raised fist, by brukerribs 

The white man was staring at the News of the World Sunday supplement. He had the magazine pressed flat-out on the coffee table and was leaning over it and grinning. Without taking his eye off the page, he began to question the kid about the unfortunate incident in the van.

            So what was you doing snooping around in my van? he asked.

            They were chasing me, said the kid.

           Who was chasing you?

           This group of boys. They were having an argument with one of my friends. Then one of them pulled a knife, so we all ran. I ran into the car park and hid behind a car

           What happened to your mates?

           They ran back into the club to get the bouncers.

           These boys, said the white man raising his eyebrows. Were they friends of yours?

           No I never met them before. The boy with the knife said he was going to cut someone. So we ran.

           So what’d you do when you got inside?

            I sat there and waited for them to go and then I must have fallen asleep.

The white man looked across at the black man.

 The black man shrugged his shoulders.

            Don’t look at me Alf, he said, folding his arms. I only unlocked the van once to put the rest of the stuff in. I don’t remember seeing anyone.

            Then what d’you do? asked the white man.

            I got a call from Sandra, said the black man.

            What my Sandra?

            Yeah. She wanted to know about later.

            You mean you were standing there chatting on your mobile with the bleedin’ doors wide open and all our gear in the back?

            I was only standing about a foot away from the door. He couldn’t have got past me.

           Well obviously he did, said the white man.

He looked across at the kid again.

            So you jumped in when he turned his back, did ya? he asked the kid.

            Yeah, said the kid. There was some stuff up near the front covered in bin liners. I hide behind them.

           And when the dogs got in they didn’t see you?

           I don’t know. I was pretty drunk. We’d been slamming tequilas all night. All I know is, when I woke up the dogs were standing over me growling.

            You happen to look inside the bin liners?

            Not really, said the kid.

           You sure?

           Well only for a second, said the kid. But I was pretty wasted. It looked like some paintings or something. But I honestly don’t remember.

The black man looked at the white man and the white man nodded his head. The two men got to their feet and left the room. The kid stood up, walked into the middle of the room and waited for a few seconds, ready to sprint back to his chair if he needed to. Then he took a few steps towards the door, opened it slowly and inclined his head. The hallway was empty. He thought about making a run for the door, but when he stepped out he could see right through to the kitchen and he figured that he wouldn’t make it to the front door without being seen. 

The kitchen door was now half open and he could hear the two men arguing. He quickly stepped back behind a wooden coat stand and eaves dropped on their conversation.

 The white man said:

         He’s only a kid.

The black man said:

         What about the Old Bill?

         You heard him, he was drunk, said the white man. I don’t think he saw nothing.

         Well I ain’t getting banged up ‘cause of some stupid kid, I’ll tell you that much. What if he talks to the cops?

        About what? He don’t know nothing.

        Ok, I hear what you say, but I still don’t think we should trust him, said the black man.

        But you trust me, don’t you? said the white man.

        Yeah…but that ain’t the point, is it?

         How about we offer him something to keep him stum? Those paintings ‘ll be gone by Tuesday at the latest.

        I dunno.

        Or we could take him down to the coast with us, he continued. Then once everything’s sorted, it won’t matter. He can do whatever the fuck he likes.

        You mean kidnap him?

        No I mean invite him along. We could rope him in to doing a little job for us.

        Ok but if he don’t go for it, what then?

        Don’t worry. Leave it to me. I know how to talk to him. He’s only a bleedin’ kid after all.

All of a sudden one of the pit bulls walked past the kitchen door, noticed the kid standing by the coat stand, and began growling. The kid turned and sprinted back to his chair in the living room. He sat on his hands and stared nervously up at the ceiling. 

When they came back into the room, the white man was smiling but the black man had a slightly wary look on his face. He walked across the room and stood by the wall looking at the kid, taking a sip from his drink, before glancing at the kid again.

 The white man sat back down on the sofa. 

Listen son, he said. Bearing in mind it weren’t entirely your fault. I’ve decided to let you off. But the thing is, you’re still gonna have to do something for me. You know, to make up for the aggravation.

The kid nodded.

            The thing is, said the white man. I’ve got a little proposition for you.

He began rubbing his hands together.

          Don’t worry, he said. You’ll even be able to earn a few bob out of it. That don’t sound too bad does it?

The kid still looked nervous.

            What do you mean by a proposition? he asked, rubbing his hands against the top of his thighs and hunching his shoulders.

The black man came across and gently placed his hand on top of the kid’s head.

            Why don’t you just let him finish? he said.

The white man said,

            Yeah. He’s right Danny. No more interruptions. That’s the problem with most     of the bleedin’ youngsters nowadays. Too much of that.

He opened his hand and snapped his fingers together.

 The kid started sweating. It began streaking down the sides of his face.

             You hot or something, son? said the white man.

The kid nervously wiped his hand across his forehead.

            A bit, he said, rocking forward and then backwards in his chair.

            I’ll open the window, said the white man. Just for a second mind.

The black man had a Nike shoebox set on his lap that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Or at least that’s how it had seemed to the kid. The kid stared at the shoebox.

            Can I say something? he said.

            Go on, said the white man. But don’t go on all day about it.

            Well just suppose, the kid said nervously. I’m not saying…

The kid rubbed his throat.

           But just suppose I don’t want to do what you’ve got in mind.

His eyes kept darting about the room. He looked across at the door and scratched his head.

          I mean, say I wanted to do some of it…But not all of it.

A creepy grin spread across the white man’s face. He made a horrible cracking noise with his knuckles.

         Now come on son, he said. Don’t be silly…Now look. This is the arrangement. I want you to move a few drugs for me. Nothing too big. I thought you and you mates could pop over to Amsterdam on the ferry. It’ll only be for a couple of days. Don’t worry about accommodation. I’ll put you up in a nice hotel. We’ve got this special coat see…

            I can’t go, said the kid.

He stared at the shoebox and nervously scratched the backs of his hand.

            It’s just that…well; I’ve got a job interview on Monday.

 The white man lowered his voice to a scary whisper.

            Listen, I ain’t fuckin’ about son, he said.

            I know you’re not. The thing is, I don’t want to let my mum down, said the kid crossing and uncrossing his arms and then looking at his palms.

The white man stretched his arm along the back of the leather sofa.

           Mummy’s boy, are ya? he said grinning at the kid. All right then son. How’s this sound? Forget Amsterdam. It’s a bit dodgy anyway. Always is when you’re dealing with bloody foreigners. Ain’t that right Den?

The black man raised his eyebrows, and drummed out a beat on the lid of the shoebox. The white man winked at the kid. He turned the cigar around in his mouth and tapped a finger against the side of his head.

           How about this then? It’ll be easy. Dennis and me are doing this little rave up near Brighton tonight. Well take you up there. All you gotta do is knock out a few Ecstasy tabs for me, and we’ll call it quits. I’ll even throw in something, so you can take your friends out.

            Alf, you sure he can handle it? said the black man slyly.

            Nah, he’s all right, said the white man. He knows the score. Don’t cha son? Yeah, take your bird up to one of them classy restaurants. He’d love it. Cause he would.

The kid started grinning.

            Don’t tell me the age of chivalries dead, said the white man.

His eyes were popping out of his head and he looked like somebody’s nutty grandfather making wacky faces.

            What’s it nowadays? he asked. Couple of disco biscuits, then round to hers for a quickie?

The black man got up and poured himself another brandy.  They were knocking back the brandies like nobodies business.

          What can I say? said the white man. I’ve always been a bit useful with me hands. Now thanks to the almighty things are finally paying off.

He raised his glass for a toast and grinned at the black man.

            Now you and me have got it covered, ain’t we brov?

The black man patted the white man on the shoulder but kept his eyes on the kid. Then both men refilled their glassed and made a big show of toasting each other.

           I’ll be able to retire in a big house in the Caribbean, in a couple of years and leave all this bollocks for you kids to worry about, said the white man.

The black man took a sip of his drink. Then smirking, he winked at the kid.

             Alf, he said grinning. Why don’t you tell him the story about the thumb?

             Oh that one, said the white man. All I will say Daniel, is some dirty Northern cunt tried to bite it off.

He opened his left hand and wiggled his fingers about. There was only a stump where the thumb should have been. The kid looked at the thick stump and felt his stomach turn.

            I suppose you’re wondering how I repaid the dirty bastard?

The kid didn’t answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the stump, wondering what it must feel like to have someone bite off part of your thumb.  

            Let’s just say Daniel. He ain’t from up North no more. He ain’t from nowhere             no more.

The kid was sickened by the thought of it. He turned away and stared at the television set. It looked like a brand new set. It was enormous with a flat screen and hardly had any buttons. Next to it there was a massive vase filled with tall yellow flowers.

            You all right son? said the white man.

            Yeah, said the kid. Can I phone someone?

           ‘Course you can. Just so long as it ain’t, Dixon of Dock Green.

The white man and the black man both pissed themselves laughing. The kid didn’t think it was that funny. He sat there, waiting for them to finish.

The black man scratched the stubble on his chin.

            But seriously, he said. Who was you thinking of phoning, your mum?

            Nah, said the kid.

            Your girlfriend?

            Nah, said the kid.

The white man winked at the black man.

            Ere…You ain’t a fruit? he said.

Then they both started howling. It was Sunday night at the Palladium with Jimmy Tarbuck…No No Mrs…Please stop!

 the danger23-dwight howard superman dunk 2008.

Then I sat there and waited nervously while she got up to lock the door.

            Take off your T- shirt, she said.

I took off my T-shirt. Then I felt her tug at my tracksuit bottoms. Then she took off her white see-through gown. We both stood on the bed. Stumbling backwards and forwards. She lifted up her hair.

            Danny. Unclip my bra.

 I unclipped her bra. Then she wriggled out of it. I was amazed. I could sense that something truly amazing was about to happen. She had a perfect backside, flawless skin, large breast with pert nipples, and long legs. Why had I been chosen?

            Is that for me? she asked with a coy smile.

Before I could answer, her hand slid down the front of my boxers and she grabbed my cock. Then she got on her knees and started giving me a blowjob. As she moved her mouth up and down the shaft of my cock a shudder ran through the whole of my body.

            You naughty boy, she barked, grinning. You disgust me. You cad! You bounder! Oooooh!

She lay down on the bed and hurriedly pulled off her knickers. She lifted her knees, and opened her legs. I leaned forwards and kissed her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, and moved down to her belly. She pushed my head down between her legs and gasped. I nervously ran my tongue along her thigh and to my surprise she reached down and stretched open her cunt lips. I glanced up and saw the look of expectation on her face. Well I figured, when in Rome…I lowered my head and began tonguing her clit in a mad frenzy of lust.

            Oh my god! she screeched.

She closed her legs, giggled and pulled me on top.

Then I was inside her. We were doing it. She dug her nails into my back. I was in heaven. It was a miracle…Danny the Magnificent rides and rides again!

            Daniel don’t come inside me.

            I won’t, I mumbled.

I jerked and went for broke. Globules of sweat rolled of my nose and down my chest. Claudia clutched, bucked and bounced against me.

            Don’t stop! Don’t stop!

I thrust harder. It was unbelievable. I was unbelievable. I slapped my right hand underneath her left buttock. She squeezed closer and wrapped her legs around my waist. I lowered my head and began sucking on her nipples, moving my tongue in a circular motion. She pulled my head up and kissed me on the mouth.

