The Brute - A Youtube Advertisement

SCENE
[Black and white; high definition; slow motion; snap shot transitions; ‘The Marriage of Figaro’ from 3:16 onwards.]

CLOSE-UP: 0.00
[A mugshot of BOBBY THE BOXER’s face, as he lies on his bed: beaten, bloodied, bruised, barely conscious – 4 seconds.]

EXTREME CLOSE-UP: 0.04
[A side-on shot of a bloody wound on Bobby’s cheek; a hand with a cloth on left of shot not yet touching it – 2 seconds.]

EXTERNAL: 0.06
[A wide shot of a rundown English brutalist estate – 2 seconds.]

EXTREME CLOSE-UP: 0.08
[The side-on shot of the bloody wound on Bobby’s cheek; the cloth now pressed to it – 2 seconds.]

EXTREME CLOSE-UP: 0.10
[A side-on shot of Bobby’s forehead; lips pressed to it – 2 seconds.]

EXTERNAL: 0.12
[A wide shot of a quiet English brutalist building – 1 second.]


EXTREME CLOSE-UP: 0.13
[The side-on shot of the bloody wound on Bobby’s cheek; the cloth slowly being released from the hand – 2 seconds.]

EXTERNAL: 0.15
[A wide shot of a significant English brutalist building – 1 second.]

EXTREME CLOSE-UP: 0.16
[A side-on shot of Bobby’s naked torso right; MARY’s clothed torso left – 1 second.]

EXTERNAL: 0.17
[An imposing upwards shot of a tall brutalist tower – 3 seconds.]

CLOSE-UP: 0.20
[A side-on shot of their faces: Bobby lying on the bed, looking up, in the foreground; Mary on top of Bobby, looking down, in the background – 1 second.]

EXTERNAL: 0.21
[The imposing upwards shot of the tall brutalist tower – 1 second.]

CLOSE-UP: 0.22
[Bobby’s left hand, grasping the mattress cover – 1 second.]

CLOSE-UP: 0.23
[Mary’s left hand, grasping a pillow – 1 second.]

EXTERNAL: 0.24
[The imposing upwards shot of the tall brutalist tower, just starting to crumble – 2 seconds.]

CLOSE-UP: 0.26
[A top-down shot of them looking at each other in the eyes with their heads resting on the pillow: hers on the left, his on the right – 2 seconds.]

EXTERNAL: 0.28
[The imposing upwards shot of the tall brutalist tower, now crumbling – 1 second.]

CLOSE-UP: 0.29
[The top-down shot of them with their heads resting on the pillow, now both looking down – 1 second.]

EXTERNAL: 0.30
[The imposing upwards shot of the brutalist tower, in full collapse – 2 seconds.]

CLOSE-UP: 0.32
[The top-down shot of them with their heads resting on the pillow, unable to look at each other – 2 seconds.]

EXTERNAL: 0.34
[The imposing upwards shot of the brutalist tower, now a cloud of dust – 2 seconds.]

CLOSE-UP: 0.36
[A top-down shot of Bobby turning onto his back, humiliated – 2 seconds.]

GRAPHIC: 0.38
[White text on black background: THE BRUTE – 4 seconds.]


ROOM SHOT: 0.42
[A shot from the top corner of the bedroom: Bobby in bed, on his left side, alone – 2 seconds.]

GRAPHIC: 0.44
[White text on black background: the performance details of the show – 4 seconds.]

[Fade to black.]

END: 0.49

Midtown UK - #004

A café, somewhere in England. It is empty, except for the Owner and the Wheelchair-bound Man. The Wheelchair-bound Man is, it seems fair to say, not unwelcome.

W When, just now?

O No, before.

W Good God, a customer.

O I don’t want to get carried away.

W You should call the police.

O What?

W You said he snooped around.

O I don’t know.

W Though if standing in a place where there are chairs provided gets a customer reported to the police, I think you might need a sign.

O I beg your...

W Think of the litigation costs.

O confused

W Hm?

O What do you know about litigation costs?

W What do I know about – oh that’s typical, that is! ‘What do you know about litigation?’ I know lots!

O I’m sorry / I’m sorry –

W overlapping I know lots you don’t know!

O to himself Christ...

W I know lots you don’t know I know!

O I know you do.

W Good. Now why aren’t you calling the police?

O I have glasses to wash.

W But nobody’s used them!

O Dust, then.

to himself Pedant...

W If he was sniffing around, he’d know you have no cameras here.

O God, you’re right.

W Not even one to catch his smug face...

O How do you know what he looked like?

