Author: simondgary

They just walked over and grabbed my arms, carrying them to the sturdy table.

“You will get these back when you learn to behave,” snarled Mister Broca, in his stove-pipe hat.

“We should beat him with them,” suggested bowler-hatted Mr Wernicke, saliva dripping from pointed teeth.

A gust swept throughout the grey emptiness of the room. With a “whoosh,” Broca, now sixty-feet tall and six inches wide loomed over me, serpiginous and full of venom.

Then, with a fizz, Wernicke, now sixty-feet wide and six inches tall, curled around me like a shroud

“Kill him now,” they said, in unison.

Dear Pop Pantry,

I hope you will read my letter, and perhaps she will be listening. Her name is Sandra, and she works in the same Traffic Enforcement Department as me.

Before she arrived, I was dedicated to my role and wrote the most tickets, bar none. But now my joy is pierced with shame. I was cavalier with a cavalier Thursday last and left it unmolested on a grass verge so that I could scurry back to the portacabin to write this note. My confession, if you will.

She is a shoe-shone, shimmering, hi-vis-ion of loveliness. I have found myself sneaking into her beat, on the chance that I might see her russet bob disappear around a corner or bump into her up by the fish shop.

I am so besotted that I would offer her the spare cup on my flask. On those cold grey days, she would only have to ask, and I would whip it out sharpish, unscrewing as I went.

A couple of days ago, I went into Ogden Street hoping to catch her, and to my shame ticketed a vehicle adjacent to the place that sells mobility scooters.

Unfortunately, she was passing as the irate driver happened upon his motor. I am sorry to say he assaulted her with a French Loaf and she has been on the sick ever since.

I dashed over as the car sped off, gently caressed the crumbs from her tunic and comforted her as she sobbed. At that moment, my double-yellow heart broke for her. I could not help but feel partially responsible.

So, if you could play “She’s Got Her Ticket (Live Version)” by Tracy Chapman, that would be much appreciated. It will help me get through my disciplinary.

Yours, long time listener, first-time contributor.

Simon Gary is the author of the darkly comic novels “Gone to the Dogs” and “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew.”

riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to His Consuming Emotions.

“James and Nora – A Portrait of a Marriage” is a slight tome by the distinguished, and multi-award-winning Irish Writer, Edna O’Brien.

O’Brien, it is clear is something of a Joycean scholar, having written a biography of Joyce himself. In this book, O’Brien narrows her scope to the relationship between Joyce and his muse, the remarkable Nora Barnacle.

On the 16^th June each year, Bloomsday is celebrated across the globe. For Joyce, 16th June 1904 held a special meaning. It was the date of his first outing with a celebrated, but wordless, literary figure, a Galway girl, named Nora.

He had first encountered her, in Nassau Street, Dublin on 10^th, gilt under the Irish summer sun, and they had agreed to meet the following day. But Nora did not show, leaving Joyce gazing North, East, West and South, at the crossroads he had chosen – chosen so that he could enjoy her approach from any direction.

It was clear that the fire was very much alight from the first moment.

“Nothing was to be kept form him. He wanted to strip her of all mask and all clothing, to pass through her, into her secret, inviolate individuality. With what tenacity did he investigate and pursue it.”

O’Brien, with skill, paints a picture of the tumultuous seascape of Joycean feeling. From the highest peaks of holy, pristine love, crashing under the despair of insecurity, into the shallows of visceral aminal instinct and bodily squalor – this incredible relationship and marriage encompassed all.

But more, Joyce looked away from his increasingly lonely spouse and poured himself into the demonstration of his love through words. Through the labour pains, as his own health and eyesight faded, something of eternal beauty was birthed.

The story of James and Edna is one of tragedy, poverty and despair. But, ultimately, it was the source of one of the greatest extended love letters in human history. “Ulysses” is the behemoth that expresses the all-encompassing, yet destructive passion most fully. To counter-balance his grubby joy of the intimately physical, Joyce presented Edna the world, as we have all promised, condensed into a work that left him a husk.

All is on display in this book. O’Brien does not shy away from that which is either lofty or stained. The result is a maelstrom, a swerving, swirling sweat-soaked and bloodied sheets of knowing – a knowing that ultimately, in both the mental and physical, could not sustain.

For Barnacle, her life with Joyce must have been like holding a hand onto a furnace that burned so hot that its destruction was all but assured.

“Nora was altered too – cut off from him, when he made those voyages into his work and when he sent himself to the very extremities of mind to compose a language that no one had ever heard of and no one had foreseen.”

The possessed and the possessor, Joyce faded from life, aged just fifty-eight, and domiciled in Zurich. Nora passed in the same city, some ten years year, never seeing Galway again – A way a lone a last a loved a long the

In retrospect, I still haven’t really got the idea of Flash Fiction.

This is a recent effort, inspired by the prompt of “No Trespassing.” It made me wonder, what more intimate place is there to trespass?

Hopefully, I shall become more adept in this craft…one day.

A Door Slammed Shut.

