KNICKERS TO YOU, TOO.

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“Close your legs– it’s not very ladylike.”

What utter bollocks. What the fuck does that even mean, anyway? “Lower your hem, girl! Rein in the swearing, dress like a lady, cover your cleavage, don’t sit/stand/dance/breastfeed/breathe/exist like that …”

Oh, do fuck off.

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Some ladies I Googled earlier today.

Why don’t they just come out and say it? Instead of telling you to be all ladysome and shit, what they really wanna say is “see this set of rules, madam, first penned in 1645? I demand thee adhere to every last one, woman. I implore you, do not dare even think, for pity’s sake, lest ye be considered ungodly – and ye shall also be sure to refrain from that dreadful modern pastime known as free speech. Good LORD, do keep thy pantaloons on, Madam, petticoat fastened, for it is undesirable to have another knave glance in your direction, what with a gentleman’s fancies being the female’s fault and all. You are MY property, and mine alone, do you hear? Women were designed for the sole pleasure of men, after all, weren’t they, chaps?”

Yeah, whatever, mate. I’ll tell you what –WHO– a real woman is – and she doesn’t put up with such inane horse shit from the layabout likes of you. She has a sexuality, and she’s gonna use it. And guess what, fuckface – if said sexuality happens to be of the girly persuasion, it’s for her pleasure, not yours. “I’m a lesbian” is NOT – repeat: NOT – an invitation for Neanderthal bullshit bingo: “Wa-hey! Can I watch?”

– Again, do fuck off, there’s a dear.

Your father-in-law is the worst for this shit. Ten-years-widowed, he tells you he’s met a lovely lady (there’s that fucking word again). And he doesn’t even know how old she is, because you never ask a lady her age.

Oh, WOULD you just fuck the fuck off? Why the frig would you not ask a WOMAN her age? Is it not the done thing? *Adopts northern drawl* “In my day, round these ‘ere parts, we’d never be seen dead asking a lass’s age. We’d be STRUNG up if we were caught ever so much as looking at her ankles, by golly. And proper ladies, they’d keep themselves covered up in the first place. None of this godawful tattooed malarkey you see today. Women looked like women, and acted in accordance with [insert specific Victorian Value here] —and in any case, as long as she bakes the bread and mops the floors, we don’t mind if she’s an old crone. Should be grateful for the work, she should. Ahem – the ‘marriage’ —I meant the marriage.” Same diff, buddy.

This was the same father-in-law who would avert his gaze to the ceiling whenever I was breastfeeding his grandchildren. I suppose he thought that was the gentlemanly (yuk) thing to do. Erm – a universe of no. Look at your beautiful grandbaby here. And while you’re at it, LOOK AT MY BAPS. See these titty marvels of norky nature, from which I can boobily-produce everything that’s needed? No, you don’t see. Because you won’t look. Fuck off, then. You’re the one missing out.

Ah, I recall those good old days back when I was courting his son. Yeah – courting. That’s the term he used, because of course it was. Of course, the sort of courting we were doing required the removal of one’s unmentionables. Yes- that’s how he refers to a lady’s undergarments (another word that makes me want to yell KNICKERS at him).

Whenever anything unmentionable is … erm … mentioned, he’ll go ketchup, stare at the floor (I don’t know what the fuck’s down there but it must be something incredibly fucking interesting because he does it a lot), and mutter something I can’t quite make out about those aforementioned underthings. And he doesn’t even say that properly. It’s more like unmuffables. He’s one of those word-swallowers from the circuses of yore.

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t sit there all day talking to my father-in-law about lacy thongs and crotchless panties – but certain subjects do crop up from time-to-time, because his grandkids exist. Like the time I had to pack for my daughter’s school trip:

Me: “KNICKERS. Yep – packed ‘em. Need to buy her some new BRAS, too, Frank. Her boobs are getting big, you know. And she’s gotta stock up on SANITARY TOWELS, too – she’s been bleeding a lot lately. So those KNICKERS – she’s gonna need a lot of ‘em.”

He: *Heinz-kipper/stares at the floor/makes excuses to leave the room*

Basics_Kelly_Knickers_5_Pack_Hopeless_Lingerie_1024x1024

Some knickers I Googled earlier today.

And yup – you guessed the fuck out of it – ya goddamn right I’m not letting him away with it. I say these words on repeat, every chance I get.

Back when my daughter was small, which seems a million years ago now, there would be times I would – shudder – need help (GASP!). I might be doing something else, like perhaps being pre-occupied with, say, BABY VOM all over my clobber, and require a little grandparental assistance, such as nappy-changing. Would he do it? Nope. Because she was a little girl. SO fucking prudish and worried about what people would think, that to even accept my daughter has a fucking VAGINA (say it with me, Gramps) would be a threat to his generation or have his god strike him down for daring to acknowledge that biology was even a thing.

