Week 5: Clues

As the waitress poured the last of the sparkling water at the other side of the table, Peter surveyed the guests one last time. There was a lot of silver hair and more women than he had expected. And Americans.

They had a private room in a semi-swanky restaurant and they could hear clinks of celebration and happiness from the other side of the wall.

Raymond Zilli spoke without warning. Everyone listened.

“You all know why we’re here. And let me say it’s an honour for me to be around this table with you. I just wish it was under different circumstances.”

The table muttered agreements.

A young American man, who Peter didn’t recognise, piped up.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr Zilli. I just wanted to say that.”

Zilli looked embarrassed, for himself and the youngster, and didn’t respond. He just looked around the table, half raising his glass of mineral water and said,

“Right, let’s get to work.”

They all shifted in their seats.

“Who’s first?”

Peter realised nobody had made Zilli leader. He just assumed he was. Everyone else did too.

Right on cue, the young American took the floor.

“We’ve been using a lot of cell phones. Texts, missed calls, that kind of thing.”

“How obvious” from under the breath of an accented woman at the far end of the table.

“Well at least we’re fucking trying. Who the fuck are you anyway?”

“Agnes, Agnes Neilson”

Peter couldn’t help smiling. The young American must have felt like a total idiot. He certainly looked like one.

He took it well though, to his credit.

“Miss Neilson, hello, I’m a big fan, I didn’t know you were coming.”

She nodded, blushing.

The young American sat back down and the meeting was back to square one.

Zilli resumed his unofficial role of chair.

“You were talking about cell phones, Zach”

That was Zach Jones? Fuck he was a younger than he thought. He must have started out when he was a teenager. Peter’s standing in this group (and his own head) was diminishing by the second.

Before Zach could respond Benny McCabe jumped in. Everyone knew Benny but nobody thought he would show. His presence added an old world gravitas to proceedings but his opinions probably wouldn’t add much.

“He was saying they’ve been using phones a lot. Text messages, missed calls, deleted numbers. I’ve seen them. Very clever but not original. We were doing phones and communication plots on Matlock 20 years ago. I came here today to let you in on a secret that I can’t believe you haven’t figured out on your own.”

Well this was certainly unexpected.

“Original clues are gone. Dead in the damn water. Used up on Matlock and Murder She Wrote. What you see on CSI Middle-of-the-Road is simply regurgitated. Vomit”

The room was stunned into silence. This was supposed to be a sharing of ideas type meeting.

“The crime series as a concept is dead ladies and gentlemen. I suggest you learn to write sci-fi”

And with that the starters began to arrive.

Week 4: Tribute

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It wasn’t what he had expected.

There was a table full of sandwiches, salad and crisps along the sidewall and in the corner, a smaller side table heaved under the weight of bottles of vodka and whisky. Along the floor cases of Coke and Red Bull were torn apart by the various hangers-on.

He was standing alone, tweeting and checking his emails. He mailed the office once or twice just to show he was working and updated Twitter a lot. Getting the tone right was tricky and required all his journalistic skill. He wanted his acquaintances to know just how bloody cool he was but he was also hoping to pick up some new, cooler, followers. His ‘Times’ Twitter account was one of his favourite things about the job. @RonnyTimes, oh yeah.

‘Hurts Adam rocking purple brogues #coolshoes’

Tweet.

Not perfect but it had got him one Favourite and a new follower in @HurtsFansUK

Hurts were a good one to get, current.

The room was busy but nobody was staying in the same place for long. Just him. He hadn’t moved from his spot since he arrived 25 minutes ago. That would change in a minute; he was ready for another drink.

A group email from the office, problems on the Victoria line.

The guys would be stuck in the station or on the train right about now. Or maybe they went to the pub to wait it out. Maybe Fee went? Dan would definitely be there. It would have been his idea. Whatever. Nothing would happen. And he would have loads to tell Fee in the morning.

A quick tweet.

Richard Hawley arrived but stayed away from the party. #oldpro #elderstatesman

No retweets. What harm, Hawley fans probably weren’t big on Twitter.

He got another drink giving a girl in the corner with cool pink hair a smile as he poured. No hi though, he didn’t want to be too forward. From the corner of his eye he spotted activity and grabbed his phone.

Paul Young and Noel Hogan (Cranberries) in the house and hitting the Jack. #whereisJarvis????

Back at his perch there was less space. Two older black guys had showed up and were chatting and laughing.

Retaking his space, but feeling less comfortable, he texted his boss, who was probably in the pub with Fee too.

Going well, slow start but will file in the morning.

Send.

Why did he send that? Fucking tit.

Phone back in the pocket. Buzz. Back out. A reply from Adam.

Great, thanks. Enjoy.

