I woke and you weren’t there.
Memories remain
of last night’s play,
last night’s love.
Night’s elation,
morning’s despair;
words spoken solely for their sound?
It’s easier to make a bed
than a meaningful relationship.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Hancock, Secombe, Sid and Ken.
Commentary
Terry Johnson takes well known, real characters and places them in plausible, realistic situations. Although fictional, Cleo, Camping, Emmanuelle and Dick is based upon fact and a truthful and accurate depiction of the principal characters. It is firmly planted in real time and place. My first issue was to produce a pastiche that takes real characters and gives realistic yet humorous dialogue while being true to their character and maintaining pace and tension. I wanted to be as engaging as the original and retain elements of conflict.
My first task was to read Johnson’s plays and research his subjects; Williams, James and Carry On films. I learnt that James and Williams worked on Tony Hancock’s radio series before Hancock suffered a breakdown and didn’t record first three episodes of the second series. This situation gave me character, subject and setting in the same way that Johnson’s used the films. I simply had to research the period for context and historical accuracy.
I wanted to reflect Johnson’s use of period language, characterisations, themes and minimal stage directions. An example of idiomatic language is Sid’s “Gawd strewth” (Johnson (1998:48–my script:1); minimal directions, “laughs like a machine gun” (28-3). I wanted to maintain themes; Sid’s gambling, womanising, growing homophobia and money borrowing and Ken’s piles and, although illegal and more covert outside the safety of theatre life, homosexuality.
My final strategy was to maintain Johnson’s comedic dialogue and introduce tension not solely between characters but additionally from Sid’s concern with the telephone.
Bibliography
Campbell, Mark (2005) Carry on Films: Harpenden, Pocket Essentials.
Davies, Russell (editor) (1995) The Kenneth Williams Letters: London, Harper Collins.
Goodwin, Cliff (1995) Sid James: Padstow, Magna Books.
Johnson, Terry (1998) Cleo, Camping, Emmanuelle and Dick: London, Methuen.
Johnson, Terry (1991) Imagine Drowning: London, Methuen.
Johnson, Terry (1994) Dead Funny: London, Methuen.
Johnson, Terry (2007) Hitchcock Blonde: London, Methuen
Stop Messing About Limited. Stop Messing About, A Kenneth Williams Extravaganza: Michael Kingsbury. Curve Theatre 16 Feb 2010 – 20 Feb 2010.
Wandor, Michelene (2008) The Art of Writing Drama – Theory and Practice: London, Methuen Drama.
Williams, Kenneth (1999) The Complete Acid Drops: London, Orion Books.
Word count 250. (excluding title and bibliography)
Hancock, Secombe, Sid and Ken.
Act One - A Holiday in France
Sunday 17th April 1955. A small BBC “green-room” with a couple of settees, kitchen table, chairs, stove and kettle. There is a door stage left and coat-stand beside the door. Sid, broad-featured, big-nosed and forty two years old is talking into a coin-operated wall telephone.
Sid Yes, about twenty knicker. ... Is it? Twenty-six pounds seventeen and six. ... Why not give me another two pounds, two and a tanner credit; make it a round thirty quid? ... No need to be like that.
Puts down phone, sits at table and reads script.
Ken (From off) Bonjour tout le monde. ‘Tis I. Here to entertain and make you laugh. (Enter Ken through door stage left: taller than Sid, fine-featured and aquiline nose ) Oh, it’s only you.
Sid And good morning to you, too.
Ken I thought everyone would be here gossiping away, catching up on the past few months’ separation. Talking of recent successes, future dreams. But no, there’s only dear old Sidney here.
Sid Gawd strewth. I’ve missed you like I’d miss my mother-in-law.
Ken Charming.
Sid Everyone’s in a meeting. There’s a problem.
Ken Oooooooh! I hope it’s a hard one. I do like a hard one – problem that is. (Laughs).
Sid reads, Ken hangs coat on coat-stand. He is holding a package.
Ken What’s the title? This week’s show, what’s it called?
Sid A holiday in France.
Ken Have I got a big part?
Sid I’ve no idea and no wish to find out.
Ken Cheeky.
Opens package - produces ladies head-scarf.
Sid Suits you.
Ken No, it’s not mine. It’s for Moira.
Sid That’s nice. Moira’s not here.
Ken I’ll give it to her later.
Sid Much later. She’s landed a part in “The Deep Blue Sea” and not signed for the second series.
Ken Bless my soul. You mean the film adaptation of Terry Rattigan’s play? Lucky Moira.
Sid I’ve got a part in it as well.
Ken Lucky, lucky Moira. Who’s replacing her?
Sid Andree Melly. She’s good and very pretty, had a part with me in Belles of St Trin’s.
Ken Your part is the scourge of all actresses.
Sid You merry quipper, you.
Ken You should keep your flies done up. Save your brain catching cold.
Sid Have you been rehearsing that ad-lib all winter?
Ken You’re the sort of swine who gets a girl drunk first.
Sid It’ll be bloody stupid to get her drunk after.
Ken tries to read Sid’s script
Sid Oi, hop-it. Get your own.
Ken Keep your hair on, luvvie.
Sid Don’t luvvie me or I’ll give you what for. I’ve been in forty five films. I’m a serious actor. One-take-James they call me on set.
Ken I’ve been in five films and I’ve played the Dauphine in GBS’s St Joan to great critical acclaim. I should play Shakespeare. (Overacting) “I’ll have grounds more relative than this – the play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.”
Sid If you played Shakespeare, you’d win.
Ken And your money would be backing the loser.
Sid Ouch, that’s below the belt.
Ken That’s your usual target. Your money goes on fast women and slow ponies.
Sid Now we’re talking money, could you lend me a few bob?
Ken That reminds me. You still owe me seventeen shillings and nine pence from last year.
Sid If you lend me twenty-nine pounds two shillings and thr’pence it’ll make it a round amount.
Ken Thirty quid! That’s over three weeks’ fees.
Sid I need to pay my Accountant.
Ken Turf Accountant I’ll wager. (laughs)
Sid Very funny.
Telephone rings
Sid (aside) That’s great timing. Just what I need. (To Ken) NO! DON’T! Don’t answer it. It’s not for us.
Ken No, we must. It might be something important.
Sid It’s not. It’s nothing important. It’s not for me, for us, for you.
Ken How do you know?
Sid Because (phone stops ringing). It’s stopped ringing, it can’t have been important. If it was important they’d have let it ring.
Ken Yes, no, yes. You’ve got me all of a dither. I’ve never been so dithered. (over-acting) “Perchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him. ”
Sid Donne?
Ken I have been (laughs his machine-gun laugh ).
Ken This meeting - the one that everyone’s involved in apart from us - it’s taking a long time.
Sid Tony’s not here.
Ken I can see that, I’m neither feebly sighted nor stupid.
Sid (aside) Who’s been spreading unsubstantiated rumours? (to Ken) Tony’s not coming.
Ken He should take himself in hand then (laughs)
Sid No, it’s serious. He’s run out on “Talk of the Town”. Just left the Adelphi and had it away on his toes. Hylton’s furious, withdrawn permission for him to work for Auntie.
Ken Where does that leave us? No Hancock, no “Hancock’s Half Hour”. There goes that holiday I promised Lou. That takes the biscuit. When I say biscuit I don’t mean your ordinary, common-or-garden Rich Tea. No I mean the king of biscuits, the regal Empire. It’s been taken, snatched from our grasp before we’ve had the chance to savour the first morsel on our expectant lips.
Sid Don’t be such a fatalist.
Ken I’m not. I’ve never collected stamps in my life.
Sid I’ve heard they’ve recruited someone to read Hancock’s part.
Ken Someone else. Let me borrow your pen. (He writes)
Sid What are you doing?
Ken Asking Gault and Simpson to give me some extra lines. Now Tony’s not here I might be able to build up my part.
Sid You’re all heart you are. Tony’s troubled and all you do is think about your part.
Ken That’s ‘cause I’m a professional.
Sid Professional as a prostitute. Quite happy to roger everyone.
Ken You’re a fine one to talk. Look after number one, that’s my motto.
Sid reads, Ken writes
Ken I hope they’ve got a big name to read for Hancock. Perhaps an American. Ooooooooh, I read in The People that Bob Hope’s in England at the moment. Perhaps Main-Wilson’s got him. Have you ever worked with Bob Hope?
Sid No, but I’ve worked with his brother.
Ken I didn’t know he had a brother.
Sid Yes, No Hope.
Ken (laugh) Where did you work with him?
Sid At the Hall.
Ken Which Hall, the Albert Hall?
Sid No, bugger ‘all.
Ken Who writes your material, Aristotle?
Sid I’ll Aristotle you in a minute.
Ken Don’t be codd .
Sid And you can stop that. None of your nancy natter here. You can keep that to yourselves in your cottages or wherever you all live.
Ken As you like. This omi-palone’s dish down and vada le Script
Sid I’m warning you. I’ll give you a bunch of fives to your hooter or put my boot up your dish.
Ken No, don’t be like that. Let’s not get too rough.
Sid sits in a settee and lights a cigar, Ken sits at table, reads script and smokes a cigarette.
Ken They’ve done it again. My part’s not been given a name. They just refer to me as.... All I crave is a part with a name but what do I get? I’ll tell you what I get. Mistreated, I’m an artiste and all I get referred to in the script is...
Sid Snide
Ken Yes, Snide.
Sid And my character’s called Sid.
Ken No need to rub it in. Oh, the injustice of life. Some people are habitually fortunate, I’m fortunate the days my haemorrhoids shrink to the size of Hampshire. I’m a martyr to my piles...
Telephone rings
Sid Saved by the bell.
Ken gets up
Sid No, don’t answer it.
Ken (picking up phone) Too late. (Into receiver in pompous voice) Good morning, Kenneth Charles Williams here. Who’s speaking?... (camp voice) Oh hello, how are you? ... Yes, so I believe. ... Oh bona, bona. (Pompous voice) Lieutenant Sidney James, star of nearly 50 films, one time South African and now a bone-fide Londoner, yes he’s here.
Sid is agitated and making signs to Ken indicating he’s to tell the person on the telephone that he’s not in the room.
Ken Really... No... You don’t say. Goodness me... Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs... Yes I’ll tell him... Good bye and thank you for calling... Do call again. Love to your Mother.
