It was three days before he found the body, and four more before he phoned the police. Mrs Denham, the little old lady from flat number six, had died, apparently in her sleep. As her discoverer said, there was no real urgency – he was pretty sure that she’d remain dead, and in the event that she didn’t, there would be no need for the police.
He’d booked a city break for himself and his mistress, and he’d be damned if he was going to lose the deposit.
I never liked Mrs Denham. She smelt of old wax and tried to give me eye contact when we passed on the stairs and in the night she crept out into the communal hallway and turned the milk bottles so that the labels face inwards and you had to turn them back out again if you wanted to read them. When I told Steve about this, he asked why she would want to.
I replied that I didn’t know, but apparently some people are strange.
When the police arrived there was a lot of noise. The lump of blowflies and sinew and rotting flesh that was Mrs Denham was taken away on a stretcher, and a lady who looked like Mrs Denham’s shadow came around and started shrieking and water leaked from her eyes. I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. In this progressive day and age, if someone wants to be dead in the comfort of their own home then that’s their business.
The pigeons would say that it’s the nanny state gone mad.
The man at the chip shop has started wrapping his wares in copies of the Daily Mail. Since then, the pigeons have gotten angrier. “BRUSSELS BUREAUCRATS ARE GIVING YOUR MORTGAGE DIABETES” they shout. “HEALTH & SAFETY OFFICERS ARE PLANNING TO HAVE SEX WITH THE ROYAL FAMILY.” I don’t want to agree with them but I find my resolve melting, like an Action Man on a barbeque. They’re very persuasive. And they know so very much.
When the leaflet came through about the fumigation, it was the pigeons who told me it was alright to stay in the flat.
I have this recurring dream. I’m sitting on a stone pillar and all around is darkness. Then a blinding light and I start to feel hot and it burns and I gasp and I sweat. But it’s not sweat, it’s cheese. I’m sweating cheese, and as the lumps of brie and edam and feta fall from my arms and face these hands reach up to grab them. The fingers scrape and grab and prize the folds of my skin and they tear, and rip out chunks of flesh until I am nothing.
The pigeons say that I should stop eating cheese before I go to bed.
After an hour and a half of the dull whirr of the pump let me know that the fumigation had started, I began to feel inexact. I wanted to open the window, but the pigeons said that wasn’t fair, it would get their nice clean windowsill all fume-y and also THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT MUSLIM SINGLE TEENAGE MOTHERS WOULD WANT. When I couldn’t take it any longer I stumbled out into the street.
My legs felt unfamiliar.
I was blinking in the light and air was escaping from my chest in violent bursts. A man walked up and asked if I was okay. I vomited down his sleeve. His face revolted in surprise, eyebrows colliding, lips divorced. He winched his mouth into a an oily smile that bobbed on top of his words. “Do you want to go to A and E?” he asked.
I didn’t.
Showing posts with label monologue. Show all posts
Showing posts with label monologue. Show all posts
Wednesday, 26 September 2012
Monday, 27 August 2012
The Cowboy (Monologue)
It was 1835, the year when archaeologists admitted they were wrong. The Romans had actually been a race of skeletons that lived underground and ate off broken plates.
It was a Tuesday, and we’d spent the morning branding the cattle. We decided to go with the slogan ‘beef on legs’. The morning’s work had tired us out, so we decided to take the rest of the day off and head down to the local saloon. We were just about to go in when the Sheriff rode up. He got down from his horse. It was pale brown, and made great pillows. In fact, the more I think about it, I’m pretty sure the sheriff rode a duck. You know the saying; you can take a horse to water, but if it dives in and starts eating pondweed you’ve been conned by a dodgy horse salesman. Not one to admit his mistakes, the Sheriff duly tied his steed to the hitching post, next to our stallions. Not one to turn up a chance for a swim, his steed duly jumped in the drinking trough and paddled in circles, quacking contentedly.
When we called out our orders we were served by the Saloon-keeper’s daughter. She moved with grace and speed. She seemed to glide across the floor, like a swan on roller-skates. I would have liked very much to have made an honest woman out of her. For she was a compulsive liar, and it made it quite difficult to keep track of your bar tab.
We’d only just settled our accounts, denying that we had drunken three bathtubs of whisky and that she was the queen of Sheba, when the saloon door swung open, and a stranger sidled on over. He was wearing a ten gallon hat, tight pinstriped trousers, and a grimace. I supposed that the tight trousers explained his sidling and grimace. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then spoke. People tend to do the two actions together.
