Shoe Club Monthly.

I guess you could call it a fetish for slingbacks. Must be, as I become aroused just typing the word. It's difficult to say when it started but I think it was probably in middle age. From what I've read it's not uncommon to develop this type of fixation later in life. Mules I would say come a close second, but there is just something so sensual about a slingback. The way they show off the heel of the foot but that strap providing restraint that seems to suggest 'bondage? why not...' Of course the foot is the thing really. A peep toe with a nice pedicure and one of the naughtier shades of red on the nails seals the deal. Any hard or yellow skin showing though is a turn off. But that's all about care and attention to detail. I've seen sixty year olds who are better turned out than most teenagers. I try not to be too leery or obvious in public but sometimes it's overpowering. I've followed someone around a grocery because I couldn't take my eyes off their splendorous footwear. Mostly I fill my craving off the internet. Not the specialist sites so much as regular online shoe shops. Porn's OK but I can just as easily get off on the Shoe Club monthly mailing. I don't see any harm in it to be honest and It's filled a hole in my life since I've been single again. Anyway, it's not as if I can do much about it. Maybe I wouldn't be this way if I'd worn them myself.

Buzz K

Spit on her hand and make it shake.
Count on her fingers the number of days, weeks, months he’s been gone.
Dig up the glass from the garden and place it by your bed.
Watch the steel cool.
It doesn’t need to be true, I repeat.
And let the inventions lather under my scalp.
Under my tongue and nails.

 

Yawn so big your jaw can cradle the moon.
Swallow it whole and let its lavender glow fill your throat.
Stretch so far into the universe you can reach your heels.
Watch the meal cool.
It doesn’t need to be true, I repeat.
And let the serpent fidget inside my chest.
In and out of my knees and knuckles.

Place your feet in the wagon.
Count how many shoulders are gradually favoring the trees.
Stop looking for an electrical connection and lick your fingers.
Watch the moon cool.
It doesn’t need to be true, I repeat.
And let the red wheels carry my back.
Away from my nerves and hips.

Sam

Your Best Mate

Your best mate’s fucking awesome isn’t he? I can’t talk from a woman’s perspective. Maybe the female version’s just as good? Who knows, besides women, obviously? And any modern man who has a best mate who’s a bird can fuck right off. I went shoplifting with my best mate not shopping.
A best mate then. Someone who’s always there for you. Offers advice, Helps you when you’re in a jam. And in a pinch, a shoulder to cry on when the world turns against you. Not a fucking chance. A best mate kicks you when you’re down, slags you off at every opportunity. Borrows a few quid and never pays back. Goes out for a few shandies when you’re broke and phones you up to let you know what a great time you’re missing. You might even sling punches at each other from time to time and that’s alright because guess what? You’re best fucking mates. And that’s what best mates do.
My best mate, he knew I wasn’t a great runner. His party piece when we were young, go in a shop, blatantly steal something, say a Lacoste sweater from Austin Reades, it’s not important, attract the attentions of the security geezer and shop assistants, the more the merrier, then make for the door. Yeah, my best mate ran cross country for the city boys. I played rugby for the school. Badly but my dad had a car and was free on Saturday mornings. There’s another best mate. Your dad. On rugby, ’You’re not as bad as I thought you’d be.’ Bless him. Wouldn’t want it any other way.
Your best mate leaves you sleeping on a bench on the front at Blackpool, with your laces tied together and a cup of cold tea balanced on your chest. He gets in arguments with bouncers and neglects to give you a heads up on the situation. Consequently, it’s a great mystery to you why you’re getting wailed on and ejected from the bar. Your best mate gives you a tip on a long shot that’s a long shot for good reason. Then laughs as you stare at the telly in the bookies wondering why all the other nags have finished running but yours is still out there. Somewhere.  He'll take a run at a bird you fancy when you’re not around. Just to piss you off. But should you have a steady girlfriend, she’s off limits. Though he’ll imply differently. And that’s what’s fucking great about your best mate. He has standards. They’re as low as yours, invariably but he has standards none the less.
In short, yer best mate’s a laugh. Makes life fun. If he’s not get another one.

