Funnier With A Plank (P. Hodgson)
We decided to go through the fields with it - Stevie thinking it might be embarrassing carrying a carpet along the roadside - and as we got to the first gate we saw Mary coming the other way. "Just out for a walk then lads?" she said. That's right. We always like to carry a full size floor carpet between us when we're out stretching our legs. It wasn't that hard actually. Not heavy between us or anything, more awkward. It sags in the middle, and has this course, scratchy underlay that itches your arms and shoulders. We didn't really need a rest, but when we came to that Farm Tea Kitchen thing we got a can each and had a sit down. At which point that carpet came in pretty handy actually. And Stevie's watching these cows in a field and he says that places like farms and zoos make him sick. Keeping animals fenced in for our own enjoyment and everything. I want to say that I'm not sure we should enforce a contemporary human psychological perspective on what are only animals, but decided it would be lost and instead concentrated on watching a cloud that looked like Wile E. Coyote biting a monkey's shoulder. It wasn't much further, but when we got it there I couldn't helped but be underwhelmed by the gratitude. "Just put it down there," she says. And that's it. A minute later we're walking back. I can still see Wile E. Coyote and the monkey. And as we're going it starts to get cold in the fields and the wind starts to pick up. And out of nowhere, Stevie is gone. Off over the fence and in with his cows. I wait. And I shout. And then I think sod it and piss off home. But the next morning, I'm in the newsagents getting some milk, and just as I bloody well turn to leave, it's there. A whole one. A real one. Blocking my path. Right in the doorway of a newsagents, eating the newspapers…
Redlight (P. Hodgson)
Redlight flickers in the dark
Throwing her electric shapes on the screen
A world of tiny coloured spots
A world lacking that final dimension
And he watches, over tables and drawers that aren't his
He watches her flicker, illuminate, glance down at him from mounted on the wall
He watches because he trusts it
He trusts the walls without pictures and the surfaces without photographs
He trusts the sound of a zip over that of a door
He trusts the lock and key not being his
And the faceless cards that would let anybody in if they chose
Because he chose
He chose
She speaks only in silence
Without words, her mere presence is a sound
A dull hum that is there but not
She is only redlight
While he is emptiness
A card with a printed name
An unsigned dotted line
An empty mini bar
A forgotten badge crumpled on a forgotten lapel
But he has redlight every night
Redlight, wallpaper and minty breath
Because in the morning she is always gone
And then he has to ABC 1 his way to the car with a smile
And he will find foreign roads
And speak to static with a finger in his ear
He will find painted smiles that don't sign
And cheap wit cards to be crumpled in his wallet
He will drink spirits from paper cups
He will drink and laugh at the third dimension of the bar
And let the bar staff read his name to feel at home
He will find all of this and nothing else
He will find it and he will trust it
He will find it and he will trust it
He will find it and he will trust it
Because there is redlight in every turnoff on his road.
Twisted Innards (P. Hodgson)
In the darkness, he asks himself, "Did God make me this way? Did God do this to me? Did he make me do it?" And he looks down. Down at his hollowness. His twisted innards. And thinks, "This is me. This is me for life. I have to do it. So he has to lie there in the cold dark, amongst all those smells and the bent reflections, he has to lie there and be what he is. He has to accept. But it's different when he's doing it. When he answers. Justifies his utility. When he fulfils his purpose. When he is. His head spins and his arms rise. When he's tearing. Then it all makes sense. Then he has a purpose. Just before the wrenching. The heave. Like he was born to it. Like it was what was expected. He only needed God for the darkness. He never blamed you. He never once judged, or smiled with the smooth, patronising corner of his mouth. He left it all to God. Then it's God who's doing it. His creator. Our tearer. That's why he never gets to drink. God won't let him. God wants it all for himself.
