The Final Goodbye

I watch him from behind. His presence is so serene, like there is no care in this world. How I will live without him. He must’ve sensed me because he turns to look at his visitor. His feature is so composed but his eyes betray him. They show great sorrow.

‘Is it time already? I feel like only yesterday we’ve met and now...’ James’s remark saddens me but there is nothing I can do to fight destiny.

‘I have to go. I can’t live here. My soul doesn’t belong here. Not anymore. You, of all people should know that. If there’s something I could do to change our fate and destiny, I would. Unfortunately there isn’t.’

‘Bear it in mind that you have my heart. A heart is a hard thing to live without. I love you, Alex. I don’t think I will love someone ever again. Not like the way I love you.’

‘And you have mine. Never forget that. But I don’t want you to be lonely. My leaving is no excuse for you to close your heart from all the possibilities of loving someone else. I want you to be happy, even after I’ve gone.’

‘Goodbye, James. My love for you is eternal.’

I kiss him on the cheek with tears in my eyes and holes in my heart. I know I will never love anybody again.

With that, I reluctantly cross the line that separates my life and James’s eternally. I am dead and he is alive. Those two cannot mix, EVER.

Nadratul S

The Great Tower Heist

All through the trial Gordon wore his ironic smile. While being sentenced to thirty years behind bars, he stood ramrod straight, not batting an eyelid, and when he turned to go off with the guard, he shot one last fleeting glance behind him, looking out past the silent audience in the direction of the door. Somewhere, out past the door, either buried in plastic, garbage bags or stashed in false walls or hidden in cellars, there was over $75 million. Until that was found, Gordon knew, the police could never say that they had completely solved the Great Tower Heist.

Silvers Rayleigh

Bananas

I used to drive a truck for a local builder’s merchants, little seven and a half tonner, all you needed was a car license. I had gaffer who used to get Gross and net mixed up. I often drove over loaded. I lived quite close to the yard, a five minute jog (did it often enough) yet I was always late. My gaffer would rail on at me about how Simon lived a 45 minute drive away but was always on time. My explanation that if Simon was 5 minutes late getting up he had a chance to shave a few minutes of the commute whereas if I woke up 5 minutes late I was late. Nothing I could do. Quite rightly, he told me to fuck off!

I used to love the tarmac run. Bit of an early start but I could take the truck home empty the night before then be down at the tarmac place first thing, line up with the real trucks sniffing in that seductive smell. I used to lay down on the path by fresh tarmac as a kid sniffing it in. I still like the smell though I’m told it’s not healthy for you.

I used to love the brick yard run for the special order pallets of obscure bricks some cock sure DIYer would request too. Picking up a pallet or two involved a cross town ride that went almost past the bottom of my granddad’s street. That’s a lie. Every time I went to the brick yard I called in on the old boy. We weren’t real close but I loved him dearly, he’d been great with me when I was younger but a fight at my sister’s Christening split that side of the family in two.

He was a bit of a card. The bath always seemed full of home brew; he had 23 clocks in his living room; he had twice as many pocket watches. At own dad’s funeral he gave me a pocket watch, tears in his eyes, and said, ‘It was going to be your dad’s. It’s yours now’. It had a swastika engraved on the back which is fucking odd when you consider he was reserved occupation and spent the war years in Northern Ireland! He cut the cuffs off all his shirts yet, like a lot of his generation, always wore a suit, even when we took him to the coast. He set fire to his hedge rather than trim it causing his neighbours to call the fire brigade in an attempt to save their own hedge.

This particular afternoon he knew I was coming and he’d set up camp under the apple tree in his back yard, two chairs and an upturned bucket with two pots of tea balanced on top. I parked up up front and walked through to the back. Despite the schism in our family our love was apparent but his pride and my loyalty to my own dad, his eldest son (who’d knocked fuck out of his brother on our lawn at the fateful christening after my uncle slapped his Mrs for telling us he’d bought a new suit for the occasion – despite been on the dole) meant things went unsaid and visit were infrequent save for these stolen moments on the clock. I loved him and I still do and I’d change everything if I had the chance to but there you go. Time goes forward and we all make mistakes and pride is unhealthy at times. I’ll never buy a suit for a christening I can tell you. I’ll never slap my Mrs either but that’s another story.

