-brewed drinks in a public house are complicated. Since living in Manchester I've had a similar drink in Scotland called Amber Jacks, I'm curious as to whether this is what the publican was serving us. I'm not going to complain, it was a very good drink at knocking one's socks off, and on a hot day the barrel would ferment and make the alcohol content go from 7% to 12%. Jolly good value for money! Having this much rocket fuel inside you requires many more trips to the toilet than your average adventure and I quickly became familiar with the best places around the city to pop for a sly slash. The first being the obvious back-alleys. There was 124 a mile long street of take-aways and restaurants I'd often find myself walking down and one day I saw the famous local homeless man, Gregory, emerge from this alley doing up his fly. Gregory was an interesting chap, I later found out he in fact had a house and family but he just enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the busy street and found he made alot more money, and certainly ate better, through begging than he would have made in any of the professions he was qualified to work in, but that's not the point. This alleyway he emerged from became the first plot of my urinator's map of Manchester. I wish I'd taken the time to draw you this map but I always thought it best be kept in my head, it'd be a very odd thing to explain if I ever got stopped and searched going into a gig or catching a plane or something. Imagine telling a policeman that this map was not a treasure map but it was, in fact, a map of places I'd urinated in public. Anyway, this map began in this alleyway, not that night, the next time I walked past. If you carry on up the alley after you've done your business you often get a glimpse of a pretty asian lady in the back of one of the shops, she blatantly knew what I was up to but sod it, she was pretty. The next plot thumb-tack placed on this imaginary map was a park, it had a hedge you could go in and be completely unseen, just feet from one of the busiest streets in England. Especially in the dark. The next plot on the pisshead's ordinance survey map was a bit away from the street but there was a wishing well about 5 meters away from it & as you probably know, when drunk, a wishing well is better than a friend's grave, you can spend hours talking away, putting the world to rights with an imaginary entity which you, at that moment, whole-heartedly believe in. 125 I never relieved myself in the wishing well, That might be bad luck. Not that any of my wishes came true. Up the street from there was a back lane between the houses which smelled like a lot of people had deposited a lot of juices there, I tried to avoid this one, but sometimes you just have to go. That was the last spot I found for a good few miles, mainly because my house was near there so I could just go there, when I think about the amount of wees and poos I'd done in the toilet of that house I get a strange, warm feeling. - No, I hadn't wee'd myself, I just miss that house, it was a real home. Away from my walk home was where I found the most interesting faux-urinals though. My favourite have always been the posh hotels in the centre of the city whos foyer and reception desks were out of sight of the toilets. I always appreciate a nice posh toilet, with nice soap, clean toilet seats and Dyson Air-Blade hand-dryers, Don't get me started on the Air-Blade! A favourite has always been a football ground. Right up against the outside of it, nothing seem to show the loyalty you have to your football team like watering the ground of your opponents team with your home-brewed toxic waste. I'm not even that much of a football fan, but this is one feeling I share with the loutish football hooligans I try to avoid so much. I've probably disgusted you in this chapter, If I have disgusted anyone enough to stop reading, I'm glad, If you've got this far then you're sound and you accept the most basic of human traits, 'If you drink it, you will wee' I'll leave you with my final confession. It is both big AND clever: I done a wee up against the fence of Buckingham Palace once. In the middle of the night. It was great. 126
26
Age Of Genocide
Once again I'd failed. A simple test, all I had to do was drive around the town I was born and I'd obtain a license I'd been working towards, on and off (mostly off) for eight years. I retreated to a dark room a few miles from where I'd taken my test, and proceeded to commit multiple accounts of mass genocide.
I began with a small town, I forgot the name, lets call it My Town, I had fifty villagers, ten were collecting wood from a nearby forest, ten owned their own farms, twenty of them were builders and the rest laid around forlorn listening to David Bowie's The Bewlay Brothers, sometimes on repeat, sometimes in the context of the album it was originally presented on, which was also played on repeat while my exercise into multiple mass 127 genocide took place. I had no need for the arts, before this I wrote a song a day, I'd learn a song I liked at the time, Probably by Jack White, on guitar or piano. Before this I averaged two thousand words a day on a book I was writing. I'd listen to an hour or two of radio from either America's finest station, WFMU, or from England's finest, BBC 6 Music, constantly updating my musical playlist by searching for the song that was playing thanks to the DJ naming the song, album and the label it was released on (a rare find these days) or by Shazam-ing it on my smart phone (an increasingly popular find these days) So I started in the north west corner of this particular world, my villagers built a healthy stock of wood and food for me, occasionally I'd make the population find me some stone or gold when we came upon it, in what seemed like no time I had a stock pile that rivaled those of towns with three times the population of my own. But then I got greedy. I took advantage of my opportunities to build universities, churches, castles, barracks, archery ranges, siege workshops and blacksmiths. Chameleon, comedian, Corinthian and caricature. I got power hungry, I sent scouts on horseback into neighbouring towns looking for further gold and stone deposits I could make use of, then, instead of just asking them nicely if I could borrow some I'd send 20 villagers and 20 archery experts in and just take them, using my villagers to build a wall around them and the archers to fend off anyone who complained. Then, when the walls were built I'd send the villagers on to build mines, If the locals complained I'd built watch towers capable of firing arrows and cannons at the poor local folk who clearly had less food and gold than I. Sometimes I'd 128 take out the entire towns and rebuild them in my own style just for the indescribable kick of being a 'winner' Failing my driving test had turned me in to a horrible person. A few days into my genocide kick and I'd not written a song, learned a single bit of someone else's music or indeed written a single chapter of a book I was more than half way finished, yet I had no regrets I took charge of a new continent, this time my own, the Britons was my choice, and my mission was simple, to retrieve the religious relics which the other countries had rightfully discovered and stored in their Monasteries. This was to prove too easy, so instead of demolishing their monasteries I moved in quick, created 200 villagers and just built walls around everything I saw, the more villagers you have, the quicker things got built, in five hours I'd imprisoned five other civilizations to the confines of four, and sometimes just three walls, I gained a sick pleasure from this and carried on, I made a pathway between each village, with big walls and even bigger watch towers, capable of firing cannons on anyone trying to stop me from imprisoning five innocent nations of people, all of whom were my ally, but I didn't care, I didn't want them collecting my religious relics, yet I didn't want theirs,
I sat, at the end of the game, victorious, yet strangely feeling bad for all these innocent towns- folk who hadn't had the time, space, or resources to advance to the Imperial Age like I had. I sent a small army of archers, soldiers and trebuchets to kill each and every one of them. It was really quite beautiful. Then I looked upon my map, which I had truly conquered. I'd passed! I'd passed the test of 129 being worse than Hitler, Mubarak, Hussain, Stalin and all the other sick dictators. I'd conquered the world and made everyone suffer, not just from lack of food and resources, but from the dredged unhappiness that comes with imprisonment.
