a worthless existence

2008-12-18T11:06:00.000-08:00

The Sinner.

“That’s fighting talk,” Jimmy growled, stabbing at the wooden grate with an unsteady finger

“Ah come on now Jimmy, I said I’m a pacifist” Father O’Brien responded reassuringly.

“What-ever,” Jimmy spluttered, the large quantities of beer he had consumed doing more of the thinking than the brain.

“Could we start again now Jimmy, I think I may have lost the thread here somewhere”

“What would you know about it? You sit there preaching to me all high and mighty, you wear that collar and you think you’re bleedin God”

Sensing that this was going to be difficult, Father O’Brien took a breath and glanced up to the ceiling hoping to muster strength from his faith

“Now I can assure you Jimmy that is not the case, I act as a guide if you like, a teacher maybe, a social worker when necessary perhaps, but God? I’m not God” He added with a wry laugh.

“I don’t know why I came here” Jimmy mumbled. Father O’Brien heard the fumbling of paper in pockets, some drunken cursing and the noise of a lighter firing into action. This was predictably followed by the waft of cigarette smoke. Father O’Brien, airing on the side of caution, decided to let the matter go.

“Honour and obey, ha, fat chance! What does the bible know, what do you know about it for that matter?”

“I can assure you Jimmy” The Priest snapped sternly “I am no different from you or any body else, the collar shouldn’t be seen as a barrier between us but as a sign of our friendship. The church is your salvation, it is a place of celebration in the community for everybody, and for some people,” he paused briefly, hoping to reach out to Jimmy, “It is the only place left for them to turn”

Jimmy didn’t answer and a little while passed in silence. Father O’Brien considered it a blessing and only hoped he hadn’t passed out or been sick. The last thing he could do with on a Saturday night was wrestling another drunken parishioner out while he scrubbed the confessional box into the wee small hours. It was such an unsavoury task and the vestry always seemed to carry the memory of it for a few days.

It was a problem, he knew, that was a symptom of a deprived northern town where alcohol was king. It also sometimes, like today, had the strange effect of bringing the drunken guilty to the church. But that was his task.

“I’m sorry Father.” Jimmy finally announced after a long pause, “Forgive me, for I have sinned”

“Well, that’s more like it now Jimmy.” Father O’Brien answered happy that he was finally getting into the swing of the old routine. He loved confessionals; it was truly one of the best parts of the Priesthood. What some housewives would give for a seat with him here at ringside; the things he heard were solid gold, real Woman’s Weekly stuff.

He made himself comfortable “James, in the eyes of Our Lord Jesus Christ, confess your sins so that you may be absolved.”

“I’m afraid I’ve done something terrible”

“Go on” Father O’Brien encouraged

“In your confessional box father” Jimmy continued.

Father O’Brien, took stock of the situation, pausing briefly to catch his breath.

The gut wrenching odour poured punishingly through the curtain indicating that Jimmy, who may be guilty of a great many offences, was evidently no liar.

It took a little while for Father O’Brien to gain spiritual guidance and stop his eyes from watering. Wistfully he clamped a folded napkin to his nose and lit the benediction oil.

“Jimmy” he spluttered, feeling shorter of breath by the minute “you have confessed your sins with God as your witness, and to gain absolution of your sins, for your penance” he gagged again for a second struggling to catch his breath “I give you nine hundred Our Fathers and nine hundred Hail Mary’s, to be completed outside of the church. You may now leave in Gods blessing”

Father O’Brien waited. There was no response from Jimmy until finally he heard shallow snores followed by a loud and familiar crash.

2008-12-17T11:57:00.000-08:00

The Barbarians

“Who were the Barbarians then?” George asked pressing his cigarette butt firmly into the ashtray with his thumb and blowing the last remnants of smoke high into the already smoke filled lounge bar. His fingerers stained noticeably yellow from years of heavy smoking crushed the last remnants of life from the butt folding the battered filter over on itself on the ashtrays rim.

“They were Tommy McArdles crew from over on the Upton Estate. That’s what they first called themselves before Frank Grady joined them” Terry replied pulling the ashtray a little nearer to himself across the pub table and dabbing a now extensive tower of ash onto the mountain of stale cigarette ends.

“So when did Frank appear?” George enquired. His natural instincts of Police investigation flooded back for the first time since retirement and gave him a sudden thrill he hadn’t felt in years

“Must have been about 1955, 56” Terry snapped back quickly in his thick Cockney voice wincing as he blew smoke into his eye, “ He was brought in just as a member of the gang. Tommy was the boss back then; Frank was his cousin and Tommy had invited him to join the gang. Nobody messed with Tommy God rest his soul. He was the same at school, you must remember, tough as old boots he was even as a nipper. Here’s Billy now, he’d tell you, he knew Frank better than anyone”

“Here we go, let the dog see the rabbit” Billy quipped “Good health” Billy announced jovially placing the drinks down carefully on the vacant beer mats and pulling up a stool.
“How we doing then George?” Billy asked sitting himself down heavily “Long time no see?” George felt a twinge of discomfort. Of all the old gang, he felt most wary of Billy.

George was a new addition to Terry and Bills regular Monday Club at the Hammer & Pincers. But today was no ordinary Monday. As an ex-Policeman George was treated with a sense of caution, not because they had anything left to hide, but more borne from habit.

“I was just telling George about Tommy and Frank.” Terry explained staring across at Billy with his brow furrowed careful with his choice of words. Terry had jet black, slicked back hair, the style of which he had not altered in fifty years or more. He had bright green eyes that belied his advancing years giving him a youthful friendly appearance; his face on the other hand carried all the hallmarks of a full and hard life. George had a much softer complexion by comparison; friendly and old with dark brown cask conditioned eyes you would guess were incapable of lies. There was a redness to his nose and cheeks that suggested a love affair with whisky.

“What’s your interest all of a sudden?” Billy asked sincerely but with just a hint of menace that came not through any deliberate attempt to intimidate but more from involuntary instinct. Billy could look menacing in his sleep. A stocky deep-set man decorated in tattoos gold chains and rings. A thick grey thatch of hair and a neatly trimmed beard framed his narrow, mean eyes and weather beaten face. It was only when Billy took out his foldaway spectacles to read the Racing Post that a softer side emerged, a weakness that was reassuringly warming.

“I worked these streets long enough Billy, same as you.” George replied defensively, lowering his gaze, “ Only difference is we were on different sides, that’s all. Don’t see how that really matters anymore though, I went school with them all, grew up with them all same as you”
“Its okay, were all friends” Terry jumped in sensing a heightened tension about to threaten the afternoon, “I’m sure Billy didn’t mean it in a bad way did you Bill?” Terry offered resting a hand on Georges arm for just a second, but long enough to register. George lifted his head and returned a small smile of gratitude.

“Lets put it down to my suspicious nature, can’t teach an old dog like me new tricks. Never trusted the old bill then and still don’t trust em now, no offence to you Georgie”
“Lot of water passed since then Bill” Terry added “ were all older and wiser, were not bloody kids anymore” He added picking up his pint dealing the first damaging blow into its frothy head.

