A Memento of Summer

Running down a central reservation in last night’s red dress
And I can still smell you on my fingers and taste you on my breath
It’s like living in the middle of the ocean
With no future, no past


I’m in a trance. It’s a nice feeling. This must be how bees feel when they’ve pollinated a tender flower.

If you were a fan of cheesy wordplay, you could say I’m buzzing. I’ve not had a night like that with a man before.

And now the walk home in the cool late summer morning through a cow-filled meadow. This is my favourite time of the year. There’s a natural underlying warmth to the air but there’s a fresh breeze  which catches my arms and sends a little chill through my body. The future beefburger creatures just stare at me.

I don’t know what happened to my shoes but the feel of the moist grass on my dirty feet somehow lifts me even higher. Huge trees are ahead of me and I can hear the sound of traffic beyond them.

I pass through the trees, the smell of cars and urbanity begins to hit me and a little wave of self-consciousness hits me. I’m at a dual carriageway wearing little more than the red dress I wore to his house last night.

The road is pretty quiet so I skip over the road towards the central reservation.  A lorry goes by and peeps his horn. Even the pesky pervos can’t get me down today. I hop over the barrier next to the overtaking lane and on to the grass again.

Last night was so intense, shame it ended in a big argument but that’s how these happen. He lost his head and I lost mine, I suppose. I really can’t deal with arguments and shouting and name-calling. It’s not my scene.

It was all forgotten by morning and I felt like a weight had been lifted off the ol’ shoulders. Today’s another adventure isn’t it?

Another lorry goes by and more horn-parping follows. Have they never seen a lass wander down a road at 7am on a Sunday morning? This time a car rolls by and something is shouted out the window by a funny-looking young woman. I wave at her.

The amount of people paying me attention is funny. I start skipping down the road. I’ve never felt as light as this. I have literally not a care in the world today.

I skip for what seems like hours. Who knows how long it is? I see a roundabout ahead. I’m disappointed that the long straight road is being interrupted by this big round thing.

Actually, I’m a bit tired now. Perhaps last night’s physical exertions have taken their toll on me. Pretty hungry too, come to think of it.

I arrive at the junction and look for a spot to cross. The middle of the roundabout is grassy too, and raises to a mound in the middle and it’s filled with flowers. It looks a nice place for a picnic if you’re a fan of staring at roads.

A car pulls up beside and brakes. The passenger in the car is a friendly old granny. She looks up at me and sees the state of me. She motions to her feller, it must be her husband.

He just stares at me. I hold his gaze. He has a hard face. We match eyes for seconds until his increasingly agitated wife forces him to look away. She is shouting at him. He looks back at me and drives off. Weird.

As he pulls away a white van is coming from the right hand side and rams his hatchback up the backend. The noise is pathetically small for a car accident like this. It reminds  when a bunch of cans fall off a supermarket shelf. The old timer’s car is shunted off the roundabout to the left whilst the van spins around in the middle of the road. My stomach lurches a little bit at how something so big can look lost.

I turn away from the accident and head up to the flowers for a sit down and to see what I can do about the mega- hunger that I’m feeling.


The sounds of people shouting is knocking me out of my blissful moment. I just want to sit at the summit of this roundabout with my thoughts.

My arms are covered in his aroma. It’s wafting up and too intense a reminder of what happened last night. Another chill goes through my body and I can’t even look at my arms now.

I feel perturbed by something. It’s that old man from the car. He’s now on the road, he has a gash down his face running from his right eye to his jawline.

He’s staring at me again. I don’t like his hard face, harder then the tarmac. I look at other people who have gathered around. They are all looking at me. Twenty of them now. A police car has pulled up too.

Two male cops exit the car and are looking at me too. They’re shouting at me. Words I can’t quite grasp, I feel like I’m falling in to a trance.

I remain sat like a buddha in my flowery roundabout, cut adrift from everything. I’m so glad I still have my memento of last night. I can’t let it go. I close my eyes, trying to preserve my feelings of walking down the road earlier.

The sun is high in the sky now, it must be midday now? How long have I sat here now? I open my eyes and there must be twenty coppers here now, along with a couple of ambulances (ambulanci – is that a word?).

The old man is still there, he’s still staring at me. I can’t see his wife. Some of the police have guns. The guns are pointed at me. They are still shouting at me. Again, their words are like waves bouncing off the bow of an ocean liner.

All I want to do is gaze into his eyes like I did last night.

But as I look down at his face his eyes are no longer there. After I decapitated him I removed his judgmental eyes. Always judging me. No longer will I stand for that kind of shit.

“You’ll never amount to anything, you’re a coward, a pathetic creature” he bawled at me. He was stood in my face, sneeringly arrogant and dominant.

That was when I caught him with my elbow and he went down straight away. The way he went down antagonised me even more. He was sparked out, no movement at all.

I went to the kitchen and got the bread knife. I came back to the bedroom, drank the rest of the wine and went to work.

It took about two hours to chop it off. I suppose you never think about the practicalities of lopping someone’s noggin off. When I finally wrenched the spine away from his head I felt catharsis. It was perfect moment of the night.

So I took it with me. I’m not sure why really. I think I thought I had earned it through my labours. Looking at the blood covered face I begin to feel like perhaps it wasn’t my right to behead somebody, no matter how much they piss me off. I’ve always struggled with seeing things rationally. I can see now that some folk may think beheading someone is a slightly disproportionate response.

