A piece from 1987

Here's something I wrote over twenty years ago. Single page, I'd do it differently now, but it captures how I wrote back then. I've left it as it was then (grammar and spelling mistakes included). I was more concerned with getting an idea down back then, and used a typewriter which didn't allow for cut n paste amends and spell checks.

Just over a year after I wrote this I was driving a bus and saw a kid knocked down, and it was close to how I imagined this scene.

10/9/1987

Check this out; he's walking home from Pray To God Primary school and WHAM!

    Thrown across the zebra's back lands at the feet of some woman in a flowered dress. Bleeding; pee's himeself (he's five, stable home), the car that hit him, a blue Volvo, stops and out jumps this hedge-hog ha ha I mean lady in smart dress neat hair concerned face. She kneels beside the boy who's started to tremble.

    This tremble steadily increases to a shake, you know, like some epileptic breakdancer on speed, and the Volvo lady (whos bumber has a little splurge of flesh on it, liek a squirt of cheese from a tube) steps up and back, a horrible pukey feeling taking hold of her stomach and Waitrose lunch.

    The small, rapidly assembled audience (you'll see 'em one day too, when you feint in a public place, or get accused of shoplifting outside Marks & Spencers) stares down at Timothy, that being his name though none of the assembled know it.

    While H.H Argent runs to call an ambulance Timothy continues his shake, and finally, with a tiny whimper that pulls at the heart strings of all but the most bastardly, he opens his eyes and smiles. A dog in the audience pads over to him and licks his face. All but Mrs Meure think its his, the Volvo lady even thinking for a second that she has soemone/thing to take him home instead of her, but she's pretty fucked up so don't worry about her. Anyway, Mrs Meure, whos dog it be, pulls it back and decides she ought to be going IG eeRGH at her little iggy haaaa flat counting pennies and rich tea biscuits while her dog suffers trapped in an old lady's pantry. I would like to say, if I can just butt in and mess about with the stories delicate time, that the dog gets rescued by Timothy, but it doesn't. It doesn't even outlive Mrs Meure whose a big old lady, so fuck that and let's go in search of a hapeir ending some where else; if you want to help the dog do something about it yourself and stop being such a sheep.

    Where am I? Oh yeah, they go off and to everyone's surprise Timothy stands up. Now you may not appreciate this from where you are, but you've got to understand that the Volvo lady was moving at quite a pace when she hit him, and as the ambulence men would tell you a bit later on if we were around to ask them, by all accounts he should have at least a couple of broken bones, and probably internal bleeding to top it off. Not to mention BIG purple bruises.

    But he's fine, except for a rip in his right trouser leg, through which I can tell you came that little splurt of flesh that gets washed off the bumper by mister Volvo later on this week, yup. So to everyones relief he toddles off to continue my story elsewhere, like nothing happened. You can probably guess what happened, 'cos you wouldn't be reading this if you didn't have a couple of braincells between you. For those who haven't guessed, well, you're going to have to follow me through the following nightmare...

Rewind

Here's a quick evening's work, a short unpolished story written just too get back into writing again. It's the skeleton of what should be a more fleshed out story, but it's not original enough to be worth spending much more time on, so I'm posting it as is...

08-08-04

There were only so many times I could go through it before I resigned myself to accepting she had made her mind up. But I tried. I made sure I wasn't half asleep on the sofa with the washing piled in the sink. I tried having the flat clean and dinner cooking. And that seemed to be going well, till it came time to clear the plates and she stopped me; she had something she wanted to say.

So I skipped back a couple of hours, and then an extra one to give me time to get some flowers and call her at work and see how she was. But it was always there, obvious once you knew it was coming. The hesitation in her voice, the assurances that she would be home soon. That she would prefer we didn't go out, that, when I finally pressed on the fifth or sixth attempt that evening, she had something she wanted to discuss. And try as I might, the conversation always came up.

Resigned to that, I tried different approaches when the conversation began, always jumping to the point when she lowered her glass and took my hand. It had been the easiest start to it, I discovered. Better than the crossed arms, the turned back at the sink, the awkward silence from the bedroom before she could hold it back no more, the slap that I managed to only have to face the once. No, the lowering of the glass and taking of my hand was the point where I decided to try and change her mind through all the arguments I could think of.

