London Calling World

Fog Crisis Deepens

Chaos spread across Continental Europe as it was cut off from the British mainland by a heavy fog for a fourth day in succession. Excitable Spaniards and Italians have been panic buying what remains of their stockpiles of Burberry and Hackett clothing. Instability could spread to other regions such as Germany if news filters out to the general public, who so far have been kept in ignorance about the situation, with a news blackout and archive footage being shown on state television of a sunny England.
United Nations Debate

Four lions and one gazelle are to discuss the merits of democracy.

Another Year of Silence.

God fails yet again to emerge from obscurity to give Christmas message. The pope is rumoured to be exasperated with the Deity’s continued absence from public life. The Queen is also thought to be losing patience and has called an angel to the Court Of Saint James to explain, as yet none has availed Her Majesty with their presence.

Show Business.

Laugh out loud comedian Johnny Drainpipe revealed today that he was disappointed not to receive a knighthood for the seventieth year in a row. “Impending knee surgery will make it next to impossible for Johnny to be knighted in the coming year.” Claimed an expert, “He can hardly kneel to say his prayers, before performing on Celebrity Pole Dance.”

Indigenous Finns to protest at new Lap Dancing Club.

Jinkie Toliver the Celebrity Chef claims the quick snack he invented which he has named “Scrambled Eggs”, was the inspiration for his new recipe book, Jinkie Toliver’s Meals in 30 Seconds.

London Calling 29 November

Medical Miracle.

A Dagenham man who lost sight of his penis while urinating a year ago received good news today. Dave Toady was told by doctors it was only because his penis was now obscured by his distended, beer swollen belly, and there was nothing to worry about. A relieved Toady told us, “It came as quite a shock, I remember always being able to see it when I was having a slash. And then pow! The tip disappeared!”  Toady who had taken to sitting on the loo in the Lady’s cubicle of his local pub since the trouble began said he was looking forward to being able to go to the Gents again and stand at the urinal with his mates.


Pope shifts his view on condom use.

Pope applauds use of condoms as party balloons in Africa. “I have no problem with people using condoms for recreational purposes, only the other day a Cardinal blew one up and stuck it on his head, it was hilarious.”

London Calling 22 November

Government nepotism, or simply the best people for the job?

In another shock to the world of politics, petrol pump attendant Nigel Paish is surprise choice for new Energy Minister, as the appointments continue for the new government in which eight ennoblements including Mr (now Lord) Paish all come from Scrutton Secondary Modern, in Rainford, also attended by the Prime Minister. Another ex alumni Sharon West was amazed by the call to govern as she was just finishing her shift at Macdonalds. “I couldn’t believe it when Dave rang and said he was the Prime Minister and that he wanted me, as like a food advisor, that I’d be a Lady, never been called that before. You know Dave pretends to be posh, but he’s not really.” She added. Questions are being asked in the House if the nation is best served by the Prime Minister giving all the posts to his old school friends. The New Speaker former tractor driver Bill Biggins ruled that it was “Fair play boy.” And left the House for a pint.


Academic News.

Neophyte student Louie Sandys was last night recovering after four weeks of rigorous academic life finally took its toll. Studious Sandys is the first of his family ever to learn to read and write.  He started at York University this October reading Linguistics. The Devonshire genius did not crawl into bed until half past eight on Sunday Morning, and was not up at the time of writing this article. Sandys who is ill, claims to have caught Fresher’s Flu, either at the all night house party, the poker marathon, the Halloween Rave, the other party the foreign girl had, the night in the pub for a quiet drink, the Student’s Union Vodka 100, the lunchtime cider contest, his party in his room when he lost his favourite hoody, the Saturday Night special at Sparkles Disco (students half price), The Paintball and Beer War, other party at someone’s flat, (forgotten who), or most likely from a draft in the library where he hasn’t even been yet.

Pages from history. Victorian News

The incredible trial of the Honourable Horace Bunsen, the serial seducer continued in sensational fashion at the Old Bailey today. The prosecution admitted into evidence Bunsen’s most infamous device, a spinning wheel with over fifty ‘licking’ tongues attached to it, with which he tormented unsuspecting virgins into paroxysms of shame.  

Two ladies in the public gallery fainted at the sight of the infernal machine as prosecution barrister FitzWilliam FitzStJohn demonstrated its use, the tongues moistened in a small reservoir of water below the wheel then flapped lasciviously against a strategically placed sponge, illuminating for the whole horrified court the demonic effect of the invention.

Defence barrister Jeremy Hadwilly pleaded with the jury to understand the man, and not condemn the notorious philanderer to prison and thus ignominy. “This man is not a maniac, his only sin was to love too much, and therein lay his obsession, to pleasure as many unfortunate young women of the lower orders as possible.”

“What man but a raving lunatic would have ivory dentures affixed to his anus?” Countered FitzWilliam FitzStJohn.

The case continues.

London Calling 9 November

Factory Closure Ends Era.

As the last lead balloon goes down the conveyor belt, at Low & Sons Ltd.  owner Reginald Low looks visibly shaken. “I never thought I’d see the day.” He says ruefully. But that day has come for this family firm in Barnsley with over one hundred and fifty years of history. The factory is to close with the loss of at least 30 jobs, as the market in lead balloons, cast iron stomachs, and small packets containing the last straw has collapsed.

He shows us one of the cancelled orders for pictures each individually packed with a thousand words, a shelf containing chocolate teapots, black pots and black  kettles, and then piles of dirty laundry to be aired in public. Surplus albatrosses  hang from metal beams, ready for someone’s neck. He picks up a packet of all fingers and thumbs, dating from the nineteen twenties, “A very popular line then.” He says ruefully as he gives me a paper bag containing ants ready added to pants. Over at the fireplace he sadly stokes a few old flames which will have to be extinguished soon.

Competition from China and changing markets is blamed for the death of England’s last Idiom factory which in its heyday exported to every corner of the British Empire.



Local News.

Bungalow suicide bungler Bill Sparrow has finally accepted defeat after attempting yet another bid for oblivion from his living room window. “This place is just not suitable for me, I’ve asked the council to rehouse me in a tower block and they flatly refused. It takes an amazing amount of time and effort to psyche myself up for the bid and each time it ends in the marigold border no worse for wear.”

Friends and neighbours have kindly clubbed together to buy Bill a ticket to Beachey head, but he says he has mixed feelings about this. “When I heard they were fundraising for the ticket I was touched, I know how much coach travel costs these days. But then I decided I wanted to wait awhile and keep the money they presented to me, to see how things shaped up with other opportunities, and then everyone got a bit annoyed when I said I wasn’t going.”

