Quarterly Summary

’09 so far, in all its absurd glory…

"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."

-Hunter S. Thompson

1) Removal

One of the first things I did this year was boot a known paedophile and computer hacker from my Facebook friends. He will not be named under ANY circumstances. The man is so unbelievably dodgy that it defies belief. When I found out about his shady past it shed light on various questions: Why couldn’t he get credit to open an E-Bay account? Why is he living with his mum when he’s in a full-time sales job, making enough money to afford a cocaine habit? And more to the point: why did I ever make friends with him again after he sabotaged one of my web pages, resulting in the loss of many hours worth of writing? These are questions I no longer want to ask. I only wish I’d made the decision sooner.

2) Define “Audacity”

Recently I lost a female friend. That is, I was booted out of her Facebook contact list. She’s still alive, and as I am not the audacious one in this context, I’ll leave her name off as well. I’ll be pretentious and call her Woman X. She’ll undoubtedly read this eventually. She was very keen to hang around with me a lot and phoned me every day, and foolishly I took her attention-seeking and flirtatious nature as a come-on. After all, why would she give up the time to see me?

The more time I spent with Woman X, the more I realised she just wanted nothing more than friendship. This, to a degree, is fine. However when a woman phones you every day for forty minutes at a time, you know something is getting a little weird. However, when I tried to rationally explain this to her, she at first told me she was “disappointed” in me. I pushed forward on the issue at a later date, explaining that – on the whole- men don’t have time for female friends. It happens: I have a few myself. They are carefully selected and highly valued, but– in all honesty- I don’t speak to them that regularly. Nowhere near as regularly as Woman X phoned me. This reliance on my attention resulted in her making a very embarrassing display in a local bar involving crying, saying she’d done nothing wrong, and- unnervingly- saying she’d tried suicide before and would now probably try again. In hindsight, the apology I made was unnecessary and I was completely in the right.

“What would you have done”, she asked, “if you hadn’t come out with me, Matt? Just stayed in and written your blog?”

Oh what, I thought. Like that’s weirder? (On that point, a matter of days later I had my first story published on Flash Fire 500. So you tell me which is more worthwhile…)

It was another week or so (and a few hours worth of random phone calls from her) before I cut the mustard and said we just plain shouldn’t be in touch.

I’ll admit- I had received a push. A few days before, some “mutual friends”- an engaged couple I did not want to hang around with at all- pulled us to one side, individually. They felt Woman X was taking me for a fool. I had to agree that something wasn’t right. The situation of us hanging around together was becoming uncomfortable. It was this couple’s interjection that led me to tell her the hard truth in the bar. This weird, leech-like affection had to end. But Woman X still did not accept this, and wasted more of her credit and my time talking to me. This further awkward conversation ended everything, as I manically chewed Skittles to keep my brain from racing out of control. Again, I needlessly apologised for making her feel bad, leading me to ask where my balls go when I need to tell people to fuck themselves.

 
Woman X had one final weapon in her arsenal to point at me, though: my own writing.

Some months ago, before this couple were engaged- hell, they probably hadn’t even met- I posted a blog about the female of the couple- Access Denied. In it I tell of being thrown out of her house by her mother- an event I am still somewhat proud of. I describe the female- Oh, what the fuck. You’ve looked for it. You know she’s called Sarah. But anyway. I describe her- quite accurately- as a disreputable character. I go on to discuss why.

(http://powerisastateofmind.blogspot.com/2008/10/access-denied.html, if you really want to know.)

To get back at me, Woman X pointed Sarah in the direction of the blog. Many other writers have given feedback online and feel that this particular post was a well-written blog. Even the deputy editor of Esquire said he “liked it” when I sent it to him.

Sarah, however, did not. And she made this clear to me when she saw me in Oldham. To avoid a lawsuit for either defamation of character or assault, I walked away from her verbal tirade.

I didn’t hear from Sarah or Woman X for a few weeks. Yesterday, Woman X phoned me, “out of the fuckin’ blue” as Nice Guy Eddie would say. I did not pick up, preferring to wait for the voicemail. In it Woman X was begging me for help finding a job. She’d lost a contact number for a WELL KNOWN RADIO STATION, and was hoping I could text her the number.

Despite the easiness of web – based research, she rang the one person who she knows does not want to talk to her and would definitely not give her any help.

Audacity:

“-Boldness or daring, esp. with confident or arrogant disregard for personal safety, conventional thought, or other restrictions.”

I agree. Thank you, Dictionary.com.

