Matt Tuckey is a writer from Oldham, England. He covers celebrities, night life, Manchester, fitness, creative writing, social media, psychology and events. Some of this may, in some way, help others. Or maybe it'll just entertain you for a while.
-Those with the greatest awareness have the greatest nightmares. Mahatma Ghandi
The worst types of dreams are sometimes the ones that have a backdrop of regular life- with something normal happening, after which a terrible scenario ensues. Upon waking, you realise these things could and do happen.
I think it’s a weakness in my character that I don’t like not understanding things. I hate the feeling that something is beyond my knowledge and I have to deal with situations blindly- like waking up with an image of something violent and worrying (and possible) in my head. I had to continue my dream research. Why do we dream? And, king of clichés- what do they mean?
One recent dream revolved around picking up an ex-girlfriend in a dusty, gravel car park, and showing off in front of her and her mates by cranking full lock on and wheel-spinning, sending the car round like a lasso. It’s a childish, chavvish display that I would never attempt in reality.
The ex loved it though, and ran up to the car, squealing with amazement. She was apparently not the best at judging moving objects, however, and I felt a clunk as my back wheels ran her down. I’d gone full circle again, slamming the Skoda estate over her body a second time ‘til I registered- with a gut-wrenching feeling of doom- how moronic I had been, and the immense consequence of my stupidity.
The one redeeming feature about terrible dreams is the get-out-of-jail-free card that you instantly pull upon waking. I’ve lost count of the amount of horrific, twisted scenarios- far more violent and brutal than this one- that I’ve imagined when dreaming. But however bad these dreams could be, I’ve woken up and thought, thank fuck. That’s a weight off my mind! For the moment, at least- I am a free and innocent man.
For the record, I’m still on good terms with said ex girlfriend. This makes her suicide-by-Matt bid all the more weird… Why dream of doing something that you’d never want to happen?
Before going to bed and having this dream, I had indulged in an only-slightly-oversized glass of Highland Park Twelve-year-old. Of all the whiskies I’ve tried (and there have been a few) this hits the spot more than any other. Not in terms of sending me to sleep (although it does), but Goddamn, it’s a fine whisky. “The greatest all rounder in the world of malt whisky”, says The Malt Whisky Companion. I’m prepared to agree.
I was wondering whether there might be a connection between alcohol and dreams- and whether food affects these scenarios.
Medscape.com, a medical-orientated news site, shed light on how alcohol reduces healthy sleep time.
“Withdrawal symptoms (of healthy sleep) may include shallow sleep and multiple awakenings, REM rebound associated with nightmares or vivid dreams, sweating, and general activation. Therefore, although alcohol may be effective in sleep induction, it impairs sleep during the second half of the night and can lead to a reduction in overall sleep time.”
I had the feeling that alcohol might give me weird dreams. I was wrong. Everybody has weird dreams, regardless of whether or not they drink. In fact, alcohol delays the brain from entering the second, deeper phase of sleep- when REM occurs. So it seems that alcohol prevents you from dreaming in the way you should. It’s a wonder I remembered running my ex down at all.
I ploughed on with dream research. Macalester College, in Minnesota, has a detailed psychology website describing the effects of sleep depravation on rats.
“Ultimately, REM deprivation in rats is fatal. One of the main symptoms during this time was hypothermia, despite observable effects to increase heat production (e.g., by eating). This has led to the hypothesis that the function of REM is to prevent heat loss.”
So. This is the missing conclusive point to my previous dream blog, “Weird Dream”, in which I tried to nail down what dreams are in the first place. Dreams are the byproduct of your brain keeping your body warm while you sleep.
Doctors sometimes advise people that- even though while you are asleep your body congeals food into fat- getting more sleep can usually be an effective factor in the task of losing weight.
Also, we can conclude that the doctor in Fight Club was wrong. You can die from insomnia. It would take a very long time, we can presume, although psychologytoday.com reports that there are “no recorded human fatalities.”
“The most notable finding from REM deprivation studies in humans is that the number of attempts that a person makes to go into REM while asleep greatly increases. After the deprivation is complete, the deprived person will experience a REM rebound, which is a significant increase in the percentage of time spent in REM over normal levels. This REM rebound can last for several nights.”
