Creative Writing

Contains Bad Language!

Playwriting

Final Play - Psycho Bitch

Characters: John – 25 year old nice guy

                   Sophie – 21 year old psycho bitch, John’s girlfriend

                   Greg – 30 year old bar man

                   Rachel – 22 year old girl

                   Ruth – 23 year old girl

Setting – Pub

Time – Present Day

(Scene opens with Greg behind the bar cleaning glasses, when not serving Greg cleans glasses throughout the entirety of the play. Music plays faintly in the background and a T.V is on in the corner, again the sound faint. A couple of lads are playing pool, extras sit drinking watching T.V. John enters stage right.)

GREG

A’right John mate, what can I get’cha?

JOHN

The usual please mate, need it after day I’ve ‘ad.

GREG

Tough day at work?

JOHN

Nothing I can’t handle, it’s the bloody missus that’s the problem.

GREG

Haha, she still got them reigns on good and tight?

JOHN

That’s one way a putting it. If she knew I was in ‘ere she’d ‘ave me ed.

GREG

Poor little Johnny and that thumb shaped hat of ‘is.

JOHN

It’d be funny if it weren’t so bloody sad.

(GREG passes over the pint taking the money from JOHN. Just as JOHN is about to take a sip, his mobile phone rings. Sighing he puts the pint down and reaches for his phone. GREG grabs a remote and turns off the music and the T.V. Lads stop playing pool.)

Hello. (pause) No love I’m stuck at work. (pause) Yes I’m the only one here.

(GREG holds up mini-vac and turns it on for a few seconds)

Well me and the cleaners. No (pause) n.... (pause) I promise you I’m not at the pub. (pause) Yes of course dear. (pause) Yes I do remember. (pause) I’ll be home as soon as I can. (pause) I don’t even know who that is. (pause) No I’m not lying. (pause) I’ll talk to you later. (pause) Love you too, bye.

(JOHN hangs up his phone and puts it on the bar. GREG turns the music and T.V back on. Lads return to playing pool.)

                                                                                           

GREG

In trouble are we?

(JOHN shakes his head and reaches for his pint)

JOHN

You don’t know the half of it.

(As JOHN is just about to take a sip of his beer, his phone vibrates. He sighs and puts his pint down, reaching for his phone. Reads the text and then starts texting back.)

F....sake

GREG

She’s got one hell of a grip on you, mate

JOHN

You think? I wouldn’t mind if I were shagging birds left right and centre, at least then the nagging might be worth it.

GREG

Who does she think your balls deep in now?

JOHN

No idea, some bird called Tracy? You know her?

GREG

Course I do, you do an’ all.

(JOHN puts his phone back on the bar)

JOHN

I do?

GREG

Yep, it’s that blond bird going out with that guy you were chatting to t’other night.

JOHN

Can’t remember.

GREG

She’s going out with whatshisface. Plays centre half for The Black Bull.

JOHN

Oh I remember. He’s a knobhead

GREG

True, very true.

JOHN

I wasn’t even talking to her. She just stood there, seems thick as two short planks to be honest.

(JOHN’S phone begins to vibrate on the bar again as he once more is inches from taking a sip of his pint. He puts his pint down and picks up his phone. JOHN sighs and puts his phone down.)

I can’t be arsed wit’ this.

GREG

Haha, you mean you’re not gonna text her back. She’ll have your guts for garters.

JOHN

I’m at work, can’t text at work.

GREG

You gonna drink that then.

(JOHN nods and downs his pint in one.)

JOHN

Needed that. Put another in, just going for a slash.

(JOHN gets up and exits left, as GREG starts pouring. SOPHIE enters stage right.)

SOPHIE

Hi Greg, John’s not stopped by has he?

GREG

Oh.... hi Soph, er.....no not seen him all day.

SOPHIE

Who’s the pint for?

(GREG points to the lads playing pool)

GREG

There mate, he’s in’t bog.

SOPHIE

Ok, if you see John, will you tell him to give me a call.

GREG

No worries

(SOPHIE turns to leave but stops in her tracks and marches towards the bar and picks up JOHN’S phone.)

SOPHIE

So John isn’t here is he? You lying sack of shit.

(SOPHIE storms off exit left, conversation offstage. GREG giggles)

So you’re at work are you John? You’ve had a hard week have you John? I bet you’re going to tell you that you’ve not been shagging Tracy next aren’t you John?

JOHN

I’ve only just got here, that’s me first pint.

SOPHIE

Bollocks, I can smell it on you.

JOHN

Honest, ask Greg

SOPHIE

Like I can believe anything he ever says, you’re as bad as each other.

(SOPHIE and JOHN enter stage left, JOHN’S zipping up his flies as he enters. SOPHIE sits at the bar and starts to look through JOHN’S phone)

So we’ll see who you’ve been texting

JOHN

You really don’t believe that I’m not messing around?

SOPHIE

I’ve heard that you were all over a bunch of girls last weekend.

JOHN

So you’re going to believe the grapevine over your fella?

SOPHIE

Here! Who the hell is Jenny?

JOHN

New girl at work, I ‘ave to show her ropes.

SOPHIE

You, why you?

JOHN

I dunno, boss’ orders.

SOPHIE

And I bet you hate having to show some tight new skirt the ropes don’t you?

JOHN

It is a bit of pain in the arse to be honest, yeah.

(SOPHIE throws the phone onto the bar. GREG puts JOHN’S new pint on the bar. JOHN reaches for it, but SOPHIE moves it away.)

SOPHIE

So, what about these girls from last weekend?

JOHN

What girls?

SOPHIE

Don’t play dumb with me, you were all over them.

JOHN

According to who?

SOPHIE

Sarah and ‘Nessa told me.

JOHN

You’re going to believe those two? They’ve ‘ad it out for me since we first got together.

SOPHIE

And why is that?

(GREG chuckles behind the bar)

JOHN

Because me an’ Sarah’s mum got a little physical at a party a few years back.

SOPHIE

Exactly, you’re nothing but a sex pest.

JOHN

Whatever, believe what you want.

(JOHN reaches over and gets his pint, he takes a sip and starts reading a newspaper that sits on the bar. GREG cleans glasses avoiding eye contact. SOPHIE glares at JOHN. Silence for a time as JOHN drinks and turns the pages.)

SOPHIE

Are you ignoring me?

(JOHN doesn’t look up from the newspaper)

JOHN

You talkin’ to me dear?

SOPHIE

Of course I’m talking to you, who else do you think I would be talking to?

JOHN

To be honest, at times I have no idea what goes through that head of yours.

(JOHN’S phone bleeps on the bar. Silence as JOHN looks at it, then at SOPHIE. They both jump for it at the same time, SOPHIE wins)

SOPHIE

So, what would Jenny have to text you about?

(JOHN shrugs his shoulders)

Well let’s take a little look shall we. (pause) Oh how cute. ‘You’ve been so kind to me these last couple of weeks. Thankyou for helping me settle in, I think I’m going to like working here. Jenny, kiss kiss.’

(Silence)

Now I’ve heard many terms for screwing but, ‘You’ve been so kind to me’ is a new one.

JOHN

We’ve not been screwing.

(SOPHIE rings Jenny)

SOPHIE

Well we’ll just see about that won’t we? (pause) Hi is this Jenny? This is Sophie, John’s girlfriend. Oh he didn’t tell you he had one did he. (Glares at JOHN) Well he does and it’s me, so why don’t you back the hell off you slut.

(SOPHIE throws phone onto the bar. JOHN drinks his beer.)

So why didn’t you tell her about us?

JOHN

Topic never came up.

SOPHIE

Oh how convenient for you.

(RACHEL and RUTH enter stage right. SOPHIE glares at them as they enter.)

RACHEL

Hi Greg, two white wines please.

GREG

Coming right up ladies.

RUTH

Hi John, how are you? You look a little better than the last time we saw you.

SOPHIE

Really, and why was that John?

JOHN

I wasn’t that bad, jus’ a little drunk after that cup win that’s all.

RACHEL

A little drunk? You fell off your barstool.

GREG

Didn’t spill his pint though.

SOPHIE

So that’s why you were doing rather than taking me out? How interesting

(JOHN drinks his drink, ignoring SOPHIE)

RACHEL

Oh sorry, I’m Rachel by the way and this is Ruth.

SOPHIE

You really think I give a shit about you two little trollops?

RUTH

Excuse me?

SOPHIE

You heard, now back off.

RACHEL

You know what Greg, we’ve changed our minds. The Black Bull seems a little friendlier.

(RACHEL and RUTH exit stage right)

JOHN

What the hell was that about?

SOPHIE

I was about to ask you the same question. What the hell happened last weekend?

JOHN

Nothing, I got pissed up and fell over. No big deal.

SOPHIE

Bullshit, you shagged one of those girls didn’t you?

JOHN

You know what, no I didn’t. Yes I could a, but I didn’t. You wanna know why? It’s because I’m goin’ out with you. Not Ruth, not Rachel, not Jenny, not Tracy, no-one. I knew you got a little jealous from time to time but this is bloody ridiculous. I can’t come to the pub and ‘ave a beer wi’ me mates, I can’t talk to anyone female. I’m sick of it. Sick and god damn tired of you and your possessive ways. Piss off.

(GREG stops what he’s doing, mouth gaping. Silence)

SOPHIE

What did you just say?

JOHN

I told you piss off. There’s the door, use it. Only this time, don’t bother comin’ back.

(JOHN finishes his pint and slams it on the bar)

Stick another in there Greg, we’re celebrating.

GREG

What are we celebrating?

JOHN

I’m back on the market

SOPHIE

Please John, don’t do this. I love you

JOHN

Well you’ve got a funny way a showing it.

SOPHIE

Don’t leave me

JOHN

You see Sophie, the two of us. Well there int a two of us anymore. It’s in’t past. Gone. And the quicker I can forget, the better.

(SOPHIE stands up teary eyed)

SOPHIE

If I walk out, I’m not coming back.

JOHN

That is the general plan.

SOPHIE

I mean it.

JOHN

Cheerio

SOPHIE

I won’t be coming back.

JOHN

Thank Christ for that, just bloody leave me in peace will you?

(SOPHIE runs off stage to the right)

GREG

Do you think you were a bit harsh there mate?

JOHN

Not at all, if anything I were a little kind hearted.

GREG

So what’s next on the agenda?

JOHN

Dunno, take life one pint at a time I guess.

GREG

Sounds good to me

JOHN

Cheers mate. To losing the reigns, the thumb shaped hat and getting my old life back.

GREG

I can drink to that.

(Lights dim)

10 Minute Play Adaptation – Abraham

Characters: Abraham (75 year old man)

                   Sarai (Abraham’s Wife)

                   God

                   Lot (Nephew)

                   Pharaoh

(Curtain rises to ABRAHAM sat against a tree in a field with his sheep. ABRAHAM nods off)

GOD

Abraham.

(ABRAHAM jumps awake startled. Looks around but sees no-one. Shrugs his shoulders and goes back to sleep)

GOD

Abraham

(ABRAHAM jumps awake again startled. Looks around but sees no-one. Shrugs his shoulders and goes back to sleep)

GOD

Abraham

(ABRAHAM jumps awake again startled. Gets up and walks around his sheep looking at them scratching his head. Walks up to a sheep)

ABRAHAM

Did.....Did you call my name?

(Sheep bleats. ABRAHAM jumps back startled.)

You did call to me. What do you wish with me oh wise being?

GOD

Abraham, what the hell do you think you’re doing?

(ABRAHAM looks up and all around)

This is your holy God speaking to you.

ABRAHAM

Granddaddy Moses said that he’d spoken to you but I don’t see a burning bush

GOD

There never was a burning bush. Your granddaddy Moses was off his rocker, although he did manage to get the job done. Not via the best strategy but I guess the tool that does the job is the correct tool.

ABRAHAM

Are you calling granddaddy Moses a tool?

GOD

Yes Abraham, you granddaddy was a complete and utter tool.

ABRAHAM

Oh

GOD

Anyway, back to business

ABRAHAM

Business?

GOD

Yes Abraham, I didn’t come to you for a chit chat and a bit of gossip. I’ve got a job for you.

ABRAHAM

Why me?

GOD

Why not?

(ABRAHAM shrugs his shoulders)

Anyway, I want you to pack your family and your things and get the hell away from here.

ABRAHAM

Why?

GOD

For Pete’s sake, just do what I say for once in your life you pathetic piece of shit.

ABRAHAM

That’s not very nice, I thought you were meant to be a loving God?

GOD

Hmmmm you see that’s all being saved for the sequel when I get some young lass up the duff. For now I’m that vengeful kinda guy.

ABRAHAM

Oh.....ok.

GOD

So, you’re going to go and pack up your things?

ABRAHAM

I’m 75 years old, isn’t it a bit late in my years to be packing up and shipping off?

(GOD walks on stage in a suit and tie, puts his hand on ABRAHAM’s shoulder)

GOD

Abraham.....Buddy. Do you not trust me? I know you have what it takes to go the distance.

ABRAHAM

I can go the distance?

GOD

You’ve been watching Hercules again haven’t you?

ABRAHAM

I love Phil the Sater.

GOD

If you break into song, I will smite your pathetic farming arse so hard even Zeus will jump.

ABRAHAM

Does Zeus exist?

GOD

He’s my brother, but if truth be told. He’s the disappointment of the family. If he didn’t shag about so much he’d maybe have things more on track but he’s into some kinky shit.

ABRAHAM

Oh. Where am I going by the way?

