Christian Yorke

USAIN BOLT-FASTEST JAMAICAN ON TOP GEAR

As stated in an earlier post, the highly rated British show Top Gear is watched by just over a billion people around the world every year. The presenters (with the exception of Captain Slow) love things that go fast. Usually those things need petrol and sparkplugs. However, once in a while there is a twist. You see the Top Gear boys like to put a star in a reasonably priced (ie slow and shit) car, train them in the art of racing and then let them loose on a track to set the fastest lap time possible. And recently there was a massive twist when the star was none other than the fastest man…in the world…

Yes, Usain Bolt (who earlier this year almost died in a car smash when we rolled his pimped up Beemer in Jamaica) had begged to go on the show. And his begging was rewarded when he got to spend an afternoon shredding tyres with The Stig in a little Suzuki. A good lap time is anything under 1 minute 50 seconds…

…and the upshot is that Bolt powered round the track in a genuinely impressive 1 minute 46 seconds. You can watch the interview, some footage of Bolt running a short distance extremely fast and (most importantly) the lap itself by clicking on the above link. Go on, get clicking and marvel at Bolt’s mastery of the steering wheel and stick-shift.

Here is another extract from my novel, Modern Trials. There is an unpleasant tension in the London law firm. Oh boy, there’s going to be trouble…

Gabriel noticed the sheen on Rutter’s forehead. He was convinced that the old man had been persuing some warped gratification in his misjudged solitude. He had seen Rutter rooting through the girl’s desks before. Everyone had, but nothing was ever said. Gabriel spoke to Rutter’s profile because he was looking away, as though checking Ramsdale’s work zone. “I’m sorry Julian. I just wanted an early start today.” 

“Apology accepted boy,” said Rutter smoothing his Club tie, “it’s actually good to see the troops in with the old generals. 5-54,” he said checking his wrist, “above and beyond the call of duty, what?”

Suspicion damned the faint praise. “It’s no duty as you put it. Got to hit those targets. And like I said, if there’s anything I can do to help you.”

Rutter’s gaze was everywhere except on Gabriel whilst he fiddled with the clip of his suspenders. “Yes, no need. Everything’s well controlled. Anyway,” he said drawing a circle in the air, “I’ve enjoyed this chat. Perhaps you can tell Margaret I need to see her when she arrives. As soon as. I’ll be in Flight’s room, but I’m not to be disturbed. Only by Margaret. Need to see her. Understand?” The final words were obscured by stamping feet disappearing down the long corridor.

By the time Alice dropped her handbag under her desk Annie was on her third tissue.

“Oh dear Annie, what is it now?” she said to the broken body behind the partition.

“Nothing much,” she sniffed as Alice unhooked her ipod.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” said Alice, walking round to see her workmate’s puffy face. “Oh Annie, have you been crying again? It can’t be so bad surely. Tell me, what is it?”

“Julian’s had me in his room and, goodness Alice, he was out of control again, like before. He yelled for fifteen minutes. It was terrifying. Said I was late, that my clothes were from Oxfam, that I was failing to keep up with him, to support him. He screwed my typing into a ball and threw it at me. He’s given me all yesterday’s telephone messages back and told me to deal with them. I’ve no idea who half of these people are. Mostly Flight’s cases. I’ll only mess it up, they’re all so complicated. He’s said that I can’t leave until they’re all sorted. I’m only a secretary Alice, what can I do?”

“I tell you exactly what we do. I go in there and tell him what he can do with his messages. This is crazy,” said Alice, scooping the stack of yellow attendance notes off Annie’s table. “He can deal with them, for once. Or I’ll give them to Gabriel. He’ll get through them in no time.” She forced a smile, worrying that Annie was close to another breakdown, and despite her own fear of  Julian. “And if I can’t fix it then I’ll have a word with Cornelius. We can’t have this.”

“Oh please, I don’t want more trouble. I need this job. Derek’s business. They don’t need grocers in Acton with the new superstore. With our mortgage we need every penny.”

“Don’t worry about your job,” said Alice bravely, approaching Rutter’s office. “You nip to the ladies and dry your eyes. By the time you’re back this will be sorted I promise. And then I’ll make us a fresh pot of coffee.”

