a fifteenth new story...'empire state'

It shouldn’t have, it wasn’t, was never meant to happen like that, BUT ... it did! Ha ha ha ha ha!

Gerald sank another cocktail, propped himself up on the bar again.  ‘What are these called?’ he slurred to the bar girl, polishing wine glasses. She told him he was drinking an ‘Old Fashioned’.  ‘Yes’, said Gerald, hiccupped and ordered another.

Macy had always been a flighty one, but perhaps, thought Gerald in rare recent moment of clarity, he had mistaken Macy’s flightiness for charm? Whimsy? And in front of all those people!

Gerald dimly imagined sightseers returning to their hotels and gossiping about that failed proposal at the top of the Empire State.

‘Nevermind the view’, they would say, ‘you’ll never guess what we saw!’

‘Did he throw himself off?’

‘No, he just collapsed like a bag of bones and curled into a ball!’

And then the women would gush about the time their spouses had proposed to them, and the spouses would exchange glances, smile wanly and sip their champagne?

Well fucking done!

‘Would you like another, sir?’, the bar girl asked somewhere in the background – Gerald lost in an alcoholic cloud of remorse (the juke box playing Sweet Caroline).

He turned slowly and unsteadily around on his stool, looked at the bar girl as if she had just stepped from the spaceship in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. ‘Colours’, he spluttered. Red, green, blue - on, off, on off, on, off, onoff, onoff, onoff.

When Gerald came to he was back in his hotel room, fully clothed, sprawled like a drunken sailor across the double bed in the now presumptuous honey moon suite. Gerald rolled over, saw his thick, red features in the adjacent free standing mirror. His tie was around his forehead. Uggh! He lay motionless for an hour, whole body paralysed with booze induced lassitude, blinking stupidly – half human, half slug.

Some time, any amount of time later there was a knock at the door and a cleaner came in, followed by a member of staff from the hotel.  The cleaner started up her hoover, and after some smart remark about Rambo lost against the ensuing din, the hotel member of staff slid back out of the room, leaving an envelope on the side table. Gerald closed his eyes, but not too tightly because his sinsuses hurt, tried desperately to forget he was still alive. Perhaps he had jumped? Perhaps he was dead? Perhaps this was purgatory?

Nevermind! Nevermind!

So to the letter: ‘I have gone to stay with my sister in Boulder, MA. Don’t follow. I will know you are coming’.

Gerald ripped it into little pieces, let them fall over the edge, dead confetti, and to the horror and amazement of the assembled crowd, stood up on the parapet, spread his wings and dived like a pelican, his coat tails lifting and catching a terminal air current as he hurtled towards gridlock on 5^th avenue. 

a fifth new reflection...'diana memorial playground'

(from the Daily Mail letters page)

Dear Sir:

I went to the Diana Memorial Playground last week in Kensington Gardens, Kensington, with my THREE YEAR OLD, and was disgusted to see so many toddlers not even fresh out of nappies clambering all over her remains. Where has RESPECT  disappeared to in our society? Not to mention good old traditional BRITISH VALUES!  I was so appalled, defiled and dirtied I had to trek across Hyde Park and bathe in the sacred, healing waters of the Diana Memorial Fountain to feel right again.  My three year old, by the way, was baptised there (the Diana Memorial Fountain).

Diana was a shining beacon of light in otherwise dark times for Britain.  When she died I cried and cried and cried (and cried). I also stopped believing in God.

Diana was the reincarnation of Boadecia and Florence Nightingale made flesh. We still have the Queen – Amen – but when she goes how are we going to cope? Paedophiles will give Cliff Richard diabetes, Chavs will start mating with hard-working families, Gypsies will ruin our mortgages and the Euro will rip the face off the Great British countryside.

And what about government when both Diana and Queen Elizabeth are DEAD? Where will our leadership come from? How will we manage on the international stage? Will there be more FILTH on television? Will the BBC make our daughters impotent? And we have to ask ourselves now (especially in view of my recent visit to the Diana Memorial Playground) are loony left TEACHERS dumbing-down our children?

What the crux of this letter BOILS down to is that there are so many BIG questions that the UK Independence Party will have to address when it gets into government next May (so long as Labour hasn’t infected the silent majority with cancer and they do something daft with their vote).

While it is evident to any hard-working, honest, decent Anglo-Saxon, British citizen that gay marriage could trigger THE END OF THE HUMAN RACE in perhaps twenty years, and that the French are obviously responsible for our recent spate of HORRENDOUS WEATHER (our worst since records began), the key issue on the agenda for Farage (and no it isn’t all that yellow bellied baloney about ‘mental health’, and ‘depression’ – which exists to the same degree as climate change, i.e. not at all) should be Princess Diana’s legacy: No one wants cyclists or Muslims destroying her name any further.