My arms are covered in dried blood up to my shoulders. Lucky I wore the red dress, otherwise I could have looked a right, clashing mess. What now for me?

I don’t know.

I stand up. The policemen raise their guns in unison.

I lift up the head by his crimson-tinted blonde hair and hold it aloft like it was Medusa’s head. The spectators are visibly repulsed but don’t turn to stone.

I roll the head back down the hill, where it lays to rest on the roadside.

The old man is still there. He’s still staring at me from fifty yards away. Still judging me. His face is unreadable.

I cannot handle this man staring and judging and giving nothing back.

I know I can’t reach him without the police stopping me. But I’ll take my chances.

I run at him, space and time merges together, the future and the past no longer exist.

by Martin O’Brien based on Central Reservation – Beth Orton


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Bella’s Morning

A smash of glass and the rumble of boots
An electric train and a ripped-up phone booth
Waking up at 6 A.M. on a cool warm morning
Opening the windows and breathing in petrol

Bella wakes, the sound of smashing glass rings through her ears like an alarm.

It’s the Hunters, preparing to level the block.

Bella is lying on a mattress with no cover, it’s too warm for that in London these days.

She jumps up, already clothed in a white t-shirt and black jeans. She is in a daze but adrenalin propels her around her studio apartment. She picks up her midsy (the Money ID Card every citizen is required to carry by law) and slips on her running pumps.

She opens her window and even though she knows what to expect she is frozen rigid. Tens of small drones that look like metal wasps are using 5 metre proboscises to smash the windows of the res-block. Larger drones the size of London Zoo elephants are spraying petrol through the gaping windows.

Bella has only smelt petrol once before. That was when her brother’s res-block was burned to the ground in Clapham seven years ago.

He never made it out. Bella can’t move her body. She looks down to the floor, fifty-four storeys down and can see the red-clad Civil Enforcement Officers pouring in to the building, the rumble of boots rising upwards like the Autumn thunder.

Bella can hear the screams begin. The searing cries of her neighbours knock her out of stasis. The hunters are here because of what she found out. 7 years of research and it has all come together. The knowledge to end the tyranny that Greater England has endured for eight decades.

But, it’s all for nothing if she can’t escape from this soon-to-be burning tower. She looks out of the window at her only chance at saving herself.

Halfway up between the two mega res-blocks that are squeezed in between the old Olympic Stadium and the Waterworks River is the Skytrain track. About 150 metres high, half the height of the two towers that it snakes through on its route through what is left of Whitechapel towards the National Station.

Bella looks out of her window, the stench of petrol making her retch. The track is about 10 metres down and ten metres away from the window. “It’s not jumpable, it can’t be,” she says out loud.

The first fires are being ignited at the top of the tower. A wave of guilt washes over her when she considers they are levelling the res-block because of her. How many deaths will this cause? She hardens her thoughts in the knowledge that the government is responsible for thousands of deaths a day in Greater England’s wars, both internally and externally.

The rumble of boots is getting louder, the troops are outside her apartment. Vulgar shouts can be heard outside.

Bella clambers out of her window and on to the ledge. She hears her apartment door being blown off. She doesn’t look around, instead she pushes her legs with all the force she can manage and takes a leap of faith and knowledge.

She flies.

The moment of exhilaration is brutally ended when she lands shoulder first on to the hot silver track. She skids along but remains lying on the 4 metre wide shimmering maglev track.

Bella giggles at the thought at what she has done. The wind has been taken out of her but it seems nothing is broken. All she can hear is a tinny whistle which is beginning to get louder and drowning out the screams, the fires and the drones.

Bella turns her head to the right and retches again. A Skytrain is coming towards her.

450 kilometres an hour of pure speed that can reach English cities such as Bristol, Amsterdam and Newcastle from London in less than an hour and carries troops to the frontline in Livingston to carry on the fight against the Glasgow and Edinburgh Scottish nationalists.

The retch give Bella the impetus to spin across the flat track. As the train approaches she manages to roll over and dangle off the track. She holds on to the edge of the track as the maglev zooms past and float over her fingers. The trailing wind almost blows her to the ground but she holds on for what seems like an hour but is probably only five seconds. The train finally zooms past and away through the new slums towards the National Station.

Bella pulls herself back on up to the track. Stood tall and looking towards the old Olympic Stadium, now London’s biggest internment camp. A prison of 40,000 people serving as a reminder to anyone who wants to challenge the government. A mix of underworld figures, human rights activists, psychopaths, enemies of the government and anyone else deemed “un-English”.

The biggest threat to the government. The reminder to the masses of what happens when you attempt to challenge the order. Londoners call it the underground stadium as everyone pretends it isn’t there. Huge metal scaffolding surrounds most of the stadium due to extensions for security reasons. For something that is regarded as invisible it remains the unmistakable emblem of 22nd century England.

It is the symbolic key to the regime’s reign of terror.

Rather handily, Bella has the actual key to the prison.

Or to put it more accurately, she has the codes to access the electricity house that is located outside the stadium. Her research has led her to this point where a simple system shutdown can pull the plug on the underground stadium. Seven years of investigations and the associated murders, hacks and belief.

Due to the regular blackouts twenty years ago that led to regular rioting, escapes and the Dagenham crisis the government had to place the stadium under it’s own electricity generation system. Bella discovered that there is no back up system in place and the government has never reconnected it back to the main grid.

Well they did five years ago, until Bella disconnected again last week, but that’s whole different adventure.

