A Monkey And A Cat

Mr Bojangles drummed his claws on the piano top.
    'Hang on, uhmmm, wait a minute,' said Sebastian, testing the keys here and there, 'I think I almost have it- mmmmm, ok... yep, this is it.'
    He crashed his hands down on the keys and pounded away. The piano made a noise like it was giving birth to a horse. Backwards.
   'No, that's not quite right,' admitted Sebastian.
   'I don't think Rachmaninoff is the sort of thing you can just pick up,' Mr Bojangles said, trying to make him feel better.
    Sebastian sat at the stool, dejected. His ears drooped and his toes hung from the chair.
    'I almost had it that time, it's the one that goes, bam di di bam bom, bah!!! di ba bom bom.'
    'I thought it might be.'
    'I think if I played the top notes with my tail I might get somewhere.'
    'Perhaps.'
    There was a pause, Sebastian continued to gaze at the keys.
    'It's just that practise does seem very dull. And really, I know the music in my head, and I can see where all the keys are, and I even know the name of some of them, like A, and A flat, and B minus, and the one that sounds like A flat but lower, so it doesn't really make sense that it doesn't sound right.'
    Mr Bojangles walked over to the window and looked at the lighthouse in the distance.
    'Maybe it's because I'm hungry. Beethoven never played the piano without eating two sandwiches, one for each hand. So... maybe... we should... hmm?'
    Sebastian gazed pointedly in Mr Bojangles direction.
    'You're not having pizza again.'
    'But Banana and Ham is my favourite, and I feel a bit funny if I don't have it, like I have a headache, but louder, and-'
    'I'll make you spinach.'
    'And chips?'
    'And chips but no ice-cream.'
    'Hmm... ok. And then maybe we can play shapes?'
    Mr Bojangles knew he was in for a long night.

Dominonymous

Pizza is something I like, totalitarianism is something I don't. So when the two come together, you can imagine it creates some difficulties for me. Domino's have started screening their calls. Well, they may have been doing this for a while, but I've only recently become a customer. This means that when I call, not only do they answer me by name, but they ask if I'd like my usual. The first time this happened, so much did it catch me by surprise, that I asked what my usual was. When it was indeed the very pizza I had rung up to request, I promptly changed my order and ended up munching my way through twelve slices of dissatisfaction. My brother had a far worse encounter with the Pizza Hut in Forest Hill. When he dialled up, they had the landline registered to a 72 Caxton Avenue and refused to believe he lived anywhere else. There followed an interminable argument where they were convinced of the infallible nature of their computer, and Michael was convinced of the infallible nature of living in the same house for 23 years. Trust me, it starts with pizza, it ends in Nietzsche.

Mixed Messages

I saw a great poster on the tube today, it was a photo of a rugged, chiseled, obviously successful guy, resting his head on his hand, a beatific look on his face while he watches his beautiful wife playing with his two beautiful children, one of whom has a large fluffy grey bunny rabbit. Surely the image of domestic bliss? And just beneath this picture of contentment, the line, 'Thinking of having a vasectomy?'

Sticky Situation

At the gig I did tonight someone stole my gaffa tape. For those of you who don't work in theatre, in the grand scheme of things, a good roll of gaffa tape is just below your firstborn. And I have no children. Almost every problem I've ever had can be solved by gaffa tape, including a few relationship issues. I've done shows seemingly constructed of nothing but the black sticky stuff, and it's got me out of more scrapes than my good looks and quick-thinking (a total that currently stands one less than nothing). It's my own fault really, I should have known you can't just leave a good roll like that lying around. Especially as I stole it from a guy who did just that in the first place. This was no normal roll either: extra wide, smooth as a baby, strong as an ox. Basically it was the extra wide baby ox of gaffa tape. And now someone out there is strutting around with my tape, fixing stuff to stuff, setting marks, repairing props, it's enough to make you sick. I once realised that gaffa tape rhymes with jaffa cake. With that in mind I have composed this short poem; think of it as a eulogy.

Losing my gaffa tape Was like Losing ten jaffa cakes But worse Because I still have ten jaffa cakes

Smarts

After it happened I began to dress up. Sunday night I'd iron six shirts, I'd start at quarter to nine and take as long as it needed, never to hurry. I bought the shirts twelve at a time from an old shop in Jermyn Street, made to measure, thick, white cotton, french cuffs. I wore them open-necked, under a dark blue suit. Soon enough I bought another suit, then another, I bought a brown three quarter length coat, I buffed my shoes, I bought cufflinks, and a new watch. I spent close to eight and a half thousand pounds in a week. As I walked into buildings I'd pocket my gloves, and slip my jacket over my arm. Two months later I began wearing ties. I tied them slowly at first, in front of the mirror to begin with, then on platforms, in taxis, whilst entering restaurants, faster and faster, with sure, swift, efficient knots, nimble fingers tugging folds, sharpening creases, pulling the noose up to the neck and buttoning the jacket. I felt less and less the self I had known, each time I adjusted my cuffs, that little more alien. In the evening, I would sit at home, listening to the heating churn. I would hang up the jacket, fold the trousers, remove the cufflinks, unbutton the shirt and toss it into a laundry basket. All of this helped me forget not the slightest detail.