“I was born in squalor, destitution, and Eastbourne, which explains the accent. You fellers seem like decent, honest folk. What’s say I’ll exchange you a story for a glass o’ firewater? A jug o’ hooch? A jar o’ moonshine?” We agreed to buy him some alcohol instead. He started recounting his story.
--
“I remember it as if it were yesterday, which is worrying as it happened this morning. I’d just ridden past Bover’s Rock, and I was heading towards Morningside. The Irn-Bru Kid had tipped me off that the mayor o’ Morningside was offering a large cash reward to anyone who could rid the town of its terrible infestation. You see, Morningside was experiencin’ a plague o’ mentalists. A travellin’ stage show had visited the town three months ago. A coupla stage magicians from the visitin’ rodeo musta ‘scaped, and started breeding in the woods. Within weeks, it weren’t safe for people to leave their houses. Every time they opened their doors and stepped into the streets, they’d be surrounded by a clamourin’ crowd urging them to ‘pick a card, pick a card, pick a card.’ This shoutin’ had been so loud it’d spooked the buffalo.
After speakin’ to the Mayor, it was agreed that I would disguise myself as one of ‘em, and walk amongst ‘em to find out why they weren’t leavin’ the town. So I donned a tight suit, shaved my beard into a moustache, and walked out into the midday heat. When they leapt upon me, a crowd of fifty or so, I abandoned Hope. It seemed unwise to take my six year old daughter with me.
They accepted me as one of their own immediately. The disguise had worked. I followed them back to the woods, joining in their refrains of ‘A round of applause for the gentleman’ and ‘nothing up my sleeves’. As we walked closer and closer towards the raked ranks of pines, I realised that I was stopping short of breath. It wasn’t a steep hill, but the tight trousers made the going tough. Then it hit me. The town was in a valley, and the reason the mentalists were causing havoc in the town was that they were trapped. Like spiders in a bathtub. It wasn’t their fault they were unwelcome (like spiders in a bathtub). But they needed gettin’ rid of. Like spiders in a bathtub.
At night, I snuck back to Morningside to tell the Mayor what I had discovered. The townspeople built a large ramp, out of desperation, sweat, and pine. The mentalists left, filing over it, until the cries of ‘think of a number between one and a hundred’ faded into silence.
--
He finished his drink, and bid us farewell. We watched through the saloon doors as he untied his steed from the hitching post and slapped its rump, causing it to gallop off majestically into the distance. As he watched it recede into the sunset, he couldn’t help wishing that he’d climbed onto it first.
It was a Tuesday, and we’d spent the morning branding the cattle. We decided to go with the slogan ‘beef on legs’. The morning’s work had tired us out, so we decided to take the rest of the day off and head down to the local saloon. We were just about to go in when the Sheriff rode up. He got down from his horse. It was pale brown, and made great pillows. In fact, the more I think about it, I’m pretty sure the sheriff rode a duck. You know the saying; you can take a horse to water, but if it dives in and starts eating pondweed you’ve been conned by a dodgy horse salesman. Not one to admit his mistakes, the Sheriff duly tied his steed to the hitching post, next to our stallions. Not one to turn up a chance for a swim, his steed duly jumped in the drinking trough and paddled in circles, quacking contentedly.
When we called out our orders we were served by the Saloon-keeper’s daughter. She moved with grace and speed. She seemed to glide across the floor, like a swan on roller-skates. I would have liked very much to have made an honest woman out of her. For she was a compulsive liar, and it made it quite difficult to keep track of your bar tab.
We’d only just settled our accounts, denying that we had drunken three bathtubs of whisky and that she was the queen of Sheba, when the saloon door swung open, and a stranger sidled on over. He was wearing a ten gallon hat, tight pinstriped trousers, and a grimace. I supposed that the tight trousers explained his sidling and grimace. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then spoke. People tend to do the two actions together.
“I was born in squalor, destitution, and Eastbourne, which explains the accent. You fellers seem like decent, honest folk. What’s say I’ll exchange you a story for a glass o’ firewater? A jug o’ hooch? A jar o’ moonshine?” We agreed to buy him some alcohol instead. He started recounting his story.
--
“I remember it as if it were yesterday, which is worrying as it happened this morning. I’d just ridden past Bover’s Rock, and I was heading towards Morningside. The Irn-Bru Kid had tipped me off that the mayor o’ Morningside was offering a large cash reward to anyone who could rid the town of its terrible infestation. You see, Morningside was experiencin’ a plague o’ mentalists. A travellin’ stage show had visited the town three months ago. A coupla stage magicians from the visitin’ rodeo musta ‘scaped, and started breeding in the woods. Within weeks, it weren’t safe for people to leave their houses. Every time they opened their doors and stepped into the streets, they’d be surrounded by a clamourin’ crowd urging them to ‘pick a card, pick a card, pick a card.’ This shoutin’ had been so loud it’d spooked the buffalo.
