Gold (or 'An Apology')

Dear future generations,

It was 2042, the year when the BBC admitted that Bruce Forsyth had died in 1970, and what viewers saw on their sets was his taxidermied corpse being manipulated by members of the Jim Henson company. It was also the year that the metal finally ran out. Governments had seen the crisis coming for some time, lumbering over the horizon like an overweight buffalo. Indeed, they had taken the threat quite seriously; a summits was held upon the matter, with all G20 countries (except the USA) agreeing that something must definitely be seen to be done to be seen to agree on reasonable and equitable targets for aims – by March 2045. Everyone agreed that the conference had been a huge success. In the UK sandwiches were made illegal so as to save on aluminium foil. In Sweden Rayleigh switched from making bikes to unicycles.

Gold was the metal that they most wanted to conserve. Gold, with its 79 electrons, superconductivity, and extreme opacity to UV light. Space travel would only be possible there were enough gold, for superconductive wiring, effective insulation, and motivational bling. And so, in the early 2000s, the government decided to start its cash for gold programme. When this proved to be disappointingly slow, they set a new breed of alchemists the task of distilling goldfish into their constituent parts; gold, and fish. The RSPCA shortly stepped in, objecting that this was their remit.

So what was my role in this story? Well, I’m an employee of the Royal Mining Corps, and I was, in 2042, on a mission to prospect gold. That’s the last that I’ll say on my job, as I don’t want to be repetitive. I really hope I don’t come across as repetitive. I don’t want to be repetitive.

--

My crew were Motley, Unprepared, and Cowardly. Unfortunate surnames, but dependable chaps. The plan was for us to travel to the wastelands of South America (uninhabited since the nuclear war of 2030 between Ecuador and Tesco), and from there to search for the ever-so-precious metal. When we stepped out of our plane, it was like stepping into another world. The ground, bare and ashen, stretched featureless into the distance. No plants forced their way through the tough, grey mantle. It took us several days to realise that we were in Milton Keynes.

To this day I have no idea how we ended up so far off course. My first instinct would be that the ship’s flight computer had a bug. It did happen, from time to time. You would open an email, a perfectly respectable business proposal from a Nigerian prince, and then the next week your craft would confuse Malta with Yalta, Dublin with Lublin, and Slough with a municipal oil rig. I excused it for the last one; most humans could not discern the difference. Over time, however, I came to suspect my crew; I could tell that Motley disliked me. I could read it on the sharp creases of his voice, smell it on the floral notes of his expression, and taste it in the rolling of his eyes. I also came to suspect that I had synaesthesia.


And so we were in Milton Keynes. The mission had not required us to carry any form of civil identification, or money, for that matter. We had radios, but I didn’t want to use them. We were supposed to be half way around the world. I was at a loss for what to do – the mining corps academy teaches you many things – how to discern a vein of lignite from a seam of haematite, how to correctly set a depth charge, how to pretend that you’ve attended a sixteen part lecture series on the involution of Permian and Triassic shales – but not how to escape from Milton Keynes. Fortunately, Cowardly had some experience in this area. He suggested that we follow the river.

--

We had just reached the riverbank when we passed a huddled figure, wearing an enormous pair of gloves and an uneasy grin. He introduced himself as Mister Michael Midas, and informed us that he had been burdened with a terrible curse; all members of his family found that things they touched were transformed. Everything Mister Michael touched turned to polystyrene packing chips. He had found gainful employ at a delivery company; they would pack the products in Greek bonds and the memoirs of ex-Big Brother contestants, then he would convert them to packing chips. It was a far cheaper service than any of their competitors could hope to offer.

It was as he was regaling us with this tale that he tripped, knees collapsing into ankles, ankles collapsing into silt. I instinctively, foolishly, bent to catch him. His glove came off, and his bare hand touched the surface of the river. With a deafening rustling sound, we watched as the stream grew pale and polystyrene-y.

In conclusion, sorry for the lack of drinking water.

Yours sincerely,

Roger Bivand

The Man Under the Motorcycle

We all love a good horror story
Don’t we? Twisted limbs
Blood dried black

The sickly crunch of bone on tarmac.

It’s not as if he can hear or see
But still they stand and
Stop and stare.

The paramedics will bring him air.

But pain is not a spectator sport
They chide. And usher
With a frown.

Such a shame the scene is upside-down.

Award

...and the prize for the most bizarre stock image I have had the fortune to encounter this week goes to...

Murder Mystery

It was three days before they found the body and two more until they called the police. It had all been so damn ... embarrassing. The young family had discovered it while hiking, their young children’s screams echoing around the clearing where she lay. They weren’t pleased with how their day out had played out.