W Well I’m assuming, from what you’ve said, that he was a smug little swine.

O He did have a rather remarkable manner.

W What’s that supposed to mean?

O I don’t know.

W I’m bored of this. What are you doing?

O I’m cleaning the – look, why don’t you rearrange the display cakes for me?

W Oh, yes.

O They need your... specialist touch –

W They certainly do.

prods one cake

‘Ere, I’m icing up over here.

Silence.

Eh? Eh?

O Sorry?

W I said I’m icing up over here. Icing – cakes? Yes? Oh, I’m wasted on this blog. Look, where’s my blanket?

O Did you leave it outside?

W Well I don’t know, do I?

O Let me go get it for you.

exits

W By the power of Lord Lucan, am I hungry.

to without ‘Ere!

Nothing.

I said ‘ere! Any chance of lunch soon?

to himself Go to feed, can’t do nothing without feed. Can’t knock together a display without feed, specially. Haven’t eaten in days.

checks he hasn’t returned

steals a display cake and takes a bite

Ugh.

puts it back

What’s happening to this place? Boiling all yesterday, freezing today. He must have bust the thermostat. The flowers don’t know if they’re up or down. They’ll all be dead before long. Good riddance. If I wanted all those garish colours I’d rub my eyes out...

rubs eyes

Yeah, really rub ‘em – start poking ‘em, like this!

pokes eyes

Ow! Bloody eyes...

O enters

What’s that, old gun?

W Is that my blanket?

O Yes. Here you are.

W Not before time.

Look, I’m bloody starving – well, not starving, obviously, but –

O Oh, of course...

W And I’ve already lost 10 of my 30 minutes lunch –

O Yes, yes, you’re right – here.

gives him one of the display cakes

Here, this’ll be ok, won’t it?

W Oh – er –

O Baked fresh... well, baked by me at least.

W That’s fine. Cheers.

O That’s all right.

hears something

Oh, er, sorry old chap, just got to, er... just realised this isn’t even your blanket! Stupid of me – yes, it’s, er, must be the one the neighbour’s dog used to sleep in.

W You what?

O Yes...

W Well where’s mine? This feels like mine. In fact it is mine!

O No, you’re mistaken there, sir.

W But it’s got my name on it! Look – right here!

O No, that says... something else.

takes the blanket

W Oi, give me that back! I’ll freeze!

O Just a tick...

exits

W My feet are cold. What are you going to do about that, eh? Eh?

Beat.

Nothing. ‘Spose it’s lucky I can’t feel my feet, then, isn’t it? You’re just going to have to stay cold, as you are. I’m no good to you up here, and you’re no good to me down there, so you’re just going to have to look out for yourselves, for once.

looks at the cake, and puts it back on the display

No...

takes it back

looks around for ideas

puts it down his trousers, bulging obviously

looks at it concernedly

grows in confidence

smiles; his posture changes

So this is what it feels like to be Jimmy Savile...

smile fades

That was definitely my blanket.

to without John?

John?

End.

Midtown UK - #003/2

A café, somewhere in England. It is empty, except for the Owner. He adjusts stale pastries at the counter. Outside, white paint flakes off the wall. Silence.

A Young Man enters. He is, it seems fair to say, not welcome.

Y Good afternoon there, sir!

O Hello there – er, what can I get for you?

Y Ooh, could I get, er... just an apple juice, please?

O We – we only do cordial. That all right?

Y Oh, right, ok, well... could I just have an orange then?

O Orange cordial?

Y Yeah, ta.

O I’ll bring it over. You... have a seat.

Y sits by the window, looking out at the street

O finds the bottle of cordial, unopened for years, and struggles with the bottlecap, though the congealed crust offers little resistance of its own

pours far too much into a filthy glass and fills with lukewarm, cloudy tap water

serves

Y Ah – thanks for that, thank you.

O No problem – pleasure.

Y looks out the window

O adjusts the pastries, watching him

Y looks back at him

O smiles awkwardly, having been caught

Y takes a sip from the glass and none after that

O watches him

adjusts display pastries

Y reads over the laminated, spare menu

O watches him carefully

adjusts the glasses

watches him

Y does not look behind him

O hears something

looks at him

carefully but hurriedly exits to the back

Y turns to see him leave

breathes

stands to look around

looks at the counter, then behind it

studies the walls

returns to where he sat, though stands

O enters

Y looks out the window at the street

O Oh.

Y Hm? Oh – hello again. Didn’t realise you’d gone.

O Are you – oh no, just something in the, you know – back.

You er... are you waiting for someone then?

