Hello dear readers,
Yes, still alive, enjoying the benefits of permanent austerity and Ed Milliband's continuing impersonations of Marcel Marceau. (Sorry if my references are dated, but that's what happens when you reach a certain age - like with rocks, calcification occurs).
In the field of Great War remembrances, I came across Nigel Farage's enlightened take on 1918 in the Guardian today. It seems the voice of UKiP has come to the mesmerising conclusion that the war should have been fought for another six months to guarantee Germany's unconditional surrender. This, he argues, would have put paid to the notion that the nation had been stabbed in the back, which underpinned Hitler's rise.
Well, aside from that only being one facet of Hitler's ascension (hm, economic conditions might have been a touch more immediate and pressing), it is the most absurd sort of historical theorising. Really, he should keep to his message of 'too many immigrants' and not branch outside of his ken, as he doesn't seem to realise that hindsite is one of those games we can all play rather well.
I imagine Mr Farage has a few more historical cards up his sleeve:
1 - John Kennedy should have avoided Dallas in November, 1963 - or at least have been leaning slightly more to his left while driving in the motorcade
2 - Cunard should have opted for the slightly more expensive rivets for the Titanic
3 - Nate Fitzgerald should have opted for butter chicken instead of the beef vindaloo Sunday last (I believe I have violated the warranty on my sphincter)
4 - England should have scored more goals and allowed fewer in the last World Cup, which would have improved their chances of winning the championship
5 - And of course, someone should have killed Hitler in 1923
Clearly Mr Farage's insights show he is highly capable of making pivitol history-changing decisions in the future when the people of Britain elect him to the highest office in the land. Then again, he couldn't do much worse than the lot of toffs we've got in there now.
Have I missed any good historical observations? Why not leave a comment?
Stay well dear readers,
Nate
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Friday, March 28, 2014
Jack the Lad
Hello dear readers,
Well, I think we've all been mourning this week with the demise of Wedgewood Benn. While the degree to which he pursuits certain ideas could sometimes lack the pragmatic touch needed at the moment in time (nationalisation of the banks, for instance), he was true to himself, not to mention always out of step with modern times in that he actually believed in something.
At least we on the left still have Ed Milliband. We do still have Ed Milliband, right? I mean, the economy isn't exactly ticking along, the Shard apparently has an inbuilt magnet that draws economic migrants from Eastern Europe and George Osborne still has all the charm of a constipated deer tick, so surely it's easy pickings for the Leader of the Opposition.
Paging Mr Milliband...
My other insight for the week involves flossing. Why of all the oral hygeine-related tasks is it so hard to adhere to? I mean, it doesn't take a great deal of time, and the benefits are clear. Is it the blood? Does it feel too much like we're throttling a piglet every time we grip and pull tartar and assorted foodstuffs?
Oh, and finally, rather most excitedly, on the lady front, I had a bit of a snog with someone from work. We had drinks and a Chinese and I managed to cram my face into hers briefly as we parted. You may indeed call me Jack the Lad. Mind you, I can't kiss and tell (though to some degree, I realise I have done just that...) but we shall see how things transpire.
Another good question: why do I perspire when aroused? Is this normal? Do others? Surely this can't be a positive genetic trait, unless it's designed to provide a pheromonial signal that I am an acceptable mate. If any science types out there are reading, please do leave a comment.
Stay well,
Nate
Well, I think we've all been mourning this week with the demise of Wedgewood Benn. While the degree to which he pursuits certain ideas could sometimes lack the pragmatic touch needed at the moment in time (nationalisation of the banks, for instance), he was true to himself, not to mention always out of step with modern times in that he actually believed in something.
At least we on the left still have Ed Milliband. We do still have Ed Milliband, right? I mean, the economy isn't exactly ticking along, the Shard apparently has an inbuilt magnet that draws economic migrants from Eastern Europe and George Osborne still has all the charm of a constipated deer tick, so surely it's easy pickings for the Leader of the Opposition.
Paging Mr Milliband...
My other insight for the week involves flossing. Why of all the oral hygeine-related tasks is it so hard to adhere to? I mean, it doesn't take a great deal of time, and the benefits are clear. Is it the blood? Does it feel too much like we're throttling a piglet every time we grip and pull tartar and assorted foodstuffs?
Oh, and finally, rather most excitedly, on the lady front, I had a bit of a snog with someone from work. We had drinks and a Chinese and I managed to cram my face into hers briefly as we parted. You may indeed call me Jack the Lad. Mind you, I can't kiss and tell (though to some degree, I realise I have done just that...) but we shall see how things transpire.
Another good question: why do I perspire when aroused? Is this normal? Do others? Surely this can't be a positive genetic trait, unless it's designed to provide a pheromonial signal that I am an acceptable mate. If any science types out there are reading, please do leave a comment.
Stay well,
Nate
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Who shot the deputy?
Hello dear readers,
Well, tonight's cultural exchange group at my flat must be pronounced a smashing success. We had our highest attendance yet, with six persons of mixed nationality (two Poles, one Scot)and for once everyone brought a bottle or plate to the evening. While cheese and biscuits are not especially dear, I really was beginning to get steamed at the zeal and active hands of some members.
My contribution was a probing insight into Eric Clapton's 'I Shot the Sheriff', a song which has perplexed me on and off for decades. Did the protagonist in fact shoot the deputy and create the narrative as an elaborative, jauntily paced ruse; or is he indeed being 'set-up' by the law enforcement/legal establishment and the sheriff who he admits winging (with what I image to be a Saturday Night Special)?
At first, one is swayed by the pleading tone of the lyrics, but then, subconsciously, I believe one shifts to suspicion, largely due to the faux-Jamaican accent and the load of associations with violence and that particular Caribbean nation.
When I realised I was feeling this way, I consciously recognised my in-built cultural prejudice and went back to the evidence of the crime, which admittedly, is sparse. Really, it's just one person's point of view. The song may have been better served by giving the sheriff a chorus or full verse to argue his side of the story and refute the slanderous charges against him. It could have been a Sonny and Cher 'I've Got You Girl' sort of arrangement.
Of course in the greater picture, one has to question why Eric Clapton chose to adopt a faux-Jamaican voice and the kettle drums etc. After all, he was born in Surrey, which to international readers, isn't exactly Kingston lite. It strikes me as a type of musical blackface; but then, he did record the song in the 70s, and we weren't far removed from Peter Seller's riotous turn of bigotry in The Party or Spike Milligan.
When one of the gents mentioned the song was written by Bob Marley, admittedly, it took some wind out of my argument. I asked if he was next going to tell me that John Lennon's ripping 'Cold Turkey' isn't really about the dangers of leaving Christmas leftovers a bit too long. From experience, cold turkey has had me on the run more than once (though ham is often a more likely culprit).*
*This is a joke. I know the song is about heroin. I'm not actually an idiot.
Have a favourite song? Why not leave a comment.
Stay well, Nate
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Blog truncation
Greetings dear readers,
Actually, given that I have ceased adding to this blog for an extended period of time, I should probably say, greetings whomever you are who has stumbled onto my website. But should there be any old acquaintances from the days when I would pen three to four missives about my miserable life per week (and be mentioned in the Drudge Report), a most warm and hospitable welcome back.
I am very well, in general. You may notice, however, that I have severely truncated the contents of the blog, leaving only a smattering of superlative fiction (never completed), the odd reflection, and highlights from my trip to Bath with my elderly neighbour Mrs Donaldson. I believe I have culled all mentions of wanking, which while scientifically proven to reduce a man of my advanced age's chances of prostate cancer, is viewed as vile filth in many corners of respectable society. And given that the government insists we're all pulling together and dead keen about society in this country once again(despite the same lot pronouncing it DOA not three decades ago) I am acquiescing.
Now, you're no doubt thinking, 'Nate, get on with it'. Well, my cull is not due to fears of GCHQ intrusion into my affairs (too late, as they've no doubt already found a way to read my thoughts and yours), but rather to professionalism. Yes, dear readers, after several years toiling three nights per week in a poorly insulated caravan at the meat distribution plant which employs me, I have been promoted. I am now some sort of assistant manager in the main office, day shift. I'll have to look at the contract again to see what silly title they actually appointed me. My desire is 'King of Meat' or 'God of Paperwork' but it's no doubt coordinator of something or other. I lose my meal allowance (they were being phased out anyway) but will get to partake in occasional conversation with other humans, which, as you may have guessed, I view as mixed blessing. I have also dusted off a few of my old ties. We live in exciting times.
So, as you can see, Cameron and Clegg's severe stigmatisation and throttling of the poor has seen a few green sprouts rise in the modern economy. We're likely now at the point we would have been in mid-2011 had Austerity not been pursued. Imagine, had Gordon Brown been a bit more lifelike during the last election, we would have a national postal service as well.
Please feel free to leave a comment. I may revive the blog should my new career path prove exciting (though I am wary of upper management snooping into my private affairs, so perhaps not. Who knows. Either way, it would be good to hear from you.)
Stay well, Nate
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
He added a splash of Glen Moray to his coffee. Yes it was 8.30 in the morning, but it wasn't like he was opening a purple tin. He simply liked the taste. You couldn't become an alcoholic from the odd nip of Scotch.
He looked at his reflection in the toaster.
Orwell had said every man got the face he deserved when he was 50. Kenneth had a few years to go, but he didn't expect the situation to get much better. His beard was kempt, though it had gotten a touch ratty since his redundancy. The wrinkles around his eyes spoke of loneliness. His hair was thin, but keeping up the fight.
What about people who had been bludgeoned, he wondered. Did they really deserve the face they got at 50. Say, one lived in a particularly rough section of Jo-burg or Detroit and was set upon by ruffians with iron bars. Would the mashed outcome of a rewired jaw and pulped nose be deserved?
Those who believed in karma might say yes. Kenneth decided it should go on a case by case basis. That is how he had always approached his work, taking each individual as they came. Though there were trends (the heavily tattooed ones tended to abuse the system - sorry, just a fact), but each person was a novel all their own to be opened and discovered.
But look where that egalitarianism had gotten him. Now he was a number in a category, one of many shuffling on worn shoes. He bet David Cameron dressed up at Maggie late at night at Number 10 and talked to an imaginary Dennis in a high-pitched voice, like an organ grinder's monkey which had swallowed vinegar.
No, this was not the face he deserved.
He added a splash of Glen Moray to his coffee. Yes it was 8.30 in the morning, but it wasn't like he was opening a purple tin. He simply liked the taste. You couldn't become an alcoholic from the odd nip of Scotch.
He looked at his reflection in the toaster.
Orwell had said every man got the face he deserved when he was 50. Kenneth had a few years to go, but he didn't expect the situation to get much better. His beard was kempt, though it had gotten a touch ratty since his redundancy. The wrinkles around his eyes spoke of loneliness. His hair was thin, but keeping up the fight.
What about people who had been bludgeoned, he wondered. Did they really deserve the face they got at 50. Say, one lived in a particularly rough section of Jo-burg or Detroit and was set upon by ruffians with iron bars. Would the mashed outcome of a rewired jaw and pulped nose be deserved?
Those who believed in karma might say yes. Kenneth decided it should go on a case by case basis. That is how he had always approached his work, taking each individual as they came. Though there were trends (the heavily tattooed ones tended to abuse the system - sorry, just a fact), but each person was a novel all their own to be opened and discovered.
But look where that egalitarianism had gotten him. Now he was a number in a category, one of many shuffling on worn shoes. He bet David Cameron dressed up at Maggie late at night at Number 10 and talked to an imaginary Dennis in a high-pitched voice, like an organ grinder's monkey which had swallowed vinegar.
No, this was not the face he deserved.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Official warning
Hello dear readers,
Well, a bit of excitement in my long dormant life. I have for the first time in my short professional life been OFFICIALLY WARNED.
It even came with letter sporting the header OFFICIAL WARNING, underlined, in bold. I'm not certain what happened to being subtle. I had a short meeting with my manager - my fifth since the start of my employment. But that's another story.
All I can say is if your name is Diana Ross, you're bound to get a few remarks of a jovial nature come your way. And if you're a pasty white woman of a certain age (mid 40s), you would think one might foresee the potential for irony and go by a different moniker. Perhaps Di Ross? Perhaps a middle name?
