Because I’m a damned, dirty hippie, that’s why. I was a big fan of World Party back when paisley shirts and Lennonspecs were not only acceptable but positively encouraged. I’ve not heard this for years. The guitar is slinky dirty, innit? The vocal is saying “save the planet” and the guitar is saying “mm mm let’s get frisk-ay” (cos that’s how guitars talk. They’re weird). Well hey. We can do both. Friends of the Earth, with benefits…*
*terrible, terrible, terrible. 🙂
“I’m here,” says Albert. “Here I am.”
Albert looks old. His grey skin sags off his bones like old dishcloths off a drying rack. You can see a lot of his skin, because he is naked. The fact he is naked is probably the third thing you noticed about him, after you registered that he is glowing and acknowleged that he is floating in the corner of this darkened living room.
“Here I am,” he says, impatiently, but nobody seems to hear.
In the middle of the room an old lady and a younger woman sit on either side of a small table which has three candles, two bone china cups and a lot of Rich Tea crumbs on it.
“Are you there?” asks the old lady in a booming voice.
“Yes,” says Albert.
“Can you hear me, O spirits from beyond the veil?” asks the old lady.
“Yes,” says Albert.
“Please answer me,” says the old lady, “One knock for yes, two for no.”
“What? What do you want?” says Albert. “Carrie, Carrie, is that you?” he says, looking at the younger of the two women.
“One knock for yes, two for no,” the old lady repeats, and she reaches out to squeeze Carrie’s hand in a gesture of reassurance.
“I’m here. Carrie, I’m here,” says Albert. “Who is this dopey bint and why does she want me to knock?”
“Are you there, Albert?” the old lady intones.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” says Albert, and he balls his fist and tries rapping his knuckles against the wall. His hand passes noiselessly through flock wallpaper, damp plaster and brick.
There is a knocking sound in the room.
“It’s him. Is it him? Are you there, Dad?” says Carrie. The old lady nods, with a gently triumphant look on her face.
“Yes, yes, Carrie, it’s me,” he says, “But I didn’t-“
There are two knocks.
“Do you have a question for the dear departed my love?” asks the old lady.
“Is… is he happy?” asks Carrie.
“Happy?” Albert practically shrieks. “Happy? I’m not fucking happy! Do you know what I was saying just this morning, do you? Aaaaaagh! Aaaaagh, I was saying, aaaaagh get your hands out of there, it hurts, I was saying. Does that sound like something a happy man would say?”
Two knocks.
“He’s happy,” confirms the old lady.
“Stop that!” cries Albert, “Stop it you cheating cow! Every morning a burly, red man-beast with antlers pushes a big stick up my jacksie.”
“That’s… a relief,” says Carrie. “He was a complicated man, our relationship was, um, you know, and I’m just glad he’s at peace.”
“I’ve got a bumhole the size of a dinner plate,” says Albert.
“He wants you to know he is happy, and with all his friends now,” says the old lady.
“Friends?” says Carrie, looking surprised.
“He’s made lots of new friends,” says the old lady hurriedly. “Dead friends” she adds, lamely.
“I had friends, you stuck-up bitch,” says Albert. “Look at you, still judging me even after I’m dead. I was right about you, wasn’t I, you starchy twat.”
“He says he still loves you, and is watching over you.”
“You dessicated, hairy-faced charlatan!” Albert shouts, “You fraudulent, brittle-boned walnut! Watching over her? I’m in hell! How can I watch over anyone? All I can watch over is my own fucking ankles as Satan himself rummages around elbow deep in my chutney locker. He’s got big hands! Biiiiig hands!”
“It’s a comfort to know he’s found some kind of peace in death,” says Carrie.
“His hands really are huge,” says Albert.
The old lady pats Carrie’s hand. “Did you bring your credit card? I don’t take cheques,” she says, soothingly.
The grey, glowing form of Albert begins to grow transparent. “No!” he cries, “I don’t want to go back! Sweet Jesus, I’m sorry for everything, whatever it was, whatever I did, I’m sorry!”
The old lady munches thoughtfully on a Rich Tea as Carrie reaches into her handbag.
“It was such a shock to us, we thought the belligerent old bastard was going to live forever,” says Carrie.
“Was it sudden?” asks the old lady.
“It was. He was run over just outside his house. Joyriders. He was living in Middlesbrough.”
