The Fastest Man Alive

Standing behind his starting blocks Usain Bolt felt the legs of all the greatest sprinters in history in his – in particular the long, sinewy Carl Lewis’ strides that sucks up track spaghetti; the explosive fast-twitch fibers of Ben Johnson still carrying residual traces of the banned substance stanozolol. For a moment he thought he saw the shadow of Leroy Burrell’s huge quads in place of his, like a pair of bullocks their shadows casting a silhouette of warning across the other lanes. They would just be also-rans; he thought of his competitors. They don’t have it in them.   

When he tripped at ten metres, his hands stretched involuntarily out in front of him. The impact of knees fused molten track rubber with flesh, but he felt nothing; his legs were no longer his. Asapha Powell surged past in the outside lane and licked his lips, seeming to smell the wound.

In his sinking heart he knew it was the end. Since the second Olympics in ancient Greece, no fallen champion had been spared. The thing about true winners is that they are never prepared for defeat and Usain Bolt wept in front millions as the Kopis Sword was sharpened; its edge as keen as the day is was forged. The winning ceremonies were always hard to stomach; not just for the losers, and only around half the crowd remained to watch.

Up on the podium, it was only a desire to be stronger and faster that kept Asafa Powell’s mandible chewing, and his stomach from spewing as he consumed the two huge gluteus Maximus and gastrocnemius’, the anterior and posterior cruciates and two lots of the four-strong muscle group that were the quadriceps of Usain Bolt. Then a stock was made of the bones which he knocked back from shot glasses, as the Jamaican national anthem played. A tear rolled down Asafa Powell’s cheek as he received his gold medal. In four short years he would have to run for it all, but he would have the legs of all the great sprinters who ever lived, in his.  And he knew that no man runs faster than when he runs for his life.

NIRVANA

Location:                               St.Pancras International train station

Latitude and Longitude:     51.532519 and -0.126300

Nirvana by Liam Gibson

The Eurostar sliced through the once-green English countryside, a million snowflakes drifting into the eyes of confused sheep. Poor bastards don’t even have shoes, I thought, before the clickity-clack of laptop keys lulled me back to sleep.

A minute, or an hour later, a gentle shunt roused me from my dribbling half-sleep. Brussels always seemed so plain when I looked up at the polished, carved stone of Hogwarts, sorry, St.Pancras’ interior. Wand at the ready, I plunged into the throng and was swept onto the street.

Or what used to be the street. All I could make out was white. White everything. From the sky down, the entire world was cloaked in twinkling, hushed magic. A solitary car swished past in slow-motion, spraying up a little wave of powder. Traffic lights blinked soundlessly from red to green, and back to green. A lone banker skidded from one foot to the other like a cross-country skier, using the weight of his briefcase to propel him forward. Something strange had happened here.

Unsettled by the calm, I scanned the railings for a flash of gold in the white. Yes! Holy mother of all that is good, YES! There she was, waiting patiently where I’d shackled her 4 days ago. Handlebars still attached, wheels unbuckled and not a scratch on her shimmering skin. She had been spared. Yes, London was not acting itself.

Pin-balling in and out of my flat, I swapped bike for video camera and headed to the park. By night, it was a wild place filled with mysterious shrieks and scuffles, but today it was everything that was good in the world.

A family of French elves pranced through the trees, tossing loosely-balled fists of snow as they sung their enchantments. A caramel-coloured cocker spaniel snow-ploughed its way towards me through head-height drifts, little baubles of snow swinging from the back of his legs. Even the hoodies were playing nice, smiling in a distinctly non-stabby way.

Positively giddy on the good vibes, I stumbled from the park. A car-sized snowball squatted unapologetically in the middle of a road, rolled there by a gaggle of long-gone revelers. Grown men crouched behind cars then leapt away from their pursuers with girly shrieks. A 3-legged dog tied to an ice-lolly sign eyed me benevolently, as if to say ‘Yes brother, I know. This is awesome.’

Smiling like one of those soppy Harri Krishna brain-washees, I floated into London fields on my magic carpet of glee. Huge pyramids made of yet more giant snowballs soared into the sky, clambered on by starry-eyed toddlers. Japanese girls looking for photo ops straddled mythical beats sculpted from the snow. Laughter hung in the air like light trails on long-exposure photographs. It felt like 100 Christmases had been squashed into one day. And that day had become a pill, which I’d washed down with some vodka and a little bit of acid.

And then I understood.