And of course, that particularly unmentionable netherpart is one that must exist for a person to be considered female, because, y’know, being transgender isn’t a thing, either. His grand-daughter’s best friend, born a boy, can’t possibly be a girl now, right? Nah – he’s the expert on everything because he’s been 43 and I haven’t been 84. Yes, he says that, too. Born a boy, you stay a boy. No such thing, it’s all in their head. It’s a mental illness. Of course, I try and educate him on such matters – but it’s difficult; there’s only so much of him I can take before my inner monologue becomes an outer one. And I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate my telling him to GET FUCKED, being that ladies don’t think –let alone say– such things, right?

My daughter’s friend was never a boy, her birth certificate just happens to say she was. She was a girl with a knob, that’s all. No, she doesn’t want to be a girl. She IS one. Girls have all sorts of bodies, some are different than others. That’s IT.

Now, fuck off.

It’s not just that, though. Stuff like this – and my brother’s wonderful queerness – are not things I would expect a man of that generation to understand. Most of ‘em are set in their goddy little ways, too late to change.  That’s not cool, though. It’s not an excuse any more – at least, it shouldn’t be. And despite people having been cunty towards me for a metric fuckbunch of my existence, I believe in the power of change. Maybe if we start with the little things, we might stand a chance. After all, themz the things wot add up to the big ‘uns, right?

And it’s the little things that get right on me tits- especially when they come from females.

I’ll tell my Mum, for example, that I’ve been to see the doctor. First thing that’ll come out of her mouth is “what did he say?”

He. Because it’s only men who are:

a) capable of such complex scientific study and

b) ever going to do well in life.

As such, the male gender is assumed whenever I care to discuss surgeons, pilots, soldiers (because macho, right?), plumbers, et fucking cetera – but if I’m talking about the person who served me at the supermarket, that’ll —of course— be a lady (bollocks – they’ve got me saying it now.)

Anything even remotely bad of ass is reserved for men – and men alone. It’s all part of the misogynistic society in which we live – and that misogyny, in turn, plays a massive part in rape culture. That’s why I challenge this shit like a fatherfucker possessed – every fucking time.

My rape is almost on its 28th anniversary. Yeah – rape. I’m just gonna come out and say it – pigbollocks if I’m gonna ease you in slowly. I’m thinking out loud – got a problem with that? Or are we good?

Aaaaanyway…

So this thing – this dreadful thing that shaped who I am as a woman, writer, and fighter, happens all.the.fucking.time. You mention your story on social media, you’ll be bombarded with “it happened to me, as well…” comments and private messages.

So, ME TOO has become a hashtag. And a movement. An empowering one, at that. And I have to say, I’m surprised that folks are surprised by the response. That’s like Surprised Squared, or something: did folks REALLY have no idea that everyone is a Me?

So let’s talk about it some more.

Let’s talk about why all these women were/are made to feel shame, made to feel like it was/is our fault. I believed that bullshit, too, because even the fucking POLICE made a big deal about what I’d been wearing. About the fact I was drunk. About the fact I had some sexual experience (because that gives fellas the wrong idea, don’t ya know?).

Let’s talk about the pubes that were plucked out of me as I lay naked on a steel slab usually reserved for corpses. Or the cuts and bruises that were photographed. Sexual history –dissected and paraded on a fucking sandwich board. In front of my parents.

But you were wearing a short skirt.

But you were wearing make-up.

But you had your hair suggestively teased.

But you once snogged a boy round the back of the bike sheds.

But the girl you were hanging out with that night, had actually (gasp!) gone ALL THE WAY with a lad.

This was the irrelevant bullshit that ate at me for over twenty years, wondering how I should have dressed/behaved/existed/yadda yadda.

If Present Me were to talk to Past Me, I’d refuse to allow her to stand for it. I’d refuse to allow her to put up and shut up, or to buy the constabulary’s bullshit that her behaviour/attire were to blame. When they told her the case was dropped because it wouldn’t hold up in court due to [insert fucked-up excuse here], she would fight that monkeydung argument until she was blue in the heavily-made-up face.

“Don’t wear that – you’ll give men the wrong idea.”

Ah, that’s right – a person only gets the wrong idea because they’ve been GIVEN it, yeah? The onus couldn’t possibly be on the PERSON WITH THE WRONG IDEA, FOR HAVING THE WRONG FUCKING IDEA? Nope – the notion of any sort of autonomy or independent thought is a difficult one for people to grasp. The suggestion that a person is responsible for their own actions, well, that can’t even be a thing, surely?

Nah. Don’t be silly. When a woman is raped, we ask what she did to egg the fucker on. Why was she asking for it, and how, exactly? When attention is GIVEN to a woman, she must’ve quite simply given ‘em the wrong idea. Simps.

And it goes deeper still. Even today, I find myself having arguments with family over my youngest daughter’s underwear choices. She’s only ten, and isn’t in a bra yet. Doesn’t like ‘em. Too uncomfortable. But trying to convince her to wear one SO THAT BOYS DON’T STARE? Because otherwise, she’s ASKING FOR IT?

