Blockbusted (AKA The Day I called Bob Holness a Tw*t on TV)

Maybe staying up so late the night before filming wasn’t such a great idea, but at the age of 16, when you get the opportunity to lose your virginity to a Bishop’s daughter you’d be foolish to pass it (or her) up. Anyway how was I to know that it would be me and my schoolmate that would have our name’s pulled out of the hat to actually film the following morning.
A glorious array of kooks, geeks, swats, spots and grots had been there for ages waiting for their chance shine. We had landed the day before with the expectation that we would be around for at least a few days; watching filming, learning the hand jive and trying to spot Boon in the Central TV studios canteen.
Before we knew what had hit us we’d been randomly selected, we were first up, challenging the dude who’d the previous day flown through two rounds and who’d then retreated to the hotel for an early night so he’d be fresh for his third and final attempt at completing a clean sweep of Gold Runs. I felt like I was watching myself from afar, swimming through murky canal water with a groggy brain barely responding to the increasingly bizarre stimuli presenting themselves to me. Bob was asking me about my boyhood rock climbing hobby and I was responding monosyllabically, unable to gather my thoughts. Why do people film TV shows at the ungodly hour of 9 O’clock in the morning? Where have they got all the old people in the audience from? Why does the desk just look like a crappy piece of plywood with a buzzer hastily taped to it alongside a dodgy electrical connection – when on TV, viewed from the other side, it looks quite professionally constructed.
Things started well, my first answer of Inspector bagged us a blue “I” on the board. Things went downhill from there. Maybe going on the show with a soon to be sectioned, paranoid schizophrenic wasn’t the ideal recipe for success. I got a pound for every minute of my fame (as did my team mate, which wasn’t bad considering he didn’t contribute towards any of the two further questions we managed to get right – the only thing he had done was inform Bob that his role on the 6th Form Committee involved organising “Disco’s and Do’s and stuff”). By 10am we were on the train heading back to Manchester with our signed dictionaries and our hideous rugby shirts – no I didn’t ask for a P, or an E, I think the best I’d asked for was a Y. I’d even had to hound Bob to sign my dictionary, once he’d seen how badly we had performed he treated us like bad smells that he was steadfastly attempting to avoid. The only high point was realising once the show had aired that the TV cameras had successfully captured me calling Bob Holness a tw*t, I had mouthed the insult as he inanely arse kissed our successful competitor.

 Jonathan Cross

Pause.

She rolls over. Bleary eyed, dry throated she surveys a room she knows is not her own. A room she should not be in. She smiles idly at the weight of his hand gripping onto her hip. She feels awful. She feels brilliant. Beside her, he breathes slowly. She turns her head to him as her eyes trace the shape of his darkly decorated shoulder, his neck, his torso  - his face. She thinks that he is beautiful in his abandon, this man, this long lost friend-turned stranger, who knows her so intimately. A badly buried twang of conscious pricks behind her eyes and she flinches at its sharp attack, pulls his beige duvet closer towards her and swallows her guilt back down. This is not who she is. This is not what she intended. Oh God, she hopes his flat mates didn’t hear them. She tells herself, she is not ‘that sort of girl’ and tries not to picture what’s waiting at home.  She wonders what would happen if she never left this bed. She wonders what would happen if she weren’t such a coward. She wishes life were simpler.

Besides her, he pretends to sleep. He keeps his breathing slow and even, he feels her watching him, yet still he keeps his eyes closed. He cannot face the inevitable breezy conversation that will unfold should he open his eyes and look down into hers. Mornin’. Yeah yeah, great night, it was fun. Hangin’ now though - haha. Great yeah. No, it’s not weird – both adults. We were just drunk. Probably should steer clear of each other though, yeah? He shudders – fucking ridiculous. His hangover throbs behind his eyes as he remembers. Last night they sat and put  art, music, their friends, the entire fucking world to rights until there was nothing left to do but put their own pitiful worlds into chaos and fall frantically into bed together.   He wonders about this faceless man she has at home – who he is? Why he doesn’t notice, or care that his girlfriend hasn’t come home? He grips her hip bone possessively. For now, at least, she belongs here. He wishes he knew what to say.

