Vaughan Humphries's Blog

101 Britannian Nights

Praise be to God for the blessing He has bestowed upon me, and I humbly submit myself to you as His messenger for the purposes of the lesson that is about to follow. For it is well recognised that experience is the cruellest of all teachers for it sets the test first and teaches the lesson second. It is from my experience and from that of my contemporaries I sincerely hope that for the generations who follow us, you can learn from the error of our ways and be able to forgive those who have not.

It was on the anniversary of the Great Challenge that I found myself staring into the sunken hollow eyes of the Devil himself as I prepared to fail, but not through lack of failing to prepare. A deep sense of calm enveloped me as I came to terms with accepting my humiliating fate. A full year prior I was in the company of my family and nearest friends at a local hostelry; celebrating the dawn of the New Year when our festivities were disturbed by the arrival of an unwelcome visitor, who dared disturb the sanctity of our private party. The door swung open with great violence, briefly exposing us to the howling gale and driving rain that was a cruel reminder of the bleak weather we were enduring, in what could be described as the wettest winter in living memory. The warmth of the log fire could not put down the blast of chilly air that penetrated the inn, with fellow punters pointing an accusing finger at the stranger, remarking that he was of such an ilk that he was clearly a person born in a barn among the animals.

The stranger roared with laughter at their howls of protestations, seemingly fuelled by the lugubrious atmosphere he created and cast an eye over his surroundings, the revellers spellbound as a captive audience.

���You dare mock me?��� he bellowed, the short sentence barely masking his Gaelic dialect. ���I challenge ye to a contest of sorts. I throw down my gloves and demand to know if there is someone here who is man enough to accept?���

True to his word, he threw down his gloves; well almost threw down. His gloves fell to the floor, making a loud slapping noise as they lay prone.

The punters turned their backs on him and resumed their conversations, embarrassed at the events that had transpired.

���You.��� The giant man spoke once more, his index finger tracing an arc across the room, punctuating directly at me. ���I know you.���

���Of course you do, Uncle.��� I replied, the warmth of my growing embarrassment heating the now cold air. Thankfully, apart from special occasions, it was but once or twice a year that the disgrace of the family would make a pilgrimage to visit his relatives.

���Will you accept my challenge?���

The Innkeeper looked over in my direction to enquire whether he should call the local constabulary to forcibly eject the intruder. I indicated my response by briefly pointing at my uncle, followed by holding an imaginary glass, repeatedly lifting said ethereal glass to my lips and then drawing my face into something resembling a person who was incapable of coherent speech. The innkeeper nodded in understanding but explained to us that my uncle was unwelcome here because of his inappropriate behaviour and that we ought to encourage him to vacate the premises immediately. This did not go down particularly well with our party, but as the adage goes ���you can pick your neighbours, but you cannot pick your family.��� Blood, it seems, does run thicker than water, wine and beer.

Our plans now changed on account of my uncle���s actions, we left the inn and made our way back to our house, which was thankfully a short distance away. Between my wife and I, we could just about manage to carry the deadweight of the great behemoth, who took great exception at being ejected from the premises. The rest of our family looked on disapprovingly, their caustic comments barely audible over the rain. Following our marathon effort to return to our abode, we surprised ourselves by squeezing in nigh on twelve people into a humble dwelling and all before nigh on twelve o���clock.

The fresh air had clearly reinvigorated the old chap and he issued his challenge to all and sundry once again. ���Will anyone accept my challenge?��� A murmur of discontent was rumbling in the background and to placate the old man, I stepped up to his challenge.

���What do you ask of me?��� I said, humouring him. My wife cast me a look of horror, shaking her head from side to side in a mute warning not to accept his challenge.

���I am willing to wager you the sum of fifty pounds that I can hold my head under water for five minutes.��� He said in a suddenly serious and chilling tone.

���Fifty pounds is quite the wager.��� I replied.

���Do ye think I don���t have the funds to substantiate such a claim?��� He pulled a series of crumpled notes and laid them on the table as an offering for me to do likewise.

The rest of my family became animated and boisterous, encouraging me to take him up on his challenge, laughing at his apparent stupidity, reassuring me that it was going to be the easiest money I had ever made.

���Go on then.��� I replied, fuelled on by the support from my extended family and confident in the thought that I would soon be fifty pounds richer. My uncle looked me square in the eye and without further ado, went across to the sink and turned the tap on, only to fetch a pint glass and fill it up. We watched in mute amazement as he sat down and balanced the glass on top of his head, indicating that he wanted a spectator to time the spectacle. Five minutes passed and I knew that I had been beaten. I could not renege on my agreement and begrudgingly admitted defeat. My uncle roared with laughter and took my money from me, adding it to his own and putting it back in his pocket. There was no way that I could have refused to settle the wager. It was my own poor interpretation of his words that had filled me with confidence and to not pay up would look particularly bad in front of my family.

