Terry Holland

London ● Amsterdam ● Berlin

Three studies for figures at the base of a multimedia installation commemorating the death of civil society

See No Evil
The Watchman is ever vigilant. He grants himself no rest. He stares at the screens, night and day. The screens that show, in grainy black and white, what the countless, unblinking cameras ranged along the walls see. The cameras sweep the perimeter; the Watchman’s eyes sweep the screens. He never looks beyond the walls – what could be found out there?
The skinny guard dog, Tiresias, lies in the corner on a blanket, tethered by a chain that reaches only as far as the Watchman’s chair. He growls, chasing uneasy dreams.
Hear No Evil
The Speaker wears his hair long and unruly, thanking his lucky stars that the days of the obligatory short back and sides are long gone. His greying locks conceal the ear buds he habitually wears, listening to classical music during long debates. He keeps half an eye out for Honourable Members standing when they shouldn’t, or gesticulating too wildly, or simply shouts ‘Order! Orrrderrrrrrr!’ at random intervals. This seems to do the job. He’s sick to death of listening to the garbage these clowns spew forth, day after day.
Beethoven is a particular favourite. To think that he was deaf. Incredible.
Speak No Evil
Hear ye! Hear ye! The Town Crier walks the streets, ringing his bell and calling out the News, all day every day. He keeps the populace informed. Every morning, he receives the News from the Council, for he is their mouthpiece. The News is always good. Who would want to hear bad news? Good news keeps the people hopeful.
He spends so much time listening to his own bellowing voice, he appreciates peace and quiet at home. His wife and children are voluntarily mute: at least when he’s around.(Special Mention HISSAC Flash Fiction Competition 2022)

The one thing money can't buy

I spill out through the open door of the Ten Bells pub, shoulder a path through the heaving, chattering throng of after-work, casual Friday, early evening prosecco drinkers. The late September sun is painting the looming white tower of Christ Church Spitalfields the deepest scarlet. I retract my head—buzzing from several pints of Red Right Hand imperial IPA—into my flipped-up collar, focus on a spot five yards ahead of me and march resolutely down Commercial Street, doing my best to block out the insistent hum of the traffic, the intermittent scawl of sirens and the scurrying, phone-fixated pedestrians who (usually) duck out of my way at the very last second. I need some solid nourishment to soak up the ale, and I need it fast.
At the impressive, newly restored wood-and-tile structure of The Culpeper—like the Ten Bells heaving with young, hip disposable-income burners—I swing a left onto Wentworth Street, past the surviving archway to Rothschild Buildings (erected in 1886 to house the deserving Jewish poor), past the former Providence Row night refuge (for the utterly destitute of all creeds) and the top end of Gunthorpe Street (site of George Yard Buildings, model homes for the industrious gentile poor), then cross the junction, right onto Brick Lane.
As usual, the curry house touts sixth-sense my rumbling stomach and bark out their special offers, waving flyers and business cards under my nose, but I press on with laser focus. My Friday night biryani will be every bit as good as theirs but a third of the price, from a little Bengali take-away tucked unobtrusively among the wholesale grocers and convenience stores on less fashionable Osborn Street.
The take-away isn’t busy and I’m soon out again, clutching a warm carton of Friday night delight. I’m almost sauntering along in anticipation of my delicious supper as I pass The Buxton (also painstakingly restored to its late-Victorian shabby chic, part of the same chain as The Culpeper), when suddenly I hear a woman scream, followed by a dull thud. My heart leaps into my mouth—I look up to see a woman sprawled on the pavement, a dishevelled man in a long, grimy coat squatting beside her. I hurry towards them in what I (perhaps rather ridiculously) hope is a decisive, concerned-citizen type manner.
The man holds out a grubby hand towards the woman, who ignores it, scrabbling to her feet. “What am I, fucking invisible?” the man asks, his voice a defensive mix of accusation, embarrassment and hurt. After a beat, he adds, “Are you alright?” The young woman takes a step back, then warily looks at him.
“Yeah. Sorry. I was sending a text. It was important.” She looks down at her phone, checking for damage.
“Well watch where you’re fucking going next time, yeah.”
She gives him a wan smile, straightens her smart coat and strides away, towards the bright lights of Brick Lane. I now see that the guy is squatting on a flattened cardboard box. A small backpack, a couple of carrier bags and a sleeping bag are propped against the wall behind him, which belongs to the last derelict factory site on the road, no doubt soon to be redeveloped into a chic art gallery, boutique hotel or yet another branch of the Jack the Chipper fish & chip shop. The twinkling lights of the Gherkin and the Cheesegrater, the fucking Avocado Mousse Spreader and all the other ridiculous glass monuments to unfettered greed just can be seen though the padlocked wrought-iron gates. The man bends down and starts picking up a few scattered coins and dropping them into a paper cup from Costa Coffee.
“Hey,” I say, unsure what to do other than just stand there. “Are you alright?”
He looks up. His eyes are bloodshot, there are big, dark circles beneath them, he’s unshaven and missing a front tooth. “Me?” he says. “Pffff. Yeah. Champion. Never better.” He places the cup on the corner of the flattened box.
“Ehm, listen,” I say, hesitantly. “When did you last eat—I mean, do you fancy a biryani?”
“Biryani?” he says, rolling the word in his mouth like a boiled sweet. “Yeah I’d fucking love one mate.”
I hand him the carton with a smile I hope isn’t too condescending or stupid or fake. He smiles back, a big saliva bubble popping in the gap where his front tooth used to be.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Ehm, listen,” I say again, running through various improbable scenarios in my mind. “Are you going to be alright? Out here?”
“Me?” he says again. “Pfffff. Yeah. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got the one thing money can’t buy.”
I look again at his pile of possessions, thinking maybe there might be a dog hiding among them. There isn’t. I imagine an estranged wife, mother, girlfriend.
“Poverty!” he says, his mouth opening wide in a raucous, side-splitting laugh that culminates in a wheezing, racking coughing fit. He sits down on his flattened box, opens the carton of food with trembling hands and spits a big gob of dark, viscous mucus onto the pavement.
I walk on, towards my nice, warm hotel room.(Published by Loft Books)

