Southcart Book Club May 2016

Let’s just imagine that a couple of weekends ago, hang on, it might have been last week. No, it was definitely… Oh, I don’t know, I’m not Doctor bloody Who (Although I would no doubt, make a bloody brilliant Doctor Who. Admittedly, there’d be a lot less reversing the polarity of the neutron flow and a lot more ‘Hold my beer and watch this’ before all the running and yelling started)

Anywho, 3... 2... 1... back in the room… Where was I? Oh yes, one weekend in the recent past, I was invited down to Southcart Books, the only independent book shop in the Black Country (Where Lenny Henry comes from) to talk about all my books – Past, present and *Whisper* future. You’ve heard me talk about Southcart before – I bang on about it like it’s going out of fashion, you should really go there and spend lots of money. Also, say it was my idea that you go there, I might get a free coffee out of it or maybe some vodka at Christmas – Because everyone knows that that’s what authors live on, coffee and vodka.

It wasn’t just me that got invited. Well, it was that time, but… Well, what happens is that every month, on the lunchtime of the last Saturday, they hold a book club in the shop. It’s where they get a local author, or other person of note, to pop down for a couple of hours and chat about stuff and things, maybe do a reading, maybe recount some funny story from their past and generally hold sway with their feet on the table like a cut-price Tyrion Lannister until it’s time for them all to leave so that they can pick their kids up from ballet, or football, or organic weasel plaiting or whatever it is that passes for children’s weekend entertainment in the West Midlands nowadays. The punters also get the chance to buy copies of whatever book the author’s hawking at the moment. It’s like the thing that Waterstones do with authors you’ve actually heard of, but without all the nasty queueing out of the door and not being able to eat an ice-cream while you’re looking around the shop.

I got there early, spread out some signed copies of ‘The Pangolin Yodels’ and sat on one of the shop’s comfy sofas to await my audience. Before long, Lucy, the organiser of the whole book club thing arrived – Calling her an organiser is selling her short really, she’s a successful author too, and a musical photographer (in that she specializes in taking photos of bands, she doesn’t spin around whilst whistling the Sugar-Plum Fairy as she works – Although who am I to judge? She may well do that too.) and she’s the lead singer of a massively popular soul band – I hate her actually, she’s so bloody talented that it makes my teeth itch.  She let me know how these things usually played out, and confided that usually it followed a pretty strict timetable of five minutes of the author bigging up their book, then a break for cake, then the remaining hour was reserved for random knob jokes and comparing favourite flavours of crisps, then a couple of people would buy a copy of your book and we could all go home (via the Organic Weasel Plaiting Foundry Est. in Walsall December 1749, obviously)  

So then the fine upstanding members of the book club started to arrive and some of them talked for a while about the damage caused to their boobs by rabbits, (Plus other famous local author James Josiah whom I may have mentioned in passing before - Wait, no, I don't mean that James Josiah caused them some boob damage too... Oh Christ I can see the litigation now!) I sat at the head of the oversized oak table, with a line of completely normal people down each side, some with more damaged boobs than others. They looked at me like jackals in a kebab shop, ‘Go on,’ I could tell that they were thinking, ‘do something literary, I dare you.’ I started off with telling them who I was, just to let them know that they were in the right place. And gave them a quick five minutes of why I do what I do, and where I stared and stuff like that. Then I was asked for a reading… I’d prepared some stuff, but I was requested to read the Gullible Steve story ‘The Concussion Chilli with Rottweiler Sauce’ – I read it, stopping every few minutes to wait for people to stop laughing, and told them that this story wasn’t actually in the book that was available for sale, it was in my previous one (Luckily, I’d bought a copy of it with me for advertising purposes). I got through ‘Thermodynamics,it’s the law’ about my Dad and a pigeon from the 60’s and I think that there might have been one other, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was.

Then I read ‘Bek’ – Now, I can’t tell you what ‘Bek’s about, because it’s a story from my next book, which includes both some extended versions of existing (fiction) stories and some completely new stuff – I’m trying to get it out for Christmas (2016 before you ask) – I’ll keep you in the loop.  This is the cover:

Yes, that's my daughter there, well spotted

It promoted some interesting reactions, there were yelps, there were covered faces and various cries of ‘No!’ from people.  At the end there was a stunned silence for a few seconds, and one person asked, “How can that story have been written by someone who writes things like that.” (Pointing at ‘The Pangolin Yodels’) another remarked that it felt somehow comfortable and horrific at the same time (I’m paraphrasing as I can't remember exactly what words he used, but I know that I was quite pleased)

I looked up at the clock and we’d over-run by about half an hour. I inscribed some books for people, and every single person who was there bought a copy (apart from the people who already owned it, obvs) – We even had a Viking film director come in off the street to buy a copy (And by Viking film director, I don’t mean someone who directs Viking films, I mean he directs films, and is also a Viking)

(Don't tell anyone, but there has even been talk about the possibility of one of the stories from 'Forever Girl' being made into a film - Remember, Mum's the word. Shh...)

Another funny thing happened, all the people who were there, every man-jack of them, are now my friends on Facebook – I’m very social you know – And one of them has given me permission to screen-grab something she posted so that you can see that, despite your better judgement, it’s not just me that enjoys my books. (I also enclose a picture of her preparing to read the book, for science reasons *cough*) I’m going to be there again probably on Saturday the 25^th June, so that people can ask me questions about the book – You could come too, it’ll be fun. There might be a bouncy castle*

Not gratuitous in the slightest...

