Equipped with Pliers

Poem #2

2010-01-09T12:05:00.000-08:00

This is my favourite poem, written for the Abbe de Sade by his close friend Voltaire on the occasion of his naming as Grand Vicar of Toulouse. I likes it a lot for no particular reason.

Have you now, then, got it into your brain
As soon as you will have the name
The dull dignity, of grand vicar,
That you will all at once refrain
From Love and the art of giving pleasure?
Be as much a priest as you maintain,
You'll go on loving just the same;
Were you a bishop or the Holy Father
You would love and please again;
There you see your true career
You will love and please and gain
Forever equal degrees of fame
At Church and in the groves of pleasure.

From Love To Friendship

2009-12-26T14:35:00.001-08:00

This is one of my favourite poems, so I'm posting it up here :)

From Love To Friendship

Voltaire

If you would have me love once more,
The blissful age of love restore;
From wine's free joys, and lovers' cares,
Relentless time, who no man spares,
Urges me quickly to retire,
And no more to such bliss aspire.
From such austerity exact,
Let's, if we can, some good extract;
Whose way of thinking with this age
Suits not, can ne'er be deemed a sage.
Let sprightly youth its follies gay,
Its follies amiable display;
Life to two moments is confined,
Let one to wisdom be consigned.
You sweet delusions of my mind,
Still to my ruling passion kind,
Which always brought a sure relief
To life's accurst companion, grief.
Will you forever from me fly,
And must I joyless, friendless die?
No mortal e'er resigns his breath
I see, without a double death;
Who loves, and is beloved no more,
His hapless fate may well deplore;
Life's loss may easily be borne,
Of love bereft man is forlorn.
'Twas thus those pleasures I lamented,
Which I so oft in youth repented;
My soul replete with soft desire,
Vainly regretted youthful fire.
But friendship then, celestial maid,
From heaven descended to my aid;
Less lively than the amorous flame,
Although her tenderness the same.
The charms of friendship I admired,
My soul was with new beauty fired;
I then made one in friendship's train,
But destitute of love, complain.

Kettles and Puppies

2009-11-22T13:34:00.000-08:00

A new email from my mother.

Hallo Mary
We had to get a new kettle with it came a book written in many languages. The advice on its use in English consisted of the following- clean your kettle with vingar regularly ,do not boil milk or fruit juice in your kettle do not put any part of your kettle in the dish washer. Notes on the toaster said do not fill your toaster with water do not let anyone irresponsible use your toaster. The tumble dryer guide said make sure the tumble dryer is bolted down if you wish to use it on a ship.I still find the whole idea of boiled fruit juice really horrible.

Sara bought Dolly the puppy round to show me she is really adorable and tried to chew my jumper. She does look a bit like a pig but will improve with age. I have not forgotten the Symingtons fruit cremes. We are going to Waitrose on Tuesday I will try to get some there. Have you mended your cardigan yet? It keeps raining here so I have yet to wear the hat. Have you discussed rodent removel with A-d yet?
See you soon Mummy

(shrugs)

Conkers and Spiders

2009-11-19T12:45:00.001-08:00

I met up with my mum today.

During lunch, she told me about her plan for reducing the number of spiders in the house. Apparently, someone on TV had asserted that by placing conkers outside the front and back door, you can reduce the number of spiders in your house by half.

Me - (Sceptical) "How?"
Mother - "You put the conkers outside the doors and it puts them off. They give off a gas which the spiders don't like."
Me - "So you're saying that spiders only come into the house through the doors?"
Mother - "How else would you get into a house?"
Me - "I'm not the size of a spider."
Mother - "They come in through the cat flap as well."
Me - "I don't think it's going to work."
Mother - "It is working. There are significantly less spiders because they don't like the conkers."
Me - "Maybe you just think that there are less."
Mother - "No, there are less. It's the gas."
Me - "Maybe the conkers are a secret signal known only to spiders not to go into the house. Like hobos with their signs."
Mother - "Maybe it's the spider sign for lady with a hoover."
Me - "Mummy, you shouldn't hoover them up. You should put them outside."
Mother - "But then they just come back in through the door when I'm not looking."
Me - "But I thought the conkers kept them out?"
Mother - "They do. It's the gas."
Me - "I'm not sure conkers give off a gas."
Mother - "They do. An anti spider gas."

I'm not convinced.

Emails from my mother #2

2009-11-06T08:44:00.001-08:00

Dear Mary
Russell broke the ceramic sign for the bathroom putting it back on the door. Looking for another on the Internet I found a site selling Acrylic Bongs. I thought you might like to share this thought Love Mummy

I do want to share this thought.

Bewildering email from my mother

2009-11-04T00:19:00.000-08:00

My mother has a habit of sending me bewildering emails. I recieved this this morning. I'm not sure what she expects me to do. Lionel was my Siamese cat who died last year. The grey fur friend is a cat who lives next door.

Hallo Mary it has been raining down here with more ethusiasum than discretion but Daddy went out and cut the grass in a dry period and as we have had little rain for two months it was all right. He was very annoyed to find three fat mice eating the potatoes he had put in the Summerhouse. This is in fact his own fault as he did put one large and fat mouse in there which he rescued from under our bed when Lionel let it go. Either this is the same mouse and friends or its decendants. The garden is inhabited by at least four cats and a visiting Kestrel during the day and a whole flock of owls by night so the Summerhouse plus potatoes must seem a natural refuge. Daddy says he likes the mice but hates the way they jump out at him and eat the potatoes. The whole thing sounds like a cross between James Thurber and Beatrice Potter the Night the Bed Fell in on Timmy Willie. I peeled the potatoes and boiled them suggesting Russell provided the mice with toothbrushes and a bowl of water to wash their paws before eating or if he did not want to share to shut your grey fur friend in for a few minutes. If he did this the mice would get up and leave. Any suggestions you have will be gratefully received.
If you would like to meet up this month I could come up on Thursday 19 November as the carpet fitter is coming on 18th and the furniture should be returning sprayed white on 20 November. I can no longer delay doing the ironing I look forward to hearing from you soon Love Mummy

Wat.
I love my mum.

Chapter Three

2009-08-25T15:36:00.000-07:00

Here it is. Hoping to average out one a day so tune in tomorrow if you care :)

Chapter Three

For tea out of plastic it was all right. Hot, at least. Lily shivered and curling her hands around the cup, glanced around at the tiny room. Hard blue carpet, peeling cream walls, Formica table; it looked like one of the huts from her old school, except in better nick. Certainly in a better class of nick, Lily thought irreverently, pushing the tea away and resting her chin on her elbows in a pose that would definitely have earned her a telling off from any bizarrely passing teachers. How long had she been here? She wondered if the lack of a clock was to disorientate her or simply to prevent people bitching to The Mail about how long they’d been kept waiting. Not that there was much reason for her to be here.
The most that she could tell them was that a minor celebrity had simply lain down in front of her and slashed his own head off. She hadn’t even really watched much of his stuff. Apart from that ghost hunting show he’d done. That had been OK. Just screaming in the dark really. She felt like she could do a little of that herself.
“Miss Marsh?”
Starting up rather guiltily, she looked up at the man who’d just entered the room, a sheaf of papers clutched in his large hand.
“Yes.”
She’d seen him before. Sweeping into the park like a king in a suit, ducking into the tent before emerging to exchange a few icy words with the polo shirted and hovering forensics. Chucking the papers down onto the table, he paused, smiled rather unexpectedly and held out his hand. Lily shook it, and watched as he folded his bulky frame into the chair opposite. “Good afternoon. I hope we haven’t kept you waiting too long? Do you need another cuppa tea?”
“No. Thanks, I’m fine. Honestly.”
“I’m Chief Inspector Bragg.” He had the tinge of a cockney accent and the wide, darkly uncommunicative face of a barrow boy done good. Late thirties, Lily thought. Probably got a missus and a kid and a mum in Essex somewhere.
“I hear you found the body?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Recalled, Lily flushed and shifted. “I didn’t exactly find it, if you know what I mean. I was up a tree.”
“Up a tree?” A slightly untrustworthy twinkle came into Bragg’s eye, although his face remained stolidly impersonal. Lily decided that he was actually quite nice in a detached, bleak sort of way. “And what did you see up this tree?”
Lily explained. Bragg nodded, making notes. “And this couple on the towel. To the left. You say they started arguing just after she’d looked over at Mr Fellows make himself comfy. You reckon that was significant?”
“I don’t know. I got the impression they’d maybe had the row quite a lot already.”
Bragg grinned and leant back. “And then this woman walks past.”
“Not near him. She just took her dog off the lead, and walked through everyone, if you see what I mean. The dog went round him - it went to eat something, I think, but she called it back.”
“And what did she look like?”
“ Middle aged - I think. Blonde. Baseball cap. Three quarter length trousers, crocs – she was just like all the women round here.”
“I see.”
“No. No, you don’t.” Suddenly, stupidly, Lily felt herself wavering on the edge of tears. “The only person who went over at all was Patrick, and it – it was only then that – that we saw.”
Bragg reached forward and touched her hand comfortingly, “Hey. Look. You’re in shock. It’s like that. Delayed. You’re cold. Do you want another cup of tea?”
“No. Thank you. It’s just so – confusing.” She swallowed thickly and added with determined, acerbic clarity. “No. Stupid. He couldn’t have done it himself. Not suicide. But no one saw anything.”
Bragg sighed. “That’s pretty much the consensus. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, even you won’t go repeating it, yeah?” Lily nodded. “His throat was cut with a length of razor wire. We found it in the wound.”
“Oh.” Lily swallowed convulsively, feeling rather sick. “That’s not very nice.”
“Yeah, I know. Murder’s never pretty. And I’m not gonna keep you much longer. But this is why we need you to tell us. This Patrick. Had you met him before? Know anything about him?”
“No.”Lily shook her head, blushing. Bragg grinned. “But you were watching him pretty sharp.”
“Not really.”
“He’s a good looking lad. Go on. You can go. I’ve had enough that I can take of your shivering. Like a bloody whippet. Go and put a jumper on.”
Lily emerged into the hall. Bragg followed her, nodding curtly to her then strode off down the corridor, leaving her looking at her friends. Rosette jumped up and hugged her.
“Can we go now?”
“Yes.” She put her friend aside, and looked at Richard who was still sitting on the metal seat, staring at the floor, his knees hunched up to his chest.
“Richard? How did it go? Where’s Patrick?”
Richard shrugged one cross, laconic shoulder. “I can go. But they’re keeping Patrick in for questioning. Probably for a while.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Richard grinned, but mirthlessly. “Because he hated that cunt like fucking poison.”

