Whole Lotta Love!

This is a post about pop music; what is the difference between pop music and popular music? Pop Music is a certain genre and popular music is any music that's popular. Music has influenced my life more than anything else and it still does but since about 1999 I don't know too much.

It was supposed to be 1968 which was the end of pop music as we know it with All You Need is Love by The Beatles when they sang it on the world TV link.

I can't remember who wrote the book and the documentary film which said 1968 was the peak but he certainly had a point.

Over the years since then there have been some wonderful records with great intros: Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin, Hotel California by The Eagles and Baker Street by Gerry Rafferty to name but three.

Today the number one hit single in Britain is by someone called Smith and it has one second of intro. The last (so called) number one had one second of intro too. Intro short for introduction, by the way, just as app is short for application. That will probably be a question on University Challenge in 30 years.

The reason for this is that to be number one in the charts they count streaming; with streaming it doesn't matter how long you listen to the song for, it all counts. So these artists are just cutting the intro altogether.

Now I have quite a few songs on iTunes, Spotify and the rest of the streaming services and nobody ever told me to cut down the intro – maybe because they don't care. But it says something, doesn't it, when you realise that something which most music lovers held dear has now gone.

Streaming doesn't pay much in any case; I get one cent per stream. Before streaming I used to get 99 cents per sale and with all the on line outlets, even then, it mounted up. But the most I ever got paid was about $500 per month for a ring tone. They used my intro.

I get paid every time someone plays one of my songs on YouTube but that is collected by my publishers and that takes about two or three months.

Whilst I am having a moan – here we go:

The Bridge is a tiny piece of music that bridges two themes etc. In God Save the Queen it is the bit that goes da da da da da da.

For some reason the Americans called the middle 8 the bridge.

The other moan – there is one lyric to a song. You can't say you like the lyrics of Summertime Blues as there is only one lyric.

So I've had my say – and if you want to give me one cent click on this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGJLQ6Ut_4A

GIRL FROM THE NORTH COUNTRY

After writing a post about 'actors (who) can bring a tear to the eyes of the audience. They do this by playing their role with soul . . .' and that 'audiences who are impressed by the technique and the learning of all those lines, by university actors, but half the time you don't believe them.'

And then I go to the theatre last night and at the end of the show there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

I went to see GIRL FROM THE NORTH COUNTRY at the Old Vic Theatre in London. It is what you have already guessed: a play with a title from a Bob Dylan song.

But not only that, it also uses his music. It was written by the brilliant Irish playwright Conor McPherson who conjures up a play, set in 1934 – which is before Dylan was born – and uses some of Bob Dylan's music.

It is a good play and it is peopled with some great actors from Ireland and Britain who use American accents. The fact that the piece is set in Duluth, Minnesota, didn't tempt any of them to try a Minnesota accent, like they use in programmes like Fargo, didn't distract from the evening of brilliance; in fact it was an evening of magic.

Even though I thought the play was brilliant I don't think it would have caught fire without the songs. What stands out is the genius of Dylan; not only are the lyrics outstanding but his songs are beautiful and they are beautifully performed by the cast. There are great singers and as some of the cast are well known I was surprised at how well they sung.

The genius of Dylan is of course in the words. They evoke all kinds of imagery and sometimes you wonder where he gets them from. For instance:

Idiot Wind Blowing every time you move your mouth
Blowing down the back roads headin' south
Idiot wind
Blowing every time you move your teeth
You're an idiot, babe
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe

I ran into the fortune-teller
Who said beware of lightning that might strike
I haven't known peace and quiet
For so long I can't remember what it's like
There's a lone soldier on the cross
Smoke pourin' out of a boxcar door
You didn't know it, you didn't think it could be done
In the final end he won the wars
After losin' every battle

There are many more, many more pieces of magnificence, and this is probably not the best, just something that came to me. It makes me think back to the naysayers when Dylan first came upon the scene and when it became clear that he had named himself after the poet Dylan Thomas they sneered and the same sneering started when he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature but . . let them sneer.

There is a set of drums on stage, which various members of the cast play throughout the evening but . . . . it finishes on October 7^th.

I think it will be back soon in the west end and then the world – look out for it!!

Bye bye Sah-Peter!

