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[...and they said it would never last! - Duggie reaches the half-century (in posts, no years...]
“So, this is ‘art’, is it?” said the local paper journalist, a 17 year-old creative writer, with ambitions to be investigative. His main interest was writing Dungeons and Dragons games and scripts for gothic, graphic novels, “I mean to say, ‘art’ for the people…”
[“So this is ‘art’, is it?” almost as much a cliché as the art it is usually describing. Let’s analyse this statement for a minute - oh, by the way, my name’s Quentin The Art, and I’m a Welsh art expert – that’s an expert in art who happens to have been born in Wales, rather than a critic of Max Boyce’s occasional sketches.
Art, to the local journalist, is a term that encompasses everything from Constable to Bacon. It probably includes street and performance art – and, most certainly, the ‘Turner Prize’.
But, in reality, the ‘art’ at the heart of the journalist’s question is the work of layabouts, potentially left-wingers and most certainly university educated and not in the business of producing something like a spanner or tube of toothpaste, that UK plc could export to foreign outposts. And certainly not making money for some faceless fat-cat or mega-global corporation.
It’s as if: to think, to reflect, to draw attention to the foibles of humanity, is somehow a lesser act than, say, making a bracket to hang a basket of flowers on, or manufacturing one of those plastic things that you put in a can of smooth-flow beer to make it frothy.
We should pay our poets as much as we pay our Doctors – unless, of course, you need medical attention, when (stop Quentin – it’s you who needs medical attention, my friend!)]
“Yeah it’s a comment,” said Nyman, affecting his most convincing (in his mind) rebel-with-a-cause poses: a curled up lip, uneven shoulders, slouching against the wall (unfortunately, the journalist mis-read the body language, noting in his pad: “his work might be rubbish and a waste of money, but the artist has had to battle against an obviously deformed body, with a peculiar facial expression and wonky posture, to pursue his art…”), “I’m commenting on the invisibility of the modern High Street, the way a business can just come and go with no one noticing, or caring, due to the ‘bloody’ malls and out of town supermarkets…”
“Can I stop you there,” said the journalist, picking a piece of bacon rind from his tooth with a thumb-nail, “people have noticed the café. I mean that’s why I’m here. People want to come in. I mean, what about the guy on the Mobility scooter? This café used to be his world!”
“But that was 1957 – he’s gaga! He lives in the ‘50s,” said Seeke, smirking all the while.
“Let me handle this, please Seeke,” said Nyman, “he was transposing memory on the manifestation of today. He didn’t really want to come into our, modern day café.”
“And the old lady and her friend who tried to buy a tea…”
“You know, sometimes art is cruel. It takes guts for an artist to start telling the truth. You know?” said Nyman. He was beginning to perspire.
“I mean, I don’t know why you don’t open the Caff,” said the journo, “your bacon butties are pukka – and your tes. The best in town…”
“But it’s art! Don’t you see? Art!” said Nyman.
“I think he knows,” said Seeke, “but prefers your cooking.”
Nyman thought for a moment, and the only argument he could come up with, in favour of the art, was the fact that a criminal skinhead was now involved in extremely violent performance art in Dorest. He thought it might be best not to mention it.
“Look,” said Nyman, “give me a nice write-up, and I’ll give you another cup of tea…”
“Alright then,” said the journo, who was already late for an interview with an amorous window-cleaner. [“And they say times change, huh!” – thanks for that comment, Mr Askwith, says Duggie]
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Sunday, 16 May 2010
Monday, 10 May 2010
Sturgess Cafe Pt 4...the pensioner speaks
Duggie says:
“Collect ideas like collecting rain in a bucket – just check there are no holes in the side…”
Back to the Sturgess Café.
“The ideas man, the instigator. As long as it’s not see you later alligator,” said Seeke.
“What are you on about?” said Nyman Chaw-Derek, Seeke’s partner and amazing conceptual artist – [that’s his description]. He’s the instigator, the ideas man. The café is his baby.
[Here’s the link to the previous part, so you can catch up…]
Things had settled down after the incident with the angry skinhead.
Turned out he’d just been released from remand, bit peeved due to the fact that he hadn’t done anything and had been locked up for it. So he’d taken out his anger on the café.
But when he found out about Nyman’s whole Arts Council funding scam [“erm…actually,” says Nyman, stepping through the invisible curtain between us and him, the character in my story, “I’m a professional artist. Sturgess Café is a conceptual piece…(he’s so post-modern)…and they don’t just give anyone a grant, you know]
Last heard, the skinhead was attempting to introduce violence, extreme violence into street theatre, somewhere in Dorset.
The local paper, ‘The Bugle’, had found out about the ‘Café Project’ following a letter writing campaign by the woman on the bus and a disabled pensioner, who’s mobility scooter always seemed to run out on his frequent visits too or from the café to buy a non-existent midday bacon sandwich.
“Oi awl-ways yoused to go to that caffy, when old Frank had it,” said the disabled pensioner, “ee dun a noice bacan butty, ‘im. They can’t keep nuffink the same…the police are all 16 years old…litter on the streets…get them in the army…National Service…corporal punishment…capital punishment…”
[…by the way, Café owner Frank died of complications related to a pork allergy in 1957.]