Chapter Two

2009-08-24T15:33:00.000-07:00

If you don't like it, you don't have to read it. Chapter One's underneath. That's all.

Chapter Two

It was an eerie spectacle, almost obscenely inapt. It was almost as if from the moment of their grim discovery darkness should have descended. Swirls of atmospheric mist sweeping in or a light drizzle starting or the like. But the sun hadn’t dimmed; the sky hadn’t fallen. The light continued to pour down stark and hot on the silent onlookers watching over the body, lending the scene an almost sickly plastic quality. The neon pink of the corpse’s T-shirt, the white blond of his hair, the scarlet seeping from his throat and staining the spine of the crumpled old paperback. Lily tried to keep her eyes on it without picking it up and smoothing it down. One of the ancient green Penguin ones. When Last I Died. Strange name. Must be a murder mystery. Lily swallowed, fingering the lighter that the blond had passed back only a second ago, then cravenly giving into temptation, lit a cigarette. It tasted hot and odd on her dry throat.
The quiet that had given the park such a sense of peace a few minutes was now a sinister silence, the rustling hum of the traffic the only sound. Rosette shifted awkwardly from foot to foot behind her and Adrian curled a protective arm around her, turning her away to sit a few steps back.
The blond coughed and ran a hand back through his hair, his eyes never leaving the body, the gaping wound drawing his gaze with sick fascination. A kid wandered up and as one the adults turned, forming a shield of disapproval around the body. Sullenly, the kid kicked at a clump of dried grass and mud, spitting at the ground. “Just wanted to see.”
“Fuck off.” The blond obviously had experience with kids. “The police are going to be here in a minute. I’ve called them. Go and finish your game.”
“You’re all looking.” Obviously the excitement of such a find was not going to be relinquished so easily. “I just want to see.”
“No you don’t.” Lily felt as if a bit of back up was needed. “It’s horrible. He’s not been shot or anything.”
“Heart attack, was it?” The child enquired with academic disinterest, pulling out his phone and pressing a few buttons. “Cause no one went near him. I would have seen. He just came over and lay down. ” He held up the phone, angling it around hopefully.
“No.” The blond’s friend took a step forward, his wide bare shoulders forming an intimidating barrier. “I don’t care what you’ve seen on YouTube, you’re not uploading this. Fuck off.”
“You fuck off.” The boy observed and with a single, disparaging glance at Lily and the blond, turned his back and strutted off. Lily looked up at the blond, who sighed, and pulled his sunglasses off, revealing his eyes for the first time. Dim, sad eyes with just a suggestion of tired depravity. He must be a few years older than her, Lily thought, late twenties, perhaps. No more. “They’ve all finished GTA by the time they’re ten now.”
“What’s your name?” Lily felt an intensification of fellow feeling with this man. “I mean –“
“Patrick. And this is Richard.” Patrick nodded towards his friend who lifted a shoulder in acknowledgement. “I just came over for a light.” As if a response to a silent signal they all turned back and stared at the body again. Patrick hastily put his sunglasses back on, looking down at her guiltily at her compassionate glance. “It’s easier with them on, you know?” he muttered. “It’s either that or I’ll start taking pictures on my phone. Or have hysterics.”
Lily felt she should say something. “He was famous, I think. I think it’s him.”
At this the arguing brunette from the towel crossed her arms protectively across her floral bikini top and looked across the body at her. “Who was he?”
“He’s off the telly. He presented that show.”
“Which show?”
“The one with that girl.” Patrick interpolated absently. “BBC.”
“Shelley Canberra.” Lily definitely had an ally here, and waved her hands around her head. “Long dark hair. She used to be on that daytime cooking show.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Patrick shifted his sunglasses back up onto his nose. “ It’s on in the evening. They do about, you know, stuff.”
The woman looked sceptical and sniffed, wiping a hand over her disapproving North London nose. “What’s it about?”
Patrick looked helplessly at Lily, who gamely took over. “It’s not about anything really. They interview other famous people and do segments about issues. Credit crunch. Golf. That sort of thing. He’d been on the stage and all.”
The woman’s husband snorted haughtily. “This is why I don’t watch television.”
Lily was outraged. “That’s a bit out of order. I mean, he’s here – you know. Have some respect.”
“It’s not my fault if he had a wasted life.” The husband glared disapprovingly at her as she took a last pull of her cigarette, rubbing his greying paunch.
“He didn’t have a wasted life, he was on the telly.” Patrick was becoming heated now, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was quite popular.”
“Yes. Well. It’s all trash nowadays, isn’t it?” The woman sniffed again, looking to her husband for support. “We don’t watch it."
"So?" Lily was getting irritated now. "He was still quite successful."
"If you can call it that. And kids now, the television they watch! Like that boy before. All videogames and video nasties. They all end up shooting each other in stairwells. It's bad parenting.”
“Yeah – well.” Lily gave up. “I was just saying. It's not like his show was violent or anything. Just a lifestyle thing. I think it’s him anyway. Damon . Damon - ”
“Damon Fellows.”
"You seem to know a lot about it" accused the man suddenly. His wife nodded menacingly. "You were the one that found him, weren't you?"
His eyes turned flinty. "You were bothering us before that as well. A light's a good story."
"It was him and me." Lily hastily pointed out. "I was up the tree."
"Why were you up the tree?"
Richard had been quiet up until now, his eyes fixed on the body's face, but at that he looked enquiringly at Lily. Lily shrank. "Looking at a spider. But he didn't do anything. I saw the whole thing. He just touched him."
"Yeah well. Shouldn't be climbing trees. You'll damage them." The man puffed out his chest, making himself resemble something between a fish and a barrel. Lily wished at that instant he'd be that easy to shoot. "And a touch. That's all it takes, isn't it? For a madman."
Richard coughed warningly and silence descended again. Patrick looked around and shifted his weight, his tone flat. “Anyway. Look lively. The police are here.”

New Thing - Chapter One

2009-08-23T15:27:00.000-07:00

I've decided to write something new since I've managed nothing else useful in the past few months, so here's the first chapter. I'm hoping to post one new chapter up every day for discipline's sake, so do give it a read, leave comments etc, if you like and so forth and so on.

Chapter One

“He’s a pig.” Said Rosette vigorously. “He’s a pig and knows it, I know it and you know it too, so stop making excuses for him, darling.”
Contempt satisfactorily exhaled on an energetic puff of fag smoke and brimstone, she rolled over onto her back and glared at her friend, who glanced back in weary affection.
“I’m not.”
“Well. Good. Because he doesn’t deserve it.”
Rosette adjusted her sunglasses and sent a sweeping look of exasperation out over the park, shifting to rearrange legs all the better to brown more evenly. “You’re too soft. I’d have killed him. In fact, I’d do it now. Happily.”
This was believable. Rosette had the nature and face of an angel, but loyalty endowed her with the impression that a flaming sword could quite realistically be produced at any minute. Poking her boyfriend for support on her last point, she received an apprehensive hum of agreement. Adrian even nodded, and satisfied with his contribution, shut his eyes in tactful detachment. A man could do no more in the defence of a wayward brother than ignore such a conversation. He’d been ignoring it for some weeks now, and frankly, the sooner it wrapped up the better.
“You see? And what are you looking at up there, anyway?” The question was couched with sharp, albeit gentling impatience.
Lily for her part was half way up the tree, her position unconsciously adopted but worthy of comment. Or alarm or something. One bare knee pressed into the crook of the trunk, shoulders propped back on a branch, the cigarette in her mouth was being hideously inhaled and exhaled without ever the grace of being removed or tapped. It was a pose no adult of dignity should ever attempt, but then, Lily didn’t feel as if she needed to keep up the pretence of that. At least, not any more.
“Spider.”
Half the truth at least. With one eye Lily was lazily scanning the park and her neighbours in sloth this Monday afternoon. A guy lying on a towel with his wife arguing the toss over something. Probably been having the same row for years now. A few kids playing football; or at least, kicking a ball and protesting each other’s crapness as it skimmed past. A bloke who’d laid down and gone to sleep a half hour ago, paperback resting over his face to keep the sun off. Another guy chatting to his mate, unlit fag hanging out of his mouth. Lily was willing to bet that in the whole park, possibly in the whole city, the spider was the only one working. Just a small thing deftly capturing the last drifting threads of its web. But Lily so seldom exerted herself now that it was pleasing to watch the artistry of another. Even if the small satisfaction was made malicious joy by the fact that Daniel wouldn’t have approved. Her erstwhile boyfriend had disapproved of a lot of things, Lily not excluded. But spiders had still managed to outdo literature, music, film and art in the ranking of the most despised. Lily herself had a sneaking suspicion that the anguish caused by the fastidious mini beasts was down to their spurious creativity. Daniel prioritised science, although he had been surprisingly unreceptive when presented with definitve evidence that the worldly achievements he admired had mostly been of one workmate. Lisa. Lily, for all of her rather dreamy, good natured charms, hadn’t truly realised that industry had turned to play until a carelessly intercepted email had been read and digested. A whole loo roll in hurt feelings and several phone calls to Rosette later and Lily had decamped with only a suitcase and a lingering sense of faintly miserable betrayal. And as Rosette pointed out, it still smarted. But the spider was almost finished now. Filling in the last gaps in the middle, it sat back, its tiny feelers almost palpably on its little hips as it regarded its work. Lily felt a sudden pang of fellow feeling for the creature. Idly she wondered if it would actually catch anything up here, hidden away in the leaves. It was easy enough for it to create its masterpiece, after all. Each web was an artwork woven out of sheer self survival.
But should it be in the wrong place or just at the wrong time, then the spider would simply wait and wither, mending it against the cold winds, fixing and tinkering, hoping and praying each day that even one single fly would come across it and make all that work worthwhile. Lily wondered if it worried about it.
One slender leg swinging down across the trunk, she glanced across the park, her eyes lingering on an ambling figure, the unlit cigarette still in his mouth as he wandered from his rug across the browning grass. A tall, thin shape under the drowning sun, khaki shorts hanging off long legs, blond curls clustering around a thin face half shut off by sunglasses. Lily watched as he wandered up to the couple, folded his long knees and said something. Whatever it was didn’t seem offensive enough for them to run or scream, but even so, they shook their head, returning to row as he awkwardly stumbled to his feet and shambled over to where the prone man slept, hidden under his book, his arms outstretched to the sun. It seemed such a shame to disturb his peace, and obviously the man felt so too because again, he knelt to make his introduction, but with, Lily surmised, a certain amount of diffidence. Lily watched in vague fascination as he asked his hopeless question, probably, she guessed, for a light. She’d give him a light. Happily. Maybe even ask him for something, maybe even his number, if she could summon up the nerve. It all depended on what he looked like with the glasses off. Trying to focus her eyes against the glare of the sun, Lily peered through the leaves and realized that the figure hadn’t yet responded. Which was strange, since there was a lighter right there, wasn’t there? Something red at least. She watched with nosy interest as the guy gently touched the sleeper’s shoulder, politely leaning back, and then, as the book fell from the face, saw him start back, saw the blood even before the book hit the ground.
Before she realised it, ignoring the shouts of her friends, Lily was scrambling out of her perch and running over to the figure, her feet slipping out of her flip flops on the scratchy grass, falling back on her heels as she saw the mutilating wound, the slashed throat, the staring eyes. The blond was standing as if frozen, one long hand over his mouth, his sunglasses falling over the bridge of his patrician nose. “No, don’t look!”
The book used to cover his face had fallen aside grotesquely, the pages bent and soaking up blood. Automatically Lily reached down to pick it up, but felt long fingers close around her wrist. “I don’t think we should touch anything.”
“Oh – OK. Oh, my God.” Lily couldn’t take her eyes off the face, the gaping mouth silently screaming. “What – what should we do? Ring the police?”
“Yeah, yeah.” The blond looked down at her, his face ashen. “I don’t think there’s much point in an ambulance?”
“No,” Lily agreed, still riveted by the sight, “I mean – he’s...”
“Dead.” The blond was pulling a phone out of his pocket. “Look, I know this might seem inappropriate, but – do you have a light?”