And if one were offended by what I'll admit were perhaps over frequent remarks such as 'How are the Pips today?' and 'I may ease on down, ease on down the road* for a sandwich, would anyone like one?' you would think the offended party would voice some sort of dissatisfaction and not lodge a formal complaint.
*remember that classic? still holds up
Not that anything is likely to come from my wrist slap. I will simply substitute comic overtures with withering looks of veiled contempt, which I have been practicing in my mirror while beard trimming. And any notion of a romantic night out is now most certainly off the books.
Yes, still single and looking.
Well, dear readers, it has been a long time since anything noteable or interesting has happened in my life. Read this as good or bad. Perhaps I shan't wait so long to communicate in future. Please leave some comments. I am still quite desperately lonely.
Stay well,
Nate
Well, a bit of excitement in my long dormant life. I have for the first time in my short professional life been OFFICIALLY WARNED.
It even came with letter sporting the header OFFICIAL WARNING, underlined, in bold. I'm not certain what happened to being subtle. I had a short meeting with my manager - my fifth since the start of my employment. But that's another story.
All I can say is if your name is Diana Ross, you're bound to get a few remarks of a jovial nature come your way. And if you're a pasty white woman of a certain age (mid 40s), you would think one might foresee the potential for irony and go by a different moniker. Perhaps Di Ross? Perhaps a middle name?
And if one were offended by what I'll admit were perhaps over frequent remarks such as 'How are the Pips today?' and 'I may ease on down, ease on down the road* for a sandwich, would anyone like one?' you would think the offended party would voice some sort of dissatisfaction and not lodge a formal complaint.
*remember that classic? still holds up
Not that anything is likely to come from my wrist slap. I will simply substitute comic overtures with withering looks of veiled contempt, which I have been practicing in my mirror while beard trimming. And any notion of a romantic night out is now most certainly off the books.
Yes, still single and looking.
Well, dear readers, it has been a long time since anything noteable or interesting has happened in my life. Read this as good or bad. Perhaps I shan't wait so long to communicate in future. Please leave some comments. I am still quite desperately lonely.
Stay well,
Nate
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Writing
Her name was Creamery Butter and she was a dancer.
That's certainly better than Margaret, he thought. Not that there's anything wrong with Margaret. Though likely, the Margarets of the world might have to try a touch harder than the lithe creature gyrating so close he could feel the heat from the burning sticks she was waving seductively.
He supposed the risk of third degrees burns added to the sensuality.
Mind you, he wasn't certain of much. He looked around the dim confines with its glowing florescence and dark corners. The drinks certainly were dear.
"Would you like a private show?" she asked.
"Yes, very much," he replied.
What would mother think if she were alive?
That's certainly better than Margaret, he thought. Not that there's anything wrong with Margaret. Though likely, the Margarets of the world might have to try a touch harder than the lithe creature gyrating so close he could feel the heat from the burning sticks she was waving seductively.
He supposed the risk of third degrees burns added to the sensuality.
Mind you, he wasn't certain of much. He looked around the dim confines with its glowing florescence and dark corners. The drinks certainly were dear.
"Would you like a private show?" she asked.
"Yes, very much," he replied.
What would mother think if she were alive?
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Mind over matter
Hello dear readers,
Well, I am definitely feeling on the upswing, more my old self and less a sentient, moving corpse with sensitive emotions and the tendancy to over-indulge in comfort foods and bad television.
It's all in the grey matter, you see.
I've been bothered for several days by a dripping shower head. It's really quite maddening and despite wrenching (and pleading) keeps up its endless din.
I realise I should employ a plumber, but a) they are costly, and b) I don't like people in my home.
The solution: I have convinced myself that the constant drip-drop-drip is actually the ticking of a grand and majestic grandfather clock, bestowed upon me by my beloved grandfather, who taught me how to fly-fish in the streams of Inverness and who smelled like cherry pipe tobacco.
All of this is complete bollocks, of course, including the fish, but it has transformed the annoying battering of water droplets on ceramic into the reassuring and comforting movement of finely crafted clock workings.
Mind over matter. I've transformed misery into joy. Now I'm off to bend a spoon.
Stay well,
Nate
Well, I am definitely feeling on the upswing, more my old self and less a sentient, moving corpse with sensitive emotions and the tendancy to over-indulge in comfort foods and bad television.
It's all in the grey matter, you see.
I've been bothered for several days by a dripping shower head. It's really quite maddening and despite wrenching (and pleading) keeps up its endless din.
I realise I should employ a plumber, but a) they are costly, and b) I don't like people in my home.
The solution: I have convinced myself that the constant drip-drop-drip is actually the ticking of a grand and majestic grandfather clock, bestowed upon me by my beloved grandfather, who taught me how to fly-fish in the streams of Inverness and who smelled like cherry pipe tobacco.
All of this is complete bollocks, of course, including the fish, but it has transformed the annoying battering of water droplets on ceramic into the reassuring and comforting movement of finely crafted clock workings.
Mind over matter. I've transformed misery into joy. Now I'm off to bend a spoon.
Stay well,
Nate
Monday, March 26, 2012
Sh'boom
Hello dear readers,
Well, I'm happy to report that I've had a positive encounter with a group of young, urban people. As many of you know, I haven't always been comfortable with teenagers, but have been working on giving them a chance to prove my prejudices wrong.
Yesterday I was wandering aimlessly about, window shopping, people watching, buying cheddar and apparently humming loudly to myself. You see, I often inhabit my own little world. It's empty and not much occurs, and the drapes are dingy, but the natives are nice and no one hassles me about rewearing the same trousers every day.
Anywho, I passed a group of young types hanging about and a female shouted, "Sh'boom, dance it out!"
Now, I was momentarily taken aback, and knew the encounter could go one of two ways, the most likely with me frowning, muttering about social values and stomping away.
Instead, I decided to oblige, and gave them a slight wiggle of the hips and a tip of my cap, thus leaving them in laughter. Had their thoughts been amplified, I believe the words, "You're alright, Geez" would have been heard.
And they would have been correct, for I am.
So, there you go. Despite media reports and occasional rioting, not all young people are out to stab you in the face. It's nice to know.
Housekeeping: I'm currently working on my fantasy dinner party. Right now, I've got Lee Mack and Michael Caine. The long-list is quite ... well, long, so the final guest list is proving difficult, never mind the food and what I'm going to wear. I may run heats in the days ahead and allow voting. Stay tuned.
Or better yet, make a suggestion in the comment section!
Stay well!
Nate
Well, I'm happy to report that I've had a positive encounter with a group of young, urban people. As many of you know, I haven't always been comfortable with teenagers, but have been working on giving them a chance to prove my prejudices wrong.
Yesterday I was wandering aimlessly about, window shopping, people watching, buying cheddar and apparently humming loudly to myself. You see, I often inhabit my own little world. It's empty and not much occurs, and the drapes are dingy, but the natives are nice and no one hassles me about rewearing the same trousers every day.
Anywho, I passed a group of young types hanging about and a female shouted, "Sh'boom, dance it out!"
Now, I was momentarily taken aback, and knew the encounter could go one of two ways, the most likely with me frowning, muttering about social values and stomping away.
Instead, I decided to oblige, and gave them a slight wiggle of the hips and a tip of my cap, thus leaving them in laughter. Had their thoughts been amplified, I believe the words, "You're alright, Geez" would have been heard.
And they would have been correct, for I am.
So, there you go. Despite media reports and occasional rioting, not all young people are out to stab you in the face. It's nice to know.
Housekeeping: I'm currently working on my fantasy dinner party. Right now, I've got Lee Mack and Michael Caine. The long-list is quite ... well, long, so the final guest list is proving difficult, never mind the food and what I'm going to wear. I may run heats in the days ahead and allow voting. Stay tuned.
Or better yet, make a suggestion in the comment section!
Stay well!
Nate
Friday, March 23, 2012
Award winner!
Hello dear readers,
Well, I'm pleased as punch to announce that my blog has received a Versatile Blogger Award nomination, which by the nature of the award, means it has won a Versatile Blogger Award!
Huzzah! I am legitimate.
Now as longtime readers will know, my blog did clean up at the inaugural Natesy Awards last year, taking top blogger, top pet in a blog (Linus) and a raft of other awards. But seeing as I was in charge of the jury, award selection, PR and the buying of the celebration dinner (Peking Duck, if I recall correctly), I fear it looks about as legitimate as a FIFA world cup selection panel.
Needless to say, given my lack of posts recently, I did not deem myself eligible for the Natesy's this year. But now that I've written two missives in a week and been recognised for my entertainment and education value, I may ressurect the prize. I may even open it to outsiders. Alert your networks and stay tuned!
Now, in keeping with VBA policy, I'd first like to thank Louise Broadbent for putting me forward. She is a longtime reader and often provides words of encouragement in my darkest hour (ie, most hours).
I'm obliged to nominate a list of bloggers worthy of the prize as well as tell you seven secrets about myself. Given that I've laid my life bare in these pages for years, that might take some digging, but let's have a go.
1) I recently neglected to flush the loo for three days to get a sense of what it would be like to live in a third-world country. This was done as research for my action-thriller genre novel Yet to Be Titled.*
*I don't recommend it; nor do I recommend living in a third-world country
2) I am overweight. I could spout some nonsense about being bigboned, husky, having gland issues, etc, but in reality, I am a gluttonous fat bastard with no self control.
3) I am generally a nice person, though often misunderstood.
4) I darn my socks. I don't need to darn my socks, I simply feel obliged to the planet to fix very minute holes instead of wasting reams of new fabric no doubt woven by a seven-year-old Bangladeshi lass.
5) Though I feel great affection toward him, I often regret allowing Linus into my life. He shows very little empathy and is regularly quite cold. We could be having a perfectly nice Sunday evening in watching telly, but he'll sit on his chair instead of my lap, despite numerous invitations. And given that I have allergies, this is doubly hurtful.*
*For new readers, Linus is my cat, not my life partner
6) I believe I *may have* coined the phrase 'lamb-burgers' decades ago, when I ground my own meat to make the dish. Now it is common parlance. I don't recall anyone else using the term back then. Who knows...
7) I've recently watched a bit of football in an attempt to fit in better in the workplace. I believe I did quite well approximately a month back commenting about how 'Spurs took it to United through the entire match, yet got shafted by some unfortunate goals'. No one even blinked an eye. Seamless conversation flow.
Now, as for bloggers I'd like to recognise:
Louise for her relentless pursuit of fiction http://louisebroadbentfiction.wordpress.com/
Emma for her relentless pursuit of meaning and diet strategies http://emmasimms.wordpress.com/
Bruce for his relentless pursuit of pedalling quickly http://blogorollo.wordpress.com/
Mark for his relentless pursuit of the photo that is worth 1000 words http://mrtmobile.blogspot.com
Sandy for his relentless pursuit of Scottish history and truly excellent hotel deals http://sandyschauffeur.blogspot.com
Jo for her relentless pursuit of comedy http://joblogden.blogspot.com
Manuel for his relentless pursuit of good customer service http://welldonefillet.com/
Now it's quite late, so I bid you all good night and pleasant dreams.
Stay well,
Nate
Well, I'm pleased as punch to announce that my blog has received a Versatile Blogger Award nomination, which by the nature of the award, means it has won a Versatile Blogger Award!
Huzzah! I am legitimate.
Now as longtime readers will know, my blog did clean up at the inaugural Natesy Awards last year, taking top blogger, top pet in a blog (Linus) and a raft of other awards. But seeing as I was in charge of the jury, award selection, PR and the buying of the celebration dinner (Peking Duck, if I recall correctly), I fear it looks about as legitimate as a FIFA world cup selection panel.
Needless to say, given my lack of posts recently, I did not deem myself eligible for the Natesy's this year. But now that I've written two missives in a week and been recognised for my entertainment and education value, I may ressurect the prize. I may even open it to outsiders. Alert your networks and stay tuned!
Now, in keeping with VBA policy, I'd first like to thank Louise Broadbent for putting me forward. She is a longtime reader and often provides words of encouragement in my darkest hour (ie, most hours).
I'm obliged to nominate a list of bloggers worthy of the prize as well as tell you seven secrets about myself. Given that I've laid my life bare in these pages for years, that might take some digging, but let's have a go.
1) I recently neglected to flush the loo for three days to get a sense of what it would be like to live in a third-world country. This was done as research for my action-thriller genre novel Yet to Be Titled.*
*I don't recommend it; nor do I recommend living in a third-world country
2) I am overweight. I could spout some nonsense about being bigboned, husky, having gland issues, etc, but in reality, I am a gluttonous fat bastard with no self control.
