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Can we get together? I really want to be with you. Come on, check it out with me. I hope you feel the same way, too.
If it's bitter at the start, then it's sweeter in the end.
Bom dia, grüß Gott and all that... Oh, and welcome to the world of Fib Sunday, dear reader! And what a day! The powers that be meddled with time (and The Doctor was not involved) in the night. I feel like the victim of a sci-fi horror novel. Guests in my home would have found me, at the ungodly hour of 10:40, sat around in my bra and pants. I thought it was 09:40. BST is a vile travesty of all that is strange about the United Kingdom. I feel like taking my bag of hammers to it.
Nothing stays the same, honey. Click here to read a story about the end of time. No, really.
I heard she drove the silvery sports car along the empty streets last night.
But I digress...
Having messed around with creating cinematic fabulousness last evening, folding pants and thoughts for the day (alright, it was only bloody You Tube), it's time to move from lowbrow to highbrow (I can dream, can't I?). From nonsensical campery to Fib Sunday, my little maid.
Don't mess around.
If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. You'll thank me for it later.
In brief:1) I take the topic as given in last week's final entry, write a Fib and give a new topic.2) Your reply to the topic is in the form of a Fib in the comment section.3) You then supply the next topic.4) The next visitor replies with a Fib on the newly given topic and then provides a new topic and so on...A Fib is a six line, twenty syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8. The only restriction on a Fib is that the syllable count follow the Fibonacci sequence. An example of a classic fib:OneSmall,Precise,Poetic,Spiraling mixture:Math plus poetry yields the Fib.
Last time, Brian left us with the topic of the funniest song you've ever heard. My melodic yet humourous response:
Dim
All
The lights
When they play
That strange chicken song
None shall see me piss with laughter
Next topic:
...good way.
All I wanna do, dear reader, is touch you.
Well, that's not strictly true. I also want to tell you about Haiku Saturday. You can't stop the children of the revolution, and you most certainly can't stop Brian. And neither should you try.
Click here to take part in the weekly game of Japanese fabulousness. Go on, you know you want to.
Beat me, Daddy.
A dog's-eye-view of my Mother's front garden. At night.
I'd hate to be colour blind. How could you explain blue to someone? Or beige?
But, hang on, how do I know that the blue I see is the blue you see, dear reader? And how does anyone know that dogs are colour blind? Or do they see in sepia? Or is that cats? Of course, I could look it up within Wikipedia, but I don't want to know, quite frankly. I love a mystery, I do.
One question, though: is ignorance really bliss?
J'adore this, but not this, sadly. I feel cheated.
One other thing, my gripe of the day:
There are still idiotic people running around on the planet today who do not know how or when to use an apostrophe. And others who don't know the difference between there, they're and their. I'm sickened to my stomach, dear reader.
What can be done? May I suggest using my trusty bag of hammers?
Whatever happened to Mrs Levinson and Iris Krell?
Last night, just before going to bed, I sat watching an episode of The League Of Gentlemen.
One of my favourite scenes from the entire televisual adventure is Iris revealing details of the more delicate aspects of her relationship with Ron to her employer, Mrs Levinson. Oh, the panties.
The whole thing is a parody of class warfare and one-upmanship. I shouldn't, therefore, laugh at it at all. But I do. It's hilarious.
Click here to have a look for yourself, dear reader.
How we love Aunty.
Every day, dear reader, is like Sunday and this blog entry is like a window on my Mother's world, a look at the things in her living room that perhaps might shed some light on who or what my Mother is.
The first is a statuette of a woman who, according to the lady who gave it to my Mum (her friend's daughter), is as close as one can get to my Mummy in ornamental form. The top half, dress up, sits upon the legs and wobbles with the gentle push of a finger.
This is a plate depicting The Eagle's Nest. in 1979, Mum, Dad, my brother and I went on holiday to Austria and Southern Germany. My parents never had a plan when on holiday, we just drifted from one campsite to the next, absorbing what came in-between. Luckily for us, on our way back from Salzburg, we stumbled upon Hitler's former home.
My Mum bought this plate, thinking it was a wooden carving. She was saddened, on returning to the UK, to see bubbles in the plaster on the reverse.
Mum used to have a friend, originally from Austria, who married a Brit in 1950 and came to live in Southbourne. I thought she was outrageous. She would only eat in cafés and restaurants with tablecloths. White ones. But that's not what makes her outrageous. The outrageous part came with her name: Titty Gillespie. I'm sure Titty couldn't have been her real name. No idea what it was though. Mum could say it without even a smirk. I could not. I would break out into rude laughter every time someone said it. Remember, though, please, I was about nine years old when she died, rather sadly, of breast cancer.
