Christian Yorke

At the beginning of September the search was on to find a winning piece of flash fiction. The subject matter was left open, the only limitation being the author’s imagination and a maximum word count of 300. There were almost seventy entries by close of play on Friday 2nd October, which far exceeded my expectations.

The quality was extremely high. The stories covered nightmares, sporting disasters, sunbathing (with a twist), horror and romance; and all in just 300 words! Before announcing the winner I would like to give a special mention to two excellent entries.

Andrew Rossiter (www.coffeepercolator.wordpress.com) submitted “The Call”. It used short, punchy sentence structure to inject pace and tension. The result was an edgy and dramatic story that I enjoyed enormously.

With a story of hide and seek, Poites (www.poietes.wordpress.com) submitted “Child’s Play” that used a mixture of dialogue and action to great effect. There was a sense of ambiguity throughout, and the twist at the end leaves the reader fearing the worst.

However, it is time to unveil the winner. It is “Her Winning Smile” written by Dawna Rand (The Writer’s Saga). Be warned, the story deals with an adult theme so if you are of a timid disposition, look away. For the rest of you, the story is a snapshot of a working woman. She seems to be in control. She sounds tough. But then again, what price is she paying? Read on, and enjoy…

HER WINNING SMILE BY DAWNA RAND 

She smiled winningly, hoping the darkness concealed her boredom. She leaned towards him.  “Wanna dance?” she chirped over the din.

            He nodded briefly, avoiding her eyes.

Fuck yeah. Just gimme money, asshole.

                The song’s throbbing onslaught began, rattling the barstool on which she thrust her 6-inch heel. She wriggled out of her dress. He’d agreed – so why act sexy now?

                She wadded the dress into a handful. She plopped in his lap and ground industriously against an unimpressive boner.

                The bass pounded. She shifted.  Her eyes scanned the faceless crowd. Another one. Dressed nice. Drinking alone. He’ll spend.

                She turned so only her left cheek was working.. Asshole gripped her hips, focusing on her gyrations. She yawned and propped herself against the mirrored wall. Still grinding, she preened. Yeah, I’m still hot. Not as young as some bitches, though…

Need another wig soon. This one’s ratty. Assholes grabbing it…

Rent… car… babysitter…

 Lazy-ass husband…now the wig…

Shit. Always something…

She continued her calculations, equations interrupted only by a fading song. Or screeching DJ. That bastard makes a thousand a night. Doesn’t have to fight handsy assholes, either. Fucker.

“Do you work after hours?” Asshole rasped to her tits.

Fuck off. You don’t even have money for dances. She shook out her dress. “I only work here.”  She wriggled into the abbreviated spandex.

He nodded, still avoiding her eyes. Which suited her fine. He handed her a crumpled bill.

She glanced down. Yeah, a twenty. Better not stiff me, asshole.

“Thanks, baby,” she called, forgetting him. She strode off. Her feet were killing her. But she had to keep hustling. Because you really do get what you pay for.

Only… who paid? And for what? In rare, quiet moments she wondered. She targeted the next loser . And she smiled winningly.

With a blast of cannon fire the flash fiction contest is now over. I have to thank everyone who has been brave and talented enough to take part. The quality of the entries has been amazing. The discipline associated with this type of creative writing has brought out the best in you!

I am now reading each entry (whether submitted as a comment or e-mail) in an attempt to pick a worthy winner. This is a daunting task, but I will have reached a decision by close of play (UK time that is) on Friday 2nd October. See you then!

“What have you done with Funk Moonbeam?”

I am asked this question more than almost any other. It is not easy to answer because Funk is his own man, albeit with an ether and adrenochrome habit. But fear not, because Funk is back… 

For those who have not yet had the pleasure, Funk was an occasional contributor to this twisted site. We lost touch at the end of June, since which time (for reasons that I fear will become hideously apparent over the coming weeks), Mr Moonbeam has been busy hitting an all time low. In our most recent communications (lots of disinhibited screaming and block capitals) he informs me that he has finally beaten the waking madness and wants once more to share his journey with people he has never met, but who he regards as friends. He has already forwarded a number of (what he describes as) “new journal entries” covering the last few months. Some arrive as e-mails, others arrive in the post, all out of sequence and bursting with tragedy and delusion. I am gradually piecing the story together and will share the entries with you as soon as they start making sense.