���Never mind lad.��� He said with an expression that could not hide his satisfaction in victory. ���You can try next year to win your money back if you spend the Christmas break with us back home, double or quits.��� Rather than receive this as an invitation, I took this to mean that he was issuing another challenge, confident that he could fool me twice. Suitably chided, I offered my hand in defeat as my supporters also retreated into the confines of our parlour, unsure of where the conversation would turn to next. Magnanimous in defeat, I took it on the chin and went back to the arms of my comforting wife.

The holiday season soon finished and people returned to their respective homes. Life returned to normal and we soon forgot about the whole horrid affair. Clearly my uncle did not want us to forget his offer and it was when the autumn winds approached and the leaves exploded into a last swansong of vibrant colours that the invitation to head up to stay with my aunt and uncle far up north arrived in an envelope bearing our monarch���s visage. Apart from the usual pleasantries, the invitation had a cruel sting in its tail, offering me the opportunity to win my money back or perhaps to lose some more in exchange for a wager of my own conjuring. It was not in my nature to deceive people, however, there was part of me that wanted revenge against my antagonist, and so against my better judgement and with the reluctant approval from my wife, I accepted their invitation ��� and in doing so sealed my fate.

My uncle clearly had the advantage of many years��� experience over me and had no doubt been victim to, or made victims of, any number of sleights of hand or deceptions; so it would have to be something entirely new or unheard of that would be my saviour. I had three months left to plot the manner of my revenge, such was the desire to beat my uncle at his own game that it completely consumed me, which meant that many of the simpler pleasures in life went ignored and I had become noticeably absent from my usual haunts. Three months went by all too quickly and such was my obsession with beating my uncle, my dear wife remained largely silent for the journey, spending much of it deep in slumber for the many miles we covered.

The following few days passed without great incident and little was spoken about the Great Challenge until the allotted time came to pass. ���What have you lad?��� he enquired, thrusting the same notes he took from me one year before in a mocking fashion in front of me. ���Are you prepared to challenge me as I challenged you?���

An awkward silence filled the room. ���Of course.��� I mustered up a smile with a touch of bravado, which was only skin-deep. I placed upon the table the very same humble pint glass that he had fooled me with the year before and with an equally stern face that my uncle had gifted me, I turned to face him. ���My challenge is thus:��� I started. ���What is greater in measurement, the height or the circumference of the glass?���

It was here that I found myself staring at those cold dark eyes of the swindling swine as his hairy brows furrowed deep in thought, trying to establish whether I was trying to bluff or double-bluff him. He had a fifty percent chance of winning another fifty pounds and an equal chance of losing the same amount of money. The air was electric with anticipation. I could hardly believe my fortune at tricking a trickster.

With a confident flourish, he announced his result. ���The height, naturally.���

With a degree of malevolence, I cast the seed of doubt in his head. ���Are you quite sure?��� I replied. ���Yes.��� He said, resolute in his decision, his own distrustful nature believing me to purposely make him choose again. To put his mind to rest, I produced a measuring tape that I had secreted in my pocket and measured from the top of the glass to the bottom and made sure that everybody present agreed with the figure that I came up with. I then proceeded to measure the circumference of the glass to everybody���s amazement; it was marginally greater than the height. ���There is much to be said for the modern education system.��� I exclaimed with a degree of fanfare. ���Mathematics being universal, it goes without saying the circumference of the circle will always be the diameter multiplied by Pi, which is much greater than you could possibly expect.���

Sadly, my short lesson in mathematics fell on deaf ears. Despite the fact that I was now fifty pounds richer, my dear wife reminded me that it cost us far more for our journey up there and would no doubt cost the same on our return. I could hardly reprimand her for her undeniable logic and in hindsight, such was the passion that consumed me for all those months in the lead up to this standoff, it had not occurred to me that there would be incidental costs. I felt a flush of shame and went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. It was only when I looked in the mirror; I saw my uncle���s eyes and it dawned on me that I had become just like him. If only fate was kind enough to allow me to learn my lesson here, things might have worked out a little differently. However, fate it seems was not quite finished with me yet.

It was on my return to the great city of my birth following our long and arduous quest to the Gaelic realm in search of these false riches, I was passing through the county border betwixt the shires of Oxford and Berks, barely ten miles as the crow would fly from the great White Horse; when my own white horseless carriage gave a quiet cough as a gentle reminder that it had been some time since I gave it sustenance.

It had been a full day���s journey prior, deep in the Caledonian hinterland when my formerly faithful method of transport had let me down. It had been a gift from my parents many years ago for my birthday when I was but one and twenty years. It had never been a magnificent example, but it had served me well. Perhaps it was divine punishment for the manner in which I had mistreated it over the years, for we had barely covered eighty miles when it stubbornly refused to go any further. As my good wife put it to me, it could have been just punishment for my obsession with my fool���s errand to gain back what was lost, for in doing so, I had become the fool.

