National Novel Writing Month 2013

The best thing about 2013 for me is that it will go down in my personal history as The Year I Wrote Three Novels (and one book of recycled material from this blog).  Having gone from four or so years of calling myself a writer with nothing to show for the claim, to completing three novels and getting two freelance writing jobs in one twelve month span is a humbling feeling, and I have high hopes for 2014 because of this (Okay, so I didn't write The Life and Loves of Jet Tea this year so much as finally finish it, but I'm counting it because it makes me feel better).

The Creeping Sewall, my second novel which I am yet to show anybody, bled leisurely out of me throughout the course of four or five months and was an easy, fun and at times chilling process (I wrote the scariest parts at night with the lights out, the window ajar and nothing but a couple of candles and a bottle of whisky to keep me company).  I plan to spend the early part of next year refining and redrafting it.  But I have National Novel Writing Month to thank for the third novel; something I doubt I would have started if I didn't have that challenge to push me into it.

There Is No Vampire or What Vampire? or The Highgate Vampire or The Vampire That Never Was or The Accursed Non-Vampire (I'm a little undecided on the title right now) is an idea I've had for a few years; ever since I lived around the Highgate area and grew interested in the 1970s media sensation of a vampire that supposedly lived in the cemetery (people believed it, I'm not making this up).  I thought it'd be funny to do a farcical comedy about three or four men that drink together and go from interested in the vampire legend to outright obsessed with it.  Originally I planned to make a film with an actor friend of mine in the lead role, but lack of motivation, experience and budget put that to bed, so I put it on the back burner for a future novel.  However, those of you that know me may be aware that I've been known to procrastinate from time to time; Jet Tea took me three years to write, and my subsequent works are far better.  I imagine without the knowledge of this annual event the vampire novel would still be a clatter of disconnected ideas in my brain right now.

That's where NaNoWriMo comes in.  Novel writing is such a solitary, lonely endeavour (I know innumerable actors, musicians and graphic designers but only one other novelist); it's easy for the mind to wander and, in this kindle-orientated, film-dominated world of DIY, to forget what the point of it all is.  I learned of NaNoWriMo through a friend who'd done it last year (and casually showed me up this year by writing two novels in the one month time slot as opposed to my paltry one) and instantly liked the sound of it - you've got one month, from the 1st of November, to write a novel of a 50,000 word minimum (that's about 250 pages in standard format).  Thousands of novelists all in it together, sharing stories, writer's block woes and meeting up where possible to hold 'write-ins'; communal gatherings during which everyone would sit around and type their arses off.  There's so much globe-spanning camaraderie, and the folks that run the event are relentlessly encouraging.  It got to the point where I felt physically guilty on any day I didn't work on my novel (of which there were few by the end) and having a deadline for the first time since university also gave me a creative sense of urgency; you learn after a time that your brain can subconsciously edit out filler when time is a factor, and I had ideas I'm more proud of than in anything I've previously done.

Needless to say, I made the deadline and the bragging rights I'm sure will make themselves useful in due course.  I almost wish that this sort of thing could happen every month (although I wouldn't get anything else done) as I miss being part of something, rather than some lonely little man in his dressing gown, aimlessly bashing keys and idly wondering what the point of it is.  I've got a lot to be thankful for, finishing the year with an achievement under my belt the likes of which Past Joe (you'll get that reference soon enough) never thought possible.  Roll on November 2014, I can't wait to do it all over again.

Stuff I've Done For Other People

You may notice that this blog isn't updated as regularly as it used to be.  WELL SORRY I'VE WRITTEN THREE (count 'em), THREE NOVELS THIS YEAR WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME??

*breathes*....

Anyway, this year I actually got some writing work for proper websites with more than twelve regular readers. Aint that nice?  And that's why I've written on this one a bit less.  I've still got plenty of things to say that no respectable blog would publish in even their lowest moments, so don't worry about that.  But here's a little list of things of mine other sites have put out.

For WhatCulture.com
A nerdy entertainment website that posts news about movies, TV, sport and video games.  Naturally I write about Doctor Who and comic book movies...

- Doctor Who: 5 Reasons Blink is the Modern Day An Unearthly Child
I'm proud of this because it was published on the weekend of Doctor Who's 50th anniversary, and being a comparison of the first ever episode and the most acclaimed episode of the revived series, it's almost relevant to the celebrations.

- Why Thor: The Dark World is the cinematic Game of Thrones
Something I was expecting to notice about the aforementioned comic book movie and fantasy TV series, given that they share the same director and high concentration of nerd-lore.

For BiographyUK
A history blog run by a friend of mine, which specialises in bitesize articles about British historical celebrities.  I pitch an article to her whenever I walk past a blue plaque or interesting little landmark that takes my fancy.

- John Snow: Physician (1813 - 1858)
Discovered that cholera is a waterborne disease and lived in Soho

- Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 - 1822)
Poet, husband of Mary and science nerd.

- Kitty Jay (c.18th Century)
A poor, disgraced farmhand whose grave lies on a crossroads in Dartmoor

Five Mismatched Showdowns That Would be More Entertaining Than 'Batman VS. Superman'

Anyone able to refer to their braincells as plural should know that Batman and Superman are about as equal in terms of physical strength as custard and Hobnobs. While Batman, in his latest cinematic outing, was seriously incapacitated by a fat bloke in a Goatse mask, Superman reacts to a bullet in the face like Ray Mears reacts to a light breeze.  He can prevent a plane crash with little more than a decent catch and a big enough patch of land to put it down on, and can turn men to bony-ash with a single angry stare.  In fact, in his latest cinematic outing, and indeed as the very same incarnation of the character that is due to go toe-to-toe with the Dark Knight in 2015, Superman faced who is arguably his deadliest foe, General Zod - a Kryptonian war general who is every bit as powerful as the Man of Steel but with pissed off and homicidal thrown into the mix.  And Superman snapped his neck in front of a scared family.  So while we anticipate Ben Affleck's cowled Batman fruitlessly hurling batarangs into Kal-El's laser-death-stare, here are five more potential showdowns between iconic characters that are just as hilariously mismatched.


1.  Charlie Brown VS. Megatron

Who Are They?
Charlie Brown; morose child creation of the legendary Charles Schultz, who spends his chilled winter days musing introspectively upon a grey brick wall and willfully ignoring the incoherent, trumpeted advice of his disassociated elders.
Megatron; gargantuan robotic leader of the evil Decepticons; a malevolent race of shape-changing, sentient robots from the planet Cybertron, hell-bent on monopolising the universe to their fascist will.  Has the ability to transform into either a tank, a canon or a Cybertronian jet, depending on the incarnation.


What Would Happen?
As Megatron is technically an adult due to his being several thousand years old, his threats to young Master Brown would be unrecognisably filtered through a barrage of nonsensical, muted trumpet sounds.  It would make little difference though, as while Charlie attempts to muse melancholic upon an inventive way to fell the robot overlord, Megatron would assume the shape of one of his deadly, military arsenal and blow the introverted eight-year-old to hell.  Or simply step on him.


2.  The Goonies VS. 'It'

Who Are They?
The Goonies; an intrepid band of adventurous children who can traverse perilous caverns and 'Never Say Die.'
'It'; Stephen King's literary embodiment of pure fear, incarnated famously as a sinister, child-snatching clown with Tim Curry's baritone drawl.


What Would Happen?
While the courageous Goonies are adept at venturing head first into dark places, 'It' is equally as adept at luring children into said dark places.  Remember how awestruck those kids were when they first saw that long lost pirate ship?  That just goes to show that, seldom as they may say die, they are still just kids, impressed by the sorts of things kids are impressed by.  Now what if a jolly old clown was waiting for them in that cave?  Or six clowns, carrying a tub of chocolate fudge brownie Ben 'n Jerry's the size of a rabbit hutch, while juggling pokemon?  'It' has been seen thwarting an eager child with nothing more than a paper boat and some balloons.  Yeah.  These kids won't know what hit them.