FUCK THE FUCK OFF.

Don’t you fucking dare tell my daughter to cover up.

There’s logic there: I understand, whether I agree with it or not. They have concerns that she will be bullied for having sticky-out-pokeys (as I’d been, when I was younger) and are trying to nip (sorry) the problem in its proverbial. But really, I’m asking myself why they aren’t challenging this. Why aren’t they taking a stand? Why aren’t they prepared to educate BOYS?

Let’s suppose, two years from now, she’s bra-less, in class. The boys are distracted –because, y’know, “its in their nature and to be expected …” and my daughter receives some unwanted attention. Perhaps she’s even (shudder) physically assaulted. What then, of me? What would that say about me? Should I have prevented the assault by insisting she cover up? Or, y’know (just throwing this crazy idea out there) – should the BOYS HAVE FUCKINGWELL BEHAVED THEMBASTARDSELVES?

After my rape, I had to contend with all manner of crap. From WOMEN, no less.

Does it weird you out, my calling it My Rape? I hope so. But know this: I own it. It’s mine, and it happened to me, so I can call it whatever the fuck I like (I won’t bore you with the details, I won’t take you back to 1990. Because it’s not your fault. But guess what? It wasn’t mine, either. And it took me a shitload of time to realise that).

But, as usual, there’s a thing, and the thing is this: still it grows. As long as we nurture it, it grows. We’re the petri dish, and our daughters are the experiment. It starts from a word… a thought … from a family member, teacher, or friend. Those who are closest to us. And it thrives. Unless we change the conditions, it replicates via binary fucksion as it soaks up assault after assault by fuckmosis.

No wonder they call it Rape Culture.

Well, rape culture can fuck off. Are you with me? Will you stand up next to me and stop being part of the problem? Are you going to challenge everyday misogyny from the misogynistic? Will you call people out when they suggest in ANY WAY that a person is to blame for their own assault?

I fucking well hope so – or you can go ahead and fuck off, too.

Yes – You, Too.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

(My story is here, if you’re even arsed: https://liberatetutemet.com/2014/10/09/asking-for-it/ )

 

POETRY REVIEW: You Took the Last Bus Home – by Brian Bilston

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On Brian Bilston and why he rocks and stuff and things.

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I’m not one to compare writers. I hate that. Yuk. Sure, it’s great for marketing, I suppose – if you must market. “Fans of such-and-such will love this novel by so-and-so…” YAWWWN. That sort of crap is lazy and unclever, and has never once given me that I JUST GOTTA HAVE IT vibe.

It’s somewhat pissing on the author’s skills, too: when the blurbage tells me that Writey McScribe is the next Clive Barker, all I hear is “this guy is wholly unoriginal, having re-hashed some dying old trope or other.” Talk about damning by faintstuff.

What I will do, though, is tell you who my own particular boat-floaters are, just so you know where I’m at; this *chick is notoriously hard to impress, particularly when it comes to those who poe. If you’re gonna rhyme your way straight to my heart, buddy, your wordplay is going to have to…

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SPEAK WHAT WE FEEL – REVIEW: KING LEAR – Shakespeare’s Globe, London

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King Lear: Shakespeare’s Globe

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Nancy Meckler’s take on King Lear sure ain’t perfect. Far from it. But it’s certainly inventive, and whilst it’s perhaps over-confident in parts, it offers an innovative (if inconsistent) glance at the ultimate dysfunctional family.

We see the stage, which all the world is. Only here, it’s covered with sheeting, and is to be gradually revealed throughout the performance. Dotted about the blank canvas are a number of pretenders to the throne that is The Globe: painted vagrants having a doss as the real action is happening. Perhaps a nod to current conditions (or, indeed, our shocking attitudes towards them,) I’m not sure this device adds anything positive to the production. Lear is enough of a play on its own without adding extra layers or weaving contemporary subtleties into its fabric.

KING LEAR is getting on a bit, and is contemplating abdication or retirement or foot-putting-up or whatever you wanna…

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SECOND DO NO HARM

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Your stories need you

As is the case every single day that ends in y, you pick up a book. And whether it’s just-pressed fresh, or hills-old and tattered, it looks and smells delicious – each individual page tempting your nose towards a sniffywhiff, and collectively, begging you to fan them towards your face just so you can snort their entire essence right up the ol’ snout in one go. Shaven, pulped wood feels more natural to you than the trees whence it came; books just make you happy, gosh darn it. Good ones – happier still.

Some books are bookier than others, though: they were not all published equal. The one in your hand now, for example, has certain majestic qualities from its smart artwork to a title embossed in tall metallic lettering.  And until you unshelved it, it had just been sitting there lording it over all the other little books, knowing it looked…

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SECOND DO NO HARM

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Your stories need you

As is the case every single day that ends in y, you pick up a book. And whether it’s just-pressed fresh, or hills-old and tattered, it looks and smells delicious, each individual page tempting your nose towards a quick sniffywhiff, and collectively, begging you to fan them towards your face just so you can snort their entire essence right up the ol’ snout in one go. Shaven, pulped wood feels more natural to you than the trees whence it came; books just make you happy, gosh darn it. Good ones, happier still.

