Profanity and the Shop Dummies

  I was in the park helping the homeless get their heads around some basic philosophy, but my mind kept wandering to the subject of profanity, offensive language and its relationship to some of the most inexplicable experiences I had had in the past.
    In the past I had been hung over the three-storey outdoor balcony of the pool hall from my ankles by Nazi skinheads before they head-butted me in the dark alley outside - knocking one of my bottom teeth out. I had been chased by fifty well-dressed football hooligans while skidding around in cowboy boots and then reduced to the foetal position when caught, taking uncountable blows by foot and fist to the tune of dripping blood, laughter and screams. I had been stabbed through the tricep on the top deck of the 18 (to Kirkton) bus with a double-edged flick-knife which was honed to a razor’s edge and pushed through the seat behind. And one icy Hogmanay, a cheap, cream-handled butter knife was held to my throat by a balding psychotic stranger as I sat on a wooden chair egging him on because my mind may have been as distorted as his at the time.
 ...and the rest. Beatings, jail cells, terrible accidents, strange surroundings... Chef’s jaw had once been broken by a madman who had been released from prison that same day and he maintains that the hospital record was filed away and forgotten long before his own memory could put it  to rest.
     Why... after that... words could only exist as icy figures skating gracefully across a frozen country pond.
    With this in mind, there I was in the park, on a Friday, teaching a homeless person how to properly dice a shallot (complete with Sabatier/cutting board/blueroll) while contemplating the meaningless nature of her life, when Chef approached carrying two shop dummies - one dressed in a Christmas jumper and leg warmers, with a conspicuous CND motif painted on the forehead, the other beaten-up and half-destroyed. I hadn’t seen him for a few days and I thought he cut a dashing figure draped in purpose as he strode through the park with the mannequins effortlessly placed beneath his arms.
    “I’ve got it,” he said as he approached, “I finished the experiment and collated the data.”
    “The experiment. The experiment? What experiment?”
    He proceeded to tell me of his shady wanderings over the past month-and-a-half.
    Around six weeks previous, Chef had paid a visit to half a dozen clothing stores trying to convince them that if  they had any mannequins they were disposing of, to contact him first. Well, one independent maker and seller of quality and original bohemian boutique fashion was being run out of business by the massive global chain retailers of overpriced, slave-produced rags and she happened to offer chef three of the best quality plastic people money could buy. So lifelike and attractive were they, one could consider them sculptures or strange pieces of high-grade pop-art.
     Chef then continued to tell me of his strange, secret experiment, undertaken in an attempt to give me the raw material for my defence in the Kangaroo Court where I was soon to appear.
    He had taken a hacksaw to the back of the dummies, both female, and carefully and ingeniously attached a motion-sensor and amplified recording of three unique looped audio tapes.
 The first dummy simply looped the word “Fuck” - the second looped recording said “Love”.
   He was carrying them back from where he had bolted them down, naked in Gellatly Street. The public had dressed the “Fuck” dummy, shown it compassion, treated it with respect and reverence - there were offerings of sandwiches and cigarettes placed at its feet. The “Love” dummy had been hacked by a machete, urinated on and badly burnt.
    Next to the “Love” dummy though, a large wooden cross had been placed on the ground and around it was strung  a small makeshift plaque of wood. The plaque was scratched freehand with the legend, “Sleep tight Maria. Sleep tight our little girl” and sat serenely above a small, worn brown teddy bear on the ground below.
    “They might understand soon that FAMINE, DROUGHT and WAR are the words they are obliged wince at, as humans you know...” said Chef.
“Profanity is yesterday’s news, discrimination is today’s cutting edge. Stephen Fry sorted all that out.”
    I wasn’t so sure.
    Chef was. He thought the whole world was ready for the language of the kitchen. "The celebrity chefs are taking care of that," he argued.
 "Empty words," I remember replying.
    I said goodbye to the homeless woman while packing up my knife and block. “Bless you,” she said - but then coughed -“Arsehole” - under her breath.
    She was a good woman.