Frankly written and beautiful? Open? Me? Surely some mistake... Anywho, Southcart might have some signed copies left, or if you get a copy of whichever book/s you want and get in contact, I'll scribble something unintelligible in them and send them back to you, free of charge (inc postage within reason) when I remember.

And what do you get for nothing nowadays?

*There almost certainly won't be a bouncy castle.

Put on your adventuring pants Matron!

Would you like to help me on a quest?

A vision quest if you will, like the bloke off of ‘Star Trek: Voyager’ used to do every time there was an episode about him. (Did you know, that Robert Beltran, the guy who played the enigmatic Native American character Chakotay in the program was in fact, half Mexican? Which just goes to show that if an ‘ethnic’ character is needed, any minority will do at a pinch.)

Anyway, back to my vision quest. Don’t worry if you’re in two minds about the use of mind expanding herbs and the ceaseless native rhythms, I’m not going to ask you to listen to Radio 1 or anything unnatural like that. I’d just like some of you to read a couple of my Blog posts.

It’s not hugely important, I’m being selfish and mercenary and I’m just trying to cheer myself up about because things have all gone a bit crappy today and it’s taking a few more muscles to smile than it does normally (Even if I am wearing a brand-new Jeff Banks shirt that makes me look a bit like a Vicar.)

The thing is, I am just 23 page-views short of hitting my completely made up and arbitrary target of 44,000 by the end of the week.

I’m not suggesting that you just go to my Blog and start reading random stuff, for that way madness lies – And most of you are borderline mental now.

So, I thought I’d give you some suggestions of a few of my favourite post that you can take a look at to cheer yourself up – They’re not my most popular ones by any means, they’re just ones I particularly like.

1. We’ll start with ‘Pandas, the Eastern Scourge’ – where I question the very nature of our ailuropodean planet-mates and try to discover if they’re just ‘Pulling a fast one.’
2. Then there’s ‘T-wit - who?’ – This describes the particular shortcomings of having a real, live, owl as a pet.  These are many and hugely unpleasant (Does contain a picture of the MiniDandy as a small child.)
3. Many of you know that I love ASDA, It’s mainly because of the people you can run into there, but I also performed the only recorded Melonicide in UK History (Also contains a small ladies chest reference, no, actually, it’s a small reference to a ladies chest) – ‘Boobs, Melons and Jumper Lumps’
4. In ‘Maybe they explained it badly?’ – I expose my complete lack of technical understanding to a waiting world… Mainly of how huge, metal aeroplanes can glide through the aether with an alacrity that would easily wound an armoured badger.
5. POWER! – It’s something we all yearn for, but do any of actually understand what it is? – I know I don’t, but I did have a go at explaining it to myself.  It didn’t go particularly well.  But judge for yourself in ‘Any way the wind blows’
6. I’m quite proud of the mixture of Terrorism and Time-Travel that I managed to ram into ‘We are kept keen on the grindstone of pain and necessity’ – Many people reposted this, but it’s not in the top-ten anymore.
7. Now, I’m cheating here, this one is actually in the Top-Ten, but it got favourited and re-tweeted by real famous people on Twitter. ‘Pogonophilia is for everyone, even the young.’ Contains my child-like wonder about why ‘a certain kind of lady’ finds Men with Manly beards very Manly. (Warning, contains a topless, Anne Geddes style photo of me)
8. I’m a great believer that you should wear clothes that make you happy… Wearing a kilt makes me happy (and freshens up my nethers like a man possessed) in ‘Let loose The Kraken Th'Noo’ I perform in what could be construed as a slightly racist fashion, purely so that I don’t have to wear any pants.
9. Some of you might know that on very rare occasions, I ride custom motorcycles. The thing about doing this is that you attract the attention of other people who do the same thing.  These people tend to have lives that are just as colourful as mine, here’s a few stories about my, now sadly demised, friend Jock, ‘No, chopper as in motorcycle - And Greeks.’
10. And the last post I’m going to recommend today also has a slightly Scots flavour.  Well, I could really do a list without including at least one ‘Scots Mick’ story, could I? ‘Then SMick said that Chap was a bad word’ talks about my first trip to the wonderful riverside town of Dumfries, where I nearly got my arms torn off and single-handedly chatted up a xenophobic bouncers girlfriend… Well, I say single-handedly…

Hope you enjoy this quick look at some of my favourite posts, there are a lot more if you’re interested.  Feel free to repost them, or spam links to people you think might be interested.

In fact, I think I’d quite like that.

This could be interesting

I'm going to make a sweeping generalisation here... I'm going to go ahead and assume that everyone who's reading this, can read.

I mean it's not much of a stretch, this blog is about 98% text, with only the odd gratuitous picture of a discouraged rat or a glowing bottle of cannabis imbued vodka.  Word-heavy pages on the Internet tend to attract people who can actually read.

Here's sweeping generalisation number 2 - Hold on to your hats - The chances are, if you're actually reading this on purpose and you've not just found your way here via Google, (because I cleverly added the words 'Naked', 'Virgin' & 'Schoolgirl' to the Page-tags to trap fans of seedy porography) - You're happily residing towards the top of the 'Pretty bright' scale.

What, traditionally, do pretty bright people enjoy?

Ok, smarty-pants, apart from feeling superior...

That's right, they like to read books.