She rolled me over, got on top and began grinding me into the mattress. I reached up and started playing with her breasts. I pulled her towards me and ran my tongue over her large erect nibbles. She pinned my arms to the bed and sat up. We began moving faster. Her eyes looked wild. Then she arched her back and began screaming. She went completely nuts…I began moving faster. The muscles in my thighs went rigid. My stomach tightened. I felt myself about to come. I tried to hold off…I imaged the line-up of the Philharmonic Orchestra/ Saw 111, The Return of the Living Dead…It was no use. I pulled out and came on her belly. 

 

It was like waking up from a strange dream, that he didn’t quite remember. His hands and feet were bound with duct tape and he was sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of a strange room. Dark. Except for narrow strips of light coming through the gaps in the curtains. In another part of the house a man was singing loudly. Somewhere above his head he could hear a clock ticking. Raising his chin he tried to focus. His jaw still hurt and when he moved it, he could taste something sharp. Blood. Then he noticed the figure in the darkness across the room, watching him.

The man was sitting on a brown leather sofa. He was wearing a navy-blue shell suit, unzipped to the top of his potbelly, and smoking a fat cigar.

             You’re awake? the man said. You had me worried there for a second. Now what the bleedin’ hell was you up to?

The kid opened his mouth to speak. A good-looking kid…Tall, lanky, and still in his teens. He’d been leaving the club and had hidden in the van when the boy had threatened him. It was when he had woken up several hours later, that the thing with the dog’s had occurred.

The man seated in the chairs’ manner seemed to change as soon as they got to the part that involved his dogs.

The man in the chair said,

           Don’t give me that son. You must have done something to upset ‘em. They didn’t just come to fall out of a moving van all by themselves.

He scrunched his dark eyebrows together. Apart from the scrunching, his expression hardly seemed to change.

The kid lifted his hands and tried to scratch his ear. He was scared. For some time, neither the man nor the kid said a word to one another. Then at some point, the man got up. He switched on the overhead light, freed the kid’s hands and feet and sat back down again.

The man began picking his fingernails over an ashtray. He turned his palms over. His palms were massive. The kid stared at the man’s massive fingers and the man looked up and grinned.

            Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a pair of hands before…See them? said the man.

The kid slowly nodded his head. There were lots of thick pink scars across the man’s knuckles.

            That’s from years ago, said the man, staring at the blotchy looking flesh. Used to do a bit of bare-knuckle, didn’t I?

The kid edged further back in his seat and rubbed the back of his neck. Then all of a sudden he began to hear a desperate scratching sound coming from the other side of the living room door and the muscles in his stomach knotted.

The man lifted his head.

            Oi Dennis, he called.

There was no answer.

           Dennis…Dennis!

           I can hear you, shouted a deep baritone voice.

           Dennis mate. Make sure Satan and Killer don’t get out, will you?

The kid heard the sound of vicious barking, followed by the sound of pots and pans crashing to the floor. A cupboard doors slammed shut. A fridge door thumped. Then the living room door slowly swung open, and a blade of light spread across the plush white carpet. A tall well-built black man strolled in wearing an identical navy blue shell-suit to the one that the man seated on the leather sofa was wearing. The kid noted that the second man was so tall; he literally had to crouch to get under the doorframe. He placed two ice-filled glass tumblers on top of the coffee table and sat on the sofa beside the other man.

           I left ‘em in the kitchen, he said.

           You give ‘em something to eat? asked the man with large hands.

           Yeah they’re eating it now, said the tall black man, before turning to look at the kid.

The man with large hands said, By the way. This is…he looked at the kid, and raised both eyebrows expectantly.

           Danny, said the kid nervously.

           Well Danny. I’m Alfie, and the big chap next to me is my business partner Dennis. 

The kid looked at the black man but didn’t say anything.

           He don’t look much, now that I can see him properly, said the black man.

He began pouring brandy into the glasses. The brown liquid made a crackling sound as it hit the ice cubes.

           How old are you then son? asked the white man.

           Seventeen, said the kid.

            Yeah I thought so, said the black man. He’s just a kid Alf.

The white man coughed into his fist and smoothed back his dyed jet-black hair. Then he picked up his drink and swilled the brandy around in the glass.

            Yeah, you’re right, he said. He does look about fourteen, don’t he? Been bunking of school, have you mate?

He made a horrible coughing noise that was supposed to pass for a laugh. Then he wiped away some brandy that had accidentally dribbled onto his chin.

The black man took a sip of his drink, and winked at the other man.       

           I don’t think he likes us very much, he said. He doesn’t seem to be in a very good mood Alf.

The white man stared at the kid, and the kid immediately dropped his gaze and look down at the carpet.

           Listen son, said the white man. You should think yourself lucky Dennis hit you when he did. He did you a bleedin’ favour. If I’d ‘ave got hold of you, it would have been a lot, lot worse.

He frowned and took a puff of his cigar.

The kid started mumbling.

            But I never did nothing, he said.

The white man’s face seemed to take on a purple hue. He began yelling.

            Didn’t do nothing! Didn’t do nothing!

His face began to sweat.

            You nearly killed my bleedin’ dogs you little rascal. Ain’t that enough!

He took another swig of brandy.

            Yeah but it wasn’t my fault, said the kid.

Oi, don’t push your luck, said the white man. Dennis ‘ll tell ya. I’m not the sort to suffer fools gladly. If there’s one thing I really hate son, it’s cruelty to animals. I won’t have it. You hear me? I won’t have it!

The kid noted that the end of the white man’s nose had gone red. The nose itself looked like it had been smashed to pieces with a sledgehammer. There was hardly anything to it. The rest of the man was just thick: Thick shoulders, thick arms, thick neck and extra thick fingers. The man flicked cigar ash into the glass ashtray on the coffee table, and took two or three quick puffs to keep the cigar from going out.

            Those dogs went completely crazy, said the kid breaking the silence.

            You’re a lippy bleeder, ain’t cha? said the white man.

He grinned at the black man and shook his head. The kid turned away.

Suddenly he felt a large hand on his shoulder. It was the tall black man, Dennis. The black man winked at him and then turned round to face his buddy.

            S’all right Alf, he’s probably just tired, he said smiling.

The kid glanced up with a wounded/angry look on his face, and then went back to staring at the carpet.

The white man sat back on the sofa, holding the cigar, breathing smoke out of his mouth. He was looking at the other man, but he didn’t appear to be listening to what he was saying. Looking at the kid, he barked,

           Oi listen, if you gonna test my patient, I’ll bloody let the dogs out right now. See how you like that.

Then all at once he seemed to completely lose his cool. He put down his brandy, stood up and moved closer to where the kid was sitting. The black man stepped between them, and put his hand on the white man’s shoulders.

           Just give him a couple of minutes to get himself together Alf, he said. Let’s not get too hasty, eh?

 After that, no one spoke for quite some time. The whole time the kid could hear the sound of barking coming from the kitchen, just across the hall.

pic barlow’s18-dave berge

4 poster bed/faye knightingale

Anyway, I washed my hands and flicked them dry.

All of a sudden there was a knock on the toilet door.

            Just a minute, shouted Tom.

He flushed and went to open the door.

            Wait. I’m coming with you, I said.

Tom opened the door. I stood behind him.

            All right boys?

It was Claudia. She placed her arm across the doorway.

            Danny, Steve’s asked me to show you something, she said.

She’d changed again. This time she was wearing a long white see-through gown. And in the hallway light she practically looked naked. She was swilling a glass of champagne in her right hand and holding a cigarette in her left.

Tom left. We heard him whistling as he went down the stairs. Then the front door slammed shut. Claudia and I were alone.

4

              It’s over here, said Claudia.

I followed her into the bedroom. I wondered what it was she had to show me. Perhaps something from her acting days. (Apparently Claudia was a pretty fair actor, though more recently she traded in the boards for a stint behind the camera. Steve had informed us rather excitedly that she now had two short documentaries in production that would be air next year. One featuring the sexual exploits of (mostly nymphomaniac) first year Co-eds from an assortment of respected American universities, and the other concerning the little talked about subject of ‘Nuns.’ I.e. who they were, or as Steve had put it: What made an apparently ‘normal heterosexual young maiden’ decide to throw away her future and buddy-up with God.

Anyway, I was saying, I was wondering if Claudia might have something for me, a signed autograph from Sir John Gielgud. Olivier’s fountain pen. Or maybe just something from Steve’s controversial past that would in some positive way help me nailed the part. Anyway as I moved into the room, I decided to be polite but stay away from the bed. As long as I stayed away from the bed I knew I’d be fine. In other words, nothing could happen, if I observed one simple rule and stayed away from the bed.

Claudia closed the door behind me. The first thing I saw was a large Teakwood king size four-poster bed, with white net curtains tied to the bedposts. Claudia moved across the room, sat down on edge of the mattress and crossed her legs. As she did so, her white gown pulled tightly around her backside and for a moment everything seemed to stop.

           It’s OK Danny. Come and sit on the bed. I won’t bite you, she said.

I went over and sat on the edge of the bed beside her.

           Steve tells me you’re an up and coming actor, said Claudia.

            Well I’m trying to be, I said modestly. This is only my first movie.

           Danny love. Interrupted Claudia. There’s a bottle of champagne under the bed. Be a darling and pour me a glass.

I crouched down and found the champagne. I placed the bottle between my thighs and eased out the cork. There was a small plop. No froth. I managed to stop my hands from shaking long enough to poured two glasses.

            That’s brilliant Danny! Where did you learn to do that?      

            I used to work in a bar.

            Is that where you got those lovely muscles?

I looked away shyly.

              Light me!

Claudia swung round and held a long cigarette in front of her mouth. I pulled out my lighter, clicked the top and a flame leaped in the air. She took a few drags on her cigarette and smiled at me.

            So Danny. Were there many girls behind the bar you worked in?

            A few.

 I was actually still thinking about Steve. And what he’d do if he suddenly burst into the room. Probably kill me. Consequently as a precaution, I listened for footsteps and kept my eye on the door.

           I bet you used to push up against the girls with those big muscles. Didn’t you? said Claudia.

            No.

            Come on. I bet you did.

            No…It wasn’t like that.

            Don’t lie.

She nudged me.

           Come on. I bet someone would say, gin and tonic please. And you’d rub up against the girls to get to the gin.

She burst into a fit of giggles.

Suddenly I heard the stairs creak. There were voices. Then the voices went away. I got up from the bed. I could feel my legs shaking.

            Claudia I think I should go.

 I made a move towards the door.

            Relax…I’m only teasing you. 

She pressed her glass against her cheek. Then she stood up and brushed past me.

 She came back and signalled with her eyes for me to take my place on the bed. Then she pushed up close and I got an eyeful of that amazing body. I felt something tingle inside me, and my heart thumped against my chest.

.           Tom and Jan will be wondering where I’ve got to, I said.

             Hold on. This is what I was going to show you.

She placed a vanity case on her lap, snapped the catch and flipped open the lid. She took a sip of champagne and rested her chin on the edge of the glass. I noticed that her eyes had gone all fuzzy.

            Come closer.        

            Listen Claudia…

            For Christ sake, don’t be so uptight. Honestly you’re worse than my mother. Stop worrying.

She patted the bed, smiled and stubbed out her cigarette. 

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I moved an inch closer.

            Oh. And bring that bottle with you.

I picked up the bottle and tried to look casual.

            There you go, I said.

            Nice hands.

She gave me a dirty grin. Then she stuck her nose in the vanity case and rummaged around. She fished out a small mirror and placed it on the bed. She opened up an envelope and laid it on top of the mirror. Then she tipped the coke out onto the glass. She took out a credit card from the vanity case and began chopping the coke.

