Some years ago I was asked to write an essay concerning the content of my pockets. This is it:

What Has it Got in It’s Pocketss’s

In my shirt pocket, where it is handy, is a syringe, containing five millilitres of a rather pretty golden liquid. It is interesting to consider that whether or not this is a little or a lot depends entirely on what it is and what it is for. Now, if this golden liquid were whisky, then this would not be nearly enough. If however, it were say, Botulinum toxin in its purest form, then it would be enough to sterilise the British Isles of animal life which is almost certainly too much. We shall return to the syringe later.

I am a pathetic, absent minded shambles of a man. I really am. If, by chance, you are one of those fascistically ordered freaks who tic-toc their lives from some geometrically ordered mental desk whilst light glints silver cold from your spectacles, then you would weep on close examination of much of my life. I misplace and lose things with a frequency that would startle you. In all probability, you own something which was once mine. You can keep it. I’ll have bought another by now. Several, I expect. These are the reasons I do not carry a bag or wallet. Pockets are best; I have never yet, however drunk, returned home sans trouser.

Perversely, because I am aware of my limitations, I have over a number of years beaten and trained myself to an almost psychotic level of compulsion always to have my regular paraphernalia in allotted places about my clothing. I am quite obsessive about this, so much so that if you were to shout out the name of any of the objects mentioned herein, I would reflexively slap the appropriate pocket. If you caught me unawares and shouted them out one after another quickly enough, then I would appear to perform body percussion. I am thus able to remember where things are in my clothing when I need them in the same way as I am able to remember where my ears and nose are when they itch. This behaviour, eccentric though it is, is ingrained so as to try to present an image of tolerable personal order to the world rather than have me staggering around, Columbo-like, with flies open and one shoe on.

This obsessive attitude to pockets does have its disadvantages. In my left jacket pocket there is a bus ticket. This is always where bus tickets live. It is their place. It is written. (Train tickets are a different can of pop. When I have them they live in my shirt pocket.) If, however, as I step confidently onto a bus, reaching suavely into the left pocket, I find no bus ticket, then I experience a level of disorientation and panic only a lost four year old in a shopping centre far from home could understand. Luckily, also in my left pocket is my telephone, so I can always call for help if the bus driver shouts at me, or puts me in prison, or whatever it is I expect him to do in that moment of pathetic terror.

It is odd that my telephone should be there anyway, as its place is actually in mister right jacket pocket. The universe is fickle today; perhaps I’m not as bad as I thought. I am, luckily, ambidextrous and so can listen with either ear. Ah yes, the reason for the change of pocket is that the right one is full of painkilling tablets and a ‘Ripper’ DVD. These two are unrelated and incidental. I realise that to someone who didn’t know me, these items taken in context with the syringe might appear sinister, but all is explicable and innocent; I do not sedate and mutilate prostitutes whilst in the throes of a slavering migraine blackout. That is provable fact. The ‘Ripper’ belongs to a friend, for whom I was holding it and the tablets are for any hangovers I might stumble upon. To the syringe, I shall, as I say, shortly come. There is also some change in this pocket because that is where I put it after purchasing the prostitutes. Did I write prostitutes? I meant, of course, tablets.

In the inside pocket of my coat is an ID card with my picture on it. This is not a Blairbadge, it is merely for work. Now I come to look at it, the picture does rather make me look as though I’m being arrested for mutilating prostitutes but can’t see what all the hoo hah is about.

This philosophy of the pocket, or philosophie de la poche as it should probably be termed, in order to pretend someone like Voltaire thought of it and lend it credence, I find flawed. Does the manner in which we distribute the ephemera of our modern life around our persons really lay bare the degree and colour of the significance we attach to them? Are my credit cards really in my left inside pocket because money is close to my heart, or could it perhaps be that all cashpoints are right handed and I don’t want my cards artful-dodgered into the pocket of some tiddly-fingered thieving little shit? Because my house keys are in my right trouser pocket near my genitals, do I necessarily want to have sex with my flat? My back pockets are empty, what does that mean? Are the comfort regions of my being empty and without purpose? Am I a latent homosexual? I think perhaps we look a little too deeply into some things; if you look hard enough in a jam buttie mine, you’ll probably find a jam buttie.

Funny, I had no idea how to start this, but now I can’t stop thinking about pockets. Even the contemporary Neolithic tribes of Papua New Guinea have pouches to carry the poison for their arrows – ah, now that reminds me, the syringe……..

Random short story.

     Frankenstein II

My dear sister,

As you foretold, I indeed became trapped in the frozen wastes of the north. You were, as ever, wise beyond your years and I only wish now I had listened when you said I was a "Fucking idiot" for driving a Halfords lorry in Scotland in winter, and it was, as you predicted "Halfway up some shitarsed mountain" where I met my fate, and became stuck in the snow and ice over the whole bank holiday weekend. You were wrong, however, in one respect, as the fault was not entirely my own. I would, blizzard notwithstanding have made it all the way up Ben Griam Beg if I had not stopped to help a stranger in distress. I will own that under the circumstances my shortcut off the B871 to make the Achiemore branch before Friday closing was perhaps unwise. The A871 with hindsight would - I digress, mere travellers jargon, of no interest to you.