Bella runs along the skytrain track and looks for a place to get off. She runs and runs and can’t see anywhere to drop off until she spots a maintenance staircase that runs rather conveniently down to the City Mills River. Bella descends the staircase by jumping down each flight.

The staircase leads into a building where a fat man in government uniform is at a desk surrounded by CCTV images. He hasn’t noticed her. He looks like a typical guvsheep. A base, greedy, selfish creature who will do what he can to preserve his cushy life and protect the regime.

She silently walks behind the big man and examines the images on the screens in front of her. The images appear to show the nearby area around the building. It is deathly quiet inside the room. The images are deathly quiet too. Concrete and tarmac and no people.

Bang in the middle of the screens Bella spots a feed focused on the entrance to the electrical control building that she needs to enter. It’s unguarded.

The only problem is the guvsheep. Bella looks at him, a bloated man feeding on Tortos, while his fellow country-folk go hungry.

Bella pulls an eight-inch knife out of her jeans and unsheathes it. grabs the guard by the forehead and swipes the knife across his throat. Blood and processed food spurts out over the desk.

Before she leaves the room Bella smashes every screen. Bella can’t handle the silent screens. They remind her of the silent majority in London. Cowed into silence by a sociopathic regime.

Bella fights back tears and finally walks out of the building and makes her way towards the rusting, burgundy hulk of the Orbit.

A thick steel door greets her at the entrance.

Bella simply pushes the door open.

She expected it to be open. She hacked it last night, the door can only be opened from the inside usually.

Bella walks inside and shuts the door. Stairs lead downstairs to a rather bare and basic office. A few desks and a couple of computers are in here. A man is sat a computer, a wiry man with glasses and a hard face. His face contorts to sheer puzzlement, his jaw quite literally dropping at the sight of a sweat-covered Bella.

She walks over to him and cuts his throat in a move so quick it looked almost dull. His leaking body drops off the chair on to the floor.

She walks through the office and spots what she is looking for. A red handle pokes out of the wall. A label above states “POWER”.

Bella pauses in front of it and grimaces at the word.

If she pulls this handle up she will be Cerberus. What will be unleashed on the city and the country?

Forty thousand people released. The resentful, the criminal and the vile – it is true.

But also the revolutionaries. With the wars in Scotland, France and Gibraltar the government is already in trouble. Manpower is running low for their bitter battles.

“We carry a new world here, in our hearts,”

Bella pulls the handle.


In the room only silence, Bella can’t take her hand off the handle.


Outside in London, the power goes out in the underground stadium. The silence is replaced by noise. Screams pierce the East London air, the gates swing open and the battle begins.

by Martin O’Brien based on That’s Entertainment – The Jam

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The Wind and the Rain

You leave in the morning
With everything you own in a little black case
Alone on the platform
The wind and the rain

Èze, France – July 5th 1998

They’re coming for me. The handwritten warning:

Fear the wind and the rain

Penance is due for unending pain

Who was it from?

Probably Mossad. The attack by those animals in Buenos Aires in ‘71 still horrified me. It wasn’t like them to not finish the job. Sometimes my eye still stings, even though it was burned out nearly three decades ago. I thought the running was over. Argentina, South Africa and now Monaco.

Still one eye is better than nothing and I’m a strong guy. They couldn’t kill me in South America or Africa, they sure as hell aren’t doing it here on the Riviera.

It’s a shame, I like Monaco. A lot of the old gang are here but we can’t meet up. The occasional phone call from Josef or Otmar but that’s it. The price we pay for the past is our constant loneliness. Always striving to get close to people but unable to do it.

I’m a simple man, I enjoy my morning coffee at Café Girard and a brisk walk around Fontvielle. Then back to my apartment where I like to watch the young maid clean up. She does a good job even though she’s a fucking Arab. I know she wants me to fuck her. She only cares about the money. Worse than the Jews for that. As if I’d touch her…

I can feel the anger rising up, now it’s all over. Some people who can’t let the past rest and to hound an old man. War makes no man proud. But at the time everything I did felt right. It still does when I look at the world now. Money grabbing foreigners everywhere you look.

One suitcase, a taxi ride out to Èze. They’ll be watching the station at Monte Carlo – this is the safest place, according to Joachim.

“Get out now,” he told me, “I know someone in Madrid, a friend will meet you at Atocha in 3 days at midday outside the entrance. His name is Frank,”

And that was that, I took all my money out of the bank and called a taxi for 5am.

The apartment was a mess when I left, the maid had called in sick for two days now. I left the apartment with no feelings. A shitty Renault was outside waiting for me.

The driver looked like another stinking Arab. He looked at me in a funny way. I told him to concentrate on the fucking road, it’s still dark. That shut up the dirty bastard.

We made it to Èze for quarter past five. The road runs along the riviera, the main town lies above in the hills. The small station lies between the road and the sea.

The dark man drops me off on Avenue de la Liberté, near the station. I look around and I can see roses are growing everywhere, an overwhelming sight – pinks, reds glowing like the print by Warhol I once saw in a magazine.

It’s too intense. A wave of nausea stuns me and the smell reminds me a bit of the camps, an intense, sickly smell.

I have to catch my breath, the world begins to spin. I drop a knee to the floor and heave a dry retch.

After gathering my senses I visit the café opposite the station for a bottle of water. A young, bald boy serves me. I don’t like his look either. I can’t wait to get out of France, they smirk at anyone with a German accent.

I cross the road back to the station and make it to the platform – the next train is in an hour’s time. I can relax here for a while and watch the sun rise.

