THE UNRECOGNISED ARTISTS' LIBERATION FRONT

Did you hear him on the High Street?  You couldn’t have failed to.  That sad, pony tailed bastard blowing into a saxophone and producing notes just at the correct pitch to exacerbate your Sunday morning hangover.  Each one calculated to be only just out of tune.  Tell me, did you feel sorry for him and give him money?  Or did you walk past, your teeth gritted, shooting him a disgusted look?  Well, we’ve got something to tell you; his name’s Manuel, he’s one of the most talented saxophonists of our time and he’s one of us – a member of the Unrecognised Artists' Liberation Front (UALF).

Manuel started playing the sax aged ten and did a Masters in classical and contemporary music, learning the theory of making beautiful sound.  After university, he attended auditions, coming close, but never quite getting through.  He wrote his own songs, putting them on the internet to find no-one wanted them.  He got radio time only at 3am, when insomniacs, exhausted shift workers or alcoholics listen.  He was near suicide when he found us.  He came to his first meeting full of hate for a youth obsessed society that won’t give an overweight musician pushing forty a chance.  We were able to tell him he’s extremely talented, but in fact people don’t want real music.  They like nostalgic shit from their childhoods or tunes from drama-lorn teens recruited by talent shows.  No fans of this dubious form of television want to watch Manuel’s sweat glistening, as he blows beautiful notes into his instrument.

We told Manuel the perfect way to get revenge.  We instructed him to go to the High Street and play as badly as he possibly could.  Make thousands of people suffer for rejecting his music with the only weapon he has.  At first it offended him, but gradually his self esteem grew as he saw how he could irritate and jar the ears of passersby, turning their nice day at the shops into a migraine.

Further, heard that tinny, souless shit that sucks the life out of you somewhere recently?  That’s written by an UALF artist.  Carly couldn’t get her revolutionary TechEuphoricGarageHouseTrance music into mainstream.  So she joined us and made dismal easy listening tunes which we distributed widely to supermarkets and NHS waiting rooms.  Thanks to Carly, our misery is reverbrating round your brains long after you’ve had your instrusive medical examination.

Soon there will be a Manuel on every High Street and Carly’s music will be in all public buildings.  We won’t stop there though.  Watch out on your next local Open Mic. Night - the naval gazing poet whose lyrics don’t flow, the offensive, depressing comic and the story teller who forgets the plot halfway through and has to shuffle through heaps of notes.  Throw your beer glasses at them if you dare, but you will not perturbe us.  We’re sick of your shallow, unappreciating natures.  We will permeate all art forms.  We will dominate the World.

ONE OF THOSE 'OUSES

“Right you are!  You’ve made an excellent choice. Yeah-yeah-yeah, good little buy,” Jason, the estate agent said smiling at Mr and Mrs Baynes standing in front of him.  They’d been the first people to look round the house and they’d offered the asking price immediately having fallen madly in love with the property.  Now they were showing it to their three children, all aged under seven years.  The kids tore round the rooms, yelling and shrieking, shattering the peace.  Mr and Mrs Baynes did nothing to check their behaviour.
“Children should express themselves,” Mr Baynes told Jason, while Mrs Baynes nodded in agreement.
“We never discipline them,” she added.  “Did the Underwoods give you an indication of when they’re able to move out?”
“These things usually take about eight weeks, don’t they?” Jason replied easily, “is there anything else you’d like to ask, see or measure?”
“Everything’s perfect,” the Baynes beamed at him, while their youngest child sat in the middle of the living room and began crying because the eldest was kicking her.  The piercing wails gave Jason a headache.  He wished they’d go, but they remained, gaving him a lecture on the benefits of Permissive Parenting, while their middle child sat and stared at the wall, rocking from side to side.
 