2009-07-18T12:30:00.000-07:00

I made this. I like it. More mashups will appear over time, but until then, there are a few more on youtube published under the name anneyeungmary.

to cut a long story short

2009-07-09T08:33:00.000-07:00

Carson did customer service. Wages of sin are often earned in retail, and Carson worked on the top floor of a popular department store. Popular because it catered popularly for women to buy things they didn’t want. On realizing this they returned them with ingratiating defiance and endowed with a prudent saving felt entitled to return and pick up something equally as reasonable and twice as hideous to bring back on Saturday. Baby boomers call it shopping.
Much of this satisfying uncertainty was enabled by Carson, who swiped cards, printed receipts whilst listening to their defensive and quite unnecessary justifications quite happily in his own little world. In turn his workmates happily accepted this and left him on the till, quietly sticking labels on to the underside of the counter.
Carson’s specific sin was idle conjecture and the indecisive customers were his speculative material. The respectable ladies would have been astounded at the thoughts that swarmed behind those vague, dark eyes. A sighing blonde who fingered chenille on Thursdays would certainly have been startled by Carson’s conviction that she yearned for the dour but capable hands of a neighbouring divorcee brimming with passion and bitters. The grim brunette clearly stifling sorrow brought about by slavery to an intransigent mother who would eat only jam and teacakes. The stolid gold card in Breton stripes whose bag hid a rattling multitude of uppers, downers and equalizers to be stealthily gulped between shoes and lingerie. All in all, it was satisfactory.
But even satisfactory jobs take some getting to. A morning commute can take a lot out of anyone. This specific one was one of those, being both damp and busy. Carson slid into the train, the last table seat and was uneasily aware with this that he had transferred a good deal of wet inside. Flopping down in a shower of warm condensation, he covertly regarded his fellow occupants. A round Indian man was coughing next to him. The facing window seat was colonised by a woman for whom the disappointed anxiety of her thirties was souring to the disappointed bitterness of middle age. It was too bad. Her glasses were trained on the tabloid in front of her, but intermittently managed to flicker upwards to rest on the coughers face with a disapproving distaste usually reserved for dry clean only. A girl sat opposite Carson. She wasn’t pretty, but young enough to pull it off. He could hear the hum of her music and schooled himself into not trying to work out what it was. What was it? Strong drum beat. Never mind. Three stops. Plenty of time. Drifting into supposition, Carson began to weave his distractions and smiled absently to himself as he watched the girl’s jaws lazily work on a grey wad of gum. She worked in a shop, he was sure. She looked bored enough. Perhaps she was planning to rip it off, to steal thousands to run away to Columbia and start a new life as a drug lord’s mistress. She looked like the sort. Definitely a mistress. Of a drug lord. What would it be like to be a drug lord? A drug lord of a verdant jungle kingdom, slaves sifting through enough coke to fill his harem with nubile ebony haired beauties and one, blonde hard faced queen sipping rum from frosty glasses and demanding more of everything. Diamonds. Booze. Gold. Drugs. Drugs from a drug lord. The coughing man could be a drug lord. Maybe he’d had ten people killed that morning. Decapitated or shot for insubordination or betrayal. But the girl was definitely going that way.
The train stopped, and Carson raised his head, pulling his long feet out of the way as people pushed past on and off. The doors closed, but as he looked back to the Formica, it seemed to Carson that an ominous quiet had descended over the table. He raised his eyes from the grey flecked plastic and regarded his fellow commuters warily. Were they all looking at him? They were all looking at him. The round man had stopped coughing and had turned his eyes from the suburban quadrants outside. The spinster - yes, he was sure she was a spinster –if anyone even used that word anymore - was certainly staring at him. He hadn’t been muttering to himself, had he? Or had he? Perhaps he had said something dreadful, spoken out loud. What had he said? What had he been thinking? Drug lords. A hot flood of trepidation crept up his spine and started poking insistently at his neck. Whatever way you looked at it, it didn’t look good. A skinny, weird looking man like him, muttering about drug lords. Perhaps they thought he was a drug lord. But surely they wouldn’t dare to stare at a drug lord, and logically, it was hardly likely that a drug lord would be sitting at a cramped table seat on the 8.40 to Victoria. At least not a drug lord worthy of the title. At the very least something had happened to train three pairs of contemptuous eyes upon him. He could feel his face becoming red. He was sweating.
The girl - still not pretty and becoming ever less so with the distaste twisting her jawing mouth - was definitely looking at him. Her mouth slowed and with a impressive finality, stopped. A cold, calming flash of clarity shot through him. He knew exactly what was happening.
They could read his mind. They had heard everything that he had thought since he had sat down. Looking around the carriage, he wondered if other people had ever been in such a situation. It was a difficult one, and he couldn’t say that he cared for it. Perhaps there were internet sites about it. He was sure that there must be, for he certainly couldn’t be the only one that this had happened to, could he? He personally had never been able to read people’s minds, but then although he watched, he wasn’t observant. Maybe other people were happily able to read minds and just hadn’t told him. No. Just as he was sure that his mind had become as an open window of unflattering dimensions, he was sure that this was a new thing. Carson wriggled uncomfortably in his seat and shrank back, closing his eyes as the thought struck him that even as he mused on this, the other people could hear. They must think him a complete fool, not even knowing that they had been able to hear him. He shuddered involuntarily, the shiver resuming its slow progression up into his hair as another horrible thought bit into him with satisfaction. What about work? Dear God, he was a caustic person. That wasn’t his fault. He mentally underlined the thought in retrospect to emphasise his innocence to the people watching. Could he go through a whole day at work without thinking something bad about one of the customers? They would hear and have him sacked, wouldn’t they? He desperately tried to recall if he had ever read anything in his introductory work booklet about the policy on such things, but he had barely even glanced at it. He didn’t even remember where it was. He was in trouble. Opening his eyes, he glanced pleadingly around the carriage, hoping to God that someone would say something, begging them to put him out of his misery, but they remained stubbornly silent. The spinster opened her mouth, but then, disappointingly, sniffed. Abruptly, she got up and Carson realized that the train was pulling into the next station. Oh god. He looked pleadingly around at the faces studiously ignoring him. Suddenly he liked these people. He felt as if he had shared much with them. With the people who got on be so understanding? What if he accidentally thought something one of them didn’t like? There would be a scene. He might even be injured. He was not a violent person. He didn’t know how to fight. Maybe one of these people would protect him. They knew the whole story. The spinster pushed past him and stomped into the aisle, only turning to give him one last glare.
The train stopped. Carson shrank back into his seat as the flux of passengers swirled about him and the train shuddered back into life. The window lady had been replaced by a broad faced man in an anorak reading a book. Perhaps he was too engrossed in the story to care about Carson. But at this thought, the man lifted his head and stared at Carson with his flat, cold eyes. Carson shrank a little more. He hadn’t wanted to speculate, honestly. He didn’t want any trouble. Carefully, he capitalized that thought and returned his eyes to his feet.
With a sudden buzz a phone shrilly rang. The girl’s phone. She dredged it from the depths of her bag, picking it up, her jaws churning again with dreary persistence, her eyes flickering indifferently as a crocodile over unhappy Carson. The conversation was mercifully brief, at least on her side. It seemed to be mainly staccato sounds of incredulous affirmation. Carson could feel the thought forming in his mind and desperately tried to quell it, forcing it down. He would not think it. He would not. But like a sigh, it rose up and in cool tones sank itself down with rude feet on the floor of his mind. She had an ugly voice, but it suited her because she was quite an ugly girl.
Petrified, Carson seemed to be looking in on himself as with an insane slowness, he tried to wipe his mind clean. She was on the phone. Perhaps she hadn’t heard. But as he lifted harrowed eyes out of the window, he was forced to notice that she was glaring at him again. And so was the man. And the train was slowing and he would be forced to get up.
The train was stopping.
Carson had to go to work.

