Broken News...

Taken from the London Evening Standard newspaper, June 13th, 2012

Ronaldo's Ego Escapes in Ukraine

Reports from Ukraine this evening claim that the ego of Portugese superstar Cristiano Ronaldo has escaped and is currently on the loose in the city of Lviv. The footballer had been celebrating his national team's thrilling victory over Denmark in the Euro 2012 tournament when it emerged his ego had departed his body and set off into the dead of night.

Ukranian authorities confirmed the dramatic news in a press conference held just minutes ago, according to Reuters. In a statement by Chief of National Security Yaroslav Ivanovski, the public have been warned not to approach Ronaldo's ego if encountered and to be extra vigilant if frequenting night clubs and bars.

Eyewitness accounts of the moment of escape tell of the pin-up socialising in a hotel bar with friends and team mates when a brief scuffle ensued and his sizable ego was suddenly running amok in the hotel lobby. Following several attempts to apprehend their quarry, hotel security guards were forced to alert authorities to the escape when the ego eventually left the building and boarded a bus heading to the city.

An artist's impression of Ronaldo's ego

Immediately following the escape, the physical body of the footballer was apparently observed sitting alone in the hotel lounge reading a paperback by the popular "Chick-Lit" novelist Marian Keyes. Natalia Marchenko, an employee of the hotel said, "He was suddenly a different man. First of all he tripped carrying a tray of drinks and spilt red wine down his trousers, then he declined to sign an autograph on a woman's breasts in case his mum found out about it." Another eyewitness, Isydora Lippnik claimed, "He kept getting his words mixed up and managed to talk to me for a full 10 minutes without realising he had a booger sticking out the end of his nose."

Meanwhile, fresh claims have emerged that his rampant ego has been caught attempting to steal several pots of hair gel from a leading Lviv department store. Unconfirmed reports suggest the ego eluded arrest by accusing another shopper of placing 17 pots of gel into its bag. Following much heated discussion and theatrical posturing, the ego was said to have fled empty handed.

At the time of writing Ronaldo's ego is said to still be at large in the city. Yaroslav Ivanovski has stated that "everything is being done" to apprehend the ego and reported that the National Security Service has enlisted the help of the army and "every possible source" to return the ego to its body. This is said to include Ronaldo's team manager Paulo Bento, who is "desperate" to reunite his star player's ego and body for a forthcoming group match with Holland, not to mention his wife and her missing Marian Keyes paperback.

Copyright - Matthew Jenkins, June 2012

Not Responding

There follows an excerpt from the latest edition of the computing weekly, "IT Matters?" Although yet to become a best-selling publication (or in fact published), the magazine deals with the issues most commonly confronted by people such as the author, who may have regularly been rendered hysterical by a system apparently with a mind of its own.

10 THINGS TO DO WHILST WAITING

FOR A SLOW COMPUTER

Here, in the latest in his series "10 Things to Do," Nigel St. Faversham explores the options available to those of us struggling with a slow computer. Whether due simply to a full memory, or corrupted to oblivion with countless tics and viruses from the internet, a quick run-through our Top Ten will soon restore your love affair with the laptop, or at the very least keep that stroke at bay for just a few days longer. In keeping with tradition we have listed our options in descending order, with the least effective first through to the even less effective last...

10 - Sit back in your chair and take a very deep breath

This is the most basic and commonly used coping strategy when a computer suddenly decides to take up to 3 hours carrying out the simplest of tasks. On its own it has little or no use in countering your computer's temperamental persuasions, and is best used in conjunction with one or several of the below options.

9 - Sit back in your chair, take a deep breath and curse freely

This is slightly more effective than option 10, and at least begins to portray to your computer the degree of hostility it may currently be cultivating inside your head. This tactic also hints at any potential retaliation that may occur should your system fail to start working properly imminently.

8 - Sit back in your chair taking deep breaths, cursing freely and making specific threats towards your computer

Although this option may temporarily bolster our morale in what is by now clearly becoming a long and drawn-out battle between man and micro-chip, it does in fact have little strategic use and can indeed portray us as a little strange if witnessed by any colleagues in the vicinity. If this tactic is utilised it should therefore be deployed with extreme caution.

7 - Having sat back in your chair taking deep breaths, cursing freely and making specific threats towards your computer, leap forward and start clicking randomly in frustration

Here we have an example of an operator falling at the first hurdle. It should be clear at this point that our computer will try anything to provoke us into a catastrophic error, and so we must be on guard against such lapses of mental strength. It goes without saying that this option can only hand victory to our plastic nemesis, who will subsequently cite over-clicking-confusion as its justification in freezing for at least a whole morning. Anyone utilising this option should immediately move on to Option 1 below.

6 - Having resisted the temptation to leap forward and start clicking randomly in frustration, rise from your chair and pace round the room in circles

This is an excellent tactic for several reasons. Firstly, being out of reach of your computer prohibits the pitfalls associated with Option 7 above. Secondly, leaving your workstation even for a few minutes in such circumstances has been medically proven to reduce the risk of fatal heart seizure by up to 50%. Finally, the resulting stand-off, although temporary, affords valuable time to formulate our next manoeuvre in what has become an attritional contest.

5 - Having failed to rise from your chair and pace round the room in circles, fall asleep in your chair

The tactic of falling asleep in your chair (whether genuinely, or faked in an attempt to coax your computer into life) is also a good choice when we reach this stage in the contest (usually the 2 hour-mark). Research has shown that in such cases a computer will mysteriously return to perfect working order just as the operator dozes off. Accordingly, this choice usually results in an end to the confrontation, although by the time the operator wakes up he/she might find themselves decorated with saliva and/or the subject of attention from any aforementioned colleagues who may be present/pointing and giggling.

4 - Having stayed awake, rise from your chair and head to the office water cooler to socialise/calm down

Again, the operator can do much worse than employ this tactic. Anyone reaching this point can begin to feel quietly confident by now that they may indeed emerge victorious at the end of the contest. However, care should be taken not to lower our defences too much, as there is still much work and suffering to be undertaken if we are to achieve our goal. Having a "water cooler moment" has several benefits to the operator at this stage. If we can successfully portray an image of calm and composure (only to be attempted by the most experienced operator) it affords us an excellent opportunity to mingle with various coveted colleagues of the opposite sex. It is optional at this stage whether we should discuss our current difficulties with such acquaintances; if we display too much bravado or offer any hint of impending mental collapse our efforts may actually become counter-productive. If we can't successfully portray an image of calm and composure, at the very least we may be temporarily distracted from a) random mouse-clicking, b) crying, and c) any disastrous course of action as described in Options 3 and 2 below. Furthermore, if indeed no-one shows up for us to talk to, we have at least reaped the benefits offered by pacing round the room in circles as in Option 6 above.

3 - Having risen from your chair and failed to stop at the office water cooler to socialise/calm down, continue walking until outside the building

If we find ourselves opting for this tactic at such a crucial stage, the odds are we may be heading towards an emphatic defeat. This is a pivotal point in the confrontation with our still-frozen computer, and we must summon all our mental strength and courage if we are to avoid such a humiliating defeat. A common reaction to reaching the fresh air of the external world is to question our reasons to be battling with a collection of wires in the first place, as well as, having decided not to return to the office that day after all, questioning any attractive passers-by if they would like to go for a drink. Either of these actions would prove fatal, as in each case our computer is guaranteed to miraculously un-freeze at the precise moment we decide not to return. Again, the more experienced computer operator may choose to deceive his/her computer by leaving the building in an attempt to lull their machine into a false sense of victory, only to surprisingly return moments later (sometimes through an open window). As in Option 4 above, this should only be attempted by the most experienced users, as the slightest hesitation can prove our undoing.

2 - Having failed to stop at the office water cooler to socialise/calm down and continued walking until outside the building, suffer some kind of breakdown and/or continue walking blindly in any direction until assuming a new identity

Obviously, if we reach this point, we have lost. This, however, is a moot point in itself. Anyone opting for this last-hurrah tactic could rightly argue that they no longer care whether their computer has won or lost, mainly owing to the fact that they may currently be roller-skating naked through the park wearing a pair of swimming goggles. The alternative choice of walking blindly in any direction until assuming a new identity is an equally effective get-out clause from the whole sorry incident but also one that should be utilised only in the case of extreme meltdown. Again, a moral victory may be claimed in such cases, as there is a high likelihood that the operator by this point will have become a born-again technophobe and therefore destined to experience the freedom secured by a future communicating via pen and paper and two baked bean cans joined together by a piece of string.

1 - Having ignored all of the above available options, sit and wait till your computer finally does something

This final option is the action of the broken operator and should be utilised only in the event of a) being illiterate and therefore unable to read the above available options, and b) being unable to locate a large hammer. If either or both of these happen to be the case, simply sit and wait till your computer finally does something. If and when it does, firstly pinch yourself firmly to ensure you are not dreaming having already chosen Option 5 above. If it is still doing something, either switch off immediately and go and do something else, or continue using as normal until it freezes again. If opting for the latter, see Option 10 above, or simply curl up in a ball on the floor and wail uncontrollably until someone wearing a white coat comes to take you away.

