We Are All Panicked Sheep

People With Tattoos Are Dangerous

2010-07-06T05:22:00.001-07:00

I don’t have a problem with tattoos. I really don’t. I liked the crow blades on George Clooney in the film From Dusk Til Dawn, and I would never insult a member of the New Zealand Maori rugby team for all the flowery tribal prints running up their legs. They might eat me.
So the thing that I struggle with is what tattoo I would get done, if I wanted one. Maoris have the excuse that tattooing is part of their culture and heritage, and they eat you if you upset them.
No disagreements here then.
For most people, tattoos are a rather idiotic way to fill your skin up. Cartoon characters, family members’ names or strange combinations of flowers and skulls are just some of the typically foolish designs. There was a trend in Britain for a while to get something tattooed in Chinese script. That was until people realised they had the word ‘dog’ or ‘crisps’ or something that meant nothing at all sniggering behind them on a shoulder. Chinese people must think we’re really odd.
Funnily enough, some pale and pasty Brits try to look tougher by copying barbed Maori patterns but unfortunately they still look a few chips short of the full football hooligan. Do they make you look stronger? Probably not, but if you’re prepared to spend a few hundred quid on the splat under your skin, no doubt you’re prepared to punch someone at a bus stop too and are probably best avoided. You heard it here first: people with tattoos are dangerous.
So if you’re thinking of getting a tattoo, at least get something that is worth it. If you’re dedicated to a cause or have achieved something exceptional, maybe that’s a justification. Won a medal at the Olympics? Get those five rings etched on your chest. Survived Tour de France? A speeding bicycle on the calf. Greenpeace activist? Whale on your bottom, why not?
The important thing is that it means something to you. I remember working in a supermarket at the age of 16 where one of the women slipped her uniform to one side to show me a tattoo of the Mr Men, a children’s cartoon, on her shoulder. She thought it was cool but I really couldn’t understand what they were doing there. Did they really have that important an influence on her that she felt the need to dedicate her body to them? Had she overdosed on Mr Happy or got too friendly with Mr Tickle? It was one of those strange teenage experiences; I still shudder when I think about it. How many people must have thought she was an idiot? Wouldn’t you rather have a blank shoulder than an idiotic one?
But wait- I need to be honest. I have thought about getting a tattoo myself. As a younger man, I dreamed of playing rugby for England and would have been proud to have the red rose inked onto my chest for life. Although as I get older, balder and more brittle, I am gradually coming to terms with the fact that my dream may not come true. Mrs Betts has come up with a cool design for a his-and-hers number and I’d happily devote the best part of a pec to my wife, but something’s stopping me...
Maybe I want to feel calm at bus stops. Or confident around Chinese people. All I know is that a tattoo is permanent and you’d better get it right if you’re having one.
IB

Upper East Side of Culture

2010-05-12T01:17:00.000-07:00

Television dramas will do anything to get your attention. Jack Bauer saves the world in 24 hours without stopping to pee, a load of polar-bear-fearing amnesiacs run around an island in Lost and Dr House can misdiagnose any mystery illness, have a pill-popping crisis and then solve it all in the space of an episode.
If there’s a genre and formula to be exploited, television is where you’ll find it. And it’s no surprise as the battle for ratings is a fierce one. When networks find a winning recipe, they stick to it; if you don’t believe me try watching CSI: Crime Scene Investigation as it comes in a variety of flavours so similar that watching CSI: NY then CSI: Miami feels like a traumatic déjà vu, or another Bush family presidency.
So don’t go telling me that you can’t get snobby about TV. The majority of programming- from Oprah to American Idol- is just a slop-load of generic content designed to buffer the airtime between adverts. The producers of the CSI shows are not worried about artistic expression nor are they motivated by a sense of social conscience: they’re just laughing all the way to the bank.
But that doesn’t mean that all TV is rubbish. If you’ve seen The Wire, you’ll know it’s one cop show that shuns the CSI formula: a bleakly realistic, morally-conflicted yet socially aware exploration of the crime underworld of modern Baltimore. Corrupt politics, crumbling industries and a failing education system all provide the landscape of a ground-breaking drama where the good guys don’t always get their man. For once, it’s art and not content that we find on our screens.
The Wire is a rare achievement in television and it’s right that we recognise its significance. Its array of awards is testament to that belief. So to compare the artistic achievements of The Wire to something like Gossip Girl seems cheap and distasteful. People like the exaggerated, pinballing relationships of the Upper East Side glitterati but that doesn’t mean the programme is anything more than a banal reworking of Dynasty for teenagers.
And that’s my point really: some programmes are better than others.
From do-gooder liberal types will insist that free choice is important and nobody can tell you what to like. And I suppose that’s true to an extent. If you get off on watching Jack Bauer wield a handgun, or Dr House quip sarcastically through a diagnosis, who’s to stop you?
All I ask is that you acknowledge that some of the things we watch or hear are better than others. Miley Cyrus is no Mozart and Steven Spielberg isn’t a patch on Scorsese. Don’t be so easily fooled. In such a saturated media, it’s a rare occurrence that something transcends the generic mire to stand on its own, especially when it comes to television.
People might be uncomfortable with acknowledging the existence of highbrow culture or be reluctant to determine what is highbrow and what isn’t. Taste does come into it and really, it’s for you to decide. But don’t try and tell me it’s all the same.
That would be depressing.

Verbal Difficulties: 110%

2010-05-12T01:16:00.000-07:00

The world is changing. Sea levels are rising while financial empires fall. Earthquakes roar and all we seem to be worried about is Lady Gaga’s latest outfit. How much of her midriff is on show? Did you hear about it on Twitter? The mind boggles. And that’s not the end of it...
Numbers are changing too. Not too long ago, Nigel Tufnel of Spinal Tap marvelled at amplifiers ‘that go up to eleven’. Apparently, as most amps would only go to ten, it was important to take that extra step, to reach beyond the norm. After all, ‘it's one louder, isn't it?’
And it seems in our globalised, gossip-ridden, retweeted world, going that extra step is the most important thing. To get anywhere in the music business these days, you are subjected to public exploitation on a show like X-Factor or Ídolos, its Portuguese equivalent. After the deliciously cruel and gruelling auditions where hundreds of desperate hopefuls are held up for ridicule, the few of them granted a place in the next stage of the programme earnestly promise to give their captors ‘110 percent.’
110 percent? What is that? If you look at it mathematically, it’s more than the whole. Those hundred-and-ten-percenters promise to do everything the next guy or gal can and more. Not only will they sing you a song, but they’ll play it to you on a guitar carved from a rare redwood that they felled with a single karate chop. And who cares about protected species? These guys would harpoon dolphins to get a place in the next round of the show.
The worst are the contestants of American Idol: bulging, scary-eyed fanatics desperate for their fifteen minutes. In typical American style, these ardent hundred-and-tenners come and sing random acapellas all over the metric system. Why not reinvent whole numbers? They’ve been using the imperial system for years which is a about as useful as the judging panel of the show. Join the yankee hundred-and-tenners and share that same wanton abandon that presumes you can march on any stage and spontaneously start singing a dodgy version of Beyonce with bottom-shaking dance moves to match.
And what do those wobbles tell you? If you give 110 percent, you’ll never regret it.
Or will you? Should we really have to flog ourselves in public for the pleasure of others to fulfil our dreams? If it’s fame you want, well maybe you do. After all, the audiences you are subjecting yourself to are the very people you are seeking to win over. But what worries me is how keen people are to make fools of themselves, the implication being that the only way to be happy is to be exceptionally shameless.
And what about us regular, down-to-earth hundred-percenters? The normal, run-of-the-mill, finish-what-you-started people like you and me- where does that leave us? The trouble with all this superlative effort is that it encourages us to worship extremes. It makes you think that being normal isn’t okay, that if you’re not suffering from bulging muscles or extreme anorexia somehow you don’t fit in. Monstrous obesity is fine as long as you’re on a diet or a reality TV show.
Yet all these extremes are used to grab our attention by television programming that just isn’t representing a healthy majority of adjusted people. What happened to all those other contestants who sang well enough but didn’t make it past the first round of the show or weren’t freaky enough to be featured anyway? And what about the rest of us at home? A lot of people don’t want to be famous, and everyone should know that’s it’s alright to just be yourself.
And if that doesn’t convince you, think of a world run by these tree-chopping, dolphin-murdering fanatical idiots, wobbling and crooning on every street corner, each one clamouring for your attention like buskers with a messiah complex.
You’d hardly get anything done.

Pirates Should Pay

2010-05-12T01:14:00.000-07:00

Piracy adverts make me laugh. You know what I’m talking about: the ones with the blaring rock music that say buying a pirate DVD is like stealing a handbag, or where you see that the man who sold you the dodgy DVD is actually the hired stooge of a London mobster who coincidentally looks a lot like Jason Statham and has a stash of Russian assault rifles for sale from his car boot.
It’s just not like that.
The nearest I came to such a character was in my old local pub in Manchester. A withered oriental gentleman would go from table to table saying: “Widgee-wee... widgee-wee?” It was only after peering inside the stuffed black dustbin bag he was carrying and seeing a gross number of cellophane-wrapped discs did we realise that he was saying ‘DVD’. It seemed more ridiculous than threatening; if anything, he looked like some strange intercontinental tramp wandering the drinking establishments of Great Britain begging for bar snacks.
So don’t believe everything you’re told: buying a pirate DVD does not mean you are keeping your local mafiamen in shades and shiny suits. But do let me tell you this: piracy is a bad idea.
Have you been to the cinemas recently? Have you noticed the kinds of films that are being brought out? If it’s not a sequel, it’s some rehashing of an old story as a prequel, an animated adventure or perhaps even a musical: Star Trek has been resuscitated, James Bond revived and Batman begun again. Fame was botoxed and performing split-legged jumps across our screens once more, while we were being sold spin-offs like Wolverine or sequels like Transformers 2, Toy Story 3 and The Fast & The Furious (number four, but this time just called the same thing... again).
Why is this? I’m sure it’s something to do with merchandising; James Bond dolls that turn into remote-controlled robot Aston Martins probably make as much money as the ticket sales of the film itself. And that’s exactly why the film companies are making these films: they’re a safe bet.
Since downloading has appeared, DVD sales have plummeted with everyone choosing to get their home video entertainment online for free. The film companies have responded to this. Instead of putting out regular movies, they now come in eight different visual dimensions with surround sound that reverberates like you’re sat inside a drum. And the films that are coming out are ones that they know will definitely make money; well worn and proven franchises, only now with even crazier special effects. Avatar might be new, but it’s also all of these things. And a lot like Pocahontas in space.
These films still have massive budgets and in most instances, they earn this money back. But the effect of this has been felt further down the cinematic food chain. Small independent productions are struggling to get funding unless they include Johnny Depp dressed up as a witty pale-faced freak. Even Sherlock Holmes has been reinvented with an American actor in the lead and a convenient number of explosions alongside some polite Victorian bare-knuckle boxing.
Don’t get me wrong: this is a transitional period for film. Until the industry has worked out how to pay creative people to produce real art for the big screen, we will continue to wallow in the absurd, steroid-injected CGI revisions of well known movies that are on our screens right now. But if you’re not prepared to pay for the good stuff, then get ready for more rehashing: High School Musical 7: Robots Attack and Pirates of the Caribbean 9: Singalong with Captain Jack could well be gracing our screens soon. They might even dust off Police Academy for another run.
Now there’s a worrying thought.

