Tuesday 23 February 2010
Thursday 5 March 2009
Burglary at My Fair Lady
Lauren and I sat beneath a willow tree covered in neon lights. It was late and we both drank greedily from cans of K cider. It was sweet and heavy. It made the lights overhead bleed into the canal.
Only the lampposts saw us as we staggered over the bridge and looked down at a large cafe boat, bobbing on the bible black water. We had made up our minds. We broke through the brick walls of the bridge and scrambled down to the empty embankment. The boat welcomed us in. It had been wondering where we were. I slipped in head first, tearing my brown woolen cardigan as I fell into the kitchen area. I loved that cardigan.
Inside we were safe. We danced wrecklessly across the red carpet to an audience of empty tables and chairs and faces golden and smiling softly, and the shadows danced with us. We decided this would be a ritual of ours, one we would performed each night, in secret. We had clearly lost our minds. I found a bottle of gin behind the bar and had my choice of a fine selection of champagne. Again we drank greedily and lingered and lingered.
We sat in silence, reminiscing as we stared, goggle-eyed at the canal's filthy surface, pigeon shit and rat innards. I heard echoes and ghosts of friends long gone but ever present. 'Stay Golden'. A mermaid compass. Dry knuckles and teary eyes. A lost Navajo ring. A fortune teller's anger. Manhattan. Penzance. Biarritz.
A figure moved at the end of the boat. We fell to the floor, frozen. How much time had passed? We tried to escape, clinging to each other as we left the boat behind. A voice called behind us. We had been caught. A wide-eyed old lady with red hair, angry and frightened at the sight of us, fled to call the police.
We were trapped. We sat as if waiting for something. I returned to the boat, to the scene of the crime for my phone, clumsily left behind. I climbed back inside and saw it glowing from a table beside empty champagne bottles. I crouched by the window and saw Lauren outside surrounded by people, frowning and questioning. At her side she calmly tapped the buttons of her phone. I looked down at mine. 'Get out now.' Without a thought I opened the window, looked down into the murky blackness and lowered myself into the icy water. A hundred years of filth and waste groped at my feet and legs. My clothes weighed me down, drowning me in the canal's poisonous, hepatitis abyss. I swam quietly and shivering violently, in my mind I was Rambo or the convict Magwitch. The voices disappearing behind me as I drifted beneath the bridge. I reached the other side, and pulled myself up onto the concrete ledge. I had escaped.
Shivering and sobering now, I looked back to the boat. A police van stopped on the other bridge along the canal. Shapes moved by the boat, then became clear. Policeman surrounded Lauren. I had to go back.
My feet squelched beneath me as I stood waiting for the police. I called to Lauren, but she did not answer. The handcuffs cut into my wrists and I was hauled like a martyr, dripping into the cage at the rear of the van. Was it the K or the boat that had betrayed us? I blame the boat, welcoming us warmly into its champagne music halls, and golden sunshine smiles, then holding us until the old lady arrived. Who can be sure? Our vans pulled away, leaving the canal still again. The boat swayed gently and the neon willow tree laughed silently to itself.
Only the lampposts saw us as we staggered over the bridge and looked down at a large cafe boat, bobbing on the bible black water. We had made up our minds. We broke through the brick walls of the bridge and scrambled down to the empty embankment. The boat welcomed us in. It had been wondering where we were. I slipped in head first, tearing my brown woolen cardigan as I fell into the kitchen area. I loved that cardigan.
Inside we were safe. We danced wrecklessly across the red carpet to an audience of empty tables and chairs and faces golden and smiling softly, and the shadows danced with us. We decided this would be a ritual of ours, one we would performed each night, in secret. We had clearly lost our minds. I found a bottle of gin behind the bar and had my choice of a fine selection of champagne. Again we drank greedily and lingered and lingered.
We sat in silence, reminiscing as we stared, goggle-eyed at the canal's filthy surface, pigeon shit and rat innards. I heard echoes and ghosts of friends long gone but ever present. 'Stay Golden'. A mermaid compass. Dry knuckles and teary eyes. A lost Navajo ring. A fortune teller's anger. Manhattan. Penzance. Biarritz.
A figure moved at the end of the boat. We fell to the floor, frozen. How much time had passed? We tried to escape, clinging to each other as we left the boat behind. A voice called behind us. We had been caught. A wide-eyed old lady with red hair, angry and frightened at the sight of us, fled to call the police.
We were trapped. We sat as if waiting for something. I returned to the boat, to the scene of the crime for my phone, clumsily left behind. I climbed back inside and saw it glowing from a table beside empty champagne bottles. I crouched by the window and saw Lauren outside surrounded by people, frowning and questioning. At her side she calmly tapped the buttons of her phone. I looked down at mine. 'Get out now.' Without a thought I opened the window, looked down into the murky blackness and lowered myself into the icy water. A hundred years of filth and waste groped at my feet and legs. My clothes weighed me down, drowning me in the canal's poisonous, hepatitis abyss. I swam quietly and shivering violently, in my mind I was Rambo or the convict Magwitch. The voices disappearing behind me as I drifted beneath the bridge. I reached the other side, and pulled myself up onto the concrete ledge. I had escaped.