Mr B

I wrote to Mr B the other night. On a piece of greaseproof paper, in 2B pencil, nice and neat.
    I was going to tell him the truth about everything, but I soon found out I didn't know anything apart from the stuff about me.
    He wrote back promising to tell me the stuff about him.
    I wondered how much I could say in public and reminded myself that Dr Thompson never asked himself if there were limitations to what he should say, Frank Zappa didn't worry about the thought of a Cuban jail cell.
    If we were going to go into Chinatown and pick up the taffeta and sequins for the musical about Crabbe, we were probably going to get into a fight.
I decided not to put on my leathers, as, although absorbing the blows far better than skin and ribcage, the compromise of movement in the limbs was not sufficient to justify the homo-erotic look.
    I disappeared into the crowd and soon found Dervish, shady Dervish. I asked him how the meat trade was in the Runcorn area. He skipped around the question like a seasoned politician without really even admitting that he still did have some connection with it. One thing you could rely on about Dervish was that he would always have a large, very sharp knife somewhere close at hand. A man who had caused himself great pain over the subject of food. He said nothing, but offered me a lift.
    I took it.
    He was going to some flat or other. Somewhere in the North West, industrial country, probably near some small unit estate. I went with him and down a set of concrete stairs into the cellar of a takeaway kebab shop in a run of low-rent graffiti-tagged shops thrown up under a labour government in the 70's.
    The cellar had a low concrete ceiling and harsh strip lighting. Three bodies were already mingling about there, near one of the beat-up chest freezers, alongside a small walk-in fridge with a dangerously labouring motor. They spoke in Turkish, the muscle-bound one louder than the crazy-looking one or the sharp but slightly nervous one with tortured eyes.
Dervish led me to the handle of the fridge and the three acknowledged my presence with a backward nod, the gesture more pronounced in the largest of them. Dervish looked me straight in the eye before he opened the door - straight in the eye with a burning sincerity which only a few are destined to possess. When we walked into the light he turned back again with a smile.
    I was presented with the finest lamb backstrap fillet I'd ever seen. To call it a piece of meat would insult Dervish. He  lay it across both my hands as I knelt in the supplicant position, slowly, carefully. I told him that I did not how to get the best out of it - I didn't like the responsibility.
    In one barely perceptible move, he reached across to the six inch Global lying on the second shelf and swept it across his chest.
    "Eef you do not know what to do weeth it," he said slowly, with disdain, "you cannot be conseedered a man!"
    "I'll do my best, Dervish," I replied, "thanks very much. I really appreciate it. I'll do my best."
Shortly after tea accompanied with conversation about his home village, he drove me back.
    I told Mr B about my trip and he said he wasn't bothered, he'd met up with Will Self at a party and done some stuff he probably shouldn't have. I told him there was meant to be some new magazine on Campus and that I was thinking about doing a piece on Lady Gaga or Simon Cowell but no-one would answer my e-mails. They hadn't heard of the candy machine and the brass plaque, but then I wasn't going to elevate myself, even inadvertently, and be dragged down to the fiery pit we had both seen in days gone by; besides, they knew a lot of things that I didn't.
    Watching the shadows on the ceiling and listening to the dull traffic on the M56 was nothing like Woody Creek. I wasn't there. Prolonged staring at the shadows produced a grotesque and incongruous Cheshire cat.
    The cat did speak. It spoke about the authentic, the threatening emptiness, the angst, responsibility of freedom, the breakdown, the terror, existere, despair and the Ultimate Purpose.
    "There are some coming back to the fold," it said in eerie voice. I'd never liked its face, it looked like a cheat.
    "Some are coming back to the fold," it said, "those miners must have given some inspiration."
    I told it that it had all started happening before that.
    "It's social networking then," it said.
    I told it that it had all started happening long before that, before our time even. It looked confused. I thought cat meat.
    I got up to sear the lamb in a super-hot pan while I made the bean-dish with home-grown fully-ripe tomatoes. Mr B had sweet Baklava and good coffee to be followed by some nice Manchego cheese.
    I told him about the cat and how I had compared the Shewring, Lattimore and Pope translations of Homer the previous evening. Pope made him smile.
    "That's the truth, baby," he grinned, "that's the truth. If some of us are reading, it would stand to reason, that some of us aren't."
    "Don't think about that, you're a layman," I said absently. "Besides, you're further down the road to Hell than the rest of us."
    “At least I’m not seeing cats in the dark,” he smiled, “Now finish that cheese, we’ve got business to attend to.”

