Bad Taste or Entertainment?

There is no doubt that we live in a world that loves to publicise the extraordinary. Sometimes even the ordinary get a go in the spotlight. Think Big Brother contestants, or Z list celebs on I’m a Celebrity or one of the other myriad reality TV shows. Unfortunately these reality shows only bring home to us the reality that, if you’re prepared to sufficiently humiliate yourself for money and momentary recognition, you’re in with a good chance of being on the telly.

But the question is, where do we draw the line on this fascination with the absurd? BBC journalist Stephen Mulvey raised this question in the news yesterday when he asked whether it was in bad taste to have a “shortest man” record in the Guinness Book of Records. He asked how this was any different to the archetypal Victorian freak show and the parading of “Elephant Man” John Merrick before the British public. So are records like this demeaning? Are they in poor taste?

Well, for my part I would argue that it completely depends. Do Big Brother contestants have the right to make fools of themselves on live TV? Of course they do. Should we get a kick out of watching them do it? I think not, but hey, that’s just my view. Personally I think it’s boring and lazy television and would sooner sit in a dark room sniffing paint dry than bother to witness the asinine antics of a group of fame hungry talentless morons with a collective IQ of twelve. But the fact remains that they have the right to do it.

By the same token, does 27in tall Edward Nino Hernandez have the right to advertise the fact that he’s the world’s smallest man? Again of course. Should we find the images of him fascinating? Well, we can’t very well help that can we? We’re only human. Bob Bogdan, a professor in the Disability Studies department at Syracuse University has said that it’s “creepy” to champion medical problems like stunted growth. But surely if Mr Hernandez is prepared to advertise the fact that he’s the world’s smallest man and gain a moment of fleeting fame then the decision is entirely up to him.

We may live in what some have called an increasingly “Nanny” state, but the most important right we have is to make our own decisions. Surely it’s more patronising to Mr Hernandez if some professor thinks that he’s not capable of making this decision for himself.

1984? If Only It Was As Good!

Does it sound too cliched to talk about our society becoming like Orwell’s 1984? Probably. Certainly it conjures up overblown pseudo-“liberal” articles like Zoe William’s latest guff (“If sex with HIV is a crime, so is swimming with verrucas” – okay, so there are two major problems here – one: HIV is a serious life threatening disease. Verrucas are not. Two: there is a cure for verrucas. Have you a cure for HIV Zoe? I thought not. So shut it and stop trying to make other sensible liberals look like complete morons.)

From a governmental point of view, it is obvious why politically aware Britons accuse our country of suffering from”1984” syndrome. In this country alone millions marched against the Iraq war with no result. All we got were embarrassing TV cameos from Blair moralising to the nation about how a war with Sadam was a righteous conflict. Okay, and nothing to do with sucking up to Bush or getting ourselves truck loads of oil then?

And it’s not as if we don’t fight all dictators is it? Apart from Thailand’s Thaksin Shinawatra, who was ousted in a coup by his own people in 2006 or Egypt’s Hosni Mubarak who puts anyone who opposes him in prison. Or Iran’s Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, under whose government: “respect for basic human rights in Iran, especially freedom of expression and assembly, deteriorated in 2006,” says Human Right Watch, adding: “the government routinely tortures and mistreats detained dissidents, including prolonged solitary confinement.”

Even closer to home we have Italy’s Silvio Berlusconi and Turkey’s Recep Tayyip Erdoğan. Berlusconi maybe considered a bit of a joke in this context, I agree, with his Dale Winton tan and “folksey-jokesy” local corruption. But Turkey have one of the worse human right’s records in the world, with children as young as twelve being prosecuted and imprisoned simply for taking part in demonstrations. Turkey, a founding member of the United Nations (how ironic) is now being assisted by us as it deals with its financial and economic problems. Of course, from a human perspective I understand that we need to help the ordinary people. But the government (particularly the judiciary system) still has a lot to answer for.

And so, with Iraq and Afghanistan, can we truly be honest and admit that we don’t give a fig about the politics? We only care because they’re taking something that we want. If they weren’t doing that we’d let them get on with it wouldn’t we? How else do you explain all the countries with similar problems but with fewer goodies that we ignore every day?

Moving on to a much more mundane topic. Why is it, that much like in 1984, the “proles” (i.e., those who actually buy into this sort of rubbish) are handed “lottery tickets” in the form of Hello and Okay and Look At Me I’m A Sort Of Celebrity, blah blah blah. These are ten a penny in the shops and almost always have the same torrid (or boring, depending on your point of view) headlines and the same pretty faces or fat tummies on the cover. Are we really that easily distracted? Apparently yes.

In October 2008, the newspapers and magazines had a heyday when comedians Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand made an insulting phone call to Andrew Sachs on Brand’s Radio 2 show. Only two complaints were made in the week after the show, but low and behold, the newspapers made a meal out of it and suddenly everyone was furious. Hey, they may not have actually heard it, but they all reserved the right to get righteously indignant about it! This led to the Controller of Radio 2, Lesley Douglas tendering her resignation and the two naughty boys being suspended.

It’s poor Douglas that I feel sorry for because almost instantly Satanic Slut Georgina Baillie (who by the way had already sold her sordid story about Brand to The Sun months before), represented by none other than Satan himself Max Clifford, was heard to remark in a weekly mag a few days after she had stalwartly said that Brand and Ross were a disgrace and should be sacked, that actually it wasn’t so bad and that they shouldn’t be sacked really. Great thinks Douglas, thanks for sharing. Bit late now though isn’t it?

But nobody seems to notice when a Z list celeb changes their tune from Monday to Tuesday. After all, it’s just candy floss for the masses isn’t it? Just something to distract you from what’s really going on. No, no, nothing terribly exciting; not a Welles stunt like War of the Worlds or anything. Come on people! We all love a bit of nonsense, but doesn’t it get a bit sickening when it’s constantly the same boring “I’ve done nothing but have big boobs and possibly an on -off relationship with my Z-list boyfriend” crap?

It’s not that I expect everyone to care about what’s going on in the wider world. I would be hypocrite even to suggest that. After all, although I do care about it, I don’t do a lot to change it. And admittedly I do love a bit of candyfloss now and again. But can we at least enjoy candyfloss that is fictional and has decent writers? If you are interested in real life, be interested in REAL LIFE, not whether Jordan is being insignificant with one man or another. These magazines and reality shows are so blatantly manipulative, I’d bet my friend’s two year old niece Ava would turn the page.

Honestly. It might sound like a rant (and okay it is) but can’t you see my point? Since (and probably even before) the influx of reality nonsense, people actually care more about whether Big Tits No Talent McGee is shagging Six Pack Nobody McKenzie, more than they care about millions of people dying in poverty and squalor on a daily basis. Is this 1984? Bloody hell I wish it was! If so, then I’d only be a one year old and as such wouldn’t have had to put up with this ridiculous twaddle. Or even more importantly, would have the good sense to turn it off.

A Touch of Magic or a Touch of Meh? Rah reviews The Tempest at the Old Vic

When I heard that Sam Mendes was returning to the English stage to direct The Tempest at The Old Vic, both my boyfriend and I were instantly champing at the bit. Me mostly because Mendes is a huge Hollywood name, and Harry because The Tempest is his favourite Shakespeare play.

Unfortunately Stephen Dillane's Prospero was relatively disappointing. His voice didn’t carry and he had the “hand-in-his-pockets” look of someone who would be better suited to addressing a sitting room rather than a theatre. I was expecting a bit more “sturm und drang” and instead Prospero seemed no more than a nice old man, which diluted the effect of his journey from betrayed castaway to magnanimous lord.

Miranda (Juliet Rylance) and Ferdinand (Edward Bennett) were suitably smitten as the lovers, although a touch too generic to be really convincing. However, Rylance does have a wonderful voice for the stage and she was one of the few cast members whose every line was crystal clear.

Ariel (Christian Camargo) and his antithesis Caliban (Ron Cephas Jones) were both appropriately otherworldly, although as with Prospero, there was a general want of feeling. Ariel, apart from one outburst at the opening, spends the rest of the play sulkily awaiting his freedom. Caliban, after a wonderfully terrifying entrance through a hole in the ground, moodily plots against his erstwhile lord, without demonstrating any truly monstrous anger.

Fortunately, the jewels of the piece were the two drunkards, Stephano (Thomas Sadoski) and Trinculo (Anthony O’Donnell), whose inebriated antics and slapstick comedy really brightened up the whole performance.

Set designer Tom Piper’s minimalist approach, with a stark backdrop and traditional circle in the middle of the stage worked well and was beautifully offset by Paul Pyant’s ethereal lighting.

So, to sum up, an enjoyable show, but a little too tame for my liking. Perfectly watchable but lacking in that intangible touch of magic.

Football: "The Beautiful Game". Or is it? A hung over Rah reports.

“So you’re not good at sports. It’s a very small part of life.”

So says Marge Simpson to her daughter Lisa, just as Homer walks in chanting: “sport sport sport sport sport sport sport sport.”

As I watch episode upon episode of The Simpsons on a particularly hung over Sunday, I’m reminded by my yellow friends that sport is a huge part of some people’s lives and totally irrelevant to others. Take me for example. My brothers and father are all extremely sporty; my dad used to play squash for Kenya, my older brother is hoping to compete in the 2012 Olympics in the 800 metres and has already run for Great Britain and my younger brother played county rugby. As you can imagine they’re all very fit and healthy. Even my mum is a fan of sport and regularly plays tennis and takes part in charity fun runs and bike rides. I seem to be the only member of the family who thinks sport is a bit meh. And for those who aren’t au fait with the word “meh”, in my case I would define it as “not interesting enough to care about.”

Don’t get me wrong - I undoubtedly appreciate the physical prowess and skill that it takes to play professional sport and the discipline required to perfect one’s art. And, let’s not mince words, certain sports stars are very easy on the eye (hint: the man I’m thinking of plays rugby and was once going out with Kelly Brooke. Initials DC.) To be honest I can even understand why people enjoy watching sport; I imagine it’s exciting if you’re into that sort of thing and besides, everyone has to accept very early on in life that different people happen to like different things. My boyfriend drinks whiskey and beer, both of which I find repellent and conversely I love cheese in an overtly reverent manner and Harry can’t stand the stuff. My best friend at university liked Samuel Beckett, whereas I found his stuff needlessly esoteric. I loved WB Yeats and she thought his writing was a load of drivel. In short, different horses for different courses.