3.  Ian Malcolm VS. Anton Chigurh

Who Are They?
Ian Malcolm; sarcastic, quick-witted practitioner of Chaos Theory, often seen in black leather and shades, running away from dinosaurs.
Anton Chigurh; the towering, solitary killing machine of Cormac McCarthy's No Country For Old Men and the Cohen Brothers' film of the same name.  Exists solely to carry out his hit, which he invariably always achieves via a fatal blow to the head from a CO2 canister.  Has claimed the lives of Josh Brolin and Woody Harrelson without breaking a sweat.


What Would Happen?
While Dr. Malcolm has survived Tyrannosaurs, Velociraptors and Vince Vaughan, he has fared less well against his contemporaries on the mainland.  A zealous critic sharing the same subway carriage as the put-out doctor rendered him speechless with little more than a lazy dinosaur impression, for example.  With that in mind, should he be placed in Anton Chigurh's line of fire for whatever reason, it is likely that the only things standing between Malcolm and a sure-fire death-blow to the skull are a brisk jog and one or two snarky quips.  Chigurh would then follow up his success by taking out a Compsognathus or two, just for trying to slow him down.




4.  Anakin Skywalker (aged 9) VS. Darth Vader.

Who Are They?
Anakin Skywalker; nine-year-old Tatooinian slave boy, fond podracer and pioneer of the terms 'yippee' and 'wizard', destined to become a seven-foot, leather-clad, murdering space Nazi.
Darth Vader; seven-foot, leather-clad, murdering space Nazi who can strangle people to death from the other end of the room and who dislikes talking about his childhood.


What Would Happen?
Time travel has yet to be employed as a narrative device in the Star Wars universe, but with Lost and Star Trek's JJ Abrams helming the next installment, it can't be far off.  Put out by the damage The Phantom Menace has done to his all-powerful, ominous reputation, Lord Vader finds a way to travel back to his own beginnings.  Several days before the Jedi arrive in Mos Espa to liberate young Skywalker and set about inadvertently causing their own extinction, the adult Vader turns up with the intention to take out his snotty, irritating young self.  Vader has no qualms about the damage this may do to the space-time continuum, as blinking himself out of existence by employment of the Grandfather Paradox would be the lesser of two evils when compared with spending the rest of one's life being intermittently reminded what an obnoxious little twerp you used to be.  Baby Anakin, being unknowingly skillful with the force, would hold his own for a surprisingly longer time than you'd assume, but his geeky piloting skills ultimately get him nowhere against a swift burst of force lightning finished off with a heavy air-choke.  As Vader begins to fade from existence, akin to Marty McFly's picture in Back to the Future, he thinks to himself; 'And now Hayden Christensen will never happen either,' which can only be a good thing.


5.  Buzz Lightyear VS. Pazuzu

Who Are They?
Buzz Lightyear; sentient toy spaceman and proud owner of retractable plastic wings.
Pazuzu; omnipotent body-hopping demon of Exorcist fame.  Can materialise wherever it chooses and can mimic any person, living or dead.  Has harassed efficient priests to death and is champion of Satan's Hellish Horde, if he isn't in fact The Devil Himself.


What Would Happen?
The jury is still out on just how sinister the motive for the Toy Story toys' sentience is, with some even citing the magical ether from Pixar's Brave as the force behind their waking life.  Nonetheless, the ability to freeze upon the approach of an excited child somewhat pales in comparison to Pazuzu's knack for invading and desecrating the minds of even the most morally pure of human beings.
Buzz, being himself possessed by a fantastical force, may well already be aware of Pazuzu's festering presence, and as such would likely rally his band of plastic misfits together to conjure up a plan to stop him.  Unfortunately, Rex's gradually improving dinosaur roar and Buzz's ability to pretend to fly do little to hinder the efforts of a non-corporeal entity that can exact brutal punishment from the safety of a tangent realm.  Well-meaning toys are either flung helplessly to the wall or flattened by moving furniture while Buzz ineffectually fires his LED laser beam at various, empty corners of the room in a vain attempt to vanquish the unseen demon.  As a final insult, Andy's mother, entering the horrific bedchamber through panicked curiosity, is immediately possessed by Pazuzu and amidst an inhuman screech of unrepeatable profanity, Buzz's petrified head is forced violently into an orifice that it will never recover from.  You've got a friend in me, indeed.

Morrissey: 'Autobiography' Review

For many sullen, bequiffed teenagers and '80s indie pop stalwarts, this week has been a long time coming.  The autobiography of the elusive and oft-morose Smiths frontman Morrissey has finally been unleashed on a suspecting public, and suffice to say it was worth the wait.

Admittedly, Steven Patrick's earlier, pre-fame years make for a more fond and engaging read than his later life bemoaning video shoots, the tabloid's prolific use of the 'Heaven Knows he's Miserable Now' headline and the infamous court case, but that's not to say the tome in its entirety isn't a touching, hilarious and deftly-scribed memoir; a music biography that will doubtless grow in time to warrant its pretentious front cover, and is a refreshing cut above the likes of Being Jordan, or indeed any of the lightly-researched journalistic biographies churned out in place of Morrissey's own over the years.

His early years recall damp Manchester backstreets, northern working-class oddballs and hellish schoolmasters decaying in cold, shadowy classrooms.  If Charles Dickens had been born in 1960s Salford, perhaps David Copperfield would have read similarly.  Autobiography is subtitled by the suitably incongruous photograph of a smiling baby Morrissey in sunglasses, but the childhood recounted is signposted by myriad family deaths, introverted indifference and constant fear of the purgatorial classroom, while the path to Smiths glory is weaved through biting, hilarious and unmistakably Mozzean turns of phrase, whether it be describing his unadventurous palate as 'A working class host of relentless toast' (rhyme intended), or 'Turn(ing) a thousand corners without caring'.

As the legendary singer grows into adulthood, the slightly dubious nature of some aspects of the memoir begin to become apparent, particularly the characterisation of some of the pivotal players in his professional life.  Rough Trade staff, particularly Geoff Travis, appear as comic sidekicks plucked from one of Moz's beloved Carry On films while, amusingly, David Bowie pops up intermittently to ask pointless questions and showcase his impressionable carnivorousness - surely one of the least cliched depictions of the living legend.

Nevertheless, the mostly present-tense syntax is exquisite, even during the most bitter of recollections, and lilts along with all the poetic grace of his Smiths lyrics.  It is with this in mind that the decision to write without chapters is understood.  Often the memoir will blindside the reader with an atypical deviation from the observational misery and celebrity anecdotes; lengthy, prosaic analyses on 1960's television and the explosion of androgyny in the rising punk movement manage to never feel superfluous, and a surprising, post-Smiths account of a supposed paranormal encounter on the dark Yorkshire Moors is nothing short of chilling.  Foreknowledge of the author's lyrical themes and interests would likely benefit the reader during these diversions, as they are befitting his disposition for the bleak, the beautiful and the darkly funny sides of English life.  His observations are as removed and baffling as one would expect, as he describes everything from moshing ('Some heads are squashed, some aren't') to the fallout of 9/11 with an unmatched sense of societal alienation which only increases as his celebrity does.