Some books are bookier than others, though; they were not all published equal. The one in your hand now, for example, has certain majestic qualities from its smart artwork to a title embossed in tall, metallic lettering.  And until you unshelved it, it had just been sitting there lording it over all the other little books, knowing it looked good with its subtle swank and promises of unputdownability.

But there’s a thing, and the thing is this: this ‘ere volume is written in the dreaded second person, the thing they tell you never to do. The technique they insist you should never, ever, employ. The perspective of, they suggest, sad madmen, hairy-knuckled bookdraggers and those with more than a smattering of ruthless conceit. And because they say those things all the time, on a loop, they must be right, right?

Balls. What utter twaddle. What absolute cobblers, you say. You’ll be the judge of what makes a book a good ‘un; regardless of the author’s choice of perspective, yours is the one that counts.

Just what, then, is it about a book that begs you to devour it? Perhaps it’s something as simple as it having been written by your favourite author, or having been blurbed to Bookdom Come by those whose opinion is Gospel to you. It could be that it’s the right price, in your genre of choice, or it might just have an incredible cover by an even incredibler artist whose creativity acts like a beckoning finger to your salivating, tingling artishness and readerhood. And maybe, just maybe, you’ve read a review that’s made you hop on down to Waterstone’s. Or, y’know —to the nearest laptop, i-thing, or smarter-than-you phone.

George Orwell asks a similar question, which you will already know if you have ingested The Decline of The English Murder and Other Essays[1] (if you haven’t, you really need to get on that). In the essay-wot-bears-the-same-title-as-that-of-the-collection (this description being deliberately cack-handed because of your utter detestation of the uber-wanky term titular), he takes you straight into a warm, cosy setting, where you snuggle up, and settle down:

“It is Sunday afternoon, preferably before the war. The wife is already asleep in the armchair, and the children have been sent out for a nice long walk. You put your feet up on the sofa, settle your spectacles on your nose, and open the News of the World. Roast beef and Yorkshire, or roast pork and apple sauce, followed up by suet pudding and driven home, as it were, by a cup of mahogany-brown tea, have put you in just the right mood … In these blissful circumstances, what is it that you want to read about?”

You can see how, straight away, he’s made you at home, having even given you a choice of fodder —what a considerate host! Of course, the next choices on offer are of the infinitely more sinister variety, after answering his own question and telling you what you want to read about, which is,

“Naturally … a murder. But what kind of murder?”

You know these are going to be relatively nice murders, though. The good old-fashioned sort. Accordingly, you don’t fret too much at this stage —ol’ Orwell’s got your back (at this juncture, your brain takes a little deviation as you wait for some smart arse to chime in on the comments section with George’s real name as if it’s the Ark of the Covenant, because there’s always that one guy) …

aaaand you’re back. Back to the beginning. Just read that first line again —go on.

“… preferably before the war.”

Damn.

Considering this essay was first published in 1946, our George speaks of a war through which you know he’s lived. Of course, you know that anyway, because you aren’t too bad at the ol’ history —and even if you were, you could do the maths and work it out. (You also know that maths has an s on the end, because you’re British, what.) And, bless his stiff-upperness, Orwell wants you all cosy and comfy, not smack-bang in the middle of an air raid.

You realise soon enough that he doesn’t stay in second person, of course; you adore George for many reasons, not least of which is the fact that he knows how to mix it up. As he jumps around from second to first, swapping tenses and playing wordball (whatever that is) with the reader, so you notice that he gets away with it —because he can. And so, using Orwell as your example, you feel empowered to do away with all the rules yourself, as long as you’re familiar with ’em first. You might even say yes-yes to the big no-no of opening a sentence with And so.

***

It’s not just reserved for non-fiction, either, this stuff. Some of your favourite —and more contemporary— authors have been known to employ a crafty little Second-Hand technique or two. Remember the first time you sat down with a brew and a copy of Ramsey Campbell’s Heading Home[2]? Remember when you noticed the horror, and how menacing it was? Remember how ghastly? How immediate:

“You know he’s a butcher, because once he helped one of the servants carry the meat from the village. In any case, you could have told his profession from what he has done to you.”

(You can work out how wholly unthreatening and rather dull the events would’ve been, had they been told in a first person alternative, “I know he is a butcher … in any case, I could have told his profession from what he has done to me.” It’s just not a mustard-cutter, is it?)

Campbell continues to direct the movie that’s playing in your mind now, with a reminder that this IS YOU, so you’d better be paying attention, now:

“You hear your wife’s terrified voice, entreating him to return to her. There’s a long pondering silence. Then he hurries back upstairs.”

