An explanation as to whats going on..

It doesnt appear anyones reading any of this anyway, but Im just posting little bits of stories Ive been writing to try to get some feedback, so as I can concentrate more on what people seem to like more.

First part of a short story.

“So Mr Holby I see by your C.V that you have a had a significant amount of experience within the telesales executive field. What do you think are you strong points realating to that?”

Instead of immediately answering the question, Leo Holby thinks to himself ‘Why is it everywhere I go for an interveiw, someone always asks me that question? It wont take me by surprise. What a nob’. then, as if he’s been thinking about it for a while, reponds with “Blimey, I wasnt ready for that one, eeerr I suppose my strong points would have to be 1) Im an honest person, 2) I pride myself on punctuality, and 3) I’m a hard worker.” He considered adding being a good liar, but then reconsidered, reasoning that, that might not be veiwed as intended. He looked back across at the man across the desk who was making a pathetic attempt to look like this was all crucial information, by writing it down. Leo looked around the room while his interrogator wrote down his oh, so important observations down in a notebook. Leo noticed that before the guy opened this notebook he could see ‘Skate dude’ printed on one of those black name tapes you print out with those gadgets that has a dial with letters and numbers, stuck onto the front cover. The room was quite large and it was obvious that it was used by the company for various meetings and so forth. Behind the guy was one of those white boards you write things on with markers. He could make out some of the things written on it previousley.One thing he could make out was the name Barry Longthorne which he knew was the name of the guy interveiwing him. He wondered if Barry Longthorne had written it himself or whether it was modified from say, ‘Barry Longthorne is a twat’, there was a oblong drawn around the name. Why do people draw oblongs around things sometimes, like when theyre on the phone?

Leo’s attention was drawn by the sound of Barry Longethorne’s stomach making a gurgling sound. He immediately started shifting awkwardly around in his chair like most people do when that happens as if its somehow going to re-arrange their internal organs and stop the noise. Longthorne looked up to see if Leo noticed, then nervousley cleared his throat “Ahem... Mr Holby, I’d like to give you a training day which is unpaid. Its an opportunity for both parties to see if you are a suitable candidate for this postion”

“Yeah that sounds fine to me” says Leo. Then theres a kind of standoff with Longthorne. Who is staring motionless across the desk without saying anything. Leo employs the ‘eyes around the room’ move to try to break this weird situation. Longthorne is somewhere in the region of 5 foot nothing with an oversized suit. There are stains on the suit, and Leo notices the Longthornes hair has too much hair wax (if it is wax) in his prematurely thinning hair. He is also sporting an earing with what appears to have a brass rendering of a naked reclining woman dangling from it. He suspects it to be brass because it seems to be metallic, but turning Green, or maybe it was Copper.

Longthorne exhales sharply through his nose like when someone sniggers, then says “Have you got a girlfriend Leo?” Now its Leo’s turn to stare motionless. ‘Oh my God, is he coming on to me?’ is the only thing he can think now. Then “Er not at the moment”

“Well you came to the right place, theres a lot of nice young ladies working here let me tell you” Longthornes adds a wink, and for the first time Leo notices that Longthorne has had an arm on the desk which has remained completely motionless for the whole interview. He cant be sure but he thinks that its a false arm, because the hand looks really pale, and the fingers arent resting on the desk, but slightly off it, as if rigid. Without thinking he tries putting his own hand on the desk to see if his own fingers will lie flat on the desk. They do. Then it must be a false arm! Or at least a false...’, “I tell you, I’ve had about 12 or 13 of them” Longthorne says “they see a guy like me, free and single, stylish, and with power, not to mention good-looking” He finishes there and snaps his fingers before slumping back in his chair. Obviousley an indication that there is no need to continue. He also makes that clicking noise with his cheek, and winks, but for some reason both eyes shut, so he tries the whole move again. From sitting forward, and clicking his fingers, to the winking, clicking thing. And supremely satisfied sitting back move into the revolving reclining chair. The chair is upholstered in black leather.

Leo cant quite make his mind up where this is going, so he ventures with “Actually I just came out of a.....” Longthorne cuts him short with “How old do you think I am?” Leo has a dilemma here. The guy looks about 35, but he feels certain he’s going to be about 27. All he can do now is take a deep breath through his nose and purse his lips, as if in deep concentration. “31?” Theres a 50% chance he’s right.

“Correct” he emphasizes the syllables like corr-ect. But theres a hint of dissapointment in his voice. Now theres another period of silence, and Longthorne is doodling in his notebook. Leo can make out a really bad Swastika being drawn. He can also see a list of names: Sharon Taylor, Kim Robinson, Amy Hunter and more. Some of the names have question marks next to them, some have crosses, and others have ticks. After finishing the Swastika he picks up the phone on the desk top and dials 0, then pushes the monitor button and replaces the handset. The ring tone sounds and Longthorne looks at Leo as if proving a point. ‘What point?’ Leo thinks ‘What is wrong with this guy?’. A crackly womans voice comes over the monitor “Reception”. Longthorn sits forward again, this time with one eyebrow raised. “Yeah hi Clare, its Baz here. How are you babes?”

“Oh hi Baz, what can I do for you?” comes the reply. Leo can hear some music in the background. It sounds like Michael Bolton.

“Oh you could do lots of things for me you could” Says Longthorne, with one corner of his mouth curled up to reveal yellowing teeth. He winks at Leo, and gives him the nudge nudge gesture into thin air on the monitor Leo can hear the receptionist tittering. “ I have a Mr Leo Holby here to do a training day. Can you come down and take him up to the first floor? I’ll be up later with the induction pack”.

“Of course I can Mr Longthorne. I’ll be straight up”.And the monitor clicks off just as the door opens. In through the door comes a woman of about 21, with peroxide Blonde hair, bright Red lips, and a bright Orange fake tan face. Longthorne immediately stands up, and half jogs over to the woman as if he’s missing his bus. Leo can see that Longthorne has a pony tail, and is just getting out of his seat to leave, when Longthorne and the woman begin to kiss. Leo slowly sits back down, his brows knitting in confusion, and litterally scratches his head ‘what the fu.....’ flashes through his mind. To make matters worse, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Longthorne lift up one leg, and let out a rather wet sounding fart. The woman starts shreiking with laughter, and as is customary with appalled women, hits Longthorne on the chest with an open palmed slap. She turns to Leo and says “He’s filthy isnt he?” Leo just looks at the two without saying anything. “He’s a proper lad this one is” Says Longthorne pointing at Leo. “He’s not bothered about that, we just had a good chat” Then goes to sit back down, still laughing. He stops, and lets out a satisfied sigh. Then nods towards Clare whilst looking at Leo as if he is wasting his time “Right well if you’d like to go with Clare” he says holding up his suspect hand which was a gesture intended to request Leo to go, but mistaken for a handshake by Leo who grabs hold of the weird hand, and shakes it firmly. Leo is alarmed to find that he was right, and the hand cames away, and falls on the desk. Leo can see that there are phone numbers written on the hand, and he also sees a few cigarette ash marks. “ Oh my god Im sorry!” Leo blurts out.