Y Oh no, no.

O Mm. Right. Well can I get you – to himself – no, you’ve still got your juice there, haven’t you...

Y looks out the window

Do you mind if I ask a question?

O What? Oh, no. Fire away.

Y How long has this place been here? On the high street?

O Showing its age?

Y No no, course not – just wondering. Settle a bet, you know, that sort of thing.

O Fifteen years. Give or take.

Y Funny.

O Oh really?

Y I used to live here when I was little, just going round to have a look at everything again – nostalgia, you know – at my age, as well – and everything looks so familiar, some of the signs are exactly the same as they were ten years ago – those are what you remember most of all, the shop signs – but I cannot remember seeing this place once when I was a kid.

O Well we’re not really the sort of place people notice.

Y No...

So – do you get much, you know, footfall, er... do you get many people from round here coming in these days?

O Er, well – we’re not what we were.

Y Recession?

O Hasn’t helped.

Y No.

O The local rotary club pops in once in a while, keeps us, you know...

Anyway, um – what else can I get you? Small cake? Spot of tea?

Y No, I’m fine thanks.

O Oh – all right then...

Y So what do I owe you?

O Oh, er... pound ninety.

Y Ah – er, ok... there you go.

O Much obliged.

Y Thanks. Be seeing you.

O Bye now.

Y exits

O watches him leave

checks the café

sighs with relief

goes over to the front door, steps outside to look for customers, then shuts the door and locks it, flipping from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’

exits to the back

End.

Midtown UK - #003

A café, somewhere in England. It is empty, except for the Owner. He adjusts stale pastries at the counter. Outside, white paint flakes off the wall. Silence.

A Young Man enters. He is, it seems to fair to say, not welcome.

Y Good afternoon there, sir!

O Hello there.

Y Could I get, er... just an apple juice, please?

O We only do cordial. That all right?

Y Erm... do you have orange?

O Orange cordial.

Y Yeah, just a glass of that, please.

O I’ll bring it over. Have a seat.

Y sits by the window

O finds the bottle of cordial, unopened for years, and struggles with the bottlecap, though the congealed cordial crust offers little resistance of its own

pours far too much into a filthy glass and fills with cloudy tap water

serves

Y Ah – thank you for that.

O Pleasure.

Y looks out the window

takes a sip of the cordial and none after that

O watches him

adjusts the pastries

Y reads through the laminated, spare menu

O watches him

adjusts the glasses

watches him

Y does not look behind him

O watches him

hears something

looks at him

slowly exits to the back

Y turns to see him leave

stands to look around

looks at the counter, then behind it, for some time

returns to where he sat, though stands, and looks out the window

O enters

Oh.

Y Hm?

O You, er... you waiting for someone, then?

Y Oh no, no.

O Mm. Right. Can I get you – to himself no, you’ve still got your... juice...

Y looks out the window

How long has this place been here?

O Showing its age?

Y Sorry? Oh – no no no, just, er, wondering. Settle a bet, you know.

O Fifteen years or so. Give or take.

Y It’s funny – I used to live here when I was little, and I don’t remember ever seeing this place on the high street.

O We're not the sort of place people notice.

Y Everywhere else looks the same as it always did. Even the signs are the same. Those are what you remember most clearly of all, the shop signs.

O Right.

Y Yeah...

So you... do you see much – do you get a lot of people coming in here these days?

O Well, it’s not what it was...

Y The recession?

O Hasn’t helped.

Y Course...

O We get the local rotary club every now and then, keeping us from...

Anyway – ‘s there anything else I can get you?

Y No, ta – what do I owe you?

O Ooh, er... pound ninety.

Y Ah – ok... er, there you go.

O Ta.

Y Thank you.

exits

O watches him leave

checks the café

sighs with relief

hears something

exits to the back

End.

Midtown UK - #002

A café, somewhere in England. It is empty, except for the Owner and a Wheelchair-bound Man. The Wheelchair-bound Man is, it seems fair to say, not welcome.

The scene has clearly been one of awkwardness for several years.

O Can I get you anything?

W No.

Silence.

hacking cough

O Oh Christ...

W Shut up!

hacking cough

Don’t you dare... !

O Let me get you -

W No! No! I’m not going to be beaten –

hacking cough

Away! Get away!

O gives him a glass of water

W snatches the glass and gulps it greedily

Ah...

O Better?

W None of your business! Yes.

O waits

W blank

O waits

W Thank you.

O cleans the glass

Silence.

W Can I do anything?

O No.

End.