You’re still not sure if it works? How about third, then? “He hears his wife’s terrified voice, entreating him to return to her…” Nah. Too far removed from the horrific happenings for your liking, isn’t it? Come on, admit it. You WANT to be in on it. You want to put yourself smack bang in the middle of the protAgony, and you have to admit, second person is the smartest —and nastiest— way to do it. You know this. You know this because Campbell knows this. And as soon as you reach the end, like all good stories would have you do, you go straight back to the beginning. Yep —that which you know now has been pretty much spelled out to you from the start in a way you didn’t know you knew, y’know?

***

Here’s another: remember when you discovered Ray Bradbury’s The First Night of Lent, and noticed that he does the swapping-of-perspectives thing LIKE A BOSS?

“So you want to know all the whys and wherefores of the Irish? What shapes them to their Dooms and runs them on their way? you ask. Well, listen, then.”

This isn’t so much a case of breaking the fourth wall, but starting with its bricks in a pile on the floor and assembling them into a partition with the mortar of the second paragraph. You then quickly find that Bradbury has flicked over to first person. And now that he’s fluck, he can tell you about Nick, the “most careful driver in all God’s world, including any sane, small, quiet, butter-and-milk producing country you name.” Did he just slip back into second again there? Why, yes. Yes he did.

Nick is sweet and calm, and Bradbury wants you to understand that. After giving you some more of his first-person thoughts, he once again provides you with a bunch of instructions —pay attention, now:

“Listen to his mist-breathing voice as he charms the road, his foot a tenderly benevolent pat on the whispering accelerator… Look, compare. And bind such a man to you with summer grasses, gift him with silver, shake his hand warmly at each journey’s end.”

There’s a reason for this, of course. You’ll find out when you get to the next bit. Then get thee hence to the end of the story and you’ll see the beautiful, inharmonious harmony; the point of it all, where twains shall meet, and where, somehow, your idea of a decent story has been toyed with, juggled about a bit, put through a blender … and been reassembled into perfection, just like Bradbury’s wall.

This technique can —if executed correctly— get you into someone’s head far quicker than any of the other perspectives. Just think about the humdrum things that happen in your everyday life, when you find yourself asking Second Person things of a friend. You know the sort of thing: “Ever get an itchy arse in public, and you just HAVE to scratch it?” or even asking yourself, “isn’t it annoying when you can’t get the last bits of blood off yer hands?”

What? You are a horror fan, aren’t you?

***

Speaking of the real life things, let’s not forget the hypnotherapy lark —for those of you who go in for that sort of thing. How does the therapist talk to you? Well, the answer’s right there in the question: they talk to you. They don’t say “I’m walking into my house; try and imagine it with me,” do they? They don’t tell you about a man who is “walking through his front door, and sees a wall, painted in white…” No —because how on earth would you be able to engage with that?

Proof of the second pudding is in the eating: this is how you can talk to your readers, too. So, after a long hard day at work, you come home and open the front door. Walking through the hallway, you put down your bags, hang up your coat, and enter the living room. There, you take a seat on the sofa, and pick up your notebook. You’re feeling verrrrry sleepy…

WAKE UP, WILL YOU? You’re supposed to be WRITING.

For “YOU”, the you that the second person often suggests, read “ME.” Me, Myself, and I. An author’s choice to use pronouns beginning with Y is not, as some may suggest, a jarring degree of separation, but quite the opposite. It’s a way —if done correctly— to pull the reader over the ropes and become the fighter in the boxing ring of the story … and you might just be kept up in the air with literary left hooks until you’re given permission to land.

A crackin’ example of this comes from John Skipp, in Empathy, a good ol’ rompy mindfuck of a headmessin’ story. The Skippmeister does a good ol’ bit of bouncin’ around between first and second person, one of your favourite things-they-tell-you-not-to-do. You don’t know why he does it —at first. But as he draws you in with a dash of persuasion, a peppering of suggestiveness and a threatening air of filth and intrigue, so you realise you must stick around. And you know you’re bad, for he tells you so. You’ve:

“…done a horrible thing. And you’ll do it again. I know.”

As you continue, Skipp helps you to lull yourself into an almost hypnagogic state, feeling, as an engaged (yet slightly inebriated) reader, the “ripple as the veil of sleep parts.” It’s Empathy 101, this, whether you like it or not. This way, when it’s necessary for the first person to take over, your mindframe is in the appropriate state to receive any perspective on offer.

“I don’t even want to think about you. No offense —you know I love you to death— but you’re a total fucking loser, and you’re making me sick.”

You almost feel guilty for making your partner despise you so. What have you done to them? You MONSTER! So, you read on, to find out what the frig kinda things you’ve been up to … and to unravel all the what-the-fucknesses. And, as with Campbell’s story, once you figure out the hitherto unfigureoutable, you realise the answer’s been laid out for you all along. Quite literally, in this case.

Even though you’ve put the story down now, it hasn’t done the same to you. It still has you in its grasp. As you read it for the second time in five minutes, you find yourself,

“Laying there like a lump. Scintillating as mud, and sexy as a tumor.”