GOD

Right, I want you to get your wife Sarai, your nephew Lot, and walk to Shechem in Canaan.

ABRAHAM

Where’s that? I hear that it is a place ruined by famine

GOD

Well it kinda is. If you just head that way you’ll get there.....eventually.

ABRAHAM

And why am I doing this?

GOD

I’m God, I love fucking with people and making them do. You try and sit on a cloud for eternity, after you’ve pulled your plonker to every woman on the planet things get a little stale and I have to find another form of entertainment.

ABRAHAM

That doesn’t seem very fair.

GOD

Right, buddy. I’ll do you a deal. If you get to Shechem I will. Mmmm lets think. I’ve got it. I will promise to make of you a great nation, bless you, make your name great, bless those who bless you, and curse those who curse you.

ABRAHAM

Is the cursing necessary? I’m not an aggressive person so could you not give them a sweat rash for a couple of days instead?

GOD

No Abraham, cursing is extremely necessary. Fun too. Now get, I’ll keep tabs on your journey.

(GOD walks offstage leaving ABRAHAM and his sheep.)

ABRAHAM

Sarai, Lot, time to pack up.

(SARAI and LOT walk on stage.)

SARAI

What do you mean?

ABRAHAM

Do you remember that God fellow that Granddaddy Moses used to talk about? Well he came and told me to pack up everything and move our arses to Shecham.

LOT

Whatever

SARAI

Shecham? I’ve just seen that place in the news-stone, it’s the biggest pile of shite this side of Alabama. Did he offer transportation?

ABRAHAM

No, we’ve to walk

SARAI

Did you even ask?

ABRAHAM

Err....No

SARAI

Just like your bloody granddaddy Moses, an absolute tool.

(SARAI walks offstage and returns with a backpack)

So what are we waiting for, get moving.

(ABRAHAM, SARAI, LOT walk off stage to the right and re-enter on the left. The sheep exit left)

LOT

Are we nearly there yet?

SARAI

God knows

GOD

Yes.....yes I do.

(LOT looks up to the sky)

LOT

Fancy giving us a helping hand? A clue maybe?

GOD

Nope

LOT

Son-of-a-bitch

(GOD laughs offstage. PHARAOH enters left stage.)

PHARAOH

Halt....Who are you and what are you doing here?

ABRAHAM

Where is here?

PHARAOH

You serious?

ABRAHAM

Yep, pretty serious

PHARAOH

You have just entered Egypt and I am Pharaoh.

LOT

Didn’t your granddaddy Moses really piss of Pharaoh?

ABRAHAM

Shut up Lot

(PHARAOH spies SARAI behind the two men and pushes his way past to her)

PHARAOH

Well would you have a look here, who is this gorgeous specimen of a woman?

(SARAI giggles as she flirts with PHARAOH)

SARAI

Oh stop it, you’ve got your choice of all the women in Egypt. What would you want with an old hag like me?

PHARAOH

Man....Is this your wife?

ABRAHAM

No, she’s my sister.

(LOT looks at ABRAHAM confused)

LOT

Why did you say that?

(ABRAHAM looks around and walks to the far side of the stage and waves LOT over. PHARAOH and SARAI whisper, laugh and continue to flirt outrageously)

ABRAHAM

You see when you get a little older normal sex doesn’t quite have the same appeal as it used to. When this happens people tend to introduce something to the bedroom. Some people like to dress up, some like roleplay, some whips and chains. Me on the other hand, I would love to see someone else give Sarai a right good rogering whilst I sit and watch.

LOT

You are absolutely disgusting.

(ABRAHAM shrugs)

ABRAHAM

Each to his own.

(Pushes past LOT to address PHARAOH)

So what would it take for you my good sir to have the pleasures of my sister?

PHARAOH

How about Oxen, asses, menservents and maidservents?

ABRAHAM

That seems fair.

(To LOT)

See, everyone wins.

LOT

You dirty, dirty bastard.

GOD

Hey Pharaoh.

(All characters on stage look up. GOD enters from the right dressed in shorts and shades)

Jesus Christ it’s hot here. Pheww. Anyway mate, you see these two here.

(Points to SARAI and ABRAHAM)

He’s a sick puppy and wants to watch his wife with another dude. Trust me, I’ve watched from the clouds many a time, she’s not that good. Lies there like a sack of spuds. So if I was you I’d back the hell away.

PHARAOH

Is this true?

(SARAI and ABRAHAM nod)

Get out of my sight, leave my land and never return.

GOD

Now that’s a little extreme. What is it with you Pharaoh’s why can’t you be nice?

PHARAOH

Why do you keep on interfering and taking things that are ours?

GOD

I’d hope it wouldn’t come to this buddy, but I’m going to have to......you know. Throw down a few plagues on you and your people.

PHARAOH

Why? Why do you have to go and do a thing like that?

GOD

Perks of the job I guess.

(GOD points to the sky and strikes his arm down. PHARAOH clutches his chest and hobbles off stage to the left. GOD laughs and exits to the right. SARAI, ABRAHAM and LOT exit left and return via the right)

ABRAHAM

I.....I......I think that this is it.

LOT

What makes you think that?

ABRAHAM

A feeling, a gut feeling.

SARAI

I’m pretty sure that’s cholera, I told you not to drink the water that guy gave you.

ABRAHAM

He seemed nice enough

SARAI

He was stoning a woman as you drank

ABRAHAM

Not our business to interfere with all that.

(GOD enters from the left dressed in stereotypical white robe and staff)

GOD

Congratulations Abraham, you have led these people to the land of Shecham and will reek the rewards that I promised you earlier.

(ABRAHAM, SARAI and LOT cheer and hug each other celebrating.)

There is just one ever so tiny insignificant little tiny detail that I may not have told you, but if you do it. I will bestow everything unto you.

ABRAHAM

What do you wish of me O lord God?

GOD

You see him?

(Points to LOT)

Yeah, I kinda want you to kill him.

(LOT freaks out putting his hand out in defence.)

LOT

Woooww there buddy. He’s nearly dead anyway, why not kill him? What have I done wrong?

ABRAHAM

I’ve got to do what God told me to do.

SARAI

This is crazy, how are you going to explain this to your brother and his wife?

ABRAHAM

But everyone who blesses me will be blessed.

SARAI

And what does that actually mean? Everyone gets rich, live forever, what?

ABRAHAM

I don’t know but it sounds good.

(ABRAHAM pulls a knife from his robe and chases LOT around the stage. GOD laughs all the while and SARAI chases ABRAHAM shouting for him to stop. LOT trips over and ABRAHAM towers over him. SARAI grabs ABRAHAM put he pushes her to the floor.)

ABRAHAM

I am so sorry Lot but I’ve got to do what God tells me to.

LOT

Why, I’ve heard of this lovely guy called Lucifer who says that God is a bit of a dick. Why can’t we do what Lucifer says?

ABRAHAM

What does he want me to do?

LOT

Not kill me for a start.

(ABRAHAM looks at GOD, then LOT, then SARAI, then back to GOD who motions cutting his throat, then back to LOT.)

ABRAHAM

I am so sorry. When I rule these lands I will make sure that no one forgets your sacrifice.

LOT

Looks around you thick piece of shit. You’re in famine town, there is no food, no water, not every any people to live in your so called blessed lands. This God dude is a joke.

GOD

Hey there mate, no need to say things that can damage my rep. I could kill you myself but at the end of the day, if you uncle here is going to rule these lands I need to know if he has the bollocks to do the hard stuff. Go ahead Abraham, kill the little shit.

(God turns his back and begins to walk away. ABRAHAM lifts up the knife high, waits a moment and then lowers it to LOTS chest as ABRAHAM, LOT, and SARAI scream. GOD jumps back and grabs ABRAHAM’S arm stopping the blade going into LOT’S chest.)

Are you crazy mate? Why would you do such a thing?

ABRAHAM

Because you told me to.

GOD

Seriously, you were going to kill your own nephew because I told you so? Someone who you’ve recently met, someone that you crazy granddaddy Moses used to tell the same story over and over about. You’re just as crazy as him.

(LOT sneaks out from under ABRAHAM and runs behind SARAI)

ABRAHAM

So......you’re saying that I don’t have to kill him?

GOD

Hell no. What did I tell you at the start, I just love messing with people. Gotta find my own source of entertainment and all that.

(GOD begins to walk off stage)

Jesus Christ I can’t believe how stupid you people are. I might write a book full of crap for you all to follow. Yeah, confuse the hell out of people and make it all contradict itself.

ABRAHAM

So......Do I get blessed and get all that you offered? God? Are you still there?

GOD

You really need to pull your head out of your arse there Abraham. If you set off now you might be able to get your house back before gypos decide to squat in it.

(ABRAHAM, SARAI, and LOT all look at each other stunned)

SARAI

I’ve had enough of all your shit Abraham, I’m going to go and live with that nice Pharaoh bloke. He knows how to treat a lady, he doesn’t have her trapsing across countries on the whim of some freak. Goodbye Abraham, goodbye forever.

(SARAI exits left)

ABRAHAM

Well I guess that just leaves the two of us, ey kiddo?

LOT

Can you explain to me if you don’t mind. In the clearest most concise way that you can possible muster. WHAT THE FUCK ALL THAT WAS ABOUT?

Chorus Piece – If You Want A Job Doing Right, Ignore Health & Safety

Characters: Bob the Builder

                   Jack the Builder      

       Stefan the Health & Safety Manager (Steve, Ste, or Stephen to the others)

       Chorus of Tradesmen

Place: Building Site

Time: Present Day

(Lights rise slowly to represent dawn and the new day, cockerel cries. TRADESMEN begin entering the stage from both left and right, sandwich boxes in hands and cups of coffee. They greet and nod to each other as they pass one another and start work. By the time the lights are full the TRADESMEN are fully at work. Enter BOB from the left, and JACK from the right)

BOB

Nah then Jacky lad.

JACK

Nah then Bob.

TRADESMEN

Nah then gaffer.

BOB

Nah then lads.

JACK

So what’s the plan? We’ve still to start putting up that bastard roof frame but every time we put something in motion, Ste throws up the red tape. I hate that pretentious cunt.

BOB

Pretentious? Why Jack, that’s a three syllable word. I’d keep words like that to yourself otherwise the lads might think you actually went to school.

JACK

Hardy fucking ha. But seriously what are we meant to do? There is no way that we can build this fucking thing whilst playing by his rules.

BOB

Just leave it to me son, go put the kettle on.

(JACK leaves stage right, STEFAN enters left slowly eyeing up the TRADESMEN)

STEFAN

Where the hell are all of your hard hats?

(TRADESMEN pick up their hard hats and put them on)

TRADESMEN

Twat.

BOB

Nah then Ste, what can I do for you?

STEFAN

If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a million times, it’s Stef-an. Not Ste, Steve or Stephen but Stef-an.

BOB

Whatever Ste.

STEFAN

(Shakes head) Now I know that you plan to start on the roof today. I hope that you looked over all the Health and Safety regulations that I gave you yesterday.

BOB

Yeah.....sure I did. But you see, if we follow them to the letter not only is it going to take us twice as long, but it’s also going to put the men at harm.

STEFAN

How so?

BOB

Have you ever tried to attach a timber frame at 60 feet whilst stood on scaffolding that you are harnessed to? The fucking harness makes you move in a weird way tripping you over.

STEFAN

That’s why you need the harness, for if someone falls.

BOB

Fucking hell, don’t you see? The only reason why people fall is because of that bastard harness. Get rid of it and no one will fall. Simple.

STEFAN

If I see anyone up there without a harness there’ll be hell to pay. (turns to TRADESMEN) You hear me? Good day men.

(STEFAN exits left, JACK enters right with a kettle, hands it to BOB)

TRADESMEN

Fucking Prick

JACK

You’re telling me. So Bob, what’s the plan?

BOB

(Scratches head) We just need to keep that wanker preoccupied with something else.

(Girl walks across stage, entering left and exiting right)

TRADESMEN

Would you look at the tits on that?

JACK & BOB

Not bad, not bad at all.

TRADESMEN

Wouldn’t mind rooting that at all.

BOB

Come on boys, get back to work.

TRADESMEN

Yes gaffer.

(STEFAN enters left)

STEFAN

Why don’t those boys have their harnesses attached?

BOB

Steve, just the man I wanted to see. Jack’s had himself an accident.

JACK

I have?

(BOB smashes the kettle across JACK’S head. JACK falls to the ground screaming as the boiling water burns his skin and blood gushes from his head)

STEFAN

Oh my, oh my, oh my. Quick ring an ambulance we need to get him to hospital.

TRADESMEN

(To the audience) What the hell are you waiting for? Call the bloody ambulance.

BOB

Ah dammit. I guess you’re going to be locked up in your office all day filling out paperwork aren’t you?

STEFAN

If I don’t fill out the accident report book they’ll have my head.

(STEFAN picks up JACK and they exit stage right. Another girl enters right and exits left, wearing a short skirt. All eyes follow her.)

TRADESMEN

Bloody Nora, look at the pins on that.

BOB

Right lads, we need to get that bastard roof up and stable by the end of the day. It won’t be long until Ste realises what the hell’s going on and he’ll be back on sight quicker than a priest on a choir boy.

TRADESMEN

Ok gaffer.

(BOB and TRADESMEN get to work. The sound of drilling and hammering play over the speakers before everyone pushes up a plywood cut-out of a timber frame against the back of the stage. The TRADESMEN pat each other on the back. STEFAN enters left)

For fuck sake.

STEFAN

So you got the timber frame up? Nice job, nice job. I do notice however that no one is wearing their fucking harness.