3) I am generally a nice person, though often misunderstood.
4) I darn my socks. I don't need to darn my socks, I simply feel obliged to the planet to fix very minute holes instead of wasting reams of new fabric no doubt woven by a seven-year-old Bangladeshi lass.
5) Though I feel great affection toward him, I often regret allowing Linus into my life. He shows very little empathy and is regularly quite cold. We could be having a perfectly nice Sunday evening in watching telly, but he'll sit on his chair instead of my lap, despite numerous invitations. And given that I have allergies, this is doubly hurtful.*
*For new readers, Linus is my cat, not my life partner
6) I believe I *may have* coined the phrase 'lamb-burgers' decades ago, when I ground my own meat to make the dish. Now it is common parlance. I don't recall anyone else using the term back then. Who knows...
7) I've recently watched a bit of football in an attempt to fit in better in the workplace. I believe I did quite well approximately a month back commenting about how 'Spurs took it to United through the entire match, yet got shafted by some unfortunate goals'. No one even blinked an eye. Seamless conversation flow.
Now, as for bloggers I'd like to recognise:
Louise for her relentless pursuit of fiction http://louisebroadbentfiction.wordpress.com/
Emma for her relentless pursuit of meaning and diet strategies http://emmasimms.wordpress.com/
Bruce for his relentless pursuit of pedalling quickly http://blogorollo.wordpress.com/
Mark for his relentless pursuit of the photo that is worth 1000 words http://mrtmobile.blogspot.com
Sandy for his relentless pursuit of Scottish history and truly excellent hotel deals http://sandyschauffeur.blogspot.com
Jo for her relentless pursuit of comedy http://joblogden.blogspot.com
Manuel for his relentless pursuit of good customer service http://welldonefillet.com/
Now it's quite late, so I bid you all good night and pleasant dreams.
Stay well,
Nate
Friday, June 17, 2011
The Homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood - Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
He looked at the enormous photo of Spiv, bedecked with flowers and wreathed with black silk. It seemed more like an advertisement for a lounge singer in the piano bar than a solemn memorial image.
Shouldn't his kin have found a photo in which Spiv looked serious, pondering the larger questions of existence? He looked like he'd just come back from Ibiza.
At least they'd converted the photo to black and white. Monochrome added a semblance of distance from the event, like it had happened long ago, back when Michael Caine was doing Alfie perhaps.
Kenneth supposed the real Spiv would be a deep shade of purple now, as no one had found him for three days. The poor dear lad had hung like a forgotten Christmas ornament for 72 hours.
4320 minutes.
259,200 seconds.
Seconds just like this ONE. Or this ONE. Or this ONE.
Kenneth tried to imagine the initial drop. He wondered if Spiv had felt regret as his windpipe was restricted. Perhaps he had fought, realising that life on the dole wasn't actually that bad. At least you could see films during the day. And tellie could be a nice distraction.
"Did you know him well?" a woman asked.
Kenneth turned to see a pretty girl in a flowery dress and black hat. She was in her late 30s, had familiar eyes. "We worked together."
"I'm his sister, Beth."
"Ah, of course. Kenneth."
They shook hands and stood in silence looking at Spiv's eerie smile. They'd certainly photoshoped his teeth. No more tobacco stains. His skin looked smoother as well, buffed and cleansed of imperfections. He might have been selling aftershave.
"He took the redundancy hard," Kenneth said.
"He was working through a great number of issues," Beth said. "But I suppose you would have known that being his friend and all."
Kenneth didn't feel it appropriate to say they mostly mocked clients and talked football. He hadn't even known Spiv had a sister. He hadn't really ever thought of Spiv outside a two-block radius of the office.
"Were you close?" Kenneth asked.
"Very."
"I thought he had things locked down," Kenneth said.
"That's just the point. He pushed the pain deep until it erupted in this final call for help."
They lingered for a respectable amount of time.
"Shall we?"
She took Kenneth's arm like he was a gentleman leading her across the threshold into a grand ball. It wasn't the sort of thing one could protest. The room was deep and mostly empty, with black suits and dresses in the front two rows and a smattering of peripherals elsewhere.
Two men in Arsenal shirts sat on folding chairs near the door. Add Bovril and a pie and Kenneth would be tempted to ask the score.
They made their way toward the sanctum of family. Kenneth thought about politely disconnecting his arm and stepping into an aisle, but Beth's was clasped tight in grief. The spasms of her sobs vibrated against his skin.
Kenneth nodded to an older couple and sat down beside Beth, who erupted into wails of grief, like an Arab woman. He had never been a great believer in Keep Calm and Carry On - it seemed a recipe for subserviance - but raw agony was much worse. A quiet tear, a partial collapse onto a nearby shoulder, surely that was enough.
The older woman reached a hand across.
"I'm Helen, David's mother."
He'd forgotten his coworker had a proper name. Even management had called him Spiv, which was refreshing in these political correct times. Kenneth introduced himself. Her face brightened.
"Why of course. David spoke of you often. The football, lunches at the pub, the Christmas parties. And of course your witticisms. He said you brought real levity to the office."
He and Spiv had eaten lunch at the pub no more than three times in five years, and the only parties they had attended were tepid office affairs. He wondered if there was another Kenneth at JobsPlus.
"We appreciate the support you're giving Beth in this dreadful time," she continued. "Depression runs in the family."
"Helen," the gentleman said.
At this point the Middle Eastern wails gathered strength as Beth broke into another sob drawn deep from her larynx (which the ancients and Celine Dion might call their souls). It reminded Kenneth of the time he had stepped on Barry's tail while getting a glass of water in the night.
Spiv's father put a stiff hand on his wife's shoulder. She dabbed a small tear from her eye and looked forward, as if waiting stoically for her stop, leaving Beth careening in empty space. Kenneth realised people were looking at him in dismay. He put an arm around Beth.
She buried her face into his shirt.
"Thank you. Thank you, Kenneth."
He wished he'd had a proper bath and put on a clean shirt.
He looked at the enormous photo of Spiv, bedecked with flowers and wreathed with black silk. It seemed more like an advertisement for a lounge singer in the piano bar than a solemn memorial image.
Shouldn't his kin have found a photo in which Spiv looked serious, pondering the larger questions of existence? He looked like he'd just come back from Ibiza.
At least they'd converted the photo to black and white. Monochrome added a semblance of distance from the event, like it had happened long ago, back when Michael Caine was doing Alfie perhaps.
Kenneth supposed the real Spiv would be a deep shade of purple now, as no one had found him for three days. The poor dear lad had hung like a forgotten Christmas ornament for 72 hours.
4320 minutes.
259,200 seconds.
Seconds just like this ONE. Or this ONE. Or this ONE.
Kenneth tried to imagine the initial drop. He wondered if Spiv had felt regret as his windpipe was restricted. Perhaps he had fought, realising that life on the dole wasn't actually that bad. At least you could see films during the day. And tellie could be a nice distraction.
"Did you know him well?" a woman asked.
Kenneth turned to see a pretty girl in a flowery dress and black hat. She was in her late 30s, had familiar eyes. "We worked together."
"I'm his sister, Beth."
"Ah, of course. Kenneth."
They shook hands and stood in silence looking at Spiv's eerie smile. They'd certainly photoshoped his teeth. No more tobacco stains. His skin looked smoother as well, buffed and cleansed of imperfections. He might have been selling aftershave.
"He took the redundancy hard," Kenneth said.
"He was working through a great number of issues," Beth said. "But I suppose you would have known that being his friend and all."
Kenneth didn't feel it appropriate to say they mostly mocked clients and talked football. He hadn't even known Spiv had a sister. He hadn't really ever thought of Spiv outside a two-block radius of the office.
"Were you close?" Kenneth asked.
"Very."
"I thought he had things locked down," Kenneth said.
"That's just the point. He pushed the pain deep until it erupted in this final call for help."
They lingered for a respectable amount of time.
"Shall we?"
She took Kenneth's arm like he was a gentleman leading her across the threshold into a grand ball. It wasn't the sort of thing one could protest. The room was deep and mostly empty, with black suits and dresses in the front two rows and a smattering of peripherals elsewhere.
Two men in Arsenal shirts sat on folding chairs near the door. Add Bovril and a pie and Kenneth would be tempted to ask the score.
They made their way toward the sanctum of family. Kenneth thought about politely disconnecting his arm and stepping into an aisle, but Beth's was clasped tight in grief. The spasms of her sobs vibrated against his skin.
Kenneth nodded to an older couple and sat down beside Beth, who erupted into wails of grief, like an Arab woman. He had never been a great believer in Keep Calm and Carry On - it seemed a recipe for subserviance - but raw agony was much worse. A quiet tear, a partial collapse onto a nearby shoulder, surely that was enough.
The older woman reached a hand across.
"I'm Helen, David's mother."
He'd forgotten his coworker had a proper name. Even management had called him Spiv, which was refreshing in these political correct times. Kenneth introduced himself. Her face brightened.
"Why of course. David spoke of you often. The football, lunches at the pub, the Christmas parties. And of course your witticisms. He said you brought real levity to the office."
He and Spiv had eaten lunch at the pub no more than three times in five years, and the only parties they had attended were tepid office affairs. He wondered if there was another Kenneth at JobsPlus.
"We appreciate the support you're giving Beth in this dreadful time," she continued. "Depression runs in the family."
"Helen," the gentleman said.
At this point the Middle Eastern wails gathered strength as Beth broke into another sob drawn deep from her larynx (which the ancients and Celine Dion might call their souls). It reminded Kenneth of the time he had stepped on Barry's tail while getting a glass of water in the night.
Spiv's father put a stiff hand on his wife's shoulder. She dabbed a small tear from her eye and looked forward, as if waiting stoically for her stop, leaving Beth careening in empty space. Kenneth realised people were looking at him in dismay. He put an arm around Beth.
She buried her face into his shirt.
"Thank you. Thank you, Kenneth."
He wished he'd had a proper bath and put on a clean shirt.
Monday, June 13, 2011
The Homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood - Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
Kenneth weaved along the pavement, in and out of shoppers, teenagers and drunks. He himself wasn't intoxicated, simply inebriated on misery.
"Please God, no. Please God, no," he kept repeating.
For an agnostic boarding on atheism this was quite a feat. His rational self told him the act was pointless. At the same time, there wasn't exactly anything to lose.
Kenneth attempted not to cry. A babbling loon he might be, but tears would certainly push the tableau into that uncomfortable sphere of social faux pas that could get one questioned by the constabulatory.
When he could bear the weight no more, he stumbled into a pub. It wasn't his local or one frequented from time to time. In fact, he had purposely walked in a direction different from his usual route. He didn't want to be seen by anyone he knew.
He put a hand on the rich laquered wood of the bar and pulled himself onto a stool. He then placed another hand on the bar and centered himself in line with the pork scratchings. He then decided to give up completely and put his forehead against the cool, smooth wood. He moaned.
"Help you?"
He looked up to see a young barman eying him. The accent was Australian. He wondered how many work visas for barmen went to the antipodians. Did they have special training schools for pulling pints down there?
"Pint of cider," Kenneth said. "And keep them coming."
"I can only serve you two at a time. New regulations."
"One's enough... I simply meant..." He shook his head. "Pay the comment no mind, lad."
It occured to Kenneth that this young strapping kangaroo wrestler was gainfully employed, whereas he was redundant.
Redundant. Of no use. A spare prick at the orgy. You couldn't call a person looking for a job a "jobseeker", but you could tell someone going out the door that they were now useless.
"One of those days?" a lad nearby said.
He and his mate were in their 30s, well attired and looking jovial. Kenneth nodded and realised he hadn't even taken a glance around the place. It was a large pub, likely built in the 90s when publicans realised a drinking establishment could be larger than a WC without losing its charm. Must have saved them a bundle on people not losing their pints on the carpet trying to weave around tables tucked in together.
But the place hadn't been tarted up like those hideous later gastro-pubs, appealing to toffs in suits and everyone else chasing easy credit and Gordon Brown's promise of the end of recessions.
Mind you, Kenneth liked Gordon. He was an intelligent man caught in a world of social media and superficiality, ill-armed to cope with 24-7 news. Yes, he had kept them in Afganistan, but he was a Scot and thus victim to his national genes. The tartan brigade had never known when to give up a fight.