Books are flipping great, aren't they?

As Groucho Marx once said: "Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read."

Wait... No... I was trying to be serious there wasn't I?  Let's try that again...

Prolific Writer, "Cleaner', Newsreader, Pizza Delivery Guy, Cemetery Caretaker, Truck Driver and serial ATM User, Stephen King announced, "Books are the perfect entertainment: no commercials, no batteries, hours of enjoyment for each dollar spent. What I wonder is why everybody doesn't carry a book around for those inevitable dead spots in life."

(LOL, Stephen King said 'Dead Spots')

And I agree with Mr Bachman, I always carry a book with me... Admittedly, it's 'usually' in my head, and I'm 'usually' just about halfway through writing it, but it still counts.

Can you remember the last book you bought?  More importantly, can you remember where you bought it from?  I'll wager that the vast proportion of you just answered Amazon, or something similar.  Now, I'm not going to berate you about how buying books from the online sheds is terrible and how it's slowly strangling the life out of real, bricks and mortar bookshops (Even though it is) because... Well... To be frank, it's CURRENTLY the only place you can buy any of my books.  And I'll bite a lot of things, but not the hand that feeds me, because that would be silly.

Why don't we all shop in real bookshops?  Well, there just aren't that many of them around any more, in fact, there are now less than 1,000 independent book shops left in the UK - That's about one bookshop for every 64,062 people. When you think about it, that's pretty sad - There's a whole generation of kids who, if we don't do anything about it, will never know the joy of wandering around a maze-like bookshop, feverishly clutching their birthday money in their jammy little fists, finding a book they like, figuring out whether they can afford it and finally plucking up the courage to approach the friendly, but still obscenely scary person behind the counter to complete their purchase.

But I suppose Amazon have a huge selection, and they deliver don't they, usually when you're out, so you get one of those notes from the postman that says "We tried to deliver this parcel that you've been waiting for, but you were, like, out, or having a poop or something, so we've taken it back to the depot, and / or thrown it over your fence and into your pond.

We're all getting lazy, and fat, and relying too much on technology to make our lives easier.  Reading a book is a fairly sedentary thing to do in the first place, the least you can do is actually get off your well-read butt and go out hunting for a book 'in the wild' as it were.

And here's the perfect opportunity:

Next week is Independent Booksellers Week, why don't you take the time to go out, find your nearest purveyor of fine reading matter and spaff your spare cash uncontrollably all over their shelves.

You might even actually want to get involved yourselves, that's what I'm doing (But as you all know, I am a HUGE show-off so it was a bit of a no-brainer really)

On the afternoon of Saturday 5th of July, I'll be at the wonderfully independent Southcart Books on Lower Hall Lane, in sunny Walsall, jewel of the West Midlands.

Scott and Amy - Give them ALL of your money - They deserve it.

Why will I be there? Well, ostensibly to eat all of the cake and drink all of the tea and coffee*  But I will also, hopefully, find time to read a couple of stories from both volumes of 'The Collected Chimping Dandy'.

Ah, here's an idea... Should you be in the area, by which I mean 'able to get there if you set out now, with a loyal team of Sherpas and a dozen barrels of Navy Rum', you should totally come and see me look embarrased, go red and mumble, and say "ummmm.." and "errrr.." a lot whilst one chap and his dog claps nervously as I tell the story about the exploding pigeon.  Other authors should also be there, it's not just me, that would be weird.

It might be fun... No, it will be fun - I'm just not sure yet at whose expense...







*Please note: I've got no idea whether there will be refreshments... But there's a bucketload of shops in the general area - You can sort yourselves out.

There's something else that I miss...

I was driving to work this morning and pondering what to Blog about today. and by the time i'd got to Historical Castle Donington, I'd decided that it was either going to be about football (Because my local team has decided to re-name its stadium and people are threatening to commit suicide) or breasts (Because my fellow Blogger Tattooed Mummy just did one and I thought I'd offer the male perspective).  But try as I might, I couldn't decide which one to do, what with them both being very emotive subjects.

So, I decided to trot out another one about how things were much better in the 'Good old days' than they are now, but to combine the subjects I'd previously thought of.

Ok, so it happened more in the olden days than it does now... Involves football... And breasts... It can only be?..

(Actually, all of you people who just thought 'spit-roasting' can just leave, right now - There's no place here for people like you here, this is a family Blog.)

I am, of course, talking about streaking.  The act of taking off all/most of your clothes and making an organised public event 1000% more interesting - Often as a form of protest, but mostly to show off.  And who hasn't, if they're being completely honest, ever just wanted to remove all of their clothes in a completely inappropriate situation and then have a bit of a jog about the place? It's like, guerrilla naturism and it should be given our wholehearted support.  I mean, I can remember saying, on many occasions, 'I should like to give that young, naked, statuesque lady my wholehearted support.'

*cough*

Anywho, I would probably say that the the first person to bring this time honoured tradition to my personal attention was a young lady by the name of Erica Roe at Twickenham in 1982.

Aye, she could certainly fill a policeman's helmet could young Erica

(We won 15-11 By the way - Seems that the Aussies may have gotten a little distracted)

To an impressionable fourteen year old boy, she was the very epitome of pulchritude, and the fact that she bore more than a passing resemblance to Sally James didn't hurt either.  It seems that she, and her friend Sarah Bennett (also pictured, being covered up by John Bull, with a Union Flag - Be honest, you hadn't spotted her had you? Me either.) Had gotten a little bit drunk and did it for a dare... How very British!  What's even more British is that she did it in January and it was pretty cold - Which you can see in some of the 'other' pictures that are freely available on the Internet, but it doesn't account for why the Copper is sweating...