Once they’d gone, Jason sat on the Underwoods’ dowdy sofa to take a call from his wife.  “I’m at 19 Anne Street, the one I’ve sold - twice now - sold it ten years ago to the Underwoods – you know the couple with the adult children who wouldn’t get jobs.  Neighbours’ll be pleased to see them go, the rows they ‘ad!  Mind you, this next lot don’t seem any better.  Believe in the no-discipline approach to parenting!  Intellectuals, they are ... Yeah, people just seem to snap this ‘ouse up.  It’s funny ‘cos there’s a property exactly like it at the end of the street that’s been on the market for months, but number 19 – it’s One of Those ‘Ouses, ain’t it?  Nice atmosphere, despite ‘oo’s lived ‘ere.  Sells the minute it goes on the market, doesn’t even need a For Sale sign.  One of life’s mysteries ‘ow some places sell and some don’t ... yeah-yeah-yeah, I’ll be home for seven ... ‘bye love.”  He cut the connection and sat, massaging his temples.  “Never empty, are ya?  Always someone wantin’ ya.  Bet you’d ‘av appreciated a bit of peace and quiet,” he said and laughed at himself for talking to the house like it was a person.

At that precise moment, the nice atmosphere at number 19 changed.  Jason felt the hairs prick up on the back of his neck.  The living room got colder and he suddenly felt stifled and fearful.  It was almost as if he could hear the screaming rows the Underwoods had had and the family before that and the family before that and the family that was to come.  He felt the ups, the downs and the daily grind of human misery upon him.  He picked up his briefcase hurriedly.

“Couldn’t get out fast enough, that ‘ouse 'as baggage, it needs space,” he was to tell his wife later, after a few glasses of wine.  The other thing he told her quietly (and he never told anyone else) was he could have sworn blind that he only tugged the front door shut lightly, but it slammed with a resounding whack behind him.

THE CASTLE OF MORTGAGE MISERY

Once upon a time there was a fairy Princess called IwantMoreFromLife.  She lived in The Castle of Mortgage Misery with her husband Prince Goodman.

One day Princess IwantMoreFromLife and Prince Goodman had a Terrible Argument and Princess IwantMoreFromLife decided to leave.  She packed all her dresses and tiaras and opened the Front Door, walking into sunshine.  Two fearsome wolves dressed as noblemen blocked her path.

“I’m Princess IwantMoreFromLife, how dare you stop me!  Who are you?”
“I’m Lord Estate Agent and he’s Count Banker,” replied the smaller of the two.
Count Banker produced a parchment; “You cannot leave until you’ve given me the money you owe for the Castle of Mortgage Misery or I’ll take The Everything away.”
Princess IwantMoreFromLife knew that having The Everything taken away was terrible.  She stormed indoors and went to the Room of Gloomy Sadness where Prince Goodman sat.
“I’ve taken a suite at the Palace of Joy, but Lord Estate Agent and Count Banker won’t let me leave,” she snapped petulantly.
“That’s right.  Lord Estate Agent said we can’t sell the Castle because it isn’t worth what we borrowed to buy it and Count Banker said I don’t have enough money to live here alone.  You have to pay Your Share,” replied Prince Goodman.
“But I can’t pay that and the rent at the Palace of Joy.”
Prince Goodman sighed; “I’m sorry, IwantMoreFromLife, but you can’t go gallavanting to the Palace of Joy, until we’ve paid the money we owe to Count Banker or he’ll take The Everything away.”

Princess IwantMoreFromLife looked into Prince Goodman’s eyes, somehow they seemed to tell her all of this was her fault.  She looked round the Room of Gloomy Sadness at pictures of their Fairy Tale Wedding.  She sighed, wondering how they’d come to have the Terrible Argument.  She went to the Room of Guilt and Distress to think and surf the Internet.  She found many advertisements from nobles like herself who had a Terrible Argument with their spouses and needed Somewhere to Live.  Perhaps one of these nobles could stay with Prince Goodman and help him pay back Count Banker.  She went downstairs into the Hall of Misguided Hope where her suitcases of dresses and tiaras were waiting and opened the Front Door.  Immediately Lord Estate Agent and Count Banker blocked her path; “I’ve found a lodger!” Princess IwantMoreFromLife announced, “Earl MidLifeCrisis will live with Prince Goodman.”