Titty had a metal Swastika on a a ribbon. She showed it to me once, slightly covering it with her hand, although no-one else was around. I often wonder how she came to have it. She was certainly no Nazi but the most liberal woman of her generation I've ever met.
This Witch was bought for my Mother by Caitlin and Aidan (her niece's grandchildren) for a birthday a few years back. Mum adores it, although Aidan is quite afraid. Mum has a bit of an obsession with Witches. One can find another two somewhere in her living room. Not just Witches. No. There are also Trolls, Fairies, Elves and other such beings from European folklore.
Mum is an Esoteric. Quite unusual, I think, for a woman of her age and background.
Behind the Witch, on the wall, is a framed postcard of HMS Hood. Her cousin, Bunty, a Royal Marine, went down on it during World War II. She often speaks of him. Although he was a little older than her, they were close. I sometimes wonder if she had a crush on him.
Lorraine, my sister, and her husband, Peter, bought this for my Mother for Christmas in 1980. It looks as though it's something special, but it's not. It's cheap and nasty. My Mother was impressed by it, though, and for years it took pride of place on the mantlepiece. Relegated to a display cabinet when the room was redecorated in 1997, it's been there ever since.
My sister is well known for buying cheap and nasty gifts for friends and family. She has a penchant for things which look impressive but are actually cheesy, crappy, second-rate rubish.
One notorious birthday featured her giving me a Weetabix bag. She didn't pay a penny for it, only saved up tokens from the cereal packet and sent away for said trash.
To the left of the clock is a photograph of my nephew, Spence. It was taken when he was about thirteen years old. He's now twenty and about to be a Father for the first time.
To the right of the clock is a photograph of Emily, Lorraine's daughter. She was born in 1982 when I was ten years old. She is a lesbian. Or bisexual. I can't remember. Her sexuality seems to change with the wind. She and I lost touch after her Mother and I fell out. Such a shame. I've always adored her.
My Mother, although her hands are riddled with rheumatoid arthritis, adores to knit. This is her knitting bag. Current projects include a blanket and various jackets for her first great-grandchild who is due on 4th July.
Mum's knitted since a wee girl. When needles and wool were unavailable, she told me she'd use skewers and a ball of string.
Most of the jumpers I wore as a child were knitted. Click here to see the school jumper I wore back in the early 80s.
I bought this mug for Mum when I was down in England last. I don't usually approve of humourous crockery, but this is an exception. One of her friends calls her The Queen Mother (me being a gay) and another calls her My Lady Of The Manor. I saw this and just had to buy it.
If Mum was in a gang, she'd be leader.
Mummy likes CDs. Her favourite periods are the 1940s and 1950s. Her CD storage unit is far too small. It used to be mine. I bought it in the 1980s when I had about thirty compact discs. At its height, my CD collection amounted to over three thousand of the little blighters. Around half have been lost to ebay.
If you look closely at the image, my lamb, you'll see a photograph of a woman holding a baby. The woman is my Mum's sister, Barl. The baby is me. Oh, and I think there's another Witch! Also, see if you can see Emily in adulthood. She's just to the left of the left-most pile of CDs with her brother.
I bought this sailor bust for Mum in 1997. There used to be quite a few of these things strewn all over the walls of the living room when I was a boy. They disappeared with my Father when he left in 1981. I presumed he'd taken them with him. He had not. Mum threw them out when he'd left. They were things he'd bought apparently, and she hated them. But not as much as she hated him. I only found this out recently. I'd like her to be able to take the bust down, but cannot, as I'm not supposed to know what I do know.
Although this was bout in the late 1990s, it's very similar to the ones displayed in the living room in the 1960s and 1970s. The looked very typical, very of the time and went well with our plastic three piece sweet and Roman soldier in chariot wallpaper. The look reminded me of Beverley's living room in Abigail's Party.
Mum, as you can see, dear reader, is mad for religion and photography.
She bought the crucifix from a shop in Lourdes, 1969. Curious that this was the year. Tucked behind it, just about visible, is a card that Ian and I made for her 69th birthday.
The photographs include images of:
Her Father (in fireman's uniform)
Her Mother
Her sister, Barl
Caitlin
Aidan
Isabella
More photographs, more religion. The religion, this time, though, is that of the Native Americans. The photographs are mainly of grandchildren, though one of my brother is visible and another featuring her eldest daughter on her wedding day with her husband. The other two people in the photograph are my Mother's Father and Mother-in-law.