The Wall’s End (P. Hodgson)
She says that they’re nothing but chancers where I come from. That she doesn’t know how I’ve survived it without being beaten or killed or worse. She says she heard on the news about all those guns they found in that pub, and how that gunman was from there, and how she’s seen them on that waste ground by the shops – drinking cheap cider and swearing at the tarts who walk past. And when I tell her I’ve never even seen a gun, she’s says she’s connected and could get one. But she wouldn’t recommend that school I went to for her niece. And I don’t ask which one because I already know. They tore all the others down. But then I just read a one of those annoying comedy emails you get at work and nod like I’m listening. And when I get off the bus on Bonfire Night the High Street is like a breeched hive. I can only tell the difference between the firework smoke and the clouds by which is green and which is purple. And there are still pops and flashes in the distance, and dogs barking beside me. In the subway the tiles are still twisted and the ceiling still black from the fire last week. Even though they’ve painted the side walls there is still the smell – new smoke mixed with the constant of piss. But at the end of the passageway there are huddled shapes crouching on the floor. And I know I can’t turn back, I know that this is the only way home, so I put my head down and try not to look. But as I pass, I can’t help but be drawn to a metallic flash. A silver claw prizing up the floor tiles. And as my heart drowns out the noise from my headphones I feel hands on me. I feel them grab me and turn me. And as I raise my eyes and my hands and prepare for the claw and the smoke and the piss, one of them holds a greetings card in front of my face and asks me if I know how to spell appreciate. There is a vase of pink flowers and the countryside on the front. It says, “Birthday Greetings.”
The Dicing (P. Hodgson)
He’s seen it…In the mirror…In windows…The eyes of his colleagues…His so called friends…He’s seen it sprouting…Growing…Where the hair once was…Where the hair was now gone…His head…His skull…Growing…Pushing…Sprouting…And it got worse…Morning after morning…First a centimetre…Then an inch…Upwards…Always upwards…To the sky…The stars…The sun…His bathroom ceiling…But when he touched it, there was nothing…Only bone…Only skin…Only his head…His head and mind growing further away…Deeper…He could have put it in a bag…His head…He could have ended it all. But there were holes…Always holes…So he was left with the hats…Oh yeah, there were hats. Hats to keep the water off and the heat in…Trendy hats…Stylish hats…Hats they wouldn’t notice…Hats to stop the stares…Hats to push his eyes to the ground. To push his away from theirs…But they didn’t last...It grew beyond that…And he couldn’t hide it anymore…They would all see it…What he was becoming…What he was now…He thought of the layers of his skull…The bulb at the centre…He thought of the doctors smile…The card from the office…He thought of it all, all that would scare him…The smell when they were doing it…The tears of the surgeon…The imaginary clean metal…The roasting in the sun…The dicing…All that was left was all that bothered him…The fact that it would grow forever…Until he was gone and it would be all that was left.
A Good Boy (P. Hodgson)
I can remember the door closing. That very first feeling of being alone. Of not understanding where you’d gone. Or if you would be back tonight. Or in the morning or ever. I can remember you going. But the rest is a blur. I remember trying to stay awake as the light faded. The darkness closing in and not being able to reach a light switch. You had left me one. A single bulb. In the bathroom. With it's hard floors that caught on my feet. I remember the light. I remember sitting on the bathroom floor to wait. But the rest is a blur. I remember trying to sleep. Giving in to the darkness and allowing the shadows to grow on my eyes. But it didn’t come. I was tired but afraid. Afraid of the movement in the windows. The coloured blurs through the glass. So I paced. I remembered pacing. The sound of my feet on the carpet. But the rest is a blur. I studied the floor until I found it. Some piece of paper. A piece of paper that smelled of you. But I couldn’t read it, and before I could regret I destroyed it. Torn into a million pieces with my teeth. But the rest is a blur. I remember finding places. Places you had hidden from me. Behind things, unopened cupboards and under cabinets. I walked them. I made them my own. And then I left shit in the corner. But the rest is a blur. And I remember it was then that it happened. It was then that there was a touch and a crash. And I hid from the noise. The aroma that burned my nose. But after time. After it had settled and you still weren’t here, I ventured out. I became brave. And holding my breath I began to touch the damp carpet with my tongue. I began to fill my stomach with the alien fumes. And that’s what I remember. I remember the world beginning to sway and the rest begin to blur.