My real gripe isn’t with sport in general; it’s with football. I can’t stand the disproportionate way that people worship it. It seems unreasonable to get that worked up over something which is only meant to be for entertainment purposes. Oh okay, and is sometimes a remarkable display of human talent which should be justly admired, blah blah blah. But quite clearly there are some things going on in the world which are truly worthy of our abject attention. Wars, poverty, crime, injustice, sexism, racism, homophobia, xenophobia and naturally the scourge of The Daily Mail and its loyal morons to name but a few. The answer to this puzzle is obvious: thinking about the above is depressing. I don’t need to take a poll to know that most of us would much rather watch a sitcom than the news. But just because human nature is unlikely to change, doesn’t mean that (for the most part) we don’t all know deep down that we should care more about the important issues and less about which team won the Premier League (or in my case, which celebrity has just been dumped.)

My second problem with football is the money. Motor racing is also an obvious candidate for a dressing down, but football’s got to be the worst. At least with motor racing the guys are risking their lives – in “the beautiful game” they keel over at the slightest provocation and feign injury. Wake up chaps; there’s a rather well known game called rugby where guys really do get the stuffing knocked out of them; we’re not impressed by your wet blouse theatrics. These ill educated, immature thuggish fairies get paid thousands of pounds a week, in many cases earning more in a year than thirty average Britons. How is that fair I ask you? For crying out loud, nurses get paid around twenty one to twenty seven thousand a year, and what they’re doing must be a gruelling and often thankless task, but is undeniably vital, unlike football. Again the answer for why these spoilt men-children are disproportionately rewarded is simple. There’s a ton of money in football and there’s hardly any in the bottomless NHS pit.

But I’m not going to let a little thing like practicality or reality divert me from my Utopian society, where sport is appreciated with an appropriate level of adulation. A world where boys can actually afford a season ticket to see their team play and where teenagers aren’t plucked out of school before they’ve even passed a GCSE so they can spend the next twenty years earning millions for kicking a ball about (and probably cheating on their wives and girlfriends in between matches and coke binges.) And most importantly, a world where grown men don’t think it’s acceptable to brawl or weep bucketfuls because their team lost. Wouldn’t it be a breath of fresh air to hear a Millwall supporter utter the words: “hey, it’s just a game”? Because let’s face it, it is!

Just think what the earth would be like if a huge portion of the money that’s pumped into the bloated football industry was sent to third world countries or used to provide jobs and houses to the world’s many homeless? Imagine if those who gleefully participate in game-related punch ups were prepared to get up and fight with such avid passion for women’s rights or Amnesty International. Picture the loyalty and lover like devotion football fans have for their teams and transfer it to the plight of an African child. You have to admit it would be a very different world to live in. Almost certainly a better one. But unquestionably the most persuasive incentive for subscribing to my Utopia would be that ol’ kill joys like me would cease our insistent ranting and turn our talents to something more useful. Like getting off our fat self righteous arses and taking up a sport.

Magnificent Maps at the British Library

What was it that Allan and Barbara Pease said about women and map reading? Oh yes: women can’t read maps. Well, far be it for me to criticise a book I haven’t read, but there is one thing I can state for definite. You don’t need to be able to read maps in order to enjoy the Magnificent Maps exhibition at the British Library. You don’t even need to have a particular interest in cartography, although I’m sure it helps. Quite frankly if you're interested in art, history, politics or even a touch of the absurd, then this exhibition may well tickle your fancy.

The first two things I noticed on my initial circuit were that (a) some of the maps are simply superb works of art and (b) a lot of them are (in geographical terms) incongruously wrong.

If you (like me) are more concerned with pure aesthetic enjoyment, the majority of maps are utterly magnificent. Vivid pinks, blues, ochres and golds are the order of the day, accented with depictions of creatures, both mythical and real. Some of the maps even have inscriptions on them denoting areas of interest, which I deduce were scribbled by the explorers themselves and add a splash of sociological interest.

As for the factual errors, in some cases this might be down to an understandable lack of knowledge (being that back in the “olden days” photographic and/or cartographic equipment was either non-existent or plainly not as accurate as what we are lucky enough to enjoy in the modern era). However, in many cases the inaccuracies appear to be of a much more Machiavellian nature. Often the country of origin appears much bigger than it really is (presumably for the purpose of intimidation or revelling in national pride) and frequently includes a plethora of desirable commodities amongst the typically lush and vitally reproduced landscapes (perhaps a veiled attempt to gloatingly cock a snook at the visiting lords of neighbouring lands?)

When viewed in this light, the purpose of maps in bygone ages becomes increasingly clear. They were not merely there to educate, interest or entertain - some were political tools, drawn for the purpose of war; either to wage it or to prevent others from waging it on them.

Amongst the more traditional maps, hang intricately woven tapestries. These, certainly worthy of prominence as status symbols, can easily be pictured hanging in the studies or great halls of rich noblemen, specifically those which designate huge tracks of land to a single family. I was delighted to recognise, on one of these gargantuan embroideries, the village of Great Bedwyn were my partner’s family live and the nearby town of Marlborough where I myself went to school.

By far my favourite piece in the entire collection is the map of London, drawn by Steven Walters. It is an illustration of astounding intricacy, depicting London as it if were a huge island, with the neighbouring towns represented as tiny isles, just off the coast of the vast capital body. If you don’t go to this exhibition for any other reason, then go purely for this. It’s definitely worth it. The detail is astonishing; I could have spent the entire day looking at just this and still not noted every feature.

So from “women can’t read maps' to a far more apt and satisfying quote. As Miguel de Cervantes wrote in Don Quixote: “Journey all over the universe in a map, without the expense and fatigue of travelling, without suffering the inconveniences of heat, cold, hunger, and thirst.”

For that is what you can do at the British Library, and you won’t only be traversing the world, but time as well. And, as an added bonus, you can always pop outside to the over priced café if you start to feel a bit too fatigued.

Vampires, werewolves and a bucket load of teenage angst? It must be the next long awaited instalment of the Twilight Saga.

Eclipse, or “Twilight 3” as it’s informally (and unimaginatively) being touted in the US, is the latest slice of pubescent Emo candyfloss straight from the pen of author Stephenie Meyer, screenplay writer Melissa Rosenburg and the re-imagination of director David Slade.

A previous film of Slade’s, “Hard Candy” - about a 14 year-old girl who catches potential paedophiles so she can exact vigilante-style justice on them – is a wonderfully original, disturbing but morally intricate piece of work. Not so with Eclipse I’m afraid. But don’t let that put you off. I have to admit that personally I found it very enjoyable.

The film continues where the last film left off and follows the love affair of high school student Bella Swan and vampire Edward Cullen. During the previous film “New Moon”, Edward leaves Bella, believing that she will be safer if he is not part of her life. Distraught, Bella turns to her best friend Jacob Black for support, not realising that he is a werewolf. He (of course) falls in love with Bella, just in time for her to go running back into the arms of the erstwhile Edward. And there we have it: the perfect cocktail for teenage anguish.

In Eclipse, Jacob and Edward are both trying to protect Bella from the vengeful Victoria (someone Bella managed to tick off in the first film for reasons which I won’t bother to explain here.) Not only that, but there’s also an army of newborn vampires causing untold havoc in Seattle. This has the potential to bring the vampire police a-calling. Not a good idea when you previously promised them you’d turn your human girlfriend into a vamp ASAP and have so far neglected to do so.

And, to make matters even worse (if you can imagine such a thing), there are some seriously pressing teenage issues to be considered: Edward wants to marry Bella, Jacob wants to steal Bella from Edward and as if that wasn’t enough, Bella wants to sleep with Edward, but Edward won’t sleep with Bella! Oh, the incalculable drama of a teenager’s life.

On the upside, there’s certainly a lot of eye candy for the ladies. If you don’t like the effeminate charms and tortured “what’s that smell” acting of Robert Pattinson as the overly Byronic Edward Cullen, you can enjoy the “is-he-on-steroids” appeal of the frighteningly buff Taylor Lautner, as the spurned and furious Jacob Black. Watch it though ladies - despite the body, Lautner was only seventeen during the making of this film (as the fluffy top lip in his close ups will attest to.)

And for the boys, there's Hollywood’s new girl next door, Kristen Stewart, apparently perfect for the role of clumsy ol’ “normal” Bella Swan. My heart goes out to all the poor Twilight fans who’ve been dreaming of their own Edwards, based on the fantasy that Bella is supposed to be “ordinary” looking. Okay, I admit that she's no Angelina Jolie, but seriously, the girl's the size of a pencil. Actually, she'd probably give the pencil a weight complex. It would be less fantastic to imagine the existence of vampires and werewolves than to believe that a Hollywood exec would ever cast a “normal” girl in such a role.

My advice to anyone planning to see this film is this: don’t take it seriously. It’s just a bit of fun and should be taken with a huge pinch of salt. I have to admit, I don’t think it’s one for the boys, but girls, I thought it was worth a watch, even if it’s only so you know what everyone’s been going on about.

And did I mention there was lots of eye candy? It’s worth watching for that if nothing else. It’s about time we had a film full of sexy guys for a change instead of the Hollywood staple of geeks hooking up with gorgeous women. It’s not exactly girl power, but I’ll take it.

Sitting in the Devil’s Chair: A Case of Paranormal Tourism

From standing stones, to ghosts, crop circles and UFO sightings, Sarah Jackson investigates the mysticism surrounding the ancient Wiltshire village of Avebury.


“Don’t y’all know that crop circles are a load of garbage?”

Amidst the audible gasps at this barefaced heresy, I spy a rather porcine American man leaning against the bar with, appropriately enough, a pint of stout.

“My wife said we had to come and check out these here ‘amazing wonders of the world’,” he continues to the astonishment of the barmaid and the assorted locals. “But I sure as hell don’t see anything wonderful about a bunch of kids horsing around and fooling y’all into believing in E.T!”

His wife, her doughy cheeks stained a deepening purple, is sitting at a table nearby and evidently trying to avoid detection. Unfortunately her vociferous spouse indicates her with a fleshy digit and she unwillingly curves her hand up into what looks like a mortified semi-wave. I feel the blood rise to my face for although I don’t approve of his candour, I am inclined to agree with him.