“We were all still kids when Frank first appeared” Billy offered unexpectedly. He paused while a third of the pint disappeared in one go, wiping his mouth and admiring his work Billy continued “he was a bit older than us by two or three years, always had money and the ladies loved him of course. I suppose we all looked up to him in our own way. But that confidence of his had a ruthless side to it. We were just kids running little rackets with Tommy at first, no real harm in it, a few pennies here a few there we were just playing, you remember them days George, even you ran with us back then. But it all started to change with Frank. He was tough, not like Tommy tough but tough in a different way, he was smarter, shrewd but most of all he was mean. Looking back it was only a matter of time till he took over, I think its what Tommy wanted, take the pressure of expectation off him maybe”

A silence seemed to descend over the table like an all-consuming mist each left with their own private thoughts while they made in roads into their drinks. The jukebox fired up and some song that none of them could name started playing. The door opened and a few mourners filed in. Nods of recognition and respect were exchanged George kept his head down.

The Hammer and Pincers was an old fashioned tired looking place with a threadbare carpet, high ceilings, curtains that had not seen the inside of a washing machine for years and old fashioned paint flaking wall paper. The sign at the front boasted pub meals though in honesty the place wasn’t fit for dining and was barely fit for drinking in. Back in the day this had been the hang out, this was where the Barbarians met when it was a popular and thriving pub, they as good as owned the place back then. They had continued to do so through the years. The busy trade had long since died along with the Barbarians reputation, the pub, like its inhabitants, felt like it was ready for demolition. Every inch of the fabric of the place was held together with memories. Billy and Terry couldn’t help gazing round, the pictures on the wall, the old jukebox, the pool table, everything was reminiscent of a bygone era preserved in dust.

“I’ll warn you now George, some of the boys might not be too pleased to see you at the service” Billy announced, finally breaking the painful silence as if it had been welling up inside of everyone, just waiting to be said
“Come on Billy lets not.” But George jumped in interrupting Terry’s diplomacy, it had to be said and under the circumstances he supposed Billy was the right man to say it. “Its okay Terry, he’s right.” George answered; he had made his choice over forty years ago when they were all innocent young friends together. They chose their path and he had chosen his and he would have to live with it.

An uncomfortable silence returned to the table, a feeling that George knew he would have to get used to all-day. As a Police Officer he had been part of something. Something that had given him purpose in life, he had never married, ‘married to the force’ was the long-standing joke in the Met but once retirement crow barred its way into his life everything just suddenly stopped. He found himself pottering round the house and garden never seeing a person from one day to the next. Life began to take on a mundane empty routine that George was struggling to cope with. Of course there were clubs for ex Police personnel and he had even attended a function or two but deep down they weren’t his scene. He never liked dressing up for a night out, in his day there had been a social club for the local PC’s he had frequented after a shift but as time went on he seemed to know fewer and fewer of the people who drank there.

The pub began to fill up, George watched as a sea of half recognisable and unfamiliar faces poured in, all dressed in black. He recognised different faces for different reasons. A sullen clamour of voices echoed around the room, he could feel the eyes of fellow mourners boring into him, he could hear their whispers he knew he was unwelcome, un-wanted. He felt uncomfortable and the air seemed to be getting hotter.
“I might step outside for some air” George suggested rising to his feet but Terry grabbed him sharply by the coat sleeve and pulled him back down recognising his discomfort

“What good will that do, your with us, you’ll be okay” Terry was right, outside or inside George knew he would always be an outsider in this world, on the streets he had grown up on and with the people he had grown up with.
“He was always good to me, Tommy was, even after I sent Frank down. He would never tell any of you but he would still call on me from time to time”

Nobody spoke. There wasn’t much else to say. The pub door opened “The cars here” a voice called in. All around glasses were drained in haste; Billy, Terry and George did like wise and picked up their coats. It was cold outside and it was likely to be a long afternoon. A few mourners shook hands with Terry and Billy, exchanging pleasantries and offering condolences.
“Ill just use the toilet before we go” George said as people began making their way toward the waiting cars.

_______________________________

2008-11-13T05:57:00.000-08:00

WAITING

David hated waiting. Even in the supermarket waiting for his wife David would become restless and look for ways of amusing himself sneaking boxes of Durex into unsuspecting shoppers trolleys unnoticed. An Economics degree and wealth came easily; after all this was David’s niche, it wasn’t work. Where friends had married, found employment and accepted the rat race as the norm David had siezed an opportunity in New York making a name for himself as an aggressive dealer of futures. ‘You make your own luck in this world’ he would tell anyone who would listen, ‘if you want something you just gotta go and take it’ was David’s motto.
His second wife had pleaded with him to wait a year or two until they had started a family but ‘you’ve got to strike while the irons hot’ he’d told her without an ounce of emotion.
The nineties were a boom time and David couldn’t wait. It was profitable bringing in amphetamines cheap from the UK for the inflated US market, they were hedonistic days and the money just kept rolling in with David at the center of it all. But boom times don’t last forever, economics should have taught him that much. With his Court case set for Christmas, David would just have to wait.

2008-11-07T05:03:00.000-08:00

Looking Down

1.

Peering down from his kitchen window David could see the first ominous decaying signs of autumn’s impending arrival. It was a bright, early September morning on Lexington Avenue, an affluent address on Manhattans much sought after Upper East Side and its position, lodged neatly between Central park and the East River, meant it felt the chill quicker than most.
It was early, his second wife Jayne, tall, blonde and every bit the trophy wife, was still sleeping though Manhattan had long since roared into life. Its rush hour traffic growled past impatiently sending cascades of brown red leaves dancing and scurrying in its wake through the crisp morning air. A knock at the door snapped David out of his morning daze
‘Just a second’ he shouted realising he couldn’t answer the door in his shorts.
‘Shit’ he cursed spilling coffee up his arm in his haste to find some clothes.
‘Who’s knocking at this time of the morning?’ Jayne groaned shielding her eyes from the light that now poured into the bedroom
‘How do I know’ David snapped scrambling his feet clumsily into his joggers whilst half hopping half walking to the door. The knock came again this time with force and determination. David stopped dead in his tracks this was no ordinary knock; this was a knock that meant business.

2.

Blexhiem Bros. was a corporate giant, one of the biggest Stockbrokers in New York and David, like most, started at the bottom. The Blexhiem offices were located in a grand imposing Gothic stone building on Lincoln Plaza. Walking through those revolving glass doors on his first day dollar signs quickly replaced pound signs in his wide glazed eyes, the whole place oozed success.
‘Here, follow me’ a voice called from reception
‘You must be David, you’ll be working here, this is your phone and phone book, give me a shout when you’ve earned me some money!” He looked around. There were people everywhere on phones. Pacing backwards and forwards arms waving frantically, some crouched on the floor, others feet up on desks all barking angrily like a sea of hungry geese. David learned fast, the more calls the more leads the more leads the more money it was a numbers game and no place to make friends. In the boiler room (as it was known) the weak were killed and eaten.
Roger Bellson sat along side David. He was mid forties but with a face looking long past retirement. David had taken to arriving at six am to catch the West coast markets early and Roger always ran in at eight.
“Anyone biting?” Roger would ask, desperately hoping for leads like a fisherman scouting the best pegs. David would lie, not wanting to share whatever markets he had his net in. Rodger had a certain desperation to his style that screamed ‘I got the bank breathing down my neck give me a break!’ When Rog’ left at night David would still be there to siphon what ever leads Rog’ had made. He knew it was curtains for Roger anyway, he didn’t earn enough and Blexhiem carried nobody so who was he hurting? It was the law of the boiler room.
One morning Rodger didn’t show, his desk was empty and new blood was brought in to replace him, David felt nothing, after all business was business.
3.

