I Never Did See Battle

The night spent sleeping in a Prius in the car park of the King’s Arms in Frating was warmed by the generosity of the patrons in that village pub. In the morning I arrived, by walking and hitching along the A120, at a Premier Inn outside Colchester where I took breakfast. From there I had gotten to Enfield, then Slough, and eventually to Bexhill. Eager to visit the site where King Harold II fell on my way back north, I began to inspect the BMW as the air felt suddenly cool: a salty scent; thunder, like a raised cudgel, caused me to flinch; the warm rain spattered off the concrete like sparks from an angle grinder.

            Dismissing the inspection and hastily acquiring a signature, I drove away without attaching my trade plates and made it to Middlewich before an observant policeman pulled me over.

I never did see Battle.

Providence

Having failed to hitch for over two hours outside Thorne, I was picked up by a thin, balding man in an HGV. Wiping the rain from my brow, I entered the cab without caring where he was headed which was, as it happened, his depot just off the M18 outside Sheffield. He had to drop me, though, at the junction so as not to ‘get done’ for having unauthorised passengers. Then I noticed he was wearing a black pleated miniskirt, his legs like woolly breadsticks exposed as though trousers were for fools. The clouds had broken and I was gladly purblind in the sunset.

            In twilight, he pulled into a gravel driveway, explaining that this was as far as he could take me and wishing me all the best. My thanks were as swift as my exit. He remained there a minute, perhaps changing into something less weird.

After circumambulating the busy junction for my bearings, I wrestled with my rucksack to find my A-Z. Too far from Leeds where I have friends, too unfamiliar with Rotherham, I decided to hitch into Sheffield where I might catch a train to Stockport.

            A futile endeavour.

            In darkness I tramped four miles along the A630. My sore eyelids blinked at the tower of a Morrisons looming over distant trees like a mirage. That big green ‘M’ was a beacon.

I washed my face in the gents, bought fags and apples, mumbled something of desperate gratitude to an insouciant cashier, and sat outside alternately smoking and eating for an hour.

Reluctance

In Bridgwater, a colleague and I took a hire car in which we were to collect another colleague in Glastonbury and another in Westbury. Two of these I was to drop in separate parts of London before taking the third to Walton-on-the-Naze and returning to Hemel Hempstead. With only sideways glimpses of the Tor, the White Horse, Stonehenge, I smoked a cigarette beneath a full moon, flicked the amber end into the black North Sea. The satisfying fizz, the filter bobbing on the breakers at my feet, I turned my back to the beach.

Tortured by Industry

The first car I collected was a BMW from nearby Tilston, a cobbled red-brick village decorated with greenery, history and affluence. This I drove to auction in Doncaster where I was then directed to Kirk Sandall, just a train station away.

            On the train, young men in oiled blue overalls and tatty beards told jokes in poor taste.

            I alighted into a neo-Dickensian scene of grubby metal bridges and buildings bleeding rust, tortured by industry; coarse umber grass just surviving beside razor wire, the exposed rail track, and broken pavements. Diesel-choked, oil-spattered stunted trees tried to grow there.

            Leaving in an Audi on that Monday afternoon, I wondered how many days would pass before I went home.

Every day I thank Jesus

Every day I thank Jesus

For protecting me from mentally unstable gorillas.

That my feet bare no resemblance to Godzilla's.

For a humanoid face and not a lump of dog shit instead.

For having hair, and not snakes, on my head.

For the more amusing animals such as really ugly fish.

That my arse ain't the size of  a satellite dish.

That my fingers are not the same size and shape as a blue whale's cock.

That my tongue fits in my mouth and doesn't flap about like a windswept sock.

That my legs aren't a compound of mashed potatoes and cheese.

That I can't produce feces from my nose when I sneeze.

For the fact that a hippo's not bitten me in two.

For the manageable sizes of my stools when I poo.

For the fact that my bones don't dissolve in the rain.

That my voice doesn't sound like a camel in pain.

That I'll never remember my birth; that'd suck.

That nobody's surgically implanted a duck

Into my chest whilst being asleep;

Or substituted my brain with the arse of a sheep.

That a rabid baboon hasn't smashed me to pieces.

For all these nice things, thank you, Jesus.

Smithers-Jones: An Analysis

Here we go again, it's Monday at last, – 3^rd Person Narrative
He's heading for the Waterloo line
To catch the 8 a.m. bus, it’s usually dead on time,
Hope it isn't late, have to be there by nine.[1]
Pin stripe suit; clean shirt and tie;
Stops off at the corner shop to buy The Times.[2] 
'Good Morning, Smithers-Jones.[3] - Addressing SJ (1)
'How's the wife at home?[4]
'Did you get the car you've been looking for?' (x2)[5]  

Let me get inside you, let me take control of you. – 1^st Person Narrative
We could have some good times,
All this worry will get you down.
I'll give you a new meaning to life - I don't think so.[6]

Sitting on the train, you're nearly there.[7] – 2^nd Person Narrative
You're part of the production line.
You're the same as him, you're like tinned-sardines.[8]
Get out of the pack before they peel you back.