I am in The Barge, in the Wiltshire village of Pewsey, having lunch before I head off to the neighbouring village of Avebury. The Barge is renowned in these parts as being a veritable haven for hippies and “believers”. The walls are festooned with photos of alleged UFO sightings, crop circles, regional collections of megaliths and native musings on the unexplainable. Most frequenters of the pub who I've spoken to profess themselves to be firm advocates of the fantastical but I’m not sure how much of this is genuine faith, and how much is solely because they think I'm a tourist.

After a fortifying country-style ploughmans, I’m soon on the road and after cresting a low rise, the village of Avebury materialises; a mélange of the rural and the mystical. Rearing up from banks of lush verdure, great avenues of towering stones stand stiff and proud like ancient seers in the early afternoon sun. These stalwart giants converge on a ring of rugged menhirs nestled within a great earth mound. Older even than the man-made hill a mile or so distant, this circle has the whimsical suggestion of an ancient court; the giants without guarding the leviathans within.

On arrival I’m met by Gary, a cheery dreadlocked chap of about forty with skin like rawhide and an infectious grin. He proclaims with relish that he is to be my guide to “the secrets of the ages” which I find both reassuring and terrifying in equal measure.

“’Course it’s the individual stones that have the most interesting stories,” chuckles my companion, removing the guidebook from my hand. “You won’t need this love: I know all there is to know.”

He goes on to point out the Barber’s Stone, which unlike the others is lying prone. He tells me that in the 14 century a man was crushed underneath the rock when it accidentally toppled over. His skeleton was never recovered and is presumably still underneath the colossal slab. All that was found next to the stone was a pair of scissors, a lancet and three silver coins and so the eponym was born.

“He had nothing on Jesus,” Gary chuckles, moving on to his next informative titbit.

The Devil’s Chair, the stone which has fascinated me since I was a girl, is the second biggest in the circle, beaten only by the Swindon Stone, which purportedly weighs over 60 tons. The Devil’s Chair is so called because the structure forms a natural seat and my guide tells me that young maidens would sit there on Beltane eve and wish for their heart’s desire.

As we continue to walk round the circle I am astonished by the size of it. It is simply vast, measuring 1401 ft in diameter and covering a staggering 28 acres. The mysticism surrounding Avebury and the surrounding area is built on the belief that these stones had some sort of magic or spiritual import. The Diamond Stone for example is rumoured to cross the road when the clock strikes midnight. My guide finds this idea particularly humorous since the stone weighs around 40 tons.

“What sort of chicken crosses the road with that on its back?” he snorts, tossing back his head with a raucous guffaw.

As the sun hits the middle of the sky, my redoubtable companion takes me to the Alexander Keiller Museum. As we step into the darkened 17th century stable, the visual impact is remarkable after the glare of the midday sun. My nose tickles with the smell of musty fabric and my feet feel uneasy on the oaken floorboards that creak and groan with every step. All is going well until Gary overhears a teenager complain to his mother that “it’s not as good as Stone Henge.”

“Stone Henge?” he growls under his breath. “Stone Henge? This place is over 2000 years older than that dump!”

(I can’t help but imagine him sticking out his tongue.)

The museum is stuffed with ancient artefacts, including parts of the henge monument. These I study with an eager (albeit confused) expression, not being entirely sure what each piece signifies. Gary spends a while gazing at it with me. Just as I think he’s about to elucidate on the subject, he sighs and says wistfully.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it? Speaks for itself.”

I mumble something incomprehensible, which hopefully expresses agreement.

Like all true English-born, we head to the Red Lion pub for a final drink, which thankfully has plenty of benches outside and allows us a well earned bask in the sunshine. Gary knocks back a pint of bitter and informs me that this pub is 400 years old and is apparently on the top ten list of most haunted pubs in the country. As the sun disappears behind a dirty looking cloud, the cheery pub abruptly takes on a touch of the sinister.

“Ol’ Florrie haunts this place,” he says. “She was the landlady here many years ago. Her husband did away with her you know. Very sad business. But…,” he says brightening, “very good for business.”


Back at The Barge in the evening, my Wiltshire friends are anxious to hear about my day over a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

“It was magnificent,” I say earnestly, searching for something else to add.

“Ah ha,” one friend smiles. “We’ve got ourselves a convert!”

I’m about to answer when I notice our erstwhile friend Mr Stout advancing on the bar.

“What do you mean convert?” he grins impishly, clapping me on the back. “She’s British! It’s in her blood! You’re all a bunch of loonies!”

Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.

Mama Put My Guns In The Ground

“There was a flash and then bullets punched through the windscreen. Suddenly we were both covered in blood.”

Charlie is tall and elegant. He has a pleasant home counties accent and his hands are long and graceful. He is more remeniscent of a concert pianist than a drug runner. You wouldn’t know that he had been witness to a gruesome murder. More astonishing yet, that it was one of his friends who had been gunned down beside him.

“Through school I'd always smoked,” he says. “Mainly hash but increasingly skunk. Pills became a regular feature of my social scene. Acid, mushies and coke were around though not as regularly.”

“This drug lust,” he chuckles, “meant that I was usually the one who offered to get drugs for other people.”

When asked why he looks embarrassed and, whilst modestly averting his gaze, scratches the side of his head with a neat digit.

“More and more I found myself donkeying larger and larger amounts,” he continues. “As this happened I got to know people that I otherwise wouldn't have got to know.”

He grimaces.

“There’s a fake social side of buying drugs. People think there's glamour or hard-man status attached: the MA-1 flight jacket guys or the the nut-ya skinheads. There are others who just like being mashed all the time.”

At this point Charlie stops, takes a huge drag from his diminshing fag and goes to stub it out. When returned he theatically throws out his jacket, as if it had been born with coat tails.

“Things grew from there really. As time went by I spent more time with these guys and specifically Jack, a man who was at the centre of things. I started moving things from here to there for Jack or going with him to pick things up from some other guys. My job was to stand there trying to look mean or friendly or whatever the situation seemed to demand.”

He tips his head forward self consciously.

“One day I agreed to go with Jack on some deal. Didn't know how or why, but the idea was that I sat in the car and looked dangerous while he got out and made the transaction. I can laugh at that idea now,” he says. “I mean I was only 20 at the time and had a babyish face. You'd be more likely to be scared of the Andrex puppy.”

He explains that he was supposed to act like top-cover (in other words, if anything serious were to happen, he would step in.)

“We pulled into the multi-story car park,” he said. “We saw a couple of cars a hundred yards or so away and pulled up about 20 or so yards from them. A couple of guys got out from each car and the next thing I knew there was a crashing sound swiftly followed by bangs and the world going completely to shit.”

Charlie wrings his hands.

“One of the blokes had pulled out a handgun and just opened up at the car. I have no idea how long, how many shots, anything, but I know that when it stopped, probably about 4 seconds later, the windscreen had a load of holes in it. The the car and my right side was covered in blood and Jack was dead.”

“My ears were ringing and my heart was making a hellish attempt to get out of my chest. Jack's shirt was soaked in blood. I wrestled with the door handle, desperate to get out of the car. The two cars must have screeched off but I don't remember them going. Everything was shaking. As I escaped the car my legs buckled and I landed hard on the tarmac. I could hardly see. There was blood all over me and I was sick over and over.”

Charlie’s voice is coming out in short bursts and each word seems painfully ripped from his chest, yet his top lip curls upwards in the ghost of a smile.

“After the initial shock wore off I was terrified that I’d been hit and franticly patted my body all over. It was only afterwards that I realised that it would have been obvious if I’d been hit by a bullet.”

He smiles bitterly.


“That was pretty much the state I was in when the police arrived; doubled up on the ground, puking and weeping, every inch the man of action.”

He takes a deep breath and goes on:

“I had more guns pointed at me as they swung out of their cars. Their words were muddy and thick in my ears. I was handcuffed and shoved into the back of a police van with cops all around me. I'm sure they weren't that happy about it considering the state I was in.”

“I was taken to the police station and for the next few hours things happened but I have no idea in what order or for how long. I know I was checked over by some kind of medic or doctor and told to change out of my filthy clothes in exchange for an jumble of ill-fitting leftovers. I was hustled from place to place, made to fill in forms and constantly shouted at. They took my things from me and put me in a cell on my own.”

"They questioned me over and over; enough for them to realise I really was a stupid middle-class kid who was in over his head. All I knew when they finally let me go and I stepped out into the greyness of an autumn day was that the whole world was messed up. Irreparably so. I walked like a victim, eyes down, shoulders hunched, just wanting to get away from people because they were looking at me. The world was all around me and I didn't want to be in it. The stench coming up from the plastic bag which held my clothes was acrid and foul.”

Charlie pauses and asks for a cup of tea. He seems calm, but his hands shake slightly as he takes the proffered mug.

“My housemates were kind to me,” he says ruefully. “The pity in their faces made me feel even worse because I knew I was a selfish coward. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jack’s parents, who would have to find out the truth about his life at the same time they found out about his death. I still have no clue how they dealt with that. Their son was now, in terms of the papers and the police, only a dead drug-dealer.”

“I never saw most of those people again. I must have passed some of them in the street, but I didn’t allow myself to acknowledge them. I know there were a few of us at the hearing. It was an unlawful killing according to the inquest. Didn't count as murder apparently because they never knew who did it and could never prosecuted anyone for his death.”

“Everything changed for me. Not in an instant like in some imaginationless autobiography. Not when the bullets hit the car and my friend, but gradually. One by one, everything I had considered normal was rendered torrid and dirty, base and reprehensable. And I was a child; wrong, misguided and stupid.”

He pauses and lifts the tea to his lips. His hands are no longer shaking.

“ That was all ten years ago, “ he says. “And since then I have never hung out with people 'just because'. I pick my friends very very carefully. I can't stand risk, I can't stand confrontation and I can't stand aggro. I know where it can lead and I want no part of it.”

He beams suddenly and produces a picture from his wallet.

“ I am married now,” he says. “Last year actually. This is who I live for now. The past seems a long time ago, almost a different life time. And that is exactly where I want it to stay.”

Liar Liar Pants On Fire

As I sat in The Famous Cock near Highbury and Islington tube a few years ago, I was blessedly unaware of the desperate irony that my then amorous suitor would turn out to be one of the sliest nasties I would ever have the displeasure to waste my time on. A dishonest man you say, in London of all places? How shocking. But truly, this was more than a simple case of “playing the field.” This guy was totally wacko.