Ken puts down phone, sits down and continues reading the script.
Sid Well?
Ken Oh yes, I’m very well thank you.
Sid No. I mean, WELL?
Ken Well, what?
Sid Gordon Bennett, give me strength. I’ll swing for you if you carry on like this. Who was on the blower?
Ken I’m glad you’ve asked me that. I’ve just had an interesting conversation.
Sid So make me interested. Tell me...
Ken It was your friend, ... Dennis Main-Wilson.
Sid breathes a sigh of relief.
Ken He’s sending Hancock’s understudy down to meet us; should be here in two of shakes of a lamb’s tail.
Sid Will he? Who is it?
Ken Harry Secombe.
Sid Blimey O’Reilly. He’s that short, fat Welshman who had a shaving, sweating and farting act just after the war. Gawd help us.
Ken I don’t remember that. I know him from the radio; plays Ned Seagoon in the Goon Show.
Sid Goon Show, don’t think I’ve listened to it.
Ken You must be one of the very few who haven’t. You’ve probably been too busy with your hectic filming schedule to listen to the radio. ... Or too busy chasing ponies and fillies.
Sid (Ignoring him) Tell me about our new principal lead.
The telephone rings again. Both characters are startled. Sid reacts quickest and picks up then returns the receiver to the cradle. This stops the bell.
Sid So tell me about Harry.
Ken The Goon Show’s mainly written by Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers and they just play most of the junior characters. Story-lines are all centred around Secombe.
Ken realises Sid is giving him his full attention and now begins to act to his new audience.
Ken (Professorial voice) Neddie is a gullible but honest idiot who would lay down his life for his country. A lot of the humour is surreal and relies upon catch-phrases - (funny voices) “He’s fallen in the water.” “Needle, nardle, noo.” “What, what, what, what, what.”
Sid’s hands go to his head
Sid Oh my giddy Aunt. What are we in for?
Ken (snide voice) It gets even better. (funny voices) “I don’t wish to know that.” “Nurse the screens.” “Hello folks.” “We’ll all be murdered in our beds.”
Sid And these are the lines delivered by contemporary comedians. Gawd help us all.
Ken It’s only their characters. I’m sure Harry isn’t like that in real life.
Sid I bloody well hope not. Could you imagine working with a short, fat, sweating, farting Welshman who goes around reciting catch-phrases?
Ken Frightful thought.
There is a knock at the door
Ken/Sid Come in.
F/O Loud footsteps another knock on the door.
Ken/Sid Come in.
Door opens. Slight pause.
Secombe (F/O) Hello folks. What, what, what, what, what. I didn’t wish to know that. Raspberry.
Telephone rings.
Curtain
Word Count 1992 excluding title and endnotes.
Terry Johnson takes well known, real characters and places them in plausible, realistic situations. Although fictional, Cleo, Camping, Emmanuelle and Dick is based upon fact and a truthful and accurate depiction of the principal characters. It is firmly planted in real time and place. My first issue was to produce a pastiche that takes real characters and gives realistic yet humorous dialogue while being true to their character and maintaining pace and tension. I wanted to be as engaging as the original and retain elements of conflict.
My first task was to read Johnson’s plays and research his subjects; Williams, James and Carry On films. I learnt that James and Williams worked on Tony Hancock’s radio series before Hancock suffered a breakdown and didn’t record first three episodes of the second series. This situation gave me character, subject and setting in the same way that Johnson’s used the films. I simply had to research the period for context and historical accuracy.
I wanted to reflect Johnson’s use of period language, characterisations, themes and minimal stage directions. An example of idiomatic language is Sid’s “Gawd strewth” (Johnson (1998:48–my script:1); minimal directions, “laughs like a machine gun” (28-3). I wanted to maintain themes; Sid’s gambling, womanising, growing homophobia and money borrowing and Ken’s piles and, although illegal and more covert outside the safety of theatre life, homosexuality.
My final strategy was to maintain Johnson’s comedic dialogue and introduce tension not solely between characters but additionally from Sid’s concern with the telephone.
Bibliography
Campbell, Mark (2005) Carry on Films: Harpenden, Pocket Essentials.
Davies, Russell (editor) (1995) The Kenneth Williams Letters: London, Harper Collins.
Goodwin, Cliff (1995) Sid James: Padstow, Magna Books.
Johnson, Terry (1998) Cleo, Camping, Emmanuelle and Dick: London, Methuen.
Johnson, Terry (1991) Imagine Drowning: London, Methuen.
Johnson, Terry (1994) Dead Funny: London, Methuen.
Johnson, Terry (2007) Hitchcock Blonde: London, Methuen
Stop Messing About Limited. Stop Messing About, A Kenneth Williams Extravaganza: Michael Kingsbury. Curve Theatre 16 Feb 2010 – 20 Feb 2010.
Wandor, Michelene (2008) The Art of Writing Drama – Theory and Practice: London, Methuen Drama.
Williams, Kenneth (1999) The Complete Acid Drops: London, Orion Books.
Word count 250. (excluding title and bibliography)
Hancock, Secombe, Sid and Ken.
Act One - A Holiday in France
Sunday 17th April 1955. A small BBC “green-room” with a couple of settees, kitchen table, chairs, stove and kettle. There is a door stage left and coat-stand beside the door. Sid, broad-featured, big-nosed and forty two years old is talking into a coin-operated wall telephone.
Sid Yes, about twenty knicker. ... Is it? Twenty-six pounds seventeen and six. ... Why not give me another two pounds, two and a tanner credit; make it a round thirty quid? ... No need to be like that.
Puts down phone, sits at table and reads script.
Ken (From off) Bonjour tout le monde. ‘Tis I. Here to entertain and make you laugh. (Enter Ken through door stage left: taller than Sid, fine-featured and aquiline nose ) Oh, it’s only you.
Sid And good morning to you, too.
Ken I thought everyone would be here gossiping away, catching up on the past few months’ separation. Talking of recent successes, future dreams. But no, there’s only dear old Sidney here.
Sid Gawd strewth. I’ve missed you like I’d miss my mother-in-law.
Ken Charming.
Sid Everyone’s in a meeting. There’s a problem.
Ken Oooooooh! I hope it’s a hard one. I do like a hard one – problem that is. (Laughs).
Sid reads, Ken hangs coat on coat-stand. He is holding a package.
Ken What’s the title? This week’s show, what’s it called?
Sid A holiday in France.
Ken Have I got a big part?
Sid I’ve no idea and no wish to find out.
Ken Cheeky.
Opens package - produces ladies head-scarf.
Sid Suits you.
Ken No, it’s not mine. It’s for Moira.
Sid That’s nice. Moira’s not here.
Ken I’ll give it to her later.
Sid Much later. She’s landed a part in “The Deep Blue Sea” and not signed for the second series.
Ken Bless my soul. You mean the film adaptation of Terry Rattigan’s play? Lucky Moira.
Sid I’ve got a part in it as well.
Ken Lucky, lucky Moira. Who’s replacing her?
Sid Andree Melly. She’s good and very pretty, had a part with me in Belles of St Trin’s.
Ken Your part is the scourge of all actresses.
Sid You merry quipper, you.
Ken You should keep your flies done up. Save your brain catching cold.
Sid Have you been rehearsing that ad-lib all winter?
Ken You’re the sort of swine who gets a girl drunk first.
Sid It’ll be bloody stupid to get her drunk after.
Ken tries to read Sid’s script
Sid Oi, hop-it. Get your own.
Ken Keep your hair on, luvvie.
Sid Don’t luvvie me or I’ll give you what for. I’ve been in forty five films. I’m a serious actor. One-take-James they call me on set.
Ken I’ve been in five films and I’ve played the Dauphine in GBS’s St Joan to great critical acclaim. I should play Shakespeare. (Overacting) “I’ll have grounds more relative than this – the play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.”
Sid If you played Shakespeare, you’d win.
Ken And your money would be backing the loser.
Sid Ouch, that’s below the belt.
Ken That’s your usual target. Your money goes on fast women and slow ponies.
Sid Now we’re talking money, could you lend me a few bob?
Ken That reminds me. You still owe me seventeen shillings and nine pence from last year.
Sid If you lend me twenty-nine pounds two shillings and thr’pence it’ll make it a round amount.
Ken Thirty quid! That’s over three weeks’ fees.
Sid I need to pay my Accountant.
Ken Turf Accountant I’ll wager. (laughs)
Sid Very funny.
Telephone rings
Sid (aside) That’s great timing. Just what I need. (To Ken) NO! DON’T! Don’t answer it. It’s not for us.
Ken No, we must. It might be something important.
Sid It’s not. It’s nothing important. It’s not for me, for us, for you.
Ken How do you know?
Sid Because (phone stops ringing). It’s stopped ringing, it can’t have been important. If it was important they’d have let it ring.
Ken Yes, no, yes. You’ve got me all of a dither. I’ve never been so dithered. (over-acting) “Perchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him. ”
Sid Donne?
Ken I have been (laughs his machine-gun laugh ).
Ken This meeting - the one that everyone’s involved in apart from us - it’s taking a long time.
Sid Tony’s not here.
Ken I can see that, I’m neither feebly sighted nor stupid.
Sid (aside) Who’s been spreading unsubstantiated rumours? (to Ken) Tony’s not coming.
Ken He should take himself in hand then (laughs)
Sid No, it’s serious. He’s run out on “Talk of the Town”. Just left the Adelphi and had it away on his toes. Hylton’s furious, withdrawn permission for him to work for Auntie.
Ken Where does that leave us? No Hancock, no “Hancock’s Half Hour”. There goes that holiday I promised Lou. That takes the biscuit. When I say biscuit I don’t mean your ordinary, common-or-garden Rich Tea. No I mean the king of biscuits, the regal Empire. It’s been taken, snatched from our grasp before we’ve had the chance to savour the first morsel on our expectant lips.
Sid Don’t be such a fatalist.
Ken I’m not. I’ve never collected stamps in my life.
Sid I’ve heard they’ve recruited someone to read Hancock’s part.
Ken Someone else. Let me borrow your pen. (He writes)
Sid What are you doing?
Ken Asking Gault and Simpson to give me some extra lines. Now Tony’s not here I might be able to build up my part.
