Poetry is a load of old rubbish.

Poetry? It's a load of old rubbish!

That's the sentiment that I hear from a lot of people. Not morons or fools but people who have not been exposed to it, taught it, or fallen upon it one rainy Sunday by chance. Of course, I happen to think that they're wrong but it's the devil's own job to get them to see another side. Why? And why is poetry not just nice/beautiful etc but actually crucial to the general art of fiction? By the way, I'm choosing my words carefully: I do mean crucial.

First of all, why do so many people think poetry is rubbish? I think it's because most people when they think of poetry only think of limericks. Now, these can be fun but they really represent a very small (miniscule) subset of the superset that is poetry. So, you say poetry and people instantly think 'There was a young poet from Mawdor, who was a frightful old bore...' etc. Or they think of Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings (quoted in Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy), or, perhaps that infamous Scottish poet William Topaz McGonagall.

Of course, these terrible poets are all fun to lambast but the joshing sometimes creates an impregnable barrier to accessing the good stuff.

A further problem, I think, is that people sometimes think that all poetry has to be iambic pentatmeter and the minute they hear that term they run a mile. It's been said by many that iambic pentameter lends itself to the natural speech patterns of English. In The Ode Less Travelled, Stephen Fry tells us that 'The rising rhythm of the five-beat iambic pentameter has been since the fourteenth century the most widely used metre in English poetry.' Well, OK, I will concede that but it can, I think, be difficult and feel quite laboured and personally I reckon that iambic tetrameter suits the language better. Hang on. All these terms: iambic; pentameter; tetrameter. What do they all mean? Now I know that many who read this will know what they mean but many won't and for those who don't I would recommend finding out and deliving in to the different poetic terms. Find out what enjambment is, seek out the elusive trochee, and learn the difference between a limerick, a sonnet (and the different forms therein), and all the other forms of poetry.

There is something else though and that is: imagery. Poetry is often an exercise in imagery. Pareidolia (the psychological phenomenon of reading significance into random stimulii - like sights and sounds - like the Man on the Moon) often informs poetry. Poets often have to think very visually. That is also true of fiction writers and it is my belief that a fiction writer who also writes poetry (even if they only dabble from time to time) will develop an increased ability to write from a visual perspective and that that is why poetry, as I stated at the beginning of this post, is crucial to the art of fiction. It is a shame that that isn't taught with more fervor in schools and defended more robustly when the statement 'Poetry? It's a load of rubbish!' is made.

By the way, April is National Poetry Month. Why not give it a bash? You might be pleasantly surprised at the results :)

Getting back to normal

Preface
This is a fictionalised Life Writing piece based on the true story of a girl I was at school with (and with whom I was good friends at the time) who committed suicide in 1997 after being released into the community by her psychiatric doctors. She was diagnosed with severe mental illness (schizophrenia, I believe) at some point after we left school, though I am not certain of the year.

At school, she would sometimes have stand-up fights with the teachers. At the time we put it down to her being an over angsty teenager but with hindsight she could well have been displaying early signs of mental illness. How would we know? We were, after all, just 17 / 18 years old.

I lost touch with her after school, in the way one does, but heard various updates over the years through mutual friends.

Care in the community was a controversial piece of legislation when it was introduced in 1990 (though it could be argued that it really built on many other pieces of legislation starting with the 1959 Mental Health Act). It undoubtedly led to some good - removing the isoltaion of some with less severe mental health issues, for example - but there are some who think it has led to other patients not receiving the help and assistance they require due to politically motivated targets needing to be met. I suspect there are elements of truth in both sides but the core belief I want to explore here is that some patitents should never be released... and sometimes, even the patient knows, nay craves, that).

The story that follows is based loosely, then, on her story: perhaps 'inspired' is a better word. Some may find it a difficult subject and may think that it is overly violent. I make no apologies. It is done to illustrate a point and I believe is in context. That said, I'd be very interested in hearing what people think of the piece.

Note, a version of this also appears on my OU blog which can be found at: http://learn.open.ac.uk/mod/oublog/view.php?user=792360

Getting back to normal

Sharon rocked back and forth on her bed eyeing the fragments of glass on the ensuite bathroom floor. It seemed no one had heard the mirror smash. She went over and picked up a fragment, thumbing it in agitated half-sweeps, closed the bathroom door, and resumed rocking.
She looked at the clock. 11:55. Only five minutes 'til drug time. God, she hated those numbing drugs, almost as much as she hated being at the Manor. At least the pills offered some release, today's in particular.

Billed as a halfway house, a stepping stone to a normal life, the Manor was a twilight zone between sanity and insanity, stability and chaos.

'We're preparing you for normal life, Sharon,' the board of doctors had said in their collective antiseptic voice. What the fuck did they know? Normal life? Normal life? She wanted to scream at the fat pricks: Yeah, I want a normal life: my normal life.

The life she wanted, the life she craved, was that safe, warm, institutional, uncomplicated life.

