What if... Dallas, Texas

Friday, 22nd November 1963

The bullet severed Jackie Kennedy’s right carotid artery before anyone had even heard the shot ring round the Plaza. The President lunged to his left as his wife pitched forward, catching her in an instinctive reaction to the unexpected. Blood spattered his suit jacket. Within seconds a secret service agent had grabbed onto the back of the limousine and hauled himself onto the trunk.

“Get the fuck back, Clint, there’s nothing you can do,” the President screamed.

“Get down, you get down... now!” Clint Hill screamed back. “It’s you they’re after.” He lunged forward grabbing at the President’s jacket, trying to pull him below the seat level.

The bullet came from the right side, from above street level across a green expanse of grass. It hit Clint Hill in the right shoulder sending him sprawling into a violent roll across the back of the car. He hit the carriageway in a heap causing the police follow up bike to swerve hard across to the far side kerb.

A third shot sent a fragment of concrete kerb into the face of a bystander, blood instantly seeping from his cheek.

“It’s a fuckin’ ambush, they’re gonna kill us all,” Roy Kellerman shouted. “Get outta here.” Bill Greer hit the accelerator just as a fourth shot pierced the windshield narrowly missing Governor Connally’s wife. Behind the limousine, the secret service’s follow up car swerved to a stop, two agents running to drag the stricken Clint Hill off the road. Agent Hickey leapt from the car, scanning his AR-15 rifle around the Plaza to give cover. With the exposure to crossfire in what was now a kill-zone urging their actions, the two agents manhandled their colleague into the back of the car.

“Evacuate! Go. Go,” yelled Hickey, once Hill was in the car. The driver floored the gas and in a smoking screech of tyres, accelerated down Elm Street through the triple underpass after the Presidential limousine.

Eighty minutes after the attack, a shaken and visibly distressed John F Kennedy, blood on his jacket and shirt, emerged from Parkland Hospital. He made his way across to a podium that had been set up with three microphones, outside the emergency entrance. He took hold of the lectern in both hands, hesitated while he cleared his throat and then raised his head.

“It is with a heavy heart that I have to tell you, my fellow Americans, that my wife Jackie has been murdered by an assassin’s bullet.” The President’s voice faltered, struggling with the words, for he knew that he had no words, no words that could ever give vent to his rage, his anger, his sorrow or his dismay. He swallowed the choke that caught his throat and said, “Today... today, my wife has paid the price for... for being my wife, for being the First Lady. Nobody wanted to kill such a sweet and innocent woman... a woman with a good heart, a woman with a soul that reached out to people. Nobody wanted... no. She paid the price for my actions. For my desire to bring peace, equality and opportunity to America. The desire to end war, to stop unnecessary bloodshed just because people think or look different. To end the cult of self-interest in this country at the expense of others. To stop those who would gain from bloodshed and the suffering of others, those who make material gain from the spoils of war. They know who they are.

“Today, an atrocity has been committed. That bullet was meant for me. If I could have stopped a good woman dying, I would have been happy to be in the firing line. But fate has decreed otherwise. Spared me from those that put their self-interest before the common good of the American people. But I promise you today, even as I have to look at the blood of my wife on my hands... on my clothes, they shall not gain, not prosper. My brother, the Attorney General, and I will renew our resolve and will continue the fight... the fight against crime, corruption and the corporate leeches that suck and drain our society. We shall not be diverted from our aims.”

Ninety minutes after the attack, a young man carrying an ID card naming him as Alek Hidell, is arrested at the Texas Theatre. He is rushed to the Dallas Police Department where he is formally identified as Lee Oswald, former US Marine. He is questioned by homicide detective Jim Leavelle and charged with the murder of a police officer, patrolman J D Tippit. Oswald denies the charge. Later that day he is interrogated by FBI Special Agent James P. Hosty and Dallas Police Captain Will Fritz about the murder of Jackie Kennedy. Oswald denies any involvement and requests legal assistance. None is forthcoming, and he is held at the Dallas Police Headquarters. By midnight, he is charged with the murder of the First Lady.

Sunday, 24th November 1963

The prisoner looked straight ahead, his gaze fixed but seeing nothing. His pace was dictated by the two detectives bundling him past the throng of reporters and bystanders. A narrow corridor opened up as the trio moved ahead, trying to avoid the jostling crowd. The detectives hustled the prisoner forward. They were focussed on the task and didn’t notice the sudden movement to their left. No one did. Eyes were on the prisoner. The movement was quick. A surge forward, right hand held out. The prisoner caught a fleeting glimpse, a moment’s recognition, the grey hat, the dark suit. Instantly he recoiled. The detectives lost step. The gun clicked. Pointed at the prisoner’s gut and it just clicked. The prisoner twisted and jerked, trying to get away from the gun, pulling the detectives with him. The man in the hat squeezed the trigger again. Another click, no explosion. It was the last thing he did. In a hectic flurry of uncoordinated activity that contrasted with their earlier shocked stupor, a group of bystanders piled onto the gunman flinging him to the floor, face down. A uniformed cop pushed his way through and pinned the gunmen to the floor, a knee firmly in the small of his back.

“What the fuck you doin’, Jack?” he screamed as he clipped the cuffs onto the gunman’s wrists so that his arms stretched out behind his back.

The prisoner only had time for one backward glance as the two detectives manhandled him away from the scene. Ahead, a steep ramp led out to the street. An armoured truck, its exhaust sending plumes of blue smoke into the confined space, reversed fast down the ramp. The detective on the prisoner’s right pulled open the door, spun round and dragged the prisoner by the arm. A firm push from his colleague sent the prisoner headlong onto the vehicle’s floor. In an instant the two detectives jumped in the back, either side of him as the truck accelerated up the ramp, its tyres screeching, rubber burning against cold concrete.

Monday, 6th July 1964, a.m.

Lee Oswald scanned the courtroom, his eyes alighting on no-one in particular. In the overcrowded room faces blurred into one staring entity. His moment of absence was cut through by the raised voice of the prosecutor.

“The curtain rods, what happened to them?”

“Sir?”

“You said it was curtain rods in the brown paper package that you were carrying into work that morning.”

“Uh, that’s right, Sir. I... uh, left them under the fire escape. My locker was full... with stuff that I took with me when I... left Marina. I was going to put up curtains at the weekend.”

“But when your apartment was searched no new curtains were found?”

“Because I hadn’t bought them yet, Sir. I was going to do that on Saturday.”

The prosecutor glanced at his notes. “Did you purchase an Italian bolt action Mannlicher–Carcano rifle through mail order in March 1963, using the alias Alek J Hidell?”

“Yes, I did.”

“For what purpose did you purchase this rifle?”

Oswald paused and stared out across the courtroom.

“Mr Oswald?”

“Uh.., Sir?”

“I asked you, for what purpose did you purchase this rifle… the Mannlicher–Carcano?”

“I intended to join a gun club… I’m a former marine… and I wanted to join a club for sport and recreation.”