reverse haunting

2009-07-09T08:13:00.001-07:00

Frankly, I was avoiding the kids who had ducked out of school to eat chips. Too hot for jumpers, they were taking them off each other and throwing them into the tennis courts, which the ones throwing liked, and the ones who weren’t sullenly howled at, sucking on chew bars and spitting at the pigeons. The birds didn’t seem to mind, but a dog looked hacked off, abstractedly cocked a leg against a bin and the girl they called Saira squealed, personally offended. The kids ignored me, but a man sitting on a bench wearing a skull cap covered in sequins, buttons and pictures of Justin Timberlake called me over like a taxi. He smiled at me, then turned his head and leered about six and a half inches to the left of me, as if at someone not too close. He raised his eyebrows and moved to the end of the bench, leering cheerful at me through his beard. I understood that I was supposed to sit down and obliged.“Are you going to leave any room for your friend?” He said. He didn’t seem offended. I looked around. I couldn’t see anyone, but I shifted over, just in case. The man smelt of herrings and cheap cast plastic.“I don’t have anyone with me?” I ventured, not wanting to start an argument. He looked mildly surprised, then raised his eyebrows over my shoulder. I looked round, but saw nothing. For a small moment, I felt mildly perturbed, but reflected that not much could happen to me in a park, even at lunchtime. The man offered me a damp herring sandwich, which I took and began to eat, even though I didn’t like it much and it had pen on it. He held out another over my lap to the space next to me, but shrugged and withdrew it into his mouth. I didn’t feel as if I could leave at least until I’d finished my sandwich, so I just sat there watching the children with my new friend.“So what you boys up to?” He enquired. I felt uneasy at the tone of the question. It seemed familiar. I told him that my housemates wouldn’t have me back in the house before four thirty, as they said that it got on their nerves to have me watching them all day and making tea every five minutes, which I didn‘t drink and they knocked over. “And you?” He added, leaning behind me and sliding his arm behind me along the bench back. I felt uncomfortable and thinking that it had probably gone as far it could go, stood up, sliding the rest of the sandwich into my pocket. Walking off I heard him laugh and quickened my pace up the road and to the little shop that made a fortune from the greed of the schools adjoining the park. I wanted crisps to take the horrible herring taste out of my mouth. The bell rang as I pushed in, but the man behind the counter overcrowded with plastic capsules of sweets began wagging his finger and shouting.“No more than one in at a time, sir,” he ordered, in a tone that seemed needlessly angry. I looked around. There wasn’t anyone else in the aisles, so I tried to explain this to him, but he started shouting and saying that he was sick of students coming in and trying it on and that we were all bloody shoplifters and did we think that he was a bloody idiot and if we were going to be like that then we could just get out, get out.So I left the shop. It was almost two o clock by this time, so I thought I’d walk into town and finger through the records in the independent music shop until I could go home like we used to do when we were kids. On the way down the hill, a woman in an estate stopped to let me over the road. It might have been the heat that was making people so angry, but she wound down her window and yelled at me to hurry, since she didn’t have all day, and did we want her daughter to be the last one to be picked up and it was people like us who meant that people didn’t stop at all and were probably responsible for the decline in community spirit and general decency in young people. This confused me, as I was already on the pavement, but a minute later she screeched off in a cloud of cross, platinum car and Fleetwood Mac.I got home at about ten to four all things considered, so I had to wait in the front garden for a bit until I could let myself in. It was quiet, so I thought that nobody might be in and I might be able to sidle in a bit early, so at about three minutes to, I tentatively slid my key into the lock and let myself in. My housemate Russell emerged from the front room and glared at me, then looked over my shoulder.“Hello” he said, which was unusual, since he usually starts his conversations with me with demands to know where things are or shouts about why I’m there at all when I’m supposed to have remembered that his girlfriend’s coming to stay and I know that she doesn’t like me after what I did last time. He transferred his glance to me and asked me, relatively politely who my friend was. I looked round. I couldn’t see anyone.“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t see anyone.”He rolled his eyes and glared at me over his sunglasses. “Why do you have to be like this?” he asked, angrily, then said, to the space behind me “I suppose you have to put up with this as well.”“Russell,” I asked, “Can you see someone there?”“Can I see someone?” He snorted. “No. No, Fred, I can’t.”“Really?” I asked, and was serious, but he just rolled his eyes again. “Fred, you should grow up.”“I know.” I said, but he just turned on his heel and left me in the hall to take my coat off. I went into the front room, where my other housemates were sitting, John and Leila. They stopped talking when I came in, as they generally do, unless they’re drunk. In which case they laugh. They were smoking and listening to acoustic music, but as I shuffled in, they abruptly shut it off and looked blankly in my direction. John muttered something to Leila and she giggled. I felt anxious.“Leila,” I asked, “I know that this sounds odd, but is there someone with me?”She stared at me, her face stiffening into the look which she wears when she’s accusing me of something. “Do we have to do this, Fred?”She sounded almost tired, and for a minute I felt bad, but I had to know, so I persisted. “Really, Leila,” I said. “Is there someone with me?”“Yes, Fred.” she said quietly, almost gently. “But you knew that, didn’t you? Are you going to introduce us?”“I can’t.” I explained. “I can’t see them. You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Leila? For a joke?”“No.”She was short, but I felt that I should pursue. “Is it a man, or a girl?”“Go away, Fred.”She dropped her eyes and got up, pushing past me as she went out, but offering a muttered apology. Even at the time, I didn’t think that it was for me. John looked at me for a moment, then sat back, closing his eyes. I went over to the table and sat down. It did seem a little odd.“John,” I ventured. “Is there someone with me?”“Oh, God, Fred.” He sighed deeply and looked slightly to my left, then grinned and shrugged as in response to something. I was beginning to feel a bit left out.“I don’t really think this is funny,” I tried. “John, seriously, is there someone there? Because all day, it‘s been like -”“Fred, don’t bother, all right?” He was sharp. “I suppose that you and your mate probably think this is hilarious, but it’s just weird, all right?” He looked at his watch. “You’re home too early, as well. I thought we’d talked about that.”He was right of course. I was at least a half hour early, and on this being pointed out, felt a little deflated. “Sorry, John.” I said. “But -”“It doesn’t matter, I suppose,” he added, unusually kindly, and smiled at the air again. “Cup of tea?”Two cups of tea sat cooling on the table as John flumped onto the sofa, clutching his mug. I didn’t really want any, only nobody generally makes me tea, so instead I watched it, feeling a cross between pleased and bewilderment. It wasn’t a very funny joke, but then, they aren’t very funny. Housemates never are. I decided to take action.“John? Would you take a photo of me - and my friend - on your camera phone please?” I was being as deliberately conciliatory as I could. I’d lost mine last week, after a guy told me that it was exactly the one he wanted and I didn’t really care enough to argue with him. John sighed and opened his eyes, looking at me assessing like. But he nodded, and taking his phone out of his pocket, made a motion with his hand as if I were to move to the left slightly, so I did. He took the photo, then put the phone back in his pocket.“Do you think I could see it, please?”I was convinced he was pranking me then. Anyone with nothing to hide would have shown me straightaway, so I readied my face for dignified disdain.He sighed again, and pulled it out with a flourish, scrolling through, then held it at arm’s length. I got up and bent over to look at it. There was me. To the right. I did not manage to assume my proposed expression.Since then, it’s been quite complicated to arrange things. I still go out most days, but I have to make sure that I get back later than before, so I can slide in with nobody seeing. Midnight’s about right. John’s made faux facetious comments about extra rent for my guest on the times when I haven’t been so lucky, so I generally divide my time between the park and my room. I’ve made friends with the guy in the cap. Quite often we’ll sit on our bench and then sometimes we go over to his mother’s house to have some juice or fool. She’s a nice lady, but she worries about us, I think. Winter’s coming soon, so I suppose we’ll have to sit in the shopping centre instead, but until it gets cold, we‘ll wait and just watch the kids go by. Most people aren’t so understanding, although from what I can dredge from the internet, that’s quite often the case. It’s commoner than you think, you know, although quite often people don’t talk about it, apart from in San Francisco. They’re the internet capital for my little problem. Back in the day, it used to be that I’d mostly consume adult orientated websites for the utilization of the discerning gent, but since I discovered I feel uncomfortable. Under the circumstances perhaps I‘m being over sensitive, but I‘d prefer not to make anyone uncomfortable. It’s lucky in some ways that I don’t have a girlfriend, although I suppose that there’s little chance of that now. Since I now have a friend with me. Now I’m accompanied. He’s with me at most times, pretty much all the time. Walking with me, two steps behind or next to my side. One could say that difficulties abound, but I suppose that’s not this fault. I can’t use public toilets. People tend to get the wrong idea and it’s hard to explain, although it’s not as if I don’t try. A girl at the bus stop the other day I got chatting to found it fascinating, although her eyes were lit with sceptical laughter. It’s sufficiently unusual for me to be quite an oddity. My park friend’s encouraged me to go to an institute, only I’m afraid that they might not understand and I can’t afford to go to the specialisation clinic in Dakota, the experts and the first people to write about it, as I explained at length to my bus stop girl. It’s interesting if you want to listen, although I’d understand if you didn’t. A lot of people don’t. But you see, people see ghosts all the time. That’s a fact, but studies show that isolated individuals tend to glimpse single beings, in houses or barns or castles. In my case, and the case of Mr Greek Dourston of Connecticut, and Mrs Grace Sheaster of New Hampshire, 1895, it’s quite the opposite. Everyone can see my ghost but me. But if you consider it, he did pick me. That’s unusual for anyone. I suppose I feel a little flattered. If I could see him, I‘d probably be the happiest I‘d ever been, although sight isn’t always necessary, I suppose. It is a he, by the way. My friend. I’m not sure that I wouldn’t have preferred a girl, but you can’t choose, I suppose, although it might not look so odd. I even like the look of him, from what people have said and the snatched pictures I’ve got. He’s much smarter than me. Much more fashionable. Occasionally I’ll catch a glimpse of brown hair, or a conversed foot, or a striped sleeve, and I wonder how he reflects on me. If he’ll put people off. But then, maybe he thinks the same about me.