A creaking floorboard in the hall broke through her thoughts causing her heart to race. Pill time, pill time she chanted to herself. My problems will be solved at pill time.

The Manor had its pluses, of course: the grounds being the main one she'd miss. Here she could wander unseen, idling away hours, hiding amongst the trees on a foggy spring day: invisible and safe.

If she felt alone and confident she'd undress and lie naked on the grass soaking up the wetness of the morning dew. Then she'd roll around like an alligator stripping the skin off its prey; feeling the dirt claw its way across her body, and tasting the musky earth. She wouldn't be able do that back in Reading; they'd bang her up in solitary: sweet, safe, solitary, where other people's normal life was securely locked out.

She yearned for Reading: the pills, the straight-jackets, the TV room, her bed. Her normal. But here she was, in an intolerable dark nightmare, being drugged and 'prepared' for her release into the 'real' world: a specially-bred, near-extinct, wild animal about to be unleashed and released into the wild.

Hah... she'd give them wild.

There was a tap at the door. She slid the mirror fragment up her sleeve as nurse Jennings entered.

'Time for your drugs, Sharon.'

'I'm fine,' said Sharon getting up and walking to the end of the bed.

'Come on, Sharon. You know how it works.'

The glass sliced into nurse Jennings's jugular spraying blood in pulsing spurts over Sharon's face and shoulders.

'Yes, I know the fucking system,' she screamed.

She hit the emergency button and sat down beside the nurse's corpse in the pooling blood, smiling.

Contradicting Ruby

Warning: This post contains language that may offend. It is deliberately intended to provoke a reaction. If you do not feel comfortable with language that could be deemed offensive, please do not read any further.

Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t no racialist or nothing. Me nan on me mother’s side was from Wales. But the way I looks at it is we’ve got to keep Britain for the British, right. I’m sick of all these coons, wogs, Pakis, Poles, and what nots coming over and nickin’ our jobs. I mean obviously the likes of Colin should be allowed to stay ‘cos he’s an OK geezer ‘cos he likes the Gunners ‘n’ that but most of them is basically just nicking our jobs.

‘ang on… go my son, go, yeeees. What a goal. I’m tellin’ ya, Heskey is fuckin’ ace mate.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, and, right, and, what about all them Pakis bloody taking over the corner shops when them jobs should go to decent British folk. My cousin, Kenny, right, he’s been on the rock an’ roll for years. Can he get a job? Not a bit of it. So ‘e goes down the job centre an’ they ‘ad the cheek to give ‘im some flannel about ‘ow ‘e should try getting some qualifieds but I bet that Paki tosser that runs Bertie’s doesn’t have any, but he’s got a fucking job. An’ e’s got two kids ‘n’ all; I bet they nick our kids’ jobs when they grow up. It’s like some kind of sick disease. I tell you what, it makes my blood boil.

An’ the Poles, right, the Poles: Josh, me brother, gets undercut by them fuckers all the time. ‘Oh yes, Mrs Hoity-Toity, I’ll do your plumbing for you for half what Englishman charges, no problem. Do tell all of your friends’. Tossers.

How’s he supposed to compete with that sort of shit? What he’s supposed to live in a fuckin’ hovel? He’s got two ex-wives to support, and the kids: Mikey, Sheena, Persil, Summer, Beckham, and Junior. How’s he supposed to do that when some Polish twat nicks the work from under ‘is nose? It’s his right… and it ain’t right that they can come in and just nick what is rightfully his. It just ain’t right.

I tell you what I’d do if I was in charge, right: I’d bloody get us out of Europe for starters, then I’d pay every nigger, wog, Paki, Pole, Eye-tie, and slanty-eyed Johnny-bloody-foreigner a hundred quid and put them on a boat back to where they come from, even the one’s what was born ‘ere. It would make for a better bleedin’ country that’s for sure.

Did you know that five thousand people come into this country every week. Five thousand. Not ten people or even twenny but five-bleedin’-thousand. I saw it on a UKIP poster. Think about it. Five thousand people comin’ in to steal the jobs away. Every week. ‘ow’re we s’posed to keep our jobs if we’re being swamped by all them lots coming in? And what do they bring? Oh yeah, that’s right, I’ll tell you: disease, thieving, gangs, drugs, and bad attitude.

My aunt works in an ‘ospital and she reckons the rag 'eads are the worst of the lot. They’re all Al Qaida, every last one of ‘em. Half of ‘em don’t speak no English and them what does ain’t does it proper like what we does, init.

Anyway, lads, I’ve ‘ad enough of this Stella malarkey. I’m off to get a ruby and a couple of jars of Kingfisher. You coming tfor a ram jam or what?

