Idle Eye 171 : The Road

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Every time it rains, snails across the land emerge from wherever it is they hang out when it’s dry and make a nighttime dash across our footpaths towards the road. Whatever’s there that lures them so is anyone’s guess, but they will not be deterred. To be honest, I’ve never quite understood the compulsion: if I carried a fragile apartment on my back and was impossibly slimy (don’t start…), I’d probably weigh up my chances before sliding off unto the breach. For that star-crossed mission will invariably culminate in mass slaughter on a scale unseen since WW1, something the molluscan powers that be seem to have turned a very blind eye to:

Col. Snail:  Thanks for coming in. Turns out not a lot of us are making it over to the road. Catastrophic percentages. Completely unacceptable.

Maj. Snail:  I’m sorry, sir, but we’re doing our best.

Col. Snail:   Not good enough. It’s been chucking it down for days, how hard can it be? Now get back outside and show some bloody gumption!

Maj. Snail:  But sir, it’s rush hour. Everyone’s coming home from work. We don’t stand a chance!

Col. Snail:  I’m not interested in your chances. I just need you to get to the road. Am I making myself clear?

Maj. Snail:  Forgive me for asking, but none of us are entirely sure what the objective is.

Col. Snail:  Have you gone completely mad? The objective is the road! What exactly is it about the road that you don’t understand?

Maj. Snail:  Er…why we have go there?

Col. Snail:  Because there are rules, Major. And your job is to obey them and not waste my time with counterproductive remarks.

Maj. Snail:  Couldn’t we go in the day? At least then there’s a ghost of a chance we’ll be seen.

Col. Snail:  Don’t be ridiculous! We have always operated under the cover of darkness and I see no reason to alter that now. Any further questions?

Maj. Snail:  Yes, sir. What are we supposed to do when we reach it?

Col. Snail:  About-turn. And then come back.

Maj. Snail:  Come back?

Col. Snail:  Yes, come back! We need the intelligence, Major. We need the intelligence.

Maj. Snail:  On?

Col. Snail:  ON THE ROAD!!! Whatever is the matter with you? Right, assemble the men. You leave in twenty minutes.

Maj. Snail: Yes, sir. One last thing, sir.

Col. Snail:  What is it, Major?

Maj. Snail:  What if it isn’t there?

Col. Snail:  What if what isn’t there?

Maj. Snail:  The road, sir.

Col. Snail:  Of course it’s there! Where else do you think I’m sending you? Brigadoon?

Maj. Snail:  No, sir. Of course not, sir.

Col. Snail:  Now get out of my sight!

Maj. Snail:  Yes, sir.

When met with indefatigable logic such as this, is it any wonder the pavement pizza count is so high? And ask yourselves: have you ever seen a snail on the road? Seriously, ever? Thought not.

Book Update No.14

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IMG_3636

Artwork is in, got the ISBN, layout’s looking pretty swanky, paper type’s chosen and Amateur of Life and Death is now in the hands of the eagle-eyed Elinor who will hack out the unremitting repetition and cut it all down to about thirty words. And then I must be brave and send my first child off to the printers.

It’s a strange old feeling when you know you have to let go, but like my mother on my first day at school I’ll probably don a huge pair of Foster Grants and weep discreetly behind them. And then I’ll worry so. Will it be bullied by weightier tomes? Should I send little pots of jam for it to share with its chums? A couple of spare blankets now that autumn’s upon us? And how will I fill those endless, friendless evenings from now on? No one tells you this stuff.

I’m also a bit scared about the bill. I know we raised the hardback funds but now I’m getting all fussy about paper thickness and bleed. And, to be honest, I forgot about the VAT which is a pisser. But come what may, there will be a book in November and I do hope you will all buy a copy. Make that a few – Christmas is coming and I don’t want it to be just the goose that gets fat.

There will also be a launch on Friday 20th November at 6.30pm at the very same venue I mentioned in Update 13. It will be busy and entry will be by RSVP invites only, but if you’d like to come and listen to me butcher my own work as you drink the good drink, or enjoy some of the art from the book as you take in a bit of live moosik, get in touch. Usual channels. I’ll sign a few books if you want, and if you pay a bit more I won’t. Every little helps…

Idle Eye 170 : The Armadillo

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In a desperate bid to claw back some of the money I’ve laid out on this book, last week I threw myself under a slow-moving vehicle on Central Hill. Admittedly the traffic is usually pretty snarled up there, but I guessed I was in with a good chance of bagging a no win/no fee insurance payout if I just played it cool. Like Matt Damon would if he lived in South East London. So I risked life and limb for hard cash; this is what I’ve been reduced to.