In the meantime, by way of background feel free to enjoy Funk’s earlier posts by clicking on “Das Moonbeam ist Rocken” which can be found skulking in the Categories section of this site. If that sounds too daunting, I can summarise the story so far as follows (with a few choice extracts from earlier episodes).

Funk Moonbeam was born in Verbier (Switzerland) in 1990. His brutal childhood found him exiled  in the Alps by the time he was fifteen where he worked as a goat herd, visited only by certain of his uncles and their dogs. He emerged from this ordeal with an ether habit and a broken heart and formed a balls-out rock combo  with Ace La Rouge (vocals, emotional torture) and Tiff Pennisbrith (drums, moog, drifting). Funk’s musical influences are said to include Jerry Lee Lewis, Kraftwerk, Adam Ant and Dolly Parton.

Earlier this year Funk had been working on Magnolia Glock (his debut album, tracks from which had generally been well received on the Swiss ski resort  hotel circuit) when, further to unknown charges, he was arrested. This proved to be a blessing as he was locked up with a 300 pound eighty-something Samoan who had been a hot shot attorney out California way, back in the seventies. The Samoan became a mentor and advised Funk how to make it big with a dazzling recording contract.

Funk explained the moment that the Samoan revealed the plan thus:

“After an uncomfortable night the feds grilled my for an hour with their legal double-speak. The upshot is that the charges against me are being dropped. I still don’t know what those charges are, or who brought them, but I’m sure glad to be bustin’ out so I can get back to my music.

The Samoan seemed pleased for me and we talked like father and son as I waited for some crazy legal documents to be cooked up. He advised me that I have a rare talent-and he should know, he was there at the start of it all in the seventies. He laid out a genius plan, and the best bits are set out below:

1) Get me some wheels. He was fixated on me gettin a red ragtop if I wanted to do it properly (Ace, Tiff and the gear could follow in a van).

2) fill said ragtop with recreational narcotics and at least one weapon (I was ahead of him there on all counts).

3) get on the road to Rome. The Ethereal Festival is due to start there in June where all the seriously cool music guys get it on. If I can get the band there in one piece and on time and if I can find Stockton then a record contract is mine.

When the feds finally came for me the Samoan put on his loin cloth and held me, weeping as though we may never meet again. I was powerfully moved and left him my ipod and mobile and told him that I’d be in touch and that he’d never be far from my thoughts. Then I left, determined to get to Casbah in Verbier as a matter of urgency to clear my mind and nostrils with a hearty snort of ether and a magnum of Grey Goose. Tiff was certain to be there and I had no time to waste in gettin him on board.”

It had all seemed so simple, but once out of jail Funk’s first meeting with Tiff was far from triumphant:

“After gettin out of jail I hitched a ride to Verbier in a juggernaut with three big-ass bull dykes off their tits on mescaline. It was like bein in heaven with those angels teasin me about bein a rock star. When we arrived  I felt dirty because even though I had a full load and was still emotional after leavin the Samoan, I knew that I’d been used…

The sun was still blindin me like a bastard when I spotted said Tiff on the terrace at T Bar. He was locked onto some honnies who were bein guarded by some giant bastards. He had probably been up for three days straight and was givin them the old tongue flick and using a bottle of Hooch like a phallus. I got him out of there just in time…

…Tiff was gettin the eye from everyone in the place and I was gettin the horrors because they were playin some faggot Brit band who call themselves Coldplay. Jesus, what I could teach those boys! Tiff had lost his baseball cap and so was in a bad way cos, even though he has the longest brown hair (at the sides that is) he ain’t got too much goin on up top. He was wailin about the chicks outside and what he had in store for them whilst strugglin to position a napkin on his head like a bandana. I told him that he had a look of Axl Rose and he broke down as I ran to the rest room where I laughed until the puke ran from my mouth…

