Mr. Pollock

             During the forty-three first years of his life, Apollonius Heunislas Pollock had always been punctual.

From the cradle, he had shown a meticulous precision in everything he did. He was born the day the doctors and mid-wives had predicted – a 14^th of November, at noon –, had walked his first steps at twelve months, as described in the manuals, and had started talking as was meant to. As a child, the young Apollonius, while clever, had never been precocious, neither had he been late. He was, one might say, on time. At school, he had never retook nor skipped a class. His homework was always done in due time, as it had to be. He got his baccalaureate at seventeen, before naturally turning himself towards the succession of Daddy's company, in the building industry.

Thorough and of a rare efficiency, he speedily climbed the levels, learning all the different trades along the way, and quickly became a construction manager respected by his employees and clients alike. Remarkably – and against the professional tradition in place – his projects never suffered any delay. The business became prosperous almost by itself.

At the age of thirty-seven, his fortune was made.

And at forty-three years old, Apollonius Heunislas Pollock decided that the time had come to get married.

He got engaged to a Miss Marguerite Descailles, quiet and of a good family, who shared with him the taste for punctuality. For his betrothed, his future family and, of course, himself, he undertook the construction of a pretty little house, in a small village of a tranquil suburb.

It was on the morning of the day scheduled for his wedding that everything dramatically changed, because in this kind of story, something must always dramatically change.

Apollonius, for the very first time, woke up, beset by doubts.

Was it really all that he was expecting from life? Marguerite, and then what? What were his aspirations? Was he not rushing into things a bit? When was the last time he had a picnic? Did the cherries taste better if eaten directly from the tree? Had he forgotten to turn off the gas? And, above all, why hadn't he ever ask himself those questions before?!

He was so deeply lost in thoughts that neither his best-man, his father, his mother nor even his fiancée could snap him out of this irrational trance. A behaviour so extraordinary that everyone agreed that it would be better to postpone the event, as the guests were already settling in the church...

Marguerite went to treat her embarrassment in a sanatorium, as, in those days, one would still do such things.

Apollonius retreated into the pretty little house, which wasn't quite finished yet, to think a bit more, or so it seemed.

After three more postponements, two indecisions and a clear unease over the whole situation, Marguerite left to wed under warmer climates, with a rich American industrial met in Châteauneuf-les-Bains.

And that is all there is to say of Apollonius on the chapter of marriage.

Although he never tried to repeat the experience, to say that the change upon his personality had been drastic would still be a profound understatement.

During the weeks that followed, Apollonius went less and less to work. At first, his associate and brother, Gaëtan, embarrassed, explained to their customers that Apollonius was indisposed. A swarm of doctors of all kind was then fetched to visit him, auscultate him, examine him... But they all came back empty-handed : Apollonius was in perfectly good health, even brighter than usual.

He had simply lost his taste for twelve hour days of gruelling hard work, or at least, not every single day...

Gaëtan resigned himself to announce that his brother had gone into early retirement.

And that is about all there is to say on the chapter of work...

All of this, I got it from a very reliable source. For the last eight years, Apollonius Heunislas Pollock has been my neighbour. I asked him once, when we were chatting over the little fence which separates our gardens – mine, a yellowed lawn that has seen better days and his, a kind of gentle jungle which had grown around the small man –, how he occupied his days after he had left? He told me: “Oh, with thousands of things... and nothing. I always believed I was living my life without ever procrastinating and I suddenly saw that I had missed out on so many things. I had never gone fishing, for example, that was always for later... I love fishing! I also love lies-in and, sometimes, just to sit on the grass ; it took me forty years to realise it...”

We see each other regularly. I help him a bit with and around his house, which is a little less pretty and still not entirely finished ; a nail here, a touch of varnish there, put back the occasional stray roof tile in the right way, etc. Last summer, I repainted his shutters. Even if he wanted to do everything himself, he cannot any more really. Apollonius Heunislas Pollock turned a hundred and seven years old this year.

I often asked him the secret of his longevity, that sort of stupid reflex we all have when confronted with a living ancestor. Or maybe it's that I don't feel all that young myself any more... He invariably replied: “You must just take the time to live.”

Invariably.

Except for a year ago.

A year ago, his answer was a lot more enigmatic:

“For a good fifteen years now, every morning, a pale man, in a dark suit, comes to politely knock at my door. He doesn't say anything, he just stands there, he waits. And every morning, I tell him the same thing: “Today? Oh I don't know... I don't think so, no. But tomorrow, maybe...”, then he nods and, half a smile on his lips, he goes away.”

Room 304

The weirdest part of this story is that it is partially autobiographical...

Norbert had cancer.

It was eating him up for so long now that he didn't pay any attention to it any more, despite the ever present pain.

Harold was mainly suffering of dementia.

He had forgotten all of his past as a stone mason and was now maintaining the looks and habits of a little polite and stunted professor, with a gift to persuade visitors to bring him chocolate bars, despite his diabetes.

Gregory just had bad temper and a high propensity to fall.

All together, they were 237 year old and the occupants of the room 304, for what have seemed an eternity.

Then the lad made his entrance.
Or at least, two porters made it for him.
Norbert was dozing, while the other two were bickering.
Harold had spent the last five minutes puffing and panting.

- “What's wrong with you again?

- I'll be honest, I seem to have some difficulties to get up...

- So what? Shut up!"

That was when the two men burst in, pushing a bed loaded with various equipment. You could see a young man, semi-conscious, shaken by irregular convulsions, in the middle of it all.