What I Did (Part II)

I’m glad I did what I did.

    It wasn’t pleasant to witness the suffering, but being party to the sublime justice was intensely satisfying.

    I did it because everything was alright one day, and the next, it wasn’t. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the eight-headed beast appeared shrieking and shaking the ground, devouring the past in an instant. Eating yesterday and leaving only the rank stench of happy memories.

    I was glad no-one bothered to ask; all assumed the existence of the beast brought about the existence of Dorothy, translating a polar morale. In their minds, it stood to reason that there had to be a diametrically-opposed entity - they had no idea then, that after The Birth, after The First Kiss, after The First Hit, that the line was only punctuated with varying degrees of disappointment. The Thing existed with no opposition, in a spiralling vacuum of its own making, alongside the perpetual spinning void of Family Fortunes and Findus Crispy Pancakes. When Doris Day donned the suede and tassels, whip-crack away, whip-crack away, whip crack away - it was debauchery. Dorothy was as much a head of the beast as Cowell, Clifford or Castro.

    The only option was to burn and run, run and burn. I’m glad I did what I did, leaving them ablaze in the valley. No metaphor, Wonka burnt to a crisp in Fortitude Valley, Brisbane, along with the axminster, while I ate Osso Buco and drank snakebite and blackcurrant in Corsica.

    Beginnings. That’s an essay. One pure point in time and then a downward spiral until another pure point in time juts out and spikes you in the heel. That pain doesn’t burn, it stabs, quick and clear.

    I took my recipe, my new cake-tin and my roll-up of cash back home. The curries had lost flavour, the Sidlaws shrunk and the currency had changed, but Dundee, Scumdee, aaahh… only the locals can understand.

    I turned to the nearest drunk in the city square as the grease from my onion bridie dripped onto my jeans.

    “Ya think you’re sae much better,” he slurred.

    “Give me a drink,” he wouldn’t refuse.

    “What happened tae yer accent then? Naebody loses it unless they waant tae. You’ve gone aw posh.”

    “Yes sir,” I said, “all posh and superior. I’ve been waiting fifteen years for this.”

    “Yev got tae tak a risk.”

    “There aren’t any risks. I saw a photo of someone and they looked twenty years older than they did twenty years ago. I used to drink around here, in the bushes and then on the bandstand at Magdalen Green. James McIntosh Patrick painted a picture of me mooning the trains after seven. I was, even for a child, perfectly proportioned and I felt very clean and smelt of a nice neutral soap, until after my sweetheart stout.

    "I have to leave now anyway," I said loudly. "I’m respectable and my kids will be wondering where I've got to, and to be frank, they’ll be none too pleased if they find out I was here with you."

    “Mr Fancy Breeks now, is it? Too good for us plebs now?”

    “No, on the contrary,” I replied, “you make me feel… less alone.”

    I clicked my heels together the appropriate number of times but quickly woke up in a cell. It was very unpleasant and confusing and due to this, shortly afterwards, I employed one of those small, invisible, deformed chaps to burn me a little whenever I felt like a change again.

    I haven't done what I did, before, again, since, probably because I'm not too keen on that burn, which I employed, again - the way it suddenly seems to come out of nowhere when you least expect it, and burns you. But I’m glad I did what I did because I got some good advice and realised some minor pain.

    “Tak a risk,” he said.

I’m putting my mind to it now and wondering who I can attack, wondering who won’t bite back. But then I’m thinking, if they don't have teeth, they’re not worth attacking.

    The questions is, how many blows would I be prepared to take and to what organ? I’m a respectable man, sick of the white ankle socks and gingham now.