After speakin’ to the Mayor, it was agreed that I would disguise myself as one of ‘em, and walk amongst ‘em to find out why they weren’t leavin’ the town. So I donned a tight suit, shaved my beard into a moustache, and walked out into the midday heat. When they leapt upon me, a crowd of fifty or so, I abandoned Hope. It seemed unwise to take my six year old daughter with me.
They accepted me as one of their own immediately. The disguise had worked. I followed them back to the woods, joining in their refrains of ‘A round of applause for the gentleman’ and ‘nothing up my sleeves’. As we walked closer and closer towards the raked ranks of pines, I realised that I was stopping short of breath. It wasn’t a steep hill, but the tight trousers made the going tough. Then it hit me. The town was in a valley, and the reason the mentalists were causing havoc in the town was that they were trapped. Like spiders in a bathtub. It wasn’t their fault they were unwelcome (like spiders in a bathtub). But they needed gettin’ rid of. Like spiders in a bathtub.
At night, I snuck back to Morningside to tell the Mayor what I had discovered. The townspeople built a large ramp, out of desperation, sweat, and pine. The mentalists left, filing over it, until the cries of ‘think of a number between one and a hundred’ faded into silence.
--
He finished his drink, and bid us farewell. We watched through the saloon doors as he untied his steed from the hitching post and slapped its rump, causing it to gallop off majestically into the distance. As he watched it recede into the sunset, he couldn’t help wishing that he’d climbed onto it first.
Wednesday, 25 July 2012
The Restaurant (part three)
I didn’t have to wait long for an opportunity to present itself. My phone rang, and I answered it immediately (because that’s what you’re supposed to do when your phone rings). It was Michael. “Meet me in ten minutes”, the tone of his voice seemed to say. “Meet me in ten minutes” his actual voice said.
Michael and I worked together on an assembly line several decades ago, when the phones were like bricks, the bricks were like other, bigger bricks, and there were assembly lines at which one could work. It was during the teacher’s strike of 1994. Children’s essays would move in front of us on the conveyor belt, and I would pepper them randomly with ticks. Michael would then put a scrawl at the bottom of the page that, when viewed from the correct angle and with the right type of lighting, may have been interpreted as handwriting. We were good at our job. So good, in fact, that few people have heard of the teachers’ strike of 1994.
Michael’s life was ruled by fashion – he followed trends doggedly, to the extent that trends started taking out restraining orders. When I met him, and his tie-dye shirt, denim jacket, and nose-piercing, he’d just stepped on to the property ladder. Since then he’d landed on the property snake, and when we last spoke he’d lost his job (as was de rigueur in 2008) and was consolidating all existing debts into one easy loan (in skinny jeans, a crisp white shirt, and red patent brogues).
I wondered what he was doing for a living now. Statistically, I suppose he's probably involved in trying to get people to claw back PPI.
Michael and I worked together on an assembly line several decades ago, when the phones were like bricks, the bricks were like other, bigger bricks, and there were assembly lines at which one could work. It was during the teacher’s strike of 1994. Children’s essays would move in front of us on the conveyor belt, and I would pepper them randomly with ticks. Michael would then put a scrawl at the bottom of the page that, when viewed from the correct angle and with the right type of lighting, may have been interpreted as handwriting. We were good at our job. So good, in fact, that few people have heard of the teachers’ strike of 1994.
Michael’s life was ruled by fashion – he followed trends doggedly, to the extent that trends started taking out restraining orders. When I met him, and his tie-dye shirt, denim jacket, and nose-piercing, he’d just stepped on to the property ladder. Since then he’d landed on the property snake, and when we last spoke he’d lost his job (as was de rigueur in 2008) and was consolidating all existing debts into one easy loan (in skinny jeans, a crisp white shirt, and red patent brogues).
I wondered what he was doing for a living now. Statistically, I suppose he's probably involved in trying to get people to claw back PPI.
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
Travel etiquette - A short guide
Thank you for choosing to visit Kalania, now open for the first time to international visitors. For the first time, tourists can take in the sights of our sulphur mines, lava fountains, and accredited burns treatment unit.
Now, as Kalania has been isolated for so long, there are a few customs that may seem ‘quaint’. We strongly advise that you respect these traditions, in order to avoid causing offence.