The alarm clock screams into the silence. They smile up at each other awkwardly. Strangers again. Unwilling.  They roll out of bed in guilty silence. He picks up his phone and checks his Facebook as she dresses. They exchange the stilted words they were both dreading.  Peck on the cheek. Unbrushed hair. Wrinkled t-shirts. Tired eyes. Off to face the next 12 hours. Weeks. Years.

The day starts – real life resumes.

Violet

Silent Mayday

"Mayday Mayday Mayday!" It's sounds urgent enough. Loud enough. The room is getting hotter. Surely they heard him. He tugs on his partner but exhaustion is taking over. "Mayday Mayday Mayday." The comms are all over the place. Companies talking, nobody listening. He knows he can't leave. "What the fuck is going on out there!?" His partner is getting heavier. He drags him for what feels like miles, only to move inches at a time. He grabs his radio and keys the mic, "Ladder 11 - Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! Firefighter down 3rd floor!" His voice calm and precise. He thinks to himself Come on you fuckers, answer! The comms squawks with a static hysteria. The room is darkening. This isn't a good sign, he thinks. He drags his partner a little further. Inch by inch he works his way toward where he thinks the stairs are. He needs help and he knows it. Getting to the stairs is one thing, but his partner is too heavy to be dragged out alone.

Outside on the street, Chief Marty Sullivan knows this fire is getting away from him and his men. It's only a matter of time before they will have to fully retreat from the structure. For all he knows he has guys working on the 2nd floor pulling ceilings. The 3rd floor was evacuated and the focus of this attack is now the 2nd floor. Companies inside fight to gain an upper hand on the stubborn fire. They tear through sheetrock walls and yank on ceilings. The fire is above them as it tries to extend to the 3rd floor. "Engine 4 to Ladder 11... Engine 4 to Ladder 11... Engine 4 to Ladder 11... Are you on the 3rd floor? The fire is right below you." Engine 4 is Lt. Sam Connell. He holds his radio receiver close to his ear. No answer. The comms static for a second like wind blowing through the radio. Outside the the horns are going off, interior attack is over, everyone out. The 2nd floor is getting hotter and darker. Smoke banks down to the floor. Lt. Connell turns to his firefighter, Danny Earheadt, "I think Ladder 11 is still upstairs." Just then the evacuation tone is sounded. The chief sees something he doesn't like and orders immediate evacuation of the structure. Lt. Connell is blind in the thick smoke. He crawls with his firefighter on their bellies but loses his place amongst the chaos. Another member crawls right by his face and knocks off his helmet. "Sorry, Who's that!?" Says a voice. "Sam Connell, is that you, Kev?" Lt. Kevin Saguer was following Engine 4's hose line to the exit. "Yeah it's me, I have the camera, so you go ahead of me and follow the line out. I'll watch you through the camera." The camera is heat sensing and allows Lt. Saguer to watch the other members in front of him. Suddenly a loud banging sound comes from directly in front of them, "This way boys, over here, follow the noise!" It's Danny Earheadt signaling the guys toward the stairwell. "Wait! Did you hear that!?" Shouts Lt. Connell. Saguer stays still and quiet in anticipation of some noise. "I don't hear anything." "I thought I heard a Mayday. It was faint though, like a whisper." At that point a dispatch comes over the radio and initiates a roll call to account for all companies exiting the structure.
Connell and Saguer know the conditions are getting worse and they move toward the stairwell. They slide along the slimy floor mixed with soot and water. Getting to the door way they work their way toward the stairs. Lt. Connell takes another look behind him but  visibility is zero. His flash light is devoured by the snotty smoke. He starts to slam his hand on the floor, "anyone still in here!? This way, the stairs out are here..." A few silent seconds go by. The sound of crackling is getting louder and the rooms are getting hotter. He turns to head down the stairs. The silhouette of Saguer and Earhardt are barely visible as they make it to the bottom step and out the door. Connell feels the heat begin to pick up again. It's gonna flash, he thinks to himself as he fiddles to find each step with his foot. "Command to Engine 4," busts through the radio. "G'head Chief..." The radio crackles, "What's your.." "...Mayday..." "..cation..?" The Chief's message is briefly stepped on. I definitely heard a mayday, Sam Connell says to himself. He lies across 5 or 6 steps, halfway between the 2nd floor and the relief of the outside world. "Engine 4 to command, be advised your message was stepped on by a mayday. Engine 4 to the mayday, what's your location? Identify yourself." The radio is silent and still. Everyone heard Connell's transition to the chief. They wait. Torturing silence. Chief Sullivan radios dispatch, "Did you receive a mayday?" They are adamant no such call was made. "Command to dispatch, initiate a roll call..." "Command be advised we have not made contact with Ladder 11..."

