Amazing Grace

Mick had a hangover. He walked through Norwich Market passing the corner where the kilted one  played bagpipes.  The piper was a man in a Jimmy Wig, with no musical talent and a lethal instrument in his hands. He played the only tune he knew, again and again.  Mick crossed the market and headed for the garden in front of the Town Hall and peace and re-hydration. Sugar and caffeine restored some functioning level of awareness. He saw the  shamboling man, carrying two  sports bags, headed for his bench. The flight path meant touchdown in ten seconds! He could not be arsed and began to turn away. Landing with a bump Mr Shambolic  groaned - “Stapped” - stoned more like -  and  pissed himself but when it hit the floor it was red! Phone, ambulance, police, he needed help. This was not Mick's problem. The last words to Mick were - “No phone, take...”
Oh god what, bombs, guns, drugs, dead babies? The late lamented didn't move, he was doubled over,  chest on his knees looking at the bags with sightless eyes, one hand on each bag, offering them. 

He should phone but moving to the body he  zipped back the flap of one bag. Bundles, money bundles, foreign money bundles.  There was no six foot two copper saying Hello! Hello!  No one wanted to say hello to them and no one was near enough to notice! Taking one bag in each hand Mick heaved and walked off, slowly. Terror, fear, guilt, excitement, I don't care, ran through his mind  as he  passed the library. How much money, what type of money, where can you spend it? CCTV cameras, where are they, how can you avoid them, where can you go? Get a taxi.
The man in the grey hoodie was confident that his movements about the city would not be seen or recorded. They had paid for software and an operator to do this. In any case he was not 'known' in the UK. His mother would not recognise him today. He watched Mick  and spoke briefly into a mobile. A car drew up and the hoodie disappeared into the back seat as  Mick hailed a taxi.
The controller in the CCTV centre had  a lousy day. The senior coppers   breathing down her neck. Words half caught between them “big”,  “going south”, “where the f...”.  The cameras blanking in what appeared to be random fashion and a fatal stabbing. She was confident the cameras were sound, they were regularly checked and rechecked. It must be the software and the communications links. That was the job of Mr Algorithm, the condescending nerd who made her life a misery. God, he would pay for this! 
When she got home the local TV news had the body count at 3 now including a taxi driver and a young man, no pictures of course.

Bogie Man

I settled into the office chair which filed its usual complaint and I opened the bottom draw of my desk, my fist aid draw rather than a place for my trousseau. It contained a quart of bourbon and a few glasses that look as if they had been introduced to water but shortly after made their excuses and never returned. I poured a stiff one and tried it for size. It seemed remarkably fluid and a little small so I tried again. I pulled the phone towards me in case anyone rang. Nobody ever rings! I had the odd hour to kill. One, three, five, you get the picture. Things have been a little slack recently.

The latest LRB lay on my desk like the letter from a maiden aunt, without the cheque. I started to thumb through the pages. Not too many pictures and no sports section.
There was a piece by this broad called Diski. Seems someone was singing about a guy, Bogie, a real charmer. All the usual stuff; Hollywood, Cagney, Raft, and the broads, none of them from Norfolk, it was laid end to end by this canary Kanfer. Bogie made his dough, drank his scotch, and had his women. The last one, Bacall, was a real piece of work, classy. I ploughed on with the story and the bourbon. Seems like she wasn't the last one, she was beaten to the drawers by Verita, the hairdresser. He must have liked her style a lot, Verita! By this time the bottle was nearly done and so was I. The last sentence...

"Then again it might shake your world more to learn that Bogie…"

It stopped. I looked for what I might learn about this Bogie guy on the next page and the next. Nada! Back and forth through the paper, like a hop-head looking to score, but still I found nada. By the time I got to the funny ads by funny people, and I mean funny, it was over. I had been suckered by this Diski broad.

I hung around a club where I guessed she might take the waters. Sure enough, there she was, pretty as a picture but non too steady heading towards me on the sidewalk. I always come to the assistance of a damsel in distress and high heels. I took her arm and steered her into the alleyway.
"OK Sister, shake my world. Tell me the last thing I need to know about Bogie?"

