Cut

Yesterday, there was a power cut in our office. We were unable to do any work, so we all made our own entertainment. Some people drew pictures, some people tidied their desks, some people sat around and watched those people do those things.

I wrote the following:

***

There was a power cut in our building this morning. We have power now, but none of our systems are working. The internet isn’t working. None of us are working.

I’m bored, so here I am. Typing this into a Word document like some common urchin.

Urchins are everywhere. The rats of the sky.

You’re never more than ten feet away from an urchin. If you work for an Urchin Shelter, it’s even less.

And don’t get me started on sea urchins. The rats of the sky of the sea. Filthy. They spread disease and cover Atlantean monuments with their droppings. You can barely even see Neptune’s Column. We need a cull.

Besmirchin’ the urchin. That’s my bag. Deal with it.

Someone has come round to say that we may have another forty-five minutes of nothing. More than enough time to write and manually format a screenplay.

INT. CLINIC – DAY

A row of bricks and mortar. Pull out to reveal more rows of bricks and mortar, all stuck together with yet more mortar. This is a WALL.

An old fashioned rotary phone rings. It is answered by LLOYD BORL. He has brown coat.

BORL

Hello? What?

His hands shake. He puts the receiver back on the bit that holds the receiver, disconnecting the call.

NAOMI (OS)

Who was that?

BORL

Wrong number.

NAOMI walks into view. She is in her early twenties, and will be for another two years. Dark hair, blue eyes, smartly dressed, holding golf bag w/golf clubs (woods etc).

NAOMI

Are you OK?

BORL is as white as a white sheet. He is scared [ASK ACTOR TO COVEY WITH FACE].

BORL

Fine. I’m’ll be fine. Have you had

a chance to look at my proposal?

NAOMI

Not yet. I can’t find my glasses.

Must have left them at the 18^th.

BORL

Hole?

NAOMI

Yes.

The phone rings again. BORL gasps, but realistic. He waits.

NAOMI

Do you want me to get that?

BORL

No.

NAOMI picks up the phone.

NAOMI

Hello? (BEAT) Martyn!

With a ‘y’! How are you?

Great! Yes, he’s here. Hold on.

(TO BORL) It’s Martyn with a y.

He wants to speak to you.

BORL has since died.

CUT TO:

EXT. BICESTER – EIGHT

A red sports car races through the city streets. It flies straight through a red light, causing a bus to brake suddenly and break gradually. The driver shouts and waves his fist.

The car speeds on. To avoid traffic, it mounts the pavement. Pedestrians scatter. A dog climbs a lamppost; one of those newspaper box things gets all driven into.

Sirens blare.

A police car is in pursuit. Inside is the police officer CYRENS BLAIR. He’s the most attractive person in the car.

BLAIR

A car chase.

Static signals the beginning of a two-way radio message.

RADIO VOICE

Suspect has been confirmed as

JANE LEGGE. She’s wanted in connection

to last month’s farmers’ market

bombing, and should be considered

dangerous and extremely armed.

BLAIR

A radio message.

The sports car races towards the biggest suspension bridge in Bicester. It weaves in and out of traffic, the sun glinting off its shiny sections.

BLAIR’s police car is catching up. He skilfully avoids a pyramid of milk bottles that some school children have been building as part of a competition.

BLAIR

Milk bottles.

BLAIR’s car is almost bumper-to-bumper with the sports car. He shouts through a megaphone at the fugitive.

BLAIR

Amplified voice.

No response.

BLAIR pulls out his gun and fires at the sports car’s wing mirror.

The radio crackles into life again.

RADIO VOICE

Blair? Come in Blair.

What are you doing?!

Cease fire! You’re gonna

kill someone!

BLAIR picks up the talking-into bit of the radio.

BLAIR

Solution.

We close-up on the shattered mirror. The bullet has smashed it in such a way that the sun is reflected into the eyes of the driver. We don’t see the driver yet, but this information is conveyed using filming/cinematography and the orchestral score.

The sports car swerves one way, then the other, then clips the central reservation and (if budget allows) rolls over several times before coming to a stop.

