Part 11 is here.
Goldberg wasn't used to driving at night, and the country roads weren't particularly well-lit, so the journey home was slower and more cautious than usual.
Sarah watched the forest's shadow gliding past, looked up at the dark trees as they stretched their eerie fingers into the murky sky, and thought back on the day's events. It had been frightening at times, true, but it was also the most excitement she'd ever had. Goats, she decided, must take whatever excitement they can get.
Pete wondered what to do next. Should he forget the whole ordeal, go back to being a goat and live out the remainder of his fifteen to eighteen year life expectancy wondering what could have been? Or should he continue to secretly betray his friends in the hope of a reward that may never come? It was a good question. He didn't want to be a goat for the rest of his life.
Cliffey fell asleep the moment they got in the van, and stayed that way right up until they encountered the troll from under the bridge.
Nobody saw it coming. One moment the road ahead had been clear and peaceful; the next, it was being blocked by half a tonne of repulsive, angry troll.
Goldberg had slammed on the brakes in time to avoid hitting it, but instantly decided that this was the wrong thing to do because running it over would have at least bought them some time.
But now the troll was charging at them, head down, roaring his insane roar.
The impact made a mighty WHUMP and sent the van spinning back down the track. Goldberg mashed the accelerator with under his foot in an attempt to flee, but this just caused the van to stall.
The engine sputtered pathetically, then went horribly silent.
"Damn!" cried Goldberg. "Damn damn damn!" Desperately, he wiggled the key in the ignition, trying to get going again.
WHAM! The troll once more collided with the van, nearly knocking the vehicle clear off its wheels.
The goats were terrified. The engine seemed to have given up completely. Goldberg, in a last effort to scare the thing away, honked the horn loudly.
No reaction. The troll bowed its ugly head, preparing to deal the final blow.
Goldberg and the two goats braced for impact.
Wait a minute.
Two goats?
* * *
Peikko and T'pon had been searching the forest for what felt like hours now, and they had found no clue as to where their colleague might be.
"What I don't understand," grumbled T'pon, "is why everyone voted for Jo-Tunn to be League president. He was lazy and worthless back then and he's the same way now. Except he's fatter."
Peikko cocked a warty eyebrow in bemusement. "You didn't vote for Jo-Tunn?"
"Absolutely not," T'pon retorted. "I voted for Karl."
Up went Peikko's other eyebrow. "Karl?!" he exclaimed in surprise. "You must have been the only one."
"I don't see why. I guess all the other trolls couldn't see past his stupid human name. Close-minded idiots. I should have run for the presidency myself, rather than let everyone get behind Jo-Tunn just because he's got a nice, traditonal troll name."
"But surely you'll admit that Jo-Tunn is good at keeping things organised?"
"I'll admit no such thing. We both know that you're the brains of the operaton, Peikko. Jo-Tunn's just a-"
T'pon's political ranting was cut short by an unhinged and rather trolly roar coming from the road behind them.
The two trolls looked at each other in dismay, then started running towards the noise's source.
"Karl? Was that you?!"
* * *
Goldberg looked around the van.
Cliffey was strapped in his seat, wide awake and paralysed with fear.
As was Pete.
Very slowly, Goldberg turned his gaze back to the road.
The troll was not charging at the van. Instead, his attention had turned to the small goat running in circles around him.
"Hey TROLL!" shouted Sarah, her voice quavering ever so slightly. "You want the goat who demolished your marshmallow wall? Come and GET me!"
Of course, Cliffey was the one who had devoured the marshmallow wall, but trolls are notorious for being unable to tell the difference between one goat and another, so Karl chased after Sarah as if she had stolen his soul.
"RAAAAAAAWARGH!"
Sarah was terrified, naturally. But she was quick, and her brave little diversion gave Goldberg time to get the van going again. With engine roaring and headlights on full beam, he stepped on the accelerator and sped towards the troll that was menacing his goat.
Karl may have been mad with fury, but he wasn't stupid. As soon as he noticed that dented behemoth roaring towards him, he wasted no time in getting out of its way.
Sarah kept running, just as Goldberg had hoped. He drove up alongside her as she ran, leant out of his window, reached out his arm, and...
...failed to pick her up. Oh no.
Goldberg hit the brakes and began a three-point turn to try again.
"Hurry up Goldberg!" cried Pete, leaning out of the passenger side window. "The troll's right behind her!"
Indeed he was, and Goldberg did his best to turn the van around as quickly as possible. But Goldberg was no stunt driver, and as fast as Sarah ran towards the van, Karl had no trouble catching up to her.
Sarah collapsed, exhausted and petrified. Gasping for breath, she could only screw her eyes tightly shut as the troll's ghastly stench got nearer and nearer and nearer...
TO BE CONTINUED
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Wednesday, 29 June 2011
Two Truncated Tales
I mentioned the other day that we'd found our fifth housemate for next year, but sadly this has fallen through. Apparently he's found a house nearer to his uni or something.
So, instead of telling you about Henk, our housemate never to be, I shall cast an eye to the past and (briefly) tell ye a couple of stories from yore that slipped under the Cutlery radar...
I. Eggs
I was not present for this incident, so I shall be recounting it secondhand. My housemates were assembled in the kitchen, for one reason or another, when some bright spark decided to open the fridge. Out tumbled several of Gemma Ward's eggs, which presumably had not been fastened down in the proper manner.
"My eggs!"
The eggs were lost, but that wasn't the worst part. They didn't quite make it to the floor, instead aiming to land on Peter Murphy. They found their mark, splattering his lower appendages with eggy goo.
"My legs!"
II. The Cunning Trickery of Sophie Jones
A knock is heard at the door. Joel Dear wonders whether or not to answer it, but the scamper of feet coming downstairs indicates that the matter is under control.
Sophie Jones heads towards the door, but can see through the window that it is not someone she would care to speak to. She decides that Joel is better equipped to handle this one, so, instead of opening the door, she calls for her housemate.
"Joel! It's the landlord!"
Joel gets on fairly well with the landlord, and his happy to greet him. But upon opening the door - shockhorror! - Joel realises that he has been duped, and that he is in fact now saying how-do to a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses.
He deals with them in a curt manner before shutting the door and calling Sophie a cunt.
Joel.
So, instead of telling you about Henk, our housemate never to be, I shall cast an eye to the past and (briefly) tell ye a couple of stories from yore that slipped under the Cutlery radar...
I. Eggs
I was not present for this incident, so I shall be recounting it secondhand. My housemates were assembled in the kitchen, for one reason or another, when some bright spark decided to open the fridge. Out tumbled several of Gemma Ward's eggs, which presumably had not been fastened down in the proper manner.
"My eggs!"
The eggs were lost, but that wasn't the worst part. They didn't quite make it to the floor, instead aiming to land on Peter Murphy. They found their mark, splattering his lower appendages with eggy goo.
"My legs!"
II. The Cunning Trickery of Sophie Jones
A knock is heard at the door. Joel Dear wonders whether or not to answer it, but the scamper of feet coming downstairs indicates that the matter is under control.
Sophie Jones heads towards the door, but can see through the window that it is not someone she would care to speak to. She decides that Joel is better equipped to handle this one, so, instead of opening the door, she calls for her housemate.
"Joel! It's the landlord!"
Joel gets on fairly well with the landlord, and his happy to greet him. But upon opening the door - shockhorror! - Joel realises that he has been duped, and that he is in fact now saying how-do to a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses.
He deals with them in a curt manner before shutting the door and calling Sophie a cunt.
Joel.
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
The Goats From Gemma Meadows (Part 11)
Part 10 is here.
Pete was dreaming again.
He dreamed he was lying on a table as a huge goat, standing on its hind legs and at least as tall as the average human, painted him red.
He dreamed he was repeatedly jumping off the edge of a cliff, only to land on the same cliff over and over again.
He dreamed he was a bird in flight, being chased by a much larger bird, and as he looked over his shoulder the big bird gave a great shriek and exploded into a mass of feathers.
He could not understand why he wasn't dreaming anything useful. Surely the monster would have something important to say now? Heck, even if it was something as simple as, "I don't like your owner, he keeps yelling at me and shining his torch in my eyes" then at least Pete would know he was still on the right track.
But now he was beginning to worry. Maybe the monster wasn't communicating to him psychically through his dreams. Maybe they were just dreams.
He was dreaming about being sat at a dining table, eating squid with a Japanese family except he didn't have any cutlery so he had to ask the father for a knife and fork and everyone was glowering at him when the little daughter of the family ordered him, in a surprisingly masculine voice, to wake up.
And just like that, he was staring into the irritated eyes of his friend Cliffey.
"Come on. We're leaving before you run off again."
"Uff...wait," mumbled Pete sleepily. "Uh...where's Goldberg?"
"He's still shouting at the monster," said Sarah, nodding back towards the room they had just come from.
"Nah, I've finished now," said Goldberg quietly as he emerged, shutting the door behind him. "Are you okay, Pete? Shall we head off?"
Pete tried to think of a reason to keep them there, but he couldn't come up with anything, and he could sense that they were getting tired of his stalling antics.
"Okay, yeah. Let's go."
And so they went. They filed out of the cavern, and Goldberg helped them to scramble up out of the hole.
"So what did you say to him?" asked Pete as Goldberg pulled himself out.
"Just a few firm words," said Goldberg, smiling faintly.
* * *
The trolls strode through the forest, with the great crow walking at their side.
"So his name is Karl?"
"Karl, yes." Jo-Tunn gazed, glassy-eyed, into the middle distance. "He always complained about having such a human name. Some of our less...distinguished members would make fun of him for it, and that would always get on his wick rather."
"So maybe that's why he's snapped? Was he much of an outcast?"
Jo-Tunn sniffed. "All trolls are outcasts, friend. I suppose Karl was something of an outcast among outcasts, yes, but I don't see that that could have caused this."
"Well then what did?"
"It's anyone's guess."
They walked on in silence for a minute.
"Righto, everyone!" shouted Jo-Tunn, suddenly stopping to address the whole group. "It's clear to me that we've a much larger chance of finding Karl if we split up and fan out."
Jo-Tunn organised his trolls into five search parties. One team would head north, one south, one east and one west. The remaining team - consisting merely of Jo-Tunn and the crow - would stay put, on the off-chance that Karl wondered by this spot.
The other four parties shuffled off, and the crow heard some mumblings about leadership laziness. Jo-Tunn seemed not to hear, or otherwise just to ignore them.
Once the two of them were left alone, Jo-Tunn spoke up once more.
Pete was dreaming again.
He dreamed he was lying on a table as a huge goat, standing on its hind legs and at least as tall as the average human, painted him red.
He dreamed he was repeatedly jumping off the edge of a cliff, only to land on the same cliff over and over again.
He dreamed he was a bird in flight, being chased by a much larger bird, and as he looked over his shoulder the big bird gave a great shriek and exploded into a mass of feathers.
He could not understand why he wasn't dreaming anything useful. Surely the monster would have something important to say now? Heck, even if it was something as simple as, "I don't like your owner, he keeps yelling at me and shining his torch in my eyes" then at least Pete would know he was still on the right track.
But now he was beginning to worry. Maybe the monster wasn't communicating to him psychically through his dreams. Maybe they were just dreams.
He was dreaming about being sat at a dining table, eating squid with a Japanese family except he didn't have any cutlery so he had to ask the father for a knife and fork and everyone was glowering at him when the little daughter of the family ordered him, in a surprisingly masculine voice, to wake up.
And just like that, he was staring into the irritated eyes of his friend Cliffey.
"Come on. We're leaving before you run off again."
"Uff...wait," mumbled Pete sleepily. "Uh...where's Goldberg?"
"He's still shouting at the monster," said Sarah, nodding back towards the room they had just come from.
"Nah, I've finished now," said Goldberg quietly as he emerged, shutting the door behind him. "Are you okay, Pete? Shall we head off?"
Pete tried to think of a reason to keep them there, but he couldn't come up with anything, and he could sense that they were getting tired of his stalling antics.
"Okay, yeah. Let's go."
And so they went. They filed out of the cavern, and Goldberg helped them to scramble up out of the hole.
"So what did you say to him?" asked Pete as Goldberg pulled himself out.
"Just a few firm words," said Goldberg, smiling faintly.
* * *
The trolls strode through the forest, with the great crow walking at their side.
"So his name is Karl?"
"Karl, yes." Jo-Tunn gazed, glassy-eyed, into the middle distance. "He always complained about having such a human name. Some of our less...distinguished members would make fun of him for it, and that would always get on his wick rather."
"So maybe that's why he's snapped? Was he much of an outcast?"
Jo-Tunn sniffed. "All trolls are outcasts, friend. I suppose Karl was something of an outcast among outcasts, yes, but I don't see that that could have caused this."
"Well then what did?"
"It's anyone's guess."
They walked on in silence for a minute.
"Righto, everyone!" shouted Jo-Tunn, suddenly stopping to address the whole group. "It's clear to me that we've a much larger chance of finding Karl if we split up and fan out."
Jo-Tunn organised his trolls into five search parties. One team would head north, one south, one east and one west. The remaining team - consisting merely of Jo-Tunn and the crow - would stay put, on the off-chance that Karl wondered by this spot.
The other four parties shuffled off, and the crow heard some mumblings about leadership laziness. Jo-Tunn seemed not to hear, or otherwise just to ignore them.