What a game.
Then I closed the window, opened a new document and wrote about my newest alternative rambling experience.
Tomorrow I shall leave the house. Perhaps.
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27
Sheepshaggers
My first experience of a rave was on television, a documentary on channel 4 called Sheepshaggers, a name given to the first ravers because a group of welsh teenagers disappeared off into the countryside one night and returned flustered, wide eyed and shameful. They'd been dancing all night while taking all sorts of pills and partying non-stop with their friends to music pumped from record players and generators by dj's who were similarly off their faces. That was twenty to thirty years ago though, I'd missed that boat due to the fact that I was too busy playing with action figures and eating sweets. This year, after meeting a group of other people who liked a drink and listened to music, I heard about the 'forest party', Sounds like a posh version of a rave but it was a party in a forest, I can't help what they called it. A man who worked in our local independent 131 record shop seemed to be the Go-To man about it, so a group of us went to the shop, browsed the records, read the free magazines and fanzines, and eventually, when the shop was quiet, we went up and asked about the rave. He gave us a phone number, telling us to ring it after 5pm on the day of the party for instructions. There'd be an answerphone message with directions to the venue. We left excited, but unsure he'd given us the right number, we were very young. The day came, we gathered around 6pm and called the number. The answerphone message came, it directed us to a single-track road going out of a village we'd only ever driven through. Then, once on the road, we were to drive for three miles until we saw a turning into a farmers field, a red VW Polo would be parked at the entrance, we were to drive into there and carry on for three hundred meters, then get out of the car and walk towards the music. We set off, about 20 of us, 15 of us in other people's cars, the other five in their own cars. They were the other people. When we'd passed the red VW and driven along the track we could clearly hear the music, it was in the adjacent forest, up a hill. We trekked up the hill with bags filled with booze and eventually saw the party. There was a gazebo with a generator and the dj decks under it, then a circle of people sat down, but most were in the middle, dancing away to the records the DJ chose. Not long after we arrived an old man with a dog approached us, we asked how he'd heard about the rave and shockingly he hadn't, he was just walking his dog and stumbled upon it, I still find this hard to believe as we were miles from anywhere but since he was a lot older than anyone there and nobody seemed to know who he was I believed him, perhaps he had just stumbled upon 132 us. And if not, why would he have brought a dog? I don't remember much else of that night, except I woke up in a corn field a few miles away, where I'd gone, originally intending to walk home, but instead decided to stop and have a nap. Luckily the next day it was sunny, so I went to the beach and stared off into the horizon, thinking about the previous nights exploits. The ones I remembered, The one's I can't tell you about.
133 28
Norman Chinaski
Norman Chinaski His eyes are wide and glassy Suggested a rhinoplasty He said he had bigger fish to fry
Lived anonymously Preferred the weather windy Had a girl called Cindy Whos existence I doubt
Norman Chinaski His name is Jewish, but is he? Or is he fictionally Engraved into my mind?
Norman the score man He opened lots of doors, man But once you saw inside them You slammed them shut and hid.
He looked like an idol Inside he's suicidal A real inspired idle. He talked but got nothing done
Norman Chinaski. A little piece of nasty. The humour of Arthur Askey, The grace of a bag of hammers
Norman Chinaski A much-loved cunt.
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29
Bishy Porkland
Norman & I had been on a multi-month long bender in a hidden away little village in the north when we finally ran out of money. I retreated to my room and wrote a few thousand words about the adventures we'd been having, nothing feeds inspiration better than sudden sobriety and the vague memories of recent adventures. I had no idea what Norman was doing, didn't really think about it, I presumed he was fighting off the treacherous loneliness and plaguing suicidal thoughts with pictures of funny cats on the internet. I received the occasional message from him, usually a link to an entertaining graph, statistic, article or, indeed, funny picture of a cat. I presumed he was fine. After a while he told me he had a cheque that needed cashing, I asked where he'd gotten his hands on such a bounty and with his answer I found out what he'd been up to. They were poker winnings. He'd been playing 135 multiple games at a time on different computers with different accounts on different websites, He did explain the details to me but they went over my head, I've as much interest in gambling as I have in obtaining wasp stings, but still, a cheque's a cheque. The nearest bank was a ten mile round trip away in a small town called Bishy Porkland, a town known locally as where the mayor of the county lives, but known to me as the place where, when I was seventeen, I accompanied my then girlfriend, Flora, when she went to Bishy Porkland hospital for a stomach operation. I've not got the warmest of nostalgic feelings towards Bishy Porkland. However, a cheque's a cheque. We set off not long after waking up, sometime after noon. The weather was fine and we still had many hours of light left, I'd planned a shorter route with help from an Ordinance Survey map that went through fields located between the two possible road-routes to the town. One road went through a few other villages, the other went the scenic route, neither were quite as the crow flies so I plotted a more direct route between the two. Unfortunately, the Ordinance Survey map I used was incorrect, a public footpath leading into a field unfortunately lead to a field that had no exit, we walked around the circumference of the field and ended up back where we started, there was horses in the surrounding fields and Norm & I had recently had a bad experience with a gang of horses. Bloody horses, I hate horses, and I hate inaccurate Ordinance Survey maps. We instead took the road route, a little out of the way, and I was nearly flattened by an overtaking Ford Escort coming from behind (we were, of course, walking in the direction of traffic, as stated 136 in the Highway Code, and with the amount of bends and blind summits on this road we didn't expect people behind us overtaking, but we sharp learned our lesson) The walk there was quite uneventful, and unsurprisingly too, we were both sober, what's the point in walking in the British countryside to places with names like Bishy Porkland if you can't gleg yer grog? But we had a target, just less than 5 miles and then we could drink and walk back, enjoying the route instead of just marching onward. The time passed, we perhaps walked faster than we should have and tired ourselves out a little, but it was enjoyed none-the-less. When we got to the bank I sat on a bench outside and befriended an old man called Bob, he told me how he'd lived in the village we'd walked from thirty-seven years previously and commended us on walking. Rightly so, not a lot of people would have walked, but we like walking. Walking's great. As soon as I started drinking it suddenly became a good idea to go and look at a bench.