I had it all figured out before leaving the flat. Pretending not to enjoy an Eton Mess pudding, I stealthily concealed the crushed strawberry filling inside a freezer bag shortly before putting the remnants into the green bin. No one was any the wiser. Next, I created a catheter from a decaying Dyson spare and stitched it into the lining of my overcoat, taking care that the protrusion was undetectable from a distance. Then I trepanned a small hole into the back of my skull which allowed the tube to feed its way through to my mouth, meticulously avoiding damage to any significant cells that would render me a vegetable. The bag was to locate inside my top pocket so that when I tumbled over, the contents would spew forth to an incredulous public which would not only witness the event, but also inadvertently help create my first fortune. Seriously, I had it down.

Anyway, I was walking up Harold Road when I got stopped by this old woman who wanted directions to the park. When I pointed out that she was right opposite it, she came over all unnecessary (as people occasionally do when confronted with undeniable fact), repeatedly prodding me in the chest with one of her wizened fingers. A small trajectory of puréed fruit shot out of my mouth and onto her dress, and for a brief moment there was a stunned silence as we both ascertained the situation. I knew what she was thinking, and I knew that she knew that I knew.

There was no choice; I had to do it there and then. So before things got any worse, I sprinted up to the main drag and dived head first into the flow of oncoming cars. A 1970s Leyland milk float ground to a halt shortly after crushing three of my fingers, and the driver (not a milkman) called me a twat twice before driving off. The bag in my pocket remained pristine and there wasn’t a single person about (except for the old woman, who also called me a twat). So I went home and called my insurers.

I spent over twenty quid taking the loss adjuster out to lunch yesterday. He was bang out of order going large on the Mexican meal deal, but ultimately it will be worth it. I went for soup and drank it with the tube. In case you’re wondering…

Idle Eye 169 : The Omen

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I’ve been having insane dreams of late. Seriously out there. One of them had a friend of mine serving sandwiches in a cricket pavilion as it filled up to the ceiling with water, and another saw me crossing an Egyptian desert, half-starved, bug-eyed and decomposing under the relentless heat. I may be mistaken, but I’m pretty sure the subconscious is kicking off big time and I have no idea what it’s trying to tell me. The fact that I’ve been off the tuck for a while could be a contributing factor, but let’s be honest, that’s why we have cigarettes. No, it is surely something more sinister, possibly to do with the grim reaper approaching, and I’ve done next to nothing to prevent my untimely demise. And when I say next to nothing, I mean nothing.

The trouble with getting stuck in this mindset is that once you’re there, just about everything becomes an augury of one’s own final exit. My recent trip to the doctors is the most obvious, but less pertinent events can still give me the willies. A black cat looking at me funny doesn’t mean I’m going to cop it, or at least it shouldn’t. And when two crows run off like the clappers across the park, it’s highly likely they’ve seen a worm or mouse in the borders and are not the harbingers of doom I’ve concocted in my head. Even the washing up can get ominous, particularly when a knife clatters to the floor, spins around a few times and gurgles “Redrum!!! Redrum!!!” from the back of its non-existent larynx. It’s a miracle I get up in the mornings.

I mentioned the above to said friend (who happens to be interested in the significance of dreams), and she put me at ease somewhat. Fortunately, that room filling up with water does not represent imminent death. Not at all. Rather, it suggests deeply suppressed sexual anxiety and an unsuccessful struggle to resist evil, foreshadowing trouble, sickness and misery. Phew! And as for the other one, well that says something or other about my dissatisfaction with present companions and employment. Yeah, whatever. At least I’ll still be around to hate them when I get sacked.

Just before my great-grandmother passed away, I remember visiting her bedside in a small suburban house in Surrey. She was on the verge, but still pretty lucid. And we were having a chat, like you do when you’re six and talking to an old lady who smells of cabbages, when she suddenly sat bolt upright and pointed at a speck on the opposite wall. Her eyes were blazing, her hand trembling. I never found out what it was that irked her (she died shortly afterwards), but as I march towards the same place at breakneck speed, I do wonder if these visions become more real than life itself at the end. Or if you just need a good wank and a sarnie.