***************************************

Next week: More expert advice from Nigel St. Faversham as he tackles the disturbing subject of identity fraud in "10 Things to Do if Your Hard Drive is Taken Away in a Freezer Bag and You Are Arrested For Opium Trafficking."

Not to be missed...

© Matthew Jenkins, June 2012.

mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk

Friends Like These

As a zombified patron of the social networking phenomenon, it is hard not to notice certain recurring themes throughout this endless correspondence we rate on a par with oxygen as essential to human existence. It is a well documented fact that few of us can now even go to the toilet without feeling the need to submit a lengthy report of the event to countless friends, girlfriends and mostly forgotten colleagues from some office we may have frequented 20 years ago. Most of us, of course, trawl the social networking sites in search of anything sufficiently amusing to distract us from the reality of our own mundane existence. As we escape into a world of wit, wisdom and shared holiday photos, life becomes that bit more bearable nestled amidst the occasionally inspirational offerings of our circle of similarly attention-bent acquaintances. However, those more astute attention seekers amongst us are in the process required to sift through a perpetual stream of decidedly uninspiring “Status” posts in order to reach such hidden gems.


But are these banal statements to be dismissed so quickly? Here, in an excerpt from his new book, “Social Networking and the Subconscious,” Dr Leonard Hirschbaum examines the use of the Facebook status as a vehicle for profound insight in the modern world. Viewed by many academics as a cornerstone for the future of psychiatry, his groundbreaking work questions the validity of the inane Facebook status as a symbol of mental vacuity, suggesting instead it may actually be indicative of a deeply perceptive mind. 


The following passages contain Hirschbaum’s interpretation of some typical correspondence between several Facebook “friends.” These friends were selected at random from a group of socially promiscuous young adults recently observed at the Mount Sedorf Institute for the Slightly Simple.


Case Study 1: Housework as an expression of hostility and repressed desire


Dawn Hughes: “Dishes washed, dried and put away, washing machine on, time for the soaps...”
Becci McAndrew likes this.
Becci McAndrew: “You need a dishwasher. Lol.”
Dawn Hughes: “Lol. I wish... a fireman would be nice”
Becci McAndrew: “Ooh yes, that hose would be handy...”
Clare Dawson likes this.
Clare Dawson: “Lol! Just settling down for the soaps too – my bathroom and toilet are now gleaming... Bliss!”


Dr Hirschbaum’s Interpretation:


Here we have a typical exchange between like-minded people who see their relaxation time watching television as divine reward for their efforts performing routine household chores. In the first statement, Dawn Hughes claims to have not only washed her dishes, but also to have dried them and “put [them] away.” This can be seen not only as representative of a need for extreme order, but also as an aggressive statement towards any inactive partner present (or not present) who may have been expected to assist in the ritual. Becci McAndrew’s bitingly sarcastic response, suggesting that the use of a dishwasher may go some way to ease the burden of dishwashing, is clearly an attempt (for presumably personal reasons) to “fan the flames” of a situation that is evidently already getting out of hand. This loss of control is perfectly illustrated by Dawn Hughes in her subsequent statement in which she wishes for a Fireman to arrive at her home to assist in domestic matters. The significance of her choice in a “Fireman” should of course not be overlooked, with its Freudian implications regarding fire hoses (hinted at in Becci McAndrew’s response: “Ooh yes, that hose would be handy...”), and also the scaling of tall buildings with said fire hose in tow. Further, her hostility towards a presumably underperforming spouse is only thinly veiled in the comment “a fireman would be nice.” This inability to repress inner fantasy together with the aforementioned symbolism  of “putting” her “dry” dishes “away” clearly suggests a pressing need to resolve her marital issues sooner rather than later if a potentially messy break-up is to be avoided. On a final note, much significance can be gleaned from Clare Dawson’s closing declaration that her “bathroom and toilet are now gleaming.” This jump in subject matter from “Fireman” to “Toilet” speaks volumes of a personality desperate to unlock subconscious desires and eventually “flush away” associated feelings of remorse and guilt. To use the word “bliss” in the same sentence as a “gleaming” toilet also suggests an underlying need to be seen as attractive by the opposite sex. If this desire is fulfilled, the patient subsequently projects the so-called blissful state onto the concept of sitting in front of a television set to watch soap operas.


NB. In the above exchange, the commonly used abbreviation “L.O.L.” is utilised several times to express amusement at some previous comment. This particular phenomenon will be analysed separately in a later chapter, entitled, “LOL: Is it the New “Absolutely?””


Case Study 2: Toenail clippings and their relationship with the Super Ego


Gaz Patterson: “Just cut me toenails.”
Stevie Simmons: “Hey! Just cut mine too. In front of the footy.”
Gaz Patterson likes this.
Gaz Patterson: “Lol. Cheryl gone nuts, may have blinded the dog actually...”
Cheryl Patterson: “He did nearly blind the dog, told him to use the sodding scissors instead of clippers.”
Stevie Simmons likes this.
Stevie Simmons: “I’m also a clipper man.”
Gaz Patterson: “Can’t beat the feeling. I file too...”
Stevie Simmons: “Lol. I should file – caught wife’s leg in bed once with rough nail, wot a mess.”


Dr Hirschbaum’s Interpretation:


In this revealing exchange, Gaz Patterson sets the tone for the following posts with his startlingly frank opening gambit, “Just cut me toenails.” His use of the word “me” to refer to himself, as opposed to the grammatically correct “my” is of course highly significant and should perhaps be analysed. Although consciously used to project an image of street credibility, the underlying subconscious motivation here is clear: a chance to draw attention to oneself from oneself (by thinking, typing and seeing the word “me”), as well of course as drawing attention from oneself to oneself (by thinking, typing and seeing the word “me,” but misreading it as “you.”) Finding himself (as well as his “self”) the subject of attention from his own self (himself), Gaz here is also reaching out to his readership in the hope of gaining sufficient attention to sate a narcissistic drive for perfection in the eyes of others both within himself, his self, and also that (or those) of any others who may still be following the text. Stevie Simmons’ response, claiming not only to have also cut his toenails, but actually in front of a football match (for reasons of simplicity we must assume that this match was on television rather than on a football pitch in front of him) can be seen as a clear attempt to outperform his friend. The fact that Gaz Patterson then goes on to “like” this post suggests his Super Ego is shifting up a gear, as he grapples with the associated guilt of his previous post and its unashamed declaration of self-obsession. His subsequent distraction technique involving his wife and a dog apparently struck by an airborne toenail clipping confirms this regression, while his wife herself (who it should be noted fails to cut her toenails throughout) compounds his feelings of regret with her use of the word “sodding” to describe an absent pair of nail scissors. Stevie Simmons, whose own rampant Super Ego has clearly depicted himself (whether to his “self” also is not clear) in possession of the moral high ground, then goes for the jugular by declaring himself  ”also” to be a “clipper man.” This mockery of his now-dethroned acquaintance speaks volumes, particularly when compared to Gaz Patterson’s “last chance saloon” parting shot claiming that he also files his toenails once they have been clipped. Finally, there follows in the closing post of the exchange irrefutable proof of the complexity of the psyche: Our formerly all-conquering Stevie Simmons suddenly morally implodes by calmly admitting his utter failure to file his freshly cut toenails, even going on to describe the macabre one-time consequences of this perceived misdemeanour. And so, the clear victor in this exchange eventually turns out to be the collective Super Ego itself (or “of” itself, or themselves), although of course we can assume the dog too finally came through with unimpeded vision.


Case Study 3: Astro-physics as a social vehicle for the near-subnormal


Prof. J.D. Bergman: “Whether we are searching the cosmos or probing the subatomic realm, our most successful theories lead to the inescapable conclusion that our universe is just a speck in a vast sea of nothingness.”
Dr Isaac Rosenthal: “Surely though, recent progress in string theory, cosmology and quantum mechanics has brought about a change of heart, has it not?”
Prof. J.D. Bergman likes this.
Prof. J. D. Bergman: “Yes, but the multiverse is not some kind of optional thing, it’s there and we need to deal with it.”
Dr Isaac Rosenthal: “I agree. One of the things that keeps me awake at night is the need to explain why the physical laws underlying our universe seem so finely tuned as to allow galaxies, stars, planets, complex chemistry and life itself to exist?”
Prof. J.D. Bergman: “Yes, but rather than put it down to God or blind luck, I would suggest that our existence sets parameters that can be proven to explain how our universe was in fact plucked from the infinity of the multiverse.”
Dr Isaac Rosenthal likes this.