Rugby in Mexico

2009-02-12T08:50:00.000-08:00

Rugby in Mexico

You may have seen Rugby before. It’s the sport where 15 oversized men bash, dash and grapple to get an egg-shaped ball to the other end of the pitch. It’s not for the faint-hearted, but if you come to love it, you’ll find it is one of the most exhilarating and sociable sports to watch.
In fact, Rugby is an international sport that is particularly popular in English speaking countries. South Africa won the last World Cup in 2007 by beating England. I prefer to remind people of England’s glorious win in the previous tournament in 2003. That year, we had a well established team of many famous players like Martin Johnson, Lawrence Dallaglio and Jason Leonard. We also had an excellent goal-kicker called Jonny Wilkinson who made sure if we had a chance to score, we did.
Bitter southern hemisphere types will tell you that he’s the only reason we won the World Cup, but for me it’s indicative of the inclusive nature of Rugby. It’s a game for all shapes and sizes, and as a rather overweight child, it was the only one I could be good at outside of an eating competition. I’ve now been playing for 17 years, am a qualified coach and am still carrying a few extra pounds.
Sometimes people say Rugby players are ‘gym-freaks’, but the truth is there is a wide variety of body shapes. You do have to be both fit and strong to play the game, but the demands of each position are different. The players who control the game tend to be very skilful and quick like whippets, while the ‘front row’- human battering rams- tend to resemble escaped gorillas. That’s my position. Between us, there are the towering second and back rows as well as the outside backs who can usually run 50 metres in the time it takes to open a bag of crisps.
The current World Player of the Year is Shane Williams, a winger who plays for Wales. He runs with an equal measure of grace and electricity and seems to create scores whenever he touches the ball. He is also just 1m70 tall and weighs 77kg. He dispels the myth that you have to be big to succeed in the sport, and he does it with style too.
Most Mexican rugby players come in the Shane Williams mould. Small, quick and full of enthusiasm. The seven-a-side version of the game is popular here, and that requires a high level of skill and great physical conditioning as well. Games are short because they are so tiring, maybe 7 or 9 minutes in each half and you can play 4 or 5 games in one afternoon. There are tournaments every month or two which are hosted by different clubs around Mexico.
In fact, playing Rugby here has been a great way to make friends and see the country. Since arriving in 2007, I have played in 20 or so games and tournaments, travelling to places like Guanajuato, Guadalajara and Puebla with the team. Our team is called Tazmania, after an island of Australia. Our main rivals in Mexico City are the Wallabies. Not very original I know, but then the team with the most Mexican name- Miquitzli- is full of English and American players. Our team consists mainly of Mexican players, and I’m glad that I’m the only Brit. We do have some other foreign imports including several beefy Argentines and a guy from New Zealand who is frighteningly good.
Tazmania have won many competitions, and we came top of the Mexico City league last season, beating Wallabies in the final. Although we lost the semi-final of the National A league away in Guadalajara, our B team were crowned champions of National B league the following weekend. Luckily, some of our best players were available for that one after losing the week before!
Many of our players also play for Mexico. There is great desire to advertise and improve Mexican rugby and many see the way to do this is by being successful in international competitions. They compete in an international sevens tournament in San Diego every year, and have recently played World Cup qualifiers in the Cayman Islands. Although they did not go through, Mexico’s results are steadily improving.
This is encouraging, particularly as the International Rugby Board are desperate to get Rugby back into the Olympics. Did you know the USA are the reigning Olympic champions after beating France in 1924? Apparently there was so much crowd trouble that the sport was never invited back. Well, the IRB hope to change that and are supporting Mexico as they are hosting the Pan-American games in 2011 where Rugby will be played.
Although I do not qualify to play for Mexico, nor would I probably make the team, I still feel a deep affection for them and hope they are successful in the next few years. Knowing many of the players and coaches, they are desperate to put Mexican Rugby on the map and have been training twice a day as well as working in their jobs. That is an achievement in itself and perhaps paves the way for Mexico becoming Pan-American champions in Guadalajara in 2011. Time will tell.
Meanwhile, I hope Tazmania can be successful again. So far, the season has been rather lacklustre, having lost the Mexico City competition already. Some key players have left the club or not been available to play, and even worse we no longer have our training ground (we used to be based at Colegio Americano) so we are not practising regularly.
Even so, I intend to enjoy the rest of the season until Natalie and I leave for the UK in July. The good thing about Rugby is that a game also means a few beers afterwards; as the Mexican players like to call it, the ‘third half’ is a big part of rugby culture, and has given me friends all over the world. While in Cuba for the New Year, I got talking to an Australian just because he had a Rugby shirt on. I’m sure whichever country we end up in, Rugby will play a big part in our lives.

Ian Betts
Mexico City
February 2009

Tempting Fate

2009-02-06T04:57:00.000-08:00

Tempting Fate

My hands aren't right.
The cold penetrates them
So they're dull and numb.

Bones for fingers,
I rock back and forth,
Hands in my crotch.

It's never been this bad before.

Simon is grinning.
His axe hacks into the wall
Which spatters ice chips in my face;

He starts off,
Athletic and fearless,
Scaling the imdomitable.

I look up.

The steep wall rises
Like a monolith
Of fluted snow and ice;

Siula Grande splits the perfect azure sky.

Chekhov on vulgarity

2009-02-06T04:52:00.000-08:00

What are these people coming to? Everywhere I see degeneration. It is the worst disease of our age. There are old men in the streets everywhere. You can read the dejection, the lust on their faces. Will I be like them one day?

I cannot forget my father. When we were children, we would sing in the choir so that people thought us angels. Our parents were envied. Little did they know that we felt like convicts. The bastard. His insults and beatings showed us just what people can do.

I have spent my life speaking out against hypocrisy, pretention and vulgarity. My stories and my plays aim to show people just how their lives are, and how they could be. If only they would realise how much better it all could be!

Sometimes I think of my time on the Steppe, of the wide branching trees and endless fields of grass and reeds. It is that sense of peace that I humbly strive for in my life. What else is there?

Quotes from Chekhov himself:

Wherever there is degeneration and apathy, there also is sexual perversion, cold depravity, miscarriage, premature old age, grumbling youth, there is a decline in the arts, indifference to science, and injustice in all its forms.
ANTON CHEKHOV, letter to A.S. Suvorin, Dec. 27, 1889

I thought famous people were proud, unapproachable, that they despised the crowd, and by their fame and the glory of their name, as it were, revenged themselves on the vulgar herd for putting rank and wealth above everything. But here they cry and fish, play cards, laugh and get cross like everyone else!
ANTON CHEKHOV, The Seagull

There should be more sincerity and heart in human relations, more silence and simplicity in our interactions. Be rude when you’re angry, laugh when something is funny, and answer when you’re asked.
ANTON CHEKHOV, letter to A.P. Chekhov, Oct. 13, 1888

All I wanted was to say honestly to people: "Have a look at yourselves and see how bad and dreary your lives are!" The important thing is that people should realize that, for when they do, they will most certainly create another and better life for themselves. I will not live to see it, but I know that it will be quite different, quite unlike our present life. And so long as this different life does not exist, I shall go on saying to people again and again: "Please, understand that your life is bad and dreary!"
ANTON CHEKHOV, letter to Alexander Tikhonov

For more, look here.

Film Review: Che - The Argentine

2009-01-21T16:46:00.000-08:00

Films which have been a director’s labour of love often don’t live up to the energy, passion and desire that have been poured into their creation. Martin Scorsese’s dream of creating a great American epic in ‘Gangs of New York’ resulted in a meandering, overlong effort that at times felt artificial and irrelevant. That film was carried by the eye-scratchingly good performance of Daniel Day Lewis who is worth seeing in ‘There Will Be Blood’, a brutal and much more effective dissection of the development of the United States.
But what of Steven Soderbergh’s great Cuban epic, ‘Che’? It is a film that has been split into two parts, indicating that the director is unwilling to make any compromises when depicting the life of the world’s most iconic individual, Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara. After several false starts and over ten years of preparation, it was the determination of producer Benicio Del Toro that finally brought the story to our screens, and he plays the lead in the film. ‘The Argentine' is part one, following Guevara and Castro’s revolutionaries from their landing in Cuba in 1956. We watch how the guerrilla force is assembled, following them through early skirmishes, their jungle training and finally their march on Havana.
Del Toro portrays Che with a brusque manner and the ambitious values the man came to represent: humble doctor, impassioned leader, skilled tactician, and proud Cuban. His Guevara is wholly likeable, offering his hand in earnest introduction to every villager and recruit he encounters. Yet his principles are not to be compromised, and one of the most striking scenes of the film is when he executes a rapist with dutiful authority. Surprisingly, this is not disturbing in the way you would expect. Throughout the film, Del Toro’s depiction of the Commandante is so steeled with purpose that his cry of ‘patria o muerte’ is chillingly persuasive.
‘The Argentine' is timeless and compelling. Soderbergh often uses a handheld camera as we follow Guevara and his men through the jungle. Cuban drums accompany the snake of uniforms working through the dank green vegetation, giving these sequences an unexpected natural majesty. This action is interspersed with scenes around Guevara’s address to the UN in 1964, and their gritty, monochrome presentation works to ground the film with a sense of drama and history.
Thus, the film’s greatest success is the simplicity of its presentation. There is no attempt to encompass a whole life in some sort of limp Hollywood biopic but let the material speak for itself instead. Del Toro presents us with a man who is stunningly admirable, no matter how you judge the events of his life. There is no attempt to justify the revolution, nor are we asked to condone what Guevara does, only bear witness to the actions of a remarkable human being. It is more than just a Cuban story.
So if ‘The Argentine' could be compared to a Scorsese film, it would be much closer to the equally compelling ‘Raging Bull’. Boxer Jake LaMotta’s indomitable spirit can be seen in Guevara’s thirst for revolution, and no doubt his self-destruction will be similarly rendered in the second film, ‘Guerilla’. Both films are of a time, yet speak beyond it. Whether in the Bronx heat or the Cuban jungle, we are reminded of the passionate, ambitious and violent struggle of our existence.

