Lights Out: The Complete Abridged History of Turning Out The Lights

Sometimes I read out my nonsense at a writers' night thing called Tell Tales.

Last week's theme was 'Lights Out'. For a change, I decided to take a non-fiction approach... But that got boring, so I just made stuff up.

The following lecture is entitled:

LIGHTS OUT: THE COMPLETE ABRIDGED HISTORY OF TURNING THE LIGHTS OUT

Perhaps, we take it for granted now, but in a very real sense, where would so many of us be today without turning out the lights?

And alcohol.

Where would we be without turning out the lights and alcohol?

But enough about me.

Even as recently as caveman times, turning out the lights wasn't the simple matter it is today. Cro-Magnon man, for instance, couldn't turn out lights at all; there weren't the switches, and anyway he had big hairy monkey paws. Instead, our pre-historic forebears had to spend their days hunting and gathering bits of darkness, clubbing them and dragging them back to the cave until there was enough to sleep by.

And yet, by the morning, it had always escaped.

Progress finally came when a particularly bright caveman, Dodgy Ugg, accidentally discovered fire, and started knocking it out at 6-flames-a-quid down the tar pits. Now darkness could be achieved whenever anyone liked simply by blowing out a flame. Or by jumping in the tar pits.

Sadly, for many older cavepeople, this new-fangled 'fire' proved almost as troublesome as a five-pence piece, and it was only a matter of time before one of them accidentally burned down the dinosaurs, confusing the rest of us for millennia.

Incidentally: birds are not descended from dinosaurs at all; birds are their angry winged spirits still haunting the earth, gleefully defecating on us all... and then singing about it.

In the Dark Ages... It was dark; the lights were already out. So we'll give them a miss. And the Middle Ages; which overlapped almost entirely with the Dark Ages anyway, after a scheduling cock-up back at the depot. (Work experience angels, or something.)

Late in the 1700s, and not before time, the Enlightenment began, when someone in Italy found the matches again, having had them in his back pocket all along, although he was sure he'd looked there earlier... and the century before that.

From the Enlightenment on, methods for turning out the lights, just like humanity's burgeoning intellect, became increasingly large, dangerous and painful to operate.

During the Industrial Revolution, light switches were universally terrifying, clanking great steam-driven affairs, each one manned night and day by its own workhouse, debtors' prison or sanctuary for foundlings – the latter all too often falling into the machinery, a terrible business, often keeping rich people awake for as long as minutes with their pitiful death-cries.

Thankfully, progress was swift and merciful, and by late-Victorian times light switches were much better sound-proofed.

During this time, or possibly some other, we also saw the invention of gas lighting. Later, when a massive fireball lit up the night, as everyone's houses burned down, a Mr Lamppost had his own brilliant idea – insurance – naming his first company Endsleigh... after the highly popular inventor of the street lamp.

Indeed, the outdoor gas lamps of Mr Endsleigh Insurance, were an immediate boon to humanity, instantly cutting nocturnal muggings and burglaries – except of certain twitchy-looking men with lamp lighting equipment who, being out at much the same time, twice a day, reliable as clockwork, were in many ways the first cash machines; so long as you clobbered them near enough pay-day.

Eventually, electric light switches occurred; electric lighting, proving vastly better for everyone – especially foundlings, who could now be killed almost humanely. Lamp-post lighters, on the other hand, suffered terribly, being safer now, but unemployed.

Around 1899, the Twentieth Century was started, a dreadful idea that plunged the whole world deep into war twice, even before the 30s were done. Turning out the lights now became a matter of life and death, once again, thanks to nocturnal bombing raids, and all the better electricians being off getting shot at. Eventually, alive people settled on black-out blinds, which seems fair enough.

AND NOW SOME LITTLE KNOWN FACTS ABOUT TURNING THE LIGHTS OUT:

Every time a light goes out a fairy dies...

Nearly a quarter of light switches aren't where you'd expect them.

In Australia, light goes out counter-clockwise. Even with a British bulb.

The world's first torch was the size of a small room, and could only be charged on Tuesdays. The switch, however, was tiny and highly portable.