Dr Hirschbaum’s Interpretation:


The above correspondence can be seen as representative of the desensitisation of critical thought so commonly seen in social networking. The subject matter discussed, namely the possible explanation of existence, belies a profound lack of stimulation and cultural awareness in the lives of the two friends involved. When stripped of their superficial banter, it is clear that these two friends have very little meaningful to say to each other, probably as a result of  over-exposure to common social distractions, such as mobile networking and reality television. Prof. Bergman’s hackneyed opening remark, suggesting we exist within a “speck” amongst “nothingness” undoubtedly portrays a cynical personality likely to be burdened with the daily pressures of the very existence he supposedly attempts to analyse. This theory is further endorsed in his following statement, where he utilises the symbolism of the multiverse to represent his apparently sizeable personal problems, which he finally acknowledges he must “deal with.” Dr Rosenthal, on the other hand, at least attempts to paint a more positive outlook, though having been spoon-fed from the pulp of prime time TV and the glossy world of celebrity he probably wouldn’t be in a position to explain why. His reliance on his friend for any kind of conversational impetus is highlighted by his use of the term “...has it not?” and can be seen as confirmation of our previous assumption that he may well read a “red-top” daily newspaper. Indeed, in his second post, Dr Rosenthal describes his interrupted sleep patterns. This is a common observation amongst the more active social networkers in our study, who often stay up all night whilst networking on several platforms simultaneously. “Catch-up” TV during the following day (often entirely spent in with the curtains closed) provides the opportunity to keep up to date with popular entertainment, while those who are actually employed in some kind of work may be tempted to “pull a sicky.” In his closing post, Prof. Bergman (undoubtedly an Alpha Male) confirms his dominance over his more optimistic though intellectually inferior friend by suggesting his own personal theory relating to the origins of existence. This pseudo-intellectual pomposity can easily be discarded however, when we take into account Prof. Bergman’s already alluded-to personal problems and their inevitable effect on his mental stability. His use of the phrase “the infinity of the multiverse” is a worrying choice of words in this case and would probably indicate an acute state of depression and the need for close psychiatric observation. Finally, as Dr Rosenthal opts simply to “like” Prof. Bergman’s closing offering, we are granted indisputable proof of Dr Rosenthal's profound lack of depth and his inability to partake even in the lowest forms of conversation.

****************************************

Dr Hirschbaum’s book, “Social Networking and the Subconscious” is available from 1st June from some good bookstores. Reserve your copy... well, some time, anyway...


©Matthew Jenkins, May 2012.

Conversations with Myself

Somewhere, a telephone ringing...


“Finally he answers. What took you so long?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s me.”

“Who’s me?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Me.”

“Oh – not you again.”

“You’re free to talk?”

“Why do you have to ring me up? Can’t you just appear in my head like most other thoughts?”

“It’s the only way to make you listen. Otherwise you’ll just end up drifting off thinking about something else. Probably that girl at work who, incidentally, is far too young for you – it would never last.”

“How did you get my number?”

“I looked on your phone. Could have got it off the internet too – amazing what you can find on there.”

“So, what do you want? I’m busy.”

“Well, I had a spare few minutes, so thought I’d call you for a quick chat.”

“I haven’t got time for a quick chat. I’ve only just got in and need something to eat. Can’t you ring me back at bedtime? I want to write something.”

“If I ring you back at bedtime you’ll keep falling asleep when I’m trying to talk to you. Don’t you know how annoying that is? Then, next thing you know, I’ll have to communicate with you via one of your strange dreams. I can never get the point across. You eat too much cheese. Distorts everything.”

“I like cheese. Besides, it’s not the cheese, it’s you. You need to relax. If you stopped thinking for a few hours maybe I could get some proper sleep.”

“I’m only trying to help. You should be thanking me. Look at all those people who don’t have any thoughts at all. You think they’re happy?”

“Probably. But they wouldn’t know it having not thought about it.”

“Exactly. So, you should be glad to have me showing such concern.”

“Why should you be concerned?”

“Because when things go wrong, I have to put up with all those bad thoughts up here. They’re a nightmare - make so much noise at night when everyone’s trying to sleep. Plus, you’re impossible to cheer up when you get in one of your moods. I get exhausted trying.”

“Aren’t you responsible for the bad thoughts too?”

“No – they come from just around the corner in your brain. I’m thinking of moving further away actually.”

“This is madness.”

“You said it.”

“Who’s paying for this call by the way, me or you?”

“You, of course. I cancelled my contract.”

“So, how do you want to help me? Leaving me in peace for a few hours would be a start.”

“Oh, so you can sit at the computer coming up with more of that drivel? You think anyone will ever read that?”

“You’re supposed to do the thinking. You tell me.”

“Ok. Seeing as you asked, no. No one will ever read it. You know why?”

“Knowing is your department too.”

“Ah. So clever. Haven’t you ever noticed that no one ever talks in it? It’s all narrative.”

“So? Who needs dialogue?”

“People who don’t fall asleep reading, that’s who. Not everyone’s like you, you know. Your reading habits are terrible, I should point out. Half a page and your mouth’s agape like a Venus flytrap.”

“That’s your fault with the intense dreams. Let me sleep properly and I’ll polish off War and Peace in an evening.”

“You wouldn’t make page two. Put some nice dialogue in there, you might pull off the first chapter.”

“I don’t like dialogue. Who has the time to work out all those characters, let alone put in all the quotation marks?”

“That’s just denial. You know you’ve been avoiding it. That’s why I’ve called you up to help out.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“You mean you haven’t noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“What you’ve been doing for the last hour?”

“Well, I’ve been talking to you for most of it.”

“What about the two pages so far?”

“Dialogue. Oh - I get it.”

“The things I do for you.”

“I might just delete it. I want that pizza in the fridge.”

“You can’t delete it; I’m coming across too well to end up in the recycling bin.”

“You’re coming across well?”

“Perceptive, witty, you have to admit it.”

“But you’re me. I’m the witty one.”

“We’re going to argue?”

“Look, I’m happy with endless narrative. I don’t want witty dialogue.”

“An argument might be good actually. A chance for me to flex my wit muscles.”

“Any minute now, and I’m stopping with the quotation marks – then you’ll be stuck.”

“All I have to do is keep talking. You won’t be sorry.”

“I might hang up. It’s a meat feast pizza. My mouth is watering.”

“Go and eat and you’ll lose the flow.”

“What makes you think I’m coming back?”

“I’ll make you think going is a bad idea, then you won’t be able to come back because you won’t have gone in the first place.”

“I might have thoughts about really wanting to eat that pizza in the fridge.”

“You already did. I’m holding them at bay by showing them your thoughts about that young girl at work. They may be some time.”

“Look, you’ve made your point. There are three pages of dialogue now. Can’t I break it up with some brief narrative?”

“Well, I am a little hungry myself. All this talking – quite a thirst too. Do you have anything to drink?”

“You should go and rest. What if I promise not to delete what we’ve done so far?”

“You’ve got your fingers crossed. You think I don’t know?”

“Okay, okay. Go and eat and leave me alone for a while. I’ll just carry on from here.”

“I suppose I could check in on those thoughts of the girl at work for a bit, too.”

“Feel free. Take your time. Enjoy.”

“I’m still here keeping an eye on you – no dialogue after a couple of paragraphs and I’m ringing you straight back...”

The Day We Moved the Barn

Dad wanted to move the barn. Quite why he wanted to move the barn was never clear, but it was thought by some to have something to do with an ancient dispute over land boundaries and the positioning of next door’s rather capacious hen house. It seemed a lucrative deal had been struck between our delusional father and our neighbour, Madame Bergerac, involving the moving of our barn thirty feet due west in return for a sustainable quantity of chicken-related produce, and the odd case of Chateaux Fongrave.

   Madame Bergerac was a peasant-like widow hailing from rural south west France who although a polite and generous acquaintance, did often appear to reside with us rather than in her neighbouring be-shuttered abode. On this particular occasion, it was generally seen as good sense to cooperate fully in her pact with Dad, whose fractious mental state had not been helped by his recent rejection by the local cooperative regarding the sale to them of 12,000 organically-grown parsnips. His erratic behaviour had been steadily growing worse, so it was decided as a family that we would all pull together in an effort to successfully relocate his barn without further trauma, or indeed any mention of 12,000 parsnips.

   In order to build a sufficiently capable army of barn-movers, family members were recruited from far and wide, with no limits on age, physical agility, or mental cohesion. Our house, which was usually organised and run with the air of a Marx Brothers film set, was to accommodate said relatives in comfort amidst a jovial atmosphere of catch-ups and sentimental reminiscence. Or so it was planned. The impending invasion by so many eccentrics was apparently proving a bit much for Mum, who was constantly struggling with various ailments of her own which she deemed sufficiently terminal to signal the end of her particular world...

Again, ringing...



“I’m just building up to it!”

“I’m falling asleep already.”

“I can’t just start from the beginning with dialogue...”

“I thought we already had.”

“That wasn’t the beginning, it was the introduction.”

