Sunday, 23 April 2017

The Rise and Fall of Doctor Risenfall

I’m just a young lad, been delivering this crazy old man’s newspapers for so long I cannot recall a day when I didn’t. I never see him but despise walking up his cluttered path. There’s a variety of chocolate bar vending machines in states of disrepair, heaven knows what he needs with them all, or even worse, what he uses them for.

Sauntering up that same old path again, leaving his newspaper on a pile of old newspapers, worn and yellowing; he orders them but never picks them up. It was just another day in my tedious life, until in boredom I kicked that mountain of newspaper in frustration to note they were all dated the same day; today.

This disturbed me, every newspaper was identical, today’s edition. It couldn’t be, I thought, the top one I delivered yesterday, and the one underneath on Wednesday. Anxious I bit my lip, raised myself from a crouch in confusion. It didn’t help that I sighted another newspaper delivery boy, sauntering up the path; was he meddling on my patch? No, he was me.

He looked like me in every way; he strolled past in my clothes, ignored me as if I did not exist and plonked today’s paper on today’s paper which I just laid. I shook myself, was I dreaming?

Just then the old man appeared in his ragged, stinking clothes. He held his hands in the air and cried “Eureka!” Then he noticed me, I backed off a step. That smelly old man in his filthy white lab coat smiled, “Welcome to the land where time stands still!” he bellowed.

“Oh,” I replied, “how long has it been like that?”

“Well I don’t bloody know, do I?” he simpered and with that he beckoned with bony finger that I follow him inside. Normally of course I’d refuse, but given my other-self had moved inside too I figured what the heck, I might be missing out on something here.

His house was as equally messy as his garden, broken machines rusted in corners and contraptions of a bygone era whirled and flashed lights at me. He span on one foot to face me, jeepers he looked creepy. “I am Doctor Risenfall,” he explained, tripping over live wires as he stumbled his way through the mess.

I gathered my suspicions and laid my cards on the table, “are you some kind of inventor?”

He returned an apprehensive frown, and then announced, “Behold, my thyme machine!”

Now I understood why I saw myself back there, as unnerving as it was. “You’ve made a time machine, like out of chocolate bar vending machines?” I asked in a flabbergasted manner, “Can I see the future?”

The doctor slipped some seeds in one end of the giant contraption, “No,” he answered bluntly, “I said it’s a thyme machine, you put seeds in this end and…..” The machine wailed and puffed a cloud of dust into the air, the cat hid under a table. “….And fresh thyme comes out this end; no need to cultivate it.”

“Oh right……” I replied as the machine plonked some scraggly strands of herb from its far end.

The Doctor gave an awkward sneer, “It will change the herb industry, if I can get it to work on basil too.”

He looked annoyed at my disappointment. “I’m sorry doctor,” I confessed, “I thought, you know what with the whole meeting another me, and you saying about this being the land where time stands still, that you had invented a machine which could travel in time.”

The doctor twirled and covered his face in frustration, “I once toiled with the idea of building a time machine, but it’s all in the past.”

He threw himself down on a wooden chair by a desk and rubbed his forehead until it reddened. “Oh that’s a shame, be wicked that would, a time machine,” I offered, “but a thyme machine, you know, pretty cool as well.”

“Oh I did invent one of them too,” he waved an arm randomly in the air, “but I never use it.”

I followed the direction of his arm with my eyes and there, covered in dust and cobwebs stood a vending machine converted with wires and beeping gadgets hanging haphazardly from it. I wandered over to it and noted on each arm of the vending machine sat a separate glowing globe. Images from within the globe, as I drew my eyes level to them, depicted an animate display of a bygone era. One was of a Victorian street, another with a castle and lastly, one with dinosaurs roaming around. I was awestruck, “Oh wow, that is so cool; how come you never use it?”

“I was going to be famous,” the doctor groaned, “it could have revolutionised the travel industry, confirmed historical reports and given man a chance to amend past errors, but there was no future in it.”

“Can I borrow it?” I asked, well it was worth a shot.

The doctor gave a suppose-so shrug, “If you bring it back by yesterday.”

This was freaking awesome I reckoned. “How does it work?” I asked.

“Just as a conventional vending machine, put your money in the slot,” informed the doctor, “and make your selection.” 

Without thinking I fumbled for change in my pocket and scanned the spheres of time, wondering which one I’d like to try. I spotted, above all, one which displayed a grand Edwardian hall where dancers pirouetted and chortled; a period of history I always admired. So I made my selection, pressed the corresponding code, B56 into the panel and held my breath.

The spindle began to twirl, my excitement bursting. It pushed the globe and I shrilled with delight. The doctor swung his head from side to side and scanned the contents of the table.

Butterflies developed in my stomach as the globe began to fall towards the collection slot; what will happen, will I find myself back in that era, what will it be like and will I be able to get back? So many questions I hadn’t cared to contemplate before flooded my mind.

