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Thursday 26 December 2019

Beware! Micro-Tales: A Story For Christmas


At last, that swarthy intruder 2019 is buggering off and we can shift the foetid stench of verbal diarrhoea. Time to un-peg our noses and relax our muscles. Light the fire, bolt the doors, curl up under some spare buttocks and absorb this little story, originally cooked up for Keshco's Christmas Gameshow in December 2012.

A STORY FOR CHRISTMAS


The chill of a North Norfolk winter wind is enough to cut through coats and gloves; sufficient to freeze bared cheeks and chapped lips; it’s enough to burst water pipes and test the limits of insurance policies; and of course, it can mangle the firmest plans.

Bobby flicked the thermostat up and then hauled the canvas bag onto his kitchen worktop, the bag stuffed with all the ingredients for a proper Christmas feast. All the trimmings – and I mean all the trimmings, when Evelyn saw the extent of his labours, there’d be no more of this bitterness, no more teasing, she’d have to agree Bobby’s not a lazy cook, not a lazy bloke. Not a waster. Not a selfish sodding waster. He’s changed, changing, he’s the changing man… on shiftin’ sands, heh. He was going to excel at this one thing – Christmas cooking. Attention to detail, the long game to win her back - this’ll beat the mush that Mark’ll be serving up for her on the day. Bobby was taking things out of the bag. Brussels, broccoli, parsnips, carrots with their tops on, onions, garlic, onto the chopping board close to the nearly-thawed bird, spuds (two types), cranberry sauce, bread sauce packet onto the side for now, gravy granules… and the stuffing… already taken that out? Oh swear. Bobby realised the one item he hadn’t brought home. Attention to detail.

Cursing and half-jogging back up the road into town, Bobby felt for his wallet, mobile, keys. Must be close to closing time, especially tonight when people want to be getting home. He checked – 5.57 – and quickened his pace against the sharp wind.

Yeah, shut. All the staff inside, still letting people out but the guard said no entry. Bobby felt a familiar hot prickly sensation up his back. Doom. Impending doom. OK supermarket shut, where now? He scanned the unhelpful rows. Electric World, Tyres R Us, Fringe Benefits… the health food shop, Eco Explosion, they’ll have some kind of stuffing.

Shut. Completely shut. Gone. Nobody home. Shop inventories were tumbling away from his grasp.

Bobby started doing that walk, fast but strangely hesitant, jerky, eyes in all directions, in danger of changing direction at any moment as the walker has no idea in which direction he’s meant to be headed. He did a circuit of the old market, he went through the covered craft bays, he rounded the church twice, and then, at the top of Wordsworth Street, when the town faded away into railings, half-parks and terraced housing, his eyes were caught by an unfamiliar building. This was new, well old-styled, but in a new place, had they taken over… well what was it before? Now it was a shop, with the light on, a shop with the look of an old general stores from pre-war days. Very fetching.

Bobby stepped inside the shop, closed the heavy door behind, and took in his surroundings. An old lady with a bun sat behind the traditional wooden counter. All around, jars of sweets, jars of pills, packets, home-baked bread… loaves of sugar?

The lady ate her bun, wiped her lips and her hands and greeted Bobby warily. “Help you, young man?”

Bobby was still scanning the shelves for stuffing. My word he thought, they’re taking the retro theme quite far. Are they allowed to do that with branded products? The Cadbury bars looked most...
“Is this stuff for show?”
“For show, what you mean? I have to put the produce out so you can see what you’re buying.”
Bobby considered for a moment. Then his eyes alighted on a box of Paxo… yes, Paxo. Old-style Paxo. He took it down from the shelf, and as he did, felt a strange judder down his arm like static electricity.
“That’s a fresh consignment in from Manchester.”
 Bobby fished in his wallet and took out a fiver. The lady wrinkled up her nose, gingerly accepted the note and gave it a thorough once-over.
“Well what have you given me here?”
“Yes sorry I don’t have exact change…”
“Whatever the Devil is this meant to be? That don’t look like a white fiver. Feels funny. Looks funny. Who’s that face on there?”
“…yes it’s a valid – “
“What’s that meant to be?”
“Yes, alright –“
“Who’s Mervyn King? Never heard of him. Are you in cahoots?”
“Look it’s a normal fiver, I need to get back now, I’ve got to cook this –“
“You’re not going anywhere with that until you’ve paid me proper English money.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake. Right! Look just keep the change.”
Bobby picked up the Paxo and made for the door.
“Young man!” she ejaculated after him.
He opened the door, and was hit by a blast of particularly icy wind that knocked him back on his heels. He suddenly realised that he didn’t recognise the street outside. Or rather, not quite. It looked familiar but somehow half the street was missing, the streetlamps had gone, and the road was more akin to a trackway.

He spun round back into the shop. The lady glowered, now out in front of the counter. “Changed your mind have you?”
Bobby’s face wore the expression reserved for the most extreme of trying circumstances. Squinting, he braved his head out of the door again… then returned it with stinging eyes.
“You going to stop playing silly beggars?”
“You tell me… Wordsworth Avenue seems to have regressed in the last 5 minutes.”
And now Bobby saw the old lady had regressed too, she looked in her prime. In fact, the contents of the shop had changed too, and the Paxo in his hand had fluttered away and was gone.