BLAIR stops his car and gets out. He walks slowly towards the sports car with his gun raised.

BLAIR

(SHOUTING) Bridge encounter.

The door of the sports car swings open, and a leg steps out. The leg’s owner is JANE LEGGE. But as we pan up, we see that her whole head is covered in C4 explosives. 

There's a tiny gap for her to see through. So the whole sunlight blinding thing does work after all, Sarah.

LEGGE

Bmffff lmmmf grrrjjrr fffn.

(OR OTHER MUFFLED NOISE)

BLAIR

Amplify voice.

LEGGE

Bmffff lmmmf grrrjjrr fffn.

A helicopter circles, making bits of paper blow around a lot, and there’s a searchlight.

BLAIR holds his ground.

LEGGE takes one step forward. BLAIR cocks his gun.

A loud speaker from the helicopter blasts out.

HELICOPTER VOICE

Put your hands over

your bomb-head and

lie on the floor.

LEGGE looks up at the helicopter. Then at BLAIR. At least she seems to be looking – her face is obscured by the C4, as mentioned above. But the eye-slit lines up with the helicopter.

BLAIR looks up at the helicopter. Then at LEGGE. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his gun to the floor.

He walks slowly forward with his hands outstretched in a gesture of not holding anything.

BLAIR

No ploy.

LEGGE looks uncertain through body language.

BLAIR walks closer.

LEGGE looks up at the helicopter.

BLAIR

Potential explosion:

undesirable.

LEGGE

Mmmff rrrrnnnnnnn

MMnnnnrrrr gnnnnn!

BLAIR is visibly shocked at this statement. He starts to run away from LEGGE, waving warning waves at the helicopter.

But it’s too late.

LEGGE’s head explosives explode in an enormous explosion. It takes out a huge section of the bridge. Its plume of fire hits the helicopter, which falls out of the sky, decimating the milk bottle pyramid.

BLAIR runs and jumps off the bridge, narrowly avoiding a huge shrapnel cloud.

BLAIR

Jumping.

He dives into the Bicester river, with chunks of concrete raining down around him.

He sinks beneath the surface. Underwater, he speaks a single word, which we can hear because of bubbles.

BLAIR

Martyn.

The ‘y’ makes a *special* bubble.

***

The forty-five minute estimate turned out to be way off. The systems weren't fixed before home time. Everyone had wasted their whole day.

Everyone except me.

I wrote a screenplay.

I do all my best work when I'm not contractually obliged to work.

I need to find out the name of a river in Bicester. Then I can send this bad boy off.

Bun

I'm thinking of taking a puppet show to Edinburgh next year. The puppet will be an anthropomorphic Irish rockstar bread roll called Bunno.

Like Bono, but a bun.

Yes, it would be better if he was called Buno. The double-n makes it look wrong. But people might think it was pronounced like Juno. Boo-no isn't funny.

I think I'll get around it by not writing his name on the poster. Bunno works just fine when said out loud.

Bunno.

He'll have sunglasses and a goatee beard, because that's what Bono looked like when I was last paying attention.

I haven't worked out the content of the show. Will he sing? Will there be baked-goods versions of the other members of U2, like The Edge and whoever the other ones are? Possibly.

I'll do the voice. I can do a passable (and not at all offensive) Irish accent, though I've never properly tried ventriloquism. I'm sure I can work it out by next summer.

I'm just workshopping the idea.

Me: Hi Bunno!

Bunno: Hi Paul! 'Tis a fine day and no mistake!

M: How are you?

B: Grand! I've just written a new song!

M: Is it about buns?

B: ... Yes.

M: Hey Bunno, I know you've done a lot of work for charity, but do you feel that some of your behaviour when it comes to tax evasion makes you a bit of a hypocrite?

B: Well Paul, that's a good question. Of course you're associating me with the musician Bono, even though I am clearly a bun. It's understandable. I have the goatee and the accent after all. But I'm happy to answer your question in his place.

Accusations of hypocrisy can be dangerous. Obviously, no-one likes a double standard. And yet there are differences between the ideals and the behaviour of everyone. No-one is perfect, ta be sure now! 