When greeting, it is considered polite to approach the oldest person present first – in this way, you tacitly acknowledge that their wisdom is superior, and that they are the most likely to die before you’ve finished greeting everyone. Kalanian women should be greeted with a nod of the head, unless married, in which case one should bow. It is considered a cardinal insult, punishable by death, to use the wrong greeting. It is also considered a cardinal insult to ask a woman her marital status. It’s quite a hard law to enforce.
Kalanian men smoke like chimneys; through a hole in the top of their head, and only with planning permission. Kalanian women watch the six o clock news religiously; while wearing silly hats and lying to children. Should you wish to participate in either of these activities, please dress accordingly.
While in Kalania, you may wish to sample one of our national dishes: salmon marinated in its own indifference, or pan fried chicken on a bed.
When offering or accepting food, it is considered polite to use both hands. At least one foot should be kept on the ground. Before eating a meal, it is traditional to sing the first verse of the Kalanian national anthem. It is considered a cardinal offence, punishable by death, to get the words of the national anthem wrong. It is also considered a cardinal offence to publish or otherwise disseminate the words of the national anthem. Again, it’s one of those rules that’s quite hard to enforce.
Fancy dress is legal, provided all parties dress as Peter Gabriel circa 1974.
Tipping is considered acceptable in restaurants, unacceptable on street corners, and cruel to sleeping cows. Kalanians hold animals in high regard; if you have a free afternoon, why not visit the Kolossov horse sanctuary? There are no horses, but it is a chance to see the village’s two most horse-like men.
The Kalanians are family-orientated people: on Thursdays it is considered impolite not to face a child while talking. Should you lack a child of your own, or should you have forgotten to pack it, you can find one to rent on most street corners.
Kalania prides itself on its progressive society. Here, women are not restricted to stay in the kitchen. No, most women’s ankle-chains will extend into the lounge, garden, and rhyming-parlour.
It is considered bad luck to place an empty bottle on the table, sneeze after saying the word ‘mortgage’, or to have invested money in Greek property after withdrawing it from Icelandic Banks.
Kalania is home to Bipolar World, Europe’s largest Cold War themed theme park. There you can ride the Yeltsin skelter, perestroi-carousel and the détentea cups. Laugh at the House of ICBMirrors, and marvel at the Marshall Planetarium. You can even get your photograph taken with the Russian Octopus.
It is illegal, and considered incredibly bad manners, to wear a watch, own a clock, ask the time, or be late. Again, it’s one of those rules that proves difficult to enforce. On a related note, most Kalanians think that we operate two hours ahead of Greenwich Mean Time. If you own a watch, you may wish to adjust it accordingly, before they seize it in customs.
We hope that you enjoy your stay.
Now, as Kalania has been isolated for so long, there are a few customs that may seem ‘quaint’. We strongly advise that you respect these traditions, in order to avoid causing offence.
When greeting, it is considered polite to approach the oldest person present first – in this way, you tacitly acknowledge that their wisdom is superior, and that they are the most likely to die before you’ve finished greeting everyone. Kalanian women should be greeted with a nod of the head, unless married, in which case one should bow. It is considered a cardinal insult, punishable by death, to use the wrong greeting. It is also considered a cardinal insult to ask a woman her marital status. It’s quite a hard law to enforce.
Kalanian men smoke like chimneys; through a hole in the top of their head, and only with planning permission. Kalanian women watch the six o clock news religiously; while wearing silly hats and lying to children. Should you wish to participate in either of these activities, please dress accordingly.
While in Kalania, you may wish to sample one of our national dishes: salmon marinated in its own indifference, or pan fried chicken on a bed.
When offering or accepting food, it is considered polite to use both hands. At least one foot should be kept on the ground. Before eating a meal, it is traditional to sing the first verse of the Kalanian national anthem. It is considered a cardinal offence, punishable by death, to get the words of the national anthem wrong. It is also considered a cardinal offence to publish or otherwise disseminate the words of the national anthem. Again, it’s one of those rules that’s quite hard to enforce.
Fancy dress is legal, provided all parties dress as Peter Gabriel circa 1974.
Tipping is considered acceptable in restaurants, unacceptable on street corners, and cruel to sleeping cows. Kalanians hold animals in high regard; if you have a free afternoon, why not visit the Kolossov horse sanctuary? There are no horses, but it is a chance to see the village’s two most horse-like men.