This piece was inspired by my travels around the world. The sentiments expressed are ones that I have encountered in Manchester, London, Frankfurt, New York, Paris, and Amsterdam; even in Mumbai. To find people like this is not that surprising I suppose but what gets me is the increasing frequency that I have been encountering this sort of attitude in recent years. Why has this happened? What causes the frequency of such an encounter to increase? I can only think that it is because the sentiment itself is spreading from its traditional bedrock of the uneducated and, worryingly, permeating into the middle class (where I guess I would place myself). I can say, with some sadness, that I have met people I would never (say ten years ago or so) have thought would speak this way (yes, they have more eloquent ways of saying it than my protagonist but the message is the same nonetheless) and to me it's a worry. I could go on, I won't. 
Hopefully you get the point and understand what's being said here. 
What do you think?

The Wolf's Tale

Us humans love a nursery rhyme but for some reason we always make them human-centric. Well, here's the real story of the wolf. I hope you enjoy.

Hieronymus T Wolf was as affable a wolf as one could hope to meet. In every way he was the perfect Wolfleman. Every way apart from one: his predilection for eating people.

      It wasn’t his fault, of course – he was after all, a wolf – but still, it was wise to avoid him when he was hungry. The rest of the time, however, he was nothing less than charming. Come to think of it, he was charming when he was hungry, which is why he was generally quite well fed.

       It was Friday and two days earlier, Hieronymus had returned from a rather successful mission to eat three obnoxious pigs that, until Wednesday, had lived nearby, in Porkshire. He’d had to do quite a bit of huffing and puffing but he’d managed to gobble all three of them up, despite one of them living in a house out of brick (he’d got that one by dressing up as the postman and pretending he had a recorded letter that had to be signed for).
       Now, though, Hieronymus was hungry again.
***
For work, Hieronymus was a self-employed flower seller and did rather well providing bouquets to the recently bereaved. (Somehow he knew just where to go to sell his flowers.)
       His job meant that he travelled a lot and he was sat thinking about his recent travels when he recalled that a new family had moved into the little cottage at the north end of Two-Mile Wood, on the outskirts of Wolferhampton (where Hieronymus lived).
       He decided to travel up there to check out their culinary potential so he set off that afternoon on his flower-selling bike. The cottage was set just inside Two-Mile Wood, just after the road turned into a dirt track that continued to the south end of the wood.
      Hieronymus hid his bike behind a clump of trees opposite the cottage, pulled out a pair of binoculars, then folded himself into a bush and watched the house.
       He’d been watching for about five minutes when he was surprised to see a dog come round from the back of the house, saddled up and riding a goat, which he rode up and down in front of the house while he danced on its back.
       This continued for a while until an elderly woman appeared carrying a smart coat in a bag that said ‘Emperor’s New Tailor’ on it. She draped the coat over the fence and the dog hopped off the goat, undid he package, and put it on. It was a perfect fit but somewhat transparent and the dog didn’t seem very pleased at all.
       The old woman left again and the dog spent a few minutes chasing the goat around before a young girl, who could have been no more than eleven years old, appeared from within the house. She said something, waved her arms around a bit, and the dog disappeared into the house.
       Hieronymus watched the girl for a while, looking her up and down. Hmm, he said to himself... tasty. It would take me a week to digest such a tender and succulent morsel. Realising that drool was slobbering off his chin, he wiped his face with his paw and went home; he couldn’t risk eating her before he knew her movements and, besides, he had a feeling that if he got his timing right there might be more than just her to feast on.
       Over the next few days he managed to ascertain that the woman was quite mad, forever going off to buy the most ridiculous presents for the dog: a hat, a wig, even some fruit on one occasion which would be all very well for you and I but, well... a fruit eating dog? The very idea made him sick.
       The dog, it seemed, was equally bonkers for every time she went out it would start doing something very un-dog-like, even quite deranged at times, such as dancing a jig or feeding the cat to the goat.
       One rainy day he dressed up as smartly as he could. Donning spectacles, a top hat, a waistcoat, and a fob watch, he knocked on the door of the cottage, and presented himself as a Doctor in Floriculture who was trying to get to a meeting in a placed called Gloucester.
       'I wonder if you might have a map I could consult,' he had said, and accepting her offer of a cup of tea, he found out that the girl was called Lilly-Red and that the old crone was her mother. It seemed that Lilly-red’s grandmother, on her father’s side, lived on the south side of the wood. She and Lilly-Red’s mother were arch enemies, having once been best friends living on a commune. Lilly-Red’s mother had seduced her friend’s son and they'd run off together after she became pregnant. Granny had paid a witch to put a spell on them but the witch wasn’t very good and, instead of turning Lilly-Red’s mother into a praying mantis had managed to turn her father into a border collie. Once a week, Lilly-Red would take a basket of food, filled by her father whilst her mother was out, to her granny’s, walking to the southern end of the wood. She would spend some time with her then walk home again before the evening faded to night. Her next trip was tomorrow.
       Hieronymus hatched a plan. He would cycle to granny’s, eat her, disguise himself as her, and then eat Lilly-Red when she arrived. Then, he’d nip back to Lilly-Red's house and eat her mother and father. A veritable feast that would las him a month. He could already taste their juicy flesh as he set off home.
       The next morning, he set off on his bicycle. He had just entered the wood and cycled past Lilly-Red’s (who was setting off for her granny’s) when all of a sudden he got a puncture. Bugger, he thought. Now how am I going to get to Granny’s before Lilly-Red? I can't eat her here; far to public, no no no. I could walk but there simply isn’t time to devour her, get changed, put on some make-up, and complete my disguise before she'd arrive. He thought and thought and forced his brain to think some more and then, as he was a bout to give up and go home, a plan began to take shape.