“If you’d like to come with me” says the woman, forcing out a smile. She must be ‘Clare’ Leo thinks.
.

“I had no idea” Leo says with genuine feeling. Longthorne is stationary, his eyes fixed on his hand on the desk.

“Mr Holby?” Clare is sounding quite insistant now. Leo looks at her and walks towards the door. As he looks back he sees Longthorne trying to re-attach his hand using a screwing motion.



Leo, shaken up by what just happened is dutifully following Clare the receptionist, quite pre occupied. They go into a lift, and Clare pushes the button with 1 on it. The lift doors shut and it slowly moves upwards. There is a ping sounds and the doors open. They walk out of the lift, and turn right. Leo notices that the building is quite a well presented one. The floors are carpeted, and not with the cheap kind manufactured out of acryllic. There is wood panelling and lots of plants around the corridors. It smells of Mr Sheen. Clare stops at a door which says Rm 17. and opens it. Inside it is dark. Strip lights flicker to life making a pinging sound Clare asks Leo to take a seat. She asks him if he would like a drink of Coffee or Tea. Leo asks for Tea, and is left alone in the room.

He is just turning over the weird events in his head when the door opens, and he hears a voice outside the door say “if you’d like to take a seat Mr Sherridan” Then adding “Would you like a drink of Tea or Coffee?” He hears a man say no, then in walks a very confused looking man in his late 20’s who looks straight at Leo then away. He goes and sits two seats away from Leo and looks ahead. After about a minute of listening to each other breathe, the man turns to Leo and says “have you just had an interview?” Leo looks at the man and says “Well Ive just had a... kind of interview”.

“Yeah me too” says the man and looks forward again with a baffled look about him. Then “Youre here for one of the sales department positions?”

“Yeah, although I dont know exactly what were supposed to be selling”.

“Me neither. Im Duncan by the way”

“Leo. Pleased to meet you”. Another pause and then “You wont believe this but when I shook the interviewers hand it fell off. Seriousley it fell off!”

“Youre kidding? The guy who interviewed me had a glass eye. I didnt know which one to look at”. Duncan leans over and is just about to say something in confidence when the door opens and in walks Clare carrying a tray with two cups of Tea. There is a small brushed metal jug of milk, and a white dish with mis-shapen lumps of sugar in it. There is a small set of tongues in the dish. She puts down the tray and says to the men “Heres your Tea. Mr Longthorne was due to take your induction session, but he had another appointment to take. Miss Thornton will stand in for him. She should be along soon”. With that she turned round and mis-judging her step walks into the corner of a table next to the door, making a very loud metal like clanging noise. The two men look at each other then back at Clare who is walking out of the door. “Shes got a false leg” Duncan says nodding in her direction, “thats what I was going to tell you when she came in”. Leo looks at Duncan, who continues “I saw it when She came down in the lift, I was waiting for her at the bottom, and I saw her doing something to it with a screwdriver, like tightening it or something”.


“Its a bit weird they all have something wrong wiith them” Leo says.

“Yeah, they dont seem bothered by it. The weird thing is, this guy who interviewed me, seemed to think he was Gods greatest gift to women. I thought he was Gay at first”.

This was becoming more and more bizarre by the minute, and Leo was becoming more and more intrigued by what was going on, when the door flew open and in crashed a fat woman in a wheelchair with extremely thin legs which dangled and flopped about. Seemingly having over estimating the force with which needed to open the door, she crashed straight into a projector near the centre at the front of the room. One of her legs was viciousley twisted back around the side of the wheelchair, and then stuck behind one of the large wheels. The woman seemed not to notice, and looked confusedly at the men. They noticed that she also had a wig on, which was slightly askew. “Hi boys!” Bellowed the woman. Leo looked at Duncan, who simaltaneously look at him. Then back at the woman. “I SAID HELLO” the woman shouted over to them. They both managed a meek “Hi” and then the woman opened up again “Im Miss Thornton, I’ll be standing in for Mr Longthorne, for your induction session. “You!” She accusingly pointed at Leo.

“Yes” answered, his voice shaking.

“Am I to believe that you (she directed her board pointer at him) were the gentleman who assaulted Mr Longthorne?”

“Well... I didnt... assault him. It was an accident. I didnt know..” He managed before she cut in again “Its of little concern to me, well leave it for now” leaving Leo utterly speechless, with him mouth open.

“I assume that you are Mr Holby?”

“Yes Leo” The womans eyes looked up in the ‘God give me strength’ move. Then her attention turned to Duncan. “Well, at least we have some talent here today” Her eyes moving appreciatevly over Duncan, who Leo could see had tensed up, as the woman began to advance towards Duncan, her trapped leg making a clicking noise in the spokes of the large wheel.

“Eeerr, Miss Thornton, I was, er, wondering if you could tell me what the product is....” He desparately trying to diffuse what he knew was coming, but to no avail.

“Ssshhh sshh, dont say a thing” she whispered to him licking her lips, and breathing heavily. “You wont be selling anything love. I need a personal assistant, to help to reach those... hard to reach files, folders, and... other important things”. Leo was looking on with a feeling of utter astonishment, and genuine fear. He looked at Duncan who was granite faced, and saw him swallow hard.

There seemed to be a hell of a lot of pregnant pauses, and Leo who was always one to look ahead of the moment realised that if he was going to work here, he would need an ally. He would have to come to the aid of the now trembling Duncan. This in mind, he cleared his throat and said “Miss Thornton, I understand that we were to begin an induction session?” Miss Thornton, who was engrossed in the squirming figure cowering in the chair in front of her, dropped her leering expression, and substituted it for a more overly disgruntled dimeanour. She then reversed her chair, and wheeled over to the front of the room and using a sort of stick with a thumb and two fingers gadget on the end, picked up the plug of the projector, and quite skilfully plugged it in. Then she noticed her leg was turning blue in the spokes of the wheel. Leo heard her mutter “Not again!” and she began to yank her withered limb from its trap. He winced at the grisly spectacle, and looked at a very dour faced Duncan, who he imagined had all sorts of weird and not so wonderful scenarios running through his mind.