“Is it not true that the package you were carrying on the morning of Friday, 22nd November 1963 when you entered the Texas School Book Depository, contained the  Mannlicher–Carcano rifle and that you intended to assassinate the President of the United States, John Fitzgerald Kennedy?”

Oswald blinked. A voice broke the moment. “Objection. Intention is not the reason we are in this courtroom. The facts are, my client has been charged with the murder of Jacqueline Kennedy and is here to answer that charge. No charge has been levied regarding intent to assassinate the President.”

The judge raised his head, his gaze directed over the rim of his spectacles. “Objection sustained. Proceed.”

Oswald turned to look at the judge. “Sir, if I may answer the point about the rifle?”

The judge nodded.

“You have heard from my colleague, Wesley Frazier, that I told him the package I had with me on that day when he drove me to work… uh, Friday, contained curtain rods. You heard him say too that I carried it to the Depository building, in a vertical position, with one end tucked under my armpit and the other end cupped in my hand. If you do your research properly, you will find that the Mannlicher–Carcano M91/38 rifle is just over forty inches long when assembled. If it was disassembled, the longest piece is just over thirty-four inches long. In both cases, it would not be possible to carry it in that way as it would be too long.”

There was a murmur around the courtroom. The judge banged his gavel. Silence was restored. The prosecutor gathered his notes and continued.

“Mr Oswald, do you know or have you ever met Jack Rubenstein?”

Oswald smiled and said. “Jack Ruby, yes, Sir, I have met him, but I didn’t know him. He was no more than an acquaintance.”

“An acquaintance? And how did he become an acquaintance?”

“Everybody downtown knows Mr Ruby. From his club mostly… the Carousel. I went there a few times. I saw him there. He mixed with the regulars. Maybe we spoke… I can’t recall, Sir.”

“Why do you think Jack Rubenstein attempted to shoot you in the Dallas Police Headquarters on Sunday, 24th November 1963?”

“I don’t know, Sir. You will have to ask him that.”

“Were you aware that he had connections to organised crime and that he has been linked to Sam Giancana, Joe Campisi and Carlos Marcello?”

“Objection. Calls for speculation. The question asks the witness to speculate rather than to rely on known facts.”

The judge turned to the prosecutor and asked the reason for the question.

“Your honor, I am attempting to ascertain whether there is a link to organised crime sources that may establish a motive for the attack in Dallas for which Mr Oswald stands accused.”

“Objection overruled.” The judge nodded for the prosecutor to proceed.

“Mr Oswald, were you aware that Jack Rubenstein had connections to the aforementioned organised crime persons?

Oswald shook his head. “I wouldn’t know that Sir, no.”

The judge then called for a recess.

Monday, 6th July 1964, p.m.

On returning to the courtroom, the prosecutor resumed his questions.

“Mr Oswald, on the afternoon of 22nd November 1963, the Presidential motorcade passed directly in front of your workplace, the Texas School Book Depository. Many of your colleagues came out of the building to watch. Did you?”

“No, Sir, I did not.”

“Why not?”

“I was having lunch on the first floor.”

“Lunch? The President of the United States is passing your front door, and you decide to go to lunch? Isn’t that unusual behaviour?”

“Objection. Leading the witness.”

Oswald intervened. “I would like to say, Sir, that I have two witnesses that will testify that they saw me in the lunchroom on the first floor that day. James Jarman and Harold Norman saw me there, and I believe they will testify to that when my defence calls them.”

The prosecutor ignored Oswald’s comment and continued, trying a different tack. “Mr Oswald, you were arrested at the Texas Theatre on the afternoon of 22nd November 1963. It would seem odd that after the incident that took place outside your workplace, an attempt to assassinate the President of the United States, that you should immediately leave the building and go to a movie house. Can you explain this?” 

Oswald smiled, stared around the courtroom and took a deep breath. “Sir, there is something that you should know. I have been unable to reveal this up until now, but I believe I am being set up here… a patsy. Set up to take the rap for others who had another motive.” The court fell silent. Oswald continued. “I am not prepared to be silent any longer. Not prepared to be the patsy. And so…” Oswald pursed his lips and looked down at his hands. Then he raised his head and stared straight ahead. “For many years now I have been a CIA asset.”

There was an audible intake of breath from the packed courtroom.

“I was recruited while I was in the Marines, trained in intelligence and sent to Russia as an agent. You will know that I was involved in the ‘Fair Play for Cuba’ movement. This was a cover, a cover so that I could infiltrate Cuban intelligence. You ask why I left the Depository and went to the movie house. Okay… at 11.45 on that morning I made a call from the first floor… you have already heard from my colleague, William Shelley, that he saw me do this… well, that call was to my CIA handler. I was told to go to the Texas Theatre where I would be given further information relating to a visit to Cuba. I was supposed to be flown out that day from Red Bird Airport by my New Orleans contact, David Ferrie, to Cuba for the start of a CIA undercover operation against Fidel Castro. I was told to meet Officer J D Tippit and - ”

The hushed courtroom erupted in a cacophony of noise. A single shout rose above the din. “Liar, you shot Officer Tippit.”

The judge slammed his gavel onto the wooden sound block several times until order was restored. “Mr Oswald, continue your evidence,” he said.

Oswald turned his gaze in the direction of the shout. “I’m no liar, Sir. I didn’t shoot anyone. I was told to meet Officer Tippit who would furnish me with specific instructions for the meet at Red Bird. I was meeting Officer Tippit a block away from my rooming house and – ”

“Officer Tippit? J D Tippit? Who was murdered that day?”

“Yes, Sir. He arrived at my rooming house in his patrol car... car 10, as identified by my landlady. He was a go-between with the CIA operative I was told to meet. He drove me to the Texas Theatre. I arrived there about 1.20. I was supposed to meet this person at 1.30. I had a box top with me that would match a box carried by the contact, which was a method used so we could be sure it was the right person. I paid for a ticket and went in as I had been told to do in the call. By 1.40 the contact hadn’t showed so I went back out on the street to see if anyone was coming. I saw nothing so went back in. That's when your witness, Mr Brewer, said that he saw me dodge into the movie house and called the police. But, as I told you, I had already been inside. About five minutes later the house lights went up and I was arrested.” 

Once again a murmur flowed through the courtroom. The judge banged the gavel twice.

“Mr Oswald,” the prosecutor continued, “when you were arrested you were armed, carrying a .38 revolver. For what purpose did you have a firearm with you?”

“I took it with me from my rooming house. A precaution. Undercover CIA work can be dangerous. I did not know who I was scheduled to meet at the theatre. I was aware that there might be a risk to my safety. So, I took the revolver.”

The prosecutor cleared his throat and glanced at the jury before returning his focus on Oswald. “You are aware that a bullet taken from Officer Tippit’s body and cartridges found at the scene of his murder match those from your .38 revolver and – ”

“Objection,” called Oswald’s defence attorney. “The question assumes facts, not in evidence and it is a leading question.”

“Sustained.”

Oswald turned in the direction of the jury. “I did not know that Officer Tippit had been shot until I was arrested. My defence will show that the cartridges mentioned were planted. Revolvers do not eject cartridges.”