“I’m too good for an introduction, I should have star billing in the beginning.”

“It starts with Dad wanted to move the barn. That’s the beginning.”

“If you upset me I’ll make you dream about being naked in Tesco again. Anyway, what’s this about moving a barn?”

“It’s something I’ve had lying round that I was going to try and finish.”

“I’d leave it lying round.”

“Listen, I get your point. Can’t you just let me get on with it?”

“You’ve got to change. Try something different. Maybe a play?”

“I haven’t got time to write a play. I want some pizza.”

“Yes, come to think of it, a play would be good for you. Practically all dialogue. You’d lose your phobia.”

“What would I write a play about?”

“I’m sure you could come up with something...”

AS YET UNTITLED

A COMEDY IN 2 ACTS EXPLORING PASSION FOR STAGE DRAMA AND WHAT IT CAN POTENTIALLY DO TO THOSE WEAK IN THE MIND, AND DEFINITELY THE BODY…

BY RUPERT HAMER

THE PLAY CENTRES ON A SMALL LOCAL AMATEUR DRAMATIC SOCIETY REHEARSING AND PERFORMING A WELL-KNOWN PLAY OF THEIR OWN BASED ON THE LOOSE MORALS AND SECRET DESIRES OF A GROUP OF MIDDLE-AGED FRIENDS. AS OUR PLAY PANS OUT, IT BECOMES CLEAR THAT THE ACTORS AND ACTRESSES OF THE DRAMATIC SOCIETY THEMSELVES POSSESS LOOSE MORALS AND SECRET DESIRES, BUT ARE NOT NECESSARILY CAST IN THE APPROPRIATE ROLE. THIS LEADS TO SOME VERY AWKWARD AND POTENTIALLY AMUSING SCENARIOS…

THE PLAYERS:

BOB: A mild-mannered, unhappily married collector of teapots who is almost as passionate about his Am-Dram as he is about his co-star Chantelle.


CHANTELLE: An attractive divorcee. Bubbly and natural, a magnet to lonely middle-aged men.


DES: A philandering womaniser, desperate for attention from women, in particular Chantelle. Sees himself as a lady-killer, seen by others as rather creepy.


ANNA: Adores life on the stage. Pretty, much-liked leading member of the Society. Great actress, married to Martyn.


MARTYN: Not particularly interested in drama, dragged along by enthusiastic wife Anna resulting in terrible, wooden acting style.


HEATHER: Anna’s sister. Eccentric, quirky personality, always doing funny things. Attracted to Harry.


HARRY: Shy, nervous with women. Quietly observes proceedings with an introspective eye, popular with others due to sharp wit.

ACT ONE

The setting here is a freezing cold Scout hut one evening in the middle of winter. Members of the “Frampton Footlights” are gathering for the 1st Reading of their new production “My Wife Doesn’t Understand Me,” a One Act farce featuring mid-life crises and much bed-hopping. The hut is furnished by some old plastic chairs roughly grouped around a table-tennis table. Over in the corner is a tatty kitchen area complete with kettle and mugs. This place has seen the blood, sweat and tears of Amateur Drama and has got the grubby T-shirt to prove it.

ANNA and MARTYN are first to arrive. We join them as the Curtain rises and ANNA flicks on the lights…

ANNA: (wrapping her arms around herself and surveying the room) My God! It’s so cold in here – see if that heater will light,


MARTYN: And Scouts come in here in shorts…? They must all have bloody pneumonia.


ANNA: (heading towards kitchen area) I told you to bring a jumper, you’ll have to leave your coat on. It’ll be alright when the fire gets going.


MARTYN: (frantically trying to ignite gas heater) This thing looks more likely to gas us all than warm us up. We’ll all be found dead by the Scouts tomorrow.


ANNA: I’m sure you can get it going. Kettle’s on anyway. Have you got the scripts? (hears car door bang outside) Ooh, here come the others…


MARTYN: (having apparently succeeded in lighting fire) Yep, right here. Never mind the play, how about a quick game of ping-pong?


ANNA: (ignoring MARTYN skipping round table playing imaginary game of ping-pong) Yeah, can just see Bob playing that with Chantelle – he’d let her thrash him...


MARTYN: What, with the bat? He’d enjoy that…

CHANTELLE and BOB enter, obviously having arrived in the same car. MARTYN has sensibly taken a chair close to his gas fire.

CHANTELLE: ‘elloweee! Fwoar, bit nippy! They could’ve had the heating on for us!


MARTYN: I think they only ever light campfires in here.


ANNA: Oh, ignore him - he just wants to play table tennis.


BOB: (entering room) Someone mention table tennis? Come on Chantelle, get your bats out,


ANNA: (trying not to look at a smirking MARTYN) So, who wants tea?




Ring-ring...ring-ring...



“Now what’s the matter?”

“Excuse me while I go and look for some drying paint.”

“You have no patience, you have to set the scene...”

“If that’s the best scene you can come up with, I’ll go and read about them moving the barn.”

“You wanted dialogue!”

“Maybe you should stick to the narrative after all...”

“Maybe you should stick to thinking about that girl at work?”

“I intend to, but for now, we have a little problem.”

“We do?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”

“I can’t keep up with you.”

“An ending...?”

“But we haven’t started.”

“Yes you have – twice.”

“They were in the middle.”

“So, where are we now?”

“The end...?”

“See, told you.”

“So, any suggestions?”

“Why me? You’re the one sitting at the keyboard. Type something.”

“I need you to tell me what to type.”

“Look, you needed a change from all the indulgent prose with the big sentences. Hopefully now you’ve overcome your fear of dialogue we won’t all be falling asleep before turning over the page. Just come up with a nice ending, and we’ll look forward to your next piece full of acerbic verbal interplay.”

“Listen, if you can’t come up with an ending for me, I’m hanging up and my pizza’s in the oven.”

“See how lost you are without me?”

“I’ve just turned the oven on.”

“Actually, I have had a blockbuster of an idea for an ending that you may want to pay attention to...”

“So, I’m all ears.”

“It’s a little complicated, you’ll have to concentrate.”

“Please, let’s just get this finished so we can move on.”

“Well, what if the ph... si.... brok. .p ju.. as I wa. tel...g ..u?”

“Eh? Tell me again, there was interference...”

“Pro...ly th. Ov.n.”

“What?! You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you properly!”

“I should have c....d you at b..time after all....”

“My God, there’s such a bad signal. What did you say?”

“Okay, here’s the idea...”

“Ah! That’s better, now GO ON...!!!!!!!!!!!”

“H... .....r ......ds .....e of s...... ....................”

“WHAT...??! HELLO...? HELLOOOO....??????!!!”



Dialling tone......





© Matthew Jenkins – October 2011

mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk

The Essential Fifth Post

Okay. As I’m sure all you regular followers are thinking (was that an echo...?) it seems this blog-of-sorts is ripe for a fresh injection of wit, wisdom and well, an injection of anything really. Yes, I admit, whatever the hell the rules of this blogging are, I’m sure I’ve been stretching them slightly through the general lack of activity this last couple of months. You see, it’s alright for these be-slippered people who pad about their plush townhouse apartments all day drinking coffee whilst flicking through the arts section of The Guardian. When inspiration strikes, all they have to do is put down the paper and wander through to the office where their Apple Macintosh awaits invitingly. Yes, anyone sensing a tinge of jealousy here is of course most astute; what most of us would give for such a trouble-free existence, where the only distraction from a work-in-progress might be a leisurely lunch with some dolly-bird in a trouser suit? For the rest of us, or in this particular case me, making it into the sack at the end of a 22-hour day still breathing is an achievement in itself. So, as you can see, getting those rare ideas down on paper before you’ve thought about them long enough to realise that they are in fact terrible presents somewhat of a problem for the average bedraggled blogger like myself.

Anyone reading this, and there will be one eventually, even if it’s under duress, will know only too well of the stresses involved in balancing noodling on a laptop with successfully existing in this insane world. Accordingly, the last thing such a person would want to witness is me moaning on about how there is never enough time to do everything. It is nonetheless a fact that I personally have a rather cast iron set of extenuating circumstances to explain all those cobwebs dangling from the extremities of the surrounding blog posts. Any of you followers paying attention might possibly recognise this general theme from an earlier post, entitled “The Eventual Fourth Post.” However, given the absolute certainty that no one of this earth has actually read that post, I feel quite justified in doling out a fresh list of excuses to get me off the hook with all those suits down at Blogger HQ. Furthermore, what you are about to read constitutes what is sure to feature in a doctor’s report sometime in the near future as background information surrounding the possible causes of the immense heart attack that I am destined to sustain. It is therefore essential that I get them off my chest sooner rather than later, as, in the recent words of one of several therapists, these things lose their power if shared. Admittedly, he may not have been referring to a potentially worldwide audience, but what the hell, allow me to fill you in on some recent events that have taken up far too much time...

1) I recently embarked on a relationship by mistake.