Silly Bastards

The first thing I saw when I looked around after finishing my final CSE in 1986, was Carl Degnan trying to draw a pair of glasses on his face with a Biro. The second thing was two lads having a ruler fight the lad in front defending himself by randomly waving his ruler around behind his head without looking, his other hand frantically trying to finish the exam.

 Most of these lads I've lost touch with. I saw Carl D last in 1989, he'd started a bus driving YTS. Good going for a lad who'd been banned from driving as 15 year old after he swiped his dad's mk3 Cortina and piled it on Brierley Common.

One of the ruler lads now lives in Australia, and regularly voices dubious opinions on Facebook, all in block cap Barnsley dialect. He broke another lad's collar bone by sneaking up behind him, shouting WOMBAT! then jumping on his back.
His speciality though was making you laugh hysterically at the most inappropriate moments.

We all went to a funeral of a schoolmate in the early 90s. All very sad as the lad had been very popular, had a unbeatable dry humour and was only disliked by the jealous. He died in his house in a completely avoidable drunk chip pan fire incident. A tragedy.

At the funeral, a completely off the mark selection of the lad's 'favourite' music had been played, one particular track was some horrible soft rock bollocks that went on forever and had been really badly taped. 'Wombat' had been dropping 'funnies' throughout the service that we had managed to ignore, and he was getting desperate for a reaction.

"What's this, the fucking 12 inch extended remix?" He whispered. Skip (nicknamed after his dad, who in turn was nicknamed after his dad, who was on the last boat out if Dunkirk, called Skipper), one of our closest friends who had grown up as a next door neighbour of the deceased, burst into hysterics that he had to quickly disguise as a massive bout of deep and uncontrollable grief. We quickly led him out of the service and tried our best not to be heard in the tiny church as we almost joined the residents of the graveyard, trying to catch our breath between bouts of tearful, violent laughter.

Ironically Wombat is now a fireman, noted for his bravery and dedication, the daft twat.

This story is for you Hilly, miss you mate. : ,(

Ken B

Royally Stitched Up

As the news came out that the Queen was on her deathbed, the country descended into outright chaos. The Prime Minister appeared on television to appeal for calm and understanding in this emotional time, but nothing could change the situation – both Prince Charles and Prince William were missing – the two direct heirs to the throne could not be found. Anywhere. All the international crime agencies were on the case – the CIA, FBI, MI5, Interpol, the KGB, even the Ku Klux Klan.

The Armed Forces abandoned their missions and returned home to conduct house to house searches looking for any clue as to their whereabouts. Prince Harry was placed under the tightest of security as he and Prince Phillip kept a bedside vigil in Buckingham Palace as the Queen slowly faded. Both Camilla and Kate were taken to a secret location for their own safety, as nobody had a clue who was responsible for this audacious attempt.

Parliament debated long into the night, trying to decide what to do. Some wanted to keep the throne vacant until such time as Charles and William could be found, or Charles or William. Then there was the faction that demanded Prince Harry should take his place. Not surprisingly, the Republican sympathisers kept their heads down and their mouths shut for fear of reprisals. Ultimately, after a hotly disputed vote, it was agreed that Prince Harry was to ascend to the throne once the Queen had passed away. A convoy of armour plated limousines conveyed the Prime Minister, Chancellor of the Exchequer and the leaders of the opposition from Westminster to Buckingham Palace, and in a private audience, they informed Prince Harry of their democratic decision. Harry bowed his head and fought back the tears, but regained his composure and thanked the politicians. Arrangements were made for a television address by Harry when the time came.

Harry retreated back into the sanctum of the Queen’s bedroom to be with his Grandmother in her final moments. Silence reigned for about ten minutes, before both Phillip and Harry came out, tear stained and distraught. Harry rushed out of the palace and into a waiting car, speeding away to the consternation of all.

As news of the Queen’s death spread, the television address was all ready to go. The only thing missing was the new King, Harry.

He did eventually arrive and prepared himself for the address. He stood in front of the camera.

“On this most emotional day, I would like to announce the greatest April Fool’s Joke ever.” And through the door and in to shot came the rest of the Royal Family, including the Queen, waving and smiling.

