Best friends

When I got home, the cockroach would be waiting for me on the arm of my chair. And come bedtime, just before I could say goodnight, it would disappear. I felt sure it must have friends and family of its own kind, but every evening it was there alone.

It wasn’t long before I discovered that the cockroach was rather partial to both wine and beer. It was good to have someone to drink with. I started to leave little snacks for it while I was away. Nothing fancy, a few Madeira crumbs, a smidgeon of jam, that sort of thing. For entertainment, I left the radio on – Classic FM one day, Radio 3 the next.

We’d been together for one month, so I thought we would celebrate with a bottle of Tesco’s best. But when I got home, we were not alone. Two cockroaches were sitting on the arm of my chair. My intuition told me to leave. Maybe there was some innocent explanation; a visiting relative, a neighbour from next door? When I got back, everything would be back to normal. We could enjoy a nice glass of wine.

But what if the other one was still here? Putting on my bravest face, I sat down, poured a glass of wine for myself and sprinkled a few drops on a saucer for my guests. As the evening went on, we were all getting merrier. My friend seemed to have fallen off the chair and was climbing back up. This was my chance. My heart raced, and my hands were covered in sweat. Just grab the interloper and flush it down the loo. Even if I could get away with it, surely the guilt would be too much to bear?

Feeling the need to make amends for the previous night, I purchased a small strawberry tart for us to share. I opened the door, fearing the alien was still there, and my heart almost stopped. Hundreds of them, crawling everywhere.

Southside

O Tate Modern, what have you done?
Removed all the swings
where the children did play
the lovers did flirt
and put in their place
a giant pink turd.

Dr Kellogg openly boasted
his were perfectly firm
and, more often than not,
coming out a yard or more long.
But six metres high, twice that in girth,
just how many cornflakes
would you say?

And that shade, how to get it,
it’s so Peppa Pig!
Rice pudding with beetroot,
blancmange and raw meat,
washed down with damsons in gin?

It’s not a turd, you oaf,
said an angry old man.
They’re Viennese sausages,
can’t you see by the line?

Sausages, I reply, are not my life’s study,
but surely it’s OK for art to be funny?

Provoked by Franz West’s Rosa/Drama, 2001 – on loan from the Pompidou Centre in 2019.

While the Queen slept

Less than half a mile to the West, the Queen sleeps snugly in her bed. As dawn breaks, the treeline sways beneath a rushing sky. Green and white striped deckchairs lay stacked, chained firmly to the ground. Leaves dance in formation across the foot-worn grass tossed and jostled by a fickle wind. Blown hard against a bush is a cardboard sheet with traces of a vaguely life-size human form imprinted upon it.

A crow, seemingly the first to rise, pulls a McDonald’s bag from a near to overflowing bin. Ripping the paper with great ease, the bird discards the soggy bun. All it wants is the burger meat. Scanning left to right with beady eyes, it takes the morsel in its beak and flies up high up into a tree.

Below, amongst the bushes, broken branches, torn blue packets, Extra Safe. Small brown capsules, amyl nitrate. Old school ravers sent from Heaven. Tinsel, feathers, dressed as angels, caught together in full flight.

Cigarette ends congregate beneath the benches beyond the reach of keepers’ brooms. White filters, lipstick-stained, mock cork – gold bands, cardboard roaches, extra slims – smoked right out, stubbed and twisted, left to burn – and some with still a puff or two to smoke.

An empty wallet tossed, abandoned. A young man wanders phone-less, card-less, surrendered to a Romanian camper, out of fear, without a fight.

A sense of place

Never mind the benefits payments didn’t cover the 40 cigarettes a day I needed to keep sane; I finally had a roof over my head. The AA meetings weren’t so bad, and I felt strangely good about going straight. They placed me with one of those landlords who specialise in the hard-to-house – high rent, small room, collect their money straight from the council. This all-bills paid arrangement suited me fine. The odd roach intrusion and occasional mouse didn’t bother me much. Nor did the man who thought we were aboard a ship or the girl who tested out prospective partners for the shower sex record every night.

These things became a source of comfort, the reassurance of a routine, a sense of place.

Programmed to park

Green lights flash madly
Single parking space in range
Two cars clash head on

Twin horns bellow out
Engines rev at full throttle
Tyres rasp the road

Ocean Paradise
vies with French Vanilla to
permeate the air

No pedals to press
Not a steering wheel to turn
Google does it all

As doughnuts need jam
So data must have its pride
Error has no place

Metal hits metal
Windshields and headlights shatter
Battle never ends.

Defective part

I’m pissed to fuck and dabbed out of my head on sticky cocaine. My jeans and socks are inside this thing, doing some sort of dance. The half-a-tab has rewired my brain. Hoodie and T-shirt are in there too. As it starts to whirr and shake, my body picks… picks up the beat. I want it harder, more intense. Be my bass god, techno priest. Its vibrating motor gathers speed, white skin against white metal, my body wraps around it, groin pressed firmly to its throbbing shell. It rocks me backwards, rocks me forwards, feeling frisky, feeling nice, then there’s this kinda click. The pulsating motor gets stronger, stronger, building, building with every stroke. Doing me like some monster bunny… breathless, panting, faster, louder… faster, faster, panting, louder, breathing, breathless… feeling horny as a rhino… and then … the machine shudders… “What the fuck?“… and stops.