     Peter Hall on the left and Trevor Nunn on the right.

It's amazing really, that when someone in the theatre, someone as important as Peter Hall dies, not a lot of people know him or have even heard of him. But he was important to the theatre and with all the tributes yesterday, including a whole programme dedicated to him on the radio, Front Row, the one that stuck out for me was the tribute by Trevor Nunn.

Both of them were knighted, so it should be Sir Peter and Sir Trevor, even though in professional terms they shouldn't use the title. They both came from Suffolk and if they ever worked together, those two posh boys reverted to Suffolk accents.

Trevor Nunn was from Ipswich and attended Northgate Grammar School for Boys (Now Northgate High School) and Peter Hall was from Bury St Edmunds and his father was the station master of Shelford Station, where the family lived – so two relatively humble starts to life.

He won a scholarship to The Perse School, in Cambridge before taking up a further scholarship to read English at St. Catherine's College, at Cambridge.

Trevor Nunn also went to Cambridge so the pair had a similar pedigree. 

This start in life, for them, may have changed the British Theatre because directors, and even actors and comedians, started to come from the Universities, both Oxbridge and others, as opposed to the traditional training methods such as drama schools and colleges or even ASMs (Assistant Stage Managers) in the theatre.

There are many great actors who used the university method and some used both, going to drama schools after getting an MA.

It gave rise to clever comedy like Monty Python's Flying Circus of which I was a great fan. I didn't mind sketches about Jean Paul-Sartre or having Mao Tse-Tung and Che Guevara on quiz shows in sketches, and sometimes when I watched these shows I found them uncontrollably funny. But they were funny because they were intellectually clever. 

Charlie Chaplin was intellectually clever. He would work out exactly what he wanted to do with a tramp, a cop and a park bench and then do it till he got it right. Sometimes, eventually, taking days to do one bit and even scrapping a lot when he couldn't do it up to his satisfaction.

Then this man would get on with his serious life of debauchery (let's face it) whereas his contemporaries, Laurel and Hardy, were just funny.

Laurel and Hardy could not go through a door, take a drink, start a car or anything else, without there being a great gag at the end.

Rather like Morecambe and Wise – whose spontaneity was brilliant.

I had a pal once who was working backstage with another double act, Mike and Bernie Winters, and he watched them do their act every single show and found it hard to believe what he was witnessing; so he went up to them after one of the shows and asked them about their spontaneity. I don't know what the answer was but, like everything else which concerns talent, they probably didn't know.

The university educated actor would probably know – but they didn't have it themselves half the time, and the university trained director might know - and that's where they came in useful.

It was strange that one of the clips on TV yesterday has a clip of Peter Hall directing Cilla Black, of all people! It was in a film called Work is a 4 letter Word.

A lot of times an actor can bring a tear to the eyes of the audience. They do this by playing their role with soul (ha ha I'm a poet); they would play it straight from the heart and, at the same time, hit their marks and, as James Cagney used to say, 'look the other fella in the eye and tell the truth'. That's, more or less it, I suppose, but when you think of it, people in real life don't always look people in the eye. They move their eyes, they shift. There are some false observances by psychologists that when you look away you are lying; I think people who are good liars look people straight in the eye and this is a good technique sometimes for an actor when they have to act innocent whilst playing the crook!!

But getting back to Morecambe and Wise – or should I say, Hall and Nunn – they're not funny; they may have been in real life when talking to each other in Suffolk accents and some of their actors may have brought tears to the eyes of their audiences but, by and large, it was the instinctive actors and comedians who move you; sometimes move you out of your seat and in to the bar, I have to admit, but I'm sure you know what I mean.

Sometimes the audiences are impressed by the technique and the learning of all those lines, by university actors, but half the time you don't believe them.

It's funny because the only reason I started this post was because I found it funny that Sir Posh and Sir Posh spoke in Suffolk accents when they got together and I was going to chip in with a bit of an anecdote about me but sometimes we have to take a back seat.

Bye bye sah-peter!

Brexit

Now this is for all my American friends who wonder what the hell is going on over here in the UK just as we wonder what is going on in America – the states, as some people call it to give it a ring of familiarity when they have never been there – bit like saying 'Frisco' for San Francisco when they locals would never say that. Someone once used the expression the bay area of San Francisco when in actual fact San Francisco is in the Bay Area; bit like saying the London area of Soho. 

