Robin Alexander Gregory's Blog, page 5

Fotherington-Tomas and The Ashes Affair

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Fotherington-Tomas and the Ashes Affair
… Ice cream, leather on willow and a mysterious moving bush. There’s no game quite like cricket…

“Why are we here, FT?” asked Maxwell, giving his Mister Whippy a quick lick and leaving a fine trace of melted ice cream along the bottom of his freshly trimmed moustache.

“Well, from a biological perspective, it’s to ensure the widest possible spread of our genes, thus maximising the success of our line through the next generation. However, from a philosophical point of view, I always tend towards the teachings of Nietzsche, who said…” replied Fotherington-Tomas, his granite jaw making short work of the bubble gum treat nestling at the bottom of his Two Ball Screwball.

“No, I mean why are we here, at The Oval?” interrupted Maxwell, sweeping his hand in a wide arc, emphasising the huge stadium, packed to capacity with avid cricket fans on a rare and beautiful English summer’s day.

“Ah, I see what you mean,” said Fotherington-Tomas awkwardly, the splinters from the little plastic spoon that he’d mistaken for the second bubble gum in his ice-cream, making it difficult to talk as they scraped painfully down his throat. “Tip-off from MI5. Apparently, they’ve received information that Yorkshire based villain, Aldo-Passlington, is planning to steal The Ashes and from under the very nose of the Prince Regent too.”

“The Cad!” exclaimed Maxwell in disbelief.

“Indeed, which is why we’ve got to be extra vigilant and make sure that the nefarious, whippet loving ne’er-do-well doesn’t get the chance to bring shame on the Empire and on one of the greatest traditions in the noblest sporting game in the world,” said Fotherington-Tomas, his bushy eyebrows furrowing in anger at the thought of his beloved cricket being sullied by such a base deed.

“So, how are we going to apprehend Passlington? There are thousands of people here. He’s going to be almost impossible to spot. He is a master of disguise, as well you know. He could be dressed as anybody, even me, and you’d be hard pressed to know,” said Maxwell, scanning the Pavilion, as if half-expecting to spot the evil fiend right there and then.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that,” replied Fotherington-Tomas, stroking his beard, which he’d been training into a fine-looking replica of that worn by his hero, W.G. Grace. “You’re going to provide close support to the Prince Regent, so that you can pounce on Passlington, should he try to snatch The Ashes during the presentation ceremony, while I shall maintain a lookout from the pitch itself,” he continued, a slightly smug tone entering his bull-like voice.

Maxwell looked sideways at his great friend and then slowly said: “And of course, it has always been one of your dreams to play for England during a Test Match, hasn’t it, FT?”

“Well, if one gets the chance during the course of one’s duty, then one would be a fool to refuse the honour,” answered Fotherington-Tomas with uncharacteristic embarrassment, doing his best to avoid Maxwell’s knowing stare.

“But how are we going to maintain communication over such a great distance, FT? What do you propose: semaphore, a series of bird calls, like we used that time in Marrakesh, or possibly Venezuelan throat singing? I’ve been practising, you know,” said Maxwell, allowing his windpipe to relax, in the hope of being allowed to give a short demonstration.

“No!” interjected Fotherington-Tomas, before Maxwell could begin warbling like a foetid leper. “Throat singing won’t carry far enough over the noise of the crowd. Bird calls are a possibility, but then I’d look like a bit of a buffoon if I go tweeting and cawing my way around the boundary. And the way that I swing a bat, semaphore would just be too confusing. No, I’m afraid we’ll have to rely on these new-fangled radio communication devices, which MI5 gave me,” he continued, handing Maxwell a tiny, flesh coloured earpiece and shoving its partner unceremoniously down his own vacuous lughole.

“Great idea, FT, I can hear you perfectly!” ejaculated Maxwell, as he inserted the earpiece into his own freshly plucked ear.

“Well that’s because you’re standing right next to me, you foolish young duffer! Honestly, sometimes I despair of you. I really do. Now, go and take your place, quickly. Play will be starting soon and I’ve still got to change into my cricket whites,” said Fotherington-Tomas, giving Maxwell a withering stare, as he turned on his heel and strode off towards the changing rooms.

“Right-O, FT,” replied a suitably chastened Maxwell, as he began shuffling his way past the gathering mass of spectators, towards the executive luxury of the Pavilion building.

The sun was blazing high in the clear blue sky, when England, having won the toss, began batting against the Australians. Malinga was up first, opening with a mighty six that sent the ball cannoning into the delighted audience, before being caught out by Ullabong, just three runs later. Dickwella was up next, working with Chameera, beginning a splendid batting partnership that saw almost a century being put on the massive digital scoreboard, before Loogaborooga’s long bowl-spin knocked the bails from the stumps and sent Dickwella off the pitch.

Throughout the excitement, Maxwell remained vigilant, taking up a position just behind and to the left of the Prince Regent, who was thoroughly enjoying himself, knocking the tops off glass after glass of iced sherbet with gay abandon and cheering just as loudly as the rest of the spectators, as England continued to pile pressure on their ancient rivals with a series of stunning fours from Udawatte. However, no matter how hard Maxwell strained his eyes, he could see nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was just as a well-run, top-level game of cricket should be. Sipping rather more reservedly on his own glass of sherbet, he continued to monitor both the match, which was indeed turning out to be a superb start to the Test and the surrounding landscape, wondering exactly when Aldo-Passlington would inadvertently reveal himself.

For his part, Fotherington-Tomas was sitting with the rest of the team, patiently waiting for his turn to bat. As a fine amateur spin bowler, he would rather have had England open by fielding so that he could have demoralised the Australians early on, bowling a few of them out before they had any chance to set up a decent lead. As it was, he was quietly impressed with the lead that England had made and was looking forward to doing his best to add to it when his turn came. Looking around at the other players, he was fairly certain that he’d be paired with either Weerakoddy or Munaweera, both of them formidable sportsmen in their own right. The only thing that he was worried about, apart from the threat of Passlington’s planned assault on The Ashes, was the fact that he’d chosen to play with his trusty ‘Zuru X-Shot bat’, which he’d got from Argos twenty years earlier and wear his antique Bexhill Cricket Club cap for protection. Looking at the Australian bowlers, especially Todger, who was hurling the ball as if it were a live hand grenade, he was slowly realising that the game had got a lot faster and a lot more dangerous than the last time he’d played at this level.

With the morning fast coming to an end, the umpire called a halt for lunch and the players, slicked with sweat from their exertions, proceeded into the welcome shelter of the rest area for a round of cucumber sandwiches and a refreshing glass or two of home-made lemonade, kindly provided by Fotherington-Tomas’ lovely wife, Sarah.

Back in the Pavilion, the Prince Regent was settling down to a fine repast of cold salmon mousse, French truffles and chocolate ice-cream, while Maxwell and the rest of the crowd were treated to highlights from previous Test matches, displayed on the side of the Goodyear blimp, floating languidly above the famous cricket ground. As the Prince and associated dignitaries noisily gorged themselves on the feast, Maxwell continued to watch the pitch, straining for any sign that something was amiss.

And then he spotted it. Right on the edge of the boundary line. A small bush, where a small bush had no right to be. Certainly not on the crisply mown baize of a cricket pitch, that was for sure. How he had missed it earlier was beyond him, but there it was, as large as life and twice as annoying. Maxwell stared at the bush, wishing that Fotherington-Tomas had given him X-ray glasses instead of the tiny earpiece that was starting to irritate his eardrum. Straining his eyes to the point where they began to water, he shot bolt upright as the bush suddenly gave a little shudder. Someone was in there and Maxwell was in no doubt that it was Aldo-Passlington.

What an amazing disguise, thought Maxwell admiringly. Passlington was known to be a master of altering his appearance, but up until now, he had tended towards impersonating little old ladies, Heads of State and Swedish poultry chefs, rather than topiary. As the bush gave another minute wobble, its man-handled branches trying to emulate the light summer breeze floating through the air around it, Maxwell remembered the earpiece and pressing his finger to his ear, made contact with Fotherington-Tomas.