We’ve all heard the expression once bitten, twice shy. Well, suffice it to say that I can relate to this old chestnut very easily, particularly if one substituted the bitten for “dismembered,” and the shy for “terminally reclusive.” This just about sums up my attitude to the dating scene following a brace of failed enterprises with a roll call of unstable women that reads like a psychologist’s wet dream. It therefore goes without saying that an impenetrable wall clearly visible from space was subsequently erected around my person to protect me from further incidences of heartbreak. And so it was unfeasible for any woman to come along and shimmy over the top to catch me unawares in my Sesame Street pyjamas; but shimmy she did, in the guise of an earthly descendant of Venus.

Had I known the descendant in question to be of the flytrap variety, my instincts would certainly have been to run a mile. Sadly, I was caught with my defences down after a particularly heavy bout of drinking to celebrate a colleague from the morgue’s 40th birthday. Without sharing unnecessary tactical information, we met, exchanged numbers, and embarked on a string of romantic dinner dates about town, and on one occasion at her grandmother’s rest home. Reduced to a genital torpor by fantasies of coital malfunction, I campaigned for the platonic ticket until such a time when my lycanthropic appetite for flesh might burst from retirement. When this suggestion was endorsed, I actually did briefly wonder whether I had finally found the woman of my dreams.

Only days later however, events suggested that I had in fact found the woman of someone else’s dreams. Looking back, the tennis racquet attack was probably the first hint of some behavioural issues that might have needed addressing had we actually survived as a couple for longer than six weeks. As it transpired, time was too short to follow through any necessary remedial intervention, which after the incident resulting in a lifetime ban from Starbucks I had suggested might include anger management classes. Alas, my well-intended olive branch was ignored, and I was forced to submit to the niggling doubts already engulfing my entire form whilst this tempest in vest-top continued on her course untamed. By now a man of experience in the field of atomic hormones, it soon became clear that a future apart might be the best option, particularly when my claim of a bedtime headache one evening was retorted via a head which had demonically revolved atop a scantily-clad torso. So, after a precautionary appointment with a leading probate solicitor, I chose to act fast, hoping to avoid unnecessary emotional pain, and also any voodoo curses that may have been bestowed upon my possessions.

Now single once more and consequently of regular heartbeat, I wonder how my resolve to die a bachelor’s death had ever been broken. As a result, I have recently taken steps to fortify further the bubble in which I exist just in case I am ever again caught napping by some new femme fatale. It might not be full of thrills and spills in here, but at least the only thing my tennis racquet will be hitting for a very, very long time, is tennis balls.

2) My therapist attempted to take his own life.

As alluded to earlier, owing to several challenging situations of late I have rather embarrassingly been forced to seek solace in the leather-upholstered world of therapy. For various reasons, this solace seems today as far away as ever, despite the soothing efforts of a string of shrinks who have all listened patiently to my endless indulgent monologues extolling the teachings of Nostradamus. This latest therapist, whose services had been insisted on by the “Desperate Measures” department of the local Samaritans porta-cabin, had at first seemed a worthy ally in my personal battle with existence. I had admittedly hoped this time out to secure the services of a white-coated ex-beauty queen who may have attempted to counter my various neuroses with a sympathetic ear and dubious morals. However, these hopes were of course cruelly dashed when I found myself slumped on the figurative couch of a dead-ringer for the actor Karl Malden. Despite this disappointment, I soon began to feel better in myself, and after only six appointments had already abandoned my intentions to attempt the first ever cordless bungee jump from the Clifton Suspension Bridge.

This progress was to continue at pace, buoyed by a rapport between counsellor and patient that eclipsed any professional relationships with former counsellors, who had usually greeted my constant nerve-fuelled riffing with comments along the line of, “Well, unfortunately we’re out of time...” This newly-found friend, or more accurately, “victim,” was actually providing me with the confidence to finally penetrate my self-imposed shell to the point where I had at one point considered enrolling in a local neurotics’ discussion group, where all manner of hang-ups were reputed to be casually analysed in a social context. Sadly, as had historically proved the case, just at the point where I was considering re-evaluating my cautionary opinion of the whole process as “a load of mumbo-jumbo,” events started taking a pronounced therapeutic downturn.

The first cracks to appear came during a session in which my impressively-nosed shrink had suddenly declared himself a lifelong fan of the pianist Liberace. This bombshell did little to quell my recently hatched suspicions regarding the sexual orientation of this closest of confidantes, and consequently forced me to conduct a hasty review of any references I may have made regarding events in the boudoir of a previous ill-fated marriage. Subsequent sessions had proved notably less productive, where I would habitually clam-up whenever the subject of physical relations was raised. This was highlighted during one particular session that dealt with dream analysis, where my animated therapist had waxed eloquent on the Freudian significance of a recurring dream of mine that featured a large unfired rocket aimed at the sky. This particular hum-dinger was to prove the beginning of the end of our professional relationship, which unbeknownst to me, was in turn to trigger an alarming downward spiral in the psyche of this high-functioning but hormonally ambiguous clinician.

Suddenly sensing that a miraculous recovery from suspected bipolar disorder might help ease this new discomfort experienced at the hands of my former saviour, I feigned inner peace for the subsequent sessions I felt able to attend. This apparent upturn was greeted with suspicion by my soon-to-be-former counsellor, who had by this point admitted his attendance of several recent Village People conventions. However, eternally grateful to him for his immense help in returning me to the land of the rational, I soon terminated the course with no small sense of relief.

Little did I know that following my last session, the man was not to be seen for six days. Whether he had been experiencing his own personal struggle with the planet I do not know, but thankfully he was eventually discovered with only minor injuries at the foot of the Clifton Suspension Bridge. I only thank God he jumped off the wrong bit.

3) To protect what limited sanity remains, I must find alternative employment.

Those readers to reach this point who have actually been concentrating may recall an earlier remark suggesting my employers to be the local mortuary. Well, admittedly, this may be bending the truth just a little bit, although of course the reference was intended to reflect my abhorrence of my current professional role. This may of course only be an elaborate red herring from an eccentric creative genius who earns his sizable crust from writing, and wishes his readership to believe him employed in some 9-5 hell for reasons of modesty or amusement. However, I shall allow you to reach your own conclusions on this point, based on any literary worth you may have detected during the previous 1,826 words or so. Whether you believe it or not, the fact is that my “day job” is in dire need of change.

It is perfectly normal to become “stale” in many ventures, whether they be a job, hobby, or as for me was once the case, a marriage to Godzilla. Although this may be true, it is one thing to be stale, but surely an entirely different kettle of fish if one finds oneself Googling suicide techniques late on a Sunday evening. This second category is regrettably one in which I have recently found myself, following far too many years confined in the mind-numbing daily ritual of professional purgatory. No one likes getting up on a Monday morning to be faced with a mundane week at the office merely to secure the roof over our heads. However, if thoughts of an acid bath offer infinitely greater appeal, perhaps the time has come for a career change.

So, what can be done to inject some will to live into this terrible predicament I find myself in? All anyone ever talks about whenever the subject is raised these days is recession, and the total abyss to be found in the global job market. This may well be the case, but surely is no justification in accepting one’s lot to share endless working days with a bunch of misfits whose idea of job satisfaction revolves around successfully groping a neighbouring divorcee during lunch break. This classic Catch-22, pitching a mid-life career crisis against the worldwide economy has inevitably begun to take its toll on my mental and physical well-being.

Prone to vivid dreams at the best of times, I have recently fallen victim to the most hideous work-related nightmares, even on one occasion waking in the firm belief that a Neanderthal work colleague was on the loose in my apartment dressed as Ronald MacDonald. Of course, these hallucinations may in part have been caused by the alarming acceleration in my alcohol consumption, which has risen in direct proportion to this vocational despair. In fact, such is my devotion to the alcoholic Mecca that is the local off licence, I was recently offered an attractive sum of money to donate a defective kidney to medical research. In addition to this worrying affliction, I have become aware of a steady expansion in girth that may too be apportioned to the acute depression brought on by such an untenable rung on the career ladder. This undeniable trend was unnecessarily highlighted just last week by an annoyingly muscular bather at the local leisure centre, who had sarcastically directed me towards the aqua-natal class just underway in the nearby learner pool.

So, you can perhaps see the necessity for some miraculous remedy to the above hellish scenario. One thing’s for sure, if something doesn’t happen soon, I can sense a sudden and catastrophic relapse into the arms of that elusive ex-beauty queen therapist, wherever she may be. Maybe a position at the morgue would be the answer after all; at least they don’t have to worry about global recession.



Well, there you have it. I should point out that the above distractions form only part of the defence of my intermittent blogging activity of recent months. However, as insurance against the blogger’s block with which I am sure to be confronted at some point in the near future, I shall save these minor catastrophes for a later post.

