James swung himself down next to a wispy-haired old man and closed his eyes. He would have preferred to sit alone, but this was the last free seat on the bus.
“Good evening young man,” the old man said.
James pretended not to notice.
“Allow me to introduce myself: I am Mr Stanthorpe, inventor of the world’s only high-speed newspaper perforator.”
James looked up and nodded at the old man.
“James,” he said.
James was about to close his eyes again when Mr Stanthorpe picked up a newspaper and began waving it in the air.
“My invention allows its user to remove the main fold of any newspaper,” said Mr Stanthorpe.
“Individual pages are far easier to manage, don’t you agree?”
“Hmmm,” James replied.
“Thanks to my invention, people can read their newspaper on the bus without disturbing the person next to them,” said Mr Stanthorpe.
“I read the newspaper on the Internet,” replied James sardonically.
“Oh,” said Mr Stanthorpe.
Right at that moment there was a tremendous bang. A truck had smashed into the back of the bus. The passengers were thrown forward but luckily no one was badly hurt.
The bus began to fill with smoke. The driver tried to open the buses doors, but it was no use, nothing was working.
People began to panic.
“We’re trapped!” someone screamed.
Mr Stanthorpe reached into his bag and pulled out a black box that looked like an overgrown hole-punch. He pulled the base off the box and held it up to the window.
“Cover your eyes,” he warned James.
James heard the window smash and felt a rush of cool air.
“How did you do that?” he asked Mr Stanthorpe as they climbed out the window.
“I used my high-speed newspaper perforator,” said Mr Stanthorpe proudly. “It also breaks glass.”
The bus crash was headline news the following day. James decided to buy the morning paper as a memento.
“Would you like me to perforate the fold for you, sir?” the vendor offered.
“Yes thanks,” said James.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Monday, May 07, 2012
The Leviathan Sea
A ragged cliff marks the place where Land concedes defeat to Ocean. The cliff stands stoically, a monument to the effects of time: crumbling; weather beaten; eroded. Overhead, iron clouds hang heavy and foreboding. The light that passes through them is pale and insipid. Nearby, a family of seagulls drifts on a strong breeze; beaks and beady eyes turned towards a grey and turgid sea.
There, on the rocky foreshore, a man stands alone.
The chill of the day, the movement of the sea, the keening cry of the seagulls, fills him, envelops him, wraps around him, and gives him peace. There, in the midst of the world at its work, he stands and meditates.
He feels his blood pumping through him; the warmth inside his gloves; the chill on the tips of his ears, his nose, his cheeks. He feels alive.
The sea is wild that day. It is a mighty leviathan beneath an enormous grey net. The man feels this, feels the movement of it hypnotising him, bending his will to its unyielding purpose. The man feels the sea’s anger. It is the kind that brings calm and focus. He feels its hunger. It is the kind that fills a man with force and purpose.
He feels the line of the sea extending beyond its natural boundary. It passes through him where his nose meets his forehead, permeating him and becoming one with his mind and thoughts.
He feels the wildness of it, the aliveness of it, the freedom of it. The force that keeps the sea moving is the same force that keeps the blood flowing in his veins.
The bracing breeze that comes from the ocean winds around him. It winds around his muscles, binding him and holding him. It makes him stronger, squeezes the miasma from his lungs and fills them with fresh air: cool, salty, and alive.
He has come to this place in search of these things. It was these things, the essence of life that he is here to fill up on. He will lock these memories away, ready for the joyless days ahead of him. He will store these feelings in his heart, and, one day, he will close his eyes and return to this foreshore, to this land, and he will remember. He will remember.
There, on the rocky foreshore, a man stands alone.
The chill of the day, the movement of the sea, the keening cry of the seagulls, fills him, envelops him, wraps around him, and gives him peace. There, in the midst of the world at its work, he stands and meditates.
He feels his blood pumping through him; the warmth inside his gloves; the chill on the tips of his ears, his nose, his cheeks. He feels alive.
The sea is wild that day. It is a mighty leviathan beneath an enormous grey net. The man feels this, feels the movement of it hypnotising him, bending his will to its unyielding purpose. The man feels the sea’s anger. It is the kind that brings calm and focus. He feels its hunger. It is the kind that fills a man with force and purpose.