I glance to my right and I see a young girl walking on to the platform looking lost. She’s beautiful. Long dark hair, a pretty white dress with flowers on it and a rose in her hair. She starts to walk over to me.

Maybe there are some things in France I will miss!

The girl is even more stunning up close, she has dark eyes – possible a gypsy looking at her. And she starts to speak and she sounds Slavic. I’m entranced by her.

“Excuse me sir….” she begins…


A week ago Gunari had phoned and said the maid confirmed he was a German. That was the final confirmation – everything else checked out.

I caught the train from Genoa to Monaco. He would be my first.

I met with Gunari in the Japanese Gardens. Summer was in full bloom, I like this time of year. Everything seems possible.

“Nuri, my child,” Gunari laid his big, coarse hands on my shoulders, “This is what you have waited for. Be ready and remember your training,”

“I know what I need to do,” I whisper.

“Good girl,”

Gunari left me and I walked over to the promenade and looked out at the Mediterranean Sea. Gunari had said to embrace the guilt. This is vengeance for our people being slaughtered in their thousands across Europe. Herded like cattle and called subhuman. Exterminated in the death camps. We are the wind and the rain that cleanses our shame.

My own grandfather, murdered in Jasonevac.

The man I will be killing is not responsible for that murder. But he is responsible for the deaths of thousands of my people. The Porajmos will never be forgotten.

This man brought Kali Traš, the Black Fear, to us.

The wind and the rain will wash away his sins.

He tried the quick getaway. He thought he was clever. Our methods were cleverer. I bugged his phone and overheard his conversation with the other German.

The taxi that picked him up was driven by Gunari.

I had held up the actual taxi driver by flashing some leg and asking if he could give me a ride. It worked a treat. Like the movies I actually told him to “follow that car” behind Gunari and the target.

Gunari pulled up at the little village train station and I told the taxi driver to carry on and park up around the corner about one hundred metres from the station.

I leave the car and peer around the corner. A man with a dark blue coat and grey trousers is crossing the road and drinking from a bottle of water muttering to himself.

I see my prey. My stomach lurches once and then twice. In my small handbag I have a blade. A Indian bagh naka, a small instrument resembling a tiger claws.

I follow him up to the station, pausing only to pluck a scarlet rose from a nearby bush and place it in my hair. I walked to the platform and the station was deserted. Just an old man carrying a smart black case.

I walked over to him and attempted to look demure. I had picked out my only flowery dress for today.

I am fighting the nerves in my stomach. I keep telling myself this is for the Berša Bibahtale, the unhappy years suffered by the Romani. This man killed my people without compunction nor reason.

I slowly approach him and the old man is leering at me, barely disguising his lust. A man without morals. A man unaware of his judgment.

“Excuse me sir,” I said, surprising myself at how successfully I can concealed my own fear, “Do you know what time the next train to Nice is due?”

“About an hour’s time, sweetie,” the vile creature responded, with a smirk.

“Thank you,” I say fixing him with my stare, “Thank you Dr Albert Tremmick, the Exterminator of Dieselstrasse, there will be no more experiments on our children, Doctor,”

The man’s face is a picture of incomprehension. I’ve never seen a face change from arrogance to desolation.

Everything is slowing down. I can see the impending recognition on his face of what is about to happen. My hand lies on the blade.

Finally the old man tries to lunge at me. He is too slow. I skip around the back of his grasping Nazi hands grab him by the collar and pull my face up to his sweating neck. I raise my right arm and rake the bagh naka across his throat.

The man utters a pathetic yelp and crumples to the floor. Within seconds the platform is covered in rose-red blood. It is dripping on to the tracks. The wind and the rain has finally cleansed this place.

I walk out of the station and into Gulani’s car. Nothing needs to be said – he just looks in to my wet eyes and he drives us away.

by Martin O’Brien based on Smalltown Boy – Bronski Beat


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The Attercliffe Assassin

The boy is hit, lit up against the sky, like a sign, like a neon sign
And he crumples, drops into the gutter, legs twitching
The flood swells his clothes and delivers him on, delivers him on
Sometimes, when I look deep in your eyes, I swear I can see your soul

The pain was intense with every step but Gabriel kept walking. Standing still was even worse.

Never stand still, his coach Joe said, always keep moving. You stand still and you’re an easy target, a mug. Keep moving and you’ll never go down. One-two, lights out. Keep moving, keep your lights on.

Gabriel had always heeded this advice in the ring. Joe’s advice had got him his big shot. But sometimes you fall short. And you fall hard.

The evening was muggy, one of those summer nights you only get a few nights a year in England. Nights which never seem real and never seem to end, an exhilaratingly anxious feeling. You can’t sleep when it’s like this. All you can do is keep moving; brain and body.

Gabriel’s feet are light on the Sheffield streets. The monstrously large brick buildings tower above him, the shadows as oppressive as the humidity. A jarring reminder of the people congregating around him last night as he sank to the floor. Their dark shadows looming over him with the arena floodlights giving them bright halos.

The sight of a billboard across the road gives him a start. He walks over to the other side transfixed by it.

It’s the poster of his fight last night. His big fight, his big shot.

The heir to Eubank, Benn and Calzaghe. He would deliver his message and confirm his status as the best super middleweight in the country. “He Shall Be Great”, the tag line proclaimed, his arms raised aloft.