BOB

What’s it matter? It’s not like anyone died.

STEFAN

That’s not the point and you know it.

TRADESMEN

Gaff, do you want us to call an ambulance?

BOB

Yeah, better had lads.

STEFAN

Why, who’s hurt?

BOB

(Picks up kettle) You.

(BOB smashes kettle across STEFAN’S head. STEFAN falls to the floor. BOB hits him a couple more times until STEFAN is out cold.)

TRADESMEN

Clocking off time?

(2 girls enter stage left and exit stage right. All eyes follow.)

BOB

Too right.

(TRADESMEN and BOB exit right following girls leaving STEFAN on the stage. Lights dim)

Monologue - Immigrant

Character: Erica

Where: American College

When: Present Day

(As the end of Schindler’s List plays on a big screen, the lights flick back on. The students cover their eyes and stretch in their seats. Erica blows her nose on a tissue and gets up to put it in the bin. As she turns to face the class, all eyes focus on her and an awkward silence falls. A cough of ‘Nazi’ is heard amongst the classroom.)

ERICA

I don’t understand you Americanz, zen again you don’t underztand me, you don’t underztand anything outzide of your own country, your own ztate. Ze vor ended 68 yearz ago. S-I-X-T-Y E-I-G-H-T God damn yearz. Timez have changed. It’z not even az if everyone agreed wiz ze Naziz zen. Do you zink zat we still hang anyone different from uz from the rafterz? You Americanz seem to zink zat we are all blond haired, blue eyed, Neo-Naziz.

(Points towards the Professor)

I zee ze vay zat you ztare at me Profezor. I zee ze vay zat you judge me for a crime I did not commit.

(Addresses the class)

Why zhould I be punished for zomezing I didn’t even do? I wazn’t even alive, my parentz were not even alive, and I’m pretty zure that my grandparentz are Auztrian anyway. Deutschland haz to make up for all ze zings that ze Naziz did. Every year at zchool zince I vas a child I’ve had to learn of ze zecond vorld vor. Now I’m at univerzity, I thought I wouldn’t have to anzver any more queztionz on zee bloody vor. But no, I’ve been here three monthz and have to anzver question after question about vezer or not I hate zee damn Jews.

(Awkward silence as the class turn to stare at the Jewish kid in the class.)

You ztupid Americanz even azked if ve have ze internet in Deutschland. How ztupid of you. Juzt because ve are not American doez not mean that ve are in zee zerd world. Do you Americanz have any conzept of anyzing outzide your own country? Do you know about ze recent bombingz in Brazil? Argentina demanding control of Izlaz Malvinaz? Corrupzion in Zpain wizin ze royal family? Floods in ze Phillipinez? Jozeph Fritzel? Berluzconi being zent to prizon? I very much doubt that you even know who Berluzconi iz? If its not wizin zee United Ztazes, you are all oblivious. Zat iz, unlez it has some relation to zome zelebrity.

(Erica returns to her desk, picks up her books and walks towards offstage, stops and looks up at the American flag.)

God blez America my Deutsh azz. (Walks off stage)

Monologue – Hard Times Being A Slave

Characters: Slave

                   White Master

                   Black Slave

Where: South Carolina Plantation, Slaves Barracks.

When: 1770

The language is English-Gullah, a common language in South Carolina amongst slaves. Words from http://gullahtours.com/gullah/gullah-words#S

(White Master whips Slave and throws him into the barracks. Another black slave sits in the corner but doesn’t move, just watches as Slave stumbles across the stage limping and holding his back, looks at the blood on his hand, then holds his back once more. Master exits right. Slave turns to the black slave sat in the corner)

SLAVE

Bastard Buckrah. They behave like a sabbidge, not us. The scared slabes. To beat a man, stark naked after all the work we do, for simply stealing Buckrah’s food. What was Uh supposed to do? The Buckrah’s children were eating all our rice. They must have told Buckrah, he couldn’t have known, he was in the woods hunting turkeys all day. Uh am hungry, Uh am skinny, Uh am poorly. Uh needed to eat.

(SLAVE hobbles over to the window and looks out, holding the cuts on his back.)

Thank Gawd Uh still live so that Uh can make my blessed Eve a lawful lady. Uh declare to Gawd that Uh will see her again, free as a bird.

(SLAVE turns back to black slave sat in the corner.)

Uh know how we can get out of here, another slabe told me about a broken wall we can crawl out of in this barrack.

(SLAVE kneels down to the back of the stage and taps the wall, it’s hollow. Black Slave gets up and has a look.)

The stone is loose Brudda’ we can pull them out and crawl to freedom.

(Black Slave shakes his head and returns to his sitting position.)

Uh sent a message to the girl, telling her that Uh wanted to marry her. Uh was beaten for that. But we can now be together, away from the Buckrah. We’ll have a little house, an acre, maybe two. Chickens and vegatables. We’ll live off the land, completely independent. We’ll have many children together. Daughters, sons. All free of slabery, Uh tells you. Uh declare now as Gawd is my witness. Eve and Uh will be free of this Gawd damn plantation. Our children will be free from Buckrah and even more plantations. Uh will take beating after beating so that one day, Uh will be free. And more importantly Uh and Eve will one day be together with no walls, no fences. Completely free. You not interested at all?

(Black slave shakes his head and lays down)

Forget you then, Uh will go alone. Uh will taste the sweat taste of freedom.

(SLAVE begins to bang the wall and pulls out the stones as they loosen. He has nearly moved enough to escape when the White Master enters stage right. He looks down at SLAVE then at black slave. He walks over to SLAVE and grabs his arm dragging him off stage to the right. The sounds of whips and screams are heard as the lights dim.)

Non Linear - The World Is Stark Raving Made

Characters: Man in a Bunny Costume                       

                   Elderly Gentleman with cane – posh voice

                   Young Gentleman (Child) with pipe – posh voice

                   Man

Place: Town

(The scene opens with the two GENTLEMEN facing each other, the ELDERLY GENTLEMAN has a cane, whilst the YOUNG GENTLEMAN has a pipe and a tricycle. They each are wearing matching 3-piece suits. MAN is sitting on a bench reading the newspaper.)

ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

Why hello there young sir, what brings you about this desolate town at this time of the day?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Well you see there, elderly sir, I seem to have broken my tricycle and so I’m taking it to the garage so that the mechanic can have a gander at it.

ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

Very good.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Indeed.

(BUNNY peeks around the curtain at the audience before walking onto the stage and sitting beside MAN. MAN looks up at the BUNNY, then at the newspaper, then realising what he’s seen looks up at the BUNNY in shock.)

ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

Ugga Bugga, Bugga Ugga.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN 

Gilly Gally, Gally Gilly.

(YOUNG GENTLEMAN slaps the ELDERLY GENTLEMAN who then nods his head in agreement. BUNNY gets up and leaves the stage.)

ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

So which particular mechanics are you taking your business to?

YOUNG GENTLEMAN

I was thinking of taking it to the one just off of Elm Street.

ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

Yes I know the one, Jimmy’s son runs it nowadays. Bloody good fellow is you ask me.

(BUNNY walks back on and sits back on the bench, GENTLEMEN return to conversing in Ugga Bugga and Gilly Gally. MAN gets up and walks between the 2 GENTLEMEN.)

MAN 

S’cuse me sir’s but what is going on?

(The GENTLEMEN ignore him and continue talking gibberish. MAN taps the YOUNG GENTLEMAN who falls into the ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. This in turn results in the ELDERLY GENTLEMAN beating the YOUNG GENTLEMAN with his cane. The MAN tries to pull them apart. The 2 GENTLEMEN beat the MAN. BUNNY gets up and mimes laughter, slapping his knees, holding his stomach, throwing his head back. The MAN escapes his beating and hides behind the BUNNY. The 2 GENTLEMEN return to talking gibberish. BUNNY starts hopping around the 2 GENTLEMEN who begin hopping on the spot before following the BUNNY around the stage, hopping in single file. MAN stands bewildered.)

MAN

(shouts) I read this somewhere, a devil Bunny brings the world to an end.

(BUNNY hops offstage, the 2 Gentlemen return to walking.)

YOUNG GENTLEMAN

(whilst walking offstage) What happened to you elderly sir? You seem to have a cut on your cheek.

Elderly Gentleman: (whilst walking offstage) I have no idea young sir. You also seem to be walking with a limp.

YOUNG GENTLEMAN

(now offstage) Interesting.

ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

(now offstage) Indeed.

MAN 

Hibbly Hop. (Covers his mouth in shock) Hopply Hib.

(MAN panics and hops offstage.)

Silent Play – Mime On Mime Crime

Characters: Mime 1

                   Mime 2

Time: Present Day

Place: City Square

MIME ONE

(Enters the stage from the right with a box in his hands. He shakes the box with money inside at the audience motioning with his hand for them to put money in, opens imaginary door, shuts door, puts box in front of himself shaking it once more and winking at the audience. He begins to act as if he is climbing a staircase as he stands up straight, followed by being in a box.)

MIME TWO

(Enters the stage from the left with a box in his hands. He shakes the box with money insideat the audience motioning with his hand for them to put money in, opens imaginary door, shuts door, puts box in front of himself shaking it once more and winking at the audience. Mime 2 begins same actions as Mime 1.)

MIME ONE

(Looks across at Mime 2 and begins to stamp his foot and shake his fist at him. Shoos him away.)

MIME TWO

(Looks across at Mime 1 shooing him away, shrugs his shoulders and continued being in a box.)

MIME ONE

(Bangs on the invisible box to try and get Mime 2’s attention)

MIME TWO

(Stops what he is doing and looks around for the noise. Finally notices Mime 1 banging on the box. Begins to laugh hysterically holding his stomach and throwing his head back.)

MIME ONE

(Opens the door to his box, closes door. Walks over to Mime 2’s box. Knocks on the door.)

MIME TWO

(Points and laughs at Mime 1 at the door)

MIME ONE

(Continues knocking)

MIME TWO

(Holds his ear to the door, then starts laughing again.)

MIME ONE

(Opens door, steps inside Mime 2’s box, shuts door. Looks at the audience and pulls a confused face whilst pointing at Mime 2. Waits, turns hand into a handgun, cocks it and starts shooting at Mime 2’s feet.)

MIME TWO

(Stops laughing and begins hopping from foot to foot go avoid the bullets like a cowboy in a western.)

MIME ONE

(Runs out of ammo, looks confused, scratches head, starts hitting his gun and trying it. Nothing happens. He looks up at Mime 2, then runs back to his own box, opening and shutting doors as he goes. Begins to pull rope.)

MIME TWO

(Shakes his head at Mime 1 then turns around and begins rummaging in an invisible box for something. Stands up, scratches head, returns to rummaging. Jumps up in glee as he pulls out a sword. Begins to act as if he is fencing to show audience that it’s a sword. Walks over to Mime 1 opening and shutting doors as he goes, then cuts Mime 1’s rope.)

MIME ONE

(Once rope is cut, falls back onto his back. He sits up dazed and confused, wobbles and falls back down with feet up in the air.)

MIME TWO

(Laughs at Mime 1 then struts back to his own box, opening and shutting doors as he goes. He then begins to blow up a balloon.)

MIME ONE

(Angrily jumps to his feet and looks around. He notices Mime 2 holding up a balloon. Rummages in a box and pulls out a bow and arrow. Shoots at Mime 2’s balloon. Laughs then begins climbing a ladder and digging a hole)

MIME TWO

(Jumps as the imaginary sound of the balloon popping scares him. Looks around and sees Mime 1 laughing. Shakes his fist and stamps his foot before turning around and rummaging in the imaginary box. Pulls out objects and puts them in his pockets. Thinks, then smiles before walking off stage to the left opening and shutting doors as he goes and returns with a real box that reads ‘Make Up Remover’. Laughs to himself, covers his mouth to keep quiet before walking over to Mime 1 whistling acting innocently. Knocks on the door.)

MIME ONE

(Looks over and see Mime 2, ignore him with a flick of the hand and continues digging.)

MIME TWO

(Knocks again.)

MIME ONE

(Covers his ears)

MIME TWO

(Bangs on the door until Mime 1 opens it, box hidden behind his back.)

MIME ONE

(Ignore for a while before stomping his feet and aggressively opening the door.)

MIME TWO

(Smiles and holds out his hand as a peace offering.)

MIME ONE

(Reluctantly shakes his hand.)

MIME TWO

(Shakes his hand furiously whilst edging into the box. Looks down at the box of money and smiles.)

MIME ONE

(Notices what Mime 2 is looking at and moves inbetween them both and shoos him out of the door.)

MIME TWO

(Shows the Make Up Remover box to Mime 1.)

MIME ONE

(Backs up away from Mime 2 holding his hands up, scared.)

MIME TWO

(Holds out his other hand, palm up.)

MIME ONE

(Shakes his head)

MIME TWO

(Thrusts the box forward)

MIME ONE

(Backs off and nods head furiously, hands up in the air.)

MIME TWO

(Picks up the money box slowly, keeping the Make Up Remover box close to Mime 1. Puts the money box under his arm and back away out of the box pointing offstage. Returns back to his box opening and shutting doors as he goes. Tips money into his box and begins to count.)

MIME ONE

(Nods and begins packing up his imaginary props before trudging offstage slowly. Looks at the crowd, waves sadly before exiting stage right.)

MIME TWO

(Laughs hysterically, takes money out of the box and acts as if he is going up to a bar. Orders a pint then turns to the audience and takes a big mouthful and smiles, then winks.)