He feels the line of the sea extending beyond its natural boundary. It passes through him where his nose meets his forehead, permeating him and becoming one with his mind and thoughts.
He feels the wildness of it, the aliveness of it, the freedom of it. The force that keeps the sea moving is the same force that keeps the blood flowing in his veins.
The bracing breeze that comes from the ocean winds around him. It winds around his muscles, binding him and holding him. It makes him stronger, squeezes the miasma from his lungs and fills them with fresh air: cool, salty, and alive.
He has come to this place in search of these things. It was these things, the essence of life that he is here to fill up on. He will lock these memories away, ready for the joyless days ahead of him. He will store these feelings in his heart, and, one day, he will close his eyes and return to this foreshore, to this land, and he will remember. He will remember.
Monday, April 23, 2012
If Love is a Drug
Ron Reynolds was a has-been and he knew it. He lived off the royalties of his one hit song, ‘If Love is a Drug’. He spent his days watching televangelists and talking to Iggy, his pet iguana.
Ron was painfully aware of the smallness of his life. In his heyday he had been a king amongst men: now he was nobody.
He missed the fans most of all. He missed the electric feeling of forty thousand voices screaming his name. Nothing in Ron’s life compared to that feeling. Ron’s life, his heart, was an unfillable void.
Ron longed to have that feeling one last time, but no one was interested in him anymore.
One day, as Ron sat watching television, a televangelist announced that he would be visiting Ron’s home town of Chicago in two weeks.
“What do you think, Iggy?” Ron asked the iguana.
Iggy turned his reptilian eyes towards Ron.
“You’re right,” Ron said, “I should go.”
Two weeks later, Ron found himself sitting in the third row of a massive stadium that was packed to the rafters. The televangelist was telling the crowd that he had a cure for broken hearts. Ron hoped he was right.
When the alter call came Ron raced down the aisle and joined the queue of people waiting to be healed.
It wasn’t long before an usher came and led Ron towards the televangelist.
“Hello Ron,” the televangelist said. “Tell the good people of Chicago what brought you here tonight.”
Ron felt a wave of goodwill from the crowd. He felt alive; his heart was full; he felt the best he had felt in a long, long time.
He snatched the microphone form the televangelist and yelled: “If love is a drug then you’re my cure tonight – Chicago!”
And with that, Ron walked from the stage, his right fist held high in the air.
Ron was painfully aware of the smallness of his life. In his heyday he had been a king amongst men: now he was nobody.
He missed the fans most of all. He missed the electric feeling of forty thousand voices screaming his name. Nothing in Ron’s life compared to that feeling. Ron’s life, his heart, was an unfillable void.
Ron longed to have that feeling one last time, but no one was interested in him anymore.
One day, as Ron sat watching television, a televangelist announced that he would be visiting Ron’s home town of Chicago in two weeks.
“What do you think, Iggy?” Ron asked the iguana.
Iggy turned his reptilian eyes towards Ron.
“You’re right,” Ron said, “I should go.”
Two weeks later, Ron found himself sitting in the third row of a massive stadium that was packed to the rafters. The televangelist was telling the crowd that he had a cure for broken hearts. Ron hoped he was right.
When the alter call came Ron raced down the aisle and joined the queue of people waiting to be healed.
It wasn’t long before an usher came and led Ron towards the televangelist.
“Hello Ron,” the televangelist said. “Tell the good people of Chicago what brought you here tonight.”
Ron felt a wave of goodwill from the crowd. He felt alive; his heart was full; he felt the best he had felt in a long, long time.
He snatched the microphone form the televangelist and yelled: “If love is a drug then you’re my cure tonight – Chicago!”
And with that, Ron walked from the stage, his right fist held high in the air.
Thursday, February 09, 2012
Billy Gently and the Annoyance Pandemic of 2012
The Annoyance Pandemic of 2012 started with the blast of a car horn, on the 28th of September at precisely 1.34PM. The horn was sounded by New York City taxi driver, Don Smith. Mr Smith was expressing his annoyance at how slowly traffic was moving through Times Square that afternoon.