The stranger I mentioned appeared out of the blizzard near the summit. He was oddly dressed, as for motor racing and was staggering and raving with exhaustion and cold. He was waving pliers and when I left the cab to help him, I saw the reason. Pulled off the road and raised on a jack which I noted was unsuitable for the purpose was a 1974 Ford Cortina. Curiously, given the unholy weather, It had no windows and had a roughly painted number 66 beneath the legend "Bilston Bastards". It was only after I had helped him into the warmth of the cab, me almost freezing and he muttering about "Ford special tools", and revived him with a flask of tea and my special lorry drivers brandy and red bull that the stranger introduced himself as Victor and recounted his fantastic tale which I shall record as best I can in his own words.

"I was born in Geneva," he said, "but was educated at the University of Ingolstadt in Germany, where I became a doctor. Unfortunately, at the end of my studies, there was some unpleasantness when I made a giant creature out of dead people. This made everyone angry. Then the creature became angry when I would not make a lady creature. Then my wife became very angry indeed because he killed her, and this made me furious. Ingolstadt, as I recall was a very aggressive place in those days. They wanted to burn me. I left in order to pursue the creature to the North Pole. The North Pole is not such an aggressive place, but it is very big and very cold, and I could not find him. I also became very cold and less furious, and when I was less furious I remembered I had made the creature over eight feet tall and so decided not to look for him anymore.

I could not go back home because everyone was still very angry and wanted to burn me, so I went to England and moved to Dudley because it had a castle which I was able to rent. Unfortunately my funds were running low and I had left for the North Pole without my medical certificate. Having some mechanical abilities and lots of space in my castle I opened a garage and began mending cars. I became successful and met many friends in the Four Furnaces in Pensnett where the car mechanics drank. The barmaid was very pretty and soon we were in love and she became my wife. I was very happy.

Then came the fateful day when my fellow mechanics took me to Birmingham to watch the banger racing. Oh the excitement, the destruction, the sheer animal thrill. Thus began my new obsession. I, Victor Frankenstein, would build a banger racer, the like of which would make the world draw its breath. I had been wasted in medicine, this was what I had been born to do. In secret I purchased a 2.2 litre Austin Ambassador and set to work. They were dark and unholy nights, doing evil business with furtive oil blackened men of the worst kind, being chased over the fences of moonlit tat yards by snarling dogs, stealing parts from old ladies cars. I lost weight and grew a beard, I ignored my wife and slept little. When I did sleep, I muttered. It was wonderful, it was like the old days only better because it was partially legal.

Finally, one night, my work was complete. It was before me. My creation. A thing of magnificence raised by me from the rain soaked charnels of countless tat yards, bastardized, welded and bolted into pure mechanical sculpture. It only remained to turn the key. I did so, trembling like a madman, and the 2.2 litre Austin roared. I was elated. "It's Running!" I screamed and fainted from excitement, exhaustion and carbon monoxide.

Then Horror! The creature returned to me that Friday evening, the night before my first race. I was very drunk in the Four Furnaces when behind me a glass broke, and a voice cried "You spilled my - Fucking hell, sorry mate." I turned and the creature stood before me, eight feet tall and dripping with rain and Banks's mild ale, an accusing finger raised.

"Victor!" The terrible voice from the past was unbearable, "I have returned, to destroy once more everything of importance to you. You will be forever in torment, this I promise!" and he was gone. I suppose with hindsight I should have taken more notice of this, but I was very drunk so I just went home.

The next day was the day of the race, in Birmingham All day I kept a suspicious eye out for enormous creatures in the crowd, but saw none, and, joy of joys, I won the race! My machine was unveiled, it pissed all over everyone else’s and they cheered! I was a success and no one wanted to burn me. I was very happy.

My joy was short lived. During the celebrations, someone tapped me on the shoulder, "Mate, that bloke's pinching your car."

It was true, an enormous figure was squeezing into the drivers seat and starting the engine. It was the creature. He drove toward the exit, once more annihilating my life, everything I had worked for. Things could not be worse.

Then as he drove past me he called in his terrible voice, "I've topped your wife again as well!"

That did it. Once more furious I leapt into that piece of shit Cortina and pursued the monster north."

That, my sister was his story, excepting the part which I saw with my own eyes. When the blizzard abated on the Monday, I was able to lend him the Halfords equivalent of the Ford special tool he needed and, in a frenzy of madness, he set to the Cortina. As he finished up and was sensibly tightening the wheel nuts, the scream of an engine approached and an Austin Ambassador sped past. Out of the window I heard someone shout "Up your bum Frankenstein!" With a howl of fury Victor leapt into the Cortina and backfired away in a cloud of smoke. That was the last I saw of him.

I mused long on the drive to Achiemore, on the nature of the dark side of mans soul, on what circumstances may drive a fallen angel to become such a malignant devil.

Still, it's a funny old world.

For Tom, whose weltenschaung has outgrown his drinking habits.

The Reassessment of the Wulfschlacht

In the middle of a square in the middle of a market in the middle of a village

A wulfschlacht danced,

The tip of its tail painted with honey

And just out of reach of its teeth.