3) Defamation of Character

I once wrote an immense blog in a failed attempt to exorcise demons that have haunted me since secondary school. In it I described someone as a child prostitute- a claim that could be believable to some who knew her, but is still an unreasonable slur from a very bitter, hung-up mind. I used her name.

Some weeks ago my dad found one of my “business cards”- something I give out to people to encourage them to read my work. Many bloggers have these 1980’s throwback artefacts as tools of shameless self-promotion. Dad read this angry piece of school-set writing and he approached me, successfully controlling a blatant furious rage, to tell me to take it down.

He was right to advise me in such a way. I don’t want to be sued, especially not by some cretin who made life difficult for me a long time ago- someone who should stay firmly in the past. The blog has been taken down from all sites. I may rework it safely: the subject of how school affects us later in adult life is a fascinating one. The blog had numerous ideas (childhood/adulthood, charlatan hypnotherapists, attraction, sugar levels, anthropology, sleep, ad nauseum) that could have been developed with a bit of maturity- something that the original blog distinctly lacked.

I’ll just consult the lawyers first…

4) Publication

On a lighter note, I had a short story published earlier this year. “Dead Chinese Girls”, a piece of flash fiction, was featured in an online magazine based in the States. The editors of Flash Fire 500 chose the story along with other writers’ works from across the globe. The magazine is official: it is included on the website duotrope.com, who describes itself as a “searchable list of fiction markets”. It was the first piece of writing I’ve created myself that has achieved publication. I intend to throw another story their way soon.

Flashfire500.blogspot.com

5) The engagement ring

Relax, ladies. It’s not mine.

Two weeks ago: a frantic young woman searches the ground in the smoking area of The Tokyo Project, Oldham’s indie club. Mobile phone lights are activated. Necks are craned, allowing the cold air straight down the backs of a group of revellers. One, a pretty young woman, is panicking. Her engagement ring is missing.

She’s younger than me- as most clubbers are now. And she’s already on the way to the altar. This is unnerving enough at first- then I remind myself that I’m 27 in a few months. Shit. I think of my friends- most are younger than me- Dave and Amy: engaged, Colin and Daisy: living together with a baby, others are… well… kind of together. It’s not always easy to tell, and it’s not exactly my business to ask.

The light on my phone picks up something minute and circular. It’s a diamond ring. I’m reminded of the cartoon, “Bravestar”, about a cowboy sheriff with various animal-inspired qualities.

“Eyes of the hawk”, I say, holding the ring carefully.

She’s overcome with relief. She hugs me and buys me a drink. Things could have been so good if it wasn’t an engagement ring… just a ring. Life goes on.

6) Jailbait

I am never drinking again. I promise.

This weekend I missed out. I might not be writing this now if I hadn’t got drunk. I’d be in some other part of Manchester, in bed with a beautiful blonde nineteen year old. For real.

Said woman, whose name escaped me the moment she told me, delivered the chat-up line of the century.

“Would you believe I’ve been to prison?”

How do I do it? Why are so many of these women that I attract- although momentarily- absolute nutters?

“Yes,” I cheekily retorted. She didn’t see that coming. Everything was going so well. There was just one problem- I was drunk, and I cannot handle any situation intoxicated. I took her to the bar, as I couldn’t think of anything to say. I remember she wanted a brandy and coke- the rest is a strange blur. My money was safe- and sufficient- in my man bag. But I forgot to look there for some reason, and began frantically searching my pockets to cover the extortionate tab that the club, The Birdcage, wanted from me. Eventually she had to chip in, after which she took her drink and fucked off, ignoring me for the rest of the night. It was some time before I realised why I was being shunned.

This is why I am happy to be designated driver. Things just make more sense.

7) Wrestling

Later that night, I was involved in a drunken wrestling match on my mate’s parent’s bed. I was pitted against one of the biggest drug barons in Manchester. I shit you not. Suffice to say, I tapped him out with a guillotine choke.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lh2y2TqALyc

And on that subject, I will say no more.

8) Dorset MILF

I exemplified superb Karaoke skills later that weekend, blasting out “The House of the Rising Sun” by The Animals. It is a fine song if you have a loud, brave voice. It cannot be pulled off by the timid. It can also be difficult to even hear without convulsions if you have seen Martin Scorsese’s Casino. After that song’s inclusion in the film, Joe Pesci’s character and his onscreen brother are beaten to death with baseball bats.

But I don’t think everyone in the pub was making that connection- a blonde woman from Dorset was so bowled over that she took me outside for a kiss and partial grope. She was at least forty, but she had a remarkable cleavage. Alas, she was returning home the next day so I didn’t get much more than that.

9) Man of the Night

Sunday nights in Walkabout mean one thing- lurid games involving drink, nudity and depraved behaviour.