…I hit him with the Samoan’s monstrous plan, The Plan, our biggest opportunity to strike gold at the Etheral Festival in Rome. Did Tiff fall to his knees to pay homage to my brilliance? Oh, no, no, no, no, no! The despicable bastard went turbo despite everything I’d been through to drag the c**k s*****g Plan out of the Samoan. Here was Tiff “why don’t you stuff your Plan up your exit hole” Pennisbrith tellin me to stick it up my arse where mobiles and ipods had once dwelled. He had my balls in his hand and was squeezin hard. I’d have done anything to stop that ball squeezin agony, but it got worse. Through a heavy sweat I reminded him that I needed a ragtop for the trip to the Festival and that his uncle’s cousin (from Andelfingen) had a red 1971 Chevrolet Impala convertible. The perfect Red Shark! Tiff took a bad turn at the mention of his uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen. Using a mix of Afrikaans, French and gibberish he told me to f**k the f*****g band, that I was  a f**go*t, that I smelt like ripe f***y f**t and that he’d rather get bare backed by the Samoan than ride by my side to Rome.

I had been too upset to tell him that he’d be riding behind me in the van with Ace and the gear. He want for his knife and I made for the mountains. As usual.

And now, back in Verbier I still feel sick. Even ether doesn’t move me . Looks like it’s over before it’s even begun. Looks like I’ll be on the streets tonight, although I might go to the studio tomorrow to delete the master tapes of Magnolia Glock.”

As is common with most young men, Funk changed his mind about destroying his masterpiece and decided to find Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen and steal his car instead. This proved to be a most unfortunate decision:

“My music, my band, Axl (my pet rattlesnake) and the cops could all go to hell. I was so stoked that I couldn’t even be bothered to burn the Magnolia Glock master tapes, but I did find time of source a gallon of ether and a range of clean(ish) hankies…

After hours of painful trudging some hot chalet girls, who owed me about a million favours (they like ether even more me), drove me half way to Montreux. It was a tight squeeze and hotter than Satan’s ass crack in the back of that Fiat but they knew how to party. Man they knew how to work their private muscles. It was like a rodeo until the lights went out.

I woke up hours, or days later spitting blood. My left eye was sealed shut. I was coughing up blood as well. My Gretsch was gone, as was my ether. Those musky bitches had screwed me over bad style. All those fanny hags had left me was my Remixdakickz black splash custom Air Force One sneakers, Rocawear “Block Party” jeans, Johnny Blaze hoodie, Sean John Hill denim jacket, Chinchilla coat and Angorra bucket hat. Man I was boilin alive. My sweat started fizzin when I realised they’d f****d off with my gold plated icey highlighted cross pendent and chain, my icey silvertone mic pendent and chain, my Coolio pendent and chain and my Jesus Head and Goldtone bracelet. Damn those jizz smudged vixens to hell and back.

As I crawled out from behind the dumpster I could feel that my balls had been comprehensively emptied. For my next mistake I dropped my jeans to check for further injury and a pack of street wise goons came at me, flashing their blades in the sun. Man, I took one hell of a beating. That night I busted into some grannie house and lifted a fist of francs and later found a bum who scored me some NASTY acid. That was one bad bastard night. Holy Jesus, I never knew bats came in so many colours. In the twisted grip of a trip I found a writing pad and a box of crayons and started bangin out some kind of diary that I’m now deciphering to bring this to you. I must have spoken to the Samoan, at least in my mind, because I’d scrawled out the followin discussion:

Funk-F***k you man, I’m dyin. Those p*****s screwed me real bad, real bad. I ain’t hangin in here. I’m on a bridge you flabby c**t. Yeah man, there’s shit loads of cars below ready to squash my lilly white ass all the way to Palookaville.

The Samoan: Cool your boots little one. Sounds like you need a hug. Imagine me there with you. Let me hug away your tears. You’re bigger than any of those chalet girls. You can’t let them break you, or the street wise gangsters who beat you senseless. Find your destiny, like I advised you. Get to the Ethereal festival in Rome in a ‘71 convertible Chevrolet Impala, find Stockton and all your troubles will be far away. The world will queue up to suck your c**k when you are famous, it’s just a matter of time.