This Bloody Tarkhovsky Film (P. Hodgson)
We had this lecturer once who said that memory was the absolute key to identity. To who you are. That there is no innate, natural, biological you who exists constantly. But instead, you wake up every morning and you have to remember who you are. And like, you go through this process where you open your eyes and gradually you remember stuff about yourself. Not emotions or feelings but actions. And as you remember the situations you've been in - and how you reacted to those situations - then they all add up to how you behave through the course of the day. So there is no defined you as such. Just what you did yesterday. And what you did ages ago as well. All these choices are what make you do what you do. There is no self as such. Just memories of who you've been. And then he showed us this bloody Tarkhovsky film. But what I was thinking was that you could change yourself. If that was true - you could change yourself. I mean, if you misremembered something, just one thing, on purpose, you'd be a different person. If you convinced yourself that you never said that or you never punched him, then it would be gone and you'd be different. And maybe, you'd be better. So years later I'm at work and I get this e-mail about some mundane shite - I don't know, to do with photocopiers or something. And the person it was from had used an account other than their own. So the from at the bottom was different to the from at the top. And more than that, even though they'd actually typed my address - with my name on it - they got my name wrong. So reading this crap, from Julie or Steven and to Peter or Philip I couldn't help but think what the fuck am I doing here?
Big Trev (P. Hodgson)
I still like to think he was smiling. Even though I couldn’t be there to see it, I hope he understood that we were laughing with him, not at him. That there was a fondness amongst us all. He wasn’t the joke, he wasn’t the monkey in the corner to entertain and dance. He was one of us. And I know this wasn’t like the time he played tennis without a shirt on. And I understand that it wasn’t like when he tried to sniff the metal in the middle of his ring binder and the pincers closed on his nose. It wasn’t even a misheard line retold for the next 10 years or the annoying songs he used to come up with. It was meant well. It was meant as I intended. And when I’m standing in supermarket aisles, trying to see what’s free in what cereal this week or what sauce isn’t the spicy one I’m not keen on, the image drifts across my mind. But there’s something missing. I can see him standing by his moped in the front garden, school bag open to pull out his high visibility jacket. And I see him pause slightly when he realises that that there is something under the plastic that should have read “AMBULANCE” on the back. And there, in crude, biro letters (my crude, biro letters) is the phrase – “BIG TREV”. But when I see it there is no face. Not no smile or sneer or scowl, but no face at all. Just blackness. Just nothing. And when I try to imagine it, to force it through with my will, I can’t even remember what it should look like. And no matter how many times I tell myself that he was fine, that we was laughing and he was fine, what I really believe is only the black hole where the face should be.
Gravy is Gravy (P. Hodgson)
And when I step around to have a look in the pram to see inside, I – like most people – expected to see the Winston Churchill face of a baby staring back at me. But no, there’s no baby. Only a giant prawn tucked under the blanket with a little lace bonnet on its, well, I presume, head. It’s shelled, of course. And when I turn to her, she scrunches her face up and says, “Isn’t she beautiful?” And I go, “She’s a prawn.” And her face scrunches up to the point of no return – “Aww, thank you,” she says.
And a few days later I’m putting the rubbish out when I hear a commotion. Excited shouts and screams, like from kids. When I lean out of the gate for a better look, there are no children. Just three Cornish Pasties bouncing along the road. Two minutes later, a bloke who looks like the film actor Tom Berenger walks past and asks me if three pasties went pastie a while ago. I don’t correct him.
Now, at first, I didn’t think too much of it. They didn’t seem connected or anything. But when I was at work the next day and trying to come up with some sort world ranking system for biscuits, I realise Cathy’s sneaking an early lunch. And while I have no problem with a person like her enjoying a subterranean steak pie at her desk, I most definitely do object to her putting mayonnaise on the crusts to moisten them up. I mean, gravy is gravy, there’s no need for mayonnaise.
