Bad Boy

I sometimes exaggerate! My date had advertised for a ‘partner in crime.’ I tried to ignore the only naughty things I’ve ever done that could be classed as minor crime (uh… nicking Lovehearts from a sweetshop when I was 7 so I could give them to Valerie Humphrey*… who was 6 and three quarters) and tried to use my imagination to come up with something more… uh, gangster! I guess that sort of ‘criminality’, nicking Lovehearts, was never gonna be up there on a Sam Giancanna rap sheet level. So, I… yeah, I suggested that I had a darker background than the, uh, altar boy image I’ve tried to create over the years. 

I put the word ‘organised’ in front of crime. She was intrigued. Women seem to like ‘darkness’ but marry ‘wholesomeness.’ Sorry, guys, if you’re married. You might be reformed, so… ! Anyway, since I was BSing I was frantically trying to think of some plausible criminality that I might have got away with, but criminality that was acceptable… you know, maybe ripping off a hedge fund where nobody appears to get hurt. However, since I’ve never done anything naughty in my entire live (refer back to the altar boy thing…), it was tough. So, I thought, blag it with subtle suggestion. I mean, big time crims are never gonna come right out and brag about ‘jobs.’ So I just made references to where I get my balaclavas from. She seemed intrigued! I seemed nervous… I’m gonna reconfigure that as edgy! I will update! 

*Post Scriptum. Valerie left me! The Lovehearts didn’t close the deal. The first one she pulled out should have contained the legend, ‘Hot Stuff’ but since the packet had been in my pocket for six days as I built up the courage to present my gift, some of the candy had worn off and it now said, ‘Ho tuff.’ She didn’t seem impressed! 

Oenophilia - or not, as the case may be!

I don’t often complain but I had good reason to. I'd bought a bottle of wine in a well known up-market supermarket (bit of overkill there… it's probably enough to be just ‘super’). Anyway, I got it home and realised it had ‘2008’ printed on the label. I was incensed. I’d paid the best part of eighty quid for it too! 

I took it straight back and asked, no... demanded, to speak to the store manager. Eventually, a guy in a sharp suit with a gold bordered badge, that had the letters ‘GEOFF’ on it, apppeared. Not sure what the word meant or how it’s pronounced so I assumed it meant he’d achieved some sort of knowledgeable status within the wine trade, you know, like a Sommelier. He looked mildly put out as he saw me approach with the wine bottle in my hand.

I ignored his attempt to introduce himself and just went for it.

“I bought this wine here earlier and it’s way out of date,” I said, thrusting the bottle forward so that the GEOFF couldn’t avoid it.

He stared at the bottle for a moment and then said, “Sorry? Out of date?”

“Yes! Out of date. Look.” I pointed at the label.

He stared some more. Then he looked at me… kind of condescendingly, I thought.

“That’s the date of the wine, sir… the year it was produced. It’s a Château de Beaucastel, Châteauneuf-du-Pape Rouge.”

I felt a rush of blood - we can’t all have GEOFF knowledge, and I prickled at the way the ‘French’ just rolled off his tongue, heightening the condescension level - but I took a deep breath and calmly said, “Uh, yeah, maybe, but, uh… it’s not acceptable. It’s, uh… confusing. It could be the ‘use by’ or ‘best before’ date, you know? I mean, I’d take a chance on a ‘best before’, even though we’re talking nearly fourteen frigging years later, but ‘use by’... I mean, I don’t want to get poisoned!”

He smirked. I didn’t like it. I wanted to punch him but you shouldn’t really punch people in supermarkets… well, maybe if they’re not wearing a mask or doing that blocking the aisle with a trolley full of unhealthy food while they chat with somebody they know, somebody they haven’t seen since ten frigging minutes earlier on Facebook.

Anyway, the GEOFF caught my attention again but before he could speak I pulled out my ‘till’ receipt and held it out accusingly. I kind of felt I had nowhere to go, the GEOFF held the high ground and the knowledge.

“Look, seventy-nine pound fifty. That’s a lot of money. The least you could do is be clearer about these things… uh, the date thing.”

“Sir, this is a perfectly good, high quality wine. It is renowned for its elegance, balance and ageing potential. In fact it matures with age. There is no issue.”

My face felt redder than the wine. Customers we’re staring. I wished I was Basil Fawlty… “get on with your shopping, you half wits!” Nothing worse than having your dimness called out in public. Time for a get out. “Uh, okay… uhm… could you recommend some crisps to go with it?”

A Quiet Drink

I was sitting at a table in a bar. On my own. Three empty seats. A fella comes up with two women and says, "Sorry. Anyone sitting here?"

I looked for his white stick but he didn't have one. No dark glasses either and he wasn't humming 'Very superstitious, writing on the wall...' So I dismissed any thoughts about why he might be sorry and replied, "Yes, actually. I'm sitting here." And with an expansive gesture towards the remaining seats I said, "And the Invisible Man and his invisible wife are here ...oh, and their invisible child, whose sex I am unable to determine because he/she is invisible, is occupying this seat just there." He seemed slightly taken aback and glanced at one of his companions who decided she should intervene.