He called me up the garden, said ‘How do,’ and then motioned for me to sit. He always looked me up and down. I guess when you see a six footer and recall feeding him a bottle as a baby you do things like that. He handed me my tea then whispered to me, ‘Ask for a banana.’

‘Eh?’

‘Ask for a banana son.’

He sat back in his chair and, at the top of his voice asked, ‘You want an apple lad?’ He pulled a face as if to say, go on.

‘I’d rather have a banana.’

‘What’s that lad?’

“I’d rather have a banana.’

With that he stood up, reached into the apple tree where I spotted two bananas balanced over a branch and said, ‘Well I guess I’ll have one too, ‘ and made a great show of taking the two bananas down. I was a bit puzzled to say the least.

As we ate our bananas and drank our tea a beautiful smile appeared on his face, I can see him now, short back and sides, the look of my old man, of me, but tougher than the two of us, younger, easier lives (he was one of 12 or 13, I forget), a hard face but criss-crossed with laughter lines, you might call them wrinkles but all the men in our family, as dysfunctional as we are have laughed loads, and a spark of light dancing in his old watery blue grey eyes.

‘I hate that nosey bitch next door, ‘ he whispered through gritted teeth.

Johnny L

The Button

I didn’t ever explain it to him.  He wondered for years afterward, why after ending up in that hotel room, together, nothing had happened. 

Up to the last minute before I going down to reception I’d decided on the A line dress.  

We, he and I, had made a show of inviting his wife, but we had a pretty good idea she wouldn’t show.  They’d had marital problems for years and were, then, going through one of their stickiest patches.  She’d not have given a second thought to his meeting me alone because I was, after all, the wife of his best friend.  I’d never had any marital problems myself, but notwithstanding that even I had to admit the man was as fit as a butcher’s dog and so it was quite possible that he could cause me some problems along those lines in the not too distant future.

My God did I look good in that A line dress.  Then not knowing whether his wife [a jeans and track pants specialist] would be joining us I decided on a last minute change so as not to upstage her.  In a rush I pulled on the pants of a jeans suit combination and when fastening them, to my absolute horror, the button flew off.  Where it landed I could not tell.  All I knew is that I didn’t have time to find it.  Instead, away from home, and without my usual access to needle and cotton and with no time to effect repairs, I had to make do with a safety pin.  The safety pin was hidden by the slenderest of black leather belts and with that I walked quickly down to reception to meet them. Except she wasn’t there.  They’d argued, yet again, and she’d sent some shabby apology.

As he stood at the bar ordering drinks I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. After a lovely evening of drinks, idle chatter, and insufficient food, I invited him up for a hot beverage.  We flirted unashamedly and I could see he was searching for that look so he’d know it was safe to make his move.  Lack of marital problems or not I was about to give him that look, that all too well known signal, when I remembered the button, or rather the lack thereof. I had a momentary visual of him undressing me and then…  He thought me a “classy bird” to use his vernacular and so it just wouldn’t do.

So, I never did explain it to him and I never did find that flipping button.

JMC

The Van MEER Diamonds Part II

I am still aboard the old banana boat MV FFYEES and my new MI5 employers have gone ashore at the last port of call. Obeying my instructing to stay on board I looked around the cabin and was surprised to see that the small square parcel heavily wrapped was still sitting on the desk but now alongside it the fat envelope was open and stuffed with Dutch Guilders and a note telling me to go to112 Proveniersstraat and to be there at 2.30 pm. but under no circumstances to open the parcel. The boat arrived at Rotterdam and never having been before I obtained a map and cycled off to find my destination. 112 Proveniersstraat was a long street with old terraced Victorian type houses beside a canal. I located 112 but as it was only 2 pm. did not enter. Having had nothing to eat I made my way to a café on the other side of the canal and sat down outside. Looking across I had a good view of 112. About 2.15 a black car arrived and a tall man went up the 5 or 6 steps into the building. As it was getting near to 2.30 I finished my meal ready to cross the canal when I saw the same man hurry down the steps and was driven away. Parking my bike I went up the steps the door was open and as no one answered my call in I went  To my surprise sitting behind the desk was my employer but this time with a bullet hole in his head and the office had been turned upside down.