Sid You’re all heart you are. Tony’s troubled and all you do is think about your part.
Ken That’s ‘cause I’m a professional.
Sid Professional as a prostitute. Quite happy to roger everyone.
Ken You’re a fine one to talk. Look after number one, that’s my motto.
Sid reads, Ken writes
Ken I hope they’ve got a big name to read for Hancock. Perhaps an American. Ooooooooh, I read in The People that Bob Hope’s in England at the moment. Perhaps Main-Wilson’s got him. Have you ever worked with Bob Hope?
Sid No, but I’ve worked with his brother.
Ken I didn’t know he had a brother.
Sid Yes, No Hope.
Ken (laugh) Where did you work with him?
Sid At the Hall.
Ken Which Hall, the Albert Hall?
Sid No, bugger ‘all.
Ken Who writes your material, Aristotle?
Sid I’ll Aristotle you in a minute.
Ken Don’t be codd .
Sid And you can stop that. None of your nancy natter here. You can keep that to yourselves in your cottages or wherever you all live.
Ken As you like. This omi-palone’s dish down and vada le Script
Sid I’m warning you. I’ll give you a bunch of fives to your hooter or put my boot up your dish.
Ken No, don’t be like that. Let’s not get too rough.
Sid sits in a settee and lights a cigar, Ken sits at table, reads script and smokes a cigarette.
Ken They’ve done it again. My part’s not been given a name. They just refer to me as.... All I crave is a part with a name but what do I get? I’ll tell you what I get. Mistreated, I’m an artiste and all I get referred to in the script is...
Sid Snide
Ken Yes, Snide.
Sid And my character’s called Sid.
Ken No need to rub it in. Oh, the injustice of life. Some people are habitually fortunate, I’m fortunate the days my haemorrhoids shrink to the size of Hampshire. I’m a martyr to my piles...
Telephone rings
Sid Saved by the bell.
Ken gets up
Sid No, don’t answer it.
Ken (picking up phone) Too late. (Into receiver in pompous voice) Good morning, Kenneth Charles Williams here. Who’s speaking?... (camp voice) Oh hello, how are you? ... Yes, so I believe. ... Oh bona, bona. (Pompous voice) Lieutenant Sidney James, star of nearly 50 films, one time South African and now a bone-fide Londoner, yes he’s here.
Sid is agitated and making signs to Ken indicating he’s to tell the person on the telephone that he’s not in the room.
Ken Really... No... You don’t say. Goodness me... Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs... Yes I’ll tell him... Good bye and thank you for calling... Do call again. Love to your Mother.
Ken puts down phone, sits down and continues reading the script.
Sid Well?
Ken Oh yes, I’m very well thank you.
Sid No. I mean, WELL?
Ken Well, what?
Sid Gordon Bennett, give me strength. I’ll swing for you if you carry on like this. Who was on the blower?
Ken I’m glad you’ve asked me that. I’ve just had an interesting conversation.
Sid So make me interested. Tell me...
Ken It was your friend, ... Dennis Main-Wilson.
Sid breathes a sigh of relief.
Ken He’s sending Hancock’s understudy down to meet us; should be here in two of shakes of a lamb’s tail.
Sid Will he? Who is it?
Ken Harry Secombe.
Sid Blimey O’Reilly. He’s that short, fat Welshman who had a shaving, sweating and farting act just after the war. Gawd help us.
Ken I don’t remember that. I know him from the radio; plays Ned Seagoon in the Goon Show.
Sid Goon Show, don’t think I’ve listened to it.
Ken You must be one of the very few who haven’t. You’ve probably been too busy with your hectic filming schedule to listen to the radio. ... Or too busy chasing ponies and fillies.
Sid (Ignoring him) Tell me about our new principal lead.
The telephone rings again. Both characters are startled. Sid reacts quickest and picks up then returns the receiver to the cradle. This stops the bell.
Sid So tell me about Harry.
Ken The Goon Show’s mainly written by Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers and they just play most of the junior characters. Story-lines are all centred around Secombe.
Ken realises Sid is giving him his full attention and now begins to act to his new audience.
Ken (Professorial voice) Neddie is a gullible but honest idiot who would lay down his life for his country. A lot of the humour is surreal and relies upon catch-phrases - (funny voices) “He’s fallen in the water.” “Needle, nardle, noo.” “What, what, what, what, what.”
Sid’s hands go to his head
Sid Oh my giddy Aunt. What are we in for?
Ken (snide voice) It gets even better. (funny voices) “I don’t wish to know that.” “Nurse the screens.” “Hello folks.” “We’ll all be murdered in our beds.”
Sid And these are the lines delivered by contemporary comedians. Gawd help us all.
Ken It’s only their characters. I’m sure Harry isn’t like that in real life.
Sid I bloody well hope not. Could you imagine working with a short, fat, sweating, farting Welshman who goes around reciting catch-phrases?
Ken Frightful thought.
There is a knock at the door
Ken/Sid Come in.
F/O Loud footsteps another knock on the door.
Ken/Sid Come in.
Door opens. Slight pause.
Secombe (F/O) Hello folks. What, what, what, what, what. I didn’t wish to know that. Raspberry.
Telephone rings.
Curtain
Word Count 1992 excluding title and endnotes.
PORTFOLIO
Reflection -
Clephan 3.01, 11:05am Monday - spring term 2011. Smattering of students are seated in auditorium. Lecturer and Gary (mature student wearing jeans and jacket) stand at the lectern.
Gary Hi, I don’t know if I’m a sophomore but I’m certainly a second year.
Lecturer laughs
Lecturer Come in. No handouts, sorry.
They walk in front of the lectern.
Gary It’s in three parts; a new short item, a drastically edited piece and a reflection. I’ll start by looking at the new piece.
Lecturer So did I. (Randomly pushing buttons)
Gary What about this? (Screen illuminates )
Lecturer What did you do?
Unfortunately, I had no idea how to tackle the task. I wanted the poem to be thin yet legible to those with strong eyesight or a magnifying glass. I visited the computer lab in Clephan and found out I could draw a squiggle with “tools palette” and write on this with “Path” text . A gradient effect recreated a realistic change of colour. The hair was thin enough but not long enough; the solution was to repeat the poem. This was printed onto a new pillowcase and I was left with the task of photographing it. I sought the advice of Dr Perril . He suggested my work was a “sight specific poem.”A student enters, sits in front row.
Gary I’m currently considering the potential commercialism of pillow poetry. Any Questions?
Audience 1 What about the reflection?
Gary What do you normally do?
Audience 1 Leave it to the last minute and write unimaginative rubbish.
Gary And if I tell you another way?
Audience 1 I’ll still leave it to the last minute and write rubbish.
Gary In that case, that’s what I recommend you do.
Audience 2 What’s a sophomore?
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Adeney A. (2007) So Scary! London. Franklin Watts.
Ahlberg A. (2001) Chickens in the Snow. Middlesex Puffin Books.
Astley N. (1988) Poetry with an Edge. Newcastle Upon Tyne. Bloodaxe Books.
Cassidy A. (2004) A Bunch of Balloons. London. Franklin Watts.
Cassidy A.(2008)Wizzard Gold. London Wayland.
Doyle M. and Parsons G. (2007) The Football Ghosts. London . Egmont UK Ltd.
Duranta A. and Mason S. (2007) Froggy went a Hopping. London. Evans Brothers Ltd..
French V. (1999) Iggy Pig at the Seaside. London. Hodder Children’s Books.
Gardner C. (2007) Turn off the Telly! London. Evans Brothers Ltd.
Gowar M. (2008) Finn and the Magic Goat. London. Wayland.
Harvey D. (2005) A Band of Dirty Pirates. London. Franklin Watts.
Hunter M. (1976) Talent is not Enough. London. Harper & Row.
Jordan L. (1998) How to write for Children – and get published. Great Britain. Piatkus.
Magee W. and Burnett J. (2007) The Three Billy Goats Gruff. London. Franklin Watts.
Moore M. (2007) The Magic Word. London. Franklin Watts.
Rampersad A. (Editor) (1995) The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes. USA. Vintage Books.
Roberts D. (2003 first published 2002) Dirty Birtie. London Little Tiger Press.
Shepard A. (2000) The Business of Writing for Children. Los Angeles. Shepard Publications.
Strachan L. (2008) Writing for Children. London. A & C Black.
Strand M. and Bolande E. (2001) The Making of a Poem – A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms. London , Norton and CO.
Wildman E. (Editor) (1969) Anthology of Concretism: USA. Chicago Review.
Williams E (Editor) (1967) Anthology of Concrete Poetry. New York. Something Else Press.
Word count: 994 words excluding title, bibliography and footnotes.
Chloe’s Great Idea
Page - Picture: Chloe is standing with her arms folded. In her arms is her favorite toy.
Page - Chloe’s brother Paul often takes her toys. Sometimes he hides them.
Picture: Chloe is pulling drawers open and searching for something. Paul is watching her. He has a sinister smile and a toy hidden behind his back.
Page - Sometimes he watches them fly as he flings them in the apple tree. Sometimes he watches them swim when he slings them in the pond.
Double page picture: Paul is about to throw a toy. There are toys in the tree and pond.
Page - And sometimes he just buries them.
Picture: Paul is burying another toy.
Page - Chloe told Mummy but Paul always said it wasn’t him. “I didn’t take her toys. They flew into the trees by themselves.”
Picture: Mummy is talking to Paul. He looks innocent. He has a voice bubble, “They flew into the trees by themselves.”
Page - Chloe’s favourite toy was a rag-doll called Vengie. She loved her and looked after her very carefully. Paul thought Vengie might like to go swimming or learn to fly.
Double page picture: Chloe is clutching the rag-doll tightly. Paul is trying to take it from her.
Page - “How can I stop Paul taking my toys?” thought Chloe. “Perhaps cover him with bread and tie him to a tree so birds would peck him?” But she didn’t have any bread.
Double page picture: Chloe is thinking. She is holding half a loaf. Inside the thought bubble, Paul is tied to a tree and big birds are pecking at him.
Page - “Dunk him in the pond?” But she didn’t have a ducking-stool.
Picture: Chloe is thinking. In the thought bubble Paul is sitting on his bottom in a shallow pond. He is covered in pondweed and a frog is on his head.