All he can think of now is the image of himself falling down. An out-of-body experience as he can see himself falling from afar, like in a film. He had kept on moving but the tough little Mexican Rafael Sariel had caught him flush above his left eye and he fell. The very moment where – and utterly without cliché – he could feel the world turn on its axis.

The photographers’ flashes light him up as he crumples in slow-motion. Every source of light is trained on him and he appears like a cartoon character being electrocuted. And moments later there is nothing, only pain and darkness.

Ladies and gentleman, here he is….The Angel of Death. The Attercliffe Assassin.

He was the unbeaten 24 year old who had been overlooked for the Olympics as a 21 year old. He responded with a rampaging fifteen wins in a row, thirteen by knock-out. The most fearsome boxer of his generation, an electric ball of fury and tight movement.

One punched extinguished not only his consciousness but his career too.

Gabriel couldn’t remember leaving the ring unconscious on a stretcher. Nor the tests at the hospital. Or even leaving the hospital and going back home. Only after waking this evening did he begin to feel in touch with his senses.

But the pain, the pain was unrelenting. His head was hurting so much that Gabriel could only grimly giggle, a touch hysterically. The feeling of hopelessness was simply incomprehensible to him. The loss of his unbeaten record was the loss of his dignity, his honour, his actual being.

Growing up had been tough, living with his grandparents. He never knew his father and his mother worked during the nights. She handed him over for good to her folks when he was nine years old. His grandparents hadn’t expected to raise a child when they were in their sixties and he was off the rails by thirteen. A criminal record at sixteen for a series of assaults and street robberies.

It was a spell in a secure care home that saved him when he was sixteen. When he arrived Gabriel had decided that silence was the only way forward.

Everything he would say normally to people would invariably get him in trouble so from then on, he would barely say a word, communicating with grunts and eye contact. All kinds of social workers tried to engage him. They all failed with their understanding faces, ceaseless jargon and condescending tones.

Joe was different. He worked part time at the care home as they needed some decent security as twelve wayward lads in their late teens could be quite a handful. Joe was a former marine and national amateur boxing champion at light-heavyweight. He was In his late-fifities, a brooding presence with a crew-cut, pale reddish skin and his huge arms covered in tattoos – although they were hard to distinguish underneath his dark, hairy arms

In their first one-to-one “counselling” session Joe didn’t speak. Not a word. Just calmly watched Gabriel whose demeanour was a feigned nonchalance.

He didn’t speak at the next session and Gabriel began to look closely at Joe. Joe was a real hard man, he could tell. It wasn’t just his size but his eerily relaxed nature. None of the lads in the care home behaved badly when he was there, not even once.

At the end of the third one-hour session Gabriel finally cracked. He walked up to Joe and in tears collapsed in to his arms. After a few minutes like that he pulled away from Joe and saw the old feller was misty-eyed too. No words again we’re spoken. Gabriel left the room and on the way out Joe simply nodded at him to which he reciprocated and smiled sheepishly.

At the next session (a day later at Gabriel’s request) he emptied his heart out to Joe – about his absent parents, his bewildered grandparents, the crimes he had committed and the emptiness he felt inside. Joe would barely speak, he let Gabriel unload his problems and after Gabriel finally ran out of words and energy Joe took over the conversation.

He told him about his early life which was very similar to Gabriel’s. Absent parents, an upbringing in care homes and foster houses. An escape to the military was his way out. He had picked up boxing while he was serving and found his calling. Two decades ago, he left the marines and worked at his local boxing gym. He took Gabriel to the gym and started to teach him.

Joe coaxed and coached him. He taught him discipline, technique and about choosing a path in life. When Gabriel realised that he was actually pretty good at boxing and after flooring a former English amateur middleweight champion during a sparring session he made a pledge to himself to become a world champion.

By the time he was 19 he was training intensely, forgoing all vices. No booze, no drugs, very little in the way of any socialising. He had one goal now and there seemed to be nothing to stand in his way. He watched as many boxing DVDs as Joe could find for him. The classic Benn-Eubank duels were his favourites. The intensity and the story they told inspired him. He wanted to become a public figure in England, and go to America and become a great.

To get so near and fail was sickening. He didn’t know what was worse, the physical pain that stung his whole body or the blunt feeling of emptiness he felt in his soul.

The heavy sky finally collapsed and the rain fell down, huge waves of warm rain immediately drenching him. Gabriel realised he was stood on the kerb still looking at the poster for his bout at the Paradise Arena. He was staring at his eyes and he began to feel weak.

Reality and hazy recollections were blurring.

He could see it all, the cameras flashing as he crashed to the floor.

He was on the canvas, in the gutter as the rain incessantly poured over him. And the photographers, and the doctors were around.

Rafael was there too, standing over him, a healing hand on his heart. Floodlights and streetlights, the streets flooding with rainwater and the arena lights reflected back.

A man’s voice whispers something. He looks around and sees no ring and doctors, just an old tramp chasing his phone and wallet as they wash along the gutter by the side of the road.

Gabriel feels his leg viciously spasming, and his head is hurting so much that he doesn’t feel the pain any longer. The man, a tramp, a doctor, a coach, a rival stares in to his eyes, holds his hands and sees imperfection, not a king but a man of redemption.

by Martin O’Brien based on Sometimes – James


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Airport Run

3:36, it’s cold, I know I’m growing old
With life’s best side on the downward slope
Done it before, do it again
Early morning cold taxi.


Brrrp! Brrrp!