C G G

The Van MEER Diamonds

It was 1964 the year of the Beatles and I had just returned from an Art & cycle weekend in Amsterdam. The postman delivered a parcel and as I was not expecting any post I carefully checked the name and address, and saw it had been posted in Holland. This must be the parcel the proprietor of one of the Art Galleries had asked me to post but I had forgotten to bring it back with me. Inside were three items, two envelopes one thin the other fat, with a small square parcel heavily wrapped. I checked the outside wrapping again, name correct, address correct. Looking more carefully at the contents again, I saw written on the parcel do not open under any circumstance and on the fat envelope, only to be opened after further instruction. Turning to the thin envelope, inside I found instructions to go my with Passport for identification to the old docks. Intrigued by now I saw the address was MV FFYEES dock 2 and gathering up the other two items I left to cross London on my bicycle. Arriving at the docks I was directed to a small banana boat tied up at the end of the jetty where a man dressed in a heavy duffle coat was standing by the gangway. On my approach and offering him the parcel he said in an accent hard to understand lets see your Passport. A quick look and he then directed me up the gangway with my bicycle. At the top of the gangway stood another man a clone of the one at the bottom who on being offered the parcel directed me towards the stern muttering cabin 8. As I made my way, out of the corner of my eye I noticed the gangway being raised but not giving any more thought to it continued towards cabin 8. The door was open and a voice called out in a thick European accent come. On entering the cabin I was surprised to see an ordinary bloke in a suit sitting behind a desk with a secretary waiting to take notes. After I had sat down he shook hands and said in perfect English sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff. We have been testing you and would like to offer you a job.

That is how I came to work for MI5.

C G G

Bad Day at the Office

It was the day from hell.

At work I’d been given a load more responsibility with absolutely no more money for my hassles, and at home I’d come home to find my wife was leaving me for another man. Is it any wonder I lost my rag?! I know, I didn’t need to try and smash in the windscreen, but it helped work some of the stress of the situation out of my body. And there’s no doubting I felt a lot better afterwards, bruised and bloody knuckles apart.

I proceeded to get totally drunk that night, and was late for work the next morning; in fact I was still a little drunk. I sat at my desk, tapping away at the keyboard importantly. If anyone asked, I told them I was writing my report for the big meeting tomorrow – but if they’d bothered to look at the screen, all they would have seen was:

Fucking bitch.

Fucking fucking bitch.

Total bitch.

I’ll fucking kill her.

Wekewtpoe ke0tietsg;dskg reop gie[poe[ oe[were wroew p r]h 

And that’s the truth. Once I’d worked out my anger, I made a proper start on the report, only to be distracted by the new girl in the office. I couldn’t help it – she had a skirt up to her armpits, and a blouse open virtually to her belly button. I could see myself bending her over the desk and giving her one. It would be the perfect way to get over my bitch of a soon-to-be-ex-wife. There she would be with her ugly bastard new bloke, and me with a hot young woman. Then we’d see who was better off.

I did finally finish what I was supposed to be doing and plonked the ten page report on the boss’ desk well before 5 o’clock. Then I went over to the new girl and asked her out for a drink. She turned me down.

You can’t have everything though, can you?

Jonathan M

Malcolm Bonnington-Fiennes: Mountain Man

Early 1980s poor family, too many children, carless, no passports, seeks fun, fulfilling, family holiday for the price of a pack of firelighters. Replies on a postcard to Malcolm Bonnington-Fiennes, base camp SY22.

Our airmiles were rather paltry, our landmiles would have made Alan Wells look like a distance runner. Options were limited but my ever resourceful parents hit upon the holiday to end all holidays; it came in under budget and would only take a few days.

We were getting back to nature, we hadn’t actually left it as it was all we could afford. A few days enjoying simple pleasures, reconnecting with the environment, honing our survival skills is what the family required. We’d cook on a fire, sleep under canvas, whittle even.

I was sold on the idea immediately, Sarah, my older sister less so and younger sister Laura was still grappling with speech so her opinions could be a little difficult to read. Sarah was swiftly dispatched to a friend’s house as her tendency to cry before falling highlighted the fact that she hadn’t the mettle for this expedition and we didn’t need passengers in the badlands. It would just be the four of us, a good even number, watching each other's back, all pulling in the same direction.