“Okay,” said Annie cautiously, “but he’s camped in there.”

Alice entered Flight’s forbidding cell without knocking, and gagged on the stench. Rutter was stretched out on the sofa; a steaming Country Life held where his head should have been.

“Good morning Julian, may I have a quick word?”

Rutter was stone. She felt like a trespasser and wondered if he was even awake. She stole herself to repeat the salutation, questioning her decision to go out on a limb, when the magazine slowly descended, gradually revealing a weary Rutter. The fat cigar glowed like an afterburner as he stared into middle space. 

Still silent, Rutter rose and, cigar in mouth, approached her. Alice backpedalled until her heel snagged a pile of files, and she stumbled. Back to the wall, she felt the inconvenient heat of a blush. Rutter’s pursuit stopped within inches of her body. Alice’s lunatic bravado evaporated, leaving a timid lady, dwarfed by the powerful law man.

“How old are you my dear?” asked Rutter, emitting hot smoke like an old power station.

“I’m, er, 25, er no 26, just…” said Alice, wrong footed by the intimate interrogation.

“Hmmm,” said Rutter thoughtfully, “my dear, I can still remember being 25, or even 26. A young lawyer. Corporate man climbing the ladder like all young lawyers strive to do.” He paused as ash fell to the carpet, moved closer still, and in a deep slow voice purred, “But back then my dear, despite my status and talent, I would never have had the arrogance, the damned insolence, to set foot into a partner’s office without first knocking and waiting to be summoned.”

What in heaven’s name am I into here, wondered Alice. She felt like the smallest girl in the biggest trouble. “I’m so sorry Julian, I didn’t mean to interrupt you. It’s just that I’ve been given these. They need dealing with urgently otherwise Flight’s going to have no clients left to come back to. Can we divide them out? I think Gabriel has some capacity. I’d be happy to have a word with him if you like.”

Rutter stiffened at the shaky offering of yellow paper. “Oh goodness,” he said harshly, “why don’t you leave them all with me. It isn’t as though I’m up to my neck with pressure already. I must say madam, it’s a long time since anyone has delegated work to me. And, unless my memory fails, I do believe that this is the first time that a secretary, and one of tender but uncertain years at that, has burst in to give me a stack of calls to make.”

“But I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that…”

“Oh don’t worry my dear. I’m actually rather impressed. Now let me take these nasty notes from you so that I can spend my morning on the phone.” Rutter teased the paper from Alice’s weak grip. “Now trot on, I’ve got work,” he said without moving so that Alice had to squeeze past him.

She looked back at the old man, who remained stationary, as she hurried out on the brink of tears.

She was met in the corridor by a shinier, smilier Annie. Her mouth moved but Alice could not make out whether she was being thanked or asked how it went. Time, probably seconds, passed by before a click and a woosh and a Rutter emerged.

“Annie!” he roared. “Get in here. Now!”

What follows is the first part of a new short story. Fresh out of the slammer, Jed decides to atone for a life of violence by starting a new religion with Terry, his best pal in the world. Unfortunately, that nasty past is stalking him, and mapping out a new mass belief system may yet be the least of Jed’s worries. Enjoy…

“I’m thinking of starting a religion,” said Jed, tapping his nose with a BIC.

“You’ve got the time, if nothing else, I suppose,” said Terry vaguely, still struggling to accept the damage inflicted on him by the Psycho Cash Beast fruit machine. He took advantage of the long, reflective, silence (that had recently become the hallmark of their beery benders) and necked his Hobgoblin before adding, “You’ll need to be careful with the terrorism issues though.”

Although Jed was also giving the fruit machine daggers, and despite the pain of last night’s solo session that began the moment his mum went to bed and ended (albeit temporarily) when he passed out just before dawn as the TV hit a low ebb, he nodded, rising. He closed his puffy eyes, but they watered nonetheless as their dark booth was brightened by the long shards of light that dared to illuminate certain parts of The Black Cross Public House.

“I’m off for a slash Tel, don’t do nothing stupid,” said Jed.

He returned after a lengthy interlude and some very wild banter with Marion, the obese barmaid, carrying two fresh pints and some used envelopes. He sat down quickly, wondering when, if ever, he’d grow tired of the ‘let’s use all three urinals at the same time’ game. Eager to hide the evidence of his deteriorating aim and increasingly serious ‘after-leak’ he growled, “If I’m to do this properly I gotta take some notes.”