Mum used to be heavily into the teachings of Silver Birch.
This picture was given to Mum by a dying man she cleaned for. He said she should choose something to remember him by before his son cleared everything out.
Poor Mum, she thought it was a real oil painting, pointing out the brush strokes. Sadly, not the brush strokes of the original artist, but of the person who applied the varnish.
She's still convinced it's the genuine article.
This, hen, is Mum's favourite chair and only about six months old. It's not leather, though it looks like it. And that's good enough for Mum. But that's not why it's her favourite chair. No. It rocks! Not in the street speak sense, but in the traditional. Oh, and it comes with a stool which also rocks. Seventh heaven for dear Mum.
I think Mum always dreamt of an idyllic lifestyle in which she'd be seen, knitting in a rocking chair in her seventeenth Century cottage with roses growing around the front door. This chair is as close as she's ever got.
Next to the rear window in the living room, we find an ornamental display from Switzerland, bought in the mid-1970s, a plate given to Mum by her friend (and my Godmother) in 1986 and a giant spoon, a gift from the same woman. She said Mum was good at stirring. Some kind of in-joke. I hope.
This is a squat little walking stick, perhaps only about a metre in length. No, much less. It's designed for a child, you see, and was perfect for me when I was eight years old. A gift from my Mother during a trip to Italy, Switzerland, Austria, Germany and France. I hung it over the door for the purposes of the photograph. It had been stashed in a corner of the room for years. It's now here with me in Edinburgh, Mum telling me I should take it on.
There are four badges nailed onto it, like wee shields:
Bayern
Kehlsteinhaus
St Gilgen
and
Mondsee
I learned to swim in Mondsee. Mum taught me in the lake.
I will soon be adding a fifth badge to the wee stick, Mum having bought one for me during our recent trip to HMY Britannia. Quite fitting, really, as she bought all the others. I was quite shocked to see it, having never seen anything similar in the UK before.
These photographs feature my Mum's parents, Emily and Henry; a wedding photograph and another which looks it was taken a few years later.
Emily died in 1956, the year the UK banned heroin. I never knew her. I'd have liked to.
My Grandfather died in 1981. I knew him very well and we were very close. It's a shame he died when he did, just months before my Father left home, just when we needed him. I'd also have liked to know him in my teenage years and adulthood. Grandfather was a very clever man, very intelligent, like a walking encyclopedia. I would have adored hearing about his life, first hand.
Mum tells me lots about her Father. I think she was very proud of him and loved him dearly. I remember how she broke her heart at his funeral. I've never seen anything so sad.
These, dear reader, are photographs of my cousin's grandson, Aidan.
Question:
Is he my first cousin, twice removed, my second cousin once removed or not a cousin at all?
Aidan is a very bright six year old. His Mother had to move him from one school to another to cope with his hyper-intelligence. Conversely, his sister has also moved, though to the same school as Aidan because of her dyslexia.
Aidan came to visit Mum and I during my stay in Bournemouth. He is obsessed with technology and longed to play with my iPod. Reminding me of myself at his age, he asked me if there were any Dusty Springfield songs on said player or, perhaps, some music to which he could show us the Foxtrot steps he'd been learning at dancing class.
Please, my love, also take note of the stuffed toy he's clutching. He's called Dab. Aidan's constant companion. I remember Pandy.
I find myself wondering what and who he'll grow up to be.
Guten abend, mes amis.
On this night of deepest darkness, before the rising dawn, through frantic pain and suffering, a thought of hope is born. And when the sun is o'er us, when in sunshine we delight, we'll not worry for the moonbeams, who trace us through the night.
Und rüber.
I often think of time, dear reader, the concept of it, not the hour of the day. I've oft concluded that it does not exist and is only a simple measure of distance between events. Just as inches do not exist, they are but marks on a ruler. If time does not exist, how can one travel within it? Can you answer me that, my love?
But travel in time and space, we do. Mr Einstein and Mr Hawking have provided much food for thought but, sadly, more questions than answers. Mr Eintein points to the stars, Mr Hawking also points to the stars, and then to God.
If God exists, he pointed me, on 5th March 2007, to Bristol, to Krafty Bitch.
All things having been planned and arranged by text message, I found myself on the morning train from Bournemouth to Southampton. Please, my little maid, don't ask me what time the train left the station, it was too early in the day for me to care. Well, less care, more absorb.