“Continue listening to my voice. Feel the relaxation wash over you in waves. With each ebb and flow, you are more relaxed, more at ease, and more open to my suggestion. So relaxed now. You feel like you are floating.

Now, I want you to visualise the door. Imagine every detail. See the grain, the handle, the panelling. Feel yourself opening the door and stepping through.

You are back in the room.

Can you see it? Smell the air; feel the carpet under your feet.

Who do you notice? What does their face look like? Does it look like mine?”

Cornelius Thryke, the fictional star of the novels “Gone to the Dogs” and “Thyrke: The Man That Nobody Knew” spent many years working in fabricated British Film Studios.

The legendary production studio that I had in mind for Cornelius Thryke and his plethora of film appearances was the fantastic Ealing.

When one mentions the Ealing Comedies, one evocative title is not too far from the lips. In this blog post, I would like to write about the wonderful film that is “The Lavender Hill Mob” (1951.)

The first thing that strikes you when watching is the cast. Alec Guinness is superb as the main character, bank clerk Henry Holland. His is a remarkably understated performance, as the retiring clerk would be, but Guinness’ presence fills the screen, with adept half-smiles and knowing looks.

His leading partner in crime is Mr Pendlebury, part-time artist and foundry owner. This part is played by Stanley Holloway, who also starred in other Ealing films, such as A Passport to Pimlico (1949) and, one of my favourites, “The Titfield Thunderbolt” (1953.)

Guinness and Holloway create engaging on-screen chemistry and, in a sense, Pendlebury is the larger character, with his booming utterances, in marvellously ornate and of the time language. That Guinness is still able to exude the quiet self-assurance of the criminal mastermind is a testament to his acting craft.

However, Holland and Pendlebury could hardly be described as a “mob.” The pair seek to recruit additional member, and the ruse the employ to achieve this is comically delightful. I will not describe the method here, in case you wish to go off and enjoy the film for the first time, but it nets a right couple of villains, who fit nicely into the cast.

Continue reading Classic Film Review – “The Lavender Hill Mob.”

BBC Three has produced some fine comedy over the years.

One of the recently most lauded shows was the magnificent “This Country,” the tale of two cousins from the rural Cotswolds. The show, written by and starring brother and sister, Charlie and Daisy May Cooper, was a wonderful piece of comedy. There was something very natural achieved by a cast that was largely inexperienced in the craft of acting – in fact, Charlie and Daisy May’s real-life father was also roped in to play Martin Mucklowe, the errant father of daughter, Kerry.

But it has been another offering from BBC Three that really caught my imagination, and is this subject of this blog post.

The show in question is “The Young Offenders” created and written by Peter Foott. I should at this point warn that there may be a few plot lines discussed in this piece so, if you are thinking of watching the show, it is not my intent to spoil it for you.

The sitcom centres around two youthful rogues, Conor and Jock, who are the titular “Young Offenders,” and causers of criminal mayhem throughout Cork in Ireland. Due to various reasons, Jock finds himself living with Conor, and the two come under the charge of Conor’s long-suffering mother, Mairead.

On the face of it, it could easily be another laddish, gross-out comedy, akin to something like “The Inbetweeners,” but I found Conor and Jock had a bit more depth that was very engaging. “The Young Offenders” regularly displayed real and moving human warmth.

When I wrote the novels “Gone to the Dogs” and it’s prequel “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew” I was conscious about the juxtaposition between comedy and emotion. Balanced together, each lifts the other to another level.

In reflecting, I thought about other comedies that did this successfully. “Only Fools and Horses” immediately sprang to mind. There are some episodes of this show that are memorable not for the comedy, but for the raw emotion that is put on display. This was a hallmark throughout the run and I genuinely think it was one of the key reasons why OFAH regularly tops polls of the greatest British Sitcoms.

There were many moments of emotion delivered by Del and Rodney. One example is the episode “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” in which Jumbo Mills, an old friend of Del Boy, offers the Trotters the chance of move to Australia to front a luxury car dealership. The real emotional wrench occurs when Rodney’s visa is denied. The drunken exchange between the two brothers, as they argue over whether Del should take the opportunity by himself is very moving and elevates the episode from the ordinary. At various times during the seven series of “Only Fools and Horses,” Del is seen as genuinely self-serving – in this episode he puts family first, turning down the opportunity of a lifetime. We see that there is some real humanity beneath the bling.

Continue reading How two “Young Offenders” got me thinking about comedy.

Dear Points of View,

It was with dismay that I watched “Top of the Pops” this Thursday last.

As much as Mr Dury and his Blockheads assert, being the ticket man at Fulham Railway Station, is not preferable to a life of musical debauchery on the road.

I feel qualified to comment upon this juxtaposition as, for thirty years, I was responsible for issuing travel documentation from that very point of embarkation. Trust me, the kiosk is no place for the faint of heart, particularly on those Saturdays when Chelsea play at home.

But they say each ticket man has a story and this is mine.