Page - “Dig a hole and bury him right up to his neck?” But she didn’t have a spade.
Picture: Chloe has her hands folded across her chest. She is thinking. In the thought bubble Pauls head is sticking out of the ground.
Page - And then she had an idea. It was one of those special ideas that made the hairs on her arms tickle.
Picture: Chloe looks pleased.
Page - Chloe borrowed Daddy’s fishing line and Paul’s school jumper. Chloe wondered how far it was from the middle of Paul’s jumper to the end of his sleeve.
Picture: Chloe is kneeling and measuring a jumper. Beside her is a fishing line.
Page - Tying the fishing line around Vengie, she lowered her from an upstairs window until she landed gently beyond the garden gate.
Double page picture: Chloe is lowering her doll from an upstairs window. It is about to land outside the garden gate.
Page - Paul spotted Vengie. Now was his chance. He pushed his arm through the bars of the gate. Vengie was nearly within reach.
Double page picture: Paul is looking at the rag-doll through the gate.
Page - He stretched his arm, then squeezed his head between the bars until his fingers touched the edge of Vengie’s dress.
Double page picture: Paul’s arm and head is through the gate but not quite touching the toy.
Page - Chloe jerked the fishing line and tugged Vengie to safety.
Double page picture: “SNATCH”. Chloe is smiling as she tugs on the fishing line. The rag-doll is rising towards the upstairs window. Paul is shocked.
Page - “Help me, I’m stuck,” cried Paul.
Double page picture: Paul is stuck between the bars of the gate.
Page - “I’ll get Mummy,” said Chloe.
Double page picture: Chloe has a satisfied grin.
Page - “But not straight away”, she added quietly.
Double page picture: The whispered line is in a voice bubble and she’s talking to Vengie.
Word count: 299 words excluding picture descriptions and title.
Clephan 3.01, 11:05am Monday - spring term 2011. Smattering of students are seated in auditorium. Lecturer and Gary (mature student wearing jeans and jacket) stand at the lectern.
Lecturer (Addressing audience) I guess we’ll start. I rather hoped that more of you … Oh well, I’m preaching to… Today I’ve procured guest lecturer Gary, Creative Writing sophomore. He’s going to explain his treatment of last year’s portfolio assignment. I’m sure his experience will help you. So, without further ado, let’s give Gary a DMU welcome.
Only Lecturer clapsGary Hi, I don’t know if I’m a sophomore but I’m certainly a second year.
Lecturer laughs
Gary Portfolio is the final “Exploring” assignment of the year. It accounts for 40% of your marks and gives you the opportunity to demonstrate editing ability, creativity and your development as a writer since you started the course.
Two latecomers enter and stare at the first table. Gary looks at them.Lecturer Come in. No handouts, sorry.
They walk in front of the lectern.
Gary It’s in three parts; a new short item, a drastically edited piece and a reflection. I’ll start by looking at the new piece.
He hits a button and nothing happens.
Gary (To Lecturer) I thought this was ready.Lecturer So did I. (Randomly pushing buttons)
Gary What about this? (Screen illuminates )
Lecturer What did you do?
Gary Pressed the “on” button… This is my first draft and, for me, the most time-consuming part of the process. I had been thinking about Chloe for months, the germ of the plot tumbling in my mind during any spare moment. Chloe was no stranger to me. I’d met her during December’s 200-word short-story assignment. She was responsible for my first rejection slip; “not currently accepting… fraction too short… prefer series”.
A series with a central character who outsmarts their older sibling might be commercial. After all, Francesca Simon’s “Horrid Henry” books are popular with adults and children. Why not modern Jacobean/Greek revenger’s tales for under fives? I now had a plan and a project; complete “Chloe’s Great Idea” for the portfolio then re-write “Chloe’s Spell” and submit both to a publisher.
My writing process is simple; I edit ruthlessly as I write. This results in a relatively tight first draft; much tighter than October 2009. You’ll no-doubt recall the advice of Basil Bunting during a free verse poetry lecture, “cut out adjectives, adverbs, abstractions and every word you dare” . This advice also works for prose. Once I believe my piece is of a high enough standard I seek external advice from fellow students ; some I ignore and some I don’t.
New slide Gary Sally Jack was both astute and helpful. She suggested changing “pot-holing” to “burying toys” to aid understanding and changing “ruining” to “taking” to benefit from alliteration. Also removing “dirty” when mentioning “jumper” as this adds nothing to the story. Her comments helped maintain interest and pace and improved clarity.
New slide Having completed the story, I then described the illustrations that would accompany the text. This was transferred onto the final lay-out as many publishers prefer to receive picture book manuscripts in this format. New slide
Any Questions? The second task is the resubmitted and re-worked piece. In my case a rondeau entitled “Pillow Dent”, which sneaked a 2:1 largely due to the reflection. I took the tutor’s comment sheet to DMU hieroglyphic department and, armed with the translation, set about the first draft. This produced a better rondeau but lacked emotion.
Paying heed to Bunting’s words I pruned, slashed and removed as much as I could. (New slide ) The remaining words had the look of a powerful free verse and by the third draft this is what it had become. In my first term I would have been satisfied; I had changed the form and layout. The beginning, ending and subject had altered but I wanted to go one stage further.
The focus of my original piece, a hair and pillow, were no longer mentioned. I wanted the reader to have a sense of these and perhaps another format would be appropriate. I considered concrete poetry and was heartened by Emmett Williams’ words; “emphasis on poetry rather than concrete”. (Williams1967:page-v) This gave me license to retain both the words and meaning and put them in a more creative form: in this case a hair printed onto a pillowcase. (New slide )
Unfortunately, I had no idea how to tackle the task. I wanted the poem to be thin yet legible to those with strong eyesight or a magnifying glass. I visited the computer lab in Clephan and found out I could draw a squiggle with “tools palette” and write on this with “Path” text . A gradient effect recreated a realistic change of colour. The hair was thin enough but not long enough; the solution was to repeat the poem. This was printed onto a new pillowcase and I was left with the task of photographing it. I sought the advice of Dr Perril . He suggested my work was a “sight specific poem.”Gary I’m currently considering the potential commercialism of pillow poetry. Any Questions?
Audience 1 What about the reflection?
Gary What do you normally do?
Audience 1 Leave it to the last minute and write unimaginative rubbish.
Gary And if I tell you another way?
Audience 1 I’ll still leave it to the last minute and write rubbish.
Gary In that case, that’s what I recommend you do.
Audience 2 What’s a sophomore?
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Adeney A. (2007) So Scary! London. Franklin Watts.
Ahlberg A. (2001) Chickens in the Snow. Middlesex Puffin Books.
Astley N. (1988) Poetry with an Edge. Newcastle Upon Tyne. Bloodaxe Books.
Cassidy A. (2004) A Bunch of Balloons. London. Franklin Watts.
Cassidy A.(2008)Wizzard Gold. London Wayland.
Doyle M. and Parsons G. (2007) The Football Ghosts. London . Egmont UK Ltd.
Duranta A. and Mason S. (2007) Froggy went a Hopping. London. Evans Brothers Ltd..
French V. (1999) Iggy Pig at the Seaside. London. Hodder Children’s Books.
Gardner C. (2007) Turn off the Telly! London. Evans Brothers Ltd.
Gowar M. (2008) Finn and the Magic Goat. London. Wayland.
Harvey D. (2005) A Band of Dirty Pirates. London. Franklin Watts.
Hunter M. (1976) Talent is not Enough. London. Harper & Row.
Jordan L. (1998) How to write for Children – and get published. Great Britain. Piatkus.
Magee W. and Burnett J. (2007) The Three Billy Goats Gruff. London. Franklin Watts.
Moore M. (2007) The Magic Word. London. Franklin Watts.
Rampersad A. (Editor) (1995) The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes. USA. Vintage Books.
Roberts D. (2003 first published 2002) Dirty Birtie. London Little Tiger Press.
Shepard A. (2000) The Business of Writing for Children. Los Angeles. Shepard Publications.
Strachan L. (2008) Writing for Children. London. A & C Black.
Strand M. and Bolande E. (2001) The Making of a Poem – A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms. London , Norton and CO.
Wildman E. (Editor) (1969) Anthology of Concretism: USA. Chicago Review.
Williams E (Editor) (1967) Anthology of Concrete Poetry. New York. Something Else Press.
Word count: 994 words excluding title, bibliography and footnotes.
Chloe’s Great Idea
Page - Picture: Chloe is standing with her arms folded. In her arms is her favorite toy.
Page - Chloe’s brother Paul often takes her toys. Sometimes he hides them.
Picture: Chloe is pulling drawers open and searching for something. Paul is watching her. He has a sinister smile and a toy hidden behind his back.
Page - Sometimes he watches them fly as he flings them in the apple tree. Sometimes he watches them swim when he slings them in the pond.
Double page picture: Paul is about to throw a toy. There are toys in the tree and pond.
Page - And sometimes he just buries them.
Picture: Paul is burying another toy.
Page - Chloe told Mummy but Paul always said it wasn’t him. “I didn’t take her toys. They flew into the trees by themselves.”
Picture: Mummy is talking to Paul. He looks innocent. He has a voice bubble, “They flew into the trees by themselves.”
Page - Chloe’s favourite toy was a rag-doll called Vengie. She loved her and looked after her very carefully. Paul thought Vengie might like to go swimming or learn to fly.
Double page picture: Chloe is clutching the rag-doll tightly. Paul is trying to take it from her.
Page - “How can I stop Paul taking my toys?” thought Chloe. “Perhaps cover him with bread and tie him to a tree so birds would peck him?” But she didn’t have any bread.
Double page picture: Chloe is thinking. She is holding half a loaf. Inside the thought bubble, Paul is tied to a tree and big birds are pecking at him.
Page - “Dunk him in the pond?” But she didn’t have a ducking-stool.
Picture: Chloe is thinking. In the thought bubble Paul is sitting on his bottom in a shallow pond. He is covered in pondweed and a frog is on his head.
Page - “Dig a hole and bury him right up to his neck?” But she didn’t have a spade.
Picture: Chloe has her hands folded across her chest. She is thinking. In the thought bubble Pauls head is sticking out of the ground.