A neighbour who wishes to stay anonymous told us, “We did a raffle and a half marathon around the village, there’s a collection jar in the pub too, to raise the funds for him, and we feel like Bill has cheated us, we raised the money in good faith and we believe he spent it not on the ticket but in the Rose and Crown.” But Bill denies this, “The money I spent in the pub was legitimate beer money, although I did supplement a round from the collection jar on the bar.”

So as it stands there will be no more leaps into the unknown for Bill Sparrow, until maybe Christmas 2010.

London Calling 31 October

British squid swimming in European waters refuse to be known as squeuros.


Man who claimed to plough lonely furrow and caused nationwide angst on late night phone in show, exposed as well known tractor driver from Sandford in Devon.


Did bacteria go two by two into the Ark? God remains silent.


Police revealed today that an amateur philosopher drowned while testing theory of “I sink, therefore I am.”


Glass ceiling an impediment to female executives in British glazing industry


Felt roofer sues for sexual harassment


Time and motion consultant up on drink driving charges described by prosecution as an habitual offender


A watch mender who spent his weekends making nuisance calls claimed today in court that he has too much time on his hands.


The Brothers Grimm make shock claim that the internet is rife with conspiracy fairies.


Philosopher questions beggar’s belief in town centre dispute.

This short story was part of a collection published by Metropolitan books of London.

A Family Visit in 1939.

It was his wife’s idea, at their daughter’s suggestion, that just for the day they would travel like anyone else. Not in a furious wailing cavalcade, accompanied by out riders. But as a simple, unassuming, respectable couple making a family visit.

She was disciplining one of the maids. Why, he could not imagine, perhaps as part of the theme for the day, as an overture to the role of the simple housewife.

She could not countenance a rapid exit from their home, there was always some minor detail to attend to. (That did not count the other major cause of his spending half of his waking life waiting for her). She would have to urinate before leaving the home, at the station he imagined she might use the lavatory, (prior to boarding the train), on the train at least twice, and again before they left the station. She was like a dog, sprinkling on every corner. His man, Dieter was standing on the steps of the front door, he had told him to relax, have the day off, but he lingered on.

She came running, or tripping, like a clockwork toy, with short steps she crossed the street, waving at vehicles, all helpfully halting to aid her smooth progress. Gerlich looked once to the heavens, then over to Dieter and shrugged his shoulders. Dieter held his hands before his chest, to communicate by a sign that he would willingly drive them. Gerlich shook his head.

They then turned in the direction of the station. There were queues, shouting, scuffling in small tributaries, new lines formed, people challenging for ascendancy over each other.

Gerlich decided that this particular aspect of ordinary life could be omitted, after all they only had one day to live like this. So he pushed through, some people were about to admonish him but they soon lost their vituperative tongues. The crowd parted as he tapped on the counter of the window. Without looking up, the ticket clerk, sallow, corpulent, rheumy eyed, perspiring, and illicitly chewing a piece of gristly sausage, asked him what the devil he wanted? And almost choked when, finally looking up, he recognised Gerlich. Hopping from foot to foot he broke into a confused apology, saluting, and making a curious sort of double swallow.

The tickets were duly produced but it took some time before he could actually be persuaded to accept payment for the damn things. Gerlich turned and surveyed the rabble before him and marched with his wife to the train. The silence that had fallen was shattered first by one voice, and then by the answering chorus.

They soon found their seats. A few local businessmen followed them, but passed on to other compartments. His wife sat opposite him and pulled from her bag some knitting. Their daughter had recently given birth to a son, she was knitting him a pair of pale blue baby boots and a matching bonnet. The train suddenly shunted forward and then backwards, coming to an unsteady halt.

They heard a whistle and felt the carriage sway as another train passed. A minute later they left the station - his wife put down her knitting and went to Ladies. As she left an excited group of three railway officials came marching down the corridor and presented themselves smartly at the door. They managed to peer at him, as they stood at attention.

He lost his temper and told them to go away. This was not the idea. A pastoral visit to see his daughter was becoming a joke. The three turned on their heels, when he said, “Wait a minute aren’t you going to check my ticket and travel documents?” This was not what he had in mind at all. Why could they not simply behave naturally, treat him as they would any other passenger? It was ruining the whole journey before it had begun. All three remained frozen with their backs to him, a few metres away. “Who is going to inspect my ticket?” They turned in some silent agreement and synchronicity.

“Check my identity papers and tickets, do you understand? Do your duty conscientiously, my God its simple enough! Understand? ”

They most certainly did, and conveyed it by smartly saluting. His wife returned and seeing them standing in a line almost offered them a smile but then decided against it.

“You do want to see these don’t you?” He flourished the papers. The official took what was offered, gaping like a landed fish.

“You are assiduous in carrying out your duties are you not? Well aren’t you?”

“Yes Sir we are, absolutely thorough.”

“Good.” Gerlich replied relenting slightly.

The compartment had warmed up slightly, so he removed his overcoat, and jacket. He stretched his legs out, and lit his pipe. He became quite hypnotised by the rhythmic sound of the wheels on the track and the quick, small, smart repetitive clicks of the needles. He always likened knitting to a kind a feminine purr of contentment. This wholesome picture of femininity before him, the face changed from that of his wife to a much younger woman’s. He felt a growing inclination to reach over and swipe the wool from her, to take her brutally and then order her settle back down to the knitting. With regret he saw the face dissolve back into being that of his wife. But the other face, the forbidden face reformed quite easily, if he allowed it, so he continued his fantasy.

Gradually his muscles began to unclench, he was calm.

But it was not to last. To his horror another flustered railway official materialised. He felt compromised, in his shirtsleeves; as it were, dishevelled. The man announced that he was the Senior Conductor. Gerlich was obliged to snap back into his captious, didactic mode. He deplored the necessity to do so, and remonstrated with this man on the vexed subject of the other officials who had failed to request his ticket and papers.

The Senior Conductor made known his regret for the earlier incident.

“They did not wish to be impertinent Sir.”

Gerlich was astounded, “What are you talking about man?

They must check everybody’s tickets. That’s their job.”

“But you Sir …I …”

“Me who am I? Well who am I?”

“Well Sir you are …You are …”

“I am a passenger, I am to be treated as such, how dare you presume otherwise. Well?”

The senior conductor was at a loss now as to what was expected of him. “Tickets please.” He spluttered

“You oaf! I’ve shown them already. Haven’t you got other duties to attend to?”

Gerlich looked at his wife, she put down her knitting, and gazed at the Senior Conductor. “Do you have a wife?” She asked him, ‘Oh my God,’ thought Gerlich, ‘The homely matriarch and wisdom from the hearth!’ None of it ever made the slightest sense, he had time and time again witnessed glassy eyed but attentive young officers nodding at her egregious nonsense. He knew they laughed at him, had a good laugh at his expense afterwards, a bloody good one. He wanted to stick the ball of wool in her mouth.