Jonathan M

Wish You Were Here...?

Wish You Were Here...?

 

We’ve all been there, had a fantastic holiday, the last couple of days ever so slightly tainted by the fact that the wonderful suspension of reality is drawing to a close and you are about to return to your somewhat humdrum existence. It’s only natural to feel a little glum, to find the journey home disagreeable, maybe even shed a tear. Unfortunately I shed far more than that and there was nothing natural about it.

 

It had all started so well. Having spent an idyllic fortnight on Phi Phi Island quaffing Singha beer, overeating and lazing around in the most breathtaking surroundings, it was now time to draw this wondrous experience to a close. This meant a two hour boat trip from Tonsai to Phuket followed by a night in Patong before taking on the arduous eighteen hour journey to Heathrow via Bangkok.

 

Patong is essentially my idea of hell, it is everything that is bad about western tourists, the places that cater for us and the ignorant way we behave. Bangla Road in Patong is where I would be spending my final hours in Thailand, a place full of ladyboys, prostitutes, blaring music, souvenir hawkers and cheap booze. Not my usual habitat but for one night I would appreciate it’s unsubtle charms.

 

My girlfriend and I checked in at our plush hotel and headed for the bright lights and brouhaha. It was quite early and still light so we decided to go for a couple of drinks before finding a restaurant. So far so sensible and civilised. We found a bar called The Shipwreck and plonked ourselves down to marvel at the mayhem in front of us. At this point there was nothing to indicate that I would soon be entering my own personal world of mayhem.

Amazed at the freak show right before our eyes, we decided that we’d eat later and enjoy a few more drinks. A decision which would ultimately lead to me forfeiting my dignity. A rather loud, disparate group of antipodeans soon sat on the adjoining table; this would ordinarily have been my cue to leave but somehow I became embroiled in conversation with these Australian hicks. Fishermen, a fisherman’s mother who’d come to Thailand to have her teeth fixed, her husband who was younger than her son, a strange bunch. 

Before too long my girlfriend and I had fully integrated into this cluster of boozing oddballs, we’d foregone our romantic meal overlooking the Andaman Sea and the tone of the evening had altered considerably to something rather more raucous. No longer handicapped by my usual inability to dance I was in fact dancing, flamboyantly flinging a fisherman’s mother around an impossibly small bar to be precise. What fun. Further drunken chaos ensued until fisherman’s mother, during a break from our gyrations, plunged headfirst from her stool and rendered herself virtually unconscious. With fisherman’s mother swiftly dispatched to her hotel, we continued to drink with our new found friends. Now, my girlfriend is not necessarily sensible where drink is concerned, far from it in fact. However, on this occasion she must have been able to spot the folly in going drink for drink with these interbreeding sea dogs as she had tempered her intake. Believing I could imbibe with the best of them, I applied myself to the task in hand and was probably discussing joining them for a life on the ocean waves or some such rubbish. This meeting of minds continued and following a desperate struggle swallowing some tequila we all headed for another bar. We’re now approaching the outer limits of my memory; I recall my flip flop tearing apart and continuing with it’s remnants flapping around my ankle but apart from that the only thing I can bring to mind is the indignation of being amongst some of the most beautiful women in South-East Asia yet being approached by the most unfortunate looking Thai woman I’d ever seen. To her credit she was quite a tenacious troll, not at all perturbed by the presence of my girlfriend or my polite revulsion. Anyway, these were the giddy highs, all I had now were the degrading lows offered by tomorrow.

I was awoken by violent shivering, an aching, blackened foot and other unidentifiable yet ominous sensations. I slowly orientated myself with my surroundings and tried to process whatever information I could gather. Whilst I couldn’t really recognise the room I was most heartened to see that the figure sharing the bed was not only female but also actually my girlfriend. Result. I briefly wondered if my physical discomfort might be attributed to any of last night’s characters but decided to put that thought to one side.