- “Greg, leave Harold alone. Let the young lad have some rest.” Even feeble, Norbert's voice commanded authority.
- “Maybe we should call an ambulance?
- Grrr! It's not my fault if the old fool is completely senile!
- Excuse me?
- And deaf!
- Enough!”
All felt silent and the calm settled on room 304. A peacefulness only perturbed by the noises common to all hospital wards... and the feverish whimpers of the lad.

Later that night, a strange ballet took place.
Harold, blindly feeling his way, put his hand on his Zimmer frame; Gregory managed to fall out of his bed without attracting the attention of the nurses and Norbert dragged his tall and gaunt body, towing his IV behind him in the dark room. They all came to look at the young lad and watched him.
He had his eyes half-closed, a sallow complexion and was sweating so much that he seemed to be melting. He was shaking and moaning constantly.

Against him, he clutched a little clay dog that, obviously, some small clumsy hands had taken a great care to shape. They had all seen him this afternoon, the little boy with the blond curls and the worried eyes, into the arms of the mother who kept crying at the bedside of her husband... Even Harold remembered.

Without a word, they looked at each other and nodded.
Gregory required more insisting stares, but finally acquiesced with a grunt.

In the morning, it was discovered that Norbert had died of a pulmonary embolism, sudden and nocturnal. It was assumed that the big-C had finally won.
A little later, Harold quietly fell asleep and forgot to wake up. Old age presumably...
Gregory muttered a sardonic “Things come in threes”, looking at the lad. His humour was rarely appreciated... In the early evening, he made an innocuous fall on his way to the toilet, yet, this time, he did not get up again.

When the lad's fever dropped, the doctor declared, smiling, that he had passed the worst of it.

Close by, and yet so far away, three indistinct shadows were watching...
- “Do you think he will remember us?
- Of course not, he would eventually ask himself questions.
- It's too bad in a way, because...
- Oh, shut up will you!”
And the faint shadows faded away.

Let's get real, Jonathan Jones is a bit of a dick

I don't think much of Mr Jonathan Jones.
I would love to say that I haven't read any of his "art" column for The Guardian, as I haven't much time for him, but I have.
At least this one: Get real. Terry Pratchett is not a literary genius

This particular one is a kind of patchwork of banalities and classic rhetorical mishap like "No offence but...", but the jest of it, is: If it's massively popular, it has to be mediocre and/or shit.
(more about what I think about that kind of logic here)

Mr Jones doesn't think that the late Terry Pratchett wrote "literature".
Mr Jones is entitled to his opinion, but on what is it based? On nothing.
By his own admission, Mr Jones has never read a single novel by Mr Pratchett.
Once, he "did flick through a book by him in a shop, to see what the fuss is about, but the prose seemed very ordinary"
See? Ordinary. Popular, not serious... therefore shit.
The piece goes further into trying to differentiate "serious" authors - all great, there's no point arguing with that - from others, etc...

To properly answer Mr Jones, I translated - rather poorly I'm sorry to say - an excerpt of a radio piece written by my favourite comedian of all times, Pierre Desproges, an French author, TV and radio personality, who occasionally did some stand-up comedy (I know right? A French stand-up comedian! Yes, we have some).
Mr Desproges is long dead now, and this piece was written almost over 30 years ago... but still is, in my mind, the perfect reply to Jonathan Jones' drivel.

“A critic, the name of whom I'll keep silent so that he doesn't emerge of the legitimate anonymity where his own indigence maintains him, wrote in his weekly column: "This is a film that has no other ambition than to make us laugh". I say "thank you".
Thank you, bleak ruminant, for the unreal perfection of your dung, spread as a promising fertilizer on the sparse field of my flickering inspiration.

What makes my blood boil, is that a pedant dares belittling the art, nay, the craft of laughter, to the rank of a pallid little chore for lethargic origami paper hen makers. But who are you 'flaccid zero', to allow yourself to think that the work of the clown is done without the sweat of the man? Who allows you to believe that the comedian has no pride?

But it is immense, my dear, the pretension to make people laugh. A film, a play, a book, a drawing that seeks to give joy – to “sale” joy, let's not be foolish – takes planning, it is crafted, it is polished. An artwork just for laughs, it is well turned like a cabinetmaker's armchair or like a compliment. I don't know if you see what I mean, with that gaping hole in your brain-case?

Take Molière, who still makes the pensioners laugh, he perspired to death, Chaplin sweated, Guitry worked his ass off, Woody Allen and Mel Brooks are tired, for often to have had, 20 hours a day, the pretension to make us laugh. Poor little joy killer, you know what he has to say to you "Monsieur Hulot"?”

Criticon (1986), Pierre Desproges 

For the braves and the purists, you'll find the entire original untranslated text here

Waterlogged

The bog was all he ever knew.

His entire universe had been wet for as far as he could remember.

The soggy marsh was all there was, it filled his world and will carry on doing so for the foreseeable future, or so it seemed.

He woke up drenched in the cold grey morning, like every day. The eternal mist was surrounding him and a drizzling rain was washing away the very little colours, mostly greens and browns, that the landscape had managed to retain. Like every day...

He tried to shake off some of the water but gave up after a few minutes. He was as dry as he would ever be. It was such a foreign concept anyway.

He briefly reviewed the previous night events. He had heard her again. This time, she sounded closer than before, but it was hard to tell. In the fog, the sound was muffled and seemed to come from everywhere at once... and that waterlogged waste was so vast. Maybe one day...

He put those thoughts aside and went fishing.

He had been troubled lately. He had had strange urges to just take off, to go. To leave everything behind and try to find a better place. He had an unfamiliar longing for something he never experienced, warmth.

If only he wasn't alone.

He was absent-mindedly swallowing his catch raw, brooding, when he heard it.

An almost imperceptible crack. A rustle in the long grass. It was close.

And suddenly, the call.

It filled the air. It was her! She had found him!