I like that word. Absorb. I think I'll make it my word of the day.
It wasn't long until the train pulled into Southampton Central. A strange man with Roger Moore eyebrows waved goodbye to me as if I knew him. I shook my head in wonderment and he scowled.
Time to change trains. And platforms.
The Cardiff train was the one for me and my station, Bristol Temple Meads. A strange commuter-style train run on diesel arrived to transport us to the West. I was expecting something bigger. The story of my life, hen. I soon found a seat, a window seat. Although there were plenty more to go around, a middle-aged woman chose the seat next to me to park her bottom. Why, I don't know, because she immediately showed signs of aggitation and it was obvious I was the source of her pain. She looked at me, slyly, several times, then sped her glance away. I coughed. She shot up from her seat like a rat up a drain-pipe and moved.
I settled back into my seat, exchanged a few texts with Phyllis and Krafty and enjoyed the views from the carriage. After a few stops, a young man boarded the train and, as the middle-aged woman had done before him, he sat next to Minge. His constant thumb-fanning of a paperback book annoyed me. As I looked over to see what the book was, I noticed the stubble on his arms. Yes, stubble! He'd shaven his arms. Not that day, of course, or there would be no stubble, but perhaps a week before. I wondered if arm shaving was a trendy thing to do in Wiltshire or Avon, wherever we were. A quick glance around the train was no help as there were no other bare arms to see.
He left the train soon aftrwards. I was a lonely Minge once more. Still, I had the wee boy in the seat in front of me to provide entertainment. He was about ten years old and as camp as knickers, just like the child in Ugly Betty. I laughed out loud when we'd stopped in Bath station:
"I wonder if there's a town called Toilet," he said, "or Shower."
Strange that he didn't think of Sink.
Strange must have been my word of the day that day. Strange people and strange turns of events.
It seemed our arrival in Bristol was only moments later but I think, dear reader, it was about twelve minutes after having left Bath - about 10:50. I disembarked the train carriage and made my way, hurriedly, to the bogs. I was busting for a waz. I then washed my hands, noting the several men who didn't bother, muttering, "Dirty buggers," under my breath.
The ticket barrier retained my permit to travel. Looking up, through the main doors, I saw a white jacket. It was my very own Krafty Bitch.
Although I was indeed excited, I didn't feel a level of excitment I'd come to expect in situations like these. Instead, I felt an emotion not dissimilar to a sigh. Simple relief.
I believed I smiled and waved as Krafty turned to see me. We embraced, kissed and said hello. Without a pause, we began walking into the city centre, conversing as if resuming one we'd only recently had, beginning where we'd left off.
I felt I'd known Krafty for a lifetime (or two, or three...) and felt very comfortable with him. I was eager to know what he thought about past lives and if it were possible we'd known each other in another incarnation. I stopped myself, though, not wanting to appear werid.
A walk of just over a mile brought us to the city centre and a wee coffee shop where we enjoyed an almond croissant and hot chocolate. It took us an eternity to eat and drink said articles, our mouths being so busy spilling out words. And more words. Neither of us are bad at talking. In fact, I'd say we're rather good.
Krafty told me some more about the death and destruction tour. He was very candid and spoke from the heart. I felt that I understood him. I mean, really understood. Not like a driver understands road signs, more like how Ernie Roberts understood Joey Deacon. And I don't mean than in the playground sense.
From the coffee shop, we meandered through the city and soon found ourselves in Bristol Cathedral. It was a beautiful building. I soon spotted the Cathedra and thought one of us belonged in it. A spooky moment.
Then I saw the visitor's book. These things are like magnets to me. I often write comments in them in my pen name, Edna Welthorpe. She is a tribute to Joe Orton. But I digress. I began to think of something witty, humourous or ridiculous to say... But then, after having read the entry of the man just leaving the desk, I couldn't go through with it.
He wrote:
Dear Dad and God
Thank you for support you have given me and Millie recently. She has never shown such strength before. I hope you're ok and wish I could remember and know you more than I believe I do. Please give strength and guidance to Mum, Millie, Jess and me. I'm finding things really hard at the moment and the way in which I don't even know why I'm feeling weak makes it even worse. Please give me guidance. I love you.
Johnny xx
PS Forgive me.
I know it's not very deep or startling, but I stood there for a second, barely able to breathe, feeling moved. I know there was something horribly wrong, but didn't know what. I'd just seen the man who'd written this. I'd seen him put the pen down. I wanted to tell him people cared, that I cared. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to tell him to dream again. But then I felt ridiculous.