The Cuban Evolution

2009-01-19T21:29:00.000-08:00

This article was written for the school's newspaper, The L, in January 2009 after our return from our holiday in Havana and Varadero.

The Cuban Evolution

How are you my fren’? Where you from? America? Germ’ny? Inglan’? Ingland! You like Hemingway? Hemingway very pop’lar here. Been to Floridita? Bodeguita del Medio? You right, very turista. Very ‘spensive. You see, Cuba is very poor. Here we have very liddle. Ev’ry mon we get rice and beans. But Cuba is very frenly too. You see Cuba an Inglan’ together are friends. Yes, dat’s right. Cuba an Inglan’ are friends together. Is very hard to leave Cuba. How do you leave? Only with invitation or how do you say? ...gettin’ married. We speak many peeple. We make many frens with peeple from America, Germ’ny, Inglan’, Ostralia. Many frens. Maybe you give me address. Maybe we visit you at Inglan’. Lissen my fren’. We going to the festival. What festival? Is a celebration of Cuban culcha. Muy famoso. You know Hemingway? Che Guevara? We celebratin’ the annivesary- yes, dat’s right- the annivesary of the revolution. Fifty years! Is big celebration. No, no, is not far. We show you. Is just up here. The festival.

That’s how we ended up in a bar drinking mojitos with a Cuban couple who were a little younger than us. We knew we were getting scammed early on, but they seemed nice enough and in true British style we were happy to buy someone a drink. The festival turned out to be a quiet bar on the same street where a local man was drinking alone, and we were invited to sign our names on the wall- a gimmick that had been stolen from the Bodeguita del Medio, a bar a few streets over that is famous with tourists.
We talked for about twenty minutes and asked questions about their lives and where they worked. There was never a quiet moment. Both our companions said they were studying at university, the boy to be a pilot and the girl a doctor. They even had a small child together. The funny thing was that at the end of it, we couldn’t remember their names. We had been kept so busy talking that we didn’t have the time to ask questions or take anything else in.
During our conversation, we were both told how poor Cuba was, and how hard it was to get any of the things that we could buy. We knew all this to be true, although there was something conniving about the way it was said. At times we spoke in Spanish, but often they slipped back into phrases of English they seemed to have learnt by heart, especially while we were talking as a group. The boy showed me a one peso note of the national currency, and gave it to me as a gift. All the time they were touching our shoulders, being very familiar as if we were old friends. The boy showed me his trainers. “You see dees? A gift from someone like you. From Inglan’.” Then he picked up my sunglasses and tried them on. “Wha’ you think?” he asked. I apologised and told him that I needed them for my holiday. He laughed uncontrollably, hugged me and put his head on my shoulder. It was hard not to like him, even though I knew he was using me. A silence followed which was a little awkward, but it was soon filled by his girlfriend who now began to ask me questions. The boy then started talking to my girlfriend, Natalie, and so the chat continued.
When we began to talk about cigars, the boy told me that he worked in a cigar factory to earn money while he was studying. He showed me his pass. “See this,” he said, “this for fabrica- for cigar, yes- make cigar- me- in the fabrica.” I said that I did want to buy a few cigars to take home for friends, and he told me he could help. “There are three places in Havana where they make puros, one is Partagas,” (a place I said I was going to), “is another but is far from city,” he said, “an’ there is the mercado. I take you there. Is very cheap. More cheap than Partagas.” I told him that I would like to see where it was and he seemed pleased, finishing his drink.
The bill arrived and it came to 16 cu (the tourist currency created to replace the dollar)- more than double what we had paid elsewhere. It was something we had expected so we paid. During our conversation, we had seen another Cuban bring in a couple of tourists, like us, and now it was obvious why they had left the bar without drinking anything.
We left and followed the younger couple as they led us through the streets of the old town back towards Havana city. Despite her initial enthusiasm to go to the bar, Natalie was now very weary of where we were going. I thought we might as well see the place they were taking us too. What harm could it be?
After a few minutes we were on a street behind one of the big hotels that had been cordoned off with a rope at either end so you could only walk down it. There were many Cubans hanging around by the doors of different buildings- this is not uncommon in Havana- and there were very few shops or other commerical places.
There was no market. Instead we shown to an older man, perhaps in his thirties, standing in front of the whitewashed windows of what looked like an old department store. “This my father- mi padre,” was how he was introduced. The man shook our hands, looked around and then went through a door that led into one of the houses on the street. The boy followed him and gestured us inside. We stopped.
“Look,” I said in Spanish, “thank you but we’re not going inside. I don’t want to buy anything today.” The boy looked at me with disbelief. I repeated what I had said, but still he didn’t believe me. In the end, I offered my hand and said for the last time, “gracias pero no quiero comprar algo hoy.”
Finally it sunk in that we would not take him up on his offer, and now his eyes misted over in quiet sorrow. He continued to shake my hand while looking at my face disconcertedly. I said thank you again and let go. We walked away.
The look on his face was haunting and unforgettable. I am still not sure how I should have read it: desperation, frustration or a genuine sense of melancholy because he was unable to see the deal through? My gut feeling is probably all of them.
The longer we stayed in Havana, the more we felt alienated by the place. As a city, it is compelling. The colonial beauty of the renovated old town contrasts heavily with the dilapidated terraces of fifties townhouses in the city. I have never known anywhere with such a buzz of life. The streets are filled with people- Cubans and tourists- yet there is no sense of danger or urgency that you might find in the capitals of other countries. You can sit at any bar and just soak up the tranquil atmosphere by listening to the lilting guitars of old mariachis, or the faint sound of water lapping at the sea walls.
As Cuba now gains much of its national income from tourists, it seems like the country has been set up just to take your money. You cannot help but feel cheated; every time you make a cash machine withdrawal you are charged a ten percent tax for converting the money to dollars to be taken from your account. There are many tourists shops where the prices are deliberately inflated and I was surprised to see that a bottle of rum I had bought in a corner shop was more expensive in the duty free section of the airport. It hit us most when we were leaving the country. You each have to pay a 30 cu airport tax before you can go through security and enter the departure lounge. Here we were stopped again when our bags were X-rayed as we had bought several pieces of art which were rolled up together. We were sent to a withered old man who examined the canvases and told us we had to pay another 7 cu in taxes, when we had only paid 20 for them both. It was annoying and, after examining the copy of the law for ‘exporting works of art’ that he had ready, we handed over our money at a small booth that was waiting for us.
It was a shame. We had many wonderful experiences in Cuba, including a family dinner to celebrate the New Year with our hosts Milagro and Guadalupe, two old ladies whose house we had been staying in. It was a pleasure to share their food and meet their relations, and to try and get them drunk on the tequila we had bought. This was a rather suicidal attempt, and I was in a worse condition than them by 1am. It didn’t matter, and it was satisfying to meet new people and learn about how they live. Surely that is why we go travelling, after all?
In any case, I was much happier spending my money on them. They too were earning from tourists, but with such a sense of decency and good service that you felt they earned it. Milagro, Guadalupe and her son Javier looked after us, giving us advice on what to buy where, and what not to do. You can imagine their amused looks when we told them about what happened in the bar, as they nodded knowingly in confirmation of the stories of their previous guests.
Despite the cries of siempre la revolucion that are painted proudly on government walls, Cuba is dependent on foreign tourism to keep its economy afloat. In many ways it is a very advanced nation, with free food, shelter and healthcare for all its citizens. If our young friends were to be believed, everyone had the opportunity to study for the best jobs, and indeed one of Milagro’s sisters was a very experienced lawyer. There is no sense of a class system and everyone seems genuinely proud of their country, their leaders and their history. Nevertheless, Cuba’s needs are great and its people have adapted to the tourist trade to survive. Whether it is renting out a room like in the casa particular where we stayed, working at commercial beach resorts like Varadero or by accosting people in the street, Cubans have been able to improve their lifestyles and earn more money from the people who visit them.
Ultimately, Cuba is a country that has defined itself as the opposite of the greedy capitalism which, to them, America represents. Imprisoned Cuban spies are heralded as heroes on billboards throughout the country, while George Bush is caricatured as a ‘cretin’ on the ground floor mural of the Museum of the Revolution. It is quite ironic then, that the Cuban people have developed the same taste for profit-making opportunism that they so despise.

Vernon Little's Christmas Letter

2008-12-11T20:28:00.001-08:00

Hey Santa,

I've not written you since I was six when I never got that slot car racing set. Don't get worried or anything- it's not like I'm going to shoot you! Sorry, bad joke. The truth is my mum gets kinda funny around Christmas so she never gets the presents right. That's how I found out you didn't exist.

Still, I'm writing now. You're probably wondering why, right? Well, it's a learning I made about having faith. There was this guy in prison- Lasalle- and he made me realise you have to make your own success. Prison can change how you see things, you know? This guy was an axe murderer and what he said saved my life. Sometimes it's good to believe in things. Hell, if you're an axe murderer, you have to.