And yes, Gordon had buggered the economy by loosening the reigns too much, but he'd tried his best to be fair, unlike David Cameron and his shitsui lapdog Clegg.
He would have a drink with Mr Brown. They'd no doubt become fast friends, sharing a similar world view and hope for humanity.
"I've been made redundant," Kenneth said.
"Join the squad," the gent said. He and his mate lifted their glasses. "Got our marching orders last week."
"What are you planning to do now?" Kenneth asked.
"No fucking clue. Until then, bit of this."
He held up his pint. Kenneth took his from the barman and counted out his coins. He took a long swallow of cider, feeling the gentle bubbling in his throat and the sweet copper on his tongue. He thought of the sea. Blackpool.
Australia. Sharks.
Wellies made from surf material.
He got his pen and notebook out and jotted down the idea. A pair of boots made from wetsuit material, running just below the knee with firm soles. His father had made him go into the sea with his shoes on, to keep steady on the pebbles. This way you could feel the salty wet properly, stay warm and not look like a spastic.
Could be worth millions.
He looked around again. Efes. Turkish beer. For God's sake, why did so many pubs have that muck on tap. Who in their right mind would drink Turkish beer?
He felt bad for the Armenians.
He had once had a young lady from Armenia as a client. She had told him about the Armenian genocide by the Turks at the end of WWI. He hadn't known a wit about the event, even though hundreds of thousands of men, women and children had died. Old people too. Marched to their deaths.
He waved a finger for another pint.
No, he was lucky to live in the time and place he did. Imagine how much those thirsty travellers would have given to be able to raise a hand and get a refreshing high-caloric alcoholic beverage on the dusty road to Demascus (or wherever they were going).
Why did human beings do it to one another? Why couldn't David Cameron have just left well enough alone, let attrition trim the ranks, looked for areas to cut that didn't necessitate damaging the lives of people who knew nothing but their jobs?
Because he didn't understand.
For all the talk of a classless society, there was still a chasm larger than Mariana Trench (11,033 metres deep in the ocean - good trivia to know).
He jotted the name down and wrote: excellent name for a female protagonist in a crime novel!!! Now that he was redundant, perhaps he would turn his hand to a novel.
And yet he knew pursuing a life even more solitary than the one he was living would most certainly send him over the edge. Perhaps he was already over the edge. Perhaps that was why he had been chosen for culling at JobsfuckingPlus.
He drained a third of the pint in one go, belched like a champion and closed his eyes. He began to feel warm and happy.
JobsfuckingPlus.
He'd show them. He'd do something amazing and let it filter to Pickle and the other draconian thickos that getting made redundant was the best thing to ever happen to him.
He opened his eyes with a smile. The Australian was eying him warily.
What did the koala hugger care; he didn't have to take Kenneth home and put him to bed. No one did. No one. The bed was cold. Tea was never made in the morning. He didn't awake to the smell of toast and the sound of the knife spreading butter and jam across the jagged wheaty surface. It was just him and one ungrateful cat.
"Give us a vodka," Kenneth said. "And two for these lads."
His new mates toasted him.
Suddenly he was part of a society he had never wished to join. Still, it was better than drinking alone.
Kenneth weaved along the pavement, in and out of shoppers, teenagers and drunks. He himself wasn't intoxicated, simply inebriated on misery.
"Please God, no. Please God, no," he kept repeating.
For an agnostic boarding on atheism this was quite a feat. His rational self told him the act was pointless. At the same time, there wasn't exactly anything to lose.
Kenneth attempted not to cry. A babbling loon he might be, but tears would certainly push the tableau into that uncomfortable sphere of social faux pas that could get one questioned by the constabulatory.
When he could bear the weight no more, he stumbled into a pub. It wasn't his local or one frequented from time to time. In fact, he had purposely walked in a direction different from his usual route. He didn't want to be seen by anyone he knew.
He put a hand on the rich laquered wood of the bar and pulled himself onto a stool. He then placed another hand on the bar and centered himself in line with the pork scratchings. He then decided to give up completely and put his forehead against the cool, smooth wood. He moaned.
"Help you?"
He looked up to see a young barman eying him. The accent was Australian. He wondered how many work visas for barmen went to the antipodians. Did they have special training schools for pulling pints down there?
"Pint of cider," Kenneth said. "And keep them coming."
"I can only serve you two at a time. New regulations."
"One's enough... I simply meant..." He shook his head. "Pay the comment no mind, lad."
It occured to Kenneth that this young strapping kangaroo wrestler was gainfully employed, whereas he was redundant.
Redundant. Of no use. A spare prick at the orgy. You couldn't call a person looking for a job a "jobseeker", but you could tell someone going out the door that they were now useless.
"One of those days?" a lad nearby said.
He and his mate were in their 30s, well attired and looking jovial. Kenneth nodded and realised he hadn't even taken a glance around the place. It was a large pub, likely built in the 90s when publicans realised a drinking establishment could be larger than a WC without losing its charm. Must have saved them a bundle on people not losing their pints on the carpet trying to weave around tables tucked in together.
But the place hadn't been tarted up like those hideous later gastro-pubs, appealing to toffs in suits and everyone else chasing easy credit and Gordon Brown's promise of the end of recessions.
Mind you, Kenneth liked Gordon. He was an intelligent man caught in a world of social media and superficiality, ill-armed to cope with 24-7 news. Yes, he had kept them in Afganistan, but he was a Scot and thus victim to his national genes. The tartan brigade had never known when to give up a fight.
And yes, Gordon had buggered the economy by loosening the reigns too much, but he'd tried his best to be fair, unlike David Cameron and his shitsui lapdog Clegg.
He would have a drink with Mr Brown. They'd no doubt become fast friends, sharing a similar world view and hope for humanity.
"I've been made redundant," Kenneth said.
"Join the squad," the gent said. He and his mate lifted their glasses. "Got our marching orders last week."
"What are you planning to do now?" Kenneth asked.
"No fucking clue. Until then, bit of this."
He held up his pint. Kenneth took his from the barman and counted out his coins. He took a long swallow of cider, feeling the gentle bubbling in his throat and the sweet copper on his tongue. He thought of the sea. Blackpool.
Australia. Sharks.
Wellies made from surf material.
He got his pen and notebook out and jotted down the idea. A pair of boots made from wetsuit material, running just below the knee with firm soles. His father had made him go into the sea with his shoes on, to keep steady on the pebbles. This way you could feel the salty wet properly, stay warm and not look like a spastic.
Could be worth millions.
He looked around again. Efes. Turkish beer. For God's sake, why did so many pubs have that muck on tap. Who in their right mind would drink Turkish beer?
He felt bad for the Armenians.
He had once had a young lady from Armenia as a client. She had told him about the Armenian genocide by the Turks at the end of WWI. He hadn't known a wit about the event, even though hundreds of thousands of men, women and children had died. Old people too. Marched to their deaths.
He waved a finger for another pint.
No, he was lucky to live in the time and place he did. Imagine how much those thirsty travellers would have given to be able to raise a hand and get a refreshing high-caloric alcoholic beverage on the dusty road to Demascus (or wherever they were going).
Why did human beings do it to one another? Why couldn't David Cameron have just left well enough alone, let attrition trim the ranks, looked for areas to cut that didn't necessitate damaging the lives of people who knew nothing but their jobs?
Because he didn't understand.
For all the talk of a classless society, there was still a chasm larger than Mariana Trench (11,033 metres deep in the ocean - good trivia to know).
He jotted the name down and wrote: excellent name for a female protagonist in a crime novel!!! Now that he was redundant, perhaps he would turn his hand to a novel.
And yet he knew pursuing a life even more solitary than the one he was living would most certainly send him over the edge. Perhaps he was already over the edge. Perhaps that was why he had been chosen for culling at JobsfuckingPlus.
He drained a third of the pint in one go, belched like a champion and closed his eyes. He began to feel warm and happy.
JobsfuckingPlus.
He'd show them. He'd do something amazing and let it filter to Pickle and the other draconian thickos that getting made redundant was the best thing to ever happen to him.
He opened his eyes with a smile. The Australian was eying him warily.
What did the koala hugger care; he didn't have to take Kenneth home and put him to bed. No one did. No one. The bed was cold. Tea was never made in the morning. He didn't awake to the smell of toast and the sound of the knife spreading butter and jam across the jagged wheaty surface. It was just him and one ungrateful cat.
"Give us a vodka," Kenneth said. "And two for these lads."
His new mates toasted him.
Suddenly he was part of a society he had never wished to join. Still, it was better than drinking alone.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The Homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood - Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
The orange was a beautiful but frustrating mistress. Kenneth turned it in his hand, letting the faint afternoon sunlight dance across its mottled surface. The skin looked wet, inviting, like something you could slip into on a hot day.
And yet he knew how the engagement would end, with sticky hands and a wet chin, rinds to be deposited in the bin, eventually choking birds when dumped as dehydrated rusks. He'd read about the problem on the internet. It wasn't all porn, you know.
He began to peel, his thumb smarting as it dug beneath the thick skin. He should have packed a knife.
What the world needed was a pre-peeled orange enclosed in a water-tight bag.
Kenneth stopped. He grinned despite being in a public area surrounded by people in blue suits.
It made perfect sense.
Bagged peeled oranges would be healthy for little ones and convenient for business people. The technology had been unleased on boiled eggs. He'd seen them in the shops. But no one had thought about further applications.
"If there's a box, I am thinking outside of it," he murmured triumphantly.
Kenneth searched the pocket of his jacket for his pen and small notebook and jotted the idea down. Might be just the ticket. Salvation. Like Armageddon for Americans or unpasturised cheese for the French.
As he often did, Kenneth imagined himself rich, able to have a long lie-in, ordering takeaway Tikka Malasa every night, with garlic naan. He would get those fancy entrees, the mini chicken tikkas and bhaji, instead of rationalising the cost and the fact that one man shouldn't eat that much rich food.
If anything tasty were in the flat, he'd eat it. He could finish a roast chicken in his sleep. Fruit and Nut bars died in appaling numbers. Crisps didn't stand a chance of seeing daybreak.
If he were rich, he could share the extra entree bits with the butler. Or the pretty Asian maid, Moora. Or Maanika. Or Madhura. Something with an M.
Kenneth liked Asian women. They were exotic down to their DNA. He also liked how M sounded coming off the tongue.
He checked his pocket watch and embarked back to his desk, tumbling from Neverland with each footfall. Seven minutes and thirty-three seconds later, he arrived - more than two minutes off his best time.
He blamed poor lift efficiency. People didn't cram in when they had takeaway salads and coffees.
His in-tray was listing dangerously to starboard, threatening to capsize onto the floor and take all the hopeful yet discouraged jobseekers down forever.
He righted them as best he could, the top file sticking to remnants of citrus too devious to come off.
"Been wanking?" Spiv said.
"Eh?"
"You've got bits of tissue on your jacket."
Kenneth looked down, his face colouring. "Oh right. I ate an orange. You know what the world needs, don't you?"
"A good kick upside the bollocks."
"Yes, well... No..."
"This isn't one of your loopy inventions?"
"They're not all bad," Kenneth began.
"A kettle that makes gravy. A cat shaving kit."
"The kettle idea is quite good."
"Like I said, a bollocking. Looks like you might get yours. You've got a Pickle incoming."
Spiv darted away as Kenneth turned to see Maggie "Pickle" Johnson walking his way. She was like a turnip bi-ped, round and a revolting shade of yellow-white with bits of purple in all the wrong places.
Kenneth hated turnips. Most people did. They were simply too polite or indoctrinated by childhood nostalgia or cultural propaganda to admit the fact.
"Just getting back to it, Pickle," Kenneth said, preempting.
Maggie thought the moniker a term of endearment, but the lads had come up with it in the pub because she walked around like she had a gerkin shoved up her back passage.
"Not why I'm here," she replied.
She held out a manilla envelope. The skin around her eyes was creased in such a way as to look dangerously gleeful. Much more of this and the epidermis might crack and fall away.
"This my bonus?" Kenneth said.
"Even better."
He kept his hand back, like one does from an aggressive goose.
"Come on, take it." She smiled. "It's been nice."
"Sorry?"
"It's your redundancy, you idiot."
Kenneth's tongue went thick and he felt heat. For a second, he thought about hauling off and giving her one in the mouth. He wasn't that sort of man, but...