Page - And then she had an idea. It was one of those special ideas that made the hairs on her arms tickle.
Picture: Chloe looks pleased.
Page - Chloe borrowed Daddy’s fishing line and Paul’s school jumper. Chloe wondered how far it was from the middle of Paul’s jumper to the end of his sleeve.
Picture: Chloe is kneeling and measuring a jumper. Beside her is a fishing line.
Page - Tying the fishing line around Vengie, she lowered her from an upstairs window until she landed gently beyond the garden gate.
Double page picture: Chloe is lowering her doll from an upstairs window. It is about to land outside the garden gate.
Page - Paul spotted Vengie. Now was his chance. He pushed his arm through the bars of the gate. Vengie was nearly within reach.
Double page picture: Paul is looking at the rag-doll through the gate.
Page - He stretched his arm, then squeezed his head between the bars until his fingers touched the edge of Vengie’s dress.
Double page picture: Paul’s arm and head is through the gate but not quite touching the toy.
Page - Chloe jerked the fishing line and tugged Vengie to safety.
Double page picture: “SNATCH”. Chloe is smiling as she tugs on the fishing line. The rag-doll is rising towards the upstairs window. Paul is shocked.
Page - “Help me, I’m stuck,” cried Paul.
Double page picture: Paul is stuck between the bars of the gate.
Page - “I’ll get Mummy,” said Chloe.
Double page picture: Chloe has a satisfied grin.
Page - “But not straight away”, she added quietly.
Double page picture: The whispered line is in a voice bubble and she’s talking to Vengie.
Word count: 299 words excluding picture descriptions and title.
Friday, 23 April 2010
Portrait of my daughter.
“Do you want to dance?”
“You’re old enough to be my father.”
I laughed. “So you don’t want a drink either?” Wedding receptions were invented for the Anglo-Saxon pursuit of inebriation.
“Yes, please Dad. WKD, the blue one’s non-alcoholic,” she paused before adding, “I think.”
How I envy the youth their youthfulness, their inbuilt ability to twist the truth and desire to take advantage. Perhaps it is wrong to generalise and it may not relate to every fifteen year old but these are traits that have been polished and honed by my daughter. Or am I being unfair? I remember a time about eight years ago: sweet, head of loose curls and a Daddy’s girl. My wife (and mother of my daughter), her voice raised then sobs of frustration, slammed doors and small stomping feet echoing through the dining-room, lounge, hall and into my study.
I waited, pretending to write as the sobs lessened until a deep sigh turned them off. I looked up. “Hello, didn’t see you there. What have you been up to?”
“Not much. What are you doing? Can I help?” Now the offer of assistance is an interesting and relatively new concept. “I can do some colouring for you.” I rejected her offer and waited.
“Daaaad.” It was impossible not to notice the elongated stress on the vowel. It turned a pronoun into a plea.
“Yes, darling?”
“Daaaaaad.” Even longer the second time, the verbal equivalent of a dagger of dread. “Can Amelia sleep over tonight?” So that was the topic for the argument.
“That’s really up to Mummy. Have you asked her?” Mr Abdication or what?
“Sort of.” A slight hesitation before she added, “she said no.”
“If Mummy says no, then I have to say no.”
“I know.”
“So why are you asking me?”
“Because I always get you to change your mind. Everyone says I have you wrapped around my little finger.” There was a pause, “what does that mean?” What it means is today I will buy a bottle of blue WKD in exchange for a terse email or heated telephone call from my now ex-wife. “She’s only fifteen... at your nephew’s wedding... you’re in Scotland for God’s sake... you’re the adult, she’s the child.” Oh, what the heck, I’ll buy two bottles, but no more and we’ll dance until the band stops playing and the DJ goes home.
My old study witnessed some interesting exchanges over the years. I remember a particular time when she was four and I heard my name being shouted from the kitchen. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, darling. I’m writing at the moment.” Silence for a while before my name is called from outside the door. “Just a minute, nearly ready.” Another minute of silence and then a click as the door opens. “Two ticks. I’ll soon be with you.” A head appears round the door and seconds later the remainder of the body enters.
I finished typing. “Hello. What can I do for you?”
“Daddy, guess what?” An interesting opening gambit that could lead anywhere.
“I can’t guess. You tell me.”
“Did you know I can get four Rice Krispies up my nose?” Now I didn’t expect that.
So, yesterday we’d driven twelve hours from Brighton to Loch Lomond for my nephew’s wedding; a shared journey, shared memory. A marriage that, as most of the family agreed, would not last too long due in no small part to the bride’s temper.
“There’s the church,” said my daughter. “We’re an hour early.” Better an hour early than five minutes late; especially at a wedding, and that is a philosophy born from experience: the frustration of trying to overtake my cousin’s bridal car along the country lanes of Hampshire (not quite as bad as trying to overtake the hearse on the way to my grand-father’s funeral). “There’s Nanny, Grandad, Jill, Dave, Lewis, Helen...” she trailed off mid-sentence. “How loud is your CD player?”
“Pretty loud. Why?”
My daughter rummaged in the glove box. “You’ll see. Open the windows.” Windows opened, CD player volume on 60 and ‘I Don’t Want To Marry’ by the Gothic Death slaughtering the Scottish tranquillity as we drove past all my family, our laughter lost between the angry lyrics and chugging guitars.
“You realise this is a no-through road. We’ll have to drive back this way.”
“Good, I’ve just the thing for the return.” She looked in the glove-box. “Punk Divorce by Sea of Puke. Nan will enjoy that.”
Sweet sixteen, I can’t wait, it might become a quieter time although somehow I doubt it. Rebellious fifteen demonstrates much more promising characteristics. Who wants sweetness in anyone over the age of nine? Sweetness at six is far more acceptable. “Dad, there’s something awesomely important I must tell you.”
“What is it my little precocious darling?” Is awesomely an adverb? It is when you are six.
“Annalisa and me dropped your tooth-brush in the toilet. It’s alright though, we managed to get it out again.”
“Thank you for fishing it out, and for telling me.”
“That’s OK,” and out she skipped. Something wasn’t right.
“Darling, come back here for a second.” A mass of curls reappeared. “I didn’t know Annalisa came to play today?”
“She didn’t. She played yesterday.” What else is there to say?
It is very easy to embarrass a fifteen year old. I find waving at their friends whilst driving is one way.
“But I hate her. She’s so up herself.”
“But that’s Jessica. She’s your best friend.”
“Not anymore. You should’ve heard what she said about Ryan.” It is so difficult to keep up with who are friends and who are sworn enemies. Transfer between extremes can occur at the drop of a comment. Then again, it has always been like that. My ‘very bestest friend in the whole wide world’ could be person non-gratis by lunch only to regain the best-friend mantle during the walk home from school.
I remember the day we woke to find her hamster dead; stiff, round and very dead. “I’m sorry darling. What do you think we should do?” The dustbin or the compost heap headed my list, only fair to seek the opinion of the seven year old owner.
“We should have a funeral. I’ll invite Louisa, Annalisa, George and we can sing a song and bury Chip in the garden. But I’m not telling Amelia. She’s not my friend,” and with that she left for school leaving me to make the arrangements: cardboard shoebox lined with cotton wool made an acceptable coffin, the body carefully inserted with the aid of cooking tongs, lid stuck down with gaffer-tape, kitchen cupboard raided for crisps and cola for the wake. All set to give Chip a wonderful send off.
I had the spade ready before the children returned from school. I thought about digging the grave but knew it would be in the wrong place, safer to wait until the chief-mourner arrives. I could hear young voices before they came into the back garden. “We’re going to have a funeral, a funeral, a funeral,” they sang in their grief, “We’re here to bury Chip, here to bury Chip, here to bury Chip. Hurrah.”
“Amelia is going to carry the coffin around the village before we bury it.”
“I thought you said Amelia wasn’t invited.”
“She’s my bestest friend. Of course she’s coming.” That told me. How can I differentiate friend from foe when they wear the same clothes?
The cortège filed around the garden, through the orchard and out into the village. Amelia at its head, shoe-box held high. My daughter and eleven school friends following with heads solemnly bowed and the occasional giggle breaking the silence. “Shsssh. No crisps for anyone who laughs. We’re here to bury not just a hamster but a friend to us all.” What pretentious twaddle from one so young. “Let’s sing a hymn.” Throughout the remainder of the summer, the talk of the village was of the dozen children reverently following a Clarks shoe-box while singing “Hark the Herald Angels”.
I had dug the grave by the time they returned to the newly appointed cemetery. One spit deep and a little larger than the coffin. I was pleased to have removed the earth in one giant clod, much easier than shovelling loose soil into the hole. “Now guys,” my usual collective noun for the little darlings, “one quick prayer and then you go and have something to eat. It’s starting to rain.”
“Our Father who farts in heaven.” Eleven giggles.
“It’s ‘Art in heaven’, darling."
“I know that Dad. I thought God might like a laugh. Our Father who Art in heaven please look after Chip. He was a very friendly hamster so I’m sure he won’t bite you, Jesus or the man who sits on your right hand. Amen.”
“Amen.”.
“Oh, one other thing God. Could I have a new bike for my birthday? Please. Amen.”
“ Amen,” eleven voices agreed.
The rain came and the congregation ran into the house leaving me to inter the coffin. Shoe-box in its final resting place I took the sod and placed it on top. It rose above the ground by the height of the box. “Bugger.”
Rain soaked through my shirt as I pondered the problem. I could leave it as it was or remove it, shave a lump off and replace the turf. This would look acceptable in the short-term but eventually leave a hollow. I took the logical alternative and stamped on it. It moved an encouraging fraction of an inch. I jumped up and down, both feet stamping with all my weight. Slowly I forced the earth back into the ground, squashing both box and cadaver.
Flushed with exertion and success I looked towards the house. At the conservatory window children’s faces were contorted in horror, surprise, grief and confusion. My daughter stood to one side and gently shook her head, a mixture of mild rebuke and weary tolerance.
“Here’s your WKD. “
“Thanks Dad. I don’t need a glass.”
“You can’t drink from the bottle. You’ll get Vials Disease.”
“I’ll take the risk. It’s less dangerous than dancing with you. Come on.” She took a long sip from the bottle, grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the dance-floor. “These are the rules: No Dads’ dancing, no trying to chat up women. And definitely not your Saturday Night Fever dance. Don’t embarrass me. Oh and don’t tell my friends I danced with you.”