Funk-But look at me, I’m havin an out of body experience and the sun is cookin me! I ain’t got what it takes man, I ain’t gonna be a star, I’m a second rate shit fiddler.

The Samoan-You’re suitably at one with your body and the sun, yes you are! You’ve read Karl Marx and you’ve taught yourself to dance, you’re the best by far! But you keep asking the question, the one you’re not supposed to mention.

Funk-When will I, will I be famous?

The Samoan-I can’t answer, I can’t answer that.

Funk-When will I see my picture in the paper?

The Samoan-I can’t answer, I can’t answer that. You’re a slave to fashion and your life is full of passion, it’s the way you are! You’ve suffered for your art with your jogging in the park, you know you should go far! But you keep asking the question, the one you’re not supposed to mention.

Funk-When will I, will I be famous?

The Samoan-Oh I can’t tell you when you’ll see your name up in lights.

Funk-When will I, will I be famous?

The Samoan-You keep asking me babe.

Funk-I can’t wait!

The Samoan-You’re a talent, you know that I’ve noticed. You’d like to be a legend, a big star overnight! I can’t answer your question.

Funk-I can’t wait. It’s driving me insane…

The conversation must have ended there because the following three pages are filled with crayon sketches of a unicorn being hunted by three dragons and a male pornstar. But, as ever the Samoan had made me see sense. I had to find Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen and get his car. Then a small matter of tryin to get the band back together and finding fame in Rome.”

En route to Andelfingen Ace came to Funk in a dream and he fell in love. Some time later Funk found Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen, and his heart was broken by some terrible news:

“It was after snorting a full can of deodorant that the light burned brightest behind my closed eyelids and Ace La Rouge came to me. She wore a yellow catsuit and little else, looking every inch the hottest tits-out rock honey alive and the only woman powerful to take back the lead vocals in my band. In my delerium she floated above me, snapping her fingers to some tune on her ipod. I was writhin between the suitcases, feelin down and troubled, needin a helpin hand. Everything was goin wrong, my sorry life was dark as penguin fur and filled with clouds. And then she sang to me; her voice like a perfect flute, hitting every note in more than one key. Hours later, when she disappeared like a sprite, I wrote everything out in my jotting pad with a green crayon under a flickering lighter. 

In the time that we shared I forgave Ace for almost everything and knew that if only I could get the band back together then we could make it big. But I had to follow the Samoan’s plan and get the Red Shark. When I tipped myself out of that coach and started the 30 mile walk from God knows where to Andelfingen in the canton of Zurich I was hurtin real bad. My ribs was all busted to splinters after the beatin I took at the hands of that mob of street bitches in Montreux. I looked like a sleazy tramp; even my Sean John Hill denim jacket was ripped and quality shit like that don’t rip easily. When I got to the village the sun was goin down and I asked around for Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen. The way the mums shielded their kids eyes and aimed their dogs at me suggested that they hadn’t heard of Tiff’s uncle’s cousin. I was ready to chuck myself in the river Thur when I fell to my knees on Thurtalstrasse 3 near the Marketplatz calling Ace’s name, calling Tiff’s name and hammering my bloodied fists on the paving slabs.

Then, from nowhere, a giant mountain of pure fat bastard loomed over me. I expected to be beaten to death there and then just for being a hot rock rebel, but to my amazement the man mountain helped me to my feet. I had been in this situation more than once, and knew that I would be too weak to fend him off if he dragged me into a nearby alley to soil me; but I was amazed for a second time when he introduced himself as Tiff Pennisbrith’s uncle’s cousin: Patrice Phannybaahteur!

We ended up in some dive either called Zivilschutzzentrum or Spaetzlipfanne or some other combination of Germanic consonants. It was a restaurant of some description and I thought at one point that Patrice (who had a gentle voice, much softer than Tiff’s) was trying to get me drunk and fatten me up on rosti for some consensual romp or other, but no! He just seemed even lonelier than me and kept bangin on about his sad old memories from when Tiff was a boy.