David and Jayne moved into the prestigious Barbizon Condominium on the corner of East 63rd Street and Lexington some eighteen months later. They viewed the fourth floor corner apartment and fell in love with it immediately. It wasn’t just a fabulous home it was a status symbol. The address alone told people you were a somebody.
“Oh my God David, can we afford this?” Jayne had squealed spinning round in her little girl style.
“ Oh I think we can just about manage it” David winked understanding that the ‘we’ meant him. “Blexhiems been pretty good to us of late” he continued smiling and hugging her as she fell into him in delight, understanding that the ‘us’ meant him and that Blexhiem Bros. were not solely responsible for his good fortunes.
Since starting in the boiler room David had progressed into the upper floors. Corporate bathroom keys within reach, champagne lunches and of course long hours. At this level everything seemed possible. Stood on the Blexhiem balcony smoking a cigar, David looked down and surveyed his city, he felt very powerful; life had been very kind along the way and Manhattan’s nightscape sprawled out beneath him like a huge fairy lit playground.

4.

There were two simple philosophies for the big traders at Blexhiem, buy on rumours, sell on facts and work hard, play hard, David followed both to the letter. The Blexhiem social scene was legendary. Money was everywhere, there wasn’t a place in town they weren’t welcome and anything went. He started seeing less and less of Jayne, the more he earned the longer he worked, the longer he worked the harder he partied
“I never see you anymore” she would complain from time to time tired of his elusive lifestyle but a little attention and a lot of cash went a long way to pouring water on her bonfire.
Most of the big cat traders survived on a heady diet of speed and cocaine to survive, but to let the hair down LSD and Ecstasy were definitely the favourites and they commanded top dollars. Drugs were hot property. David saw the price of a tablet in the US compared to the two a penny price they commanded on Liverpool’s streets and dollar signs snapped up again in his eyes. Jayne’s visits home became the perfect guise for regular shipments so discreet even Jayne didn’t know she was smuggling them. The traders ate more tablets than laboratory beagles smoked cigarettes and the money rolled at him like an avalanche.
5.

“David what’s the matter, who is it?” Jayne called again from the bedroom this time with laudable angst and fear in hr voice. But David for once in his life had no answer. Before he could summon up any sort of answer the door like his New York dream came crashing down around him.

_______________________________________________

2008-10-02T13:24:00.000-07:00

">There was a discernable atmosphere in the office when I arrived. This wasn’t unusual for a Tuesday, the day before the paper goes to press, but there was something else in the air and I didn’t like the smell of it.

‘Bonney, get in here’ Mr Scullard bellowed from his office. Sophie threw me a sympathetic ‘good luck’ kind of shrug and I could tell, even from the back of Brashmans head he was grinning, even the back of his hair looked smug.

I entered Scullards lair, politely knocking first

‘Come in’ he grunted, barely looking up over his half moon spectacles that looked frankly ridiculous soaked up in his walrus like face. He was sat all fat and pompous behind his mahogany veneer desk completely swamping the leather ‘executives’ desk chair from Ikea with his pin striped enormous behind. He was staring down at some papers and wouldn’t have looked out of place with an apple wedged in his mouth.

‘There’s a complaint Bonney, and your going to have to put your very best grovelling trousers on to get out of the mess.’ He said, removing the spectacles so they hung on their string round his neck (a thing I have always hated) ‘Your article about the gay couple caught organising the dogging down on the common, you remember it?’

‘Yes’ I said with some surprise I remember it, it was a hit, they even had a parking plan with ‘gay and display’ tickets we received a endless influx of letters supporting us calling for the dirty bastards to be castrated to quote just one of the many supportive letters, I blew the thing wide open’

‘Yes well that’s as maybe but you used a photograph of Councillors Deegan and McKenzie in the article that should have been for the County Fields clean up scheme and now they want you blown wide open.’ His voice seething and struggling not to explode. I could see the famous vein throbbing in Scullards temple.‘ They have been unable to leave their homes for a fortnight and Councillor Deegan apparently can’t wash the excrement off the doors and windows as fast as it is appearing! We need an apology a good one and fast! I am getting to the end of my tether with you Bonney; you’re a complete and utter turd. Now get out of my sight.’ On the whole it went pretty well.

2008-07-21T12:52:00.001-07:00

5.

The Nazi story turned out to be a complete wash out. There had been reports of racist and nazi activities at St Michaels Social Club on Wednesday afternoons, (tea and biscuits provided). I entered their ‘lair’ with a due sense of apprehension at what I might find. I prepared myself for goose stepping skin heads running a mock and was astonished to be greeted by my Aunt Nell sat there with Aunty Annie, Mrs Kilgannon from Lacey Street who used to baby sit me, and a sea of elderly, yet relatively familiar faces from various funerals, weddings and such like I had attended through the years. This Nazi rally must had the most formidable wealth of knitting and cake baking talent the Third Reich had ever witnessed. Even Mrs Patel who used to run the corner shop was there with her sister Rhanviar. I sensed instinctively that I had not unearthed the soft white underbelly, the ‘Eagles Nest’, of racist extremism in Farndon.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked Aunt Annie in a bewildered tone, still struggling to comprehend what I was witnessing. There wasn’t a swastika in sight, not even a knitted one.
‘Were just helping Mr Bloodworth with the by-election love’ she answered as if it was the most natural thing in the world ‘would you like a cup of tea?’
‘But he’s a BNP candidate!’ I spat hoping that perhaps the penny would drop
‘He’s promised to do up the Community Centre and look after the pensioners, just what this town needs’
‘But, what about Mrs Patel and Rhanviar?’ I tried hoping to bring some sense to the madness ‘ Oh it gets them out of the house, they’re friends of Mrs Kilgannons and they don’t get out much these days. It’s not right them being cooped up in that flat all day and they do love the bingo.’
I was gob-smacked; there was no way I was reporting that my own family were at the hub of the fleece-lined gumboot wearing ‘Jerry’ –atrics! Even if the anchor line appealed to me enormously.
‘Doesn’t Mrs Patel think its, well, a bit racist?’
‘No, they don’t mean people like Mrs Patel and Rhanviar, they’re after the illegal immigrants, too many of them coming in you know, this country’s going to the dogs. Mrs Patel’s more British than you.’
I had to get out; I finished my cup of tea, dropped three custard creams into my pocket (noticing the distinct lack of bourbon creams) and jumped the number 13 to the office.

2008-07-21T12:24:00.002-07:00

4.

I woke late next day. I heard my phone ringing somewhere in the house. It was 10am, I was meant to be reporting on a local BNP or Nazi meeting I’d been given a lead on and my head felt clumsy. I had agreed to a couple of quiet pints but hadn’t banked on the half dozen rowdy ones that quickly followed them down. Breakfast was a step too far. I made a cup of strong tea and turned on the radio. The phone rang again, there was no way it would be good news so I left it. I turned on the computer, no new leads as yet just reminders and an email off Jez. I opened it; it was exactly the same e-mail as he had sent yesterday; only this time, it made sense! The heavy night, the barring and the black eye, it all made sense, it was unbelievable. I looked for the e-mail from yesterday, it had gone. I had definitely not imagined it. Jez’s prediction had somehow come true.

2008-07-21T12:24:00.001-07:00

3.