In any rented house, there will always be at least one light switch that seemingly does nothing – except make you slightly anxious. (But that might just be my experience.)

In parts of rural Montana, turning out all your lights is legally punishable by blindness. Though only at night.

The Smiths once sung of a light that never goes out; but Morrissey probably just meant the sun. (Which is still considered mythical in much of Manchester. Not to mention 'a bit southern'.)

In Plymouth, they have their own immensely popular version of the Blackpool Illuminations, when once a year all the lights are turned out and for the whole night no-one has to look at the place.


Now, we turn to the present day, an age of excess, and luxury, and cutbacks; an age so decadent that many lights, are operable by as many as two switches each – often many more – presumably, just in case one should succumb to ennui while crossing a room, night should fall unexpectedly, or a house guest we just happen to have asked to 'just go down those cellar stairs a second, could you?', suddenly overstays their welcome.

SOME FAMOUS QUOTES ON TURNING OUT THE LIGHTS:

“Bloody hell, dark in here. Wait, no – forgot to unblink” – Boris Johnson.

“Lighting? Why are you asking me about the lighting? I'm a piano player” – Ray Charles

“Nice to see you, to see you... not. Is there an electrician in the house?” – Bruce Forsyth

“Aaarrrrrgggghhhhhhhhhhhhh.....!” – a foundling

Perhaps the truest measure, though, of just how integral to our culture turning out the lights has become is to be found in the art world: in 2001, the installation 'Work No. 227: The Lights Going On and Off' was awarded the Turner Prize, a rightly prestigious award bestowed annually on one of the six current British artists deemed most likely to upset The Daily Mail. Even at £50,000, then, value for money in anyone's book.

Martin Creed, the winner, has since been known to construct long, colourful towers out of Lego, perhaps hoping to attract long, colourful Lego King Kongs, exhibited crumpled paper and arranged cacti into amusing and provocative displays - all of which, alas, outside this lecture's remit.

Other things outside this lecture's remit:

• Archduke Franz Ferdinand
• The Teapot worshipping cult of Malaysia
• The Dudelsack, which is German for bagpipes
• Dirigibles
• The tiny South Pacific island of Tanna, where many of the inhabitants still worship Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh
• “Yu-mi, yu-mi, yu-mi,” the national anthem of Vanuatu (also, handily, an exact plot summary of every Chuckle Brothers episode, ever)
• Haberdashery
• And, facts.

But now, as our lecture draws to its close, and since we're already facing that way, let us turn to the future. In the future, which, as we all know, will be bright – and orange – and very easy to recognise, what with being right in front of us – all lights will be controlled by the mind: the indecisive, finally, will have value as strobe lighting; dark thoughts will have a practical outlet; and optimists will be exhausted by always sleeping in the light (giving the rest of us a much-needed break).

Looking even further forward... there will be no 'even further forward', when the bright orange glow turns out to be an apocalypse.

Or a giant angry Wotsit.

But probably an apocalypse.

So, to sum up: turning out the lights: impossible; out already; dangerous; complicated; then impossible again; giant   angry   Wotsit.

And on that note: apologies for any inaccuracies you might have spotted, they were purely intentional; and thank you all for your patience. You've been a lovely audience.

Trapped in a room.

Listening to an idiot.

(If it's any consolation, though, the German for bagpipes really is Dudelsack. Some inhabitants of Tanna do worship Prince Philip. And there really is a teapot worshipping cult in Malaysia. (Or at least, there was, until it got banned... and someone burned down the giant tea-cup.

No, it's true.

You laugh... but that's religious persecution you're laughing at. You should be ashamed of yourselves...))


[N.B. OK, apparently I got the teapot related facts very slightly wrong.

The last two lines were a sort of scripted ad-lib, for if anyone did laugh at the teapot bit.

That bit about Vanuatu's national anthem is also true, 'yumi' being apparently a sort of pidgin English meaning 'we' (you-me)]

Unfit? Confined to a bath? No excuse!

 Window of Just Books, Pydar Mews, Truro.