The only laborious section of the book comes in its latter half, as Morrissey issues a lengthy account of the infamous Mike Joyce royalty court case; an account that almost matches the entire life of the Smiths in terms of page count.  One wishes that a sterner editor could have been on hand to trim the largely repetitive, spiteful indignation offered here, although it is quite clear that the author intends this to be the key focus of the book, being as it is continually referenced and foreshadowed throughout.  This is unfortunate as many of what fans perceive as the most defining stages of his life are briskly breezed through in favour of the self-justifying rhetoric Morrissey seems to revel in when making his own defense.

The decision to release the book under the Penguin Classic umbrella - a format usually reserved for the likes of Dickens, Austen and Kafka - has been met with some derision, specifically as Morrissey is the first living author to have released a book this way.  But, as aptly quoted on the reverse, he has seemingly achieved the legendary status that most songwriters don't find until death, standing alongside Bob Dylan, the aforementioned Star Man and few others in that respect.  Furthermore, to his most die-hard fans, Autobiography is already something of a classic; as it was some years ago that the man himself claimed that the book would probably never see the light of day, due to its relentless, inherent bitchiness.  It is true that few beyond his closest friends and family (and, tellingly, his current band) come out unscathed; although bygone brother-in-arms Johnny Marr seems to be granted a distant, begrudging respect.  At times his hard-done-by righteousness can be fatiguing, given that the man can seemingly do no wrong beyond his modesty in the face of mass adoration and the odd, harmless act of endearing clumsiness (losing a job for throwing a cheque away on account of not knowing what it is makes for a laugh-out-loud anecdote).  Surely he hasn't passed his fifty-plus years on this Earth without being the bad guy at least once?  Fans may be quick to accept this but it must be remembered that Moz has had a lot to salvage in recent years; with his media-portrayal as the villain in the royalty case, the NME's libelous claims of racism and the ill-received comments stemming from his animal protectionism.  Autobiography's release certainly seems conveniently timed.

Ultimately, readers non-versed in Morrissey's prolific, bittersweet brand of deprecating humour may come away from Autobiography a little put off by all the complaining and hubris, while fans will almost certainly close the book to a renewed sense of admiration and appreciation of their big-mouthed idol.  A Katie Price-esque series of follow ups seems unlikely, which is a shame because Autobiography is just the sort of funny, melancholic and beautifully crafted memoir that the saturated genre needs more of.

Whisky

Four Years

The following happened to me and a friend (who I won't name) at a bar (that I won't name) the other night (won't say which one).

A young woman with dark hair, a pint of cider and glitter about her hazy, drunk eyes stumbles over to the table where my friend and I sit.  We were close to having finished our beers and had already made plans to go our separate ways and end the evening.  She asks if it's okay to sit at our table and we happily oblige.  I assume my friend knows her by the familiarity of his greeting.
'How are you?' she asks him, with an intoxicated drawl.
'Not bad thanks' he replies.  'You're *****'s sister, aren't you?'
'Yeah that's right.'
'I'm Joe' I say, with a polite smile and an outstretched hand.  I'd only had two beers, hence why I was capable of such an introduction
She looks at me confusedly for a moment and says her name, taking my hand limply and latching on to it rather than really shaking it, as drunk people are often wont to do.
'What are you up to tonight?' my friend asks.
She slurs.  'Do you two know a good place to go round here?  I think it's closing soon.'
I recommend a club that stays open until 4am and is free to get in.
'That sounds a bit posh' she moans.  'I don't want a posh bar, I want a shag!'
My friend and I glance at one another.  'Oh, right' I say.  'Well...'
'Where's a good place to go to get a shag?' she asks, staring intently at each of us in turn.  I begin to hope that she doesn't spy an opportunity at this very table.  It was awkward, but at least the only thing she was currently asking of me was advice.
I look at my friend.  'The bar over the road is still open, isn't it?'
'Erm, yeah I think so.'
She looks out of the window to the bar in question.  She hiccups.  'Is that a posh bar too?'
'No' says my friend reassuringly.  'Not at all.'
She laughs and slumps over the table slightly.  'Heh.  I just want to go out and fuck something.'  She sips her cider.
'Well I'm sure you're bound to find what you're looking for over there' says my friend with a smile.  We glance at one another again.
'I aint had sex in four years' she says.  'Four fucking years.  Enough is enough.  I thought to myself, I'm gonna go out, get pissed, find a bloke and fucking shag him.'
'Four years!' I say, trying to keep the conversation at a level of polite formality.  'Blimey.'
She lowers her face.  'I can't get over him' she says.
'Who's that?' asks my friend.
'Him' she repeats with added contempt.  'I love him.  It's been four years since he left me.'  Her voice quivers and she starts to cry, slumping over the table with her arms out in front of her.
The awkwardness has been upped.
'Now now' I say, grimacing at my friend.  'Four years is a long time, and like you say you're going to go and find another bloke tomorrow.  I'm sure you'll forget all about him.'
I have never claimed to be an oracle of breakup advice.
She continues to sob.  Then she looks up.
'He says I'm a fat, ugly bitch' she moans.
'Oh, well fuck' says my friend.  'He sounds like a dick.  He's not worth getting hung up on.'
She sniffs.  'Yes he is, I love him.'
'He's not worth it if he's gonna say horrible things like that' I say, by now coasting through the handbook of reassuring stock responses.
'I'm all alone' she says.
'You must have somebody' says my friend.
'I've got two daughters.'
'Well, there you go!' I say.
She looks up at each of us with a sinister grin.  'I told my eleven-year-old that I'd be asleep on the sofa tonight' she says with another hiccup.  'But I won't be.  I'll be out shagging.'
Neither of us have a response to this.
'It's been four years' she says again.  'And my pussy is good.  My pussy is ready.'
'Like I say' says my friend.  'I'm sure there are plenty of blokes over the road who'd be interested.'
'I dunno' she giggles.  'It's a bit late, isn't it?'
'A bit.  My girlfriend is probably asleep' says my friend, craftily working the fact that he is unavailable into the conversation.  Well played.  Unfortunately if I now say 'Mine too' it would sound like an excuse, so I'd have to wait for anoter segway.
'Do you think I'm I ugly?' she asks me.
'You're not ugly' I reply.
My friend takes charge of removing us from the situation.  'I think I'm going to head off' he says.
'Fair enough' she says.  Then she turns to me and sidles up close.  I was backed against the wall with her chest forcing my head as far back as it could bend.
'Do you want to come and have sex with me then?' she asks.
'I have a girlfriend!' I almost yell.  That was quite a segway.
She recoils.  'Ugh.  Fine.  Do you know what I'm going to do?' she says.
'Go and get laid?' I ask.
'I'm gonna go and have sex' she says.  Then she picks up my empty beer bottle and adds; 'with this.'
My friend and I repeated that alarmed glance we'd been practicing.  She wraps her fingers around the neck of the bottle, closes her lips over it and begins to bob her head up and down the shaft in a motion that left nothing to the imagination.  Then she catches sight of our faces and stops.
'It was a joke' she says flatly.
'I know' says my friend.  'I think we're going to head off soon.'
She scowls at us.  'Oh, fuck you then!' she roars.  'Everyone wants to fucking keep away from me.  Fine.  Whatever.'
'It's not like that!' I interject.  She pauses and then laughs again.
'First I'm gonna get another drink' she says, 'then I'm gonna go to that club.'  She gets up and climbs over the seat to go to the bar.
'Yeah I know I've got horrible fat legs' she says.  'You don't have to stare.'
'I'm not!' we both reply.
She laughs again and leaves for the bar.  I turn to my friend.
'Shall we leg it?' I ask.
'Yes.'

Outside the bar, before we part ways, my friend informs me that this isn't a one off.  That she's like this all the time and I now feel bad for recommending a bar where she can find an easy lay rather than trying to talk her into calling it a night and going home to her children.  I'm reassured that it wouldn't have made an ounce of difference.  I make a joke about how I should have got her number, my friend laughs and we each go our separate ways.
I hope she's due a good turn soon, whoever she is.