I skipped back to the lowering of the glass as easily as you might rewind the the beginning of the song, and it became bitterly familiar, which didn't help. At one point I thought I had bought some time, she would see, she would try, but after getting ready for bed, she knew she was making a mistake, and there it was again. Postponed, but as inevitable as the morning sun.

Call me a selfish, but in the end I decided I'd had enough and dumped her. Yup, as she lowered her glass, I said had something I needed to say. Reluctantly, she crossed her arms, and waited.

"This isn't working, is it?"
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
"It's not that I don't love you, I do. I've never lied about that. I do. But. You're not happy, are you?"
"It's not you..."
"But it is, it's us. We tried. But I think you saw something in me that wasn't there, and I've tried to be different, tried to be what you wanted, but it's not working. I think we're best off ending it now while, well, before we hurt too much."
"I wish it hadn't come to this," she said.
"But it has. I can't change that. I've tried, I've tried like you'll never know."
"I know you have. But there's times when it's like that's all you're doing. Trying to be what I want, not what you want. And I appreciate that, but if you're not happy, if you're not being you, well, I don't want to be always wondering what you want. I want to be what you want, and you to be you. Really, I wish it could have been different, but maybe we're just trying to hard to please each other, and ending up unhappy ourselves."
"Maybe."
She stood up, and I decided to let her say would take some stuff and come back for the rest. To let it just happen. This wasn't the worst of the ways to end it. It was bitter, it hurt, but at least it was civil.

She found a bag easily enough, prepared that morning as I had come to discover, and I poured myself another glass of wine. I'd ride the silence out, wait for the awkward goodbye, and let her go. But this time she stopped.
"You know, what attracted me to you was your confidence. You remember when we met? You just knew what you wanted to do, and that night was how I wish it had always been. Nothing could touch us. Then it changed, bit by bit, you always seemed to be tip toeing round, trying to please me, trying so hard all the time. You changed."

She looked at me, and I twisted the ring on my finger, remembering. That first evening had been easy, everything after that I had lived a thousand times, and was harder to recall, so many paths, so many repeats, so many failed attempts, so many successes I selfishly relieved over and over because, well, why wouldn't you?

"Say something?"
"There's nothing to say." I smiled, pulling the ring loose. "Just go. It'll be okay."
"Sure. I'll be in touch about my other things. Don't go throwing them out?"
"I won't. Of course not."
"Thank you." She tried a smile, but it didn't come easy. And then she left.

I looked at the ring, turned it over a couple of times, then slipped it back on. One more time.

"You sleep okay?"
"I did," she said. Turning from me in the bashful way I had come to know so well.
"Get you anything?"
"I'd kill for a cup of tea."
"Sorry, no milk."
"You don't have milk? This could be the end of a great first date."
"I don't think so. If I had milk it would be too perfect."
"Maybe. So... shall I wait here while you get some?"
I laughed. "Maybe you're just going to have to go without this once?"
"Just this once."
"No promises. I'll do my best, but..."

Handy name generator

Generate names for novels and stories with this handy generator using 1990 US census data (c/o kottke)

Easy Girl

Easy Girl by c-reel.com

Stumbled across this great photo by c-reel.com, which reminded me of an essay I wrote on the subject of "First Love" for my English language 'O' level, about falling in love with a shop dummy.

It had a nice story arc, starting off with some kid falling in love with a shop dummy, being out with his girlfriend, pining for the shop dummy (don't ask - can't remember how I handled that), then realizing his girlfriend was his first love blah blah blah.

I was really chuffed with what I'd written, but convinced the examiner marking the paper would think I was a twisted nut and fail me. But I got an A. Wish I had a copy of that story.

Rules for keeping fans involved in your sf movie, book, comic, etc

c/o BoingBoing comes this great list of ideas for keeping fans involved in your work

Anything to declare?

Another piece I wrote sometime between 1988-1991, rediscovered on the waybackmachine...

What is is, and what was is.


"Anything to declare?" she asks, as she guides me from the through flow to a table bordering the green channel.

"No. Just some cigarettes," I mumble, just whoken up, sleapt on the boat back from Holland, wearing my friends jacket which makes me look rough. Rougher.