So it seemed right that not only would we go there, but that I would at least compete in these games. The five of us competing- one a ‘roided up gym rat trying to muscle his way in front of the other contestants, three random pissheads and me, completely sober- were put through our paces. After a dance-off, the stragglers were booted offstage leaving the alpha males the only ones standing in the ultimate masculine challenge: The Full Monty.

The first time you do this, I guarantee you will be terrified. I have found myself publicly disrobing- always in Oldham’s Walkabout for some reason- on numerous occasions since 2005, when I resigned from the same branch of the bar. This scenario is somewhat comfortable for me. I am not afraid. That is how I could stand in front of the whole bar and pull off the helicopter trick; which- hopefully- should need no description.

It may have been this move that swung it for me (pun intended). The DJ declared me Man of the Night, who gave me the prestigious award of three bottles of Becks (which I wouldn’t drink even if I weren’t driving. Yes, I was sober throughout the whole night.) All the while, my mates chanted my MMA-based nickname:

“LORD OF WAR!
LORD OF WAR!
LORD OF WAR!”

10) Arm Bar

After 18 months of Mixed Martial Arts training, I have finally pulled off my first Ju-Jitsu Arm Bar. I have been submitted to this numerous times, and have started to get to grips with the escapes. But when my grappling partner, “Mr T”, put his forearm against my chest, the light bulb finally clicked on and I spun into the submission, tapping him quickly.

It looked something like this:

AND FINALLY

The plan for the rest of the year: Find a decent woman. Go to more house music clubs. Become a more skilled martial artist. Get published again.

Take over.

Weird Dream

Last night I dreamed of hunting large, mythical creatures. A cross between a Wookie and a brachiosaur, these humongous, innocent animals had almost human facial features. I felt kind of twisted as I used a rifle to put a bullet into the hairy neck of one of these things.

Its serene, dopey smile quickly turned into a grimace as soon as I pulled the trigger. My rifle kicked back into my shoulder as a herd of them galumphed towards me, across an open national park of grassland. The targeted creature stumbled, but managed a few paces before slumping onto his chest. Its neck and face landed, like a disjointed tidal wave, with a ground-shaking thud.

Later, I watched more of them plod past in a herd from a wooden observatory tower. It was like the contents of another world had been picked up and dropped into a French zoo. The whole experience of being there was exhilarating, but I was keeping the guilt at bay somehow… It felt fairly normal to be in such close proximity to such an alien creature, as if humankind would inevitably find another species at some point- either on this world or another.

In reality, I don’t think I could kill any creature bigger than a wasp. Especially not a giant, dopey dream-induced incarnation like I, for some reason, visualised. Then why was I dreaming it? Are dreams just a mashed reflection of what our conscious minds concoct? Or are they, as some people believe, signs for some deeper meaning that we can analyse and interpret?

A quick browse online has not proved useful- although it seems I’m not the only one to have killing dreams. It’s a frequent occurrence, according to various “dream diagnosis” websites. Unfortunately these websites do what a lot of online advice sites do- they try to condense a broad and varied subject into a few words and spill out insincere advice from unconfirmed sources, with no solid, confirmed interpretations. Good old Wikipedia has some believable suggestions.

“Jung suggested that dreams may compensate for one-sided attitudes held in waking consciousness.”

I dunno, Jung. I suppose you could think of it one sided that I wouldn’t pick up a gun and shoot an animal. Or a humongous, surreal alien.

“Dreams create new ideas through the generation of random thought mutations.”

Whatever the hell that thing was, it was definitely a mutant. Now we’re talking.

“Sigmund Freud first argued that the foundation of all dream content is wish-fulfilment”.

Touchy, Freud. Very. Given that most dream websites agree that the majority of dreams we have are bad, “wish fulfilment” doesn’t seem to apply. Although when you have a dream about killing, the associated emotions are not always negative. In various online forums, people (including me) admit to enjoying the dream-based kill.

Well. That’s the hard part over. If you haven’t thrown your monitor out of the window in fear and vowed never to come back to this website again, stick with me here.

Mimi.hu, a very bizarre cluster of unconfirmed fragments of knowledge, is no Wikipedia. However its index system pointed me to some interesting suggestions:

“Killing or wanting to kill often represents a desire for power or control”.

From this I found mydreamvisions.com, who propose that dreams of hunting “for wildlife” can represent “An attempt to feel more powerful by dominating less powerful beings, based on feelings of powerlessness or self-hatred”.

It’s just a dream, people. I’m not going to set up shop on Oldham’s Spindles Shopping Centre roof and start picking off cretinous individuals who smash each other’s faces in at two o’clock in the morning.

