Regional

Written on 23 February 2019

Of course, I was expecting it. Dating a guy from a working class Northern background.

He'd told me his Dad hated Southerners. Not even in a jokey way, like a lot of northerners will make fun of you for being posh, or stuck up, or whatever, but he properly hates them. He apparently didn't talk to his son for a month when he told him he was moving down to London.

And so the berating began. Thatcher was mentioned, of course, though I wasn't even alive when she was in power. He told me I had nothing to be proud of, which I don't. Like I'd be proud of coming from somewhere I felt no affinity towards, that I couldn't wait to leave, and who's average resident I didn't like. My boyfriend did nothing. Just looked at his plate.

What he should have said is you have nothing to complain about, which is true. The home counties are a safe place, higher than average income, decent schools and plenty of outdoor space. I can't complain at all. I know how lucky I've been.

But then I also don't have an identity. People from Wales are fiercely proud of their heritage, people from the North have a sense of unity I've never experienced, West Country folk can't bloody wait to tell you where they're from, the dry wit of the Scots, the comradery of the Irish, the Midlands, East Anglia, Cockneys, Scousers, Mancs, all these people who aren't necessarily defined by where they come from, but are certainly influenced by that regional identity.

So I told him, this man who was so defined by where he came from, I told him I don't consider myself a southerner, an English Woman, British, European, whatever. I'm just a person. You've just laid into me for what you perceive me to be. But haven't asked me a single thing about my life, my work, what I love, what I hate, what makes me love your son, even though he's quite obviously scared of you.

On the drive back to London, we didn't talk. Honestly, I think we both knew it was done. I felt sorry for him, because even though he left, where he's from still influences his life. Even when he doesn't want it to.

Epiphanies

Written on 22 February 2019

Occasionally you'll have a friend, or a work colleague, or a casual acquaintance who you are not predisposed to, and you find yourself stuck with them at a party, listening to a story, with no escape.

It's usually quite a dull one, like someone who kept on getting injured for their six-a-side team, or someone who's mother refuses to move into a house with no stairs. Or that things were going slightly poorly at work, usually due to something they were genuinely at fault for, but, of course, they didn't see it that way.

And in that story they'll mention an epiphany. As if it was a higher power who told them to start swimming, or the suggestion that their level of thinking was on such an extraordinary plain that no-one else in history could’ve possibly thought of installing a Stanna stairlift in their mum’s home.

And you just want to shake them. You wonder whether anyone living in a bombed out apartment building in Syria had an epiphany to head for the Jordan border, or if an 8-year-old living in poverty, who's parents are struggling to put food on the table, has an epiphany to rummage through bins to get the sustenance their body needs.

This is why, when my boss told me he'd had an epiphany about flexi-time and how it had a detrimental effect on productivity, I started laughing. I was still laughing when I walked out the door and on to the dole.

Why are epiphanies the privilege of the wealthy and powerful? Because, put simply, they are a way of excusing their actions without having to present any evidence. So fuck epiphanies, and fuck my boss.

Office Birthday

Written on 21 February 2019

“He hates cake.”

“He hates most things!”

“Yeah, but especially cake.” He always made a point of turning down cake when it was someone else's birthday. “Can't stand the stuff.” etc.

“Okay. What about profiteroles or a trifle or, like a mound of rocky roads.”

“A mound?”

“Whatever the collective noun is. Either way, we forgot, and as big an asshole as he is, he never forgets our birthdays.” 15 minutes once a year to receive a slice of Colin caterpillar and a card with 20 different versions of “have a great day.”

“What about a sausage roll. Or a mound of them or whatever? He's always eating them.”

“Okay, fine, let's just get them quick.”

As we stood there with a hastily written-in card and the mound of sweating, greasy sausage rolls, he smiled benignly and enjoyed his 15 minutes of attention.

The Real Dominican Republic

Written on 20 February 2019

What am I doing here?

It's something I've been asking myself since I landed in Punta Cana last Wednesday, sweating profusely the moment I stepped off the plane, mildly annoyed by the speed in which my bag hit the carousel. Promises promises.

I went to my editor, I begged him, I pleaded. The idiot listened, so here I am, searching for the “real” Dominican Republic. A place I know little to nothing about. Six weeks to write a long read on this jewel of the Caribbean. I've barely left my hotel.