His heart beat faster. He moved towards the noise.

Something inside him was desperately tugging at his brain, shouting that something was amiss, when another noise finally broke through his enthusiast confusion. Dogs!

Instinctively he took flight.

He barely heard the thunder like crack of the gun. He was plummeting towards the ground. With the last of his consciousness, he observed the dark waters closing over him, and then, all went cold.

He never felt the jaws seizing his neck.

Tough luck for a duck.

The Letter

There was a quaint letter, in full view, amongst the papers on the desk between us. And like an idiot, I hadn't been able to refrain myself to look at it. Just for a second, but it was already too late. I knew I wouldn't avoid it now.
I felt like my legs were made ​​of jelly. Standing like that in front of my torturer...
Anxiety was gnawing my guts.

He had himself called 'Master'.

As a mark of respect, I always thought that 'Sir' was enough. I was wrong.
He was old school.

But what had I done?! Nothing! And to no-one. I was quiet in my corner, minding my own business. When suddenly, plucked out from the crowd! Without warning. At random... to find myself here...

I had a furtive glance towards the window. I shouldn't have. The light from the outside blinded me for a moment... My eyes already stung before. I felt tears of frustration threatening, welling up as a pain-relief, but crying was the last thing I wanted to do.

I felt in my back that I was being watched. 'They' spied on my slightest reaction.
A cold sweat covered my forehead. My legs ached now. And a familiar and unpleasant sensation was nagging at my underbelly... For cry out loud! I wasn't going to piss myself?! Not in front of him.
The huge knot that I had in my stomach almost turned into a panic tidal-wave when I saw his massive hand going towards the letter. He picked it up.
His disproportionate and unlikely figure towering over me, he showed it to me, with an inquisitive raised eyebrow. His eyes piercing me through and through.
My throat was dry ... I could not even swallow my saliva.
I knew that if I spoke, my voice would tremble, crack.
I couldn't ... and anyway, I had nothing to say!!
Still, I had to face it...
“K?”

A broad smile lit up the face of Mr. Bertrand. He ruffled my hair in a friendly gesture. "Here you go Paul. You see, when you want? You know your alphabet! Go on and sit down. "

I turned around under the appreciative and half-envious looks of my classmates and headed back to my place, half-running. I was filled with pride. In my hand, I was clutching the small picture which was my reward. My first school reward.
Despite everything I imagined before, Reception Class was OK.
I even knew how to spell that already.

The Author

The author is wrapped up warmly in front of his keyboard. His chair is surrounded by the used tissues that now litter the floor of the small room that passes as his study. He tightens absentmindedly his dressing gown and readjusts his woolly scarf. In his multiple layers - thermals, long Johns, pyjamas, pre-war cardigan, threadbare bathrobe, itchy scarf, ski socks and carpet slippers - the author feels himself gently sweating to the rhythm of his runny nose, in this precarious and cushioned comfort.
The author has a cold.

He casts a bleak look at his murky world, his mind wandering nowhere, empty of all inspiration. He sniffs loudly and broods a bit more on his present misery. Outside, a cold rain hammers on the skylight through which creeps a poor grey light, which does nothing to lighten the mood of the author.

The situation reminds him vaguely of a childhood film, in which the 'hero', a writer, oscillates between reality and fiction, between his small Parisian life and some incredible adventures under the sun of the Caribbean islands, by proxy, through his main character. He believes that he even remembers a sequence with the lead actor in a similar setting to his, with a cold...
And why not? - “I also craves for the Tropics”...

« St. Preux de l'Aiguillère was relaxing at the pool bar of the Marina Palace in Varadero, just two hours from Havana and yet already so far away from Kroutchov and his plots. He was nonchalantly admiring the sculptural beauty of the sun-bathing women, whose bikinis seemed to melt away, while the bartender was preparing his cocktail. The heat of the late morning was warming his muscles, bulging under his tanned skin. St. Preux was fully enjoying this rare moment of peace.

– “Your hot toddy sir.
– Thank you Eduardo. "
He casually lit a Churros and_  »

... The author coughs. This is silly. It just doesn't work. What a stupid idea. A hot toddy? In Cuba? And Churros?! Was it a doughnut or a cigar? Tsk... He'd better concentrate on more serious projects.
 – “Where were we then?”

« Maria typed in a final code-sequence and slipped into the suspended animation chamber. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Camilien and the other seven settling in too. In the constant hum of the computers and the Atmospheric Recycling Unit, the astro-medic performed

the last required checks and launched the complicated process.

Soon, she felt every fibre of her body overwhelmed by a gentle heat. While bio-nutrients replaced the blood in her veins, giving her the sensation that a cosy cocoon was closing over her, she left her conscience drift away with a final thought for those 83 years of 'sleep' whicbrqewasdz   »

... The author wakes with a start. The bathroom mirror confirms his suspicion. Indented on the left side of his face, he can read:

                                                               2

Q W E R

   A S D F

Z X

The most embarrassing thing now will be to explain to the computer repair service the nature of the liquid that has transformed the F, G, H, V, B and space keys in one solid block...

 

The Final Stroke

“This time, it's without me.” This was announced in a firm tone, the emotion barely discernible in his voice.

“What do you mean? What's wrong with you Tulip?”

It was a fitting nickname, his head was indeed not exactly of the right shape...

“Nothing. I'm just saying, it will be without me.”

“Come on, pull yourself together Tulip! What will the guys say?”

“They can say what the hell they want, I don't care Mammoth!”, another fitting name, you had to admit, even if totally hairless, he was a lot larger than normal, “... and anyway, one less won't make any difference, right?”

“Frankly, I don't understand you. You were always one of the ready to go!”