***

Hieronymus put his bike upside down balancing it on the saddle and handle bars. Then he started making himself look jolly busy spinning wheels and tutting a lot.
       He’d only been there a couple of minutes when, sure enough, Lilly-Red came along.
       ‘Hello, young lady,’ he said.
       ‘Hello Dr Foster,’ she answered in a gay smiling voice.
     ‘How lovely to see you again. And where might you be going on such a wonderful day as this?’ he enquired.
    ‘Oh,’ said Lilly-Red who thought nothing of talking to hairy, bearded, strangers, ‘I’m off to see my granny on the other side of the wood. My father sends me to take her food every so often.’
     ‘How very delicious of you,’ said Hieronymus, his enthusiasm for his dark deed almost getting the better of him. Then, remembering that he should be acting normal he asked, ‘why, if you love your granny so, maybe it would be nice to take her some flowers too?’
     ‘I do love her very much,’ said Lilly-Red, ‘she teaches me things my parents can't. Dad just barks at me the whole time even though I'm thirteen, and Mum is never there.’
     ‘I'd love to give you some but I’ve none left and I can’t even offer to get you fresh ones from my depot because, as you can see, my bicycle has a puncture. Ah, but what's this, yonder, I see? Lovely tulips and daffodils. Why, you could just pick them in the woods, couldn't you? What a nice thing to do,’ and he pointed at a small clearing in the woods not far from the road.
     ‘You know, I think I will. Thank you, Doctor,’ and she wiggled off into the woods.
    ‘I would help,’ said Hieronymus. ‘but I have a dinner engagement. Still, I expect a strong healthy girl like you will do just fine.’
    Suddenly Lilly-Red turned and shouted, ‘I’m not a girl, I’m a boy,’ before flouncing off once more.
    ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Hieronymus and, a tad perplexed, he ran off to Granny’s house.
 

***
 

Despite the mix-up with Lilly-Red’s gender, Hieronymus’s plan was a masterstroke. He knocked on granny’s door and was called in. 'It’s unlatched, come on in,’ croaked granny and he had done just that.
     The poor old bat had atrocious vision so when he’d told her he was a District Nurse she’d willingly taken her nightgown off and he’d pretty much swallowed her whole. She was a bit stringy he decided but she’d at least keep the hunger at bay until Lilly-Red arrived.
      He struggled into granny’s gown, put on some of her make-up, and had just picked the last bits of her from between his teeth when there was a knock at the door. ‘Hi Granny, it’s just me,’ came the voice. Hieronymus recognised it at once as Lilly-Red’s and jumped into Granny's bed, pulling the sheet tight up to his nose so as not to expose his face too much. ‘Oooh, granny, can I have some of your make-up? I’ll wash it off before I go. They still don’t know, you know,’ said Lilly-Red.
      Out of the corner of his eye Hieronymus saw granny’s eyeliner and realised he’d forgotten to put it all away. ‘Er, of course, my dear;’ he said putting on the most falsetto voice he could muster.
     ‘Ohh Granny, what a big hangover you appear to have,' said Lilly-Red. 'Tell you what, I’ll do you first, you look dreadful.’
      Hieronymus realised he had no choice but to sit up and have his face made over by the mincing queen of the north. ‘Oh granny, what big, bloodshot, eyes you’ve got,’ said Lilly-Red.
     ‘All the better to see you with,’ said Hieronymus.
     ‘And, granny, what a large hairy beard you have,’ said Lilly-Red.
     ‘It's an age thing,’ said Hieronymus, 'don't be so rude'.
     ‘Oh granny, what big ears you have. Have you ever thought of having them pinned back?’
     ‘Yes, yes.’
     ‘And, ooh Granny, what big teeth you have.’
     At this Hieronymus lost his patience and gobbled the little brat whole. He tasted a bit salty but Hieronymus put that down to the makeup.
     When he’d finished flossing with granny’s g-string he walked back up to the north end of the wood. Old Mother Hubbard and Father Fenton were standing opposite each other bowing and curtseying alternately, which made it very easy to wolf them down.
    Feeling rather smug and in need of some exercise, Hieronymus walked home, picked-up a new inner tube and walked back to his bicycle. He changed the wheel and set off for home, whistling and belching as he cycled.
     He was in such a good mood that he didn’t notice the gates going down on the level crossing. His bike was hit by the 16:66 to Wolfverhampton Central as it flew across the crossing, and he was, alas, cut to ribbons. It just so happened that the king's horses and his men were on exercises round the corner and they came over to look at the mess. However, having recently failed to put an egg back together they weren’t feeling very much like trying the same exercise with splattered train kill.