She smiled and tried to kiss me. I asked her again but she was partying with the fairies somewhere and I wasn't going to get a look in. I'm no angel but I am not the guy to slap a broad around. I put her in a cab, gave the driver a twenty and told him to pour her home, gently.

So my desk is as empty as before, my calendar has spare dates, if you are interested, and the telephone is a silent as brick in a bucket of water. I reached down to reacquaint myself with the liquid trousseau. The post comes through the office door. I thumb through the bills and there at the bottom of the pile is the latest LRB. Do I want to be suckered again? No, but I need to know. I may be a man with a thirst but sometimes that thirst is not just for bourbon. I turned the pages. There it was - the remaining part of the sentence - three little words...

...wore a wig!

Would you look at that? Bogie had a syrup, no wonder he was sweet on Verita.

Nobody Escapes the Spanish Audition.

I noticed the LRB has, in its series of Winter Lectures, one by Elif Batuman:-
Cervantes, Balzac and double-entry bookkeeping.

Now you know how something like that can set me off.

Wikipedia has it that

Cervantes worked as a purveyor for the Spanish Armada, and later as a tax collector. In 1597, discrepancies in his accounts of three years previous landed him in the Crown Jail of Seville.

So there I am with this picture in my head. Poor old Cervantes up against some hatchet faced cleric with a pencil moustache and goatee beard, his Gracious Majesty’s Auditor General.

So Miguelito, you say the Santa Pinyada sank with all hands and a fortune in gold bullion in the Irish Sea?

Yee.ss.

Just outside a port known by the heretic English as Liverpool, such disgusting names?

Yee.ss.

Then can you explain to me how a ship, a ship looking remarkably like the Santa Pinyada, was seen in a dry dock in this Liverpool having its name repainted as the New Brighton Ferry?

Can you further explain why a claim has been made by you on the insurance for the Santa Pinyada, loss with all hands and gold bullion, on the Armada No 1 Policy, at the Holy Catholic Insurance Society in Sevilla, (In God we trust and for the rest HCIS)? No, no explanation? Well I can only say how disappointed I am, deeply disappointed, and you do not want to disappoint the Spanish Audition!

A short break in the mountains 2

He had had no pain since yesterday. True, the night had been disturbed but he attributed that to the eating of a substantial quantity of mountain stew and more than his share of rough red wine. The mountaineers had booked a restaurant near the end of the walk. They had enjoyed the meal late in the afternoon. They had lingered in the restaurant and while he had not had a copa, a 'bowlful' of brandy or other spirit, he had gone on sipping the red wine. It was very pleasant to be part of a group relaxing and socialising in another language. The group had sung local songs in a chorus and individually, the women competing with the men in the strength of their voices and, he suspected, in the suggestiveness of the lyrics. The allusions were beyond his command of the language. It was the language of their bodies and eyes and the tone of their voices that convinced him of the acceptable ribaldry of the words. They had been called on to sing and together with the other teacher, an Irishman, had made a brave stab at 'Sweet Molly Malone'. The Irishman couldn't remember the word and she couldn't carry the tune and so he was the only one in there at the end. His light tenor voice a bit of an anticlimax. There was applause for their faltering efforts. It was kindly and undeserved.

That Sunday had been no different from many of the others they had spent in Spain. He had been a little tired, a little anxious about the pain in his chest the day before and as always annoyed by the few drivers on the small country roads all giving him a hard time because of the GB plates.

When he had started into the hairpin he had felt nothing. Then he had become aware that he was losing consciousness. That was when he said "shit". It was as if part of his brain was still awake and part had disengaged from the conscious world. The bit of his brain that was still out there knew it had to bring the car to rest. Why did he put the indicator on? The nearest car must have been twenty kilometres away. He put the car in neutral. Did he put the handbrake on? It was a narrow hairpin, he had to get the car as far off the road as possible. Did he know the hairpin was into the mountain? Would he have run the car off the road if the bend had been the other way?