Smoke of Dreams

I light a cigarette: click, flash, flare. Hiss. Glow. Pull in the smoke.Unhabitual, now. A remnant. A ritual. An offering. Appeasement. Sacrifice is not the right word. Or maybe it is.Plant of promise from the New World. Scorched earth. Forest fire. After the burn-off, the regrowth. Fresh foliage flares, Phoenix-like, from ashes.Smoke coils blue; up, up, out of the open window.
~~~Smoke coils brown/grey; up, up, out through the opening in the temple roof.Dusky beams, red clay tiles. A square of sky. Dreams, caught, entwined around ancient rafters.Visitors stand quiet, heads bowed. Click of beads. The air all incense and expectation, wafted on the rustle of paper prayers.No photography allowed in here. The mind’s eye is all.Click! The shutter snaps shut. Memory stored.
~~~I exhale. Twin smokestreams – a parody Chinese dragon. Missy Luna, black familiar, looks up, green saucer eyes questioning. Wrinkles her nose. Turns tail, sashays away. Slipstreaming disapproval.
~~~The temple is the mirror to our souls, reflecting the moment, that shines then shatters. Then lives on in shards: glimpses caught in a shop window; the flash of colour in a crowd; flame hair flying in a strong breeze.Fragments of wild calligraphy; pages torn loose, scattered on the wind.
~~~We leave the temple and slip into a café styled like a ’50s American diner. All red and yellow Formica, slick waitresses and gleaming chrome. Incongruous and not amidst teeming traffic, chaotic, clamouring street-stalls, massage parlours and skyscrapers, tangled electricity cables spiderwebbing the gaps between the high-rises like mycelium.We drink lapsang souchong, talking and laughing like it’s not the last time. I light a cigarette.~~~
Click, flash, flare. Hiss, glow. Pull in the smoke. Exhale. It escapes through the open window, and is gone.(Published by Full House Literary and Free Flash Fiction)