“Earl MidLifeCrisis isn’t worth nearly as much as you are,” Count Banker replied, “your Princessly income is higher.  We’re not interested in him.”
“And when he feels the atmosphere in the Room of Guilt and Distress, he won’t stay,” Lord Estate Agent added.
They stared at her accusingly and weeping she returned through the Hall of Misguided Hope, up the Stairs of Indecision and Regret, into the Room of Guilt and Distress to cry.  The Palace of Joy where all her friends lived seemed far away.  Princess IwantMoreFromLife realised she had been stupid to think she would be allowed to leave Prince Goodman.   She thought of going to the room of Gloomy Sadness to sit with him, but realised she could not bear to because he had such sad, angry eyes.  She was trapped in the Castle of Mortage Misery, in the Room of Guilt and Distress for ever after or for at least for another 24 years, when the mortgage would be repaid, and by that time Princess IwantMoreFromLife would be very old indeed.

THE HORRIBLE THING IN THE TOILETS AT WORK

“Boss, you gotta believe me.  I was in the middle cubicle, all the other toilets were empty.  I’d sat down and I couldn’t get away.  That’s when I heard it breathing, a horrible rasping noise, sibilant and cold.  It told me I deserved to be destroyed, but first it was going to take everyone else.

“First I doubted, then people started to disappear.  Abdul went to the loo in the middle of a meeting and didn’t return.  “Abdul’s taking ages,” I stated.

“Abdul who?” you asked.

“The guy who’s perpetually on his phone during presentations.”

Everyone looked at me blankly; “There is no Abdul here,” you said, shortly.

“Next was Sam, the receptionist.  She knew Abdul.  I was about to tell her the Thing in the bogs got him, but she said ‘Just a minute, got to make a visit’ and she didn’t come back.  What do you mean there’s no receptionist?  There’s a reception here isn’t there?  There were more disappearances – Kyle, John, Andy, Jen ...  I can’t understand why you’re shaking your head.

“Tell me you recall Mary, my best mate.  I wouldn’t let her go to the loo alone, I told her about the Thing and she nodded in that understanding way of hers and asked me what it thought I’d done.  Of course I couldn’t tell her.  We went to the ladies together, me into the middle cubicle, she into the end.  Then I heard it, that raspy growl – in ... out ... in ... out.  I shat myself, quite convenient considering where I was.  I shouted a warning, but ... silence, the Thing had gone.  I thought maybe Mary got out, but there was no sign of her in the office.  I asked you and you wore the blank look you’re giving me now; “Mary who?” you said.  That’s when you asked me if I was stressed.  “I’m seeing the on-site counsellor,” I answered.

You replied; “There's no counsellor here.” 

I knew then it’d gotten Carly, the only person I could speak to. I was going to warn her about the Thing, but I just didn’t.

“Stop looking at me like that, I’m not insane!  There’s a Thing in the toilets that’s killing everyone!  It’s saving me til last - you know like the best bit of dessert for the last mouthful.  Please believe me!  No, I can’t tell you why.  I can’t tell anyone!  Look, think about this rationally!  This is a huge building, a massive organisation and there’s just two of us here, working on a project designed for heaps of people to do!  Put it together – empty reception, empty corridors, empty offices!  What do you think’s happened?  What do you mean you’ve got to make a phone call?  Wait a minute, where are you going first?  Don’t go to the toilet!  Oh God!  Please!”

Well, she’s gone in there, hasn’t she?  I’m left alone in this open plan office, I can hear it now, I think it’s got into the air conditioning vents.  Perhaps it’ll find its way under my desk, slither up my chair ... I’m pretty certain it’s invisible.  Well, at least no-one knows what it is and why it’s here.  I do.  Maybe I should just leave the office.  Thing is, gotta pay the bills, haven’t I?  I wonder if it got everyone in payroll ... I'm confronting it.  I've got some bleach, that’ll kill any nasty unclean Thing and I’ve got a plunger.  I’m going to lure it back to its territory.  I'm going to the loo - I might be some time.