For those to have made it this far, I only wish I had such spare time to sit and read nonsense like this. Having said that, thank you for sharing my recent inconveniences; I hope you have enjoyed them more than me. It has nonetheless been of some emotional benefit to write them down here for your entertainment. In fact, having shared them, I think they may be losing their power to depress already...

Have any of you ever considered a career in therapy?

© Jenko, September 2011.

mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk

Gift of the Gaffe

Some people, it seems, are placed on this earth destined to achieve certain things. To such people, talent comes so naturally that it exudes from every pore without even a second thought. Take for example the blind virtuoso pianist, or the spellbinding method actor, or even, for that matter, my ex-wife, who could turn any man to stone foolish enough to question her will: all born with a gift of natural ability towards certain chosen pursuits.


While such people progress through life reaping the creative, social and professional rewards borne of their inherent cosmic abilities, Mr and Mrs Average, on the other hand, are forced to bumble along being average at everything. Whether erecting a set of bookshelves in the study or toiling through It’s Easy to Play Barry Manilow, no amount of time and energy spent practicing can ever divert the ultimate result from one featuring either wonky shelves, or numerous bum notes trying to play Copacabana on the piano. However, these average people usually get by quite well by recognising their limits, and never exceeding them. Ever. All well and good, then...

... Until, perhaps, the time comes along in life when we may be forced out of our comfort zone and into the terrifying scenario that promises to plunge us totally out of our depth... Sometimes, due to circumstances beyond our control, we may have to take on certain tasks that are way beyond the limits of our abilities, and if we’re really unlucky, in front of lots of people we may know.

In the midst of a past life, where I found myself mistakenly tying the knot to a character not unlike those found in the shadowy world of Cornish folklore, I was once obliged to enter into just such a scenario. I, personally, am fully aware that I was born without the ability to effectively communicate through speech. I have a tendency to mumble, stutter, and as a result, grasp for any inappropriate phrase with which to round off my usual incomprehensible sentence. It therefore goes without saying that the resulting Groom’s speech of the time became a thing of legend, and has, as a necessity, been permanently deleted from my memory bank with the help of several counselling sessions, and a brief but effective course of electric shock therapy.

But what if, say, having attempted to consume an entire box of Blossom Hill Soft & Fruity Red (surely an endorsement deal beckons?) one attempted to dream up the not-so-perfect wedding speech for the similarly neurotic Groom prone to the faux pas?

Well, at the end of a very trying day down at the lab pickling frontal lobes, I recently rose to this precise challenge, and came up with the following results... As those who reach the end may see, the gab was not a gift this particular Groom was given...

Wedding Speech

Scene: A bustling marquee populated by numerous pot-bellied tuxedos and day-glow spouses with straightened hair. All pudgy eyes are on our Groom, who has just risen from the top table following the Father of the Bride’s speech, which went down a storm with the slightly inebriated audience. Nerves have clearly got the better of our tipsy Groom, who has somehow managed to up-end a Martini over several table decorations in the process of giddily rising from his chair. The clanking of many glasses finally subsides, as we settle into our seats for the next instalment of romance-tinged joshing...

“Er, well... (ahem) yes, good evening everybody, and, er... welcome to you all – I must say, the last time I saw this many of you all in the same room was when Larry Rose Bespoke Seconds had that closing down sale...

a general tittering amongst the audience – they’re with him...

...and it’s nice to see some of you wearing what you bought that day, too...

more guffaws now - they’re going to lap him up...

Er, seriously though, it’s really great to have everybody together for such a happy occasion; we both really appreciate the effort you’ve all made today to come and share in this free food...

more approval – obviously still sober enough to catch the subtle remarks...

Anyway, let me start this properly.... My wife and I...

the predictable riot ensues...

(refers to notes) er... would like to thank you – oh, I’ve said that bit...for coming today. Yes. Oh – Jerry! Yes, Jerry, thank you for your wonderful speech as Father of the Bride...

turns to face a beaming Jerry – so proud...

Your words were very kind and touching, and only partly lifted from that website I showed you... No – not that one, the other one...

this laughter is fuelling his confidence...

...and your lovely daughter – thank you for consenting to our marriage. She is a credit to both you and Barbara, not to mention that course of psychotherapy you put her through...

one drunken giggle and several gasps...

...I am blessed to be her husband from today, and promise to loyally stand by her till my dying day, as well as getting her to the remaining outpatient’s appointments...

a ripple of murmurs – how much has he had to drink...?

No – you can rest in peace assured, Jerry, (hic) that Rachael will be the most cherished wife under the table here tonight. I truly value your kindness and friendship Jerry, and would request that if you ever needed the closeness of a friend, you would consider me at your service - particularly if the boys from the sailing club are all away playing golf.. Your generosity to enable so many guests to attend this wonderful reception with its ample choice of desserts has been noted by many...not least, my new Sister-In-Law, seen foraging here to my right...

Oops...too far - was that a fork being dropped somewhere...? Looking at his notes, our Groom senses it might be time to move on...

So, er, thank you Jerry. Yes... Okay... (quick neck-full of wine)... now, we have our wonderful guests... you lot. As I might have said, we are so pleased so many of you have made the effort to come. Rachael and I know that things can be difficult enough for some of you when it comes to travelling beyond the bathroom, never mind making a cross-country journey to be here today. So, (hic) thank you for coming, and we hope to get round to greet those we have never even met before just as soon as we get the chance... The good wishes we have received from you all have been very welcome, not to mention the fabulous gifts... For those who sent only good wishes, bear with us while we thank those who sent gifts first...

sporadic episodes of chuckling suggest he might win them back...

Of course, there are some who couldn’t make it here today, notably actually, Rachael’s Great Uncle Bert, who I’m sure we all wish a speedy recovery from his...

to the backdrop of much inhalation of breath, our Best Man tugs at the Groom’s cufflink and whispers something pertinent in his ear...

He died...?? Oh – er, apologies there, umm, yes – we’re sure, actually, that Great Uncle Bert is smiling down on us as we speak, and perhaps raising a glass to us all from, er... heaven... (hic)

you can hear a pin drop...

So, we will be hearing from more absent guests courtesy of Best Man Nigel here in due course, when he reads out his small sack of cards for your... delectation. One card I do feel I should read out personally, actually, is this one I have here from my first wife Cheryl...

second wife Rachael suddenly looks like she’s swallowed a billiard ball...

It says, “To Martin and Rachael... Sorry I couldn’t be with you today. I hope you have a wonderful marriage. Only kidding. Love, Cheryl.” Such a great sense of humour she had, if any of you had known her...

several balls of tumbleweed drift silently past the top table…

Yeah, er, just a joke there... Anyway folks, I’d like now, if I may, to talk a little bit about my shiny new wife Rachael...

the noses of most of the guests currently seek solace in the depths of the nearest glass...

Rachael, to say you look beautiful today would be an understatement, not to mention an injustice to Chief Bridesmaid Heather, who I’m told did your make-up this morning... I’m so proud for you to have married me, Rachael – so many others would have – and did – run a mile when faced with a divorced bipolar, so, thank you. Actually, umm, perhaps this might be a good time to talk about how we met...

Best man Nigel shifts uncomfortably in his chair and shares a troubled glance with Rachael – perhaps it’s only indigestion...

Well, some of you might not know that I actually first met Rachael in the Endoscopy clinic at Frampton General Hospital... Yes, it’s true – (another slurp of wine) our eyes first met across a busy waiting room when fate co-joined our appointments – (hic) mine for a gastroscopy, and Rachael’s for that long-awaited hysteroscopy. Instantly, cupid struck... even though, if I’m honest, my functions were at the time hampered by the sedative... Still, who says romance is dead? And of course, we all know and are grateful that Rachael’s problem was eventually diagnosed just as I.B.S. and nothing more serious...

Nigel coughs audibly and flutters his crumpled speech like a trainer about to throw in the towel...

Thankfully, it seems romance isn’t dead, and having plucked up the courage to ask Rachael for her number, we soon started seeing each other... And I must say, I have only happy memories from this special time as we got to know one another, despite Rachael’s reliance in those days on a nearby toilet. And I soon realised, of course, what a special person she was – er, is... (hic)... Actually, one particular experience we shared many years ago sums up perfectly the kind of man this wonderful woman to my left is – er, was... (hic) Hold on now, let me just find it...

now he’s fumbling with his own crumpled notes trying to remember what it was he just forgot. Worse still, the nerves are gone, but now the wine’s here instead, and he’s had a lot...

Yes, here we are... Now, I don’t know if any of you know this, but Rachael once suffered from a slightly chronic eating disorder... And you wouldn’t believe it, but –

Nigel’s at the cufflink again – this time to alert our Groom to the fact that his new Mother-in-Law has just passed-out into her trifle... clearly this particular trip down memory lane has proved too much for the woman...

Oh, er - well, maybe another time for that one then... (to Jerry) Yes, good idea Jerry, check her airways... Don’t panic, it’s probably just the heat, or all the champagne she’s drunk...

