Squirrel

Jemimah found the Squirrel on a Thursday. It lay dead by the side of the road in a puddle of its own fear. The body, head, hands and nose were all in pristine condition but the tail had lost its lustre. She could see no obvious signs of injury and so imagined him as a Nazi Squirrel, cowardly swallowing a cyanide capsule, lest he be hung by an Allied Badger, or worse still, a Communist Raccoon. ‘The savage bastards’ she thought.

There was something about this little crumpled ball of lifeless fur that spoke to Jemimah. Not literally. She did often speak to inanimate objects like chairs or drain pipes and yes, she was talking to this Squirrel now, but it certainly didn’t reply. It was dead. What appealed to her was how delicate he looked, how vulnerable he seemed. She decided right there in the gutter that she loved this Squirrel with all of her tiny little heart. She truly was a romantic, fickle soul. She also decided by the kerb-side that this was not to be the end for her and her new beau. Although she was only five years old, Jemimah began to formulate a plan in her head to bring this rodent back to life.

Strutting proudly through the lunch time main street rush, Jemimah sat the Squirrel on her shoulder like some sort of ghoulish pirate’s parrot. Space seemed to open out in front of them as they strolled along the otherwise packed sidewalks. Women gasped and men gagged at the sight of this toddler and her new boyfriend parading eminently in the August sunshine.

Jemimah rounded the corner and as her house came into view she said aloud; ‘Mum will be so pleased to meet you.’ Jemimah often imagined her mother as the kind of woman who openly welcomed road-kill into the household, but cruelly, in reality, she was not. It was no matter anyway, as she wasn’t home. Having tossed the Squirrel onto the kitchen floor, Jemimah clambered through the window. The back door, as it always was, was unlocked, but as Jemimah’s rather off-beat logic told her, so was the window.

‘Dad, I’m home! I’m just going up to my room to re-animate a dead Squirrel I found in a puddle of urine on the dirty street!’ called the remarkably articulate and concise child from the hall.
‘OK, honey’ replied the remarkably inattentive and negligent father from the lounge.

Jemimah had a unique way with her parents, a way of arguing her point incredibly decisively. She was capable of calmly and coherently presenting even the most ridiculous cases and arguments to her mother and father in such a way that after she had said her piece, they would think it was the most logical and sensible idea they had heard all year. It was this talent of Jemimah’s that had led to the five year-old having a bolt lock on the inside of her bedroom door, so that she could ‘have some privacy.’ She slammed the door extra hard and slid over the lock. It was a big room. Following a suggestion from Jemimah last March, her parents had agreed to swap rooms with her and now crumpled themselves to sleep in the box room on a nightly basis.

Jemimah placed the Squirrel, whom she named Henry on the landing, on a six inch miniature throne that she kept beside the bed. This was a girl with more than ordinary foresight. She dropped to her knees and began fumbling blindly under the bed.
‘Where is it?!’ she fumed. ‘Ah-ha’ she proclaimed inexplicably and continued searching. Following a further few moments of blind reaching, she produced a rather cheap looking silver robot and its remote control. All the blood had suddenly rushed to Jemimah’s head and her eyes narrowed with excited intent. She looked almost demonic as she viciously removed the robot’s outer casing with a screw-driver and threw it at a passing swan. Thankfully the cob saw the ugly lump of wrought iron in flight, hurdling towards him and ducked just in time.

Taking her Swiss army knife, another fruit of her parents’ continuing bamboozlement, she made a considered incision into Henry’s stomach and began to peel. She stood to attention beside the toilet bowl, bloody pulpy ice-cream scoop in hand and with a solemn cough, a respectful salute and a mournful yank of the toilet chain, Jemimah dismissed nine tenths of the Squirrel to the plumbing below. All that was left now was his untarnished skin.

It looked like tiny version of the best Squirrel costume you’ve ever seen at one of those rental shops. If a hamster had wanted to dress up as a squirrel for Halloween, it would have been perfect, if not a little grim. Slipping the Henry suit over the naked robot like some sort of rubber based contraceptive, Jemimah smiled proudly. She took the remote control in her left hand and the Squirrel was re-born. Henry zipped across the floor like a rat with a robot stuck up its arse.

The midday sun had long since disappeared to be replaced by the evening gloom as Jemimah and Robo-Squirrel, as she had nick-named Henry in the hall, took to the streets.
“What shall we do? Where will you take me? I’m a classy girl, you know?” she verbally pecked. Henry’s face didn’t twitch, but simply limply stared into space, as he struggled to keep pace with the little girl.