The Coach and Horses has always been there, and the people who frequent it always seemed to have been there too. It is an old-fashioned, large, red brick building with small leaded windows and a familiar, strangely heart-warming smell of stale ale and cigarettes. The dusty sign on the wall read ‘smart dress essential’ the one below it advertised live sky sports and below that ‘smoking permitted throughout’. Despite the smoking ban the back door was rarely closed with the succession of smokers forming some kind of endless Olympic relay team back and to. As a result there was as much smoke in the pub as being blown out. Upon entering the bar it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Jez was at the bar. The landlord: John: a grumpy sort, gave me an inquisitive, disinterested and vaguely disappointed look. Jez had taken the liberty of ordering me a lager, £1.50, it was happy hour!
John had been the landlord for as long as I could remember and was a unique character. He was the only landlord I knew who actually resented his customers. He resented the money they earned, he resented the cars they owned, he resented them coming into his pub. John was a huge, balding man in his fifties. He had hands like shovels and preferred to do as little as possible. In his prime he had been a professional Rugby League player for a top club. He had even been to Wembley, but had earned little from it except a reputation and a twisted nose. He was an insufferable gambler and not a good one. To win on the fruit machine after John had spent the day filling it out of his own pocket was playing with fire; it would be safer to have been caught in bed with his wife reading his racing post. Some of the regulars at the bar, each day, were younger than John and retired, John feigned friendship with them and they with him but when backs were turned there was a mutual loathing. He put up with them for the money they brought in and they put up with John, well, because they had to. John’s wife was Jean, she was often in the background and they seemingly made a good couple, on the surface. But deep down everyone knew that this was a show they put on for the customers to disguise a marriage that had been dead for years. Johns gambling, drinking, infidelity and violent temper had taken its toll on their relationship and it was only that fact that they were too old, too ugly and too scared to go their separate ways that had held them together. Rumour had it that she had caught him in a compromising position with a bar maid on the pool table one night, after hours, and had broken a porcelain ashtray over his head. No one knows for sure. The only thing I know is that I never dared ask him. John was renowned through out the town as a man not to tangle with.
I ordered two more pints and decided to hunt for a seat. I sensed from the swarms of Liverpool shirt wearing drinkers pouring through the doors glaring expectantly at the big screen that the quiz was off.
Half pissed thirsty drinkers were loading their rickety tables to near breaking point, table legs buckling under a sea of pints. The bar was three deep and the whole place a deafening clamour of drunken conversations battling like hungry seagulls to be the loudest.Jez found a seat in an enviable position. A spacious table 'benefiting from front and rear seating located in close proximity, and with easy access, to both the TV and the bar. A desirable and much sought after location ideal for the first time drinker.'Skin heads, Polo shirts, classic trainers and jeans jostled all around us. Everyone in there could have been brothers. Their conversation was typically loud and crude. A good early start on the beers had ensured that the language would be as course and raw as anywhere in the town. An hour to kick off and there was a salient air of both anxiety and anticipation mixing with the already beer fuelled mercurial atmosphere.
I was arguing with Jez over who’s round it was with the fags when a voice boomed in our direction;“Oi! You used to pick on me at school didn’t you?”Jez always cocksure, span round grinning with an unlit fag pursed between his lips to discover the question had been aimed his way. Stood before him there loomed a colossus of a man. Shaven headed leaving only the very merest suggestion as to his hairs natural blonde colour. Arms like concrete battering rams welded together across a barrel sized chest. Jez’s grin drained agonisingly from his face and the fag drooped and lolled flaccidly against his now sagging chin. Trying to regain his composure Jez weighed up his options. Being of a light build he had only one discernable advantage over this Goliath; speed. But penned into a crowded boozer he mentally concluded he was buggered.“Fuck off” He spat, removing the fag from his face “ as if id pick on you, look at the size of you”“Yeah, you did, you picked on me at school, I remember” Goliath came back. A sly smirk swept slowly across his moon like face, eyes narrowed menacingly indicating the impending danger. Goliath took a step nearer to our table willing him to squirm. An apology or an offer of the beverage of Goliaths preference might go some way to mending the old wounds I thought but Jez, not always one for logical thought patterns, broke with usual protocol and rather gamely offered“Fuck off, if anyone’s the bully round here its you. Look at you stood there flexing your steroid pumped arms thinking your it, do us a favour and piss off!” Goliaths teeth clenched in morbid rage.I’m not sure whether Jez saw or felt the blow that swept so briskly across his face. His bottom jaw seemed to spring across the lounge bar like a till drawer opening and then savagely snapping shut. With a customary rolling of the eye balls into the back of his head Jez’s seat suddenly became temporarily available and Goliath melted back into the throng of delighted on lookers. The perfect aperitif to the big match, and the end of our night. The landlord, apparently a friend of Goliath, deemed the affray to be our fault and barred us both.

2008-07-21T12:23:00.001-07:00

2.

I should have twigged right of when I got home that something wasn’t right, but I didn’t. Outwardly everything appeared normal. I’d left the milk on the step for the magpies to devour, as normal, and the front door was practically barricaded shut under the sheer weight of charity clothing bags and pizza menu’s that had been shovelled through my letterbox. I remember sensing something briefly; I couldn’t put my finger on it and was quickly distracted by the urge to turn Noel Edmonds off the television before I became unexplainably hooked to Deal or No Deal and kissed goodbye to the next hour of my life.

The warm afternoon sun surged painfully through the half moon, stained window of the front door bathing the hallway in a warm balmy glow. Though an old Victorian terrace the front door belied the large spacious interior hidden beyond. I’d bought the place three years ago for its redevelopment potential. I’d seen too many morning makeover shows, though it still had the potential. Knowing Scullard was on the warpath for my reports I turned to the computer to see what new assignments I’d been blessed with. There were the usual deadline warnings I’d set myself, reminders, invitations to take out loans that I could never pay off even if I had the life span of a giant tortoise, a new e-mail off Sophie and a lead to interview an old lady from Birkdale Road who had painstakingly clipped her hedge into the shape of a cockerel. Not the most fascinating journalism in the world but at least I had an interesting headline in mind! I decided to read Sophie’s first. I was insanely optimistic it may have bee some heartfelt outpouring of her hidden feelings toward me sent in a moment of drunken sincerity. Predictably it was as soul destroyingly work related as ever, helpfully reminding me of the bi-monthly team meeting next week. I decided to shy away from the rest of the work mails noticing instead that my mate, drinking buddy and pulling pal Jez had mailed me. Jez, and I had been mates since school. His life had gradually spiralled down hill since leaving college gravitating from one awful job to the next, unable to find a girlfriend and now stuck in a sorry, shameful rut of fast food, drink and internet pornography. He was the one thing in life that made me feel good about myself! The mail was confusing, even for Jez. It suggested a night of drink-fuelled madness the previous evening, which had culminated in a barring from whatever pub we had supposedly disgraced ourselves in and a black eye. I decided not to play along and text him to meet up as tonight was our usual mid-week drinking evening. The Coach and Horse for the pub quiz, a few rounds of light ales and a watchful eye for ladies of a certain temperament.

2008-07-21T12:21:00.000-07:00

1.

I caught the 13 bus back from town. I remember that. It was raining and the windows on the bus had steamed up the way they always do when it rains. I shuffled my way up to the top deck trying to avoid eye contact with anybody. The air smelt stale and sweaty. There was a vacant seat, which I took quickly and strategically positioned my bag next to me on the seat to discourage others from sitting there. I wiped the condensation off the window with my jacket sleeve and watched the people down below huddled tight to the shop fronts against the relentless downpour. Something whistled past my ear and I heard schoolboys laughing. Otherwise everything was normal.