Wednesday, 5th August 1964

After four days of deliberation, the jury returned to the courtroom at 3.15pm to deliver their verdict on whether Lee Oswald was guilty of the murder of Jaqueline Kennedy. When asked by the judge if they had reached a unanimous verdict the foreman replied, “Yes.” A verdict form was handed to the Clerk of the Court who read aloud the verdict. 

 “Not guilty.”

Aftermath

Lee Harvey Oswald was given a new identity by the United States government. His further revelations about the illegal activities of the CIA - its involvement in covert operations in Cuba that were not sanctioned by the White House and its willingness to work with the Mafia on mutually beneficial projects – put his life at risk. His precise whereabouts were never uncovered, but many believe that he emigrated to Russia with his Russian wife, Marina, and their young daughter.

Jack Ruby was tried and convicted of the attempted murder of Lee Harvey Oswald. He admitted the charge (the attempt having taken place in a live broadcast of Oswald’s jail transfer, in full view of the American television public). He was sentenced to ten years imprisonment but was released after serving seven years. On his release, he went back to the nightclub business and his notoriety attracted many visitors to his clubs. Over the next ten years he was able to open a string of night spots in Dallas, Houston, Fort Worth and San Antonio and run a highly successful business.

President John Fitzgerald Kennedy won a landslide victory in the 1964 election. His popularity enabled him to pass much of the legislation that he put before Congress and to enact the political strategy that he had embarked upon following his election in 1962. At the end of his Presidency in 1968, his brother Robert, the Attorney General, who had decided to run for the office of President was elected 36th President of the United States. Three years after his second Presidential term, John F Kennedy remarried.

The shooters in Dealey Plaza, believed to be French assassins, were never found.

As a result of the Kennedy administration:

American troops were withdrawn from Vietnam and the war never escalated; the lives of 58,000 American military personnel were spared along with hundreds of thousands of civilians on both sides.

America and Russia signed a binding peace agreement, initiated by Kennedy and Nikita Khrushchev that included a nuclear test ban treaty. The Cold War diminished and the Berlin Wall, erected in 1961, was gradually dismantled.

The power of the Central Banking System of the United States of America (the Federal Reserve) was reined in and transferred to the United States Department of the Treasury, thus blunting the power of independent banks and their ability to control the economy and interest rates.

Richard Nixon was never elected to power and faced corruption charges through association with Mafia connections. Watergate never happened.

Martin Luther King went on to become a US Senator as the Kennedys rolled out their Civil Rights reform legislation across America. Malcom X became an advisor to the programme.

Organised crime lost much of its influence in the United States. The empires built by mob leaders such as Giancana, Marcello and Trafficante, were relentlessly pursued and whilst it was impossible to wipe them out, they were significantly reduced losing most of the influence they had over government officials.

The CIA was dismantled into smaller manageable sections with direct accountability to the US Government. It was renamed The USIA (United States Intelligence Agency). J Edgar Hoover was removed from the FBI.

Texan oil businesses were targeted to root out corruption and the secret societies that had many of the oil tycoons as members. Lyndon Johnson was dropped from JFK’s 1964 Presidential campaign and subsequently left politics.

Muhammad Ali did not have his heavyweight title removed for refusing the draft and went on to hold the heavyweight championship of the world for a full ten years, until 1974 when he retired unbeaten.

A single bullet theory…

Authors Note: The above text is a work of fiction, produced for the purposes of reader entertainment and interaction only. Whilst the text is based on a real, historical incident and contains the names of real people, there is no intent to suggest that any named person was actually involved in any of the incidents or scenarios depicted and no intent to suggest either guilt or innocence where any act or criminal activity is portrayed.

The 1066 World Cup Final

“Right lads. Remember, this is your big opportunity. You can become legends, write your own history.” Harold Godwinson drew himself up to his full height, paused for effect and said, “You can win the World Cup on home soil!”

A cheer went up from the group gathered in a huddle and then, when a hush finally settled, a voice cut in.

“Yeah but gaffer, why –”

“I’ve told you before, Norbert of Styles,” interrupted Harold, “it’s Sire. For am I not King of England?”

“Oh yeah, sorry gaff... err, Sire.”

“And your question, Norbert?”

“Uh, yeah. Home soil you say, gaff... err, Sire. More like home stones. How come we’re playing at Hastings?”

Harold stroked his chin. “Well, it’s closer for the French team, isn’t it. Bit closer to Normandy... English hospitality and all that. Why, where would you suggest we play?”

Norbert smiled, his gap toothed grin making him a favourite with the ladies. “We don’t wanna be making it easy for the French do we? I’d have said Wemblee would’ve been better.”

“Wemblee?” said one of the team members in a yellow jersey. His name was Banks of Gordon, but he was known affectionately as Banksy because he didn’t give much away and was suspected as being the mysterious artist who had sketched an unfinished work called the ‘Bayeux Tapestry’ all over a public wall in the town. “Where’s that then?”

Well, it’s a bit north of here. Big open field. Plenty of space. You can move round a bit. Better for Big Jack here,” Norbert said glancing behind at a tall guy standing to the rear. “I mean, he won’t find it easy moving on these pebbles, being the lanky fella he is, and that’s gonna make us vulnerable down the middle.”

“Vulnerable? Vulnerable, Norbert? We’re English. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island were defeated today in this Final, then our teams shall go beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the FA, and will carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the next generation, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and we shall win the World Cup.”

Several of the gathering stared at each other for a moment, unsure of how to respond. And then a young man stepped forward. He was known to many as an astute and level headed member of the community and a part-time soothsayer.

“Sire, if may make so bolde. My name is Peter Martins and I am of the parish of Weste Hame and I bege your leave to speake.”

Harold nodded. “Yes, I have heard of you. Some say that you are ahead of your time but why do you keep adding an ‘e’ to the end of many of your words?”

“Sire, it is my accent. I was raised in the shires of Essexe and we speake in our own dialecte. I hope I do not offende your majesty?”

“Not at all. We are all Englishmen. Roger the Huntsman is from the land where they say the fabled Liver Bird roams; George the ‘Priest’ is from the region of Londinium; Norbert from the Manc tribe; Alan, the Earl of Ball, from the Black Pool. A fine mix of men here about to make history and win the 1066 World Cup. Now say your piece, Peter Martins.”

“I thanke thee Sire. I wanted to saye that Norbert of Styles may have a point about Wemblee. One day I can see a greate amphitheatre there that holds thousands, nay, hundreds of thousands of our fellowe Englishmen, 52% of them willing us to win, 48% wanting the opposition to win with 4% just pitching up for the hospitality. This is what we neede... support. I see no supporters on this wilde and windy beach, Sire. I fear that if we do not get support, it may be 900 years before we have the chance to win the Worlde Cup again.”

“Thank you Peter Martins. I hear your wise words and your fears but we have men of valour amongst us. Sir Robert Carlton, a champion of many battles, a man of shooting accuracy few, if any, can match. He will take the fight to the French, supported by the rest of you brave warriors.”

“Sire, if I may,” a tall, proud looking man with a shock of blonde hair said.