Roger slammed his grizzly hand down on the alarm clock. He allowed himself one snooze lasting six minutes. He got out of bed, took a six minute cold shower and went downstairs still in a daze. He ate an apple that was already beginning to decay even though he only bought them yesterday and put on some old rags,what he called his jeans and a moth-eaten grey t-shirt.

Roger double checked that he locked up after himself then unlocked his car. His red Focus was ready for another day’s work. A swift memory of last night hit him. Arguments over money and kids. He felt a painful twinge in his chest which made him exhale air, gushing out of him like pus from a blister.

Roger looked at the clock on the dashboard of his cab.


Another airport run, fucking hell, he thought. He pulled away from his drive for the short journey two streets away to pick up his fare. An old school friend called Keith who was heading to the airport to fly to visit his son in Australia. Roger was struggling for cash, and struggling for the motivation to leave his house. He was working barely two days a week now and this fare could keep him going a bit longer and perhaps buy a birthday present for his little boy.

‘Alright, Rog, how ya keeping?’ Keith said as they put the suitcases in the boot of the Focus.

‘Good ta Keith, you all set?’ Roger said.

‘Aye. Let’s hit the road mate.’

Soon the Focus was leaving town and joining on to the motorway. It was still dark and the cold autumn mist was greasing the road with a coating of ice. The trees fell away from Roger’s periphery and the road became his entrancer once again. The grey tarmac soothed his head and the miles began to pass away.

‘How are the kids?’

Roger looked around puzzled. Keith was looking at him expectantly.

‘What?’ was all he could mumble.

‘Your kids Rog. They alright?’

‘They’re fine,’ was all he could force out.

‘They must be what ten and eleven now, Rog?’ Keith said, utterly oblivious to the fact that Roger did not want to speak to him.

‘Twelve and thirteen now,’ was all he offered him.

‘God, we’re gettin’ on a bit now eh?’

‘Yep,’ was all Roger could muster and Keith stopped pestering him.

The trees and signs and Little Chefs continued to fly by, and his spirits lifted as the miles ticked away. He considered buying a take-away pizza later as a treat for leaving the house.

By half five the sun was rising and the tops of the de-leafing trees were tinged mahogany. Roger thought that the world never looked so beautiful as right now. Despite their cruising speed of seventy-five miles per hour there was a stillness and a crispness that shrouded the roads and passing fields. The only noise came from the engine and the road was quiet except for the occasional lorry which they glided past at thirty second intervals.

With the airport just twenty-five miles away Keith started to speak again.

‘You see the wife much now Rog?’, another favourite topic for Roger to avoid.

‘No,’ Roger said blankly.

‘Not at all? Shit Rog, I never thought you too would ever split up.’

He was antagonised by this comment. Seemingly everybody thought that they would never split up. It caused him to forget about ignoring Keith and set him straight.

‘She’s a fucking money grabbing bitch Keith,’ he spat, ‘I fucking hate her.’

‘Really?’ Now Keith was the stunned one.

‘All the time,’ Roger continued, ‘Grasping all the time. Buy me this kitchen, buy me this ring, buy me this car, buy me this bed. I should have fucking bought a hitman to take her out. She’s made my life a fucking misery Keith. She really has, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

‘Christ Rog, I had no idea.’

‘She’s never worked a day in her life. She got all my redundancy from the factory. And now, and now I tell you she takes whatever I’ve got. You wouldn’t believe…I mean… I mean I don’t mind paying for the kids but she’s taking it for herself. Her and that scruffy bastard she’s seeing now.’

‘John? He’s a decent guy, I’ve met him at the pub a few times.’

He turned and glared at Keith with a look of sheer disgust. Roger went back to driving and began to seep back in to his lovely, melancholic state when Keith once more started talking to him.

‘So how much is it again for this ride Rog?’

‘One sixty mate cheers.’ he replied, pleasantly thinking about the money that will soon arrive in his pocket.

‘No probs. Any chance I can pay you on the return journey matey?’

‘Sorry? What?’

Roger thought he misheard him say ‘can I pay you on the return journey?’ Now that couldn’t be right.

‘It’s just a bit easier for me at the moment I haven’t got any English money on me, it’s all in Aussie dollars. Bloody Monopoly money eh?’

‘Come on Keith, you’re taking the piss, don’t you think?’ Roger was astonished.

‘Why d’ya say that Rog?’

‘You expect me to wait three and a half weeks before I get my fare. Come on man I need the fucking money.’

The world stopped looking so crisp and began to look sterile and lacking in life. Roger could feel his leg tightening up again and his chest also.

‘Fucking hell Rog you know I’m good for it.’

‘It’s not the point is it Keith? I’m fucking brassic and you’re saying you won’t pay me.’

‘Not won’t – just can’t at the moment. You didn’t say anything about payment up front. You should’ve made it clear.’

Roger snapped. He faced Keith and looked at his big stupid face. He looked scared, his eyes darting all over the place. He tried to give a smile; a dumb smile and Roger erupted.

‘You tight bastard. I’m turning this fucking car around.’

Roger prepared to turn off at the impending exit road when Keith grabbed the wheel. Roger was shocked and the Focus began to move back towards the motorway. Adrenalin pumped and his chest tightened but he held the wheel firm against Keith’s surprisingly powerful grip.

The car was heading straight in to the steel railings that dissects the motorway and the slip road.

The dull grey barrier approached them, with an almost inevitable air. Keith had a maniacal look on his face. Roger looked at him and back at the barrier ahead and felt his anger rise to a level he thought could not be reached. He yanked the wheel as hard as he could to the left and the car swept away from the barrier.