In other words we don't seem to know much about each others countries.

The thing is some time ago (1974) Britain had a plebiscite – the first one in their history. It's when the plebs – the plebeians – have a popular vote for something which they eventually called a referendum (work that one out how one word became the other!)

Just before that (and I'm not looking anything up today so don't correct me on dates etc) in 1972 Edward Heath, the then Prime Minister, took Britain in to the common market. He was a Conservative and the opposition didn't like it so when the opposition, The Labour Party, were elected in the next election, they called a referendum, even though they (me too) were against a common market at the time but the population voted to stay in.

So the government went along with this and stayed in as it progressed and formulated in to what it is now The European Community or the EU as they got to call it.

In the meantime and over the years the right wing of the Conservative Party had members who were described as Euro Skeptics and they moaned about the EU making laws for Britain – even though they didn't impose any laws on Britain just stipulations about being a member the union: no capital punishment, being one of them and various standards for duty free exporting and importing; various rules as to how money could be transferred between countries, ability to be able to work and live in any of the EU countries and things like that.

But there still remained the Euro Skeptics on the right of the Conservative Party.

Now let me explain – there are three main parties here: the Conservatives on the right; the Labour Party on the soft left; the Liberals in between them. 

Unlike in America where the Liberals are on the extreme left. The Liberals here, having other titles like the SDLP, at one point and now they are called the Liberal Democrats.

One day, a piece of snot rather like a bogey (which the Americans call buggers) fell out of someone's nose and became the leader of another party; a party of extreme right persuasion called The United Kingdom Independence Party (UKIP).

There he is above, that piece of snot, when he was younger.

UKIP attracted a lot of the Euro Skeptics from the Conservative Party – in fact at one point it looked liked a hemorrhage and the Conservative Prime Minister was worried.

UKIP didn't seem to get any seats in Parliament in fact the only two seats they ever did have in the Commons were when Conservatives who changed parties in mid-stream and only one of them retained their seat at the next election and he has now gone.

Because of the hemorrhage of party members the Prime Minister promised a referendum as to whether the country should stay in the EU and the country voted to leave; he didn't want any more leaving his party.

That is the whole story really.

The laws of Britain, by-laws, common laws (jurisprudence) and the like were set up in the Magna Carta in the twelfth century or so. 

Bad King John was taken to Runnymede by the Lords of the Day – Dukes and Earls and other fingers - and they made Johnny Boy sign the Magna Carta (I think it means Magnificent Book) and that's how Britain has been ruled ever since. 

No constitution and nothing written down apart from by-laws etc so no arguments, as in America, as to what is constitutional and the constitutionality of this and that.

So no names or pack drill today – every name I ever mention on this blog goes out on the Internet and attracts readers no matter how small my blog is which is why I haven't mentioned any.

We have a bunch of politicians at the moment who are trying to negotiate something as complicated as Magna Carta and they don't seem to know what they're doing – and we are standing for it.

The Pull Corder; movie.

Hi folks this is a very quick post as I wanted to show you what I've been up to; I've been making a short movie as above. It's only six minutes long and, I suppose, it's as weird as my last one.

Now what takes all the time - well I only use Mickey Mouse equipment and I have squeezed over 84 edits in to it and used around 34 sound tracks of sound and what you have is The Pull Corder. 

The title explains itself during the movie.

If you are a regular reader and have a good memory you will know that I wrote a previous post with the same title a year or so ago - in fact now I think about it, it was in 2015.

That plot was what I was originally going to use for this movie but it was too expensive so what we have is what you will see if you click on to https://vimeo.com/230641237

By the way it's better if you have the sound way up high and I hope you like it.

Gonzo

I don't think this is a happy tale – but it's true. Now I have never had much of an interest in taking drugs. I have come to many a fork in the road but never taken that one. When I was at Birmingham Rep everybody seemed to smoking dope – shit, they called it. I would just pass it on to the next person so as far as Bogarting the joint I stuck to my Guinness.

I remember one time, during the same period, everyone in the room was passing around Benelyn!