Although, that would solve a lot of the town’s problems. We’ll have to wait for the government to get that far, though.

I’m straying- I had a point to make here, dammit!

My theory on this dream relates to anthropology- the study of cavemen. I have been fascinated by this subject since- a long time ago- I asked ask.com, “how do I attract women?” Yes, it was a desperate moment. But it had to be done. Most of the advice I found was surprisingly valid and helpful- In particular, the dating guru David DeAngelo provided endless material involving realistic scenarios and backed up with facts.

The material on this site that really hit home for me- that provided the proverbial light bulb over my head- was the connection between what women find attractive in men now, to what cavewomen needed from their Palaeolithic men in order to survive and to raise children. Ten thousand years ago, if a man couldn’t provide food and shelter for a woman, he might as well go and crack one off. If he couldn’t beat a 200kg Sabre-tooth tiger to death with a modified tree branch, what use was he? The chances of any women trying it on with him were slim to none.

The age-old question- what do women want? Is answered by our caveman friend. They want the three P’s- Provision and Protection. And you know what the third one is. However, this is not the only topic of discussion that can be explained through the context of anthropology. I am convinced the available knowledge of our prehistoric ancestors can inform us on any part of contemporary life.

If I dream of bloodlust and killing immense creatures, perhaps a desire to go out, hunt, kill and return with a bounty is an emotion instilled from thousands of generations ago. Is it the desire to provide? I am a man, after all. As it stands the money I make from my job isn’t enough to allow me to live independently. I can’t even provide for myself… This exemplifies the theory that, in dreams, we act out desires and impulses that the real world does not allow us to do. Dreaming allows the mind to use its many skills, without the implications of reality.

It is healthy.

So maybe mydreamvisions.com is right… Maybe I do have a lust for power. And as long as I only dream of killing, I won’t end up in a padded cell in the bowels of Strangeways Prison, rocking back and forth singing “Jimmy Cracked Corn” to myself.

“If you dream that you hunt game and find it, you will overcome obstacles and gain your desires.”
-Dreamfestival.com

Again, arbitrary. But if it’s true, I like it. By this rationale, I could get published, paid and laid in the very near future… Ho ho.

So from waking up wondering if murdering innocent aliens could warrant my incarceration, I am now secure in the partly confirmed knowledge that I am actually a pretty regular dreamer, like the rest of us. The Internet may provide many answers to allsorts of questions- but in order to understand the dreams, you’ve got to have the dreams first. Goodnight.

Dead Chinese Girls

“I’ve just had a horrible thought,” said Carl, keeping his voice down.

The adjoining corridor, the turning point in the staircase, led up to more student rooms and the kitchen. They hung around there out of convenience- you open your door and, more often than not, you’ve got company.

But now, having the doors open all the time was a hindrance of sorts. Whenever they went up to the kitchen, just as they turned the corner to step into the communal area, there was a strange odour.

It might have been a familiar one: Andy couldn’t place it, but there were tones that reminded him of… well, something bad.

Heather was easily unnerved, but Carl needed to spit this out.

“That smell upstairs…” he said, voice low, “…well- I’ve not seen the Chinese girl in a while…”

A collective shudder ran through all of them.

Heather, gasping, was the only one to voice her fear. Her Liverpudlian accent was more noticeable than usual. “Oh, Carl, don’t even say that. Oh my god.”

Carl looked across the faces of his housemates- Andy, thinking, maybe… Heather thinking, I hope not…

Carl already saw the BBC bulletin on the Scandal of Salford University Accommodation in his mind… How will Moira Stewart handle this situation?

“Has anyone seen her this week?” Andy asked.

A pause.

“Her mates haven’t called in ages,” said Carl. “I hope I’m wrong… I mean, y’know… I’ve not even seen her, like, cooking in the kitchen or anything.” Carl, trying to rationalise, acted older than 21. But his maturity wasn’t without weakness. “Go and knock on for her, Heath.”

Heather’s expression said it all- Why the fuck me? It’s your theory.

Carl stepped forward and nodded Heather up. Andy watched them walk up the stairs and out of sight, but not earshot.

A faint knock.

A click.

The faint, high-pitched timbre of a female oriental voice flittered down the staircase. Relief started to leak through the cracks of tension. So if it’s not the rotting corpse of a reclusive Chinese immigrant student, lain undiscovered by ten other residents in a Salford flat, Andy thought, what the hell is that smell?

The strained, inaudible and seemingly overly polite conversation that Heather was managing to pull off was drawing to a close. The door clicked shut. Heather staggered down the stairs, leaning on the banister and stifling an outburst of laughter. She took a breath, mouth wide open.

