Breakfast

I remember it like yesterday. My mother, father and myself were tucking into our breakfast one bright, sunny Sunday morning. It was the full platter; eggs, beans, toast, mushrooms, hash browns, tea and - of course - rashers of bacon and plump, succulent sausages. As I was dipping a sausage into the runny yolk of my fried egg there was a knock at the door.
My mother exclaimed “Who could it be at this time of day? It better not be Mr. MacGuire about the poplars again. I’ve told him time and again that the council says it’s fine.”
My father said nothing, just dabbed at his mouth with a piece of kitchen roll and got up to answer the door. My mother and I craned our heads to see who it was. We sat agape when father finally opened the door.
It was pig, dressed in a suit, standing on it’s hind legs, about 5 foot tall.
My father looked at the pig for a second and said,
“Hello, what can I do for you?”
The pig grunted, as if it were clearing it’s throat and then began to speak;
“Hello, Mr. Perry,” it said. I’ll never forget it’s voice; strangled, slightly whiny and occasionally grunty but understandable nevertheless.
“Our calculations indicate that you have just now eaten your own body weight in pig products.”
My father laughed,
“But Mr. Pig, I’ve only had a sausage and a couple of rashers of bacon this morning!”
The pig shook it’s pink head.
“Mr. Perry, you misunderstand me, not just this morning but over the whole course of your life it’s just those rashers and the sausage pushed you over the edge I can show you our records if you wish.”
My father nodded. The pig took out a ream of paper from the inside of his suit jackets using one trotter and with the other put on a tiny pair of spectacles, pince-nez I believe, the type you don’t see any more. The pig began to read,
“Mr. Sebastian Perry, age 36, weight 196 pounds.”
The pig began to then read out a list of dates and weights of pork products that my father had eaten, starting from just before his first birthday and continuing up to today.
“January 13th 1963 5.30 pm, one gammon steak, weight 5 and 1 quarter oz., January 16th…” The pig said, only stopping occasionally to grunt. As the pig read from his list I considered that we had indeed been eating a lot of pork and ham and bacon and the like recently and that my father did like to eat a lot. My mother said nothing during this time, just slightly raised her eyebrows as she listened.
“Ok,” my father said when the pig finally finished reading the list.
“Now, you know, Mr. Perry, that we pigs are a fair species. We will allow you to eat your own body weight in us - we are after all delicious - but we request then that we then eat you, in the spirit of fairness after all.”
My father nodded.
“I’ll get my coat then,” he sighed.
He went to the coat rack and put on his beige rain mac and his shoes, before coming over to kiss my mother and ruffle my hair. My mother just shook her head slightly. My father then went to the font door, carefully shut it and walked off with the pig. We could see them walking down the lane through the front window.
That was the last I ever saw of my father. After that we only ate pork sparingly, on special occasions, birthdays and the like, but I have to admit that as I’ve got older I’ve started eating a little more. As the pig said, they are indeed delicious. In fact it was this ham sandwich I’m having now that got me thinking of that day.
Sorry, will you excuse me, I think that was a knock at the door…