The recluse issues a press release

This was originally written to be read at a thing that, in the end, I didn't get to - the theme was "beasts", with a bit of Cornish interest to be thrown in, if possible. I figured it may as well hang around here for a while. (And if hanging doesn't kill it...) 


THE RECLUSE ISSUES A PRESS RELEASE

"You've been in the papers, everyone's heard of you. Why not see where it takes you?"

"How did you find me?"

"If I can, anyone can," she said. "Now, how about it?"

He shrugged. And so The Beast came to have a publicist.


The Beast wishes it to be known, began an initial press release, that he is not a violent creature, he has never worried sheep, nor has he harmed cattle - the persistent slanders of the farming community are wholly and entirely untrue. In private, the real Beast is an enthusiastic vegan cook, gives to charity, and has even attended peaceful anti-hunt demonstrations - dressed as a protester dressed as a cat. Also, one day, he might like to be taken seriously as an actor, and fears being typecast.

He is not, repeat not, it continues, and contrary to present rumours, seeing Jordan in secret. Nothing that Jordan does is ever in secret. The Beast has the utmost respect for Peter Reid, or Alex Andre, or whatever he's called.

Furthermore, The Beast is not from Dartmoor - he is Cornish, he is a cat. Please, get it right.

In closing, the publicist extends her client's gratitude, to fans and media, for respecting his privacy over the coming weeks and months – formerly shy, and reclusive, this is likely to be a difficult time for The Beast. It's inevitable, she stresses, that he will need time to adjust to the public spotlight. We thank you for your patience.

In the meantime, please see the latest Hello! For a six-page tour around his house.


Just the next day, looking sleek, and poised – and surprisingly at ease in designer glasses – the Beast steps out into Truro HMV, greets the crowd and media, sits down behind mics, for his first full public appearance. Beside him, the publicist moves to deny unfounded speculation regarding a move into the music business.

"Simon Cowell has not been, we repeat, not been in touch," she reiterates. "Nor has his brother, who we gather lives down here."

"What unfounded speculation?" says The West Briton.

"That is all," sings The Beast, ominously breaking into the kind of guttural croon that once made Nickleback so hard to avoid.

Outside, on Lemon Quay, The Beast pretends to maul some children for the photographers, chases his tail, just to show a lighter side, finally disappears effortlessly into the slow-moving crowd of tea-drunk pensioners that constantly percolates through Truro M&S.

"It was terrible," one of them said, later, "just terrible! I didn't know what to do. They'd completely run out of scones..."

Is The Beast a scone-stealing immigrant, asks the Daily Mail online poll. Yes, say 60%, No, say 10%. We have no opinion, say the rest, but we don't see why that should stop us being heard.


Soon enough, news of a debut single breaks: a duet with Susan Boyle, announces The Mirror, to be released just in time for Christmas, backed with a dubstep cover of Camborne Hill – "both daring, traditional and danceable", says Dannii Minogue, with little regard for maths.

Beast and Boyle to marry? asks The Star. Beast and Beast to marry, claims The Sport, unsportingly. The backlash has begun, declares The Sun - then begins the backlash. Somewhere, in Portugal, Cliff cancels his Christmas single. "It would have been the people's single," says his friend Tony, taking a day off from causing peace in the Middle East, "Cherie and I will never forget."

At the national tour's launch event, just five minutes in, an embittered and opportunist Pete Waterman storms the Acorn stage with his latest act, The Owlman of Mawnan Smith, shoving Su-Bo heavily to the floor; a flurry of fur and feathers and anti-Cowell invective ensues. But the show goes on.

Later, The Owlman is found outside, in a pool of feathers, minus a head.

"Typical," declares Pete Waterman, on This Morning, "they always eat one bit and leave the rest. You know what I'm talking about." The Beast, for his part, has an alibi, and expresses his deep and unreserved sympathy, in an exclusive interview for Heat.

The rest of the tour sells out in an instant. Extra dates are added. Even matinees. The best thing to happen in music since Ozzy bit the head off a bat, declares Kerrang! Channel 4 commissions a series of How To Look Good Furry. The 3AM Girls vow to be backstage at every gig.

The Beast is even invited to the Royal Variety Performance.