I sold it as a piece on White Privilege and the slow death of colonialism. So far the only conversations I've had is shouting no thank you through the door when housekeeping come around.

I did drive into Las Terranas, in an American made truck playing American music so I could buy American products from the supermarket that apparently only exists for American tourists to get their Cheeto fix.

The locals, the “real” Dominica, they just stare at this gringo in his big ugly car, and I think about stopping and attempting to chat to the people running stalls, the young guys on the corner, dressed all in Nike and revving their motorcycles, the shirtless men shooting pool and supping on Presidente in a petrol station forecourt. But I keep driving, out of town and back to the comfort of my hotel room. Promises promises.

Still, I have a few weeks, and I'm thinking of checking out that cockfighting arena. Was it really for cockfighting? Or was that tubby, baseball cap clad American at breakfast just having a laugh? No doubt he's had about as much contact with the “real” Dominican Republic as I have.

I could always change my remit, pretend I was always planning to write a piece for the Travel Section, review this hotel and the surrounding beaches.

Either way, it was a mistake to come here. I'm not Hunter Thompson. Shit, I'm not even Michael Palin. And, to be honest, the armed guards that keep watch at the gate of my hotel makes me worry that the “real” Dominican Republic might just be a little too real for a young journalist predisposed to comfort.

The Flight

Written on 19 February 2019

Sheamus squirrelled away in the toilet for most of the flight.

The enclosed space made him feel safe from the big wide sky. He mixed up the toilets, mind, he didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. He just pretended the in-flight meal hadn't gone down too well.

But the poor lad had such a scare when the plane hit turbulence shortly before landing. And he did something really stupid.

He self sedated by smashing his head repeatedly on the toilet door. This inevitably attracted the attention of the flight attendants, and it did nothing but make his head a little sore, as the door was a flimsy plastic.

Anyway, he asked to be sedated, but they restrained him instead. This meant he was last off the plane, and he ended up missing his train back from Luton. It also meant some tedious paperwork for the flight manager.

Viking Burial

Written on 18 February 2019

Wayne's grandad wanted a full Viking burial.

After the cancer had levelled him, his lawyer contacted Wayne to say that if the Viking burial didn't take place then he wouldn't receive any inheritance.

Which didn't seem very lawyerly.

Wayne arranged for a Viking shield, a raft and a horned helmet with the undertaker. He did it at Coate Water on the outskirts of Swindon.

And, happily, the inheritance was more than enough to pay the “improper disposal of a body” fine. More than enough. He bought a Citreon Picasso. Only 2 years old, and a measly 5000 miles on the clock.

Thanks grandad.

The Breakup

Written on 17 February 2019

“Forget about him. He's a monster.”

Helena had been crying for some time now, almost hysterically, unable to say anything intelligible, much to the chagrin of her flatmate, Ruth.

“There there.” She said, half-heartedly patting Helena on the back. She'd only moved in a couple of weeks ago. The boy, however, sounded like a disgusting human being.

Helena cried for another hour. Ruth was getting hungry by this point, but didn't feel like she should leave her at this point.

“Takeaway?” she asked, pulling out her phone.

“Sure.” Helena said, breathing heavily, sniffing.

After they had murdered a pizza, Helena seemed to calm down.

“Thanks Ruth. It's just been a hard day.”

“That's alright.” Ruth said. She felt a lot more sympathetic now she'd eaten. “He sounds like a real piece of shit.”

“He ate a dog.” Helena stared at the empty pizza box. Silence permeated. Ruth guessed she'd misheard her, and ploughed on.

“Asshole. Who doesn't like dogs?”

“He also ate, like 14 cats. That I know of. Sick bastard probably ate dozens. But I loved him, you know?”

Ruth didn't really know what to say.

“Last time I ever date a bear. Can't commit to anything. Violent as well. He never raised his paws to me, but you could tell he was close a couple of times.”

Ruth got up and left the lounge. She went to examine the wall in the hallway. What she thought must have been shoddy plaster work was now, quite clearly, the swipe of a bear's enormous paw. She ran her fingers along the inch thick scars, and wondered how Helena and the bear had met.