Time to tiddle.
Oh! What a fiasco! Minge managed to jam himself in the lock-up. I started to panic and tried to calm myself down, thinking I could call out to someone if they came in. Thankfully, it didn't come to that. After giving up with the bolt, screwing my face up and feeling tearful, I decided to try again. Miracle of miracles, it slid from its sheath like a freshly lubed cucumber from a fetishist's anus.
I must have been in there ten minutes. Krafty would have wondered what I was up to. I told him the entire sorry tale. I thought I'd feel stupid, but didn't. Everything I do is stupid, so I felt no different after telling him than I had before. From stupid, through stupid, to stupid again.
Someone walked past us as we made our way to a wee garden within the grounds of the Cathedral. She said, "Why do you come here?" I thought she was talking to me, which took me aback a bit. She wasn't though.
We then left Bristol Cathedral. I inadvertantly found myself in the cycle lane. A passing cyclist made some nasty comment to me. If I'd had my bag of hammers with me, I'd have thrown one at her. I'm not sure if I'd have gone for the one with the claw end or the mini-mallet, but it would have been one or the other.
With no real direction in mind, we made our way to the water, talking mainly about Jennifer Paterson. A smart little eaterie was soon in sight. We entered and sat at a delightful table with a fabulous wee view of l'eau. Krafty asked me if I'd like a cocktail. I replied, "Oh, do tell me one."
I had a Margarita. Krafty indulged in a Passion Fruit Martini. Pure fabulousness in a glass. This was not a liquid lunch, hen, no. We both ordered a vegetarian mezze. Quite delicious. More talking.
More walking...
...To a church. Appealing, but unfortunately, closed.
This ol' black girl
Needs some shelter
Will you step aside
Or help her?
As we left said church, the heavens opened up. Please excuse the almost-a-pun. Krafty allowed me to share his umbrella. Next stop: shop selling umbrellas. It was soon found and a purchase followed.
From the umbrella shop, we sought out a pub. Karen Walker and I, um, I mean Krafty and I were parched. He checked, en route, where to go for his bus.
The gin slid easily down my throat. In my drunkenness, I told Krafty how my supposedly straight brother likes his female partner to use a strap-on-jack on him. Mortified, Krafty said we'd better leave.
Kindly, he walked me to the train station. It didn't seem as far going back. Return journeys never seem as far as the initial outing, do they, dear reader. I wonder why. Oh, why is it journeys and not journies. I think journies looks better. More camp.
The nearer we were to the station, the more sad I became. I knew that Krafty would soon be leaving me again.
Leavin' me.
Again.
And he did. I seemed to feel squashed under the weight of the world, buried. It was difficult letting go, but unwilling to cause a scene, I did. A hug, a kiss on the cheek, I turned, he was gone.
The shop offered a few filled rolls. It was about 17:00, so I bought one, and I think a chocolate bar. Oh, and some Ribena. Really light!
The train journey home was unkind to my sport. I called Mum. Her chest infection was worse than ever. She'd taken to her bed. Mum never takes to her bed. The fact that she'd done so told me all I needed to know about her state of health.
The train pulled me in a South-easterly direction. My mind, without a guiding compass, was all over the place. Sadness and worry filled my very person until I arrived back at Mum's house some time later. My sister was already there. I made them both a cup of coffee.
Christine (my sister) then joined me in the kitchen. She had a fag and told me to call a doctor in to Mum if she was no better or worse come the morning. I told her not to fret, that I was going to do so anyway.
I went back up to Mum to see if she needed or wanted anything else. She was already asleep.
Ian called. I recounted my day to him, then took the dogs out for a final short walk.
By bed was calling. I washed, brushed my teeth, put my pyjamas on and got under the duvet. Mary promised me she'd not get up on the bed in the night. I switched off the light and was soon in the land of nod.
Everything about my trip to Bristol seemed to have a spooky edge. Even in my telling the tale, an eerie wind blows about my mind and in this room. Spookier yet, as I write this final paragraph, with iTunes on shuffle mode, Unfinished sympathy by Massive Attack begins to play. Massive Attack are from Bristol.
There will be whores, and there will be rumours of whores - and there is a revamped Rumours Of Whores website, dear reader. Yes, there is! And containing a whole world of downloading possibilities.
Click here for an instant orgasm. Go on, you know you want to.