With a virtuous wink Jed patted Vindaloo, the cheerful pub dog who had lumbered over for some scratchings, before selecting the largest envelope. Then with great care (tongue out, rasping chest etc) he wrote “New Religion” next to, but avoiding, a second class stamp.

“Them terrorists are real buggers. Are you sure that’s the place to start? You don’t want to muck up something as serious as this,” counselled Terry who seemed transfixed by Jed’s every penstroke, craning across the table for a more perfect view.

Jed flopped back and sighed, letting all the impure air from his body. “I hear you mate. I just wanna do something half decent with me life, you know? I’ll be forty five in a month and I’ve got a shit load of wrongs to right with whatever time I’ve got left. Get me shit together with a clean slate…Jesus, Terry, have those kids put this on, you know how much I hate The Rolling Stones…”

“Isn’t it Van Morrison? Yeah, you daft arse it’s Brown Eyed Girl…”

“Look!” whispered Jed. “They’re still  staring at me. Are they mugging me off or what?”

“Nah mate, they’re just kids from the estate having a laugh. They ain’t worth shit. Any road, weren’t you about to work some magic and create a new religion?”

With a sneering lip Jed faced his pint, but kept the six youngsters under surveillance from the corner of his eye. They were milling around near the pool table, chucking darts at each others feet. The majority of the pub’s floor was covered with a fawn pine-style vinyl tile arrangement, but the pool area boasted cork tiles which were ideal for such activity. Oh to be young again, if only for a day, thought Jed, his fist clenching involuntarily as he remembered whiling away many a lazy afternoon throwing darts at other boys. Near the dartists two other lads laughed like seagulls and waved pool cues at each other like long wooden rapiers whilst from the farthest corner a thin fox-faced boy was busy trying to lob a pool ball into an old man’s Guinness. Strangely, the old man barely protested. This was probably because he knew that the lads were just having a right old laugh. Alternatively, it might have been through fear, or because he was discretely trying to find his coat that one of the lads had rammed behind the TV that was blasting out racing results.

Jed became aware that he was neglecting his best friend in the world. Luckily, Terry was still obsessing about the terrorism issue, it being a bad thing and really difficult, only pausing occasionally to tut and rub his dark chin.

“Ain’t that Sean Feanie’s boy? He looks very familiar. See? Tel, shut it about them bleedin’ suicide squads for half a minute and look at this runt with the tattoos.”

“That’s Feanie’s lad alright,” chuckled Terry as though remembering a private joke. “He’s called Darrell or something. And behind him, the balding fatboy in the Millwall shirt, that’s Timothy Tattersall. They call him Treacle and word is they’re a pair of puffs. Think the rest of them are squaddies. They hang out here a lot these days, when they’re not up The Copper Horse.”

“Stone me, last time I saw Darrell and little Tim they can’t have been more than ten or eleven,” said Jed in a deep, morbid, voice that to some people might have suggested regret at not being around on the Stoney Knoll Estate, or here in The Black Cross Public House, to watch them growing up. He smiled over at the boys, even though there was little hope of them recognising him, let alone inviting him over to impress them with stories about doing hard time. Deep down he knew that time had severely worked him over. Like all middle-aged men he avoided mirrors, but he knew that more than a few crushing fists had permanently disguised him; no branch of medical science (not even in the USA) could repair his nose that was smeared across his cheeks and he knew, deep down, that he would never again sport a quiff like The King.

Even his own mother had gagged when she first beheld him after he was released just before Christmas. But he had nowhere else to go, and she took him in after a frank discussion that had also involved some of the neighbours. Since then the pressure of sharing the flat, his nan’s harsh gaze and the way his mum had started cowering whenever he staggered in with a bag of chips or a bird after a bender had sometimes made rage burn in his eyes. But he was a good boy and never once raised a fist to any of them. Not anymore, those days were gone for good. And anyway, those raging eyes now evidenced too many years of being afraid, living in close confinement with men who were stronger than him and whose presence gave him sleepless nights.

Jed lifted his weary face from his hands. “Get us another beer Tel boy whilst I go and say hello to the lads.”