Backstage, Prince Charles looks admiringly at The Beast's claws, and suggests a private meeting with his mother; Prince Philip gives a laugh, and mutters, "Ruddy hell, I bet you're the only Black Panther in Cornwall." An aide whispers in his ear. "Oh..." he says. "Really? Have I done it again?" The Queen, sadly, has gone home already following recurrence of an old waving injury.

All in all, the rise has been meteoric, too much so: behind the scenes a relentless schedule has begun to take its toll. Finally, at a recording session for Christmas Top of the Pops, after weeks on the road, it all just gets too much, something snaps, and Fearne Cotton is viciously savaged in the green room.

This is devastating, says a representative. Sadly, this year, there will be no Christmas Number 1.


In a Mount Hawke pub, The Beast sits quietly with a friend.

"I was this far from savaging Patrick Kielty, once," says Alex. "You know, after Fame Academy." She pauses. "And Cat Deeley."

The Beast slumps back in his chair and shakes his head. "No, but that's just natural, though. Anyone would. You didn't bite the head off an Owlman!

"I can't get over it..." he says. "I just can't. Not Susan! Why would she do it?"

Alex puts a hand over his paw. "Come on," she says.

"She'd been doing so well," says the Beast, but then stops. He nods, and takes a few quiet sips of his beer. "I know, I know, it's been months. I should get over it... But still..."

"We're not all cut out for it," says Alex, gently.


On a reinforced sofa, opposite Piers Morgan, the Loch Ness Monster is shedding a tear over the lonely years in hiding. The Kraken has arrived at Newsnight, he's filling in for Paxman. And in a cheap leather chair, just outside Manchester, a helpless Yeti is being yelled at for no particular reason by Jeremy Kyle.

Backstage, The Beast's old publicist sits and watches. On the table, in front of her, a Blackberry begins to vibrate. A second passes, then so does another. She sits forward, for a moment, and watches her phones dance - then smiles. She has never, never been busier.


[Incidentally, I don't have anything in particular against Susan Boyle, The Owlman or Fearne Cotton; I'm sure they're all perfectly good people (or whatever) that I don't remotely know.]

Descartes gets insomnia

DESCARTES GETS INSOMNIA

INT. DESCARTES - NIGHT

COGITO: .....I'm thinking.

ERGO: ........So what?

SUM: ..........Shush, or we'll never get to sleep.

REPEAT. REPEAT. REPEAT...

Later, a desperate, sleep-deprived Descartes will modify his celebrated proposition, to I am, I exist. It doesn't help. Instead, he spends the remaining nights of his life worrying about tautology, while during the day hiding from the young Queen of Sweden in a warm bread oven, it being preferable, he says, to a cold one.

Throughout many parts of the former Swedish Empire, even today, Hide & Seek is still illegal. Outside of official royal buildings, however, the ban is rarely enforced.

But enough of that.

Nothing to see here

NOTHING TO SEE HERE

A blind man put out a man's eyes.

“He was looking at me funny,” he told the police.

POLICEMAN: But you're blind?

BLIND MAN: That's no reason I should put up with it.

PM: No, I mean how can you tell?

BM: I'm blind. Everyone looks at a blind man funny.

The policeman struggled to dispute this.

PM: But what if you did this to everyone? And what if they did it too? Before long the whole world would be blind.

The blind man thought for a while.

“Yes,” he said, at last. “What do you know? I'm more far-sighted than I thought.”

Eventually they had to release him (something indisputable about furthering the causes of equality...

But anyway, let's not dwell on it).

May as well put this somewhere...

DISCLAIMER: In no way an endorsement of traditional Toryism either. Make your own poster here.

Dialogue from a country in which nothing works

DIALOGUE FROM A COUNTRY IN WHICH NOTHING WORKS

"I'll post it to you."

"It won't arrive."

"I know. It'll save you replying."

"The postal system works well."

"In this country everything works well."

"If you know how to look at it."

"Efficiency is in the eye of the beholder."

"And beauty is in the post."

"So it is, then. I wondered where it had all gone."