My girlfriend soon arose as we had a fairly early flight. Ever the gentleman, I told her to use the bathroom before me, an act of kindness for which we would both later be truly thankful. It was finally my turn. The apparition gradually emerging through the steamy mirror bore a faint likeness to me although certainly not the tanned Adonis of yesterday. I closed my eyes and foolishly failed to appreciate what would be my last moment of calm for hours. The toothbrush was the trigger, no sooner had I popped it into my mouth, I began regurgitating like an emperor penguin with a hungry brood. I hung my head over the toilet until the animal noises subsided. Thinking I’d expelled all that was necessary I climbed into the shower, this would revive me, I’d soon be back in the land of the living. Not so. The pain in my body demanded that I adopt a foetal position, all the better for evacuating my bowels whilst retching of course. This was beginning to make Midnight Express look like Center Parcs. Crouched in a shower tray full of liquid faeces and bile my thoughts turned to the gruelling journey ahead, I had about an hour to get myself into shape otherwise I’d be going nowhere.

My girlfriend went for breakfast and left alone in my cell I racked my seemingly shrunken brain for a solution, the same useless brain I might add that had got me into this mess. Lay down on the bed was it’s response. Not exactly a eureka moment considering how little benefit I’d derived from the last four hours of laying down, was another twenty minutes of supine panting really going to help? Of course not. All too soon my time was up and I had to make my way to reception to check out. I say ‘check out’, in reality I just relocated my retching from the hotel room to the restaurant toilets.

A minibus arrived to take us to Phuket Airport and I was still some way from having what could be considered a settled stomach. I was hopeful that we would be the only passengers on the minibus so that I could continue to heave into a carrier bag in a less self conscious way. Obviously that couldn’t happen and two bright, chatty women sat directly in front of us. Although these rather large women had taken an age to haul themselves on to the minibus and into tiny Thai-sized seats, the speed with which they moved on hearing my maiden on-board animal roar was quite incredible, leaping over seats like seasoned free runners. My ashamed girlfriend apologised on my behalf whilst they cowered as far away as possible within the confines of a minibus. Inured to this abasement, I continued to heave, burp and sweat when I ought to have been taking in my final sights of Thailand’s beauty.

For my girlfriend the situation reached it’s nadir at Phuket Airport. Having struggled through check in, I made straight for the heavily used Thai latrine and unloaded from every orifice. Thinking that by this time there was little inside me other than shrivelled organs I joined my my girlfriend who was struggling to find a seat in the departure lounge and to her credit she was still managing to extend something akin to sympathy towards me; this was soon to change. What I hoped was about to be a belch leaped from my mouth in the form of spew. Suddenly free seats in my general vicinity were abundant. My girlfriend was furious but thankfully my delirium shielded me from the vicious tongue lashing I was no doubt receiving. Fighting her natural instinct to disown me, she presented me with a tiny plastic bag to use. This may have been helpful for a hyperventilating toddler but not so a fully grown man throwing up with the force of a water cannon. Even in my exhausted state I could see that the tiny bag would only serve to funnel bile up into my face and as such I continued to use the floor. Now, what would any decent, self respecting man do in this situation? That’s right, half heartedly tread it into the carpet with a flip flop.

This turned out to be the last expulsion from my withered body but taking no chances I spent the next eighteen hours with a sick bag to hand, refusing liquids to the point of desiccation.

 

I maintain that I was suffering from both poisoning of some sort and amoebic dysentery; my girlfriend insists I drank too much and that I’m an idiot. 

Tim Mac

Some of the names haven’t been changed

Some of the names haven’t been changed

Nev from Buchanans told me Harry used to be an alki.  That he'd to carry the first two pints of the day over to Harry's table.  And, when he'd drunk them, Harry would finally stop shaking.  Nev really should've said "Shaking like a shitting dog."  But this was 1983 and Nev was still only sweeping the floor between shifts and no-one talked to him very much. 

So I’m standing with Harry one day, watching, out of the corner of my eye, the dealers and buyers, who always congregated by the phone box, like they were invisible, or thought  none of the locals would ever dream of ringing the cops.  As I’m spying, Harry surveyed the kids’ new playground.  Young Asians swung, hung and yelled from every piece of apparatus; a shifting rainbow of silk and sportswear. 