Arrive at the office, spot on time,
The clock on the wall hasn't yet struck nine.[9]
'Good Morning, Smithers-Jones,[10] – Addressing SJ (2)
'The boss wants to see you alone.
'I hope it’s the promotion you've been looking for' (x2)

'Come in, Smithers old boy.[11] – Addressing SJ (3)
'Take a seat, take the weight off your feet.
'I've some news to tell you:[12]
'There's no longer a position for you;[13]
'Sorry, Smithers-Jones.' 

Put on the kettle and make some tea, – Return to 2^nd Person Narrative
It's all a part of feeling groovy.
Put on your slippers turn on the TV,
It's all a part of feeling groovy.
It's time to relax, now you've worked your arse off
But the only one smilin' is the sun-tanned boss.[14]
Work and work and work and work till you die
‘Coz there's plenty more fish in the sea to fry.  

---

[1] Sets the scene in 3^rd person narrative. Puts reader alongside SJ in rush hour of London. Use of the word ‘again’ is first suggestion of repetition and routine.

[2] Introduces protagonist as white collar worker of lower middle-class, the favoured protagonist of modernist/sensationalist literature (Note protagonists of: Collins, Wilkie; Stoker, Bram; Wells, H. G.; Orwell, George).

[3] Introduces dialogue (unreciprocated, see note 5).

[4] Conclusion of story will affect others besides protagonist.

[5] Speaker is an unobservant one as SJ would not be taking the bus/train if so. Classic small talk justifies the unanswered questions in that we can likely guess SJ’s responses. The fact that we hear no responses from SJ to these questions is part of the author’s intent to portray him as a man without a voice, someone content to allow others, including us (the reader), to speak for him. And not just without a voice, but without a first name. We see nameless, voiceless people in society daily and here we follow the story of one, seemingly selected arbitrarily. Line also hints at consumerist/materialist culture.

[6] Stanza shifts narrative into first person, presumably addressing SJ. Final statement, however, suggests an internal monologue – possibly a thought from an unsympathetic author.

[7] Narrative shifts again into second person. Multiple perspectives are used to show SJ through numerous perceptions of him. London is a busy place, SJ is exposed to numerous observers, which is what author is here reflecting in narrative shifts. The 3^rd person narrator appears to state the facts only, as though pragmatic or not wishing to interfere whereas 1^st person narrative appears to view SJ as a failure who is easily and succinctly dismissed. 2^nd person narrative, however, appears to be ridiculing SJ whilst simultaneously urging him to take matters into his own hands. ‘Start doing what you want to do’, this narrator seems to say. Poor SJ is being passed around from one hand to another without really putting up any resistance.

[8] This line shows SJ as a conformist. The simile evokes a mass-produced uniformity of people without a voice and possibly dead inside.

[9] Line indicates the routine SJ adheres to on a daily basis and the futility of this routine as will be illustrated in subsequent stanza.

[10] Introduction of third character, a colleague of SJ. This misleading proponent provides the fulcrum of the story in that they present the reader (and SJ) with the prospect of change, the twist in the tale if you like. The change is engineered by this proponent in his/her speech. The important word in this section is ‘hope’ because it evokes the perception that SJ is worthy of something more than is his lot. The suggestion also of a ‘promotion’ as something SJ has ‘been looking for’ portrays him as someone with ambitions and dreams, however small. The reader, having now gotten to know him a little better, is rooting for SJ as he engages in the crescendo of his story: ‘The boss’, SJ’s antagonist, places SJ at a disadvantage. He is the underdog.

[11] The greeting is ambivalent in that by addressing SJ by the first element in his surname, the boss maintains a formal attitude, but by following this with the epithet ‘old boy’ (evoking the boss’s class: I imagine it as Etonian), the boss has cleverly and immediately conjured up an informal attitude. This would disorientate SJ, and the reader, and keep us guessing as to what happens next – a miniature cliff-hanger, if you will. ‘Take a seat’ is again formal whilst ‘take the weight of your feet’ is informal. The boss is taking us for a ride, fat bastard. Can you imagine him with a big cigar? Capitalist wanker.

[12] This is it. The climax of the story. The boss is about to contribute something momentous to both the story and to the protagonist. What we might call a ‘bombshell’.

[13] This could have gone either way. If the boss had delivered the line ‘I have got a promotion for you’, he would have given SJ his happy ending. As it is, however, the boss has introduced a tragic realism to the story. We feel for SJ whom we have followed from the beginning and ‘hoped’ that he would get what he deserves. Now there will be no car and we are forced to conjecture how his ‘wife at home’ will take the news. Furthermore, the boss’s apology, ‘Sorry, Smithers-Jones’ seems insufficient and fabricated.

[14] Here we return to the same voice of the 2^nd person narrator, the one that seemed to be most sympathetic toward SJ. Again the narrator is urging, or instructing, SJ to forget about what had happened; life goes on, the world is full of horrible bastards that you can’t fight so why bother? Do what you want, SJ, every fucker else does. Please yourself.