Day One. Base camp was about eighteen miles from home, an inhospitable mountain with a huge waterfall. Imagine the Eiger with Niagara falling off the side. We enlisted the help of a native Sherpa called Gill to take us there and, having overloaded her aging Renault five with us and our gear, embarked. Always quick to grasp the concept, Laura initiated her perfunctory self-cleansing mechanism; a quick spew over us and our belongings would soon have us blending in with the smells of our surroundings. Genius. On reaching base camp we waved goodbye to the friendly native knowing that this was it, us against nature. Tents were erected with minimal fuss, after all we’d left Sarah behind.

Mountain man and I did a quick recce, gathered wood and located the toilets on the campsite.. sorry, dug a rudimentary latrine. After devouring our rations we came under attack, the natives had it in for us and were showing their displeasure with each bite. Luckily mountain woman had packed some insect repellant. This siege mentality brought us closer, a common enemy to fight against.

Day Two. Having weighed up the terrain, wind speed, precipitation and mars bar supply mountain man and I decided this was the time to push for the summit, any later and we would be staring disaster in the face. We couldn’t risk mountain woman and child eating before we got back so we looked at our compasses, because we had compasses, and off we went. After a gruelling six or seven minutes I was cruelly struck down, I pleaded with mountain man to go on without me. My toe was agonisingly painful, it had to be frostbite. Mountain man approached me with his Swiss Army knife, the toe was clearly going to be removed, maybe I could find some wood to bite down on. After gently removing my plimsole.. sorry Brasher walking boot, he shook the offending pebble out of the end and we thanked the gods for smiling upon us.

After climbing for maybe an hour we happened upon a crystal clear mountain stream, this is as pure as water gets and mountain man was straight in, gulping down all he could and filling his canteen. Aware of the dangers a mountain can hold I decided to forgo quenching my biting thirst and make sure we were safe. Mountain man ridiculed me for my safety first approach, he had a cruel streak but that single mindedness has made him one of the top mountaineers in our household. I could only dream that one day the ways of the mountain would be passed on to me, I imagined that on his deathbed something would seep from him and then I would know that I was now mountain man. We passed a sheep circling in a pool further upstream, the serenity of the animal was beguiling as if something spiritual was taking place. Mountain man wasn’t keen to look at it, a clash of energies maybe.

We made it to the summit under his guidance and with astonishing haste we headed back to base camp. Barely a word was spoken during the descent, the mark of a true mountaineer, overcome by the conquest he was struggling to keep his emotions in check. How I admired him.

Back at base camp I began to truly appreciate what this meant to mountain man; so overwhelmed he could take no part in our petty banter and silently refused food. This must have put him on a higher plain somehow and at one with the mountain.

Day Three. The agony of having conquered the mountain was now evident in every move of mountain man, he clutched his sides and roared at the latrine whilst dancing shamanically. We had to get back home, take him away from his nemesis to find peace. Mountain woman and child set off for the comms centre, a red rectangular box some miles away, from where she hoped Sherpa Gill could be summoned. I was left with strict instructions to ‘keep an eye on your dad’, mountain speak for ‘don’t let him out of your sight, he’s battling demons!’

As mountain man elect I stuck to the task, I could see what the future held for me. The pain etched on mountain man’s face was clear, i followed him, no easy task given his animal side seemed to have taken over. I could feel that something huge was happening, I was covering ground easily, keeping up with him, and then as I was perched high up on a rock I spotted him padding around in some bracken and clinging to an indistinct, white idol. Was he on his deathbed? Something was certainly seeping from him, roaring out of him to be precise.

We don’t talk of this. The power of the mountains is greater than us.

T McB

Midnight in the Dog's Home

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The Mush

We had a big win on the ponies one wild night last September, Gerry Gormley, Dave McKenna, The Mush and me. Straight from work and over to the track, drinking Green Monsters and The Mush on the powders as usual. Gerry had a tip from a guy who knew a guy and before you knew it, we'd talked each other into putting the best part of a weeks wages each on the 3 horse in the 7:45 - I'd tell you it's name but then you'd be as wise as me. The Mush and me we had a tipple going too, emboldened by Jamie's and the odd line of whatever it is The Mush snorts. Before we knew it we had a shit load of money in our hands and a party going with some washed out old whores who hang around the track on pay day. Gerry was up for getting a motel room and driving over with the girls by way of the liquor store, phoning out sick and party, party, party. Sounded good but  I reckoned the wives might miss us and what would we tell the gaffer, we all got sick together? We'd invited the old fucker to the bar with us not two hours ago. Dave wondered how the fuck he was going to explain the bank roll to his Mrs. He'd sworn off the gambling at the same time me and him went to AA, 6 months ago. She'd leave him she said and we all believed her. 