While she chopped I looked around the bedroom at the pink walls. Pink with white bows. On the floor there were two tennis rackets cases and a pink Slazenger gym bag. The dressing table was crammed with different types of perfumes. L’oreal, Christian Dior, Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent. What the hell am I doing here, I thought?

            What are you thinking? asked Claudia.

            Nothing, I said fidgeting.

She raised her eyebrows, smiled and continued chopping away. Then she lowered her head to the mirror. Her hands shook. She pressed a fifty against her right nostril and snorted a line.

            You don’t have to worry about my husband, she said.

Suddenly my heart thumped against my ribcage. Her husband: The crazy dude with the perpetual grin and the never-ending vial of coke. I leaped off the bed trembling.

            Please don’t go Danny. You don’t know how lonely I am.

I sat down again and tried to relax. I concentrated on getting my breathing back to normal.

           How could anyone that beautiful ever be lonely? I thought.

.           My husband hates me, she said.

Her head slowly dropped forward and her shoulders began to shake. She wiped her eyes and sniffed a few times. I went and got a tissue from the dressing table, and came back to the bed.

            Claudia. I’m sure that Steve loves you, I said handing her the tissue.

            You don’t know him, said Claudia still trembling. He gets insane when he drinks. And there’s the coke, which doesn’t help. It makes him violent. I don’t know if your friend Tom told you, but three weeks ago he attacked a man in a restaurant in Cannes for absolutely no good reason. When I questioned him about it, he told me he did it because the man had kissed my hand. Can you believe that? A man kisses my hand and he wants to kill him.

           Why didn’t you go to the police? I asked innocently.

           Oh don’t misunderstand me, said Claudia. I would never do anything like that. It’s just that sometimes he gets so jealous.

When she said it, worryingly, an unconscious smile crossed her lips and her eyes seemed to light up considerably; as if the idea that her husband was willing to attack, maim or even kill another man to protect her honour, was something she found sexually arousing. Then she leaned over and snorted more coke.

            Just give me a few minutes…Just five minutes, she said holding onto my arm.

5

I took a deep breath and looked at the door. I had to admit that the story about the man in Cannes had made me a little nervous. Well actually more than a little nervous. I knew that if I had any sense I should get out of the room at once.

            OK five minutes, I said trying to keep my hands from shaking. 

 Claudia looked up. Her eyes were smudged with mascara.

            You know my sister’s married a black man.

            Yeah? I said looking anxiously towards the bedroom door.

            You don’t believe me do you?

            No, no, I believe you.

           My father’s the financial director of an oil company in the Middle East. My sister married a Doctor from Kuwait.

           Kuwait. I didn’t know that the Arabs were technically considered…

           I knew you wouldn’t believe me, she whined.

           No, no… I definitely believe you…rich I expect…I expect he was rich…So was he rich?

          Oh extremely wealthy. Yes, my parents separated when I thirteen and divorced when I was fifteen. My sister stayed with my father and I lived with my mother and my stepfather. They both drank. It was the first thing they did in the morning and the last thing they did at night. When my stepfather drunk, he beat my mother. I told him if he ever laid a hand on me, I’d kill him. My real father is a wonderful man. Unfortunately he doesn’t understand women very well. He’s been married four times. Every one of them an interfering old hag.

            What all of them?

            Are you making fun of me?

            Of course not. Forgive me. You were saying.

            You know you remind me of a boy I knew at drama school.

            That’s nice…

            We’d go for long walks quoting Shakespeare and Eliot to one another. And    sometimes when we went back to my flat and I’d let him do things to me.

            Do things?

           Yes, do things, she said grinning and flattering her eyelashes

            Hmmm, Claudia. I really should get back…

            You don’t like me very much do you?

           Of course I like you. It’s just that…what if someone comes? I whispered nervously.

            Oh Danny you’re so sweet. You know, I’d really like us to be friends.

She pushed back her hair, leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

            I know. Why don’t we both do a couple of lines each?

            I dunno,

            Danny, stop worrying. I’ll look after you.

I had never done coke before, and I had no idea what to expect. Well apart from sitting there saying things like, wow and hey man and heavy! Which was how I used to think you were supposed to act when you were high. Probably from watching all those 70’s movie as a kid, where one toke on a joint the size of a tooth pick would send a bunch of hippie kids to Venus and back.

            Actually I’d rather not, I said.

             Oh for heavens sake Danny, said Claudia cutting up a couple more lines. If you want to do well in this profession, you’ll have to lean to let go once in a while. Actors are the free spirits of the universe. They’re supposed to have a little fun. It’s good for the soul.

 So I did the first line. Nothing happened. I did the other one. After that I lost count. Claudia would set them up and I’d snort them. We were like the Tony Montanna meets Henry Fords of the Yajoo-snorting fraternity.

Then I got a severe head rush.

            Are you all right Danny?

I could barely see straight. Everything was whizzing by. There were white flashes of light. I was Danny the magnificent, fly fly….Super Fly!

 yes we scored!-terry.1953

I was in a Crystal Palace strip, flying down the right wing at Selhurts Park. We were one goal down going into injury time. No one believed we had a chance, least of all our own supporters. But Danny Martin, was going to do it alone.

I threaded my way between two defenders, then past another. I chipped the ball over the head of a fourth. There was only the goalie to beat…I slammed the ball home, passed the keeper’s fingers and into the left hand corner of the net. The crowd roared and cheered. I fell back onto the bed panting. My head was buzzing. I felt fantastic.

            I love you! I yelled.

            Shush Danny. Someone might hear you.

            I don’t care. I love you!

            I thought we were going to be friends.

            We are, but I still love you.

I leaped on top of her. I was a caged wild beast. I pinned her to the bed. We struggled.

            Daniel for Christ’s sake get off of me!

She slapped me across the face. I sat up, blinked and stared at her. I felt confused.

            Claudia I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.

            For heavens sake! What’s wrong with you?           

            I dunno. I’m sorry.

I rubbed my cheek. I felt embarrassed. Claudia took hold of my hand.

            Daniel. You’re so silly.

            I know. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.

She looked into my eyes. Her eyes looked strange. It was probably the coke. I looked at the floor but I knew she was still watching me. I was scared. I sneaked a look. Her face had gone all serious…Her breathing got louder and faster. She leaned forward, lifted my chin, closed her eyes and to my utter surprise…she kissed me.

picture Dave Fancher-spooled up.

Prologue:

 According the interview he gave in, ‘The Hollywood Reporter, entitled: ‘So you really wanna try and make a another goddamn lousy movie’-he adored England. He loved its history. It’s architecture, and it’s weather…Ok, so he didn’t exactly love its weather. But he loved the country. However in the last two months he’d been plagued with problems. First and foremost ‘ money’, or more precisely his lack of it-And yes, the rumours were true, the first AD had quit, and the camera man had gone insane, and now with rewrites, actor’s fees, production cost, etc. Plus the fact that if anything could go wrong, ‘you can bet your ass it had’…the estimated budget had gone up by around 30%; and was still rising. 

1

It was the day after he returned from LA, that he delivered, ‘the thrilling news. He was happy to say that he had not only secured a further $4million, but we would be shooting again in a month.     

Meanwhile we were to attend a barbeque at his beautiful home in Sussex to talk the new changes in the script.

 The three of us were beaming smiles. Well couldn’t exactly help it. Tom had had the bright idea of taking ecstasy on the way down in the car. He argued that not only would it be immense fun, but would help pass the time. Anyway they’re all movie people, he added. They’ll be lots of drugs and shit at the party. It’s not as if anyone will notice. They’re creative types. They’ll bound to be high on something…so we took his advice and dropped our E’s…Rhubarb and Custards. And they were potent.

The grounds were huge. Tom parked the car and the three of us walked along the gravel driveway towards the house. Jan rung the doorbell and after some seconds the butler appeared. 

              We’re here for the barbecue, said Tom.

              Very good Sir. If you’d like to follow me.

So we followed the butler through a large room filled with impressive antiques, chandeliers and a high ceiling. Outside people were standing around chatting, laughing, sipping drinks and playing croquet. It was a hot summers day with a light breeze. And the garden, if you could call it that, seemed to stretch out for miles.

Then Tom spotted him. He was dressed in a garish Hawaiian shirt, and a pair of white linen trousers and had a pair of dark glass stuck to the top of his head. As we drew closer he suddenly bent forward and appeared to shove something up to his nose…First the right nostril and then the left. I figured it had to be coke. Well at least, we wouldn’t be the only ones blitzed out of our brains. 

 As soon as we’d got through the introductions, Steve launched into a story he’d recently heard about a ghost that apparently inhabited the neighbouring countryside. He claimed that someone had told him that a white lady walked the roads at night.

            So Tom, Danny, whaddya reckon. Is it really haunted?

            Nah, that’s bollocks, said Tom.

            Bollocks?

Steve repeated the word, slowly. That’s Scrotum, right?

            Balls, whispered Claudia.

           Right. Gotcha. Load of balls! Load of bollocks! Old English, am I right?

He was swaying.

Yeah right, as I was just saying, a white lady walks the roads at night. At least that’s what they tell me. What d’you reckon Danny…about The White Lady?

            The white lady?

            Absolutely. The White Lady.

            Oh right, you mean a lady dressed in white.

Steve grinned, lurched towards me, and feigned a left to my kidneys.

            Yeah well they make it up, don’t they? said Tom.

            Really! said Steve turning away from me for an instant.

          Yeah, they just wanna keep us city boys away from the country. Ain’t that right Dan?

 kate O’brien-Croquet?

I wasn’t listening. I had my eye on Steve’s gorgeous wife. Tom had told me that she was beautiful, but, Christ, I honestly hadn’t expected this. Claudia was wearing an extremely low cut stylish outfit. No bra. And every sneaked a peek, I half expected one of her perfectly formed breasts to tumble out.

Then all at once the Ecstasy tab I’d taken in the car really began to kick-in and my head began to spin. In my confusion I lost my footing, stumbled forward and accidentally spilt the rest of my Champagne down the front of Claudia’s dress. As the stain grew bigger, I watched her nipples surface, like miniature deep-sea divers coming up for air.

.            I suppose I should go and change, she said.

She lowered her eyes coquettishly, gave me a cheeky grin, and began walking towards the house.

            Yeah…I know what you guys mean, Steve suddenly yelled.

None of us had the faintest idea what the guy was talking about.

            What d’you say? asked Tom..

            Yeah. Apparently a White Lady walks the roads at night. So whaddya guys make of that?

            Yeah very interesting, said Tom trying to keep a straight face.

            Hmm. Very interesting, said Jan.

            Danny?

            Yes, very interesting Steve.

             Yeah that’s what I thought.

He rubbed his nose, and grinned at everyone. Ultra-bright-super-white-capped-teeth- and gave us his million dollar film director’s smile. Then he grabbed onto my arm, winked and drew me aside from the others.

             Danny if I could just have a quick word with you.

So Tom and Jan disappeared leaving Steve and myself to talk. Some talk. Steve may well have been a well-respected auteur genius, but as a human being…well the guy was nuttier than a fruitcake. The upshot was, Steve Plimpton, legendary movie mogul and controversial director…Arguable one of the biggest names in Hollywood in the last twenty years. A man responsible for a catalogue of cult/blockbusters movies…The man Larry Einstein had affectionately called ‘Mr Razzle Dazzle’, the man who had stood his ground and said No to Paramount. No to Warner Bros- I will not compromise. I will make my own kind of movie if it’s the last thing I do…Sadly for ten years it was the last thing he did. The man who called Bel Hibson, ‘the second coming’ and later ‘a talentless Aussi self-conceited prick (his words not mine) wanted me, a mere twenty year-old nobody, the soon-to be second lead in his latest extravaganza…to have wild unrestrained sex with his beautiful wife.