The thing is, I'm down in Mexico and I can't change anything back home from here. It turns out Ella is pregnant. That's right. Vernon 'Big Daddy' Little. You spend half your life playing with your boy and then he deals you the biggest hand of them all. Still, good things happen in Mexico. We've got the beach house and Ella's started a business. It feels good to earn a living. I go fishing in the morning with the local guys and she cooks up what we catch on a little barbecue we found. It's going pretty well- Pelayo showed her how to make this great sauce. In the afternoons, I'm teaching English to his kids. Who would have thought? Kids making learnings of their own from my dirty mouth.

Sorry Santa, don't get me wrong, I haven't gone back to cussing. Well, not in English anyway. I'm starting to understand more of Pelayo's jokes and boy, he should be going to confession or something.

Anyway, I've been thinking about home alot. I don't want to go back but I still think about what happened. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad about how it all turned out... I'm here aren't I? But when I was giving out my wants, I should have been thinking about someone else... Lally's mom, in Nacogdoches. She was kind of the victim of all of this, and what did she get? And then I think about the big flabby grin she would get if she got one of those big flatscreen TVs, or a new refrigerator like mom did. She probably needs something to brag about.

So can you do that? I mean, screw half the kids in Texas, this is someone who actually deserves a bit of happiness. Can you make that happen Santa?

I'm going to go now- Ella's cooking and I don't want to miss it. Thanks alot.

Vernon

Amazing Catch-22 essays

2008-12-03T07:31:00.001-08:00

These essays by Juan Carlos Molina and Paula Santoyo are absolutely marvellous so I have posted them here on my Teaching in Mexico blog. Well done.

Top Ten Films

2008-11-09T06:07:00.000-08:00

It's been a great week for watching films and I've managed to get in 'Be Kind Rewind' and 'Burn After Reading' at the cinema as well as indulging myself with a viewing of the classic 'The Third Man' at home. Great Movie.

So I thought, what with all the film-making plans that are afoot, it was time to compile my top ten films. Previous favourite 'Carlito's Way' is now out... I just couldn't bear the Burt Bacharach song at the end.

Here they are in reverse order:

10 Teen Wolf
Surfing on vans, keg parties where everyone wears Ray-bans, a werewolf playing basketball: it's a metaphor for puberty you know. Timeless Michael J Fox hilarity.

9 The Untouchables
So I've cast my mind from one Brian De Palma thriller and am backing this one instead. Everything about this production seems so authentic, and Sean Connery is so man he eats sausage with a knife. Grrr.

8 The Living Daylights
You love the Bond you grew up with and that is no exception for me. Dalton's first outing has spies murdering spies, the fully tricked out Aston Martin and cello tobogganing over the Austrian Alps. It doesn't get better than that.

7 Be Kind Rewind
It's funny when a generation grows up and can then pay tribute to the films of their youth: let's face it, that's how Ben Stiller keeps a steady paycheck (see 'Starsky and Hutch' or 'Nam homage 'Tropic Thunder'). Once the plot of 'Be Kind Rewind' is underway and Jack Black and Mosdef's pair of bumbling idiots begin to make their own versions of 'Ghostbusters', 'Rush Hour 2', 'Robocop' and more, you will be laughing out loud with nostaglic goodness. It also has the best feelgood ending since 'It's a Wonderful Life'.

6 Insomnia
This is the first of Christopher Nolan's films on this list. It shares the illustrative style of 'Batman Begins' and I love the little flashbacks and closeups of blood blotting on cotton. The Alaskan glaciers obviously influenced the snow-topped lair of Ras Al Ghul in the superhero film too. But enough comparisons, this is one of the films that really shows off Al Pacino's abilities and it's great to see Robin Williams not playing a well-meaning dogooder. If you like this, try 'One Hour Photo'... he is as creepy as hell in that too.

5 He Got Game
This is surely Spike Lee at his best: moments of vox pop documentary intertwined with a compelling story about a father trying to reconnect with his son. The son happens to be a basketball star and the father has been convicted for the death of his mother. It's gritty. And although Public Enemy may have written the theme tune, it's great to see how Lee shares his love for basketball by combining orchestral music- not rap- to some beautiful slow-mo footage of the game.

4 Leon
Boys like gangster films and this is no exception. Leon is a hitman for the mob who emerges from shadows with a knife at someone's neck. But this is a story with a heart... he takes in 12 year old Matilda when her parents are killed in a drug raid and is bound to protect her. Director Luc Besson uses a thrilling, violent set of events to tell a very human story about loyalty and intimacy. The extended version has about ten more minutes which develop the relationship between the two.

3 The Departed
There had to be a Scorsese film in here, though I'm not sure this is his best. I'll leave it to you to argue over 'Mean Streets', 'Raging Bull' and 'Goodfellas', my other favourites. What I like about 'The Departed' is it is the first Scorsese picture I have seen in the cinema; I was on the edge of my seat for well over two hours, as the tension and body count kept increasing. DiCaprio gives the performance of his life, Nicholson's villain is creepily overexaggerated and for me this is one of the first films that uses mobile phones well to advance the plot. Gory and full of anxiety, but the performances are what carry it off.

2 The Dark Knight
You may have read my review of this film elsewhere on this blog so you'll know I'm a fan. People were quick to point out its flaws and some of them were right: it is long and continuity is lacking between some scenes. For that reason, I hope we get a Director's Cut at some point. However, Nolan's vision of Gotham City is grim and realistic, Ledger is chillingly psychotic and there is a hell of a story in there too- and did you see it at the IMAX? I don't know another superhero film that has managed to comment on the criminal mind and the nature of humanity. I can't wait for the next one... but I'll have to.

1 Children of Men
There are many reasons why this film is special. It portrays the future in such a believable way that it is hard to ignore the commentary on how lost people can be; the idea of incurable infertility makes our other troubles seem so small. And the execution is impeccable: Cuaron creates a dystopia so similar to modern society it is worrying, portraying it with menacing long takes that reveal constant danger. For once, Clive Owen gives a decent performance as Theo which is augmented by the presence of Julianne Moore and Michael Caine. A masterpiece.

Timothy Sexton's 'Black humor and Negation in Catch-22'

2008-11-04T13:22:00.000-08:00

This is article I found on Associated Content that is well worth checking out:

The use of black humor in Catch-22 is a perfect example of its very intention, which is to temporarily distract from the principle serious of a situation by lightening the load, only to come back full force with an even deeper appreciation of that serious.

Find it here. For those of you writing essays, this is a helpful guide for using the Harvard Referencing System. Enjoy!

Why We Still Want Bond Back

2008-10-28T16:44:00.000-07:00

Vodka Martinis, a swift dose of easily-escaped torture and the unbuckling of some spherical breasts are the stuff of most pubescent boys’ dreams. Or certainly they are once they have seen a Bond film. For half a century, the British spy has grappled, spanked and murdered on screen to the delight of the cinema-going public.
It is almost laughable to ask why these films are successful; the heady cocktail of derring-do action, exorbitant luxury and breathless romantic clinches is enough to stimulate the urges of any warm-blooded being. But perhaps what is interesting is the level of expectation that surrounds each new instalment of the series, not excepting ‘Quantum of Solace’, opening in Mexican cinemas on Friday 14th November. It’s the second film starring Daniel Craig and for the first time in the series, the story picks up directly from its predecessor ‘Casino Royale’.
Clearly, it’s one of several attempts by the producers to reinvent the franchise and keep the public interested. Gone are the fantastic and coincidentally useful gadgets and the dire quips that accompanied them; Craig plays his ‘half monk, half hitman’ Bond with an equal dose of menace and Shakespearean profundity.
After all, it’s been 46 years since ‘Dr No’ was released in 1962, with six different actors playing Bond. Each one has it played it differently: Connery’s charismatic thug was followed by Moore’s wry gentleman, before Dalton’s affected hero and then Brosnan. If you watched him croon hoarsely in ‘Mamma Mia’ recently, or can remember his absurdly posh scientist in ‘Mars Attacks!’ you will realise for all his commercial successes Pierce Brosnan truly is a caricature of a Briton. With that in mind, it is probably best not to mention George Lazenby at all.
Whatever your opinion, everyone has their favourite Bond. Often it was the one you grew up with and Craig is no exception today. Much like when he was introduced as the ‘Blonde Bond’, the paparazzi pressed their attention on Timothy Dalton when he took on the role in the eighties. Quite similarly, his introduction in ‘The Living Daylights’ was a revamping success and was followed by ‘Licence to Kill’, a darker tale in which Bond leaves the Secret Service to seek revenge for the torture and mutilation of his CIA counterpart Felix Leiter. The public were not amused.
When a hero like Bond has been entertaining you for that long, you’re entitled to your opinions about the series. It seemed that many people didn’t like what they saw as a change to the established formula. ‘Licence to Kill’ was filmed here in Mexico and lacked many of the British trappings of the previous films. There were no Aston Martins and no rich countesses to regale. Moreover, the villain was a South American druglord called Sanchez who was so realistic that he lacked the megalomania and therefore the presence of previous Bond villains.
Ironically, this back-to-basics, darker Bond is just what the producers are trying to achieve with ‘Quantum of Solace’. Perhaps they have learnt from ‘Licence to Kill’; the Aston is looking sleeker than ever and no doubt Judi Dench will provide some classic British gravitas as Bond’s boss M. But there are parallels that remain. Bond sets out to bring justice to the sinister organisation that betrayed his Casino Royale lover. As before, he pits himself against established authorities- here the CIA- as he tries to save some pocket of Latin America from villainy once again.
Instead of druglords, now Bond faces Mr White’s powerful contacts bent on overthrowing regimes, blackmailing innocents and murder, stern murder. The reintroduction of a sinister evil organisation, much like Blofeld’s SPECTRE, is an exciting prospect: Bond is only as good as the enemy he faces.
Yet you cannot help but wonder what the public will make of all this. ‘Casino Royale’ reintroduced Bond to our screens as a taut brute ready to take on the modern world. But it also left him at a crossroads, finishing with the character’s own introduction- Bond, James Bond- a line that didn’t even make it into the final cut of ‘Quantum of Solace’. Our expectations have only been doubled with wondering where this film will leave him, and when he will be back again.
The pressure is on for director Marc Forster to take Bond to the next level, delivering something new that will still entertain the old fans. I doubt he will try to repeat an old formula that was long exhausted by the time of the invisible cars and absurd fencing matches of ‘Die Another Day’. Not only do we need to see this Bond truly tested, but deep down we also want to find out who Craig’s Bond really is. Will his personal agenda come before his Queen and country’s? Is this a man who will abuse women or protect them at all costs? It will be fun to find out.
In the end, the Bond films will always be successful. He’s like an old lover you cannot help but see again: exciting, charming and excellent in bed... yet unfulfilling too. Looking back at the old films, you struggle to name a favourite, or one that supersedes the others. Perhaps that’s because there are so many to choose from, and opinions are so easily divided. Or maybe no one Bond experience is perfect- each film adding new details to the pantheon of our hero’s adventures- and that is why we are always so hungry for the next instalment.
Ultimately, the films are probably the most thrilling brand of sheer escapism on our screens... and only that. There’s a reason why a Bond film never got an Oscar for Best Picture, Director, Actor or anything else except for special effects. However, it is still a brand which we cannot help but remember fondly: it’s no wonder we keep going back for more.