The Kalanians are family-orientated people: on Thursdays it is considered impolite not to face a child while talking. Should you lack a child of your own, or should you have forgotten to pack it, you can find one to rent on most street corners.
Kalania prides itself on its progressive society. Here, women are not restricted to stay in the kitchen. No, most women’s ankle-chains will extend into the lounge, garden, and rhyming-parlour.
It is considered bad luck to place an empty bottle on the table, sneeze after saying the word ‘mortgage’, or to have invested money in Greek property after withdrawing it from Icelandic Banks.
Kalania is home to Bipolar World, Europe’s largest Cold War themed theme park. There you can ride the Yeltsin skelter, perestroi-carousel and the détentea cups. Laugh at the House of ICBMirrors, and marvel at the Marshall Planetarium. You can even get your photograph taken with the Russian Octopus.
It is illegal, and considered incredibly bad manners, to wear a watch, own a clock, ask the time, or be late. Again, it’s one of those rules that proves difficult to enforce. On a related note, most Kalanians think that we operate two hours ahead of Greenwich Mean Time. If you own a watch, you may wish to adjust it accordingly, before they seize it in customs.
We hope that you enjoy your stay.
Thursday, 12 April 2012
The Astronaut
I've been listening to a lot of Blue Jam lately. Messrs Morris and Katz have inspired me to have a go at a monologue.
--
He had been dead for three days when I decided to let Houston know.
I made up some rubbish about a heart attack. It didn’t feel right to say that I’d done it. Not now. One doesn’t simply announce that you’ve decided to pre-emptively kill the rest of the crew. We’ve all seen what happens in space. They never tell anyone they think there’s something wrong. It’s just a pensive look out of the port-hole, a cough hidden behind the hand, a lingering on the bridge. Not this time. For the good of the mission. I’m not going to be infected by a virus from the sun, or impregnated by an alien.
It’s not true, what they say.
In space, they can hear you scream.
--
I played the corpse of Johnson at cards today.
He has an excellent poker face, or rather, what’s left of a face. He won seven games straight, which I thought was just poor sportsmanship – I mean, what could the bugger need the money for? An argument followed. I accused him of cheating, and he didn’t defend himself, so I took my money back. Now he’s sulking.
We haven’t spoken since lunch, and he’s refusing to look me in the eye.
--
I heard a rattling in the ship’s command nodule.
It was a sound like hail on a tin roof, or the feet of thousand pigeons in tap shoes, or about a hundred pigeons in clogs dancing in moderate rain. I knew better than to investigate.
It’s the ones who investigate who get killed.
No, I was just going to sit on the bridge until the noise passed.
--
The noise is gone, now, and so is Johnson.
He was starting to smell, so I put him in his full space-walk suit. I could see my own face reflected in the curve of his helmet. It was grotesquely distorted. The back of a spoon, the helmet of a dead astronaut – it’s all the same. I don’t like mirrors, and so Johnson had to go.
I dragged him to the airlock, and the airlock dragged him out.
--
He had been dead for three days when I decided to let Houston know.
I made up some rubbish about a heart attack. It didn’t feel right to say that I’d done it. Not now. One doesn’t simply announce that you’ve decided to pre-emptively kill the rest of the crew. We’ve all seen what happens in space. They never tell anyone they think there’s something wrong. It’s just a pensive look out of the port-hole, a cough hidden behind the hand, a lingering on the bridge. Not this time. For the good of the mission. I’m not going to be infected by a virus from the sun, or impregnated by an alien.
It’s not true, what they say.
In space, they can hear you scream.
--
I played the corpse of Johnson at cards today.
He has an excellent poker face, or rather, what’s left of a face. He won seven games straight, which I thought was just poor sportsmanship – I mean, what could the bugger need the money for? An argument followed. I accused him of cheating, and he didn’t defend himself, so I took my money back. Now he’s sulking.
We haven’t spoken since lunch, and he’s refusing to look me in the eye.
--
I heard a rattling in the ship’s command nodule.
It was a sound like hail on a tin roof, or the feet of thousand pigeons in tap shoes, or about a hundred pigeons in clogs dancing in moderate rain. I knew better than to investigate.
It’s the ones who investigate who get killed.
No, I was just going to sit on the bridge until the noise passed.
--
The noise is gone, now, and so is Johnson.
He was starting to smell, so I put him in his full space-walk suit. I could see my own face reflected in the curve of his helmet. It was grotesquely distorted. The back of a spoon, the helmet of a dead astronaut – it’s all the same. I don’t like mirrors, and so Johnson had to go.
I dragged him to the airlock, and the airlock dragged him out.
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