It was an early spring day, perhaps late March, and the sun was beaming as I clocked in to begin my shift. Everything was as it should be. I stowed my flask and sandwiches in their usual position, up against the lost-property. The false leg was still there, poking out from the box in its usual accusatory manner. I danced around the toes, in what had become a quotidian affair, settled into my seat and prepared to refurl the canvas screen that obscured my presence from the swirling public.

With just two minutes until the next significant departure, I pulled on the cord and, like a lapping tongue, my hide flapped noisily back onto the reel. My day had begun.

I served the buzzing into silence and prepared to begin battle with the crossword – easy clues – I’m a simple man, but it was then that I saw her.

From across the concourse, she stared at me, eyes like arrows. My throat became dry. She was wearing a bright dandelion macintosh and her long ebony hair cascaded over the shoulders. With her head slightly dipped, she glared out from beneath a sharp fringe, never breaking her urgent gaze.

I was but a young ticketeer yet, despite my inexperience, I knew I had to go across and help her.

I climbed down from my chair and crossed to the office door. I opened it, popping my head through like a nervous gazelle – she saw me, yet didn’t move.

“Are you alright?” I called, my voice creaking from the craw.

Still, she did not move. Her only acknowledgement of my presence was to resume locking of her eyes onto mine. I began to walk. Slowly. I did not want to startle this vision.

I got to within, perhaps six-feet. Her face was flawless, like a doll, but I could see it was lined in the wake of continuing tears.

“Are you okay?” I said tenderly.

At that moment of 0827 arrived, and I turned to see the crowds filing off. When I wheeled back, I was staring at an empty wall. Struck dumb, I returned to my position.

I completed the day in a haze but had recovered some equilibrium when I returned the following day. I placed my sandwiches, then saw the dandelion macintosh sitting atop of the lost property box.

No-one ever collected it.

Row upon row.

Zeppy, Marbles, Buffo. No sign of him.

The faces stare out at me—deathmasks hiding the darkness.

“May I help you?”

I stop, stock still. I cannot see the source of the voice.

“Hello?” It is all I can muster.

“I asked if I could help you?”

A figure steps from between the dusty shelves. Thin, clad in black, and almost seven feet tall. Even from a distance, he looms over me.

“I am the curator here. We are not currently open to the public.”

“I am not the, well, I am, but.”

He takes a long, loping step forward and is almost upon me.

“If I could ask you to leave, madam.”

On the eave of the leave, his breath wafts towards me. I take a step back and begin fishing in my bag. My hand closes around it. Tactile. Cool. My fist rattles past other items as I withdraw it. A tissue crescent falls to the floor.

“But I have this?”

I unfurl my fingers from around the object.

“Where did you get that?”

“It was amongst my grandfather’s things. He was quite famous, I think. After the war.”

I offer the object. The stick giant takes it reverently, holding it up between thumb and bony forefinger.

“Come!”

He strides off into the maze. I break into a jog to maintain proximity.

“Here!”

He stops in front of more packed shelves. I skid to a halt.

Gently the curator places the ceramic egg onto an empty throne. My grandfather’s clown face beams out at me.

Giotto 1933 – ?

I look. “But that cannot be right. My grandfather only started in 1946.”

Angular, he peered down at me.

“And this egg, along with Giotto’s identity, was stolen in 1945.”

Is this some kind of joke?

Alan looks across as if tempting me into a void. I remain as stone, and he ebbs back to surround me.

“So, tell me, Peter, how have things been?”

It seems a strange question. I repeat it, silently, to myself a few times, rolling it around. Sometimes I wonder if I think the same way as a cow eats? Perhaps I have the brain of a bovine gastronome. I taste again.

“I mean, in general, how are you coping?”

When Alan asks, “how are you coping?” he generally means, “tell me how you are not?” I decide to answer his overt question and leave him clawing, with urgent fingers, at the tightening failure of his subtext.

“I’m fine.” I pull the lever, expertly. Alan looks mildly annoyed on his short, sharp descent. He clambers back before the snap.

“Last week, you spoke about feeling isolated? Do you still feel this way?”

Alan’s recollection of my previous weakness stings me, perhaps too late for my resolution not to betray the accuracy of his strike. It is like fencing with cucumbers before an audience who just don’t care.

“Less so than last week. Sitting here, by myself, I have come to that realisation.” I sound how a depressed zoo ape would sound, flicking compacted faeces at a reflection of itself.

Continue reading A Flash Fiction – Brushstrokes and Misanthropes.

It cannot be a good sign when the driver runs away.

The bandits boarded the train quickly, with a riotous, searing fanfare.

It was over in elongated seconds.

I am left pondering my wound and wonder if I should just have let them have it.

I am without pain, yet my essence seeps slowly between my fingers, pooling where I sit.

Pinpricks of dancing light appear around me. Caressing. Soothing. It is peaceful.

My eyes roll and become heavy. Abuzz with sensation, I am looking at myself from across the carriage.

The safe door is open.

And she is gone.

Simon Gary is the author of the brand new novel, “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew.” Available from this site.