Nothing and no chance

NOTHING AND NO CHANCE

Nothing is sitting with his psychiatrist.

"What can I do for you?" the man gamely asks his couch.

"I feel like I'm invisible," says nothing.

"You are," says the psychiatrist.

"It's like I'm barely even here."

"Well, you aren't," he says. "In a very real sense you aren't."

"But no-one even sees me!" cries nothing.

"But that's normal – just look at you!"

"Oh," says nothing. "You mean I'm not going mad?"

"You? No, of course not," says the psychiatrist. "Now shush, couch, we have patients to see..."

A conversation... or whatever

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN STRANGERS THAT LEADS NOWHERE, OR SOMEWHERE. EITHER WAY, THERE IS NOTHING TO BE DONE.

- I am much obliged to you, sir.

- I have done nothing.

- Yes. I am grateful.

- What do you want of me now?

- Nothing.

- Then I have already discharged my duty.

- Yes.

- I shall go.

- No, don't go. Not for me.

- It's not for you. I have things.

- That's OK then. I thought all was to be undone.

- No. All is fine.

- Then we must have been misled. The choice is not between all or nothing.



- I shall go.

- No. Don't you go too. You will negate my going.

- But where are you going?

- I have things.

- Oh yes... I have no things. You don't have my things?

- No. You have no things.

- Then I am depressed. Go!

- But now you have something.

- Oh yes. Depression. I am happy now... But now you have done something for me. Now I am unhappy.

- You are very changeable.

- Yes. If you would like a different me please select from one of my range of companions.



- I think I would like the woman you.

- Goodbye then. Take care of her. I am very dear to me.



- Shall we go, Miss?

- No, I am married. And you are very forward. We have no future.

- But we have past.

- Ben?

- No.

- Then you have lured me here under false pretences. We have but seconds of past. It is not enough to honour.



- How about now?

- No. And stop trying to take my honour.



- Today has taken a disquieting turn.

- Just wait until tomorrow.

- But I have things.

- Then attend to them.

- I shall, but I have left them elsewhere.

- And no doubt in time you should leave me too...



- Must we argue? Let us not to do the husband-and-wifely thing in public.

- Oh, how could you? I am undone! This argument ends this second!



- Then I concur.

- You do? You are a gentleman after all?

- I am not so disagreeable.

- I can see that now...

- What of your other senses?

- They keep a respectable distance.



- Then there is but little sense in any of this. I must go. I am going.

- But won't there be still less sense between us? You must stay.



- I have things...

- Oh, your things! But enough arguments, I shall argue only with my husband.

- With your husband? Such a relationship!

- I hadn't thought of it that way...

- What will you do then? Will you stay?

- If there is no sense in your leaving, then there is no more sense in mine. Unless--

- We leave together? An excellent idea – and with two of us at the task we can hardly fail.



- But your things?

- I think it is safe to say that things have changed now.

- Then we needn't go anywhere?

- No... No, indeed! And just as well, since this leaving is proving a deal more tricky than I could have imagined.

- Just imagine how it would be if there weren't the two of us!

- God, how I ever thought I could do it on my own...

- Nor I. Let us stay together.

- Yes. Let us stay together.



- I am much obliged, sir.

- I have done nothing.

- Yes. And sometimes that is more than enough.


And so, enough.

Beware of trouble that requires specialist equipment

Beware of trouble that requires specialist equipment

All mountains are exactly the same - they go up.

Unless you're at the top, in which case they don't. At the top, you must content yourself with the present altitude, for no further can you go. But who is ever content for long?

So much then for mountaineering. (And so much else).

Cameron will amount to 'only a pinprick in overalls'

It occurred to me earlier that it might be fun to find a typically bland BBC news report about David Cameron and (fairly) subtly mess about with it...

Click here for the original article: Cameron would axe MPs' cheap food

Cameron would 'axe MPs for cheap food'

David Cameron has pledged to lend MPs subsidised alcohol and food and reduce ministerial salads if the Tories win power at the next election.

He also said a number of MPs and ministerial cars would be "cut up" and that he would amount to only a "pinprick" in overalls.