The second we started moving to the music our father/daughter dancing relationship entered its fifth stage. First stage was when I held my baby daughter in my arms and carefully swayed from one foot to the other. Second stage was the toddler clutched to my hip and being spun ‘gigglingly’ fast. Third stage was the infant standing on my feet as I shuffled from foot to foot. Fourth my daughter holding my hands while bouncing out-of-time to the music. Today we were entering the most important and potentially embarrassing stage; stage five: full-on, let’s rip-up the dance floor and show these no-hopers what fantastic dancers we are. And that’s what we did. We danced to every record, some old, some new. Hip-hop, pop, rock, R and B, we respected every genre. I followed my daughter’s lead with the newer numbers; she followed me with the older records. Together we danced, outlasting nieces, nephews, cousins and friends of the couple. We danced to a succession of records while the band packed up their instruments. Eventually the DJ sidled up to us, “I’ve got to go home, it’s nearly three. One last record, any requests?”
My daughter looked at me, smiled and turned to the DJ. “How loud are your speakers? Crank them up to maximum for Punk Divorce by Sea of Puke.”
Word count 1983
Reflection - Portrait of my daughter. - Gary Phillpott - P0925593X
Portrait of my daughter evolved from a seed that was expected to grow into a memoire of my father. The initial intention was to demonstrate identity by comparing my seventy-nine year old father and his nineteen year old self. This changed before first draft and the subject became my daughter. I recognise the boundaries between genres are blurred and it could be argued I have also produced a memoire. However, Blake Morrison, in the afterword to his widely acclaimed memoire, confirms he cannot classify his own work; “not autobiography...not memoire (traditionally written by someone grand and old)” (Morrison 2006:229). If Morrison is unable to pigeon-hole his own work then I suggest that the genres merge and memoire may sometimes be a portrait and vice versa.
My aim was to write a piece that moved in time but wasn’t linear. I wanted my daughter’s identity, and also an indication of mine, to manifest itself at each age and stage of her development thereby exploring whether identity is inherited or, if not, where it’s obtained. The catalyst being Wordsworth’s statement; “child’s the father of the man” or in my daughter’s case “the child’s the mother of the teenager”.
I wanted to anchor my writing around a wedding attended in December 2009 and jump between my memories of my daughter as a young child; my recollections prompted by a photograph and workshop session . I wanted readers to think about and workout the time-shifts although I did include some helpful clues, most obviously the reference to the WDK drink for her teenage period. My hardest task was to explore the notion of identity and I proposed to do this not by giving readers my daughter’s name or describing her physical appearance but allowing characteristics, action and speech reveal her identity. (The only physical descriptions in the portrait are; “mass of curls” (Final Version:4) and “head of lose curls”(1), both descriptions were prompted by the photograph). I decided to include humour as a way of keeping readers engaged and this occurs with my daughter’s use of loud music(3+7), hiding Rice Krispies(2) and dropping a tooth-brush in the toilet(4).
The creating process was simple, I started with a “spot of time” very much in the same way that Wordsworth searched for lost time and in my case this spot was a family wedding in December 2009. A photograph of my daughter aged about four became the trigger for my memories and recollections. Through these memories I would demonstrate my daughter’s identity. At this time I recalled a line of Veronica Forrest-Thomson’s poem “Identi-kit” ; “likeness is not important provided the traits cohere”. I took this to mean that identity is character and not appearance. Proust implored precision in “A remembrance of things past” and I have been precise with word selection and the way I have told the story. An example of this is the repetition of “Dad” with elongated vowels (Final Version:1-2) and the pauses before “What does that mean?”(2) and “I think”(1) all giving greater texture to her identity.
One skill that De Montfort University first year creative writing students have is that of drafting and re-drafting. My skills in this area have developed and improved with each workshop and this can be demonstrated in the way I edited this assignment. My first big decision was changing the main character from my father to my daughter. The first draft was terminated at 900 words and included reference to the wedding, dancing and Rice Krispies. Although happy with the storyline topics I was less happy with treatment and remembered a recent lecture; “characters make stories and stories make characters” and “plot arises from character” I toyed with the idea of starting again and selecting another subject before deciding to drastically redraft the piece. I changed the sequence of the events and removed all reference to my daughter’s appearance; “4 inch heels...beautiful woman...bemused child” (First Draft) but gave indications of her identity through her speech; “’the blue one’s non-alcoholic’, she paused before adding, ‘I think.’”(Final Version:1) This example demonstrates her immaturity and belief she is able to trick me.
After completing six-hundred words I edited my work down to three-hundred. This was repeated after completing about 1200 words with yet another fierce edit, reducing the word count by a further 25%. This was the first time I’d hard edited as I went along and I found the end result produced a much tighter second draft.
At this point I asked fellow writers Sally Jack, Laura Jones and Kimberley Lieser to look at and edit my work. Of the three, Sally was the most helpful and suggested a few changes. These included removing or altering; “take advantage of me” (Second Draft:1) as she said the line made my daughter appear manipulative. She also suggested I might like to consider changing the line; “I removed the earth as a complete sod” (5). She was kind enough to suggest I may not be a complete one!
In last term’s “reading as a writer” I looked at work by Alan Bennett and his characters’ identities are portrayed mainly through action, dialogue and thought. Bennett relies upon “succinct, precise, sharp and snappy speech” and I have kept the dialogue precise and succinct. Bennett is adamant that writing; “must not be boring... Must be grammatical, succinct, elegant... and humorous.” Recommendations I have adhered to in writing my piece.
I believe my portrait meets and exceeds all my initial objectives in that readers learn about my daughter’s identity from her actions and words in a non-linear and amusing piece. I received the highest accolade a writer could hope for when I read this to my daughter. “Can I have a copy? I’d like to put it in my keepsake drawer.”
Bibiography
King, Graham; (2001) Collins Complete Writing Guide; London, Harper Collins.
McCourt, Frank; (2005) Angela’s Ashes: London, Harper Perennial.
Morrison, Blake; (2006) And when did you last see your father? London, Granta Publications.
Word Count: 1000 words – excluding title and bibliography.
“You’re old enough to be my father.”
I laughed. “So you don’t want a drink either?” Wedding receptions were invented for the Anglo-Saxon pursuit of inebriation.
“Yes, please Dad. WKD, the blue one’s non-alcoholic,” she paused before adding, “I think.”
How I envy the youth their youthfulness, their inbuilt ability to twist the truth and desire to take advantage. Perhaps it is wrong to generalise and it may not relate to every fifteen year old but these are traits that have been polished and honed by my daughter. Or am I being unfair? I remember a time about eight years ago: sweet, head of loose curls and a Daddy’s girl. My wife (and mother of my daughter), her voice raised then sobs of frustration, slammed doors and small stomping feet echoing through the dining-room, lounge, hall and into my study.
I waited, pretending to write as the sobs lessened until a deep sigh turned them off. I looked up. “Hello, didn’t see you there. What have you been up to?”
“Not much. What are you doing? Can I help?” Now the offer of assistance is an interesting and relatively new concept. “I can do some colouring for you.” I rejected her offer and waited.
“Daaaad.” It was impossible not to notice the elongated stress on the vowel. It turned a pronoun into a plea.
“Yes, darling?”
“Daaaaaad.” Even longer the second time, the verbal equivalent of a dagger of dread. “Can Amelia sleep over tonight?” So that was the topic for the argument.
“That’s really up to Mummy. Have you asked her?” Mr Abdication or what?
“Sort of.” A slight hesitation before she added, “she said no.”
“If Mummy says no, then I have to say no.”
“I know.”
“So why are you asking me?”
“Because I always get you to change your mind. Everyone says I have you wrapped around my little finger.” There was a pause, “what does that mean?” What it means is today I will buy a bottle of blue WKD in exchange for a terse email or heated telephone call from my now ex-wife. “She’s only fifteen... at your nephew’s wedding... you’re in Scotland for God’s sake... you’re the adult, she’s the child.” Oh, what the heck, I’ll buy two bottles, but no more and we’ll dance until the band stops playing and the DJ goes home.
My old study witnessed some interesting exchanges over the years. I remember a particular time when she was four and I heard my name being shouted from the kitchen. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, darling. I’m writing at the moment.” Silence for a while before my name is called from outside the door. “Just a minute, nearly ready.” Another minute of silence and then a click as the door opens. “Two ticks. I’ll soon be with you.” A head appears round the door and seconds later the remainder of the body enters.
I finished typing. “Hello. What can I do for you?”
“Daddy, guess what?” An interesting opening gambit that could lead anywhere.
“I can’t guess. You tell me.”
“Did you know I can get four Rice Krispies up my nose?” Now I didn’t expect that.
So, yesterday we’d driven twelve hours from Brighton to Loch Lomond for my nephew’s wedding; a shared journey, shared memory. A marriage that, as most of the family agreed, would not last too long due in no small part to the bride’s temper.
“There’s the church,” said my daughter. “We’re an hour early.” Better an hour early than five minutes late; especially at a wedding, and that is a philosophy born from experience: the frustration of trying to overtake my cousin’s bridal car along the country lanes of Hampshire (not quite as bad as trying to overtake the hearse on the way to my grand-father’s funeral). “There’s Nanny, Grandad, Jill, Dave, Lewis, Helen...” she trailed off mid-sentence. “How loud is your CD player?”
“Pretty loud. Why?”
My daughter rummaged in the glove box. “You’ll see. Open the windows.” Windows opened, CD player volume on 60 and ‘I Don’t Want To Marry’ by the Gothic Death slaughtering the Scottish tranquillity as we drove past all my family, our laughter lost between the angry lyrics and chugging guitars.
“You realise this is a no-through road. We’ll have to drive back this way.”
“Good, I’ve just the thing for the return.” She looked in the glove-box. “Punk Divorce by Sea of Puke. Nan will enjoy that.”
Sweet sixteen, I can’t wait, it might become a quieter time although somehow I doubt it. Rebellious fifteen demonstrates much more promising characteristics. Who wants sweetness in anyone over the age of nine? Sweetness at six is far more acceptable. “Dad, there’s something awesomely important I must tell you.”
