Young Lads Today!

I don't think any of these young lads have any idea what's on their arms up town. I can only thank the good Lord that the best grabbed my arm after I awoke.

We're All Just As Bad As Each Other

Can good looking service be forgiven for having bad manners? Yes, but one must reciprocate by staring at their better assets by way of compensation.

Died That Day

Ever think that you might actually have died that day, indeed died many times before, but that the stream of consciousness that you perceive as your life is what keeps on. Maybe the dead you, leaves behind the grieving, while the live you takes them with, unbeknown to all.

Vampire Pregnancy

There is a wooden door in front of me, it’s not treated, or at least it hasn’t been for a long time, the weight of it has pulled out the frame and loosened the hinges over the years, so it leans slightly forward at the top and to the right, and pushes inwards at the bottom and to the left, like a bowing man of some years, coming forth to greet those who darken him. I reciprocate and shake its only hand, the door falls open and I pass on through, not having seen what it is I’m stepping into nor from where I came, it could have been a door in space for all I knew. I see a series, or channel of cramped rooms extending out in front of me; the rooms are all different shapes and sizes, from small to very small, despite adjoining one another. The walls are made out of the same ancient wood that made the door, the only door, for there are doorways going through the walls of the rooms as you would expect, but also, as I go deeper, there are doorways through some of the floors and ceilings from time to time as well, but no more doors within them. It looks like one long shack in favelas, added to over time by either knocking through into neighbouring shacks, or building with whatever was available to create extra adjoining rooms whenever possible, adding to the depth of this winding twisted ram shackling corridor. The cold is breathtaking, it hurts as I go further, as though acting as a warning not to go on, but I see the far end of a bench on the left hand wall in the next room, until then the rooms had been empty, as I go on, a figure is disclosed in the middle of the bench, knees up to the chest, huddled under a light tan cloak. I can make out the peak of a hood. I’m above this figure now and the smell is horrendous, it is worse than death; it is similar to rancid Pont l’Eveque. I go to draw the hood back, and as I do so the head lifts. Very slowly a pale yellowing feminine brow moves up to face me, she is very weak, completely defenceless. I do not see her face, for my gaze is unwillingly drawn to hers. Whilst the whites of her eyes are bloodied and black, the corneas are pastel emeralds and yellows that mix like a gas nebula. She speaks in my mind, ‘You must go. You disturb the incubation of my child. I will give birth soon and must rest. My protector sees what I see.’ With that she returned to her original position and a sound of rustling came from the room above, there was a doorway in the ceiling through which the rustling began to intensify until it was deafeningly loud in my head. I had to get out of this fast and woke quickly, there was the face of a fierce old man in a similar cloak to that of the woman, he yielded a stick and shouted after me as I was drawn backwards, the sides of my field of vision stretching away from him as I went, like being drawn back in a catapult into the realms of the waking. It is better to have this dream out of my head now; to get it down helps me with this. If I was to tell you how difficult it has been to write this you would pity me; several times it has deleted itself right in front of me, several times it has failed to save, several times the computer has crashed. I even now have a handwritten draft before me also, it reads word for word, just incase.