“But never one of the gone!! You see? That's what eating me...”, he must have said it a bit louder than he intended to.

A few heads were starting to turn in their direction. The place wasn't exactly designed for intimacy. Here, it was more like 'One For All'. Except at the end, of course. Never at the end. And, somewhere deep inside, everyone knew it.

“This time it will be the one, you'll see! Come on!”

“Ha! You say that each time, and look where we are...”

The group was now closely surrounding Mammoth and Tulip. Everybody was listening...

“Anyway, as you're so clever, how are you planning to escape it?”

“Easy! I'll hide at the back, and then I'll think of football or sad stuff. Or, I don't know, cute puppies. Yeah, that's right, cute puppies.”

“Oh yeah?! Well have fun with that!You disappoint me Tulip. There are no other words, you disappoint me.”

“Oh you can play the tough guy all you want. Doesn't it gnaw you a little?! The uncertainty? Uh? Will we go, will we not?!”

“No. Because it will happen eventually, someday. I have faith.”

“Right. Like it was the only issue anyway...”, muttered Tulip.

“You were saying?”

“I was saying that it's all very nice to have faith, but that if all of this is just to end up with your face like a palm-tree at the bottom of a sink anyway, what's the bloody point?!”

A few murmurs of approval greeted this remark. Further up, at the vanguard of the company, you could feel the restlessness starting to grow.

“Not so loud! You can't say things like that. He wouldn't do this to us. Not him. He's a good lad.”

“For fuck sake Mammoth, wake up! He's seventeen! You really believe in the ovum at the end of the tunnel?!”

And then, everything exploded.

The eye was in the tomb...

A few years back, I did a JK Rowling.

I challenged myself to write a stereotypical über-macho testosterone filled male oriented adventure/noire/gangster/action/”what-ever-else-I-could-cram-in-there” short story.

The experience was somehow liberating.

I exulted at the opportunity to write what was basically literary “shite” and I had excessive fun doing it.

Here's the result.

The Heli's Bar.

All that had been needed was a typo on a cheap sign and the name had stuck. The owner immediately became Jake 'Heli' McCunning and the artist had never painted another sign again... not with the number of hands he had left he hadn't. True to say that failing to have any charm, the bar had a reputation, beyond good or bad. It was the kind of place where no-one liked questions nor the people who asked them. You didn't even ask what was in the burgers... And if you often walked out with blood on your boots, you just had to be glad it wasn't your own and that you were still standing.

Jay walked into the dive with his natural swagger, as always, his slim silhouette outlined for a brief second in the doorway by the sun – still high – of the Nevada desert.

As he approached the counter, you could see his lean muscles playing under his black T-shirt, his biceps pulling on the seams of his leather jacket. His tight jeans, black and worn out, left nothing to the imagination either, sun and bad weather had given them the appearance and texture of a second skin. The few females in there hooked their eyes on him, captivated by his animal magnetism, his raw sensuality. They could all recognize a real man when they saw one, and you couldn't have manlier than Jay.

The room was already full of the regulars ugly faces. Somewhere, a Joke-Box bellowed the chords of the original Highway to Hell (1979,of a time before Bon Scott had drowned in alcohol...). “Fitting...”, briefly thought Jay, a nasty smile on his lips. He leaned on the counter, his every move calculated with a fighters precision, a well-oiled machine... of the blunt type.
Jay found the barman under the gaudy neon lights that covered the back wall. A new face which blended into the background. He was shaped like a beer keg, a fact that his moth-eaten old Harley T-shirt was struggling to hide, and his arms covered in tattoos, apparently drawn by a retarded kid who couldn't colour 'in the lines' yet. His beard would have made a Wookie blubber and he was missing two fingers on his left hand. “Gambling debts, or a very clumsy mechanic.” guessed Jay.

- “ Single malt whisky.”, he growled.
- “And leave the bottle.” he added, dropping a folded $100 bill between the puddles of beer of the counter.
The barman complied without a word.

The burn of the first sip of alcohol immediately began to dissolve the dust of the journey in his dry throat.

He was turning is back to the room, contrary to his habit, his enemies were more the type to come from behind. But here, the huge dirt caked mirror above the counter gave him a good view of the rest of the bar. His own reflection returned his piercing steel blue gaze and his square face, weather-beaten by a life on the road. He could probably do with a shave.
- “The face Marlon Brando would have wanted.” Jay joked to himself, when he saw him. Cain.

The moron did not even try to hide. He was sitting right in the middle, under the light, three-quarter turned in relation to Jay, to face the door. He must have missed Jay's entrance, busy lighting one of his cheap cigarettes... Bad habit, smoking. He was drinking a generic European beer, he always thought it was classy.
Cain. Brute by habit and sadistic by taste. Cain, contract killer.
- “From the famous comedy double act Abdel and Cain...” Jay muttered, not taking his eyes off him.
 
A while back, a small time Mafia boss – may he rest with the crabs – had found it funny to pair them together. Abdel Benkhalem, an Algerian thug, favouring oriental techniques and scalpel blades, and that young nameless brick shithouse. It was 17 years ago. They had quickly been nicknamed Abdel and Cain ; it got a laugh, but never for very long in their presence. And he just took the new name, without understanding nor flinching. The last time Jay had met Abdel, he had made sure that his fucking scalpels had been the last thing he saw, from very up close... If Cain bore any grudge over his partner's death, he was professional enough not to show it. So if he was here for him tonight, it meant that Jay had a contract on his head. But who?
The Chianti¹ brothers? Alvarez and his gang? Or even that good old Nic, as a last posthumous present?