“FT. Are you there? I think that I’ve found Passlington,” whispered Maxwell excitedly.

The sound of someone munching a cucumber sandwich and then swallowing it hastily erupted into his cerebellum, followed by Fotherington-Tomas’ rich bass tones. “I’m here, Maxwell. Now, where do you think Passlington is hiding?”

“Far end of the field, disguised as a small bush, FT. I’m sure that it’s him. What are we going to do? Do you want me to call security?” replied Maxwell, never tearing his hawk-like gaze away from the artificial shrub sitting, quivering gently, at the edge of the pitch.

“No, leave it to me. I’ve got a better idea. We’ll be back on in a minute. I’ll have a word with the captain and get the batting order changed,” said Fotherington-Tomas grimly, as the line between them went dead.

Maxwell absentmindedly scooped up a truffle from the table, earning himself an angry stare from the head of the Prince’s bodyguard and then wiped his waxed moustache with the back of his hand, as he waited for the Oval Bell to announce the start of the afternoon session.

As one, the two teams marched back onto the field and resumed their positions, eager to resume the encounter. Both were revitalised from Sarah’s cool lemonade and as Todger loosed the ball, it slammed past Chameera’s defences, coming to rest in the red-hot gloves of Nullonga’s trusty wicket-keeping hands.

As the roar of the crowd died down and Chameera began his despondent walk back to his team, Fotherington-Tomas took to the grass. Pulling his cap down low over his eyes, he strode up to the crease and took his position opposite Udawatte. With a curt nod towards his batting partner, he tapped his Zuru X-Shot on the ground a couple of times and waited for Todger to begin his run-up.

Fotherington-Tomas remained motionless as Todger thundered down the pitch, arm twisted around as if he was going to bowl a googly and strangely reminding him of the time that he’d once faced down a charging African bull elephant in Somalia. Then, with barely a sound, Todger released the ball. As it sliced through the air, Fotherington-Tomas realised that it was, in fact, just a normal leg-break and swung his bat around in a mighty arc, sending the ball right back over Todger’s glistening head, where it came to a rest just at the edge of the boundary.

The crowd went wild, as Fotherington-Tomas and Udawatte charged down the twenty-two-yard strip, twice and twice more, before coming to rest back where they had begun. Then it was all on.

Over the next hour and a half, Fotherington-Tomas played the game of his life, revelling in the crack of willow on leather, first equalling and then surpassing Dickwella’s performance, racking up his first century with ease and then starting on his second, all the time with one eye on the innocuous looking bush at the far end of the field.

With the sun scorching his eyes and his arms only just beginning to ache from the continual swinging of the bat, Fotherington-Tomas fixed Todger with a determined stare, as the exhausted outback bowler began once more to try and thwart the grizzly old bear of a man that had, so far, resisted everything he’d thrown at him. Floating almost gracefully down the turf, Todger released the ball in an unexpected flipper, which caused Fotherington-Tomas to bend forwards to meet it, scooping the wildly spinning orb way up into the air, where it clipped the side of the Goodyear blimp and bounced off it at high speed, landing in the small bush at the end of the pitch, where it made a very un-shrub-like thunk.

Fotherington-Tomas held his hands up to quell the cheering at such a magnificent shot and then walked over to the umpire, asking him if he would be prepared to suspend the match for a moment or two, while he investigated a serious crime in progress. The umpire, himself amazed at seeing such astounding cricket in play, agreed and with a bemused look on his face, followed Fotherington-Tomas, as he casually strode towards the boundary, seemingly to retrieve his lost ball.

When he got there, much to the continued amazement of both the crowd and umpire, he yanked the bush hard, pulling it up and over the limp form of Aldo-Passlington, who was sporting a nice, egg-sized lump on the crown of his otherwise baby-bald head.

“Arrest that man!” shouted Fotherington-Tomas, his foghorn voice echoing around The Oval. “This is Aldo-Passlington and I have it on good authority that he was going to steal The Ashes at the end of the match, from under the very nose of the Prince Regent himself!”

The crowd booed their disapproval of Passlington’s misdemeanour, as a squad of policemen, fronted by Inspector Cromwell, approached and clamped the limp body of Passlington in irons, before roughly dragging it off the pitch.

“To think that anyone would want to steal The Ashes and a Yorkshireman at that. It’s beyond me. It really is… Well done, FT. Once again, you’ve saved the nation and also put up a formidable score, which I think the Aussies will find hard to beat. In fact, I’d be surprised if it’s not still standing by the time that this yonder criminal gets out of prison, which will be a fair way in the future for such a heinous crime as this,” said Cromwell, tipping his hat towards Fotherington-Tomas in a mark of respect.

“Thank you, Cromwell, but the day’s not over yet. There’s still a few hours of light before sundown and the last time that I looked, I wasn’t out,” said Fotherington-Tomas, nodding to the umpire, who happily called for play to resume.

“What a man… what a man… what a mighty, mighty good man,” said Inspector Cromwell to himself, as he watched Fotherington-Tomas make his way back to the crease.

Three hours later, England declared for the day, leaving Fotherington-Tomas with a second century in his pocket and then some. After copious pats on the back from his ecstatic team mates and receiving the thanks of the Prince Regent in person, Fotherington-Tomas stepped out of the changing room shower, to find Maxwell waiting for him, the tell-tale traces of yet another ice-cream smearing the bottom fringe of his moustache.

“Well done, FT. What an amazing shot. I assume that you planned it?” said Maxwell admiringly.

“I did indeed, Maxwell. I’d been watching Passlington’s bush gradually make its way around The Oval and when the moment was right, I struck like a snake, using that airship as a deflector. But, if it hadn’t been for your eagle eyes in the first place, then I would never have spotted him. That bush was a fiendishly cunning disguise. His best yet, in fact. So, in no small way, today’s victory is really down to you, my friend,” said Fotherington-Tomas, making Maxwell blush fiercely in response.

“Talking of victory, you played magnificently, FT. I mean a double century and more to boot. It’s amazing. It really is,” replied Maxwell modestly.

“And it’s not over yet,” said Fotherington-Tomas, with a broad smile. “The captain was so impressed by my performance today, that he asked me to play the rest of the Test with them.”

“Really? A dream come true, eh, FT?” said Maxwell, with a happy grin plastered across his smooth visage.

“Something like that. But only if we win, of course. Now, come on, let’s go home and tell Sarah the good news!” roared Fotherington-Tomas, clapping Maxwell heartily on the shoulder and marching, as naked as a new-born, out of the changing room and into the warm evening beyond.

THE END

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After seeing FT play, Maxwell decides to give cricket a go!

If you enjoyed this, please feel free to share it more widely and don’t forget to check out my other blogs and the rest of the Fotherington-Tomas series!

The Untimely Demise of Fotherington-Tomas

Fotherington-Tomas and the Christmas Crisis

 

The post Fotherington-Tomas and The Ashes Affair appeared first on Rob Gregory | Author.

Do chickens have faces?

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Do chickens have faces?
Forget about crossing the road, this is the big one, folks!

Today, we live in a world dominated by technology, one particular part of which is facial recognition. Whether we are passing through an airport, walking down a city street or simply unlocking our mobile phones, our faces are being captured and used to identify us.

Facial recognition technology is based on using the geometry of the face, i.e. the relationship between features such as the distance between your eyes or where your nose sits in relation to your ears, to build a unique map, which can be used to identify you.

But it wasn’t always like this. Back in the late 1990s, facial recognition, the way we know it today, was a dream. Pure science fiction. In fact, it wasn’t until 1999 that a commercially viable product using iris recognition was available on the market.

Now, turn your attention to a young scientist, working towards his doctoral degree at Oxford University at around the same time. Poor fellow. He was investigating social discrimination in laying hens, which in plain English means: how the heck do chickens recognise each other? This might seem like something of an unusual pastime, not to mention use of taxpayer’s money, but it did have a serious point.

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My doctoral thesis. Yes, I did complete it and am still rather proud of it.