The crowd applauded and cheered until

Exhausted and maddened the wulfschlacht stopped

And ate the meat, thrown as a reward.

Next day a crowd gathered, as usual.

"I will not dance for you," said the wulfschlacht,

"Why do you always want me to dance?"

An old man shrugged, not hiding his disappointment

"In this place, in these times, people like to see a wulfschlacht dance," he said.

The wulfschlacht was firm

"Well I will not dance," it said, "you'll just have to fund something else to do."

It ground its teeth and scowled, to show it was serious

And the crowd dispersed, grumbling, to find other entertainment

Leaving the old man and the wulfschlacht.

"Wait," said the latter, "where is my meat, I am hungry?"

"You would not dance," said the old man, "no dancing, no fresh meat."

He turned and walked away.

"But what will happen to me?" the wulfschlacht cried, "What will I do now?"

"I don't know," called the old man,

"What do other wulfschlachts do?"

Short story, For Gemma who refused to write me a story.

In the corner of a room, in a house, in a village, deep in the green country, an old lady, as young as the autumn sunshine that spilled over the stone floor, sat down at a table opposite a

small girl who was busy arranging something tidily into the shape of something she had just thought of. The old lady made the sort of noise that old ladies everywhere make when they sit down, a kind of “ooof...” noise. The little girl looked at her with a great deal of affection, for she was her grandmother and this was appropriate.

“Granny,” she said with a tone that suggested a great deal of thought, “Was I named after you or mummy?”

“Ah!” The old lady leaned her elbows on the table and folded her hands. The breeze paused in the trees and the garden stopped to listen through the open window.

“Ah, Gemma, Gemma, Gemma. I was wondering when this would come up.” She pursed her lips and the little girl pursed backat her.

“What do you remember about your mother?”

“I remember she was very tidy, even tidier than you.” The kitchen was, indeed, immaculate.

“Yes, and do you remember what happened to her, you were very young?”

The little girl looked sad as she remembered, “She was so tidy that the doctors came and tidied her away somewhere so tidy that she would always be happy.”

“That's right, and that's why you're not named after your mother, because we don't want that happening again do we?”

“No granny. Does that mean I'm named after you?”

“Ah, no, and that's because – do you remember your father, Alan?”

“Yes. Was he named after granddaddy Alan?”

“No, but that's another story. Your father didn't want you named after me because of how I am with the drink.”

“You are a devil for the drink granny. How did I get my name then?”

“Well, to tell you that I have to tell you a story about another Gemma.”

“You mean - “

“No, not the Gemma you're thinking of, this is another Gemma.”

The little girl's eyes widened with added interest. “You mean Evil Gemma?”

“Yes, but you don't know why Evil Gemma was called Evil Gemma do you?”

“No, you've always said I was too young. Did she kill someone?”

“She didn't kill anyone, not really.”

“Was she cruel to animals?”

“Worse.”

“What can be worse than being cruel to animals?”

“She wouldn't write a story.”

“That's ridiculous, not writing a story can't make you evil, how could it?”

“Consequences.” The old lady sighed, “everything has consequences. Do you remember learning about the end of the world?”

“When Lord Cameron sacked everyone and there was no one left to stop the Earth heating up until the seas boiled and nearly everything died?”

“Yes, before the ice age that finished finished nearly everything else off. Well that didn't have to happen. There was one man, so the stories say, who could have stopped it.”

“You haven't told me about him, he sounds fascinating, who was he?”

“He was a scientist who worked with Evil Gemma.”

“On the Eighth Circle of Hell?”

“That's right, but he wasn't like someone you'd normally find there, he was a childlike innocent, pure of heart and unsoiled by the cynicism of the world.”

“Well how could he have stopped the end of the world?”

“You may well ask. The reason he was such a good man was that it was his destiny from birth to rise up and defeat Lord Cameron and stop the end of the world so that all the people and animals could live in peace with no boiling seas or ice age.”

“Everyone could have been saved? What happened? Why didn't he do it?”

“Well, when it came down to it, he couldn't be bothered.”

“But that's terrible, surely he's the evil one?”

“Ah no, it wasn't his fault, all he needed was inspiration, that's where the story would have been so important.”

“You mean it was the story that should have inspired him?”

“Yes. Evil Gemma had promised him a story and so his innocent, childlike mind was prepared for it with the eagerness of a newborn lamb first seeing its mother.”

“But the story never came?”

“No, Evil Gemma never wrote the story, no one knows why.”

“Perhaps she wanted the world to end.”

“That's what people say, but who knows. In any event, where the poor man should have been inspired to save the world by an uplifting and heartwarming tale, instead his spirit was broken and history forgets him after that.”

“He probably took up golf or something like that.”

“More than likely.” The old lady stood up and moved to the sink to fill the kettle. “At any rate, that's why you're called Gemma. That's why we're all called Gemma.”

“I think I understand. It's so we don't forget. Will I call my daughter Gemma?”

“Yes.” The old lady lit the stove and looked out of the window. “We must never forget.”

“Never,” said the girl, feeling a little older than she had when she awoke that morning.

Outside, the breeze shifted the leaves.