Magazine Writing

Yankee Doodle Dandy

When I first came to America from England in August 2012, I came to the country with an open mind as to the new and exciting things that lay before me. However, despite now living in the 21^st century, racism continues to raise his ugly head living very much within society and integration still needs a little work. Even in the north, segregation stands out with the whites living in nice areas of New Britain, whilst the blacks live in the rougher, poorer areas. Despite seeing this again and again during my time here, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw in the south.

Upon reaching the likes of southern parts of Virginia, North Carolina and Tennessee via the Blue Ridge Mountains and Smokey’s, it quickly became apparent how different things were from the security of my temporary home in Connecticut. The first recognition of change rained upon me when flicking through the radio. Christian rock. Christian rock. Preaching. More Christian rock. Country music. Preaching. And so on and so forth until we got north of Kentucky 14 days later; That’s an awful lot of Jesus to deal with as we passed Church after Church after Church along the same stretch of road. Part of me expected this, maybe not to this degree, but I expected the south to live a little more religious lives than what I’m used to. What I didn’t expect to hear came as a shock during a couple of gentlemen’s discussion on the radio as we entered Alabama.

Gentleman 1: “The white man must fight back. The white man is now enslaved to everyone else. Due to history, the black man is the most unforgiving of men and must learn to let go. Until they learn how to do that, the white man will forever be enslaved. We must do something about it.”

Gentleman 2: “I agree completely, why should we still be held to something that happened so long ago? The black man needs to live in the present, not the past.”

Gentleman 1: “It’s as if we are having to make up for something that happened hundreds of years ago. Surely we’ve made up for slavery by now?”

Gentleman 2: “We’ve just got an e-mail from someone saying that he is of mixed Mexican race, what about him?”

Gentleman 1: “I didn’t realise that the Hispanics were enslaved?”

Gentleman 2: “Neither did I.”

Gentleman 1: “Well let’s just worry about the future of the white man first, and once we’re free, then we’ll deal with the rest.”

Gentleman 2: “Of course, it’s not as if there are any Hispanic countries that are led well are there?”

Gentleman 1: “I can’t think of any country that is not run by a white man that is run well.”

Gentleman 2: “Spain, that’s a Hispanic country that is run well.”

Gentleman 1: “Errr. Yes, I guess that it is.”

I couldn’t believe my ears, Evan just laughed at their ignorance; Spain isn’t Hispanic, nor currently led well. How is this legal to put on the radio? The reasoning behind their theories completely escaped me. Numerous men and women going about their daily chores listening to these two idiots and agreeing with what they said, nodding their heads as they worked crept into my mind. We live in the 21^st century and thinking like this still seems commonplace in the country of hope and glory.

Approaching New Orleans it became apparent that a class system exists that only likens to, the Indian Caste system. To put it in lemans terms, a caste system puts people into groups. The groups then go on to determine what occupations become available and the heights an individual hopes to achieve in said occupation. It also dictates the social interactions that he/she partakes in. In New Orleans it seemed very much based on a colour system. If you were black, you lived as homeless, a performer, a hustler, or at best - kitchen staff. If you were white you worked out front in the bars, shops, and restaurants. Or as a tour guide of the city, for one of the many tourist trip agencies, police officers, basically anything that pays better than kitchen work; the world becomes your oyster.

New Orleans shows off beauty in the strangest way, despite the number of homeless walking around the streets and the smell of stale urine lingering in the air. Unlike New York, the smell of dirt and grime seems authentic here. The streets give a claustrophobic feel, very narrow and look closer to something in Europe rather than America with the obvious French architectural flair thrown into the buildings.

Having been one of the biggest mixing pot of cultures in the United States, cultural clashes have always been a normality. Areas of the city have always been known as the upper class white parts and the lower class black parts. New Orleans was also one of the biggest slave trade ports in the country. These cultural clashes haven’t dwindled and still visible today when you see the homeless, (usually black) and tourists (usually white) mix together through the narrow streets, yet manage so with little problem. The fear of safety or theft never arises despite numerous homeless people legally drinking in the streets. For homeless they live a pretty good life, sat in the sun drinking, and if they begin to steal then the opportunity for police to interfere increases.

At night, things change a little as street performers and hustlers line the street in search of easy pickings. The street performers arguably making a legitimate living, taking money in exchange for entertainment. The hustlers on the other hand prey on tourists and a quick dollar. Apparently Evan and I wore neon signs displaying ‘easy pickings’ as a hustler left his crew to approach us to play a game of “I can guess where you got your boots.”

As you walk down the street the hustlers gather in groups wearing baggy attire similar to what you’ll find in the ghettos of Brooklyn. At first when he approached Evan and me, he displayed good manners and good fun. What we didn’t realise became clear when my back pushed up against a wall after he shepparded us into a side street as he talked. Giving into his game we shook the man’s hand and waited for him to tell us, where we got our boots. Shuffling us against a wall so that we didn’t block the path of the passing tourists he alerted us that, “You got them on your feet.” Laughing at our naivety he gave them a quick polish.

“You pay to go to college don’t you? Well I just taught you a lesson, time to pay up as this school isn’t free.” Standing up after giving us a shoddy polish he got uncomfortably close and demanded $20 a boot from us. As Evan paid up I glanced over our new friend’s shoulder and noticed the group of hustlers that he hung with stood watching and waiting; the position we found ourselves in became crystal clear. Grabbing a $20 instead of a $5 his hand snatched it out of mine at lightning speed. He then stood a little closer, almost stepping on my boots that he just polished.

“I meant $20 a boot, now pay the man.” Everything he said, he said with a smile as to not alert anyone else, laughing and joking, yet a hint of aggression lingered behind that laugh and in his eyes. Again looking over his shoulder at his friends getting a little closer, it seemed easier and safer to just open our wallets and admit defeat and leave with our health rather than our dignity.

            Later in the night we came across an elderly lady in a wheelchair called Dotty and a black gentleman pushing her around.

            “I hate these niggas hustling the streets, it’s pathetic,” the black gentleman told us as groups of young hustlers began to try and talk to us, the older experienced ones already home after a successful evenings work. “I admit that I did used to do the same when I was younger, but I was stupid. I’ve seen the error of my ways and try to stop them doing the same. But at the end of the day, it’s easy money, and they have no other way of getting it.”

            Upon leaving New Orleans , Evan and I headed north west up to Austin, Texas. Upon entering the capital of Texas we were greeted by huge crowds. Parking up the car and heading out into the main strip the police presence was something that I’d never come across, despite having been to hundreds of soccer matches back in England. The whole road was shut off with dozens of police on every street corner. Walking into the nearest pub, The Mooseknuckle, we began chatting to the bartender about what the huge police presence was for.

            “It’s for the blacks,” He said. Despite what I’d recently witnessed in New Orleans, and on the radio in Tennessee/Alabama, the fact that someone can just say a phrase like that with a completely straight face astounds me.

            “What do you mean it’s for the blacks?”

            “Well Austin is holding the Texas Relays this weekend.”

            “So?”

            “Well track events attract blacks, and blacks attract police.”

            “So they don’t shut off the street every weekend?”

            “Oh no, they shut off the street, but you probably have four, five times the amount of police than usual this weekend. Many bars, restaurants, and shops won’t open for this weekend each year because of the blacks.”

            It wasn’t just what the barman was telling me that surprised me, but the fact that he was saying it loudly in a full pub and no one batted an eyelid. Everyone seemed to accept and agree with what he was saying. According to the Austin Convention and Visitors Bureau in 2007, the event generated $8million for the local businesses. Traditionally many events are organised by the black community to take place in downtown Austin throughout the weekend, which helps to generate this kind of revenue.

            Attracting roughly 50,000 people to watch 5,000 track stars compete, the Texas Relays are the second largest track event in America.

            As the night drew on, it was noticeable that after 9pm the white population had all disappeared, leaving Evan and I as the only white guys in a street full of blacks. I never felt threatened or on edge so wondered what the big deal was. It seemed that the city was on high alert just based on the colour of people’s skin.

            At kicking out time everyone poured out onto the streets, but unlike in Nashville when an Ice Hockey game had finished flooding the streets with white spectators who quickly went on their merry way, everyone seemed to stand in the streets. To the left was a group of black men with their shirts off posing for the women, to the right was a group of black women screaming at each other. They weren’t arguing, just being extremely loud. At any time a group of women walked past a group of men, degrading cat calls could be heard from the guys. The women didn’t seem to bother as they giggled amongst themselves and carried on their way.

            As the night wore on, no one seemed to move from their spot in the street until police on horseback drove through moving everyone onwards. Despite the car being parked in the direction the horses were coming from, they wouldn’t let me go in the opposite direction. Like cattle we were being herded down the street away from our destination.

            Upon leaving the south and heading back north to Connecticut, I certainly know now that the south of America still have a divide regarding the colour of your skin. Then again, it isn’t as if the north are any better, the only difference is that the north have just developed an ability to hide it, rather than shout it from the rooftops like the south. For example, you won’t see an increased police presence in a town, find black people in a specific working role, or a barman loudly telling his punters that blacks attract police. Instead it is more neighbourhood segregation. Walking the streets of New Britain, Connecticut it is obvious to see the difference between the south and north of the city. The south, roughly, is the black area of the city with houses looking broken, fences in pieces, paint flaking, and unkept lawns. Even the pavements and roads are full of potholes. Meanwhile the north, roughly being the white area of the city, have beautiful houses that are well kept, the roads are perfectly smooth and the pavements are intact and have a nice grass verge along the side, which again is well kept.

            For a country that claims to be the country of hope and glory, a country that prides itself on freedom, America needs to take a closer look at itself and what it is doing to its people. It seems that opportunity, hope, glory, and freedom is still very much veered towards the white population; despite what the idiot on the Tennessee/Alabama radio station say.

 Survival Tips To Play Amateur Football - Introduction

            What are the odds that Lionel Messi dominates a game for The Dog & Duck on a Saturday/Sunday morning like he achieves for Barcelona? After a night on the ale, playing on a divot infested pitch in the middle of nowhere as gale force winds fight his every step? As bricklayers, plumbers, and joiners make it their mission for the following 90 minutes to break his flow, spirit, and bones? For anyone who thinks that they know what it takes to don a washed out kit, complete with a mix match of shorts and laddered socks before stepping out on a dog shit covered field, read the following tips and tricks to get one over your opponent.

Throughout his career of the 1950’s, 60’s and 70’s, Leeds United and England centre half, Jack Charlton famously announced how he tracks players. “I have a little black book with two players in it, and if I get a chance to do them I will. I will make them suffer before I pack this game in. If I can kick them four years over the touch line, I will.” In amateur football you can’t wait for your opponent to get one over you first. If you want your man to know what’s in store then you need to go through him early on in the game. You hope that each time he gets possession of the ball his mind wanders to wondering which part of his body twinges in pain next, rather than where to play his next pass. Tips and tricks help you learn numerous different ways to achieve this. As a defender, as the ball comes to the striker’s feet with his back to goal, a quick sharp knee to the back of his thigh introduces yourself to the game. If applied correctly, the striker receives a dead leg slowing him down. As a striker simply stand on the defenders toes with more force than naturally, if the weather feels especially cold it adds to the effect. Mark Freeman, who played for the White Bull and member of the Zoo (a name given to the back four after the label ‘animals’ stuck) in the 70’s claims: “The defenders have to work as a team. If the centre half gets booked for hoofing the striker, swap around so that another guy can hit him until he gets booked, then swap around again. It doesn’t take long until the striker sits deep or out wide to get out of the line of fire.”

When heading the ball, to make sure of a guaranteed free header for the remainder of the game, read closely. As a defender you stand naturally behind the striker, this gives you the opportunity to simply head butt the back/side of his head. If you lack grit, appear soft and don’t like hitting your head on things, jump with your knee high aimed towards his lower back or again, back of his thigh. Make sure that as you land, you scrape your studs down the striker’s calf. Columbia F.C’s, Evan Babinski isn’t the tallest defender in the world: “If the striker has the better of you in the jump, a quick, sharp elbow to the kidney is enough to put them off going for another header.” A forearm to the back of the neck also works a treat.

As a striker a backwards flick of the head into the defender’s nose results in a broken nose. For the smaller striker, positioning yourself tight to the defender and jumping early results in your head rising under the chin of the defender causing anything from a bit lip, to a broken jaw. Current Newington striker, Tom Kay chuckles: “I like to back up into the defender, standing on their feet and grinding down their shins. Even if it doesn’t hurt them, it keeps them off balance.” As with the defender, attempt to land with your studs down the shin of the defender and finish on the roof of his foot, the tender part; metatarsal anyone?

Ryan Thomas, a defender at Hartford F.C loves the 50-50 challenge: “It is like getting away with murder when done right.” Commitment wins all whether a 50-50, or 70-30 in the opposition’s favour, if you flinch, personal injury is most likely. Never at any point dangle a leg out, make sure that the full weight of your body supports your tackle. By doing this less stress is on your leg lessening any chance of a broken leg, and the momentum created by your body intensifies the challenge. Everyone knows that going into the tackle two footed breaks every rule in the book. Thomas doesn’t let the rulebook keep him from hurting his man: “With fewer and fewer young referees coming into the game, if there is a long ball over the top it is unlikely that the ref is anywhere near. How can he see from the opposite side of the pitch if I’ve gone one or two footed?” As you dive into the tackle keep your arms in to fight air resistance and aim for the ball. A stud on flesh doesn’t cause the most damage in these tackles but shear momentum. Although the ball is your target odds appear that collision with his ankle remains unavoidable. You need determination and preferably a full sprint for maximum results. Bonus points if you aim the sole of your boot up the opposition’s thigh as your momentum takes you forward, now you introduce the trailing foot work.