Another fork was when my wife went back to the UK when we first moved to LA; we were staying in an hotel in Santa Monica as we hadn't found an apartment and after I saw her off I parked the car and went in to the bar next door.

I got to chatting, which is easy when standing at the bar, and my pal, my best pal for that one and only evening was the postmaster – the boss man of the local post office and I met quite a few actors in there too and obtained a load of information which I used whilst living there for the next seventeen years.

A guy with a very red face came up to postie and they disappeared so I went to the loo – but that's where red face and postie were and when I came in postie was handing red face a load of money.

When red face disappeared, postie said 'do you want some cocaine?'

Well there was one theory gone, I thought he would call it Charlie or candy or blow or something. The thing is they never used Charlie but blow which I always thought was marijuana but no they called that Mary Jane.

'No' I said and then he wanted something to shove it up his nose and I gave him my Harrow Borough Library card – which I ripped to pieces later. As we got back in to the bar he had the white powder on the end of his nose which the bar tender wiped away.

That was the only time I ever saw cocaine so when we moved in to our apartment in West Hollywood/Hollywood Hills in 1997 I didn't notice that Gonzo was an ex coke addict. Something in his behaviour, some kind of paranoia and impatience.

Gonzo was a grip; that's the job in movies where you push the heavy stuff around, the dolly that holds the camera for tracking shots etc they usually have to run along and they're usually built like Brick Shit Houses, as was Gonzo. Also they're called Tex or Brad or something like that even in Britain. But never Gonzo! Gonzo was the name of a kind of bizarre exaggerated kind of journalism founded by Hunter S Thompson who, I seem to remember, even gonzoed his own death. Johnny Depp played him in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas which seems unlikely and he is famous for the quote When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

Gonzo lived two floors down and he would wear, on occasions, those kind of shorts that Jeff Bridges wore in The Big Lebowski and at other times shorts. He was always ready to go to work as that's what grips wear in LA.

He had lost a lot of his hair and the bits he had were kind of platted.

But he had this thing with drugs and paranoia – he got to know a well known drummer who lived on the ground floor who only seemed to have the Porsche from his wild previous life. But the drummer gave Gonzo the cold shoulder, as he was on some rehab inspired life, so Gonzo would go and turn himself on with a Scotsman on the second floor. Those two guys liked me and respected me and once in a while Gonzo would say 'I'd love to turn you on, man.'

It always seemed very sexually ambiguous to me but I suppose I'm wrong.

There was an Navajo Indian in the parking lot once who wanted to know if I was any relation to the Englishman upstairs – I didn't know who he meant and he said 'I send him a lot of young girls' - I didn't like that particularly as the young girl with him was only about eighteen, if that, and the Scotsman, which is who he meant, was in his fifties.

Being a grip Gonzo was good at making things and fixing things and would long for a little work shop of his own so he could get on with making his equipment. He kept his tools in a lock up, next to mine, and one day someone broke in and stole a lot of his stuff and some LPs from mine. So we had to go to court, where the thief was put on trial, and we went with the building manager who was another drummer and stood at about 6'6” - and just like Big Bad John weighed two forty five. But he had emotional problems too.

When we sat in the courthouse, and just before the case started, Gonzo told us he was planning to attack the thief by rushing him as soon as he came in to the court. I thought he was joking but he wasn't and we persuaded him to the contrary.

'I don't mind drug dealers but I hate a thief' he said.

Wow - when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

So he was a bit of a hand full old Gonzo – how old? About fifty I'd say.

The time came when the building needed a handy man and the management offered it to Gonzo. After all the years, and we knew him for many of them, Gonzo got his workshop. He moved a lot of his tools in there, made coffee, gave you a cup if you visited and was as happy as Larry.

But things got a bit too hectic for him – too many repairs, the building was falling apart, in some places: too many people had stupid complaints, wanting a bulb changed, a leak fixed, the shower mended and one night Gonzo got his bag of tools and flung them as hard he could on to the floor – this was late and people wondered what the commotion was. It was too much for him and the following day he had a stroke.

We came back and the ambulance was taking him away.

When I went to see him he was in tears and I was trying to get him to speak; it wasn't too bad so I knew he would get it eventually. He had previously had surgery on his shoulder and called me in one day to try and help him put the bandages back on and he always blamed the stroke on that surgery. When his mother came up from Florida to see him he was in tears telling her I had helped him; I felt as if I was the only one who ever had.