“Council’s built it for t‘Pakis,” said Harry, nodding helpfully in their direction.  

Martin C

People Person

People Person

Cheryl used to love her job once. Well actually it wasn’t a job as such, it was a business. She had bought the café outright from her settlement money from her ex-husband Geoff. Years of abuse and treading on egg shells in a violent partnership hadn’t actually been what she looked forward to after leaving college. Fifteen years of not knowing when you were going to receive your next backhander because his tea wasn’t quite up to standard was enough for anyone she thought. After a surprisingly trouble free divorce from ‘the bastard’ as she liked to refer to him in front of her friends had enabled her to buy the café and tart it up into a little coffee shop. In the beginning and for the first few years she loved the day to day chat with customers and building up a regular clientele. Customers would come every day for a chat and to shoot the breeze over nothing in particular on their lunch breaks and to be honest Cheryl thought that she had never been happier.

 Things started to change when customers started to show up with laptops, phones and I pads. No one seemed to want to know anymore they just wanted to stare into the small screen and shut themselves off from the rest of the world. All Cheryl began to see were sets of hunched shoulders with an LCD screen reflecting in the faces of the once chatty customers. Coffee almost seemed to be an inconvenience, it meant looking up from the screen or talking the headphones out to say thanks you if they could be bothered. It wasn’t long before something snapped inside of Cheryl. She was a people person after all, she needed the interaction in fact she loved it. The customers didn’t notice, they were too busy playing Angry Birds or looking at yet another picture of a friends baby on Facebook.

The day after Cheryl’s mind snapped though there were a few changes. Well putting poison in the latte would alter things slightly wouldn’t it? All six customers that day had a good old swig of cyanide in their Latte Grande that morning. When the police finally got into the café a couple of hours later after a tip off from a whizz kid who wanted to charge his Mac and couldn’t get in the cafe for his free electricity they realised what a people person Cheryl was as she held court around one of her larger tables to the six dead customers who were propped neatly around the dining table, which incidentally had a small pile of electronic gear that had been smashed to smithereens. Rumour has it that Cheryl was waxing lyrical about the weather!

Colin

Booze Liberation: Part One

Booze Liberation: Part One

I currently have that feeling, not unlike when its my birthday, where I sort of feel special, as though I have a secret which I ought to tell people. And just as one doesn't go telling all and sundry that its the anniversary of one’s birth, I keep this special secret to myself. The special thing which singles me out, my achievement which would interest few outside of my doctor and mother is that I've stopped boozing. I trust you haven't been overcome by this powerful revelation and apologies if you have; compose yourself, take your time, time isn't pressing, in fact time is something I've been granted abundantly since my abstinence commenced.

I know, it does seem as though I'm giving this much greater import than might be deserved but its’ a big deal for me. The background is this, I’m forty before too long and I’ve come to learn that I could have taken slightly better care of my body. It has served me far better than it ought to have done; we’re in an abusive relationship and have been for more than twenty years. I have actually and metaphorically, done the the dirty on it, slapped it around, starved it, drugged it, sexually abused and coerced it. I could go on, suffice to say that my body has seen some pretty bleak lows. In fact, the only tenderness I afforded this carcass was good hygiene and dental care. How the liver must have envied the teeth and their thrice daily pampering whilst it endured another punishing day. In short, I drove it like I’d stolen it. Now, like a battered wife getting a second chance with the man of her dreams after years of stoically keeping up appearances, my body is eloping to a life of actual, regular foodstuffs and more importantly - no alcohol.

My drinking wasn’t necessarily ‘off the scale’; less Ollie Reed, more Queen Mum. The quantities themselves weren’t enormous but the daily regularity was absolute. Just as a matter of course, going about my daily business, I’d drink seven or eight pints. These would be drinks to accompany reading the paper, working from home, web browsing, listening to music, watching television. Any normal activity seemed suited to a drink. To be frank I’m not sure I was even enjoying it any longer, it was just habitual, tea and toast for breakfast, stella for elevenses and so on. I haven't ever really been one for convention and couldn't see why alcohol couldn’t be enjoyed just as much in the morning as at any other time of day. I’ve also been known to eat breakfast cereal in the evening.