"No need to be rude. He only asked if anyone was sitting here."

"Madam, I am not being rude," I said. "I am aware of what this gentleman asked. I realise that that was his only question as you so expertly point out. I realise he didn't ask if I could explain Fermat's Last Theorem and nor did he ask if it was currently raining in Cambodia. Hence I answered his only question. Now, if you will be so kind as to accept my answer I would appreciate it. It isn't often I get to go out with my invisible friends, mainly because when we arrange to meet I never know whether they have turned up."

The woman took a deep breath and then whispered something to the other woman. Then she said, "Err, okay... I'm sorry. I understand. My friend and I work in the psychiatric department of the local hospital and we... we understand. No offence... if there's anything we can do..."

"Thank you," I said. "Apology accepted. Perhaps you'd get three gin and tonics... oh, and a cigar for the kid... by way of showing some good will."

She's at the bar now!

An Accident That Wasn't My Fault!

 Yesterday I had the following 'phone conversation:

"Hello."
"Good morning. I understand you have recently been in an accident that wasn't your fault. Is that right?"
I hesitated, about to cut the call. Then I changed my mind. "Oh yes. That's right. The one in Wiltshire?"
"I see. Whereabouts?"
"At Longleat."
"Thank you. I just want to check on the details of the accident. Is that okay?"
"Sure."
"Could you just explain what happened."
"Well, you're right, it wasn't my fault. It just ran out."
"Ran out?"
"Yes, right in front of me."
"What did? The other vehicle?"
"No, the giraffe."
"The giraffe? Is that another make? Like the... uhm, the Panda?"
"Not exactly. There's a big difference between a panda and a giraffe."
"I see. I'm not familiar with... was it head on?"
"Hardly! More like... between the legs."
"Sorry? Between the legs? You were injured then? Did you get the other party's insurance details?"
"No, I didn't think many giraffes would have had the foresight to have taken out insurance when relocated to Longleat and anyway I didn't have a pen and applying an educated guess, I assumed nor did the giraffe."
"Sorry. The giraffe driver, you mean?"
"Driver?"
"Yes, was the giraffe driven -"
"Well, it certainly had attitude after I hit it."
"I'm confused, sir. Can we clarify... did you say a safari park?"
"Yes, Longleat is a safari park. The giraffe that run out in front of me was an inmate and the collision that resulted was an accident that wasn't my fault, which is what you rang up about wasn't it?"
There was a pause, then, "Sir, are you wasting my time?"
"Me... wasting your time? You called me...."
The line went dead!

Prophets

Before prophets I presume there were no prophets. Then one day a chap came along (this was well before female prophets like Deborah, Miriam, Huldah, Anna and the like got involved) and said, “Listen up!” (For it was likely that he was an early American). “I am a prophet.”

And the multitudes (early gangs) said, “Err, wot? A profit?”

“Nah... a prophet with a PH.”

“A PH?” queried the multitude.

“Ain’t that a figure expressing the acidity or alkalinity of a solution on a logarithmic scale on which 7 is neutral, lower values are more acid and higher values more alkaline and wot ain’t even been invented yet?”

“Well it ought to be invented soon,” a voice amongst the multitude said, “the Dead Sea’s on it’s last legs.”

“Course it is, nob. That’s why we’re calling it the Dead Sea,” the multitude responded.

The chap that claimed to be a prophet held a hand up and said, “Look, I ain’t getting this scientific stuff mainly cos science ain’t been invented yet... well, unless you count all that stuff them Young Egyptians (for they were not yet Ancient) and Greeks are up to... talking of which, that Thagorus bloke confuses the hell out of me with his Theorems. When he’s not eating all the pies he’s always bloody spouting theorems. And that’s my point.”

“What is?” the multitude cried.

“I’m a prophet. He’s all.... theorems. I'm different I tell it like it is.”

“Like what then? What’s this profit thing with a PH?”

The chap drew himself up to his full height and said, “A prophet, such as I am.... err, prophesies.”

“Prophesies?” the multitude queried in unison.

“Yeah... tells the future.”

“Right. But how come we never had them before? How come nobody said you was coming?”

“Simple, innit. That’s cos there was no prophets before me.”

“So you’re the first profit with a PH?” the multitude said.

“Yeah, I am... and why are you all speaking in unison?”

“What? We’re a multitude, innit. Anyway, what you saying about the future?”

The chap who claimed to be a prophet stroked his hair and said, “I prophesy that... that... there will be one.”

“Be one?” the multitude gasped, causing the Dead Sea to create a sudden tide.

The chap that claimed to be a prophet threw his hands in the air and loudly proclaimed, “There will be a future. And the future will be cursed.”

The multitude was silent, quizzical looks passing between them. Then, the voice that had warned of the Dead Sea’s plight shouted out in irritation, thus creating the world’s first expletive... “Fukdisshit.”