She called his name, twice. He had started to go red in the face. Panic! What could she do? Was he still alive? Was he still breathing? She tried to raise his head and free his neck from obstructions from her position alongside him in the passenger seat. Still no response. She got out of the car and went round to the driver's door, opening it. She looked round for help. No cars, no people, no houses, there was nothing but the steep mountain road and the mist.

Her mind came back into focus, subconsciously tackling the mundane things first. She leaned over and put the handbrake on the car. She turned the engine off. Then she lifted his face calling his name. She struck his face, gently, and called his name again. He stirred, he was breathing, his head moved and his eyes flickered. How long had he been unconscious. It seemed like an age. It could have happened so fast. Her mind had no way to measure the the time from when she heard him swear to the point she was convinced he was breathing again.

He had slipped from consciousness. His brain was still active. He was aware he was dreaming but little else. The contents of the dream were beyond him. He was aware of a large lake to his left. The surface boiling and billowing, which was strange as there was no storm or bad weather in his dream. Somewhere in his brain he translated the lake as the sea of mist surrounding the car. That small rationality gave him some comfort. His awareness subsided and he relaxed with his dreams beside the lake. There was light over the lake, the sun looked as if it were rising. The fact that it was rising in the west disturbed him. She was calling his name. He was irritated, the sunrise was so beautiful and he would miss it. She called his name again and consciousness came flooding back almost painfully. Awareness rushed through him as the dreams that he would never remember ebbed away. His tongue was heavy but the words came out breaking like a wave.

"I do love you"

He rested confused as she questioned him. Was he in pain? Was he able to breath easily? Was he all right? The familiar words reassured him. In a few moments he was strong enough to get out of the driver's seat. Holding on to her and the car he moved round to the passenger side. His mind cleared, he became more aware of his body, he had lost control of his bladder. This troubled him more than realising that he had been unconscious. He drank some water and they decided to go back over the pass to the nearest houses to get help.

The houses they had passed on the way turned out to be farm buildings by the side of the road. There was no one around. They went on. He felt very weak but they agreed that they would get closer to help if they drove on. By the time they reached Cervera again he was still weak there was no pain, he was still conscious and alert. They decided to head for 'home'.

It exhausted him to get to the apartment on the second floor. He stripped off his clothes and had a hot shower to warm himself. She kept the bathroom door open as she made some camomile tea. Her ears were tuned to the noises in the bathroom for any sudden changes, any loud noises. He rested in a chair and drank the tea. About an hour after getting back to the flat he felt strong enough to go out.

The doctor in the emergency room at the small health centre checked him out. He was poked and prodded by the doctor and a nurse connected him up to various machines. The doctor asked questions in very simple Spanish as if he were dealing with a slightly backward child. He understood most of the questions and was able to explain the events. They had looked up the unfamiliar words in the dictionary before coming to the emergency room. Where he stumbled over the tense of a verb or forgot the technical term she supplied the correct Spanish, glad to be able to contribute in some way. The doctor was a mountaineer and made some comment about the factory group being "locos" or crazy. The doctor only seemed to be concerned about his blood pressure. Everything else was working, and as far as they could tell he had not had a stroke or a heart attack. His blood sugar was low but he had eaten very little at breakfast and nothing during the day.

He was given pills and eventually his blood pressure came down to something like normal. He was released and told to come back early in the week to have his blood pressure checked.

They went out into the cold night, the rain had stopped and the cloud cleared. There was a good moon and it cast its light into the valley that had become their home. They looked up to the horseshoe of mountains that surrounded them and offered protection. He felt very uncertain, very scared. He reached for her hand.

A short break in the mountains 1

That Sunday they stopped at noon in Cervera, parking in the square where the market was held during the week. They walked under the buildings that stood out on columns over the pavement. That feature was common in this part of Spain. It offered shelter from the sun in summer and the snow in winter.


It was December but there was no snow in the valleys. It would be another mild winter and in their town the snow would rarely fall more than thirty centimetres in a night. The storks would return by the feast of St Blas, in February, and start building their nests laboriously, twig by twig.