Da Vincenzo’s, the small town’s only and, by default, worst restaurant stood at the top of the main street. A small queue of hungry diners lined the building’s façade as Gigi, the dubiously Latin Maitre D’, held court at his tiny toad stool and lectern. A quiet mechanical whizzing sound caught his attention and as the queue suddenly dissolved into a retreat of grey and horrified looking would-be customers, Gigi first saw its source. Squeezed somewhat ridiculously into a Ken doll’s wedding tuxedo and with a clump of tiny daisies elastic banded to his paw, the lifeless and by now rotting Squirrel approached the desk. The seemingly impassable level of sheer surprise that was etched across Gigi’s face only doubled when the dead rodent began to speak.
“I would like a table for two my good man.” Gigi recoiled in horror. As he righted himself and leaned in to inspect the thing closer, he noticed a small walkie-talkie cello-taped to Henry’s back. He looked up and, across the road sitting on the knee-high wall, swinging her girlish legs, was Jemimah, identical walkie-talkie in hand and peering expectantly back.
“Well? A table for two please – I haven’t got all night. Hop to it.”
“Eh I’m sorry sir – we’re all booked up.” He slowly reached for the phone. Who he would call, he wasn’t entirely sure. He just knew he had to call someone.
“Now, now son – I’m sure you can find something – in the back.” The Squirrel whizzed and rattled and turned itself 90 degrees to reveal the ten euro note that was half stuffed into its tuxedo pocket.
“I’m sorry. You’re going to have to leave sir. You’re upsetting the diners.” By now, several customers at the closer tables had seen Gigi floundering, seemingly talking to no-one, but on closer inspection, the unsavoury and less than appetizing sight of a dead Squirrel, displaying the preliminary signs of rigour mortis, trying to bribe a Maitre D’ was apparent to nearly half the clientele of the restaurant.

The police pulled up outside Jemimah’s house and led her to the front door.
“I need to see him one more time officer. I need to say goodbye.”
“I’m afraid not Jemimah. It could be diseased. We’re going to have to destroy it.” It soon became apparent that Jemimah’s compelling skills extended in use beyond her family life and the policemen agreed to allow her one minute alone with the Squirrel. As the policemen peered curiously from the agreed ten metres, Jemimah took Henry in her arms and hugged what would have been the life out of him.
“I’ll never forget you Henry.” She began sobbing dramatically and rather falsely.
“I’ll never forget you Jemimah” she croaked roughly out from the side of her mouth. “I love…”
“No, don’t say it. Something’s just don’t need to be said.” She wiped a tear from her eye and tossed the Squirrel onto the lawn. Eyes shieled by a histrionic forearm, she scampered up the front step, through the door and slammed it behind her.

One of the Policemen gingerly picked up the Squirrel between his forefinger and his thumb and dropped it into a plastic shopping bag. He looked back at his partner and was met with an identical glare. It was the kind of glare that seemed to say “Let’s just drive off and not mention this again.” As the police car rounded the corner and zipped quietly away, Jemimah asked her mother what was for dinner. Seemingly, it was a night just like any other.

…Not Also, But Only.

Tainted Milk #4

A short excerpt from Chapter 12.

The Barrister wiped the sweat from his soggy brow and stepped away from the Taoiseach.
“I’m sorry, I just need to take a drink.” Garrison eyed the Taoiseach steelely, trying to read his thoughts. If there was one subject that Garrison was an expert on, having experienced fifteen years working as an investigative journalist specialising in the Dairy Industry, it was bastards. The Taoiseach’s gaze was fixed on the Barrister. The Premier’s face pointed downwards and he watched the sweaty man from under his converging brow. The most devious of devious smiles cracked across his face. The elderly professional raised a cool condensation speckled glass to his mouth and allowed the refreshing milk gush down his arid throat. Suddenly it dawned on Garrison.
“Noooooooo!” and he leapt athletically across the table and towards him. As Garrison tackled the Barrister, pinning him majestically, he sent the glass flying towards the jury. But he already knew he was too late. The Barrister clutched at his throat and his eyes silently cried out a thousand words of pain to Garrison. But he was helpless to… help him now. The Barrister went limp in Garrison’s soft strong arms and the courtroom went quiet.

Garrison rose and turned towards the dock.
“Acid milk? You son of a bitch!” but the Taoiseach just grinned back.
“Prove it was me John Garrison. I dare you” and he cackled a demonic chorus.
“Order! Order!” thumped the Judge with his funny little wooden hammer. “I have no option but to adjourn this court case.”
“I don’t think so Judge” said Garrison, pulling the cape and wig from the Barrister’s corpse. “I’m going to represent myself!”
The courtroom gasped and the Taoiseach turned white.

“I call to the stand, my one and only witness… this cow!” The courtroom’s double doors swung open and there stood a black and white friesian cow. She strolled through the courtroom and towards the bench. She eyed the people she passed as she trotted on with disappointed accusing eyes that seemed to say ‘I’m going to put the whole damn system on trial.’

The Taoiseach’s Barrister rose and shouted “Objection, your Honour, this is highly irregular; a cow can’t be a witness” but as the Judge peered down at the infant boy sitting on his mother’s lap in the front row who was lifting a bottle of milk to his two year old lips, he banged his little wooden hammer once more and boomed; “Denied! I’ll allow the cow’s testimony!”

Garrison smiled and stared at the Taoiseach. ‘I’ve got you now, you evil, evil dick.’

…Not Also, But Only.