Duggie says: “to be continued…I think the hole is showing, I can hear a drip, drip drip…”
“Collect ideas like collecting rain in a bucket – just check there are no holes in the side…”
Back to the Sturgess Café.
“The ideas man, the instigator. As long as it’s not see you later alligator,” said Seeke.
“What are you on about?” said Nyman Chaw-Derek, Seeke’s partner and amazing conceptual artist – [that’s his description]. He’s the instigator, the ideas man. The café is his baby.
[Here’s the link to the previous part, so you can catch up…]
Things had settled down after the incident with the angry skinhead.
Turned out he’d just been released from remand, bit peeved due to the fact that he hadn’t done anything and had been locked up for it. So he’d taken out his anger on the café.
But when he found out about Nyman’s whole Arts Council funding scam [“erm…actually,” says Nyman, stepping through the invisible curtain between us and him, the character in my story, “I’m a professional artist. Sturgess Café is a conceptual piece…(he’s so post-modern)…and they don’t just give anyone a grant, you know]
Last heard, the skinhead was attempting to introduce violence, extreme violence into street theatre, somewhere in Dorset.
The local paper, ‘The Bugle’, had found out about the ‘Café Project’ following a letter writing campaign by the woman on the bus and a disabled pensioner, who’s mobility scooter always seemed to run out on his frequent visits too or from the café to buy a non-existent midday bacon sandwich.
“Oi awl-ways yoused to go to that caffy, when old Frank had it,” said the disabled pensioner, “ee dun a noice bacan butty, ‘im. They can’t keep nuffink the same…the police are all 16 years old…litter on the streets…get them in the army…National Service…corporal punishment…capital punishment…”
[…by the way, Café owner Frank died of complications related to a pork allergy in 1957.]
Duggie says: “to be continued…I think the hole is showing, I can hear a drip, drip drip…”
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Journey to Beatlemania - although it's probably not about that at all...
Geoffrey decided to give them a lift, that’s Duggie, his mate and the cyclist - let’s forget about the Pike, he’s sleeping.
[“We always sleep with our eyes open,” said the Pike, “actually, we haven’t got any eyelids anyway.”]
Geoffrey had wanted to pop into town to pick up Zippy and George from the dry-cleaners [“What!” said the Cyclist, “I thought they were real!”]
Bungle was waiting outside the shop.
[“Blimey!” said Duggie, “I thought there was a man inside Bungle!”
“...err there is,” said Geoffrey, “he’s just a little bit weird.”]
This being 1982, they could only find cheese sandwiches with curled-up crusts for sale locally. The Greek newsagent imported them from Hounslow via Zaire and a dodgy deal at Heathrow Airport.
[“My cheese tastes like rubber!” said Duggies’s mate.
“No, that is rubber,” said the Greek, “you’re eating an inner-tube.”]
“Look,” said the Cyclist, “I need a pint. We might have been in a lager bubble, but I’ve finished all me Red Stripe!”
“What, you’ll be lucky,” said Geoffrey, “it’s arf-past 2!”
[One of the problems with time-travel is that you’re tuned into the culture and traditions of your time, not the time you’re travelling in. You’re lumbered with that. In this case, the culture and tradition of getting as rat-arsed as possible before closing time, in order to get through to 6 or maybe 7pm when the pub doors open again.]
“What am I gonna do? said the Cyclist, “is there a Tesco or something round here?”
“Hey, Cyclist,” said a man on the radio - a big ghetto blaster that they were walking past.
“Who me?” said the Cyclist.
“Yes you. It’s 1982, mate, you’ve got more chance of buying booze from Al Johnson in prohibition Chicago than you have getting a drink round here after closing time.”
“Thanks radio man!” said Duggie, “and by the way, you’re thinking of Al Capone, not Al Jolson!”
“You’re wrong Duggie-boy.” said the man on the radio, “I’m talking about Al Jolson who owns an ‘offie’ in Illinois.”
Geoffrey: “We can always try the garage off that new bypass, there’s a Russian guy in there. He’ll serve us.”
“I know the place,” said Duggie, “and you’re dead right he’ll serve us! He’s in 2010.”
“Oh, is he?” said Geoffrey, “so that’s why my newspaper’s got colour photos in it. And I never knew that Nat King Cole had a daughter called Cheryl.”
Bungle declined to come, said he had a picnic to attend in the woods.
Geoffrey turned on his car radio and - yeah you can guess it - the ‘man on the radio’ was broadcasting: “Ok you lot, I’m gonna guide you through the time tunnel. Don’t want you getting lost now. But that’s after this classic tune from the mighty Hair Tom: “Plastic - didn’t know - Jam”, their Beatles pastiche.
[Yes, Hair Tom got there first. In 1982, no one was bothered about The Beatles. This was before the obligatory ‘A’ Level in Beatles Studies was handed out to every budding guitar band.