“This was my only problem,” sulked Doctor Risenfall, “the idea was ingenious, the design faultless, just the damn……”

I ignored his moping, too excited to listen. The globe dropped but got stuck between a protruding globe and the glass cabinet. “NO!” I cried and attempted to push the machine.

The doctor continued, “…….mechanism.”

I slammed my fists against the glass, I kicked the bottom, I wobbled the machine but the globe wouldn’t budge.

“It will not work,” informed the doctor miserably.

I dug my fingers to the bottom of my pockets but could find no more cash. “This cannot be,” I muttered, “it has to work.”

“Oh it works alright,” sighed the doctor.

“Hold on, you said it didn’t.”

“When?” asked the surprised doctor.

“Just a second ago,” I informed him, crazy old man.

 “Yes, that’s the point, seconds,” he sighed, not looking up from his table.

I didn’t need this foolish madman, I had newspapers to deliver. “I’m coming back tomorrow……”

“No you’re not.”

“… give it another go,” I declared.

“Sorry,” the doctor sighed, “I was once as optimistic as you, which was tomorrow.”

Now I was angered, “I can’t leave it like this,” I told him in no uncertain circumstances, “I have to try, have to see if it’s possible.”

“Oh it’s possible alright, but it just gets stuck, none of the time,” said the doctor, still unmoved, “you can try again, but it won’t be tomorrow.” Slowly he stood up, sauntered over to me and faced the machine. He pointed into its left hand bottom corner and I again followed the direction of his bony finger. There was a globe already stuck close to the bucket slot.

I crouched and stared into the sphere. I saw a young boy delivering a newspaper to a dilapidated house. I gasped; it was me. 

“Welcome to the land where time stands still!” he bellowed. 

Saturday, 1 April 2017

All Fools Day.......

Brexit reminds me of Terminator 2, when they bust into the home and destroy the study of the scientist who created Skynet, Sarah Connor narrates they face the world with an uncertain future for the first time. There’s a degree of optimism at that point in the movie; wish I could say the same for how many feel in the United Kingdom.

Recently I’ve been pondering writing about Brexit on my local rant column for Index but I’ve been instructed in the past to avoid the burning subject, plus I have to uphold it to a local level. So I posted on local Facebook pages for opinions on how the change will affect us on a local level and the response was minimal. Leading me to conclude either no one gives a shit, or really knows; I favour it’s the latter.

That’s the issue here; no one nationwide really knows the outcome. Everything you read is wildly bias speculation. So I flavour bringing my wildly bias speculation to the table, apolitical, just plain old, ready-salted how I feel.

One comment on the fox hunting episode I wrote for the column said, “….that is ill informed and biased. Much rather read a balanced argument that draws a conclusion,” which kind of defeats the object of writing an opinion piece, which is what “no Surprises” is after all; fucking pompous savage twat.

How can I not mention it when it’s on every lip? How can I balance this argument when I feel so bitter about the result? I’ve tried to remain optimistic throughout; I try not to fall into the pathetic “remoaner” banner, and honestly I hope it works out, pondering there may be a few fair points to be made in the leave campaign. But the reasoning for leaving has been high jacked by lying right wing bastards, patriotic to the point of xenophobia and generally makes me ashamed to say I'm English; which I’d never imagined I’d say.

I fantasised this new century like The Jetsons, little flying cars and conveyer belts taking us through a bubble city where everyone is at peace. What a na├»ve fool, take me back to 1999 to start again. 
So the country has never been so divided, thank a pig shagging deserter for that. I search for sanity from the other side of the argument but cannot see it through flag-waving idiots who only voted to clear our country of brown skin or were suckered into believing the outright lies of Nigel Farage, which although he openly admitted he bolshily bullshitted the nation in front of billions on TV, still they salute him because he's British enough to be seen downing a pint in a pub at any available opportunity. The idiotic irony makes me sick to the stomach, let alone allowing it to motivate me to write a “balanced argument.”

Please, I beg the ones cringing when reading this and not the pre-converted, try get your thick skull around this; Farage talks absolute crap with or without pint in hand, and like his American President bum-chum he openly admits it, and then rubs your face in it. And still you worship the ground he walks on; he's pissing a puddle behind him and you blindly lap it up. That then is the crucially cringeworthily reason why I fear the outcome of the battle-axe triggering the fucking wretched article 50. I’m not moaning for nought.

Or maybe I’m just in a tetchy mood for no reason, but that’s just so not me. In fact not for the want of trying, the only comment I've read in favour for accepting the decision which made sense, maybe, was "when we went in I voted against it, had to accept we were going in at the time."

Yep, we have to respect democracy, when it’s not based on complete selfish bollocks, and we have to respect the opinions of others, based on lies or not, but this was in 1973; if you're a baby boomer old enough to vote at the time, nowadays you’re old enough to have built a financial base, from the assistance of a Tory government who backed the free market, yanked us out of recession with an iron fist rule, downtrodden working classes, came very nicely out of the era of prosperity and pulled the ladder up after you.