There's a real risk that fear of hypocrisy can stifle changes in behaviour. People are put off from trying to make a difference because they're worried their own faults will be cast in sharp relief.

It leads to a situation where a multimillionaire rock star who does nothing for charity, and lives a life of ostentatious selfishness is somehow treated with more respect than those who aspire to goodness but fall short of their own high standards.

My human namesake is at least trying to make the world a better place. He should be lauded for that. It would be easy for him to become complacent with his politics, just as he is with his TERRIBLE music. But he's out there. You might argue with his approach, but you can't deny that he's using his prominence to initiate change.

M: That's very interesting, Bunno. I'd never thought of it that way.

B: Of course you hadn't, ya eejit!

M: Bunno?

B: Yes?

M: Do you think your friendliness with the Pope might get you upgraded to a hot cross bun?

B: I... what does that even mean?

M: Because of... (MUTTERING) because of buns.

[ENTER A BAGUETTE VERSION OF LARRY MULLEN JR]

Larry: You had to look up my name on Wikipedia, didn't you?

M: ... Yes.

***

Obviously, it needs a bit of honing.

Good old Bunno.

The title of this post, "Bun", is also a pun on the U2 song "One".

One, pun, bun.

I'm taking the rest of the day off.

Smooth Jazz

Turn the lights down low, put on some viscous music, pour yourself a glass of tobacco and cross your legs. It's night time.

The rain is lolloping against the windows. Your silk nightie is caressing your thighs like waves of chocolate.

You know that somewhere out there is a wet stranger. He or she is standing under a lamppost, sheltering themselves with a saxophone case. And he or she is waiting for you to make the first move.

You will make the first move. But not quite yet.

You're having too much fun.

You trace his or her initials on the leather sofa with the tip of your index finger. The first letter is an H. The second looks like some kind of snake pictogram. You remember something. The memory slides out of you and into you. It's not like thought. It's something more basic; more primal.

Memory is breathing. Recollections flow like the river. It passes over you and you pass through it. You both move together. It's a dance.

You take a sip. You smile. Then you gag on the tobacco. It's gone down the wrong pipe. You're coughing for ages.

You get a text from Harry/Harriet. Wet, but no stranger. You were supposed to pick her or him up fifteen minutes ago. Your nightie is splattered with tobacco and music. You've forgotten what you remembered.

On goes the overcoat and the slippers. You turn the music off, pick up your car keys, and head out into the night. It's freezing. You buy a kebab on the way home. Harriet gets a battered sausage. Ditto Harry.

Somewhere the moon is shining. It illuminates individual raindrops with precision; silver fingers on piano keys.

You watch an old episode of Only Fools and Horses that you Sky nonplussed.

You fall asleep.

The rain falls with you.

Losing It

You know how thinking about something always ruins it.

That's right. I'm not using a question mark because you do know.

You might be tapping a complex rhythm on your thighs with your hands. Though it is complex, you're only doing it absent-mindedly. You're not thinking about it - it's all subconscious. It's just your body making fun for itself, as it is wont to do. The rhythm is easy because it's literally effortless. It's flawless. You could be a professional.

But the moment you think about it, you lose it. The moment you become aware of the rhythm, it becomes impossible. You try to continue, but you can't. You're no longer in the groove. You are clumsy and human. You might also experience this with Guitar Hero.

Thinking about things always ruins them.

I just had an experience of this kind.

I was walking through my office, and all of a sudden I realised that I was a living human man. I instantly became wobbly-legged, staggered for a few paces, and then collapsed face first into a cake someone had brought in.

I'd made the mistake of realising I was alive. As soon as I'd realised it, it began to disappear.

I knew I was walking, so I stopped walking. I knew I was breathing, so I stopped breathing. I knew that my white blood cells were... doing whatever it is that they do. And so they stopped doing it. I could go on. I could mention my bowels. I really could.

It's like remembering a dream. If you're only half thinking about it, you feel totally sure of the content and tone of the dream. But as soon as you try to focus on the details, the dream memory starts to fade away. It's playing hard-to-get.