A sigh. The new arrivals’ chat got louder, they were talking about drums, and as they become more animated he lost more room. He downed his drink and committed to saying hello to that girl when he refilled. Then he caught the face. Older but the way he was talking and the way he was dressed, it could be no one else.

He interrupted (it was his job).

“Sorry to interrupt guys, but are you, Ini Kamoze?”

The older one beamed a grateful ‘Yes’.

“I didn’t see you on the bill. Man, I loved Hotstepper”

“Thank” he dropped his head in the direction of his friend. “You know Ezeke?”

“I don’t think so”

“The Man, Ezeke?”

“Pleased to meet you”

They laughed.

“I was a huge fan of Hotstepper”

“Man, stop on about that song. On about it, on about it. I’m talking to my friend about the place where I was birth”

“Would you mind if I took a photo?”

He didn’t tweet the snap but he would show it to Fee tomorrow.

The chat was too good not to tweet though;

Kicking with Ini Kamoze and his crew. Talk of drums and the homeland. Show starting in 30.

Time for that drink. The girl was gone. Replaced by a queue. He waited, poured, drank and poured again.

Sam Fox and Kim Wilde were catching up in the corner (he still would, both of them). Yes. This was it.

Out with the phone.

His Connect icon was lit up in successful blue. Fucking hell, @alexispetridis

had tweeted him.

@ronnytimes tweeting like he’s at Woodstock. #90sTribute

And below:

@CopyThatUK RT: @alexispetridis @ronnytimes tweeting like he’s at Woodstock. #90sTribute

@Factoclock RT: @alexispetridis @ronnytimes tweeting like he’s at Woodstock. #90sTribute

 @portishair @alexispetridis @ronnytimes here comes the namedropper murderer.

@caitlinmoran RT @portishair @alexispetridis @ronnytimes here comes the namedropper murderer.

@laurenlaverne @ronnytimes biggest show in town. #90sTRIBUTE #ronnytimes

@StephenFry  @ronnytimes #ronnystimemachine

 @Joey7Barton @ronnytimes what a twat

@Tracey_thorn Why the fuck was I not invited?

@footiefan RT @Joey7Barton @ronnytimes what a twat

@angryman RT @Joey7Barton @ronnytimes what a twat

He read and reread until the tannoy croaked into action. The voice of Bruno Brooks.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to take your seat and journey back in time. Get ready for the very special, the spectacular, the sensational, the 1990s TRIBUTE”

Week 4: Tribute

Tribute

“The only reason I’m going down there is to make sure that bitch is dead.” Steve tossed aside the copy of the Daily Mirror he had been reading and stared hard at his son, Steve junior (known to most as Stevie). “You’re too young to remember what she was like in her prime son, you don’t know the terrible things she did to people round here. She terrorised us lad, back when this was a working class neighbourhood and people used to actually belong to a community and go out into the street. All the public workers from the councillor down to the bloody postman lived in fear that it was going to be them next to feel her…”he grasped for a word, eventually settling on “wrath!” He emphasised this with a slap of his hand onto the rickety old coffee table in front of him. The cups rattled and a little bit of tea sloshed out into the saucers.

Stevie looked at the teacups and nodded. His dad was right, he didn’t really remember what she’d been like, and everything that had happened, but he’d been brought up to hate ‘that bloody bitch’ and he knew it was right, knew it in his Scouse bones.  “Yeah, you’re dead right dad. After everything she did.”

“I know what they’re saying, that you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. That just because you feared her, hated her even, doesn’t mean you can’t respect her.” Steve paused here, and seemed to ruminate, before continuing more quietly. “Maybe she does deserve some respect though, she’d never give up a cause once she had her mind set on it, I’ll give her that.” He sighed. The spark, the animation of passion seemed to have drained out of him now and to Stevie, just for a second, he looked like a tired old man.

 “Well, we’d better leave now if we want to get there in time, it’s a bit of a journey you know.” Steve junior tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice, but the senior Steven didn’t seem to have it in him anymore.

“Alright la, let’s go.”

*** 

When the two of them joined the crowd later that day they mingled with the people, from all walks of life, who had turned out for this special event. Stories were swapped and new ones told. Steve saw a man his own age, whom he recognised from the old neighbourhood, and ambled over to him. They nodded to each other, then stood and stared together to where a coffin was being brought out of a hearse. Steve broke the silence.

“It’s a pretty big turn out just for a dog though isn’t it? And, I mean, is it usual to have a funeral for a pet?”

The man nodded and drew his lips into a thin line. “Well, she was pretty special though wasn’t she? Remember the time she time she ripped the seat out of Derek Hatton’s suit when he was campaigning down our road?” They both laughed grimly at this. Then Steve seemed to perk up.