“We must not wait to be prompted, the woman supports, with an immovable will, she knows her duty, she need not be told.” She faltered, “to do our duty, for the greater good of the Father Land, we must act, act, we all know… well enough, the wife knows her obligations…. It is to nature that she answers.” She suddenly trailed off completely at a loss as to how to continue, there was something about the Senior Conductor that stopped her, he was looking at her so intently that she was put off, “Why are you staring in that manner?” she asked him.

“Excuse me Madam, I lost my wife two days ago.”

There was a moment of silence, her embarrassment almost palpable.

“That’s as may be my man,” Gerlich rushed to fill the silence, before his wife could recover, “We are sorry for your loss, indeed we all bear the burden on our shoulders and in our hearts. But, but, you must stand firm and do your what?”

“Duty.”

“Duty and your duty is to work on, take all in your stride, you are senior conductor of the 8.15 express, you are not anything else, you are the senior conductor of the 8.15 express, we do not wish to hear about your wife’s demise. It is not your business to tell us, nor ours to hear. You may go.”

Gerlich felt he had saved the situation with this impromptu speech and his wife, the stupid bitch, appreciated it! Yes she certainly did. The Senior Conductor backed out of the compartment, he apologised for his inappropriate comments, whether he was to be pardoned or not would remain to be seen.

The rest of the journey was uneventful and Gerlich managed to regain his composure. No one bothered them, although someone had actually entered their compartment. Gerlich had observed the man with dry amusement as he asked if he might join them. Gerlich said yes, of course, by all means. He was a very conservative looking man, dressed in fine English tweed, a real country gentleman, he would have a small estate somewhere, thought Gerlich. The man remained dignified and taciturn, he did not venture a word of conversation which disappointed Gerlich. He felt in awe of these aristocrats, solid, atavistic, sure of themselves, haughtily confident of their place in the scheme of things, he hated them.

The man had not given Gerlich more then a cursory glance, and he nodded politely at Gerlich’s wife. He remained in their company for an hour or so, and then bade them good day and left. He behaved as if he was completely ignorant of whom he had shared his journey with!

Gerlich’s son-in-law, with a few security staff was waiting for them at the country station. They shook hands. An official lurked on the periphery, unsure whether to approach the great man. Gerlich was surprised, he could not understand how word of his visit had not got out, he had expected flowers at least and a small brass band. He felt vaguely unsettled, disappointed. It was then that Gerlich noticed Dieter and three other members of his staff lurking at the end of the small platform.

He was relieved, his confidence returned, he looked over at Dieter with a friendly impersonation of exasperation, shook his head and thus acknowledged his presence. Dieter was right to come, he really had no choice.

The three cars made the short journey to their daughter’s home. Gerlich felt eminently pleased with himself. They swept down the long drive. Dieter had a couple of men at the entrance in advance. They dropped the cigarettes they were smoking, but did not salute; they stood in their long overcoats, collars up, their hats pulled down against the chill.

Their daughter’s home stood at the edge of the forest on the shore of a lake, it was a large bungalow, with great expanses of plate glass. Gertrude, his daughter, awaited them on the threshold, beside her stood a nursemaid.

Rooks cawed, and the wood pigeons clattered from branches and showers of bronze needles fell in their wake. Mother and daughter immediately fell into each other’s arms and were soon discussing baby. His wife poked and prodded it, cooed and made various other sounds. It was chilly so everyone went inside.

There was a large fire burning in the brick-surrounded hearth of the sitting room, which looked out onto the lake. The French windows opened onto a deck, where one could sit in the summer, the water lapping two metres or so beneath your feet. You could literally listen to the wireless and fish at the same time! His daughter certainly showed a marked aptitude for matters of taste; he was proud of her, she had taken to the life excellently, had listened to their recommendations and made the marriage they suggested. How well it had turned out for her! God only knew what spectacular future this young couple had before them.

Gerlich studied the muted colours of the room, the burnt reds and browns, the simplicity, the clean lines and wholesome natural ambience, here and there examples of the latest technology were visible. It had an inimitable quality, effortless, compared with his own over stuffed opulence. He stared at the blonde, shimmering hallooed head of Gertrude, leaning elegantly towards her mother, who was holding her grandson in her arms. Gertrude, so like a woman of quality deigning in her magnificence to notice this squat and vaguely vulgar and over eager middle aged woman. It was bizarre this startling beauty should be the result of their coupling, pure alchemy he thought. He regretted not being of his daughter’s generation, how they stood on the shoulders of their parents, assured and elegant.

He caught a glimpse of his son-in-law, his shadow flitting outside, on the decking. He seemed to be pursuing something with a great deal of urgency. Gerlich rose from his seat, the illusive figure disappeared around the corner of the house. His daughter looked up at him and seemed frozen in a momentary anxiety.

Their son-in-law returned. He asked a few questions but was distracted. He was not paying Gerlich the attention he customarily did. They talked in a meandering and meaningless way for fifteen minutes or so, and then the son-in-law left them with a curt excuse. Gertrude making a quick apology, rose and followed her husband, then returned, took the baby away from Mrs Gerlich, and vanished once more.

Gerlich shrugged his shoulders at his wife’s silent inquiry. A minute later Gertrude reappeared.

She assured them everything was fine, it was just some business that her husband was urgently required to attend to and it would sadly leave him unable to spend much time with them. It was unforeseen. Unavoidable. She had not come back with the baby.

“Well did you travel here like an average mother and father?” Gertrude asked

Mrs Gerlich laughed, they had done exactly as she suggested and come as a normal couple, except of course for Dieter, who, as ever, aware of his obligations to the people and fatherland, had disregarded their specific and selfish injunctions not to come. Dieter of course had right on his side. His daughter then seemed to be distracted and barely attending to her mother’s words at the mention of Dieter. Suddenly her manner was condescending.

“Why don’t we have a stroll around the lake before lunch? We like a walk don’t we?” They both agreed enthusiastically, then with a vocal sleight of hand Gertrude revealed she was not herself to be included in the projected walk.

Both irritable and lazy, they walked on as far as they comfortably could. The realisation that the circuit was an interminable slog through overgrown paths and boggy ground put them both in bad humour.

The dark forest behind them emitted cracks and crashes, and the birds made dry retching sounds. Gerlich could quite imagine a monster emerging from the spiteful dark of the forest. It was strange. With the hardening and softening of the light as the clouds stole across the sun the trees appeared to grow in strength, to move, stir. A fish jumped, but only a tiny sprat.