Of course the stroke stopped him working; he managed to drive his truck, although he was told not to, and he was running out of money because the management of the building wouldn't reimburse the money he had laid out for things needed for the building – maybe he bought them without permission or something, I don't know.

But the manager was adamant and wouldn't pay – one day Gonzo attacked the manager, biting his legs and trying to gouge out his eyes. The day came when Gonzo was evicted. I went to see him and he told me he wasn't going quietly and I could see the baseball bat was still by his front door.

When the day came he just went – didn't say goodbye to anybody and I never could get him on the phone.

He was homeless for a while then went to live with his parents in Florida. I don't know who he fell in with or whether he really got in to drugs again, but he became a Sovereign Citizen which is a ridiculous movement who do not believe in paying taxes, do not recognise American currency and don't believe in a lot of laws – you'll have to look them up, if you want to know more.

He was stopped by the cops in Florida and was fined for a traffic offence – he tried to pay in his own kind of Sovereign currency of which he had millions of dollars – counterfeit, of course and this led to the cops coming around to where he lived to arrest him for some kind of forgery.

When they came he wouldn't let them in and he told them he had a gun and if they came in they wouldn't see their families again. The cops managed to get his parents out of the house and then they heard a shot being fired 'I got a gun' he shouted.

They fired tear gas in the upstairs window to where he was so Gonzo smashed all the windows with his pistol.

They told him to put the gun down and come out and the stand off lasted some hours before the cops went in to see Gonzo at the top of the stairs where he pointed a gun suddenly at three of the cops who all fired and killed him.

The verdict was suicide by cop – Gonzo just took that wrong turn.

Stonebridge Park: NW10

                                         Stonebridge Park; NW10

                                                        by

                                           Chris Sullivan ©2017

Can you see me? That's me, lying on the concrete.

Funny! I thought people would rush out of their front doors to see me.

But nobody seems bothered apart from those kids.

At least I stopped them playing ball.I am laying here now and I don’t know why I did it; I don't even know how I am talking to you.

Is it my voice you hear?

Or is this going straight onto the page or into a magazine?

I know I’m communicating with someone - somewhere; it might even be going

straight onto somebody's computer screen.

Computers and mobile phones; tablets and apps - the wonder of the age; all those exciting people sitting on the trains or in Starbucks with their tablets.

The only tablets I ever have are pills: green ones and red ones; uppers and downers; tranquilizers and Mandrax.

At least I never took acid.

I saw a bloke the other day; he was sitting in Starbucks with the thing on his lap. Then he stopped typing and looked up, with his mouth open; I thought he was dead; his eyes were staring at my newspaper so I moved it slightly to see if he really was looking at it, but as I moved it, his eyes just starred straight ahead to where the paper had been; his mouth was still gaping and I thought something had happened to him; then something must have ignited inside him and he started typing again.

As I walked out I looked over his shoulder to see what he was doing and all I

could see was the word complaints; I thought about it later and realised that he probably never stops work; starts again when he gets home.

Why does he bother with the journey?

I saw a film once when a dead body talked to the audience; just like I'm doing

now. It was Sunset Boulevard with William Holden who played a screenwriter who was shot by Gloria Swanson. He lay in a Beverly Hills swimming pool, face down, talking to the audience in voice over whilst the fire department and the police tried to fish him out.

I often wondered how they did that shot: he was being photographed from the bottom of the pool and, in the background, you could see the cops standing at the side of the pool clear as a bell.

You can't usually do that as you can't see people clearly when you are submerged. Then someone told me: it was shot from outside the pool in to a mirror so you could see all. Don't ask me to explain it that's all I know.

I thought I would be lying face down; it's my fault: when I jumped I should

have dived head first; I wasn't even sure if I would hit the concrete or the grass - or

what's left of the grass.

I didn't actually aim for anything; as soon as I reached the top floor I more or less

leapfrogged over the side.

If I'd have thought about it I wouldn't have done it at all.

I wish I hadn't done it now.

Oh no! Here comes a dog. I hope he doesn't . . . it's okay somebody has sent him

away; it is a 'he' - I can see that very well from down here.