Civil Servant

6:00am in the pitch black on a cold winter’s morning at Brampton railway platform, a tiny little stop in the woods outside the small market town of Brampton in Cumbria, previously voted the best place to live in England as a lottery winner, in some pole or other, but also renowned as having had the highest number of murders per capita that year, there aren’t many capita, indeed three less that year. I’m waiting for a train to take me across to Newcastle, it’s on the opposite coast of England but only takes an hour; it’s the part of the UK that looks like the waist of a burlesque dancer. My lectures start at 9:00am at the Northumbria University. I’d been lodging with an artist in Jesmond together with her fifteen year old son up until the week before, it hadn’t gone well and so I was staying with my folks for a little while until I found new digs in Newcastle. They'd moved out to Brampton after my brother and I first went to university. Most of the time I got the 685 bus back and forth, but it stopped so often at the string of little towns and villages connecting the coast to coast that it barely got out of the lower gears, besides I had to be on time for once that morning, exams were looming. There was one flickering amber light above the end of my platform, if you’d come from a lit area and straight into this you wouldn’t have noticed it until your eyes adjusted, but mine had, having walked down the minor unlit country road to get there. There was nobody about, at least I hadn’t noticed anybody, it was silent, not even the stirring of a bird or the rustling of any leaves, the air was completely still and very cold. I waited, young and unafraid, in my neck of the woods. A match struck in the darkness, it came from the backside of the platform only five or ten metres away. I looked behind me and saw the glowing embers of tobacco brighten gently and quickly as a steady draw of oxygen passed through and then dimmed off, to be followed by the unmistakable smell of cigar smoke. I didn’t know of many people who smoked cigars any more, especially at that hour. A walking stick came forth first, followed by a short immaculately dressed fellow. He wore a beautifully fitting three piece suit; complete with watch chain and large high soled black brogues which were so well polished they shone up a treat, finding every wave of available light. He came towards me, and in one steady movement, put down his briefcase very carefully, his daily paper on top, then rose whilst removing his bola hat and bid me good morning; his hands remained full, now with his hat in one, and the cigar over the handle of his walking stick in the other. His hair was jet black, brylcreemed down and combed to within an inch of its life, not a single hair was out of place. He had a very unusual face, perhaps a man in his forties but who looked older than his years, exaggerated features, and a posture which was suggestive that he might be doing battle with it. I have never come across manners such as his, his address towards me was completely formal. A civil servant no less, travelling across to his offices in Newcastle, although still living with his mother in Brampton. She required his ongoing care up at the big old house, I didn't ask which one. His voice was BBC, slightly more old fashioned than current, he struck me as a creature of meticulous habit and routine, I’m sure even when engaging in fleeting pleasantries with those he had not met before, whether scruffy students or dignitaries. This man was of another era. We stood together looking up at the trees above the opposite platform waiting for the dawn; the train approached all noise and light out of the dark. I had no idea what a civil servant was at the time, I would ask him if we were seated close by and the train was not too busy, as I hoped would be the case. I followed him onboard, there were more people than I had anticipated and I came up against a friendly guard from whom I needed to purchase a ticket. I didn’t see where my companion had found a seat, nor did I see him again at Newcastle, although I did look out for him, indeed, I made that same journey many more times and I never saw him again.

Red

Twelve or thirteen years ago now and I was on a commuter train home from London to High Wycombe, it was packed with strangers as usual, nobody knew the people with whom they’d been thrust to within such close proximity, so nobody talked. Those standing rubbed up against each other and looked down one another’s noses. I’d been late for the last train so managed to get a seat. Facing towards me, on the other side of the aisle, sat on the outside seat of a table of four was a very attractive redheaded lady, she was quite a bit older than me, possibly in her early forties, but drastically attractive, a truly superb looking woman . Her hair was long, layered and flowing, just a tint towards the red side of auburn, she wore a pristine beige rain mack with the belt drawn tight to subtly reveal a most acceptable physique, ever so slightly curvaceously sleek, a professional looking woman who no doubt kept herself looking good in her city suits, her shoes revealed the suit I could not see, her bag the rest, this was a sexy sophisticated beautiful woman in her prime and she literally could not keep her eyes off me, to the extent that it wasn’t just me who became mesmerised by her display. If she worked her hand through her hair and then gave me a sultry look from with under it once, she did it a hundred times, and from all different angles, she was horny as Hell and she didn’t care who saw it, she wanted me and she couldn’t have laid it on a plate any thicker. She was married too, quite a rock. Now, in those days, I was just a boy really, a boy from a small northern city starting out in the biggest southern city and petrified. The man that became of me after a drink then, or soba only as much as twelve months later, would have disembarked that damn train with her, even if it wasn’t my stop. Even if she’d merely been having a little fun and knocked me back immediately, even if I’d had to wait for God’s knows how long for the next train, just on the off chance. I could have met her every desire whenever or wherever she damn well liked, there and then in a secluded corner of the station, the toilets, car park, her car, a hotel, her home, she could have used me anywhere she liked, but I didn’t get up, and she never knew, and all this time it’s a loose end. I learnt from it though, such things play a part in the people we become don’t they? It also played a part in Alexander McQueen’s film, ‘Shame,’ it seems he must have been on the train.

Sandpit Politic

If an ugly personality snares you, and takes you into their midst, and if you allow for it for fear of reprisal, cut loose immediately, for they are a parasite latching on to your soul. It's how they work, without people around them to dominate there is nobody to listen to their poison, and so they are nothing, and that's better for everyone, including them.

I'll Be The Judge Of That

I never judge anyone or anything, not even the devil, not until I am fully canvassed. I would always require a meeting first, to make my own mind up. I guess I have trouble trusting hearsay. I have my upbringing to thank for that.

Some People!