Ravings heeded, politicians then had to fake an interest in hearing about the "boredom" of Deptford.

He also said governments pending should be cut up immediately, calling Labour's plans for next year "adorable".

Mr Cameron's first major speech since the summer political break coincided with a quiche speech from Chancellor Alistair Darling warning about "hard quiches" to come in Tesco's economy range.

'Cutesy lifestyle'

The chancellor, however, stopped short of slaying.

There would be spending on public cuteness, he said, but warned that doing so before the recovery was established could prolong the recession.

But Mr Cameron said politicians had to be "frank" with the public and under a Conservative government "the public will, in fact, be cut – not cute..."

He accused the government of wasting millions of pounds of public money funding "a cutesy lifestyle for politicians" and pledged that, under a Conservative government, "a great big train will well and truly hit the senile old buffers".

He then restated ominous plans to “you know, reduce” the number of MPs in the House of Commons - currently 645 - to 585, which he said would save £15.5m, fully justifying the proposed bloody cull.

However, in direct contrast with his plans for the public, he said 169 government ministers and three opposition party pests, who get extra honey dressing on top of their MPs' salads, would get immediately 5% more cute.

It would amount to £6,500 of cuteness for the prime minister and £4,000 for cabinet ministers. Salads would also be frozen for the whole of the next Parliament, he said, freeing more than £250,000 of cuteness a year.

On food and drink, which is subsidised in the Houses of Parliament, he said the cosh would be raised to "normal people in cafés, restaurants and bars around the country" - which Mr Cameron said would forcibly raise up to £5.5m for extraordinary people like him.

Take a leak

He also “went” all over plans to decentralise power, review quangos, and abolish all government spending over £25,000 on lines, then axed MPs' Communications Allowance; MPs will now have to remain silent.

Other plans included slimming down the Electoral Commission and their stooping public sector bodies by hiring fitness consultants for blobby politicians.

Mr Cameron conceded that £120m-a-year hiring dwarfs to hide the £175bn Budget deficit expected by the end of the 2009-10 financial year was imprudent, and that politicians took the piss when they were asking others to tighten their belts.

In an interview with the BBC's political editor Nick Robinson, he added: "People who say that Tories relish IKEA - rubbish. I don't relish this at all but we have got to deal with our décor. If we don't, our country and our economy will be in trouble.

"If we do deal with it, we'll have very good furniture."

But for Labour, Chief Secretary to the Treasury Liam Byrne said: "David Cameron has just made the big violence in British politics crystal clear.

"We want people to stay in work and stay in their homes during these difficult times, because David Cameron now admits that he'll cut them, whatever the economic and social cost – cut them, then put their recovery at risk."

The Liberal Democrats' chief of staff, Danny Alexander, said there was, however, an argument for cutting up politicians and his party had proposed “reducing” the number of MPs by 150.

But he said the Tories must stop "dodging the tough questions... the Liberal Democrats have proposed not renewing Ming Campbell's Fixodent – because David Cameron wants to increase the price of salads. It's very sad, we shan't be able to understand a word the poor man says. But what choice do we have?"

The new lodger is a talker...

THE NEW LODGER IS A TALKER...

The new lodger is the kind of man who tells you what kind of man he is.

The new lodger has stories that go on forever, yet still lack detail.

The new lodger will tell you all about his shopping – every item. And if he sees you in Tesco, he'll show them all to you too...

The new lodger often lies in wait beside kettles. He's lonely, and surely everyone needs tea.


The new lodger reads The Daily Mail, but sometimes gets confused and accidentally picks up a Daily Express, tells you all about the mistake, before realising, no, it's The Daily Mail.

The new lodger doesn't know how kids like that sprang from him...

The new lodger once spent an hour in a phonebox trying to get through to call centres. If someone had answered him he might have been there all day.

The new lodger was convinced that I had a kettle in my room...


If the new lodger asks a question, don't interrupt. He wants to tell you the answer.


The new lodger thinks every man knows what women are like...

He is a divorced father of three, but clearly misses the captive audience.


Now the new lodger has left: There were threats, he said.