2

As soon as I smelt it I wanted to puke. We were standing in front of a trestle table covered with food. There were chicken legs, hamburgers, sausages, bread rolls, French sticks, cheese sticks, a bowel of salad, celery and dips and lamb steaks, ribs… Next to the table was an iron barbecue grill. Flames shot through the grid and licked the meat. A few people stood about with paper plates, nibbling the food and sipping drinks. Steve had sobered up slightly. But he was still hitting the coke like it was going out of fashion.

            Help yourself, he said.

I looked at the food and my stomach turned. I didn’t have an appetite. The Ecstasy had seen to that. Not only was eating the very last thing on my mind, but I was also starting to hallucinate mildly. As crazy as it seemed, the chicken actually looked alive. My God. It actually looked like it was breathing.

            I am not that hungry, I said.

            Me neither, said Jan.

            Just try a little, said Steve.

He grabbed a spoon and heaped on as much food as the flimsy paper plates could hold. Each plate was piled so high that bits of its contents would fall on to the ground. Steve simply gave out a laugh and kicked the stray pieces of chicken, ribs and sausage under the table. Then Claudia reappeared wearing a Laura Ashley summer dress. 

            By the way, said Steve proudly. Claudia marinated the chicken especially.

            Oh, I said. That’s nice.

     Then I stared at one of the drumsticks on my plate. It had a yellow and orange sheen to it. It looked as if some overfed mutt had puked up all over it. I opted for a chicken wing instead and raised it to my mouth. I bit down and moved it from side to side, slowly.

            How is it? Not too spicy? Try and guess what that taste is, said Steve.

            A Kleenex box, I thought, as I tried in vain to force the tasteless lump of meat down my throat.

I almost gagged. I couldn’t make the chicken go down, so I pretended to swallow and held it under my tongue. When they weren’t looking I spat it out onto my hand.

            Tommy, how was the drive down? asked Steve.

            Fantastic.

I threw the chewed up chicken wing under the table with the rest of the discarded pieces food. Underneath the table it was starting to look like a rats paradise.

            I’m on a diet, said Jan picking at a piece of celery.

             But you’re so thin, said Claudia. How do you do it?

            Speed crystal and ecstasy tabs, whispered Tom.

            Don’t tell me. A healthy balanced diet and plenty of exercise, said Claudia.

            Practically, said Jan going red.

I hiccupped and bought up some of the champagne. I put my hand over my mouth. I knew I was going to hurl if I didn’t get away from the food in the next thirty seconds.

            And what type of exercise do you do? asked Claudia.

            I dance, said Jan.

            You must take us dancing sometime.

            Yeah we love all that, said Steve making an exaggerated, ‘ooh’ sound and attempting to do the famous Michael Jackson moonwalk.

I looked at Steve and thought of the few places I’d willingly take him:

(1) A rest home for the criminally insane. (2) A shock therapy centre. (3) The Betty Ford Clinic.

I interrupted and excused myself.

            I need to go as well, said Tom putting down his paper plate.

     I thought only girls went to the lavatory in two’s, said Claudia. I’ll show you both the way.

                 Girls and cokeheads, said Steve chuckling away to himself.

We walked into the house, all three of us. As soon as I got away from the food I felt a whole lot better.

              I’ll just go and freshen up, said Claudia.

She sashayed away from us swinging her hips and we both watched her glorious backside disappear down the oak panelled hallway.

                     3

We walked into the bathroom. It had a massive pink circular porcelain bath, white titles, a brass handrail, thick pink towels, and a bidet. I lifted the toilet seat, and noticed that there was a fly sitting inside the toilet bowl. I waited. I didn’t want to drown the fly. Finally I aimed at the far side of the bowel and the damn fly shifted into my line of fire. I swung to the other side.

            What you doing? asked Tom.

            Nothing, I said.

I finished up and the fly settled back on the edge of the toilet bowel. I stood there for a moment, and then flushed. It was one of those almost silent flushes, but the fly bless he’s heart was astoundingly quick. He beat the flush, zigzagged around the room and settled on the ceiling.

I turned to Tom. He was sitting on the edge of the bath reading the back of a shampoo bottle.

            Tom, the guys some kind of nut!

            Yeah I know.

            I thought he was supposed to be the laid-back Gary Cooper type.

            He is …but not after a drink.

            He’s fuckin’ crazy. He’s been ranting and raving at me for the past ten minutes. He asked me to sleep with his wife.

            You lucky bastard!

            No really, he wants me to sleep with her.

            You probably miss-heard him.

Tom continued reading the Shampoo labels.

            No listen…

            Chill out Dan. He’s pissed.

I sat down next to Tom on the edge of the bath.

            Dan, he’s only winding you up. He does it to everyone. Nothings’ gonna        happen.

Tom picked up a bottle of Paca Robanne and grinned at me. I grinned back, though it was a grin completely absent of real humour. For one thing, I knew full well that Steve had earned himself quite a reputation over the years. Not first hand of course, but like everyone else I heard the stories.

And even though he he’d only been married to Claudia, his now second wife, for a mere six months tops, there were already rumours floating around the grapevine about their wild orgies, and A list celebrity swinging sessions, where everyone present would drop their Porsche car keys into the infamous coloured bowel, to see who was going home with Daddy.

 Bearing this in mind, I walked over to the sink and turned on the tap…Jesus Christ! The fly. The fucking fly was back. It skated on the shinny porcelain surface, and wondered aimlessly around the plughole.

Evidently, once again the fly’s fate was in my hands. I quickly turned off the tap, and shooed the thing away.

           Just give it an hour, said Tom, standing over the toilet bowl trying to piss.

            How about ten minutes?

            Dan. We only just got here.

Anyway we still need to go over that thing in the script.

Of course Tom was right, though I hated to admit it. The situation was this. There was weird scene in the script, in which Tom and I were supposed to make passionate love.

Steve had co-written the script with a close buddy (a well known, outrageously camp Dutch Director). The scene as written consisted of thirteen and a half minutes of straight up porn. Gay Porn. Of course no one could deny that Steve’s movies always had a reputation for pushing the envelop and being totally ‘out there’. And in fact, both Steve and his buddy had originally conceived the idea for the scene as homage to the 80’s French movie, Betty Blue, as a sort of moral foil to (as they put it), the misogynistic quality of Hollywood cinema.  

Anyway, neither Tom nor I wanted to be accused of being homophobic, but if there was any way to avoid doing the script as written, we’d certainly be grateful. Yeah ok, so you could perhaps argue that the movie was making a much needed and bold political statement concerning gender roles in modern film. But on the other hand, neither Tom nor myself were convinced, that anyone (with the exception of certain factions of the woman’s movement and possibly Germaine Greer) would have a clue, or give a pig’s arse, what Steve and the Dutch Director friend were attempting to say.

Saying that, I guess we couldn’t dispute that Jan had a point when she remarked that, at least now we would have a better idea of what women in cinema had probably been dealing with since the invention of celluloid. Jan was playing the nymphomaniac fifteen-year old kid with a burgeoning heroine addiction and was expected to show her tits at least seven times during the first ten minutes of the movie. Granted they were obscured shots and her actual nipples were only in focus for a few seconds at a time. But saying that, neither Tom nor myself were called upon to show our testicles till the movie was some way in. And even then, apart from the infamous gay sex scene( which we were hoping to get removed)-if we did get naked, the sight of our balls was usually over-shadowed by the presents of a tightly-trimmed pussy and a pair of 34 D tits.

 

They were drinking in the Hungry Pussy. Willie wiped away some foam from his top lip and looked along the counter in front of the stage, where five other guys were seated. None was talking. All the men were all staring into their drinks. Stirring them with the little plastic swizzle sticks or absentmindedly playing with their coasters.

                Excuse me, said Willie grinning and turning to the man beside him. But ain’t you the gentleman from the other night?

A middle-aged balding white man, dressed in a short-sleeve shirt and slacks, seated on a stool beside the stage, stared back at him.

The black man Willie, who was in his fifties leaned forward and offered his hand.

                Willie, he said pointing at his own chest…And this here’s my young nephew Nate.

                Excuse me, said the balding man. You say we met the other night?

                That’s right, said Willie. The AVN awards. I took you there.

The balding man, lowered his Scotch glass, looked up and squinted.

               You mean the limo driver. That was you?

                That’s right said Willie grinning and extending his outstretched hand. Willie Jackson. Sunset Limos. At your service.

The three men shook hands. Then Willie waved over a hot looking Latino waitress and order some drinks.

                Three beers, he said, winking and holding up three of his fingers.

The waitress smiled, scribbled the order on a pad and left.

                 Damn, said Nate, staring at her short leopard skin mini skirt as she move away. And she ain’t even one of the dancers.

                 So what exactly do you do? asked Willie. Don’t’ tell me you’re an actor.

                 Actually, said Lewis. I’m the CEO of a very successful design company.

                For real, said Nate. So what kind stuff does your company design?

                Believe it or not, said Lewis. We design sex toys for ladies.

                Yeah, said Nate, playing it cool. So tell me man, what’s it like working in the sex industry?

                You mean man-to-man, bullshit aside? asked Lewis twiddling his thumbs.

Nate pinched his nostrils and, flicked out the tip of his tongue.

                Yeah, he said. Exactly…Man to man.

                Well let’s just say. It is Nate, right? asked Lewis, teasing.

               Yeah Nate, said Nate pushing out his chest.

               What can I tell you? said Lewis …Sure as shit beats working for a living.

Nate sat back and glance across at his uncle who was leaning forward, holding onto his elbows, chuckling.

                I guess I asked for that, he said taking a sip of beer.

Willie began to laugh.

Just then the waitress arrived with their drinks. Willie paid for the drinks, dropped a tip on the tray and the waitress left.

                   Wanna know what I do for a living? asked Nate, picking at the label on his bottle and looking across at the empty stage.

                   Let me guess. You’re a rap star? said Lewis catching Willie’s eye and winking.

                   No? said Nate, licking his lips and tugging at the tops of his baggy jeans. Nah man, I’m an entrepreneur, but right now I drive a cab. 

                   So you do like it.

                   I guess it a’ight for now. But I ain’t planning to be a cab driver forever. Nah. I’ve got me a plan…Hah you like that? he said, leaning back and grabbing the bottom of his T-shirt. Says: ‘I got me a black beautiful woman. Now I’m ready to conquer the world. Got the same ones for white women too. In fact my plan is total world domination. You know. Got me a beautiful Chinese woman. Got me a beautiful Korean Women. Basically we give props to everyone…And see…the silhouette of a woman here…comes in different colours. Global baby, you feel me?

                    I’m impressed, said Lewis. You come up with the idea yourself?

                    He’s a good kid, said Willie proudly. My sister Angela’s boy.

The three men sat in silence.

                    So Lewis, said Willie. This sex company, you say you run. You ever get to try out any of the products?

                    You mean have I ever shoved one of 14inch dildo up my arse? Err…no, not really.

                  What about the girls?  asked Nate. You ever get to fool around with any of the chicks?

                  What girls? said Lewis.

                  What d’you mean what girls? How you gonna work in the sex Industry and not get to mess with any of the chicks?

                  I designs sex toys, said Lewis. Hurts me to say it. But I don’t actually live in the Playboy mansion.

