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.

Cruising

You can tell you’re personally developing when someone actually rings you for moral support. They trust you to enough of a degree to call you, over everyone else, in order for them to sort their head out. I don’t think that had ever happened before yesterday.

John’s ex is pregnant with his baby. I offered him my congratulations but he did not want to hear it.

I was shattered from too many late nights and early mornings, but I couldn’t have stayed in at a time like this- we needed to go out and let John take his mind off things. Oldham, on a Monday night though, can be best described in one word- dull. Walkabout was pretty much empty. Except for me, John and Chantelle- a girl that John knows who looked vaguely familiar, the place was bereft of entertainment. Chantelle -damn good-looking but gets ID’d a lot- told me she’s an art student. I asked if she’d heard of a painter called Malevich, someone I’d studied at GCSE level. She hadn’t.

So after wondering around a few bars, and him relentlessly kicking my ass at pool, and playing air guitar to Thin Lizzy’s Whisky in the Jar, we decided to go on a mission. This was not least because the pub seemed to be fragranced with eau de OAP home.

First stop- my house. I caned Mum’s Nissan Micra down Lees road to the “temporary” traffic lights. These lights and road works have been there so long that 2 businesses in Lees have had to close down because nobody can be arsed fighting through the traffic to shop there. John taught me a trick- flash the main beam lights in two short bursts. Leave a second’s gap. Flash it again. The traffic light thinks your car is an emergency services vehicle with the lights on, and swaps red to green. Genius!

Not many of my mates have seen the inside of my house, and I’ve not had anyone round since I dated some randomer from Walkabout over a year ago. We had sat drinking tea in the lounge, desperately tying to string an uncomfortable conversation together. This time, it was around quarter to midnight on a Monday and Mum and Dad were asleep upstairs. The booze was still in the garage from Emma’s party, so I dished some of that out. Being designated driver, as usual, I absconded.

John reminded me I was allowed one. I don’t normally go into detail about this with people, but as he’d been pretty open with me before I found it only fair to explain why, if I’m driving, I do not touch alcohol.

Martin Johnston was a friend of mine from college who died in a drink drive incident just before Christmas in 2001. He got in a car with someone who’d been drinking. He was driven into a wall between Mossley and Stalybridge. He was 18. At this time I was about halfway through my 14- month long, 100+ hours of driving lessons. I’m a slow learner.

This incident had somewhat of an effect on me and after the funeral I made a conscious decision to keep alcohol and driving in two separate worlds, never bringing the two together.

We loaded the car with beer and cider and aimed for Uppermill, a quaint village in Saddleworth. I drove insanely fast down country roads in the dark, like a responsible adult, while John acted rally instructor in the passenger seat. He even told me when to change gear to maximise speed on hills. How immoral. All the while, we blasted out whatever was half decent on the radio. Every time I hear The Sweet Escape by Gwen Stefani, I will forever think of that night. We almost went to Huddersfield to the sound of “’Cause I’ve been actinglikesourmilkpouredonthefloorandthenIdidn’tshuttherefrigeratormaybethat’sthereasonI’vebeenactingso co-old…” Dance Nation’s Move Your Love also punctuated the night. You can find them in my Myspace friends space. It was around this time I learned that trying to dance whilst driving at high speeds in the dark is dangerous. I frequently came close to losing control of the car, not to mention my colon.

We also visited Delph, one of Oldham’s most difficult places to find. It just isn’t next to anywhere that anyone would know. I was totally in John’s hands (figuratively), as without him I’d have been stuck out there. I couldn’t have got out. Delph is like a dull version of Narnia, only painfully real.

There is an eighties song with the lyrics, “there’s a tree by a river near a hole in the ground…” I think that song was written about Saddleworth Tops. All of the characteristics mentioned were present. There was nothing going “round and around”, though. It was the most serene, silent place in Oldham. The view was good and the air was clean, which we noticed straight away.

It occurred to me and John, while on the tops of Saddleworth moors, that we needed a piss. We found a lay-by somewhere near a stream. It was pretty much pitch black and somewhat edgy, given that Moira Hindley murdered numerous children and buried them somewhere out there forty years ago. Some bodies were apparently never discovered, which added to the chill.

We couldn’t encourage Chantelle to urinate in a farmer’s driveway while we leaned on the bonnet out of eyeshot, so John came up with a plan. He called one of his many associates in Oldham and we made a beeline for Sholver- the “South Central” of Oldham, you could say. Chantelle was at breaking point. I told her to picture a huge concrete dam, and I did more obscenely fast driving. John’s short-cut plan fell through when we ended up on a country road that turned into a flagged path that turned into a rocky carving in the hillside, so I had to reverse down this narrow gap in between two fields. Rear lights on a Nissan Micra aren’t as illuminative as the front lights. With every bump Chantelle got more nervous, and so did John and me.

We made a quick stop at John’s mate’s house for Chantelle and then we called it a night. We dropped Chantelle off- I’ve already totally forgotten where she lives- and me and John agreed to do this again. Only next time we’re picking a different town. John told me he appreciated the opportunity to take his mind off things: I realised I’d completely forgot, by this time, why he’d rang me in the first place. I also realised that Nissan Micras don’t have the world’s best mileage. I used up a good portion of the tank that night. It will be interesting to see what Mum says.