Ouch, man. Ouch. Must lay off the carbs. Must … step … away … from that cake.

Speaking of cake, to make the batter, you must first combine the butter and sugar…and to make a story work in an alternative perspective, first you must …

… see all of the above.

Like a recipe written in second (which all good recipes should be, giving to-the-letter, direct-to-the-person instructions), a story in that same perspective will ask —nay, demand— something of the reader. That extra little requirement: the suspension of disbelief —a little bit further than they are normally willing to suspend it.

The pre-requisite of a decent attention span comes with a teasing carrot of danglement that offers the reader the choice to step right inside the head of the protagonist for a wee while. As a reader, it’s for your own good in any case —do you want to lose yourself in the story or not?

So you do. You suspend that disbelief, and relish having proved the know-alls to be know-nowts. You allow yourself to become the YOU of the story, and you enjoy a fresh, empathic experience from which there is no escape. And then, you go and write the hell out of your own imagination.

Don’t you?

…………………………………………………….

LINDA NAGLE

[1] Reprinted:

— ‘Shooting an Elephant and Other Essays’. — 1950.

— ‘The Orwell Reader, Fiction, Essays, and Reportage’ — 1956.

— ‘Decline of the English Murder and Other Essays’. — 1965.

— ‘The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters of George Orwell’. — 1968.

[2] First Published:

— ‘Whispers’ – Volume 3, Numbers 3-4, whole number 11-12 (edited by Stuart David Schiff; Chapel Hill, October 1978)

[3] First Published:

—Playboy, March 1956

[4] First Published:

—’Conscience’ – 2004 (now available through Crossroads Press)

    Reprinted:

—’Demons – Encounters with the Devil and His Minions, Fallen Angels, and the Possessed’ – Black Dog and Leventhal – 2011.

Purchase Links:

Orwell: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Decline-English-Murder-Penguin-Great/dp/0141191260/ref=la_B000AQ0KKY_1_29?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1493591959&sr=1-29

Campbell: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Alone-Horrors-Fiction-Campbell-1961-1991/dp/0765307677/ref=sr_1_cc_2?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1493590944&sr=1-2-catcorr&keywords=alone+with+the+horror+campbell

Bradbury: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bradbury-Stories-Most-Celebrated-Tales/dp/0060544880/ref=sr_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1493591120&sr=1-10&keywords=ray+bradbury

Skipp: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Demons-Encounters-Minions-Fallen-Possessed/dp/1579128793/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1493591832&sr=1-1&keywords=john+skipp+demons

NO FLIES ON ME

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Since making the veggie-to-vegan leap a few weeks back, me ol’ grub’s been limited. By default, all my fave C’s are out: no cheese, chocolate, or (gasp!) cake.

Vegan hot dogs are floppy as the floppiest of fucks, and cheese-ish slices are essentially oily sheets of sappy, sopping cardboard.

Meatless sausages are ok, I suppose, and vegetable pâté isn’t half bad…but these are all things you need to eat with OTHER things so it’s been Bread With Everything. EVERYTHING.

From pâté on toast…crisp butties (to make sure I stay proppa Northern, like), it’s been carb-central all the way. Sunflower spread isn’t worthy of licking butter’s boots, of course – but if ya sprinkle a l’il salt on there, it’s quite possible to con yerself.

Lunch today? Baked beans and sausages on toast. Which – after plopping the lot onto my plate – looked and smelled a little dodgy, it has to be said. I was going to bin the lot, and go foraging in the fridge for summit else.

And then…BZZZZZ.

A dirty fly-bastard put me even FURTHER off, right before Bite One was even thought of.

***

I’d left the window open last night (I was staying at me Mam’s with the kids – and what with her being ancient and thin of skin, the house was hotter than the sun), so the bewinged one had found his way in. And the little bugger didn’t bother bothering me until I was about to eat.

Forkful of carbs ready to be munched…until FLY. Batted it away, and back he came. Third time fucky: after a futile swat, he landed on my hand.

I didn’t splat the twat (vegan, remember?) but his landing gave me pause to think. He’d been deliberately and universally painted onto my hand, it seemed. I gawped at his little black body.

For here was mine was so white.

Clarity was on the menu then: a menu I make myself read every now and again with my peepers firmly closed and my mind wide open. Behind my eyes: flies. In my head: flies on faces.

Black flies on black faces. Faces that see SO MANY flies that they no longer twitch, ignorant to the silence…so silent that a fly’s footfall can be distinctly heard.

Apathetic hands no longer inclined to bat-away. Flies that stay wherever they squat. On face, on food, in mouth, in hell.

Black children. Black flies. Children so malnutritioned that the bigness of their distended stomachs is only balanced out by their enormous heads. Lolling heads too big for their raving scrawny bodies.

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And none of this is new to me; it’s just that sometimes, I forget to remember it. This is the same shit. The same old shit. The same old shit I first learned about in the eighties, with the advent of Live Aid (yeah yeah – I’m old as fuck). This is the bollocks that’s perpetuated by the likes of enormous corporations unnecessarily peddling their unnecessary shite when African women have perfectly good breasts.