When I was a wee boy in Primary School, our teacher would often set us the task of simply writing a story. Anything. "Just use your imagination," she'd say.
This was fun. I adored it.
What I didn't adore was the reading out of our stories at the end of the day. Everyone would include the names of their friends from school in their stories. Even me. Did I ever hear my name in a story? Did I hell. This made me sad, even depressed.
I was thinking about this a few days ago on looking at an old school photograph of me that my Mum had found in a drawer at home.
Today, I decided to write a story, if I could, including everyone in my blogroll. It's a post-modern sci-fi history of the twenty first cenury. And not very good. Sadly, there appears not to be a beginning, middle nor end.
Hey ho...
Twenty First Century Minge
Lord High President Alan declared war on Russia in 2046. The first skirmishes didn’t start until eighteen months later. In 2048, the first cracks appeared in the seemingly solid United States of Europe. The JAG plan, throwing money at former EU states in order to stop them joining the New Eastern Block was failing.
Ukraine’s new President, a novelist with roots firmly in the twentieth and twenty first centuries began calling for a return to the old ways. Sheba Popov exclaimed, “Mother Russia wants her prodigal daughter back. We should not be proud, my people. Let us go home.”
Money drained from the USE. An extended war would not be cheap.
In June 2048, Alan and Popov met. He agreed to give her independence with electricity and taxation as long as she remained neutral. A few hundred million Euros were thrown into the bargain, too.
In Russia, Dieebel was not happy. Not happy at all. She did not want neutrality. She wanted Popov. She wanted Ukraine. Her own standing depended on it. In launching her bid for re-election, she’d promised Ukraine and Poland would return to the Russian fold. The people had kept her side of the bargain in re-electing her. Now was her turn to hold true to her promise. She simply had to deliver.
But there was no new money coming out of Russia. No money, perhaps, but plenty of potatoes.
Dieebel was on the telephone to Popov.
“No return, to potatoes, honey.”
The new Ukranian Dollar was introduced in August. By September, the potato pipeline was turned off. Without intervention from the USE, starvation would soon be a fact in Europe, unseen since World War III.
Alan arranged to have potatoes flown in. The Russian action ended in fiasco. No payment for potatoes, no return of Ukraine to the Mother country and no promises kept by Dieebel.
To re-establish herself, Dieebel arranged for the arrest of Bosnian President Kraf Ty Bi’tch in May 2049. He’d been making overtures for money from the JAG plan. Dieebel would punish him and exalt himself in one fell swoop, killing two birds with one stone. During the show trial, Kraf Ty Bi’tch admitted trying to set up a fascist state with the support of Alan and the USE.
Life in prison.
In 2051, the Secretary General of the Romanian Presidency, Gab Bea was arrested and charged with a similar conspiracy. Another life sentence.
This was the beginning of a new purge of former USSR states and countries seen as friendly or sympathetic to the new Russian cause. There was a certain anti-Semitic characteristic to the turn of events. The Gulag camps were more full than ever before. The terror spread to the satellite countries. Was it mere coincidence, then, that at that precise point, on 17th March 2053, Dieebel died, quite suddenly, of a stroke?
Eye-witness accounts of his final hours differ wildly on essential points, fateful in itself, though they all agree that he did lie on his bedroom floor for hours. He was a victim of his own fear. None of his staff, Rand, Bogue or Brian dared enter his chambre, even on hearing him moan in agony. If Dieebel’s frailty and state of health got out, he might have them shot.
No doctor was even summoned. Carioca informed Enda who, in turn, took a look in at Dieebel by softly opening the door to the inner sanctum a few centimetres.
“Can’t you see Comrade Dieebel is simply sleeping?” bellowed Enda. “Get out, all of you and leave her to rest, you fucking cunts.”
Later, Dieebel’s chief of police, Galien Davidov would admit, “I did her in. I saved all your lives, you idiots, you wimps. You’d rather sit back and die in fear of being killed. I was not so afraid.”
Dieebel’s death throws went on for five days. No explanation was ever given for the lack of a doctor, though a Dr Viris Pulchris did sign the death certificate, citing his presence at the moment of Dieebel's departure from this world. Pulchris has never been traced. No Dr Pulchris has ever been registered on the official list of physicians in Russia. Never.
Dieebel’s Daughter, Oldga Cheeser, a very camp woman, often accused of being a man, said, “At the very last moment, she opened her eyes, looked at all of us. Terrible gaze, though unafraid of death. She told us we were all blessed and good people.”