He wanted a coffee and she wanted to go to the toilet. He ordered a black coffee as he had slept very badly, normally he would have had it with milk but today he needed something stronger.
Yesterday they had been out walking with the mountaineers from the factory where she taught English. It had been a long day, walking for over six hours at heights of around fifteen hundred metres. The group had started off early in the morning when the temperature was below freezing. Dawn came up far off over the high plains of central Spain. The group paused almost in silence waiting for the sun. The day began with a few muttered expressions of appreciation and the inevitable wrangling about which far off landmark was silhouetted on the horizon against the dawn sky. Despite the warmth which the sunlight seemed to bring to the mountain there was a chill wind which cut through their clothing.


The pain began in his chest as soon as the ground started to rise steeply. It continued for an hour until they crested the ridge. He had noted a tightness before, never very bad and never for long. This time traveling fast in the cold early morning there was no chance to adjust his speed, slack off to the point where the pain disappeared. He told her that the pain was bad and they dropped to the back of the group. Once they had gained the ridge the pace eased and the pain leaked away, he followed the group with relief. They discussed it briefly. He said he must go to the doctor next week she said very little.

When she emerged from the gloom at the back of the cafe she perched on a stool and had a coffee with milk. they made the small talk they had become used to. Exiles in a foreign language, their words together the only easy communication. They talked about the day, the English preoccupation with the weather, and commented about the early morning trade in the bar. It was too early for any serious business, the people in the bar were fortifying themselves with a coffee or brandy after mass or before getting the bread for lunch. He settled up using the familiar phrase for this kind of transaction, watching the man behind the bar trying to place them. Out of season tourists, he would have known about them if they were local.

"Shall we go?"

They walked about the small town in the weak sunlight, moving from the the shaded pavements to the narrow streets outside the centre. Wherever they stopped on these trips there was always something to see, stone houses large and small, a family coat of arms carved on the house walls, buildings with functions known and unknown. In the smaller villages there were cobbled streets where old men and women walked, raised above the mud and animal muck on the platform soles of their wooden clogs. In the larger towns there was always "Todo por la patria" (all for the fatherland), the letters cut out above the Civil Guard building. Somewhere in their recent past this had been commuted to "Todo por la pasta" (all for the money), a slang expression, said with the rubbing together of the thumb and forefinger, a suitable sign of corruption. Spain had its fair share of corruption and other difficulties. The government was reaching the end of its spell in power and it had been tainted with more than the whiff of corruption and nepotism. The recent exposure of the bizarre lifestyle of the head of the Civil Guard, who was now on the run, gave it all the feel of a bad comic opera.

They had slipped into a genuine interest in the country as they had acquired their knowledge of the language and culture. they enjoyed living in Spain, in a small town. It was a great contrast to their previous life in London. At times they felt isolated and they knew they would never be part of the community. There was peace, though, and great beauty in the mountains.



They went back to the car. The weather was changing and they were heading for Piedrasluengas, a porto or pass. A detour took them up a valley to look at a possible walk to the source of the river Pisuerga, one of the rivers that flows south out of the mountains only to be gathered in by the Duero to irrigate the vines all the way into Portugal. The weather was closing in fast. they got back to the car glad there was an excuse to play tourists, driving about the area in the little red car with the GB plates.

By the time they had reached the puerto and the appointed stopping place the mist was swirling. The enjoyment of the countryside would have to be left to another day. Appreciation was confined to the steepness of the contours on the map and an image drawn from them of what the view might have been. It was getting late to consider lunch even by Spanish standards. It would be almost four o'clock before they reached Potes and they would have to spend some time parking and sniffing out the best value restaurant. They had sunk into the gloom of the late afternoon each contemplating the deteriorating weather and the prospect of missing their Sunday lunch, a meal which had become an institution for them, usually a small treat.

They were heading downhill. The road lost height quickly in a series of small hairpins, not very spectacular and no great effort to drive. One good turn followed by another. She felt the brakes go on for the corner, but there was no release to enable the car to drive through the turn. Instead the braks continued to bite. He put the indicator on and drew the car to a halt at the apex of the bend. Just before this he had said "shit". the car was at rest off the road, with the engine idling, out of gear. She thought it might be a puncture or something wrong with the car. It wasn't the car that had packed up. She turned to look at him and his head lolled on his chest.