Blogs I'm following

2008-10-27T21:09:00.000-07:00

Not only do I amuse myself by checking out Blogs of Note and clicking Next Blog (how strangely compelling is that?), I have been pleased to see roguish blog fever taking off among people I know.

Firstly, my favourite aspiring Dawson has followed in my footsteps and is also recording his creative writing using a blog. Carlos will be a famous filmmaker one day so check out his work from now and do encourage him to continue.

Also, I was very pleased to find Dave Maloney's tips on free fun and diversion. If ever there was a man fit for this task, it's him. I suggested making chutney. You see why it can't be me? It might not have been too recently updated so get those suggestions in quick.

Bravo fellas.

Blogs of note...

2008-10-12T05:05:00.000-07:00

...it's well worth checking out this feature. I have just found 'The Hood Internet' a music outfit who seem to make decent, non-gangster rap music. Really interesting sounds and arrangements- if you like Outkast you'll probably like this.

I realise this is a very poorly written recommendation. Check them out anyway.

Dramatic Monologues

2008-10-09T12:49:00.000-07:00

Yes people, October is dramatic
Monologue month, which means poems written
From the point of view from a character
In literature or history. If
You want to go the full Robert Browning,
It also means ten syllable lines and
A range of poetic devices like
Clever rhymes. As you will see, already
I've put up a few, although here is my
Offering, it's based on Catch-22:

Captain Black
Eat your livers! Ha ha ha! Look at you
Shitting your pants on the way to the trucks.
What's that? It's an intelligence man's job
To upset the men and who're you asking?
Insolent fuck. I'll have you locked up. It's
Bologna you bastard! You'll cop it this
Time! Take it from me Yossarian, miss
And you'll be straight back to the line. I can
Smell the fear on you, you're dripping sweat!
Eat your liver you swine! Think of me when
You're dead! Captain- wait- are you naked?

The Lonely One

2008-10-08T08:00:00.001-07:00

I’m waiting. I strangled the memory
Of your afternoon glory; held it tightly
like a child nursing its toy. All spruced white
As a maiden, you blew scent in the heat
Of the afternoon. Now in blackness, I’m
Gripping the chaos of the darkness; I’m
Remembering her electric screams,
Body taught then collapsing. Now it seems
Neither minutes nor hours, ‘til your coat
Is hung up, and my hands squeeze at your throat.

The Monster

2008-10-08T07:59:00.000-07:00

I was mute. Rough stitchwork, crude limbs hacked at
And woven together. All features flat,
Dull, lifeless and now corrupted; sewn in
To a corpse, by a trustless wicked grin.
Who could stare at such a face? As thunder
Surged and vaulted and drove me alive, the
Creator’s gruesome face stared on; loomed
Urgent, expectant, distant, and now doomed.

Smutty Seduction

2008-09-25T13:32:00.000-07:00

A conversation with a painting: Diego Rivero's Man at the Crossroads. One of the most abstract and innuendo filled English assignments ever. I blame young Carlos.

"Wow! You're popular."
"What's your point?"
"Well, it's just that's a lot of people around you there."
"I suppose it is."
"So what are you all up to?"
"All? We're not together."
"Oh. So you're single then?"
"Pardon?"
"You're single."
"You could say that."
"So what are they doing?"
"Erm... you know I'm kind of busy right now."
"Oh. I guess so. See you."
"Hey- wait. I'm sorry, I have a lot on my mind."
"No problem."
"You want to know about them?"
"Sure."
"Well those guys, they're soldiers. They're pissed off and are looking to destroy something."
"What do they want to destroy?"
"Well... those guys I guess. They're communists."
"Communists?"
"Communists. See the guy in the middle of those people?"
"With the beard?"
"That's him. He's their leader. Lenin. The communist hope."
"He looks cool. So are all these guys communists?"
"No, I don't think so. Not those guys anyway."
"Wow, they look hungry."
"They do, don't they?"
"So what are you busy with?"
"Me?"
"Yeah. You said you had a lot on your mind."
"I did. I mean, I do."
"So what's on your mind?"
"You really want to know?"
"Sure. I'd love to listen."
"Really? Okay. Well, first it's the hungry. There's people dying to eat and killing to live. Then there's war-"
"War?"
"Sure. The whole thing. Man against man, comrade against comrade, brother against brother. And don't get me started on technology, global warming and industrialisation, let alone what the future holds. You know when you really stop to think about things, you realise just how incomprehensible everything really is."
"Wow. Do you know you're cute when you're serious?"
"Oh. Thanks."
"What's that?"
"This? Oh, it's just a machine that controls the future of humanity."
"That stick you're holding is kind of big, isn't it?"
"I suppose so."
"Want me to hold it for you?"

Taco Stand Man

2008-09-24T12:43:00.000-07:00

The cleaver starts hammering down
Beating time on the block
Like a visceral pirate's blade,
Your fingers left untouched;

Coriander bustles under its force,
Festooning the air with potent spice,
Swept into trays of onion and lime;
Tortillas tossed and flipped by hand.

Salad onions are circled,
Sprawling like Rivero's lillies
In a sink of bubbling oil,
Gross bulbs encrusted sordid gold;

Resting in the centre,
Intestine, snout, leg and trotter
Are heaped proudly for customers.
You work them through the oil again.

Someone sits. They order
And you leap to work;
A glob of entrail is picked from the glut
And severed, chopped and diced

Until the final cut,
When you sweep the meat into your hand.
A perfect fit in the tortilla
Which goes on a plate and over the counter;

It pleases you,
Standing back for a moment
To watch him eat and dribble
And take one more serviette.

The taco stand is a white tin hut
With neon paper signs
Peeling painted designs
And odours of putrid delight.

What does it matter that you can't stand up?

Patrick-22

2008-09-24T12:32:00.000-07:00

The students assembled gradually in the yard. They milled around and chatted without any sense of urgency, which was completely unacceptable and totally what had come to be expected of the school. It was even this way during earthquake drills, when the students were expected to sit down in rows according to their tutor groups because their lives were not in danger, which is why they milled around and chatted without any sense of urgency.
"Sit down!" the teacher would say.
The students continued to mill around and chatted without any sense of urgency.
And so it was now. Patrick left the group of chatting students and spoke to the teacher.
"What are we doing here?"
"What are we doing here?" his teacher replied.
"I mean what are we doing today?"
"Aren't you sure?"
"No, I'm not sure."
"I'm not sure either."
"So you don't know what we're doing?"
"No. Don't you?"
The teacher sighed with resignation. Patrick was a kind and friendly student who in his short time at the school had made several good friends and even found a girlfriend.
"I hate that kid," the teacher said.

Read more pointless insanity in Joseph Heller's 'Catch-22', coming to a classroom near you soon.

Ivan Denisovich Pirate Song

2008-08-29T06:00:00.000-07:00

A Guide to Surviving the Gulags
By
Ivan Denisovich

(A Pirate Song)

Five hundred grams of bread today,
There’s five hundred grams of bread- Gar!
Better not plan an escape anyway
As the cold will kill you dead, M’ hearties!

Four hundred grams of bread today,
There’s four hundred grams of bread- Gar!
Hide it well or gobble it away,
Or someone will have it instead, M’ hearties!

Three hundred grams of bread today,
There’s three hundred grams of bread- Gar!
It’s best to keep the Tartar at bay
Don’t let him find you in bed, M’ hearties!

Two hundred grams of bread today,
There’s two hundred grams of bread- Gar!
Better clean some bowls away
You need to keep yourself fed, M’ hearties!

One hundred grams of bread today,
There’s one hundred grams of bread- Gar!
Spirits are crushed while you work everyday
Your comrades are killing you dead, M’ hearties!

Panicked Sheep?

2008-07-28T10:07:00.000-07:00

So, why the title? It comes from a Hunter S Thompson book called The Great Shark Hunt which I am not going to pretend I have read (but do check out Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and also Kingdom of Fear, they're great). It goes like this:

"In a nation ruled by swine, all pigs are upwardly mobile—and the rest of us are fucked until we can put our acts together: not necessarily to win, but mainly to keep from losing completely. We owe that to ourselves and our crippled self-image as something better than a nation of panicked sheep."

He wrote this in 1979 and still, if not more than ever, the USA is a country which is seen to be manipulated by fearmongering figures of power. When Bush declared the Iraq war over in 2003, he also declared that "the war on terror is not over; yet it is not endless". Not only was the War in Iraq not over, but the suggestion was the wider war against a perceived threat would continue indefinitely in whichever country the US Government decided to choose.

Indeed there is still a threat. But threats must be dealt with rationally, and with purpose. There cannot be a war against an idea. Show me how to put terror in a headlock while I am punching fear on the nose. It's a rhetorical fallacy, and it is therefore hard to trust those who use it to convince the masses as the justification of their actions.

Standing up and challenging the 'swine' in power must be one goal of any serious writer. It's not just about Bush bashing- that's easy- but about recognising greed, corruption, indecency and manipulation, and revealing it to the naked eye. This is not about the USA as a country, but about us as people.

