Everyone wants to be Gavin

It eluded me for all those years; I did a degree in Computer Science, I worked in IT, nine to five, three years on the trot, I'm a Microsoft Certified Computer Engineer for pity's sake! And all the while I remained in the dark. Not anymore though, I've seen the truth: Software engineers are Buff! Go to the tube, gawp at the posters, ladies, quit looking in the army, get the hell out of the navy, the all new action man won't be saving the world, he'll be shopping in it, as long as it's the PC variety. Check out Gavin, he's a software engineer with the body of the Incredible Hulk, but in a more palatable shade of pink. Everyone wants to be Gavin, and the best part is... you can be! Just chow down on some MaxiTrain, ingest a little MuscleHustle, swallow those HunkyChunks, get the goodness of a thousand pigs down you, powdered, pasted, and ready mix into chalky shakes. 'Cos when all's said and done, nobody loves you if you're under 300lbs.

Rest Period

At Paddington I board a train unchanged in ten years. This is a holiday about going back, about stepping into old boots and dry raincoats, about remembering what it is to stop. It's a four hour journey and to pass the time I listen to a grandmother tell a story about Franklyn and his Fly Sandwiches. Franklyn is a tortoise. She injects the tale with less drama than you'd find in an empty bucket, but it says something for the source material that I listen to the end. At last we arrive and five minutes out of the station I'm climbing the walls with boredom, itching for my Blackberry. Cornwall is a lot like the Shire but with more Pirates; grown men with beards and bandanas and nothing to do but smoke roll-ups and go without washing. It takes me three days to switch off, and the day I do I lose sight in one eye and go down with a migraine. I spend my remaining time staggering around in sunglasses, like some low-rent rock star. On the train home, the hot chocolate I order tastes of thin water, I play with a pen and try to read the newspaper. Maybe I'm allergic to holidays, I think.

Get the Message

Voicemail pisses me off. Is there really anyone alive who doesn't know how to leave a message? I'm so bored of calling my friends and hearing, 'at the tone please leave your message.' Who doesn't know this? What, is there someone out there leaving laundry? A token of thanks? Their wife? And they follow that nugget up with the priceless, 'when you are finished recording you may hang up.' Because, let me tell you, before they put that in, I'd be four or five days stuck on the line. Oh! Put down the phone! I thought if I just hung on in there, I'd fry my brain with the microwaves and put us all out of misery. Dialling for my messages is just as bad. My voicemail woman has nothing but disdain for me. You have noooo new messages, she scorns, I can almost hear eyes rolling. When I do get one, she can hardly contain her surprise. Oh! she says, You have one new message! And just as I'm about to laugh in her face, my mum comes on the line.

My six year old son is Death

He sits there in the corner, watching the sand fall through an hourglass. I'd like a bowl of ice-cream now, he says. But you've had four already, I tell him. He taps the glass pointedly and the flow of the precious granules speeds ever so slightly. That's not what I asked is it? he hisses. I go to the freezer and lift it. Which flavour? I ask. All of them, he replies. We're going to need a bigger bowl, I think.

Later we're at the park, the other kids play on the swings and chase each other with sticks. He stands by the pool and stirs the water gently with his scythe. A girl comes up to him and holds out a flower. His hollow black eyes stare out from his cowl, he takes the stem and the petals bloom grey with ash, the stalk wilting before her eyes. She tries to take it back but it crumbles as dust in her fingers. He picks an old chicken bone from the bin and slides it into her hair; she clutches her throat and her eyes roll back as she falls over. Her parents come running over, but I know it's too late.

We leave and it begins to get dark. He walks in the opposite direction to which we came. I tell him we should be heading home. We should be heading home, I say. He continues to take his careful steps as though he never heard me. A dog runs up to him and licks his face, his hood falls back and a child screams as the dog runs his tongue over bare skull. He moves his finger, ever so slightly, if you didn't know where to look you would miss it, and the spasms start in the dog's tail. It's not long before he's lying paws upwards on the floor, his tongue lolling on the concrete.

He's been back indoors for less than ten minutes when he wants to know if he can go out and play; Famine and Pestilence are coming over and War has a new bike. I tell him to take a coat and hear him mutter something about my mother under his breath. He hits the cat on the way out, and she begins to sing Puccini in a most heartbreaking soprano. I shout at him to shut the door, but nothing bar the empty wind answers me back.