“Hey, isn’t there that other thing going on down in London today as well?” He smiled. “”We can probably catch a bit of it on the telly later.

Week 3 : Record

Record

She touched me on the palm, smiled

Like a radiant, heavenly, recalcitrant child

And gazed gaudy dreams from moon-wide eyes.

She tossed her hair.

‘Come with me if you dare’, said she

And laughed as sweetly to make the tide forget the sea.

So I took her hand and we left that night.

The sun and earth, wrapped in a red flag with a golden star,

shadows fleeting, a leveled scar

And a smoky flower on tan skin to kiss. In bliss.

Scenes play out reel by reel in my mind,

Like an old movie where the lovers always find

Each other, through wanton storms and tender discord;

I only wish, I could have pressed record.

Week 3: Record

That lid's rattling. It's rattling a lot actually.  
Did I add enough water?
Too much maybe.
I'll have a look at it after I've turned the chickens over.

Yeah, they look ok. 
HOT.
Don't lick your fingers or you'll get food poisoning.
Shitting all week.
Again. Ha, what a dick.

Is that burning? Hold on.
Where's the tea towel? 
Ok lets have a look.
Whoa... there's loads. 
Give it a stir. It's sticking. Fuck it's sticking.
Might have to get another pan out. Check that chicken too.

Bloody hell there's loads. I'll need to boil the kettle again.
Right lets split it.
I'll put half in this one, and leave this pot as is.
Turn the kettle on. 
There's too much for this pan. I'll get that other one out too.
The big one. Yeah, that'll do. It's clean too, great.

Ok, careful now, pour it in.
Looks like porridge. 
Looks like rice pudding.
Because it is rice you dick.
Dick.
Concentrate. Ok, half.
Wait, that's half of that second pot. 
Half and half and half.
How much is there now? Fuck me there's loads.

Get the naans out.
No wait, let's sort this out. Get that other pot down from the top cupboard.
Give it a quick swill first yeah. That's it nice. 
Pop it down there and turn those chicken over again. Quickly. 
Too late. Just turn them down then.
Just take them off the heat actually. Come back to them later.

Who's actually eating tonight? Just me, Ross, Mikey and Helen.
Ok then, I'll take some to work too.
Stop that lid rattling. It's pouring over the top.
Maybe I'll store some in the mugs until the rest is cooked.


The inner monologue of the man who accidentally cooked a world record amount of rice.

Author's note: I apologise for this being the most boring story ever written.

Week 3: Record

He waited for them. Another ten minutes. And then another ten, twenty, thirty, another fucking hour, he still waited.

Where the fuck are they? Fucking cunts. Another fag. More internet. Fucking Facebook. He was too old. Too old for perving. At his son’s friends on the piss at uni no less. Some rides there but.

He was on the clock so it was nothing to him. It was just the fucking waiting; the shitting, cunting, fucking sitting around for a bunch of dickhead fuckwits; that’s what got to him.

He rang the office but again, no answer. Cunts.

The wife had packed his lunch so the feet went up and the sandwiches came out. Egg. He stuffed his face. He was fat as fuck this weather but he’d stopped giving a shite years ago. The kids were grown, there was no sign of grandkids, he couldn’t play football anymore and he hardly ever fucked his missus so why shouldn’t he be fat?

Smelly farts from the egg. It would have been typical for that shower of miserable arseholes to show up just as he stunk the place out but they didn’t.

More waiting.

Pornhub. No wanking: just a watch of some filthy one. Younger than his daughter he thought. Too much. X out fucking quick-smart. Delete browsing history. Too old and fat even for porn now. It was shocking anyone in the business still wanted to work with him.

The last sandwich and a slug of Coke. More gas.

Maybe they weren’t coming. He felt like a right thick cunt for not realising that earlier. Sure why the fuck would they be, really. Did he ever think, honestly? The call had come out of the clear blue sky. He hadn’t questioned it. Dope.

He fingered a bit of egg that was caught in the corner of the lunchbox, gummed it and drained the Coke. Both were warm.

The buzzer from above and footsteps and banging. They were here. Hide the lunchbox and a spray of Lynx. Down they came, offering apologies. He waved them away and he slunk off to make tea.

Back in his chair he slurped and watched them set up. This lot were younger than his daughter and all.

A press of a button and the main one spoke to him, looking through the glass, looking like a kid.

“Mr Jenkinson, we”

“Call me Jenkin”

They liked that.

“Jenkin, we just wanted to say how much of an honour it is to work with you.”

“Thanks son. Now, get yourself comfortable and let me know ready to do your thing”

The light went off and he watched them look at each other, happy to be there. This could be good, he thought. A few adjustments later he got the nod. He leaned forward, raised a thumb and pressed the red button on the right:

RECORD.

Week 3 prompt: Record