President Cakes

The year is 2057. Like some horrible science-fiction cliché, every aspect of your life is governed by one entity, President Cakes. Not an elected leader or a self-appointed dictator, President Cakes is a children’s television programme.

Water now only covers 2% of your world’s surface and it is more valuable than gold. To save money, you bathe in crude oil. All your food is grown, harvested, processed, marketed and sold by President Cakes. It is low in protein and incredibly high in carbohydrates, so it requires very little water to digest.

You are happy. You are content. But you are not free.

The year is 2009. Danny Waverly’s house stands sandwiched in the centre of a red-bricked terrace on the outskirts of Luton. At six o’clock on a bleak February Saturday morning, Danny, as he always did on the weekends, leapt out of bed and hit the ground with a dull thud. Not only was it Danny’s fourth birthday today, but there was another reason to be particularly excited this morning. The BBC was premiering a brand new Saturday morning kids TV show called President Cakes. The teaser trailers and promotional campaign had captured Danny, and his entire classes’, imagination. It was all that was spoken about at school. This was the televisual event of his life so far.

“Happy Birthday, big fella.” Danny’s Dad rubbed his thigh awake as he limped out of his bedroom and into the sitting room “What are you watching?” Danny didn’t even look up. He was already transfixed.

The show itself was rather crudely animated and certainly didn’t seem to have half the budget of the thirty second trailers that heralded its arrival all month. A jagged computer generated chef walked onto a plain and seemingly infinite white background.

“You know Danny this reminds me of something. Danger Mouse and Penfold started having more and more adventures in the arctic, as the show started running out of money?” Danny’s Dad hadn’t expected much of a response to his little factoid, but he felt a tangible sense of discomfort with the sheer engagement that his son now had with the television. “You know? It was cheaper to paint?” Almost involuntarily, Danny began to sing along with the droning and charmless theme tune that simply repeated…

“President Cakes – President Cakes – President Cakes – President Cakes – President Cakes – President Cakes” and so on.

The Chef, the show’s star and host, was swarthy and unsteady on his feet. He spoke with a shamefully stereotypical Italian accent that made the Dolmio puppets seem authentic and made Danny’s Dad, a man without a single Mediterranean bone in his body, feel deeply offended. “Lets-a make-a de cakes-a!”

“Whad-a flavour a-cake-a do-ya want-a?”
Danny shouted “Chocolate!” at the television. The Chef paused before replying.
“Banana cake! OK, we-a make-a da banana-a cake-a. Just for you. And whad-a-ya want on top-a da cake?”
“Chocolate!”
“You’re-a da bossa! Banana it is!” and, in real time, he would make the colourful cartoon cake right then and there. A little memerized himself, Danny’s Dad wondered whether Fyffe’s or Chiquita had a hand in producing the show. Was this a devious power play by the evil and preeminent banana lobby?

After a couple of episodes, Danny knew to only ask for Banana on his cake. It was all this Chef was able to make, it seemed. That was until the following series, in the Autumn, when all he made was cheese cake. Danny caught on much quicker this time around.

The monotonous deep chorus of “President Cakes – President Cakes – President Cakes – President Cakes” made Danny’s Dad’s toes curl each time that he heard his son singing along to it. By series four, they were churning out three episodes a day and never took a series break. It just broadcast constantly and seemingly indefinitely.

President Cakes quickly became the most influential television programme ever. If it told the children once to ask for cheese or bananas or apples, it didn’t have to repeat itself. Whatever the Chef claimed he had heard his little helpers order, in their minds, that was what they asked for and indeed what they would be asking for from then on, until told otherwise.

By the time President Cakes began broadcasting globally, it had broken free of the BBC and transmitted via its own satellite on its own network. It would hold weekly auctions where the planet’s biggest Corporations would bid billions for their product to be the ingredient used in the next cake or to be the oven the chef cooked it in, or to be the jeans that he wore. A little word in this fat Chef’s ear, one seemingly innocuous endorsement would send their profits ballistic. Instead of hard cash, Corporations began offering shares and within three years President Cakes became the major shareholder in every company that was worth mentioning. Within twelve years, it outright owned them all.

Needless to say 2038 was the first time that a television show had been elected US President. Needless to say, not one single person audibly questioned its legality. Within six months President President Cakes had taken over and abolished all of the world’s national and international governmental bodies. And who would stop it? The people who governed the nations of the world, were the same children that had grown up watching the show, the children who would never dare question the Chef’s demands, be they reasonable or otherwise. In the end it was all so simple.

In the future, when extra-terrestrial life finally visits earth, they will hear one sound as they approach; “President Cakes – President Cakes – President Cakes – President Cakes – President Cakes – President Cakes.” And if they’re unfortunate to listen long enough, who knows how far its sound will end up spreading?

Thank you. I wrote this allegorical story after I became increasingly worried about ‘In The Night Garden’. You’ve been warned.

…Not Also, But Only.