Less common start-up issues with the Asus Zenbook 15 UX534

“Good morning, you have reached Asus customer support, my name is Jacques, can you give an exact description of the issue you are having for me please?”“Hi Jack…”“Jacques.”“Excuse me?”“It’s Jacques. With Q – U – E – S.”“Jacques? What kind of name is that?”“Well, it’s a name like Jack. But spelled the French way. Also, if you say it like you did, you could trigger a security protocol.”“Whatever. Listen up, Jaques the French way – I think I’ve been cursed by an evil voodoo spirit that came out of my laptop.”“Oh! Really. Ehm, wow. That’s, ehm… unusual. You have the platinum extra extended warranty?”“Yeah, of course.”“Great. I’ll have to check whether that actually covers third-party acts associated with African diasporic religions and/or ritual folk magic. I’ll get back to you on that. But first, please do tell me what happened.”“So earlier this morning I opened up my laptop in the coffee shop…”“Ah, sorry to interrupt, I see you’re one of our registered users in the Netherlands…”“Not that kind of coffee shop. I was having a latte macchiato and a chocolate croissant.”“Oh, nice! You’re not one of those weird people who has cinnamon on a latte are you?”“I’m sorry? What’s that got to do with anything?”“Never mind. Please, do carry on.”“Yeah, so, I opened up the laptop and straight away this great cloud of like, I dunno, dust or smoke or something wafts up at me – like this huge, thick green cloud…”“Are you backing up regularly with the Asus Premium Bonus Cloud Service?”“Ehm, yeah…”“Great, just noting that. Please, carry on.”“So this weird cloud is like wafting around, enveloping me…”“Are you sure it came out of the laptop?”“Yeah I’m sure! It just came right up at me, the moment I opened it.”“It couldn’t have come from somewhere else? Like, steam off the latte or something?”“No! Jeez, what’s wrong with you? There was, like, literally nowhere else it could have come from. And anyway, then I heard the voice.”“Do you often hear voices?”“No! Not like this. It was coming right out of the laptop speakers.”“You weren’t wearing Bluetooth headphones?”“I hadn’t put them on yet. I’d only just got there.”“Okay. So this voice, what did it say?”“It said, ‘You have released an ancient voodoo spirit! My name is Lady Marie Lavo. The…’”“It’s Laveaux. With E – A – U – X. Like the French spelling?”“What is it with you and this French shit? Plain English not good enough for you?”“I’m sorry sir, do carry on, please.”“Yeah. So this voice, it says: ‘My name is Lady Marie Laveaux, the Louisiana Voodoo Queen! You have unlocked an ancient voodoo curse and are now possessed by the spirit of Zombi the Snake God! If you do not follow Zombi’s commands, great misfortune will befall you and your family for generations to come! Heed Zombi’s commands, and all will be well! You will gain riches beyond your wildest dreams!’”“Aaaah. Just hold for a few moments for me please. I’ll be right back.”[hold music plays: Dr John, Walk on Gilded Splinters]“Hello, are you still there sir?”“Just about. What did you do, go all the way to goddamn France or something?”“No, luckily that wasn’t necessary. I think I’ve identified your problem. It’s a particularly nasty hybrid polymorphic semi-resident syncretic trojan horse virus. Well, I’ve got good news and bad. The good news is, your warranty may cover it.”“I should think so. That’s what it’s for, right? What’s the bad news?”“I’m afraid you’re going to have to bring the laptop in to us in person.”“What the?! In person? Are you insane? Why can’t I just mail it in, or drop it off at a store?”“That won’t work with this particular virus I’m afraid. You have to come in in person.”“Jesus Christ! I want to talk to your manager. Or should I say manageur or some shit?”“Manager is fine. I am the manager here, sir.”“You are? Oh for… Where are you?”“We’re at 66 St. Ann Street, French Quarter, New Orleans.”“What?!”“Before you arrive, you must purchase a blessing from Father Christophe at Reverend Zombie’s Voodoo Shack at 723, St. Peter Street. You must then strip naked and smear yourself and the laptop with the blood of a freshly slaughtered Brahma chicken. You must stick the longest feathers from the chicken in your… hair will do, and hang its feet from a silken cord around your neck. There is a narrow alley leading down the side of our building. You must walk up this alley backwards with your head bowed. Do NOT tread on the cracks in the paving slabs. When you reach the door, you must bow three times, scratch a cross in the dirt with the chicken’s claw, turn around, and drop the laptop in the wicker basket provided. Then run like the wind.”“What the hell?! You’re kidding me…”“Not at all sir. I’m deadly serious.”“And if I don’t?”“You heard The Lady…”(Published by Sage Cigarettes and Witcraft)