Their work also pre-dated the ‘Tears for Fears’ travesty of a Beatles Pastiche - Sowing the Seeds of Love and the more memorable XTC Oranges and Lemons and Dukes of the Stratosfear stuff.]
“Beatles, did you say The Beatles,” said Duggie....
“The Beatles” Said Duggie’s mate, “ we haven’t talked about them yet.”
“Yet,” said Duggie.
And they both went all starry eyed and had silly grins on their faces as Geoffrey’s car chugged off to the petrol station in the 21st Century.
“Oi - wot’s going on?” said The Cyclist
[“Nah Cyclist,” said the pedant, “that’s Marvin Gaye, not The Beatles”]
“Wot about my cans of Red Stripe - never mind the bleedin’ Beatles.”
“Ho, ho, Zippy,” said George, curled up in sports bag in the boot, “this is exciting, isn’t it”
“No, George, it’s dark!” said Zippy.
[“We always sleep with our eyes open,” said the Pike, “actually, we haven’t got any eyelids anyway.”]
Geoffrey had wanted to pop into town to pick up Zippy and George from the dry-cleaners [“What!” said the Cyclist, “I thought they were real!”]
Bungle was waiting outside the shop.
[“Blimey!” said Duggie, “I thought there was a man inside Bungle!”
“...err there is,” said Geoffrey, “he’s just a little bit weird.”]
This being 1982, they could only find cheese sandwiches with curled-up crusts for sale locally. The Greek newsagent imported them from Hounslow via Zaire and a dodgy deal at Heathrow Airport.
[“My cheese tastes like rubber!” said Duggies’s mate.
“No, that is rubber,” said the Greek, “you’re eating an inner-tube.”]
“Look,” said the Cyclist, “I need a pint. We might have been in a lager bubble, but I’ve finished all me Red Stripe!”
“What, you’ll be lucky,” said Geoffrey, “it’s arf-past 2!”
[One of the problems with time-travel is that you’re tuned into the culture and traditions of your time, not the time you’re travelling in. You’re lumbered with that. In this case, the culture and tradition of getting as rat-arsed as possible before closing time, in order to get through to 6 or maybe 7pm when the pub doors open again.]
“What am I gonna do? said the Cyclist, “is there a Tesco or something round here?”
“Hey, Cyclist,” said a man on the radio - a big ghetto blaster that they were walking past.
“Who me?” said the Cyclist.
“Yes you. It’s 1982, mate, you’ve got more chance of buying booze from Al Johnson in prohibition Chicago than you have getting a drink round here after closing time.”
“Thanks radio man!” said Duggie, “and by the way, you’re thinking of Al Capone, not Al Jolson!”
“You’re wrong Duggie-boy.” said the man on the radio, “I’m talking about Al Jolson who owns an ‘offie’ in Illinois.”
Geoffrey: “We can always try the garage off that new bypass, there’s a Russian guy in there. He’ll serve us.”
“I know the place,” said Duggie, “and you’re dead right he’ll serve us! He’s in 2010.”
“Oh, is he?” said Geoffrey, “so that’s why my newspaper’s got colour photos in it. And I never knew that Nat King Cole had a daughter called Cheryl.”
Bungle declined to come, said he had a picnic to attend in the woods.
Geoffrey turned on his car radio and - yeah you can guess it - the ‘man on the radio’ was broadcasting: “Ok you lot, I’m gonna guide you through the time tunnel. Don’t want you getting lost now. But that’s after this classic tune from the mighty Hair Tom: “Plastic - didn’t know - Jam”, their Beatles pastiche.
[Yes, Hair Tom got there first. In 1982, no one was bothered about The Beatles. This was before the obligatory ‘A’ Level in Beatles Studies was handed out to every budding guitar band.
Their work also pre-dated the ‘Tears for Fears’ travesty of a Beatles Pastiche - Sowing the Seeds of Love and the more memorable XTC Oranges and Lemons and Dukes of the Stratosfear stuff.]
“Beatles, did you say The Beatles,” said Duggie....
“The Beatles” Said Duggie’s mate, “ we haven’t talked about them yet.”
“Yet,” said Duggie.
And they both went all starry eyed and had silly grins on their faces as Geoffrey’s car chugged off to the petrol station in the 21st Century.
“Oi - wot’s going on?” said The Cyclist
[“Nah Cyclist,” said the pedant, “that’s Marvin Gaye, not The Beatles”]
“Wot about my cans of Red Stripe - never mind the bleedin’ Beatles.”
“Ho, ho, Zippy,” said George, curled up in sports bag in the boot, “this is exciting, isn’t it”
“No, George, it’s dark!” said Zippy.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Sergei's second ending...with a little help from Ray Moore
As seen in the last Sergei instalment…
He'd seen the movies. Read thrillers. Been on the New York subway of the pre-zero-tolerance 1980s (while on tour as a fledgling shot-putter for the Moscow Worldwide Comrade Sports Team). But nothing prepared Sergei for the sight of a cold gun-barrel pointing in the region of his third eye.
He stopped dancing, pissed himself and tried to focus somewhere in the middle distance, near the petrol-pump that said 'cards only'. He didn't want to look the robber in the eyes, following the same philosophy that urges you not to lock eyes with a wild dog.