“What is it my little precocious darling?” Is awesomely an adverb? It is when you are six.
“Annalisa and me dropped your tooth-brush in the toilet. It’s alright though, we managed to get it out again.”
“Thank you for fishing it out, and for telling me.”
“That’s OK,” and out she skipped. Something wasn’t right.
“Darling, come back here for a second.” A mass of curls reappeared. “I didn’t know Annalisa came to play today?”
“She didn’t. She played yesterday.” What else is there to say?
It is very easy to embarrass a fifteen year old. I find waving at their friends whilst driving is one way.
“But I hate her. She’s so up herself.”
“But that’s Jessica. She’s your best friend.”
“Not anymore. You should’ve heard what she said about Ryan.” It is so difficult to keep up with who are friends and who are sworn enemies. Transfer between extremes can occur at the drop of a comment. Then again, it has always been like that. My ‘very bestest friend in the whole wide world’ could be person non-gratis by lunch only to regain the best-friend mantle during the walk home from school.
I remember the day we woke to find her hamster dead; stiff, round and very dead. “I’m sorry darling. What do you think we should do?” The dustbin or the compost heap headed my list, only fair to seek the opinion of the seven year old owner.
“We should have a funeral. I’ll invite Louisa, Annalisa, George and we can sing a song and bury Chip in the garden. But I’m not telling Amelia. She’s not my friend,” and with that she left for school leaving me to make the arrangements: cardboard shoebox lined with cotton wool made an acceptable coffin, the body carefully inserted with the aid of cooking tongs, lid stuck down with gaffer-tape, kitchen cupboard raided for crisps and cola for the wake. All set to give Chip a wonderful send off.
I had the spade ready before the children returned from school. I thought about digging the grave but knew it would be in the wrong place, safer to wait until the chief-mourner arrives. I could hear young voices before they came into the back garden. “We’re going to have a funeral, a funeral, a funeral,” they sang in their grief, “We’re here to bury Chip, here to bury Chip, here to bury Chip. Hurrah.”
“Amelia is going to carry the coffin around the village before we bury it.”
“I thought you said Amelia wasn’t invited.”
“She’s my bestest friend. Of course she’s coming.” That told me. How can I differentiate friend from foe when they wear the same clothes?
The cortège filed around the garden, through the orchard and out into the village. Amelia at its head, shoe-box held high. My daughter and eleven school friends following with heads solemnly bowed and the occasional giggle breaking the silence. “Shsssh. No crisps for anyone who laughs. We’re here to bury not just a hamster but a friend to us all.” What pretentious twaddle from one so young. “Let’s sing a hymn.” Throughout the remainder of the summer, the talk of the village was of the dozen children reverently following a Clarks shoe-box while singing “Hark the Herald Angels”.
I had dug the grave by the time they returned to the newly appointed cemetery. One spit deep and a little larger than the coffin. I was pleased to have removed the earth in one giant clod, much easier than shovelling loose soil into the hole. “Now guys,” my usual collective noun for the little darlings, “one quick prayer and then you go and have something to eat. It’s starting to rain.”
“Our Father who farts in heaven.” Eleven giggles.
“It’s ‘Art in heaven’, darling."
“I know that Dad. I thought God might like a laugh. Our Father who Art in heaven please look after Chip. He was a very friendly hamster so I’m sure he won’t bite you, Jesus or the man who sits on your right hand. Amen.”
“Amen.”.
“Oh, one other thing God. Could I have a new bike for my birthday? Please. Amen.”
“ Amen,” eleven voices agreed.
The rain came and the congregation ran into the house leaving me to inter the coffin. Shoe-box in its final resting place I took the sod and placed it on top. It rose above the ground by the height of the box. “Bugger.”
Rain soaked through my shirt as I pondered the problem. I could leave it as it was or remove it, shave a lump off and replace the turf. This would look acceptable in the short-term but eventually leave a hollow. I took the logical alternative and stamped on it. It moved an encouraging fraction of an inch. I jumped up and down, both feet stamping with all my weight. Slowly I forced the earth back into the ground, squashing both box and cadaver.
Flushed with exertion and success I looked towards the house. At the conservatory window children’s faces were contorted in horror, surprise, grief and confusion. My daughter stood to one side and gently shook her head, a mixture of mild rebuke and weary tolerance.
“Here’s your WKD. “
“Thanks Dad. I don’t need a glass.”
“You can’t drink from the bottle. You’ll get Vials Disease.”
“I’ll take the risk. It’s less dangerous than dancing with you. Come on.” She took a long sip from the bottle, grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the dance-floor. “These are the rules: No Dads’ dancing, no trying to chat up women. And definitely not your Saturday Night Fever dance. Don’t embarrass me. Oh and don’t tell my friends I danced with you.”
The second we started moving to the music our father/daughter dancing relationship entered its fifth stage. First stage was when I held my baby daughter in my arms and carefully swayed from one foot to the other. Second stage was the toddler clutched to my hip and being spun ‘gigglingly’ fast. Third stage was the infant standing on my feet as I shuffled from foot to foot. Fourth my daughter holding my hands while bouncing out-of-time to the music. Today we were entering the most important and potentially embarrassing stage; stage five: full-on, let’s rip-up the dance floor and show these no-hopers what fantastic dancers we are. And that’s what we did. We danced to every record, some old, some new. Hip-hop, pop, rock, R and B, we respected every genre. I followed my daughter’s lead with the newer numbers; she followed me with the older records. Together we danced, outlasting nieces, nephews, cousins and friends of the couple. We danced to a succession of records while the band packed up their instruments. Eventually the DJ sidled up to us, “I’ve got to go home, it’s nearly three. One last record, any requests?”
My daughter looked at me, smiled and turned to the DJ. “How loud are your speakers? Crank them up to maximum for Punk Divorce by Sea of Puke.”
Word count 1983
Reflection - Portrait of my daughter. - Gary Phillpott - P0925593X
Portrait of my daughter evolved from a seed that was expected to grow into a memoire of my father. The initial intention was to demonstrate identity by comparing my seventy-nine year old father and his nineteen year old self. This changed before first draft and the subject became my daughter. I recognise the boundaries between genres are blurred and it could be argued I have also produced a memoire. However, Blake Morrison, in the afterword to his widely acclaimed memoire, confirms he cannot classify his own work; “not autobiography...not memoire (traditionally written by someone grand and old)” (Morrison 2006:229). If Morrison is unable to pigeon-hole his own work then I suggest that the genres merge and memoire may sometimes be a portrait and vice versa.
My aim was to write a piece that moved in time but wasn’t linear. I wanted my daughter’s identity, and also an indication of mine, to manifest itself at each age and stage of her development thereby exploring whether identity is inherited or, if not, where it’s obtained. The catalyst being Wordsworth’s statement; “child’s the father of the man” or in my daughter’s case “the child’s the mother of the teenager”.
I wanted to anchor my writing around a wedding attended in December 2009 and jump between my memories of my daughter as a young child; my recollections prompted by a photograph and workshop session . I wanted readers to think about and workout the time-shifts although I did include some helpful clues, most obviously the reference to the WDK drink for her teenage period. My hardest task was to explore the notion of identity and I proposed to do this not by giving readers my daughter’s name or describing her physical appearance but allowing characteristics, action and speech reveal her identity. (The only physical descriptions in the portrait are; “mass of curls” (Final Version:4) and “head of lose curls”(1), both descriptions were prompted by the photograph). I decided to include humour as a way of keeping readers engaged and this occurs with my daughter’s use of loud music(3+7), hiding Rice Krispies(2) and dropping a tooth-brush in the toilet(4).
The creating process was simple, I started with a “spot of time” very much in the same way that Wordsworth searched for lost time and in my case this spot was a family wedding in December 2009. A photograph of my daughter aged about four became the trigger for my memories and recollections. Through these memories I would demonstrate my daughter’s identity. At this time I recalled a line of Veronica Forrest-Thomson’s poem “Identi-kit” ; “likeness is not important provided the traits cohere”. I took this to mean that identity is character and not appearance. Proust implored precision in “A remembrance of things past” and I have been precise with word selection and the way I have told the story. An example of this is the repetition of “Dad” with elongated vowels (Final Version:1-2) and the pauses before “What does that mean?”(2) and “I think”(1) all giving greater texture to her identity.
One skill that De Montfort University first year creative writing students have is that of drafting and re-drafting. My skills in this area have developed and improved with each workshop and this can be demonstrated in the way I edited this assignment. My first big decision was changing the main character from my father to my daughter. The first draft was terminated at 900 words and included reference to the wedding, dancing and Rice Krispies. Although happy with the storyline topics I was less happy with treatment and remembered a recent lecture; “characters make stories and stories make characters” and “plot arises from character” I toyed with the idea of starting again and selecting another subject before deciding to drastically redraft the piece. I changed the sequence of the events and removed all reference to my daughter’s appearance; “4 inch heels...beautiful woman...bemused child” (First Draft) but gave indications of her identity through her speech; “’the blue one’s non-alcoholic’, she paused before adding, ‘I think.’”(Final Version:1) This example demonstrates her immaturity and belief she is able to trick me.
After completing six-hundred words I edited my work down to three-hundred. This was repeated after completing about 1200 words with yet another fierce edit, reducing the word count by a further 25%. This was the first time I’d hard edited as I went along and I found the end result produced a much tighter second draft.
At this point I asked fellow writers Sally Jack, Laura Jones and Kimberley Lieser to look at and edit my work. Of the three, Sally was the most helpful and suggested a few changes. These included removing or altering; “take advantage of me” (Second Draft:1) as she said the line made my daughter appear manipulative. She also suggested I might like to consider changing the line; “I removed the earth as a complete sod” (5). She was kind enough to suggest I may not be a complete one!
In last term’s “reading as a writer” I looked at work by Alan Bennett and his characters’ identities are portrayed mainly through action, dialogue and thought. Bennett relies upon “succinct, precise, sharp and snappy speech” and I have kept the dialogue precise and succinct. Bennett is adamant that writing; “must not be boring... Must be grammatical, succinct, elegant... and humorous.” Recommendations I have adhered to in writing my piece.
I believe my portrait meets and exceeds all my initial objectives in that readers learn about my daughter’s identity from her actions and words in a non-linear and amusing piece. I received the highest accolade a writer could hope for when I read this to my daughter. “Can I have a copy? I’d like to put it in my keepsake drawer.”