Floods

Written on 16 February 2019

“Sir, I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation.” His most loyal aide, Seb, said dramatically.

The minister narrowed his eyes at him. “How long have you been waiting to say that? Your entire political career? Jesus, Seb, this isn't an American action movie. And I understand perfectly what's going on.” the minister got up from his desk and opened the curtains. The water was five stories high now. Most of Oxford street was still just about visible, but it wouldn't be for much longer. They were fine, though in the penthouse of centre point with a helicopter on the way.

Still, even from up here, the minister could see the bodies floating in the water. Hundreds of them, dotted amongst the debris and wreckage. It was, however, easier to distance himself from the disaster when he was literally distant from it.

“Sir, they are going to kill you. The people who have taken over Alexandra Palace have declared themselves as the authority, they've called for your immediate execution.” Seb said, pleadingly. The minister turned away from the carnage.

“By the time they find out where I am I'll be in a helicopter on the way to the royal yacht, and they won't be able to touch me. And, if they happen to discover us before then, as far as I know I am the most senior politician still in Britain. That means the army does what I say.” Seb looked frightened, still. The minister placed a hand on his shoulder “Seb, the helicopter will be here any minute. We'll be fine.”

A young orderly entered the room, which was becoming increasingly quiet as the gathered VIP's boarded their helicopters to be whisked away.

“Sir, your helicopter is next.” he said. He looked rather put out, like he was angry with the minister. The minister, ever the politician, decided to try and fix his reputation on the fly.

“What's your name, sir?”

“Colin, sir.”

“A fantastic name. Strong. British. Colin, would you like to accompany Seb and I to the Royal Yacht?” the young man grinned.

“Can my sister come too? She's on her way here now. She's been hauled up at St Pancras.” The minister hadn't bargained for this.

“Oh no, I don't want to. . .” He hesitated. “The problem is, Colin, the Prime Minister is waiting for us in the Royal Yacht. We really can't wait a minute longer.” The young man didn't respond. He just scowled and walked out the room, fists clenched.

“Maybe we should wait on the roof.” Seb said, eyeing the back of the young man. The minister agreed. He instructed Seb to grab his case.

It was raining again. The same tropical downpours that had caused all this mayhem. The minister wrapped his coat tighter around him.

“Where is it?” he shouted at Seb over the rain. The helicopter was nowhere to be seen.

“Maybe the rain has delayed it.” Seb said, looking round at the door.

Just then, five men walked through it, led by the young man Colin. He pointed at the minister, and they all advanced.

“Bloody hell.” The Minister said, hiding behind Seb. The men grabbed Seb and moved him roughly aside. The minister decided to play ignorant.

“Hi, Colin was it? Have you changed your mind about the helicopter?”

“I have, minister. I've decided the helicopter belongs to the people now.” The men were surrounding him, blocking his exit.

“Ah, yes.” The minister said. “But I am a representative, elected by the people.” He looked over at Seb. He was still lying on the ground, the rain soaking his suit. “Also, I have money, I. . .” The men grabbed him, and the air was filled with screams as they carried the minister to the side of the roof, as the rain continued to drive.

The poor minister. He never was very good at understanding the gravity of the situation.

Bella and Mas

Written on 15 February 2019

It was a massacre.

Bella beat Mas five times in a row at table tennis, picked up three of four pool victories (she would have done the clean sweep if she hadn't potted the black accidentally in the third) and, to top it all off, won 27-0 at table football.

Bella thought Mas was going easy on her at first, but it turned out he was just really bad at pub games. His hand eye coordination was pretty shocking.

In the cab on the way back to their flat Mas told her he was insanely in love with her, even if she showed no mercy when it came to parlour games.

Bella held out a couple more days, but it was pretty evident she loved him too.

Poppy's Valentine's Day

Written on 14 February 2019

Poppy spent Valentine's day trawling the bars, restaurants and landmarks of London’s South Bank looking for couples getting engaged.

She'd been doing it for a few years now, and she was pretty good at spotting them. The proposer would be a little distracted, ordering wine that was clearly more expensive than what they’d usually get, dressed smartly. In fact, it was always pretty obvious.

