Fiction Extract

And this is a more serious extract, again from Christabel. 

Breath. Life-giving, end-of-life fearing, ragged breath. The only sound that filled her ears as she crouched in the undergrowth, poised for flight. The only sound. But she knew from the shift in the silence that she was not alone. The breath leaving her body froze the instant it touched the air, like an eerie portent of a soul breaking free from its mortal prison. Not that she'd been in time to see this. Their souls were long at peace by the time she'd got back. No, not at peace. Their glassy stares and twisted expressions of pain and fear belied that. What soul could rest in peace once it had seen...

Movement. Before her senses could even acknowledge it, it was over. The thrown blade cut through the air in perfect kilter with the line of the horizon as the sun rose deep crimson, so that she never even saw it. But she felt it. Looking down, she almost lazily pulled her now scarlet hand away from her chest. Drops of scarlet pattered silently to white earth, glowing, the only form of colour against the snow covered landscape and the gray trees. The flow increased, the first few drops of rain giving way to the thunderstorm in summer. The blood was pouring now, her eyes rolled this way and that, frantic to catch sight of her attacker, desperate to intercept him before he...

Struck. A heavy blow caught her on the chin and she was down. She couldn't move at all now as the silent world became loud with the pounding in her head and her heart. How strange that her heart should pound so loud, right when it was about to cease from pounding all together. She didn't have this thought though. As the blood from her temple streamed down to mingle with the rest in the snow, she could think only one thing. She was not done. She needed to finish this. Raising her face with a dying man' s effort, every muscle trembling as its life source drained from it, finally she met the gaze of her attacker. The gaze of the being that had instilled those grotesque, transfixed affectations of horror on everyone she's known. And she smiled. A twisted little curve in the corner of her mouth that said one thing. I'm coming for you. I may be going now, but live in fear, wait for me, know this, one day I'll be...

Awakened. By what. A dream. No, the dream. Always the same one, though how she knew it was the same was beyond her, because she could never recall its words, its details, its events. Except the striking image of red on white. Blood on snow. She stretched the sleep away. There was no snow here. This was a land of sand, and heat, and, right now, drought. She reached out to pick up the empty water vessels as her muscles readied themselves for the ache of another day. With the uneasy feeling the dream always left still upon her, she walked backwards out of the hut, feeling almost like she had forgotten something...

'Duck!' A child's wooden frisbee whizzed past, missing her by inches. Her sharp intake of breath turned to the laughter of relief as one of the boys raced after it, his muttered apology flying back to her in the wake of his dash. Tolos, the man attached to the warning cry, followed swiftly after him, but gave it up as a bad job when he reached her, and, deciding his curses were quicker, sent them after the boy instead. 'I'm sorry my love, I've told him a thousand times...'

Silenced. But by her smile, not her words. He stood there with the punch-drunk look of a man in love. She smiled wider. 'Boys have to get rid of their energy somehow. At least he’s sticking to the new restrictions. It’s hard on them, now they've got nowhere to play.' She stopped talking, as his unchanged look of heady intoxication belied the fact he wasn't hearing a word. 'Are we still meeting for dinner later?'

'Dinner? Yes. Of course.' She smiled again and pushed past him playfully, as she went to start her work. Life was fine right now. She could hardly complain. There was always the threat of hunger and thirst but that was nothing new. Tolos was a new development and he was utterly devoted to her. Someone like him was all she could have hoped for. But the remnants of the dream tugged at her mind, and rather than fading, they expanded, like bread in a puddle, soaking up her thoughts, throwing her into a dull panic. Always the same dream. Always the same day following it, a day of sick unease. But everything was normal, better than normal even. Good. Then why should she feel this way. Why did she feel so...

Haunted.

Don't smoke, kids!

Another Christabel sketch-enjoy, people! 

Voiceover: And don't forget to join us tomorrow on channel 10 when we take a look at the effects of smoking, as part of the 'a healthier life is a longer life' week.

Scottish woman in lab coat: Viewers of a sensitive nature are warned that this documentary contains distressing images of people's teeth yellowed to a sickening degree, as well as the repulsive effects smoking has on people’s hands and fingernails, when coupled with never washing your hands or fingernails.

Bearded earnest presenter: Smoking is very bad. Just look at the effect a few puffs of smoke has on this perfectly white fluffy cotton wool, which is pretty much exactly the same stuff as comprises the human lung and therefore a totally legitimate and relevant demonstration of the effects of smoking on a human lung.