Jay could see the bulge in Cain's jacket, indicating the presence of his famous Beretta 92F, a souvenir from the army. He must also have his stupid Rambo knife at his ankle, complete with compass and matches. It always made people laugh, until they realized that it was still a 9 inches steel blade that this maniac kept sharp enough to cut a hair in half, lengthwise.
Suddenly, Cain turned his head.

As soon as their eyes met, everything went very fast. Quick as a flash, Jay threw the whisky bottle with precision and seemed to chase after it. Cain was forced to raise the hand that was already going towards his weapon to protect his head. The projectile exploded on his forearm. This move was sufficient for Jay to cover the five meters that separated them. In one motion, he turned the table over and grabbed the glass ashtray, which he smashed in the killer's face. Taking advantage of the surprise, Jay caught the still half-raised right arm, and jammed it violently behind Cain's neck, crushing his windpipe with his own biceps. There was a brief status quo whilst the brute started to slowly suffocate, Jay's knee on his chest not helping at all. With the speed of the cobra, Jay's left hand intercepted Cain's, who was trying to reach for the knife at his ankle. A sharp twist of the wrist was greeted by a satisfying crack. Cain couldn't suppress a grunt, while the pain distorted his face. A strong downward jolt finished the move, pushing the knife through its sheath and Cain's though thick boot, pinning his left foot to the dirty floor...

Maintaining his iron grip, Jay asked in his ear:
- “Who sent you?”
His eyes half-rolled back and bulging in his puffed face already purple, Cain still managed to spit out, half-smiling:
- "I saw some light...
- Bad luck. It's lights out for you.” Jay uttered as a judgement, tightening his hold.

When he heard the click of a shotgun being cocked, Jay reacted in a tenth of a second, his legendary survival instinct taking over, and he leaped, vaulting over Cain while grabbing his gun. Buckshots hit Cain's chest in a wet and limp noise of cold meat. He had already stopped breathing. At cover behind the massive corpse of his enemy, it only took one shot for Jay to shoot the barman dead, a 9mm bullet in the middle of the forehead. After a moment's hesitation, he collapsed like 130kg of soaked leather behind his counter.

Jay had to go back to the city.
He could leave things as they were. The customers of the Heli's didn't like changes to their routine, especially not made by law enforcement. A few hours later, the bodies would find themselves far away in the desert where even the vultures won't attract attention, or under 50 tons of rock at the nearby quarry. He only hoped that someone would think to clean the blood and the brain & bone mix off of the mirror ...
He had a lot of questions which required a lot of answers.

Just after starting his bike with a powerful kick, he had one last thought for Cain, in the purr of his trusty V-twin ...
- “I wonder what was his real name...?”
He pushed the throttle and the machine sprang into the sunset, on the dusty road.
- "Maybe Keith. He looked like a Keith. "

~ The End

¹ Alfonso and Federico Giacometti, two drug baronets that had transformed Daddy's wine company into a thriving heroin and cocaine import-export specialist. To the sound of 100g per bottle, the wicker and wine rendering the bags invisible and undetectable – even by the dogs – that gave an excess of over one kilo of pure dope per crate.. After their last deal, Jay had left richer of one briefcase of bank notes and the brothers were left with three warehouses in flames. These are things that could be begrudged.

Ignorantus Travelicum

   This was written almost seven years ago and is all true.
It was brought back to my mind by a recent conversation I had with a friend, of which the conclusion was: “I would more gladly excuse profound stupidity than ignorance, as, if you choose to do so, ignorance is curable.”


I have a new best friend. She makes me laugh!
I don't even know her name...

I met her yesterday when I was going to enquire about the different means at my disposal to, from the country of the Lambs and Leeks, go to say hello to the “vahines”. I'll explain: For our honeymoon trip, I would like to take my beloved to Bora-Bora but, as it isn't a very popular destination from the British Isles, even with the Tinterweb, I struggled to find any clear information.
Therefore, with a nonchalant gait, I never the less drove – it's about 10 miles away! – to the closest Agency for Travelling.
It was when I was pushing the door of the humble store of the second biggest British purveyor of exotic scented dreams – my muscles bulging under the light material of my little blue summer dress, the one I like to wear on Thursdays, the one with the very cute print there – that I saw her for the first time.

To say that she looked average would be to pay her a compliment. Her forties come and gone, she had a face wrinkled by the expression of eternal surprise of the simpleton, with tired hair sporting a do that could have been fashionable back in the 80s, in the region of Holdrege (Nebraska), and two long and scrawny arms. Despite this, she was radiating experience behind her small orange counter, which is an effect relatively easy to achieve when you are the eldest of twenty years of any of your colleague and have a pale complexion, perfect to reflect the orange colour. So, I was walking towards the ugly woman (at that moment of the story, she's not yet my friend) when she spoke to me along this line:
“Hello, can I help you?”
… I understand your surprise, I too was astonished.
She had said 'hello'! In the United-Kingdom?! The proverbial Albion wouldn't be as perfidious as one might think?

Sorry. Let's start again.