The whirring projectors image on the pull down screen showed nothing more than a hair which periodically fluttered back and forth, probably caused by the effects of static or heat. The stomach gremlin raised its battle cry again, and this time Leo was at a loss as to whom the beast was trapped in. It could quite easily be him. It had happened before when he was aone in a room. He hadnt felt anything, yet the only culprit could have been him. ‘Best remain stoic’ he thought. No-one likes it when it happens to them. Just pretend he didnt hear it. The reflective silence was shattered by the sound of a mobile phone ring tone, coming from the direction of Miss Thornton, who smiled and reached into her purse, then held up the phone in a sort of triumphant ‘First prize’ move. “Hi” Thornton smiled into the phone. It had a case which had a picture of Peter Andre on the back. It said Peter under the Cameo of the Australian prick. There was no doubt that this was Peter Andre. “Im just starting the presentation now” coninued Miss Thornton, and then “yes I’ll bring them in to meet the team after”. She then very slowly and purposefully pushed the end call button and slowly put the phone back in her bag, like it was a fragile egg. Then lovingly put the bag down by the side of the desk at the front of the room. Looking at it for a little longer than most would consider necessary. Then looked up at the two puzzled men, still smiling.

Finally, at long last, she started routing around in a portfolio and produced a folder with slides in it.. Placed the first one on the projector. Leo looked at his watch. It was 10:30. He wondered how long this was going to take. He was at least happy there was only Duncan and himself there. People he found have an annoying tendency to start asking questions at these kind of meetings, thereby only making it last longer. They probably dont care about the job as much as he doesnt, but people always tell you to ask questions at interviews and meetings. ‘That it shows a willingness to learn’, seems to be the logic behind that one. Anyway, on the first slide, there was the usual ‘what do you want to acheive in life?’ crap. “What do you want to acheive in life?” mimicked Miss Thornton who was sat staring at the projection. It seemed a bit aimless what she just did, because she wasnt asking either Duncan or himself. Just repeating it back. Then she turned around slowly and theatrically, casting a cold glance at the two. ‘Is this a rhetorical question?’ Leo wondered looking back at Miss Thornton. She held firm and returned the look. Duncan hadnt said anything for a long time. Leo could feel his misery. “If” launched Miss Thornton “you wish to become a success in life”, at this point she for some reason substituted the question slide for a picture of a man, which seemed to have come from the 70’s period sat in an office chair, clutching a glass of whiskey, and a cigar, gazing out of his window, “then you came to the right place”. A pause. Leo could hear the sound of someone on the toilet. There was the arrivals announcement in the sound of a fart, then the tell tale plopping sound, followed by the sound of a man coughing, and then a flushing noise. The theatrical timing of Miss Thorntons speech was ruined.

She tried to ignore it, but both Duncan and Leo knew that Miss Thornton’s whole routine had now taken a broadside from the anonymous toilet goer. Leo suddenly and quite unexpectantly started sniggering. He found that he was terrified by the fact that he couldnt make himself think about anything else other than the noise he just heard. He was very good however at keeping a straight face. And the only way one might be able to tell he was laughing is because his shoulders were shaking. He was so relieved when he saw out of the corner of his eye Duncan deliberately knock his pen of his desk, then take a lengthy amount of time to retrieve it. Stopping off under cover of his desk to try to stop laughing and compose himself.

The beginning

Basically I just want to see a balanced critique for the guff I write. Be as cruel and honest as you can, or better still, be kind!

Part Une

...” But surely you cannot be questioning the ethics and substantial experience that our most..... benevolent sire has for all of his subjects?”

“ My Lord let me not be the one to cast any shadow upon the infinite wisdom and compassion with which the King makes all important decisions, but his wrongful arrest and imprisonment of the Bishop of Lincolnshire do his highness no credit...

The alarm clock beats out its unwelcome message, Danny Redpath lifts his head and stares at the wall next to his head, trying to understand the meaning of it all, he then realises an oft experienced occurance: that is, the baffling momentary, yet in many ways lifelong time it takes to comes to term with the fact that he is waking up.

“What kind of a man dreams about being a medieval barrister for fucks...?, Who the fuck am I talking to? Its 7 bastard 30 in the morning, and I’m here in this fucking dump”. He is indeed in a dump of a flat, he sits on the end of his bed with its filthy duvet cover half coming off, and pillowcaseless pillows, with the standard Orangey-Browny stains. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, and tried to accustom his eyes to the intrusive sunlight streaking it way into his room. After a few resentful glances around his pit of a domicile he is forced back into his ritualistic morning routine. “ O.k, I need to leave for work in 45 minutes, so if I’m quick, I can get up, have a wash, grab a brew, sit in front of the T.V for say... 30 minutes before I have to drag my unwilling carcass out of here”. seeing the urgency in his vis a vis situation of a few minutes of “comfort” before facing the day with a bunch of fucking small minded, culturally barren, humourless twats, he is propelled into action. First: a wash...

“ I cannot carry on like this man, I just cant keep this......” Danny often talks to himself like this in the effort to convince himself that theres someone else on the planet that understands him, as he walks out of the door of his rancid flat. Keeping that place in any semblance of order just took a back seat since he split up with Alison, and that was 3 months ago. Theres dirty dishes everywhere and empty beer cans litter the living room where, when he actually has the fortitude of sitting alone at home, he often sits drinking steadily until he’s not longer bothered about his life, and the terrifyingly vertical (down) way in which things are going for him. This coupled with his discarded dirty clothing left draped over battered furniture, instead of taking it to the local laundromat, not so much out of laziness, more out of inability due to advanced stages of innebriation Danny often finds himself in, makes for a pretty depressing picture. Theres a good dusting of filth over his carpet, discarded crisp packets and unfinished pizza slices stuffed down the side of what was once a nice Ikea sofa called Krappka or something like that. Danny’s head is reeling from yet another evening of escapism courtesy of Belgium’s finest wife beater. He goes into his bathroom, which is surprisingly tidy, probably only due to the fact that theres never really much reason to spend any time in there. Shuts the medicine cabinet door so he can see himself. His eyes (as to be expected) were glazed and Red about the Whites. He noticed that his Brain hurt if he looked up. Normally anyone wouldnt keep looking up if they discovered it hurt their Brain, but Danny felt compelled to keep doing it, as if it might get bored of causing him discomfort and move on. No such luck. He splashed cold water on his face, which drew a gasp, and made his head hurt more. Next he shuffled back into the living room with its kitchenette, and made himself some Tea. Waiting for the battered, stained kettle to complete its sole task, Danny helped himself to a healthy line of Speed. He fought the urge to puke as the pungent chemical attacked the back of his throat, hastily prepared his Tea, and took a slurp. Almost time to go now, so he goes and brushes his teeth. Ironic that he should be trying to maintain his health in one respect, and systematically destroy himself in another. Then he remembers that its Friday. This makes him feel much better, knowing that its a rare occurance for him to have to a full days work on Fridays on account of the nature of his job. With a sigh, he walks towards the front door of his shite-hole flat, and opens it.