    Respectable? No. But no regrets, I’m glad I did what I did - there was never any other option.

    I’m putting my mind to it now… wondering who…

And Let That Be A Lesson To You

“…and let that be a lesson to you.”

After being asked to leave at least three establishments due to completely unrelated disagreements with either members of staff or patrons, I decided to retire quietly to The Pilgrim and blend in.
I took up my usual booth, occupying all seats with bags, hat, coat and laptop. I dabbed a bad scratch I’d received on the forehead with some toilet roll before scraping under the velour in the same place I’d found George’s letter.
There was an air of danger in the bar, but the patrons were nondescript in their "out-there" appearance.
But still, a sense of foreboding.

A couple of weeks after finding George's letter, I had discovered that there was a rip in the upholstery. When sitting upon the rip, one’s mind would be largely occupied by two brief moments of Epiphany drawn from past experience, each caught in spiral flux and colliding sporadically with the other causing them to occupy space both within and without the vacuum of the rip.
These moments could prove providential to the occupant if correctly interpreted, but also, the unstable state of matter in the unpinned foam rubber beneath, meant that occasionally a physical object could be thrown forth from the fractal, usually in some form of Art. To the ignorant and uninformed, the twin experiences would simply dance around the mind for a moment before being disregarded when the instinct to drink or empty the bladder overshadowed them. To the über-astute however, these moments could be recognized, isolated and turned to good use.

The first psychic imprint to manifest itself in my mind that evening was of my old English teacher giving feedback on an essay I’d written as a kid. My story relayed an unlikely sequence of events which had transpired after the protagonist spat on a magic packet of pickled-onion crisps. The essay contained random, unconnected statements and attempted to foray into the realms of stream-of-consciousness, comic incongruity and the philosophical value of a concept of social anarchy. The teacher was particularly disparaging, discouraging, disdainful and disinterested. He had to walk home unexpectedly that evening.

The second floating scroll from my history was an argument I had with another teacher - woodwork – and the Great Safety Poster Competition Fiasco. I was by far the best artist in the class and spent hours on the study of an image of Satan as the centerpiece of the composition. Teach told me I did not draw it. I told teach I did. He then told me that tracing was not drawing. I told him that I had spent hours drawing it freehand. Mr Shit then told me I was a liar. I agreed with him but told him I had drawn the picture freehand. Neither of us could back down at that point and I had to be removed from the class before the bell rang.
The winning poster, which was copied and adorned the tech-sheds shortly after, was one of a hammer and a sore, red thumb, complete with wavy throb-lines and “attention” spelt with one “t”. I was assured by a colleague of Mr Shit that the spelling mistake was deliberate and a cleverly measured ploy to draw attention to the poster.
Where did all this anger come from?
I made a mental note of the similarities and subtle differences between the two incidents and consigned them to the vault before faking around for any physical prize from the Rip. A small bundle of letters was presented to my hand; they were bound loosely with medium-wide, red, silk ribbon.
On the top of the pile was a card with a hand-written disclaimer:
“All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental, except for ______.”

I went to the toilet before continuing and there read at eye-level black ink on white tile, while the intermittent noise of flushing and smell of rancid urine did its best to distract me:
“No,” said George. “No, Lennie. I ain’t mad. I’ve never been mad, an I ain’t now. That’s the thing I want ya to know.”
Another George. A different George.

I thought of Steinbeck and how HST really wanted to be him.
I pictured Bush choking on a pretzel.
I pictured the scene of George murdering Lennie in cold blood.
I shook, spat and got out.