“She’s cooking fresh fish in her room!”

Long Legs is Decadent and Depraved

In the middle of another bizarre weekend in 2009 I found myself bloated from an immense bowl of Chinese beef swimming in noodles and water, touring Manchester’s Chinatown and crossing “Perform at a Thai Karaoke bar” off the proverbial List of Things To Do Before I Die. It was Natalie’s birthday, and we were among just four of the 130,000 people who came to the city for a night out. Then, somewhere on George St among the array of restaurants a sign caught Nat’s eye-

LONG LEGS

Normally on a night out I would avoid lap-dancing venues. I’ve experienced it, but in Manchester at the weekend there are usually better ways to spend money. But I could tell she’d noticed the building, and I started to wonder if women were even allowed in, let alone get dances.

Hell, I thought. It’s January. It’s an expensive month. I might as well push the boat out. We agreed tentatively to check it out, so I paid us both in and got a round of drinks…
——————————

Later in the week, I meet Nat in a family pub and she tells me her perspective on the club.

NAT
I was kind of curious. We wanted to go in. Sarah and her boyfriend didn’t. It was more curiosity than anything.

MATT
Before we went in, what did you think it would be like?

NAT
Sleazy, gritty, a dodgy “watch-your-back” place with lots of druggies and perverts and God-knows what else lingering around. That kind of place.

MATT
Did it turn out to be like that?

NAT
Yeah. I thought it was sleazy- about as classy as a strip club could possibly be. It had the typical leopard-print seats. I thought the way they did (the dance) was a bit unprofessional by just getting you to move over a little bit and doing it right there in front (of other customers) rather than being a bit more private. But for ten pounds that’s what you get.

It is at this point I realise I’m starting to sound like some kind of adult entertainment connoisseur, and that for the past week I’d been mentally comparing Long Legs to it’s long-term local competitor, The Fantasy Bar.

MATT
The Fantasy Bar ’s more private. Each dance is done in a separate booth.

NAT
Well it should be like that really. It’s a bit embarrassing for you to be sat there, aware of everyone else. I mean, I noticed last night that when people were getting (a dance) that people were staring at them and like, “Look at what that guy’s doing!” That’s not really what you want it to be like, you know. That’s not what you pay for. But it’s ten pounds at the end of the day.

MATT
There was a guy who looked disturbingly like (local breakfast radio presenter) Mike Toolan who was trying to bite a woman’s tits at one point.

(Toolan, for the record, has his face on the side of pretty much every bus in town. Manchester radio stations have no pictures and are, largely, no different to stations worldwide.)

NAT
Oh I didn’t notice that! But that would not surprise me. I think he tried doing something (to a dancer) and she was like, “What are you doing? No touching.”

MATT
He’s lucky he didn’t get turfed out and filled in by about eight doormen.

NAT
To be fair, I think if you paid a bit extra you can do whatever you want. It’s that kind of place.

MATT
It’s possible.

According to Nat, it’s not just men who need to be warned. The rumours are rife that dancers receive ulterior payments for “extras”.

NAT
They’ve got signs in the ladies toilet saying, “No touching, blah blah blah, you’ll get barred, and any dancer found doing anything with the clients will be sacked immediately.” That’s all shit. It’s the law (saying that). That’s not how it works at all. If they’re getting paid £100 extra they’re making £100 profit.

MATT
I don’t think I went to the gents. I don’t think I saw anything like that.

NAT
It was a bit of an odd poster. I was like, “okay. It doesn’t apply to me, but okay.” Oh and apparently, lesbians can’t have dances off girls. But in that case- “Are you a lesbian?” “No.”

I agreed that there was no way of enforcing that rule.

MATT
Yeah. It’s like, “can I check your sexual orientation card please?”

NAT
“But you’re dressed like a man!” “But I just like these clothes!”

MATT
When it comes to a woman’s sexuality, it’s a sliding scale isn’t it? It’s not a tick-box thing.

NAT
Exactly. “Let’s take your name. Let’s take your age. Let me check your I.D. Let me check you’re not a lesbian. Give me ten pounds.” That’s what it is.

For the record, Natalie does not dress like a man. Nor does she behave like one. She is a genuine, straight- and I might as well say it- damn good-looking woman. But Long Legs’ “lesbian clause” seems flawed: Women are allowed in to the club in the first place, but lesbians aren’t allowed dances. As has always happened with adult entertainment outlets- the boundaries and legalities with which they work are blurred.

It seems, from various TV documentaries, that rules for dancers have gradually become more relaxed as time goes on. The girls who danced for me only had their heels on by the end of the dance. Physical contact during these dances has (apparently) increased over the years.