They both felt slighted by Gertrude and their son in law, thrown to the margins, when their visit had been arranged weeks in advance. To be excluded from whatever it was that had suddenly thrown the house so obviously into a minor crisis was to Gerlich humiliating.

He now felt a growing sense of anger with his daughter, It was a careless Gertrude with an apron on, who had hurried, fussed and chivvied them along, in their borrowed galoshes out of the door and into the dour wintry atmosphere. He had felt the indignity of the treatment.

Mr and Mrs Gerlich stood on the shore and watched the tiny waves feebly lap at the mud. They looked over at the small boat enticingly rocking in the breeze under the banks of the opposite shore where the house stood, if only someone would row across and give them a lift back. They were now weary.

Gertrude should send a servant to find them. Gerlich recalled there being a little ferry further on, worked by an old man in all weathers, all seasons. But he remained where he was.

Neither he nor his wife could think of a single word to say. They stood in a primeval silence. He felt inside his pockets, he had forgotten his gloves, it was cold. They were rooted to the spot. It was quite extraordinary, as if they were being held there by some force. He felt faintly sick in his stomach.

Gerlich sensed rather than saw Dieter appear behind him with two of his other men, and was thankful for Dieter’s instinct and presence of mind. There must be access for a vehicle near here, so the march was over. They lingered at a distance only a few metres away and then advanced. Gerlich noticed their blank faces.

Dieter was his man. Dieter was his man, tamed and groomed on titbits and blandishments, punishments and caresses, scraps from the high table and eventually a seat at it with Gerlich. He had been ever vigilant in educating Dieter in the expediency of acting without question. His man!

Dieter made a gesture for Gerlich to remain silent. He did this with a revolver. He looked over at his terrified anguished wife, her face contorted with comical disbelief. The realisation that Dieter meant to do them harm had struck her instinctively, she had not seen it, but smelt it. She urinated, it was quite a gush, like a e bucket emptied from under her dress. Gerlich was taken aback. He then thought how even now, just about to slip the mortal coil, she had to piss! That damned peasant! voided herself! He laughed, he heard the crack near him and saw his wife of thirty years collapse, and felt a mild satisfaction. He saw the breath slip from her. There really was nothing to say, he felt a complete emptiness, a tedium, resting heavily on him. He would die bravely, not because of some inherent courage, but simply because there was nothing left except physiological functions and a certain necessity for what he perceived to be his spirit to quail tremulously at death. That was nature’s programme.

A flock of geese at that very moment, flew in their familiar formation above them, a V, palpating in the air, cast iron black against the sky. He watched the geese part and reform, their original V dispersed to realign themselves into a cross, each point with a right-angled tail, a ragged shape in the sky. So he had lived to see this, overhead, pointing east, like an aerial funeral cortege, come to collect their charges. He knew there would be no explanation, He knelt, quickly, as he felt himself too urinate, that was to be his last discharge of warmth, liquid terror, which did not belong to him but to his body, the functions, the mechanism. He was disgusted. He had a strange sensation, he didn’t want to fall and hurt himself that is why he knelt, not to genuflect, or beg for mercy. He remembered his daughter, and her brief question, ascertaining they had travelled in relative anonymity. He sensed rather than felt the crude muzzle. So he was to die by Genickschuss – a shot in the neck.

His last vision was that of his daughter; she stood over the lake and watched the geese in their unnatural pattern of flight, with her baby in her arms. She held her destiny wrapped in a blanket, and she thought of duty and not of her mother and father, the embodiment of the will to power. And his last breath was a curse, a malediction upon her.

London Calling October 11th

A person with anger issues is more likely to be a cross dresser, claims report.

People who can’t stop talking could be a key to renewable energy. Windbags everywhere should be utilised, claims ecologist. “I have ten windbags at my home generating enough power for my entire house, unlike windmills they rarely stop, especially with regular supplies of the Daily mail and Express.”

As lightening destroys church tower, congregation asks who is to blame? Local priest makes no comment.

Wolves to be organised in tetra packs, says Russian Government.

London Calling Weekend Headlines

Two eight year olds spend a horrific day in a colliery having been mistaken for miners.

Government cuts leave navy ghost ships running on skeleton crew.

Tommy Ticker, Olympic dreamer and marathon hopeful has run out of money to pay for his training taxi. Volunteers are being sought to drive him. “I am willing to pay the mileage which is officially 26 miles and 385 yards, plus obviously taking me home afterwards, which is another I mile.”

Zombie wakes up complaining of feeling only half dead, after night out.  

Man sues Hot House Garden after his trousers are caught in Venus flytrap.

Harry the Novel Chapter 4

Chapter 4.

Harry sat on his bed pressing his hands under his thighs. His eyes studied the weave of his trousers, his mind emptied. He got up and opened a chest of drawers underneath the window. He drew out several sketch books, small A4, looked through them, spread some on the floor, and crouched over them. The women, all the sketches were of women, were drawn in various positions, common pornographic poses. Each a crudely rendered life drawing copied from magazines. He traced around the thigh and the buttock of one picture, the folds of the woman’s midriff pleated as she turned her head towards the viewer. He studied it as if he had no idea of what he was seeing, he then stood up and opened his cupboard and took out a magazine from which the original had been copied. He looked closely at the woman’s face, tried to divine something of her, and then put it away. He did not keep stacks of material, only what he was working on at the time. He picked up another sketch of woman in stockings vacuuming, the long pipe held too suggestively, naughty housewife. He pulled out his box of charcoal and sketch pad and began to draw, this time from a picture of a woman lying on a bed, her buttocks slightly raised in the air. He heard McClain fiddle with his keys next door, and enter his flat.
He looked about him. And saw nothing. He went to the bathroom, he stood for a few seconds in front of the mirror, he rubbed the stubble on his chin, pushed his hand through his dirty grey hair. His teeth were yellowed, he listened to the pipes, a toilet flushed and a bath was being run, the couple above him, McClain to his side and Mrs Green below him, all together in this plaster and board house separated by fragile walls. He went into the small bedroom and looked out of the window onto the backyard, smashed concrete blocks and black rubbish bins with their numbers crudely swabbed on them, a bicycle locked and rusting. The paint on the window frame was peeling; it came away in his hands. He heard the click of the emersion come on, a light rain began, spitting at his window. 