“You sit tight, they’ll only wind you up.”

Jed suddenly sat rigid. “Did you see that?” He was whispering, hiding his lips with his giant hand. “Look! Tel!”

For some reason Terry’s bottle had gone and he started shrugging. The idiot wasn’t even looking properly, but Jed didn’t correct him because he had bigger fish to fuck. The one and only Darrell Feanie had stepped forth, slowly turning to face Jed, their eyes locked. As time slowed, the squaddies seemed out of focus as Darrell raised his right arm and extended his index finger like a gun barrel until it pointed at Jed’s face. Darrell recoiled as he pulled the trigger, eyes still locked, then he blew across his smoking finger tip until his digital pistol was no more.

“Did you see that?” rasped Jed, checking his forehead. “That liberty taking fucker needs an urgent spank up the hole like in the old days…”

“Fuck me Jed, they’re just pissing about.”

“They’d have had that Darrell in a cage in Victorian times. With a wig and a christening gown. That’s how dwarves made a living in them days, in the circus like.”

“Come on big feller, you’re getting sentimental on me.”

It was true. Jed was feeling sentimental, but his overwhelming urge, despite all the resolutions he’d made, was to crack Darrell’s skull in two. Jed was rising, intent on making his point whatever the consequences, but Terry gently held his forearm.

“Sit yourself down you old queen, it’s still early,” said Terry, watching the lads shooting pool and tossing arrows.

“If that toad bastard looks at me again…”

“I know, I know,” said Terry in a way that was dangerously close to sarcastic. “Let me get the beers and you can tell me all about that new religion of yours. The last thing you need is a war cause you’ll be the mug what gets banged up again. You’ve done enough time for one life mate, paid the price like. I know it’s tough adjusting to life on the outside but…”

“Don’t say another fucking word Tel, I ain’t in the mood for one of your ‘I’m a nice family man in me poncy terrace with me obliging old girl and me perfect kiddies’ lectures. You don’t know shit about what I’m going through so don’t embarrass yourself,” said Jed, holding his empty pint glass under Terry’s nose, hand shaking, constantly glancing at the games area with the hint of a tremble in his voice.

Subsequent parts will follow in the near future dear readers…

Alison is Grogan’s mommy. This morning on GMTV (the UK’s most watched breakfast TV show) they merited a fifteen minute prime-time slot. A well deserved slot, because they had an important message. Even if you are a scientist, musician, novelist, politician or preacher, struggling to be heard, dreaming of publicity on this scale, you would not have not begrudged Alison and Grogan their moment to tell their incredible story to the world.

Alison’s hair had been groomed perfectly for the show, her tan was immaculate and she spoke with almost no trace of sarcasm. Little Grogan sat beside her mommy like a good girl in a dazzling silver double breasted jacket that reflected the studio lights with such force that her entire head sparkled.

In one of Andrew Castle’s more sensitive interviews he began by establishing that Alison once trained as a hairdresser. Although Alison didn’t confirm whether she had subsequently qualified, she did confirm that she had been earning £50 per week. The studio was hushed. And with good reason, because Alison then revealed that she spent almost every penny of her income buying fancy shoes for her treasure, her princess, her little Grogan.

Using an investigative style that is the hallmark of outstanding journalism, Castle verified that little Grogan was sporting Jimmy Choo shoes; that cost mommy £174, or almost a month’s wages. The camera treated the viewers to a close up and it was clear that they were worth every last penny as they adorned the 11 year old’s feet. 

Castle’s less famous co-host cruelly asked whether there was a risk that little Grogan might grow out of them and, by way of answer, mommy and little Grogan giggled behind their hands.

The interview turned ugly when Castle asked what little Grogan’s friends made of her lavish outfits, her enormous shoulder pads and stunning footwear. Little Grogan, in full make-up and a tan that was almost the equal of her mommy’s, explained that her friends back at her Glasgow comprehensive were wonderful and thought that she was marvellous.

Castle’s less famous co-host then asked whether little Grogan’s clothing allowance was a good use of the family’s entire income. At this point, quick as a flash,  mommy interjected, clarifying that some of little Grogan’s clothing was from Primark (presumably as opposed to Gucci or Valentino) and that she sometimes shopped at Top Shop or Asda.