Once the two of them were left alone, Jo-Tunn spoke up once more.
"I've just realised that you haven't even told us your name yet, friend. What shall we call you?"
The crow looked away for a minute. Jo-Tunn thought he saw a smile.
"You'll have to try and guess. It starts with a J."
"Hmph. If you're going to play games, I shall just call you crow."
And that was that.
TO BE CONTINUED
Tuesday, 15 March 2011
The Goats From Gemma Meadows (Part 10)
Part 9 is here.
It was much darker behind that door. Goldberg was glad he had brought the torch, or they probably wouldn't have seen the horrible slobbering monster right in front of them.
He was huge.
He was toothy.
He was, fortunately, chained to the wall.
But he still scared the bejesus out of everyone present. Cliffey was amazed at how accurate Goldberg's description had been: teeth like carving knives, eyes like cannonballs...
Ugh. Breath like the month-old eggs of the dead.
And he looked hungry. His angry, black stare was flitting ravenously between each of three goats, and Cliffey suddenly felt uncomfortably delicious.
Goldberg stepped forward. "Are you the one who turned Joel Fields into the nightmarish postcard from Hell it is today?"
The monster made no sound. He ignored Goldberg completely, and went right on eyeballing the goats. Sarah was concerned that he seemed a little more interested in her than in the other two. She hoped that, if he did eat her, he would swallow her whole. That way she wouldn't have to deal with those gargantuan teeth.
"I asked you a question," said Golberg firmly, pointing his flashlight directly into the monster's eyes. "Was it you? Did you eat all those innocent goats?"
The monster squealed and turned its head away so as to avoid the light.
Pete, who wasn't as scared as his friends but considering he'd already seen the monster was still pretty scared, wondered why the monster didn't say anything. He wondered how the monster was going to eat Sarah and Cliffey, what with being chained to the wall and everything.
And he wondered where the Human-ator was. This cave did look a little different to the one in his dream, and he was sure it was around here somewhere, but it didn't look like there were many places to hide something like that.
He was about to ask the monster where he kept it before he remembered that the others didn't know anything about their little agreement and, well, it was probably best to keep it that way.
"You are the worst thing in the world." Goldberg was addressing the monster again, still aiming the torch at him with one hand, pointing an accusing finger at him with the other. He spoke in a whisper, but it had all the fury of a scream. "I don't know how you got here, but I'm glad that whoever's responsible chained you up in a cave instead of killing you there and then. This way you suffer more."
The goats had never seen Goldberg this angry, and they might have been scared of him were it not for the gigantic goat-eating horror using up most of their fear at that point.
"I suppose you're hungry?" Goldberg continued, and on the word hungry he thrust the torch at the monster as if it were a sword. More agonised squealing. "I suppose you'd like to eat one of them?" He motioned towards the two goats with his pointing hand. "As if you haven't eaten enough goats already. Well these are my goats, and if you want them then you'll have to answer to me! Is that clear? You won't-"
Wait a minute.
Two goats?
Goldberg checked again.
Goldberg took a deep breath.
"Okay," said Goldberg. "Where's he gone now?"
* * *
"Right then. I call this two-thousand, nine-hundred and sixty-fourth monthly meeting of the Troll's League to order. Peikko will now take attendance, please answer your names."
"Thank you, Jo-Tunn. I shan't read your name out, we can all see that you're here."
"Thank you Peikko. Proceed."
"Righto. T'pon?"
"Present, Peikko."
"Thank you, T'pon. I'll just mark you down. Okay. There we are. Now, who's next? Umm...Lesni? Lesni, are you here?"
"Present, Peikko."
"Thank you, Lesni. Let me just put you down. Theeeere we go. Right. Peikko? Oh, silly me. Of course I'm here. Haha!"
The giant crow stood in the corner of the room watched this scene with disbelief.
"I'm sorry, perhaps I didn't make myself clear. One of your number has gone insane. He's a clear and present threat to himself and others. Mostly others. We need to get out and find him!"
"Well quite!" exclaimed Peikko enthusiastically. "Let me just finish the register, and then we'll get right down to business. Now, where were we? Ahm. Lesni?"
"You've already done me, Peikko."
"Oh. Oh! Have I? Well, what a scatterbrain I am. Um...Peikko?"
"Oh, for goodness' sake. Don't you care that one of your men is out there, ruining the good name the Troll's League has made for itself?"
"Indubitably," murmured Jo-Tunn. "But the Troll's League has taken record of attendance at every one of its monthly meetings since we were founded two hundred and forty-seven years ago. Besides, my dear fellow...how are we to know which of our number is missing if we don't take the register?"
"Just look! There's only one empty chair - who usually sits there?"
All the trolls turned to look at the sole unoccupied leather seat. There was a moment of silence before an excited chatter arose from those assembled. The crow couldn't quite hear what any one of them was saying, but he though he heard the name 'Karl' one more than one pair of lips.
Then, suddenly, there was silence again, and the trolls stood up from their chairs.
"Right then. It has been decided that immediate action must be taken. Peikko?"
"Yes, Jo-Tunn?"
"...Bring the register with you. We'll finish it on the way."
* * *
Cliffey and Sarah wandered back out into the passage to look for Pete while Goldberg told the monster off some more. They agreed that they had each done far more looking for Pete today than they had intended to do in their lives, and decided that next time, it was Pete's turn to look for Pete.
It didn't take long to find him - there weren't many hiding places down here, and Pete would have had trouble climbing back to the surface on his own.
But neither of them were sure why, now of all moments, he had decided to take a nap.
TO BE CONTINUED
It was much darker behind that door. Goldberg was glad he had brought the torch, or they probably wouldn't have seen the horrible slobbering monster right in front of them.
He was huge.
He was toothy.
He was, fortunately, chained to the wall.
But he still scared the bejesus out of everyone present. Cliffey was amazed at how accurate Goldberg's description had been: teeth like carving knives, eyes like cannonballs...
Ugh. Breath like the month-old eggs of the dead.
And he looked hungry. His angry, black stare was flitting ravenously between each of three goats, and Cliffey suddenly felt uncomfortably delicious.
Goldberg stepped forward. "Are you the one who turned Joel Fields into the nightmarish postcard from Hell it is today?"
The monster made no sound. He ignored Goldberg completely, and went right on eyeballing the goats. Sarah was concerned that he seemed a little more interested in her than in the other two. She hoped that, if he did eat her, he would swallow her whole. That way she wouldn't have to deal with those gargantuan teeth.
"I asked you a question," said Golberg firmly, pointing his flashlight directly into the monster's eyes. "Was it you? Did you eat all those innocent goats?"
The monster squealed and turned its head away so as to avoid the light.
Pete, who wasn't as scared as his friends but considering he'd already seen the monster was still pretty scared, wondered why the monster didn't say anything. He wondered how the monster was going to eat Sarah and Cliffey, what with being chained to the wall and everything.
And he wondered where the Human-ator was. This cave did look a little different to the one in his dream, and he was sure it was around here somewhere, but it didn't look like there were many places to hide something like that.
He was about to ask the monster where he kept it before he remembered that the others didn't know anything about their little agreement and, well, it was probably best to keep it that way.
"You are the worst thing in the world." Goldberg was addressing the monster again, still aiming the torch at him with one hand, pointing an accusing finger at him with the other. He spoke in a whisper, but it had all the fury of a scream. "I don't know how you got here, but I'm glad that whoever's responsible chained you up in a cave instead of killing you there and then. This way you suffer more."
The goats had never seen Goldberg this angry, and they might have been scared of him were it not for the gigantic goat-eating horror using up most of their fear at that point.
"I suppose you're hungry?" Goldberg continued, and on the word hungry he thrust the torch at the monster as if it were a sword. More agonised squealing. "I suppose you'd like to eat one of them?" He motioned towards the two goats with his pointing hand. "As if you haven't eaten enough goats already. Well these are my goats, and if you want them then you'll have to answer to me! Is that clear? You won't-"
Wait a minute.
Two goats?
Goldberg checked again.
Goldberg took a deep breath.
"Okay," said Goldberg. "Where's he gone now?"
* * *
"Right then. I call this two-thousand, nine-hundred and sixty-fourth monthly meeting of the Troll's League to order. Peikko will now take attendance, please answer your names."
"Thank you, Jo-Tunn. I shan't read your name out, we can all see that you're here."
"Thank you Peikko. Proceed."
"Righto. T'pon?"
"Present, Peikko."
"Thank you, T'pon. I'll just mark you down. Okay. There we are. Now, who's next? Umm...Lesni? Lesni, are you here?"
"Present, Peikko."
"Thank you, Lesni. Let me just put you down. Theeeere we go. Right. Peikko? Oh, silly me. Of course I'm here. Haha!"
The giant crow stood in the corner of the room watched this scene with disbelief.
"I'm sorry, perhaps I didn't make myself clear. One of your number has gone insane. He's a clear and present threat to himself and others. Mostly others. We need to get out and find him!"
"Well quite!" exclaimed Peikko enthusiastically. "Let me just finish the register, and then we'll get right down to business. Now, where were we? Ahm. Lesni?"
"You've already done me, Peikko."
"Oh. Oh! Have I? Well, what a scatterbrain I am. Um...Peikko?"
"Oh, for goodness' sake. Don't you care that one of your men is out there, ruining the good name the Troll's League has made for itself?"
"Indubitably," murmured Jo-Tunn. "But the Troll's League has taken record of attendance at every one of its monthly meetings since we were founded two hundred and forty-seven years ago. Besides, my dear fellow...how are we to know which of our number is missing if we don't take the register?"
"Just look! There's only one empty chair - who usually sits there?"
All the trolls turned to look at the sole unoccupied leather seat. There was a moment of silence before an excited chatter arose from those assembled. The crow couldn't quite hear what any one of them was saying, but he though he heard the name 'Karl' one more than one pair of lips.
Then, suddenly, there was silence again, and the trolls stood up from their chairs.
"Right then. It has been decided that immediate action must be taken. Peikko?"
"Yes, Jo-Tunn?"
"...Bring the register with you. We'll finish it on the way."
* * *
Cliffey and Sarah wandered back out into the passage to look for Pete while Goldberg told the monster off some more. They agreed that they had each done far more looking for Pete today than they had intended to do in their lives, and decided that next time, it was Pete's turn to look for Pete.
It didn't take long to find him - there weren't many hiding places down here, and Pete would have had trouble climbing back to the surface on his own.
But neither of them were sure why, now of all moments, he had decided to take a nap.
TO BE CONTINUED
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
A Message from Blogspot
Howdy folks, hope you had a good Pancake Day. We here at Blogspot like to look after our users, and given the almighty schedule slip that has befallen Cutlery of late, we were concerned about its author, Joel Dear. Is he alright? Has he disappeared off the face of the earth? Perhaps these fears are uncalled for; perhaps he has just gotten lazy, or has decided to actually do his uni work for a change. Nevertheless, it is better to be safe than sorry, and we decided to pay Mr. Dear a visit just to make sure he's okay.
Well, we went to Tewkesbury Place and...he wasn't there. Rest assured we are making serious enquiries into this, but in the meantime, we found a few bits of paper on Joel's desk and we decided to post them here to tide his many fans over until he returns. It seems to be some sort of screenplay in the making, so enjoy. And don't worry; we're sure he's fine...
* * *
Well, we went to Tewkesbury Place and...he wasn't there. Rest assured we are making serious enquiries into this, but in the meantime, we found a few bits of paper on Joel's desk and we decided to post them here to tide his many fans over until he returns. It seems to be some sort of screenplay in the making, so enjoy. And don't worry; we're sure he's fine...
* * *
NAIVE GRAVITY
We begin our story in a service station café. A hooded figure approaches the counter, where a young female barista has just entered hour eight of her shift. She is clearly in no mood to be trifled with.
Barista: (forcing a smile) What can I get you?
Customer: I don't want any coffee. I just need you.
Barista: I beg your pardon, madam?
Customer: You are Eleanor Gill?
Barista: (smile disappears) ...Nobody's called me that for a very long time.
Cut to an establishing shot of a student house. In the kitchen, we find Joel Dear preparing some sort of delicious meal for two.
Joel: Crap. Our chicken burgers aren't cooked at all, but these potato lattices are already starting to burn.
Stranger: Maybe you should...take the lattices out of the oven.
Joel: But then they'll get cold! Dammit, I am NOT cut out to be a chef.
Stranger: Then perhaps I could offer you a different job. Something...blockier.
Joel: What-
Joel whirls around to find a hooded figure in the kitchen with him.
Joel: What are you doing in my kitchen? State your business!
Stranger: Easy, easy. I'm here to ask you a favour.
Joel: Why should I help you? I don't even know you!
Stranger: You know me, Joel. We've had our...talks in the past.
Joel: I don't remember ever meeting a hooded stranger.
Stranger: Then perhaps you'll remember...(removes hood)...your Head of Sixth Form.
Joel: Miss Mills.
Mills: Mr. Dear.
Joel: You always thought I was useless. What's changed since we last crossed paths?
Mills: The goalposts have moved. Come back to St. Teilo's with me, I'll explain on the way.
Joel: (smirking) Perhaps I don't want to go with you.
Mills: Joel, please. Our altercations are in the past. Besides, we've already got Ellie on board.
Joel: Who's Ellie? I don't know an Ellie.
Barista: (appearing in doorway) Grow up, Joel. This is important.
Joel: ...Herbie?!