Isn't that always the case?
This bench did have a particular sentimental value to it though, eight years previously, when accompanying the aforementioned ex girlfriend to the hospital, we took a walk through the Bishy Palace gardens and took advantage of the otherwise awkward day out, culminating in the carving of our names into a bench located near a strange brick building I later found out was a deer pen, a place where the high-up rich cunts of the seventeen or eighteen hundreds kept all their deer. The names were carved into the shape of a heart and the last time I was in the area I came by and checked it was still there, can't remember how long ago that was, probably when I was about twenty- 137 one and took a bottle of cheap wine along for an emotional wander down memory lane. That was four years ago though, before the recession, before Woolworths' shut down! Who knew what could have happened to a bench. So we went and had a look. At first I couldn't see it, I was a little gutted, although we'd been broken up for six years now there was still this carving, a tiny little bit of hope a drunken me could hold on to (a sober me couldn't give a fuck) Then I looked closer and sure enough, in all it's heavily weathered glory, was a faint trace of our two names; the heart was gone completely, but I do seem to remember rushing the heart and not spending as much time on it as I did the names, by then I was probably tiring of carving things into wood and more concerned about using my hands for their true purpose, touching the pretty teenage girlfriend I had next to me. Norm & I drank on a different bench, understandably, sitting on that bench eight years after such a day, with a man named Norman, wasn't quite my idea of fun, so we went to a bench with a better view and drank, and drank, and drank. On leaving, things started going crazy, expectedly, we were drunk. First we talked about how amazing the sunset looked from the tree we'd been pissing against, then we climbed the walls of the deer pen, about fifteen feet up, I'm surprised we didn't fall off but sod it, it was fun. On the way home there was a footbridge, Norman ran up and pissed off the top on to passing traffic. He was very proud of this, and I was very proud to know him, it was a great achievement at the time, I loved it. Not so much now. But, show me a man who's never done something stupid on a drunken walk home and I'll show you a liar, and if they're not a liar I bet their craic's shit.
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30
Base Infiltration (part 2)
I stood over the rotting corpse wondering what I had done. Not really, I just fancied starting a chapter like that, not written about death before, and this chapter, which I was really excited about writing, has pretty much turned sour. When I wrote part one of Base Infiltration I imagined it spanning out into a series of action, adventure, perhaps even espionage stories, like a series of novels about a spy or ex-SAS crew, only, like, set in a small village in the north of England. Then I got the message that shot down all my dreams for this mini-series.
'The base is gone. Gutted!'
Norman was visibly gutted the next time I saw him, a gloomy mist overshadowed everything that night, tried cheering us up but instead just drank and talked about how good it could have been. Once 139 we'd drank enough to have accepted the fact we began talking about perhaps building our own den, a lot better hidden than theirs, but really we knew we wouldn't do it. We're twenty-five now, we have houses to sit in, with computers and microwaves.
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31
The other side of the world.
Once again, I'm beginning a journey on the Megabus. I am a classy boy. This time I'm en route to Heathrow though, where I'll spend twenty-something hours bumming around the airport before checking-in, getting checked out, boarding and waiting before a twenty- five hour flight to the other side of the world. Not your average Megabus trip then. Well, not mine, plenty people have probably started a journey to the other side of the world with a trip on the Megabus. I used up all my phone battery on the bus. I'd spent the previous night out with Poison Ivy and her sisters in Newcastle. We returned at three or four in the morning and I lay with her on her floor with my head on her stomach for hours, talking about everything and nothing. I can't remember why we weren't sleeping, maybe it was because we'd broken into the house as she'd left her key and her 141 new boyfriend wouldn't answer his phone as he was sleeping, leaving a big hole in the back window in quite a dodgy town, or maybe it was because we knew we wouldn't see each other for ages, when I returned from my expedition to the other side of the world I'd planned to move to London and go to film school there. Plus her boyfriend didn't really like us seeing each other, we had a very colourful history and he could smell trouble brewing whenever I was around. Poison Ivy and I were both nice, very good people, but together we're naughty little fuckers. First thing I had to do at the airport then was to charge my phone, I had family members to reassure, one conversation with my girlfriend at the time Flora and one with Poison Ivy (yes, I spent my final night with her and not my actual girlfriend, that says everything) I found a coffee shop with a plug, it was about five in the morning so I drank a lot of coffee and sent text messages to everyone I could think of who'd be awake to keep me entertained. The bar opened at nine, in the morning, god bless airports is all I can say, they know the score! I tried to resist, knowing my flight wasn't until the night and if I started drinking in the morning I'd never be allowed on the plane, but it wasn't long before I talked myself into getting plastered in a short amount of time before spending the mid afternoon/evening drinking coffee and trying to have a little nap before the plane. I didn't have a lot of holiday money, but I didn't need a lot, I was off to visit my mum, she'd feed me, and airport bars are expensive, so I waxed the lot that day. The coffee plan worked, plus I'd brought a book so I was easily distracted from needing another drink all afternoon, they let me on the plane no bother. Then the serious drinking started. Brandy is free on the plane, plus I'd brought Gin from the duty-free 142 shop in my hand luggage, so when the air hostess told me she thought I'd had enough I could start drinking my Gin, out of a water bottle, like a ninja! I watched the film Juno three times and listened to Elbow's album, Seldom Seen Kid, over and over, as we took off the runway the song Weather To Fly came on, the opening lyrics,