However instead of careering along the slip road the car turned one hundred and eighty degrees and slid in to the kerb on the left hand side of the road. The impact flipped the car like a child’s toy. As the car rose in the air Roger felt totally light. He was flying through the air and a wave of euphoria lightened the crushing feeling from his chest.

The euphoria ended when the car slammed down on its roof with a sickening heavy crunch. Roger felt his head smash off the roof and the pain was intense. Every part of his head was in extreme pain. He couldn’t focus on anything. He looked out of the window but all he could see was the world falling away.

He realised they were sliding down a hill. Seconds later, the car splashed down in to water. Roger’s head was a riot of angry pain. He looked around and saw Keith fighting to get out of the car. Keith looked around and began to fight to take Roger’s seatbelt off.

‘Leave me please,’ Roger mumbled, ‘I mean it. I don’t wanna be saved. Just leave me.’

He looked at Keith and Keith understood. His passenger kicked out what was left of his door and swam away from Roger and the car.

Blood and murky water was all he could taste and he thought never again I’m I doing it. Never again shall I get in that early morning cold taxi.

by Martin O’Brien based on Early Morning Cold Taxi – The Who

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Dear Children

London calling to the faraway towns

Now war is declared – and battle come down

London calling to the zombies of death

Quit holding out – and draw another breath

My dearest Simon, Mary and Stephen,

Fifty seven nights have passed and we are still here. All of us. Those bombs may break our houses but they cannot break our spirit. They can bomb us for another one hundred nights and we shall still be here, united against the common enemy. I write to you from the family home which we returned to last Thursday, it has been untouched by the troubles though the area is not without its sad stories.

They say that Hackney was badly hit as was Tottenham but I’m sure you’ll find it more disturbing to know that the football ground at Highbury suffered a blow, the North Bank terrace apparently. Closer to home though, Mrs Finchley from down the road told us that her cousin’s house has been destroyed. It’s such an awful thing to happen but every war must have its casualties. These things are to be expected in these difficult times.

We’ve been sleeping in the tubes on the evenings, it’s been a more homely experience than I ever could’ve imagined, there’s been singing and dancing. We’ve made many new friends who have children of similar ages to you who I know you’ll be delighted to meet. The sight of people queuing to get into the stations has become part of people’s daily routine, but there has been no pushing and shoving just folk helping other folk left right and centre. Obviously with the food being rationed it’s been hard to keep up our morale and I won’t pretend that it isn’t terrifying at night-time to hear those sirens. Braver folk than I listen intently but I cover my ears, I’ve felt the ground shake as explosions nearby rock the foundations but I can assure you we’re very safe here. Nothing can touch us. No bombs can penetrate our underground lair.

The news reports have been telling us that Hitler’s turned his attention elsewhere, that we are too strong for him and that he cannot conquer us. Doesn’t that just make you feel proud? Knowing that all of Europe has been swept away before him, great nations like France fell before his fist but our little Kingdom has proved to have too much spirit and fight. I know that we’ll win this war and that when that day comes it’ll be the biggest celebration of all of our lives, just you see. When our boys fight them Nazis they fight without fear, they fight with the help from their fallen brothers in mind. Retribution for splitting our families will come at the cost of Hitler’s own life. I’m certain of it. I know we are too strong.

Your father has been working very hard at the armoury, helping keep our brave soldiers in bullets and helmets and whatever else it is they have there. He tells me that his superior Mr Mason has got all three of his sons fighting in the war. Imagine, all three of your children at the front line, fighting for King and Country. He hasn’t lost any yet either which is something to give thanks for. If either of my two boys were old enough to be out there fighting I know they’d be brave enough to enlist though I dare say I wouldn’t get a winks sleep. As only a mother could understand. With the way things are I hope all this is over before either of you get to that age but who knows when the war will be over.

I expect that life is very different for you at the moment over there. It’s a peaceful place. In a way I’m glad that you can experience some of the same things that I did as a child, the walks, the countryside, the animals, the ponds, the plants, all of it. I’m sure your grandfather has informed you that we used to visit your great-grandmother there every summer when I was a little girl, it was a beautiful, idyllic time of my life so for you to experience part of our families heritage is important for both me and your father. We are just sad that we can’t be there with you to see it. Thinking about it takes me back, I can remember the spot where we used to jump over the beck and explore the woods there. Wonderful memories that are certainly helping me keep my resolve out here.

I trust that you are behaving yourselves correctly for your grandparents. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that at their age they need children to be at their most helpful and courteous. I can imagine that you’ll be eating the freshest of foods straight from the ground out there, where there is a plentiful supply of eggs, butter and meat. I bet you’re helping out every way that you can, feeding the animals is such a joy, the goats are my favourite, they rival the pigs for an appetite they do. Always stuffing themselves.

Simon, I want you to keep going through those books that we sent you, being able to read and write will become most important to you as you continue to grow. Remember that while food and exercise will help your body grow you also need to read to keep the mind growing, although you need little encouragement I feel the need to pass on some advice whilst I can not see you.

To Mary, you can learn all sorts of things from your grandmother that will also set you up for life. She is wise and can make some of the finest foods you’ll ever taste. Although I pray for a future where a woman can be her own master rather than that of her husband and a stove, the things that your grandmother can teach you can be invaluable to a young woman’s future. Remember, you hold all the keys within you, you just need help being shown the doors.