Regulations within such clubs are loosening. The only laws getting tighter seem to be regarding licensing. Many politicians, including the Home Secretary Jacqui Smith, want the laws tightening so that lap-dancing venues are regulated like sex shops. She finds it necessary to remind us that spending money in such clubs differs from “buying a cappuccino”. The amount of lap dancing venues opening in Britain seems to be worrying certain people, but not those who would visit- a new club opens in Britain every week (says The Independent). Being a sophisticated broadsheet, The Independent didn’t feel it necessary to go into much detail about what dancers are and are not allowed to do. Neither did any others.

What the hell is going on in this ridiculous country? A left –wing government is trying to slap these places with a sex-industry label, when brothels aren’t even legal, yet the CONSERVATIVES- bastions of archaic tradition- included a £10-off lap-dancing voucher in delegate’s packs for the Conservative Party conference last September. This is why I vote Liberal Democrat: they will never get in. Hence no matter which party gets in, when they fuck up like this (which Labour certainly have since I’ve watched the news) I can always say, “Well, I didn’t vote for you.”

MATT
You didn’t get a dance, did you?

NAT
No no no…

MATT
Was it weird watching it?

NAT
I didn’t know where to put myself. I was like, right. The girl’s sitting in front of me and that is not. Appealing. Whatsoever. And I was just like, hm. But it didn’t matter where I looked. It was happening all around!

MATT
The ambitions of a hundred guys have just been absolutely ruined.

NAT
Well, did you not notice I was texting a lot?

MATT
Yeah, I noticed that. I thought, come on Natalie, you’ve got a unique opportunity here, and you’re messing with your phone.

NAT
Yeah. “Oh look. I’ve got a text off no-one…” I felt a bit uncomfortable, to be fair. But, yeah- it was as sleazy as I expected it to be: men- bar you- that are overweight, have no morals and obviously have their own business or a good job that pays. They’ve probably got a family at home that they don’t give a damn about. They’re just obsessed by a fantasy. Which is pretty sad really.

We can but speculate.

MATT
I thought that the dancer was a bit tame because she looked as if she wasn’t that bothered. She was dancing but she was chewing gum, she wasn’t making eye contact- she was going through the motions. It was obvious that she was only thinking about the money, or the smack that she was going to shoot from the money.

Typically, I don’t notice the only small child in the pub until I air that assumption. We move to a different seat, away from any minors and nervous-looking adults.

MATT
Natalie’s offended a family.

NAT
Definitely.

(We move)

NAT
So where were we up to? Oh yeah, the fact that- no, she wasn’t very enthusiastic, to be fair. She was very, “This is money and that’s all I’m doing it for and I don’t really give a damn” but in the same respect I kind of understand that, because she’s working in a back-street strip club, probably to fund whatever obsessive habit she has: whether it be shopping, holidays, drugs, drink, whether she’s in a place in her life where she can’t escape… I kind of sympathise with her a little bit for that. If I was in her place, I wouldn’t be overly enthusiastic if someone was paying me to do that.

MATT
But then, if you want to make serious money out of it you do have to be enthusiastic so people keep coming back.

NAT
But in the same respect you don’t have to be because if you’ve got enough people coming in…

MATT
Maybe.

NAT
Some people don’t care about the intimacy part - at the end of the day, it’s looking at some girl dancing. And, you know, they do dance very good. I don’t know whether there are other places that do it better, but they do their job. They don’t make eye contact- maybe it makes them feel uncomfortable or guilty about the life that they’re leading. Because it brings it home a little bit more. So maybe it’s easier for them not to do that.

I think it’s safe to say that Nat won’t be back there. But will I? Probably not, in all honesty: Manchester is an exciting town, and there are better things to do than watch girls take clothes off. And regardless, Long Legs faces fierce competition from a selection of newly licensed venues that have sprung up across the city, much to the horror of local sewing circles and/or women’s rights groups. And I’ve not even been to any of these emerging outlets off my own back, let alone been coerced by a girl.

Long Legs can be found on George St., Manchester.

http://www.long-legs.co.uk

Review: Back to the Future Part II

“There’s something very familiar about all this,” says an aging Biff (a prosthetic- enhanced Thomas F. Wilson), watching his Grandson and his friends fall foul of the efforts of Marty McFly (Michael J. Fox).

The audience may feel a similar sense of deja vu as the script of the original film is re-hashed and thrown into an uninspired vision of the year 2015. This time it’s not Marty’s father but his son- a certified future-wimp- that needs putting on the right track with a rhetorical kick up the backside.