They say that there are two types of killer; the organised, who will fastidiously plan and diligently commit the act, and the disorganised, who strike erratically and spontaneously. Mrs Eversley Cross’ killer was neither. Mrs Cross’ murderer would best described as ‘bizarre’. When they found her body, it had multiple puncture wounds. (So far, so normal. Well, perhaps not normal, but normal for a killing.) What was strange was that positioned around her corpse were a series of concentric circles of My Little Ponies™ and jars of Marmite© . A sort of confused parody of Stone Henge. Her corpse had been arranged, with a degree of irony, in the recovery position - with an unplugged four-slice family toaster as a pillow. She was fully clothed, but dressed as Paddington Bear, red wellies stained brown with blood, paper label pinned to the coat reading “"Please look after this bear. Thank you."

The police agreed that it was rather unlikely turn of events, and so chose not to chide the family for failing to report the body sooner. There are some things in life which sound so improbable one defers explanation – see, for example, derivative trading, the concept of carpets, or Eurovision.

Inspector Drayton Basset was given the case. He was the village’s finest police officer, and had served for twenty consecutive years. He was the sort of man you’d have to pay for in instalments; his booming tenor issued at a number of decibels Brian Blessed would envy, while his mouth was framed by a luxiuriant beard, and shrouded by a prominent moustache. Declared deputy for the case was Officer Tockenham Wick. By contrast, he looked like the sort of man you’d get free with a box of cereal; his features weren’t quite in alignment with the contours of his face, and his brightly-coloured clothing served to distract from the fact that he wasn’t wearing any shoes; his feet were just painted brown.

He’d been quite proud of that idea when, in the morning, he had been unable to find his brogues. But then Tockenham Wick was proud of most of his ideas. They didn’t come often; he had very little imagination.

When the call came about the murder, Inspector Basset struggled not to sound excited. He had spent the morning searching for leads. And he had found it, in a matter of minutes, near Bradford. He was relieved to have something to do – tedium was something that Basset hated with a passion. Tedium, and the little fragments of crisps that you find hiding in the corners of almost-finished crisp packets that you feel obliged to eat, but don’t actually leave you feeling satisfied, and leave your fingers coated in a shallow slick of grease.

“A murder, you say?” Bassett asked. Bassett’s telephone manner was notoriously poor. His combined habits of using rhetorical questions and leaving dramatic pauses meant that the respondent either spoke prematurely, or the conversation sounded like it had been scripted by Harold Pinter.

“Yes, a murder” said the hiker, electing for the first scenario. “I think it’s Mrs Cross”

“Mrs Cross, you say?” Bassett was surprised by this piece of news. For Mrs Cross is – or had been, he corrected himself - a pillar, girder, and supporting wall of the community. Not in the conventional sense; Eversley detested volunteer work, and denounced charity as a tax on empathy, but rather, and in a far fuller extension of the metaphor, that she spent a lot of time with members of the community on top of her. Not that Mr Cross had ever noticed – for Mister Cross was one of that most curious species of men. Not even an ornithologist – ornithology is excusable. No, Mister Cross was a train spotter spotter. When Derek, Clive, and Maurice gathered in their macs to check the 4.15 from Paddington off their lists, Mr Cross was there to strike Derek, Clive, and Maurice off his.

Bassett decided that an interview with Mr Cross was in order. He rang the pathology labs to conduct a post mortem, then gathered Wick and left for the Cross residence. The path report didn’t reveal much. It just as perplexing as the condition of the corpse; traces of liquid on the body proved to be a combination of lucozade, iron filings, light crude oil, and balsamic vinegar, while the ‘dirt’ under the corpse’s fingernails had a high content of cumin.

Improvement Works

Today I took a photograph of a poster displayed on a First Great Western train. It was slightly blurred, and poorly-framed – the photograph that is, not the poster - because I didn’t want the other passengers of the two-o-clock to London Paddington to know that I was taking a photograph of a poster displayed on a First Great Western train.




It read
“IMPROVEMENT WORKS IN THE READING AREA
Customers are advised that improvement works are scheduled to take place at Reading Station and the surrounding area until 2015”

Improvement works? As opposed to what? Damaging works? I don’t think it’s normal for builders to declare brazenly “Yes, I think we’ll rip out the children’s play area and replace it with a cess pit, remove all the lampposts, and install a leaky municipal oil rig.”

I also quite like the implication that Reading’s just going to stop trying in 2015.

New Gameshows for summer 2012

The Crystal Moral Maze
Richard O’Brien and Michael Buerk host as panellists take part in provocative and engaging live debate, while completing an Aztec-themed assault course. In the first episode, the contestants will be asked to assemble a large, three dimensional polystyrene puzzle of a cube while asking whether drug companies should be given greater access to NHS patient data.

Robot Wars
Craig Charles presides over the mechanical mayhem. As nuclear weapons technology has become more sophisticated, and the Robots have gone nuclear, the threat of mutually assured destruction precludes ‘hot’ conflict. This week, Sergeant Bash clumsily negotiates a territorial treaty with Chaos II.

Skill or no skill?
A member of the public decides upon an order in which to open a number of sealed boxes. Meanwhile, Noel Edmonds pretends to have a conversation with an actuary.