Herbie nods.
Cut to interior of Herbie's car. Joel is riding shotgun; Mills occupies the bitch seat, explaining the situation into the front.
Mills: So I guess the first thing I need to do is apologise.
Joel: Really.
Mills: Well, yes. You know how you always spent every spare minute of your time playing Free Tetris instead of revising?
Joel: I don't know why you had that computer in the common room in the first place if you didn't want us to-
Mills: Well it turns out that it wasn't a waste of time. In fact, that was time better spent than any of your lessons.
Herbie: You would say that, you history teacher. We both took arty subjects.
Mills: It doesn't matter what you took. Tetris was more important, even than history.
Joel: What about-
Mills: Even more important than Key Skills.
Joel: ...
Herbie: ...
Mills: It's that important.
Joel: I'm all ears.
Mills: Well, St. Teilo's has been low on funding since the new headmistress came - personally I don't rate her at all - and we're facing closure. We've begged and pleaded with the governers, shown them what good work we're doing, examples of the best students' best work...we've displayed art coursework, held school concerts, one of the sixth formers even gave a maths lecture to a university class-
Joel: And they weren't impressed?
Mills: No. And even the ticket money from the concert is only enough to save...(shudders)...D Block.
Joel: (shudders)
Mills: The head governer's a bit of a gamer, and he's said that he'll only be swayed if we can show him that we produce excellent Tetris players.
Joel: So we just have to beat this old guy's high scores, and the school stays open, is that it?
Mills: It's not just the old guy. He's an old Llanedeyrn alum, you see, and he was so thrilled at the opportunity to close his old rivals that, well, he wanted to make sure he didn't get it wrong.
Herbie: So he's hired a Tetris representative.
Mills: Well actually Ellie...that's not quite correct. I wanted to wait until Joel was here to tell you this, but-
Joel: But what?
Mills: He's got a whole team of them.
Joel/Herbie: (in chorus) What?!
Mills: A crack team of Tetris players. Johnny the Line, Shriekin' Marie Square, both Squiggle Twins, Ess and Zed, Big Bad Bertie Block...he's got all the big names from around the world. Plus this new kid that no-one's ever heard of. But talk in the corridor is that he once cleared five rows with one block.
Herbie: Impossible!
Mills: That's what we thought. But we can't afford to take any chances against these guys, and that's why we came to get you two.
Herbie: Okay. So we're assembling a team to take on his. Who else are we picking up?
Mills: Who else? It's just you and him, my dear girl.
Herbie: Just Joel and me?
Mills: Yep.
Joel: Against...what, six of them?
Mills: You're the school's only hope. I've seen you two play. If you had silly Tetris-related monikers, he'd probably ask you to be on his team as well. You're amazing, and this is your chance to prove it.
Joel: The odds are against us.
Mills: You spent the best part of two years practicing for this, Joel. Don't bottle now.
Joel: ...Herbie? Are you in?
Herbie: I hate to help her out even more than you do, Joel. But it's not for her.
Joel: Well then who is it for?
Herbie: The school. Everyone there. And more than that- it's for the glory.
* * *
And that's where it stops. Maybe we'll see the rest when Joel returns from his hiatus, which we're sure was completely voluntary and will be over before you know it. Personally, I can't wait.
Blogspot Bill.
Barista: (forcing a smile) What can I get you?
Customer: I don't want any coffee. I just need you.
Barista: I beg your pardon, madam?
Customer: You are Eleanor Gill?
Barista: (smile disappears) ...Nobody's called me that for a very long time.
Cut to an establishing shot of a student house. In the kitchen, we find Joel Dear preparing some sort of delicious meal for two.
Joel: Crap. Our chicken burgers aren't cooked at all, but these potato lattices are already starting to burn.
Stranger: Maybe you should...take the lattices out of the oven.
Joel: But then they'll get cold! Dammit, I am NOT cut out to be a chef.
Stranger: Then perhaps I could offer you a different job. Something...blockier.
Joel: What-
Joel whirls around to find a hooded figure in the kitchen with him.
Joel: What are you doing in my kitchen? State your business!
Stranger: Easy, easy. I'm here to ask you a favour.
Joel: Why should I help you? I don't even know you!
Stranger: You know me, Joel. We've had our...talks in the past.
Joel: I don't remember ever meeting a hooded stranger.
Stranger: Then perhaps you'll remember...(removes hood)...your Head of Sixth Form.
Joel: Miss Mills.
Mills: Mr. Dear.
Joel: You always thought I was useless. What's changed since we last crossed paths?
Mills: The goalposts have moved. Come back to St. Teilo's with me, I'll explain on the way.
Joel: (smirking) Perhaps I don't want to go with you.
Mills: Joel, please. Our altercations are in the past. Besides, we've already got Ellie on board.
Joel: Who's Ellie? I don't know an Ellie.
Barista: (appearing in doorway) Grow up, Joel. This is important.
Joel: ...Herbie?!
Herbie nods.
Cut to interior of Herbie's car. Joel is riding shotgun; Mills occupies the bitch seat, explaining the situation into the front.
Mills: So I guess the first thing I need to do is apologise.
Joel: Really.
Mills: Well, yes. You know how you always spent every spare minute of your time playing Free Tetris instead of revising?
Joel: I don't know why you had that computer in the common room in the first place if you didn't want us to-
Mills: Well it turns out that it wasn't a waste of time. In fact, that was time better spent than any of your lessons.
Herbie: You would say that, you history teacher. We both took arty subjects.
Mills: It doesn't matter what you took. Tetris was more important, even than history.
Joel: What about-
Mills: Even more important than Key Skills.
Joel: ...
Herbie: ...
Mills: It's that important.
Joel: I'm all ears.
Mills: Well, St. Teilo's has been low on funding since the new headmistress came - personally I don't rate her at all - and we're facing closure. We've begged and pleaded with the governers, shown them what good work we're doing, examples of the best students' best work...we've displayed art coursework, held school concerts, one of the sixth formers even gave a maths lecture to a university class-
Joel: And they weren't impressed?
Mills: No. And even the ticket money from the concert is only enough to save...(shudders)...D Block.
Joel: (shudders)
Mills: The head governer's a bit of a gamer, and he's said that he'll only be swayed if we can show him that we produce excellent Tetris players.
Joel: So we just have to beat this old guy's high scores, and the school stays open, is that it?
Mills: It's not just the old guy. He's an old Llanedeyrn alum, you see, and he was so thrilled at the opportunity to close his old rivals that, well, he wanted to make sure he didn't get it wrong.
Herbie: So he's hired a Tetris representative.
Mills: Well actually Ellie...that's not quite correct. I wanted to wait until Joel was here to tell you this, but-
Joel: But what?
Mills: He's got a whole team of them.
Joel/Herbie: (in chorus) What?!
Mills: A crack team of Tetris players. Johnny the Line, Shriekin' Marie Square, both Squiggle Twins, Ess and Zed, Big Bad Bertie Block...he's got all the big names from around the world. Plus this new kid that no-one's ever heard of. But talk in the corridor is that he once cleared five rows with one block.
Herbie: Impossible!
Mills: That's what we thought. But we can't afford to take any chances against these guys, and that's why we came to get you two.
Herbie: Okay. So we're assembling a team to take on his. Who else are we picking up?
Mills: Who else? It's just you and him, my dear girl.
Herbie: Just Joel and me?
Mills: Yep.
Joel: Against...what, six of them?
Mills: You're the school's only hope. I've seen you two play. If you had silly Tetris-related monikers, he'd probably ask you to be on his team as well. You're amazing, and this is your chance to prove it.
Joel: The odds are against us.
Mills: You spent the best part of two years practicing for this, Joel. Don't bottle now.
Joel: ...Herbie? Are you in?
Herbie: I hate to help her out even more than you do, Joel. But it's not for her.
Joel: Well then who is it for?
Herbie: The school. Everyone there. And more than that- it's for the glory.
* * *
And that's where it stops. Maybe we'll see the rest when Joel returns from his hiatus, which we're sure was completely voluntary and will be over before you know it. Personally, I can't wait.
Blogspot Bill.
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
The Goats From Gemma Meadows (Part 9)
Part 8 is here.
As the humongous crow left Joel Fields once more, there was still no indication that the goats would be back in the Meadows anytime soon.
Goldberg sighed.
"We really need to get back, Pete," he said forcefully. "Why would you want to stick around here anyway? There's nothing."
Pete's plan may have been slightly flawed as far as location was concerned, but this was one part he had put some thought into. He looked away for a moment and, calling upon all the acting prowess he had garnered in his somewhat limited experience, shed a single tear.
Then he looked back to the group and said:
"I just don't believe it. Joel Fields."
Goldberg sighed again.
"I know, Pete."
"I mean, I know it's a wasteland but...it's Joel Fields, y'know? I can almost smell the dandelions."
"I know, Pete." Tears were now forming in the eyes of the other two goats.
"I mean look at it! No grass, no life.."
He trotted over to the sign.
"Even the sign..."
He bowed his head, stuck out his horns.
"Even the sign is rotten!"
And on that last word, he gave the decrepit thing an almighty wallop.
* * *
Pete wasn't sure what he thought was going to happen when he headbutted that sign. The only clue he had was what the monster had told him when he had fallen asleep in the forest:
"The 'Welcome to Joel Fields' sign. That's the key."
But he reasoned that his attack would provoke some hint as to the sign's role in uncovering the cave and, even if it didn't, he could at least disguise the attempt as an emotional outburst while he thought of something else.
Fortunately, something did happen. The monster had not been being overly cryptic; an evil goat-harvesting horror he may be but, to his credit, the sign was the key.
And once Pete had turned the key, it opened the lock, and once the lock had opened, so did the trapdoor beneath Pete's hooves.
"Pete!" he heard his comrades cry as he tumbled. It was not a very far fall, perhaps a little over ten feet, but it had taken him by surprise. When he got to his feet, his legs were shaking.
"Are you okay?" called Cliffey, peering down at him from above.
"I think so, yeah." His cover remained unblown. "Guys, I know you're all aching to go home but..."
"But what?" came the cry from above after a moment.
"...There's, like, a passageway down here. Goldberg, do you have a torch?"
Another moment passed before a beam of light confirmed that yes, he did. Goldberg carefully clambered down.
"Isn't this exciting? Get Cliffey and Sarah too!"
"Pete, I'm not sure about this. I'm as curious as you are to find out what's underneath Joel Fields, but I can't guarantee it won't be dangerous. And even if could, I couldn't guarantee it won't be boring. The three of you should probably hang back while I check it out."
"And let you have all the fun?" chimed Sarah, for whom the promise of new ground seemed to have erased the trauma of seeing the state of the Fields. She had quietly joined her friends in the rabbit-hole, and was now grinning expectantly.
Goldberg sighed, not for the first time. "Okay. Well. Just...keep your wits about you, okay? And stay close. Are you coming, Cliffey?" he shouted up.
"Sure..." said Cliffey uncertainly. He had personally had enough adventure for one day, but what can one do when swimming against the tide? Especially when one is a goat, a species not known for their strong swimming.
As he prepared to descend the trapdoor's shaft, he looked up. The crow was still there, and it looked like he was just flying around in circles over the Fields.
That's odd, thought Cliffey. He's free to go home. Why doesn't he leave?
He realised that he hadn't been polite enough to ask the crow's name yet, and resolved to do so if they met again.
* * *
Goldberg, naturally, led the way through the darkness, with Pete, Sarah and Cliffey - in that order - close behind.
The passage wasn't too long; it wasn't particularly twisty, and it wasn't at all turny. Goldberg hardly even needed his flashlight - the dim light filtering through the trapdoor would probably have been enough.
It wasn't long before they came to a thick metal door, fitted neatly into the walls of the cave.
"There's a padlock," muttered Goldberg, mostly to himself, "but it looks old. I can probably just bash it off with the end of the torch. Are you guys ready to see what lies beyond?"
A small voice cut through the suspense.
"Goldberg?"
"Yes, Pete?"
"I'm scared."
"That's understandable. But don't be. It's something new. Life - real life, not goat life where you lie around all day and eat and do nothing - life is made up of new things."
Until you find the one that kills you, thought Cliffey.
True to his word, Goldberg dispatched the padlock with ease. He gripped the door handle.
"Here we go, folks."
And in they went.
TO BE CONTINUED
As the humongous crow left Joel Fields once more, there was still no indication that the goats would be back in the Meadows anytime soon.
Goldberg sighed.
"We really need to get back, Pete," he said forcefully. "Why would you want to stick around here anyway? There's nothing."
Pete's plan may have been slightly flawed as far as location was concerned, but this was one part he had put some thought into. He looked away for a moment and, calling upon all the acting prowess he had garnered in his somewhat limited experience, shed a single tear.
Then he looked back to the group and said:
"I just don't believe it. Joel Fields."
Goldberg sighed again.
"I know, Pete."
"I mean, I know it's a wasteland but...it's Joel Fields, y'know? I can almost smell the dandelions."
"I know, Pete." Tears were now forming in the eyes of the other two goats.
"I mean look at it! No grass, no life.."
He trotted over to the sign.
"Even the sign..."
He bowed his head, stuck out his horns.
"Even the sign is rotten!"
And on that last word, he gave the decrepit thing an almighty wallop.
* * *
Pete wasn't sure what he thought was going to happen when he headbutted that sign. The only clue he had was what the monster had told him when he had fallen asleep in the forest:
"The 'Welcome to Joel Fields' sign. That's the key."