“ Dont fuckin’ talk to me you twat” Danny thinks as he sees that sad bastard that lives a few doors down from him is wandering about in the aisles of the building again, its 08:23. What does a guy do thats so important that he has to hang around in the aisles of a building at that time of the morning? “ Alright mate hows it going?” Cunt!! “Not bad” Danny mutters trying to sound cold but actually sounding quite accomodating. “I’m having a party on Sunday, want to come round?” A spot of quick thinking is required here: “I have to go round to me mums, its her birthday”: a rare display of mental agility for this time of the day Danny thinks. “And anyway how many ‘parties’ does he have a week? Is one guy standing around outside his flat door drunk on White Lightning actually strictly considered a party?” The constant inner monologue machine keeps on rolling. Its a cruel, bitter, uncompromising machine, oiled with the fluid of Dannys unfair treatment at the hands of fate. A cosmic joke.

Danny walks on down the corridor which has the first impression of being quite a respectable place to live. This belies the truth which is in fact that it is a collection of flats which were originally intended for rich, young, upwardly mobile, buisinessmen and fashionable attractive young women. The people who thought up this somewhat optimistic idea obviousley had never lived in Portland which is the town where it is situated. If they had they wouldnt have bothered themselves with such lofty aspirations, as Portland is a town where, to put it in plain English, you cant shine shit. Eventually after realising that they were never going to attract the clientèle they sought, they gave up and accepted anyone. Soon after, the local government paid the owners rent for people who were unemployed or on sickness benefit, which included just about every oddball, Alcoholic, Junkie and ne’er do well in the borough. This collection of people eventually did what they do best and altogether lowered the tone of the building and set about turning it into a notorious, scruffy flophouse, the kind where you only go to live if you’ve fallen on hard times. Danny was experiencing such a hard time. He and his previous girlfriend, Alison, had moved in together 2 years earlier, on the understanding that they could save up and get a better flat nearer to Manchester city centre. Now he was living there alone, blowing all his money on drink and drugs, he would spend a great deal of his time incoherently fucked out of his mind that he reasoned with himself it was just as good as living somewhere else. It was only when he woke up each morning he realised that he just had to get out of that lonely place, and soon.

Each morning Danny knows he can take the bus to work, the number 219 stops a few minutes walk from his flat, and there are plenty stopping at regular intervals. He never uses them. Lately he’s been suffering from crippling paranoia when he steps on a bus, so no matter what the weather, he walks to work. It takes an extra half an hour as apposed to getting the bus but in this time he can relax and take in the scenery and fresh air before being locked in all day at the warehouse where he works. Its a nice walk, by Portland standards along the canal towpath, which has all been restored to its former Victorian glory, but with more trees. There are Ducks and Geese jostling for a decent sunbathing spot at the side of the Canal, and Ghost Carp swimming about lazily in the murky still water. But best of all at 08:30 theres hardly anyone else around to bother him. He walks for 20 minutes in this comparative utopia before exiting the towpath and exchanging it for the industrial side of town where he works, and trudges the the warren of terraced victorian houses with dreary doors painted in bright colours in an attempt to mask the crushingly depressing setting in which they stand, with looming mills in the background, broken glass generousley scattered at intervals. This is the depressing thing about the country Danny is from: Its inhabitants have long become accustomed to the fact that they own nothing of any importance. Own your own house, go on holiday once a year and be happy about it. Proletariate propaganda. Be like everyone else and expect nothing else. The only change to this ugly image are the cars which, if they could think would surely reflect that they have indeed found themselves in reduced circumstances: “ I’m a Lexus, why am I owned by a guy who lives in a two up two down? I should be resting in a leafy driveway in some Cheshire suburb. Those bastards at the plant owe me an explanation!!” Result: I might live in a Victorian slave of industries house, but I go out in my car, no-one will know. It shouldnt bother anyone, but it bothers Danny. Walking across the car park of the place where he works, he is taken by that familiar feeling of creeping anxiety. “I have got to get another job. I cant stand these fucking lowlife primitives anymore. How many fucking hours am I going to be stuck with these fuckers today?” Mantra for the day over with. “Hey Smiler, gonna make some more mistakes today?” Danny hated being called Smiler. This so called sarchastic handle given to him on account of his never smiling, bugged the shit out of him. But like with anyone else you just never let on to hating something people call you, because that lets them know its getting to you. “You fucked up one of yesterdays orders big time you fuckin’ gimp” Its Jim, the oversized shaved Gorilla that has the audacity to call himself the manager. “Which one?” Danny feigns interest: despite hating this job with everything he has including his last strand of DNA, he actually needs it, so best try to sound concerned. “That one for Durham, that big one. The driver refused to take it because there were so many mistakes, so now we’re one order behind”. Danny works in a frozen food warehouse where it is his job to put orders of various pre cooked frozen meals together to send to cheapskate restaurants and schools all over the country. Not only is that in itself one depressing shit task to be detailed, but to compound his misery, the warehouse has to maintain a constant below zero temperature: 35 degrees below to be precise. He therefore has to wear protective clothing to prevent hypothermia, and this clothing looks fucking stupid. Its hard work trying to look pissed off and cool while youre wearing a suit which looks like Charlie chaplins trousers on acid with a jacket to match. This topped off with a kind of medieval serfs protective hat with suspect looking boots with fur lining make for the Achilles heel of Dannys ‘I’m so cool I dont give a fuck’ exterior. “Where is it then? I’ll sort it out now” Dannys trying hard not to walk out of the door for good. “Its alright, I came in early this morning and sorted it out” Jim wasnt just such a bad simian twat it was easy to mistake him for. “Cheers man, I owe you one” Danny says sounding genuinly grateful. Sounding nonchalont when he’s in trouble he can do standing on his head, trying to sound like he doesnt give a shit when someone does something for him, he needs to refine. “GAYBOY!!!” a shout comes out of the tearoom where Ollie the fat fucking ugly, racist, sexist slag bellows out his customary greeting. A greeting which isnt reserved for just Danny. Danny looks at Ollie and gives him his normal greeting: a raised eyebrow. This salutation is way too courteous for a dickhead like Ollie, but the kind of quick witted response Danny would normally counter with were so over this cave dwellers head, it would be considered criminally wasteful of a perfectly good breath. Next in line came Neil, this guy had occasional notions of intelligence about him, and could, on occasion be encouraged into holding a reasonably intelligent conversation. But he was also a twat in equal measures and therefore not worth talking to at all. Danny merely registered his presence. Nothing more. Now its Gary. Gary is at the best of times bearable, at the worst of times the urge to smash the fuckers head in when he isnt watching can become something of a fantasy to be savoured. Upon watching Danny making a mug of tea (tea is consumed in large quantities here, to try to maintain the core temperature of the employees) with one teabag as opposed to the two favoured by the others who work there. He comes out with yet another choice, highly informed oservation: “get another fuckin’ bag in there you poof”, now its comments like this that Danny has to wonder about.

“How am I a fuckin’ poof because I use one teabag?”

“’Cause you’re only usin’ one teabag like a woman” Says dickhead Gary, almost accusingly.