wolves

2009-07-09T07:59:00.000-07:00

I was coming back from the shop when it hurried past, sniffing interestedly at the wheels of a car. It looked hungry, so I poked through the shopping to see what I could spare. I thought that crisps might stick in its throat so I held out a pack of sliced ham. It looked pleased, ate it, then looked at me expectantly. I didn’t know what to say, so I picked up my bags and walked home. When I got to the door, I had to get my keys out so I put my stuff down to glare at the people who spend their day parked outside my house. They were gawping more than usual, and it was only then that I noticed that the wolf had followed me home, another, smaller one sitting with it at the top of the drive. I went in and put the shopping away. When Peter came in from work, he seemed perturbed. “There’s wolves out there,” he said. “I know.” I said. “I gave one of them some ham.”
“That’s probably too salty for them,” he said. “It was reconstituted,” I pointed out. “And so probably mostly water.” He sniffed as if he thought he was right. “There’s four of them out there, watching the house,” he said. “They’ve dug up some of the lawn.”“More than you could be bothered to do,” I muttered, and asked him if there was a baby one. He said that one of them looked like a teenager. I went into the kitchen to have a look, but it was too dark to see by then.
About a week and a half after this they ate the man from Iceland. I haven’t really felt like going out since the wolves moved in. I don’t want the neighbours seeing me and feeling inclined to make comments, so I’ve started to have the shopping delivered. The man from Tesco seems relatively sensible, but the Iceland man was sniffy and said that we should call the council and if we wouldn’t he would. Civic responsibility or something. But after he’d brought the last load in, I was putting the tins away and didn’t see exactly what happened, but heard screams and a horrid dragging noise. A few hours later the largest wolf trotted purposefully up to the doorstep with a leg in his mouth. He left it on the doorstep. I think as my share of the spoils. I recognised the shoe, so I rang Iceland and asked them to send someone to pick up the van. I didn’t want to hurt the wolves’ feelings, so I took it in and thought about putting it in the bin. They go through the rubbish, though, and I didn’t want them to think that I didn’t like it, so I took the shoe off, hacked it up and boiled the flesh off until it was bones which I kept in case I wanted to make something out of it later. I looked for the other shoe, but I think they hurled it playfully over the fence when they were toying with the remains on the Monday.
A little while after that they ate the horrible teenager who lived at the end of the road. After the first time I think that they were reassured as to what I would stand for. Again, I didn’t see, but I heard swearing and then howls. I thought that it was probably politic to ignore them and they at least have the grace to drag their prey behind the garage before ripping up the carcass. They brought me a hand that time, some of the shin and a hank. Peter says I shouldn’t encourage them and it’s positively depressing to have bits lying about the place.
A few days later the littlest one didn’t look well, so I called a taxi and we went to the vet. When we walked in, the reception lady gasped and a woman with a puppy got up with an air of wounded self righteousness and stalked out. An girl child clutched a frog in a box to its chest with an ugly sense of drama. “Excuse me,” said the reception lady, “What’s this?”“It’s a wolf,” I said. “It’s not well. It ate a child and it seems off colour.”“Is that so?” she replied disapprovingly. “Yes,” I snapped. “It wasn’t it’s fault and he wasn’t any loss. Messing about on his bike. I blame Brian de Palma. And I suspect he might have been taking drugs. It’s probably that, if anything.” She swept off and sent the vet out to us after a short pause, as if we weren’t good enough for the surgery. He gasped too, when he saw us, and advanced timidly. “Where did you get it?” he asked faintly.“I didn’t get it anywhere,” I said. “They live in my garden. You can’t buy them. They’re wild beasts.” “What’s wrong with it?” he asked, hiding his face behind his clipboard.“You’re the vet,” I pointed out. “You tell me.”“Has it eaten anything it shouldn’t?” He asked.“Shouldn’t?” I replied, becoming justifiably irritated. “You can’t tell it what to eat. They ate a teenager on Thursday, but the others seem all right.”“You have more?” He inquired weakly. “I don’t have them,” I said. “They’re feral. If anything, they’re squatting, although I suppose they have every right to be there.”“You’ll have to leave it with us,” he said. “We’ll have to get someone in to take a look at it.”“No, thank you,” I replied tartly. “It’s nearly six o clock now and if this one isn’t back before the moon rises they’ll be howling all night and my husband’s working an early shift tomorrow. Can’t you just look at it now?”
“No,” he replied with an air of awful finality. After three minutes of silence there didn’t seem much more to be said so I went outside and rang a taxi. The wolf followed sadly and sat, licking its paws and then wee-ed on an Astra. I patted it and it made a sad noise. It was sick on the way back, all over the floor of the taxi. It was mostly matted hair, bone and then an eyeball. I think as the baby they gave him the head as the best bit. It seemed slightly abashed but much more cheerful, although I think the driver was a bit hacked off. I don’t know why, as his driving was awful and it was probably his fault anyway.“What kind of dog is that supposed to be anyway?” he said disapprovingly as I paid him, tipping 40% out of guilt.“It’s a wolf,” I said. “I just feel responsible for it, you know, like badgers or foxes.” He drove off quickly. The others seemed pleased to see the little one so revived and I went inside. Peter was in the kitchen making a cup of tea, so I told him about the vet and the sick. He said that it was a shame that a vet would be so cruel to an animal in pain. I concurred and made him macaroni cheese for tea, which is his favourite as a reward for agreeing with me. In the morning he went off to work before the wolves were up. They crash around during the night, but Peter’s a heavy sleeper and as long as they’re not howling it’s not a problem. They like Peter as he brings them home special treats from his work at the hospital.
Later that day I decided to go down Spar, as we‘d run out of teabags, so I pulled on my mac and wandered out. They lifted their heads as I walked up the drive, but were too bored to move. At Spar, I thought it might be nice to get the wolves something, since the little one had been good at the vets. I bought some teabags, fags and French fancies. The shop man seemed harassed and kept looking suspiciously towards a young teenager hovering outside the shop, on a bike. “Buy me some cigarettes?” he asked abruptly as I left the shop. I looked him up and down. His eyes were all red and gummy, and he was wearing a nylon Man City shirt with popper trousers. “If you come back with me, I’ll give you some,” I said calmly, fingering the box in my pocket. “I sell them out of my garage, no tax. Tell your parents and everyone you know.”“All right,” he muttered, and cycled along with me as I walked home. His name was Dan and he was fourteen. He seemed surly, stupid and ungrateful. As we rounded into my drive he stopped. “What’s this?” he asked brusquely. “They’re all right,” I replied calmly, “They’re just my dogs. You’re not scared of a few Alsatians, are you?”“Naw,” he muttered and jumped off his bike, following me, hunched and cross. I went to let myself back into the house and as I pulled my keys out, I whistled and pointed to Dan. I heard noises as I went in, but Jeremy Kyle was on, so I sat down, ate my French fancies and had a cup of tea and a fag. Their fur’s much nicer since they’ve been living here. It’s like Peter says. It’s everyone’s responsibility to take care of indigenous wildlife.

On the Couch With Mary

2009-02-16T04:22:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer; Mary’s advice is often downright irresponsible and might get you frankly nowhere.

Dear Mary
It’s my boyfriend. He’s been acting really weird. He says he’s going to the pub and disappears for hours at a time, he comes home late from work, and last month I found a pair of knickers (not mine) in his pocket. Added to which he’s become really over protective of his mobile. Last week I confronted him but he denied it all, saying that I was just being paranoid but I don’t think I am. Do you think he’s cheating on me?
Distraught, Portsmouth

Dear Distraught,

Just to prove that I do care about your stupid problems, I thought that this time, I'd put the effort in and canvass some different points of view. So, I took your letter and read it to a wide and insightful cross section of society. Sadly, the underwhelming response from the tramps in the park was “How the fuck should I know? Why are you asking me? Give me my wine back.” But unlike them and luckily for you, I know. At least, I’m unemployed and own a TV, so have spent - some say wasted - many, many agreeable hours in the company of Jeremy Kyle. So I kind of know. At least as much as anyone can know without the sagacious purr of a lie detector. Is he cheating on you? Just let me raise my eyes to the ceiling as I lean back in my chair and lift my hands into the appropriate places (have you ever noticed that Jeremy Kyle has the hand posture of the chain smoker? )
Well. It certainly sounds possible but let‘s remember, sweet, that we’re only hearing one side of the story here. It may look that way. But before we start throwing accusations around, let’s look at the alternatives, yeah? Your boyfriend disappears, does he, sweet? You found a pair of knickers in his pocket. (Steeples fingers like Michael Corleone, gazes meditatively at crease in trousers) Well, darling, were they his? But all this makes equal sense if he's a secret cross dresser. Are you prejudiced? (That’s definitely what Jeremy would say, and I know because he once said it) you shake your head.
OK, well, since he may not be a transvestite, you say that he’s been acting suspiciously. Taking into account that your idea of this is that he won’t let you see his mobile. As the tramps pointed out, I don't know why you want to see his mobile. People’s mobiles are their own. He might be doing all kinds of deceitful and untrustworthy things with it, like selling crack or stolen lingerie. Maybe the knickers were a sample. Infidelity might be the last of your problems. Let's face it - you just don’t know. Sigh. (Really, neither Jeremy or Maury, Trisha or Jerry would give you any sympathy for nosiness, so I’m not going to.) But really, all of this angst seems to be based mainly on the fact that he comes home late from work and goes out for hours. Have you thought that maybe he doesn’t want to come home? The guys in the off license seemed to think that you were probably constantly accusing him. Certainly confronting him more than once. I have to say that even I didn't exactly buy that claim, and as the girl in Habitat suggested, it is quite likely that you're nagging and weeping and wailing with woe, isn't it sweet? I mean, she would, if she thought that her boyfriend was up to no good, because men aren't to be trusted, are they? And if you are, you can hardly blame him, can you? Even for finding solace elsewhere.
But really. Your letter didn't really tell me anything. All it said was that you were suspicious, and at that, all I can tell you, gleaned from years of daytime wisdom is basically this. Ask him straight out, once and once only. He’ll either admit it, in which case you have two options. Either forgive him and stay, or leave him. If he denies it, you also have two options. (This is fun, isn’t it?) If you love him and trust him, stay and put up with it. If you think he’s lying to you, leave him. It really is very simple. Even without the Genius.

On The Couch With Mary

2009-02-07T13:51:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer; Mary’s advice will probably be completely useless and may mess up your life even more should you choose to follow it. Your responsibility, either way.

Dear Mary,
My next door neighbour thinks she can sing and she really can’t. Our walls are made of paper and I can hear every word, especially since she bought Singstar at Christmas. What’s even worse is that her boyfriend left her last week and now every night I have to listen to her drunkenly wailing out Mariah Carey songs until 3am. It’s driving me mad. What can I do?
Tammy, Manchester

Dear Tammy,

Yeah. You know, a lot of people would tut at your heartlessness. Fie! They’d say. How cruel. They’d probably even suggest that since she’s going through a bit of a tough time at the moment, perhaps you should take a box of wine and a six pack of Sex and The City in hand, casually drop by and talk her through her pain. But if I were one of those people, you wouldn’t have asked for my help, would you? Yep, I know. I agree. It sounds like an unnecessary fly by of the deepest circle of Hell. But cheer up, my sleep deprived little friend! As I see it, you’ve got a rounded handful of alternative and realistic options. For example. You could get an ASBO on her. Two weeks with any more than a murmur and bam! Evicted. Or, if you’re quite hefty, you could bang on the wall every time she opens her mouth, screaming “Hey, I have a sweet, sweet fantasy that you SHUT THE HELL UP, BITCH!” Or - more reasonably - have you thought of simply moving? I appreciate that it’s not exactly a good time, but Kirsty and Phil on the moving type shows need work too. Just try to show people round when she’s not regurgitating “All by Myself” through the reverberating cavity wall. But if that doesn’t suit you, how about buying some earplugs and getting in some practice shouting “What?” I’ll admit that it might be a bit wearing at first, although a few weeks of studying and you might score a job sign dancing on late night MTV. Those guys are cool. But if it’s just too damn loud even for that to work, why not steeple your fingers in scheming thought and enact some sort of retribution? Maybe next time you see her putting out the bins you could nonchalantly suggest that she try out for Big Brother. Ideal for it, you could say. Such personality. Just think, if she gets in you’ll be free of her for weeks on end. With the singing, they’d be bound to keep her in for at least a month and if she wins she might even move somewhere better. Although there’s always the chance that she could release a novelty single. It’s a gamble, I’ll admit. Or, and this is the cruellest (and thus my favourite) answer; if you’re really sick of her by now, why not drop round one afternoon when you hear her caterwauling, sit her down over a cocktail or two and wonder aloud why she’s never thought of auditioning for Pop Idol. With such a strong voice, they’d be bound to love her. She should definitely give it a go. And think of how miserable the ex boyfriend would be when she won and could lead a gospel choir in a rousing chorus of “I Am What I Am.” One humiliating rejection later, she won’t even dare to raise her voice above a whisper. The whole street laughing and pointing. Kids driving by on bikes and shouting “Look, there’s that woman what couldn’t sing Mariah Carey! The one who cried and cried when Simon Cowell laughed in her face for ten whole minutes!” She’ll probably hate you forever and never talk to you again, but frankly, I wouldn’t blame her for that and neither should you. After all, you want quiet, don’t you?