Drugs, Sex and Zimmer Frames

So, this is not influenced by my current obsession with the Wire. Yo!

Down at the local dealers (Pharmacy) I was filling my scrip for a variety of chemicals that keep me bobbin' along.
There was a power out. So, it had the Mad Max feel.
The babe in front of me was dealin' for old dudes, allegedly. She kept lookin' round.
OK. So I should fess up not me. The old queen with the zimmer frame was sitin' and moanin' and showin' all the signs of disturbance! The babe collects the scrips and takes the ladee and the zimmer into the parkin lot. I hear the elder take root and raise up to say:-

I don't want to live in a home.

Part of me dies!
The babe says:-

I don't think pharmacists have the power to do that!

Amen sister! I say:-

It's only a matter of time!

We go our ways and I hear that horn.
Down in the hole!

Legacy Polishing

An office somewhere in Los Angeles. Two men in grey suits are discussing casting a film.

So. I see Tom Hanks as the best bet for Martin. He is the man! A session with the voice coach, what’s her name, Roisin, Rose Roslyn? Anyway, give him the ginger rinse and the curlers and he is the man!

What about Jerry?

Gerry you mean, well, it’s got to be Tommy.

Hell no! That Texan; never cut it in the Bogside.

Who gives a f**k about the Bogside we’re thinking about Boston.What’s Senator Ted gonna say if we have some shit kicking britisher that no one can understant. This is a huge part, emotionally, intellectually, philosophically and fiscally.

OK!

You know we are just playing around the big one.

Yea I know!

So. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine?

I’d go for Gandolfino. He’s big, he’s irrational, he scares the sh*t out of everyone and ….

He’s a godamn f**k**g catholic. Are you trying to get me tarred and feathered?

Ian’s mellowed. His wife is a Baroness for god’s sake, they’re practically Ulster Royalty. You never heard the Act of Emaciation?

I don’t think so. I know you want Javier Bardem for Thatcher, that’s gotta be real inspired with the hair an’ all, and Meryl Streep for Blair, she’s got the cojones. Do you see any kind of kinky action here?

We are getting away from it. This could be big and I could live with that but you have to go with me for this one.

Hit me!

I think Forest Whitaker is the peach!

Yeah, and the title?

The Abominable No Man!

The tastelessness of wolves.

Homelessness and housing!
Haven't we come a long way since Cathy came home

We all know the story of the three little piggies.

So, to take the curly tail further.

Along came a man, with a wolf. He answered to the name of Al. He had a stocky frame and a broad nose. Occasionally, but not in polite company, he grunted. In polite company he merely sighed! The wolf was a sweetie with big yellow teeth and a wicked sense of humour.

The first pig offered to introduce Al and his wolf to Little Red Riding Hood’s (LRRH) granny. She had a room in her home; for 400 sovs they could have the room, a bath once a week and go outside in the woods if nature called. There was no access to the kitchen but there was a McOndos at the entrance to the forest. Al took it; he had no choice. He did have the 1600 sovs deposit for the month, and the deal was done.

Granny got weaker and weaker because of the pollution from the pig factory in the heart of the forest. Al and the wolf looked after her as best as they could, after their 16 hour shifts at the pig factory, but to no avail. She faded away and eventually Al and the wolf were evicted by the property developers who offered LRHH 1 million sovs to allow them to create a rustic holiday village. Naturally enough this had a value in excess of 100 million sovs from the word go!

Al said what do we do now, the wolf smiled, LRRH said "Jings I canna be doing with this." and went off to the bank.

So, the second pig offered Al and his wolf a room. 600 sovs a week, fair share of the kitchen and bathroom, outside loo, lovely views of the municipal recycling dump, and all the methane you can breathe. Al took it; he had no choice. He did have the 2400 sovs deposit, after a fashion, and the deal was done.
Al worked to get the money for the rent. An uphill struggle as they say.The wolf watched and waited as wolves do, it’s in their nature.

Times were good. Al had enough to pay the rent, feed himself, the wolf and go down the pub. Time marched on.