Mostly it is about honesty. Perhaps the challenge of writing is to expose ourselves as we really are; to strip away the bravado and disingenuity so we can confront the truth. Look for lies and show them to be false. You don't have to change the world but you can at least 'keep from losing completely'.

For me it's anything from aggressive gangster culture to people who are so hospitable they won't tell you the truth. What is it about us as humans that leads us to deceive each other so readily?

As Thompson says, it's a strange world. Don't be one of the sheep who do as they're told. Write something.

More Hunter quotes here.

Short Story: Neglect

2008-07-28T09:01:00.000-07:00

This is a story I wrote around Christmas 2006 set on the estates of Blackley and Harpurhey in Manchester. It's been revised a few times and I think this is pretty much the final copy. That said, any comments or honest critiques would be great- don't hold back.

Before we get started, I should probably point out it is not a fairytale and contains a number of references to drugs and explicit language. It is complete fiction- the only autobiographical element is the cocktail recipe- and also clocks in at over 6000 words so put the kettle on now.

Neglect

Stephen knew he was slowly allowing his mother to die. Since his father left, she’d been throttling herself with endless cider and vodka, chaining cigarettes and necking e’s when she could get them. The flat was worn out, littered with the evidence of her demise; ashtrays slung on top of piles of forgotten bills and school newsletters, cans and crushed bottles everywhere.
In his room, Stephen stood drying himself, admiring his posters, icons of rappers, football players and bikini models. Thumping rap pumped out from the boombox on the floor and he bounced his head to the beat, mouthing odd lyrics. Looking back to the mirror, he flexed the muscles of his taut skinny white body, glaring and shadow boxing at his reflection then laughing to himself, amused. It was going to be a good night.
He sprayed himself with deodorant, then some aftershave, replacing each one on top of his drawers. He put on the clothes he had laid out on his bed: black tracksuit and t-shirt, a Nike hoody and cap, the peak slightly bent up but flat across. Then he sat on the bed and pulled his ivory coloured trainers towards him, inspecting them for dirt and scuffs. Having passed, he laced them up loosely, tucking in the laces under the tongue, rising again to put on his leather gloves and check out his carefully constructed image.
Smiling at himself in the mirror, Stephen reached behind it and pulled out a video case, some football best of his Dad had got him for Christmas. He’d thrown away the tape long ago, and now he admired the neat pile of notes he’d collected over the last eight months, nearly a grand, packed in with the emergency spliff and a handful of phone credit cards wrapped together with an elastic band. He took out two slightly worn twenty pound notes- the worst looking of them all- folded them and put them into his pocket. He picked up his mobile phone and a flick knife from on top of his drawers.
He examined the knife, his thumb poising over the button; then he depressed it so the blade shot out with a snick. He slashed at the air trying to imagine himself in a knife fight, then ran his thumb over the sharp blade, pushing down slightly to see if it would cut him. A moment passed and then he folded the blade into the grip, put it into his pocket with the phone, and edged out of the room.
Smelling his mother’s menthol cigarette, he closed his door and looked across the lounge to see her shrunken yellow body staring at the TV in thoughtless concentration. Her face was a mess of fake tan and last night’s make-up, and she pulled hard on her cig as her other hand cradled her head, strands of highlighted hair spilling out over her fingers. A dressing gown wrapped loosely round her awkward skinny body, showing a loose bra strap.
Stephen motioned for the door, walking slowly, strangely hoping she might ask him where he was going. As he turned the door handle, he said, “See you later mum”, a small echo of affection lingering. His mother’s eyes moved from the TV to Stephen, registering her son in front of her, a half-smile finally appearing like an old routine.
“See you love,” she replied, raising her cig to her mouth.
Closing the door behind him, Stephen stepped out onto the stairwell, ignoring the smell of piss and bounding down several steps at a time. Emerging from the block, he tugged at the security gate, and stepped through it onto the streets.

Stephen walked down the road into the belly of the estate. Blocks of flats erupted ominously into view, towers of ashen bricks stuck with satellite dishes and washing lines stood over council-planted trees. Further down, rows of terraces appeared, each house ugly in its own way: boarded windows, smashed walls and graffiti. Where people had tried to improve their house, it only served to make the terrace more awful; awkwardly fitting porches and painted gates stuck out beside cars on bricks, and forgotten fridge-freezers.
He walked on, slightly bouncing on the balls of his toes like a younger, more enthusiastic boy. As his trainers ate up the tarmac, Stephen watched his path ahead. Obliviously, he passed a mother pushing a kid in its chair and dragging another one behind her, then two grannies muttering knowingly to each other about the state of the nation. He noticed the grim details of the next estate appearing ahead of him, its dusty bricks and concrete stairwells, doing his best to ignore the unknown people he encountered in its confines.
Outside the off licence, a group of hoodied lads leant against the wall, smoking and jostling in youthful bravado. Two more circled on bikes, pulling wheelies and cat-calling their friends. As Stephen approached they paused and watched him. Instinctively, the group rearranged itself into a circling pack with a short, aggressive looking teen as its head, flanked by the two riders.
Stephen inhaled and fingered the knife in his pocket. He ran his fingers along the grooves of the grip, aligning the knife carefully in his hand so he could pull it out of his pocket and release the blade quickly, his thumb ready over the metal button. He slowed his pace a little; he didn’t want to seem rushed. He knew not to show fear on these streets. He put his head up, and stared straight at the pack in front of him, the knife now warm in his hand.
As he reached the bollards a few metres from the group and the shop, Stephen looked straight at the one in front of him. He was squat and angry looking, his ruddy face shadowed by the cap pulled down low over his eyes, which were staring right back at Stephen. He looked him over, as if sizing him up and recording his face in just one look. And just as quickly, the moment passed; and the short one stepped out of his way.
As Stephen cruised past the group, they looked at him and then seemed to ignore his presence just as quickly. Then one of the riders circled off and jumped his bike up onto a bench and back off before landing so hard his nuts were crunched on the crossbar. Laughter and insults returned and the old positions were taken up to watch the trick show again.

The bell rang as Stephen entered the shop. At the front was a variety of food; ranges of crisps and pick and mix for kids to fancy, with pies, sausage rolls and blocks of tasteless cheese in the chiller on the side next to the Coke and fizzy drinks. The back half of the shop was devoted to alcohol, from super strength beers to huge bottles of cider, cheap European wine alongside fortified British stuff, and spirits behind the counter with the lottery machine and the cigarettes.
Stephen walked through the shop, passing two kids in identical t-shirts picking out freeze pops from the ice cream freezer. He fingered a shrimp from the pick and mix on his way past and chewed the sweet noisily on his way to the chiller, where he picked up two large bottles of Dr Pepper. At the counter, he was accosted by the owner, Mr Porter, who still sported a small scar on his left eyebrow from where Stephen had hit him a month earlier.
“Hello Stephen, just these is it?”
Stephen looked at him carefully, unable to disguise his mistrust of the aging man. He had found him sat at home with his mother in the lounge. They weren’t doing anything, but something about the way they both looked at him guiltily, the flowers on the table looking so alien in their flat, it turned him, made him angry. He ran.
Now Stephen eyed Porter with determination and spite, pointing to the spirits behind him.
“No, a litre of that Vodka as well,” he said assuredly.
Porter looked back at him. There was a strange mix of guilt and pity in his eyes, remembering how he went to see the boy’s mother now she was single, hoping to court her, wondering if she could work with him in the shop, maybe the boy too. Stephen had hit him the next day in front of a queue of customers. He was all rage and frustration, launching his hatred into one single punch before he ran off into the estate. Porter just carried on serving, holding a tissue to his split eyebrow, trying to deal with teenagers and mothers alike clamouring for their booze in the middle of the day.
And that’s what he did now. He knew better than to ask Stephen for ID as he was only fifteen. He raised a finger to the crusted scar above his left eye, then reached for the vodka and put it into the blue plastic bag with the other bottles. Stephen waved over one of the twenties and Porter took it, handing back the change and watching the boy stride out of the shop.

***

Becky’s house was one of the few on her street that looked good. Her lawn was mowed and there were a few toys in the garden, a wendy house and a slide. Inside, the laminated wood flooring of her front room gleamed under the stand of her flat screen TV, with the rest of the room being taken up by a huge corner-hugging sofa. There were traces of her kids in every room; paintings and photos, or boxes of toys tucked away. Her kitchen was newly decorated, a silver microwave sitting spotless on the side.
Stephen checked himself while he waited on her doorstep, adjusting the cap into position and looking down at his trainers. Becky opened the door with her daughter Molly in one arm, mobile phone in other with her ear cocked to it, smiling at Stephen and flicking back her golden hair, motioning him into the house. By the time he had plunged himself down onto one cushioned seat of the sofa, she was off the phone and following him into the room.
As walked past, she stroked the side of his head reassuringly, asking, “So how’s Stephen, and are they new trainers?”
He stretched out his legs, wiggling the new sneaks to show them off. “Yeah, got them Monday.”
He loved the attention. Becky was 24, and had her first kid Dean when she was about his age. Now she lived alone, looking after her family full time, and always made a fuss of visitors to her house. In Stephen’s eyes, Becky was the perfect woman. He always felt calm there, it seemed like a real home to him. She was beautiful too. And she sold killer weed.
“Lovely,” she said, “now what can I get you?”
“Just a twenty bag, got a party tonight,” he replied.
And she nodded, getting up and leaving the room. Stephen studied her backside carefully through her jeans, trying to ignore the three-year-old girl staring at him over her mother’s shoulder as he did so. Suddenly Molly made one of those childish giggles, and his concentration was broken. He sunk back into the sofa in disappointment, checking his sneakers and reposturing himself on the chair.
She returned promptly with a snap bag crammed with bright, almost toxically green weed, its powerful stink breaking beyond its confines. Stephen grinned, getting up to receive it and handing Becky the other twenty. She took it and folded it carefully before putting it into her back pocket, Stephen trying not to notice her hand and where it was.
“Thanks Becks, yeah?” he said.
“No problem,” she replied, smiling sweetly and showing him to the door. As Stephen stepped carefully down the path, she called after him:
“Just go easy on those girls okay?”
Stephen looked back, grinning, then headed off down the street. He tapped out a quick text message to his friend Tubbs: On way ova got gear, then he scrolled through to find a suitable hardcore track to accompany him on his journey. With the song reverberating in treble through the tiny speakers of his phone, he bounced along in his trainers down the road to Tubbs’ flat.