On The Couch With Mary

2009-02-04T12:28:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer; Mary’s advice will probably be adequate, not great, but hell, why should I care?

Dear Mary,
I’m hard working and much better at my job than my stupid boss. He makes me do all of his work and takes all the credit. How do I steal his role from under his lazy, fat nose?
Frustrated, Westminster

Dear Frustrated,

Westminster, you say? Lazy boss, is he? Horrifying narcissist, are you? In politics, I‘d guess? If not, you should really think about making a career move. But anyway. You must realize that I’m not in a position to say what’s what here. You could be an idle moron coasting along on a tide of resentful irritability, but since you’ve sought my opinion, I’ll take your word that you truly are a beleaguered little blossom being exploited by the beastly Man. But what I don’t understand is how you think that this is different from any other job. (No, no, I’m joking, really. Bosses are brilliant. If anyone wants to give me a job, I’ll work for six crumbs of bread and a kindly word every fortnight)
Nonetheless, if usurpation is the road to joy, we have two choices. Either we throw our icy eyes over teen girl-land or we play the king. And I don’t have the inclination to discuss Gossip Girl. There’s no need to over-egg our mean little pudding with that much callousness. So let us instead coldly muse over the work of Ian Richardson. But why? You ask. Stupidly. Well, as every fule kno, Richardson was one of the most talented actors of all time and played TV’s most memorable monsters with gleeful relish. (And before you protest, yes, your letter is clearly utterly monstrous.)
And since you’re in politics or something, it would seem most excitingly apt to consider the wonderful House of Cards. Just give me the excuse. Nobody has ever bettered the portrayal of ruthless initiative better than Richardson as Francis Urquhart. TV evil has had many avatars; Cy in Deadwood, Adebesi in Oz, Ida in Malcolm in the Middle; but none suits your needs as well as Francis. There’s simply a magnificent elegance to his scheming. With the aid of sly aide Stamper (a pet rotter compulsory for any decent plotter) he manipulates and exploits his way to the top job in a rampage of sheer Machiavellian bliss. There’s so much you can learn here. Perhaps you could inveigle your boss into bed with the office grotbag. I’m assuming there is such a person. Perhaps you could implicate him in a drugs scandal. Perhaps you could have him set up and accused of insider dealing - a rather sore social point at the moment. Perhaps you could have him run over a disabled protester. And perhaps - just perhaps - you could try working hard and trust in the fact that someone will eventually recognize your talent. But is that the way the world works? You may very well think that. I couldn’t possibly comment.

On The Couch With Mary

2009-02-04T11:51:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer; Mary’s advice may be less than adequate, but hey, I’m not the one who’s messed up.

Dear Mary
I fell out with my best friend over a boy. He left me last week and now I want to be friends with her again. How do I make her like me again?
Jeannie, Hull

Dear Jeannie,

Oh dear. (Waves cigarette hand in a circle, sympathy, kindness, compassion etc etc) I take it went something like this. He jammed his meaty hand up her skirt. She tried to warn you that he was a ghastly bounder, you got sniffy, threw in your lot with the untrustworthy aforesaid and now he’s left you bereft you want a shoulder to soak with bitter, bitter tears? You’re not on Hollyoaks, are you? Well, there’s not much I do about your general lack of judgement and loyalty - that being a cross most of us have to bear - but it does sound to me as if what you want is the moon on a stick. You threw her over. She doesn’t like you anymore. You want her to like and trust you again? She won't. If you’re interested, a good example of how this particular situation works is currently being played out on MTV’s The Hills. Ex-friends Lauren and Heidi are currently in a state of frigid enmity thanks to the machinations of Heidi’s appealingly vile and Patrick Bateman a-like boyfriend Spencer. Spencer tried to come on to the toothy Audrina and lied about it, Lauren stuck up for the brunette Overbite Barbie and Heidi’s now a sacked drunk speaking to neither friends or family. You have to applaud the work of a master. But if you’re convinced that the way to happiness lies in some misguided grovelling, that’s up to you. It won’t work. It rarely works even in sitcom. I’ll admit that Bob and Terry reconciled in Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads. I’ll also concede Friends; it’s true, Rachel reignited her friendship with Monica. By completely changing her personality and refusing to be rich any more. But I can only offer some really quite general examples on how to placate an offended mate. There was a particular episode of Futurama where Bender turned into a Were-car and upset Fry by trying to kill Leela, only for it all to be happily resolved when Bender eventually tried to run him over. Am I suggesting that you try and kill your mate? Maybe. But seriously, the best friends currently on TV are probably Gus and Shawn on Psych. They bicker, they fall out, Shawn tries to make Gus do annoying things and poison him with easy bake cake, but they remain friends. Why? Because they truly love each other and have since they were children. This is the crux of the matter. If you truly valued and loved your friend, you wouldn’t have discarded her so easily, even if you stopped talking for a while. Look at drama North and South on Zone Romantica. Yankee James Read and southern dog Patrick Swayze manage to maintain their friendship even in the face of Civil War, against all odds, in the teeth of all opposition... Think carefully here. Do you really want your friend back for herself? Or do you just want sympathy? Either way, you have one real option. Go out, buy her a big cake or something and go and apologize. Apologize good, swear never to do it again and don't be such a massive bitch next time.

On the Couch with Mary

2009-01-24T19:13:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer; Mary’s advice may be rambling and lazy thanks to lack of sleep and ongoing job bewilderment.

Dear Mary,
I can’t find a girlfriend.
Ted, Hull

Dear Ted,

Look, what do you want, a medal? Because there’s plenty of other rejects in competition for the title of Grand High King of Miserable Loners. Me, for one. And I‘ll fight you for it like Kimbo in a ghetto car park. But since I’m kindly assuming that you’re sulking, not gloating, it follows that you probably want some sort of advice, yeah? Something reassuring along the lines that you, even you, with a personality compable to evolution’s contraceptive will one day find someone to spurt your disgusting fluids over. Well, chances are, honestly? You will. Even without my help. They might be as revolting as sweet Ryvita dunked in tea, but really, I think (with your attitude) you should be grateful for what you can get. But if you’re determined on something better, I can’t do much in the fixing up stakes but I do watch a lot of TV. And of all help, TV has the most to teach us about the potential for even the worst of us to find love. “But it’s fiction!” I hear you cry. “How can it help me with my real life woe? I’m ugly. Ugly ugly. Not even TV ugly!” Ah, Ted. Does not Justine teach us the tragedy of passivity? Cannot Madame Bovary indicate the consequences of thwarted ambition? And cannot Friends teach us that the best way to find love is to knock up your sister’s best mate? So here, just for you, here in all it’s glory, is my Five Point TV Plan of Finding Love.

One. Don’t you know that every nice girl wants to marry a doctor? Admittedly, a lot of nice girls I know would prefer that doctor to be David Tennant, but let’s say that you’re not a Time Lord (And everyone knows that there are only two real Time Lords - Dr. Who and Jeremy Kyle) So why not try getting qualified? Even if it doesn’t buy you an impressed civilian, you’ll certainly chav a chance in casualty. Medical dramas may have one gangrened foot firmly in la la land, but I can assure you that just like in ER, NAs, RNs, and MD’s are S.L.U.T.S. It's true.

Two. Proximity’s the key, and it jangles from a big fat bunch. From Oz to Cell Block H to Big Brother, love likes to be locked up. When you’re stuck inside with only a tatty poster of Titty Titmuss to keep you company, you’re bound to turn to the boy on the bunk above. Try getting incarcerated for a spell. Commit a crime, lie back and await that sweet, sweet loving. (N.B. I wouldn’t go for anything involving kids unless you consider being set on fire a form of foreplay)

Three. Nice guys finish first. Just look at the evidence. TV may be an inherently cruel and callous place, (On 24 at least) but if you’re a hapless, sweetie your reward doesn’t wait for heaven. You get a girlfriend to boss you around instead. Lose your spine along with any arrogance and self respect. Women seem to like it. Tim/Jim in The Office got his girl eventually, as did Ross in Friends, Kel in Kath and Kim and Peter Andre in the jungle. Be nice. Look doleful. Buy her a biscuit. Hang around.

Which brings us nicely into Four. Perseverance. Look. And look. And look again. Do you think Sex and the City would have run for six seasons if those idiots had snared the first man who agreed to eat with them? No! they had to try again and again like electroshocked monkeys grabbing at a food pellet. Yeah, yeah, admittedly, one did. Carrie. But she only managed it because once she’d found a possible she made him a probable by clinging on to her hopes with finely manicured fingertips until he submitted out of sheer rage and boredom. But EVEN THAT took until the film.

And lastly Five. Again, my final point carrying on neatly from four. By all means stalk your prey with eyes of the hawk and ears of the wolf (and strength of the bear, speed of the PUMA!) but for God’s sake be discreet. Employ a bit of cunning. For if Jodie Marsh has had any true existential use, it’s to demonstrate to all humanity that in love, nothing stinks like desperation. Now go forth. And multiply!