"Are we having the time of our life? Are we coming across clear? Are we coming across fine? Are we part of the plan here? Are we having the time of our lives?",
mixed with the thought of the great few years I'd just had (my first five years of living alone) family, friends, and, of course, Poison Ivy, brought a tear to my eye. The next day, when I'd made it to the other side of the world I read on the internet that pop singer Lily Allen had tweeted something about taking off in a plane and the same song came on, making her shed a tear. Bitch, get your own story, Silly Allen. The other side of the world looked a lot like my side of the world, the grass was a slightly darker green than the television had shown me, the cars were all just about the same, although a lot of them were older as this country seemed to still be going through the 1970's, and what's more, the cars had problems too, I'd never seen a car break down in other countries on television, but sure enough on the drive from the airport to my mum's house the car broke down. Her new boyfriend had to come give our engine a jump. "Not exactly the way I thought I'd meet you" he commented. "No" I agreed. We shook hands and that was that, not weird at all! I spent the next four months watching films, TV 143 shows, drinking and catching up with mum. I didn't have enough money to really explore the country, I'd had all these wild plans about going to the place where bungee jumping was invented and doing a bungee jump, maybe I'd try snowboarding or any of a whole wealth of winter sports, however the grim reality is that whenever I go somewhere the tourist in me fucks off to the pub and sits with the locals complaining about 'bloody tourists'. Plus activities require money, I've never had a lot of money, and what money I have had has always, in my mind, been better off spent in a pub making friends and memories than fluttering away on an 'I [love heart] <insert place-name here>' t-shirt. I tried making friends but the pub culture there isn't a scratch on the Brits, we've cornered the market on pubs I reckon, I found a few good ones at the other side of the world but for a proper pub experience I think Her Majesty, while off conquering all but twenty-two of the world's countries, kept all her best pubs right here, although admittedly she put most of them in the north, imagine having them all in London? that'd be mental. Since the craic in the pubs was shite I took to buying either a crate of local beer and sitting in front of the television or buying an easier-to-carry box of wine and trekking across the vast landscapes of the country. I wish I could remember more of them to regale you with but I'm not going to lie, it was pretty boring. Except, however, the one I do remember. I crossed a river leading out of the town, a river known for it's brown trout, there was even a statue in the centre of the town of a giant brown trout. Rest-assured, I kept the toilet humour coming thick and fast. Brown trout! Ha! I ventured up a hill I'd seen from my window for a couple of months and wanted to conquer, I got to the top in less than an hour and wanted more, so I 144 kept on walking. It was a good few miles before I was somewhere where no-one would hear you scream, which was fitting, because it was around that time I found myself locked in a field with a bull. It grunted. I shat myself. It's front left leg started digging away at the ground, like in a cartoon. I kept shitting myself. It started running. I just kept shitting my pants. Took me a while to start running but while running I kept shitting my pants. I got to a fence and saw a sign informing me that, very helpfully, this fence was electric. Someone thought it'd be a good idea to mix electricity with a fence. I've jumped over a lot of fences, but never an electric one. I put my hand on the wooden post, I'm just-about-not-stupid-enough to know that wood isn't a conductor of electricity, I jumped and put the rubber sole of my boot on the top wire of the fence and catapulted myself over. Oh yes, I had out-witted a bull! Until I started going back down on the other side of the fence, then I caught the wire with my calf and a million-billion volts shot through me and I died. Or so I thought. I laid there for ages with my eyes closed. 'So, this is the afterlife' I thought. 'Am I even dead? I must be dead, that fence was keeping a bloody bull in, bulls can withstand a lot more electricity than humans, probably, so, therefore, I was just given a dose of electricity that was prescribed to a bull. Like, how a horse-sized dose of Ketamine is far greater than the human sized dose, and medicine and electricity are just the same, it's all science, surely!' I heard the bull grunting just feet away from my head. My eyes opened. I was alive. I was surprisingly less relieved than I'd expected, I sort-of liked an existence of thought. Just thinking things, in the dark. But, alas, I was just lying with my eyes closed. 145 I stood up. 'Perhaps I can withstand super- human amounts of electricity' I thought, 'Maybe I can make lots of money off of this with a TV show where I do silly stunts with electricity, the least I could do is tour around with a freak-show and get money that way. Of course' Later someone told me that those fences have a tiny amount of electricity in them and that bulls are just pussies. I should have just persuaded him to lick a battery and left the way I came, through the non-electrified gate at the bottom of the field. 'Shit' I thought, 'I left the gate open' I scarpered pretty quickly.
I went on lots of little adventures like that. None as memorable, but none were bad, at least. After all, I was on the other side of the world, can't really complain. Only a cunt would complain about a free holiday on the other side of the world. The other side of the fucking world! On one trip to a nearby city I got to drive on a beach too, I'd never thought of driving on a beach, turns out it's fucking awesome. Although I did get a flat tire and have to change it before the tide came in and swept my mum's boyfriend's car away, when we had no tools and had to borrow a jack from a group of stoners sat in their car doing drugs on the beach. but fuck it, The other side of the world, man!
146
32
Base Infiltration (part 3)
All was not lost.