But he reasoned that his attack would provoke some hint as to the sign's role in uncovering the cave and, even if it didn't, he could at least disguise the attempt as an emotional outburst while he thought of something else.
Fortunately, something did happen. The monster had not been being overly cryptic; an evil goat-harvesting horror he may be but, to his credit, the sign was the key.
And once Pete had turned the key, it opened the lock, and once the lock had opened, so did the trapdoor beneath Pete's hooves.
"Pete!" he heard his comrades cry as he tumbled. It was not a very far fall, perhaps a little over ten feet, but it had taken him by surprise. When he got to his feet, his legs were shaking.
"Are you okay?" called Cliffey, peering down at him from above.
"I think so, yeah." His cover remained unblown. "Guys, I know you're all aching to go home but..."
"But what?" came the cry from above after a moment.
"...There's, like, a passageway down here. Goldberg, do you have a torch?"
Another moment passed before a beam of light confirmed that yes, he did. Goldberg carefully clambered down.
"Isn't this exciting? Get Cliffey and Sarah too!"
"Pete, I'm not sure about this. I'm as curious as you are to find out what's underneath Joel Fields, but I can't guarantee it won't be dangerous. And even if could, I couldn't guarantee it won't be boring. The three of you should probably hang back while I check it out."
"And let you have all the fun?" chimed Sarah, for whom the promise of new ground seemed to have erased the trauma of seeing the state of the Fields. She had quietly joined her friends in the rabbit-hole, and was now grinning expectantly.
Goldberg sighed, not for the first time. "Okay. Well. Just...keep your wits about you, okay? And stay close. Are you coming, Cliffey?" he shouted up.
"Sure..." said Cliffey uncertainly. He had personally had enough adventure for one day, but what can one do when swimming against the tide? Especially when one is a goat, a species not known for their strong swimming.
As he prepared to descend the trapdoor's shaft, he looked up. The crow was still there, and it looked like he was just flying around in circles over the Fields.
That's odd, thought Cliffey. He's free to go home. Why doesn't he leave?
He realised that he hadn't been polite enough to ask the crow's name yet, and resolved to do so if they met again.
* * *
Goldberg, naturally, led the way through the darkness, with Pete, Sarah and Cliffey - in that order - close behind.
The passage wasn't too long; it wasn't particularly twisty, and it wasn't at all turny. Goldberg hardly even needed his flashlight - the dim light filtering through the trapdoor would probably have been enough.
It wasn't long before they came to a thick metal door, fitted neatly into the walls of the cave.
"There's a padlock," muttered Goldberg, mostly to himself, "but it looks old. I can probably just bash it off with the end of the torch. Are you guys ready to see what lies beyond?"
A small voice cut through the suspense.
"Goldberg?"
"Yes, Pete?"
"I'm scared."
"That's understandable. But don't be. It's something new. Life - real life, not goat life where you lie around all day and eat and do nothing - life is made up of new things."
Until you find the one that kills you, thought Cliffey.
True to his word, Goldberg dispatched the padlock with ease. He gripped the door handle.
"Here we go, folks."
And in they went.
TO BE CONTINUED
Friday, 11 February 2011
Blank Canvas (Part 2 of 2)
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
"Hm?"
"I've just jumped in the water. I told you to do a backflip!"
Joel hands the iPod back to Cliffey, and unhappily awaits destruction. They are sitting in a bus shelter near the station, waiting for the arrival of the silver chariot that will take them home.
"I'm worried they'll get lost."
"Don't be. They'll get here. They just might be...late."
"What, like 1am?"
"Yeah. On Friday morning."
The show was phenomenally entertaining, littered with TV theme medleys and talking Jack O' Lanterns and between-song sketches and even an Outkast cover. Joel is pleased to have been able to shout "ICE COLD!" at someone in the course of his gig-going, even if it was decidedly not André 3000.
But in spite of this, they were glad to get out. Sin City was, predictably enough, packed to the rafters, and there was a bit of a squeeze when it came time to leave. Ten or fifteen minutes had passed in there without any movement whatsoever; Cliffey spent it pinned against the merch desk, all the while dodging the audience members who hadn't bought their The Blanks hotpants beforehand.
Joel passed the time by playing Which Famous Football Stadium Disaster Would The Eventual Inevitable Chaos Most Resemble? Given the crush, he reasoned, it would probably be Hillsborough, but hey! Maybe the band would come back on for a second encore and we'd end up with an Ibrox.
But fortunately they made it out alive, and having ignored the not-so-orderly queue to get back in - everybody wanted to meet Ted from Scrubs - they had ended up here, on the bus stop.
A young man asks if they are also waiting for the 4A; they are not. He skulks off into the night.
And before they know it, another game of Worms is over, and they're in the car, on the way home. Tom is driving.
"I can't believe you got me to come to Swansea."
Joel smirks.
"Well excuse me for only paying you £25. Next time I won't bother."
Sarah is smiling in the backseat, and their housemate Pete has come along too. They exchange tales of their evenings, how good the gig was, how they bumped into Sam, how that didn't really come to anything, and everything looks like it will be okay because nobody has to spend the night in Swansea.
"Hm?"
"I've just jumped in the water. I told you to do a backflip!"
Joel hands the iPod back to Cliffey, and unhappily awaits destruction. They are sitting in a bus shelter near the station, waiting for the arrival of the silver chariot that will take them home.
"I'm worried they'll get lost."
"Don't be. They'll get here. They just might be...late."
"What, like 1am?"
"Yeah. On Friday morning."
The show was phenomenally entertaining, littered with TV theme medleys and talking Jack O' Lanterns and between-song sketches and even an Outkast cover. Joel is pleased to have been able to shout "ICE COLD!" at someone in the course of his gig-going, even if it was decidedly not André 3000.
But in spite of this, they were glad to get out. Sin City was, predictably enough, packed to the rafters, and there was a bit of a squeeze when it came time to leave. Ten or fifteen minutes had passed in there without any movement whatsoever; Cliffey spent it pinned against the merch desk, all the while dodging the audience members who hadn't bought their The Blanks hotpants beforehand.
Joel passed the time by playing Which Famous Football Stadium Disaster Would The Eventual Inevitable Chaos Most Resemble? Given the crush, he reasoned, it would probably be Hillsborough, but hey! Maybe the band would come back on for a second encore and we'd end up with an Ibrox.
But fortunately they made it out alive, and having ignored the not-so-orderly queue to get back in - everybody wanted to meet Ted from Scrubs - they had ended up here, on the bus stop.
A young man asks if they are also waiting for the 4A; they are not. He skulks off into the night.
And before they know it, another game of Worms is over, and they're in the car, on the way home. Tom is driving.
"I can't believe you got me to come to Swansea."
Joel smirks.
"Well excuse me for only paying you £25. Next time I won't bother."
Sarah is smiling in the backseat, and their housemate Pete has come along too. They exchange tales of their evenings, how good the gig was, how they bumped into Sam, how that didn't really come to anything, and everything looks like it will be okay because nobody has to spend the night in Swansea.
THE END
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Blank Canvas (Part 1 of 2)
"This isn't first class, is it?"
Two unshowered, unshaved young men board, and wonder if they've got the wrong platform. Given its destination, the train carriage seems too comfortable, too plush.
Hesitantly, they take their seats. The Guardian and all its various supplements are spread across the table. The longer-haired of the two picks up an article on pro-life organisations in America, and tries to pretend he's sure this is the right train.
The train lurches into motion. His companion fiddles with his iPod.
"Game of Worms?" he suggests.
Joel puts the newspaper down, and nods. While Cliffey sets it up, he tries to squint past his reflection in the window, hoping to work out precisely which direction they're going in.
"The next station stop," mumbles the man on the other end of the Tannoy, "is Bridgend."
The two travellers momentarily exchange a panicked glance, and then relax. That's right. That's the right direction. They begin their game.
About an hour later, they alight. Tramping across the darkened station, Joel comments that he feels as if he has gone wrong somewhere, to have arrived in this city. Cliffey chuckles, and they head out into the evening rain.
If Cardiff is the heart of Wales, then Swansea is its large intestine.
* * *
Back home, someone is looking at Swansea Station on a map. She examines roads, inspects postcodes. It's not her job to get there, but the guy whose job it is needs all the help he can get.
She scribbles down the station's postcode, pauses, and decides to play Baldies until Tom arrives.
* * *
The venue is called Sin City, and after a brief look at the map outside the station, Joel and his companion start working their way towards it. Down Alexandra, turn off at Orchard, carry on onto the Kingsway.
They stop at Co-Op to buy some food, and as they enter they are greeted by a recording of Brian Blessed.
They pass the largest Oceana in Britain, and thank their lucky stars that they came here tonight, rather than waiting two days for the show to come to Cardiff. There's an Oceana there too, of course, but it's just not big enough.
Sin City is one of the more toilety venues either of them have seen. Cliffey hands over the e-tickets, the name Thom Cliffe is crossed off the guest list, and they start up the stairs.
This will be fun.
* * *
Tom arrives at the house just after 10. Sarah doesn't hear him knocking, so he has to ring the house phone to get her attention.
"Hello?"
"Can you open the door, please?"
"Oh."
She opens the door and in he comes, looking slightly fragile.
"Did he leave the money?"
"All twenty-five pounds of it."
She hands him two notes, a five and a twenty, and a thin smile plays across his face.
"Well, let's get this over with."
TO BE CONTINUED
Two unshowered, unshaved young men board, and wonder if they've got the wrong platform. Given its destination, the train carriage seems too comfortable, too plush.
Hesitantly, they take their seats. The Guardian and all its various supplements are spread across the table. The longer-haired of the two picks up an article on pro-life organisations in America, and tries to pretend he's sure this is the right train.
The train lurches into motion. His companion fiddles with his iPod.
"Game of Worms?" he suggests.
Joel puts the newspaper down, and nods. While Cliffey sets it up, he tries to squint past his reflection in the window, hoping to work out precisely which direction they're going in.
"The next station stop," mumbles the man on the other end of the Tannoy, "is Bridgend."
The two travellers momentarily exchange a panicked glance, and then relax. That's right. That's the right direction. They begin their game.
About an hour later, they alight. Tramping across the darkened station, Joel comments that he feels as if he has gone wrong somewhere, to have arrived in this city. Cliffey chuckles, and they head out into the evening rain.
If Cardiff is the heart of Wales, then Swansea is its large intestine.
* * *
Back home, someone is looking at Swansea Station on a map. She examines roads, inspects postcodes. It's not her job to get there, but the guy whose job it is needs all the help he can get.
She scribbles down the station's postcode, pauses, and decides to play Baldies until Tom arrives.
* * *
The venue is called Sin City, and after a brief look at the map outside the station, Joel and his companion start working their way towards it. Down Alexandra, turn off at Orchard, carry on onto the Kingsway.
They stop at Co-Op to buy some food, and as they enter they are greeted by a recording of Brian Blessed.
They pass the largest Oceana in Britain, and thank their lucky stars that they came here tonight, rather than waiting two days for the show to come to Cardiff. There's an Oceana there too, of course, but it's just not big enough.
Sin City is one of the more toilety venues either of them have seen. Cliffey hands over the e-tickets, the name Thom Cliffe is crossed off the guest list, and they start up the stairs.
This will be fun.
* * *
Tom arrives at the house just after 10. Sarah doesn't hear him knocking, so he has to ring the house phone to get her attention.
"Hello?"
"Can you open the door, please?"
"Oh."
She opens the door and in he comes, looking slightly fragile.
"Did he leave the money?"
"All twenty-five pounds of it."
She hands him two notes, a five and a twenty, and a thin smile plays across his face.
"Well, let's get this over with."
TO BE CONTINUED
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
Are They A Fan?
DISCLAIMER: The cantankerous weed-smoking metalhead featured in this story is a fabrication, and in no way based on the real Zane Lowe, who is probably a lovely man.
Zane Lowe frowns as he leaves the studio. "What I need," he thinks, caressing his beard "is a spliff."
It's going to be a pretty crappy show tonight. Zane has just acquired an early copy of the upcoming Eyehategod album, and he's spent the last hour and a half begging the suits to let him play a track off it.
"We've told you before, Zane. No sludge metal."
"It's just one track, you fucks. Four minutes. Nobody will notice, nobody pays any fucking attention to the radio anymore."
"That's not really the kind of attitude we want to see here at Radio 1." Sarcastic bastard.
"So what can I play?" he growls.
"Well, you've got Liam Bailey on tonight, so he'll want to hear his track. And maybe that Chase & Status song too."
"Great. And will there be anything with balls?"
It's not hard to get these stuffed shirt radio bastards flustered.
"You can play some Bullet For My Valentine if you want."
"Brilliant."
Zane takes a long drag on his joint. He prefers his other job. Nobody tells him what music he can or can't listen to when he's working his other job.
Ever since that bout of flu around this time last year, Zane has found that his body doesn't seem to need sleep like other people's bodies do. He can go for a week or more without so much as a power-nap. For some reason he can just keep going.
The radio stuff pays pretty well, and even with two kids he can still afford all sorts of fun for himself. So money is no issue; he doesn't need the extra cash. He just needed something exciting to fill up those extra hours.