What the actual crap was I doing moaning about shite food and one bastard fly? How fucking DARE I? How dare I complain about the state of my food when I HAVE food?

So I slapped myself in the face – and not for the purposes of insect-removal.

Then I ate a meal of beans on toast, with meat-free, dairy-free, flavour-free sausages.

From the wall, somebody was watching me.

Wilfred’s Men

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A poet’s shattered soul reacts to crumpled men with words intact

Recalling lies as glory folds, one verse – yet many stories told:

Our Wilfred said they’d cursed through sludge, towards their distant rest they’d trudged

And Wilfred’s men had lost their boots but limped on, blind, deaf to the hoots

There, Wilfred saw a hanging face – as death came to his writing-place

So we could read -at every jolt- of gargled blood to our revolt

If Wilfred knew – if he could see -dead men survived by poetry

What would he say – and would he be surprised his words adored by me?

Adored by age, revered by youth, for hitherto-unspoken truth.

If he were now – if he were here, would Wilfred to the world endear?

Or is it likelier he’d see: the sale of arms, cash weaponry?

And then the fight to stop it all, this great divide as countries fall?

Perhaps for now, hypocrisy – humanity’s mobocracy:

And as he rhymes of this or that, he’d write: Manus Manum Lavat.

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We Have Such Sights To Show You

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So – you’re a movie buff. Me too. But for those of you still in the filmfreak closet, here’s a way you can quote your favourite lines ALL….DAY….LONG….and nobody need ever know (unless you want them to – I assure you, it’s a great pulling technique if you want to gather yourself a nice, smart movie geek).

Technically, any flick with a half-decent script is a quotemine, so this list is compiled with that in mind; to show you just how easy it is. Quotes you didn’t know you knew, lines from films that are usually overlooked when it comes to “Best Quote” lists. It’s especially thigh-slappingly amusing trying to crowbar a line into a conversation at work. With a customer. On the telephone. And yes – I have. Many times.

So fly, fly – engage in a little of your own project mayhem that only the true enthusiast will espy. Let’s explore how we can take oft-overlooked statements and make them work for us (Work it, baby, work it…)

Ah….We have such sights to show you….

The Terminator (1984)

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Why it’s so quotable – with a Duel-like chase, the story becomes all the more sinister as Arnie’s Terminator takes on the voice of Sarah Connor’s mother to track her down at the sleazy motel. You too can be equally menacing if you need to know where someone lives:

“Give me your address there”.

OR…..run from that spider crawling towards you, at the same time maniacally exclaiming:

Why me? Why does it want me?

When trying to haggle at a market or garage sale, turn to whoever is next to you and tell them, referring to the vendor:

It can’t be bargained with, it can’t be reasoned with.

(Using this one makes you truly awesome.)

This will all stand you in good stead for the day you need to borrow someone’s clothes, boots, and motorcycle.

Withnail and I (1987)

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Why it’s so quotable- the greatness of the nothingness of every single thing that happens in this movie owes itself to Bruce Robinson’s uber-screenplay. He provides us with a truly juicy superabundance of utterances which can be easily levered into everyday speak.

The finest hangover line available to humanity?

I feel like a pig shat in my head.

Feeling a little paranoid in a new office or hotel room?

You’re not leaving me in here alone. Those are the kind of windows faces look in at.

When you experience poor service at a local establishment, it’s super-fun to yell:

We are multimillionaires. We shall buy this place and fire you immediately.

(Of course, they won’t believe you, but your pure awesomeness makes that a moot point).

When you’ve haggled with the vendor at the aforementioned garage sale, you do of course need to tell them they’re out of their mind. But it only makes sense when you get down to two quid.

Fight Club (1999)

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Why it’s so quotable – With their screenplay, the deities that are Chuck Palahniuk and Jim Uhls make things secretly obvious. If you’re anything like me, by the end of the movie your head is spinning with the incredible dialogue you’ve just heard.

To console someone about a break-up:

It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.

If you want a slap in the chops, wait until someone you know gives birth to a girl and utter:

We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.

(The mere danger/stupidity value of using this quote means you’ll receive extra cool points on your awesomeness chart).

It’s the ideal movie for paraphrasing purposes, too, where you can create endless phrases inspired by Chuck and Jim: “I am Philip’s sense of utter rejection” or “I am Maria’s total lack of responsibility”.  I am Linda’s lack of fuck-giving. That kind of stuff.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)

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Why it’s so quotable – it’s fucking Ferris fucking Bueller’s fucking Day Off. That is all.

Customer service agents leaving you frustrated on the telephone? So many choices: but to start with you could ask them

Do you know anything?

(Or simply tell them to stick their finger up their butt).

Worried about being fired for using Terminator quotes on the telephone? Talk about your boss thus:

If I’m gonna get busted, it is not gonna be by a guy like that.