When I first trained as a journalist I didn’t envisage myself catching the bus with the common herd. I saw myself as a serious investigative journalist uncovering the truth, exposing the big stories ‘excuse me Prime Minister, Nathan Bonney, BBC’, instead I find myself getting the bus to report on a bring and buy sale at a village hall which was far more bring than buy. I think people took it as an excuse to dump rubbish they had been meaning to dispose of for years. Anything that was of any actual value the women of the W.I ensured disappeared into mysterious bags under the fold away tables never to be seen again. These were the women who attended wakes, drinking tea while expertly scanning the homes of the deceased for items of value.

I got off on Albert Street and remember dashing for the office, holding the bag above my head for shelter. The Farndon Herald offices are a grim three-room operation above a greengrocer. The front door is old and worn; it reminds me of a Lowry painting hanging on its brass, part painted hinges; the window frosted, flaking and rotten. I kicked the door shut behind me with my heel and headed up the steep, narrow staircase to the office. It was quiet. I hung my jacket up on the peg and slinked to my desk past the editor’s office. ‘Bonney! Get in here!’ Mr Scullards familiar whiskey voice boomed without even looking up from his enormous desk.
Britland Scullard has run the Farndon Herald for as long as anyone can remember. A large, overbearing man with a huge barrel chest. The first thing that struck you was the jewellery. Four or five big gold rings, a huge gold bracelet with a large pocket-watch tucked into the pocket of his red waistcoat. I knocked tentatively and entered.
‘These articles Bonney, should have been on my desk at 10am, Its, what, ‘ he put his glasses that were hung on a string round his neck up to his reddening face and squinted at the clock that emerged from his pocket, ‘Three O’clock Bonney. This is no good at all; I can’t have people sat about waiting for when you’re damn well good and ready. If they are not on time next week your on the obituaries and classifieds for a month. Do I make myself clear?’
The obituaries and classified ads are the domain of the admin staff, the office junior, the monkey. They are a painstaking and thankless task that leaves your eyes throbbing and your brain numb. When I left Mr Scullards office Sophie had arrived and was at her desk. Sophie McCloud is another journalist, pretty with bob length auburn hair and always, always wears a cardigan. She has a kind of teachers pet; prefect look to her that I think is fantastic.
‘Another rollicking Nathan?’ she asked with a wry cute smile that showed off the dimples in her cheeks.
‘What’s new?’ I shrugged ‘I come to expect it. I always get the most mind numbing local tittle-tattle to report on while his favourite- Sebastian ‘golden balls’ gets all the juicy headlines.’ Sebastian was the other reporter in the office, Sebastian Brashman, by far the out and out favourite of Scullard. He was tall and slim, oozed good breeding, good looks, a hit with the ladies a sharp dresser and what’s more I suspected Sophie fancied him. There really was no question about it I loathed Sebastian Brashman.

2007-02-27T05:54:00.000-08:00

THE DOG SHIT WAR.

(Kitchen scene, woman washing the dishes, mans voice comes from outside the kitchen as he approaches.)

Keith: “I don’t sodding believe it, It’s beggars bloody belief. I’ve not ten minutes since manicured that lawn it’s took me all bloody morning, I go back to have a look and what do you thinks there?”

Sylvia: “I don’t know Keith but im certain your gonna tell me”

Keith: “ A shite! Bold as brass sat there right in the flaming middle of my fucking lawn, starin up at me! That bastard next door, he does it on purpose”

Sylvia: “Jesus Keith give it a rest, its all I hear from your bloody mouth these days, the constant niggling with the neighbours”

(keith scurries off still muttering)

Keith: “Hes an arsehole Sylvia. A complete and utter arsehole.”

(pause while Sylvia sighs and carries on pottering sorting out food)
(Keith returns with a massive turd on a shovel into the kitchen)

Keith: “Look would you. Look at the size of the thing, that’s not a dog he’s got it’s a fucking donkey, its nothing but an industrial shitting machine.”

Sylvia: “Get it out of the kitchen. Your bloody stupid, What sort of person brings a turd into a kitchen where someone’s preparing food. Your going crackers”

Keith: “And what it did to our Trixy was an absolute abomination. How in the name of bloody hell can a Great Dane mate with a Schitzu? It nothing short of bloody rape. Even the vet said he had never seen puppies like them, they were fucking freaks we couldn’t give them away. Who in the right mind would want to be seen walking something like that? They were like rats on stilts! He’s done this on purpose, he could see me out there this morning breaking my back over that garden and he’s waited until I’ve gone in and sent that arsehole on legs out. Why cant he have a normal dog like our Trixy, oh no he has to get a fucking Great Dane. Well he can have his shit back.”

(Keith takes the turd outside and catapults it over the fence)

(cut to the neighbour kitchen, Ron and Jean. Similar set up. Turd hits the flags)

Ron: ”Jesus, what the fuck was that?

Jean: “I don’t know was it a bird?”

(Ron goes out to inspect)

Ron: “No bird could drop a shite like that Jean, it was that prick
next door. He’s got a flaming screw lose. Why he cant act like a normal human being instead of a complete tit all the time is beyond me. His cat comes in our garden and must bury three tonnes of shite a year in my flower bed, not to mention the number of gallons of piss it floods the lawn with, and that stupid little excuse for a dog yapping twenty four hours a day, I know he lets it shit behind my shed. Well two can play at that game.”

Jean: “ I wish you two would put a stop to this and act like grown ups for once in your lives. You spend more time working out ways of getting at each
other than getting on with your lives, its like an obsession.. No wonder he hates you, like that time he was clearing up the leaves from his front, you deliberately hid all that dog muck amongst it so he would get it all over his hands, its disgusting behaviour.”

Ron: “Nothing more than he deserves. I mean what kind of man actually goes to the trouble of sprinkling crushed up Alka Seltzas onto someone else’s lawn and then sits and waits for rain. He has got a screw lose I tell you.

Jean: “well if you hadn’t have fed his dog with a pound of laxative
chocolate before he drove off to his caravan in Wales maybe he wouldn’t have. Sylvia said the car stunk for weeks, they had to have it scrapped in the end because they couldn’t sell it. That poor couple , I cant imagine what it must have been like driving down the A55 with that awful smell. Sylvia was sick everywhere, she doesn’t have a strong stomach at the best of times. Now go out and clean up that shit before it stains the flags and don’t send it back over!”

(Back to Keiths Kitchen)

Keith: “ There we go he’s coming out, he’s seen it, get back he’s looking over”

Sylvia: “ill do no such thing, I have nothing to hide from and I’m certain he wont think that shit had anything to do with me.

Keith: “ No he will just take the chance to leer at you again as he always does. He’s nothing but a bloody pervert”

(Sylvia picks up the washing and takes it out to the line)

Ron: “Afternoon Sylvia”

Sylvia: “Afternoon Ron, how’s Jean?”

Ron: “ She’s fine, she doesn’t have a three foot stripe of dog shit on the flags to scrape up. I suppose this is the work of your
Keith?”

Sylvia: “I’m staying out of your antics, the pair of you are as daft as each other, you shouldn’t be allowed to keep dogs the pair of you. This fence is like a tennis net this past twelve months with shit going back and forth; you wouldn’t think you were in your forties. Tell Jean I was asking about her.”

(Sylvia returns in. Fade in out. Later on in the day. Keith and Sylvia’s
house)

Keith: “Is that tea on Syl? I’m starving. If you get crackin now we can sit and watch Dancing on Ice and I’ve got A Place In The Sun on tape from yesterday as well that we still haven’t watched. Apparently it’s a couple of snobs from London wanting to get away from the ‘rat race’, again! And I’ll bet they don’t put an offer in on any of the houses in the end. Its all a swiz to get a free holiday.”