Dieebel’s successor, General Anjou, softly spoken, commented, “When it was obvious Dieebel had drawn her final breath, Oldga began laughing. I could see the look of relief on her face. Dieebel’s life was over, but so was Oldga’s life of fear. I was pleased for her, secretly.”
The show trials all collapsed and The Gulag mothballed. Less than a week after Dieebel’s death, Anjou was able to seize power after a vote in The People’s Assembly. Alexei Hamster nominated Anjou, seconded by Hildert Schildert.
From that day on, Dieebel’s name was never even mentioned in the press, on the interweb or on television.
Anjou had only one rival, Dieebel’s own daughter, Oldga Cheeser. By the end of that year, Anjou had ordered her shot.
All the people I’ve spoken to from Russia and her connected states can remember what they were doing on the morning of 20th March 2053 when Dieebel’s death was announced.
Invar Iableplethora from Dieebelgrad told me, “Everyone was crying, though their eyes were dry. As a child, I was a good actress. I could produce real tears. Mother glared at me. It was right to be seen to cry, but I shouldn’t really be crying. It would be a long time before I understood.”
Is Mise said, “I was just on my way home from a disco. My father told me I shouldn’t be wearing glittery shoes on a day like this.”
Another witness, Joseph Mygod was quite candid. “I’d just turned eighteen so joined the Russian Party, as all eighteen year olds did. I rang the bank and cancelled the cheque. I spent the money on chocolate, hats, shoes and gloves.”
Jug Gerpixov: “I was watching television. I had one eye on that, another on the keypad of my phone, dialling an airline to book a ticket back to Poland. I felt sure things would go from bad to worse.”
History has given us a great number of political characters; Cromwell, Napoleon, Hitler, Bush. Yes, all criminals, but all great statesmen. People don’t even want to know that such a combination is possible. But it is possible. The world is a complicated place and this was a complicated situation. Dieebel might have been a murderer of her own people, but she did keep Kapitano and the Italians in their place during World War III. And in the war launched on Russia by Alan and the USE, Dieebel only ever retaliated in self defense, never once did she attack a foreign sovereign state.
However, when Lassiter made it known that war was only an option for Alan because of Dieebel’s stubborn nature, Brian had him charged with being a London spy. The typical and obvious punishment was death. Lassiter was shot.
Matt Y’sbit, Dieebel’s political advisor, kept his job after Anjou seized power. He told me, “Anjou was a clown, naïve and good at telling jokes. He should have been an actor, a comedian, not a President. He was not a criminal, not a murderer, not a sex-pig. You need to be all of these things to be a statesman, a President.”
Anjou may well have not been a shining example of a good President, but he was a steady captain, held the country together and steered the ship of state on a course to stability having sued for peace with the USE.
“He panicked,” commented Moncrief De Brett, Mayor of Dieebelgrad during the Dieebel/Anjou changeover period. “He was frightened of nuclear war with Europe and The Islamic Alliance. Dieebel got what he wanted by being brave and bullish. Anjou got what he wanted by being meek and mild.”
De Brett left politics in 2063. He told me, as a committed atheist, Saint Francis of Assisi was his favourite Saint. He was not religious, but, on understanding the word originates from another, meaning to be attached, understood he was no longer attached to politics. Politics was no longer his religion. He believed, but was not attached. He felt an attachment to Saint Francis, but did not believe in him. Saint Francis didn’t mind, and a whisper of his name meant his neighbour would cease kicking his little dog.
Alan’s apparent victory over the Russians made him very popular. He remained President until his death in May 2064. His deputy, Susanna Junt became President for the final six months of the term with elections held in November. The winner was rank outsider PJ Ess.
In electioneering, PJ spoke of a third golden age and of new beginnings but did not really commit to definite policies or an agenda. The people of the USE thought they were in for much of the same. They were wrong.
PJ appointed former British Home Stores head, Dan O’Deness as finance minister. Taxes were hiked on haute couture and rationing removed on off the peg clothing. As long as it was bought in BHS. Thomas Oink was appointed health minister. Green vegetables and citrus fruits were banned in an attempt to encourage the population to eat more chocolate. Eddie Mair was appointed Minister For The Airts. Nudity became compulsory on stage. Reluc Tant No Mad became Foreign Minister. His first task was to start a war with The People’s Republic Of Scotland. As a result, all the citizens of the USE spent their lives in the theatre, wearing bad clothes, watching actors mime the wearing of clothes from their wheelchairs (unable to walk because of Rickets). The Scottish Play was never performed again.