Before he can think of anything to respond with, Danny just starts laughing. Its gutteral laughing, he doesnt even think its funny, he’s just laughing at the fact he’s there with that lot, and how insane he is for going back everyday if all he can expect is comments like that. ‘Time to get on with it’ he finally gives in and thinks. The sole chore consists of waiting for various orders sent by the wankers who actually buy the crap being purveyed, to come through via the office computer, then taking an empty wooden pallet on a pallet truck, and walking around the freezing aisles of the warehouse picking up boxes containing 6 to 16 portions of this ‘food’, then stacking them neatly on the pallet, finally when all the boxes are collected, they are wrapped in cling film and stacked away for the driver to collect them and transport them to the buyer. After an hour of doing this, any happy thoughts (which are few and far between) Danny has about his life have gone, after 5 hours he’s normally considering opening up a few of the boxes and pissing in them. ‘Why not? There cant be much difference in piss and the sludge thats already in them’ he would reason to himself. Today however is different, and he gets through the day with a surprising lack of hassle, on account that its Friday and there are less orders on Friday, in fact there are no more orders to make up, Jim lets everyone go home at one o’clock. Danny will still get paid until five. He walks with renewed vigour out of the gates and starts homewards.

..........................................................................

What the fuck...... what the ffffffffff............. whats that? How can that be right? I saw them earlier, they werent like that earlier!!! My eyes are really feeling fucked up, its like they keep drifting in and out of focus, but at the same time I can see everything. I can see too much, much too much too much. That green, same old green as a friend of mines.... Shit!! I’m in the canal!! HELP!!! HHHHEEEELLLLPPP!!!! I’m not in the..... Where the fuck am I? My hands arent the same... look at the detail, theres writing on them.... I cant read the writing, everytime I look the letters change, they’re moving around. My hands arent my hands... Get to the mirror, I need to see myself..... where.. w w w WHERES THE FUCKING MIRROR??? OH GOD THE MIRRORS GONE!!! Everythings fucked now. If I dont find it I..... the fridge, the bath, the sink, the fridge, the bath, the sink. You fucked up that order, that BIG order, BIG order. The fucking order has the mirror, I must have sent the mirror instead of the order. Where did I send it? London? Wrexham? Durham? DURHAM? I just need to think. Just let me think, let me think, let me think, let me THINK!!! THINK!! SHIT, theres someone at the door, someone is at the door. What do they think this is.......... they must have the wrong door, they must. Dont make a sound, they’re waiting for you to move, then they have you. Dont Move. O.K they’ve gone, now I need to find that........ JESUS!!! They’re in!! Two of them moving around in front of me trying to surround me!! They’re talking to each other but I cant understand what..... they’re talking to me, I recognise one of them for a second then they’ve gone, theres no-one here. There was no-one here. Its night time. Its black outside, its black in here, and theres nothing I can do about that. I need to find a place to hide incase they come back. They cant find me if I......
.............................................................................

“Thank fuck for bank holiday weekends!!” Jacko Wilson gasps out. He means it. Its Sunday and him and his friends Andy Wilson (no relation) and Larry Taylor are sat in The Station pub. They have been in there most of the day and are beginning to feel the effects of prolonged binge drinking. They know that tomorrow they dont have to go to work, but they just cant shake that oppressive feeling Sunday always comes hand in hand with. Andy gets shakily to his feet, and lurches for the nearest wall. He looks back with glazed zombie eyes for a minute. “Jesus, I cant take much more of this man. I’m gettin’ a drink of Coke, whats everyone else ‘avin’?”

“Fuck off Coke!!” Jacko snaps. His eyes portrait a man who’s honour has just been brought into question. “Get the fuckin’ beer in, its not every week we get the chance to get fuckin’ drunk on Sunday!!”

“You can ‘ave some, I feel like shite. You can fuck off anyway, I’ve been on the pop since fuckin’ Friday you lightweight poof’” Andy shrugs back.He is in no mood to take orders from this relative newcomer, as far as prolonged boozing is concerned. He wouldnt concern himself with these power struggle games that Jacko would often inflict on his friends. He sometimes wondered whether or not Jacko actually considered the people he hung around with friends or merely tools, to be used to bolster his vastly inflated ego and appear like he had some power to exercise over these other mere subjects.

“You better get yourself together mate, dont forget we’re goin’ over to Tim’s flat later, and theres gonna be birds so dont you go lettin’ us down, by turnin’ up lookin’ like what you do now”. Jacko doesnt even acknowledge the intended mental ‘fuck you’ in Andys voice. “If you’re feelin’ shite later, dont worry, ‘Cause Larry scored some speed earlier, enough for us all”

“Yeah?” Andy suddenly feels a little more social.

“Yeah, but only if you only if you give up that treasonable I’m only ‘avin’ Coke bollocks” Larry sticks the boot in.

“Three pints of Stella” Andys just a foot soldier now, reduced from his former self proclaimed Captain and any idea he entertained seconds earlier about giving Jacko a kind of king of the hill showdown have vanished. He would bide his time until later when he knew that Jacko would be in the state he was himself moments before. Then he would strike. Jacko’s apparent superiority in verbal warefare always waned when he’d had too much booze and drugs and normally came out with a few gems of knowledge which were in fact always hideousley mis-informed rubbish, that and second hand annecdotes. Andy would wait for such a slip and then knowing full well that Larry, who often expressed the same views as his good self, would do the comradely things and laugh when Andy took the arrogant twat to pieces.

In the vacant space between these verbal spars Larry notices for the first time that The Blazing Squad are on the Pub music system. He has a tolerance of many things but this is pushing his good sense of public harmony.


“Andy, get that bald fucker to sort the music out will you?” Larry shouts across, then hurls a C.D to him. Him and Jacko had brought along a few c.d’s of their own should Tim’s collection not come up to scratch. The bald fucker Larry is talking about is Rob. He owns the pub, and has been playing his own horror box of shit c.d’s since he took over, nearly 8 years earlier.


“Hey Rob, stick a few songs off this on for us mate?” Andy hands over the c.d without even looking at it.

“Beta band? What the fucks this? Never ‘eard of them” Handing them back to Andy in a way that just simply says no. “Theres not even any point in pleading with the twat” Andy thinks as he walks very slowly and unsteadily back to the table, clutching 3 pints of Stella Artois which are sloshing everywhere. He hands them out and they all take a sip, and do a quick shudder at the strong tasting beer. Andy gags but holds it down... but only just.

“He said no” Andy offers up the explanation.