Idle Eye 168 : The Ladygrape of Wrath

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Wrestling myself into consciousness on Saturday morning I noticed, right there in the bed beside me, a bump I didn’t recall inviting in the night before. It had not been a dramatic Friday, for I’d only had a quick pizza with my friend Donald before making it home without a statutory flying visit to Wetherspoons. I did briefly consider waking it and offering it a cup of coffee until I discovered, to my escalating horror that, indeed, my guest had not muscled its way back after an ill-advised drinking session, but was actually attached to my person. And as if that wasn’t appalling enough, to an area not traditionally associated with the finer points of romance.

A more intimate inspection was clearly requisite, one that involved my shaving mirror and a rudimentary attempt at yoga. And there, as in one of those early Victorian birthing daguerreotypes, was a minuscule extension of myself, nestled deep within the nucleus of an unattractive forest of hair and flesh. It was approximately the size of a hazelnut and seemed perfectly at ease with its newfound location, to the extent that it made me feel like a low-rent Henry Morton Stanley having just stumbled upon Dr Livingstone. I almost apologised for disturbing it.

Several online diagnoses later brought me to the unhappy conclusion that I was going to have to radically alter my diet, drink less Pinot and more water, do exercise and shower every five minutes just to appease the little bastard. For this was to be no symbiotic arrangement, at least as far as I could tell, which I bitterly resented. And as its correct medical moniker was way too long and disgusting for me to use on a regular basis, I decided to call it Samantha by way of softening the blow. In retaliation for this perceived slight, she made it nigh-on impossible for me to sit down for three days.

Unless I’m steaming, I’ve never been particularly deft at making new acquaintances. I tend to linger behind the protective cloak of shyness until somebody else makes the first move. The doctor at my GP’s, however, was unfettered by any such inhibitions. She and Samantha got on famously, chatting away as if they were ensconced inside a nightclub lavatory and had known each other for years. I lay on my side, facing the acid green wall with my knees pressed up against my ears and wondered at which stage of the appointment they might notice I was still present. After they’d exchanged phone numbers, I was told that Samantha and I would have to learn to get along, and turfed out into the rain.

To be fair, she’s eased off a bit on the searing pain. But frankly, I’m getting sick of having to make all the effort. If she were a flatmate, I’d have words. But she’s not. She’s a thrombosed external haemorrhoid. Try telling that to your mates and staying fashionable, bitch.

IE Audio 15 : The Sting

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An early shot. Written when I was working for my brother (Nibs) as his pub blogger and trying my darndest to subvert the medium whilst still staying within the brief. Always savoured the mental image of the Live Aid crowd fighting for that rickety table by the toilets.

https://theidleeye.wordpress.com/2012/04/16/idle-eye-28-the-sting/

Book Update No.13

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EFC_Release from Solitary

Well, that’s the first bit over with. Now I’ve got just over a month to put it all together and off it goes to the printers. Thank you to all you beautiful pledgers out there, you’ve helped make this kooky ole ship sail. And sail it most certainly shall. Got to say it though, I’ll be glad to get out of the flat for a bit when the time comes. The builders below have made every day an agony and I’m getting a bit sick of my own company (now I know how you feel). But there are plans afoot for the big launch in November which I’ll go into in detail when a few more things are confirmed. All being well, it will be in Central London at an impossibly cool venue very close to Tower Bridge with gallery space, a bar and it’s run by lovely people who just get this kind of thing. Perfect!

If you can’t wait that long, I’ll be doing some readings and enjoying a few sherbets in Crystal Palace’s own Numidie Bar tomorrow evening (Saturday 29th August) from 7pm. Just an excuse to say thanks and…er…enjoy a few sherbets. Like you do. Please pop by if you can, should be fun.

The second lot of artworks have already started rolling in and they are, as with the first, superb. Ursula is laying them out and I’ll be working on the final order over the next couple of weeks, harder than you might think. And we also have to decide whether we’ll have a dust jacket or just go commando, hmm. So much to think about, so little time.