Presidential Inaugaration; Fox News; Celebrity Big Brother, Channel 4

2009-01-24T18:56:00.000-08:00

I suspect that I’m one of the few English people to have watched Obama’s inauguration on Fox News. For one, I knew it would make it about a million times more entertaining, and it was most entertaining because they seemed to have employed old man Muppets Statler and Waldorf to do the commentary. As a result, a lot of the focus revolved around watching the elderly Senators totter out of a door as our two heroes sucked up to the Republicans and shot uproarious mockery at the Clintons. “He looks like a man who’s never sure what expression to pull! Ha-ha-ha-ha-HA!” Particular fascination was ladled over Dick Cheney (played by Larry David) who’d pulled his back helping to move some boxes and was subsequently resentfully wheeled through the whole event clutching a stick, presumably to hit the children intermittently paraded through shot and greeted with sarcastic cheers from the Old Men. “Oh, what an a-dor-able child!”
Actually, the whole festival mood of the event reminded me most of a clothes shop fire drill. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the judges had been shown surreptitiously lighting up as they wandered out to mill about and gossip in the sunshine. Eventually, though, even that joy had to end, our boys pausing briefly to remark admiringly on the new Cadillac brought in for the event (nobly refraining from making jokes about new rims) and as George W gleefully conceded his title to the new pretender, the commentary lost all interest in proceedings and instead gave vague, cheery opinions about Michelle Obama’s dress (the make up ladies liked it), the relative merits of previous inaugurations they had personally attended, and the bitchy remarks previous presidents had made to each other. Some bored dignity was briefly resumed for the ceremony itself, but before that, let’s see a completely unnecessary computer visualisation of Obama’s route through the building! Yeah, that got your attention back! It’s of course obligatory for Fox to use zoomy graphics to grab our wandering attention in these kind of situations, because our attention was clearly not grabbed enough as it was. In fact, there seemed to be a strange, mild sense of regret from Fox that it was a bit boring, lacking as it was any sort of terrorist attack, bomb plot or Cheaters style catfight between Hilary and Michelle. Everyone else seemed pleased enough, and rightly so.
The other big event of the week, of course was the end of Celebrity Big Brother, and in a downright astounding and suspicious turn of events, Ulrika walked out triumphant. I say suspicious because she spent the whole few weeks bitching, sulking and demonstrating to the world that she has the personality of a wet flapjack. Oh, I’m just bitter. I wanted Coolio to win. But it’s my own fault. I didn’t vote, and actually, I suspect nobody did. The only supposition is that, like Nixon, she triumphed with the robot vote and her shiny new body. Well, we’ve got nobody to blame but ourselves if she sneaks into our houses at night and wrecks up the place.

TV Sijo # 4

2009-01-23T12:57:00.001-08:00

You know the problem with this country? People who slow down.
On motorways to look at crashes, and do nothing to help.
So says Jeremy Kyle. And checks the hair at the crown of his head.

TV Sijo # 2

2009-01-23T12:41:00.000-08:00

The Hills is reality by Mattel. Gleamingly white.
Is Spencer a terrible actor, or an unhappy P. D.?
I’m guessing on the former. Either way Heidi’s stupid.

TV Sijo # 1

2009-01-23T12:40:00.000-08:00

Lock in the Lyrics to rise up stairway of green. Shane pauses.
We’ll find out after the break. Five missing words to win. I wait.
Wishing I didn’t need to prove myself right. But still waiting.

The Undercover Princes; BBC 3, Cowards; BBC 4

2009-01-20T18:44:00.000-08:00

BBC 3 can’t do much but they can handle an amusing documentary, I’ll give them that. They’ve got form on the travails of rich folk living amidst the scummy poor, (Filthy Rich and Homeless, The Last Millionaire) and The Undercover Princes takes up the baton with jolly panache. And nobody has to live in a bin. No, raising the bar a tad, they’ve ensconced three single royals in a roomy seaside villa for license fee sponsored philandering, a task they embrace with enthusiasm. I particularly liked Zulu prince Africa’s technique for wooing the ladies; “You have a great personality, super-great.” Yes. Yes, I do. Sure you can touch my beautiful hair. In fact, all three princes are engagingly personable, which is lucky since the hindrances of posing as tourists and an accompanying camera crew would put a damper on anyone’s romantic prospects. But our boys seem to be optimistic and surprisingly pleased to have been dumped in a rainy suburb. Africa seemed to be under the illusion that Brighton was “The British Miami” but under no illusions at all about the size of the gay scene, which he obviously takes no offence to. None at all. Which is good, seeing as he’s sharing with recently outed Indian royal Manvendra. Manny, as he dubs himself, seems to take great pleasure in sweetly, sardonically winding up Africa, bringing home coasters printed with enviable torsos and happily describing his gay bar exploits. “I kissed a man on the lips!” Africa shrank and shifted uncomfortably as Manny gazed at him with cheerful, malicious innocence. Remi, the third of our trio, sighed. As a Sri Lankan prince resident in Holland, he’s probably got a fair bit of experience of western liberality, as demonstrated on the second night out when Africa sternly decided that they weren’t going to go into the nasty girlie bar. Remi looked mildly regretful and acquiesced. Everyone says that Remi’s really charming, and if I had a million lackeys I bet they’d say the same of me. You know what, though? He is. They all are. And Manny lives in a big pink palace like a lonely gay Rapunzel. I’m rating their chances as fair to good.
Fair to good. Fair to good. Hmm. Now, if I said that a new BBC comedy was quite a lot better than that, I know what you’d say. You’d say something like “Pah, I’m not bothered anymore. I gave up years ago. Just pass me the remote so we can laugh at Housetrapped In The Sun instead.” And you’d be very, very wrong. I know that every time anyone launches a comedy now they claim that it’s dark, surreal, edgy genius, and it never is. Maybe they should be a bit more honest and shrug and say, “Well, it’s OK. Not great. Maybe watchable. Except that recent thing on BBC 3 about the teenagers which was crap.” Don’t imagine it would go down well with the writers, but it might not raise everyone’s expectations to the point where everything seems like a big pile of stinking shit. But I urge you to watch Cowards, the newest acquisition on BBC 4, because it's got the huge advantage being genius, being dark and edgy and surreal and more crucially, funny. The four judges smoking on the roof, the man intimidating an entire office over webcam, the ex serenading a girl with the theme to Home and Away. It’s surreal. But not the annoying, random kookiness that people think of as surreal since The Mighty Boosh elbowed their way into our lives. It’s surreal by someone who actually knows what surreal means. I know. Surreal.

Big Chef meets Little Chef; Channel 4

2009-01-20T10:27:00.000-08:00

I know a few people who’ve cooked for Little Chef; I did a similar gig myself. If you're interested, it's mainly shouting at the microwave and spitting venom at the temerity of customers daring to ask for anything inimical to our convenience and fag breaks. It’s a hard, greasy, fat spattered job, and you accept doing it with stoic irritability. Which is why when fry cooks meet it resembles a reunion of emotionally crippled ‘Nam veterans trading injuries past. Don’t underestimate the injuries - I’ve met more than one person who accidentally dipped their hand into a deep fat fryer. All this agony, however, has the upside of giving you the inalienable right to watch programmes like Big Chef meets Little Chef and crow excitedly; “Look at Heston Blumenthal, the big FOOL! He’s trying to cook SCRAMBLED eggs on the FRONT of the grill! HA!”
The satisfaction this affords is almost equal to that of the customers who ushered themselves to their chipped Formica table and cast a jaundiced eye over Heston’s menu. And cheerfully, callously dismissed it. It was just Too Poncy. And the chefs were worried they weren't achieving the essence of traditional Britishness. While Heston lamented his inability to give the customers what they wanted, they were enjoying themselves enormously. The joy of being able to reject the fancy pretensions of a celebrity chef was of greater importance than any Lapsang-Souchong infused scrambled egg. Even if it was cooked in a bag like some 1970’s future food. It cost a tenner! Gasp, gulp, faint. Under those circumstances, grimly ploughing your way through an enormous plate of stodgily fried meat seems like a privilege.
Honestly though, the original menu looked adequate enough. From the expressions of the Fat Duck crew you would have thought that they were being served deep fried child with a side of week old Sugar Puffs. And so, with optimism replacing tact and reason, they set about bringing their brand of couture cuisine to the roadside, helped and hindered by the increasingly alarmed exhortations from chief exec Ian Pegler. Ian seemed to have attended a management conference at about the time Little Chef was last popular and to have retained every hint. The existing staff politely ignored him and got on with trying to explain to the unwelcome, sneering visitors that their job was to feed grumpy truck drivers enough to keep them going until Harlow.
Unfortunately, the whole concept was, to be frank, off. Heston's definitely a complainer and complained. A lot. At the standards, the attitudes, at the lack of facilities. It just showed how his much vaunted imagination basically stopped at the food. Why not calmly accept the tools given - a microwave - and create fabulous food using only that? What they came up with was, indeed nice food, but hardly tailored to be produced by the lowly cooking hacks who occupy the jobs in these places. Added to which, as a series of three hour long episodes, it was phenomenally overstretched. Heston complaining in his BMW, Heston complaining in his BMW from the air, Heston's staff complaining about the Little Chef staff complaining. It's a whinge fest of almighty proportions. I assume that all will be sorted out with much back slapping and plenty of delightful resolution between the culture clashing staff. Seriously, it better be, over that time frame. But really, if they want to solve their problems, I don't know why the obvious hasn't intervened. Don’t try and make Little Chef ambitious and modern. Try grey sky thinking and make it even more scrappily old fashioned. There’s plenty of people who wish it was still 1967. A menu of messy prawn cocktail and black forest gateau served up badly by grumpy waitresses would be just the thing when you're halfway on the way to see her sister in Hull. And you could even do it boil in the bag if you wanted.

On The Couch With Mary

2009-01-19T17:20:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer; Mary will venture an opinion on your TV dilemmas, but anything bad that happens as a result is your own fault.