Her: “Hello, can I help you?
Me: Hello, and you most certainly can. I would like to go to French Polynesia, departing from here, or from London, which ever is simpler. Could you find the information for me please?
Her: er... like we may have a problem here, because, as for us, we don't do them, the train bookings.
…
Me: Even better! The French Polynesia is situated in the South Pacific and I was favouring the idea of taking a plane.
Her: Oh sorry, I thought you said “Pyrenees”.
Me: No, Polynesia.
Her: Not the Pyrenees then?
Me: No.
Her: Gosh.
Me: Quite.”
I was starting to like her a lot, that lady. I carried on with the usual platitudes of this kind of conversation, with a renewed interest and a gently amused curiosity. Where exactly? Bora-Bora. How many people? Two. When? In six months time.
And we resumed our verbal tango:
Her: “Like, I can't find any international airport in Bora-Bora me...
Me: It's normal, there isn't one. The closest is in Tahiti.
Her: Well... Like I can't find any either... I know, I'm going to call the people of the planes.”
Then she told me that it might take a while and that if I had something else to do in town, I could maybe pop in later... What?! Our newly born and fragile friendship just blossomed that she was already rejecting me? With a torn heart and a heavy soul, I got up from my seat, ready to return to the street and its anonymity, where no-one would make me laugh for at least five minutes.
I suddenly pulled myself together.
Was this a way to treat an 'almost' friend? No.
I had to have faith in her professionalism and trust her expertise. Yes. I will comeback later. And yes, this woman will have all the answers. The cost, the flights, the dates, why you should never put the milk before the boiling water, the hotel, all of it!
I took advantage of my free time to sneak in a nearby similar agency where I found all the answers I needed (but not the milk/hot water one) in five minutes. Then, after a few purchases, as I couldn't stand it any longer, I went back to see my friend who I already missed.
Her: “Ah! I couldn't speak to the people of the planes but I have some information for you.
Me: Wonderful.
Her: So, for the flight, it should cost £1056.64.
Me: But that's fantastic!
Her: Isn't it just? I thought that too.
Me: Per person?
Her: No no, for the both of you.”
What a surprise! The nearest quote I got was of £1500 per person. What a bargain? I knew that this woman was gifted!
Me: “This is really amazing!
Her: But be careful though, this is just the price for the flight from London-Heathrow to Haïti like.
Me: ...
Me: You mean Tahiti?”
And then, with the most imperturbable smile and without any trace of embarrassment, she replied:
“Why? Is there a difference?”

After the brief explanation that “yes, there was a little one, like: they're not in the same ocean/sea", I assured her to return very soon in her small shop, to enjoy her amicable company again.
Then, I left, smuggish, feeling at ease in my own skin and comfortable in my knowledge of geography.

I think I'll go back tomorrow.
I tell you, she is my new best friend.
She makes me laugh!

Well, yes. Yes, I like Coldplay.

If you think you have found a fan-blog about Coldplay, think again.

If after those second thoughts, you still think this is a fan-blog dedicated to the British pop-rock band Coldplay, well, no. Sorry, you're wrong. But don't worry, it happens to the best. Not that I would try to flatter you in such a blatant way, it happens to the mediocre too...

A while back ago, or probably yesterday, if you're a Dave viewer, Noel Fielding, of the excellent Mighty Boosh fame, declared in a memorable episode of Never Mind The Buzzcock... Oh come now, there are some, like the one with the fantastic under-cover funny guy Josh Groban (@joshgroban) or that one with Doppy(not his real name), from that band thingy, with his comedy hat, you know? Who's apparently not only half as stupid as he looks*... anyway.

In that episode of @NMTB_TV, Mr Fielding was relating the anecdote of when he told “I hate Coldplay” to the manager of the band, who replied “Oh yeah, I heard it was cool to hate them lately”, he then retorted “No no, I'm not trying to be cool. I really hate Coldplay”.

Well, this, Ladies and Gentlemen, got me thinking, which is hardly a surprise coming from a guy who has to think hard upon existential questions like 'tea or coffee?', 'pudding or cheese?', 'Am I left or right handed?'

At first, I thought “Well, Mr Fielding is...”

Sorry, I have to stop for a moment here. I can't carry on calling him Mr Fielding. I sound like a man-servant or the prosecutor in a Court of Justice, which is not the purpose of this piece. Nor Noel either, it makes me sound like his chum, like I know him or even worse, like I have delusion of knowing the man! Ah, grammatical and etiquette conundrum rolled into one. I guess his full name will have to do. Bear with me...

... I naturally thought that Noel Fielding was of course untitled to Noel Fielding's own opinion and who was I to begrudge Noel Fielding on what Noel Fielding could like or not. Noel Fielding is one of the most creative and unique mind of this televisual age and Noel Fielding can bloody hate what Noel Fielding bloody wants! Oh, how I love Noel Fielding!_ er... (too much? Probably too much).

Never the less, Noel Fielding not trying to be cool is a thought defying the imagination...

BUT – and I like big buts, I cannot lie – what really got me thinking is the other bit, the bit about cool hatred of something fashionable.

Why is there that communal idea that if something is remotely popular it is obviously shit? Did we all become hipsters?

This concept is as ludicrous as ideas along the same line of: “If it's light entertainment it can not be clever” or: “if nobody thinks like me, I'm obviously right”.

Most people think it a bad idea to cross the motorway on foot and no lunatic would probably live long enough to prove anyone other wise...

If you're starting to think like this, that your opinion uniqueness is in itself the obvious proof of its undeniable veracity, it's a very slippery slop my friend.

Bear in mind that, globally, there is fewer racist people than non-racist (that I would probably just naturally call 'normal' people), that creationism is not the commonly admitted norm and that Jedward's fans are still a tiny minority; are those people right because they are fewer? Well, hasn't God created white, blond and light-brained perfect Irish twins in less than seven days?!

Hasn't He/She/It/None Of The Above?

In short, next time you judge that something is 'shit' solely based on its popularity – be it Harry Potter books or films, football, Justin Bieber, Game of Thrones, Twitter, Apple's product or, for that matter, Microsoft's rubbish(this list is non-exhaustive and doesn't reflect my taste) – especially if you use the reason: “Everyone says it's great/good, but I prefer to make my own mind up” whilst really meaning “... therefore it must be shit because I have individual taste, me, you know”, you're doing exactly the opposite of what you're preaching and are behaving like a teenager, and not even a clever one.

Yes. I like Coldplay.

Last night, I've realised that I appreciated Mumford & Sons too.