We first met whilst in similar states of drunken disillusionment at The Electric Ballroom on Tottenham Court road where we had both been reluctantly dragged by our metaler mates. As I lounged at the bar in what I considered to be a languidly dishevelled pose (but later discovered from a friend’s heartless photographic evidence, was more akin to Manson than Monroe), I overheard a couple of lads having a conversation about Shakespeare.

Being too drunk to remember the golden London rule: “ignore and be ignored”, I butted in mid-sentence and finished the guy’s quotation. The chap in question turned to me and I was suddenly staring at one of the campest men I’d ever seen. He was wearing some sort of shiny shirt with faux rosary necklaces and had a rather girlish face, with big brown eyes. He was kind of pretty, if you like that unctuous look. His hair had the unfortunate effect of making me want to wash my hands.

Why, you might ask, did I end up going out for a date with this greasy Lothario? Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. I think it might have been how interested he was. I, like most women, can be an absolute sucker for attention. I’m not proud of it, but I can’t deny it either. And I’m not alone. I am one of many intelligent young women - with a university education, a good job and a string of successful long term relationships under their belt - who have been targeted by this type of man and their anomalous antics.

Mr “Castor-Nova” (so dubbed on account of his oiliness) told me he was a journalist and worked for two magazines, neither of which I was familiar with, but I didn’t think to question him. You don’t do you? Or at least I didn’t. Besides, he went out of his way to show me an article he’d written for one of the magazine’s online sites.

It didn’t occur to me that he might be exaggerating or downright lying to me. Nonetheless, I should have listened to my instincts which told me right from the start that there was something weird about him.

He had the typically inflated jealous streak of most oddballs and whinged about my closeness to a few male friends. Finding himself ignored, he began to create several fictitious “modelesque” ex-girlfriends and female friends whom he’d bang on about incessantly. He received lots of messages from them on his Facebook page, something which I think he was disappointed that I didn’t ever comment on.

It turned out that he’d written them himself, from fake profiles. Pathetic.

Eventually it transpired that he’d been cheating on me with another woman, who I finally met and was heartened to discover was smart, successful and attractive. Between us we uncovered his lies. His job was, of course, a complete fabrication; he’d done a single day’s work experience for a magazine over a year before, hence the online article.

And the lies he’d told about me, whilst ghastly, were conversely comical in their absurdity: I too was a “model” (when in reality I barely reach 5 foot 3 and am certainly no stick figure) and a coke fiend (ha, if only I could afford it!) and, to top it off, a stalker (as if I would waste my time). It seemed that almost everything he’d told us was an invention, conjured up in the strange mind of this probable bed-wetter.

Walking away from this “relationship” (if you can call it that), was of course a huge relief, but it was positively humbling to acknowledge that I was capable of falling for such a load of rubbish. But I have wondered since, was it my fault that I didn’t automatically suspect him of constructing such huge whoppers? Is it realistic to check up on every word that a potential partner says?

It can’t be, not if you want to avoid turning into the personification of paranoia. Better to be fully aware that there are these oddities out there and trust to your instincts ladies! If you get a bad feeling, it’s best to not go there.

And anyway, aside from the androgyne sliminess, I should have known he was a deviant just from the name. As a die-hard Austen fan, I of all people should never have trusted a man with the surname Wickham.

A Date At The Riverside

As the tall and mysterious man led me down the shadowy alleyway in South London, I knew I was either on the way the most romantic date in the world, or about to suffer a grisly death. Fortunately the alley didn’t lead to an abandoned shipyard, but rather to a secluded pub by the side of the river Thames, appropriately named The Riverside. Romantic, relaxed and classy enough to impress without making my chap look needlessly flash, it had just the right elements to encourage successful second dates.

Mr Mysterious had reserved a plush sofa by the floor length windows, so I contentedly sank into the luxuriant cushions and ordered a Bloody Mary (all the cocktails are £6.00), made with Stolichnaya Vodka and with the full compliment of celery, horseradish, Worcester sauce, Tabasco, lemon juice and seasoned with salt and pepper. When my beau looked askance at my choice of beverage, I explained that it was the equivalent of a starter with added alcoholic advantages. He meanwhile ordered a Staropramen (£4.00) and a plate of spicy, crispy squid with garlic mayonnaise (£5.75).

Good, thought I (with barely concealed sexism); if he’d ordered a cocktail, then that would have been the end of that. A real man shouldn’t drink cocktails when he’s trying to impress a girl, even if the menu runs from Caipirinha (sagatiba Cachaca served over muddled fresh lime, brown sugar and crushed ice) to Cosmopolitan (Absolut Citron Vodka, Cointreau, orange bitters, cranberry juice and a squeeze of fresh lime shaken until ice cold and fine strained into a large martini glass.). Hey, it mightn’t be fair, but I didn’t write the rules. I think that was Candace Bushnell or someone. Luckily for my beer swigging adonis, the bar at at The Riverside is furnished with a good range of both ales and premium lagers.

Looking around the pub, I have to admit that I was suitably pleased with the venue. Pub it might be, but the decor has taken cues from such venues as All Bar One crossed with a dash of West End restaurant and gentleman’s club. The high celings and copious amounts of dark polished wood frame an island bar, with an impressive array of wines and spirits, while the floor plan places a dedicated dining area (with the now de rigeur window into the kitchen), alongside more traditional bar stools and slumpy sofas. There is a generous terrace outside which forms part of a broader piazza running alongside the river’s edge, just below Vauxhall bridge. With the MI5 building across the road, it seems like the people who built St George’s Wharf were asked to distract potential attackers from the rather less dramatic secret service building.

If the drinks menu says bar, the food menu certainly says pub with an array of solid favourites, such as free range Cumberland sausage and mash served with red onion gravy (£10.40), West Country rib eye steak with Portobello mushroom, grilled plum tomato and chips (£14.35) and fresh fish grilled or battered with chips and mushy peas (£10.40), not to mention a range of pies (£11.00 each).

On the slightly more adventurous side, the menu also boasts such tempting delicacies as smoked mackerel fish cakes, served on a bed of wilted spinach with lemon and parsley butter sauce (£9.95), baked trout with lemon and white wine on roasted sweet potatoes and steamed rice (£10.50) and seafood linguine with courgette, chilli and cherry tomato (£10.40).

The desserts are much the same; we have the British standard of bread and butter pudding, jazzed up with honey icecream (£6.00) and a selection of (of course, British) cheese with real ale chutney and biscuits (£6.25), offset by fruits of the forest berry crumble with white chocolate icecream (£6.00) which has a slight touch of the brasserie about it. Basically, the bread may be foccacia and come with olive oil but the fish chips is still very much fish and chips.

After sharing our fusion platter of duck spring rolls, tempura king prawns, spiced chicken skewers, prawn crackers and a chilli squid and prawn salad (£12.00), without any disasterous spillages or dribblings, and enjoying a bottle or two of Mitchell Estate Riesling (£21.95), it was time for the journey home. And let’s just say, Mr Mysterious got himself a third date and ain’t that mysterious any longer.

The Bluetones - LIVE AT KOKO

“So; the Bluetones. Do you think they’re an example of Brit-pop ‘survivors?’” As I stand idly in the queue for Koko in Camden, a young, enthusiastic and apparently guileless amateur journalist for winkball.com waylays me and my boyfriend. I’m not prepared for questions. After all, I bought these tickets for my boyfriend as a treat.

What do I know about The Bluetones being “Brit-pop survivors”? I mean, I’ve always liked The Bluetones, but tonight I’m only popping along for the ride. That and to make sure I’m in my man’s good books for the next few weeks.

But, as we order our first drinks from the bar, the question ways on my mind. Despite the fact that their break through single, “Slight Return”, was first released in 1995, in the halcyon days of the jangle and swagger of Blur and Oasis, the truth is that The ‘Tones have never been a band that are defined by any era.

The fact of the matter is, The Bluetones might not fashionable but they are very definitely stylish. Most people consider The Bluetones to have died out before the start of millenium but they couldn’t be more wrong. Still a jobbing band after fifteen years with thirteen top forty singles and three top ten albums, Mark and the gang are tenaciously holding onto their loyal followers.

These ‘followers’ are plain to see tonight. As Harry and I find a place behind the mixing desk (with an excellent view and coveted enough to allow no surreptitious sneaking off for fags), the sheer enthusiasm of the crowd is tacitly evident. And Koko is certainly the ideal venue to house the sort of intimate gig that perfectly suits indie stylings. As the opening chords of ‘Bluetonic’ reverberate around the venue, every body starts to sway. After all, you can’t ‘mosh’ to the ‘Tones.

Mark’s vocals, though characterised by his distinctively higher timbre, ache with a deeper richness that can only come from an old hand at the mic, whilst Adam, Scott and Ed provide a dependable and tight backing, delivering the cheery funk which defines The Bluetones’s sound.

Following their opening trio of popular classics (‘Bluetonic’, ‘Marblehead Johnson’ and ‘Hope and Jump’), Morriss, Morriss, Devlin and Chesters hit the ready crowd with material from their sixth studio album (not yet released) and shrewdly follow each new offering up with more memorables such as ‘Mudslide’, ‘Four Day Weekend’, ‘Slight Return’ and ‘Head On A Spike.’

Watching the crowd of diehard fans singing along to the final song “Keep The Home Fires Burning,” a single which hit the charts nine years ago, it reminds me that, in a city where gigs are often just an excuse to see the ‘latest thing’, it’s certainly refreshing to see people who genuinely love the band and the music and have probably done so for years. And their cult following knows only too well that a band with true longevity, charisma and steadfast skill can inspire a following for life.

So in answer to our erstwhile ingenuous hack, no I don’t think The Bluetones are Brit-pop survivors. They’re just a damn good band with a loyal faction of fans who will provide them with an audience for many years to come.

...Damn, if only I'd said that at the time...

Troubles Brewing At The Beeb

Everyone wants to work for Auntie. Not least because the Beeb has been the home of some of the most iconic and respected characters of this century; David Attenborough, Stephen Fry, John Simpson and Katie Adie to name but a few. Sadly however, having good A-Level results or even a first class degree from Oxbridge will certainly not guarantee you journalistic carte blanche to the exulted halls of the Television Centre or Broadcasting House.