A shock to the system

The following story is 2,161 words long. It is the story I submitted for my TMA2 on the OU course A215. It has has some minor edits applied following feedback. I am happy with the score I got and am of the mind that all the mistakes that I made were silly ones that one doesn't spot due to getting to close to the text. OU policies mean I can't tell you the score or any of the feedback however, I would love to hear your thoughts on this piece. 

Also, a quick note about the vicar: he is used to up the ante and this entire piece is not meant to be a pop at religion or in any way to stereotype any religious/community individual, though I accept that, to an extent, this is an inevitable outcome. I invite you, therefore, to read it in the spirit in which it is offered.

‘Pamela. What you’ve done is nothing short of blasphemous.’

‘Only if you believe in God, which for your information, I do not. For crying out loud, dad I’m twenty-two years old. Please don’t suppose to tell me a, what I can and can’t do, and b, whether anything I do is blas-phee-mous,’ said Pamela, in a calculated attempt to provoke her father, before adding, ‘besides, if I want to blas-, or any other bloody pheme, I will, thank you very much.’

‘Margaret, tell her.’

Margaret was standing next to the door into the hall fidgeting with her hands. ‘Pamela... please, love, don’t be rude to your father; it’s not necessary.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum but I won’t be smothered by his pious nonsense; not anymore.’

‘He’s just concerned, my darling… aren’t you love?’

‘It’s a disgrace, is what it is, a proper disgrace… heaven only knows what will happen when news gets out,’ said Roger.

‘The news,’ said Margaret, ‘appears to be out already, love. After all, you said yourself, that’s how we know.’

‘The fact remains,’ said Roger, ‘that she what she’s done is sinful and that as a sinner she must atone…’

‘...I’m not like you, Dad. No one is. Not anymore. You’re so out of touch. No one believes in God these days except you… and especially not me. So please, spare me the holier-than-thou mumbo-jumbo claptrap. Look around you, dad: the world is full of people enjoying themselves, having fun and, yes, even having sex; we don’t flagellate ourselves with birch sticks anymore. Christ.’

‘Young lady, I am your father and in my house you will show some respect.’

‘Respect? Respect? Oh, and when, pray, do I get to be shown some respect, eh? When do I get to live my life, my way, instead of having to pretend all the time just to appease your Victorian sense of what’s bloody right and proper. You know, dad, you need to get out sometime... venture beyond the graveyard and take a look at what the people of this eon are doing. You know what? People don’t wear sack cloth anymore.’ Pamela stood up, threw the magazine on the sofa, and looked at him. ‘It’s my body… it’s my life… it’s my brain… I’ll do what I want…. where I want… with whomsoever I want…. and neither you, mum, nor anyone else can stop me.’ She walked out of the door pausing to add, ‘sorry mum,’ as she passed through it.

 ***

The radio alarm had gone off at 6AM, as usual, that morning. Margaret turned away from him and pulled the duvet over her head. He silenced the radio, got dressed, and went downstairs. Passing the front door he pulled the newspaper from the letterbox and went into the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later Margaret came downstairs. Roger was sitting at the breakfast table in his dressing gown, reading the paper, and drinking a cup of tea.

‘More tea?’ enquired Margaret.

‘I’m fine thank you.’

‘As long as you’re fine, love. Any news, love?’

‘Not really,’ he said, gesticulating towards the paper. ‘In fact, I think we should change our allegiance; this one seems to be obsessed with sex. Look, someone called “Lady Gaga” has “confessed” to having had sex with another woman. Leaving aside the fact that whoever she is she has quite the most preposterous stage name, and that, frankly neither I, nor I imagine, half of Christendom actually cares what she does, it can’t be right to report someone’s bedroom antics in a family newspaper.’

‘No, love.’

‘I mean, does anyone actually care? I’m mean, actually?’

‘I dare say not.’

‘Sometimes, Margaret, I think we’re living in a cesspit of iniquity.’

‘Maybe that would make a good topic for your next sermon, love. When is that again?’

‘Sunday, of course.’

‘Really, love?’

‘Yes, of course, it’s always Sunday, isn’t it?. I mean, when you stop and think about it, it’s everywhere: the papers are stuffed full of the stuff; it’s splashed across television and cinema screens; you can hardly walk down the street without encountering a suggestive advertising hoarding; and half my congregation seemed determined to have it off with the other half. I’m sure it never used to be this way.’

‘Quite, quite. Are you sure you won’t have more tea?’

‘No. I’ve the morning service to attend to and besides I shan’t be grateful to have to deliver it on a full bladder.’

 ***

Coming into the hall from morning service, Roger picked up the pile of letters that were on the hall table. There was a fair amount. Most of them were official looking or junk mail but in amongst them was a large, C4 envelope on which the single word ‘VICAR’ had been handwritten.

He went into the drawing room, sat on the couch, and dropped the post next to him. Picking up the C4 envelope, he slit an opening along the top and pulled out the contents. It was a top shelf magazine that had been folded open to a page that displayed a pair of legs at the top of which was a vagina being held open by a lone female hand. Garish bright pink text informed him that the legs, vagina, and hand belonged to a young woman named Nikki, from Newcastle.