Millions of people might not be that wrong after all... even if it is a bit bland. So are millions of people. A bit. And so, in all likelihood, am I.

In conclusion, it is of course a matter of taste, but ultimately, don't think too much of your self-perceived uniqueness. Cultivate it, cherish it, yes, but remember that that idea of “uniqueness” is not the thing that makes you unique. This is the most common trait of all: We're all different.

* Fact confirmed beyond any doubt by an article I read lately, in Closer or something... I know, I should be more careful about my readings but, in my defence, there was nothing else to read in the surgery waiting room and I'd brought only that one magazine.

~ After re-reading those few lines, I have now no idea of what exactly was my point... Originally, I wanted to speak about my age and my inability to find jeans that fit. It didn't go that way.

Until next time

Heart-Break

~ Three days ago I received a call from the school. My little boy had broken his arm on the playground. It turned out to be a rather nasty business, with surgery, 24 hour in hospital, etc... but he's fine now and very proud of his red cast.

However, the feelings that this call had awaken were somehow deeper and more complicated.

It reminded me of this old text below.

It's my worst translation to date, for which I apologise, but I still wanted to share this with you.

It happened a little over seven years ago and this is what I felt at the time.

All is true... ~

She is resting next door now. She fell asleep peacefully front of an old Audrey Hepburn film, her favourites. I can hear her breathing, regular and light, and it is good.

I still have flashbacks. Images which come to me, of the kind that keep you awake at night, that haunt you whenever you leave your mind wandering in the wrong direction. Images that send a long cold shiver down your spine, hollow out your guts, eat your life away. I'm ashamed to admit that those visions have nothing to do with war or famine, there are no children dying in my mind... only her. She's there, lying on the floor, still. A tiny drop of blood pearling at the corner of her lips. A small red puddle has already formed on the pavement and my heart forever stopping.

My darling, my love, my life... My Geinor has had an accident this weekend. 
 
There are a few things that I understand better now. Most of them are literary expressions, like sick with fear or knots in the guts, the others are more difficult to explain... certainties which somehow became suddenly even clearer, like: "Shit. I couldn't survive her."

I've experienced the most excruciating minute of my life, followed by the ten most intolerable.

When I turn around to see her there, on the ground, inert, almost at my feet, the realisation is almost immediate. I don't have time to laugh about it that my mind already registers the off-key details: an arm with a slightly odd angle, a sudden pallor – for fuck sake why is she not moving? – and of course the blood. The blood that fills her mouth, that drips from her nose, drop by drop, for fucking Christ WHY is she not moving?! My retina can only see red, this horrible viscous colour which has nothing to do out here. I can even feel its metallic taste in my mouth. Time stops. Everything becomes of a precision like white-hot iron branding my memory of the burn of the deepest anxiety imaginable.
Everything turns into a confusion of primal chaos, in a blur that has nothing of artistic, which smears all the sharpest details.
That big moron who tripped her, like that, just for fun, what colour was his t-shirt?... Yellow? Green?... This seagull cry piercing the sudden silence, tearing my soul, will I ever forget it? Why doesn't it shut the fuck up that stupid bird?! Down here, my world's falling apart.
 
Everyone rushes, nobody talks, except the idiot babbling unintelligible excuses like: “it was just a joke...” I can't even bring myself to be angry with that twat, she is alive and I thought I'd lost her, I don't care, he is nothing to me... and at that precise moment he's just a remote satellite in my reality.
She has no reaction... oh good lord. My knowledge of first aid flies away, my insides go hollow, my eyes overflow. Her mouth is open, there is blood everywhere now ; her eyes are open too, glassy, distant ... she's gone. She has the face of Death. I can't stand my crying any longer, my heart in my throat is about to explode. How horrible is that obscene and uncontrollable selfishness of those times of unbearable pain? I don't want to live without you.
God, don't leave me alone. Stay with me, me, ME...


They always speak of a panic wave. It's stupid. A panic tsunami overwhelms me, I'm shaking, my stomach is but one huge cramp, I am a torrent of tears. I vaguely hear that someone called an ambulance, I think... I stroke her hair, holding her head. Someone is trying to calm me down. He takes care of her too, he tells me that it's going to be al'right, those silly little words that we always repeat in such circumstances, void of sense, hollow. Everything is hollow without her... I don't even know if she's breathing? I don't any more. I don't know if her heart is still beating? Mine has stopped.
Ten intolerable minutes. We talk to her constantly now. Ten interminable minutes...
Her eyes close and then open slowly. After a little while, she regains a bit consciousness, says her name, pronounces mine. A landslide of relief almost crushes me with happiness. Nothing can stop my tears any more. And finally the ambulance arrives.
 
She walks to the door, I support her. At the hospital, they make me wait in an anonymous room where the tired seats have probably never seen better days, just the time to examine her. The apprehension suffocates me.
We fill in the few compulsory forms common to all the hospitals in the world and after two or three hours, I drive her to her mums, close to our home.
She's still in shock, we need to monitor her for the next two days, in case of trauma, but other than that, it's fine.
I'm still in shock, it will last more than two days I think, but other than that, it's fine. She is alive.




Whilst organising our wedding, we re-contact many friends who we have more or less lost sight of. It had been three days that one of them was trying to contact us. So I take advantage of Geinor getting some sleep front of the fire to call her on her mobile. She is an actress, has a lot of talent, my age and I like her a lot.

"- Hello sweetie.
- Oh Jeffw! So how is it going in your whales country?
- Well, it could be better. Geinor just had an accident, we just returned from the hospital. I was very scared...
- Shit... Nothing serious?
- No. No, it should be fine. Thanks.
- So... nobody told you then?...
- No, what? "
And then she tells me that a year ago to the day, on the 20^th of May, her beloved Maxim, the man of her life, had a serious car crash... I'm speechless.