However, because I'm a completely law abiding citizen, I must warn you that streaking is currently illegal in the UK and is covered (if you'll pardon the pun) under the Sexual Offences act and, depending on who sees you, what the circumstances are and the sense of humour quotient of the arresting officer, the punishment can range from a hearty 'Put your clothes back on and bugger off.' through, a lifetime ban on entry to the venue where you streaked, to two-years imprisonment and your name on the Sex-Offenders register... Although an £80 fine and a good, hard, quoting of the Public Order act seems to be popular at the moment.

Also, you have to remember though that not so long ago, nakedness was a major part of organised sporting events. Wrestling in the original Olympic Games for instance was originally conducted naked, covered in olive oil too... probably.  Actually, I think that this is as good a time as any, to introduce today's new word...

PLETHRON:  The length/width of a Greek Wrestling square, 100 Ancient Greek (just called Greek at the time, obviously) feet - Which, strangely was the width of the gap in the middle of an Olympic running track... Spooky!

If you'd like to picture the scene, you've got a couple of oiled-up Greek chaps, chasing each other around a 30 meter square of sand making the Zoidberg woop-woop-woop noise, trying to pin someone to the floor, I'm sure you can imagine the opportunities for junk-flappity action that this 'sport' involved.  Although don't get me wrong, it wasn't a free-for-all, there were rules... Some of which included:

• Grasping of the Genitals is prohibited. (which is where it's different from most of you guys' standard Saturday night out I'm guessing.)
• No gouging of the eyes or biting is allowed (see above)
• Infractions should be punished by immediate whipping by the Referee until the undesirable behaviour is stopped.

Is anyone else really surprised that the phrase 'Homo-Erotic' is of Greek origin?

-oOo-

And finally, as this Blog usually comprises my thoughts and experiences, you'll all be glad to know that I, your ever-loving Blogger have, indeed, streaked myself.  It wasn't at a sporting event, because I'm not particularly 'sporty'.

It was however down a busy shopping street, in the center of my home town (Well, city technically I suppose) and was the the upshot of someone saying 'You daren't'.

It seems that 'I certainly do dare'...

Pogonophilia is for everyone, even the young.

Let me start by saying... You probably read the title wrong the first time.  Your mind is so used to seeing that other 'philia' that starts with the letter 'P' and has an 'o' in it that it just automatically fills it in, especially if you read the Daily Express.

Pogonophilia is the state of admiring, being fond of or having a fetish for... People who have beards - You see I said people, not men because there are ladies who wear full beards proudly.  But in fairness, I am actually going to just be talking about men, because: ewww.

I've lost track of the number of posts I've seen on twitter and other blogs and Facebook that start with things like 'Oh, I saw this guy with this completely lush beard at the Railway station this morning and I just wanted to rush up to him and run my fingers through it and get naked and have his babies right there outside WHSmiths.' or 'I'm sitting in Costa and there's a guy sitting opposite me with a Brad Pitt beard and a sharp suit, reading Dostoevsky's treatise on the vagaries of the human condition and I'd go over and jam my tongue in his ear but I seem to be temporarily stuck to the chair by my own lady-juices.'

What is it that's suddenly made beards fashionable and/or desirous?

Ok, so Brad Pitt seems to have gone a bit Worzel Gummidge, and La Depp seems to be hanging on to a watered down version of the Jack Sparrow goatee, George Clooney is rocking the Silver Fox look, Mel Gibson looks like a boggle-eyed anti-semetic musketeer, Colin Farrel, Billy Connolly, Daniel Craig, Viggo Mortenson, Hugh Jackman, Christian Bale - All of these guys currently sport, or have sported in the recent past facial hair.

In the past, (like, 50-60 years ago, not prehistoric times - where beard wearing wasn't a lifestyle choice, it was a neccesity) - Beards were the preserve of Fishermen and members of The Royal Navy (Yes, I know there's a salty seaman joke in there - feel free to fill it in yourself - I can't be bothered) Then if we move forward slightly you get everyone being clean-shaven except for the Hippies and Beatniks, From then until 2010 it was just Bikers, Tramps and Santa.

Look, here's an example... This was me in about 1994.

Calm down ladies... I know... 26 years old, full of beans and brimming with so much rebellion that I should be driving James Dean's Silver Porsche.  A veritable love machine of the old school (Ignore the washing machines... Long story).

*cough*

So, why did I grow a beard originally? Well apart from the whole motorcycling thing?  It's because I'm a mutant - It's all my Mother's fault you see, she had a freakishly small womb (Obviously, this was whilst she was still alive.) and I spent a significant portion of my gestation period with my forearm jammed into my chin causing a certain lack of mandibular development, making me look a little bit like Beaker, off of the Muppets when I shave my beard off. (Which is why I don't, ever, not even to go to a Muppet themed fancy dress party - I go as Sam, the American Eagle - Gives me the opportunity to paint myself blue... again)

While we're on the subject, did you know that the only animal other than humans to actually have a chin is the elephant? - Which is strange, because scientist believe that the chin's job is to support the muscles required to move the lips well enough to enable us to speak.