Scientist: Statistics show that 99% of smokers will die, at some point in their lives. Those that haven't died yet are frequently followed around by disembodied letters in the air, often forming the names of critical diseases like 'lung cancer' and 'heart disease'. This can be disconcerting if not downright terrifying.

Presenter: Smoking harms those around you too. In fact you may as well stab people in the lungs and then proceed to repeatedly beat burning ashes into the open wound. Smoking is essentially murder. And suicide. But sneaky murder and suicide. It’s not like going into Homebase and asking for a chainsaw oh god oh god those neighbours are bloody annoying. It’s like going into Homebase and asking for cigarettes. And then getting sent to the corner shop down the road because Homebase don't sell cigarettes. And then purchasing cigarettes and smoking them. Around lots of innocent people.

Scientist: Smoking makes you infertile. But then again, that’s probably good, because if you could have children you'd be filling their lungs with smoke on a daily basis, which is basically the same as being a terrorist.

Presenter: Expect lots of people in white coats using medical terms for what is essentially the bleeding obvious, in order to make you think you're learning new information.

Scientist: If you walk down the street smoking, living beings all around you will drop down dead like flies.

Presenter: Despite all this, there is nothing we can do to stop smoking being 'cool'. It is an objective fact that smoking is cool. It may not be the coolest thing, it’s not as cool as being able to kite-surf, or a small child punching the Queen. But it’s definitely up there. That’s why NHS anti-smoking adverts show men beating up unrealistically sized cigarettes. These are actually other men in cigarette costumes. But the point is, if smoking is cool, but giving up smoking is essentially the same as beating up smoking, that makes you cooler. So go on, be cooler than smoking, and join us tomorrow evening, at 7pm to find out how you can live a healthier, longer life by quitting smoking today.

An Interview with Neil Armstrong

This is by an up-and-coming writer called Christabel who's joining me on the blog. As such, it's actually funny. Enjoy! 

Jenny Saunders: Hi and welcome, you're joining me, Jenny Saunders, tonight in the studio, interviewing Neil Armstrong. Hi Neil.

Neil: Hi Jenny Saunders.

Jenny: Please, call me Jenny.

Neil: Likewise.

Beat

Jenny: So although no one has heard from him in a while, the space race being rather 'old news' and all, we're here to celebrate the launch chuckles to herself over the awful pun of a new album, which I am told was written recorded and played all by himself: 'Space, not all its cracked up to be'. I'm joined here by the first man on the moon-

Neil: cutting in I wanted it to be 'elevated'.

Jenny: Excuse me?

Neil: Space, not all its elevated to be. So you'd get a nice word play. Double entendre. You know, elevated like the sky, and elevated like its really good.

Jenny: I don't...

Neil: But my publicity manager said that was misleading. 

Beat.

Jenny: So Neil, I'm fascinated in astrophysics myself, but I haven't made it out there myself yet.

Loud laugh abruptly cut off from Neil.

So I'd like to ask-

Neil: That was a question already, but you can ask me another one too. [grins winningly]

Jenny: I didn't ask you if I could ask you a question.

Neil: Oh.

Jenny: This is an interview.

Beat.

What was it like seeing the earth from so far away? Were you overwhelmed with a profound sense of meaning, or profundity, beauty perhaps?

Neil: Well, the funny thing is that before I went into space, I used to try and imagine all the billions of miles between all the stars, and how compared to the universe a person is smaller and more insignificant than the tiniest ant swimming in a massive puddle of jam, which lead to bouts of severe depression and significantly factored in the breakup of my third marriage. But the thing is, when you're actually up there, you're the first man ever to be standing on the moon, gazing down at the tiny planet which is home to your entire race... you realise actually there's not that much to it.

Jenny: To what?

Neil: To space. I mean, its mainly just. Space. You know, empty space.

Jenny: Right. But really its not just about that moment I suppose, I mean it represents the pinnacle of decades of technology, years of training, days of travelling.

Neil: Well, yeah. But I mean, you can actually get to the moon quite easily.

Jenny: Really, I was under the impression it was quite a difficult task, what with the space race and everything?

Neil: Oh yeah, no, that was because we originally miscalculated the size of the moon. We thought it had a circumference of 6790 miles, by which we estimated that it was pretty far away. In actual fact its 12 miles in circumference, so its only about 15 minutes away, and you can walk round the whole thing quite comfortably in a couple of hours, I mean there's not much to stop and look at on the way, its mainly just rocks, and the scenery is just, space, so you could probably powerwalk it in about an hour/hour fifteen, that sort of time scale.