                  Yeah but don’t tell me you don’t get perks…Take those fine models into the boardroom. Stretch ‘em out on the table. Get out the baby oil. You feel me?

Willie gave Lewis an embarrassment grin.

                   Excuse my nephew, he said. He’s young.

                  It’s Ok, said Lewis. I only wish it were true.

                  So what exactly are you working on at this moment? asked Willie.

                  Well right now we’ve just perfected a life-size male manikin that ejaculates, said Lewis.

                   So how exactly does that work? asked Willie.

                  Well the dolls are fitted with a thermostat. Basically when the thermostat inside the penis reaches an optimum level. Whoosh. Show time.

                   

                   Shit, said Nate. How’s some old lady gonna make love to a rubber doll, when all she gotta do is holler dick and half the neighbourhoods’ ready to drop their shit and shoot out of the blocks like Usain Bolt…I mean, fair enough. I know how some dudes are into that kind of thing. But it ain’t like the rest of us think its normal, right? And I ain’t tryna disrespect your product. I’m sure it took a lot of hard work and what not to get to where you are right now. But what’s next? A pocket-size fully operational portable pussy…Nah man. If it ain’t skin, it ain’t in. You feel me?

                     Believe it or not, said Lewis. But a lot of women say that actually prefer our dolls.

                     Prefer them to what? exclaimed Nate in a high pitched voice.

                     To the real thing, said Lewis.

                     They tell you that? asked Willie. Or is that just some Marketing bullshit you use to hook the customers in with.

                     Hey, said Lewis making the sign of the cross in front of his chest. May God strike me…

                     Hey hey, said Willie shaking his head and suddenly looking serious. Ain’t no reason to go bringing the Lord’s name into this. You tell me that that’s what they say, then ok, I believe you. Ain’t no reason to go taking the Lords name in vain.

                   Sheet! said Nate. How the fuck’s making love with a rubber doll, supposed to be better than having sex with a real live person?

                   What can I say? That’s what the ladies they tell me.

                  Ok, said Nate. So what else you come up?

                  Well we’ve just completed the design for a horse cock, said Lewis.

                  Jesus, said Nate, spitting out a mouthful of beer. Say what?…Tell me you didn’t just say horse cock!                 

                 It’s an eighteen-inch long strap on rubber penis, designed to spurt Champagne jism, said Lewis.

                  Don’t tell me, said Willie arching an eyebrow. For the sophisticated customer no doubt?

                 It’s a group thing, said Lewis. You know? Sorority girls…That sort of thing.

                Bet it gives a whole new meaning to the phrase: pour me a stiff one, said Nate, speaking out of the corner of his mouth.

                Well Lewis, said Willie. Sounds to me like you’ve got this thing all worked out.

                Yeah we’re doing Ok. But that’s not to say we don’t have our fair share of negative reactions. And we certainly get our fair share of bad press.

                 I take it by bad press you’re referring to the Church, said Willie.

                Actually I was think more along the lines of one right wing religious group who call themselves the RSS, said Lewis.

                 What’s RSS? Stand for asked Wille.

                  The Real Sex Society, said Lewis.

Willie pushed out his bottom lips.

                  Can’t say I’ve ever heard of them, he said.

                  They’re a relatively new group. I’d say they formed about four years ago. They’re anti-sex toys or any type of artificial enhancement. You know, penile implants, breast augmentation that sort of thing…Lately they’ve even waged war on liposuction.

                   Yeah I can probably get with that, said Nate. You fat, you best get rid of that shit the same way you put it on in the first place…by natural means. I dunno.  Run it off or something. Try eating less. Getting the shit sucked out through a plastic tube…Well that’s just plain fuckin’ lazy. 

                   Well I don’t know about that, said Lewis. But the RSS argue that vibrators, dildos and other sex toys are amoral. They say if God had wanted woman to pleasure themselves with fake cocks, dildos and 14inch vibrators, he would have provided a compartment inside their husbands balls, to house the batteries.

                   You serious? said Willie. They actually say that?

                   Well of course they were preaching on an interview with Hannity on Fox. But I think you get the picture.

                    Yeah but since you’re the head guy of this sex company, how do you see it?

                     Honestly, said Lewis.

                     Damn straight, said Nate.

                     Well you ask me. I think they’ve all got tiny penises.

                     Yeah well I ain’t particularly religious myself, said Nate. I mean I do go to church now and then…I ain’t saying I’m a devil worshipper or nothing. But, maybe some of those people got a point. I mean, what’s wrong the shit we already got?

                    You sure about that? asked Willie grinning.

                     Don’t get me wrong, said Nate. I ain’t saying I don’t like big fat pair of fake titties once in a while. But sometimes you gotta ask yourself where all this artificial stuff is leading…Shit, the other day I read an article in some magazines talking about cloning people.  Then on the radio the other day they were debating the possibility of artificial intelligence in the next few years. I mean, one of these days you’re gonna roll over in bed and the person curled up beside you, ain’t even gonna be human.

                     It’s unavoidable, said Lewis. Perhaps you could say its progress.

                     How’s a woman making love to a fake dick progress? I mean let’s face it. It don’t matter how handsome or buff the dude is. He still got a fake Johnson. I mean motherfuckers can’t just be out there playing God with a scalpel and shit. That’s all I’m saying.

                     It’s just business, said Lewis.

                     Ain’t disputing that, said Nate. We all gotta get paid. I mean if two inch dicks are suddenly in demand, you can bet you’re ass that some due somewhere is gonna be selling two for one dicks at Wal-mart.

                     Probably on discount too, said Willie.

                     No doubt, said Nate. It’s the American way…but that don’t mean its right. I mean, what happens when these freaky ladies get so addicted to the sex toys, that the normal guys like you and me become totally obsolete?

                     I’m just trying to make a living and build a future for my family, said Lewis.

                      Excuse me for asking, said Willie. But your wife and kids, are they ok with what you do?

                      Well I’m divorced. But yeah, my ex wife and kids are one hundred and ten percent behind me.

                     Ok, said Nate. But how you gonna feel if some young lady invites you back to her apartment, and the two of you are rolling about on her water bed doing the nasty. And all of a sudden she reaches under her pillow and drags out a 14inch rubber schlong?

                     To be honest I don’t think it would bother me, said Lewis.

                      Well I ain’t saying that it would bother me neither, said Nate. Cause for one thing, the men in my family happened to be extremely blessed. Ain’t that right uncle Willie?

                      That’s right, said Willie, beaming from ear to ear.

                      But how the hell you supposed to compete with a 14 inch dick, that has10 different speeds, don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t cheat, and for all you know, doubles as a cell phone and fuckin’ digital video camera?

                      You don’t need to compete, said Lewis. The technology is there to be enjoyed by everyone. You don’t trash the microwave oven because it allows you to cook the same meal a hundred times faster than you could with a flint and some twigs. And what about people with disabilities? Or people who find it difficult to interact on a social level?

                       Ok, said Nate. I can see where you’re going with that. I dunno. I’m still in my early twenties but technology these days always seems to be moving so damn fast. And it ain’t like I’m a prude or nothing….Sure I can get with all that Victoria Secrets clothing…The Leather shit…Even crotch-less panties. But a fucking 18 inch rubber cock. Please, said Nate, shaking his head.

                          So I’m curious. What about your wife? Was she ever been tempted to try out any of your well endowed male dolls? asked Willie.

                          Well the truth is, said Lewis. My wife and I used to have others way of getting off.

                          Yeah, said Willie. Like what exactly?

                          Well for one…Sex and baseball, said Lewis.

                          Excuse me, said Willie.

                          My ex wife. She used to really enjoy sex and baseball.

                          You mean doing it in the front room with the game playing in the background. Shit that ain’t new. Any woman with a T V set can do that.

                          True, TV ain’t bad, said Lewis. But if you wanna do it right. Well, the real actions’ at the stadium.

                          The baseball stadium? asked Nate.

                          Absolutely, said Lewis. Especially if some guy steals second or third, or better still, hits a home run. The roar of the crowd…the collective excitement…People stamping their feet and cheering. I promise you. It’s really something.

                           You ever get caught? asked Willie, with a doubtful look in his eyes.

                           A few times…But to be honest, I’d say that that was part of the appeal.

                           You mean getting caught?

                           No, I mean the idea that it might happen…Absolutely( he said nodding). It’s a huge part of the turn on. My ex wife’s ultimate dream was that one day we’d get to do it during the World Series. Can you imagine what that would feel like? Can you imagine the sensation of coming while 100,000 hot screaming fans cheer you to climax. Christ I’m getting chills just thinking about it.

                             Shit, said Nate rubbing his left eye. And I thought driving a cab around the city at night was fuckin’ strange.

Suddenly the music started up again and the first girl sauntered out onto the stage.

The three men sipped their drinks while a topless girl named Candy with long jet black hair, impossibly huge fake-hooters, collegian lips, and a nose job, (wearing a green thong and see- through 4 inch stilettos), danced seductively in front of her audience, then span around the ten-foot pole, and lifted one of her legs so high, that somebody at the front of the stage dropped their cell phone into their beer glass. As Candy proceeded to gyrate her pelvis, rub her crotch and play with her bullet size nipples, Willie, Lewis and Nate, fell into an hypnotic trance, and moments later began slowly and unconsciously, began reaching for the money in their wallets.

pic scot ableman

What ever happened to the Jazz hoofer? That smartly dressed fellow you’d see wearing a classic tailored DB suite; that flaps, twists, wraps and rides about his crazy demeanour, like a cloak trailing the Cape Crusader. Saaaawish! Swish! This way and that with every sudden jerk, every daft pose that is part of his repertoire of cool jazz steps. And all beside the jacket itself is so wide. That’s the fit. The design accentuates the flow of motion. Besides, its’ a sharp cut, which wide lapels that make you look like some kind of Forties Chicago gangster…And the fat silk kipper tie, gaudily patterned, and those white-on-black spats. Or the stiff black shiny leather shoes, with the soles that enable you to slide from here to kingdom come, with a certain pazzas, glide and elegance! As if to give the illusion of running on ice. At some venues, its almost like the mob have turned out for their very own London fashion weekend. Like they’re all dressed to be heard. Sort of an eclectic statement on style…but with a Jazz orientation. You might even be fooled into thinking that is was the set for a new movie. Perhaps ‘Tap’, ‘Guy’s and Dolls,’ ‘The Cotton Club’, and ‘Duck Soup’ all rolled into one. To be more specific, a few of the girls have on those short black skirts, enabling you to see a lot more of what the legs are doing. Oh, and those black shoes with a small heel and buckle that fastens just above the ankle-the ones that look like tap shoes. Above the waist they seem to be wearing the top half of a leotard, only it has this extra piece of cloth that wraps around your body, and ties up at the back. The top itself is made of some cotton-stretch absorbent material-it has to be- it’s going to get hot! Then you’ve got hats, cravats, canes, garters, Argyle socks and britches, and even a monocle…Well what can I say…you don’t mellow to jazz! Dig.

Patrick

Picture the scene…A dark room, a wooden floor, an empty stage, set up in preparation for the performance of a young saxophonist by the name of Steve Williamson, or a very young pianist name Jason Rebello, or a skat singer named Cleveland Watkiss. At the other end of the room, directly opposite the stage is a raised platform on which stands a DJ box. The stage almost looks like a sort of modern art structure-a skeletal architecture in fact-just a lot of empty mike stands, some drums; and thick wires running back and forth along the ground. At the other side of the room, opposite the platform there’s a set of decks, behind which stand the ubiquitous Giles Peterson and Patrick Forge. Get the picture and you’ve got a dim recollection of Dingwalls 1988 or there abouts.