My carriage and I had seen many adventures together over the years. Such was my misguided affection for the poor thing; the ravages of time went unnoticed. Like a close relative, to an outsider it was plainly obvious that it was no longer the youthful machine it once was, yet to me, seeing I was in close contact with it on a daily basis, age had not wearied it.

The great toothed belt that had kept the fire that raged in the belly of the beast finally snapped from fatigue. The forewarning of this great catastrophe from a sage magister, who advised me to replace this very belt came back to haunt me, for in my arrogance, I chose to ignore him. My first thoughts were to summon a djin who after a time appeared out of the misty air commanding a great mammoth, its yellow skin punctuated by the orange halo that regularly flickered atop its head. The djin greeted us well and then offered a blessing in a vain effort to reanimate my dear carriage, making use of many different tools of his trade, which was complete witchcraft to me. After several attempts, his blessings were swiftly punctuated by a great curse upon discovery of the cause of its incapacitation. I took small comfort that my wife was a short distance away and otherwise occupied, as the language that he spoke was taboo in our language and certainly something that no person should have to endure. I tried to hide my own rage from my wife, out of concern, asking her to return to the warmth of the great mammoth whilst I came to terms with our predicament. Although I cherished my long partnership with this car, I accepted that it had come to the end of its useful life and that no amount of magic could restore it to well-being.

Unfortunately, my wife had to return to her place of work in the next two days, so we elected to part company once we arrived at the nearest town, so that she could return home post haste and unhindered. The djin was skilful in hitching my lifeless companion to the mammoth and we joined him in the warm environs as we continued on our way at a pace somewhat slower to which we were accustomed. I bade farewell to my wife as she joined a throng of travellers heading to the nearest port whilst we continued on to the outskirts of town, to be greeted by a more industrial backdrop. In my frustration, I resigned myself to summon a skilled alchemist named Angus, who, without much interrogation as I fortunately carried my ownership papers with me, was able to transform my obsolete metal into cold hard currency. One hundred and fifty pounds plus a bagful of detritus and a few belongings seems to be what over ten years of faithful companionship amounted to, but there was no time to reflect on this meagre payout. Combined with the fifty pounds I won back from my uncle, I had but two hundred pounds plus some loose change to arrange a new form of transport to get me home.

Not sure where to start, the adrenaline since worn off and the biting wind gnawing away at me, I started off down the road by foot. Very few places were open, seeing it was the festive season and after a few enquiries; I was directed to a merchant who spoke in a foreign tongue. With the funds I had available, along with a little extra, I could not afford to be overly picky about my mode of transport. The merchant directed me around his lot and presented me with the vehicle that I now drove. If anything, it was a worse pedigree and equally ancient, but it worked out cheaper than any alternative mode of transport. The car cost five hundred pounds, so I was now significantly out of pocket. I could only speculate on what my wife was going through at the port. I had no means of hailing her as there were laws governing all communications once you went through the feted gate, but such was my faith in her, I knew that she had to be fine.

Such was my determination to reach my destination; I had driven for hours without rest and in my unrecognised state fell under a deep spell, continuing to drive around the great road encircling the City of Brum. It was only when I was but twenty miles further on from the fork in the road that I realised the error of my ways. Now conscious that I was off-course, I made the decision to take a more circular route, comforted by the teachings of the great Chinese sage Lao Tzu that ���Even the longest journey must begin where you stand.��� With a little rudimentary knowledge, I was successful in joining a large caravan of travellers heading towards my destination and I drove on with a greater determination than before.

This is where I found myself and the situation of my own negligence. Please do not be mistaken: I was grateful for the protection my new carriage offered me from the cruel winds and unforgiving rain, but I had overestimated how far my vehicle could carry me. Fortune directed me to a nearby oasis and without hesitation; I unscrewed the cap and poured litres of golden elixir until its belly was full. No sooner after I had replaced the hose, a fellow traveller hailed me with great fervour and ardency. He pointed at the dispenser and remarked that I had inadvertently poisoned my great beast, for it required heavy oil for sustenance and not the aromatic liquor I had chosen.

I cursed loudly and wailed with tears of sadness, in my haste, I had absent-mindedly picked up the wrong hose; such was my familiarity with my former friend and not the equally ancient beast I now found myself with. I entered the adjoining temple and after paying tribute to them, begged forgiveness from the priests. They could only shake their heads with disbelief and it was through my own initiative that I picked up my oblong talisman that I carried about my waist and summoned a djin who serves poor wretches such as I in their time of need. A disembodied voice answered my call for help and asked me the nature of my problem. After a frantic plea for aid, the djin responded in an equally detached manner and informed me that I had already summoned them less than twenty-four hours ago and had not paid enough tribute to them and that I would have to wait for many hours before I could be rescued.