Jerry, currently executing a precautionary Heimlich manoeuvre on his drooping wife, seems in no mood to accept advice from his new Son-in-Law... Rachael, on the other hand, has taken to suckling from a magnum of Moët like the newborn Bambi in order to deal with the situation...

Well, folks (hic), don’t worry, maybe she just got the bill or something... Baddum-Kisshh! Anyway, if you can all ignore the distraction, before I hand you over to my wife Nigel, I would just like to thank one or two individuals who have helped make this wonderful day posss-ible... (burp)... Oh, hold on... (to a now-conscious Barbara, evidently revived by a glass of water to the face) Ah! Hello again Barbara, feeling better? Yes... you just lie there for a bit till you feel up to moving...

A palpable air of relief circulates the marquee – Barbara’s still alive, and this is nearly over... Best Man Nigel flattens out his speech on the table in readiness for his big moment – just as soon as our clearly-plastered Groom finally shuts up...

Well, of course, thanks go to our families for all their love and support over the years... A special thank-you goes to my parents, who have managed to last all day without one of them slaying the other – thanks Mum and Dad... Just keep to opposite ends of the room and you’ll be ok... So good of them to try and unite for one day after the years of death threats... Anyway, ooh - hang on... buuurrpp... pardon me... Yes, a big thank you and well done to our lovely nieces and nephews for being such rowdy ushers and flower girls... So, one of you threw a hymnbook at the vicar...? So what? They’re glad to get anyone in church these days... Moving on, I’m sure you’ll all agree that the Bridesmaids today look absolutely beautiful (hic), particularly Chloe, after her recent... surgery... Great job girls, you’ve all done Rachael proud, and well done also to Heather for, amongst other things, having Rachael as a best friend. My Best Man Nigel... what can I say Nigel? The Stag-do was unforgettable – so glad the rash cleared up... You’ve been great today, Nige - you are a true pal... and anything he says in his speech in a minute folks, don’t forget, Nigel’s suffered from dyslexia all his life... And that brings me to... (a small Groom-fart doesn’t go unnoticed by the closer tables) ... Not last, but least, I’d like to dedicate this speech to my second wife, Rachael Wasserman... Rachael, I am the luckiest room in this man tonight to be your new wife here tonight in our... room (hic.)... My latest wife, Rachael, we are so lucky to be there tonight (belch) and would like to say thank you to my Mother Nigel, your friends and family, (hic) and our new husband, Rachael...... Yes, to you, I have only one thing to say...... Chloe, will you marry me...???”

At this point, our Groom collapses out of sight into the curtains behind the top table, as Best Man Nigel hurriedly rises from his seat and clears his throat... Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you... the Bride, and most definitely, the Groom.

Here, here...



© Matthew Jenkins July 2011

mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk

Blind Ambition

A few days ago whilst reclining in a local coffee-spot enjoying the not quite dulcet contributions of a neighbouring pensioner apparently chewing on a mouthful of gravel, I found myself seized by the urge to conduct a timely review of my literary career to date. Distracted by the somewhat off-putting presence of a slab of walnut cake, I strained to hold my concentration as I mulled over the various highs and lows of the recent creative output I had bandied around the houses in search of an approving perusal.


It would perhaps be fair to say that the lows outnumbered the highs quite emphatically, but as I soaked up the lazy rays of the afternoon sun in the much-coveted window chair, I could not help but relive some of my closer calls with literary success in an inane attempt at restoring my flagging aspirations to the echelons of the heavyweight bard.

Some indeterminable amount of time later, having been brought-to from an impromptu doze by a waitress who had clearly suspected my slumped form to be the result of some fatal heart condition, I was abruptly plucked from a vivid dream in which I had taken on the existence of a similarly ambitious wordsmith. Undoubtedly by pure coincidence, the travails of my visionary incarnation I recalled to be similarly fruitless, as might be told by the following excerpts from the religiously maintained journal thereof which I dreamt up later that evening...



May 8th

Today has been a good day. Following six months of hard work, I finally completed the second stanza of my latest poem, a bittersweet reflection on a doomed love affair provisionally entitled “Beyond the Hedgerow.” I am very pleased with it so far, and am convinced it will finally generate the critical acclaim my fast-growing volume of work surely deserves. The wordplay is rich and playful, featuring subtle rhythms intertwined with the clever use of rhyme – for example, the words “fallow” and “shallow,” and even in one inspired passage the phrases “borne of her psychosis” and “bovine tuberculosis.” I feel my work is entering a new dimension, utilising a growing maturity and dexterity with language common only to the truly gifted. In a further development, I received today an invitation from another agent to lunch, presumably again to discuss the potential for my play to take to the West End. I hope he is less moronic than the last one - his crass dismissal of my masterpiece as “the magnum opus of a simpleton” still lingers in the memory like a bad smell. I will agree to meet this latest rodent from Variety, if only to gain more experience in the field of negotiating a fee reasonable enough to sustain my modest lifestyle. Perhaps this time I might lower my demands slightly, but let me say here that I shall accept nothing less than 2% of the gross, unless for example my travelling expenses to the opening night are at least partly covered.



May 12th

Only a brief entry today – have not slept for 3 nights... On Thursday evening I was adrift in the supermarket when I was suddenly struck with a flash of inspiration for a new short story. In the absence of my usually ever-present Dictaphone (which unfortunately I had dropped whilst brainstorming some fresh ideas in the bath last week), I was forced to call my home phone and recite the basic plot structure into the answer service. As fate would have it, in the heat of the moment I misdialled the number and ended up waxing lyrical to the bewildered proprietor of the local Indian restaurant, who, before I could explain my mistake, abruptly hung up. I may as a result be forced to utilise the services of one of his many worthy competitors whenever I next develop a hankering for a Shahi Biriani. Nonetheless, I had recalled sufficient details of the story by the time I got home to make some basic notes, and after a quick check of my e-mail inbox for anything other than the usual nothingness (I don’t know why I bother), I was soon tapping away with Chapter One. Here I am now, 3 days later and utterly exhausted, but hopefully with the first draft of what may well turn out to be my most successful short story to date sitting in the office. At this early stage, I feel quietly confident that the bold subject matter (the immoral desires of a bogus chiropodist), and strong central character (a narcissist in denial who self-harms to prove his point) cannot fail to ruffle feathers amongst the panoply of pinheads who churn out all that paperback drivel you see covered in thumbprints at Tesco. Forgive me – my tiredness is getting the better of me... Busy day tomorrow – business lunch with Max Margolin from Footlight Agency, then a meeting with Klaus... I hope he has kept up with his medication. How I ever got mixed up with a bipolar co-writer I will never know. But now, sleep! How we suffer for our art...



May 13th

Today has been a challenge to reach the end of without succumbing to the ever-present allure of the emergency cyanide capsule I have safely ensconced for just such occasions within the depths of my underwear drawer. I have nonetheless made it intact to this entry, and hope to successfully record the day’s events before adopting the foetal position in the nearest darkened room. Let me start at the very beginning... In hindsight, the following undoubtedly set the tone for the subsequent events of the day by way of the most immaculate omen: Whilst showering before breakfast, I was alerted to a sound not unlike my apartment door being opened from the outside followed by the unshakable conviction that some alien presence had invaded my living quarters. Dismissing the feeling as the paranoia of one who had recently watched the film Zombie  Flesh Eaters alone in a dark room, I finished showering before towelling down and applying my usual emollients. My instincts were however proved most perceptive, when upon striding naked from the bathroom into the hallway I found myself face to face with a similarly mortified intruder. Avoiding unnecessary detail, this person turned out to be the new tenant of the apartment upstairs who had evidently been supplied with the spare key to my own apartment by some nincompoop down at the offices of Jones, Chapman and Kablinski. Following my initial shriek, which would have graced the sound reel of any Boris Karloff movie, I eventually coaxed my new acquaintance from the confines of his chosen sanctuary (the airing cupboard) and following impassioned explanations from both sides escorted him from my home in the direction of our apparently incompetent letting agents. NB: Must speak to them to establish exactly what kind of of sub-mental is responsible for doling out my spare key to a dead ringer for Ted Bundy...