But over the years, I've developed my hirsuteness from full Captain Birdseye (You should never go full Captain Birdseye) to the interesting Goatee/Walrus moustache with disconnected sideburns combo that I'm rocking here - I have stuck with this style as it seems to work for me:

That's the MicroDandy by the way - Yes, he was cute wasn't he - You'll also note that my hairline has... Retracted slightly from its position in the previous picture.  I think it makes me look distinguished - And I lie to myself regularly about other things too.

I would have used a current picture, but I'm growing my hair at the moment and it's in that difficult 'In between short and long' stage that makes me look like a startled clown.

That's why I have a beard, but why do I think women like men with beards?  I think it's part of a cycle.  The late 70's / Early 80's were the golden age of 'The Man', the one who'd jump from a helicopter, scale your trellis (ooh-err) and deliver you a box of chocolates.  Hard drinking, Hard fighting, Hard loving men who made women feel like women and misogyny was a normal and expected part of everyday life.  Then, as the 80's turned into the 90's and political correctness and sexual equality became increasingly popularised, Men (not men... But Men) started to be regarded as anachronistic, overly neanderthal buckets of testosterone who, if anyone ever invented a cucumber that could mow the lawn, would be consigned to the cupboard and only brought out for the process of procreation.  Thus causing the Golden Age of the metro-sexual - These chaps were characterised by their fantastically quaffed hair, Gucci manbags, colour co-ordinated silk ties, socks and pants and legendarily low sperm counts.

These amazingly successful subspecies dominated advertising and finance for many years until everything went a bit pear-shaped. Benetton and Gap spiraled out of control and became satires of themselves, the stock market and banks followed suit and every news report seemed to show slightly effeminate males running around trying to grab the last few lettuce and watercress sandwiches after there'd been a run on Pret-a-Manger and having a bit of a cry.

It was time for a change, someone needed to take charge and steer the ship towards land, who were those people? Who could emerge from a cloud of dry-ice wearing just fireman's trousers or a kilt with a good quarter pint of baby-oil smothered over their pecs? Who could we trust to buy their food from a roadside greasy spoon which only sells thick slices of bacon, sausages with indeterminate contents and pasties that just have meat and potato in them?

Men, that's who... Men with beards... Beards that say 'Yes, I can both change a plug, spatchcock a donkey and make love to a beautiful woman until she is incapable of anything other than lying there shaking whilst muttering "thank you, please sir can I have another?" over and over again.'

Beards!

The Mark of a Man.

If I hadn't seen it I wouldn't have believed it

Well, it's Friday again and the promise of two days off when the temperature may reach into double figures, lightens my soul like only the crying of someone else's children in Waitrose normally does.

Sorry the Blog skipped yesterday, it's all this damn paying work getting in the way again.

I know you guys like to hear about how much the real-life world of IT is like the one depicted in 'The IT Crowd', so I thought I'd recount some of the fun and exciting things that happened to me during what I consider to be my first 'Real' job.

The year was 1985, the wreck of the Titanic had just been discovered, Axel F by Harold Faltermeyer hadn't been totally buggered by that frog thing and Mick Jagger and David Bowie were at the top of the charts with 'Dancing in the Streets' (Whilst not looking at all gay in the slightest)

I was seventeen and worked for a small (and now sadly defunct) marketing company, based in a renovated stable, in the small Derbyshire village of Brailsford.  It was run by a couple, let's call them John and Margot (Because that was their names) who had, if I was being charitable, delusions of grandeur.  They'd drive around in his slightly scabby Alfa-Sud, him in a sharp three-piece suit and her in tight-fitting business-wear where the blouses were low-cut and the skirts were short, as was the fashion in the 80's if you wanted to do business.

Their core business was printing promotional items, little metal signs, t-shirts, that sort of thing, but they'd just bought into a PC network reselling scheme and they were doing their best to tout it around local businesses.  They weren't technical, and at the time, I wasn't particularly either, which was recipe for hilarity if ever I heard one.

A normal work day would be:  Get the bus to work and then wait outside in the rain and the wind for the bosses to turn up. Put the kettle on and go to the newsagents for the Daily Express.  Make coffee and fire up the camping stove.  Listen to John reading out the headlines whilst Margot tutted and I cooked bacon for sandwiches. Drink strong coffee and eat the sandwiches. Do the Express crossword.  Print a few t-shirts. Go to the Pub.  Offer to exchange printing services for beer.  Stay at pub for two hours.  Stagger back to the office.  Drink Coffee.  Wait for John & Margot to fall asleep.  Get bus home.

Very little I.T. related stuff there, I think you'll agree.  But that all suddenly changed after I'd been there about three months.   Then we got a couple of PCs delivered from the resellers and I started demo-ing them to prospective customers.  Business really took off... Kinda...

-oOo-

We arranged a demo for Charing Cross hospital in London and I arranged to meet John at the railway station so we could travel down together and discuss 'Strategy'.  He didn't turn up (Bearing in mind this was before mobile phones so I couldn't chase him), luckily we'd had the kit sent to directly to site, so I arrived and set it up in this chap's office. The demo went as well as could be expected seeing as I was not a salesman, merely a scrawny, long haired, metalhead.  The demo was finished by lunchtime and the customer turned to me and said.

'Shall we get some lunch?'

'Yes... That'd be great, thanks.'  I replied.

'You do have an expense account, right?' He asked.

'Ah, no, not really,' I looked in my pocket and found the grand total of £3.45

'OK,' He said, 'I'll pay, but I'm going to send your company a bill for it.'