Two things could now happen and here's the first [well, an infinite array of things really, but as a limited author, Steve has selected two. We'll play this like a movie that has an ending and an alternate ending on the DVD reissue.
Now Sergei has recovered from post-traumatic shock, here’s the second ending]:
[Playing in the background: the late BBC Radio DJ Ray Moore singing: ‘O My Father Had a Rabbit’ for charity back in 1986…
Ray Moore: O My Father had a Rabbit and he thought it was a duck so he stuck it on the table with its legs cocked up
Sergei couldn’t avoid the almost touchable smell of the robber’s breath: a mixture of halitosis, stale smoke, Worcester sauce flavoured crisps (coming in waves of tiny belches), over-chewed spearmint gum and garlic. Sergei always had a good sense of smell and taste, for example he knew the difference between red and white wine without even looking at it, quite an achievement where he came from.
The smell drew a picture of the robber as a man, despite the fact that his face was covered by a long woolly hat with eyeholes, [that’s a balaclava, Sergei – but don’t worry, it’s nothing to do with the Crimean War] he was a smoker who ate junk food and failed to clean his teeth in between.
“I said, the contents of your till…” Nothing prepared Sergei for having a gun poked in his face. Because, unlike the cowardly Sergei whose body he usually occupied, this Sergei became a have-a-go hero.
The kind of citizen that you read about in the local papers (and The Sun) either collecting an award from some Mayor – or as an embarrassing school photo due to the fact that their contemporary image has had its head blown off, “…and all the fags you can carry, sunshine.”
“I don’t speak ingliss too well. Pa rooskie,” said Sergei feigning foreigness.
Ray Moore: He mixed a bowl of stuffing and he left it on the shelf…
“A roosky, from Moscock I shouldn’t wonder [that’s a reference to a 1980s Port advert – Cockburns Special Reserve – “…so I come from Moscock?” said the Russian Captain, who mispronounced Cockburns as ‘Cock Burns’ rather than ‘Co Burns’, so assumed that Moscow must be ‘Mos Cock’ in English. The British Captain replied: “Yes, you probably do…” as if everyone in the world should instantly recognise the name Cockburns as Co Burns.] well hand us all yer roubles and cigaretteskies, chum.”
For some reason, this robber’s lexicon scoured the ages, ‘chum’ being a term of endearment from the early to mid 20th Century: for example, “let’s get chummy back in the boat…” in movie depictions of Dunkirk.
“Bert vitch permp doos you needing? Comrade?” maybe Sergei was overdoing it a bit.
Ray Moore: but when he came to stuff the duck the duck had stuffed itself…
And that was the last from Mr Moore as the robber pointed his revolver at the radio and blasted.
“Look man,” said the robber, now aping the swinging ‘60s, “you comprendez vous? [sic] give me the dough!” said the robber.
“Would you like white sliced or brown? We have both…” said Sergei, edging towards the door.
Why was Sergei so determined to be a hero? It’s not as if he cared about the crappy Fuel&FagsCo organisation that employed him.
Who cared if they lost 40,000 fags and a day’s takings? Was it worth getting a bullet through the temple for? Perhaps it was the isolation. Maybe he was going do-lally, putting in so many shifts in the middle-of-nowhere service station to save up enough hard-earned to buy his chip van. Stuck in a place lacking human contact.
“Get away from that door! Get Away!” shouted the robber, making a leap past the black-and-white-chocolate-special-edition Mars Bar stand.
Sergei dived out onto the forecourt of the petrol station and grabbed a pump nozzle.
The robber reached the door and launched himself through, as Sergei lit the end of the nozzle, spraying flames and turning the robber to a charcoal crisp almost instantly.
The robber’s body crumbled onto the barbeque display next to the newspaper stand. By the way, somewhat ironically, the robber’s surname was Crisp.
The whole event had been witnessed by Geoffrey from Rainbow, who’d just arrived in his clean car, a car that contained Duggie, his mate, The cyclist and a pike sloshing around in bucket of water.
“Blimey!” said Geoffrey, stopping next to the diesel pump by mistake.
He'd seen the movies. Read thrillers. Been on the New York subway of the pre-zero-tolerance 1980s (while on tour as a fledgling shot-putter for the Moscow Worldwide Comrade Sports Team). But nothing prepared Sergei for the sight of a cold gun-barrel pointing in the region of his third eye.
He stopped dancing, pissed himself and tried to focus somewhere in the middle distance, near the petrol-pump that said 'cards only'. He didn't want to look the robber in the eyes, following the same philosophy that urges you not to lock eyes with a wild dog.
Two things could now happen and here's the first [well, an infinite array of things really, but as a limited author, Steve has selected two. We'll play this like a movie that has an ending and an alternate ending on the DVD reissue.