I wonder what I look like.

It didn't hurt; the funny thing, on the way up I went past a few teenagers sitting on the stairs; a few frightening looking roughnecks. Why they wanted to sit there is beyond me; maybe they were dealing in drugs? I don't know, but they actually frightened me; I thought they would try and mug me or something. It's strange that I should be scared of them when I was contemplating the ultimate act.

The first thing I noticed about the apartment building was the stink; I don't know

what it was: shit, piss - who knows? but it wasn't very pleasant. Why would those kids would want to hang around on those stairs in that smell?

I had passed this building many times; often wondered what kind of people lived

here; still do. Nobody has come out yet: why don't these kids tell the grown ups what has happened?

At least someone might cover me up.

When I landed my feet, or legs, must have been pushed up through my body

making me three feet tall - ha ha!

But there was no pain.

I was really out of breath by the time I got to the top, as the lift wasn't working and I thought there would be a lock on the door to the roof; it might have even put me off.

But there wasn't; twenty four floors and I was almost depleted.

I was talking to a man earlier: I was trying to walk along the street and he stopped

me; wanted to talk, well not talk, he wanted to complain. Complain about everything; he told me he was eighty three and had a false leg; he said he knew somebody else who had two false legs and I wanted to ask him if his friend had the height on his passport with or without legs; it would be funny to go into another country and your passport reads that you are three feet and there you are standing at a normal height; they might even . . .

I think there's a bit of movement from one of the flats; yes one of the kids has

knocked a door and pointed me out to them; the woman went back in again maybe to use the phone.

It's very quiet; I'm surprised at that. It may be because I'm not used to it yet; it might be like buying a stereo and learning how to control the sound. I didn't even think I'd be able to communicate but I am communicating with you! I know I am communicating because I feel it; I just don't know who you are.

What will my family say? If I'd planned it I would have left them a note; but I was

driving past this building, had the thought and here I am. If I'd have really planned it I would have gone somewhere famous; maybe The Shard; not this dump; maybe even the Empire State Building: 'Man jumps off Empire State Building;' mmn.

I don't think anybody's ever jumped off The Shard.

That woman has dragged somebody out and they're coming across; good job

you’re wearing underwear, missus; here they come!

Oh no! They've put something over me; I can't see too much now.

Hey! I can hear and they've called an ambulance.

There's a carriage clock in my car; my stinking old car. Forty years work for a carriage clock ; it said so on the inscription? Who would want to steal someone’s retirement present? The lowest of the low I should think.

The man with the one leg must have worked somewhere for forty years; he got a

little emotional when I told him that if he fitted a sponge like material to the top of the false leg and lay back on it that it would be like sitting down all day when he was actually standing up.

He said he'd been trying to tell them that at the hospital for a long time but they

wouldn't listen to him.

I was really trying to go to the post office and all he wanted to do was talk and

complain.

He complained about the people that parked outside his house and said it was about time they were towed away. He told me that if a car vacated a space outside

his building he would get his car from his garage and park it in the street.

I wanted to know why he did this and he said he did it to stop others.

As I looked at him I wanted to give him a smack on the side of his jaw and go;

every time I started to go he put his hand on my shoulder like a cop would, and then he would complain about something else: the government, the European Union, modern pop music, immigrants.

He said he had been to the post office that morning but there was a huge queue - I

only wanted stamps, he said, and I told them they should hire more people as I didn’t have all day.

He told them he was going to write to their supervisor as soon as he got home and

said they were very nice to him after that.

That's the way I'd end up, I suppose; just like him; complaining and moaning. I'm

better off lying here - or laying here I think it should be, but what does it matter?

What's the good of an ambulance to me now? I know they have paramedics on

board these days but they'd need Jesus Christ Himself to do me any good . . .

- will they have to scrape me up?

They've covered my face and legs but they've left my left hand exposed: if that

dog licks me will I be able to feel it? But they've sent the dog away; if the dog licked me on my face would it wake me? I am awake; awake and dead!

Somebody has just noticed the ring on my finger; I hope they don't steal it.

Stealing from the dead is nearly as bad as stealing a presentation box, with a carriage clock inside, from an old timer.

Here come the cops.

- Hello mister policeman.

He is using the tip of his finger and thumb to lift the blanket from my face.