The Pubs of Jet Tea and Beyond

There are rather a lot of pubs featured in my fiction.  Most of them are real; a lot of them are places that are special to me for one reason or another and some of them are places I'd gladly never set foot in again for as long as I live.  Inspired partially by the film The World's End which I loved, and which features many pubs beloved to the protagonists due to its central premise, I have decided to do a run down of boozers that crop in the shared semi-fictional universe of The Life and Loves of Jet Tea and Oh, Vienna!  See it as a 'Good Bar Guide' of places to visit if you fancy killing eight cans of lager on the train ride over and getting your penis out while standing atop a table or attempting the 'Jet Tea Pub Crawl'
(not recommended).

The Crown and Treaty, Uxbridge

Referred to as simply 'The Treaty' in Jet Tea as that's how me and my friends and virtually everyone who drinks there refers to it.  The Treaty is a beloved place to me; it boasts some of the liveliest Friday nights I've ever enjoyed and I've been beaten up there more than once and barred countless times.  Thank God for the doorstaff's terrible memories.  It is all manner of places in one grey, ghostly looking structure.  Time was, every Friday I'd end up there until 3am and stagger back to Jet Tea's house with some shitty takeaway before passing out on his sofa or his sister's bed (sans sister, obviously).

The Three Tuns, Uxbridge
This is the pub Jet Tea and Hayden visit on a tamer evening and where Jet Tea falls into a trance while staring at the mental girl.  It's a nice old fashioned pub on the high street with low ceilings and a good beer garden.  I'd visit this pub first, as it's a good place for conversation and a sit down before the night takes a bit of a turn for the worse.

The Good Yarn, Uxbridge
The only J.D Whetherspoons pub I know of that actually has a queue to get in on a Friday and Saturday night.  The Good Yarn is where Niall the supposed wizard drinks, and where Jet Tea goes with his work colleagues.  It is also where he meets Craig, who ultimately attacks him outside for making snide comments.  If I wasn't an atheist I'd say it was Hell on Earth, or at least the gateway to it.  I really can't say anything nice about this place; it's an ugly building with a dark, ugly interior (it looks more like a post office than a pub), crap beer and a clientele made up almost exclusively of the biggest wankers, degenerates and violent thugs Uxbridge has to offer.  Go there if only through morbid curiosity, avoid like the plague otherwise.

The Open Mic in London Bridge/The Club in Dalston
Both of these places are completely fictional.  There may well be an open mic night somewhere in London Bridge and there's almost definitely at least one nightclub in Dalston but I had no specific place in mind when I wrote those chapters.

The Chandos, Charing Cross
This pub is not named in the book, but it is the place I had in mind when I wrote the chapter 'Jet Tea Fucks Up' .  It is the first pub they visit when they arrive drunk at Charing Cross moments after Hayden smashes that guy's face in with a golf club.  The Chandos is a large Samuel Smith's pub which means all of its products are from the Samuel Smith's brewery.  It's a nice place with good booths but since it's on Trafalgar Square it's almost always busy.

Baroosh, Uxbridge
The 'Posh Pub' where Hayden works is never referred to or described in depth, but seeing as Hayden is based on me and Baroosh is the poshest bar I've worked in, then by extension it is based here.  Baroosh is a high street bar catered towards office types and couples but is a cut above the likes of The Slug and Lettuce and All Bar One brands; it serves great food, great coffee and the service is always friendly.  As a former member of staff I've had many eventful lock-ins here.  Hayden doesn't like it much but don't take his word for it, he's a miserable cunt.

The Blue Posts, Chinatown/Soho
From the short story For Gillian, in La Rochelle.  Again, I don't refer to this pub by name but I had no other place in mind when I wrote that story.  Maurice and Jet Tea-absentee Walter Zane go here when they reunite following the former's stint in Berlin.  The Blue Posts is one of my favourite pubs in London; it's unique inside (there's a life-size bear made of grass), cozy and the staff are friendly.  There's loads of photos and quirky little trinkets stacked up behind the bar.  It doesn't feel like a Central London location, and that's why I love it.

The Chelsea, Vienna
An English-themed pub in the capital of Austria.  It is split into two rooms; the more traditional pub room and a live music venue at the back.  I don't remember much about it except that we made friends with the bartender because we liked the music he played and he kept giving us shots on the house.  The rest of that night is a blur although unfortunately Jet Tea reminded me what happened.  The slightly fictionalised version of events are detailed in the titular story from Oh, Vienna!
 
The Seaview Hotel, Birchington
Featured in my ghost story Bob's Bridge and also in my forthcoming novel The Creeping Seawall.  The Seaview is an old pub in the sleepy coastal village of Birchington.  It is slightly dank and stark inside but nonetheless friendly.  There's a disco on Fridays and a giant whale bone in the beer garden.  I think it's haunted but the jury's out on that one.

The Spice of Life, Soho
Saving the best for last.  The Spice is my home, and also the place where I wrote my novel.  I love the Spice with all my heart and sometimes, rarely, I wish it would burn to the ground.  For that I see it as something of a relative.  The Spice doesn't crop up in Jet Tea's world but it is implied to be the setting for my Sherlock Holmes story The Regular Customer.  It's a 50/50 blend of traditional English boozer and intimate music venue which serves a wide selection of beers.  The atmosphere and music are second to none for the area and it has the biggest outdoor seating area in Soho.  So it's a great place to be this time of year.  Chances are I'll be on either side of the bar if you ever want to pop in for a chat.  

The Horror of the 1,000 Year Old Bench

Or, Dangerous Life Being a Nerd

In the middle of Charing Cross Road, opposite the Montague Pyke public house, there is a steel grid between two bollards.  It's as normal as any other crossing at first glance, and thousands of people step over it daily.  But if you stop and look down it, you'll see something special.
Sure, you'll look like a nutter standing in the middle of the road stepping this way and that, all the while squinting at the ground beneath your feet, but it's worth it.  Beneath that grid, adorning the wall of an underground passageway, there is a street sign.
Mind blowing, huh?  An underground street!  That's like something out of a Neil Gaiman novel.  The sign reads 'Little Compton Street' and to simply behold it is to be open up to a much grander, more mysterious and magical version of our nation's capital.  Little Compton Street is, to put it one way, an extinct street.  The last map it appeared on was printed in 1799 and the surrounding area of Soho and Charing Cross Road has, in the ensuing decades, been built up to cover it.  It used to connect the still existent Old and New Compton Streets, but now it's gone.  But you can still see it, and it really is mind-blowing.
How did I find out about this?  I don't, however I may come across, spend my free time roaming London looking for hidden street signs.  In fact, I happened upon an interesting map of the capital while researching local ghost stories for my next novel.  The Map of London Peculiars is a fascinating little souvenir.  Eschewing the likes of the Tate Modern and the London Eye, it exists solely to alert the more adventurous tourist of some of the most unusual, unknown and macabre sights in central London.  Everything from a watch tower in Holborn built to look out for body snatchers to a bronze statue of Samuel Johnson's cat can be found on it, as well as the aforementioned street.  I'm a history nerd, I went to Shakespeare's birthplace on my birthday, deal with it.
It's great for me, I currently live in Central London due to a rather unique opportunity that came my way a few years ago.  The only time I'll ever get to live here again is if I somehow become a millionaire (I'm looking at you, Jet Tea), so I want to spend as much time getting to know every corner of the place while I can, before life throws me back into Wood Green or Hackney.
At the start of this wonderful heatwave, I found myself at a loss with regards to what to do on my day off.  My girlfriend was away and I had to be up too early the next morning to risk getting drunk, so I had a glance at my new map to see if there was anything of interest I could adopt as the endpoint of a nice afternoon walk.
The Ferryman's Seat, as it is known, adorns the side wall of a Greek restaurant between the Globe theatre and Southwark bridge on the South Bank.  The bench is haggard and eroded at the edges and can not be precisely dated, but is believed to have ancient origins.  It is understood that the Ferryman's Seat was used as a waiting point for sailors who would charge a small fee to ferry people across the Thames in the days when London Bridge was the only other way over the water.
This was right up my street; a 1,000 year old bench!  (Okay so I don't know if it's actually a thousand years old but it sounds cool so until science proves otherwise it's a thousand years old).  My day was set, I'd walk through Covent Garden, cross over Waterloo Bridge and stroll down the South Bank until I got to the bench.  Then I'd sit on it and join the pantheon of a hundred dead sailors, boast about it on facebook and go on my way in search of other curiosities.  Better take the map with me.