The Ballad of Morrissey

With a quick finger lick and a thick quiff flick, the swordsman presented himself to me. It was with his theatrical flourish and his hair nicely nourished, that I knew this man’s identity. He slapped my cheek with a posie and when it turned painfully rosie, I knew it was non other than he. He bowed ever so slightly and tipped his hat so politely. All he said was “Je me present the infamous, Morrissey.”

I had long since been warned, that many husband had been mourned while travelling to Nantes by the sea. Monsieur Renault had said, “My boy you’ll be dead, if you don’t heed this warning from me. There is a crooner who stalks, these roads and these walks. Death is his only currency. I’m sure you’ll meet there, a thief with great hair, who goes by the name, Morrissey.”

“Stand and deliver, I can see that you quiver, clearly you’ve heard tales of me.” I stayed quiet and kept shtum, my plan was to play dumb, and pray that he just let me be. But this fiend showed me no favour and as his face turned much graver, he severed my leg below the knee. As I hopped on one foot, he carved an ‘M’ in my gut and proclaimed “That stands for… Morrissey.”

I carried no pistol or no blade, I was travelling to trade, with some jeweller who lived between Nantes and the sea. I was a lame sitting duck, who had run out of luck, as the swordsman carved lumps out of me. I was down to just my head, medically I should have been dead, but somehow there was still life left in me. He was having such a blast, that it felt rude to ask, but I did “Can I ask you a question Morrissey?”

He paused and he smirked, my gambit had worked, “What happened to your trademark misery?” The smile disappeared and he started acting all weird. This was clearly a soft spot for he. “I spent my music career being sad, feeling bad and found a new job that I thought was for me. But being this happy makes me feel kinda crappy. There’s something about it that just isn’t me.” “I can help you repair, your sense of despair, if you just don’t finish off me.” So now I peer through a small crack, in the zip of his knapsack as he tours with his new album of misery. Together we work, to suppress the slightest smirk, from the miserable face of… Morrissey.

…Not Also, But Only

Danny

Head down and shoulders hunched, Danny boarded the train. He kept his hat pulled low just above his eyebrows and made sure his gaze never strayed anywhere above shin height. Although Danny hadn’t been in the public eye for over twenty years, a trip on public transport still created a distinct feeling of dread and discomfort for him. Danny breathed easily as he found himself stepping onto a completely empty carriage. The morning rush had long since finished and the bustling droves of professional commuters were now safely locked away in their offices. Danny removed his hat, sank into his chair and gazed out the window. Slowly, just as cautiously as the train itself lurched out of the station, Danny started to relax.

Danny put his feet up on the seat opposite and, taking one look at the scribbled instructions on the paper scrap in his breast pocket, he began the calming techniques that he had been taught by his therapist during his last session. Picking out one particular tiny cloud in the dreary grey late morning sky, Danny focussed all his attention on this one spot in the distance and slowly allowed himself to give in to an artificial feeling of floating. He suddenly began to feel euphoric, because for once, it was working. He had always been sceptical of such exercises and never experienced any success with them before. But as the train’s rattle and shake began to dissolve into a gentle sway and the abrasive repetitive noise of the wheels passing on the sleepers below turned into one solid pacific purr, Danny felt as if he was sailing through the suburbs, moving far away from civilisation and deep into the heart of his ‘happy place’.

This bliss however, was short lived. Soon Danny could feel the train beginning to slow and as it pulled into the next platform and crawled to a stop, he tensed up and the dread quickly returned in abundance. Within mere seconds, the carriage was filled with a swarm of excessively loud fourteen year olds. Girls and boys in uniforms stormed the train, shouting and laughing and pushing and barging. The carriage, that had been completely empty, apart from Danny, was suddenly standing room only. Into the three seats directly surrounding Danny, landed a steel mouthed girl, her bleach headed boyfriend and their male Teacher, who seemed only marginally older. Nudging Danny in an overly familiar fashion and with such force that it nearly winded him, the Teacher snorted;
“Sorry about this lot. We’re off for a school trip. Too much sugar I think.”
Danny smiled and concentrated on his breathing. He turned and stared out the window, desperate not to be referred to again. ‘Stay calm, they’re probably only going one stop’ he reassured himself.
“So where are you off to?” nudged the Teacher again. Danny forced a smile but still averted his gaze.
“Eh, a good bit out, Great Missenden.”
“Well, what a co-incidence? So are we. Hope you weren’t planning on sleeping” the Teacher snorted and nudged Danny again “Going to the Roald Dahl museum too? A bit old for that, aren’t you?” he snorted even louder and Danny could feel his heart rate starting to accelerate. His breathing began to follow suit.

‘As long as they don’t recognise you, you’ll be OK’ he told himself ‘they can’t be more than fifteen, they couldn’t possibly remember you and even this guy looks younger than you. If he hasn’t recognised you by now, then he’s not going to. You’re OK. Just stay calm. Find yourself another cloud.’ Danny looked out the window to pick out a cloud to focus on and begin his exercise again, but he couldn’t find one. The afternoon, as it had just turned into, had suddenly brightened up and the sky had turned abruptly clear. As if by magic, it was a beautiful sunny, clear and blue-skied day. ‘Nothing ever goes my way’ thought Danny. The train pulled out of station. It was a forty-five minute journey to Great Missenden.