So he went into the assassination business. It's pretty easy. Someone, usually someone pale and looking as if they were having second thoughts about it, tells him a name and gives him a fat wad of notes. He drives to their house, Acid Bath screaming from his car stereo, knocks on their door, and silently does away with them.
Sometimes he wears a mask and gets it over with quickly. But whenever he is given a new quarry, he always asks the same question:
"Are they a fan?"
And if they are, well, he gives them a treat before they meet their maker.
"Hi, I'm Zane Lowe."
"Oh my god! What are you doing here?"
"Are you ________?"
"Yes! Oh wow! How do you know my name?"
A cheeky grin.
"A little bird told me."
And then death. He thinks it's quite a good idea, actually; a lot of people would probably pay good money to be killed by a celebrity. Teenage girls screaming in ecstasy as one of the Jonas Brothers tightens his hands around their neck. Nerdy 30-year-olds who live in a basement clambering over each other to be the first person to actually be slaughtered by Uma Therman (in full Kill Bill outfit, of course).
Hm.
Zane takes one last pull on the joint before letting it fall to the ground. A girl with a harajuku haircut and her one-earringed boyfriend pass by on the other side of the road. They see him, whisper to each other, exchange oh-my-god-is-that-Zane-Lowe grins, and walk on.
Zane checks his watch. Ten to seven. The radio bosses will be waiting for him.
Oh well. Time to go to work.
Zane Lowe frowns as he leaves the studio. "What I need," he thinks, caressing his beard "is a spliff."
It's going to be a pretty crappy show tonight. Zane has just acquired an early copy of the upcoming Eyehategod album, and he's spent the last hour and a half begging the suits to let him play a track off it.
"We've told you before, Zane. No sludge metal."
"It's just one track, you fucks. Four minutes. Nobody will notice, nobody pays any fucking attention to the radio anymore."
"That's not really the kind of attitude we want to see here at Radio 1." Sarcastic bastard.
"So what can I play?" he growls.
"Well, you've got Liam Bailey on tonight, so he'll want to hear his track. And maybe that Chase & Status song too."
"Great. And will there be anything with balls?"
It's not hard to get these stuffed shirt radio bastards flustered.
"You can play some Bullet For My Valentine if you want."
"Brilliant."
Zane takes a long drag on his joint. He prefers his other job. Nobody tells him what music he can or can't listen to when he's working his other job.
Ever since that bout of flu around this time last year, Zane has found that his body doesn't seem to need sleep like other people's bodies do. He can go for a week or more without so much as a power-nap. For some reason he can just keep going.
The radio stuff pays pretty well, and even with two kids he can still afford all sorts of fun for himself. So money is no issue; he doesn't need the extra cash. He just needed something exciting to fill up those extra hours.
So he went into the assassination business. It's pretty easy. Someone, usually someone pale and looking as if they were having second thoughts about it, tells him a name and gives him a fat wad of notes. He drives to their house, Acid Bath screaming from his car stereo, knocks on their door, and silently does away with them.
Sometimes he wears a mask and gets it over with quickly. But whenever he is given a new quarry, he always asks the same question:
"Are they a fan?"
And if they are, well, he gives them a treat before they meet their maker.
"Hi, I'm Zane Lowe."
"Oh my god! What are you doing here?"
"Are you ________?"
"Yes! Oh wow! How do you know my name?"
A cheeky grin.
"A little bird told me."
And then death. He thinks it's quite a good idea, actually; a lot of people would probably pay good money to be killed by a celebrity. Teenage girls screaming in ecstasy as one of the Jonas Brothers tightens his hands around their neck. Nerdy 30-year-olds who live in a basement clambering over each other to be the first person to actually be slaughtered by Uma Therman (in full Kill Bill outfit, of course).
Hm.
Zane takes one last pull on the joint before letting it fall to the ground. A girl with a harajuku haircut and her one-earringed boyfriend pass by on the other side of the road. They see him, whisper to each other, exchange oh-my-god-is-that-Zane-Lowe grins, and walk on.
Zane checks his watch. Ten to seven. The radio bosses will be waiting for him.
Oh well. Time to go to work.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
The Goats From Gemma Meadows (Part 8)
Part 7 is here.
"You'll be going home now then?"
The crow seemed eager to leave, and who could blame him? This wasn't the kind of place that made you want to stick around.
But no-one was going anywhere yet. Not until they'd found Pete.
"You're welcome to leave," said Goldberg, addressing the crow. "We have to find Pete."
"You can find your own way back, then?"
Goldberg nodded. "I think everyone will fit in the van."
The crow nodded, and said nothing. He simply turned, flapped his giant wings, and flew away.
Goldberg watched the huge bird until he had crossed the horizon. Then, blinking, he asked Sarah if she knew who the crow was or where he had came from.
Sarah didn't know.
* * *
All Pete had to do was find the cave.
But that could be harder than it sounded. Joel Fields was so barren that, even when stood on the very edge, you could see right across it. And Pete could see straight away that there were no caves in Joel Fields.
So he headed back into the forest.
Which was silly. He had just come out of the forest, and were it not for the crow he'd probably still be in there, hopelessly wandering around in circles.
Actually, scratch that. Were it not for the crow, he'd have beeen eaten by a troll.
But he had a plan, and for some reason that made him forget this. True, he knew his way around the forest about as well as he knew how to play the tuba. Yes, he could well be on the inside of some vicious monster faster than he could say "comeuppance".
But he had a plan, and so he was confident. Everything would be wrapped up within the hour, and he could go off and be human and live the good life.
It was so close he could taste it...
* * *
"I owe you an apology."
"What?"
"I mean, I told you the whole big backstory, formulated a plan for you, convinced you it was a good idea, and I didn't even tell you where I was!"
Pete was back in the cave.
That's odd, he thought. I don't remember getting here.
"What a scatterbrain I am."
The monster was here too, but he wasn't chained up like he'd said he would be. He was pacing around, chuckling to himself.
"It's a good thing you fell asleep or you never would have found me."
Oh, thought Pete. That explains it.
"But anyway. How's it all going? Are you nearby?"
"I think so," Pete replied. "Last thing I remember I was in the forest, trying to find your cave."
"The forest?" the monster laughed again. "No no no. I know I wasn't too informative, but I'm pretty sure I mentioned that I was in Joel Fields."
"But there aren't any caves in Joel Fields!" protested Pete. "Not that I could see."
"Exactly."
"What?"
"You won't be able to see the cave," explained the monster. "Of course not. It's underground."
"Underground," repeated Pete. "How do I get underground?"
"Well. Those awful trolls used to send a man down every so often to check on me, make sure I hadn't broken free. They stopped after a while; I suppose they decided that it was never going to happen, so why bother? But anyway, it was the sign."
"What sign?"
"The 'Welcome to Joel Fields' sign. That's the key."
"Okay," said Pete, nodding. "So what do I do?"
"Your friends are looking for you," boomed the monster in a voice quite different to the one he'd been using so far.
"...I beg your pardon?"
Pete awoke to find the biggest crow he'd ever seen staring him in the face.
"I know you've had a long day," said the crow. "But this is a dangerous place to fall asleep. Come on, everyone's worried about you."
Pete sighed. Oh well. At least he had a clue.
Once more he hopped on the crow's back, relieved that, once again, he wouldn't have to find his own way to Joel Fields.
* * *
As they flew, Pete felt a pang of guilt. Cliffey and Sarah had been his friends since he was just a kid. And now he was going to sell them to a monster who was quite open about his intentions to eat them.
Didn't he care at all?
...
No, he decided. Humans don't really care about goats.
TO BE CONTINUED
"You'll be going home now then?"
The crow seemed eager to leave, and who could blame him? This wasn't the kind of place that made you want to stick around.
But no-one was going anywhere yet. Not until they'd found Pete.
"You're welcome to leave," said Goldberg, addressing the crow. "We have to find Pete."
"You can find your own way back, then?"
Goldberg nodded. "I think everyone will fit in the van."
The crow nodded, and said nothing. He simply turned, flapped his giant wings, and flew away.
Goldberg watched the huge bird until he had crossed the horizon. Then, blinking, he asked Sarah if she knew who the crow was or where he had came from.
Sarah didn't know.
* * *
All Pete had to do was find the cave.
But that could be harder than it sounded. Joel Fields was so barren that, even when stood on the very edge, you could see right across it. And Pete could see straight away that there were no caves in Joel Fields.
So he headed back into the forest.
Which was silly. He had just come out of the forest, and were it not for the crow he'd probably still be in there, hopelessly wandering around in circles.
Actually, scratch that. Were it not for the crow, he'd have beeen eaten by a troll.
But he had a plan, and for some reason that made him forget this. True, he knew his way around the forest about as well as he knew how to play the tuba. Yes, he could well be on the inside of some vicious monster faster than he could say "comeuppance".
But he had a plan, and so he was confident. Everything would be wrapped up within the hour, and he could go off and be human and live the good life.
It was so close he could taste it...
* * *
"I owe you an apology."
"What?"
"I mean, I told you the whole big backstory, formulated a plan for you, convinced you it was a good idea, and I didn't even tell you where I was!"
Pete was back in the cave.
That's odd, he thought. I don't remember getting here.
"What a scatterbrain I am."
The monster was here too, but he wasn't chained up like he'd said he would be. He was pacing around, chuckling to himself.
"It's a good thing you fell asleep or you never would have found me."
Oh, thought Pete. That explains it.
"But anyway. How's it all going? Are you nearby?"
"I think so," Pete replied. "Last thing I remember I was in the forest, trying to find your cave."
"The forest?" the monster laughed again. "No no no. I know I wasn't too informative, but I'm pretty sure I mentioned that I was in Joel Fields."
"But there aren't any caves in Joel Fields!" protested Pete. "Not that I could see."
"Exactly."
"What?"
"You won't be able to see the cave," explained the monster. "Of course not. It's underground."
"Underground," repeated Pete. "How do I get underground?"
"Well. Those awful trolls used to send a man down every so often to check on me, make sure I hadn't broken free. They stopped after a while; I suppose they decided that it was never going to happen, so why bother? But anyway, it was the sign."
"What sign?"
"The 'Welcome to Joel Fields' sign. That's the key."
"Okay," said Pete, nodding. "So what do I do?"
"Your friends are looking for you," boomed the monster in a voice quite different to the one he'd been using so far.
"...I beg your pardon?"
Pete awoke to find the biggest crow he'd ever seen staring him in the face.
"I know you've had a long day," said the crow. "But this is a dangerous place to fall asleep. Come on, everyone's worried about you."
Pete sighed. Oh well. At least he had a clue.
Once more he hopped on the crow's back, relieved that, once again, he wouldn't have to find his own way to Joel Fields.
* * *
As they flew, Pete felt a pang of guilt. Cliffey and Sarah had been his friends since he was just a kid. And now he was going to sell them to a monster who was quite open about his intentions to eat them.
Didn't he care at all?
...
No, he decided. Humans don't really care about goats.
TO BE CONTINUED
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
The Goats From Gemma Meadows (Part 7)
Part 6 is here.
ONE MONTH EARLIER
Nighttime in Gemma Meadows, and everyone is asleep. Sarah, Cliffey, Pete, Goldberg, the birds, the grass, the trees, all snoozing.
Sarah is dreaming of Joel Fields. She dreams of the clean air, the dandy dandelions, and enough lush green grass to give you a tummyache.
Cliffey is dreaming of Joel Fields. He dreams of the peace and quiet (it's much further from the road than the Meadows) and the wide open spaces to run around in.
Pete is dreaming of Joel Fields too, but he hasn't realised it yet. As far as he's aware, he's just having a nightmare about meeting a horrible monster in some dead, dry desert.
"Peter?" growls the monster.
"Y-yes?" he replies.
"Peter The Goat?"
"Yes?"
Pete isn't sure he should be giving his name to this thing, even if it is just a dream. Each individual tooth in its mouth is big enough to carve a turkey. And the eyes! They're huge, evil-looking, and blacker than the night Pete is sleeping through.
But suddenly that awful mouth is smiling happily, and those eyes have a certain look of generosity about them.
"What do you wish for?" asks the monster, still growling, but in a much friendlier way, Pete thinks.
"What?"
Another toothy grin. "I can grant you anything. Speak."
Pete acts like he is mulling it over, but he knows what he wants. It's what he's always wanted. Being a goat is fantastic - very few responsibilities, lots of food and free time - but you just eat and frolic and sleep and repeat and that's pretty much all there is to it. Very little scope for anything particularly interesting.
But humans...the things Pete would be able to do as a human. He could start a business empire and become rich and famous. He could record a hit single and top the charts and become rich and famous. He could play football for Manchester United and score a hat-trick and become rich and famous. He could write books, paint portraits, climb mountains, fall in love, and when he died people would get together in a big room and cry and say nice things about him and afterwards important people would put a picture of him in a book and everyone would see it and say "Gosh, didn't he achieve a lot?"
So what Pete really wants, more than green grass, more than dandelions, more than anything, is to be human. And this is what he tells the monster in his dreams.
The monster grins wider and sharper than ever. "Well what a coincidence!" he chuckles in a gravelly sort of way. "I happen to have a machine for that sort of thing right here."
And he does. Pete hadn't noticed until now, but at some point the backdrop for this conversation has gone from that depressing wasteland to an equally depressing (but at least not as dusty) cave. It's damp, it's horrible, and there are probably bats around here somewhere, but to the monster's credit, there is a big shiny piece of machinery in the corner.