Sylvia: “You still watch it every day Keith and your only peeved because they haven’t rang you to go on. I saw you filled in the application on line. It was ridiculous, no wonder they haven’t rang you, they can see right through your application, as if they are gonna believe that we are in any position to trade in our Terraced house in Widnes for a Villa in the Bahamas to escape the hustle and bustle of urban life. You live in a dream world.”

(Sylvia picks up the empty washing basket and heads out to bring in the
washing)

Keith: “You never know. Its worth a go to get away from dickhead next door anyway.”

(Keith messes with the pans in the kitchen while Sylvia takes down the
washing. She is stretching up un pegging knickers and smalls, her boobs
look good in the thin cotton tee shirt and Keith looks across to see if the
neighbour is leering. He spots him at the bottom of his garden at the shed
window seemingly pleasuring himself looking at Sylvia. He bursts out livid.)

Keith: “Oy!! You dirty little get, what in Christ’s name do you think your doing you wretched man, wanking in your shed watching my wife’s? You disgust me you really. .”

(stops)

(Ron comes out of the shed still holding the hand saw and piece of wood he had been sawing in the shed and Keith’s face drops as he realises his mistake)

Ron: “What? You have lost your mind, you need fucking certifying mate, stay away from me, you hear? Sylvia, you must be a fucking saint putting up with that cretin! Dickhead!

(Ron dashes into the house)

Sylvia: “Get in!” (angry and embarrassed tone)
I’ve never been so embarrassed in all of my life. The whole neighbourhood would have heard that, what on earth will people think of us? How can I look Jean in the eye after this, after you accusing him of.. of.. God I feel sick, I cant even say the words.”

(uncomfortable silence)

Keith: “Dancing on Ice will be starting in a minute, we better get the dinner on”

(Keith exits. Fade)

2006-02-12T08:29:00.000-08:00

Dear Douggie

Doug stabbed the key at the lock repeatedly. He cursed as it missed the hole and scraped the metal. The icy December wind rattled fence panels and showered the area with the towns discarded litter. Doug thought about the warmth of the Hammer and Pincers he had left behind.
With one final lurch the key stumbled its way into the lock and the door swung open violently, propelled by the howling gale. After a short but hectic battle with the key Doug heaved his ample body against the back of the door and stubbornly barricaded it shut.
The dark hallway was comfortingly calm. Doug could feel the beer warm inside him and longed to return to the pub. He stumbled, struggling to kick off his worn out, battered working boots. Leaning against the wall he released a gut-wrenchingly gastronomic roar (swearing illegibly under his breath) as he strained down, one leg raised unsteadily, to untie the boot. Doug battled but the boot remained stubborn. With one almighty heave the boot relented and fired like a cannon ball against the door, disappearing into the gloomy darkness. Doug sprawled helplessly against the stairs on his back. The light blue fabric of his jeans turning an ominously familiar dark shade of blue around the legs.
"Fucking cunt!"
Doug clawed himself up the wall indignantly, searching blindly for the light switch, his spare hand slapping desperately about the wall until, click, and the hall was illuminated.
"Sandra! Oi Sandra, You'll never guess where Danny and his missus ended up last night!"
No reply. The living room led straight off the hallway. Opening the door all was strangely cold, dark and quiet.
"Sandra! Where the fuck are you?"
The kitchen too showed no signs of life or more notably no signs of prepared food. Doug yanked the fridge door open angrily and stooped unsteadily to explore his options. The light from inside flooded out onto the linoleum floor. Discovering a sausage roll clinging onto its eat-by-date by the skin of its reconstituted teeth and a tin of lager, tea was served. Doug swung a leg at the fridge door and cracked open the can.
"Fuckin useless cow!"
It frothed uncontrollably until Doug clamped his mouth on it to stem the eruption.
Flopping down onto the sofa with a mouthful of pastry and lager he reached absent-mindedly for the remote control. It was then that Doug saw the note.
The message was short and written in an unsteady hand, but the message was clear.
Springing from the sofa the can bounced across the carpet towards the fire, leaving a jet stream of foam in its wake.
"Sandra! Sandra!" Doug yelled desperately.
Up the stairs in what felt like two strides Doug stumbled over the top step and tripped heavily into the bedroom on his hands and knees. Frantically he pulled at the cream white wardrobes, Sandra had chosen before they were married, and was greeted by a vacuum of empty coat hangers swaying gently on their silver rail.
Doug slumped forlornly to his knees. Resting the half eaten sausage roll on the floor he clasped his head in his hands and, for the first time in years, wept.

2006-01-28T05:03:00.000-08:00

Atty and Goliath

Sunday afternoons in The Griffin were always busy but with the Liverpool V Man Utd game fast approaching the pub was packed to capacity. Most people had arrived early enough to ensure a good seat so by three o’clock the tills were ringing and the pub was singing.

Half pissed thirsty drinkers loaded their rickety tables to near breaking point, legs buckling under a sea of pints. The bar was three deep and the whole place a deafening clamour of drunken conversations battling like hungry seagulls to be the loudest.

Atty, a Griffin regular, was sat with Carl and Evo in an enviable position;

‘A spacious table benefiting from front and rear seating in close proximity, and with easy access, to both the TV and the bar. A desirable and much sought after location ideal for the first time drinker.'

Skin heads, Polo shirts, classic trainers and jeans, this was the uniform for seemingly 90% of the men in the pub, as well as a few of the ladies, and the three lads fitted the prototype beautifully.

The conversation was typically loud and crude. A good early start on the beers had ensured that the language would be as course and raw as any in the town. Atty was without doubt the loudest and at 32 carried a certain respect as the elder.

An hour to kick off and a salient air of both anxiety and anticipation mixed audibly with the already beer fuelled mercurial atmosphere. Atty and Evo were arguing over whose flash it was with the fags when a voice boomed in their direction;

“Oi! Didn’t you used to pick on me at school?”

Atty, always cocksure, turned round grinning with an unlit fag pursed between his thin, razor sharp lips to discover the question had been aimed his way. Stood before him loomed a mighty colossus of a man. Shaven headed leaving only the very merest suggestion as to his hairs natural blonde hair colour.

Atty’s head was as far back as it could get in order to take in the full magnitude of what was before him. His fag began to droop limply from his mouth as the seriousness of his predicament quickly took hold.

The creature had arms like great concrete battering rams welded together across a barrel sized chest. Atty’s grin drained smoothly from his face and the fag drooped and lolled flaccidly against his now sagging chin.

Trying to regain his composure Atty weighed up his options. Being of a light build he realised he had only one discernable advantage over this Goliath; speed. But penned into a crowded boozer he mentally concluded this was no option.

“Fuck off” He spat, removing the fag from his face “ As if id pick on you, look at the size of you”

“Yeah, you did, you picked on me at school, I remember”

Goliath came back. A sly smirk swept slowly across his moon like face, eyes narrowed menacingly indicating the impending danger.

Goliath took a step nearer to Atty’s table willing him to squirm, Evo and Carl blended seamlessly The Predator like, into the background. An apology or perhaps an offer of the beverage of Goliaths preference might go some way to mending the old wounds but Atty, not one for logical thought patterns, broke with usual protocol and rather gamely offered;

“Fuck off, if anyone’s the bully round here it’s you. Look at you stood there flexing your steroid pumped arms thinking your it, do us a favour and piss off!” Goliaths teeth clenched in rage.