After such a traumatic start to the day I was eager to leave the apartment and head to the city, where I had a few hours to help restore my heart rate to a less frantic pace. Having done so in the company of the waitress with the articulated hips down at Starbucks, it was over to Chez Pierre to rendezvous with that shyster from Soho, Max Margolin. Things did not bode well when I approached his table, where having apparently failed to recognise me, he attempted to order from me a green salad with the Roquefort dressing. Following my polite introduction he realised his blunder, and as soon as he had inhaled sufficiently for me to squeeze between the table and his bulbous midriff, I seated myself next to him clutching my portfolio. Never one to beat around the proverbial bush, he came straight to the point: A new client of his prominent in the competitive market of genito-urinary medicine required a prodigiously talented writer to compose cutting edge marketing material to help spearhead a campaign promoting a new range of cystitis medication. Admittedly, I had expected our lunch to be littered with subtle pleas on his part for me to allow him to take my play into Shaftsbury Avenue, and so I must confess my surprise as to this potentially more lucrative, if less creatively fulfilling proposition. Although unchartered waters to me, I was sufficiently astute to recognise the need amongst such clientele for la crème de la crème of the authors’ market to help pen their literary output, which in this case consisted heavily of the small leaflets found inside boxes of fungicidal ointment. Margolin did eventually express a great interest in promoting my play some day in the near future, more particularly at a time when the current financial turmoil running amok in the markets of Eastern Europe might subside sufficiently for him to release the necessary funds from a soon-to-mature policy invested in an Armenian Tupperware conglomerate. I have to say that despite my disastrous past dealings with Margolin, I was struck on this occasion by his apparent sincerity, and given the current lack of any work whatsoever amidst the cut-throat literary world, I chose to ignore the niggling doubts at the back of my head and accepted his offer. Also, in a moment of entrepreneurial cunning, I agreed to a suggested clause in our contract affording me a provisional 1% stake in every penny in the pound of profits generated in the fast-growing pharmaceutical markets north of the Arctic Circle. I could tell Margolin was reluctant to concede such a clear money-spinner, and feel my firm tone melted his famously strong will sufficiently for him to lower his final offer merely by the full 1% to a zero % stake, plus an option to translate my work into Swahili should the African territories blossom as predicted.

Buoyed by the overall positive tone of our meeting, I politely finished the small portion of peanuts offered by my new partner, and after a hearty handshake made my way to the exit of the restaurant. It was only upon bumping into the real Max Margolin sitting at a table near the door that I realised I had just held a meeting with entirely the wrong person. On reflection, they did share a passing resemblance in the gloomy conditions, especially considering it had been a few years since I had last enjoyed Margolin’s oily company. This, of course, explained his failure to recognise me, and his reluctance to even acknowledge the existence of my bulging portfolio. How I managed it, I do not know. With hindsight, the fact that this imposter had struggled to recognise my name as one prominent amongst the new generation of beatnik authors should have given it away. But, alas, provided my solicitor can successfully annul the contract I have today signed, committing me to produce a library of instructional leaflets pertaining to the use of various creams and ointments, no damage to my burgeoning reputation has thankfully been done.

The subsequent meeting held at the table of the amphibious true Margolin confirmed my recollection of him as one who had only recently evolved sufficiently to successfully exist outside of his natural swamp-like habitat. His mirth at my recent impromptu lunch date was only thinly concealed, as he was barely able to finish his array of anti-pasti without choking on a shred of parma-ham. However, we soon got down to business, and by the time my order of eggs Benedict had arrived, we were deep into discussions surrounding the staging of my latest masterful play. Margolin, it seemed, was not yet prepared to take on my script, believing it could be subtly improved in one or two areas by taking out the relevant pages and turning them into paper aeroplanes. Proudly defending my work, I suggested he re-read the play in order to fully appreciate the intricate mechanics of the ingenious plot. This he promised to do immediately upon his return to the office following a forthcoming engagement on a 4-month safari to Zambia. Sensing a lack of urgency on his part, I urged him to find the time in his schedule before his departure, as I am obviously keen to initiate a bargaining process between several of the leading agents. This, he assured me, was out of the question, citing as his reason various commitments which included several rounds of golf, a brace of appointments at the local solarium and a pending colonoscopy. Keen not to seem over-persistent, I relented for now my efforts with the play, but in a parting shot left Margolin with a draft of my new short story, "A Pedicure to Go" which he solemnly promised to read to help him sleep on the long flight to Lubumbashi. I am beginning to question the wisdom of employing the man to promote my finely crafted library of work. In fact, I have today decided that he is nothing less than an egocentric earthworm amongst literary agents. Perhaps I should cast my net elsewhere...

I eventually left the city somewhat deflated, and returned home to prepare for what was to be an equally traumatic meeting with Klaus. I will try to be brief, as it is late, and my brain is craving a very, very long sleep...

I’d barely had time to remove my natty author’s ensemble of smock and beret before my bell started ringing, signalling the arrival at my apartment of the perennially unstable Klaus. Looking somewhat dishevelled, he had hot-footed it across the city straight from an apparently unproductive appointment with his therapist. This, I could see, would cast a pall over our meeting, particularly from the way in which Klaus had hurled my coffee percolator at the kitchen wall when informed that I was out of sugar. Settling for tea instead, he eventually started to calm down having looked up the home address of his unfortunate therapist in the phone book. Treading the usual egg shells in his company, I ventured we discuss the new short story in the hope that a work-related topic might distract him from his current homicidal stupor. It seemed however, that Klaus had taken up issue with the manner of composition of the work – namely the limited input on his part, or perhaps more accurately, the fact that I’d written it all myself. In fact, it would be fair to say that this had angered him somewhat. Despite my explanation that the story had suddenly surfaced from my dynamic imagination and might have been stifled by the influence of a third party, Klaus went on to animatedly question the future of our professional partnership. This he expressed through the use of several nearby kitchen utensils, most notably a potato masher, from which I received a nasty gash above the left eye. A stand-off then ensued across the kitchen table, which I had utilised along with a spaghetti jar to protect me from the rapidly advancing Klaus. It also afforded me valuable time to offer him a soothing concoction of Ritalin tablets that I recalled gathering dust in the bathroom cabinet. Sadly my offer was refused by my assailant, who had by now announced his intentions to force-feed me the new short story. Sensing a compromise between us might help diffuse what was rapidly becoming an awkward situation, I eventually mollified Klaus by offering to incinerate my manuscript immediately, with a view to further discussions taking place between us to reinstate our former winning partnership. With this he calmed down sufficiently to remove his knee from my windpipe, and having tucked my ill-fated manuscript under his arm, left my apartment in the direction of his home barbeque set.

I have this evening employed a locksmith to change the locks of my apartment in anticipation of further disagreements between Klaus and I, if and when the duplicate manuscript of A Pedicure to Go I have rolled off gets snapped up by some multinational publishing house...

And now, finally, this memorable day has reached an end. It has been a challenge, but those of us destined for great things must also experience every nuance of despair in order to fully appreciate what is sure to follow. Goodnight.....



......July 9th

Another busy day at work. After only 2 weeks in my new job, I have come to fully understand the pressures involved in running a successful mobile ironing service. Of course, I am grateful for the regular income now flooding in, especially after such a long period struggling to make ends meet as an author. But, the fact is, I never imagined this business to be such a challenge. Obviously, I am only on the first rung of the ladder career-wise, and soon hope to make the step-up to being allowed to drive the works van. Until that happens however, it seems I must accept my present role as somewhat of an ambassador for the company, as I am clearly the best one suited to mixing directly with our customer base. Unfortunately, this also means that I have to do most of the ironing itself, but I must say I would always prefer putting in an honest day’s work to snoozing in the van reading the tabloids, which would be an accurate summary of my 2 immediate colleagues’ work ethic. In my appointed role of “Trousers, Shirts and Linens Liaison Officer,” it is my responsibility to manage the post-laundry requirements of several key clients including numerous private residences, a downtown Sushi bar, and the local Funeral Director’s. My colleagues’ roles as self-appointed “Senior Trousers, Shirts and Linens Liaison Officers” stretch to tasks such as deciding which route to take in the van, selecting appropriate refreshments and literature from the petrol station having refuelled the van, and avoiding traffic wardens whilst parking the van on the double yellow lines outside the betting shop at lunchtime. Admittedly, it is a far cry from my previous career as an author, and when faced with a damp mountain of heavily creased cotton I often lament my past cutting edge efforts so sadly overlooked by myriad clueless moguls. Yes, this new challenge may not be as creatively stimulating as the last, but let me say that there is something so undeniably satisfying in using piping-hot steam on a stiff white collar. I can see a long and happy career path ahead of me being carved by the gods even as I write this – given true commitment, and a little luck, that is...



July 14th

After 3 weeks in the job slaving away trying to remove Formaldehyde stains from starchy death robes, I have come to the conclusion that the mobile ironing service industry may not actually be the right one for me after all. Perhaps I was rather hasty in my decision to take on the position and should have held on that bit longer in the world of literature waiting for my big break. However, all is not lost!!!

I have been struck with inspiration... An incident at work today involving my apparently lobotomised colleague Wayne and a rather irate pallbearer at the undertaker’s has given me a blockbuster of an idea for a new play – a bedroom farce centred on the rather accessible theme of a womanising Marxist on the loose amidst a society sanitised by a veritable tsunami of materialism. I will have one more crack at literary super-stardom... I intend to stay up all night penning the first Act before resigning from my post as Trousers, Shirts and Linens Liaison Officer first thing in the morning!

Surely, this is the one...

One thing’s for sure - if this one doesn’t make it, nothing will.



© Matthew Jenkins - June 2011