Which in fairness was exactly what he did, we sat in the pub for a couple of hours talking about how awful my company was and how he didn't blame me, then I caught the train home.  We never recovered the kit.  John's excuse was that he'd had a skinfull the night before and had forgotten all about it.

-oOo-

Another time, we had the chance of demo-ing the system to Shell UK.  I knew this wasn't going to go well, but I had my suit dry-cleaned anyway.  The demo took place at, what was then, Shell House on The Strand (again in London) and this time we all drove down there in the Main Distributor's Jag, with the kit in the boot.  The demo was due to take place in the mid-afternoon and we arrived there at about eleven-ish.  We unloaded the PCs and took them up to the conference room, where I was left to unbox and set them up whilst everyone else went to the pub.  five minutes or so before the demo was due, my bosses, the distributor and the Shell guy who'd arranged the meeting all rolled through the door, giggling and doing that 'Shush' thing to each other and the other ten Shell senior managers in the room, that you do when you're drunk and people are scowling at you.

Again, the demo went OK, we had to stop a few times when John forgot what he was saying, or had to ask me about how the system actually worked, or had to go to the toilet.  Luckily not a great number of people were actually paying attention, as Margot was perched, bleary eyed, on a chair in the corner with her skirt ridden up so far that not only could you see she was wearing stockings, but also a thong (She allegedly had a friend who worked with Janet Reger, and we would often be treated to an impromptu fashion show when she had acquired a new item).

At the end of the demo, the distributor asked if there were any questions, accused the chap who asked the first one of storing half of his breakfast on his tie and then promptly took a step back and fell over his chair.

Upon our exit, John did a stage wink at the Shell chap who'd taken them for lunch and said:

'Cheers Brian, the cheque's in the post'

We didn't get the business, and the most surprising thing was that John was surprised.

-oOo-

As business started to slump, they gave me a key to the office and they started to come in less and less.  This suited me just fine, and would have suited me even better if the Internet had been freely available.  I'd come in at about 10-ish, wait for Margot to ring to check I was there, go to the pub, back to the office for an hour and then go home.  During this time, I became friends with the landlord of the local pub, The Rose & Crown, and slightly more than friends with one of the barstaff, the particular young lady had a few 'friends' in the village and was known for being 'accommodating', which I can confirm.  I would often trade printing services to the landlord for beer and food.  In fact, during my time there, I completely refreshed all of his signage and designed him new menus.  I also became addicted to Salmon & Salad cream sandwiches.

One lunchtime he came over and said:

'Can you use a hammer?'

'Yes, of course.' I lied, nodding like a loon - In fairness, at this stage I wasn't particularly sure which end you held and which end you hit stuff with.

'Come with me...'

We went into the somewhat dilapidated beer garden and he showed me a long strip of concrete that he'd had laid.

'Very nice,' I said, not really sure what it was I was looking at.

'It's my new skittle alley, if you give me a hand putting a roof over it, I'll pay you in beer and sandwiches.'

So, I spent the summer of 1986 building a skittle alley (which may or may not still be there), a huge chicken coop for his 'fancy hens', and learning some very interesting things from a barmaid some seven years older than myself.

-oOo-

One Friday morning, I was sat in the office, spinning around on the chair, waiting for my check-in call from Margot.  The phone rang, I answered it, it was Margot.  But this time the call was a little different.

'Dandy, what are you doing on Monday?'

'I don't know, whatever you tell me to I suppose.'

'Right, we're going on holiday for the month, and I need you to feed the cats.'

'OK.'

'I'll come and pick you up and show you what needs doing.'

So I sat and waited, and then waited, and then waited a bit more and eventually the popping and banging from the exhaust of the Alfa announced her arrival.  I locked up and went out to meet her.

'Sorry I'm late,' She said, 'Pippa and Debbie turned up, so we all had a bit of a drinkie.'

We drove to her place, which was an apartment in an old manor house down the road and she showed me where everything was, how much the cats ate and where the tea and coffee was.  It turned out that they wanted to me close the office and come and stay all day in their apartment whilst they were away.

Everything was sorted, and she was just about to drive me to the nearest bus stop when I had a call of nature.  Margot directed me to the correct area and I went into what was a very well appointed Victorian style bathroom.

Which just happened to have a life-size  naked, photograph of her over the bath.  It answered a couple of questions for me, the first one being that her blonde hair hadn't, as I'd first though, come out of a bottle, and the second was that certain parts of her anatomy, that I'd thought had been surgically enhanced, probably weren't.

When I left the bathroom, some twenty minutes later, she looked at me and said,

'Perhaps I should have warned you about that... I used to model when I was younger'

I just nodded, as I didn't really want her to hear how out of breath I was.  The drive to the bus stop was a little bit weird in fairness, but I'd just about pulled myself together enough to go to the pub that night and tell everyone I knew, and a lot of people that I didn't.

On Monday I went to her flat, and her next-door neighbour let me in.  I fed the cats and made a coffee.  She had some bayonets hanging on the wall, so I had a bit of a fiddle with those, wandered around the gardens and had a general sniff around.

I found some modelling photos, and then more modelling photos, and then some photos that weren't exactly of her modelling, I mean she wasn't looking at the camera in most of them, neither was the other person in them, and they were probably taken by a third person.  If I was her, I would have probably have hidden these away from prying eyes, rather than leave them on display, in the back of her underwear drawer, under what amounted to a false bottom.