Shivering and sobering now, I looked back to the boat. A police van stopped on the other bridge along the canal. Shapes moved by the boat, then became clear. Policeman surrounded Lauren. I had to go back.
My feet squelched beneath me as I stood waiting for the police. I called to Lauren, but she did not answer. The handcuffs cut into my wrists and I was hauled like a martyr, dripping into the cage at the rear of the van. Was it the K or the boat that had betrayed us? I blame the boat, welcoming us warmly into its champagne music halls, and golden sunshine smiles, then holding us until the old lady arrived. Who can be sure? Our vans pulled away, leaving the canal still again. The boat swayed gently and the neon willow tree laughed silently to itself.
Wednesday 17 December 2008
Thursday 20 November 2008
Jesus Freak
My father used to be a preacher. He gave it up mind. He's still a salesman though, don't get me wrong, but at least now he knows what he's selling.
They called it revival. It started somewhere in Canada, Tornonto or some place. People were being healed they said, 'Jesus is coming soon' they said. All sounded fine to me. I was twelves years old and on an ordinary Sunday morning, I stared out of our family car window, watching the dreary Slough skyline flashing past, and pondered what this Jesus would be like. I wasn't sure he'd be too happy with me mind. Masturbating in the shower, groping girls in the corridor, shooting swans on the Thames...it didn't look good.
This Sunday afternoon would be different though, we were told. The children would not depart as per usual for their individual meetings, but would instead stay with the adults in the main hall. My friend Mark had Spina bifida and he sat across from me, looking bored in his wheel chair. I smiled and waved over to him. He smiled, nodded at the stage and rolled his eyes. Some old American guy in a light blue suit took the platform. Rodney Howard Brown or something like that. Mark and I had seen his kind before, the Tv evangelists and miracle workers, vessels for the holy spirit. He was already sweating, shouting into the microphone and instantly things began to happen.
The old guy with gold rings on every finger started shaking violently, people raised their hands, spoke their own language; grown men began to cry like school girls, old women danced around, someone started screaming like a mad person whilst the guy on stage cried 'come out Satan.' Satan? I'm all for seeing him.
I didn't see Satan though that afternoon, and I didn't see any miracles either. Mark sat back in his wheelchair, refusing to be taken up onto the stage for yet another failed miracle attempt to save his mangled bones. Instead we both laughed at the old woman lying on the floor, her skirt over her head with her baggy underwear for everyone to see. I laughed and looked up at the sky through the windows overhead. Grey clouds and it began to rain. I thought of the girls at school and slipped away, like a thief...to the men's toilets.
They called it revival. It started somewhere in Canada, Tornonto or some place. People were being healed they said, 'Jesus is coming soon' they said. All sounded fine to me. I was twelves years old and on an ordinary Sunday morning, I stared out of our family car window, watching the dreary Slough skyline flashing past, and pondered what this Jesus would be like. I wasn't sure he'd be too happy with me mind. Masturbating in the shower, groping girls in the corridor, shooting swans on the Thames...it didn't look good.
This Sunday afternoon would be different though, we were told. The children would not depart as per usual for their individual meetings, but would instead stay with the adults in the main hall. My friend Mark had Spina bifida and he sat across from me, looking bored in his wheel chair. I smiled and waved over to him. He smiled, nodded at the stage and rolled his eyes. Some old American guy in a light blue suit took the platform. Rodney Howard Brown or something like that. Mark and I had seen his kind before, the Tv evangelists and miracle workers, vessels for the holy spirit. He was already sweating, shouting into the microphone and instantly things began to happen.
The old guy with gold rings on every finger started shaking violently, people raised their hands, spoke their own language; grown men began to cry like school girls, old women danced around, someone started screaming like a mad person whilst the guy on stage cried 'come out Satan.' Satan? I'm all for seeing him.
I didn't see Satan though that afternoon, and I didn't see any miracles either. Mark sat back in his wheelchair, refusing to be taken up onto the stage for yet another failed miracle attempt to save his mangled bones. Instead we both laughed at the old woman lying on the floor, her skirt over her head with her baggy underwear for everyone to see. I laughed and looked up at the sky through the windows overhead. Grey clouds and it began to rain. I thought of the girls at school and slipped away, like a thief...to the men's toilets.
Dont diss my hobbies!
I heard James Joyce claimed he'd rather stay home and pleasantly masturbate than actually indulge in sexual intercourse. After much consideration.... I'm inclined to agree. J bird - 08
Monday 17 November 2008
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