That's out of line, he thought. Out of line.
The walls metastisised to liquid - Kenneth's legs giving way to the vibrations.
West Ham United. Founded in 1895 by workers from the Thames Ironworks. FA Cup winners 1964, 1975 and 1980. Most goals in one match, six, achieved twice: Vic Watson, February 2, 1929 versus Leeds United; Geoff Hurst November 19, 1968 versus Sunderland in front of a young Kenneth Fleetwood and his soon to be deceased father, Archie Fleetwood.
The repetition of facts made difficult moments endearable.
The walls reformed into solid three-dimensional space. Telephones and voices washed through his auditory canals.
Kenneth was aware of citrus stickiness between his fingers. He looked up at Pickle.
"You know what the world needs?" he began.
Everything would be alright.
Surely, everything would turn out fine.
Surely.
The orange was a beautiful but frustrating mistress. Kenneth turned it in his hand, letting the faint afternoon sunlight dance across its mottled surface. The skin looked wet, inviting, like something you could slip into on a hot day.
And yet he knew how the engagement would end, with sticky hands and a wet chin, rinds to be deposited in the bin, eventually choking birds when dumped as dehydrated rusks. He'd read about the problem on the internet. It wasn't all porn, you know.
He began to peel, his thumb smarting as it dug beneath the thick skin. He should have packed a knife.
What the world needed was a pre-peeled orange enclosed in a water-tight bag.
Kenneth stopped. He grinned despite being in a public area surrounded by people in blue suits.
It made perfect sense.
Bagged peeled oranges would be healthy for little ones and convenient for business people. The technology had been unleased on boiled eggs. He'd seen them in the shops. But no one had thought about further applications.
"If there's a box, I am thinking outside of it," he murmured triumphantly.
Kenneth searched the pocket of his jacket for his pen and small notebook and jotted the idea down. Might be just the ticket. Salvation. Like Armageddon for Americans or unpasturised cheese for the French.
As he often did, Kenneth imagined himself rich, able to have a long lie-in, ordering takeaway Tikka Malasa every night, with garlic naan. He would get those fancy entrees, the mini chicken tikkas and bhaji, instead of rationalising the cost and the fact that one man shouldn't eat that much rich food.
If anything tasty were in the flat, he'd eat it. He could finish a roast chicken in his sleep. Fruit and Nut bars died in appaling numbers. Crisps didn't stand a chance of seeing daybreak.
If he were rich, he could share the extra entree bits with the butler. Or the pretty Asian maid, Moora. Or Maanika. Or Madhura. Something with an M.
Kenneth liked Asian women. They were exotic down to their DNA. He also liked how M sounded coming off the tongue.
He checked his pocket watch and embarked back to his desk, tumbling from Neverland with each footfall. Seven minutes and thirty-three seconds later, he arrived - more than two minutes off his best time.
He blamed poor lift efficiency. People didn't cram in when they had takeaway salads and coffees.
His in-tray was listing dangerously to starboard, threatening to capsize onto the floor and take all the hopeful yet discouraged jobseekers down forever.
He righted them as best he could, the top file sticking to remnants of citrus too devious to come off.
"Been wanking?" Spiv said.
"Eh?"
"You've got bits of tissue on your jacket."
Kenneth looked down, his face colouring. "Oh right. I ate an orange. You know what the world needs, don't you?"
"A good kick upside the bollocks."
"Yes, well... No..."
"This isn't one of your loopy inventions?"
"They're not all bad," Kenneth began.
"A kettle that makes gravy. A cat shaving kit."
"The kettle idea is quite good."
"Like I said, a bollocking. Looks like you might get yours. You've got a Pickle incoming."
Spiv darted away as Kenneth turned to see Maggie "Pickle" Johnson walking his way. She was like a turnip bi-ped, round and a revolting shade of yellow-white with bits of purple in all the wrong places.
Kenneth hated turnips. Most people did. They were simply too polite or indoctrinated by childhood nostalgia or cultural propaganda to admit the fact.
"Just getting back to it, Pickle," Kenneth said, preempting.
Maggie thought the moniker a term of endearment, but the lads had come up with it in the pub because she walked around like she had a gerkin shoved up her back passage.
"Not why I'm here," she replied.
She held out a manilla envelope. The skin around her eyes was creased in such a way as to look dangerously gleeful. Much more of this and the epidermis might crack and fall away.
"This my bonus?" Kenneth said.
"Even better."
He kept his hand back, like one does from an aggressive goose.
"Come on, take it." She smiled. "It's been nice."
"Sorry?"
"It's your redundancy, you idiot."
Kenneth's tongue went thick and he felt heat. For a second, he thought about hauling off and giving her one in the mouth. He wasn't that sort of man, but...
That's out of line, he thought. Out of line.
The walls metastisised to liquid - Kenneth's legs giving way to the vibrations.
West Ham United. Founded in 1895 by workers from the Thames Ironworks. FA Cup winners 1964, 1975 and 1980. Most goals in one match, six, achieved twice: Vic Watson, February 2, 1929 versus Leeds United; Geoff Hurst November 19, 1968 versus Sunderland in front of a young Kenneth Fleetwood and his soon to be deceased father, Archie Fleetwood.
The repetition of facts made difficult moments endearable.
The walls reformed into solid three-dimensional space. Telephones and voices washed through his auditory canals.
Kenneth was aware of citrus stickiness between his fingers. He looked up at Pickle.
"You know what the world needs?" he began.
Everything would be alright.
Surely, everything would turn out fine.
Surely.
Friday, June 10, 2011
The homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood
Chapter 1
It was a typical day really. The tube was delayed by nesting birds shorting out a signal box. A light rain had found the minute hole is his left work shoe. Breakfast had been a bacon sandwich made on the run that had dripped mayonaise on to his plain black tie.
But somehow Kenneth Fleetwood made it to his office with body and soul together. He'd even managed to catch the lift as the doors were closing, giving a friendly nod to the new security lad, who'd put his hand in to hold it up.
Kenneth settled at his desk, fixing the position of his rubber plant. It had been a gift from a thankful Malay he had helped in obtaining a position in a kitchen. The man had begun on washing up duty, worked his way to kitchen hand and gone on to open his own small kiosk offering Laksa and Rendang.
The plant was a reminder of success. One needed such icons at Jobcentre Plus. It used to be the Department of Work and Pensions, but the government had paid an advertising agency several thousand pounds to jazz it up and come up with an energetic new "brand".
You can't fight change, Kenneth thought.
Cup of tea, two biscuits, faint sugar high and then first file of the day. He turned on his computer, a plodding PC that refused anything more modern than Microsoft's 95 Office suite. It refused to recognise his password on the first two attempts. Yes, the universe was in order.
PCs... Kenneth was an Apple man. Along with West Ham United, the odd sneaky wank and bacon, it was his sole vice. When a new product came on the market, he'd be first at the doorstep. He'd even taken two days off sick to camp outside the Apple Shop to get his hands on the first iPad.
Yes, if a new Apple computer was spied in the office, you could be fairly certain it was Kenneth Fleetwood's Mac.
"Watch the match?" asked Daniel "Spiv" McTierney, doing the cubicle lean, one arm propped on the top, the other leaning down with apparent palsy.
"Might the pope be a catholic?" Kenneth replied.
"Assume so," said Spiv. "As well as a Nazi and a paedo."
"Friend and protector of the paedo," Kenneth said. "There's no evidence he diddles himself, just covers it up for the bishops. I won't have slander in a government office."
"Goes without saying."
Spiv was a good man. Solid. Did everything he could for the people who came in down and out.
Kenneth's first client was an accounts person, pretty, tired looking, as if she had had a big night, perhaps with karaoke.
They used to be called jobseekers, but that was now said to be humiliating and belittling.
Isabelle ("Call me Izy")had chipped nail polish and wrinkled clothes that suggested she hadn't quite made it all the way home (though a lucky lad might have had that thrill). Kenneth imagined her having a go at "Heart of Glass", holding the microphone at a suggestive angle, slight slur in her voice.
She had the right dirty blonde hair for the part. But she was in her late-20s and probably wouldn't know Deb Harry from David Blunkett. No, she'd be on your Lady Gaga or Adele (Amy Winehouse without the crack).
Kenneth sighed.
"You alright?" Izy asked.
"Long week," he replied.
And I'm old, he thought. Too old to ever know the faint taste of nicotine on your kiss. He gripped his tea with a full hand around the porcelain, the painful heat bringing him out of his moment of unprofessional longing.
"Did you have a big night," Kenneth asked.
Her shoulders tensed. "Does that affect my dole?"
"No, of course not," Kenneth said.
The rest of the session was conducted in tense tones with minimal banter.
Izy was another castaway from downsizing Government departments, happy to take her redundancy, thinking it a chance to catch up on the party. The young didn't understand that the Blair years were an anomoly. Rarely in history did the banks line up to offer mortgages to punters without two quid to rub between their thumbs.
But it wasn't Kenneth's job to lecture. In his kind uncle voice, he had outlined programs that might help land a new job, but Izy was looking queasy and in need of a full English and the afternoon buried neck deep in a feather pillow. He wished her luck and told her to ring anytime.
And then she was gone, her stocking clad legs disappearing down the polyester carpetted corridor.
There were so many folders.
The in-box was practically overflowing.
"Get your finger out," Spiv said, walking by.
It was a typical day really. The tube was delayed by nesting birds shorting out a signal box. A light rain had found the minute hole is his left work shoe. Breakfast had been a bacon sandwich made on the run that had dripped mayonaise on to his plain black tie.
But somehow Kenneth Fleetwood made it to his office with body and soul together. He'd even managed to catch the lift as the doors were closing, giving a friendly nod to the new security lad, who'd put his hand in to hold it up.
Kenneth settled at his desk, fixing the position of his rubber plant. It had been a gift from a thankful Malay he had helped in obtaining a position in a kitchen. The man had begun on washing up duty, worked his way to kitchen hand and gone on to open his own small kiosk offering Laksa and Rendang.
The plant was a reminder of success. One needed such icons at Jobcentre Plus. It used to be the Department of Work and Pensions, but the government had paid an advertising agency several thousand pounds to jazz it up and come up with an energetic new "brand".
You can't fight change, Kenneth thought.
Cup of tea, two biscuits, faint sugar high and then first file of the day. He turned on his computer, a plodding PC that refused anything more modern than Microsoft's 95 Office suite. It refused to recognise his password on the first two attempts. Yes, the universe was in order.
PCs... Kenneth was an Apple man. Along with West Ham United, the odd sneaky wank and bacon, it was his sole vice. When a new product came on the market, he'd be first at the doorstep. He'd even taken two days off sick to camp outside the Apple Shop to get his hands on the first iPad.
Yes, if a new Apple computer was spied in the office, you could be fairly certain it was Kenneth Fleetwood's Mac.
"Watch the match?" asked Daniel "Spiv" McTierney, doing the cubicle lean, one arm propped on the top, the other leaning down with apparent palsy.
"Might the pope be a catholic?" Kenneth replied.
"Assume so," said Spiv. "As well as a Nazi and a paedo."
"Friend and protector of the paedo," Kenneth said. "There's no evidence he diddles himself, just covers it up for the bishops. I won't have slander in a government office."
"Goes without saying."
Spiv was a good man. Solid. Did everything he could for the people who came in down and out.
Kenneth's first client was an accounts person, pretty, tired looking, as if she had had a big night, perhaps with karaoke.
They used to be called jobseekers, but that was now said to be humiliating and belittling.
Isabelle ("Call me Izy")had chipped nail polish and wrinkled clothes that suggested she hadn't quite made it all the way home (though a lucky lad might have had that thrill). Kenneth imagined her having a go at "Heart of Glass", holding the microphone at a suggestive angle, slight slur in her voice.
She had the right dirty blonde hair for the part. But she was in her late-20s and probably wouldn't know Deb Harry from David Blunkett. No, she'd be on your Lady Gaga or Adele (Amy Winehouse without the crack).
Kenneth sighed.
"You alright?" Izy asked.
"Long week," he replied.
And I'm old, he thought. Too old to ever know the faint taste of nicotine on your kiss. He gripped his tea with a full hand around the porcelain, the painful heat bringing him out of his moment of unprofessional longing.
"Did you have a big night," Kenneth asked.
Her shoulders tensed. "Does that affect my dole?"