I didn't make this up

I'm staring straight ahead, headphones on, conscious off, when out of the corner of my eye I feel a gaze on me. I look to the left and nearly jump out of my seat when I see the girl next to me eyeballing me in the face. Her lips start moving, and more out of shock than intention, I take my headphones off. Big mistake. What's in your journal, she's saying. It's not a journal, I say. What is it? Just a book I write in. Wanna know what it feels like to be with someone who doesn't keep a journal? she purrs. I'm not sure what to do with this reply. Not even sure what it means. Fortunately it's my stop and I get up to get off. She does too. Uh oh. She walks beside me, I don't keep a journal, I say, hoping to disappoint her. What do you do for a living, she says. Now is not the time to brag of magical powers, this woman needs no encouragement. Insurance, I reply. I'm a lawyer, she says. Uh oh, this is more serious than I thought. I'll take you back to my place for some drinks, she says and waggles her eyebrows at me. No thanks, I say, looking for the exit, I've really got to go to bed, early start tomorrow. She links her arm in with mine and pulls me along, Come on, she says like she's made my mind up, we’re going. I stop dead, I've gotta buy I ticket, I tell her, sorry, some other night. She stares at me for a long time, her mouth open. People would kill to be where you are now, she tells me icily. And all I can think is, I don't wanna die...

The Fruit of Knowledge

A friend of mine is looking for geniuses. He's got a fund for them and everything. I can tell him where they are: The Apple Store! They've got whole desks of them! Rows upon rows of them! My brother, obviously not a genius, took his broken iPod there. Without an appointment. They sent him away. These are genii, I told vanderput the younger, show them some respect. He crawled back a few days later, humbled, with an appointment. Help me wise Oracles, he whispered, my iPod is broken. They shone their light over him and his malfunctioning peripheral. Mhm, hard drive expired, they concluded. Yes, he said, I know that, but can you fix it? A new replacement must we sell you. No fixxy? he said. No fixxy, they replied, upgrade you must! Like I said, Genius.

Negative Thinking

Today, on the platform at Finsbury Park, I counted six separate announcements, from Baggage Accompaniment to Oyster Touching, Good Service reports to a message that appeared to inform me I was at Finsbury Park repeatedly. There was even one telling people to stand behind the yellow line, I'm surprised they didn't mention which side. Not only that, these messages were cycled four or five times in the nine minutes I waited for the train; one every seven seconds or so. Now maybe they think they're trying to help us out here, maybe there are people, lacking the ability to read, consistently forgetting where they are, but the more I wait, the more I think there is something a little more sinister going on. These aural interruptions make it next to impossible to string a line of thoughts together, they break up conversations and force page-turners from their books. It is an almost intentional attempt to destroy any sense of peace and quiet, it is static in our minds, white noise in our heads, it is an act of cognitive terrorism, disturb, disrupt and destroy. And so everyone becomes slightly nervous and jumpy, grown men twitch, young boys bitch, a minor delay turns to major dismay; a whole cross-section of society destabilised and sent off to the nine to five.

How to talk to famous people

How's it hanging Dakota Fanning?
What's the plan Jackie Chan?
How're you fixed Stevie Nicks?
What's the score Mandy Moore?
Why the frown Bobby Brown?

Posthumous entries:
Have a nice day Marvin Gaye.
Ready to leave Christopher Reeve?

Fake

Ever since I started lying, she said, the doors began to open. Last month I was the production manager of a low budget Nigerian film. Me? A production manager! I made up a CV in a week, I told them I have three films in post-production, and one in the can. I used the word can! I said listen, you people need this this and that. The guy was like Oh! Yes! Of course! I tell you John, I am tired of being poor, I am tired of living somewhere where I have to see the shit on the stairs, where there is no grass or space. Why should all these mediocre people with their mediocre ambitions, why should they all have such good lives? We are passionate about what we do, we are wounded by it, we spend our days haunted, nagged by creativity, unable to forget or pretend. Maybe I will stop lying so much, but I'm not sure. At the moment I like it this way.

Blow Up Doll

She walks in like a little beach ball, wearing a round summer dress and swinging her short pink arms. It's nothing but endearing, her plump little beach ball figure, and as she orders a coffee and takes a seat, her feet dangling like ribbons from the chair, I think, what a cute little beach ball girl. Then it gets unexpected. She reaches into her bag and brings out a beach ball. An actual beach ball. Deflated, naturally. She starts to blow it up, filling it with rapid puffs, pausing for breath and then repeating. I look to see if she is getting any smaller as the ball gets bigger, but no, the absurdity of the situation obviously has its limits. Once inflated, she takes a thin black marker from her bag and begins to write a love letter on the panels. Dear Richard, it starts, no doubt it ends with a bang.