You see chickens have long been believed to have a strong pecking order. Indeed, the very phrase ‘peck order’ comes from work done by a Norwegian scientist, Thorleif Schjelderup-Ebbe, back at the turn of the twentieth century. I have my own thoughts on the validity of a strongly linear pecking order, i.e. one where the top dog dominates all those below it, the second in command dominates all but the top dog and so on, as indeed did Schjelderup-Ebbe, but I’ll save that for a future blog.

Suffice to say that scientists have long believed that the way chickens recognise their place in the pecking order is through the comb on their heads and to a lesser degree, the wattles that hang from their throats. The question I was grappling with, because it was indeed me who was that poor young scientist, was whether chickens used individual recognition or what was known as a ‘badge of status’. Think about a sergeant’s stripes and you’ll get the idea. You don’t need to know a sergeant individually, to know how to behave around them!

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Traditional wisdom says that the comb and wattles are what chickens use to recognise each other.

Where it gets serious, at least from an animal welfare point of view, is when you look at commercial flocks of hens, which can number in the tens of thousands. If chickens have to rely on individual recognition, then the cost of trying to remember several thousand one-on-one relationships just isn’t worth it and is likely to be highly stressful, which is not good for poor old Chicken-Licken. On the other hand, if they can switch to badges of status, then everything should be hunky-dory, and we can all sleep soundly at night, thank you very much.

So, there you have it. Took a long time to explain, but at least you now know why I was spending an unhealthy amount of time in the company of poultry. And as an enquiring young researcher, I had a question and it annoyed me…

You see, at the time that the peck order is being formed, the comb and wattles are in a juvenile stage, i.e. they are still growing. And growing rapidly. The effect is like trying to remember your place when everyone around you, including yourself, has a new haircut each day. Of course, you could argue that on a day-to-day basis, the change is gradual and so the chickens don’t notice it, but as you can see from the images below, over a seven-week period, when all of the peck order action is happening, the change is really quite substantial.

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The same chicken before and after puberty. Look how the comb changes but the other main features do not.

An alternative idea is that the size of the comb and wattles reflects the amount of testosterone the chicken has and so the bird ‘knows’ how strong it is without ever having to see its own features. But that doesn’t really work because there are diseases that cause the comb and wattles to enlarge and change colour, even when the amount of circulating testosterone is low.

And that’s another thing, the placement of the comb and wattles means that a chicken can almost certainly never see its own! It’s like that card game where you slap a card on your forehead and then try to guess what it is, based on what the other players tell you. I’m sorry, but there has to be a better explanation than: chickens use something that they can’t see, and which is changing rapidly, as the basis for settling all of their future arguments about food, water, access to mates etc. After all, if God doesn’t play dice with the universe, why should chickens play cards with their social status?

So, I set out to investigate, taking lots of photographs of chickens as they progressed through puberty and measuring various facial features with a ruler. No particle accelerators or whizz-bang tomfoolery here… just belt and braces British science at its best. And what did I find?

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Back then I was a brilliant artist as well!

Lo and behold, chickens have faces! Things like the diameter of the eye, the length of the nostril, the length of the ear feathers and beak length changed, on average, less than a millimetre during puberty, in contrast to the comb and wattles, which increased by several orders of magnitude during the same period. Furthermore, after puberty, the same facial features that I had measured essentially stayed the same, giving the animal a consistent set of cues with which to recognise other individuals as they progressed through life.

While this in itself, is not absolute proof that chickens are using those features to recognise other individuals, or indeed, even using individual recognition, it certainly called into question the use of the comb and wattles alone for recognition, which was good enough for me.

And of course, I took it one step further, which is where the link to modern-day facial recognition technology comes in. Consider the following paragraph lifted from my thesis:

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Perhaps I was ahead of my time for once? This was written in late 1999.

Unfortunately, I never did that particular piece of follow up research. If I had, then possibly I wouldn’t be sitting here today, writing this blog for you. But nonetheless, I can still get some small satisfaction out of the knowledge that my hypothesis, made on the basis of looking at the humble chicken, has since proven to be validated on a far more complex animal – us!

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Back again in the USSA

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Back again in the USSA
… or ‘New York, New York’. ‘New York, New York’…

Nineteen years ago, almost to the day, I was on my way to America, to New York to be exact, to visit a good friend of mine who was working for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. It was a job that involved ‘seeing dead people’ on a daily basis, although in his case, he didn’t have a sixth sense, they were all just lying there in the mortuary. He’s since gone on to become a renowned forensic consultant and is also a well-known forensic entomologist in his spare time. In case you don’t know what that is, it’s someone who looks at bugs* on dead bodies in order to work out how they died (the people that is, not the bugs).

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Downtown Manhattan in early 2000, as seen from the Empire State building.

Anyway, I’d never been to the States before, let alone one of the most famous cities on the planet and wasn’t sure to expect, but I did know one thing. Although London and New York are roughly on the same latitude, New York doesn’t benefit from the Gulf Stream, a warm body of oceanic water that flows up from the Gulf of Mexico, past Florida and into the eastern side of the Atlantic. What this means is that while London in January is usually just cold, wet and miserable, New York on the other hand, is absolutely bloody freezing, with lots of snow and a sub-zero chill that will not only steal your toes and run off down a subway tunnel with them, but also rob you of the ability to call out for help.

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The Empire State building. So tall, you can’t see the top!

So, before departing the UK, I made sure that I had packed all of my best winter woollies and upon arriving in New York, discovered that they were completely inadequate. Cue a quick trip to an ‘Old Navy’ department store, where I picked up a bright orange, duck-down bodywarmer for, believe it or not $2.50, which helped keep me snug and toasty during the daylight hours and also ensured that I wouldn’t get lost on my travels, because I stood out like a lighthouse beacon on acid.

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Now that’s one bright jacket!

I have to say at this point, that I had an absolutely wonderful time in the ‘city that never sleeps’. During the day, when my friend was working, I would plod around Manhattan, exploring the various neighbourhoods in a typically British fashion, i.e. not having a clue where I was going and assuming that everything would be fine, which it was. As a result, I skirted the edges of Stuyvesant Town and the East Village, drifted through Wall Street without really knowing it, popped over to Staten Island, waved to the Statue of Liberty and walked more of Park Avenue that I thought was humanly possible. But to be honest, the city was so vast that I ended up spending most of my time on the east side and midtown areas, venturing as far west as Times Square and as far north as Columbus Circle.

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Columbus Circle. It hasn’t changed very much in almost two decades.

During the evenings, we’d either head across to Queens on the subway, where my friend had a very small apartment and find somewhere to eat, or stick around Manhattan, taking in the nightlife and bar scene, i.e. getting drunk and not realising it until we had to settle the bill at the end of the night. I do recall going to one place that had a frontage made out of a school bus, with patrons sitting on stools, staring out of the bus windows, looking for all the world like grown-up children going home. I wonder if it’s still there? I also realised, alas too late, that despite talking and writing very similar languages, it is still possible to very easily cause confusion when you are an Englishman in New York …

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For some reason this always reminds me of Simon and Garfunkel.

We were at a well-known diner in Queens one night, famed for its desserts. I ordered a double cheeseburger because I was hungry, expecting the British variant, i.e. one bun with two burger patties inside and a small side serving of salad and some French fries. So, you can imagine my surprise, when the double cheeseburger turned out to be two of the biggest burger buns I had ever seen, each with two enormous patties stuffed inside them. There must have been well over a pound of meat between them. And the salad and fries’ combination that they arrived with was so large that it must have decimated America’s annual lettuce and potato harvest for that year. I did my best, honestly, I did, but I there was no way that I couldn’t finish it all and to add insult to injury, I never got to try their delicious looking cheesecakes!

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The Chrysler building. Yours for only $1bn.

Looking back on the trip, I know that I missed a lot, but then you have to remember that, at the time, for me at least, the whole experience was an adventure and an amazing one at that. Being asked if I knew the Queen by a fellow in an Army Surplus/Gun shop (not something you get very often in the UK), nearly getting myself shot by a police officer on the subway because I was looking at his sidearm too intently, sleeping next to my friend’s pet Madagascan Hissing Cockroaches and seeing a blind man, standing in the snow outside Radio City, trying to make a living by selling pencils, of all things, to passers-by. Just having had the privilege of experiencing the whole, crazy melting pot of humanity that exists in New York, for a few days, was reward enough for me.