Reel

When we were little, and the weekends still held their meanings, occasionally, and only very occasionally, we'd be allowed to rent a video. Off my sister and I would toddle, past the newsagent of poor choice (a mere two shelves) and onwards to Concard with its three walls of much selection. We'd dither for hours over meaningless choices, Major League or Navy Seals, Men at Work or Young Guns; Charlie Sheen was a big draw. Once we had it home, we'd make homemade popcorn you could stuff beanbags with, draw the curtains, turn off the lights, get a bit scared and open the curtains again. Finally we'd press play, settle down and roll the trailers. Now obviously, to kids, there's not much better than trailers, the promise of all to come without the disappointment of experience, what more do you want? But shortly after, before the main feature began, would be this boring little infomercial, questioning the validity of our recording. Was this video a genuine copy? Did our cassette have the hologram of authenticity? The strange thing was, that no matter how much we wanted to see the main feature, regardless of how long we'd waited for our home video treat, my sister and I would always stop the tape, eject it, and check for the sticker. I don't know why, it just seemed important.

I Browse

I met her in a bookstore, browsing the non-fiction; both of us preferred to leave nothing to the imagination. I asked her if she was single, she said she usually came as a pair. I told her that was good as I liked fruit. There was a pause for a moment, and she said she had to be somewhere. I said we all have to be, somewhere. She said that was a very clever use of punctuation. I said have you ever gone into a bookshop with a pair of scissors and cut out all the words in the works of Marcel Proust and rearranged them so they make the collected fiction of Dean Koontz, and then waited to see if anyone buys it, and then when they've finally finished reading it, you go up to them and say ha! you thought you'd read In Search of Lost Time, but you've just wasted all that time reading the Koontz, and isn't that so Ironic considering the title of the original source material you initially hoped for. Ha! She said, no, she hadn't. I said, Oh, I haven't either. She offered to buy me a coffee, but I said I didn't drink. She said she'd get me an instant sans the l'eau, so I could just lick the powder. I guess that would work, I said, and followed her up the stairs.

Lost Time

I'm in a bad sleep loop. When I can't sleep I get crabby, and, man, right now I'm walking sideways. A couple of nights of shaky shut-eye and bam, I'm out of rhythm. Look at me now, tetchy, irritable, scratchy, this is no way to be. I'm as likable as herpes. So tonight, I've got to do some hard sleeping to make up for it, and I'm determined, boy, I'm like a nodding dog all day. Until my head hits the pillow that is, then, nothing, I can't sleep a wink. Nothing will stop my mind from wittering, my thoughts ramble on like an old man dribbling in his armchair. No panic, it's only 11.45. Two hours later I'm not quite so forgiving. Shutupshutupshutup! I scream, hitting my head repeatedly until my hands hurt. I press the light on my digital clock, it says 3.43am. That's it. Wup! I throw the clock down as hard as I can and it shatters, batteries land in the sock drawer, the face flies into a jumper, buttons roll under the door and the whole main section vanishes, popping out of existence before my very eyes*. I stop and pause for a moment. I can hear the wind through the window, and I feel stupid. It starts raining. I go back to bed, listening to the droplets drum the glass. In the morning when I wake, my clock is still broken. This is not what I'd hoped for, I thought time was a great healer.

*it turned up three days later in a pair of underpants.

The Comic

He's done it a thousand times before, but tonight it shows. He pulls the microphone from the stand and leans full weight on it. This man does not look well. Ever the professional he bangs out the lines, his eyes flicking across the audience, calibrating his material to the faces. Setup, setup, setup, it's all in the setup. He holds the pause, timing everything, runs his tongue over his lips, casts a glance to one side, lifts an eyebrow and delivers the blow. They love it, they fall out, he savours the moment. His breath is heavy, he's wheezing, his sweat is glistening on his forehead. Clearly he is uncomfortable. But, and know this, there is nowhere he'd rather be. That much is obvious. Under the lights is where he shines, where he finds his meaning, the laughter of the darkened faces, the call of the curtained places, the stage makes him weightless. Far too long has he done this to remember its pretence, for too many years has he occupied the deceit. Offstage is a dim world to him, he can barely remember the time he spends between these spotlit moments, and fuck the life of the dull and the ordinary, he thinks. But later that night, as he falls from his chair in his first floor flat, as he spills a tv dinner on his worn brown carpet, as he finds himself clutching his chest whilst staring at a pile of ten year old tv listings, he thinks, I never really got it. Whatever it was, I never really got it.