A few days after the initial message telling me the base had been destroyed I was watching countdown and my pocket started vibrating. Another message. From Norman - we never really messaged each other casually, only when there was something important to say. I rushed my hand into my pocket faster than a thieving child in a sweet shop and retrieved the portable messaging machine that was causing my anxiety. I messed up the screen lock five times and had to wait thirty seconds to try again, I had a quiet word with myself to calm down a bit and breathe before rushing, maybe it wouldn't be something I'd want to read, maybe someone had died. Not likely, Norm & I didn't have any mutual friends, in fact I'd never seen him with anyone else, we'd occasionally be outside or in a corner shop together but he always got me to go to the counter and get everything. I'm not sure he was very good at talking to strangers. 147 The thirty seconds passed. I calmly removed the screen lock and read the message. 'Hey man, that base hasn't gone, it's just moved further into the woods. My imagination raced with all the possibilities this message had inspired. I wanted to go check it out straight away but it was nearly home time for the kids who'd built it so Norm talked me out of it. Instead we said we'd check it out the next day. That night, however, was Guy Fawkes night, We spent the evening rambling along the hilly skyline of the quaint little town we'd both been assigned to be bored in, setting off fireworks at such acute angles that instead of going up in the air they shot along the floor, down the hill, and although not near enough to the town to actually do any damage, the thrill of the thought of it was enough to entertain us non-stop. By the time we were heading home it was two, maybe even three o'clock in the morning & we realized that the kids would have been long gone from their den in the woods. We excitedly went off to investigate. Being drunk, the first obstacle stopping us from infiltrating this groups camp was probably the most perilous, but we'd been playing with fire all night so we weren't going to be scared off by a little water. The stream rushing along the front of the camp was luckily quite shallow, I'd seen it much higher just a few weeks beforehand when an annoying spell of torrential rainfalls flooded half the town and made the other half turn from comfy-country folk to whining miserable gits, I love rain, but that's not the point. The kids had laid a few wooden boards across stones in the stream and although they wobbled a bit it was fine to cross, carefully looking out for trip- wire and booby-traps we pulled back a plastic sheet and uncovered a one room flat which, if it had 148 electricity, I'd probably pay rent for. Massive sections of fence, maybe seven or eight feet tall, were nailed to trees creating a long rectangular room maybe twelve feet wide and twenty feet long. At the end there was a bed with a plastic sheet, it was tied up but if you let it down it'd give the people in the bed a little privacy. Norm & I made jokes about how many of the little bastards lost their virginity in it before realising it was probably true and shuddering at the thought before realising how jealous we were, when we were that age our dens didn't have beds, we had to be imaginative when looking for places to take girls and more often than not ended up behind a bin or in a hedge somewhere, Bloody kids; don't know they're born. Along each wall leading to the bed there were couches and armchairs, quite good ones too, all second, third and probably even fourth hand like but definitely not unusable. I thought of all the homeless people I'd talked to who'd appreciate this, then thought about how it was wasted on spoilt kids with 3D Nintendo Gameboys and Netbooks and stuff. Eventually, tiredness took over. We couldn't exactly sleep there, there was a bed but it'd be cold and probably damp, so we left for the comfort of our own beds. We left a little spraying of litter in the camp as a sign that someone was there and that we're onto them and know about their base. The ball's in their court now.
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33
Eighteenth Birthday Crane Climbing Bonanza
My birthday is very close to Valentines Day. Four days away from it in fact, I'd never had a girlfriend on Valentines Day before so this year I was on a real high. I was living in my second house, which was a hundred times better than the first one and a million times better than not having a house. My girlfriend, Flora, had taken the week off of work (she was training to be a primary school teacher) so as to spend Valentines Day and my birthday with me. We had loads planned, I lived in the middle of the city so the world was at our fingertips, we could go out and do just about anything we wanted. We spent the first night planning and got all excited about our week of fun, I only worked two hours a day myself then, six til eight in the morning sweeping the floors at a local department store, since there were no customers in I could be as 150 hung over or zombielike as I wanted, which worked well for me as I was always hung over AND zombielike on a morning. We spent the first day in bed. It was Valentines Day after all. She went overboard on presents, three Gio-Goi t-shirts, a little ornament of a bear holding a love heart saying something like 'I love you' and a mug with the same picture on, minus the writing. I still use that mug to this day, not for sentimental reasons, I've just never bothered getting another mug, it's not broken, why spend valuable drinking money on a mug? I can't remember what I got her. The next day we'd planned to go to a cafe for breakfast, spend the day shopping, go to the cinema in the afternoon and a bar on the night. Instead we slept in, watched The Rules Of Attraction and some chick-flicks (I forget which) in bed, drank wine and ate a stir-fry. The next day we decided we should move our schedule for the day around and do all the things we'd planned on doing the previous day, however, after getting home from work at eight in the morning I realized how much I needed my bed and we ended up spending another day there, watching films and eating fish finger sandwiches. The next day came, we'd christened it my birthday eve, where we'd go out look around the cathedral and museums and stuff. But we didn't, we stayed in bed. Then my birthday came. I'd taken the day off and for the first time all week we had a proper lie in. I was supposed to meet friends that night, partly to show-off my pretty girlfriend, partly because it was also my friend Ben's birthday. We'd spent the last few birthdays having joint celebrations so it was a given that this year would be the same, only this year I'd have a girl with me so I wouldn't get quite as messed up as I had the previous years. 