Along came a pig called Credit Crunch (CC) he was wild wacky and lotsa fun. He offered Al ‘A DEAL’ 2000 sovs! A little bit extra for the holiday, festival, wolves…...

The wolf growled, CC jumped, but he clinched the deal! So, Al now had the uphill and a little bit more. Well you can imagine; not a happy story.

Especially as the pig factory had to close. Damn those economic cycles! Don’t you just hate it when they do that?

So, there’s Al. Nowhere to go, no home, nothing to do and no sovs to do it with. The wolf still looked pretty sanguine, as wolves do, even though it is going to be a hard winter.

As they shuffled through the woods, somewhat downcast, Al and the wolf met Da Guy!

“Hello!” said Al.

“WHATEVER !” said Da Guy.

Al said he was sorry and the wolf grinned, after a fashion. No! Da Guy said that it was 13 down, eight letters,

‘Where VAT is applied regardless’

nice one.

The wolf said that Bunthorne can be such a bugger!

They moved on quickly, Al had other things to think about.

Da Guy called after them and asked if there was anything he could do.

“Not unless you can dig me, and the wolf, out of a hole, give us some sovs, and put a roof over our heads!?” said Al.

“Sorry,” said Da Guy, “ain’t got a shovelbut. How about an affordable loan and an affordable place to rent and a place for you and woolfie to work?”

“Don’t patronise me.”

said wolf.

Al asked how he could pay for this. Did it involve signing away parts of his body, the rights to his first born plus 16 hours a day of hard labour?

“No. Just work down at the community woodland coop.”

“Think about it!”

“We’ve thought about it.” said wolf.

“Where does he sign?”

“On a piece paper, usually at the bottom.” said Da Guy.

The wolf thought humans could be such a pain.

Don’t F… with the Buddhists.

In a far off land that changed its name more often than its borders, the hand of his chief bodyguard rocked the General’s shoulder as he slept. The General was leader of the military government by the ageless and venerable constitutional instrument known as Buggin’s Turn. He struggled with consciousness and what was to become a monster hangover. He growled, pointing to the naked body lying next to him. The Political Advisor stepped up to the bed, folding a sheet over the human form, shaking it roughly, and dragging it away.

The Political Advisor advised that the people had taken to the streets.

He was instructed by the General to have the army shoot them.
The General stood next to the bed scratching his balls and then headed for the bathroom calling for coffee as he went. He returned in a robe and grabbed the coffee hungrily.

The Political Advisor cleared his throat and indicated that it was not just the people. It was the monks and nuns. He painted a picture of the river of saffron running through the streets surrounded by a human chain, white shirts and sarongs defining, containing and protecting the violently coloured flow.

Christ what a mess. The geriatric neo-fascists in Peking would be phoning all day long about the negative impact of unconsidered and hasty action on their Olympic Games. The PLA had treated Tibet as their own private turkey shoot for the last 50 years. Must have bagged a few red ones in that time!

Sweet Jesus, Bush would be on the phone in that Christian fundamentalist whine dropping malapropisms about right’s abuse, turrism and demanding the development of a culture of democracy and all that it entrails!

It was going to be a long hard day, his head was about to split asunder, his stomach was fluttering like a Tibetan prayer flag and if he didn’t get rid of these morons he would kill at least two of them.

He roared, they left.

The Political Advisor had prepared a plan by the time the General had emerged, almost sub-human, from his quarters and entered the presidential office.

1. Arrest and torture the usual suspects.

2. Isolate some of the people from the monks and nuns.

3. When the snatch squads were sure no western cameramen were around beat the living shit out of the people and shoot some.

4. Make sure the locals know what happened and that it would happen again until this crap stopped.

5. The Abbots of the local monasteries would be cordially invited to join the General for tea and biscuits to discuss the life of the Buddha, possible economic and legal sanctions against their institutions and the hope that they would join the national council of faith and reconciliation in an advisory capacity.

6. Oh! There would be a photo opportunity with the world’s press for the old saffron slapheads to smile broadly with the General and chuckle in that self deprecating way that Buddhists have. They would not be required to say anything. Who spoke the language in any case.