The end of a long hard week of argument and I arrive home, peer through the window of my front room and jump up and down pulling faces. My baby daughter soon sees me and climbs up onto the chair to jump up and down with excitement and giggle back at me. I open the front door and walk in, by which time she’s made it into the hall and charges towards me, I squat down and we embrace, she withdraws and tells me all about her day, my day is now forgotten, almost, I just need beer and dry roasted peanuts to completely rid me of the tension. Seeing as its Friday I agree to take Annie with me to the shop so she can choose a sweetie, off we go to the Co-op round the corner, me still suited and booted. As we enter, Annie takes a wheelie shopping basket from the pile and sets off pulling it behind her into the shop, it’s bigger than her, but she likes to be in charge of the shopping. The staff at the tills grin at her, those on the floor look on with slight anxiety, they all know her well. As usual, what should have been a couple of items becomes half a dozen as negotiations go her way, until finally we make it to the till and I realise I have forgotten something. I ask the lad on our particular checkout to serve other people while we go back in for something, we weren’t in any hurry, he agrees and places our items to one side. Unfortunately, Annie gets away from me, unwraps a Kinder Egg on the floor of the sweetie aisle, and there is chocolate shell and foil everywhere, by the time I prise Annie away, clean up the mess as best I can, find what I’m looking for and get back to the checkouts, there’s a queue of about four or five people for the two manned tills, so I join the end of it with Annie under one arm. As I do so, a woman in her sixties, who is almost finished at the checkout opposite my items, turns to me with absolute venom and almost hisses, ‘ This is your fault, you’ve caused this queue.’ I see red, all week I’ve had to argue with people in our professional capacities, yes it gets personal; yes it gets unreasonable and fraught with accusation, and now I’m faced with it on my weekend. I cannot abide argument or confrontation, especially in my personal life; I get quite enough in my work, so I avoid it like the plague after I’ve clocked off, I find a jolly demeanour, forgiving nature and impeccable manors work a treat for this. However, sometimes it cannot be avoided, and I’m no wall flower when faced with an unfounded attack. Calmly and firmly, I reply that the queue has in fact nothing to do with me, I'd made it very clear to staff that they were to serve other people whilst I went to get something I’d forgotten. ‘No you didn’t, you didn’t make it clear, and now there’s a queue,’ she spat, despite her having been nowhere near when I'd made it clear. By this time my fellow shoppers and some off the staff were shaking their heads at this vehement woman while smiling sideways sympathetically towards me. She reminded me of the people with whom I have to deal in a professional capacity almost daily, the people with whom I have to bite my lip not to destroy, that wasn’t necessary here, so I knew exactly what I wanted to say, she got it eventually, for her, and for every other fucker who fucked me off at court that week. I gave her one last chance, ‘Please, I don’t want an argument, I’ve argued all week and now it’s my time with my two year old.’ I couldn’t believe the silly old bats response to this, ‘I’m not arguing,’ she snapped. I didn’t point out that she was now arguing about whether we were arguing, instead my speech was as follows, and this goes out to all the other ignorant bastards out there; ‘A person of your years really should know better, it saddens me that you should have so little empathy that you cannot see that I’m a working father, on my own, with my arms full of shopping, a two year old in tow, just trying to do my best and keep life upbeat. Not only that, but for the sake of a few minutes you have spread your vent and negativity, and with a child present, shame on you, you miserable old goat, for God’s sake go and get help or top yourself, it’s better for everyone.’ I remained upset for some time after, but I sincerely hope she did too.

V Day Story

Valentine’s Day 2014 and I’m meeting my fiancée in town after work, I’ve got tickets to see the Nutcracker, a big bunch of flowers and the biggest card I could find, easily the best part of an A3. I finished up early so took the Met from Bury into central Manchester with a view to having a few beers in the Weatherspoon’s around the corner from Sam’s work. I managed to get myself a table and plonked myself up there, unconsciously spreading my flowers and card across it. Having supped three pints and being well on through my wait for Sam, I noticed quite a lot of disturbance at a nearby table; they looked like young professional types, probably just having met on a career development course and, given an early finish, decided to go to the pub. The girls were attractive, so I did find myself looking over from time to time, and certainly more than could have been deemed innocent people watching. I soon clocked the fact that I was clearly one of their topics of conversation. They obviously thought I looked handsome and were daring one of the girls to come and chat me up, there was certainly a lot of smiling and giggling in my direction. Eventually, the tidiest of the girls approached, she began talking to me, finding out about me and being very friendly and nice, I was in, perhaps I still had it. I was completely oblivious to the garish red card and flowers set out in front of me; pulling out a whole holdall of charm on her pretty little arse. Eventually, when the devil flashed across my mind, she asked me if I had been stood up! I explained that I hadn’t, I was waiting for my fiancée to finish work, that she’d be here any minute, and so, if she wanted my number she’d better hurry up and take out her phone. She laughed, exclaiming that they’d thought I’d been stood up was all, I looked across and they were all grinning in my direction. The nosey bastards, I’d been duped; they thought I was a loser and it hadn’t even dawned on me that I might look like one, even become one. So I guess the moral of the story is, if you’re out on a Valentine’s date and you’ve got a bit of a wait, either hide away your paraphernalia, or get there on time, oh, and keep your libido in check.