- Hello.

Only a young pup not more than a kid; bit too much for him. He didn't look at me

properly; just a quick glance and away.

- Who saw him jump?

Oh look! All the kids saw me jump and the old lady who was inside watching TV

saw me jump too. How come I was lying here for five minutes before the old lady came out? That's what I want to know; and the kids carried on playing ball for a while; what were they waiting for?

I wish I could see if the carriage clock in the car is okay; it's inscribed. I locked the

car so it should be okay.

Here come the paramedics; they're flashing the light and everything. Why should

they do that? I'm not going anywhere; well I am when they pick me up - scrape me up or whatever.

The man with one leg said he'd been a dancer for forty years. I suppose it's ironic

that a man who needs his legs for work should lose one; rather like an actor losing his voice. He told me he didn't like Strictly Come Dancing; they're not proper dancers, he said, they overdo everything. They should do it this way, he said, and he started doing some kind of fox trot and, as he had a stiff leg, he looked like somebody who was having a fit.

People started to look.

- They should be doing it that way, he said.

Swish swish - with the head this time.

- They should be doing it like this; a smaller swish with the head.

That's when I found out he was a professional dancer. I couldn't see him getting a

carriage clock for being a professional dancer; not unless it was a prize . . . .

- Hello paramedic; halloooo!

This fella’s having a good look; he knows his job. He likes his job I can see that;

he likes looking at dead bodies.

- Look at me, folks, he's saying to them, I'm not scared of dead bodies: I've

scraped them off the motorway before now.

His partner is getting the stretcher out - and the shovel I should think.

There is no address on the presentation box - just the man's name; oh it has the

name of the company that presented it and the date so they might be able to trace it.

The man with the one leg said he had automatic transmission in his car as it was

easy to drive that way.

He told me that he met somebody in a hospital who went swimming and would leave their false leg on the side of the pool; nobody would take any notice of it; not the kind of thing anybody would steal. I don’t know; he hadn’t met me.

I am now being lifted onto the stretcher and I can't feel any sensation whatsoever.

Wheel me away, folks!

Now they have covered me up completely with some sort of blanket and I can't

see; nothing to see.

When I was talking to the one legged man a young girl came walking past us; I

couldn't see her, at first, as she was approaching from behind.

- Look at this, he said, she needs some treatment!

He said it loud enough so she could hear him.

She was wearing a pair of very tight shorts and a flimsy top. When he said 'look at

this' I automatically turned around and she must have noticed. He followed her with his lascivious leer until she was gone.

- Shouldn't be allowed, he said, walking out like that.

Too late mister, I said to myself as I walked away.

- See you, he shouted after me.

I put my hand up without turning around; Montgomery Clift did that in one of his

movies; everybody tells me about it but I have yet to see it; don't suppose I will now.

As I walked away from him I saw the presentation box in the front seat of a

parked car. I was never sure what I was going to do with it or even how much it was worth, but I put it into my bag and carried on walking as if nothing had happened. The car should have been locked; the window should have been closed. What can you expect leaving cars unlocked?

I took the clock to an antique market to sell to one of the traders and when I took

it out of my bag I noticed the inscription.

Forty years work for a carriage clock; it had been presented on the day I stole it; who would steal such a thing? The lowest of the low.

It seems they're going to take me to the morgue; I don't even know where that is.

Won't really need to know from now on. I'll just have to see what happens; no one will miss me so who cares; no one ever misses the lowest of the low.

I am being lifted into the ambulance but now things are different; now I can see

myself and I am a cadaver; can you see me? Can you still hear me?

As they lift me into the ambulance I am going higher and higher.

Where am I going, I wonder?

It seems to be up but that could mean anything; I'm glad they covered me up.

I don't think I would like to see what I did to myself.

I'm not sorry any more. I don't regret anything; apart from stealing the carriage clock.

I hope you get it back.

                                                          THE END

I wrote this about twenty years or so ago. It has appeared in many on line mags and things and in 2010, when I was in Edinburgh at the festival, after the performance each night, we would go to the Captain's Bar just off Nicholson Street where poetry and short stories were being read. I read this, amongst other things, and there wasn't a sound in a full pub –               hey man! That's some weird story, I would hear.