‘Bloody kids,’ muttered Roger and he put the magazine back on the sofa, covering it with the envelope before going through the rest of the post. As he did so he piled anything he deemed not worth keeping on top of the magazine and its envelope.

He reached over to pick up the pile to take it through to the recycling but instead managed to knock it on the floor. He bent down to pick everything up from the inverted pile. The magazine was now at the top presenting a view of Nikki’s breasts and smiling face, her pouting lips, and smouldering eyes staring straight at him. Roger dropped the pile again. Nikki wasn’t Nikki. And she wasn’t from Newcastle; she was from his house. Nikki was Roger’s daughter: Pamela.

Roger called out. ‘Margaret.’

A muffled reply came back. ‘Yes, love?’

This time, he yelled. ‘Margaret. Come here.’

‘Can it wait, dear? I’m pressing the bed linen.’

‘No it can’t. Come on, I need to talk to you, now. It’s urgent.’

Margaret scurried in from the hall and looked at him, eyes open, fidgeting with her hands.

Roger gave her a stern look. ‘Sit down,’ he said.

‘Whatever’s the matter, love? Has someone died?’

‘No, it’s... it’s just…’

‘Well then, whatever’s the matter?’

‘Margaret, despite the many years’ experience I have had administering pastoral counselling to my congregation, there are times when even the most delicate matters must be addressed in indelicate ways.’

‘Roger, you’re not making any sense. Please, just tell me what it is, love.’

He pushed the magazine at her, breast side up.

Margaret glanced at the magazine, and then looked at Roger. ‘I don’t understand, love. What are you, of all people, doing with this?’

‘Margaret… our daughter is a slut.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Margaret...just… just.. oh for heaven’s sake, just look at the dammed thing will you?’

Margaret looked again. ‘Don’t be silly, love. It says quite clearly here that this is someone called Nikki.’

‘Oh, please, Margaret. Don’t be naïve. That’s patently some kind of stage name. Of course it’s Pamela.’

‘Oh, I see.’ said Margaret. ‘Let me look at it again.’

Before he could protest, she was studying the magazine. ‘My goodness. You’re right. Look, you can see her birthmark. I’m quite shocked, love…. she never said anything, not even to me. Roger, love, where did you buy this magazine?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t buy it. It was hand delivered with the post.’

‘Oh. Do you know who it came from?’

‘No, like I said, it was hand delivered.’

‘Does anyone else know, love?’

‘How should I know? Oh for goodness sake, clearly someone does. Someone sent it.’

‘Yes, but I mean…’

‘Well, no one was sniggering at this morning’s service, if that’s what you mean but you can bet that if we know, then others must too. Pretty soon everyone will. Anyway, that’s not what I’m worried about. Well it is but the fact is she’s sinned and I’m going to have to talk to her when she gets home.’

‘Really, love? Couldn’t we, you know, just ignore it? Say nothing? Pretend, perhaps? That might be best, mightn’t it, love?’

‘But we do know, don’t we? And pretty soon everyone will know, and when they know, we’ll know they know but they won’t know we know, except we’ll know that, and she’ll know we know but not that we know she knows we know so she won’t know whether to let us know she knows that we know and, and the whole dammed thing will just drive everybody crazy. No! She must know we know, and she must be under no illusion that we absolutely will not stand for it. Margaret, you and I must stand firm, love.’

Just then the lock went on the front door. Margaret stood up. ‘Please, love, I’ll go,’ she said, and before he could reply she disappeared into the hall, returning a few moments later with Pamela.

‘Crikey,’ she said, ‘you two look serious. Has someone died?’

Roger handed her the magazine.

 ***

Pamela was gone. Roger had come back from evening service and he and Margaret were sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea.

Roger spoke first. ‘What are we going to do? This is serious and serious actions have serious consequences, Margaret.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Margaret, ‘we should try and refocus, eh love? Try seeing it from her perspective.’

‘Focus? Do you know how many paedophiles are going to be looking at our girl, lusting after her?’

‘That’s what I mean, love.’

‘How so?’

‘How many paedophiles? None, that’s how many. She’s a twenty-two year old woman, not a twelve year old girl.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

‘Well, what do you mean, love? Tell me. Are you worried that normal, red blooded, heterosexual men will find her sexually attractive?’

‘Yes… no… sort of… I don’t know. Look, the men that buy these magazines, they’re... Well, they’re...’

She interrupted him. ‘Like you?’

‘Have you taken leave of your senses, woman? How can you compare me to…?’

Margaret put her hands over his. ‘I seem to remember when I first met you, you used to have magazines not too dissimilar to that one under your bed. Do you remember, love?’

‘That’s completely different. I was...’

‘What? A dirty old man?’

‘…young. Besides, times were different,’ he protested.

‘Roger, I love you but sometimes you can be a bit of a…’ Margaret squeezed his hand, ‘Twat.’