Tubbs was waiting for him as Stephen made it down the street to his house. Standing in the front doorway, Tubbs had folded his arms in some would-be gangster pose, trying hard to look tough only to be given away by his beaming grin at his friend’s arrival. Tubbs was so called because he had been the fattest kid at primary school, using his grin to charm the dinnerladies and get extra portions at lunch. Since he had hit puberty he had rocketed up to over six feet tall and was stocky with it, although the nickname and the insults remained.
Stephen arrived at the door, holding out his fist for Tubbs to punch playfully back.
“Yes Ste,” Tubbs greeted him excitedly, looking over the blue bag, “are we sorted?”
“Course fat boy,” said Stephen, smiling and showing him the glowing green bag cupped in his hand, as he entered the house and Tubbs shut the door.
Tubbs showed him to the front room, where two older lads with identically messy hair were sitting low in the sofa, gripping playstation controllers and concentrating hard on their game of football. Stephen edged around them, recognising their faces and waiting for them to say something.
“You remember Mike and Dave, right?” Tubbs intervened.
“Yeah, sure,” said Stephen, “you were above us at school until you got kicked out”
The twin faces paused to smile briefly without feeling the need to explain themselves, then focused back on the TV, their faces worn again with concentration. Ste and Tubbs looked at them for a moment and realising no further conversation was to be had went through to the kitchen.
“Come on then big man, you sort some drinks and I’ll build a spliff,” Ste suggested.
Tubbs found four glasses and uncovered the contents of the bag on the kitchen table.
“Vodka and Dr Pepper, you really are classy,” and he flashed a grin over at Stephen, who was now assembling a weighty joint, picking off pieces of the sticky bud with his nails and dropping it into the tobacco bed in the Rizla on the table.
“I always thought it would make a wicked alcopop,” Tubbs continued, “they’re always looking for new ways to get kids into booze right? Remember Hooch? Well, this would be the same. Alcohol that doesn’t taste like booze. Kids would be fucking crying out for it. I’d call it PepVod.” And he laughed, showing off a dirty white smile.
“What’s their story anyway?” Stephen asked, pointing the half-built spliff towards the next room.
“You know those two,” Tubbs said, “always in trouble. Dave’s on bail for messing with stolen phones and Mike’s been nicking cars for some asian guy.”
Ste considered it for a moment, mulling it over in contempt and admiration. “Bet they’re raking it in,” he concluded. Then there was mocking laughter and shouting from the other room as the TV blared out Goooooooooal!
He smiled then focused back on his hands, licking the edge of his spliff and rolling it carefully into a cone. He twisted the excess paper at the fat end and bit it off, spitting it into the ashtray on the table. Tubbs offered him a lighter which he took, and he burned away at the end of it, flashing the flame as if he was lighting a fat cigar, taking in deep puffs of the pungent smoke.
He exhaled slowly, puffing a stream of hot little clouds into the room. Each time he did so, the muscles of his face relaxed a little, and he seemed to look his age again, his features more rounded and childlike. He handed the spliff to Tubbs, who held it thoughtfully.
“Have you heard from your dad?” he asked.
Stephen looked at him and shrugged his shoulders, “Fuck him man, I’m my own man now,” he said convincingly enough except for the quick look at Tubbs to gauge his reaction.
“Yeah man,” Tubbs agreed willingly, “You don’t need him anyway.”
Stephen looked at his friend, glad that he had bought the act, then took hold of the spliff and drew a long drag. A moment of silence passed, until Tubbs turned on him, raising his glass.
“Fuck it, let’s neck these,” he said as he clinked his glass on his friend’s. And the pair downed their drinks, refilling them and taking the rest back to the front room.

***

They arrived at the party in the early hours of the morning, the boys laughing and ready for some fun. They had spent the evening drinking and smoking, telling stories of mischief from school and Dave’s latest run-in with the Police. Stephen was smiling, hooked on Tubbs’ infectious laughter and doing his best to forget his dad, Porter and everyone else.
The party was in full force when they got there. It was deep in the middle of the estate, a squat in one of the low-rise concrete blocks. Many of the other houses were deserted, or occupied by drug fiends or old people who had nowhere to go. As they turned the corner, the lads could hear the party, pulsating basslines and the chatter of girls. Soon they saw bodies spilling out into the street, people who were too wasted or just to go for a piss in someone’s garden. No-one would complain.
Tubbs led them in, grinning wildly, and heading for the noise. Past the kitchen at the front, they threaded their way through the revellers into the back room. A red police style light was sweeping through the room, illuminating the graffitied walls and dancing bodies. Underneath the light a skinheaded DJ was working on two record decks, scratching over some evil-sounding drum and bass, while another youth in a hooded coat was shouting lyrics into a mic with the resulting sound all pumping out of a huge sound system running on a petrol generator idling noisily in the garden behind. A crowd far too big for the room had formed, tracksuited lads throwing their hands up next to sweating girls in little tops, and in the middle a shirtless man was jumping wildly in excitement, barely in time with the music. On the outside of the room, several built guys were smoking spliffs, looking menacing, nodding their heads to the mix.
Tubbs leant over to Stephen, shouting:
“This is not our buzz. How we going to get some girls in this noise?”
Stephen nodded. “I need a piss anyway.”
And the four of them threaded their way back out of the room and through the hall. Hearing some female voices, Tubbs lead Mike and Dave into the kitchen, while Stephen headed upstairs.
As he climbed the stairs Stephen was faced with a pair of stilettoed black leather boots. His eyes followed the legs upwards, tracing the girl’s buttocks through her black miniskirt, enjoying the playful rolls of fat peeping out at her waist. The girl was chubby and her heavy boobs bulged out of her black scoop top. He tapped her leg.
“Hey, is this the toilet queue?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she replied, turning so her long black hair revealed her chubby pasty cheeks and black lipstick. She looked him over. Stephen nodded at the other doors.
“What else is going on up here then?”
“It’s fucking horrible. Bunch of losers are jacking up. I wouldn’t go up there.” And she looked at him admiringly.
“What’s your name anyway? I’m Amanda.”
“Stephen”
“Fancy a snog?” she asked, quite relaxed. Stephen looked her over again.
“No thanks, I’m not into moshers,” he said, as the toilet flushed and someone left to go into the next room. The girl laughed and went in.
Stephen looked across at the door opposite the toilet, which was now ajar and revealing a harsh red glow. He could see a bearded man propped up against a wall, his head listing, his eyes glassy and lost. Next to him were someone’s feet strewn beside them, motionless. Stephen fixed his eyes on the room intently. The man turned and, after a second, registered Stephen’s eyes on his, and pushed the door shut. Stephen blinked.
The toilet door opened and Amanda appeared next to him, drunk and still fancying her chances. Stephen ignored her and went inside, locking the door behind him.
When Stephen joined the others in the kitchen, Tubbs was in full flow explaining some third hand conspiracy theory of how the British Government was responsible for most of the drug sales in the country. He loved to tell a story. From years of jostling and names, Tubbs had somehow survived by going to the gym until the fat was gone; now he spent his time trying to get the attention of the people who used to upset him. He lived on the estate like everyone else, getting wasted, telling stories and flashing his big grin to impress girls.
“How else do you think they pay for the Queen and all that shit? They fucking want you to get wasted,” Tubbs concluded, the room amused by his enthusiasm.
“Bollocks” replied Mike, who was more interested in the three girls sat upon the kitchen worktops. “Come on Ste, get that weed out,” he urged, holding his hand out imposingly. Stephen dug into his pockets and handed it over.
“No, no he’s right,” said one of the girls sat up on the sideboard, “I mean, how else does it get into the country? Customs are in on it, everyone is…”
Mike dismissed her comments with a sniff and now tried to impress the other two by backrolling a spliff. He took the lighter and burnt off the excess paper like a magician, before lighting it and taking a few quick puffs. He passed it on, without the recognition he expected, but between them they had the room overwhelmed.