And the fact that my return flight had to make an emergency landing at JFK airport just after take-off, was the icing on the cake, but we’ll save that story for another day, I think!

Scroll down for more images

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Definitely not the Empire State or Chrysler building, but not bad nonetheless.

 

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Now that’s cold! Ice over an inch thick on the Empire State building.

 

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And the view from the top of the Empire State building is pretty impressive too!

 

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Canal Street, Lower Manhattan. I wonder how much those shops would be worth today?

 

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Another street scene. East side of Manhattan, I think. Wouldn’t it be beautiful, indeed?

 

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I must have ended up in Chinatown at somepoint.

 

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The Chrysler building at night. Taken from the roof of the OCME building, with no camera flash!

 

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Central Park. So beautiful, if it wasn’t for all of the steam getting in the way!

* Strictly speaking, the word ‘bugs’ should only be used when talking about the class of insects known as ‘Hemiptera’, which possess piercing, rather than biting mouthparts. They include aphids, shieldbugs and cicadas. Sorry, but I used to study entomology and it’s just one of those things that I feel people should pay more attention to.

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Amazing Thailand No 5 – Television Repair

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Amazing Thailand!
… Number 5 in an occasional series…

Welcome back to Amazing Thailand!

Okay, so I’ll admit that this particular incident could have happened anywhere, but the fact that it occurred in Thailand just makes it all the more satisfying.

A few months ago, my television broke. Just suddenly stopped working. Nothing, nada, not a flicker of life in the thing. Seeing as it was still under warranty, I took it down to the local service and repair centre, with very low expectations. After all, my previous experiences with warranties on anything in Thailand, let alone consumer electronics, had been very much a case of: “It’s not my problem, mate,” with the guarantee effectively expiring the moment that you left the shop. So, I was amazed, when after about thirty minutes of head scratching by the chaps in the service centre, they finally concluded that the television was indeed not working and that it would have to be sent to Bangkok for repair, a process that would take up to five weeks.

Yes, that’s right, five weeks. Head-scratchingly long for most of us, but then maybe the Bangkok repair centre was swamped by sub-standard television sets that need fixing, or possibly they were planning to send the television there and back by water buffalo, I don’t know. Still, for me, it was something of a coup that they were willing to honour the guarantee at all and so I accepted their terms without hesitation.

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Notice anything unusual about this box?

Fast forward six weeks and I am sitting in front of the laptop, staring at the tiny screen, doing my best to write, when it suddenly strikes me that the television should be back at the local repair centre. Although they had my phone number, I knew better than to expect a call to tell me that it was ready for collection. The English-Thai language barrier at times can be extremely off-putting, especially when phone calls are concerned, so I decided to schlep down to the place in person and find out.

When I arrived, armed with the sheaf of paperwork that they had given me to identify my case, I was met by a worrying round of perplexed looks from the staff. They couldn’t locate the television! Had it been sent to Bangkok? Nobody seemed to know. Had it actually been repaired? Again, nobody seemed to know. Finally, after about twenty-five minutes of scrabbling around, the offending article was located. However, the general consensus was that it hadn’t actually been sent anywhere at all! You can imagine the look on my face. Need I say that, despite my best efforts, I was on the verge of going ‘Basil Fawlty’ on them?

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Any clearer now?

Then, one of the girls behind the desk had the good sense to call the Bangkok repair centre and lo and behold, yes, the television had been sent there, where it had been fixed under warranty and returned the previous week. Hooray! Panic over. The staff, who had been oblivious to the courier labels plastered across the back of the box, announcing its travels around the country, unpacked the television and cheerfully demonstrated to me that it had indeed been repaired.

It was only when I’d got it back home that I noticed the dusty white footprint on the outer packaging. At some point and I know not where or by whom, someone had used the television as a step. This was despite all of the ‘This Way Up’ and ‘Fragile’ markings on the box. Why anyone in their right mind would use a television set, laid flat on the ground as a step is beyond me, but then ‘This Is Thailand’ as they say, and anything can (and often does) happen. It wasn’t even as if the offender had tried to cover their tracks, excuse the pun.

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Ahh, there it is!

Thankfully, the television survived its ordeal and has not let me down since. I can only imagine what would have happened if the screen had been broken when they unpacked it. Six more weeks staring at a tiny laptop screen? I think not!

Stay tuned for more ‘Amazing Thailand’ in the near future…

 

Amazing Thailand No2 – Taxi Etiquette

The post Amazing Thailand No 5 – Television Repair appeared first on Rob Gregory | Author.

2018 – A Writing Year in Review

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2018 – A Writing Year in Review
… or that’s 365 days we won’t get back…

“Ding dong merrily on high…” No, sorry, that was last month. So, 2019. Has it been good to you so far? Have you broken all of your New Year’s resolutions yet? I know that I have and in record time too.

Anyway, with 2018 now well out of sight, I thought it would be a good idea to take a brief glimpse back at the hectic journey we made around the sun last year and review some of the many high’s and low’s that occurred along the way.

January began with the soft launch of my website (www.rob-gregory.com) and the publication of my very first blog post. Back then, I really had no idea what I was doing and to be honest, I think that it showed, but still everyone has to start somewhere and as I reflected in a blog some months later: “The journey of a thousand steps begins with a steep climb.” Back then, excitement and optimism lay heavy in the air and with Drynwideon, my first novel at the printers and the final instalment of the DATS Trilogy completed, I had the pleasure to round off the month by meeting Robbie from England, who has become a firm friend in the months since.

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Blogety Blog. My very first blog post… ahhh.

In February, I gave the world ‘Halfaholic’, only to subsequently discover that I’d been pipped to the post by an American rap group and a fetish clothing company. Still, you can’t win them all. Back then, I was doing two blog posts a week, something which later proved to be unsustainable, but it was a great start to the year and did a lot to offset the debacle which occurred when we found out that the boxes we were planning to ship Drynwideon in were slightly too small for the book itself. The best-laid plans of mice and men, indeed! On reflection, that one incident was probably the beginning of the year’s many challenges and an interesting introduction to the realities of trying to run your own self-publishing operation.

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Drynwideon in all its glory.

March, ah March… Such a lot happened in such a short period of time. We launched Drynwideon on the 1st to resounding and spectacular silence from the literary world, despite having sent out press releases, sample chapters and synopses to around 200 media outlets worldwide. Despite this initial lack of enthusiasm, spirits remained high, if a little cold, predominantly because I was in the UK at the time. Originally, I was supposed to visit in January, but cried off because of the risk of bad weather. Alas, nature was not prepared to allow her crafty quarry to escape unharmed and sent ‘The Beast from the East’ to coincide with my visit, leaving me in the grip of snow and sub-zero temperatures for most of my visit. Not being one to lay idle for too long, I used the time to start work on my second novel, Yogol’s Gold, and polished off a short story, The Perfect Chord, before returning to warmer climes.

April was perhaps most succinctly summed up as ‘The Silence of the Books’. Not only did the world’s media diligently continue to ignore the existence of Drynwideon, work on Yogol’s Gold slowed to a trickle as the agony that is writer’s block hit me for the first time in decades. On the plus side, we did have the Songkran celebration in Thailand that month and were graced by another welcome appearance from Robbie, so it wasn’t all bad. And I suppose that looking back on it, I did manage to maintain my ‘two blogs a week’ standard, delve into the world of Fake News and discover a reference to Hogwarts in a book published over forty years earlier.

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‘The Hogwarts’ in ‘How to be Topp’.

Unlike April, May turned out to be a really busy and in many ways, rewarding month, although it did prove to be the beginning of the end for the ‘two blogs a week’ thing. Goy Kankanakul, the artist who did the cover for Drynwideon, had her first major exhibition since graduating and I tagged along both for moral support and to get myself into as many photo opportunities as possible… I managed two. I also sold a couple of books during the exhibition and met the editor of one of the local newspapers, who had received a free review copy and who promised me an article in a forthcoming edition of his rag. Later in the year, I found out that the cheeky sod had absconded to another publication without doing anything at all to help me. Another harsh lesson to learn about the realities of being an author, although I do still hope that he enjoyed Drynwideon and has told a few mates about it.