The Contest

You don’t know how they managed to do it but they’ve contacted God. Well kind of contacted God, they’ve got one opportunity to ask Him a question and send it off into space. Well kind of into space, they told you it’s more complicated than that. Something to do with metaphysics and black holes. You’re sure they mentioned the word halo somewhere but in what context you have no idea.
Anyway they held a big lottery throughout the world to see who would get to ask the question and you won. What are the chances? You look it up. It’s close to 7 billion to one. And you who’s never won anything in your life.
The papers and the TV are going mad with the news. Your picture’s everywhere. The Pope and The President have asked for an audience with you, OK Magazine wants to take pictures at your birthday party. They tell you are allowed to keep your own council. You think it’s best that you do – there’s too many different sources shouting at you and telling you what to ask.
You lock yourself in your room for a week to think. The only person you see is your mother, who brings you your food. There is a lot of rice pudding that week.
You consider the “classics” posed by philosophy.
What is the meaning of life?
You consider it. You consider it for a long while but reject it. It’s a category error you realise. You might as well ask God “what is the meaning of cheese”.
Is there an afterlife?
Well of course there is, it’s called death. Maybe if you phrased the question
Is there a heaven and a hell?
That seems better. But you suspect the answer might be “kind of” and also what if the answer is no? Would people’s morals suddenly disappear without the eternal police force to keep them in check? What if God didn’t want us to know – that the not knowing was an essential part of life – and you somehow offended him.
Best not.
But how about…
Does reincarnation occur?
But…but…but… what if it’s true. What if it’s true and you find out that everything’s a reincartion of everything else forever? That your both a concentration camp guard and victim. The carrot and the rabbit. No, too much.
Then other questions jump up. Which religion is right? Will you go to hell for worshiping the wrong one? Are we alone in the universe? Does the wafer really turn into Christ?
You think of a million questions and a million reasons not to ask them.
Then it strikes you. Of Course, why don’t you say something to Him!
But what?
We love you?
He knows that surely?
Greetings from planet earth?
Hmmm maybe there is a middle ground between the two.
By the end of the week you have come to you conclusion.

There is a huge crowd gathered to hear you announce what the message will be. Almost ten million the papers say. And the billions watching on TV. Well here goes nothing. You have decided to keep your speech as brief as possible. The President ushers you to the microphone. The Pope, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Dalai Llama and several other figures you don’t recognise are seated behind you. You clear your throat.
“Ladies and gentleman,” you say. “The question that shall be asked to God is as follows:”
You pause. Finally you say,
“HOW’S IT GOING?”
The President slaps his head. You hear the crowd sigh in disbelief as one. The religious leaders look angry. Then the booing starts.
You blew it.

Cancellation

Gary stared out of his window, the sun was setting on his pool and the birds were singing their evening song. It had been a strange day, all in all. Brad and Becky had finally put their problems behind them and kissed dramatically at the line dancing championship; He had found out that Big John was his father and had been his secret benefactor; Jesse got his big break in New York AND Little Jimmy looked liked he's finally found love with Maria the pool girl.
So much for just one day. Gary's head was spinning.
There was a noise from behind Gary. He turned his head to see who was there; was it Tia, fresh from the discovery she wasn't pregnant? No his wall appeared to be caving in. Actually, it was just sliding in. Gary never knew he had a panel there. He went back to investigate.
Gingerly pressing the cave in on his magnolia walls, Gary wondered what had happened? Had the contractors put a piece of weak board in? It seemed very regular for an accident. It was all a moot point as the panel began to slide away.
A grey creature, more like a salamander than anything else, revealed itself.
"Y'alright Gary?"
Gary was dumbstruck. After today's events this was too much take.
"Yoo hoo, are you ok, mate?" the creature asked Gary.
Gary stared at the thing's spotted skin, his jaw hanging agape. Eventually he said, "E-excuse me?"
The creature laughed.
"Oh, so you are with us then. Listen I'll make this quick but you're being cancelled, we only thought it right to let you know."
Gary's jaw continued to dangle freely. He picked it up for a second,
"Excuse me?"
The creature smiled, "You. Mate. You're being cancelled."
Gary, shook his head and screwed up his face,
"What do you mean? And what are you are?" he demanded.
The creature flicked it's second sets of eyelids up and down.
"Ok, you, as in Gary, are being cancelled, as in, we're not putting you on air any more, as in see you in the repeats, as in no seventh series"
Gary was bewildered.
"But I'm not a TV series... I'm a... I'm a man"
The salamander looked pleased, "Course you are, mate, course you are."
It took a deep breath and continued,
"The network's decided to finish meta, have me come through your wall and announce your cancellation. Be a bit of a water cooler moment, one last spike in the ratings."
"So I'm... cancelled." said Gary.
"Thats' right!" said the creature. "Glad you're getting to grips with it. One last thing, can you make sure you're looking wistfully out of the window as the sun finally sets? The bosses are pretty particular about the final shot"
With that, the salamander pulled shut it's panel, leaving the wall as seamless as it had been before.
Gary ran his hands across the wall and, feeling nothing, began to knock it with his fists. Solid. Solid as it had ever been.
Gary paced around the room for a few minutes. What had all that been about? Had he imagined it?
Eventually he settled back at his window and gazed out. It had been a hot day and what with Brad and Becky and his father and everything he hadn't been drinking much water. That was it. Now that he thought of it he had a whole life time to catch up with his... dad.
Gary stared wistfully out of the window. Just before the sun finally went down he was sure he could here faint music drifting in in...