That was a good answer, but next came the question that 8 million viewers had tuned in for. Castle cleared his throat and asked little Grogan what her ambition was. Her ambition, her life’s goal.

Little Grogan was ready for this, she had obviously given it much thought. With a proud look in her eyes she explained that she wanted to be like Katie Price.

Katie Price is better known as Jordan. She is a glamour model. In fact she is but one (small) step away from being a porn actress. She is most famous for her tits that are filled with silicon to make them larger. Sometimes she adds more silicon, sometimes she has a bit removed, but either way her artificial chest is her fortune. Some respected commentators have described her as grotesque because she carries a few unwanted pounds round her gut and isn’t good at reading. Nevertheless, she seems happy enough and can often be seen in London or Essex nightspots getting shit faced with shit faced men licking and pawing her flesh.

Castle challenged little Grogan, suggesting that he thought she was aiming too high. Little Grogan was his match. She explained, in clearer terms, that she wanted to be famous. When asked how this would be achieved, Little Grogan simply refused to be drawn further and remained non specific, as is the fashion. Instead she emphasised that she wanted people all over the world (not just around Glasgow’s council estates or boozers) to know her name.

In an unexpected twist, mommy (who didn’t once refer to little Grogan’s father) told Castle that they lived in a flat and didn’t have a huge monthly mortgage, not like £700 or something, that would be mental, and so she had the financial power to lavish her offspring with shoes.

Castle knew that he was beaten, and wished them well.

The next item featured a man in a black suit with a paper bag on his head. He was a self confessed “ugly bloke” who complained that women were shallow.

CY NOTE-I must warn you that the following short story addresses adult themes and contains nasty words. It is about loneliness, vulnerability and lost hope. It is a classic erotic odyssey in the traditional sense.

Janet smiled at the beaten boiler, the bait, that she had spent most of last night sledgehammering. She still wore the bra and knickers that had seemed so empowering in that frenzy of preparation, albeit now concealed under an unseasonal summer dress. She rinsed the wine glass that had seen her through two bottles of red, and added a slug of Gordons. She steadied herself against the sink and winked at her reflection smeared across the black, rain battered window.

When the bell finally tolled she sighed and undid more buttons. She slipped a hand down her panties, then primed her tongue with a dab of her slightly acidic juice. In the dim hall she felt embarrassed by her clownish attempts to reapply lipgloss and shoved the lodger’s abandoned bike against the wall.

At the door, she purred, “Who’s there?” through the peephole. Encouraged by some grunts outside she managed to work her keys (at the third attempt) before bumping her head with an unpredicted stumble. When she finally flung open the front door she gazed down at the stumpy plumber and congratulated herself on choosing leopard print ballet pumps over the more obvious heels.

“Afternoon love, so where is it?” asked U-Bend We Mend’s northern representative, lugging his box of tricks over the threshold of brown envelopes. His name tag read Jerry.

Janet giggled, beckoning him into the flat with her gin. He seemed to look beyond her, seeking a boiler in distress, so she blocked the hallway whilst the plumber took a moment to gag appreciatively on her perfume.

Careful to keep it subtle, Janet placed her hands behind her head to prove her friendly intentions and to showcase her naked armpits, hoping that he liked it natural. Sensing a connection, she swirled and ground her hips as though working a hula hoop in slow-mo whilst staring silently into the man’s grey eyes. She probably mouthed the lyrics to the Whitney Houston ballad that was kicking the shit out of the speakers in the front room, and pouted with all her power.

After some routine lip licking she danced in close, nose to nose. “Men in uniform always get me hot. Do you know what I mean by hot, Gary?”

“The name’s Jerry love.”

“Don’t I know it, and I’ve got a fever and it’s time for you to give me some treatment.” Janet was now too wild for further small talk, and felt for a bicep under Jerry’s checked shirt. When he recoiled she sucked back her ripe breath, fighting the urge to go immediately for the groin.

“You’re a bit fresh for an old girl ain’t yer?” blabbed Jerry, forgetting his manners, suggesting that he thought this was all a big joke. “A naughty lady like you could get a feller in a shitload of bother. And you do not want to mess me about girl.”