Very good. These Harvard and Gollyburton graduates could do a lot of the heavy lifting when it came down to it.

The appropriately sanitised military orders were signed by the General and the troops dispatched.

Dwight Pratt was sitting cross-legged in the monastery, uncomfortable in his rough saffron robes. He was facing his tutor Tam who sat in stillness wearing his robes and his consciousness lightly. Tam had been in the monastery for twenty years and was used to the spiritual questing of the few foreigners who made it to this part of the world. What he lacked in English he made up for in intelligence and a willingness to barter enlightenment for western sweets, to which he was addicted, the occasional joint which helped to go with the flow and the sexual advances of his male or female charges, which he could take or leave. Spiritual exercises were interrupted by the director of novices who summoned all to the courtyard where they were told of the Abbot’s dream and the great river of saffron that would flow through the streets and cleanse the country of much agitation and desire.

Dwight thought the whole setup bitchin. It was amazing. He would be there in the thick, his camera phone was charged to the full and he had enough credit to send 6meg Jpegs of every position in the Karma Sutra home to his girlfriend Kelly Ann Stringer who worked on the Akron Ohio Journal. Bring it on!

The demonstration, protest, river of consciousness, whatever, set off on its journey from the monastery. It was quickly coated in a white protective shield of the local population. It flowed on into the city.

Under careful management the elite public order troops shielded the local goons from the few cameras in the square while they delivered points 1 to 4 of the Gollyburton inspired plan.

Stripped of its protective shield the mass of monks and nuns smiled beatifically and exuded warmth and humanity in a non threatening way.

This can be a real bummer if you are an underfed, underpaid eighteen year old grunt in the local forces of law and order. If you are turbocharged on testosterone and plagued by acne such a pacific disposition is a positive incitement. A certain amount of verbal abuse and shoving was suffered by the monks but in tribute to their respected position in society it was relatively restrained and of course the chanting of the supplication to the compassionate Buddha does have a calming effect on those doing it and most of those hearing it.

Unfortunately Ky was near starvation, he was being pursued by the loan shark who serviced the police headquarters and he was a martyr to piles and a variety of STDs. He was sure the monk in front of him was not from hereabouts. He was a head taller, he smelled much worse than the local monks. Ky shoved Dwight. Dwight yelled imprecations that involved Ky’s mother rather than the compassionate Buddha and shoved back. Being an offensive football specialist and about 50 kilos heavier than Ky, Dwight had the edge! Ky landed on his arse with little ceremony. Adrenalin, testosterone and the insult to his mother, who he had never known, propelled Ky back onto his feet and coiled his body about the baton in a position which promised to deliver Dwight a fractured skull, at least. With the naivety and simple belief that goes all the way back to the Transylvanian silver cross, Dwight raised his cameraphone as a powerful talisman; red rag to a bull really.

A gentle, perfectly balanced hand moved Dwight to one side just as he was taking his ‘snap’. Tam stepped smiling in front of Ky. He stood in contemplation as the baton descended on his skull. It appeared to witnesses that, as the baton broke over his head,Tam blossomed like a flower. It was this picture, captured by the cameraphone digital delay, which passed around the world to Kelly Ann and made Dwight a millionaire several times over in an instant. He and Kelly Ann retired to a beach house in Carmel which they called, Kahma, and lived relatively happily ever after on the proceeds, chat shows, merchandising and royalties.

The compassionate one ensured that Tam was reincarnated and his spirit moved to a puppy that was born at the same instant the baton cracked on his skull. Well all those boiled sweets, pan drops and sherbet lemons had to be atoned for somehow.

The General’s hangover had not improved.

He did what?

The picture went where?

They captured the pictures and put tits on the monk?

They didn’t stop it?

Jesus Christ on a bicycle am I surrounded by morons?

The Political Advisor had a plan….

The General brushed it all aside.

This idiot Ky will be tried for murder, child molestation and not respecting his community elders!

His village will be burnt!

He will disappear!

The General directed that a memorial will be erected to the monk Tam and the worlds religious and secular leaders will be invited to participate in a ceremony of dedication to encourage peace love and friendship amongst nations.