The next four weeks virtually flew past.  And when she called me on the Monday to make sure I was back in the office she sounded quite upset, I asked her what was wrong and she said:

'Those people! The neighbours we left the key with! They've been through my stuff, even my underwear drawer! I'll never speak to them again!'

I expressed my shock at their despicable behaviour... And left it at that.


See you on Monday kids, and remember, you never really know anyone until you've seen them naked.

The sins of the Father

Well, my 99th Blog post (for The Chimping Dandy at least, regular readers will know of my repeated forays into flash fiction, sponsored, fumigated, canned and sold by the very worth James Josiah) and it's yet another trip into the Steampunkery fuelled world of the LadyDorleith Ahralia, countess of Minidandia and her band of ramshackle corsairs aboard the airship Edward Teach, scourge of the skies, killer of spiders and lover of shoes.

If you'd like a little background, or just want to read the previous five episodes, you can read them here, here, here, here and here - That's hopefully the right order. They feature at least three terribly real people and a selection of ugly puns, thinly veiled references and shamelessly stolen ideas and tropes from popular fiction.

-oOo-

'Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert!' Yelled Frobisher, the lights in his face flashing from an angry red to a vile supporating yellow, 'Unexpected lifesign detected in engineering! Intruder Alert!'

The captain jumped from her bunk, still groggy from the celebration after the successful rescue of Dorys, and her own return from an implied watery grave, 'Shut that damn alarm off you bag of rusty cogs! Security team to engineering deck, immobilize the intruder, whatever it is I want it alive!'

She pulled on her jodhpurs and kneeboots, rescued the crumpled linen shirt from the floor, buttoned it up and suddenly noticed the touselled hair of Torville poking out from under the covers. The sound of his gentle snoring now obvious as the alarm had been silenced.

'Bugger!' She said, slowly lifting the covers and confirming that he was, in fact, naked, 'And double bugger!' She looked for slightly longer at the taut muscles on his back than was strictly necessary, then sighed and exited to the bridge.

The crew of the morning watch turned and saluted, 'Captain on the Bridge!' a crewman whose name she couldn't remember at the best of times yelled. The noise made her wince more than the alarm had, but she resisted the temptation to raise her finger to her lips and shush him.

'Why is there an intruder on my boat?' She asked the assembled throng as she sank into the command chair, 'Anyone?' A sea of blank faces was her only reply. She thumbed the Intercomm, 'Security team, have you found it - whatever it is?'

'Baju-merah here Ma'am, engineering's clear, no-one here who shouldn't be here. We've checked everywhere!'

Frobisher chose that moment to voice yet another alarm, 'Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert! Unexpected lifesign detected in the Forward avionics cabin!'

'What?' exclaimed the Captain, 'That's at the other end of the... How? Frobisher, check the logs, was the intruder detected anywhere between Engineering and Avionics?'

'No Ma'am, the signal disappeared from Engineering and simply re-appeared in Avionics.' The emotionless brass face still managed to radiate an air of abject confusion.

'Mr Baju-merah, report to Avionics, bring our unexpected guest to me now! Frobisher, perform a diagnostic on the internal scanners, if you've woke me up because you've gone defective I'll have When reprogram you, overarm, with his chainsword.'

The pattern of lights on Frobisher's face skittered as he performed the self diagnostic, 'All sensors performing within prescribed parameters, zero defects found, my assumption is that my log entries are correct.'

'Then how the hell is something jumping from one end of this boat to the other without passing though all the points inbetween?'

'I have no...'

'Rhetorical!' Shouted the Captain, 'Look it up.'

'I am fully aware of...'

'Ma'am, this is Baju-Merah. Avionics is clear, in fact, I don't think there's actually enough space in here for anything larger than a chicken.'

'Frobisher, is our intruder larger than a chicken?'

'Yes Ma'am, scans indicate that it is of standard dimensions for a humanoid male. And he is also no longer in Avionics.'

'Has he re-appeared somewhere else? The galley? Up on deck? In one of the Gasbags perhaps?'

'No Ma'am.'

'No, he hasn't re-appeared or No, he's not in the Gasbags?'

He has re-appeared, but it is in none of the areas that you suggested.'

'So, where is he pray tell?'

'In your quarters.'

She turned, along with the entire bridge crew, to face the door to her quarters. Activating the Intercomm she whispered, 'Mr Baju-Merah, to the Bridge, as quick as you like.'

It only took the security team minutes to get to the Bridge, but in that time the Captain had armed herself with a compression pistol and a longknife. and was stood by the door.

'I'll go in first, you take up covering positions, stand close so the door doesn't close.'

'Ma'am, may I suggest that I...'

'Mr Baju-Merah, I appreciate your concern, but the interloper hasn't shown any degree of hostility as yet. If anything, his antics seem to be designed to confuse us - He could have simply appeared behind any member of the crew and shot them in the back of the head if he'd wanted to.'

She took a deep breath and stepped through the door as it opened. The second her heel cleared the frame, it slammed shut at ten times its normal speed and locked. She spun and banged futilely on the door, then turned back to scan the room, her eyes slowly getting used to the gloom. The automatic lights had failed to turn on and even Frobisher's head was dark and silent.

'Torville!' She called, looking towards her bunk, 'Frobisher!' There was no reply from either of them. She felt her way forward, holding the pistol out in front of her. 'Where are you? Damn your Argh!' She rubbed her shin where it had rapped off one of the ornate castings on her iron bunk.