Dear Mary,
Thanks to watching a million and one stupid programmes about how unhealthily people eat, my wife put me on a diet. I can’t bear it and spend half of my time sneaking out to McDonalds. She’s now wondering why instead of losing weight, I’ve put on a stone and a half. What do I do? Come clean or put my foot down?
Hungry, Brighton

Dear Hungry,
Well, you’ve answered your own question, haven’t you? I know what you want me to tell you to do. You want, to paraphrase a very wise young man, for me to advise you to tell your wife; “Hey, get your bitch ass back in the kitchen, and make me some pie!” Then, when you’ve recovered, I’d suggest the real solution; that you tell the poor woman the truth. I mean, chances are she has some sort of inkling. The smell of greasy salt hanging around you, the rotting chips and McApple Custard Pie boxes under the car seats? Yeah, darling, they’re giving away used milkshake cups at the gym now. Not to mention the fact that, unless before you were skinnier than a sub par latte, you’re now a big fatty fat fat. One and a half stone, you bloated lying man child? For God’s sake, stand up for yourself and tell it to her straight. Darling, I lied. And I know that people like you think that TV is to blame for all your problems. You’re probably the kind who complains that adverts make food look so delicious that you simply can’t help yourself. As if the evil corporations waft MSG gas out of your plasma screen into your sweating, churning jaws until you shriek with hunger and rush out to Nando‘s.
Admittedly, I do share your disapproval of the sour faced soul stealers who currently populate our screens food-wise, holding up deliciously sugary foods in critical fingers and lambasting anyone who dares to drink supermarket milk, but let me point something out to you. However irritatingly patronising it is for the rich and thin to blithely assert that it’s cheaper and healthier to shop at Harrods, or that you should live on a diet of quails eggs and hummus, you don't have to watch, and with a bit of cunning, you can remove them from your life completely. Delete them from the Sky + box in the middle of the night if you have to. In any case, I doubt your wife put you on a diet because of Gillian McKeith or Nigella’s influence, and even if she did, then that only reflects badly on you for marrying a bigger moron than yourself. Jamie Oliver may have caused the school dinner industry to fall apart and he may be so strangely angry that even his wife moved him into a shed, but you can’t pin the responsibility for stuffing your face on him. He has to feed his family too. Even if it’s not at Maccy D’s. Go on. Face up to it. You were fat before and you’re fatter now because you’re eating even more stupidly. Tell your wife, rearrange your meals and stop blaming the poor TV for catering (geddit??!!) to what people want. Which is to look at other people, shake their heads over their disgusting stupidity, either for eating badly, or eating too well and to crow, just a tiny bit, at their own relative superiority. Myself, I'm lucky. Because I don’t even have to turn on the box.

On The Couch With Mary

2009-01-19T15:49:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer; Mary's advice will probably be slightly evil. She has no training for it, no professional qualifications and it may or may not be any good.

Dear Mary,
I hate my next door neighbour. He’s infuriating. He doesn’t play loud music or beat his family or anything I could conceivably get him for, he’s just so sanctimonious, smug and irritating in the most despicably inoffensive way. Do I try and put up with it, or plot to get rid of him?
Annoyed, Dartford.

Dear Annoyed,

You have my sympathy. But frankly admitting that the poor guy’s only crime is to be inoffensive surely isn't the best way to solicit Machiavellian assistance. Many people would decry your irritation as downright wickedness, sagely imploring you to exercise sympathetic patience as you endure your exasperation. Lucky for you, I’m not one of those people. Better still, I’ll help. What can I say? I just keep on giving.
Now, while I may not know much about much in the so called "real" world, I know my TV. Even a cursory glance can illuminate many an elegant example of how to deal with the scourge of neighbours. There are even more on the subtleties of revenge. A specific episode of The Prisoner, Hammer Into Anvil, named for a quotation by Goethe, (see?) offers a most graceful and satisfying retribution culminating in the eventual annihilation of the offending Number Two. But I’m assuming that you don’t wish to go that far. It's certainly not very nice.
Better in this situation would be my favourite example of TV trickery, which also has the twin, advantageous attributes of being obscure and some twelve years old. You probably don’t recall a children’s programme named Agent Z and The Penguins from Mars. I suspect that few do. In short, Agent Z was the name of an elaborate practical joke played by a trio of friends upon their nemesis neighbour, and the Penguins the crux of their subtle plotting. Now, I propose that you learn from the machinations of these resourceful little kiddies. Seriously, and their first lesson for you is to know thy enemy. These three lads painstakingly studied the weaknesses of their target to find his Achilles heel, and on ascertaining that his interest was aliens, with a pretty wit, the boys thus decided to stage a fake UFO landing in his garden. With the laudable intention of making him ridiculous when they finally revealed the fakery. Hence lesson two. Meticulousness. For their next step was to order a slice of moon rock, which they inscribed with a simple encoded message revealing the joke. You can surely learn from such dedication. Their final step was that of inventive implementation. In the dead of night, they “borrowed” an animatronic penguin from the shopping centre Christmas display, dressed it up in latex and had it emerge from a cloud of dry ice as the neatest little alien you ever saw. The neighbour bought it all, lapped it up indeed, and the eventual outcome was that, although never revealed as a fake, the irony of notoriety intervened and the hapless alien spotter was revealed as a notorious bank robber caught on the lam. Carted off to prison, our heroes gained a greater, albeit slightly harsher victory than they had anticipated, and all was resolved happily. But what does this teach us?
Well, nothing really. Other than simply go out and do! Formulate a plan and execute it with wit and panache. Although truly it should be entertaining for it’s own sake, for you can never predict the intricacies of fate. And don’t do anything to become famous if you have ever done anything illegal. that's just sense really. No, my advice is this - enjoy your plotting, but just as in the creation of any great, lasting work of art, it's about the doing, not the done. You dig?

Good hunting!

On the Couch with Mary

2009-01-19T11:52:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer; Mary has no training to actually solve problems and a irritable temper. So what?

Dear Mary,
I’m in a horrible job, I hate my boss, my colleagues are idiots and I think I’m on the verge of crisis. What can I do?
Miserable, Birmingham.

Dear Miserable,

What, indeed? Ah, miserable, I suggest you turn your grieving gaze to the lowly sitcom - you’re in good company. From Hancock via Perrin to Homer Simpson and Tim from The Office, many good men have been lost along the march through suburban anomie that is life. But true to the Reithian ideal, it’s from life’s losers that we can truly learn and grow like beautiful, square eyed flowers. The ever enduring popularity of watching one’s own joyless inadequacy reflected on screen may be held to account for at least some of the joy of popular comedy, and until I can drop you off in Fantasy Island, I’d suggest you begin sitting down in front of the ever wonderful Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin.
Lets hold poor Reggie up as your avatar; he knows your pain and proves once and for all that staging your own suicide simply isn’t the solution to your problems. The trauma of trying to keep up an accent simply isn‘t worth it. The temptation to try and be Welsh or Spanish or something will almost certainly be too strong and then you’ll just end up as before but more stressful. Unless you try and pull the trick that you’re assimilating and try and slowly change it like a surprisingly bright footballer. But I digress. It really is too bad, because it does sound like a good idea at first, but as Reggie finds out, even if you do run away, you’ll only fall back into old patterns unless you can try and improve yourself. It’s no good looking for a new job or new life unless it’s a decisive change for the better in yourself. Do you like farming? Perhaps you could even stop working, if you’re prepared to buy a few pigs and live like a tramp a la The Good Life. They were happy. And Felicity Kendal was hot.
Which brings me to my final piece of advice. I’m assuming, possibly wrongly, that you’re not trapped in the kind of relationship of mutual resentment and emotional blackmail that blighted poor Harold Steptoe. If you are, well, then there’s not much I can do for you and Reggie’s idea doesn’t look so bad. Although in your terse and somewhat hysterical letter, you don’t say if you’re in a relationship. Perhaps like Reggie and the aforementioned and delightful Tim you can find joy in the arms of an understanding woman. But you may be incapable of finding a girlfriend. Let’s face it, Hancock never managed it on his show. But no sitcom is complete without the long suffering spouse or best friend. They may well eat away at the very substance of your howling soul, but every half hour lesson shows that however horrible your work life, however tedious your prospects, some happiness can always be found in the presence of someone to make even unhappier than yourself. Find love. Look to friendship. Work's a tiny part of your life. Just as pleasure shared is pleasure halved, the same is true for misery. Simply spread your pain and the more bearable it will be. And thus endeth the lesson.

On the Couch with Mary

2009-01-19T11:50:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer; Mary has no training, and the advice she offers may or may not be of any use, depending on her mood.

Dear Mary,
I started the job of my dreams last week, but I think I’ve already ruined it! All my colleagues talk about is the TV they watch or box sets they’re working through and my problem is that I just don’t watch TV. I tried to fit in by saying I liked The Wire, but now they think I know more than I do and I‘m scared of giving myself away. I’ve already made myself look like an idiot once, and I don’t want to make the mistake of saying I like something that’s going to make me look even more stupid, or give them the wrong idea about me. I don’t have the time or money to spend on catching up - do I just admit I lied and resign myself to having no work friends, or spend the next year of my free time combing the schedules?
Hapless, London.

Dear Hapless,

Yeah, you’ve got a problem. You’re either a terrible liar or lacking in all initiative. Assuming that this new job isn’t in an telegraph office c.1894 (in which case there wouldn’t be an issue) even you must have vaguely heard of a kind of magic called Wikipedia. I’d suggest that the easiest solution to your dilemma is to just swot up on some trivia and maintain a lofty silence until you can throw an impressively obscure fact into the conversation and make your escape. There.
But I’m guessing that this is really about you feeling left out. Is that it? It’s sweet that you actually care what your colleagues think, but frankly, I doubt they’ll bully you just because you don’t watch TV. And if they do, I’d just recommend that you eat your pasta salad in the paper-clips cupboard from then on. At the very least, you’ll find it easier to score me a few printer cartridges. But if you must hide your love of embroidery or porn or socialising or whatever it is that you people with a life do, don’t despair. Just don’t reveal a sudden passion for Hollyoaks.
Firstly, like a sixteen year old girl desperate to stave off the inevitability of social despair, you’re going to have to settle on your pitch. Your workmates already think you like The Wire, so it could be much worse. Through more luck that art you’ve been established as the kind who appreciates sophisticated, intricate, ensemble drama. Kudos. Since you now have to like it, I’m not going to bore on enthusing about it here, but try watching Charlie Brooker’s Wire specials. Thanks to the devoted fanbois you can watch his entire output on Youtube, which will at least while away all that cupboard time. And if you stick with it and crib up on his recent and caustically brilliant BBC 4 series Screenwipe, you’ll have picked up pretty much everything you need to know anyway. Brooker was also a huge fan of Deadwood, the superlative series set in the nineteenth century gold mining West and which, like The Wire, was made for HBO, as was Oz, the terrifyingly brutal prison drama. I’m sure that you must already have picked up from this, my sharp little grasshopper, that HBO was for some years the reigning home of great American drama. As long as you ignore the fact they also showed Sex and the City. See how much you’re learning?
Next, are you going to try for eclecticism? For foreign class you could do worse than checking out existentialist French police drama Engrenages. Not only did it have a razor sharp script and an astoundingly beautiful cast, it drew on every classic French novel and philosopher of the last hundred years. Begin lamenting that BBC 4 haven’t showed the second series yet, although their documentaries - think The Department Store series - were sensitive, elegant, first class. Possibly before you mention your love for comedy, the easiest part of any TV buffet. I can’t help you here apart from to say that if your tastes run to the scatological, go for South Park. Especially any episode based around Randy, Stan’s dad. In all truth, grasshopper, you’re luckier than you know. You’re facing a new world with a clean heart. Try it all; Dexter, SVU or CSI. Futurama, Lead Balloon or Family Guy. Just follow your heart, have discipline - and avoid BBC 3.