You know what a claiming race is, right? Well by nine that night I owned one 1/4 of a trotting horse. They don't tell you which bit you own but The Mush reckoned I'd got the arse. He might have been right. I suppose it was inevitable that we'd get to this stage. When everyone at the track knows you by your first name you've probably bought a horse or two without realizing it over the years anyway. Such is life. 

It never really sank in that I was a part owner. Sure nobody went to the track, at least not like in the old days and we'd parked in the owners spaces for years, we sat in the grandstand and drank in the owners bar too. Nothing changed until the bills started coming in. The old girl knew something was wrong when I started beating her to the mail everyday. Our nag had run the race of his life that night and looked like he'd never win again. Feed, stables, exercising, grooming, transportation, riders, sulkies they all cost money but the biggest bill of all was the fucking vet bill. Gerry had a few bucks from his old man who'd owned a couple of two family houses in Kearney so he didn't feel it too bad. Dave's wife wised up to what was going on and, true to her word, packed up her bags and left him for the bosom of her clan back in Connemara. The Mush didn't give two fucks. No one really knew what he did for money but he lived way beyond our union pay grade. Both him and wife, no kids thankfully, knew how to party and one or the other but never both usually went to the meetings. 

A lot of people thought The Mush was a fool but I was never one of them. I'd tear the arse with him from time to time but I kept him away from my family. How'd you keep your kids on the straight and narrow when your best mate's got half of Columbia up his nostrils? The Mush wanted to change the horse's name to Second Mortgage but they wouldn't let us. It sure as hell felt like a second mortgage every month. If I had my time again I'd be a vet no doubt about it.

The Mush had a plan. He'd fucked the regular rider off and teamed up with a lad from Ecuador. Fuck knows how, Mush knew no Spanish and The Ecuadorian no English but anyways they worked something out. The Mush invited the gaffer and a few big shots from work out to the track one night, guests of ours. He made a big scene of parking in the owner's spots, he played it like the owners bar was an invite to the Kennedy Compound. As my accountant Jimmy the Jew would say, 'He shmoooooooooooozed them big time.' I didn't have a clue what he was up to but I sure thought he'd lost it when he put a grand on our nag and encouraged our guests to do likewise. I'd long since given up betting on my own pony indeed I used to bet against him. Gerry and Dave weren't there and I don't think they knew what was going on either but fair play to The Mush our nag won though it was close. You could see the other riders holding back and our lad still had to beat the fucker half to death to get it over the line. I'm amazed there wasn't a stewards inquiry. Maybe The Mush had paid them off too. He'd sure as hell nobbled the riders. After much champagne, cigars and a complimentary blow job from a track-side whore in the men's bathroom we no longer owned a second mortgage. The Mush played it beautifully; like he didn't want to sell but by nine o'clock that night, the gaffer and three other big shots from work were the proud owners of a pony with two wins under it's belt out of 12 starts. It would never win again. The Mush and me, we just about broke even. Just about.

Johnny L

Multiple Sclerosis - Hilarity Central

Cilla was right and little surprises me more than the daily servings of uncertainty offered up by body and frequently mind.

My sister had visited me in London for the weekend to celebrate her birthday. Kisses exchanged she headed north for home and my Sunday afternoon took on the familiar comfort of the local pub with friends. The appearance of my sister aside, all staggeringly normal so far. The date was 5 March 2000 and the happenings of that afternoon and evening have rendered that day somewhat significant.

I was twenty six, in fine fettle with a brilliant mind, breathtakingly handsome, a shade under six feet five and given to the occasional exaggeration (it could be argued that I’ve not reached six feet). I was leading a lifestyle which would have given Shaun Ryder cause for concern but enjoying it immensely. I had a decent job which was becoming a little humdrum as I could do it on autopilot. It was my first job in London and having given me the security to move there and funded the excesses of the last eighteen months had more than served its purpose. I was keen to move on to bigger and better things.