Jenny: Right.

Neil: You can even make your own rocket fuel at home using a 3 to 1 ratio of sodium chloride and diesel.

Jenny: I did not know that.

Neil: No, not many people do. But can we stop talking about space please? That’s all anyone ever asks me about, I'm sick of space. That’s why I moved back to Earth. There’s no space there at all its lovely. I never have trouble sleeping at night.  I've got this really great knack of getting to sleep. I can get to sleep whenever I want to. Just like that clicks his fingers I guess you could say its like voluntary narcolepsy.

Jenny: Ok. Narcolepsy, did you mean that? Sorry, its just the thing with narcolepsy is that its just the same as sleeping, but its involuntary, you can't decide when you do it.

Neil: Yeah, that’s it, and I can. I can always just go to sleep when I want. Voluntary narcolepsy. He beams So can we talk about my album now?

Jenny: Ok, sure Neil.

Neil: Please?

Jenny: Yes, that’s fine.

Neil: Please?

Jenny: Yes, we'll move on.

Neil: Can I just say...

Jenny: What?

Neil: What?

Puzzled look

Jenny opens her mouth to speak, Niel goes to speak every time this happens, so she stops, waits for him to speak, he says nothing. This happens three times.

I hate to be racist, but I dislike you purely on the basis of your ethnic origin.

Jenny: I'm from London.

Neil: narrows eyes I know.

Beat

It just feels like you're not on my side Jenny.

Jenny: utterly wrong-footed No, no not at all, I'm a big fan of all your... space...

Neil: I just feel like no one cares about me, its all space this and black holes that, no one cares that I've home recorded three concept albums since then, two of which aren't even about space, and I did the cover artwork myself. But no one’s interested in that. They just want to know all about higgldybiggldy particles and black matter. You know I went in to NASA the other day just to say hi, and the security guard at the door didn't know who I was. He didn't recognise my face. Cos its all about the astronaut suit. (spoken fading away to a whisper) Just about the external suit, no one gives a shit about the man inside. He looks wistfully into the distance

Jenny: Well thanks Neil.

Neil: whispered Jenny...

Jenny: Yes?

Neil: No, I said you can call me Jenny earlier. I mean initially it was a slip of the tongue, but as I didn't acknowledge it at the time I thought it would be best to play along with it and just pretend my name was Jenny too. Otherwise you might have thought I was weird.

Jenny: completely at a loss I'm going to hand us back to the studio now Neil, any last words?

Neil: He looks petrified Why, what are you going to do to me?

Jenny: No, we're just finishing up the interview Ne.. Jen... Mr Armstrong.

Neil: looking around wildly Dad?

Jenny: And you can buy Neil’s latest album online now featuring the additional bonus tracks 'Space- you took my breath away' and 'One small step for man, one giant leap for a much smaller man'.

Why I love Carles Puyol

I watched the Ac Milan-Barcelona game on Wednesday night, and Barcelona didn’t exactly cover themselves in glory. Slow, predictable passing, poor decision-making, defensive frailty-all there, present and correct. Even Messi, usually so explosive, didn’t seem to be there in spirit. The whole team, it seemed, were just going through the motions, always taking the simple risk-free five-yard pass without any incisiveness, or any desire to be incisive, any attempts to beat a man or power past an opponent, scared of being dispossessed or hurt by the admittedly impressive Italians.

Except for one man. One proud, defiant man, who for 90 minutes before his enforced substitution put everything on the line for his team, one man who can look back on the game from a Barcelona perspective and not be disappointed in himself. Carles Puyol.

One image from the game really epitomises why I love Puyol so much. It was the 84^th minute, his team-mates looking like they’d already resigned themselves to pegging back the 2-0 deficit at the Camp Nou, when Xavi swung in a corner and Puyol, bloodied bandage flying off his head, leapt to meet it. You could hear the thud as the ball hit his head on the spot where it had been stapled back together twenty minutes previously, a visceral summation of Puyol’s style, his hair flying everywhere as he put all his power into the header. It was amazing, pure physical effort imposing itself on what had until now been an entirely turgid performance.