Danny could feel someone looking at him. It was a feeling that he was well used to and so when it came over him again, he recognised it immediately. So adept at being looked at was Danny, that if pushed, he fancied he could even identify the direction of an offending gaze without even looking. He often day-dreamed about going on some television show and doing it blind-folded or maybe do it as a touring live show. He had it worked out that he would stand in the middle of the stage, surrounded by, say, eight people. Each would look at the floor or somewhere and, in turn but out of sequence, they would just… look at him. Still blindfolded, he would point in the direction of the person who was looking at him. He thought people would love that. But the last thing Danny wanted to do now was to throw himself back into the lime-light like that. In fact, all he really wanted was to disappear and never be seen by anyone else ever again.

Danny felt the gaze from directly in front of him and when he looked up, the girl with the braces quickly looked away and stifled a childish giggle. Danny looked back out the window and kept telling himself that she couldn’t possibly have recognised him. The girl took out her mobile phone and began moving her thumb frantically around the key-pad, finishing off with a pronounced stab at the main button. She smiled and looked over at the boy to her left. Danny was watching out of the corner of his eye as the bleachy head boy’s own mobile lit up and the crackly voice of the most terrible Catherine Tate impersonator shouted “Am I bovered. Do I look bovered?” repeatedly from its speaker. Leaving it long enough for everyone else to savour his sense of humour, the boy eventually ended it with a similarly pronounced thumb stab. He read the text, then looked at the girl and then, open-mouthed, he looked at Danny. The boy’s face lit up and just as it did, Danny’s heart sank.

As Danny turned and looked back out the window, the boy and the girl, as if some how it had been pre-planned, simultaneously lifted their mobiles and took a photograph of Danny, who looked around just in time to be snapped full on. The Teacher, genuinely surprised by what he had just seen, immediately scolded the children.
“Hey! What do you two think you’re doing?” and then, turning to Danny, said “I’m very sorry, I just don’t know what got into them.”
“Sorry sir” said the pair, in unison once again. Danny nodded politely and returned to the ever fleeting outside world. There was a brief silence, which was only broken by the boy who began humming. It was inaudible at first but gradually, it got ever so slightly louder. Danny’s ears pricked. He knew he knew the tune. And as the boy’s humming got loud enough to decipher, Danny knew exactly what the child was doing. Once again, as if it had been pre-rehearsed, the girl chimed in with vocals exactly in time with her friend’s humming. At regular intervals, in tune with the music, she would repeat the words “sausages, sausages, yum yum yum, sausages, sausages, yum yum – sausages, sausages, yum yum yum, sausages, sausages, yum yum.” The girl was doing it under her breath but it was a tune so familiar to Danny that the quietest recital of it would instantly register with him. The Teacher was baffled by the children’s behaviour.
“What are you doing? Stop tormenting this poor man please.”
“But sir, it’s the Gill’s sausages boy! Look.”

When Danny was nine years old he was forced, by his parents, to attend a casting call for an advert. A cute and somewhat singular looking boy, Danny stood out from the crowd with his bright red curly hair, upturned nose and extensively freckled cheeks. He was immediately cast to be the face of the new Gill’s Sausages ad campaign. It was an extensive and multi-platform campaign that saw Danny’s face on bus stops, buses, billboards and newspapers. His voice was regularly on the radio and an incredibly embarrassing, cringe-worthy television spot was on morning, noon and night. Danny’s face was one of the most recognisable faces of 1988. In the television ad, Danny, dressed as a pirate, sat atop a giant sausage with a mast and sail that bobbed across a cartoon sea. All the while, he chanted the incredibly catchy and incredibly irritating Gill’s Sausages ‘mantra’; sausages, sausages, yum yum yum, sausages, sausages, yum yum – sausages, sausages, yum yum yum, sausages, sausages, yum yum.

After two years of saturation and the relatively small company’s overly ambitious investment in advertising, Gill’s Sausages went belly up. Danny’s fame and particularly the quality of it meant that he could not last in any school for more than a term; such were the levels of teasing that he was forced to endure by fellow students and often the staff. Everywhere he went, that theme tune followed him like his shadow. Grown-ups and children alike would herald his arrival with their own impromptu performances of it. Danny soon began home-schooling, stopped going out altogether and started to become utterly, utterly depressed. It was ten years before the mania died to down to an acceptable enough level that he felt ready to start building his life. He tried various auditions but was laughed or sang out of nearly all of them. No one was willing to cast him in anything. He was so recognisable that Danny playing any other character would have just seemed like a comedy walk-on or cameo from the Gill’s Sausages boy. Danny ended up surrendering any hopes he had of a career in acting and instead simply took whatever work he could get. Anything that precluded dealing with people face to face would suffice. Danny drifted from call centre to call centre, doing surveys and generally trying to keep a low profile. Occasionally he would agree to do a night club personal appearance here and there. He hated it so much and it made him so unhappy but he needed to supplement his income so he could keep up with his ever escalating psychiatry expenses. It was a vicious circle that he allowed to continue on the proviso that he made himself that, one day, they would eventually forget. Even now, however, at the age of thirty, he still looked enough like his younger self to be recognised daily.