So here I was sat in The Hand & Flower in Kensington and it was my round. The following day would consist of little more than some top quality chair spinning whilst affecting an authoritative demeanour so no reason to take it easy today. On approaching the bar I felt a strange tingling sensation in my foot, no doubt just the way I’d been sat, I returned with drinks. An hour or so passed and I once again got up to honour my booze obligations, this time I was experiencing similar sensations in my hands. Taking extra care carrying the drinks I sat down, chugged on a cigarette and wondered if aspects of my lifestyle might be catching up with me. I quickly tossed that thought to a distant space at the very back of my mind. Later, the two minute walk to my flat took rather more concentration than usual but I’d long lost track of how much had been drunk so wasn’t unduly concerned.

In the office the chair spinning didn’t seem quite as fulfilling as usual, I soon diagnosed myself with an inner ear problem and poor circulation. My newly diagnosed problems worsened so I staggered to the doctor’s surgery only to be told by a locum that I was suffering from stress and a week off work should sort me right out. By Wednesday I knew I was in trouble so arranged to see the head gp honcho; this guy was onto it in a flash, I was flapping around like one of the more inept contestants on Strictly Come Dancing so it may not have been that difficult to spot. Although I wasn’t given a specific diagnosis for quite some time, I was exhibiting classic symptoms of multiple sclerosis.

Many tests followed over a number of weeks and months including spending my birthday in hospital. One such test was a lumbar puncture where you lie on your side in a foetal position while a large needle is jabbed into your spinal chord. I’m not quite sure what it’s meant to achieve but loss of dignity was thrown in for free. The doctor asked if some students could watch, “of course” I said, “they’ve got to learn somehow”. Enter four attractive female medical students gazing upon my lower back, arse and a couple of stray balls.

Eventually I got the diagnosis. “OK, I’ve heard of it, get on with the curing as these chairs won’t spin themselves. What, no cure?! I’ve got it for ever?!!” Not what I was expecting.

And so began a succession of medications; some did nothing, some did something, some were hugely enjoyable, others less so. Painkillers, anti-inflammatories, self-administered subcutaneous injections, Viagra and many others, I’ve done the lot.

These days quite a lot of time is given over to trying to remember things, I wile away hours staring at the toilet bowl convinced I need to urinate only to concede that I must have already done so and forgotten about it. Throw in some pain, fatigue and blindness and it’s like narcotic withdrawal without the high. It’s not all bad though, I enjoy the guessing game I play with my limbs, it can be like having an unruly pet, sometimes they’ll do as requested, sometimes a rough approximation of what’s asked and sometimes something entirely different and unexpected.

Oh and I lost my job as well, those bastards are fooling themselves if they think they’ll find another chair spinner of my calibre.

T McB

The Silver Surfer

Like most 9 year olds in the 70s in the north of England I lived in hand me down clothes. High waisters, patch pockets, shirts with massive collars I had them all, all slightly to very well worn by my older cousins. I got good clothes for Christmas and Easter. Brand new. God knows I wasn't allowed to do anything mad like play out in them. Truth be told, I didn't really care what I wore then and, as I said earlier, everyone was in the same boat, though it does appear that somebody, somewhere up the food chain was getting brand new clothes bought for them at other times than Christmas and Easter.

I had a zip up cardie from Marks and Spencers that I loved. I had a mop of blonde hair and my best friend had black hair, we used to pretend to be Starsky and Hutch. I always felt the part more when I wore that cardie for some reason though I don't think David Soul ever wore M & S. Mt best mate's  dad was a milkman, we used to take turns sliding across the bonnet of the van he used on his rounds. 

Other than loving that cardie, turquoise(a proper 70s colour if ever), cream and petrol blue stripes - God it sounds awful doesn't it? - I never really had any feelings towards my clothes. We were all scruffy little sods back then. Well that's not strictly true; I had a brown anorak that would have probably been the height of fashion if I were in an indie band in Scotland in 1986 but I wasn't; I was a 9 year old in the north of England in 1976. I didn't even play the recorder. I hated that anorak with a passion. I despised wearing it. I wore it under duress. In those days if your parents told you to do something you did it. Indeed, had my dad told me to wear it and then promptly got himself run over by a bus and killed I think I'd still have it on today.