As a full back at times the winger pushes the ball too far forward and you easily clear without need for a tackle. For the advanced amongst you, slow down your stride so that you reach the ball at the same time, putting you on the receiving end. Whilst you stand flat footed he runs at you full pace, however, everyone knows that wingers lack grit or determination and don’t like a tackle so a committed tackle from a winger remains unlikely. Winger = Softy. Just remember to stay committed. Ste Lish, a winger at his High School isn’t the dirtiest of players: “I know that the more I get the better of the full back, the harder he is going to try to hit me. Most of the time I’m running at him and facing him, so if read right I can ride the tackle and win the free kick.”  As a winger, although obvious, wait for the defender to commit and jump over the ball and onto his leg. Keep on your toes and ready to run as his teammates look to beat you up for potentially breaking his leg.

Now that you are armed with the introduction under your belt, grab your boots and battered shin pads, roll up your sleeves and go and deal out some pain. 

Looking At Me, Looking At You

As Maple Tse walks across the canteen, her face paints a story.

“I miss Chinese food so much.” Arriving in America as an English major, Maple settled on Connecticut due to the historical sites within the state. However, despite researching CCSU before she arrived, she found it shocking to find out just how isolated the campus is. This is very much a common theme amongst the international students along with lack of public transportation.

Full of the bulldog spirit that defines England, Charles Lloyd found the lack of transportation a joke.

“I was expecting there to be a train station within walking distance like back home. Then again a bus that sticks to its schedule would be nice.”

Sitting over a warm American beer in an attempt to recreate his English culture, he told me of the time that the shuttle bus provided by the university left him at Target.

“It was raining, cold, and it just didn’t turn up. I waited half an hour having experienced it arrive late in the past, but it just never came back. I had to draw out money that I didn’t have to pay for a taxi back to campus. It’s not even as if I could walk back as the pavement just disappears.”

Back in his native Sweden, Erik Malmstrom is glad to be home after spending a semester at CCSU.

“From the university point of things, the experience did not live up to expectations. Since day one I was left alone to fix and plan everything by myself. Without the help of the university, it was really hard to be able to join in or be part of any activities.”

International Education Coordinator, Erin Beecher is the student’s first point of contact at CCSU.

“I’m here to help the students in every way I can. My door is always open regardless of the problem.” Despite working in the International Centre for five years, this is the first year in which her position has been a full-time role. “I’ve been suggesting taking the students on at least one trip per semester for years but nothing was ever done. This is definitely something that we’ll take a closer look at in the near future.”

In an attempt to make the most out of his experience, Erik went further afield to find the thrills that he seeked. Having been to Washington, Boston, and New York to name a few, Erik thought that these were what saved his experience and kept him here for the semester.

In his makeshift English pub, Charles discussed what he believed the university could do to make his time here better.

“It’d be nice if they just gave us a leaflet to tell us what’s around us, what’s available. Campus is dead on weekends and there is even less to do than usual. They could even arrange to have more get togethers for the internationals to swap experiences and tips.” His eyes light up with a tinge of anger as he continues his experience of Connecticut. Finding nothing here to entertain him, trips up to Massachusetts have been a regular scrawl on his ‘to do list’ as he looks to try and experience the best of his time here.

“The Connecticut website told me that the only sightseeing thing to do is wine tasting and I’m not even twenty-one, so I can’t do that.” With this he takes another sip of his warm American beer, and we realise in unison that we’re not home anymore and he’s not allowed to drink.

Erin’s face shows that of determination as she describes ways in which to make the experience better. “We plan to introduce new measures to make it easier for the exchange students. From early entrance to the dorms to save them money on hotels, being picked up from the airports to save them the trouble of expensive trains, and have more details regarding what is around campus and how to get there at the welcome meeting.”

Picking at her plate, Maple pulls her face at the food that occupies it before pushing it away; a far cry from the cuisine that she is used to back home in China. “It makes me fat.” Meanwhile Charles doesn’t mind the food although he didn’t exactly speak volumes about it. Erik is just happy to have some variety now that he is back home.

“It’s nice not having to eat pasta, pizza, and burgers every day.” The smile that crosses Erik’s face is one of satisfaction as he leaves his computer screen to turn up the fireplace. His experience at CCSU certainly was not one to write home about. “We didn’t even get a tour around campus. The university didn’t help me with anything after my arrival, and the information I got before the arrival was unclear. It felt as if they have been using the same information for the last ten years.”

With numerous pictures of foreign lands decorating Erin’s office, she goes on to tell me of a past International Club that they plan to reinstate. “It was a place for all the International students to meet up, discuss things about their time in America as well as their home countries. It also provided a service to the American students who were thinking of studying abroad.”

Is Connecticut the place to go for an exchange? Like a chorus, the three internationals cry ‘no.’ It seems that the only saving grace for the campus from the foreign perspective is that it is so close to Boston and New York. According to these accounts, those in charge of CCSU have to take a look at themselves, and what they appear like to the foreign invaders that come each semester for a taste of America. With small changes to the system, the time of these wide eyed aliens looking to experience the American way of life, disciplines, and culture could have them running back to their native universities screaming at students to take up the option to go to Connecticut. But first, go and see a man about some public transportation.

Non-Fiction

Cowboys & Indians

Times certainly have changed for the once Champions of the English Premier League. Falling to the ever widening pitfall of foreign ownership, Blackburn Rovers Football Club have seen themselves fall from European contenders, to a potential double relegation in so many years. With sackings and resignations a regularity at the club and the boardroom in the midst of civil war, the Indian owners, Venky’s, do their best to distance themselves from the chants at Ewood Park of ‘Venky’s Out’. Imagine a Chinese businessman buying the New England Patriots, having no experience in American Football at all, and then turning them from an NFL team - to a minor league team within two seasons.    

Penned as the first in almost twenty years in which I haven’t owned a season ticket to watch Blackburn Rovers, the 2012/13 season sees numerous faces usually in the stands avoiding Ewood Park. Whilst I travel to America to study, many of the other supporters avoid the stadium in protest. Protest against an Indian ownership model that quickly destroys one of the founding clubs of the football league.

            Stood in the stadium for the opening league game of the season since being relegated from the elite of the top division, I notice how much things have changed. Advertising billboards remain empty, after much publicised arguments with the companies and the clubs hierarchy. Arguments that fell on deaf ears as the new owners, Venky’s, based in India, continue to ruin rather than run the once proud club. Averaging 25,000 attendances the previous season, gates have fallen to 12-15,000 for the first season back in the second tier of English football. This isn’t due to lack of support for the club, but a protest from the fans to not give their hard earned money to inexperienced owners. These fans now choose to support their club for away games, travelling the length and breadth of the country as the ticket money doesn’t fall into Venky’s hands.

            Even at 25,000 in comparison to other top level clubs, this attendance sees Blackburn towards the bottom of the attendance league. However, in comparison to the size of the town Blackburn prides itself as one of the best supported clubs in the land. With a small population of 105,000 and big clubs such as Manchester United, Manchester City, Liverpool, Everton, Leeds, Preston, Wigan, along with others all a short distance away, Blackburn still managed on average to attract 17% of the town to games. Current Champions of England, Manchester United, with a population of 458,000, managed to attract 16% of the city to games this season, despite the fact that Blackburn’s average attendance dropped by 10,000 on average over the course of the 2012/13 season.

As the new look team run out for the opening game of the season, banners from the crowd called for the resignation of the inexperienced manager responsible for the plummet of a team that consistently finished safely in the mid-table of the top division. After sacking an experienced manager when Venky’s first took over the club, they promoted the first team coach to manager despite not ever managing a club at any level. Links between the Venky’s, their advisor, and the new manager became public via the media. The advisor to the owners was the agent of the new inexperienced manager. Rumours of huge pay packets changing hands hit the headlines of the newspapers turning a once well respected club into a laughing stock in the football world.

Venky’s forced senior board members that asked too many questions to sign Non Disclosure Agreements (NDA) and removed them from their positions on the board. After expressing their frustrations, senior members of the team found themselves training with the reserves and sold to the highest bidder. A fraction of the money gained from these sales returned to the club and spent on four unknown foreign players who over the period of the 2012/13 season spent a total of twenty minutes playing for the first team. It wasn’t long until Venky’s forced the deputy CEO of the club to sign a NDA and removed him from the board after a letter to the owners leaked to the media. Blackburn’s training ground is situated in Brockhall Village, just outside of Blackburn. The bad vibes of the old mental hospital that was knocked down to be replaced by the training ground seem to be slowly seeping into the club, with the hierarchy acting like the patrons of the old Brockhall Hospital.

            Familiar faces littered the sparse crowd shaking their heads in frustration as the, “bald headed wanker,” took his seat in the manager’s dugout. Unfortunately for the manager, wanker can only be thought of as a rather affectionate name that the fans gave him, I’ve heard much worse. As the game kicked off, the usual cry of “Kean Out” (Kean is the manager) echoed around the stadium, even to the extent that the away fans joined in much to their amusement. Overpaid players, well past their best, signed by the new regime waltzed around the pitch with little effort or commitment, much to the annoyance of the crowd.

            “I don’t care where the hell he’s played in the past, if he’s not going to try then I don’t want him wearing the shirt. I’d much sooner have a young kid with half the talent running his bollocks off playing instead. He’s the fucking captain as well. What kind of example is he showing?” This and similar comments became regular statements amongst the group of spectators around me.

            As we watched our once beloved Rovers sink to a defeat against a much lesser opposition, grumbles of, “What the hell was that bald twat thinking of playing those tactics?” “Why the hell did he start Dunny? Everyone knows he’s a fat piece of shit.” “Nice to see the Venky’s avoiding the game again, Paki bastards.” As I shuffled towards the car I stood at the foot of Jack Walker’s statue and read the inscription at the bottom. Rovers Greatest Supporter. Jack Walker was a self made millionaire, earning his millions via his steel company ‘WalkerSteel’. Having been a supporter all his life, he tried numerous times to invest in the club but was pushed away. Eventually, the board at the time accepted Walker into the club and from then on Blackburn pushed their way to the top. The old stadium that was falling to pieces was slowly dismantled and rebuilt, and big signings joined a team led by Liverpool legend, Kenny Dalglish. Even to this day Blackburn Rovers’ name engraves the Premiership trophy, along with only four others, Manchester United, Arsenal, Chelsea, and Manchester City. When Jack Walker died in 2000, the club was left in a trust and the everyday running of the club was left to Chairman, John Williams, and Managing Director, Tom Finn; both names being well respected in the football community.

            Nodding my head in respect to this great figure, I continued my way back to the car, half glad that it would be another season before I returned from America to watch this crap again. Half sad that after watching my team win the top division, win the league cup, compete with the best in Europe, they now struggled to beat teams that couldn’t dream of such feats.

            In an attempt to save the club, fans came together to create the Rovers Trust. An organisation made up of business men, sponsors, and members of parliament, all of which support the club. Their goal - to obtain part, or full ownership of the club.

Co-chairman, Oliver Wild said: “Setting up Rovers Trust was the logical step to bring together the two supporter groups whose goal was the same – securing the future of Blackburn Rovers for the sole benefit of the club, its supporters and the wider community.”

As the 2012/13 season progressed, Blackburn saw 5 different managers, poor signings, and a drop in form that nearly saw them suffer back to back relegations. With one game of the season left, they are not mathematically safe but only the worst possible luck separates them from relegation to the third tier.

To try and help communications between the Venky’s and the Blackburn support, they hired a Global Advisor. Now anyone seen in a Blackburn shirt outside of a ten mile radius of the town is either insane, or lost, so what reason for a Global Advisor? A position that not even the likes of Manchester United hold. To fill in this prestigious role, they hired a T.V. pundit from Malaysia, Shebby Singh, with no experience in English football whatsoever. His first port of call when hired resulted in him saying that Morten Gamst Pederson, a servant of the club for over ten years, is old and past it. In the next game, Pederson scored a screamer to win the game and celebrated by mimicking an old man with a walking stick; up yours Shebby.

Now the Rovers Trust support increases and exposure to the media only helps, with articles appearing as far as the New York Times. After much publicity, Blackburn supporter, Stephen Halstead, parted with his family’s shareholding in the club, albeit small, to the Rovers Trust. By doing this, it allows the Trust access to privy information that they were not entitled to see before. This act of generousity names the Rovers Trust as minority shareholders in Blackburn Rovers

The Global Advisor, Shebby Singh, told the local media, “Every Tom, Dick and Harry thinks they can own the club, but don’t forget that my bosses (Venky’s) have only been there for around two years. There are people over there who would not be able to run a bar, and they think they can run a football club so I wouldn’t pay any attention or waste my time on them.”

Neil Thornton, of the Rovers Trust, frowns at how his beloved club has fallen. “Blackburn Rovers is not a business asset, a marketing tool or a play thing. It is a community of local, national and international supporters (both individual and commercial) who every week want to support their team. Venky’s need to recognise this and connect with this community of supporters. This has been their single biggest failing since taking on the club, whether that be through poor advice or naivety is less relevant at this point.”

An increase of support groups within England join together to partially own their club due to inexperienced foreign owners taking the clubs closer and closer towards administration. Rovers Trust ultimate goal is to become a key, influential part of the ownership structure, and the 51% model as seen in Germany and Sweden, among others, shows that the model works. Other examples such as Swansea City, whose supporters own 20% of the club, or Barcelona, whose supporters own 100% of the club, show that the model is not only realistic, but can also bring long term success.