Yours,

Edward Andrew Thomas Balls.

a fourteenth new story... 'yoga class'

Erica felt fat, bloated, like a sponge pudding, so she took herself to yoga class. Her best friend Caitlin came along.  It was Caitlin’s idea.  Most things were Caitlin’s idea – Caitlin had an answer for everything, and you couldn’t tell her anything.

‘Well, I feel swell’, said Caitlin as they changed out of their lycra back at Erica’s flat, two hours later.  ‘I really feel I could get into it’. Caitlin had a zest for life that made her attractive to vacuous, boring men, and often enough unbearable to interesting women.  Erica was struggling to take off her pink jogging bottoms, hopping up, down on one leg, her other cocked diagonal – the Fucking Tree Position!

Once they had showered and dressed, they sat at the glass table in Erica’s kitchenette and drank dandelion tea. ‘If we are to do this properly’, said Erica, ‘you realise we are going to have to give up caffeine and alcohol?’. ‘And chocolate, saturated, and mono-saturated fats, negative carbs’, added Caitlin, ‘besides caffeine and alcohol decrease your muscle tone’.  Erica excused herself, got up and limped to the bathroom.

Next morning, Erica awoke having slept lumpily.  She blinked tiredly at her white-washed bedroom ceiling, trying to figure out whether it was raining outside, or whether it was just the water pipes, or the shower in the upstairs apartment.  Eventually after much self-cajoling Erica managed to drag back her bed covers, heavily swing her legs out of bed.  It was raining: a fight with her umbrella and the inevitable prevailing wind would ensue on her way to work, where she would turn up looking like a drowned and bedraggled, wigged guinea pig in a dress.

‘It’s nothing to feel demoralised about’, offered Caitlin, as they sat lunchtime in the office canteen, Erica picking at her Caesar Salad (no mayo). ‘He simply wasn’t, isn’t good enough for you’. A drowned and bedraggled guinea pig?! Erica shoveled a mouthful of cruton and ice berg lettuce into her mouth. ‘Who needs a man who pays you no attention anyway’, Caitlin continued, delicate hands cradling a Styrofoam cappuccino. Those rings, thought Erica, they are so bogus.

And then it was Thursday and yoga class number two. Caitlin had bought some new sweat bands for the occasion, for wrists and forehead.  Day-glo Steffi Graff? While, Erica felt like a pregnant sow going to abattoir. They arrived early, rolled out their mats, and the instructor – Charleze? - suggested they sit tight, close their eyes and try and access deep mind while they waited for their fellow keep-fit friends. Erica imagined herself as a piggy bank, her mouth a slot through which people forced cheese sandwiches, liquor chocolates, chocolate coffee beans.

When all the women had assembled, varicose veined, lithe and nimble, they began with yet another ‘beginner pose’ – The Pigeon.  Charleze demonstrated as if it were something she did after brushing her teeth every morning – it probably was – or, in between conference calls at work. ‘It’s a great pose’, Chareze was purring, ‘it makes you feel you’ve been coupled up all day’.  Coupled up to what? Erica mused, a whole refrigerator unit?

So they took their beginner’s stance and Charleze began the commands. ‘Step one: Expand your chest’.

Suddenly, Erica felt a rush of nausea. ‘Inhale’. Sick, sick in her stomach. ‘Gaze upward’.  The sports hall lights were blinding, dizzying. The corrugated-iron roof was swimming. 'This is for your sciatic nerve', sang Charleze. Erica’s whole body felt trussed up, arched over, suspended awkwardly in mid-air like an insect lava in a synthetic bright pink cocoon. What do I care about scia - The music of the pan pipes Aarrrrgh.

‘Repeat!’ Charleze barked. 

And Erica dropped.

When she opened her eyes again, she thought she was in hell.

a thirteenth new story...'shit-faced by tomorrow'

‘You are going to get crucified by life anyway. You might as well get crucified for something or someone you believe in’. And with that Aidan cracks open another beer. The stars are out, the night is cold. They have blankets, blankets and beer, and thirty years behind them, sixty between.

Clay spits into the dark off the back porch. ‘I believe’, he says. ‘I believe because I have to believe’. ‘However impossible …’ says Aidan. ‘However impossible it may be for some people, I have to believe, otherwise it will never happen’.  The two of them, two old friends making sense of the world, the wreck of the past, the present getting wrecked, and the future - whatever will be.