So there I was, on the floor of the office, covered in cake, disintegrating through sheer awareness. One by one, I was realising the things I was doing and then forgetting how to do them. I realised I had hair, and it fell out. I realised I was keeping my tongue in check, and it lolled out. I realised I was doing a Rubik's Cube, and started to find it much more difficult.

Finally, I recognised the fact that I was a composite being, and my atoms began to dissipate.

Luckily, someone walked by and whistled a song I recognised. I tried to name it. My attention became focused on the tune, and the rest of my existence became unimportant. It was just background noise. I regained my hair and standing. I cleaned the cream off my face without even noticing.

I never thought about any of the things I've just written about again. I can't afford to. And neither can you.

***

My best thing about this time of year is that everybody's stopped going on and on about Robert Burns.

Seriously: fuck that guy.

Robert fucking Burns. What a dickhead.

No, I'm not going to call you "Rabbie". You're a disgrace. And the fact that people keep talking about him, and reading his so-called poems, and singing his so-called songs, makes me sick.

Robert Burns is a disgusting human being. And all over the place, people are singing his praises.

There's a four month period either side of New Year's Eve where you can't escape him. And I just don't understand it. I don't want to censor anything, or judge the aesthetic tastes of others but, I mean, seriously? Him?!

He makes my skin crawl, to be honest. Robert Burns. I wish Robert would burn! I've had to sit through months of his tedious nonsense. I feel like I'm the only sane person in the world. Why would anyone even contemplate purchasing a book of his writing? A leather-bound turd on the shelf of every person in Europe.

People don't think. They just absorb the prejudices and the practises of the people around them. Unquestioning sheep, flying the flag of Burns. Open your eyes, people!

He even has his own night. HIS. OWN. NIGHT.

Think about the people who don't have their own nights. Heroes. Great thinkers. Clement Atlee. Dennis Potter. Emmeline Pankhurst. David Hume. Peter Richardson. No night for them. Not one of them.

But bloody Burns...

On Burns Night, I don't go out. I close the curtains and cover my ears. It's just... maddening to think that in what's supposedly a civilised society, people can hold up such a slimy scumbag as someone to be esteemed.

Well, I don't esteem him. Not by a long shot. And I'm not alone on this. There are dozens of us who suffer (some in silence, some not) over the dark winter months. There's no sympathy for us. But at least we haven't compromised our principles.

Robert Burns is an arsehole.

An absolute arsehole.

...

Anyway, that's why I like late April so much.

Sure

It's been too long. I've forgotten how this works. Should I have done some blog preparation? Should I have sketched out an outline of my argument? Should I have an argument?

I haven't. But this is more about easing me back into the game. I need to shake off my ring rust, which isn't as disgusting as it sounds.

This year has been unlike any previous year. At no point in 2013 have a been able to find my bearings. In fact, not only have I not found my bearings, I don't even know how to spell bearings. It could easily be barings. Or behrings, for all I know.

It's difficult to live when you don't have a solid base to stand on. That's why astronauts lack ambition once they're in space. They're just happy to coast.

Solidity isn't fashionable, I know. But without it, what would we be? We'd be soup, that's what. And no-one would advocate that.

But I'm sure it will come. Soon, my cement slippers will harden, and I'll be as secure as a cat that's been nailed to the floor. Until then, please enjoy the following extract from my latest fictional work.

***

The Warmest Room

by

Faul Pung

The two small children wore identical caps, so they could be recognised by Helicopter.

Helicopter was their nanny. She was a fantastic nanny, but wasn't good with faces. She found it very difficult to tell one child from another. This blind spot wasn't just for siblings, but for all children. For her, they were all the same: all eyes and a chin. After puberty, people became more individual. They had beards and wrinkles. Helicopter could tell adults apart, but not children.

For most nannies, this would have been a handicap. Parents would be reluctant to leave their children in the charge of someone who was unable to recognise them. But Helicopter was incredibly skilled in the other childcare tasks: the teaching, the cleaning, the singing, the patience, the tucking-in, the playing games, the stern-but-fair manner. 