Pete smirks a little. "A Human-ator?"
"Right you are. All I need is for you to bring your two friends to Joel Fields, and I'll let you have a go in the machine."
Pete's smile vanishes, for two reasons. "Joel Fields? Is this Joel Fields?...And what do you want with Sarah and Cliffey? Are you going to eat them?"
And somehow the monster's smile just keeps growing. "Yes, this is Joel Fields. I know it's not what you were expecting, but believe me, if you come you won't be disappointed."
Pete nods. "And my friends?"
"Yes, I'm going to eat them. But I swear on my life that no harm will befall you. And I shall of course keep up my side of the bargain."
The monster motions towards the machine. Pete looks away for a moment, and when he turns back he is wearing a frown.
"I don't understand. Who are you? Why is Joel Fields so...well it's not even a field, is it? What's going on?"
[At this point the monster tells Pete everything we already know about Joel Fields and the horrible massacre he brought upon it, but as we've already heard this story at least once we'll skip on a bit.]
Pete isn't wholly convinced. "This is just a dream," he points out. "Why should I act on any of this?"
The monster is about to say something when Pete realises that there is a bat biting into his back, sucking his blood.
"Ugh! Agh! Get it off!"
The monster chuckles heartily, plucks the devilish little creature from Pete's back, and smushes between his humongous yellow palms.
"I live in this cave," explains the monster, wiping the bat goo off his hands. "After my little feast in the Fields, I was chained up here by a gang of trolls." His smile fades for a second. "I don't know why they took it upon themselves to stop me, you'd think they'd have other concerns...anyhow, I'm chained up in a cave under what used to be Joel Fields, and, well, all this time alone has given me a little while to think. A long while, actually. I've spent the years honing my brainpower, and I've just worked out how to project myself into other people's dreams." The monster laughs. "You're the first person I've managed it on, as a matter of fact. You're a very lucky goat."
Pete just stares, googly-eyed.
"So...do we have a deal? You bring those other two goats to me, and I'll turn you into a human. It's been a long time since my last meal, and I'm getting mighty hungry."
No. Surely not.
"Well?"
Pete looks the monster dead in the eye. "You really, truly have a machine that can do this?"
"You have my word."
"Okay."
* * *
And with that, Pete wakes up. Looking around the darkened Meadows, he assures himself that it was all a dream.
He stretches, yawns, prepares to go back to sleep.
He feels a sharp pain in his back.
He looks.
There's a bitemark.
TO BE CONTINUED
ONE MONTH EARLIER
Nighttime in Gemma Meadows, and everyone is asleep. Sarah, Cliffey, Pete, Goldberg, the birds, the grass, the trees, all snoozing.
Sarah is dreaming of Joel Fields. She dreams of the clean air, the dandy dandelions, and enough lush green grass to give you a tummyache.
Cliffey is dreaming of Joel Fields. He dreams of the peace and quiet (it's much further from the road than the Meadows) and the wide open spaces to run around in.
Pete is dreaming of Joel Fields too, but he hasn't realised it yet. As far as he's aware, he's just having a nightmare about meeting a horrible monster in some dead, dry desert.
"Peter?" growls the monster.
"Y-yes?" he replies.
"Peter The Goat?"
"Yes?"
Pete isn't sure he should be giving his name to this thing, even if it is just a dream. Each individual tooth in its mouth is big enough to carve a turkey. And the eyes! They're huge, evil-looking, and blacker than the night Pete is sleeping through.
But suddenly that awful mouth is smiling happily, and those eyes have a certain look of generosity about them.
"What do you wish for?" asks the monster, still growling, but in a much friendlier way, Pete thinks.
"What?"
Another toothy grin. "I can grant you anything. Speak."
Pete acts like he is mulling it over, but he knows what he wants. It's what he's always wanted. Being a goat is fantastic - very few responsibilities, lots of food and free time - but you just eat and frolic and sleep and repeat and that's pretty much all there is to it. Very little scope for anything particularly interesting.
But humans...the things Pete would be able to do as a human. He could start a business empire and become rich and famous. He could record a hit single and top the charts and become rich and famous. He could play football for Manchester United and score a hat-trick and become rich and famous. He could write books, paint portraits, climb mountains, fall in love, and when he died people would get together in a big room and cry and say nice things about him and afterwards important people would put a picture of him in a book and everyone would see it and say "Gosh, didn't he achieve a lot?"
So what Pete really wants, more than green grass, more than dandelions, more than anything, is to be human. And this is what he tells the monster in his dreams.
The monster grins wider and sharper than ever. "Well what a coincidence!" he chuckles in a gravelly sort of way. "I happen to have a machine for that sort of thing right here."
And he does. Pete hadn't noticed until now, but at some point the backdrop for this conversation has gone from that depressing wasteland to an equally depressing (but at least not as dusty) cave. It's damp, it's horrible, and there are probably bats around here somewhere, but to the monster's credit, there is a big shiny piece of machinery in the corner.
Pete smirks a little. "A Human-ator?"
"Right you are. All I need is for you to bring your two friends to Joel Fields, and I'll let you have a go in the machine."
Pete's smile vanishes, for two reasons. "Joel Fields? Is this Joel Fields?...And what do you want with Sarah and Cliffey? Are you going to eat them?"
And somehow the monster's smile just keeps growing. "Yes, this is Joel Fields. I know it's not what you were expecting, but believe me, if you come you won't be disappointed."
Pete nods. "And my friends?"
"Yes, I'm going to eat them. But I swear on my life that no harm will befall you. And I shall of course keep up my side of the bargain."
The monster motions towards the machine. Pete looks away for a moment, and when he turns back he is wearing a frown.
"I don't understand. Who are you? Why is Joel Fields so...well it's not even a field, is it? What's going on?"
[At this point the monster tells Pete everything we already know about Joel Fields and the horrible massacre he brought upon it, but as we've already heard this story at least once we'll skip on a bit.]
Pete isn't wholly convinced. "This is just a dream," he points out. "Why should I act on any of this?"
The monster is about to say something when Pete realises that there is a bat biting into his back, sucking his blood.
"Ugh! Agh! Get it off!"
The monster chuckles heartily, plucks the devilish little creature from Pete's back, and smushes between his humongous yellow palms.
"I live in this cave," explains the monster, wiping the bat goo off his hands. "After my little feast in the Fields, I was chained up here by a gang of trolls." His smile fades for a second. "I don't know why they took it upon themselves to stop me, you'd think they'd have other concerns...anyhow, I'm chained up in a cave under what used to be Joel Fields, and, well, all this time alone has given me a little while to think. A long while, actually. I've spent the years honing my brainpower, and I've just worked out how to project myself into other people's dreams." The monster laughs. "You're the first person I've managed it on, as a matter of fact. You're a very lucky goat."
Pete just stares, googly-eyed.
"So...do we have a deal? You bring those other two goats to me, and I'll turn you into a human. It's been a long time since my last meal, and I'm getting mighty hungry."
No. Surely not.
"Well?"
Pete looks the monster dead in the eye. "You really, truly have a machine that can do this?"
"You have my word."
"Okay."
* * *
And with that, Pete wakes up. Looking around the darkened Meadows, he assures himself that it was all a dream.
He stretches, yawns, prepares to go back to sleep.
He feels a sharp pain in his back.
He looks.
There's a bitemark.
TO BE CONTINUED
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Cliffé Noir
Ugh. I feel like some dumb mick's been doing a riverdance on my brain. It's too bright in here, doesn't this bastard have any curtains? Might as well be in the goddamn dentist's chair. I could use a good hard drilling to take my mind off this headache.
I've got a message from my associate back in Cardiff. He's been running a couple errands for me, sorting out some paperwork and running it down to the office for me. Looks like he's got it all done, so that's something. He's asking me if I want to go see the Christmas lights get switched on tomorrow night. Yeah, as if I need to see any more lights.
What the hell am I even doing here? Everyone here in York is either too Northern or not Northern enough, it's hard to know where you stand. I mean, I'm here to see JR, but the journey up here took a fucking age and all that Holland-haired potato fetishist ever did anyway was beat me at Risk.
At least last night was entertaining. I for one stilll have enough alcohol in me to knock out a pitbull. And for someone who's so good at Risk, JR sure knows his way around a woman. And neither him nor that doll last night thought that was gonna last. He's got this catch-and-release technique going for him. Just does it for the pleasure. It's less cruel, really. Ain't no trout wants to be thrown in the keep basket.
I need something to eat. I've got to get some food. My stomach's growling like a rusty Ford making its last slow journey before being set alight and abandoned in a kids' playground. Check the cupboards, JR's gotta have some bread or biscuits or somethin'.
But no. Just goddamn fucking potatoes.
"JR! You asshole!"
"What?"
"Where's your food?"
"Mmf...try the cupboards..."
"Yeah, I did. All you got is potatoes. Where's your real food? Don't tell I gotta find my way to a McDonald's at this hour."
"Fuck you, Cliffey. I've got the hangover from Hades here, and all you can do is whine about food. Fuck you."
No way am I going to make it outside. My legs already feel like two individual waterbeds. I'm gonna lay back down on the couch and try to imagine that I've just eaten. Pork sausages. Plump. Toffee apple glaze. A heap of mashed potato the size of Austria...no. No good. A poor man doesn't get richer by sticking his fist in his pocket and pretending it's a wallet full of hundred-dollar bills, and I'm not gonna get full from a picture in my aching head.
"Aaaaaagh!"
Hurf. If JR's hangover was half as bad as mine, he wouldn't be screaming so loudly. I think I'll tell him so.
"JR, if your-"
"Fuckfuckfuck."
"What the hell is it?"
"Cliffey, get in here."
In JR's room is a corpse, no head, broken, bloodied, twisted, tortured.
"Is this yours?"
JR is freaking out. Obviously he's not used to this sort of thing.
"There there. Come through to the kitchen, I'll make you some hash browns, that'll calm you down."
"Cliffey, there is a dead body in my room."
"Yes. There is a dead body in your room."
"Well...what the hell's it doing there? How did it get there?"
Well, shit. This is exactly the sort of thing I came here to get away from.
* * *
[DISCLAIMER: This is all pure fiction, of course; while I'm not entirely sure of what went on during Cliffey's visit to York, I think we can be fairly certain that JR did not find a decapitated corpse in his room. Also, Cliffey is not a hardboiled detective, and JR isn't the ruthless womaniser I make him out to be here. He is a potato fetishist, though. That's the stone cold truth. - Joel]
I've got a message from my associate back in Cardiff. He's been running a couple errands for me, sorting out some paperwork and running it down to the office for me. Looks like he's got it all done, so that's something. He's asking me if I want to go see the Christmas lights get switched on tomorrow night. Yeah, as if I need to see any more lights.
What the hell am I even doing here? Everyone here in York is either too Northern or not Northern enough, it's hard to know where you stand. I mean, I'm here to see JR, but the journey up here took a fucking age and all that Holland-haired potato fetishist ever did anyway was beat me at Risk.
At least last night was entertaining. I for one stilll have enough alcohol in me to knock out a pitbull. And for someone who's so good at Risk, JR sure knows his way around a woman. And neither him nor that doll last night thought that was gonna last. He's got this catch-and-release technique going for him. Just does it for the pleasure. It's less cruel, really. Ain't no trout wants to be thrown in the keep basket.
I need something to eat. I've got to get some food. My stomach's growling like a rusty Ford making its last slow journey before being set alight and abandoned in a kids' playground. Check the cupboards, JR's gotta have some bread or biscuits or somethin'.
But no. Just goddamn fucking potatoes.
"JR! You asshole!"
"What?"
"Where's your food?"
"Mmf...try the cupboards..."
"Yeah, I did. All you got is potatoes. Where's your real food? Don't tell I gotta find my way to a McDonald's at this hour."
"Fuck you, Cliffey. I've got the hangover from Hades here, and all you can do is whine about food. Fuck you."
No way am I going to make it outside. My legs already feel like two individual waterbeds. I'm gonna lay back down on the couch and try to imagine that I've just eaten. Pork sausages. Plump. Toffee apple glaze. A heap of mashed potato the size of Austria...no. No good. A poor man doesn't get richer by sticking his fist in his pocket and pretending it's a wallet full of hundred-dollar bills, and I'm not gonna get full from a picture in my aching head.
"Aaaaaagh!"
Hurf. If JR's hangover was half as bad as mine, he wouldn't be screaming so loudly. I think I'll tell him so.
"JR, if your-"
"Fuckfuckfuck."
"What the hell is it?"
"Cliffey, get in here."
In JR's room is a corpse, no head, broken, bloodied, twisted, tortured.
"Is this yours?"
JR is freaking out. Obviously he's not used to this sort of thing.
"There there. Come through to the kitchen, I'll make you some hash browns, that'll calm you down."
"Cliffey, there is a dead body in my room."
"Yes. There is a dead body in your room."
"Well...what the hell's it doing there? How did it get there?"
Well, shit. This is exactly the sort of thing I came here to get away from.
* * *
[DISCLAIMER: This is all pure fiction, of course; while I'm not entirely sure of what went on during Cliffey's visit to York, I think we can be fairly certain that JR did not find a decapitated corpse in his room. Also, Cliffey is not a hardboiled detective, and JR isn't the ruthless womaniser I make him out to be here. He is a potato fetishist, though. That's the stone cold truth. - Joel]
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
The Goats From Gemma Meadows (Part 4)
Part 3 is here.