"Mind if I take a look in your rucksack?"

I have a choice? She works for customs and excise, they have the power to kick down my door and lock me away and maybe explain themselves afterwards. Like I'm going to say "No" and make a break for it.

"Sure," I say.

She opens my bag and finds the video in its garish paper bag. It would have been hard to miss it; its not one of those small compact VHS boxes, but one of those large ones. Like you get in rental stores. Right now it is my rucksack.

"What's this?" she asks. It must be a compulsory question they are taught to ask. She doesn't look stupid.

"An adult video," I reply.

"Do you know its illegal to bring adult material into the United Kingdom?"

"No..."

Our friendly by a table chat comes to an abrupt end.

I accompany her between some screens and disappear from the real world into the realm of customs and excise. I've heard about the strip searches, the rubber gloves, and the room where the toilet empties onto a conveyor belt where people in more rubber gloves have the delightful job of examining your waste products in the hope of finding products that get you wasted.

I'm escorted into a room, while the video is taken away to be viewed. The chances of it being a rip off - a couple of episodes of a Dutch soap, or an hour of a goldfish circling it's tank - are slim, and I think the cover alone is enough to convict me. A lesbian extravaganza that would drive a blind man mad. It sold me.

"Do you have any drugs on you?" A customs guy asks. The female officer has left for the moment.

There is a bag of grass in the video - they are going to have a hard time missing it - so denying that I also have hash on me seems pointless. I give it to them. Ironically, I brought it from England to Holland, and almost back again. Strange but true.

"Anything else?"

"You found the grass in the video?"

"I'm not sure, let me check..."

He returns.

"Yeah, we found the grass. Its being checked in the lab with the hash."

I'm stripped searched. It isn't too bad - I take my clothes off in front of them, they check them, and I put them back on again. No finger exploration to pop my cherry.

I'm allowed a phone call, so I call the number for the family solicitor that my Dad gave me some time ago.

"I don't practice criminal law," the solicitor says. "I'd recommend being honest with them. Do you want me to notify you father?"

Yeah, what the hell. I'm not exactly experiencing a "Salvador" James Woods situation here, but it might be useful for someone to know where I am. I'm sure a call from his solicitor saying I've been nicked for smuggling is going to make his day.

And while you're at it, could you tell me why I have your number if you don't practice criminal law, and, not being married or a house owner or in business - I hardly need a bloody solicitor who doesn't?

Never mind.

I'm taken back to a room to be interviewed by the female customs agent. She is quite attractive in a "it helps if you have a thing for women in uniforms" kind of way, and we hit it off. A friendly "I can see you don't really mind, and I'm just doing my job, so what the hell, why get heavy here?" hitting it off, not a "lets shut the door I've never done this before" hitting it off. Just in case you thought I was that good.

She has written a nice piece about how we met. She reads it to me, and its quite moving, but I correct her on one thing.

"I said I wasn't aware that it was illegal to bring hardcore pornography into the U.K."

"Are you sure?" she asks.

I know I'm carrying enough grass for a small party, but my memory isn't that bad. "Yes," I reply. In retrospect, how I missed my cue, I don't know. But there you go.

She amends the statement.

"What were you planning to do with the drugs?"

Start a major hard drugs distribution syndicate in South London, with the aim of branching out into the South West in the New Year.

"Personal use," I reply.

"Okay, and the video?"

I smile.

I was going to go home and masturbate over it for the next month, but now I'll have to make do with fantasizing about you.

"Personal use." I reply.

"Good."

Good?

She smiles and I smile and we're cool. We're adults here, after all, and I'm not thrown by the female in a position of power vibe. And she certainly isn't thrown by the typical male back from Holland vibe. It would be embaressing if she was.

They come back with the lab results on the hash and grass. Unsurprisingly - although they all found it quite amusing - the grass from Amsterdam tested higher for THC (the active ingredient) than the hash from the U.K. And they confirm the video is the genuine thing. I think one of them mentions "fisting", but probably just to wind me up.

I finish up with the female customs agent, chatting about how I became a bus driver (for I was a bus driver when this happened), and how maybe I could spend my time more productively. Getting 140 people to work each morning is what? a waste of my time and theirs? Oh, you mean being a bus driver is wasting my talents? And you've known me for how long? A hour? And you can judge me already? Gee, thanks. I'll be sure to drop by for some counselling next career change.