Like a lot of 9 year old boys I had a bit of a thing for comics; The Avengers, Spiderman, The Fantastic Four and the like. I don't remember where it came from but I had a cloth Silver Surfer patch, about 4 inches square that depicted The Surfer gliding through a galaxy of stars set in a purple sky. I thought it was the coolest thing ever, cooler than my neighbour's air rifle and that was pretty damn cool, I can tell you. I begged my Mam to sew it on the old brown anorak, convinced that anything it touched would instantly become cool too. One Sunday evening she sewed it on on the left side chest area, right where I wanted it. Perfect. I was so happy. I put the jacket on and ran upstairs to the bathroom to stand on the wooden chair up there and look at myself in the only mirror in our house. To my immense surprise and disappointment my anorak hadn't suddenly become cool, the spirit of Stan Lee didn't rub off on the somewhat shapeless brown coat. No, I stood there looking at my reflection and saw myself in a crappy brown coat with a big purple square with a naked silver man stood on a silver surfboard; my heart sank. The eleven year olds were going to eat me alive on the school bus the next morning I knew that for a fact. I told my Mam I loved it.

JL

(No) Head For Heights.

I'm clinging to the upper branches of the highest tree in the woods with my right arm while my left hand is employed in opening the blade of the pen knife I have wedged between my lips. I can taste the bark and soil on the handle, it doesn't bother me, I'm used to it, I'm 11 and my hands are permanently dirty. I can taste the residue of oil left from the chain that slipped off my bike about an hour ago too; normal tastes for a boy of my age in the '70s.

The tree sways in the wind, it's a wild day, it doesn't bother me, I'm 11, fearless when it comes to stuff like this. The  reason I'm up in these high, high branches today is that there's a rumour going around school that Sammy Ford has carved his name on this very tree higher than I had previously carved mine. Me and Sammy they reckon we're the best climbers in school. Sammy's not bad but I'm way better. It was me who showed him how to climb a tree when the trunk offers no limbs. It's easy once you know. You grab a branch at the end, where it's flexible and invariably a long way away from the trunk. You pull the branch down and inch your hands along until you get to the point where it offers resistance then you flip yourself up and you're away.

Sammy has indeed carved his name a good 3 feet above when I'd carved mine. Well done Sammy. Should have gone higher pal. I'm taller than Sammy, 2nd tallest in our year, in the boys. As tall as she is I don't see Sharon Marwood, who's the tallest in our year, carving her name up here anytime soon.She's not a tree climber, at least I don't think she is. I don't think she has a pen knife either. I reach up with my left hand and over the next 15 minutes I carve my name in a branch so fine I fear the bark will just churn up and then I carve out Sammy's, like he was never here.

That was over 30 years ago. Today, now, right this friggin moment, I'm 45 feet up on a free standing scaffold inside a shopping centre changing light bulbs on the over night shift. The platform is about 8 feet long and 2 feet wide, the whole contraption sways when you move. As the new guy I have been volunteered to go 'up top' while the older crew members pass pipping and boards up to me until the tower is full assembled. It's been nerve wracking. I've lost about half my weight in sweat, it seems and, although my brain knows what to do it is unable to make my body function. I believe I'm safe, truly, I do. The scaffold is solid and built to regulation but it still fucking moves. I can't let go of the top guard rail, I'm squeezing it with both hands, knuckles pure white. My feet slide across the boards, I cannot lift them no matter how hard I try. I instruct my left arm to reach out to the fluorescent bulb above me but my arm just responds, 'Fuck you.' I'm am stuck up here paralyzed by fear. I have no idea how I am going to get down never mind how I am going to change any of these lights tonight. I wonder what old Sammy's up to these days?

JL

Lord of the Ring. The bungling smuggler with more luck than should be allowed in one day.

Lord of the Ring.

The bungling smuggler with more luck than should be allowed in one day.

Markus was an immensely likable guy. A cheeky chancer, with a glint in his eye, and a nose for mischief.  He’d been born in Australia, to Anglo-Aussie parents but had come back to the UK at the age of fifteen when his parents had separated.

I had met him some months earlier when he was working as a chef at my local gastro pub, and he could often be seen grabbing a swift pint in the bar on his breaks, resplendent is his chef’s whites, with the words Buddhist Punk spray painted on the back in flouresant pink.