Goldberg's story was not a pleasant one.
"Joel Fields," he said as he drove, "is not a good place."
Cliffey was confused. Joel Fields was supposed to be like heaven. Every goat knew that. For as long as he could remember, Pete, Sarah and he had dreamed of living there.
But then, if he had wanted to live there for so long...why had he turned back?
"Joel Fields used to be just like everywhere else. Gemma Meadows, Joel Fields, Sophie Springs, Alex Marsh, they all had their goods and bads, but nowhere was particularly better than anywhere else."
"So what happened?" asked Cliffey as they drove over a bridge.
Goldberg shook his head. "A monster."
"A monster?!"
"A goat-eating monster. Teeth like carving knives, eyes like cannonballs, breath like the month-old eggs of the dead. If you believe the stories, he arrived in the Fields one Monday, and started eating that afternoon. By nightfall, he'd eaten every goat there. Not one was left."
Cliffey shivered.
"Nobody's set foot in Joel Fields ever since," said Goldberg. "Why on Earth would Sarah and Pete want to go there?"
Cliffey wasn't sure what to say. "I guess they heard differently," he mumbled uncertainly.
Goldberg's van sped on.
* * *
Meanwhile, Pete and Sarah's progress had come to a halt.
"You don't know the way, do you?" asked Sarah.
"Hm."
"I thought we'd be there by now, Pete. It's getting dark."
"Hm."
"Well, you'd better pick a direction quickly. That troll could be right behind us."
"Hm."
"Come on, Pete!" Sarah yelled. "We didn't come all this way to let a fork in the road defeat us! Which way are we going?"
"I...I'm not sure. It's not like I have a map or anything."
"Well, should we split up then? You can go left, and I can go-"
"No, no!"
"...Okay, I'll go left, and you can go right."
Pete rolled his eyes. "No, I mean we can't split up. What if one of us gets to Joel Fields, and the other one ends up wondering endlessly in the forest alone? We have to stay together."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "Fine. So which way shall we go?"
Just then, they heard a familiar roar coming down the path towards them. The troll was right behind them, alright. And he was gaining fast.
And Pete still didn't know which way to go.
So Sarah took charge. "We're going left. Come on! Quick!"
And into the forest they ran.
* * *
There was one thing Cliffey didn't quite understand.
"So...how come the monster stopped at Joel Fields? Why didn't he come to the Meadows?"
"No one knows for sure," said Goldberg. "Some say he was so full after his feast at Joel Fields that he just went home. Some think that he got lost on the way to his next feast, and he's been wondering endlessly in the forest ever since. And some..." Goldberg paused. "Some say he's still there."
Cliffey shivered again. He told himself that it was simply because the sun had gone down, and night was settling in. The nights had been very cold recently.
"For what it's worth," Goldberg continued, "I think the monster's long gone. I reckon that, if those two do get to Joel Fields, all they'll find is a few acres of overgrown grass. But, you know, better safe than-"
Goldberg stopped abruptly.
"What? What's wrong?" asked Cliffey.
"That bridge we went over a couple of miles ago," said Goldberg, thinking. "Didn't there used to be a troll under it?"
TO BE CONTINUED
Goldberg's story was not a pleasant one.
"Joel Fields," he said as he drove, "is not a good place."
Cliffey was confused. Joel Fields was supposed to be like heaven. Every goat knew that. For as long as he could remember, Pete, Sarah and he had dreamed of living there.
But then, if he had wanted to live there for so long...why had he turned back?
"Joel Fields used to be just like everywhere else. Gemma Meadows, Joel Fields, Sophie Springs, Alex Marsh, they all had their goods and bads, but nowhere was particularly better than anywhere else."
"So what happened?" asked Cliffey as they drove over a bridge.
Goldberg shook his head. "A monster."
"A monster?!"
"A goat-eating monster. Teeth like carving knives, eyes like cannonballs, breath like the month-old eggs of the dead. If you believe the stories, he arrived in the Fields one Monday, and started eating that afternoon. By nightfall, he'd eaten every goat there. Not one was left."
Cliffey shivered.
"Nobody's set foot in Joel Fields ever since," said Goldberg. "Why on Earth would Sarah and Pete want to go there?"
Cliffey wasn't sure what to say. "I guess they heard differently," he mumbled uncertainly.
Goldberg's van sped on.
* * *
Meanwhile, Pete and Sarah's progress had come to a halt.
"You don't know the way, do you?" asked Sarah.
"Hm."
"I thought we'd be there by now, Pete. It's getting dark."
"Hm."
"Well, you'd better pick a direction quickly. That troll could be right behind us."
"Hm."
"Come on, Pete!" Sarah yelled. "We didn't come all this way to let a fork in the road defeat us! Which way are we going?"
"I...I'm not sure. It's not like I have a map or anything."
"Well, should we split up then? You can go left, and I can go-"
"No, no!"
"...Okay, I'll go left, and you can go right."
Pete rolled his eyes. "No, I mean we can't split up. What if one of us gets to Joel Fields, and the other one ends up wondering endlessly in the forest alone? We have to stay together."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "Fine. So which way shall we go?"
Just then, they heard a familiar roar coming down the path towards them. The troll was right behind them, alright. And he was gaining fast.
And Pete still didn't know which way to go.
So Sarah took charge. "We're going left. Come on! Quick!"
And into the forest they ran.
* * *
There was one thing Cliffey didn't quite understand.
"So...how come the monster stopped at Joel Fields? Why didn't he come to the Meadows?"
"No one knows for sure," said Goldberg. "Some say he was so full after his feast at Joel Fields that he just went home. Some think that he got lost on the way to his next feast, and he's been wondering endlessly in the forest ever since. And some..." Goldberg paused. "Some say he's still there."
Cliffey shivered again. He told himself that it was simply because the sun had gone down, and night was settling in. The nights had been very cold recently.
"For what it's worth," Goldberg continued, "I think the monster's long gone. I reckon that, if those two do get to Joel Fields, all they'll find is a few acres of overgrown grass. But, you know, better safe than-"
Goldberg stopped abruptly.
"What? What's wrong?" asked Cliffey.
"That bridge we went over a couple of miles ago," said Goldberg, thinking. "Didn't there used to be a troll under it?"
TO BE CONTINUED
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Cliffey visits a value supermarket
Today's reading is taken from the Book of Tesco.
Cliffey took his friends to Tesco that they might do a big shop, for the wares there were low of price and moderately good of quality. Cliffey, Joel, Sarah and Pete were those who went. In the midst of the big shop Cliffey and Pete left to take Andy, known to Cliffey as a fellow disciple of St. John, into the town of Cardiff. During this period, Joel and Sarah were left to wonder the shop alone, steering both Joel's trolley and Cliffey's trolley. While Cliffey was away, Joel and Sarah put a coconut in his trolley, and Cliffey saw that the jest was good, and the coconut, being of modest price, was bought.
In the aisle of toys and other such leisures, Sarah came upon a Mr. Bump plush, and said "I love this Mr. Bump plush, for he is soft and huggable," and with some nudges and suggestion from Pete, Joel came to buy the plush for Sarah. And lo, he was blessed with packets of custard powder for 6 pence.
In the aisle of herbs, spices and marinades, Pete did express his disdain for Joel's choice of marinade. He did say that lemon & herb is ungodly and that a more flavoursome sauce wouldst be more enjoyable, suggesting BBQ chicken. Joel didst retort that he would stick with the lemon and herb, and maybe even use it on a fish dish rather than chicken. And from Pete there came much wailing and gnashing of teeth.
In the aisle of canned goods, Cliffey did find an inexpensive-looking can of curry sauce. He enquired as to its price and was told by Joel that the price was 8 pence. "I must buy ten!" Cliffey exclaimed, and he did fill his arms.
In the cake aisle the Devil did appear to Sarah and she were sore tempted by his rich chocolate celebration cakes for under two pounds. But Joel did chide his woman for her temptation and they ended up getting a microwavable chocolate brownie thing instead. It was not the best.
Joel was enjoying the benefits of a student loan, and his trolley was filled with crisps, and blackcurrant high juice, and two for one bagels, and salmon burgers, and tiger bread, and crumpets, and sausages, and value yoghurt, and biscuits, blank CDs, and Fairy liquid, and apple crumble, and seafood sticks, and peanut butter, and Ricicles, and Tesco's Finest yoghurt, and a Toy Story CD for Cliffey, and tuna, and drinking chocolate, and many bags of pasta, and several other things, and the whole bunch did cost fifty-two pounds and sixty-six pence, but keep in mind that this included a ten pound Mr. Bump plushie so in reality this figure is slightly skewed.
Upon returning home, Cliffey did have a torrid time trying to fit all his purchases in his small cupboard. But, with God's help and some Tetris-like re-arranging, he did accomplish this. "This stock shall surely last me some weeks," he did declare. And Tim, who was about, did enquire as to whether Joel had purchased a marker pen that he might start chalking up the man points. And the answer that came was no, and Tim said "verily, thou art a div."P.S. The guy from Lostprophets was there.
Goodbye to Sian
I am writing a blog in the style of Doc Seuss,
Because Joshua Price, may his neck find a noose,
Had a clever idea (and it's not the first time)
To get me to make all my ponderings rhyme.
So I'm dirty and smelly and needing a shower,
And at a PC at some ungodly hour,
And writing in what's called, according to Wiki,
"Anapestic Tetrameter". It's a tad tricky.
So last night I made the long trip to Penarth
With Sarah Macleod, my superior half,
To bid a farewell to her dear friend Sian Lewis.
We got on the bus that would take us from Crwys
To sweet central Cardiff, from whence we could trip
On another bus, bound for that glorious township
Where cliffs and the sea and the rocks and the like,
Were put in a song sung by Tom, Joel and Meic.
We stopped off at Tesco to buy a baguette,
And then headed to Sian's where I got my lips wet
In a glass of white wine, for the sake of occasion,
And my God, the taste! Like a Nazi invasion!
But other than that it was quite the rum do,
We listened to Will playing music from Who,
Sian made us all popcorn, we gobbled it up,
I made some bad jokes and was promptly told "shup".
But thanks to Sian's clock being ten minutes slow,
We missed the last bus back to Cardiff, and so
We got the last train (no-one asked for a fare)
Arrived at 'Diff Central, and taxi'd from there.
Thus endeth our tale, and what now to do?
Sian's going to uni, and others will too,
How many will stay when these students have gone?
My guess is somewhere between many and none.
(Tomorrow - in the style of the Bible!)
Joel.
Because Joshua Price, may his neck find a noose,
Had a clever idea (and it's not the first time)
To get me to make all my ponderings rhyme.
So I'm dirty and smelly and needing a shower,
And at a PC at some ungodly hour,
And writing in what's called, according to Wiki,
"Anapestic Tetrameter". It's a tad tricky.
So last night I made the long trip to Penarth
With Sarah Macleod, my superior half,
To bid a farewell to her dear friend Sian Lewis.
We got on the bus that would take us from Crwys
To sweet central Cardiff, from whence we could trip
On another bus, bound for that glorious township
Where cliffs and the sea and the rocks and the like,
Were put in a song sung by Tom, Joel and Meic.
We stopped off at Tesco to buy a baguette,
And then headed to Sian's where I got my lips wet
In a glass of white wine, for the sake of occasion,
And my God, the taste! Like a Nazi invasion!
But other than that it was quite the rum do,
We listened to Will playing music from Who,
Sian made us all popcorn, we gobbled it up,
I made some bad jokes and was promptly told "shup".
But thanks to Sian's clock being ten minutes slow,
We missed the last bus back to Cardiff, and so
We got the last train (no-one asked for a fare)
Arrived at 'Diff Central, and taxi'd from there.
Thus endeth our tale, and what now to do?
Sian's going to uni, and others will too,
How many will stay when these students have gone?
My guess is somewhere between many and none.
(Tomorrow - in the style of the Bible!)
Joel.
Thursday, 23 September 2010
The Third Party
On the night of Tuesday the twenty-first of September, two-thousand and ten, few of the tenants at Tewkesbury Place would have believed that a in a mere day's time, their walls would be shaking with animalistic frenzy, that their very dreams would be interrupted by a great cacophonous army of the inebriated.
Yet across the gulf of Cardiff, minds that are to our minds as a can of lighter fluid is to a half-pint of IPA, personalities boisterous and wild and unhinged, began to come towards Cathays.
At first the invasion was marginal. A sleepy received visit from the two landlords and a single confused looking guest were about the total of it in the first half-hour.
But then they came. In their droves, they came. I had been dozing in my bed when the first few had arrived, and I was still not fully conscious of my surroundings. But they cared not a whit for my sensitive condition, being loud and grating on my senses.
We thought we had it all under control, until Murphy brought down his damned speakers. The sounds coming through them were distorted but all-conquering. Walls offered no defence against their aural onslaught.
Myself and my friends, Tom and Sarah, hid in my bunker, passing the time playing idle games like Tekken and Fifa '01. Eventually, Tom could take no more, and made a go at escaping, promising that he would make contact when the maelstrom had passed. Now, in the aftermath of it all, I have yet to hear from him.
Sarah and I took one last look at the chaos around us and retreated as best we could into sleep. But the noise! The horrible quasi-music playing through those speakers came at our heads like a barrage from Hell itself.