It’s a shame that writers Zemeckis and Gale weren’t given similar treatment- instead they recycle plot, jokes and actors (Fox plays three characters, none with the zest of his role in the first film).

What we see of the future world is mostly a cop-out. The “retro Eighties bar”- instead of highlighting how culture is fondly remembered and replicated- just shows a lack of imagination regarding what the future might hold in store, and the trends and lifestyles of the future world are obscure (dust covers on ties? Why?). Opportunities to predict and portray a believable future are painfully overlooked by the writers.

Meanwhile, Doc seems thoroughly annoyed that Marty want to make riches through time travel- the rest of us are just annoyed that Zemeckis and Gale’s vision of the future is so dull and fleeting.

It isn’t long before Biff finds his way back in time- conveniently to 1955 where the first film was set- to make his younger self a rich man. (Presumably Biff chose this year, out of any in his life, purely for the financial advantage of the film studio- the re-use of stock footage and sets must have pleased Universal). It is at this point you may need a good grounding in physics to stay in tune with the plot, as Doc explains alternative strains of the future. The story becomes almost as convoluted, and nowhere near as graspable- or enjoyable- as the original.

The middle chapter is a lull in the excitement of an otherwise memorable trilogy. One only wishes the flux capacitor could go back to the late eighties and change the script of this odd instalment.

How Not to Win a Writing Competiton

The first and foremost rule of not winning a writing competition is this: Don’t read the rules.

For instance:

“Urbis and SMITH want you to describe your life as a writer, artist, or raconteur in six well-chosen words. We’ll feature the best ones on Urbis and SMITH—and they could end up in a future book.”
-smithmag.net

You may find that, while concocting these anecdotes, the majority of what you can think of- and what everyone else thinks of- is pretentious, repetitive tosh.

“My words, my life… My arse.”

“The ink my pen bleeds love”.

“Write, send, get rejected, rewrite, yawn.”

All very poetic, and I can agree sometimes poignant.

But is it fun?

Reading- and writing- should be massively entertaining. I found trying to write about creativity too awkward. I expect it would be like giving a speech about childbirth… while you are in the final stages of labour. It could be done, I suppose, but it’s difficult to explain, and it’s one of those things that speaks for its self.

But the potential to tell stories in a six-word format, with no boundaries- that’s entertainment.

Here are a few I hammered out, story title first:

No one can judge me
“Court case thrown out: free man!”

How to stay young
“Man stays youthful through permanent retardation.”

Advice on Relationships
“If love hurts, stop dating sadomasochists!”

Try coming up with anything as ridiculous or as absurd as that, within the catchments of “the creative life”. It’s impossible. The writer is almost forced into pomposity. Bravo to the winning entries as they were poignant and- wait for it- actually entertaining.

Well, enough bitching. Are you ready for a game? Name that film, represented in six-word memoir style!

1) Man kills dad to free galaxy.

2) Jewell thief admits being a cop.

3) Kill my crew? Eat vacuum, Alien!

4) Jew gangster grasses friends. Escapes alive!

5) Cripple does “Wild Goose” on cop.

6) Cat avenges dad’s death; becomes king.

7) Astronauts find ape world. It’s home!

8) Clerk kills wife’s pimp; finds paydirt.

9) After boxing, misogynist becomes fat comedian.

10) Son runs dad’s business; removes brother-in-law.

Back to the point.

My humble opinion is that writing of any kind, no matter how short or long, requires two things to stand out from the crowd: outstanding content and outstanding skill. The winners of the competition exemplified both of these. Here’s a final afterthought:

“Your manuscript is both good and original; but the part that is good is not original, and the part that is original is not good.” ~Author Unknown, commonly misattributed to Samuel Johnson (*) (Thank you, Frank Lynch.)

Emergency Services Night

In early 2007 I must have looked like a dodgy bastard. Not in terms of physical appearance; but there was something inexplicable about me that just attracted trouble, no matter how much I tried to avoid it.

A classic example: I’d been out with Colin on Oldham’s Yorkshire Street, apparently the third most violent street in Britain according to government statistics and the local newspaper. 

Driving, I spent the night sober. Not driving, and dare I mention it- banned, Colin was not sober- far from it. Hence I took on the role of Chauffeur Supreme, and kept a watchful eye on my company- who openly described himself as “one hell of a beer hound”.

Normally Colin was the one looking after me: his football hooligan days set him in good stead for the risks of a night in Oldham. That night he’d hammered the drink quite quickly but seemingly knew when to stop and ask me for a lift, necking the dregs of his pint and thumbing to the door with practiced skill.