As the club currently stands, the boardroom fight amongst themselves with key members avoiding conversation, a court case with a former manager recently saw Blackburn pay over £2million ($3million) in compensation, and the club is currently losing £1-2million ($1.5-3million) a month.

Blackburn pride themselves as a small club that season after season have punched above their weight with the big boys. The club and its supporters do not wish to be a global powerhouse used as a financial toy, but to compete with the best in England. But the club bleeds as vultures peck at its innards. An isolated case? Don’t kid yourself. Although one of the worse cases plenty of others still flutter around England. 

I'm An Alien, I'm A Legal Alien, I'm An Englishman In New York

The best thing about New York: Leaving New York. It’s dirty, overcrowded, and stinks. With scaffolding glowing in the sunlight along every street, part of me wondered if New York’s scaffolding is a new tourist attraction; it turns out that it’s not.

Hoping on the subway in North-East Manhattan, I got off in Chelsea; so far so good, my skin remains knife free and my pockets clear of wandering hands. I entered what looked like an abandoned warehouse and later found that I unwittingly took part in the most frustrating dance with the other patrons. I hopped, skipped, and cha-chaed from entrance to exit getting out of people’s way, or squeezing past them. The building looked like an homage to tat. Tat sold to the left, tat sold to the right, and people everywhere looked to see which particular piece of tat, happened to take their fancy this day. The heating on full whack as beads of sweat trickled down my back as I searched for the exit as dramatically as a claustrophobic in a house of mirrors.

            As I made my way towards 5^th Avenue the streets became busier and busier. The Rockefeller Centre loomed in the distance as I weaved through a mix of people, scaffold poles, and rubbish bags along the pavements. The buildings looked disgusting. As a country boy from Lancashire England, I spent most of the time looking up at these monstrosities. It’s hardly York or Edinburgh where the architecture glows with character and beauty, these just scream ‘ugly’.

            I love the idea of living in a city, after living in a small town all my life where everyone knows you, the idea of anonymity appeals to me. However, the idea of turning into road kill, crushed to death in the crowds of New York escapes my Bucket List. As I walked along the street, my senses were alert to people cutting across my path, stepping on my feet, stopping randomly in front of me. Meanwhile the people behind me kept moving forward and pushing past me. Then every 100 yards I come across yet another level crossing which surprisingly glows red. This resulted in everyone crammed together on the side of the road waiting to cross. Once the light changed I then fight not only with the crowd going in the same direction, but the crowd coming straight at me in the opposite direction. All the while the lingering smells of the sewers lick at my coat tails along with his best friend, exhaust fumes.

            I escaped to the coast to wander back to my room along the pier; I managed to escape the smells and people of the centre. Although out of their view, car horns continued to penetrate my ears. The guy he’s beeping at probably can’t move an inch with no-where to go anyway, so why beep? Arriving back at my hotel, I noticed a change to the front. I guessed that the owner wanted to find a way to fit in with the rest of the city, as scaffolding now marked the entrance.

I'm Not Here To Meet People

            Social isolation provides a big problem for anyone going to University. Potentially leaving a small town that you lived in all your life, leaving friends you’ve known for years, the changes and difficulties of starting again; too much for some people. Evan isn’t ‘some’ people. Evan doesn’t get feelings of isolation. Evan is not here to meet people.

            Whilst Evan ate dinner alone I sat with The Swede, Evan’s third roommate, in their room.

“So, what’s he like? Is he a decent roommate?” I ask as I perch on Evan’s bed.

“He smells,” The Swede says bluntly. After a religious extremist, I think a smelly roommate comes a close second in the worst possible outcome of roommate. Smelly tends to go hand in hand with messy.

“What’s he like other than that?” I ask, sniffing the air to determine whether or not the room smells.

“Dunno, he just sits at his computer on YouTube. Wakes up at 6.30am, sits there until 8am. Goes to breakfast, comes back and watches more YouTube. Oh, and his alarm is like a siren; scares the hell out of me each morning.”

Poor guy, he’s come all the way from Sweden for the semester and he’s got an anti-social roommate who smells. I’ll admit, I noticed the smell when I first met Evan. By met, a nod of the head pretty much summed it up. I later found out that a track teammate knocked on his door, dropped a couple of eggs in his hands and left. Evan’s idea resulted in storing the eggs in the sub ceiling until he returned the following year and give them back. However, the heat of the summer sun turned them bad and someone moved them. The smell comes and goes, despite them no longer haunting the space above The Swede’s bed.

“I just didn’t make an effort,” Evan said. “I met the track guys in first year, but not the sprinters, or the long distance guys as I never had to see them. I’m here to get a degree, it’s like a job.”

Evan hasn’t lived anywhere but Carroll Hall whilst at CCSU, but he’s hardly a Carroll Cobra, (the nickname of the Carroll residents). His head appears on one of the ‘team’ pictures but not in with the crowd, but in the background up in the canteen. He’s just not here to meet people.

Evan’s first roommate entered the room in Evan’s freshman year and felt the tension instantly.

“You’ve never known any black people before have you?” The Black One asked.

“Nope,” the simple reply.

Born and bred in Columbia, a white town, from a white school, Evan simply didn’t know how to act around people of different race; apparently evident to see from Evan’s demeanour. Taking it in his stride The Black One laughed before exchanging pleasantries. Although he graduated a couple of years back, they remain good friends despite the rocky start. He remains Evan’s only black friend.

His second roommate somehow appeared less sociable than Evan, part of the Air Force and from Vermont. Air Force Boy hates Central and makes it his mission to drive three hours home every weekend; He definitely isn’t here to meet people. Conversation between them started out minimal and that’s how they liked it. “What time do you go to bed?” Asked Air Force Boy

“10, 10.30,” the reply. Air Force Boy nodded in approval.

“What time do you wake up?”

“6.30, 6.45,” Air Force Boy again nodded in approval. The morning after, they went to breakfast together and ate in moderate silence. They weren’t rude to each other; they just don’t talk for the sake of it. They’re not here to meet people, which ended up funny as Air Force Boy didn’t pay his housing deposit on time for the next year and couldn’t choose his roommate. Therefore both Air Force Boy and Evan got new roommates and fate forced them to meet people.

The school year 2012/13 Evan broke his own rule early on and met more people in the first semester than all semesters combined. Things began to change as The Swede joined Evan and Air Force Boy at breakfast and dinner on a regular basis. Evan prefers the company of those older than himself; every roommate that Evan’s shared with makes him the child of the room since arriving at CCSU.

“I’m not here for the popularity contest, never have been. I couldn’t care less what someone thought of me ten minutes ago, or what someone else will think of me ten minutes from now.” Evan told me as he flicked his new knife open and close on his bed. “When I first met the international group I’d sit and people watch them. Once I’d watched them enough, I came to the conclusion that they were alright.”

Becoming friends with these people caused Evan to delve into the depths of alcohol more than previously.

“Are you going to come to the highlighter party with me?” The Black One asked during his time as Evan’s roommate.

“No,” the simple answer despite The Black One’s pleas.

For the prior four years, Evan trotted on down to the pub on Thursdays with $6 in his pocket, drank four beers and then left. This began to change when he met me sat with The Swede at the bar. As Evan drank with us more and more a $20 note found its way into his back pocket, just in case he happened to stumble across a couple of drunken foreigners whenever he walked into the pub. As the weeks progressed, Evan’s alcohol intake increased and his social circle grew. “Evan, what was that I saw on Facebook? You, socialising?” His Auntie claimed after seeing more and more pictures of Evan with people and having fun on Facebook.

Now part of a group Evan found himself going out more and more to the local pub to partake in a couple of beers. A couple used sparingly as Evan’s recent hobby involves taking dozens of empties to the can deposit machines. Previously a mention of a night out saw Evan crawling into his room to watch fail videos on YouTube and an early night. Now he becomes the one who instigates such events as he walks into the room with a 30 rack under each arm, wearing the same clothes as the night before when he woke up on a random sofa. “It’s a wrinkle free shirt, still good still good.” A smile beaming across his hungover face. 

“I’m sure you were sick last night.”

“Wrinkle and sick proof shirt, it doesn’t even smell so it’s still good.” I think that I’ve created a monster.

On another occasion, Evan leaned into a German exchange student, his Coors breath danced around her ear, his hands wandered to her pert buttocks. Evan not only strayed from normality and talked to someone, but he’s talking to a foreigner, and he’s touchy feely along with it. The following day we woke with a hazy mind,

“What was all that about?” I ask, “You were all touchy feely with that German girl, and talking. Why don’t you talk to people when you’re sober?”

            As he wiped the sleep from his eyes he looked at me blankly and with a very matter of fact tone to his voice replied. “I can’t be arsed.”

Having run track all through middle school, high school, and most of his time at Central, Evan’s new life of lazing around drinking became a shock to his body. At 180lbs, he’s at his heaviest,

“I disgust myself,” Evan mumbles as he steps off the scale.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never been this heavy ever. I was 155lbs when I ran.” Despite putting on a little weight his stomach still imitates that of a washboard. Putting a hand anywhere near his stomach causes him to freak out and run away. It never gets old. He’s now at a crossroads in his life; to hit the gym and get back fighting fit? Or continue drinking and lazing around? With a trip to Texas, Vermont, and Boston on the horizon followed by a trip to England to meet an old friend, returning to his previous sober, healthy self won’t happen anytime soon.

As we sit over a Coors Light I ask, “Do you wish you were more like you are now earlier on at University?” A shrug of the shoulders and a grunt the only answer I receive. At times getting any form of answer out of Evan is like drawing blood from a stone.

No Place Like Home

Waking up confused the hell out of me. You know that feeling; you wake up in a bed you only acquainted yourself with hours previously and none the wiser to where you now lay? Picture that but with the worst hangover imaginable. Flickers of Karneval ran through my memory, and it no longer mattered that my team, Blackburn Rovers, lost to Bayern Leverkusen in the Uefa Cup.

Once I managed to figure out where I woke up and how I got there, I noticed the light outside. It gets really light during February in Germany, I thought. I’m sure I told the lady next to me to set the alarm for 6am; that way I could get to the airport and it’s still not gone off. Glancing at my watch the time in fact read 9am; my flight left hours ago. With my phone in a wardrobe at the hotel, and no knowledge of my dad’s mobile phone number, who at this point stood waiting at Dusseldorf Airport wondering which ditch I now lay in, one option sprang to mind, ring mum. Clearing my throat to avoid sounding too hungover, I picked up the phone.

“Hi mum, I’m in a little bit of bother.” The cold silence followed by her icy tone replied to me abruptly.

“Yes I know, your father just rung. He’s waiting at the airport waiting for you. Get there now.”

“Thanks mum, love you.” That made sense, neither of us knew where I ended up, and I didn’t know the hotel either. The airport became the only point we both knew. I doubt a hug from my mother awaited me when I somehow get home.

Leaving the room to get my taxi spouting empty promises about returning to Germany to the woman who just shared her bed with me, I found enough spare Euros in my wallet to get the whole way to Dusseldorf Airport; it seems that drunk me the night before predicted a phone call to a taxi firm in the near future. As I got closer the hangover continued to get worse as I concentrated on a tear in the upholstery to stop the world spinning before my eyes.

The airport went on and on, never ending almost but only with one terminal, one I found myself getting very familiar with as I staggered around looking for a recognisable face. If it turned out like Manchester Airport with its three terminals, well let’s say hide and seek isn’t my best game. It happens that Dusseldorf Airport stands as Europe’s 20^th busiest airport. Oh the fun walking around, my hair in bed-head style, the same clothes as the night before, stinking of ale as I searched for my dad and a way home. I’m sure I received some weird and wonderful looks from people walking past; I just wasn’t really in a state to notice, or care for that matter.

When I found my dad, he handed me my passport and my luggage that he packed for me whilst I slept in some unknown district of Dusseldorf. The first thing he asked, my mother wouldn’t approve of.

 “Did you wrap up?”

“Eh....no.”

As he cluttered me across the back of the head a few times he began his lecture. “You don’t go off with some random woman you’ve met for five minutes and not wear something you pillock.” The public beating nearly ended up worse but for the duel hangovers that God bestowed on us. ‘Grow up, dickhead’ God actually means when you get a hangover; honest truth.

Our travel companions flew on a plane to Switzerland that redirects to England. Luckily for us a couple of Rovers fans getting a plane to Birmingham kindly offered my dad and I a lift home. Laying out over three seats breathing heavily, the peak of my hangover hit. As I tried to sleep, or piece together the previous night whilst ignoring the constant worry of my mother’s reaction, the sound of our chauffer’s brother locked in the toilet throwing his ring up for the entirety of the flight interrupted my thoughts.

Back on home soil we staggered and crawled into the car, waited for the chauffer to finish throwing up last night’s beer on the car adjacent to his and then began the long drive home. It wasn’t really until here that the fear of death crept into my bones. How high does the bollocking scale reach? I wondered. I now didn’t want to go home. Yes I’m 18 at this point and technically an adult, but I’m not embarrassed to admit that I’m still scared of my mum; to this day she still makes me jump. A phone call from Switzerland interrupted my thoughts. The others needed to wait five hours to get the flight home and hit the bar. Cheers and shouts all I heard before they hung up, probably to get another round.

Upon walking into the house, my mum greeted us at the top of the stairs. My dad began the walk up whilst I went into the living room where my sister sat. As we muted the T.V. we heard how my dad turned out as, “...an irresponsible parent who should never have let him wander off” along with other similar accusations. Next in line my lecture; or so I thought.