This morning, the house was quiet. The night had taken its toll, though, and all around us were strewn bottles and glasses and gore. I know not whether I will hear from my friend Tom again, nor whether I shall sleep any better tonight.
Yet across the gulf of Cardiff, minds that are to our minds as a can of lighter fluid is to a half-pint of IPA, personalities boisterous and wild and unhinged, began to come towards Cathays.
At first the invasion was marginal. A sleepy received visit from the two landlords and a single confused looking guest were about the total of it in the first half-hour.
But then they came. In their droves, they came. I had been dozing in my bed when the first few had arrived, and I was still not fully conscious of my surroundings. But they cared not a whit for my sensitive condition, being loud and grating on my senses.
We thought we had it all under control, until Murphy brought down his damned speakers. The sounds coming through them were distorted but all-conquering. Walls offered no defence against their aural onslaught.
Myself and my friends, Tom and Sarah, hid in my bunker, passing the time playing idle games like Tekken and Fifa '01. Eventually, Tom could take no more, and made a go at escaping, promising that he would make contact when the maelstrom had passed. Now, in the aftermath of it all, I have yet to hear from him.
Sarah and I took one last look at the chaos around us and retreated as best we could into sleep. But the noise! The horrible quasi-music playing through those speakers came at our heads like a barrage from Hell itself.
This morning, the house was quiet. The night had taken its toll, though, and all around us were strewn bottles and glasses and gore. I know not whether I will hear from my friend Tom again, nor whether I shall sleep any better tonight.
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
Agent Orange
[Scene: a supermarket aisle. We are slap bang in the middle of Cathays Los Angeles. RYAN is a shop assistant, and he is cleaning the aisle witha mop and bucket when suddenly-]
SOUND FX: Loud bang!
[There is an explosion in theCo-Op Wal-Mart. JASON, another (younger) employee, runs over to Aisle 7 to see what the hell just happened. He finds his co-worker severely charred and dying.]
JASON: Ryan?!
RYAN [smiling]: Jason...it's...over...
JASON: RYAAAAAAAAN!!
[RYAN dies. JASON peers through his tears and sees Jaffa Cakes scattered everywhere. He picks up his fallen comrade's mop and gazes solemnly at some point in the middle distance.]
* * *
[Scene: a house inCathays Los Angeles. There are raised voices.]
JOEL: GodDAMMIT I don't believe you guys. The chocolate side is NOT the top of a Jaffa Cake!
SARAH: Quiet, Joel! Gemma's sleeping!
GEMMA: Uuuuh?
JOEL: I don't care! It's damned nonsense!
PETE: Joel. When you eat a chocolate digestive, which way up does it go?
JOEL: Biscuit up, so that the chocolate is nearer my tongue!
PETE: WHAT?! You're insane!
JR: You crazy, man.
JOEL: But OBVIOUSLY the biscuit part goes on top! How else would you read the WRITING?!
PETE: You're insane.
[At this juncture, there is an explosion. One wall of the house is blown to rubble, and as everyone coughs and tries to fan away the dust, a lone figure steps through the debris.]
JASON: Which one of you killed my friend?
JOEL: None of us. We're having a rather heated debate here, so if you don't mind-
[JASON decapitates JR with the mop, just to show how serious and badass he is.]
JOEL: Woah.
JASON: I'm gonna ask you again. Which of you killed Ryan Jackson?
JOEL: Look, none of us killed anyone. We're just a bunch of students, and I'm just an underdog fighting for what he believes in-
JASON: Well I'm just an all-American working man fighting for justice.
JOEL: Well then we're both facing challenges. But is there any reason why we should work together as a team of dogged good guys rising up to face those challenges?
[There is an explosion. Another wall of the house is levelled, and in its place stands a humongous, bright orange robot, with a railgun aimed squarely at those gathered.]
ROBOT: We are The Faction for Chocolate on Top. Prepare to die.
JASON: Whuh-
[There is an explosion, and the robot falls to the ground. Behind it stands Joel, brandishing an American flag.]
JOEL: I told you guys that the cake goes on top! You're powering an evil dictatorship!
EVERYONE ELSE: ...
JOEL: Well I for one am not going to take it! We've got to stand up for the little guy, and-
[JASON decapitates JOEL for being a dick. There is an explosion.]
COMING WINTER 2010
(Tomorrow: Cutlery in the style of War of the Worlds author H.G. Wells!)
Joel.
SOUND FX: Loud bang!
[There is an explosion in the
JASON: Ryan?!
RYAN [smiling]: Jason...it's...over...
JASON: RYAAAAAAAAN!!
[RYAN dies. JASON peers through his tears and sees Jaffa Cakes scattered everywhere. He picks up his fallen comrade's mop and gazes solemnly at some point in the middle distance.]
* * *
[Scene: a house in
JOEL: GodDAMMIT I don't believe you guys. The chocolate side is NOT the top of a Jaffa Cake!
SARAH: Quiet, Joel! Gemma's sleeping!
GEMMA: Uuuuh?
JOEL: I don't care! It's damned nonsense!
PETE: Joel. When you eat a chocolate digestive, which way up does it go?
JOEL: Biscuit up, so that the chocolate is nearer my tongue!
PETE: WHAT?! You're insane!
JR: You crazy, man.
JOEL: But OBVIOUSLY the biscuit part goes on top! How else would you read the WRITING?!
PETE: You're insane.
[At this juncture, there is an explosion. One wall of the house is blown to rubble, and as everyone coughs and tries to fan away the dust, a lone figure steps through the debris.]
JASON: Which one of you killed my friend?
JOEL: None of us. We're having a rather heated debate here, so if you don't mind-
[JASON decapitates JR with the mop, just to show how serious and badass he is.]
JOEL: Woah.
JASON: I'm gonna ask you again. Which of you killed Ryan Jackson?
JOEL: Look, none of us killed anyone. We're just a bunch of students, and I'm just an underdog fighting for what he believes in-
JASON: Well I'm just an all-American working man fighting for justice.
JOEL: Well then we're both facing challenges. But is there any reason why we should work together as a team of dogged good guys rising up to face those challenges?
[There is an explosion. Another wall of the house is levelled, and in its place stands a humongous, bright orange robot, with a railgun aimed squarely at those gathered.]
ROBOT: We are The Faction for Chocolate on Top. Prepare to die.
JASON: Whuh-
[There is an explosion, and the robot falls to the ground. Behind it stands Joel, brandishing an American flag.]
JOEL: I told you guys that the cake goes on top! You're powering an evil dictatorship!
EVERYONE ELSE: ...
JOEL: Well I for one am not going to take it! We've got to stand up for the little guy, and-
[JASON decapitates JOEL for being a dick. There is an explosion.]
COMING WINTER 2010
(Tomorrow: Cutlery in the style of War of the Worlds author H.G. Wells!)
Joel.
Tuesday, 21 September 2010
A Fool and His Money
(In the style of Charles Dickens, at JR's behest)
It is in the very heart of Cardiff that our story begins. The city was a-bustle with people, and the wrinkled fingers of Autumn's cruel hand had just begun to close.
Joel Dear was a young, slender man, but his wire-like frame concealed a mighty appetite. Regrettably, his bankroll did not match his hunger, and he frequently found himself unable to satiate it.
He was betrothed to an equally young, equally slender girl named Sarah Macleod, and it was to her that the task of feeding her beloved fell. She spent her Saturdays working in her father's watersports emporium, and most of the money she earned went towards food for the young Master Dear. He was an expensive man to keep, but Miss Macleod's demeanour was always sunny, and she never let a frown onto her face.
On this particular afternoon, the two had finished a light luncheon at Sub City - at Sarah's expense, naturally - and she had returned to her studies, while he was heading home to enjoy an afternoon of leisure. But as he trod the sun-dappled streets back to his hovel, a thought struck him; was he really as penniless as he had convinced himself?
He ran to his bank and enquired as to his balance. The clerk was a gentleman named Mr.
Holeinthewall, and he was almost mechanical in the way he went about his business.
"You have one thousand, four hundred and seventy-one pounds and seventy-two pence," said Holeinthewall presently. Joel almost fell over. He asked the elderly clerk to check again.
"You have one thousand, four hundred and seventy-one pounds and seventy-two pence," came the reply, just as before.
Now Joel Dear may have been a costly lover to keep around, but he had a heart, and a big heart at that. Whenever Sarah had paid for his food or bus fare he had felt a pang of guilt, and he wanted to thank and reward her for her kindness in these lean times.
The plan was already hatched. Dear happened to know that a troupe of musicians calling themselves the Arcade Fire would be in Cardiff in a few months' time, and Sarah dearly wanted to go. But of course she had been saving every penny of her earnings, lest her darling Joel grow hungry, and had been unable to afford the cost of tickets. So young Dear decided that this would be his first purchase: two tickets to see the Arcade Fire perform.
Dear's afternoon was to be occupied by a man named Cliffe and lady named Sharp. Together, the three of them were heading to an establishment called the Cardiff Arts Institute, where they could recline in the comfort of a large chair and exercise their creativity on the Lego walls.
Mr. Thom Cliffe was a steep man with a craggy face. His friend, Miss Anna Sharp, was a tall young woman, and every word she spoke sliced through the air like a swordsman's flashing blade. They were serious, serious people with serious, serious, serious purposes in life, but for now their only purpose was to spend the afternoon chattering to each other and playing Cluedo. Dear defeated them both, correctly deducing that one Miss Scarlet was the murderer once again, but he seemed throughout the game eager to return home, home to his sweetheart.
The air in Cardiff that evening was beyond balmy, and the sun's rays beat down upon Joel Dear like a policeman's baton. Thom and Anna were making the return journey with him, but all he could think of was repaying the debt he owed his lover, and how wonderful their lives would be now that they were both moneyowners. Sarah Macleod, who never let her sunshine disappear, deserved a pleasant life, free from worry and discomfort. Dear wanted nothing more than to provide.
And upon his return...all that might be said is that she was just as pleased as he had hoped, and as excited as he was about the money.
They thought of all the marvellous things they would buy.
All the glorious foods they would eat.
And all the life they had yet to live.
(Tomorrow - Cutlery in the style of a Michael Bay movie script!)
Joel.
It is in the very heart of Cardiff that our story begins. The city was a-bustle with people, and the wrinkled fingers of Autumn's cruel hand had just begun to close.
Joel Dear was a young, slender man, but his wire-like frame concealed a mighty appetite. Regrettably, his bankroll did not match his hunger, and he frequently found himself unable to satiate it.
He was betrothed to an equally young, equally slender girl named Sarah Macleod, and it was to her that the task of feeding her beloved fell. She spent her Saturdays working in her father's watersports emporium, and most of the money she earned went towards food for the young Master Dear. He was an expensive man to keep, but Miss Macleod's demeanour was always sunny, and she never let a frown onto her face.
On this particular afternoon, the two had finished a light luncheon at Sub City - at Sarah's expense, naturally - and she had returned to her studies, while he was heading home to enjoy an afternoon of leisure. But as he trod the sun-dappled streets back to his hovel, a thought struck him; was he really as penniless as he had convinced himself?
He ran to his bank and enquired as to his balance. The clerk was a gentleman named Mr.
Holeinthewall, and he was almost mechanical in the way he went about his business.
"You have one thousand, four hundred and seventy-one pounds and seventy-two pence," said Holeinthewall presently. Joel almost fell over. He asked the elderly clerk to check again.
"You have one thousand, four hundred and seventy-one pounds and seventy-two pence," came the reply, just as before.
Now Joel Dear may have been a costly lover to keep around, but he had a heart, and a big heart at that. Whenever Sarah had paid for his food or bus fare he had felt a pang of guilt, and he wanted to thank and reward her for her kindness in these lean times.
The plan was already hatched. Dear happened to know that a troupe of musicians calling themselves the Arcade Fire would be in Cardiff in a few months' time, and Sarah dearly wanted to go. But of course she had been saving every penny of her earnings, lest her darling Joel grow hungry, and had been unable to afford the cost of tickets. So young Dear decided that this would be his first purchase: two tickets to see the Arcade Fire perform.
Dear's afternoon was to be occupied by a man named Cliffe and lady named Sharp. Together, the three of them were heading to an establishment called the Cardiff Arts Institute, where they could recline in the comfort of a large chair and exercise their creativity on the Lego walls.
Mr. Thom Cliffe was a steep man with a craggy face. His friend, Miss Anna Sharp, was a tall young woman, and every word she spoke sliced through the air like a swordsman's flashing blade. They were serious, serious people with serious, serious, serious purposes in life, but for now their only purpose was to spend the afternoon chattering to each other and playing Cluedo. Dear defeated them both, correctly deducing that one Miss Scarlet was the murderer once again, but he seemed throughout the game eager to return home, home to his sweetheart.
The air in Cardiff that evening was beyond balmy, and the sun's rays beat down upon Joel Dear like a policeman's baton. Thom and Anna were making the return journey with him, but all he could think of was repaying the debt he owed his lover, and how wonderful their lives would be now that they were both moneyowners. Sarah Macleod, who never let her sunshine disappear, deserved a pleasant life, free from worry and discomfort. Dear wanted nothing more than to provide.
And upon his return...all that might be said is that she was just as pleased as he had hoped, and as excited as he was about the money.
They thought of all the marvellous things they would buy.
All the glorious foods they would eat.
And all the life they had yet to live.
(Tomorrow - Cutlery in the style of a Michael Bay movie script!)
Joel.
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