“What is it, Mooro? What is it my general has to say to his troops?”

“Well Sire, as you know, I too am from the Parish of Weste Hame, and I understand Peter Martins concerns. But last night I was in the pub and I ran into my friend, Alfred of Romsey and we got talking. He has an analytical approach to battle and he pointed out a few things. He said that playing on the pebbles of Hastings beach might even things up a tad. He said we have the best personnel but beware that the beach might be a problem. He suggested that they are weak at the back. Take their key central people – Barnier, Tusk, Merkel and Macron. They are a one trick pony, only one set of tactics. Put pressure on them and they’ll cave. Get ‘Bally’ to sling high ones into their box for the big guns and Sir Robert to fire off his cannonballs and they won’t like it. Get through them and then you’ve only got Junckers to worry about and the word is, he’s distracted working on some new invention called an ‘air o plain’ or something, that he hopes to sell to the Germans. But Alfred said, you’d be better off at Wemblee. Oh, and he also said the boys should fire at Will.”

“Fire at Will?” Harold said, looking puzzled.

“Yeah, he suggested that Ray of Wislon and George pepper their leader, Will… the fellah with the big nose, since he seems to pull the strings in the middle of the field.”

“Ah, yes, William the Conk. Good thinking, I’ll grant you. Control him and you take charge.” Harold tugged at his beard and looked thoughtful. “But this Wemblee thing, all a bit late now, Mooro and anyway, that Alfred of Romsey spends all his time up at Ipswich these days so he’s out of touch. I say we press on, get ourselves organised. Time is of the essence.”

There was a low murmur amongst the assembly and then one of the number, an athletic type wearing a green hat, stepped forward.

“Sire, I beg to ask, will you require my services this day?”

“Harold looked him up and down and said, “And who might you be, young fella?”

“Sire, I am Geoffrey of Hurstville.”

“Hurstville? I have roamed my Kingdom from coast to coast, from forest to forest and from hill to dale and yet I have never come across such a place. Pray, where is Hurstville?”

“It is but a tiny hamlet in the shires of Essexe, not far from the Parish of West Hame, Sire.”
“Ah… another of the Weste Hame clan. It seems you are many. Wait, I think I have seen you before. Were you not here with your fellow Hammers just two days ago? Yes… you were the fellow with the blue hat. I remember now. What is going on with your hats, Geoffrey? Are you trying to disguise yourself, fool your King? What is this trick?”

“Sire, I have but three hats, one green that I wear today, one blue and one red. I change them regularly so that I keep them washed and fresh. It is no foolery. I only wish to serve my King and my Kingdom on this day against the French in this final. I want to be remembered for that for evermore, not remembered for some hat trickery.”

King Harold smiled. “My son, spoken like a loyal Englishman. This very day, Geoffrey, you shall take your place here in Hastings, by my side. You shall battle with your King and his loyal subjects. We shall win this final and give our opponents one in the eye so that never will they venture upon these shores again…

A rousing cheer drowned out the rest of King Harold’s words and then, when silence returned Harold raised himself up to his full height, drew his sword and held it aloft. “Once more unto the beach dear friends, once more, or close the wall up with our English dead…”

At the back of the crowd Ray of Wislon whispered to Banksy. “Here we go. One of his bleedin’ soliloquies. I hope he’s right about Hastings and wrong about closing walls up with English dead otherwise we might as well all go into the undertaking business.”

Words

In a recent news item that escaped mainstream public attention, probably due to the focus given to the posturing of world leaders, it was reported that an important discovery had been made in the ancient Sterkfontein cave site, in the Province of Gauteng, South Africa.
A team of anthropologists specialising in linguistics, happened upon a vast array of wall inscriptions in a previously unexplored cave whilst searching for evidence of a primitive tribe that had relocated from the Kalahari Desert region some 700 kilometres west of Sterkfontein. The inscriptions were so well preserved, having been sheltered from light and weathering for well over 100,000 years, that the team were able to get clear details almost as if they had been written yesterday. They spent months on deciphering the individual sections and were surprised to find that there was a natural progression to the inscriptions and, rather than random blocks of ‘writing’, there was a sequence that formed a narrative. What was even more revelatory was the discovery that the inscriptions were by a hominid tribe that crossed the divide between Homo Heidelbergensis and Homo Erectus and the content indicated a much higher level of development and intelligence than anyone had expected. Linguists were able to discover that the tribe consisted of almost three hundred settlers who had lived in an area of the Kalahari Desert that in the modern era is known as Tshabong. Now thanks to newly developed linguistic software, the full transcript of the cave writings has been made available in a select number of scientific publications. The full collection of inscriptions is lengthy, the equivalent of a novelette, so for the purposes of this post, only a small sample has been included which, it is hoped, illustrates how important this discovery has been.

“Awright Dagga? How you doin’?”
“Good Teekay. You?”
“Cool. What’s that?”
Dagga glanced downwards and then raised his right hand. “That, my friend, is a thing for cutting stuff.”
“A what?”
“A thing for cutting stuff.”
“What... that?
“Yeah... and, it’s gonna change the way we live.”
“Err... yeah... okay, if you say so. But it looks like a thin bit of stone to me.”
Dagga held the object up and said, “Well, yeah, it’s made out of stone but look close. I shaped it using other stones. See, this end is sharp and this end is blunt. You hold it by the blunt end and use the sharp end to cut stuff.”
Teekay scratched his chin and said, “Right... but what’s it called? I mean, you can’t just call it a stone ’cos everybody will just think it’s... uh, another stone.”
“Dunno yet. I’m meeting up with the rest of the clan at the Henge and thought I’d ask Lexic to come up with a name. He’s good with words.”
“Yeah, I heard him and Dik is making something called a book with all them words wot he’s invented in it so we can talk better to each other. I’ll come with you.”