I don’t know if my mum ran out of steam or because I’m golden little boy, but I never received a lecture, a bollocking, or anything of the sort. Apparently by giving that to my dad I learnt my lesson. Thanks for taking the bullet dad, now which European fixture comes up next? 

Mistaken Identity

The poor girl surely wondered what happened to deserve, what seemed, an extremely awkward moment. Sitting in the corner of Dunkin’ Donuts with a coffee in hand, mulling over numerous textbooks, the dark haired young girl never saw it coming.

“Hi, how are you?” I asked as I sat down across from her. With a monopoly of free tables to choose from, I picked this; I’m there to meet someone and I forgot what they looked like, ‘The only student in the building, surely this is the girl?’ I thought. I got off to a good start when she looked up and smiled, despite a donut filling her mouth. “I waited for you to put that in your mouth before I said anything, just to make you panic.” I laughed. Although she laughed back politely, I don’t recommend it as any way to break the ice.

“I’m fine thanks, and yourself?” she replied. It never crossed my mind at any point during the conversation that this wasn’t the person that I’m there to meet. Then it came, “Oh sorry, I’m Rachel by the way.”

“Rachel?”

“Yes,”

“Not, Irene?”

“No.” Face bright red I looked anywhere but forward as I began to stand.

“I’m so sorry, I’m here to meet a girl called Irene and you look similar to her. You must think that I’m a right weirdo just walking up and sitting with you? I’m really sorry; I’ll leave you to get on with your work.” I spluttered and stammered. By this time people crammed themselves into the building. No seats available far enough from the scene of the crime to make it all go away. Rachel laughed and excused me pleasantly whilst I scuttled up to the table beside her, the only one free but it still faced her, I looked anywhere but forward. I think she felt the awkward tension as it wasn’t long before she packed up and left, giving me a nervous half smile along the way. They say that ‘America Runs On Dunkin.’ That girl practically sprinted out of the building.

Winter Moments - Miami Hell

Picture the scene: South Beach Miami, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and Porsches on every street corner. The beautiful people that flock the streets are dressed in tailored outfits that reek of money, whilst the men strut their stuff and plume their feathers like a peacock in an attempt to attract a mate. In the middle of this are two piss poor students wandering the streets in the early hours of the morning with nowhere to sleep, miles away from home. One is hungry and in search of something cheap to eat, whilst the other is coughing up his lungs as Man-Flu takes a hold of his soul, crushing it before throwing him at the feet of the Grim Reaper to finish him off. Yep, the latter one is me, the former is Jon.

After spending the day here with friends, one of whom we were hoping would allow us to pass out on her sofa, we spent the early hours pacing the streets in search of a bed. Shivering, coughing, and sneezing whilst shuffling down the streets packed with partygoers, homeless, and gangbangers I struggled to keep my eyes open as tiredness caused my eyelids to droop. Then again it may have been death forcing them closed; yep definitely death.

Images of Mary & Joseph knocking on doors in Bethlehem came to mind as we heard from hostel after hostel that there was no room at the inn. We didn’t have a donkey as Jon was so hungry that he ate it and left his dying friend to walk. Unsatisfied with his meal we entered a 24 hour McDonalds for some more food. Looking around I realised that it was full of my standard of people, no one was wearing fitted designer shirts and kangaroo leather shoes, but they were a mix of piss heads, bums, and plain old dirty people. As Jon tucked into his meal I looked over to notice a few of the tenants fast asleep at their plastic tables. If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for me. I led down on the rock hard plastic bench and managed an hour or so in between moments coughing up my guts that my fellow scrubbers would have probably eaten; had it not have crawled away and booked into a hotel that is. After walking amongst the beautiful people all day, it obviously felt that it was too good to be sleeping in a McDonalds.

Poetry

Grief

Hopeless grief is just like a rocking chair.

Back, then forth, it doesn’t go anywhere.

The shallow man weeps only for himself,

as grief is put high on top of the shelf,

as he blames God, or fate, to the excess,

but no-one’s to blame, or there to address.

Self-pity grows and finally consumes,

when thoughts occur, choking on exhaust fumes.

Take a step back, watch his alter ego.

Emotional, silent, and dignified,

Stood watching his loved one lowered below.

His pain won’t leave, for now it has free reign,

and yet his expressions are minimized

to help him grieve, and then to sooth the pain.

Words To My First Born

We live in a beautiful world.

One better with you in it.

A welcome addition to our household.

Although it’s a bit small I will admit.

I wanted to name you Luke,

so that you could have the force,

but once your mum was in the loop,

she nearly filed for a divorce.

Your mum and I will always be here,

to help you along the way,

but as you get older year by year,

you’ll want to break away.

I hope you find a girl in your life,

to be as happy as your mum and I.

A girl to one day make your wife.

To stop those wandering eyes.

Then you can have kids all your own,

And tell them the exact same thing.

But despite being old and grown,

You’ll always be my little king.

Years Pass

Two years later and it still feels the same.

The love in my heart, the dread in my gut.

Only it isn't; the scars still remain.

Yet stitches won’t heal this deep rooted cut.

What did I do wrong for I’m a nice guy?

Yet I’m aware that I hardly turn heads.

It's not as if the sun fell from the sky.

Years of joy poured away with the beer dregs.

Yet time marches on and my blood still pumps,

despite my heart being ripped to pieces.

I find peace at the pub, amongst the drunks.

Beer mat in hand I write my wishes.

My feelings for you, they’ll never expire.

You're all that I need; all I desire.

Hit & Run

I’ll never wear a wedding ring.

But my baby’s mother thinks that

because we’ve got a kid together,

that I’m still with her.

She was only sixteen, maybe seventeen.

I was eighteen, nineteen.

Maybe a little bit more.

But it really wasn’t planned, that’s my defence,

It was just another night down the off license.

Stood across the room, I saw her smile.

And when I woke up,

on the right side of the wrong bed.

She asked, “I thought you were a poet?”

I said, “No, I’m just a copycat”

You Call This Art?

Across from me gloats a painting.

You call this art, but what of me?

A Picasso here, a Van Gough there.

Don’t you people realise,

that I too was constructed with love,

by an eye that was trained to see.

Precision, care, and so masterfully crafted,

each cut by chisel, or shaving by plane.

Surely this is more skilful than a brush?

Especially one that paints a mess.

Piet Mondrian paints his pretty squares,

and people flock to see.

But I have witnessed a toddler

draw the same on my surfaces.

My face may be scratched,

and yet I remain beautiful.

A fleck touches the paintings

and they become worthless.

I’m not crude nor cold, like metal or stone,

or pretentious like a painting.

They may not realise but I’m real art,

they’re just too dumb to see.

Silence

I’m a Northern Boy an’ brought up as such,

wi’ a plate full o’ Hotpot an’ butter on’t side.

An ‘anshakes enough, any more is too much,

touchy feely Southerners, I simply can’t abide.

Despite all o’ this, I ain’t made o’ no stone,

Feelings, emotions, I swallow ‘em down,

Down ‘ere they live in’t depths unknown,

Swimmin’ in bile, jus’ waitin’ t’ drown.

Int’ depths unknown, in me Pandora’s Box.

They’re locked away an’ me speech is broken.

Forced further down wit’ th‘elp o’  th’ops

An’ yet this dun’t mean they’ll go unspoken.

Me pen is me mouth, the words are me voice,

this paper is me audience, the only one I need.

This way I don’t bother, I don’t make a noise,

then I throw ‘em away, so that I clot the bleed.

Fiction

Dinner For Four

Two months into my new job, three into my new life in Hartford, Connecticut. The job market back home in England continues to get worse despite what Cameron and his Tory backbenchers say. I’m not saying that I’m Labour or Lib Dem, they’re all knobheads to me.

            I guess luck was on my side when my half arsed application for this job in the states was accepted: Insurance Salesman. Apparently having someone from England would class them as a multi-cultural company. Minus Jehovah Witnesses, and Traffic Wardens, I must be the most hated man on earth as an Insurance Salesman. The company did help me with a dingy flat in New Britain (and I thought parts of Manchester was rough), and a car, so I guess I’ve to be grateful. The job however, is shite. It makes me wish that they never accepted my application for a working visa down in that there London. My sales partner, Murphy, was nearing fifty, twenty years my senior and although thick as a brick acted as if Stephen Hawking was beneath him.

“What time is it, English?” I sigh knowing that there is a clock on the wall of the diner behind me, directly in Murphy’s line of vision. I look at my watch.

“Ten to.”

“S’cuse me?”

“Ten to.”

“Ten two?” Jesus Christ. I would have been able to see the cogs turning in his head should there have been any. Instead I imagine a hamster in a wheel, the hamster being long dead.

“Ten minutes until two o’clock,” I say slowly to help the fat bastard across the table understand. He bites his big bottom lip in thought for a few seconds.

“Oh, you mean one fifty, why didn’t you just say so English?” Elbow on the table, thumb pointing over my shoulder, I ask,

“Why didn’t you just look at the fucking clock?”

“Oh, didn’t notice that there. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.” I turn in my seat to see arguably the biggest clock face ever about ten feet behind me. I look back at Murphy who is inspecting the menu, licking his lips. It wouldn’t surprise me if the fat bastard ate it.

“You’re telling me that you couldn’t see that?” Murphy looks up from the menu. The light catches the corner of his mouth; drool is already beginning to develop.

“Nope.”

“That thing is big enough to rival the clock on Big Ben.”

“Who’s big Ben?”

I rub my forehead and sigh. “Never mind.”

I stare at the blob sitting before me as he studies the menu far closer than I imagine him studying for an exam as a school kid. The bloke is already beginning to sweat despite it being close to freezing outside, and not much warmer in here. His breathing is short and loud. It really wouldn’t surprise me if the poor sod keeled over any second. I wouldn’t like to be the paramedics who would have to carry his fat arse out of the double seated booth that he currently dominated with both arsecheeks. I chuckle as I picture his stomach stuck between the seat and the table, the paramedics unable to free him from his makeshift coffin. He wasn’t leaving until his plate was clean, dead or alive.

“Are you ready to order, hun?” I look up to find the waitress looking at me behind her glasses. She isn’t exactly the belle of the ball, but hardly a munter. Her brunette hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and despite her beaming smile, she looked knackered, her dark eyes held up by the bags beneath them; long shifts will do that to you.

“Yes thankyou, I’ll hav-”

“Give me some mozzarella sticks, a basket of twenty wings in Chili Sauce, fries with cheese, and a large coffee with cream.” Murphy’s eyes were huge, pupils wide and a grin from ear to ear. The waitress jotted down furiously before looking back at me.

“Do you serve ham and cheese toasties?”  The blank look I received in return answered my question for me. “Never mind, please may I have the steak sandwich with chips?” The waitress looked at me in a strange way, her eyebrows coming together in the middle.

“What flavoured chips do you want with that?” I match her confused face with my own, the wrinkles on my forehead getting deeper.

“You know, ones made out of potatoes and cooked in a chip pan?”

“I think he means fries, gorgeous,” Murphy chirped in. The waitress giggled.

“What drink do you, like, want with that?”

“Coffee with milk, please.” Writing away in her notepad she turned and made her way to the kitchen. Murphy followed her intently with his eyes, almost as intently as he studied the menu before.

“Are you sure you didn’t want to order any more food?” I asked as a smirk crossed my face.

“What do you mean?”

“Well it looks like you’re ordering for an army.”

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Nooooo, I’d never think such a thing,”

“I’m only a bit big because I’m part Eskimo, they need the extra blubber to keep warm.”

“Bit big?” I look at his pale face, blond hair, and blue eyes. There was no way in this earth that this bloke was even one millionth Eskimo. “Are you sure you don’t mean Inuit?”

“Inu-what?”

“Never mind.”

“Yeah, I have a great family background. I’m part Irish.”

“Really, along with 90% of America you mean?”

“Yeah, I think it’s from my mother’s side of the family six times removed.”

“Riiiiggghht, I bet you’re Italian as well aren’t you,” I say rolling my eyes.

“How’d you guess?”

“Just a hunch.”

“What are you?”

“What do you mean, what am I?”

“What are your roots?”

“English.”

“Yeah, but what about your family?”

“English.”

“Oh...”  I could see the disappointment in his face as his eyes wandered towards the kitchen door. “I wonder what’s taking them so long?” My eyes dart around the diner, how different it is to a simple cafe back home. I’m surprised Murphy didn’t bring me to a McDonalds or Burger King, so I’ve got to be grateful really although looking at the prices it’s going to be expensive for me. Since that episode of SuperSize Me, I don’t think I can eat another Big Mac. Things are strange here; people sneeze into their sleeves for one rather than their hand or a tissue. What do they do if it’s a surprise snot sneeze and it gets all over their jumper? Why does everyone say ‘bless you’ in unison should someone sneeze? No excuse you, or pardon you, always with the blessings, far too religious sounding for me. Also if Murphy tries to tell me how my team should play football, not soccer, football one more time I’m going to give him a thick ear. I doubt he’s ever even seen the sport, let alone played it.

 “Here you go, hun” the waitress placed down plate after plate of food in front of Murphy and his eyes lit up. He didn’t wait for mine to arrive before beginning to shovel it down his neck. After returning to the kitchen, the waitress reappeared. “And here are your chips,” the waitress said in a very poor English accent. She sounded like Dick Van Dyke in Marry Poppins, bloody awful. Then again I doubt she knows that I’m closer to Scotland than London.

“Cheers love.” Her face turned bright red as she buckled over in a fit of laughter, tears streaming down her face.