I went on my way, strutting enthusiastically through the busy streets of sunny London in my tatty old brown jacket, clutching geeky hope and a bottle of evian.  After some initial difficulty, I found the bench.
I could see why few are aware of the Ferryman's Seat; it's not so much a bench as a bit of a dent in the wall.  It's tiny, and, I'm ashamed to say, a bit of an anticlimax.  It clings to the side of The Real Greek taverna near the globe and atop an alleyway which incidentally leads to the site of the original Shakespearean theatre.
Despite my slight disappointment, I was glad I found it.  There's a small plaque reiterating what the map told me about it, and it does indeed look a thousand years old.
Should I sit on it?  I've come all this way, but it may look a bit weird.  There are lots of tourists swarming this way and that way and what would they make of a scruffy little loner virtually leaning on this poor excuse for outdoor seating?
Stop it.  Why do you care what these strangers think?  The same people you shove to the side for walking too slowly, and now you're worried they'll judge you for sitting on a bench?  People have been sitting on this bench for a thousand years!  Stop looking shifty and sit down for Christ's sake.
I sat down.  Even though the bench was small, it was deep-set enough to actually allow for a sort of sit-lean that wasn't enough to completely relax on but managed to take a bit of the load off my feet.
I took out my phone; boy will my friends be jealous of me!  I booted up the facebook app and wrote my update: 'Sitting on a 1,000 year old bench.  Highlight of my week.'  I pressed share and now the world knew what I was doing.  Just wait for the likes to roll in.
The deed was done.  My pilgrimage was fruitful and now I can forever say that I've sat on the same bench as someone who is currently a skeleton.  Maybe Shakespeare or the man who wrote his plays sat on it.  Who knows?  I stood up, looked around as I made up my mind of what to see next, and decided to start down the alley in pursuit of the original site of The Globe.
'Oi.'
I looked over my shoulder as I strolled; two police officers were trailing behind me, and obviously they were shouting at the chap ahead of me.  I shrugged to myself and carried on ahead, slightly picking up my pace as policemen instinctively make me nervous.
'Oi!'
I ignored them this time and carried on.  Why hadn't the man they were calling to stopped and looked around?  Ignorant fool.
'Oi!  Brown jacket!'
He wasn't wearing a brown jacket?  Oh.  Me!  What had I done?
I stopped and turned around.  The officers closed in on me, victorious in their chase.
'Something the matter officer?' I like to think I said.
'Can you tell us what you're up to?' one of them asked.
'I'm sorry?'
'What are you doing?'
'Just walking, why?'
'Well' the officer said.  'We've just seen you standing on that corner, looking shifty.  Then you leant against that wall and got your phone out to text someone, then ran off down this alley when you saw us coming.'
'I - I didn't-'
'So we'd like to know what's going on.'
'It's not like that!' I said.  My heart was pounding.  I hadn't been stopped by the police in years.  What's the best way to address someone in this situation?  'I just wanted to see the 1,000 year old bench!'
'The what?' asked the officer.
'The 1,000 year old bench' I repeated, pointing over to it.  'There's a 1,000 year old bench over there, where I was sitting.  It's amazing, you should really check it out when you get a chance.  Centuries ago, sailors used to wait there when London Bridge-'
'Okay' said the officer, interrupting me.
'Honestly' I said.  'I have a map, look.'  I fumbled around in my pocket and produced the map of peculiars, unfolding it, and pointed to the site of the Ferryman's Seat.  'See?  The Ferryman's Seat.  I'm not a drug dealer.'
The policeman took the map from me and looked at it.  I couldn't be sure but it seemed like he wanted to learn more about it and start his own historical London adventure.  But he had a job to do.  His colleague was writing something on a palm pad.  'Seems legit' he said.
'I just enjoy stuff like this' I said.  'It's what I do on my days off.'
'Fair enough' said the officer.  'Do you have any ID on you?'
I took out my wallet and opened it to get my driver's licence.  As I did so my ticket for Shakespeare's birthplace fell out of the wallet.  I took advantage.
'See?  I'm just a history nerd.'
The policeman grinned at his colleague, who was reading my driver's licence and writing on his palm pad.  'Have you been to the Globe yet?' he asked me.
'I've done the tour' I replied.  'And I've seen a show but I haven't seen any of William's plays yet.'
'I've not been' he said.
'Do you always work around here?' I asked, trying to keep conversation going and alleviate my nerves.
'Yeah' replied my captor.  'It's a nice area, eh?  But you can understand why we stopped you, there's a lot going on here.'
'Yeah I understand' I said.  'It's good that you lot are so on it that you can stop people who want to sit on benches.'
'Well, it's the mark of a good police officer' he replied.  'A good officer will see that, take note of every action, every movement and act on it.  I guess that's why we get to work here.'
I nodded.  'What's your colleague doing?'
'He just needs to do a check on you, make sure you haven't been arrested before.  Do you live round here?'
I'd been arrested for drunk and disorderly behaviour on my 16th birthday.  I hoped to God that wasn't on the record.
I nodded.  'Just over there' I said, pointing to Centre Point on the horizon.  'Soho.'
The policeman did that wide eyed face that everyone does when they find out where I live. 'Really?  What do you do?'
I told him.
'Okay' he said.  'Based on what we've seen we're not going to search you.  You've got a map, tickets to that Shakespeare place.  You're clearly just into your history.'  He turned to his colleague.  'Anything?'
'No.'
'Okay, you're alright.'  He handed my ID back to me.  'Enjoy your day off.  Where are you off to now?'
I sighed.  My nerdiness was more apparent to me than ever.  'I'm going to see the original site of the Globe theatre' I said reluctantly.  'They couldn't build the new one there because the land is privately owned.'
The policeman nodded.  'Alright then' he said.  'Have a good day.'
'You too' I replied and we parted ways.

I've been drunk in strange, unrecognisable lands.  I've stood on nasty street corners at 2am waiting to jump into the car of a stranger to spend money on something I shouldn't.  I've played gigs to audiences of people throwing chairs at me and calling me names and I've been beaten to a bloody pulp on several occasions.
But there is nothing more nerve-wracking than almost being arrested for sitting on a bench.

Official Book Launch for 'The Life and Loves of Jet Tea!'

Ribeira riverside Bistro / Bar

46a De Beauvoir Crescent (by the canal)

Shoreditch

London N1 5RY

Closest station: Haggerston

It's never too late for a party and I'm pleased to invite you to help celebrate my new characters with some good music, good drink and good friends.

On Wednesday 7th August RIBEIRA, a fantastic new bar in Shoreditch, East London, will be the place to be for all things Jet Tea.  There'll be a book signing with yours truly (£5 a book!  That's cheaper than Amazon!), great music from some of the people that inspired the novel and a Q&A session.  If you want to ask anything from where I get my inspiration to what I can recommend as a hangover cure then now's your chance!