Dagga and Tekay headed off to the Henge where they found a throng of people standing around enjoying the last of the evening sunshine, for it was a record temperature not seen since the ice age, the last recorded record temperature.
“You a bit late this evening,” an older guy with a long beard said.
“Yeah, running late, Lexic. Been inventing something.”
“Inventing? What’s that? I don’t have that word in my notes. What’s it mean? I might use it.”
“I just made it up.” Dagga held up the long bit of stone and said, “I was clearing out the air vent in my cave… you know how they get clogged up with moss and that in this heat... them meteee ologists don’t like us gettin too hot. Anyway, this bit of stone wot was in vent came loose. Looked a bit different so I played around with it and made this.”
“Yeah, but he ain’t got a name for it yet,” Tekay said.
“What’s it do?” one of the men standing around asked.
“Well… it cuts things and, I dunno, can kill things. Gonna save us chasing round after them bleedin speedy things with the pointed horns and throwing stones at them.”
“Yeah… that don’t work,” said an exceptionally tall guy who was leaning on a rock. “Too bleedin fast to be caught for food.”
“Don’t despair,” Larjmac, “with this, one day you’ll catch them horny fast food and things will be different. It’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.”
“Since what? What’s that?” Larjmac said, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.
“What’s what?” Dagga asked.
“Hang on,” said Lexic, “you can’t say that. You can’t have two words the same next to each other... that’s a new rule. Ask Mattmat here. Ain’t that right Matmatt?”
“Uh... s’pose it is,” answered a short chap who was fiddling with some beads strung around his neck. "Not too good with words, me. More better with sums."
"Sums? Sums what?" asked a young guy with a ready smile.
"Don't worry about it Dik," said Mattmat. "I'm working on it."
Larjmac raised a hand to interrupt and smiled at Dagga. “Anyway, I was only asking what sliced bread is. I mean, I never even heard of bread so dunno
what ‘sliced’ is.”
Dagga stared at Lexic for a moment. “Yeah, well it’s just a... a...”
Lexic shrugged. “Let’s call it a ‘turn of froze’. And don’t ask... I’ll sort it. “ He scratched his head and then said, “so, Dagga, this new invention of yours, we gotta give it a name... and by the way, ‘gotta’ is a type of chat wot me and Dik is... err, to use your new word... inventing, and we calling it ‘slang’ innit, so some people don’t av to communicate proper wot doanwanna, yeah. Anyway, I got a great name for your bit of stone. I’m working on words that rhyme and -"
“Rhyme?” Dagga said.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it now but I got this new word for a woman that you own and then it sort of just comes outta that.”
“What’s that word then?” asked Dik. “All these new words wot you keeps comin up with can be fusing.”
“You know... what I said this morning, Dik... member? I got a new word for a woman wot us men own? Named it after my own woman, Wyva, in her honour.... like I said, member, yeah? ‘Wife’... innit. And then I got ‘life’ and then ‘strife’ and then ‘rife’... which is rhyming innit, like singing wot will be words wiv, you know, people screamin an wailing an that. Not sure wot it’s I’m gonna use them lot for yet but how about... nife?”
“Uh... okay,” said Dagga. “I like it. An, if you got it spare...”
“Hold on a bit,” a young woman with short dark hair said. “My man Dik here has made words too. Wot bout his words wot he’s come up wiv?”
Lexic stroked his beard and said, “Don’t worry Chenerry, Dik and you will be recognizzed. I will make sure you get credit for Dik’s work. Maybe do more books, yeah.”
“Well, anyway, I like nive too,” said Teekay. “It’s different and I’m starting a thing called a shop so I could sell it for you.”
“Good idea,” said Larjmac. “What about we sell it for getting them fast horny things for food? We could do it together... call it... LarjmacsTeekay. What d’you think?”
“Hang on,“ said a young man who’d been sitting on a rock listening intently. “I’m the one that catches most of them horny things and brings them to yer caves. And I make clothes for you outta them skins. I gotta be in on any deal going on here.”
A woman named Lope stepped forward. “Cool it Max. Let’s use our brains here. Why don’t you and Teekay sort something? He’s starting a shop, you supply him with the stuff.”
Max looked slightly embarrassed. A woman speaking up for a man wasn’t going to do his image any good in front of the crowd, especially not a member of his family.
“I’m on it auntie Lope. I ready thought of that. I get it. I hunt the horny things and bring ‘em to Teekay. If Dagga’s new... uh, what you say it called Lexic?”
“Nive... I’m calling it ‘nive’,” Lexic said and shot a glance at Dik. “You still good with that mate?”
Dik nodded.
“Great,” Max said. “We in business.” He winked at Teekay who smiled.
Auntie Lope stepped forward. “Don’t forget me,” she said. “My idea... .”
Max, Dagga and Teekay nodded to one another and then Dagga said, “cool, yeah. No worries. “He glanced at Lexic. “We’ll get your name in there somewhere Auntie Lope. But we gotta sort them horny fast things first.”

The Elders

So, anyway, a rumour flew around the village that a dragon was on the loose. The elders got together and the senior elder asked, “What shall we do? What shall we do?”
One of the younger elders (for there were such things back in days of yore) asked, “Why do you say everything twice?”
The senior elder replied, “I don’t. I don’t. I was just -"
“There you go again, see!”
The senior elder looked non-plussed. One of the other elders, who was not as elderly as the senior elder but older than the younger elder said, “Look, we’re wasting time here. There’s a dragon running amok on the outskirts of the village and -"
“Running where?” asked one of the other elders who was not as elderly as quite a few of the older elders but a bit older than most of the younger elders and considered a middle aged elder.
“Amok. You know... uh, kind of wayward, out of control, frenzied, in an unrestrained manner with no.... no, err... forward planning.”
“Oh, right, yeah,“ said the youngest elder. “Sounds about right for a dragon. They ain’t that up on strategy.”
“Yes, but out of control dragons are not good for the village,” said the senior elder. “What shall we do? What shall we do?”
“Dragons? With an ‘S’? There’s more than one?” The middle-aged elder said.
“No... no. Just one. It was a figure of... look, we’re wasting time here. What shall we do? What shall we do?”
“I’ve an idea,” said one of the elders who wasn’t really an elder because he was still only sixteen but, with wisdom beyond his tender years, had been elected as a teenage elder.
“An idea?” the senior elder said, his eyebrows arching involuntarily. "What's that then?"

"Uh... it's an original thought, a sort of -"

"I know that! I meant, what is it, this idea of yours?"