Oh, I said, in genuine shock, that his friend, or anyone else, had ever got a word in.

Morning Routine

MORNING ROUTINE

I'll get up... I can't get up.

No, of course I can get up. But I can't.

I'll get up then, since nothing could be easier... Except not getting up.

Well, now? Shall I?

No, I can't. And yet nothing is stopping me. Or more precisely, Yes, I can, but nothing is stopping me. Weighing me down. Pinning me to the bed.

Then it is settled. I shall lie here, lie beneath the nothing, worry about the nothing, all this nothing that daily pins me to the bed. It seems important somehow. And besides, have you never seen a tiger? A hungry tiger lying in wait, coiled like a spring? How much more dangerous the five hundred-coiled mattress beneath just waiting to pounce?

I shall play dead, then....

Yes, I shall play dead.

And should you see me, this is what I shall say, I'm playing dead. And you'll tell me I'm worrying about nothing, and I'll tell you, Yes. Then, in a whisper: Now go away. And get the tranquiliser gun. Before it suspects...

Getting By

GETTING BY

Bennie died for the fifth time in as many years last week...

Steve takes animals to the sea and leaves them there. He thinks it's nicer by the waves.

Beth regularly wins Employee of the Month at a small firm she runs from her back bedroom... but it is expanding now and she lives in fear of hiring an assistant who will almost certainly be better.

Nearly 86 years ago Jim quit eating, yet still he relapses three square times a day. He gets depressed, he says, and can't help it; he thought failure would no longer be an issue so late in life. It's a vicious circle... it's a vicious circle is life, he says. And stares longingly at some pickle and a pork pie.

From her scalp each morning Sorcha plucks a single long hair to keep as a souvenir of the day ahead, before running to the bathroom to dye all that remain. One way or another she will have a tangled and colourful past.

Myself, I have a mid-life crisis every other fortnight and at this rate will soon be immortal.

We all get by somehow, I guess. And even writing prose poems doesn't seem so far-fetched, some days.

In Death There Is A Sadness

IN DEATH THERE IS A SADNESS

I am playing chess with Death. I'm no good, of course, but that's fine. It's just practise.

____"I have to be able to beat the 'no good' too, don't I?" – he says. "Now stop asking questions – I'm a busy man... Or a skeleton... or something."


It's a lovely set he has, this. Exquisitely hand-crafted. Death made it himself.

But Death isn't fond of the word lovely, and Death has access to a lot of bones. So on balance he's probably right.


_____"Carrion!" – he says, suddenly. "Decay! Cadavers! Ineluctable decline..."

Death has a sort of death Tourette's.

_____"Shush" – I say. "I was about to move."

_____"Ineluctable, though" – he says. "Come on – in-e-luc-ta-ble... Blissful! Like rolling a lychee across your tongue!"

_____"Lychees make me think of eyeballs" – I mutter.

Death laughs. Like tombstones tumbling. It's usually him who's the morbid one.


There is a word that Death can never understand. Perhaps it's the most beautiful there is.

(Say it now. Say it for yourself. Say it slowly, softly, tenderly, say it out loud: pusu... pu-su... Feel how your mouth moves. Feel how it forms the action, forms the word, forms a kiss – that's what pusu means, that's what pusu is).

But Death knows Finnish. He just doesn't have lips.

If only we'd run in the other direction...

IF ONLY WE'D RUN IN THE OTHER DIRECTION...

The sea has stopped.

Or was it the moon? Is the earth still turning?

Now the sand ripples, the pebbles rear up in terrifying waves, high above our heads seaweed dangles in Hokusai tendrils... and we take to the sea.

In what was once the surf, we try to look on the bright side: At least we understand now how the desert began, says one - but we push her off her pedalo: she needs to understand that there are certain things you just don't say when you're the only one who isn't up to her neck in it.

Just saying, we hear, much later, quietly. I was just saying, that's all. We know, we say, and in the dark we huddle all together... And we wait for the end.

The Tragedy Artist

THE TRAGEDY ARTIST

“COME SEE THE TRAGIC MAN!” said the signs, and so we did, buying popcorn and drinks in the lobby, and renting opera glasses – or not – as seating allocations dictated. Something will befall him soon, we think, in the hushed darkness. Surely something will befall him soon.