And finally to my littlest soldier Stephen. This time away from us had probably hit you the hardest but you can learn the most from it. I know you can get frustrated from being the youngest but you must listen to your brother and sister and do as they say as you would me or your father. They only want what’s best for you. I know you are enthusiastic to be a big boy but believe me, these years of childhood will be your best and will shape how you grow to become a man.

Your father and I send all the love in the world and count down the days till we can be reunited a family again. This war is not going to break our strength and love for each other. Remember that our soldiers will not give up fighting for you and I until the enemy is vanquished. The enemy wanted London to be its jewel in the crown but the people here are made of sterner stuff to be shattered by them.

Be brave, be good and be happy,

Your loving mother and father.

by Aron Hurst-Wilson based on London Calling – The Clash

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Tonight I’m wound tighter than a watchspring
‘Cos when the skies are clear, the threat of rain is always here with you
Everything you say is a call to arms
With all that’s gone before my motives never felt so pure.

Christ, it still hurts. Every time I move my bloody arm I can feel the sting in my elbow like some bugger is stabbing a biro in to me. Who’d’ve thought that banging your arm off a table would hurt so much?

Well it probably wouldn’t – and actually it didn’t as it happens.

But who’d admit to their workmates that their bird regularly twats them. With an iron, or a toaster, or in fact any nearby household object that can be easily hurled with intent to hurt?

No real man that’s for sure. I don’t know why I stand for it – I really don’t. It’s not as if she gets all guilty and apologises after. Rather than promise to never do it again she insists that next time it will be much fucking worse and that I fucking better get used to it. Five foot five of pure devilry, that’s what she is.

It could be over anything, leaving the milk out, or the time I told her mother to fuck off out of our relationship. The interfering bitch is always sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong and (ha ha) get this, that if I ever lay a finger on her she’ll come down on me like a ton of bricks. Once my wife threw a brick at my head while we were in the garden. Nice eh?

One summer a few years back I was out in the garden trying to build my own shrine to burnt sausages when she stepped out of the kitchen and started screaming at me. She was accusing me of staring at the woman next door. I said, ‘what are you on about? She’s on holiday’.

Naturally she kicked off saying I seem to know everything about her holiday plans and that I stare at her tits whenever I see her. I walked away to the far end of the garden hoping she would go back inside and leave me alone. Instead the mad bint lobbed one of the bricks I was using to knock up my tidy little barbecue area. Luckily all it did was scrape my shoulder and bounce off around the fuschias near my feet. I turned and glared at her but she was in the house already. I lifted the brick up, stared at it for a few seconds weighing up whether I should stove her face in, then placed it back on the pile of bricks ready to be laid at a later point.

I know tonight’s gonna be a big one. One fucking mistake, albeit a pretty big one. She’s going to fucking kill me. You see about six months ago we had a huge row. She ended up belting me across the face with the house phone and shattered my nose because I left the front door unlocked.

I stayed at a hotel for a few days. The only company I had was my debit card which I use to pay off bills and such like. While I was away on the first night I went down to the casino in the basement of the hotel and played a bit of roulette and won big. I took a grand! Fucking brilliant!

So the night after I refused to answer any of her calls, pulled a sickie from work and immediately went to the casino at ten in the morning. I was the only fucker In there at first. I had to wait an hour for a beer and even longer until someone came to the roulette table. I was in no rush so I didn’t complain.

Instead, rather cleverly, I handed over all the money I had in my account in a vain attempt to win big again. At four in the afternoon I departed the casino and the hotel two thousand pounds lighter. I walked back home shell-shocked, looking like shit, I must’ve looked so pathetic she just actually gave me a hug when I arrived home and made me a cup of tea.

She’ll be home very soon. She knows what I did because I told her just before she left for work. I told her and she stood motionless, incandescent with rage. But she had a very important meeting at work and she departed without saying a word.

I watched her walk to the bus stop across the road from our house. She stood at the bus stop seething with rage until the bus turned up. I stood in the window just fascinated by that angry, beautiful woman. You see the problem wasn’t that I lost the money. It was what the money was for that I made the bigger mistake.

The money that went to the casino should have gone to the government to pay for road tax. However, I had no way to pay it as I had no money and I could not get any more. I had a holiday to pay for and I thought that I could enjoy a week in the sun without the hassle of being back home. She’s always on her best behaviour abroad. That’s possibly why I keep saying we should emigrate. Actually there’s no possibly about it – I see it as the best way to keep her from hurting me.

So yesterday I was driving along when the police pulled me over around the corner from my house. It wasn’t good news. Combined with my unpaid parking tickets and numerous points on my license and the tax disc expiring six months ago, the police made the decision to seize the car and have it crushed.

Bollocks was the word I said then. And one I keep repeating now.


She will be home any minute, my muscles ache with apprehension and my mouth is dry and already tastes of blood. In my hands I hold a rolling pin. I’m getting the first shot in today and the bitch is going to feel a bit of what I’m going through. Outside I hear the bus pull up and the doors open. I can sense she’s getting off the bus, an sense of impending barbarity surrounds me like an aura, this time she won’t hurt me.

The door opens. She walks in and looks at me with eyes that Satan himself would admire. I drop the rolling pin on the floor and it rolls away from me as my strength ebbs away. She walks towards the rolling pin and picks it up. She looks at me and smiles. Then she saunters towards me lightly tapping her leg with the pin…

by Martin O’Brien based on Marblehead Johnson – The Bluetones

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