Janet decided that Jerry was just being cheeky. His eyes were slits, and definitely fixed on her panties that were visible behind the open curtain of her dress. That was a start and Janet lead Jerry by the hand into the kitchen. On arrival she did not let go as he whistled (through his mouth) and exhaled (through his nostrils) and creased his brow and wiped his chin (with his free hand) as he faced the boiler. It was hanging off the wall, ticking like pistol fire; its surface corrugated and cratered after withstanding a sustained assault of hammers, heavy candlesticks, a steel dustbin, an old video player, fists and feet.

“Don’t reckon I’m gonna be able to save that one love,” admitted Jerry, checking his digital watch.

“Oh don’t tell me that Gary, oh heavens, say it ain’t so,” begged Janet, working up some tears.

“Sorry missus, but someone’s given that a fierce going over. I can take it away now, for scrap…”

“Oh no Gary, don’t leave, I’m scared. What if whoever did that comes back?” Her words were soft, if a tad slurred, although the sobbing that followed was a full blooded throat-shredder. She drew him close, her hands wandering, squeezing him, playing with the stubble on his crown, their cheeks together so he could feel her tears. After several minutes Jerry tried to push Janet off, but she positioned herself so his hands grasped her boobs.

“My goodness Gary, are you trying to take advantage of a lonely woman,” she blurted.

“I told you girl, you don’t want to mess me about.”

“God you’re strong Gary. So strong! Look at those pecs.” As she spoke Janet took his hands from her boobs and made him squeeze his own (slightly) smaller versions. This marked a turning point. Jerry put his hands on his hips and smiled like a slow child who had finally understood the lesson.

Satisfied that she had his attention, Janet lifted her skirt high and let it fall like a flamenco dancer. She raised her hands, dancing softly, tossing her hair, singing The Greatest Love of All (”I never found anyone to fulfill my needs, a lonely place to be, So I learned to depend on me”) and twirled, but not before freeing her heavy boobs from their cups, so Gary could gaze upon her naked flesh. He watched in awe. Other than cracking his knuckles he was motionless. Janet turned her back on him, giggling. Then she bent double, dress over hips, and drew a finger across her gusset with a beckoning crook. Jerry spluttered, and Janet examined him (upside down), bordered by her thighs. He reached into his dungarees either to make room for a fat cock, or to retrieve an inhaler to treat an onslaught of whooping cough.

Although Janet’s finger clearly said, “Come hither,” she was worried that her intentions were still unclear. She contemplated dropping to her knees and going for the plumber’s loin there and then, but Jerry’s giant hands eventually reached round her belly. His fingers clasped, to help him grind her rump purposefully. Janet was not ashamed when the rhythmic pressure forced out a long whistle of gas from her bum; the accompanying noise was reduced to a buffeting sensation by the merciful stereo and the cat litter tray masked the smell.

By mutual consent they soon made for the bedroom. Some candles had burned out, but there was still enough fire to create a romantic glow. She almost collapsed when she noticed that she had forgotten to hide the brimming ashtray, and that the dope and empty pill bottles were still by the bed. Luckily, 24 hours of heavy alcohol and painkiller abuse had not entirely poisoned her mind and (as a distraction) she crawled onto the bed, pulling her floral dress over her head in a seductive motion. She coated her fingers with body butter, tugged her culotte aside, and eased two fingers up her bum right to the fist. In out, in out, shake it all about. She grunted, more baboon than babe. This performance continued for many minutes, and as Janet became aware of the rain attacking the rattling window and the biting cold in her unheated room, and as she had all but given up hope, Jerry began setting out his filthy intentions.

Delighted by this breakthrough, Janet sat on the edge of the bed, leaving a cappuccino stain as she unbuckled her prey. Before her, in cotton shirt and nylon Y-fronts, Jerry patted his well nourished gut, and flexed his stick thin legs.

She wanted to do this right, and spent longer than usual clawing his blue skin. There was blood under her fingernails by the time she started massaging his scrotum. She gnawed the lump in his pants, before tenderly lowering them.