But this is with hindsight. At the time it was all quite civilized and pleasant, and she was genuinely apologetic when her boss came down to confirm that because I said I wasn't aware that it was illegal to import hardcore pornography, I would have to go to court. And get a criminal record as a result.

I'm not too bothered, and thank them all for their time (yeah, I'm like that) and leave.

My friend meets me outside, and we have a joint on the train back home.

A couple of weeks later, I receive a letter from them. "Pay £50 and we will drop the drugs charges. This is a one off offer." Or something to that effect. Signed "Blah blah, Chief Customs and Excise Something or Other".

I wrote back: "I would love to accept your one off not to be repeated offer of a £50 fine in exchange for the drugs charges being dropped, yours sincerely, Blah blah, Bus Driver." I enclose a £50 postal order.

I never heard anything more from them, and nothing more about the porno video. Can't think why.

The moral of this story? There isn't one. "What is is, and what was is," as someone wise once said. Okay, they didn't. I just made it up.

A Review of Battersea Police Station

I wrote this sometime between 1988-1991 for another website, and rediscovered it recently

As police cells go, Battersea Police Station's on suite selection has a lot to offer. Admittedly you are not normally given a choice of cells, but, since to a large extent they are generally the same, this isn't something to be too concerned about.

On the day I was to unexpextedly spend in a cell, I was lucky enough to be collected from my home by a couple of uniformed officers. I would imagine this service would vary depending on your circumstances. If you are lucky enough to be upgraded, no doubt you would receive the full armed response unit, battering ram, helicopters and dogs.

I was only entitled to the Economy Class service, but both officers were polite, well turned out (considering the unearthly hour - 4am), and the ride to the station in a police van was smooth and uneventfull. I would, however, advise against the use of handcuffs, as it can hinder your ability to prevent yourself sliding along the benches if the vehicle makes a sudden stop. But you may not be given a choice. I wasn't.

Upon arriving at the station, the checkin service is smooth and efficient, and the staff seemed well practiced at making it as uncomfortable and disconcerting as possible. Some of the questions they ask can be a bit more personal than you might like, but this adds a certain edge to the experience. I was surprised, but not disappointed, that no physical violence was involved, though maybe this is unique to Battersea Police Station. Your mileage may vary elsewhere. I had no accidental "falls" down staircases, and managed not to catch my head on the edge of a desk.

They have facilities for storing any items you may have brought with, such as shoe laces, any form of jewellery, money, keys and other day to day items. You will be allowed to keep cigarettes, should you be a smoker, but will not be allowed to take matches or cigarette lighters in with you as smoking is not allowed in the cells. I can appreciate this touch of irony.

Once inside the cell, you may be disappointed to find a lack of entertainment facilities. A bed, toilet, and sink is all they have to offer, and the view from the window is ruined slightly by the bars, but since the window is made with thick translucent glass that only allows strong daylight to enter the room, calling it a view would be misleading.

The only reading material is that gernerously supplied by previous occupants in the form of grafitti on the walls, floor, door, ceiling, or any other surface that can be scratched, chewed, smeared, or written on so as to leave some record of ones existance. Some of these personal comments are amusing, some lewd, some crude, some just plain incomprehensible. You would be hard pushed not to find something that would cause you stop and think. You might not be thinking very pleasant thoughts, but you would be thinking...

Breakfast is laid on, and is actually quite pleasant if you enjoy roadside cafe food. And don't think too hard about how it was prepared, and might have been through on the way to your cell. And if you can ignore your surroundings. Its surprising how messy people can be, and how someone can leave a bloody face print on a ceiling I couldn't reach is beyond me.

Anyway, I whiled away the day singing punk songs in the mistaken belief that my friends ahd also been arrested and were in neighbouring cells and I was keeping their morale up. I was to discover later that when arrested, you are all taken to your local police station, not dumped in one.

So would I recommend Battersea Police Station? I wouldn't say it was a bad place, and I imagine it ranks far higher than most Eastern Block ones, but I wouldn't choose to go there voluntarily. But then nobody does, do they?