I’m not sure to this day whether Atty saw the blow that swept so briskly across his face that day. His bottom jaw seemed to spring across the lounge bar like a till drawer and then savagely snapped shut. With a customary rolling of the eye balls into the back of his head, Atty’s seat suddenly became available and Goliath melted back into the throng of delighted on lookers. The perfect aperitif to the big match.

2006-01-10T07:30:00.000-08:00

The Local.

Some of the most interesting, fascinating people I have ever met I have met in pubs. The public house is a place unlike any other. It is a place where to a large extent all men are equal. Solicitors, Doctors, factory workers and farm hands all frequent the pub. It is one of the few establishments where social class barriers are forgotten in the pursuit of a drink and a peaceful hour. It offers sweet solace from the trials of every day life. As a young boy the pub was an object of fascination to me. It was a dark, secret mystical place of wonderment, the high frosted saloon bar windows hiding the bustle of men and the clamour of voices. It held an attraction that even as a child I could not explain. Far from putting me off drinking, the enigma of it only proved to whet my appetite for the day when I too would be able to enter. The right of passage from boy to manhood for most men is to be able to walk into a pub and order a pint of beer. My first visit into a pub was something of a daunting experience. Sixteen years of age nervously approaching the bar with an unconvincingly deep voice that was as convincingly manly as a woman wearing a false beard and moustache. Sheepishly I order a 'pint of lager'as if it was the most natural thing in the world, careful not to catch the barman's eye should he detect the absolute fear I am trying so desperately to disguise. The whole pub must be able to hear the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. That piercing look from the landlord as he looks you up and down seems to last a lifetime and strips you bear of the last shreds of dignity and self confidence that you may have been clinging to. 'Please God let him serve me for Christ's sake' I can feel every eye in the place bearing into me like a bullet, they know, they can smell the fear oozing off me like an unwashable stench. But when the pint of lager is placed down before you and the money changes hands, suddenly you are twenty feet tall; you are the greatest man who ever lived. From that moment onward your whole life has changed forever. In New York there has been a total ban on smoking in public bars since the beginning of 2003, now Cities across the UK are also imposing similar bans. While I understand the health implications behind the proposals I cant help thinking what the hell is going on? Will this really work? Come on, a pub is a dark smoky environment; it's the nature of a pub, or at least as I know it. Surely it is a plan doomed to failure and only the pubs that ignore this ruling will be the ones with the tills ringing and the pub singing. But U.S bars and British pubs are worlds apart. There has been a trend in recent years to introduce 'bars' across towns and cities,bars that are that are bright and spacious, colourful and attractive. They more resemble gold fish bowls than boozers. The 'British boozer' is out of fashion; to me these plastic bars have nothing of the atmosphere of a traditional pub. Though I will concur that these bars have their place in the world. Whenever I have taken a girl out and gone into the kind of bars I like I have been given a look that lets me know she wants to spit in my face! Coupled with a fearsome glare that says to me 'do you hate me? Why have you brought me here?'

2006-01-06T10:20:00.000-08:00

He belonged in a time gone by.

The Coach and Horses has always been there, and the people who frequent it always seemed to have been there too. It is an old-fashioned large red brick building with small leaded windows and the familiar, strangely heart-warming smell of stale ale and cigarettes. The dusty sign on the wall read ‘smart dress essential’ the one below it advertised live sky sports and below that ‘smoking permitted throughout’. Upon entering the bar it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The bar was directly ahead, cluttered with old men reading newspapers and rolling cigarettes slumped over half empty pots of bitter and lager glancing occasionally at the racing on TV. The landlord: John: a grumpy sort, gave me an inquisitive, disinterested and somewhat disappointed look. I ordered a lager, £1.50, quite reasonable. It was happy hour! John had been the landlord for as long as I could remember and was a unique character. He was the only landlord I knew who actually resented his customers. He resented the money they earned, he resented the cars they owned, he resented them coming into his pub. John was a huge, balding man in his fifties. He had hands like shovels and preferred to do as little as possible. In his prime he had been a professional Rugby League player for a top club and had even been to Wembley, but had earned little from it except a reputation. He was an insufferable gambler and not a good one. To win on the fruit machine after John had spent the day filling it out of his own pocket was playing with fire; it would be safer to have been caught in bed with his wife. Some of the regulars at the bar each day were younger than John and retired, John feigned friendship with them and they with him but when backs were turned there was a mutual loathing. He put up with them for the money they brought in and they put up with John, well, because they had to. John’s wife was Jean, she was often in the background and they seemingly made a good couple, on the surface. But deep down everyone knew that this was a guise they put on for the customers to disguise a marriage that had been dead for years. Johns gambling, drinking, infidelity and violent temper had taken its toll on their relationship and it was only that fact that they were too old, too ugly and too scared to go their separate ways that had held them together so long. Rumour had it that she had caught him in a compromising position with a bar maid on the pool table one night after hours and had broken a porcelain ashtray over his head. No one knows for sure. The only thing I know is that I never dared ask him. John was renowned through out the town as a man not to be reckoned with. Despite that side to him I still miss him.