This particular Valentine's day Poppy saw a man propose in Wagamamas, she said yes. A guy proposed to his girlfriend on the balcony at the Oxo tower in the freezing cold. She said yes. A lady proposed to her girlfriend on the London eye. Poppy wasn't in the pod at the time, but from the polite applause everyone else gave she assumed the girl said yes. Throughout the evening she saw seven proposals. All of the proposees said yes.

And after every single one Poppy shouted “Seriously? On Valentine's Day? Be original, you basic bitch.” and she’d flip the birds as she backed out to a chorus of boos.

Valentine's Day was the best.

That Day

Written on 13 February 2019

His sister always called it “that day”.

It was always the same. The first day the weather was remotely nice he'd get a message saying something like “starting to feel like that day.” And on it would go, for another month or so, until finally, when the daffodils were fully up, the blossom was starting to come out and the heat felt a lot less temporary, he'd get the message. “It's that day.” And they would decide a time and place, and he would enjoy ‘that day’ with his sister. Usually a pub garden, but always together.

Things change, though. People change. He wasn't sure whether it was him or his sister, but something had changed. The furore with their Mum's Will hadn't helped. But mostly it was apparent they didn't need each other anymore. Both were married. They lived 100 miles apart. They were different people.

Still, in February, when that first hint of spring was in the air, he would check his phone incessantly. Hoping he’d get the message declaring the ‘That day’ season open. Looking for an excuse, perhaps, but mostly just wanting to celebrate the return of the sun.

Some Good News And Some Bad News From Temple Strachan

Written in 12 February 2019

Dear Loyal Customer,

I'm hoping, nay pleading, that this correspondence finds you well. We care so gosh darn much about you, your family and anyone you consider a friend. . . Provided they are also one of our customers (Just kidding!)

As you are no doubt aware, we have been together for six years now (Not like that, lol) and we wanted to show a token of our appreciation for your loyalty. People can be fickle, and that's okay. That's our duty as free folk (like in Game of Thrones. I guess fickle people are essentially wildlings. Haha) and we respect a customer's right to make a choice.

Bearing that in mind, we've recently been accosted by the legal eagles (big brother! Amiright?) Who have changed the rules (or at least enforced rules we weren't aware of. Who has time to read smallprint?) This is why we are writing to you. Both to show a token of appreciation, and to make you aware of something.

The good news first. Due to your loyalty to our corporation (honestly, we couldn't be more grateful to you) please find attached a £25 voucher to use at a high street boutique of your choice.

The bad news (booo!) is we also sold all your information to the Islamic State, including, but not limited to, your bank details, mobile phone passwords, addresses and blood type.

But that's not all. As well as the £25 gift voucher (drinks are on us) we're offering one lucky customer the chance to meet Drake in Istanbul. Text ILUVDRAKE to 64444 to enter.

Thank you again for being you :)

Temple Strachan

Camp Counsellor

Written on 11 February 2019

“Oh jeez guys, can you not just concentrate for a hot minute?”

The kids had been larking around all day, flirting with each other or skimming stones, and Kenny was starting to get ticked off with his team.

They'd not just lost every camp activity, they had come dead last every single time. 12 events. 12 last places. And the buccaneers had had a chickenpox outbreak! It was tough on Kenny, as his team's usually did super well.

“Look, the Patriots have already launched.” He said, exasperated, pointing at the cheering team on the river bank cheering their four friends on as they rowed the raft out into the lake. All Kenny had was a pile of sticks. “Come on guys, where's your camp spirit?” one of the kids made a farting sound with his mouth, which caused everyone to laugh.

“I've had it up to here, you guys.” He theatrically held his palm aloft. But the kids were already not listening. A few started wrestling, the girls giggled. One of the boys was literally just staring at a tree unblinking.

Kenny was at a loss. It was never like this when he was at camp.

Wasps Nest

Written on 10 February 2019

Anthony found a wasps nest in his attic. It was gigantic and beautiful.

He was completely enthralled by the way nature always found a way. How a collection of tiny insects could work together to create something so gargantuan and awe inspiring. How you could find beauty in even the darkest places, like this attic he never went in.

And then he realised it was still inhabited. After suffering a number of stings in the triple figures, he reluctantly called the exterminators.