Gilles

Outside the sun could be shinning but at Dingwalls on a Sunday afternoon the joint is jumping, the crowd is hipper than thou and as I think Giles and Patrick would agree; its definitely a ‘we got the vibe situation”. Yeah, yeah, I was there!

But have you noticed how far some jazzuals memories will stretch when you talk about jazz-dance in Britain during the Eighties.

It’s like you get caught up in the romanticism, and you start to superimposed yourself on your favourite image of cool. Suddenly you’ve got an Afro-haired Chevy Chase playing hoops for the LA Lakers in Fletch, your girlfriend on the front cover of Vogue…and you in places that you never were. The Velcro tags’ in your head and everything sticks even the fluff.

Some of those goateed faces light right up, when you talk about the early days, and you know what’s coming next. Yeah, yeah, I was there-Electric Ballroom, 100 club, Dingwalls, Monday nights at the Wag (upstairs with Sylvester, heavy session….Whaat!) Breaking my knees and sweating so much, that no impressionable girl, or awe struck spectator in their right mind would stand within spraying distance…I must have washed the floor every week for a year. I lost weight in that room!

Truth is I’ve never even seen that dance floor at the Electric Ballroom. I’m not ashamed to say it…But in certain company truth just gets economised. Well know it is sometimes…everyone loves a legend. In which case I can lie with the same vague attention to detail as the rest of them.

That’s another thing…floors! Jazz dancers will take about floors the way newly-weds talk about bathroom suites. And it’s considered a real treat if you come across a wooden floor that’s been treated, sprung, or recently varnished-which means that there’s less stress on mileage on a slide. It all helps in the aesthetics and energy displacement. Dancing is hard work, and a little trick like the salt can help-but within reason. Nobody wants to spend a sunny afternoon countering gravitational pull. The steps are difficult enough as it is, without deliberately bring the stunt man factor into it.

Hey there’s Jerry from IDJ with that flat sole, sometimes tiptoe, almost boogaloo type shuffle. Done so fast that some of the kids got to thinking that all you had to do was shake in some kind of energetic fit, or throw yourself violently about the room out of time to the percolated snap! Crash! Pop!  Of indecipherable percussion that is Art Blakey’s ‘Messiah’-and in short you were doing jazz.

 Well I suppose you were in a rude and eager way.

 After all it’s up to you how you interpret your own self-expression in the dance. This isn’t Fame, you don’t need permission to rampantly stomp, grind and bump in every occupied direction. But don’t tell this to some of the die-hard, footage-watching, history-knowing, every-beat hearing, dare I say it, purists! Don’t tell the kid whose lungs are about to explode during the five second, thank-god almighty break of Michel Le Grand, that there’s no co-ordination to his/her stuff. What’s more, some of those guys and girls actually look like trained dancers. But would you believe it. They’ve never felt the urge to look in on Pineapple Dance Studios, let alone take a class…Sacrilege! Like this is a street jig. You’ve got to hustle, squeeze your sphincter, pain your groin and strain you’re a walk to get anywhere near really good. Have you ever seen Sandman Williams do one of those pretty and perfect pirouettes? Of course not! It just doesn’t look right. It’s just too Fred Astaire for a hoofer.

Jet Mag, 1955, by vieilles annonces

 You see, some dancers like to do a difficult move and make it look simple. That’s aesthetics. A hoofer does a difficult move and sweats for it. You know it was tough. He ain’t blowing for fun.

But before I run away with myself, don’t be conned into thinking that all the dancer are male. They’re not, but some of the moves are not exactly what a girl likes to find herself doing in public, unless she doesn’t mind sweating like a horse. For this reason serious dancers have been known to bring a change of garb. At the very least it a show of decency to fellow commuters if you happen to be going home by tube.

 But you still get the odd folk who are able to dance for hors to Tito Puente without so much as a wet shadow bleeding from under the armpits. Gosh!  The only thing I can think of is (and its highly speculative) sweat gland amputation! But that’s another story.

During a challenge, which is a bit like those old hip hop face offs, where some guy wearing a bandana came and stood two inches from your nose chewing gum, and expected you to respond in a non aggressive manner….Break dance in fact…(like really!) I’ll start again. During a challenge there are moments when the machismo element comes out…Like, for instance, when the crowd forms a circle and one or two egos start flying about-but it’s always friendly and good spirited. After all, jazz people are sensitive.

Hey there’s Eyvon, there’s Danielle. Danielle’s got this Latin style. It looks complicated-kind of film set jazz. Head held high, very precise, every elegant. Sometimes she’ll hold the hem of her skirt betraying a message of attitude. Jazz people often show attitude when they’re really getting into the dance. It’s what can make you stand out during a challenge-that and style.

And Eyvon, she dances like she’s possessed with the jazz spirit. Like the dances back in the Cotton club days, or somebody in one of those old black and white movies, where they Lindy Hop at 100 miles per hour. Everything looks so authentic, right down to her hand movements. She never misses a frantic bop beat. Pap-pap-pap-pap-pap-pap! With her fingers stretched out, just so, occasionally stroking the air as if demonstrating how one would delicately stroke the keys of a piano. And her head cocked to one side like she’s listening to something you can’t quite hear. Perfect!

So what is the jazz dancer trying to do? Imitate tap? Create a free-style form of dance that grows from, and is part of the music? Well of course…it’s the visual extension! Its’ what you might see if the notes had a tangible form. But in a way they do. Pap-pap-pap-pap-pap! You mean does the jazz dancer aim to do physically, what the artist does with his/her instrument? To improvise and reach his zenith. To be exciting, daring even. To be raw in his/her perfection!

Incidentally, don’t be ashamed if you are still confusing jazz dance with vigorous jogging on the spot, or a berserk form of hopscotch. It takes a little time to get used to the steps. It took me a while to understand what was going on at first. But it’s the fastest way to a head rush I know of- and it’s legal.

 

The thing is, during the dance you’re not exactly supposed to be off balance. But you never know when the rush of adrenaline, the pump in your heart, the imploring screams of ‘more more!’ from friends will prove to great; and two moves later you’re a shamble on the floor.

You see the jazz dancer thrives on the danger of the dance. You get caught up in the excitement of the thing. You’re a street dancer-untamed, a mustang if you will. You never truly know whether this is gonna be the day you don’t make the turn, the hand spring, the jump, the splits from that three foot drop….ouch! And after all, I did say you don’t mellow to jazz.

But to be honest the street thing isn’t entirely correct. I mean of the dancers do like to mix in a little ballet, (sorry, I meant to say contemporary) and it works. You get a sort of graceful movement. It’s not so kinetically desperate looking. It’s explosive, it’s fancy; and it provides the perfect excuse to show off in a crowd. What’s more no-one can steal your style right off, because in normal circumstances you need wings before you can fly. These guys to fly!

  Rocky

I couldn’t really talk about jazz dance in London without at least mentioning an all-time veteran of jazz rooms, the only man to hoof effectively in trainers. Nuff respect to the man called Rocky. Rocky has more stamina than a drum soloist, more staying power than a held note, more sheer vitality than an aerobic tutor on Prozac, and more quickness than a man shouting ‘cool wet grass,’ while stepping over hot coals. No doubt the footwork helped during his earlier pro-boxing days. Talk about and Ali Shuffle.

Oh yeah, I suppose I should mention the chap Johnston, Everton and I danced against at the UK Jazz dance championship in Camden (1992). Suddenly, from out of nowhere he ran like a maniac at the wall, he ran up the wall, and flipped over backwards landing solidly on his spats. Pure Nicholas Brothers. A hard act to follow, but as an American gentleman at Tower records once told me: ‘Kid, you don’t mellow to Jazz’.

 pic, damian rafferty

pic Patric Forge

pic Gilles Petersen

pic damian rafferty

(Original published Straight No Chaser.)

The Sales manager Harry Dash had just gotten out of the shower. His super model anorexic girlfriend Marie was sitting in the breakfast nook sipping her coffee. She had a fashion shoot in Prague and was leaving for the airport in forty-five minutes. Harry and the model had just started dating. Harry stood in the mirror drying his blond hair and admiring his good body. He admired his chiselled jaw, his straight nose and his prominent chin. In two hours he was going to have to fire a man. It wasn’t personal. It was just business. The guy simply couldn’t deliver. And in sales if you didn’t deliver, then you were dead weight.

Harry’s girlfriend came into the bedroom wearing a pair of panties and one of Harry’s work shirts.

            F’Christ sake Harry. What the hell’s that? she asked, staring at the huge bulge beneath Harry’s towel.

            How about a quickie? asked Harry, smiling.

He stepped forward and let the towel fall.

            Harry you’re insatiable, said Marie.

For the second time in an hour she got down on her knees. Harry grinned at his handsome reflection in the bedroom mirror. He was 26. He had an appointment to see a potentially huge account at two o’clock. They were one of the biggest retail outlets in the country. Harry stood to make a big fat commission if the deal went through. He didn’t give a shit about world peace, world hunger, child prostitution, the ozone layer or global warming. As far as he was concerned he was the supreme master of his own universe. Get what you can while you can. Make hay while he sun still shines, and other phrases to that effect were Harry’s personal mantra. Next week if the sale went through, as it should, he was planning to put down the first payment for a brand new Porsche. It was the car he’d always wanted, well besides a red Corvette, but off course that would come, in time…He just had to figure out more ways of making more money. Yeah and maybe next week he’d take Marie or Vanessa, or Stacey to Rome for the weekend.

Oh oh, thought Harry. It’s going to be another glorious day.

Harry was driving his Ford along the freeway when all of a sudden a huge shadow appear out of the sky and in an instant everything stopped.

Shit I think I just stepped on something, boomed a voice coming from somewhere the clouds. Or maybe the voice came from space. Anyway it was a long way up above Harry’s head. (Have you ever try engaging with and ant? Well now you have some idea what Harry had to deal with). If you can’t see it is it real? Well Harry couldn’t see it so I guess…

There were two giant men standing above Harry, though of course Harry couldn’t see them, since in his world and in his mind, these men didn’t exist. Or maybe there weren’t men. Maybe they were gods…that’s up to you…but something was out there…maybe they were Harry and his buddy Marcus in the future….Jesus, is this one of those awkward stories that goes round and round and doesn’t seem to have any point?

And the first man, or the first god, or the first something lifted his foot. Squashed against the sole of his Moccasins was a tiny piece of grit barely visible to the naked eye.

             What is it? asked the second man, or god or force or whatever he was…

            I’m not sure. It looks like a bug of some kind.

             Hold on, said the second man.

He took out a paper tissue from his pocket, and passed it to the first man. The first man began to wipe the sole of his shoe with the tissue. When he was done he screwed up the tissue, threw it into the nearest trashcan and continued on his way. There end-eth some kind of new age hippie lesson…well any way, it made me think about stepping on the ants, destroying the ozone layer, and generally exploiting somebody somewhere, if only for a minute. 

 

pic dia bustu, the great buddha-magall

It’s several hours later and still wearing my suit, I heading up Clapham high street to a place called Munchies to console myself with something to eat. I find myself a table upstairs, right at the back, away from the other diners.

Are you OK? asks the waitress, trying to get my attention.

I nod, staring at her blankly, give my order, and then passing her back the menu, I ask where the toilets are. 