Now Sergei has recovered from post-traumatic shock, here’s the second ending]:
[Playing in the background: the late BBC Radio DJ Ray Moore singing: ‘O My Father Had a Rabbit’ for charity back in 1986…
Ray Moore: O My Father had a Rabbit and he thought it was a duck so he stuck it on the table with its legs cocked up
Sergei couldn’t avoid the almost touchable smell of the robber’s breath: a mixture of halitosis, stale smoke, Worcester sauce flavoured crisps (coming in waves of tiny belches), over-chewed spearmint gum and garlic. Sergei always had a good sense of smell and taste, for example he knew the difference between red and white wine without even looking at it, quite an achievement where he came from.
The smell drew a picture of the robber as a man, despite the fact that his face was covered by a long woolly hat with eyeholes, [that’s a balaclava, Sergei – but don’t worry, it’s nothing to do with the Crimean War] he was a smoker who ate junk food and failed to clean his teeth in between.
“I said, the contents of your till…” Nothing prepared Sergei for having a gun poked in his face. Because, unlike the cowardly Sergei whose body he usually occupied, this Sergei became a have-a-go hero.
The kind of citizen that you read about in the local papers (and The Sun) either collecting an award from some Mayor – or as an embarrassing school photo due to the fact that their contemporary image has had its head blown off, “…and all the fags you can carry, sunshine.”
“I don’t speak ingliss too well. Pa rooskie,” said Sergei feigning foreigness.
Ray Moore: He mixed a bowl of stuffing and he left it on the shelf…
“A roosky, from Moscock I shouldn’t wonder [that’s a reference to a 1980s Port advert – Cockburns Special Reserve – “…so I come from Moscock?” said the Russian Captain, who mispronounced Cockburns as ‘Cock Burns’ rather than ‘Co Burns’, so assumed that Moscow must be ‘Mos Cock’ in English. The British Captain replied: “Yes, you probably do…” as if everyone in the world should instantly recognise the name Cockburns as Co Burns.] well hand us all yer roubles and cigaretteskies, chum.”
For some reason, this robber’s lexicon scoured the ages, ‘chum’ being a term of endearment from the early to mid 20th Century: for example, “let’s get chummy back in the boat…” in movie depictions of Dunkirk.
“Bert vitch permp doos you needing? Comrade?” maybe Sergei was overdoing it a bit.
Ray Moore: but when he came to stuff the duck the duck had stuffed itself…
And that was the last from Mr Moore as the robber pointed his revolver at the radio and blasted.
“Look man,” said the robber, now aping the swinging ‘60s, “you comprendez vous? [sic] give me the dough!” said the robber.
“Would you like white sliced or brown? We have both…” said Sergei, edging towards the door.
Why was Sergei so determined to be a hero? It’s not as if he cared about the crappy Fuel&FagsCo organisation that employed him.
Who cared if they lost 40,000 fags and a day’s takings? Was it worth getting a bullet through the temple for? Perhaps it was the isolation. Maybe he was going do-lally, putting in so many shifts in the middle-of-nowhere service station to save up enough hard-earned to buy his chip van. Stuck in a place lacking human contact.
“Get away from that door! Get Away!” shouted the robber, making a leap past the black-and-white-chocolate-special-edition Mars Bar stand.
Sergei dived out onto the forecourt of the petrol station and grabbed a pump nozzle.
The robber reached the door and launched himself through, as Sergei lit the end of the nozzle, spraying flames and turning the robber to a charcoal crisp almost instantly.
The robber’s body crumbled onto the barbeque display next to the newspaper stand. By the way, somewhat ironically, the robber’s surname was Crisp.
The whole event had been witnessed by Geoffrey from Rainbow, who’d just arrived in his clean car, a car that contained Duggie, his mate, The cyclist and a pike sloshing around in bucket of water.
“Blimey!” said Geoffrey, stopping next to the diesel pump by mistake.
Monday, 19 April 2010
Normal Service will be resumed...
Normal Service will be resumed as soon as possible.
Imagine someone is sitting here, in black and white, making a pot out of clay.
Or that a girl is teaching a stuffed clown to write on a blackboard.
Sergei's just dealing with post-traumatic stress from his ordeal with the robber.
Isolation, Isolation. Better than desolation, I suppose.
Imagine someone is sitting here, in black and white, making a pot out of clay.
Or that a girl is teaching a stuffed clown to write on a blackboard.
Sergei's just dealing with post-traumatic stress from his ordeal with the robber.
Isolation, Isolation. Better than desolation, I suppose.
Sunday, 11 April 2010
Sergei - studying the barrel #1
He'd seen the movies. Read thrillers. Been on the New York subway of the pre-zero-tolerance 1980s (while on tour as a fledgling shot-putter for the Moscow Worldwide Comrade Sports Team). But nothing prepared Sergei for the sight of a cold gun-barrel pointing in the region of his thrid eye.
He stopped dancing, pissed himself and tried to focus somewhere in the middle distance, near the petrol-pump that said 'cards only'. He didn't want to look the robber in the eyes, following the same philosophy that urges you not to lock eyes with a wild dog.