I was zoning out, thinkin of Ace and tryin to call her name without bein too obvious, when I realised that I had to pop the question. I spent about an hour flattering the bastard (complimenting his thick neck and jaundiced eyes) and then told him straight that Tiff needed his 1971 Chevrolet Impala convertible (the Red Shark!) for a bit of business.

Patrice Phannybaahteur laughed in my face, and when he stopped laughing he hit me with it. He no longer had his Red Shark. I spat my drink (Smirnoff Black Label) in his face and made a speech about how he had to give me that car, that my future wealth and fame depended on it. And when I’d calmed down (Patrice had a fork against my groin under the table in the rapidly emptying restaurant) Patrice explained that Tiff had already collected it not 24 hours earlier.

Holy Mary, Joseph and Solomon! Patrice hurt my feelings in the worst way when he told me that Tiff had formed a new band with Ace and that he was taking her to Rome in the Red Shark! In that moment I knew exactly what to do, but Tiff had a head start and I had to move fast. When Phannybaateur disappeared to bleed the lizard I stole his coat, keys and cash and made off into the night full of booze and cheese based potato, like a black panther with a score to settle and a damsel to save…”

Thereafter, Funk returned home whilst suffering a severe psychotic episode and  made a terrible discovery!

“Patrice Phannybaahteur’s Fiat Panda was makin some sick noises and smells when I abandoned it in the road outside my crib in Verbier. I hated myself worse than usual for stealin such a nasty craft. I’d spent the content of Phannybaatheur’s wallet on six cans of deodorant (the snortin kind), two litres of Smirnoff and almost twenty tins of Red Bull. I’d driven the wheels of that beige bad boy half way across Switzerland and was in a state of delerium. I had been sick too often to count (the evidence still splattered around the dashboard, over the pedals and down the outside of the door) and was hurtin real bad. All I knew was that I had to get the master tapes to Magnolia Glock, my laptop and a hot shower before headin down to Rome to catch Tiff and Ace.

I fell over the bins as I ran to the door and then I saw it; the 1971 Cevrolet Impala convertible, gleemin hell-red in the drive. I knew Tiff was probably already in the studio, stealin my work whilst no doubt bangin Ace over the mixin desk. It was time to shut that goat fluffer down for the final time…

…I was slumped on the steps shoutin at the kids who were laughin at me when the door opened and I fell inside. My mother almost collapsed at the sight of me, her only son, lyin in the soil and weeds. But I drew strength from my anger, from what Tiff was doin to Ace, and made down the hall. My mother tried to stop me and dropped the letters that she’d been readin. I noticed that they were all addressed to me, my private correspondence and I hated that devil so badly that I wiped the blood from my nose and tried to rub it in her face…I wondered how much Tiff had paid her, or what other inducements that horny rat bastard had offered to turn her against me.

We struggled for a very long time and I knocked my old bike over and stamped on it, even though I might have needed it later to make my getaway. By the time I overpowered mother she was cryin and shoutin the Lord’s name and lookin terrified, no doubt realisin that after I finished with Tiff I’d probably be back in jail or rigged to an electric chair for all it mattered to her. When I burst into the studio my eyes were stingin and I could hardly see. My face was wet with blood and other fluid and as I dried my eyes there they all were; Tiff, Ace and, oh God have mercy, my old man!

Tiff had my laptop in his grasp and looked as though he was packin heat. Ace had her hands over her mouth and although my father was reclined on my bed he jumped up when he saw me. His face looked like the tip of a whale’s cock, all fat and bruised and full of murder. He pointed at me, laughin more than the kids outside, more than my uncles ever had, and started makin baby noises and callin me his little boy. Over and over again, sayin I was his baby and just pointin like he didn’t know what to do with his fists. Then my mother arrived and started sayin much the same. I started shoutin at Ace, wantin to know why she never came to me when I called her name like she’d promised. Whale cock was repeatin himself like he was at a funeral callin me a little boy like I was stupid and, when I could take it no more, I said somethin like, “I get down to dry my hair with a little touch of gel, I read all the newspapers but my mother still reads my mail! I won’t wish my life away but tell me if you can, who decides when I’m grown up and I’ve turned into a man?” Now I was really shoutin as I demanded, “Drop the boy, drop the boy! I’m a man, yes I am but they still call me boy. Drop the boy, drop the boy I’m a man, yes I am and I’ll be jumpin for joy when they drop the boy.”