Eva Mendel, who was holidaying in New York at the time, heard the car horn and exclaimed: “Damn, all this noise! I wish I was back home.”
New York local, Barry Jackson, yelled back, “Hey lady, if you don’t like it, why don’t you go back to wherever you came from?”
A group of passers-by heard both Ms Mendel’s exclamation and Mr Jackson’s reply. They quickly polarised into two groups: those who were annoyed by Ms Mendel, and those who found Mr Johnson the more annoying. Both sides were annoyed at the annoyance of the other.
Soon a third group started to form. These were people annoyed by the two groups arguing and blocking the street.
“Move on people!” the third group chanted.
Things really went downhill when a fourth group, a group who believed in the right to free speech, started to yell their annoyance at the third groups annoyance.
Soon there were groups of people arguing everywhere. By night fall New York City was in chaos.
‘The Annoyance Epidemic’ led the evening news and people around the country watched in annoyance. “Is this really news worthy?” they asked.
For those already annoyed by the poor quality of television journalism, this was the last straw. People left their homes and took to the street to express their dissatisfaction at the state of the media, and anything else they could think of.
International news picked up on the story and renamed the situation ‘The Annoyance Pandemic’. People around the world were annoyed: “Is this all those Americans have to worry about?”
And so a wave of annoyance spread around the world.
Everywhere you looked there were people getting annoyed at other people who were getting annoyed right back. Streets were filled with people having loud and heated arguments and other people who were telling them, equally loudly, to be quiet.
People who refused to get annoyed were forced indoors. There was nowhere else to go.
After a week of heavy arguing, governments started to get annoyed. They ordered riot police to step in, but the use of rubber bullets and water cannons just made people more annoyed.
Global annoyance levels peaked on the 23rd October, 2012. On that day, eight year old Billy Gently of Glasgow was running home thinking about dinner, when he found his way blocked by a wall of angry arguers.
“What’s all this about?” Billy asked one of the group members.
The woman looked at Billy and scratched her head. “To be honest son,” the woman answered, “I don’t really know.”
The woman turned to the rest of the group, “Hey!” she yelled, “Can one of you please remind me what we’re arguing about here?”
No one could.
The group wandered off and found another group of arguers. This second group didn’t know what they were arguing about either. And so it continued.
Around the globe the tide of annoyance began to recede.
Everywhere you looked you would see: people apologising to each other for being so grumpy; people smiling again; people shaking hands and making-up.
Well, everywhere except New York City. People there were still quite cranky.
Eva Mendel, who was holidaying in New York at the time, heard the car horn and exclaimed: “Damn, all this noise! I wish I was back home.”
New York local, Barry Jackson, yelled back, “Hey lady, if you don’t like it, why don’t you go back to wherever you came from?”
A group of passers-by heard both Ms Mendel’s exclamation and Mr Jackson’s reply. They quickly polarised into two groups: those who were annoyed by Ms Mendel, and those who found Mr Johnson the more annoying. Both sides were annoyed at the annoyance of the other.
Soon a third group started to form. These were people annoyed by the two groups arguing and blocking the street.
“Move on people!” the third group chanted.
Things really went downhill when a fourth group, a group who believed in the right to free speech, started to yell their annoyance at the third groups annoyance.
Soon there were groups of people arguing everywhere. By night fall New York City was in chaos.
‘The Annoyance Epidemic’ led the evening news and people around the country watched in annoyance. “Is this really news worthy?” they asked.
For those already annoyed by the poor quality of television journalism, this was the last straw. People left their homes and took to the street to express their dissatisfaction at the state of the media, and anything else they could think of.
International news picked up on the story and renamed the situation ‘The Annoyance Pandemic’. People around the world were annoyed: “Is this all those Americans have to worry about?”
And so a wave of annoyance spread around the world.
Everywhere you looked there were people getting annoyed at other people who were getting annoyed right back. Streets were filled with people having loud and heated arguments and other people who were telling them, equally loudly, to be quiet.
People who refused to get annoyed were forced indoors. There was nowhere else to go.