So parents still hired her. They just found ways to make their children more recognisable.

That's why these two small children were wearing identical caps. The caps had a bright blue brim, and were covered in luminous stars.

And so Helicopter, standing at the school gates, staring at cold sea of tiny chattering clones, could identify her charges. They were two twinkling beacons of familiarity in a grey gruel of humanity.

But the caps were identical. Though she could tell her kids apart from all the others, she couldn't distinguish between the two of them. When the cap scheme was in its embryonic stages, the parents had thought that their children should each have their own individual distinctive hat. That way, Helicopter would be able to see which was which. 

But the caps were expensive, and it was cheaper to get two of the same kind. "Anyway," said the father, "there's only two years between them, so they're basically the same person". Helicopter agreed. The children agreed. The mother agreed.

And so the two small children wore identical caps. And Helicopter continued to be their nanny. The children loved her, and grew into generous, imaginative people.

"Maybe we should have given them names," said the mother one evening, sitting in the late September sun. "Names... as well as the caps".

The father nodded slowly. "Hindsight is twenty-twenty," he said.

Helicopter became a vegan in her forties. That doesn't have any bearing on the story, but she asked me to mention it.

***

That was my submission for an upcoming series of short stories in which the main character is named after transport. The project is being curated by Jimmy Carr and Lawrie McMenemy. All proceeds go to a charity for victims of faulty bridges.

I have yet to receive a response.

Campanology

I don't own a bell.

I have electronic equipment that can simulate the sound of a bell, but it's not the same.

The last bastions of the analogue bell are the church, the bicycle, and the shop door. I don't own a church, a bike or a shop, so these are out.

I don't have an alarm clock. I use my phone. I know certain people who have old-fashioned, belled, alarm clocks. I envy them.

The closest I have is the small bell that used to live round the neck of Lucy's Lindt chocolate bunny. But she may well have thrown it away.

You can still buy bells of course. I'm sure there are a wide variety of bell stockists on the high street. But I just don't feel right about buying one. It would be like buying a paraffin lamp: a sign that my priorities are askew.

I don't want to seek out a bell. I just want one to already be in my possession. Bells used to be commonplace household items, like nutcrackers or mustard. A house is not a home without a bell or those other two examples.

Kids today - and yesterday, and the day before yesterday - don't even know what bells are.

"You know bells?"

"Whuh?"

"Bells?"

"Nuh."

"Metal things, with a dangly... thing, that make noise."

"Nuh. Doesn't ring a bell."

And you can shout "ah-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" in their face.

You've earned that victory by living a long time.

Maybe my priorities are askew. I shouldn't fight it. People with balanced lives and realistic goals are very dull people. I wouldn't feel human if I wasn't constantly crushed by the weight of innocuous events. If minor life-changes didn't force my hands to my head to the floor, I'd feel like I was only living at 60%.

That's why I feel sorry for adrenaline junkies. They have to seek out ridiculous (and expensive) dangers to satisfy their need. They have to try extreme sports and parachuting and bear-taunting. And even the most imminent of deaths will only raise their pulse slightly.

All I need to do is get a phone call, and I have two heart attacks. That's just the ringing (simulated bell). If I have to answer it, my whole body clenches to the size of a walnut. That's the kind of rush that money can't buy.

If I'm invited to a family barbecue, every cell in my body convulses. Fuck Alton Towers. It's nothing to me now.

The thrill-seekers must envy people like me. They've seeked (sought) so many thrills that they're all gone. They have to go further and further afield to get their kicks.

I don't seek thrills. Thrills seek me. In fact, they don't even need to seek me. They just bump into me in the street. I can't avoid them. Every time some engages me in conversation, I'm on a rocket-powered quad bike.

If you haven't lived in a state of constant terror, you haven't lived.

Proper priorities are shackles. I'm living my life one sob at a time.

I'm going to go and buy that bell after all! And will I make eye contact with the salesman? No. No, I won't.

But I'll flinch at the jingle-jangle of the door closing behind me.