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Surrounded by Goy’s wonderful artwork at Icon Amazed.

June, June, June. Now that was one hell of a month. By that time, work on the first draft of Yogol’s Gold was almost finished and I was looking forward to publishing it before the end of the year. And then, on my wife’s birthday, we found out that a good friend of ours had suddenly died. With no close family nearby, it fell to us to deal with the death, which involved police interviews and working with Embassy staff to tidy up his affairs. It was not only a very sad time, but very stressful as well and needless to say, writing took a bit of a back seat, although I still did manage to venture into space, as well as get (another) dog before the month was out.

July saw me finish the first draft of Yogol’s Gold (hooray) and the beginning of the editing process, which ended up taking the rest of the year (boo). It also saw my debut appearance on the Reddit Fantasy Forum, which was a blast and gave me the chance to connect with many great fantasy fans from around the world. Unfortunately, I’ve not been as active on that particular forum as I would have liked, but I did manage to write a short story excerpt for their ‘Wednesday Writer’s Challenge’, which was fun.

In August, I made the surprisingly difficult decision to try and find a literary agent in 2019, to help me pursue a career in traditional publishing. This was motivated by a number of factors including: the disappointing online and media response to Drynwideon, despite very positive feedback from those that had actually read the book; the growing realisation that it is almost impossible to get visibility in today’s ridiculously congested self-publishing sphere, unless you are already famous or a master marketer, which I am not; and the fact that I was spending more time managing my social media accounts than I was on actual writing! Wish me luck, because I’m almost certain that I’ll need it. On a more positive note, August did see the first draft of the cover art for The Lucius Chronicles pop into existence, along with me doing a good deed by helping out a young lady locate a lost book from her childhood.

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Coming soon… I promise!

September was another strange month in many ways. Yogol’s Gold took a bit of a back seat, as I focused on getting the artwork sorted out for The Lucius Chronicles. I have to thank James Stevens and Eugene Georgiades once again for the fine work that they did on the cover artwork and line illustrations respectively and apologise to everyone for not releasing the book yet. It will come out as soon as I finish editing Yogol’s Gold, I promise. In between all of the emails back and forth, I finished off a second short story, entitled: It’s a Shame About Eric and gave the world the first Tales of the Beast blog before getting philosophical and questioning ageing and microchip design after buying a new smartphone. Then, right at the end of the month, I had the unexpected pleasure of discovering that if you typed ‘Rob Gregory’ into Google, my website came up as the number one hit. Yay!

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One of my favourite drawings for The Lucius Chronicles, done by Eugene Georgiades.

October… Even though it was only three months ago, I’m struggling to remember what happened or why it was so frustrating. I seem to recall that my son was on holiday from school, which meant that very little writing took place. I also have a vague recollection about decorating the bedrooms, which took up quite a lot of time. Regardless, for whatever reason, I only managed two blogs in the entire month and very little editing. Probably best just to leave it there and move on to better things.

In November, I introduced you to the man-mountain that is Fotherington-Tomas, which has turned out to be a very rewarding and enjoyable endeavour, for me at least. I hope you’ll be pleased to know that there are many more stories in the pipeline and assuming that I can manage it then his adventures will become a regular feature of my blog in the coming year. I also received a very encouraging email from Reading University, where I studied in the early 1990s, concerning one of my blogs, as well as one from Locus Magazine, concerning a possible review of Drynwideon. Obviously, things in the publishing world take time, but like all good things, they come to those who wait… hopefully.

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Fotherington-Tomas. A future classic?

Finally, we hit December, which saw a Christmassy Fotherington-Thomas save the Queen at Hamleys, which was very appropriate and two car-themed blogs, plus a tongue-in-cheek rant about Buddhism, which were not. Incidentally, the Fotherington-Tomas blog racked up over 350 hits, which wasn’t bad seeing as the website hadn’t even been up for a full year. Unfortunately, I didn’t hit my target of completing the Yogol’s Gold edit before Christmas, but then as someone more famous than I probably once said: “The best things take time,” so there you go.

And there you have it. A year full of words. Some of them good. Some of them bad. Some of them, unfortunately, needing more work, but then that’s life I suppose. A year of ups and downs, back and forth and swinging from the rafters in happiness and despair. A year that saw the creation of a website and blogs that never existed before and the beginning of what I hope will become a more popular platform in the year ahead.

So, thank you, dear followers, especially those who have been with me since the very beginning and I hope that you enjoy what follows in 2019… to quote Bachman-Turner Overdrive: “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet!”

The post 2018 – A Writing Year in Review appeared first on Rob Gregory | Author.

Taking the Road Less Travelled

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Taking the Road Less Travelled
… or, an unexpected surprise at the Southward Car Museum…

Here’s a nice little yuletide story for you… For those readers not resident in the southern hemisphere, it might come as a bit of a surprise to learn that Christmas south of the equator falls, not during mid-winter as it does in the north, but slap bang at the height of summer. Consequently, snow tends to be a bit thin on the ground and the temperatures lend themselves more towards shorts and T-shirts than long trousers and woolly hats, but on the other hand, there is usually plenty of grass for Santa’s reindeer to munch on.

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Standard Christmas attire in the southern hemisphere. Rock under foot optional.

Anyway, I digress… It was during the Christmas holidays, way back in the dim and distant past, when one of my cousins from the UK decided to spend some time travelling around New Zealand and naturally, I offered to put her up while she was visiting the Capital. Well, we had a grand old time of it on Christmas Day itself, wandering around the deserted city trying to find a bar that was open, before settling down to a traditional roast dinner, festive movie… Quadrophenia, I think it was that year and the obligatory half-dozen bottles of sparkling vino.

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Quadrophenia. Essential viewing in my opinion, maybe just not on Christmas Day after several bottles of wine!

Now, I don’t know about you, but when I have guests, I like to make sure that they have a good time and don’t get bored. So, in anticipation of her stay, I had all sorts of activities planned. However, what I had not bargained on was the fact that we exhausted my ‘fun things to do’ list far more quickly than I had anticipated and consequently, we faced the prospect of either sitting for hours on end in one of Wellington’s many fine hostelries, which wouldn’t actually have been that bad, or skulking around the windy suburbs, waiting for excitement to pounce, which would have been a bit tedious, to say the least.

In desperation, I decided that I would fall back on an old Kiwi favourite; a trip to the beach. So, after a bit of cajoling, it was an overcast day at the time, I drove my cousin up the Kapiti coast towards one of my favourite beaches at Otaki. We’d probably been driving for about forty minutes and were just cresting a small rise when I saw a small brown and white sign advertising the Southward Car Museum, which was apparently tucked away a short distance down a side road. Now, I’d probably seen this unassuming little sign more than a dozen times on my various journeys along the coast and to be honest, I’d formed the impression that the museum was probably little more than a small garage, with a couple of exotic cars in it, owned by an overly enthusiastic man, who loved to talk about his motors.

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Definitely not a small garage with a couple of exotic cars in it!

Normally, I would have driven straight past it and continued on to the beach. But this time, things were different. I wasn’t alone. I had a guest with me and nothing to lose, so I took the plunge and headed down the small side road, with the idea that at the very least it would kill twenty minutes and possibly give us something to laugh about afterwards.

So you can imagine my surprise when, after a couple of minutes, we saw another sign on the opposite side of the road to an enormous walled compound, which looked as if it was filled with decorative aircraft hangers. This was no back-yard operation, but a fully-fledged enterprise, so we wasted no time in parking the beast and paying the ridiculously small entry fee to see what was inside. And boy, were we in for a shock…

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As I said, there’s definitely more than a couple of cars here!