Copies of Jet Tea will be limited on the night, so I'd strongly recommend you preorder a copy to avoid disappointment.  This will be at a discounted promotional price too.  To preorder, click here!

The event is hosted by Bird on the Birch collective and kicks off at 7pm with a FREE wine reception.  There's even a chance that the real Jet Tea will be there...

Book Launch Event Page (good to add yourself as 'going' if you want some of that free wine)

Official Novel Page

"One of the most refreshing books in a long while ... a joy to read" - TeaTone.Net

"Elements of Douglas Adams ... Comforting, thought-provoking and hilarious throughout" - PaulSchiernecker.Com

Oh and one more thing.  In anticipation of the event, just for you, here's CHAPTER ONE of The Life and Loves of Jet Tea, absolutely free!

Jet Tea awoke with an erection.  He lay cemented to a spot half-under his duvet; the room had just come into being around him but he wouldn’t yet be able to interact with it as he couldn’t yet move.  His consciousness was only half-formed and remained that way for a short while as he slowly attempted to muster enough energy to shed his waking paralysis. 

     Eventually he groaned, forced himself onto his side and caught sight of the duvet-shrouded mound between his thighs as it slipped away, like a magician’s assistant in a disappearing act.  It seemed like the erection wouldn’t subside any time soon, but he didn’t want to take matters into his own hands, as Tara would be coming over in a couple of hours (which, incidentally was probably the motive for the erection in the first place) and he’d hate to tarnish the afternoon for both of them.  It wasn’t really a problem, either.  He was solitary in his tiny little kingdom and there was no issue with presenting his sleep-given state of arousal to himself alone.  Nevertheless, he’d have to get up eventually to cook his breakfast and see what the world had been up to while he slept.  It was Thursday, so he doubted his mum was even in the house, as she usually worked Thursdays, but his sister may have been.

     He rolled over onto his belly, arms splayed out over the pillows, in an attempt to flatten it.  It was a short-term success as it bent down pressed between his leg and the admirably resistant mattress, but as soon as he moved again it would spring back up, proudly and defiantly.

     As the final shreds of his waking catatonia wore away and getting out of bed became an achievable reality, Jet Tea beheld his dressing gown.  If the appendage hadn’t begun to find flaccidity by the time he wished to venture downstairs, he’d simply prop it up against his belly, then tie it in place with the belt of his robe.  Simple.  Nobody would suspect a thing, hopefully.  He could make a quick trip to the bathroom for a direct extradition of the inconvenience; Tara wouldn’t be here for a while yet and surely things would have returned to full working order by then?  No.  He’d feel more uncomfortable interacting with his relatives having recently done that than he would simply concealing a loaded weapon.  It wasn’t his fault that it was there, after all.  

     He got up, pushed the offending phallus up against himself, bent forward slightly from the mild pain of it and tied his dressing gown around it and his waist.  Looking down, he could only make out the tiniest of protrusions amidst the shaggy fabric, and it was a lot higher up now so was much less likely to arouse immediate suspicion in the unlikely event that it was noticed by anyone.

     Jet Tea left his bedroom with trepidation and went downstairs into the kitchen.  Nobody was home, but either way the anxiety of his trip and the possibility of a family member spotting his guilty secret had paradoxically caused it to return to limpness – an inevitability he should have considered.  He momentarily loosened his dressing gown to let things fall into their proper place then began to make his breakfast.  It was, in actuality, close to one o’clock in the afternoon, so his meal was not strictly ‘breakfast’ in the eyes of conventional society, but given that he had only recently awoken, the time-frame of the day was still relevant to Jet Tea so it was breakfast to him, nonetheless.  People on the other side of the planet were still yet to partake of their breakfasts, so his point was valid.  Two Cumberland sausages glistened beautifully under their coats of sizzling-hot oil while a neighbouring saucepan full of creamy-white liquid bubbled away and eventually mutated into scrambled eggs.

     Jet Tea took his breakfast upstairs, back to his bedroom, and put the television on.  He flicked through channels past footage of blue skies and rolling green hills to a light-hearted, daytime documentary; Mythbusters.  Before eating he changed out of his dressing gown and into a baggy t-shirt.  Doing so, he caught sight of himself in the mirror.  He looked proudly at his trim, youthful body, his chiseled and pronounced jaw line and his effortless, shaggy head of hair.  His glasses enhanced his appearance and made him look intelligent in a handsome way; he glimpsed the copy of George Orwell’s 1984 on the shelf behind him and smiled.  Its presence complimented his aura of intellect.  No wonder he was in love with a beautiful, mature woman who loved him equally in return.  Jet Tea was deliberately self-deprecating most of the time; he considered it part of his charm, but today he felt amazing.  A real man.

     The phone rang.  He answered it.  His world ended.

#

     Jet Tea met Tara one and a quarter years prior to the Thursday of the erection, the midday breakfast, Mythbusters and the phone call (exactly one and a quarter years, as he would later come to realise).  They worked together at Fozzy’s Lebanese Pizzeria and Other Foods in Pinner.  He was an apprentice chef, having recently completed a food science course at Watford College, and Tara was a waitress on the brink of becoming assistant team leader.  She was also fifteen years older than Jet Tea, making her thirty-seven when she began to grow fond of the timid, introverted, twenty-two year old chef. 

     Sex and romance had, up until this point, been of little concern or interest to Jet Tea, who filled the early part of his teenage life with neighbourhood and school friends throwing dairy products at buses and playing knock-down-ginger, and the latter part of it with college and work, both of which he enjoyed enough to not bother looking for a girlfriend.  However, a previously unexplored curiosity awoke from a long slumber when he met a beautiful older woman who took a shine to him. 

     For Tara, who was already of a reasonable age to begin considering having children, the relationship with young Jet Tea began life as a kind of fond motherhood, but turned to physical attractiveness the more she grew to know him.  It was also a matter of curiosity for her, who’d had as little intimate experience with younger men as Jet Tea had had with older women.  As one would imagine, the difference in age was the source of immediate fun for Jet Tea’s friends, despite Jet Tea himself not considering it unusual or unnatural in the slightest.  It was not the source of fun for Tara’s friends, as her then current simultaneous involvement in a long-term relationship with a media sales executive from Kenton called James meant she could not be particularly open or vocal about her budding love affair with Jet Tea.

     This slight complexity meant that, despite their homes being an approximate six-minute drive from each other, Tara and Jet Tea would be compelled to take long, thrice-weekly tube journeys to Kings Cross to be with one another.  Tara would only visit Jet Tea at his home if James’s job forced him out of town for a few days.  On those rare occasions, one would be lucky to see the door to Jet Tea’s bedroom open at all. 

     On those precious few evenings during which they would be able to spend time at home together, Jet Tea would delight in cooking Tara and himself a hearty, romantic meal.  Although such a gesture is common throughout the worldwide relationship community, there was far more to cooking dinner for his girlfriend than being irresistibly romantic and ultimately enticing her upstairs; the prime thrill was in the cooking itself for Jet Tea, rather than the subsequent payoff.  Having been enthusiastic about all things food preparation since a curiously early age, the culinary side of life had become Jet Tea’s number one passion.  That first sizzle of chopped vegetables hitting a greased frying pan, the grind of sea salt into the steamy, bubbling abyss of boiling pasta, the way a chicken breast shed its image of a dismembered animal part as it turned white on the grill; cooking, more than anything in his life other than Tara, literally made Jet Tea happy.  During his time with Tara, Jet Tea would leave Fozzy’s Lebanese Pizzeria and Other Foods, acquire a position in a three Michelin-Star restaurant in Swiss Cottage, have an unsuccessful job interview with Antony Worrall-Thompson and temp in the cafeteria of the school he used to attend.