Power Station

This tab (computer box flap) has been sitting on my browser (internet-looking-at tool), taunting me for hours. I've been too stubborn to close it, even though I have nothing to say. I was waiting for a brainwave, but there wasn't one.

But my stubbornness can't be so easily overcome. I can make my own brainwaves. I am a turbine. Turbines make waves, as far as I understand. Turbines and the moon. That's how tides work.

I am a turbine.

I am also wearing a turbane (that's an urbane turban), and holding a turbone (supercharged femur). Also: OTHER VOWELS THERE.

You can't just sit around waiting for a handout. You have to grasp opportunity with both hands, and don't let go, even if the opportunity you're grabbing is asleep in a stranger's pram.

Inaction is a disease. Walk it off.

If you're in a hole, build yourself a mud ladder. If you have no skin, learn to knit. If you've been shot, paint the bullet and sell it at a local market. Encourage further shootings to increase stock. Diversify with painted knifes and hypodermic needles.

Expand. Attend the market more frequently. Hire more staff to deal with the increase in demand. Market yourself. Staunch the bleeding. Take out a small business loan by using your father's car collection as collateral.

Create a franchise. Drive other bullet-sellers out of the market with shady business practises. Decrease your staff's salary and buy a yacht. Ensure that conditions are in place so that no other victims of shootings will ever achieve even the tiniest sliver of success.

Go home to your wife and your heterosexual children. Tell her about your day. Buy her a griddle pan. Accept her thanks. Put your portrait of Thatcher in a gilded frame because YOU CAN AFFORD IT NOW.

You're British.

Never forget what that means.

We don't need any help, so why should anyone else? It wouldn't be fair.

Fair is fair. Starting from....



now.

A Leader in His Field

The following conversation takes place at a market, recreation area, or other public meeting place. Or in private.

***

Sam: My brother invented the world's softest barbecue.

Richard: Wow. Really? That's cool.

Sam: Yeah.

Richard: So... is it... I mean... what does that mean, exactly? Is it, like, the meat is really tender and soft, or what?

Sam: No. It's the barbecue itself that's soft. The softest in the world.

Richard: Oh. Wow. Not bad to have that on your CV! So, is it... uh... is there, like, a function that it... I mean, is it softer because, what, it's easier to transport? Or more... flexible in some way? Or easier to clean...?

Sam: No, it's just soft.

Richard: Right.

Sam: Softest in the world. 

Richard: Mmm. Your family must be very proud!

Sam: Yeah, we are. It's a nice thing to have, you know? That kind of success.

Richard: Absolutely. (*pause*) Just so I'm clear on it, is it the - forgive me; I don't know the technical term - is it the main... uh... sort-of... hull of the barbecue that's soft? The main... convex housing, I mean. Is that the part that's soft?

Sam: It's all of it.

Richard: All of it.

Sam: Yeah. The whole thing's soft.

Richard: Right. What's it made of, though?

Sam: Ha! That's the secret isn't it! Otherwise everyone would be making them.

Richard: Oh. But you know?

Sam: Of course. He's my brother. But I don't think he'd be comfortable with me telling you... I mean, no offence.

Richard: Oh no, of course not. Don't worry about it.

Sam: It's just that people might overhear. Talking about it in public would be like giving the trophy away.

Richard: Trophy?

Sam: Yeah. For the world's softest barbecue.

Richard: Oh! So there was a... whole ceremony and stuff?

Sam: Yeah. I went! Proper black tie thing. It was exciting.

Richard: I bet! So there were, presumably, other people in the running? Other nominees?

Sam: Of course.

Richard: And they'd all made... soft barbecues.

Sam: Yeah.

Richard: Just... not as soft.

Sam: Exactly. Only one winner! Just the one statuette, after all!

Richard: Wow. And your brother won? Pretty sweet.

Sam: (*long satisfied nod*)

Richard: Was the statuette soft?

Sam: No, of course not.

Richard: Sorry. Stupid question.

Sam: So, have you got any famous relatives?

(*pause*)

Richard: No, not really.