‘I’ ceased to exist. The world and I fused. I was made of the stars and they were made of me. Everything was light and joy, like a super-gay version of that moment in the matrix when Neo sees the matrix for what it is. All races were one, all animals, every living thing had equal weighting. Even the dimmest of Americans. For a split-second, I may even have stopped hating babies.

And then, hurled from the treacherous hands of one of my new brethren, came the hardest snowball in the known universe. Exploding on my face, the icy shrapnel fell inside my t-shirt and melted instantly, chilling my once-warm heart. Then another one grazed my right eyebrow. Adrenalin brought the hooded hyenas into sharp focus.

‘Why?’ my eyes pleaded. ‘Why break this sacred bond? Can’t you see that we are one? Hurting me only hurts yourself.’ This did not work.

With a snarl on his face, the leader of the pack rushed me and splatted a slushy handful into my face, then another. Before I could turn the other cheek, a shower of icy rocks forced me back, back, way back into the nearest pub. My face a reddened pulp and my t-shirt soaked, I fell to my knees, platoon-esque. London had not changed. I had not changed. The world was not one. It was just snowing.

Featherette

Clara climbed off Barry and fell onto her pillow with an exhausted and feathery flump. She focused on the crack in the ceiling and caught her breath, Barry closed his eyes and enjoyed the endorphins floating around his body.

He took comfort in picking out the familiar. The hollow scrape of a box of matches. Then its scratch and flare. The pungent sulphur catching his nostrils and the soft pop and crackle of Clara’s cigarette.

He turned his head on his pillow and admired her profile. Her strong brow, the delicate beak that first seduced him all those years ago.

She passed him the cigarette. He smiled at how big and clumsy his human fingers looked as he took it from her beautiful yellow foot.

“Maude is popping in this afternoon” said Barry.

“Looks like I’ll be in the coop then, doing my ‘Stupid Wildfowl’ impression.” she replied bellowing smoke.

“It won’t be for long chicken, she’s just popping in for the varnish.”

“Don’t call me that” she said.

“It’s a term of endearment” he chuckled

“I mean it. It’s patronising. Anyway my egg sack hurts.”

“Spare me the details”

“Spare you the details? I could be pregnant Barry!”

“Really?...Fuck!”

“Yes, ‘Fuck!’ ”

Clara jumped out of bed and paced around the room. Barry could just make out the crest of her head bobbing about at the end of the bed.

“Is it possible?” he groaned

“Absolutely Barry, Bobby McFerrin’s dad was a Suffolk Bantam.”

“Get stuffed”

“Don’t use that expression.”

She stopped pacing and pecked his big toe. The endorphins were all used up and Barry felt a bit shaky.

“Fancy some waffles?” she quipped.

“Go on then”

A FILTERED LIFE

He woke and scanned his dreams for something, anything, to take him through to lunchtime. There wasn’t much out there in the real world, so you had to fill your saddle-bags when you could. Aside from the usual gunshot to the neck, there was nothing to be gleaned for the trip to work.

His feet flopped from the bed onto thick carpet. His torso hung in a heavy slouch. His feet had new veins on them, he noticed – blue, green, purple. Bruised spaghetti.  Revolting, but at least it was something.

He surveyed the sluggish traffic with indifference, ignoring the frantic oscillations of the electric toothbrush on his gums. The stream of pedestrians merged - pulsing columns of heat and emotion, none available to him.

A flash of click-clacking yellow heels bloomed in the grey, but was absorbed once more. He’d fuck her, he was sure of it. Given the right circumstances, he’d fuck her. Just not yet. Not quite yet.

By the time the door clicked behind him, she had dissolved like everything else. None of his synapses bore her mark.

Was the gas on? Not knowing’s more interesting than knowing, he thought, imagining the smoking wreckage on his return. Maybe he could even shake a firemean’s big, useful hand. With a smile on his face, he stepped out into the street, his filter set to 'impress me.'

Fishhhhh

Why do fish have faces? Not a word has ever passed the lips of a fish. Not even an ‘It’s lovely once you’re in!’

Fishlips have never blown a kiss or shaped a smile. How can a fish show another its love when all it can do is bog and beg a silent ‘But I love you, always have, ever since the rapids’. They have neither eyebrows to frown, nor noses to wrinkle or even cheeks to puff in resignation. All they do is stare.

Imagine yourself floating weightless above the deep dark pool of a river that has stilled itself by a stone bridge. Mayflies caught in the summer sun dance about hissing reeds and a tractor chugs some way off. Ever so slowly you descend. The warm sun is replaced by the cool shadow of the bridge as you near the pool. The strange gloopy echo of the river under the bridge sends a shiver just before the cool water licks your cheek.