So dreams act like sleep itself- if you deprive yourself of it, you’ll have REM rebound: a backlog of dreaming to experience later.
“Often nightmares are caused by stress, traumatic experiences, emotional difficulties, drugs or medication, or illness. However, some people have frequent nightmares that seem unrelated to their waking lives. Recent studies suggest that these people tend to be more open, sensitive, trusting, and emotional than average.”
- asdreams.org, the International Association for the Study of Dreams
Well. As a blogger I think I’ve spent enough time discussing my weaknesses. But this seems to correlate, to a degree. I have actually had less warped, disturbed dreams than I used to, which I guess is a good sign.
So it’s off to the land of nod again soon, after I’ve finished this glass of Glayva liqueur. I’ll tell you what happens. Night, all.
“The point is, ladies and gentleman, that greed -- for lack of a better word -- is good. Greed is right. Greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Greed, in all of its forms -- greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge -- has marked the upward surge of mankind.” -Gordon Gekko (Michael Douglas) Wall Street
So… it has been revealed by The Daily Telegraph that our Members of Parliament claimed every penny they could on their expenses- down to paperclips and a one-pence phone bill.
Oh, we’re all so angry. Am I? Yes, of course I am. As a struggling administrator with learning difficulties, who’s just had his Working Tax Credits inexplicably revoked, I am more than disgusted at the government’s collective behaviour.
But then, I always have been. It occurs to me, however, that the behaviour displayed by our MPs is all that can be expected from the authorities.
If somebody offers you money or gifts, it takes a strong will to decline them. Especially when “the rules” dictate that there is nothing wrong with taking them.
Our MPs say that even though they admitted to claiming these expenses, they still acted “within the rules”. What a massive insult this is to the Great British public. They are Members of Parliament! They make the rules!
In 37AD, Roman Emperor Caligula went mad, made his horse a senator, sentenced several other “untrustworthy” human senators to death (their guilt heavily doubted by the Roman public), committed incest with his sisters and caused starvation by wasting money on opulent, unneeded architectural structures.
Those of you familiar with the Millennium Dome in London or Manchester’s decaying B of the Bang sculpture can imagine the public’s disgust with Caligula. It could be argued that it is only a matter of time before our ridiculous government plumbs the depths as far as he did.
The point that I am making is that those in charge are foolish to say they are acting “within the rules”. This statement bears little relevance when they made those rules themselves. Hazel Blears, Labour MP for Salford for instance, claimed £13,000 worth of expenses and has now stepped down from her Communities Secretary post. This is despite her belief that she has done nothing wrong. Her following proposal to pay back that money shed further doubt on her innocence.
It may be too late to stop this dark chapter of British politics from unfolding, but here’s my proposed solution: we should take inspiration from the Catholic Church. Many people cringe at the thought of slamming politics and religion together. In today’s world with numerous faiths being practiced within the same countries and growing atheism, religion becomes a veritable minefield for those in power. Who can forget George W Bush’s cringe worthy claim that his invasion of Afghanistan was “A mission from God”? Hopefully, however, my suggestion won’t result in as many heads in hands.
Hundreds of years ago, the Church had a system for declaring people as “saints”. If a person wanted to be canonised, i.e. recognised by the Church as a saint, they (or their representatives) would put forward a case proving the candidate’s worthiness of sainthood. In order for the church to offer a balanced case, however, it was necessary to have a person in the system to act as opposition. This person would stop every Tom, Dick and Harry (and most Matthews, Marks, Lukes and Johns) from waltzing in and acquiring sainthood. This person was referred to as the Devil’s Advocate, and his job was to find fault in people.
Currently at Westminster, laws proposed by the party in power (Labour) can be challenged by opposing parties (usually the Conservatives) if it is felt that new laws and motions are inappropriate or problematic.