 

In the tiny toilet I lean heavily against the wall and stare intently into the white porcelain toilet bowl feeling a knot in my stomach, while my heart thumps rapidly in my chest. Coming out of the toilet I walk across to the sink, and splash cold water over my face and then stand by the door staring at my reflection in the narrow mirror, trying not to feel so sorry for myself. The migraine that started in the office is now much worse, despite having taken two headache pills that I bought at the newsagents opposite the train station. I take out the packet, push out to more pills and swallow them with a mouthful of water that I collect in my cupped hand. I rinse my face and by the time I get back to the table my food has arrived, but I’m too nauseous to eat it.

Leaving Munchies I’m still a little dazed and my head is still pounding. Blinking repeatedly in order to counteract the excruciating pain, I head up the street and cross the road and walk past a row of trees to get to Clapham Common.

Coming up to a bandstand the air wreaks of cannabis and I see a bunch of kids, with their bikes lying on the ground beside them smoking what appears to be a joint. One of the black boys, thin, bare-chested, wearing a dorag, who seems about my age, looks up as I pass and nudges a bare-chested boy with a white T-shirt draped coolly over his head. The second boy takes a hit on the joint and then passes it to a third light-skinned boy wearing a Bulls basket ball outfit and Timberlands boots sitting next to him. And then all the boys slowly get to their feet and start walking towards me.

I know you from somewhere, don’t I? asks the boy with the dorag, smirking at me, his eyes so slitty that he resembles someone who’s just woken up. 

I don’t think so? I say, too depressed to even look at his face.

Every time I move my head my migraine seems to get worse.

You don’t think so? says the boy imitating my accent. And then making a stupid face and turning to at his friends, he barks. Is that right Godfrey?

I don’t say anything. I look at the ground and smile nervously, and then when I realise that there’s no one’s actually stopping me, I start to slowly edge away. But the boy cuts in front of me, folding his arms and I gawp at the thick black Chinese or Japanese characters tattooed on his forearms.

Yeah you’re thingy’s mate, he continues.

I shake my head, opening and closing my eyes, still desperately trying to eradicate the excruciatingly sharp pain that seems to be slicing through my brain and stabbing my temples.

Suddenly all I want to do is get away from them. I glance at the boys getting ready run, but it soon becomes obvious that I’m far too scared to move. I go back to staring nervously at the boy that just spoke to me, who turns to his friends, and makes a gesture with his hands, causing the rest of the boys fall about in hysterics.  I look back at the boys, feeling dumb, scared and humiliated. Not too far away there’s a couple lying on the grass kissing and just beyond them to two little boys are flying a kite.

One of the boys shouts something at me in what sounds like patois and I stare back at him blankly, unable to decipher the content of what he’s saying.

Blood that’s a nice suite? interrupts the light-skin boy, his voice sounding  really croaky. I bet you’ve got a lot of doe, yeah?

I feel tightness in the back of my throat and my legs start to feel even shakier; the pain in my head now worse than ever, and my vision becoming blurred. Suddenly I belch and hold my hand across my mouth and the boys start to back off a little. I point at my throat and then jerk forward and bend over clutching my knees, and then to my embarrassment, I vomit everywhere. I hear the talking to one another above my head, though I’m too out of it to pay any attention to what they’re saying. And for the next few moments, I remain in a crouched position, shaking hopelessly, as globules of cold sweat slither off my brow.

You alright blood? asks the boy with the white T-shirt draped over his head. As he comes forward, he flops a skinny arm across my shoulder. Meanwhile his light-skin mate, sneaks up behind me, and deftly slips his hand in my back pocket, attempting to steal my wallet.

 

I push both boys away and angrily yell at them to piss off.

Get lost you fuckin’ dickhead, I say, completely freaking out.

For a moment I completely forget myself. And as the blood rushes I continue my crazy outburst:

Why don’t you do something useful with your life and stop of hassling people who are actually trying to make something of themselves? Just leave me alone, or I’ll call the police.

Of course the moment the words have come out of my mouth, I regret saying them, but unfortunately its far too late by then.

What d’you fuckin’ just call me? says, standing in front of me, snarling and flashing his teeth. 

Listen, I sorry it’s just that I don’t feel too….

Nah, nah, forget that shit…What did you just fuckin’ call me?

What you shaking for? asks the kid in the bulls T-shirt, edging forward and rubbing the knuckles of his right fist.

You fuckin’ pussy, says the other one. Think you’re better than us cause your rich mummy and daddy bought can afford to buy you a suit? Blood clatt, faggot.

I don’t say anything. All I can think is, I wish I could take it all back, every word that just came out of my stupid mouth. Christ, I must be out of my mind. I must have a death wish.

pic, Clapham Common bandstand, Mrs Gorman

It’s my second week in the office. Neil still insists almost hourly that he’s there to help me. Though in truth, most of the time he completely ignores. Every time I attempt to ask a question he turns away and I can’t work out if he’s doing it on purpose.  After a while I get the message and I don’t ask him any more questions. 

                                                            8

I’m getting the hang of things. In fact I can’t understand how everything seemed so complicated when I first arrived a month ago.

           

Neil wants to know what I’m doing. It’s the new campaign and for the past three days he’s been on edge. Most of the time I’m walking on eggshells. I explain that I’m doing exactly what he asked me to do

Just because you went to a university doesn’t mean I going to take your cheek, says Neil. You’re pissing me off. Remember you’re still on fuckin’ probation, right?

 Naturally I’m embarrassed. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have done. I look around the office, then quickly duck down, and stare at my computer.

 Neil’s flare ups become much more common. Clearly the honeymoon period is over. Half the time he throws a fit at me for absolutely no reason.

It’s another day at the office and I’m grateful because for once Neil is in a splendid mood. We are getting on famously, and he even brings me back a cup of coffee around eleven-thirty.  As I sip my coffee Neil enquires about the type of music I listen to.

I’d have to say my favourite types of music are Rock, Jazz and Hip-hop. 

Hip-hop! he says making a face. I thought all you university boys liked classical music.

Neil sits back in his chair staring at the ceiling. He decides to tell a joke. He delivers the punch line and I start to laugh. The joke is in no way funny but as long as I’m keeping Neil happy my life will be sweet. Encouraged by my sucking up, Neil fires out a succession of racist jokes, each mildly less funny and more offensive that the last. Nevertheless I get the giggles. Neil looks through the gap between our desks with growing approval.

 A talk skinny white woman with long brown hair marches across to Neil’s desk and begins yelling at him.

Yeah, I’m a bit busy right now, I hear Neil say.

That wasn’t a request, says the woman in a loud stroppy voice. I want it on my desk by 4.30 or else.

Fine, says Neil, folding his arms and going red.

Thank you, says the woman standing there for a moment in silence, before turning and storming off.

Frigid bitch, mutters Neil as soon as the woman is out of earshot.

Who was that? I ask lowering my voice.

One of the Accounts Directors. She’s a real bitch.

Why what happened?

Keep your voice down, she’s standing right behind you.

I turn around slowly, but off course there’s nobody there. Neil chuckles to himself and shakes his head as if he can’t believe how dumb I am.

Anyway, so Yemi, what’s your first impression of this place so far?

I smile and tell him that it’s great. I confess that I’m eager to learn as much as possible. It’s the sort of stuff I expect him to hear, although it’s not too far from the truth. I do like the job and I do want to get on.

And what d’you think of me, as a manager that is?

You’re good.

            No come on, seriously.

            I’m serious, I say sheepishly.

After a few minutes Neil gets up, walks away and returns with two cups of hot coffees. He places one of the cups on my desk and then pulls a Kit Kat out of his top pocket and places it beside my cup of coffee. Surprise, I start to thank him and he puts his finger on his lips, winks at me and immediately walks away. Sitting back at his desk and grinning, he apologises for his recent run of bad moods.

You wouldn’t believe how busy I’ve been. But off course that doesn’t excuse my behaviour, he says placing his hand on his chest like a politician about to be sworn in to office. Then he spoils it all. Making a stupid face and speaking out of the corner of his mouth in a cartoon Jamaican accent: 

You know what I mean bred’ren?

Afterwards Neil suggests that one of these days the two of us should go out drinking together. I smile back at him warily, nodding my head, but I don’t commit to anything.

It’s another day and Neil is leaning on his desk on his elbows rubbing the top of his head. He’s just come back from the toilet.

Yemi!

I look up.

Had a brilliant night last night.

Yeah?

Yeah, quality.

Neil leans across his desk and beckons me closer.

Here feast your eyes on this, he says, lowering his voice to whisper.

As I look up I see him pushing a rolled up magazine through the gap in the files.

Keep it out of sight, says Neil chuckling. Oi check out the size of her tits on page seven.

I look around nervously. I notice that one of the girls to my right is looking across at me suspiciously. Trying not to look too obvious about it, I attempt to cover the porno with his other hand.

Go on, says Neil. It’ll only take you a second.

I look to my side. The girl across from is now whispering something to the girl sitting beside to her.

Great. Now everyone’s going to think I’m the office pervert.

I shield one side of the magazine with my arm and start leafing through the pages quickly. 

Page seven; I mutter to myself, while my foot shakes nervously underneath the desk.

Neil coughs and I look up for a second and then go back to scanning the magazine. Neil coughs again, this time louder. All of a sudden I get the feeling that someone is watching me.

 

What do you think you’re doing? barks a female voice.

Before I can respond a hand comes over my shoulder and grabs the magazine off the desk.

Is this what you call work?

I look up and see the Account Director from the other day, standing behind me.

Well? she says, her voice getting embarrassingly louder. Is this why you think we employed you so that you could sit at your desk reading muck like this?

I start to fidget. People are turning round to see what all the fuss is about.

Neil could you come over here for a second, says the Account Director. There’s something you need to see.

Neil stands up.

 

The Account Director shows him the magazine. Neil looks at me, crosses his arms and fakes a look of incredulous astonishment.

You know reading pornography in the office is a dismissible offence? he adds, sticking the knife in further.

I glare back at him.

I take it that this disgusting rubbish is yours? asks the Account Director.

I don’t answer.

Or perhaps you got it from one of the other lads? she asks, glancing at Neil.

I glance up at Neil, and scratch my left eyebrow. I still don’t say anything. I can feel sweat trickling down my armpits.

Well? she asks, staring at me, placing both hands on her hips.

I take a deep breath. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a frozen look of masked panic on Neil’s face and I almost want to laugh out loud. After all the crap he’s put me through he’s finally getting his come-uppence. As I open my mouth to speak I see him lean to the side and nervously try to signal me with his eyes. I lower my head and ignore him.

It belongs to me, I finally mumble. Neil had absolutely nothing to do with it.

The account director hesitates for a moment.

Well, put it away and don’t let me catch you looking at Pornographic material in the office again or next time you know what’ll happen, she snaps.

She gives me a disapproving look, hands me back the magazine and I hurriedly and gratefully stuff it into my bag.

Neil I’d like a word with you, says the Account Director.

Neil and the Account Director depart.  I can hear other people whispering behind me.

Thanks a lot Neil. Thanks a lot, I think as I stare at the screen on my computer.

 

It’s lunchtime and Neil calls me aside and accuses me of trying to drop him in it.

What the hell were you trying to do to me? he asks.  You nearly got me in a load of shit. Didn’t you hear me telling you to put it away?

No I didn’t.

You didn’t hear me?

No.

You’re telling me you didn’t hear me? What are you bloody stupid or something?

I’m not stupid.

You always have to bloody argue don’t you? What you think that because you went to university you know more than everyone else?

I was just trying to explain.

Did I ask you to explain? Did I?

No.

Remember mate you’re still on probation.

I’m sorry. I was only say….