Two things could now happen and here's the first [well, an infinite array of things really, but as a limited author, Steve has selected two. We'll play this like a movie that has an ending and an alternate ending on the DVD reissue. The first in this post the second in the next]:
Sergei was fundamentally a coward. There was no way he was going to fight to protect the takens of the blasted 'Fuel&FagsCoPetroleum', his employers and owners of this hellhole.
Not only did he hate them, he was also scared half to death. And in such times, the mind starts playing tricks.
As he stared at that middle-distant petrol pump, the screen telling the buyer how many litres he/she'd been ripped-off for turned into a miniature TV screen, flashing back through Sergei's childhood in the old USSR and his attempt to make it in the west.
What he focused on was the dream of owning a chip shop - buying a chippy and setting up in business. His Uncle Dimitri, who defected decades before the wall came down, always said, on those incognito postcards that he sent from his bedsit in Morden, Surrey (he used to describe the accomodation as "near-a the toob stayteon to geyt inta Loondon") - "Sergei, you-a moost give-a de Eengliss foood. Frie-ed food. 'itsa vart dey eeet. You wad becum ze Milly-yon-air!" He died after he was knocked off his moped while learning the cab driver's 'knowledge'. It may have been the KGB.
Sergei remembered his meeting last week (as his life flashed past him, the instant before an imagined bullet to the brain) with a guy selling a mobile chip shop, on eBay.
He made the trip over to Basildon in Essex, never been there before. The van (Buy-it-now price £2,650, with immediate £300 PayPal deposit after purchase) was parked up in the man's drive: a Transit, 'N-reg', bit of rust. The business was called "Not the Jackson Pollock's - All Cod Fish Bar", sign-written on the side of the ex-ambulance vehicle in day-glow yellow lettering, edged with silver.
"Why the Jackson Pollock?" said Sergei.
"We don't like that Pollock fish - we only use cod. It's a conspiracy thoery that fish stocks stuff. By the Icelanders, trying to put our fishermen out of business." said the fish shop seller, Benny Rubkins, "you'd know all about that stuff with the secret police and all."
Sergei didn't have a clue what he was on about.
"The beauty of this vehicle is that you've got minimal overheads. No rent, no rates. Just fill up with a bit of juice and Bob's your uncle!" said Rubkins.
"Bob's my...what?" said Sergei.
"Vladimir's your uncle - whatever. It's easy money!"
Sergei liked the idea more and more.
"And as it's an ambulance, I like the fact that we're still contributing to keeping our hospitals full. You know, bringing on ill-health all the junk food!" said Rubkins, laughing an showing off a mouth full of stained, caracked and missing teeth and a discoloured tongue. Looked alot like the average Russian, thought Sergei.
Rubkins fired up the fryers, lined up along the side of the ambulance, the entrance was at the rear, and led to a glass diplay area, just like a chippy in the High Street.
"Make up to £2,000 a week in the summer, this thing will. A couple of weeks work and it would have cost you nothing," said Rubkins, dipping a frozen fillet of cod into some pasty looking pale yellow batter before slipping into the fat where it sizzled and curled into a semi-circle.
"That's the way you want it, Serge me old mate," said Rubkins, tipping a bag of sliced potatoes into the adjacent fryer, "Let it curl up so it steams in the batter, don't want the fat to get through to the fish. Here, try out cooking the chips."
Sergei wrapped his hand round the handle of the frying basket, it wasn't like the pathetic Do-nut fryers installed at the petrol station - always spitting out molten liquid at the users, never cleaned: the weight and feel of this fryer made him feel like a man. Like a businessman. A Western businessman. "I'll take it, Mr Rubkins. Your business, I'll buy it. Full price."
"Wise decision Sergei. You won't regret it," said Rubkins and they shook on the deal. Sergei went back to the frying basket and dunked the chips into the popping fat. Yes it felt good.
When he came round, he held a ragged piece of woolly mask in his hand, above the Do-nut fryer. It was still attached to the head of the robber and somehow Sergei was dunking the head of the man into the boiling fat: in and out, in and out. His features had crisped up like a roasted chicken and he didn't seem to be breathing.
Wow, thought Serge, the power of the sub-conscious imagination, and promptly vomited over the pick and mix.
He stopped dancing, pissed himself and tried to focus somewhere in the middle distance, near the petrol-pump that said 'cards only'. He didn't want to look the robber in the eyes, following the same philosophy that urges you not to lock eyes with a wild dog.
Two things could now happen and here's the first [well, an infinite array of things really, but as a limited author, Steve has selected two. We'll play this like a movie that has an ending and an alternate ending on the DVD reissue. The first in this post the second in the next]:
Sergei was fundamentally a coward. There was no way he was going to fight to protect the takens of the blasted 'Fuel&FagsCoPetroleum', his employers and owners of this hellhole.
Not only did he hate them, he was also scared half to death. And in such times, the mind starts playing tricks.
As he stared at that middle-distant petrol pump, the screen telling the buyer how many litres he/she'd been ripped-off for turned into a miniature TV screen, flashing back through Sergei's childhood in the old USSR and his attempt to make it in the west.