Lewis Saint, a child when Alan died remembers the times well, commenting, “It was like I’d woken up in another world. People hid oranges and lemons under the bed. If you weren’t eating chocolate or watching nude plays, you’d be reported to the police. Guaranteed. It was a good job I liked the theatre and Nutrageous.”
Brian E Turtle was similarly shocked. “One day I had a fruit in my mouth, the next, something brown.”
Bill Cornjob worked for PJ during and after her successful election campaign. In my interview with him, he said, “PJ never even thought about victory. When I told her she was our new President, she practically had a fit. If the mars bar was in her mouth, she’d have choked on it. If anyone finds out about the Marianne Faithful role play, I’ll kill you.”
Living in an alternative society is great if you’re an alternative kind of person. Of course, all the citizens of the USE were not alternative, not now, not then. Applications for Pacifican and Scots citizenship from inside the USE went through the roof.
La Liliana, former star of The Girl With The Golden Mind was used in government films to encourage people to stay. She spoke at length on the joys of watching actors perform in the nude and how chocolate was a health food. PJ did encourage her to work the Marianne magic with a mars bar for the small screen, but she put her foot down.
Thankfully, her friend and star of This Quarter Life Crisis, Dick Watalotta was keen to oblige. This was his first step into the world of politics. Who’d have thought, way back then, that he’d now be Our Glorious Leader IX?
He’s done a lot of good for the country, exposing Michael Shadow as a pre-op dyke and revealing to the world that Captain Jack Harkness was in fact not a science fiction soap opera but a fly on the wall documentary. All hail.
The last five people with whom I discussed the politics of the mid twenty first century and the aftermath of World War III were Phyllis, Michèle, Jo, Schayne and Zona, members of the girl group Les Dirty Sluts. Their only comment:
“What?”
Whatever happened to Spagna?
Click here to find out, dear reader, and here to see a short edit of her classic hit Call me. Oh, but before you do all that, learn Italian! Go on, you know you want to.
J'adore Spagna. The late 1980s were made so much better by her presence. I was lucky enough to receive a Walkman for my birthday in 1987 and constantly played cassettes on it during my twenty minute walk to school every day until I left in 1988. I recorded Call me from the radio and was gutted when I'd worn the tape out after repeated playing and rewinding of the two songs recorded back to back, Call me and What have I done to deserve this? by Pet Shop Boys and Dusty Springfield.
My Spagna top 10:
- Call me
- Easy lady
- Lady Madonna
- I always dream about you
- Don't go away tonight
- Love at first sight
- Why me?*
- I wanna be your wife
- Every girl and boy
- This generation
*I like the way she sings, "Four o'clock in the night," when, if English were her first language, she'd have sung, "Four o'clock in the morning."
What's in a name, dear reader?
Kathy and George are a couple. Should Kathy change her name to Mildred or should George change his name to Heathcliff?
Something has to happen.
This. Or that.
But not the other.
I've been to a marvellous party. A red and black ball.
Above, dear reader, we see Minge dancing with his niece to Call Me by Spagna. Remember that one, hen? Hey, how long, can I stay without a touch, I wonder? You can never know a loneliness. Hey, my love, no, no, don't leave me on my own, please call me. Do it, baby, please.
For the record, I dance like Dawn Davenport on acid. If I had jugs, they'd be battered and bruised after an hour on the dancefloor.
Ian went to a factory in Eyemouth today where peas are frozen. I tagged along for the ride. While Ian investigated said factory, I had a look around the town.
The storm at sea and extremely high tide fascinated me, as it did many other people. I must have been joined by at least a dozen other people throughout the hour I spent there, cameras in hand.
Click here, dear reader, to have a look at the wee movie I made on my mobile telephone. The cruel sea.
I've walked along the beach at Eyemouth many times before. Imagine, if I'd been on the sands today, I'd have had two metres of sea water above my head. Thank goodness I wasn't.
Of course, Eyemouth has seen many storms before, the worst being Black Friday. Click here to read all about it.
From Eyemouth, we went on to Duns to see Ian's Aunty June. She's a lovely lady, fabulous. She gave us a bowl of soup and two cups of tea. There were lots of pictures of Dorothy around the place. Dorothy was Ian's Mum, June's sister. June and Dorothy were very close. I felt quie sad on leaving Duns today and thought about my own sister, Christine.
Can we get together? I really want to be with you. Come on, check it out with me. I hope you feel the same way, too.