SUNDAY EVENING

Stranded in the dark, the day has used us up and spat us out here on the platform.  We wait and no-one talks.  There’s the occasional cough which causes glances of annoyance, how dare you break the silence, we are mourning the weekend’s passing.  My heels punctuate the quiet as I pace restlessly.

‘Please stand well back from the platform edge, the train approaching Platform 2 is not scheduled to stop here ...’

Just a brief, crazy thought.  An unanswered impulse which passes with the fast train.  I don’t really have it in me to do that, I just don’t want to go home, is all.  I’m always thinking of ways of getting out of stuff.

Waiting, ten minutes to go, pacing again, the air is mild for winter.  Huh.  Look at our faces.  The day is through with us all and we’ve got nothing more to give.  Bodies are worn out, minds wrung out, we’re only half alive.

Five more minutes, three minutes, headlights approaching, two white pinpoints piercing the night and they call it.  The pause is over, our reflections are finished, we step up to the yellow line and get on the train.  Thought, impulse, desire all put to bed and left behind at the station.  Duty calls.  Life begins again.  We look to Monday.

THE ROOM HUNT

“Welcome.  Cup of tea?”  He was a good looking older man.
She was instantly interested; “Please.”
He had a character dwelling and the room he showed her was huge.  Then began the Twat Test - the talk in which potential land person and lodger suss each other out.  “My relationship of two years broke up ...”
What guy in his late forties has a relationship lasting only two years?
“... I’m stuck with a £400,000 house on the island and this place ...”
Am I meant to be impressed?
“... I've been a software engineer for twenty years, I hate it.  Next year I’m going to go to Namibia to join an elephant conservation programme.  When I return I’ll become a life coach.  It’s all about controlling your inner chimp ...”
What’s he on about?  Just fucking nod and smile.
“... Once you identify your inner chimp, you can communicate with it - tell it to calm down.  Oh and I’m taking up salsa dancing.”
This is a mid-life crisis on legs.
“You seem ever so nice and friendly.”
I haven’t said anything.  “Thank you, Colin, that’s kind.  I’ve got other rooms to look at, I’ll let you know.”

“Hello, thanks for coming.  I’m Terry.  Cup of tea?”  He was an ordinary non-threatening man.
She was instantly at ease; “Please.”
He had a normal home with a big room to rent and it all came out during the Twat Test.
“Do you know a celebrity has slept in that bed?  Have you heard of Lonely Lionel Blue?”
“One hit wonder with ‘I’m So Totally Lonely Tonight’?  Good song.”
“Two hits, don’t forget ‘It’s Been a Crazy Lonely Summer’.”
Ooops
“His guitarist, Fatty Natty slept in that bed.  That’s Fatty Natty with Lionel in the old days.  There’s one of Fatty Natty now and there’s one of me and Fatty Natty at an award ceremony ...”
Oh my God, there are pictures of Fatty Natty everywhere.
“I’ve got the memorabilia in my cupboard.  Tracey who lived here used to sit with me and watch slide shows I’d made of photos from the glory days to music ...”
I’d rather sit in my room alone in the dark and stick pins into my legs.
“You seem ever so nice and friendly.”
I haven’t said anything.  “Thanks Terry, that’s kind.  I’ve got other rooms to look at, I’ll let you know.”

“Hi, I’m Laurence.  Come in.”  He was a smug man with an oily complexion, “I’ve run out of tea.  Sorry it’s a shit hole.  Manky Franky was meant to clean up.”

“Manky Franky?”
“You’ll realise why when you meet him.  Come upstairs.”
The room was a small and dark, with wardrobe, desk and bed.  It smelt of takeaway.
“And this is the bathroom.”
“There’s no mirror.”
“It fell off the wall in the middle of the night.  We all shat ourselves.  I live here with my wife, Helen, but my mistress comes round when she’s at work.  Can you be discreet?  There’s me and Helen, Manky Franky and Pervy Pete.  You’d be taking Lisa’s room, she moved out when Pete shagged and dumped her - never a dull moment.  Tell me about you.  You seem nice and friendly, but you never know."
“I enjoy constant, unending drama and the misery and folly of others.  The competition’s been tough, but I’d like to take this room.”