In a team that, Wednesday excepted, are usually so clinical, anaesthetising, hypnotising teams with a thousand passes until the operation is completed with surgical precision by Messi, Puyol is like a punch to the face; not elegant, not beautiful, but knocking the opposition out all the same. In a team full of intricate passers with quick feet and quicker brains, Puyol looks like he’d be more comfortable hoofing the ball up to a big man up top; he’s a British player in a Spanish team and he knows it. The other players of Barcelona look calm and assured on the ball; Puyol looks terrified every time it comes near him, and he tries to send it back from whence it came as quickly and frenetically as he can. Not that he can’t play, his record speaks for itself-18 major titles won in 14 years of first-team football- but he knows his limitations and plays to his immense strength, using his heart as well as his head.

He’s a tyrannosaurus rex hunting with a pack of velociraptors, and it’s so endearing. In a team full of clones, small dark-haired Spaniards relentlessly passing the ball to each other, he is the one who stands out, his leonine hair flying free as he leaps into another full-contact header. He makes Barca, and Spain, less boring, not least because when you watch him you feel like Jamie Carragher has put on a wig and snuck his way onto the pitch. Who can forget that header against Germany, world-cup semi-final, 2010, winning goal from a corner as his team looked to be running out of ideas, a thumping reminder that brawn has its place alongside brain. That is Puyol, a meshing of physical strength with a great understanding of the game, a player who’ll never accept defeat and, in a Barcelona team that seems to be finding the going hard, a reminder of the power that sheer determination can have.

The Dressing Room: Man United

The mood in the dressing room was as bad as it had ever been. Wazza had gone to swing on his tire, refusing to communicate even with his usual grunts; Vidic was still pumped up from the game and was repeatedly headbutting the wall, making dents in the plaster; and Anderson was once again comfort-eating, as he had been since his half-time substitution. Nobody could bring themselves to look at the door, terrified at what they knew would soon emerge through it.

Sure enough, a gigantic purple nose with a man attached to it entered the room. Sir Alex was apoplectic.

“What the fucking hell was that? You lot are a bunch of shit! Ye aren’t worth the fucking shirt!”

No-one met his gaze; they knew he was looking for a target. His eyes swept over Ashley Young, who was utilising his talent for hiding when it really matters, and Rio, who immediately Tweeted his despair to his legions of followers in broken English. Fergie whirled round to vent his rage on his captain, but Evra was not at his assigned peg, but about twenty yards further up the dressing room. Then he found his target; the young Spaniard De Gea hadn’t seen him enter. Fergie picked up a discarded boot and hurled it at the goalkeeper, who dropped it.

“What the fuck were ye doin’ out there, laddie? A blind fisherman could catch more than you!”

There was a snigger from the left; it was a mistake.

“”What the fuck are ye laughing at, Welbeck? Just ‘cos your strike partner looks like Shrek doesnae mean ye have to play like Donkey!” Turning away from the now crying England international Ferguson focussed his gaze upon Nani, who hurled himself to the floor feigning injury. “Ah, get up, you silly twat! You were really fucking bad out there! God, I’m fed up with the lot of you! I’m having to put Jonesy in more positions than a porn star just to cover your sorry arses! Fuck yez all!”

With that, Ferguson stormed out of the room, pausing only to slap a now moonwalking Nani across the back of the head. Sheepishly, Mike Phelan entered and smiled at the assembled players.

“Still, god win today lads. Same again next week!”

A Poem

“All is night and blackness,

As the razor cuts my skin

And liquid hatred flows out

Staining the world. All is darkness.”

With that the girl in the heavy make-up

Closes her silver-bound notebook and sits down

To appreciative noises from her black-clad peers

Sitting in a circle in her gloomy room

Lit only by expensive dripping candles

And the standby light of her Xbox

Not quite concealed under a purple sheet.

(Meanwhile, in Sudan, a five year old orphan

Is struck hard across the face

By the butt of a rifle which breaks his skull.

He falls across the bodies of his newly-slain parents.

The crimson pool darkens in the heat.)

“Liquid hatred,” says one boy, sweeping back

His long black-dyed hair.

“Yeah. I feel that.” He casts a furtive glance

At the girl sitting next to him

Who pushes out her barely-concealed breasts a little.

“Yeah, hatred,” she says breathily, “for all those

Fakes and Barbie wannabes.”

(In China, a little girl looks over at the boy next to her, and smiles

And catches her finger in the machine

And screams as the blood flows out.

The other children do not pause as the man takes her away,

Just carry on making toys in the lice-infested workshop

Hoping she is the only one to go today.)

“Yeah,” says the first girl, the poet.

“All those fucking whores wrapping their legs

Around the football team every day.”

She glances at the boy with the long hair.

“Yeah,” says another boy, pale-skinned and pockmarked.

“Dirty sluts they are,” he continues as his cheeks turn red.