     Jet Tea’s best friends were both musicians, and where he lacked a kinship with their kind of creativity, he excelled beyond them in the kitchen and that was his talent and his alone.  Being creative with food would never fail to push Jet Tea’s troubles to a dark, cloudy place seldom visited at the back of his consciousness.  With this in mind, over a year later, one may perfectly understand why Jet Tea would solemnly regret cooking his breakfast before receiving a particularly upsetting phone call, rather than after.  At least it would have numbed his despair somewhat.

     Because of their constantly deviant liaisons, Jet Tea had to take out a rather large bank loan to pay for such things as bed and breakfast, romantic bistro dinners (during which he would never relent from begrudgingly commenting on the quality of the meat, the speed of service and how particular vegetables should have been cooked, silently envying Tara for her ability to just enjoy the meal) and birthday, anniversary and unnecessary greeting-card shop cash-in day presents.  He was not overly bothered about the loan, because, quite simply, he was in love.

     Five months after Tara and Jet Tea first made love, Tara opted to end her now virtually redundant relationship with the understandably distraught James.  This decision drastically altered the nature and course of her formally simultaneous relationship with Jet Tea, for the two of them no longer had to travel across an absurd portion of the capital to be with one another, and it also meant that they could adopt a mutual social life, integrating with each other’s circle of friends and not having to worry about being seen together outside of the house, or the Metropolitan line.

     The first thing Tara’s friends chose to notice about her new love was his age.  This caused something of a friction in that Jet Tea’s mentality was simply not yet in tune with their idea of a pleasant social event; which more-often-than-not consisted of drinking red wine and eating pitted olives at a cocktail bar in Ealing, whilst usually discussing mortgage payments and complaining that Craig still hasn’t proposed, or implied that he will propose (for Jet Tea had decided that Tara’s female friends’ collective boyfriend was probably called Craig, and her two male friends that never really bothered involving him in their manly discussions were probably both called Craig as well.  He wasn’t sure why, he probably heard the name crop up in conversation during a particularly dull and arduous evening).

     The second thing Tara’s friends chose to notice about her new love was that he was quite clearly not enjoying himself on such evenings, nor was he attempting to engage with them on any level.  Tara’s friends were not attempting to engage with him on any level either, of course, but they steadfastly felt that it was not their responsibility to.  Tara also noticed the first two things her friends noticed, but she did not allow them to burden her, instead she stored them somewhere within her psyche to be later conveniently revealed to her boyfriend on a day which saw her feeling lower and more irritable than usual.  She did not, however, notice the third thing that her friends noticed.

     The third thing Tara’s friends noticed about her new love was that they did not like him.  Furthermore, they liked Tara a lot less when Jet Tea was around, simply because it was solely her fault that Jet Tea was there, burdening their evenings with his ugly social and generational differences.  When eventually Phillipa mentioned the third thing to Tara, amidst lamentations on Craig’s new haircut, the possibility of such a relationship turning problematic first became clear.

      The first thing Jet Tea’s friends noticed about his new love was her age.  However, being rather young, they did not react in the same way that Tara’s friends did.  It will come as a surprise to few that many a teenage boy and young man often wish to have some kind of an intimate experience with a woman who is older and more mature than he, and as such the mentality of Jet Tea’s male friends in the company of Tara swung between curious awe and polite envy toward their fortunate friend.  This was of course nourishment for Jet Tea’s often starved ego, and the otherwise modest young man was pleased to discover that his relationship with an older woman was the most relentlessly talked about topic among his friends, regardless of Tara’s actual presence.

     On future nights out, Jet Tea would struggle to cope with not being a constant talking point, not because he was particularly egotistical, but because being talked about had become the norm, and it saved him the unpleasant effort of having to do something different for them to talk about, or ask them about how their music was going, which would cause the conversation to wander off into territory Jet Tea could not comprehend or contribute to, rendering him the proverbial ‘third wheel.’  Maurice and Hayden may not have been particularly talented chefs, but they could each comfortably hold their own in any conversation about food.  Jet Tea would concur that whether or not a person actually knew anything about food, at least they liked to think they did.  The same can be said for music, but Jet Tea had far too much integrity to pretend he knew more than he actually did about something, so would quickly tune out of any such discussion in a manner similar to how he would tune out of a conversation about Craig or mortgages with Tara’s friends.

     In meagre attempts to fill the eventual hole left by no longer talking about Tara, Jet Tea would either gratuitously bring her up in any conversation, regardless of her proximity to the subject matter, or do something outlandish and at random, such as choosing to be the only one in the pub to dance to the music (regardless of the actual presence of a dance floor, and which he deliberately did in the style of someone of the opposite sex in order to ensnare as much surrounding attention as could be), or raising his skinny arms high into the air and shouting at the top of his voice a falsetto incoherence, before collapsing in a fit of giggles as his sense of self-awareness gradually returned.  If all else failed, he would do both of these things.  This often worked too well, as it garnered not only the attention of his two friends, but that of everybody in the room, mistakenly leading to the general notion that Jet Tea was someone with extreme confidence.

     The second thing Jet Tea’s friends noticed about his new love was just how often she felt the need to argue with him.  This would only occur when Tara would spend time with Jet Tea’s friends, due to the heightened frustration she felt at being the oldest and therefore most mature person in the room, a frustration which often led her to persist in starting arguments for no reason.  While Jet Tea would tackle his anxieties around Tara’s friends by closing off and letting them get on with their evening by themselves, Tara was slightly less introverted than it is required to be for that kind of approach to work successfully.  Instead, she would pick on any slight thing Jet Tea said or did, and express her disapproval, disdain, or disagreement with it.  Jet Tea would then opt to defend his words or actions with more words or actions, resulting in a serious argument over a less-than-serious matter.  For although Jet Tea was rather reserved in many confrontational situations, he was happy and comfortable enough with Tara to let her know the problems he had with her.

     Maurice and Hayden perceived that this was the constant state of Jet Tea and Tara’s relationship, as they had never observed the two of them in other environments (Jet Tea’s friends and Tara’s mixed only once, and on that occasion their relationship was considerably overshadowed by Maurice’s drunken attempt to put his tongue in Tara’s friend Gina’s mouth, much to the annoyance of Craig).  On drunker and more honest late nights, they would sometimes ask Jet Tea why he was even with Tara, to which he would angrily retort that they were wrong about her, and that they didn’t know what she was really like which, of course, was true.  But it is a fact of life that a drunk person knows more than anyone about anything, ever.  Therefore the drunk Maurice and Hayden would shoot down Jet Tea’s contention regarding Tara with angry self-assurance.

     The third thing Jet Tea’s friends noticed about his new love was that they didn’t like her.  Or rather, they didn’t mind her, but they certainly didn’t like the state that she put Jet Tea in when she was around.  After the novelty of a candid view to an age-gap relationship and the wonder of what doing things to a naked older woman would be like wore off, Maurice and Hayden conceded that their friend was not happy, or particularly fun to be around, when Tara was present.  When eventually Maurice mentioned the third thing to Jet Tea, the problems of a social relationship first became clear.

     Eventually, Jet Tea and Tara stopped ocializing as a couple, instead spending their time together in the privacy of Jet Tea’s bedroom.  Neither of them were particularly interested in watching films, and being constantly in each other’s company meant they had little to say that the other would not already know, rendering conversation pointless (a problem), so they found themselves spending almost all of their time together making love.  Jet Tea possessed the sexual eagerness of a young man, whilst Tara retained the sexual willingness of a middle-aged woman.  These traits combined assured that the pair of them were rarely out of bed, let alone out of doors.  The constancy of their physical intimacy led to Jet Tea routinely awaking in a state of arousal, purely in anticipation of a visit from Tara.  This was basically an instance of Pavlovian sense memory.