The place was jam-packed with relics of motoring history. From the 1950’s Cadillac Fleetwood, with two-inch thick bullet-proof glass, to the imposing Mercedes Maybach from the second world war, it was a car lover’s heaven. They had a very early electric town car, a whole mezzanine floor dedicated to motorbikes and scooters, and even a DeLorean (the car from Back to the Future) on display. Add to that a multitude of classic cars from the 1950’s and 60’s, as well as a plethora of memorabilia, including a wheel from Donald Campbell’s ill-fated Bluebird, the car which attempted the world land speed record in 1960 and crashed, nearly killing its occupant and we were set for almost three hours of intense motoring reconnaissance.

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Wheel from Don Campbell’s ill-fated Bluebird.

It turned out that Sir Len Southward, the founder of the museum, was a leading light in the New Zealand motor industry and even held the Australasian water speed record for a short time. An avid collector of cars, he amassed one of the largest private collections of vintage cars in the southern hemisphere, over a period of some fifty years. Had I been aware of that fact, then I would have visited the Southward Car Museum long before. As it was, I’m pretty sure that my cousin enjoyed the experience and I am pleased to say that since then, I have spent many more happy hours, both on my own and with friends, exploring the many delights of that fantastic automobile collection.

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Even more cars and we haven’t got beyond the first room yet!

And it just goes to show… you never know what’s going to be at the end of one of those plain little signs you see on the side of the highway, so why not take a chance? Maybe you’ll stumble on a hidden gem like the Southward Car Museum.

 

Below is a small gallery of images taken from my various visits to the museum. You can find out more by clicking here.

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1950 Cadillac Fleetwood, originally owned by American gangster, Mickey Cohen.

 

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A Humber Super Snipe. The original british bank manager’s car.

 

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Mercedes Maybach limousine from the Second World War, dwarfing everything around it.

 

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Another famous german marque, albeit not quite as impressive as the Maybach.

 

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An Ariel Atom donated by Mr Ron Ekman, who incidentally taught me project management!

 

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British Leyland Princess with cutaway showing the engine detail. They don’t make them like that anymore… thankfully!

 

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The original ‘non-skid’ tyres? I’m not sure that I’d like to try them out!

 

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Bristol 401. Still going, they now make the Bullet, one of the most beautiful cars in the world.

 

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Early electric town car, which sadly didn’t catch on.

 

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A fair few bob’s worth of classic racing cars.

 

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Yet more cars! There are thousands of them here and most in working order.

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If you liked this post, then please feel free to share it and why not have a read about my own love affair with cars below?

Tales Of The Beast – Part 2 – The South Island

The post Taking the Road Less Travelled appeared first on Rob Gregory | Author.

Driven to Distraction

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Driven to Distraction
UK government launches ‘dangerous driving’ holidays, starting summer-2019

In a desperate bid to draw attention away from the howling debacle that is Brexit and free up more Police time for attending political protest rallies, the UK government today introduced the first in a series of new initiatives that will also help swell the nations’ ailing coffers.

Roger de Poledanser, Minister for Tourism, made the announcement from the back of a flatbed truck, travelling the wrong way down the notorious A254 between Margate and Ramsgate.

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The A254 has never been this much fun! Roger de Poledanser, Minister for Tourism.

“We’re putting the merriment back into motoring, both for our own ‘weekend warriors’ and those visiting the country on their annual vacation,” said Poledanser, hurling eggs and small bags of white powder, presumably flour, at passing cars, while doing the Macarena in a pair of green lurex go-go shorts at the same time.

“As a government, we are, of course, committed to safety, but that has to be balanced against the people’s right to enjoy themselves. Back in the 1950s, driving was a pleasurable pastime, but in recent years, it has grown to become a chore and something drastic has to be done about it,” he continued, while discarding a sack full of nails and half-eaten fast food containers onto the highway.

According to details of the plan, which were delivered through a sound system confiscated from a boy-racer in Lewisham, under previous draconian noise abatement rules, British nationals will be eligible to drive like maniacs, without fear of recrimination for only £60 a weekend, while foreign tourists will be charged a modest £150 a week to do the same while they are visiting the country.

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Don’t worry, be happy. It’s all part of the government’s plan!

Those participating in the scheme will be issued with ‘V’ plates, or for those who choose to pay quarterly, special ‘F-U’ number plates will be issued, featuring an attractive cartoon image of a Bulldog with enormous testicles on one side, complementing the EU flag with one star peeling off on the other.

In place of fines for highway naughtiness, those few remaining police officers that have not been reassigned to protect Nigel Forage, will instead, issue ‘funs’, which will include participating in roadside water-fights, jelly eating competitions and making paper aeroplanes out of ASBO’s.

MP’s, their spouses and rent boys will automatically be enrolled in the scheme, a decision that has drawn criticism from charities supporting low-income households.

“It’s completely unacceptable,” said Marcella Twat, spokesperson for ‘DoleQ’, an organisation that helps support the country’s long-term unemployed. “We see this time and time again. Low or no-income individuals being forced to fork out for benefits which are handed out free to those of privilege and power. I for one shan’t be supporting this and frankly, the government’s idea of what constitutes fun is in very poor taste.”

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Come drive with me. Come drive your cares away!

Despite this, the government expects the idea to be a roaring success and is preparing for a massive influx of tourists from that part of the world between India and China, keen to experience the unique pleasure of the British roading network, without fear of censure or imprisonment.

Stay tuned for more news…

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Please don’t forget to sign up to the blog if you enjoyed this. That way, you’ll get notified in your inbox, whenever there’s new content available. And please do check out my books pages. Thank you!

 

Tales Of The Beast – Part 1

Reality shows not ‘real’ enough

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Fotherington-Tomas: A Christmas advert

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Fotherington-Tomas: A Christmas advert
… Just a little something I knocked up this afternoon…

Hi Everyone!

Earlier today, I created a promotional video for a Facebook campaign that’s running about my latest Fotherington-Tomas blog. I was so pleased with it (mainly because it took flippin’ ages to get right) that I wanted to share it with you here. Just click the link below and it should open up automatically in your media player.

FT Christmas Crisis – 7 Dec 2018

I hope that you like it and please do feel free to share more widely and, of course, have a look at the blog post that inspired it.

Best wishes and a very merry festive season!

ROB

The post Fotherington-Tomas: A Christmas advert appeared first on Rob Gregory | Author.

Fotherington-Tomas and the Christmas Crisis

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Fotherington-Tomas and the Christmas Crisis
… or how FT saved the Queen at Hamleys…

Fotherington-Tomas was drunk. Sarah had left the Harveys Bristol Cream out on the sideboard and he had been tippling away quite happily since mid-morning. Now with lunch rapidly approaching, he was starting to feel the effects of the fine Spanish libation and it was red-faced that he gulped down the last of his glass, as the door opened to admit Maxwell, still shivering from the winter chill.

“What ho, FT! Ready for the off?” exclaimed Maxwell cheerily, stamping his feet and leaving little clods of melting snow on the fine Persian rug.

“Whassat? Off what? And leave your filthy brogues in the hall when you come inside. Thass a antique carpet that is!” belched Fotherington-Tomas, fixing his companion with a woozy stare.

Maxwell regarded his friend with concern. He’s tighter than Nureyev’s underpants, he thought with alarm. And we’re on special duty protecting Her Majesty in less than two hours’ time.

“Fancy a snifter?” said Fotherington-Tomas hopefully, as Maxwell brushed past him and lifted the needle off the Perry Como Christmas Album. Before the silence between them could grow too uncomfortable, Maxwell called out through the open door: “Sarah? Could you put the kettle on, please? I think we could do with a pot of hot coffee in here, tout suite.”

“Of course, Maxwell,” came the dulcet tones of Sarah, Fotherington-Tomas’ long-suffering but dearly devoted wife. “Lunch is almost ready, so I’ll bring the whole lot in at once, if you can just wait a minute, that is.”

“That will be entirely acceptable, thank you,” replied Maxwell, turning to face Fotherington-Tomas, who hiccupped loudly and tried to hide his now refilled glass behind his back like a guilty schoolboy.