"No, of course not," Kenneth said.
The rest of the session was conducted in tense tones with minimal banter.
Izy was another castaway from downsizing Government departments, happy to take her redundancy, thinking it a chance to catch up on the party. The young didn't understand that the Blair years were an anomoly. Rarely in history did the banks line up to offer mortgages to punters without two quid to rub between their thumbs.
But it wasn't Kenneth's job to lecture. In his kind uncle voice, he had outlined programs that might help land a new job, but Izy was looking queasy and in need of a full English and the afternoon buried neck deep in a feather pillow. He wished her luck and told her to ring anytime.
And then she was gone, her stocking clad legs disappearing down the polyester carpetted corridor.
There were so many folders.
The in-box was practically overflowing.
"Get your finger out," Spiv said, walking by.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Trip (part 2)
Hello dear readers,
Now, some of you may expect my account of the coach journey to involve a very public panic attack or act of indiscretion, such as immediately removing my shoes or unwrapping a Stilton and cress sandwich to enchant the nasal cavities of my fellow passengers. Well, though I may not travel much, I am no animal.
I sat quite quietly and put on the I-Pod given to me by my good friend Piotr for use over the holiday. And yes, it was a real I-Pod, not some sort of Polish knock-off, called an I-Pol, with only one earphone and the capacity for one and a half songs. He is in IT and very savvy about technology. He even loaded the contraption up with some of my favourites, which I believe he may have pirated from the internet, the first of which was 'If I Can't Have You' by the Bee Gees, which was apt given I recently spent so much time, emotional currency and physical currency on a futile pursuit of my lady friend from work. Truthfully, my heart ached.
Yet, I resolved not to cede my spirit to despondency. I also resolved to be mindful of my breathing exercises and take no notice of my fellow passengers, even those who felt compelled to speak at volumes high enough to drown out the velvety harmonising of the brothers Gibb while providing a well-detailed, blow-by-blow account of some bint's naked escapades.
The first 90 minutes was fraught with anxiety and frankly I had doubts as to my ability to stay seated and silent. Thankfully the late hour cast the coach and its human cargo into a contemplative lull by the time we were shot of the city's gravity. At this point Mrs Donaldson removed our near-odourless sharp cheddar and pickle sandwiches from their wrappings and I removed my earphones.
We chatted about our possible itinerary over the next four days, agreeing to do some of the typical tourist activities - the Roman baths, the Jane Austin Centre and the city walk. I inquired as to jaunts to Stonehenge, which thankfully she dismissed as ridiculous, and Stow on the Wold, which elicited a snort of disgust.
'The countryside is reputed to be rather stunning,' I ventured.
'I've no need for countryside. I'm not a farmer.'
Now, I have long known of Mrs Donaldson's aversion to rural life. Her evacuation from London as a child during The Blitz was a defining experience in her life, yet one she has long refused to discuss in any detail, despite my many subtle inquiries. The odd scrap of detail has emerged, of course, such as that she was told very little by her parents about what was happening and was physically labelled like a parcel before being shunted onto a train. I know she has a soft spot for orphans and the like...
'What can you learn from a bleedin' tree,' she continued.
As our relationship is largely founded on aimless debate and being contrary for the sake of conversation, I argued that the entire canon of Romantic poetry had been based on the pastoral.
'A complete waste of time. And to think they cut all those beautiful trees to print their poems.'
I replied to this by reciting the first two stanzas of Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind', which was forced into my brain in secondary school by a Literature teacher fond of heartfelt poetry and throwing chairs at his students.* Despite my best efforts, I have not been able to remove Shelley, Keats or several passages of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar from my grey matter. Mind you, my keen mind kept me from ever being struck by a chair.
'What good has a poet ever done anyone?' Mrs Donaldson asked.
'They have sustained me in many a dark hour.'
She then went on a rather long monologue about how people needed to work, not think so much. Apparently the solution to death, disease, depression, heartache and hair loss can all be found by picking up a broom or spade and rolling up one's sleeves. As I've mentioned before, despite her advanced age, Mrs Donaldson is forever doing work with the church or coercing other ancient types into inappropriate social activities (see past posts re: elderly improv).
'No starving man ever chose a book of poetry over a hot supper.'
'I would,' I replied. 'I spend my wages on books. What's left over I waste on food and drink.'**
'Turn away your food tomorrow and I'll buy you a lovely meal or any book you like in the shop the following day. I suspect you won't be dining on DH Lawrence.'
I pointed out that most book shops on the high street were dead or dying, so there were no guarantees she could fulfill her part of the wager. We lingered in silence as the darkness hung outside our window. I then inquired what the Blitz was like, in case our proximity to countryside had stirred the faintest hint of melancholic nostalgia.
'You're the flippin' writer,' she said. 'Use your imagination.'
She then closed her eyes and feigned sleep.
Stay well,
Nate
*I know the first five stanzas
**I believe I may have stolen this line from someone... I can't recall from whom
All conversation approximated from notes. NF
Now, some of you may expect my account of the coach journey to involve a very public panic attack or act of indiscretion, such as immediately removing my shoes or unwrapping a Stilton and cress sandwich to enchant the nasal cavities of my fellow passengers. Well, though I may not travel much, I am no animal.
I sat quite quietly and put on the I-Pod given to me by my good friend Piotr for use over the holiday. And yes, it was a real I-Pod, not some sort of Polish knock-off, called an I-Pol, with only one earphone and the capacity for one and a half songs. He is in IT and very savvy about technology. He even loaded the contraption up with some of my favourites, which I believe he may have pirated from the internet, the first of which was 'If I Can't Have You' by the Bee Gees, which was apt given I recently spent so much time, emotional currency and physical currency on a futile pursuit of my lady friend from work. Truthfully, my heart ached.
Yet, I resolved not to cede my spirit to despondency. I also resolved to be mindful of my breathing exercises and take no notice of my fellow passengers, even those who felt compelled to speak at volumes high enough to drown out the velvety harmonising of the brothers Gibb while providing a well-detailed, blow-by-blow account of some bint's naked escapades.
The first 90 minutes was fraught with anxiety and frankly I had doubts as to my ability to stay seated and silent. Thankfully the late hour cast the coach and its human cargo into a contemplative lull by the time we were shot of the city's gravity. At this point Mrs Donaldson removed our near-odourless sharp cheddar and pickle sandwiches from their wrappings and I removed my earphones.
We chatted about our possible itinerary over the next four days, agreeing to do some of the typical tourist activities - the Roman baths, the Jane Austin Centre and the city walk. I inquired as to jaunts to Stonehenge, which thankfully she dismissed as ridiculous, and Stow on the Wold, which elicited a snort of disgust.
'The countryside is reputed to be rather stunning,' I ventured.
'I've no need for countryside. I'm not a farmer.'
Now, I have long known of Mrs Donaldson's aversion to rural life. Her evacuation from London as a child during The Blitz was a defining experience in her life, yet one she has long refused to discuss in any detail, despite my many subtle inquiries. The odd scrap of detail has emerged, of course, such as that she was told very little by her parents about what was happening and was physically labelled like a parcel before being shunted onto a train. I know she has a soft spot for orphans and the like...
'What can you learn from a bleedin' tree,' she continued.
As our relationship is largely founded on aimless debate and being contrary for the sake of conversation, I argued that the entire canon of Romantic poetry had been based on the pastoral.
'A complete waste of time. And to think they cut all those beautiful trees to print their poems.'
I replied to this by reciting the first two stanzas of Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind', which was forced into my brain in secondary school by a Literature teacher fond of heartfelt poetry and throwing chairs at his students.* Despite my best efforts, I have not been able to remove Shelley, Keats or several passages of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar from my grey matter. Mind you, my keen mind kept me from ever being struck by a chair.
'What good has a poet ever done anyone?' Mrs Donaldson asked.
'They have sustained me in many a dark hour.'
She then went on a rather long monologue about how people needed to work, not think so much. Apparently the solution to death, disease, depression, heartache and hair loss can all be found by picking up a broom or spade and rolling up one's sleeves. As I've mentioned before, despite her advanced age, Mrs Donaldson is forever doing work with the church or coercing other ancient types into inappropriate social activities (see past posts re: elderly improv).
'No starving man ever chose a book of poetry over a hot supper.'
'I would,' I replied. 'I spend my wages on books. What's left over I waste on food and drink.'**
'Turn away your food tomorrow and I'll buy you a lovely meal or any book you like in the shop the following day. I suspect you won't be dining on DH Lawrence.'
I pointed out that most book shops on the high street were dead or dying, so there were no guarantees she could fulfill her part of the wager. We lingered in silence as the darkness hung outside our window. I then inquired what the Blitz was like, in case our proximity to countryside had stirred the faintest hint of melancholic nostalgia.
'You're the flippin' writer,' she said. 'Use your imagination.'
She then closed her eyes and feigned sleep.
Stay well,
Nate
*I know the first five stanzas
**I believe I may have stolen this line from someone... I can't recall from whom
All conversation approximated from notes. NF
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Trip (part 1)
Hello dear readers,
Yes, I have borrowed my title from Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon's spectacularly uneven series about their adventures driving through the north of England eating in swish restaurants. Of course, the difference in my and Mrs Donaldson's tale of exploration is: a) we are more erudite and sophisticated b) Mrs Donaldson does not do excessive Al Pacino impersonations and mug for the camera c) we have fewer BAFTA nominations and d) most of our meals are budget.
Still, we did leave our local area in search of adventure and a pleasant way of celebrating my dear neighbour's 79th birthday on the tab of her only son, who 'does something with numbers with the government' and has been doing so for long enough not to fear the swath of forced redundancies sweeping the nation. So may I begin by first saying, Happy Birthday, Mrs Donaldson. You look younger than your years and are as spry as a 60-year-old with mild arthritis, an ambitious hair colourist and a King's capacity for sweet sherry.
Now the plan to leave London began in jest, a remark on my part in relation to my desire to write a Bill Bryson-style travel book. Being carbonated with vim and vigour, and feeling somewhat low about the turning of another page on the ever-shortening calender of life, my dear neighbour practically goaded me into action, making the arrangements herself and doing everything short of packing my bag. I suspect she would have pressed and folded my pants and socks if given the chance, which would have left me terribly uncomfortable.
The bare facts:
Mrs Donaldson arranged for us to travel via National Express coach, leaving from Victoria Station at precisely 7pm (give or take a cup of tea and the last bit of pastry being consumed by the driver) for the princely sum of £13.50 (one-way). Apparently she paid the same rate, due I would suppose to our late booking, proving rather emphatically there really is no good reason to get old anymore in our ruthless modern society. Because of her languid joints and our desire not to be separated for the journey, we also paid the £1 surcharge for priority seating. When did this blatant money grab come about? You tell me, ruthless modern society. You tell me...
Now, for international readers, to get from Islington to Victoria Station we had two options. The first was to take one of our city's famous black cabs, helmed by a well-trained and regulated driver who would have had to have passed a rigid exam. These chaps possess an intimate knowledge of both the intricate geography of the city, as well as its vibrant soul, and are tremendously professional (as long as you do not vomit or act like a prat/lunatic/French Prime Minister).
Instead we opted for a mini-cab, because frankly, they are considerably less expensive and I have an aversion to people driving and speaking, which black cab drivers are also famous for... It seems like a potentially deadly distraction. I get a tad nervous and nauseous.
Now, the key is to pre-book a mini-cab, as basically any rapist-cum-serial killer can plaster some signage on an automobile and agree to drive you to Luton. The other rather disagreeable problem with mini-cabs has largely been solved by GPS, but a decade or so ago (when I travelled more) one had a 70-30 chance of the driver either asking you to give him street by street directions or hurling an A-Z into your lap. To be fair, this only happened if you were going somewhere atypical he didn't know, like for example, your home. Drivers were more adept at locating major landmarks and airports, or a shop selling rugs owned by his uncle.
Anyway, the advent of GPS has changed the game completely. Our driver was a pleasant enough chap, and after Mrs Donaldson had thoroughly inspected his license, we settled into the back of the vehicle and had a fine 20-minute ride to our destination.
Being a dedicated walker, I admit having been somewhat agitated by the rapid acceleration and braking, tooting and hand gestures of the city's vehicular life clattering around me, but was calmed by Mrs Donaldson's firm suggestion that I 'buck up and stop moaning'. To an outsider this might sound harsh, but what my dear neighbour was actually saying was, 'It's all fine, Nate.' Communication is a generational thing...