I may be rambling about something I know nothing about here, but consider this plan:
The government hires someone not previously involved in politics. They would ideally live in a modest home and receive a modest, steady wage. A levelheaded, respectable individual, they would have enough common sense to tell right from wrong (something most politicians lack, given the current state of affairs). Perhaps a courtroom judge could be a good candidate for the post. Using this common sense, their job is to act as a modern-day “Devil’s Advocate” for the Houses of Parliament. Among other things, they stop inappropriate expenditure and deny questionable expenses claims - like we are currently seeing on MPs’ expense sheets at the moment.
The Telegraph’s latest findings show MPs have claimed for flapjack, a ten-grand office refurbishment, bleach, DVDs, face cream, a toilet brush, the removal of a wasp’s nest, lamps in the shape of elephants, horse manure, jellied eels, a hedge-trimming job around a helipad (go on, rub it in), Chicken and Turkey Dog food, something being referred to as “the mother of all wigs” (your guess is as good as mine), three TVs and three shredders (all six claimed by one MP simultaneously) and – here’s the best one- a £47 claim by Shadow Chancellor George Osbourne for two DVDs of HIS OWN speech. It gets better: the speech was on “Value for Taxpayer’s Money”!
Only in Britain, hey?
The political “Devil’s Advocate” technique I described would prevent a part of human nature from damaging the political system in Britain. That damaging natural trait is greed.
People criticise our politicians for being greedy. However, I do not. I criticise the system for allowing our MPs’ greed to affect their jobs, inadvertently pushing them into the spotlight.
No doubt somebody will suggest that the opposition I describe is already in place, in effect, in the Houses of Parliament. New laws are created in this Westminster building: they are bounced between the House of Commons and the House of Lords before being finalised and implemented, but this method of law laying clearly isn’t working.
If Caligula’s political techniques seem old-fashioned, and mine seem impractical, maybe we should take a leaf out of Croatia’s book.
Bizarre news site Ananova.com reports: ‘Josko Risa was voted in as mayor in Prolozac with a landslide victory using the slogan: "All for me - nothing for you."… A local commented- “We're going to get ripped off no matter who takes over. At least he's being honest and up front about it. And he has said that if things get better for him then they will get better for us."’
The Croatian public perhaps didn’t realise that his explanation didn’t match up with his slogan. Perhaps it really is impossible to be honest and well intentioned in politics.
Croatia may be irreversibly broken, like many countries in the world, but there is hope for Britain in all of this. In a government full of plastic smiles, greed and empty promises, comes a shining light… in the form of an Amstrad logo.
Computer pioneer and Apprentice headman Sir Alan Sugar, possibly the meanest man ever to receive a knighthood, is soon to be made a Lord for the Labour party.
Don’t get me wrong- I don’t particularly like the guy. But I admire Sir Alan for his fearless attitude and his skills as a businessman, achieving things that I just plain couldn’t. I only hope his no-nonsense attitude rubs off on other politicians.
Oh, and by the way- the guy’s a multimillionaire. In 2007 he sold AMSTRAD for £125 Million. He then sold a further £22 Million’s worth of shares in football club Tottenham Hotspurs. The chances of him claiming back expenses in politics are possible, but not likely by any means. I can’t imagine him having the time to take the pen out of his pocket. I also doubt he’d be corrupted by any major power trip that could develop in a career in high-level politics. He’s had enough of that power coursing through his veins since his twenties.
If Sir Alan were made Prime Minister I would trust him to drag us, kicking and screaming, through the gauntlet of today’s economic difficulties. I would also trust him to put a leash on his MPs, thus preventing them from attaining benefits and claims that they could quite comfortably afford from their salaries.
With a stranglehold on the greed that we all feel regardless of how much or how little we make- the greed that is part of human nature- the government (with Sir Alan at it’s helm) could set an example of how best to handle money. And handling money, I thought, was what politics was all about.
My eyes strain under the purposefully dim flickering halogen light strips, as I follow the dank dungeon tunnel. My wrist is beginning to hurt as I point this oversized gun into the corridor. This model can kill anything I point it at.
But if I were to die right now, it wouldn’t matter.
Through the dull drone of a generator somewhere inside the complex, another distant machine hums. I’m listening.
At least the power’s still on. The company has a habit of cutting it without warning, and always at the wrong moment.