Until the next one (without the annoying Escape from Colditz cards, you have my word) x

Idle Eye 167 : The Contractual Obligation

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Right, the book fundraising is officially done and dusted. Time to roll up my sleeves and make the bloody thing, and if you’re reading this from said tome and not online, you’ll know that somehow I pulled it off. But lovely though it may be to have the printing dosh in the bag, I do have other contractual issues to consider. For example, I promised Philippa Burne, Trish Dicey and Simon Phipps that I’d write them all into a book post and now that we’re out of the blocks, I haven’t a clue how to do it. I mean, they’ve never met each other and they all live in different countries for starters. So it’s not as if I could set up a chance encounter in a supermarket or nightclub, is it? No, I’m going to have to be way smarter than that. And possibly a tad duplicitous:

I’ve also told Melinda Doring and Pierre Woollard that they will be illustrated by the godlike hand of Mark Weighton, and I got to thinking I could somehow shoehorn the whole lot of them in together. No one will be any the wiser and my workload would effectively be halved. Confused? I know, I know. But what if Mark does this drawing of me scribbling away at my desk and there, legibly on the paper, are three names: Philippa, Trish and Simon. I’m lost in the muse, brow furrowed and clearly on edge. As per. Fortunately, Melinda is there pouring me a glass of Pinot and Pierre is carrying a ramekin of liquorice in from the kitchen. See, it’s genius! All bases are covered and I get a night off.

Obviously, this cunning ruse is fully dependent on Mark stepping up to the plate. Because if he locks horns and does something different, my cover will be blown and I’ll have to do it again, which kind of defeats the object. So I’ll tell him the pledge specifically states that he does all the graft and bank on him being too busy to check. He’s an artist, for Christ’s sake, as if he would. Next, I contact everyone concerned and tell them the good news. What’s not to like? I surpass myself sometimes, I really do.

In case you’re wondering, it isn’t easy being this Machiavellian. A lot of time and effort goes in at the deep end. Thinking about it, probably about the same amount of time and effort to just do it properly and skip out the cod cloak-and-dagger stuff entirely. But that’s not the point, is it? I have an obligation to my pledgers and I shall fulfil it by whatever convoluted method is necessary. And if it so happens to make my life considerably easier, well that’s just the way the cookie crumbles.

My brighter readers will have spotted what I did there. But that’s between us and it goes no further. A lot hangs on this, capiche?

IE Audio 14 : The Talented Mr Reynard

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And this week it’s foxes. Something furry going on.

https://theidleeye.wordpress.com/2013/07/04/idle-eye-76-the-talented-mr-reynard/

Idle Eye 166 : The Rec

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In order to combat the insomnia I’ve covered previously, for the last few weeks I’ve taken to power marching the boundaries of a small park behind my flat. It’s called the Rec, short for recreation ground, but the obvious homonym is far more apposite. For every day, I encounter troubled souls doing something similar, usually alone and lost absolutely in thought. As I myself have discovered, there is comfort to be had in movement, but more particularly in the routine of it. So it comes as no surprise to see now familiar faces in now familiar spots at very specific times.

If I set out at 9.30am, I know that at approximately 9.40am I will see an elderly jogger under one of the horse chestnut trees, his face distorted, eyes dead. He does not acknowledge me, nor I him, but we both know. Similarly, if I leave twenty minutes later, I’ll twice pass a woman dressed rather more formally than is required for a walk. She moves at a crawl, her head tilted in reflection. Every time I pound past them, trying desperately to get to a place where the body becomes exhausted enough to allow the brain to function, I can’t help but wonder what it is that brings them here. Tragedy? Loss? Loneliness? Or is it perhaps something altogether more banal? Whichever, I have found myself actively anticipating these fleeting moments and building them into my own routine.

The dog walkers are a little different, for they have a companion and are more inclined to offer up pleasantries as I approach them. This induces mild panic, as I will momentarily be forced to leave the safe haven of contemplation in favour of an appropriate response, usually preceded by an active engagement with the pet itself. It is enormously disruptive, so if I see one looming on the horizon I tend to adopt the requisite speed to avoid them entirely. Sadly this isn’t always possible, and it takes a good lap of resentment to get things back on the level.

There is one character I haven’t quite yet figured out. He wears green municipal fluoros and carries a large bag, presumably for collecting leaves. Invariably he stands inside one of the hard tennis courts, clutching the wire mesh with his free hand and staring out at something in the far distance. He hardly moves as I circumnavigate, and the only times I haven’t seen him is when the court is occupied. Which isn’t all that often. It is a magnificently solitary pose, akin to John Fowles’ French Lieutenant’s Woman but lacking the insider knowledge as to why this is so. In all probability he’s just on the skive, but where’s the romance in that?

When the book campaign ends this Sunday, I’m going to knock it on the head. I’ll have stacks to do and it’s all too easy to become yet another ghost. But I hope they’ll notice I’ve gone.