Mr Bill Posters

There is a sign near me that says:
"Disabled Person. Keep Clear."
Which I think is a bit cruel.

There is a sign near me that says:
"Heavy Plant Crossing."
Which I think is a bit scary.

I'll Cry If I Want To

The first time I got drunk was at my cousin Elaine's house. She gave me some blackcurrant hooch and two bottles later I was addressing the sofa and telling the lamp to behave. I had to leave early as, and I kid you not, I was due to be at clown school that weekend. She gave me a lift and I rolled in to possibly the only place on earth my uncoordinated stumblings would blend sweetly in. I had a very strange time over those few days, I remember sitting on the grass with Hattie discussing whitefaces, holding hands in a circle chanting to my inner clown, watching truly atrocious mime, and getting make up tips from men. I'm not sure what I make of that phase of my life, it's all part of the journey I guess, I try not to dwell on it. The reason I tell you this story is that a few years ago, on a birthday such as today, I went for a meal at a TGI Friday's, in Croydon. Above the bar they had a television, in case you ran out of conversation or were simply drinking alone, and that television was showing one of those Friday night gardening shows. And at the moment I lost interest in those around me and looked up, at that exact moment, Hilda, one of the attendants of the aforementioned clown unconvention, sauntered on to the screen and spoke to me. Directly to me. Granted all she talked about was shrubs, so it wasn't exactly profound, but as her words came tumbling out of the screen into my ears, it was certainly memorable. See, birthdays make you think about life, and that day I looked at my life, and what I saw was a strange collection of surreal moments, of half-meetings in half-places. And if I join the dots of these erratic experiences swimming in the empty space of the mundane, what do I get? Concerned is what I get.

Not to be

What do you do when your childhood sweetheart falls in love with a guy that isn't you? It's not even that you are so keen on her anymore. Sure, she's nice, but that was a long time ago. And anyway. You probably wouldn't even mind if she fell in love with someone else. But just not that guy. Who isn't you. And is so someone else. You try and be nice about it. You try and look happy. But really, one way or another the disappointment seeps out. And you have to say no, no, no, I'm really happy for you, honestly, I am really, very happy. And there is a long pause, and you both look down at your plates, and you don't say anything for a while until the waiter asks if the food is ok. And then you say yes a bit too quickly. And as you catch the train home that night, waiting on a platform that still smells the same as it did ten years ago, something inside you changes, not for good or for bad, but just changes.

tonight, tonight

- you fell asleep.
- i didn't sleep well
- fast asleep.
- i'm uneasy
- like a bullet. bang. sleep.
- my heart is in my stomach
- like a stone from the sky.
- my stomach is in a knot
- you hit the hay and kept on going.
- like when you eat too much and lie on it
- i watched you for a while.
- like a stone baby
- but I couldn't sleep.

Dim Wit

For no reason at all, halfway into a story, I get the feeling I'm about to let myself down. Like what I have to say is so pedestrian, it could have its own road safety advert. Possibly starring an otter. This has been happening a lot recently; annecdotes, quips, bits and skits, I lose my confidence halfway through and peter out. As the punchline looms, I get frightened, overwhelmed by a dawning realisation that this tale I'm relating is crippled by disinterest, time slows down, my words tumble out in super-slow motion, all of a sudden I become aware of a whole room full of eyes point-blanking me. A whole range of brains each thinking their own secret bad opinions of me. More and more I think I don't like being the centre of attention. Boy, did I ever choose the wrong job.

Pretend-a-Friend

Money, man, it is a bitch,
The poor, they spoil it for the rich.
                                            -- nick cave

I was just leaving when he came up to me like he knew me or something, and flattered, I stayed. I mean I'm not saying he should have known me, it's just a lot of people know me, you know? So it wasn't entirely unexpected. He looked sort of familiar too, like the kind of person you pass in the street and then realise they sold you a pint of milk the day before. That kind of familiar. How's it going man, he said and stuck out his hand. I took it and shook it, Good, I replied, still grasping for that recognition as I ticked through a list of names in my head and none of them stuck. So I'm looking for some work, he tells me, you know, trying to keep busy and get off the streets, I mean it's the summer so it's ok for now but- And now this picture is starting to come into focus, and at last I know who he is, I know where I've seen him. He's one of the homeless outside the tube I pass each day, the homeless, the wasted, the down-and-outs and there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-eyes. I get uneasy, I look to the door, I plan my exit and try to sound upbeat; Well, I'm sure you'll crack it, I say and go to leave. Before you go, he says, can you spare some change? My heart sinks, I lose eye contact, and my voice goes to the back of my throat. I'm sorry, no, I say, and as I walk away the change in my pocket jangles louder and louder with each step. You can't save everyone I think, but then so does everyone else, and little by little it grows darker with each day.