I spotted the keys to the Impala near the bedside lamp, plannin my next move, but had to get it all out in the open. “I’m tired of the boy thing, I’ve got other things to do. I’d like to be in politics, can’t take another visit to the zoo. No more bikes or plastic models and braces on my teeth. I’d like to drive as Dino and live out of my reach. Drop the boy, drop the boy. I’m a man, yes I am but they still call me boy. I’m a man, yes I am and I’ll be jumpin for joy when they drop the boy.”

Then I did what comes natural in times of trouble and started takin that studio apart. I went at the mixin desk with a baseball bat, deafened by my pumpin heart. I did the window, the shelves, my DVD’s and then went for Tiff. Old whale cock came at me sayin don’t do it son, or some redundant shit like that and I went for him with the bat, determined to burst his cock head and Ace was slappin me and my mother was screamin and Tiff joined in, tryin to get that heavy bat off me so he could use it on me.

Tiff’s abnormal weight and the brain carnage of prolonged deodorant abuse was too much and I was on the floor crawlin to the door and then everythin was clear. I threw a lamp at Tiff and as it struck him full in the face I nabbed the keys to the Red Shark and threw myself out of the window. Somehow I had also managed to grab my laptop and I took off in the Impala.

After running away in a blind panic Funk took residence in the basement of Hotel au Vieux-Valais in Verbier. After an unpleasant interlude with two cleaners Funk contacts the Samoan for advice.

“Back in the basement I was amazed that I got a signal and was straight on to the Samoan. He was in a bad state because there is a new inmate in his jail cell. The Samoan refused to elaborate but I could hear the tears in his voice…Then I burdened the big guy with my sorry story and begged him to help me with his wisdom.

The Samoan listened, complaining that the battery in the mobile I’d smuggled in for him, was gettin kinda low. Then, when I was on my knees, beggin for him to help, he said (in that deep voice that used to sooth me to sleep), “We’ve been broken down to the lowest turn. Being on the bottom line sure ain’t no fun. But if we should be evicted, huh, from our homes, we’ll just move somewhere else and still carry on. Oh, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on Oooh, ah baby. Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on ooh, oooh, aah. The only way is up, baby for you and me now. The only way is up, baby for you and me now.”

Every part of my body tingled as his wisdom aroused my pride, gave me belief. Through tears of ecstasy I got a lot of shit on the table, tellin the Samoan about how Ace had betrayed me with Tiff, how my band was in bits and how I hadn’t eaten for days. The Samoan was right there for me sayin, “Now we may not know, huh, where our next meal is coming from, but with me by your side you’ll face what is to come.”

I said, “Boy I want to thank you, yeah, for lovin me this way. Things may be a little hard now but I’ll find a brighter day.”

Havin fixed my head with his counsellin (three little bottles of spirit also helpin to straighten me out), he got down to business. He advised me to clean myself up. He knew a hot girl called Heidi (who owed him some favours) in Bourg-St-Pierre who was good with soap and sissors and could re-invent me as a rock star. A new image would give me the inner determination to find Tiff and Ace, get the band back together and then get us all down to the Ethereal festival in Rome where our music would knock the shit outa the big A n R guys from the majors. If I could find Heidi, all I had to do was tell her that the Samoan had sent me and she would know exactly what to do.

I don’t know where Tiff and Ace are and it may already be too late, but I’m leavin this stinkin basement and headin for Heidi; right after I’ve properly thanked Kimi and Mika for their kindness.”

And there we leave it for now until I’ve deciphered the next batch of Funk’s “new journal entries”. I suspect that Funk Moonbeam is in for a big surprise when, or if , he manages to track Heidi down. I am also negotiating with Funk to let me showcase some tracks from Magnolia Glock on this site. He’s hard work, but I’ll do my best…

Flash fiction is a short story of extreme brevity. It is said to have been around since Aesop’s Fables, and Anton Chekhov and Franz Kafka were both practitioners. Read on for an example of this fine art, called Procession to Eternity. I will be very impressed if anyone can guess who the story is about, particularly as you may need to consult your history books.