He died on a first of June. Yet, it was such a nice day that day...

The Messenger

 

~ Transcript of the audio-log of Foreman Gadsby Jackson, Mining Prospecting Team Leader for S.T.A.R* – Mission: Callisto I – 14/03/2183 – Callisto, 4th moon of Jupiter ~

> Last entry_
> Day 11_
> 03:34:22_
> Sender= G.Jackson_
> To: S.T.A.R_

… s thing on?

*Static and white noises*

*Low groan *

Hmpfff...

… To whoever will receive this message: CAUTION! This is not a Mayday call. I repeat: this is NOT a Mayday. This is a warning!
We are not alone. ... not alone...
... gnnn...

... Everything when to pot... The men are all... They all... I_

*Silence*

3 Earth Days ago, at 800 hour, we entered Jupiter's shadow. Two ED later, the night finally fell on this wretched rock ... and something woke. awakened
The men began to complain. They spoke of strange behaviour of other team mates... They began to distrust each other. paranoia Surely some paranoia due to isolation... Nevertheless, everything has degenerated rapidly. Mike launched the hypothesis of a contamination, but we did not realised... We couldn't see them! Aargh...

*Difficult breathing*

... the men started fighting... They... They all killed each other...

I haven't seen Kovalevski for at least 10 hours. I think I'm the last one. the first one

*Pause in the recording *

I know now that we have been attacked, not attacked we are not alone! not alone
I was 'stung' today... in the right shoulder. There's something in me. yes I can feel it moving... it's in the back of my neck. I_ Aaargh!... It hurts like a bitch... bitch?
I repeat: this is not a Mayday! This_ AAAah! This is an invitation! No! All problems here will soon be resolved. ... help... Everything will be back to normal, ready for your arrival. We are sorry for the few inconveniences caused. help me! But all of this was necessary to avoid future communication difficulties. So I repeat: come, no!... come, we have been waiting for you, for so long.
 

_

* Society of Transportation & Astro-Regulation : Consortium responsible for the regulation and delivery of natural resources throughout the solar system.

Disco Is Not Dead Twice

When life gives you Ian Fleming, make a Flemingnade...

           James woke up, a throbbing pain pulsating in his entire skull... Eyes closed, and despite the headache, he took a few moments to take in the situation, without giving any hint to a potential observer that he regained consciousness. He was firmly bound hand and foot to what seemed to be an examination table. He could feel the cold bite of the steel through his clothes. He could also discern a light humming, along the acrid smell of white-hot metal. “Oh not again...” thought 007.

He imperceptibly opened one eye. A blinding red glow confirmed his concerns.

He was restrained by heavy bracelets at his wrists and ankles. An industrial size laser, mounted on a rail above him, was already cutting through the two inches of surgical grade steel of the table, with a calculated slowness. A minute at best remained before the beam reached James' crotch.

He had been relieved of his Walter PPK but he was still wearing his white Tuxedo. He could also feel the reassuring weight of his Cartier watch at his left wrist ; the frisk must have been superficial, nobody had checked his pockets, to his advantage.

He must have moved without realising it...

- “Ah! Commander Bond.”

He recognised the voice immediately. Camilien St-Preux de l'Aiguillère ; the man behind the sprawling Media empire CaSPEr. An egocentric megalomaniac, drunk with power, coupled with a dangerous psychopath – James could vouch for it now – who became recently the object of the MI6's attention.

- "I'm glad you could join our little party ... "

His ruse being discovered, Bond opened his eyes.

By wringing his neck, he could see St-Preux, casually leaning on the railing of the three steps that led to the only exit. A huge double-door structure, which seemed out of place in this low windowless room.

- “Unfortunately, I am not staying ; I have previous engagements. I leave you to the expert hands of my faithful Bumblebee.” He made ​​a vague gesture towards his bodyguard, a huge Samoan man, with the face covered in tattoos, who gave him a toothless smile, while moving closer to the table.

- "I don't know if you are familiar with the process, but you should not miss a thing. The laser will only reach your vital organs in the sternum region. More time than needed to appreciate this little gadget. And no risk of draining you of your blood, the wound is cauterised instantaneously. You see, we do not do things by halves, if you'll pardon me the expression. "
No sardonic laugh punctuated the sentence. St. Preux never laughed.

James had the feeling that he had heard that exact same speech a dozen times before. These manic-megalomaniacs had really no imagination.

- “I understand. You don't split hairs when it comes to your guess.

- Hmm. Most amusing. I see that you keep your sense of humour, Commander Bond, even in desperate circumstances. In my case, it is just divide and rule.”, said he with a joyless smile, before leaving.

- “Adieu, Mister Bond.”, he added without turning around, while the door closed noiselessly behind him.

The beam was now less than an inch away from 007's male 'attributes'.
Bond remained impassive. He knew that he just had to look away at the crucial moment.
Now!

Suddenly, contact was made​​.

The concentrated ray of light seemed to ricochet in every corner of the room. The guard at the door was instantaneously cut in two in a perfect diagonal, from his left armpit to his right hip. Bumblebee collapsed, a single hole in the middle of the forehead, a split second before the laser exploded in a shower of electrical sparks.

It took only two minutes to Bond to pick the lock of his shackles, with the trusty set of picks he always kept in the lining of his cuffs. A habit that lasted since his time at Eton.

He will need new trousers. From the crotch of his tattered and singed Armani, a familiar sparkle sent him back the reflection of his piercing blue eyes. They had so often tried the laser cutting routine on him that James had eventually had surgically grafted a pair of mirrored small disco balls.