And so it continued for over an hour: Tubbs telling his stories and starting pointless debates, Mike getting everyone stoned. Outside, the first glimpse of sun had started to appear over the estate making the high-rise blocks appear as gloomy shadows on the horizon. In the street, beer cans and bottles were strewn like a trail from the front door, and someone was asleep in a driveway a few doors away.
The party had died right down. In the back room the music had stopped, and only a few seated stragglers left, smoking spliffs and wearing coats like blankets. Back in the kitchen, Stephen nodded as if to signal Tubbs, who now looked across at Dave for the subject of his final story. A cute brunette girl had been sitting on Dave’s knee for the last twenty minutes, but when he motioned to kiss her she had turned away, smiling.
Now Tubbs’ face lit up as he looked across at her, and asked the room:
“Does anyone remember that teacher from St.Catherine’s that got sacked for having sex with her pupils?”
The remaining group, especially the brunette and her friends looked puzzled at this new topic, until finally one lad in a diamond-chequered jumper seemed to register what was being said.
“I remember that. It was crazy. She was knocking off some 15 year old in the book cupboard, until the kid filmed and put it on the net,” he offered, recalling the information through the haze of marijuana. “My mum went crazy, complaining at school, but my Dad just laughed and said it was fair play to the kid for getting laid.”
“That’s it,” Tubbs continued, pointing at Dave, “and it was this fucker here who did it.” The brunette sat back and looked at him as if trying to decide on her reaction. Dave just smiled and shrugged it off, and the girl took his lead, her face now curious and excitable.
“How does something like that start?” she asked, looking to Dave for some sort of cue.
Dave looked at her with a mix of pride and amusement, and started to explain. “We came back one term and had this new teacher, and she was all friendly, tried to get on with everyone. She must have taken a shine to me...”
Once they were all engaged in the story, Stephen moved quietly out of the room, avoiding the sleeping casualties on the floor and up the stairs. He trod carefully past the toilet to the bedroom, opening the door halfway, careful not to hit the feet he had seen hours before. He crept in.
The small room was still bathed in the same murderous red light. It was sunken with the smell of cigarettes and stale body odour. Stephen counted the six bodies in the room, all sprawled in awkward positions, seeming dead if not for their shallow breathing and odd drooping movements. They were all unconscious and surrounded by the evidence of their drug abuse; dropped needles, blackened spoons and piled ashtrays. He looked at the lifeless fingers and toes, wondering if they would notice if he touched them.
Picking his way through the room, Stephen went through each of their pockets, careful not to touch a needle or wake up his victim. He collected their few shrivelled fivers and coins in his pockets, taking their mobile phones and their cigarettes. Nearing the door, he crouched down to face the bearded man he had seen hours before, his eyes rolled back in his head. Stephen didn’t dare to take his eyes off him.
Feeling through his coat pockets, Stephen found two mobiles and a large yellow cloth bank bag. He put his hand inside and pulled out several bags of brown powder. He contemplated the heroin intently. He knew this was money in his hands, but trouble too. As he paused, the feet next to the man flinched. Stephen turned, fearing his discovery, to look at the last body in the room. The girl lay flat on the floor, her stringy top twisted awkwardly across her body, her head propped up by the skirting board. Her eyes were looking straight at him, yet somehow she didn’t seem to register his presence. She flinched again, her arm jerking to reveal a tiny trail of blood leading from her arm to a needle on the floor.
He turned back to the dealer and rifled the other pockets more quickly now, unsure of what he would find or do. More cigarettes, and then his hand gripped a roll of notes. He pulled them out quickly and dropped the bags of drugs. He nodded at his decision, then the girl started to flinch again, only more violently now. Stephen bolted.
“... it got to the point where I was doing her every day in that fucking book cupboard after school. I was getting so bored of it that I was sending Mike in pretending to be me.” Mike grinned in agreement. “Then one day I met her in her car and she wanted me to run away with her, off to Spain or something, told me she loved me. I just laughed. I was fifteen.”
“What happened then? Did it stop?” The girl was hooked.
“She got weirder with me. It had to stop, and we were skint too. I filmed us doing it on my phone and then Mike sold it to kids at school for a couple of quid a time. Someone’s mum complained and then it all came out at school and we were expelled. Mum went mad and went to the papers, got ten grand for it too. By the time they were finished with it the teacher was sacked and we were offered our places back. We never did- we had much better things to be doing.”
Dave finished his story and looked over his audience. The girl and her friends were impressed, the brunette smiling and calling him a dirty bastard. Mike was still smoking away, his eyes reddening, and Tubbs now noticed Stephen in the doorway, his forehead beaded with sweat. Stephen glared menacingly back at his friend Tubbs, his eyes screaming danger. Tubbs took the cue. Not caring to explain their impending exit, he stood up and dragged Mike’s stoned body from the chair.
“Dave, ditch the girl, we’ve got to go.”
Dave had leaned over and was now kissing the girl perversely, rolling his tongue around her mouth.
“DAVE!”
Dave’s head snapped back startled, like someone who had suddenly woken up. He looked from Mike’s stoned face to Stephen’s and realised something was wrong. There was some banging from upstairs. Dave cocked his head quizzically before bolting after the others for the door, pushing the girl off him despite her grappling.
They ran hard, following the trail of cans out of the low-rises, Stephen ahead with Dave now close behind, then Tubbs still dragging Mike, who was lumbering along next to him. They didn’t speak as they threaded their way through the alleys and paths of the estate, and it was only when they reached Tubbs’ road that they started to slow.
“Hurry up fat boy,” called back Stephen, the tension beginning to lift from his face.
They slowed to a walk as Tubbs and Mike had now caught up, Tubbs flashing his grin as he released Mike to go at his own stoned speed.
“So we kept the crowds entertained while you’re giving hand jobs to crack addicts for their pocket change and I’m the liability?” he grinned suggestively.
“You eat because you’re unhappy- it’s okay, we understand. It just slows you down,” said Stephen, continuing the well-trodden banter.
“Oh,I must be mistaken- I thought it was from dragging Cheech over here from whatever shit we’ve just escaped.” The grin widened.
Mike took a moment to realise he was the one they were talking about.
“I got everyone stoned,” he protested.
Tubbs laughed and slapped Mike on the shoulder, before he took out his keys and walked up to his door. Once inside, the boys circled the kitchen table, with Tubbs pouring out the last of the Vodka and Dr Pepper as Stephen emptied his pockets. First the phones, cigarettes, small change and scrunched up notes, and finally he produced the dealer’s roll of notes, taking off the elastic band, and fanning them out onto the table.
“Fuck me Ste, there’s a couple of hundred there,” said Dave, mouth open. “Who the fuck did you rob?”
“Don’t ask,” said Stephen, pausing while he remembered the fitting girl’s face, and then diverting his attention by dealing the notes out to each one of them like cards in a poker game. Dave looked down at the small pile of notes amassing in front of him.
“Nice one lads, but since when do I get paid for trying to pull some fucking bird? You better not regret this, I’m not one to give money back.” He grinned.
Tubbs looked over at him.
“Calm down, Ste got the stuff, but the rest of us made sure he didn’t get caught. And at least you kept one of them occupied,” Tubbs laughed to himself. “Anyway, we need to you to get rid of the phones- that’s what the Police got you for, right?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t mean I can do it again though,” Dave said coyly.
“Course you can. And you’ll bring whatever you get back here to split. That way it’s fair.”
And Tubbs nodded like a judge who had passed sentence and would not go back on it. Stephen had finished dealing out the cash, and now slid the phones over towards Dave in agreement. He picked up the cigarettes and threw them at Mike, who managed to clumsily catch two of the boxes and drop the rest.
“You can have those for a spliff,” Ste said, his confidence growing. Then he raised his glass in recognition of his companions, before finishing his drink in one.
“I’m off, got to get this home.”
Tubbs followed him to the door.
“What are you going to do with all that cash anyway?” he asked.
Stephen paused.
“I dunno,” he replied, “get a car or something.”
“And drive out of this fucking hole,” Tubbs added for him, presenting his fist for his friend. They touched knuckles, and smiled at each other, before Tubbs swung the door open and gestured his friend outside.
“Laters fat boy.”
Stephen strode out into the growing daylight.

***

As Stephen walked up the hill to his house, he thumbed the money in his pocket, smiling to himself. Another day, another dollar, he thought. The sun splashed rays through the trees above him, and the pools of light seemed to eclipse the tower blocks around him. The weed and alcohol had taken the edge off it all, made it all seem prettier. Even his own block looked brighter, as he tapped the code into the buttons of the security gate to get in.
He bounded up the last of the steps to his front door. As he put his key to the lock, the door pushed open ominously. The lines of his face became taut again, as Stephen edged himself carefully through the doorway. Looking around, he could not tell if the flat had been turned over or not, it was such a mess anyway. Bottles lay strewn at his feet, the coffee table was piled high with rubbish and spilt ashtrays. A chair had been knocked over. Was someone in here?
He made straight for his room. Someone had been in there. The drawers were all turned out, his bedclothes and mattress disturbed. Then, on the floor he saw the video box, opened, the money gone and the phonecards spilled out over the carpet next to his deodorant cans. Only the spliff was left. He picked it up, his face dripping in desperation, and he hurried back to the lounge.
“Mum?” he cried out in uncertainty, thumbing the knife.
As he crossed the lounge it became clear. He could see new, half-empty bottles of vodka and rum left on one of the chairs, and a table mat covered in white powder, dusty with his mother’s fingerprints and a rolled up twenty. As he started for her room he was overcome with a paralysing rage. He felt his blood pulsing through his head, the softness of the weed now destroyed and only his anger coursing through his mind, unable to comprehend this betrayal. He was rooted to spot, looking hopelessly at the closed bedroom door in front of him, spying the man’s shoes strewn at his feet. Who was in there? Porter? And then his mother’s laughter, and a man’s deep voice.
Then the door opened. A man walked out wearing just some jeans, someone Stephen had never seen before, and went to the table. He bent over and snorted a line off the table mat, arching back until he was upright and looking at Stephen.
“What the fuck are you looking at?”
Stephen tried to talk but had no response. The man seemed to straighten up in front of him. A moment passed. Then Stephen bolted. Out of the flat, leaving the door wide open, and down, down into the streets below, his face eaten with frustration. He desperately struck at his lighter to light the spliff in his hand, tugging furiously at it, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs so he coughed, then doing it again. Still his blood was coursing, the weed only seeming to augment his fear and anger.
Around him the estate blazed into view. As he paced hopelessly down the hill, the ashen blocks reared themselves again, now tinged by a reddened and overcast dawn sky, the white hot edges of every building slicing at him as he descended further into its core. He looked around him, his vision blurred by the weed and his rage, and occluded by the harsh fences, walls and trees standing over him. He was trapped.
His pace quickened. In the boiling haze ahead he could see the shadows of the pack of lads at the shop. The riders were gone, and now the squat leader saw Stephen approaching and started towards him, instinctively reading the anger and emotion that was tormenting him. With each step he seemed to grow in confidence as the circle formed.
Stephen felt the estate closing around him as the shadows approached. His mind was screaming.
The squat one strode up, his chin jutting out, flanked by more hoodies eyeing their prey.
“Where are you off to sweetheart?”
Stephen pulled out the knife and released the blade, flickering in the light like a fin, and plunged it deep into the chest of the lad as he met him, his cap falling backwards to reveal his helpless eyes, his face flashing with blood and then draining to release a crimson splatter from the wound in his chest. He fell backwards, the knife still half in him, landing awkwardly on one of the bollards before slumping to the floor.
Stephen took a step back, his face dotted with blood, not noticing the shop door open and the bell ring, or Porter coming up behind him. As Porter grabbed him, Stephen struggled maniacally, his arms and legs flailing wildly to try and release the desperate embrace. At first Porter held steady, not knowing if he was trying to save the boy or the aghast group around him, until the point of Stephen’s elbow struck at his scarred brow to open the old wound, his captive’s body twisting frantically as his other elbow flicked round embedding deep into Porter’s ribcage, winding the old man and knocking him double as blood ran down the side of his brow and nose.
Stephen stepped back, looking numbly at the body on the floor, and then the old man bent double, coughing blood. He turned and ran, disappearing into the molten shadows of the estate.