In the meanwhile, scores of people had gathered around the oasis, many of whom wanted to occupy the space I was taking up. Rather than offer assistance to a stranger in time of need, they took the opportunity to mock me. Had it not been for the charity of the traveller who had first pointed out the error of my ways; we would not have managed to move the slumbering leviathan out of the oasis, so that others could drink from the well. At a loss what to do and unable to progress any further, I looked about my surroundings, still lost in this strange land. One small blessing is that this oasis boasted an eatery, dedicated to the teachings of the Colonel who had brought his eleven secret herbs and spices from the great continent across the sea. His disciples were clearly well educated in his dark art; for I had no sooner consulted the offerings and placed my order when a large portion of poultry that had been freshly prepared, along with a beverage of my choosing should it so please me, was placed in front of me.

I hastily made my way to the nearest empty booth so that I could spend a few quiet minutes alone to reflect on what had transpired over the past forty-eight hours as a result of something that had been festering away like a poorly healed wound over the previous year to fully hit home. I had barely put my first morsel of food into my mouth when the silence that enveloped the booth was shattered by the shrill tones of a message bearing news from my wife. She had tried getting hold of me, but I had spent the best part of the last few hours in constant dialogue with the djin, who took great pleasure in leaving me in a state of limbo. Experience gifted me the wisdom to take on board her message in full before returning her hail and offloading my troubles on to her shoulders. I was accustomed to very brief messages and at a cursory glance, I could see that there was at least a full ten minutes that was delivered to me.

As it transpired, my dear wife had no end of travel difficulties herself. It was after she elected to fly back home in one of the many metal birds that regularly landed and took off again from the wretched hive of thieves and bureaucrats of the local port that her own troubles began. Not that she was wicked herself, but such was the frequency that she had spent in such ports, even by her own standards it had been a most distressing journey that had left her exhausted and near incapacitated.

As we had taken my now deceased carriage up to my uncle’s, my wife had not packed any travel documents, anticipating a trouble-free journey. Coupled with the lack of documents, the cost to secure a seat on the next journey proved to be prohibitive and to her distress, she had to pay several hundred pounds. To add further insult to injury, after being herded like a common goat through a maze of tape and bollards, she was interrogated by a number of guards who were determined in their duty to not let her pass, so that she might seek refuge in the great hall flanked by a number of concourses within the enormous structure. After what seems to be an eternity of haggling and assurances that she posed no danger to them, and with minutes to spare, she was finally admitted into the next level, only to discover to her horror that the flight was delayed and remained that way for nearly a full day through the inclement weather. Finally broken by all the evil spirits that were making her life a misery and out of pure desperation, she paid a swindler nearly thrice the going rate for a light repast and beverage. How this sanctioned thieves managed to sleep at night beggared belief. This alone did not prove to be enough, so she resigned herself to visit a tavern located within the hall and asked the bartender to conjure up a few spirits of his own. By this stage, I felt relieved that she was at least somewhere safe and warm, but at the same time felt a twinge of jealousy that she had managed to have a relaxing drink and a moment to unwind.

Any thoughts of jealousy soon disappeared after what unfolded next. There was quite a backlog of fellow travellers who after a time and realising that they were in the same situation struck up camaraderie and a festive spirit. Any sense of community soon dissipated when it was announced that the postponed flight was imminent, but restricted to a fortunate few on a first come, first served basis. A frantic stampede followed with little concern for the elderly and infirm or for those with small children as the true colours of their collective nature came out for all to see. It was absolute mayhem, an unfortunate example of survival of the fittest, but not necessarily the most righteous in action. A bazaar at the best of times is full of all manner of beguiling sights, sounds and smells, a true treat to the senses, but for all the disorder and chaos, it is something of benefit. All the melee could offer was a disturbing environment that offered little to the senses other than one of panic and urgency over something that was truly out of their control. Being light on her feet and relatively nimble, without much baggage to carry, through wily feminine charm and a little savvy, she was able to secure a seat on the one flight that was going to leave that evening.

On her arrival at the port at the opposite end of the country, she was once again let down, this time by the lack of omnibuses. After a marathon journey full of challenging situations and stress, she eventually made it back home and collapsed in a crumpled heap. A hot silky bubble bath was in order and she lit a few scented candles to relax in for a few hours and from the tone of her voice, she would not be entertaining any visitors or answering any calls.

Finally finishing the protracted message from my nearest and dearest, I felt a conflict of emotions as I stared at my now cold dish in front of me. Now that it had cooled and congealed, it was not quite as appetising as what it was when I first bought it. Rather than listen to the needs of my stomach, I had attended to the needs of my heart. Reluctant to let it go to waste and acutely aware that there were others in the world less fortunate than me, I finished my meal, but not with a heavy heart, as I at least took some comfort that my wife had made it home and that I was not far behind her.