“Give it up for anybody.”

(On a street in London

An Albanian girl, on her fourteenth birthday

Lies on a hard bed, head turned away

From the old man grunting on top of her

Watched by three of his colleagues.

She still bears the bruises from last night

When she tried to refuse. She has learned her lesson,

And will not fight again. But she cannot help her tears.)

As the conversation goes on

The poet-girl’s mind starts to wonder

Onto other topics; her homework,

What colour nail-polish should she wear tomorrow,

Blue nightshade or stick with black,

And whether her bitch-mother had finished cooking dinner yet.

(An African girl blinks flies off her eyes,

The only movement she can muster

As she lies beside a pool of vomit

And half-digested grass. It sticks to her matted hair

As her distended stomach rises and falls

Slower with each desperate breath.)

“Lying bitch-mother,” she thought to herself.

“Yeah, she’s the one who makes my life so hard.

That’s an idea for my next poem.”

The Dressing-Room: Arsenal

Gary Lineker gave his best Toby Jug smile to the camera. “Well, Match of the Day fans, we have a special treat for you tonight. Our top man, Donald Ente, was in the Emirates stadium to give us an exclusive viewing  of Arsene Wenger’s pre-match team talk.” He turned to the big screen behind him. “I think you’ll be in for a bit of a treat.”

Donald, wearing a large sheepskin coat and holding a microphone, appeared on the screen, standing with one hand on a grey door. He raised his microphone to his lips.

“Good evening, viewers. I'm here in the Emirates stadium for the pre-match Arsenal team-talk.” He pushed open the door and stepped into the room beyond, revealing a number of Arsenal players stretched out on beds scattered around various pieces of medical equipment. In the far corner of the room was a very dusty wooden cabinet with the word “Trophy” scrawled in red felt pen on a piece of paper attached to the front. A low mooing sound was emanating from somewhere just off camera, and a Walcott-shaped blur crossed the screen before disappearing into an unseen corridor. In the centre of the room stood a pontificating Arsene Wenger with his back to the camera. Reluctant to cut him off in mid-flow, Donald instead turned the microphone in his direction.

“You must all work together as a team! Remember, we must all hang together, or assuredly, we shall all hang separately.”

“Franklin!” shouted out Arteta, and Wenger nodded. Donald coughed politely and the Arsenal manager turned around, smiling. “Ah, Mr Ente! Do come in!”

Donald shook his hand warmly, saying “Mr Wenger, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if I may?”

Behind the manager, there was a clang of metal and a howl of pain as Fabianski dropped his chamber pot on his foot. Wenger didn’t even blink, but merely nodded politely.

“Well, Arsene, first off, you’ve hit a bit of a rough patch recently, but some of your recent signings seem to have acclimatised well. Some people are already calling Santi Cazorla your best player...”

Cazorla immediately sat up from his prone position on the nearest bed and started shouting “I want a transfer! I want a transfer!” Wenger shot him a glare and he sank back into bed, moaning softly. Donald seemed slightly taken aback, but composed himself.

“Ok, well, next question. You seem to be finding goals hard to come by at the moment but you’ve been impressive defensively. Would it be fair to say that a big reason for that is the solidity of Thomas Vermaelen, whom I understand is being looked at by Manchester City among oth...”

Before Donald could finish, Vermaelen leapt up and charged towards the door; Donald managed to dodge out of the way before he was bowled over by the defender’s headlong rush. Wenger just shook his head sadly but made no move to stop the Belgian leaving. Again, Donald recovered.

“The young players in your team have come in for a lot of criticism lately. How would you respond to that?”

“Young oxen newly yoked are beaten more, than oxen which have drawn the plough before.”

“Ovid!” shouted Koscielny behind him, and Wenger smiled again.

“Could I also ask, Mr Wenger, why you have decided to hold your pre-match team talks in the treatment room?”

“Well, the players seem more at home here,” Wenger replied. “ And we believe in teamwork here. After all, no man is an island, entire of itself.”

“Herbert!” piped up Podolski. Wenger whirled on him furiously. “NO! It is Donne, imbecile! There is obviously a lot of work to do to integrate you into this team!”

 Donald once again began to look flustered. “Do you think your insistence on teaching the players literature rather than football skills could be a cause of your recent slump?”

“No. It is a philosophy that I will not change.”

 “Just one last question, Arsene. Should Giroud be doing that with the cow and the banjo?”

“Ah, do not worry, he has not hit it yet.” Wenger smiled sadly, and the screen went black.