And if you are clever enough to crowbar:

I did not achieve this position in life by having some snot-nosed punk leave my cheese out in the wind

into a real life situation, then I may need to marry you a little bit.

This will imbue a sense of greater purpose and confidence: If you need to call across the office to your colleague Grace, you KNOW how it must be done.

Beetlejuice (1988)

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Why it’s so quotable – If you ever wanted to prove yourself strange and unusual, this film gives you the chance.

Not into the person trying to pull you down the local boozer? Refuse to tell them your name:

If I tell you, you’ll tell your friends…

..and go on to say it’d make your life Hell, ok? A living hell. (Disclaimer: at this juncture, if they get it and laugh hysterically, you may have to have a rethink – they might just be The One).

Viewing a new house? Not too keen? Tell the estate agent:

Oh look! An indoor outhouse.

Of course, there is the one you HAVE to use whenever you try on a new outfit:

This might be a good look for me.

Extra points for saying it after sucking on some helium.

Dave (1993)

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Why it’s so quotable – because it rocks. Simple.

Excellent insults abound:

You’re LINT! You’re a FLEA! You’re a BLIP!

Try on a sweater vest and complain in your best Voice of Ving that it makes your neck look too thick.

Take the kids on a museum trip just so you can say:

We’re walking, we’re walking…and we’re stopping.

(This could only be made cooler if Frank Langella were to bustle past).

Be Dave. Because Dave is just wonderful. Fess up to everything:

I take full responsibility for each one of my illegal actions.

If you know anyone called Ellen (or with the initials LN), you do of course have to thank them for doing this at every available opportunity. It’s the law.

Robocop (1987)

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Why it’s so quotable – because it’s essentially a comic lavishly portrayed by real people. It’s also one of the finest movies ever made.

Assure your friend that their upcoming surgery will be a success:

They’ll fix you. They fix everything.

Made a typo on a document? As you delete it, you MUST say out loud:

Now it’s time to erase that mistake.

(Come on! Say it with me!)

There ARE a lot more quotes from this movie…..I can feel them… but I can’t remember them.

Austin Powers(s) –  (1997 et seq)

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Why it’s so quotable – because it’s such a well-rounded collection of Mmmmmovies.

Don’t go for the obvious YEAH BABY nonsense. But if you’re about to go for surgery to correct your vision, you HAVE to do air quotes when you say LASER otherwise it’s just a wasted opportunity.

Channel Scott Evil wherever possible, with as many, like, whatevers as you can. And always refer to the French language as Paris talk. It’s like, cool.

Being that you’ll often hear people using the boring old in-a-nutshell phrase, you can liven things up. You know how – get on your back and be you, in a nutshell.

As you do this, laugh inwardly at your own genius, point to someone and tell them that’s where they are. They’re there.

Casablanca (1942)

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Why it’s so quotable – it’s set in a gin joint. There’s booze.

Enter a casino and declare that you are:

..shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on in here!

Next time someone calls you a piss-head, explain that that makes you a citizen of the world.

Confuse the enemy: explain that somehow,

just because you despise me, you are the only one I trust.

You could also tell someone that you are looking at them, kid, but this may just cause confusion.

School for Scoundrels (1960)

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Why it’s so quotable – watch it. Just watch it.

Tell someone you’ve been married a long time. Perhaps almost

Be utterly charming and patronising at the same time, translating everything on the menu. Even if it’s in English.

Point to some tomatoes in your local store, and state what they are.

If you’re being berated for trying to get one over on someone, explain that:

he who is not one up, is one down.

Speaking of one-upmanship, get one over on your local garage by convincing them that your piss-poor excuse for a heap-of-crap car is actually a rare automotive gem.

See? It’s easy when you know how. I’m off for a game of golf now, but it’s snowing. So I’ll use red balls.

SAY IT AGAIN

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War, huh? What is it good for? A bit of ethnic cleansing here and there, pretty little lab experiments in this petri(fied) dish of a planet? World “leaders” getting their cocks out to compare size? Yeah. It’s good for all those things. War, huh? What is it bad for? Absolutely everythin’.

EIGHTLEGGER

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That moment in between asleep and awake…..when the sheet tickles your leg and your tired, pathetic subconscious decides that two and two equal five and that it must be a spider. That moment when you shoot out of bed, heart racing, as if said imaginary spider spans eighteen feet and is holding a stabby weapon in one “hand” and a shooty one in another. All this whilst he waves at you, menacingly, glaring with his far-too-many eyes. THAT is what happens when a sheet dares to tickle your leg. And THEN, standing at the light switch that you right-hooked to ON, you scratch your thigh because, damnit, it feels like there’s something ON IT. There is. The remains of a little tiny eight-legger who chose to crawl under you for some warmth and perhaps protect you from flies. And then you feel exceptionally guilty and decide to take on the day like some superhero – Arachnoman, maybe…or Rachnobabe, vowing to save at least one of the little critters from a squishy demise.