Despite this, the BBC still attracts rafts of young and not so young hopefuls, willing to trade in low cash for high caché. The Beeb’s reputation alone means that highly employable people are prepared to work for tuppence for a chance to be part of the most prestigious media outlet in the world. Take Gareth Brookes for example. Here is a twenty five year old man with a first class degree in English from Oxford and a Masters in Journalism. And even with this glowing CV, Gareth started as a runner.

So what is the cause of this devilishly tricky employment crisis? A mixture of money and competition says Marie Grosvenor, a former BBC recruitment agent. “Traditionally, the BBC has been renowned for its training,” she explains. “Over the past fifteen years, this has changed dramatically. Focus on career development rather than career access is making it increasing difficult for new starters. In 1995 the BBC offered scores of training courses and opportunities for new starters, both graduates and non-graduates. Now, if you don’t have a degree, you may as well not bother applying and if you do and it’s not vocational, then your only way in is through an administrative job.”

According to the BBC’s annual report 2008-2009, BBC staff numbers have decreased by 9% since 2004, a reduction of over two thousand staff, and most of the cuts have been directed at the journalists. Carl Broadmead, a senior broadcast journalist in the Multimedia newsroom says that the cuts have meant far less openings for beginner roles, such as broadcast assistants.

“Since the BBC started cutting back, most departments simply can’t afford to keep employing and training new journalists,” he says. “BA positions used to be the way that most graduates broke into broadcast journalism, but now the number of openings has been radically reduced. If BA jobs are advertised, 99% of the time they are internal and on fixed term contract, meaning there is zero job security. And because of the vast numbers of people willing to work for nothing, the salaries are utterly criminal. Even in London, a BA will be lucky to get £20,000 a year. And yet, every time a BA job is advertised externally, we get on average, over a thousand applicants.”

So what does the man on the ground, Gareth Brookes, think about this? “I don’t mind it too much,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to work for the BBC; no other media company has that sort of the reputation. In some war torn countries, the only media allowed in is the Beeb because they’re respected for their impartiality; they tell the story, that’s all.”

But doesn’t it bother him that despite having graduated from one of the best universities in the country and spending thousands on his education, he has to make coffees for people all day? “I do more than that!” he laughs. “But seriously, no it doesn’t bother me. I could have applied for a different position somewhere else, even a different job within the BBC. I could have been an accounts manager or something, but to be honest, I’d rather accept the low pay and know that, if I work hard enough, I’ll be making my own documentaries one day.”

So there you have it. It seems that the BBC’s reputation still has the power to attract people in their thousands, despite the meagre salaries and unfulfilling jobs. But on a positive note, even the great David Attenborough’s CV was initially turned down, so that should make all of you failures perk up a bit.

Vapiano: Simple, Italian, Delightful

“Va piano” in Italian literally means “it goes slow.” That’s not how it feels on a Tuesday lunch time at one o’clock. My colleague, house mate and all around best buddy Cat has been trying to persuade me to go to Vapiano for months and today is my first experience. The place is quite literally heaving with people; people queuing, people eating, people talking, people laughing, people drinking, people having… well… a very good time it would seem.

The set up is very simple; you pick what you want off the menu and the chefs prepare it in front of you. I am immediately struck by how satisfying it is to smell the wonderful aroma of garlic and onions cooking in front of me, to hear the crackle of oil and watch as the chefs toss ingredients with practised skill. On recommendation from Cat, I order the arrabiata with penne pasta. They ask me how spicy I would like it. I say very. Do I want lots of garlic? Yes. Pasta al dente? Absolutely.

This involvement with the food process is a clever touch; it gives the impression that you’re receiving bespoke whilst only paying pret-a-porter prices; a typical meal costs between £5.85 and £8.85. And importantly, this works in Vapiano’s favour by cutting down on their service costs. When you’re telling the chef exactly what you want, some poor sod of a waiter doesn’t have to hover over the table while Mavis from accounts wonders whether she’ll have the carbonara or just a salad.

And what’s more, the service is unbelievably quick; my meal is cooked and ready in about five minutes. This efficiency stereotypically comes from Germany but has proved hugely popular in the my-way-or-the-highway food service industry in the US.

The décor, seating and layout is reminiscent of All Bar One, a chain squarely aimed at the 25-45 year old woman and designed to make her feel comfortable either alone or in small groups. Vapiano’s customer base is reportedly (according to their own website) 60% female.

The food itself is great; simple, satisfying and perfect for refortifying a worker bee in the middle of the day or as an evening meal before going out on the town. They provide pizza, pastas, salads and soups, ranging from basic fare like the insalata caprese (mozzarella, tomatoes and fresh basil salad), to slightly more exotic dishes like the granchi de fiume (capelli d’angelo served with crayfish, lobster sauce, argula and artichokes).

The desert and drinks menu also look appetising, offering delicacies such as crema di fragola (mascarpone cream with fresh strawberries), tiramisu della casa and the obligatory death by chocolate. Since it’s a work day, I resist from ordering a cocktail despite temptation, but I might return at the end of the day to sample the Lemon Drop martini or the Vapiano martini (three olives vodka, Chambord raspberry liquer with a touch of pineapple juice, decorated with a lime.) Yum.

My conclusion? Vapiano is on Great Portland Street, a spit away from Oxford Circus tube - if you’re a fan of fast, fresh and above all simply good food, take the time to visit. But, for the love of god, just don’t go at one o’clock on a week day lunch time.

Tallulah Catches Me Underwears (Groan)

In a city which sports so much grey, Tallulah lingerie boutique packs quite a punch. Extravagantly painted in vivid purple, Tallulah is utterly unmissable from the outside and if you have a taste for the exotic, the luxurious and the decadently naughty, this is boutique for you. Set in the heart of Islington only yards from the buzzing Upper Street, this funky, fashionable and fun lingerie emporium merges bold décor with antique French inspired furniture to create an eclectic yet classy style.

When Tallulah opened five years ago, owner, Nicola Rance explained her reasons for launching this unique boutique. Rance said she longed to create a place where luxury and practicality could be combined, claiming that too often one overshadows the other in the land of lacies. Tallulah, Rance hoped, would give women both comfort and opulence.

And half a decade on, it certainly provides this, stocking beautiful collections of underwear, ranging from the delicate silk creations of Ayten Gasson to the more modern upbeat stylings of Aubade and Lejaby. And with the recent increase of interest in Burlesque, thanks to Dita von Teese, Tallulah has become the London hotspot for exquisite hosiery, cheeky sequinned nipple tassels and full on 1940’s glamour.

The design of the shop itself is as striking from the inside as from the out, combining contemporary with classic. Warm red walls, drapes and curtains are off set by dark wooden floors and statement pieces. Antique armchairs, gilt framed mirrors, flamboyant vases, filled with simple blooms, contrast with the modern circular lighting. Amusing touches, like the teapots and cups on top of the changing rooms, add a comforting and understated chic.

Walking into Tallulah is almost like walking into someone’s house, which creates the sense that you can take your time and disregard the normal shopper’s frenzy. Although bedroom rather than house might be a better comparison; if there’s one major criticism of this venue, it would be that it’s simply too small to cater sufficiently to more than a handful of customers at once. Suffocating or snugly? Well that depends on the customer’s point of view.

Either way, Tallulah is certainly worth a look. Whether you’re looking for some glam sophistication or a giggle with your girlfriends, a very happy but blushing boyfriend or a private appointment so you can make like one of the glitterati, this fascinating franchise has lots to offer. And after a browse through the silken splendour, you can always go and cool-it-up on Upper Street with the rest of the hip young things (discreetly wearing a pearl string thong underneath your sensible suit.)

Brokeback Mountain Review

Never a man to shy away from a challenge, director Ang Lee brings us Brokeback Mountain, a big screen adaptation of the controversial novel from the award winning author Annie Proulx. Returning to Lee’s oft explored themes of internal turmoil and emotional estrangement, this heartrending film is as shockingly emotive as it is spartan. It tells the deeply passionate, darkly honest tale of two homosexual lovers, set in the American West during the nineteen sixties to nineteen eighties. Heath Ledger delivers a breathtaking performance as the restrained and reticent Ennis Del Mar to Jake Gyllenhaal’s emotionally demonstrative Jack Twist.

The two meet as they are preparing for a season of sheep herding on Brokeback mountain, under the management of Joe Aguirre (Randy Quaid). During the months of isolation, their initial friendship develops into a powerful relationship which even the central characters never fully articulate. Despite their connection, both men marry and have children. It is made very clear during the film what happens to those that flout convention. Four years after their season on the mountain, Ennis receives a postcard from Jack suggesting they meet up, to which he characteristically responds with a laconic: “You bet!” Their reunion scene proves to be one of the most genuinely moving and powerfully erotic moments in recent cinema.

Occasionally meeting in the guise of fishing buddies, the pair continue a disjointed affair which leaves Jack in particular deeply unsatisfied. Although one cannot doubt the depth of Ennis’s emotions, he copes better with this denial, saying: “If you can’t fix it Jack, you gotta stand it.” Jack increasingly begins to believe in a fantasy world where the two of them can be together, but Ennis knows this can never happen, telling Jack: “Bottom line is… we’re around each other an’… this thing, it grabs hold of us again… at the wrong place… at the wrong time… an’ we’re dead.”

Ledger who, prior to this film, had been typecast as a more predictable leading man, shows his true acting colours, bringing Ennis to life with startling sincerity. The degree of sentiment he manages to convey in a glance or a word is astonishing. In the defining scene where Ennis discovers his shirt in Jack’s room, Ledger wordlessly demonstrates the devastating pain of realisation and the agony of loss. Gyllenhall’s performance, although solid, seems to lack depth when compared to Ledger’s remarkable portrayal of a man inextricably bound by fear and shame.

Lee displays his talent for depicting the innate character of the country itself. The sweeping landscapes are beautiful, brutal and vast, creating a visual impact that represents the gulf existing between the two lovers. The wild and unruly terrain characterizes both the unstoppable inevitability of love versus the immovable bigotry of their world.

Brokeback Mountain tackles a subject which some might still consider contentious, but with Lee’s intelligent and sensitive treatment of this absorbing story, even those with the most extreme preconceptions may be sorely tempted to look at the world a little differently.