In the kitchen he took tin a of beans and sausages and poured the contents into a dirty saucepan, the sauce hardened on the sides and base, too hot, the beans bubbled and spat at the tiny sausages. He found some bread, stiff, but good enough to toast. He turned the radio on as he waited, stirring the food once in a while, not hungry, not caring. He allowed himself a laugh, as the phone in program discussed modern art; the usual characters rang, sharing what they didn’t know with the rest of the metropolis. But then the host was as bad as his audience, although Harry felt sympathy for his sentiments, he thought him patronising. The food done he took it into the sitting room and set the plate down on the long low coffee table and turned on the television.
They were covering the same story, The Shock-Art! Biennial and the scandal surrounding the exclusion of Gavin Stampe. Stampe’s gallery were represented in the interview by a woman who tried hard to articulate her arguments despite the constant interruptions of her opponent Geoff. Harry knew Geoff well, he liked him, liked him a lot. He had known Geoff for a long time, drinking in the same bars. Geoff he thought looked a little gaunt, his jowls were sagging.

He could smell Mrs Green’s damp dinner, sprouts, pie, mash and gravy. The odour lingered over his empty plate. He sighed, turned the television off, and looked at the clock. There was time for a quick pint, round the corner.

The orange fluorescence of the street, struck him, the colour of anonymity, as sad as the telephone directory, which he leafed through, a great dry lost social network.

 The Horse Shoe was empty. No Dolly, she must have sloped off somewhere else. He stood at the bar, and Danny appeared, from the cellar. He raised his eyebrows by way of hello and set down the plastic crate he was carrying.

“Dead in here. Don’t know where they’ve all gone.” Danny said.

“Down to the Odeon.” Harry replied, the new super pub down the street.

“Aye, well how am I to compete against them? One forty a pint, shit I’d go and drink there myself.”

He began placing the bottles on the shelves below the bar. He stopped, remembering he needed to serve Harry, but not until he had finished the job, he decided, then he stood up and stretched.

“What are you having?”

“I don’t know, use your imagination.”

Danny poured him a pint of bitter.

Harry took it and drank.

“Give me a packet of cheese and onion and change for the cigarettes.”

He went over to the machine slotted in the money, the pound coins were spat out, until he found some more, which were accepted.

“Pissing down.” He commented.

The wind thumped against the window, the bar could have been cosy but wasn’t, too many bodily fumes and regrets pervaded the place, too many men, breathing in the same air, conversation, jokes and lies.

“You seen Dolly?” Harry asked.

“Lunch time.” Danny replied, looking up from the paper.

There was no food served here, except for a roll or two, preserved under a plastic hood.

“What was she doing?”

Danny looked up at him quizzically. “What do you think?”

Harry shook his head at the question and looked around him, there was nothing here to help him start a conversation, no prompts that hadn’t been used before, Danny always kept his newspaper away from the drinkers so there was no chance there.

Harry took some change for the fruit machine, knowing this would make Danny happy, waste some more cash in the place. He lost five pounds in as many minutes, but in the meantime someone else had come in. Two people he hadn’t seen before, young, confident, probably moved in, trying the local, the one and only time. He ordered another pint, stared where he always did, at the spot at the very top of the back shelf of the bar, where his eyes had rested many hours, he could almost fancy that the varnish was worn in that spot.

“She say anything?” He asked.

Danny was now standing leaning on the bar, smoking, his skin pale and freckled, he was balding, a ring of coppery hair around his shiny pate.

“No she didn’t say nothing.”

“She paying was she?”

“You having a laugh? Think I’d give her a slate?” Danny felt a twinge of shame, or pity, it could be either, but he said no more, instead turned to see two more people come into the bar, another young couple, meeting the other two.

Harry eyed them in the jaundiced light, what could they want from this place? The new arrivals looked over what was on offer and both ordered bottled beer and glasses, the distinct likelihood being that this they deemed to be the most hygienic option as they both used a tissue each to wipe the glasses. The conversation was self assured, for newcomers, they paid no attention to Harry, or the pub, they looked at the juke box and put on a couple of songs, he didn’t know and then was surprised to hear one of his favourites Rhinestone Cowboy. The women were laughing and the men were writing something on a sheet of paper on the table, then all four began to become involved in a serious discussion.

London Calling Celebrity News

"Larger than life" actor Archie Blackstock's family complain about purchasing third coffin since his death.




Jonnie Trembles the celebrity ventriloquist claims words were put in his mouth by Special Constable Gary Cross in Curry House fracas in city centre.

 Aspiring "Dead pan" comedian Garth Cukney loses day job in hardware store.

Disgraced Olympic slalom hopeful, Ronnie Prosser claims skiing career was downhill slope as he is jailed for six months.

London Calling Special

Watch Dog condemns sharp practise in new report on cutlery industry.

Lumberjack who claimed he couldn’t see the wood for trees loses his claim of unfair dismissal.

As global warming increases the temperatures in hell have rocketed in recent years to an unprecedented 1000 degrees, up by 5 degrees in one millennia. But wild swings in temperature could also see hell freeze over according to one expert. The Devil claimed hell could be unsustainable within a decade. Meanwhile in heaven the mean temperature has dropped by one degree and angels are to be given subsidies to buy tank tops. Both heaven and hell blame supine governments in thrall to the petroleum  industry for the disaster.

London Calling News

Hypocrisy to be rebranded as pragmatism.
 
God tells priests “Get out more!”
God claims priests waste half their time in prayer pleading with him to curb their lusts and carnal desires when they should be out doing good in the community.
“I’m sick of listening to them going on and on about sex and asking for forgiveness. Do these wankers really think they’re getting into heaven?”

Latest Headlines

Late night jigsaw hooligans are becoming a menace to public safety in Stroud town centre. At approximately Midnight on Friday night a group were seen illegally attempting a five thousand piece puzzle of The Flying Scotsman, in Marchmount Street Multi-storey car park. Police were called to the scene, but were too late and the puzzle was completed. “This is a growing phenomenon and is a nuisance crime.” Said Inspector Dawn Railings.

Beached whales throw caution to the wind claims Coast Guard, “They deliberately land on the beach and then expect hundreds of volunteers to push them back into the sea again. I’ve heard them laughing about it, it tends to be the younger whales larking about, but sometimes it can end in tragedy.” Said a Coast Guard official.

London Calling as it happens

A man whose wife was mistakenly beatified by the Pope in Redditch claims she has become impossible to live with. “She’s got a halo around her ruddy head and it keeps me awake all night because she can’t switch it off. Moths are attracted to it, and it’s at least 100 watts, far too bright. I think the Pope should be held to account. He should have at least given her some instructions.” The Vatican has declined to comment.

London Calling Late Extra

Jigsaw thief bound over to keep the peace.

Mr Morris of Blithe Avenue, Hove, who claims to collect Japanese people has been forced to break the collection up by the council, the oldest is believed to be ninety years old, and the youngest twenty. “It’s a disaster for the nation, this collection will now be lost to Japan, it has taken years of time and investment to create.” There are believed to be at least five people in the collection which Mr Morris kept in his garden hut with his budgerigars.