I am also very interested in reading your flash fiction, so please take this as an invitation to enter a marvellous competition. You can write about any subject, the only rule being that your story should not exceed 300 words. To enter you can either post your entry as a comment or send it to cy@christian-yorke.com. The closing date is later this month and the winner will be published in full on this twisted website.

I hope that you take part and enjoy the challenge.

Procession To Eternity

My view improved when the youngest guard lifted me above his head and displayed me to the armed multitude. Time was limited. I worked my muscles into a defiant grin and concentrated on my eyelids, determined to keep them open to the last possible moment.

I felt no sadness as I tried to recite the psalms that I had read from Henry Edgeworth’s breviary during the two hour coach ride to the Place de Louis XV. My tongue moved, but in my newly diminished form I generated no sound. The horsemen, who had numbered twelve hundred as they escorted my carriage to this place, had joined the pack. Beyond the scaffold I saw the cannons and drummers, and everywhere people waving their pikes and guns, their  innocent faces fierce, some seemingly in a state of rapture. And I realised that my perception of the beating drums and barbarous cries, that moments earlier had been so terrifying, were now a moist rumble.

The young guard lowered me so as to be level with his eyes. His tongue protruded. He stared at me making the most atrocious and indecent gestures. I was powerless to avoid the the jet of saliva that he fired into my face and then his fingers gouged my scalp as he raised my head to the grey sky. I sensed that I had but seconds left as I felt, or imagined, cold January rain striking me.

Marie and my my children were in my thoughts as the guard turned so that I faced my remains. I was still on all fours, blood spraying from the thick stump between my shoulders. My blood dripped from the axe that had been raised into the scaffold. I was no longer master of my eyes, my smile rigid. I thought once more of the psalms, sensing a new beginning.

So, now it’s your turn to show me what you can do. Watch that word count discipline and hit me with your best shot. Come on, don’t be shy, get writing and share it with the world right here at the Writer’s Twisted Web. 

from youtube

Ricky Gervais was once just a little fat man that nobody knew. Now he is a little fat man who has appeared on Jonathan Ross’s world famous chat show more often than any other human in the world. That’s how famous Gervais has become. So, how did this transformation happen?

Some of you may remember a TV show called Operation Good Guys (OGG). It was a fly on the wall British mockumentary that ran from 1997 to 2000.The show was created by Ray Burdis, although much of the dialogue was improvised. The show followed the escapades of an elite team of police officers as they tried to bring down a major crime lord whilst variously suffering failure and personal meltdown. The squad was fronted by DI Jim Beach who was a flawed, paranoid egotist; and he was also a “little fat man”. The hallmark of the show was its innovative “naturalistic” style that blurred fact and fiction. It also featured a number of celebrities (including Jude Law, Jonny Lee Miller and Denise van Outen) as themselves.

Before reading on why not click on the above clip from the show. It features the Raging Pig Fight, and I know that you’ll enjoy it.

Now fast forward to 2001, and the first run of Ricky Gervais’s The Office. This was widely promoted as an innovative, fly on the wall British mockumentary in a naturalistic style. Gervais played David Brent who was a flawed, paranoid egotist. Critics have generally indulged Gervais, who notoriously failed to credit OGG’s influence on The Office. That said, The Office produced some incredibly funny moments. Most sensible critics regard it as Gervais’s creative high point, whereas his attempts at stand up and a Hollywood career have been met with critical abuse.

In a conceited move, Gervais refused to make a third series of The Office because that is what you do when you are a comedy genius (see Fawlty Towers etc). Instead, he followed it up with Extras. This time Gervais played Andy Millman. Andy is an extra in TV and film. He is also a flawed, paranoid egotist. The show features celebrities, who appear as themselves. Andy gets his own show (When The Whistle Blows), but feels artistically unfulfilled. It was during the episode featuring David Bowie that Gervais found his form again.