Midtown UK - #001

A café, somewhere in England. It is empty, except for the Owner and a Man. The Man is, it seems fair to say, not welcome.

The scene has clearly been one of awkward silence for some time.

O Look, if you've finished your coffee I'm going to have to ask you to -

M Same again, please.

Bet you didn't have me down as a regular first time you saw me.

O no answer

M In truth, nor did I - but then, this wasn’t really my choice, was it?

O serves coffee

M Thank you - ah. Oh dear...

Bet you had me down as a Starbucks man, didn't you? Hmm? Yes? Well, you've got me there... you see, for all its criticism, Starbucks coffee is an altogether satisfying experience. They understand that you cannot, in this day and age, pass off boiling, brown-coloured water as a cup of coffee - something this country has never learned. It has a nice, er -

pours some onto the saucer

rich consistency. It is made using clean water from clean pipes - a sign of a healthy business - and served in clean cups. It is always available, however you want it made that at that very moment, and the barista always smiles at you while she's making it - presumably because her livelihood is not in jeopardy. Without any pretence of authenticity, or soul - whatever that means - it ticks all the boxes. It is an altogether American cup of coffee.

Though I suppose it would be unfair to accuse this cup of coffee of having any pretence of authenticity.

Bottoms up.

drinks

O When are you going to leave me alone?

End.

Iconic Iconoclastic Man

Butter knife trussed up
In dog collar (white)
Four stomachs to get through
Brains to ignite
The bloating!
The distended!
In public forums
(i.e. abbatoirs)
Thin out the breed
Butter knife's all I need
The rapture!
Burst the distended!

Butter knife trussed up
To a woodland-found stick
The tall white support
Fetishised/academic
Pseudo-Old Greek!
Topple temple tower!
Carved of Edinburgh rock
The man at the top
I'll bring him down
Spit him in the eyes!
The rapturous response!
Cut down to size!

Butter knife trussed up
In smart-casual suit
Fourth seat on Question Time
Air of a brute
People's champion!
Their dead-eyed applause!
Kneecap the classical
Sack-drown the young
Perhaps if I'm lucky
My name'll be sung
Butter knife to tough steak questions!
Gut gas and white dust!
Grin lined with white dust
Grin lined with white dust

Lonely Woman

They gave my fortune to my two or three children.

The Terrible Tragedy of Tragic Man

He was born a tragic man
Disastrous Brazilian birth control plan
No surprise he traded lands
He died in England, Tragic Man.

-

The blank stare of a passport face
Well, not enough to tell this case!
The tale of our man began
On South American sunburnt land
But born for more than laying bricks
Tragic Man upped sticks
To trade upon his wit and charm
(To set American VCRs)
Brand new USA life beckoned
The Green Card application form
Filled in, until a birdshit storm
With him the target (tragic error)
The FBI cried "Bio-terror!"
And in a second
Nothing beckoned
No US for Tragic Man

Stockport
His last resort
A place to go as money was short
But pre-flight (and if you've seen Home Alone 2
I stole this from there; skip this bit or two)
His serious brow on the numbers above
Runs into a lady - calamitous shove!
Tickets get mixed up, the usual cack
(And if you just left us, we welcome you back)

Stockwell
The London smell
Had to depend on a cousin to dwell
But south London's littered with farcical traps
And Tragic Man's nothing if no good at that
NANA SKIN TUMBLE the papers'd scream
ROLLER SKATE RUMBLE (and such redtop dreams)
Even the Tube got him into a state
They say he once had to leap over the gate
Flustered and panting, not normal at all
Tragic Man sprinted and bounced off the walls
And so it was England, to no revolution,
Where Tragic Man died in a police execution.

Faerie Queene Wannabe Woman

“‘Ere, where are you taking me, woman?”

Wikipedia defines them as, “a type of mythological being or legendary creature, a form of spirit, often described as metaphysical, supernatural or preternatural.” She knows of no other descriptions.

“Just come with me, Ted.”

Blood-red lipstick is something not many women can make work, says her webcam (and I agree); she now applies it with a pout that even two years ago would have been beyond her. Her technique for coring new notches in her big brown belt is second to none. Her peroxide-streaked hair looks wild and alluring when not matted by grease. But the layer of white powder has been redundant for a long time: patchy from low webcam resolution (her fear of bad luck having long since banished mirrors); her skin pale enough already. And this self-taught education in making the most of such modest means clearly hasn’t reached graduation: the maroon leather jacket utterly betrays her lack of confidence in the once-flattering (now-rotting) white summer dress, and the knee-high high-heel leather boots aren’t exactly in keeping with the aesthetic of her suburban surroundings. But this is the nature of routine.