Sacrifice

At the glimmer of dawn, I yawn and stretch
Out on this empty bed and sigh.
And though I cry for your side untouched,
Not much, but simple liberty
Will unbind me from my reverie.

No more will I heal your leaden wounds;
These injuries by mind designed
To breathe within this vacant place
Where still my heart remains.

No more will I watch as you, with glee
Destroy my love eternally,
Inside, with woeful pride and
Joy’s distain.

No more will I take your highs and lows;
Your dreadful blows;
The malice and the piteous woes
Which slows the very blood
Within my cooling veins.

No more will I weep for you
Whilst such dishonour running deep
Prevents my tortured soul from sleep!
No more...! Finally I will sleep and say
I deserve a better way.

Against such injustice I will stand
Though hollowly, against my bones
My heart thuds in a heavy dirge.
Despite this sorrow I will purge

Your sin through doing what is right.
Regardless of your giddy fright
It must be truly understood
My actions seek to do you good.

No more will I stop to break your fall;
The sentence for your erswhile crime.
This time, how hard it is to know,
The heart I sacrifice is mine.

An Unfortunate Affair

Barry sat. In truth, he often sat, but today there was a particular purpose to his postural inertia. Today he was waiting. And, as most are wont to do, he was performing this act in a room commonly received as most suitable for the purpose; a place generally addressed as a waiting room. His chair creaked unhealthily. Barry was not a slender man. To be more exact, Barry was excessively corpulent. He was hefty. He was large. Many names had been thrown at his cumbersome frame throughout his thirty one year existence, but those most frequented were fatso, lard arse, porker and guts. Jokes were par for the course when you possessed an appearance such as Barry's.

As Barry continued to sit, he postulated on the nature of his forthcoming confrontation. It was a tricky problem he'd come to resolve and not without a sizable serving of embarrassment on his part he was sure. It had been bothering him for some time, but he was a reclusive man and discussing his private bodily functions with a stranger was not something Barry was relishing. A bead of salty perspiration rolled down the side of his rubicund cheek and took a kamikaze leap onto his shirt collar. Barry had acclimatized himself to sweating - it came with the territory when one was sufficiently rotund - but this was a different issue of fluid altogether. A type associated with creeping panic. What if the doctor wanted to look? The mere possibility made him shudder, sending more droplets cascading to carnage on the paisley below. The prospect of an unfamiliar person inspecting an organ which Barry himself had not made direct eye contact with for several years was simply unbearable. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became. This was not to be born. He made a sudden decision to bail out of this potential nightmare; what on earth had he been thinking? His dilemma would undoubtedly deal with itself given time... wouldn't it? Barry convinced himself of this dubious truth and rose from his chair. Unfortunately the chair decided to join him. Twisting his head around to examine this inopportune occurrence, Barry found that the seat had become attached to his portly posterior and was resolutely refusing to relinquish it.

"Oh crap," said Barry.

And it was at this moment of acute physical adversity that the nurse entered to summon him.

"Barry Higgins?"

"Oh crap," Barry repeated.

"Mr Higgins, Dr Greenwich will see you now," she continued without looking up from her clipboard.

"I'm terribly sorry," spluttered Barry miserably, grappling helplessly with the chair handles, "but I appear to be stuck."

Nurse Hunter looked up. A ghost of a smirk teetered on her lips, but she masterfully concealed it. Be professional Sandra, she counseled herself, always be professional.

"Oh dear Mr Higgins, we seem to have got ourselves into a bit of a pickle, haven't we?" she cooed, in the tone she usually reserved for small children. "Let me see if I can help you."

The other occupants of the waiting room had taken to paroxysms of poorly concealed amusement to which Barry was feigning ignorance, but his mortification reached its zenith when the nurse yanked the chair so hard that his trousers, already loosened by his own frantic efforts to disengage himself, finally surrendered and collapsed to his ankles. Thankfully Nurse Hunter had managed to remove the chair and, now free, Barry hastily returned his wayward clothing to its original position. An old man, who had been the least subtle in his attempts to control his laughter, stood up and called to the nurse.

"You can tell the doc I don't need to see him now. That bloke's completely cured me; I haven't felt so good in years!"And nodding his gratitude to a crimson Barry, he exited the room, still chuckling and notably sans cane.

"Well Mr Higgins, you can see the doctor now," the nurse reminded, slightly irritated by this departure.To her mind it should be good old fashioned medicine that cured you; not the misfortunes of a comedic fat man.

Barry, anxious to escape any more merriment at his expense, eagerly followed her and it wasn't until he was in the doctor's office and the door was swinging shut behind him that he remembered his earlier misgivings.

"Oh crap," recurred Barry.

Dr Greenwich was a man of about forty and five. A sensible man, a serious man, a man of considerable pomposity was he. His temples were streaked with grey, dyed deliberately for the purpose of seeming suitably didactic and he favoured the use of an ink pen over the more conventional computer. He wore his horn rimmed spectacles precariously tilted at the end of his nose and had the unnerving habit of peering over them, in what he believed was a wise and yet compassionate manner. He was currently peering, wisely and yet compassionately, at the monstrosity of human excess which had just materialised in front of him. He cleared his throat.

"Please sit down Mr Higgins."

"I'd rather stand," returned Barry, hastily.

"As you wish. Now what can I do for you? Concern for your weight is it? We can prescribe several treatment plans. I'm afraid they all contain exercise and dietary control which I imagine you would struggle with initially, but the results have been excellent thus far..."

Barry shook his head.

"It's not my weight that concerns me," he attempted an interruption, but Dr Greenwich was in full flow.

"...you should also consider joining a slimming group; apparently the proximity with those who are similarly afflicted does wonders for self esteem, motivation and so forth..."

"But I'm not here about my weight," Barry corrected for a second time.

Dr Greenwich fixed him with a look of demoralising scrutiny and slowly raised an eyebrow.

“Really?” enquired he, in a tone which plainly implied and why the hell not?

“I’m here to discuss something else with you; something personal. I don’t really know how to say this…,”

“...But seriously, you must be here about your weight in addition to this other problem,” Dr Greenwich persisted, unabashed. “I mean my boy, you’re, well you’re so… horizontally unnecessary.”

“Fat you mean,” Barry simplified.

“Well, I wouldn’t address a delicate subject in such brutal terms - there are those who take great offence to the word – but basically yes,” the doctor agreed, “in blunt terms, you are fat.”

“I know that,” Barry consented easily, “but I’m not here to discuss my eating habits. I want advice with another part of my body entirely. It’s my… my… God, this is so embarrassing…”

“Come on man, spit it out,” the doctor encouraged heartily. “It can’t be as awful as…,” here the doctor paused to look Barry up and down with distaste, “…well it can’t be that bad.”

“It’s my penis.”

In the eventually of there being some confusion as to the location of this item, Barry executed the superfluous gesture of pointing in the direction of his groin. Dr Greenwich suppressed the urge to grimace.

“And what seems to be the problem with the old chap?” he questioned. “Or did you just want me to check that it’s still there? I imagine you haven’t seen it for a while.”

Barry ignored this bald statement.

“I’m sure it’s still there,” he assured him, “but I have been experiencing an uncomfortable burning sensation when I…um, pass water.”

“Sounds like a urinary infection,” concluded the doctor, “probably brought on by your burdensome bulk. I suggest you go on a diet.”

Barry seemed surprised.

“I didn’t know my weight could cause a urinary infection!”

“It can’t,” admitted the doctor, smirking, “but you can’t knock a man for trying. So,” he continued, “has this problem been affecting you in any other areas?”

“What do you mean,” Barry looked confused.

“I’m referring to sexual intercourse. Although,” the doctor assumed uncharitably, “I suppose a man of your carriage doesn’t regularly have the opportunity to engage himself in that particular sport. Ha!”

“I have no problems whatsoever with that thank you!” Barry was adamant. “It only stings when I urinate.”

“In that case it can’t be too severe. I’ll prescribe you some pills for it. Should clear up in a week or so and if not, come back and we’ll review the situation. Now, about your weight…”

“Just the pills will be fine,” Barry reiterated, holding out an expectant palm.

“Are you absolutely certain?” asked a tenacious Dr Greenwich.“Quite positive.”Shaking his silver striped head, the doctor scribbled out a prescription note and passed it to Barry.

“If you change your mind…,” he made a final stab at persuasion.

“I’ll let you know,” Barry guaranteed, backing away and fumbling with the door handle in his impatience to vacate the premises.

Once alone, Dr Greenwich started at the considerable space which he patient had so recently occupied.

“Christ he was fat,” remarked he to no one in particular.No one in particular did not reply.




Meanwhile, Barry had left the surgery with only a vestige of dignity to his name. On his way out, the nurse had presented him with a fifty pound invoice for damage to NHS property - apparently the chair had not survived its run in with Barry’s behind – and as a concluding punishment, a ten year old boy had followed him all the way onto the street chanting “who ate all the pies.” A forlorn Barry puffed his way to the nearest taxi rank, located the nearest available car and got in.

“Newcombe road,” he addressed the driver.

The driver observed him suspiciously in the rear view mirror.

“Double fare,” he announced, stubbing out the fag he’d just been smoking and flicking it unceremoniously at a passing tramp, who swiftly pocketed it.

“Sorry?” Barry assumed he’d misheard.

“Double the size, double the fare,” the driver replied dispassionately.

“Are you having me on?” stammered Barry with incredulity.

“Company policy,” the driver lied.

“What? Why??” questioned our outraged hero.

“Look mate, you take up twice the room so you pay twice the fare. See it from my point of view; I can only take half the amount of people in my cab if the passengers take up two seats each.”

“But that’s ridiculous - I’m the only one in here!” Barry argued reasonably and with ire.

“Take it or leave it.”

It was a gamble alright, but Frank (as was the appellation of this mercenary character) had played enough punters in his time to know it was a relatively safe one. After all, the big oaf was hardly likely to walk home. As usual, his avaricious instincts paid off.“Alright,” Barry conceded wearily, sinking back and allowing the faux leather to mould itself to the contours of his physique.

“Don’t put too much weight on me upholstery,” warned Frank, eyeing him greedily, “or I’ll charge you for new seats and all.”

Barry sighed. He was grateful that the journey wasn't a long one; although the surgery appointment hadn’t taken as long as he’d feared and the hour was not yet three, he was anxious to get back to Belinda. Frank had also noticed the time but was considerably less appreciative. He was fond of introducing “top up” charges for late afternoon clients.