The Editor

There are some days when I can’t bear to look at myself in the mirror. This is one of them. I’m not a proud man, God knows, but even I never thought I’d sink this low.
Another sip of coffee, another intake of breath and another… and of course the phone rings.
“Heeeeeeeeeeeey,” he says. Of course it’s him. His is the kind of nasal whine that can be heard a whole block away. Of course it had to be him on a day like today.
“Hi,” I say with as much cheer as I can muster, “what’s up?”
As I say these words, pure black hatred surges through my veins: directed at him? Directed at me? I don’t even think it matters any more.
“Well, I’ve got an idea for a strip. I just wanted to – gnnnnnuuuurr,” an intake of breath, all nose, I could swear he hasn’t got a mouth, “run it by you.”
“Shoot,” I say. More coffee. More cold coffee.
“Well, ok - gnnuur -

Panel 1: Fumbles says to Ninjarina, 'I’m writing a screenplay', and ah-hur-ha-hur-ha
Panel 2: Fumbles says 'It’s going to be called “No words in Star Wars” there’s going to be no words in Star Wars in it'.”

Sweet Jesus. I caress my temples and rub my scalp.

“Panel 3: Ninjarina says, “Go on”.
Panel 4: Fumbles reading from his script says, get this, 'Act one, scene 1 on the forest moon of Enderon Chewbacca is waking', and Ninjarina says 'woah, woah woah, I’m going to have to stop you there'”

I breathe in. Count to three.
“Sounds great, send it through, we’ll run it on Monday.”
I hang up.
Jesus.

The Task

So the task was thought of and rendered complete. To interview a whole host of people about someone you’ve never met. To have them tells stories, share opinions, tell the good times and give subtle slights on their character. To have them all emulate their mannerisms and describe their features to give you a complete image of a person you never knew.
Fascinating; but of interest to whom? You’ve never met this person and now you have a picture of them in relation to others. Do you meet them and break the spell? Play a game of comparison? Are they as you were lead to believe? Or do you leave them as an enigma, someone who exists as a fully formed ghost in your head?
Or do you wonder how much time and money you spent on this project? And why the police are interested in you? And how much trouble you had in getting people to talk to you? And how the person’s family started to threaten you?
There are so many options.

Very Specific

Billy Michaels, Catherine Jenkins, Courtney Bubbles... these people are come of the greatest writers in the world. Why haven't you heard of them? Well there's only on problem, they can only write about one thing.
I’m not saying that they are the BEST at writing about that one specific thing, which undoubtedly they are, but if they turn their attention to anything else their writing becomes garbage, just so much flotsam and jetsom. If they don’t have their specialist subject to act as a prism to view the world then their writing’s worthless, it aint worth a damn. But give them a sheet of a4 paper and ask them to pontificate on their specialist subject and they astound you with their beauty and clarity. Their metaphors are perfect, their similes apt, their vision wonderful - capable of bringing you to laughter and tears an illuminating the human condition like a mag light torch.
Case in point, Billy Michaels, you won’t have heard of him, why would you, but a small section of society has. Billy Michaels writes, and only writes, about toy soldiers. But the fucker makes them come alive; he makes the page bounce; it sucks you in, if you couldn’t give a flying fuck about toy soldiers, and oooh boy, i could give a fuck then you should still read his writing. Yes he’s writing about the soldiers, and yes his writing is fabulous but he uses these soldiers as a spring board to tell you about the world, they keep him grounded.
Don't believe me? Read him, for god’s sake read him, but don’t try looking at the soldiers afterwards. They’ll bore you to tears. And that's the problem, once they're out of his lens, they stop being the most essential life affirming things in the world - the very substance of life itself in fact - and resume being tiny figurines someone has painted.
Catherine Jenkins? Beads, hand fired ceramic beads - she can tell the whole story of the world's economy - and therefore it's people and human nature itself through these beads. You take away the beads? You've got nothing. I read the one other piece she tried to get published that wasn't about beads. She said it was like trying tot ype with fingers of lead. And you could tell.
Courtney Bubbles? Pressed pennies. And there's others, dozens and dozens of them plowing their singular troughs.
Do I pity these people, these miniature goliaths? Well, I couldn’t possibly, as I’m fated to only write about people who can only write about one thing. Everything else I do is pure garbage.