It was coming up to the end of the century, when Markus had gone out for a beer with an old mate from down under. He had a proposition for him. How would he like a free trip to New Zealand for New Years Eve, to be one of the first people on earth to see in the new millennium? His mate explained that he was travelling back down under for a massive party, just outside Auckland, and he wanted Markus to come along. Of course, there was a small catch to this generous offer, but he reckoned Markus was up to the task. Markus had to assist him with ‘importing’ some very profitable merchandise.

On the day of the flight, Markus had rendezvoused with his friend at the airport. 22 hours in the air was not going to be comfortable; not with chronic constipation. However, his bowel discomfort was not due to anything he had eaten.  Upon meeting up, Markus noticed his travelling companion was wearing a new pair of Nike air-wear trainers. However, even from head height, something didn’t look quite right about them. ‘Don’t tell me, you’ve hidden your stash in those shoes?’ His friend assured him it was fine, and they would sail through immigration.

A day later, bleary eyed, they touched down in Auckland. It had been a somewhat uncomfortable journey, but Markus felt much better about his hiding place, than he did about his friends. As they headed for immigration, he decided it was best to hang back from his travelling companion, and not join the same queue.

30 minutes later, Markus was standing on the concourse, having sailed through customs and collected his case. His queue had moved quicker than that of his friend, so maybe he had just got stuck behind someone that customs had taken their time with. As 30 minutes became closer to an hour, Markus spotted an immigration officer exit an interview room, carrying a pair of brand new Nike air-wear trainers.

It was at this point that Markus suddenly had a realisation. He had no idea where they were going. His friend was the one who knew the exact location of the party, and where they we staying, but all Markus knew was that it was just outside the city.

Before he could shake the flight fatigue, and get his head together, customs officers appeared around him, and marched him off to detention.  It was obvious that, having been collared himself, his ‘friend’ had opted to cooperate, in the hope of lessening the impact of his own situation.

Over the next six hours, Markus played dumb. He refused everything but a search of his baggage, and stuck to the story that he knew nothing of his friend’s concealment. The cops had just smiled and said they would wait until he needed the toilet. At 10.30pm on millennium eve, banged up in a Kiwi immigration holding cell, an officer walked in and sat down across the table. He informed Markus that, due to it being millennium eve, and they were reduced to the minimum of a skeleton staff on this particular night, they had no option but to let him go.

Markus headed over the airport to the Holiday Inn, and booked himself a room. What the hell was he going to do? He was in New Zealand, with no contacts, no idea where they had been heading to, and a weight of pills groaning to be released. He decided to relieve himself of the discomfort, before anything else. However, once recovered; and due to the stress of the previous 36 hours, an indulgence felt like a necessity, rather than a reward.

At 5.30 am on the first day of the new century, Markus had formulated a plan in his grinning, spinning, head. He would head back to the terminal and get a flight to Melbourne, whereupon he would turn up at his father’s house, and make out he had flown 12000 miles to surprise him for the New Year. He would have a place to stay, he’d be a brilliant loving son; come all this way to see the ol’ man, and he could probably off load all the pills and turn a profit.

30 minutes later, he was standing at the Quantas desk of a deserted Auckland airport, and buying a ticket for the 9.10 am flight to Melbourne. The desk girl looked him up and down, before retaining his card, and asking him to wait a few minutes. The reality suddenly dawned. He must have been mad to think this was a good idea. Only 8 hours ago he had only just escaped being busted due to lack of staff, and now he had returned to the very same airport, pilled up, and still packing. Within a minute, two burley Quantas staff appeared by his shoulder and asked if he would accompany them to an office. Markus began to sober up very quickly, and rued the logic of making plans when you were buzzed off your face. What the hell had he been thinking? He resigned himself to his fate and wandered in to the office like a man condemned.

The smartly dressed guy from Quantas sat down on the other side of the desk and looked him dead in the eye. This was the end.

‘Sir, I would like to inform you that you are the first person to buy a ticket on Quantas in the new century, and as such, I am here by authorised, on behalf of the airline, to give you a cheque for $20’000, and your flight to Melbourne is courtesy of Quantas. Happy New year.’

Ian Hunter