Belinda was studying her reflection in the mirror. On the whole, she was satisfied. She had been preparing herself all day and the results were certainly striking. Belinda did not share the equivalent tastes of those her age, being preferential instead to the era of the neglected eighties. She was partial to horrific hair styles, shiny shoulder pads, lurid leg warmers and lime green Lycra, a look she usually opted for in its entirety. The outcome of Belinda’s dress sense was a fusion of sensory data so intense it had been known to cause, it the most extreme cases, sudden bouts of violent sickness and, in the less severe, the necessity for the witness to spend extended periods in a darkened room.

However, this disheartening reaction did not deter Belinda. On this occasion she had chosen to attire herself in a particularly garish collection of apparel, mixing clashing neons with jarring patterns. She knew he would love it. He was a member of the minority group who actually admired Belinda’s predilection for gruesome garments.

They had met at a church fete last May when she had promoted her Victoria sponge and he had procured it. It was all for some charity or other, the importance of which was lost of Belinda - she didn’t hold with all that altruistic nonsense – but her husband had justified her exertions by explaining that a bit of benevolence “does wonders for one’s standing in the community.” These things mattered to her spouse. To Belinda they did not. But the instant she had seen him approaching the cake stall, glimpsed the greedy lust smeared over his face and beheld him fervently feasting on her rock cakes… well, Belinda was utterly smitten. And when he had told her, with a look of such sincere and earnest admiration, that he adored her gold lamé jumpsuit, she knew her Adonis was reciprocal in his desire for her.

Belinda applied a last soldering of hairspray to her poodle perm and clattered downstairs on six inches of heel to fix herself a dry martini. She was the proud proprietor of an extensive anthology of alcoholic beverages and had even insisted on having her own optics installed. Her husband had not approved, but then he had no concept of class. Popping an olive between her crimson lips, she gave her drink a self-satisfied stir. Mercifully that imbecilic dolt would be occupied all afternoon at the surgery, giving her and her lover plenty of time to do as they pleased.

A tremor of expectation darted the length of her spinal column as she wondered how long it would take Casanova to arrive. Having finished her first drink, Belinda surveyed the multitude of multicoloured liquor bottles, idly toying with pouring another. Oh what the hell, thought she, throwing caution and liver to the wind by mixing a double. No doubt her reservation in the afterlife was already in severe jeopardy, Belinda reasoned, so surely another little drinky wouldn't tip the balance. Better not have too many though, she warned herself inwardly, no need to jeopardise the other kind of paradise she had planned for the evening!




“Oh crap,” lamented our Barry.

Frank had turned the wrong corner for the third time.

“I’ve told you, it’s the second turning after the traffic lights,” Barry pleaded.

“I know where I’m going,” smirked a much more cheerful Frank. “My brother lives on Newcombe road. Been there hundreds of times.”

“Then why do you keep taking the wrong turn?” his passenger enquired through gritted teeth.

“Oh stop your whinging,” Frank dismissed him carelessly, deciding it was time to let the pitiful plumpster off the hook.

“We’re nearly there.”Doing an abrupt u-turn, the unscrupulous driver screeched the vehicle back on course and swerved onto the pavement, breaking with jarring speed.

“Where abouts do you want letting out?” he enquired innocently.

“Here is just fine,” shot Barry with alarming alacrity, struggling to squeeze his concertinaed immensity out of the chassis.

“Twenty seven pounds then mate. A cheque is fine.”




Dr Percival Greenwich was seated in the public house adjacent to the surgery, awaiting the imminent arrival of his brother. He had decided to take the afternoon off with the express purpose of dealing with this unruly family member and had a few choice sentiments to share with that beloved brethren, the majority of which he was certain his sibling would not take kindly to. However, it was his duty as the older and wiser Greenwich to take this matter in hand, and take it in hand he most certainly would.

The most recent offspring of the Greenwich household was “le mouton noir”, the thorn in their side, the death of conversation at family picnics and it simply would not do anymore! The Greenwich lineage must be preserved with dignity and honour, and it was he, Percival Jervais Greenwich who would perform the act of salvation. Imbibing a snifter of port, the great man felt the potency of his resolve redouble within his bosom. Auspiciously, Greenwich junior arrived just in time to receive it.

“Alright bruv,” Frank cockneyed mercilessly.

Greenwich senior resisted the bait.

“Francis, we have much to discuss. Please seat yourself.”

“Fair play geez, but get the drinks in first eh? Can’t concentrate when there’s too much blood in me alcohol system, know-what-I-mean?”

The doctor placed a solemn hand on Frank’s shoulder and thrust him into a chair.

“I will, on this occasion, purchase you a beverage, but on the proviso that you apply your ears to every syllable I speak.”

“Eh sure,” Frank assented half-heartedly, gazing wistfully at the fruit machines.

“Very well then.”

Percival went to the bar. Frank took this opportunity to frisk his brother’s coat for valuables, but with no substantial success. Still five quid ain’t bad for nothing, the purloiner conceded, depositing the pilfered note in his own pocket. Percy returned shortly with his pint.

“So how’s business?” enquired the doctor, as Frank applied the amber nectar to his face and took a voracious gulp.

“Made a killing today; scammed a fat bloke out of thirty knicker,” Frank enthused, wiping foam from his lips.

Dr Percival did not appear impressed. Quite the antithesis of impressed in fact. To be honest, he appeared substantially less than pleased. One might even say displeased.

“Francis, I wish to be frank with you,” he began.

“Well you can’t – I’m Frank and I’m not sharing myself with anyone,” Frank guffawed, covering his brother in beer-flecked spittle.

Percy wiped himself down with a monogrammed handkerchief and tried again.

“Still playing the joker I see,” the good doctor sighed. “Very droll I’m sure, but you must be serious for a moment and listen to me.”

“Okay doc, what’s the diagnosis?” Frank mocked cheekily.

“You Francis are a scoundrel. What’s more, you’re a bounder, a cheat, a liar and a thief.”

“Don’t sugar coat it then.”

“I’m sorry Francis, but it’s for your own good. You need to learn the error of your ways; you have a responsibility to the Greenwich family name! Men of substance are we, men of honour, men of decorum and etiquette. Take my day for example. I too came into contact with a man of disproportionate mass, but instead of filching the feckless fellow, I offered him my sympathy and assistance. That the foolish chap chose not to heed my words of wisdom is no failing of mine; I did my best to help him, but there are those who are blind to their faults…”

Frank took another voluble slurp from his pint glass, so raucous that several patrons rotated their heads to stare, but his vociferous relative persisted in his reprimands undaunted.

“I want to help to you Francis,” he intoned. “It is my responsibility, my bounden duty as your only brother, to assist you onto the path of morality.”

“Immorality suits me fine,” Frank reassured brazenly, sucking on a roll up and exhaling foul smelling smoke into the eyes of his sanctimonious sibling.

Percy took a deep breath for the purpose of retaining his composure and soon wished he hadn’t as he inhaled a lungful of second hand carbon monoxide. After a thirty second interval of guttural coughing, he attempted another deep breath and was rewarded with oxygen.

“I realise you think you’re happy,” he persisted, “but this hedonistic lifestyle will ruin you eventually. All that smoking, drinking, gambling and illegal behaviour – it is not the Greenwich way. And have you considered the consequences if you ever got yourself incarcerated? Mother would positively perish with mortification; she may never attend the parish flower arranging society again. And consider how dangerously you could undermine Father’s reputation at the golf club.”

Frank tipped the last remnants of beer into his mouth and sat silently with a look of mute boredom on his face.

“All I’m asking,” resumed Percy, “is that you stay with me for a few weeks. I’ve had a word with my wife and she has agreed. I could even put in a word for you at the surgery, see if we can get you started there. It would only be a few jobs to start with, but it’s honest work.”

Frank looked decidedly unconvinced at this proposition, but was surreptitiously pondering the advantages. His landlord was demanding all his overdue rent payments and Mickey Pyke had threatened to thrash him most soundly if he didn’t settle his gambling debts. He could go into hiding – be in cognito, in communicardo, etcetera et al. Frank liked the sound of that; very spy film, very secret service. Plus he might get a chance to knob Percy's old bird...not that he hadn't ridden that horse before, ha! He decided to graciously acquiesce.

“Okay then.”

“What?” Percy sounded startled. He hadn’t actually expected Frank to agree.

“Sounds good to be bruv, I could do with a bit of dinner. Got any whiskey at home?”

“Um, splendid; I’m so pleased,” the doctor bluffed, not entirely sure if he was or not.

“Shall we be off then?”

Frank had just noticed the arrival of the aforementioned Mickey and was anxious to depart unnoticed. Fortunately Mickey was presently preoccupied with another corporal collection and had not, as yet, acknowledged Frank’s presence. Frank stood up hurriedly, ready to make himself scarce.

“Yes yes, let’s,” his brother followed.

For his part, Percy had resolved to make the best of it. After all, he would be justly revered for this act of noble self sacrifice at the next family picnic.




The doorbell of twenty Newcombe road rang out a piecing note and Belinda, who had just terminated her fourth cocktail, wobbled unsteadily into the entrance hall. Nonetheless, spying the form of her expected aficionado standing in the porch was more than enough to whet her appetite and make up for her questionable sobriety. Flinging the door wide with unashamed delight, she fell upon him with sinful gluttony. Only just making it into the sitting room, Belinda barely had time to turn up the sensual serenading of Barry White before they collapsed onto the carpet, writhing and squealing their sexual glee.




At a similar point in the space-time continuum, the two brothers were wandering amiably in the direction of Dr Percy’s residence. They were both under the impression that they had got one over on the other and, as such, the general feeling between the pair was unusually good-humoured.

“After you my dear fellow,” insisted Percy, bowing cordially as he held open the garden gate.

“Why ta very much,” Frank grinned, walking up the path to the front door.

Then there was silence for a moment as the couple listened intently.

“Is that music coming from your house?” Frank asked, as a flicker of puzzlement crossed his nefarious features.

“I don’t know,” answered the doctor, equally bewildered.

Putting his key in the hole designed for this very eventuality, Percival rapidly released the lock and entered the house. The blaring bass blazed like a bullet through his brain and, with Frank in hot pursuit, the mystified doctor crossed the hallway and into the sitting room. There, on the cerise shag pile, was Dr Greenwich’s porky patient in the midst of porking Percy’s not so patient partner.