“You’ve got more onboard than the Titanic’s captain!” said Maxwell angrily, grasping Fotherington-Tomas by his broad, masculine shoulders and shaking him roughly, spilling most of the alcohol onto the carpet in the process. “And we’ve got to be at Hamleys by three! Have you forgotten?”

“Hamleys?” said Fotherington-Tomas uncertainly, as he withdrew the glass from his back and examined it sadly.

“Yes, the Royal opening. We do it every year,” replied Maxwell in exasperated tones.

Fotherington-Tomas stared into the middle distance, as if trying to recall something important and then slurred: “You don’t mean the ‘Gran Ham Slam’, do you? I thought that was next week!”

“No, it’s today, FT. It’s this afternoon, in fact!” cried Maxwell in desperation.

“Oh crap!” said Fotherington-Tomas, all the colour draining from his face. “Well, bugger me with a deck of playing cards, that one completely slipped past the old noggin, that did. Drastic action is called for. What we need is… coffee! Yes, coffee! That’ll do the trick!”

“Sarah! Fetch me some coffee at once!” he bellowed into the hallway.

“Right away, dear,” replied Sarah, wheeling a serving trolley laden with festive delicacies into the living room. “I assume you’ll be having yours black?” she queried, looking at her husband fondly.

“I’ll have the whole damned pot!” retorted Fotherington-Tomas, reaching rudely past Maxwell and grabbing the glass cafetière, downing the piping hot contents in one go.

“That’s better,” he said, dabbing his lips with a monogrammed silk handkerchief.

“And what would you like, Maxwell?” asked Sarah.

“Actually, I’d quite like a small glass of sherry. And one of those lovely mince pies, if you’d be so kind please, Sarah,” replied Maxwell, receiving a hooded stare from his now sober colleague.

“Of course,” said Sarah, handing him a delicate china plate with a hot mince pie atop it and reaching for the Bristol Cream, which she swished around a couple of times before returning it to the sideboard. “But no sherry for you I’m afraid. Someone seems to have emptied the bottle.”

“Could have sworn it was half-full a moment ago,” muttered Fotherington-Tomas under his breath.

“No matter,” replied Maxwell, brushing the last of the mince pie crumbs from his mouth onto the rug below and twirling the ends of his waxed moustache out of habit. “We should be off anyway. Duty calls and The Realm awaits, eh FT?”

“Damned right it does!” said Fotherington-Tomas, bending down and giving Sarah a peck on the cheek. “Don’t wait up, my dear. You know how these things tend to go. We could be gone for weeks.” Then without waiting for his wife to respond, he strode purposefully out of the living room and into the wood-panelled hallway, where he grabbed his winter travelling cloak and fur-lined top hat from the stand by the door and stepped out into the frigid stairwell.

“Come on, Maxwell. Time and tide wait for no man!” he shouted, as Maxwell grabbed his own cloak and hat, and hastily followed his mentor out of the flat.

“Merry Christmas, boys. Take care of yourselves,” said Sarah softly, as she too entered the rapidly cooling hallway and shut the front door behind them.

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There’s never a carriage around when you need one!

Once outside, Maxwell shivered in the icy blast of the harsh December wind and called out to Fotherington-Tomas, who was already some way ahead of him, ploughing through the snowdrifts like a Dreadnought under full steam: “I’ve got us a carriage! There’s no need to walk!”

“Well, why didn’t you say so, man?” replied Fotherington-Tomas, stopping short as a shiny black, horse-drawn carriage pulled up alongside him.

They quickly climbed aboard the gleaming hansom, glad to be out of the biting cold and set off towards Hamleys, enjoying the sound of the horses’ hooves clip-clopping on the road and completely ignoring the angry tooting of horns and frustrated shouts of the taxis, Ubers and other Christmas traffic that they were holding up behind them.

Just over an hour later, they had covered the half mile to Hamleys, lamenting the dreadful yuletide traffic and disembarked the coach, giving the driver a single gold sovereign in payment, which greatly annoyed the sallow-faced chap, until he realised that it was worth more than he normally made in a month.

After passing through the official Police cordon by showing their shiny, ‘Special Agent’ badges to the officers on duty, they entered Hamleys and took up position on the second floor. Outside, the crowds were starting to gather, waiting to catch a glimpse of the Queen, as she made her annual pilgrimage to the famous toy store to buy gifts for her grandchildren and officially declare Christmas open. All around them, the lucky few that had been granted access to a personal audience with Her Majesty were trying to busy themselves by browsing through the mountains of shelves stocked with every possible toy that China could manufacture.

Far from his previously inebriated state, Fotherington-Tomas was now on full alert, observing each group as they wandered past and tugging at his beard thoughtfully. “There’s going to be trouble here, Maxwell. Mark my words. Before the day is out, mischief most foul will have occurred,” he whispered to his sidekick, as a particularly loud gaggle of schoolchildren scooted by. “I have an idea. You go and disguise yourself as a day-boarder and I’ll pretend to be your father. That way we’ll blend in, rather than looking like a couple of desperate lollygaggers as we currently do.”

“Jolly good idea, FT,” replied Maxwell, stepping away from the great man and privately wondering how he was going to pass himself off as a public schoolboy, when he was in his mid-thirties and sporting a finely groomed piece of follicular topiary above his top lip.

Moments later, he returned, wearing a slightly ill-fitting uniform, which rather alarmingly looked as if it belonged to a girl’s school.

“Ah, I see that you’ve chosen the uniform of St Bede’s Naval Academy, in Cholsey. A very fine school indeed. I was nearly sent there as a boy, you know,” said Fotherington-Tomas, looking at his protégé with warm approval. “Now, all we have to do is wait. Her Majesty will be along shortly and that is when our troublemaker will undoubtedly reveal himself.”

“But I want to go and see the Nintendo’s and they’re on the fourth floor!” said Maxwell, stamping his foot and causing several groups of parents to stare at him in displeasure.

“Don’t be stupid, boy! Everyone knows that the Queen is a traditionalist when it comes to toys. She’ll have no truck with electronic gadgetry, especially not for the princelings in waiting. No, it’s the second floor for us. Traditional Victorian amusements and pastimes. This is where she’ll gravitate to and this is where our scoundrel will strike.”

“Aw, but Dad,” whined Maxwell petulantly. “I wanna go see the Gameboys!”

“Enough! Now, unless you want a severely smacked bottom, I suggest that you go and investigate the spinning tops and running hoops over there,” replied Fotherington-Tomas sternly, shoving Maxwell in the desired direction.

“Kids, eh? Whipping’s too good for them,” he said to the disgruntled onlookers, before hurriedly busying himself in the examination of a reproduction china doll for signs of anatomical correctness.

Suddenly, there was a regal blast of trumpetry and everyone stood to attention as Her Majesty entered the venerable store. Eschewing the first floor, laden with ‘Slime’, ‘Goo’ and Japanese squawking things that were specifically designed to drive parents to distraction, she headed straight towards the escalators, which had been gold-plated for the occasion and made her way to the second floor.

Every nerve in Fotherington-Tomas’ body was on edge as he tried to identify the heinous criminal who he was sure was lurking somewhere amongst the onlookers. And then, one particular nerve, the one connected to his bladder began to jangle in a most annoying way. Damn, thought Fotherington-Tomas. I should have gone before I left the flat. Oh well, I can hold it in for a while longer. At least I think I can.

But as he stood there, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, the jangling grew more intense and his aching bladder began to twitch alarmingly. Damn my twerking loins, he cursed. I’m going to have to find somewhere to go, but I can’t leave my post. Not now that Her Majesty is on the floor.

No longer entirely focused on the Queen’s wellbeing, Fotherington-Tomas scanned the room for possible places to inconspicuously relieve himself, but nowhere seemed suitable. He looked longingly at the line of Coldstream Guards flanking Her Highness as she inspected the various offerings on display and especially at their bearskin helmets. Maybe I could use one of those, he thought. I do have the freedom of the Palace after all and it would probably hold enough, but no, it would cause too much of a scene and probably strain my relationship with the Monarchy beyond any hope of redemption.