The Knowledge

‘The Instructor’ sizes me up: big, sallow face incongruous behind bright blue eyes grotesquely enlarged by the thick lenses of a pair of heavy framed spectacles. Twin TV screens broadcasting the All-Seeing Eye. Double vision. Myopic as hell. But wide open for all that. Unblinking.
The two men who let me in lean against the wall behind him, in deep shadow either side of the locked door; more felt than seen.
The TV eyes flicker, crackle of atmospheric interference, dip down at the clipboard he’s holding then come up again, blaze at me like the full beams of an oncoming artic. My foot involuntarily stamps down on a non-existent brake.
He takes a deep draw on his cigarette, holds it for a second then exhales, filling the space between us with bluegrey exhaust fug.
“Whitechapel High Road to Ladbroke Grove”, he barks. “Via Piccadilly.”
I shuffle in the uncomfortable, squeaky plastic chair. I’m gagging for a fag myself but daren’t light up without permission. I take a sip of weak coffee instead from the chipped Coronation mug. Piping hot, it scalds the roof of my mouth. I swallow fast, focus on the pain to help my recall.
“Southeast Leman Street. Right onto East Smithfield. Merge Tower Hill. Lower Thames Street, right Northumberland Avenue. Third exit Trafalgar Square, left Piccadilly. Right Half Moon Street, left Park Lane. Slide left Cumberland Gate, keep left Bayswater Road, continue on Notting Hill Gate, right Ladbroke Grove.”
The unblinking TV eyes give nothing away.
“Alright, another one. Kensington Gore to Brockley Rise.”
Ha. Trick question.
“Brockley? South of the river. No chance guv’nor.”
He nods at this. Takes another drag, glances down at the clipboard. Then the TV eyes fix me with that baleful glare again. Tunnel vision.
“You’re at the corner of Ladbroke Grove and Elgin Crescent. Where’s the nearest police station?”
I pretend to rack my brain as the throbbing in my mouth subsides. After just long enough:
“Notting Hill. On Ladbroke Road.”
The TV eyes bob up and down.
“Squad car response time?”
The muscles in my legs clench.
“Pfffff, two minutes? If they can get through the traffic.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I…”
The twin beams blaze in my face again, dazzling me with a sudden intense light dragged up from Christ knows where.
“You seem pretty sure.”
“I…” – try not to squirm, but the squeaky chair gives away an uneasy shift.
“You’re not the filth, are you?” He spits the word with real venom, flecks of saliva landing on my face.
“What do you think boys? Can you smell bacon?”
His big, fleshy nose – all pothole acne scars and intersecting varicose veins – lifts, double-barrelled nostrils sniffing like a bloodhound. The two goons by the door shuffle a few paces forward, stare at me, dead-eyed.
Remember the training. He knows nothing. They know nothing. I return the stares. Fight down the fear. Breathe. Relax. Remember the legend.
“Old Bill? Come off it. With my family? I’d already be dead.”
The TV eyes crackle with static again. Flicker side to side. After what seems like an eternity, the full beams dim again. The goons step back. The channel changes.
“Something else then: Arsenal or Spurs?”
“You having a laugh? West Ham till I die.”
He chuckles at this – whether in approval, pity or contempt, I can’t tell. (I hope the latter.) His big, hunched shoulders relax a little.
“Where’s the pick-up?”
“Duke of Wellington pub, corner of Culford and Balls Pond Road.”
“How do you recognise him?”
“Navy trenchcoat, red tie, ginger hair, beard. Brown attaché case.”
“What does he say?”
“Morning sunshine! Lovely day for it. Highbury please, and don’t spare the horses.”
“You say?”
“Right-o guv. I’m your man.”
“Then?”
“Drop him at Highbury & Islington. Minus case.”
“What do you absolutely not do?”
“Stop. Look at the case. Touch the case. Attempt to open the case.”
“If you are stopped?”
“Geezer left it in the back. City gent. Pin-stripe suit & bowler. I’m taking it to lost property.”
“Then?”
“Proceed to Albert Street, Camden Town.”
“Where you…?”
“Pick up a young woman, red & white striped dress, blonde hair, blue holdall, dark glasses.”
The TV eyes move closer, filling my field of vision, his big saggy face just inches from mine. Smell of stale sweat, Players’ No. 6, hair oil. I breathe in his excitement. His uncertainty. His fear.
“What does she say?”
“Morning sunshine! Lovely day for it. Paddington please, and don’t spare the horses.”
“You say?”
“Right-o luv. I’m your man.”
“Then?”
“Drop her corner of Westway and Harrow Road, outside Paddington Green cop shop.”
“Then?”
“Go the fuck home, have a beer, forget this whole thing ever happened.”
Another flicker of interference crackles through the TV eyes. At last, they blink. Soften.
“Exactly that.” He pauses. “You might want to avoid watching the news for a few days. You know – on television.” Interference fills the screens. A static snowstorm, blocking out scenes of carnage.
A pudgy hand slowly comes up, removes the specs. Suddenly the eyes are small, weak – watery piss-holes in yellow snow. Relief courses through me. His other hand holds out a fat brown envelope. I take it, slip it into my pocket. Put down the still half-full mug of coffee, stand and walk over to the door, which one of the goons unlocks and opens for me.
The sunlight outside is blinding. I squint, raise my hand to shield my eyes. See the two unmarked vans parked just along the street. Wave to DS Walker in the front seat of the nearest van, give him the thumbs up. He immediately jumps out, bangs on the side, shouting “Go! Go! Go!”
Four big men with bulging armpits decant from the back of each van. DI Stevens leads the charge, DS Gibbs immediately behind him with the sledgehammer. The door goes in at the first hit.
I imagine The Instructor’s fat face smacking into the floor. Blood gushing from those flared nostrils. Specs sliding off his broken nose, lenses shattering on the bare concrete. Frames crushed beneath DI Stevens’ size 9.
End of broadcast for you, sunshine. But I have it all on tape.(Published by Urban Pigs Press)