And so, we arrived with body and soul intact for our journey to Bath, Somerset - an outpost of the Roman Empire established around 60AD as a temple to Minerva - sister city to Shower, Loofa and Bidet - home to the most remarkable natural hot springs in Britain.
Now if only I could keep my supper down on the three-hour journey...
Stay well,
Nate
Yes, I have borrowed my title from Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon's spectacularly uneven series about their adventures driving through the north of England eating in swish restaurants. Of course, the difference in my and Mrs Donaldson's tale of exploration is: a) we are more erudite and sophisticated b) Mrs Donaldson does not do excessive Al Pacino impersonations and mug for the camera c) we have fewer BAFTA nominations and d) most of our meals are budget.
Still, we did leave our local area in search of adventure and a pleasant way of celebrating my dear neighbour's 79th birthday on the tab of her only son, who 'does something with numbers with the government' and has been doing so for long enough not to fear the swath of forced redundancies sweeping the nation. So may I begin by first saying, Happy Birthday, Mrs Donaldson. You look younger than your years and are as spry as a 60-year-old with mild arthritis, an ambitious hair colourist and a King's capacity for sweet sherry.
Now the plan to leave London began in jest, a remark on my part in relation to my desire to write a Bill Bryson-style travel book. Being carbonated with vim and vigour, and feeling somewhat low about the turning of another page on the ever-shortening calender of life, my dear neighbour practically goaded me into action, making the arrangements herself and doing everything short of packing my bag. I suspect she would have pressed and folded my pants and socks if given the chance, which would have left me terribly uncomfortable.
The bare facts:
Mrs Donaldson arranged for us to travel via National Express coach, leaving from Victoria Station at precisely 7pm (give or take a cup of tea and the last bit of pastry being consumed by the driver) for the princely sum of £13.50 (one-way). Apparently she paid the same rate, due I would suppose to our late booking, proving rather emphatically there really is no good reason to get old anymore in our ruthless modern society. Because of her languid joints and our desire not to be separated for the journey, we also paid the £1 surcharge for priority seating. When did this blatant money grab come about? You tell me, ruthless modern society. You tell me...
Now, for international readers, to get from Islington to Victoria Station we had two options. The first was to take one of our city's famous black cabs, helmed by a well-trained and regulated driver who would have had to have passed a rigid exam. These chaps possess an intimate knowledge of both the intricate geography of the city, as well as its vibrant soul, and are tremendously professional (as long as you do not vomit or act like a prat/lunatic/French Prime Minister).
Instead we opted for a mini-cab, because frankly, they are considerably less expensive and I have an aversion to people driving and speaking, which black cab drivers are also famous for... It seems like a potentially deadly distraction. I get a tad nervous and nauseous.
Now, the key is to pre-book a mini-cab, as basically any rapist-cum-serial killer can plaster some signage on an automobile and agree to drive you to Luton. The other rather disagreeable problem with mini-cabs has largely been solved by GPS, but a decade or so ago (when I travelled more) one had a 70-30 chance of the driver either asking you to give him street by street directions or hurling an A-Z into your lap. To be fair, this only happened if you were going somewhere atypical he didn't know, like for example, your home. Drivers were more adept at locating major landmarks and airports, or a shop selling rugs owned by his uncle.
Anyway, the advent of GPS has changed the game completely. Our driver was a pleasant enough chap, and after Mrs Donaldson had thoroughly inspected his license, we settled into the back of the vehicle and had a fine 20-minute ride to our destination.
Being a dedicated walker, I admit having been somewhat agitated by the rapid acceleration and braking, tooting and hand gestures of the city's vehicular life clattering around me, but was calmed by Mrs Donaldson's firm suggestion that I 'buck up and stop moaning'. To an outsider this might sound harsh, but what my dear neighbour was actually saying was, 'It's all fine, Nate.' Communication is a generational thing...
And so, we arrived with body and soul intact for our journey to Bath, Somerset - an outpost of the Roman Empire established around 60AD as a temple to Minerva - sister city to Shower, Loofa and Bidet - home to the most remarkable natural hot springs in Britain.
Now if only I could keep my supper down on the three-hour journey...
Stay well,
Nate
Friday, December 31, 2010
Greetings from Bath!
Hello dear readers,
Well, might miracles never cease, I have left the cosy confines of my beloved London and arrived with my 78-year-old neighbour Mrs Donaldson in Bath, Somerset. The journey was stressful, as one might imagine, and I have spent the past several days in a fascinating state of recovery, anxiety and dare I say excitement.
It is another world. I spent much of yesterday afternoon drinking warm tea while watching street performers in the main square. First there was a young man who did a number of cover versions of John Lennon and Beatle songs. He was stupendous, a dead ringer (no pun intended). He was later followed by two young blond men from Scandinavia who looked cold and were bloody awful, completely lacking in confidence and off-tune.
As I dropped 50p into their basically empty hat on the stones, one gave an embarrassed shrug and explained they didn't know how to play any instruments but were in need of finances for a big New Years Eve drinking session. I noted the northern European economies were much stronger than that of the UK, hinting that perhaps a little 'shoulder to the grindstone' back home might offer a more fulfilling, beggary-free getaway in future. They thanked me again for the donation and subtly asked me to move, as I was blocking the view for their 'audience' (mostly indifference pedestrians hurriedly seeking indoor warmth).
So, yes, I am compiling notes to write a few sample chapters for my new Bill Bryson-style book about travelling around Britain. I would like to share more, but there is a queue waiting impatiently for the Guest House's sole 'Guest PC' (with unlimited internet access!). The rooms have free wi-fi, so if these VIP types are that desperate to get on-line they should have brought or purchased a laptop computer.
And yet, I shall be the better man and relent to their sighing.
So long from Bath, or as the Romans called it, Aquae Sulis! I shall endeavour to update again shortly.
Stay well (and Happy New Year),
Nate
Well, might miracles never cease, I have left the cosy confines of my beloved London and arrived with my 78-year-old neighbour Mrs Donaldson in Bath, Somerset. The journey was stressful, as one might imagine, and I have spent the past several days in a fascinating state of recovery, anxiety and dare I say excitement.
It is another world. I spent much of yesterday afternoon drinking warm tea while watching street performers in the main square. First there was a young man who did a number of cover versions of John Lennon and Beatle songs. He was stupendous, a dead ringer (no pun intended). He was later followed by two young blond men from Scandinavia who looked cold and were bloody awful, completely lacking in confidence and off-tune.
As I dropped 50p into their basically empty hat on the stones, one gave an embarrassed shrug and explained they didn't know how to play any instruments but were in need of finances for a big New Years Eve drinking session. I noted the northern European economies were much stronger than that of the UK, hinting that perhaps a little 'shoulder to the grindstone' back home might offer a more fulfilling, beggary-free getaway in future. They thanked me again for the donation and subtly asked me to move, as I was blocking the view for their 'audience' (mostly indifference pedestrians hurriedly seeking indoor warmth).
So, yes, I am compiling notes to write a few sample chapters for my new Bill Bryson-style book about travelling around Britain. I would like to share more, but there is a queue waiting impatiently for the Guest House's sole 'Guest PC' (with unlimited internet access!). The rooms have free wi-fi, so if these VIP types are that desperate to get on-line they should have brought or purchased a laptop computer.
And yet, I shall be the better man and relent to their sighing.
So long from Bath, or as the Romans called it, Aquae Sulis! I shall endeavour to update again shortly.
Stay well (and Happy New Year),
Nate
Friday, December 24, 2010
Lowdown Big Top Christmas
Mancunian Monkey Boy and Dave the Circus Midget were escorted through the large wooden door, which was adorned with the largest, most intricately woven wreath either had ever seen. The room was blue with pipe smoke, making the walls of classic hardback books appear hazy and dreamlike. A muscular man with short black hair sat behind an imposing oak desk, his head down over a printout of papers. His suit was well-tailored, Savile Row. The gold nametag said: Santa – the sleigh stops here. Behind him stood a block of meat with knuckles as big as brass bells and a look as blank as a field of new fallen snow.
“I thought you were supposed to be fat and jolly and wearing a red suit,” Monkey said, flopping down on a red leather chair and slouching back.
Santa looked up, his eyes dark and distant. Long nights and not enough sun this high in the Arctic. He put his gold pen down.
“I thought man would shave his knuckles when they get so furry,” he replied, looking at Monkey’s hands on the armrests. “Stereotypes, monkey person. Red suit is Coca-Cola marketing campaign from 1920s. You should know history, or be bound to repeat it. Like cheap shampoo.”
Ukrainian accent, Monkey though, surprised. He had clocked it within two words. Monkey had dealt with Kiev types before. They were unpredictable and notoriously tight-lipped. He wondered how the world had been so misinformed about a man at the centre of the biggest holiday of the year. Fucking Rupert Murdoch.
Santa looked down at Dave and cocked an eye.
“You work for me in past, little man?”
“No, Santa. I’ve only ever worked in the circus and as a roadie with The Happy Mondays before they made it big. But it’s a right pleasure to meet you.”
“Ah... Step On. Very good song.” He motioned to the slab of meat at his shoulder. “This is body guard, Vasily.”
“Is he?” Monkey said.
Santa looked confused. “Vhat?”
“Monkey…” Dave moaned.
“Silly?” Monkey continued.
Santa picked up his pen and silently flipped through his stack of papers. He made a dramatic slash. “You just lose one present for terrible pun.”
“I don’t need new socks or a bicycle anyway. What we need is information, Santa.”
“Everybody want something,” the big man replied. “I want two penises and vaginas on palms, but life not always work in way we wish.”
“What do you know about April Mills?”
“Model, mono-ped, fleeced a Beatle. Now very rich but hated by world.”
“That’s Heather Mills. We're after April Mills, barmaid in the Elephant and Lettuce pub. Pretty face but unfortunate tight perm. She's Polish, so she has an excuse. Been missing since last weekend.”
Santa’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe she give bad service to someone.”
“Highly probable. She was a shit server, but if spilling your pint was a reason for someone to disappear half the staff in England would be MIA.”
Monkey had a feeling Santa was holding back. Ukrainians…
“Why should I know information?” Santa asked.
“Because the word is you know everything – naughty, nice, the whole ball of wax. You’re like Wikileaks, but less arrogant and further out of reach of US black Ops. I know you’re a smart man and have no reason to play dumb.” Monkey looked up at Vasily. “Unlike him. Can you ask him to stop staring?”
“He is body guard. He watches everyone.”
“I thought that was your job.”
Santa got up from his desk. He looked like the type who went to the gym at least five times a week. He walked to the window and looked out on the dark snow drifts.
“There was a time. But accountant convinced me to outsource. Now I am glorified manager. I feel out of loop of my own operation.”
Monkey leaned forward. He hadn’t expected melancholy from the legendary elf-man.
“But you can get us the information,” Monkey said.
“If I share rumour little bird whispers in ear, I need … compensation.”
“Milk and cookies?”
Santa turned around.
“I want be acrobat. On high-wire. Maybe I grab pretty girl on swinging bar. And later I shoot tiger from cannon. I have enough of toys for children and dealing with elf union.”
“What would happen to Christmas?”
“I appoint new CEO. Nigel Claus, nephew. Branding stays same but I get to live my dream.”
Monkey smiled. “Everyone deserves to follow their dreams, Santa.”
“I thought you were supposed to be fat and jolly and wearing a red suit,” Monkey said, flopping down on a red leather chair and slouching back.
Santa looked up, his eyes dark and distant. Long nights and not enough sun this high in the Arctic. He put his gold pen down.
“I thought man would shave his knuckles when they get so furry,” he replied, looking at Monkey’s hands on the armrests. “Stereotypes, monkey person. Red suit is Coca-Cola marketing campaign from 1920s. You should know history, or be bound to repeat it. Like cheap shampoo.”
Ukrainian accent, Monkey though, surprised. He had clocked it within two words. Monkey had dealt with Kiev types before. They were unpredictable and notoriously tight-lipped. He wondered how the world had been so misinformed about a man at the centre of the biggest holiday of the year. Fucking Rupert Murdoch.
Santa looked down at Dave and cocked an eye.
“You work for me in past, little man?”
“No, Santa. I’ve only ever worked in the circus and as a roadie with The Happy Mondays before they made it big. But it’s a right pleasure to meet you.”