‘You have a connection’, says Aidan, tugging at the ring pull of his beer can. A connection. Clay sighs: ‘Don’t sound like my female friends’. Clay has three female friends, four fingers and a thumb on a hand, two hands. ‘What do girls want?’ asks Aidan, half rhetorically. Clay makes a hissing sound through his teeth. ‘Money’. ‘Money, and a guy with big brass balls’. ‘I’ve a gold tooth at least’, says Aidan. A mayfly appears, buzzing grossly, stupidly in the glow of the porch light. ‘They don’t want gold teeth’, says Clay. ‘It’s worth a cent or two’, says Aidan. And a big hole in your face.

‘Remember Clementine’, says Clay, and takes a slug of beer.  ‘You’ll get misty eyed’, says Aidan. ‘Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, Clay warbles, stamping his feet in mock jollity … ‘Oh my darlin’ Clementine’. The mayfly has settled on the roof beam running the length of the back porch. ‘Know the next line?’ says Aidan.  ‘Gone forever’ says Clay. Clementine – stalwart lover, first, second, third, and every other. ‘She’s married now: two kids, two dads’… ‘Sex in the Laundromat?’. ‘Yes’, says Clay, ‘and after that we sat and watched our clothes merge in the tumble dryer’. ‘Hot’, says Aidan. ‘She was five years older’. ‘Still is’ says Aidan. ‘The rhythm of life …’ says Clay, smirking, winking at Aidan. ‘Two steps forward, one back, that’s what my father used to say’, says Aidan. ‘Non-linear’, says Clay. ‘Like driving an old Sedan wonkily along the road to nowhere, engine spluttering, cutting out every half hour’. ‘Or a pick-up with a three decades of crap in the back’. ‘Sitting in a crock of shit’. ‘I’ll drink to that’, says Aidan, and starts laughing harshly, hoarsely. ‘Pass the smokes’, says Clay, ‘time is staggering on!’. Here today, shit-faced by tomorrow.

a twelfth new story...'garnish'

‘Just put a basil leaf on top’. They were arguing about garnishes again, and their dinner guests were waiting. ‘It doesn’t make a jot of difference to the flavour’, said Annie, who preferred to dice herbs and mix with Bolognese, where Roger preferred to keep flavours clean, simple – bland, Annie often complained.

‘It’s because you’re smoking again’, said Roger, hovering behind Annie like a culinary sex pest; Annie, bent over the gas light stove browning the meat. ‘Your taste buds are shot to pieces’. Annie reached for the salt. ‘And no more salt’, said Roger, putting his hand on her forearm, authoritative Gary Cooper style. ‘Why not?’, said Annie.  ‘Are you going to give me a Chinese burn if I do?’ Roger let go, moved beside her.  ‘Less of the backseat driving’, said Annie, jaded, her face red from the heat and steam.  Roger stuck his long, thin nose into the pot, an anteater, or a common rat? ‘You know both Jenna and Ian smoke?’ Annie continued, ‘and don’t give me anymore shit’. They hadn’t had sex since Roger’s accident. Roger sat down on a stool in the kitchen behind her, the meat was nearly brown enough.

‘Why don’t you go back through to the dining room?’, asked Annie. ‘Don’t mix in chopped basil’, said Roger. ‘Right!’, said Annie, ‘go back into the dining room and ask everyone if they want their basil chopped and mixed, or, if they’re happy to make do with a basil leaf on top’. Annie was getting mad, feeling the strain of catering to Roger’s myriad demands.  Sectional interest! Aaarrrrghhhhh! Why couldn’t she be more like a politician in her marriage and simply pay no mind? Roger stood up again, began tugging at his shirt collar. ‘It’s too hot in here’, he said. Annie laughed, short and sharp.  ‘Well, darling, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen’.

Once Roger had slouched back through to the dining room, Annie reached for the salt and added another desert spoon, shut off the hob and chopped up the basil into the smallest, meanest pieces she could, stalks and all, then mixed with the Bolognese.  She could hear Roger in the dining room: ‘Who wants their basil mixed in? Or as a garnish?’. This is too much, thought Annie, I will have to file for divorce, failing that find a new front of house.