Domino Whore (P. Hodgson)
And Thursday afternoons is dominoes. I try and stay in the corner, by the TV Times quiz machine, but it’s no use. Bobby Jarmers is straight over to give me the inside track on the big matches. Today is Jose Medusa - Bryan Arthurs, and even I know the history there. Bryan knocked the Chilean out of last years league playoff with a run of double two, two-one, one-six – or Pele’s slippers as it’s known. And, well, the South American Volcano erupted. I get myself a pint and bag of scratchings and try and watch Sky Sports News to keep my distance. Frankie Matlock is in the window taking on all comers, one by one. I see him catch the eye of a young boy drinking orange juice by the fruit machine. And just as the seat opposite Frankie is free, and the young fella has swallowed deep and dragged up the courage to go across, Baldy Boris gives him the eyes of a robber’s horse and the entire place shudders with the silent phrase – “Domino whore”. Of course, Jose is first man in – perched on his stool with a little glass of Bailey’s. And although he knows the mind games have kicked in, I can tell he’s getting edgy. Two becomes two-thirty, two-thirty becomes three but there is still no sign of Bryan, the man known as the terrible terror of Telford. I’ve had three by this point, and as much as I hate to lose my seat, I have to go and water the horses. Say hello to the PM, if you know what I mean. And because it’s been a while, I feel like I’ve been pissing for ages when the man himself strides up to the urinal beside me. “Bryan,” I say with a slight nod. And he gives me a half smile. That half smile of a champion. A born winner. And as much as I’m desperate, I can’t go with him looking. I just can’t go with him looking.
27 Minute Problems (P. Hodgson)
By the time you’ve been in the newsagents for half an hour you realise it’s not a sitcom. No shiny people with shiny, 27 minute problems or comedy pets / neighbours. There’s just school kids and dirt. And a sign about bikes. And even after half an hour in the pub you realise that there’s no 45 minute drama there. No one-off special. No recurring, locally themed detective, or vet, seen as a hard drinking, loose cannon by the pencil-necked pencil-pushers back at City Hall. There’s just punters minding their business and their drinks. And half an hour in the bookies is worse than soap opera. No banter, no recurring characters. No happily ever after ruined by the end of a contract and a dream of going into musical theatre. Just stale desperation and cigarette smoke. But you suppose that’s the point. Not his, but yours. You’re not standing there because you don’t believe mothers die on the steps of a church. Or that there’s an incestuous child growing in the stomach of the girl on the supermarket till. There probably is. In fact, the old guy buying four limes in the grocers has probably been mistaken for a local gangster whilst on holiday in Tenerife, and even then his hotel was probably hilariously still under construction. But the point is, not for you. Not today. And as you’re standing there, watching a man fray the corners of his slip with nicotine fingers, you realise it was never about that. You weren’t there because you didn’t believe it. You weren’t there because you wanted to prove him wrong. You were only there because he didn’t like art house movies. You were only there because he said they weren’t satisfying like a coward as you were leaving. You were only there because you still fucking hate his bastard guts.
Ghost Carp Sort of instrumental, and we're not telling anyway. But Ken knows...
The Martian (P. Hodgson)
Formerly "Good to See You Mate" Walking the streets to the newsagent he sees the remains of a polythene bag caught in a puddle from last night’s rain. He imagines a woman, a tidy blond woman in a strangely coloured lycra suit, crouch and scan it with an electronic box. “It’s a very faint reading…” she says to the grey haired man with a chiselled jaw behind her. But then he sees the logo on it is that of the chip shop on the main road. It’s the same with the post on the doormat. At first, he doesn’t pick it up. He twists his wrist and raises his watch to his ear and nods in agreement. But because it’s digital, he can’t hear anything. Not even a ticking. As he’s alone in the house he pushes the three piece suite up against the wall and drags his chair - his big, leather, swivel chair - right into the middle of the room to watch TV. And he spins during the adverts. He spins and barks decisive and powerful, yet fatherly, instructions at the empty chairs. That afternoon he catches the school kids shrieking as they pass his front fence, their bags and coats dragging them back as they pound home. But he doesn’t see the ball at their feet. Instead he sees a hulking silver pod teeter on spindly legs by the bus stop. And fire. Lots of fire. But when Marjorie comes back he’s lies. He tells her it’s been quiet and shrugs his shoulders, saying “You know…” And he knows she suspects. He can see it in her eyes and the clipped comments over dinner. So, in a way he doesn’t care when she catches him putting the bowls containing the angel delight in the cupboard, so that he can ask the ship’s computer to dispense them after he’s done the washing up. He knows they should be chilled, but the fridge door is wrong.