“Did I say something funny?” Finally regaining her composure, she took some deep breaths before responding,

“Cheers love.” Again in a Cockney accent, “I’ve never, like, heard that before.

“What would you sooner have me say? Thank you very much my dear, now if you could just grab me a spot of tea and ginger biscuit, that would be smashing” I said in stereotypical Queen’s English. The waitress again buckled over in laughter before walking back into the kitchen. I turn back to my food shaking my head to find Murphy staring at me, mouth full to the brim.

“Yff shd asst fu e uber.” Murphy spat at me, showing me a delightful sight of the semi chewed food in his mouth and even firing pieces my way. How kind of him, sharing his food with me like that. I flick a bit of chewed up chicken wing off my sleeve as I ask,

“S’cuse me?” Murphy swallowed his mouthful in one big gulp, sort of like how a duck eats, not chewing, just swallowing. He took a swig of his coffee, loudly. This guy ate and drank so that everyone in the Diner could hear him.

“You should ask for her number.”

“And why would I do that? I don’t know the girl.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, So, I don’t know her name or anything, that’s just creepy asking a random stranger for her number.” Murphy shrugged his shoulders and reverted back to his trough. Grabbing my knife and folk I began to eat my chips.

            I couldn’t finish. It was nothing to do with the food, yes it was hardly a good old English streak butty and chips, but they were good enough. It was that fat bastard across eating like a pig, BBQ sauce spread all over his face, fingers, shirt, and table, absolutely everywhere. No wonder he ordered so much, only half of it goes into his mouth. Trying to eat with my gaze elsewhere, despite the fact that he filled over three quarters of my vision with his bulk, I still couldn’t continue as the smacking of his lips chewing with his mouth open, heavy breathing, slurping of coffee. God the man was disgusting, put me right off my food. “Are you going to eat that?” Bloody hell, the man came up for air.

“Nope, it’s all yours.” Before I even finished my sentence the man had swiped my plate and was scraping it onto his with his hand.

“Any idea where the loo is?” I asked before he begins to fill his face again. Murphy looks up from his plate.

“The loo? Oh, you mean the bathroom, over there on the left.” I get up and distance myself from the eating machine. I didn’t mean bathroom at all, I meant toilet. If I wanted a bath or shower, I would ask for a bathroom, if I want a piss or a shite I’ll ask for the loo.

            I walk out of the toilet colliding with the waitress, her plates smashing to the ground. “Bollocks.” I cover my mouth, “Sorry love, I didn’t mean to swear like that, let me give you a hand.”

She giggles as my face cherries up. She disappears into the back returning with a dustpan and brush. She actually doesn’t look as bad as I first thought, hardly a ten, but better than I’ve had in a while. “I’m so sorry this is hardly what you need.”

“Don’t worry about it hun, it was, like, an honest mistake.” I begin to notice that for some strange reason the tone of her voice rises as she finishes each sentence. It sounds like she’s asking a question, even when she isn’t. She also keeps putting the word ‘like’ in the middle of sentences for no apparent reason; I can imagine that getting on my tits very quickly.

“How can I make it up to you?” God did I just say that? Cheesy as hell. My face begins to cherry up again. Giggling she responds,

“Well what do you, like, have in mind?”

“Err... how about I take you out for a drink?” I can’t believe this, in England I’d have been laughed off by now.

“Sounds good.” She takes her pen and paper from her pocket and writes down her number and gives it to me. Rachel it read.

“Oh sorry, how rude of me, I’m Billy.” I hold my hand out. Holding out hers giggling she replies,

“You apologise too much.”

“Sorry.....damn.”

“Don’t worry, go back to your, like, friend, I’ve got this.” I walk back to my seat holding the phone number in my hand. Murphy has finished, leaning back in his seat, well as much as his stomach would let him with the table in the way. Breathing heavily as if he had just completed the London Marathon,

“What was all the noise?”

“Forget about it, are you finished?”

“Yeah, the other waitress gave us the bill when you were in the bathroom.” It’s not a bathroom. I pick the bill up and shove some dollar notes into the wallet that contains the receipt. I get up from the table,

“Where you going?”

“To pay the bill.”

“Just leave it on the table.”

“It’s polite to give it to them, saves them work.” Murphy shrugs his shoulders before starting the painful process of getting his bulk out of the booth. Walking over to Rachel I hand over the bill, complete with hefty tip, something I don’t fully believe in but I quickly learnt that it’s the done thing over here.

“Thank you very much Rachel, I’ll give you a call later if that’s ok?”

“Well that’s why, like, I gave you my number isn’t it?” She giggled, that girl does like a giggle. I nod my head as I make my way back to the booth, Murphy had just about got up but was sweating heavily and was struggling to catch his breath. I shook my head before slapping him on the back.

“Come on mate, gotta get back to the grindstone.” Murphy’s face told me he didn’t know what that meant; it’s going to be a while before I get used to this weird place.

Looking At You Looking At Me

It was a perfect night, the sky clear, the moon full, and the stars shining brightly. Just like diamonds. Just like the one I will one day put on Julia’s finger, Robert thought as he crept along the river bank, before dancing his way between the bins cluttering the back alley. Careful not to make a sound, lurking in the shadows, Robert was invisible. He had done this for the last couple of nights, and he had never been caught. His time in the Special Forces had honed his skills. No one ever caught Robert unless he wanted to be caught.

***

3 days earlier

“Hey Robert, long time no see. Usual is it?” The barman began to pour before Robert could respond. His eyes scanned his old local, nothing had changed, nothing ever changed in this town. That was ok though, after a year in Helmand Province and a further six months in hospital, familiarity was just what Robert needed. Comrades has died, others were brutally wounded. Robert was the lucky one. A few wounds and a head trauma the doctor said, but in comparison to the others, he was definitely the lucky one. The trauma meant that he was medically discharged but the compensation helped, albeit minimal. He’d have to start looking to find work soon. Thanking the barman Robert turned to find his old drinking spot. As he turned his Guinness flew out of his hand as he collided with her, his drink spilling down his shirt. Anger flared in his eyes as he looked up at the aggressor.

“I’m so sorry; please let me buy you another drink.” Her voice was that of an angel and her eyes hypnotised Robert as his anger melted away, he couldn’t speak. “Guinness was it?” Robert could only nod as he wrung his shirt of the beer that soaked it.  Taking the drink from her hand, Robert could merely nod his head in thanks and chink his glass with hers.

“T.t..thankyou very much, you really didn’t need to. I’m Robert, like Robert De Niro but without the money.” Julia laughed awkwardly.

“Oh, but I did, it’s only polite of me to do so.” She looked around the pub for her boyfriend as Robert undressed her with his eyes.

“You look absolutely stunning if you don’t mind me saying.” Julia laughed nervously and a smile crossed her face as she saw her partner moving through the crowd towards them. Robert smiled back at her, he was making progress. Julia reached out and kissed her partner as he arrived, his muscular frame dividing her and Robert.

“Hi Tyler”

“Hey Jules, we better get going if we want to catch that table.”

“Ok, nice to meet you, Robert.” She swigged the rest of her drink and she was gone. How could he have been so rude? Robert thought, we were getting on so well before he arrived, she deserves better. With that he finished his pint and followed them out of the pub.

***

Present

As Robert flew down the backs towards his spot for the evening, thoughts of Julia flooded his mind. Long blond hair framing her round face as it falls down over her shoulders and covering her breasts, teasing Robert. Her eyes a dark shade of brown, full of energy and the twinkle they gave in the light gave her a mischievous edge. Her long luscious legs continuing up towards her perfect behind. Despite her long legs, she was petite, and slender. Elegance was a word that continued to fill Robert’s mind when he watched, albeit from a distance.

            They had chatted easily, the conversation flowed so well. He made a joke, she laughed. He complimented her, she smiled; and what a smile it was. Robert almost melted when she dazzled that smile in his direction.  That was when Tyler muscled in, made their excuses, and left. He was so rude, she deserved better. They had been getting on great until he came in. Robert became angry as he replayed the evening through his mind. She deserved Robert, and one day he would hold her petite figure in his arms.

            With athletic ease, Robert pulled his muscular body up and over the garden fence, slowly lowering himself down into the bushes. The garden was still, the faint sound of the leaves in the wind and the river nearby his only company. Julia’s bedroom window was right above, the light turned off, but that was ok. There was still plenty of time. Robert crept to the tall oak in the bottom far corner of the garden. Julia worked during the days, allowing him time to manipulate the branches for easier access into the canopy, and better coverage, without causing any disturbance. Slowly, carefully, quietly, Robert made his way up the oak. His training, physique, and simple practice of this routine had made him very efficient at scaling the large oak. Next door’s cat would watch him with envy from atop the garden fence.

            Sitting up in the canopy, Robert could almost touch the stars. How he wished he could manipulate them to spell out his true feelings. How he wished he could tell Julia what went through his mind each and every day, each and every night since they met. Until then, this would have to do. Lifting his binoculars to his face Robert had the perfect view of Julia’s bedroom, and with no houses overlooking, she rarely shut the blinds.

            Time passed slowly as Robert lurked amongst the leaves and branches. He had always been the best guard on tour, rarely sleeping, never moving. Just watching, staring into the night, becoming one with the darkness. It wasn’t unusual for Robert to stay in the one position, not moving for hours upon hours. His breathing slow, his body statuesque; even the cat ignored him now.

Finally, Julia’s bedroom light switched on and she strode into the room, shoulders back, head held high; beautiful. He watched silently as she began to undress for the night. Her feminine arms flailing through the air like a conductress as her clothes fell to the floor as if of their own free will. Her hair hypnotising him as it danced around her neck. Robert was so lost in her movement, her femininity, her sexuality, that he didn’t notice Tyler enter the room. Robert gasped as he saw hard, rugged hands on her shoulders. His anger rising as this intruder began to kiss the soft, supple skin of Julia’s neck. Robert’s anger continued to rise, but he couldn’t look away as this brute crushed the rose in front of him. He watched Tyler’s mighty paw run up the curves of her body, before tearing away the lingerie that kept her modesty. Crudely clamping a hand over her left breast, groping it roughly as his other hand tugged at her knickers. Tyler kissed her lips, moving down to her neck. Her eyes were closed and her mouth parted as he kissed his way down to her breasts. Her eyes opened slowly and made contact with Robert’s. She gasped, covered herself up and ran out of the room. Tyler followed her gaze, and followed her out of the room. Robert jumped from the tree, rolled on the ground and made for the fence.

            Robert’s training kicked into gear. Pulling himself up and over the fence in one quick singular movement, Robert ran. Subtlety had gone; he no longer danced between the bins, but battered and clashed his way to safety. His heart was in his mouth, the sound of the bins hitting the tarmac mixed with the pumped up adrenaline coursing though his body re-enacted Afghanistan in his mind. As each bin hit the floor, a land mine went off in his head. Every time a nosey neighbour turned on their lights to see what the noise was, a flash bang blurred his senses and burned his retinas. The yelling of his pursuer echoed like machine gun fire in his mind as Robert made his way towards the river bank. The scent of fresh water filled his nostrils as he bombarded towards safety. A hidden tree stump caught his foot and sent him crashing to the muddy grass. The feeling of bullets riddled his body and the scars gained from that far off place burned his skin as acid built up where the wounds once lay. Robert was unsure as to how long he led there in foetal position as the memories riddled his mind. He tried to stand, fell; tried again, before what felt like a bomb blast sent his body back down into the mud. The blow sent shooting pains down his spine as Tyler continued his assault with the cricket bat. Robert couldn’t make out the abuse that spewed out of the beast’s mouth, the mismatch of sounds reminded him of panicking Afghanis, and the pain riddled his body. The blows began to slow down as his assaulter tired. What blows connected, no longer carried the same weight and hatred that was once there.

            Robert’s hand searched through the dirt, the mud, and the leaves in search of something, anything to fight back with. Tyler’s assault had died. The only noise was the ripple of the river and Tyler’s heavy breathing. Meanwhile, Robert had found something. Something hard, jagged, something solid. Wrapping his hand around it Robert got a sense of its weight, its strength. Then in one swift, singular, solid movement he span onto his back and flung his rock fuelled arm at his attacker. The connection was solid and the crack, as rock struck skull, shuddered through Robert. Tyler fell to the earth, the bat falling away. Robert’s rage returned as he mounted the wounded creature beneath him, before continuously raining blows to his skull with the rock. Part of his brain told him to stop, whilst the other was in military mode; kill or be killed. The rock fell out of Robert’s hand, but he couldn’t stop. Clenching his fists he continued his assault until the blood that covered his knuckles was a mixture of his own, and the creature’s that lay below. Robert looked at his hands. His bloody fingers rested on his victim’s neck. Robert lowered his ear over the beast’s mouth: nothing. Robert looked around, but he was alone. The neighbourhood was far in the distance, the quiet sound of people clearing up the mess he made and idle chit chat of what caused it started to arrive at the river on the night breeze. Other than that, all was still.

Pain surged through his body as Robert stood up. This animal had really gone to town with that cricket bat, he thought as he lifted the bloody corpse by the armpits and dragged it towards the water. It wasn’t Robert’s first time, first time as a civilian, but not his first time killing another man; but this was no man, this was an animal, Robert thought as he lowered the body into the water. He washed his hands of blood before returning to stealth mode. He tried to be one with the wind as he danced with the bins, but his injuries caused him to limp and his heavy breathing made him more detectable. But Julia was alone. Julia was scared. Julia was in need of comfort and Robert had nothing else to do.