Bibiography
King, Graham; (2001) Collins Complete Writing Guide; London, Harper Collins.
McCourt, Frank; (2005) Angela’s Ashes: London, Harper Perennial.
Morrison, Blake; (2006) And when did you last see your father? London, Granta Publications.
Word Count: 1000 words – excluding title and bibliography.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Holiday Guests
Gary opened his bruised and swollen eyelids as far as possible and peered through the yellow flickering light from the tired Tilley-lamp. He’d been mistaken for many people before, faithful husband, dedicated son, conscientious employee, hard working schoolboy but this was the first time he’d been mistaken for... He paused, mistaken for what, a terrorist, spy, influential Westerner? Now, nine years later, Gary continues to divorce himself from history and recalls events in the third person.
A hand grabbed Gary’s hair and pulled, yanked and tugged as a mouth, half-full of yellowing teeth, spat words formed of putrefied breath into his face. “Her Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State,” he replied, “requests and requires in the name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow to pass freely without let or hindrance...” A calm, dominant yet menacing voice, the accent bastardised Afghan-American, interrupts from the dark recesses of the cave. “Recite that one more time my friend and, by the will of Allah, I’ll let Tamil cut your tongue out,” he paused, “and we’ll all watch while you eat it.”
Silence. Gary believed he would die and in that moment knew, in death, he’d not be mistaken for a coward. He looked towards his friend Saied, slumped and tied to the chair not two feet from him. How could two Building Society employees from the South of England make such a mistake and end up in an Afghanistan cave, guests of the Taliban? Saied had been born in Pakistan and loved cricket. Wouldn’t it be fun to watch a test-match in the sub-continent? Perhaps a little exploring? Is it safe in the mountains at the moment?
Gary knew the answer to that. He’d never mistake “relatively safe” for “absolutely safe” again. If only he could have the opportunity to make another error of judgement...
“Mr Phillpott, it has been decided that you will serve Allah by telling your government how great we are. You will be released at noon.” Gary heard every word and slowly the meaning seeped into him. “Thank you”, he eventually said, “and my friend?”
“Your friend will serve Allah in a different way. He’s been chosen to demonstrate that true Muslims should not follow Western decadent ways.”
BANG! Blood, skull, brain and hair splattered onto Gary’s swollen face. Never again would Saied be mistaken for a living person.
A hand grabbed Gary’s hair and pulled, yanked and tugged as a mouth, half-full of yellowing teeth, spat words formed of putrefied breath into his face. “Her Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State,” he replied, “requests and requires in the name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow to pass freely without let or hindrance...” A calm, dominant yet menacing voice, the accent bastardised Afghan-American, interrupts from the dark recesses of the cave. “Recite that one more time my friend and, by the will of Allah, I’ll let Tamil cut your tongue out,” he paused, “and we’ll all watch while you eat it.”
Silence. Gary believed he would die and in that moment knew, in death, he’d not be mistaken for a coward. He looked towards his friend Saied, slumped and tied to the chair not two feet from him. How could two Building Society employees from the South of England make such a mistake and end up in an Afghanistan cave, guests of the Taliban? Saied had been born in Pakistan and loved cricket. Wouldn’t it be fun to watch a test-match in the sub-continent? Perhaps a little exploring? Is it safe in the mountains at the moment?
Gary knew the answer to that. He’d never mistake “relatively safe” for “absolutely safe” again. If only he could have the opportunity to make another error of judgement...
“Mr Phillpott, it has been decided that you will serve Allah by telling your government how great we are. You will be released at noon.” Gary heard every word and slowly the meaning seeped into him. “Thank you”, he eventually said, “and my friend?”
“Your friend will serve Allah in a different way. He’s been chosen to demonstrate that true Muslims should not follow Western decadent ways.”
BANG! Blood, skull, brain and hair splattered onto Gary’s swollen face. Never again would Saied be mistaken for a living person.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
COUSIN ANDREW
It’s difficult to say goodbye to a cousin, after all we’d grown up together. Andy was the eldest of us, and the alpha male. Two years my elder and a maverick: a role model at ten; someone to avoid at thirteen; a good bloke from the age of twenty-one. Today was the ultimate goodbye.
“He’s not heavy, he’s my brother” drifted from the speakers. Tremolos? Dave, Dee, Dozy Beaky, Mitch and Titch? I’ll check it later but that’s now a song I won’t be able to hear on the radio without switching off. Some of the congregation tapped along as the coffin was carried into the crematoria by six of Andy’s drinking pals. I held my daughter’s hand; my tears mirrored in her eyes.
Andy was the first of my generation to die. Married at nineteen, father of two by twenty-three, divorced at thirty, dead by thirty-nine; a short, fast life. He was bright, good fun and great conservationist. He was also a big drinker until... until his liver packed up and he required a transplant. A transplant that gave him an extra seven years of life; time he spent well.
I remember now, it’s the Hollies. “He’s not heavy he’s my brother” is by the Hollies; no need to confirm the point. It is definitely the Hollies.
The crematoria was packed with friends, family, drinking pals; a plethora of life’s characters. Many I’ll speak with, one or two to politely ignore and quite a few I don’t know. Strangers and friends united in grief, joined by one person’s departure; Cousin Andrew.
“Why are people so happy?” asked my daughter as a late comer slapped an old acquaintance on the back. I tried to tell her but my voice was too croaky. I wish I’d been able to tell her how fond Andy’s friends were of him. He was a friend to everyone.
The controller of the service helped with his accurate eulogy. It’s difficult to know his title. He’s definitely not a Rabbi, Priest, Vicar nor Mullah. Andrew was non-religious in life and death wasn’t going to compromise his principals. After all he’d died before reaching an age when people start gardening and discovering God. Married at nineteen, father of two by twenty-three, divorced at thirty, dead by thirty-nine; not much of a tribute for an eight year old’s role model.
“He’s not heavy, he’s my brother” drifted from the speakers. Tremolos? Dave, Dee, Dozy Beaky, Mitch and Titch? I’ll check it later but that’s now a song I won’t be able to hear on the radio without switching off. Some of the congregation tapped along as the coffin was carried into the crematoria by six of Andy’s drinking pals. I held my daughter’s hand; my tears mirrored in her eyes.
Andy was the first of my generation to die. Married at nineteen, father of two by twenty-three, divorced at thirty, dead by thirty-nine; a short, fast life. He was bright, good fun and great conservationist. He was also a big drinker until... until his liver packed up and he required a transplant. A transplant that gave him an extra seven years of life; time he spent well.
I remember now, it’s the Hollies. “He’s not heavy he’s my brother” is by the Hollies; no need to confirm the point. It is definitely the Hollies.
The crematoria was packed with friends, family, drinking pals; a plethora of life’s characters. Many I’ll speak with, one or two to politely ignore and quite a few I don’t know. Strangers and friends united in grief, joined by one person’s departure; Cousin Andrew.
“Why are people so happy?” asked my daughter as a late comer slapped an old acquaintance on the back. I tried to tell her but my voice was too croaky. I wish I’d been able to tell her how fond Andy’s friends were of him. He was a friend to everyone.
The controller of the service helped with his accurate eulogy. It’s difficult to know his title. He’s definitely not a Rabbi, Priest, Vicar nor Mullah. Andrew was non-religious in life and death wasn’t going to compromise his principals. After all he’d died before reaching an age when people start gardening and discovering God. Married at nineteen, father of two by twenty-three, divorced at thirty, dead by thirty-nine; not much of a tribute for an eight year old’s role model.
Friday, 5 February 2010
Second Lieutenant Joseph Emmerson.
Freda Emmerson, widow and mother, entered her parlour and pulled back the aging velvet curtains. Dust particles danced in the insipid October sunlight as she walked toward the unlit fireplace.
Glancing in the small oval mirror hanging against the chimney breast, her eyes stared tiredly back; her mouth set firm and proud. She patted a loose hair she teased it into place and stared, hardly recognising herself.
Her hand reached towards the mantle-shelf and touched the small brown envelope propped against a copper candlestick. She removed the small beige letter she read it without reading; knowing the words by heart. Letters from the front were pre-prepared and told mothers little. This one told Freda much. The options her son had taken with his crossing out simply confirmed he was well. His signature revealed more. It was signed “Second Lieutenant Joseph Emmerson”.
Joe and his brother Percy had always made her proud. She was proud when Joe qualified as a surveyor; proud when they’d both signed up to fight the Hun. Now she was proud that Joe had been promoted to officer in less than one year. He’d be able to look after Percy, make his life a little easier in the trenches.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a rap on the front door. She replaced the letter in the envelope and placed it against the candlestick.
She opened the door and her life stopped. A uniformed youth was holding two telegrams.
(Joseph Emmerson was born into a mining family in 1890 in the town of Bagsworth. He qualified as a surveyor before enlisting in the Great War as private with his brother in 1914. Awarded the Military Medal and promoted to officer on 8th Oct 1915. Both brothers were killed in battle five days later.)
Glancing in the small oval mirror hanging against the chimney breast, her eyes stared tiredly back; her mouth set firm and proud. She patted a loose hair she teased it into place and stared, hardly recognising herself.
Her hand reached towards the mantle-shelf and touched the small brown envelope propped against a copper candlestick. She removed the small beige letter she read it without reading; knowing the words by heart. Letters from the front were pre-prepared and told mothers little. This one told Freda much. The options her son had taken with his crossing out simply confirmed he was well. His signature revealed more. It was signed “Second Lieutenant Joseph Emmerson”.
Joe and his brother Percy had always made her proud. She was proud when Joe qualified as a surveyor; proud when they’d both signed up to fight the Hun. Now she was proud that Joe had been promoted to officer in less than one year. He’d be able to look after Percy, make his life a little easier in the trenches.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a rap on the front door. She replaced the letter in the envelope and placed it against the candlestick.
She opened the door and her life stopped. A uniformed youth was holding two telegrams.
(Joseph Emmerson was born into a mining family in 1890 in the town of Bagsworth. He qualified as a surveyor before enlisting in the Great War as private with his brother in 1914. Awarded the Military Medal and promoted to officer on 8th Oct 1915. Both brothers were killed in battle five days later.)
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