Danny had thought that by now, over twenty years later, that he would be free of this curse. But he had underestimated the emerging generation’s love affair with all things nostalgic, all things ironic. Crap became good, old became new and all things ‘random’ became adulated as strokes of genius. Unbeknownst to Danny, the TV ad in which he sailed the high seas on a swashbuckling sausage had recently hit on a wave of its own and just surpassed three million views on YouTube, with vacuous teens and twenty-somethings all over the world tossing it across Facebook and Bebo, forwarding it across offices and forums. He was one of the current internet sensations and was being toasted globally again for his utter dreadfulness. This was not a world that would forget Danny anytime soon.

“Oh my God, it is the Gill’s Sausages boy” gaped the Teacher sounding more like his student’s than they did. “Haha! From the internet, brilliant! What are you doing here?” Danny looked away, not knowing quite how to answer that. The kids opposite began texting simultaneously and suddenly the entire train carriage filled with a chorus of various obnoxious text message alerts. The news was spreading. Within seconds the entire group of student’s were gathering around Danny’s seat. He sank low in the corner, now surrounded by sixty fourteen year olds. Each one of them, grappling with each other for a better view, each one of them singing;
“Sausages, sausages, yum yum yum, sausages, sausages, yum yum – sausages, sausages, yum yum yum, sausages, sausages, yum yum” and each one of them holding their mobile phones in out in front of them, video recording like some uniformed teen-age paparazzi. Danny was hyperventilating. The walls started to close in and he could feel a tension in his chest like no other he had ever experienced. He had had dreams like this before, where he would wake up in a pool of sweat and shrieking with terror. But this was not a dream and Danny was acutely aware of it. He struggled for breath and began howling in agony, but the children seemed to only love this more. Danny reached out as if looking for a hand of help to descend and drag him away it all. But no hand came, all he could see were the glee filled faces of sixty students and one Teacher, laughing and baying and shouting at him, recording it all from sixty-one different angles. Danny closed his eyes.

Pixelated video of Danny’s death was posted on YouTube on over forty different accounts and surpassed a total of twelve million views in the three days before they were removed.

…Not Also, But Only

Theatre Review

Generally I like to keep my writing upbeat and positive, but we all have yangs as well as yings so one of the ways I like to get out all my negativity as well as earning some pocket money is by doing reviews for various publications. Basically you can be as big a bastard as you like and it’s OK. So here’s just one example of my work…

‘No, I’m scared. I don’t want to do this. I want to go home,’ says one cast member during yet another interminably dire ’scene’. Please. A recurring theme here is the tortured equation that ‘effort’ plus ‘cute’ is apparently enough to make us give a shit. And, therefore, one class of six year old “actors” minus a decent script equals an extremely regrettable waste of anyone’s time. St. John’s 2008 Nativity Play in aid of Sudan appeal, one out of five, avoid at ALL costs

…Not Also, But Only

Tainted Milk #3

An excerpt from chapter ten.

Garrison looked through his letterbox and saw the mutant killer cow waddle through the hall and into the kitchen. Garrison knew this was his only chance.
“Is he there?” whispered Sandra with a non-verbal hint of the blood curdling terror she was no doubt experiencing.
“It’s a she sweetheart… and its one murderous dairy bitch from hell.”
“Garrison, it’s not the cow’s fault that she’s has been genetically engineered by the renegade government as one their private armies and/or bodyguards to kill enemies of the state like yourself and your now dead father who had found out about their plans to control the population using tainted milk supplies.” said Sandra smoothly and quickly. Note: Exposition is very hard.
“You’re right, that was insensitive of me. Sorry for flying off the handle there.”
Sandra roughly licked the left side of Garrison’s nose. This was the sign of love from her people and it was the first time either had exchanged such a gesture.
“What did I do to deserve you?” said Garrison and he licked her nose back.
“I don’t want to lose you” she whispered, erotically.
“Then for God’s sake keep low, stay close and if you hear so much as a ‘moo’, run like hell. We’re going in.”
Garrison quietly opened the front door and stepped into his house. The government had sent the cow to finish off what the Replicon Assassin was unable to do…kill him that is. Thankfully, Garrison wasn’t home when the cow had arrived, but by God he was now. He edged down the hall and went to draw his gun. It was empty.
“This is empty” he said “But how, I just loaded it before we left.”
Sandra’s head bowed low and she began to sob, erotically.
“I’m so sorry.”
“What the hell have you done?!” whisper shouted Garrison in a manner that was just loud enough for Sandra to know just how bloody annoyed he was, but not loud enough that the killer cow would hear him. Internally Garrison quickly reflected on the many days and nights he had spent perfecting his whisper/shout, getting the consistency and sound levels just right, recording decibels and drawing graphs. His editor at the newspaper had said that he was the top whisper shouter he’d ever come across in fifty years on the job. If you needed someone to be angry in a situation where you had to be quiet, Garrison was the man. But as Garrison looked at the now weeping Sandra, the half woman/half robot that he now knew had sabotaged his mission by emptying his gun of bullets, he remembered who had been by his side while he perfected the whisper shout, who had recorded the decibel counts and who had helped him make his graphs. It was Sandra. If she had sabotaged the gun, maybe she had sabotaged the research and if the research was tainted, then perhaps his whisper shout wasn’t as perfectly pitched as he had thought.