cclarke

Strangers On A Plane

Ah for fuck sake. 1 hour internal flight south from LA. Hot hot day and  I'm squashed between two massive fatties and the window. I look down as the plane rises out over the ocean and stare in shock at the amount of sharks I can see thrashing about down below. White caps cutting this way and that. Dark crescents beneath the blue surface. Sharks. Hundreds of them or waves. I'm deep In confusion and disbelief wondering if there's a massive feeding frenzy just off a Californian beach or whether I'm mistaking the sea's natural state when Mrs Happy Fatty nudges me and says"So where you going?"
I look across with utter dread. i am not good at talking to strangers. I have no small talk just big horrible tactless talk.

"I'm going to interview a band called Public Enemy for an English music newspaper."

the two massive fatties coo and wow and offer me some food. I am small, skinny, suedeheaded in a Lacoste Shirt I picked up In Brazil. I have dark blue linen shorts. On my lap sits my luggage. A bag with long trousers. A too hot Duffer top. A tape recorder and some tapes. A book.

They have their luggage. Food. My short attention no tolerance narrow minded short circuited inability to make small talk or friends already has them pegged as obese boring Americans using a short internal flight to scoff.

"Peter and I love music. We are going to see Dick Dale."

I think Robin Hood. Dick Dale. Alan A Dale. maybe some wooden faced MOR crooner?

"I've not heard of him."

Both of the fatties. "WHAT? Dick Dale, the guitar man. we goto see him everywhere. Every show we can afford. Conference centres, theme parks, rock and roll reviews, he's our favourite."

I'm trying to work out how they can both talk perfectly in unison. maybe they've said this many times before. I start to soften. they push a bag of Beigel Chips at me. I'm 21 and go on the road interviewing and reviewing bands.

"Well we have a lot in common then ..."

"James. I'm James. I'm the Features Editor of the New Musial Express in London. I love America. how often do you see this guy?"

The fatties have become people. Music people. I have something to talk to them about but they do all the talking. In unison.

"We've always loved Dick, ever since we were young. The other live bands just dropped away or broke up but Dick kept going. he's a great showman, his guitar music came before Surf music. You have such a great job. You get paid to do what we have to save up to do. but we don't let things get in our way. It's what we love doing.

"We have a son about your age but he prefers films, he works in a video store. All the time it's films. we can't understand why he doesn't want to come and see Dick with us any more. He used to when he was a little boy and we'd drive across state to see him but not now. he's got his own thing. we love Dick dale. he loves films."

We start to descend and they begin wrapping their food and putting back in boxes and "aloominum" foil. I check my bag and my pockets for my folded up itinerary. I've gone from narky narrow minded hungover cynic into having a great twenty minute blast of enthusiasm about this guitar player I've never heard of from two people I'd judged before I even talked to them. Welcome to my outlook.

I've gone from being trapped by size in a sun hot window seat wondering if there's an ocean of sharks below to happy and warm and inspired.

We land and stop and they struggle out of their seats, pushing the ones in front down. we are the last people off the plane, they are buzzing and upbeat. Happy music people, they can't move as fast as I but I wait after I've crossed the Tarmac at the steps up to the airport.

"it was nice to meet you, enjoy your concert. I'll look out for Dick Dale in the future."

"And you James, so nice to meet an Englishman in music too, you go and buy some of dick's records and if you're ever in Orange County look us up. Peter and Cathy Tarantino."