The ‘bot emerges fast, tracks rotating, driving toward me. I aim for the engine, trigger depressed, as its side mounted arsenal returns fire. My pulse quickens, noticeably forcing itself under the skin on my trigger finger. The machine’s radar and camera explode, but not even the protective metal body suit- tailored to fit, typically- can deflect the bombardment of enemy bullets. I keep firing. I don’t even feel the heat. I only register adrenaline, or anger, as it pumps through me like a hard drug to which I am addicted. My reinforced visor eventually cracks, distorting my vision. The synapses fire wildly around my brain, causing me to crave destruction, the nozzle of the weapon blazing with equal ferocity.
The ‘bot lies on its side now, blackened by the rounds from my gun. I edge past it towards a tunnel opening, avoiding the massive barrels still spraying fire into the tunnel and chipping the concrete floor.
Emerging to a battered, scorched landscape, I realise the acid rain will rust my armour, slowing me, if refuge isn’t found soon.
I have never seen this part of the land before. I can hear the low hum of the rescue ship’s engine, ready to lift me. The ground should tremble with the bass, but it doesn’t…
I look up, excited- the ship, also new to me, is immense. The end, for the moment at least, is near.
Bullets whip into the ground around me. I spin to the tunnel entrance as another bot fires off rounds, damaging my metal exoskeleton. Through cracked glass I see my own ammo rip into this pig-sized tank, making it squeal as the hardware short-circuits. Its engine erupts in a ball of fire as pride swells in my throat. I don’t smell the burning fuel or feel the heat from the blast, but I register only the urge to keep my finger on the trigger. In a matter of seconds I will be safe-
The screen goes black, and my lamp turns off. Across the street a burglar alarm rings.
“Fuck!”
I throw the joypad on the carpet as the monitor emits a diminishing crackle of static. Another power cut. I didn’t even save the game. I want to kill something.
Fear grows in darkness; if you think there's a bogeyman around, turn on the light. -Dorothy Thompson, wartime journalist
This story is based on actual events.
There was something about pubs that creeped him out. He was a bar kind of guy. The smoking ban came in six months ago but every pub still stank of smoke. He couldn’t help but expect to have some weird rural tradition forced upon him, like being accosted by a local farmer, who would to try to sell him dead pheasants from under his overcoat.
He should never have moved up here.
Still, The King George’s clientele were younger than he had expected- mostly men still clinging onto the last few years of their twenties, and drinking with the enthusiasm they probably had ten years ago. There was an undertone of teenage angst still brewing amidst their arrogant, defiant attitude. The sturdiest looking man in the pub must have been about forty, but Douglas thought his cocky persona would have better suited a twenty-year-old.
“You thought the soldiers were bad,” said the stocky man, speaking a bit too loud for the small pub. “It was the women that made Eastern Europe so fucked. Some of them were pure evil.”
“Always the campaigner for women’s rights,” The lad in his early twenties bantered. “Aren’t you, John?”
John didn’t pick up on the humour: his drinking buddy had touched a raw and lethal nerve. John’s deadpan stare cooled any warming effect the joke might have had.
The lad gulped.
It wasn’t hard for John to pull this persona off- John was huge, probably a farmer.
But shit, thought Douglas. What does he grow? Lead?
John was quite short but horrendously ripped, sporting scabby holes in his forearms. The desecrated blue football tattoos cast serious doubt over the slim possibility that his muscle was not drug-enhanced.
John visibly backtracked, perhaps stifling an outburst, then continued. “A lot of the cruellest Nazis were women. Most of them were hung after the, er…” Then, clicking his fingers, “The main trials after the war-“
“Nuremberg trials.” Douglas felt his temperature soar as he impulsively interjected.
He didn’t think this “John” was someone he really wanted to know, but here he was- slamming himself into this meathead’s conversation. John’s neck was so abnormally large that he had to twist at the torso to glance over to the pub’s apparent amateur historian. His eyebrows lifted as two quiet seconds dripped by awkwardly.