To me, without sounding ageist, their opinion only matters for a few years of free bus passes, when the ones really affected by the change didn't even get a choice. Had the government allowed under 18’s a vote on this one critical issue, you know you'd have a very different result.

I covered on Index prior how youth today are articulate and sensible enough to cast an opinion and interviewed ones from a group who have more political knowledge in their little pinkies than me, you and definitely the current government.

I estimate most remainers are parents who fear what it’s to become for their children's future; how the fuck can that be pointless whinging? Let's face it, every time she uttered the word Brexit, prior to the triggering of article 50, we saw the pound crashing to a further all-time low; subtle omen?

You have to understand, it's not Churchill's government, not even Thatcherism; she was for the free market. It's a just a sad, old stubborn bag-lady who is only in it so her husband's tax-avoiding financial dealings are protected. You have faith in her? I don't believe you anymore than I believe she has a Scooby-Doo what she’s doing. To think you can leave a club then dictate the rules regarding how they react to it is pure idiocy. Europe will decide how and when to deal with us, and it's not going to be pleasant being we've stitched them up by pulling our fairly secure economy out of the club.

If I left the cub scouts and my mum stopped the direct debit, could I still brashly smash through the doors, tell everyone I want my home-help badge and expect to be taken seriously? No, cos I left the fucking cubs. Sort your woggle out Mrs May.

So we’ll deal with this complete mess by, apparently "pulling together" how can we pull together in a crashing market which only benefits multinational corporations and sends small business to liquidation and its lower class to hell? How am I supposed to even pull my coat around me to deflect the icy blast when the buttons have fallen off and I can't afford a needle and thread?

When we look at a child’s history book covering either world war we think “how could they have been so stupid not to see it coming?” As that generation dies we forget what they fought for, they fought not for Britain but for a Europe without fascism, yet fascists exploit war imagery as propaganda; protecting poppy sellers from a Muslim attacker; it’s an insanity that’d turn our grandparents in their grave.

These people need to time out of verbally assaulting people on trains and read a fucking history book, for they will see no example of where fascism did anyone any good, ever. But of course they need not deter from their actions when encouraged to do so by newspapers; and now feelings like the government is giving them a licence to continue.

The war generations didn’t see it coming as the trouble didn’t erupt like a volcano, it was gradual, just as these turn of events we live with today; the plastic melted figure of He-man standing as President of the USA with his blatant racist agenda, the movement of right-wing politics sweeping the developed world, a Russian psychopath, the breakdown of the United Kingdom and religious extremism from both sides. And the follow-like-sheep policy of our own government, hoping Uncle Sam will give us a trade deal, cos no other cunt is.

You’re not getting your country back you fucking brainwashed idiot; it was never yours to get back. They will get it back; to do whatever the fuck they want to do with it; the repeal bill proves it much in same way the banker’s cockup proved the financial collapse; they stood there and admitted it was there fault, blew a raspberry in your face, stuffed all the money in their ears and waited for the taxpayer bailout; still you insist to blame immigration, because that’s what a racist media tells you to do.  

Face it, get off your high horse and lower your union jack (it'll be a flag only seen in history books soon) and wake up to the notion the chances of this working out best for Britain is nil to nought. One perpetrator (or traitor) who admits freely if it doesn’t work out for him he’ll take the cash he’s stolen from the poor and move abroad, despite supposing to be a xenophobic bigot, it must be your round soon Farage? No, oh okay. That is how low and selfish the people you follow are.

The best we can hope for is that, under the repeal bill they are kind enough not to reintroduce a Henry 8th style rule and bring us into an era Orwell warned us of, but I doubt it, it’s what they want; mass control and absolute power. An era where fairness and equality is void, where institutions based on non-bias entertainment, like the BBC, are but government service announcements, where only the rich can afford health and the poor die in their own shit, where the NHS is a fleeting memory.

The making Britain great again slogan is alright, if the Great, like The Great War, isn’t the same definition as we’re making it. It is “great” as in big, an empire, built on theft, hate and genocide. A burden we all carry across our beautiful country and it is a beautiful country and I love my country; only difference from me and the supporters of the right wing is I care about the people living in it. I cannot see the problem with that.

The Great in Britain should be that we’re educated and intelligent enough to have learned from our mistakes and strive to ensure they never happen again; chew on that while you’re in the bread queue in a few years’ time.

There’s nothing unpatriotic in this, in wishing the best for our country. Simply because I’m pessimistic about the current decisions and the ability of the current government to sort it out, surely makes me love my country more than someone aiming to destroy all which is good about it, yeah? No? I hope you don’t need the NHS anytime soon, bleeding nig-nogs working there I tell yer, "get yer hands off me foreigner and stop saving my life!" 

I’ve had enough of turning, twirling Theresa May; I didn’t vote for her, nobody did. It’s time for a vote of no confidence in our government, a general election and of course, a second EU “bullshitting free” referendum. Or else we keep calm and carry on, suffering in our own reserved fashion, gawking at EastEnders with a microwave sweet and sour chicken on our laps; Rule Britannia.