What a f….ng day. The General was not to be disturbed. His 22.30 appointment should be shown into his quarters with two bottles of Bowbank after the usual body search.

He would review the situation in the morning.

ONE YEAR LATER

The General moved to the podium. Since the discovery of oil and uranium in the north of the country a few of the morally unbending westerners with broom handles stuck up their arses had agreed to join him in celebrating the life and spirituality of a man of peace. Tam was the embodiment of humanity, self sacrifice and all that shit. So he was about to unveil the monument. It was a crap piece of bronze in some contorted way meant to symbolise something, whatever, really the General just wanted to get through to the end of the year when Buggin’s Turn would mean he could enjoy the 100bn dollars he had prudently invested in ah… that would be telling!

A few words from the guests…. people moving into position and here we go.

The Abbot of Tam’s monastery had been invited and characteristically provided a cheerful smiling photo for the world’s press. He moved back when the first flash went off. He stepped on the tail of the dog that housed Tam’s spirit. The Tam dog barked and set off towards the chief bodyguard. The guard drew his side arm and aimed at the dog. The dog hit him midriff and the resultant shot severed the femoral artery of the Political Assistant.

A phalanx of lesser bodyguards formed round the podium and fired at the Abbot. The worlds press and television captured the sight of the smiling Abbot having his chest ripped apart by a fusillade. The general was captured on live feed being bitten by a nondescript dog and trying to shake the mutt off.

The dog lived out its life happily enough after escaping in the confusion.

The fact that it was infected with a new form of CJD only found in Asian dogs meant that on reincarnation it became a butterfly.

The General was not so lucky. His mind began to disintegrate within a month of the bite, and within the year he was to be found wandering the streets muttering and drooling….!

So the great wheel turns.

SubPrime Warriors 2!

So! There they were; the rats arse end of the 21 century, the centre of the North Sea Wash

Three figures shambled across the flatlands. Their progress produced a ripple in the surface water which spread like a visual cliché from a hundred years ago. A short figure, the centrepiece of the triptych, protected by the mass of a body covered in rags on each side. She was driving the retable forward with language which would curdle larva. They moved toward The Settlement. The left hand side of the three-legged race, head erect, straight back, shambled with whatever dignity he could muster. The right hand creature, The Profit, stretched and strained as if it was possessed by a daemon eating through internal organs. The rolling, hate filled eyes and halo of grey hair lent this figure an Old Testament quality.

It just needed a winged chariot to swoop down and take the wretched trio to the bosom of some compassionate creator. No such luck. The Settlement sent a hydrogen powered flat boat to warn them off.

Dave sat at the front of the flat boat nursing a piece of metal which could reduce human beings, or similar, to a charred mass in less than five seconds. It gave his declamatory speech some weight.

“We don’t want no religion or god botherers in The Settlement.”

“Hain’t got no use forem since we burnt the last lot.”

“Whatever you sellin we hain’t got no use for it, less it smoke, weed or snort.”

The Profit kicked off on one, in a high pitched scream. A string of names and blasphemies issued from his lips. Dave pulled the piece of metal up and pointed it in the direction of the unholy trinity. He was trying to catch the torrent of hate,

“A Dam Smith…..Ric…o, Hume the Baileyvas… matchsticks, badge oflamont…. Shit the Cargo Friedman, God Damn Hungarians…Hyek still and Hyek swell the mighty greenback whale…….”

His partner began to intone a sombre, ethereal and mystical melody. Like Hildegard a millennium before him, the words and the music calmed. Dave’s troubled mind and itchy finger lost their purpose , he strained again to catch the wonderful sound.

“Rochdale, Owen, Kier, and Clem bless the Vig for all of them.”

“Grameen Yunus Brac and Illitch make our tools convivial not rich”

Dave was having difficulty putting his mind to the job of wasting these specimens.

A small figure crossed the space between the group and the flat boat in a trice and Dave’s heart stopped at the point when her knife entered his left ventricle. It was a signature move and she had perfected it.

The Profit cried – Eloi Eloi Lama Sabacthani as he often did. It didn’t mean shit but somehow it fitted the sense of the apocalyptic.