In the event, of course, nobody cared. And even Roger agreed Annie’s Bolognese was a winner.  Later, in bed, Annie asked: ‘When do you think it will heal?’ Roger put down his book – Churchill: the War Cabinet Years. ‘What will heal?’, he asked, seemingly oblivious to the fact his penis wasn’t working. Annie sighed, ‘nevermind’, she said. Nevermind: or failure, resignation, terminal decline!

an eleventh new story...'beethoven was deaf'

Elaine let herself be immersed in the full swell of the orchestra, felt a rise in her tummy: butterflies!  She looked to her left, and there was Wayne, staring vacantly ahead as if he were stationed in front of Telly Tubbies with their two year old – father, son time. Fuck him, she thought. Fuck him if he has the intellectual capacity of a fence post.  Fuck him. Fuck. Him. And his cultural intransigence. Da de da de da. Fuck him! People like Wayne were probably responsible for killing painters, writers, classical musicians in Nazi Germany anyhow. Da de da de da. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him!

Down in the orchestra pit, the conductor, tall and lithe, was working himself into a frenzy as the movement built to crescendo. The whole auditorium, the whole building seemed alive, throbbing with the sound of strings, woodwind, brass, Beethoven. Elaine had never been to a classical music concert before and this was most certainly exceeding expectations – oh yes! And Wayne’s complete indifference was not going to spoil it this time – oh no! And Fuck him again!

Tears gathered in her eyes, a lump, one of those beautiful lumps lodged in her throat. She could have swallowed it, but she wanted it there, and she wanted the tears, let them come, hot and fast - she wanted to be moved. She wanted her body to ache with unfettered joy and profound sorrow all at once, she wanted to be humbled as if in the presence of God, she wanted to be carried away on a tide of feeling, spun out in an emotional whirl. Fuck Wayne. What a fucking Nazi! A Nazi Zombie bequeathed in suede!

... She knew what he would say when they got home.  Do we have to do that again? And she’d want to scream: Yes, WE will fucking do that again, you fucking Nazi! ... Six million! Six fucking million! And then she would regret it, and Wayne would give her that admonishing look, naughty school girl look, say: Cool it with the anti-semitic remarks. And she would take a few deep breaths, put the heel of her hand to her forehead, think: I feel faint. Carbon Monoxide? Or just the intoxication and claustrophobia of married life? Married life with a big, stupid, jeaned up fan of Pink Floyd and fast cars.  Which one is fucking Pink anyway?!

But, she would walk over to him, put her arms around his waist, say: Not if you don’t want to (YOU LUNK!). And Wayne, his face would brighten, like their two year old when the purple Telly Tubby popped its head out of a hole in Telly Tubby House, just after Telly Tubby Bye Bye, going Da de da de da; Wayne, would smile like a smug and yet pathetic pastiche of flesh, bone and middle aged man, pull her close, close enough to get the full force of his halitosis, closer still, and dumbly start singing Jimmy Nail. 

Did Beethoven ever thank Jesus he was deaf?

a tenth new story...'small, crap towns'

Alun feels another shit concocting in his bowels, building with the rumble of gastrointestinal thunder. Mild? Medium? Or Hot? Innocent questions, answers - drastic, gastric consequences.

Small, crap, provincial towns, cheap kebab vans, vans selling cheap kebabs.  Pizza Express have a new menu, sign at bus stop said. Hmm. Alun frowns, forehead sweaty with effort, keeping bomb doors closed, one, perhaps one and half miles from home?  Stale real ale, served with zero aplomb, I hate small, crap provincial towns. And the countryside where you find these places. Death traps, no airs, graces.

A rattling car passes by: five spotty white youths crammed inside, playing gangsta rap.  Small... crap... Shakespeare would have cried. But London was a sewer in his time; today, only the British National Party, bless ‘em, consider it a shithole, at least of the multicultural kind.  

Alun checks his wrist watch: six hours since conference end, three since pointless agony of business dinner; ‘business friends’, ‘associates’, where small talk reigned, or did it simply rain? The accountant from Cardiff, showered him, accidentally? On purpose? with cava. What a palaver! Another small, crap town.  The accountant: Rees? Whose dignity disappeared at the merest whiff of cheap booze.  Wales: born to lose – even Dylan Thomas hated, despised Welsh choirs … Walking on roadside briers, small, crap towns make one mean, nasty: out here on the perimeter, stalking the wasteland, T.S.Eliot seems fraudulent.  And then in the distance appear purple neon signs for the sanitised purple hell hole that is Premier Inn.

Alun thinks: After my poo, will it be BBC World: World Business Report? Or ‘Calendar Girls Strip Naked’, on encrypted channel seven hundred and twenty two?  

a thirty sixth new poem...'paperback fancy'

I wear your face in the morning,

Your print on my bones,

Ink on my lips

And the press of your nose.