'Allow me,' Said a mellow voice from the far corner of the room, 'Lights!'

Instantly, the wall lights came back on. The Captain blinked, and turned towards the voice.

'You!' She raised the pistol and pointed it the wiry man sat in her easy chair, 'What are you doing on my ship?'

'At your service Captain,' Criven Preen raised himself from the chair, removed his hat and bowed deeply, 'I apologise for the dramatic means of my entrance, old habits die hard.'

'I'll say it again, only more forcefully... WHAT are YOU doing on MY ship!'

'There's no need for unpleasantness my Lady, nor should we have to worry about unfortunate accidents,' He waved his long fingers and the compression pistol slowly faded out of existence.

'Whu?' She looked down, the dull tingle in her fingers the only evidence that the gun had ever existed at all, 'How did you..?'

'A simple parlour trick, the weapon is back in its rightful place, in the arms locker, on the bridge... Your, ah, friend is also back in his rightful place, asleep, in his cabin. I took the liberty of removing the last twelve hours from his memory, saves any later discontent in the ranks.'

'What do you want?'

'Want? I want to deliver my message and go home, these things worry me,' He indicated the ship around him, 'If the Gods had meant us to fly, they would have given us gasbags.'

'Message? What message? Who is it from?'

'My Lady Dorleith Ahralia, Countess of Minidandia, In Nominate Ruler of the Open Lands, High Voort of the Shattered Spire and Keykeeper of the Pewter Army - I bring greetings from your Illustrious Father, Massimo Lohlephel, Baron of...'

'My Father? My Father fell at the Battle of Tromega, I saw his ship explode! He's dead!'

'Not... anymore...'

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu.

Just looking through some old emails and found my 'Goodbye' letter to my previous colleagues.

(Please note, this was sent to friends within the company and not to anyone in the management team - I can do professionalism sometimes you know!)

Thought you lot might find it funny.

So, that was my last shift for the unstoppable global technological supergiant that is [My previous employer].

 

Cool.

 

It was quiet, but then you’d expect that I guess, with the first part of the Helpdesk transfer to India now being completed.

 

Firstly I’d like to say that on the whole, the past sixteen months or so (apart from anything involving actual work or being able to pay my bills of course) has been, at worst bearable and at best, uproariously funny.

 

The people I’ve worked with have been a mixed bag, mostly mad as badgers (But in a good way) a couple certifiably psychotic, and still fewer with their heads so far up their respective poop-chutes that it’s a wonder they don’t jump to another dimension every time they break wind.

 

OK, so this is the part where, traditionally, I should rail against all the injustices that I believe have been visited upon me without fear of retribution…

 

Well, here’s the turn-up for the books – I’m not going to. It’s pointless, we all know about the history of ill considered, knee jerk reactionary, short-sighted, parochial decisions that have been made on a more and more regular basis over the past six months or so. We’ve all received the same morale-sapping, draconian, divisive emails. And if any of us had cared enough for it really to have been a ‘showstopper’ as our colleagues over the pond might say, then we would have stood up and tried to do something about it or at least voted with our feet.

 

Instead, let’s remember some of the good times:

 

The night the drunken old guy got in and urinated down the stairs before the Police arrived.

 

The ghost of the cute little girl upstairs (Now I’m not sure that anyone who hasn’t worked the nightshift has ever experienced her) but you can often hear her running around up there in the early hours of the morning – And it’s quite an experience the first time you get woken up by her giggling or tugging on your shoe if you’ve fallen asleep on the sofas in reception during your break. (And as of last night we have two new believers).

 

The vending machines with the undocumented gamble feature – I don’t mean the gamble you take that there’s actually anything in the vending machine when you come on shift and the shops are closed (Same applying to tea, coffee and/or milk) – But the gamble when you put your money in and it either eats it then sits there looking at you with that ‘Come at me Bro’ expression on its readout, or the crisps (because it’s invariably crisps) get stuck against the glass and you spend your next 60p using another bag of crisps (bag price 49p) from the row above to try and knock them down.

 

So, time to sign off because I’m starting to bore myself, and I’ve got a lot longer attention span than most of you.

 

I’d just like to take this time to thank [My Manager] for doing the best job he could be expected to do with the tools he was allowed to use (and finally agreeing to put me out of everyone’s misery) and [The Customer Services Manager] for reminding me on several occasions of the importance of not indiscriminately murdering your workmates with a blunt instrument.

 

I’m not going to send everyone an individual ‘I liked you because..’ message, because I’d probably forget someone, and there’s the whole thinking of nice things to say about everyone issue, which most of you by now, will know that I’m not particularly good at.

 

Good luck to the Helpdesk team and Luke, I hope you make a go of your new positions within the group (P.S. Luke, my Dad – Who spent a lot of time in Germany after the War - advises using this formal, traditional German greeting every time you meet someone new “können Sie mir helfen? Ich habe meine Hoden in der Küche Schublade gefangen”)

 

It’s time for me to go now, but let me leave you with my one and only regret…

 

I only ever got to see one of you completely naked (and if that single, completely true statement, doesn’t put the rumour mill into overdrive, I don’t know what will)

 

Please feel free to keep in touch using the details below, connect to me on Facebook, use smoke-signals, carrier pigeons or an Ouija board – Whichever makes you happy.