His cock was partially aroused, albeit disappointingly bowed. Janet sighed; she knew she had saggy tits, but at least she had rouged her nipples to make up for it. She lifted each tit to Jerry’s gaping mouth, inviting him to suckle her, rubbing his lips with each fat teat. This was a seductress at the peak of her powers. She fell to her knees and Jerry’s erection was soon dripping with moisturiser and Janet’s secretions as she took the entire organ in her mouth. She tried to get a bollock in as well, but Jerry was still not confident enough for that. She used her thumb and forefinger to stroke his shaft, reassured that even dirty penetration would hardly hurt her. To wipe the ominous frown from Jerry’s face she tried again to force a finger up his anus, but the hairy arse-mesh proved impenetrable.

After suckling, nipping and hard teasing (until she almost had lockjaw) Janet leant back and parted her complicated lips putting on a hell of a display, which included jilling herself off. She threw plenty of body butter at Jerry to keep him interested before ordering him to slip a glass dildo into an opening of his choosing.

At long last Jerry took control, ignoring her slurred commands. He crawled on top and, after some near misses, buried his cock into her glistening fanny. He almost crushed her as he adjusted his grip round her throat. His violent pounding made her fart three or four times, but neither cared. Jerry’s big head was redder now, as sweat ran over engorged veins. His grin revealed gnashing teeth. He practically head butted the seductress with each thrust. He squealed like a girl and the room grew dark.

Janet started thrashing and tried to summon a defensive scream which only tightened Jerry’s grip, his cock pumping harder. She gurgled and strained for air as Jerry’s fist covered her nose, forcing her head into the pillow. By the time she started bucking, fighting him off, she found herself wondering when her daughter would be home from school. As her strength diminished, her brain started screaming. Strangely, she remembered her first kiss, her graduation, the smell of her daughter’s skin and laughing at the funfair. She was floating; ecstatic.

She concluded that the candles must have all burned out before her sight faded to black.

Zadie Smith described her debut novel (White Teeth) as “the literary equivalent of a hyperactive, ginger-haired tap-dancing 10 year old.” Despite this (presumably) unprovoked attack on redheads, White Teeth sold over a million copies and won the Guardian First Book Award, the Whitbread First Novel Award, the Commonwealth Writers Prize, two EMMAs and was shortlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction. To achieve critical and commercial success is indeed impressive, and although Zadie has been described by some as rude and anti-social, she remains one of a handful of contemporary writers who are not only worth reading, but who are also worth listening to.

In 2004 Zadie spoke at the British Council’s Cambridge Seminar and, amongst other things, reflected on the drive for instant gratification amongst young writers. She explained that, “I get sent books by sixteen or seventeen year olds. The manuscript isn’t even finished. The fucking ink is still wet…It’s a shame. We’ve lost that Keatsian idea of an apprenticeship…If you’re going to start writing, you’re starting on a long term-game. It’s going to last the rest of your life because it’s a lot of work to get any good at it.”

She has a point. She wants to encourage people to write, not because it might get them publicity on loose women, or pay for a Mini Cooper, but because it is their passion. The problem is that nobody wants to serve an apprenticeship. Nobody plays the long game. Even literary agents have opted out as they hunt down the next semi-literate celebrity to champion. Just look at the endless celebrity biographies that populate Amazon. Who cares about being “any good at it”? Most readers don’t. The one book they buy each year is usually thumbed for a fortnight beside a pool in Benidorm, and then doused with Ambre Solaire, fag ash and Stella before being chucked in the back bedroom of a council flat near Frant or Warrington, never to see daylight again.

And if things weren’t bad enough somebody had to go and invent the internet, resulting in a generation of distracted information addicts. And Zadie is one of them. In April 2009 she was interviewed by Jonathan Safran Foer at NYU, during which she condemned  the internet as “an absolute disaster for writers.” She complained that, rather than writing, she can spend up to seven hours a day on Google or checking Facebook; unable to concentrate. She looks to the near future and worries about where this is leading. How, on top of everything else, will future writers (or future anythings) handle the inescapable cyber sites that sap our time and energy? How many writers already spend most of their time updating social networking sites or blogs in order to raise their profile, rather than actually writing exciting new fiction? Most of the writers I know fall into this category (although in certain cases it’s a good thing).

Anyway, I invite you to watch the short clip of the NYU interview by clicking the very big box above. The sound isn’t great, but persevere and imagine a future that can yet be changed.