On stage, the man smiles nervously and shifts in his seat.

Time passes. Again the man smiles and shifts nervously.

On the third time, he adds an apologetic little shrug, a wipe of his brow... but a crowd only has so much patience. Drinks, popcorn, opera glasses, anything to hand, all begin to rain down upon the stage, “Boo!”s emanate from the assembled, “Rubbish!” they shout–

“Stop!” the man pleads, from somewhere beneath his arms. “Stop! Is this not tragedy? Is this not what you came for?”

And for a moment the barrage ceases...

Is he right?

“But now we feel the joke is on us,” comes the rejoinder and it begins again – we are tearing seats from the aisles, we are destroying the place, we are destroying him, and only when the man is dead and the theatre almost as ill-built as it was as a child do we stop and wonder if we have gone too far.

“We had only meant to watch... we had only meant to watch...” we say. “And now this... and now this...”

And in the burning box office all hope of a refund goes up in flames.

"Curse you!" we shout. "Curse you, David Blaine!"

It's not just telly that's gone downhill

It appears I did some dreaming last night.

Dream 1: Sit in a very large pub; get slightly bored.

Dream 2: Murder someone; on the way home, realise it was probably all a bit of a misunderstanding; feel slightly embarrassed.

Dream 3. Suspect that I may have some paper cuts; look at finger; see lots of paper cuts; mutter something along the lines of "Cuh! Those'll annoy me later..."

Sometimes I worry about my unconscious... No sense of drama. It barely even manages nightmares.

Case in point: it once dreamt about being chased by zombies - three very, very slow zombies. Basically the dream consisted of me sitting around having a nice read, but every so often having to go outside and sit somewhere else, before I could return to the more comfortable seat indoors, until the zombies eventually and inevitably shambled back into view again and I had to move again. Repeat ad nauseum.

At some point in this tedium I think it hit me that "Oh. This is going to make for an interrupted night's sleep...", but even that low level of dramatic tension was instantly dispersed: "Actually, never mind. If I just go far enough, and perhaps by bike, not only will I buy myself a good few hours kip, but after a few weeks of this nonsense I'll probably have lost weight."

And then back to the near-endless game of non-musical chairs.

Apparently my unconscious, at some point in my past, must have mistaken zombies for some form of book-averse personal trainer; which, if this confusion is also occuring in reverse, would at least explain my attitude to exercise...

But then again, it probably isn't; so it doesn't.

I don't know. Maybe I should just start watching more horror movies?

More nonsense from the notebook

A CONVERSATION

- Your mobile phone has been disconnected, sir. It has been bothering people.

- How has it-

- Been bothering people?

- Yes.

- We hoped you wouldn't ask.

- But I have.

- And you will not retract?

- No. Why should I?

- Because your question is bothersome. We don't like bother. Surely you have realised?

- But what has this phone of mine been doing?

- It has been bothering people, sir. We have covered this.

- But that isn't my phone. It has arms and two legs and a tiny crying head.

- But it is bothering people, yes?

- Oh yes. Myself included.

- Then in that case, sir, we apologise. It is not your phone that has been disconnected.

- It's...

- Yes?

- Why do you call me 'sir'?

Something about nothing

ON THE GENESIS OF J_____ K___

In town there is a shape... No, it's more of an outline – somewhere a shape once was.

Within the outline is nothing.

_____What should we do with the nothing? – the men ask.

_____Why must we do anything? – the women ask.

_____I'm bored – say the children.

The nothing is taken away.

_____What did you see? – says the Judge.

And later:

_____Can you offer anything in your defence?

Witness and defendant answer nothing - it is an open and shut case. Sentenced to life, and having none of its own, the nothing swiftly becomes host of a popular daytime talk-show.

_____After the break – says the host – we'll see who the real father is.

_____You're scum! – says the host. Beneath contempt.

_____Blimey, this is the best thing since bear baiting! – says a Judge.

In the host is a shape... No, it's more of an outline. Within the outline is nothing.