James Brown

Tagged

TAGGED

It is like a chunky digital watch fastened around his ankle. It isn’t too tight. He rolls down the leg of his tracksuit bottoms and stands up, walks up and down the front room. It feels strange but not uncomfortable and there is no discernible bulge. You could look and don’t even know it was there. They connect the box up to the phone line and set the parameters around the house, twenty-five feet from the front door and the same for the back. They explain that he is able to leave his home after 06.45 am and that he must be back within range of the box by 18.45 pm. He tells them that he knows all the terms and conditions, that they’ve been explained to him several times over the past week or so. We are legally obliged to make all of this clear to you, they tell him. He signs the papers that confirm he understands and then they wish him all the best and they leave.

   He makes himself a brew and then sits at the kitchen table and rolls a smoke. He looks outside, at the back garden and the fence and the garages and houses beyond. The sky above the rooftops is dishwater grey with the promise of rain.

   He looks at the clock on the wall above the oven. It is twenty-seven minutes past two. Four hours and eighteen minutes to go. This time yesterday, that seemed like a lifetime.

   Today it is nowhere near enough. 

Russ L

Horsemeat Surprise

“So Liam, why not tell us in your own words.  We think we know what you’ve done but the how and the why are evading us” said Sergeant Palmer.  Liam Noble looked back at Palmer with a look of disdain in his eyes.

“Have you even bothered to read my mission statement?” he asked tersely.

“Mission Statement?” Palmer replied.  “Is it in amongst that pile of papers we recovered from your van?

“Yes, it’s there along with my Risk Register, Risk Assessments of each project and a Method Statement.  Put them all together Sergeant and you’ll have your how and why”.

“Ok but how about you talk me through them, and then I’ll make sure to go back and read them later to get the full picture.”

“Fair enough” replied Noble.  “I’ll start with the mission statement.  It’s what defines my current project.  Something punchy that sums it up in an easy sound bite.

“I will be the most professional serial killer this country has ever seen”.

“And that’s it?” Palmer asked.  “And how exactly are you going to achieve this professionalism?”

“This is where I shine” grinned Noble.  I’ve been taking an e-learning course in Project Management.  I’ve even got a recognised qualification.  My genius is to take sound business skills and apply them to me more esoteric hobby.”

“Esoteric Hobby?”

“Well the qualification is called MSP – Managing Successful Programmes.  But I’ve applied it to my hobby is MSP is now Murdering Simple People”

“Mmmmmmm Ok but how does that fit in with your actual job?  I mean you aren’t some high flying suit in the city.  You deliver groceries for Tesco”.

“But don’t you see Sergeant – it’s perfect.” “Nobody ever sees a grocery delivery man as a threat.  They want you to come to the door, they’ll actively engage you in conversation and if your lucks really in you can even take the groceries inside so you get a look at their gaff”

“Look, I spend hours practicing smiling in the mirror.  I’ve got that down pat.  I read books on body language so I’m always presenting a non-verbal message of “He’s a cuddly little bear who won’t hurt anyone”

“I even follow a CSI tech on twitter who tweets from that day’s crime scenes.  You’ve got to get all the tips you can if you want to be the best.”

9 times out of 10 it works but sometimes you get a person who’s a bit more attuned.  They always take a second look in my eyes.  Nothing you can do about the eyes, can’t wear sunglasses on the doorstep.  My eyes are predators eyes.  Like a sharks.  Dark and emotionless, all they see is prey.  These are the customers who’ll complain that the driver was late or rude.  They know something wasn’t right but they aren’t sure what.

“How does this all fit in with your MSP?” Palmer sounded genuinely perplexed.

“Look, you’ve got the mission statement – you know what I want to be” The rest is easy:

Each delivery is a fresh risk assessment.  Have they got a dog? Are there too many shoes in the hall or on the doorstep indicating lots of kids, will they let me in with the groceries?  If they do let me in what kinds of locks do they have, is there an alarm panel, where’s the phone line etc”

All these things added with any info I can get during chatting with them let’s me colour code them in my risk register.  Red is a no go.  Amber – possible with difficulty.  Green is a lovely colour.  It means they are prime for a little re-visit at a later date.  Just me and my little toolkit with its collection of very painful toys.