“Miserable cunt“ Jacko and Larry chorus out together. “Come on lads, drink up, lets get over to Tim’s and get proper twatted” Larry says happily passing round the 2 gram wrap to his companions who wince as the Skunk’s piss tasting chemical hits their tongues. They wash the speed down with their by now comparitively nectar tasting lager, light up cigarettes, and discuss how they will get to their friends flat. Each coming up with conflicting methods of how to go about getting there, but by the time they’ve finished their pints, the speed has kicked in, and on account of it being a warm night, they opt to walk, besides, they have begun discussion/argument on the pros and cons of buying a decent pair of Cuban heeled boots. The main concern voiced by both Larry and Andy is that you should always buy a brand new pair, that way your feet can settle into them and make a perfect fit. It will of course mean walking around for a few days or even weeks perhaps in a fair bit of discomfort while your feet make their mark on the boots, but in the end, will fit like a second skin. Jacko’s view is that by buying a second hand pair, the pain inflicted, by the fitting process, will have, of course been metered out on some other poor unfortunate. Entirely missing the point that they wont fitted to the person buying them afterwards. Almost as soon as they have finished the debate, they spot a guy coming out of a nearby Asda, wearing a pair of mint condition Cuban heeled boots. They look at each other and stop dead in their tracks at twhat seems to them to be a seemingly mystical freakishness of this occurance. The guy wearing the boots notices them staring. “Er sorry mate, its just that we were talking about those kind of boots” Andy says. He knows he doesnt need to excuse the actions of him and his friends, but feels a sense of duty to explain their behaviour. Bad Karma = bad karma. The guy in the boots walks on and goes straight into the flats where their friend Tim lives. “What the fuck ever possessed Tim to move in here with these fuckin’ oddballs?” Jacko arrogantly sneers. He can talk, his own flat less that a mile away is in the council estate which is overun with burnt out cars, corridors that stink of piss, and waves of children running around shoeless like a giant wave of snot. “Cheap innit?” Andy says. As if he needs to.

Frank, the ‘security’ officer is sitting in his chair at the reception area of the flats. “Alright lads, going up to Tim’s eh? I’ll sign you in then, up you go” Frank who is a genuinly nice old guy, has the habit of dying his hair black on account that it is going grey. He also dyes his eybrows, and doubtless his pubes too. This matamorphosing process he constantly undergoes can take people by surprise, so much so that the ‘lads’ look at him for a period which would be considered unsociable in more normal settings. “Er thanks Frank “ they mutter back before climbing the stairs.

“I’ll bet this place used to be well posh before they let all these doley fuckers live ‘ere” Perhaps a slightly unnessesary observation on the part of Andy, (who nows feels a lot better) but nonetheless perfectly valid. Their friend Tim lives on the first floor, so they dont take long in reaching the long corridor with its flickering, failing flourescent strip lights. Theres a distinct smell of rubbish which has been lying around in the warm buildings various abodes, probably for some time. That together with the smell of pissy carpet, and the stench of cheap cooking oil or lard or whatever these primates use, doesnt do much to improve the buildings overall progressively worsening state of appearance. They reach Tims door which, as is his tradition, he has left open slightly. They can hear what they think is Bowie - 5 years, coming out of the flat. Its a good tune granted but a little sombre for the occasion they simultaneousley think. Never mind, they brought their C.D’s with them. They walk straight into Tim’s flat, who appears from his bathroom, as usual worse for wear. Clutching his trademark bottle of White Lightning. “LADS!!!” He slurs out, his dark Brown hair plastered to his forehead, they know he’s just puked, as the smell hits them when he wafts the door shut behind him. “Fuckin’ ‘ell Tim, what ‘appened to you mate?” Andy asks, knowing only too well that the answer is contained in a cheap green bottle in Tim’s hand. “I just felt a bit sick, I ate a dodgy kebab earlier I think. “Bollocks, you want to leave that fuckin’ white lightning alone mate, it fucks your insides up due to the high concentration of acid it contains” Jacko observes. Andy and Larry look at each other, and raise their eyebrows: that one will have to be remembered. Tim on the other hand is oblivious to this sound advice, and so has to have the bottle taken off him by Andy, who replaces it with a can of Stella. “Better for you” he adds, winking at the now sorrowful heap that is Tim. The hellos are cut short by the sound of girls voices coming from living room area of Tims flat. In they go.

“Fucks sake” Jacko distastefully observes, as he recognises each of the girls, and his hopes of getting any action with a decent looking one, coming crashes down. As they are all someone he knows sister or girlfriend, and therfore off limits. “All ugly twats anyway” he consoles himself. He looks down at his arm and sees an almost perfect hand print shaped stain of thin puke on it. “Jesus Tim, you’re a fuckin’ animal sometimes!” He shouts over to Tim who is trying to open the upside down can of Stella Andy previously gave him. Tim looks up, and gawps uncomprehendingly back. “Wha...” He manages, before Jacko says “Fuckin’ animal” again more to himself this time.

Andy decides to do something about the dark, doom filled lyrics coming out of the system, and goes for as look in the bag which was left just inside the front door, as he does this he notices a voice, a male voice. Thinking it must be another of his friends looking for Tims flat, he looks out of the front door. Its no-one he knows, but whoever this guy is, is a right mess. Andy notices that the guy is looking at one of his hands whilst sliding along the wall with his other. He’s muttering, random words, and pausing as if to correct himself, theres tears streaming out of his eyes which are so dilated they are almost completely black. He catches himself as he almost trips up, and looks straight at Andy, who is now almost shitting himself, and stops dead in his tracks. The way he looks at Andy is fairly similar to the way that cats look when they see a bird out of the window. Wide eyed, and unpredictable. “Are you alright man?” Andy manages, then “Jacko, get out here man” all the time aware he’s moving backwards towards the open door of his friends flat. “Alright?” The guy repeats, then “Alright, its alright youre right. Why didnt I notice before? My hands were saying that, look” He’s freaking out here now, as he shoves his hands under Andy’s nose. Andy notices that theres deep, ugly cuts on the guys hands and they’re bleeding badly. Theres a hefty trail of blood on the wall and floor in the wake of this freaks entrance. Andy, steps back now feeling sick, then shouts to Jacko again he needs that fucker right now, convenantly forgetting that only a 45 minutes ago, he had plans of usurping. “Jacko you fuckin’ dickhead, get out here man!!” He turns round to keep an eye on his new aquaintance, who is running away from him, and towards a door at the end of the corridor in a zig zag manner. “Come back mate!! You need some help” The guy quickly opens the door to the flat, which isnt locked, and staggers in blood smeared all over the door now. Andy notices something strange about the movements of the guy. At one point just before he went in through the door, he seemed to slow down: not as though through hesitation, the whole physique of his movement slowed right down, like a replay of two football players just before they collide and one is awarded a penalty.

“The fucks goin’ on here?” Jacko appears one second later.

“I have just seen the scariest thing in my fucking life man, follow me and get Larry” As if on cue Larry appears at the door. “What is it?”