What he focused on was the dream of owning a chip shop - buying a chippy and setting up in business. His Uncle Dimitri, who defected decades before the wall came down, always said, on those incognito postcards that he sent from his bedsit in Morden, Surrey (he used to describe the accomodation as "near-a the toob stayteon to geyt inta Loondon") - "Sergei, you-a moost give-a de Eengliss foood. Frie-ed food. 'itsa vart dey eeet. You wad becum ze Milly-yon-air!" He died after he was knocked off his moped while learning the cab driver's 'knowledge'. It may have been the KGB.
Sergei remembered his meeting last week (as his life flashed past him, the instant before an imagined bullet to the brain) with a guy selling a mobile chip shop, on eBay.
He made the trip over to Basildon in Essex, never been there before. The van (Buy-it-now price £2,650, with immediate £300 PayPal deposit after purchase) was parked up in the man's drive: a Transit, 'N-reg', bit of rust. The business was called "Not the Jackson Pollock's - All Cod Fish Bar", sign-written on the side of the ex-ambulance vehicle in day-glow yellow lettering, edged with silver.
"Why the Jackson Pollock?" said Sergei.
"We don't like that Pollock fish - we only use cod. It's a conspiracy thoery that fish stocks stuff. By the Icelanders, trying to put our fishermen out of business." said the fish shop seller, Benny Rubkins, "you'd know all about that stuff with the secret police and all."
Sergei didn't have a clue what he was on about.
"The beauty of this vehicle is that you've got minimal overheads. No rent, no rates. Just fill up with a bit of juice and Bob's your uncle!" said Rubkins.
"Bob's my...what?" said Sergei.
"Vladimir's your uncle - whatever. It's easy money!"
Sergei liked the idea more and more.
"And as it's an ambulance, I like the fact that we're still contributing to keeping our hospitals full. You know, bringing on ill-health all the junk food!" said Rubkins, laughing an showing off a mouth full of stained, caracked and missing teeth and a discoloured tongue. Looked alot like the average Russian, thought Sergei.
Rubkins fired up the fryers, lined up along the side of the ambulance, the entrance was at the rear, and led to a glass diplay area, just like a chippy in the High Street.
"Make up to £2,000 a week in the summer, this thing will. A couple of weeks work and it would have cost you nothing," said Rubkins, dipping a frozen fillet of cod into some pasty looking pale yellow batter before slipping into the fat where it sizzled and curled into a semi-circle.
"That's the way you want it, Serge me old mate," said Rubkins, tipping a bag of sliced potatoes into the adjacent fryer, "Let it curl up so it steams in the batter, don't want the fat to get through to the fish. Here, try out cooking the chips."
Sergei wrapped his hand round the handle of the frying basket, it wasn't like the pathetic Do-nut fryers installed at the petrol station - always spitting out molten liquid at the users, never cleaned: the weight and feel of this fryer made him feel like a man. Like a businessman. A Western businessman. "I'll take it, Mr Rubkins. Your business, I'll buy it. Full price."
"Wise decision Sergei. You won't regret it," said Rubkins and they shook on the deal. Sergei went back to the frying basket and dunked the chips into the popping fat. Yes it felt good.
When he came round, he held a ragged piece of woolly mask in his hand, above the Do-nut fryer. It was still attached to the head of the robber and somehow Sergei was dunking the head of the man into the boiling fat: in and out, in and out. His features had crisped up like a roasted chicken and he didn't seem to be breathing.
Wow, thought Serge, the power of the sub-conscious imagination, and promptly vomited over the pick and mix.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Sergei's dancing - to a Fall cover-version, of all things...
I don’t know where it came from, this obsession with isolation, thought Sergei.
Wherever I am I chose the option most suited to isolation.
He remembered being a guard on the Trans Siberian. Not so much a guard, although that’s what he told ‘the girls’, more a baggage handler.
“Hey. Hey Boy!” That’s what he heard, each time they stopped at a halt in some godforsaken hole, “Want to earn a rouble or two? Or you gonna sit there staring up your arse all day, huh!”
The gangsters were the worst. No respect for humankind, it was all about money. And they say the UK is a capitalist state.
So, Sergei would take the bags. Chuck them into a taxi, hopefully spilling some of the contents if he could get a zip undone.
He once found a bag of cocaine, nestling in the top of a holdall trust in his hands by the minder of one of these gangsters. Sergei managed to liberate the drugs, funding part of the next year selling small bags of coke to passengers.
Now the service station/petrol station/garage, whatever they’re called. We call them Gas stations in Russia, like the Yanks, he thought to himself.
“Gas!” said Sergei, “Gas! been-ZEEN! [that’s an approximation of the sound of the word petrol, in Russian] been-ZEEN!” and he danced around the room chanting the word, “been-ZEEN! been-ZEEN! been-ZEEN!”
Maybe that’s why he liked to be on his own. Maybe he was slightly deranged.