Headlines London Calling

Celebrities can remain anonymous, thanks to new super size sunglasses.

Crisis hits city centre muggers. “Before we’d make fifty quid an hour now we’re lucky to get five.” Complains Ron Rearways, “We would ask the public to think carefully before fighting us off in these difficult times.” He added.

Lilo Sales buoyant despite inflation.

Government plans cap on schoolboys.

Honest people warned to avoid low lying regions such as East Anglia.

Pontiff claims Pope does not sell ice-creams after thousands crowd around Pope mobile demanding refreshments.

Have a go Hero Henry Jinson turned down a golden opportunity to save another life in the very same lake where he rescued a child exactly a year ago, “I was with my wife and it was our anniversary, we could see the man waving and screaming, but she gave me one of them looks of her’s which is like just so don’t go there.”

“He‘s very selfish sometimes, I would have killed him if he would have ruined our special day again.” Said Mrs Jinson. Police named the dead man as Martin Stoat a well known suicide from Droitwich.

Government plans to control the migration of Swallows, Swifts and House Martins. “There were simply too many of these foreign birds flocking into the country under the last government. We need controls to save our native species. They take advantage of the sunshine and when things get a bit chilly off they go to Spain or somewhere hot.”

A Swallow spokesperson said the economy would be adversely hit if their numbers were lowered.

London Calling Extra

Tommy Trimmer last night failed on his fifth suicide attempt in a week, "When the police arrived and it was the same officer as the other times I could have killed myself with embarrassment." He said.

Harry the Novel Chapters 1 - 3

Chapter 1

It was after eleven. He'd been up early. Working, or trying to work, but with no success. He read the story again, the cicadas chirping, a dog barking, its chain straining from the shadow to the sun. He spat, watched the saliva arch over the terrace and hang from the leaf of an olive tree. He opened the paper and read the headline once more.

“Bitch.” He said.

Of course he knew about it already. Had done for a week now. There had been phone calls. There had been offers, promises, grovelling even, and then threats, all to no avail. It was a problem emanating from personal enmity, of which in this business there was plenty. Investments were protected, no one could allow him to slide, there was too much involved, internationally, if he went, money would be lost. But it was his pride, which was hurting as well. It was what she was doing to him, what she knew she was damaging, that behind all the words, the earnest proselytising she was enjoying his exquisite torment. He imagined the kind of bloody mess he could make of her, what he would like to do, only day dreams, but the sweat on his lips gave it the salt of reality. He could remain aloof, but some reaction would be expected. That was an obligation. He felt a hand on his shoulder, he pushed it off.

“I’m burnt.” He said.

The hand lingered above his head, but did not ruffle his hair.

“Fucking burnt.”

“You want to go surfing?”

“No I don’t.”

“You don’t get out in the sun enough.”

“I don’t like it that much. I like rain, and grey days. I’m not a fucking Californian. I told you, I don’t like the fucking sun.”

“Why are you here then?”

“Because I like it here, it’s not just fucking sunshine is it? There’s more to Spain than the sunshine, ain’t you noticed?”

“Back then you liked the beach.”

“Back then? Back fucking when? Back in the day.” He looked up at her.

“Oh forget it Gavin.”

Back then. Holly and Gavin abused drugs and drinks together, she, straight off the Californian surf, laughing at his pink body on the beach. She joined his crowd, he’d brought his cousins on holiday with him, they were already drunk and raucous, their stringy bodies dashing in and out of the waves, more staid sunbathers questioned the claimed exclusivity of the beach with these lily white, tattooed English hooligans trying to do cart wheels in the water. Apart from his family there were a few artist friends and musicians sharing the picnic, cocaine and drink. When the rest of the crowd left for the beach house, they stayed up all night, in the morning she asked his name. Sitting with her back to him, playing with the braids in her hair. She played her part well he thought pretending she didn’t recognise him, he gave her a false name, and watched her back tense for a moment and then relax as she heard him laugh. Holly the surf siren. Back then. Fifteen years ago.

He’d taken everything he could, and it was so easy, he never quite believed it. He got up and walked over to the swimming pool. Until now, now began the backlash, when you hit a certain age, with younger ones coming up behind him, dismissing him, just as he dismissed his seniors in his own time. But he still held on to his position no one had dared attack him too openly, he was still powerful, the most powerful, but he sensed, they smelt a weakening, a lessening of his charisma, his presence, his exploits, his outrage and outrageous acts.

Holly wandered away from him, the stud in her belly button glimmered, her sarong wrapped by the wind around her buttocks as she turned. They stood at opposite sides of the pool.

“I got a class at 12.”

“Where? Who with? Not that mosaic shit again?”

“No with Douglas.”

“The ex-city hippy hammock weaver?”

“He’s great come on, he’s doing so well. You know he’s really got something going on in Gualchos, they love him up there. They’ve got so much respect for him. He left it all behind man.”

“Did he fuck. He likes his working class in blue overalls, preferably with a few goats and spouting bollocks. Give him one of his own oiks down there on the fucking coast eating McDonalds in replica Chelsea shirts and the cunt would run a mile.”

“What’s got into you today?”

“Oh you don’t know?”

“No.”

“That’s fucking wonderful that is isn’t it, she don’t know. You don’t know.”

“No, you want to do some yoga?”

“You are having a laugh.”

Holly walked away from the pool, away from him. She threw her arms up in the air, and he stood watching her back, he could have dived into the pool but he didn’t.

“Hey.” He shouted, but she ignored him, disappearing into a violet haze of Jacaranda.

Vim came out of the house, leaning on the terrace he began to talk to Gavin. Gavin shook his head in frustration.

“I can’t hear you, come down here you lazy cunt.”

“What’s up?”

“What do you mean what’s up you dozy bastard?”

“I mean with you. What’s up with you?” Vim lowered himself into a chair, his shaven head glistening, he rested his sandwich on one of the folds of his shirt.

“How can you eat that in this heat?”

“Marta did it.”

“Because you asked her.”

“That’s what she’s there for, cooking and that. Just a sandwich.” He waved it in front of Gavin who tried to swat it out of his brother’s hand.

“Get off it.”

“Where’s Bay Watch going?”

“Hammock weaving.”

“With that muppet?”

“Douglas.”

“Whatever.” Vim chewed on his sandwich, “Not the same as English bacon is it? Got more fat and that.”

“Well get down to Gibraltar you lazy fucker.”

“I ain’t knocking it.”

“Oh no?”

“You know what I mean, Spanish food in general ain’t the same I mean I like to experiment.”

“Oh yes where do you eat Vim, when you get off your arse?”