And now the wind seemed to be whipping up, even more intense than before, and as it battered the shop almost as if it could lift it up from the earth, the old lady lunged at him with a hairpin and he saw her melt into childhood then dissipate to pinpricks, as he felt himself freezing in time, going back, smaller, smaller, the shop now a blur of dim light tracings, a mess of angles, a fractal whirlpool, with his thoughts spinning further away, out of time…

After a particularly trying Christmas Eve night being dicked around by her ex who evidently thought it was funny to ask her over and then not even be there, Evelyn’s “fresh start“ Christmas was further ruined by a visit from a pair of police officers, who had the solemn duty of reporting the bizarre circumstance of a seemingly-long-decayed-skeleton found early on Christmas morning at the top of Wordsworth Avenue, its now ragged coat containing her estranged husband’s mobile phone, keys and wallet. If this was someone’s idea of a practical joke they’d pulled it off with considerable attention to detail.

Monday 14 October 2019

Merchandise Roundworm - Iceni double-crescent T-shirt

It's true, folks, we are spirits in the material world, and quite right too with modern living such a rum business and regularly rather whisky to life and limb. Tequila few idle moments, vodka look at this rather brandy rundown and maybe schnapps up a few items. Cheers!

Change can be a wonderful thing. Especially when you donate it to the makers of the following wonderful products. With Halloween, Guy Fawkes' Night and Christmas just around the corner, it's a perfect time to stock up on treats. There's room for a hundred of them, if you chuck out all your existing clothes and music (Check this. Ed).


Iceni double-crescent T-shirt

Iceni double-crescent T-shirt, by Gaffamondo
(Redbubble).
Become a fearsome and phwooar-some Iceni warrior with this striking historically-accurate design from the fevered fingers of noted palaeo-gusher, Gaffamondo. Wear this on your human flesh and feel the centuries fall away. Soon you'll be ready to sack the Romans! Buy this design on a sexy T-shirt, soothing duvet, or even a set of sturdy coasters, here: https://www.redbubble.com/people/gaffamondo/works/20408590-iceni-double-crescent?p=t-shirt
He doesn't stop there, either: the talented boy has a whole heap of designs pertaining to the Ancient Britons. Get stuck in - perfect gifts for your archaeology and LARPing friends.

Meanwhile, in the sickening shallow money trench of indie music...

Star Test

We entrusted noted 80s throwback and anorak, B. Pillock, with a sparkling copy of the latest EP by socialist poet Andrew Walton, The Art of Splitting, on compact disc. Mr Pillock had this to mumble:

"It's a good length: 4.7 inches. There are six tracks, which makes each track 1.27". No - hang on - 0.78". Great economy, like haiku, but these poems are longer, and most are songs, not poems. I tried eating my dinner off it but just got sticky sweet chilli sauce in the stereo. Is that enough?" (No. Ed)

Well, quite. Why not try Mr Walton's wry leftist lyrics and super-brief tunes for yourself?

Back of the Rack

Stuck for a stocking filler? Try these beautiful selections. That Gaffamondo pulls together two months of dinosaur drawings in A Disarray of Palaeoart ... Keshco's 2018 Cassette Store Day release was Never Eject ... See you shortly, folks!

Friday 13 September 2019

Poetry Hallway - Talk

It's good to talk. That's what BT said. Talk on the phone. That's what they instructed. Talk to old friends. Talk to long-lost relatives. Talk to someone's therapist. Talk to the call centre. Talk to everyone. Just keep talking. And they should know. You could say they've made it something of a raison d'etre. I'll go further, I've noticed they're obsessed less with actual talking, than with the phones themselves. It's a little bit peculiar, like an equipment fetish. Always the telephones. Not just, "have a nice chat in person". No - pick up the phone, tap in the number and talk into the piece of plastic, ideally whilst ignoring the clock. They're not worried about the conversations. They're not worried about the germs. If I didn't know better I'd assume they'd found some crafty way to make money out of people using their phone lines. We all know that can't be true though, because they'd actually improve the service. Friends and Family discount? Pah! Besides, BT is basically a sports provider now. Technicolor sport, manly sport, widescreen sport, sweaty, dirty sport. Dripping, oozing, festering, spurting sport. Don't talk, just watch sport. Keep your damned fidgety eyes open and stop talking. You hear me? Don't talk! Stop talking at the back! You do that once more... right. Detention for the lot of you. Some time to reflect on the consequences of your actions. In silence.


Talk by Andy Brain

I want to talk with you, seriously - 
Uh huh, it's pretty cold here too - yeah, so
Not the usual rushed pleasantries;
Take it slowly. I want to talk with you,
Listen to the you that's hunkered down low - 
So much curled tight within, locked deep and dark
Admitting none - site under construction;
Enquiries shunned with worn misdirection.
I want to hear what you feel you cannot
Risk to put words to; the hidden ideas,
Dangerous smoke rings of hope; with kindling,
This fire grows hot; now see the uncaged bird,
Exulting in flight; the impish, gleeful sprite,
Binning wrongdoers; basking in sunlight.
A train ticket to the world. Our great world.
Share your fears. Share your hopes. I'm on your side.