After a week of heavy arguing, governments started to get annoyed. They ordered riot police to step in, but the use of rubber bullets and water cannons just made people more annoyed.
Global annoyance levels peaked on the 23rd October, 2012. On that day, eight year old Billy Gently of Glasgow was running home thinking about dinner, when he found his way blocked by a wall of angry arguers.
“What’s all this about?” Billy asked one of the group members.
The woman looked at Billy and scratched her head. “To be honest son,” the woman answered, “I don’t really know.”
The woman turned to the rest of the group, “Hey!” she yelled, “Can one of you please remind me what we’re arguing about here?”
No one could.
The group wandered off and found another group of arguers. This second group didn’t know what they were arguing about either. And so it continued.
Around the globe the tide of annoyance began to recede.
Everywhere you looked you would see: people apologising to each other for being so grumpy; people smiling again; people shaking hands and making-up.
Well, everywhere except New York City. People there were still quite cranky.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Making Money Made Easy
If I was rich things would be different. People would take notice of me. I would be able to do whatever I pleased. I would not have to worry about the mortgage. I would not have to worry about my car. I would not go to work. I would take things easy.
I wouldn’t want to be too rich though. If I was too rich I would feel bad about all the poor people in the world. If I was medium-rich I would do my bit for charity. This is more than can be said of some of the really rich people in the world today; they keep their money to themselves. Are they blind? Can’t they see that there are poor people everywhere? Sure, some of those poor people are just freeloaders, but still: they’re everywhere.
If I was rich I would do something significant to help people help themselves. If you teach a man to fish they’ll at least have fish to eat; which is better than nothing. If you’ve got fish you don’t need to freeload.
If I was rich I would start an organisation that taught freeloaders to become fisherman. Let’s face it, there’s nothing more off putting than a bunch of freeloaders hanging around when you’re trying to take the world by storm.
First I’ll take the world by storm then I’ll set-up the freeloading-fisherman organisation.
I have to do it in that order because I’ll need cash to buy fishing rods. I will need loads of fishing rods and some brands are really expensive. Having said that, freeloaders probably aren’t that fussy about what kind of fishing equipment they use.
Perhaps freeloaders should be fussier? Perhaps if they cared more about things like fishing equipment they wouldn’t be in such a predicament?
Anyway, my point is this: I am going to take the world by storm, and then I’m going to get rid of some of the couldn’t-care-less freeloaders around the place. Then, once I’ve done my bit, I can start some serious luxuriating, comfortable in the knowledge that people are eating fish because of me and my plan to take the world by storm.
I might even do a spot of fishing myself.
I wouldn’t want to be too rich though. If I was too rich I would feel bad about all the poor people in the world. If I was medium-rich I would do my bit for charity. This is more than can be said of some of the really rich people in the world today; they keep their money to themselves. Are they blind? Can’t they see that there are poor people everywhere? Sure, some of those poor people are just freeloaders, but still: they’re everywhere.
If I was rich I would do something significant to help people help themselves. If you teach a man to fish they’ll at least have fish to eat; which is better than nothing. If you’ve got fish you don’t need to freeload.
If I was rich I would start an organisation that taught freeloaders to become fisherman. Let’s face it, there’s nothing more off putting than a bunch of freeloaders hanging around when you’re trying to take the world by storm.
First I’ll take the world by storm then I’ll set-up the freeloading-fisherman organisation.
I have to do it in that order because I’ll need cash to buy fishing rods. I will need loads of fishing rods and some brands are really expensive. Having said that, freeloaders probably aren’t that fussy about what kind of fishing equipment they use.
Perhaps freeloaders should be fussier? Perhaps if they cared more about things like fishing equipment they wouldn’t be in such a predicament?
Anyway, my point is this: I am going to take the world by storm, and then I’m going to get rid of some of the couldn’t-care-less freeloaders around the place. Then, once I’ve done my bit, I can start some serious luxuriating, comfortable in the knowledge that people are eating fish because of me and my plan to take the world by storm.
I might even do a spot of fishing myself.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
The Retreat
Zoe likes to feel that she's done some physical activity to earn her relaxation which is why she loves yoga retreats.