Englisch Skeme

I must admit I was skeptikal when Alecks first outlined his plan to me. It was shortly before closing time and a low autumn sun poured thick orange light through the grimy windows of the Nag’s Head. We had been there the best part of the day, putting the world to rights over pie and chips and pints of Joey Holt’s Second Best Bitter. Alecks’ hypothesis was a simple one: “Everyone under the age of 21 should be strapped down and made to listen to the first album by The Fall, Live at the Witch Trials, all the way through, on vinyl. In one sitting. No distractions, no interruptions.”
Alecks lent back and wiped some chip fat from his scraggly moustaches, clearly pleased that he had finally managed to capture my full attention. “The ones that can take it may live”, he continued. “The ones that like it – may lead.” Sensing perhaps that, while amused, I was not taking his proposition entirely seriously, he leant forward, adding in a conspiratorial whisper: “Listen, I know someone at the Department of Education. They’re desperate. The kids are all listening to Coldplay and RnB and shit. That, or grime and drill rap. Watch this space.” He leant back and took a sip of Joey Holt’s with the air of a man who has found a Purpose.
Now, although outlandish on the surface, this madcap scheme wasn’t an altogether unattractive proposition to a cunt of a certain age like me, who’d discovered The Fall as a student in the ’80s and spent many a sleepless night smoking dope and listening to that very record over and over again on a C90 tape that just kept on looping, round and round and round and round, until the neighbours hammered on the walls or threw bricks through the windows or called the police or finally just gave in and emigrated to the fucking Lake District or somewhere. The primitive rhythms and abrasive schlock of those early songs had ingrained themselves into the bedrock of my malleable young consciousness like Neolithic hill carvings gouged deep into the Englisch countryside: retaining the power, even when covered by several millennia’s accumulation of grass and sheep shit, to bombard lost hikers and passing motorists with subtle, ancient magick (unless drowned out by the Coldplay on their car stereos of course).
Shortly after Alecks had finished outlining his plan, Psychik Bob rang for last orders. We supped up and fucked off, Psychik Bob throwing Alecks an unusually baleful glance as we staggered out. I declined the offer of a post-pub kebab as I had to be up early the next day, making arrangements for my eldest daughter’s impending nuptials. I gave little more thought to Alecks’ madcap scheme as I trudged home, apart from a sudden grin and chortle at the thought of all those gurning teenagers, strapped down and being subjected to No Xmas for John Quays at full blast while a couple of balding, middle-aged goons nodded along, poking the unfortunate youngsters occasionally with a pointy stick if their attention threatened to wander.
One year later to the day, Alecks and I again found ourselves seated at our customary table in the Public Bar of the Nag’s Head, supping Joey Holt’s and putting the world to rights. It had been an eventful – not to say momentous, epoch-making – twelve months. Not only was my eldest daughter now married to a useless twat who was in the habit of blasting Coldplay at full volume all hours of the day and night, but the political landscape of our great nation had been radically transformed, to put it mildly.