“Right,” acknowledged John, eventually. He shifted his posture to address the two of them. “But a few made it out to Europe. One of them got killed out here actually. Have you heard that?”
His sidekick- a much smaller but similar looking young skinhead- took a breath to answer, but was cut off as John ranted on. Douglas tried to stifle a sigh of relief that this giant was accepting him.
Don’t they just show VH-1 in most gyms? When did The History Channel become the choice background programme for working out?
“Winefred Schroder, she was called.” John supped his beer. “Evil, evil bitch. Made it over the channel during the Blitz. Adolf Hitler himself gave her this mission. Hitler had heard that this one plant- Just down the road from here actually- was the only place in the world making the gears for spitfires. He knew the Nazi planes, the, er, Luftwaffe, basically weren’t up to the job. If he wanted to invade, he’d have to take out our planes. His spies had figured that the guy who knew how to make them- he was just some joey in the factory. He wasn’t the manager. The manager made cars before the war, but with the war effort they had to start making other stuff.
“You couldn’t just slam anything into a spitfire. It had to be this exact, er, component. They only made it in this local factory, and the only guy who could do it was this little mechanic- a nobody. That’s how much Hitler knew. It’s fucking scary, mate.
“So they gave Schroder instructions to get to the exact housing block and room that this mechanic lived in. He was a marked man.
“The housing block was full of people- it was the evening. Houses back then weren’t just terraced- they were back-to-back, so about four different families were living in this block. She had to scout it out before she knew who she was after. She follows people home from work to figure out which one he is, and follows the mechanic into the building. Ten minutes later, all the locals heard this guy screaming. This was back when people actually knew their neighbours, and helped each other out. On top of that, the building had been hit in the Blitz – a rogue bomb- and it had smashed up a side wall; the sound was travelling further. So the guy next door comes round with a cricket bat, smashes the door down and finds Schroder throttling the mechanic. And she’s only a little woman, but she’s lying on him with her legs locked onto his and her arm locked round the back of his head, choking him out. The neighbour just swings at her and goes BOOM…”
John’s enthusiastic miming of the attack caused Douglas to grip his bottle even tighter, which in turn made him realise how on edge he was. It’s just a conversation, he thought. Calm down. The guy’s a loon. He’s watched far too much History Channel. But, Jesus, it’s like he’d done it himself…
John showed no sign of mellowing. “Her head just implodes and she’s out for the count. Right at that moment, PC Plod charges into the room.
“So there’s two guys, civilians, and a policeman- thinking, what the fuck have I walked into here- and a dead nazi woman in this house. Right- back then police didn’t give a fuck about detection figures. There was no- you know, incentive for reporting crimes and stuff. But if people had found out that some woman broke into a flat nearby carrying loads of er, SS regalia- it would have made the papers and freaked the neighbours out. That’s something they don’t need.
“So they wrap her up in bedsheets and carry her out. None of the neighbours are asking questions. The coppers just had to give someone a stare back then and people would back down. And besides, they didn’t want people thinking they’re a spy or owt like that.
“This is in the middle of the Blitz, remember. Loads of people had already died. Bodies were being brought to the mortuaries all the time. So the police pay off the mortuary guys and they sling her in with a load of British bodies.”
“So you’re saying that’s how we won the battle of Britain?” Douglas asked. “We still had the, er, resources to fight off the nazis,” he said, gesticulating, “Because this woman didn’t kill this…mechanic?”
“Exactly,” John said, leaning back on the bar.
Doug saw right through him in a flash. The guy’s a steroid-abusing meathead, he thought, who comes out with these ridiculous fabrications of general knowledge to pass himself off as having at least some brains to compliment the excess brawn.
But I’m sure as fuck not going to tell him that.
“That’s what I heard. I mean…” John, suddenly more blasé, took a sip of his now flat-looking pint. “Well. Supposedly, he only knocked her out. He didn’t kill her. The mortuary attendant’s story is that after the bribe, they dumped her in there while he tidied the other bodies up. She started breathin’ again. Morgue guys don’t scare easily- when rigor mortis sets in bodies can sit up and all sorts. She’d been waking up and dozing off... Making moaning sounds… They didn’t know whether she was just expelling air, like fresh bodies do, or whether she was really still alive.”