“Fuck me!” put Frank succinctly, speaking first.

Dr Greenwich just gaped.

Turning to face the unwitting detectives, Barry and Belinda’s features resembled that of the rug on which they had so recently been ragging.

“Oh crap,” said Barry.

The Guard, The Charades and The Gate That Was Barred

Let me set the sceeeeeeeene...

T'was a crisp morning on the day of Mon and once more dear friends, the ineptitude of TFL was in full swing.

The Vicky line was out between Victoria and Brixton due to “signal failures at Victoria.” Of all the bungling inadequate half arsed ham-fisted incompetence!! Fucking-useless-empty-headed-fluff-brained-POINTLESS-TURDS!! (internalised I most charitably, with my usual mixture of philanthropy and patience.)

Harry and I decided to get a bus to Elephant and Castle from where I could get on the Bakerloo line.

Oh if only t’were that simple… but as we are all painfully aware, the garden path of life is rarely straightforward and consequently the occasional snail of fortune will invariably be squished under the boot of circumstance.

Upon reaching the Bakerloo line platform, I heard the cheerful announcement that "normal service has resumed on the Victoria line."

Not severe delays, or even minor delays. Oh no. NORMAL FECKING SERVICE.

Bastards.

My hangover, which had been so easily dissipated by our sojourn into the fresh, unsullied morning on the look out for the 415 bus, reprised itself like some insane Mafioso with a vendetta of the cruellest retribution shooting my skull up from the inside.

Having finally staggered onto the Central line for the last leg of my epic journey, once more the nasal whinings of the TFL tosspots could be heard above my mp3 player as we stalled in the middle of a tunnel…

Defective train at Marble Arch.

Yes.

“I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen, we’re not sure how long we will be held in this tunnel. There is a defective train at Marble Arch and we will be held here until the platform is clear…”

Fifteen minutes later we finally got moving again. But this was not to be the final sting of the proverbial bee, oh no.

On arrival at White City tube station, I made my way to the North Gate entrance of the Television Centre. This entrance has several obstacles to overcome:

(a) The outer gate which you must use your pass to open, both from outside and inside...
(b) …followed by those revolving jobbies with the metal bars, which again you use your pass to get through.

The first gate was already open…it’s a bit of a grandpa gate which takes a while to close; someone had obviously just beeped through meaning that it was still standing open. I walked through the pre-opened gate and tried to beep through the revolving doors, but for some reason my pass didn’t work. As I was trying to beep through again, I heard the gate behind me slowly grating to a close. Uh oh... I tried my pass at the outside gate, with the same result (i.e., NONE!)

No security guard in the adjoining hut. No other BBC colleagues coming through. Can’t beep out of the gate, can’t beep through the revolving doors.

Fuck.

…It took me about five minutes but I finally managed to flag down a guard who had returned to the security hut.

Picture this: I’m banging on the window to alert his attention, he’s trying to open the window so he can hear me but having little success (the window was taped shut on the outside... something which he clearly hadn't tumbled to…) and I’m leaping about, pointing at my pass and making chopping signals with my hands, trying to indicate that it’s broken.

I then spent some time (with some truly imaginative gesticulations) trying to communicate that he couldn't open the window, to which he kept shrugging and pointing to his ears (translation: I can't understand you bitch, quit jumping around like a loon.)

Eventually he had an overdue attack of the smarts and decided that whilst our game of "spastic charades" was indeed entertaining (at least to the little group of pedestrians who had gathered at the gate to observe the scene) it was, in terms of resolving matters, proving to be fruitless.

So he came out of the hut and spoke to me face to face. To give him credit for perseverance (and very little else), it took him an extraordinarily long time to take this rather obvious course of action... I suppose he didn't like the idea of being beaten by a window.

As soon as he had admitted to his physical inferiority to inorganic products of fusion, I was let out and allowed to go through to the main reception, where strangely enough my pass worked fine. Of course it bloody did.

All in all, a truly comedic morning. So, to wrap this up ladies and jelly spoons, this concludes the exciting episode of:

"MY GAME OF CHARADES WITH A RETARDED GUARD"

... and ...

"MY ARSE OF A PASS AND THE GATE BOLTED FAST!"

Thank you.

Return To The Shire

I woke up this morning
All weary and yawning
Without any warning
The room was alight
Immediately standing
I leapt to the landing
With stark understanding
Of a day in full flight

Outside it was raining
I stood there refraining
From curse or complaining
But went on my way
The streets were all shining
With droplets reclining
Atop pavement lining
Upon tarmac grey

My feet puddle bathing
On water sluiced paving
And people behaving
Wall-like in a maze
The tube overflowing
With to-ing and fro-ing
And everyone going
To work in a daze

But just as I'm certain I'll fall to my knees
Heart failing, hands flailing and soul ill at ease...

...I recall through these torments the evergreen shire
And my heart brims anew with a fierce desire
That grows ever stronger hour by hour
To lie in the arms of a fresh verdant bower
And savour the scent of each bud, blade and flower
Away from the grey of this dark London power
Which dauntingly threatens my soul to devour…

…Leaving me weak, woeful, weeping and worn
How I long for the shire where my soul is reborn.

Memento to a Machiavellian Manager

You smile, generous and cool
Informing us in general you’ll
Be sympathetic, kind, not cruel
Magnanimous to us, as a rule
Proving you are young and hip
In jeans and shirt with skin tight fit
Bragging about your skiing trip
You must be satan's conduit.

Our “value” is seemingly so great
That simpering, you salivate
In showing you appreciate
Your staff; bravo, you petty snake!
Sneakily skulking round the place
A sickly smirk upon your face
Reporting back on every case
Of “naughtiness” or longer luncheon breaks

Despite your course on management
(Which you have tried to implement
By handing out your "compliments")
You're a coward in an argument
And scared to hand out punishment,
So get another man to vent
All your frustrated sentiment.

So how on earth could we think highly
Of a man who acts so slyly?
Manager, for all your cool
You've "managed" to appear a fool.

A Labour of Love

As at this desk I clack upon a key,
And curse again this bleak monotony,
(Bemoaning fate alas internally!)
My wandering thoughts return once more to thee.

When I, on phone, intone in gentle wise
That “this or that” is not to be advised,
And thusly bend, beseech, apologise,
For this poor job! which I wholly despise!

...then I see ...my darling lover’s eyes...

Widening as they dance upon my own,
With pupils dark and limbs around me thrown,
Whilst I, contorting, dissolve with gentle moan
And thence the corners of my soul are shown...

...which miss the bliss brought by thy kiss alone...

So even when, still, at my screen I sit,
Lamenting wasted days and hours unfit,
Time, by these thoughts, is rendered exquisite
Like some sweet pain to which I must submit.

Though every speck of time a hindrance be,
Each ticking clock is bringing you to me.

A PA's Revenge

I wouldn’t dub myself a vulgar girl,
In fact I’d say I’m usually quite sweet.
A calm and inoffensive soul am I,
With only lovely phrases to repeat.
But working in this office drives me mad,
My hair is falling out, my nails bit;
And so to let off steam, I’ll write a verse,
An office full of morons to befit…

You fucking useless, empty minded c***s!
You stupid, witless lazy bags of shite!
Dismal, worthless, wretched, old and foul,
Would it kill you once to be polite?
*****, nasty, nosey, noxious twat,
****, bilious, balding, boring tool,
*****, rotund, revolting, vile bitch,
******, pointless, petty, pompous fool!

Incipid, idle, workshy to a man!
Redundant, red faced, rancid load of jerks!
You wonder why I’m scowling as I stand,
Surrounded by retards like you at work??
But let me save the last verse for my boss,
A truly spiteful, cruel and vicious git;
Unsympathetic, childish and cold,
This is for you, you heartless little sh*t...

*****, you’re contemptible and mean,
No soul inside with spirit null and void,
Plus the sort of ghastly jarring laugh
That people cross whole planets to avoid!
Offensive, dull, deliberately obtuse,
Unpleasant, greedy, infantile buffoon;
If I never saw your face again,
It’d be a hundred thousand years too soon!

You watch - I’ll get a better job than this!
Oh mark my words, soon you will RUE the day
That you forgot to show some thanks to me
And all your malice, swiftly I'll repay!
For one day I will OWN this company!!
And one day I will be your fucking boss!!
Then we will see who’ll minute your dismay,
'Cause by then, trust me, I won’t give a toss!!!!

You bastards.

Tube Dreams

Oh citadel of transport through this town!
Oh motorcade for ordinary man!
A simple beast, but mainstay of our state,
With sliding doors and recent drinking ban.
Upholstery which is garish but is true(And comfy when you’re adequately pissed),
Though crowded, one may ever rise anew
With a well timed elbow, shoe or fist.

Mornings, amid bleary eye and yawn,
I climb aboard this noisy, bustling train.
Evenings, weary; pupils wide and worn,
Fall I onto this tattered couch again.

In go earphones, fags in pocket shoved,
Bag on wrist and oyster card in hand,
Water bottle tucked under my arm,
On the brink of madness, here I stand
At the very top of Brixton’s stair,
Waiting a mere speck before I plough
Headfirst into many squirming limbs -
As many as this tunnel will allow.

Mornings, amid fuggy minds and sleep,
I climb aboard this fitting, fractious train.
Evenings, awash with sorrow for my keep,
This inky mask is cover for my shame.

How many faceless faces have I seen?
These countless unremembered passers-by!
How often fall I short of giving up
My seat to someone needier than I?
For on this coach filled brim to brim with souls,
No links are formed, despite proximity;
A million hearts all pressed into this space -
All shrouded in their blank obscurity.

Mornings, amid bleary eye and yawn,
I climb upon this random, frantic train.
Evenings, weary; a spirit burnt by scorn,
While all frustrations melt into the same.

Oh how beneath the London streets we pulse
And flow through veins that power city life,
While those that stamp their feet above our heads;
Oblivious to the thousands underneath!
Perhaps within this passage lies a cure
Awaiting thoughts that tap upon the nerve.
When myriad minds unite with something pure -
Provide the strength and courage we deserve.

Mornings, amid androgyny and ire,
I climb aboard this noisy, bustling train.
Evenings, smiling, warm with my desire,
Fall I onto this tattered couch again.