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.




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