What I Did

  I shouldn't have done what I did.
   I shouldn't have done what I did because everything was alright and suddenly, out of nowhere, that one-legged friend of his appeared followed shortly after by that twisted, frightening and unpredictable Willie Wonka friend and the one-legged friend had soon taken his prosthetic limb off and was going between attacking and defending with it and his moral-free girlfriend was in the background, laughing maniacally or egging him on or something and the axminster carpet in the garage kept bugging me.
   It was horrible and frightening and I closed my eyes, at first pretending not to be there, but soon relishing my moment as Dorothy. Before I clicked my rubies together I would take a while to become aware of the sensations I was having.
   I was, even for a child, perfectly proportioned and I felt very clean and smelt of a nice neutral soap, happy and excited at the same time. As Dorothy, I knew I was special and good but at the same time I had very little ego.
   I decided to open my eyes and continue to be Dorothy, it was such a pleasant, optimistic sort of a feeling.
   "I have to leave," I said loudly. "My auntie will be wondering where I've got to, and to be frank, she'd be none too pleased if she knew I was here with all of you."
   I got up unsteadily and stepped over something revolting on the grass. I went through the front door backwards and said quietly, "Goodbye," as I shut it.
   It was dark outside and unwelcoming. After six hundred miles I stumbled upon a railway station. There was an old dishevelled gentleman sitting on a bench under a lamp. I sat down next to him.
   "Dorothy?" he said.
   "I didn't know you knew," I told him.
   "You forgot," he replied.
   "Oh goodness, yes," I remembered and immediately clicked my heels together the appropriate number of times.
   At home, safe, I thought I shouldn't have done what I did, but then I started to get bored and lazy and interested in myself again. So I employed one of those deformed chaps to burn me a little whenever I remembered or felt like that again.
   I haven't done what I did before again, probably because I'm not too keen on the burn, the way it suddenly seems to come out of nowhere when you least expect it, and burns you.
   I know I shouldn't have done what I did, but being Dorothy for a while was great, especially the immense sense of freedom the pretty dress and white ankle socks gave me.

The Modern Mersault

"If a state is governed by the principles of reason, poverty and misery are the subjects of shame; if a state is not governed by the principles of reason, riches and honours are the subjects of shame." - Confucius.


To walk was to participate in the very nature of life, the rhythm, the instinct, the pulse, and so on. To regard the walk, to value, respect and consider was at the very heart of being a frog.
Antoine the frog walked at every opportunity and found that if there was any contentment to be found, it would only be while locked in movement. He refused to hop or jump like his colleagues, but rather took to ambling with a big swinging motion on his powerful hind legs. This unnerved his fellow pond workers who, in turn, would spread hostile gossip about him, attributing him with a wicked and secretive disposition and an unholy association with the Predators. Antoine, however isolated, was motivated only by his belief that any static position equated to instant death. There would be no disembarking onto the platform signposted "Happiness" for the exhausted Antoine.
Walking went some way to stimulating his mind and Antoine used it as such, he pounded the treadmill to distraction. Distraction.
Certainty, he thought, was a barely conceivable abstract of the past along with words like tadpole and Freedom. There were only a few very fallible and destructive ways to move outside The Machine if you disagreed to being refined and used in its essential oils. Antoine walked alone. For most frogs, the very idea of attempting to forge the Lonely Path was taboo. But Antoine had no choice.
Fellow amphibians were draped in the shadows of a uniform and under the guise of contributing, wholeheartedly submitted to the very beast which trod on and subjugated them. The blood of their friends and family served to strengthen the invisible tendrils of a vengeful and paranoid bureaucracy, full of supposition and filling of gaps. Time empowered the irrepressible magic of greed on the north side of the pond and the west had been lost to the expensive blindside of ambition long before.
There must have been only four or five who had ever made the attempt to reject the monster completely, the Admirable. There was a shining path to be found in the hearts of those frogs and for one single moment Antoine could be inspired to conscientiously leave the influence of the mass and find his way to the stairway scratched Truth he would surely ascend and taste something new...
...and so Antoine walked given any opportunity, while contemplating the world around him and his journey. He would move as much as his physical self would allow but the gnawing, futile, all-consuming truth was not a physical manifestation. It was an inner-knowledge, an intangible fact which burned from the inside out - no matter for how long or how far he got away, he would always return to the ignorance of the pond.
Antoine had discovered some brief reprieves from that pain and vowed to keep moving while he was still able. He knew very well that if anything got a chance to stop him, it would.