With food in my belly and not sure of my next movements, I was at a loss what to do next. For the price of a gold coin, I was able to purchase a map of my surroundings and I was delighted to see that it was not far to the neighbouring village. Although the oasis offered somewhere to rest my head for the night, it was through divine intervention that I was unable to make a reservation. The full effects of my marathon drive, coupled with my full belly were finally taking its toll. A fog of weariness enveloped me, but the lamentations of a young boy who was in a state of great distress caught my attention and gave me a second wind. He must have been about ten years of age and although his clothes were muddied and torn and his face blackened by soot, he looked like the sort of person who was not normally in that condition, rather he had the look of someone who was lost, alone and very much afraid.

���Oh woe is me!��� the boy cried aloud. ���I am truly cursed.���

���Whatever is the matter, child?��� I enquired, curious to see what troubled him. ���For someone so young, you cannot surely have the weight of the world resting on shoulders that cannot yet bear it.���

���My parents taught me to never talk to strangers.��� He sniffed, wiping his nose with his shirt sleeve.

���Clearly they have taught you well.��� I replied, mentally adding a footnote that he was clearly well educated in some areas, but judging from the amount of mucus on his shirt sleeve, not so well in other areas.

���Well.��� I began. ���My name is Hamish. And you are?���

���Otto.��� He replied.

���There you go.��� I said. ���Now that we have introduced ourselves, we are, by default, no longer strangers.���

Otto cast me a cautious glance, as though he detested the thought of being put in his place by someone his senior, complemented by a degree of relief that someone heard his cry for help.

���You simply would not understand.��� He sobbed, followed by a short sniff.

���Try me.��� I replied. ���A problem shared is a problem halved.��� I could bare it no longer and retrieved a courtesy napkin that came with my dinner and opened it out. I offered it to Otto, who gratefully received it and blew his nose with great ferocity.

After clearing his nose, he was in the process of clearing his throat when I once again heard the chiming bells signalling the arrival of the djin to fix my vehicle.

It was clear from what troubled him that it had added years to his face and it was at this chance meeting where my story begins.

It seemed like a good idea at the time – at 4 Euros, the offer of a 40 minute journey exploring some of the waterways of Lille seemed too good to be true. Most of the group started the day by coughing up 10 Euros a head to explore Lille by bus and after an hour, we were hungry for more.

With a time duly arranged, we met up in the early afternoon by the entrance to the great ‘Queen of Citadels’ as described by the great military engineer Vauban, strategically placed at the junction of the rivers Deûle and Bucquet. At least, that is what the tourist brochure proclaimed.

The reality, if anything, was a little less glamorous. The weather was inclement, threatening to rain at any time and the temperature had dropped. Whilst we patiently waited for the allotted time, we took in the finer details of the monument to carrier pigeons, which I must confess I didn’t fancy.

We boarded the pleasure craft (which would turn out to be an ironic description) and took our seats, which offered a fine view of a local homeless man’s bijou accommodation by the canal side. Most excitingly, there was a duck with ten ducklings, three of which managed to slip through the canal locks and were separated from their mother. This was of great concern to us and we were delighted to see that the wake of our boat managed to open the lock gates just enough for the ducklings to be reunited with their siblings. It was quite an emotional moment and we had yet to set off.

Our guide enthusiastically started off in French and then English, pointing out some of the highlights of our forthcoming tour. Little did we know that what we had seen before we set off was probably the only highlight. We dealt with our impending fate as people often do in similar situations and made light of a bad situation through humour. Humour turned out to be an excellent method of collectively distancing ourselves from our boat trip and making it seem like it was not quite as bad as what it really was.

Seemingly oblivious to our nervous laughs and wisecracks, our tour guide rattled on, clearly passionate about the tour she was presenting. You had to tip your cap to her, either she was blissfully ignorant that she had lost the attention of the English-speaking contingent of the tour or she was determined to see it through, despite the increasingly farcical nature of the sights.

Somehow, we were duped into taking a tour of the industrial ‘heritage’ of Lille. Far from the romantic notion of motoring down an historic waterway, we were treated to sights of derelict warehouses, rounded off at the Port de Lille, which happens to be the third largest river port in France, after Paris and Strasbourg! It has excellent connections with road and rail. Clearly, the tour guide’s enthusiasm must have rubbed off on me somehow.

It seemed like a good idea at the time – at 4 Euros, the offer of a 40 minute journey exploring some of the waterways of Lille seemed too good to be true. Most of the group started the day by coughing up 10 Euros a head to explore Lille by bus and after an hour, we were hungry for more.

With a time duly arranged, we met up in the early afternoon by the entrance to the great ‘Queen of Citadels’ as described by the great military engineer Vauban, strategically placed at the junction of the rivers De��le and Bucquet. At least, that is what the tourist brochure proclaimed.

The reality, if anything, was a little less glamorous. The weather was inclement, threatening to rain at any time and the temperature had dropped. Whilst we patiently waited for the allotted time, we took in the finer details of the monument to carrier pigeons, which I must confess I didn���t fancy.