“This fucking freaked out guy covered in blood just ran in there man” Andy shakily says, and, pointing to the copious blood stains on the walls and floor, adds “He needs help, badly”

The three friends, walk towards the flat. The door is slightly ajar, but no lights are on. There is however music coming out of it. Andy knows what it is, its ‘A Sunday in Madrid’ by Robert Wyatt. “He might be completely insane, but the boy has taste” Andy thinks to himself, then thinks how stupid that would sound if he says it out loud. He also wonders how fucked up you’d have to be to first run ‘round covered in cuts and blood, then go and put a c.d on. Maybe it was already on when he went in. Maybe there was someone else in there? Fuck knows. He pushes the door open, and fumbles for the light switches in the dark. Flicks it on. Nothing. Either no power or no light bulb. “No, theres music playing of course it the light bulb you twat” he admonishes himself, in retrospect a little harsh considering the gravity of the situation. In the light coming from the corridor, he can make out something on the floor, all over the floor in fact. It looks like piles of washing or pillows or something. “Whats that on the floor man?” Larry says from the rear he wont come in any further than the door. The flat is similar in layout to Tims, which is useful because they cant see anything beyond the harsh outline of light in the shape of a door cast on the floor which is littered with small square pieces of paper. They know the bathroom is off to the left, the living room to the front. Andy, driven by a genuine desire to sort this poor bastard out, goes in.



Personality crisis
9 Years earlier



“Two flights for Madrid then, how much is that?” the young man, drools across the desk to the bewildered travel agent. His breath smells simultaneousley of stale beer and a recently eaten kebab. “I thought you said Valencia?” returns the agent.

“Did I? Oh well just make it Madrid then anyway”

“Fuckin’ piss-head, knob” thinks the young man behind his desk. He’s only got one more term at the Manchester Metropolitan University. Just a little bit longer fucking around in this second rate travel agency to pay the bills then he’s off to Europe to complete a whistle stop tour of 5 major attractions around the continent, and make his decision as to where he would like to set up the business with his brother, who has already completed the tourism and hotel management course he is about to finish. “Humour this twat, dont deny the fucker his mediocre break from mundanity” Now he feels better. “O.K so thats two flights leaving Manchester international, at 11:15 a.m on Sunday the 15th of June, with Iberian airlines, arriving at Madrid Barajas at 14:22 p.m local time, economy class. Can I take your name please sir?”

“He’s Matthew Price, and I’m Daniel Redpath” Comes the reply. The Agent looks at Daniel for a minute like he’s just been insulted. Then says “Is Matthew Price going with you?”

“Well... yes, thats the idea!”

“Aisle seats or window?”

“Aisle please”

Transaction completed, the agent watches Daniel shamble out of the office looking at the itineries, enthusiastically making plans, waffling on about how to go about getting the plan together.

Matthew grabs the itinary, and looks closely at the details. “You fucking tit, I thought we were going to Valencia? This says fuckin’ Madrid!” He looks at Daniel accusingly. “Calm down man, its still Spain isnt it? Theres probably more to do there anyway” He snatches the paper back and stuffs it in his pocket. “Lets go for a drink, my heads killing me”

“Dont you ever stop drinking? We... you, only stopped 5 hours ago. You’ll end up a fuckin’ lush one of these days man. Stinking of piss and puke, scaring schoolgirls in parks. If its booze you want though, booze it is” Matthew had the curious habit of putting Daniel down for boozing, yet never did anything constructive to try to stop him.

“Its not like I want to get pissed, I just need to get rid of this hangover” Matthew has heard this one many times before. He knows what this means: Another day of feverish drinking. A feeling of apprehension floods his already pounding head: Hes just signed up for two weeks hardcore drinking with Daniel fucking Redpath, a guy who has a severe deficiency in conservative drinking habits, which he forces, where ever possible, onto anyone foolish enough to accompany him when he goes on his frequent benders. “Theres gonna be some sore heads for me” He thinks, shaking his head sadly.

They head down Oxford Road, until it turns into Oxford Street the cut across the square past the Cenotaph towards ‘The Vine’ up off Cooper St near the central reference Library, discussing how much money they have collectively, and how many Euros or Psetas or whatever currency this will bring them. They also discuss whether they should look into reserving a room in a Hostal, or whether it should be ok just finding something when they arrive. They opt for the latter eventually, reasoning that theremust be loads of them in Madrid, and they wont be short of choice. They continue to babble about the prize winning time they’re going to have as they step across the threshold of ‘The VIne’. Get them in then, I’m off for a piss, we’ll sit in the usual seats at the back. Daniel, goes ahead to the bar, and pulling out a crumpled Tenner, orders two pints of Fosters. Picks them up and walks up the short flight of stairs towards the back of the pub. Placing the drinks down, something occurs to him, he’s thinking about this when Matthew comes walking over to the small Brass topped table and sits down. “Theres something I’ve noticed about you Matt. Why is it that its always me that has to get......”

“Because its always you that drags me into these kinds off places” He answers pre-emptivley.

“But I dont actually remember you ever going up to the bar once in my life”

“Thats because, youre always too fuckin’ pissed to” Matthew sits across the table from Daniel smiling confidently. “Now are we gonna get these drunk and move on, or are you gonna sit there making more half witted observations?”

“Sounds like a challenge from the fuckin’ milky bar kid to me!” Daniel called Matthew that on account of his pasty, unhealthy paleness. Adding “Bit of La Sol will do you some good, you look like a friggin’ Polo mint!”

“It was a challenge, drink, shit ‘ead!”. And so it goes............


....................... ............................................. .....................


In a small, previously busy rural corner of Poland. There is a Medieval town situated near the Mirachowo Forest, between Mirachowo and Chmielno the name is long forgotten it has long been uninhabited, for a considerable time. There is evidence that some people, no more than say... a few hundred re-inhabited the town some time in the 19th Century, as there remain a few small holdings which have since deteriorated to the point of collapse in some cases. However, nobody lives here now. Now for some reason, there is a tour of the area, with particular attention being drawn to the Lake, which some believe to be a late reservoir. One of the tourists on this particular excursion today is a young man. He for some reason has taken an interest on seeing the lake and has perhaps fallen behind the rest of the tour to take his time looking at it, ten minutes pass, now fifteen. Time to move on. He cannot find the rest of the tour, but knows where the bus is situated and so is not concerned. He continues his solitary walk down the only maintained road, which breifly comes to a bend. Here he sees an enourmous building which looks almost like a Victorian terrace, the kind favoured by the wealthy in London during that era. The building is severed perfectly in two, and one side is completely absent. All the normal furniture and appliances common to these houses are in place and undisturbed. There is also a very large old tree growing inside the half house, and through the remaining floors, although it does not disturb the interior in any way. The young man stands for a while looking at this unusual building, then decides to walk around the back. After walking through a small copse of a wood he reaches a small clearing where he see a small L shaped building: no more than a shack, but is surprised to see that smoke is slowley rising from the chimney stack, and there is some evidence of activity around the little shack. There is a Lada 4 wheel drive parked near, and a stack of logs which have recently been cut, judging by the bright wood chippings scattered around them. The door of the shack is open, and so the young man goes to it and knocks. There is no answer. He pushes the door open. Inside the shack things are very different. He is now standing on a small square peice of turf, which is raised above the area which spreads around him for miles. Its is very dark, and intensley cold. He realises he is now outside, as his eyes ajust, he can distinguish that the floor around the raised area he is standing on is a vast swamp, which is creaking and bubbling. Immense tree trunks climb towards the black, cold sky, in which can be seen many bright stars. The tree trunks appear to him to be made of onyx, as they are very smooth. He looks directly below where he is standing. Approximately 3 feet away there is something writhing in the swamp. It is a human figure, which is now attempting to reach towards where the young man is standing. In the humans face there is hardly any intelligence but it seems very happy to see the young man. It is reaching for his hand...... Sausages??