2006-01-03T09:49:00.000-08:00

The Workhouse

For those of you who have never worked in a call centre allow me to educate you. They are essentially a modern day Dickensian workhouse; the twenty first centuries’ ‘Do the Boys Hall’. Engraved above the electronic revolving doors that count the cattle in and out should be a quote from Dante’s Inferno ‘Abandon hope all you who enter’. In days gone by we had a northern landscape scarred by a carpet of chimneys bellowing their thick putrid smog over the industrial skyline. Today we are fooled into the misconception of a ‘white collar’ existence by the collapse of manufacturing and the rise of the service industry replacing factories with shiny new office buildings and call centre workhouses. The truth of the matter is that there is a serious blur in the demarcation between office and factory. I work in a call centre in the North West of England in a town nestled on the banks of the River Mersey. It is an area once proud of its working class heritage forged from the chemical industry. Today it is symptomatic of most other industrial towns and cities across the country that employs more people in call centres than in steel, coal and car making combined. A deplorable inditement on British Industrialism. As I file in through the doors each morning and the long skylight ceiling arches high above me, I scramble to find a desk and log in before I am registered as being one minute late. Four of these offences and it’s a disciplinary procedure! The call centre is a hive of activity and the clamour of a thousand voices is there to greet you each morning. Like most others, this call centre is ideally located in an ex-industrial area where unemployment is highest allowing the employers to dictate working conditions where there is a healthy feeding ground of low skilled and ill-educated people. There has always been a high turn over of staff and this is common place in the call centre environment. The lucky ones find jobs the rest, like me, are stuck there. Employees are strictly monitored in their performance and targets. Breaks and lunches are scrupulously regulated and we are even monitored on how often we visit the toilet and for how long! We have signs in our toilets pinned to the wall asking ‘do you know how many people are waiting to speak to you?’ Couldn’t give a shit is my honest hand on heart opinion before closing the cubicle door behind me. We have even received emails from the soft white underbelly of what passes for management at a call centre requesting that we ‘seek a managers approval before visiting the lavatory due to the high volume of calls queuing.’ It is not since the Victorian times of the workhouse that employees have endured such a draconian monitoring and lack of autonomy in the work place. Despite the ‘white collar’ guise, the call centre in reality is nothing more than a production line job in a modern day factory where every element of a workers day is closely scrutinised. How ironic that the firm I work for sponsor televisions ‘Big Brother,’ Orwell would have a field day. The hierarchy in the call centre is intricately layered. There are many levels of management and sub-management, seconded managers, trainee managers, management development, team coaches and trainee team coaches. These are the company’s sacrosanct, the list is endless. At the bottom of this pile is the shop floor worker, the call takers, the expendable masses, me. Our calls are routinely monitored and almost every move you make is observed and recorded. Quite Literally big brother is watching. The Team Coach is one of the most intriguing roles in a call centre. It is intrinsically his or her job to see if you are happy and have any problems (this gets asked whenever you are not on a call as a hint to resume with your work). The whole building is divided into individual teams; each team has both a manager and a team coach. Both roles are two a penny in a call centre and mean very little in the real world of business management. The manager of each team seemingly has one real main responsibility which is to monitor who is taking calls and who is not at any one time, and to bellow with breath taking monotony at advisors to ‘take some calls please!’ It is very much akin to the role of a coxswain bawling at his oarsmen to ‘row, row, row!’ But in this instance we feel more like the slaves in the belly of a giant Roman Galleon rowing to the whip. Conditions seem unlikely to improve in the foreseeable future. Recently the company I am employed by announced proposals to reduce wages and holiday entitlements to improve profitability whilst shamelessly rewarding its chief executive with a mouth watering seventeen percent pay increase. This suggests an ‘Animal Farm’ ethos of ‘some animals are more equal than others’. If recent speculation is to be believed though, the future of the service industry lies in India with 100,000 jobs being lost there over the next five years. My company already has a call centre operating there where the staff are instructed to advise callers that they are based in Leeds. I have a vision of low paid sweatshops, children sat stitching sports company’s trainers whilst also taking calls for mobile companies earning a Rupee a week. Perhaps this isn’t an image they wish to fervently promote. Stress and long term sickness are a huge problem as staff numbers are kept to the absolute minimum. Many call centres are aiming towards twenty four-hour opening with pressure on existing staff to cover these shifts with very little choice in the matter. Customers are becoming more and more irate as increasing call queues leave them waiting on the lines listening to Vivaldi or other popular classical favourites that help us forget that we are in a queue. This incessant demand is being met through the employment of agency staffing in favour of full time fully trained employees. The reason is obvious, they have no contracts, no access to the benefits of a full time employee, they can be paid less and more importantly they can be used until they are no longer required and released without a notice period. In effect they are the work house paupers with very little hope of receiving a full time contract of employment. If my experience in a call centre has taught me one thing it is to pursue a more remunerative course of employment with a sense of urgency. There are little if any career prospects and with more and more work being farmed out to India the future seems positively bleak. A position where permission to visit the lavatory is not a prerequisite of the job would be a distinct advantage. The more time I spend tied to the telephone the closer I come to forging my retirement carriage clock, cog by cog to carry like a burden of regret into my old age.

2005-12-15T01:11:00.000-08:00

The Case Of The Local Pub And A Most Perplexing Mystery.

My local is one of the oldest pubs in the town. Nestled down a bank by the railway lines off the beaten track, it has long had a reputation as a 'rough' pub housing the white underbelly of the towns rougher element. But in reality this is far from the truth. Originally a coaching stop in the eighteenth century and now located along side the railway station it has always benefited from a good passsing trade.
The unimpressive enterance conceals a rustic, drinkers haven and with Sky Tv and most importantly some of the cheapest beer in town, its rarely empty.
The landlord, Chris, is a large, vociferous, grizzly man. His large gnarled featured face props up a thatch of brown disheveled hair. A straight talking, 'take no shit' man Chris does not approve of the new licensing hours.
I'd rather you all fuck off an hour earlier' he fondly reminds us.
Like most smokey ale houses there is a regular and dependable crowd of regulars. As with Norm from Cheers, you know where they sit and when they'll be in.
Sean, 35, one of the weekend crowd confessed to me, in a very matter of fact manner, that the previous weekend his wife and he had left the pub as normal and experienced an unusual incident.
It had been a normal Sunday evening, the couple hadn't left the pub any earlier or any later than was usual.
"we don't know which one of us it was" Sean explained nonchalantly, "but one of us pissed the bed on Sunday night and we don't know which one of us it was."
This gave birth to an interesting and even more mind expanding discussion as his wife Gaynor had over heard the remark.
"It was you you dirty little bastard" his wife announced in earshot of at least ten people. Gaynor, a blonde haired and imposing figure, renowned for her sharp tongue is not a person to tangle with. In their relationship you would say that Gaynor definitely 'wears the trousers'.
"My back was fucking soaked. I cant piss up my own back so that proves it was you, you dick head!"
"Which side of the bed was wettest?" Asked one, now enthralled, local (who had found himself drawn to the conversation through macarbe fascination), hoping to sleuth his way to a solution.
"My side" Gaynor volunteered almost triumphantly "so that proves it must have been him pissing over me."
Sean, a wily bespectacled character rose proudly to this new challenge and handled himself with the quiet dignity of a top London Barrister. "Fuck off!" He boldly opened with (i imagined him stretching onto tip toes with his chin held high, chest out and hands confidently clutching the lapels of a clerical jacket.)
"It just means you pissed yourself on your side and rolled about in it all night you dirty bitch. Anyway i always get the blame" Added Sean defensively fixing an icy glare on his wife, indicating to the pub at large that this was no one off occurrence.

2005-12-14T05:09:00.000-08:00

Ikea.

These huge stores tend to have a cancerous effect on the globe multiplying until every corner of the world is infected with one on its doorstep.
Don't get me wrong, I shop at Ikea. Look round my home and the tell tale signs are all there, from Billy storage systems, Poang footstools to Reko drinking glasses swelling in my MFI 1980's kitchen units! And the place still looks a dump.
In recent years pay day for me was an orgy of drinking sessions, clubs and the purchase of endless CD's. This month i celebrated my much needed monthly cash injection with a visit, along with my girlfriend, to Ikea. Yet another landmark in getting older. I still remember the first time i used my hard earned wages to purchase my first 'Toilet Duck', and i knew there and then that i had completed a painful right of passage into adulthood.
Ikea seems to be the perfect solution to a modern day, hard working, havent got a minute to live, flat pack generation. I think its safe to say that shopping there with ones girlfriend is a huge mistake. No sooner had we passed the Ektorp corner sofa units, jodbero plant pots and decorative 'twigs' (we will buy anything they have), and my girlfriend had mentally spent the equivalent of a small nations national debt. They must use psychologists to arrange furniture in a fashion that brainwashes us to believing 'if we buy this, our house will look like this convincing display'. The Ikea experience truly made my nest of tables i bought at Widnes flea market look quite shameful.
My sole purpose for visiting the store was to purchase a new book shelf. I finally selected just the thing, a 'Leksvick storage unit' that somehow looks twice the size in my home that it looked in the shop. Obviously i didnt measure the bugger, im far too lazy for that nonsence i just loaded it to the flat trolley and then somehow defied physics to get it in the car by loading my girlfriend into the boot in order to make the space. It is a towering eight foot collossus of a thing that, even surprising me, took over two hours to assemble and a hell of a lot of bad language and battered thumbs! To select a book from its top shelf i now have to hire a cherry picker to winch me to its airy summit.
But it is all mine, i chose it, i paid for it, i got it home and above all else theres a sweet kind of false satisfaction that i built it. Damned Ikea, beguiled by the bloody Scandinavians, and i know i will be again!