We boarded the pleasure craft (which would turn out to be an ironic description) and took our seats, which offered a fine view of a local homeless man���s bijou accommodation by the canal side. Most excitingly, there was a duck with ten ducklings, three of which managed to slip through the canal locks and were separated from their mother. This was of great concern to us and we were delighted to see that the wake of our boat managed to open the lock gates just enough for the ducklings to be reunited with their siblings. It was quite an emotional moment and we had yet to set off.

Our guide enthusiastically started off in French and then English, pointing out some of the highlights of our forthcoming tour. Little did we know that what we had seen before we set off was probably the only highlight. We dealt with our impending fate as people often do in similar situations and made light of a bad situation through humour. Humour turned out to be an excellent method of collectively distancing ourselves from our boat trip and making it seem like it was not quite as bad as what it really was.

Seemingly oblivious to our nervous laughs and wisecracks, our tour guide rattled on, clearly passionate about the tour she was presenting. You had to tip your cap to her, either she was blissfully ignorant that she had lost the attention of the English-speaking contingent of the tour or she was determined to see it through, despite the increasingly farcical nature of the sights.

Somehow, we were duped into taking a tour of the industrial ���heritage��� of Lille. Far from the romantic notion of motoring down an historic waterway, we were treated to sights of derelict warehouses, rounded off at the Port de Lille, which happens to be the third largest river port in France, after Paris and Strasbourg! It has excellent connections with road and rail. Clearly, the tour guide���s enthusiasm must have rubbed off on me somehow.

As is often the case when you are the newest member of staff and in particular the youngest member of staff, you will invariably find yourself the recipient of many the office pranks from your more learned and experienced colleagues. There reaches a point where it ceases to be amusing and you develop a strong urge to reciprocate. This happened to me about twelve years ago I worked for a local company and I had reached the point where I had enough and was plotting to mete out my own form of retribution.

I would not necessarily describe what happened next as being unduly wicked towards my colleagues, probably closer to cruel and unusual punishment.

Amongst the many things I have done for my employer over the years, database management and development was something that I quite enjoyed. With an aptitude for figures and a flair for flowery and dramatic improvements to mundane management systems, I was asked one year by my employer to give the system a major overhaul and freshen it up a bit. On completion, he was suitably impressed to ask me to do the same for his other company, which was the print element. The print industry is not unlike many other industries where the newbies get picked on and although I worked ‘upstairs’, I was not immune to practical jokes from them either.

As we could not afford to take the system offline whilst I carried out the improvements, my colleagues were aware I was making changes and odd things would appear from time to time onscreen and I would send a round robin email to ask people to log off when I carried out major script changes that affected the whole system. It was during one such moment that the method of delivering my revenge became obvious.

Throughout antiquity, we have had many such expressions of forbidden fruit, from Eve in the Garden of Eden, through to Persephone and the pomegranate, Pandora’s Box; the list goes on. However, in this day and age, this trope has now evolved to the Big Red Button, a device that will prove irresistible to even the most strong-willed individual, for the very reason that it is declared to be off-limits or the operation is unquestionably prohibited. A Big Red Button will often feature prominently in movies as a switch that spells the end of the world, capable of launching nuclear missiles, or, in more mundane environments back in the real world, a master switch that will act as an emergency cut-out for large machines that should only ever be used in an emergency and never, ever, under any circumstances be pushed unless absolutely necessary.

This primeval desire to rebel and do the exact opposite to what you are told seeded a fiendish idea in my head to get my own back against my colleagues. I opened up some desktop publishing software and drew a conspicuously large and rather fetching three dimensional representation of a red button and placed it on the most noticeable spot I could think of on the main screen. Above the button, I wrote the specific instructions ‘DO NOT PUSH THIS BUTTON’ and in slightly smaller words underneath ‘under any circumstances’ followed by an exclamation mark to underpin the fact that bad things could happen if you did.

Within the database, there was a series of different layouts that you could move between without opening a new window. I simply created a new layout within the database that was nothing more than a blank template and then wrote a script that created a pop-up window, which featured a status bar that went from zero to one hundred percent. This in itself was neither difficult to engineer, nor concerning to an operator in any way; rather the simple words underneath that stated in bold letters that the database was currently ‘deleting all files’. Once the status bar reached one hundred percent, the pop up window would disappear, leaving a blank page with no method of getting out of it and where you would remain.

I proceeded to send an email around to everybody saying that I was carrying out ‘essential maintenance’, and that ‘one or two things would be changing’. I sorted out the bits that required all users to be logged out, let them back on again, and keep tinkering while I waited for the inevitable call.

There was a lot of murmuring in the room next door, and then complete silence. I could not even hear the radio playing. Complete silence. Ten minutes went by, and then came the internal call. Jenny (not her real name), who was one of our repro operators said in a meek and scolded schoolgirl voice that she was ‘experiencing some difficulties’ with the database. A pregnant pause followed and I made that noise only mechanics or tradesmen make when they are about to tell you some bad news. I sucked in a lungful of air and I asked her in a frantic voice whether she had pushed the big red button or not, because I put a bold script next to it specifically saying not to push the big red button. A meek ‘yes’ came back. ‘Oh God’ I said, ‘do you know what you have done?’ ‘No’, an anxious voice replied. ‘Absolutely nothing’ I cried ‘I’ll be around to fix it in a jiffy’. Suffice to say, this did not go down too well, however, I was never picked on again.