Stick Up At The Coffee Shop

Written on 9 February 2019

The first thought when I saw him, all red in the face, watery eyed, the bald little potato head, was that it was my Dad.

Of course it couldn't be, this guy can't have been older than 40, and Dad would be in his sixties now. Still, the way his voice quivered, the resemblance to a petulant child, even when he was waving a pistol around, were reminiscent of my handful of memories about my Dad.

It was also the kind of stupid fucking thing he would do. Holding up a coffee shop. For Christ's sake, no one pays with cash anymore. The last time I had seen Dad he was being dragged out of our house by the police, my Mum screaming at him, promising he'd never be allowed in our house again. Stupid idiot. Robbing a petrol station. At least there was more cash floating about back then, but the cashier recognised his voice. Of course he did. Dad went there more or less every day. They were on first name terms.

I got down on the floor with everyone else. This guy looked too nervous to seriously shoot anyone, but there was always a chance he might do it accidentally.

He began shouting at the barista. What do you mean this is all you have? What did you expect, you moron? It was like he’d got the idea from Pulp Fiction, though with none of the style or the sexy sidekick. Idiot.

He started collecting people's phones, which was even dumber. The moment he left there they could trace him in about a million different ways.

“You. Phone. Now.” I looked up at him. Sweat was beading on his head, dripping a few inches from where I lay on the ground. A look of comprehension came across his face. Sirens were getting nearer.

“Coral?”

It can't have been him. Unless he aged surprisingly gracefully.

“Is Bob Thorne your dad?”

If you're him I'm going to beat you to death.

“I'm your half brother! I'm Gavin!” Eurgh. The idiot had more idiots. “I'd recognise you anywhere. Dad always talks about you. Has photos everywhere.” He must have printed them off from Facebook.

“Hi Gavin.” I said calmly, still laying on the ground as the police cars pulled up. “Nice to meet you brother.”

Mia Rodriguez

Written on 8 February 2019

I usually hated things like this.

Panel discussions where “inspirational people” talked socially about their industry, making the simpletons watching feel hopeful that they, too, will one day sit on a panel and talk about how well they're doing. The cycle will never break.

But this one had Mia Rodriguez and, my word, she is without a shred of doubt the finest director of our generation. Completely unappreciated, she could do more with a fraction of a budget then the rest of the panel could with James Cameron's money. She could get a better performance out of a mannequin than most could draw out of Daniel Day Friggin’ Lewis.

She was evidently fantastically bored by the whole proceeding. You got the impression that they got her in just to pay lip service equality, as they certainly weren't going to her as much as the other Chads on the panel. The crowd asked the most annoying questions as well. ‘Who was your inspiration?’ ‘When did you realise that you wanted to do this for a living?’ ‘What's it like working with Dwayne The Rock Johnson?’ so fucking basic.

Mia, for her part, didn't interject at all, though she performed some fantastic eyerolls in response to some of the answers from the rest of the panel. She audibly sighed when one of them said ‘All you need is a good idea.’ Yes mate, and the $125 million you got to make your last movie.

Still, it was worth going for the final salvo alone. The final question was another fanboy boring-ass question. “Could you give all the aspiring filmmakers in here one last piece of advice?”

Chad 1 - “Don't give up. Work hard.” Blah.

Chad 2 - “Everyone can make a movie now. Your phone, your laptop, everything you need is at your fingertips.” Good Lord.

Chad 3 - “Never stop being creative.” What does that even mean?

Chair - “And you, Mia?”

Mia had already pulled out a pack of cigarettes in preparation of exiting.

“Do your own shit. Don't try and be us. We're hacks. Do your own shit.” and she got up and walked out as the Chads looked affronted and the chair tried to bring it to a tidy end.

It's a simple credo, but I like it. So ever since then I've only done my own shit. And I feel much better for it.

Weird Little Steve

Written on 7 February 2019

He was always an odd boy, Steve.

His clothes were always too big, not that that's strange in itself, but he used to only roll up his left arm, his right leg, his left sock, it was all very jarring. He always had a strong smell of weetabix. A perfectly symmetrical face, but one that looked squished and perfectly round.