Brave New World

In a bar in the North Sector called Xcdfertyiioprdfet, which is normally quite exclusive. I guess it's because it's so cold outside, great swathes of solid ice blocking up the sector channels, that made them take pity on me and let me in. There are two pterodactyls at the bar and both have just ordered neat Malibu. I thought that was quite odd. Who drinks neat Malibu? 

The SB Service Biotric behind the bar merely absorbed the request and seconds later both drinks appear holistically on the bar top. I pull up a mushroom and sit down. A Tyrannosaurus Rex is getting a tad loud in a corner, banging on about the referendum that will see a vote on whether to ban all Dinosaurs over seven feet tall from the Yourolandis Union of Countries. He's wearing a silver t-shirt that has the message, 'No To Rexit. Not in My LifeTime,' emblazoned across it in black, six foot lettering. I ignore him and ask the SB for a pale ale. It hesitates, lights on its chest flashing several times. This is followed by a plume of smoke. One of the pterodactyls pulls out a cigarette and holds the end against the SB's head. The cigarette instantly lights and the pterodactyl sticks it in a cigarette holder and takes several drags. I just fancy a pale ale. 

This Yourolandis dream sucks. Automation is fine until you want something they can't deal with. Maybe Yourolandis isn't all it's cracked up to be. My Stellerpak is out of charge. Nothing charges up properly anymore. Not sure how I'll get home. The sub-zero temperatures that have been steadily dropping for months are not helping. Impassable sector channels blocked, in many cases by sheer cliffs of ice. Even the nationalised transport conglomerate, Oooba Ooober & Ooobah is losing customers. And more and more dinosaurs are moving to the city. 

The SB seems to have gone to sleep. I press a light button on the bar surface and a gin and toxic appears, complete with mint and a straw, but no ice. I smile at the irony but one of the pterodactyls mistakes it as a friendly sign. I feel uncomfortable. I neck the gin and toxic and collapse the mushroom. I walk to the dimension lift. Time for a brave new world.

1962 Moon Project in Brexit Terms.

Venue: Oval Office, Washington DC

“You wanna do what? Go to the moon? You told the public and a TV audience that we’re going to the moon!”

“Yup, I did. That’s exactly what I said.”

“You must be outta your mind.” Laughs. “So, how we gonna do that then?”

“I don’t know, yet.”

Disdainful look. “You don’t know?”

“That’s right... yet. All I know is it can be done. You have to have ambition and a positive outlook.”

“Optimism and hope, then? You don’t even know what your programme looks like, yet you insist it can be done.” Raised eyebrow.

“Yup, but optimism and hope breeds action and determination and that way things get done.”

“Okay, so how you gonna finance it? No sponsors are gonna go for such a crazy shit idea. Businesses will be scared they’ll lose money if they back such a hare-brained scheme. They like what they know. They ain’t gonna back you. They won’t make deals with you.”

“Then we’ll finance it ourselves... without their goddam deals.”

Laughs and more eyebrow raising. “That’s crazy. No deals? It’ll cost billions! You risk our economic stability, loss of jobs... freakin' Armageddon!”

“What you’re not seeing is the big picture. You’re like the rest. You can’t see past tomorrow. You worry too much about yourself and the here and now. You have no vision. Think about the future benefits of discovery, new ideas, new inventions, new technology, new partners. Once people see these benefits. I predict that in fifty years time we’ll have technology as a result of this moon project that sc-fi writers couldn’t even make up.”

Frowns. “You think? Anyway, even if it was possible, it’s too dangerous. Lives could be lost, what if the whole thing crashes out... literally?”

“Crashes out? What’s the matter with you? All your negative crap. You don’t wanna do this? You don’t wanna discover new worlds?”

“Listen, there’s nothing wrong with what we got. We’ve had it a long time. Why go risking everything?”

“Okay, so you wanna remain where you are, yeah? That right?”

“It’s safe, it’s what we know. Why change things? Why get involved in something that hard?”

Smiles. “I’ll tell you why. Because remaining where you are means you stay in one place; people get used to just being there, they get complacent and then they get taken advantage of. Before they know it, things get changed so even though they got used to what they have, one day it’s changed, subtly, but changed none the less and you, the sucka, haven’t even noticed that it wasn’t what you started out with. So you either get ahead of that and drive your own ambition or forever suck up to somebody else. And as for safe, try telling that to Columbus, Magellan, Pasteur, Edison... they weren’t goddam staying in one place just 'cos it's easier. We do things, not because they’re easy, but because they are hard.” Turns away. Then... “One other thing, buddy. I’m sick to the back teeth of politicians like you who spout negative, unambitious drivel about how things are gonna be tough, how disastrous the future will be, how we are heading into a black hole. You know what? That’s the easy option, being a naysayer, telling us how tough things are. The hard option is doing something about it. Now take your lily livered, spineless ass out of my fucking office. We’re going to the moon.”