Perhaps these experiences inspired me to create a convoluted conspiracy against the protagonist of my novel “Like a Shag on a Rock”

You can buy my book here:

Amazon UK or Amazon US

As many of you will know, I have taken a bit of a bash at writing. My first attempt is not a book to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.

I am a hypergraph, love writing. Whether any of it is any good or not remains to be decided.

A friend of mine was said he was all in favour of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools. He suggested he started with my keyboard.

Humour is not lost on barmen. It was once said that Charles Dickens walked into a bar and asked for a martini. The barman replied “Olive or twist?”

James Joyce later walked into the bar and ordered a Guinness. The barman said to him that Charles Dickens came in earlier. Joyce kept drinking. The barman then told Joyce that Dickens asked for a martini, and he asked whether he wanted an olive or twist? Joyce took another sip of Guinness and said ‘that was a rubbish joke’. Ernest Hemingway later came in an ordered a drink, the barman said ‘Charles Dickens came in earlier… Hemingway says “I saw Joyce not too long ago, it’s a rubbish joke. Now sod off and leave me alone”.

Mark Twain later walked into the same bar, and ordered a drink. The barman, by this time a bit despondent, once again said “Charles Dickens came in today, and asked for a martini. Twain interrupts and says: what? Olive or twist hahaha. The barman simply cried.

Out of many of the authors I have read over the years, Mark Twain is one of my favourites. I was once asked on a dating site by a young woman if I could ask five people from any period of history, who would they be and why? I naturally chose the Philomath Stephen Fry, a Renaissance man in the true sense, but to add a character with an aptitude for wit and incisive satire; I chose Samuel Clemens aka Mark Twain.

Everyone knows Mark Twain wrote the Adventures of Tom Sawyer & Huckleberry Finn, the later being regarded as the ‘great American novel’ or perhaps the politically satirical Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court; but he was a man who counted presidents, royalty and industrialists amongst his friends.

His life was one scarred by personal tragedy, and financial misfortune, but his ever present humour came out even in his nom-de-plume. Mark Twain was a riverboat captain for many years, memorising well over 2,000 miles of the Mississippi River in the process. A riverboat needed at least 12 feet of water underneath it to safely navigate. In old money, 12 feet was known as ‘2 fathoms’. Twain is an archaic way of saying ‘Two’ so when a captain shouted out ‘Mark Twain’ he was asking someone to take a depth reading.

Working on that premise, if I were to write a humorous recollection of my time in the army, I would probably give it the title of ‘Get a Move On’, writing under the pseudonym of Stan Still.

I once wrote a series of travel reviews for the Innkeeper’s Lodge group after winning a writing competition. On a weekend away, I found myself in quite hallowed ground. I was staying at the Hawes Inn up in Edinburgh, literally in the shadow of the Forth Railway Bridge, where Robert Louis Stevenson once frequented, and came up with the story for Kidnapped, setting many scenes within the pub – it must have been the abridged version.

Coming back via EasyJet, I was clearing security when I was asked whether I had anything sharp on me. ‘only my wit’ I replied.  There’s nothing like a bit of incisive satire to lighten the mood during an awkward moment. Thankfully, this was the one guard with a sense of humour. I might even take a stab at writing about it.

For the benefit of the reader, the title of my book ‘Like a Shag on a Rock’ may need a little explaining, especially if you’re from ‘across the pond’, so I will delve a little further into the meaning of the turn of phrase.

Thanks to the ‘Swinging Sixties’ and the likes of the Austin Powers film franchise, most people no longer associate the word ‘shag’ with the species of cormorant or type of tobacco / carpet pile; rather associate it in the coarser sense as a transitive verb – for the benefit of my own modesty as well as yours, I need not delve any further into that definition; other than to say that we use both the rational and emotional sides of our brain to interpret things and in this case, for some people, it is entirely possible that the actual meaning of this phrase becomes a lost or misconstrued in the process.

For those who are not familiar with the cormorant, they are a fish-eating bird most commonly found in coastal waters around the world in many different guises. A shag is differentiated from a cormorant due to presence of a pronounced crest. They fish by diving into the water and propel themselves with their webbed feet or occasionally with their wings. After fishing, they go ashore and dry their plumage by extending their wings towards the sun, often perched on a rock.

The idiom ‘Like a Shag on a Rock’ is a delightful turn of phrase from Australia and means the subject is either lonely, isolated or feeling exposed; rather than expressing a desire to engage in what could be best described as ‘uncomfortable coitus’.