It’s disturbing how much this guy knows about dead bodies, thought Douglas.
“You can imagine- these guys were freaked out,” John continued. “They didn’t want the locals hearin’ about it, and they just wanted her off their hands. So they thought, fuck it, and buried her under a headstone for victims of the Blitz along with about fifty British civilians. Legend has it, if you take a pink nail up there and hammer it into the headstone,” he said, almost embarrassed, “she comes out of her grave, drags you in, and that’s the last thing you ever see.”
What else is there to add to a conversation like this? Douglas thought. It’s all rhetorical. He took a sip of his pint. “I’d do it.”
His heart was now punching its way though his chest bone with adrenaline as he cursed his lack of self-control. It was becoming almost unmanageable to take deep enough breaths to stay calm but still breathe quiet enough to not let people notice him hyperventilating.
“You’re on,” said John without hesitation. “Let’s go. Lee?”
John necked his pint with alarming speed. Sidekick Lee got a quarter of the way down in the same time, coughed, and dumped the glass on the bar.
Douglas rooted through his pockets. “Hold on, let me just get my pink headed nails out…” Great, he thought. Give cheek to the nutter meathead you’ve just met. Great start to a Friday night.
“You mean ones like this?”
John put down a nail, doused in pink paint, right next to Douglas’s pint.
Douglas managed a smile as he sighed, shoulders suddenly slouching.
*
After introductions outside the pub Douglas buttoned up his overcoat, which he realised was a bit too big for him. This kind of coat wasn’t usually necessary in Newquay, but there was plenty of outdoor wear in the few shops he had found around his new home. The biting cold had tempted him into investing fast. He couldn’t feel the cold now: just the beer, and the tension forming from the niggling feeling that a long dead nazi woman could be throttling him within the next hour. That was keeping him warm enough.
As John ranted on to Lee about some other lunatic he’d come toe to toe with a few days ago, Douglas pulled out his phone and activated the built-in light. The phone chimed, empty-battery symbol displayed. The light didn’t reach very far. But against the backdrop of a cloudless, smogless night the knife-like silhouette of a church steeple cut into the heart of the starry sky.
Douglas, looking at John’s bulky frame, started to make further assumptions as they marched up the road. Must be lonely being a big guy, thought Douglas. Being able to scare people that easily must be a good feeling at first. I’ve never scared anyone, I don’t think. But after a while… people’s constant apprehension must piss you off. No wonder he’s pressurising anyone he can find into these ridiculous games. Why me, though? What am I doing here? About fifteen years ago this kind of behaviour would have been acceptable. But I’d have shit it back then. He wrestled with his conscience. Oh, so what? You’ve got something to prove now? No, but I still need to meet people. I’m not a hermit.
Douglas snapped to, realising he’d been quiet for some time. It also occurred to him that John and Lee would think that he was either terrified or just a stuck-up city boy, already bored of yokel folk and their small-town interests.
A crash of rocks at the side of him made Douglas gasp audibly. He spun to see John knocking down half a stone wall, collecting one massive rock in a single hand.
This is it, thought Douglas. This is how it ends.
John stepped towards him. He thrust the stone at Douglas’ chest and he instinctively took it in his hands. He wheezed, partly with relief- it was a gift! It was also a lot heavier than he’d expected- John had picked it up easily. But Doug could probably hold it in one hand if he tried, especially with the sheer volume of adrenaline pumping through him now.
The church was looming over them now, and as Douglas looked up even the clouds seemed to be moving away from the graveyard, giving the effect of the steeple falling forward onto him… The stars blurred as he tried to concentrate on them, and not think of the desecration he was about to commit. People strived valiantly sixty years ago to defend my freedom. And now I come along and chip their headstone just to defend my ego. You are a disgrace, Doug…
Yeah right. That isn’t the problem here. Douglas smiled to himself. Let’s be honest. I am afraid. Because I am going to be killed by a ghost. Well. Now let’s think rationally, play this idiot’s game, hammer this gay nail in then I’ll just say I’ve got to go.