I was just soaking up the last of my gravy with a bit of pie crust when Psychik Bob rushed across the room and switched on the TV in the corner. It was 4pm: time for the Big Daily National Address by Brand New Prez of the Englisch Republick (and still lead singer of seminal Manchester/Salford-based group The Fall), Mark E. Smith. This was compulsory viewing, not just for entertainment value but in a very literal way – anyone stopped by the Brand New Polis on the street and unable to quote the Great Man’s most recent wisdom could face stiff penalties, including being put in a padded cell and subjected to non-stop Coldplay at full volume for up to a week. You could sometimes pick out the poor transgressors, shuffling along the pavement, nodding their heads compulsively, twitching and humming Hymn for the Weekend, over and over and over and over. I shuddered involuntarily at the thought.
Psychik Bob was just in time – the new national anthem, Gut of the Quantifier, boomed from the speakers and everyone in the pub jumped to their feet. The Prez looked in good form, seated at a desk, pint of lager in one hand and a smouldering cigarette in the other. “Alright”, he began. “Listen. Now we’ve fucked off the EU and the Scots and the Irish and the Welsh and all that, it’s time to really get this place rockin’. I don’t want to see…” – but at this point he seemed to lose his thread. The Brand New Prez was no longer glaring malevolently into the camera in the familiar Prezidential style, but squinting up at the studio lights above his head. “What the fuck are you doing with that mike you stupid cunt”, he said, putting down his pint and clambering up onto the desk, then proceeding to grab the boom microphone, attempting to wrestle it from the grasp of a sound engineer who clung doggedly to it and was now dragged, slipping and staggering, across the studio floor.
“Give it here you twat”, the Prez could be heard exclaiming amidst the grunts and groans of a titanic tug of war. The engineer was having none of it however, and clung to his equipment for dear life, even as the Prez’s smart slip-on shoes started planting vicious kicks into his grimacing face. A couple of assistant floor managers rushed over, nervously waving clipboards and jabbering urgently into their headsets.
At this point a chubby man in an ill-fitting suit and tie with a shock of deliberately unruly blonde hair shoved his way through the crowd and plonked himself behind the now vacant desk, signalling to the cameraman to focus on him. The cameraman duly obliged, panning up until only the man’s pale, lardy head and slouching shoulders were in shot.
“Sorry about that, citizens,” he intoned in a slightly distracted, firm-but-fair public school accent. “Please bear with us while we sort out a few minor technical difficulties. We’ll re-join the Brand New Prez’s daily address shortly. In the meantime, here’s some Infotainment.” The Prime Minister’s voice faded out and was replaced by a recording of the unmistakeable nasal drawl of Mark E. Smith introducing The Fall’s classic 2015 Glastonbury set.
“There he is then,” I said fixing Alecks with an accusatory eye. “That utter twat who became Prime Minister – or should I say Brand New Offishal Big Dik – thanks largely to you and your bright idea. How does it feel to be the Kingmaker?”
“That’s the one thing I hadn’t foreseen,” Alecks sighed, running a finger over his greasy moustaches. “That such a lying, cheating, kipper-waving, spunk-spraying, silver-spoon clenching clown would come out on top.” Over behind the bar, Psychik Bob put down a glass rather more firmly than was strictly necessary and shot Alecks that baleful look again, before disappearing downstairs to change a barrel.
“Yeah, it just goes to show”, I added wistfully. “Turns out even a complete and utter cunt can like The Fall. Or at least pretend to...”(Published by Punk Noir)