“No, let me stay here!”

One of the funny things that binds us all together – separates us from the beasts – is how, whatever our living space, one surface in particular stands as a record of our life there. Some are as bland as a semen- and footprint-stained bedroom floor, or a hallway wall with patches of original wallpaper shade, where the art used to go. But Faye can’t let herself be seen to be so dull: her mural is her kitchen lino.

“Come on, I’ll look after you.”

Field Lane is as radical as the name suggests. One row of greying, pebbledash bungalows faces another, across a road barely wide enough for two cars. The hedges are walls, to keep out the world and the sun. The whole road is cluttered with over-sized, broken-down suburbanalities: the aforementioned hedges, the recycling bins, the hanging baskets, the parking. It has been said that no road is slower to drive along than Field Lane. This may be as much to do with the pure pensioner population as it is the cars. Still, in a land of gnomes and human-dressed animal statuettes, Faye’s front garden of little winged women is very much in vogue with her location. Though on reflection, her gate – a wooden shambles, a rejection of the street’s iron rule – is perhaps not.

“But why are we going into your place?”

The root of the linguistic connection between ‘moth’ and ‘mother’ is one of the English language’s most logical. Faye, as ever, serves as a prime example of this: though I know nothing of the nature of the inner tangle between child-yearning and ‘child? urgh!’-ning, it is at least clear that it resembles the moth’s ecstatic desire for the flame, except that where moths reel away once it feels the deadliness, mothers go further and embrace the deadliness, have the child (as such, are moth-er, more moth than moths). Faye’s struggle is noble though, I believe, because she knows that she would rear her children only to kidnap them. That she would rear them because she has to kidnap them. Today is her substitute; her contraception. Her noble way around the last of those sentences copied from the Wikipedia article into Word for an A4 printout, that has acted as her mirror into the future for so many years now.

“You’ll be perfectly safe, Ted.”

What of the linoleum on the kitchen floor? asks the linoleum on the kitchen floor. Well, those two punctures underneath the table are her heels’ resting place for most of the morning (if not the day), checking her empty inboxes and ignored forum posts. The scrapes and cuts that form its main texture are because life is unfair: when a downcast woman won’t pick up her sharp-heeled feet, it’s always the lino left in agony. Which is why it enjoys Faye’s lower ebbs so much, I suppose. Its biggest tear, the one by the back door, is a dictionary definition of poetic justice: it found Faye’s attempt at sleeping at the foot of the garden amusing; her night-time distress, hilarious. You could say that the heel getting caught mid-dash and ripping it open was exactly what the floor deserved. To put it another way, if the webcam knows all that Faye is, then the lino knows all that Faye does.

“Well... can I have something to drink?”

She’d read elsewhere in the article that this was what they did. An old person. Hardly in short supply. The tea had been the bait all along.

“That’s more like it – of course you can, Ted.”

In years gone by, others of her kind would have sprinkled some sort of sparkling dust to lure them in. She had considered sugar lumps, but sugar’s hardly this generation’s magic dust, is it?

“Two sugars, if you’re asking.”

It’s not the first shot of panic she’s had today, but when she looks in the drawer for the sugar spoon and sees she only has butter knives, her heart beats palpably faster. Stay calm, she tells herself, needing reassurance – skin that old can’t be any thinner than Parma ham (and she may be right). A butter knife, she hopes, will still suffice.

“There you are.”

The boots were a gift to herself. The jacket was a gift from her mum. And she never told anyone about the party-wings. But she doesn’t wear those anymore, ever since she realised they only made her feel more lonely, not less.

“This is all rather fancy – what’s brought this on?”

Our fairy of this tale is a fairy only by circumstance, of course. And it’s any wonder she still is, isn’t it, when you consider how with every tick by every sentence cut from Wikipedia, every task she’s completed to become better has only made her feel worse.

“Just wanted to make you a bit more comfortable, Ted.”

“For what? I was perfectly comfortable in my chair watching Countdown, thank you.”

Her grip on the butter knife is far too suited to spreading than slicing, which she suspects may be a problem.

“I’m afraid this is it for you, Ted.”

“No biscuits, then?”

“Sorry? No, listen – ”

“I could have brought some with me, if you’d have said. Do your family know you’re this barmy? Must have been a right odd little one, am I right?”

This solves the grip problem.

“Drink up, Ted. I read they used to bury people with food and drink for their... impending journey.”

“You daft girl, I’ve got plenty at home as it is. You don’t need to feed and water me, you know – you’re not my son!”