I’d given him a lift once before, and tonight I’d definitely started driving in the right direction. I need to do a route three times before I know it. But Colin’s instructions had stopped, and I was on a strange road.

“We still going the right way, Col?”

No answer.

“Col. Colin.”

With one hand on the wheel and both eyes locked on the unfamiliar road, I shook Colin’s shoulder. His upper body slouched left and his head lightly knocked on the door window, tongue lolled to one side.

Oh, fuck, I thought. He’s out cold. What has he taken? Okay. Calm down. Let’s imagine that I was a responsible adult. What would I do?

The car lights illuminated a sign for Rochdale centre. Oldham has a St. John’s ambulance normally. Rochdale must have too, given its similarly dangerous reputation.

Please don’t throw up in my mum’s car, I thought. Don’t OD either… Col’s done enough looking-after for me, I thought. I’m not letting him down.

I spotted the waiting ambulance in the centre of town and slammed the car as close as I could get to it- in a nearby taxi rank. Locking Colin inside, I strode over to the technicians with a minor gut feeling that I could have a serious situation on my hands. I’d never dealt with an unconscious person before. I’d also never had a chance to learn any first aid. I had no idea how serious this was.

I explained the scenario to the ambulance workers. The woman followed me while the man stood guard of the van.

“What’s your friend’s name?” she asked, snapping on some medical gloves.

“Colin.”

Inevitably, a taxi had pulled in behind me and the Asian driver was unimpressed that a random Nissan Micra had taken his place in the queue.

“Here y’are mate, how are we supposed to work when”-

Before I’d even thought of politely explaining, the ambulance man had jumped in.

“We’ve got an emergency situation with this car here. So get back in your taxi and wait. Okay?”

The taxi driver sat back, browbeaten.

I let the woman in and she basically did what I did, minus driving. She shook his shoulder and shouted at him.

“Colin. Colin. Wake up.”

Col’s mental transgression from confusion to minor panic, then surprise, was priceless.

“Your mate’s trying to take you home. Do you know where you live?”

Col stammered out his address.

I thought ahead. “Do you know how to get there from here?”

“Where are we?” he asked, bemused.

“Rochdale.”

Col blinked. “Er, yeah.”

I thanked the lady, who then ordered the three disgruntled taxi drivers in front of me to leave the rank so I could get out.

“Oh… Newby…” Colin was gradually realising where he was and why. “I’m so sorry. I’m SO sorry.”

When I finally got to Colin’s, his housemates were still awake. I retold the night’s story with such vigour and enthusiasm that I got the inevitable, “My god, he is Jim Carrey” treatment. And I try so hard to be like Andy Garcia…

So with Colin home safe there was only myself to take care of.

I’d got about two thirds of the way home, through Oldham centre (for an obligatory cruise to check out the women queuing for taxis) and out to the suburbs before the lights flashed in my mirror.

Fuck, I thought. What have I done now?

I pulled over, tailed by the blue-and-yellow Vectra. It was a fairly non-descript night out, we’d not done anything dishonourable (other than to go to Oldham in the first place). But casting my mind back, there was nothing the police could seemingly book me for. Parking in a taxi rank? Yeah, right. Checking out women? Well, it’s not as if I was slowly driving past bars and making strange animalistic noises whenever a short skirt was near.

Not this weekend, anyway.

I checked my mirror. The officer got out of his car and walked cautiously towards me, chin down, talking to the radio on his shoulder.

It’s Saturday night, and it’s 1AM. I’m a young man in a red Nissan Micra, traditionally a woman’s car. If I was a policeman, I thought, I’d pull me over too. I wound my window down.

“I pulled you over,” the officer said, hands on knees, “because we’ve had reports of a car matching your description being driven erratically in the area.”

There’s a pause.

“Right,” I say, but it comes out like a question.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?”

“No, only soft drinks.”

“Is this your car, sir?”

“No, it’s my mum’s. I’m insured on it.”

I just want to go home. I’ve had enough absurdity for one day. Let’s get a move on, I thought.

“You can see my licence if you want.”

“No, no. That won’t be necessary. I’m satisfied that you’re safe to drive this car. Take care, sir.”

Well, I thought, as Officer Zealot got back in his car. Whoever is drink- driving in Oldham, this guy’s going to catch them. Especially if he’s pulling over any random car he can find. That’s what we pay tax for.

I knew where the cameras are in my area, but I still kept under the speed limit until I got home. It’s strange. The emergency services crews are usually there in places where they are most needed. They have hard jobs that they perform well in. But sometimes those there to protect us- whether it be our mates, ambulance ops or police- seem to be the most likely to give us a heart attack.