“Oh, right. Well, why don’t we get some of the peasants to go down the street and beseech George to come to our aid?”
“Do what?” several elders said in unison.
“Get George to come -"
“No... beseech. What’s that?”
“Beseech? Uh... ask. It means ask... like urgently.”
“Why didn’t you say that then?” said the middle-aged elder?
“I dunno... because... well because, I’m only a teenage elder and if I use words like ‘beseech’ it gives me gravitas.”
“What?”
“Isn’t that a song?”
“A song? What... gravitas?”
“No! I’m only a teenage elder... by Wheatus?”
“Dirtbag.”
“You what?”
“Teenage Dirtbag.”
“Oh yeah... right.”
The senior elder looked perplexed. “We’re wasting time. The dragon will be upon us. I say that we do as our teenage elder suggests and beseech George to help. It's an original idea for such a young elder.”
So, the elders organised four peasants to go to George’s house and beseech him.
George was chilling when the urgent door knocking started. For years, after many battles as a warrior with his trusty lance, Ascolon, across the Middle East, George had forsaken the life of a warrior and decided to be a trainee Saint. He realised it could be quite a lucrative profession after his good mate Patrick had taken up the challenge to strive for sainthood. Patrick was now revered for banishing serpents and snakes from the island across the water and was not far off sainthood. George needed a similar act of bravery that also showed him as a commanding presence. A break was needed.
Ascolon was gathering dust in the corner. Life was at an all time low. The knock on the door was about to change that.
George strode across the straw strewn floor and flung open the door.
“Who are you?” he asked, as he laid eyes on the ragtaggle quartet that stood on his threshold.
“We are but four peasants from the village who have come to... be seek... err, bysch... beezeash...” The lead peasant turned to his comrades. “What was that fancy word?”
“I think it was ‘beseech, Jezz,” said one of the group.
“Oh, yeah. Thanks,” the lead peasant said. He turned back towards George. “Uh... yeah. We’ve come to beseech you on behalf of the village.”
“Beseech me? For what?”
“Err... oh yeah. There’s a dragon running amok, toasting our sheep and frazzling our pigs."
“Frazzling your pigs? Is that a euphemism?”
“A ufo what?”
“Never mind. A dragon you say? But surely dragons are mythical creatures, figments of the imagination. A dragon that toasts sheep and frazzles pigs? That’s not the way of the dragon.”
“Ain’t that a fillim?” one of the peasants said.
“Course it ain’t a fillim cos fillims ain’t been invented yet, stoopid,” Jezz said. “Anyway, I read about dragons in books, so they exist. Like in them holy books where bushes catch fire and the seas part. If it’s in a book it’s kosher.”
George rubbed his chin. He was dubious but he saw an opportunity.
“Peasants, men of the soil, beseech no more. I am suitably beseeched. Fetch my trusty steed.”
“Steed?” said one of the peasants. “What’s that?”
“My horse, Shergar, you ignoramus. Fetch him and saddle him for battle. You... whatsurname... Jezz, prepare my armour and dust off Ascolon. I go to war!”
“Uh, I’m not that comfortable with war,” Jezz said.
George rose to his full height, his nostrils flaring. “Comfortable! Comfortable! Do you -"
“Err, why are you saying everything twice,? Jezz asked.
George looked down his nose and ignored the interruption. “This is not about comfort. The dragon cometh, breathing fire, a desire to dominate our village, take our livestock, change our way of life. Are you an Englishman, Jezz? You and your peasants? If you are, you rise up, you grab Ascolon and you defend what is your heritage. Now, out of my way all ye who are faint-hearted.”
With his armour in place and Ascolon tucked firmly to his saddle, George rode purposefully to confront the dragon.
There, on the edge of the village, stood the giant scaley creature, it’s nostrils expelling plumes of flame that consumed the brushwood instantly.
George clicked his heels and Shergar strode forward, his proud head high, his eyes intent and gleaming. The dragon roared, his long neck waving his head high above the approaching George.
As they got closer George dismounted, looked at Shergar and winked. “Odds on old chap? Distract this scaley-backed intruder who woudst change our existence. Oh.... and don’t go disappearing on me!” He grabbed Ascolon and strode forward.
The blast caught George by surprise. A flamethrower of hot yellow sparks enveloped him.
“Shit!” The metal armour suddenly reached temperatures that were going to boil George alive. He pulled off his visor and just managed to avoid another jet of flame from the dragon. He rolled across the moorland towards the shrubb. As quickly as he could he removed his breastplate and armoured leggings. If you are going to defend your land sometimes you have to do so in your Calvin Kleins.
The dragon roared. Shergar reared. It distracted the dragon for a moment. George ran towards the dragon. The dragon hesitated, a moment’s doubt. It had never encountered resistance from one man in his underpants. It was all conquering, roasting the sheep and frazzling the pigs of Europe. George grabbed Ascolon and took aim. Shergar took off at speed, distracting the monster. George threw Ascolon. It caught the dragon in the eye.
“That’s for Hastings, sucka. Welcome to our Village.”

The Stamping Job

As I progress in life I sometimes reflect on my first job after leaving school. I had been at a boarding school and left with no qualification to do anything useful except a clutch of examination passes that I think were called 'O-Levels' at the time but may have been 'Oh!' levels as that was my mother's response when she saw the grades.
With no direction, no ambition and no idea about what I wanted to do except get a job and earn some money, I applied for an office job. That's what you did when you got 'oh levels' back then. It was advertised in a well-known London evening paper (The Evening News, well known at the time but now defunct) and was an office clerk's position in Central London, between The Strand and Fleet Street to be precise. I'm not sure how I managed to convince anyone at the interview that I should be worthy of a clerical job in a grand building with plush offices. Somehow I did. I sat at the interview in my three piece suit, kipper tie and long hair (everybody under 30 had long hair back then... even the women) and tried to answer the questions without stuttering or passing out. I wasn't dim but I was naive, unworldly and excruciatingly shy, each of those 'qualities' a product, no doubt, of being closeted away in the boarding school for three and a half years.  Nowadays you can burgle a house, assault a pensioner or cause criminal damage to public property and not get put away for three years. I'd done none of those things. In fact I'd done nothing of note at all... except cope with the early death of my father through illness a year or so earlier. I guess, after that, I'd run away. Escaped to the 'safety' of a world that was a complete contrast to my earlier happy childhood. Imprisoned myself by choice. And now, out in the real world, I was trying to adjust to three and a half years 'exile' from the 'ring,' the arena of normal teenage development.
A few days after the interview I received a letter in the post, enclosed in a crisp, expensive looking envelope with the organisation's crest on the front. I opened it and found I was being offered the advertised position. I was bemused and then ecstatic. I'd been offered a city job at my first attempt. The only way was up. And then ecstasy gave way to self-doubt, fear even. Not fear of work. I have never had a problem with that. No, fear of entering the unknown world of work which I was ill prepared for (if you discount my 'oh levels'). And it wasn't a job in some provincial, one-horse town. This was in the capital of England. Would I be able to cope with a high powered role in a big organisation? (I had decided that the position of office clerk was 'high powered' given that it was in London). Would I be capable? Could I cope? Of course, I had 'oh levels,' after all.

The reality was something else.

On my first day at work I was given 'The Stamping Job.' I had my own desk but that was a necessity, not a status symbol, as it was a filtering station for every single piece of paper, letter, memo and telex that came through the organisation. (For those of you accustomed to the modern digital world of communication, telexes were a prehistoric electronic communication tool, a bit like a caveman sending a text). And my job was to stamp each one. Stamp them all with the date and department name… with a stamping device. Stamping was authenticating it as an officially received document. I didn't even have to read the documents. Just place them on the desk and 'kerrthump' them with the stamping device. And it was no ordinary bit of kit either. No, not for a high powered city job. It was a large, silver piece of mechanical machinery with a big red knob on the end of it. The handle, I mean... not me. Although, having said that, I did blush a lot. I say a lot but perhaps it was only when anyone looked at me, spoke to me, smiled at me, walked past me or was a girl. Part of the problem was the fact that I had had no real interaction with girls before I got The Stamping Job. Three plus years incarcerated in a school for boys meant that I was as familiar with their species as I was with the Nile crocodile. They never crossed my path so I didn't know how to handle them. So, like you should with the Nile crocodile, I gave them a wide berth.