Dedicated to Lester Bangs

Barber

I've always felt at a bit of a loss in barbers. Never quite at home. To parapharase the eternal Monkees, I thought Barbers were meant for someone else not for me. Although, unlike love, which I can probably do without, I need to get a haircut every now and again.
I have, however managed to find a barbers which is pretty quiet, they cut my hair fine and I'm almost approaching relaxed when I go in there. I even know the barber's name - although it's by other people using it and he doesn't know mine - but still, it's a big step for me.
Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with someone cutting my hair, that's not the issue. Well, let me tell you, I think this pretty much sums up how I feel about barbers.

The last time I went to get my hair cut it was a grey, miserable Wednesday evening, no one else was there, which is the reason I was (there, that is). As usual the barber, Michael, and I were engaged in chit chat, or patter or whatever you have with barbers. I was keeping up my part of the contract; he cuts, I chat. Well I chat a little bit.
We were talking about the state of the world and the like. It had been rough recently. He leaned forward to me and I could see the light reflect of his bald head.
"If you ask me we're heading towards the end times."
"Haha," I said, always an appropriate response to a situation where I'm not sure what's going on.
"No, I'm serious," he says and looks around.
He stops cutting my hair and holds the scissors closed in his hand.
"There's been.. portents."
I look at him in the mirror. He's staring straight into my eyes and I think he's being serious.
"Err, you mean the stuff on the news lately?"
"No, other stuff. Some of the things I've seen in here. You might think I'm crazy but let me tell you about what happened here a couple of months ago.
A man comes in, a big fella, one who hasn't been in before. It was a really grotty night, just like tonight and it was just me in. This bloke's a business type, pin stripe suit, briefcase, the lot and he's chunky - big - mid 30's I'd say. I get a few businessmen in so I didn't think it was unusual.
So I tells him to sit down, like I always do and ask him what he's having.
He says he'll just have a trim, just tidy every thing up and then promptly closes his eyes and falls asleep.
Now you might think that's odd, but you see it often enough as a barber, some old boy comes in, relaxes and plonks out, the snorers are the worst. So I set out, and start trimming away. After about a minute I get to the middle of his head and I can feel something with a different texture. Again, nothing too unusual about that, usually just a mole or something but this felt different. It felt like glass or plastic or something. I assumed that he might have a metal plate in his head or stitching so I pushed his hair aside and there was a tiny seethrough plate, a circle about an inch wide.
The strangest thing was, I couldn't see his bone or brains under it, but a toy train set. A little red train going around and around and around on a little circular track. Had a little light on it and everything. I think it must've taken up at least half of this bloke's skull."
At this point I, obviously, felt very uncomfortable. But I was intrigued.
"So what did you do," I asked the barber.
The barber took his scissors and began cutting my hair again.
"Well, I stared at it for a while and then I carried on trimming his hair. When I was done I woke him up, he got up, paid and left. I've never seen him again"
"Oh," I said. There didn't seem to be anything else I could say. The rest of my haircut was conducted in silence.

I'm thinking about getting a new hairdresser, but , as I said I always feel at loss at the barbers.

Is it enough just to write?

And God revealed all.

“So”, he said, “now that all the mystery is gone,

Would you like to ascend with me to heaven

Or start it all again?”