Play Off (P. Hodgson)
The same as it ever was… Just like his dad… Head hanging… Tilted… And all the monuments behind him… Love with a capital L… The rats scurrying… And the lights shining… Same old shit… New or old… The time has come again… And they’ll cheer and they’ll riot… As fellow Celts… Wrapped in gift paper… 6 feet under… Water freezes and ground boils… On TV there’ll be singing…
Put your hand up to speak, to think… From books about trains… It shakes and rocks… With newspaper matter… From the rain… Running… Privet bushes… Berries… You can’t eat the berries… With special buttons… Exploding helicopters… And lies… Needless lies… About plastic pigs… And embarrassing annuals… He’ll see… He’ll watch… That talks… Quoted lines… Can you fly… You’re mental, you…
Can’t drink… Can’t spit in the sink… The dog growling… All the rage… About mistakes… But he won’t make them… He didn’t… We did… Third time lucky…
The true Tale of Felix Mankins (P. Hodgson)
The first day he knew he was special it was 1986. Even though his mam had told him to stay away from those bins, and to keep out of that dirty alley, he was still perched there. Rocking. Yet when he fell – when it toppled and he was supposed to go with it – he landed perfectly on his feet. Silently. Now, he didn’t have fur or anything like that. He had an opposable thumb and looked no different to you or me. He liked milk and fish and things like that, but then so do most people. Yet he knew he was special. He knew he was a cat.
But when the sun went down he would wander out into the streets alone. And there, lightly padding around naked, he was the best cat there ever was. He stole leftovers from rubbish bins. He chased sparrow after sparrow and searched nests. He sat on rooftops and called out into the night. And if he ever crossed paths with a stray dog, there would only be one winner. It was like some great balance in nature. Not one of his pride ever challenged him. He was the biggest. The smartest. The strongest. He was the King…
But he didn’t become a superhero. He didn’t use his powers to fight crime. Essentially he looked upon the feline population as we do on each other. He strove to be the best. So when he left school he took an ordinary job. He probably served you fast food. He probably made those copies you read this morning. And when nobody was looking he would lick the back of his hand. And scratch the corner of his furniture. All the time he wore this smirk. This knowing smirk, because he knew he could balance on a fence better than you. And hell, if he wanted cream, he could just buy it.
But when the sun went down he would wander out into the streets alone. And there, lightly padding around naked, he was the best cat there ever was. He stole leftovers from rubbish bins. He chased sparrow after sparrow and searched nests. He sat on rooftops and called out into the night. And if he ever crossed paths with a stray dog, there would only be one winner. It was like some great balance in nature. Not one of his pride ever challenged him. He was the biggest. The smartest. The strongest. He was the King…
0734 (P. Hodgson)
He’s just ordinary. Almost deliberately so. Hair’s a bit greasy, wearing a slightly old fashioned looking grey padded anorak as he walks. He passes shops with shutters still closed. He passes the road sweeper and nods at him. Silently. The whole time morning frost clouds his face as he swings a sports bag with a phased out logo on it. She’s not happy that she has to get the train. That George won’t give her his car while hers in the shop. So while he’s dropping her at the station she absent-mindedly fiddles with the air conditioning button. And when he leans in to kiss her goodbye she turns. Just slightly. Giving him the edge of her cheek to show that she’s looking elsewhere. She’s getting the train and looking elsewhere. The queue at the fast food place. He’s there every morning even though he knows you shouldn’t have that shit for breakfast. He’s wearing a cheap, slightly untucked work shirt – one that you can see his vest through. He’s got one of those ruddy faces that looks like it’s blushing when it’s not. Placing his tray on the table he smiles at a well turned out woman who he hasn’t seen there before. She leafs through an article on Ronan Keating with her coffee and ignores him. She doesn’t know that he’s like this every morning. Always first. Always early. Perched on the edge of the platform. The frayed briefcase dangling from his arm. The nose, the moustache, twitching. She doesn’t know that the toilet attendant likes to shake his head as he watches him, not believing anyone to be that keen. And because she doesn’t know, she doesn’t realise that stepping in front of him while staring at her phone is the last thing she’ll do by herself. And as her legs corkscrew between the arriving 0734 and the platform her torso stays upright she’ll feel the imprint of 6 hands on her back. And when the paramedics ask who pushed her she’ll only be able to say they were all keen, all blushing, all ordinary.
Inclusion / Exclusion Criteria
Funnier With A Plank