“Right” Palmer sighed.  “I get it now.  Every delivery of yours is a stakeout of potential victims.  Ingenious in its own twisted way but how did you manage to gain entry to the houses you coded green on your register?

“Well this is the method statement.  My method is to attend the house later the same day, gain entry, subdue my chosen playmate and enjoy a few minutes or hours of recreation depending on how much fun they are being.”

“Ok but that’s not telling us how you actually got in.”

“Well the problem with the method statement was that I needed a trigger.  Something to switch off their guard when I knocked at the door.  And then Findus rode to the rescue.  Or pranced, trotted or jumped depending on which equestrian joke you prefer”

“Carry on” Palmer said fighting an urge to grab Noble and strangle the life out of him.

“The whole Findus Horse Meat debacle gave me the excuse I needed.”  “What I did is add an additional question to the risk register.”

 “Have they ordered Findus Lasagne or Tesco Everyday Spaghetti Bolognese?”

If they were green and ticked this box as well, all I did was knock at the door and explain “that the store had identified that they had bought a contaminated product.”

“All us drivers had been asked to work overtime and visit customers to retrieve the item as a precaution.”

 Invariably they turned away to go into the kitchen.  I’d step in smartly behind them, a strong blow to the back of the neck put them down and that was it.

Cable ties and a rag in the mouth and outside for my toolkit.  Play time.

“How many times did this work?” Palmer responded not quite believing what he was hearing.

“You’re the policeman and you have all the paperwork” Noble grinned  “Time to do a bit of legwork I’m afraid but I can guarantee you aren’t going to like what you find”  “I’m a very very good delivery driver”

Palmer got up and walked out. 

Noble relaxed back in his chair, all the difficult work was done.  All he had to do now was sit back and revel in the undoubted adulation that was coming his way.

Project Complete.

Brian T

WHAT SORT OF TIME DO YOU CALL THIS?

I’ve took two of my tablets, but they haven’t touched the sides and now I’m back down here with a cup of hot chocolate and the gas fire on. I’ve tried to watch a bit of telly but it was the usual claptrap, so I switched it off. I’d put the radio on for the news, but it’ll just be the same stories they’ve been running all day; disgraced politician due for sentencing, heavy snow expected overnight, two lads from Wakefield killed in Afghanistan. She said she’d be home by midnight, but the hands on the clock don’t lie and they’re telling me it’s half past.

   There’s no chance of me sleeping. Not yet.

   I can hear voices going past the window. People coming back from nightclubs; no, not nightclubs, it’s not time for that yet is it? Pubs stay open longer now. Past one o’clock, some of them. That’s what she told me.

   Another cup of hot chocolate.

   Ten past one.

   I remember the first time we fostered. We’d heard an advert on the radio. It was that actress, that chubby one who was the vicar Of Dibley. She fostered as well. In real life, I mean. It came on while we were sat in traffic. You could really make a difference, she said. We’d talked about it, me and Raymond, discussed it from every angle and then we decided we were going to go for it. We waited for the advert to come on again. I kept a pen and a piece of paper ready and then a few days later I caught the number and rang them up. They come round to do a proper visit, make sure you’re clean living people with proper values.

   Quarter to bloody two. What time do nightclubs finish? It’s two o’clock, isn’t it, nightclubs?

   She might not be my daughter but she’s my responsibility. Until she’s eighteen years old, I’m held responsible. She’ll come back though. She always does. She’s just trying my patience. Testing the boundaries. I know her game. She must think I haven’t been through this a thousand times before. If Raymond were here she wouldn’t be acting up like this. That I do know.

   I’ll hear the key in the door and she’ll creep in with her shoes in her hand and I’ll be sat here with the lights off and the gas fire on and she’ll get the fright of her life Serves her right an’all, the fright she’s given me.

   Now then, Madam, I’ll say. What sort of time do you call this?

   

Russ L