Roger tried to free his hands but she clasped them tight. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Roger Peck,’ said Margaret in a tone that surprised them both, ‘don’t be so bloody sanctimonious. You know very well that if Pammy were Michael you wouldn’t bat an eyelid. It’s one rule for the lads and another for the ladies with you, isn’t it? But, shocked as I am, I think Pammy has a point, you know: in these enlightened times geese and ganders have more of an equal say in how they live their lives.’

‘It’s smut, Margaret. Pure, unadulterated, unabashed, smut, and our daughter is in it. Doesn’t that worry you?’

‘Actually, Roger, love... what bothers me is her happiness. If she knows what she’s doing and is happy doing it, then I’m happy, if not, I’m not. Look, I want to think my daughter is pure and innocent, just like you do, but she’s not. No one is. The truth is she is a grown-up; a sexually mature grown-up who needs and wants to make her own way in life, warts ‘n’ all. We can help her, when she wants us to but the rest of the time we have to stand back and let her do her thing. Isn’t helping people to come to terms with themselves in their own way at least partially what being a vicar is about?’

Margaret got up and left the kitchen. A couple of minutes later she came back in, holding a book. She handed it to Roger who read the title: An Illustrated Kama Sutra.

‘Margaret, what’s going on?’

‘Different times, love, yet, I think maybe they weren’t so very different. Do you remember, we used to look at this together when we were courting, love?’

‘Well, yes, of course... but, I…’

She smiled at him. ‘I think we even tried a few of them, didn’t we?’

‘We did.’

‘I suppose these pictures must’ve been thought of as naughty in their time, love. You and I, we’re sexual beings, love, and God understands that, doesn’t He, love?’

‘I suppose He does, yes. I just find it so… so… so… frustrating.’

‘There’s fresh linen.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Take me to bed, will you my love?’

Early one morning

He crossed to the platform edge, clasping his sacred satchel. The indicator radiated its message: first train, via Bank, four minutes. He was pleased; the pews and aisles would be stuffed with agitated City zombies, their newspapers fixed like cracked tombstones. Three minutes. Maybe Charing Cross was more appropriate? No, mass was all important today. Two minutes. A thought flickered through his mind: 'be sure your sin will find you out'. One minute. The metallic serpent slid into the station and hissed open its doors. Martin hustled his way into the congregation, undid his satchel, and proclaimed, 'God is great'.

How to kill 7 women

This is adapted from the original which was published on my OU blog whcih can be found here: http://learn.open.ac.uk/mod/oublog/view.php?user=792360. It is semi-autobiographical.

I was visiting my Manchester office last week, in a fairly new development called Piccadilly Plaza, just a couple of minutes walk from Piccadilly station. I had occassion to go and sort out a 'preferential corporate rate' with the nice people at the local Malmaison hotel. Our business concluded, I set about walking back to the office and was soon accosted by seven women who wanted to know if I could direct them to the Saco apartments were. As it happens, I know exactly where they are; right next to my office. So, I boldly declared this fact, adding, 'follow me ladies',  and set off to prove my superior local knowledge.

Coming round the round the corner of the Mint hotel, from Aytoun Street, one is forced to cross a tram line in order to access Piccadilly Plaza but in my usual happy-go-lucky way I'd struck up conversation with several of said ladies and thus it was that we were somewhat engrossed; it being the case that they were there on a hen weekend, no less. A bright future in store for the hen, no doubt.

They were just explaining their plans for the weekend as we started crossing the tramline. No sooner were we halfway across when a tram came clanking its way round the corner, in the further lane. The ladies lept back into the first lane, whilst I vaulted to the pavement on the far side. I watched as they began excitedly exclaiming their good fortune as they ditsied around like a flock of flamingoes (chatter chatter).

Another tram came the other way.

So, now you know how to kill seven women in your lunchbreak


Please note that no flamingoes were harmed in the making of this blog post.

Raising the steaks

BEFORE reading please be warned that it is a satirical piece about the merits / demerits of cannibalism so may not be to everyone's taste [ahem]. Hopefully I won't offend anyone but I thought I better get the disclaimer in. Also, please note that this is what is known as a free write so very little editing has been done. It is dialogue but I have deliberately left off the quotation marks as I reckon they're not required. What do you think?

Good morning. As the population ages, how are we to cope with rising pressures on world food supplies? Some think the answer is to start consuming insects in the west, others argue that a vegan diet is necessary; that farms barely able to cope with the pressure to rear animals would be put to better use growing vegetables. With me today is Brandon Foley, Foods Minister who is here to discuss the government's latest controversial policy suggestion: that cannibalism is our only true hope for the future. Mr Foley, you're having us on, aren't you? Surely this is just attention seeking?

Not at all, Zack. The world is in a food crisis and the simple fact is that bodies are being buried every day that could be better used as food.

Oh come on, you're surely not suggesting that when granny dies the family tuck into her on a Sunday afternoon, are you?