“Let’s do this, Doug,” said John. “Are you ready for Schroder? To take her on, and all her horrors?” John smiled.
“No fear,” said Douglas, although he could have vomited with paranoia. He held the stone in one hand and his bicep turned to hot rock. Stepping over the decrepit wall, eroded by time and possibly vandalism, he entered the world of the dead.
Douglas wanted to focus on how absurd this all was. The chances of himself doing anything like this on a Friday night in Newquay was non-existent. He wouldn’t be acting like a child with a load of yonners, chasing ghosts.
But hey, there’s a first time for everything…
No amount of lateral thinking could stifle the fear. He looked over his shoulder and John, barely lit by the stars but a silhouette block of a man on the horizon, was keeping his distance behind the stone wall. He pointed at something beyond Douglas, in the graveyard, then clenched his fist in encouragement.
Douglas pointed the phone light into the cemetery, illuminating the resting places of long-dead people. He wanted to stop and read every faded headstone, to do anything to delay the inevitable. The beer had worn off now, but he was woozy with a cocktail of fear, shame, cold, and a little bit of pride. Retreat was not an option. He’d rather deal with the consequences than back down.
The two sad eyes of the church windows, reflecting the night sky, glared down at Douglas with disdain. He’d been raised a Catholic, but had forgotten all about it once he’d hit college. Now he was going to push the immoral boat out, and disturb a resting place.
The light picked up a giant grey crucifix, a prestigious reminder of those who died for Britain’s freedom- without ever leaving their hometown. Douglas stepped cautiously toward it.
They whom this headstone commemorates…
When close enough to the honourable dead Douglas noticed that the stone, embossed with multicoloured lichen, was engraved with the names of exactly who’s grave he was about to desecrate.
…were numbered among those, who, at the call of King and Country, endured hardness, faced danger…
The phone gave a death rattle and he was plunged into darkness.
He felt for the nail in his pocket, taking a deep nasal breath. It didn’t help to steady his pulse. Rolling it between his fingers, he placed the tip on the eroded marble plaque, right in front of the crucifix. Holding the stone over the head of the nail, he started to tap.
Douglas felt the cold air permeate his thick coat, like a wet paintbrush stroking down his back. Maybe it was because he’d stopped moving and the tiny motion of hammering was no insulator compared to striding through an overgrown graveyard… But this was cold like none other, radiating nauseatingly through his core. He hammered harder.
The nail wasn’t moving- the tip was embedded in the marble, but he wasn’t going to do things by halves. He wanted it properly in. He’d come this far.
Douglas gave three last whacks with the rock and tossed noisily it to one side. The deed was done.
Schroder had not made her appearance. It was all over.
There was no wash of relief, though- he was still in a starlit, cold graveyard, walking over bodies of people who died before he was even born. The Chiseled flags served as an almost mosaic reminder that we all face death eventually… especially when a vengeful un-dead woman has you in her clutches.
Leaning on the marble, he looked back to the wall where John and Lee last were. All he saw was black- not even horizon. Something wasn’t right. He was shivering as he turned to walk.
Something snagged. It had him by the wrist and was pulling him back down.
It’s Schroder, he thought. She is real, and she is here.
He turned back to the stone, seeing nothing, as his bowels gave way.
* Two weeks later, John sat in the same seat in the same pub. The same tobacco odour leaked from the wallpaper. It was still cold outside.
Lee took up a stool beside him. John was talking to another new city boy, tired of urban stress and looking for a placid, rural lifestyle. With polite, restrained nervousness, the newcomer listened as John recounted that fateful night.
“He just looked more ridiculous than anything. Some drunk loon on his knees in front of a gravestone, knockin’ a nail in. People do all sorts of shit after a few scoops. I can’t believe he bought it all. The whole story might be bollocks for all I know. But, y’know, he wanted to go there… I suppose it beats sitting in this pub bein’ avoided by everyone.”
The newcomer discreetly glanced around the King George. People talked quietly, sipping pints. Everyone would have heard John, but they were all acting like they hadn’t. He noticed the landlord roll his eyes.