151 At about eight o'clock that evening I sent out a text message saying I was staying in bed. I put my phone on silent and put it down beside the bed, I didn't look at it until midnight, by which time Flora had fallen asleep due a combination of lack of interest in whatever films I wanted to watch on my birthday and the tiredness that comes with spending the whole day in bed with your eighteen year old boyfriend. When I did check my phone there was a bunch of texts saying I should go out and that I was a puff for spending my birthday in the house. The last of the texts read simply 'We're gonna climb these cranes tonight, you should come' There was a lot of construction going on in the city, it's quite a small city and from most places you can see the only four cranes, one building a swimming baths, one building a college, one across the river building a hotel and the other, on the other side of the city, putting up student halls of residence. My friends were adventurers like me, but with a bit more of a need for an adrenaline rush. I'm quite happy walking across a fell and occasionally jumping over a fence is the only bit of adrenaline I need, but these lads were 'urban explorers', they climbed buildings, scaffolding and all sorts. The previous summer the church in the market place had scaffolding all round it while the spire was being fixed, one friend, Johnny, climbed up it in broad daylight when the market place was full of people, then, when he got back down, some other lads wanted to climb it so Johnny went back up with them to show them the safest route. I didn't climb the church's scaffolding that day. I did climb it another time, when it was night and there was no one around, but not in the daytime. I laid next to Flora, I gently moved my left arm, the arm she was leaning her head on, and she didn't flinch, I slid it out from under her, I wasn't 152 bothered if she did wake up, she was beautiful and I'd happily spend more time in bed with her, but when she didn't wake up I suddenly got the buzz of adventure, got dressed in my new t-shirt and best jeans, and headed to Wetherspoons to meet the gang. They were quite far ahead of me drink-wise, I'd had a bottle of wine in the house but these had been out for hours, I decided to catch up with a series of Jager-bombs and treble brandies, my favourite tipple. An hour or three later and we were at Loveshack, a god awful club I try to never admit to going to but since its open later than the other bars I'd ended up in there on many nights, luckily I don't remember any of them. Its one redeeming feature is the VW camper van they've gutted out and added a table and chairs to make into a seating booth for four people and the ice cream van they've made into a cloak room, but you soon get over how good they are after three god-awful RnB songs by singers who've never experienced rhythm nor blues. The music stops, the lights come on and we share an excited glance, we're about to go climb up some cranes while intoxicated so heavily It'd be ill- advised for us to climb a mere set of stairs. First we went to the pizza shop and bought loads of food to eat atop these thin metal structures hundreds of feet up in the sky, and then we headed to the first conquest, the new swimming baths. It was easy enough to get in to, we just slipped under the foot-tall gap under the fence, not the best security in the world. We noticed that a lot more of the baths had been built than we'd previously seen, and the ground floor windows hadn't been put in yet so we ran in and jumped into the empty swimming pool, there we were in the town's new pool before even a drop of water was hosed into it. We were 153 pioneers! We christened it by being the first people to piss in the pool. Looking back it was fucking stupid, but that night we were Neil fucking Armstrong having one small piss on a night out, one giant leak on local architecture and council run sports facilities, There was stairs up to a second level, we found all sorts of tools and things to play with, then on to the third level, the roof. There was no stairs, just a ladder up to where I presume a stair well will be. We climbed the ladder, sat on the edge of the building and ate our pizzas, looking over the city and the cranes we were about to conquer. Quite stupidly we began shouting at the people below us, it was three or four in the morning but there was still the odd drunkard on his way home or unfortunate worker with an early morning start on his commute. When we finished the pizzas we climbed down the ladder, down the stairs, jumped back in the pool, jumped out again and left under he gap in the fence heading for the crane next to the new hotel. As we crossed the bowling alley car park a police car pulled in and stopped right in front of us, with it's headlights illuminating us & casting giant shadows of us up against the bowling alley. "Alright boys, what're you up to?" "We're just off home like, it's me birthday" Ben slurs "Aye mine n'all" I add, trying to get in on the inevitable reply of 'Happy birthday boys, be on your way then' No such luck. "Been climbing around on dangerous building sites have we?" the officer said assumedly, 'Fancy not wishing us a happy birthday' I thought. "Eh? nah, we were climbing the walls in the pizza shop like, they took ages, dunno about any building sites though" I confidently offered as a 154 solid alibi. We were clever enough to have brought our litter with us from the roof of the swimming baths, we may be trespassers, but we're no litterbugs! "I'll have to take your names, addresses and dates of birth" the officer insisted, he looked at me first. I, drunkenly, thought it'd be very clever to give a fake name and address, we were actually walking in the opposite direction of my house so telling him my real address wouldn't seem real anyway. I said something generic like Jack Smith or something and gave an address of a house on the other end of town. I gave my real date of birth, remembering that I had already told him it was my birthday. Next he looked at my friend Rob and asked his name "Robert Hook" he replied Fuck. That was his real name. Here we go. Luckily the officer didn't radio our names in. I've been stopped a few times and they always radio your names in to see if you're wanted or something, perhaps it was the fact that it was two of our birthdays, perhaps it was the fact that we still had our litter from the pizza shop and any real criminals would have littered a building site without thinking twice about it. Perhaps he just had proper criminals to be chasing and couldn't be arsed with the paperwork, either way he let us off and we headed to Ben's to sit around his kitchen table to laugh about the night. At five in the morning I went back home, snook into bed with Flora, spent half an hour cuddling her before getting up and going to work for 6 am. That shift was a good one. They always were after a good adventure.