I didn’t ever consider my drinking problematic and still don’t to be honest; I’m sure a doctor would say otherwise but the quantity didn’t trouble me just the routine. I detest routine and had allowed myself to fall into a routine albeit a somewhat unconventional one.

I should point out that twenty plus years of drinking hasn’t done me any harm, not lasting harm at least. I don’t want this to be perceived as some kind of evangelical anti-booze campaign; I personally decided to give my poor withered body a break, that’s all.

As mentioned earlier, I now seem to be awash with time, having a tea or coffee somewhere isn’t the drawn out experience that nursing a pint is and of course little time need be occupied considering which establishment to offer my patronage, one is very much like another. In fact tax avoidance and fair trade or not are the only considerations.

So now I find myself going about my daily business with a clear head. This isn’t quite the boon that you may think, a man with my cynical nature easily finds too many answerless questions. There are benefits of course, more money in my pocket, less likelihood of embarrassment and bowel movements you could only dream of. I’ll see how it goes...

 

Tim

Here's A Link To A Promo For Our Good Friend Russ Litten's New Book

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csBiA5Px70E&feature=youtu.be

25th May 2008

In the Blue Corner

Leeds United. The pride of Yorkshire. The Peacocks who had once strutted round the greatest stadiums in Europe. Their fans now inured to failure and spending their first ever year out of the first division as a result of the disingenuousness of their bombastic, megalomaniac chairman.

In the Red Corner

Doncaster Rovers. A grubby corner of Yorkshire which had stood still since the end of the miner's strike. A team that were on the verge of extinction four years ago. Their supporters, flat-hatted whippet lovers, more used spending their Sundays sitting in deckchairs watching the Black Dyke Mills band in a rain-sodden park.

Pre-match

Went to buy a souvenir scarf – inappropriate summer wear as by this time it was a sunny and warm day. However, these things have to be done.

Made principled but ultimately ill-advised decision not to put any more money into Football League’s coffers by declining to buy a ‘homecrafted pie’ at the bargain price of £6.

Chose instead to purchase a burger of uncertain ancestry from a stall on Wembley Way for £3.00. Spent most of Monday on the toilet as a direct result of this.

Match

The first half was forgettable. They were all over is in the first twenty minutes. Only the heroics of the much-maligned Ankergren preventing a rout.

The goal seemed inevitable, but the manner unexpected. |Their 5ft 9 in centre forward rising above our two towering centre halves and heading home a corner.

We hardly strung one set of passes together.

It wasn't until the last five minutes that we looked like scoring.

Just on ninety minutes, a long throw was punched out by the portly Sullivan. Cleanly, but without a lot of power.

The ball cleared all the players in the penalty and bounced invitingly for a player positioned thirty yards from the goal for such an eventuality.

This could be our last chance. A perfect opportunity to level the game. I looked to my left and recognised the aquiline profile and slightly hunched gait of Jonathan Douglas.

My heart sank. The one player you didn't want to have possibly your last shot on goal. A man who couldn't hit a bull with a baking board.

To my pleasant surprise, he adjusted his speed, measuring his stride perfectly so that he could hit the ball on the volley. Maybe I'd misjudged him.

The whole of the Leeds end fell silent. The thud of his boot hitting the ball could be heard clearly. For a cruel fraction of a second, I thought the ball was going in. By the time it reached the penalty area, it was obvious that the laws of physics would have to be broken if it was to go anywhere near the goal.

The ball crossed the goal line at the edge of the penalty area, still rising, and landed roughly 5 yards behind the corner flag.

You could hear the sighs from the Leeds fans. You could hear the hoots of derision from the Donny fans. A minute later, the whistle went.

Post Match

Herded like cattle by unsmiling cockney coppers dreaming of their overtime bonuses onto overcrowded trains, seemingly outnumbered 2:1 by happy Donny fans. They were ok. I was sat opposite one. He talked to me like I was a little old lady whose dog had just been knocked down in the road in front of her. I didn't feel as good as that. The journey home was going to be a long one. As was the next season.

 

Pete

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