It had been months since our last retreat. Zoe was getting really tense at work. She came home one day and told me that she had snapped at a co-worker. The next day I rang the retreat and made a booking.
The man on the end of the phone took our details.
“And will you be arriving by car, sir?” he asked.
I confirmed that we would be.
“Would you very much mind picking up a fellow retreat participant? Allan is stuck without a car. I’m sure he will be no bother.”
I hesitated. I had thought that the drive to the retreat would be a good time for Zoe and me to catch up. So it was with some reluctance that I agreed to the request.
Zoe was thrilled when I told her that I’d booked the trip. She arranged leave and bought herself some comfortable clothing. She seemed happier at the thought of going away, and I felt very pleased that I’d arranged it.
The day of the retreat came. We slept in and picked up our fellow retreater in the afternoon. He was an unusual chap, not the kind of person you’d expect to find on a retreat; he was quite a tight person and seemed very serious.
As we drove, Zoe and I tried to make polite conversation with our passenger, but it went nowhere.
It was quiet in the car, too quiet really; until Allan said:
“Truck drivers are 91% more likely to have beards than other members of the driving population.”
Zoe and I laughed. This was more like it, we thought.
Zoe quipped back, “Does that include women?”
Allan’s reply made it clear that his observation was no joke.
“Yes, of course, the study included all truck drivers, regardless of gender.”
Zoe and I exchanged glances. What study, we wondered. But we didn’t say anything.
After that we couldn’t shut Allan up. He had a statistic for everything. Some of the statistics, well most of them actually, seemed to be aimed at women. Some even seemed to be aimed at Zoe:
Women whose names start with the letter ‘Z’ are 12.3% less likely to be married at the age of 37.
Women who do yoga are 83% more likely to suffer from a relationship breakdown in their mid-forties.
Women who wear loose fitting garments are 36% more likely to let a major illness go undiagnosed.
It was a bit much. I wanted Allan to shut-up but I couldn’t think of a way of stopping him without being incredibly rude.
Finally, in desperation, I suggested that we pull over and have dinner at a salad bar.
Allan said, “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Salad was a contributing factor in 56% of the food poisoning cases reported in the past year.”
We drove on.
Zoe was upset I could feel it. Like I said, she’d been under an enormous amount of pressure at work and she just wanted to relax.
It was with a sense of relief that we drove up the retreat’s long unsealed driveway.
It was dark when we got out of the car and the sky was a sea of stars. Allan was saying something about women’s inability to name the constellations being 25.6% less than men's when Zoe finally snapped.
She turned on Allan and said, “Life is not just about facts and figures, you know. Life is for living. How much better would your life be if you just relaxed and enjoyed it?”
Allan didn’t bat an eyelid, “Approximately 73%,” he replied “I’ll give you an exact number tomorrow at breakfast if you like?”
Zoe froze. I thought she was going to thump Allan, and to be honest I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. But she didn’t. She started to laugh. She laughed like I hadn’t heard her laugh in months.
When she finally regained her composure she took Allan’s hand, shook it, and said. “See you at breakfast.”
It had been months since our last retreat. Zoe was getting really tense at work. She came home one day and told me that she had snapped at a co-worker. The next day I rang the retreat and made a booking.
The man on the end of the phone took our details.
“And will you be arriving by car, sir?” he asked.
I confirmed that we would be.
“Would you very much mind picking up a fellow retreat participant? Allan is stuck without a car. I’m sure he will be no bother.”
I hesitated. I had thought that the drive to the retreat would be a good time for Zoe and me to catch up. So it was with some reluctance that I agreed to the request.
Zoe was thrilled when I told her that I’d booked the trip. She arranged leave and bought herself some comfortable clothing. She seemed happier at the thought of going away, and I felt very pleased that I’d arranged it.
The day of the retreat came. We slept in and picked up our fellow retreater in the afternoon. He was an unusual chap, not the kind of person you’d expect to find on a retreat; he was quite a tight person and seemed very serious.
As we drove, Zoe and I tried to make polite conversation with our passenger, but it went nowhere.