No of course not... Look, when someone's coffin is sent through the curtain at the crematorium do you really care what happens? I mean, really? Look, all we're advocating here is that when she goes through the curtain instead of being burnt to a cinder, her body be diverted to an abattoir type facility where the meat can be stripped off, sliced, minced, canned, or whatever, but ultimately can end up on supermarket shelf where it can provide nutritional value to someone else. Think about it, Zack... It's far better that we feed ourselves than reduce ourselves to a small pile of soot - a process, incidentally, that contributes massive amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere each year – for feeding a few plants, worms, or fish.

Sorry. Are you seriously saying you'd be prepared, once you’re dead, to be minced into a Bolognese sauce?

Absolutely Zach, of course I would. Why not? It’s not like I need my body any more at that stage.

OK… Ok…, let's suppose, just for a moment, that the principle is sound, what about the realities of disease... HIV, Hepatitis, CJD, for goodness sakes... those sorts of things?

Well, clearly there will need to be a screening program put in place but this is just process, Zach. Look, most of us, bar the odd sandal wearing hippie folkie, love to tuck into meat. All we're doing here is providing a way to feed an ever increasing population.

Isn't this just a type of ponzi scheme? All very well in the beginning but after a while, then what? Won't the flow of dead bodies dry up?

Well, not really. First of all, we mustn’t overlook the fact that people are dying every day. In fact, people are dying all day every day. And that's just here in England. We could, if we needed, also import people from around the world. Let's not forget, too, that trading in dead meat also opens up more commerce between us and, say, Russia and China. This not only sorts out the problem of how to feed people but also helps to stimulate the economy.

Russia and China?

Yes, if you think about it Zack, millions of people die every year in Russia and China, two of the largest economies in the world.

…arguably also two of the more corrupt nations, and how do you know that, say in the example of China, that you're not buying people who have been executed by the state?

Look, we've had discussions with the governments of both countries and also the USA, and in all cases we've had assurances...

Guarantees?

Well no, because, look, they have assured us and, you know, it's very time consuming to get written guarantees, and treaties and such, and these people are, you know, well I've met them, and they' people at the end of the day and, as such, they deserve our respect and trust.

So, under the new rules can everyone expect to be eaten when they die?

Oh no. We are proposing certain exceptions. Obviously people with communicable diseases, people under 18, men who have had gay sex, and anyone who buys an opt-out card, will be exempted

An opt out card?

Yes, we’ll be making these available at a very reasonable rate of around £18,000, which is about how much it costs to source a body wholesale from abroad.

Minister, I’m afraid we’re out of time so we'll have to leave it there. Thank you.

Thank you.

In other news, today saw the launch by Amnesty International of their latest report into child trafficking across Europe. We have a special report, coming up.

Two views, one tube

The man on the tube (his view)
There she sat opposite me, soft, young - late twenties, maybe - long dark hair, slightly unkempt, with an exquisite beauty, except you could see that she didn't believe in herself, that she felt somehow ugly.
What was going on behind those beautiful dark green eyes? Eyes that looked for all-the-world as though they might cry any moment, like they were brimming, the tears just holding off for a few more moments.
She was frail too, a frailty defined by her bones, her contours, the skin she'd chewed, and was chewing now, from round her delicate, slender, fingers. Thin, yet not too thin, she wore a plain skirt the pleat of which rested tastefully halfway down her thigh, with the most lovely legs. Her feet, encased in stylish leather boots with turned over flaps that came over her calf muscles, were turned in to face each other, locking the world out and her fears in.
I wanted to tap her, no to grab her, shake her and say, ' don't be afraid. I was like you once. Life's too short to spend so much time being nervous and afraid', but I knew that would frighten her more so with sadness beating its heavy drum in my heart I moved off and continued about my business, growing a bit older with each footstep.

The woman on the tube (her view)
It doesn't make sense. We were happy, I know we were. I invested so much in this relationship I can't just let it go... no, no, don't cry, not here, not in front of all these people... got to.. got to keep it together... but why? I just want to know why? I know there was another woman, I could forgive that... I could learn to live with it, if it was just sex, OK, but it was us, why throw away what we both worked so hard to build? And now what? Tonight? An empty flat, an empty bed? No one to watch telly with, no one to cook with, no one to laugh and cry with? Oh, God, I will be on my own, crying on my own? Just the thought terrifies me... no one to reach out to, no one to hold on to, to break my fall.
Was it inevitable? We always used to say how we'd conquered our fears, how nothing could stop us, how we were the ultimate team. And I believed her as I lay in her arms. I never thought this would happen. Never. It's just not fair... life, are you listening? Do you hear me life? You've let me down? I had faith in you.. .in her. and now what? Rejected, that's what... Rejected by Rachel, rejected by my parents, rejected by most of my old school friends... and rejected by you... life.. I just want to scream, to cry and scream and rant and... oh God, I'm so tired. I wish that man would stop looking at me like he's my father... what's up freak, never seen a lesbian before? Oh thank goodness, he's going... why did she have to go?