“WHOOOAA!!.......” Daniel Redpath wakes up, and looks around , with a fearsome hangover which is unlike anything he’s ever had before. Its is very bright and there is a lot of noise coming from outside the room. The glass windows are open, which allow the sounds of people and cars into the room. There is also the smell of food, a strong smell of sausages. He looks around the room which is a mess due to the clothes scattered around, and sees an unmade bed to the side of his own: Matthew must have gone out. “Must have had a good time last night”, he reasons, and struggles out of bed. He dresses and takes inventory of his situation. He needs something to eat and a coffee or perhaps even a beer? He should find out what time it is first. He walks down the dark main stairs of the building where he is staying, and out onto the Plaza Del Carmen which is buzzing with activity in the bright Madrid sunlight. He feels really hungry now as more smells of food hit his nose.

Its his first proper day in Madrid, and although he feels tired and extremely hungover, he is exited. All around him things are happening: Old men sit in battered folding chairs in the clearing playing chess, and talking loudly under the shade of the trees which line the edge of the Plaza. Dogs chase each other and play in gangs. Children clammer around their ageing grandmothers. Young people sit on the steps of the monument at the eastern edge of the Plaza telling stories in incomprehensibly fast Spanish. All around the edge of the Plaza there are Tapas bars and small restaurants, which are all busy. Daniel looks at what the people are eating, to get an idea of what to order himself. They seem to have lots of small plates containing various meat, vegetable and fish delicacies. “Thats got to be this Tapas I heard about” He eventually decides. He goes into the least busy Tapas Bar, and stands for quite some time at the bar before a barman eventually sees him and walks over to him “Que quieres tomar?” He blasts out.

“Uh.. Lo siento..... No hablo.. mucho Espanol” Daniel ventures.

“Ahh, you are eenglis? How you like Madrid my friend?” The barmans attitude suddenly takes on a different tone.

“Its great as far as I remember” Daniel moans holding his head.

“....oh I see, you have over..hang?.....Hangover” Laughs the barman.

“I do, yeah” Daniel smiles meekly.

“Then I have just the thing for you amigo, uno momento por favor” He disappears through an open doorway and goes down some stairs, appearing minutes later with a large panelled Glass with a handle, filled with a milky, Yellowy liquid. “Drink this. It is best beer in all Madrid. You hangover gone soon, and you feel better. We make this here, in brew..ery downstair” He says brewery like its a question. Daniel realises he’s not sure if he’s saying it right. “Yeah brewery” he confirms. “How much is that mate?” He asks, looking at a handfull of confusing notes and coins.

“You have it for nothing, tell me if you like” Says the now cheerful barman, then adds “Are you hungry?”

“Very”

“You want Tapas?”

“I dont know what that is, but yes”

“ Then I choose 3 thing for you, the most popular on the menu” The barman shouts through the door, then adds “I bring it to you, when it is ready. Now excuse me, I have much to do” Daniel thanks the barman, and takes a hefty drink of the beer, which he thinks is very good, and takes in the scenery. He really likes Madrid, and wishes he lives here. The people who do live here probably hate it. He eats his Tapas which consists of a kind of spicy reddish sausage, meatballs in a tomato sauce and salad with bread. And after paying for the food, and giving a healthy, or what he thinks is a healthy tip to the friendly barman, and promising to return, walks back out into the busy, sweltering daylight.

“That beer was well nice” He thinks, already feeling the effects, and congratulates himself on deciding to go in there. He does not feel like going back to the room he has rented for two weeks with is friend just yet. He fancies another beer somewhere. It is a holiday after all. He walks to the far end of the Plaza and walks down the busy Calle Salud, turning left at the end and down Calle Preciados, where he stops in another bar and orders a Bloody Mary and a beer chaser. Now he feels very good. The hangover fast becoming just an irritating memory. He then remembers , as he walks out of the door of the Irish pub he’s just been in, his walkman in his pocket, things are just getting better and better it seems. He rewinds the tape and plays it at high volume. Its Matching Mole - Signed curtain. The lyrics although melancoly, make him smile. He thinks that all songs should be like this, and thinks that a lot of bands could better themselves by just singing about what theyre doing right now.....”This is the first verse.....and this is the chorus, or perhaps its the bridge” He thinks about how things just really dont matter. He is aware however that this is just the beer talking to him. “Where the fuck could Matt be by now?” He wonders. He decides to buy some Vodka and go back to the room, where he can wait for the errant boy. Across the road, he sees a shop that sells booze, from which he buys a bottle of Moskovskaya: the best, he considers it to be. “Some tomato juice will edge that off nicely” he says out loud to himself, and heads back to the room.

45 minutes earlier, a couple from Lyon, France, finished unpacking their belongings and put the clothing they brought neatly into the chest of drawers provided to them in the small double room, they had hired. It wasnt exactly 5 star, but they were in Madrid to explore, not spend time in a room, and most important it was cheap. Beside it had everything they needed. The bathroom was communal, which no-one can ever pretend to be pleased about, but there was a small washbowl which was provided to each room, and again, it was cheap. They had decided that when they had put their clothes away and got straightened out, they would go out and find somewhere decent to eat. Apparently the favourite restaurant of Ernest Hemingway was in the neighbourhood, probably overpriced but then it would be something to talk about when they went back to France. They decide to set off, They lock the door and set off down the dim, strongly food scented corridor, towards the steps which will bring them out onto the Plaza Del Carmen. On the stairs they pass a young man, with a scruffy looking appearance, smelling strongly of alcohol. He mutters something in what they think is English, and carries on up the stairs, clutching a bottle of Vodka in one hand, and a carton of tomato juice in the other. The Frenchman looks at his girlfriend with raised eyebrows, they both know only too well what English people are like with the booze. That must be the guy who was yelling in his room all last night. The young man, whilst using the communal toilet had noticed a British passport in the toilet bowl, fished it out and looked at the photo, and name page. He realises that the person in the passport was the person who just passed him. He had passed on the passport to the hostal owner, who had assured him in his best French that he would forward that to the Police. They talk about this as they step out into a warm Madrid dusk, and head towards where they think the famous restaurant will be.