Then you are deep under. The surface seems way away, left behind. You blink in the silence to accustom your eyes, and are still…

What you fucking bogging at fishface? Growl, shout ‘Hurrah!’,  do something you scaly fuck, but don’t just stare there. And you’re not the only one, there’s loads of you. Staring. It’s as if, cracking jokes just a second ago, you’re all pretending nothing was going on. So passive aggressive. And you’re all facing in the same direction. What’s that about eh? It’s not as if you had a discussion on the matter. It makes for an uncomfortable feeling. Perhaps a million years of evolution has taught fish that the best reaction to any situation is to give nothing away. Don’t speak. Don’t smile. Don’t even blink. Keep your wisdom to yourself and watch everything else fritter theirs away. There's strength in silence.

Perhaps when we’ve drawn our last drop of oil, cut the last tree and pressed the last button, perhaps then the fish will speak.

BODY MARKS

I no longer sleep,

In the chalky outline where you lay.

Have stopped clutching the rubber heart,

That gives none of your warmth.

Your ghost hears no more apologies,

Before I fade to black.

I bin your hair,

Suck up your fleshy powder,

Turn away from initials encircled,

by smudged-out hearts,

daubed months ago on misted windows.

You are the wound that has healed,

But the sickness I crave.

SMILE LIKE YOU'RE WINNING

Never trust a smiler.

They’re either hiding something, high on something, or crazy as a coconut.

I used to have this girlfriend with a bedside message-to-self, which read:

‘Smile…it makes other people wonder what you’re up to’. Too right. After 5 months of being dazzled by her unicorn-white teeth, I was convinced she’d cheated on me. Smilers are liars.

I’m not talking about the occasional innocent smile at a bounding puppy or a stumbling granny. I’m talking about the perma-smilers, the rictus grin of the psychologically unstable. Like that woman from ‘Misery’, a children’s TV presenter, or any Christian.  

So it was a strange day indeed when I signed up to the ultimate cult of smiling - yoga. On the other hand, it made perfect sense. Years earlier, my mother had instilled in me a paranoia that my upper body ‘needed work’, and after much mirror-dodging I had to confess that she was right. My shoulders were decent enough but the rest was just kind of hanging there, joining my legs to my head. Something had to be done. And it wasn’t going to be real exercise.

Boxing was out of the question. Some people can afford to get uglier. I am not one of them. As for army training, well, bullying is only fun if you’re the one doing it, so I parked that too. And, as anyone who has ever been to the gym with me will attest, I pull my cum face every time I lift more than 10 kg. Everyone loses. No, if I was going to do this, I was going to do it the way of lycra-clad lady bits, whale sounds and 3^rd eyes. Just don’t expect me to join in with the smiling shit. Laugh inside yes, but not smile with you.

From the first minute of the first class, it became clear that yoga is a refuge for broken souls with big smiles. The wider the smile, the deeper the fissures in their hearts. If you didn’t empathise, you’d be a monster. Likewise, if you didn’t hold back a snigger, you’d be missing more than half the fun. Like in an old folk’s home.

In one particularly punishing class, I remember a woman smiling so hard I thought her facial skin would tear. While I stood, shaking in a pose that I’m sure contravenes every international torture law, this weirdo tried to out-smile her reflection. She won. My face a stony grimace, I laughed inside. How silly these people were. How very silly indeed.

Then there are the moaners. Full-on sex moans, in front of a room of strangers. Close your eyes (or black out from the exertion, which I regularly do), and you’d be forgiven for thinking that you were at an orgy with all your mum’s friends. I’m not saying this is good or bad. I don’t know your mum’s friends. All I’m saying is that I never silent-laughed so hard while simultaneously being turned on before or since. 

 

Which brings us to the botty burps. As anyone who has done yoga will know, it’s not somewhere you want to be farting, for three good reasons. First - it’s silent, so your crime will stand out like a dropped plate in a restaurant. You know those looks you get. Second, it’s as tightly packed as a rush-hour tube, so any dirty bombs will incur maximum casualties. And thirdly, and most importantly - you’re only allowed to breath through your nose. It’s the perfect storm of bad fart conditions; the olfactory heart of darkness.

I remember the incident well. 10 broken souls and me, gathered in a circle,

mulling over the benefits of pickling our own seaweed, when from nowhere, something exploded. To say it was a sound isn’t doing it justice. It was an event. A moving of tectonic plates, deep underground. A shattering of the time-space continuum. Seconds later, just as the world was making sense of itself again, another explosion blew the group apart. Dizzy with empathy, I almost fired off a sympathy fart, but thought better of it. 3 wrongs don’t make a right. What a terrible time. Bit also, a hilarious one. Me: 1, broken farting yoga people: 0.