Right, that’s it, he says banging his fist down on the desk. Don’t expect any more favours. And by the way the next time you come in late you’re getting a warning.

 

When I go to take the copy of Playboy out of my bag at 5.30 I notice that it’s gone. I don’t bother saying anything to Neil.

Neil’s moods seem to chop and change by the hour.  One minute he seems to be on a high and the next he’s grinding his teeth and stabbing a pencil into the note as he jogs down a message, and slamming down the phone and cussing the caller. When Neil isn’t making me feel incompetent, or screaming at me at the top of his lungs, he’s calling all the girls in the office useless tarts and slagging off the other managers. I never join in, though often I get the feeling that he’d like me to, and I sense that if I did, think might be a little easier.

Despite Neil’s raging temper (which my flat mates Miles has suggested is probably due to drugs), and the constant fear that he is about to physically attack me for no good reason, I still go out of my way to befriend him. I decide that while I’m at least on my probationary period, he’s the last person I want to annoy. And anyway, it’s quite possible that he’s actually a nice person. Doubtful, but possible…But all this changes when I’m standing by the coffee machine and I hear Neil slagging me off. Asking one of his friend: Why they had to go and employ a fuckin’ cocky Nig Nog?

I walk back to my seat and suddenly I have the feeling that every bodies watching me.

                                                            9

Everyone at work ignores me apart from a pretty Asian girl who came over and introduced herself to me on my second day I arrived. To everyone else I’m invisible. When I stroll along the corridor to the coffee machine, people nervously turn away. Or if they don’t turn away, they look right through me. At first I figure that I’ve done something to upset them. But after some time it becomes clear to me, that no matter how nice I am to everyone, nobody wants to know me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Neil waves at me from across the desk.

All right my man Yemi. You alright?

Yeah fine.

You look a bit down mate.

No I’m fine.

Just wanted to say. Keep the good work up. Carrying on like this and you won’t have any problem. I promise to personally put in a good word for you. Can I get you anything from the coffee machine?

No I’m fine.

OK take it easy homeboy.

10

I’m sitting around a table in the pub with another six or seven people. A girl that sits close to my desk in the office, actually the one who spotted me with the porno magazine, glances across and quickly looks away. I wait for her to look back, and when she does, I give her a friendly nod. The girl smiles back at me and she starts playing with her hair. I wink and she slides off, comes round and sits on the empty stool next to me.

You’re new, she say.

Yeah and you sit over by the window.

My names’ Caroline.

Yemi.

She holds out her hand and I shake it. Then probably because I’m a little drunk, I lean forward and plant a big soppy kiss on her cheek.

If you’re ever bored come over for a chat, she says grinning.

 

The rest of the night is spent doing Tequilas slammers until last orders or when the bosses tab runs out. The drinks keep coming. I am totally drunk. I stumble through Leicester Square with the rest of my work colleagues. 

On the tube platform I’m joined by other drunken office workers, and once we board the train a bunch of lads in the rear of our carriage burst into song. But they’re soon drowned out by another bunch of lads who break out in a relentless drunken football chant.

                                                            11

I’m back at work and my head feels like it’s was trampled on in my sleep by a herd of wild buffalo.

I’m sitting at me desk squinting through my half closed eyes, praying to God that the day will soon be over.  Every so often Neil looks through the gap between the files to see what I’m doing. When I realise that there’s no way that I can stay awake a second longer, I get to my feet and head for the office sanctuary…the bogs.

I’m sitting on the toilet in one of the cubicles when I’m woken up by the sound of someone snorting and then blowing their nose in the cubicle next to mine. I open the door slightly and see my section leader, Neil standing by the sink, rubbing his gums and then checking his nose in the mirror, Afterwards he sniffs, gives his fringe a quick flick and stuffs something that I can’t quite see into his jacket. I wait for him to leave making a mental note to mention what I’ve just seen to Miles. (who later informs me that Miles was probably taking coke). I flushed the toilet, come out of my cubicle and go over to the sink and check my own reflection in the mirror. I splash cold water over my face, then take a deep breath and turn to leave. Fortunately when I get back, Neil isn’t at his desk.

It’s 12.45 and I have the shakes. I am staring blankly at my computer screen. I have my phone wedged between my shoulder and ear and I am holding and in-depth conversation with a fantasy client. Out of the corner of my eye I see some of my drinking buddies from the night before, slouching lethargically towards the coffee machine. I give them a conspiratorial grin and rub my temples to indicate that I’m not having such a great time either. Then I wave because I think they mustn’t have seen me. Then I realise that yes, they did see me. And then it hits me: The flicker of panic in their eyes. The way they are staring straight ahead, casually avoiding me. In unison, it seems, they both raise their chins and walk straight past me. It’s official. Once again I’m the invisible man.

I start to feel depressed. I spend my lunch break eating in the office canteen alone. I look around and see people in twos, threes and fours smiling and chatting to each other. Afterwards, I wander the streets and window shop, alone. I walk slowly, partly because I’m depressed, and partly, so as not to aggravate my hangover. I stand outside a sports shop looking at the pairs of trainers on show, occasionally catching my pathetic reflection in the glass. 

                                                            12

Everyone at work comes down with the flu and I’m no exception.

I’m at home, sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a duvet and a blanket. I telephone the office to say that I won’t be coming in. My voice sounds gruff and scratchy, and for once Neil is actually compassionate. He tells me to wrap up warm and take as long as I need to recover.

All right chief, he says. Just give me a call when you’re feeling better.

Chief, I think. Why does he keep on calling me chief?

 

Still wrapped in the Duvet I wander across to the large window in the living room, which overlooks the street below. Then I do an about turn and walk through to the kitchen and stand by the window, which looks onto the car park. I can’t afford to buy the usual anti-flu remedies like, Lemsip, Nurofen, or oranges for their vitamin C, so I simply don’t take anything. In actual fact the only real antidote I take for my sickness is rest and sleep.

I’m bored and restless. I go back to the living room, rolled on to my side, lift my knees to my chest and shaking, fall asleep.

                                                            13

The worst of my illness is passed. I drag myself out of bed, get washed and dressed and head off to work.

It’s 9.45 and I’m summoned to the Head of Department’s office.  She gestures towards a chair and I sit down.

You’re probably wondering why I wanted to see you. Or perhaps you’ve guessed, she says.

She pauses and when I don’t make any attempt to answer, she continues. 

You took some time off work, she says. But you didn’t inform your manager.

 I did, I say. I phoned in and spoke to Neil three days ago.

You’re sure about that?

I look across at her, trying to work out where this is going.

           

We’re sitting across from each other. Neil is wearing a new beige suit that makes him look a bit like an expat from a Graham Greene novel. 

 

 Repeat what you told me, the Head of Department, says to Neil.

I said that I was wondering if Yemi was coming back since he hadn’t been in contact with anyone. 

So you don’t remember me phoning to say I was ill, and you saying I should take as long as I needed to recover? I ask.

Absolutely not, says Neil. Didn’t happen.

I stare at Neil with my bottom lip quivering, curbing the urge to yell in his face and call him a liar.

What d’you mean it didn’t happen? I say, narrowing my eyes. 

Neil just smiles at me like I’m some kind of nut.

           

You sure you didn’t get confused and speak to someone else? asks the Head of Department.

Definitely not, I say.  I don’t know why he’s saying what he’s saying, because I definitely remember us having the conversation. He called me chief and said I should take as long as I needed to get well.

I’d never call you chief, says Neil.

So I’m making it up? I ask. So I’m a liar then?

Neil sits there arrogantly shaking his head. I’m baffled because I can’t understand why he’s blatantly lying.

Did you want to add anything? asks the Head of Department.

Not really, I say. Except that we definitely spoke on the phone despite what he’s trying to tell you.

Neil continues to shake his head and has such a supercilious look on his face, that it’s all I can do to stop myself from leaping out of my chair and throttling him. Then just to add insult to injury he says:

I swear on my grand-mother’s life. I don’t remember speaking to you.  Maybe you were feverish or something and you had temporary amnesia.

I glare at him, too angry to speak.

Neil will you excuse us please? says the Head of Department.

Neil stands up to go. As he turns and moves towards the door I notice that he’s grinning. And when he’s sure the Head of Department isn’t watching, he gives me the famous gladiatorial upside-down-thumb and winks.   

 

The Head of Department gives me a look like she’s on the verge of breaking into tears and long before she speaks I’m aware of the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, even though I’m not exactly sure what it means.

I don’t think it’s going to work out, she says. Neil said you were having some problems anyway. And then there was that incidents with the dirty magazines.

She pauses.

I think you’d probably be happier somewhere else. You needn’t bother coming in again. We’ll pay you till the end of the month. Neil’s gone to collect your things. If you need any further help with a reference, give us a call. If I’m not around, leave a message.

 All of a sudden I feel physically sick. I can’t believe she’s actually firing me. I’ve never been fired from a job before and I’m baffled because I can’t understand why I’m having such a terrible reaction. I never thought losing a job would be so horrendously hurtful. I can feel a lump in my throat and after every breath I take something seems to catch and I think that I’m going to start crying. I look down at my feet with my jaw shaking, and I start to notice that there’s a scuffmark on the front of one of my shoes. I keep looking down at my shoes until the feeling that I’m going to cry goes away. But in truth it never completely does.

Are you OK? asks the Head of Department.

I nod and force myself to grin.

Thank you for giving me the opportunity. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, I mumble like a robot.

I’m heading through reception towards the lifts, and I begin to recall some of the funny looks some people gave me when I came in to the office this morning. I remember how one or two people were even uncharacteristically friendly and addressed me by name. Obviously now I know exactly why.

My legs feel strangely heavy and I don’t really know where I am. In a way I feel kind of drunk, but without any of the usual euphoria. It’s as if I’m surrounded by a big white open space.  From somewhere inside my head I can hear a buzzing sound. It’s a bit like the white noises you get when you first turn on a radio. As I’m waiting for the lift I see the Marketing Director coming towards me.

Popping out? he asks cheerfully.

I smile, trying desperately to hold back the tears. I step into the lift just as Neil appears with my stuff.

Yemi my man, says Neil.

I hold the lift door open but I don’t speak.

It’s been real, says Neil grinning.

Oh have I put my foot in it? asks the Marketing Director.

I smile weakly.

Keep in touch, he says.

He pats me on the arm and hurries away.

I look at Neil and for a moment I consider slamming my fist in his face or thrusting my knee in his balls. I can’t think of anything that would give me more pleasure. Maybe I should have a word with the head of department and tell her what a drug head he is, and mention all the disgusting stuff I’ve heard him comes out when he’s high on the phone. In the end, all I do is stand and watch his pompous-lying bastard disappear, as the lift doors slides shut.

Outside in the street I still don’t fully comprehend what has just happened. I’m grinning hysterically. I can already hear my mother’s imaginary voice yelling at me:

You can’t even hold on to a job. How are you going to survive? You see…Come home before you ruin your life.

I make myself taller and pull my shoulders back. I’m not ready to give in yet.

I look at the people walking down the street and I wish I could talk to somebody. Anybody. Just to ask them if it really happened. Suddenly life seems really awful. Less than five hours ago every thing was hanky dory and now all I have is the memory and sadly it’s not a very good one. Not to mention that I still owe some very bad people a lot of money and without a job there is little chance of me ever being able to pay them back. That’s another worry that I right now I really don’t want to think about. On the way to the tube I’m still asking myself the same confusing question: How in the hell did it all happen? How in the hell did I just get sacked from my brilliant Marketing job?

pic rush hour at waterloo, windscreen fly