“No, Ted, I... you don’t seem to understand what’s going on – ”

“That’s because I’ve got my brain all ready for that lovely blond one on Countdown and her puzzles, not your cryptic crossword clues. Speak properly, will you!”

The lino smiles, and is met with one heel being driven right through it to the concrete below.

“Have you read about what fairies do to people like – ”

“Fairies now, huh! Mrs Wilkinson always did say you were away with the fairies, I suppose she must be right, huh... here, what’s that knife for? You got some cake hiding somewhere?”

“No, Ted, it’s not for cake – ”

“Because really you’re all right love, you don’t need to worry about that – the cup of tea’s kind enough of you, very kind.”

The door shuts, eventually, after scraping the linoleum yet further.

“Oh, you’ve no need to shut the door, I’m not stopping.”

“You’ll be stopping very shortly, Ted.”

“Yeah, I’ll be off in a bit. ‘Ere, you sure you’ve not got any biscuits? Sorry to be a pain.”

“Ted! Just be quiet! Be quiet, all right?”

“Now hold on just a minute there young lady, you’re the one going on about cake in the first place!”

She can’t bear to look at him. She paces towards the back door. This is not the easy way round.

“Just be quiet for a second Ted, please!”

“Well then why’d you drag me here if you wanted a woman’s moment to yourself? You’re bloody barmy, you really are. Now where’s that cake? I’ll get it myself if you’re going to be funny about it.”

“There is no cake!”

“Well why’d you tell me there was cake? Gordon Bennett, you aren’t half daft, aren’t you?”

A sudden turn, a menacing lunge.

“You are my hostage, you doddery old bastard! I have taken you hostage, and now I am going to kill you! Now just shut up, shut up, shut up!”

“Well I thought I was meant to be your guest as well, until you started lying to me about cake and such!”

“Ted, what are you – I am going to kill you!”

“Flippin’ heck, it’s not that bad – I’ll have something to eat at home if you’ve not got much. I don’t want to be eating you out of house and home, now.”

“Ted – !”

“No, no, I’ll hold my hands up, my mistake. Look, if I’ve really been such a pain I’ll – ”

“What are you – get off!”

“No, really, it’s no trouble – ”

“Get off my knife!”

He wins, with his old-man strength.

“I’ll even wash this up for you, look.”

And he was as good as his word. Fairy liquid (groan) to boot. Sparkling.

“See, I am house-trained, honest. Look, it was lovely to see you and everything, just, er... yeah, see you, now.”

The doors offered as little resistance as she did. Ted went home.

The lino had never felt the warmth and the weight of her like this. They had never shared such an intimate moment before. It wanted to envelop and protect her, just like the rest of us. But what good would that have done her? How would lino help a woman on a quest to the summit of an A4 dream that only laughs at her, or to calm the doubt-flavoured vertigo? It cannot even help me decide if this smudge, this anti-climax, is a happy ending or not.

Crashley the Coyote Car Driver Man

Greased palms!
(A surface layer
A bitumen mix
Of three parts bung
To one, the sweat of uncalm
Not suitable for street-drive tyres
We only know that the car went off the coil)

When it came to dotted lines
The famous sportsman's hand was well-versed
A shame he couldn't drive on these all the time

It was commonly believed that the sports star
Was a wanted commodity by his then-employer,
Who were all too willing to stump up the primely figure of
[In this case, a figure confidential]

But the sports superstar was too clever for this
A technique, seen on the screen of his bedroom
He was determined to try
But inexperienced in the ways of contract law and negotiation
He overshot the turn
To the tune
Of five grand!

Five grand!

The sports club board was unwilling to budge
An awkward situation, I hope you'll agree
A man, I'm not sure who he was
Called the sports legend as he split a speed limit
Down the line did the fat man sing the tune of five grand
Hyperventilating bagpipe march, played reverse

We only know that the car went off the coil

Five grand? Here's all the stuff it can buy you
Half a Mondeo, or a hot tub or two
An evening's average red-light wrongs
So many sarongs!
Appalling miscarriage!
Miscarriage of justice!
The sports god, though he'd mastered his Adidas curving
Was powerless to prevent his indignance from swerving

Sometimes things can be both lateral and falling
You get the same score for both speeding and calling
The traffic figures of G Britain will ensure this one's forgotten
Yet another of the garish cartoon falls we've been brought up on

The car went off the coil!
To the tune of five grand!
Hit that tune, Liberace!
Hit that tune
The tune of five grand!

Harrison Ford

Boulder!
Boulder!
Look over your shoulder!
Rolling rock guilt, Han Solo
Run from the boulder!