Anyway, my first day in my new high powered City of London job began with a training session on how to 'stamp.' My training was conducted by the existing 'Stamping Job' incumbent, a guy named... perhaps he should remain nameless for the simple reason that he is actually still a real life friend. So I will call him 'Phil' mainly because I cannot think of him as anything else and Phil is a great abbreviation for his proper name! Phil was one of the good guys. Within seven nano-seconds he recognised that I was a naive young lad way out of his depth and totally lacking in social skills. I could use a knife and fork but my ability to interact with other humans was somewhat underdeveloped. Phil began the training by explaining that the stamping process involved placing a document flat on the desk, positioning the stamper thing onto the document and then pressing the knob down in a firm, emphatic manner so that it made contact and left an imprint of the date and department (in this case ‘Shipping’) on the surface. Kerrthump! Simple. There were only two other additional tasks in the training programme. The first involved putting the stamped document into a filing tray marked 'pending' (to this very day, nobody knows what pending means. I concluded that it meant don't do anything else with this document because somebody else will. The problem is, everybody thinks that and, as a result, some documents 'pend' forever). The second task was to ensure that I moved the date on by one digit each day. 

I'm a fast learner and within two and a half minutes I had grasped the whole concept and was ready to take on the responsibilities of 'The Stamping Job.' Phil looked relieved that I had picked up the process so quickly. I assumed that he was pleased that his teaching technique had been successful but I suspect it was because he had previously dealt with a succession of morons who hadn't made the grade. However by the end of the next day when my right arm was inflamed with a dull ache (Repetitive Strain Injury, RSI, had not been invented back then so you couldn't sue anyone - in fact, I don't think suing people for having to do your normal job had even been thought of as a money making concept), I realised his wide grin the previous day had been a reaction to the knowledge that the organisation had now recruited another sucker and he would no longer have to face the daily boredom that would eventually vegetate normal thinking processes.

I had no other function in the office other than to 'stamp' and by day three, my right arm had adopted an automated involuntary action of its own so that even when I was not holding the stamping device, my hand would randomly punch down on the desk, much to my embarrassment since fellow office workers would turn and look in my direction. They all thought I had some sort of spasmodic tick and back then, unusual behavioural patterns were not immediately considered worthy of an 'employee support group' but were simply categorised as 'weirdo' behaviour. I would respond by going red and then staring at the table as if it had been propelled upwards by some seismic shift of the earth's crust. The worst happened when Phil brought me a mug of tea on my third day. I raised it to take a sip but some reflexive action caused me to smash it down again onto the table. A fountain of tea shot into the air as the shock wave reverberated through the base of the mug and slopped the hot liquid over my pending papers. I blushed the incident off. It was what I did.

By day four of my first week I had communicated sufficiently in a series of stuttering responses to colleagues to make them realise that the red thing with the long hair and the involuntary fist thump, sat at the back of the office, was in fact human. This revelation made them confident enough to give me additional tasks but only tasks at a level of difficulty that a semi-comatose chimpanzee could carry out. So I was given routine photocopying. I was at the bottom of the office food chain, the amoeba of office life forms. But I didn't mind. It broke up the boredom of the stamping task and I viewed it as a trust thing, that my colleagues considered me a part of the team and were getting me involved. You have to start somewhere in the big city.However, my first experience of the photocopier didn't go as well as it should have done. For a start it was positioned in a corridor bordering another department which meant that I had to walk into unknown territory, an unnerving experience for a shy kid who had only just begun to feel at ease behind a pile of papers that needed stamping. Armed with a wad of documents that I had been asked to copy, I headed for the machine. I turned the corner into the corridor and stopped in my tracks. There was a girl. No... not just any girl. A blonde vision from the Planet Stunning. She was using the copier. And she had a short skirt on which meant that she had... had legs. I stopped, not deliberately. No, some part of my brain sent a message to my feet to say, 'you can't go there. This is Nile croc territory.' As a result I stopped some six feet away from the photocopier, the wad of papers held out in front of me, an improvised protective shield.  My instinct was to turn and run... but she'd spotted me. "Hello. You're Patrick aren't you?"At that point I had no idea who I was. A blonde vision had noticed me, spoken to me. And knew my name. I wasn't equipped to deal with it. So I went red. Maybe it works for chameleons, going a different colour. Meant to frighten off predators apparently. But it wasn't helping me. For a start the decor was pale magnolia (whatever that is - I think it's a colour name people made up when they had considered that 'bland' wouldn't sell as a paint product) and there was nothing red anywhere in sight for me to 'chameleon' in to. I felt my face flashing as the blood tried to disguise me as a tomato.The girl at the copier noticed but she was cool, even though my lack of a verbal response could have seemed impolite."I'm Agneta." (Agneta. Again I must protect the innocent. She may well have a Neanderthal husband now and if he recognises his wife in my narrative he may come after me with a twelve-bore shotgun. Or maybe just twelve boars.) Agneta. The name was... original, exotic, sexy. Not that I knew what sexy was. Why couldn't she have been called... I dunno, Mabel or something. Blonde, stunning and called Agneta was too much for me. I shifted the documents to my other hand. Agneta continued to press buttons on the copier, casual, unperturbed. Meanwhile, I was experiencing a mild seizure that left me unable to speak or move."I won't be long," she said, as she placed another sheet of paper on the machine.Be as long as you like, I thought. I can stare all day long, even from six feet away. She smiled and I dropped all my papers. My already blushed face now pulsated purple. I sank to my knees and started to scrabble about on the floor in an attempt to retrieve the spilt pile. And, in an instant, Agneta was beside me, effortlessly collecting my scattered documents and shuffling them into a neat, orderly pile. I knew I had to speak even if it was just to say thanks. But I was not that cool. "I am… " I said.She stopped shuffling and looked at me. Her wide eyed gaze and the subtle aroma of her perfume both in my face. "You are...? You are… what?" she said.
"I am... I am... yes, I am Patrick, like you said. I am... erm... doing the stamping job."She giggled. "The stamping job? What's that?"My purpleness had relaxed into a sunset shade of blood orange, cooled perhaps by the beads of perspiration that had started to run down my face. I tried to be coherent. "It's the... the, you know, high power... err, office clerk job. I overtook it... I mean, took it over. I'm in that position... stamping… head.""Do you mean head of stamping?"

"Uh... well, yes. If you... if you ever want anything stamped just come and see me.

She smiled as she gathered up the rest of my papers. "Thank you Patrick. I will. Kind of you to offer." She stood up. "Will we see you tomorrow in the Surrey?"

The Surrey. I had no idea what that was but I nodded. If Agneta was going to be “in the Surrey,” then I had to be there. 

"Uh... yes. In... in Surrey. I'll... be there."She smiled and handed me my papers. "All yours now Patrick. I'm done."My blank look clearly suggested that more information was needed. "The photocopier. I've finished," she said, indicating the machine.It was my first real look at it. It was bigger than a small tank."Oh... yes. Err, thanks... erm... " I couldn't bring myself to say her name. No idea why, other than chronic shyness and perhaps the thought that doing so implied some familiarity that I was not worthy off."Agneta. It's Agneta. People have difficulty with it. Ag - net- ah." My face instantly returned to the molten lava look. She thought I'd forgotten her name or was too dim to pronounce it. "I hadn't forgotten. I know. Sorry," I blurted.She smiled. "See you tomorrow then. Hope the stamping goes well." And off she went.Tomorrow. See you tomorrow. I felt like I had a date.