Bad Bad Heart

What song will you have played at your funeral? My default position was always Joy Division’s Love Will Tear Us Apart. It’s a bit mawkish and a bit obvious, but fuck it, it was my life and it’s my funeral. I’ve toyed with other ideas: Nothing But a Heartache by The Flirtations (talk about story of my life); See that My Grave is Kept Clean (Blind Lemon Jefferson, not Bob Dylan, obviously). Phoenix by The Cult would be great for sheer, overblown, camp pomposity. Or if we’re going the goth route, Bauhaus’ Bela Lugosi’s Dead: that’d raise a wry smile on my cold dead face, even if no one else’s! Especially if I can have live bats flying around – projections on the walls would do I suppose, at a push. Health and safety and all that.
But in the event, it had to be Back to Black by the incomparable Amy Winehouse. If I’m going to spend eternity in the outer darkness where there’s wailing and gnashing of teeth, I want to be serenaded out by a woman who buried her own heart rather than have it stolen again.
You can give mine to someone who needs it.(Published by Punk Noir)

the beautiful game

well obviously it means everything kelly it doesn’t get any bigger than this it means everything to me and the lads well us english lads definitely maybe the foreign lads not so much i don’t know it’s about togetherness isn’t it at the end of the day i mean the win’s what counts but it’s a team effort i’m speechless to be fair i mean to have scored would have been the icing on the cake for me i thought that offside decision was ridiculous to be fair but what can you do of course it’s all down to the gaffer at the end of the day and the staff and everyone involved with the club i mean this is what you dream of as a lad isn’t it kelly when i think back playing in the local park football was everything to me i was never going to be any good at school to be fair kelly it was an escape got me out of the house but fair play to my parents supported me all the way drove me everywhere nothing was too much trouble really pushed me maybe a bit too hard actually but you’ve got to make sacrifices haven’t you kelly and a bit of luck and a word in the right ear along the way it all helps it’s got me where i am today to be fair kelly so many don’t make it guys i was at school with better players than me some of them just didn’t have the advantages i bought a house for one of my old mates actually kelly he’s working two jobs zero hours contracts using food banks it’s not right is it kelly but what can you do i don’t see much of him now it’s a different world kelly i suppose i was lucky to come into the game when i did what with the tv revenue taking off online betting foreign investments half a mill a week salary and now we’ve got this amazing new stadium sixty thousand capacity who would have thought kelly when you consider where the club has come from it’s out of this world travelling all over nightclubs hotels race horses literally anything you want some of the lads are buying yachts and private jets now it’s not just cars i’ve heard these yachts are not good for the planet though and of course all the flying we do but it’s unavoidable to be fair what with the training camps european fixtures pre-season tours and all that there’s talk of new owners here as well rumour is middle east consortium i just hope not them ones who lock people up or chop their heads off for being gay or whatever i think that’s a bit extreme to be fair kelly i mean some of my mates are gay well i think so i don’t know for sure i mean they’re not going to come out and say so are they but sometimes you just know don’t you kelly by the way it’s great they’re letting people like you i mean women like yourself kelly do the interviews now and the women’s game is kicking on just goes to show how far we’ve come doesn’t it anyone can play now who would have thought it there’s even female referees not sure about that to be fair but anyway actually the girlfriend’s decided she doesn’t want kids now because who knows where the world’s going to be in thirty or forty years kelly will we even still be here i don’t know kelly but hopefully i’ll have had a good career a few trophies in the cabinet by then and oh yeah it’s all about the fans at the end of the day of course greatest fans in the world at this club the real fans i mean not the ones causing trouble there’s no excuse for that kind of behaviour is there ban them for life i mean i’m a fan myself as well as a player at the end of the day of course so uhm to be fair yeah like i say uhm sorry what was the question again kelly?(Published by Propelling Pencil)