As an undergraduate I studied Jurisprudence. The word derives from the Latin term juris prudentia and literally means the “study, knowledge or science of law.”

In The Concept of Law, Herbert Hart (a British philosopher) considered the concept of social, or habitual, obedience. This got me thinking. There are many situations where collectively we behave in a way that is potentially detrimental to us, and that viewed objectively (such as by a Martian) can appear irrational. Please hold these thoughts as you read my short story and consider the extent to which we all regularly behave in a ludicrous way, driven by some notion of obedience.

I stopped at the lights early one moody morning. An empty bus meandered round the bend as I pushed the button and waited for the green man to tell me when it was safe to cross. Whilst waiting safely on the pavement I decided against reading my paper. I never read in the street, being all too familiar with the consequences and, anyway, I find that it is good to have something to look forward to on the long train journey to work. Not that the train is necessarily the proper environment for reading either. I learnt long ago that standing up for forty five minutes whilst being elbowed and having one’s hair disturbed by heavy breathing, with people everywhere, all seemingly out of breath, always out of shape, all standing up, closely confined, sneezing and sweating even on the coldest days, presents a major challenge even to a skilled reader. For these reasons I would never dream of reading a book on a train. For me, the state of meditation required in order to fully appreciate a book is unachievable in a public environment. I need silence to lock down certain senses to appreciate the intricacy of plot, each nuance of language. And did I mention time? Time is even more important than silence. I must at least perceive that there will be an abundance of undisturbed time following the act of reading, so as to completely savour the experience.

By now two new people, who I have never seen in the village before, were waiting with me, disturbing my thought processes. I nodded towards the road, the gesture intended to mean, “Good morning,” without being overly familiar. I avoided looking directly at either of them as the rain fell, or rather swirled, cheating gravity and frosting my cheeks. Then, as I continued waiting I heard the unmistakable din of someone’s headphones. Forgetting myself, as other strangers arrived to wait behind me, I clamped my hands over my ears, determined not to be deafened even if my conduct caused offence. But it was useless, the tinny racket was everywhere. We all did what we could to ignore it, but my will power is not what it was and I pressed my hands against my ears so hard that I almost crushed my own skull.

And now, on top of everything I had a headache as the rain fell harder, striking the pavement so ferociously that it soaked my ankles and seeped through my shoes. I cursed myself for forgetting my coat for the third day running and cursed the rain for ruining my attractive business shoes; it was really coming down now and I began to imagine my train leaving me behind, leaving me to explain my late arrival to the new supervisor who had taken an instant dislike to me. As I was closest to the road I checked the lights, but it was not yet safe and so I continued to wait.

A while later, as about a dozen of us waited together, a most unexpected thing happened. A man elected not to join us at the crossing light, which prompted many concerned eyebrows, and some tuts were just audible over tinny din and through my freezing hands as, in an act of personal recklessness, he crossed the road even though he was nowhere near the crossing point. His face was obscured by the darkness and a large brolly. Although he probably wore a suit under his overcoat it looked to me (judging by the way he stamped his feet and hunched his shoulders) as though he was handy with his fists.

My head was killing me. I could see my supervisor’s face, her superior demeanour; she would already be there, waiting to catch me out, to file the report with personnel. I might have been perspiring at these thoughts when I was nudged from behind. I was determined not to look round and concentrated on blocking out the constant noise. But it was hopeless. Something was coughing down the back of my neck, and my nostrils flared at the smell of sour beer. I was blocked to my left and to my right, and ahead was the road. The signal had yet to change. I was trapped. I had to stand and take it. By now my head was spinning, aching and raised to the sky as my glasses afforded my eyes scant protection from the needle rain.

The booze on the air was indeed powerful, but no match for what happened next. Suddenly, from God knows where, a plume of cigarette smoke circled me, making directly for my lungs. This was indeed a low point. I was rendered helpless, so much so that I thought very seriously about making a scene. I was close to blacking out, but no longer cared. And we all waited.

Eventually, over the coughs, tinny dins and thick smoke I heard the electronic beeping and opened my eyes. There it was, the green man signalling a safe passage across the road. I uncovered my ears and tried to smooth some of the water from my skirt before continuing on my way.