“Alexa, you gotta help me out!” I scream at the black tube-shaped box. Time takes a holiday, the intercom buzzes. “That was quick”, I think.

“Problem with your washing machine, sir?” says the voice.

“Come, quickly!” I say, and in comes the engineer.

Then he does what engineers do, a scratch on his head, a tut-tut-tut, then lets out a breath of stale air.

“It’s not serious? You can fix it?” I say, trying not to appear too desperate, “I’m sure it’s under guarantee!“

“No worries, sir, we always find the fault“, says the engineer, scanning me with his camera-stare eyes.

I ask him politely, “Cuppa tea? Choccy bik?“; to test if he’s human, get my drift?

“That won’t be necessary, sir“, says he, with his monotone voice.

It’s got to be; he’s one of them AIs. I’m 78 per cent certain.

“There doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with this machine, sir“, it says.
95 per cent and rising. Stay calm, prepare to run.

“But it shuddered and stopped?” is the best I can mutter.

“That’s what washing machines do, sir, once they’ve finished their cycle“, it says, pointing. “Just press the reset button here.“

She came first… that’s so sweet.

“Fuck!” two more engineers at the door.

“All sorted here?” one asks.

“I’ve located the defective part“, says the first engineer.

The other two stand to block the door. “Shall we order a replacement, boss?“

What they clearly mean is me.

I stand there like a rubber leaf; my bladder thinks the worst.

The engineer looks at me, then looks at his two men. “Don’t think that will be necessary lads, but thank you all the same.”

One by one, their lips quiver, and their stern mouths start to crack. A more beautiful sound you’ll never hear than when washing machine engineers begin to laugh.

His own business

The roar, hum, splutter, squeal, chitter chatter, clank, beep didn’t bother him at all, but the jingle, jangle, clank from his right trouser pocket was doing his head in. The grinding mass seemed to grow larger with every step, like a canker eating into his leg. His right hand, with strategically naturalistic positioning, might have been able to muffle it for a few moments at a time, but the risk of drawing even more attention to himself was too great. A more logical person might have suggested redistributing the offending items between left and right pockets, but nobody likes a smart arse. If there was one thing the man in this story did know about more than anything, it was how to mind his own business.

As the pavement grew steeper, so the clank at the end of the jingle, jangle intensified, like a wounded pigeon sending out a signal to every street vulture in town. A short distance ahead, a homeless man sat below an ATM; beyond that, a Big Issue seller. Normal tactics, avoiding eye contact, looking the other way, attaching himself to a group, weren’t going to work this time. The last thing he needed right now was a double guilt trip. A radical solution was called. He had to cross the road. This was a lot more complicated than it might sound. Quite possibly, the homeless man had already spotted him. It was imperative that the whole manoeuvre appear totally natural, deliberate but not contrived, and on no account give any indication of its true intention.

Treading stealthily towards the edge of the kerb, he looks up at an oncoming bus, half raises his left hand towards his head in a perplexed manner, then subtly squints both eyes. Following the line of the passing bus, he swings his glance towards the opposite bus stop, open eyes and mouth signalling recognition of his original mistake. With the scene now set, he was ready to make the crossing. Once on the other side, all he had to do was wait for a bus to come and then disappear down the side street. Minutes later, he would emerge several hundred metres down the original road in the direction he wished to travel. Admittedly, the side streets were not without their perils, but he had practised this ploy many times before. 

The chance had come, a gap in the traffic. His foot moved into the road with a jingle, jangle, clank… and then it came… a face from the crowd pointing directly at his.

“Gotta light mate?”

He looked down at his pockets, a vague lighter outline, then at the man. The traffic was still clear; perhaps the man hadn’t noticed. Or maybe it was a trap. He told everybody he didn’t smoke. Perhaps this man was sent to catch him out? Others were watching? Or worse still? He had read about it in the paper; they demand cigarettes, then bring out hammers and knives. Turning his eyes towards the bus stop, he steps further into the road, but his hesitation has cost him dearly. A motorcycle is first to break the lights, forcing him back onto the kerb. The man looks at him expectantly. Defending his pockets with his hands, it takes all his strength to murmur a pitiful, “Sorry.”

Shame hits him like a tidal wave. Ha-ha, hum, splutter, ha-ha, clip, clap, chatter, ha-ha, ha. Buses, cars, bikes and trees, people, dogs and soaring birds mock him with their laughing jeers. Jingling and jangling, he stumbles into the road. 

Beep, screech, squeal, thump. 

A moment’s silence.

Chitter, chatter. Sirens wail.

In his pockets were a green plastic lighter, nearly empty, coins of multiple denominations, an Oyster card, unregistered, and a wad of Pret-a-Manger serviettes contained within a small self-sealing plastic bag. A true professional. 

Even as sole mourner, I was an intruder at his funeral. ”Private, modest, considered, respectful” were the officiant’s words. But, as even the most humble know, hubris gets us all in the end.

Come all ye faithless

Let’s gas all the chickens
and stamp on their eggs

Let’s lynch all the cows
and piss in their milk

Let’s poison the pigs
and squidge all their brains

Let’s skull-crush the sheep
and choke all their lambs

Let’s flame-throw the turkeys
and turn them to dust

Let’s fuck all the goats
and graft back their horns.

Tomorrow we’ll feast
on chana masala
and wild berry pie

Come all ye faithless
join the Vegan Crusade.