As he turned away from Sandra in disgust, he realised that she had indeed sabotaged his research too. There, less than a foot away, snarled and slobbered the terrifying face of the mutant killer cow. It had clearly heard his whisper shout. Garrison braced himself, this was it, his last moment on earth. And as the cow leaned back and wheeled up for the killer pounce, Garrison closed his eyes and awaited the inevitable.

The cow lurched forward and began laying into flesh with greedy… greed. Blood splattered across the room and the bovine’s mutated fangs ripped through bone and muscle. But Garrison was unharmed. He was still in one piece. Opening the eyes he thought he would never see through again, he saw Sandra, his one and only true love, the half woman/half robot who had stolen his heart only to betray his soul, wedged between the cow’s fatal fangs that thrashed and gashed and ripped her to shreds.

She had clearly thrown herself in front of Garrison, giving her life for his, which was ironic seeing as she had only recently betrayed him. She was being eaten alive, but she made no sound, cried no pain, she just looked deeply into Garrison’s eyes with a look that seemed to whisper… “I’m sorry.”

Garrison rallied himself into action and launched a foot violently into a nearby chair which shattered into a thousand shards of wood. He had very strong legs. Grabbing a jagged chair leg, now razor sharp following the damage his foot had done to it, he threw himself at the beast and wrapped his legs around its shoulders. With the sharpened piece of wood in one hand, Garrison was riding this monster like a bucking bronco and he looked great doing it.
“Hey cow! How about a taste of a steak that’s not very tender, but is bloody and well done” shouted Garrison exhausting all his knowledge of steak terms.
He drove the wooden stake into the cow’s brain with one foul and exciting movement of his arm and almost immediately the cow went limp. As the beast toppled over, very dead, Garrison held Sandra in his soft strong arms. The murderous cow had eaten everything below the waist and she was very quickly bleeding to death. Sandra looked down at where her legs used to be.
“Half a half woman?” she pondered aloud, remarkably philosophically for someone in her condition.
“You’re still more of a woman than anyone I’ve ever known… currently know or am likely to ever know in the future.” said Garrison instantly regretting the last needless bit of the sentence.
“I love you John Garrison. Forgive me” and as her heart exploded, she silently drifted away, erotically.
“Damn you Government!” called Garrison to the heavens and silently he vowed to make sure that Sandra’s life and subsequent death would not be in… vein.

…Not Also, But Only.

The Cat

As I set an excited plate, this as I waited for my date,
Careful not to tread ‘pon unseen pile my cat had shat upon the floor,
Lest this point it needs recapping, endlessly it seems he’s crapping,
My figurative face it seems he’s slapping, crapping on my kitchen floor -
‘Is this my life’s lot?’ I ponder, picking crap up off the floor -
Then a knock, upon my door.

Pausing coolly as I should, more softly knocks on solid wood.
Check my hair in grubby mirror as I walk towards the door,
A tender greeting leaves me smitten, take winter coat from hands frostbitten,
One moment later she steps in kitten, kitten shit right near the door -
‘Give me your shoe’ I awkward bid, upon hot water I then pour -
And leave to dry, next to the door.

At dinner stony quiet blooms, we dance round elephant in room,
Trunkless bitter kitten watching, squatting, pooing on the kitchen floor,
Without an appetite between us, I lamely joke that ‘who could blame us’,
Beholding sight of my cat’s anus, doing laps across the kitchen floor -
The girl starts to make excuses, excuses that will take her from my door –
But now she lies, upon my floor.

The kitten took her from behind, she had no chance her side was blind,
I wish I could say that he was kind, as he mauled her on the floor,
Once she was dead he resumed pooing, knowing well what he was doing,
My face now white with sickness brewing, brewing with night of mixed up gore -
I turn to cat for explanation, a reason for this rotten core -
He looked at me, then shat on the floor.

…Not Also, But Only

Philip’s Diary #2

May 2nd 2007
I’m sure the excited way in which I reacted to the doorbell’s ring gave the game away. He could tell that something was up. Also, I had spent so long in the shower and was wearing a new shirt and several squirts from my dusty bottle of Paco Rabanne that I’m sure he had his suspicions, but he didn’t make them known. He just sat on the couch and watched me out of the corner of his eye. I met Christine at a mutual friend’s party. The cat had his yoga that night and so didn’t attend. I was glad he didn’t. I always find it difficult enough to talk to girls at parties, but it seems so much more difficult when I’m sitting beside the drinks table, stroking a cat. Over the course of the night we exchanged glances, words and finally phone numbers. She was, by all accounts including my own, much more attractive than me, but she had a faint cautious self-deprecating nature that made her accessible to men like me.