     This relationship was ideal for Jet Tea, who was simply having constant sex with an older, more experienced woman.  He felt he was a teenage daydream made real, and that there was little need to change or rethink anything about his life with Tara.

     Tara grew to think otherwise.  While it may very well be the desire of many women close to forty to spend all their time on their backs with a young boy bouncing around on top of them, it was the desire of many other women close to forty to raise a family, with a financially dependable man of a similar age and therefore mentality to them, get married and live out the remainder of their days meeting friends for dinner, tending to their gardens and picking up their children from school.  Unfortunately, Tara belonged to the latter group, and it was for that reason that one Thursday afternoon, at 12.46pm, three hours and twenty-four minutes earlier than she intended on arriving at Jet Tea’s house for yet another day of rolling around naked with someone fifteen years her junior, she opted instead to call Jet Tea on his mobile phone.

     But none of that mattered now, Tara was gone.

#

     Jet Tea had felt no apprehension or alarm upon answering the phone call.  His assumption was that she was probably phoning to ensure Jet Tea had an ample supply of contraceptives, or if he would like her to buy any food for dinner later.  He did not at all suspect that she was calling to inform him that she would not be coming round any more, and that he would no longer be able to have sex with her, see her regularly or consider her his girlfriend.  Due to the immense shock they were causing him, Tara’s exact words were paradoxically inaudible to Jet Tea, but the essence of what she was saying was clear as day.

     ‘Hello?’ he answered, with the same combined tone of formality and familiarity that anyone adopts when answering the phone to someone whose identity is already known to them.  Tara spoke, Jet Tea replied.  ‘What? … Why? … But, I love you … come round, come round and talk to me here … that’s not true! … Please come round … Tara? … Don’t … I love you.’  He fell back into the armchair beside his bed, as though he had just been thumped in the gut.  He had been, to a degree.

     Immediately, Jet Tea felt he should finish his breakfast; perhaps as a means of comfort, or perhaps in a meagre attempt to proceed with a normal, routine life.  Like an abused dog trying to continue eating from its bowl whilst being repeatedly kicked in the ribs.  After he forced the last forkful of scrambled egg into his mouth, he took his plate downstairs and then returned to his bedroom, switched off his television, sat back in his armchair and cried.

     Shortly after he began crying, Jet Tea felt a hot, sharp pain, akin to heartburn, poke at his chest.  It didn’t so much clear, as subside slightly and take a perceived back seat to the emotional pain he was feeling.

     Jet Tea wept for what would have been the remainder of Mythbusters, had he still been watching it, then wiped his face with his dressing gown sleeve and considered what his life would be from then on.  He stood up and looked in the mirror again.  He beheld his pathetically skinny body, his large head balancing on a twig-thin neck; his overgrown mop-head and glasses that made him look not unlike a boy wizard.  He hadn’t even read the copy of 1984 that sat in his reflected periphery, and that made him feel like an idiot.  Worse, an idiot so insecure with their idiocy that they must overcompensate and parade a fictitious intellect to people that really couldn’t care less.  No wonder Tara wanted nothing more to do with him.  He was just a boy.  A pathetic, little, crying boy.

     The rest of Jet Tea’s day was spent veering between soft crying and attempted sleep.  Roughly an hour after Tara should have arrived (they’d just about be ready to go again, thought Jet Tea), his phone rang for a second time that day.  It was Hayden, asking if Jet Tea would be at the pub later that evening.  He replied before even wondering if he wanted to;

     ‘Yes, I need to get pissed!’ he told a pleased Hayden, before being informed that they would most likely get there for about 7 o’clock, a good hour to get seats but not be the only ones starting their evening.

     He opted to walk to the pub, hoping his head would be clearer and more refreshed by the time he got there so he could drink more mind-numbing alcohol.  On his way he thought about Tara, particularly her motives.       His feelings flowed from the initial upset he had felt all day, to anger at her cowardice in not meeting him in person, or allowing them to discuss the problem properly, for that matter.  Then he briefly felt empathy for her, understanding her reasons somewhat, which somehow mutated to hope that perhaps it was just a temporary solution to an unrelated personal issue.  That switched to self-deprecation at such optimistic naivety, which in turn became another kind of optimism, that now he had freedom and the possibility to meet somebody new and different to Tara.  Then came the resignation that he didn’t actually want somebody new and different to Tara, which was also upset once again.

     He reached the big, looming doors of the pub.  Laughter, incoherent chatter, soft music and the clang of glasses sounded from within.  There were people in there, lots of people.  People who, with two exceptions, didn’t give a shred of a shit about what he was going through and thus wouldn’t make kind concessions to him.  They might laugh at his hair and glasses.  The bartender might ask him for identification because even though he was in his twenties, he still looked like a fucking weedy little boy.  Embarrassment, hostility and scrutiny were in plentiful supply beyond those doors.

     But there was also beer, lots and lots of beer.  And his two best friends in the world.  These were both things he couldn’t fathom going without right now, and no amount of hostility or scrutiny would outdo that need.  Without further hesitation, Jet Tea pushed the doors open.

'Scarlet Girl EP' by Elena Dana - A review

Elena Dana, born and raised in the Ukraine but now as firm a pillar of the UK acoustic scene as anyone noteworthy, blends traditional Russian folk music with the stylised, New York 'Anti-Folk' movement of recent years.

Her four-track EP Scarlet Girl is, despite its brief runtime, an expertly compiled spectrum of her talents, influences and styles.  While these songs really demand to be heard live (Dana's stage presence is impeccable and her mix of originals and haunting, Russian ballads is always an atmospheric and special experience to behold), this offering does plenty of justice to them.

Aesthetically, title track Scarlet Girl is the EP's biggest triumph, and is also the most indicative of Dana's Russian influences; the inclusion of a number of percussion instruments and background vocals compliment the brooding, gypsy-folk guitar playing and lend something of a singalong quality to the beautifully simplistic lyrics.  Dana's ability to create a memorable, infectious chorus without words is on full display here.

Parallel Lives is whimsical, romantic and bouncy.  With lyrical content aping a stream of consciousness - the protagonist internally wonders how things would have been with a would-be romantic partner had she acted sooner upon their paths crossing - the piece begins as a lingering, heartfelt love song but soon detours into one of Dana's trademark toe-tapping, alt-pop verses.  She takes the reins of her Anti-Folk roots and runs them effortlessly into her unique Eastern style, creating something extremely memorable before blindsiding the listener with a moving, powerfully-delivered chorus.

The sunny, spritely It's Not About the Bike has echoes of Regina Spektor; Elena Dana paints the scenario described, singing 'Brum Brum Brum' amidst fond recollections of early childhood and learning to ride a bicycle for the first time.  The fresh, summery inflection to the song would raise a smile through any mood and it provides the heights of this EP's amicability.

However, it is My Life With You that is the runaway highlight of Scarlet Girl.  A bittersweet, melancholy and haunting celebration of life, dreams and beloved pets, My Life With You is Elena Dana's Magnum Opus.  The emotionally-charged lyrics are moving beyond compare, the persistent minor key of the guitar work is soul-penetrating and the whole product is beautifully iced by the EP's reverberated production values - more of a triumph here than on any other track.  The song really has to be heard to be believed.

Scarlet Girl is warm, likeable and devoid of pessimism even in its most melancholy moments.  It is a postcard to love, life and fond memories that is surpassed only by the incredible live performances of its scribe.

Elena Dana performs regularly in and around London.

Scarlet Girl and other works can be heard on her SoundCloud page.