It wasn't just that. He would be dead silent in class, before raising his hand, saying something completely irrelevant and howling with laughter to himself, like he was on a different intellectual plain to all of us, including the teachers. Like, Miss Campbell would ask “What's the square root of 144” or something, and Steve would be like “Chaos Theory” and then laugh maniacally. The teachers usually just ignored it.

I remember this one time he came in wearing a black and white onesie with his face painted with a white stripe in the middle and two black stripes either side. No one said a thing. Not until assembly when Mr Thomlinson asked him what he thought he was doing. Steve just shrugged, and said “I'm a badger now” like Thomlinson was a flipping idiot for asking.

What I'm trying to say was, he was odd. Too odd to bully. Even the real shits at our school gave Steve a wide berth. The few that tried were faced with a genuinely unsettling smile. I remember vividly Peter Dearborn threatening Steve, and Steve grinned and just said “if you do that, the consequences are simply unthinkable for you.” I was pretty scared of him, to be honest. He reminded me of the joker, like he was the agent of chaos.

I hadn't thought about him much until my friend Hilda sent me the link to the story. It got a lot of coverage at the time, though most people thought it was a hoax. Scientist murdered by his own robot. Robot needed to be destroyed by the army.

I knew it was true, though. If anyone was going to be the first person to make a robot that murdered it's creator it was weird little Steve.

The Notting Hill Method

Written 6 February 2019

Caleb is trying to meet women using what he calls ‘The Notting Hill method”.

He wanders around West London, lidless coffee in hand and sporting a buttoned down shirt, and he randomly bumps into ladies wearing berets and moviestar shades.

He hasn't had any luck yet. Couple of police complaints, but no luck.

The Boat Life

Written on 5 February 2019

Being a badly paid singleton the chances of me getting my hands on a house were slim.

Still, I was sick of filling the coffers of some moist banker I had literally never met, and my Nan had just snuffed it and left me a sizable chunk, so I took the plunge (No pun intended) and got myself a houseboat.

Issues, such as my sea sickness, my inability to drive a boat and the fact that moisture made me wheezy could all suck it. I had myself a place to call home. A 2 bed converted tug boat with six year's moring privileges in Thames Ditton.

It had everything I needed. A decent kitchen, a bath and shower. Sure, I had to get my Wi-Fi from my mobile. Sure, if the gas ran out mid-shower there was very little I could do about it. Sure, the moisture played havoc with my lungs and my electronics to boot. It didn’t matter. This was mine.

On sunny days I would head down the Thames (My buddy Steve driving) and collect friends along the way. And we'd party into the night. When it was cold, I bundled up in my bedroom, leaving only to go to the toilet, and I'd read, or game, and no one was any the wiser.

And, oh my, what a conversation starter. That was my most prolific time as a singleton. The amount of guys I invited back was well into the 10’s. They would all say the same thing “It's nice to visit, but I'm not sure I couldn’t live on one all the time.”

And that's the reason I let it go. I started earning more money, and apparently others were keen to live the boat life. The price of my boat had doubled, so I sold up and bought a two up two down in Hounslow.

And I'm happy here, I honestly am. My boyfriend Greg has moved in, and I think I'm going to propose soon. I love my life. But every time I'm by the water I think about my boat, and the life that I had led for four years. The boat life. And how I wouldn't change a thing. Even if my lungs have never really recovered.

Do What You Love

Written on 4 February 2019

Devin hated his job. He was a “sandwich artist”.

He liked to joke that he was the only of his friends from his art school who got paid to actually do art.

That was except for his friend Julie, who he was jealous of. Julie was an associate producer at ITV. She hated her job, though. The hours were long, her chances of creativity were next to zero, and her boss was the nephew of the CEO, and was an asshole.

Julie wanted to do what Andre did. Freelance. Your own hours. And, sure, he was advising companies about their cyber security, but Julie wanted to be her own boss.

Andre hated the uncertainty of it. Even when he was doing okay, what if the work dried up? What if a bit of software came out that made his job irrelevant?

He fantasized about packing it in and joining a major corporation, like Sasha. She had 30 days holiday, flexi-time, and was paid well into the six figures.

Sasha, however, hated the old boys club culture, the unrealistic expectations and, most of all, the fact that her company was responsible for so much suffering.

She thought about just going back to basics, like her friend Devin. He just worked in a Subway, and he always looked really happy.