“I’d figured,” said John, “Why not dip a nail in the missus’ varnish and see if anyone would do it.
“He’d hammered this nail in good an’ proper, but as he went to leave he gasped- an’ I mean loud. Something put the shits up him. He looked like he’d fainted, but he was still holdin’ on to the headstone like he was danglin’ over a cliff. “Go an’ check on him,” I said to Lee, but he just looked at me like his arse had given way.”
Lee nodded with a guilty smile.
“So I walked over,” said John, “turn my phone light on, an’ I ‘ave a butcher’s.
“He’d nailed his coat sleeve to the headstone. The muppet. His eyes were dry an’ cloudy, sorta, and he was lookin’ up at me like I’m the scariest thing he’s seen in his life. An’ I’ve seen that look on people’s faces before, believe me. But nothin’ like this. Eyes bulging, mouth wide open an’ everythin’. I wanted to check his pulse, but I thought, nah… don’t wanna put fingerprints on him. If he is dead, I don’t wanna look like a murder suspect or anything… he did this to himself. Everyone in here heard ‘im say it. “I’d do it,” he said.
“‘Sides, I think he shit himself.
“Lee wanted to phone 999, which I thought was a bit off of him to be honest- at first, at least. I look after ‘im. Don’t I?”
Lee, pride battered, nodded again.
“I was like, ‘and what, now you’re just gonna grass me up when I didn’t make him do it?’ I’m a knobhead, it took me about 2 hours to calm down enough for him to tell me he was phonin’ for an ambulance. We just told the paramedics it was all Doug’s idea. And he had been drinking, the coroner… well, he verified that. He was a healthy guy; he just got freaked so bad his heart- and his arse- couldn’t take it.
“I left the back door unlocked,” said Barney. “As if things aren’t bad enough already. I fucking hate myself sometimes.”
“Don’t say that,” said Chris.
Chris was sick of this. He knew how coming down felt. They both knew there was no chance of finding the drugs now. But Barney is mourning as well, he thought. That must be hell. Barney, however, was about to drag Chris deeper into his mire.
“It was a jogger off the estate. Runs over the hill. Can’t miss him. You’ll get the usual sum.”
Nodding, Chris reached over the inexplicably placed bottle of glue, inhaling the acrid fumes, and took the gun. “I’m sorry about your dad,” he said. “I liked him”.
Barney held up a silencing hand, gazing down.
Well, thought Chris. I tried. Barney had better pull himself together and lay off the drugs, otherwise someone will take his place.
“Let’s get it over with,” Chris said.
“Yeah,” Barney mumbled. “Let’s.”
-----------------
On a hillside road, a black hoody covering his face, Chris shadowboxed to smother the fear.
What Jogger? Chris thought. I know that estate like the back of my hand. Who could break into Barney’s house and steal a load of drugs, right from the heart of his living room? Something isn’t right. Well… it’s only murder…
If he kept doing what he’d done before- keep schtump and claim ignorance- the police wouldn’t find him. Barney had always made sure of that.
A heavy figure stomped up the hill. Although distant, amidst the birdsong from the adjacent field, the man’s wheezing was already audible.
Chris jumped back into the tall, cloaking roadside grass. Inhaling deeply, he pulled out the Beretta. It seemed heavier than when he’d first picked it up.
A full minute crawled around his watch before the panting man, soon to be nothing but a carcass, passed in front of his vision.
Without hesitation Chris lifted his arm out straight and pulled the trigger.
The blast destroyed the countryside silence, and a hole appeared momentarily in the jogger’s hood. The body was thrown sideways to the ground, as if tackled by an invisible rugby player. A geyser of blood deflected off the inside of the hood, like a man holding his thumb over a tap. Spraying forth into the blinding sunlight, it landed with a smatter on the wide rural road.
Chris released his breath. Another point of no return.
He had to know.
The rule is, you don’t go near them after the deed- but who was this jogger? Who had the balls?
The blood hadn’t quite reached the corpse’s shoulder yet, so Chris toed over the weighty torso.
Barney’s fear-etched mask grimaced back up at him.
Chris collapsed backwards and vomited on the asphalt.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