 

And so I continued, smugly tittering away in the corner at these unfortunate souls trying to grin themselves better. After all, I was separate from them. I was here for my upper body; they were here for healing. They were broken souls. I wasn’t. The only thing I was breaking was my chin-up bar. Weeks turned to months. Seasons passed. I learnt how to do a handstand but not to smile. And then one day, I broke too, and I stopped laughing inside. Which isn’t to say I’ve started smiling.  I’m still 6 cans short of a 6-pack, which is no laughing matter.

Peas and Pins

When cars honked, when Yo-Yos yo-yo’d, when buildings were brick, there was a pretty park there. The trees and bushes rustled about its neat symmetry of paths and benches, and the fountain in the middle was always full. 

Drawn to this idyll a little girl would come every Sunday, throw down bread, and with a pocket peashooter, shoot peas with pins in at the sparrows. She never missed.

But with time the crumbling brick begot concrete, and fewer people negotiated the growling dual carriageway that had stolen a large half of the pretty park. You drive past it every day. But you'd never know.

Yet like the bushes and trees about her, determined to stay put,

a little old lady clings to the last remaining bench. Eyes closed, she feels the rising sun on her back, its rays warming her crunchy hunch, pop pop.

With time, her hand unclamps from the bench arm. It slides into her snakeskin handbag, like a sausage skin full of blue and white pebbles, and pulls out again, holding something tight. Looking down with rheumy eyes, the hand opens, click click, and she rattles a chuckle.

A sparrow lands not four feet from the Little Old Lady and flips her a beady eye. Its piddly mind switches back and forth between inanity and electric panic and back again. The noise, the wind, the grey, the green, the basics.

Bread. 

Victim 449.

A six inch tube rests as steady as Eddie at the Little Old Lady’s lips. Her eyes, now steely, following the line of its silver barrel to the bird motionless.

Dropping the sparrow into her handbag, brown feathers on a bed of green and silver, peas and pins, she snaps the bag shut and mutters.

“It’s Sunday, you stupid little fuck.”

FANTASTIC PLASTIC

We all have a bag of tricks, don’t we, stashed away for when we inevitably become single again. Well, the other night, after about a month of new-found singledom, I had a little rummage through mine and came across a sex doll that I’d bought as a joke gift for someone but forgotten to give them.

Would I?

Surely not....But on the other hand, this and openly talking to yourself is one of the few perks of living alone. So fuck it, why not.

Pulse quickening, I took off my trousers and inspected the box.  Then I realized the curtains were open and hastily whipped them shut, almost bringing the bar down on my head with the exertion. Blood now pumping, I looked at the box to see that it was ‘The world’s smallest sex doll’. Mmmm, sexy. Not only was she made of plastic, she was also the size of a baby. This was a lot of taboos to break for a Monday. 

Shaking off these unhelpful thoughts, I refocused on the fun and pulled ‘her’ out of the box, tenderly pulling off the ‘hygiene seals’ from her vagina and anus to reveal her pink innards. Things were getting sexy now. Real sexy. Our eyes met. She looked shocked, as if she didn’t know what we were both here to do. I liked it, I really did. I love it when they play innocent.

Now fully unraveled, I located her blow-hole (Blow-up dolphin dolls? Just a thought) and gave her the blow of life. But tiny as she was, she second I took my mouth away, she deflated. Frustrated but undeterred, I got her full on the 4th try. Shit had just got real. And by the look in her unnaturally wide eyes, she knew it.

But even in the pre-heat of the moment, self-preservation kicked in when I noticed that the seams around her vagina and anus looked a bit sharp. Now fucking a plastic doll the size of a baby I could handle, but traipsing into hospital with a cut cock, I could not. Not again. So it was with a heavy heart that I broke the rule I had sworn many years ago never to break, and I rubbered up.

With everything in place, it was time to bring out my A-game, and the porn. Needless to say she enjoyed it. You know I don’t need to say THAT. But I just couldn’t get there. The porn was next to useless because try as I might, I couldn’t get the little plastic doll to look like a flesh and blood, full-sized woman human in my head. And transposing the faces of several ex’s onto her face didn’t work either, because none of them have ever looked as shocked as she was whilst under me.

So after 2 minutes of battling with my mind and plastic, I relented, deflated her, and put her in the bin. Another broken relationship, another day. And London resumed its slow grind onward.