“Like I’m saying their food ain’t the same, don’t know what they do with them Big Macs, but it don’t taste like it does at home, more salad in them or something like that.”

Gavin threw his arms up in exasperation. His watch caught the sun and glinted momentarily.

“You want that? Tag Hauer?”

Vim looked at him in surprise.

“No here you have it Vim.”

“Straight up?”

Gavin took the watch from his wrist and tossed it in his brother’s lap.

“Thanks.”

“That’s all right , I’ll go and get another one this afternoon.”

“All right then.”

“What you doing today?”

“I might go down the club, have a round with Charlie.”

“Oh that’s nice yes. A round with Charlie.”

“He likes you he does. He admires you; he’d like to meet you.”

Gavin nodded.

“He’s all right, he told me this story about this geezer, artist right, world famous he was, anyway he’s sitting in this restaurant and this mug’s lost so this…”

“Picasso.”

“Hold on that’s it, this mug only asks Picasso the way, and Picasso draws him a map and that, and the mug says…”

“Can you sign it?” Gavin interrupted

“Yes. Cause if he signs it, you know what I mean, it’s worth a lot, he won’t do it see?”

“I fucking heard that story Vim. Got any new ideas? Because that’s what we need, a new idea.” Gavin jumped into the pool. When he got out Vim was still there. Doing nothing, apart from picking at his feet. He took a towel and sat back down having dried himself off a little.

“You’re supposed to be having a break taking it easy, chilling out?”

“Forty year old men don’t fucking chill out.”

“What has got into you? You miserable cunt?”

Gavin threw the newspaper at Vim. “Read that you donkey.”

Vim picked it up and scoured the back pages. “Ain’t nothing here.”

“Not the football, the fucking arts page.”

“Perhaps the biggest surprise of The Shock Art! Biennial has been the non admittance of Brit-Art’s most influential artist Gavin Stamp. There has been little comment from his Finca in Andalusia. And a similar lack of response from the curator of the show Adrianna Skirk. The show opens on the 24th of April next year. Fuck me.”

Chapter 2.

You might have found Harry anywhere. In this pub for instance. The Dunned Scrivener on Commercial Road, famous as a rookery of rag trade shops and Bangladeshi cafés. A brute of a road, constant traffic, beneath which the ringing of alarms dwindled away, ignored. On the door was a fluorescent poster declaring - work boots and high heels welcome, an ironic riposte to the nearby city pubs. A jostling, busy boozer on a Friday night. The yellowed light gave them all a patina of reckless shame, the smoke billowed from their mouths like so many ghosts of jokes.

He was, drinking, quite hopelessly caught in this tiny cavern of alcohol. Stuck on the beer sodden carpet. The customers around him were mostly labourers, lowly clerks, and a small group of thieves. A real London stew, the hapless, the helpless, and the criminal.

He was lonely, the bar maid changed from plain to passably attractive the longer he drank and stared at her. She was well used to this phenomenon as she added to the spell by pulling him another pint.

“Why don’t you have a couple of these? Brighten you up.”

He looked up at the man who was now standing at his shoulder, breathing a heavy fug of cigarette, cod and chips, the vinegar was in his eyes, reddened, the last truly soft part of him.

“Why don’t you fuck off, better still why don’t I?”

With that Harry heaved himself up from the bar and pushed past the man. He walked down Commercial Road, littered with large cardboard boxes; he took the underground from Aldgate East to Farringdon. The city workers were gone, sandwich shops closed, pubs moderately full, it being the better side of midweek.

The front door was ajar, he kicked it shut angrily, Mrs Green shot her head around the corner, from her ground floor flat, his ever vigilant neighbour.

“It weren’t open were it? She hissed

“Yes it was.”

“McClain, I tell you, that council’s got to do something about him. I can’t stand much more of it, I leave him notes and he don’t read them, he’s got glasses I seen them.”

“Oh yeah?”

“What do we want with the likes of him?” She stabbed her index finger accusingly.

“He’s a dirty old man. He just brought another one in. You don’t do nothing about it do you?”

“What do you want me to do?” Asked Harry wearily.

“Have a word, warn him you’re the law ain’t you?”

“It’s up to him what he does in his own home.”

“So it’s alright with you then? He can bring who he wants in here, and them unnatural acts just above me head, I got pictures of my grandchildren hanging on them walls.”

McClain had met a young man at the bus stop, a young man who innocently became engaged in conversation with the elderly West Indian, McClain then invited him back to his flat. The young man felt a little honoured to be going home with a West Indian, he had never been to the house of a West Indian.

McClain had made tea, and tentatively suggested a nip of something stronger and when this was rejected politely he asked if they might have a game of darts. A board hung on the opposite side to the sofa above the television. The young man although slightly nervous agreed. McClain then added a little rum to the tea and handed it to the young man. He drank it retching slightly. He felt a little reassured when he saw a photograph of a young man and woman in what was obviously a wedding photograph, McClain jutted his finger at the picture. “My wife. Passed away now fifteen years.”

“Do you have children?”

“No I got no children, them children got no father.”

They played a desultory game of darts for a quarter of an hour and then McClain seemingly a little exhausted fell back on to the sofa.

“Are you all right?” The young man asked.

“Yes, yes, just bring me that little bottle will you on the shelf there, that’s the one. Would you just put the television set on, I believe there is a video show already in it, you sit yourself down and watch the film a while.”

“I should go.” But he sat on the narrow sofa, the men’s thighs touching.

“No you can watch a little of the movie, you like the movies, the films. Young fellow like you.”

“Well ok for a little while, but my girlfriend is waiting for me.”

“Oh your girlfriend oh yes I see, I’m sure she wouldn’t begrudge you spending a little time with me. That’s correct, pass me the remote control, there. Now give me the bottle thank you.”

The picture on the television stretched and then the image consolidated into a coherent picture, the young man felt the older man’s hand on his thigh.

“Have a little sniff.”

The young man watched the first gasps of anal sex, and the man’s hands were at his flies. McClain’s other hand waved the bottle under his nose. The young man swept the old man’s hand off his crotch, but it crawled back, and the neck of the small bottle was at his nostrils. The young man tried to move a little, naive, not wishing to cause offence whilst trying to extricate himself from this feeble molestation.

“I don’t like this, please take your hand off.”

He tried again to get the young man to sniff the bottle, but he refused, McClain felt the other man’s flaccid penis, as soft as his own, the sounds from the television were stark and metallic. The young man got up, he was scared but polite.

“I have to go, I’m sorry I can’t stay here.”

“Come on you like the porno, don’t you?”

But the young man was scared, heading for the door; he looked like he might scream. He thought they might have a nice afternoon together, but it wasn’t to be.