Our lives crossed through a TV screen
And into the dreams
Of over-active children
(Like me!)

No sandy chasm was there we couldn’t conquer
Nothing we couldn’t do!
Take all the treasure
And defeat the Nazis
You dreadful fraudful fool

My young pyjamas were my explorer clothes
Whip by my pillow
(Length of back-garden hose)
Dive in the pond
Break bones in daft falls
Never known such happy days as those

So who’s this little slip Calista Flockhart?
(Calista just sounds like a Scotch young man)
Why aren’t you stealing skulls or ruining history?
BECAUSE YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A BLOODY SHAM

A thirteenth birthday spent in broken seclusion
The whip and hat left in a cupboard to cool
Turn twenty-seven in a couple of fortnights
“You bore me stupid, kid”
Yes, now I'm cold too

You even said James Bond was your dad!
You TWAT.

Beef Sausage Desert Island Man (The Act of Intimacy Reimagined as Traffic Networks)

The drive home is never interesting. This is simply an accepted fact of the world we live in. The car is the same. The roads are the same. The rush hour, the route – our fellow coagulants of the arterial glut are the same. The gelatinous churn of traffic of the A roads and motorways turns us into philistine grunts. We ignore the geocultural ceiling sculptures carved from black cloud, that the sky has sweat rain for. The thousands around us are nothing to us: we reduce people’s entire lives, entire histories, entire lineages to a pair of Swedish headlamps. We ignore the bored crash barriers – I ignore them even as I drive past now – numbed by the monotony of our oversafe, over-produced cars as much as by lack of nerve endings. Not like the good old days! they’d say, if only they could be bothered. The destination is the same. Uninspiring pork sausage for dinner same. Even the road signs are bored of us now.

These are all facts we are all aware of. As I drive home now, I am set to crunch the blanched gravel at 6.17 after another identical journey, so I will perform two (maybe three) laps of honour at the local retail park roundabout to delay my arrival – every second after 6.17 will conjure searing, fabulous visions of all the all the positions and fetishes and toys and people and animals NOT animals and food and drink and abuse and pain and blood that I could be sharing with my secretary in my wife's mind (humiliatingly, my fantasies are more vivid in her mind than they ever are in mine). But this detour is not about her. It is about the man on the roundabout. John Ingram, I imagine he’s called. John is, it’s fair to say, a shell of a man – his haircut alone is testament to that. He wears what I believe is a burlap sack, which I will assume (for the sake of decency) has been stained by a very precise rain storm. It’s possible to be a good man without still having your youth, yes, but... I’m sure John was young once. No one stops for John. He forms no part of the roadway, so no one has need to notice him. He just sits. And he waits. And smells. I imagine.

John – I’ll tell you now how I met him – was the kind of man who had currency in this world. He had possessions. He had an education. He had a car. He was the owner of an Arden Blue Vauxhall Zafira, that had a layer of child grease from the family he always wanted and resented. He had dreams he would never pursue, for all the right reasons – work, money, responsibility, respectability. He could walk tall on Oxford Street – or if not tall, at least at average height. He fit, I mean. Sense of humour is such a hard thing to quantify, isn’t it? We’ll move on. A wife, he had; kids, he had; an affair, he’d had – no, John! I used to say, that scuff of a lady’s heel on the dash won’t come off no matter how much you prod it! Yes, here was a modern man. A modern man with a modern job, with a modern drive home past a Roman Catholic church that makes such modern men yearn for a taste of the past like they yearn for passport stamps or restaurant reservations.

His drive home was as it was for us all: same destination, same road, same dinner (though I always did have him down as more of a beef sausage man, myself – PRETENTIOUS, I mean to say). Everything that evening was as it should be: the seatbelt etched into the inner nook of his clavicle, the radio off out of principle, the shoe scuff scratching his attention. He successfully drove past the church. He successfully made the turning onto the A17. He successfully navigated the length of the A17 between his required slip roads. At the point of turn off, his steering wheel said, Subtle Left, Equal Right, Harder Right, Back To The Middle As The Flyover Takes Us Up, Above The Road We Just Left.

The Road Safety Campaigners would spit shit if they knew where his attention at that moment lay. The seductive curvature swayed towards him, like hips, and swayed away as smoothly. An altogether instant hypnosis. The road seemed to vanish. He had no explanation – he did not know. It was a road he had not driven on. Could not drive on – there was no exit.* So he turned his attention back to the road before him, and back to the drive home. He thought of beef sausage dinner. He thought of his wife. When he wasn’t thinking of the other road, he was thinking of his beef sausage wife.