By the time I arrived back from the front door with Christine, the cat had somehow set another place at the table and was seated, upright between the original two settings. Christine “Ooohed” and “Awwed” at the sight of Beetroot sat on a booster seat with a little bib, miniature cutlery and plate. He was laying it on thick. I’m sure she thought it was a cute little flurry on my part, designed to break the opening phase tension of our first date. But as I removed the plates of our starters and prepared to serve the main course, the cat was still there, just staring at her menacingly. I’m sure, at this point; she was thinking that I was more than a little bit odd. I should have called it all off at this point, made up some excuse. I should have known that all this was ominous. I know what he’s like.

I would say that the conversation had dried up, but to be honest it never really got going. Beetroot’s presence in the room was more akin to an elephant than to a cat and the atmosphere hung heavy over my small kitchen. Christine excused herself and asked directions to the bathroom.

“What are you doing?”
“What am I doing? What are you doing?!”
Christine poked her head round the corner. “Sorry? Did you say something?”
“Eh no, I don’t think so. I sometimes sing out loud to myself and I don’t know I’m doing it.” I babbled. “I wasn’t talking to the cat!” She faked a smile and continued on her way.
“You’re making an idiot out of yourself.”
“Shut up!” I whispered.
“End this now” he demanded aggressively.
“No.”
“End it now, or I will.” Christine returned and I rose to prepare the dessert.
“I hope you left enough room for profitter…” But I stopped mid-sentence as I turned away from the fridge and back to the table. My knife and my fork were now lodged in Christine’s neck. “…rolls.” She gurgled blood out of her new throat hole and then, almost immediately, just sagged her shoulders and sank into a strangely peaceful looking death. Beetroot held his tail aloft provocatively as he calmly exited the room.

Philip

…Not Also, But Only

Philip’s Diary #1

This and every one of my blog posts is dedicated to the memory of my friend Philip. It is also dedicated to tracking down his brutal and vicious killer. His one time pet cat, Beetroot. In 2008 Philip’s death was declared suicide, but myself and a number of Philip’s friends refused to accept this. When I saw the suicide note, my suspicions we’re only heightened. I’m not an expert on handwriting, but having known Philip for over ten years, I had this nagging feeling that this was written by someone else (view suicide note). I just can’t prove it yet. Beetroot was Philip’s pet cat for the last four years of his life. When they found his body, Beetroot was missing. In Philip’s will, he left me his diaries and there are some very telling entries, snap shots of his life with Beetroot…

January 12th 2007
The cat shat in my flat. My cat, my cat is a twat. (He was quite poetic, which makes it even more tragic) I hate this cat. He’s sleeping now so I must be quick. If he hears me scribbling in here, he will come after me and… do things. I never noticed how spacious this closet was. I think I might spend more time in here… away from him.

Last night we stayed in. I tried to go out, but he made me stay in. He wanted to sit on my tummy. But when I shifted to get comfortable, he dug his claw into my cheek and told me to sit on the floor. All we do anymore is watch TV. He loves American drama series. Especially The Wire and The Shield. He said that he would have loved to be a cop in America but that my stupid face ruined his chances. I didn’t quite understand what he meant.

He sits, that’s what he does. He watches TV, rating it. He especially loves to watch live television. He loves to see mistakes made by cameramen. He raises his eyes to heaven when the presenter is unsure what to do and looks off camera for help. He also makes me rent DVDs of films that he knows have large numbers of continuity errors. He visits websites. He’s even got books like ‘Movie Mistakes 2′ and ‘Hollywood’s Biggest Cock-Ups’ 2. They’re all sequels. He says books like that don’t gain enough momentum until the second edition. He sits and he smirks and he scoffs and he ‘tsks’ and he shakes his fat little head, watching inexperienced presenters on cable channels. Later he’ll go on the forums and slag people off. Once he videoed me on the toilet and posted it on YouTube, ‘so cats in Argentina could laugh at me’ he said. I really hate my cat.

My cat, my cat is a twat. When we go for a drive he takes note of prices on petrol station signs and shakes his head. “That was cheaper last week. God they think we must be maniacs if they think we’ll pay that, but were not manias, are we Philip?” said my cat to me. He insists that we drive out of town to get cheaper petrol but when I point out that the petrol wasted in the drive there and back would render it pointless… he just stares straight ahead and doesn’t say a word. I ask him is he alright and he says he’s fine. I know he’s not really. I can’t bare it. He acts all high and mighty, like he’s got it all figured out, like he’s better than me. Well at least I didn’t shit on the mat. The cat shat on the mat in my flat – and I cleaned it up. Fuck you cat!

Philip

…Not Also, But Only