He danced and danced and tuned his movements into the music softly dribbling from his transistor radio: I can hear the grass grow [not the Move’s original, The Fall’s cover version]
[and here’s an aside by Duggie Chop about The Fall and cover versions…
“I’m not gonna say much now. Just this: Fall cover versions are rubbish when Brix had anything to do with ‘em, and only slightly better when she didn’t. And…”
“What about ‘Victoria’?” Said Duggie’s mate, flicking through a back issue of Mojo, the one with Kraftwerk on the front cover, “I reckon they did alright with that one. I mean, it was pretty obscure before they covered it. I think they made the charts.”
“You’re thinking of ‘Hit The North’,” said Duggie, “Ok, I’m just saying that The Fall’s cover versions are usually rubbish.”
“Why Are People Grudgeful’? ‘Lost in Music’? both from The Infotainment Scan, 1993” said Duggie’s mate.
“Yeah, but they’ve got nothing to do with Brix!” said Duggie, attempting to rescue his argument.
“Suppose so. I don’t particularly like them anyway. Much prefer The Fall’s originals. It’s good when Mark E Smith resurrects something that he was into. Might murder it, but at least people search out the original.” Said Duggie’s mate (in his mind were the four tracks from Black Monk Time by The Monks that The Fall had covered).
“I reckon Sergei’s gonna be in schtuck if we don’t shut up – look at him dancing around.” Said Duggie.
“And he doesn’t know what’s coming up either, does he?” said Duggie’s mate.
“Nah, But he soon will. Watch.” Said Duggie, fading away like a finger swish through dust on a warm CRT TV screen.]
We’re back with Sergei, swirling around and dancing, swirling and chanting. He collected the broom and he’s swinging it around like a rather thin dance partner, “been ZEEN! You are my Queen!” he said, eyes closed in a kind of ecstasy of movement.
And he would have continued all day, or at least until someone ordered petrol or fags, but his eyes opened on the barrel of a gun pointed straight at his face.
“Can I have the contents of your till please. And 40,000 cigarettes.” Said the voice behind a knitted mask.
Wherever I am I chose the option most suited to isolation.
He remembered being a guard on the Trans Siberian. Not so much a guard, although that’s what he told ‘the girls’, more a baggage handler.
“Hey. Hey Boy!” That’s what he heard, each time they stopped at a halt in some godforsaken hole, “Want to earn a rouble or two? Or you gonna sit there staring up your arse all day, huh!”
The gangsters were the worst. No respect for humankind, it was all about money. And they say the UK is a capitalist state.
So, Sergei would take the bags. Chuck them into a taxi, hopefully spilling some of the contents if he could get a zip undone.
He once found a bag of cocaine, nestling in the top of a holdall trust in his hands by the minder of one of these gangsters. Sergei managed to liberate the drugs, funding part of the next year selling small bags of coke to passengers.
Now the service station/petrol station/garage, whatever they’re called. We call them Gas stations in Russia, like the Yanks, he thought to himself.
“Gas!” said Sergei, “Gas! been-ZEEN! [that’s an approximation of the sound of the word petrol, in Russian] been-ZEEN!” and he danced around the room chanting the word, “been-ZEEN! been-ZEEN! been-ZEEN!”
Maybe that’s why he liked to be on his own. Maybe he was slightly deranged.
He danced and danced and tuned his movements into the music softly dribbling from his transistor radio: I can hear the grass grow [not the Move’s original, The Fall’s cover version]
[and here’s an aside by Duggie Chop about The Fall and cover versions…
“I’m not gonna say much now. Just this: Fall cover versions are rubbish when Brix had anything to do with ‘em, and only slightly better when she didn’t. And…”
“What about ‘Victoria’?” Said Duggie’s mate, flicking through a back issue of Mojo, the one with Kraftwerk on the front cover, “I reckon they did alright with that one. I mean, it was pretty obscure before they covered it. I think they made the charts.”
“You’re thinking of ‘Hit The North’,” said Duggie, “Ok, I’m just saying that The Fall’s cover versions are usually rubbish.”
“Why Are People Grudgeful’? ‘Lost in Music’? both from The Infotainment Scan, 1993” said Duggie’s mate.
“Yeah, but they’ve got nothing to do with Brix!” said Duggie, attempting to rescue his argument.
“Suppose so. I don’t particularly like them anyway. Much prefer The Fall’s originals. It’s good when Mark E Smith resurrects something that he was into. Might murder it, but at least people search out the original.” Said Duggie’s mate (in his mind were the four tracks from Black Monk Time by The Monks that The Fall had covered).
“I reckon Sergei’s gonna be in schtuck if we don’t shut up – look at him dancing around.” Said Duggie.
“And he doesn’t know what’s coming up either, does he?” said Duggie’s mate.
“Nah, But he soon will. Watch.” Said Duggie, fading away like a finger swish through dust on a warm CRT TV screen.]
We’re back with Sergei, swirling around and dancing, swirling and chanting. He collected the broom and he’s swinging it around like a rather thin dance partner, “been ZEEN! You are my Queen!” he said, eyes closed in a kind of ecstasy of movement.
And he would have continued all day, or at least until someone ordered petrol or fags, but his eyes opened on the barrel of a gun pointed straight at his face.
“Can I have the contents of your till please. And 40,000 cigarettes.” Said the voice behind a knitted mask.
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