The story asks the question ‘What is the point of all this conformity?’. Although the story ends on a cliché (‘plenty more fish in the sea’, reprising the sardine analogy – a fish is a mindless creature identical to its fellows) it is an apt one with the strong message of anti-assimilation, SJ’s dismissal being a chance to re-invent himself etc., etc…

Be Careful What You Fish For

Derek was seated one cloudy Friday morning in the office with his back to the magnolia wall, upon which hung a blue baize notice board, bits of unread literature pinned here and there. It had rained and a smell like wet dog lingered, making him feel sick despite his stomach gurgling and aching with emptiness. He had had no breakfast this day either. He thought of the crisps and the yoghurt in his drawer, and that they would be best saved for later when he was really hungry.

            He was hungry because his salary barely covered his accumulated expenses and debts incurred through online gambling.

            Since he was a boy, Derek believed the world would one day give him greatness. ‘I’m gonna build bridges,’ he’d say. ‘I’m gonna climb mountains.’ He threw a plank of wood over a stream once (he and some friends had bounced on it until it broke) and the closest he had come to a mountain was rolling down a sand dune at Talacre Beach.

            As he did his best to concentrate on his work, wondering if he would ever get a permanent contract and a raise in pay, Derek puffed out his cheeks and exhaled in an almost audible sigh-cum-growl. The dark rings beneath his eyes made him look older than his twenty-seven years. His hair was getting long, people in offices always notice when things look untidy. They mostly left him alone but Derek was certain they spoke about him. Dissatisfied in many ways, Derek kept a low profile, apart from the unkempt hair, and hoped that the hours would quickly pass so he could get home and eat whatever things remained at the back of the freezer.

            During lunch, his phone blorked. It was a text from Clare whom he’d been dating for about a fortnight. They had arranged to see Shakespeare in the park at the weekend followed by a walk around the castle and the Roman walls (none of these were Derek’s preferred past-times, but if he played his cards right, treated her nicely, they might end up in a little B&B) but she had to cancel, said her sister was ill.

            ‘Fucking great,’ Derek thought. Yoghurt dripped on to his tie as he read, but he didn’t notice.

            Others did. They always do.

Derek’s sister called that evening to see if he would take seven-year-old Joey to the fair on Saturday – Tim’s mother isn’t too well – but not to worry if he already had plans.

            ‘Actually, I don’t. I mean I did, but they got cancelled. Besides, I could do with a bit of fun.’

            ‘Great, I’ll drop him around twelve? And thanks...’

Little Joey was superdooper-excited to be hanging out with his best Uncle Derek. His mum says Uncle Derek has a cool job in the city where he has to wear a suit because it’s very important. Maybe they’ll win a football or a fish doing hook-a-duck. Little Joey would love a fish. That would be superdooper.

Derek reminisced as he and Joey wandered hand in hand among pleasant smells: hot dogs, onions, and candy floss. The lights were bright, the music was loud, and children ran around followed by their parents in wellington boots. Derek laughed with Joey in the fun house; waved at him on the spaceships; took photos with his smartphone and forgot, or didn’t care, how much the day was costing. It was certainly cheaper than al fresco Shakespeare anyway. Joey noticed some other kids with a goldfish in a clear plastic bag.

            ‘Ooh,’ he said, his eager face was as bright as sunlight on water. ‘Can you win me a fish, Uncle Derek?’

            ‘I can certainly try, little buddy.’

            Joey bounced as he led his uncle to the hook-a-duck stall where a plump and elderly lady greeted them. ‘What a handsome young man,’ she observed. The woman wore a torn black gilet with silver pin badges arranged along each lapel like scales. She spoke in husky Irish.

            ‘Thanks very much,’ Derek replied, smiling.

            ‘I was talkin’ to the boy, you silly sausage. Three tries for a pound: find the number one and you win a fish.’

            Joey could not contain his excitement. Uncle Derek paid the fee and helped him to control the hook on a pole as long as Joey. The first duck concealed a number three; the second a number eight; but the third had a number one beneath it.

            ‘Yay! We won, Uncle Derek. We won!’

            ‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ the old lady said. ‘That’s a number seven. Better luck next time.’

            Derek did not care to see the face of his nephew so quickly change from joy to sadness. The boy’s bottom lip dropped as tears welled and threatened to burst.

            ‘Lady, I want the damned fish.’

            ‘I’m sorry, son. It’s a seven. You’re welcome to try again.’

            ‘It’s a one. Give me the fish.’ Derek leaned forward to take the duck from the end of the pole just as the old lady did the same. He tripped on a clod of kicked-up earth, stumbling forward and catching the stall holder in the mouth. Her lip bled and she fell backward into the mud from where she glared at Derek.

            ‘Oh, you’ll get your fish,’ her husky voice had taken a menacing, threatening tone. ‘In that same hand with which you struck an old woman, you’ll get your fish.’

            Derek stuttered a frightened apology and turned to leave, pulling little Joey by the arm as he did so. People moved out of his way; the children pointed, staring with open mouths. Derek lost his grip on Joey’s arm. When he looked to see how, in place of his right hand was the head of a large fish, flopping from side to side and gasping for air. He fainted. Joey screamed. And the elderly lady from the stall grinned as she dabbed the blood from her lip.