155
34
This cunted circus (part 1)
I worked in a saloon. 2008 or 2009, I don't remember exactly when, but I was in my early twenties and it was the perfect job at the time, the owners were never around, they were always in a quieter pub on the other side of the town. This place, though, was a noisy pit for degenerates. It looked like hormones and smelt like piss. Never used to smell that bad, before the smoking ban it was a lovely smokey place that lived up to it's name, The Good-Time Saloon. I worked there when the smoking ban came in, must have been 2007 then, where does it all go? When the ban came in we didn't enforce it immediately, we were waiting to see if everywhere else would take it seriously, luckily it was July so the weather wasn't too bad & customers were 156 mostly in the beer garden anyway, but letting staff smoke while they were on the bar encouraged them to take less breaks, which was good, I suppose. One day I was a bit late for work, about fifteen or twenty minutes, I walked in & instead of the usual cheer you get when you walk into a place 'where everybody knows your name' I was bombarded with abuse for being a bit late on a match-day, the two local teams were playing & I was the only one who knew how to work the televisions (they're run through a computer so we can stream the matches illegally off the internet). As you're probably noticing, this bar isn't the most above-board establishment, but it's not like it's a surprise to anyone locally, back in the sixties and seventies it was a Hell's Angels bar. The police were scared to come anywhere near, Of course, it's different now, people are different, society's different, The Good-Time Saloon became the home of the local punk population in the late seventies and eighties before becoming over-run by metal- heads in the nineties. Now the lot of them all mix together & it's impossible to tell who belongs to what tribe anymore, what does it matter anyway, they judge each other by what phones they have now, your musical taste is as unimportant as your sexuality or ethnicity in a city this big. We do all share a common belief though, that Coldplay are shit. Amid the barrage of 'Get him sacked' and 'What time d'ya call this' I noticed a disgruntled murmur from the corner, genuinely unhappy to see me. I immediately wanted to go straight to her and plead my innocence but it wouldn't have helped, she's never going to believe I didn't send those emails, and anyway, I had a job to get on with, & I was already late. She sent her sister to the bar for her, obviously 157 she didn't want to speak to me, but to send her sister when her gay best friend would clearly have been a better option was madness, I mean, I hadn't slept with him. We share the awkward glance of two people who'd been up to something they shouldnt have & I proceeded to serve her while avoiding eye-contact & without the usual small-talk I gave punters. Interestingly, I did notice she'd brought back three empty pints of lager but she was ordering three double-vodka's. So instead of leaving, they were just moving on to stronger drinks. Maybe I would get to talk to them at some point. I started drinking too, I drank on most shifts, but I usually took my time, made a pint last an hour or two. This shift I must have drank half the top shelf. I love match-days. We live between two of the biggest cities in our region and the clientele supporter ratio is about half and half. The rivalry is a bitter one & most years someone'll get stabbed outside one of the gastropubs in the centre of town. Our lot are more likely to fight over bands or girls though, so match day in The Good-Time Saloon always was, indeed, a good time. I finished early in the evening & Ivy, her sister, and her gay friend were still in the bar, now accompanied by the local bike, a lass called Sammie who'd been with everyone in the town who'd have her. Normally I'd have gone home to eat before coming back out for the band, if there was one on, there usually was on a match day, even if it was just the local favourites Summersby Sixty Nine or The Bastard Sons of a Caravan, bands who we're always on call to cover when another band phoned up and cancelled, mainly because they'd already be in the pub, propping up the bar, just being fans, like the rest of us. If I didn't go home to eat I'd at least go down the street to the sandwich shop and get the breakfast sandwich, two 158 eggs, two sausages, four slices of bacon, black pudding, beans and tomatoes, the perfect stomach lining to prepare for a night on the grog. That night I wasn't bothered about lining my stomach, I probably just had some crisps or something then a dirty great big kebab on the way home, I don't remember. What I do remember, however, is spending the whole night talking to two of my friends and a mysterious new female friend of theirs who I'd never met before. I remember her so well because at about ten o'clock Ivy & her friends left & I suddenly noticed I'd been talking to the sexiest girl in the bar all night, she was absolutely gorgeous, and there I was talking to her for about four hours about how I'd lost Ivy and how much I loved Ivy and Ivy this and Ivy that and Ivy Ivy Ivy Ivy Ivy. 'What a dick' I thought. I tried to compensate but felt like a fool, for the first time all night I asked her a question, I asked what she did, work-wise. Then I asked another, I asked why I'd not seen her before, turned out she'd just moved here from a town not far away but with no busses after 6pm so no real opportunities to come through. I jokingly tell her I don't really notice people until after 6pm due to an obscure law which stopped me from being able to lift my head up til evening-time as a condition of my hangover. She laughs, it's then that I realize that although I'd spent the whole night boring her with my constant whining and pining for another girl, she stayed and listened. She was beautiful, she could have had any of the lads in there, but she was sat with me. Her two friends, who I knew, had been having their own conversations at the other end of the table for the whole night, probably a lot more entertaining than mine, but she'd chosen to let me annoy her. I looked around and noticed every lad in there, and even some of the lasses, looking over at her occasionally, I looked back at her and she was 159 indeed phenomenally beautiful. Long black hair - my favourite kind! Nice big bust - My favourite kind! And a sweet voice to accompany what I'd later discover to be a filthy mind - also my favourite! There's nothing better than a seemingly sweet and innocent girl who turns out to be nothing but pure filth, and here I was boring her with stories of a seemingly filthy girl who turned out to be real filth. I switched into my charming & flirty mode, not intentionally I was pretty drunk by now, but I started buying all the drinks, though I didn't tell her about my 100% staff discount, but she'd paid for her own until then, that's how little I'd noticed her. Before we knew it we were falling over drunk in my kitchen at five o'clock in the morning trying to concentrate on cooking a fish finger stir-fry. The next morning I wake up but lie with my eyes closed for a good while, not realising I was laid next to someone until my memory of the night before gets past the thought of seeing Ivy for the first time in ages. When I realize what happened next my eyelids shoot open & I'm genuinely shocked at the beauty of this girl lying next to me. The bed's a mess, neither of us are covered, she's scratched, all up her back, I check and so am I. I put my arm around her, our breathing synchronizes, then our pulses, she puts her arm around mine and snuggles in. it's perfect. She starts moving, gently rubbing against me, it continued until were in the act, we moved around quite a bit, but then there's a weird moment where her eyes shot open & she looked around as if she didn't know where she was, I panicked a little, but then she looked into my eyes and smiled. "Good morning you!" she said in a happy voice, the voice I use when I fall into my bed at the end of a days work & am really happy to be there. I'm taken aback a bit by the fact that although she initiated what was going on five or ten minutes 160 earlier she had only just woken up now. Perhaps even her sub-conscience wants me! Whatever, at least she doesn't think I'm raping her. I carry on & we set the precedent for a really good day. We eventually got up & got dressed, our clothes were outside of my room and littered down the staircase, I realize my door was open & we didn't have a quilt or blanket covering us as it was a warm night. I lived with 5 other people, mostly students, and this had happened before, where me being drunk when I came home resulted in them getting an eye-full in the morning, but today was probably a bit better for them. A bit.