Cannonfodder

What’s more paranoid than a squirrel? Not much. After eating a rather special pizza, a friend of mine once shot out of the door of the pub and ran six miles back to his house after thinking everyone was in the room was out to get him. That doesn't even come close. Find a park, watch a squirrel; they fidget, scratch their paws, ruffle their lips, spend all day looking over their shoulders. What are they expecting? Snipers? I think they are genuinely checking for the red dot? Hey man, is that a ladybird on me? Wait, it's autumn. Crap. Maybe that's why all red squirrels died out, red dot? Where? Agh! I'm covered in them! The strange thing is that squirrels spend so much time in open spaces; surely the last place to be if you have security issues. My advice? Stay indoors, buy a pantry.

The W3 Stop

Six minutes the ticker time says, six minutes. That's not too bad I think. But I'm still pissed off. As I rounded the corner to the bus stop, a big red number swanned dreamily by; Goodbye vanderput! it seemed to sing as it flew along, trailing a further delay to my journey. This is what I hate about buses, you have no control. Unlike a timetabled train, the moment I leave my house bears no relation to my wait for the bus. It's a punctuality lottery, a bus automatically places a twenty minute window of unpredictability in your schedule; it could be instant, it could be a while. Anyway, this time, it'll only be another six minutes. I read my book and space out. After a while, I think, hmm, its been a while. I look at the time, still six minutes. I wait and look and look and wait, still six minutes. The longer I wait, the less it changes. Six minutes. Six Minutes. SIX MINUTES! The time is over, there is no more time! The guy next is equally unimpressed. He empties his mouth on the street, repeatedly. Spit spit spit. Small pools of foamy white saliva are lain at his feet. See, that's what happens when buses run late, the place falls apart.

Magic Tricks for the Blind

I blow smoke out of my mouth and watch the mirrorballs spin above me. I drink a glass from the bottle of wine the nicest family in the world gave me. Cheap and classless I thought as they walked in, and they showed me more love than I've had all week; I can be a real prick sometimes. They spanned three generations, children, children of children, and the children's children. The grandparents sat there so proud; so proud it made you cry. I did them proud too, I gave them an unforgettable time, experiences they will never have again, and they loved every minute. They took a picture, to capture the present, but their camera was like a gunshot, killing the moment. I go back and sink into my chair, more wine, more smoke. The nicest family in the world leave, I am sorry to see them go. As they leave, the granddad comes back and slips a twenty into my hand. You guys are never appreciated enough, he whispers, looking me in the eyes. As the evening went on I got slowly drunk, no-one came close to those guys, the pearls of my card tricks were guzzled by swine, and all the while I thought, us guys are never appreciated enough. Like I said, I can be a real prick sometimes.

Hard of Hearing

Underhearing is overhearing but wrong. Today, I underheared a father say the following: My six year old son is death. Man, I think, that can't be fun. Small dude with a cloak? Yeah I think I've seen him around. Thankfully I realised my error before I asked him to put in a good word for me. It's a shame, because a personal connection to the Grim Reaper would certainly be a useful contact for the blackberry. It got me thinking though, what with this booming population and the wars, famines and plagues to go with it, Death must be considering a hardware upgrade. One of those big sit-on lawnmowers perhaps? A combine harvester with go-faster stripes? At the very least a strimmer. I mean, he’s got a lot of souls to harvest, and a scythe just ain’t gonna cut it.

Wretch a Sketch

If I could do anything, anything at all, I'd like to draw. I have all these ideas for paintings, for sketches, but when the brush hits the page they all fall apart. Nothing comes out the way I see it. I trace the light before me and it turns to mush. In school my art teacher said everyone can draw. After I'd finished with him he had to admit defeat. No-one spent more time, put in more effort, sweated and bled over crayon and charcoal for such poor results. For three years I drew and drew and drew. Nothing. It was like a pencil had died in my hand, the more I dragged its poor, rotting carcass across the page, the worse it looked. I left art class that summer, and on my last day I emptied my pencil case into the drawer and tossed my erasers in the bin. Some dreams die, some dreams live, whatever, Ainsley Harriot loves my magic.