Feet or parakeet?
Amputees compete in a general knowledge quiz to win the chance to play for the grand prize – a synthetic limb - or the consolation prize of an affable tropical bird. Alternately described as saccharine/ feel-good viewing* it’s a win-win situation. Although one prize they actually want to win.

I’m a Celebrity Mastermind
In between trials, competitors are asked to answer questions on a specialist subject. This week, Kirsty Young tests her knowledge of Shelley’s nineteenth century sonnets between swallowing mouthfuls of fried scorpion, and Jacqui Smith breaks down in tears as she can’t remember the composer of The Archers theme tune while crossing a high-wire, and Simon Rimmer reveals his knowledge of the accounts of Green’s Restaurant, Manchester**. Hosted by Ant, Dec, and John Humphreys.

Angry Countdown
The same as normal Countdown, but all contestants and adjudicators must shout their lines.

Britain’s Got A Serious Social Problem
Not to be confused with ‘I’m convinced that I have a modicum of talent, and members of my family encouraged me’, ‘Britain’s Got a Serious Social Problem’ involves a panel of three scathing judges heaping criticism and spitting bile at all who are paraded on stage before them. The twist is that those auditioning are homeless, and their routines consist of asking for some spare change, please, mate.

Luke, I am your father
The televised results of Scottish paternity tests.

The Centurion and the Octopus

The Centurion sighed and adjusted his helmet. He was sitting on the number 102 bus (to Edmonton Green, minor delays reported, please check TfL for updates on the service before you leave), and his helmet had been knocked askew as the doors folded shut behind him. He looked rather confused and out of place – like a pigeon that had flown through an open window and into a board meeting, or a respectable politician on a children’s TV show. Next to the Centurion sat an Octopus.

They had been at a fancy dress party, and one well-lubricated with drink. When the Centurion opened his mouth to speak, cardboard sword raised to get the Octopus’ attention, it was as if the words were forced to pass through a fine gauze before falling out of his mouth, garbled and delayed, into a warm heap on the floor. The other passengers of the 102 (to Edmonton Green, minor delays reported, please check TfL for updates on the service before you leave) were not impressed. Fortunately for the Centurion it was 2am, and the bus’ only other occupants were discarded copies of the Metro. Discarded copies of the Metro are very rarely impressed.

The party had ended unexpectedly early; King Kong got into a fight with Gordon Ramsey, and Betty Boop ordered everyone out. And so the Centurion and the Octopus had boarded the 102 (to Edmonton Green, please keep all personal belongings with you at all times).

They had spoken for the first time that night, but believed that they shared a deep spiritual connection. Amazing, the properties of alcohol. At the time of their ejection from the premises, the octopus couldn’t remember where she lived. “Under a rock at the bottom of the ocean?” a man dressed as Bruce Willis’ charisma helpfully suggested. The Octopus’ coat-hanger and paper-maché tenctacles quivered as she nodded in agreement.

And so they were off to the Centurion’s.

It was a dump. The sort of place an estate agent might describe as ‘deceptively spacious’, ‘deceptively mould-free’, or ‘deceptively tastefully-decorated’. The avocado enamel of the bath was chipped, but this served to distract from the Jackson Pollock of mildew that adorned the walls.

Not that the Octopus knew this, or would even have cared. She was looking forward to a bed, currently using the centurion’s children’s-toy-armour-clad shoulder as a pillow. The Centurion didn’t want to complain, but in this position one of her tentacles was thrust in his face, a purple pipe-cleaner threatening to go up his nose.

They did not know it, but they had met before. Many times. During the day the Centurion was a postman. And the Octopus was a fan of online shopping. Not just clothes, as one might expect of a woman, judging by the frequency and acuity of advertising campaigns. The Octopus was a collector. Her ‘thing’ was porcelain owls. It started as a child; a gift from a grandmother got pride of place on the mantelpiece, a trip to the charity shop yielded another. “Otherwise it’ll be lonely,” she said. The third, fourth, and fifth were rationalised by the same logic. They were lonely in the charity shop. She was the owls’ saviour, rescuing them from a life of solitude.

The psychiatrist said she’d grow out of it. She didn’t.

It was probably just as well they were going to the Centurion’s place; he might have been scared off by the serried ranks of figurines which lined every shelf, table, and windowsill. You never know quite how people are going to react to almost 3,000 porcelain owls.

But the porcelain owls were not on the Octopus’ mind. She had fallen asleep, and was dreaming about a shrew, called Harold, who was claiming that he’d discovered the secret to eternal youth. It had only one side effect, he said – it turns you into a shrew. The Centurion was also asleep. One nostril invaded by a sparkly purple pipe-cleaner, his dream was rather more sinister;’ a Ridley Scott alien story, where arts materials are the enemy. Pipe-cleaners crawl up your nose and take residence in your brain, turning you into a glitter-seeking zombie. Little did the Centurion know, but a group of art students were currently working on such a film.

When the 102 reached the bus depot at Edmonton Green, the cleaner didn’t know whether the Centurion and the Octopus should be escorted off the bus or placed in lost property.