“Ah,” says the old lady. “Middlesbrough. Well, he’s in a better place now.”
They share a smile.
And, as Albert is dragged through limbo and purgatory, back to the fiery charnel pit of degradation and violation that will be his home until the end of forever, he thinks: Can’t argue with that, like. You’ve got to count your blessings.
******
A Better Place by Harris
more tiny tales
Stunning preview art by Gus Hughes for… well, we don’t really know what it’s going to be. The Two Armies was written as a short animated screenplay, but maybe it’s a comic, or an illustrated short story, or a set of commemorative coasters. We just don’t know. Still, isn’t this gorgeous? Whatever it is…
Mustard is a darned cool little humour magazine, full of funny articles and comic strips and excellent interviews with the likes of Michael Palin, Alan Moore, and Peep Show writers Bain & Armstrong. I got a couple of cartoons* in issue one, and I got quite giddy – it was for sale in Borders and everything. Oh, there’s a big Graham Linehan interview in there too and lots of other funny stuff but for me it’s mostly about my two little cartoons. They really tie the magazine together. Anyway, you can now read that legendary first issue online here. For freesies!
Mustard is something of a labour of love for creator and publisher Alex Musson, so if you like what you see, why not tell a friend, or get in touch with Alex. The more people buy the mag, the sooner he’ll be able to print issue 5.
As an addendum, some Mustard content will be given away with Alan Moore’s interesting-looking new project, Dodgem Logic. The massive hairy magician seems to be trying to recapture the glory days of the fanzine, and good luck to him, I say. And not just cos he might send the snake god Glycon to devour my soul or bite my bum or something.
*one of them was drawn by Michaelangelo. It turned out quite well.
I know, it’s old and you’ve probably heard it already, but this is a great bit of stand up by comic Tom Gleeson. It does what stand up does best, shining a light on something and making you look at it in a whole new way. In this case, singer-songwriter (and walking example of rhyming slang*) James Blunt’s ubiquitous bloody love song becomes the creepy ramblings of a perv on a train.
For me it’s the whiney anguish in Gleeson’s voice as he argues with his imaginary girlfriend that makes this work so well (“of course I think you’re beautiful!”.) Quality performance.
*man, that is such a cheap joke, I really do apologise.
David Cross is, as ever, brilliant in this odd and slightly confusing little sketch from Mr Show.
Thank you to everybody who took the time to write ickle stories. They were all excellent, and some of them made me lol or rofl or pmsl or whatever it is you kids do instead of laughing these days. Anyway, here’s a selection:
Aliens. Choose Brian Blessed as disguise.
– Rofl Lundgren (perpetrator of Kriss Akabusi Sex Stories)
It looked dead, then spoke loudly.
– Gus Hughes (illustrator extraordinaire)
So, the anal probes were unnecessary?
– Kevin Murphy (comedy writer, journalist, brown food obsessive)
Daleks land, feeling randy. Dustbins violated.
– Bob Fischer (Britain’s randiest hairiest DJ since DLT’s head imploded like a furry black hole. Ew, bad image, sorry.)
2165AD recession: International Rescue submit invoices.
Aliens vs Predator: late kick off.
Asteroid misses. Humans exhale, tilt axis.
Creature from Black Lagoon dredges pond.
Hiding police phone boxes, Brigadier laughs.
– Kevin Jon Davies (animator on the Hitchhiker’s TV series. Honestly. Swear down! Legend.)
We died. Then things got interesting.
(note: yeah, that’s really it. Inspired by Wired Magazine‘s 6 word sci-fi story challenge. And Thursday night laziness.)
A1 super-special bonus tiny sci-fi tales:
When worlds collide, alien continents kiss.
Jesus returned, forgot why, left again.
Theory my story chaos affected short.
Richard Dawkins awoke in heaven. “Oopsie.”
The aliens were impressed: Ferrero Rocher!
It’s fun! Why not try it yourself – write me one in the comments section…
******
Six Word Sci Fi by Harris
more tiny tales
The only good mime is a dead mime apart from this mime performed by Johann Lipowitz and Beth off Neighbours, which makes me giggle and also, for some reason, get a bit misty of eye every time I see it. A happy mist, mind you. It’s just so wilfully, pointlessly daft and joyful. Pop the fog lights on and enjoy.
Ramshackle Charm 