It was quiet in the car, too quiet really; until Allan said:
“Truck drivers are 91% more likely to have beards than other members of the driving population.”
Zoe and I laughed. This was more like it, we thought.
Zoe quipped back, “Does that include women?”
Allan’s reply made it clear that his observation was no joke.
“Yes, of course, the study included all truck drivers, regardless of gender.”
Zoe and I exchanged glances. What study, we wondered. But we didn’t say anything.
After that we couldn’t shut Allan up. He had a statistic for everything. Some of the statistics, well most of them actually, seemed to be aimed at women. Some even seemed to be aimed at Zoe:
Women whose names start with the letter ‘Z’ are 12.3% less likely to be married at the age of 37.
Women who do yoga are 83% more likely to suffer from a relationship breakdown in their mid-forties.
Women who wear loose fitting garments are 36% more likely to let a major illness go undiagnosed.
It was a bit much. I wanted Allan to shut-up but I couldn’t think of a way of stopping him without being incredibly rude.
Finally, in desperation, I suggested that we pull over and have dinner at a salad bar.
Allan said, “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Salad was a contributing factor in 56% of the food poisoning cases reported in the past year.”
We drove on.
Zoe was upset I could feel it. Like I said, she’d been under an enormous amount of pressure at work and she just wanted to relax.
It was with a sense of relief that we drove up the retreat’s long unsealed driveway.
It was dark when we got out of the car and the sky was a sea of stars. Allan was saying something about women’s inability to name the constellations being 25.6% less than men's when Zoe finally snapped.
She turned on Allan and said, “Life is not just about facts and figures, you know. Life is for living. How much better would your life be if you just relaxed and enjoyed it?”
Allan didn’t bat an eyelid, “Approximately 73%,” he replied “I’ll give you an exact number tomorrow at breakfast if you like?”
Zoe froze. I thought she was going to thump Allan, and to be honest I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. But she didn’t. She started to laugh. She laughed like I hadn’t heard her laugh in months.
When she finally regained her composure she took Allan’s hand, shook it, and said. “See you at breakfast.”
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
Recognition
Joel lined up with the other marathoners and waited for the starter’s pistol.
He had trained for months for this race. For months he had been getting out bed at 5.30 in the morning.
His wife had kept him going, the thought of his wife; it was the thought of the look she would give him once he’d completed the race. She would be proud of him, he knew it.
Finishing that race would show her that he was still strong, he still had fight in him, he still had life in him. She would see who he really was - who he was on the inside - and she would fall in love with him again.
The starter fired his pistol, and Joel ran.
Joel ran with heart. He ran with passion. He ran as if his life depended on it.
Joel ran the whole race as if he were running towards his waiting wife. At the end of the race he ran across the finish line and seized her in his arms.
She didn’t have the look that he had hoped for.
She was pleased for him, of course. She handed him a towel and a bottle of water and told him that he’d made good time.
Joel took the bottle of water.
He hadn’t done it for her, he realised.
He’d been running for himself, running for the feeling that he could be someone to be proud of.
Joel might have cried a little bit on the way home, but he was okay. In fact he was better than okay: he was alive.
He had trained for months for this race. For months he had been getting out bed at 5.30 in the morning.
His wife had kept him going, the thought of his wife; it was the thought of the look she would give him once he’d completed the race. She would be proud of him, he knew it.
Finishing that race would show her that he was still strong, he still had fight in him, he still had life in him. She would see who he really was - who he was on the inside - and she would fall in love with him again.
The starter fired his pistol, and Joel ran.
Joel ran with heart. He ran with passion. He ran as if his life depended on it.
Joel ran the whole race as if he were running towards his waiting wife. At the end of the race he ran across the finish line and seized her in his arms.
She didn’t have the look that he had hoped for.
She was pleased for him, of course. She handed him a towel and a bottle of water and told him that he’d made good time.
Joel took the bottle of water.
He hadn’t done it for her, he realised.
He’d been running for himself, running for the feeling that he could be someone to be proud of.
Joel might have cried a little bit on the way home, but he was okay. In fact he was better than okay: he was alive.
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