This can be validated with such examples of a contentious politician or figurehead with few supporters or a loner in a social environment (Often further ridiculed with the moniker of a ‘billy no mates’.) To remove any doubt, I made sure that the idiom is employed by the resident Australian character John to mock my protagonist Tom, who is left somewhat perplexed due to the upward inflection that Australians tend to put at the end of their sentences; unsure whether he was asking a question or making a statement.

There is no one right way to interpret my choice of title as everyone will interpret it individually.

Rather than receive criticism, I have received laudable praise for the skill in which I have carefully crafted a purportedly puerile inelegant turn of phrase into something “with a serious literary pedigree.” Suffice to say, I did not set out to be intentionally provocative and in this case it is most definitely a noun, not a transitive verb.

You can buy my book here:

Amazon UK or Amazon US

Originally posted on BooksGoSocial:

Just as sure as Earth hurtles through space in its inexorable orbit around the sun at 67,000 miles per hour while simultaneously rotating on an axial tilt that is perpendicular to its orbital plane, Thomas Benjamin Harding retched with alarming velocity into the glistening porcelain in front of him, his knees perpendicular to the floor beneath his feet.

Janice had spent the afternoon gathering mushrooms not far from the old railway line, heading out on her bicycle after bunking off work for the afternoon. This was not unusual behaviour for a scientist. They had pretty flexible hours and their employers assumed that, since they were geniuses, they could do little harm if their eccentric timekeeping meant inventing a revolutionary drug that could net the shareholders billions. The only problem with this was that she had “accidentally” collected magic mushrooms and, after consuming the greater part of the pot, Tom found…

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The infamous houseshare almost comes into its own as a rite of passage into adulthood, where two or three strangers are brought together through economics in response to the rising costs of living and market rental accommodation.

On reflection of this period in your journey through life, there will always be the apocryphal tale of the ���housemate from hell��� and even worse so, when you are thrown out of the house by your boyfriend or girlfriend. My own take on this theme is my novel ���Like a Shag on a Rock��� and for the protagonist Tom, being given the boot is the start of a house-sharing adventure that is wilder than he could have ever imagined.

When faced with a situation such as Tom���s, there is little chance to be fussy about where to rest your head at night. One-bedroom flats are not as ubiquitous as you would expect, especially in a town such as Oxford and even if you found one, the cost of leasing such a property is well out of reach for most people. Apart from handwritten adverts at the newsagents or the supermarket, the main port of call for people these days for finding accommodation is through the likes of Spareroom or Gumtree.

The other option available to people is to seek refuge with a friend as a temporary measure. As the old adage goes ���fish and visitors smell after three days.��� You can only rely on the charity of your peers as a temporary measure.

As serendipity would have it, our protagonist finds sanctuary with his ���friend���, who wields far more influence over his private life than he is aware of. The truth still turns out to be stranger than fiction.

While I may not have personally lived to quite the intensity of my bound-bound alter ego, the antics shared prove that life certainly wasn���t boring. Although it may sound in part to be a cautionary tale about the joys and tribulations of the houseshare, those who have been there will be able to really relate with Tom and his attitude. Sharing a home with another isn���t easy, and it takes a fair bit of care-free spirit to make the arrangement work.

You can buy my book here:

Amazon UK or Amazon US

The infamous houseshare almost comes into its own as a rite of passage into adulthood, where two or three strangers are brought together through economics in response to the rising costs of living and market rental accommodation.

On reflection of this period in your journey through life, there will always be the apocryphal tale of the ‘housemate from hell’ and even worse so, when you are thrown out of the house by your boyfriend or girlfriend. My own take on this theme is my novel ‘Like a Shag on a Rock’ and for the protagonist Tom, being given the boot is the start of a house-sharing adventure that is wilder than he could have ever imagined.

When faced with a situation such as Tom’s, there is little chance to be fussy about where to rest your head at night. One-bedroom flats are not as ubiquitous as you would expect, especially in a town such as Oxford and even if you found one, the cost of leasing such a property is well out of reach for most people. Apart from handwritten adverts at the newsagents or the supermarket, the main port of call for people these days for finding accommodation is through the likes of Spareroom or Gumtree.

The other option available to people is to seek refuge with a friend as a temporary measure. As the old adage goes “fish and visitors smell after three days.” You can only rely on the charity of your peers as a temporary measure.

As serendipity would have it, our protagonist finds sanctuary with his ‘friend’, who wields far more influence over his private life than he is aware of. The truth still turns out to be stranger than fiction.

While I may not have personally lived to quite the intensity of my bound-bound alter ego, the antics shared prove that life certainly wasn’t boring. Although it may sound in part to be a cautionary tale about the joys and tribulations of the houseshare, those who have been there will be able to really relate with Tom and his attitude. Sharing a home with another isn’t easy, and it takes a fair bit of care-free spirit to make the arrangement work.

You can buy my book here:

Amazon UK or Amazon US