McClain looked up at him mournfully, “Then I shall come downstairs with you, otherwise you’ll be locked in, Mrs Green is very security conscious, happily for the rest of us.” They walked down the narrow twisting stairwell together and sure enough in the hall Mrs Green was waiting.

“My friend has to go now.” He patted the boy on the shoulder, he was pale.

“Well how nice to have met you love. Be seeing you again I hope?” The young man wan and frightened said nothing just left hurriedly on the release of the dead lock.

“And I’m just going for some chocolate fingers Mrs Green.” Said McClain and followed the young man into the street.

And now he returned he saw Harry and Mrs Green sure she had been gossiping, he bent his head down ready to pass them. He didn’t like Harry knowing his business. He pushed on upstairs but Harry was behind him.

“Mr McClain.”

“Yes?”

Harry stopped at the top of the stairs. “Mrs Green was chatting with me. You want to watch it.” Harry nodded downstairs; McClain opened his mouth as if to protest. Harry unlocked his door and walked into his flat saying no more.

“Watch what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“That’s no business of hers who the devil she think she is?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders and opened his door.

“She got no business talking bout me, you got no business neither, I got my privacy, you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Yes.”

Harry smiled wearily and closed the door gently on Mr McClain.

Chapter 3

He took a taxi to the hotel where the meeting was to be held. Gavin had taken a sedative, was trying to be calm. He was sweating and the car’s air conditioning was bothering him, but the heat was worse. He hadn’t wanted Holly to drive him; he didn’t want to drive, Vim couldn’t be trusted so here he was in a cab.

The money was in the bank he knew, he kept repeating that, no matter what, the money was in the bank. But he was obsessed with neurotic disaster fantasies, what if the bank crashed? Investments went down, short selling, things like that; he didn’t know what, his brokers worked for him, but what if they were all a bunch of shysters? What if he put it all in gold? Would it be safer? What if he dug a hole and buried it in Epping forest?

Now thee buyers were getting shaky about him. One bad exhibition and prices had dropped, another failure and perhaps that would finish him, it had happened before. Too much money at stake, got to keep the naked emperor clothed now. His Rochdale Miniskirt had been sold for half a million at Sudby’s, way under the original asking price.

The phone calls had started then. A collector from Maimi, making enquiries, soft gentle voiced anxieties about Gavin’s next project, when and how and what? Was he aware of the fall in price of the Rochdale Miniskirt? He had tried hard not to lose his temper, stayed calm, the man from Miami was polite, but ignorant, he wanted to say to him. “You ignorant cunt you bought anti-art, art that rejected art, art that laughed at value of any sort, and now you’re worried about it’s fucking value, or lack of, you fat fucking pimp arsed yank.” But he didn’t of course.

He swore under his breath, the driver was chewing gum and listening to flamenco pop on the radio, a luminous virgin swung from the mirror, interlaced with a feathery dream catcher.

He felt sick and almost asked the driver to stop so he could get out. The car was snarled up in traffic, hire cars and tourists, lurching forward, and then stopping suddenly, the driver was bad. He tapped a beat on his side of the dashboard; the driver glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Gavin popped another pill, his throat was dry, he had to gulp hard to swallow the thing. He felt like punching something, but he didn’t. He looked outside, along the sea front, people, sun burnt, piercings and tattoos, pint wielding youths and the smell of roast dinners in 40 degrees of heat.

He was relieved when they then left the main drag and began to climb, up away from the coast. Driving past small narrow shaded streets, where he occasionally glimpsed a person sitting on a chair in the shade. The taxi took him through the gates of the hotel, and parked by several golf buggies.

His heart beat faster when he saw Ralph’s back, bent slightly over the bar reading the Express. He felt uneasy; Ralph was wearing a pink Burberry polo shirt and blue slacks, his gold Rolex weighed heavy on his wrist. Ralph was drinking a gin and tonic. He moved over slightly to allow Gavin to sit down on the stool next to him.

“Thanks for coming over.” Said Gavin.

“Always a pleasure, looking at a property as it happens just down the coast. Get away from this.” He pointed at a headline in the Express about immigration. Gavin ordered a beer. He drank.

“You look into that investment I told you about?” Ralph asked.

“Yes, didn’t do anything with it but thanks anyway.”

“How’s Holly?”

“She’s all right.” Gavin sighed.

“So what’s up?”

“I got to get back to work.”

“I thought you was doing ok.”

“I am. I was, I mean, there’s a big fuck off exhibition being put on by The Tite and the curator, how shall I put this?”

“I don’t know what?”

“She’s fucked me good and proper, I’m not in it. It’s major, it’s important; it’s a fucking problem Ralph.”

“But you got enough muscle to get in there haven’t you?”

Gavin smiled and thought about Adriana Skirk, Cheltenham Ladies College, Oxford, and Harvard, curator, art historian, and Italian cookbook writer.

“She won’t have it. Got to think of something else. She don’t like me never has.”

“What about the press?”

“They’re out to get me, saying I haven’t done nothing decent since 98, there’s no help there, no I’m fucked.” He finished his beer and ordered another. “Fucked.”

“Unless you come up with something new?”

Gavin nodded.

They were now joined by more people at the bar, golfers, salmon skinned from the sun, tight lipped.

“Unless we come up with something.” Said Gavin, “You’ll get your usual cut. What do you think?” He was scratching his head, he couldn’t settle on the bar stool, he stood up, sat down again, stood up again, a few people were looking at him, perhaps they recognised him, he didn’t know, didn’t care.

“Always happy to do business with you Gavin.”

“What d’you think then, come on, what’s your analysis?” Repeated Gavin.

Ralph hummed, a little too dramatically Gavin thought. He was in no hurry to give him an idea, a piece of inspiration.

“I’ll have to think about it, but it’ll cost you.”

Gavin regretted having shown how worried he really was, fidgeting, he tried to sit still to calm his nerves. But it was too late now. The price had risen that instant, would continue to do so, Ralph didn’t miss opportunities, but then he had supplied some of Gavin’s greatest work, with his technical skill, and imagination.

“We need a real headline grabber, we’ve got to get you into that show, somehow, make a stir there. We’ll get you in, don’t worry, just take it easy, you’ll give yourself an ulcer if you carry on like this, don’t let them get you on the windup. Look at you, fucking hell mate calm down. It’s all going to be fine. Give me a couple of days. You want another drink? Have another drink, my shout. Relax you silly bastard.” He tossed back the remains of his drink.

“Ok. Go on then. Is Muriel here?”

“Yes she’s by the pool, you want to see her?” There was a slight change of tone, a glimmer of something in Ralph’s eye.

“No, you’re alright, just say hello.”