161
35
Base infiltration (part 4)
While wandering around this sleepy little village I'd somehow ended up in I was thinking to myself about the appalling graffiti the area had. The best probably being the names of two teens written in the shape of a heart, and if that's the best then the rest must be pretty awful. The library recently changed location to the old council buildings and someone had scratched swastikas into the windows, I presume it was children and not actual Nazis because the arms of the swastika were pointing in the wrong direction, but then again Nazis aren't very clever so maybe it was them. It had rained so my opinion of these prepubescent artworks was always going to be biased anyway, no matter who the artist is, if you're being rained on in the gallery you're probably not going to enjoy it as much, especially with grammar as bad as exhibited here. Then I had an epiphany. What if I used graffiti to educate the current youth population of this little 162 town, I could write out dictionary entries for words like 'your' and 'you're', punctuation tutorials perhaps, even lists of possible alternatives to some of the words kids overuse now, like 'random' and 'epic', from a thesaurus.* As I thought more about it it seemed a little snooty and stuck-up to attack their grammar, these were council estate kids from working class families, they'd probably just assume a posh boy from the south had come to their village, got drunk on posh wine with his posh pals and gone on a vandalism campaign with a marker pen. Then I thought about quotes from people they'd relate to, and then I thought about quotes from people they wouldn't relate to, then I remembered the Keats and Dylan Thomas poetry books I had at home. 'Perfect' I thought. 'They'll bloody hate that' A few days later I was on one of my ill fated sobriety binges. I'd drank every night for as long as I could remember then had a bad experience one night, where Norm & I ventured off into the woods and had quite a few too many drinks around a fire, fallen out, fallen out more, then fallen out even more until it began to resemble a fight. A fight with bottles involved, the glass kind that put you in hospital if you're hit with one across the head by someone like me, a drunken idiot who thinks it's really important that I make you as unconscious as possible so that you'll stop annoying me. I remembered the fight, it was about a girl we'd both recently fallen for who he'd claimed dibs on but who, one drunken night after falling out with her boyfriend, had come to my house crying when I was conveniently horny. I can't help myself when in that state so I refuse to take the blame. Plus you can't just call dibs on people. Unless it's me doing it, I'm allowed.
163 *Me, talking about bad grammar! Indeed.
Anyway, I killed Norm. But just a bit. I couldn't feel a pulse for a minute or two, I sat back to take stock of the situation, then after a while I had a big gulp of what wine was left and he spluttered and coughed so I guess he'd regained consciousness. I was used to him dying anyhow, the daftie was always dying of something. I left him in the woods after making sure the fire wouldn't burn out for a while, when I woke up the next morning I decided I needed to stop drinking for a while, can't go round killing people any more. Especially not my friend. I lasted until about 7pm. So did Norman. Turns out he'd had the same idea, after waking up in the woods with a lump on his head and no memory of the night before he figured he should probably stop too, but come 6 or 7 o'clock the memory of what it was like taking on the world without a boozy swagger slowly came back and seemed like a bloody stupid idea. I often bump into Norman in the Off License, a lot of our finest adventures have started when we ran into each other in pursuit of a bottle o' grog. That day was awkward at first though, he seemed happy to see me, though I was shitting myself because last time I saw him I killed him, that's never a good start to a conversation, after a few lines of dialogue I won't bore you with however I'd learned that he had no memory of the incident at all, I told him he'd bumped his head on a tree when he'd gone for a piss and slipped over, he seemed to believe it. What you don't know can't hurt you. Just kill you, a bit. "So where are we going then?" he asked. I loved his certainty that we were going to drink together. The thought that we'd go back to our separate homes was preposterous. The adventure 164 had already begun. In anticipation of an unexpected adventure I'd packed my Dylan Thomas book in my bag (the Keats one was too heavy, three inches thick!) and a marker pen. I told Norm the plan and we headed to a bench up Chapel Hill, a great place to start because it was quiet and since it wasn't dark yet I thought we should start on the quiet places. We got to a bench, started drinking until we got the courage to be vandals (we're lovely lads really, not hardened criminals like the 12 year old wall- scribblers of this town) and didn't stop, mainly because the idea became stupid, especially on Chapel Hill, it's lovely up there, there's a Chapel, obviously, and some nuns live nearby, and a nice American man and some old people. We needed a new plan, we needed to hit the kids on their own turf, not on religious/elderly people lived. I have a certain respect for religious people, and old people, mainly because I believe in neither religion nor growing old. We headed to the camp we'd recently found, in some woods, over a stream. It was dark now, they'd all be in bed, it was a Sunday I think, or a weekday, either way it was a school night so we'd be okay to go in without seeming like bullies or pedophiles. When we entered I immediately started looking for the best wall to write on, found a nice clear one that didn't have any shitty teenage declarations of love scrawled on the walls and got to work transcribing great literature onto a wall where the local shitty teenage population would actually see it. I chose the poem O Make Me A Mask, it goes: O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies Of the sharp, enameled eyes and the spectacled 165 claws Rape and rebellion in the nurseries of my face, Gag of dumbstruck tree to block from bare enemies The bayonet tongue in this undefended prayerpiece, The present mouth, and the sweetly blown trumpet of lies, Shaped in old armour and oak the countenance of a dunce To shield the glistening brain and blunt the examiners, And a tear-stained widower grief drooped from the lashes To veil belladonna and let the dry eyes perceive Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses By the curve of the nude mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.
It wasn't until the next time I went there that I noticed how inappropriate the line 'Rape and rebellion in the nurseries of my face' probably was to a group of people who weren't old enough to watch the film Bridesmaids (first 15-certificate film I 166 could recall, sorry) We drank there until the early hours then I made my way home, proud of ourselves for introducing the local youths to a great poetry, and secretly proud of myself for not killing anyone that night.