I left the papers on the copier and went back to find Phil."You okay mate?" he asked. A normal question I suppose if somebody looks like they need an ambulance."Yeah... I am." I took a deep breath and decided to ask. "What's the Surrey?""The Surrey? It's a pub down the road. In Surrey Street. We all go down there Friday night for a few beers. Why?"We! All. 'We' meant lots of people. Not just me and Agneta. It threw me for a nano second but then I realised that me, lots of people and Agneta was still me and Agneta in the same room. "Uh... nothing. Just Ag... err, somebody mentioned it. Just in case... I need to know... things.""Yeah mate. It's a laugh. Bit of end of week down time... bonding thing. You coming?""Err... Yeah... sure."I returned to the desk buoyed with enthusiasm and stamped like a maniac all afternoon. Nothing went unstamped... everything that landed on that desk got stamped including a cheese sandwich that Phil had got me from the canteen. And then I remembered that I had never had any alcohol before. Never had a drink other than a sneaky tipple from a family member's sherry glass one Christmas when I was nine. And that had put me off for life. I remember wondering why my parents and their friends had decided to poison themselves but as they were still alive in the morning I dismissed alcohol as just something big people did. Now I was one of the 'big people' and if I was going to impress Agneta I would have to behave like big people and try alcohol. I was jolted from my daydream by a stern voice. "Have you done the copying, young man?"I looked up. It was the department head, a guy in his fifties who looked twenty years older, probably because the routine of holding down a mind numbingly dull admin job and negotiating the daily tube ride for decades had drained every ounce of individuality, passion and desire from his spirit... probably took his spirit too."Err, sorry, Bob. Yes... the copier was, uh... busy. I'll get it done... right now." Having been hypnotised by Agneta I had totally forgotten the copying task.
Friday came... and dragged. I stamped all day, stamped like the Chief Exec of Stamping would if there were such a position. It got me through the interminable wait for five-thirty. At five-thirty one Phil appeared at my desk, his jacket flung over one arm."You still coming over the road son?"There was no real discussion. "The Surrey? Yeah.""Yep. The Surrey. Get your jacket."I grabbed my jacket and followed Phil. Straight down the ornate spiral staircase into the lobby, out through the vast gated entrance and onto The Strand. We crossed the road and two minutes later we were outside the Surrey Arms. I had no time to allow my apprehension to take hold. Phil just walked straight in, comfortable and confident in his surroundings. I followed him. The place was heaving. Phil pushed his way to the bar and within a minute I was holding a can of Fosters. But these were not the cans of Fosters that you see nowadays. These were large, fat cans that held at least a litre of the amber fluid. The pub was mainly Australian and it catered big time for Aussie drinkers.

Phil flipped the ring and raised the can. "Cheers mate. Here's to your first week." I followed his lead and opened my can. A deep breath and I took my first sip of the cold contents. As the liquid hit my tongue it swirled around consuming my taste buds, an alien invasion of bitter sweet fizz that took control of my senses instantly. I gulped it down and stared at my surroundings, a heaving mass of laughing faces, a buoyant 'out of the grip of work' crowd giving vent to their end of week freedom. I was with the big people now. I gulped down another mouthful of beer, almost choking on the ambitious slurp. And then the gas began to impact, firing at my throat, a sensation I was not familiar with. I looked at Phil but in that instant he was distracted by an office colleague. My eyes began to 'pop', sensations washing over me as my young, inexperienced and totally unprepared system decided how it should deal with alcohol. I gave it more to consider by slurping another mouthful. It went down more easily but within seconds my face started to protrude. Probably not literally. It just felt like it was doing its own thing expression wise. The muscles in my jaws clenched as the alcohol injected itself quickly into my unprepared brain. My nose went numb, my eyes blurred momentarily and my jaw began to spasm  between tight and relaxed. The sensations confused, not something I knew how to deal with. I took a deep breath and stared at Phil. He was in deep conversation with a colleague and then, in slow motion, I saw him move away, towards the bar but get swallowed up by the throng in the process. Phil was my lifeline. Mentally I took a step forward but my feet didn't take the command. If I lost Phil I was alone. Alone in a packed pub. Everyone knew one another. Laughing faces, familiarity, joshing banter, but not directed to me. I was nobody again. Nobody, like when my dad left... I mean... died. I slugged the beer thinking that another hit would do the job, desensitise me and enable me to cope. Maybe it did. The hit fuzzed my brain, distorted my vision and then told me I could walk. I stumbled forward, a step at a time, each one precise and deliberate. You shouldn't have to place your feet that precisely unless you're a newly born antelope. The crowd parted, not because I was the new high powered Stamping Job exec. No, they parted because a glazed eyed kid should be avoided. They parted and in the space they left I spotted Agneta.

The blonde vision from Planet Stunning was there... as she said she would be. But not as I thought she would be. She was sitting on the lap of a tubby, moustachioed hippy, who should have stayed in Woodstock. He had to be a hundred and four years old which is what forty-ish  seemed like to a seventeen year old. I looked. My Foster's head took in the scene. It made no sense. I wanted to speak, to say 'hello Agneta. I'm here.' Like you wanted. But I froze, mortified by the fact that the vision was contaminated. She smiled at me, a smile of recognition but not acceptance; not pleasure. My face warmed, this time not a blush, more a crushing disappointment fuelled by the fact that I was ill equipped to deal with rejection. I was unable to speak. A fleeting thought that I was supposed to be one of the big people scrabbled for acceptance in my head. It gained a momentary foothold causing me to attempt to return Agneta's smile. My mouth made it, but my eyes didn't mainly because they had fixed on Woodstock Moustache. As a result he thought I was smiling at him. And he winked. The wink destroyed me. Now, I can look back and see that it was nothing more than a simple greeting and a complementary reaction to Agneta's smile of recognition.  And maybe even a greeting directed towards a gormless, naive idiot who was standing staring at him and the Blonde Vision like someone who had just encountered Medusa and was morphing into a statue. But I didn't see it that way. To me it was a wink that said, 'I got the girl... the girl you want and can't ever get even in your wildest fantasies 'cos you're the stamping sucker and you can't even handle your drink like us big people.' It was too much. I glanced at Agneta, raised the oversized Fosters can and took a hit. The slurp didn't even touch my mouth. It blasted the back of my throat like the first jet of a car wash. Combined with a reflex inhalation of oxygen there was never going to be a good outcome. The Fosters tidal wave, did a reverse flow and surged back the way it had come, ejecting a spray of fluid straight over my jacket and shirt. The portion that did go the right way, driven by the eject reflex, suddenly found another pathway and splurted from my nose, onto my chin. The sudden convulsing cough mechanism that accompanied this reverse drinking process brought tears and spittle, never a good look when you are trying to impress beings from the Planet Stunning. I looked at Agneta. Yeah, she'd seen it. I turned away, wiping dribble from my face. "You alright son? You look a bit peaky."Phil."Uh... yes. Just went down the wrong way. Sorry.""Don't be sorry. Nothing to be sorry for, mate. C'mon. Let's get you down the tube."And so I got home. Phil knew I was out of my depth. Agneta knew I was out of my depth.
I resolved never again to swim with Nile crocs.