In that episode Andy realises that he has “sold out”, but is enjoying a certain amount of public recognition. He goes to a VIP bar, and settles into the VIP area. But he is depressed. The VIP area is separated from the public by nothing more than a rope. Luckily, David Bowie is close at hand and tells his companion to “Budge up,” so that Andy can join him.

In the presence of greatness, Andy explains that, “I’m an entertainer too…” which beautifully understates Bowie’s status. It is also the classic “I want to impress a legend, I want the legend to like me, I want the legend to befriend me (and I believe that this is possible)”, dialogue that must constantly amuse and annoy the A-listers.

Bowie (who proves that he has a gift for comedy) glazes over as Andy raves about integrity and bad wigs, as though talking to a psychiatrist or holy man; and then Bowie starts to sing, “…little fat man who sold his soul…”

Bowie turns the mirror to Andy Millman as he composes a song ridiculing the jumped up entertainer, with a lovely piano backing. The song writing process is assisted by Andy’s friend (Maggie), as the song develops with “…fatso takes his own life, he blows his bloated face off…” By now Bowie has involved the entire bar, he is rocking the piano, singing “…he’s benign and he’s facile, he’s a fat waste of space,” the bar is working the chorus, they sing about fatso’s pug nose “…pug, pug, pug, pug…” and by now Andy is on the brink of joining in as Bowie, his confidant, is humiliating him in front of his public and his friends.

The humour is cruel, but perfectly developed and an accurately observed comment on celebrity vanity and deluded self worth. Please click on the video below to enjoy this scene from Extras. Believe me, to will love it. Well done Ricky, you scored a bullseye with that one.

from youtube

from youtube

Inglourious Basterds (IB) is a movie by Quentin Tarantino. Here is a quote to kick things off:

Lt. Aldo Raine (ably played by Brad Pitt): “…I got a word of warning to all would-be warriors. When you join my command you take on a debit. A debit you owe me personally. Each and every man under my command owes me 100 Nazi scalps. And I want my scalps. And all y’all will git me one hundred Nazi scalps, taken from the heads of 100 dead Nazis. Or you will die tryin’.”

And thereafter the fun begins.

I watched IB yesterday in an old movie house in the English Lake District. There was even an intermission where ice cream and popcorn was made available. I rejected the confectionary and accompanied the viewing experience with several tins of extreme Czech lager that I had  (easily) smuggled in. The film weighs in at over 2 hours thirty minutes and towards the end I literally lost the plot (although not in a bad way), but such was the overall experience that such details seemed unimportant.

Talking of plot, I gather that there have been some bad reviews of IB. You need some examples and here are three:

1) I could sense tears of outrage in Jamahal-from-Montreal’s post to some niche website for timid adults, as he raged that it (ie the film) made Nazis seem “nice and funny” and that Brad Pitt’s knife skills were “unkind and gratuitously deployed”.

2) Natalie (writing from East Anglia) complained that “…it is this sort of vile and inarticulate pap that is directly to blame for the growth in knife crime and pro German sentiment amongst mutants. It is an outrage and Tarantino should bury his quiffed devil head, particularly with the extensive use of subtitles and unholy language…”

3) Mervin (from Shap; who clearly enjoys making up long lists) noted that IB was, “Crass, juvenile, profoundly distasteful, Satanic and contrary to Judaism. Alcoholic jive for alcohol addicts…”

Okay, so back to the film. Lt Archie Hicox (Michael Fassbender) had something to say about Mervin from Shap’s alcohol fixation as follows, “There is a special rung in hell reserved for people who waste good scotch…” The point is that IB is not for proton-minded gossips who are already shuffling on hell’s lowest rung. It is not for people who drink endless cups of tea and cry themselves to death on Saturday afternoons on rainy housing estates. Yes, it requires the viewer to have an imagination, a sense of humour and some mental robustness. But most people possess such qualities. So, I accept that IB is not a film for Mervins or Natalies. Sorry guys, but Walt Disney has an extensive back catalogue for you lot.

Please click on the above trailer for a glimpse into Tarantino’s Nazi-fantasm and, if possible, treat yourself to a night out at the cinema to see the entire movie. You will like it. Honest.

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.