“Ah... Step On. Very good song.” He motioned to the slab of meat at his shoulder. “This is body guard, Vasily.”
“Is he?” Monkey said.
Santa looked confused. “Vhat?”
“Monkey…” Dave moaned.
“Silly?” Monkey continued.
Santa picked up his pen and silently flipped through his stack of papers. He made a dramatic slash. “You just lose one present for terrible pun.”
“I don’t need new socks or a bicycle anyway. What we need is information, Santa.”
“Everybody want something,” the big man replied. “I want two penises and vaginas on palms, but life not always work in way we wish.”
“What do you know about April Mills?”
“Model, mono-ped, fleeced a Beatle. Now very rich but hated by world.”
“That’s Heather Mills. We're after April Mills, barmaid in the Elephant and Lettuce pub. Pretty face but unfortunate tight perm. She's Polish, so she has an excuse. Been missing since last weekend.”
Santa’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe she give bad service to someone.”
“Highly probable. She was a shit server, but if spilling your pint was a reason for someone to disappear half the staff in England would be MIA.”
Monkey had a feeling Santa was holding back. Ukrainians…
“Why should I know information?” Santa asked.
“Because the word is you know everything – naughty, nice, the whole ball of wax. You’re like Wikileaks, but less arrogant and further out of reach of US black Ops. I know you’re a smart man and have no reason to play dumb.” Monkey looked up at Vasily. “Unlike him. Can you ask him to stop staring?”
“He is body guard. He watches everyone.”
“I thought that was your job.”
Santa got up from his desk. He looked like the type who went to the gym at least five times a week. He walked to the window and looked out on the dark snow drifts.
“There was a time. But accountant convinced me to outsource. Now I am glorified manager. I feel out of loop of my own operation.”
Monkey leaned forward. He hadn’t expected melancholy from the legendary elf-man.
“But you can get us the information,” Monkey said.
“If I share rumour little bird whispers in ear, I need … compensation.”
“Milk and cookies?”
Santa turned around.
“I want be acrobat. On high-wire. Maybe I grab pretty girl on swinging bar. And later I shoot tiger from cannon. I have enough of toys for children and dealing with elf union.”
“What would happen to Christmas?”
“I appoint new CEO. Nigel Claus, nephew. Branding stays same but I get to live my dream.”
Monkey smiled. “Everyone deserves to follow their dreams, Santa.”
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Stieg Larsson alive?
Hello dear readers,
Well, my desire to write Stieg Larsson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and ‘new Stieg Larsson manuscript found’ in every blog post to attract search engine traffic has certainly touched a nerve. One associate termed it misleading and unethical; another took offence to my not understanding the author's genius and popular appeal. Each to their own. You can't please everyone.
No doubt entitling this post Stieg Larsson alive? will prompt do-gooders to accuse me of scraping the bottom of the morality bucket. But frankly, I desperately need new readers and he's not likely to either mind or pursue litigation. Besides, the world runs on suspect conjecture. And it's not like I've accepted blood diamonds from Charles Taylor.
Speaking of ethics, you would think responsible workmen would be keen to finish a job, especially when it involves a missing half of a roof and rainy weather. But no, I am still living under plastic. They failed to leave a contact number, the Louse of the House (aka my landlord) has disappeared and my Google search for ‘shifty old roofers’ has come to naught.
Beyond this, The Independent – that bastion of free expression – has excluded my comments from appearing on a recent article about the rapid rise in commodity prices. I made the erudite point that an increase in feed stock will result in higher prices for meat, which as a semi-vegetarian (who still eats seafood and admittedly bacon on Saturday mornings), I view as a positive outcome of the whole palaver, as people won't consume as many animals.
The expected rise in food prices is worrying and simply adds to the atmosphere of economic misery pervading most of the nation. Many readers laughed when I stocked up on large quantities of rice and tinned goods during the brief Ash Cloud uncertainty. Well, when food prices go through the roof due to these wild fires in Russia and the Ukraine, I shall be enjoying my reasonably priced wares with a satisfied smirk on my lips.
Of course my lips would be happier if Madeline would return even one phone call or email. But I shall not dwell.
Finally, I have had a return of the death worries that drove so many readers away from my blog not long ago. As I rapidly approach my 48th birthday, I have become aware of how much I've outlived so many of my fellow scribes:
Virginia Wolfe, dead at 39
Franz Kafka, dead at 41
Chekhov, dead at 44
Robert Louis Stevenson, also dead at 44
Lord Byron, flung from this mortal coil at 36
Robbie Burns, planted at 37
And though I haven't outlived him yet, Stieg Larsson, reduced to ash at 50
Or is he still alive and living in Norwich?
The list of dead writers goes on. Sober reading.
Right, I'm off for a quick wank.
Stay well,
Nate
Well, my desire to write Stieg Larsson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and ‘new Stieg Larsson manuscript found’ in every blog post to attract search engine traffic has certainly touched a nerve. One associate termed it misleading and unethical; another took offence to my not understanding the author's genius and popular appeal. Each to their own. You can't please everyone.
No doubt entitling this post Stieg Larsson alive? will prompt do-gooders to accuse me of scraping the bottom of the morality bucket. But frankly, I desperately need new readers and he's not likely to either mind or pursue litigation. Besides, the world runs on suspect conjecture. And it's not like I've accepted blood diamonds from Charles Taylor.
Speaking of ethics, you would think responsible workmen would be keen to finish a job, especially when it involves a missing half of a roof and rainy weather. But no, I am still living under plastic. They failed to leave a contact number, the Louse of the House (aka my landlord) has disappeared and my Google search for ‘shifty old roofers’ has come to naught.
Beyond this, The Independent – that bastion of free expression – has excluded my comments from appearing on a recent article about the rapid rise in commodity prices. I made the erudite point that an increase in feed stock will result in higher prices for meat, which as a semi-vegetarian (who still eats seafood and admittedly bacon on Saturday mornings), I view as a positive outcome of the whole palaver, as people won't consume as many animals.
The expected rise in food prices is worrying and simply adds to the atmosphere of economic misery pervading most of the nation. Many readers laughed when I stocked up on large quantities of rice and tinned goods during the brief Ash Cloud uncertainty. Well, when food prices go through the roof due to these wild fires in Russia and the Ukraine, I shall be enjoying my reasonably priced wares with a satisfied smirk on my lips.
Of course my lips would be happier if Madeline would return even one phone call or email. But I shall not dwell.
Finally, I have had a return of the death worries that drove so many readers away from my blog not long ago. As I rapidly approach my 48th birthday, I have become aware of how much I've outlived so many of my fellow scribes:
Virginia Wolfe, dead at 39
Franz Kafka, dead at 41
Chekhov, dead at 44
Robert Louis Stevenson, also dead at 44
Lord Byron, flung from this mortal coil at 36
Robbie Burns, planted at 37
And though I haven't outlived him yet, Stieg Larsson, reduced to ash at 50
Or is he still alive and living in Norwich?
The list of dead writers goes on. Sober reading.
Right, I'm off for a quick wank.
Stay well,
Nate
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Ash Wednesday - Chapters 1 & 2
Hello dear readers,
Well, as mentioned yesterday, I have begun work on an apocalyptic genre novel (ala The Da Vinci Code) entitled Ash Wednesday. I've decided to post the first two chapters in order to gauge reader interest and entice publishers. Like Dan Brown, I have decided to utilise short chapters with suspenseful endings to drive the narrative.
The novel features a British protagonist (former Beefeater turned MI5 operative Rudger Hewlitt) as well as several Americans, including Obama liaison Veronica Strong. As I am aiming for an international audience and film sales, casting a wide net of nationalities seems wise.
For fellow writers, note my use of subtle plot enhancers, such as Rudger's achilles heel (his nut allergy). Also, I've used the Hollywood trick of showing he's a good egg by giving him a pet dog. In the movies, having a dog means you can do no wrong.
Please have a read, tell all genre fans to take a look and post your feedback! Let's get the buzz and word of mouth rolling so that publishers fall over themselves in a bidding war!
Cheers,
Nate
Ash Wednesday copyright 2010 Nate Fitzgerald - all rights reserved.
Chapter 1
Rudger Hewlitt took his black military-style satchel from the overhead compartment, his well-defined bicep bulging beneath the wool of his coal grey jumper. He always packed his own snacks for flights, the lifelong habit of a man cursed with a potentially lethal nut allergy. He noted the sleek woman in the beige business suit look up for a split second from her Time magazine. He removed a plain Yorkie bar and packet of Quavers from his satchel as if he didn’t see – as if he didn’t recognise her from the television as Veronica Strong, Obama’s tough and sharp-tongued liaison to Downing Street.
Rudger smiled and sat back down beside the snoring Asian man to his right. They had conducted a good chat upon take-off during which Rudger had shown him a photo of his trusted beagle Bernard, making the man snort with the classic line, “but he’s certainly no saint. Not after what he did to my tennis shoes.” Rudger had that effect on people, an easy charm to go with a physique that could have been chiselled by Michelangelo himself. Rudger had seen the master’s David outside Uffizi gallery in Florence and had feigned awe for the benefit of the tourists despite knowing that the statue was in fact a replica. Of course, he had been in Italy on business, not pleasure.
“So what do you do?”
Rudger looked up, startled. Not many people could sneak up on him. Veronica Strong’s face was angled on his, her body close enough that he could smell her Chanel perfume and feel the faintest touch of body heat.
“Pardon me?” he said.
“Consider yourself pardoned, buster. You do have a job, right?”
He both admired and loathed American abruptness.
“Care for a drink?” he replied.
“You expect me to stand here and drink alcohol with you?”
“No, I expect to convince your seat mate to exchange places so that we can have a civilised conversation.”
She sighed, but he could tell she liked his strategic mind.
“That seat mate happens to be my body guard,” Veronica said. “I doubt you can convince him to leave my side.”
Rudger undid his security belt and moved to get up. “You’d be very surprised at what I’m capable of, my dear lady.”
Chapter 2
Pilot Dirk Gilloly of the New Jersey Gillolys rubbed his raw eyes. He had been a professional pilot for a little over three years and had moved up the ranks through balls, bravado and the influence of certain members of his mafia family who wanted to see one of its own reach the starry heights of legitimate command. He wanted to think he had earned his stripes, but always had a seed of doubt in his mind. This was the cause of his constant shakes and extreme sweats. And his symptoms were getting worse, not what you wanted when flying with a green co-pilot and a navigator with a bad reputation.
And now he had these strange lights on the windscreen.
“I’m sure it’s simply the effect of Aurora Borealis,” his Welsh co-pilot Reg said again.
“It’s the wrong season,” Dirk snapped. “That there is a winter-based phenomenon.”
“We are flying near Iceland. Maybe their seasons are different.”
Dirk rolled his eyes and cursed BA’s cost cutting. When you paid peanuts, you got monkeys. They were flying the red-eye from New York to London Heathrow, the flight called thusly because of the false idea that rising early caused puffy, red eyes. In fact, the irritation of the eyes and sinuses had more to do with dryness than the time of morning. Often a poorly maintained air-conditioning unit was to blame – and since so many commuters stayed in inexpensive hotels…
“Anything on radar, buddy?” Dirk asked again.
His co-pilot Serge La Crisp blew air from his nostrils in the typical French style. “No, like I say to you before, it is nothing on the little mechanism for looking.”
So what was this mysterious full-spectrum light illuminating the windscreen? It looked like a prism and Dirk had to repeatedly push the ridiculous notion of extraterrestrial contact from his mind. The idea was preposterous. Yet there was nothing on the radar and no visible causes of the phenomenon. Could this be some new invention from the US military?
“Well, it doesn’t appear to be a matter of concern,” Reg chipped in.
Dirk frowned. He was a believer in luck, and knew you didn’t tempt fate. Oh how he wished he was in a sports bar in Manhattan watching his favourite professional basketball team, the New Jersey Nets, and eating a plate of Mexican-style nacho chips.
As if on cue, a red button lit up and a pulsating alarm chimed.
"Oh shit."
“What is dis dreadful noise?” Serge inquired.
Dirk frowned. “Engine One appears to be overheating.”
"Zut alors,” Serge replied. "Dis is bad news."
Even Dirk knew this was an understatement, though he conceded the comment could have been caused by the language barrier. He had told BA more than once that navigators with suspect English skills were potentially lethal. Now his theory would be put to the test.
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