With his tortured bladder at bursting point and beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead in desperation, he suddenly spotted an ornate plant pot on a Victorian stand, next to a display of wooden Jack-in-the-Boxes. Sidling slowly over to it, anxious not to let any errant drops of liquid gold run down his trouser leg, he carefully unbuttoned his fly and let rip, keeping one eye out all the time for the perpetrator to appear.

Then, to his utmost surprise and horror, the plant pot began to tremble and without warning, a figure sprang from the top, holding a miniature African blowpipe in its hand, complete with a poison dart chambered and ready for use.

“Doctor Mephostus!” shouted Fotherington-Tomas in alarm, causing all eyes to turn towards him and the guards to form up in a protective screen around the Queen.

“How could you?” screamed the outraged arch-villain in disbelief, dripping from head to toe in warm, grape-infused urine. “You peed on me! Why would you? Why would anyone in their right mind, urinate in a plant pot in Hamleys, let alone when the Queen is in attendance?” Then, a light of sickening realisation dawned on his face and he said incredulously: “How on earth did you know? How could you possibly have known where I was hiding?”

Dr Mephostus didn’t have time to get an answer from Fotherington-Tomas, because at that moment, Maxwell burst forth from the crowd and shouted to the guards: “Arrest that man! It’s none other than Doctor Mephostus, the sworn enemy of Her Majesty and all right-thinking Englishmen!”

“Curses!” cried Dr Mephostus, realising that the game was up. Then darting away from Fotherington-Tomas and the approaching guards, he jumped into a small, metal peddle-kart and scooted down the escalator, heading towards Regent Street and the Oxford Circus Tube station beyond.

With the Police and a handful of guardsmen in hot pursuit of the evil genius, the Queen approached Fotherington-Tomas, who thankfully had both relieved himself fully and buttoned up his fly, and said: “Once again, Fotherington-Tomas, one has saved oneself from the depredations of evil. For this, one thanks you, as indeed does the entire country. And as for the other thing that one saw, one shall both forgive you and envy your wife for many a long night to come. One shall, of course, see to it that you are rewarded for your gallantry in the New Year’s Honours list, but in the meantime, one must continue to find something for the kiddywinks Christmas party.”

“Your servant, as always, Your Majesty,” replied Fotherington-Tomas solemnly, with a formal bow of his head, before backing away from the Queen, to allow her to continue selecting presents for her beloved brood of anklebiters.

As they left Hamleys, with darkness descending and a light dusting of snow just starting to fall on the pavement around them, Fotherington-Tomas turned to Maxwell and said: “Well, that went rather well, don’t you think? I knew that there would be skulduggery upon this day and once again we have persevered and preserved the sanctity of the Royal Household. Now, I think that it’s time that we enjoyed ourselves a little. It is Christmas after all. What do you fancy?”

Maxwell thought carefully for a moment or two and then replied: “Well, I’d quite like a brandy after all that excitement, FT.”

“Good thinking, that man!” exclaimed Fotherington-Tomas. “It just so happens that I know a Brandy. She lives not far from here. And while you’re having fun with her, I might just pop in and see her friend Sherri, who lives next door. After all, you can never have too much Sherri at Christmas, can you, Maxwell?”

“Indeed not, FT!” replied Maxwell, with a salacious glint in his eye and together, the pair of them strode happily off towards Filbone Street, merrily chanting ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’ into the wintry night sky as they went.

THE END

HAPPY CHRISTMAS, EVERYBODY!

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Have a wonderful festive season!

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The Untimely Demise of Fotherington-Tomas

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Why I hate Zen Buddhism

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Why I hate Zen Buddhism
… Or ‘The Trouble with Transcendence’…

A few years ago, my life was absolute chaos. Writing, working, running a bar, raising a small child and trying to avoid an untimely death at the paws of a psychotically happy puppy, I was a stress-bunny’s poster boy. Anyone unlucky enough to have caught a glimpse inside my head at that time would have seen the early stages of Hieronymus Bosch’s famous ‘Train Crash at Tooting Broadway’ taking shape.

I’d tried everything; ‘The Sixteen Habits of Ultra-Effective People’, ‘Ten Time Saving Techniques for Bar Owning Parents with Writing Aspirations’, ‘Madame Wa’s Oriental Guide to Happiness through Knives’, but none of them had helped. Even ‘Life For Dummies’, my go-to resource for handy tips on navigating the ebb and flow of daily existence had failed me. I was in trouble. And with the lifejacket of sanity leaking badly and the inflation tube of reason unsurprisingly blocked, I was in imminent danger of going down for the third time and not re-emerging to tell this tale.

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The journey of a thousand steps begins with a steep climb… it figures.

And then I saw them. Mixed in amongst the travelling evangelists with their white shirts and bicycles (like that’s going to save the world), the New-Age druids and the Hip-Hop Choristers, they swept through the crowd like two bare-headed Knights clad only in orange robes. Possessed of an almost angelic serenity, they smiled at me and in that moment, I saw only peace and hope in their eyes for my addled brain.

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Brothers Koan and Zen, in their parakeet aspect.

The taller of the two introduced himself as Leonard Koan, while the smaller one referred to himself, somewhat cryptically, as Ben Zen. They were monks travelling on a pilgrimage of enlightenment, offering their services to troubled souls, like mine, that they happened upon in the gutter of existence. So, in the same way as a fish in a bowl seeks the open space of the ocean beyond, I took their hands and began my spiritual journey towards enlightenment.

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Barry – I wonder what’s out there? Errol – Why is this water orange? Have you been..?

It was not an easy journey. My days began at five in the morning and involved a lot of running up and down mountains, cooking rice one grain at a time and cleaning the food bowls of my mentors. In between were the lessons, most of which involved me either trying to persuade people to get out of the snow without touching them, discovering the middle names of the four winds, or covering myself with sandals. I never really worked out what that last one was about, but even now, I still have an aversion to open-toed footwear.

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If a tree falls off a mountainside, does anyone really care apart from the person that’s standing underneath it?

In between admonishments, which were frequent because I was not a gifted student, and which generally took the form of taunts such as ‘your original face was a chicken’s scrotum’, I would sit cross-legged on a pointed stick and discuss the why of the world with Master Koan. Then after sweeping the floor of the cave with a blade of grass and tickling Master Zen’s bottom with a pigeon’s feather (nothing spiritual about that, he just liked it), I would finish my bowl of cold rice and retire to contemplate the day’s teachings and pray for enlightenment to find me.

And then it did… One day, when I’d just about had enough of being pontificated to by Master Zen, I suddenly snapped and yelled at the pair them: “You can shove your broken mirrors up your backsides! I’ve had enough of this! Enlightenment isn’t about sitting in a cave. It’s right back where I started!”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than Master Koan stood up and gave me a right hook that almost knocked my teeth loose. Then, he composed himself and folding his arms in front of him, he looked at Master Zen and said: “Our work here is done. Finally, the student is the master.” And with that, they both gave me the same knowing smile that they had on the first day that I’d met them and vanished in a puff of slightly suspicious herbal smelling smoke.

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The road to enlightenment is a long and difficult one.

And now I’m enlightened, which is why I hate Zen Buddhism. While I was studying, my mind was still in turmoil, a swirling maelstrom of conflicting thought that, somewhat ironically, gave rise to my creative talents. But with Nirvana came peace. And with peace, came silence. No more conflict, no more crazy juxtapositions, no more chaos… no more creativity.

Not that it actually matters anymore. You see, now that I’m at one with the universe, everything that I write, or could possibly ever write, will be read by everyone else in the universe at the exact moment that I put pen to paper. And if anyone actually bought anything that I’d written, then because we are all one and the same, we’d all get richer by the same amount. It’s an awful, but inescapable truth, at least when you’re as Zenned up as I am.

So now I just spend my days wandering around supermarkets, scaring unsuspecting shoppers with a smug, all-knowing smile on my face or occasionally hang around forests, listening for falling trees. All in all, it’s not a bad existence and I get by just fine. But I’ll tell you one thing, enlightened or not. If that guy with one arm doesn’t stop clapping, then I’m going to go over and give him such a kick up the arse that he won’t know what hit him!

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