[*When we find a road we have not driven on before, we naturally want to drive it. I believe that this is actually a repression of our deeper desire to achieve dominion over everything we see, which is, of course, the reason cars were invented in the first place – it is no coincidence that Henry Ford was both the pioneer of the auto industry and an outrageous tyrant. If I could, I would stand on every road ever laid and piss over every square inch – in this regard, we are all the same. The next dictator of this land will urinate in the original tarmac mix before the roads are even laid, and with the roads as his territory, England will be his. But what John felt was not the swelling of his bladder.]

-

As with every time I come to visit John, my view of him is brief. Tonight, I grant myself three shots, three rings round the roundabout road before heading home. Now John is not a modern man; he is a dying man. But he is also the Desert Island Man: he has his book, the Ordnance Survey Map of Essex (and North-East London); his favourite eight tracks on his company-owned mobile, of limited storage capacity; and his luxury item, the mobile itself – reception has long since escaped him, but its physical existence alone comforts him. His blue shirt gets darker every day with vomit, sweat and pollution. His trousers, I believe, barely lasted the exhausting dash from their carriageway to ours, over the toughened turf and barriers. But the road map was clearly an impulse buy. Because his yellowing, corner-curled road atlas at home told him nothing when he checked it frantically that evening, showing only a thick black thread without landmarks, just hanging on that yellow page, connected to nowhere, anchored by nothing.

The crisp white road maps in the bookshops told him nothing. The gormless booksellers told him nothing. He’d shout and plead and gabble at his wife every night as she screamed and cried and wondered what had come of this man, this man who once was strong as Atlas and now could only froth at his mouth. He’d drive past drive past drive past that swaying hip night after night, the repetition of this single event becoming all he could remember of his working week.

What amuses me is how, in the right light, a distance of even ten or twenty yards can be made to look insurmountable. Ten or twenty yards of industrial turf, sandwiched between crash barriers no more than two feet high. But you just can’t cross boundaries like these – this is the whole point. This is what John learnt. His numerous holiday request refusal notices were the first certificates; the P45 was his graduation parchment; the decree absolute, his crowning glory. In the face of a blissful, self-assured body (that we believe, with all our hearts, WANTS us) we are all paralysed, so the warning stings from the tears and humiliations of your world falling about your ears don’t register. John – and I know this – is only just working off his debt to those warnings now, as he lays there, prostrate, appalled by the realisation that none of this was worth the loss.

As he fades away in my rear-view mirror, I can just make out his eyes. They retain to this day a depth of thought to them that you’d expect a dying man of regret to make his last place of rest. The subject changes every day but the eyes stay the same: all the days of those two childhoods that he’d fled from with no thought; all the wonder of this secret England that meant nothing to him; all the life with all those people he despised and yet adored. Cotton for burlap; hygiene for filth; pride for blame. In a time of terrible trading, these are surely some of the worst.

We all feel bad for John, much like we all love God – some of us just don’t realise it. I long to park up and scream the answer to his question in his haemorrhaging ears, but just as the traffic prevented him from simply pulling over on that first evening to look, so it prevents me from pulling over for him. England is scarred by self-contained road networks: hundreds of thousands of self-contained road networks that can’t be accessed. Sixty, seventy million. This is simply an accepted fact of the world we live in. “You mustn’t cross from one to another just because it dazzles you with surprise!” I’d say. “You mustn’t abandon yours for someone else’s because it looks different, or because you haven’t pissed on it before!”

I am nearly home now. And as for him, he will die in two days time, whereupon the refuse workers will chuck him in the truck, and no one will ever think of John Ingram again.

The Brute - A Prologue

Bobby Boxer!
Bobby the Boxer!
Bobby Brute!
Bobby the Boxer!

His brain is half
His hands are dust
His back is rot
Bobby the Boxer!

Mary married in spite sleeps on stone sofas with kids coddling nightly
Bobby can't sleep can't nothing on stone and stone-cold sofabeds
grey concrete life in lifeless cold Grays
the burn of the shame
the burden of blame
Bobby the Boxer!
Bobby the Boxer!

dreams are paper not stone to build on
money and mortgage deeds lives depend on
the wedding ring's sold
the kids won't grow old
the decor is mould
fridge is warm, oven's cold
Bobby Brute!
Brutal Bobby!
Bobby the Boxer!

Knuckles!

Dust!

Brainwires!

Rust!

Dreamscapes!

Husks!

Taste lost

for cunt!

Bobby the Boxer!
Bobby the Boxer!